Disclaimer: Arda and all that is in it belong to Professor Tolkien. I own only the mistakes.
Rated R for scenes of intimacy, in addition to potentially biased, cynical portrayals of characters.
Many thanks to onoheiwa for beta reading!
Chapter 1. Holier Than Thou
They said he fell in love with her the moment he saw her, captivated by her "sudden beauty revealed beneath the sun"; but they were wrong—completely wrong.
As an experienced hunter, he was perfectly capable of moving through the corridor without making a sound, but he took satisfaction in breaking the silence, with no intention of masking his presence. Nargothrond, with its many halls and chambers carved by the Naugrim, was an intricate structure to visitors. Though he had once been restricted from accessing some areas, those limits had been lifted after Finrod's departure. Now, he knew the stronghold as intimately as if were his own home, for he had explored every corner. No one raised an objection; no one even tried.
Not entirely true, he thought. Someone did. Orodreth, the Prince Regent—though, of course, only in title. How could Finrod have trusted his weak-hearted brother to rule in his stead, especially against their powerful kin? Who could possibly stand against two sons of Fëanor?
He entered a secret passage, the one to which he had given specific orders: no one could approach without permission from him or his brother. His beautiful captive was kept alone in the chamber at its end. One might argue about the legitimacy of such an arrangement, but he never made her life miserable—why would he? He was supposed to wed her.
Lips curling, he managed a twisted smile.
Yes, he would wed her, regardless of whether it was against her will.
- Turko, bring her back with us.
- Why? You know well I have no interest in their strange affairs.
- She is the daughter of Thingol, his only daughter and his heir. Thingol has never opened his gate to the House of Fëanor, but with her, you will hold the key to Doriath—a key that will unlock great power.
- What do I care for Doriath?
- You ask while knowing the answer. Surely you have not forgotten our Oath. As we stand, we do not have the strength to fulfill it. We need allies, and here lies an opportunity we cannot afford to miss. Once you win her heart, Doriath will be ours.
- If my eyes and ears have not deceived me, she loves that mortal. Her heart is already won.
- Then let that mortal die. Doriath will be ours. And leave Finrod to his fate. Nargothrond will be ours as well. The House of Fëanor will rule all of Beleriand, while the usurpers will be left only the northern lands... and a hidden city, at most.
Involuntarily, his smile vanished.
The door, crafted by Curufin himself, was locked. Only the two sons of Fëanor in this place possessed the keys, and no others were permitted to visit her.
Again, not entirely true, he thought. There always seems to be an exception. A familiar figure lay before the door, unmoving as stone, its eyes filled with sorrow and vigilance. It was Huan, the wolf-hound who had followed him since the days in Valinor.
This is unacceptable, he thought. Why do you worry, Huan? What on Arda do you think I might do to her? I know you do not approve of this arrangement, but there are things you cannot understand.
His cold glance was enough to make the hound rise and step aside without protest. Not without hesitation, he noted, but to his relief, there was neither suspicion nor mistrust. Not yet.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the chamber. There sat Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia, composed and quiet. She had refused all the delicate, luxurious garments he and his brother had sent her, still wearing the simple sky-blue gown she had been wearing when they found her. Her long, dark hair flowed like the shadows of twilight, and her bright grey eyes carried the misty light of starlit water.
He regarded her, still troubled by the realization that her beauty stirred nothing within him. This is strange, he thought, and unfair. He remembered the moment she had revealed herself before them, her beauty so radiant that even the high sun seemed dim beside it. His guards had stared at her, transfixed and unwilling to look away. Yet, he had merely raised a brow, unmoved—not indifferent, but without the fervor that gripped the others.
In a surge of wry anger, he kicked the door closed behind him and took a step toward her, significantly reducing the space between them, for the chamber was not large. Whether her almost imperceptible flinch came from the door's slam or his approach, he could not tell. Deciding to interpret it as the latter, he allowed himself a mocking, lordly smile.
"Do not worry," he said, lowering his head toward her with the elegance of one greeting an equal at a formal ceremony. Many predators toyed with their prey before the strike—a truth he knew too well. "I will not touch you—not for now, at least. In the future, perhaps, but that choice will rest with you."
