Chasing the Stag by Amaranth

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Chapter 1 – Rituals of Many Years

 

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Chapter 1 – Rituals of Many Years

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“Brother.” Celegorm approached Curufin, who sat at the worktable in his forge, deeply immersed in adorning a new dagger he had forged with intricate engravings. Curufin did not bother to take his eyes from his work at his brother’s approach, nor did he still his busy hands, yet the almost inaudible sound issuing from his lips – something between a mumbled greeting and a sigh – told Celegorm his brother was paying attention.

“Winter hath been bitter this year,” Celegorm spoke, after thoughtfully watching his brother for a while. “Yet finally spring hath reached the cold plains of our land, winter’s chill yielding to gentle warmth. The land is coming alive again, lush green sprouting from the earth, nourished by Anor’s warming rays.”

“I have noticed,” was Curufin’s clipped reply, his brow furrowing while he focussed on a particularly complicated section of his work.

“Many of our people have become restless these last weeks,” Celegorm said, exhaling slowly as he watched his brother skilfully wield the small tool, engraving another twining, fine line into the crossguard of the blade.

“So hast thou, brother.” Curufin answered, brushing away a wayward strand of hair as he scrutinized the fruits of his labour.

“Yes, so have I.” A small smile played across Celegorm’s features. He had rarely seen Curufin these last weeks, his younger sibling locking himself away in the forge for long hours, as had been their father’s habit; yet his brother always knew his heart.

The hard winters in Himlad never affected his brother as they did himself. The long months of forced inactivity, during which their people huddled together in and around the fortress to escape the merciless hold winter had on the land, made Celegorm feel weary and caged. Curufin used the leisure time to withdraw to the forges and indulge in his craft, alone or in company of his son Celebrimbor. Celegorm did not begrudge them their closeness; rather, he was happy for them as their relationship was not always so amicable. Yet during the stillness of winter, when life seemed not so heavily shadowed by the constant threat that lurked in the North, the shared love for their smithcraft brought Curufin and his son closer.

Sometimes he joined them in the forge, working on some small, random pieces himself whilst listening to Celebrimbor’s excited chatter; smiling at the youth’s gleaming eyes when Curufin taught his son the secrets of wrought-iron work. Even though he himself had been tutored in the art of smithing as befitted a son of Fëanor, Celegorm’s genius had never fully turned to it; his heart was called to the hunt. These last weeks had brought an ever-increasing restlessness, he could scent the approaching spring in the air even before the first hue of green kissed the plains of their land. The soul of the hunter had awakened with the earth, yearning to break free from the confines of their fortress and roam freely.

Unlike him, Curufin never looked forward to the time when the land stirred again. At this time of year, he always fell into brooding, busily trying to accomplish all he had begun before he would have to turn his main attention back to the duty of defending their land and people against Morgoth’s evil spawn. The receding winter brought back the danger of orc raids…or even worse. Patrols would be increased, more men and more frequency, and they would spend the greater share of the warmer months securing their borders.

“I suppose thou wilt be out on thy first hunt soon,” Curufin observed dryly, without lifting his gaze from the dagger; pulling Celegorm from his musings. Their exchange was a private familiarity, a ritual of many years.

“I will set out a week hence,” Celegorm answered with a wry smile, falling easily into their long studied protocol. “I will not be long. Certainly the first messengers of our brethren will arrive soon, bearing news. We shall send out our own messengers before I depart.”

“Yes, I suppose we should.” Picking up a soft cloth, Curufin absentmindedly polished the blade in his hands, then put both aside. “How many wilt thou take with thee? There will not be much game yet and the little thou and thy fellow hunters can track down will all be skin and bone.”

“It is not about the capture. The hounds need exercise; they have grown restless and aggressive through the winter. I will only take a dozen huntsmen and their dogs, and Huan of course,” Celegorm replied. “As thou knowest, our patrols reported that one of our southern outposts needs mending, thus I will go and assess the damage winter hath done. After, I will break with my hunters and Huan and I will venture further south alone.”

