Are You Proud of Me? by MourningGlory

Are You Proud of Me?

Read Are You Proud of Me?

The blast of a hunter’s horn echoed through the lantern- and emerald-lit caves of Menegroth. Such a sound would have been out of place in any other cavern, but here it only added to the strangeness of an ancient abode that was equal parts Dwarven hall and Telerin forest. The horn was answered by an eerie trilling – defense calls from a thousand hidden nightingales.

The nightingales’ shrill whistling made Curufin shiver, though he was sweating from the battle and struggling to breathe in the stuffy, overheated air of the caves. His ears strained in the direction of the horn’s call. It sounded again.

“This way!” he shouted to Maglor. His voice was calm, but urgent. With deadly ease, he ended the lives of the two or three Telerin warriors who attacked him in the time it took his swift-footed brother to join him. “We must hurry,” he stated. “Tyelko would not call for help unless he were in dire need.”

“I know, damn him,” murmured Maglor. Looking over his shoulder, he called loud and clear to a handful of his best men, “Come! To Celegorm!” Curufin led as Maglor and ten other Elves hacked their way through the corridors in the direction in which Celegorm’s horn had sounded. The fighting was heavy, and the Fëanorians lost five as they fought for every inch. Curufin felt a flicker of – was it panic? – when he heard his brother’s familiar signal cry out with a squawk and then fall silent. He fought harder, and for an unknown stretch of time, the world became to him a flurry of clangs, thuds, squelches, and cries, a blur of flashing blades and whirling crimson, the smell of sweat and stale air, all presided over by a sickly green light.

Just when he felt he could take it no longer, he and his companions broke free and half-ran, half-fell into a smaller, quieter cavity off the side of the main corridor. Perhaps this is what passes for living quarters in Menegroth, Curufin thought with distaste as he looked about, remembering cramped years spent in Nargothrond, made more cramped by a Celegorm crazed with cabin fever.

Admittedly, in better times, these rooms might have been called “cozy.” The dim, low-ceilinged cave was lit by soft-glowing lanterns and fireplaces that still crackled almost joyously. Well-stocked bookshelves and a couch or two had been carved into the stone, and a delicate chandelier of green gems and gold, a small replica of an inverted oak sapling, glowed from above.

But these were not better times. The furniture not carved in stone was strewn throughout the place, much of it broken in pieces. Various fire-stoking implements and kitchen utensils also lay about the room, many bloodied and bent as if taken in hand as desperate, last-ditch weapons, prolonging their wielders’ lives for a just few moments longer. The room was quiet as death, and death filled it. Still-bleeding corpses lay piled where they had fallen, mangled heaps of mangled Elf. A glance could not have told whether tens or hundreds had fought to their deaths in this small space. Given the scene, the “joyous” fireplaces seemed sinister, like twisted, fiery Maiar dancing over their felled victims.

As Curufin’s eyes scanned the room, they fell first on a corpse with beauteous dark blue armor. Its metal appeared to have been crafted specially to imitate the starry sky. Fine work for a Sindarin smith, Curufin thought with interest. A king’s armor. And as he looked closer, he saw the ghostly pale skin and raven hair of Lúthien. The dark, heavy brow of Beren. A startlingly young face. Their son. Blood had seeped copiously from wounds in his neck and side. It stained the floor in pools that, in the half light, appeared as black Orc blood. Dior, King of Doriath, heir of Elu Thingol, was dead. Curufin’s spirit leapt in triumph.

That triumph was shattered by an ear-cleaving shriek. Káno. Ears ringing, Curufin whipped around to look in his brother’s direction, sword raised. Maglor had fallen to his knees. He had doubled over. Is he being sick? Curufin thought. No, Maglor was leaning over something. Someone. As if on cue, the strong-voiced minstrel let go another broken cry, less shrill than the first, but no less bloodcurdling. Curufin’s feet froze. His mind froze. His insides froze. He listened. A low groan issued from the barely visible shape that lay before Maglor’s trembling frame. A dear name rose to Curufin’s mind before pragmatic denial could shove it down. Tyelko.

Curufin stumbled over and threw himself down at his bleeding brother’s side. He nearly gagged at the sight of Celegorm’s broken body. Arrows riddled his neck, shoulders, and back. At least one of his legs was broken, and one shoulder bulged at a strange angle under his leather tunic. The idiot might’ve worn armor, Curufin thought bitterly. Celegorm’s forehead was bruised purple and blue, both eyes were blackened, and blood seeped from his nostrils and lips. A severe head wound poured even more blood into his white-blond hair, turning it red. His breath came in rattling gasps.

At no point in his long years in Beleriand had Curufin ever doubted the Oath. His surety was, albeit, inarticulate: he had not spoken it to himself, let alone defended it to his brothers. But nevertheless, he had always believed, deep down, that they would succeed in their task, so great was his confidence in the righteousness of their aim, so great was his trust in his father’s keen mind and will. He had grieved his father’s passing, yes, but that death was so strange that it had seemed almost an illusion. Reduced to ashes from inside out. Fëanor had died as he had ever lived – purely in act. Sometimes Curufin was convinced that his father’s fëa remained with him, pervading his muscles as he struck metal in the forge, whispering in his ears as he counseled his brothers. Fëanor’s death was always part of the plan. Even the interloping of Beren and Lúthien, even the disaster of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, were nothing but circumventable setbacks, challenges to be faced by his discerning mind, his brothers’ various gifts, and the guidance of his father’s lingering spirit. For, against all odds, every single son of Fëanor still lived, and the Oath still called them forward.

