to all things housed in silence by queerofthedagger  

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The Seven Gathered

I am sick of drawing this connection: there is no document 
of civilization that isn't also its ruins. Ask for rapture, get a god. 
—Natalie Eilbert

*

The fact of the matter is that it is no hard task to convince his brothers of the attack on Doriath.

Celegorm knows that they like to tell themselves otherwise, that Maedhros and Maglor like to look at him and Curufin, and think themselves better, more principled, less cruel.

Perhaps that is true. Celegorm no longer much cares for such a thing.

He cares that he calls for them, and they answer, all seven of them gathering once more at Amon Ereb. He calls for them, and they know why he does, and they come. They may tell themselves that they do it to keep him from worse things, to argue against him, to do whatever will weigh less heavily on their conscience, but in the end, it matters not.

In the end, they fight. Celegorm cares naught for the lies they have to tell themselves to get there.

He knows of them, of course—needs to, to manoeuvre each of them where he needs them to be.

They are hopeless, aimless. Most of their defiance, their illusions of nobility and righteousness, have been shattered and beaten into the mire alongside their kin at the Nirnaeth. Ever has Celegorm disdained Findekáno, Maedhros’ attachment to him. Now, the despair suits him well, the way Maedhros is all but pleading to be released from the same responsibility that had made him lead them all into ruin.

Celegorm can do that for him. He has known of their awaiting ruin from the very beginning, after all.

Still, of course, Maedhros resists. Talks of diplomacy and moderation, and Celegorm scoffs but indulges him. They write a letter. They receive no answer. It is as much of an argument as Maedhros can muster, and the rest is achieved easily with the simple fact that Maedhros would rather come along in some delusion of preventing worse than stick to his principles at the risk of letting Celegorm and Curufin run wild once more. Maedhros, like any of them, needs a goal; perhaps he does, most of all.

Maglor, too, is easy; ever convinced of the Oath’s power, much like Curufin if less proud of it. Their only difference is that, where Curufin embraces it, uses it, looks at what it makes them in the eye and bares his teeth as if his self-righteousness will save him from their doom, Maglor still thinks it an excuse, a shield. As if the deaths on their name weigh somehow less heavily, if one only sees themself as a blade, and not its wielder.

In the end, they all know themselves to be monsters, by then; it matters not how each of them has reached that conclusion.

They swore an Oath; they attempted the diplomatic route first. The boy-king in Doriath refuses, and so, what other choice do they have? Add to it the fact that Maglor cannot conceive of the twins as grown, even still, and would not let them go alone alongside Celegorm. That, above anything, he would never let Maedhros go on his own. And so, this, too, is a simple matter.

The twins are more difficult. Ever since the burning boats, they have kept their distance from the rest of them, save Maedhros only. But then, Amras has been furious ever since that same point in time. It has only been in recent years that said fury has sought outside targets, but it has. There is only so much injury and self-hatred a beast can endure before it turns against those outside itself; this, paired with the lack of alternatives, makes Amras not impossible to convince.

Where Amras goes, Amrod follows, and his resignation, his need for something to do, pushes him the rest of the way.

Which leaves Caranthir.

Caranthir, who would be impossible to convince, if not for his guilt. Uldor had not been his doing, not directly, but it may as well have been. Guilt, much like anger, is a poor adviser. Celegorm leans into it, the practicality of it, the chance of hope. So, too, Caranthir eventually yields, teeth grit and eyes hard, but yielding, nonetheless.

And Celegorm? Well, Celegorm simply wants a fight, wants revenge, wants to see his debts repaid. He wants to tear that godforsaken forest apart piece by piece, one step further on the inescapable road to their inevitable end.

He knows of monsters, after all. Knows how to speak their tongue, how to coax them along. His brothers, by then, are hardly any different.

Celegorm wants it all to end. He cares little, now, for how they will achieve such a thing.

Of course, it is not as simple as that.

They sit together often, in the weeks leading up to it.

“Is an outright attack truly the only option?” Maglor asks, studying the maps.

It is not a stupid question. Their forces are diminished, and they only have a vague idea of what kind of forces Dior still has at his disposal.

