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The war was going badly. Two months now they had held the Pass of Aglon, and held it, and held it, against hordes that had no end. Of the three walls they had built across the Pass, only the last remained in elven hands. Though the orcs always broke against it, every night they returned for a fresh assault, and every night there were fewer hands to hold them off.
The mornings dawned grey and angry. The sky was shrunken, banded by cliffs to either side, and smoke from the north blocked out the sun. At first light the weary defenders opened the gates to strip the corpses, taking weapons and digging arrows from flesh before piling them to burn. The foul smoke billowed up to join the dark clouds.
The ashes of the dead settled on everything until it was impossible to feel clean. Most had given up trying. Celebrimbor scrubbed at his skin and longed for wind. He would’ve welcomed even the icy gales that swept down off the mountains. Anything better than the unnatural stillness that had befallen the Pass.
And so when Curufin began to talk of sending a rider south to scour the lonely plains of Himlad for more soldiers, Celebrimbor volunteered to go. His father eyed him hard, as if looking for a reason to deny him, but nobody else stepped forward and so Celebrimbor went, with strict instructions to avoid any signs of battle.
“No heroics, Tyelpë,” Celegorm said. “We need you alive.”
His spirits lifted as he rode south. He unbound his hair for the first time in months and let it stream behind him as he galloped across the plain. There were rabbits everywhere, born after the siege had begun, who’d never learned to fear elves. Celebrimbor ate fresh meat every night and slept beneath the stars.
He encountered naught but abandoned homesteads and empty villages, stock left to run wild, and began to fear he was the last elf left in Himlad. He rode for many miles but each settlement felt the same.
Dark windows would loom large as he reined in his mount, dust swirling around him. Ears pricked, he would draw a knife as he approached. He’d poke his head through the windows just long enough to determine there was nobody there, gather any supplies he needed – usually wood for his fire and cured meat for the road, and leave after a quarter hour. He would only make camp once he was well clear of the buildings, feeling more at ease among the grass and gorse and rocky outcrops that dotted the plain.
He spoke to his horse, glad of at least some company, and turned his eyes ever skyward, hoping to glimpse a bird. A messenger from Maglor perhaps, or the High King, messengers Curufin had given up hope of ever seeing. But the skies were pale and empty. He dreamed of returning to the Pass to find nobody there at all. No bodies, no blood, the banners hanging limp and the gate standing open.
After four days he reached the southern border and turned north, keeping the River Celon on his right. He rode for Himbar, Celegorm’s great hall and the town around it. It was the strongest place in Himlad, guarded by ditches, a palisade and the only permanent garrison outside the Pass.
The mountains now lay before him, always in sight, and Celebrimbor’s dreams turned savage. Celegorm, flayed open by orc blades. Curufin, hung from the wall for the crows, blood dripping from his feet. Celebrimbor woke with a cry on his lips, clutching his sword tightly, and set out again before dawn.
Loath to return empty-handed, he gathered what livestock he could and drove them before him. He wound up with a sizable herd of curly-horned sheep, hardy natives of Hithlum, as well as a dozen cattle. If he could not bring good tidings, he could still bring food. He’d sought weapons in the empty homes as well, but there were none to be found. Whoever had lived there had armed themselves well before their departure.
Himbar lay in the north-eastern corner of Himlad, in the shadow of the mountains. A plume of smoke rose high above it, visible for many miles before Celebrimbor sighted the town itself.
If the town were burning there would be more smoke, he told himself, and the scent of death would poison the air. The wind was blowing full in his face, perilously cold. He wrapped a scarf across his nose, leaving only his eyes free.
A shout went up from the town as Celebrimbor drew close, the first voice he had heard in a week. The great wooden gate swung open and a small crowd gathered to greet him, anxious for news.
“We are hard-pressed,” he admitted. His father would be evasive, ever reluctant to admit weakness, but Celebrimbor hadn’t the heart to give hope he didn’t have himself.
In private, warming himself at a fire, he spoke briefly with their captain. He inquired how many soldiers remained to her.
