Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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Dilemma

First Age - Winter 455. Dimbar, near the river Mindeb.

 The Lords of Himlad have been driven away from their lands, the troops coming from Angband overwhelming their forces in the Pass of Aglon and forcing them to retreat and to flee. With what remains of their riders, they followed the Marches of Doriath, and settled in Dimbar for a few hours.

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Last update sept, 3, 2017

“We must go back.”

Curufin looked into his brother's eyes, to make sure that the words weren’t coming from another ghost, crawling into his mind like the breath of death. But there was no ghost, except those they had left in Aglon, and among the confusion of their makeshift camp, Celegorm was standing, stern and still trembling with adrenaline, silver hair soiled with dry blood and his eyes shining with a painful intensity. “Do you really think it would be wise, Tyelkormo?”

“And what is this wisdom you are refering to?” There was rage, provocation and determination in Celegorm's eyes, a deep, burning rage which Curufin knew too well. “Our brothers are still there, fighting and keeping the enemies away from the Marches. We cannot leave them, Atarincë!”

“And I will not let our people face the wan mercy of death!” Curufin's voice had grown louder. Loud enough to cover Turcafinwë's voice, but also loud enough to catch their kinsmen's attention. Celegorm peeked at them, making sure his little brother's voice hadn't wreaked havoc among the warriors, but there was only a few worried glances. In this confusion, in their distress, they did not seem to care about the two lords’ argument. There were too many wounds to heal, too many minds to soothe, and too much exhaustion.

"What is it, Tyelkormo?” Curufin continued, his voice returning to a quiet and yet caustic whisper. “Do you worry for them, now?”

“We do not need any discord.” Celegorm hissed, and as he dropped his gaze, Curufin noticed on his brother's face the first twitches of remorse and sadness, lost among the tensed rage which Celegorm was still carrying. “Sacrifice is the prize to pay, Curvo. You know that. We have already sacrificed a lot.”

“Shall we sacrifice more lives?” Curufin’s determination, although usually dreadfuly strong, was slowly splitting, and through the cracks, hesitation was dripping. His own anger and pride would drive him eastwards, toward his brothers and the flames of war, but more than a warrior, Curufin was a lord, and his responsibilities toward his people would not be so easily ignored. “Himlad is lost, Turco. For now.” He added, his voice now low, as a reflection of the ache which was seizing his heart. “You know that."

Slowly, Celegorm nodded, and Curufin took advantage of his brother's silence to continue. “Maitimo will hold Himring and the Marches, and he is not alone. They will not fail, Turco. And what help do we have to offer now?” He wasn’t only trying to convince his brother, but also to convince himself, and endlessly his mind was swaying, hesitating between the two options which were dancing before him. With a soft movement, Curufin stepped closer, and gave in a whisper the rest of his speech. “Look at our people. The main part of them is wounded, and the other part is exhausted. We cannot lead them into another battle, unless you plan a desperate bloodbath.”

“I will not accept defeat." Celegorm's words echoed through a groan, and in this groan Curufin could hear all of his brother's frustration and anger, his pain and the remains of his hope.

“We are not defeated yet, brother.” Curufin either would not accept failure, although his heart was already bleeding with the loss, and what would eventually appear as a failure. “We need to gather our last strengths before another battle, we need to stitch the wounds before screaming for revenge.”

“We must take Himlad back.” Tyelkormo was stubborn, this Curufin knew, and he barely needed to look into his brother's eyes to see how powerfully his will was standing. He knew it and understood it. Losing Himlad definitely was not an option, for either of them, but turning back now would be nothing less than suicide.

“Turco, among the bloodshed and war cries, we managed to flee through the Marches of Doriath, and no Thindarin troop had yet tried to stop us. It is a miracle. But it will not happen twice, you know Thingol will not let it happen again. They knew we were running away, and Elwë must be jeering at us now, safe in his caves.” A ball of anger burning in the pit of his stomach, Curufin bit his bile back, and yet his bitterness was still dripping from his words.

“Then let us show him that we do not run away. Let us return to Aglon.” Celegorm had grasped his little brother’s arm, forcing him to look into his eyes as if it would be enough to convince him. But Curufin’s mind was strong, and despite his affection and respect for Celegorm, he would not indulge, convinced that Thingol would stand between them and their brothers. “He will close the way. Behind us I can already feel his archers and warriors filling the Marches, their arrows and swords pointed at us... As if we needed another foe. We will not fight against them, Tyelkormo.”

