The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Crossroads

It is quite uncommandable to attack a son of Feanor, especially if other sons of Feanor happen to be nearby.

An Orc band learns that the hard way.

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“We shall not lay hands upon them!” Artaresto said. His voice rang far above the raging mass, above lances and swords and daggers. “We shall not! For despite their malice and treachery, they are still our kin. Have your forgotten the Curse of Mandos? Such a deed would bind it more closely upon us all. I will not have the blood of my kin spilled! Let them go. But bread and shelter I shall grant them no more, and there will be little love between Nargothrond and the Sons of Fëanor thereafter: this I swear. You have seen me and heard my words.”

“Let it be so!” Tyelkormo said, and laughed; and he, Curufinwë...

He said nothing.

He stood there, thunder in his eyes, hatred in his guts, and smiled.

Let it be so!

When he went to gather his belongings, he saw Tyelperinquar and Erenis. They were standing in the shadows, holding hands, watching him.

Curufinwë paid no heed to his children, and tightened the straps on his bundle.

Everything was in order.

(No, in fact, nothing was in order, but the façade of precision and collectedness would be much needed on his journey north, he knew).

“What are you staring at?” He said. “Move! We need to leave before the sun goes down – the mercy of my good cousin might not prove as extensive as he claims.”

“I am not going with you, Atar,” said Tyelperinquar.

“You were saying...?”

“I am not going with you,” Tyelperinquar repeated patiently. “I came to love Nargothrond and its people.”

“And so did I,” said Erenis, her voice like iron.

And Curufinwë laughed.

“Look at you, my dears! Putting our feet down, are we…? Now pray tell: why would Artaresto let you stay here, offsprings of traitors and kinslayers?”

“Because we are loved for who we are, and not for who you should have been,” Tyelperinquar said, without fear or remorse. “And because we do not wish to stoop so low as you did, Father. We did not swear your Oath, and we are not your servants. It is pity enough that our paths should fall asunder in such a bitter way.”

“It is,” said Curufinwë. “So Master Tyelperinquar is allowed to stay, I imagine; for his talent is much needed here. Master Tyelperinquar now feels powerful enough to discard his father. That much is clear… But what of Lady Erenis?” He tilted his head. “Lady Erenis who cannot even lift a hammer or shoe a horse, ungifted as she is…? Surely, my sweet daughter, you have nothing to offer Lord Artaresto – or am I wrong?”

He swallowed the bitter taste of guilt when he saw the confusion, the hurt and the unshed tears in her daughter’s eyes; but then Erenis rose and she eyed him, brave, unbroken.

“If you think so little of me, Father,” she said icily, “then why would you mind if I stayed here? Useless Lady Erenis could not even light you a fire on your journey to the Hells of Moringotto, could she…? If you think you stand above the laws of the Eldar and the mercy of the Valar, then take another wife and sire children who match your needs! Fare well!”

She slammed the door behind herself; and unconsciously, Curufinwë raised his hand as if he could have hoped to stop her.

“Fell and fey are you become, Atar,” Tyelperinquar said, and Curufinwë’s eyes widened at such boldness. “Fare well, and look for us no more! Forget the children you treated like tools and livestock for all your years in Nargothrond. I still hope against hope that one day, the Father we have lost shall return. Then we may speak again.”

* * *

The March of Maedhros, FA 467, the first day of Víressë

The roots were pale, less in width than his thumb and grungy with sour-smelling dirt. It took Curufinwë a good hour’s walk to collect them; and by the time he found anything edible, the mud of yestereve’s rain reached up his sleeves.

A year ago, he would have been disgusted by his worn-out state: weather tattered his cloak, filth scuffed his boots and the better part of his garments were either torn, shredded rags or serving as bandages to cover the wounds he’d had on the road. Life out in the wilderness was hard; and he, Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro was as much at the mercy of good fortune and nature as anyone else.

Indeed, nature itself was perhaps the only thing that would still show any means of favour towards him.

