Chapter 8. Sad But True: Part Two

Thus it came to pass that they journeyed north. Without an escort, they chose the shortest route to avoid enemies as best they could. Despite their experience as warriors, they were still only two—and a hound, if Huan was to be counted. Their path led them eastward through Talath Dirnen, then north along the edges of the Forests of Brethil. 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 once taken the same road from Dimbar to Himlad many years ago, but he would have dismissed any notion of fate regardless. When he spotted Thingol's daughter in Brethil, he was genuinely surprised. Even from a distance, her beauty was overwhelming. Against the gloom beneath the trees, she gleamed like a star, and at her side was...

"Kill the mortal and take Lúthien," said Curufin suddenly. "Then Doriath will still be ours, and Nargothrond will pay for their mistake."

His stallion halted almost in unison with Huan. He glanced at the hound and saw no outward protest, but he knew, deep down, that Huan was troubled by Curufin's proposal. The knowledge only fueled his cruel satisfaction and strengthened his resolve.

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—"

"I will deal with the mortal," he snapped. "But I do not need your instructions."

Without awaiting a response, he urged his horse forward. Disregarding his brother's suggestion, he rode past Beren, circling back to face the mortal directly. He would not stoop to striking from behind without challenge, not outside the heat of battle—his pride forbade such dishonor.

As he locked eyes with Beren, he heard Lúthien's cry and realized that Curufin had caught her by surprise. But what happened next completely stunned him. Her voice seemed to transform the mortal into a warrior of startling ferocity. In an instant, Beren vanished from his sight, moving faster than he had ever thought possible. A burst of shouting and cursing followed. When he finally turned his steed, Curufin was no longer mounted but wrestling with Beren on the ground, struggling desperately as the mortal's hands tightened around his neck. Nearby, Lúthien lay on the grass, while Curufin's horse reared and neighed frantically beside her.

Seeing his brother suffocating, care outweighed reason. He tore his spear from the flank and drove his steed forward, the tip of the weapon fixed on Beren's undefended back.

A roar, great and terrible, filled the air—a sound full of wrath.

Startled, his horse swerved and reared. Caught unprepared, he dropped his spear and clutched the horse's mane, struggling to steady himself. Before he could regain his balance, he saw who had stopped him: it was Huan, once again.

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

Not any more, the hound's eyes seemed to say, now filled with disappointment and fury rather than sorrow. Without further warning, Huan roared again and sprang at him.

Despite all his urging and cursing, his horse recoiled in fear. "You, both of you, shall pay for your betrayal!" he shouted, his voice trembling with rage. But neither the hound nor the horse paid heed, while Curufin's struggles grew weaker with each passing moment. In his frustration, he drew his sword.

"Stop!" A voice cut through the chaos, soft yet clear. "Beren, stop!"

He turned his head and saw Thingol's daughter. She had risen to her feet and rushed to Beren's side. "Do not kill him," she implored, gripping the mortal's arm. "He shall not die by your hand."

Her words had an immediate effect. Though reluctantly, Beren released Curufin. "But he shall not leave freely," he said, his voice harsh to Elven ears. "He has no honor; therefore, I grant him no respect."

Gasping and coughing, Curufin managed to sit up as Beren stripped him of all his gear and weapons without mercy, including the knife wrought by Telchar of Nogrod.

Only then did he exhale, secretly relieved. He had not expected Thingol's daughter to spare Curufin's life. Yet, to his further surprise, she left Beren's side and took several steps toward him. The dirt and blood on her only seemed to exalt her immortal beauty, which illuminated the glade around them.

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

Save your lecture, he retorted. And save your judgment of me. You are no holier than I am. Go with your mortal and remember what you will suffer down the road.

