Chapter Text
Night descended upon the land slowly and viscously. One by one, stars emerged through the breaks in the clouds, cold and aloof, and only the rare watch-fires of the sentries disturbed the measured breathing of the dark.
Deep within the camp, beneath the tightly stretched canvas of a tent, Curufin, son of Fëanor, sat hunched over scrolls yellowed with age. His slender, deft fingers absently traced the edges of the parchment, while his gaze slid over jagged lines covered in swift, angular script - his father’s hand.
Words about shifts in the roots of Quenya forms, about ancient correspondences of sounds and the lost perfection of the proto-language blurred before his eyes. His thoughts tangled and slipped away like smoke, and a heavy, dull ache tightened around his temples with every passing moment, echoing dully somewhere behind his eyes.
Curufin exhaled sharply and leaned back, resting the back of his head against the carved back of the chair. The canvas above him whispered softly under the breath of the night wind, and the sound irritated him almost as much as his unrelenting headache.
“Why, in the name of the Valaraukar,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “is lómë rendered as lûm, yet melmë becomes meleth, and not melûm? Cursed Thindarin constructions…”
He closed his eyes, but it brought no relief. The image of Fëanor rose stubbornly before his inner sight. His father had found the peculiar paths of Elvish linguistic development more than a fascinating subject of study. Yet to Curufin, skilled as he was in linguistics, such exercises - driven by the looming necessity of dealing with the local, “unenlightened” Sindar - brought nothing but endless vexation.
A sharp rustle at the tent entrance tore him from his half-delirious stupor. Before Curufin could speak, the flap was pulled aside, and one of the guards nearly stumbled inside. The elf’s face was pale, his eyes fever-bright.
“My prince,” he breathed, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Please… come with me. It is urgent.”
Curufin narrowed his eyes, instantly alert.
“Have you lost your senses, Naivo?” he asked coldly. “Do you know what hour it is?”
The guard swallowed.
“It’s… important. And it would be better if no one else knew.”
For several moments Curufin bored into him with a hard stare, then slowly rose to his feet. The pain in his head flared anew, but he only clenched his jaw tighter. Pushing the scrolls aside, he reached for the sword resting by the table and fastened it at his belt with a practiced motion.
“Lead on,” he said.
They moved between the tents almost silently. The camp slept: only now and then someone stirred near dying embers, and distant watch calls drifted through the night. The guard chose winding paths, drawing Curufin farther and farther from light and voices, until pine needles crunched underfoot and the darkness ahead thickened into a solid wall.
The tree line rose as a black silhouette against the pale sky. And there, at the very edge of the forest, stood a lone rider, motionless. His horse snorted softly, shifting its hooves, while the rider himself sat straight-backed, as if carved from stone.
Curufin stopped.
“What kind of jest is this?” he snarled.
The rider touched the reins and moved forward, allowing moonlight to slide across his uncovered face. Dark hair pulled back with two golden bands, a familiar profile, a calm, almost sorrowful gaze…
Fingon.
Fury flared instantly, sweeping away exhaustion and pain like dry grass before fire.
“You,” Curufin sneered, though there was no mirth in it. “How unexpected. Has Fingolfin’s camp grown so cramped that you decided to stroll beneath the stars?”
Fingon inclined his head slightly, but otherwise did not respond to the venom in his cousin’s tone. Only his eyes widened a fraction as he studied the grim face before him.
“In truth,” Fingon said, “I had hoped to meet with Macalaurë.”
“Oh?” Curufin stepped closer, a sharp smile curving his lips. Evidently Fingon did not know that the brothers had long since divided their ‘loyals’ among themselves - and that Naivo, a lieutenant of Curufin’s retinue, would never have gone to anyone but his prince. “All the more interesting. And what, pray, are you plotting with my brother that requires such secrecy?”
“Quiet,” Fingon raised a hand. “I beg you. This is not the time for shouting.”
“Not the time?” Curufin gave a short laugh. “Then explain what this time is for.”
Fingon hesitated, as though choosing his words.
“You… must come with me. To our camp. To Mithrim.”
Curufin’s laughter died, and his words turned sharp and bitter.
“Are you serious? Do you take me for such a fool as to walk willingly into a noose? If you’ve devised some revenge for Losgar…”
A flicker of pain crossed Fingon’s eyes.
“I know well what you think of us. But I swear by the name of Eru,” he said hoarsely, “you will not be harmed. Not by me. Not by anyone in our camp. The matter… the matter is truly grave.”
The sincerity in his tone stirred genuine unease in Curufin’s fëa. He paled, but quickly mastered himself.
“To swear by the name of Eru is no idle thing,” he said slowly, the sibilance in his accent growing more pronounced. “If you are lying…”
“I am not.”
For a moment they faced one another like two blades crossed in the air. At last Curufin exhaled sharply.
“Very well. But know this - if this is a trap, you and your House will not meet a pleasant fate.”
They wasted no time. In a low whisper Curufin gave Naivo instructions as the guard withdrew: if his prince did not return within two days, inform Celegorm. There was only one horse, and Curufin climbed behind Fingon with visible reluctance.
“Splendid,” he remarked acidly, seating himself as far back as possible. “Go on, tell me I ought to embrace you now, cousin, so as not to fall.”
Fingon only sighed softly and urged the horse onward.
The ride was swift and rough. Wind lashed Curufin’s face, night cold crept beneath his cloak, and the foreign presence behind him grated almost physically. Curufin did not miss a chance to fling barbs - at Fingolfin’s stubborn march across the ice, at the fickle nature of the Vanyar, at how “delighted” his uncle’s rubble will be to see him - Turgon most of all...
Fingon remained silent, only tightening his grip on the reins now and then. That silence angered the fifth son of Fëanor more than any retort.
The camp at Mithrim greeted them with quiet. Most tents lay submerged in darkness, and only a few elves who noticed the unwelcome guest followed Curufin with heavy, contempt-laden looks. None, however, dared speak.
Fingon dismounted and gestured for Curufin to follow. From one of the tents Fingolfin emerged. His face was stern, and in the silver of his eyes reflected the cold light of the Trees.
“How many winters have passed since last we met, half-uncle?” Curufin asked instead of greeting him. “What need have you of a son of Fëanor in your camp?”
“Welcome, Atarinkë…” Fingolfin replied dully. To Curufin’s surprise, he found not a trace of irritation in his gaze - only a strange pity. It wounded and unsettled him in equal measure. “I believe it would be better for you to see for yourself.”
He stepped aside, allowing Curufin to enter the tent. Inside it was dim. It smelled of herbs, metal, and… On a bed, surrounded by bandages and shadows, lay an elf.
Curufin froze.
The elf’s skin was deathly pale, dark veins crawling beneath it. Where the right hand should have been… there was only emptiness, a stump wrapped in fresh bindings. Hair that had once fallen like flame over his shoulders had been cut away unevenly. His face - slashed, bruised…
The world tilted. A sound of his own blood beating against his temples filled Curufin’s ears, and for a moment he thought he might fall.
“N… Nelyo…” slipped from his lips in a whisper.
He took a step forward - and stopped, unable to draw any closer. Nausea rose in his throat.