Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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On the threshold

Between pain and dignity, expectations and apprehensions, choices must be made, but the Fëanorions' humility is nowhere to be found. 

And in spite of his pride, Curufin must learn to cohabit with new wounds and inner troubles. Luckily, he's not alone.

Dawn was not there yet, and red was the light that crept through the trees and caressed the hilltops, wrapping the towers with light, as Arien reached the eastern borders of Ambar. Soon the Fëanorian lords would meet their cousin and receive an answer; or they would be allowed to dwell in Nargothrond, or they would have to leave, and to cross the Narog with their mournful riders, all harmed in body and soul.

Celegorm was silent. He had been rather quiet during the night, unwilling to have the discussion which Curufinwë longed for. It was perhaps a good thing after all, for, the more CurufinwË thought about it, the less he wanted to actually talk. He was nervous, exhausted and there was this excruciating feeling within him, as if a knife, sharper than Angrist, was thrusting into his soul, taking its time as it dug into flesh, bones and feelings. The Ñoldo could not yet put a name on this pain, nor could he exactly explain why he felt like a skinned animal, wounds and nerves and guts exposed, his whole being lying open and defenseless amid a crowd of worms and raptors. It felt like a nightmare, but it was the reality of his feelings. His reality.

And yet, vulnerability couldn't be an option, and never would he allow himself to show any sign of powerlessness. And the weakness that accompanied his pain, he would bury it under the strength of his determination, under the veil of his rage, and behind the walls of his pride; they would not be defeated, and they would not let fate devour them nor stamp on them. The sons of Fëanor would stand and fight, and even through the dark mist of their doom, they would not turn back nor bow their head.

Locked in his own silence, CurufinwË was trying to analyze the torrent of emotions which was quietly pulsing through his core, but all he could think of was the words heard long ago, ere they had crossed the sea.

“...Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be; by weapon and by tourment and by grief...”

After a long look at the hilt of his sword, hanged at his side, where the star of his father's house had been carved and decorated with emeralds and diamonds, Curufinwë clenched his fist until he could feel his own nails dig into his palm. “We shall not suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens.” Like a quiet chant, he repeated his father's words, the very words which had been given as a reply to Mandos' threat. They were now like a prayer, not to Mandos nor any Vala, but to Fëanor. As if the brave words spoken centuries ago could now give him the strength he feared to lack, and to awake within him, the fire which had carried his father beyond the limits of one's fëa.

No, Curufin was no coward – he wouldn't let himself become one – and the accusing voice which had been rolling through his mind since they had lost Himlad would be destroyed. It had to be destroyed, annihilated, ere it could bring Curufinwë to trust it, and to doubt his own courage.

“Your arguments were good, and your speeches excellent.” Curufinwë was pulled away from his thoughts by the voice, his son's voice, and the gentle admiration that was floating around them. “I believe the king will accede to our request; thanks to you and your cunning words, father.”

And odd sort of pride and gratefulness covered the Fëanorion's heart, but behind them, fear tarried. If their request was denied, what would his son think? What string would disappointment pull and where would it lead them both? But his reply was short, and devoid of any hint which could have informed Celebrimbor about his father's troubles. “Thank you, my child. 'Tis important to keep hope aflame.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and with a faint smile on his lips he stepped next to his father, but Curufinwë was already looking toward the gates of Nargothrond, filled with doubts, his mind too far from his son to reach it.

“Father... you did not ask me if I slept.”

This time, CurufinwË frowned, taken aback by the surprising words and what they implied. And they implied a lot. Ere Aglon was taken, ere the battles began and their people killed or scattered, it had been CurufinwË's habit to always inquire after his son's health, and especially about his sleep. On this matter, they were alike, and both would usually spend nights and days working continuously ere they would put their mind and body at rest. It was one of the Fëanorion's worst habit, and unfortunately his son had inherited it, thus forcing his father to keep a close watch on him.

Of course, Celebrimbor was no child anymore and he was free to sleep or not, and to attend to his own business by day and night, but still, Curufinwë kept on caring and between the two of them it had become a ritual, a game. Everyday Curufinwë asked his son if he had slept, Celebrimbor welcomed the question with an amused smile and replied according to his mood; if he spoke the truth and revealed that his night had been sleepless in the name of some new creation, his father displayed curiosity and worry at the same time, repeating endlessly the lessons of common wisdom given when Celebrimbor was a child, and almost leading him to his room with a cup of tea and a few new pillows. He did not, of course, reached this extremity, but both played this game knowingly, the father lecturing his son with a calm voice and the son listening patiently to the lesson. And Celebrimbor knew it was his father's shy way to show him how much he cared.

