Extra Chapter:
Time Enough for Love
"It chanced that Celegorm and Curufin went on a hunt through the Guarded Plain; and this they did because Sauron, being filled with suspicion, sent forth many wolves into the Elf-lands..."
- The Silmarillion
Three on the riverbank, and two in the woods, the hound reported.
Those in the woods are yours, and I will deal with the rest, he decided.
Are you certain? the hound asked.
Instead of responding, he simply urged his stallion forward. From where he was, the edge of the woods came into view, and the sound of the river was easily heard. Mist from the running water had drifted into the woods, floating past trunks and branches, gradually filling the space between dark brown and deep green with a thick, milky white.
Why did Huan even question it? As his stallion increased its pace, he took hold of the spear hanging from his side. It is but three Orcs, nothing more.
In all conscience, his confidence was not unfounded.
He fell upon the Orcs by the riverbank, catching them completely off guard. The look of horror on their faces gave him grim satisfaction. They reeked of the fear of death, yet not a sound escaped their mouths. He left them no chance to shout a warning. When one of them mouthed "Golug," his spear had already pierced its throat. An arrow struck the second in the eye. Had he not been mindful of the mess it would leave on his steed, he would have let the third die under its hooves.
Pulling a sword free from a lifeless body was a repulsive task, but he felt no such aversion—his sword was no ordinary blade. Crafted by his father, the greatest smith of the Noldor, it was never easily stained. Despite countless battles and the immeasurable blood it had spilled, the blade remained as sharp and pristine as the day it was forged, gleaming like a flawless mirror.
Just then, something fell from the bushes and tumbled to the pebbled shore where he stood. Startled, he instinctively tightened his grip on the sword hilt, but then relaxed. It was only another dead Orc.
Did you do it on purpose, Huan? Looking at the fourth body at the scene, he could not help but pull a wry smile. The cause of death was clear: no one could survive with their neck twisted into such a grotesque angle.
You were careless, answered the hound.
He snorted. With you nearby, I have no need to be cautious.
A large shadow leaped over the thick bushes and reached him in the blink of an eye. His stallion, rather than tensing in alarm, merely snuffled a greeting, for it was Huan, the hound of Valinor—their loyal and tireless companion.
"Perhaps I should arrange for someone to clean up after you specifically, Turko."
With that, another rider appeared. Sitting at ease on horseback, Curufin showed no sign of being touched by battle and remained as graceful as ever. "We have just finished piling up the corpses over there, and we are ready to burn them."
"Tell them to wait then, for there are five more." He sheathed his sword and turned to his brother. "It still baffles me how much fuss they made over a handful of Orcs back in Nargothrond."
"Well, there were some wild wolves too, to be fair," Curufin pointed out, smiling. "It took us three days to deal with all of them."
"Maybe." Seeing Huan give a hearty nod, he had to agree. "Anyway, the problem is solved now."
"Hopefully," Curufin said, a tendril of a smile curling on his lips.
Since Finrod's departure, peace had prevailed for a time, until trouble was reported from the borders. Creatures of Morgoth and spies of Sauron had spilled out from the Isle of Werewolves into the south, and Talath Dirnen had become a region haunted by wild wolves and Orcs. Everyone agreed that it was crucial to determine why the Enemy had suddenly become unusually active, but whenever the topic of an investigation arose, Finrod's secretive, peace-loving people would fall silent altogether. In the end, he resolved to go himself, accompanied by Curufin and their own guards, who had come with them to Nargothrond after the Bragollach.
Given this, it was perhaps not so surprising that he and Curufin, princes of the House of Fëanor, had gained more influence than Orodreth, the Prince Regent, in a kingdom founded by the House of Finarfin.
So far, the attempt to reclaim the Guarded Plain had been successful. They had not yet uncovered the Enemy's motivation, but their ruthless approach had made an immediate impact—at least spending a night in the wild had become far less perilous. Having restored peace and order to the land, they planned to return the next day, so he decided to grant Huan the freedom to hunt alone. After a simple dinner, only he and Curufin remained by the campfire.
"What news from the east?" He uncorked a wineskin and poured dark red liquid into his brother's cup. A messenger from East Beleriand had found them during the day, and, as was customary, Curufin had received him.
"Maitimo and Makalaurë continue to hold Himring, while Moryo and our Ambarussa twins have made Amon Ereb their base," Curufin replied, nodding in thanks as he accepted the cup. "It seems they can manage things on their own. It is also said that many mortal Men have sworn allegiance to Moryo, which I find somewhat intriguing."
"Men?" He frowned. He had met few mortal Men and had always remained indifferent toward them, though the one who came to Nargothrond uninvited had done little to improve his opinion.
"Moryo seems to think they have some virtue." Curufin took a measured sip of wine, watching as his brother served himself. "Perhaps the influence of Haleth is greater than I anticipated."
"Haleth?" He repeated the name, which sounded faintly familiar. "I remember some Men who wished to cross the land of Himlad and travel westward, before the Bragollach. Was their leader..."