“Melian may have withdrawn her power, but we do not know what other enchantments still rest on the forest. I would rather not risk the capture of any of us, attempting to sneak into Menegroth’s halls,” Celegorm says.

Maedhros cuts him a sharp glance, his lips curling. “Yes, I am sure a city of caves pulls up rather unpleasant memories for you, does it not?”

Sometimes Celegorm forgets that cruelty now comes easily to all of them. Forgets that a part of him, one deeply buried and long gone, still looks at Maedhros and thinks of safety, rather than cold, indifferent loathing.

“Caves, pits of Angband—you would know all about that, would you not?” he counters, smiling.

Maglor leaps to his feet, is stayed only by Maedhros’ hand.

They dissemble for the day. It goes like this, on and off, for weeks.

“Should we not wait? A better opportunity may yet present itself,” Caranthir says, days later.

Curufin pushes reports over to him, minute details of their stores. “It is winter, and Morgoth’s Orcs circle ever closer. Our hunts go poorer and poorer. Our people grow despondent. Shall we wait here atop this mountain until Morgoth slaughters us in our sleep?”

“It is not like the Silmaril will feed us, if we regain it,” Amras says, from where he stands behind Amrod, taking care of his hair.

“No,” Celegorm agrees, leaning forward. “But a people with no hope will not, either. We all know where this will lead if nothing changes. A Silmaril will not feed us, but it will be a symbol, a beacon. In ways, we need this more than yet another malnourished deer that tastes of Angband’s smoke.”

“If we do this,” Maedhros says, and he looks more alert than he has in months, the strategic part of his mind coming back to life, at last. “We do not need to turn it into slaughter. A show of power might be enough to bring Dior to reason.”

Celegorm nods. He doubts it, and he cares not for Maedhros’ inhibitions, but it is just as well. “This does not have to be Alqualondë. We know what we are doing, what our objective is. There is no need to shed any blood if only Dior gives us what is rightfully ours.”

Maglor hums, his fingers drumming against the table. “And if he does not?”

“Then we will fight.”

“Celegorm—“

“No. We can sit here and wait for our death. We can despair, let our House’s memory go to waste, betray our Oath and ourselves. Or we can act. Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, we swore—or have we forgotten it?”

None of them speaks, each of them meeting Celegorm’s eyes—not yielding. Not protesting.

“There is no other way,” he says, knowing already that he has won. “You all know there is no other way. If there is—if there is any other plan that does not end with us just waiting, listless, for our end, then tell me now. Otherwise, we fight.”

No one speaks, still. He can see the conflict on their faces, but also the revulsion, the hatred for the idea of becoming this—apathetic, despondent. Letting Morgoth defeat them, after all.

Across the table, Amras meets his eyes. There is something harsh and knowing in his gaze, something terribly close to recognition.

“Then we fight,” he says. In the end, it is as simple as that.

In the weeks between, sometimes they will brush against old habits; Maglor humming in the kitchen, something their mother used to sing, Amras humming along until he catches himself.

Celegorm and Maedhros will spar, fierce and hard-eyed, until one of them stumbles and they find themselves laughing, before remembering, one of them leaving the grounds quickly.

Curufin and Caranthir will brood over reports and calculations, late into the night. Will set mugs of wine beside each other, wordless care, until one of them will say something—small, careless, vicious—that shatters the peace.

Amrod will sit beside Maedhros, both of them sleepless and comfortable once more in each other’s presence until despair finds one of them anew.

Those are the worst parts, what is most impossible to endure. The reminder of what they once were; what they lost; what no attack, no heirloom, no victory or spilt blood will return to them.

It would be easy to exploit, to appeal to each of their love for each other that somehow, despite everything, still runs like a current underneath.

There is no need, Celegorm tells himself. They would not still all be here if they were not already doing it to themselves.

It is a comforting thought. If it means that he does not have to cross that one last line, well; that is only for him to live with.

The actual preparations do not take long.

Maedhros, once the decision is made, sets himself to the task of sketching out their strategy—only in case it is needed, Tyelkormo; we will still attempt to keep the fighting to a minimum—and it becomes clear once more why he had led them, for so long. Celegorm can admit it easily enough.

