Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion

Standing in front of the fireplace, Curufin pondered.

Embers still glowed in the hearth, radiating heat and a dim red light. He loved fire, especially the blazing fire of the forges: a symbol of creation, a source of inspiration, and the secret behind life and the world.

Some might argue that it was also an emissary of destruction, but he harbored no such concerns, for it would never bring harm to the sons of Fëanor. And there was another fire—not the evil flame of Morgoth, but the pure, radiant fire born of light. How could it possibly hurt the descendants of its maker? Instead, it was clearly their emblem and weapon, destined to wound those who had betrayed or defied them, removing obstacles on the path to fulfilling their oath and vengeance.

Thus far, it had performed exceptionally well. The hidden kingdom had fallen once before, and it was poised to fall again.

He allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Naturally, he appeared familiar to those who had once known his father, for among the seven brothers, he most resembled their sire—not only in appearance but also in the talents and art of making. If Curufinwë Fëanáro was a wildfire, fierce and devastating, Curufinwë Atarinkë was a furnace fire—no less powerful, yet always contained and refined. After all, he was called Curufin the crafty; and he knew very well that it was not merely due to his great craftsmanship.

Fixing his gaze on the dying flames in the fireplace, he reviewed the tidings he had gathered. All pointed to a single conclusion, and this time he would not allow anyone the opportunity to challenge it. But first, he needed to speak with his brother: Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, more widely known in this land as Celegorm the fair.

When Curufin found him, Celegorm had just returned from a hunt, with dust on his boots and horsehair on his breeches. Called “the fair”, Celegorm was light of hair and truly fair of face, very impressive indeed; and equally impressive was his bearing—the embodiment of uncompromising pride. Seeing him enter, Celegorm offered no greeting, simply gesturing toward a chair opposite him.

“How went the hunt?” Curufin asked as he settled into the seat.

“A dozen Orcs; nothing more.” Celegorm replied, idly toying with a dagger. The cold edge of the blade caught the light, its reflection dancing in his eyes. “I told Lachodir to burn them.”

Curufin recognized the name. Lachodir was Celegorm’s new herald—a young yet capable Noldorin soldier who, claiming to have been saved by Celegorm on more than one occasion in battle, had offered his service to him when they were driven from Nargothrond without an escort and forced to journey to Himring empty-handed. As his brother’s most loyal servant, Lachodir had displayed a devotion so profound it could almost be called blind—or perhaps it was not blind at all, for Celegorm, when he chose, could be a commanding and charismatic leader. After all, none of the sons of Fëanor could ever be underestimated.

“I have news, Turko,” he said, coming straight to the point—a tactic long proven most effective with his brother. “Thingol’s daughter is dead.”

If Celegorm felt any surprise, he gave no sign of it. Still toying with the dagger, he let its sharp edge glide effortlessly between his deft, steady fingers, showing not the faintest risk of cutting himself. “That is not news,” he said.

“Her son, Dior the Half-elven, has returned to Doriath and intends to restore its glory.”

“That is certainly not news.” Celegorm set down the dagger and looked up. “Did you come to me merely to recount these trifles?”

“She did not bear the Silmaril with her into the grave. It now rests upon Dior’s breast.”

A silence fell. Curufin watched his brother closely, noting each subtle shift in Celegorm’s mood. Celegorm was usually not elusive, yet no matter how slight the difference, there lurked a fatal gulf between “usually” and “always”. If he took a wrong approach, his brother could become utterly impervious to reason. He would not allow yet another opportunity to be missed.

“Then our Silmaril has returned to Doriath,” after a while, Celegorm allowed a laugh, though devoid of joy. “Shall we deem it a coincidence, or fate?”

“Both.” Curufin met his brother’s gaze, his voice unwavering. “The time has come for us to fulfill our Oath.”

Celegorm nodded, lips curling. “Doriath is fated to be our mark.”

“If we persuade our eldest brother,” Curufin said.

“If we persuade him, of course.” Celegorm laughed. “But it will not be difficult to persuade him. He takes the Oath more seriously than any of us.”

As he had anticipated, Celegorm was insightful when he chose to be. A hasty-riser his brother might be, but it would be gravely mistaken to believe that Celegorm lacked sound judgment. He would never forget that Celegorm was, above all, a great hunter, one of the most renowned among the Noldor.

