#or very dead and haunting the last survivor (maglor)

[redbean-nom]

I kind of hope tech stays dead (probably bc of the silm fandom tragedy/angst instincts lol) but honestly it's star wars so he probably just got dumped in the pile of "characters to be resurrected if they seem like they could sell another movie" a la maul/boba/etc

[sweetteaanddragons]

Where Is the Power that Made Your Pride?

Title is from Rudyard Kipling’s “What of the Hunting, Hunter Bold?”

(Also, please note that the following story is from Celegorm’s perspective. All views expressed therein are Celegorm’s opinions, not necessarily mine.)

. . .

Curufin had always talked fast. His ideas flowed far faster than his mouth could move, but that didn’t stop his mouth from desperately trying to keep up.

Their father had done it to a certain extent too, but their father’s innate respect for language had at least kept him intelligible. Curufin had no such boundaries, and when he got particularly excited, his words had a tendency to run together into a block of sound that left intense impressions on the listener’s mind without imparting anything so mundane as specifics. 

Celegorm was the only one who could reliably translate those rants. He was well used to decoding messages no one else thought of as language. He was the one who could capture his little brother’s brilliant ideas and summarize them for everyone else. Language was Celegorm’s portion of the family genius, and he was never more proud of it than then.

What had finally slowed his brother’s lightning mouth was Sindarin. Curufin had learned to speak it carefully, even through his scorn. He had refused to give anyone grounds to mock him for his ability with the tongue, and so he was careful to speak it perfectly, which precluded speaking at his closest approximation of the speed of thought. By the time he had learned the language perfectly, he was out of the habit.

Celegorm still held a grudge against Thingol for that.

Curufin was talking slowly now, painfully slowly, and Celegorm cursed not only Thingol but every member of his line as he knelt in the accursed halls of Doriath and held his broken brother in his arms.

“It’s . . . dark,” Curufin managed. “So dark.” His voice shook.

“It’s just the torches,” Celegorm soothed. “The fire went out during the fighting. That’s all.” It had been pure luck that he had stumbled over Curufin as he called for his brothers. Caranthir hadn’t answered at all. He was trying not to think about that.

“No.” Curufin’s voice was barely more than a terrified breath. “The Void. The Void - “

Celegorm clung even tighter to his brother, hoping that the shared warmth would convince his brother that he was not yet in the eternal chill of the Void. “You will not go to the Void,” he promised. He didn’t say his brother wouldn’t die. He could hear the strange hitches in his little brother’s breathing. He could feel how much warm blood was even now soaking through his brother’s tunics to his. He couldn’t change that now. Only this. “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man now born upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall keep me from redeeming our Oath. Our deed shall not fail, I swear to you. You will not be left to the dark.”

He was the one talking fast now, and it was just barely fast enough. Curufin’s breath was thin and desperate now.

Thin. Desperate.

Gone.

. . . 

By the time his men had finally managed to catch up to them, thankfully with torches, Celegorm had carefully lain his brother’s body and crawled onward. It had been possible, after all, that Caranthir was merely unconscious and might need aid.

The torches revealed the truth.

Caranthir had fallen on the far side of the room. His throat had been slashed messily.

Terrible technique, a coldly distant part of him noted. Nimloth was dead by Celegorm’s own hand, so presumably the one responsible was Dior, wounded to the point of death by Caranthir’s side.

If things had gone differently, he might have been my son.

He could walk over and finish him off. The king had mere minutes to live, all of them promising pain.

His brothers’ blood lay thick upon the floor.

He turned his back on the scene and looked to his followers. “What news?”

“We found his sons, my lord,” the captain said, shoving two young boys forward. “We’ve searched them thoroughly. Neither has the Silmaril.”

Celegorm looked at them for a long moment and tried to think what to do.

It was like that first terrible battle when they’d lost Ada and nothing had made any sense at all. He had been glad, so glad, that it was Maedhros’s role to be king, and then Maglor’s. It had been his role to hunt - hunt for orcs, hunt for food, hunt for a way to figure out the dark tongue Morgoth’s creatures spoke, hunt for a way into the terrible fortress -

And nothing had changed, he realized with something approaching relief. That was still Maedhros’s role, especially now that all that nonsense about giving up the crown was over and done with and they followed no one but Maedhros once more. It was Maedhros’s job to work out what to do. It was his job to hunt.

“Take them to Maedhros,” he ordered. “If they don’t have it, my father’s work must be with the daughter. I’ll hunt her down.”

. . .

The woods were thick with shadows and webs. The darkness had moved in quickly, eager to make up for lost time when Melian’s protection disappeared.

Celegorm had learned his art in the shadowed places outside the light of the Trees. He was well accustomed to hunting in the dark.

