One Life For The Sake of the Rest

by Tyelkobaldo_Feanorini

Summary:

Fingolfin goes to Angband, and Celegorm is but a witness.

Chapter 1: The High King Marches

He blinked his eyes open, the crisp air sending shivers down his poorly clad form.

 

The scent of cypress tickled his nose. The light and misty wind caressed his skin softly.

 

He smiled, reaching out with a hand, hoping to find his little nephew by his side. Had Celebrimbor chosen him to pester for lullabies the night before? He wasn't sure. It was likely, with how busy Maglor had become as the prince regent–

 

Wait–

 

No…no it was not adding up. He wasn't…he wasn't in Mithrim. He was in Nargothrond, with its suffocating halls and lack of natural light or fresh air.

 

He sat up immediately, eyes easily adjusting to the dim light of the room. Dawn had yet to come…or it was just how an early spring day in Mithrim looked like.

 

He glanced around the room he had found himself in.

 

The room was airy with a high ceiling, ornate with beautiful carvings. An elegant desk was right in front of him, facing the balcony behind him.

 

A bed, covered with bedding of finest silk and velvets of ocean blue colors sat somewhere on his left.

And on it, sat a man with straight brown hair, so dark it now looked black with the light of day being stolen by clouds.

 

Celegorm frowned as he saw his uncle's shoulders shudder as he breathed in roughly.

 

…It can't be. Am I dreaming?

 

Had something happened? Had he been to Eithel Sirion? He didn't remember anything.

 

Had he reached there through a battle? It did not explain a damn thing. Why would he be lying on the hard floor of his uncle's chamber if that was the case?

 

Fingolfin seemed unaware of his presence yet. Celegorm cocked his head, eyes so focused on this laid back and almost vulnerable figure of someone he thought invincible, his soul almost left his body when the shoulders started to shake, and Fingolfin let out a loud sob.

 

Things just kept getting better and better. There he was, stranded in something he couldn't begin to comprehend, and there his proud and strong uncle was, crying when he probably thought himself to be alone.

 

What was Celegorm supposed to do? Ignore him until he was finished? Comfort him? 

He grimaced. He and his uncle weren't as close as they once were. He wasn't sure what he could even say to soothe his aches.

 

Well. Wouldn't hurt to try. At least he can give me answers sooner if he's calmed down.

 

So he stood up, gingerly, careful to not make any sounds and startle his uncle. He wasn't sure why he was being this sneaky. For some reason, he had always enjoyed sneaking up on Fingolfin. Maybe just to prove to Fingon he was better than him.

 

He plopped down on the bed, and no noise came from the mattress as one would expect. He frowned but shrugged. Maybe it was just that good. Fingolfin always loved his comfort.

 

“Uncle?”

 

Fingolfin gasped, sobs trapped in his throat as all movements stopped. 

Celegorm's eyes widened, and he had a mind to just get up and leave, even if he wasn't sure he could.

 

But then, Fingolfin raised his head, and his silver gaze found his own wide, blue one.

 

“...Tyelko? …what–…how?”

 

Celegorm could only laugh nervously.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

 

Fingolfin's eyes appraised him slowly from head to toe, and Celegorm shifted, a little uncomfortable. He didn't like the look of shock on his uncle's face.

 

“I…Himlad is overrun…what happened to you, my boy? Oh Eru…it's all my fault! I'm so sorry, nephew! You shouldn't be the one gone. Not you too. Aiko and Ango's losses were enough. How am I to face your father now? Am I to tell him I let his boys perish because I was too filled with pride?”

 

More tears streamed down his face as he gulped down the painful sobs he was holding back, and Celegorm could only watch, stricken.

 

Did…did he think he was dead? They had sent letters to Maedhros, though, letting him know of their survival and whereabouts. Had he not let the High King know? 

It made sense in a way to not want to share precarious news such as these at times like now, but still..

 

“Uncle? Do you think me dead?”

He couldn't keep the doubt and fear out of his voice. What if he was? …But, what about the Oath? What about Curufin? What had happened to his nephew and his little–

Fingolfin looked at him, his eyes so filled with grief and guilt Celegorm couldn't quite help but look down.

 

A hand cupped his face, and a thumb stroked his cheekbone with the tenderness of a parent. Something he had missed for far longer than his father had been dead. His lips trembled a little, but he kept his emotions at bay.

“It's all right, sweet boy. You can move on. Uncle will take care of this. Your life will be avenged. And so will my father's be. And so will Náro’s. Moringotto has taken and taken from me. It's time for me to take something from him.”

 

Celegorm trembled at the venom in his tone, even if it was not directed at him.

What did he mean? Nothing made sense.

 

For the first time, he looked at his uncle, only to find him clad in mail and paddings, ready to head out for a battle. What was going on?

 

“What are you doing, Uncle?”

 

Fingolfin smiled, resigned and defeated, but so full of fire. In fact, it was the first time he could look at him and mistake him for his father.

“Something I should have done centuries ago, so maybe lives could have been spared.”

 

His other hand reached out so now that he was holding Celegorm's head, stroking his hair like he used to, untangling the silver strands gently so it wouldn't hurt.

Then, he leaned forward, placing his forehead against his. Celegorm shut his eyes, a lonely tear escaping the tight reign of his emotions.

“Rest now, sweet child. I shall not be long.”

 

And then, darkness.

 

______

 

Celegorm wasn't sure for how long, it felt like years, yet passed by in the blink of an eye, when the darkness faded, and he was met with a scene out of hell. Or the stories of those brave enough to get too close to Angband and come back unscathed.

 

He looked around the barren, blackened land, covered in soot and ashes.

 

Arien’s might meant nothing there. The sky was as dark as the land he stood upon.

 

Rocks, sharp as spears, sprouted from the ground for one purpose only. To break the body and soul of any who dared come too close. 

 

He looked up, and was not surprised to find the shadow of Thangorodrim casted upon him. He shuddered, the memory of another time and day. Of his own first and last visit to this cursed place.

 

He had sworn he would not be back. He had promised his brothers. Yet…he doubted he had any power over where he went and came at the moment. First, it was the tower of his uncle, and now…

 

Something caught his eyes. A flash of white light amidst the darkness, and the sound of hooves, making the ground tremble under its might.

 

His jaw became slack. It could not be …it could not be him!

 

He felt elated, and yet, he couldn't stop his limbs from trembling. As always, Oromë's presence brought joy and nerves alike to his heart.

And after how their last meeting went…

 

His Master got closer and closer, like a wind coming to bring down this house of terror. 

His appearance became clearer, and it made Celegorm frown.

His honey blonde hair had been replaced with a dark tar color, and instead of his usual leather attire, he sported an armour of pure mithril, shining not unlike one of his father's Silmarils.

 

The horse was not …it was not Nahar either. Nahar’s coat was silver, and not the snow white of the great beast he was seeing.

 

This…this is not Oromë.

 

His Master would not come, and Celegorm was alone.

 

He did not know why he still found tears to shed for him, when he clearly could not find it in his heart to spare him or any other of his followers a thought.

 

He did not try to stop the tears, or the blurring vision of his as the steed and its rider came to a stop a few feet away from him. So, finding the rider to be his uncle was a surprise to him. But maybe, it should not have been.

 

Fingolfin's figure was tense yet he stood proud, and finally, Celegorm could see him for the king he was.

 

His eyes flashed brightly, but not with the light of the Trees. It was the fire of his soul reflecting inside those orbs of silver, and Celegorm…he fell to his knees.

 

Memories of a fateful day, just as dark, with only the stars of Varda witness resonated in his head.

 

Of a body, stabbed to the bone, guts being held by his sturdy armour only, and the flames which consumed it, leaving behind mere ashes to bury in a grave.

 

No! No no no no—

 

“Uncle! What are you doing here?! Are you mad?!”

He said before he could stop himself, and Fingolfin's gaze snapped to him, the thunder in his eyes softening under the weight of his love.

 

“Nephew…I…I thought you a figment of my imagination. Especially after you disappeared without a word…”

He laughed the laughter of a madman, then, and Celegorm felt like he was just dunked under the icy waters of Belegaer.

