Sprinkles of Snow by Tamatoa

"The long sleep"

From Me!

They come upon Doriath in the depths of winter. The cold hinders them not; the fire of the Oath in their hearts burns too bright to be muted by the chill.

The great wood seems empty, wreathed in the season’s grey light, snow muffling their steps. Doors are locked, but when they break one down, the sleepers in the fur-piled bed within do not wake.

“Do no harm to them,” Maedhros decrees. “The fault of their king is not theirs.”

It is unexpected; this is why Celegorm falls. Waiting in tension for the elves of Doriath to come awake, he saw not the part-elf of Doriath standing as a statue upon the throne-seat, his father’s great bow in his hands.

There were guards who tried to remain by their king, but the long sleep called to each and every, and the Fëanorians step over their slumbering forms.

“Do no more death than we must,” Maglor says.

This is why Curufin falls; mistaking his brother for a guard until he stood over him.

And this is why Dior falls, too. Sluggish and slow as his heart beats the patterns it knows. Caranthir’s heart slows, too, inches away from Dior’s blade.