The Future's In Our Hands by StarSpray  

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Curufin

Written for the Swinging 40s prompt: Do what you feel in your heart to be right — for you'll be criticized anyway. ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

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“Did you do it on purpose?” Maglor’s voice was much sharper than it had been even a moment ago, his eyes gone from soft and sad to hard and stormy as he looked at Curufin, who fought the urge to shrink back. “When you slipped in that puddle and missed your parry, was it on purpose?”

One of the fountains in one of Menegroth’s wide halls had been damaged in the fighting, and overflowed. The floor had been a mess of puddles and rivulets, brownish-red with the mingling of dirty water and blood. Curufin remembered sliding in it, remembered the swoop of his stomach as he lost his balance, remembered—oddly—the bright green of a nearby tapestry on the wall depicting some forest revelry, remembered the flash of a sword—but nothing else. The end had been quick. 

He hadn’t known Maglor was there. 

“No, of course I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said, but even as he spoke he thought: But I do not regret it. 

By the time they had gone to Doriath, Curufin had become someone his younger self, Curufinwë of Tirion, would not have recognized, would have been terrified of, horrified by. It had started even before the Darkening, when his father had come to him with the first sword that he had forged, had taught him all that he had learned himself of the art thus far, and set him to mastering it. Whatever Fëanor asked, Curufin had strived to do—and he did love forge work, had from the very start, loved the heat of it and the satisfaction of seeing the metal bend under his hands into whatever he wanted it to be. He loved the thrill of gem craft even more, of making all manner of stones in all hues and shades and shapes. His greatest delight for years had been presenting his wife with a rainbow of jewelry, of earrings and hair nets and necklaces and rings. 

Swords, though—he had made them beautiful too, at first, with etchings on the flat of the blades and jeweled pommels, but that was not their purpose, not what his father had desired of him. Strength, Fëanor had wanted, and edges sharp enough to cut through anything—through flesh, through bone, through iron. It had been a challenge, and Curufin had always liked a challenge, but it had also frightened him, and there had been no one in whom he could confide that fear. Before, he could have gone to Fëanor—he had gone to Fëanor, with everything—but he could not admit to such fears then, not when they had their source in Fëanor himself, who had begun to sneer at what he deemed to be cowardice or weakness. 

Curufin was almost certain that he was the first of his brothers to begin to fear their father, even before Maedhros, who had watched the growing unrest with keen eyes, who had tried so hard alongside both Fingon and Finrod to keep the growing tension from spilling over into a feud—they had been too young, though, too inexperienced and with too little influence on either their people or their fathers. 

Then Fëanor had drawn a blade on Fingolfin, and everything seemed to go wrong after that. Curufin had not hesitated to join his father in Formenos, because if he feared him he still loved him, and he had not been immune to the rumors and whispers either. Rundamírë, who had stopped answering to his epessë Arimeldë by then, had not begged him to stay, and she had not lost her temper—not in front of Celebrimbor—but she had watched him go with cold eyes, wearing none of the jewels he had made for her, and when he was gone only his son had written to him. Rundamírë had flatly refused to let Celebrimbor so much as visit, and on that point Curufin had not even tried to argue. He did not want Celebrimbor anywhere near Fëanor in those days, not when he was constantly angry, seething with rage at the Valar, at Fingolfin—not at them, his sons, though. Not yet. That had come later. 

They had all gone to Formenos, because what else could they do? To do otherwise would have been as good as declaring themselves against their father, at least in Fëanor’s eyes, but none of them had been happy there. They had walked carefully, spoken quietly, shared bedrooms even though they did not have to, just to have someone nearby. Finwë had joined them, furious with the Valar but even more furious with Fëanor. If they fought, they did it where no one else could overhear. If Fëanor listened to anything that Finwë said to him, he gave no sign. By the time Fëanor had answered the Valar’s summons, Curufin was not the only one of his brothers who knew fear, though he had not been sure even then if he feared Fëanor or feared for him. 

