Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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Beyond fear

"Shall you let the Enemy maim him and pillage his lands? Or shall we fight, together? Shall we protect what is dear to us, and give the Black Foe a new reason to tremble upon his throne?”


Last update: sept. 03 2017

In Sirion too, the waters were black and red, blood and ashes coming from Ard-Galen, flowing down the valley; Nothing less than a warning, the ostentatious parade of death - and in the air, a lingering poison seemed to float above the land. The trees were sick, the flowers had disappeared and the northern wind carried with it the screams of the dead.
Through the shadows of the night, Curufinwë followed the river to the North, squeezing his legs to encourage his horse, keeping a gentle hold on the reins. The animal was nervous but Curufin was not, and alone with his steed, he walked on. Around him was a silence which seemed too heavy, thick, and although the Elda could not see anyone, an odd feeling was slowly crawling through his core. It would have been tempting to ignore it, and to ride breathlessly to Tol-Sirion, but the flames of the war had not taken everything from him. Not his wisdom, not his sanity, and surely not his cautiousness.

Curufin had left his brother, his son and their people in Brithiach, in the shadows of the ford where, hopefully, they would be safe. For a while at least. As expected, the Haladin had refused to open their borders to the Fëanorian host, and in the name of diplomacy, Curufin had respected their choice. The mortals were free, but they remained faithful to Thingol, and would not take the risk to welcome so many Ñoldor in Brethil, fearing that their generosity could appear as a provocation to the Enemy. Until now, they had kept the orcs away from the Crossings of Teiglin, and their warriors were posted on the northern borders of the woods, welcoming any threatening host with blades and arrows. They would not allow the war to pass their borders.

Clad in his bitterness, Curufinwë was cursing aloud, calling Thingol a coward and a deserter, and around him, only the echo was replying. The Ñoldo was wounded in his vanity, in his heart, in his mind, wounded by the war, by loss, by his own fears, and dragging his own damaged frame to Minas Tirith was but another stain upon his pride. But he wouldn't flee. Not again.

The wound left by the blade of his flight was still burning, and although Curufinwë tried to convince himself of the wisdom of his decision, he couldn't prevent shame from dripping through his mind. One toxic drop after another, the poison of his guilt and fears was slowly soaking his sanity and it was cruelly burning in his veins. He wasn't allowed to hesitate anymore, and his people's safety had been his priority, but he had left the battlefield, he had called for retreat in the heart of the battle, leaving his brothers behind. What would be said about him? What sort of humiliation would he have to face afterwards? Had his decision condemned his brothers, and given the Enemy an advantage which he hadn't forseen yet?

The questions and fears were numerous, but Curufinwë knew too well that he shouldn't let them invade him now. He had a mission, and beyond his own dread, his followers were waiting. A few more hours, a few more days, and hopefully he would be able to think about it with a rested mind, his insight cleared from the clouds of agony.
His horse was still tensed, and despite the gentle determination of the Ñoldo's legs, the animal stopped, refusing to take any more step. From where he was, Curufin could see the towers of Minith Tirith; He could reach the island before dawn, but the horse's behaviour wasn't meaningless, and Curufin knew it. With a few whispers, he tried to soothe the steed, but beneath him he felt the animal quake. It wasn't a good sign, but the Fëanorion wouldn't turn back yet.

As still as his mount, Curufin looked northwards, beyond the towers of Minas Tirith, and after a few long minutes, he saw them. From the North, the Enemy's troops were heading to the island. The black army was carrying the stench of death, and accompanied by dark clouds and a blinding smoke, they walked quickly. Orcs, wargs, werewolves, trolls; an awful painting, a dance macabre which Curufin's sharp sight could witness despite the distance and the clouds, and leading them, a tall, powerful silhouette in black plating.

Tol Sirion was about to fall.

The reality of it was gushing in his mind, and through his horror Curufin was already imagining of the island infested by the Enemy's poison. Turning southward, he encouraged his horse and the animal responded, galloping breathlessly along the riverbank, obviously glad to leave this cursed place behind.

