Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

Curufin

Standing in front of the fireplace, Curufin pondered.

Embers still glowed in the hearth, radiating heat and a dim red light. He loved fire, especially the blazing fire of the forges: a symbol of creation, a source of inspiration, and the secret behind life and the world.

Some might argue that it was also an emissary of destruction, but he harbored no such concerns, for it would never bring harm to the sons of Fëanor. And there was another fire—not the evil flame of Morgoth, but the pure, radiant fire born of light. How could it possibly hurt the descendants of its maker? Instead, it was clearly their emblem and weapon, destined to wound those who had betrayed or defied them, removing obstacles on the path to fulfilling their oath and vengeance.

Thus far, it had performed exceptionally well. The hidden kingdom had fallen once before, and it was poised to fall again.

He allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Naturally, he appeared familiar to those who had once known his father, for among the seven brothers, he most resembled their sire—not only in appearance but also in the talents and art of making. If Curufinwë Fëanáro was a wildfire, fierce and devastating, Curufinwë Atarinkë was a furnace fire—no less powerful, yet always contained and refined. After all, he was called Curufin the crafty; and he knew very well that it was not merely due to his great craftsmanship.

Fixing his gaze on the dying flames in the fireplace, he reviewed the tidings he had gathered. All pointed to a single conclusion, and this time he would not allow anyone the opportunity to challenge it. But first, he needed to speak with his brother: Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, more widely known in this land as Celegorm the fair.

When Curufin found him, Celegorm had just returned from a hunt, with dust on his boots and horsehair on his breeches. Called “the fair”, Celegorm was light of hair and truly fair of face, very impressive indeed; and equally impressive was his bearing—the embodiment of uncompromising pride. Seeing him enter, Celegorm offered no greeting, simply gesturing toward a chair opposite him.

“How went the hunt?” Curufin asked as he settled into the seat.

“A dozen Orcs; nothing more.” Celegorm replied, idly toying with a dagger. The cold edge of the blade caught the light, its reflection dancing in his eyes. “I told Lachodir to burn them.”

Curufin recognized the name. Lachodir was Celegorm’s new herald—a young yet capable Noldorin soldier who, claiming to have been saved by Celegorm on more than one occasion in battle, had offered his service to him when they were driven from Nargothrond without an escort and forced to journey to Himring empty-handed. As his brother’s most loyal servant, Lachodir had displayed a devotion so profound it could almost be called blind—or perhaps it was not blind at all, for Celegorm, when he chose, could be a commanding and charismatic leader. After all, none of the sons of Fëanor could ever be underestimated.

“I have news, Turko,” he said, coming straight to the point—a tactic long proven most effective with his brother. “Thingol’s daughter is dead.”

If Celegorm felt any surprise, he gave no sign of it. Still toying with the dagger, he let its sharp edge glide effortlessly between his deft, steady fingers, showing not the faintest risk of cutting himself. “That is not news,” he said.

“Her son, Dior the Half-elven, has returned to Doriath and intends to restore its glory.”

“That is certainly not news.” Celegorm set down the dagger and looked up. “Did you come to me merely to recount these trifles?”

“She did not bear the Silmaril with her into the grave. It now rests upon Dior’s breast.”

A silence fell. Curufin watched his brother closely, noting each subtle shift in Celegorm’s mood. Celegorm was usually not elusive, yet no matter how slight the difference, there lurked a fatal gulf between “usually” and “always”. If he took a wrong approach, his brother could become utterly impervious to reason. He would not allow yet another opportunity to be missed.

“Then our Silmaril has returned to Doriath,” after a while, Celegorm allowed a laugh, though devoid of joy. “Shall we deem it a coincidence, or fate?”

“Both.” Curufin met his brother’s gaze, his voice unwavering. “The time has come for us to fulfill our Oath.”

Celegorm nodded, lips curling. “Doriath is fated to be our mark.”

“If we persuade our eldest brother,” Curufin said.

“If we persuade him, of course.” Celegorm laughed. “But it will not be difficult to persuade him. He takes the Oath more seriously than any of us.”

As he had anticipated, Celegorm was insightful when he chose to be. A hasty-riser his brother might be, but it would be gravely mistaken to believe that Celegorm lacked sound judgment. He would never forget that Celegorm was, above all, a great hunter, one of the most renowned among the Noldor.

“We must proceed to Amon Ereb without delay and notify Moryo and the twins as well.” he said.

Celegorm nodded absently and gazed at the dancing flames in the fireplace. For a moment, the defined lines on his brother’s handsome face seemed softened.

“So, we will attack Doriath.”

The words came almost imperceptibly, addressed to no one. But Curufin was instantly alerted by them, for the last time he had seen Celegorm like this was when he had advised his brother to prepare an assault on Tol Galen to recover the Silmaril set into a Dwarven necklace. At that time, Celegorm had rebuffed his plan and refused to listen to any of his reasons.

“I know she has it.” his brother said back then. “But I will not attack her, nor will you.”

“I do not understand, Turko,” he tried to insist. “Are you telling me you are actually fond of h—”

“I will not do it.” Celegorm interrupted him, refusing to entertain any further explanation.

He had to give up in the end, though he remained unreconciled. He never believed that Celegorm was moved by the unparalleled beauty of Lúthien, for he knew his brother had loved another. Celegorm would never admit it and preferred to let everyone believe that he was enamored of Thingol’s daughter. But did that mean Celegorm had also refused to attack her merely to mislead others?

It remained inconclusive, and since then he had remained on guard. Understanding other minds was always fascinating, but attempting to master them was frustrating, for they were the most delicate things in the world.

Knowing it would be a risk to bring up the past at this moment, he weighed his options and decided to take the risk sooner rather than later. “Keep it in mind, Turko,” he said, “that we cannot afford to be generous with those we have to destroy.”

“Of course,” Celegorm said, as if he had just awakened from a dream. He straightened himself and offered an easy smile, although his eyes were suddenly lit with a chilling light. “Do not worry, Kurvo. I am not so generous as to indulge my feelings to that extent.”