Chapter 4. The Unforgiven: Part One

Decades had passed since Morgoth last dealt significant harm to the Noldor. That did not mean, however, that the Dark Lord refrained from testing their resolve after his bitter defeat at the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. At one point, a great army of Orcs was sent to swarm the highlands of Dorthonion, where Angrod and Aegnor held their posts. Some even broke through the Pass of Sirion and the Gap of Maglor, spilling into Beleriand. Yet this assault merely granted the Noldor the triumph of the Dagor Aglareb. Fingolfin and Maedhros did not "wander abroad with little thought of war," as the Enemy had hoped. While the main host of the Dark Lord pressed the sons of Finarfin, forces from Hithlum and Himring closed in from the west and east, crushing their foes like iron caught between hammer and anvil.

He remembered the relentless pursuit of the Orcs across Ard-galen, hunting them down to the last. It was then he began to understand why his father had made the fateful choice to venture deep into the dark realm with only a handful of guards. Let the foul blood of evil creatures spill beneath bright blades. Let the limbs of vile monsters break under thundering hooves. And always, Huan was at his side. The hound of Valinor showed no mercy, tearing through all enemies in his path.

But Maedhros raised his hand to halt their advance as they neared the border of Dor Daedeloth, where Curufinwë Fëanáro had made his last stand. Instinctively, his gaze turned west. Beyond the field of riders bearing the Star of Fëanor and across the barren, ashen plain, another host emerged—a sea of riders led by a royal banner of blue and silver, beneath which King Fingolfin sat astride his great white steed.

In unison, Fingolfin and Maedhros broke from their main hosts and rode to meet one another. When the banners of the two houses flew side by side, the dark-haired king turned to the copper-haired prince and spoke first. "A great victory."

Without hesitation, Maedhros inclined his head. "It belongs to the Noldor."

Fingolfin nodded in agreement. "And the Noldor shall claim it, now united by kinship and friendship."

The King spoke true. What followed was a long peace—long and monotonous, at least in the east. After the Dagor Aglareb, Morgoth seemed to recognize the vigilance of Maedhros and turned his attention toward the House of Fingolfin. Orcs came around Ered Lómin, crossing through Lammoth to assault Hithlum from the west. But Fingon, no less watchful than Maedhros, had already received word in Dor-lómin before their arrival. The Prince of Hithlum met them at the Firth of Drengist, where he drove them cleanly into the icy waters of Belegaer: a swift and decisive victory. Another notable event was the arrival of a creature unseen before—a dragon. Once again, Fingon the Valiant led his mounted archers into battle, defeating the beast and driving it back to Angband.

He heard of those events and wished Morgoth would send such challenges to the east, for he felt as though he were merely idling. Often, he rode north through the Pass of Aglon to survey the vast grasslands of Ard-galen from the hills of Himring, by day or night, ever mindful of the Siege of Angband: Fingolfin and Fingon held the west, Angrod and Aegnor guarded the south, and the sons of Fëanor maintained their watch in the east. It seemed the Noldor had succeeded in keeping Morgoth contained, and his father's words—a promise of unclouded skies, sweet water, wide lands, and free people—had, at last, come true.

Everything seemed well, save for the lingering Shadow in the North. Yet even the smoke above Thangorodrim had grown so faint it could scarcely be seen from afar. Besides, why should he trouble himself over it? He was no longer the one burdened with planning for the future; his eldest brother had taken that weight upon himself. In those tranquil days, the Dark Lord gradually faded from his thoughts.

We may not gaze upon the same land now, but surely we look upon the same stars.

Letting his horse wander freely, he sat down beside Huan. Late at night, beneath Himring's ever-cold winds, the warmth of the great hound was a welcome comfort.

As peaceful days stretched on, it was not long before the Noldorin princes returned to one of their oldest pastimes: hunting. His favored grounds lay in the forests and fields of the south—the lands of Amrod and Amras. In the early days of their settlement in East Beleriand, the twins had been reluctant to remain stationed so far from the enemy lines. Amrod had even protested to Maedhros, with Amras chiming in to support him. But Maedhros, unshaken by their defiance, had merely smiled and replied, "You are sent there because you are needed there. If I am not mistaken, you two are among the greatest hunters of the Noldor."

"No better than Turko," said Amrod.

"Why not send Turko there, then? He even has Huan to aid him," added Amras.

Maedhros' smile deepened. "Because I need Turko here. He knows the tongues of birds and beasts, and they have proven invaluable in our wars." Then his smile faded, and his tone grew more serious. "Rear and front are equally important, Ambarussa. We must be certain the lands behind us are secure."

The twins exchanged a glance, shrugged, and finally conceded.

