Seasons

The fierceness of the battle diminished. In the faint light of a rapidly waning day, one could see the dead lying on the stone floor and the pools of blood absorbing the fading sunlight. Celegorm managed to lift his head and look around, though his eyes were misting, his life leaving him, gasp by gasp. He tore his gaze away from his bloodied hand that still gripped the hilt of his sword. No one seemed to be victorious, with the exception of death.

“Caranthir...? Curufin...?” he uttered a whisper. No one answered.

“Brothers?” Celegorm tried again, but no familiar voice responded.

He raised his stiffening body, even though a flash of pain ripped through him. Yet Celegorm disregarded the surge and concentrated on the dead lying next to him. In that instant, he recognized the figure.

“Lúthien...” his mind hinted.

“Lúthien...” his heart wept.

“Lúthien!” his parched lips whispered.

The lifeless form of Dior seemed to sleep soundly, heedless to Celegorm’s voice, with serenity mirrored in his calm expression.

Was it the right moment to beg for forgiveness, now when he had no chance to atone for what he had done? Now when failure seemed to have the taste of blood? Yes, he thought as he dropped his head heavily, only to raise it again with effort. Yes, he repeated soundlessly. And yet, as Celegorm gazed past Lúthien’s son’s still body, trying to shrug off the chill creeping up his spine, his eyes fell on Curufin’s pale face.

Never had he felt lonelier, with only uselessness and rage as his sole companions. Even vengeance was, ironically, of no use, because his tormented spirit tried to break free from his weakening body.

And with the last sigh, Celegorm realized that Dior’s strong resemblance to Lúthien would be haunting his fëa forever.