Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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Facing defeat

Another fight, another flight.


Last update: Sept. 3 2017

”The island is lost!”

Through the drops of dark blood which were covering his face and his eyes, Curufinwë heard the cry. The voice was unfamiliar but the Ñoldo couldn't hear any hesitation in it. With a few precise movements of his sword, Curufinwë slew the few orcs which were standing around him, and he looked toward Tol-Sirion; Orodreth was on the bridge, obviously trying to make his way through the enemy's troops, and beside him, a warrior was blowing a horn, calling for retreat.

Frustration burnt anew within Curufinwë's guts, and already the acrid taste of defeat was covering his tongue. Another flight, another loss. After Beleg's speech, many Haladin had finally refused to follow the Fëanorions, and the Ñoldorin host had reached Tol-Sirion, two days later, with no more than their riders and few dozens of Men from Brethil. When they had arrived, the island was already surrounded, besieged by bloodthirsty creatures, but the Ñoldorin riders hadn't hesitated and with all the might of their rage they had rode forth into the fay, scattering death among the Enemy's troops. It hadn't been enough, and after a night of bloodshed, their enemies were still blocking the way between the Fëanorian host and the bridge that led to Minas Tirith, besieging the island with trolls and catapults, slaying those who tried to escape from the citadel.

"Father, the horn!”

Curufin turned his head to look at his son, his face painted with dark blood as he took his sword off the chest of a massive creature. ” Did you not hear it, father? Artaresto is ordering the retreat!”

Surrounded by dismay and chaos, Curufinwë quickly scanned the battlefield until he found Celegorm, who was carelessly sticking a spear into a werewolf's back and caring not for the splashing of blood. The two brothers' gazes met, long enough to let Curufinwë understand that they had the same plan, and a few seconds later Celegorm was blowing his own horn.

“Father... ?”

“We will distract the enemy's troops long enough to allow Artaresto to make his way through their lines and to escape.” It was hard to accept, but it was the only thing to do. Already the dark wizard's power was growing heavier, and the werewolves, always more numerous, were responding to his call. Ignoring his bitterness and focusing on the rage of battle, Curufinwë cried a few orders and soon after, he was leading his riders to the southern flank of the enemy's troops, forcing the dark creatures to move northward and to free the bridge.
With Huan at his side, Celegorm and his men were riding from the east, and for a moment the core of the Enemy's army was encircled by the Fëanorians riders. It didn't last, but the tactics had been successful enough for Orodreth and his men to cross the bridge.

Now, the Noldorin troops were scattered by the arrival of orcs mounted on wargs, followed by more werewolves and a cloud darker than the night. It seemed to swallow everything; the orcs, the Fëanorian host, and the island itself, and during a few seconds they were all blind.

"The Abhorred has arrived!” Cried a voice, but Curufinwë didn't stop, and through the darkness he kept on fighting, despite the madness of his mount which he still tried to calm in the chaos of the moment. The cloud passed by them. It stood upon the island, and as soon as he could see again, Curufinwë looked for his son. Celebrimbor was still fighting too, but his horse had thrown him down; like many of their warriors, he was desperately swinging his sword, successfully keeping the enemies away from him. The orcs had been distraught by the cloud too, and they seemed to dread it too.

“Tyelperinquar!” Curufin cried as he rode to him, slaying all those who dared approach his son. “Run southward! Join Artaresto's guards and stay with them!”

“I stay with you, father.' Before Curufin could react, his son was climbing on his father's horse and sat right behind him. ”I said I would fight with you, and I shall fight with you.” Curufin turned his head, and the look he saw in Celebrimbor's eyes sufficed to make him accept his son's fierce determination.

In the meanwhile, high flames had started to burst in Minas Tirith; the island had been taken, and the enemy was burning all that remained of the Ñoldorin presence. The battle was lost, and the fight was vain now, useless. Staying here would sentenced more of their riders, and there was no hope anymore for Tol-Sirion.

“I call the retreat!” It was Celegorm, who was hastily passing them by on his horse. “We move southward and join Artaresto!”

