Chapter 8. Sad But True: Part Two

Thus it came to pass that they headed north. With no escort, they had to choose a short route to avoid enemies as best as they could, for experienced warriors as they were, they were still only two in number - and a hound, if Huan was to be counted. They needed to go first eastward through Talath Dirnen and thence head north along the borders of the Forests of Brethil, and after crossing the river of Sirion and reaching the region of Dimbar, they would follow the northern marches of Doriath.

He did not know she had taken the same road from Dimbar to Himlad many years ago, but he would have refused to believe it was a fated route regardless. When he spotted Thingol's daughter in Brethil, he was truly surprised. Even from a distance, her beauty was overwhelming. Against the gloom under the trees she gleamed like a star, and at her side was...

'Kill the mortal and take Lúthien.' said Curufin, all of a sudden. 'Then Doriath will still be ours, and Nargothrond will pay for their mistake.'

His stallion halted almost at the same time as Huan did. He glanced at the hound and saw no sign of protest, but he knew for certain that Huan was deeply troubled by Curufin's proposal, which only made him more inclined to take it, with a cruel pleasure.

Taking his silence as hesitation, Curufin drew closer. 'We are riders, while they are on foot. It can be easily done. All you need to d—'

'Deal with the mortal I will.' he snapped. 'But I do not need your instructions.'

Before Curufin could reply, he urged his horse to advance. Contrary to what Curufin suggested, he rode past Beren and turned back, intending to ride him down face to face. With the advantage of being on horseback, he was too proud to attack a mortal from behind.

He heard Lúthien cry as he looked Beren in the eye, and knew Curufin had taken her at unawares. But he was not prepared for what happened next. Her voice transformed the shocked mortal into a formidable warrior. In the blink of an eye Beren disappeared from his sight, faster than any one he had seen or known of, and a burst of yelling and cursing followed. When he managed to make his steed whirl around, Curufin was no longer sitting on the horse but wrestling with Beren on the ground, trying in vain to free himself from the hands that had closed around his neck, while Thingol's daughter was lying on the grass near them and Curufin's horse was neighing frantically at her side.

With Curufin clearly getting suffocated, he simply jerked his spear from the saddle and urged his steed to charge against Beren's undefended back.

A roar came then, great and terrible, full of wrath.

Startled, his horse swerved and reared up. He was caught off guard and had to drop his spear to grab the horse's mane, but before he could steady himself, he saw who had stopped him: once again, it was Huan.

'Get out of my way!' he bellowed. 'You are my dog, not his!'

Not any more, the hound responded. This time in Huan's eyes there was no sorrow but disappointment and rage. Without a second warning, Huan roared again and sprang at him.

Despite all his urging and cursing, his horse retreated hastily in fear. 'You, both of you, shall pay for your betrayal!' he spluttered, but neither the hound nor the horse paid heed to what he said, while Curufin's struggle became feebler and weaker. In the extreme of his exasperation, he drew his sword.

'Stop!' just then a voice cut in, soft yet clear. 'Beren, stop!'

He turned his head and saw Thingol's daughter. Back on her feet, she had rushed to Beren's side. 'Do not kill him,' she held the mortal's arm. 'He shall not be ended by your hand.'

Her voice had an immediate effect on the mortal. Though unwillingly, Beren released Curufin. 'But he shall not leave freely.' he said in a voice harsh to the Elven ears. 'He has no honor; therefore I grant him no respect.'

Not without effort, gasping and coughing, Curufin sat up, while Beren mercilessly stripped him off all his gear and weapons, including the knife wrought by Telchar of Nogrod.

Not until then did he exhale secretly with relief. He had not expected Thingol's daughter to spare Curufin's life. Yet more to his surprise, she left Beren's side and made several steps towards him. Dirt and blood only served to exalt her immortal beauty, which illuminated the glade around them.

She stopped at a distance. When he could not but meet her gaze, her voice suddenly rang in his mind, saying: You should never have fallen so low.

Save your lecture, he retorted, in the same manner. And save your judgment of me, for you are no holier than I am. Go with your mortal, and keep in mind what you will suffer down the road.

Do not go to Doriath, she held his gaze. If you ever set your foot upon the land, your doom shall find you.

At that he was indignant. Save your threat as well. The sons of Fëanor have heard more threats than you have in your entire life. As for your dear Doriath, this I say to you, daughter of Thingol: it will fall.

Her whisper touched his mind like a sigh. Then I pity you, Celegorm.

Who needs your condescending pity? Once again, he was set beyond rage, as he always had been in front of her. Who are you to judge me?

'Your horse I keep for the service of Lúthien, and it may be accounted as happy to be free of such a master.' (1) Meanwhile, seemingly unaware of their unspoken interactions, Beren pulled Curufin to his feet and relentlessly flung him forward.