They rally their people, combine their divided forces back into one host. Maglor will lead the cavalry, with only archers for the sake of battle in the dense forest. Maedhros will have the command. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir will lead the vanguard on foot, with the twins once more bringing up the rear with their infantry, in the case of unexpected attacks out of the woods.

Maedhros does not tell them again to de-escalate, if possible. He still, despite everything, expects to be obeyed.

And, truth be told, it is not like Celegorm plans to do anything else. It is simply that he thinks their understanding of what warrants an outright attack is considerably different, these days.

Between himself and Maglor, their people do not hesitate to fall in line once more. It is part their skill, and part the truth of what Celegorm had said already—they are all desperate. They need hope, a goal, anything to break through the pervasive gloom that has settled over them since the Nirnaeth.

Celegorm knows better than to let himself be fooled. Hope has been precarious since the day they left Aman. It has only become clearer and clearer, each step of the way, that it would be a fool’s errand to hope for anything—victory, release, mercy.

There is nothing to win. Celegorm takes his place at the head of their troops and walks towards whatever awaits him.

They march up right to Menegroth’s gates under the blanket of night, along the routes that, according to Caranthir, the Dwarves used to take in days past.

The forest lies silent and gloomy around them. Even for winter, the sheer absence of sound and movement is unsettling, and Celegorm wonders if it is an effect of its abandonment by its rulers, or if it is a welcome to them, specifically.

The wide bridge into the city lies empty. The forest watches. At Maedhros’ order, their host halts, watching, waiting. Somewhere, Maglor’s captain blows their horn, and the sound reverberates through the forest, is thrown back at them, over and over. The cold is a bristling, tangible thing.

A single elf appears on the other side of the bridge, bearing Dior’s banner. “State your purpose,” he calls, and Celegorm wants to laugh.

Yet, he answers. “We merely want to reclaim what is ours, by right. No blood has to be shed in your forest, but we will not leave without our father’s heirloom.”

“Your answer you have received already. Nothing will be given up willingly to the fey sons, and you would do well to leave this forest as you came.”

Their people shift, insult running through the ranks. Celegorm bares his teeth, and knows the effect it has, even within the gloom.

“We want no fight,” he lies. “But we will have one, if you force us. I think your king’s mother would attest to that, if you could still ask her.”

Insult runs like a wave through the forest. “Nothing forces you but your own doom,” the herald announces, voice full of scorn. He turns and disappears back beyond the city gates, without another word.

For a moment, Celegorm wonders if he will have to be the one who has to push it; who has to, once again, outright break his promise to his brothers, for whatever worth such a thing still holds.

He will, if he must; he will not leave this city with Thingol’s heir alive, without the Silmaril in one of their hands.

The stone itself may mean naught to him, by now, but it is the principle of the matter. Is what it stands for, all that they have lost, given up, been denied.

He will, if he must. Their host shifts, breathes, uneasy.

A single arrow flies from beyond the trees, most likely an accident, a result of rage and nerves. It buries itself in the eye socket of Maedhros’ captain. A cry goes up, savage and angry—starts in the front, starts with Maedhros drawing his sword, and carries throughout their ranks, until their host strong of thousands is a heaving, furious beast.

Celegorm smiles. He charges. He will have victory, at last—one way or another.

The battle turns to chaos quickly, the ancient forest outside, and Menegroth’s winding staircases and deep caves inside making it impossible to keep any kind of ranks or order.

Their people are well-trained in warfare on uncommon ground, after years of Beleriand’s endless battles. So are Menegroth’s people, but they are unprepared, scattered, weakened. They are not led well by their inexperienced king and what little remains of their warriors of old. They are no force trained for centuries to withstand Morgoth himself on the very front lines at Angband’s gates.

Celegorm bares his teeth in scorn and slaughters his way through them, room after room, cave after cave. Beside him, Curufin fights. He hears Maedhros yelling orders, hears Maglor’s voice rise and fall with the waves of battle.

Reluctant they may have been, but Celegorm had always known that once the fight was upon them, they would rise to it. It is not in their nature, to do anything but.

Menegroth’s forces scatter before the onslaught, and yet—

They have the disadvantage of the terrain. Get turned around, get caught in traps and misdirection. The very forest seems to aid its inhabitants, and Celegorm would marvel at it if there was any wonder left in him.

