Standing in front of the fireplace, Curufin pondered.

Embers still glowed in the hearth, radiating heat and a dim red light. He loved fire, especially the blazing fire of the forges: a symbol of creation, a source of inspiration, and the secret behind life and the world.

Some might argue that it was also an emissary of destruction, but he harbored no such concerns, for it would never bring harm to the sons of Fëanor. And there was another fire—not the evil flame of Morgoth, but the pure, radiant fire born of light. How could it possibly hurt the descendants of its maker? Instead, it was clearly their emblem and weapon, destined to wound those who had betrayed or defied them, removing obstacles on the path to fulfilling their oath and vengeance.

Thus far, it had performed exceptionally well. The hidden kingdom had fallen once before, and it was poised to fall again.

He allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Naturally, he appeared familiar to those who had once known his father, for among the seven brothers, he most resembled their sire—not only in appearance but also in the talents and art of making. If Curufinwë Fëanáro was a wildfire, fierce and devastating, Curufinwë Atarinkë was a furnace fire—no less powerful, yet always contained and refined. After all, he was called Curufin the crafty; and he knew very well that it was not merely due to his great craftsmanship.

Fixing his gaze on the dying flames in the fireplace, he reviewed the tidings he had gathered. All pointed to a single conclusion, and this time he would not allow anyone the opportunity to challenge it. But first, he needed to speak with his brother: Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, more widely known in this land as Celegorm the fair.

When Curufin found him, Celegorm had just returned from a hunt, with dust on his boots and horsehair on his breeches. Called “the fair”, Celegorm was light of hair and truly fair of face, very impressive indeed; and equally impressive was his bearing—the embodiment of uncompromising pride. Seeing him enter, Celegorm offered no greeting, simply gesturing toward a chair opposite him.

“How went the hunt?” Curufin asked as he settled into the seat.

“A dozen Orcs; nothing more.” Celegorm replied, idly toying with a dagger. The cold edge of the blade caught the light, its reflection dancing in his eyes. “I told Lachodir to burn them.”

Curufin recognized the name. Lachodir was Celegorm’s new herald—a young yet capable Noldorin soldier who, claiming to have been saved by Celegorm on more than one occasion in battle, had offered his service to him when they were driven from Nargothrond without an escort and forced to journey to Himring empty-handed. As his brother’s most loyal servant, Lachodir had displayed a devotion so profound it could almost be called blind—or perhaps it was not blind at all, for Celegorm, when he chose, could be a commanding and charismatic leader. After all, none of the sons of Fëanor could ever be underestimated.

“I have news, Turko,” he said, coming straight to the point—a tactic long proven most effective with his brother. “Thingol’s daughter is dead.”

If Celegorm felt any surprise, he gave no sign of it. Still toying with the dagger, he let its sharp edge glide effortlessly between his deft, steady fingers, showing not the faintest risk of cutting himself. “That is not news,” he said.

“Her son, Dior the Half-elven, has returned to Doriath and intends to restore its glory.”

“That is certainly not news.” Celegorm set down the dagger and looked up. “Did you come to me merely to recount these trifles?”

“She did not bear the Silmaril with her into the grave. It now rests upon Dior’s breast.”

A silence fell. Curufin watched his brother closely, noting each subtle shift in Celegorm’s mood. Celegorm was usually not elusive, yet no matter how slight the difference, there lurked a fatal gulf between “usually” and “always”. If he took a wrong approach, his brother could become utterly impervious to reason. He would not allow yet another opportunity to be missed.

“Then our Silmaril has returned to Doriath,” after a while, Celegorm allowed a laugh, though devoid of joy. “Shall we deem it a coincidence, or fate?”

“Both.” Curufin met his brother’s gaze, his voice unwavering. “The time has come for us to fulfill our Oath.”

Celegorm nodded, lips curling. “Doriath is fated to be our mark.”

“If we persuade our eldest brother,” Curufin said.

“If we persuade him, of course.” Celegorm laughed. “But it will not be difficult to persuade him. He takes the Oath more seriously than any of us.”

As he had anticipated, Celegorm was insightful when he chose to be. A hasty-riser his brother might be, but it would be gravely mistaken to believe that Celegorm lacked sound judgment. He would never forget that Celegorm was, above all, a great hunter, one of the most renowned among the Noldor.

“We must proceed to Amon Ereb without delay and notify Moryo and the twins as well.” he said.

Celegorm nodded absently and gazed at the dancing flames in the fireplace. For a moment, the defined lines on his brother’s handsome face seemed softened.

“So, we will attack Doriath.”

The words came almost imperceptibly, addressed to no one. But Curufin was instantly alerted by them, for the last time he had seen Celegorm like this was when he had advised his brother to prepare an assault on Tol Galen to recover the Silmaril set into a Dwarven necklace. At that time, Celegorm had rebuffed his plan and refused to listen to any of his reasons.

“I know she has it.” his brother said back then. “But I will not attack her, nor will you.”

“I do not understand, Turko,” he tried to insist. “Are you telling me you are actually fond of h—”

“I will not do it.” Celegorm interrupted him, refusing to entertain any further explanation.

He had to give up in the end, though he remained unreconciled. He never believed that Celegorm was moved by the unparalleled beauty of Lúthien, for he knew his brother had loved another. Celegorm would never admit it and preferred to let everyone believe that he was enamored of Thingol’s daughter. But did that mean Celegorm had also refused to attack her merely to mislead others?

It remained inconclusive, and since then he had remained on guard. Understanding other minds was always fascinating, but attempting to master them was frustrating, for they were the most delicate things in the world.

Knowing it would be a risk to bring up the past at this moment, he weighed his options and decided to take the risk sooner rather than later. “Keep it in mind, Turko,” he said, “that we cannot afford to be generous with those we have to destroy.”

“Of course,” Celegorm said, as if he had just awakened from a dream. He straightened himself and offered an easy smile, although his eyes were suddenly lit with a chilling light. “Do not worry, Kurvo. I am not so generous as to indulge my feelings to that extent.”

Celegorm and Curufin were here, Amrod and Amras were on their way, and Caranthir would arrive tomorrow.

“They are unchanged.” Maglor observed after taking a good look at the two brothers from a distance.

Which means they are as troublesome as ever, Maedhros thought. In the blazing sunlight of late summer, the host brought by Celegorm and Curufin stood in disciplined formation, silent and still. Composed of carefully selected archers and riders, greater in number than was typically necessary, with the Star of Fëanor engraved on armor, embossed on shields, and embroidered on surcoats, it was no mere escort—it was an army prepared for war. Maedhros knew Celegorm to be an excellent commander, whose strategies had dealt the forces of Morgoth significant blows in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, but he doubted Celegorm had gone to such lengths just to flaunt his power.

“Maitimo,” Celegorm called, noticing his frown as he dismounted from his white stallion, tossing the reins to an attendant. “Is it so painful to see us?”

“Do you lack all confidence in pleasing your elder brothers?” Maedhros retorted, his lips curving into a wry smile. “Or have we both failed to find a better joke?”

He expected his brother to bristle at the remark, but to his surprise, Celegorm simply laughed it off. Perhaps even a hasty-riser can learn patience and wisdom in the end, he thought. For do not we all?

After Celegorm, Curufin approached. “I trust our visit does not trouble you too much, my brother.”

In truth, you could not trouble me more, Maedhros thought. However, he simply nodded and made a gesture of welcome. “Of course not. As brothers, we have been apart for too long. It is time for a family reunion.”

At that, Curufin raised a brow, offering a knowing smile.

Maedhros left it to Maglor to handle the necessary arrangements for Celegorm, Curufin, and their unusual escort. He needed time to clear his thoughts and prepare himself, for despite what had been said, he was certain that Celegorm and Curufin had not merely come for a family reunion. Leadership of the House of Fëanor was no simple task; a heroic reputation might help, but it was far from sufficient.

Your father had always known this, Findekáno, though in the end, even he could not bear it.

