Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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When hope must be saved

New tidings are coming from the North, dreadful and alarming, while Curufin still struggles with doubts, unable to understand the person he has become, unabe to know how to behave with his son.

Last update: Sept 4 2017

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They said that Nargothrond hadn't seen such a merry and rich feast for a few decades. They said that many a year had passed since the last time the Great Hall of the Caves had shone so brightly, the tables so full of mead in crystal and golden cups, the plates filled with games, fruits and some sweet specialties which were not to be found in the Northern and Eastern parts of Beleriand. And quite surprisingly, the House of Fëanor and their people had been highly-touted, their strength and courage praised by Felagund's speech. A speech which Curufinwë had found too sympathetic to be genuine, and despite his pride and the pleasure which he could get from such praises, he was still suspicious. Felagund knew the secret strings of diplomacy as well as he did, and he too knew which string to pull to reach one's heart. And obviously, all Finrod sought was to reach the core of the Fëanorions’ people, to touch their sensibility and butter up their pride. A simple question of seduction, of power.

“Let them enjoy the king's compliments.” Celegorm whispered to his brother after the ovation of the crowd. “They deserve a bit of relief and praise. Our people's courage shall not be forgotten nor ignored.

“Indeed.”

“And they are smart enough not to get caught by Felagund’s seductive web. A feast and some kind words shall not be enough to entice them.”

“I wonder...”

There was a grim look on Curufinwë's face, and in his eyes the sparks of mistrust were glimmering. Only the silver robe that he was wearing was lighting up his dark appearance, but had he been asked about his attires, his comments would have been no less dismissive. He had chosen the only garments, among all those offered by the king, which was not differing too much from his personal tastes, but still it didn't match the fashion Curufinwë was used to and which enjoyed, nor did it fit him perfectly. He felt uncomfortable, and if the situation itself hadn't been so delicate, Curufinwë would have probably drown his unease into the wine. But his presence, his attention were required, and he was determined to stay on guard, to watch the king and his people, and to keep the latter safe from the lies which could potentially occur among the crowd.

His son too he wished to watch, and although he rightly forced himself not to follow every movement Celebrimbor would make, nor to harken every word he would speak, the careful father would not let his eyes away from him for too long. And he was impressed to see how easily Celebrimbor was fitting into this new place; comfortable and affable, the young lord was meeting Felagund's advisors and the lords of Nargothrond, displaying politeness and respect to each one of them. In Curufinwë's heart, pride was mingling with a deep apprehension, and although he couldn't really explain why, the insidious serpent of envy was slowly creeping into his mind.  He tried to dislodge the unpleasant feeling, and eventually, he forgot about it. For a while.

But Curufinë's careful watch wasn't only focusing on Celebrimbor, and many a time he observed his cousin, the king, and the other powerful and rich lords of Nargothrond whom he had not personally met yet. Still, Curufinwë could recognize a fewfaces which he hadn't seen since the exile, other faces that he had quickly passed by in Mithrim ere Aglon was fortified, and among these faces, none had a smile for him, and the gazes were still bitter. So bitter that he wondered for how long Felagund – or Orodreth – had had to fight to convince them, to accept the presence of the Fëanorions in the caverns; and for how long he would have to fight to convince them of their honesty and wisdom, of their strength and the necessity of their presence.

“Father, you do not have to look so cold and severe to impress them nor to gain their respect.” Celebrimbor was standing next to his father, two cups in his hands and a fragile smile on his lips, but the light in his eyes grew brighter as he stretched out his arm, offering one of the golden cups to Curufinwë. And as he grasped it, looking into his son's face, he strangely remembered the hope which used to throb in his heart ere the war took everything from them, and of the hopes that still tarried in Celebrimbor, in his wit and his skills. With a slow nod, he brought the cup to his lips and enjoyed the palatable sweetness of the mead, but his heart was still covered with questions and worries.

“The night is warm and merry, we are safe, and that is all that matter at the moment. Why do you not celebrate, father?”

“I see nothing to celebrate.”

“What about life itself?”

