Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

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Caranthir

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I should have known, thought Caranthir.

It was the first time since the Nirnaeth that he had seen Celegorm and Curufin. Celegorm lounged on a bench by the hearth, idly turning a silver dagger in his hand, a faint smile of ease playing on his lips. Curufin sat nearby, nodding slightly in greeting when their eyes met—his face calm, yet unreadable.

Once, he had ridden with them across the plains of southern East Beleriand, hunting wild game and spending the quiet hours of peace in Thargelion. Thargelion. The fortress of Rerir on the shores of Lake Helevorn, and the vast, uncharted lands east of Ered Lindon. These memories now burned bright in his mind, yet they felt distant, as though they belonged to another life. They were as far away and insubstantial as the golden days spent in the Blessed Realm, as remote as the shining heights of Tirion.

What madness is this? Caranthir sharply reined in his thoughts, his face darkening. When had he fallen prey to the wistfulness of poets and singers? The past was the past. What use was there in dwelling on it? Especially when it was clear that his two brothers had come with purpose, and he could all but be certain that purpose was tied to old wounds—though he was never one to guess the thoughts of others with ease.

“How have you been?” It was Curufin who broke the silence, his tone light and casual, as though their gathering were nothing more than a chance meeting.

“Well enough,” Caranthir replied curtly, his expression still grim. Kurvo, you know the answer. Just speak your mind.

“Odd that Pityo and Telvo are not with you,” Curufin remarked, unbothered by his brother’s demeanor. “Have you enough hands to contend with the servants of the Enemy? Or perhaps, by now, you have learned prudence.”

“What do you mean by that?” Caranthir asked, his voice rising. He had little patience for words that danced around their meaning.

And just as he had expected, Celegorm laughed aloud. “He means that even if our ranks of Elves are far too few, it is still preferable to trusting Men.”

Of course. He should have known. The memory of that ill-fated war, of the treachery of those swarthy Men, was still sharp in all their minds. Yet only these two before him would dare raise it so plainly.

“What was wrong with allying with Men back then?” He raised his chin, defiant. “Ask Maitimo if you wish.”

“But the responsibility was yours,” Curufin said quietly. “They were under your command.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but Celegorm cut in with a mocking laugh. His voice was light, but his words bit deep. “The one who scorns even the sons of Arafinwë trusted a weak, foolish, lesser race? What flaw of mind led you to that?”

Caranthir inhaled quickly, his gaze locking onto Celegorm’s face. Celegorm, however, seemed utterly at ease, his hands still busy with the gleaming dagger, as though he had not spoken at all.

“Turko’s words may be blunt,” Curufin interjected smoothly, “but they are not without weight. Moryo, perhaps you truly owe us an explanation—why were those Men of such value to you, above even a noble house of the Noldor?”

“So you summoned me here, along with Maitimo, just to question my past decisions?” He rose suddenly, his anger boiling over and overwhelming what little calm he had left. He was not known for his forbearance, and to have endured this long was a feat in itself.

“Do not misunderstand,” Curufin said with a faint smile, his voice now measured and conciliatory. “We do not wish to reproach our brother. We simply seek to understand, Moryo—so that such failings will not arise again in what lies ahead.”

“What lies ahead?” Caranthir asked, his brow furrowing.

“The fulfillment of the Oath,” Curufin answered, his smile fading. “Our Oath.”

“You mean to march against Angband again? This time we lack the strength—our chances—”

Curufin fixed him with a steady gaze, saying nothing until the truth dawned upon him, sudden and terrible.

“—You mean that Silmaril.”

 

“Maitimo, is it true?”

Caranthir burst unbidden into Maedhros’ study. Behind the wide desk, Maedhros lifted his head at the intrusion, his expression composed and unwavering.

“What is it, Moryo?”

“Are we to attack Doriath? Why have I heard nothing of this?” Caranthir demanded.

Maedhros’ brow furrowed slightly, only to smooth a moment later. Caranthir caught the subtle change but could not grasp its meaning.

“Who told you that?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Curse it. Neither Curufin nor Celegorm had spoken such words. They had sown the thought in his mind without taking any responsibility for it.

“No one said it outright,” he admitted.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. At this, Caranthir hastened to add, “But Turko and Kurvo implied it. I cannot have misunderstood!”

For a moment, Maedhros was silent. Then he pushed aside the stack of parchment before him and leaned back in his chair.

“I do not know what they said to you, Moryo, but I can tell you this: nothing has been decided,” he said calmly. “And such a decision is not mine to make alone. We must reach agreement on matters of such weight.”

“Good,” Caranthir said without hesitation, “Let it truly be an agreement.”

A flicker of something passed through Maedhros’ eyes, though his voice remained even.

“We will discuss it tomorrow. If I were you, Moryo, I would return to your thoughts and ponder what you mean to say—and what you are prepared to do.”

 

The nights in Ossiriand were always the same: damp, dark, the forests surrounding him casting heavy shadows beneath the faint light of the moon. The steady sound of insects filled the air, making the quiet all the more disquieting, like a stillness that pressed heavily upon the mind.

He sat by the embers of his campfire, his face unreadable as the last tendril of smoke rose and vanished into the night. Even as a prince of the Noldor, he could not ignore the laws of the Green-Elves—hunting was strictly forbidden, and even a fire had to be carefully managed.

In the haze of thought, he seemed to drift back to the land that had once been his: Thargelion, the land of Caranthir. He soared as though borne on the wings of the eagles of Manwë, gliding soundlessly through the dark skies, his memories laid out below him: the rushing torrents of the rivers of Gelion, the rugged cliffs of Ered Lindon, the icy waters of Helevorn, the steadfast walls of Rerir. In those days, the filthy servants of Morgoth dared not tread the soil of East Beleriand, not while Caranthir stood guard. Thus those wretched creatures slunk eastward, skirting the Mountains of Lindon, to harass the Men who had once dwelled under his protection.

…Men…

“We thank you for your kindness, but the Haladin are free and do not seek the protection of the lords of the Eldar.”

Her eyes were filled with pride, a shield for a wounded dignity. He understood that pride. As a son of Fëanor, he understood it too well.

“In the west, we will find our own home.”

He had wanted to ask if they intended to make demands of Elu Thingol—the shrewd, ancient King of the Sindar—knowing he would not lightly yield any realm he claimed. Yet the question never found its voice. For reasons left unspoken, she truly wished to leave his land, to journey far beyond his borders, even if it meant submitting to another’s rule.

“We part ways here.”

He saw her image again, her head held high with unyielding pride. Her worn and battered armor, streaked with blood and dirt, bore the marks of a hard-fought battle. Her tangled brown hair and weary stance were no likeness of that of an Elda, because she was mortal. They said Men were but a shadow, a dim imitation of the Elves. But she was not. She was not.

He remembered her eyes—eyes that burned like the flame of a fleeting candle, fierce because they were fleeting, bright because they would not last.

You want to know why I once trusted Men? That is why.

But I will never tell you. Not ever.

A cold wind swept through, and he shivered, his thoughts scattering like the ashes before him. The fire had long since burned out, and the night had grown deep.