Author's Notes: It is not entirely clear who killed whom in the sack of Doriath (even assuming that the version in The Silmarillion is canon). Take this as one possible version. This is something of a sequel to 'Here Once was Light', but it can be read on its own.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien. Translations of Elvish (Sindarin unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end.
Nîr Arnoediad
Dior did not have the jewel on him - so Caranthir had told them ere a silver-haired elf split his skull with an axe nearly half her size. She looked at the brothers without fear. "What have you monsters done with my children?"
Curufin silenced her with a knife to the breast and they entered Dior's apartments without further resistance. Inside the door, two guards lay dead - Caranthir's work. In silence, they began a swift yet methodical search, each brother so accustomed to the habits of the other that they needed no words to divide their labors.
Curufin dumped the contents of a jewel chest on the floor, tossing it aside to take up a cushion and slash at its covering. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tapestries move. 'Turko!' he screamed in his mind. The elf looked up at his brother and never saw the sword that found its mark in the soft gut of his leather armor. He fell forward, driving the sword further into vulnerable organs.
While Curufin, frozen in horror, watched Celegorm's fall, the assailant melted into the drapes again. He gave no thought to him. He crossed the room and fell to his knees, cradling his brother's head between his hands. A series of faces - those of his mother, his wife, his father and his son - appeared before his eyes, melting away from his outstretched hand, beyond his reach. Always, there had been Celegorm. Now, there was only Celegorm.
Blood ran from the corner of his brother's mouth as he struggled to breathe. "Muindor, without you I should be utterly alone. Wither I have gone, you have followed - so it has always been between us. Yet now I would follow you, rather than go forward alone, for I do not know how."
A figure emerged from the tapestries.
"You have slain my brother."
Dior's eyes narrowed in fury. "My wife and my children - what have your people done with them? Where have you taken them?"
The elf only stared. Dior brought the tip of his sword to Curufin's neck. The elf threw back his head, exposing his throat.
"If you wish for death, then I will send you to meet your bitter judgment. Tell me what you have done with them!"
Curufin did not move. "Death would I welcome now. Do it, and be speedy about it."
Dior drew back his lips in revulsion. "Death is a greater reward than you deserve. Better that you have the long years of your immortal life to chase after this curse that consumes you, while regrets torment you to madness." He lowered his sword.
Behind him, a shadow grew. Light flashed dully from a red-stained sword. The tall elf silently warned Curufin not to give sign of his approach.
As Dior sheathed his sword, a blade emerged from his stomach. He looked at it in puzzlement.
The elf yanked his weapon free and quickly searched the dying king. He let the lifeless body fall and stood.
"Where is it?" Maedhros roared. In frustration, he kicked the corpse of Doriath's king, sending a spray of blood toward Curufin. He glared at his victim and something in his mind snapped.
Dior lay with his eyes open, disbelief still etched in his features. Elf-man, part angelic being, yet ultimately mortal. There would be no healing in the Houses of Mandos for Dior. Never again would this beautiful child and father, husband and king, return to life. It seemed more a theft to Maedhros than the unhousing of all the elves of Alqualondë.
Curufin had not moved. Still he knelt, his head thrown back, baring his throat. Dior's blood had landed in a pattern like a slap across Curufin's cheek.
Pinkish lines cut rivulets through the blood.
"So," Maedhros spoke softly, "something at last moves you, muindor nín." Celegorm lay twisted in the agonies of death, but he was no more than an empty shell; his fëa now faced what judgment awaited them all. [1]
"The prophecy is read, for unnumbered indeed are my tears. 'Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos.' Shall we not close the circle? Let it be so, Maedhros." [2]
"We must go." He reached for his brother. Frozen, hands still clutching at Celegorm, Curufin remained just out of his grasp. "Amrod reports that reinforcements come from Region and the south. Our forces are scattered and have taken many casualties."
"By our father's oath, Maedhros! You have always had the courage among us. Can you not find it now to heed my plea? Leave me or help me end this torment, for I have not the will to live or die."
How did one go on when one's heart lay beneath a cairn? Maedhros still sought the answer. Once he, too, had pled for death. Yet he had been granted life, and with that gift, he had piled act upon unforgivable act on his stained and bloody soul. For want of Fingon's well-placed arrow, Dior lay beyond the circles of the world.
He raised his sword. He no longer knew if wrong made right or what right might be. He traced a thin line across his brother's throat, wondering if he were more damned or blessed by this final act of compassion. A red stream of catharsis washed over his brothers, releasing them at last from their deadly oath.
