“Father! Thou trust me not?” The gleam in Celegorm’s eyes was made even more terrible by the fire, the reflection of the flames appearing to dance in his pupils.

Feanor wiped sweat from his chin and brow with the back of his hand. His clothes were singed, his hair a wild mess. “Your Aredhel yet remains upon the other side.”

“Where she likely shall stay,” spat Celegorm, his lungs choked by the smoke-filled air. He coughed with his mouth shut, determined to show as little weakness as possible. “Did I not make oath to you, father?”

“Father… I do doubt it.” They were the first words spoken regarding the ongoing uncertainty Feanor had regarding the paternity of his third child. Feanor stepped around and around where Celegorm stood, lifting his sword to flick a lock of the fair hair. “Your mother’s cravings were different with you.. her mood harsher.. her eyes averted me, she would shy from my touch, and she made sure she was with child again so soon after – from the guilt?” Feanor stopped again, facing Celegorm.

For a moment, Celegorm watched in his mind how the scene could unfold. He would first slap his father, then steal the sword and run him through – or would he punch him so hard to knock him to the ground, then leap upon him and punch his face until it was broken and caved in. Instead, Celegorm took a deep breath and said, “You are the only father I have ever known; the only father I have. Have I not been a loyal son?”

Feanor lowered his sword, but said nothing.

Celegorm lowered himself down upon one knee, then looked upwards at Feanor. “You are my father. My lord. My king.” In his mind, the words ‘I hate you I hate you I hate you’ echoed over and over. “If you doubt me, father, then I lay my sword aside. Kill me now and ease your mind.” He bowed his head, pressing the side of his neck to Feanor’s blade.

With gritted teeth, Feanor moved the blade away. “Get on your feet… my son,” he added thrusting out a hand to help Celegorm up. “Ready yourself. We must make plans for our attack.”

Celegorm took hold of Feanor’s arm, rising up fluidly. He embraced his father tightly, then said in a low voice, “There is no stopping us now – no stopping you. The prize is within your grasp… so close. We should press on now; take back what is ours!” He stepped back to look Feanor in the eyes. “We should go now – do not stop to plan! The enemy is close! Do not give him the time to strike at you with greater force.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “If you succeed, victory will be great. If you fall, you will be hailed as a hero against the oppression of the Valar and the vileness of Morgoth. Great songs will be sung, and deeds done in your name and honor.”

“But I shall not be defeated,” proclaimed Feanor. He raised his sword in the air and called out a rallying cry to the others.

Celegorm stepped back and turned on his heal to hide his smirk. He knew that there was no way for his father to fight through the hoards on his own, but that he would try. And if he did manage it, there were great beasts of darkness and fire, some stomping the ground afar, others seen flying in the sky, who would surely fell him. And if he did succeed, then there would be Morgoth.

As others around prepared for battle, Celegorm took in the terrain and stole an apple from a basket of meager rations that was left momentarily untended. Once Feanor was gone, Maedhros would be his successor – and Celegorm was already plotting in his mind how to convince him to avenge their father. He would have to hope that the enemy would capture or kill him. Then there was Maglor; it would be easy to place self-doubt in that brother’s mind, and if it came to it, Celegorm decided then that he was not above using poisons if he had to. He turned so that he faced the way most of the others did, watching his father making a speech while standing on an overturned crate. “Long live the King!” shouted Celegorm in unison with others around him, a smile curling his lips.