“Tol Sirion is under attack.”

Curufinwë hadn't dismounted yet, but the words had fallen hastily from his lips as soon as he had seen his brother. The same horror he had felt a few hours before, he could see it now in Tyelkormo's eyes as he stared at him. First, it had been surprise, the surprise probably to see him return so soon, only a day and night after he had left them, and then confusion, due to the look on Curufinwë's face, and finally this horror, kindled by Curufinwë's words and the tragedy it foreshadowed. Celegorm was speechless, but through his silence his brother could already feel his rage.

"I saw them, Turco, last night." Curufinwë dismounted and gave the reins to one of their kinsmen. "Even if Felagund is there, they will not be able to hold the island.”

“How many are they?” Tyelkormo finally asked, dread and anger bubbling with each word.

“A few thousands. Wisdom enjoined me not to get too close to count them.” Sarcasm - Curufin's best ally when he was trying to hide his emotions - was covering his voice, but Celegorm didn't seem to pay attention to his brother's caustic tone, preferring to focus quietly on the information. “When I saw them, they had already crossed the Fen of Serech. They are slower than I am, but they must have reached the island a few hours ago.”

The Fëanorion had ridden all night, and a part of the morning, encouraging his horse to carry him, forcing his own body to resist exhaustion, exhaling his dread and his dismay. But it was already too late. None would stand between Minas Tirith and the Enemy's shadows.

“We cannot stay there and let it happen.” Celegorm's word were imbued with determination, and although Curufinwë would not admit, it was exactly the response he had expected. A confirmation, an approval from his brother, the few words which would break the last wall that stood between his determination and his fears. “We must attack the Enemy's troops where they do not expect us, Curvo.“

It would be a decisive risk. Their warriors were still suffering, the horses weren't at their best and their hopes were little. But the two brothers didn't need to talk more to understand each other. They would redeem themselves. They would show the world that the lords of Himlad weren't cravens, they would prove that the sons of Fëanor do not run away. And if the battle was already lost, at least they wouldn't have to carry their shame any longer.

Curufinwë replied with a nod, but before he could say anything else, he saw his son run to him, consternation upon his face. “Father? What are you doing here ? Were you not supposed to--”

“Tol Sirion is under attack.” Curufinwë repeated dryly. “Minas Tirith needs our help, more than we need its help.”

The determination and strength in Curufinwë's words seemed to affect Celebrimbor who, despite his dismay, said nothing. Instead he stared at his father, and as Curufinwë looked back at him, he wondered what his son could be looking for in his face. Encouragement? Fear? Or simply the strength to accept the upcoming battle as a new dreadful reality?

“I will fight beside you, father.” Celebrimbor finally said with a quick bow of his head, and in this simple sentence, in these words, Curufin found the last strengths he had been lacking. His smile was soft but grateful when he rested his hand on his son's shoulder, but he didn't speak. There was no need for words.

“Curvo, you will talk to our riders.”

Curufinwë welcomed his brother’s suggestion as another reality. Of course, he would speak to them; just like his father, he would wear the robes of the orator and summoned strength and courage, he would kindle the fire in their hearts and lead them to the battlefield.

“Not only to our riders, but to the men of Brithiach too. If I can convince some of them to follow us, their help I shall not refuse.” The hearts and minds of the mortals weren’t like the Ñoldor's, and Curufin knew he would have to adapt his speech to his audience, making it tangible and relevant to Elves and Men. He was ready, and for once, he was not afraid.

 

“Fear. We have all tasted it, smelled it, experienced it too many times, and in too many ways. We know fear.”

The audience was listening, quiet and attentive, and from where he stood Curufin could see their tiredness as much as their anxiety. But he didn't let it unsettle him, and slowly he continued.

"I still see it in your eyes, and I feel it when I watch you, my friends, when I ask you to fight, and lead you into another swamp. But fear shall not defeat us. Fear is not a plague, and through the darkness of war, we can turn it into a weapon. Our weapon, most powerful and unexpected than any.” He paused, only to witness the confusion upon their faces, and the smirk on Celegorm's lips. His brother knew.