He caught himself drifting back into old habits and let out a weary sigh. Old habits must truly die hard, for even after so much time, he still found himself conversing in his mind with a name long lost—a name whose bearer had departed without a grave behind. The familiar sound of it stung his heart—if I even have a heart, he corrected himself, his lips curving downward. How can one still have a heart after dying, not once, but twice? The one who defied his father to defend a friend perished long ago, on the accursed rock of Thangorodrim. What you risked your life to bring back, Findekáno, is but a lingering glimmer of fire, one that has seen and tasted darkness and can no longer endure it.

He halted his wandering thoughts. After all, he had changed. When needed, he could be a ruthless and formidable warrior, yet he was also a leader adept at evaluation and calculation, preserving their strength and minimizing unnecessary losses. That was why his brothers had rallied to him upon hearing of Lúthien’s death and Dior’s return to Doriath.

It seemed the time had come to reassert their claim to the Great Jewel once more.

But is it just to demand what we have not earned but inherited, while others have bled and died for it?

Seated behind his desk, Maedhros pondered.

...“Again, Maitimo.” came Fingon’s voice.

He had long lost count of how many times his sword had been knocked from his grasp. With a clang, the blade struck the ground nearby as Fingon withdrew his own weapon and stepped back, ready for another round of practice.

Now you can easily beat me, Findekáno, but the advantage was never yours in the past, he thought. In those days, I was your teacher and trainer.

But he did not say it. If he had learned anything on the rockface of Thangorodrim, it was the value of silence. Walking to where his sword lay, he bent down and reached for it—using his left hand, of course. As his fingers slowly closed around the clammy hilt, he could feel Fingon’s gaze upon him, laden with concern and conflict.

Thankfully, there was no pity.

Suddenly, a surge of rage overtook him. Looking up, he locked eyes with Fingon. “This is unfair.”

“I know.” Fingon replied, his voice steady. “And you have known it from the beginning, Maitimo. It was you who said the Enemy would not deal fairly with us.”

“Are you the Enemy then?” Maedhros leveled his sword in Fingon’s direction, his eyes sparkling. “The Enemy may not deal fairly with us, but you will be fair with me. Now fight me again,” he demanded, a smile creeping onto his face, “with your left hand.” ...

The Enemy will not deal fairly with us, of course. Wielding the weapon of betrayal, Morgoth crushed your life and my hope. Yet you and I are not the same: you fell as a king, with your ending met, while I am condemned to live on, carrying a shattered yet lingering hope.

Dior Eluchíl and the Silmaril. Maedhros touched the stump of his sword-hand in spite of himself. It is unfair, and I know it. But what would you do if you were me, Findekáno? Would you choose to reclaim the other two Jewels first? Would you strike at Morgoth once again, defying the power of Angband as your father did, even knowing it would be a desperate attempt doomed to fail?

I know you would, for you never swore an oath in the name of Ilúvatar, nor had you glimpsed the Everlasting Dark beyond redemption. That is why you could still live up to your valiant reputation and choose to sacrifice, while I cannot—even though I hold no attachment to this broken life. Until the Oath is fulfilled, my own fate is but one weight on the scales, for I must account for my six brothers.

Do you see it now, Findekáno? I have but one choice.

...Stop, Maitimo.

A different voice intruded then, instantly heightening his vigilance. Is that truly you, Findekáno?

...You are standing on the edge of the abyss. Do not test its depth.

Or is it, once again, merely a phantom conjured up by my mind—haunting, deceiving, and threatening me, like the terrors of Thangorodrim?

The sun slowly drifted past the zenith. Bright sunlight poured through the window, casting sharp beams onto the floor and carving a distinct boundary between light and shadow.

“I will first send him a request,” Maedhros declared with finality, to the empty room.

It was a piece of parchment, slightly discolored, with neat writing upon it: black against faded yellow, in both Runes and Tengwar.

Again, he read it silently.

“To Dior Eluchíl, son of Lúthien and Beren, Heir of Elu Thingol.”

The young ruler of Doriath rose from his seat. Neither an Elf nor a Man, Dior Aranel Eluchíl carried his mother’s unparalleled beauty and his father’s weathered gaze. Within him, the fates of the Firstborn and the Followers intertwined seamlessly, creating a peculiar and singular charm.

In the great hall, below the dais, his people waited nervously. He offered them a reassuring smile. “It is what we have long expected, nothing more.”

Yes, they had expected this ever since his return to Menegroth—a “request” the sender believed the recipient had no right to refuse.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. However prepared they had been for this day, no one could remain indifferent now that it had arrived. Standing before the High Seat, Dior let his gaze sweep over their faces: some burned with anger, others with anxiety or resignation, but most were marked by fear.

Maybe we do have a reason to be afraid, he sighed to himself. By now, the reputation of the sons of Fëanor among the Grey Elves was far from honorable: they were known as formidable warriors, but also as perpetrators of murder and treason. Two of them had even openly threatened to destroy Doriath when their demand for the Great Jewel was last denied.

But there was more to consider. In these dark times, one could not hope to remain safe simply by avoiding immediate dangers.

“I will not assent to their request.” Dior announced once the murmurs had subsided. “I will not surrender the Jewel to them.”

A heavy silence fell, and all eyes turned to him, breaking with formality.

“I am called Eluchíl,” he continued, his voice calm but resolute. “I will live up to my grandfather’s name.”

The mention of his grandfather, the late King of Doriath, transformed them. One by one, they bowed to him, as though before them stood not a Half-elven youth who had seen less than fifty seasons. And when they straightened, their faces were no longer marked by fear. They were ready.

That is who we are. Once we choose a path, we commit to it with all we have. My father, my mother, my grandfather, my grandmother, my people: that is who we are. The Noldor are not the only people who know pride and dignity, nor is exile the only way to demonstrate courage.

Afterwards, he walked down a corridor leading away from the great hall, his footsteps echoing softly between the glimmering walls. Those who had designed and built this splendid city were long gone, and the walls, once stained by blood and steel, bore silent witness to their legacy. Yet Menegroth remained—its mystery, grandeur, and pride undiminished. In the silence of the night, the weight of a kingdom’s history, accumulated over thousands of years, surrounded him, both embracing and comforting. But the tide of emotions it stirred threatened to overwhelm him, drawing him into a sea of unbidden thoughts.

Strolling through the passages of the Thousand Caves, Dior pondered.

He touched the Nauglamír again, where the Silmaril was set. The Silmarils—the only surviving seeds of the purest Light, born before the Sun and the Moon—a token of the highest beauty in Arda Marred. In its radiance, he saw his mother once more: Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. So many times she sang under the starlit skies of Tol Galen, her voice soft and fair, her smile sad yet content, while the Silmaril rested on her chest like the brightest star. At her side sat Beren Erchamion, always listening attentively, his hand gently clasping hers, his once-dark hair streaked with winter’s grey, and his mortal face etched with the marks of relentless years. Through countless perils and griefs, they had earned a brief time of peace, after which they took an unknown road together, beyond the Circles of the World.

He remembered those nights and the distant sound of water, so vividly that it stirred an ache deep within his heart.

How can I surrender the Jewel that carries such precious memories to those who have never bled to win it? How can I allow my grandfather’s kingdom to yield to the threats of ruthless, unrepentant murderers?

It is true that the sons of Fëanor have sworn to reclaim the Silmarils; but they are not even the maker of what they so fiercely claim as theirs alone. And what have they done to fulfill their oath? Did they aid King Felagund and my father in the Quest? Did they face dangers beyond imagination and confront the terrors of Angband? Did they gain access to the Iron Crown of the Enemy? Did they die for the Jewel, relinquish their fates as the Firstborn, return from the dead, and choose to embrace mortality in the end?

They have no true claim to it.

“My lord,” A voice came from behind.

He stopped. Turning back, he saw his wife. Her silvery hair glimmered in the golden candlelight, and she looked young and fair, though she had seen many more springs and winters than he. Their twin sons, Eluréd and Elurín, stood beside her, their small hands tugging at her long white gown.

“Nimloth,” he called, extending his hand to her. When she placed her hand in his, he was surprised. “Your hand is cold.”

She said nothing, but he saw the conflict and reluctance in her eyes. Gently intertwining his fingers with hers, he pulled her closer. “What is it?”