Curufinwë wanted to stop him; He couldn't accept another defeat, and he knew his brother was feeling the same, but he also knew that they had already lost. They had lost long before the battle had begun. They all knew it, and yet the taste of this defeat was not less bitter.

Celegorm's horn echoed again, longer this time, and the sound of this call was becoming so painfully familiar that Curufinwë couldn't prevent the frustrated cry that left his lips as he heard it. With Celebrimbor behind him, he headed southward, making his own way through the flow of orcs, the father and the son using their swords to clear the path, and behind them, their warriors followed with the same rage.

When they finally reached Orodreth, Minas Tirith was in flames behind them, and on the top of the highest tower, a dark silhouette was standing, giving orders in a language that Curufinwë didn't want to recognize. Even there, a few miles away from the island, they could hear the mighty, terrifying voice of the Sorcerer and feel the cold of the darkness which was invading Tol-Sirion.

"Who is he?” Celebrimbor asked in a whisper, his head turned toward the island. There was fear in his voice, and dismay.

"In all probability, Moringotho's lieutenant. Thauron. The werewolves are under his command, along with the bats. Most powerful, most loyal and most hated of the Black Foe's servants." Curufinwë's voice was stern as he replied, and with a frown he stopped his horse next to Celegorm's, a few feet away from Orodreth. They were safe, for the few creatures which had tried to follow them had been slain in their fruitless attempt by the bravest of their warriors.

Black was the blood which covered Orodreth's blond strands, and on his face, gratefulness and misery were merging into an odd expression. Silent, he stared at the Fëanorions, and Curufinwë could read disbelief in his eyes, along with gratitude. "Your arrival was unexpected, sons of Fëanáro, but salutary.” He said after a long while. “You saved us, and I will be forever grateful.”

Celegorm gave his brother a look which Curufinwë knew too well, and which usually meant that he wanted his brother to talk. The youngest of the brothers took his time, and as he pondered his own words he felt his son shift behind him. Celebrimbor was dismounting, for one of their warriors was offering him his horse, and alone, Curufinwë rode toward Orodreth.

“Despite the gaps which dwell between our houses, and the wounds inflicted in the past, we still are allied against the Black Foe. Who, among the Ñoldor, would leave their allies in the hands of the Enemy?”

Orodreth welcomed the speech with a sad smile and a nod, and still clad in his misery, he observed the Fëanorian troops. “Himlad is lost, is it not? Your warriors need to rest, and so do you, lords.”

“Temporarily lost.” Celegorm corrected him from afar. “We do need to rest, but when it will be done, we shall ride forth to Aglon and regain what was taken.”

Now Curufinwë could see Orodreth's features turned into a more surprised look, although there was obviously some kind of understanding behind his astonishment. “I see.” He said. “I will ride and lead my warriors to Nargothrond now; would you decide to follow us, you and your riders would be most welcome. As my saviours - and as the king’s cousins.”

The offer was tempting. After all, it was the first reason which had driven them to Tol-Sirion; they needed a shelter. But the distance between Felagund's southern lands and Himlad was more important, and it seemed to Curufinwë that it would only drive them away from vengeance, and cut off their hope to regain Aglon. The Ñoldo gave a slow, stern bow, and he return to his brother whose eyes had not left Orodreth's face.

"Tyelkormo." Curufinwë whispered as he stopped his horse beside his brother's. "Do you have any argument against it.”

Intense and stern was Celegorm's face, and through the blood which stained it his own blood as much as the blood of his enemies, Curufinwë could feel his brother's hesitation, as deep as his own. “We need a shelter. A safe place to lick our wounds.” Celegorm simply stated, keeping his eyes on Orotdreth, as if he was looking for a solution in his features. "But hiding in the southern realms does not seem to be the most appropriate move right now. We would only flee further.”

“Do you have any better idea?” Frustration wasn't leaving Curufin's voice, and although he kept it low and quiet, he knew that his son, who was standing behind Celgorm, could hear him, and from the look upon his face, Curufin could only guess that the situation was embarrassing him. Celebrimbor said nothing for a while, but his father knew it would not last, and he took his son's silence as an opportunity to speak his mind. “Nothing can force us to stay in Nargothrond for too long; a few weeks should be enough to heal the wounded men and gain strength.”