He also remembered fearing for himself—fearing that he might someday follow his father’s footsteps into that horrible, constant, white-hot rage. It had felt as though his brothers were all watching him too, wondering the same thing, though no one spoke of it. Only Finwë had continued to treat him as he ever had, with the same warmth and easy affection that he showed to all of his grandchildren, though even he had grown stern and unsmiling by the end. 

Curufin had already followed his father’s footsteps in almost all other things—in his face, in his talents, his passions. He had even married young, just like his parents. And later, in Beleriand…he had watched his own fears and his brothers’ come true, as he turned into his father at his worst, unable and in the end unwilling to stop himself. His death had been no more than he deserved—less than, even, as quick as it was. He couldn’t even remember if it had hurt. 

Weeks after meeting Maglor by Ekkaia, unexpectedly and not wholly joyfully, they were at last at home—or at least at Nerdanel’s house. Home, at least for Curufin, was his house in Tirion with his wife and his workshop. Only Caranthir and Maedhros had lingered with their mother, Caranthir finding contentment in his gardens and in working with their grandfather, and Maedhros…well, maybe the painting studio would help him find something like contentment, something like happiness. Curufin was not accustomed to thinking of Maedhros as lost, but that was how he seemed more than half the time, lost and somehow afraid, though Curufin didn’t know what it was that frightened him, and he didn’t know how to ask. 

Well, Fëanor frightened him. Fëanor frightened them all, still, in one way or another. He was not visible in the large party that passed by a few days after their own arrival, but Curufin could feel the weight of his gaze all the same. 

“If you want to see him, go see him,” Maedhros had said before Curufin could even get up the courage to ask, even though his own meeting had gone so badly that he would not speak of it to anyone, not even Celegorm.

“He’s most likely to listen to you, Curvo,” Caranthir had added, matter-of-fact. 

Later, Maglor, still as wounded as Maedhros in his own way, had said, “There are things I cannot forgive, things I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive, however much I wish I could. But that should not stop you.”

Curufin had asked Ambarussa what they thought, as they drew closer to home. They had just shrugged. “You must do what will bring you peace, Curvo,” Amrod had said. “We don’t know what we want—to see him or not, I mean—but you’ll be the one living in Tirion. Better to find out sooner than later whether you can stand to be in the same room with him.”

He had not spoken to Celegorm; they were only speaking at all because Maedhros had pushed them together at Midsummer—acting more like himself than he had in years—and anyway, Curufin already knew that he would be against it. He was furious with Fëanor, and rightfully so—and he, too, was afraid, more afraid than he’d ever admit to anyone. Curufin just knew him well enough, even now after everything, that he could tell. Though like Maedhros, Curufin did not know exactly what it was that Celegorm feared.

Then Celebrimbor came, eager to hear about their journey and delighted to find that Maglor had come back with them. When they had a moment alone, Celebrimbor drew a letter and a small wooden box out of his satchel. “Grandfather sent you these,” he said, pressing them into Curufin’s hands. “He wrote to everyone—but he isn’t asking anything of you, I promise.”

“It sounds as though you’ve spent a great deal of time with him,” Curufin said.

“I did.” Celebrimbor met his gaze; his own eyes were clear of shadows. “It’s been—well, for me it has been wonderful, but I never saw much of that other side of him. It’s different for me.”

“I’m glad, Tyelpë,” Curufin said. The only good choice he had made after the Darkening had been to keep Celebrimbor as far from Fëanor as possible, and to keep him from swearing any oaths. He’d failed his son in myriad other ways, including allowing him to go east with them at all, but at least in this he had kept him safe and free—and able to look at his grandfather now with love unencumbered by fear. “I want to hear all about it—but later, when we can find somewhere quiet. I don’t think anyone else will want to speak of him.”

“Of course, Atya.”

