The Future's In Our Hands by StarSpray  

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Amras

Written for the Swinging 40s prompt: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eyes.” — Antoine de Saint-Expeury, The Little Prince

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Amrod had never thought much about his name before, until he saw his father-name scrawled across the letter that Fëanor had written to him—to him, by himself, not him and Amrod together as Ambarussa. It felt strange and wrong to be addressed separately when they usually tried quite hard, when in company, to be two sides of the same coin, two halves of one whole—it’s what they were, even if they felt freer to act otherwise in private. Their brothers saw through it, of course, but Amras hadn’t ever thought that Fëanor had. He’d been occupied by the idea of the Silmarils already when they had been born, and then later by swords and helms and old grudges dredged up by lies and whispers. 

When he listened to his other brothers talk of the Fëanor of their youths and childhoods, he had lately found himself thinking that the things Fëanor had done for them were what he and Amrod had turned most often to Maedhros for, or Maglor. It had been Maedhros who taught them their letters and numbers, and Maglor who had first put their small fingers to harp strings, and how to beat a drum in time to the steps of dancers and the playing of other musicians, and had taught them also their first dance steps. Maedhros had been the big and safe shelter from whatever small horrors or sorrows had plagued them as children. Maglor had been there to climb on and to tickle them until they screamed. Celegorm had later shown them the delights of the wild woods and vales; Caranthir had been best at explaining things in their studies that left them confused, and who offered quiet company when they were upset but didn’t want to speak of it; Curufin was the one who had made all their favorite toys, and who gave them their first lessons in the forge.

It wasn’t exactly the same, Amras knew. Fëanor had not been wholly absent, and he had taught them many things and had often set aside his projects to play games with them or to tell them stories—but he did that less and less often as time went on, until by the time they were growing out of childhood into young adulthood they gave up trying to ask for any of his time at all. It had been brothers that Amras had learned to rely on, rather than his father. Even Nerdanel had grown increasingly distant in those latter days, when Fëanor had demanded utter loyalty of them all, and she had been the only one with a will strong enough to refuse. Amras and Amrod had followed in their brothers’ footsteps, because they hadn’t known there was any other option. One didn’t just say no to Fëanor, especially his sons, especially in those days. 

Now, though. Amras wasn’t sure what he would do if his father asked anything of him. He’d already done all the worst things it was possible to do in his name, for his Oath, for his Silmarils. Death had been the best outcome, though he felt guilty whenever he thought of it, knowing how all of their deaths still haunted Maglor, how he had suffered so many centuries of loneliness. Amras had never known loneliness—even in death Amrod had been right there beside him—and he shuddered whenever he thought of it. It was one thing to part ways for a few hours or a few days, to find peace in the quiet solitude of the forest. It was another thing entirely to be left alone with no choice in the matter, to have to somehow live on in a broken and uncaring world where there was no one left to even wonder whether you survived or not. Amras couldn't have done it. Maglor hated to be told how strong he was, but Amras didn’t know how else to describe him. 

Amras didn’t think he could have faced Fëanor, either, as Maglor had—certainly not in anger, not with the courage to throw his own words back at him and to make him feel even a little bit of what they had all felt in the wake of his madness and death. He shivered at the thought as he made his way deeper into the forest. Amrod took to the high branches, but Amras preferred the cool shadows by the tree roots, and the secrets of the brambles and honeysuckle thickets, the quiet whisper of the leaves underneath his feet. He loved the deep woods, where there was no one to care what his name was, or who his father had been. There were no titles in Vána’s domain, no kings nor subjects. There was only life and death and the delicate balance between them that kept the world going, only the quiet voices of the trees and the music of the flowing streams. 

He went to his favorite place to sit and think, a small cave where a spring bubbled up and overflowed into a small, frigid stream that wound out and away to join with other streams and rivulets, one by one, until they became a creek, which then became a small river that flowed in a silver ribbon of waterfall down the sheer mountainside to a deep lake where Amrod and Amras often went in summer to swim. It was far too cold for that now, and before long the lake and the waterfall would freeze, and they would go in the depths of winter to skate with the Laiquendi under the full moon, the only sound beneath their laughter the scrape of the blades on their feet over the thick ice, echoing off of the snows and the mountainsides. Amras loved those nights. Gliding across the ice felt as close as it was possible to get to flying.