“More than when you left,” she said. “Some who dwelt in the farther reaches made their way here when the northern skies went dark. We can defend ourselves, my lord, but we can spare only a few score hands.”
“I will not ask them of you,” Celebrimbor said. Curufin would berate him long and hard when he returned, but at the Pass they would likely be dead before the month was out. Here, they might do some good.
He made the captain a gift of the sheep, all but a dozen he would take with him. She tried to refuse, arguing there was more need of them at the Pass, but Celebrimbor wouldn’t hear it. He had seen her people as he rode in, had seen their thin cheeks and listless children.
“What do we fight for, if not their survival?” he asked, and she had no answer.
He requested a map and marked out where the largest farmsteads stood.
“Send riders here, and here,” he instructed. “They will find plenty of beasts, and grain for the threshing too. No orcs roam Himlad yet. It is quite safe.”
He took his leave within hours. It was only mid-afternoon but already growing dark, and his thoughts turned to Aglon.
The captain escorted him to his horse. Before he could mount, she grasped his arm with strong fingers and pulled him close.
“How much longer can it hold?” she said in an undertone.
Celebrimbor couldn’t meet her eye.
“Not long,” he said quietly. “A matter of weeks, if that.”
The captain nodded and let him go, her jaw clenching.
“We are not afraid to die, my lord,” she said.
Celebrimbor shook his head.
“Be ready to flee,” he said. “The minute you see them coming.”
He glanced at the buildings around them, visible for miles upon the exposed plain. The wooden palisade seemed flimsy protection against all the hordes of Angband.
“If they make it this far, you have already lost. Have you enough horses for everyone?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said. “They eat better than we do, these days. But where are we to go? If they break through the Pass, nowhere east of Doriath will stand for long.”
Were Curufin there, he would silence his son with a stare before Celebrimbor could voice what they’d only discussed in private. But if it gave their people a chance, what was the harm?
“Nargothrond,” he said. “West is our best hope.”
The captain frowned. “It’s a long way.”
“There is no stronghold closer,” Celebrimbor countered. “None we can reach. I must take my leave now, captain. I hope we will meet again.”
She inclined her head and stepped back to give him room to mount.
“You carry our hearts with you, my lord.”
He made for the mountains, and the dark clouds gathered about their peaks. Within an hour he was in their shadow. Fear knifed his stomach at the thought of what might have happened in his absence.
He rode through the night and reached the Pass before noon, the smell of smoke thick in the air. The pyres of the dead were still burning. A few dozen elves were moving about, tending the fires, inspecting the gate for damage, cleaning the blood from their blades in anticipation of the night to come. One or two turned their heads to watch his approach, but most seemed asleep on their feet.
“Where is my father?” he asked a nearby soldier, and she nodded towards the larger guard tower.
He found them in a chamber at the very top. Curufin was hunched in a chair, a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his right hand. Celegorm was re-braiding his hair, though his own was still in the same fraying braid as when Celebrimbor had left. He, too, sported fresh injuries, a bruise on his temple and an ugly gash disappearing up his sleeve.
Celegorm’s face brightened when Celebrimbor came in. Curufin’s did not.
“Tyelperinquar,” he said. “Why have you returned alone?”
“I’m sorry, Atar,” Celebrimbor said. “There is no-one left to fight. Everyone has fled these lands. All that remains is the garrison at Himbar, and those they defend.”
Curufin’s expression didn’t change.
“How fares the defence?” Celebrimbor asked. He was trying to read clues in his father’s face but Curufin gave nothing away. He was flexing his fingers, though it had to hurt.
“Badly,” Celegorm admitted. “They nearly overran the wall last night. We used the last of the pitch to set the parapets alight and burnt the bastards as they came over the top.”
“Perhaps we might send another messenger to Ossiriand?” Celebrimbor suggested. “The Ambarussa are farthest from the front line. They might have -”
“They couldn’t get here in time,” Curufin said.
“Then I think we need to leave,” Celebrimbor said. “How much longer can we last without help?”
He was expecting his father to rebuke him for that, but Curufin said nothing, merely looked at him with cool grey eyes.
