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Chapter Text

The new house shines golden-white in the waxing light of Laurelin. It had been built by a son of Fëanáro, with the help of the house of Yúlacolindo, for this son had married one of their daughters. The rest of the house of Fëanáro had never heard of the house of Yúlacolindo, dwellers in a secluded settlement near the halls of Aulë the Smith. And they would not for some time yet, for Curufinwë Atarinkë had decided to strike out on this journey alone.

The heavy door of black wood swings open, and the small entrance hall lights up with the golden glow, contrasting with the cool darkness flowing down the staircase on the right hand side from the upper storey. Contrary to the pale white exterior, the stones of the floors are the darkest grey of slate, as are any walls left free of painted plaster or wooden panelling.

Curufinwë crosses the threshold and goes halfway up the stairs, before turning to look at the person still standing in the doorway. Tancaquárë looks up at her fellow smith, the one now bound closer to her than any other. Curufinwë's eyes are alight, kindled with the excitement of this new venture, unlike anything he has ever done before. Tancaquárë is moved by the sight. And though she does not smile, she goes at once up the stairs to join him. She takes his hand, and looks him directly in the eye, for they are of equal height. Curufinwë is surprised at first, then his usually impassive expression softens as he understands. With his other hand, he tentatively reaches out and brushes a lock of dark hair behind her ear, in an unfamiliar gesture of affection. Now she smiles, and Curufinwë feels as though his heart could melt within him. Such a thing has never happened to him before. Not even as they were wed. Tancaquárë's hand tightens warmly about his, and she leads the way upstairs.

Tancaquárë enters the dim kitchen. The only light in the room comes from an open window, the silver of Telperion softly illuminating the dark stone of the far wall. Curufinwë is there, silently stirring something in a pan on the stove. It is markedly different from the fire he usually works with: this one is gentler, more contained, housed and hidden in the oven. Yet it serves its purpose just as well.

Tancaquárë comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his middle, hugging him and resting her chin on his shoulder. Curufinwë is not startled by it. "I'm trying to concentrate here," he mumbles softly, not turning to look.
"It smells good. It's not something I'm familiar with."
Curufinwë shakes his head slightly. "It's a family recipe." Though he is focused, he lacks his usual intensity: the light of his eyes is dim, as soft as his voice. Such moments are rare, and Tancaquárë naturally treats him gently, as one would a glass sculpture. Though he is usually as resilient as iron—flexible at times, immovable at others, versatile and intelligent—sometimes he is not, and Tancaquárë would never mistake even the darkest glass for iron, nor misuse it so.
Tancaquárë takes in the sight of the thick, almost sauce-like sausage stew, slowly and ponderously bubbling. "Hmm. I think I will like it, anyway. A miracle, truly, with how much my tastes have changed in the brief time since I've started growing this little mite of ours."
Curufinwë smirks. "With how contrary the child is towards your own preferences already, it must take after my side of the family..."
He falls silent, adding a pinch more seasoning.
Then speaks again, quietly. "Well, I am glad it suits you."

Tancaquárë slows her cart to a stop in front of the great house in Tirion. In her surprise, she cannot help but speak. "You grew up here? The princes of Tirion live like Manwë and Varda."
Curufinwë chuckles. "I take it you have never been to Taniquetil before either."
Tancaquárë's lips quirk up briefly and she shakes her head. She jumps down from the driver's seat and holds out her hands. Curufinwë carefully places the tiny sleeping baby he had been cradling in her arms, before climbing out of the cart himself.

They walk down the long garden path, and stop before the house's great double doors. Curufinwë takes back his tiny son, who stirs and blinks up at him. "Ah, good, you're awake," Curufinwë mutters, holding the baby in one arm and placing a finger on his chest. "We need to make a good first impression on your namesake, do we not, Curufinwë Tyelperinquar?"
Tyelperinquar stares at him, then folds his little arms across his chest, trapping his finger under them. Curufinwë knows this to be the infant's way of miming a hug, so he responds by holding him a little tighter.
He glances up at Tancaquárë. "Alright, enough standing around." Curufinwë steps forward and pulls on the rope beside the door. A bell clangs from inside.

The left hand side of the door opens, and Tyelkormo steps out onto the threshold. He inhales sharply at the sight of his long-missed brother, who had ostensibly been cooped up in Aulë's halls for all this time, working with and learning from those who dwelt there.
His gaze drops to the baby. Then back to Curufinwë, then Tancaquárë, then Tyelperinquar again, his eyes opening wider with each movement of his head. His expression now quite disbelieving, he turns and calls back indoors, a faint note of panic in his voice. "...ATAR!!!"
Tancaquárë steps back a pace at the ear-splitting shout. Tyelperinquar looks at his uncle with round eyes, too surprised to cry.
Tyelkormo turns back to them and covers his mouth with a hand, belatedly realising how loud he had been. Curufinwë grins. "It's Atarinkë, actually, but I will forgive you brother, it has been a while."
Tyelkormo, rendered quite speechless, makes several different gestures of exasperation in his brother's direction, before finally settling on grasping his shoulders and leaning down to kiss his forehead. Tyelperinquar wriggles in Curufinwë's grasp, squeaking in confusion at the stranger's approach. Tyelkormo looks down at him and lets go of his brother, as if only just realising the presence of the other two for a second time.
Tyelkormo straightens his face into a more dignified expression, then bows briefly in Tancaquárë's direction. "Forgive me, I do not believe we have met before. I am Turcafinwë Tyelkormo, son of prince Fëanáro and brother of Curufinwë here."
Tancaquárë inclines her head in return, still rather taken aback at how different Tyelkormo is from his brother, in both appearance and demeanour. Though her face remains serious, she stumbles over her words a little. "I... I am called Tancaquárë. I am of Yúlacolindo's people—followers of the Smith." She collects herself and straightens her posture a little. "But I am also of your people, for Curufinwë is my husband."
Tyelkormo gives Curufinwë a look out of the corner of his eye, and inhales as if to speak. Curufinwë does the same, but before either of them can say a word, a tall, dark-haired Elf steps outside to join them, the spitting image of Curufinwë, but for his greater height.
It is Curufinwë's turn to hesitate. "Atar... I have returned."
He does not have time to feel much embarrassment over it, as Tyelkormo cuts in. "Atar, this is Curvo's wife, Tancaquárë. And here is..." he stops, realising he does not know the child's name.
Curufinwë steps forward, holding out his son towards Fëanáro. "...Curufinwë Tyelperinquar," he finishes. "Your grandson."
Tyelperinquar and Fëanáro look at each other curiously for a moment. Then the little one reaches out a hand towards him. Fëanáro takes the baby from Curufinwë, and before his son has any time to react, Fëanáro's free arm draws him into a tight embrace. Tyelperinquar giggles at the sight of his father being squashed in such a manner.
Curufinwë's mood lifts in an instant, boundlessly encouraged by Fëanáro's ready acceptance. Still wedged in his father's embrace, Fëanáro's chin resting on his head, Curufinwë looks over at Tancaquárë. He doesn't even know it, but he is smiling widely.

Tancaquárë did not know what she was expecting, but she is pleased at what she sees. She had not known just how close Curufinwë was with his family. He had not talked about them much, up until they made their plans to come to Tirion.
Faint curiosity stirs within her, and she wonders how well she will fit in with this side of her family. Among Aulë's Elven apprentices, she had garnered a (perhaps undeserved) reputation of being difficult to get along with. Not that it ever stopped them from asking for her help.
Though, if Curufinwë's family were at least somewhat like him, perhaps it would be alright. Curufinwë had been her first long-term Elven work partner in a while: finding the nonsense of the others annoying, she had usually preferred working alongside Maiar.

As if picking up on the train of her thoughts, Fëanáro raises his head to look at her also. The light of his eyes burns entirely differently to that of his son's, despite their otherwise close resemblance. A fierce and unshakable will that few would dare to gainsay shines out there for all to see. But he smiles proudly, and his voice is warm. "Welcome, daughter. You shall tell me more about yourself later. For now, it is enough to know that my son has chosen you as his own." Fëanáro's lip curls and he glances downwards at Curufinwë, giving him another squeeze. "And I know that if he is anything like me, he is sure to have chosen wisely."
"Fëanáro, stop embarrassing the poor boy," chides a deep feminine voice from indoors, before a strong woman with reddish-brown hair steps out to join her husband. Tancaquárë wonders how long she has been listening. Fëanáro smiles somewhat mischievously at Nerdanel, knowing she has caught the indirect compliment.
Nerdanel smiles at Tancaquárë. "Welcome, my dear. Our home is yours, for however long you wish to stay."
Curufinwë extricates himself from his father's hold and goes to greet his mother. Nerdanel places her hands on his shoulders, and kisses his cheek. "It is good to see you again, my Atarinkë."
Tyelperinquar's eyes follow Curufinwë as he leaves. He makes an almost imperceptible whimper of disappointment. He crosses his arms over his chest again. Fëanáro raises an eyebrow.
Seeing this, Tancaquárë approaches and takes back her son. She holds him tight and places a kiss on his forehead. Then looks up as she hears several more sets of footfalls coming from inside. Her eyes widen as both doors are opened fully.

Curufinwë moves back to stand beside Tancaquárë, an arm around her shoulders, as the rest of his brothers emerge from the house. Tancaquárë is glad of the unspoken reassurance. Although she comes from a large family herself, meeting this many new people at once is rather disorienting.


But though the company is occasionally too much, and she and Curufinwë must escape for some solitary peace at times, Tancaquárë thoroughly enjoys her stay in the house of her husband's family.

"Yes, Curvo, I'm sure. I will be just fine staying here."
Tancaquárë crouches slightly and rests the horse's hind leg upon her thigh. She sets the new shoe in place and starts hammering in the first of the nails.
Curufinwë leans down a little towards her. "Try it just this once. Tyelko won't mind. I already told him I might bring you along on our next hunt together."
A small frown creases her brow. "We'll be out riding well into Telperion's hours. The child needs looking after."
Curufinwë shrugs dismissively. "My parents have had seven babies, they can look after one for a day." He pauses, then mutters. "Honestly, the difficulty will probably lie in getting him back afterwards..."
Tancaquárë lets out a huff of laughter. There is a moment of silence as she adjusts the next horseshoe by striking it a few times on her small anvil.
"So? What say you?" he prompts. There is a hopeful note in his voice.
Tancaquárë checks how the shoe fits against the hoof of the other hind leg. "I don't like horses."
Curufinwë laughs. "You say, as you crouch among my horse's feet. Those are the most terrifying part!"
Tancaquárë sighs, not looking up from her work. "I can't ride... horses." She gestures vaguely with her nail hammer. "Never tried."
Curufinwë masks his surprise. His expression serious, he crouches down all the way, gazing upwards into her face. "That's no matter, Anca. You can sit behind me. And we will not be riding fast in the woodlands, anyway."
There is another brief silence as they look at each other. Then Tancaquárë nods. And Curufinwë grins.

Tancaquárë, her arms wrapped around Curufinwë's middle, leans against him as they ride back towards the stables, tired out after the day's ride. Tyelkormo had taken it upon himself to bring their game to the kitchens.
"I slowed you down, didn't I?"
Curufinwë shrugs, unconcerned. "Not really."
"I do not think Tyelkormo appreciated my presence, in any case."
"No, he loved you. He's just different when out hunting, that's all. Entirely focused. Quiet is normal for him, out there."
"Oh." It made sense now.
Tancaquárë supposed she had just been anxious, overly alert in this unfamiliar environment. Just as a new apprentice would confuse the seriousness of a master's countenance for disapproval.
"Well," she mumbles. "I cannot say I understand why you both love it so. But I am willing to join you again. Now and then."

Curufinwë dismounts, then helps her down from the horse. He kisses her cheek. "You go to bed. Sleep for as long as you will. I shall look after Tyelpë."
He smiles at her look of mild concern. "I'm used to this, you know. Come now."
He takes her by the hand, and they walk back to the great house.

Little Tyelperinquar cannot sleep. The silver light seeping under the curtains makes his room look cold and lonely tonight, for some reason.

He leaves his bed and trots down the corridor, his feet making no sound on the long carpet laid over the wooden floor. Flickering light from one of the doors flows out into the hallway. Everywhere else is dark. It is open, just a bit. He pushes it a little further open and enters.

Tancaquárë sits in a chair in front of the dressing table. Curufinwë stands behind her, gently and methodically combing her long dark hair. He smiles as the ends of the shorter strands spring up again, refusing to lie flat. He places the comb down on the table, and Tancaquárë begins putting her hair into a loose braid, ready for bed.
Curufinwë starts as his leg is suddenly hugged by a tiny warm body. He looks down. Tyelperinquar is there, his face pressed into the base of Curufinwë's nightshirt.
"You cannot sleep?"
The little one shakes his head, face still buried.
"Well, you know what to do." Curufinwë takes his son's hand and leads him towards the little bed set up in the corner of the room, precisely for moments like this. He frowns slightly as he walks, feeling something damp against his leg: there is a wet patch on his nightshirt.
Tyelperinquar gets into his little bed, and Curufinwë draws the covers up to his chin. He kneels beside the bed and wipes the silent tear from his son's cheek with a thumb. He lets his hand rest on Tyelperinquar's shoulder. Curufinwë finds he does not know what to say. But Tyelperinquar softly grasps the hand, and smiles just a little.
Tancaquárë kneels down beside Curufinwë and brushes back her son's hair from his forehead. Her voice is quiet. "Will you be alright now, Tyelpë? Is there anything I can do?"
Tyelperinquar holds out his other hand towards her. Tancaquárë leans forward and embraces him, trapping Curufinwë's hand in the hug as well.
"'M alright now," mumbles the little one sleepily into her shoulder.

Tancaquárë draws the curtains closed and blows out the candles, before joining Curufinwë in their bed. Both look towards the dim outline of the little bed.
"Sleep well, Tyelpë," says Curufinwë.
"Irmo guide you," says Tancaquárë.
"You as well," says the sleepy little voice in response. "Love you."

And all is quiet in their house shining silver-white in the waxing light of Telperion.

Chapter Text

Tancaquárë sits in Curufinwë’s bedchamber, troubled. Now she is alone, she finds she cannot settle, cannot work. Fëanáro had been the only one to depart for Taniquetil at the Valar’s command. Tancaquárë had remained here in Formenos with her husband and son, just as she had gone there with them when Fëanáro was banished from Tirion.
Now she finds this second decision has made her uneasy.
She is not unfriends with the Valar, and would prefer not to turn away from their offer of reconciliation. Who could forget the knowledge, wisdom and earnest kindness of Aulë, once they had spent long years in his house?

And yet she could never leave without the family of her choice, whose own choice had been to stand beside their father, despite everything.

The King of the Noldor himself remains in Formenos for the love of his son, and though Tancaquárë understands, she does not know what to think. What will all this division mean for them? For her?

She turns her gaze to the south-facing window, towards the place where Fëanáro must be. She sees the distant glow of both Trees. A few stars are visible in the deep blue sky, here where the Light is faint.

The hope of reconciliation is faint.

Or at least, it seems that way to her, from where she stands. Fëanáro’s will is not one to bend, after all. But perhaps, for the love of his father...

The mingled Light begins to fade. Both lights fade.

And Tancaquárë stares out at the black night full of stars, multitudes, that she has never seen before. But there is no room for wonder, as the blackness in the south grows ever deeper. The stars on the horizon disappear once more, overpowered by the shadow emanating from the Trees. The wind is cold through the open window.

The Light has turned to Darkness.

The stars above wink out one by one, and the land below is swallowed up by a dark tide. The chill wind takes on an edge of piercing dread, numbing the very bones.

It’s coming this way.

With only one thought on her mind, Tancaquárë runs from the room and down the nearest stairwell. She passes through the great doors, crosses the paved yard and sees him, brighter and clearer than the fading stars, her little Tyelperinquar. He stands bewildered at the entrance to the forge, hammer in hand, looking out at the shadowy forms of people gathering here and there, murmuring in fear and confusion.
She reaches him, now unable to quell the fear that grips her. “Tyelpë! We must go. Now.”
Tyelperinquar appears to snap out of his trance. He looks up at her, wide-eyed and just as fearful, before letting the hammer fall to the flagstones and dashing off in the direction of the stables. Tancaquárë follows.