The clouds of his forebodings grew darker, and Curufinwë stared into his cup, as if an answer could be found in there. But Celebrimbor's eyes were still on him, and ere he could get absorbed by the hues of the mead, he was taken away from the meanders of his thoughts, awaken by his son's comments. “Alright, you do not have to celebrate life if that feels unappropriated to you… But would you, at least, talk to me?”

“What is there to say, my child?” As he said those words, Curufin realized how much his voice had softened, as if the very core of his fëa had been abated by Celebrimbor's words and presence.

“Everything, father.”

Forcing his eyes to rest on Celebrimbor, Curufinwë let out a quiet sigh and he nodded again, though he was barely conscious of his own movements. “Canyorë left yesterday, and were sent with him a few volunteers to Himring, to bring news to your uncle, and to bring back tidings from the east... If Himring has not fallen in the meanwhile.”

“Himring cannot fall.” There was a confidence and a determination in Celebrimbor' short sentence which sounded pleasantly to Curufinwë's ears, and he found himself comforted by the certainty of his son. “But when I said we needed to talk, I was not speaking of war, nor of your diplomatic plans. These are matters that I shall learn in good times.”

Now Curufinwë could see what was in his son's mind, and as he guessed where Celebrimbor wished to bring the conversation, the Fëanorion turned away. “We shall speak later, privately.”

“When? Father, I know how you dislike my insistence, but I miss you. All I ask for is--”

“I know what you ask for.” If Curufinwë’s voice was cold, it was only to hide how deeply Celebrimbor's last confession had touched him, and how deeply he hated himself for not being able to give his son what he wanted. “I simply do not wish to speak here.”

“And tomorrow you will find another excuse.” With these last words, Celebrimbor stepped away, leaving the room and the lights of the Great Hall. Dismayed, Curufinwë watched him, despising his own behavior although he could not bring himself to change. He had to strengthen his own heart, and vainly he was waiting for his wounds to heal, hoping that eventually, he would find the strength to face himself, to face the man he was becoming; he had lost Himald and Aglon, he had failed his people and his brothers' expectations, and as a fallen lord, he could not look at himself anymore. Shame was too fresh, too present, too invading, and behind his grim mask, it was merging with disappointment. Curufinwë had thought himself capable of many great deeds, he had thought himself capable to live up to what were – to what he thought were – Fëanor's expectations. And he had failed, losing his lands, causing the death of his people, forcing the rest to wander and to face other horrors. And the thought of this misery, a misery he hadn't been able to keep away from them, was unbearable. Curufinwë used to be seen as the spitting image of his father, but he had proved that he was not, he had proved that he had not even the quarter of his strength. And while Fëanor had followed and fought the fleeing enemies to the Gates of Angband, CurufinwË had fled from the battlefield, and bid his people to do the same. He couldn't openly admit it, but all he saw when he looked into the mirror was a craven who had thought himself a hero for too long. How could he face the eyes of his son? How could he face his judgment and his disappointment? All he could do, or try to do, in order to redeem himself, was to make Nargothrond a safe and comforting place for his people, and to prove his cousin that the House of Fëanor had not fallen, and that he could still blaze with the sparks of a might bequeathed by Fëanor himself. Until then, Curufinwë would hide and scheme to make his name shine again, not only for himself, but also for his son.

And while Curufinwë was brooding over his own troubles, more troubles appeared, quite unexpectedly. First, it was a distant sound, coming from the corridors, then a few murmurs in the magnificent crowd, and the agitation of the royal court completed the scene. A guard had joined the king's side and was now whispering into his ear. He seemed distraught, and from where he stood, Curufinwë saw Felagund's face lose its light joyfulness, and turn somber. Soon, the hall was silent, for everyone in the crowd had noticed the apparition of the messenger of what seemed to be ill-omen, and all were waiting anxiously. At length, Felagund stood up, slowly, and gazed at the crowd silently. Curufinwë too was anxious, so anxious that he didn't notice that his brother was now standing beside him, his eyes fixed on their silent and now gloomy cousin.

“If something serious had happened, should we not be the first ones to know about it?” Asked Celegorm in a whisper. “Should we not be informed and our opinion required before anything is said to our people?”