“I know it’s hard, Tyelpë, but we can’t,” Celegorm said. “There are too many people relying on us to protect them. But the orcs can’t keep taking these losses forever. We just have to keep hitting them with everything we have, and eventually they’ll stop coming.”
“Tyelko,” Curufin said, a reproving note in his voice.
Celebrimbor sensed, like an undertow, a discussion they’d already had without him, something they didn’t want him privy to. He didn’t care. He might’ve done, before his journey. But now he was itching to escape their web of tension and resentment and get back to the open air.
“As long the wall stands, so do we,” Celegorm said. He folded his arms, though it wasn’t clear who he was trying to persuade. Curufin didn’t press him any further.
“Have you any more need of me?” Celebrimbor said.
“I think we can spare you, Tyelperinquar,” Curufin said, mouth twisting wryly.
“Get some rest,” Celegorm added.
Celegorm never took his own advice, and Celebrimbor didn’t either. He made his way to the smithy instead, to lend what help he could. There were always blades to be sharpened and armour to be mended, and he was better rested than the elves he found at work there.
He snatched an hour of sleep when the sun began to slip from the Pass, and was woken by the horns calling them to battle.
The sound no longer struck fear into him. He’d heard it too often. He donned his armour mechanically, and made for his post.
The wall stretched from cliff to cliff across the narrow pass. A double row of soldiers covered its whole length, split into three sections. Celegorm had the centre, and the command. Curufin took the right, and their deputy the left.
Celebrimbor’s responsibility was the rest of their force, the six or seven hundred that remained out of the thousands that had once been. They were arrayed in their companies behind the wall, some distance back so they might shoot clean over the top. They didn’t need to see the orcs coming. Celegorm would direct their volleys, and when the defenders on the wall began to falter, they would take up their swords and join the fray.
On the other side of the wall, the elves had hollowed out deep pits and filled them with spears. The only way through was a path a few feet wide which led directly to the gate. Until the pits were choked with corpses, the entire orc army would be funnelled onto that narrow causeway, and there they would be easy pickings for the archers.
Celebrimbor heard the orcs well before they were in range. Their grunts and mutters echoed off the sheer rock faces. As they rounded the last bend, the elves upon the wall pressed their backs to the parapets, offering no target.
“Knock!” Celegorm called and Celebrimbor obeyed, along with the first three rows of his soldiers.
The orcs drew nearer. They were already in range, but Celegorm was waiting for the moment he could do the most damage. He stole a glance over the parapet, and ducked out of sight again as a handful of arrows came flying his way.
“Draw!” he called, and raised a hand.
The archers pulled their bowstrings tight, pointing at the sky. They knew exactly where to aim for. An itch tickled at Celebrimbor’s neck. Celegorm held them for long minutes, and it was like the silence after a lightning strike, before thunder breaks and shatters the night.
Celegorm dropped his hand. Arrows flew, and the orcs screamed, high piercing shrieks that tore at Celebrimbor’s ears. There were two more volleys in quick succession, each row kneeling to let the one behind them take their turn.
Celegorm risked another look, and as he dropped back behind the parapet Celebrimbor caught a flash of teeth in the torch light. A grin. He’d timed it well.
The arrows were meant to catch the orcs as they reached the causeway, so the dead and dying would block the way for those coming behind. The living would have to clamber over the corpses, their rush for the wall stymied, and the elves on the wall would pick off any that made it through.
This would only delay the army. There were too many to stop entirely. All the elves could do was keep them at bay until dawn, when the light would drive them back to regroup for the night ahead.
There were a few more volleys before Celegorm drew his sword, ready for the first climbers. The pits reached right to the wall, and the only place to scale it was the gate. Every few feet it was studded with foot-long spikes. No one could make the ascent without slicing open their hands and feet but the orcs did it anyway, trailing ropes for those coming behind. Before long they would be criss-crossing the whole wall, like spiders spinning webs.
The early waves were easy enough to deal with. The orcs would rise above the parapets one at a time and be killed before they could set foot upon the wall, tumbling back down from whence they’d come. The elves were coiled like snakes, motionless until their foe came near. Then they’d spring into action, swift and deadly, before taking up their wait once more.