Curufinwë sighed, and turned his long strides downhill again. Roots were all he could hope for until they would come upon an abandoned settlement, a hastily left camp, a corpse, or any other possible source of arrows. Devoid of steel and too wary to light even the smallest of fires, he could not hope to make any arrowheads himself.

He counted two hundred and fifty steps as he made his descent amongst dogwood and burberry bushes. At the bottom of the valley, he picked some berries off a slim buckthorn. He knew that their taste would soon turn sour, and their effect was less than pleasant; but should he or his brother need to wash some kind of poison or disease out of their bodies, the wicked berries could prove more than useful. The dark, grim woodlands of what had once been Dorthonion – where they would soon be heading to – were not likely to grow such treasures.

Fifteen pair of roots, a pocket full of rose-hips, another pocket full of mushrooms and a handful of berries, Curufinwë counted. It was little enough, but more than nothing.

Then he reached a wide meadow, crowned with a carpet of tiny white flowers. The hills of Himlad were paled by morning fog, the stillness of the landscape interrupted only once in a while by the glide of thrushes and a lone magpie, buzzing back and forth about their business above the clearing. Far above and further ahead, Curufinwë could see Anor in a halo of pinkish-yellow clouds, rising above the blackened wastelands of Anfauglith.

And further still... no, he would not think of that. He would not give in to despair.

I am a hunter of the woods, an outlaw, a wanderer. All I have is the present: the Now. For me, there is no ‘when’; there is only ‘if’.

That was what Curufinwë kept telling himself since Nargothrond. No smiles or tears disturbed his mind; not even a flicker of pride. He had to go on, to survive: to live another day, and yet another.

He did not know why, for there was no such thing as why. He ate, he drank, he slept, he breathed, he placed one leg in front of the other as he strode, following his brother. This state of silence and denial could not go on for ever, he knew; but while he walked the woods, meadows, hills, and rivers, while his mind was set on hunting down a hart or finding new ways to catch fish, even the endless torment of his Oath seemed bearable.

He could, in fact, link one engagement to the other. It was only natural that he needed to eat, so one day, he could fulfil his Oath. He needed to walk “another mile”, then “just another”, for eventually, that would bring him closer to his final destination. Each day, he wowed that he would head to Himring at last, admit his deeds, and seek help; yet he never did. There was still something in the depths of his fëa that restrained him.

And then, of course, there was Tyelkormo – a shell, a shadow of his former self. Hopeless, loveless, horseless, Huan-less Tyelkormo.

Another thing that made Curufinwë go on was that he had to drag Tyelkormo with him, further and further on the road. Since Nargothrond, their communication was reduced to the expression of hunger, thirst, cold and fatigue; or now and then a sign of game in the woods. Perhaps that was the worst of it all: the lack of communication. Lack of companionship. The maddening silence of the woodlands. The Orc-bands hunting for them.

It was not getting any better – it was getting worse, and swiftly.

Curufinwë followed the narrowing edge of the meadow, now uphill again. He and his brother had made camp on a wide plain in a sea of grass, deepened and thickened by rainfalls of late. In the middle of the verdure, a small cluster of trees stood proud against the pale blue sky: it was under these trees that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had settled for a day, and perhaps another. Their beds of moss and fallen leaves were more welcoming than most of the resting places they had encountered on their journey. Now that they had no horses or companions, a couple of unburdened trees were the best shelter they could hope for. In fact, if news in Beleriand travelled as fast as fair Lúthien upon Huan the Hound, it might as well prove the best they would find for all their days left in Endórë...

On the edge of the forest belt that separated the blossoming meadow and the great green plain, Curufinwë halted, uneasiness taking over him. The earth whispered news, ones he had been dreading ever since they came to Himlad.

Curufinwë knelt, and listened. The steps echoed uncertainly beyond the never-ending lament of a soil once drenched with blood; their song was faint and distant, but he, who had spent long years hunting and travelling, could not mistake it for anything else.