“Hush”. It was the only thing Curufinwë could reply, even though his heart told him that Celegorm was right. But his new anguish was too intense to give it any further thought. Just like everybody in the hall, he was waiting for Finrod to announce the terrible news, no matter what it was.

“My dear friends,” the king began, his voice loud but filled with the gravest emotions. “I must apologize for ruining this celebration and spoiling the festivity, but something serious happened.” The crowd started to whisper again, not loud enough though, to disturb Felagund. “Something terrible and alarming… The High-King is dead.”

Gasps in the crowd, the whispers grew louder and some discreet cries could already be heard. Distraught, Curufinwë turned his head to look at his brother; Celegorm seemed as chocked as he was, and none of them was able to speak yet, nor to emit the slightest sound. But while they stared at each other, and it lasted but a few seconds, many silent feelings were exchanged. Surprise, anxiety, astonishment, fear and even grief, grief for an uncle and a king whom they had never held dear to their hearts, to say the least.

“He died bravely, fighting to his last breast against the dark Enemy himself on the doorstep of Angband.... ” Felagund's voice didn't manage to cover the lamenting cries and words which were spreading across the hall, but he slowly raised up his cup, his head bowed, and soon everybody in the room mimicked him. The two Fëanorian lords though, only made a vague movement with their cups, both of them too absorbed by the flow of contradicting emotions.

A few minutes later, the feast was over, but the crowd didn't spread out and everyone was talking about the news. Felagund had left the table, and the Fëanorions didn't wait too long before finding him in a more private room, where he was in a deep conversation with Orodreth and a few of his most trusted advisers. All of them seemed to be mourning.

“What happened?” Asked Celegorm bluntly as soon as he stepped into the room. “What exactly happened?”

“It is all very confusing, cousin.” Answered Felagund with a dark tone. “Apparently our uncle decided to fight our enemy in single combat, and the challenge was... accepted.”

Celegorm and Curufin said nothing, but both knew that they were having the exact same thought; it seemed like something their father would have done, and which none of them had dared do up to now.

“Ñolofinwë was defeated and our enemy seriously wounded. The war is over, and we lost.”

“The battle is over, but the war is not.” Curufinwë corrected coldly, taking a step forward, his eyes more resolute than ever.

“We are all defeated, Curufinwë.”

“And yet, here we stand. And so does your kingdom.”

“You do not even know if your brothers are safe.”

“They are safe. It cannot be otherwise.” It was Celegorm who had intervened, unable to prevent himself. “This I am certain.”

“Very well...” Felagund sighed, and for a few seconds, all his weariness appeared in his bright eyes, chasing away the light temperament which he had shown since the Fëanorions’ arrival. Thus, Curufinwë could plainly see how his cousin had hidden it, this terrible, deep weariness, and how good he too was with dissimulation. “Let us pretend that everything is going well in the East.” Continued the king with a sarcastic voice.

“Please, Findaráto, do not tell me that you are losing hope...” Replied Curufinwë, increasing the sarcasm kindled by his cousin. “You? Whose hopeful temperament has always been the carrier of so many souls, and your enthusiasm the sparkle of light for so many people.”

Stepping in front of his uncle, Orodreth looked into Curufinwë's eyes sternly. “How dare you?”

“Why? Is it not true? Can you deny that your uncle is famous for his hopeful and enthusiastic manners?” Curufinwë asked, his hand making a sign of peace and temperance. “But that is not important. Hope is important, for our enemy wants but one thing: to scatter despair across Beleriand. If we fall into this trap and allow the dark fingers of despair to creep into our hearts, then he has already won.”

It was odd for Curufinwë to hear himself state such arguments, when he himself had this huge, desperate knot biting in his guts night and day. When he was facing the deepest pit of despondency and couldn't allow himself to trust his own strength anymore. And yet, he knew his words to be true. Even though he was not ready yet to take his own advice for himself, he could at least expect others to do it. He wouldn't allow any of them to carry him, but at least he could draw his strength from other people's will and eventually walk again on his feet. And, in any case, he could still pretend, just like he was doing now, that nothing had changed in his own hopeful forebodings.