“Angatál!” calls Tyelperinquar. “Angatál, come quickly!”
The dappled grey horse trots out of the stable to meet him. Tyelperinquar steps onto the rim of a water trough, then climbs onto his horse’s bare back. Tancaquárë does the same, seating herself behind her son and holding on tightly with her knees. Angatál’s ears are pinned back and he shifts restlessly under them.
Tancaquárë wraps her arms protectively about Tyelperinquar. “Run, Angatál! Carry us far from here!”
Angatál springs away, hooves clattering on the flagstones, then thudding softly on the sparse grass as he speeds down the hill upon which the fortress is set. Mother and son crouch low over his back, hiding their faces from the sharp wind and the horror of the Dark.

The Valaróma sounds ahead of them. Perhaps far, perhaps near, for Oromë’s horn is not easily drowned out by distance. But it is drowned out by something else, for it quickly fails and falls into silence.

Dreadful, all-consuming silence.


Perhaps they imagine it, but other hoofbeats sound alongside them for a moment, before speeding ahead or breaking away, swallowed up by the surrounding nothingness. Others escaping?
The same thought strikes both their hearts at once. Tyelperinquar voices it. “What about Atar?” The sound is faint and muffled to both their ears.
Tancaquárë murmurs into her son’s ear, unwilling to draw any attention their way, though what she fears in their lonely flight, she cannot put a name to. “He is still out riding with your uncles, remember?”
And she can only pray he will not return. Not now.


Gradually, the air clears. A different wind, cool and strong, comes to chase away the bitter weight of the darkness. Strength returns to their limbs, but Angatál is still fleeing, and neither open their eyes.

After what could have been a long time, Angatál’s pace lets up. The sound of his hooves grows distinct again. Stone. Angatál slows to a walk. Tancaquárë raises her head. Tyelperinquar looks around. For a moment, it appears they have flown to the realm of the stars, with walls of darkness surrounding them, and nothing but the glittering expanse of Varda’s lights above.
Eventually, the shapes of the dark walls become apparent, their tops clear cut against the expanse, shifting slowly as they pass by. Roofs and towers. And one great tower ahead reaches up to hold the brightest star. No, a steady light, of slightly differing hue to the rest.
The Mindon Eldaliéva, Tancaquárë realises. Tirion. How strange to find this shining city dark as a mine, lit by the lamps of heaven.

Angatál comes to a halt in the wide street, jolting his riders out of their silent, pensive wonder. To their right looms the shape of a familiar great house, silent, lightless and abandoned. Tancaquárë is unsure of what to do, now they are here. This empty house is no place of safety. Why did Angatál not seek his own stable, in the house of Curufinwë? Why come to the place Fëanáro was banished from?

Tyelperinquar wriggles, uncomfortable from the long and hard ride. Tancaquárë’s body aches, far more unused to this kind of strain than he. She lets go of him, and Tyelperinquar leaps to the ground, jumping around to relieve the accumulated tension. As Tancaquárë carefully slides down from the horse’s back, Tyelperinquar approaches Angatál once more and stands on tiptoes to hug him around the neck.
Of course, the horse must be exhausted. She nods at him. “Come, Angatál. You have worked hard, and need some rest.” Best to take care of their immediate needs first, in such an uncertain situation. Tancaquárë leads the way down the garden path, followed by the boy and his horse.


Angatál, all cleaned up and watered, begins to nibble at the overgrown grass outside the stables at the side of the house. Tancaquárë finds a horse blanket and drapes it over him, aided by Tyelperinquar. Doing so stirs up a few memories. Visiting this house, hunting with Tyelkormo, bringing Tyelperinquar once he was big enough to ride his own horse.
Ah. She passes a hand over Angatál’s mane in thanks. Perhaps that is why.
Tyelkormo, one who knows the tongues of beasts, would have taken care of Angatál during their visits. In Angatál’s memory, this is a place of safety and comfort, for Tyelkormo would always know what was wrong.



Distant voices on the streets, lamenting. A marked change from the empty silence. Tancaquárë and Tyelperinquar follow the sound, telling the horse to stay and rest, leaving the great house behind.

The Trees are dead.

Tirion is darkened.

Finwë the King is slain!

Formenos is broken.

Melkor, the Black Foe of the World, has taken even the last remaining Light.

A cold hand grips Tyelperinquar’s heart more with each mournful cry from the returning Noldor. He wraps a trembling arm around his mother’s waist and hides his face in her clothing. What about Atar? But he cannot form the words, and merely weeps.
Tancaquárë stops and holds him close, pressing a kiss to his hair. She is trembling a little herself, though her eyes remain dry.

A few people with torches stride purposefully through the growing crowds, a new cry ringing out from them.

Prince Fëanáro has returned!

He calls us all to come to the high court of the King!

Tancaquárë looks up, listening, ensuring she has heard aright. Then she takes Tyelperinquar by the hand and leads him onwards. “Let us go, Tyelpë. If your Atar is here, he will surely heed this call. If we follow, we may find him. And if he is not, your Haru Fëanáro will surely not rest until he knows where all his sons are.”

The light of the torches reflects off the cold, swirling mists creeping up the streets, turning them orange. More and more people light torches as they walk, and soon it seems to Tancaquárë that she and Tyelperinquar are being swept along in a river of molten copper, heading for the summit of Túna.

The clanging roar of the eight dreadful voices dies away, only to be replaced by the rising murmur of the crowd.

Tancaquárë stands shocked and unmoving, staring up at Fëanáro and his sons. Witnessing her dear Curufinwë swear such an oath has shaken her mind nigh as effectively as the terror of the Darkness had. What have you bound yourself to, Curvo?

Her hand is still tight around Tyelperinquar’s arm: she had stopped him from running up to cling to his father the moment Curufinwë stepped into the light, his sword drawn.

There is a cold glimmer in Curufinwë’s eye as he stands among the debating princes. Tancaquárë looks down at her son, who meets her gaze pleadingly, then turns her face away. She knows what will come.
Her grip on the child’s arm loosens and she kneels down, allowing Tyelperinquar to throw his arms about her neck as she embraces him. She draws back and holds his hands in her own. “It’s alright now, Tyelpë. You can go.”
With a heavy heart, she lets go and Tyelperinquar dashes off towards the group, anxious to be near his father once more. In such moments as these, Tancaquárë knows, he needs the comfort of both the people dearest to him.

Tyelperinquar squeezes between Findekáno and Turukáno and grabs onto his father’s hand, startling Curufinwë, who wrenches his arm away, briefly mistaking it for some bizarre prank from one of the children of Nolofinwë.
Turukáno is too occupied with arguing against Fëanáro to notice, but Findekáno looks faintly amused. Curufinwë scowls, before turning his back to them and placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You surprised me, Tyelpë, but I am very glad to see you. Did your Amil bring you here?”
Tyelperinquar nods, placing his own hand atop the one on his shoulder. “Yes. But Angatál took us most of the way.”
A second wave of relief passes over Curufinwë. Both are here. Both are safe.
“There she is,” Tyelperinquar points through the group of princes towards Tancaquárë.
Curufinwë turns, and the relief dries up, replaced by a cold emptiness. From the look on her face, he knows. This will not be easy. And how could it be, with such a staunch friend of Aulë?

Curufinwë gently takes hold of his son’s shoulders. “Tyelperinquar, do you see those servants over there with the star of our house?”
The boy nods. “I know some of them, too.”
“I want you to stay with them until I tell you otherwise. We are going to leave soon, and they will be in charge of gathering and managing our provisions.”
Tyelperinquar hesitates for a moment. “...Alright.” He gives his father a brief hug around the middle, before heading off into the crowd.

In the half-organised confusion of the Noldor preparing to march forth, Curufinwë seeks out his wife. He does not have to go far. She is still there at the side of the road, watching the people hurry back and forth in the darkness, the bright glare of the torches having dispersed with the crowd.

She stands still, and though it is clear she is watching intently, no emotion is betrayed by her expression, as though she were a statue of cold marble.
Curufinwë stops himself from reaching out to take the hand hanging by her side. It will do nothing but make this more difficult for him.
His voice is quiet, almost conversational. “Will you not come with us?”
Tancaquárë’s tone matches his. “I will not. Nay, I cannot. What good or evil will come of using the name of Ilúvatar in this manner, I do not know, but it is not something I will ever be able to abide near in peace, for it may end in the slaughter of his own Children by his own name.”

Curufinwë is silent for a moment, before a sharp glint appears in his eyes. “...Yet can you abide here in peace, Tancaquárë? Vengeance calls us hence, for the Valar have forsaken us. Or if they have not, they are unable to keep this land safe from their treacherous kin. We are not safe whether we stay or go, and it is only in the pursuit of Morgoth that we may avenge the wrongs done to us. For the Valar are unmoved and silent. They have done naught but weep and have promised us no aid.”

Tancaquárë drops her gaze to the ground, unsettled by the father’s words repeated in his son’s mouth. “Whether I will find peace here remains to be seen. The security of Valinor has indeed been broken, if it was ever truly there to begin with. But I stand by what I said.”
She frowns a little. “As for the Valar, they will do what they can, as we all must. I know Aulë and his Maiar. They can do much that an Elda cannot perceive, without the slightest word or movement. The depth and breadth of their knowledge and skill is hard to measure by any means of our own.”

Curufinwë sighs, raising his eyes to the heavens. His voice grows tight with pain. “And yet Morgoth is gone, and the Silmarils with him, leaving Haru’s lifeless body behind to join that of Haruni.”

Tancaquárë leaves the matter be, unwilling to press the issue in the face of his distress. They will all do what they can, as they must, after all. For Curufinwë, this means departing with his father. For Tancaquárë, this means following her conscience, and not abandoning her teacher Aulë and his kin, who have been granted their places and powers in the World for good reason.

The heaviness in Tancaquárë’s heart sharpens to a knife point then. For she has not caught even a glimpse of their child since she let him go. She looks Curufinwë in the eye. “Have you taken him?”
It is barely a question.

Curufinwë responds matter-of-factly. “I have. You know my father’s unequalled skill of hand. Tyelperinquar looks to be following in his footsteps, and he will benefit from his guidance. I see no future for him here, when the greater part of the Noldor will leave for Middle-earth.”

Tancaquárë cannot bear it any longer. She gently reaches out and takes hold of his shoulder. “Will you not leave him for my sake?” And Curufinwë is not blind to the source of her pain. We made his body together, we gave our strength to his soul, we raised him from the very beginning of his life. He is just as precious to me as he is to you.
But he makes no reply. He turns and leaves.
And Tancaquárë watches him go, still as a statue once more.

The sound of a distant trumpet rouses Tancaquárë from her numb vigil. The buildings are dark, the street is empty. Only the lamp of the Mindon burns pale among the stars, just as it had upon her entrance to the city. The trumpet’s call came from the direction of the gates, far below.
They are gone.

But where will she go?

To the house of Yúlacolindo?
I cannot go back to living as though all this had never happened. For it has, and I shall no longer be content to stay there.

To the house of Curufinwë?
No. I cannot even call it the house of Tancaquárë, for I will not live there. It is as empty as the great house in Tirion.

And though she stayed in Formenos for a time, it is no home of hers.
That place is empty also, and marred with fear and death.

Then she recalls one who did not follow Fëanáro to his northern fortress.
Where is the house of Mahtan?

Nerdanel opens the door, only to find Tancaquárë there, wide-eyed and a little out of breath, as though she had been running.

Tancaquárë is more shaken and grieved than she has ever been, and faced with the tired, sad gaze of her husband’s mother, she finds she cannot speak a single word.
An arm around her daughter’s shoulders, Nerdanel brings her inside and has her sit at the small table in the kitchen.

The room is warmly lit by the fire burning in the nearby hearth and by flickering lanterns upon the kitchen counter. Such a contrast to the eerie, hungry glare of the multitude of torches surrounding eight figures shouting, chanting, forging an irretrievable Oath.
Tancaquárë loses her strength at last and buries her face in her folded arms, shaking as she weeps in silence.
Nerdanel sits beside her, softly rubbing her shoulder.


As her sobs subside, Tancaquárë raises her head. “I am sorry. I could not follow. May I stay?”
Nerdanel cups her face with one hand, wiping a tear from her cheek with her thumb. Her voice is likewise low and sorrowful. “Do not doubt it.”

Tyelperinquar rides slowly alongside the servants and their wagons, upon the road to Alqualondë. He spies his father up ahead and urges Angatál to catch up with him. “Atar!”

Curufinwë glances at his son, giving him a brief smile.
Tyelperinquar looks around, ahead, and even behind, before turning back to his father with a worried frown. “Atar, where’s Amil?”
Curufinwë’s gaze is on the road ahead. “She will not follow us.”
“She’s not coming? But why?”
Curufinwë shrugs. “She wants to stay with the Valar.”
His voice is toneless, his words spare. Tyelperinquar knows he will not say any more on it, even if pressed. He bows his head pensively, and Angatál slowly falls behind again at the lack of tension in his rider’s limbs.
Tyelperinquar wonders:
Who would he choose?

Amil or Atar?

Amil or Atar?

He cannot choose.

Perhaps it was best that it was chosen for him.

Chapter Text

Part I – Journey

Crack!
Shards of rock fly out from the shallow hole in the boulder.
The dust slowly settles. Not a breath of wind stirs the long grass of the sunlit field.

Tancaquárë places another smooth, elongated stone into her leather sling. It is almost silent as she whirls it, bringing it above her head, her eyes on the target. With a sharp, strong throwing motion, she whips the sling forward, releasing one end. Crack goes the leather cord, and crack goes the distant boulder. The hole grows a little wider.
Not enough.

A surge of anger overtakes her. She reaches into the pouch on her belt and draws out a chestnut-sized ball of metal. Her forearm trembles, so hard does she grasp it in her fist.
She loads it into her sling, whirls it swiftly above her head with her eyes on that insignificant little dent in the boulder, and releases it with a mighty throw, grunting with exertion.

The bullet flies wide, speeding over the left side of the boulder. Smack! It buries itself into the trunk of a tree at the edge of the field, slim, gnarled and old.

The sling falls from Tancaquárë’s fingers. No... I did not...

Anger melting away into frustration, a tight knot in her chest, Tancaquárë strides off down the field to retrieve her bullet, almost breaking into a run as she nears the edge of it.

Her feet make no sound as she approaches the tree. Her fingers tremble once more as she touches the ball of metal, and tries to pry it free. Not with anger, this time. The bullet has sunken deep into the splintered, living wood. Tancaquárë’s throat grows tight. It is stuck fast, and sap weeps from the wound it has created. Seeing how the tree has been so pointlessly marred, her vision blurs, and a sob of grief catches in her throat.

Eyes moistened with tears, she stands there for a moment, head bowed. Then turns away, and walks back up the field, retrieving her sling on the way.
Destruction begets grief, which begets destruction. All too easily.

She thinks back on the dream she had last night, which had opened anew the wounds of grief for the deaths of her son and husband. Long ago, the news had come to her as tale and rumour from those sailing to Aman in the age following the pardoning of the exiles. Celebrimbor—beloved. Curufin—despised. Both dead, her son put to torment by a fallen Maia, her husband slain as he slew other Elves for a second time.
Tale and rumour. No great detail. But her heart had been broken all the same.

The dream had unsettled her in a way that no ordinary nightmare could manage, staying with her throughout the day, melding with her renewed sadness.
There had been the grey frame of a tall gate, its stone pillars unmarked. Its doors were closed, barred and locked. I walked up to them, and tried to open them. But the bar was too heavy, heavy with the weight of so much grief and pain and evil. I could hear far-off wails and cries as I tried, and failed, the bar not budging one bit. That crying voice... I did not know that voice. And yet it was still so familiar to me. I stayed by the door. I would not... no, I could not turn away and leave him, powerless as I was! Then I felt something placed in my hand. I looked down. It was a key. And it fitted in the lock. But the bar was still there, heavy and immovable as ever.
Why give me a key, when I cannot open the door?

The question still reverberates in Tancaquárë’s mind as she returns to the house of Mahtan. The sun sinks low in the sky, and the colours of dusk begin to glow on the horizon.

She walks around to the back of the house, and enters through the wide workshop doors, which are open. Nerdanel is there, delicately painting the scales of a marble sea creature in a variety of brilliant shell-like hues. Mahtan sits at a workbench in the back, quietly working on jewellery.