“And humble ourselves before Felagund?” Celegorm snorted. “Never. ”

"It will not happen; We saved Artaresto. Felagund owe us his life. He will not welcome us as beggars, but as the rescuers of his nephew.”

Celegorm had started to shake his head before his brother could finish his sentence, displaying his disapproval and a suspicion Curufin which could understand. "Felagund might be famous for his wisdom and generosity, but what do we know of his intentions?” Asked Celegorm. “By stepping into his realm, we cut ourselves from our brothers and we give him a certain power upon us.”

Celegorm was right. Their relationship with the house of Finarfin had never been idyllic, and all that had happened since they had left Tirion hadn't helped at all. The lords of Himlad acknowledged the strength and the bravery of their cousins who had held Finrod’s northern lands before death took them, but giving their whole trust to Felagund would be more complicated. And although they respected Finrod's lordship, he was only king in his kingdom, and the Fëanorions wouldn't blindly kneel nor follow him and his commands. “There shall be no humiliation, brother.” Curufin stated firmly. 'No betrayal either. This I swear. I might not fully trust him, but he still is our cousin, and he now has a debt.”

“I agree with my father.” Celegorm turned on his horse to observe his nephew, who was looking at him with a sternness which was too much like Curufinwë's. “Uncle, your distrust is understandable, but Nargothrond is our only chance now. And just like my father I think King Felagund would welcome us with the honors we deserve. We did not save Minas Tirith, but we saved his nephew. Think about it, if I were in peril and if he saved my life, would you not grant him any consideration and honor?”

Speechless, Celegorm seemed to ponder Celebrimbor's words, words which had been welcomed by Curufinwë with a proud and confident smile.

“You are almost as good as your father when it comes to play with people's sentiments, Tyelperinquar.” The fair Ñoldo finally replied grumpily, although his expression betrayed a slight admiration, or at least, amusement. “Be careful with this talent, ‘tis a dangerous one.”

Celebrimbor glanced at his father, and Curufinwë tried, vainly, to catch the meaning of this look. Pride? distrust? Or amusement? The Fëanorion had no clue, but his brother seemed now convinced, and that was what mattered most.

No more than a few weeks.” Celegorm repeated sternly, and the nod he gave was quick and severe.

 

The road to Nargothrond was hardly restful, and from the Crossing of Teiglin, which the company passed with no loss – for the men of Brethil were still fiercely defending their borders, to Amon Rudh, the road was long and dangerous for a host of Ñoldor, injured, desperate and with no great resources save their inner strength. They met a few hosts of orcs, heading southward, but the valor of the soldiers from Himald was famous, and Celegorm's horn, which he had received in his youth from Oromë's Maiar, sufficed to summon fear in their enemies' hearts.

Still they rode quickly, leaving the North and the shadows of Angband, and discovering the vast plains of the southern parts of Beleriand, and the warmer weather, devoid of the tumultuous winds the Fëanorions had known in Himlad. Celegorm spoke little, save to Canyorë and to his brother, and Curufinwë knew how careful they would have to be with their cousin. With Orodreth, he discoursed on the Caves, the capacity of the realm, the possible threats, the supplies, and Finrod's general strategy, but Felagund's nephew, despite his gratefulness, remained unclear in his replies as if suspicion was still holding his heart, as if the Fëanorions could still appear as a danger. And Curufinwë didn't insist. The last thing he needed now, was to stir up his suspicion; they needed allies, and they needed to put the past aside – a truce, even if it would last a few weeks only, was a necessity. Finrod, it seemed, would be a wiser interlocutor, and Curufinwë hoped that his cousin would accede to their request, despite his grief and regrets. After all, they had all lost a lot during the recent war, and if they didn't stick together now, everything would be forever lost; or so Curufinwë thought, and beyond bitterness and pain, he hoped that his cousin would share his opinion.

“I did not present you my condolences.” Curufinwë said as he rode beside Orodreth, but he kept his eyes on the plain before him, decency and restraint forbidding him to look at the youngest Ñoldo. "I know the grief summoned by the death of a father. I am sorry for your loss.”

