Legendarium [ Tolkien One-Shots ]

To the King

“To the King!”

The shouts of Doriathrin warriors sounded loud in the great halls of the Kingdom of Doriath. Screams of dying women and children haunted the hallways and bedrooms. The clanging of steel on steel, and clash of sword on shield, the warriors’ cries were audible throughout the great Hall.

Celegorm, leading the charge with his brothers, pushed onward. Their soldiers slaughtered all in sight, no matter what age the elf in question was. Caranthir went down a hallways to the right, Curufin to the left. Celegorm went straight.

“To the King!”

He knew he was getting closer. With each royal guard Celegorm cut down, he knew he grew closer to the Silmaril. The Silmaril… the prize he was after. The jewel of fate, one of three. His oath bound him to this gem.

“To the King!”

As he turned a corner, he entered the royal throne room. At the far end, surrounded by the remaining guards, King Dior the Beautiful was there, the Silmaril upon his breast. A woman, a beautiful elf maiden, stood beside him, her white dress covered in blood. As Dior spotted Celegorm at last, he undid the necklace of the Silmaril and handed it to the maiden. Celegorm sneered. No woman could keep the Silmaril from him. The maiden fled down a back hallway, and Dior drew his sword in defiance of the third son of Fëanor and his men.

“That jewel belongs to us!” Celegorm screamed in anger. “It is ours by birthright!”

“My parents retrieved that when no one else could,” spat Dior. “You are unworthy of it, son of Fëanor.”

Celegorm roared in anger and struck down the first royal guard. He sliced off his head with a massive swing. Celegorm’s soldiers flooded the room, keeping most of the guard occupied. The son of Fëanor moved forward, killing all in his path. Dior grew ever closer. Celegorm saw the anger and hatred in his opponent's eyes.

“Prepare to meet Mandos, Dior son of Thingol!” Celegorm shouted at him as at last the son of Fëanor broke through the line of guards. But Dior was ready for him.

Their blades clashed noisily. Dior used his foot to kick Celegorm down. They fought for several minutes, trading blows until each was the last of their side alive in the room. It was just the two of them, both bleeding out beyond repair. There was no hope for either.

“That Silmaril will be ours,” Celegorm choked out.

Dior shook his head and spat up blood as Celegorm ran him through with his sword at last. “Never.”

Dior died, leaving Celegorm alone, bleeding out on the floor, hopelessly injured. He lay there for several minutes, staring around at his dead followers. Was all this worth it?

Of course it was.

Celegorm barely registered as Maedhros ran into the room, covered in scarlet blood but seemingly unharmed. He didn't register as his brother took him in his arms. He didn't register the intense pain.

Everything faded away as he drifted into Mandos.