With visible marks of black and blue on the neck, Curufin walked towards him and staggered a little; but just when he thought his brother might be temporarily incapable of speech, Curufin turned to face Beren and cursed, voice hoarse and dripping in venom. 'Go hence, unto a swift and bitter death!' (2)

He bent down and helped his brother mount on his horse. When Curufin settled behind him, he felt Curufin's fingers digging into his back but paid no heed to it, for his attention was still occupied by her. He was burned by a strong desire of killing them, all of them: the mortal, the hound, and Thingol's daughter. He had never suffered such insult in his life. But he was unable to take action, for he was troubled by the way she looked at him, as if once again she had read him through.

Probably having sensed his internal conflict, Curufin leaned forward and whispered into his ear. 'Let us go, my brother.'

He took Curufin's suggestion mechanically. As he instructed his horse to turn north, he caught a last glimpse of her. She had turned away from him, but at her side Huan still watched him, eyes vigilant.

Just then he felt a lift on his back. Before he could react, Curufin had shot an arrow from his bow, aiming at Thingol's daughter. Many things happened next and resulted in a disaster. Huan jumped up like a lightning and caught the first arrow, but had no time to intercept a second one. It was Beren who stepped in and took the hit. The arrow smote into the mortal's chest, and blood spilled like a crimson flower.

'What have you done?!' Astounded, he shouted at Curufin in disbelief, but Curufin simply kicked his horse hard. The stallion started galloping just in time to escape from a furious Huan, who chased them long and hard. When they finally rid themselves of the pursuer and came to a stop, the horse was covered by sweat, and the riders were worn.

He tended his stallion for a while before blurting out: 'You should not have attempted to kill her.'

'You should not have let her go in the first place.'

He was silenced by Curufin's instant retort. Both of them said no more for the rest of the journey. Not until the great walls of Himring was in sight did Curufin speak again, voice with a bit of raucity, but icy cold. 'At least now the mortal is dead.'

It turned out that even Curufin's judgment could be wrong after all. The mortal did not die; instead, he went to accomplish a deed praised by all. Beren and Lúthien passed through all perils and made it to Angband, and together they took a Silmaril from the Iron Crown of the Dark Lord.

It would have been much simpler had he died, he thought, watching from afar the endless dust of Anfauglith. Behind him was a host ready to march, a host constituted of all the Noldor in East Beleriand, Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod, and Swathy Men who had sworn their allegiance to the House of Fëanor. But few of them were formerly under his command, for no one came to join them from Nargothrond.

'Send to the Commander and ask how much longer we have to wait.' he told Lachodir, his new herald. Lachodir repeated it and immediately passed it down.

Lachodir volunteered to enter his service soon after he and Curufin reached Himring. 'Perhaps you do not remember it, my lord, but you saved my life in battle, not once but twice. May I have the honor of serving you once again?' He had saved many lives in battle, and thus remembered nothing about this particular case; but why would he turn him away? With all his people left behind, he needed a herald at the least. And Lachodir did not disappoint him. Young in age as he was, Lachodir showed no sign of inexperience, and at times even impressed him with competence and commitment.

He wondered why Maedhros had delayed the attack. His eldest brother could be patient if necessary, but was doubtlessly decisive in warfare. Before they came to Himring, Maedhros had learned of Thingol's daughter, for the King of Doriath had sent to Himring demanding assistance to find her after she escaped from Nargothrond. Yet, to the surprise of many, Maedhros made no immediate move after learning all that had happened from Curufin. When tidings came that Thingol's daughter along with her mortal lover had recovered a Silmaril from Morgoth, Maedhros sent to Menegroth demanding it be returned to its rightful owners. When his claim was denied, yet again to the surprise of many, Maedhros made no immediate move. Busy establishing a great union, Maedhros took an approach more acceptable to others: to muster all their strength and challenge Morgoth in war. However, Maedhros did not restrain him and Curufin from issuing open threats to Thingol and his people. Maybe Curufin saw the truth in it: 'Because once we take back the other two Silmarilli, Maitimo would have to do the same.'

So here they were, waiting in the Gasping Dust for a last defining battle. Banners of all colors danced in the morning wind, and the Star of Fëanor could be seen shining everywhere, almost blinding in the sunlight of midsummer.

'We have a reply from Lord Maedhros, my lord,' Lachodir reported back. 'It says: Wait until the tidings from Uldor are confirmed.'

He nodded and surveyed his host again. When he accidentally looked an Easterling in the eye, the dark-skinned Man lowered his eyes in haste, as if he had been burnt by the Elven gaze. Seeing this, he frowned and turned his face away in scorn. This must be one of Ulfang's men, he thought. It was Caranthir who insisted on accepting them as allies, claiming there was courage in Men. As if he had witnessed it! And if he has scorned the House of Arafinwë all his life, how can he come to trust a lesser and weaker race? But Maedhros deemed all support precious, which ended the debate.