“Tame your fear. Accept it and welcome it. Fear is a new arrow in your quiver and it stands right beside your rage; let them mingle, and through their union a new light shall appear. The light which burns within you, each one of you, and which shall lead us to victory.”

Already, Curufin could see new sparks in their eyes, and as he talked, he covered his words with power, summoning images and forcing them to slip through their minds. Images of Dagor Aglareb, of victory and hope, but also the images which would set their anger aflame; the painting of Himlad, ravaged by the enemy, of their friends, taken and slaughtered by the orcs, and through these phantasmagorias, hope was still burning. The balance was subtle, delicate, and Curufinwë knew he had to be careful. He was pulling the strings, one after another, through words, using his voice as a bow, each word as an arrow, and his inner strength as a lever.

“The Enemy too knows fear, and he only needs to be reminded of its taste. But the Enemy is blind, and behind his doors he hides his dismay. His mastery is a mirage, for he will never accept fear, nor shall he welcome it, and insidiously it will creep through his walls and burn him from inside.
Let us show him, my friends! Let us show the Black Foe that his designs are doomed to fail, for we shall not stumble, we shall not fall and let them burn us! We feed on fear, and any dreadful sight can only make us stronger. Let us use his own weapon better than he would ever do, and prove him that the people of Beleriand will not bow before his threats!
My people, my friends, shall we let the Black Foe step upon us? Shall we let him steal our hopes, our lands and our blood? Haladin, shall you let him bleed and ruin Felegund's island? The Lord of the Caves, your friend, has always been beside you. Shall you let the Enemy maim him and pillage his lands? Or shall we fight, together? Shall we protect what is dear to us, and give the Black Foe a new reason to tremble upon his throne?”

His voice had grown louder, covered by the strength of his own will, and his last words had been acclaimed by roaring and hopeful war-cries. Their riders had been the first to react, and already most of them were shivering with the adrenaline of the upcoming battle. But among the mortals, only a few had shown their enthusiasm; Curufinwë knew the greatest part of them would remain in Brithiach, but at least, they were not alone.

As he walked to his brother, Huan ran up to him, barking enthusiastically, his eyes burning with his eagerness. The hound was thirsty for orkish blood, and Curufinwë could hear it in his groans. Celegorm welcomed his brother with another smirk, and rested an approving hand on his shoulder, but Curufinwë could not see Celebrimbor. He had furtively met his gaze during the speech, and hoped that his words would blow away the alarm which seemed to have been lingering in his son's heart.

He was about to ask his brother, when he felt a presence behind him. Curufin didn't turn immediately, and he waited silently for the visitor to declare himself. “Nice speech, Lord Curufin.”

He instantly recognized the O so particular doriathrin accent, the delicate tone used by Thingol's people, and after a bitter smirk, Curufin turned to face the stranger.

"Beleg Cúthalion, chief of the marchwardens of Doriath and captain of King Elu Thingol. I was sent to Brithiach to help the Haladin protect their land against the invasion from the North. I usually fight on the Marches of my realm, but the tidings we received from the North in the beginning of the winter were... alarming, to say the least. As a consequence, the king preferred to position one of his battalion in Brethil.”

Curufin said nothing, observing the Sindarin captain silently and listening cautiously to every word.

"Your presence in the neighbourhood was unexpected, but it didn't remain unnoticed; You walked through our Marches less than a week ago and I already had tidings of it, like everybody else in this part of Beleriand. You and your people are lucky to be alive, my lords, but if I were you, I would be discreet. My king advises you to leave, and to keep the uproar of war away from his realm and from the Girdle.”

Celegorm burst into laughter, loud and scornful laughter which echoed around them for a few seconds. “And what other useless advice does you king prepare for us, chief of the marchwadens?” Celegorm barked through his hilarity. “What sort of threat is he devising for the sons of Fëanáro.”