She leaned against him, her gaze meeting his, and sighed before answering. “I know they are, after all, of our kindred, and they are not as powerful as they seem. But,” she hesitated. “Is this the only way? Is there no other choice?”

To that, he simply smiled. “Trust me, my love.”

Just then, an unbidden vision appeared: the blood-stained Silmaril, newly set into the Dwarven necklace of Nauglamír, resting in the left hand of his father. Against the thick, cruel crimson, its radiance and beauty were even more striking. As the hand dipped it into running water, the color of blood thinned and dissolved, and the vision faded away.

He lingered in confusion for a moment before her voice pulled him back to reality. For the first time since arriving in Menegroth, he found the night dark and cold.

Fortunately, the confusion passed quickly. Shaking his head slightly, he steadied himself.

It is decided.

They want an answer, but I will not grant it, for I will not yield to anything they demand of me.

Except for war.

I should have known, thought Caranthir.

It was the first time since the Nirnaeth that he had seen Celegorm and Curufin. Celegorm lounged on a bench by the hearth, idly turning a silver dagger in his hand, a faint smile of ease playing on his lips. Curufin sat nearby, nodding slightly in greeting when their eyes met—his face calm, yet unreadable.

Once, he had ridden with them across the plains of southern East Beleriand, hunting wild game and spending the quiet hours of peace in Thargelion. Thargelion. The fortress of Rerir on the shores of Lake Helevorn, and the vast, uncharted lands east of Ered Lindon. These memories now burned bright in his mind, yet they felt distant, as though they belonged to another life. They were as far away and insubstantial as the golden days spent in the Blessed Realm, as remote as the shining heights of Tirion.

What madness is this? Caranthir sharply reined in his thoughts, his face darkening. When had he fallen prey to the wistfulness of poets and singers? The past was the past. What use was there in dwelling on it? Especially when it was clear that his two brothers had come with purpose, and he could all but be certain that purpose was tied to old wounds—though he was never one to guess the thoughts of others with ease.

“How have you been?” It was Curufin who broke the silence, his tone light and casual, as though their gathering were nothing more than a chance meeting.

“Well enough,” Caranthir replied curtly, his expression still grim. Kurvo, you know the answer. Just speak your mind.

“Odd that Pityo and Telvo are not with you,” Curufin remarked, unbothered by his brother’s demeanor. “Have you enough hands to contend with the servants of the Enemy? Or perhaps, by now, you have learned prudence.”

“What do you mean by that?” Caranthir asked, his voice rising. He had little patience for words that danced around their meaning.

And just as he had expected, Celegorm laughed aloud. “He means that even if our ranks of Elves are far too few, it is still preferable to trusting Men.”

Of course. He should have known. The memory of that ill-fated war, of the treachery of those swarthy Men, was still sharp in all their minds. Yet only these two before him would dare raise it so plainly.

“What was wrong with allying with Men back then?” He raised his chin, defiant. “Ask Maitimo if you wish.”

“But the responsibility was yours,” Curufin said quietly. “They were under your command.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but Celegorm cut in with a mocking laugh. His voice was light, but his words bit deep. “The one who scorns even the sons of Arafinwë trusted a weak, foolish, lesser race? What flaw of mind led you to that?”

Caranthir inhaled quickly, his gaze locking onto Celegorm’s face. Celegorm, however, seemed utterly at ease, his hands still busy with the gleaming dagger, as though he had not spoken at all.

“Turko’s words may be blunt,” Curufin interjected smoothly, “but they are not without weight. Moryo, perhaps you truly owe us an explanation—why were those Men of such value to you, above even a noble house of the Noldor?”

“So you summoned me here, along with Maitimo, just to question my past decisions?” He rose suddenly, his anger boiling over and overwhelming what little calm he had left. He was not known for his forbearance, and to have endured this long was a feat in itself.

“Do not misunderstand,” Curufin said with a faint smile, his voice now measured and conciliatory. “We do not wish to reproach our brother. We simply seek to understand, Moryo—so that such failings will not arise again in what lies ahead.”

“What lies ahead?” Caranthir asked, his brow furrowing.

“The fulfillment of the Oath,” Curufin answered, his smile fading. “Our Oath.”

“You mean to march against Angband again? This time we lack the strength—our chances—”

Curufin fixed him with a steady gaze, saying nothing until the truth dawned upon him, sudden and terrible.

“—You mean that Silmaril.”

“Maitimo, is it true?”

Caranthir burst unbidden into Maedhros’ study. Behind the wide desk, Maedhros lifted his head at the intrusion, his expression composed and unwavering.

“What is it, Moryo?”

“Are we to attack Doriath? Why have I heard nothing of this?” Caranthir demanded.

Maedhros’ brow furrowed slightly, only to smooth a moment later. Caranthir caught the subtle change but could not grasp its meaning.

“Who told you that?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Curse it. Neither Curufin nor Celegorm had spoken such words. They had sown the thought in his mind without taking any responsibility for it.

“No one said it outright,” he admitted.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. At this, Caranthir hastened to add, “But Turko and Kurvo implied it. I cannot have misunderstood!”

For a moment, Maedhros was silent. Then he pushed aside the stack of parchment before him and leaned back in his chair.

“I do not know what they said to you, Moryo, but I can tell you this: nothing has been decided,” he said calmly. “And such a decision is not mine to make alone. We must reach agreement on matters of such weight.”

“Good,” Caranthir said without hesitation, “Let it truly be an agreement.”

A flicker of something passed through Maedhros’ eyes, though his voice remained even.

“We will discuss it tomorrow. If I were you, Moryo, I would return to your thoughts and ponder what you mean to say—and what you are prepared to do.”

The nights in Ossiriand were always the same: damp, dark, the forests surrounding him casting heavy shadows beneath the faint light of the moon. The steady sound of insects filled the air, making the quiet all the more disquieting, like a stillness that pressed heavily upon the mind.

He sat by the embers of his campfire, his face unreadable as the last tendril of smoke rose and vanished into the night. Even as a prince of the Noldor, he could not ignore the laws of the Green-Elves—hunting was strictly forbidden, and even a fire had to be carefully managed.

In the haze of thought, he seemed to drift back to the land that had once been his: Thargelion, the land of Caranthir. He soared as though borne on the wings of the eagles of Manwë, gliding soundlessly through the dark skies, his memories laid out below him: the rushing torrents of the rivers of Gelion, the rugged cliffs of Ered Lindon, the icy waters of Helevorn, the steadfast walls of Rerir. In those days, the filthy servants of Morgoth dared not tread the soil of East Beleriand, not while Caranthir stood guard. Thus those wretched creatures slunk eastward, skirting the Mountains of Lindon, to harass the Men who had once dwelled under his protection.

…Men…

“We thank you for your kindness, but the Haladin are free and do not seek the protection of the lords of the Eldar.”

Her eyes were filled with pride, a shield for a wounded dignity. He understood that pride. As a son of Fëanor, he understood it too well.

“In the west, we will find our own home.”

He had wanted to ask if they intended to make demands of Elu Thingol—the shrewd, ancient King of the Sindar—knowing he would not lightly yield any realm he claimed. Yet the question never found its voice. For reasons left unspoken, she truly wished to leave his land, to journey far beyond his borders, even if it meant submitting to another’s rule.

“We part ways here.”

He saw her image again, her head held high with unyielding pride. Her worn and battered armor, streaked with blood and dirt, bore the marks of a hard-fought battle. Her tangled brown hair and weary stance were no likeness of that of an Elda, because she was mortal. They said Men were but a shadow, a dim imitation of the Elves. But she was not. She was not.

He remembered her eyes—eyes that burned like the flame of a fleeting candle, fierce because they were fleeting, bright because they would not last.

You want to know why I once trusted Men? That is why.

But I will never tell you. Not ever.

A cold wind swept through, and he shivered, his thoughts scattering like the ashes before him. The fire had long since burned out, and the night had grown deep.

“Would you call this a return to old haunts?”

Hearing Amras’ remark, Amrod merely shrugged, unenthused. Like his younger brother, he gazed toward the hill rising above the wide plains. Its slopes, cloaked in a patchwork of dark green and faded gold, bore the signs of a withering season, earlier than in years past. Compared to the towering peaks of the North, Amon Ereb’s height was hardly worth noting, but here in the South, it stood out like a sentinel.