“Ladders incoming!” someone shouted.
The trickle was about to become a flood.
Curufin, who had been preternaturally still, began to stalk up and down his section of wall, a hunter awaiting his prey. If he was giving orders, he spoke too quietly for the sound to carry. His armour was black as obsidian, flickering whenever he stepped into firelight. With his back to Celebrimbor, it was hard to see him against the darkness.
A loud clang resounded. The orcs were battering the gate, the heavy iron gate that they had failed to damage more than superficially. There wasn’t the room to get proper siege equipment up to the wall, so they made do with a pathetic wooden ram that did little but make noise. Still, they would be at it all night, adding to the screams and roars that echoed up and down the Pass.
It wasn’t long before the ladders began to prove their deadliness. The orcs were making a big drive at the left, coming up thick and fast. Celebrimbor dispatched a company, two score soldiers, to relieve the flagging defenders. The exhausted first company came staggering down the stairs and Celebrimbor sent them away from the front line to recover as much as they could.
He kept a close watch on the other battles unfolding atop the wall. Celegorm’s heavily armoured centre usually bore the brunt of the assault, but they were expecting it and wouldn’t be relieved until Celegorm ordered it. He knew how much they could take, and though he pushed his soldiers hard, he pushed himself harder.
The left was having trouble containing the attack. Celebrimbor sent another three companies to their aid and called for his archers to give them cover.
Still the orcs came. Celebrimbor was tempted to defy Celegorm’s orders and go up there himself, just until the push was slowed. He knew he had no special skill with a blade, but it had been a week since he last fought and that gave him some advantage.
As if Curufin could sense his plan, he called out for reinforcements. Celebrimbor dutifully dispatched them, calculating how many fresh soldiers he still had. At least three-fourths, and the night was already hours old. At this rate they would have little challenge holding until the dawn – that was, if the left didn’t break. They were still struggling up there, and Celebrimbor called out to Celegorm.
“Uncle! Take the left!” He gestured at the company he was about to send in, then pointed at Celegorm’s stretch of wall, hoping his meaning was clear: they’ll defend the centre. You go.
But Celegorm didn’t move. He was staring at something behind Celebrimbor’s back.
“Tyelpë, move!” he cried.
Celebrimbor turned and saw what had shaken Celegorm. The ground not ten feet away was pushing upwards, like something below was trying to get out. And then the earth broke, and orcs erupted out of it, spilling forth like ants from a hill.
In seconds Celebrimbor was engulfed in fighting. He hadn’t even had the time to don his helm, and now it was lost in the crush. Wave after wave came up from the ground, and soon three more holes burst open.
Caught off-guard, the elves were in disarray. How could they form lines when the orcs were everywhere? Celebrimbor was too overwhelmed to tell what was happening; all he could do was keep swinging his sword, and hope it was enough. He was being pushed back to the wall, could sense it looming behind him.
If his force was split in two, they would struggle to reunite, and the orcs would overrun them both. Maybe if he was high enough to see the battlefield…
He turned to see how far he was from the stairs and a club caught him on the back of the head, sending him sprawling. The orc put its foot on his back and he choked on dirt. He braced himself for steel and pain, but abruptly the foot disappeared.
He rolled onto his back in time to see the orc’s head go flying, its body collapsing half on top of him. His rescuer bared their teeth in a savage grin, and held out a hand.
Celegorm. It was Celegorm. His uncle pulled him to his feet.
“Are you hurt?” he said, and though Celebrimbor’s head was aching he said no.
“Good,” Celegorm said. “I need you to defend the stairs while I take care of this. I don’t know how these fuckers got here but we’re going to send them crawling back into those holes.”
Celebrimbor didn’t doubt it.
“Quendi, to me!” Celegorm roared, and they rallied around him. More than Celebrimbor would’ve hoped for; they had scattered, not fallen.
The orcs were delighted by a new target, and were grinning hideously as Celegorm charged them, driving a wedge deep into the mass. Celebrimbor watched for a moment, then turned to his own task.
