"Would you call this a return to old haunts?"
Hearing Amras' remark, Amrod merely shrugged, unenthused. Like his brother, he gazed toward the hill rising above the wide plains. Its slopes, cloaked in a patchwork of dark green and faded gold, bore the signs of a withering season, earlier than in years past. Compared to the towering peaks of the North, Amon Ereb's height was hardly worth noting, but here in the South, it stood out like a sentinel.
He knew this land well; he and Amras had once taken shelter here alongside their elder brother, Caranthir, after the Dagor Bragollach. In those days, only Maedhros had held fast to the fortress of Himring—none of the others had such fortune or strength. Caranthir lost Thargelion, Maglor joined Maedhros, and Celegorm and Curufin were driven from Himlad and fled to Nargothrond. They held Amon Ereb steadfast until the Year of Lamentation, when, marching forth with high hopes, they returned in bitter defeat. With all of East Beleriand fallen into the hands of the Enemy, they were at last compelled to abandon the hill and take to the wilds, wandering as exiles. When fortunes improved somewhat, Maedhros chose Amon Ereb once more for its strategic position, and thus it became, almost by chance, the new stronghold of the House of Fëanor.
Drawing a deep breath, Amrod urged his silver-grey horse to a swifter pace. His keen Elven sight had already discerned the Noldorin encampment nestled at the hill's base, and he was certain the watch posts had marked their approach. From afar, the faint sound of horns carried on the wind, distant yet distinct, and soon their answering call rang out, bright and clear.
Trusting that a welcome party would soon arrive, he allowed his guard to ease. Yet these were dark days, and the times were far from promising. Creatures of evil had begun to encroach upon East Beleriand as early as the Dagor Bragollach, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, they roamed unchecked. Even Ossiriand, once a haven, had grown perilous, forcing even seasoned Noldorin princes to tread with care. Yet Maedhros was ever watchful, permitting no foe to linger within the bounds of the lands he claimed, and this close to Amon Ereb, the path should be safe.
Thus, when he received Amras' warning, it startled him almost to the point of alarm. Following his brother's gaze, he spotted a white horse approaching from their flank. Its rider was an Elf—a realization that brought some relief—but their attire was so plain that Amrod failed at first to place them. It was only when he saw the face that he could not help but cry out:
"Turko!"
It was Celegorm, the brother to whom they had always been closest. At Amrod's call, Celegorm raised a hand in greeting, his face alight with a radiant smile.
That confident smile… For a fleeting moment, Amrod was transported back to the plains of Valinor, racing with abandon or hunting freely in Oromë's woods. He and Amras had always strove to best their older brother in contests of skill, but they had never succeeded, not even once. And Celegorm, each time he claimed victory, would laugh—bold and triumphant—offering no consolation for their wounded pride save a parting jibe: "If you want to win, work harder."
He noticed that Celegorm's mount was not the one he had ridden in the past, and he recalled that his brother had lost his horse in the Nirnaeth. No one could say how Celegorm had borne the loss, but he had undoubtedly chosen another fine steed. This one halted gracefully before them, its poise so composed that one might scarcely believe it had been galloping only moments ago. Of course, Celegorm had always possessed a keen eye for horses—this thought flickered through Amrod's mind as he dismounted and approached with Amras to greet him.
"How fares the land of the Seven Rivers?" Celegorm asked casually after embracing them both.
Amrod replied without thinking, "Well enough," while Amras, ever the more practical, said, "We never stay long in one place, Turko, so it is hard to say."
"Much the same for me," Celegorm replied with a faint smile. "One thing is certain—there is more to test one's mettle these days than before."
"Of course!" Amrod answered quickly. "Huan must be thrilled—he always loved—"
The words had scarcely left his lips before he realized his mistake. He opened his mouth to apologize but found himself at a loss, unable to summon words that would not make matters worse. An awkward silence followed, heavy and uncomfortable, until Amras broke it, stumbling into a change of subject:
"Turko, do you know why we have been summoned?"
Celegorm did not answer immediately. Instead, he cast his gaze northward, a faint and inscrutable smile playing on his lips. It was then that Amrod noticed something chilling about his brother. Though Celegorm smiled, there was an icy detachment in his bearing, like the frozen edge of a blade, sharp and unfeeling. This was not the brother he remembered. Not the one who had ridden beside him through the blood-stained quays of Alqualondë, through the veils of the mists of Araman, across the narrow straits of Drengist, or at Losgar, where they had kindled flames that devoured the beautiful white ships. They had weathered countless hardships together, yet never had Amrod seen Celegorm so cold.
What had wrought this change in him? Beneath the leaden sky, Amrod pondered. Was it their father's creation—the Silmarils, so pure, so radiant, and yet so cruel in binding them to an unrelenting fate? Or was it another light, the fierce and unyielding fire of the House of Fëanor, rooted deeply within each of them, burning ever brighter yet slowly consuming them to ash?
No, it could not be. That fire was their pride, their courage, their strength. It had brought Maedhros back from the brink of death and shaped the Turkafinwë Tyelkormo he had known. It could not simply fade away. Yet in Celegorm, it burned differently now—still fierce, but stripped of warmth.
"What requires all seven of us?" Celegorm broke the silence at last, his voice slow and drawn out, tinged with an edge of laziness and mockery. "What do we share, besides blood?"
It was not until the sounds of the encampment grew near that Amrod noticed Amras' unusual silence. "Ambarussa?" he asked, glancing at his twin.
Amras turned to him, his expression distant. "I was only thinking, brother."
"Do not overthink, Ambarussa," Amrod said, a mix of relief and mild annoyance in his voice. "You do that far too often. It is no wonder Atar claimed me as his and you as Amíl's."
"And what is wrong with taking after Amíl?" Amras shot back, his eyes flashing. "Besides, do not talk to me as though you are the wiser. You are only my elder by moments."
"And yet, those moments make all the difference," Amrod replied with a grin, teasing yet unapologetic.
Amras sighed and shook his head, his earlier tension softening. "Then, oh elder brother of mine, do you think we should support Turko?"
Amrod shrugged. "To be honest, I do not know." His gaze drifted to Amras' hair, still a bright reddish-brown from their childhood, so different from his own. "But I do know that supporting Maitimo is always the right choice."
We all swore the Oath. What choice do we have but to fulfill it? The alternative is the wrath of the Valar—and everlasting darkness.
Reading his thoughts, Amras fell silent for a moment before nodding. "You are right. We have no other choice."
Amrod frowned. For reasons he could not name, he disliked his brother's tone. "Do not brood, Ambarussa. Choice is just a pleasant word. If you truly cared about freedom, you could have stayed behind with Amíl."
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had erred. For a fleeting instant, he felt as he had in childhood—hiding in their father's forge after some mischief, curled in the narrow space between tools, waiting for the inevitable moment when their mother would find him.
Then Amras' voice reached him, soft as a sigh carried on the wind.
"If I could have…"