He knew this land well; he and Amras had once taken shelter here alongside their elder brother, Caranthir, after the Bragollach. In those days, only Maedhros had held fast to the fortress of Himring—none of the others had such fortune or strength: Caranthir lost Thargelion, Maglor joined Maedhros, and Celegorm and Curufin were driven from Himlad and fled to Nargothrond. They held Amon Ereb steadfast until the Year of Lamentation, when, marching forth with high hopes, they returned in bitter defeat. With all of East Beleriand fallen into the hands of the Enemy, they were at last compelled to abandon the hill and take to the wilds, wandering as exiles. When fortunes improved somewhat, Maedhros chose Amon Ereb once more for its strategic position, and thus it became, almost by chance, the new stronghold of the House of Fëanor.

Drawing a deep breath, Amrod urged his silver-grey horse to a swifter pace. His keen Elven sight had already discerned the Noldorin encampment nestled at the hill’s base, and he was certain the watch posts had marked their approach. From afar, the faint sound of horns carried on the wind, distant yet distinct, and soon their answering call rang out, bright and clear.

Trusting that a welcome party would soon arrive, he allowed his guards to ease. Yet these were dark days, and the times were far from promising. Creatures of evil had begun to encroach upon East Beleriand as early as the Bragollach, and after the Nirnaeth, they roamed unchecked. Even Ossiriand, once a haven, had grown perilous, forcing even seasoned Noldorin princes to tread with care. Yet Maedhros was ever watchful, permitting no foe to linger within the bounds of the lands he claimed, and this close to Amon Ereb, the path should be safe.

Thus, when he received Amras’ warning, it startled him almost to the point of alarm. Following his brother’s gaze, he spotted a white horse approaching from their flank. Its rider was an Elf—a realization that brought some relief—but their attire was so plain that Amrod failed at first to place them. It was only when he saw the face that he could not help but cry out:

“Turko!”

It was Celegorm, the brother to whom they had always been closest. At Amrod’s call, Celegorm raised a hand in greeting, his face alight with a radiant smile.

That confident smile… For but a fleeting moment, Amrod felt as though he were transported back to the plains of Valinor, racing with abandon or hunting freely in Oromë’s woods. He and Amras had always strove to best their elder brother, a renowned hunter, but they had never succeeded, not even once. And Celegorm, each time he claimed victory, would laugh—bold and triumphant—offering no consolation for their wounded pride save for a parting jibe: “If you wish to win, toil harder.”

He noticed that Celegorm’s steed was not the one he had ridden before, and he recalled that his brother had lost his horse in the Nirnaeth. No one could say how Celegorm had endured the loss, but he had undoubtedly chosen another fine steed. This one halted gracefully before them, its poise so composed that one might scarcely believe it had been galloping only moments before. Of course, Celegorm had always possessed a keen eye for horses—this thought flickered through Amrod’s mind as he dismounted and approached with Amras to greet him.

“How fares the land of the Seven Rivers?” Celegorm asked casually after embracing them both.

Amrod replied without thinking, “Well enough,” while Amras, ever the more practical, said, “We never stay long in one place, Turko, so it is hard to say.”

“Much the same for me,” Celegorm replied with a faint smile. “One thing is certain—there is more to test one’s mettle these days than before.”

“Of course!” Amrod answered quickly. “Huan must be thrilled—he always loved—”

The words had scarcely left his lips before he realized his mistake. He opened his mouth to apologize but found himself at a loss, unable to summon words that would not make matters worse. An awkward silence followed, heavy and uncomfortable, until Amras broke it, stumbling into a change of subject:

“Turko, do you know why we have been summoned?”

Celegorm did not answer immediately. Instead, he cast his gaze northward, a faint and inscrutable smile playing on his lips. It was then that Amrod noticed something chilling about his brother. Though Celegorm smiled, there was an icy detachment in his bearing, like the frozen edge of a blade, sharp and unfeeling. This was not the brother he remembered. Not the one who had ridden beside him through the blood-stained quays of Alqualondë, through the veils of the mists of Araman, across the narrow straits of Drengist, or at Losgar, where they had kindled flames that devoured the beautiful white ships. They had weathered countless hardships together, yet never had Amrod seen Celegorm so cold.

What had wrought this change in him? Beneath the leaden sky, Amrod pondered. Was it their father’s craft—the Silmarils, so pure, so radiant, and yet so cruel in binding them to an unrelenting fate? Or was it another light, the fierce and unyielding fire of the House of Fëanor, rooted deeply within each of them, burning ever brighter yet slowly consuming them to ash?

No, it could not be. That fire was their pride, their courage, their strength. It had brought Maedhros back from the brink of death and shaped the Turkafinwë Tyelkormo he had known. It could not simply fade away. Yet in Celegorm, it burned differently now—still fierce, but stripped of warmth.

“What requires all seven of us?” Celegorm broke the silence at last, his voice slow and drawn out, tinged with an edge of laziness and mockery. “What do we share, besides blood?”

It was not until the sounds of the encampment grew near that Amrod noticed Amras’ unusual silence. “Ambarussa?” he asked, glancing at his twin.

Amras turned to him, his expression distant. “I was only thinking, brother.”

“Do not overthink, Ambarussa,” Amrod said, a mix of relief and mild annoyance in his voice. “You do that far too often. It is no wonder Atar claimed me as his and you as Amíl’s.”

“And what is wrong with taking after Amíl?” Amras shot back, his eyes flashing. “Besides, do not talk to me as though you are the wiser. You are only my elder by moments.”

“And yet, those moments make all the difference,” Amrod replied with a grin, teasing yet unapologetic.

Amras sighed and shook his head, his earlier tension softening. “Then, o elder brother of mine, do you think we should support Turko?”

Amrod shrugged. “To be honest, I do not know.” His gaze drifted to Amras’ hair, still a bright reddish-brown from their childhood, so different from his own. “But I do know that supporting Maitimo is always the right choice.”

We all swore the Oath. What choice do we have but to fulfill it? The alternative is the wrath of the Valar—and everlasting darkness.

Reading his thoughts, Amras fell silent for a moment before nodding. “You are right. We have no other choice.”

Amrod frowned. For reasons he could not name, he disliked his brother’s tone. “Do not brood, Ambarussa. Choice is just a pleasant word. If you truly cared about freedom, you could have stayed behind with Amíl.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had erred. For a fleeting instant, he felt as he had in childhood—hiding himself in their father’s workshop following some mischief, curled in the narrow space between tools, awaiting for the inevitable moment when their mother would discover him.

Then Amras’ voice reached him, soft as a sigh carried on the wind.

“If I could have…”

The room was silent. The faint drip of the nenilúmë was barely audible, yet each drop fell with the weight of a distant bell tolling in the deep.

Sunlight, caught between the waning days of summer and the first breath of autumn, streamed through the lattice windows. It wove a pale golden haze that broke into shimmering strands, spreading like a net across every corner of the chamber. The lingering coolness of the night clung to the air, mingling with the gentle warmth of the sun, creating a quiet tension just beneath the surface. A few motes of dust drifted lazily in the golden beams, their movement so subtle it might escape all but the most watchful eye—even one as keen as that of the Eldar.

At one end of the long table sat Maedhros, his face half-veiled in shadow, the other half aglow with sunlight. His chiseled features were sharp and striking, like a marble sculpture shaped by the skillful hands of their mother. To his right was Maglor, his quiet presence so unassuming it belied his greatness as a minstrel, rendering him almost indistinguishable from the ordinary when his voice was still. Across from him, Caranthir sat with barely contained impatience, his lips pressed into a tight line. Beside him, Amrod gazed at Maedhros, his expression a perfect mirror of Amras—two statues identical, save for the differing hues of their hair.

Celegorm sat opposite Maglor, his outward demeanor as cold and unyielding as the stone walls of Himring had once been. Yet within, a voice mocked him relentlessly, a bitter laugh that spared no one seated here—not even himself.

Least of all you, my eldest brother.