But at the sight of Celegorm’s condition, Curufin’s resolve faltered. His fëa flickered fearfully in his chest. His mouth went dry, and he blanched so pale and green that Maglor, still consumed with dread of Celegorm’s immanent death, placed what was meant as a comforting hand on his shoulder. Curufin could not feel it.

“A-Atar?” croaked Celegorm. “Is that you? …Atar?”

To his horror, Curufin realized his dying brother was addressing him. A wave of nausea crashed against him as his fëa turned somersaults in his stomach, then plummeted to the base of his gut.

Unthinkingly, reflexively, he began to correct the misunderstanding. “Tyelko, it’s…” He was cut off by a sharp elbow to the ribs. From Maglor. It nearly made him vomit. He shut his eyes tight, swallowed bitter bile, and resigned himself to what he must do. “Turko, it’s me,” he finished.

“Atar. I’m sorry,” Celegorm rasped. “I’ve failed. I’ve failed you again.”

Curufin extended a trembling, clammy hand and placed it on Celegorm’s swollen cheek. He tried to make his voice sound strong, assured and reassuring. “Hush, Turko, hush,” he intoned. “You haven’t failed me at all. You’ve worked so hard.” He paused, then continued, his voice nearly breaking, “We can try again… We can try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Celegorm nodded, feebly, seeming somewhat comforted. “Atar?” he inquired after a pause.

“Yes, my son?” Curufin was barely holding back his tears.

“Are you proud of me?” Celegorm’s voice was fading. There was an eager innocence in his eyes that Curufin had never seen before, that had not been seen by anyone since Celegorm’s youngest years.

At first Curufin could not answer. He was baffled. Of course Fëanor was proud of Celegorm! He was lavishly proud of all his sons. Why waste precious breath to ask such a thing? Then Maglor squeezed Curufin’s shoulder. A quick glance at his compassionate brother answered Curufin’s query. The great tragedy was written in Maglor’s misty eyes: Celegorm did not know. Like the wooden toy puzzles that Curufin loved as a child – cubes, tetrahedrons, and dodecahedrons one could twist ’til their colors aligned – the foibles and extravagancies of his dearest, strangest brother fell into place.

“Yes, my Turko,” Curufin finally answered. He let his tears fall and pressed his forehead against his brother’s. “I am so proud of you.” Celegorm reached up a bloody hand and touched Curufin’s face. “And I…” Curufin choked. “I love you.”

At this, Celegorm smiled weakly. But then a look of concern crossed his face, as if he’d just remembered something. “Atar, the twins. I was half-mad when I demanded it. Please, tell my men not to…” But his voice broke off and his hand dropped to his side. He was gone.

Curufin buried his face in his dead brother’s chest and cried. Maglor wept silently as he stroked Curufin’s hair. Spent by shock and grief, neither had the heart to ponder their brother’s final request, though it would haunt Maglor for the rest of his days.

After far too short a time, Maglor’s strong voice spoke a command. “Come, Curvo, we must go.” He helped a limp Curufin back into a sitting position. “We can linger here no longer.” With gentle fingers, Maglor closed Celegorm’s eyes, even then still brilliant and blue as the cloudless sky.

Maglor stood and dragged Curufin to his feet. All the fire seemed to have gone out of him, Maglor realized with concern. Curufin’s face was pale as a corpse’s, his breath cold, his body stiff. “Curvo, are you with me?” he asked, shaking Curufin gently by the shoulder. Curufin grunted weakly in response. “Let’s go, we must find the others.”

With that, Maglor strode back to the doorway of the small, death-filled cavern. To his five remaining soldiers, he whispered as he passed. “Guard him, carefully,” he commanded with a furtive gesture toward Curufin. “I fear for him.” The warriors glanced cautiously back at Curufin with pity in their eyes. There he stood, rooted to the spot, staring emptily down at his brother’s lifeless body.

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Chapter End Notes

My descriptions of Menegroth draw from The Lay of Leithian Canto IV, vv. 981-1011. I also get some helpful information from the "Menegroth" page on TolkienGateway.net.

"Celegorm" by Dawn Walls-Thumma is an incredible resource that I read for inspiration while writing this piece.

I referenced pages for the characters on TolkienGateway.net to make sure I got all the names right. Here is a quick guide: Curufin=Curvo, Maglor=Káno, Celegorm=Tyelko=Turko ("Turko" is the shortened version of Celegorm's father-name, which is why Curufin uses it when pretending to be Fëanor.)

I am pretty sure I've thought of Celegorm's eyes as blue ever since I read Dawn Felagund's Another Man's Cage.

The bit with the horn at the beginning is loosely inspired by the events of Boromir's death in The Fellowship of the Ring.