Curufin retreated to Maedhros’ room, glad to find it empty. He sat on the bed and opened the box first. It was filled with gems, none bigger than his thumbnail, a small rainbow of them that caught the sunlight through the window and reflected it onto the wall, the ceiling; some of them had bits of light caught in them, making them shine like tiny stars. Curufin picked a few up, frowning a little. They were flawed, each one of them—either with inclusions that did not look purposeful, or with odd and irregular cuts, or nicks on the surface. They were all lovely regardless, but they looked more like a beginner’s attempts rather than the work of someone like his father, someone who had made the Silmarils. Curufin had never known Fëanor to make anything that was not flawless; or at least, he had never kept his mistakes, let alone given them away. He had been as demanding of himself as he had been of his students—and his sons—even before it had all started to go wrong. 

Of course, Fëanor had only come from Mandos that spring. He was still finding his way around the forge again, hands sore and tender without the callouses and scars he had had of old. Even his skills would be rusty, his new body lacking muscle memory, his mind having not been occupied with the making of things for such a long time. Curufin remembered all of that all too well. Still—why send his first attempts at gem making to Curufin? It must mean something, but Curufin—who had once thought so alike to his father that he had never needed to guess at such hints or riddles—couldn’t understand what.

With a sigh, he set the box aside and opened the letter. 

 

Curvo,

I have been thinking lately of names, and the consequences neither intended nor thought of at the time of the naming. It seems to me now that the name Curufinwë must have been a terrible burden for you, even if it wasn’t meant to be. It was a name I never used for myself, but it seemed to fit you so naturally, even newly born. You looked just like me, everyone said who had known me as an infant, and your mother thought you were sure to inherit my cleverness and my passions. I suppose that has proven true, but you also inherited other, worse things. You were a better father than I, in the end. You sought to shield your son, rather than to draw him into darkness after you. I wish that I had done the same. I wish I had not taught you to make blades, that I had not demanded you leave your wife and child to follow me into exile—that I had not made the Oath and bid you and all your brothers swear it alongside me. 

All that wishing is useless, of course. We cannot turn back time—but if we could there are so many things I would do differently. What I mean to say is: I am sorry. I’m sorry for the burden of your name and of my expectations, and I am sorry for leading you and your brothers and all our people into darkness and doom. It seems to me that someone should have coined a better phrase than “I am sorry” by now. It feels hollow and empty, too simple to contain all the regret that I feel. 

I hope you are proud of your son, Curvo. He has grown so great in both skill and wisdom—in compassion and kindness, even now, even after all that happened to him in Eregion. I saw those tapestries, too, and I saw your distress in Mandos, but could not quite reach you. I’m not sure you would have accepted whatever comfort I could offer. Telperinquar has been my teacher this summer, showing me many of the things he devised or learned in Middle-earth. It grieves me, though, that he hesitates even still to enter a forge, and that he will take no part in gem craft. That was your great love, I remember, and I remember too how much joy it brought you to share it with him as soon as he was old enough. I remember my own joy in watching your young face light up as you mastered new skills, learned new things. 

Returning even to my old skills feels as though I am learning them anew. I’ve sent you a box of my first attempts. Telperinquar has told me of the things each of you keep now, the things you make that don’t work, or are not pleasing to look at, but which hold meaning for what they taught you or for the joy you took in the process of making. Did you know your grandfather Mahtan bade me keep such a box when I was his apprentice? I never saw the point in it—I wanted to master as many skills as I could, and keeping a thing after I understood what mistakes I had made in it and how to avoid them in the future made no sense to me. Nothing less than perfection was worth keeping. I think now that is a lesson I must unlearn, and both you and Tyelpë have much to teach me. 

Your brothers have no desire to see or speak with me again, and I do not intend to try to force any more meetings. It was foolish to do so in the first place. I know that you live in Tirion now, and I promise that I will not seek you out—but if you change your mind, Curvo, I will not be hard to find. I love you so much, and I am so proud of how you have been rebuilding your life, finding happiness and peace. I promise I will not stand in your way.

 

Instead of a signature there was only a small eight-pointed star at the bottom. 

