Chapter 7. Sad But True: Part One

When he caught sight of a dark figure moving through the woods, he was alone in the wild.

He had left Nargothrond without a guard. As he made his way out, an unusual silence surrounded him. People whispered among themselves until they noticed his presence. Curufin will have to deal with this, he thought, lifting his head high. Meeting their gazes directly, he stared back until, one by one, they lowered their eyes.

But his steed knew him better. The stallion maintained a steady pace until they were beyond the sight of others, then broke into a gallop once they were far enough from the gate. As the hooves thundered against the ground, his hair was swept back by the cold wind, yet his face remained grim, his eyes smoldering with rage.

Thingol had not replied. As time passed, it became increasingly clear that Elwë Singollo, sheltered by the power of his wife, would not accept his proposal. Holding his daughter above all else, the King of Doriath was unwilling to give her hand easily. The two suitors vying for her had undoubtedly pushed him beyond his limits: one, a mortal he had long despised; the other, a Fëanorian he had always loathed. He might have laughed at the irony, had Thingol's daughter not fled from Nargothrond, taking Huan with her.

On both sides of the path, hills and creeks blurred past. The barren woods of late winter mingled with patches of snow, forming a tapestry of dark browns and pale whites. He had not noticed when the sun disappeared behind the clouds, but the dimming light suddenly made him wonder if he was, once again, on a mission doomed to fail.

She was found missing one morning by his brother. For the first time in his life, he saw Curufin lose his composure.

"It was your dog! He aided Thingol's daughter to escape!" roared his brother. When he asked if Curufin was referring to Huan, his brother stared at him in disbelief.

But how could Huan have possibly done this? Did he not know Huan better than anyone? Of course, he knew that Huan had liked Thingol's daughter and disapproved of his plans for her, but Huan had always been loyal to him. It was for him that Huan had left the Blessed Realm and joined the exile of the Noldor. From Alqualondë to Araman, from Losgar to Nan Elmoth—wherever he went, whatever he did, Huan had always been at his side. Why would Huan abandon him for Thingol's daughter, to rescue a short-lived mortal the hound had never even known?

Nevertheless, it was undeniable. Thingol's daughter was gone, and so was Huan. As soon as their absence was discovered, he led his guards in a search but found no trace. That was hardly surprising—for Huan was no ordinary hound.

When he returned to Nargothrond, his brother was waiting for him in his chamber. Curufin had recovered from his tempest of rage. "It is no accident. Your dog devised a plan and executed every step."

He frowned as he listened, though his attention was distracted by a dull headache. He had not slept well the night before, for that dream, the dream about her, had haunted him, refusing to let him rest.

"Your dog returned her cloak to her—I suppose you remember her cloak?—and chose a secret passage that is unknown to most."

So Huan truly betrayed me to help her. Despite his strange fatigue, he felt himself on the brink of venting his wrath and frustration. But Curufin spoke again before he could, his voice icy and measured.

"I have been wondering about one thing, though: How on Arda did your dog manage to unlock the door to her chamber?"

At that, his anger faded. Bracing himself, he expected reproach, but Curufin did not blame him. His brother simply sighed and left.

It was obvious where Thingol's daughter would go: Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where Sauron dwelt, for that was also where Finrod and Beren were held captive. Along with Huan, she would attempt to rescue them—and would likely die in the hopeless effort. To his own surprise, he found himself far less indifferent than he had expected. Will they survive? Will they succeed? he wondered. Or will they return?

He cut off this train of thought as soon as he felt a headache. Whether they do or not, I will leave it to Curufin.

And Curufin demonstrated his great talent for leadership. Rumors about Thingol's daughter were managed so deftly that only a handful of insiders knew the truth. Alongside Curufin, he continued to openly scorn Orodreth's authority. Watching the Prince Regent of Nargothrond bow his golden head in unwilling submission, he felt his pride and confidence return. Let Thingol's daughter go. I need neither her nor Doriath. And I do not need you either, Huan. You are merely a dog. Without you, Nargothrond is still in my hands.

Yet every time he saw those who had once sworn allegiance to the House of Finarfin standing tame and silent in the great hall, he could not ignore the voice whispering deep in his mind: Everything you have done so far leads to an unexpected end.

It did not take long for the signs of his foreboding to manifest. News arrived from the borders of strange creatures attempting to enter their lands; soon after, more reports followed, confirming the details. He concluded it must be another scheme of Sauron to spy on Nargothrond and began preparing a host to put an end to it. However, before they could set off to confront the supposed enemies, new tidings arrived, throwing everything into disarray. These strange creatures were not servants of Sauron, but Elves—captives from the Dagor Bragollach, enslaved by the Enemy. Now, they had escaped from Sauron's dungeons, for an Elven maiden and a great hound had defeated Sauron the Abhorred, driving him away, and the island once defiled by evil and sorcery had been cleansed.