Riders were coming, and with great haste. Not that Curufinwë was surprised; the lands were leached with rain, and reeking with mud. All it took was a lone footprint, forgotten and left behind.

They had been discovered; and the hunters became the hunted.

* * *

When he reached the shelter, Tyelkormo was already gathering his affairs, preparing to hit the road; and Curufinwë found it relieving to see the sparkle of life lit in his eyes again.

“Have you heard what the earth sings?” Tyelkormo asked; and despite everything, Curufinwë had to smile at the poetic expression, probably picked up from Oromë himself.

This was also the longest sentence his brother had spoken to him in the last three days.

“We must make haste, or we shall be found soon. A troop of riders, if I am not mistaken...”

“Aye. But there is no glory in the sound of their hoofs, nor the surety of the hunter who caught the smell of game. They are fleeing, Curvo, just like you and I, and terror is in their heels. Orcs are growing bold in these mountains; my heart tells me they were outnumbered, and forced to retire.”

“Nelyo’s scouts fleeing from Orcs?” Curufinwë shook his head. “Never!”

“The days of the Siege are gone.” Tyelkormo stood with grace. “Moringotto won the last battle, and our forces are scattered. Orcs might roam these lands for all we know, and if they do, then we are in even greater peril than the riders. What weaponry do we have?”

“You have your bow and three arrows,” Curufinwë counted, “a knife, and a broken lance.”

“And you, Curvo?”

“Nothing.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that we have to run for our lives, and now!” Curufinwë snapped. “I hate the thought of it; but every minute of waiting and pondering is a waste of precious time!”

Even as he spoke, he knew it was in vain; for where could they have run? North, into the open arms of the Enemy? East, where the Shadow still lingered? South, where their current peril was coming from? Or West, through open plains and grey-green wastelands, revealed to all eyes within leagues?

There was nowhere to run, and this circle of trees was no place to hide. All they could do was stay, and face whatever may come.

“Here,” said Tyelkormo, “have my knife. It is sharper than roots or stones.”

* * *

To Curufinwë’s chagrin, Anor was veiled by clouds within the hour. Cumbrous silence fell on the hills around them; the birds and beasts were now silent, and the promise of rain hung heavily in the air. Unwilling to delay the inevitable, the brothers gathered their poor belongings and even poorer provisions together, and climbed the nearest hillside.

Mud, dew and filthy gravel filtered into Curufinwë’s left boot across some new hole as he climbed the last few rocks, following his brother. Now it was Tyelkormo who persisted, who dragged him along. When they reached the top, Curufinwë saw that his brother’s instincts were trustworthy: the scranky juniper bushes that covered the southern slope were shelter enough to hide them. Luckily, the wind had also turned North, which meant that their foes were less likely to catch their scent; and even if by some mischance, they were noticed, the hill-top was an easy place to shoot from.

If one had more arrows than just three, that is.

The faint but steady thud of feet was growing closer; and Curufinwë stopped listening. Whatever was coming, he was no longer in charge: he had to endure whatever the Powers had arranged for the day.

Soon, the brothers could hear the noise of approaching battle. Horses were trotting, neighing, snorting. Swift, agile feet were hitting the ground, again and again, as the scouts were losing terrain. Blades sang, people screamed, fire roared. The grunts of Orcs and the bubbling of their black blood were heard much less often than they would have liked; their kinsmen out there were losing the battle, and swiftly.

Tyelkormo lay under the bushes upon his stomach, letting his head fall on the ground. Curufinwë could not decide if he was cold, weeping, or his shoulders were simply shaking with rage. His own blood was boiling as well; but what could they do? If they wasted their last three arrows, what would they eat next day? They could not live on turnips for ever. And if they were to join the fight... what weapon would they use? Tyelkormo’s lone knife? The splinters of his broken lance? Their nails and teeth?

“Angrist, my friend, I miss you most grievously,” Curufinwë lamented, damning the day their paths crossed with Lúthien; and the day King Thingol had voiced his want of their heritage.

