Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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A Silmaril comes South

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Himring loomed on the skyline, a single tall hill, enclosed by three tall rings of battlements, set with tall towers, from which watchful archers surveyed the land all around. Within the wide walls stood a town, well-provided with wells and huge store-houses, and between the walls there were grassy areas where horses grazed.

Compared with Fingolfin’s town by the shores of Lake Mithrim, Himring was not much more than a defensive stronghold. It was built to meet attack, and only secondarily to be either comfortable or beautiful. Still, there was a spare elegance to its tough outline against the cold grey northern sky.

The rivers of fire had reached towards Himring, and the armies of Morgoth had washed around it like the sea around a rock, but the great fortress of Maedhros had stood strong while Dorthonion fell, while the other castles and cities of the North were sacked and burned.

Now it was a rallying point for the counter-attack. Maedhros was a force of determination and steely skill, both in battle and in strategy, using their surviving forces with precision, tireless and unstoppable.  Beside him, Maglor fought, silent, unhappy and deadly, avenging the loss of his people in the fires of Angband.  Against the two of them few enemies would stand.

First the hills around Himring were re-taken, then Curufin’s Pass of Aglon, then East to Maglor’s Gap — always a weak point in the Eastern frontier. After that Maedhros led his people further east to join with Caranthir’s forces coming up out of Thargelion to re-take the fortress on Mount Rerir.

The orcs had burned and spoiled everything they could: homes, fields, orchards, woods and towns. Far beyond the burned plains of Anfauglith, East Beleriand stood in ruins. Burying the dead was a bitter task, but almost worse were the missing. Morgoth’s great beasts and orcs had slain the Men who had settled along the banks of the Gelion and down into Thargelion wherever they could, although they had been fiercely opposed, village by village, farm by farm had fought with every weapon they had.

But the orcs had seized the Noldor, in particular, wherever they could and marched them away as prisoners, North to Angband. In the chaos after the Dagor Bragollach, it was a long time before the people of the Sons of Fëanor could be sure who it was that had died, and who had been taken. There was no-one now in East Beleriand who did not have friends or relatives who had been seized and carried off.  

Somewhere in the chaos, Maglor’s Sindarin wife, married in a burst of heedless ill-considered optimism during the Long Peace, had been lost.  She might have been killed or taken: they did not know.  So many were gone.  There was little leisure to mourn her, while fighting for their lives.

Word came from Curufin and Celegorm that they were safe in Nargothrond. They did not seem eager to return to the East, but then to cross back to the East over the dark lands north of Doriath near the tainted valley of Nan Dungortheb was not an easy journey. No doubt, too, Finrod, safe in Nargothrond, was glad of reinforcements and not eager to see his cousins leave.

Fëanor was not at Himring when Celegorm and Curufin returned there, nine years after Fingolfin’s death. He was with Caranthir’s forces, and his dwarf-allies from Nogrod and Belegost, working to clear the last remnants of the orc-rabble that infested the slopes of Mount Rerir and the North of the Ered Luin. The last orc-army in Thargelion had been broken by Maedhros at a battle by Lake Helevorn two years previously, but the orcs who fled that defeat had gone to ground and were proving hard to dislodge.

So Fëanor did not see his sons come riding into Himring, quite alone, two of them sharing one tired horse. None of their people had followed them, not even Curufin’s son Celebrimbor.

He only heard about it later, when Caranthir rode hurriedly down to Himring through the grey autumn rain, summoned by an urgent message.

And by that time, other important news had arrived, too.

“She walked into Angband. Thingol’s daughter, Lúthien. She cast them all into sleep and she walked into his very throne room, enchanted Morgoth himself and took it. Beren cut the jewel from his iron crown, while she held Morgoth himself in sleep!” Maedhros said, marvelling, to his brothers, in the tall stone-built hall upon the heights of Himring hill.  

“I don’t believe it,” Celegorm said at once. “She didn’t have that kind of art. I would have seen it.”

Maedhros gave him a quelling look and Celegorm went quiet immediately. Odd behaviour for Celegorm, that was, but clearly there had been some argument between them before Caranthir had arrived, which Maedhros had won. Celegorm and Curufin were unusually silent.  So was Maglor but that was easier to understand.

Fëanor was sorry to hear his correspondent Finrod had been killed — but after all, he had set out to try to take a Silmaril. A pity. He’d hoped his nephew had more sense than that. Finrod had sworn to aid the man, Beren, in the quest assigned to him by Thingol of Doriath, and so his lesser oath had been caught in the net of Fëanor’s great Oath.