At this last remark, Curufin’s head finally shot up, his gaze boring into his brother’s intensely and not without anger. “Thou art a fool to venture so close to the Sindar borders. Those Moriquendi,” Curufin spat, “do not love the Noldor. They especially bear ill will to us of the House of Fëanor.” Picking up the cloth and dagger again, Curufin resumed polishing the metal with frantic movements. “What seekest thou there, brother, year after year?”

“Solitude…and solace. The same things thou seekest when thou lockest thyself away in the forge…just as father did,” Celegorm hissed, repressing the urge to strike his brother for arguing his decision every year. “The sparse forests of Himlad cannot quench what I yearn for. Yet the woodland solitude further south…”

“…cannot either. Thou art chasing a dream,” Curufin interrupted sharply. “Thou returnest every year, thy thirst for what thou seekest unquenched. Nothing in Middle-earth will assuage thy craving. No forest here can compare to Oromë’s Forest…” Curufin snapped, but bit back the last of his reply. Pressing his lips into a narrow line, he turned to polishing the dagger again.

Turning on his heel, Celegorm strode from the forge; his face vivid with rage. Though they had the same discussion each year, Curufin had never before gone so far as throwing in his face what he fiercely denied acknowledging. Oromë’s Forest was forever lost to him. Only memories remained of the haven he had loved so dearly; and no place in Middle-earth could soothe the pain of his loss, nor could any person.

 

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Celegorm spent the days before his departure in preparations for the hunt, yet his practiced routine did nothing to cool his anger. He rarely crossed paths with his brother, preferring to take his meals alone in his chambers and spending the rest of the day outside the fortress. On the sole occasion they had to talk with one another before giving their orders to the messengers that would set forth to their brethren, they met with cold indifference; speaking only as necessary before parting once more.

Much to Celegorm’s surprise, his brother waited outside his chambers the morning the hunters were to set out. Curufin slid a small bundle wrapped in velvet into his palm then strode away without speaking. Celegorm almost voiced his anger at his brother’s stubbornness with curses, but then thought better of it and merely shook his head. Like himself and all their brethren, save the eldest two, Curufin had a sharp tongue and often spoke harshly. Also like all his brothers…and their father, he would never apologize for something he had said. Celegorm knew this gift was Curufin’s way of telling him he was sorry, but he would not look at it yet; his ire toward his brother still smouldering within his heart. So he tucked the bundle into his pack and made his way to the courtyard.

They set out on horseback, both their mounts and the hounds difficult to restrain in their eagerness; as full of joyful anticipation as their masters. They allowed the beasts free rein, dashing across the plains in a wild gallop while the horde of baying hounds chased after and about them. Long, loose hair whipping in the wind like a banner, Celegorm rode ahead; his mood lifting as he deeply inhaled the fresh fragrance of spring; green grass, damp earth; the newly awakened promise of bud and leaf. In the days following, they spent the nights beneath the stars sitting around the fire drinking mulled wine, singing hunting songs and telling tales before they broke camp at dawn after resting an hour or two if they felt the need.

When they finally reached the outpost, the wardens greeted them with much joy; having lived almost completely isolated for months. Yet a couple of weeks watch duty remained before they would return home. Letters from the men’s families were delivered, as were all manner of news and gossip. The supply of wine, bread and fresh cheese the hunters brought was a welcome addition to the bland and ordinary food to which the wardens had become accustomed. Celegorm and his fellows had even brought small game found along their way for the evening meal, a brace of rabbits which soon roasted above the fire.

Celegorm spent most of the following days inspecting the outpost in the company of the captain of the watch. The man had dutifully listed winter damage sustained by the facility and the material required to repair it; necessary supplies and equipment were neatly listed as well; Celegorm found nothing to add. He looked up the regular reports of the last months in the captain’s record book and was satisfied to find there had been no incidents at their border that indicated any threat. It pleased him that the captain had not become lax during the monotonous months of winter. Though the danger of an attack during the worst of the deep cold seemed small and was more likely from Morgoth’s stronghold in the North, one could never know in such dark times.