These days, he was even used to hunting with only the ghost of a hound’s footsteps at his side.

He had heard some whisper rumors that no hound would have him after Huan left him. Celegorm always wondered why they thought he’d given any other hound a chance. There was no possible replacement for Huan.

How far from here had Huan died?

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind where Caranthir’s ruined throat and Curufin’s terrified rasps rattled and waited to haunt his dreams. Later, he could think of them. Later, he could find a spot beneath the trees to hurl knives at the twisted wood until something else had as many holes ripped through it as he felt like he’d gained.

Later. But there was no room for distractions on a hunt.

. . .

He found them within hours. There were only two guards with the girl; they must not have run into any other survivors yet. They were out there, Celegorm knew. He’d run into other panicked trails through the woods.

He shot the first guard without thought. It came easily now.

Don’t worry, brothers, Father. I will not leave you in the dark.

He had another arrow nocked before the other guard turned around, not that such haste was fully necessary. The second guard’s arms were full of a little elleth, not a weapon.

“Give me the gem,” he ordered, directing his words to Elwing, not the guard. “Give me the gem, or I’ll shoot your guard and search you for it myself.”

She would be all alone in the woods then, and by her frightened eyes, she knew it.

The guard pulled her closer. “She’s a child, just a child, please - “

��And I’m not going to shoot her,” Celelgrom said agreeably. “Just you, if I don’t get my father’s work back. Now.”

He wasn’t sure quite how young Elwing was, but however young she was, it was too young to prize even the precious light of a Silmaril over the safe comfort of an adult’s arms. She opened her clenched hands, and light spilled out from them.

“Princess - “ the guard said.

She threw it.

Her arms were too weak to throw it far. It landed halfway between them, the light clearly visible even through the undergrowth. 

“Thank you,” Celegorm said. He raised his bow a bit higher. “Now I suggest you run.”

The guard took off immediately, the princess still safe in his arms. Celegorm waited until they were safely out of sight before he dared lower his bow and put the arrow back in his quiver. 

The gem was so close. It seemed impossible that he could just reach out and take it.

He stepped forward. Reached down.

And jerked his hand back as the light burned.

He stared down at the gem for a long moment.

It made sense, he supposed. A Vala had hallowed it, and the Valar weren’t exactly happy with them at the moment.

He used one of his knives to cut a strip off his tunic and wrapped the cloth around his hand before picking it up again. It still burned, but it was bearable, at least for long enough to drop it into his quiver since he didn’t have a better container at the moment.

His hand still burned, but that was alright. He could get it looked at when he got back.

And they were one step closer to keeping their vow.

. . .

Maedhros was dead.

Celegorm stared down at the light spilling from the quiver at his feet and tried to understand that.

For so long they’d stood invincible, he’d almost convinced himself that Ada would be their last loss, and now he’d lost three brothers in one day.

But he still had two little brothers to look after and Maglor to follow. He had to focus on that.

This war was a hunt, and he had to keep his focus until the very end.

. . .

Maglor kept them headed vaguely north. The Oath pulled them in that direction, but Maglor showed little inclination to actually get there.

Celegorm chafed at the pointless wandering, but even he had to admit that they need a plan before they attacked. Plans were now Maglor’s job, so he left that to him. 

Until then, Celegorm hunted. The twins rode out with him most days, and they brought in badly needed meat that grew ever harder to hunt down, even for skilled hunters such as they. 

Celegorm could hear what the animals murmured to each other, though there were fewer and fewer left to do it. The land was dying, bit by bit, and at this point he wasn’t sure even stopping Morgoth’s poison at the source would stop it.

Celegorm wasn’t afraid of dying. 

Not so long as he fulfilled his promise first.

. . .

The first they heard of Sirion’s fall was when Celegorm realized they were being followed by someone, and Maglor turned their people back to encircle the other camp, if it could even be called a camp. They’d crowded under the lee of a small hill for protection from bitter wind, but there was little supplies to give them more protection that that. 

It turned out to be Elured and Elurin, who had shown up with their nephews and about two dozen other injured, starving, exhausted people with orcs on their tail.

Of course there were.

The Feanorians outnumbered them and had the additional advantage of being comprised entirely of warriors. The other group held a few children and those who carried their weapons like they still weren’t quite sure what to do with them.

Maglor had been the one to let Elured and Elurin go free with a few captured Doriathrim guards, so it was Maglor who stepped forward, presumably on the idea that the frightened elves would be less likely to shoot him.

He was also the most diplomatic Feanorian brother remaining, though Celegorm found himself wishing fiercely that Maedhros was here for this.

“We have nothing,” Elured - Elurin? One of the two - called from where he stood protectively in front of his nephews. “We have no desire to fight. Let us go our own way. We bring no quarrel to you.”