So many evil could have been avoided that day. Does he not know that the Silmarili are ours, only ours, and we shall have to kill anyone who is after it? What right has he, the King of the Moriquendi, to keep any of our treasures?!

But King Thingol is cunning and wary: far more attentive than your Father was, and your Grandfather before him, Curufinwë thought as the battle cries were creeping closer. Did he not see the light of Aman as Finwë did? Did he not walk among the Valar, did he not stand before Manwë as well? Yet he was clever enough to say no and stay where he belonged, stay in the ancient lands of the Quendi. The Valar showed the Quendi their crafts and lore, yes, but they also chained their minds. Your Father broke those chains, but he could not bring freedom to the Ñoldor. Even he, even your Father failed. Yet how could one bring freedom if he was a thrall in all his life?

Curufinwë stood, his tall figure clearly visible among the bushes, barely aware of how his shoulders were shaking. Where were these thoughts coming from? To say that the Valar held the Quendi in chains was saying that Moringotto’s deeds were righteous, and he would have deserved to rule Aman instead of Manwë and Varda.

He could not say that. No, he simply could not say that.

But what was wrong with keeping an Oath? Was there no redemption after Alqualondë, that terrible night on the shores that still made his skin crawl? Would he ever find rest, or would any of his brothers?

“Curvo!” Tyelkormo’s voice slipped unpleasantly into his consciousness. “Back down! They are going to see you!”

His hands tightened into fists.

“Curvo! They’re coming!”

Curufinwë was dragged down amongst the thicket, his eyes wet.

“I am not evil, Tyelko,” he said wretchedly. “Tell me I am not.”

“Is that the last thing you want to hear before we die?” His brother squinted. “I pray you ask Námo instead. I know you enough to tell what a wicked little gnome you are.”

Curufinwe’s laughter tasted as bitter as his tears; but it was still laughter, and laughter meant hope. He grabbed Tyelkormo’s knife in his belt, and listened.

The uproar of Orcs was almost unbearable, and Curufinwë could hear the thud of a body thrown on the ground, along with the clatter of armour and the cling of a sword, knocked out of the hand that had wielded it. Then, he heard the sound of fists and boots, kicking and banging into soft flesh. It seemed that the Orcs had triumphed, and now they were about to enjoy the company of their prisoners.

Tyelkormo crawled forward. “Ten...,” he breathed, “fifteen... twenty... thirty...”

Curufinwë swallowed. He had hoped for twenty or less.

“...forty-five, Curvo. They must have been a hundred or more. I see plenty of corpses, and more black blood than red.”

“Any chance to flee?” Curufinwë whispered.

“Perhaps. Whatever we do, we have to do it quickly. I say we take the nearest path south, and run straight to Himring. Unarmed as we are, the only help we can offer is to warn Nelyo as fast as we can.”

Curufinwë pondered that for a second. He hated the thought of abandoning any of their kinsmen to the Orcs’ mercy, but another crack on the shield of his pride was definitely worth some lives. Not even his Atar, or his uncle Ñolofinwë would have been able to face forty Orcs at the same time, armed with no more than a small hunting knife.

His reluctance to enter Himring, his self-pity, his dark broodings on the Valar and the lack of their mercy – everything was forgotten at once as Curufinwë began his slow, wary descent from the hill, followed closely by Tyelkormo.

At the other side of the tumult of earth and rock, the Orcs were revelling loudly in their prisoners. Curufinwë could hear the hiss of a whip every other second, and there were cries of pain and dismay.

And one of the voices seemed – familiar?

A handful of gravel and small rocks crackled under Curufinwë’s feet, and for a moment, he was on the verge of sliding downhill. He grabbed a ledge on the cliff, his entire weight placed on his fingers. His arms were going numb, and he muttered a few colourful curses as Tyelkormo pulled him onto more secure terrain.

“Watch out!” He said. “We cannot fight with one hand if they see us.”

“Don’t say that if we make it to Nelyo,” Curufinwë muttered. Tyelkormo said nothing, but there was a sparkle of mirth in his eyes as his feet searched for the next cove.