He envied them.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien. Translations of Elvish (Sindarin unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end.
Curufin silenced her with a knife to the breast and they entered Dior's apartments without further resistance. Inside the door, two guards lay dead - Caranthir's work. In silence, they began a swift yet methodical search, each brother so accustomed to the habits of the other that they needed no words to divide their labors.
Curufin dumped the contents of a jewel chest on the floor, tossing it aside to take up a cushion and slash at its covering. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tapestries move. 'Turko!' he screamed in his mind. The elf looked up at his brother and never saw the sword that found its mark in the soft gut of his leather armor. He fell forward, driving the sword further into vulnerable organs.
While Curufin, frozen in horror, watched Celegorm's fall, the assailant melted into the drapes again. He gave no thought to him. He crossed the room and fell to his knees, cradling his brother's head between his hands. A series of faces - those of his mother, his wife, his father and his son - appeared before his eyes, melting away from his outstretched hand, beyond his reach. Always, there had been Celegorm. Now, there was only Celegorm.
Blood ran from the corner of his brother's mouth as he struggled to breathe. "Muindor, without you I should be utterly alone. Wither I have gone, you have followed - so it has always been between us. Yet now I would follow you, rather than go forward alone, for I do not know how."
A figure emerged from the tapestries.
"You have slain my brother."
Dior's eyes narrowed in fury. "My wife and my children - what have your people done with them? Where have you taken them?"
The elf only stared. Dior brought the tip of his sword to Curufin's neck. The elf threw back his head, exposing his throat.
"If you wish for death, then I will send you to meet your bitter judgment. Tell me what you have done with them!"
Curufin did not move. "Death would I welcome now. Do it, and be speedy about it."
Dior drew back his lips in revulsion. "Death is a greater reward than you deserve. Better that you have the long years of your immortal life to chase after this curse that consumes you, while regrets torment you to madness." He lowered his sword.
Behind him, a shadow grew. Light flashed dully from a red-stained sword. The tall elf silently warned Curufin not to give sign of his approach.
As Dior sheathed his sword, a blade emerged from his stomach. He looked at it in puzzlement.
The elf yanked his weapon free and quickly searched the dying king. He let the lifeless body fall and stood.
"Where is it?" Maedhros roared. In frustration, he kicked the corpse of Doriath's king, sending a spray of blood toward Curufin. He glared at his victim and something in his mind snapped.
Dior lay with his eyes open, disbelief still etched in his features. Elf-man, part angelic being, yet ultimately mortal. There would be no healing in the Houses of Mandos for Dior. Never again would this beautiful child and father, husband and king, return to life. It seemed more a theft to Maedhros than the unhousing of all the elves of Alqualondë.
Curufin had not moved. Still he knelt, his head thrown back, baring his throat. Dior's blood had landed in a pattern like a slap across Curufin's cheek.
Pinkish lines cut rivulets through the blood.
"So," Maedhros spoke softly, "something at last moves you, muindor nín." Celegorm lay twisted in the agonies of death, but he was no more than an empty shell; his fëa now faced what judgment awaited them all. [1]
"The prophecy is read, for unnumbered indeed are my tears. 'Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos.' Shall we not close the circle? Let it be so, Maedhros." [2]
"We must go." He reached for his brother. Frozen, hands still clutching at Celegorm, Curufin remained just out of his grasp. "Amrod reports that reinforcements come from Region and the south. Our forces are scattered and have taken many casualties."
"By our father's oath, Maedhros! You have always had the courage among us. Can you not find it now to heed my plea? Leave me or help me end this torment, for I have not the will to live or die."
How did one go on when one's heart lay beneath a cairn? Maedhros still sought the answer. Once he, too, had pled for death. Yet he had been granted life, and with that gift, he had piled act upon unforgivable act on his stained and bloody soul. For want of Fingon's well-placed arrow, Dior lay beyond the circles of the world.
He raised his sword. He no longer knew if wrong made right or what right might be. He traced a thin line across his brother's throat, wondering if he were more damned or blessed by this final act of compassion. A red stream of catharsis washed over his brothers, releasing them at last from their deadly oath.
He envied them.
- [1] muindor nín
- brother mine. One would suppose that Sindarin, like Quenya, used the suffixed possessive pronouns in most cases and that the full pronoun was only used (as in this case) for emphasis or clarity.
- [2] 'Slain ye may be…shall come then to Mandos.'
- ref The Silmarillion, 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' p 96 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey