Sealed Together in Death by ingoldamn

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

They rally their forces at dawn.

Tyelkormo looks out at the gaunt, little army, and sneers disdainfully. They’re badly armed, weak and starved, and though there is cruelty in their burning eyes, many of them still suffer from wounds sustained in the Nirnaeth.

His brothers are at the forefront of the army; Nelyo, a horrid-looking goblin creature after his stint in Morgoth’s hands (grief is etched on his ugly face, as it has been since word came to them of the death of Findekáno – why, in Vána’s name, Nelyo is still mourning after hundreds of years, is a mystery to Tyelkormo); Makalaurë, grim and pale, but steely-gazed and determined; Carnistir, his sword already drawn, the rings on his hands glittering in the sparse sunlight (of course, Carnistir hasn’t even bothered to take off his jewellery, Tyelkormo rolls his eyes), the lines around his thin lips speak of displeasure – Carnistir has never liked killing; Pityafinwë, his grey eyes empty, devoid of life or feeling, peering at Tyelkormo through dirty, copper red tresses of hair; and Curvo…

Curvo is glorious. Tyelkormo always thinks that his little brother is glorious, of course, a shining silver spear of beauty and cunning. His long, dark hair is tied back in a tight braid, falling all the way to his trim waist, his lithe body covered with simple armour. Curufinwë takes no notice of Tyelkormo’s stare. He looks toward the gates of Menegroth, the entrance to Doriath, instead, clearly contemplating their battleplan, their strategy.

Curvo is the cleverest of them all, thinks Tyelkormo proudly and flushes, when he remembers what it feels like to have that cold, calculating gaze turned on himself. He knows that beneath Curvo’s collar, his brother’s pale chest is covered with bruises and love bites. He knows that his own back is equally bruised, from his brother’s sharp nails.

Word of the whereabouts of the Silmaril had reached them months ago in their exile. Tyelkormo remembers, vividly, how he and Curvo had celebrated. It had involved silk sheets, wound tightly around Tyelkormo’s wrists, and elegant hands, pulling on his golden hair.

The memory warms his body, and he grows hard in his breeches. Discreetly he tries to adjust himself, but his movement catches Makalaurë’s attention. His older brother looks at him searchingly, and Tyelkormo, never one to be ashamed of anything, gives him a dirty grin. Makalaurë narrows his eyes and looks from Tyelkormo to Curvo, and back again. His gaze is very judgmental.

Tyelkormo raises his eyebrows. As if Makalaurë has any right to judge. As if Tyelkormo doesn’t know how Makalaurë and Nelyo use love and tenderness to hurt each other.

Then, as the sun crawls over the horizon, bathing the world in warmth, their scouts return. Dior expects them, of course, and is waiting in the Caves, hoping that his soldiers will kill them, before they can enter the gates.

Nelyo listens intently to the scouts, and then finally, finally, gives the order to attack.

They break through the guards easily and then, at last, they’ve gained access to the Glittering Caves of Thingol and Melian, which thus far have been forbidden them.

Tyelkormo throws himself into the battle with all his heart. His blood sings as he swings his sword and cleaves his foe’s head. It is glorious. The halls of Menegroth have deserved their name, he thinks, looking at the shining walls and the beautiful mosaics on the floor, now slippery with blood and covered in the bodies of fallen soldiers. The blood shines and the light of the lamp is reflected in the amour of the fallen. Tyelkormo laughs.

He swings his sword again, relishing the burn in his muscles, smiling through it all.

Another foe falls.

There is a lull in the battle around him then, and he turns around, trying to locate his brothers, see if one of them needs his help. The sight that greets him, makes him freeze.

Curvo is fighting Dior – and Tyelkormo feels very proud for a moment, watching them, his little brother is fast and nimble and seems to be winning – but then an arrow comes flying, seemingly out of nowhere and hits Curvo’s thigh. The bad thigh. The thigh he almost broke, when Beren Erchamion felled his horse all those years ago.

Curvo falls to his knees.