She straightened slightly.
"I have sent word to your father: the mortal Beren is dead, and Finrod has perished with him. I shall be King of Nargothrond, and you will remain here as my Queen. We will wed once his blessing arrives, but even then, I will not touch you unless it is your will." He caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes and laughed. "I seek your hand, not your life. From what I have heard, you are far more valuable alive."
He knew he sounded like Curufin, but he did not care. It mattered little who had devised this plan; he had approved it, though for his own reasons. Ever since the fulfillment of the Oath had become a seemingly impossible task, he had sought diversion—a pinch of spice to an otherwise plain dish, a moment of amusement in an endless, tedious hunt.
She regarded him without a word. There was no abhorrence, no anger, no fear—none of the reactions he might have expected. It perplexed him briefly, but he quickly dismissed it. He had no interest in understanding her thoughts. Speculating on the minds of others was a skill he neither possessed nor cared for. That was Curufin's domain.
...Knowing more of animals than of people...
Suddenly and violently, pain surged within him. Almost trembling, he cursed himself as he always did. It has been such a long time; why will you not simply forget?
He felt her steady gaze upon him. Her silence, coupled with her composure, gnawed at his patience until he could bear it no longer. Without a word, he turned abruptly and strode toward the door. What troubled him was neither ambition nor desire. It was something else—something more sorrowful, yet more real.
"Lord Celegorm," she spoke then, addressing him by his Sindarin name. He halted but did not turn.
"You will not go to rescue him, as you promised, will you?"
He made no answer, but she required no answer.
"Nor will you go to rescue your kin—King Felagund."
"He is only my cousin," he muttered. So she knows, to some extent. But what do you truly know, daughter of Thingol? My kin or not, it makes no difference. This is not the first time I have betrayed my so-called kin. And even if he dies, he would not be the first to perish because of me.
"Yet you and your brothers never even tried to rescue your eldest brother," said that sweet, nightingale-like voice, thorns lacing every word.
"That is the least of your concern!" he snapped, whirling around to face her. "Now listen to me. Pray—for that is all you can do. Pray that your mortal suffers less before he dies. And for your comfort, keep this in mind: if he were ever to come back, I might allow you to...keep in touch with him. For I cannot touch you anyway. I am far more generous than your father."
Her face blanched, and he felt a cruel satisfaction at the sight.
"I will not wed you," she stated.
"You have no choice." he replied, his eyes cold. "Your father's blessing is not strictly required."
"I will not give my vow to you," she restated.
"Fortunately, I have no need of it," he said. "As I mentioned, I have no issue taking you as my wife in name only. You may continue your affair with that mortal, if you wish—he will die soon enough by our reckoning. And even if an Elf and a Man could have a fruitful union, their children would be doomed to mortality as well."
Once again, these words were not entirely his own. It was Curufin who had reached this conclusion during a discussion about the future of an Elven maiden with a mortal. Yet they seemed perfectly suited to the moment—brutal in their truth, sharp with disdain. He wielded them now with precision, intent on shattering the pride and defiance that Thingol's daughter clung to so tightly.
And he succeeded.
She did not refute him immediately, for she could not deny the truth in his words. Instead, she looked at him, and in her gaze was something he did not expect: sorrow. For the first time, he found himself deeply unsettled by it. Though he was no master of reading minds, it was plain to him that her sorrow was not for herself, nor for Finrod, nor even for her mortal lover.
Strangely, her sorrow only served to stoke his anger further. How dare she? How dare she look at him with such eyes? Did she truly believe that her half-divine blood made her holier than he? A king's daughter, heir to an ancient realm, and yet she had abandoned her kin and her duty for a love as reckless as it was irrational. She lacked the strength to face the consequences of her choices and had instead turned to those who had spilled the blood of her kin, hoping they might lend a merciful hand. Do you have no shame? Cast aside that lofty air of yours, Thingol's daughter—you are no less stained than I!