He loses sight of his brothers, at some point, caught up in a duel with an elf who must be old, must be well-tested, for it takes Celegorm letting himself be disarmed, letting himself be pressed back, back, back, up against a wall, until he can sink the dagger, hidden strapped to his wrist, into the Elves’ jugular to finish their dance.

He kicks the Elf away from himself, takes back up his sword. Catches his breath, for only a moment, and then hears the scream, unmistakable and bone-rattlingly real.

He would recognise any of his brothers’ voices anywhere. It is not something he could extricate, even if he wanted to. He knows Caranthir’s voice; knows the furious anguish of it, the same noise that anything dying makes.

When he skids around the corner, it takes him a moment, two, three, to understand what he sees. To understand that he is too late already, his younger brother splayed upon the brown earth, eyes wide, his chest torn open.

Takes him longer, yet, to recognise Curufin fighting beside Caranthir’s unmoving body, one against three. One of the Elves he fights goes down; the movement reveals the other opponents, a woman and a man, and Celegorm knows, then, who they are.

Dior would be impossible to mistake for anyone other than his mother’s son. The silver-haired woman beside him, then, must be his wife.

They look like children, Celegorm thinks. Throws his knife, the moment he is sure Curufin will not step into its way, with all the precision his boiling, writhing fury can muster.

It lodges itself into the back of Nimloth’s neck, and she crumbles with a sound of horrified shock. Everything stops, Dior freezing. He looks from his wife to Celegorm, to Curufin, his fair features twisting into something terrible as reality sinks in.

It happens before Celegorm can understand it, can move from his spot by the entrance, before he can so much as yell a warning. The sword sinks clean and easy through Curufin’s gut; twists once, twice, until his brother makes a sound no more, falling, right beside Dior’s felled wife, beside their brother, already dead, dead, dead and gone.

They have lost so much, lost everything. And yet this is an anguish Celegorm has not known, that threatens, instantly and without any mercy, to swallow him whole, tear him asunder.

Celegorm’s vision is whiting out at the edges. He thought that he had known rage; that he had known what it meant to lose, anything, everything. That he knew grief, and how it hollows out your bones until there is nothing, nothing, nothing at all left of you.

He looks at his brothers on the muddy forest floor and lunges at Dior with more rage than reason, more savagery than skill.

Under different circumstances, it would have been a stupid thing to do. Celegorm is not fighting to survive, though; is not even fighting to win, nothing left that could be carried out of here that could ever be such a thing as victory.

As he and Dior clash against each other in the middle of the room, blades sinking into unguarded parts until they are one dying, crumbling creature, Celegorm at last admits that there never was. He had never walked into this forest, expecting to walk back out.

There is relief in that.

He smiles at Dior, twists his sword, and drags them closer together across their twin blades. “You could have prevented this,” he rasps, tips his head back, bares his throat.

Dior, beautiful and terrible as his mother, smiles back. “So did you.”

Celegorm snarls, pushes away. Crumbles to his knees and catches himself, just enough to see Curufin’s face, Caranthir’s beside him. Their eyes are empty already; Celegorm falls between them, and embraces the pain that crests, and crests, and crests.

He knows the weight of a life, what it means to take it. This is no different from what he had known from the very beginning.

The forest floor is cool beneath him, embracing him as his blood seeps into the rich, ancient earth. Celegorm closes his eyes, thinks of what he leaves behind; feels, briefly but with vehemence, pity for the brothers that will find them such. Feels gladness, like a weight off his shoulders, that he does not have to witness their ruin, too.

Darkness claims him, at last. In it, he finds—not peace perhaps, no longer anything like that.

But the forest swallows him whole, and it feels like coming home.

*

To all things housed in her silence 
Nature offers a violence 
The bear that keeps to his own line 
The wolf that seeks always his own kind 
The world that hardens as the harsher winter holds 
The parent forced to eat its young before it grows

Every bird, gone unheard 
Starving where the ground has froze 
The winter sunrise, red on white 
Like blood upon the snow

—Hozier, Blood Upon the Snow

*

Chapter End Notes

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