“My father - your cousin - died while protecting his kin and his land, he died honorably.” Orodreth replied slowly. “He could seem wrathful at times, but he was a good person and an admirable lord. His kin respected him and loved him dearly.”

Orodreth seemed thoughtful when we talked, and his voice was but the reflection of a pain Curufinwë knew too well. Curufinwë also knew there was no word which would help this wound heal. “There were disagreements and discord between us, but I recognize courage and strength when I see them, and your father possessed these two qualities.”

“Courage... Strength.” Orodreth repeated the words slowly, like a chant, and on his face Curufinwë could see the shadow of an amused bitterness, and the young lord continued “Two important qualities indeed, but my father was more than strength and courage, and had you made the effort to know him, you would not speak so lightly of him.” The previous shadow had faded, and it was now replaced by a cold face, Orodreth's piercing eyes staring at Curufinwë sternly. “You do not speak of his wisdom, nor of his wit and his generous heart, and yet my father Angaráto was not devoid of any of these qualities. But I am not surprise, lord Curufin, for you have always despised my kin, my father and my uncles, like your father did.”

Silent, Curufinwë was listening to the accusations, which weren't, for some of them, wrong; and yet there was still some misconceptions in Orodreth's speech; misconceptions which the Fëanorion wouldn't deny yet. Orodreth's grief was still too fresh, and he was in no position to argue.

“You can talk to me about grief – for you surely know grief, this I do not doubt.” Orodreth continued, and in his dawning anger Curufinwë saw Angrod's wrath. “But I forbid you to talk of my father and his nature, about which you know nothing. I am grateful to you for saving my life, but I do not forget the injuries you and your family have inflicted upon us, and one life saved shall not make amends for the thousands of lives lost on the Helcaraxë, of the lives your hands took in Alqualondë, among my grandmother's kin. My uncle shall not let you die, you and your warriors, but do not expect us to forget the past so easily, Lord Curufin. And your speeches, as beautiful and empathetic as they seem to be, shall not be enough to redeem your most grievous deeds.”

After one last cold glance, Orodreth urged his horse and left Curufinwë's side to join his own warriors, leaders of the host on these perilous paths. Without a word, Curufinwë let him go, and pondered the the lecture he had just received. An empathetic speech it had been, indeed, and a bold diplomatic move; but his words and condolences had not been deprived of honesty. Although he had no great love for Angrod, Curufinwë didn't despise him, and for many decades he had acknowledged the tenacity of his two cousins who had valiantly protected Dorthonion.

“What did you expect?” Asked Celegorm who had just joined his little brother's side, whilst Curufinwë's mind was busy with his thoughts. “Did you really think he would have welcomed your condolences, burst into tears and hold you tightly, with your hand patting his head and your handkerchief on his wet cheeks?”

“I expected him to accept my words as a token of our good intents. Angaráto and Ambarato's deaths are ill-omens. They were not our friends, but they were our allies, and although we did not weep for them, I would prefer to have them alive.” Curufinwë was bitter, and quiet was his voice as he spoke to his brother; But it was a precaution that Celegorm seemed to ignore, and he replied with a loud snort and a louder sarcasm.

“Thank you, brother, for the explanation, but I do not need you to recognize our allies among the people of Beleriand. Our cousins will be missed, that is a fact, but if you, or anyone ask me about them, my reply will be the same: I did not like them. Which is actually a good thing because I do not think they liked me either.”

“I can only advise you to keep your sentiments quiet when we will be in Nargothrond, brother.” Curufinwë hissed, tensed now, this very tension increased by Celegorm's mood. “I am not sure Felagund would appreciate your honesty on this matter.”

“I will not pretend to like them.” The statement was irrevocable, and Curufinwë knew he would not convince his brother to change his mind, not on this day at least.

“Very well, Tyelkormo.” He replied with heavy sigh. “Then it is probably better if you say nothing at all, and if you let me talk to our cousin.”

“You shall not keep me quiet, little brother.” And with a provoking smirk, Celegorm turned, leading his horse in the direction of Huan who was scouting cautiously around the Ñoldorin host.

 

The moon was high in the sky when Celebrimbor joined his father, and for a long while, both of them rode silently side by side, discovering for the first time the green stretch that surrounded Narog. Here and there were a few hills, crowned by trees, and among the trees, Curufinwë knew it, stood the watching towers built by Finrod's scouts.

Curufin and his son hadn't exchanged a lot of words since the beginning of the war; Recommendations, orders, assistance when it was required, and a few glances only had nurtured their companionship during this dangerous journey, since they had left Himlad; there was definitely something which was aching in Curufin's core, something which he couldn't explain yet but which prevented him from looking at his son. It wasn't reserve, nor a random shyness, no. It was bitterer, darker, somehow deeper, and although Curufin had no word to describe this feeling, it was keeping him quiet.

“I look forward to discover Nargothrond.” Celebrimbor finally said, breaking the heavy silence, which was weighting their shoulders. “And for safety. Do you think the king will welcome us, father?”

“If I did not hope so, I would not lead you to his realm.” Came Curufinwë's answer, stern and dark, thoughtful and distant. “We have some good arguments to defend our cause.”

“Indeed.”

Curufinwë noticed the strange tone of his son's short reply, which seemed almost sad to his ears, but he didn't make any comment. And Celebrimbor continued. “He is said to be a wise and kind leader, and you... I know you well enough to trust your power of conviction.” Now there was a small smile on his son's face, sad too, like his voice, and Curufinwë couldn't help but smile back at him.

“We are not in a position of strength, Tyelperinquar, and despite the lives we saved, they still have all the reasons to resent us.” The reminder seemed necessary, if only to protect Celebrimbor from a hope which could be broken at any time. Orodreth’s sudden harshness had been enough of a lesson. “We must not forget our position, Tyelperinquar, nor should we forget to whom we are addressing. Felagund might be my cousin, but we are now on his land, where he is king of a great folk. And our past will not serve us here.” Curufinwë easily caught the sight of the questioning look upon his son's face, as if Celebrimbor was confronted with an enigma, but his gaze didn't linger on the youthful face. “Does my speech trouble you, son?” He asked soon after, looking before him again to avoid another embarrassing gaze.

"Father... Are you alright? You seem different. Your speech is different from what you have used me to.”

The question took him aback, and hastily Curufinwë swallowed back the bitter knot which had reached the back of his throat. That was a remark he had feared, unwilling to display before his son the struggle of his emotions, and the inner fight which was ravaging his mind. “Someone is coming. Stay here, with Huan.”

Just in time indeed, did Curufinwë notice the arrival of a small company of Elves, and quickly he urged his horse to join Orodreth who was already talking with the new comers. Purposely, he avoided to meet Celebrimbor's gaze, preferring to keep himself away from the puzzled look which he was certain to receive, and instead he focused on his next speech.

There were no more than fifteen scouts in front of them, of various origins, sent to patrol in the lands in Felagund's name. All of them bowed to Orodreth, their king's nephew, but to the Fëanorion their reactions were more confused. Their presence had not been unexpected; many things had been said about their kin, and even after more than four hundred years in Beleriand, the sons of Fëanor couldn't always benefit from their reputation.

"They are our guests on these lands.” Orodreth began, raising his hand as a sign of peace and calm. “Lord Curufin and lord Celegorm, helped by their people, saved our lives whilst we were escaping from Minas Tirith, which has been taken by the enemy.”

“We desire to meet your king, our cousin.” Curufinwë added as Celegorm arrived. "We come in peace, seeking for a shelter after the loss of our land."

Celegorm said nothing but the long stare he gave his brother was too meaningful to be missed; they were not here to beg anyone, and if the two brothers agreed on the matter, the eldest seemed to think that a quiet reminder would be necessary. It was not, for Curufinwë and turkafinwë had in common this heavy pride, and none of them was ready to kneel before their cousin.

“Your message will be immediately brought to the king.” Said one of the scouts, a tall maiden with blue eyes and black ribbons in her grey hair, and as she talked, two other Elves left the host with an impressive hastiness, and a more impressive furtivity. “And we shall escort you, your people, and my Lord Orodreth, to the Halls of the King Finrod Felagund. Do follow me, my lords.”

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