Let us wait then, he thought. Wait for your trusted mortals to tell you when to march. And once and for all we will put this war to an end.

And the war was indeed put to an end, though not in the way they had expected.

The power of Morgoth was terrible and vast indeed, but the Enemy did not win by Dragons, Balrogs, or numerous Orcs. The Dark Lord had sealed his victory long before the battle started, because he had Ulfang the Easterling as his secret ally.

The seed of destruction sprouted when the time came. It was the treachery of Men that had put all their effort to an end.

But there was no time for him to reflect amid a heated battle, not to mention that reflection was never his strength. We lost, he judged as the turncloaks approached Maedhros's standard. We must retreat; otherwise we will all perish here. He shouted his order of retreat at the top of his lungs, looking for Lachodir to pass down his command. Even as he found his herald fighting ahead, an overwhelming pain took him from behind.

Lowering his eyes, he saw a blood-stained spear-point sticking out of his chest. With great effort, he turned his head and caught a glimpse of a sneering troll. Losing consciousness, he realized he had made a mistake. He was careless, for he had forgotten that the loyal shadow that had always guarded his back was not there any more.

When he came to himself, he was no longer in the battlefield but in a glade, lying on the ground. Lachodir sat next to him, covered with blood, sword dented and armor notched. Other soldiers rested nearby, but no voice was heard. A misty chill hung in the air, unlike midsummer.

He stirred, and Lachodir instantly turned to him. Seeing him awake, his herald was visibly relieved. But he did not look at Lachodir. There was a lifeless lump in a puddle near the edge of the glade, white coat and silver mane stained with dark blood. It was his stallion.

Following his gaze, Lachodir hesitated before speaking. 'It was your horse who had carried you here on his back, my lord.'

He began coughing. The taste of his own blood was so strange that he almost vomited. However, he pushed away Lachodir's helping hands and squeezed out words from his lips, feeling a scalding pain in his throat as well as in his heart. 'Then, I will need a new steed.'

Many years later, when he entered a defenseless Doriath on the back of a different white stallion, the fire burning in his heart was colder than the biting wind of winter.

I will finish what is left.

But what was left? It seemed that all his curses had taken effect, by some cruel designs of fate. Huan died, because he fought Morgoth's wolf to the death for a mortal Man. His steed died, because he gave him own life to save his master from the Nirnaeth. Beren died, along with Thingol's daughter; although granted a second life, they had to die again, for they were doomed to mortality and must leave the circles of the world. Nargothrond had fallen, and Orodreth perished; those who had renounced the House of Fëanor were brought to death by someone they had trusted, just as he had foretold. Thingol was murdered, and Melian left Middle-earth; Doriath was open to foes, and the splendid halls of Menegroth were sacked by greedy Dwarves. If Dior the Half-elven had not taken over his grandfather's kingdom and vowed to renew its glory, the once great Hidden Kingdom would have been no more.

What was left to be done? An oath of recovering the jewels wrought by his father, and a threat of destroying a realm.

And it chanced that both could be achieved by a single move.

He stirred up his brothers to prepare an assault upon Doriath, as tales would tell afterwards; but bound by their oath, the sons of Fëanor were left no choice when Dior refused to give up the Silmaril, which Maedhros knew as well as he did. Thus they came, in the depth of winter, at a time he chose, although Maedhros claimed they came not for the ruin of Doriath but for the Silmaril they owned by right and vowed to regain at all costs.

Meeting little resistance, they soon saw the great bridge over the river of Esgalduin. At the other end of the bridge was the Great Gate of Menegroth, and beyond that lay the marvelous city of Thousand Caves, the heart of Doriath. The Grey Elves had received warnings by then, and assembled a host in haste. But it took him but one glance to find the one he came for, for the Heir of Thingol was not hiding behind but waiting in front of the gate.

Dior Eluchíl truly has her blood in him. With that thought, he unsheathed his sword.

Dior fought better than he had expected. He should have known it, for the Half-elven's father was Beren Erchamion, a mortal who had been wanted by Morgoth so badly that a price was set for his head, who had escaped from the fire of Bragollach and survived the betrayal of his own kin, who had wandered alone in the perilous highland and gone through mountains and valleys of terror, who had entered Doriath despite the Girdle of Melian, who had almost strangled Curufin with his bare hands, and at last, who had achieved a deed that no one had dared to imagine: retrieving a Silmaril from Morgoth on his throne, along with his lover. It was a pity that he, Celegorm son of Fëanor, had never met him in single combat.

If he had, it would have been better for him, for at least it would have sounded more acceptable if he had died by Beren's hand than his son's.