But many sleepless nights had passed since Curufinwë had for the last time asked his son about his sleep, and it seemed now that their morning ritual had become but a memory lost with Himlad. And Curufinwë was only acknowledging it now.

“I did not have to ask.” He said, trying not to show how much the remark had troubled him. “I knew the answer.”

He witnessed a spark of disappointment in Celebrimbor's eyes, but he said no more on the matter. He knew, indeed, that his son hadn't slept more that he had; but was it not always the case? And yet, the habit, their game was gone, along with the father that Curufinwë used to be. Not only his mind had been too busy with other worries, but in truth, there was also his terrible fear to see through his son's troubles, and to let Celebrimbor discover his father's fears. On the road from Aglon to Brithiach, and from Tol-Sirion to the Narog, too many difficulties and tensions had assaulted Curufinwë’s mind and heart, and even if he still cared – more than ever – a deep apprehension stood behind his concern. Talking could seem pointless, but it was also becoming terrifying. For, what truth would reveal a sleepless night after a bloodshed? And what wound would be uncovered by an exchange, as innocent as it could be? CurufinwË had many strengths, and great could be his power while facing an enemy; but face to face with someone he deeply loved and cared for, he could easily become subject to a deep unease, and to an embarrassment which he could rarely overtake, especially when other troubles were already weighing down his heart.

“What about you, father?” Celebrimbor's eyes, eager for a reply and an exchange, were on him. “Did you sleep?”

He was expecting an answer. This Curufin knew. His son was expecting their ritual to continue beyond the flames of war and the sufferings of their loss, but it was beyond the Fëanorion's strength. Perhaps would he be more willing to play later, if ever his cousin could give them a chance, but in that moment, to pretend that nothing had changed would be more than a lie, it would be, to Curufinwë, a treachery. Hence his silent reply as he shook his head slowly, and his mind slipped away again, returning to his troubles and own questionings. Celebrimbor's discouragement was almost tangible, and beside him, Curufinwë felt his son's presence growing dim, as if the younger Ñoldo was himself slipping away from his father’s reach.

 

 

They met Finrod at the front gates at dawn, and under the Ñoldor's feet the thick and soft grass seemed like a good omen. Only the two Fëanorian lords were there, and Celebrimbor, while their faithful followers slept or waited anxiously on the hillsides.

Finrod came to them clad in a magnificent silver robe, his golden hair cascading upon his shoulders and decorating the garments with more majesty, whereas sapphires and opals shone around his fingers. The crown, he wore beautifully, and discreetly Curufinwë gazed at it in wonder, recognizing the dwarwen crafts and stones. Felagund was followed by Orodreth, a few councilors whom Curufinwë didn't know, and by the chief of the scouts, the maiden they had met when they had first stepped on Felagund's land.

The moment was awkward. The king did look tired, much to Curufinwë's surprise, and yet he showed no sign of hesitation nor annoyance. He looked, as per usual, proud and filled with the dignity of his kin. The Fëanorions too would not show any sign of anxiety, and they too desired to give their cousin an impression of majesty and dignity, as if they had not come to Nargothrond as beggars asking for help. No, they were no beggars, and would not let anyone think they were. Warriors they were, lords and princes, and they had come to Orodreth's rescue. Now, all they wanted was an alliance. And they desired no pity.

The king stared and them and they all gave a short and sharp bow of their head, but in their eyes anticipation was shining along with apprehension, and no word they spoke for a long time.

“Our fight is alike.” Began the king, taking but one step toward his cousins. “And so are our desires and priorities; to protect our people, to offer them a safe land and as much light as we can gather in one place, to keep their hopes and courage aflame, and to not act against our promises.”

Curufinwë gave another stern nod, but Celegorm chose not to move nor to give away any sort of reaction.

“You were right, cousins.” The king continued. “We are allies, and in spite of the old rancor, I shall not forget our kinship nor our common fight against the enemy. Your warriors are renowned, your strategic skills are to be counted among the most impressive, and Nargothrond’s defense has been weakened.”