“Fourth company, twelfth company,” he called. “To the stairs! Guard the stairs!”
To his relief, they heard and obeyed, some peeling off Celegorm’s charge to return to him.
The stairs weren’t in danger of attack from below anymore, but the battle upon the wall was becoming desperate. The orcs were buoyed by their success and ever more poured over the battlements. Some had punched through the elven lines and were scurrying down the stairs, eager to come at Celegorm from behind. They could only come down two at a time, however, and Celebrimbor’s soldiers were waiting.
He glanced up at the wall, gauging if there was any more aid he could give them. Celegorm’s soldiers were holding firm against the onslaught, and on the right, Curufin’s soldiers were… where were they? He looked in vain for a glimpse of elven armour amidst the seething throng of orcs. Surely they couldn’t all be - there!
Curufin was there, staggering backwards out of a knot of orcs. His right hand was pressed to his ribs, his sword held awkwardly in his left. Half a dozen orcs were advancing towards him, backing him up against the cliff face at the wall’s end.
Celebrimbor reached for his bow, but he’d lost it in the fray. Cursing, he sprinted for the stairs. The twelfth company had retaken half of them; the rest were still crawling with orcs.
He shouldered them out of his way and they tumbled to the ground below, landing with gruesome crunches. The momentum carried him to the top. He hacked at the bodies before him, bellowing a war-cry he’d picked up from Celegorm. They fell back, affrighted by the wrath in his face.
His hands grew black and sticky with blood. Curufin was still out of sight but he could hear him spitting curses at his foes, and he cut his way to his father’s side.
Curufin bore only a knife. His armour was rent in a dozen places and blood dripped down his face, but he was alive. Celebrimbor turned to face the orcs that were closing in on them, baring his teeth in a ferocious snarl.
He elbowed the first off the wall, shoved his sword into the gullet of the second, and yanked it out just in time to take the third’s head off. The fourth brought down its fist on his outstretched arm and he howled with pain as he felt the bone snap.
Cradling his arm to his chest, he switched his sword to his other hand and rammed it straight into the orc’s heart. Its blood spurted into his face, burning his eyes, and he reeled backwards. There was one more coming at them. Celebrimbor swung at it blindly and it fell. He wiped the blood away and saw Curufin’s knife buried in its skull.
Panting, he turned back to his father. Curufin was slumped against the parapet, both hands now on the wound in his side. There was blood everywhere. He needed to be off the battlefield, but Celebrimbor wasn’t sure he could get them there.
“Tyelpë,” Curufin said, and Celebrimbor had to lean close to hear him. “Tell them to bring up the wheel.”
Celebrimbor frowned.
“Are you sure, Atar? Tyelkormo is -”
“Dammit Tyelpë, just do it!”
Celebrimbor didn’t argue.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled for Celegorm. His uncle was still deep within the orc lines, fighting fiercely. He caught a glimpse of pale hair amidst the blackness and then Celegorm was free and turning to look his way. Celebrimbor mimed a spinning motion, and Celegorm nodded.
He called a command and his forces split, most turning back towards the wall while a handful slipped through the orcs to the far side. They got to work, harnessing horses to the levers that poked up from the valley floor. The orcs jeered at the seeming retreat.
And then Curufin’s contraption rose from the earth, and the carnage began.
It was a huge wheel of razor-sharp steel, stretched across the Pass, spun by horsepower. It mowed down all who came near, and their corpses fell into the immense pit beneath where it had lain dormant for centuries.
The closest rows of orcs were sliced to pieces in moments. The rest turned to run but Celegorm was waiting for them, and they found themselves pinned between him and the infernal wheel. He drove them backwards, back into its bloodthirsty reach, and they died in their hundreds, screeching curses with their final breaths.
Curufin watched the slaughter with a look of satisfaction on his face.
“Get rid of this lot, Tyelpë,” he said, gesturing at the orcs on the wall, dismayed by the sight of their kindred being cut to shreds.
“Twelfth company, to me!” Celebrimbor yelled, and the elves rallied, surging up the stairs and sweeping the orcs out of their way.