Giving a disappointed snort, Celegorm pulled away, and when he talked then, his voice was quiet, sombre, pondering a suggestion he seemed to be afraid to speak. “Nan Dungortheb...”

“I will not take any risk through Nan Dungortheb!” Curufin cut him off in an aggressive hiss. “Not with our warriors standing on the edge of exhaustion and despair.”

“You talk as if there were no hope.” Celegorm spat, and he stepped away, his heavy gait betraying the wound on his left knee. But his features were not weak, and his voice was imbued with a fierce disapproval. “Father would not have backed away like you do, Atarincë. Father would have talked and found the words to make hope and strength return to their hearts. To my heart.”

Celegorm was right, Curufin thought. Fëanor wouldn’t have reacted like this... Fëanor wouldn't have let the enemy invade Himlad and his people would not be hiding, wounded, in the shadows of the Crissaegrim. But what could the mountains, or their shadows, offer them now, save a brief respite?
Brithiach was not far either, and from their hiding place, the Ñoldor could see the highest trees of Brethil. Southward was Doriath, forbidden to their kin, and Curufin could feel the power of the Girdle keeping them away, like a mist of power growing deeper and heavier with each new hour. Melian surely knew about their presence, so close to their realm, and if Thingol had not reacted yet, Curufin was certain that the Grey King was keeping a careful eye on them.

“I must find Canyórë.” The eldest added as he stepped away. “We all have much to do, but I will see you later, brother... and we shall decide.”

The sigh which left Curufin's lips was heavy and painful in the Ñoldo’s sore throat. The last battle had taken more than the lives of his people and his lands; it had ripped something off, taking away a part of him which he hadn't defined yet.

Celegorm's words were still buzzing in his mind when his gaze fell upon his son. Celebrimbor was kneeling next to a wounded soldier, pouring water for the poor Elf, and giving him words of hope and courage. Celebrimbor was limping too, and from where he stood Curufin looked with horror at the blood upon his son's plating.

They couldn't force them to walk through Nan Dungortheb. Not now. This madness had to stop, if only for a few days. And yet, staying away from the battle, hiding in the shadows of the North was no glorious action, and Curufin's pride was burning with the embers of his disillusionment. They could not go back, but they could not hide and let their brothers fight alone.

“Father, the water supply is running low.” Celebrimbor's voice pulled Curufin away from his thoughts, and with weary eyes he looked at the youthful face. “Should we send a few men to Mindeb? They would be back before the night with enough water for the next days.”

“Excellent idea.” Curufin nodded, glad to have his son beside him, safe, and already he could see a lord growing out of him. “You will appoint the scouts and give them the orders, but first I want you to see someone for your leg.”

“Only if you see someone for you shoulder, father.” Curufin blinked, and with surprise he observed his son's serious features. “You are as wounded as I am, and yet you did not get any rest since we have settled here.”

“I have much to do, son.” In fact, the troubles and fears had replaced the pain which should have been devouring his flesh, and Curufin could barely feel the biting of the wound anymore. “The blade was not poisoned; the wound shall heal by itself.”

“And so shall mine, father.” Celebrimbor made an attempt for a smile, but in this smile Curufin could see the misery and fears which had invaded his son's mind. “If we must go back to Aglon, I will follow you father. And fight with you. But... If I may, I have talked to them, our people... They are not ready. In mind and body... They need time.”

“We cannot stay here more than a night, Tyelperinquar.” The attempt to hide his anxiousness and hesitation was a success, but deep inside, Curufin was screaming his frustration. Celebrimbor's words were only confirming his own thoughts, and yet, turning his back to the Marches was a move he was not totally ready to do yet. Hiding behind his sternness, he rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezed it softly and nodded. “Please, do something for your leg and send the scouts to the river while I clean my shoulder and talk to your uncle.”

With a nod, Celebrimbor clasped his fingers around his father's hand, gave another fragile smile, and left.

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They had no tent, no blanket and barely enough supplies for everyone. The night had fallen upon the camp, and the orders had been given. Every uninjured Ñoldo would guard it, no fire would be lighted, and silence had been required. The hosts of orcs were numerous in the lands now, and from their hidden place, they could still hear the battle cries and the steel singing from afar.

