Chapter 6. The Unforgiven: Part Three
When the door opened again, it was Curufin who entered. With a single glance, he assessed the wreckage in the chamber, but instead of commenting on it, he said simply, "They are leaving."
"I know," he replied, now seated once more behind his desk, sword still in hand. I do not need you to remind me. I was the one who let them go.
"And you gave the order to provide them with our swiftest horses?"
"Yes." What choice do I have?
Curufin approached the desk, carefully avoiding the shards on the floor, some of which gleamed dangerously sharp. "I suppose you have heard of this Eöl?"
"Do not tell me you have not!" he growled.
"Do not vent your anger on me, my brother," Curufin said, his tone as calm as ever. "This is your affair."
He admitted it with his silence, and Curufin continued. "And if you know something of Eöl, you must also know that he will not yield easily."
He looked up, meeting his brother's gaze.
"Do you prefer to face him yourself, or leave him to me?" Curufin asked softly.
Subtle as it was, he detected a trace of malice in Curufin's tone and suddenly understood what his brother was implying. It was as though an icy wave washed over him, dispelling his sullen mood and leaving him agitated. He could not stop himself from imagining the grim satisfaction he might feel in driving that Dark Elf out of his shadowy lair. Call me kinslayer if you will—I will not deny it. I have borne the name before and will not shrink from living up to it again, should it come to that. Having already spilled so much blood, what was one more drop to him?
But as he looked at his brother, he saw more from Curufin's eyes than was spoken: Make your decision wisely, and you will have my support.
For the second time in his life, he pondered. As his initial impulses subsided, a new plan—unbidden yet irresistible—began to take shape in the depths of his mind.
"I will leave him to you, Kurvo," he said at last.
Curufin raised an eyebrow.
"If he dares to come near our land, take him," he continued. "You may question him, mock him, insult him. But afterward, spare his life and release him."
"Are you certain?" Curufin asked, despite the clarity of the instructions.
He carefully sheathed his sword, his fingers running over the smooth surface of the blade, as polished as stone—a fatal weapon could well hide its thirst for blood. "We can do better than to slay one who already accuses us of kinslaying, can we not?"
Both of them knew he was lying. Nevertheless, Curufin acknowledged it with a knowing nod. "As you wish, Turko. And good luck with whatever task lies ahead."
He found her near the gate, preparing to leave with her son. A few belongings had already been loaded onto the horses provided for their journey. His orders had been carried out well, for these horses were his swiftest, swift enough to race the wind.
She nodded in greeting, and he responded with a smile. Smiling was easier than he had anticipated. He approached the horses, murmuring softly into each of their ears in turn. Catching her inquisitive look, he smiled again, silently relieved that Huan was not present. "Nothing but a few encouraging words," he said.
"How could I possibly forget!" she laughed and turned to her son. "Remember what I told you, Maeglin? Lord Celegorm knows animals very well—better, in fact, than he knows people."
Her old jest did not have the same effect on him, and so he feigned offense. "Aredhel, I do not take that as a compliment."
"Not indeed," she replied with a mischievous smile. "But it is not without truth."
Instead of retorting, his attention was drawn to her grey cloak. Woven by the hands of the Sindar, it was renowned for its ability to hide the wearer from hostile eyes. He picked up a corner of the fabric, examined it briefly, and let it fall. "You need not wear this anymore. As I recall, you clung to your habits even when the leopards judged you a poor hunter."
"Pardon me, my lord," the boy interrupted politely. "But my father is far from careless. There is no harm in being cautious."
"And we will give him no chance to demonstrate his care this time," he replied, addressing the boy's concern but directing his words to her. Seeing the look that passed over her face, he had to laugh. "No, we mean no harm to him. We will merely delay him, so you will have enough time to reach your city safely."
She held his gaze for a moment, then stepped forward unexpectedly, embracing him and pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Turko, hantalë." (1)
He froze, momentarily at a loss. He heard her instructing her son to put away the grey Sindarin cloak and retrieve her white Noldorin mantle. He watched as she draped it across her shoulders, reclaiming her well-earned title: the White Lady of the Noldor. Without another word, she mounted her horse, nodded to him, and set off.
As she approached the gate with her son, he finally shook off his shock, and for a fleeting moment, he nearly changed his mind. He wanted to call them back, to reconsider his decision. But in the end, he remained silent. The cold wind sweeping down from Himring gradually stole away the warmth her lips had left on his cheek.