Tancaquárë brushes her fingers along the mane of her small unfinished horse sculpture, the white stone cool under her touch. She pauses, and does not turn her gaze from it as she speaks, unwilling to face the other two, not wishing to see them saddened. “I am sorry I could not learn from you today, Amil. And I am afraid it will be some time before you see this work finished. For... I must go to Lórien. I must know the meaning of this dream that has perplexed me so. It was no ordinary imagining of my own thoughts.
“And... I shall be gone for some weeks, I think, for my heart is heavy. So I will not be able to assist you in the forge for that time, Haru.”
She falls silent. Her eyelids are heavy, and she rubs them with a tired hand.
Nerdanel speaks gently, concern evident in her tone. “Of course, my dear. It will not trouble me. Will you need help with preparations for the road?”
Tancaquárë’s tone is curt. Her pain pricks at her heart. “If you do not mind helping me with them now. For I will go tonight. I shall find no rest until I find the cause of my trouble.”
She sighs. “I am sorry I cannot stay. I know you understand.”


Clad in a long tunic and leggings of blue and grey, Tancaquárë almost blends into the night as she stands by her dappled grey mare. Mahtan hands her a black cloak, thick and warm, and she dons it. “Ah, thank you,” she murmurs. “I knew I forgot...” She trails off.
“Namárië, Tancaquárë.” Mahtan kisses her forehead.
Tancaquárë turns to see Nerdanel putting something more in her saddlebag.
“Cakes for the road. I cannot let you go hungry.” There is a hint of warm humour in her mother’s voice.

“Thank you Amil, Haru.” Tancaquárë mounts the horse easily, stops to look at them for a moment. “Namárië.”
She urges the mare onwards. Sensing her eagerness to be gone, Mistalótë takes off like a shot.

It is a cool and moonless night, and only the stars light the way as Tancaquárë flies down the long, deserted road. And though the rushing night air lifts the heaviness from her eyes, the heavy pain in her heart is hardly soothed.

Thoroughly wearied, yet still determined, Tancaquárë dismounts at the edge of Lórien’s gardens. Evening is falling, a relief to her hot and tired body, dusty from the long road. Nightingales sing softly in the heights of the trees.
She does not stop to admire the beauty or absorb the peace surrounding her, though a part of her aches for rest.
A couple of times, she notices movement beside her, as though someone walks alongside her. But she does not glance aside.
She passes through an arch of climbing flowers, their light, peaceful scent and vibrant purple and blue hue seeming to cast a contemplative silence. And now she stops. For she has reached the centre.

A tall figure, robed in silver, white and iridescent green-blue, rises from his seat. His hair is dark, yet glimmers faintly, as though dusted with stars.
Tancaquárë inclines her head briefly. “Lord Irmo. When last I slept, I had this dream about a barred door and a key. I must know its meaning, for I could tell it was not inspired by my own thoughts, and it has disturbed me greatly.”

Irmo, too, inclines his head. The light in his gentle dark eyes dims. “You saw the gate of Mandos. Tyelperinquar will soon be returning to the realm of the living, and if you travel to the Halls yourself, you will be able to meet him as he wakes, if you so wish it.”

Is this so?
Tancaquárë almost cannot believe her ears. Joy, surprise and long-borne sadness so tightly wind themselves together in her chest that it feels like a star has been kindled within her.
She has been rendered speechless, and makes no response. She takes a deep breath and folds her arms, now feeling faintly chill in the deepening dusk.

Irmo’s voice softens. “Rest now, child. Nothing will come to trouble your spirit tonight.”

Tancaquárë’s vision blurs, her eyes moistening with tears. She sees the vague outline of another tall figure approach her. Its presence is familiar. Perhaps it is what walked alongside her.
It holds out a hand, waiting for her to take it. She blinks in surprise as she does so. The hand is unexpectedly soft and slender for such an imposing presence.

They walk together, passing under the arch and leaving the central garden. Tancaquárë’s tears have dried, but she looks at the ground rather than at her companion, who remains silent.

A fountain quietly sings behind the row of holly trees on their left. A gap in the trees opens up, and they turn into it, following a narrow paved garden path, somewhat overgrown with slender grass. They walk around the singing fountain, its water strangely dark in the shade of the surrounding trees and shrubs. They pass under another arch of mildly scented white flowers and enter a small garden, surrounded by sweet-smelling bushes. There is a circular pool of still water in the centre, perfectly reflecting the stars above.
Tancaquárë’s companion leads her towards a cushioned stone bench. The tall bushes behind it and on either side of it partially shield it from view.

They sit down, side by side. Tancaquárë glances aside at her companion. No face can be seen in the shadows of the grey hooded cloak, and the tall, strong-framed body is entirely shrouded in a long grey robe.
They sit still in silence for a while. Slowly, softly, Tancaquárë feels her weariness overtake her. The trouble of her mind has been found, and while her spirit has not yet been soothed, it accepts the peace of rest.
Her head begins to nod, and she is vaguely aware of resting it against her companion’s shoulder as her eyes close. The softly-robed arm at her back shifts to hold her gently in a warm embrace.

Tancaquárë falls asleep.



Tancaquárë blinks. Once, twice. Bright morning sunlight glitters and shimmers upon the surface of the water. She is lying comfortably on the cushioned bench, alone. She slowly sits up and looks around. Her companion from the night before is nowhere to be seen. Something sparkles in the corner of her vision. Her gaze falls upon the stone armrest of the bench.

Twin teardrops gleam there. One a dark metallic grey, and the other a bright pure silver.

Nienna.

Tancaquárë places her hand near the two perfect little droplets. Both of them... so small, so sad. So alone in the end. The tears are more comforting to her than any words could ever have been.

She closes her eyes, contemplating. ...Deciding. Of course she will go to Mandos.
Even if I have not seen him and he has not seen me ever since he was a child, in a time long past, in a world that no longer exists the way it once did.

After taking a day for herself and Mistalótë to rest, Tancaquárë returns to the house of Mahtan. The news she has to tell surprises and delights her mother and grandfather, though many tears are also shed.
At once, she begins her preparations for the much longer journey to the Halls of Mandos, loading supplies and clothing for two people into a small covered wagon.
Mahtan helps her harness the two horses to the wagon, and after another farewell, this one brighter, more hopeful, yet more anxious and brittle, Tancaquárë leaps up into the driver’s seat and sets off on her journey.



Tancaquárë rests little on her lonely adventure, though she stops her wagon by the side of the road for a few hours every night.

Lying on a pallet in her wagon, all she can hear is the wind softly whistling through the long grass and around the towering spires of dark rock, which increase in size and number as she travels ever further north and west. It is an alien place, so unlike the parts of Valinor she knows and calls home. Further north than even Formenos, heading for the very western shore of Aman.

Eventually...
She falls asleep.
But her only dream in the blackness is the ever-present sound of the wind.

She wakes in the dark, alert and aware.
Peers out of her wagon at the star-covered sky.
The lights of heaven are larger, brighter, and clearer than she has ever seen them. The change was gradual as she journeyed: only now does she fully realise it.
She listens. Amidst the soft hissing of the wind, there is perhaps another sound. Is it the sea? It is still too distant to make out. Yet the wind now comes from the west, and there is something new about the air. It reminds her of the Calacirya.

She feels she is close, and does not tarry. She harnesses the horses and drives the wagon back onto the road. She crosses paths with a few other riders and wagons coming the other way. She does not speak to them, wary of all that is new and unfamiliar.

The dawn sun rises behind her, a distant, indistinct yellow and pink band of light across the eastern horizon. More image than warmth, it is small and pale compared to the glory of the stars before her.


As the last lingering stars vanish in the western sky, the horizon ahead changes to a silvery line, ever thickening and deepening to blue. The sound is now distinct. Tancaquárë nears the western shore. Her eyes scan the expanse before her, from left to right—
Her view is blocked. To her right, the distant sea disappears behind... something she cannot quite comprehend. Is it a cliff? A range of mountains? A great house or fortress? Is it grey, or black... or even white? How near or far is it, exactly?
Tancaquárë cannot tell. But she can make something out upon it, near to where she guesses it meets the ground. The grey frame of a tall gate, its stone pillars unmarked.

The Halls of Mandos.

Having left her wagon not far from the imposing gate, Tancaquárë follows a Maia robed and hooded in white. They do not approach the entrance to the Halls. Instead, they turn aside to the right, walking down a path that runs alongside the soaring, incomprehensible wall. Eventually, they enter a garden, reminiscent of those of Lórien.

Once inside, all awareness of the nearby Halls vanishes. The garden is bigger than Tancaquárë had guessed, and the trees and tall bushes let her see nothing but the gentle clouded sky. Almost as though she had been transported to Lórien indeed. But for one clear difference. A feeling of alert, watchful wakefulness pervades the place, rather than one of peace or rest.

The Maia approaches a wooden lattice fence, almost entirely covered by various climbing plants, and gestures towards a square, window-like opening. “He is within. He will wake soon. You may enter by this door.” The Maia points at a closed wooden door, partly covered by trailing ivy, before turning away and leaving the way they came.

Tancaquárë takes a deep breath, then steps forward, looking through the opening in the fence. Her eyes widen and she places a hand on the sill to steady herself. Upon a cushioned white stone table in the centre of the small enclosed garden lies the body of a tall, strong nér, seemingly asleep, but for his paleness and lack of any movement. He wears a plain white tunic and dark grey trousers, and his long unbound black hair is arranged neatly upon his shoulders. But that face—! The most perfect blend of her own features and Curufinwë’s. It could be none other than her Tyelpë, though he has changed much from the small, sweet-faced boy in her memory.

She stands still, frozen almost as a statue. Her first impulse is to enter the garden at once. For it has been so long, and she has missed him so...! Then in the next moment, a sudden cautious shyness overtakes her. Though she knows and loves the boy, she does not know who he has grown into, in all those long years over the Sea. Perhaps it is better to let him wake alone. Let the first thing he sees upon returning to the living world be the beauty of the garden, rather than the bewildering presence of a stranger who calls him family.

And so Tancaquárë waits. Tries to relax, though she cannot control the pounding of her heart as she watches her son through the fence, looking for the first signs of life.

The pale lips twitch and part slightly. And the chest rises and falls. Once. Twice.
As the breathing falls into a slow, deep rhythm, a faint flush appears in the cheeks, and the glow of life soon animates all visible skin.

Tancaquárë cannot look away, such is her awe and wonder.
Then his eyes open.
And her own breath stops for a moment.

Part II – Her Son

Celebrimbor sees the boughs of a tree above him, waving ever so slightly in the breeze. The sun is warm, shining and glittering through the green leaves. He flexes his fingers, feels the softness of fabric beneath him. How long have I been... away? His last moments in Middle-earth seem so far away and long ago.
...A good thing, perhaps, for they were not pleasant in the least.
And yet... in all that time between then and now, there is... nothing. Or rather... there is something, and a lot of it, but it is so grey and surrounded by darkness that he cannot unravel it and look through it as he can with any other memory.
In any case... now... now he feels lighter. At peace. And he understands many things he could not have known or understood before. He sighs, an action that feels both natural and strange, after... so long a time? Avoiding the confusion, he blinks and pays attention to his surroundings once more. Am I in a garden? It must be somewhere near the... Halls of Awaiting.

Celebrimbor stirs and rolls over onto his side.
Tancaquárë steps away from the window. She takes a faintly trembling breath. I suppose... I shall go and meet him now.
She goes to the wooden door and places a hand on it.
Then she pushes it open. Brushing aside the trailing ivy, she passes through into a small shaded area overhung by tall bushes.

Celebrimbor sits up. He thought he saw something briefly. Was there someone looking in through that gap in the overgrown fence? He looks down at his bare feet on the soft grass, the sensation surprising him a little.

Tancaquárë comes to a stop in the shadows. There is nothing between them now but an expanse of sun-warmed grass. Again, the cautious tension in her mind prevents her from moving closer.

Celebrimbor glances up, and sees, in the corner of the garden—
Is it...?
But it could be no-one else.

Celebrimbor’s gaze meets hers, and Tancaquárë remains rooted to the spot, silent. Not knowing what to do or say. He is her son, but after so long, does he still think of himself as such?
Then in an instant, Celebrimbor is on his feet. “...Amil?” His hand is held out towards her, his eyes are wide.
Tancaquárë comes forward, just in time to grasp his arm and steady him as he wobbles, unused to holding himself upright. Her other arm at his back in a partial embrace, she helps him sit back down, and sits beside him. And now she is holding him, she finds she cannot let go.
She looks up at him, her voice quiet. “Yes, Tyelperinquar. It is I.”
His eyes are shining brightly. He looks just as bewildered as she feels.

Celebrimbor looks down at the hand still resting on his arm. He turns his hand, palm upwards, to hold her hand in his own. It is small compared to his. Lost time...
He returns his gaze to her face. And now I see you again. After everything.
He tries to smile, but finds he cannot.
He leans down and buries his face in her shoulder, a kind of helpless anger burning in him all of a sudden. It is born of grief, and he soon begins to sob into her clothing.

Tancaquárë holds him tight, her cheek lightly resting on his hair. How she wishes she could fully comprehend and soothe his sorrow. For as he weeps, she recognises who it was she heard in that dream, crying out in anguish. She shuts her eyes.
Eventually, Celebrimbor’s breathing grows easier. He turns his head to the side slightly. “Forgive me, Amil. I am glad to see you again.”
Tancaquárë moves the hand at his back up to stroke his hair. “As am I. It has been long.”
She pauses for a moment, wishing to make conversation, but not knowing enough about him to know what to talk about.
She decides on the simplest thing. Her bare knowledge of what happened in his later life. “...I have heard tell of your deeds in the land over the Sea. You were a beloved lord and great craftsman. You used your skill to aid others and bring different peoples together. And you had a part in overthrowing the evil lingering in Middle-earth. I only know what I could hear from others, but... I was proud of you. And still am.”

Celebrimbor gives a pained sigh and straightens up, drawing back from the embrace. He looks away, a brittle smile on his lips. “I thank you, Amil, but I do not think my futile pride needs to be bolstered. It should rather be starved for the grief it caused.”
His smile fades entirely, a faint worry and disappointment burgeoning in his breast. I do not want to reject her words, which come from a place of care and affection. I do not want to push her away...!
...How am I to mend this?

Tancaquárë observes his expression, notices the sadness and worry in his eyes. She leans forward a little to better look at him, her voice low. “What you have just said... it reminded me of something I saw in your Haru Fëanáro.”
She pauses, unsure of how he will take the mention of his grandfather’s name. He merely glances at her curiously, so she proceeds.
“I noticed, many a time... when Fëanáro was at his most prideful or arrogant... it was when he was most hurt. He drew his pride around him like a cloak or shield. He seemed sure of himself, but within, he was wounded, and needed to both fill the lonely void of grief and protect himself from further harm. That pride, in the end, caused much more pain for himself and his followers, but at the very least I cannot fault him for trying to protect his heart.
“And if I do not fault him for it, how much less do I fault you for it, my dear one? You also were wounded. Deeply so, and you endured much more and for much longer than your grandfather did.”
Tancaquárë reaches out to touch Celebrimbor’s cheek. He does not move away, a wavering light in his surprised, grief-dampened eyes.
Her throat grows tight. “You did not ask for any of this, and yet with what you were given, you chose to build, to repair, and not to destroy. Even if I were... the only one to think so in the world, still—still I would say you did well.” Her last words are almost whispered, so strong is the emotion she must overcome to speak them.

Celebrimbor is speechless. He opens his arms, holding them out towards Tancaquárë, inviting her to draw nearer to him. She does so. And this time, she rests her head on his shoulder as he enfolds her in a tight embrace.

They remain there, staying still for a moment, each taking in the other’s long-missed presence, each feeling the rhythm of the other’s breathing.

Then Celebrimbor opens his eyes and glances around at the garden once more. “So... where exactly are we, Amil?”
Giving her son a final affectionate squeeze, Tancaquárë straightens up and sits back. “We are in a garden outside the Halls of Mandos. I learned in Lórien that you would be returning, and travelled here to meet you.”
Celebrimbor nods pensively, drinking in the beauty of his surroundings for a moment more: the warmth of the sun, the soft scent of the flowers, the sight of the sky.
“And... where will we go from here?”
Tancaquárë smiles slightly. “I had thought to take you back to Tirion. I live there with your Haruni Nerdanel, in the house of Mahtan. Unless you would prefer to go elsewhere.”
Celebrimbor takes her hand, touched by the consideration. “That’s all right with me, Amil. I would like to see them. And if you mean for me to live with you, I would like that too.”
Tancaquárë nods, looking at her lap, now smiling in earnest.