The news had not come direct from Doriath, of course. It had gone from Doriath to Nargothrond, from Nargothrond to Hithlum, and that was where Maedhros, visiting to take counsel with Fingon, now that it was once again possible with care to cross the plains now blackened and bare, that were beginning to be called the Anfauglith, had heard it and brought it back with him.

“So now there are two Silmarils in Angband, and one in the hands of Thingol of Doriath?” Caranthir said, slowly. “That could be...interesting.”

“Yes. But... well, let us not worry about that yet,” Maedhros said. “The important point is, Angband is clearly much more vulnerable than we thought. Lúthien is strong, I’m sure, and very skilled. She and this Man Beren must be insanely brave — but she is not of the Valar. And yet, she has done this! I never thought it could be done. And I have spoken to Fingon, and we have made a plan...”

 

* * * * *

In a long high room in Himring, where the tall windows looked out towards the North, over the burned fields towards Angband, Maedhros had called a council of war.  His eldest son still made a commanding figure, Fëanor thought, for all that he had lost a hand. His eyes burned fiercely with a fury that would set fear in any servant of the Enemy.

“It is time,” he said, standing tall on the dais, lifting his voice so assembled captains of Men, the war-leaders of the Dwarves and his own followers could all hear him clearly.

“You have all heard the tales. Long ago, Fingon came to my rescue, when I was captured by Morgoth, and one of the Eagles of Manwë himself aided our escape from Thangorodrim. Now, Fingon the Valiant leads us in the attack. His father, Fingolfin, gave us hundreds of years of peace and struck a great blow against the Enemy. Now Lúthien has taken one of the Silmarils from Morgoth. Believe me when I say to you, that Morgoth is not invulnerable. He can be hurt, he can be robbed, he can be defeated. If we strike together, Elves, Men and Dwarves can bring him down. Are you with us?”

Maedhros poured all his father’s eloquence into that speech. Fists pounded on the long oak tables, expressing enthusiastic support.

 

* * * * *

 

Afterwards, while the Men and Dwarves were still enjoying the great feast that Caranthir had organised for them, Curufin said quietly to his eldest brother “You know, we could first pursue the Silmaril that Lúthien took from the Iron Crown, the one that is in Doriath. If it wasn’t for Thingol of Doriath, we’d have a united front against the Enemy. Well, almost.”

“No,” Maedhros said, calmly, sipping hot spiced apple wine. He smiled at young Borthand, the youngest son of Bór, who had been given the honour of being cup-bearer to the Lord of Himring for this great feast. He was looking a little overwhelmed.

“Borthand, would you take a jug of this wine to Lord Azaghâl and give him my personal compliments? He’s the Dwarf with the red beard and all the beads over there. One of the good jugs, with the inlaid gems. Thank you.”

Curufin said, determined to press his point, “The Sindar won’t help us as long as he sits there in Doriath, refusing us any aid. And we fought right past him, Celegorm and I, and we were hard-pressed. Did he do one thing to help us? No.”

Maglor, seated at the head of a table of Eastern Men and wearing a smile that, if you knew him very well, you could see was not quite real, glanced at his brothers and lifted his harp.

He began to sing a rude song about Morgoth’s lieutenant and his curious taste for root vegetables. It was not in Maglor’s usual style, but it was both popular and loud, and the way Maglor played it, it was curiously hard to hear anything else, even before the Men began to sing along.

“We can’t do anything to compel Thingol. We’d never get past the border. And anyway, we don’t need them,” Maedhros told Curufin. “We have armies of Men, our friends the Dwarves, and our own people. Many of the Sindar are with us — Círdan will not wait for Doriath, he will come to Fingon’s aid — and the Grey Elves of Mithrim, who have always been loyal to the High King.”

Celegorm made an exasperated noise. Maedhros put his cup down on the table, hard enough that a little wine slopped over the embossed golden rim.

“No. We are not talking about that any more. Fingon is High King, as his father was. I have sworn it. You would not have me break my oath? He unites the Noldor as I never could, and he’ll be a much better king. It’s done!” There was a furious certainty to his voice that made the others pause. Maedhros, when his mind was made up, was not easily gainsaid.

“Nobody is saying Fingon should not be High King,” Curufin said, sounding calm and diplomatic. “But an attack on Morgoth himself? Are you sure about this?”