Their horses would neigh when they reached their destination. Her white mantle would be a beacon, impossible to miss.
And then Eöl would find them.
It was Curufin who secured the outcome. At the fords of Aros, Curufin's riders intercepted Eöl as expected. Curufin humiliated him first, dismissing him with mockery, fully aware that someone like Eöl would never turn back.
"In the end, I suggested he return to his dwellings in the dark forests," Curufin said upon his return to Himlad. "I told him that if he now pursues those who love him no more, he will never return there."
"So you deliberately made him more determined to go after them?" he asked, perplexed.
"Yes," Curufin confirmed without hesitation. "That is the only reaction someone like him would have."
He had no reason to question Curufin's judgment—his brother had always understood the minds of others better than he. Yet after Curufin left, he found himself dwelling on those words. If pursuing those who love you no more is a path of no return, then what is it to retaliate against one who loves you not?
Several days later, in the darkness before dawn, he awoke abruptly, though no nightmare had disturbed him. Something was wrong—he could feel it in every fiber of his being, from head to heel, in every drop of his blood. Anxiously, he stared into the void, his restlessness mounting, until a voice drifted into his consciousness, slipping effortlessly past the unseen boundary between reality and dream.
Indeed, you know little about people, which is why I am the one who comes to bid you farewell.
For a moment, his heart seemed to stop. Cold sweat broke out across his body, and he shivered, his thoughts frantically probing the depths of his mind for the long-buried figure he had once struggled so hard to forget. Yet everything seemed to fade and wither, like a sandy shore eroded by relentless waves. He searched and searched, clinging desperately to the memory of a voice that had once been so vivid.
At least that voice. You will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires.
But again, he found her not.
Nan Elmoth lay to the south of Himlad. After crossing the fords of Celon, he halted near the bank, his gaze fixed on the dark, forest-covered valley ahead. Beside him, the hound of Valinor shook the water from its thick fur.
"Enjoy yourself nearby." He dismounted. His stallion snuffled softly and wandered toward a patch of grass.
He looked up again, surveying the forest. Even from this distance, he could sense its ancientness. The trees of Nan Elmoth were the tallest and darkest in all Beleriand; it was said that Melian the Maia had once walked there in the twilight of Middle-earth. Here, beneath those shadowed boughs, she had met Elu Thingol, and it was here that they had gazed into each other's eyes as long years passed, measured only by the wheeling of the stars.
A fascinating tale, and nothing more.
He was dressed simply, like an ordinary Noldorin hunter: no ornate armor, no emblems of his house, no embroidery on his clothing. He carried only a bow and quiver of arrows, along with his sword. Though the sword was far from plain or ordinary, he kept it carefully concealed beneath his cloak, ensuring it would not easily draw attention.
Even so, he was uncertain what he hoped to find in these woods. He knew Eöl was not here—his guards had seen no sign of the Dark Elf returning from the west. As Curufin had said, a way of no return.
Then what am I doing here?
A sharp pain shot through him. Almost instinctively, he reached into his cloak and gripped the hilt of his sword, the pressure of the embedded gems digging into his palm. Cursing himself once more, he tried to banish her image from his mind. Yet it will be in vain, for you cannot and will not forget her. Fool—you loved her, truly you did. But when your love proved doomed, unreturned, you chose to destroy her. Not once, but twice, until at last you succeeded.
He took a deep breath and released his grip on the sword. He had journeyed far from Himlad and did not intend to let himself be consumed by wild thoughts.
"Stay here," he told the hound.
Huan looked up at him, concern evident in his gaze.
"Stay here," he repeated firmly. "I know what I am doing."
The hound obeyed, though reluctantly. As he set off, he could feel Huan's eyes watching him until he passed into the shadowed woods and disappeared from sight.
At first, he wandered aimlessly. Tall trees loomed overhead, and low bushes crowded the forest floor, most of which he did not recognize. Above, branches and leaves swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, as though the forest itself moved to a timeless cadence. The sunless woods seemed to hold time still. Occasionally, he heard the distant song of nightingales, but their voices were faint and elusive, impossible to trace. Maybe the tales are true, he thought. There is magic in this forest.
His steps must have been louder than he realized, or perhaps he had underestimated the vigilance of the forest's inhabitants. When a dark figure stepped out from the bushes to block his path, he started but refrained from reaching for his sword. It was a Grey Elf, clad in black—clearly a servant of Eöl.