 

This aught to have been a dream, for there was no other explanation for his uncle, always the voice of reason and rational to a fault, to be acting this way.

 

The laughter halted, and Fingolfin settled for a scoff. It sounded too sad to be even considered ridiculing. Still, Fingolfin didn't scoff. He didn't laugh like he was being cut open from inside. His laughter was kind and booming and if Celegorm was still as small as he used to be, he could hug him fiercely around the middle and feel it in his chest with his cheek pressed into it–

 

“I would have thought my addled mind would bring me images of my own Arakáno, but you are mine too. My son, as much as Arakáno. And your blood too I shall bear, sweet boy. And today, I shall avenge all.”

 

Celegorm was speechless as he gathered all the force he could muster to just stand up and step towards his King. Yes, his King, as he was seeing for the first time.

 

For was this madness not a kingly trait? It cost Maedhros his hand and sleep without nightmares, and his father…his life.

What would it take from his uncle?

 

And what was it that Fingolfin planned to do?

 

“...How?”

He found himself whispering, but Fingolfin wasn't looking at him anymore.

 

Instead, his eyes were fixated upon the black gates, and with a determined inhale of breath, he strode towards it.

 

Celegorm followed, struggling to keep up with long and quick strides. Fingolfin reached the black doors of hell, and his hand pounded on it so loudly the sound echoed all around, resonating and final.

 

And as if not enough, he snatched his horn from his belt and blew it twice, and Celegorm felt like he was going deaf, either from the pounding of his own heart in his ears or the march of death his uncle had just played out.

 

This was madness; suicidal—

 

He turned to Fingolfin, and a sob broke out before he could help it. With might he never thought he possessed, he swallowed down the rest so when he addressed his uncle, he would sound intelligible enough to break through whatever spell possessed him.

“Uncle, please! Don't do this. Don't…don't leave us alone. Not you too! Nelyo can't bear this all by himself! You're the one holding us all together!”

 

The only sign that Fingolfin had even heard him was the sudden tense shoulders, but otherwise, he was unresponsive.

 

Celegorm walked up to him, slow and mindful as if he was reaching for a wild beast. Or how he used to approach his father the last days of his life.

 

The resemblance was making him sick to the stomach.

 

Fingolfin jerked when Celegorm grasped his arm, and finally, turned to look him in the eyes.

 

The white of his eyes had become crimson in rage, and Celegorm couldn't see the man who sat him on his lap and told him stories of his father's childhood just to make him smile. There was only grief, grief and grief. And a rage so soul-consuming and fiery, Celegorm feared it would burn him. 

 

Yet, Fingolfin was cold to touch. Like ice.

 

A single tear slid down his uncle's cheek before he felt himself being engulfed in his arms for the second time in the last…he didn't know how long. He couldn't remember.

 

And amidst the howling of the wind, he barely could hear his uncle’s weak mumbling.

“What did they do to you, lad, for you to not even remember dying?”

Celegorm didn't know. He didn't know if he was dead or alive. He couldn't care about that now. All he knew was that if his uncle went through with whatever he had planned, it would be just another knife to his already bleeding heart. It could kill him again, dead or not.

 

He was pushed away suddenly, and almost fell on his bum. He looked at Fingolfin with wide eyes, only to find him glancing above.

 

At the battlements.

 

“Leave, Tyelko. Real, or my imagination, I don't want you to see this.”

And then, his voice bellowed, but not directed at him.

 

“Moringotto! Come forth now, coward! You were too afraid to meet my brother on the battlefield! Are you so afraid of me, you'll send your demons to take care of me, too?! Tis I, Nolofinwë! King of the Noldor! I am here to avenge my father! My brother! Come forth if you have an ounce of your brethren’s courage in your black heart!”

 

No. No, this isn’t happening…

 

The orcs by the battlement disappeared quickly, and then, it was silent.

 

“Uncle, please! Think about Finno! He's…he's going to be all alone. He can't…he can't do it without you…”

Celegorm’s voice was timid and quiet. It was not often for him to be defending Fingon, his longtime rival. Mostly because he never needed to.

Fingolfin sent a halfhearted glance his way.

“He has his wife and son. I've raised him well. He'll…he and Maitimo will lead well. Lead better. Stronger. They are all grown. They will be fine without me.”

 

Celegorm wasn't sure who he was talking to. Who he was trying to convince.

 

Something told him, either way, he was not successful.

And he told him as much.

“Even you don't believe that.”

 

Celegorm could still see longing and grief striking his brother's heart whenever someone even as much as mentioned Fëanor. Curufin never recovered from the loss of their father.

 

And with Argon gone and Turgon and Aredhel disappeared from the face of the land, Celegorm was sure this loss would break Fingon. His cousin would make a capable king and leader, but at what cost?

 

Fingolfin stiffened, but didn't respond.

 

Celegorm wanted to speak. Wanted to talk him out of this. He wanted to do something, but before he could even think what that thing was, the screeching of metal against metal made him jump, palms covering his ears out of instinct. The sound was jarring.

 

It only took one step from the black foe to shake the ground so hard for Celegorm to stumble back and fall gracelessly like a rag doll with its strings cut.

His eyes never left his uncle's unshakable form, though.

 

Fingolfin neither trembled or showed any other sign of the fear Celegorm felt deep in his heart, and he was staring at Morgoth and Celegorm wasn't sure if he could dare to.

 

Another step, and Celegorm scrambled away just so the shadow of his form would not touch him.

 

Even as something in him screamed not to. To get on his feet and run to him and get them back. The surroundings were filled with their light, but Celegorm could not bring himself to look at them else he gave in and did what the voice in his head told him to do.

 

Another step and then another, and another, and then, the screeching sound again.

 

The doors were shut, and there Celegorm and Fingolfin were, stranded in the heart of this thrice cursed land with the King Slayer.

 

“Nolofinwë. The lesser son. Come at last to meet your end. I never thought you had the fire of your brother in you, but it matters not. You're no more loved than he was, and you will be crushed like he did. No mithril armor will save you.”

 

The voice which spoke was as beautiful and deceitful as the day he first heard it laugh in the markets of Tirion. It broke at times and failed the speaker, news of what had transpired between him and the mother of spiders.

 

Celegorm's gut felt hollow with fear, but he could not resist any longer. He looked up.

 

Morgoth…had not kept the same fair face. He knew, from the vague description Maedhros had given them. He looks different. Ugly.

 

But he did not quite expect the sight which greeted him. 

Cheeks hollow as if starved, skin sagging as if he, an ageless creature, had been given the fate of Men, and so pale and clammy as if he was rotting from the inside. 

 

His head was bowed, neck craned like that of a crone, the weight of his theft so heavy it had made the King of Arda resemble an old mortal man who was at death's doorstep.

 

And finally, Celegorm had to blink in order to be able to look at them, and his legs, without any commands from him, pulled him up.

 

He couldn't look away. Nothing else mattered– nothing else mattered– nothing–

 

Fingolfin yelled with all the hate and anger he harbored, and charged.

 

The thief is distracted! Take them! Take them! Take them–

 

The hammer striked, and Celegorm yelled in horror.

 

The flash of crystals and royal blue caught his eyes. Fingolfin, quick on his feet despite the weight of his weaponry, had dodged the attack, and now approached Morgoth with a speed which had left even Celegorm speechless.

 

The duel should have looked comical. Pathetic, even. Morgoth's form was so huge, bigger than even his Demon Lord, he could have crushed his uncle's tall figure in his hands if he so wished.

 

But as Celegorm watched Morgoth stumble around, trying to dodge the sword of the Noldorin king, he somehow looked smaller than he was supposed to. Matched even, he thought, as his uncle landed the first strike.

 

“For Aikanáro, you filth upon Eru's land!”

 

Morgoth screeched in pain, and Celegorm whimpered and sobbed, covering his ears.

It was not the voice of the black king in which he was trying to keep out.

 

He's down! He's weak! Do it! Do it– Take them back, boy–

 

 

Morgoth screamed, but in rage, swinging his hammer so close to his uncle's head Celegorm thought him gone for a second.

 

But Fingolfin was faster, even if his dodge ended up with him falling to his knees.