She must have sensed the storm gathering in his gaze. Her lips parted, perhaps to speak, but he gave her no chance. Closing the distance in a rush of cold air, he seized the front of her gown and hauled her upright. The fabric strained beneath his grip, slipping down one shoulder but refusing to tear, while her dark hair tumbled loose, veiling her face in wild disarray. Against this contrast—disheveled yet radiant—her pale skin gleamed like frost beneath the starlight.
For a heartbeat, he froze. His grip faltered, an inexplicable hesitation rooting him in place. His breath caught, and the intimidating light in his eyes dimmed, softened by a flicker of confusion.
She saw the shift, the bewilderment taking shape in his eyes. Her composure, steady until now, wavered at last, rippling like a still pool struck by a sudden stone—not with fear, but with astonishment.
Yet she should fear him. This was no dream, and there would be no escape.
The memory he had most dreaded to awaken, yet could never bring himself to forsake, shattered its chains in that instant. A searing heat coursed through his veins, and the rush of blood roared in his ears. I will not let you flee again. Tightening his grip on her gown, he reached for the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. With a force born of fury and despair, he crushed his lips against hers. I will not let you flee again.
For a moment, she froze. Then came her struggles. Her hands pushed against his chest, her voice muffled in resistance, but her strength was no match for his. He held her firmly, her every movement igniting the memories he had fought so hard to bury. The curve of her body against his arm, the warmth of her lips, even the defiance in her posture—it all returned to him, painfully vivid. A sigh escaped him, low and unbidden, as he closed his eyes, surrendering to the pull of the moment. If things could remain like this, he thought, perhaps I could reconcile myself to this union. Perhaps I could even heed Curufin's counsel—perhaps I could try to win her willing heart.
Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he could not.
He knew too well the desires that lay at the end of love, and he was not blind to the hunger stirring within himself. Yet no matter how fiercely his will commanded him, his body—bound as it was to the deeper truths of his soul—refused to move beyond that single kiss. It was as though an unyielding line had been drawn, stark and immutable, barring his path. The hotter the temptation burned before him, the colder the warning within him became.
And so his anger returned, sharper now and turned inward—a helpless rage, honed to a bitter edge by his own inability to act.
A stinging pain shot through his tongue, and the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. The shock of it jolted him back to himself. As if waking from a dream, he wrenched away, releasing her and stumbling backward. His breath came in ragged gasps. What spell has bound me to think this could ever work? For a brief moment, he stood trembling, the weight of his actions pressing down upon him like an iron shroud. I should have known—what binds the unwilling binds me as well.
Drawing a deep breath, he forced his nerves to steady. When he looked at her again, she had already composed herself. Her gown was straightened, her hair smoothed, and with quiet dignity, she wiped the blood from her lips. Her movements held a grace that seemed untouched by what had just transpired. There was no anger in her gaze, no hatred, as though his outburst had been no more than a passing shadow, dimming her radiance for but an instant.
Then words came from her—words that no one had ever dared to utter before him.
"Lord Celegorm, you love someone else."
"Stop," he said instinctively, his heart faltering.
"I know you plan to take Doriath through me. But do you truly wish to pay the price? A bond you do not desire, yet one that will last until the end of the World?"
He closed his eyes briefly before snapping them open again. This conversation had somehow slipped beyond his control. He needed to end it. "Stop."
"And I know you are not giving up your love for the oath you and your brothers have sworn."
Because I am not giving up my love, he thought, in spite of himself. I never would.
In that moment, he realized he was not hiding these thoughts from her, and she read them in his eyes, plain as day. He could not let her voice it. Action preceded thought, and in a blur, he struck her across the face to secure her silence. He needed no reminders of the past.
The next moment, he staggered back, stunned, staring at his own hand in disbelief. Violence had become all too familiar to him of late, but it had always been reserved for the minions of the Enemy. This was the first time he had turned it against a defenseless Elven maiden. As his mind churned with shock and turmoil, a low growl came from outside. Huan, he thought. Blame me as you will. I am not proud of what I have done.
But it was her voice that broke the silence, sad but calm.
"Then I pity you, Celegorm."
Her words struck him mercilessly, leaving him seething with rage. Yet he was helpless, like a hound punished for reasons it could not comprehend, though the punishment was just. When he finally left, driven by some incomprehensible urge, he did not lock the door behind him.
