Chapter 5. The Unforgiven: Part Two
All at once, he was wrenched back to reality, the thread binding him to the dream world severed as if by an unseen blade. He sat up abruptly, his eyes struggling to focus. When his surroundings came into view, he began to tremble.
Before him, there was only darkness, and in his hands, only emptiness.
He bit his lip and tasted blood. Closing his eyes in desperation, he tried to will himself back into the dream, to reclaim the vivid world he had seen so clearly moments before. The sensations lingered: the warmth of her body against his chest, the curve of her form in his arms. Without realizing it, he brushed his fingers across his lips, and in that instant, a surge of emotion overcame him. Loss, anger, sorrow, frustration, helplessness, and bitterness—all crashed over him like a relentless tide, carrying him in their grasp.
If it had been a dream, if it had only been a dream, why on Arda did it feel so achingly real?
He sprang out of bed. Action, not contemplation, was his nature. He had to go back, no matter what awaited him.
When he left the fortress of Rerir, he carried only his sword—the blade his father had made for each son of Fëanor. In the darkness before dawn, his white stallion raced across Thargelion like a streak of lightning, Huan running close behind as ever.
The journey back to Himlad lasted the entire day. When he reached the gates before the first light of dawn, his arrival startled the guards, though he wasted no time explaining. His words came quick and direct: "Where is she?"
Even as one who had seen the Light, he had overexerted himself. With little rest, a deep weariness began to build within him, true and heavy. But he ignored it. In the first light of the sun, his eyes blazed fiercely like burning stars.
"Do you mean Lady Aredhel, my lord?" The guard's casual tone tested the limits of his patience. For a fleeting moment, he considered grabbing the Elf by his cloak and forcing him to answer with proper urgency. Instead, he dismounted, his actions tightly controlled—a rare moment of restraint. "Yes. Did you not send word to Rerir that she is here? Aredhel Ar-Feiniel." Would you ask me next if I mean the White Lady of the Noldor?
"Lady Aredhel is gone."
The reins slipped slightly in his grasp as his entire body stiffened. His mind emptied, leaving only a vast stillness where thought should have been. The guard continued speaking, but his words seemed distant and strange.
"She left the day before yesterday, just before dawn. We tried to dissuade her, my lord, but she could not be convinced."
The day before yesterday. Just before dawn. When did I dream of her? How could it have felt so real?
"She often spoke of the boredom here, comparing it to the dullness of the Hidden City. Lady Aredhel frequently rode south to the forests and fields, always alone and refusing an escort, and she always returned safely. We expect no different this time."
You fool, this time will not be the same. It will never be the same again.
"Lord Celegorm?"
The voice did not stir him, but a familiar nudge from Huan did. He exhaled shakily, realizing for the first time that his hands trembled. Whether from sheer fatigue or the weight of something deeper, he could not tell.
Without a word, he mounted his horse once more. "Come with me," he said to Huan. Turning south, he left the stunned guard behind, ignoring the fatigue of his long ride.
...You will find her—no matter how much effort it takes or how long it requires...
He searched. He searched tirelessly, combing every inch of Himlad, but she was not there. She seemed to have simply vanished without a trace. He questioned every bird and beast he encountered along the way. He sent word to Amrod and Amras, even to Caranthir, asking if they had seen her. The answers were always the same: no. She had never gone to Thargelion or the forests in the south. Soon, he began to wonder if his people had fallen under some enchantment, for how could she have come? She should have stayed with her brother in a city no one could find—at least, that was what he had known. Why would she suddenly come alone, looking for him, when he had betrayed her at Losgar and shown no remorse?
Nevertheless, his heart told him she had come indeed.
He had once passed Nan Elmoth but dismissed the thought that she might be there. Eöl, the Dark Elf who dwelled in that sunless valley, was known for preferring the Dwarves over the Noldor—in fact, he hated the Noldor, of whom she was undoubtedly one.
If he had known she was there, he would have taken her back at any cost. He would have summoned all the warriors of Himlad under his command if necessary. He could have erased Nan Elmoth from the map of Beleriand and risked another kinslaying—kin? Who is kin to a Dark Elf?—if only he had known. If only he had known.
Eventually, he had to end the search. When he decided to give up, his mind seemed torn into two halves: one screamed, struggling with memories and dreams, while the other was detached, filled with bitter indifference.