They reached the critical point of their descent; they had to cross a spot where the veil of verdure would not hide them. Tyelkormo climbed forward, for his feet were steadier; and Curufinwë thought that he was a fearsome sight, even covered in old rags, even with his longbow hanging uselessly from his shoulder. While his brother was searching for the safest route, Curufinwë kept his attention on their enemies below.

Even if his previous mistake had been noticed, the Orcs gave no sign of it, so enraptured they were in the pleasure of having captured four Elves at once. Three of them were bound and made to stand by a fire the Orcs had lit; and the fourth one was most viciously played with.

His armour cast away, the prisoner lay on the blood-soaked ground in no more than a thin undershirt and a pair of tattered trousers. A strong Orc was standing above him, flinging his whip again and again, terrible blows thundering upon the prisoner’s back. The others were shouting at him in their hideous, guttural language; and Curufinwë did not have to understand their speech to recognise the insults.

One of the prisoners was tugging violently on his ropes, red wounds and bruises opening on his shoulders, arms and wrists. One of the smaller Orcs shouted something, and spat at him. The rest laughed, then the tortured Elf was turned on his back, and the whip lashed straight upon his face and chest. The prisoners shrieked, but the tall, lean creature on the ground endured the blow in silence.

Another cruel snap, another dreadful blow. Another kick on the purplish shoulders and hips. The Elf’s head waned aside as he passed out, and a trail of bright blood sprang from his nose. It was about to drown him soon if he remained unconscious, Curufinwë knew.

Both he and Tyelkormo stared at the pale, lifeless face in silence. Suddenly, their duty was forgotten. Their errand was forgotten. Reality was forgotten.

Curufinwë felt sick. Terribly sick.

Then some terrified part of his awareness reminded him that he was staring into the haggard, barely recognisable face of Makalaurë.

“GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY BROTHER, YOU WITLESS SPAWN OF MORINGOTTO!” Tyelkormo bellowed. As he emerged from the verdure, entirely and wondrously enraged, Curufinwë thought he must have been as terrible to an Orc’s eyes as a furious Vala in the fullness of his strength would be to some unlucky Elf.

His next thought was that they were about to make a terrible mistake. Tyelkormo was storming relentlessly downhill, his feet barely even touching the ground. One of their three precious arrows was already in his hand, ready to touch the string. The Orc who had tormented their brother was truly and entirely doomed – but so were they.

Unless...

Curufinwë pulled his brother’s hunting knife from its sheathe and went on his own way. Thick roots and a slick carpet of fallen leaves protested soundlessly as he raced downhill, supporting himself here and there by grabbing hold of the dew-dampened rocks.

He heard the hiss of an arrow flying through the air, and there was a cry of dismay as it hit target. As Curufinwë broke forth from amongst the trees, he saw that his brother was about to crash furiously in a line of fully armed Orcs. The whip of the torturer was in his hands now, lashing frightfully from one side to the other, reaching faces, arms, chests and legs alike.

Curufinwë marvelled at the impossible chance they have had: most of the archers were killed and their arrows scattered. Still, he had to break a handful of bows on his way towards the captives; and overcoming their initial shock, a dozen Orcs were now heading at him, grabbing their blades and gritting their teeth. One against a dozen seemed considerably better than two against forty-five; but Curufinwë still felt the wave of wariness taking over him. He pulled a scimitar from the chest of a dead Elven scout, and slammed into the wall of enemies.

The first head fell without protest, the mouth vomiting black blood. Curufinwë slammed the still twitching body into his next enemy’s face, and cut deep into a leg, reaching one of the thick arteries on the inner side of the thigh. Skin and flash opened with a loathsome smack, and Curufinwë was momentarily blinded by blood.

Someone grabbed him from behind, probably trying to crack his spine; and Curufinwë remembered the tattered remnants of once fine armour underneath his rags. They still held, but not perfectly... he was not safe, here as he was, surrounded by Orc-filth. He had to get help.