“We must proceed to Amon Ereb without delay and notify Moryo and the twins as well.” he said.

Celegorm nodded absently and gazed at the dancing flames in the fireplace. For a moment, the defined lines on his brother’s handsome face seemed softened.

“So, we will attack Doriath.”

The words came almost imperceptibly, addressed to no one. But Curufin was instantly alerted by them, for the last time he had seen Celegorm like this was when he had advised his brother to prepare an assault on Tol Galen to recover the Silmaril set into a Dwarven necklace. At that time, Celegorm had rebuffed his plan and refused to listen to any of his reasons.

“I know she has it.” his brother said back then. “But I will not attack her, nor will you.”

“I do not understand, Turko,” he tried to insist. “Are you telling me you are actually fond of h—”

“I will not do it.” Celegorm interrupted him, refusing to entertain any further explanation.

He had to give up in the end, though he remained unreconciled. He never believed that Celegorm was moved by the unparalleled beauty of Lúthien, for he knew his brother had loved another. Celegorm would never admit it and preferred to let everyone believe that he was enamored of Thingol’s daughter. But did that mean Celegorm had also refused to attack her merely to mislead others?

It remained inconclusive, and since then he had remained on guard. Understanding other minds was always fascinating, but attempting to master them was frustrating, for they were the most delicate things in the world.

Knowing it would be a risk to bring up the past at this moment, he weighed his options and decided to take the risk sooner rather than later. “Keep it in mind, Turko,” he said, “that we cannot afford to be generous with those we have to destroy.”

“Of course,” Celegorm said, as if he had just awakened from a dream. He straightened himself and offered an easy smile, although his eyes were suddenly lit with a chilling light. “Do not worry, Kurvo. I am not so generous as to indulge my feelings to that extent.”

Celegorm and Curufin were here, Amrod and Amras were on their way, and Caranthir would arrive tomorrow.

“They are unchanged.” Maglor observed after taking a good look at the two brothers from a distance.

Which means they are as troublesome as ever, Maedhros thought. In the blazing sunlight of late summer, the host brought by Celegorm and Curufin stood in disciplined formation, silent and still. Composed of carefully selected archers and riders, greater in number than was typically necessary, with the Star of Fëanor engraved on armor, embossed on shields, and embroidered on surcoats, it was no mere escort—it was an army prepared for war. Maedhros knew Celegorm to be an excellent commander, whose strategies had dealt the forces of Morgoth significant blows in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, but he doubted Celegorm had gone to such lengths just to flaunt his power.

“Maitimo,” Celegorm called, noticing his frown as he dismounted from his white stallion, tossing the reins to an attendant. “Is it so painful to see us?”

“Do you lack all confidence in pleasing your elder brothers?” Maedhros retorted, his lips curving into a wry smile. “Or have we both failed to find a better joke?”

He expected his brother to bristle at the remark, but to his surprise, Celegorm simply laughed it off. Perhaps even a hasty-riser can learn patience and wisdom in the end, he thought. For do not we all?

After Celegorm, Curufin approached. “I trust our visit does not trouble you too much, my brother.”

In truth, you could not trouble me more, Maedhros thought. However, he simply nodded and made a gesture of welcome. “Of course not. As brothers, we have been apart for too long. It is time for a family reunion.”

At that, Curufin raised a brow, offering a knowing smile.

Maedhros left it to Maglor to handle the necessary arrangements for Celegorm, Curufin, and their unusual escort. He needed time to clear his thoughts and prepare himself, for despite what had been said, he was certain that Celegorm and Curufin had not merely come for a family reunion. Leadership of the House of Fëanor was no simple task; a heroic reputation might help, but it was far from sufficient.

Your father had always known this, Findekáno, though in the end, even he could not bear it.

He caught himself drifting back into old habits and let out a weary sigh. Old habits must truly die hard, for even after so much time, he still found himself conversing in his mind with a name long lost—a name whose bearer had departed without a grave behind. The familiar sound of it stung his heart—if I even have a heart, he corrected himself, his lips curving downward. How can one still have a heart after dying, not once, but twice? The one who defied his father to defend a friend perished long ago, on the accursed rock of Thangorodrim. What you risked your life to bring back, Findekáno, is but a lingering glimmer of fire, one that has seen and tasted darkness and can no longer endure it.