 

He rolled away from the path of the hammer as Morgoth brought it down and back on his feet.

 

Amidst the sound of oath and marsh of death Fingolfin was playing, Celegorm found himself impressed beyond words by his uncle's prowess. 

He had never had the opportunity to fight by his side, and deep down, he knew he never would, even if Fingolfin somehow survived.

 

Because he himself appeared to be naught but a wandering spirit, and failing to grasp the abandoned rock he had found on the ground was further proof of it.

 

He had tried to reach out for it, feeling powerless without a weapon to hold in his hand.

And when his fingers passed through it without even feeling the cold touch of Angband’s cursed ground, he was further convinced that his uncle's formerly insane reaction to seeing him might not have been so far off.

 

He might not have remembered dying, but it didn't make him any less dead.

 

Another scream had him spring back to his feet from the crouching position he was in, all thoughts of death forgotten in favor of watching the duel in front of him, helpless and yet in awe.

 

His uncle had landed another hit, this time on the left leg, and Morgoth had to resort to his hammer to break his fall.

 

The Dark Lord looked livid, and Celegorm wanted to hide away somewhere where those bleak eyes would never fall on him.

 

Fingolfin panted and gave a feral laugh.

“For my Angaráto. May he laugh merrily, seeing you down on your knees.”

His voice came out gritted from behind his grinding teeth, and he sprang away when the giant form of Morgoth surged forward in an attempt to catch him off guard.

 

Celegorm was frozen in his place, and for those cursed minutes which followed, even the unrelenting voices in his head, forcing him to move and to attack and to take back what belonged to him, nor the ever weakening state of his uncle as he landed hits after hits, gifting each to the spirits of his last born, his good-daughter, his father and fallen brother, and finally, Celegorm himself, was able to move him.

 

Sweat dripped off Fingolfin's face, mixing with the black and red blood covering his previously pristine armour. He was tired, and there was a resigned smile on his face as he fell to his knees to avoid another swing of Morgoth's hammer.

 

The last stand. The last attempt at surviving something he knew he could never have avoided.

 

Giving up his life for nothing.

 

Or, perhaps, it wasn't nothing. Celegorm appraised the Dark Lord with his eyes. Blood dripped off of his legs and feet, sizzling as it hit the ground. He did not stand straight and favored one foot over the other, steps unsure and hesitant as he approached the High King who breathed roughly but his laughter still sang and echoed through the land. A sound which the creatures lurking in the dark would recall with fear.

 

“Little pest. Die now.”

Morgoth hissed, and Celegorm glanced up at his face in alarm, only to find it strained. His neck hung so low as if the weight of his crown had doubled or even tripled since he stepped outside of his dark halls to face Fingolfin. 

 

And the jewels…they pulsed, brightening with each step Morgoth took towards his uncle. With a fire he had longed to see come to life once again.

 

Fingolfin laughed then, booming and loud and just like he remembered. Celegorm took the first step.

 

“Will I?”

Another.

 

Morgoth scoffed.

“Had you expected another outcome for this daring quest of yours, foolish child of my Father?”

 

Celegorm’s pace quickened.

 

“You thought my brother dead. You threw feasts to celebrate his demise. Yet he's here, his spirit forcing you to bow to his might. He's here to help me, and you will burn in the flames of his hatred, Moringotto.”

 

Morgoth screamed in rage, pulled up his wounded foot, and Celegorm jumped.

 

The wind was knocked out of his lungs as he and Fingolfin went rolling on the dirt, and he tried not to think of how he had felt the sole of the Dark Lord’s feet grazing his back.

 

“T…Tyelko?”

He heard Fingolfin whisper somewhere under him, pushing him aside the next second to sit up.

 

“...No…no what have you done, child?”

Celegorm almost winced at the stern tone, and had to look away so he wouldn't have to look Fingolfin in the eyes.

 

And that was a mistake, for his eyes found no one else's but Morgoth.

 

For the Black Foe was looking at him now. Directly at him, as if seeing him for the first time, a slowly widening smile overcoming the strain he felt under the weight of the jewels.

 

“A family trip, is it? How come I did not see you until now, little pet of my brother?”

He frowned then, more out of mockery than anything else.

“You appear faint, yet. Wandered too far from your hröa, have you not, child?”

“Tyelko…run! Go! Take my horse and leave!”

 

But Celegorm couldn't. He couldn't look away from the approaching form of Morgoth, even as he could feel his heart beating so fast it might break out of his ribcage.

 

Fingolfin stood back on his feet, having retrieved his sword from wherever it had ended up in Celegorm's stupid attempt of saving a life already gifted to Mandos, and blocked out those dark, sinister eyes, and Celegorm could breathe.

 

But Morgoth was not paying them any mind as he crowed on.

“Mairon would be delighted to have you. Maybe I should summon him back. He's felt quite lonely since your brother's departure.”

 

Fingolfin spared him a glance, eyes wide and posture as tense as a badger protecting its cub.

“Go, boy! Leave!”

But Celegorm couldn't. He couldn't even hold a rock in his hand. He doubted if he could mount any horses now, even one as mighty as Rochallor.

He could barely feel his feet in his fear, let alone stand.

 

Fingolfin was swatted aside with a careless hand, and it reached out and grasped Celegorm tightly.

 

He couldn't help the scream he let out. Morgoth's gauntlet was piercing his side. He felt like it should have been bleeding.

But…

Wandered too far from your hröa, have you not, child?

 

The squelching sound of flesh being sliced was heard, and Celegorm felt relief for a second only for his ears to be torn apart by the scream of pain once again echoing among these mountains.

 

His hands covered his ears as he rolled away from the blackened hand of Morgoth, whimpering but with a surge of strength borne out of a desire to survive.

 

Morgoth screamed and screamed, but Celegorm didn't look back until he felt a hand on his back. He flinched, and turned to find Fingolfin pushing him to run faster. His once fair face had been burned on sports with the black blood covering the melting flesh and skin.

Celegorm sobbed, sprint halting only to be pushed to run faster.

 

“Go, my child. I'll hold him off.”

He did not scream. In fact, he was smiling, and despite the burns disfiguring his handsome features, Celegorm found it beautiful like a child could only find in their parents, disfigured or not.

 

Celegorm dared glance at Morgoth for the last time. The dark lord was holding his right wrist in his hand, and from where his hand should have been oozed a black, acidic liquid and tainting the ground with his poison. His hand was missing, and Celegorm did not wait to look for it. He knew where it lay now. 

 

With another shove, he was running as fast as the pain on his side allowed him too, Morgoth's shrieks and Fingolfin's taunts following his steps.

 

A slope of stones became his refuge. He crawled into the small space somehow, panting and sobbing and trying to keep his voice down so maybe the monster would go away.

 

Morgoth stomped and let out feral shouts of pain and rage, and Fingolfin taunted, yelled and cackled and no matter how hard Celegorm tried to cover his ears, the voices still seeped through.

 

Until they didn't. Until it was silent, but not before he heard the cracking sound of bones being crushed. 

 

“Where are you, whelp?!”

Morgoth bellowed all of a sudden, voice strained from pain but no less angry than he was before.

 

And close. Way too close. Celegorm whimpered.

 

Tyelko? He's…he's bleeding! Healer!

 

Someone was whispering, and Celegorm breathed out in shock.

 

“You will not leave here. Not after what you did to me, pest! And don't worry, it will not be Mairon who will be your companion here, pathetic spawn of Fëanáro!”

 

Come on, Tyelko! Why aren't you waking up?

 

Was that…Finrod?

 

What is going on here? What …why–…what did you do to him?! 

 

And…Curvo?

 

“Come out! Don't make me angrier than I am!”

 

I didn't do anything! I…this just happened!

 

Something touched Celegorm's face and he almost shrieked. He looked at his side only to find…nothing.

 

Come on, brother! Wake up! I– we can't lose you too!

 

Wake up? How was he supposed to do that?

 

Stomp

 

How was he supposed to wake up?

 

Stomp

 

Wasn't he dead?

 

Stomp

 

Should he just…?