He jerked forward and slammed his fist into a swarthy face. His bones ached from the impact, but the Orc was knocked unconscious, and at the same time his left foot reached something soft and breakable; another one of his enemies must have fallen on the ground. And ahead...

Curufinwë gave a sharp cry as the first throat was sliced right in front of his eyes. The guardians of the camp had clearly intended to kill the captives before he could reach them. Luckily, he got there first.

Or did he?

Curufinwë tugged frantically on the rope around the second Elf – the scimitar’s edge was too thick to slide underneath. He needed Tyelko’s knife – where in Manwë’s name was Tyelko’s knife?! Did he just drop their last piece of Elven weaponry...?

He kicked an Orc furiously in the stomach, and watched over the gagged Elf with all the strength and vigilance of his shattered body. He could not allow him to be killed... he could not stand alone...

He was grabbed and pulled to the ground, cruel steel biting into his side. Curufinwë spat a colourful curse and rolled over, dragging a pair of unsuspecting feet with him. He rolled the Orc around, his fingers tugging at the soft flesh in the middle of his throat, unprotected by nerves and collarbones. There was a horrible, sickening crack, then the moist, tepid vacillation of inner bleeding under his hands, and the Orc started to twitch and shake violently. Curufinwë threw him on a dying archer, letting him drown in his own vomit.

Swift as a shadow, he slipped back to the two remaining prisoners. It seemed that the raid had not been previously planned, and the Orcs had captured them merely for sport. That, at least, gave Curufinwë some hope.

“Can you stand?” He asked the first Elf, but no answer came.

When he turned the body over and saw ragged entrails gushing forth from a wide scarring, he turned his head and vomited. The wound on his side was now throbbing steadily, and his legs were shaking with the sort of weakness that comes with the heavy loss of blood.

“I can stand, my lord,” said the last Elf, the one he had protected with his own body. “Please, unbound me, and let me fight for you.”

Curufinwë’s inquiring hand found the knife at last, and he slid the blade under the Elf’s ties. When the rope gave way, the scout fell to his knees for a moment, wriggling his wrists to make the blood circulate. Curufinwë handed him the scimitar and he pulled another, longer sword from the bowelled Elf’s belt.

Their enemies were already upon them; but Tyelkormo was still on his feet, and unscathed. With a fierce cry he sprang forward, and slammed into the chest of yet another Orc.

“HOW MANY MORE?” Curufinwë yelled, and sliced yet another belly, broke yet another arm, stepped on yet another face. His tattered clothes were becoming damp with sweat, and heavy with the smell of blood and earth.

“TWENTY-SOME SMELLY FILTH,” Tyelkormo bellowed. Whip still in hand, he was standing above Makalaurë, defending him with every move and breath. His arms and legs were dark and slippery with Orc-blood, and a fresh spring of his own blood ran down from his scalp.

Twenty-three was the exact number of their enemies; and for one silent, dreadful moment they seemed to turn against the three worn-out Elves as one and attack in one fierce onset.

If they do, one of us dies, Curufinwë thought. Perhaps all of us.

The silence stretched for four or five seconds; every body was motionless, every face grim, every muscle tense.

And then, all of a sudden, a little Orc pulled himself free from another’s grip, and broke into a run. He disappeared amongst the thicket with a cry of fear and dismay. Another pursued, and yet another; and when more than half of the party was gone, the rest followed as one.

The prey was costly; and none of them seemed willing to pay the price.

* * *

The three fighters stood frozen for several minutes; then Curufinwë fell on his knees next to his brother.

“Kano,” he whispered faintly. “Kano, do you hear me?”

His vision was darkening. It had to be the wound...

“My Lord!” The scout held him steady. “You have lost too much blood. Please let me take care of you as well as I can.”

“He comes first,” Curufinwë insisted, still holding the sides of Makalaurë’s face. “He is hurt…”

Tyelkormo knelt down as well, and checked Makalaurë’s pulse and breathing. Both were slow and faint, but still within the borders of normal.