“We want nothing,” Maglor said, a hint of soothing power in his voice, hands raised high and without weapons. Celegorm, safely hidden in the trees, had that taken care of for him. “Nothing but news. What brings you out this way and in such a company?”

“Morgoth’s forces have brought down Sirion,” the other twin said, wary, but willing to talk. As long as they were still talking, no one was fighting. “Most fled to the Isle of Balar, but we were cut off from the harbor. We had no choice but to flee. His forces ride hard against us still.”

“Then are you sure you wish us to go?” Maglor asked. “They cannot be far behind you now. Will you not accept aid in defeating them?”

It was an offer the beleaguered refugees could not possibly refuse, no matter how wary they were.

Celegorm’s grin was fierce.

At last, a proper fight.

. . .

It was a proper victory too, and the refugees ended up sticking with them after that. It was an awkward experience all around, but there was safety in numbers, or at least as much safety as anyone could get these days.

Celegorm kept the Silmaril well covered. 

No need to start another fight over its brilliant light.

. . .

They found out the Isle of Balar had fallen when Amrod and Amras came running back to camp with a report of a group of orcs dragging a line of elvish prisoners, one of whom they thought might be Gil-Galad, though it had been years since any of them had seen him - not since he was a child.

They attacked because they didn’t have better ideas and because, Celegorm suspected, Maglor, Elured, and Elurin had the same rising lump of dread in their throats that he did.

The attack was a success, more or less. The orcs were dead, at least, and they managed to save five of the prisoners, though Celegorm suspected at least one wouldn’t last the night.

Gil-Galad might make it, though. The orcs had been careful with him, probably because their master had wanted the fun of torturing the so-called king of the elves himself.

Gil-Galad reported the fall of the city in a blank voice. Elwing’s fate was unknown, a fact that cheered up her wide eyed children and worried her more worldly-wise brothers.

Celegorm felt an unwilling spark of sympathy. He remembered all too well when Maedhros’s fate had been unknown.

Then Gil-Galad announced his next bit of news, and all sympathy for outsiders fled.

Celebrimbor was dead.

Gil-Galad talked about how bravely he had fought as if that somehow made things better, as if they wouldn’t all have a hundred times over preferred it for Celebrimbor to run at the first sign of trouble, or for Celebrimbor to have been a little less brave in Nargothrond, all those years ago.

Follow the leader, Celegorm had told his nephew once on a hunt, when he’d been young and impressionable and mostly done as he was told. Stay with the pack.

But little Tyelpe had grown into stubborn Celebrimbor, and now he was gone.

At least his nephew wasn’t counting on Celegorm to save him from the Void.

. . .

Celegorm confronted Maglor in his tent. The question of power had been tricky since Elured and Elurin showed up and had only gotten more so with Gil-Galad’s arrival, but Maglor maintained the majority of it by virtue of commanding the absolute loyalty of the majority of the people wielding weapons. 

Maglor was the rightful leader anyway, but at least this way Celegorm only had to convince one person of his plan.

“We need to attack,” he said, and Maglor startled from his position of leaning over the battered map on an even more battered table.

“We have less than a hundred men,” Maglor said wearily. “If we couldn’t take Angband at the Nirnaeth, what makes you think we can do it now?”

“We can’t,” Celegorm admitted. “But if we can create a diversion outside the gates, we can sneak in and steal the Silmarils.”

Maglor stared at him for a long moment. “It’s a suicide mission,” he finally said.

Celegorm waved that off impatiently. “The whole continent’s dying,” he said. “We’re not getting out of this, you know that. But we can still keep our Oath.”

“Our Oath,” Maglor said bitterly and turned away.

Celegorm grabbed his arm. “I swore it again,” he said. “I swore it again as Curufin died in my arms, I swore I would not let him be devoured by the dark.”

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His hands shook.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Alright. We’ve fought Elda and those born of Maia and Aftercomer, defied bright Vala and every law ever written. It’s time we fought dark Vala too.” His eyes opened. “But if we’re going to do this,” he said, “we’re going to do it right.”

. . .

Apparently, doing it right involved talking the others into not wanting to go gently into Mandos’s good night and then riding out to find as many of the small, desperate bands of Aftercomer, Eldar, and Naugrim that they could. If they were going to charge on Morgoth’s gates, Maglor wanted to make as much of a show of it as he could.

Celegorm wasn’t sure what number they got up to. It was still far less than they’d had at the Nirnaeth. It was still doomed, in every sense of the word.

But it would be distracting, and that was the main thing.

. . .

Maglor ceded leadership of the expedition to Gil-Galad, and Celegorm said not one word of protest. Elured and Elurin eyed them warily, but Celegorm just smiled.