 

Stomp

 

He shut his eyes, and opened them to find a pair of tearful silver ones staring down at him.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: What Is Left Behind

Summary:

But before he could take the chance to think about throwing it at him, Finrod called out. Not loud, for it would have been another cause for this skittish man to panic, and he could not have guaranteed the dagger not finding its place in his flesh.

Yet it was clear, so he could listen. So he could understand. So he could feel safe.

“Just me, cousin. Just me. It's just Ingoldo. Do you mind…?”

The figure stilled, his neck strained to hear his voice better. His face was covered under the fabric of his cloak, so he could not see it. But he saw his hold slacking around the hilt of the knife. He saw him put it down, and at last, he saw his head bobbing in a pitiful attempt of a nod.

The silhouette was drenched by the moonlight as Finrod neared him with caution. His usually soundless steps were louder, as if to warn the other of his approach. He did not wish to alarm him.

 

Yet, despite his efforts, fate seemed to have other plans. His foot caught a pebble, throwing it with little force, yet it skipped forward a few times before falling into the pond.

 

The figure flinched violently, reaching out for the dagger deliberately placed by his side.

 

But before he could take the chance to think about throwing it at him, Finrod called out. Not loud, for it would have been another cause for this skittish man to panic, and he could not have guaranteed the dagger not finding its place in his flesh.

 

Yet it was clear, so he could listen. So he could understand. So he could feel safe.

 

“Just me, cousin. Just me. It's just Ingoldo. Do you mind…?”

 

The figure stilled, his neck strained to hear his voice better. His face was covered under the fabric of his cloak, so he could not see it. But he saw his hold slacking around the hilt of the knife. He saw him put it down, and at last, he saw his head bobbing in a pitiful attempt of a nod.

 

The figure turned back to face the pond again, his back to him, and Finrod approached, pace a little quicker but not less loud and clear.

 

Finrod reached him at last. He looked down, but found no luck on seeing anything but a quivering chin from this closer angle. Everything else was obscured by the hood he wore tightly around him these past days. 

Finrod couldn't help but sigh, but regretted it in a second when the figure flinched again.

 

“May I sit by you, brother?”

He wasn't sure if he was welcome. He wasn't sure if he could even call him brother, but he had no chance to backtrack when he heard an intake of breath. 

Then, the figure slowly looked up and revealed his face.

 

Celegorm's eyes were wide, the white of them a raging crimson that almost had him jump. The eyelids were puffy from tears and the lack of rest.

His gaze slid down to his usually pale cheeks to find red scratch marks. Finrod's hands clenched into a fist.

His lips were red from the constant biting, bruised and torn in so many places Felagund could not count. 

 

And he was pale like a ghost. He was suddenly reminded of a time happier than today, when Celegorm was yet a Ghost, but more for his silly habits of sneaking up on people and scaring them with the bell-like laughter of a child.

 

Not the worn, starved looking man sitting by his side, cheeks hollowed and bones sticking out because he had not slept or eaten anything worthwhile for weeks now.

 

Celegorm must have seen something in his gaze, for he dropped his face immediately. His hand patted the space next to him as he slid the dagger closer to himself.

 

He did not speak a single word.

 

Finrod hesitated, but bunched up his robes a little and sat down by his cousin's side.

 

He turned to look at him again. Celegorm was watching the pond with haunted eyes, flinching and shaking with the slightest movements he could catch.

 

Despite expectations, Celegorm did not stink from lack of bathing and cleaning, which was gladdening in some way. He was not so far gone in his madness to forget basic hygiene yet. He eyed the angry red of scratches on his face and grimaced. Maybe a little too focused, even.

He did not use his scented soaps like before though. As if they were still on a battlefield.

 

As if he didn't wish to be discovered.

 

Like the cloaks he would constantly cover himself with. Like the sneaking around and carrying small mirrors and spending nights by this pond so he could watch his back at all times. 

 

Finrod thought back to that fateful night and thought, with a heavy heart, if Curufin was right.

 

If this was his fault.

 

That evening had been innocent enough. Celegorm had reached out with an olive branch after a disagreement between the two of them in the court which had ended up with the said silver haired man storming out to avoid letting his temper cause unsalvageable problems.

 

Finrod had hesitated at first, but Celegorm looked genuine enough for him to finally cave in.

 

They had visited Felagund's favorite grounds, caught a hare or two and spared the doe and her fawn Finrod had almost shot down in his ignorance.

 

He still remembered Celegorm's gentle fingers circling around his wrist and stopping him, pointing at a small figure with hesitant legs by the doe’s hind legs, camouflaged so well that Finrod could not have noticed him without the help of his cousin.

 

Celegorm had not hissed and yelled like he had expected him to. He had merely pulled him up and away, making sure not to spook the mother and her babe grazing innocently and without a care.

 

He had thanked him mentally for sparing him days filled with guilt, but Celegorm seemed to have heard it anyway, for he threw him a small smile like he used to when Finrod was yet a growing thing himself.

 

They had made camp close to the palace, so there had not been any need for one to stay up guard, even if Huan had not accompanied them that day.

 

Celegorm had insisted, though, and Finrod didn't find any problem with it. He was not the one staying up anyway. 

They had eaten and drank a little, and at last, Finrod had bade the other ellon good night and unrolled his beddings by the tree.

 

The last he remembered of him, Celegorm had been leaning against the trunk of a tree, palms holding the back of his head and eyes half-closed.

His posture had been relaxed and could have fooled someone else into thinking he was resting and not attentive. Not Finrod, though. 

 

So, even if he knew this part of his land to have been well protected, Finrod went to sleep more sure of his own safety for nothing passed the watchful gaze of the hunter by his side.

 

 

Yet, when he had woken up hours later at dawn with a need to relieve himself, he had found the said ellon fast asleep, curled into himself even though the night was warm and barely a breeze grazed the leaves of branches above.

 

He had shook his head, more amused than anything else, and had left to do his business a fair distance away before returning.

 

Celegorm had moved in his sleep, and was now facing him.

 

Finrod had barely spared him a glance at first, but he found himself forever grateful for whatever power had made him so. 

He didn't know what he would have done if he had ignored him and gone to sleep then and there. Maybe he would not have him sitting by his side now.

 

He tried drowning the voice in his head telling him if it would have been a better fate than Celegorm faced now.

 

Celegorm’s chest had not been moving. He had not been breathing, and Finrod had fallen to his knees twice before he could even reach him.

 

He had pulled the other man into his arms, held his face in his hand. Neither of which had risen the light sleeper his cousin was.

 

And he had not taken a breath. Even once.

 

He had slapped his cheeks lightly, called his name over and over, cursed him even, foolishly hoping it would raise him from his deathbed.

 

For he had imagined him dead then, even if he, thank the Father above and any Valar listening, was proven wrong later.

 

He had not dared to press his chest to revive his heart as he had seen healers do, and more than once he had wished for Orodreth's presence by their side for his gentle brother would have known how to. He wouldn't have been useless like Finrod had been.

 

Being left with no choice, he had pulled his cousin on his back, discarded all their belongings by the fire they had built, and sprinted towards the closest patrol outpost.

 

He knew he would have carried him all the way back to the palace by himself if they had not been lucky enough to find a horse.

 

 

The path back to the palace and the healing halls had been a blur to him, a hand holding the limp form of Celegorm or carrying it through the hallways for he had not tolerated the help of his guards.

 

For what if something worse had happened to him if Finrod was not the one present? If he had not been the one holding him?

What if he had gone beyond saving and help and Finrod had not been holding him?

 

What if he had lost another brother right then and there, and some stranger was holding his body instead of family?

 

And so he had told himself as he broke into the halls, screaming for help. For anything to save his brother.

 

He had placed his limp and to his slow realization, cold body on a bed, and was shoved aside by a group of ellith in white and grey.

 

Hours had passed, with no sign of vitals of the cold body lying on the bed next to him. 

 

And Curufin arrived, still in his forge apron, his cheeks reddened from the heat and the running and soot marking his forehead and chin.

He had taken one glance at him and then at his brother before charging.

 

Finrod had felt his body being slammed against the wall, but any pain it must have caused was drowned by the ache in his heart.