“Luthien had one Man and a dog. Your dog, wasn’t it, Celegorm? And yet now Morgoth has only two Silmarils in his crown. No!” Maedhros held up his hand as Curufin began to speak again. “I will not hear it. Any attack on Doriath would lose us other support.”

“You mean Fingon,” Celegorm said cynically.

“Yes, I mean Fingon!” Maedhros paused, clearly making an effort to keep hold of his temper, so that his voice would not rise enough to be audible over the general hum, and his anger would not be visible to those sitting further away. “Fingon would certainly consider any aggression towards Doriath to be rebellion. Even if you have forgotten all we owe him — all I owe him — he is our most loyal ally. Just his name is worth a great deal. And he needs this as much as we do. Hithlum is as vulnerable as we are, next time Morgoth decides to test us.” He took a long sip from his cup. “Anyway, I still have some hope that Thingol will choose to surrender the Silmaril to us.”

“Did you read his letter? I think that’s most unlikely,” Curufin said, half under his breath.  Fëanor had read the letter too, and shared his doubts.  Elwë Thingol of Doriath seemed even more obdurate than his brother of Alqualondë.  

“Yes. I read the letter. And I remember who it was that insisted that the letter we sent to him should use the words it did.” Maedhos gave Curufin an unimpressed look. “Curufin, you have already lost us most of the support we should have from Nargothrond. Celegorm, Thingol might not be quite so bitter against us if it were not for the way you treated his daughter! I don’t know what has come over you. I thought better of you both.

“Enough of this. The Silmaril is safe in Doriath, and we will come to that once we have dealt with the two that are in the hands of our true Enemy, he who killed our father and our grandfather.”

Celegorm and Curufin looked at one another, but were silent.

Fëanor wished that Curufin had been able to put up a better argument: it was irritating to see his favorite son so easily silenced. Feanor would have liked to hear more of his reasoning. It did seem a little odd that Curufin should think the one Silmaril of Doriath as urgent than the two in Angband.

Though Fëanor had no time for Thingol, he had to admit Maedhros was right: they must defeat Morgoth first. To risk creating further divisions between his enemies would be repeating a mistake already made once, and that was pure stupidity. Thingol could be dealt with later.

And what had Curufin been up to in Nargothrond anyway? Why had he persuaded the army of Nargothrond that Morgoth was too strong to attack, and that defeat was inevitable?

Fëanor was not at all comfortable with the way that Curufin and Celegorm had come to Nargothrond fleeing the enemy, then undermined Finrod the king in the eyes of his own people. Finrod was wrong, of course. The Silmarils could not go to any owner who was not of the House of Fëanor, Finrod must know that as well as anyone. But Curufin’s answer seemed so... petty. Something was not quite right with Curufin.

And as for Celegorm! Holding a woman captive and trying to bring her to marriage against her will? It was utterly against all laws and precedents of the Noldor. How a son of his could behave in such a manner was a mystery, and even more mysterious was that Curufin should support him in it!

Fëanor was uneasily aware that Curufin and Celegorm, of all his seven sons, were those who had been closest to him since his death. They were the sons to whom he had spoken in dreams.

He considered the veil of darkness which slid and moved like smoke upon the fire of his being; had it touched them? Or was it simply the darkness and the fire of Morgoth that ran through all things East of the Sea that made it hard to see which way was best?

Nobody mentioned Celebrimbor any more. Fëanor had gathered that his grandson had chosen to remain in Nargothrond with his kinsman Orodreth when Celegorm and Curufin had been shown the door, but he had not heard anyone say so in so many words.  

Celebrimbor should be safe enough in the cave-fortress of Nargothrond, but still, Fëanor would have felt happier if he was at Himring where Fëanor could keep an eye on him. Fëanor did not care to venture as far as Nargothrond, just now, and leave his sons behind.  The rivers of fire and the hands of the orcs had taken too many.  But now perhaps at last the tide was turning.

* * * * * *

 

The armies of Maedhros and his brothers stretched into the distance : armoured in rings of dwarf-forged steel from the mountain-kingdoms or in Noldorin alloys or in leather out of Estolad, armed with swords that shone with a deadly light. The hills still provided them with some cover, for now; Morgoth’s spies would have to come close to get a clear idea of their numbers or purpose, and although nobody now lived North of the hills, out on the burned plains, there were many watchers stationed there. Spies would not get close. Very soon now they would march out to meet the armies of Fingon — the High King, Fëanor supposed he must be called —  waiting for them outside Hithlum.