Moreover, it was said that Finrod had not been killed upon his capture. According to the tales, the eldest son of Finarfin had fought Sauron with a song of power. Though defeated and unidentified, he was cast into a deep pit along with his eleven companions. No one knew what had transpired in that darkness, but when the Elven maiden arrived, Finrod had just passed away.

The entire kingdom of Nargothrond was thrown into shock at the news. The previously official announcement of Finrod's death now clashed in every regard with these astonishing accounts. Rumors spread like wildfire, and speculation surged like an unrelenting tide. He even overheard some careless conversations himself:

"But did Lord Celegorm not fall in love with Lady Lúthien?"

"Which might be exactly why he made no attempt to rescue Beren or King Finrod."

Although most of the speculations were clearly absurd, as time passed, some came disturbingly close to the truth. Thingol's daughter must have known who was imprisoned in Sauron's dungeons, and Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin, whom she had trusted, must have learned her reasons for leaving Doriath. But instead of aiding her, the two sons of Fëanor chose to spread the word that King Finrod was dead and claim the kingship of Nargothrond. Such actions amounted to treason—kin unto kin. Even if they had no such intention, their failure to attempt a rescue would still mark them as cowards: warriors who styled themselves as valiant, yet less courageous than a maiden who had never wielded a sword.

For the second time, the realm mourned for Finrod. He did not fully understand the impact these events had on himself and his brother, but he could see the whispers circulating everywhere. Even those in his own following seemed unsettled. When his herald, either too bold or too foolish, voiced his doubts in his presence, he jumped up as a renowned hasty-riser, but refrained from venting his anger. Instead, he fetched his horse and announced he would take a solitary ride. Of course, his impulsive decision raised concerns, but he ignored them, driven by spite and mistrust.

Fools! You expect me to go rescue Finrod, the greatest fool of all? If I had commanded you to risk your lives attacking Sauron's Isle, would that have satisfied you? "Cowards", you call us. But who are the real cowards? Merely by speaking, Curufin instilled such fear into your hearts that you have abandoned open battle ever since. Who are the cowards, indeed? And who fought on the borders of this realm, driving evil creatures from our lands? Instead of appreciating what we have done to spare your lives, you call us cowards? So eager to die, may Morgoth's evil fire consume you all!

The reckless curse startled him back to his senses. He had no intention of wishing Morgoth success. Shaken, he took a deep breath and told his horse to slow. Just then, he caught sight of a dark figure moving through the woods.

He seized his bow in the blink of an eye but did not notch an arrow, for he noticed his horse remained calm. The stallion stood relaxed, though with a trace of excitement, as if recognizing an old friend.

Sitting tall upon his steed, he waited. The dark figure reappeared, this time not retreating but stepping forward slowly from the trees' cover. When it came to a stop before him, he finally met its gaze—no, his gaze, for those were eyes he had known so well.

It was Huan.

For a moment, a powerful impulse gripped him—the urge to leap from the horse, rush forward, and embrace his companion, regardless of everything he had resolved. If he had convinced himself that Huan's departure had not troubled him, he had been in denial, for how could he sever a bond so deeply ingrained or forget it had ever existed? All his attempts to bury it had only deepened it further.

But he remained perfectly still, expressionless, bow in hand. Inside, the tender spot recently exposed was consumed by bitter flames—scorching, crackling—as his pride slowly gained the upper hand.

So, you are back. Does she no longer need you? Or have you grown tired of her at last?

The hound did not flinch, meeting his gaze with eyes that glimmered faintly in the dim light—eyes filled with sorrow and dignity, yet free of regret.

It was only then that he noticed the unhealed wounds and fresh scars, half-hidden beneath the thick fur. He had never seen Huan injured like this—not since they first began fighting side by side. So you truly fought Sauron for her? he thought, his anger suddenly slipping away. He wanted to shout into the hound's ears: But I would never allow you to jeopardize yourself in such a manner! How could you have risked it all for her? How could you be so stubborn, so foolish?

But in the end, he said none of it. Instead, he turned and said, "Then, come with me."

He would never admit that he was quietly grateful for the sound of Huan's paws breaking through the half-melted snow behind him.

Huan's return seemed to stir little notice in Nargothrond. He left the hound in the care of his household healers, though the look in Huan's eyes lingered in his mind, haunting him as he made his way to his quarters. As he passed Curufin's chamber, the sound of raised voices caught his attention.

"I have to ask you—there is no one else to ask!"

From the closed door, it was clear his nephew was shouting at his brother.

"Is it true, what they are saying about what happened?"

