Once Were Ours by Himring

Chapter 1

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The people down there are clearly fugitives. There is a characteristic pattern to them, of stragglers strung out across the plain—it is an all too familiar sight in Beleriand since the Dagor Bragollach, even more so since the Nirnaeth. One man—that is, one elf—is slowly circling the group on a weary, stumbling horse, encouraging them to keep together, to keep going forwards. Long black hair falls across his back. In spite of the general state of exhaustion of the group, he holds himself straight and upright in the saddle. Even at this distance, the energy and strength of will of the man bespeak a descendant of Finwe—at least to the eyes of the man who is his father.

 

Looking further towards the sea and the Mouth of Sirion, a wagon train can be seen looming on the horizon, although it is probably still invisible to the refugees at the foot of the slope. A small group of riders detaches itself from those slow-moving wagons and heads straight towards the refugees at a much faster pace.

 

The watchers above remain hidden within the cover offered by the thickly wooded slope. By the time, the advance scout they sent out, one of the Laiquendi, returns undetected to confirm what they have already seen and guessed, only Celegorm is still gazing out onto the scene below, sheltered from sight by the overhanging branches of an oak. Curufin is sitting cross-legged on the ground, carefully checking the fletching of his arrows.

 

‘Yes, refugees from Nargothrond’, the Green Elf reports. ‘Many wounded, women or children. It is Lord Celebrimbor who leads them. And Lord Cirdan is coming from the South to meet them—look they have already encountered him.’ He grins with joy at the good news.

 

Celegorm sighs with relief. Curufin lifts an enigmatic gaze towards the Green Elf, who fidgets a little, suddenly uncomfortable. There is a short silence.

 

‘So’, Celegorm suggests a little impatiently, ‘shall we go down and speak to them?’

 

‘No’, says Curufin, slowly and deliberately, not taking his eyes off the scout.

 

Celegorm draws a startled breath. Since the first vague rumour of the Fall of Nargothrond reached them on patrol near the shores of Gelion, they have barely slept or rested. Pausing only long enough to send a messenger to the rest of their brothers, they have made their way west around the southern border of Doriath as fast as they could. They never discussed what it was that they were planning to do once they got here, for after all they had no idea what they would find—but they have come all this way and now that, beyond hope and expectation, they have found his nephew alive, his brother will not even speak to him?

 

‘But under the circumstances...!’, he exclaims. ‘It’s Cirdan’s territory. I know he will not exactly welcome us with open arms, but...’ Curufin would never fear Cirdan. Is it Celebrimbor’s reaction he fears?

 

Curufin gets up and casts another look over Celegorm’s shoulder. Down there, Celebrimbor has meanwhile ridden up to meet Cirdan’s advance party and dismounted. Curufin’s son and the Lord of the Falathrim are deep in council. Curufin tears his gaze away once again and looks his brother in the eye.

 

‘No’, he says, almost tranquilly. ‘We will not speak with them.’ And after another pause, lest his brother think that it is only their banishment from Nargothrond and Celebrimbor’s repudiation of them that is holding him back, he explains: ‘They were not at the Nirnaeth. Gwindor and others from Nargothrond came; they did not.’

 

‘But...!’ Celegorm stops himself. They had their reasons, he was going to say. They might not have been sufficient reasons, by his and Curufin’s lights at any rate... In any case, no matter—it would be pointless to talk about reasons to Curufin, who remembers it all as well as he does: their outrage at Finrod’s inexplicable betrayal and all that followed.

 

‘But if they had gone with Gwindor, they would be dead’, Celegorm points out instead, as gently as he can manage it. ‘He would be dead or...’

 

‘...imprisoned in Angband’, says Curufin, still very calmly. ‘I know. And I am glad that they are alive and free. But we will not speak with them.’

 

‘Besides,’ he adds, with a glance at their saddle bags, ‘we have nothing they need.’

 

It is true; the saddle bags are empty. Not stopping to hunt, they survived on half rations on the way and have now even run out of lembas.

 

‘Well, then...’, begins Celegorm, confused.

 

‘We continue northwards’, says Curufin.

 

‘North towards Nargothrond?’, Celegorm asks. ‘We are few—and late in coming. All trails will be cold by now.’ But he is not protesting. The idea appeals to him. He would prefer a good fight any day to trying to sort out the sorry tangle of emotions that connects them with the survivors of Nargothrond under Cirdan’s eyes.

 

‘North,’ affirms Curufin. ‘They were ours, once. We need to know. And maybe we will succeed in disturbing a few orcs over their feasting.’

 

He slings his quiver back over his shoulder. A few moments later, he is striding away into the undergrowth, leading his horse. The others follow. The expression on the Green Elf’s face clearly indicates that he has just had his conviction confirmed that all Noldor are stark raving mad; however, as it is not his family down there, he is keeping his opinions to himself.

 

Only Celegorm looks back once more towards the pitiful, bedraggled group on the plain. By now, the last of them has caught up and they are assembled in a ragged half ring around Celebrimbor and Cirdan, patiently expecting further developments, waiting for Cirdan’s wagons to arrive with healers and provisions for them. Celegorm shrugs regretfully and looks over his shoulder to whistle for Huan. He catches himself in time and curses under his breath. He does not often make that mistake anymore, but today has brought back a lot of memories, most of them unwelcome.

 

‘Good luck, Tyelpo’, he whispers. Bah, how sentimental. He grips his bow more firmly and turns his face northward.

 

He does not know that all too soon he and Curufin will die side by side in Doriath without having spoken again with Celebrimbor or any of those they once left behind in Nargothrond. But if he did, if Namo himself rose out of these bushes to tell him so, it would change nothing. He would measure the Doomsman of the Valar with one of his long, somewhat insolent stares and ask: Is that so?—and, without waiting for an answer, unhesitatingly follow Curufin to his doom.

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

 

I shall restrain myself from too many geeky notes and shall just say, probably stating the obvious, that "inexplicable betrayal" is meant to represent Celegorm's rather blinkered view of Finrod's actions, not the author's (nevertheless, it's intended to represent Celegorm's honest opinion).

A link to Cirdan's story on this site which has Curufin rescuing Celebrimbor after the Fall of Nargothrond can be found here.

ETA: I have to add another geeky note after all: after I had written this story, I came across a note in HoME that in one version of the legendarium Celegorm and Curufin were actually pleased by the Fall of Nargothrond--so my "gap" was not the gap I thought it was. It probably goes without saying that as far as I am concerned the statement that they were pleased is a case of faulty reporting!