Then came word out of the North, from one of Caranthir’s vassals. An army had been sighted, coming out of the far east of the Iron Mountains. Morgoth’s spies had clearly been as efficient as they had feared.

“We have to meet them,” Amrod told them. He happened to be the commander who had received the word when it had come in, late one night, and he had hastily roused the others. “We’d be leaving an army unfought behind us. They’ll come right around into our rearguard and cut off our supply lines.”

“Agreed,” Maedhros decided. “It will make us late to our meeting with Fingon, but I can’t see any help for that now. It need not take long.”

“If we can deal with this threat swiftly, then we can turn west with little delay and march straight across the plain,” Caranthir agreed.

“Fingon’s forces will stay under cover in the woods and valleys of the Ered Wethrin until he sees us. So we shall hold Morgoth’s armies between us in a steel trap,” Maedhros said. “Are we all agreed, my lords and brothers?”

Nobody disagreed.

But when the Fëanorian armies sped swiftly up the eastern flank of the Ered Luin, even though they marched close to the shadow of the Ered Engrin, the Iron Mountains of the North that surrounded and defended Morgoth’s stronghold of Angband, there was nothing to be found.

There were only a few scattered bands of wolf-riders who fled at the sight of them, and the occasional miserable strayed thrall, impossible to tell if each was a wretched slave, or a dangerous spy: some were both at once. These they slew on sight. Caranthir’s grim jest, that poor old Mandos would have his work cut out sorting out which was which, ran around the army like fire. It had become a saying that everyone knew, from the dwarves to the tall Men of the East, by the time they came close enough to Thangorodrim to see, in horror, what had been happening there.

Somehow, a great battle was already raging there. The High King’s troops, which should have been awaiting them in the mountains were already fully engaged. Great plumes of dust rose from the charred plain everywhere that the fighting stirred the ground, and rose to meet the grey clouds overhead. Fingon’s people were striped black and white with ash, and so were their enemies. Everywhere across the plain lay the dead.

“What happened to waiting for us in the cover of the valleys of Ered Wethrin?” Celegorm wondered aloud.

Maedhros’ face was pale and furious, and his eyes blazed. “Sound the trumpets,” he ordered, ripping his sword from his scabbard. As the trumpets rang out, he urged his horse to the gallop, and behind him came all the strength of East Beleriand, Elf, Dwarf and Man striking into the exposed flank of the great force of orcs that held the forces of the High King at bay.

They came so close to pushing through to join the two forces, before Morgoth threw in his reserves. So close, you could almost taste it. Then a great force of Balrogs, trolls and dragons, led by the great dragon Glaurung, now full-grown and deadly, armed with flame and armoured with great scales like shields, came thundering into the fight.

Fëanor whirled through the battle, unseen but none the less deadly. He could make no mark on the great dragon with his spirit-sword, but Glaurung’s dragon-brood were not so well armoured.

He was engaged in slaying one of them when he realised that the Fëanorian army had split in two. Many of the Men were fleeing the field, but some of them had turned on their allies and were treacherously attacking them from the rear.

They were beaten back.  And back.  And back again. Night fell, and still they fought.  From the glimpses that they had caught of Fingon’s distant forces, the battle had been raging for at least a day before they had reached the fight.  There was no news, and no leisure to ask for any.

By the second nightfall, the Fëanorian offensive was in confusion. The Dwarves stood stout, ringing the great Dragon in heavy armour that defended against the flame and holding it at bay, but the rest of the force was in chaos. Maedhros was killing Men under his brother Caranthir’s own banner, still unable, no matter how many he slew,  to cut a way through to Fingon’s side.

Fëanor could not see Curufin, Celegorm or Amras anywhere. Instead of one force, there were many, all struggling for survival, being beaten back, and back — and Fingon’s forces under their ash-striped silver banners were further away than ever, barely to be seen in the darkening distance. Fëanor followed Maedhros’s banner through the melee until the banner-bearer went down.

Then Azaghâl the Dwarf-king fell, slain by Glaurung, although he marked the great dragon fiercely before he went, and Glaurung, injured, fled the field. The Dwarves closed around Azaghâl, picked up his body, and left the battle. They took all the Dwarves close enough to follow with them.

