Dedicated to Araloth, who poked me into writing again.
He sat in the tent, across from his little brother.
The grief and the madness in Amrod's eyes broke him. "Hey." Caranthir's voice was quiet. The younger redhead didn't answer.
"Pytio. Look at me. Pytio. Please."
That Amras had been burnt alive was only the conclusion to which the family had come when it was all over. Amrod had been calling his brother until his voice was raw. Caranthir had roared his name, but there was not enough time, not when they had to go, not with Fingolfin's host left behind, and those ineffective cousins. Caranthir had little guilt over that part of the disaster, but he did over his little brother's death. He kept his own grief buried deep within him, focused on the remaining twin. However things may unfold, Caranthir knew that this day, he and his brothers had crossed into a territory that meant no possible return.
"What?" Amrod snarled, and looked at his brother with angry eyes.
"It's not your fault," Caranthir said quietly.
"I should have gone with him," his brother replied, staring blankly at the tent's empty canvas.
"Then you'd both be dead, and I'd be short a pair of little brothers," Caranthir said reasonably, almost soothingly, uncharacteristically gently. "It's late. Sleep."
The red head did not move, still looking blankly at the emptiness of his own mind, the silence on his brother's end, not the dark one, the youngest little one, the one with whom words were never necessary. Caranthir sighed, and hesitated a moment, before he brought a hand to Amrod's shoulder. "You lost one of us. There's still the family. Please."
He might as well have been talking to a marble statue: Amrod did not move, nor did he respond. Caranthir sighed, and leaned back in his cot. "Suit yourself," he grumbled tiredly from where he lay, before he blew the candle and closed his eyes.
Every night, for months, this scenario unfolded between the two brothers.
Every night, Caranthir said what he had to say, Amrod ignored him, and the candle was blown out.
It was the night before the Dagor-nuin-Giliath that something happened.
"It's not your fault," Caranthir said quietly.
"It is, but I can't do anything about it now, can I?" his brother replied, staring blankly at the tent's empty canvas.
"No, you can't," Caranthir replied, quietly. "But screw me sideways is you get hurt tomorrow." His tone was harsh, determined. "Brothers."
Amrod looked up, a flash of comprehension flickered in his eyes.
"I grieved too," Caranthir said quietly. "And I'm not grieving again. Sleep. You need the rest."
Again, the candle was blown, the darker elf curled up on his cot. In the darkness, for once, his little brother did not cry silently. Instead, he curled up against Caranthir, as he used to with Telvo. "Do you promise?" It was asked with almost childlike faith.
"I promise," Caranthir murmured gruffly, sleepily, but he turned and hugged his brother. The breakthrough had at long last happened.
The next day, they fought on the passes of the Ered Wethrin. The chemistry was not as good as it would have been between Amrod and Amras. Caranthir was a beast on the battlefield. He unleashed his anger on Morgoth's forces ruthlessly, without mercy, without rest, without subtlety, and with a sort of bloodthirsty joy that was unique to him. His violence was remarkable, and the beast corpses piled around him like gruesome trophies. The Light of Valinor still shone on he and his brothers, and his men fought valiantly. The orcs retreated north through Ard-galen, and the two brothers led their hosts in pursuit, with anger and force, swords bloody but still gleaming in the sun.
When another host burst from the Havens of Falas to take the Noldorin force in a pinch, Celegorm's men, who had been lagging behind, managed to trap them at Eithel Sirion. The blood bath lasted days, and in this, Caranthir revelled. Sitting on the pile of bloody trophies, he grinned in a way that was terrifying to any who did not know him.
"Ata," Amrod said breathlessly. "Where is he?"
It took Caranthir to snap out of his berserker state.
"What do you mean, where is he?" He stood and looked around, frowning.
It took a moment to round up the brothers. Someone - was it Celegorm? Curufin? Caranthir never remembered well the immediate moments that followed battle - said that the Great General had pursued the fleeing survivors in the North, and it took no time for them to set in pursuit of their father, their host in tow.
They came too late, just in time to see the armies retreat, the Balrogs, things of fire and smoke, leaving a bleeding elf, a lone monument of bitterness and agony.
Their father cursed Morgoth three times before he died. This, Caranthir remembered with painstaking exactitude.
That night, in the tent, Amrod spoke first.
"It's not your fault," he said quietly.
Caranthir gritted his teeth, and said nothing.
"Suit yourself," Amrod said before he blew out the candle and curled up in the dark./lj-cut