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Whatever nightmares plague his brothers, Caranthir shall not know. Even Amras would rather writhe and whimper in anguish then be woken and comforted.
Caranthir, heartsick, no longer disturbs him.
Caranthir has nightmares too.
It is one of these—a dream about bones in a river, too large to be Amrod’s—from which Curufin wakes him with a desperate shove of his shoulder.
This is like a dream in itself. Why should Curufin care whether Caranthir sleeps or wakes, lives or dies?
Curufin, grimacing, seems to acknowledge this. “Quickly,” he says. “Take your gun. We need everyone we can muster.”
Rumil is dead. Caranthir heard the words, so much softer than a bullet fired, and has been hearing them tangled in memory ever since.
In the hall, Celegorm’s hair is wild with sleep and lit lion-gold by lantern glow. His hand, holding his gun, is as familiar to Caranthir as the ache in his chest that used to be Amrod, Mother, Athair, Maedhros.
Maglor, standing behind him, stopped like an old man, is gruesome with blood.
Both of them are far away.
Caranthir’s instinct is to rush forward, but Curufin kicks at his ankle.
“Stay sharp,” he hisses, and not a moment too soon, for the knot of men—Mithrim’s and Athair’s—that stands between them and their brothers has already lent them glares and a roiling surge of mutters.
“More traitors,” growls a straw-headed lackey of Ulfang’s. “Wolves in sheep’s clothing, is what. Kill ‘em, too.”
“Steady,” Curufin shouts.
It is for Celegorm, that shout. Not for anyone else.
Celegorm holds his fire. The men do not leap to strike or shoot, but their stares stay hostile.
Caranthir wonders if this is the end, if they shall all die here. He finds he does not really mind the thought.
Even Amras would not be very sorry—
“What charge?” Curufin demands.
“Mind your tongue, brat.”
“What charge? We have been raised from our beds by this ruckus. Our brother is hurt. What is your charge against us?”
“Your brother is not hurt,” answers the man, sneering. “Instead, Ulfang, our leader, lies dead. Maglor killed him.”
The murmur rises to a roar. Maybe that is just the rushing blood behind Caranthir’s ears.
Rumil is dead and the river—the river took everything from you, one way or another. Did you care about Rumil? Or was his life but a candle-flame in a window, now gone dark.
Curufin is silent. Curufin is looking at Celegorm, and at Maglor, with narrowed eyes. Caranthir is brought back to the present by the sound of breath alone; his, Curufin’s, Amras’s.
“Come now, there must be an explanation,” mumbles Homer, lost in the throng.
“Let them explain with their blood!”
“Let us explain at all,” Curufin says. Why is he the only one answering? Is it because Celegorm is not the spokesman of the family, because Maglor is still cowering and shaking like a leaf?
Is it because Caranthir does not matter?
(Caranthir knows he does not matter.)
“Say your piece,” says Edwards, finally. Edwards is not as hotblooded as some of the others.
Curufin squares his shoulders. “Permit me,” he says, “To go to my brothers.” His voice is high, though Caranthir realizes it is no longer shrill like a boy’s.
(Athair’s voice was not particularly deep.)
The crowd parts. Caranthir thinks of the Red Sea, hardly daring to trail after his younger brother, but certainly not daring to stay behind. They are not tricked or besieged until they have passed the smoky, breathless distance to stand beside Celegorm.
Curufin’s lips are pinched white. He puts one hand on Celegorm’s shoulder and looks up at him. Celegorm steps aside. And that leaves nothing but air between Curufin and Maglor. Curufin bows his head to speak in Maglor’s ear.
Maglor, slim crimson hands twitching, nods.
The stink of blood is so strong in Caranthir’s nose that he feels a little faint. He must not faint.
Curufin straightens. He steps away from Maglor, and from Celegorm, until he stands guard before all of his brothers. He trains his gaze on Edwards—a trick even Athair did not always practice. Choosing the man in the crowd mostly likely to listen.
Athair did not care to be liked or even trusted, but these are desperate times.
“My brother has admitted the kill,” says Curufin. “He killed a traitor.”
The din rises, storms, crashes.
“What are we waiting for—” “Filthy murderers—” “Damn you—”
“Yes!” Curufin’s voice cuts through the crowd, and he stamps his boot hard upon the floorboards.
“Quiet,” Edwards orders.
“Yes,” Curufin repeats. “Ulfang is dead, and the boy you thought weak and shrinking killed him. Think of that, before you strike again! But if you will not believe the word of Feanor’s sons, believe rather the gold secreted in Ulfang’s quarters—more gold, I daresay, than any of you have seen before. Believe the list of names in his desk—your names, and some of them crossed out. My father’s men, all of them, crossed out. Why? Because he knew those to be loyal and beyond reach.”
The silence is like snow. Caranthir—does not understand, has not the wit and quickness, has not whatever it takes to watch death come and take, then pass them by.
Ulfang is a lying serpent, says Curufin, sharp and sure. Curufin, who wanders the halls at night on cat-sly feet. Curufin, who speaks Athair’s name at some times and not at others, who never weeps at all.
What did Curufin know?
The men in the hall before them have guns and daggers. They do not raise their weapons, now. They wait. They listen.
“Call us wild boys, if you will, but do not trifle with us,” Curufin continues. “And consider that I would rather die as I stand than leave this fort or my father’s weapons behind. We love this place as well as Rumil did. You mutter that we are interlopers and children—but you use the bullets I forge. Choose! Are we interlopers, who would defend Mithrim even from its own wolves? Are we orphans who cannot mind ourselves, though we have better gun-hands among us than any of you? Or are we men, from Maglor who killed the traitor down to Amras, who saw him leave your leader a corpse?”
“What are you saying?” That, again, is Edwards.
“Rumil died at Ulfang’s hand,” Curufin says. “I expect you may find nightshade in his room also, or at least stains beneath his dead nails.”
The men divide the gold among them.
What the list of names means is a matter of fierce debate and whispered treason, but Edwards and Homer shake hands over an agreement that permits any man whose name remained emblazoned to stand and pledge renewed loyalty to Mithrim united, or try his luck with the orcs and panners to north and south.
“They’ll stay,” Curufin predicts flatly. And they do.
Caranthir watches so much of this in reverse: Maglor’s fingers folding around the key to Rumil’s study under the press of Curufin’s own, and Celegorm slamming the door of their quarters shut, and the men letting them pass as the lot of them went to search Ulfang’s things.
“What shall be done with Ulfang’s body?” Amras asks.
Maglor speaks, almost for the first time. “Cast it outside the walls for the beasts.”
In the candlelight, Caranthir sees that all his brothers’ eyes are shining.