No longer needed below, other companies followed them, a river of golden armour and silver unleashed upon the dark horde. They drove towards the centre, winning back the ground they had lost over the night, until no living orc was left upon the wall.
Celegorm began to howl victory, holding his sword aloft. The soldiers echoed his cry. Dawn was still an hour away, but the orcs turned and fled, dropping their weapons in their haste to be gone.
Celebrimbor watched, stunned. They hadn’t done that even in the early days, when Celegorm would open the gate and charge them on horseback. His heart was hollow in spite of their success. There would be no leaving now.
Curufin took two steps and stumbled, grabbing at Celebrimbor to stay upright.
“Get me down,” he said.
Slowly, his good arm around his father’s waist, Celebrimbor manoeuvred them down the stairs, Curufin hissing when his wound was pulled. At the foot of the stairs, Celebrimbor found an upturned barrel, and gently lowered Curufin onto it.
“I’ll fetch a healer, Atar,” he said, but Curufin caught his arm.
“Wait,” he said.
He nodded towards Celegorm, picking his way across the battlefield to join them. He bore his helmet under his arm, the light of victory on his face.
“That was magnificent!” he said. “They’ll be too scared to set foot in those tunnels ever again.”
Curufin was unmoved.
“It’s one win, Tyelko,” he said. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“What are you talking about?” Celegorm said. “They ran away, Curvo! Actually ran away. It’s time to press forward while they’re on the back foot, maybe make a raid up the Pass -”
“We need to go,” Curufin said flatly, and Celebrimbor realised that this was the argument they’d been having in his absence. He’d walked in and backed his father without realising it, and now Curufin was going to hammer at Celegorm until he surrendered.
“We won, yes,” Curufin continued, “but we lost a hundred soldiers we could ill afford to. Maybe more.”
“If it’s numbers you’re worried about, I’ll send more birds to Nelyo and Moryo, maybe the Ambarussa as well. They can’t all be under attack. There aren’t enough orcs in Arda to hit all of us at once.”
“None of your birds have come back,” Curufin said. “How are we to know that the Gap hasn’t fallen? Himring? Dorthonion?”
“What if they haven’t?” Celegorm countered. “And we let the enemy through, and that’s how they lose? They’re our brothers. We abandon the wall, we abandon them.”
“Every night we lose more soldiers, and there’s nobody left to send us more,” Curufin said, “We are finished, Tyelko. When we get somewhere safe and find out what is going on, you can assemble a new army and come back. But for now, it’s time to go.”
“That’s bullshit!” Celegorm said, his voice getting louder. “You can’t believe that. We leave now, we’ll hand every advantage we have to the enemy. It’s going to be a thousand times harder to retake the Pass.”
“Do you really want to die for a fucking wall, Tyelko?” Curufin snapped.
“Then at least we’ll die with honour!” Celegorm shouted.
“And all of our people will die with us,” Celebrimbor said.
“Would you doom them as well?” Curufin said softly. “They swore no oath, brother.”
Celegorm had no answer for that. His jaw was clenched as he glared at his brother.
“Give the order, Tyelperinquar,” Curufin said, still looking at Celegorm.
Celebrimbor made a slight bow and left them, though he could hear the tail-end of their conversation.
“Are you ready to help, or are you going to sulk?” Curufin said, the ice in his voice making Celebrimbor shiver.
“Fine! You’re right, Curvo, does that make you happy?”
“No,” Curufin said.
His arm was throbbing, but Celebrimbor felt a lightness in his steps. They were leaving. Whether or not he’d made a difference, they were leaving.
He wouldn’t have to die there. He wouldn’t have to spend his days wondering if he would ever see the next one. He blew out a big breath and looked up at the sky, growing pale as dawn approached.
By sunset they would be far away, galloping across the plains, the wind blowing the ash from his lungs. The relief nearly brought him to tears.
“My lord?” the lieutenant of the third company was watching him with a puzzled expression. Celebrimbor realised there was a smile on his face for the first time in months.
“Strike camp and prepare to move out,” he said. “We’re leaving.”