Chapter Text
The sun dipped slowly behind the mountains, painting the sky in hues of orange and blue.
Golden light stretched across the courtyard, where a wounded warrior stumbled through the gates—a savage figure drenched in the remnants of orcs. At first, the guards hesitated, failing to recognize the blood-soaked creature before them. But when they glimpsed the majestic-crafted Fëanorian star beneath the armor, they promptly opened the gates—this was Lord Celegorm of Himlad.
Celegorm's golden braids hung loose and tangled, streaked with the dark blood of his enemies. The air around him was thick with the stench of iron and death, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp leaves from the forests he had so fiercely defended.
His eyes, usually bright and vibrant, were now clouded with brutal intensity. His breath came in harsh gasps, and though his movements were refined, like a predator, his heart still raced with the adrenaline of battle. A feral animal caught between the thrill of the hunt and violence, he had found his way home by sheer instinct alone.
Curufin stood still and poised, watching him from the arched entrance. His delicate hands, adorned with rings, gliding gracefully along the stone railing as he descended the stairway. He did not rush to meet Celegorm.
Celegorm had deemed it unnecessary to bring Curufin along to confront the small band of orcs threatening the forests bordering Himlad. He demanded that Curufin stay behind, arguing that one of them needed to command the realm. They clashed.
Two days heretofore, just before dawn, Celegorm had departed hastily and surreptitiously with two warriors, only to encounter a far larger horde than expected.
He returned alone.
Such recklessness was no surprise to Curufin, though it always left him deeply resentful.
Yet there was little purpose in speaking to Celegorm when he was in this tempestuous condition, consumed by the shock of battle. Curufin sensed the storm brewing within his brother, having learned the signs well.
The handmaidens piled up behind Curufin, their expressions a mix of unease and curiosity. They hesitantly approached to assist their lord, but Curufin raised a hand, stopping them.
“No,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. “Let him be.”
Only he could approach Celegorm now, offering the solace he desperately needed. It was safer this way; Celegorm could be unpredictable—even dangerous—in such a state.
He stepped forward, and Celegorm recoiled, scanning the surroundings warily. But Curufin reached out, brushing his fingers against his brother's cheek, and a spark of recognition flickered in Celegorm's eyes.
Curufin glanced around, noticing how everyone had gathered as if witnessing a grand spectacle.
“The sons of Fëanor always draw crowds, do they not?" he sneered "Is this some sort of performance for you lot? Go tend to your duties instead of gawking at your betters!”
At his words, the onlookers hastily dispersed, allowing the brothers some privacy.
He returned his attention to Celegorm, draping his crimson mantle over his brother's back.
“Come, brother,” Curufin whispered, guiding Celegorm toward the bathing chamber.
He kept his touch gentle, mindful of the toll that battle had taken on Celegorm—not only on his body but also on his spirit.
They passed beneath the archways adorned with intricate carvings, images of their ancestors exalting the beauty of Elvenkind, now oppressed by the constant shadow of war—Curufin recalled his mother’s words: "Elves were not fashioned for such strife" and his heart ached for Celegorm... and for all of them.