Amras settled in a patch of sunshine, pulling his cloak around him, and regarded the letter. He’d brought his father’s gift, too, and decided to open that first. The soft leather wrapping fell away to reveal a handful of crystals, clearly made by his father but cut in a way that made them seem almost as though they had been taken from the ground. They were strangely faceted, too, and all attached to a slender silver chain, so that when he held it up they hung at different lengths from it, clinking quietly together as they swung. As he lifted them the sun caught them and on the far wall of the cave rainbows appeared, swaying and dancing like sunlight through summer leaves. Amras stared at the sight, suddenly wanting to cry. These were not exactly like the prisms he’d delighted in as a small child, but they were very close. They had been a constant delight, the way they’d thrown bits of bright color onto the walls and ceilings of the nursery when he moved them around. The shades of the colors were different under the autumn sun than they had been long ago in Laurelin’s light, and different again than that of Telperion. When he thought back, though, Amras was certain that it had been Curufin that had made them for him, when he’d been mastering gem craft himself. Fëanor had by then only been interested in far more complex and intricate projects; Amras hadn’t known that his father even realized how much he’d loved the rainbows. He’d forgotten all about them himself, in the wake of everything that had happened afterward. They must be packed into a box somewhere back at the house in Tirion, if they hadn’t been broken in the long years since they’d left that place, alongside all the other little artifacts of his childhood, slowly moldering away as the years passed. 

He set the prisms aside, carefully laying them onto the leather wrapping, and turned his attention back to the letter. Telufinwë, read his name across the front. The last Finwë. He’d never given it much thought before, since it was true more or less—he was the youngest of Finwë’s grandsons, even if he was not the last to be named Finwë—Curufin had followed the same pattern some years later in choosing a father-name for Celebrimbor. Now, though…Amras frowned at the page, tracing his finger over the letters. It felt less personal than his brothers’ names, as though his father couldn’t be bothered to think of a name like clever or commanding or even something like dark for his youngest. He and Amrod were only small and last. Like a coda at the end of the list. Rather like Maedhros was only third—no wonder he wanted so little to do with Fëanor now. Strange how they hadn’t noticed such significance in their father’s choice of names before. Amras sighed and flipped the letter over to peel off the seal.

 

Telvo,

It rained a little while ago, and as I write this I can see a rainbow arcing through the sky in the distance as the sun comes out. The whole world seems to be sparkling. It is so very unlike Laurelin, the sun, and I am still trying to get used to it. But the rainbow reminded me of you. Do you remember the prisms that Curvo made for you long ago? You used to spend hours moving them along the windowsills of your room so that the shapes and shades of the rainbow lights changed and danced all across the walls and ceiling of your bedroom, and you and Pityo would dance through them, your bright voices echoing through the whole house. 

I’ve asked after you and Pityo, but Telperinquar can tell me very little, and everyone else even less. It is said that you have rejoined Oromë’s folk; I hope you have found happiness there, you and your brothers. I hope you still like rainbows and bright colors, and that you laugh again as you used to when you were young. I miss your laughter; you and Pityo were always full of it, and I can’t quite remember when that changed. When you were still far too young, I think. 

I find suddenly that I cannot remember a great deal of your later childhood. Was I so absent? The Silmarils occupied so much of my thoughts at that time—and then the whispers of the Enemy began to circulate, and—and I missed so much. I had the greatest treasures right in front of me and I did not see them. Somehow in my memory you are a small child delighting in rainbows in one instant, and in the next you are in Formenos, quiet and watchful and with no trace of the smile that once never seemed to leave your face. 

I’m sorry, Telvo. I don’t know what else to say. I killed your laughter and then I chained your bright and vibrant spirit, and then I left you to walk the long road into darkness and death, and I regret all of it more than words in any tongue can say. 

I love you still—so, so much. I hope you still love rainbows, and that you have learned how to laugh again. I’m glad that you and Pityo remain together, even if the rest of your brothers have scattered, though I saw you all depart together this spring, heading west into the wilderness. You used to all go off like that so often, but you were far quieter this spring than you had been in the past; I heard no laughter or teasing among you, or singing—and, of course, there were only the six of you. I don’t know where Cáno has gone, but I hope someday all seven of you can come together again. If my return to life achieves nothing but that, I will be content. 