These days, no one wanted to look at him when he did that, he’d learned.

Maglor couldn’t lead the expedition.

They’d need him for something far more important.

. . .

Amrod and Amras were the ones left to lead their men because it was decided that was the slightly less suicidal job, and the twins were the youngest, after all. Maglor and Celegorm were fully agreed on that; it was their job to protect them, one last time.

Celegorm was a hunter, and he was well equipped at finding game trails through places thought to be impassible.

Even if this time, the game trail in question had been made by orcs.

Below them, the free peoples of Beleriand made one last glorious charge. 

Meanwhile, Celegorm quietly led Maglor up the winding trail into Angband itself.

. . . 

Most of Morgoth’s forces were focused on the gate, so it was surprisingly easy to slip unnoticed to the throne room where Morgoth sat directing this last stage of the war.

His throne was at one end of a long hall, with thick pillars carved to look like agonized Eldar and Aftercomers groaning under the weight. 

Celegorm was relieved. Elves were hard to spot in hunting cloaks, no matter what the environment, and he was more stealthy than most, but this was would help his purposes immensely. 

Morgoth himself hurt to look at directly, so Celegorm didn’t try. Instead, he sidled to the side of the room, softer than a breath and noticeable as a dust mote while Maglor threw his cloak off and strode forward.

His brother had been beaten down by the war, but he was still a performer at heart. Even in the shabby finery that was the pathetic best the Noldor could still produce, he still commanded every eye in the room as he strode forward.

He didn’t bother wasting time with a formal challenge. Instead, he just burst into song.

The force of it nearly pushed Celegorm over, and it wasn’t even aimed at him. It must be costing Maglor enormous effort - too much to keep it up for long. And though Maglor was holding his own for the moment, with the added force of surprise on his side, against Morgoth surely it wasn’t doing much. His brother’s power was great, but he was no half-Maia brat to contend with a Vala.

And Morgoth would be warier now.

Any moment now, he would grow weary of this novelty and strike. Celegorm’s feet flew across the floor toward an appropriate position. His bow was ready at his side. He just needed the right angle.

And then two bright presences in his mind - distant, but always noted because it was always important to know where the rest of the pack was - went dark.

Amrod and Amras had fallen.

Maglor’s song faltered, and Morgoth smiled, opened his mouth - 

Celegorm raised his bow. The arrowhead that was nocked against it was dull but heavy. Very heavy.

He let it fly.

He had no illusions about killing Morgoth with it, but that was alright. He hadn’t aimed for Morgoth. Not exactly.

He’d aimed for his crown.

The iron monstrosity with its twin stars clattered to the floor.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, the orc chiefs and twisted Maia stood frozen. Even Morgoth only stared.

Maglor renewed his attack.

Celegorm was already running.

He heard it when others finally started to move after him, but he hardly cared. He was the only one who’d known exactly when this moment would come - one of only two people who had known it was coming at all - and it didn’t matter if someone caught up with him in a few moments. 

A weapon whistled through the air. Celegorm hit his knees and skidded the last yard to the crown.

His brothers were counting on him. His father was counting on him.

Celegorm grabbed a gem in each hand, never minding the burn, just throwing back his head in a yell of triumph as he felt the Oath’s chain snapped.

He had one in his belt and one in each hand. All three gems were united in Feanorian possession once more.

There was no chance of prying the gems out of the crown, not in the time he had left, but there’d been an idea he’d been playing with ever since he proposed this mission, and he had nothing to lose now.

He let go of one of the gems and drew the third out of its pouch. His hand felt like he’d stuck it in lava, but it wouldn’t matter. Not for long.

The Silmarils were almost indestructible. The Valar had thought they could break one, and they were probably right, but Celegorm was no Vala.

He did, however, have a substance just as hard and powerful as the Silmarils in the crown.

Namely, another Silmaril.

Please, Ada. Let me be right. Let me do this one thing right.

He brought it crashing down with all his might on the Silmaril he’d let go of.

His whole world turned to fire, every fiber of him screaming out as the sacred fire scourged him, fused with him, and burst outward.

The clawed hand that had just reached him turned to ash.

Morgoth screamed out, and the sound ripped through whatever remained of his eardrums and twisted the world, because this was light undimmed, light unfiltered, light so holy that it was the antithesis of everything Morgoth was, and Celegorm didn’t know if this would kill the dark Vala, but it certainly seemed to be coming close.

Maglor screamed too, and it went on for just one agonized moment before his last brother’s light winked out.

The light built and burned and Celegorm would have been screaming if there was anything left of him that could -

And then everything was cool and dim, and Namo was looking down at him with an expression so stunned that even dead, all Celegorm could do was throw back his head and laugh and laugh and laugh.