Curufin read the letter twice more before folding it up and tucking it into the box of gems, which he then placed at the bottom of one of his saddle bags. He had already decided that he would find his father when he returned to Tirion, to speak to him at least once to see if there was something, anything worth salvaging between them. He missed Fëanor so much it hurt, a constant ache under his ribs like his very heart was bruised. This letter, and Celebrimbor’s own words, suggested there was hope—hope for something more than uneasy coexistence, maybe something even better than what had come before.

Even so, fear lingered. His last memories of Fëanor were of someone fey and fell, terrible in his wrath, devoid of all affection or care, a stranger wearing his beloved father’s face. He was not, could not be like that now, else he would not have been released—else Celebrimbor would never have spent so much time in his company, or spoken of him with such clear joy and affection. 

Still. 

It was another day until Curufin and Celebrimbor were able to escape the house by themselves. They walked out into the orchard, trailed by Huan. “I missed you,” Celebrimbor said after they walked a few minutes in companionable silence. 

“And I you,” Curufin said, slipping his arm through Celebrimbor’s. “How was it, really?”

“As I have said, rather shockingly peaceful, aside from the fish pond incident,” said Celebrimbor. “For my part, it was a wonderful summer—except that I was worried about all of you, and about Maglor. We had no idea, of course, that you’d met.”

“It was Celegorm’s idea to keep it a surprise for our mother,” said Curufin, “and I think it made it a little easier for Maglor—there were no expectations to worry about until we arrived.”

“But it went well? Besides the river incident.”

“Our river incident was much worse than your grandfather’s fish pond incident,” said Curufin. Celebrimbor snorted. “Maedhros has some new scars, and we were all furious with him for a few days, but that’s all. It was very bad, but it could have been much worse, and I think there is no lasting harm. Tyelpë, are you all right? Maglor told me that Finrod got the two of you drunk earlier this year, to speak of the past.”

“Oh, that.” Celebrimbor shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I’m all right, Atya. Really. Something had happened to bring it all back for Finrod, and he needed to speak of it to someone he knew wouldn’t pity him and—well, Maglor and I are it, aren’t we? He came as close to being angry as I’ve ever seen him when I suggested he could talk to his companions about it, the ones who had been there with him, and he was in one of those moods where it was just easier to go along than to argue, although Maglor tried. There is something cathartic about getting drunk and crying a lot I suppose, but I am in no hurry to do it again, and I won’t ever again have more than a single glass of anything Finrod gives me. The next morning was awful.”

“So…no harm done?”

“No, no harm. I suppose I do feel better for having said some of it aloud, knowing both of them would understand what I meant without having to ask any questions. It’s nothing I would ever speak of to you, Atya, so please don’t ask. It’s bad enough I know you saw it all through Vairë’s tapestries.”

Even after so much time had passed, after they were both returned to life, it filled Curufin with a terrible, helpless, furious grief to think of what had befallen Celebrimbor in Ost-in-Edhil. “I won’t ask.”

“Did you read the letter Grandfather sent you?”

“I did.” Curufin dropped his gaze to their feet. “I have been thinking of going to him anyway. I know what I said in the spring, but it…feels wrong to just turn my back, when you did not turn yours.”

“It isn’t quite the same, Atya,” Celebrimbor said.

“It’s near enough. My father gave me far more than only his name. You got the best of him, I think, and I got the worst.” 

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s only the truth.” It was something he would have to wrestle with the rest of his life, Curufin thought. Surely it would be better to do it with Fëanor, rather than in opposition. 

They had come to the edge of the orchard, where it met the river. Huan trotted past to sniff along the bank, and they stood for a few minutes contemplating the water and the sunshine and the shade. Finally, Curufin said, “I hope you know how proud I am of you, Tulcafinwë Telperinquar.” Curufin was not one touched by foresight, but he felt as though he had been in some small way when he had chosen his son’s name, though it was rarely used and seldom remembered these days. Strong, steadfast—that was the core of who Celebrimbor had grown to be, no thanks to Curufin himself. He had failed so terribly as a father, just as Fëanor had, in only slightly different ways. 