He lowered his gaze to his hands. They were the hands of a Noldo—long and dexterous, folded together in a pose of deceptive tranquility. How ironic, he thought. Who would guess they had once been stained with blood?

The blood of kin… It is what it is. And you, Maitimo, surely realized this truth far earlier than I.

Maedhros’ voice, calm and measured, broke the silence. “A month ago, I sent a message to Dior Eluchíl, making our demands clear.”

He paused briefly before continuing, his tone unchanging. “As of now, we have received no reply.”

After a moment, Maglor spoke, his voice quiet yet firm. “Perhaps we should wait a while longer. The heavy rains of recent days may have delayed the messenger.”

“Are you jesting?” Caranthir snapped. “By now, even if the messenger swam the entire way, they would have arrived!”

“Perhaps Dior needs time to consider,” Maglor replied evenly. “Perhaps he will surrender the Silmaril. Surely he knows it would benefit both sides.”

“And you truly believe that?” Caranthir shot back, his voice cutting. “How long do you propose we wait? Until that Half-elven dies of old age? Lucky for you, at least, that he is mortal.”

Maedhros’ sharp gaze silenced Caranthir momentarily, though not entirely. When Caranthir turned away with a scowl, Maedhros swept his eyes over each of his brothers in turn. “We sent the message to give Dior the choice. Words, if chosen carefully, can help him see our perspective.”

A faint smile tugged at Celegorm’s lips. Well done, my brother, he thought wryly. Frame a threat as negotiation. Shift the burden of choice to the other party. That way, future actions appear justified.

“And words may yet sway Dior,” Curufin added quietly, his tone resolute. “After all, he is only mortal.”

He caught the flicker of a frown on Caranthir’s face and knew the contentious discussion from the previous day still lingered. As expected, Caranthir was the first to scoff. “Words? If they were so effective, why did they not stop that golden-haired fool Orodreth from banishing you? Or save you from nearly being strangled by a mortal? Were your words not plentiful enough—or just not pretty enough?”

Before Curufin could respond, Caranthir slammed his fist on the table and rose abruptly. “Are we here to make a decision or to speculate endlessly, like a lovelorn maid pondering the thoughts of her suitor? Since when has the House of Fëanor ever been so hesitant?”

“If possible, we prefer to resolve this peacefully—” Maglor began, only to be cut off by Caranthir. “When has the House of Fëanor ever chosen peace as its solution?”

The time has come.

Celegorm laughed—a sudden, sharp sound that cut through the heated exchange. Every face turned toward him, startled. Even Curufin, seated beside him, looked momentarily stunned. Maedhros frowned, Maglor’s lips parted as if to interject, and Amrod and Amras exchanged uneasy glances—one perplexed, the other apprehensive. Caranthir, frozen mid-motion, forgot to sit, his eyes fixed intently on him.

“Well said, Moryo,” he said at last, his laughter fading into a wry smile. “When has the House of Fëanor ever sought peace deliberately? If that had been our goal, we would still be waiting idly on the far shores of the sea. And if peace were truly our way, tell me—why do all of us here bear blood on our hands?”

Around the table, each brother’s face shifted, the weight of his words settling heavily upon them, and Caranthir sat down without a word. The past—undeniable and inescapable—hung like a shadow among them. My dear brothers, he thought with bitter satisfaction, if need be, do you truly hesitate at the thought of spilling blood once more? What is the difference between one drop and two?

“Dior will not surrender the Silmaril. The son of that mortal fancies himself the heir of Thingol and believes that by matching the pride of his grandfather, he can restore the glory of Doriath. Yet the deeds of Thingol, I trust, none of you have forgotten: knowing full well that the Silmaril was ours by right, he demanded it as the price for his daughter’s hand, and then he kept it for himself. He refused to aid us in the just war against the Enemy, denying us even the right to tread upon land preserved not by his own power, but by that of his wife.”

Now he could feel their anger rising; for once again, he had spoken the truth. Thingol’s disdain for the sons of Fëanor, kindled by the blood spilled at Alqualondë, remained unrelenting. He had forbidden even the tongue of the Noldor, casting it aside with his decree: “All such as use it shall be held as slayers of kin and betrayers of kin unrepentant.”

Years of resentment, long buried, were now rising to the surface, while lingering doubts among them fell away like the last leaves before the onset of winter.

“Dior wears the Silmaril openly upon his breast, but by what right? He is not of the Noldor—he is not even of the Eldar. And yet he dares to flaunt it, no doubt thinking the House of Fëanor will do no more than utter hollow threats, unwilling to act. Let it be known: whosoever believes such folly and dares such defiance shall pay the price.”

It had been long since he had spoken so freely, and though there was irony in his words, he could not deny the faint satisfaction they brought. Indeed, these words had been spoken far too many times before, yet if any wished to hear them again, he would not hesitate to oblige.

“The Silmaril is the work of the hands of our father, and we swore an unbreakable oath to reclaim it. In Valinor, we chose this path of vengeance, and I see no reason to turn aside from it. I say we prepare to march upon Doriath! Let them witness the resolve of the House of Fëanor: we do not falter, we do not turn back—not to the ends of the Earth, nor to the end of days!”

Silence followed, but it was no longer the oppressive silence of hesitation. A dangerous light flickered in the eyes of those seated around him, and even Maglor’s lingering caution seemed to falter. Yet Maglor spoke at last, though his voice was quiet. “Should we not wait a little longer? Perhaps Dior will yet see reason—”

“Of course, dear brother,” he replied mockingly, not bothering to meet Maglor’s gaze. “We can wait as long as you like. Perhaps he will indeed make the wise choice, and no blood need be shed. Or, as I suspect, his blindness and stubbornness will only grow. Either way, time will dull his vigilance and ease our task.” He turned his eyes to Maedhros, unblinking. “Fair enough, is it not?”

Brother, I have spoken the words you would not. Now give me the answer I know you hold.

Once again, the suffocating silence returned. All eyes turned to Maedhros, now the eldest of the House of Fëanor. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and when he finally spoke, his voice was cold and distant. “Then we wait until winter. If by then we receive no reply—”

The words hung unfinished as Celegorm’s blade flashed. A dagger now stood quivering in the wood of the table, its hilt trembling from the force of the throw. Slowly, a smile spread across Turkafinwë Tyelkormo’s handsome face, poised and deliberate, like a predator surveying its prey.

“That will be your answer.”

The first snow of the year had come early.

Stepping into the crisp morning air, Amras drew a deep breath and released it slowly, watching the white mist form and fade before him. For many years, he and his twin brother had kept watch at Amon Ereb, guarding the southern reaches of Beleriand—a land where snow was but a rare visitor. Yet the shadow spreading from the North deepened with each passing year, and it seemed that even the chill hand of winter had extended to touch this distant stronghold.

He was not the first to rise. The courtyard was already alive with activity: horses were tended with care, meals prepared, and fires stoked in the forges. Soon, the smiths would resume their labor, crafting new blades and armor or restoring the old to readiness. The days marched on, and even the most oblivious among them had begun to grasp the shape of what lay ahead.

Dior still had not answered.

The young red-haired prince shook his head sharply, as though to cast off the echoes of the dreams that clung to him from the night before. At times, he found himself questioning whether he was ensnared within some endless nightmare—a realm both strange and unreal, yet cruelly vivid in its clarity.

“Ambarussa!”

He turned at the familiar call. Ambarussa—the name he and Amrod had once shared. As children, they had wielded it mischievously, delighting in the confusion it sowed among others, a game made possible by their identical features. In time, as Amrod’s hair darkened and subtle differences set them apart, the name became something more: a symbol of their bond, a shared token of their twinhood. Their father had never approved of the practice, insisting on calling his younger twin Ambarto, while their mother had preferred Umbarto. Neither preference, it seemed, had mattered in the end.

“How did you sleep?” Amrod asked, stretching as he approached.

Amras smiled faintly but did not answer directly. “Let us ask Turko to join us for a hunt. There may be red deer nearby, and snow makes it an excellent time for tracking.”

“Good idea!” Amrod’s eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he dashed off toward Celegorm’s quarters. Watching his brother’s unhesitating enthusiasm, Amras exhaled a quiet sigh of relief before following at a slower pace.