 

Instead of a name the letter was signed with a small star. Amras rubbed his thumb over it, and then lifted his hand to scrub the tears from his eyes. He did not want to cry over his father. The letter wasn’t even that long—he’d glimpsed a few of the other letters in Celebrimbor’s hands and knew they were thicker—but it said everything that Amras would have hoped it would say, if he had received it a few thousand years ago. Even only two lines, if he could believe them sincere, would have been enough: I am sorry and I love you. As it was, on the face of it, maybe someone else might call it not enough, call it too little too late. But it meant something—the prisms, a memory that he had never known his father harbored. The plain words of it, unembellished even though Amras knew exactly how capable of fine speech and convincing rhetoric his father was. 

In a house of seven brothers and numerous cousins and friends all coming and going it had been so easy to be overlooked, as the youngest—even though there were two of them. Their parents had always been affectionate, and until the exile to Formenos Amras had never had reason to doubt that he was loved, and had even liked that he and Amrod had been left to run a little wild. But the exile had changed everything—and then the Darkening, and Finwë’s death had made it all so much worse. It was hard to believe that Fëanor had even remembered what love was by the end. His quest for vengeance had been kindled by his love for his own father, but by the time he’d burned away before their eyes, it had long been fueled by something else. Amras usually tried not to remember that, the battle and the balrogs and Fëanor’s ruined body, dissolving into ash that the winds scattered so there wasn’t even anything to bury.

Whatever he had lost in the darkness, though, it seemed Fëanor had found it again in Mandos.

He did not want to cry, but the tears fell anyway. Amras let them, setting the letter on top of the prisms and pressing his face into his arms atop his knees. It wasn’t a violent or desperate sort of crying; it was quiet, and when the tears slowed he felt a little better, as though they’d taken something out of him with them. 

He arrived home before Amrod did, and after thinking about it for a little while longer, he took the prisms back out of their wrapping and hung them over the kitchen window, where the most sunlight came through all year round. They swayed gently on their silver chain, and rainbows danced across the floor. 

Amrod returned still uncertain, but both of them felt a little more hopeful—a little more like Curufin, and less like Caranthir or Celegorm.

Autumn went on, and as the nights grew frosty and the leaves faded to brown, a cloudy afternoon brought the sound of a bark echoing up through the trees. Amras was outside, splitting firewood. Amrod was inside, but came immediately to the doorway. “That sounded like Huan,” he said. Both of them, Amras thought, were remembering Huan’s barking by Ekkaia heralding Maglor’s arrival there. But Huan was back by Celegorm’s side, and Amras couldn’t imagine why Celegorm would be coming up this way. 

It was Celegorm, though. He stepped into the little meadow and halted, staring about in confusion, and with the air of someone who had just woken up after sleepwalking. Amras did not like the look of him at all. His braids were askew and unraveling, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Huan had emerged at his side, but bounded forward to greet Amras and then Amrod. “What happened, Huan?” Amrod asked him. “What’s the matter with him?” Huan just woofed softly. His tail was not wagging. 

“I suppose we must ask Tyelko,” said Amras. He set his ax down and ran to Celegorm. “What brings you here, Tyelko?” he asked, though he was unable to accompany the question with a smile like he wanted to. “What’s the matter?”

“I…is this where you’ve been all along?” Celegorm asked. 

“Mostly,” said Amras.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—Huan was—”

“If Huan brought you here, he must have had good reason. No, don’t leave!” Amras grabbed his hand when he started to turn away. “You look terrible. Did you fight with Curvo again?” Celegorm grimaced and didn’t answer. “Well, come on. You can yell at us if you want, and we won’t hold it against you.”

“I didn’t—I don’t—I’m not angry at you, Ambarussa.”

“Then come inside! I think we still have some chocolate that Aunt Vanilómë gave us last year. Ambarussa!” Amras called as he pulled Celegorm back to the house. “Get out the chocolate, won’t you? I think Tyelko needs it.” Caranthir had sent tea back home with them, too, but this called for something sweeter, richer. Amrod nodded and disappeared inside, Huan at his heels. 

