Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

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Amras

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The first snow of the year had come early.

Stepping into the crisp morning air, Amras drew a deep breath and released it slowly, watching the white mist form and fade before him. For many years, he and his twin brother had kept watch at Amon Ereb, guarding the southern reaches of Beleriand—a land where snow was but a rare visitor. Yet the shadow spreading from the North deepened with each passing year, and it seemed that even the chill hand of winter had extended to touch this distant stronghold.

He was not the first to rise. The courtyard was already alive with activity: horses were tended with care, meals prepared, and fires stoked in the forges. Soon, the smiths would resume their labor, crafting new blades and armor or restoring the old to readiness. The days marched on, and even the most oblivious among them had begun to grasp the shape of what lay ahead.

Dior still had not answered.

The young red-haired prince shook his head sharply, as though to cast off the echoes of the dreams that clung to him from the night before. At times, he found himself questioning whether he was ensnared within some endless nightmare—a realm both strange and unreal, yet cruelly vivid in its clarity.

“Ambarussa!”

He turned at the familiar call. Ambarussa—the name he and Amrod had once shared. As children, they had wielded it mischievously, delighting in the confusion it sowed among others, a game made possible by their identical features. In time, as Amrod’s hair darkened and subtle differences set them apart, the name became something more: a symbol of their bond, a shared token of their twinhood. Their father had never approved of the practice, insisting on calling his younger twin Ambarto, while their mother had preferred Umbarto. Neither preference, it seemed, had mattered in the end.

“How did you sleep?” Amrod asked, stretching as he approached.

Amras smiled faintly but did not answer directly. “Let us ask Turko to join us for a hunt. There may be red deer nearby, and snow makes it an excellent time for tracking.”

“Good idea!” Amrod’s eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he dashed off toward Celegorm’s quarters. Watching his brother’s unhesitating enthusiasm, Amras exhaled a quiet sigh of relief before following at a slower pace.

That evening, they returned laden with spoils. The feast of roasted venison was plentiful and rich, the warm flavors and shared triumph lifting the spirits of all. Even Maglor, whose somber mood had deepened with each passing day, allowed himself a rare smile. Amid the merriment, Amras’ gaze strayed to Celegorm, who was deftly carving the meat, his movements practiced and precise.

Is this truly the brother I once knew? Amras wondered, his fingers tightening around his cup. Turko was always proud and bold, but never so cold, so unyielding. At the council where our fates were sealed, I nearly asked—Turko, is it the Silmaril you desire, or vengeance for another wound? Why do they whisper that you loved Lúthien, and that when she scorned you, you swore to destroy Doriath?

But he had not asked, and he knew he never would. Celegorm would not have answered, either. The sons of Fëanor do not confess or explain. And Celegorm’s motives could not be reduced to mere grievance. Thingol had refused to yield the Silmaril and defied the Union of Maedhros. The course had been set long ago. Why press the matter? The Oath remained, immutable and inescapable.

“Ambarussa, try this.” Amrod leaned over, setting a steaming slice of venison on his brother’s plate before his gaze shifted to the untouched wine. “What is wrong? No appetite?”

“Only had not gotten to it yet,” Amras replied, forcing a smile as he raised the cup to his lips. He felt Maedhros’ steady glance and quickly took a long sip. The wine was rich and smooth, yet all he could taste was its bitter chill, sinking like frost into his chest.

Father was right, Amras thought. Perhaps I do take after Mother, but I am not as strong as she was.

The feast lingered long into the night, closing with a rare song from Maglor, his golden voice weaving a melody both haunting and beautiful. As the brothers exchanged their goodnights, there was a fleeting warmth, a sense of fellowship that reminded Amras of their days in Valinor—those bright and joyous years in Tirion and Formenos. The harmony felt almost like a dream, a poignant contrast to their exile in these mortal lands, hunted by enemies and forsaken by kin.

I must not dwell on such thoughts, he admonished himself. It serves no purpose.

Amrod’s laughter rang out nearby, light and untroubled. Amras turned to his twin, his mirror image, and felt a pang of envy. That carefree spirit, unburdened by endless introspection, stirred a memory of something within himself—something long since out of reach.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps the weight of his own pondering thoughts, but a moment passed before Amras turned. There stood Curufin, his composure unshaken, as though the warmth of the evening’s gathering had not touched him.

“Telvo,” Curufin said, inclining his head with the practiced ease of formality. “Might I have a word with you?”

Amrod, as if sensing his unease, glanced back. His brows knitted as he took a step toward them, suspicion flickering across his face. Amras understood his twin’s reaction; they, who delighted in the open woods and the hunt, shared little in common with Curufin, a master of craft and subtlety. On any other night, Amras might have sought an excuse to leave. But something in the air, or perhaps within himself, bade him stay—a strange compulsion to hear what his brother wished to say.

“Of course, Kurvo,” Amras replied swiftly, intercepting Amrod’s interference with a faint but steady smile. “Good night, Ambarussa.”

Amrod hesitated, his gaze lingering on them, but after a moment, he shrugged. “Good night, then,” he said, turning to join Celegorm, who stood nearby with an air of feigned indifference.

Curufin led Amras a short distance away, stopping at the edge of the firelight where the flickering shadows deepened and the distant sounds of the feast faded into quiet. In the stillness, his voice came low and measured, yet each word rang with unsettling precision:

“Do not let the inevitability of it all weigh upon you, my brother. Dior and the Grey Elves, blind in their arrogance, will soon pay the price for their folly.”

Amras blinked, his thoughts scattering like leaves swept by a sudden wind.

“To declare possession of the Silmaril so brazenly, yet lack the strength to protect it, is a folly beyond measure,” Curufin continued. “Dior’s pride is born of mortal ignorance and the vanity of the Dark Elves. It is better that the Jewel returns to us before our foes gather their full strength and seize it once more. Surely, you see the wisdom in this.”

Amras could not recall when Curufin had departed. He only knew that he wandered back to his chambers in a haze, as though caught in the throes of some waking dream. Ambarussa did not even notice my unease, my doubts, he thought as he climbed into bed. But Kurvo did. And what he said…

He had never imagined it possible to perceive all that lay ahead in such a light—cold and calculated, utterly indifferent to the blood and lives that would be spent.

Haunted by these thoughts, he drifted into a restless sleep.

In his dreams, he stood once more upon the white ships of the Teleri. The vast night sky arched above, glittering with innumerable stars, while the sea stretched endlessly into the horizon. Yet the rhythmic song of the waves was gone, replaced by a stillness that pressed upon him, a silence heavy with foreboding.

A faint red light flickered outside the window, staining the cool expanse of sea and sky with an eerie glow.

What is happening?

He tried to move, to see more clearly, but an unseen force held him immobile. The light grew brighter, shifting from red to orange, from orange to yellow, until shadows writhed and twisted upon the ship’s portholes. A pressing sense of danger rose within him, and a thought flashed across his mind.

Fire. An immense fire.

Heat seeped through the wooden walls, thick and suffocating, inescapable. The ship groaned beneath him, its timbers splintering like the cry of a wounded beast. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a relentless drumbeat of dread and desperation. He wanted to scream, to flee, but he could not. The flames crept closer, their tongues twisting like barbed vines, devouring all in their path—only to halt, poised mere inches away, as if savoring the torment of its prey.

End it. Please, let it end.

Pain, sharp and merciless, pierced his chest like a spear’s cruel thrust. Summoning the last remnants of his strength, he cried out:

“Ambarussa—”

He woke with a silent scream, his body drenched in sweat. The moon had already set, and the night beyond his window lay heavy, shrouded in unbroken darkness.