Dior kicks his shoulder, pushing him over. As Curvo falls to the ground, everything seems to slow down around Tyelkormo and he is frozen, can only watch, as Curvo spits a few, disdainful words at Dior – Tyelkormo cannot hear what they are, though, judging from the way Dior’s beautiful face (and by Manwë, he looks just like his mother) twists in rage and he raises his spear, preparing to drive it into Curvo’s chest, Curvo has not lost his sharp tongue, though he is about to die.

The “NO!” rises unbidden from Tyelkormo’s throat but he is too far away and can only watch, as Curvo turns his head on the ground, meeting his eyes, stretching out his hand. His lips form a word, which Tyelkormo cannot hear, but will forever recognise the shape of.

“Tyelko...” Curvo is trying to say his name, but before he can finish, before Tyelkormo can react, Dior drives his spear down, into Curvo’s chest.

For a moment the slim, dark-haired form on the ground tenses; tears rise in his blue eyes; and then he goes limp, his out-stretched arm hitting the slick floor softly, as his eyes slid closed.

Tyelkormo lets out a cry of anger and, without pausing to think for even a second, he attacks Dior, with only one goal – to kill him.

They fight long and hard. They are evenly matched and at any other time Tyelkormo would relish the challenge but not now. Now he is angry and he wants to kill. And then he wants his ridiculous little brother to wake up and call him a fool and hit him over the head, like he always does.

At one point, Tyelkormo sees a flash of dark hair in the corner of his eye and his attention is diverted, thinking that it is either Makalaurë or Carnistir come to help him. He turns his head, watches Carnistir fall to the ground, a sword sticking out of his chest, and his eyes burn with tears.

His attention is diverted for but a moment, but that moment is his doom, for Dior springs forth, spear at the ready, and catches Tyelkormo through the stomach.

For a moment they stand there, both breathing harshly, then Dior wrenches his spear free and Tyelkormo falls to his knees. Dior stands above him, raises his spear, but he hesitates and Tyelkormo takes his chance, gathers what’s left of his renowned strength and lunges.

His sword catches Dior’s throat and the son of Lúthien falls, dead before he hits the ground. Tyelkormo spares him hardly a glance as he crawls towards Curvo’s body, one hand pressed to the wound in his stomach, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood. He gathers Curvo into his trembling arms and reaches down to press a tender kiss to his forehead, strokes his face gently.

Around him the noise of the battle slowly fades to nothing, but he is unsure whether it is because he is dying or because the fighting is over. In truth, he hardly cares.

Just as he is about to close his eyes at last, he hears a shout and opens them again, slowly. Nelyafinwë is standing over him, tears in his eyes, his scarred face somehow more beautiful when he’s on the verge of tears than at any other time, suddenly worthy of his mother name again. Nelyo falls to his knees.

“Tyelko,” he murmurs, distraught, and Tyelkormo lets out a quiet huff of laughter.

“Do not cry, Nelyo,” he says, “we are not worth your tears, Curvo and I, you have said so often enough.”

“I lied,” whispers Nelyo, and now the tears are falling. He grips Tyelkormo’s hand tightly, and Tyelkormo allows it, something he would not even have considered, if he hadn’t been about to die.

“Shall I tell Atar you said hello?” he asks, gasps, coughs, tastes blood in his mouth and spits it out. The droplet lands with a wet sound on the stone floor by his side. Nelyo nods shakily.

“Yes, Tyelko,” he says, “Please do that. And tell Mother I am sorry, when Námo lets you go someday.”

“Of course, Nelyo,” Tyelkormo smiles, there’s blood between his teeth, he’s sure of it, but he can barely hold his eyes open and he simply cannot bring himself to care. “I think,” he says, “I think, Nelyo, that I would like to close my eyes now. I’m so,” he takes a deep breath, “tired. So tired, Nelyo.”

“I know,” Nelyo says, “I know. Close your eyes, Tyelko. You can sleep now.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Tyelkormo does as he is asked without complaint. He smiles up at his ugly brother, and closes his eyes.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

this was inspired by the ever-marvelous june whom i know from tumblr (read her stuff here - it's brilliant)

hit me up on tumblr for a chat abt anything from tolkien to captain america