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

At that, indignation flared within him. 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? His rage surged anew, as it always did in her presence. 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 exchange, Beren hauled Curufin to his feet and flung him forward with disdain. With dark bruises visible on his neck, Curufin staggered away from Beren. Just when it seemed his brother might remain subdued, Curufin turned sharply, his voice hoarse and dripping with venom as he cursed: "Go hence, unto a swift and bitter death!" (2)

He bent down to help his brother mount his horse. As Curufin settled behind him, he felt fingers digging into his back, but he paid them no heed. His thoughts were now consumed by her. The burning desire to kill them all—the mortal, the hound, and Thingol's daughter—seared through him. Never before had he endured such insult. Yet, despite his rage, he hesitated, troubled by the way she had looked at him, as if she had once again seen into the depths of his soul.

Sensing his turmoil, Curufin leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Let us go, my brother."

He obeyed mechanically, instructing his horse to turn north. As they began to ride away, he cast one final glance at her. She had turned away, but at her side, Huan remained, his eyes sharp and vigilant.

Just then, he felt a shift at his back. Before he could react, Curufin loosed an arrow from his bow, aimed directly at Thingol's daughter. What followed was chaos. Huan leapt like a flash of lightning, catching the first arrow mid-flight, but the second was too swift for the hound to intercept. It was Beren who stepped forward, shielding her. The arrow struck him square in the chest, and blood blossomed like a crimson flower.

"What have you done?!" he shouted at Curufin in stunned disbelief. But Curufin simply drove his heels into the horse's flanks. The stallion bolted into a gallop, narrowly avoiding Huan, who gave chase with fury and relentless determination. After a long and grueling pursuit, they finally managed to lose the hound and came to a stop. The horse stood drenched in sweat, while the riders, too, were worn and exhausted.

He busied himself tending to the stallion for a moment before blurting out, "You should not have tried to kill her."

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

Curufin's sharp retort silenced him. Neither spoke again for the rest of the journey. It was not until the great walls of Himring appeared on the horizon that Curufin broke the silence, his voice carrying a hint of harshness, but still icy. "At least now the mortal is dead."

But even Curufin's judgment could falter. The mortal did not die. Instead, he survived against all odds and went on to achieve a deed that would be sung of for ages. Beren and Lúthien braved every peril and reached the very hells of Angband, where together they wrested 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 stood a host ready to march, comprised of all the Noldor of East Beleriand, the Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod, and the Swarthy Men who had sworn allegiance to the House of Fëanor. But few among them had once served under his command, for none had come to join them from Nargothrond.

"Send to the Commander and ask how much longer we must wait," he instructed Lachodir, his new herald. Lachodir repeated the order and promptly passed it down.

Lachodir had volunteered for service shortly after he and Curufin arrived at Himring. "Perhaps you do not remember, my lord, but you saved my life in battle—not once, but twice. May I have the honor of serving you again?" Although he had saved countless lives in battle and could not recall the specific instance Lachodir mentioned, he saw no reason to turn the young Noldo away. With most of his people left behind, he needed at least a capable herald. Lachodir had not disappointed. Despite his youth, he displayed no signs of inexperience and occasionally impressed him with his unwavering dedication.

He wondered why Maedhros had delayed the attack. His eldest brother was capable of patience when necessary, but he had always been decisive in matters of warfare. Before they reached Himring, Maedhros had already learned of Thingol's daughter, for the King of Doriath had sent a request for aid after her escape from Nargothrond. Yet, to the surprise of many, Maedhros made no immediate move after hearing the full account from Curufin. When tidings arrived that Thingol's daughter and her mortal lover had wrested a Silmaril from Morgoth, Maedhros sent a demand to Menegroth, insisting that it be returned to its rightful owners. When his claim was denied, Maedhros still did not act immediately, again confounding expectations. Instead, while busy forging a great alliance, Maedhros took a course that others might deem more acceptable: he chose to gather all their strength and challenge Morgoth directly in open war. However, he did not restrain his younger brothers from issuing open threats to Thingol and his people. Perhaps Curufin saw the truth of it: "Because once we reclaim the other two Silmarils, Maitimo would have to do the same."

And so here they were, waiting in the Gasping Dust for what would be the final, defining battle. Banners of every color fluttered in the morning breeze, and the Star of Fëanor blazed brightly in the midsummer sunlight, nearly blinding in its brilliance.