“He will soon be awake, and in great pain,” said Tyelkormo. “He shan’t walk, but we have to move; and yet we cannot risk to move him. A true riddle. I wonder where the Orc-filth went.”

“They are most likely hiding in some secure, dark hole until nightfall,” said the scout. “We must make haste. If you will watch over him, I shall run and warn the Lord Warden; I may reach the Himring within two hours if I am swift. I will send you soldiers, provisions, healers and anything else you may need.”

“A sharp mind,” said Curufinwë. As little as he appreciated the prospect of staying out in the wilderness with Orcs about, he still found it in himself to celebrate cleverness. “What is your name? I do not seem to know you.”

“Antalossë, my lord. I joined the watch only three weeks ago. This was my first scouting...”

“Poor boy,” Tyelkormo sighed, his eyes still on Makalaurë’s face.

“Listen to me, Antalossë of Himring,” said Curufinwë, “I cannot promise that scouting will get any better; but I presume that my brother will much appreciate your bravery. You might never need to leave Himring ever again.”

The scout blinked. “You said – my lord, forgive me, but did you just say that your brother…?”

Tyelkormo and Curufinwë exchanged a glance, then laughed.

“Oh, aye,” said Curufinwë, “introductions might be in order.”

“Where is the fun in that?” Said Tyelkormo. “He shall have to guess. Which of the Seven are we?”

“As if that was a riddle,” Curufinwë snapped. “We have no time for your antics!”

“Yet you are the one playing Carnistir.”

“Ignore him, lad,” Curufinwë sighed. “And get back to your feet. We can get formally acquainted later.”

“Lord Tyelkormo, Lord Curufinwë, it is….”

“…a great honour, oh, tell me about it. It will be just as great when you return. You have to go. Now.”

“Yes, lord,” said Antalossë, and he ran. Soon, he disappeared among the hills, and the earth drank in the sound of his slender feet.

“A bright young thing,” said Curufinwë. “Centered on solutions. I like that. If I ever took a squire, it would be him.”

For a moment, Tyelkormo looked as though he was about to answer; but then Makalaurë stirred, hiding his face. He seemed to think that he was about to get beaten again.

“Shhh, Kano,” Tyelkormo whispered. He caressed their wounded brother’s face with a tenderness Curufinwë had almost forgotten he had in his large hands. “It is over. Our enemies are lying around in black puddles of blood and entrails. They all died in terrible agony, I promise you. We will soon burn them to the last Orc. It is alright, brother.”

Something akin with disgust flashed across Makalaurë’s face, and Curufinwë laughed.

“What a smooth way to cheer him up. I do not even remember the last time I had to say you were a rouge.”

“Cur...vo,” Makalaurë coughed, the haze of pain gone from his eyes. “Tyelko... what... how... when...”

“Too many questions.” Tyelkormo managed a smile.

“Where are...” Makalaurë trembled. “My head hurts.”

“That is no surprise,” said Curufinwë. “Be at ease, brother. Young Antalossë is on his way to the Himring. He shall bring help... and Nelyo will come and hunt the Orc-filth himself. It will all be frightfully amusing.”

He tried to sound cheerful, although he trembled at the thought of facing Nelyafinwë, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East, and his eldest brother.

“Maitimo,” Makalaurë whispered. “I don’t want... I have failed...”

“Failed?” Curufinwë put his arms around his brother. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone... died... I... I was too slow…”

“Too slow for what?”

“Enough, Curvo!” said Tyelkormo solemnly. “You upset him. Let him rest.”

“We will talk later,” Makalaurë promised, his voice a little bit stronger. “It is... it is good to have you back. Even if it was very... very stupid of you... to run down a whole armed... troop of Orcs.”

“That is what brothers are for, Kano.” Tyelkormo smiled ruefully, and bent down to kiss the elder’s cheek.

 

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Chapter End Notes

“Erenis” is an OC you’ll meet later. I have always imagined that Curufin had a daughter, too… so please forgive me for this small canon divergence.