He took a step back, lowered his eyes, and saw blood gushing out from his chest. He knew it was fatal, and his end was close at hand.

I pity you, a voice whispered in his mind then.

Who needs your pity? He spat in conceit. Especially when the one who took my life is your son?

When he fell, he felt no pain and had little concern of the shadow of the Everlasting Dark, for maybe he had never been truly hard-pressed by their oath. When he decided to leave Finrod to die in Sauron's dungeons and usurp the kingship of Nargothrond, was he simply driven by a desire over the Silmaril? When he vowed to destroy Doriath and came to make it happen, was he merely obsessed of regaining the Great Jewel?

When he set the ships to fire in Losgar, plotted his retaliation in Himlad, or attempted to send the one he had loved to death once and again, did he think of the Oath at all?

The Oath was but an excuse. Darkness arose from within.

He closed his eyes. The figure that had haunted his dreams suddenly became crystal clear. Against endless darkness she was dazzling like a star, beautiful beyond measure, so close and so remote all at once.

Is that you, Aredhel? Are you laughing again? You always had the upper hand over me, Irissë, you always had.

He wanted to lift up his hand to touch her, only to find he could not.

...Knowing more about animals than people...

But did he really know animals that well? He thought of Huan then, another shadow that had haunted him. Did he know Huan well? Did he know why Huan had given his own life to save a mortal Man? Did he know why Huan had chosen to leave him in the end, after forsaking the Blessed Realm for him and choosing a path of exile and danger?

He did not know, and probably would not know either. As for people, he knew less indeed. Aredhel - no, Irissë: Did he know her well? He must have loved her, but he had never known what she wanted from him, how she could have approached him yet evaded him, or why she had taken a paranoid Dark Elf for her husband who had eventually taken her life. Did he know Curufin? Did his brother merely use him as a weight on the scales of power? Had this been true, why would Curufin have advised him to reconsider his decision about her in Rerir? And did he know Lachodir? As he fell, he heard his herald's voice swearing to avenge him at all costs, but what had he done to earn such blind loyalty, or what had he done to deserve it?

Maybe it was just as ironic as it appeared: what you neglect often surprises you, while what you trust betrays you in the end. Or, it might be all the opposite: what you trust betrays you, because you believe they will never betray you regardless of what you do; and what you neglect surprises you, because in them you never have the expectation.

I pity you, the voice whispered again.

Is that what you truly meant, Lúthien?

Lúthien. In his last moment he finally called her by her name. Lúthien Tinúviel. To him she had always been 'Thingol's daughter', although he knew her name as well as others did. Did he truly hate her? He did not know. All he knew was that in some way she had touched his heart, not with her beauty - for that, ironically, they did share something in common: Lúthien the fair, and Celegorm the fair. But did he love her? If he did, how could a son of Fëanor have loved twice in his life? But if it was not love, what was it? A yearning for something he had forever lost, or had never even owned?

He was losing consciousness. He could not tell if the faint calls from afar were merely his illusion. But even if he could stay awake, he would not be able to answer these questions.

Because he had never known himself.

When the Everlasting Dark was falling upon him, to his own surprise, he laughed, for himself, for all that he had done.

Is that because of myself then? Is it because of myself that all I wish to have and keep is doomed to be lost, in the most unimaginable fashion?

He had much time to find an answer before the End.

(The End)

(1) (2): quotes from The Silmarillion.

Celegorm's new herald Lachodir is my creation, for his previous herald must have chosen to renounce him and stayed in Nargothrond. I created Lachodir as one who would avenge Celegorm's death, and it is quite ironic in itself: the one who was the most 'loyal' to him brought about the most evil act.

I chose to leave some details out of this story, such as why Celegorm had not attempted to take the Silmaril from Lúthien when she was on Tol Galen and how Celegorm had stirred up his brothers to attack Doriath after the Silmaril was passed to Dior, for his internal conflicts actually reached a climax and an end when he utterly lost Huan.

Postscript

When I began to write Sad But True, I thought I would simply provide more background and motivation for a supporting character in The Silmarillion to fill the gap, but the tale grew in the telling, and I ended up writing a fairly long story for him (for one whose first language is not English, it felt long indeed).

In this story, I gave him more character and emotions, even his own set of reasons, to free him from the role of a simple villain in the book. However, I do not mean to justify or support any of his deeds. I do not deny that I had the intention of casting a different light on him in the beginning, but after evaluating all the 'facts' and setting them in a background of love (the most 'reasonable' way I could come up with), I still found him unforgivable in the end. After all, 'Love is sweet, but it cannot change a man's nature'.

Again, the story is, though not groundless, merely one interpretation of 'history' and has no claim on the 'truth'. I am by no means advocating it as the only possibility.