Chapter 6. The Unforgiven: Part Three

When the door opened again, it was Curufin who entered. It took but one glance for Curufin to evaluate the damage in the chamber, but instead of commenting on it, he simply said: 'They are leaving.'

'I know.' said he, now back behind his desk, sword still in hand. I do not need you to remind me. I was the one who let them go.

'And you gave the word to provide with them our swiftest horses?'

'Yes.' What choice do I have?

Curufin walked up to his desk, carefully keeping his feet away from the shards on the floor, for some of them were quite sharp. 'I suppose you have heard of this Eöl?'

'Do not tell me you have not!' he growled.

'Do not vent your anger on me, my brother.' said Curufin, calmly as ever. 'This is your affair.'

He admitted it by staying silent, so Curufin continued. 'And if you know something about Eöl, you must also know that he will not give up easily.'

He looked up and met his brother's gaze.

'Do you prefer to face him yourself, or leave him to me?' asked Curufin softly.

Subtle as it was, he sensed malice in Curufin's voice and suddenly understood what Curufin was indicating. As if an icy wave had just washed over him he shook off his sullen mood and became agitated. He could not but start to imagine the pleasure he would have if he went to drive that Dark Elf out of his gloomy nest. Call me kinslayer as you wish, I will not deny it, for I do not mind living up to the reputation again if it comes to that. Having already so much blood on my hands, why would I care about one more drop of it?

But when he looked at his brother, he read more from his brother's eyes than what was said: Make your decision wisely, then you will have my support.

For a second time in his life, he pondered. As the initial urges slowly settled down a new plan, uninvited but irresistible, emerged from the depths of his mind.

'I will leave him to you, Kurvo.' he said at last.

Curufin raised an eyebrow.

'If he dares to come near our land, take him.' he continued. 'You can question him, mock him, and insult him. But afterwards, spare his life and release him.'

'Are you certain?' despite his specific instructions, Curufin asked.

He carefully sheathed his sword. The smoothness felt by his fingers was as that of silk, for a fatal weapon could conceal its blood thirst. 'We can do better than to slay one who accuses us of kinslaying, can we not?'

Both of them knew he was lying. Nevertheless Curufin accepted it with a knowing nod. 'As you wish, Turko. And good luck with whatever you have to do.'

He found her near the gate. She made ready to leave with her son, having transferred a few belongings to the horses provided to them. His order was carried out well, for these horse were his swiftest and could catch up with wind.

She nodded him a greeting, and he returned a smile. Smiling was not as difficult as he had expected. He walked up to the horses and in turn murmured into their ears. Noticing her inquisitive look, he smiled again, thankful that Huan was not around. 'Nothing but a few encouraging words.'

'How could I possibly forget!' she laughed and turned to her son. 'Remember what I told you before, Maeglin? Lord Celegorm knows animals very well, in fact even better than he knows people.'

Her old jest did not have the same effect on him, so he had to pretend to be offended. 'Aredhel, I do not take it as a compliment.'

'Not indeed,' she acknowledged it with a mischievous smile. 'But it is not unfounded.'

Instead of being vexed by her, he appeared distracted by her grey cloak. It was made of a fabric woven by the hands of the Sindar, renowned for its special power of hiding from hostile eyes. He picked up a corner of it, took a quick look, and let it fall. 'You need no longer wear this. As I remembered, you chose to adhere to your habits even when you were judged by the leopards to be a poor hunter.'

'Pardon me, my lord.' the boy interrupted. 'But my father is far from careless. There is no harm in being cautious.'

'And we will leave him no chance to show his care this time.' he addressed the boy's concerns, but only spoke to her. Seeing the look on her face, he had to laugh. 'No, we mean no harm to him. We will simply delay him, so you will have enough time to reach your city.'

She looked him in the eye for a brief moment, and before he could react, she walked up to him, embraced him, and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. 'Turko, hantalë.' (1)

He froze, suddenly at a loss. He heard her telling her son to put away the grey Sindarin cloak and take out her white Noldorin mantle. He watched her throw it across her shoulders and re-assume her well-known, well-deserved name: the White Lady of the Noldor. After that, without bidding farewell, she mounted her horse, nodded at him, and set off. As she approached the gate along with her son, he finally recovered from the loss and nearly changed his mind. He wanted to call them back and he even considered backing off from his decision. But he kept silence in the end. In the cold wind from Himring, the warmth her lips left on his cheek gradually cooled.