Beleg didn't reply, but Curufin saw in his eyes a flash of disdain, and he took advantage of his silent scorn to speak. “Cúthalion , uh? Yes, I have heard of you and of your marchwanders. I was actually expecting to meet you on the Marches, and my dismay was deep when I realized that your king would let us cross them without trouble.”

“My king is not cruel.” Beleg replied, calmly, with an amused and yet sharp smile on his lips. “He does not like you, nor your kin, and he has seen through your lies the doom which lies upon you and the darkness of your hearts. But his own heart is filled with indulgence, and thus his benevolence forced him to allow you to walk through the Marches. Contrary to you, my king does not kill in vain, nor would he doom you and your people to death."

Beleg's speech was followed by another of Celegorm's laughter, and Curufin himself couldn't prevent a snicker. "Such kindness.” He said, a bitter amusement covering his words. “Is it not ironical from a king who actually refuses to fight the Enemy beside us, and who let the Ñoldor be slaughtered while he passively enjoys the beauty of his garden?”

There were sombre clouds in Beleg's eyes now, but the marchwarden's voice was still calm when he replied. "King Thingol only seeks the protection of his lands and people, but I will not justify his choices here. You already know the reasons behind his actions.”

“Cowardice.” Celegorm murmured, loud enough for Beleg to hear him.

“Tsk tsk. No insult, brother.” The caustic tone in Curufin's voice was growing heavier with each new sentence, and his smirk sharpened slowly. “After all, we should be grateful, should we not? I suppose Elwë is now waiting for us to thank him and bow before him, clad in our humility.”

“My king only expects you to leave.” Beleg replied sharply. “And if I heard correctly, that is your plan, and it rejoices me greatly.”

Curufin's features turned cold again, and so did his voice, a freezing rage burning in his core. “In case your king did not realise yet, we are at war. Moerbin are dying in the North, Mortals and Elves.”

“It was expected.” Beleg's tone was matching Curufinwë's, cold as steel. “But 'tis not our war. My king's only wish is to keep his realm and his people safe from the darkness your kin has kindled.”

Before Beleg could finish his sentence, Curufinwë's fists were clenching, along with his jaw, and he felt his brother's hand upon his arm, firm and comforting. «I Moriquendëva quettar úvar naitya mendëlme, toronya.” Celegorm's words had come in a whisper, and yet, they were purposely loud enough for Beleg to hear them, and Curufin couldn't prevent the smirk which followed his brother's statement.

“Lau, ar úvar naitya liëlme.”

The wince which then appeared upon Beleg's face greatly satisfied Curufinwë, and on the evidence given by Celegorm's snicker, he wasn't disappointed by the Sinda's reaction either.

It seems appropriate to remind you that your tongue lies under a ban, my lords.”

“I could name many things which should also lie under a ban.” Turkafinwë added, his scorn dripping from his smiling lips, but Beleg obviously decided to ignore the acrid remark and to focus on Curufinwë.

“Your speech, my lord, was full of passion and strength, of courage and determination, and for this I can but applaud.” Beleg's words, and the slight compliment which could be seen through them, brought another smirk upon Curufinwë's lips, but the Ñoldo could already guess what words would follow, and thus his smirk was all but grateful nor kind. “The Haladin have nothing to do in your battle. Their land and families they must protect, and their place is here, on the borders of their fief; not in a desperate battle for an island in the North.”

“I thought your king an ally of Felagund.” There was irritation now, in Curufinwë's voice, although there was no reflection of it upon his face; he was still wearing a mask of disdain. “Truly, my cousin shall enjoy the attention and careful treats of Thingol, shall he live long enough to hear about them.”

"From here, the Haladin protect the road to the South, including the road to Nargothrond. Their presence in Brethil is essential. Besides, King Felagund will live, for he is safe now.”
Curufinwë froze, waiting for the rest, expecting a revelation about the situation, but Beleg didn't say more of it. “And he knows my king's position concerning your war.”