"You are a Golodh," the Elf concluded at a glance. It was no surprise, for his eyes bore the light of the Calaquendi, made all the more striking by the gloom here.
He nodded. "I came here pursuing my quarry but lost my way."
The Elf looked him over, scanning him from head to toe, and seemed satisfied. "I will lead you out. But be cautious next time, for Lord Eöl has no love for the Golodhrim."
"Lord"... who made him a lord? "So it is true that my people are unwelcome in Nan Elmoth," he remarked, his tone more natural than he had expected.
"Yes," the Elf replied, brushing aside a curtain of vines to reveal a concealed trail. "With the sole exception of Lady Aredhel. But even she must obey Lord Eöl's laws."
Her name. He had not expected to hear it so soon, and the Elf's words about her almost caught him off guard. Obey? She obeyed no one, save her father. Yet, to his own surprise, he mastered himself and followed the Elf down the trail. "If I am not mistaken, did you mean Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady?"
"That is what your people call her," the Elf replied. "Here, she is Lord Eöl's wife."
"I suppose you intended to say the Lady of Nan Elmoth," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.
"She is," the Elf said, oblivious to the shift in his tone. "Yet she obeys him nonetheless. She is not permitted to go to sunny places or to leave here alone."
In his mind, these words conjured a vivid image: a maiden, once free and untamed, now confined in a narrow, lightless valley, withering like a flower plucked from the sun. "No," he blurted, the first word that came to him. "No."
The Elf turned to look at him. "It is the truth. She chose to stay, knowing all his laws."
The vision shifted. Now she wandered alone, beneath canopies so dense that no sunlight could pierce them, in a forest steeped in ancient magic. She was astray and weary, yet unafraid—why should she fear? As one of the House of Finwë, she had always been fearless. But unseen eyes followed her, darker than the night itself. In those eyes, suspicion and conflict smoldered, until desire stirred and took flame in their depths.
"No. She could not have chosen to stay," he said, stubbornly repeating himself despite every effort to remain composed. "She could not have been willing to stay." Like one drowning, clutching at a straw, he held fast to this last hope.
"But Lady Aredhel could not have been unwilling," said the Elf.
He reached into his cloak. Do not continue. I wish to listen no more.
The Elf continued. "Otherwise, she would have perished, which is the nature of the Eld—"
The Elf never finished the word. Against the craftsmanship of the mightiest smith of the Noldor, the galvorn mail was no more than a fragile shell. A sharp blade pierced through it effortlessly, slipping past the ribs and driving straight into the heart.
"I wish to listen no more," he said softly to the Elf, whose gaze was already unfocused. With a swift motion, he jerked the sword free. Blood splattered across his fingers, wrist, and even his face. "For she could not have done that, as I said."
In the last light of the day, the great hound of Valinor waited patiently, silent and unmoving. As the sky darkened, a wind arose, and he sniffed the air. Suddenly, he stood, his gaze fixed on the forest's obscured boundary, his body taut with anxiety and vigilance. Against the deepening gloom of the trees, a dim figure slowly emerged, sword sheathed, cloak flapping in the wind. Yet the hound remained alert, for he smelled blood.
His master and friend approached at a measured pace, stopping before him and holding his gaze. For a long, immeasurable moment, they stared at one another, until at last the hound looked away. He had never seen his prince so shaken—not even long ago at the Haven of the Swans, when they had both been bathed in blood.
Almost simultaneously, the proud prince dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the hound's neck. "I cannot believe it, Huan. I cannot believe it. She could not have lived. She should not have lived..."
At these words, the hound growled and shuddered. For a moment, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. But feeling those strong fingers digging into his fur and warm liquid dripping onto his back, he finally lowered his head. In the sunset, the prince and the hound were both painted an ominous red, like that of a dying fire.
Fire.
Not the fire of forges, ovens, or hearths they had known for ages. On a moonless winter night, Morgoth suddenly unleashed his long-prepared strength. The onrush of malevolent fire was so swift that, within hours, it consumed all the green grass and sweet waters of Ard-galen, igniting the forests on the highlands of Dorthonion and the eastern slopes of Ered Wethrin.
Thus began the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.