He halted his wandering thoughts. After all, he had changed. When needed, he could be a ruthless and formidable warrior, yet he was also a leader adept at evaluation and calculation, preserving their strength and minimizing unnecessary losses. That was why his brothers had rallied to him upon hearing of Lúthien’s death and Dior’s return to Doriath.

It seemed the time had come to reassert their claim to the Great Jewel once more.

But is it just to demand what we have not earned but inherited, while others have bled and died for it?

Seated behind his desk, Maedhros pondered.

...“Again, Maitimo.” came Fingon’s voice.

He had long lost count of how many times his sword had been knocked from his grasp. With a clang, the blade struck the ground nearby as Fingon withdrew his own weapon and stepped back, ready for another round of practice.

Now you can easily beat me, Findekáno, but the advantage was never yours in the past, he thought. In those days, I was your teacher and trainer.

But he did not say it. If he had learned anything on the rockface of Thangorodrim, it was the value of silence. Walking to where his sword lay, he bent down and reached for it—using his left hand, of course. As his fingers slowly closed around the clammy hilt, he could feel Fingon’s gaze upon him, laden with concern and conflict.

Thankfully, there was no pity.

Suddenly, a surge of rage overtook him. Looking up, he locked eyes with Fingon. “This is unfair.”

“I know.” Fingon replied, his voice steady. “And you have known it from the beginning, Maitimo. It was you who said the Enemy would not deal fairly with us.”

“Are you the Enemy then?” Maedhros leveled his sword in Fingon’s direction, his eyes sparkling. “The Enemy may not deal fairly with us, but you will be fair with me. Now fight me again,” he demanded, a smile creeping onto his face, “with your left hand.” ...

The Enemy will not deal fairly with us, of course. Wielding the weapon of betrayal, Morgoth crushed your life and my hope. Yet you and I are not the same: you fell as a king, with your ending met, while I am condemned to live on, carrying a shattered yet lingering hope.

Dior Eluchíl and the Silmaril. Maedhros touched the stump of his sword-hand in spite of himself. It is unfair, and I know it. But what would you do if you were me, Findekáno? Would you choose to reclaim the other two Jewels first? Would you strike at Morgoth once again, defying the power of Angband as your father did, even knowing it would be a desperate attempt doomed to fail?

I know you would, for you never swore an oath in the name of Ilúvatar, nor had you glimpsed the Everlasting Dark beyond redemption. That is why you could still live up to your valiant reputation and choose to sacrifice, while I cannot—even though I hold no attachment to this broken life. Until the Oath is fulfilled, my own fate is but one weight on the scales, for I must account for my six brothers.

Do you see it now, Findekáno? I have but one choice.

...Stop, Maitimo.

A different voice intruded then, instantly heightening his vigilance. Is that truly you, Findekáno?

...You are standing on the edge of the abyss. Do not test its depth.

Or is it, once again, merely a phantom conjured up by my mind—haunting, deceiving, and threatening me, like the terrors of Thangorodrim?

The sun slowly drifted past the zenith. Bright sunlight poured through the window, casting sharp beams onto the floor and carving a distinct boundary between light and shadow.

“I will first send him a request,” Maedhros declared with finality, to the empty room.

It was a piece of parchment, slightly discolored, with neat writing upon it: black against faded yellow, in both Runes and Tengwar.

Again, he read it silently.

“To Dior Eluchíl, son of Lúthien and Beren, Heir of Elu Thingol.”

The young ruler of Doriath rose from his seat. Neither an Elf nor a Man, Dior Aranel Eluchíl carried his mother’s unparalleled beauty and his father’s weathered gaze. Within him, the fates of the Firstborn and the Followers intertwined seamlessly, creating a peculiar and singular charm.

In the great hall, below the dais, his people waited nervously. He offered them a reassuring smile. “It is what we have long expected, nothing more.”

Yes, they had expected this ever since his return to Menegroth—a “request” the sender believed the recipient had no right to refuse.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. However prepared they had been for this day, no one could remain indifferent now that it had arrived. Standing before the High Seat, Dior let his gaze sweep over their faces: some burned with anger, others with anxiety or resignation, but most were marked by fear.

Maybe we do have a reason to be afraid, he sighed to himself. By now, the reputation of the sons of Fëanor among the Grey Elves was far from honorable: they were known as formidable warriors, but also as perpetrators of murder and treason. Two of them had even openly threatened to destroy Doriath when their demand for the Great Jewel was last denied.