A week after their arrival at the outpost, Celegorm sat outside by the night’s campfire, lazily patting Huan’s head as he lay curled up beside him. He was restless, yearning for the peace of dense, ancient forests to ease his bitterness and lift the shadow that weighed on his soul. Curufin’s words emerged from his memory, bringing back the pain of loss and with it renewed anger; not at his brother, but at himself. Curufin had merely put the sorrow he felt in words and spoken them aloud. Celegorm knew his sibling had done so to keep him from tormenting himself with fruitless attempts to replace what was lost to him, yet he was sure his brother also knew he could not relinquish his restless search.

His hand sought for the pack beside him and he took out the small bundle he had refused to open since his departure from the fortress. Carefully, he loosened the string and unwrapped the velvet to reveal a plain, brown leather sheath with a finely crafted dagger; the one Curufin had been working on as they argued. He unsheathed it and gazed in awe at the blade, the elaborate adornments vivid in the flickering light of the fire. On each side of the dagger, the engraved head of a stag graced the centre of the crossguard; proud antlers extending across the quillons and morphing into vines of ivy which interlinked the mirror images. Identical vines were also etched along the entire length of the blade. The grip of the dagger was wrapped with superbly tanned brown leather; the coin pommel adorned with the emblem of the House of Fëanor upon one side, Celegorm’s personal sigil on the other.

The eyes of the stag were made of tiny green gemstones. They seemed to beckon him…or did they taunt him? Anyway, the strange illusion intensified Celegorm’s longing for woodland solitude. He had tarried long enough at the outpost; it was time to move on. He and Huan would set out afoot in the morning, while his horse remained at the outpost. They would cross the borders and travel south into the wide, densely wooded area that lay between his realm and that of the Sindar. His huntsmen had already received instruction ere they had set out to the hunt together; they would turn west to check on another outpost, keeping an eye on possible signs of trespassing along the border.

A wave of joyful anticipation washed over Celegorm. As if Huan sensed his master’s thoughts, the large hound raised his head and stared at him before resuming his dozing with a contented huff.

 

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They had reached the densely wooded region five days ago. In contrast to the cold plains of Himlad, spring had already driven away the last remnants of winter in the lands south of their borders and greeted them with mild weather and game to hunt aplenty. Breaking camp at first light each morning, Celegorm spent the forenoon wandering the sea of vivid greens without haste, enjoying the calm the ancient trees exuded while Huan roamed about. Small streams and wells provided fresh water, inviting the travelers to rest nearby and revel in the peaceful beauty of the woodland scenery; thus it was never difficult to find a suitable location to pitch camp.

When Celegorm found a spot appealing, the preparations that followed were almost a personal ritual. He dug a fire pit and gathered a stock of firewood and tinder, storing both in a dry place for later use. He refilled his waterskin then refreshed and washed himself while Huan curiously explored their surroundings or splashed in the cool water like a boisterous whelp. Next Celegorm enjoyed cold roasted meat which remained of the game he had shot the day before along with cheese, dried fruit, flat bread and nuts from his pack’s provisions. Huan’s share of the game had been saved uncooked, and Celegorm smiled as the hound playfully nosed among the leftover bones.

Afterward they rested, Huan dozing in the sun, yet remaining watchful while Celegorm closed his eyes and allowed his senses to be flooded by the myriad of impressions from his forest surroundings. Sunbeams broke through the thick foliage and combined with the soft spring breeze prickled on his skin like a feather-light caress. The piping of birds mingled with the rustling of leaves, gentle creaking of trees and gurgling of the stream was music to Celegorm’s ears; the mixed aroma of humid earth, young leaves, burgeoning buds and conifer invigorating and more alluring than the most exquisite scented oils. The forest cradled, sang to and caressed him as Celegorm drifted, allowing his body and mind to relax.