Now, riding with his younger brothers through the beautiful wilds of East Beleriand—hunting, feasting, or resting as they pleased—he found little to trouble him, save for the occasional encounters with their cousins from Nargothrond. Though he bore no ill will toward Finrod, Caranthir made no effort to hide his disdain for the House of Finarfin. Finrod, ever diplomatic, approached such meetings with courtesy, but they still occasionally ended on sour terms.

This, however, posed no great inconvenience; they could simply head to Thargelion instead. Near the shores of Lake Helevorn, on the western slopes of Mount Rerir, Caranthir had built his fortress. Curufin, in fact, preferred this place, as it was closer to Belegost and Nogrod, the hidden Dwarven cities in the great mountains of Ered Luin. Though Caranthir held little love for the Dwarves, dismissing them as secretive and unappealing creatures, Curufin—so named for his resemblance to their father in both appearance and skill—spoke highly of their achievements in smithcraft.

Of all the Noldorin princes, Curufin showed the greatest interest in the Dwarves and shared the most common ground with them, though Maedhros also won the friendship of Azaghâl, King of Belegost. In Himlad, Curufin often welcomed Dwarves who ventured into Beleriand for trade, eagerly learning from their expertise while sharing the language and lore of the Noldor. Thanks to his efforts, the Noldor benefited from the vast knowledge and craftsmanship of the Dwarves, while the Dwarves marveled at the steel-tempering techniques of the Noldor.

Thus it came to pass that he and Curufin visited the fortress of Rerir more frequently than they traveled south. Sometimes, Caranthir extended an invitation; at other times, they simply went, knowing they would be warmly received. In Thargelion, each pursued their own interests: he often hunted with Caranthir, while Curufin hosted the Dwarves, frequently joined by his remarkably gifted son, Celebrimbor.

As a messenger from Himlad arrived at Rerir, he was sparring with Caranthir in the courtyard. Nearby, Curufin and Celebrimbor were examining a Dwarf-made knife—a gift from Telchar, one of the most renowned masters of Nogrod.

"Lord Celegorm, there is news we believe you would wish to hear without delay," said the messenger.

"Speak." Twisting his wrist swiftly, he deflected a powerful strike from Caranthir. Without hesitation, Caranthir countered, his sword flashing in a smooth arc that both blocked the riposte and delivered a sharp counter-strike.

"We have an unexpected guest in Himlad, my lord. Lady Aredhel arrived five days ago, alone."

With a loud clang, his sword flew from his grasp. Caranthir, more perplexed than pleased at such an easy victory, frowned, while Curufin, who had seemed indifferent to the messenger's arrival moments before, now turned his attention to the scene.

"Is she not staying with Turgon?" he asked, his heartbeat quickening. "In a city known only to its inhabitants?"

"Lady Aredhel did indeed come from the Hidden City, my lord. She said she came to see you—her cousin and friend of old."

It felt as though all the waters of Helevorn had been dashed upon his face—a sudden, icy chill spread through him. Cousin and friend. She must have chosen those words deliberately, he thought. It was her way of saying, I come to see you now, but nothing has changed between us.

"Then I suppose we should prepare to return." Curufin rose, taking the knife from Celebrimbor and fastening it to his belt. His tone was calm and casual, betraying nothing of what might lie behind his words.

"Wait." He barely recognized his own voice. Curufin raised an eyebrow, but Caranthir, still preoccupied with wiping sweat from his brow, paid no attention to the interruption.

"Why the haste to return?" he asked, steadying his voice. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were of the House of Finarfin—if he were, perhaps he would not need to summon all his control merely to seem lighthearted. "Do you not have plans to meet the Naugrim from Belegost, Kurvo?"

Curufin studied him for a moment before speaking. "You know her well, Turko. She may lack the patience to wait—even for you."

It would be better if she had none, he thought bitterly. But what if she does? After all, she had waited far longer than he had ever expected. And now, she had come—not to reconcile, but to remind him of their shared past. A past that had been painful for him, and likely no less so for her. She means to force me to confront her. But for what purpose?

He could not go back. Not now. He could not go back.

A guard retrieved his sword for him, granting him a moment to mask his unease. Taking the blade, he slid it into its sheath in a single, fluid motion. "She will not mind. You know she is our friend."

Curufin raised an eyebrow again; but, this time, he chose to remain silent.

Relieved by Curufin's lack of argument, he turned to Caranthir, feeling far easier to address this brother. "It was an accident, Moryo. I propose another match. I will not have a reputation for being bested by a younger brother."

Caranthir snorted. "You have never won, Turko, and you never will."

"Well," he smiled, "we will see." Without warning, he drew his sword and struck with lightning speed. The laces of Caranthir's tunic fluttered to the ground, severed cleanly. With the blade now pressed lightly against his brother's chest, a different smile—far from righteous—spread across his lips.