Celegorm only would not be fooled, and the quick skeptical look he gave him after his little speech was meaningful enough to let Curufinwë know about it.

As for Felagund, he seemed touched by Curufin's argument, while Orodreth could only express confusion and surprise. They knew Curufinwë was right, and Curufinwë knew that they knew. “We are lords and leaders, our duty is to protect our people from despair.” He concluded with a firm determination. And the whole gathering nodded in agreement, in spite of their so fresh grief, in spite of their bitterness and fears.

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The day which followed the ruined feast and the dreary tidings was a day of mourning. No song could be heard in the deep caves of Nargothrond, no cheerful voice nor merry laughter, and it seemed that even the fresh streams that sprang from the earth had hushed their music.

The death of Fingolfin was a tragedy, not only for those who knew and loved the king, but also for all the enemies of Morgoth. Curufinwë himself was troubled, deeply, painfully troubled, but as he had experienced it during the meeting with Finrod and his councilors, grief could become a most powerful and strategical lever, if one knew how to use it, and used it wisely.

All he had to do to acquire trust and support from the people of Nargothrond, and eventually to regain the unconditional trust and utter admiration from his people, was to cautiously handle their feelings through his speech. Carefulness would be his most precious ally, and there would be no hasty move.

The Fëanorion had not left his chambers, preferring the gloomy silence of his own reflections to the mournful stillness that lingered outside. He had not rest at all, he had not even tried, and he had barely spoken to anyone since the end of his discussion with Felagund. Reflection had been a necessity, but now, his mind seemed to be turbid, caught by a numbness which he couldn’t chase away. A vicious circle it was, and his thoughts always brought him back to the same inflictive point; himself, his own defeat, and the opportunity this defeat gave to their enemy. Even when he tried to focus on the recent events and his uncle’s death, the Fëanorion was always taking a path that led him back to himself and his own torments. Curufinwë needed some sort of redemption, he needed to restore his pride, along with his dear self-confidence, and to reclaim his lordship, even though he had never really lost it. He felt it like a deposition, and he was determined to do everything to not do justice to this name of “dispossessed” that had been given to his house.

A slow and feeble knock on the door forced him to settle down, and as he leaned back into the sofa, he let out a quiet but long sigh. “You may come in.”

A few seconds later Celebrimbor was sitting next to his father, and if no word had been said, the long look they had given to each other had been more eloquent than any speech. Celebrimbor was obviously struggling with sorrow and dismay, and Curufiwë instantly understood that he was looking for solace in his father’s presence. This time, Curufinwë tried, desperately, to detach himself from his own selfish misery and to find within him the last marks of the man he used to be, like a faint imprint, the fading shadow of a father who was not yet poisoned by remorse and doubts. “Did you sleep?” He asked warily.

Celebrimbor shook his head silently, and as he kept his eyes on the floor, Curufinwë noticed how uneasy his son looked, and that his behavior expressed a obvious but quiet nervousness; the gap between them was deeper and wider that it had ever been, and Curufinwë knew it was the consequence of his attitude, of his cold and aloof behavior, of the distance which he had established. The shattering anguish which suddenly seized his heart kept his lips locked, and as a stream of guilt and dread ran into his mind, the Ñoldo managed to evade the reality of the situation, forcing himself to remain blind and to not face the agonizing effect of his attitude upon his son. He had indeed, kept himself away from his child, and already Celebrimbor had started to slip away, but despite the distressing ordeal implied by this situation, Curufinwë could not abort it. He could no longer be who he used to be, and he didn’t want his son to witness his new self. Hence this fictitious distance, and his spurious haughtiness, this dark mask which pretended that he didn’t not care anymore. All lies. But these lies were, according to Curufinwë, necessary. Not only to protect himself, but mostly to protect his son.

And still, watching Celebrimbor drifting away from him, witnessing his dejection and his disappointment, that was the most excruciating display Curufinwë had ever faced. And on that day, he refused to face it, he refused to leave his son struggle in these meanders, nor could he repel Celebrimbor through a stern coldness. It was an intricate and paralyzing web of contradicting sentiments; the refusal to let his son see him, interlaced with the agony he felt as he watched his son slip away, the whole lot crowned by the impulsive need to comfort Celebrimbor on this dire day.