There is a pair of soft black shoes by the foot of the stone table, and Celebrimbor puts them on. He stands up again, more carefully this time. Tancaquárë rises also, and they slowly make their way out of the small enclosed garden. Celebrimbor’s step becomes surer as they walk down the wide pathway outside, heading for the garden’s entrance.


As they draw level with the gates of Mandos, Tancaquárë points out her wagon to Celebrimbor. “I brought some spare clothes for you. Although...”
She glances up at him in a slightly exaggerated manner as they continue towards it, humorously shielding her face from the sunlight. “It seems what Mahtan lent me would fit you better than the things I brought in Curufinwë’s size.”

Celebrimbor stops short. He turns to look back at the strange, towering walls.
“...What about Atar?”

Tancaquárë stops too. Her expression has grown solemn. “I do not know.”

The bittersweet joy in her heart has been overtaken by a cold apprehension and wariness as she in turn gazes up at that featureless yet complex façade. She considers her parting with her husband. The way he took her son away, the way he shut his ears to her at last. Does she resent him enough to wish to forget about him entirely?
She turns her gaze to Celebrimbor.
He does not seem resentful. In his eyes can be seen a distant longing, and no small amount of concern.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “...Would you like to find out?”

Celebrimbor looks back at her. His longing warring with worry in his heart, he hesitates. He fears his parents bear ill will towards each other, though Curufin had never shown it in his presence and he cannot find any hints of it in his mother’s expression.
He nods.

And without another word, Tancaquárë strides past him, back towards the gates of Mandos.

Celebrimbor follows her, then stops as they draw level with the pathway leading towards the garden, feeling too unsettled to come any closer to those gates. A faint something pricks at his not-memory, near the beginning of it. Of being bid to come— of being irresistibly drawn to...
He realises he has forgotten to breathe, and stops his train of thought, breathing deeply and returning his focus to his mother, who continues onwards.

Tancaquárë slows as she reaches the wavering shadow cast on the path by the grey-pillared gate.
Knowing that her son holds nothing against him, she feels freer to follow her heart. For she does still love him. She will never forget him. And she has missed him greatly.

She looks up at the vast door, closed and barred. Unlike in her dream, the bar appears to be too far up for her to reach at all, and if she could accurately judge its size, she would guess its length was at least three times her own height.

She reaches out and knocks on the gate. Once. Twice. Firmly.
Her knuckles make no sound upon it at all. But she hears the answering echo from far within.
There is a faint rumbling noise from overhead. Tancaquárë steps back a pace as the bar lifts on its own and tilts to one side, sliding down diagonally and coming to rest vertically against the left-hand pillar.

The doors open inwards, silently, revealing grey stone-like dimness behind, with a great sense of depth and width. And woven colour. Tancaquárë catches a glimpse of the tapestries clothing the twilight walls, before the great dark-robed figure in front of her draws her attention to himself. Surely he had not been visible as the doors opened... had he?
The light of the sun does not penetrate the darkness under his hood, though it reveals his robe to be more of a very deep red.
Still, Tancaquárë has the impression that a pair of bright white eyes, sharp and keen as infinitesimal pinpoint dots, are regarding her intently.

It could be no-one else.

Despite a sudden feeling of uncertainty, Tancaquárë does not lower her gaze. “Aiya, Námo Mandos. I travelled here to meet my returning son, Tyelperinquar. I come now to your gate to ask after my husband, Curufinwë. ...How long will he remain within?”
Námo remains silent. Tancaquárë’s troubled uncertainty grows. Would such a question be answered? But the keen gaze does not waver, as though he is waiting for her to speak an unspoken thought.
She hesitates. Then speaks it quietly. “And... how is he?”
A grave, weighty voice is heard, though she cannot tell whether it is in her ears or her mind. It is soft. Perhaps unexpectedly so. “He is not well. Yet he improves. Rarely does he regress. In time, he will be ready to pass into your keeping, though the wait will yet be long in your reckoning.”
Tancaquárë’s eyes have widened with surprise and fresh emotion. She bows her head briefly. “Thank you.”
“Peace be upon you.” The pinpoint gaze wavers for a moment, perhaps disturbed by some emotion itself.

Námo steps back from the threshold, and Tancaquárë finds herself mirroring the movement.
The silent doors close in front of her, and the bar slowly reverses its motion, coming to rest in its place above.
She closes her eyes and exhales, taking a moment to collect herself, before turning away and walking back towards her son.

Tancaquárë finds herself relieved, in truth. She would not have been ready to meet him again. Not so soon after her lost son was returned to her.

As they resume walking together, Tancaquárë tells Celebrimbor what the keeper of the Houses of the Dead told her. And realises something that gives her pause.
“Yet... I am not sure what he meant by ‘pass into your keeping’. For surely the dead are returned fully reformed in body and spirit, and do not require anything more, though they may dearly wish to resume their lives with their families.”
Celebrimbor gently takes her hand. “I do not know if it is as simple as that, Amil. And especially not in Atar’s case.”
Tancaquárë frowns for a moment, before looking up at him. “Forgive me, my son. If you yourself do not know for sure, then it is certain I speak with little knowledge.”
Celebrimbor squeezes her hand in reassurance. Her response has surprised him. But of course, he has no memory of being spoken to as a fellow adult by his mother. It is a side of her he has never witnessed.


Celebrimbor sits beside Tancaquárë on the front seat of the wagon. The day is warm, and the breeze is cool. The line of the western sea behind them has almost disappeared. Neither one has spoken a word since they left the Halls of Mandos.
Celebrimbor takes in the sight of the wide open sky, the smell of the warm grasslands, the rush of the wind, the sound of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wagon. It is different from the Valinor he knew, but it is peaceful and pleasant. Tancaquárë looks pensive.
“...Tyelperinquar?”
“Yes, Amil?”
“Whenever you are ready, will you... tell me of your life in Middle-earth? I do not know much, and I would like to hear it in your own words. Not those of another.”
Tancaquárë wishes to understand. And yet she does not want to burden her son with unpleasant memories.
Celebrimbor nods. “I shall tell you.”

It is not long before he begins his recount. For he had long desired to tell his story, the stories of where he lived and what he made, to someone who would, who could possibly understand what these things meant to him, more than most.
And as his story and Curufin’s are so closely wound together, Celebrimbor also finds himself telling all he knows of his father’s story too. Not only as he understood things then, but as he knows them now, illuminated with the new insight found in his spirit upon waking.

Tancaquárë listens in unmoving silence. Each word touches her heart. She is troubled, fascinated, amazed, enthralled. Saddened, angered. Grieved. Filled with wonder.
And at the last, as Celebrimbor ends with a very brief recollection of his last living moments, she reaches out and grasps his hand tightly.
Both are quiet now. Celebrimbor does not say anything more. He feels a kind of relief, a lessening of a burden he did not know he was carrying, and the only trouble he acutely feels is concern for his mother. It is a lot to take in, and much of it is not pleasant.

Tancaquárë more fully comprehends the person her son has become, and the emotions stirred within her by his tale do not abate in their intensity.
But not only that. She feels her heart softened towards her husband, much more than she had expected. For although she resented, even despised his deeds, never did she wish him harm. And harm there came aplenty, both as a result of his own actions and through no fault of his own.

Shaken, she speaks her thought quietly. “Tyelpë... I wish that I had... not left you. ...Yet how could I have altered things...?”
Celebrimbor looks at her gravely, his voice likewise low. “Do not wish it, Amilyë. I am glad you were spared.”
Seeing her sadness, he puts his arm around her. “It is done now. And it strengthens my heart to see you again.”
Tancaquárë leans against him, accepting the comfort. “Glad am I to hear it, my Tyelpë.”

Only when evening draws near, and they halt for the night, do they part from the embrace.

Celebrimbor’s reuniting with Nerdanel and her parents is bittersweet. For this side of his family has lost much, and he is the only one returned to them.
As yet. For Tancaquárë shares the hope, distant yet present, that Curufin will someday be restored to the world of the living. And if he will be restored, the same may be true for the rest of Nerdanel’s sons.


Celebrimbor’s reuniting with his family of the house of Yúlacolindo, however, is far more joyful. For none of them had ventured outside their isolated settlement near Aulë’s halls, and thus they had remained largely sheltered from the griefs of the rest of the Noldor.

...None of them, save one.

During their stay, Tancaquárë and Celebrimbor meet with a cousin of hers, the only one of the house of Yúlacolindo who had gone to Middle-earth. Tancaquárë had never known him well, though she had enjoyed his company whenever they spent time together. Throughout his youth, he liked to stray in Tirion and Alqualondë, and he had been among the throng following Fëanor from the gates of Tirion after the Darkening.
The Ráva who returned seemed to Tancaquárë so different from the child and young nér so constantly chided for being wayward. Yet still she could discern that likeable, lively spark in his eye that she loved so well when she was young.
And different once again he seems as he meets her son, and they speak together, not only about Valinor, but about Middle-earth.

Celebrimbor recognises Ráva by sight, though he had never known him to be one of his mother’s people.
At first, he feels some discomfort, for Ráva too had returned through the gate of Mandos. He had followed the abandoned Finrod out of Nargothrond and perished between the jaws of a wolf.
But Ráva does not seem perturbed by Celebrimbor’s connection with that part of his history. Instead, he is fascinated by Celebrimbor’s time in Eregion, and asks many questions about life in Middle-earth following the War of Wrath.
Tancaquárë and her cousin listen with rapt attention as Celebrimbor tells them in greater detail of the many peoples he met as lord of his own land, and of his crafts and works of art in that blessed time of peace. As he speaks, his eyes shine, for the overshadowing cloud of his grief has passed, and he is able to recall those days long past with more joy than he experienced them.

Chapter Text

Part I – Voyage

Ever since he arrived...
Curufin has done nothing but remember.


Existing as a living, breathing, dying being is no more than a distant recollection for him. But it is his most recent recollection. Apart from, perhaps, a brief glimpse of his journey from there to here.
It is strange, this handless, eyeless, earless, timeless experience. No matter how long he stays, and it must be long, for things change, he still perceives all as a single moment in his mind, and his thoughts are all spread out around him, no longer having sequence as they used to in his memories, no longer being bound by the limitations of flesh.
Curufin aches to return to that existence, to use his hands once again. But he knows he cannot. So heavy and burdened is his spirit, he knows he would depart again just as quickly, were he returned to a living body. It would be fresh torment, rather than mere longing as he experiences here.


Celegorm is constantly hovering around nearby. His spirit brushes up against Curufin’s to check on him. Curufin accepts his concerned, grieved affection. His brother examines his thoughts, then retreats as he encounters more personal memories. Curufin no longer has the strength of will to shut these away from any who wish to communicate with him, so he appreciates the consideration.


Curufin remembers his father. Remembers the painful void left by his departure, how nothing was the same or worked the same in his mind again.
That longing can be satisfied here, and Curufin seeks him out. But as he perceives Fëanor and draws nearer to him, something in his spirit shrinks away, reluctant, troubled and pained.
Yet Curufin’s longing easily overcomes his desire to retreat, for he remembers how he would speak with his father as a child and be comforted, and he tries again to draw nearer, to exchange thoughts.

It is too hard. He cannot. Fëanor is there, blazing like a great red and white fire before him, but he cannot bring himself to close the distance. Curufin just wants to cry, but there are no tears or eyes, only the thought of deep distress.

Reason overcomes his emotion. That soul burns too hot for him to properly approach, in any case. It would be too much. It would drown him out and he would never be heard, small and dim as he is in comparison, and fragile and uncertain as his own feelings are.
He feels an echo of its distress as he withdraws his thought, turning away from the painfully familiar heat. My son... my Curufinwë... you are hurt... do not leave...
And Curufin would straightway have touched his mind to Fëanor’s, despite all burning, turmoil and internal distress, had not a greater spirit, able to clothe itself with soft grey arms, caught him and enfolded him in a shielding embrace. Peace, Fëanáro! We will take care of him. Nienna’s words are firm, but not unkind. Curufin is unable to perceive the rest of their exchange, though his father’s spirit burns hotter with some intense emotion.

He rests in the soft embrace, feeling soothed. And saddened, though he does not know whence the sorrow comes. From everything, perhaps.



The heaviness of his spirit encroaches upon him unbearably in his isolation. Something must change. He cannot continue existing like this.
Some pain sits upon his soul...
Curufin recalls the darkness, his bloodstained sword, the swaying deck of the pale ship. The dreadful voice of doom.
He lets the pain dwell in his mind, for he must examine it. It is the only way.
His spirit curls in upon itself.
Here... unbound, left on his own, with nothing more to strive for... he is free to regret. Regret... It is an alien feeling, yet at the same time familiar, as though it had been felt before, deep down. Uncared for. Ignored. Pushed away.

Slowly but surely, that pain, like a stake driven through his heart, is drawn out, leaving his spirit lighter than it was. He could compare the relief to that of... being able to breathe again. He recalls an ache around his throat.

There will be much more to draw out...
It will be slow.
Not all at once.
For it is strange to feel so acutely. It is difficult. Wearying, if a spirit could be wearied in the same way as a body.
But it is better than staying still, crushed under the weight of guilt, evil... and pain.
Confusing pain. For he sees and recognises the wounds others have dealt him also. Unjustified pain. It is... harder for him to accept. Much harder. For so long he had kept these aches to himself, silent and uncomplaining, accepting them as entirely expected or just consequence for his actions. To discover, here and now, that it was not so... It hurts. And again Curufin wishes he could cry.

And once more, he feels some relief. Just a little, mixed in with the raw, nervous, confused pain.


The memories grow more insistent.

Uncared for.
Ignored.
Pushed away.

How many things did I cast aside without realising their worth?

A piercingly clear string of related memories stands out from the rest, each bright and fresh as though Curufin had only just walked into the world again and made them.

Even here, in the halls of Aulë, it was trying and tiring to work together with others. Some flinched away at the slightest hint of abruptness in my voice and remained too overawed to speak to me properly. Others tried to win my favour with words, always tried to show they agreed with me on everything, and constantly hovered around me in case I should have need of something, as though I would like them more for it.
Either way, being the son of a prince, and the son of my father in particular, hardly ever helped me among my fellows in the forge.

One day, I was learning among Maiar. And I met an Elf who spent most of her time among them. Rarely had I seen her elsewhere. She spoke to me sparingly, but directly, and remained focused on her work for the most part.
The next time I had need of a partner in the forge, I sought her out and asked her. She accepted. We worked well together.

I felt comfortable around her. In time, our conversations drifted to other matters, outside of mere practical necessity or discussion about craft.

Sometimes, I made mistakes as I worked. Once, I was careless and hurt myself. Yet in Tancaquárë’s company, I did not feel the shame that would otherwise burn me from within, even in the company of my brothers and father. She helped me, matter-of-factly. And I accepted it, in the same way. Without feeling lesser or less than adequate.

...Such true companionship, cast away as though it were nothing.

Regarded as lesser than my father’s cause and my own desire for retribution.

Again, Curufin regrets. More than that, he is grieved, for he treated her so unjustly in the end, wilfully taking their son away with him, allowing neither Tancaquárë nor Celebrimbor a say in the matter.

It is an uncomfortable thought to entertain.


Slowly, sadly, his mind drifts to another memory. For he cannot undo what he has done.

He remembers a dark, twisted steel band, crafted in the conflicted anguish of his heart. He sees more clearly now how it reflected him, how important it could have been to him, how he could have learned from its making. What happened to it, in the end? The last memory is of his son’s hand. He left it there. My son... what would he have done with it?
Curufin dwells on that image, that last glimpse of the ring in Celebrimbor’s palm—
The memory is interrupted by the sight of three rings in his son’s hand.

A new presence has flown to his side all of a sudden. ...Celebrimbor! His son is here...!
The spirit is close, touching his own, almost pressed up against him. Yet it does not try to speak mind-to-mind. Instead it feels as though it is huddling, making itself small, hiding its face from the world. Seeking help.
Curufin allows his son’s spirit to hide behind his, as it seems Celebrimbor wants to avoid the attention and touch of all others.

Once the two are nestled in a quiet corner together, the turmoil in Celebrimbor’s spirit settles somewhat. Enough for Curufin to properly perceive and recognise what emanates from it. Pain.
Intense pain is predominant, and it is hard to make out the other feelings mixed in with it.