Their horses would neigh once they reached their destination. Her white clothes would be a most conspicuous mark.

And then Eöl would find them.

It was Curufin who secured the outcome. At the Fords of Aros, the riders of Curufin waylaid Eöl when he appeared as expected. Curufin humiliated him first and dismissed him with mockery, knowing someone like that would never turn back.

'In the end I suggested he go back to his dwellings in the dark forests,' Curufin told him after returning to Himlad. 'I told him, if he now pursues those who love him no more, never will he return there.'

'Thus you actually made him more determined to go after them?' he asked, puzzled.

'Yes.' Curufin confirmed without hesitation. 'It is the only possible reaction of his.'

He had no reason to question Curufin's judgment, for Curufin always knew other minds better than he did. But after Curufin left, he found himself dwelling on his brother's words. If to pursue those who love you no more is a way of no return, then, what is it to retaliate against the one who loves you not?

Several days later, in the darkness before dawn, he suddenly woke up, though there was no nightmare. Something was wrong, and he could feel it from head to heel, in every drop of his blood. Anxiously and restlessly, he stared into the darkness, until a voice drifted into his consciousness and easily invaded his mind, like a ghost crossing the invisible barrier between reality and the dream world.

Indeed you know little about people, which is why I am the one who comes to bid you farewell.

For a second, his heart stopped beating. He was instantly covered with cold sweat and shivered, fanatically searching in his heart for the deeply buried figure, the one he had once tried so hard to forget. But everything seemed to be fading and withering, like a sandy shore washed by relentless waves. He searched and searched, desperately, now clinging to the voice once so vivid in his memory, at least that voice: You will find her. However much effort it will require, or however much time it will take.

But again, he found her not.

Nan Elmoth was to the south of Himlad. After crossing the fords of Celon, he stopped near the bank, surveying the dark, forest-covered valley ahead. At his side was the hound of Valinor, who had shaken water off his thick fur.

'Enjoy yourself nearby.' He dismounted from his horse. The stallion snuffled lightly and walked towards a patch of grass.

He looked up and surveyed the forests again. Even from a distance he could sense the ancientness of it. The trees of Nan Elmoth were the tallest and darkest in all Beleriand; it was said that Melian the Maia once walked there in the twilight of Middle-earth. It was in this place that she met Elu Thingol; and it was in this place they gazed at each other while long years passed which could only be measured by the wheeling stars.

A fascinating tale, nothing more.

He was dressed plainly, like an ordinary Noldorin hunter: no expensive armors, no emblems of his house, no embroidery on his clothes. He carried only a bow and arrow, and his sword. Although his sword was far from plain and ordinary, he hid it carefully under his cloak and made sure it would not be easily noticed.

Even then, he was uncertain what he had hoped to find in these woods. He knew Eöl was not here, for his guards never saw the Dark Elf returning from the west. As Curufin said, a way of no return.

Then what am I doing here?

A sudden pain assaulted him. Despite himself, he reached into his cloak and closed his fingers around the sword hilt, feeling the gems on it pressing hard against his palm. Cursing himself again, he struggled to push her image out of his mind. Yet it will be in vain, for you cannot and will not forget her. Fool, you loved her, you loved her indeed. But when your love was doomed to be unrequited, you chose to destroy her, not once but twice, until you succeeded.

He took a deep breath and released his sword. Journeying here all the way from Himlad, he did not purpose to get lost in wild thoughts. He had things to do.

'Stay here.' he told the hound.

Huan looked up at him with concern.

'Stay here.' he repeated. 'I know what I am doing.'

The hound obeyed. Nevertheless, when he set off, he felt Huan's gaze, until he entered the woods and left the hound's sight.

At first he simply wandered. Tall trees and low bushes were everywhere, of which he recognized only a few kinds. Branches and leaves danced above, slowly and strangely, in a hypnotic rhythm; time seemed to stand still in these sunless woods. From time to time he heard nightingales singing, but he could not locate them because they sounded too remote and too indistinct. Maybe the tales are true, he could not but think. There is magic in this forest.

His steps must have been louder than he had thought; or he must have underestimated the vigilance of its inhabitants. When a dark figure came out of the bushes and stopped him, he was startled but refrained from reaching for his sword, for he saw it was a Grey Elf, dressed all in black, obviously a servant of Eöl's.

'You are a Golodh.' the Elf concluded at a glance, which was not surprising, for his eyes were those of the Calaquendi, made rather conspicuous by the darkness.

He nodded. 'I came here after my quarry, but got lost.'

The Elf looked him up and down and seemed to be convinced. 'I will lead you out. But be careful next time, for Lord Eöl has no love for the Golodhrim.'

'Lord'...who made him a lord? 'So it is true that my people are unwelcome in Nan Elmoth.' he commented, more naturally than he had hoped.

'Yes,' the Elf brushed a curtain of vines aside and revealed a hidden trail. 'With the only exception of Lady Aredhel. But even she has to obey Lord Eöl's laws.'

He did not expect to hear her name so soon, and those words about her almost caught him off guard. Obey? She obeyed no one, except her father. But to his own surprise, he managed to control himself and followed the Elf to the trail. 'If I am not mistaken, did you refer to Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady?'

'That is what your people call her,' the Elf answered. 'Here she is Lord Eöl's wife.'

'I suppose you intended to say the Lady of Nan Elmoth.' he had to struggle to keep his voice steady.

'She is.' the Elf said, unaware of his change of tone. 'She obeys him nonetheless. She is not allowed to go to sunny places, or leave here alone.'

In his mind, these words turned into a vision: a maiden, ever free and unruly, was trapped in a narrow dark valley, withering like a picked flower. 'No.' he blurted out the first word that came to his mind. 'No.'

The Elf turned and looked at him. 'It is the fact. She chose to stay, knowing all his laws.'

The vision shifted. Now she wandered alone, in the shadows that the sun was unable to penetrate, in the woods where ancient magic lingered. She was astray and tired, but she was not afraid; for why would she be afraid? As one of the House of Finwë, she was always fearless. But other eyes watched her as she moved, eyes darker than the night. In those eyes, her presence roused suspicion and conflict, but kindled a desire in the end.

'No. She could not have thus chosen to stay.' despite all his effort so far, he stubbornly repeated. 'She could not have been willing to stay.' Like one drowning would grab at a straw, he had to hold on to this last hope.

'But Lady Aredhel could not have been unwilling.' said the Elf.

He reached into his cloak. Do not continue. I wish to listen no more.

The Elf continued. 'Otherwise she would have died, which is the nature of the Eld—'

The Elf did not finish his last word. Against the making of the mightiest craftsman of the Noldor, the mail of galvorn was but a thin layer of parchment paper. A sharp blade ran through it like a knife running through butter, slid past the ribs, and drove into the heart.

'I wish to listen no more.' to the Elf whose eyes were already unfocused, he said softly, and then pulled out his sword with a jerk. Blood spilled onto his fingers and wrist, even his face. 'For she could not have done that, as I said.'

In the last light of the day, the great hound of Valinor waited patiently, without a sound. As the sky darkened, a wind arose, and he sniffed the air. Suddenly, he stood up and stared at the silent forests intensely, filled with anxiety and vigilance. Against the gloom of dark trees gradually emerged a dim figure, sword already in sheath, cloak flapping in the wind. But the hound was still alert, for he smelled blood.

Slowly, his master and friend walked to him, stopped in front of him, and looked him in the eye. In an immeasurable moment they held each other's gaze, until the hound chose to look away at last. Because he had never seen his prince so disturbed, not even ages ago, when they were at the Haven of the Swans, bathed in blood.

Almost simultaneously, the proud prince dropped to his knees and held the hound's neck. 'I cannot believe it, Huan, I cannot believe it. She could not have lived. She should not have lived...'

At these words, the hound growled and shuddered. For a moment, the hair on the back of his neck all stood up. But feeling those strong fingers digging into his fur and warm liquid dripping onto his back, he finally lowered his head. In the sunset, the prince and the hound were both painted an ominous red, like that of a dying fire.

Fire.

Not the fire from forges, ovens, and fireplaces that they had known for ages. On a winter night without moon, Morgoth suddenly unleashed his long prepared strength. The onrush of evil fire was so swift that in several hours it engulfed all the green grass and sweet waters in Ard-galen and lit the forests on the highland of Dorthonion and the eastern slopes of Ered Wethrin.

Thus began Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

As soon as he left the battlefront, he received tidings of the east. Glaurung the Golden Terror had assaulted the weakest link of the March of Maedhros, and the Gap of Maglor was lost. All the lands between the great and little rivers of Gelion were ravaged by dragon fire and Maglor was falling back to the fortress of Himring to join Maedhros.