 

Curufin had been livid, asking him what exactly he had done to his brother repetitively as if Finrod would not have answered him the first time if he just knew.

 

And as if Finrod would have had it in him to harm his own family.

 

Guards had to step in and pull him back just in time for Finrod to watch an elderly healer approach Celegorm's bed with a white cloth.

 

And just in time for him to see the sheets darkening slowly to a crimson color.

 

Celegorm had been bleeding, and they were just seeing it.

 

And Celegorm…he had started moving. It was subtle at first, but he fully noticed it when he ran to his side and called the approaching elleth because there still had been hope.

 

Curufin had shoved aside the guards and bounded to his side, pushing him away to stand by Celegorm's side as he took a shuddering breath.

 

The youngest had reached out with a shaking hand and cupped his brother's cheek, causing him to gasp in fear.

 

And at last, Celegorm had taken his first deep breath only for him to start screaming.

 

He had thrashed, pulled away from any hand daring to touch him, and screamed until his throat was raw. And just as the guards and the healers had managed to hold him long enough for sedative draught to be choked down his throat, he had started mumbling.

 

He is looking for me…. Don't let him find me. ..Don't let him find me….Don't let him find me….

 

And later when he had finally woken up, no hysterical anymore but no less frightened, he had gone mute, offering no response to the question of who was looking for him.

 

He would refuse drugs even as he whimpered in pain from the gash they didn't know how he acquired. He did not eat because he could not stomach anything.

 

And he did not sleep, because he thought someone was looking for him.

He would disappear for hours at a time, avoiding his brother, nephew and his loyal hound. Finrod had decided to keep the location of this pond he frequented a secret for here, he could at least keep an eye on him. He didn't know where he would go if Curufin or Celebrimbor were to find him here.

 

It had been weeks now, and he showed no sign of improvement. No healer had any answers, besides that the lack of air for those hours must have had some effect on his brain, and they didn't know if he could ever be healed.

 

But Finrod did not believe it. Celegorm wasn't retarded. In fact, he seemed more alert than ever, steps more sure as he snuck around his palace like a phantom in the night.

 

Celegorm was afraid. He was afraid of talking. He was afraid of being seen. He was afraid of being found. He was afraid of his scent being caught.

 

He is looking for me…

 

Who is, cousin? He wished he could find answers.

 

“Tyelko?”

 

The only sign indicating he had been heard was a slight turn of his chin.

 

Finrod reached out gingerly and grasped Celegorm's hand. His hold was loose enough at first, so his cousin could have pulled away easily if he wished to. 

Celegorm's hand was trembling, but he did not pull away.

 

Finrod pulled it towards himself, covering the gruesome sight of his bloody fingertips by his other hand.

 

“Have you…do you want to eat anything? I think I have a honey crystal in my pocket.”

He knew it was a fool's hope even as he said it, but he had wished the promise of sweets might compel Celegorm to eat something. Both had never lost the sweet tooth even at this age, and he could often find his cousin standing by his sweets jar in his study.

 

He could. Not anymore.

 

Something in his heart broke when Celegorm merely shook his head and tried to cover up the sound of gagging as if the thought of eating was enough to make him want to throw up his guts.

 

Minutes passed with Celegorm sitting unmoving by his side, his hand still held fast in his hold, and Finrod would have been content, if he did not have his own reasons for being there.

 

His cousin was wasting away, and Finrod couldn't stand aside and watch anymore. His questions might make him uncomfortable, might make him want to run away and hide somewhere else, but they needed to be asked, and Celegorm needed to answer them before he could disappear.

 

“The day…the day we thought you were dead…”

Celegorm's hand shook in his hold, and he went to pull it away. Finrod's hold tightened, bordering on painful, but he didn't let go.

 

“I…I still have nightmares about it. And it wasn't I who almost died, Tyelko.”

A barely audible whimper was heard, and Celegorm settled down with a sigh.

 

Finrod turned to find his teary eyes looking at him already.

“It's alright to be afraid, brother.”

Some color returned to his cousin's cheeks, and he looked down in shame. Finrod hadn't thought about how it would make him feel humiliated. For Celegorm to be lectured about bravery by him. But maybe he should have.

 

Well, it mattered not. He had passed the point of returning.

 

“But destroying yourself as you are doing now is not. You need help, so let me help you. If Curvo and Tyelpë are not welcome, then maybe you can let someone more estranged help you. Someone who understands you. I was saved from certain death not so long ago, too.”

 

He saw the first tear slid down his cheek as his lips trembled. He wished he could offer him a comforting hug, but wasn't sure if this skittish ellon would allow it.

 

“Who is that you fear, cousin? Who is looking for you?”

He pressed on, and Celegorm flinched, and with a sudden surge of strength, pulled his hand away from Finrod's grasp. He would have been long gone and on his way to somewhere else to hide if Finrod had been a little less fast, and Celegorm a little less predictable.

 

His hands held his wrists fast in a firm and painful grip, and he did not let go. 

Not even when Celegorm stopped struggling and began crying quietly, though his hold became gentler. 

 

“If you don't want to talk, fine. You can write it for me.”

Celegorm looked up, his blue eyes swimming with tears and he let out a soft gasp of surprise.

He probably had not taken a moment to think about it himself.

 

His dumbfounded face would have brought out a chuckle from Finrod if the situation had been any different.

 

“I'm gonna let go of you now and take the paper and charcoal out of my pocket. Don't try to run away. You haven't had anything to eat for days now, and I've always been faster.”

 

Celegorm's jaw dropped at the last jab and Finrod's audacity. He scowled at him, and Finrod grinned.

 

He let go of him, and Celegorm, true to his silent word, did not attempt to flee. He massaged his wrists which were sporting red marks already, which will soon turn purple. Finrod felt guilt building up in his heart, but remembered the reason for it. Another sign of malnourishment. Another reason for this madness stopping this very night.

 

He reached out into his pocket and passed him a few spare pieces of parchment and a small, sharped piece of charcoal.

 

Celegorm looked at him, sighed, and accepted them easier than he had imagined.

 

Finrod let the slight surprise sink in before he started questioning him.

 

“Do you know what happened to you that night?”

Celegorm stiffened slightly, looked down, before his shaking hand wrote something down for him.

 

No.

 

It didn't quite feel like a lie, but neither was it the whole truth. Finrod could tell.

 

Well, he wasn't quite expecting an answer for this. And it didn't matter as much since he doubted it was going to happen again.

 

“Why…why don't you eat? Or sleep?”

 

Why are you doing this to yourself, he had meant to ask at first, but stopped himself. It was not like Celegorm wanted this either.

 

Can't.

 

I don't want it to happen again.

 

Finrod’s heart broke. He wanted to hug him. Wanted to comfort him. Wanted to tell him he could go to sleep without the fear of not waking up again.

 

But he couldn't do any of that.

 

“Who is looking for you? What did you see while you slept?”

 

He wasn't quite certain if he should have asked that question. But…Finrod was almost sure that was the cause of the whole problem. Celegorm had seen something during those hours of being practically dead, and whatever he had seen had shaken him enough to make him act like this.

 

Whether it had been a dream or delusions of a failing mind, it mattered not.

 

To Celegorm, they were real, and they were making him suffer.

 

But it did not make Celegorm's reaction any easier to take.

 

He dropped the parchment and charcoal like they were molting metal and coal, and started shaking his head.

 

“Tyelko, I really need to know–”

 

But Celegorm wasn't listening. He pushed himself away until his back hit a stone and he could go no further.

 

“Tyelko, I know it's hard, but you should–”

 

Celegorm spoke for the first time, but only to chant one word over and over.

“No, no, no, no–”

 

He pulled his knees up and buried his face in them until he was camouflaged completely, and only his shaking form gave him away.

 

Finrod did not wait to think and reached out, pulling him into his arms.

“It's alright. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…”

 

And he was, but not for asking. Not for trying to help. But because nothing they did seemed to be good enough.

 

Amidst the tears, his own and Celegorm's, he almost missed it. The whispering with a pained laugh following it.

 

“The King is dead.Long live the King.”