- I should have gone back. I should have gone back as soon as I learned she came. The fact that she came to look for me was already beyond me. Why did I not trust her?
- You are deceiving yourself again, and you know it. How much longer will you live in lies? She has never given you what you desire. This time, did she not destroy your pride once more and leave you in pain and confusion? It was nothing but her perfect revenge.
At some point, the two voices merged into one.
You know what must be done, for you have handled it once before.
But why was it so difficult if he merely followed a well-established path? If experience could dull the pain, why was there not even the slightest numbness?
Fortunately, there was always time enough for everything to fade into oblivion.
Nearly thirty years of the Sun later, in the same peaceful days, he received an unusual request in Himlad.
"Lord Celegorm, we have two guests at the gate," his lieutenant reported. "They wish to see you but have refused to reveal their identities."
Having grown weary of his daily routine and now idly sitting behind his large oak desk, he looked up with a hint of curiosity. "Bold, but interesting."
"Would you see them then, my lord?"
"Why would I not?" He was not afraid of assassination. As was well known, it was extremely difficult to kill a son of Fëanor, something his eldest brother could certainly testify to. Moreover, his sword was at his side, and he was confident in his ability to use it effectively, should the need arise. "Send them in."
Soon after, the guests were shown into his chamber. He remained seated, studying them from head to toe, feeling no need to speak first. They wore grey cloaks, their faces hidden beneath grey hoods, but their bearing was proud and lordly, with a careless grace that marked them as likely lords of the Grey Elves.
He frowned. Thingol disliked the Noldor in general and loathed the House of Fëanor in particular. What could two Sindar of high status possibly want from a son of Fëanor?
Before beginning to question them, he suddenly felt a strange foreboding. For a moment, he could not help but stare at one of them intensely, caring nothing for courtesy, as those eyes hidden in the shadow were unnervingly familiar. Had he seen them before? And where had he seen them?
"Celegorm," said a familiar voice then. "It has been so long since last we met."
He jumped up so abruptly that he crashed into his desk with an audible thump, but he hardly felt any pain, as all his senses seemed to vanish at once. Right in front of him, the one who had spoken stepped forward, lowered the hood, and threw back the cloak. In that instant, snow-white was released from the bondage of deep grey, so bright that it was almost blinding in the midsummer sunlight.
Then their eyes met again.
"Irissë." He blurted out her name, as if he had never struggled so desperately to drive it from his mind. Her name. It was her. It was truly her. How had he convinced himself that he had forgotten her? Had he not seen her in his dreams, over and over? And now she was here—no less beautiful than in his memory, hardly changed at all.
No. His senses began to return. Something is different. Perhaps it was the way she called him by his Sindarin name. It sounded strange coming from her, almost as though it were a sign marking the end of everything that had passed.
But how could there be an end when there had never been a beginning? And if there truly was no beginning, why did his dream of her feel more real than any truth he had ever known?
"You look unchanged," she interrupted his tumultuous thoughts after fixing her eyes on him for a moment. "Yet for us, no change is expected."
The magic dissipated. Ages ago, on the green plains of Valinor, she had spoken those same words, also after a long separation. Then, she had rejected him with mockery, later offering an apology he had refused with pride—pride that was marred ever after.
Stop lying to yourself. A dream is a dream, nothing more.
He straightened and regained some composure. Only then did he notice her companion, standing quietly behind her: a handsome boy, tall and strong, fair-skinned and dark-haired like her, in every way appearing to be one of the Noldor. Still looking at her, he gestured casually toward the boy. "Is he your guar—"
"No," she interrupted him. "Not only my guard. He is my son."
At first, her words made no sense. With great effort, piece by piece, he put them together. As realization dawned, a chill seeped into his bones. He stared at her again, and this time, everything fell into place—how could he have been so blind? In her eyes, he saw the shadow of it, and in her voice, he heard the echo of it: a bond eternal, irreversible and unbreakable, in life or death, together or apart, enduring as long as Arda itself, until the end of days.
He had once wished to share a bond like that with her, but she had first refused him relentlessly—and then given it to someone else, without even informing him as a cousin and friend.
He looked at the boy, then back at her. She met his gaze directly, proud and stubborn, with a challenge in her eyes. Suddenly, he felt detached from the world, as though something shielded his heart from reality, like smoke wrapping around fire.
"Celegorm, this is M—" she started.
