Work Text:
There was roaring, and raging, and accusations of betrayal—and then, suddenly, there was nothing.
The world fell silent. The Darkness around them pressed in.
Quildalótië stared at her husband, and did not recognize him.
Curufinwë stared back, and could not believe his wife.
“So this is the end, then,” he said quietly.
In the past, she would have looked away, cast her eyes downward. Now, she kept her gaze fixed, fearless in the face of the unthinkable.
“I have stood by you in everything, and in turn you refuse my counsel,” she said softly. “I have pledged myself to you, and this past decade you have not thought of me once before making a decision. No more.”
“I have thought of you,” Curufinwë hissed. “You are my wife—”
A swift motion, and Curufinwë flinched back as something soared through the air, nearly hitting him in the face.
It was Quildalótië’s wedding ring.
“No more,” she repeated. “You love your father more than me. More than our son. More than reason. I stood by you—I stood by. I will not any longer. No. More.”
“Quilla...”
She thrust out her hand. “Give it back,” she said, and a crack in her voice was the only betrayal of the pain this must be causing her.
“What?”
“My ring. Give it back.”
Curufinwë clenched his fist. No—this couldn’t be happening. Not even Nerdanel, when she left Fëanáro, had demanded this.
“It is mine—”
“You are not mine, any longer,” she hissed. “Give. It. Back.”
Stunned into silence, Curufinwë’s hands trembled as he pulled his wedding ring off his forefinger. He stared at it for a moment.
“Quilla, please,” he begged. “Even if you will not come with us—”
“No more.” He had never known her to be this firm, this unyielding. How long had she stayed quiet when she wished to speak? How had it come to this?
He dropped the ring into her palm, and she turned away.
“Shall I tell Tyelpë you are no longer his mother?” Curufinwë said, desperate to stop her leaving. How could this be happening? He would never have guessed it. Never.
She stopped. “Tyelpë is staying with me,” she said.
Curufinwë laughed, but it was hollow. “He is already preparing for the march,” he said. “He is a Curufinwë, Quilla. He will come with me and my father.”
She turned around, her eyes burning with a fury he had not seen since—since Fëanáro beckoned them to join him in his Oath.
“You will not take my son,” she growled.
“He is grown—”
“Not yet! Not until spring—”
“He has made his choice!”
“Atar? Ammë?”
They froze. There he was: Tyelperinquar Curufinwë. His mother’s only son. His father’s greatest creation.
He was so young. For a brief moment, Curufinwë’s resolve wavered. Perhaps if he stayed...
Then the Oath roared within him, so new, so consuming.
“Curufinwë,” he said shortly. “Tell your mother that you are coming with us.”
“Of course I am,” Tyelpë said, confused. He looked to Quildalótië. “We all are. To Endórë!”
Quildalótië’s brave, stoic façade crumbled. She rushed to him, and grasped his shoulders, and though she was half his size she seemed capable enough to drag him away with her.
“Tyelpë, stay with me,” she pleaded. “You needn’t take your father’s oath—”
“Well, I didn’t,” Tyelpë said. “But I’m still going with him—Wait. Are you—not?”
Tears welled in her eyes, and something vicious inside Curufinwë smiled. So she was devastated, even if she would pretend she was not.
“You will perish,” she gasped, fighting back a sob. “All of you—this Darkness, this evil—”
“Ammë,” Tyelpë said, wresting himself free of her iron grip. He stepped back, frightened. “Ammë, no! Haru is leading us, and he never fails. We will win, and live in freedom—”
The fire of the Oath rushed through Curufinwë’s veins. He stepped toward his son, smiling, the agony of his failing marriage meaningless compared to what lay ahead.
“Yes, Tyelpë, we will,” he agreed. “And if your mother betrays us, and our future, that is her loss.”
Tyelperinquar looked between his parents, helpless, confused. He was still so young—even if he was nearly full-grown.
“We can stay together,” he insisted. “Ammë, please...”
But her choice was made, and she would not unmake it. She clenched her fist, Curufinwë’s ring still in hand.
“I will go with you to the city’s limit, yonya,” she rasped. “But no further.” No more.
Curufinwë laughed cruelly. “Leave us now, traitor,” he spat. “What good is a disobedient wife? I should have cast you aside as my father did my mother.”
“Atar!” Tyelperinquar gasped. “Wait—you are—”
Curufinwë turned his back on his faithless wife, fury lighting his way forward. “Come, Tyelpë,” he ordered. “There is much to do before we depart.”
And with one last, helpless look between his mother and his father, Tyelperinquar followed, leaving Quildalótië behind—stunned, speechless, silent.