 

And when the messenger of Barad Eithel reached his study the next morning to tell him of Fingolfin’s brave and yet sorrowful demise, Finrod found himself with answers he thought he'd never get, and questions he didn't want the answer to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3: A Road To Healing

Summary:

Finrod breaks them the news of Fingolfin's demise. An unburdened Curufin would have mourned him, but this Curufin couldn't afford to think of anything else but his brother.

Cousins fight, and a solution appears from the most unlikely places.

Shadows moved in light and darkness alike.

Nowhere was safe. Nowhere to hide.

They waited only for him to turn around, and then they would be by his side.

 

Grabbing him, dragging him, taking him away to him.

He couldn't let them. He would rather die in his sleep like Finrod had imagined than let them have him.

His mind was already destroyed. He'd not let them have his flesh too.

 

He'd have to keep moving, he knew, but he was starting to smell again.

His unhealed flesh still bled. He had not let it get infected, yet it refused to heal, and Celegorm often stunk of blood because of it. He ignored the little voice in his head telling him he was the one stopping it from healing.

 

Which was why he was there in the first place, visiting his chambers after days of avoiding it. Curufin had figured out his pattern again, and Celegorm had no choice but to remain by the pond, even after the disaster of meeting Finrod. 

 

His fists clenched, the pain of his bitten fingers and nails grounding and welcome.

 

He looked around the room with drawn curtains, blocking out the moonlight and sighed. He pushed the door enough to make room for himself to pass, and closed it behind himself, yet couldn't avoid the quiet click.

 

For some reason, it banged in his head and had him flinch. His hold tightened around the knob, waiting for the sound to quieten in his head.

 

At last, all was silent, and Celegorm could move. He crept on towards the bathroom where he knew Curufin left bandages and salves for him, his guilt pushed down with the metallic scent of blood strengthening. He should be quick. Change the bandage, clean himself up, and then leave again.

 

His hand grasped the knob to his bathing chamber. He closed his eyes and turned it.

 

The figure, clad in black and a sore sight in the golden and white of the chamber, was not one who had tried to hide himself from him.

 

Yet, Celegorm couldn't stop the gasp of fear from escaping him. He went to take a step back when the man looked up.

 

Curufin looked…tired. The constant bags under his eyes had only darkened. His cheeks had lost their flush and joined colors with that of his pale skin, and his bright silver eyes looked dimmed.

 

It's your fault– It's your fault– It's your fault–

 

“Come inside, Tyelko. Tis only me. I've brought you bandages. Knew you would come back tonight.” 

 

Curufin’s deep voice was soft. Soft like the tone he used with Celebrimbor only. Celegorm's shoulder sagged at the familiarity, and he went to open his mouth to speak.

 

I'm sorry, he wished to say, but his mouth didn't cooperate. I love you. Again, the thought merely passed through his head but not his throat.

 

Tears of frustration clouded his vision and he looked down immediately. He was so damn tired of crying.

 

“Tyelko? Won't you let me help? At least with your bandages.”

A smaller hand, worn and rough much like his own caught his wrist, and Celegorm flinched, shrinking into himself. The other reached out for his elbow and pulled him closer until he could feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek.

 

Curufin led him to sit by the edge of the tub, his hand already moving to push aside his cloak and pulling the sash of his shirt open.

 

Blood had seeped through the cotton clothes, making them crimson red, painting the skin around it slowly.

 

Curufin stopped for a moment. Celegorm did not dare look up.

He heard his barely audible gulp before he began to work. His sharp blade made short work of cutting off the soaked bandages. Celegorm couldn't help the whimpers of pain as his skin was pulled along with the soiled cloth. 

 

Curufin was silent as he worked. The stitches were intact, but the healing scab looked barely formed to Celegorm. He didn't understand. Why was it taking so long to heal? What was wrong with him? Was… it cursed? Was it because he gave it to him?

He bit his lips until the skin broke again, the pain a needed distraction.

 

He frowned. His other wounds healed slowly but they healed. What if there really was something wrong with this one?

 

He eyed the abandoned surgical blade by his side as Curufin reached out for the salve. 

He frowned and picked it up. It would be a clean cut. Right on his forearm. Just to make sure nothing was wrong with him. It was just the wound. He was fine.

 

He hadn't meant for it to be that deep. He really hadn't, but just as he had placed the blade on his arm, Curufin had yelled in alarm. The blade had slipped, making a deep, long line on his arm, barely avoiding major veins.

 

“Tyelko! What are you doing?!”

 

Nothing, he wished he could say. But all he did was flinching and dropping the blade on the ground.

 

His side pulsed with pain but he didn't dare make a sound. He heard Curufin sigh before he saw his hand reach for the blade out of the corner of his eyes. 

A gentle hand pushed him to lean back and Celegorm complied. He just wanted to bandage up and leave. 

 

This was why he didn't want Curufin around. He was going to see the mess he had become and he was going to be sad and disappointed.

 

Something cool and soothing was put on his bleeding wound and Celegorm sighed.

 

“Just a poultice, brother. To help it heal.”

Curufin muttered under his breath. Celegorm nodded to no one in particular. Medicine. Good. It would help him heal, so it would hurt less and Celegorm would not be tempted to take some of the milk of the poppy Curufin left him alongside the bandages. He didn't want to sleep. He couldn't. What if he got sent back there? What if he got caught?

 

“Just putting on bandages. You have to help with this a bit. Can you stand up?”

Celegorm found himself doing so, while he eyed the blood seeping out of the wound he had made on his hand. Not as deep as it was long, but would need stitches. He frowned. He hadn't wanted for this to happen. He just wanted a small cut to test his theory. Why did nothing come out right? Why couldn't he do anything right?

 

The bandage rolled around his middle as Curufin worked. Celegorm watched it, then him, and his eyes slid back towards his arm. 

 

A slight pull, and Celegorm went forward with it. Curufin was done. He was tying the bandage into a knot. Good. Celegorm could leave now.

 

“I have to take care of your arm too, before you can leave. It won't be long. Hopefully it wouldn't need stitches. Here. Drink this first. You've lost a lot of blood. Need to stay hydrated.”

 

He passed him a cup. Celegorm took it with his not bleeding hand, but didn't drink it. He looked at Curufin. His eyes were calm.

 

He looked at the cup, then. He brought it up to sniff it. It smelled like water.

“Just has some sugar dissolved in it. You won't eat anything. But you still need your strength. Go on. Drink it.”

 

Celegorm looked back at him. Curufin still looked calm. Celegorm blinked slowly. He doesn't have to chew and swallow this. There would be no crunching sounds. Better than the crystal Finrod had offered him. 

 

He brought the cup to his mouth and downed it in one go.

 

It tasted like sugar as promised. Too sweet. Even for him. It had some minty taste to it too. Like tooth creams. He blinked and looked down at his arm. His blood still coated his forearm. But it looked weird then. Hazy. As if he was seeing through a thin white cloth wrapped around his face.

 

Did he have something wrapped around his face? 

 

He coughed out a breath just as his knees gave in. Instead of the expected cold touch of the chamber's floor, Celegorm felt a warm embrace, and a gentle hand holding his back and shoulders.

 

He breathed out roughly, heart beating wildly as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A face came into view as he felt himself go limp. Curufin was there, his face no longer calm but contorted in pain.

 

“I'm sorry.”

______

“Fath– is…is that Uncle Tyelko?”

 

Curufin raised his head, but his hold on Celegorm's hand did not slacken. 

He looked over his shoulder and nodded. Celebrimbor took a moment before closing the door and walking up to him.

 

“Was he…how come he's sleeping?”

Curufin smiled humorlessly. Who would have thought such a stupid question would make so much sense in his life? 

How come he is sleeping? As if he wasn't supposed to. 

 

“Came back for bandages. I was waiting for him. Fed him some of your Uncle Nelyo's sleeping herbs. He won't be up for a few days.”

 

There was silence, before Celebrimbor walked in front of his line of sight. He held his finger in front of Celegorm's nose and sighed in relief when he felt the brush of warm air against his fingers. He cupped his bony cheek then, caressing it gently and stepped back.

“Was…was it necessary?”

 

Curufin heard his son whisper, and had to close his eyes in order to compose himself.

“Couldn't think of another way.”