Later that day, Curufin came to him. When his younger brother entered, he was already lying in bed, his gaze fixed on the flickering flame of a candle. Yet, he felt no need for rest.
"Did you talk to her, Turko?"
He nodded, not bothering to sit up.
"What did she say?"
"What else could she say?" he shifted uncomfortably. "Do you really think she would be eager to wed me?"
A maid entered with a light knock. He waved her away impatiently, aware that his words had likely been overheard. Tomorrow, no doubt, this place would be awash with rumors of my supposed love for Thingol's daughter, he thought. So be it. Sometimes lies serve better than the truth.
"My understanding is that you know how crucial this arrangement is to us." Curufin's ever-gentle yet firm tone came through, calm and convincing. Among the seven brothers, Curufin resembled their father most—not only in appearance but also in his talents for creation. Yet Curufin's way was not their father's way. That difference, paired with all the similarities, had always unsettled him. "You know this is our best chance to fulfill the Oath."
"Ah, of course," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Clearly, it is far wiser to seize two Elven kingdoms before we even consider the Silmarilli—or the Oath."
The light in Curufin's eyes turned cold. "Innocence is too late a claim for you, my brother. Surely you remember how we facilitated Finrod's departure. You were so eloquent that, for a moment, even I was at a loss."
"Yet in time you found much to say, and made a far more convincing impression." He sat up, brushing back a lock of hair. Among the seven brothers, he was often praised for his lighter hair and fair features; though perhaps not as striking as Finrod, he carried the proud bearing of the House of Fëanor. "Do not misunderstand me. I do not claim innocence. We forfeited that word long ago."
And when on Arda had that happened?
He extinguished the candle and lay down again after Curufin left, staring into the darkness that enveloped him.
Since when had betrayal become routine? Since when had killing ceased to repulse him? Since when had even turning against those who sheltered them seemed not only acceptable but inevitable?
He remembered himself then: proud and furious, sword gleaming in hand, fire burning in his eyes. That was when he first learned of Finrod's plan—to aid a mortal named Beren in retrieving a Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown. It was true that Finrod had given refuge to him and Curufin in Nargothrond after their defeat at the Dagor Bragollach. It was also true that Finrod had shown great generosity, especially considering their guilt in the slaughter at the Haven of Swans. Yet, if he was not mistaken, Finrod now intended to help a base mortal win the hand of Thingol's daughter through a quest for a Silmaril—one of the Three Jewels, the rightful claim of the sons of Fëanor. If Finrod wished to die fulfilling an ill-considered promise, so be it, but leave the Silmarils out of it. He and his brothers had sworn an unbreakable oath to reclaim the jewels, and they would never suffer anyone else to take, have, or keep them. Of course, Finrod knew this. Had not the wise eldest son of Finarfin been present when the Oath was sworn? Yet Finrod chose to keep his own word and disregarded theirs entirely. This left the sons of Fëanor no choice. If they allowed this to pass unchallenged, what else on Arda could not be allowed?
He had spoken then, as eloquently and fiercely as his father once did in the high court of Tirion. When he finished, Curufin followed, speaking in his ever-steady and graceful manner, with the same unyielding firmness, yet wielding more chilling indications. Finrod's plan, he warned, would drag Nargothrond into war. The evil flames of Morgoth would destroy their hard-won peace. Had they not already witnessed the devastation of the Dagor Bragollach? Had they not heard of the ruin that befell Dorthonion? And if they were indeed so brave and valiant, why not follow the example of their beloved High King and confront the Dark Lord himself, face to face?
Doubtless, he and his brother had won the debate. Finrod, with only the mortal and ten warriors, had set out on a path destined for failure. Now his noble-hearted cousin lay captive in Sauron's dungeon, paying the price for his folly, his fate still uncertain.
And, of course, he would not go to rescue him.
This is not the first time I have betrayed my so-called kin. And even if he dies, he would not be the first to perish because of me.
Notes
A section of this chapter was added years after the original story was written (from "Strangely, her sorrow only served to stoke his anger further" to "dimming her radiance for but an instant"), on 2024-12-01.