His shoulder was painful. The wound had been stitched rather hastily, but Curufin could not care less. His mind was too absorbed by the current situation, the possible solutions, and the help they might actually get. They needed help. It was hard to admit, but the sons of Fëanor would have to put their pride aside and ask for help, for the thousand lives that depended on them. Curvo's thoughts were floating over Brethil. The Haladin had always been counted among their allies, after all. But their land they had received from Thingol himself, and Curufin doubted the Grey King would welcome their presence in a place so close to the girdle, and neither he, nor Celegorm intended to humble themselves at the feet of Thingol. It was not only a matter of pride, but also a matter of blood, of kinship and power.

“There must be men in Brithiach, cautiously protecting their borders, in the name of King Thingol.” Celegorm's words were followed by a bitter laughter, but he kept it quiet and sat down next to his brother, Huan beside him. Curufin hadn’t heard them come, and he welcomed their arrival with a slow nod. "I suppose they would not open the ford, unless they plan to stick their blades into a orc's throat.”

“Can you blame them?” Asked Curufin, unable to prevent a smirk.

“Aye, you are right, brother. Their decision is the wisest and the safest, and yet, it leaves a bitter taste in my throat. We will find no shelter in Brethil.”

Curufin frowned, and peeked at his brother with a spark of uncertainty in his eyes. “I thought you wanted to go back to Aglon... Have you changed you mind before I could convince you?”

“I did not want to give you this satisfaction.” After a chuckle, Celegorm remained quiet a few seconds, and in his eyes Curufin saw the depths of his current wounds, these wounds he was hiding behind his gentle provocations and mocking smiles. The same wounds which were gushing blood in Curufin’s own mind. “I have walked among them, Curvo.” Celegorm finally continued, quietly, his voice suddenly turning soft and sad. “I saw their bruises, and heard their cries. Most of them are eager for battle and revenge, but.... Can they fight?”

“The archers would follow you through the gates of Angamando, Turco, be they wounded or not.”

“Do not tempt me.”

The remark pulled a short chuckle from Curufin's lips, but his smile soon vanished, replaced by a concerned pout. “How is your knee?”

“Better than your shoulder.” Celegorm replied, and despite the seriousness of his face, Curufin could see the shadow of a smirk upon his lips. Huan shifted, resting his heavy head upon Celegorm’s thigh, and looked at the two Ñoldor with what seemed to be worry.

“I can fight, ride and think. That is all I need...” Curufin replied firmly, grasping his shoulder to prove his brother that the injury wasn't as serious as he seemed to think. “How many horses have we lost?”

“Since we left Himlad? Not so much. The proximity of Nan Dungothred frightened more than one, and approximately ten percent of the original effective ran away before we could reach Dimbar. I have sent a few hunters after them. The rest is nervous, but Canyórë is working on that.”

“Percentages, Turco?” With a quiet snicker, Curufin tilted his head and gave his brother the kind of mocking look which always made Celegorm bark. “You definitely spent too much time with Moryo...”

“Says the one who actually traded with the Casari.” The reply had come with a hiss, mocking and relatively harsh, though they both knew this game of so-called mockery was only a way to look away from the horror of the situation. It didn't last, and a heavy silence fell upon the two brothers, during which Curufin kept his eyes on the lampstone which stood between them, one of the few which they had saved from the assault.

“I want to go back to Aglon as much as you do, Turco.” The words had come in a breath, hasty and powerful. “But we cannot ask them to do it. They would follow. But we cannot condemn them.” Curufin had made his mind, and still a voice was whispering within him, still the questions lingered, and his father's name, his father's voice and strength haunted him. He was intimately convinced that such a defeat would have never happened to Fëanor. His father would have held the land, or died on the battlefield. But Curufin was still alive, and the land was lost.

He could still see it in his mind, before his eyes; The battle, from the moment it had begun to the moment they had called for retreat. Every second, every decision, every blow, every corpse; and his people's blood dripping next to the awful orkish blood. The land was not only lost, it was soiled now, and in the Aros, red and black were probably merging in an awful macabre painting.

