Time Enough for Love by Ecthelion

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Time Enough for Love

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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 taking the trouble to answer, he simply urged his stallion to advance. From where he was, the edge of the woods was in sight, and the sound of the river could be easily heard. Mist over the running water had drifted into the woods, floated past trunks and branches, and gradually filled the space between dark brown and deep green with a thick, milky white.

Why did Huan even question it? As his stallion increased the pace, he took in hand his spear that was hung from the saddle. It is but three Orcs, nothing more.

In all conscience, his confidence was not unfounded.

He fell upon the Orcs on the bank and caught them off guard. He saw the horrified look on their faces and took satisfaction in it. They reeked of the fear of death before they could make a sound, and of course he would leave them no chance of shouting a warning. When one of them mouthed 'Golug', his spear had already penetrated its throat. An arrow hit an eye of the next. If not for the consideration that he had no wish of brushing his steed thoroughly afterwards, he would have let the third die under the hooves.

Pulling out his sword from a lifeless body was usually a disgusting experience, but he was fine with it, for his sword was never easily stained. It was made by his father, the greatest craftsman of the Noldor; although it had gone through countless killings and drunk immeasurable blood, it was still as sharp as new, clear like a mirror.

Just then, something fell out of the bushes and rolled all the way to the pebbled strand where he stood. Startled, he instantly tightened his fingers around his sword hilt, but then released it, relaxed once more; for he realized it was merely 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 face. The cause of death of that unhappy Orc was obvious: no one could survive if his neck were twisted into such a weird angle.

You were careless, answered the hound.

He snorted. With you nearby, I surely have no need to be jumpy.

A large shadow leaped over thick bushes and came to him in the blink of an eye. Instead of being alert, his stallion snuffled a greeting, for it was Huan, the hound of Valinor and their loyal partner.

'Perhaps I should arrange for cleaning up specifically after you, Turko.'

With that, another rider appeared. Sitting at ease on horseback, Curufin showed no sign of involvement in battle and remained graceful as ever. 'We just finished piling up the corpses over there, and we are ready to burn them.'

'Tell them to wait then, for there are another five.' he sheathed his sword and turned to his brother. 'It is still beyond me that they could made such a fuss over a few Orcs back in Nargothrond!'

'Well, there were some wild wolves too, to be fair.' Curufin pointed out, smiling. 'It took us three days to take care of all of them.'

'Maybe.' seeing Huan give a hearty nod, he had to agree. 'Anyway, now the problem is solved.'

'Hopefully,' Curufin said, with a tendril of smile on his lips.

Since Finrod departed, things had been good for some time, until trouble was reported from the borders. Creatures of Morgoth and spies of Sauron flushed from the Isle of Werewolves into the south, and Talath Dirnen was turned into a region haunted by wild wolves and Orcs. Every one agreed that it was important to find out why the Enemy became unusually active all of a sudden, but every time the topic of arranging for an investigation came up, the secretive, peace-loving people of Finrod would fall silent all together. In the end, he had to go himself, along with Curufin and their own guards who had come with them to Nargothrond after Bragollach.

In light of that, it might not be 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 of recovering the Guarded Plain had been successful. They had not discovered the Enemy's motivation yet, but their ruthless approach had taken immediate effect - at least spending a night in the wild became much less dangerous. Having returned peace and order to the land, they planned to go back the next day, so he decided to give Huan leave to enjoy hunting alone. Therefore, after a simple dinner, there were only him and Curufin left at the campfire.

'What news of the east?' He unplugged a wine skin and poured some dark red liquid into his brother's cup. A messenger from East Beleriand found them during the day and was, as a rule, received by Curufin.

'Maitimo and Makalaurë continue to hold Himring, while Moryo and our Ambarussa twins have decided to make Amon Ereb their base.' Curufin thanked him and took up the cup. 'It seems that they can take care of themselves. It is also said that many mortal Men went to swear allegiance to Moryo, which I find a little interesting.'

'Men?' he frowned. He had met few mortal Men, and thus had been indifferent about them, though the one who came to Nargothrond uninvited did not help improve his impression.

'Moryo seems to think they have some virtue.' Curufin took a sip of the wine and watched him serving himself. 'Maybe the influence of Haleth is greater than I had expected.'

'Haleth?' he repeated the name, for it sounded familiar. 'I remember once there were some Men who wished to cross the land of Himlad and go westward, before Bragollach. Was their leader…'

'It was her.' Curufin confirmed. 'She was the leader of the Haladin, and that was when she declined Moryo's offer and left Thargelion.'