 

Curufin felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find his son's teary eyes. He couldn't imagine his heart breaking to smaller pieces, yet he had been proven wrong again and again.

Celebrimbor opened his mouth, and then closed it. And, giving up on words, he knelt in front of his chair and reached out for a hug. Curufin went in gladly.

His son hugged his middle, burying his no longer small but no less precious face in his chest. Curufin cupped the back of his head, stroking his hair.

 

Minutes passed by, and Curufin continued ignoring the small wet patches forming on his shirt. He ignored the occasional hitching breaths, and he kept stroking those soft strands.

 

And then, Celebrimbor cursed suddenly, and raised his head to look at him. Curufin’s hand cupped his cheek and wiped the remaining tears.

Celebrimbor no longer looked sad, but nervous.

Curufin frowned.

 

Celebrimbor looked away at first before letting go of him slowly and standing up on shaky legs.

 

Curufin looked up at him, inquiring eyes searching for answers.

Celebrimbor grimaced and bit his lips.

“I completely forgot…”

He whispered.

“Forgot what?”

Curufin found himself standing up, reaching out for Celebrimbor’s fidgeting hand.

“The King. He had summoned us both to his study. Something about important news he needed to share. I was supposed to get you quickly. I'm sorry, Atya.”

 

Curufin couldn't help but snort.

“Are you apologizing to me for wasting Ingoldo’s time? Son, I'd pay you to do it.”

Celebrimbor smiled sheepishly and walked towards the door, dragging his father behind himself without even realizing it.

 

Curufin's tone was light, but his mind was heavy with thoughts and emotions as he followed his son out of the room.

 

Though his expression remained impassive, inside he was dreading yet another meeting with Felagund so soon.

 

His cousin was nosy and didn't know when to step back and what overstepping even meant.

 

You're just making him distrust you.

 

As if he could claim he knew his brother better than him.

 

You have to give him space.

 

He had given Celegorm plenty of space, and little good and a lot of evil it had done to him.

 

He will get better. Just let him decide when he wants it to happen.

 

And if Curufin had, he would have to search for his dead body around this cursed city.

 

If this was yet another audience for him to want to discuss Celegorm's condition with him, Curufin wasn't sure if he could keep his calm. His brother looked like he had lost more weight since the last time he had seen him. He had cut himself in front of Curufin as if there was not a damned thing wrong with that, and his wound refused to heal.

 

The wound no one knew how or when he had gotten. Just like no one knew what was wrong with him.

No one stepped in to help, so Curufin had to take the matters into his own hand before he lost him. And anyone who dared question it be damned.

 

They reached Felagund's study sooner than they had imagined and Celebrimbor, as if just realizing he had been holding his father's hand all this time, let go of him quickly before knocking. Curufin couldn't help smiling, which was gone in an instant as he stepped into the room.

 

Finrod's study was bare of the sunlight which brightened it every day. The turquoise curtains were drawn, and the light was dim.

 

Yet it did not take him long to recognize the three heads of gold in the room. Orodreth sat with his daughter by his side on a couch, and Gwindor occupied the seat next to her, hands holding hers with barely any space between their faces.

 

Felagund’s desk was empty, and he was nowhere to be found.

 

You have got to be kidding me!

 

Finrod had summoned him, but was not there to receive him? Did his audacity know no bounds? So what that he was the King? So what that he was the elder? Curufin was not his dog to be whistled to his side! They were sons of Fëanor. Honored guests. This was not how one treated them.

 

Orodreth looked up, when he heard them enter, his own face troubled and full of unanswered questions. Yet he had it in him to spare a smile. He had come to look at them in a new light since they rescued him from the Tower. More respectful. Unlike his older brother.

 

Though Curufin couldn't bring himself to return the gesture, his eyes lost their edge when he greeted his cousin with a nod.

 

Finduilas’s sunlit face did not bear her father's solemnity. She greeted Celebrimbor loudly, who spared Curufin a glance before walking to greet her with a sweet kiss on her cheek.

 

“Good day, cousin Curvo. Come. Take a seat. Findo said he would not be long now. He needed to find someone.”

 

Curufin’s frown returned at the mention of the King. He huffed, yet found himself complying.

 

He took his seat in front of Orodreth, and soon Celebrimbor was by his side, just as Finrod opened the door, his golden head bowed. Curufin couldn't see his face properly this way. He frowned. This was not like Finrod.

 

An ellon with dark, shoulder length hair followed him into the room, but stayed by the door with the watchful stance of a guard.

 

Not one of Felagund's, he knew. Not someone he had seen or noticed before. 

 

Curufin's eyes snapped towards Finrod as he cleared his throat. He stood behind his desk now, and had finally raised his head.

 

Curufin's fist clenched. Finrod had red rimmed, puffy eyes. He was not smiling.

Finrod always smiled, unless…

 

Unless he had grave news to share. 

Aiko…Aiko can't be found. They found Ango’s helm, filled with ashes.

He had gathered all the family. Except for Tyelko, but Tyelko is better left out of whatever he wants to share.

It could only mean something had happened to one of their family members. But who?

 

Curufin found his heart beating wildly, sweat gathering on his brow as Finrod went to open his mouth.

 

What if it was Maedhros? Or Maglor? Or the twins and Moryo?

 

“What I'm about to tell you is…it is best heard as a family first and foremost. I want you to be prepared when I break the news in public. We should all show a united front against this grief, and be the comfort our people would seek.”

 

Finrod closed his eyes as if in pain. He swallowed harshly, and when he looked up, his eyes were moist with tears unshed.

 

“Our uncle, The High King, has passed. Findekáno has been crowned. Long live the King.”

He put his hand on his heart and sent a farewell gesture.

 

Curufin didn't look away from his face. Not when Finduilas's sobs broke the doomed silence of the room. Not when Celebrimbor joined in quietly. He squeezed his son's hand when he reached for his own, but didn't look away.

 

His mind could comprehend the sudden relief and the wave of guilt following it. 

But before he could grieve, he had to know.

 

They were elves. They didn't pass. They were immortals.

 

His uncle had passed. And he wanted to know how.

 

“What happened?”

Finrod’s tearful eyes snapped towards him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He had not expected the question.

Curufin did not relent. He didn't look away.

 

Finrod did. He sighed and nodded.

“A duel with Morgoth. He had left without letting anyone know. Findekáno received no body. Just news from the eagles. I do not have more details for you, cousin. That is all.”

 

Curufin finally glanced away.

 

A duel. A duel with Morgoth. A death sentence from the beginning to the end.

 

Why? 

 

Curufin found himself inquiring even though he knew. 

Grief and anger was not a sword. It was a naked blade, hiltless. It cut you as you cut others. If you were not careful, it would be you it sliced through.

 

All of their kings were known for being careless rather than careful. 

 

Memories of flaming silver eyes and a crazed smile and laughter echoed in his head. He dropped his face into his unoccupied hand.

 

He did not cry.

 

“You are dismissed now. Go. Grieve while you can. Tomorrow, we will reveal it to the public and we will hold a memorial. The kingdom would be draped in black for seven days. Be ready for tomorrow. We should stand strong in the face of this loss. My brother, my niece and nephew, my cousins; grieve, but remember what our uncle gave his life for. We shall prevail. All of us. For Angaráto. For Aikanáro. For Elenwë and Arakáno. For Nolofinwë the Valiant and Wise. We shall live, and greet them with open arms when we meet again. Go now. I shall have a word with Curvo. I ask for privacy.”

Curufin didn't look at him. He already knew what he wished to share.

He, instead, turned towards his son. Celebrimbor’s eyes were wet, but he had stopped crying. Curufin leaned up to kiss his forehead. He wiped his cheeks gently before patting his back.

“Go. Stay with your uncle. I'll be back shortly.”

 

Celebrimbor's huge eyes bore into him at the unexpected act of affection, before he hastily nodded and stood up. He bowed respectfully to Finrod, took the hand which a still weeping Finduilas held towards him, and left without a word.

 

Orodreth was more hesitant to leave. Maybe he had also guessed the reason for this private audience and dreaded what could come of it, but one look at his older brother had him sigh. He walked up to Curufin, took a second before squeezing his shoulder, and followed his daughter and son in law outside.