That evening, they returned laden with spoils. The feast of roasted venison was plentiful and rich, the warm flavors and shared triumph lifting the spirits of all. Even Maglor, whose somber mood had deepened with each passing day, allowed himself a rare smile. Amid the merriment, Amras’ gaze strayed to Celegorm, who was deftly carving the meat, his movements practiced and precise.

Is this truly the brother I once knew? Amras wondered, his fingers tightening around his cup. Turko was always proud and bold, but never so cold, so unyielding. At the council where our fates were sealed, I nearly asked—Turko, is it the Silmaril you desire, or vengeance for another wound? Why do they whisper that you loved Lúthien, and that when she scorned you, you swore to destroy Doriath?

But he had not asked, and he knew he never would. Celegorm would not have answered, either. The sons of Fëanor do not confess or explain. And Celegorm’s motives could not be reduced to mere grievance. Thingol had refused to yield the Silmaril and defied the Union of Maedhros. The course had been set long ago. Why press the matter? The Oath remained, immutable and inescapable.

“Ambarussa, try this.” Amrod leaned over, setting a steaming slice of venison on his brother’s plate before his gaze shifted to the untouched wine. “What is wrong? No appetite?”

“Only had not gotten to it yet,” Amras replied, forcing a smile as he raised the cup to his lips. He felt Maedhros’ steady glance and quickly took a long sip. The wine was rich and smooth, yet all he could taste was its bitter chill, sinking like frost into his chest.

Father was right, Amras thought. Perhaps I do take after Mother, but I am not as strong as she was.

The feast lingered long into the night, closing with a rare song from Maglor, his golden voice weaving a melody both haunting and beautiful. As the brothers exchanged their goodnights, there was a fleeting warmth, a sense of fellowship that reminded Amras of their days in Valinor—those bright and joyous years in Tirion and Formenos. The harmony felt almost like a dream, a poignant contrast to their exile in these mortal lands, hunted by enemies and forsaken by kin.

I must not dwell on such thoughts, he admonished himself. It serves no purpose.

Amrod’s laughter rang out nearby, light and untroubled. Amras turned to his twin, his mirror image, and felt a pang of envy. That carefree spirit, unburdened by endless introspection, stirred a memory of something within himself—something long since out of reach.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps the weight of his own pondering thoughts, but a moment passed before Amras turned. There stood Curufin, his composure unshaken, as though the warmth of the evening’s gathering had not touched him.

“Telvo,” Curufin said, inclining his head with the practiced ease of formality. “Might I have a word with you?”

Amrod, as if sensing his unease, glanced back. His brows knitted as he took a step toward them, suspicion flickering across his face. Amras understood his twin’s reaction; they, who delighted in the open woods and the hunt, shared little in common with Curufin, a master of craft and subtlety. On any other night, Amras might have sought an excuse to leave. But something in the air, or perhaps within himself, bade him stay—a strange compulsion to hear what his brother wished to say.

“Of course, Kurvo,” Amras replied swiftly, intercepting Amrod’s interference with a faint but steady smile. “Good night, Ambarussa.”

Amrod hesitated, his gaze lingering on them, but after a moment, he shrugged. “Good night, then,” he said, turning to join Celegorm, who stood nearby with an air of feigned indifference.

Curufin led Amras a short distance away, stopping at the edge of the firelight where the flickering shadows deepened and the distant sounds of the feast faded into quiet. In the stillness, his voice came low and measured, yet each word rang with unsettling precision:

“Do not let the inevitability of it all weigh upon you, my brother. Dior and the Grey Elves, blind in their arrogance, will soon pay the price for their folly.”

Amras blinked, his thoughts scattering like leaves swept by a sudden wind.

“To declare possession of the Silmaril so brazenly, yet lack the strength to protect it, is a folly beyond measure,” Curufin continued. “Dior’s pride is born of mortal ignorance and the vanity of the Dark Elves. It is better that the Jewel returns to us before our foes gather their full strength and seize it once more. Surely, you see the wisdom in this.”

Amras could not recall when Curufin had departed. He only knew that he wandered back to his chambers in a haze, as though caught in the throes of some waking dream. Ambarussa did not even notice my unease, my doubts, he thought as he climbed into bed. But Kurvo did. And what he said…

He had never imagined it possible to perceive all that lay ahead in such a light—cold and calculated, utterly indifferent to the blood and lives that would be spent.

Haunted by these thoughts, he drifted into a restless sleep.

In his dreams, he stood once more upon the white ships of the Teleri. The vast night sky arched above, glittering with innumerable stars, while the sea stretched endlessly into the horizon. Yet the rhythmic song of the waves was gone, replaced by a stillness that pressed upon him, a silence heavy with foreboding.

A faint red light flickered outside the window, staining the cool expanse of sea and sky with an eerie glow.

What is happening?

He tried to move, to see more clearly, but an unseen force held him immobile. The light grew brighter, shifting from red to orange, from orange to yellow, until shadows writhed and twisted upon the ship’s portholes. A pressing sense of danger rose within him, and a thought flashed across his mind.

Fire. An immense fire.

Heat seeped through the wooden walls, thick and suffocating, inescapable. The ship groaned beneath him, its timbers splintering like the cry of a wounded beast. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a relentless drumbeat of dread and desperation. He wanted to scream, to flee, but he could not. The flames crept closer, their tongues twisting like barbed vines, devouring all in their path—only to halt, poised mere inches away, as if savoring the torment of its prey.

End it. Please, let it end.

Pain, sharp and merciless, pierced his chest like a spear’s cruel thrust. Summoning the last remnants of his strength, he cried out:

“Ambarussa—”

He woke with a silent scream, his body drenched in sweat. The moon had already set, and the night beyond his window lay heavy, shrouded in unbroken darkness.

She sat in the great hall of Menegroth, her feet resting upon the smooth, multihued stones of the floor, the throne rising behind her upon its dais. Intricate lanterns adorned the pillars, which were carved in the likeness of towering beeches, their gentle golden glow casting soft halos in the dimness. Along the walls and columns, lifelike carvings of birds and beasts seemed almost to stir and breathe beneath the flickering candlelight. Her gaze, steady and unyielding, lingered on these illusions of life, and she thought to herself, They appear to hold more life than I do.

The hall was deathly quiet, so quiet that her keen Elven ears caught the faint howling of the cold wind threading through the trees outside. Days earlier, the heaviest snowstorm in her memory had blanketed Doriath, silencing the voice of the Esgalduin as its rushing waters froze under the harsh grip of winter. O Valar, let this quiet endure. She prayed fervently, desperately, though she knew all too well how impossible her plea was.

They had come.

It was just before dawn—at the darkest hour of the night—when her husband received the report. The world seemed shrouded in an eerie haze, teetering between dream and waking. She had seen him standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint sliver of light spilling through the slightly ajar door. Though their conversation was hushed, every word, every syllable reached her ears with perfect clarity. The sons of Fëanor, long denied a response from Doriath, had finally lost patience. Instead of waiting further, they had taken up arms. Their preparation had been meticulous, their timing chosen with care, and they had crossed the borders of Doriath with little resistance. The Sindar, caught unprepared, had hastened to assemble a defense around Menegroth. Even now, the two sides were likely locked in battle.

When he turned back and closed the door, she was already seated upright. In the darkness, his face lay concealed, but his voice betrayed his emotions. Beneath the anger and alarm, there lingered an undercurrent of something else—an excitement she could not comprehend.

“I must go to the front,” he declared.

He kissed her cheek quickly, and before she could respond, he pressed something into her palm.

“Keep this for me.”

Time seemed to stand still, and she lost all sense of its passage. The wind’s mournful wailing persisted, yet gradually, her ears began to discern other sounds: the whistling of arrows, the clash of metal, distant shouts and nearby cries, and the crunch of snow beneath hurried steps. Their meaning was terrifyingly clear. Rising slowly, she went down the steps and crossed the hall. The lifelike carvings of birds and beasts, so vivid in their stillness, hushed in her passing, as if even they sensed what loomed beyond. She pushed open the great doors just a crack, feeling the icy wind sting her face. With it came the cacophony of battle—angry shouts and the clash of steel, all of it sharp and immediate, as if she had stepped from a dream into stark reality.