Curufin does not try to look into his son’s thoughts. Instead, he offers a memory of his own, gently presenting it to the boundary of his son’s mind.
Their last halt before reaching Nargothrond. An encampment near Doriath’s border, a place of relative safety. Wounded and weary, weary beyond belief, Curufin and Celebrimbor collapse in their chosen shelter, a small hollow in the ground by a large boulder. Celebrimbor wheezes in pain: he had suffered an arrow wound to the thigh.
Curufin manages to shift himself to a seated position. He drags himself a little closer to his son, who lies there shuddering, half his face pressed into the dark soil.
Curufin leans down and embraces Celebrimbor. With a great effort, he manages to lift his son’s upper body, cradling him against his chest. Curufin rests his back against the boulder, and pulls his son as gently as he can into a sitting position beside him. Celebrimbor leans limply against his right side, his head resting against Curufin’s.
Curufin does not let go of his son. He holds him in the embrace, as firmly as he can, despite his own wounds, his bruised hands, his gashed head. Though none of the wounds are fresh, and all have been treated at least a little, they ache all the more intensely with the grief of the great losses of land and life piercing through his mind. Curufin knows his son must be suffering from the same burden of pain. And if he can alleviate it even a little through the offering of this small comfort, his son’s preferred form of comfort, then he will do so with all the strength that remains to him, piteous though the effort may be in the face of such tragedy.
Celebrimbor’s mind accepts the memory. The waves of pain emanating from him are dulled just a bit. A small but strong glow of warmth can be perceived about him. Something has comforted him.
Curufin hopes what he meant has been properly communicated. He never was adept at ósanwë in life, and he had never known Celebrimbor to use it much either. Sharing memories is the most effective way he can think of to express his thoughts and feelings. He can only hope the other will be able to pick up on the underlying intent.
You are suffering.
I wish to comfort you, though there is little I am able to do.
Remember this last moment between us, before all that happened after.
Please remember that I love you.


Celebrimbor offers a memory in return.
A garden beside a white house in an unknown city, the ring of twisted dark steel in his hand. Celebrimbor had seen what Curufin had not, in that single moment all those years ago, and he had kept his father’s creation until the end, remembering him with pain, grief, and love.

You thought of me as someone worth more than all the works of your hands...? Even then...?
My son...
I am sorry to have left you only grief as your inheritance.
Another memory follows close behind. The three rings in his son’s hand again. Curufin perceives the reflection of Celebrimbor’s thought in each gem, and understands their significance.

In memory of the Silmarils.
In memory of all we have lost.
To protect and preserve all we hold dear. To save this Middle-earth we all loved so well.

Oh my dear Celebrimbor...

Curufin cannot find a memory to properly express how he feels. And he is not sure if his son can perceive his emotion through that shroud of pain he is trammelled in.

Celebrimbor’s memory changes. A reaction to Curufin’s thought?
The room is dark. He is looking out a window at the shifting clouds, black and cold, covering the stars. The Silmaril in the night sky. Mind clouded by grief. By...

And it is like a dam bursts, and Curufin’s mind is flooded with pain. Torment. Memories of torment. Sauron will have the Rings. Celebrimbor will not let him. Never will he know where—

Screams resound in the warm, bare chamber. Celebrimbor hears them through the white-hot haze and overpowering stench of his own burning flesh, barely recognising them as his own. The Maia’s hand draws near to his face, slowly, as if to give a gentle touch of comfort. But Celebrimbor can feel the heat from here, hotter than staring into a blazing furnace. He barely has time to gasp for breath—

The memory is blurred all of a sudden, and though Curufin senses his son’s thrashing against his bonds, he does not hear a scream, nor does he see the accursed tormentor’s face.

Celebrimbor is fighting to stem the tide of pain, trying to break off their communication, trying to spare his father the sight. And he is succeeding: only brief flashes come through, ever fewer, ever more indistinct.
But Curufin senses his desperation to be heard by the one he sought out, to be comforted, somehow, from the worst pain he has ever known.
And there is only one thing to be done about that.
He reaches out and holds open the closing door of his son’s mind, with all the firmness of a loving embrace.

And as Curufin makes himself see, and hear, and feel all that flows out through that door, though he does not want to see it, and it hurts, it does not crush his spirit like all the other things he forced himself to carry out in life.
Instead, his spirit grows stronger, warmer and brighter, holding Celebrimbor in its brilliant lamp-lit embrace, determined to catch every fallen tear, each drop of blood, to have him know that he is not forgotten, to help him, to be what he needs in that moment, unreservedly, with all the strength of the fire set in him by Eru Ilúvatar.

Celebrimbor’s spirit is resting against his, no longer huddled in small, cramped, aching solitude. Curufin is able to make out his other feelings, wavering amidst the shuddering, ebbing and flowing rays of pain.

Celebrimbor is alone in the dark. The chains binding him are cold, sticky with blood and ruined flesh. He is crying, the salt of his tears searing his marred cheeks, each shuddering breath reopening the wounds around his chest, slowing their futile efforts to heal.

Heartbreak.

This feeling is... predominant.
Celebrimbor thought he had found someone who understood him. Someone he could trust. Then he was abandoned. And betrayed, for the relationship was nothing but malicious deceit. Celebrimbor had been working alongside his Enemy all along.

Guilt.

For how could he have been so blind? His own decisions led to disaster, for his people and for Middle-earth.

Curufin can offer no contradiction. But oh, how he understands.
He remembers wiping away the tears of his little son, unwilling to sleep alone in the dim silver of the ancient Light. And a ray of pain is erased from Celebrimbor’s spirit.

Heartbreak.

To have such pain, hatred, and evil inflicted upon him by someone he loved.

Disgust.

A false image he loved. To think he had counted the tormentor of his kin a friend, even unknowingly...!

Here, Curufin can offer no response at all. But he does not flinch or retreat, lest his son interpret it as rejection. Curufin would never blame him for falling prey to the deception of one so powerful and cunning. And yet... the idea is indeed a disturbing one to contemplate. Therefore he remains silent, an unwavering, gentle support for his son’s aching fëa.


Celebrimbor retreats into himself a little. The flow of memories ceases. The bond between their fëar grows quiet and chill.
Curufin grows uncomfortable. It feels as though Celebrimbor is... turning away. From him, specifically.
He examines his son’s spirit. And it seems... although he is still hurting... things have settled within him enough for him to process someone else’s thought.

Curufin’s mind softly touches his son’s. Celebrimbor does not withdraw. And instead of a memory, for the first time, Curufin tries for words.
Tyelpë.
I am sorry.
I wounded you.
Many things... I should not have done.
I did not want to hurt you.
I did hurt you.
The wounds lingered, and hurt you even beyond my dying day.
Forgive me for taking you away.
And forgive me for leaving you.

Celebrimbor does not respond. But he appears to be pondering Curufin’s words. He relaxes somewhat. So does Curufin.

They sit side by side, vaguely turning their attentions to the tapestries on the far wall.


Others come near them. Curufin does not engage with them, though some are his brothers. Instead, he keeps his focus on his son.
Celebrimbor seems content, for the most part, despite his lingering pain. Their presence and whatever thoughts they are sharing with him appear to bring him further comfort.


As the first hints of overwhelm flare in his son’s spirit, Curufin intervenes, placing himself as a wordless barrier between his son and the others. Faint thoughts from them flutter at the edges of his perception, reminiscent of murmurs of affection. Of understanding, and regret. Some of the regretful thoughts are directed to him, tentatively offered. Curufin peruses them, and gently accepts them with the greatest of care. As if to say: Thank you. I treasure your affection. Know that these thoughts mean much to me. I am satisfied. I forgive you.


Curufin barely perceives Celebrimbor’s pain anymore. They share memories less and less frequently. Curufin wonders if this means his son is healing. For Celebrimbor does not seem to be retreating out of resentment. He simply seems... at peace.


Curufin feels his spirit lighten, once again. Another painful weight has been lifted from it.
His son departs from his side.
Forgiven? He wonders, and searches around for Celebrimbor’s spirit. But he is gone. No longer present. He has simply vanished, in a manner imperceptible to Curufin’s immaterial senses.


Curufin is wearied. Lightened, less burdened, in one sense. But more wearied in another. Much more. He hides away, retreating into himself. Away from his brothers, away from the Maiar of Mandos. He does not respond to anyone’s attempts to communicate with him.

Though it was willingly done and lovingly given, the act of caring for his son throughout his recovery has come very close to taking more than he could give.

Nienna sits beside him. Curufin refuses her offer of help. He had to do this, after all! How could he not be enough? He does not need help for it! He shouldn’t need help!

...Not from her, at any rate. Not from any of them.
The thought is small and quiet. And yet, Curufin begins to realise. To piece things together from his childhood memories. Something that he needed. The chance was lost long ago. But perhaps he could... increase his heart’s capacity. Strengthen it. So that in the future... he would have enough... something... to know how much to give to others. And from that... to have more to give. To not give his all to something, and see it only half done in the end, or see himself utterly spent as a result of it, a burnt out shell of twisted iron.

He goes back to Fëanor.
To seek out that long-missed source of comfort. Once again.
Perhaps it will be different, this time.
Or perhaps not.
But there is nowhere else Curufin can turn.
And nowhere else he wants to go.


Curufin approaches the great fiery blaze of his father’s spirit.
And Fëanor... dims, just a bit.
He towers over him less. As though he is crouching, bending down.

It seems he is trying... trying his best to make himself approachable. To not hurt his son. To not drive him away with the overwhelming, unyielding ferocity of his own being.

Curufin reaches out.
So does Fëanor, slowly, with tension in his being. Preventing himself from closing the gap at once. Waiting for Curufin to do so first.

Curufin would have hesitated a moment more, but he perceives the tension, perceives his father’s ache for communication and for his presence. He is willing his son to not hold back. Curufin’s heart aches in turn.
He can do nothing else. His spirit meets Fëanor’s at once.

Here you are at last, my son.
Curufin is entirely enveloped in red and white warmth. The white dims further. The flickering, changing red is comfortable, glowing like old coals all around him. Curufin’s thoughts and memories have curled inwards, shrinking and gathering together near the centre of his being, rather than spreading out around him. Fëanor’s thought fills all that space instead. Curufin no longer perceives anything outside his father’s being. There is only Fëanor and Curufin.

...It is comforting.
Fëanor’s mind is humming something. It slips in and out of Curufin’s perception, like the quiet crackling of a hearth, or the soft sound of rain outside a silver-lit window.
Fëanor’s words are washing over the outside of his being. He pays attention to them, for the words lend strength to his heart.

If there is aught I can do to help, I shall.

You are lighter than you ever were, even as a babe!

How did I fail you so?

I shall keep you with me for as long as you wish it.
I shall not let go.

You shall draw from my spirit’s strength.
For I will not allow you to fade further.

They told me they would care for you!!

Fëanor’s spirit blazes hot with anger. Curufin curls into him, pushing a contradicting thought to the surface of his mind.

Fëanor pauses. Curufin senses him carefully examining his thoughts, peeling apart fragile feelings to look at them better.

You did not want them to.
You wanted me.
But it was too difficult, for...

Curufin senses that Fëanor has arrived at the confused part of his mind, where his father’s wishes and his own are so tightly enmeshed that he cannot tell them apart.

...
I know which are my own, my son.
I release you from them.

Curufin’s spirit squirms in discomfort. Do not reject me, Atar!

Fëanor startles at the burst of emotion, his mind drawing back suddenly, hitting Curufin’s feelings on the way out. Curufin’s spirit jolts, leaning against his father’s helplessly. All he feels in that moment is pain. All he wants is to weep.

Fëanor’s being draws closer around him, distressed.
...I do not reject you...!
...You may think other thoughts than I, and still love me.
Please, Curufinwë. Let your mind separate from mine. And let your heart, instead, be what draws close. It knows itself, and will remain whole. I am sorry I was not with you long enough to help you grow. My son, my child. Though you were full grown in body, you were yet too young to make the choice I asked of you, as I... grieved my losses. As I breathed my last. I see that now. I do not know if I could have back then. I am sorry.
Take what you need from me, my son. I shall not presume to know what it is. I shall do naught else but keep you here, until I see you have improved. And you need not worry about taking too much. I have more than enough spirit. Far more. Far too much.
Shocked and stilled, Curufin cannot do aught but recognise this as... true. His father’s insight resonates with something deep within him, in a way nothing else has done before.

Wordlessly, without further thought, Curufin curls up in the fiery warmth. It supports him. Resting against it, completely unmoving, Curufin cannot tell whether Fëanor is preventing him from stirring, or whether in his own weariness he simply cannot bring himself to do so.
Regardless, in this soft, quiet, red and shimmering environment, Curufin finds himself comforted. And gradually, with the gentle abandon of one falling asleep, and the halting uncertainty of an infant taking its first steps, his spirit lets down the rusted walls encasing its heart.

Tendrils of red warmth are drawn through the emptiness towards the yellow flame at the centre of Curufin’s being. The flames meld, blazing red bleeding through the dim yellow. Yet they do not mix, and the red is absorbed. The wavering yellow steadies. Curufin feels relieved, a cold, hungering emptiness within him filled.

A single red tendril remains, linking spirit of fire and yellow flame.
For Curufin still needs to regain strength.
The flame at his heart next draws the white flames of Fëanor’s spirit towards itself. They swirl around the red cord, star-bright and intense.
Little by little, the yellow flame absorbs the white. Growing stronger, brighter, and larger as it does, sustained and stabilised by the red all the while.

As Curufin’s heart is strengthened, the shattered doors to his mind repair themselves, pieced back together bit by bit.
Once repaired, they are able to close, Curufin’s mind no longer laid helplessly bare to all who try to examine his thoughts.

Curufin feels... somewhat more assured now. And much more... himself. More himself than he has been in a long time. Or perhaps... ever.
How can this feel so familiar and right? When it is a state of being he has never known before, a stage of growth he has perhaps only rarely and unwittingly glimpsed, and never before attained?

He still does not move. Now that he is strong enough, he can let go of the accumulated burden of pain and weariness without completely collapsing in on himself.
Bruise-hued darkness leaches from Curufin’s spirit, seeping out with sluggish heaviness. And Fëanor’s spirit absorbs it. The flickering fire cradling Curufin dims a little further, but grows warmer.

Curufin stirs. He observes his surroundings with a certain amount of melancholy. The humming of Fëanor’s mind has grown quieter. Likewise saddened.
Curufin no longer feels entirely at home here. He feels restless. And it is growing too warm for comfort. Curufin has grown, and he no longer fits perfectly within his father’s spirit, having taken on a more distinct shape and size of his own.
The blazing heart of Fëanor’s spirit lies above him, shimmering white, yellow and blue. The steady bright yellow flame of Curufin’s spirit bids it farewell, and the fiery red tendril attached to him falls away, letting him go.

Curufin moves away from the bright heart, and keeps going, until at last his father stands before him again as a great red and white fire, and the dim tapestried walls of Mandos are all around him once more. He feels strangely stable, upright and sure of himself amidst his sequence-less thoughts and his memories both dark and bright.

Fëanor’s spirit flares up with intensity once again, as his son departs from him. But it is more... controlled than before. Less wild and hot. Curufin briefly wonders what effect he may have had on his father, in turn...

A memory is presented to the border of Curufin’s mind. Or... not a memory? No, Curufin cannot recall any such event from his own past. A new imagining, then.
A difficult thing to create, in these halls, in this form, but Fëanor, it appears, has found a way to do so. It amuses Curufin. And does not surprise him.

Fëanáro smiles, embracing Curufinwë. ‘Farewell.’ His voice is unusually soft and subdued, though the fierce light of his eyes has not abated. He is wishing his son well, even if the threshold of Curufinwë’s stay in the Halls is now in sight, and they must be apart for the longest time.

Only a faint twinge of melancholy comes to disturb the new determination and energy rising in Curufin’s spirit. Though he loves his father still, he is no longer bound to him. He thinks... he is ready to move on.

Curufin leaves, heading for his preferred dwelling places, near the tapestries depicting Cuiviénen. For he begins to feel there are things he must do. Soon. He is almost ready.
Fëanor does not watch him leave. He has turned away. Not in hurt, but in some form of acceptance. For he knows this is the point their paths diverge. Fëanor is waiting for the great End.


Joy and surprise radiate from Celegorm’s spirit as Curufin meets him again. ...And Curufin remains quite stuck to his side as Celegorm expresses all the affection he had clearly been containing while Curufin refused contact with all others.
Curufin feels the joy too!

And his restlessness increases. Now, he is ready.


It is difficult, at first, for him to express his repentance to those he has wronged. Some do not open their minds to Curufin, remaining silent. Others turn away in anger. Still others escape.
And Curufin himself, though he feels regret, finds it hard to show his deeper feelings openly.