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

He nodded and surveyed his host once more. When his gaze inadvertently met that of an Easterling, the dark-skinned man quickly lowered his eyes, as though scorched by the Elven stare. This caused him to frown, and he turned 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 among Men. As if he had truly seen it! And if Caranthir had scorned the House of Arafinwë all his life, how could he place his trust in a lesser and weaker race? But Maedhros had deemed all support valuable, and that had 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 brought to an end—though not in the way they had anticipated.

The power of Morgoth was indeed terrible and vast, but the Enemy did not secure his victory through Dragons, Balrogs, or countless Orcs. The Dark Lord had sealed his triumph long before the battle began, for 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 undone all their efforts and brought them to ruin.

But there was no time for reflection amid the chaos of battle—nor was reflection ever his strength. We lost, he judged, as the turncoats neared Maedhros' standard. We must retreat; otherwise, we will all perish here. Raising his voice above the din, he shouted the order to retreat, searching desperately for Lachodir to pass on the command. Just as he caught sight of his herald fighting valiantly ahead, an overwhelming pain erupted from his back.

Lowering his eyes, he saw the blood-stained point of a spear protruding from his chest. Gritting his teeth, he turned his head with great effort and caught a glimpse of a sneering troll. As his strength ebbed and his vision blurred, realization dawned on him with a bitter finality. I have been careless, he thought, as the darkness closed in. The loyal shadow that had always guarded my back is no more.

When he regained awareness, he found himself no longer on the battlefield but in a quiet glade, lying on the ground. Lachodir sat beside him, his face pale beneath streaks of blood, his sword dented, and his armor scarred. Other soldiers rested nearby, but an oppressive silence hung over the group. The misty chill in the air felt jarring, a stark contrast to the warmth of midsummer.

He stirred, drawing Lachodir's immediate attention. At the sight of him awake, his herald visibly relaxed. But his gaze did not turn to Lachodir. Instead, it fell upon a lifeless form lying in a puddle near the edge of the glade—a white coat and silver mane, stained with dark blood. His stallion.

Lachodir followed his gaze and hesitated before speaking. "It was your horse who carried you here on his back, my lord."

A violent cough seized him, and he tasted blood—a bitter, strange tang that nearly made him retch. Even so, he pushed away Lachodir's helping hands, forcing himself upright despite the pain. His voice came strained but resolute. "Then I will need a new steed."

Many years later, as he entered the defenseless Doriath astride a different white stallion, the fire burning in his heart felt colder than the bitterest wind of winter.

I will finish what is left.

But what was left? It seemed that all his curses had taken root, by some cruel design of fate. Huan was dead, for he fought Morgoth's wolf to the death for a mortal man. His steed was gone, for it gave its life to save its master from the Nirnaeth. Beren died, along with Thingol's daughter; though 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 had perished; those who had renounced the House of Fëanor were brought to death by someone they trusted, just as he had foretold. Thingol was slain, and Melian had departed Middle-earth; Doriath was left open to its enemies, and the splendid halls of Menegroth were sacked by the greed of Dwarves. If Dior the Half-elven had not taken up his grandfather's crown and vowed to restore its glory, the once-great Hidden Kingdom would have been no more.

What was left to be done? An oath to recover the Jewels wrought by his father, and a threat to destroy a kingdom.

And it so happened that both could be achieved with a single move.

He stirred up his brothers to prepare for an assault upon Doriath, as later tales would recount. Yet, bound by their oath, the sons of Fëanor had no choice when Dior refused to surrender the Silmaril—a fact Maedhros understood as well as he did. Thus, they came, in the depths of winter, at a time of careful choosing, though Maedhros insisted their purpose was not the ruin of Doriath, but the reclamation of the Silmaril they had sworn to recover at all costs.