Slipping through the gap, she melted into the shadows. From a narrow corridor, she gazed toward the gates of Menegroth, where the warriors of Doriath in their grey cloaks moved swiftly to and fro. Unnoticed, she lingered there, watching the swift movements of the defenders. Bloodstains bloomed on some of their garments like dark flowers.

Her heart tightened. Once again, Doriath was bathed in blood. She had not been present during the sack of Doriath, having already wed Dior and taken up residence by the falls of Lanthir Lamath in the far reaches of the Seven Rivers. Yet the scars of that tragedy had not faded. When she returned with Dior to Menegroth, faint bloodstains still clung to the stones of the halls, too stubborn to be entirely erased.

“Lady Nimloth, you should not be here.”

A concerned voice came from behind her. She turned to find a young guard, his face etched with anxiety. Ignoring his unspoken plea, she asked softly, “How fares the battle?”

He hesitated, but her calm and resolute gaze compelled honesty. “The situation is grim. We are retreating toward Menegroth. Lord Dior plans to make his final stand here.”

She inclined her head slightly and said nothing.

“Please, my lady, retreat to safety—” he began, but at her gentle shake of her head, he faltered. “Then, what do you—”

“Take me somewhere I can see the battle.”

The guard’s eyes darted towards the sounds of fighting, then back to her. The pale light of the grey day caught her hair, transforming her silver tresses into flowing light.

This battle, she thought, would not last long.

From the narrow vantage of a lookout chamber, she observed the front lines of Menegroth, where the great bridge spanned the frozen river of Esgalduin. The grey-cloaked defenders retreated step by step, while brightly colored banners of the enemy relentlessly pressed forward. Beside her, the young guard stood rigid and alert, his hand clenched tighly around the hilt of his sword. Observing his tense vigilance, she felt a curious, almost whimsical amusement at her own calmness. Was it quiet dignity of acceptance, or merely the recklessness of one who had made peace with the inevitable?

But there was no time for reflection. As the defenders fell back to the bridge, her eyes found him—her love, her husband, her Aranel. Clad in the armor of his forefather, he stood resplendent, shining with the light of the Eldar. Amid the chaos of the fray, he fought with a fierce valor unmatched, yet his foe was no less mighty. Upon the breastplate of his adversary blazed, proud and defiant, the Star of Fëanor.

It was a son of Fëanor.

Blades clashed, and for a moment, they were locked in a deadly stalemate. In that fleeting instant, she saw his face. He was strikingly handsome, his lips curving into a faint smile even amidst the bloodshed. Arrogance and deliberate elegance mingled in his bearing, creating an impression of chilling cruelty.

But it could not be Maedhros. All knew the eldest son of Fëanor could not wield a sword in his right hand.

Sensing her confusion, the guard beside her whispered, “That is Celegorm, the third son of Fëanor.”

Their duel seemed endless—attacks, parries, thrusts. The dance of swords wove a deadly pattern, each moment hanging precariously on the edge of fate. She had not known Dior was such a skilled warrior, capable of holding his ground against a son of Fëanor. He is the son of his father, she reminded herself. The son of Beren Erchamion. If his father could prevail against impossible odds, so too could he.

On the battlefield, it seemed that Celegorm had not grasped this truth. Frustration began to seep into his movements, his composure slipping as his impatience grew. It was then that Dior found his opening. His blade flashed, plunging deep into Celegorm’s chest.

Yet there was no time to celebrate. Before Dior could withdraw his blade, another figure emerged silently from the shadows, striking a mortal blow from behind.

She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped. In that moment, the pain of the sword piercing flesh became hers, as if it were her own. His anger and helplessness surged through her like an overwhelming tide, flooding her senses. In a daze, her fëa seemed to merge with his hröa, her consciousness blending with his. Though her own eyes were tightly closed, she now saw through his eyes and heard through his ears.

He struggled to turn his head. A pair of grey eyes, burning with icy fury, met his gaze. The cold, hard metal embedded in his ribcage twisted violently, forcing a groan from his lips. Then he tasted the flavor of blood: salty and warm, suffocating, a terrifyingly alien sensation within his own body.

“Curufin,” he said—only that one word, as the blood flooding his throat prevented him from speaking further. Is this how low you have fallen, Curufin? An assassin striking from behind, too cowardly to meet my eyes—just as you did to my mother.

But he knew these words would be in vain, and so did she.

He died for the kingdom cherished by his forebears. His last sight was of the gates of Menegroth, both majestic and weathered, as life dissipated like smoke rising into the frigid air.

She swallowed her tears silently. Before the guard could react, she pushed open the window. He gasped and reached for her, grasping her arm, but she had no intention of jumping. Facing the sunlight, she raised her hand high. In that instant, the entire battlefield below seemed to freeze—time itself holding its breath. A brilliant white light, dazzling and otherworldly, flared in her palm and vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. The attackers faltered, their gazes irresistibly drawn upward, eyes filled with nothing but the radiance they had just beheld.

She raced through the winding halls of the Thousand Caves, the endless corridors of Menegroth stretching before her in a seemingly eternal course. The young guard followed closely behind. Neither spoke; their silence was laden with unspoken understanding. They chose to let their steps guide them, entrusting their fate to whatever end awaited them.

A sharp turn brought them to the end of their flight. A solid stone wall blocked their path, abruptly ending the passage. They halted, turning as one to face their pursuers. The guard stepped forward, shielding her with his body, placing himself between her and the oncoming foe.

The enemy, bearing the emblem of the House of Fëanor, soon appeared. Their steps slowed as they surveyed the scene; the situation was clear. She stood in silence, her gaze steady upon these once-kin, now enemies, enduring them—a vast ocean of enmity—as a lone, humble rock battered by a tempestuous sea.

Then, the line of their pursuers parted, and one stepped forward. He removed his helm and loosened his heavy armor, revealing the thick dark hair typical of the Noldor, cascading over his shoulders. His grey eyes, once touched by the light of the Two Trees, gleamed with an unearthly brightness. But she did not linger on his face; her gaze fell to his hands.

There, smeared across his gauntlet, was her husband’s blood.

“Step aside,” Curufin said with casual disdain, addressing the guard. 

The guard said nothing, drawing his sword and stepping forward resolutely.  

In the blink of an eye, the young guard fell before her. Blood pooled at her feet, spreading in a crimson tide, warm droplets flecking her face. She raised her head, her pale features a mask of composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear as they met those of the fifth son of Fëanor.

“Give it to me.”

This time, his words were addressed to her alone. His tone was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes were cold as winter steel, betraying his true intent. She took a step back, her shoulders pressing against the stone wall.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, tilting his head slightly before offering a faint smile. “We are not here for slaughter. Give me what you hold, and this will all be over.”

Her eyes never left his as she kept her hands hidden behind her back. He advanced slowly, studying her with the keen gaze of a hunter observing a snared prey.

“Do not be afraid,” he repeated, his voice softening. “What is your name?”

He extended his hands toward her, palms open in a mockery of peace. In that moment, she moved with startling swiftness. His mocking smile froze and then vanished as his eyes widened in disbelief. He looked down. A dagger, its slender and deadly blade, had pierced his mail with the precision of a needle through cloth, sinking deep into his chest.

He recognized it—the craftsmanship was unmistakable. It was the work of his father.

Gasps filled the air as swords were drawn in unison. In the next moment, she was hurled violently against the wall, winded and stunned. Strangely, she felt no pain. As blood swiftly pooled at her feet—her own, this time—she lifted her head. Her expression, serene and unwavering, was that of one who had embraced her fate.

“I am Nimloth, wife of Dior, Lady of Doriath.”

With a faint clink, a silver chain slipped from her hand, the jewel it bore falling to the ground. It was undeniably beautiful, a gem of exquisite brilliance. Yet anyone who looked upon it could see—it was not the Jewel that had overturned a world.

Maglor knew precisely where his elder brother would not be—Maedhros would not remain in the blood-soaked halls of Menegroth, sifting through the carnage in search of a Silmaril.

