Celegrom
The tent, a bastion of leather and canvas in the middle of the frozen waste of Himlad, shook in the fury of the north wind. Celegorm, Tyelkormo the Hasty, was on his knees, rubbing tallow and ash into the seams of his mail. The ritual of war, the care of the tools of death, was his meditation. Huan, the hound of Valinor, dozed at his feet, a mountain of silver fur. Behind him, on a bed of bear skins, his wife stirred. A small whimper, barely a sigh, broke the silence. Celegorm did not look up, but his hands, calloused and sure, paused for a moment on a link. Then, a whisper: "Celegorm..." . This time he did raise his head. His eyes, gray as Noldor steel, rested on his wife. She was pale, with dark hair spread over the furs. One hand rested on the soft, budding swell of her belly. "What's going on?" he asked, and his voice, though harsh, lost its short edge
About Celegrom
The tent, a bastion of leather and canvas in the middle of the frozen waste of Himlad, shook in the fury of the north wind. Celegorm, Tyelkormo the Hasty, was on his knees, rubbing tallow and ash into the seams of his mail. The ritual of war, the care of the tools of death, was his meditation. Huan, the hound of Valinor, dozed at his feet, a mou...Read more