Celebrimbor smiled at him. The rows of small silver hoops in his ears glinted in the dappled sunshine that filtered through the branches over their heads. He wore no other jewelry, and his hair was loose about his shoulders, dark as shadows. “I do know,” he said. And then he asked, “When you say you have been thinking of going to see him—does that mean you plan on it? Or have you not yet decided?”

“I do plan on it,” Curufin said. “I need to speak to your mother first, though. She is still very angry.”

“She might not be as angry as you think.”

“Still—if she does not wish me to speak to him, I won’t.” 

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Celebrimbor said after a moment. “I don’t think she would ask that of you.”

“Maybe not. I still wish to know what she has to say.” Curufin didn’t really think so either, but he had placed his father above all others once, and he would not do so again. Whatever he decided to do in the end, he did not wish to do it in haste and without thought. There was no danger in hesitation now, as there had been once in Beleriand; there was no Oath slowly grinding him down like a millstone ground grain. He was free to follow his own heart, but he wanted it to align with Rundamírë’s. 

Before he could speak to Rundamírë, he fought with Celegorm. He hadn’t meant to, but Celegorm overheard when Curufin had told Caranthir what he intended to do in Tirion, and there had been no reasoning with him, no way to make him listen. Curufin watched him storm away toward the road south, feeling wretched. “He isn’t being fair,” Caranthir said from behind him. Curufin hadn’t expected his support when the argument got going; it meant more than he would have expected. Huan trotted up, licked Curufin’s hand with surprising gentleness, and bounded away after Celegorm. 

“What if he’s right?” Curufin said.

“He’s not,” Caranthir replied, as though it could possibly be that simple. “He’ll come around, Curvo. He doesn’t want another estrangement any more than you do.”

“We’re all growing estranged again, though,” Curufin said, watching Huan disappear into the distance. Maglor had left first, and then the twins had slipped away, and now he and Celegorm were leaving, in opposite directions.

“No we aren’t. We all went our separate ways in Beleriand, but it wasn’t that that made us break apart.” Caranthir pushed himself off of the door frame and wrapped his arms around Curufin for a moment, holding on tightly. “I’d go with you to Tirion, but I’d ruin any chance of the meeting going well. I’m still too angry.”

“I hate that I’m the only one who isn’t,” Curufin whispered. 

“That speaks better of you than you seem to think. Stop second guessing and go to Tirion. See your wife, and make your own choices.”

“I should see Maedhros—”

“I think he left when Tyelko started shouting. Don’t worry about him; I’ll make sure he’s all right, and anyway I wrote to Fingon. He should be arriving any time now.”

“But if he—”

“For goodness’ sake, Curvo.”

“All right, all right.” Curufin glanced away toward the river, where Maedhros had probably gone. “Write to me if he gets worse.”

“Write to me, whatever happens,” Caranthir replied. 

“If you’re still angry—”

“At him, Curvo. Not at you.”

“But I’m just like him,” Curufin burst out, feeling his own temper rising. He didn’t understand any of his brothers, and he hated it. “In all the worst ways! The only way I haven’t followed him is I never made anything like—”

“Oh stop it, Curvo.” Caranthir cuffed the side of his head. “Just because you’re named for him doesn’t mean you’re doomed to be the same person. He wouldn’t care what the rest of us thought, in your place. He’d just go do whatever he wanted and expect the rest of us to fall in line. That’s what he always did.”

“It isn’t what he’s doing now.”

Caranthir shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just going about it a different way. You can tell us one way or the other after you’ve seen him. Just make sure it’s on your terms, that it’s what you want and not just what you think he wants.”

It was what he wanted, Curufin thought. At the very least he needed to know whether he could stand to keep living in Tirion, even though it felt deeply unfair that if he couldn’t, it would likely be him who had to leave, in spite of the life he was rebuilding there and the roots he was trying to put down. 