Yet, although it is frustrating, and often intensely distressing, as others forgive him and as things are sorted out and healed within him, the painful, burdensome weights on Curufin’s spirit continue to be lifted.
He feels himself growing lighter, both in the lessening heaviness of his soul, and in the way the flame at his heart shines out ever more clearly, freed from the clouds of evil and dread.



Curufin is saddened when Celegorm vanishes from the Halls. He feels the lack of that restless spirit, so often hovering near his, brushing up against him to check on him now and again. Each had drawn comfort from the other’s company.


Caranthir seeks out Curufin, and they sit together in companionable stillness, communicating only occasionally. Curufin feels at ease in his company.
It is rather more difficult to do the same with the rest of his brothers, for the life they led after the ruin of Doriath had deeply marked and changed them. Being with them brings Curufin to helpless sorrow all too often, for there is nothing he can offer them but his presence. That had helped initially, and had, at the very least, soothed the wounds of grief and loss his death had inflicted upon them. But when Curufin’s own deep sorrow at their fates began to gnaw at him, stalling the process of his own healing, his brothers had become distressed, and Amras had guided him away, firmly but lovingly, mastering his own pain just for that.


Caranthir holds Curufin’s attention, as though trying to confirm something he had noticed in his spirit.
Curufin perceives a flash of melancholy pass over his brother.
And he wonders. Is another parting imminent? Will you leave too?
Caranthir’s melancholy is overtaken by warmth, a subtle thing which those unfamiliar with him would not easily recognise. He draws nearer to Curufin, and they share an embrace. Curufin nestles into the sturdy midnight-blue fire of his brother’s spirit, as though they sit on the edge of the unknown, as though he does not know when they will meet again.

As they part, Curufin feels a kind of energetic alertness, mixed with some apprehension. As if there is something... he is looking forward to. That is new, and strange. To be looking forward, and not behind!

Curufin does not return to dwelling on his thoughts and memories. There are things he must do. People he must seek out.

He sets out alone, and Caranthir does not follow.


It is no longer very difficult to find those people, to speak his mind and heart to them. It is easier for them, too, he perceives.
Perhaps it is easier for them to engage with his spirit, seeing how little of the heavy evil remains dwelling within it. There is nothing much there now for them to fear or detest.
And, Curufin realises, with a start... there is not much he can find in himself to detest, either. The loathing he once held for himself, deep down, is quite simply gone.

Once the relief of being forgiven has passed, he feels strangely empty.

Where does he go from here?


A voice of doom resounds in Curufin’s mind. It holds no dread for him. It simply is.

IT IS TIME TO GO.

A final weight at the foot of his spirit, like a chain, falls away.
And Curufin’s spirit, light as a bubble through water, or a downy feather through the air, rises.



Part II – Rebirth

Nerdanel, Tancaquárë and Celebrimbor are gathered in the smaller new house built right beside the house of Mahtan, the dwelling place of Tancaquárë and her son.

They are sitting together at the table in the kitchen, next to the stairs which lead to the upper level. Nerdanel and Tancaquárë look pensive, while a light of hope and joy glimmers in Celebrimbor’s eyes. However, he remains silent, his face solemn, waiting for the other two to decide on the best course of action.

Both Tancaquárë and Nerdanel had dreamed of the same thing the night before. It had been very similar to Tancaquárë’s dream about Celebrimbor’s imminent return to life. The most notable difference had been the utter silence behind the barred door. A rather unsettling difference, for silence heralds nothing but the unknown.

Nerdanel had already welcomed one returning son—Celegorm. For Tancaquárë to have the same dream as her this time could only mean one thing. The next son of Fëanor to be released from Mandos would be Curufin.

Finally, Tancaquárë speaks up. “Tyelperinquar... how would you feel about being the one to bring Curufinwë back from the Halls?”
Celebrimbor looks at her. “I would not mind at all, Amil. But does this mean you will not go with me?”
She sighs softly. “Although I wish to see him wake, and to be there for him, I know it will be too much of a shock for him. I do not wish to overwhelm him at once, while he gets used to living again, after so long a time spent disembodied. I think you will know better how to greet him and care for him at first, my son. You spent long years in Beleriand together, after all, and are personally familiar with many of the things that befell him there.”
Celebrimbor nods. “I understand, Amil. And do not worry. Meeting him alone will not trouble me. Unless... would you want to come with me, Haruni?” He turns to Nerdanel.

Nerdanel is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head. “I agree with Tancaquárë. There are things we who remained in Aman do not understand. The return journey from Mandos with Tyelkormo was difficult. Though we had missed each other very much, he seemed very guarded and sad as I spoke to him. I do not know if it was something troubling him from within, or if it was his reaction to my presence. No doubt he was also as uncertain as I was, after so long apart. ...Especially as he chose to leave, though it is not something I hold against him.
“We embraced each other warmly not long after his waking, and we still do so now. Yet he is still so quiet and guarded. He is no longer open and outspoken as he used to be, and... I worry that I have done something wrong, even unknowingly.”
She gives Celebrimbor a shaky smile. “If there is a chance it may help Curufinwë feel more at ease upon his return, I am content to remain here, and wait until he has adjusted to his new life a little more before meeting him.”

Tancaquárë reaches out, offering her hand to Nerdanel. Nerdanel takes it and squeezes it lightly. There is warmth in the sadness of her gaze as she addresses her daughter. “Besides, Curufinwë has a family of his own, and had a house of his own for a good many years. I think it is only right the two of you should reunite with him first.”

Celebrimbor rises from his seat. “Then, I shall go and make preparations for the journey.” He pauses. “Uncle Tyelko... perhaps he would want to accompany me, and greet Atar as he wakes. Shall I ask him?”
Tancaquárë nods, as she and Nerdanel also rise from the table. “Yes, of course. They always were close. I have no doubt Tyelkormo misses him greatly.”

Celebrimbor leaves through the kitchen’s front door, which opens out onto the paved yard.
Before Tancaquárë can follow him out, she is stopped by a hand on her arm. She turns. Nerdanel gazes at her with a solemn, calm expression, though much grief lies behind her eyes.
“I would advise you to be cautious, my daughter. He will not be who he once was. For years upon years, his deeds and decisions have been made without you. And many of those deeds were done in service of a despicable oath. If you expect the same love from him than you had in the beginning... well. I do not know. I do not know, but I do not wish to see you hurt.”
Tancaquárë frowns, pondering this unexpected warning. Nerdanel hesitates, as though she wishes to say something more, but is not sure if she should do so. Tancaquárë waits, for whatever it is, it appears to weigh heavily upon her mind.

When Nerdanel finally speaks, her gaze flicks between the floor and the window by the open door. Her tone grows somewhat distant, as though her words are only half meant for Tancaquárë. “I have often thought about the name I chose for my son, Atarinkë. In him I saw a great deal of similarity to his father, in body and spirit. And yet they were so close to each other... that I wondered about the wisdom of naming him something that only reinforced this closeness and similarity. Though it was an accurate insight, would it not rather have been better to name him for a quality unique to his spirit alone? To let him know that, if he so chose, he could be different, and make different choices to his father?
“...This, my daughter, is why I fear. I do not know how similar my son has become to his father. I do not know where his differences lie, for I do not think he was full-grown in mind and spirit when he left me. No doubt he has changed in our time apart. And remembering the way Fëanáro spoke to me in the end... I love my son, but I love you also, and I do not wish to see...!”
Nerdanel trails off, burying her face in her palm. “I am sorry. I do not know if it was my place to say this.”
Ah. Tancaquárë’s expression softens. Nerdanel had suffered the same pain as her, seven times over. And more, for she and Fëanor had grown apart even before the Darkening.

Tancaquárë responds carefully, wanting to express her own convictions without being entirely dismissive of her mother’s concerns. “Amil... it is all right. You need not be sorry. But do not fear for me. Please. ...You are right that we cannot know what he will be like when he is released. But he will be released. To be released from Mandos is to be repentant. Justice has been done, and he can begin again anew. That is the purpose of Mandos, is it not?
“If justice has been done, according to the Judge who dwells in the Halls, then it would be unjust of me to continue to hold his past deeds against him. And if he is repentant, then at the very least he regrets all he has done to fulfil his father’s oath. In this, he has chosen a different path than his father. If he has chosen differently here, why not in other things?”

Nerdanel’s expression lightens a little, though doubt and pain still show in the steeled stiffness of her posture.

Tancaquárë continues, her voice wavering slightly with the emotion that lies beneath her conviction. “And I know... I know he will not be the same. There are still many things about Tyelperinquar I have not yet grown accustomed to. I have been apart from my husband for so long, for far longer than we were together. I do not even know what he thinks of me. But he is my Curufinwë, and if he will have me, then I will have him back.”

Nerdanel exhales softly, and reaches out to lightly squeeze Tancaquárë’s hand. “Your faith is strong, my daughter.” She gives a wan smile, and says no more.

They leave the house together, and Tancaquárë spies Celegorm leading his horse towards the stables, no doubt having returned from an early morning ride. He stops, for Celebrimbor has caught his attention and walked up to him. Tancaquárë crosses the yard to join them.


Celegorm shakes his head in response to Celebrimbor’s question. He pauses as Tancaquárë stops beside her son. “No... do not worry about me, Tyelpë. Curvo should have time alone with you first.” He glances briefly at Tancaquárë. “You both meant a lot to him, you know. I’ll stay out of your way for a couple of days.”
But Tancaquárë sees the longing in his eyes, no doubt born from loneliness. “We won’t have you wait that long, Tyelkormo. You can come and see him the very day Tyelpë returns with him, once he’s settled in a bit. We’ll let you know.” She steps forward, offering him a hug. Celegorm barely hesitates before taking it. His breathing is shaky as he embraces her. When he draws back, he gives her a teary-eyed grin and a nod. He takes his leave, patting Celebrimbor’s shoulder as he passes by.

***

Celebrimbor stands under an arch of pale blue flowers, his hand on the door to the enclosed garden. His father lies within, soon to wake.

Celebrimbor opens the door and enters. His limbs feel bizarrely leaden. Grief, perhaps.
His gaze lands on the still body at the garden’s centre. A twinge of some strange emotion or longing pricks at his heart. It is a hollow feeling. And it prompts him to approach.

Though there are no signs of life, Celebrimbor sits by Curufin’s side. The cushioned stone table is as soft as the one he remembers waking on.
He does not want his father to wake alone. Though Celebrimbor himself had not minded it at all, he has some sense that even a moment of isolation at this time would not be good for Curufin.

He gazes at the pale face, too empty and motionless to truly look peaceful. Curufin is not here yet. To Celebrimbor’s surprise, this brings him some comfort. Or... closure. He had been far away when his father’s spirit departed Middle-earth. And although he had suspected their parting in Nargothrond was a true farewell of sorts, he had not been prepared for the lingering pain caused by his father’s abrupt vanishing from the face of the earth. A burial was not for the slain body alone – it was a way for the living to say farewell to the spirit it had housed.
Celebrimbor had not been able to mark the departure of his father’s spirit in this way. Yet here and now, he will be able to welcome him as he returns to a new body and to a new life. It is a balm for an ache he did not know could be soothed.

Curufin’s fingers twitch. Celebrimbor glances down at them, then back at his face. Curufin is breathing, softly. The eyes crack open, bright silver squinting in the sunlight, and the breath shudders irregularly as the eyes widen, staring at the sky.
Celebrimbor grasps his hand, which trembles faintly. “Atar! I’m here. It’s me, it’s Tyelpë.”
Curufin’s gaze flicks towards his face. He speaks quietly, his words interrupted by his ragged breaths. “You’re... here. And me... too.”
Curufin’s hand twitches in Celebrimbor’s grasp. He slowly moves his other hand to touch his own face and feel around his skull. He groans softly. “At last, I am able to move...!”
He stills once more as he observes Celebrimbor’s face. A faint wistful look appears in his eyes, and he tentatively squeezes the hand holding his.
The building emotions in Celebrimbor’s heart can no longer be contained. He leans down to embrace his father, wrapping his arms about him. Curufin lightly grasps the back of his tunic, allowing his son to lift him into a seated position.
Celebrimbor hadn’t expected to weep, but he does so now, into Curufin’s shoulder as he hugs him. He smiles through the tears as he feels his father’s hand rest on the back of his head, stroking softly.
Without a word, Curufin draws back from the embrace, cups Celebrimbor’s face in his hands, and wipes away the freely flowing tears.

Celebrimbor blinks to clear his vision, the tide of emotion ebbing away. The warmth of his father’s wordless comfort lingers in his heart. Curufin remains silent, sitting cross-legged on the cushioned table, facing his son. Not taking his solemn eyes from his face.
Celebrimbor returns the gaze. “Are you feeling better now?” he asks, his voice gentle, and slightly sad.
“Am I feeling better?” Curufin’s tone is quiet and pensive. “I should be asking you. I know what happened to you.”
A steely, determined gleam shows in Celebrimbor’s eyes. “I did what I had to do, Atar. And... now I am healed.” He pauses, the light in his eyes softening. And wavering. He feels deeply moved by something all of a sudden, though he is not quite sure what, or why. “But... Atar... I do not know what happened to you. I know how you died, however, in your case, that does not give me the answer.”
Curufin appears uncertain. “I have recognised my wrongs...” He trails off, as though unsure of what to say next, or how to say it.
Celebrimbor looks at him sadly. “And the wrongs done to you?”
Curufin looks surprised, but nods once.

Celebrimbor’s gaze still searches Curufin’s face. And the wavering light in his eyes is still there.
Curufin frowns slightly, wondering what his son is thinking. Perhaps he is hesitating to express himself?
“Tyelpë. Whatever it is, do not hold back.”
Celebrimbor’s lip trembles. He reaches out and brushes Curufin’s cheek with his fingertips. “I am healed, Atar. I am healed.”
It seems as though Celebrimbor hardly knows why he speaks the words he does. And neither can Curufin guess what he is referring to. But somewhere in him, something is moved in turn, and he knows how to respond.
He gives his son a soft smile, and reaches out to touch his hand in return. “For that, I am glad.”
Celebrimbor seems reassured. Or moved, perhaps? He manages a smile of his own.
A melancholy joy enters Curufin’s heart at the sight of it.

***

Curufin wonders at how the land of Valinor has changed under the gleaming gazes of the Sun and the Moon. As a youth with his parents and brothers, he had travelled in these far northern lands many times before. This experience, sitting beside his son on the front seat of a covered wagon, is completely new to him. As they journey, he recognises many of the landmarks from images buried deep within his old memories. Yet in this light, they look so different. So much older. And yet so new.

It begins to rain, the soft golden light of late afternoon muted by the gauzy sheets of fine droplets passing over the silent grasslands. The shallow puddles in the road gleam a cold silver. It is something akin to the ancient mingling of the Lights.

Celebrimbor falls silent. Perhaps he too is taking in the quiet beauty of the moment, even as he steers the horses to walk along the highest point of the road, away from where the puddles are gathering.
He had been speaking to Curufin about many things up until this point, on and off. Curufin had not responded much, if at all. But he had listened with interest. About the new house in Tirion Tancaquárë had built for herself and her son. About those who had returned from Mandos so far. About those who had come over the Sea in ships, leaving Middle-earth behind for good.

Curufin finds himself wondering at how his son has matured. No longer is he the taciturn young Elf he had known for so long in Beleriand. He speaks with ease and confidence, and knows how to put others at ease, without compromising his direct and straightforward nature. The gentle and upright heart left behind in Nargothrond is armoured now with strength and wisdom. The fluent mind is bright and curious as it ever was, though marked with long experience. Doubtless he was a good lord to the remnant of our people, Curufin muses.

Pride stirs in his breast. Curufin places his hand on his son’s arm and squeezes it lightly, smiling at him in the way he used to do whenever he was particularly pleased with his son’s achievements. Celebrimbor glances at him, surprised. And the smile he gives in return is one Curufin remembers well from his sweet-faced little boy, eyes shining bright with excitement and delight after a new success in one of their lessons together.


The journey is filled with joy and beauty, peace and silence. And comforting companionship between two long-sundered souls. Yet by the end of it, Curufin is tired. It is all a lot to take in.

***

It is a lovely morning as they arrive in Tirion at last. Clear, bright and cool, with the scents of trees and flowers in the air.

Curufin’s mouth is dry, and his jaw clenched shut. His eyes stare blankly at the paving stones ahead as the wagon makes its way along the city streets. He has folded his arms to keep his fingertips warm, but their uncomfortable chill is still starkly felt through his tunic.