But there was more to consider. In these dark times, one could not hope to remain safe simply by avoiding immediate dangers.

“I will not assent to their request.” Dior announced once the murmurs had subsided. “I will not surrender the Jewel to them.”

A heavy silence fell, and all eyes turned to him, breaking with formality.

“I am called Eluchíl,” he continued, his voice calm but resolute. “I will live up to my grandfather’s name.”

The mention of his grandfather, the late King of Doriath, transformed them. One by one, they bowed to him, as though before them stood not a Half-elven youth who had seen less than fifty seasons. And when they straightened, their faces were no longer marked by fear. They were ready.

That is who we are. Once we choose a path, we commit to it with all we have. My father, my mother, my grandfather, my grandmother, my people: that is who we are. The Noldor are not the only people who know pride and dignity, nor is exile the only way to demonstrate courage.

Afterwards, he walked down a corridor leading away from the great hall, his footsteps echoing softly between the glimmering walls. Those who had designed and built this splendid city were long gone, and the walls, once stained by blood and steel, bore silent witness to their legacy. Yet Menegroth remained—its mystery, grandeur, and pride undiminished. In the silence of the night, the weight of a kingdom’s history, accumulated over thousands of years, surrounded him, both embracing and comforting. But the tide of emotions it stirred threatened to overwhelm him, drawing him into a sea of unbidden thoughts.

Strolling through the passages of the Thousand Caves, Dior pondered.

He touched the Nauglamír again, where the Silmaril was set. The Silmarils—the only surviving seeds of the purest Light, born before the Sun and the Moon—a token of the highest beauty in Arda Marred. In its radiance, he saw his mother once more: Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. So many times she sang under the starlit skies of Tol Galen, her voice soft and fair, her smile sad yet content, while the Silmaril rested on her chest like the brightest star. At her side sat Beren Erchamion, always listening attentively, his hand gently clasping hers, his once-dark hair streaked with winter’s grey, and his mortal face etched with the marks of relentless years. Through countless perils and griefs, they had earned a brief time of peace, after which they took an unknown road together, beyond the Circles of the World.

He remembered those nights and the distant sound of water, so vividly that it stirred an ache deep within his heart.

How can I surrender the Jewel that carries such precious memories to those who have never bled to win it? How can I allow my grandfather’s kingdom to yield to the threats of ruthless, unrepentant murderers?

It is true that the sons of Fëanor have sworn to reclaim the Silmarils; but they are not even the maker of what they so fiercely claim as theirs alone. And what have they done to fulfill their oath? Did they aid King Felagund and my father in the Quest? Did they face dangers beyond imagination and confront the terrors of Angband? Did they gain access to the Iron Crown of the Enemy? Did they die for the Jewel, relinquish their fates as the Firstborn, return from the dead, and choose to embrace mortality in the end?

They have no true claim to it.

“My lord,” A voice came from behind.

He stopped. Turning back, he saw his wife. Her silvery hair glimmered in the golden candlelight, and she looked young and fair, though she had seen many more springs and winters than he. Their twin sons, Eluréd and Elurín, stood beside her, their small hands tugging at her long white gown.

“Nimloth,” he called, extending his hand to her. When she placed her hand in his, he was surprised. “Your hand is cold.”

She said nothing, but he saw the conflict and reluctance in her eyes. Gently intertwining his fingers with hers, he pulled her closer. “What is it?”

She leaned against him, her gaze meeting his, and sighed before answering. “I know they are, after all, of our kindred, and they are not as powerful as they seem. But,” she hesitated. “Is this the only way? Is there no other choice?”

To that, he simply smiled. “Trust me, my love.”

Just then, an unbidden vision appeared: the blood-stained Silmaril, newly set into the Dwarven necklace of Nauglamír, resting in the left hand of his father. Against the thick, cruel crimson, its radiance and beauty were even more striking. As the hand dipped it into running water, the color of blood thinned and dissolved, and the vision faded away.

He lingered in confusion for a moment before her voice pulled him back to reality. For the first time since arriving in Menegroth, he found the night dark and cold.

Fortunately, the confusion passed quickly. Shaking his head slightly, he steadied himself.

It is decided.

They want an answer, but I will not grant it, for I will not yield to anything they demand of me.

Except for war.