Behind him, Celegorm's mood had shifted, and he was now displaying a fierce agitation which was reflected by his next words. “What do you mean he is 'safe'? What tidings did your king receive? Speak now, Thinda.”

With a slow movement of his hand, Curufinwë bid his brother a calmer behaviour, but his eyes he kept on Beleg, who seemed truly surprised by the Fëanorion's reaction. “I thought you knew.” He began quietly, hiding with no great skill his confusion. “My king received tidings from Nargothrond before you crossed the Marches of Doriath; King Felagund was saved by Barahir and his warriors, during a disastrous assault in the Fen of Serech. He retired to Nargothrond and expects his nephew to hold what remains of his realm in the North.”

A loud laugh, bitter and fell, left Celegorm's lips again, and Curufinwë gave the most astonished look. “One could expect it to be a terrible joke.” He said darkly, his smirk now gone and his eyes clouded by surprise.

“If Tol Sirion falls,” Celegorm began through his laughter. “Artaresto shall be in a very good position to hold the North, shall he not?”

“My brother is right. Tol Sirion is under attack and Orodreth does not have the forces to hold the island. He will be slain and what remains of Felagund's Northern lands will soon be invaded by the enemy's shadow. And if we do nothing, soon his shadow shall fall upon Brethil too, no matter how many men you post on the borders of the woods. Is it what you desire, O Beleg, marchwander of Doriath?”

"Lord Curufin, your questions are but rhetorical fantasies, and despite the respect I have for your intelligence, allow me to elude them, and to keep my mind away from your toxic speeches." There was a new sharpness in Beleg's words, A sharpness which Curufinwë welcomed with a more intensive sternness, and both of them looked into each other’s eyes, silently under Celegorm's amused gaze.

After a while, the older Fëanorion, rested his hand upon Curufinwë's shoulder and pulled him backward with a caustic chuckle. “My little brother's speeches can be incisive, but if any poison had ever been flowing through his words, 'twas a poison injected by his interlocutors.”

In spite of himself, Curufinwë allowed his brother to pull him away, but his eyes were still on the Sinda, grave and threatening. Beleg, on the other hand, was retrieving his calm. "I came to tell you that the Haladin should not follow northward. That is all.”

Slowly, Curufinwë opened his hands and stretched his arm in the direction of the mortal warriors whose hearts had been set aflame by his speech. They were already joining the Ñoldorin forces, swords on their belts and helmets on their heads. “Go tell them." Curufinwë smiled, and from his smile, a honeyed sarcasm was dripping. “Tell them their hope is nothing. Tell them your king forbids them to do as they wish. Tell them their fight is vain and their strength useless.”

You twist my words, Lord Curufin.”

“I clarify them. That is all. Only a simple question of rhetoric.” Unable to hide his frustration any longer, but unwilling to let the outburst appear in front of the Sinda, Curufinwë stepped back and turned away, his eyes scanning the crowd of warriors with the hope that he would find there the consolation his heart needed.

The bow given by Beleg was short and obviously, more driven by a polite duty than by a sheer will to humble himself before the two Ñoldorin princes. “In the name of King Thingol I will talk to the Men, and give them his words and wise advice. Then I will leave you, my lords, and hope that you will not linger on these lands any longer.”

When he stepped away, Beleg was still displaying his resentment and frustration, but the two brothers didn't stop him, nor did they find necessary to give any other response.

“I know it would be unwise to stop him, and yet... ” Trailing off, Celegorm snorted loudly, bearing his teeth as if Beleg could still feel the threat.

There was a deep irritation burning within Curufinwë, and through his veins its flames were running; but wisdom had not deserted his mind, and through his anger he could still see the necessity of a few compromises. “Let him deliver his message to the Haladin, and let us hope that Thingol's words will not put out the embers I kindled in their hearts.”

Chapter End Notes

”I Moriquendëva quettar úvar naitya mendëlme, toronya": "The dark Elf's words shall not put our will to shame, brother mine."

“Lau, ar úvar naitya liëlme.”: "No indeed, and it shall not put our people to shame."

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