They reach the paved yard outside the house of Mahtan, and the wagon comes to a stop. Celebrimbor gets down from the driver’s seat. Slowly, Curufin follows him.

They walk across the yard in silence, towards the smaller, narrower house built right beside the older building. Between the houses sits a small outdoor forge, sheltered by only a roof and a single wall in the back, against which the furnace is set.
Curufin feels numb. His limbs move stiffly, and his mind is tense and silent.

A shape can briefly be seen through the stained glass window set in the front door. The door opens, and Tancaquárë steps out.
Curufin stops.
Celebrimbor walks up to Tancaquárë and takes her hands in his. He kisses her on the cheek, then steps back and turns to face Curufin. “I’ll let Uncle Tyelko know you’re here. Shall I tell him he can come over and see you this evening?”
Curufin nods.
“I shall... see you later on then, Atar.” Celebrimbor gives him a brief smile, before heading back towards the horses and wagon.

There is a moment of silence, as Curufin and Tancaquárë look at each other. Curufin is guarded. Ashamed. But is there anything he could do to make amends to her? Anything at all? He does not know. A disturbing bitterness dwells within him, angry, and sad, and confused. Old grief and guilt resurface. I hurt you, I hurt my son. I am sorry.
His frozen numbness evaporates as she approaches him and stops almost within arm’s reach. It stirs his heart to act. And though his soul feels scraped raw by the words, and a pit opens up in his stomach, he speaks them, for he knows nothing else. "What do you want from me? Anything. Name it and it is yours."
Tancaquárë steps forward, unsmiling. She reaches out and brushes his hair behind his ear, gently.
Curufin stares at her, his breath stopped short.

Tancaquárë’s fingers linger for just a moment. So dearly loved, so long missed. Only you, nothing more.
His surprise is expected, but it saddens her very much. It will take time for this to mend. But how I wish I could bring you into my arms and carry you home at once.
Her expression softens, though it remains solemn. She reaches out once more, taking one of Curufin’s hands in hers. With the flat of her palm, she rubs his wrist and forearm through his sleeve, an affectionate gesture which she knows will not overwhelm him as a sudden full-body embrace would. After a moment, gently, she lets go.

Tears shine in Curufin’s eyes, brought about by memory. Past and present collide, and everything in between loses its weight and importance. It stops mattering.
Somewhat shakily, he opens his arms and steps one foot forward.
Tancaquárë closes the distance, and waits for him to embrace her. He does so very lightly. She wraps her own arms around him without hesitation, signalling that he does not need to hold back. That her love for him has not diminished.
Curufin holds her closer, lightly pressing the side of his head against hers, and begins to gently stroke her upper back.
After a short while, Tancaquárë feels him stir, and she draws back. Taking his hand again, she leads him towards the door of the house. “Come inside and rest, Curvo. The journey has been long.”

Curufin starts slightly at hearing his name. Perhaps he had expected Curufinwë, after so long apart, after everything. But no, it is Curvo. Familiar, friendly, and loving. She does not see him as someone who must regain her friendship. It seems she is willing to continue where they left off...

As they pass over the threshold and enter the kitchen, Curufin looks down at their joined hands. He sees Tancaquárë is still wearing the ring he made for her. Slender and intricate, made of gold and set with a tiny star-shaped ruby. He speaks quietly, almost without thought. “Mine... the ring you made... is lost. Under the waves, wherever I was... you know.” He looks away, feeling a belated uncertainty about bringing such things to her mind. ...And to his. He stops, his hand slipping out of hers with his slackened grip.
Remembering the moment of his death fills him with some distant uneasiness. The pain of his memory is not intense, nor acute, yet it touches every part of his being. For by the end of his life, had he not felt it? Nigh every part had suffered violation and misuse, whether self-imposed, or inflicted upon him by another.
“Curvo?”
Tancaquárë has pulled out a chair for him at the table. Somewhat mechanically, he takes the last couple of steps towards it and sits down.

Tancaquárë’s hand remains resting on the back of the chair. She does not like that distant look in his eyes. It speaks of a memory of utter, forlorn ruin. Just as his words had spoken of his slain body. ...Such a thought is not one she wishes to entertain. How much less should he have to endure recalling such a memory...!
Saddened and anxious, Tancaquárë places her hand on Curufin’s shoulder and lightly squeezes it. ...Yet how to comfort him? I would embrace him, but I do not think it would help. It may even harm.
...Perhaps occupy him with something else, then.
“Would you like something to eat? Bread and cheese, or some fruit? We have apples, peaches and figs.”
“Um... an apple, please.” He speaks up quickly, seeming to appreciate the distraction.

Tancaquárë sits at the table beside Curufin, cutting an apple into small slices. He had not asked, but she remembered it was his preferred way of eating fruit when at home. Tancaquárë liked to bite into them whole, but he would cut them up and take his time over them.

Curufin gives her a slight smile as she pushes the plate of apple slices towards him. “Thank you. It’s... just right.” His voice trails off into a quiet mumble as he looks down at the plate. How else to describe it? Such small considerations are soothing to a soul so long worn out by striving and trying to fend for itself. He picks up a piece of apple. The kindness is shocking.
He eats slowly, gazing vaguely at the sunlight coming through the window in the far wall. The taste is surprising, and absorbs his attention almost entirely. It is probably the nicest apple he’s ever had. Perhaps it reminds him of some distant memories, for none of the apples grown in Middle-earth tasted like this.

Having finished, Curufin looks around at the fairly small and simple, yet cosy kitchen, with its stone walls and wooden furnishings. “Tyelperinquar mentioned Tyelko... will my Amil also come to see me?”
Tancaquárë nods once. “She will. But she wanted to wait until you had settled in a bit. We thought you might want some peace and quiet for today.”
“Hm.” Curufin looks back down at the wood of the table. He runs a finger along it. Though he wishes to continue the conversation in some way, his mind has gone blank, and will not let him.
“Shall we go upstairs? You can have a look around and...” Tancaquárë sounds suddenly uncertain. “And I had thought you would share my bed to sleep tonight. But if you do not want to, there is a spare room. I will show you where everything is.”
Curufin nods, still not quite looking at her. “It’s alright. I will stay with you, if that is what you had in mind.” He pauses. “...I missed you.”
Tancaquárë hesitates slightly before responding. “I missed you too, Curvo.”
Though she does not doubt the truth of his words... there is something about them which makes her uneasy. He did not say he wanted to. Not in those words. However, he may well be speaking indirectly out of shyness...

Tancaquárë gently touches Curufin’s shoulder. Then she rises, and leads the way upstairs. He moves less stiffly than before as he follows her, and he glances around curiously as she shows him each of the rooms upstairs. Yet he still flexes his fingers and fiddles with the hem of his tunic—some kind of tension remains.
Finally, they enter the main bedroom at the end of the corridor. It is well lit, with a wide window in the wall across from the bed, and a narrow window in the wall beside the wardrobe. It is plastered and painted in pale colours, white and a cool light green. The large bed is simple, but looks very soft and comfortable. Tancaquárë gestures towards a door to their left. “There is another smaller bath-room through there. And there are clothes for you in the wardrobe.”
She glances back at Curufin, to see what he thinks.
He nods appreciatively, yet again seems to struggle to find his words. “It’s... very nice.” His gaze appears to look through his surroundings, rather than focusing on any one thing in particular.
Oh. Of course.
Tancaquárë lightly brushes a finger against the back of his hand. “I can see that look in your eye. You’re tired. Lie down.”

Curufin sits down on the edge of the bed and removes his shoes. He lies down atop the covers, stares at the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head to the side, looking away from her.

Tancaquárë goes around to the other side of the bed, and sits on it likewise. She shuffles a bit closer to him, tucking her legs under herself, in order to get a better look at his face.
A few tears have streamed down Curufin’s cheeks into the pillow. He does not turn away again, but neither does he raise his gaze to meet hers. He lies completely still, but for the slight shakiness in each silent breath.
Again? In so short a time? ...It is not something she is used to from him.
“Ah, Curvo... Do not weep so, or you will have me fearing for your life.” She smiles in jest, but her voice cracks as she speaks.
Curufin huffs out a soft breath of laughter, cut off by a pained gulp.
Tancaquárë feels helpless. Her voice is very small as she speaks again. “May I embrace you? Do you think it will help?”
Curufin wipes his eyes with his sleeve, his hand trembling slightly. “Maybe? I am not sure.” His voice quietens further, his throat sounding tight. “I do not know.”
There is an edge of deep-rooted frustration in it, Tancaquárë thinks.
She places a hand on the side of his face, her thumb gently interrupting the trail of his tears, which continue to flow unabated. Then she bends down, resting her forehead against his. They remain like this, eyes closed, until Curufin’s breathing grows easier, and the flow of his tears ebbs away.

Tancaquárë withdraws a little, though does not remove her hand.
Curufin opens his eyes.
Tancaquárë is struck by their pale silvery beauty, as though seeing them for the first time all over again.
Curufin searches her face with his gaze, a face he thought he would never see again in such a close and intimate manner, her face—beloved!
Neither say a word as they look into each other’s eyes, taking in everything they have missed for so long, in each other’s faces, in each other’s spirits. And seeing much that is new. The light in Curufin’s eyes is deeper, and both more and less keen than it was before. Softened by love, and sharpened by grief, and hollowed out by pain, and filled with the spark of beginning anew. The set of Tancaquárë’s expression is less sure of itself, worn by care, longing, and bereavement. Yet it is also determined, transformed into something strong and almost warrior-like by the hope against hope harboured in her heart.

Tancaquárë strokes Curufin’s hair, and leans in close again. ...Here is something else she has missed. She looks down at his lips, then back at his eyes. He does not turn away, or move at all, but there is some reluctance in his gaze. She draws back. Not yet. She hugs him instead, lying down and resting her head on his chest, near his shoulder. It’s alright.
Curufin hugs her in return, tightly, gratefully, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

After a moment, Curufin lets go. Tancaquárë moves aside and lies down beside him, close enough to him that she barely has to reach out to take his hand in her own. Curufin tightens his fingers around hers ever so gently.

Both remain quiet and still, simply appreciating each other’s presence. Eventually, Curufin’s breathing falls into a deep regular pattern. Tancaquárë glances to the side. He has fallen asleep.

***

Having taken care of the horses and taken a break in the company of Celegorm and Nerdanel, Celebrimbor returns to the house. He does not enter, however, for his parents should have a good long time alone together.
Instead, he goes to the small outdoor forge, and begins to gather the tools and materials needed for a certain project he and his mother had discussed some time ago.

Materials readied and furnace roaring, Celebrimbor smiles as he hammers out a rod of gold into a longer, thinner piece. The thought of this new work brings joy to his heart.


In the room upstairs, the hammer’s noise can faintly be heard through the window. Curufin stirs, and soon wakes. Tancaquárë’s hand still rests in his. He blinks at the ceiling, fully registering the familiar rhythm, and recognises his son’s hand at work.
He speaks his thoughts aloud, in a faintly sleepy mumble. “I have not heard that sound in a long time... What is he making, I wonder...?”
He hears a hint of a smile in Tancaquárë’s voice as she responds. “You did say you were missing a ring.”
Her tone grows a little more solemn. “I would have made a new one for you myself, but... I had a feeling Tyelperinquar needed this. Therefore I simply gave him my ideas for its design.”

Curufin takes a moment to consider the significance of this. It is surprising. Yet also... moving. She must long have been ready to welcome him back. And Celebrimbor... of course. Curufin can easily imagine his eagerness to be a part of his parents’ reuniting. And making a ring for that purpose, for a meaningful and joyous purpose... well. Tancaquárë was right. It is something that would be good for him.

And, Curufin muses, it is fitting in another way. Their son had been the very reason they had married: both Curufin and Tancaquárë had wanted a child, and could think of none else better to have one with. The care of Celebrimbor had been their priority from the moment he came into being, and their little son had been a constant presence in their shared life together.
Those distant memories seem both familiar and strange to Curufin now. In that moment when Anca and I agreed to wed, I could never have known how much my life would change afterwards, as we grew closer and raised our son. ...The life we built together was something I loved. ...Something she loved. My life was better for it. And... and I hope hers was too, for the years we were together.
Curufin’s brow furrows slightly, as worry sets in his heart. I hope I can better her life again, rather than merely exist in it. ...Especially after the way I left her.
He recalls a moment from their earlier interaction, and wonders, his newfound concern prompting him to speak. “Anca... I have to ask. Why did you not allow yourself to kiss me? It is clear... you... you have missed me greatly. I would not have protested had you done so. I enjoy your close company.”
A pit forms in his stomach. “...I know you have ever cared for my various strange humours, but it... it seems unfair to you.”

Tancaquárë is silent for a moment, pondering. Then she speaks, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I hope you know I love you, Curufinwë. For I know you have always sought to give your love in return. And you have given it always, with constant and faithful consideration for my own wishes. So constant...” Her voice grows quieter. “It clove my heart in two, when in the great darkness, you, at last, did not.”
Curufin tilts his head towards her. “I... know. I am sorry I took him and wounded him with the harsh life we had over the sea. And with my own—”
Tancaquárë frowns, raising a finger, still gazing at the rafters above. “Do not interrupt, Curvo. I was not finished.”
She glances over at him, adding more softly: “That is all in the past now. I am glad you are repentant, and accept your apology.”
She squints at the ceiling again. “Now, where on earth was I going with this...?”
Curufin finds himself smiling, in spite of his lingering trepidation. It had always been an endearing habit of hers to ramble a little and get lost on the way when talking about things immaterial.
She resumes speaking, more slowly, with careful concentration.
“...My son’s fate was not the only one I grieved. You may love me enough to do whatever I wish, but... that is not what I am waiting for. You were always too good at that—terrifyingly so!—and you need no more practice.
“...I think what I am waiting for is for you to love yourself. For you to know yourself and love what you see in your own heart so well that you will to be able to take the initiative, and offer to kiss me first, out of your own true desire, without shame or hesitation.”
Tancaquárë turns her head, looking directly at him, a glimmer of determination in her eyes. Her hand grows warmer in his, and she softly rubs her thumb across his fingers. “Until then, for now... this is enough.”

Curufin feels lighter in spirit. Some of his weariness has ebbed away with her words. He smiles at her, as, for a third time, tears fill his eyes.
And for the first time in his life, weeping brings him relief rather than adding to his mind’s discomfort. So he does not move to wipe the warm tears from his cheeks. And, gently, he squeezes her hand in return.

Chapter Text

The wind whispers softly in the tall pine trees as the sun’s last rays illuminate their upper boughs in dim, beautiful gold. In the veil of blue shade below, the grass rustles almost imperceptibly with the footfalls of two brothers.
Like the trees, Celegorm has a soft glow about him here. Steady joy begins to light him from within again, the burden of grief and loneliness no longer so all-encompassing following the return of one of his brothers. His dear Curvo.
Like the growing night-shade, Curufin is shrouded in cool peace, with a glint of lively starlight in his eye.

No embrace did Celegorm offer upon their reuniting at the door of Tancaquárë’s house, nor many words. He took Curufin by the hand, and straightway headed down the bustling late afternoon streets.
Out of the gates, beyond the fields, and into the quiet woodlands, amidst the tall trees, the fragrant peace, and bittersweet familiarity. How many times had they wandered here before as children...?

Here and now, as the trees thin, the two of them stop. Ahead, over the fields and upon the hill, the white walls and towers of Tirion gleam softly against the molten sunset sky behind.
Words had been few between them as they walked among the trees, or sat side by side in the sun-warmed grass, alone, together. For what was there to say that either of them did not already know?

Celegorm turns to face his brother, and Curufin glances up at him. Celegorm opens his arms, and Curufin steps into his embrace, wrapping his arms around him in turn. The hug is warm, and both feel secure.

Curufin looks back at the fields and the slowly darkening sky, still in his brother’s hold. There is a sadness or wistfulness within him too, born from standing in this strange place between the long-concluded griefs, loves, joys and tragedies of the far-distant past, and the hope, peace, and wonderful newness of the present.
He does not have the strength to wonder about the future and what it will hold, yet. But here... he thinks, he is content, as much as he can be.
Fresh emotion pricks at his heart, and he follows its impulse to bury his face in Celegorm’s shoulder. So readily expressing such impulses is a strange feeling. He feels uncertain about it, yet it is the right way to go, of that he is sure.
“I would... want to spend time with each of our brothers like this,” he mumbles softly. “I miss them... and I missed them in Beleriand also. I never really talked to them like I did with you. They talked to me. And so often we remained apart, not only in distance, but in heart. If you know what I mean.”