Caranthir froze for a heartbeat before exploding with fury. "What in Arda is this, Turko?"

"Call it my win," he said, withdrawing his sword with a mocking flourish. In the blink of an eye, Caranthir drew his own blade and fixed him with a glare as sharp as steel. After a moment of taut silence, the clanging and scraping of swords once again filled the courtyard.

Curufin watched for a moment longer before shaking his head and leaving with Celebrimbor.

He remained at Rerir with Curufin and Celebrimbor as time pressed relentlessly forward: late spring blossomed into summer, which then faded into a golden autumn. When the chill of winter arrived, his reputation as a hasty-riser became undeniable, for his restlessness grew with each passing day. Then came the fateful moment during a sparring match with Caranthir, when he lost control and wounded his brother's forearm. What followed, however, was inexplicable even to himself: he erupted in fury, hurling accusations at Caranthir with abandon, despite knowing full well that the fault was his own.

Caranthir, with a temper no better than his, did not take it well. Had Curufin not been informed and arrived in time, the consequences might have been disastrous enough to amuse Morgoth in his dark dreams. That night, he lay sleepless in his chamber, staring absently at the ceiling patterns, his thoughts adrift. When Curufin entered, he was not surprised.

"I will not apologize," he said flatly.

"And I will not ask you to apologize, my brother," Curufin replied.

He had not expected such an answer. Turning his head, he saw his younger brother standing straight, his face calm and unreadable. Perhaps he is my most dangerous brother, he thought. Curufin's composure was far harder to contend with than Caranthir's fury. And the people in Himlad—do they follow my temper, or do they obey Curufin's words? Yet he quickly dismissed the doubt; it was baseless. Curufin had done nothing to undermine him—this he knew better than anyone.

"Do you remember what I said to you when we were still in Mithrim?" Curufin asked. "About your decision to retreat."

He remained silent, and Curufin continued without waiting for a reply.

"I believe you should go back, Turko," his brother said. "For yourself, if not for her. Will you reconsider?"

"That is none of your business," he replied curtly.

Curufin said nothing. He simply stepped back, turned, and began walking toward the door. Yet before leaving the chamber, he spoke again, his voice calm as ever. "I am your brother, Turko, and I mean no harm to you. Remember that."

The sound of the door closing was so soft it was almost imperceptible. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, fixing his eyes on the patterns until they blurred and faded.
...

The light of the Two Trees shone upon the endless fields of grass, scattered with flowers of every hue. Bathed in silver and gold, two riders swept by, swift as the wind.

"I prefer leopards," she said, dressed all in white. "They have more grace than lions."

"You will find the same in their tongues," he replied with a grin. "But I must tell you, those two said your fur is far too conspicuous to make a good hunter."

She laughed. "They might be right, but habits are habits. I do not want to change, and I cannot change. What shall we do next? Another match?"

"You know you will not win."

"And I know I will never have the chance to win if I do not try," she retorted, then suddenly looked up. "Wait—look, a swan!"

"Are you certain?" He turned his gaze upward to follow hers. She was right. There it was—a large swan, its white wings spread wide and its long neck gracefully arched, too striking to be mistaken. Yet, knowing their nature well, he found it unusual—almost impossible—for one of them to appear here, in the fields of Valinor.

Raising his voice, he called to the proud bird in a tongue she did not understand. After a pause, he repeated the call, this time in a different tone. She noticed the shift and asked, "Why did you change your tone?"

"At first, I used the Noldorin accent," he explained, still gazing at the bird as it began to circle down toward them. "He is not accustomed to it. He is from the city and harbor of Alqualondë."

"Then he must be one of those Ossë gave to the Teleri," she said, dismounting her horse. As she moved, the silver ribbon fastening her dark hair into a single braid flashed like a bright arc in the wind. "Ask him why he has come here."

"I would rather ask him where his mate is," he replied, dismounting and stepping to her side. "A swan is rarely without his mate—if he has chosen one."

The swan landed before them, folding its white wings with effortless grace. He nodded and made a subtle gesture; in response, the bird bent its long neck and uttered a series of soft calls. She stood aside, watching, as surprised as she was fascinated, for his usual pride—so palpable and unyielding—had vanished without a trace.

"You look strange," she remarked.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "What is strange?"

"You look almost…amiable."

"There is nothing strange about that," he replied, frowning slightly. "If you know them, you will understand what they require of you: respect."

"No," she said with a mischievous smile. "What is strange to me is that amiability makes you look very…unnatural."

Realizing she was mocking him, he took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the swan, as if the white bird had suddenly become the most important thing in the world. Seeing his irritation, she smiled again but held her silence until he finished. "What did you say to him?"

"Something unnatural."

"What did you say to him?" she repeated, still smiling, unfazed by his sarcasm.