They were supposed to be prepared. They had expected it and planned everything. But retreat... This word had never been pronounced, none of these situations had ever been imagined. Losing the Pass after so many years, so many efforts and hopes, it was not fair. It was not right. It was not what was supposed to happen, and the bile of his defeat was now burning in Curufin's stomach.

Silence was suddenly broken by Celegorm, who got up and adjusted the daggers on his belt. ” We shall have our revenge, and we shall taste it, brother, like the sweetest mead. In the meanwhile, we must keep them safe. But we shall not hide forever.”

Oh no, they would not. Not like Thingol, locked in his caves. Not like Turgon, protected in his hidden city, wherever it was, safe, shielded from the bloodshed and the horror his kin had to face. The High King at least, was fighting, and so was his eldest son, and together they were protecting Hithlum, which seemed to stand... But for how long?

Finrod too was fighting in the North, protecting the lands which had not been taken yet. Many of them had fallen, his brothers had fallen, but the tidings the Fëanorians had received before their flight had been clear; Findarato had ridden forth into battle and risked his own blood. The three houses of the Ñoldor were fighting in concert, and although the thought itself was but a mere comfort to Curufin, to their people, it meant hope.

Where was Finrod now? Had he left the battlefield, mourning his brothers in the darkness of his own caves? Had he reached Minas Tirith?

Curufin froze, hit by the obvious reality of it, and he cursed himself aloud, blaming his mind for keeping the epiphany away for so long. The solution was clear now, and so terribly easy. Minas Tirith was the key... If it had not fallen. No tiding had come from Orodreth, but Tol Sirion had been greatly fortified during the past decades. Even if Felagund had returned to Nargothrond, Orodreth could still offer them the protection of the walls which stood upon the island.

“He has all the reasons to refuse.” It was Celegorm's voice, and as he talked, Curufin looked at him, startled. “He had all the reasons to keep his doors shut and you know it, Curvo.”

“Who allowed you to creep into my mind?” Standing up, Curufin gave his brother a look of disappointment which, despite its darkness, didn't seem to impress Celegorm.

“You tend to drop your guard when you are tired or too enthusiastic. It just happened, and I was next to you. Blame yourself.”

Celegorm was right, and yet Curufin's irritation wasn't soothed. Osanwe was a dangerous device, and he seldom played with it for the safety of his own sanity... and intimacy. He and Celegorm had spent too many years side by side, the connection between their fëar had happened naturally, with no former attempt and no great expectation. It had simply happened. But to Curufin, there was still a thick line between his private throughs - most of them - and the images he allowed his brother to grasp. When something, as insignificant as it could be, escaped from the walls of his mind, Curufin cringed, horrified by his own carelessness.

“Artaresto will refuse.”

“I will convince him.” Curufin put his frustration aside, promising himself to lecture his brother later about osanwe and his use of it, and focused on his plan. “We shall leave tomorrow, right after dawn, and follow the road to the west, to Brithiach. There, you shall wait with our people, and I will go to Tol Sirion alone. Once Artaresto convinced, I will send a messenger and you will guide our people to Minas Tirith.”

A wince on his face, Celegorm pondered the words. “Why not going there all together, then? When he will see the state of our people, pity might take Artaresto’s heart.”

“I do not want him to pity us.” With a hasty shake of his head, Curufin stepped away, already putting into places the first strings of his plans. “We are at war. He probably expects an attack from the North. His father is dead, along with one of his uncle, and Findarato's northern lands are lost. He will not be calm. His heart might not be imbued with generosity. Besides, he must not have kept the sweetest memories from our last meeting. You are right, he will not welcome a wounded Eldarin army, knocking on his door... not even a Ñoldorin army. But there must be a way to convince him.”

Celegorm, followed by Huan, was walking behind his brother, and it was his turn now to shake his head. “And what exactly do you fear? Do you think his archers would shot us from the borders of Sirion? No, Atarincë, this is a loss of time. We will go all together, or we will not go.”

Curufin stropped, irritation weighing his heart, but his voice was calm when he replied to his brother. “Artaresto still obeys his uncle, and I greatly doubt Findarato is in Minas Tirith. The commander will not make such an important decision without the approval of his king... unless I persuade him. Unless I explain him why he should take this risk.”

“And why exactly should he take this risk?”

Still and impassive, Curufin stared into Celegorm's eye, and after a short silence he answered with determination. “I will find something.”

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading this first chapter!

 

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