"Wait, Aredhel," he snapped. "If I wish to know someone's name, I should ask him directly." Watching her closely, he added, "So I would not be rude."
I would forget nothing you have said to me.
All at once, the dream of her surged through his mind, more vivid than ever. It thrust a spear of pain into his chest, the point piercing his twitching heart, and he wondered why he still suffered if he could no longer feel.
She had not expected his words and was rendered speechless. He saw the look on her face and recognized parts of it: surprise, hesitation, and compassion—no, not compassion, for there was none. Then what was it? Could it be regret?
"Lord Celegorm," a third voice broke the silence. "I am Maeglin."
The boy's voice was deep, melodic, and persuasive—well beyond his years. Such a voice could serve its owner as a powerful tool, something he had witnessed before in his own family. But what truly caught his attention were the boy's eyes: dark, not of the Calaquendi, yet startlingly perceptive and piercing—sharp indeed. Instantly, he found himself hating those eyes. A single glance could unearth unguarded thoughts and expose secrets buried deep. He hated those eyes and hated even more their owner.
You should not have existed, he thought. You should not have existed. In the scarlet wound freshly torn in his heart, those dark eyes planted seeds of dark flames.
"My father is Eöl of Nan Elmoth," the boy continued.
Eöl? The Dark Elf hiding in the shadowed forests of Nan Elmoth, ever hostile toward the Noldor? No. Deep inside, dark flames sparked and crackled, licking at the redness around. It cannot be. You should not have existed. You should not have existed.
But outwardly, he remained had not spent years with Curufin without learning something. "Did your father send you here?"
"No, my lord. On the contrary, we disobeyed him." The boy then gave a full account of what had transpired—plain but precise. They had wished to return to the Hidden City but were forbidden to do so. Several days ago, Eöl had accepted an invitation and left for Nogrod to join the Dwarves for a feast, giving them their chance to escape. However, Eöl's servants kept a close watch, so they claimed their destination was Himlad to avoid suspicion. Even so, Eöl would soon learn of their whereabouts, and his own horse was faster than theirs.
He fixed his eyes on her while the boy spoke. The echo of words flowed past his heart like cool water, easing his urges and suppressing his anger. As the dark flames within him stopped spreading, his mood softened. Am I mistaken then? Since you wish to escape from him, does that mean you have regretted?
She did not flinch; instead, she held her head high. Once you said the House of Fëanor would never change their hearts. Now I say the House of Fingolfin is no different. I leave him now for the freedom of my son and myself, which has nothing to do with my heart.
He read her thoughts, for she set no guard around them. She wants me to know. Instantly, dark flames flared anew, igniting from blood and flesh, whirling and blasting like a dying ember fed with fresh fuel. So this is how she takes her revenge on me, her real revenge.
Miraculously, he kept his face calm. When the boy finished, he even managed a smile. "As my kin, you will certainly get good horses here—actually, the best ones."
"Thank you, my lord," the boy said, lowering his head.
You should not have existed. Behind the desk, he clenched his fists until all the joints of his fingers turned pale. You should not have existed. Yet, he heard his own voice calling for his lieutenant and issuing an order, as though nothing had happened. "See to all the needs of Lady Aredhel and...Maeglin. Now."
His lieutenant, who had been waiting outside, nodded and opened the door for her and her son. She glanced at him before moving, but he paid no heed. Though his gaze remained on her, everything seemed to scatter into fragments before his eyes, illogical and meaningless. Indifferently, he watched her and her son. She turned to leave, lingering a moment at the door, but she did not look back. Her son simply followed her out.
He watched until the door closed behind them. Before its sound faded, he had drawn his sword, teeth clenched. A familiar urge overwhelmed him. His heart screamed silently in the raging dark fire, and once again, he understood what his father must have felt when he made the decision to rebel against the Valar. They both had lost the most important things in their lives. The only difference was that, in the madness of rage and grief, his father had believed vengeance could still be achieved without aid, while he knew, with bitter clarity, that what he desired had fallen utterly out of his grasp, with no hope of reclaiming it.
Notes
Thus ends my speculation of why Celegorm lingered at Rerir when Aredhel went to Himlad to find him. According to The Silmarillion, she had stayed in Himlad for months before she got lost in Nan Elmoth.
Aredhel's second visit to Himlad was not recorded in The Silmarillion. The story here referred to a text in HoMe 11, in which Celegorm offered not only good horses but also a promise of 'other aid'.