He left Nerdanel’s house at last. Tirion was a very short ride away, and he arrived at his own house early in the evening, as the sky was just starting to turn purple in the east. He had chosen to live among his and his brothers’ former followers—his father’s former followers—and he hadn’t regretted it until that day, when he had to put on a smile when they greeted him with warm delight at Fëanor’s return. Lights were on in most of the houses, warm and golden, and the sounds of the city surrounded him, a comfort after spending so many weeks away in the wilds, where the only sounds were insects and birds—or not even that, by Ekkaia, where there was only the wind and the soft wash of the waves. Perhaps Maglor could have lingered there, for he had always been drawn to water even before his long exile in Middle-earth, but Curufin had been glad to leave. It was worth seeing, and the journey itself had been well worth it, but he was very glad to be back in Tirion. 

Celebrimbor was not at home when Curufin arrived, but Rundamírë greeted him at the door. “You have had a very eventful summer, I have heard,” she said. She had garnets in her hair, glinting red against the warm brown strands, and fresh ink stains on her fingers. “I hope you plan to tell me all about it.”

“Of course.”

It was several days, though, before they sat down to talk of the summer—and of his father. Rundamírë had not seen Fëanor, though she had been at Imloth Ningloron for Midsummer. “It was wonderful to hear your brother’s singing again,” she said. They had retreated to the roof, where there was a flat open space that Rundamírë used as a garden, and where they could lay out soft pillows to sit and watch the stars and listen to the bustling of the street below in the evenings. The air was cool, with a slight bite to it, but Curufin had lit a brazier and Rundamírë had made mulled wine. “He and Elemmírë performed all day for us.”

“He doesn’t like to perform anymore,” Curufin said.

“It did not seem so to me. But I have also heard a great deal about how ill at ease he has been, and I did not see that either—he greeted me warmly enough, and he was as merry as anyone else during the celebrations.”

“I suppose it’s that he was with Elrond and his family,” Curufin said. “He did not laugh much when he was with us.”

“Did any of you laugh much?” Rundamírë asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“Toward the end, I suppose we started to,” Curufin said after a moment. He frowned into his wine glass, smelling the sweet scent of it and the warmer notes of the cinnamon and other spices Rundamírë had added. “I do not regret going, though it was not what I had planned. You and I were going to—”

“You don’t need to apologize to me for it,” Rundamírë said. “I thought it was an excellent idea when Telperinquar told me.” She leaned over to rest her head against his shoulder. “And now I am glad to have you back. Telperinquar also told me that you’re speaking to Tyelkormo again. I’m glad.”

“We were speaking,” Curufin muttered. “Then we fought again the day I came home.”

“About what?”

“Atar. What else?”

Rundamírë sat up and turned to face him. “You really want to see him?” she asked. 

“He’s my father, Arimeldë,” Curufin said quietly. “I need to…I need to see him at least once. I cannot go on living here in Tirion expecting to be able to avoid him. Sooner or later he’ll come to this part of the city, or I will be called to the palace.” Fëanor had promised, in his letter, to keep out of Curufin’s way—but that would cause talk that he didn’t think either of them wanted, and in practice it just wasn’t feasible.

“Is that what you want?” she asked. “To just be able to coexist?”

“I don’t know. I miss him, but I also cannot forget what he was at the end.” And what Curufin himself had later become, his father’s image in all of the worst ways, and none of the great ones. “If you don’t want me to see him, I won’t.”

“I did not try to stop Telperinquar from seeing him. I will not ask it of you, either, but I will not have him in my house. I would not be able to remain civil, and that would ruin anything you try to rebuild. Perhaps in time I will find myself softening, but only if I see proof that neither you nor he will fall into old patterns.”

“That is the last thing I want,” Curufin said. “Tell me if you see it beginning, and I will listen.” He reached for her hand and kissed her fingers, and her frown softened a little. “You and Tyelpë and my brothers—you come first. If my father cannot be content with that…then I suppose civility will be as much as I can hope for.”

“For your sake, my love, I hope he will be. Telperinquar certainly thinks so. When will you seek him out, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what he’s doing.”