The echoes of slaughter still rang in his mind, a brutal, maddening refrain. Blood had seeped through his armor, soaking his garments—cold, clinging, and foul, its touch stirring revulsion deep within him. Yet, strangely, he did not feel sickened. His insides seemed to have turned to stone—numb, unyielding.

This time, it was not the Teleri but the Sindar.

The tragedy of another time and place rose unbidden in his memory, the players and stage hauntingly alike: Teleri and Sindar, Alqualondë and Menegroth.

If we are cursed, what of them?

He did not linger on the thought; he knew no answer would come.

The winter snow crunched under his mechanical steps, yet he did not look back at his own footprints. The path ahead told him all he needed to know of their color.

He recognized the tracks before him. Only one person could take strides so long, the distance between the marks unmistakable. Yet, as he followed them to the clearing and caught sight of the familiar copper-red hair, a shiver coursed through him. Amid the stark whiteness of snow, the deep blacks of shadow, and the cold greys of stone, that vivid red blazed like fire—like blood.

He recalled how Maedhros had once braided that striking copper hair, much like their cousin Fingon, who had fallen at the Nirnaeth. But after Thangorodrim, Maedhros had abandoned the practice—braiding required two hands. Proud as he was, Maedhros could not bear to display such helplessness before others. Since then, those rare and splendid locks had simply fallen loose over his shoulders.

Maglor halted at a respectful distance. Maedhros, undoubtedly aware of his presence, neither moved nor spoke to acknowledge him.

Does he already know? Maglor wondered. Yet the answer mattered little—his duty was to report, even if none of what he carried could offer a glimmer of hope. He hesitated, words eluding him as the silence between them deepened, pressing heavily upon his heart. At last, unable to endure its weight, he found his voice.

“Maitimo, we have not found the Silmaril.”

Maedhros gave no response. Then he already knows, Maglor thought. His brother’s stillness was too absolute, his composure too impenetrable.

“Dior is dead,” Maglor continued, his tone dry and brittle. “He killed Celegorm, and Curufin killed him.” Only as the words left his lips did he realize he had spoken their Sindarin names. The old, affectionate nicknames felt impossible to utter now. Every syllable would summon memories too vivid to endure—voices and faces once so familiar, bright as yesterday, now fading into the abyss of silence.

“Nimloth, wife of Dior, is also dead. She slew Curufin with a dagger forged by our father.”

At last, Maedhros stirred, the smallest movement disturbing his stillness. Maglor braced himself, wrestling to maintain his composure beneath the weight of his own words.

“Caranthir fell in the chaos as well. The Sindar fought fiercely.”

As he gazed at the figure before him, seemingly turned once more to living stone, Maglor felt his words harden in his throat, each one a struggle to force into the silence.

“And the Silmaril… its whereabouts remain unknown. Dior’s three children are missing, and it is reasonable to assume they have fled with the Jewel. Celegorm’s herald, Lachodir, is searching for them and will report to me as soon as there is news—”

“I will see to it myself.”

Maedhros turned abruptly, cutting him off. His face, pale as snow, bore streaks of dried, darkened blood. Yet his eyes burned with an unnatural brilliance, as though the fire within him had broken through the fragile shell of his flesh, its searing heat and piercing light almost unbearable in their intensity. Beneath that blazing, icy gaze, Maglor could only nod, though a question rose unbidden in his mind: Is the Silmaril all you care about, Maitimo?

Whether Maedhros read his thoughts, Maglor could not tell. He had made no effort to guard his mind, though he doubted his brother had bothered to probe it. Maedhros spoke again, his voice so calm it bordered on apathy:  “Is there anything else?”

Do you truly mean that? Anger surged in Maglor’s chest, his blood roaring in his ears. For a fleeting moment, he nearly succumbed to the impulse to seize his brother and shake him violently. Perhaps we came for the Silmaril, but after such bloodshed, is the Jewel truly all that matters? You can disregard the fallen Sindar in Menegroth, but what of our kin—our brothers? Do their lives mean nothing to you?

His breath quickened, and this time, Maedhros noticed. Their gazes locked, and after a moment of silence, Maedhros’ lips tightened. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, a faint crack running through his iron restraint. “You misunderstand me.”

“What do I misunderstand?” Maglor’s retort burst forth before he could think, sharper and harsher than even he had intended. “You want the Silmaril, Maitimo, is that not it? All you care about is its fate! Then wait for Lachodir to bring you word, because I cannot give you an answer now.”

Maedhros’ jaw tightened. For a fleeting moment, Maglor thought he might erupt in fury, but the fire seemed to die as quickly as it had risen. The flame guttered, leaving behind only ash.

“I do not trust that servant of Celegorm’s to find those children.”

The statement was simple, yet each word struck Maglor like a hammer. He stared, speechless. To anyone else, the words might have seemed unremarkable, but Maglor knew his brother too well to miss the exhaustion and bitterness woven through them.

“As for the Silmaril—at least we tried.”

How could this be? Maglor wondered. Maedhros was their leader, the steadfast anchor of the House of Fëanor. Since his rescue from Thangorodrim, he had never shown even the faintest trace of weakness.

“At least we have learned,” Maedhros said at last, his voice hollow, “that the sons of Fëanor can die too.”

He could not recall how he came to be sitting; only that he found himself on a tree stump in the clearing, while Maedhros knelt beside him on one knee, his unmaimed left arm encircling his shoulders. To be fair, that arm was a little stiff—but that was to be expected. The eldest son of Fëanor was not known for tenderness.

Shame burned within him. Amid the carnage of the battlefield, with three brothers awaiting burial and two younger ones searching in vain, here he sat, his face wet with tears.

Am I too weak... too much a hypocrite? he wondered, trembling as he tried to summon the courage to face the truth. Had he grown complacent in the role of a follower, trading obedience for the illusion of peace, relying on others to shoulder responsibility? Only moments ago, he had burned with anger at Maedhros for his coldness and harsh decisions, casting blame as though he were a mere innocent bystander. But did he truly stand on the moral high ground? Could he even claim such a right?

The truth was always hard to confront. The blood of Alqualondë, the flames of Losgar... and now the slaughter of Menegroth. Perhaps he could argue that Alqualondë had been a tragic accident. But what of Losgar? When their father had ordered the burning of the Telerin ships, had he truly agreed? If not, what had he done? He could have acted, however futile it might have been—just as Maedhros had. If guilt had truly weighed upon him, why had his actions this time been no different?

The reality was inescapable: he, too, was a son of Fëanor.

Now he understood: Maedhros must wrestle with these contradictions even more than he. As the second son, Maglor could console himself with the excuse that he was merely following his elder brother’s lead. But Maedhros had no such refuge. The histories might claim that it was Celegorm who had stirred them to this course—but was that truly the case? Even if others believed it, would Maedhros believe it himself?

The burden of making decisions that shaped the lives of others was a heavy one, and Maglor realized that he and his brothers, knowingly or not, had always placed that weight upon Maedhros.

In that moment, he wanted to embrace his brother—not out of guilt or shame alone, but from a deep well of sympathy and understanding. But Maitimo would not welcome it, he thought. Maitimo never asks for sympathy or understanding. And yet, was that not another tragedy? That even between brothers, bound by blood, the pain and struggles they endured could not be shared—offered up instead to pride and dignity.

Perhaps... that was yet another layer of the curse.

“Let us go back,” Maedhros said at last, and for once, Maglor thought he heard something almost gentle in his voice. His eyes stung, and he bit his lip, nodding silently. As they began the journey back, he chose not to follow behind his brother as he always had, but instead walked beside him.

“Are you still writing that song?”

After a long silence, Maedhros spoke. Maglor glanced up, surprised, but Maedhros’ face had already returned to its familiar, stoic mask, showing no trace of emotion.

“Yes,” Maglor replied softly. “I am.”

Maedhros said nothing more, his gaze fixed on the distant edge of the forest. Beneath the blanket of snow, the frozen Esgalduin lay mute and still. Maglor thought they would walk all the way back to Menegroth in silence. But then, Maedhros spoke again:

“Then I suppose this place will serve as yet another inspiration.”

-End-