Hope burnt again in Curufinwë's heart, and if he didn't smile nor displayed any sort of joy, he was silently relaxing. But neither he, nor Celegorm said a word, and they let patiently the king talk until a real answer was given. Following the codes dictated by the etiquette, Finrod talked at length about kinship and battles, about old and future alliances, about ancient deeds and promises. And hopes. Celegorm was growing impatient, Curufinwë could feel it, and he glanced at his brother with the frail hope that the simple look would keep him quiet a bit longer. Luckily it worked, and as Celegorm caught his brother's gaze with his own, he let out a quiet sigh and kept his lips locked. There were but a few chances Finrod hadn't noticed anything, but the king made no remark.

Finally, Felagund stopped talking, and stood right in front of his cousins, proud, with on his lips, a cunning smile, discreet and yet filled with a mystery which Curufinwë couldn't decipher.

“We accept your offer.” Said he after a short silence. “You shall abide this realm, with your warriors, and protect it for an allocated time – which has to be decided. But that is not urgent. We shall discuss it at length later, when all the rest will be ordered. Let us put aside the rancor of the past, and work together for the wealth and protection of this land.

A wave of relief, followed by an awkward gratefulness overtook Curufinwë's heart, and although his face was still impassible and his words calm, there was a new light in his eyes. “Thank you, king Felagund. Your generosity shall not be forgotten.” He said, giving another bow, a longer one. Behind him, Celebrimbor was smiling shamelessly, but Curufiwën couldn't see him, nor could Celegorm who seemed astonished by his cousin's acceptance. Speechless was the hunter, and yet there was hope now, in the Fëanorions' souls.

 

 

The chambers that had been given to them were, to say the least, comfortable. Five large rooms, including a study and a large bathroom had been granted, all of them filled with luxurious furniture, wardrobes, fountains and lamps. “It only lacked jewels.” thought Curufinwë, who remembered very well the finery which adorned his cousin. Never mind, Curufin would make his own, for he had already agreed with the craftsmen of the realm to get a free access to the workshops for his son and himself.

Moving in hadn't been an easy business; with awe, their people had entered the Caves and discovered their new dwelling place, and respectfully they had bowed before the king. Hastily the entire realm had started to work on their installation, opening new rooms and preparing new beds, biding their healers to come and look at the wounded men, taking the horses to the stables in the most graceful confusion. By the end of the day, everyone had settled down, some people squeezed in little rooms, others joining the farms of the realm, where wider houses, hidden by the trees, could easily welcome many people. The realm was vast, but a few accommodations were still needed.

It would be temporary, and the Fëanorian lords had promised their cousin that they would help if any construction was necessary. It was true that most of their treasures had disappeared in the flames of the war, but luckily all had not been in Himlad, and Curufinwë's skills were great enough to cover the eventual expenditures. After all, Felagund's generosity couldn't only be paid with a few promises of protection, and ere their work and help could become truly valuable, they would have to find a way to repay the king's reception.

But Curufinwë wasn't worried. Messages would be sent to Himring, Thargelion and to the Gap as soon as possible, and among their people there was not a single man who couldn't work. Mighty warriors they were, but also smiths, farmers, hunters, weavers, hawk and horse trainers, and Curufinwë already knew that this unexpected migration of workers could only increase Nargothrond's wealth and enrich the king. In this agreement, Finrod had nothing to lose.

“I can barely realize it yet.” It was Celegorm who was stepping out the bath chamber, his hair still wet but his wounds and body clean and soothed. He let out a deep sigh and let himself fall back on a delicate sofa. “Nargothrond opened its gates to us.”

“Let not bewilderment tarry, brother.” Curufinwë replied with an amused smile as he explored the wardrobe offered by the king. “It is time to seriously think about our future, and to act upon it. And do not sprawl on the velvet while you are still wet; unless you actually plan to ruin it.”

Celegorm raised an eyebrow and glanced at the sofa beneath him. “I am making it mine by instilling my smell into it.”

Curufinwë couldn't prevent a chuckle, and after a murmur which compared his brother to an actual hound, he took the robes and other attires out of the closet and threw them upon the bed. “Need I remind you that I have chosen this room to be mine?  And that I want no dog smell upon the furniture.”

“Do you plan to keep me outside ? To forbid me the access of my little brother's chamber?”