Meeting little resistance, they soon reached the great bridge spanning the river of Esgalduin. On the far side stood the gates of Menegroth, and beyond lay the marvelous city of the Thousand Caves, the heart of Doriath. By then, the Grey Elves, warned of their approach, had hastily assembled a host. But his eyes found what he sought with ease: the Heir of Thingol did not hide behind the gates but waited before them.

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

Dior fought better than he had anticipated. He should have known it. The Half-elven's father was none other than Beren Erchamion—a mortal so formidable that Morgoth had set a price on his head. Beren had survived the fire of the Dagor Bragollach, endured the betrayal of his kin, and wandered alone through perilous highlands, crossing mountains and valleys of terror. He had entered Doriath despite the Girdle of Melian, nearly strangled Curufin with his bare hands, and ultimately accomplished the unimaginable: retrieving a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown alongside his lover.

It was a pity that he, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, had never faced Beren in single combat. If he had, it would have been better for him—for at least it would have been more honorable to fall by Beren's hand than by that of his son.

He took a step back, lowered his eyes, and saw blood pouring from his chest. He knew it was fatal. His end was near.

I pity you, a voice whispered in his mind.

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

As he fell, he felt no pain and gave little thought to the shadow of the Everlasting Dark, for perhaps the weight of the Oath had never truly pressed upon him. When he left Finrod to die in Sauron's dungeons and seized the kingship of Nargothrond, was it purely the desire for the Silmaril that drove him? When he vowed to destroy Doriath and set out to fulfill that oath, was it obsession with reclaiming the Great Jewel that compelled him? When he burned the ships at Losgar, when he plotted vengeance in Himlad, when he sent the one he had loved to her death again and again—did he think of the Oath at all?

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

He closed his eyes, and the figure that had haunted his dreams became suddenly, painfully clear. Against the endless darkness, she shone like a star—dazzling, unreachable, beautiful beyond measure. So close, yet so remote.

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

He longed to raise his hand, to touch her, but found he could not.

...Knowing more of animals than of people...

But did he truly know animals so well? His thoughts turned to Huan—a shadow that haunted him as deeply as she did. Did he understand why Huan had given his life for a mortal? Did he know why the hound had ultimately chosen to leave him, despite forsaking the Blessed Realm to follow him into exile and peril?

He did not know, and perhaps he never would. As for people, he knew even less. Aredhel—no, Irissë—did he truly know her? He must have loved her, but he had never understood what she wanted from him. Why did she approach only to evade? Why had she chosen a spiteful Dark Elf as her husband, a choice that ultimately cost her life? Did he know Curufin? Was he merely a pawn in his brother's games of power? If that were true, why had Curufin urged him to reconsider his decision about her in Rerir? And what of Lachodir? As he fell, he had heard his herald's voice swearing vengeance at all costs. But what had he done to inspire such loyalty? What had he done to deserve it?

Maybe it was as ironic as it seemed: what you neglect often surprises you, while what you trust betrays you in the end. Or perhaps, the truth ran deeper still: trust, when taken for granted and presumed unbreakable, crumbles under the weight of abuse, while neglect, free of expectation, yields unlooked-for gifts.

I pity you, the voice whispered again.

Is that truly what you meant, Lúthien?

Lúthien. In his final moments, he addressed her by her name for the first time in his mind. Lúthien Tinúviel. Until now, she had always been "Thingol's daughter" to him, though he knew her name just as well as others did. Did he truly hate her? He did not know. All he knew was that, in some inexplicable way, she had touched his heart. It was not through her beauty; but was it love? Could a son of Fëanor love twice in one lifetime? And if it was not love, then what? A yearning for something he had forever lost, or something he had never truly possessed?

His strength waned, and consciousness began to slip away. He could not tell if the faint calls from afar were mere illusions. Yet, even if he could hold on, he knew the answers to these questions were beyond his reach.

Because he had never truly known himself.

As the Everlasting Dark closed in, to his own surprise, he laughed—at himself, and all that he had done.

Is it truly my doing? Is it because of me that everything I cherish is doomed to be lost in the most unexpected manner?

He would have eternity to find out before the End.

(The End of the Main Story)

Notes

(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.