Knowing she would not relent, he sighed. "He is looking for his mate. He has searched everywhere near the sea and now intends to comb every inch of the fields of Valinor."

"He lost his mate?" she asked, momentarily caught off guard. "How did that happen?"

"Apparently, he does not know, so I do not know either."

"What if he cannot find her?"

"He will keep searching. Swans are like us—like the Eldar: once the bond of husband and wife is made, it lasts until the end."

"But we are not always like that," she murmured, almost to herself. "Otherwise, I would not exist."

He did not respond immediately. Instead, he reached out to the swan, which now seemed lonely and abandoned.

"For the House of Curufinwë Fëanáro, it will always be so," he said at last. "My father demands it of us."

She began to speak but stopped, for the words seemed to catch in her throat. After a long pause, she stepped past him and knelt before the swan, her gaze locking with the bird's dark eyes. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft but resolute, almost solemn. "I believe you will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires."

...You will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires...

The shift was sudden. One moment, the air was calm; the next, a biting cold descended with ruthless speed. Clouds thickened, mists rose, and darkness expanded in every direction, carrying a chill that felt alive—steeped in malice and cruelty. This was no mere winter's frost; it struck like a predator, infiltrating mind and body, numbing every sense. Blood and bone seemed to freeze; hope and laughter were extinguished, leaving only a terrible, hollow emptiness.

Like the Long Night of Valinor. Like the Darkness he had once faced outside the walls of Formenos.

What is this place? His hand instinctively moved to his side, but his sword was gone. A flicker of panic surged through him before reason reasserted itself. There was no immediate danger—no enemy visible in the silence surrounding him. Yet the oppressive stillness was as unsettling as the absence of warmth or life.

Gradually, out of the suffocating quiet, his keen Elven ears discerned a sound. Strange, yet hauntingly familiar. It was the same sound he had heard aboard the white ships near Araman—faint and distant then, drowned by howling winds.

Now it was unmistakable: the screeching, rolling, and crashing of ice.

Why am I here? For a moment, he stood motionless, uncertain. This must be the Helcaraxë—the Grinding Ice.

A light appeared then—dim and cold, but enough to illuminate his surroundings. Looking up, he saw the thick clouds parting, leaving a narrow gap through which distant stars glimmered, pale and remote. Taking a cautious step forward, he realized he was knee-deep in snow, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Towering icebergs loomed around him, their jagged walls rising treacherously like frozen fortresses. On this vast, desolate expanse, he seemed utterly alone.

The Grinding Ice... Yet he had come to Middle-earth by sea and had never set foot on this frozen wasteland in the North. Why am I here? And why does it feel so real?

He had no desire to linger. He must move. Taking another step, he froze as a new sound broke through the eerie stillness—a sound that had no place in this lifeless landscape: the thunder of hooves.

It was approaching fast, so fast that he believed it was the swiftest horse he had ever seen. He turned abruptly and saw a silver mare emerging from the night, galloping toward him. The rider wore a cloak as white as snow, billowing behind like wings in the cold wind. In the blink of an eye, the horse was almost upon him, but the rider showed no intention of slowing.

After such a long time, you have finally found your chance. The thought flashed across his mind like lightning tearing through the night sky. With this realization, despite his instincts, he remained still and closed his eyes. If you wish to punish me for my betrayal, come and finish it. After all, you have been waiting for this ever since you were a child.

But the blow never came. Instead, a sudden whinny rang out, close at hand. His eyes flew open just as the silver mare reared back, its front hooves slicing the air, the rider tightening the reins at the last moment.

Realization struck him. Without hesitation, he darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the falling hooves, then rushed forward to seize the reins, yanking the rider down by her waist—yes, her. He knew it was her. He knew it at first sight.

And this time, he would not see her as a little child.

The hood of her cloak slipped away, her dark hair tumbling free, caught by the wind and brushing against his face, momentarily blinding him. His arm encircled her waist, but it was no longer the thin, fragile frame of a child. She was tall and strong, yet slim and sinewy, her body honed by years of growth and discipline. He could feel the firmness of her muscles—strength and grace seamlessly intertwined. To his surprise, she did not struggle. In a moment that seemed to stretch forever, they stood unmoving, as if carved from stone. Then, he felt a hesitant touch on his face—cold and warm all at once. Before he could react, slender fingers brushed aside his hair, gliding past his ears. Her arms slipped around his neck, and she drew him into a deliberate embrace.

He shivered. This cannot be real. Holding his breath, he mustered the courage to meet her gaze, only to find, to his astonishment, not her but himself—his own image reflected in her eyes.

A beast weary of conflict. A fëa nearly torn from its hröa by deep, lasting pain.

He could not bear to look any longer. Closing his eyes and pushing away the strange thoughts, he took a deep breath, pulled her closer, and lowered his head.