Work Text:
Celegorm spends a moment in the sweetness of realization before the strike hits him. He falls to his knees, but this time, he does not die–the forest floor of the Undying Lands draws him in, cushioning about him even as teeth skim the back of his neck.
The hunter takes ahold of him by the hair. This is neither deity nor spirit–they smell nothing alike. This is his peer, Celegorm learns quickly, even if they may appear as silently as the Rider. They can climb. Nothing would pass Celegorm’s eye on the ground; he kicks himself even as he nearly wriggles free in the moment the hunter adjusts their grip.
A long boot-sole, uneven patterns of wear making a signature of movement, plants square in Celegorm’s back. He growls and gets a tug of his hair in reward; his hunter gives him a hiss. It’s not more than air through the teeth, but it’s enough to perk up Celegorm’s spirits–this is not one of the Hunter’s Hounds.
Celegorm has yet to fall far enough to be hunted by them for sport.
This is not an enemy, Celegorm pieces together slowly, thoughts gone storm-quiet. He is playing.
So Celegorm joins in. He rolls over, not gently but not forcefully, and lets his rival’s hands tighten in his hair. It is not a face he knows, but it is a fëa he knows, by instinct more than true memory–he lowers his eyes like how he would tuck his tail between his legs, and the hunter relaxes his grip on Celegorm.
Celegorm does not run. There will be plenty more time to wrestle. For now, they are simply two versions of “What could have been” of the Hunter’s Hounds, one who destroyed all he touched and one who destroyed all he was, and that is enough. The Day to End All Days is as of yet far off, and Celegorm finds himself hunted like a mountain lion in the woods he will one day call his home.