“I will if I must.” Replied Curufinwë with the most serious tone, his fingers brushing against the silk of the robes.

“And how am I supposed to look after you if I cannot come hither as much as I want?” This time, Celegorm sat up, and even though they were both playing, the fake indignation in his eyes was more than credible.

But Curufin didn't reply, and already a wince could be seen upon his features. His mind had left the game, and it was now totally absorbed by the garments in front of him. “How dare he?” he snarled, half muttering the words.

“What is it, brother mine?” Celegorm asked, leaving the sofa. “Is there a coded message upon these robes which I would have missed?”

“I am not wearing these.” And with another snarl, Curufinwë stepped away from the bed, heading to the mirror to have a look at himself. “And if our cousin thinks that I will ever wear any of these colors, he is mistaken.”

Already Celegorm was rummaging through the pile of clothes, selecting a few shirts and belts, leaving the robes creased on the floor. “Obviously Nargothrond's fashion is nothing like what we are used to.” He sounded disappointed too. “The weather here is warmer, even in winter. They barely need fur and heavy fabric.”

“Do you know what I see in their fashion, brother?” Curufinwë asked as he observed his reflection and the poor look of his outfits and hair  – for he hadn't bathe yet – in the mirror. “Their fashion is the exact reflection of what can be seen in Doriath. Same fabrics, same colors, same cuts.”

“You probably mean 'what could be seen in Doriath four thousand years ago' , do you not ?” Added Celegorm with the most sarcastic tone. “Indeed, I recognize the fabrics and looks of the few messengers from Doriath that we met at that time. And unless they have stuck to their ancient patterns, I see no great differences between Nargothrond's favorite robes and Doriath's old trend.”

“Our cousin has always been so original.” Sarcasm was dripping from Curufinwë’s sharp smirk, and with the same incisiveness, Celegorm gave into this mocking game.

“You know, Curvo, I suspect him to actually try to become Thingol.”

“Thingol should have fostered him.”

“Did he not?”

Curufin turned to share with his brother a cunning and amused glance, and both were smiling sharply after this exchange of sarcasms. They could not help it, and even now, even bathed in Felagund's generosity, they would keep on with their caustic remarks. Remarks which weren't born out of hatred nor animosity, but out of a suspicion of old, and a resentment which they couldn't totally forget. And if they both had to be sincere, they would confess that they actually enjoyed this game of mockery and remarks against their cousin – would he deserve them or not. They had no excuse, and they knew it. But like children they could go on with their games for hours, taking pleasure in their causticity and the sharp innuendos of their speeches. Disdain and pride had to be nurtured, and that was how they fed their own.

A knock on the door stopped their game, and nonchalantly Curufinwë walked to it to discover on the threshold a young Sinda, richly clothed.

“The king asks for your presence at the feast which will be given tomorrow afternoon.” Said he, bowing respectfully, though his eyes had glanced at the robes on the floor, and Curufinwë didn't miss the flicker of panic and confusion which had appeared upon his face. But the young elf continued, as calmly as he could. “He would also like to have a private meeting with you, my lords, in order to agree on a few points and to hear the tidings you bring from the North. Preferably tonight.”

“Tell the king that his cousins shall come and meet him, but we first have a few wounds to clean, and in mind and body we need to rest. Tidings and decisions can wait until tomorrow, and we shall meet him ere noon and the beginning of the feast.”

With a sharp nod, Curufinwë closed the door, waiting neither for a reply nor for disagreement.

“I thought you would be impatient to meet him.” Remarked Celegorm, who had observed the scene quietly. “After all, many things must be discussed.”

“That is true, brother.” Gloomy was Curufinwë's voice now, and somewhat sharper than it had been a few minutes before. But he continued as he reached the door that led to the bathroom, ready to offer himself a long moment of peace and silence. “But first, I need to find something I can wear and which will not make me look like a fool escaping from Doriath. Plus, we do not want Felagund to think that he can give us orders, do we?”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading this new chapter; I hope you enjoyed it!

Reviews are always appreciated if you have anything to say or any constructive criticism to give!

I wrote a nsfw ficlet which could be taken as the next chapter, but which is not the next chapter because this fic is for a general audience, and this ficlet doesn't give many informations about the actual story. If you're interested, you can find it here or you can decide to ignore it.

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