All that remained from their complicity and comradery were ashen memories, kept preciously in a coffer Curufinwë didn’t dare open anymore. Yet, on that day, Curufinwë would allow himself to throw a glimpse into it.

Shifting slightly to turn toward his son - and to show that he was receptive to a talk - the Fëanorion tried to catch his son’s eyes with his own, and when he finally achieved it, he allowed a smile, dim and yet sincere, to creep upon his lips. “We are safe here, my child. You said it yourself.”

“Are we, really, father?” Celebrimbor replied, his doubtful voice ringing painfully in Curufinwë’s mind. “You do not behave like someone who feels safe.”

“It is my duty to worry about our people, about my brothers, about our future… about you.” Surprised by the softness of his own voice, Curufinwë quickly bit his tongue, convincing himself that there was no risk in showing affection and giving solace, that it wouldn’t bring any sort of dangerous vulnerability, and that it would not harm Celebrimbor either. The revival of their affection and complicity was harmless, or should be harmless, or so Curufinwë hoped, even though a faint voice in the back of his mind was chanting the contrary, warning him against his disappointing self. And its pleas were not only persistent, they were also threatening. Had he been strong enough, he would have hushed it, he would have reduced the pleas to a dull murmur. And his sanity would have been intact, along with Celebrimbor’s trust and satisfaction. He wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t powerful enough nor daunting enough to kill the voice, but he was tenacious and determined to fight it, if only for a few minutes. An hour. A day. Celebrimbor needed him, and thus needed his father to challenge his lingering anxiety. He could do it.

“Could we, perhaps, worry together, then, father?” There was an attempt for a smile on Celebrimbor’s lips as he pronounced these words, and his father couldn’t ignore it, nor could he forbid himself to reply with the same faint smile.

 “Loneliness is not the prerogative of anguish, is it?” asked Celebrimbor.

“No, it is not, indeed” Replied Curufinwë. “And yet loneliness is sometimes a necessity, no matter what motivates it.”

“Sometimes, yes. Not all the time.”

There was no need to say more; they were both talking the same language, and the innuendos were obvious to the father and the son. But this loneliness which Curufinwë had forged, these walls that he was building about himself, they couldn’t be destroyed. Not now, not like this, even though Celebrimbor’s silent prayers were breaking apart his father’s heart. How could he allow himself to share his worries with his son, when all that he had ever tried to do was to protect him from them, from these tormenting images and tortuous ideas which haunted his mind continually?

But Curufin kept his thoughts silent, and as he stared at his son he realized that his own hand had unconsciously found its place – a most perfect place – on Celebrimbor’s forearm. An instinctive gesture, and a solacing one as much as an affectionate one. And in spite of his torments, Curufin himself found some sort of uttermost comfort in this bashful touch. In this moment, it was the best he could do, the most he could give as a proof of affection, and it was as soothing as it was terrifying. There was a split, wide and deep, between his discomfort, his fears, and the acute consolation that he felt through this simple touch, and all of them merged within him as to turn into the oddest sentiment, like an alloy of molten love, care, anxiety and unease. And still he would hide it, hoping that he would be able to dissemble his emotions.

As for Celebrimbor, he seemed mostly surprised by his father’s movement, pleasantly surprised, and his smile, although it was a sad one, widened while a new light sparkled in his eyes. Hopefulness, that is what Curufinwë saw in this light, and he was too touched to even think about disheartening his child.

“You know, Tyelperinquar, Ñolofinwë probably knew what would happen before he even reached the gates of Angamando.” He said quietly, losing nothing of his composure. “It was his decision.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and during the silent moment which followed, he looked away, as if lost in his own thoughts and memories. “It makes me sad.” He said finally. “Too many people are falling – especially among the strongest of the Ñoldor. Who shall be next?”