He tried to recall her appearance, but could not think of much, except that she seemed to be very similar to other Men. She was not beautiful - most of Men were not beautiful in the eyes of the Eldar - nor was she impressive, by his standards. If there was anything special about her, it would be her female bodyguard, taller and stronger than most. 'She declined Moryo's offer?' he asked in disbelief. 'And Moryo took no offense? I thought he has quite a temper.'

'It is between him and her.' Curufin said, and poured a little more wine. The campfire crackled at their side; occasionally, sparks leaped out and disappeared nearby in the grass sprinkled with dew, like short-lived fireflies in the fields of summer.

He asked no more, but drank more. Whatever Caranthir had felt about the mortal woman, appreciating or loathing, he knew better than to judge them. After all, to sort out confusing relationships like this, it would probably require a renowned scholar and philosopher such as Finrod - of course, that was to say, if that golden head had not turned into a hot head who insisted on helping a mortal to recover a Silmaril.

'I wonder what has come of Finrod.' he said.

Curufin looked at him and slightly shook his head. 'I had hoped to gather some tidings to answer this question, but now it seems impossible, for you and Huan have 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 he heard himself.

Pain assaulted him from the inside, while the cool wine that had moistened his throat before suddenly lit a fire in his chest. Summoning all the strength he had, he resisted trembling and cursed himself, as he did in the past. It has been such a long time; why will you not simply forget? Why do you keep her words on your lips, as if she still lived?

'Turko?'

Curufin's voice sounded remote and indistinct, but it penetrated the barrier of his mind and woke his faintest memories. Little by little, a figure emerged from those deeply buried days, with shining dark hair and bright grey eyes, slender by the standards of the Noldor. What did Curufin call her? How did Curufin introduce her to him? He was a little uneasy then, meeting the maiden his brother was in love with; but her smile soon lowered his guard.

He recognized her, for she was Curufin's wife, Celebrimbor's mother. Long ago she refused to join their exile, and now she remained on the other side of the Sea. Ever since they set foot on the Hither Lands, Curufin had not mentioned her name, not even once.

But how was it possible? How could his brother manage to cut all the ties with the past and never regret it?

Doubts along with wine burned in his mind, like a fire feeding on hay. Tossing back his head, he blurted out a question before realizing it: 'Your wife, Kurvo - you loved her, did you not?'

With that, the cup in his brother's hand shattered. Even the wind seemed to have stopped. For a moment, they stared at each other, while dark liquid dripped from his brother's long fingers, and there was no way to tell whether it was wine or blood.

He had never seen such a look in Curufin's eyes: dark and desperate, like dying embers.

'Of course I love her.'

Curufin said, just when he thought Curufin would not answer. Sharp pieces fell from his brother's hand, some of which were blood-stained, but there was no wound on that elegant hand, for the silence was long enough for all the 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? They both had loved and continued to love, but believing it was their own choice, they both had to let go in the end. But if that were true, were they not both stupid beyond measure?

He had thought they would never fall into this trap. For the Firstborn, must there not always be time enough for love? Before the life of Arda itself reached an end and the river of Time came to a stop, would he not find her at last? Someday he would look her in the eye and repeat his words, words that were so simple and so hard, said once on the plains of Valinor and again in the mist of Araman, and no longer needed to be spoken on the ice field of Helcaraxë, in Irmo's domain.

But he was wrong, completely wrong.

In the battlefield that only belonged to them, he was fated to lose, because he loved her first and loved her deeper.

It was because of that, he could not bear to see her leave him.

It was also because of that, he could only destroy her to the last.

She must have known it, otherwise why would she have approached him yet evaded him, and chosen 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 extremely familiar syllables on his lips, unable to tell whether it tasted like love or hatred. You would admit no defeat, but would flee instead? Why were you so determined to torture me, for which you would use everything you had?

There was no answer.

Of course there would be no answer. She was gone, this time truly beyond the Hither Lands. Nevertheless, he could not but extend his thought to the West, knowing it would be in vain but wanting to attempt it regardless, just because he wished to see once again her face. On the other side of the Sundering Sea, in the silent Halls of Waiting, at a corner where he could not see, hear, or feel, would she sense him calling?

Now on the Guarded Plain, under a starless sky, he suddenly wished to know if the Halls of Mandos were nearly as dark.

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Chapter End Notes

The title belongs to Robert Heinlein.