 

Curufin looked towards the doorway. The guard had yet to move.

 

Finrod cleared his throat before moving from behind his desk, occupying Orodreth's seat in front of Curufin.

 

Curufin raised an eyebrow and leaned back, trying to relax, but he could feel his underlying anger stirring already.

 

Finrod sniffed before waving a hand towards the guard. The dark haired man hesitated before walking towards them and occupying a seat by the edge of the couch.

 

“Any minute now.”

Curufin whispered. Finrod’s eyes narrowed and he huffed.

 

“I was getting to it. You might not speak with words, but you do not give me a chance to either.”

He cleared his throat before holding a hand towards the guard.

 

“This is Edrahil. He's a warrior of my house, and a member of Nargothrond’s patrol.”

 

Curufin looked at the man. Edrahil looked up at him, held his gaze for a few seconds, and nodded respectfully. Curufin found no sign of intimidation in his eyes. Interesting .

 

“What is that you wish to say, Ingo? You know how I hate your pleasantries.”

 

Finrod scowled, or maybe he thought he did. To Curufin, it resembled the petulant pout of a child's. Much like Celegorm's. 

 

He blinked. It was a while since he had seen it. 

His heart clenched, and he cursed Finrod with it.

 

“Fine. I will. This is Edrahil, and I want to assign him as Tyelko’s personal guard. He's the best tracker we have, according to his superior officer. I can't keep up with Tyelko and his skills. Neither can you. Edrahil, though, can. He will watch out for him, make sure he's relatively safe until he feels ready to come back to us.”

 

Curufin blinked. He looked at Edrahil, who watched him, his expression blank. Finrod looked hopeful. He was only glad to break his spirit.

 

“This is your genius idea, Ingo? To have a stranger watch his every move? Do you think he would appreciate it? 

He doesn't need to be left alone with a spy on his tail! He needs help. Real help. I can, and I will give it to him. Your generosity is beyond appreciated, your majesty, but my brother needs not be your charity case. He has all the family he needs. Go and spend your unending well of pity somewhere else.”

 

Finrod was stunned into silence, before his expression darkened.

“And what is this help you speak of? Chaining him to his room? Make him hate us?!

 Do you even have a plan?”

 

Curufin bristled, and before he realized, he was standing and towering over Finrod who had yet to move.

 

“And what is that you suggest?! That I leave him to his own whims until he's killed himself from not sleeping and not eating?! Or from the blades he takes upon his own flesh ?! Do you know what he did in front of me nigh a few hours ago? He cut himself ! As if nothing is wrong with that! What is your guard supposed to do?! Track his dead body down next time?!”

 

“Step back, Lord Curufin. I don't wish to hurt you.”

A hand blocked Curufin's view as he breathed out roughly. He looked at its owner, and found Edrahil. His eyes were sad and full of pity, but his stance was firm.

 

Curufin looked down to find a stunned Finrod. He hadn't realized he had advanced so far into Finrod's personal space. 

He stumbled back on his seat, his anger spent.

 

Edrahil hesitated for a moment before sitting down as well. Finrod watched the table, his eyes wide, his nails leaving crescent shaped marks on his hands.

 

All was silent for a while, and Curufin considered getting up and leaving. He had said his piece. He was not dismissed, but damn Finrod and his dismissal. He was his cousin, not his subject.

 

“He…he cut himself? Why?”

Finrod mumbled. He appeared to be talking to himself, but his eyes found Curufin's eventually. He did not wish to believe the concern in them was genuine. Why should Finrod care for them, after all?

 

“Do I look like I know? I was changing his bandages. I left the knife alone next to him for a second, and I looked up to find him holding it against his forearm with the most blank eyes I've seen. Nelyo…when he did it, he wanted relief from his pain. I don't know what Tyelko wished to get from this, but it wasn't… that .”

 

“And you just let him go?”

 

Curufin bit his lips. He didn't answer.

 

Finrod leaned forward, a frown marring his face, suspicious and questioning. Curufin could curse himself, but he did not wish to reveal more. His concern for Celegorm had left his emotions vulnerable for anyone to see. Finrod should not have been able to read him this easily.

 

“What did you do, Curvo? Where is Tyelko?”

“Why should I answer you?”

“Stop this stubborn foolishness, Curvo! I'm just trying to help!”

 

Curufin huffed, annoyed.

“Well, no one asked you to!”

“You don't have to! I'm your eldest here. Maitimo is not here now, so I am responsible for you! How am I to answer him if …if we…if something happened to Tyelko?”

 

Curufin was silenced with this. Indeed, how was he to face his brother if he let Celegorm perish? What was he to say to Maglor's tears? To Caranthir's rage? To Maedhros' disappointment?

 

“So, I ask again. Where is Tyelko? What did you do?”

Curufin looked up at him. Finrod's blue-grey eyes were two pieces of steel, boring into Curufin's very soul.

 

“I drugged him. He's sleeping in his room. Won't be up for a few days, if you ask me.”

 

Instead of the lashing he had anticipated, he found Finrod to settle down, exhausted and defeated. He still disapproved, Curufin knew, but couldn't quite bring himself to voice it. No one would. No one could, because there was no other alternative. Not anymore.

 

“My lords, if I may speak?”

 

The deep and gentle voice which Curufin had not quite paid attention to the first time spoke up.

Edrahil was looking at them both, waiting for a cue. Finrod nodded gently. Edrahil took a breath.

 

“I…I did not quite know what I was getting myself into when I agreed to my king's request, for he did not command me to do this.

I also have heard of rumors, and seen the prince once or twice as he passed by my patrol spot during the night. The words people offer him are not kind, and it is only a matter of time before it is brought to court as well. 

Lord Tyelkormo…I do not know him well, besides that his presence by my king's side saved a lot of lives, and for that, he will forever have my gratitude.

I do not know him well, but I want to help. 

You know this well, my Lord, how some people never quite recovered from Helcaraxë. How the late king’s healers devised a medicine to soothe their minds until they could get back on their feet. Lord Tyelkormo, from what I gathered of your words, seems to be suffering from a grief and fear we can't quite comprehend, and until he has recovered enough to speak of them, he should not be left aside to suffer through it alone.

Asëa and Alassë are the names of the herbs the healers used when we still resided in Mithrim. Those healers stayed behind when you moved your household this far south, and this is why our own healers, or those from Himlad are unable to help. They lack knowledge.

A friend of mine, another member of the patrol, used to assist them, and that is why I am even privy to this information. If he were to work with the healers, I am sure they can come up with a treatment so that the prince would find some relief.”

 

Curufin listened well, and when Edrahil was done, he wasn't quite sure how he was feeling.

Gratitude overpowered his suspicion as he looked at the youth. 

Healing herbs for the mind…that was news to him.

He was not surprised. Healing was not an area he expertised in, and from all the medicine Maedhros had been forced to take, he had only been interested in these sleeping herbs, and the power they had over mind and body without leaving any trace to be found.

 

But if they could really help? Who was he to dismiss such a chance? 

Edrahil was right. Celegorm needed a real treatment plan, not to be locked in his room, sedated or held prisoner, even for his own good.

 

“That is…that is a thoughtful plan, young one, and one which can actually help. You have my thanks.”

 

Finrod’s voice was thick with emotions when he addressed the guard. Edrahil simply smiled. 

Curufin looked at how he watched them still, waiting for a moment of respite. He still had words to share.

 

“Go on. You have more to say. We shall hear you.”

 

Edrahil’s eyes snapped towards him. It took a second before he complied.

“I gave my word to protect the prince when I agreed to this, even if it was watching him from afar to make sure he was safe. Yet now, that is not needed anymore, but I find myself reluctant to just…step aside. If you would allow it, my lord, I wish to remain his personal guard. I'll watch his back. I'll protect him and make sure he's safe, even if it is from himself.”

 

“Very well.”

Notes:

Sooooo... this work has finally come to an end, but fear not! There is more on the way! Can our favorite boy Edrahil manage to help? And will Celegorm heal? You just have to wait and find out.

Notes:

Let me know what you all think!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Dream Walker