5. The Final Assault
"Sons of Fëanor!"
Time stops. All are dead. He saw this in his dream, the chiseled features, the keen eyes void of the light, though blessed by the Gods. He stands at the throne, solid, erect. "Dior," he growls. Celegorm seethes, rages. "You will pay for my brother's death, wench's whelp!" Dior's face hardens. "Do you recognize me, son of Beren? I'd have been your father, had your mother not whored herself among mortal beasts!" He'd seen this—he knew.
Children run to Dior's side, boys, scared, frightened, crying.
"Ada, stop! Ada!"
They think their father will die. He feels the wrath seethe in his brother—the children have their father, are innocent, untainted; not like them.
The elf brushes his sons aside, descending the dais. Silence, footfalls soft. "I will kill you," he assures, reaching their vicinity, sword bloodstained, face hard. "I will kill you!"
"Where is the Silmaril!"
He pauses, smiling. "It matters little to the dead."
Swords clash clang grunt left right up right down block cadence rhythm down right up block right "Where is it!" Read Turco's moves language interpret use attack "Where is it!" Clash grate up the dais footing left right the children are crying round the throne children are screaming left right crash clang blood rage he will die must die "Where is it!"
Dior gasps, chokes, falls to his knees. Celegorm's bloody sword slides from his gut. "Where is the Silmaril!"
Choking, gasping, he smiles. "You will…never…find…"
Time slows. He sees Dior crumble, landing heavy on cold stone. Every second an eternity. Silver light falls through shafts in the ceiling, lighting the throne. All is silent. He's seen this in his dreams, in the dreams she sent, the dreams she tortured him with. He knew. Gods, but it was hard. He'd wake crying, if he did it. He always woke crying. But this wasn't a dream.
Children god stop Turco whirls anger rage "Turco!" slash
The children's eyes, wide as the bowls of Light, screamed of terror. Celegorm's blade was halted inches from their throats. It fell slowly, mimicking the motions of its commander, and the fair-haired elf gasped, breath failing him. Curufin's blade was buried through his breast.
"…Rún…yo…" Celegorm croaked, confused eyes catching his. A convulsion silenced him, pressing him to the floor. The empty gaze turned upward, towards the light. Towards the stars.
Curufin crumbled to his brother's side, stroking the dead hand. "Turco," he whispered, voice shaking, as if the body could still hear and forgive, "Turco, I'm sorry." The children cried, watched him with unmatched terror—this man had killed his brother, his own brother. Such a man would stop at nothing. He'd killed his brother. He'd murdered the only person in the world he'd ever cared about. He killed Celegorm.
Why hadn't he done it sooner?
Maglor sat on the throne, surveying the massive hall. This is where Dior had sat; Dior, who lay dead on the floor only feet away. Beside him lay Celegorm, a look of abject confusion frozen on his visage. And beside him, Curufin lay, his own dagger thrust deep under his ribcage. Blood flowed as a silent waterfall halfway down the steps of the dais. Caranthir lay out there, somewhere amid the tangled bodies of innocent and bloodthirsty elves.
Gods, the destruction…the destruction was ineffable, the loss of life incredible. The Noldor had crushed the resistance, destroyed any and all that opposed them. It was worse than the Havens, far worse than anything they had ever done. It was the Second Kinslaying, undiluted by passion or brine.
Dior's sons had disappeared. They'd been cowering behind the throne, when Maglor had found them. Perhaps it was better they had disappeared, probably dead. They were too young to see such things and live; it was better for them to die and forget.
Why had Curufin done such things? Was his brother—had his brother been—truly mad? Why had he attacked Celegorm? Maglor could not even say for certain that Celegorm had died by Dior's hands. Surveying the bloody specter, he wondered if perhaps, somehow, Curufin had known this scene before now—if he had seen such an end for him and his brothers, there was just cause for his madness. Perhaps Curufin had been the only sane one among them.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.