They rode slowly.

On the one hand he was grateful for it, but on the other it meant that they did not know they were being hunted. He wanted them to know – him, properly, to know and be afraid, look over his shoulder and sleep uneasily not knowing when his doom would come upon him. In simpler hunting it wasn't fear he sought, only a kill; but now, he thought, he wanted Beren to understand, wanted him to suffer.

Lúthien he barely spared a thought for, now; what lure could she hold? Better that she live to mourn her oh so beloved and bring word back to arrogant Thingol of Doriath of the implacable anger he had pricked. Better to watch her weep over his body as he had not wept over his brother's, and would not weep.

The calculated cruelty of his own thoughts sometimes jarred him, left him cold, but Tyelko did not forget the expression of surprise, the sound of pain, the way the barbed arrowhead had felt sticking in his brother's flesh. Cruelty; what was cruelty against death, the death of his baby brother? It was only a debt owed, and one that he would exact in full.

Tyelko considered how he would kill Beren when he had cornered his quarry at last. Long before then he would have the Edain on his knees before him and-

And then?

It was that same cursed question again, and he swept it aside. And then anything. Anything but mercy. No matter what his woman should beg, or what he himself should say, or how Tyelko's own anger might cool – mercy was the one thing he would not allow himself. He didn't truly think it should be a danger, as every time he considered this meticulous murder he took pleasure in it. In the blood, in the panting pain as his victim struggled not to scream and finally Curufin's shade sighed and rested, no longer hanging over his shoulder, moaning with soft discontentment.

**

"I could kill you." It surprised Tyelko for a moment, how cold it was to say that. Hadn't his temper always been hot and explosive? But there was simply nothing there. Just a blankness, even if he knew he could do it, holding his sword so that if he wanted to he could simply cut through the man's neck in one smooth stroke. He kept the edge keen enough for that.

His captive stayed silent, which was probably wise, but met his eyes with stubborn disgust, which was not. He wanted to put a hole through his Sindarin gut and leave him to bleed, but something stayed his hand. He had to admire the scout for not making a sound even when his fingers were clearly broken.

Should have been paying closer attention, he thought, should have been more alert. What if he had been deadlier – or older?

He blinked once, slowly, let his eyes remain half lidded. It was an expression Curufin had worn, sometimes, and it always seemed to make people nervous. It did not fail now, though the nervousness was barely a flicker. "You are Thingol's dog, yes?"

Anger, for a moment. Tyelko let his mouth thin, but did not smile. A simple nod sufficed as answer and a peculiar languor suffused his bones. "Doing what, then?" If the king of Doriath had been looking for him, he should have known better than to send this young and breakable thing. Perhaps he was in disfavor. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with him at all.

It did now, if it hadn't before. The boy, however, clamped his mouth shut. Tyelko stared down at him, sheathed the sword, and shifted his weight to press one boot over the broken fingers.

Only for a moment, but he screamed anyway, a sharp sound, and Celegorm felt the prick of annoyance. Taking too long and he would fall behind. Killing the fool would be more efficient, certainly. But what did it matter? He would catch the pair anyway. The scout recovered his breath, panting. "—looking. Just looking, that's all-"

For his daughter, of course. That was no longer interesting, either. It would be disappointing to lose the chance to make her recognize what her lover had done and what it had brought on him, but Thingol could have his daughter if he pleased. Perhaps if Kurvo were still alive – but he was not, and that was the reason he was here. Tyelko tapped his foot once.

"I see. And you saw gain by following a stranger, I suppose?"

"I guessed," the lad said, half gasping. Tyelko looked at him in disdain as he pulled his hand to his chest and tried to curl around it, but left the sword sheathed, and there was no attempt to rise. "Guessed that you might be – please, I was surprised to see any – you – traveling alone-"

"An easy target," Tyelko said placidly. The boy shivered, for some reason, but he flicked that off like blowflies, eyeing the hand and wondering if it could be fixed. Probably. If with difficulty. Artanis could have done it.

For thinking that name he wanted blood again. Not yet. "No, not that – only I heard-"

"You heard wrong," Tyelko heard himself say in a hollow voice. No one needed to know that Kurvo had died. It was too personal. What did it matter to them, who had never known him, who had never embraced him or hunted side by side… "I ride alone."

The boy looked him in the eyes, for a moment. He was not so much younger than Pityo, really, not at his best guess. But he could not think of that, could not allow these distractions, could not allow this stupidity. He had sworn himself to vengeance and could feel it now. Purring hungrily in his blood.

"I could kill you," he said again, and stepped back, slightly. "But I will not. Go back and tell your liege what you like. I care not." He turned his back, almost wanting the idiot to try something stupid, to try to plant a knife in his back. Then he could turn and remove his head from his shoulders and let some of the rage in his heart sing. Could divide him limb from limb one by one, leave his mouth intact to scream.

Tyelko wasn't sure if the sickness came from the anger or the thoughts his mind found. Perhaps both. The boy did not move, though, and he stayed his hand – this was not his purpose. No. He would take no lives that were not necessary, not until he had the one he wanted. Then, it did not matter. But he would keep his blade clean for Beren's throat.

He could feel the boy staring after him as he strode to his horse and mounted, guiding him in a tight circle to face the scout, his broken hand still curled to his chest.

Tyelko felt as though he should say something, some kind of wisdom that should be dispensed, something. A warning. Nothing came to him.

He moved quickly, drew his sword and in eight swift slashes carved the four pointed star below the boy's breastbone. He cried out in surprise and pain, and Tyelko could see the blood on the tip of his blade hit the ground. "A reminder," he said at last, and then rode away.

The scout did not follow him. The boy would lose blood but not in any too large quantity. It had not been a deep branding. Nonetheless, the more he thought about it the more he did not understand why he had done it at all. Maybe only boredom. Maybe so that Thingol would know this uneasy peace was not forever.

He paused, a moment, thinking about that. Would he fight with his brothers if his oath was still unfulfilled? Which would take precedence? And should Thingol strike first, would he take his brothers' side or pursue Beren even unto the ends of the earth?

Tyelko halted the horse. He could still go back. Thargelion was not so far, and Caranthir was always easy to find when you knew where to look. His brothers should know that Kurvo was dead, shouldn't they? They could all regroup, plan their revenge together…

He did not need the whisper in his ear to know the shade's displeasure. It was his fault, his failure alone, and therefore he needed to risk it. No other way to give his suffering sibling rest.

Looking back again, the scout was gone. He heeled his horse forward.

It was time to ride on.