He could not hear his brother's reply. Despite Celebrimbor's fervor, Curufin kept his voice low—calm and composed as ever. With no intention of intervening, he simply walked on, knowing better than to lecture his brother on persuading the youngest prince of the House of Fëanor.

Returning to his quarters, he settled near the window. He did not need rest, but peace and quiet would do him good. As he made himself comfortable, he caught a faint sound from outside, but it faded almost as quickly as it had come.

Gradually, his thoughts began to drift. He slipped into the space between reality and its many shadows, navigating through an endless void, knowing what he sought yet uncertain where to find it.

He knew he would see her there, and he did. Ahead of him, she appeared, dressed in white and silver as always, with her back to him. Accustomed now to the ache her presence brought, he dared to study her more closely. Instantly, he noticed a difference. Her figure seemed blurred, as if Time itself had swept it away. Can such a proud and unruly fire truly burn out? he wondered. Or will I never know, for her fire—though it feels familiar to mine—is never quite the same?

As if sensing his gaze, she turned.

He gasped and opened his eyes, his breath catching and his heart faltering—partly from surprise, partly from fear. It was not her. The face before him was sad, yet serene, more beautiful than any he had ever seen. It belonged to Thingol's daughter.

Still recovering, he heard a knock at the door. To his surprise, the door opened without his acknowledgment. He sprang to his feet, fully prepared to rebuke whoever dared to intrude in such a manner, but was taken aback by the sight of those who entered. Though dressed as guards, they were unfamiliar—not even his own people.

"Lord Celegorm, King Orodreth requests your presence in the Great Hall."

When he strode into the Great Hall of Nargothrond, it seemed as though everyone in the stronghold had been summoned. Most were of the House of Finarfin, with the rest being his own followers and those of his brother. Yet, at that moment, their allegiances seemed set aside, for all were silent—an oppressive silence that carried an unspoken threat. As he walked through the gathered crowd toward the High Seat, countless eyes tracked his every move, the weight of their gazes pressing heavily upon him.

When he stopped before the dais, all movement ceased, save for the flickering shadows cast on the stone walls by the candle lights. His brother was already there; if surprised, Curufinwë Atarinkë showed no sign of it. The favorite son of Fëanor seemed indifferent to the tension around him, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on one figure—the figure standing before the High Seat, a silver crown gleaming upon his golden hair.

Is that Finrod?!

No, it was not Finrod. It was Orodreth—King Orodreth, as those insolent guards had said. He could not help but sneer. If Orodreth thought a crown made him a king, he must have lost his wits. As the second son of Finarfin, Orodreth had always been a pale shadow of his elder brother: less noble, less wise, weaker in mind, and far less fair in appearance. Some were born to follow, not to lead.

But just as he stepped onto the dais, the Prince Regent spoke. "You have no right here."

He caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision and immediately recognized seasoned warriors, fully armed. From where they stood, they posed no immediate threat, but their stance was unmistakable: stay where you are.

Something was amiss. Only then did he turn his full attention to Orodreth—a cousin he had long scorned and dismissed. To his astonishment, the Prince Regent of Nargothrond no longer appeared as the weakling he had remembered. A fire burned within the golden-haired prince—a fire unmistakable to a son of Fëanor. It was the same fire he had seen in Finrod, who, in this very hall, had once cast the silver crown of Nargothrond at his feet.

Curufin was the one to break the silence. "If it is the throne to which you refer, Lord Orodreth, I am afraid you have no more claim to it than my brother does."

The Prince Regent responded with conceit. "When the King departed, he entrusted this kingdom to me, appointing me as its Prince Regent. Now that my brother and king is gone, by right, I shall take up the kingship, and I will never allow those who conspired against him to usurp the kingdom he founded."

Curufin raised an eyebrow. "Who conspired against him?"

Orodreth did not falter. "You, and your brother."

These words stirred the entire hall into an uproar. Amid the deafening noise, someone pushed through the crowd, ascended the dais, and came to stand beside Curufin.

"Lord Orodreth, you have made a serious accusation." Celebrimbor, his brother's son, managed to keep his voice calm, though his eyes gleamed with anxiety. "Do you have evidence?"

"I have a witness," Orodreth replied, his tone softening. "Whose integrity, I believe, even your uncle cannot deny."

"Bring him forth, then!" He watched Curufin and Celebrimbor, marveling at how his brother had swayed his nephew. He did not expect to be named, and his impatience flared at the unexpected reference.

But Orodreth gave him a strange look—one of pity and disgust. "As you wish."

With that, the Prince Regent abruptly stepped aside, and from behind the High Seat, Huan padded forward.

He paid no attention to the accusations Orodreth leveled, echoed by those who had escaped Sauron's dungeons. He knew most of them were true—except the one about his supposed infatuation with Thingol's daughter. That, he would never clarify. He preferred such rumors to the truth.

His gaze remained fixed on Huan, ignoring everything else. My loyal friend, he thought, finding the irony almost unbearable. Is everything I cherish doomed to be lost in the most unexpected manner?

Huan confirmed everything he and his brother were accused of—not with words, but with nods. But it was well known that the hound of Valinor was allowed to speak three times in his life. Very well. You wish to squander no opportunity to speak of us. As his mind swam in a sea of rage and hurt, the shouts and cries from the crowd grew louder and louder.

"Traitors! Ungrateful traitors!"

"Justice!"

Alerted by those terms, he reached for his sword, only to find it absent. Yet, rather than fear, he felt indignation, standing against the tide of fury and hatred. Fools! Who guarded your realm? Who fought your foes? You call us ungrateful, but what about you? Are you any better than we are? After all, who rejected their liege lord, and who acquiesced to our reign? "Justice"—what right do you have to judge us? Judge yourselves first!

Orodreth raised a hand. At his gesture, the crowd slowly quieted, awaiting their rightful King to speak.

"King Finrod was my brother," Orodreth began. "He was wise to found a kingdom and brave to defend it. He was noble to forgive his cousins, who ruthlessly murdered his mother's kin, and kind to provide them with shelter after their defeat. Had he not given his life to fulfill his promise, he would have been generous enough to forgo pursuing their treason and betrayal." The King paused, his voice hardening. "But I am not as kind or generous as he was."

The burst of approval that followed was so great that the King had to raise his hand again. "No, I will not suffer my people to slay my cousins either, for the spilling of kindred blood by kin would bind the curse of Mandos more closely upon us. But I will not allow them to remain here, for I will grant neither bread nor rest to traitors! Hear me now, Celegorm and Curufin: Leave, and leave soon. Let it be known that there shall be little love between Nargothrond and the sons of Fëanor hereafter!"

"Let it be so!" he answered above the clamor, fell and proud. I would not stay here even if you begged me. The day shall come when you realize the mistake you have made.

But his brother said nothing. Curufin simply followed him out, a smile on his lips.

As they prepared to leave, he did not see Celebrimbor with Curufin, nor did he find his nephew among those silently watching their departure. Some still bore the Star of Fëanor, his own herald among them. He glanced at Curufin but read nothing from his brother's face. However insensitive he might be, he knew better than to question his brother about his nephew at that moment.

He mounted his horse, his bow slung across his back, his sword resting at his side, and his spear secured at the flank. His gaze swept over those who had once followed him but now chose to stay behind, his eyes icy cold.

So, you have betrayed us, though you once swore your allegiance to the House of Fëanor. Do you think you can free yourselves from the curse? Fools. You cannot, for I tell you this: from now on, you shall bear not only that ancient curse but also this doom I place upon you. The Doom shall find you before I do, and you will be utterly defeated by the one you trust and support. For your treason, this is the price you must pay!

Turning away from their hateful faces, he urged his stallion forward, galloping through the Great Gate.

Along with Curufin, he crossed the creeks he had once crossed and climbed the hills he had climbed before. He did not slow until the hidden kingdom of Narog was far behind, out of sight. But then, to his surprise, he noticed an unexpected follower trailing them like a sorrowful ghost.

Teeth clenched, he stared at the hound. Your betrayal has cost us the key to Doriath, the crown of Nargothrond, and the youngest heir of the House of Fëanor. How dare you follow me still? Do you intend to see me destroyed?

"Which way should we take, Turko?" Curufin asked, as if he had not noticed the hound.

The choice seemed simple, for the power of the House of Fëanor lay mainly in two places: Himring and Amon Ereb. Maedhros and Maglor still held the fortress of Himring and its surrounding lands, while Caranthir, along with Amrod and Amras, had retreated to the South and fortified their camp at Amon Ereb. Yet, he hesitated before answering. Himring meant Maedhros and obedience; Amon Ereb meant Caranthir and conflict.

"I suggest Himring," Curufin said, observing his hesitation. Noticing the deepening frown on his brother's face, Curufin added, "Because our eldest brother has the right to know what has transpired in Nargothrond and what aid Finrod had planned to offer to a mortal."

Then he understood. Curufin was right; he had nearly forgotten the root of all their plight: the Silmarils. Finrod had aided someone other than the sons of Fëanor in the quest for a Silmaril—a deed Maedhros would never overlook. With Maedhros' support, they could command the full strength of the House of Fëanor—nearly half the Noldor.

"Himring," he agreed. For that, he supposed he could endure some obedience.

Notes

Words in bold are adapted from The Silmarillion.