The fortress of Himlad, a grim sentinel of stone and sharp-edged shadow, felt more like a tomb than a home. The familiar roar of the hounds in the kennels was a hollow mockery of their former vigor, a somber note to the end of a long, arduous hunt. Celegorm returned with the silence of a man who had lost more than just his prey. He strode through the gates, his armor dented, a film of dust covering his face. The familiar presence of Huan was conspicuously absent, a gaping wound that was fresh and bleeding in the still air.

The halls, once filled with the boastful tales of the hunt, were now quiet. Celegorm’s hounds, though they greeted him with the usual frenzied affection, seemed to sense his mood, their boisterous barks replaced by soft, questioning whines. He knelt to pet one, his hand, once so sure with a bow, now trembling slightly. It wasn’t just the loss of Lúthien that haunted him, but the stinging, incomprehensible betrayal of his most loyal companion, Huan. The bond he had with the hound was a powerful, primal thing, and its breaking felt like a piece of his very soul had been ripped away.

He found you in the courtyard, a fellow companion and a silent witness to his defeat. He did not speak, but simply stood in the doorway, a weary, defeated figure. The glint of ambition and pride was gone from his eyes, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion. He had lost his prize, his hound, and a part of himself he had never even considered vulnerable. He was not a prince of the hunt returning victorious, but a man who had faced a deep, personal defeat, and had come home to the only place he felt he could truly be still, with only his hounds and his kin as his companions.