“Settling back in at his brother’s court, mostly,” Rundamírë said, “or so I hear. It’s all very strange to hear about him doing the opposite of what he once did. I’m not sure that I trust it.” 

They sat in silence for a while. Someone down the street was having a party; Curufin could hear merry music and the occasional burst of roaring laughter. Elsewhere someone else was busy at a forge, the faint ringing of a hammer against the anvil drifting through the evening. If he lifted his gaze he could see the Mindon Eldaliéva glimmering in the starlight—and beyond, a glimpse of the Calacirya, where Eärendil’s star hovered over the eastern horizon. The sight of that star still made him uneasy. The Oath was no more, but the memory of it lingered, even after so many years in Mandos trying to let it go.

Finally, Rundamírë said, “I suppose until things are more settled we should set aside what we were discussing this spring.”

Curufin had almost forgotten. They had been, tentatively, carefully, talking of children. It had been something on their minds before the unrest had grown too much, too, and it was pure luck that they hadn’t decided one way or the other before everything had gone wrong. Now—Curufin did feel ready, felt on even footing with Rundamírë and optimistic about his brothers, but his father’s arrival had thrown him off balance in other ways. “For now,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve had many things to apologize for, Curufinwë, but this is not one of them.” Rundamírë leaned over and kissed him. “I’m going to bed. Try not to spend all night brooding.”

“I won’t.” He did spend a few more hours at it, though, watching the stars and listening to the music down the street, wondering what his father was doing, if his father slept soundly at night or if he too was still haunted by the past’s shadows.

It was another week before Curufin got up the nerve to seek out his father. He went with Celebrimbor to the palace to help him install the last two windows of Fingolfin’s council chamber. The effect was very pleasing, the stained glass arranged in varying abstract patterns as Celebrimbor had experimented with color and shade and opacity. Fingolfin came in to see the new windows, greeting them both warmly. Curufin lingered only a few minutes after exchanging greetings, and then slipped away as Fingolfin asked Celebrimbor about his methods. 

He spent little time in the palace these days, but he still knew the halls and corridors, and made his way at a deliberate pace toward the rooms that had belonged to Fëanor long ago and which, he assumed, were his again. They were empty—of course they would be, in the middle of the day. Curufin thought for a moment, and then went to the library, an enormous, cavernous room that had been renovated and expanded at least twice since his father would have last seen it. It was not empty, but Fëanor was not there, either—but Findis was. She set her book aside and came to Curufin, smiling kindly. “Try the cherry grove,” she said without Curufin even needing to ask. “I am glad you’re here, Nephew. He misses you.”

“Thank you,” Curufin said, and left before he could be drawn into any longer conversation. Of course—the cherry grove was where Finwë had built his own small workshop. The trees were not the same, of course, but they were descended from those that Finwë had planted. Curufin had never been able to eat cherries without thinking of his grandfather—and so he avoided them, for the most part. He was fairly certain that Maedhros did, too.

The cherry trees were all golden yellow with autumn, and as he walked through the grove the leaves fell around him, gently settling on the ground; the thick layer of them shifted and rustled with every step he took. Curufin breathed slowly through his nose and tried to calm the pounding of his heart. It was very quiet; the birds that usually were to be found in the palace gardens had all flown away south. Past the trees he could just glimpse the woodworking shop that Finwë had built, still maintained and kept tidy in his absence, either out of habit or some desperate lingering hope for the impossible.

“Curvo?” Fëanor’s voice reached him, sounding startled. Curufin stopped and turned. Fëanor stood under a tree the next row over, his hand resting on the trunk and a look of shock on his face. He was dressed in robes fit for the court, deep red and embellished with gold embroidery—doubtless Míriel’s work. His hair was long and loose, and he wore little in the way of jewelry. There was nothing of fury or fear in him now, only the father that Curufin had been mourning for years uncounted.

“Atya,” he breathed, his own fears dissolving like mist in the wind, and closed the distance at a run. Fëanor’s arms caught and wrapped around him tightly, warm and strong and solid and alive.