So this is the consequence of relying on others for our war, he thought. If it were us who had gone to meet this monster decades ago, we probably would have cut off his head and made a real Dragon-helm out of it.

All the tidings had been ill since the battle began. Angrod and Aegnor must have been hard pressed. He had successfully defended the Pass of Aglon along with Curufin, but would not have held their ground so long had he not immediately sent archers to the cliffs along the pass when the fire started. Worse still, there was no news from the west.

He mounted his steed again. From where he was, he could survey the battlefield near the northern entry of the pass. The enemies had been attacking relentlessly for five days. Orcs swarmed towards the pass like an endless dark tide and rushed forward despite the rain of arrows and stones, treading on corpses of their own kind, which had piled high on the northern side. The battle once even drew near his own standard and he was forced into combat. Huan guarded his side as ever, and their tacit cooperation destroyed foes beyond count.

Now he looked at the northern entry, wondering if Morgoth had given up taking this place. It is more difficult to defeat us. His troops were busy sharpening weapons, changing posts, and caring for the wounded, knowing how precious these quiet hours were.

Quiet, but too quiet. It was then that he realized something went wrong. Too late. The enemies attacked again before he could investigate further, and this time it was not Orcs but Balrogs emerging out of smoke and dust. Shadow and fire ravaged the pass, and Elven warriors were falling like leaves.

As he was telling his herald to send aid, Curufin hastened back, covered with blood and dust. 'The fortress of Rerir has fallen. Moryo is retreating to the South.'

He whirled round and stared at his brother. 'Then the last hope of reinforcement is gone.'

Curufin nodded.

It did not take long for him to decide. 'Prepare to retreat.' he turned to tell his herald. 'We cannot hold this place on our own.'

He should have felt bitter, for he was defeated as well, and his pride as a great commander was marred. But he found himself rather indifferent. After all, was it really so unusual? He had tasted defeat before, many times. Another defeat was but one more item on the list.

His herald hesitated. 'Which route should we take, my lord?'

'Head southwest.' he answered flatly.

'Then we will reach the borders of Doriath soon...'

'Which is exactly why we take that route!' he snapped. 'We follow their borders!' At least we are certain no attack will come from Doriath.

Thus they retreated. Along the borders of Doriath, away from the Hidden Kingdom protected by the power of Melian, they went through woods and plains towards the southwest, for there lay a kingdom far from the frontline, founded by their cousins of the House of Finarfin: Nargothrond.

When the running water of Narog was in sight, they heard warnings.

'Halt, and identify yourself.'

They saw cold light reflecting from the tips of arrows mounted on tense strings, as countless archers revealed themselves on high ground. They bore the golden emblems of the House of Finarfin; in fact, their captain was golden-haired.

He did not bother to speak, for there was no need. The banners of the House of Fëanor flew high behind him, dazzling in the sunlight, though stained by blood and dust.

It was his herald who replied: 'You are speaking to those you should have welcomed with courtesy: Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin, of the House of Fëanor.'

The captain gestured the archers to lower their bows. 'Forgive us for the necessary caution, in such dark days.'

'Take us to your king,' Curufin said, in his ever calm tone.

Led by the captain, they climbed the hills of High Faroth and crossed the rapid water of Narog. Their Elven sight revealed to them well-hidden doors on the west bank, behind which numerous caves lay, built by the hands of the Dwarves after the fashion of Menegroth in Doriath. From afar they spotted Finrod in front of the Great Gate, with a silver crown on his golden hair. To their surprise, the eldest son of the House of Finarfin appeared pale and weak, as if seriously wounded. It was only later that they learned if not for the aid of a mortal named Barahir, the King of Nargothrond would have perished before the Fen of Serech.

Then he saw their cousin's smile. Noble yet warm, like a camp fire on a starless night.

'Welcome, my kin. For you the gate of Nargothrond is always open.'

(1) Quenya: 'thank you'.

I have wondered why the horses had neighed and thus betrayed Aredhel and Maeglin when they approached the Encircling Mountains, especially after I read one text in HoMe 11, in which they were given to them by Celegorm. So here is an explanation I worked out.

Celegorm's later visit to Nan Elmoth is not recorded in any formal accounts. It was my creation.