Even while completely losing track of time, Celegorm intuitively emerged from his meditative state when it was time to check and prepare his hunting gear, and he did so with as much devotion as others would attend a lover. He checked the limbs of his bow for twists and miniscule travel damage, then carefully tested the tension of the string and ran a cake of beeswax over it before setting it aside to empty his quiver. A small inside pocket held several spare bowstrings which Celegorm inspected; then he scrutinized each arrow before putting it back into the quiver. Finally, he took a small grindstone from his pack and turned to sharpen his hunting knife and dagger while humming a merry tune.

The serenity of this routine made the exhilaration of the later chase even sweeter. Most huntsmen had private rituals they followed before setting out in search of game, yet only when he hunted alone did Celegorm allow himself to indulge in his extended ritual of preparation. For him, setting up camp, meditating and preparing were as much parts of the hunt as tracking, chasing and bringing down his catch or dressing and roasting it afterward. Curufin could not understand this mindset. Whenever they hunted together, his brother’s impatience to rush into the chase was the basis for argument; though not even Celegorm’s fellow hunters viewed a hunt as such a complex process. His faithful Huan, however, accepted his habits with equanimity.

When he finally set out to track, Celegorm did so with tranquil discipline and keen anticipation, the seemingly opposing sensations melding into something too unique to describe. What thrilled him most was honing his skill of stalking until he was almost beside the unsuspecting animal and able to shoot with ease; or to test his endurance by chasing after fleeing quarry on foot with Huan until he was breathless. Rabbits and hares were his usual game, or pheasants, a young boar if the opportunity arose, yet Celegorm shot just enough to provide a decent evening meal and meat to eat on the morrow before they would hunt anew. Anything more would be wasted.

The spiritual nature of his hunt encompassed due respect to nature and the animal whose life he had taken; kneeling beside the beast to place a sprig of evergreen in its mouth and speaking a small prayer of thanks and gratitude for its sacrifice. He cleaned his game immediately afterward, hung it from a high branch out of reach of predators until he returned to collect it. He would then hunt more if necessary, or simply track and chase for the joy of it.

When he returned to camp, Celegorm skinned the carcass and buried the remains he could not use a short distance away. Wrapping the rest into the hide, he carried it back to the fireside where he rubbed the meat with herbs and spitted it to roast. Huan was always at his side, roaming about with impatient excitement, snuffling at the scent of blood and fresh meat, yet the hound was well trained and knew he would have to wait until his master allowed him his fill. It was then that Celegorm and Huan usually engaged in a playful tug of war with the hide which distracted the hound, a game they both thoroughly enjoyed. Afterward, Celegorm allowed his faithful friend to feast on his share of the hunt while he went to wash himself, change into clean clothes and cleanse his hunting gear. When he was done, he sat by the fire, brewed himself a cup of tea or else mulled wine from the small wineskin he had brought, and waited until his own meal was ready.

In Celegorm’s opinion, the meal after the hunt tasted best when the gravy oozing roast was eaten right from the spit. Cutting away morsel after morsel, it was a rare pleasure he only indulged in on his solitary hunts; as in company he would never display such a lack of table manners. When Celegorm was sated, he let the remaining roast cool then sliced it to keep as provision for the next day, along with raw meat he had set aside for Huan. These he would keep cool in the water overnight, stored in two sacks of smooth waxed leather he used especially for this purpose, tightly closed and carefully placed to keep them from sinking or floating away. His ritual concluded with gathering the remains of the hide and leftover bones, which would also be buried outside the camp. Then, calling Huan to his side, he took a long stroll to revel in the beauty of the nightly forest.

During the periods when Celegorm temporarily shed his life as a lord and warrior to solely be a hunter, his life was simple; yet he needed these calm and uncomplicated days as a balance to his usual life and duties. He could not imagine living such a humble life forever, too accustomed to the luxuries of his noble station, yet he cherished these rare occasions…though they paled in comparison to the blissful days spent in Oromë’s Forest, alone or in company of his mentor. Those times were forever lost to him, yet his memories of them were vivid and potent in more ways than most people could even imagine…unfulfilled longing burned within him, hot, never ceasing, tormenting.

 

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