Suddenly his eyes fell again upon his father, and in this very moment, Curufinwë was at last able to witness what he had refused to see, and what he had dreaded: so great was the dismay and anxiety in Celebrimbor’s eyes, so intense was the silent cry of his son - a cry against a threat which had been floating above them for so long - that the Fëanorion had to brace himself not to turn his face away. Instinctively, his fingers tightened upon his son’s wrist, and as he grinded his teeth, Curufinwë tried to find the appropriate words, the words which would be able to erase this sadness and these fears from his son’s mind. Yet, despite his knowledge in languages, the Fëanorion found no word, in any tongue of elves, Men or Casari, which would be powerful enough to alleviate his son’s anguish.

And Celebrimbor probably noticed it, for it was he who spoke again, breaking the gloomy silence and his father’s tormenting contemplation. “I wish not to lose my father.”

It felt like a knife in his heart, and his features betrayed the excruciating sensation through a slight wince. A powerful squall seemed to sweep away all of Curufinwë’s common sense, increasing the lack of word and making his silence even deeper and his angst more intense.

Finally, he managed to put his emotions aside, and under Celebrimbor’s anxious gaze, Curufinwë took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “We are at war, son. People fall. Strength and courage and wit are no absolute protection against the claws of death. Especially if one decides that death is the only solution.” With these words, he left the sofa, standing up and pacing slowly in the room, his back to his son.

“I think your assumptions wrong, father.” Celebrimbor’s voice was calm and confident enough to surprise Curufinwë. “I think Ñolofinwë hopeful, I think he believed in victory, and did not wish nor even think about death when he rode to Angamando.”

Confused, Curufinwë pondered the words, and as unexpected as they were, he nonetheless refused to deny this possibility. Hope was still something he was working on, trying to kindle the flames of his own hope which had been fading since the attack on Aglon. “Perhaps, Tyelperinquar.”

When he turned around, Celebrimbor was standing up. “I do not want to believe that he was hopeless.”

“Are we still talking about Ñolofinwë?” The words escaped Curufinwë’s lips, along with a sour tone, and Celebrimbor turned pale, taking a step backward as a deep frown appeared on his brow. “Forget it, son. Forget my words.” And to emphasize his request, Curufinwë continued with a slightly different subject, and his voice was now stern and serious. “The messengers from Barad Eithel are staying here a few days before they return to their new king... or at least until they try. I shall write a few words to Findekáno.”

“What shall you tell him?” There was worry in Celebrimbor’s voice, as if the young lord expected any sort of provocation from his father to the heir of the crown. But Curufinwë gave another of his faint smiles, and it was an honest one.

“My condolences. The loss of a father is…a heartrending experience. ”

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Chapter End Notes

I'm sorry for the looong delay! I had absolutely no time for any sort of personal writing during the past weeks, but it's finally here! I hope you enjoyed this new chapter, though i don't know when I'll be able to write the next one.

Thank you for your patience!

EDIT:

{Most of the readers here don’t follow my tumblr blog, so I just copy-past my last post regarding this fic}

I just noticed that my multi-chapters fic, A Lasting Anathema, has had many many views on SWG. And I don’t know if all the readers who found it enjoyed it, I don’t know if they even read the half of it, and I don’t know if these persons are on Tumblr, but in any case - and since I won’t be able to post anything before December/January - I really want to thank all those who took the time to glanced at it, and special thanks to those who actually read it (hoping they’ll eventually see this post). It really means a lot.

Guys, I’m still very grateful for the attention, and grateful to all those who (tried to) read this fic. During the next winter I’ll try to edit it, to correct the grammar and spelling mistakes and typos. In the meanwhile, if you have read it (or only bits of it), I would really appreciate if you could leave a review (I only have a few reviews), because:

1/ I need some sort of constructive informations (whether it is about grammar or about the plot as a whole - if some things aren’t clear, if it’s confusing, etc. Please tell me!)

2/ I would really appreaciate, on a personal level and as a motivation tool, a few honest previews from those who enjoyed it (yes, writers need to know their work is read an appreciated.)

3/ In order to make the next chapters better, I’d like to know what you guys like/don’t like in that fic.

Thank you!