"It was her," Curufin confirmed. "She led the Haladin, and that was when she departed from Estolad, years after she had declined Moryo's offer to remain in Thargelion."
He tried to recall her appearance but could remember little, except that she seemed much like other Men. She was not beautiful—most Men were not considered beautiful in the eyes of the Eldar—nor did she strike him as particularly impressive by his standards. If there was anything remarkable about her, it was her female bodyguard: taller and stronger than most. "She declined Moryo's offer?" he asked, incredulous. "And Moryo took no offense? I thought he had quite the temper."
"It is between him and her," Curufin replied, pouring a little more wine. The campfire crackled beside them; now and then, sparks leapt into the dew-damp grass, vanishing like fleeting fireflies on a summer night.
He asked no more but drank more instead. Whatever Caranthir had felt about the mortal woman—be it appreciation or disdain—he knew better than to judge. Sorting out such entanglements, he thought, would require the skills of a scholar or philosopher like Finrod. Of course, that assumed the golden head of Finrod's had not turned into a hot head that insisted on aiding a mortal in recovering a Silmaril.
"I wonder what has become of Finrod," he mused aloud.
Curufin glanced at him, shaking his head slightly. "I had hoped to gather some tidings to answer that question," he said dryly, "but now it seems impossible, for you and Huan refused to take captives."
"Habits are habits," he laughed without thinking. "I do not want to change, and I cannot change."
He knew he had made a mistake even before the words left his lips.
Pain surged from within, and the cool wine that had eased his throat now burned like fire in his chest. Summoning every shred of will, he fought against the tremors threatening to overtake him, cursing himself, as he had done so many times before. It has been so long—why can you not simply forget? Why do her words still linger on your lips, as if she were alive?
"Turko?"
Curufin's voice reached him, distant and faint, yet piercing the walls of his mind, stirring the faintest echoes of memory. Slowly, a figure emerged from the haze of those long-buried days: dark hair that gleamed in the light, eyes of silver-grey, a form slender by Noldorin standards. What had Curufin called her? How had he introduced her? He remembered feeling uneasy then, meeting the maiden his brother had loved—but her smile had quickly undone his awkwardness.
He recognized her, for she was Curufin's wife, Celebrimbor's mother. Long ago, she had refused to join their exile and now remained across the Sea. Ever since they had set foot in the Hither Lands, Curufin had not spoken her name—not once.
But how was it possible? How could his brother sever all ties with the past and never feel regret?
Doubts, fueled by wine, flared in his mind, like a fire feeding on dry hay. Tossing his head back, he blurted out a question before he could stop himself: "Your wife, Kurvo—did you love her?"
At that, the cup in his brother's hand shattered. Even the wind seemed to still. For a moment, they stared at each other, dark liquid dripping from Curufin's long fingers—whether wine or blood, it was impossible to tell.
He had never seen such a look in Curufin's eyes before: dark and desperate, like the final glow of dying embers.
"Of course I love her."
Curufin said, just when he thought his brother would not answer. Sharp pieces fell from Curufin's hand, some stained with blood, yet there was no wound on that elegant hand—for the silence had lasted long enough for all wounds to heal.
Yet, he noted that Curufin used the word love instead of loved.
Involuntarily, he chuckled. Was it then the doom and curse of the House of Fëanor? Both had loved and still loved, each in his way, and yet, believing it their own choice, both had let go in the end. But if this were true, were they not both foolish beyond measure?
He had once thought they would never fall into such a trap. For the Firstborn, was there not always time enough for love? Before the life of Arda itself reached its end, before the river of Time ceased its flow, would he not find her at last? Someday, he would look her in the eye and repeat the words—simple words, yet so hard to utter. Words spoken once on the plains of Valinor, again in the mists of Araman, and then left unspoken on the ice fields of Helcaraxë, in Irmo's domain of dreams and desire.
But he was wrong—completely wrong.
In the battlefield that belonged only to them, he was fated to lose because he loved her first, and loved her deeper.
It was because of that that he could not bear to see her leave him.
It was also because of that that he could only destroy her to the last.
She must have known it. Otherwise, why would she have approached him, yet evaded him, choosing cold, darkness, a Dark Elf, and even death over him when she was cornered? Irissë, he murmured, half awake and half in dream, relishing those familiar syllables on his lips, unable to tell whether they tasted like love or hatred. You would admit no defeat, but would flee instead? Why were you so determined to torture me, using everything you had?
There was no answer.
Of course, there would be no answer. She was gone, truly beyond the Hither Lands this time. Yet, he could not help but extend his thoughts westward, knowing it would be in vain, but wishing to try nonetheless, simply because he longed to see her face once again. On the other side of the Sundering Sea, in the silent Halls of Waiting, in a corner where he could neither see, hear, nor feel, would she sense him calling?
Now, on the Guarded Plain, beneath a starless sky, he suddenly wondered if the Halls of Mandos were as dark.
(The End)