Curufin grins, a bit grimly. Their father will never hear it from him. And this is partly because Curufin never intends to be trapped in the Halls of Mandos, and he hasn't so far figured out any way to contact his father without getting caught sneaking in and out. They seem to have his father locked up in the most secure part of the place. Worse luck for Fëanor!

And Curufin doesn't remember his dad bothering to run the Oath past him before he stood up on that chair in the square and started ranting about it. Maybe he just assumed that the son who was most like him would automatically approve of the text as was, without editing? Worse luck for Curufin! -- their dad was right, if that's what he thought.

And as for Gil-galad: "Better him than anybody! Yes, he can have that awful job for all eternity!" Hopefully he isn't smart enough to realize he's been had.

And into the fray they go! Maglor starts singing, and this baffles their enemies as well as ensnares them. Curufin smiles and strikes, slashing heads and arms and legs off, skewering Orc bodies right through the heart or liver. He and his brother work so well together, moving as though their minds were joined, as though their thoughts were instantaneously available each to each.

And that works until the Balrogs show up. Uh-oh! Now for the proof of the pudding. . .