The retreat went from bad to worse. By the time Azaghal was killed, there was not much left of the combined army any more, and all Fëanor could do was try to help to protect the rearguard as they retreated in the gathering dusk, slowly becoming not so much an army as a desperate knot of Elves, Men and Dwarves fighting side by side.  Azaghal’s bodyguard had taken most of the Dwarvish army with it, but some had been caught up in the battle and had tagged onto the rout of the Fëanorian force instead.

They were too far off now to see if Fingon’s army still stood, and there was no no hope left of winning through to him.

Somehow, all of Fëanor’s sons stood among the survivors, although Caranthir had dropped his shield and the arm that had held it was hanging limp. Amrod was limping badly and bleeding freely from a deep gash in his thigh, leaning on his twin. They had lost their horses when the Dragon attacked - or almost all of them, anyway. Fëanor had thought that Celegorm had been lost, but at the last minute he came riding out of the fray to join them, still mounted on a near-spent horse. Celegorm had always had a talent with horses.

Then the battle was behind them. None left the field unscathed. Even without a body to wound, Fëanor felt the weight of Morgoth’s dark thought upon him.

It was only much later, when they had managed to make their perilous way back across the plains and south almost to the Gap of Maedhros, that news of the Western army came to them, with a handful of stragglers fleeing east on exhausted horses.

Fingon the High King had died on the field of battle, slain by Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. The western army was gone. Hithlum had fallen to the Enemy. It was bitter news for all of them, but most of all for Maedhros. He had been grim and quiet since they had been forced to retreat; now he moved as if he were in a bad dream, unspeaking.

It was left to Maglor to lead them on towards Himring. But as they came in sight of the fortress on the hill, there was more bad news. Orcs were flooding in through the gates, even though Maedhros’s banners were still flying on the high towers.

By chance, they came on one of Maedhros’s stablehands in the hills just to the west of the fort. She had managed to escape the fortress through the hidden passages that long ago had been built into the hill itself, and had been fortunate that the next company that she encountered had been led by her own king.

Caranthir swore bitterly when they heard the details. The fortress had fallen to treachery. It had opened the gates to Men, allies of Ulfang carrying Caranthir’s own banners. “I will never trust Men again,” he said furiously, his hand pointlessly on his sword-hilt.

“Young Borthand and his brothers were loyal enough,” Amrod said, bracing himself painfully on the shaft of a spear. “I saw him kill that traitorous cur Ulfast myself. He beat me to it. You can’t blame all of them.”

“We have to get going again,” Maglor told them all, wearily, raising his cracked voice a little so that all the leaders could hear him. “If they have taken Himring, it will not be long before they are all over these hills. We have to get further South, at least across the river into Thargelion, before we rest.”

“There might be others of our people coming this way,” Amras pointed out. “If the gates are closed and they cannot see orcs, they may still think Himring is in our hands.”

“Right.” Maglor took a deep breath. “Yes. We cannot leave Himring as a trap. We should leave a small force here, hidden in the hills, to meet anyone who has got away. Celegorm, you are uninjured, would you take command of that..?”

“No. I will take it,” Maedhros said. It was the first time he had spoken since they had found out about Fingon, and Maglor gave him a worried look. “These were my hills. I know them better than any of you. I and what is left of the Himring garrison will wait here. The rest of you, go on across the river.”

“You should come to Gabilgathol, Elflord,” one of the Dwarves said; a Dwarf of status, it was clear, wearing the badge of Azaghâl’s house and a heavy gold arm-ring set with a yellow stone like the eye of a cat. “The mountain-fortresses are strong. Even against these terrible fire-demons, our stone gates will hold.”

“They are strong indeed,” Maedhros said gravely. He looked almost his usual self, if you did not look too carefully at his eyes. “My brothers will gratefully accept your hospitality, at least for a few days. I will join you there as swiftly as I can.”

* * * * * *

 

Of all the kingdoms of the Noldor, only the hidden cities, Nargothrond and Gondolin, still stood. All the rest had fallen. Morgoth’s armies roamed unrestrained into Beleriand, and those Elves that remained, lived by concealment, or because Morgoth had unaccountably not yet devoted his full attention to them.

To the hidden camps and woodland villages, survivors came trickling in; a more few Noldor, burned and injured, who had somehow made it back across the plains. A handful of guards and servants who had escaped the trap of Himring, farmers and fishermen from the north of Thargelion fleeing south from the orcs that now marched unrestrained through the wide pass that had been called Maglor’s Gap and south into Beleriand.