They’d built the cottage with only the two of them in mind, long before they had any hope of rebuilding any sort of connection with their brothers, but since they’d told Maglor about it they had rearranged a few things, and made it so a guest would be comfortable. There was a third bed in the loft, now, and extra pillows to set out by the hearth, and Amrod had just finished another chair for the table the morning before. Neither of them, though, had expected any of it to be needed so soon. Amrod didn’t wait for Celegorm to fumble with his own outerwear, removing his cloak for him, and the too-light coat underneath, divesting him of his bag and his bow and quiver, and then led him over to the hearth to push him down onto the pillows so he could pull off his boots. “You’re half frozen, Tyelko. What have you been doing?”

“I’m fine,” Celegorm started, but Huan flopped down beside him and set his large head on his lap with a low warning noise that was not quite a growl. “Huan—”

“Huan knows you aren’t fine,” Amras said, “and so do we—since we aren’t blind. What happened? Did Curvo go back to see Atya?”

“Did you know?” Celegorm asked. He didn’t sound nearly as angry as Amras would have expected. Instead he just sounded hurt. 

“He asked us what we thought of it ages ago,” said Amrod as he brought out the chocolate to melt into goat’s milk one of their friends had brought them earlier in the day. “Did he ask you? I didn't think he would.” Celegorm looked away. “Oh, I see. You just found out some other way.”

“I just—if he’d told me—”

“You would’ve just gotten angry—like you did anyway,” said Amras. He put a blanket around Celegorm’s shoulders, and then knelt to wrap his arms around him from behind. “And now you’re both miserable, I’d wager.”

“He’s not,” Celegorm muttered. “If he’s gone back to Atar as though nothing happened—”

“If he was going to go about it like that he wouldn’t have asked the rest of us what we thought,” Amrod pointed out. “None of us can hope to do anything as though nothing happened, and I think Curvo would be the last one of us to try. He wants to be better, Tyelko.”

“Why doesn’t it upset you?” Celegorm asked. Amras could tell that he wanted to be angry, but his voice lacked its usual bite. “All of you, even Maglor—even Nelyo—”

“Because we aren’t Curvo, and Curvo isn’t us,” Amrod said. “And he’s the one that has to live in Tirion. Atar spoke in his letters to us like he wasn’t going to try to come find us, or seek a meeting, but that’s just not reasonable if he and Curvo are going to be living in the same city. Curvo does things for Fingolfin and Anairë all the time. He’ll be in and out of the palace. They have to at least have one conversation, just to see if it will be possible. Maybe it won’t be, and Curvo will leave Tirion and build a house beside Ammë, the way she did when she left Tirion.”

“I don’t think he wants that, though,” Amras said quietly. “I’d bet anything Rundamírë doesn’t want to leave—and Curvo has been there a lot longer than Atya. He shouldn’t have to feel as though he must pull up his roots and go somewhere else just because Atar is there. It isn’t fair.”

“Since when has the world ever been fair?” Celegorm said, but his shoulders slumped, and he leaned back against Amras. He was shivering under the blanket. 

“That’s why we’ve got to try to be fair,” said Amras, tightening his grip a little. “To each other, at least, if no one else will, if the world won’t be. Did you argue with Maglor, too?”

“I’m not—I was stupid and he’s not going to want to—”

“I bet he’ll want to see you,” Amrod said. “He still wants to see Nelyo.”

“He doesn’t, though.”

“There’s a difference between wanting something and being able to do it,” Amras said. “Anyway, we want to see you, and keep seeing you—so don’t try to slip away in the night. There’s plenty of room here for the three of us, if you don’t mind it being a little cozy. It’s bigger than the tent, anyway.”

Celegorm sighed, and shook his head. His braids were coming undone, and strands of pale silver hair fell around his face, sticking to his temples. “I don’t mind.”

“Good.” Amras kissed his temple and rose. “You’ve arrived just in time. It’ll snow soon, and it gets treacherous in the mountains in winter, so you’re stuck with us regardless.”

“We’ll have to make you a pair of skates,” Amrod said brightly, as he poured the hot chocolate into three mugs. “We go skating at the lake just down the mountain in the winter, with the Laiquendi. You’ll be terrible at it, Tyelko.”

“You’re awful,” Celegorm said, but he took the hot chocolate. In the window the prisms swung gently, and rainbows danced over all their faces. After Amrod and Amras settled down with their own mugs in front of the fire on either side of him, as the wind picked up outside, promising the snows that Amras had predicted, Celegorm said very quietly, without looking up, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank us, Tyelko.” 

“You took care of everyone all summer. It’s our turn now.”