Celegorm kisses the top of his head, before answering, just as softly. “I think I do. I felt that distance grow between us in Nargothrond. I was afraid for you, and felt helpless. I could do nothing but try to aid and protect your body, hoping that your... heart, I suppose, would return and draw close to me once again. It did, afterwards. But it was poor comfort, for you and I... we were so broken. I could see it far more plainly in you than I could in myself, however. I have never been one for looking inwards and pondering overmuch what I see there. And, quite simply, I think I had ceased to care about my own fate.”

The chill wind whips around them as the night falls. Curufin draws away from the embrace, taking Celegorm’s hand and pulling him along gently. “Do care, Tyelko. I do.”
And though Curufin does not look back at his brother as they walk together towards the city, he feels his smile, one both moved and amused.

The lamp-lit windows of Mahtan’s house shine out a gentle gold in the cool night. As Celegorm passes them by, heading for the dwelling of Tancaquárë, Curufin halts, his gaze drawn to one of them. A silhouette had been framed within it for a moment. Though he had not made out its features, he had recognised the way it moved as it walked past. His mother.

Celegorm, too, stops, seeing that Curufin no longer follows him. He sees him lingering there, looking at his grandparents’ house, and recognises the gentle longing and hesitance in his gaze.
“Curvo? ...Do you want to go in and see Amil?”
Curufin glances over at him briefly. Then folds his hands behind his back and nods.

...He misses her, too. It would feel so... cold, if he did not at least see her for a moment today. Even if there is not much he can think of saying. Even if... it may go poorly, and hurt him from within.

Celegorm goes up to the door and knocks, in a jaunty little rhythm particular to him. Curufin approaches more slowly, and stops beside his brother, though not quite as close to the door. Another thought, a deeply unpleasant one, drops into his mind all of a sudden. It might hurt her, too, even if she is nothing but glad to have her sons back after they left her. How would it feel to have that face looking back at her after all this time? The face so near in likeness to Fëanor’s that Curufin had been named for it?

The door clanks softly, then opens. Nerdanel is there, her slight smile at the sight of Celegorm giving way to an expression of... shock, perhaps, as her gaze meets Curufin’s.

Curufin feels his breath short, as though an icy gust of wind has struck him across the face. Amidst the rising panic, born of grief and uncertainty, he finds himself speaking, in a small and trembling voice. “...Amil?”
Nerdanel steps forward. She says not a word, seeming either dumbstruck, or unsure as to how to approach him.
Curufin stumbles slightly as he closes the small distance, barely aware of his movements. He lightly takes both her hands in his own. “It’s me... it’s...” His breath catches, the words won’t seem to come.
He holds her hands more tightly, his heart aching.
Nerdanel’s lip trembles. That her son should hesitate to speak any name of his before her...! Her voice, by contrast, is firm. “My Atarinkë.” Then it cracks, as she adds, tremulously: “Welcome home.” The words are out before she can think better of them, before she can consider any of the reasons he might have to hesitate over his name, before she can wonder is this home to him?
Curufin lets out a soft whimpering sound. Then he stumbles that one last step forward and falls into her embrace, holding on tightly and burying his face into her shoulder. Taken entirely by surprise, for it had never been his habit to embrace so fervently, Nerdanel can do nothing but return the affection just as fiercely, supporting him as he leans on her.
Curufin is trembling, shivering slightly as though with cold, though his eyes are dry and he does not weep. His arms twitch, and he makes as if to draw back, but freezes halfway through the movement. He truly does not know what to do with himself. Caught between panic and heartache, between wanting and not wanting to let go, he stares at the ground ahead, entirely lost.

Nerdanel steps back and looks at her son’s face. Oh... She takes him by the arm and guides him to sit on the step in front of the door. She sits beside him, and wraps her arm around him as he gently rests his head against her. She presses her cheek against the top of his head, and with her other hand, she takes hold of his arm again, rubbing it with a thumb.
Celegorm sits on Curufin’s other side, though not too close, giving him space.
Holding her son a little more firmly, Nerdanel softly begins to murmur something.
It is something Curufin has not heard in a very long time, nor often remembered in later years. And after the Darkening, perhaps... not ever remembered. The murmured, halting words of a song. Their mother had a song for each of her sons, simple as a lullaby, yet each one was unique in melody and meaning. This one was Curufin’s. Is still his. And that she should sing it now touches his heart. It begins to mend a deep wound within it, the depths of which he had not fully realised before. He is ashamed for a moment, then the shame melts away again, with no room for it beside the warmth of the words he hears.

There... that is something. Curufin thinks, in a distant corner of his mind. It was not often I sought out my mother for help. For there were very few things I was too shy or reluctant to talk with my father about. But with those few things... she was most worthy of trust. And most gentle. And seemed always to know what to do. Though we are very different, she and I... she understood more than I knew. And she still does. I see that.

Curufin manages to find his voice again, still quiet and tremulous. “Sorry I left you.”
Nerdanel kisses his temple. “Carry this burden no longer, my son. I... forgive you.”
She inhales softly, mastering her own swell of emotion. “And I look forward to getting to know you again.”

There is a moment of silence, broken only by the soft, still-tearful breaths of mother and both sons.

Curufin feels Nerdanel’s fingers gently touch him under the chin. He raises his head, and meets her gaze. She looks at him quietly for a moment, then speaks. “You are not as you once were.”
Curufin hesitates, his heart briefly clenching in worry. He shakes his head slightly.
Nerdanel makes an attempt at a reassuring smile, despite her sadness at what she glimpsed in his face. She inwardly berates herself a little for making such remarks to one in a vulnerable state.
“I love you, Curufinwë Atarinkë. Then and now.” Her words are half-whispered, her tone proof of their truth.
Curufin settles into her embrace. He wraps an arm around her in return, and gently tightens his hold, before he lets go and draws back. Nerdanel too lets go, and rests her hands in her lap.

Sitting side by side on the step, quiet returns. Curufin feels as though he is sitting on a beach, in the calm after a storm. Thick, dark clouds pass over the stars, and the wind has softened to a cool breeze.


In time, words return to Curufin, and he, his mother and his brother make quiet conversation. It is not sustained, and breaks off now and then. It is the tentative yet sure-footed peace of long-sundered family reunited.


Once Curufin feels himself more recovered, Celegorm and Nerdanel accompany him to the door of Tancaquárë’s house. His house now, too. His home. For what else could it be?
The smell of warm and comforting food wafts out as Tancaquárë opens the door. She greets them with her small smile, and Curufin finds himself smiling in return.
It could be nothing else.

Curufin does not eat a great amount, for he is still recovering from all that has chanced to pass in the day. But of all the places in the world in which he could possibly be, this is one of the best. Himself, his wife, and their dear son, all together once again, in the quiet of the evening, in a new house that somehow already has the feel and smell of home.

Curufin has bathed, and is sitting in Tancaquárë’s bed, dressed only in a nightshirt, the covers drawn up over his crossed legs. The room is dim, lit by a candle on the bedside table.
He traces the embroideries upon the shirt with his fingertips: pale pearlescent thread only subtly seen against the fine white fabric. It is light and comfortable, and reasonably loose in fit. Pleasant... but strange. Perhaps it is too light. Perhaps he does not feel like wearing so little just yet. He is still too used to keeping his inner self buried deep, covered up, away from the light.

Tancaquárë is taking her turn to wash in the adjoining bathroom: there are quiet splashing sounds from the basin.
Curufin leaves the patterns on his nightshirt, and instead turns his attention to the downy soft blanket over the sheets. He traces patterns of his own upon it, gently stroking the pleasant softness.
And yet... there is another part of him that wants—
His head is bowed, and he does not immediately look up at the soft click of the door, as Tancaquárë steps out into the bedroom.
...closeness.
The faint desire overcomes the heavy awkwardness that had settled in his mind as he sat waiting for her. Curufin raises his head and their gazes meet.

Tancaquárë gives him a slight smile. She pauses only for a little moment, before approaching and getting into bed beside him. She had noticed the tension in his shoulders, and the uncertainty in his face. Yet, she thinks, hesitating now might be worse, and cause him some hurt or undue anxiety.
Unsure of how to proceed from here, and feeling somewhat awkward herself, she says nothing, and merely begins to braid her hair into a single long, loose braid. She looks at her lap as she does so, pondering. There had perhaps been some longing in his eyes too. Fierce, but buried and veiled.

Finally, as she ties off the braid with a ribbon, she glances to the side. He is not looking at her, staring fixedly at his own lap. His posture has relaxed somewhat. But his shoulders are stooped: he is curled into himself a bit, as though burdened, or frightened.
“Is there something you... wish to tell me, Curufin?”

The name is strange on her lips, the one from the language of Beleriand. Yet it had been the right one to use, she felt. She wants to know all of him. And, so knowing, to love him, as she loved him before.
Their time apart, his life without her—it cannot, and should not, be passed over and ignored. As though their time together is the only thing that matters.
For, she feels, how could she claim to love him, if such great things will remain unspoken about, as though they had never happened? These, too, are a part of him. They have happened. And what she does not know, she cannot truly love.

Curufin starts at her use of this name. It is as though a dart of air has passed through his chest. He looks over at her, and makes an effort to straighten up a bit.
That name has stirred up some memories.
“I...” He halts, gulps. Tries to steady his voice. For these buried memories no longer want to remain silent and hidden. And to whom else would he ever speak them?
“I am sorry, Anca.” He feels uncomfortable, as though he is in the wrong somehow. It could also be fear, or pain, but he cannot tell any of them apart. Especially not here and now.
“It has been so long since I have been by your side like this. And I... in Beleriand, I hardly dared to imagine it, or remember it. For it would never be so again, I thought.”
Tancaquárë feels a tinge of sadness at the word ‘never’.
“And though I could master my waking mind, my dreams would at times betray me.” Curufin’s voice cracks. He softly grips the blanket, stopping his hands from trembling. “Those dreams... memories... sweet and unattainable—they would leave me in hollow, stifling pain upon awakening. I wondered why my sleeping mind would do this to me. Why dwell on something—someone I only had for a brief time, and may never have again? Even, sometimes... I was glad to fall back asleep into a horrible nightmare. It would wash the memory of the dream away, and would spur me out of bed upon waking. For otherwise I would remain lying in a listless miserable haze, when there was work to be done, things to make, people to command and speak to. Plans... ambitions... the oath...” He shakes his head, then resumes in a small, quiet voice. “It shows... how much that brief time meant to me. Even if I did not acknowledge it, or even wholly realise it myself.”

Tancaquárë is silent. Curufin closes his eyes, his breathing heavy and irregular.
So strange to speak of this, after all this time.
Yet... I think it feels better now.
I am not so fearful.
Tancaquárë reaches over and gently touches his arm.
“Well... now you have me.”

Curufin smiles slightly, his eyes still shut.
“So I do.”

He turns to look at her, then takes her hands in his, his grip and the look on his face both uncertain and confident at once.
He shifts to his knees, leans forward and plants a firm kiss on her forehead. There is a tight knot in his lower belly, but he feels pleased with this. ...And also tired. “Shall we now sleep?”
Tancaquárë’s eyes have grown wide with surprise, and her lips twitch as she awkwardly tries to suppress a flustered smile. But she too feels pleased, and she nods, before blowing out the single candle on the little table beside her.

Now the room is dark, with only the faint, cool light of the stars coming in through the windows.

As she curls up on her side, facing him, Tancaquárë feels her heart pounding in her chest. It has been so long indeed... and now I have him too.

Curufin lies down likewise, drawing the covers up over her shoulders. They observe the soft glitter of reflected light in each other’s eyes, as they rest upon the down-filled pillows.

The bed is warm.
Soon, they are asleep, foreheads almost touching in their curled positions.

Celebrimbor has finished the ring, the new one for his father. It has the appearance of two fine golden bands, coiling and twisting around each other, intertwined like vines in a garden. Tiny pale gems, like silvery dewdrops, cling to the golden vines, and are here and there nestled into their embrace.

Tancaquárë had wanted a symbol of reuniting and union, “but make sure it has something twisted, like a winding road in it, for our journeys have been strange and difficult,” she had told him. Furthermore, she had wanted Celebrimbor to add something silvery to it, though here she had only said the colour was significant in many ways to her.

Curiously, as it rests in his palm, it reminds Celebrimbor of a certain steel band, in a time long past, deep grey and reflecting no light. It is likewise twisted, and there is more to it than meets the eye at first glance. But this ring has a sense of hope to it, of freedom and renewed union, rather than painful grief, exiled sunderance and isolation. And it is paler than the gold he started with, like a smooth, sun-mottled rock, glittering in the bed of a clear, fast-flowing river.

Celebrimbor wonders if perhaps there might be a little walled garden, beyond the vast untended field on the other side of that rushing river.

He looks more carefully at the ring, holding it up to the light, and smiles. Yes, there is. And the wrought iron gate is wide open still.

He slips the ring into a little pouch, and leaves the forge, returning to the house, where his parents are spending time together, Curufin reading, and Tancaquárë embroidering.

But we have long left it behind, and are looking back.

It is a beautiful day of sun, and the breeze is mild, scented with fruit and flowers. Although it had rained in the early morning, the afternoon sun is bright and warm, and birds and insects busy themselves in the gardens behind the houses of Mahtan and Tancaquárë.

The door in the back of Tancaquárë’s house opens, and she and Curufin step out into the garden, holding hands. They are both still a little breathless and flushed. For Curufin had taken her into an embrace and kissed her, just as they were about to leave the small upstairs sitting room, where they had been reading together. ...Their exit from that room had been rather significantly delayed, as a result.

As they walk further into the garden, Curufin glances back at Tancaquárë. Her eyes are bright, and her hand is warm. She looks radiant. And contented. And quite satisfied. Curufin is pleased to have had this effect on her. A feeling both proud and shy burgeons in his heart, and the blush across his cheeks is renewed. He smiles at her.

They sit down on a bench in the shade of some fruit trees, not far from the gate leading to the street.

Now is a good time for it, Curufin thinks. He pulls a small bag from his pocket, smiling at the way his new ring winks at him in the light passing through the leaves. It is a most fitting work, this creation of his son. It suits him well.

“I have something for you. In the forge, I had an idea for a gem, and... I thought it should be yours.” Curufin gently opens the bag and draws from it a necklace. A silver chain with a delicate silver pendant, which cradles a light red jewel. In shape, it is reminiscent of a heart. He places it in Tancaquárë’s outstretched palm.

Tancaquárë brushes her finger against the little red heart, no bigger than her thumb nail. The gem is faceted, and yet it is subtle and unobtrusive: it does not glitter or strongly reflect the light. Its beauty, instead, is in its depth. The longer she looks, the more she has the impression of looking into a still, deep pool of wine or blood, or a long, quiet hallway, with red curtains hiding further passages and secrets.
I know what you mean by this, my Curvo. Tancaquárë looks back up at him, making sure he sees in her eyes the admiration and joy she feels at the sight of this beautifully crafted and meaningful gift.

Curufin’s expression remains solemn, but his eyes shine: he is gladdened, and moved. He takes the pendant from her palm and fastens its slender chain around her neck. The collar of Tancaquárë’s tunic is not fully done up, and the red gem rests against the bare skin of her upper breastbone. She rests her fingers upon it, then reaches out to place her other hand on Curufin’s cheek. “I love you dearly,” she murmurs. Curufin closes his eyes, saying nothing. For within him in this moment, there is more than words could ever say.

One more marvel remains to be discovered about the red gem.

The heart is always warm to the touch. Tancaquárë never feels it grow cold.


Celebrimbor is walking down the small street, returning from spending time with Finrod. They wave goodbye to each other as they reach the walled gardens of Mahtan’s house.
Celebrimbor opens the gate and enters, closing it behind him. And there, in the shade of the trees, he sees his parents, sitting side by side. He gives them a smile, his cheerful mood lending a joyous spark to his eyes.

Curufin holds out a hand towards him, letting him know he can join them. Celebrimbor does so, but instead of sitting on the bench beside his father, he sits on the grass below, and rests his head against Curufin’s knee.

The three of them enjoy the peace of the garden, the cool of the shade, the sound of the birds and the scent of the plants. Curufin strokes his son’s hair softly and methodically. And Tancaquárë takes Curufin’s other hand in her own.