At Caranthir’s insistence, the Men were not allowed to stay, not even those that came as fugitives, who could be recognised as those who had been loyal to the house of Bór. They were sent back into the east, across the Ered Luin by the dwarf-road over the Pass of Dolmed. Word came from the dwarves that they had settled along the River Baranduin.

It was a strange, shifting life in the woods of Ossiriand and Thargelion, in the foothills of the Ered Luin and in what was left of East Beleriand. Fëanor’s sons had been great lords with armies and castles at their command: now they were often fighting in enemy territory, wary and unsupported, conducting small desperate battles in the woods against the orcs and warg-riders that raided across the River Gelion, or dared to try to cross the Andram escarpment into South Beleriand. Their settlements were small, always ready to move in a hurry, save only for the fortress on Amon Ereb, now hastily set fully in defense by Maedhros, and the fortifications along the Andram Wall. Neither had been intended as frontier forts, but now must act as them.

The seeing stones of Himring, of Mount Rerir, of the fortresses of Aglon were all lost to them. There was little time, and no workshop supplied sufficiently to make more of them.

Maedhros had had one stone with him, Curufin another and there was a third at Amon Ereb.   It was some time before Maedhros had time and art to spare to use them to look back through time, to see the story of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears unfold from the western flank.

In silence, in the tall shadowed room in Amon Ereb, Curufin, Maedhros, Amrod and Amras watched, as Gelmir of Nargothrond was dragged before the assembled hosts of Hithlum, watching from the safety of the woods and hills of the east-slopes of Ered Wethrin, and was tortured to death.

They all knew Gelmir and his brother Guilin.  The brothers had ridden out with Finrod, their king, to hunt with Amrod and Amras, with Maedhros and with Maglor in the wilds of Beleriand.  They had travelled home again to Nargothrond through the Pass of Aglon, and had stayed as guests with Curufin and Celegorm there. Curufin, presumably, had known Gwindor in Nargothrond, too, though Gelmir had been lost by then, carried off alive into Angband.

Maedhros looked away, as Gelmir was blinded, as his arms and legs were hacked off.  Curufin, Amrod and Amras stared at the faint and distant vision in the stone in wide-eyed horror.  Fëanor watched their faces, tired and horrified, and would have wept for them as well as Gelmir, if he had been able.

Gwindor, his face filled with grief and fury at his brother’s torment, broke the line.

“Oh no,” Amrod breathed, reaching out, vainly, as if to stop him, as if a voice, a whisper out of the future could reach Gwindor, and he could be called back.  This must have been only a few hours after Amrod had heard the rumour of an enemy host behind them, from the position of the sun.  

All of Fingon’s great host followed Gwindor, provoked into the battle far too soon.

They had been fighting for three days before Maedhros and his forces had arrived.  Three days lost, because Maedhros had been delayed, because Gwindor had been provoked.

No wonder Fingon had not been able to cut his way through to meet them.

No wonder the full fury of the Enemy’s reserves had been ready to face their charge.  The western host must have been past exhaustion by the time the forces of East Beleriand had reached the battle.

“So now we know,” Maedhros said.  He reached out and ended the vision, and his expression had never been more cold and grim, not even when he had returned from torment upon the mountain.   

Curufin’s eyes were wide and dark. Amrod put an arm around his shoulder and held on tightly.   Amras was weeping silently.

Maedhros glanced at Curufin’s shocked face.

“A pity Finrod was not there to hold his people back,” he said pointedly, and Fëanor could not help but think him cruel.

Curufin closed his eyes.   “I didn’t want Finrod to die,” he said.  He took a deep breath and met his eldest brother’s eyes. “I did what I thought I had to do. You are not the only one who wanted to win!   And you know we all swore allegiance to Fingon, and there is not one of us who gives his word lightly. ”

“No,” Maedhros said, and he looked very tired and grey.

“We still have an oath to fulfill,” Curufin said, steadily enough. “We would have a better chance of fulfilling it if the High King had lived.  We needed him. You were right about that.   I would have died for him for that reason, and because we owe him more than we can hope to repay, too. It wasn't like it was with his father. We owed Fingon.  And that goes for Celegorm, too.  You might doubt my courage, but you surely won’t be doubting his.”

“Oh, Curvo,” Maedhros said.  He rubbed his eyes. They were dry.  Fëanor would have felt much happier if his eldest son had wept.  “I did not mean to doubt your courage, or your word,” he said.  Curufin ducked his head silently, and after a moment, left.