As soon as he left the battlefront, he received tidings from the east. Glaurung, the Golden Terror, had attacked the weakest link in the March of Maedhros, and the Gap of Maglor was lost. All the lands between the great and little rivers of Gelion had been ravaged by dragon fire, and Maglor was retreating to the fortress of Himring to join Maedhros.
So this is the consequence of relying on others for our war, he thought. If it had been us who faced this monster decades ago, we might have cut off his head and made a true Dragon-helm from it.
The tidings had been ill since the battle began. Angrod and Aegnor must have been hard pressed. He and Curufin had successfully defended the Pass of Aglon, but they would not have held their ground for so long if he had not immediately sent archers to the cliffs above the pass when the fire started. Worse still, there was no news from the west.
He mounted his steed once more. From where he stood, he could survey the battlefield near the northern entry of the pass. The enemy had been attacking relentlessly for five days. Orcs swarmed toward the pass like an endless dark tide, surging forward despite the rain of arrows and stones, trampling the corpses of their own kind, which had piled high on the northern side. The battle had even once drawn near his own standard, forcing him into combat. Huan guarded his side as ever, their seamless cooperation destroying foes beyond count.
Now, he gazed at the northern entry, wondering if Morgoth had abandoned his efforts to take this place. It is more difficult to defeat us. His troops were busy sharpening weapons, changing posts, and tending to the wounded, aware of how precious these quiet hours were.
Quiet, but too quiet. Then he realized something was amiss. Too late. The enemy struck again before he could investigate, and this time it was not Orcs but Balrogs emerging from smoke and ash. Shadow and fire tore through the pass, and Elven warriors fell like leaves.
As he instructed his herald to send aid, Curufin hastened back, covered in blood and dust. "The fortress of Rerir has fallen. Moryo is retreating to the South."
He whirled around and stared at his brother. "Then the last hope of reinforcement is gone."
Curufin nodded grimly.
It did not take long for him to decide. "Prepare to retreat," he commanded his herald. "We cannot hold this place on our own."
He should have felt bitter, for he was defeated as well, and his pride as a great commander was marred. Yet he found himself strangely indifferent. After all, was it really so unusual? He had tasted defeat before, many times. This was merely another entry on the list.
His herald hesitated. "Which route should we take, my lord?"
"Head southwest," he replied flatly.
"Then we will reach the borders of Doriath soon..."
"Which is exactly why we take that route!" he snapped. "We follow their borders!" At least we are certain no attack will come from Doriath.
Thus they retreated. Along the borders of Doriath, away from the Hidden Kingdom protected by the power of Melian, they passed through woods and plains towards the southwest, for there lay a kingdom far from the frontline, founded by their cousins of the House of Finarfin: Nargothrond.
When the running water of Narog came into sight, they were met warnings.
"Halt, and identify yourselves."
Cold light glinted off arrowheads mounted on drawn bows, as countless archers revealed themselves on the high ground. They bore the golden emblems of the House of Finarfin; in fact, their captain was golden-haired.
He did not bother to speak—there was no need. The banners of the House of Fëanor flew high behind him, bright in the sunlight despite the stains of blood and dust.
It was his herald who replied: "You are speaking to those you should have welcomed with courtesy: Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin, of the House of Fëanor."
The captain gestured for the archers to lower their bows. "Forgive us for the necessary caution, in such dark days."
"Take us to your king," Curufin said, in his ever-steady tone.
Led by the captain, they ascended the hills of High Faroth and crossed the rapid waters of Narog. Their keen Elven sight revealed well-hidden doors on the west bank, behind which countless caves lay, crafted by the hands of the Dwarves after the fashion of Menegroth in Doriath. From afar, they spotted Finrod standing before the Great Gate, a silver crown upon his golden hair. To their surprise, the eldest son of the House of Finarfin appeared pale and weak, as though gravely wounded. Only later would they learn that, had it not been for the aid of a mortal named Barahir, the King of Nargothrond would have perished at the Fen of Serech.
Then he saw their cousin's smile. Noble yet warm, like a campfire on a starless night.
"Welcome, my kin. For you, the gate of Nargothrond is always open."
Notes
(1) Quenya: 'thank you'.
I have wondered why the horses had neighed and thus betrayed Aredhel and Maeglin when they approached the Encircling Mountains, especially after I read one text in HoMe 11, in which they were given to them by Celegorm. So here is an explanation I worked out.
Celegorm's later visit to Nan Elmoth is not recorded in any formal accounts. It was my creation.