A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Sixteen

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“What is it you’re worried about?” Caranthir asked Curufin as they stood in the cellar of Nerdanel’s house, in the corner where the chest bearing the palantíri had been tucked away. They weren’t used much anymore; Curufin though the last time the chest had been opened had been when they’d all gone out into the western wilds fifty years before. “Do you think he won’t do it?”

“No.” Curufin knelt and opened the chest. Nine dark orbs sat in a row on the soft blue fabric tucked inside. He picked one up at random. They were the first palantíri Fëanor had ever made, and they were not perfectly smooth; there were soft time-worn ridges from the molds he had used, and in a few places he could feel dings and chips where the stone had been dropped or maybe thrown. He imagined neither Maedhros nor Nerdanel had been particularly gentle after they had used them, and seen Maglor in darkness and torment so many years ago. “I think he will.” He rose and slipped the stone into the bag that Caranthir held out. Caranthir handed it back to him and shut the chest with a soft thump. “I don’t know. I’m just…worried.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll just have to see how it goes afterward. It’s probably a good thing no one else has one of these.” They were all attuned to the nine of them—Fëanor, Nerdanel, and all their sons—and also to each other, and it was too easy to accidentally start communing with one another if more than one stone was in use at the same time. Fëanor had fixed that along with other flaws in later stones, but it was one reason none of them had been very eager to take one when they went traveling or wandering, long ago. 

They left Nerdanel’s house and caught up to Lisgalen and Rundamírë and the girls. Calissë and Náriel were unaware of the nature of Curufin’s errand there, though Rundamírë and Lisgalen knew of it. Rundamírë caught his eye and he summoned a smile for her that he knew she saw right through. 

Curufin had been reluctant to leave Imloth Ningloron with all the rest of his brothers still there as well as Nerdanel, but it was a relief to pass through the gates of Tirion into the familiar streets, and even more of a relief to return to their own neighborhood, colorful and bustling with activity and the sounds and sights and smells of making. Lisgalen lived only a few doors down—that was how they and Caranthir had first met. They and Caranthir agreed to return to Curufin and Rundamírë’s house for dinner that evening, and so they all parted. 

There was the usual chaos of homecoming as bags were taken away and the housekeeper came to greet them and to share what tidbits of news they’d missed, which was little enough. “Is Tyelpë at home?” Curufin asked as Calissë and Náriel raced away toward the kitchen upon hearing the cook was making one of their favorite sweets. 

“Yes, he is out in the workshop,” said Maluwendë. “Your lord father is there too, I think—or at least he was this morning.”

“I’ll see what is keeping them,” Curufin told Rundamírë.

“Take the stone with you,” she said. “Better not to leave it where the girls might find it.”

The workshop was separated from the house by a narrow alley; it was a large and open building that Curufin and Celebrimbor had spent many weeks putting together and organizing so they might both work there comfortably and without getting in each other’s way. Curufin kept his forge separate and out of the way behind the main workshop; it was closed up and cold now, for since his return from Mandos Celebrimbor did no work there, though sometimes he would come to watch Curufin as he worked. As he reached for the door to the main workshop Curufin heard voices laughing, but he pushed it open just in time to hear Celebrimbor curse in Dwarvish a second before glass shattered. 

“Tyelpë?” Curufin stepped into the workshop to find Celebrimbor and Fëanor both reaching for rags to press to Celebrimbor’s palm. “What happened?”

“My fault,” Celebrimbor said through gritted teeth. “Just—stupid—I wasn’t watching—and it was broken already anyway—”

Curufin left the palantír on his own workbench and went to look at the cut. It was not too bad, though it was deep enough to need a few stitches. Celebrimbor looked away, his face grey and expression pinched. “Sit down, Tyelpë,” Curufin said, gently pushing him onto the nearest stool. “Atya, there are bandages in that cupboard.”

“That will need more than bandages,” Fëanor said as he moved to fetch them. He grabbed the broom too, to sweep away the pieces of glass scattered across the floor.

“Tyelpë.” Curufin waited until Celebrimbor looked at him. “Are you going to faint?” Celebrimbor shook his head, but Curufin wasn’t sure he believed him. Ever since his return, Celebrimbor had been abundantly cautious in the workshop, avoiding anything that might be considered particularly dangerous, and taking extra care in what he did do, and this was one reason why. This lapse in attention was very unlike him, though at least his distraction had not been the result of any sort of argument or poor mood. “Do you want me to stitch it, or Tindehtë?” Tindehtë was their cook now, but she had been their most skilled healer in Himlad until the Dagor Bragollach. 

“You, please,” Celebrimbor said. 

Curufin wrapped a bandage tightly around Celebrimbor’s hand to stem the bleeding until he could get what he needed. “Wait here, then. Keep it elevated—”

“I know, Atya.”

Rundamírë was nowhere to be seen when Curufin returned to the house, to his relief; he did not really want to explain why he had blood all over his hands not ten minutes after returning home. Tindehtë kept a kit near the kitchen for such emergencies, and he was able to grab it and leave again without either Calissë or Náriel noticing, and when he returned to the workshop he found Fëanor steadying Celebrimbor on the stool. “On the floor, Tyelpë. You don’t need to crack your head open as well as your hand.” 

“This is stupid,” Celebrimbor muttered as he obeyed, leaning back against a shelf and turning his head away as Curufin sat beside him.

“Not stupid,” Curufin said. “Here, sip this.” There was a small bottle of miruvórë in the kit, and Celebrimbor took it obediently. 

“Should we not seek a more skilled healer, if it’s so bad?” Fëanor asked as he knelt on Celebrimbor’s other side.

“It’s not that bad,” said Curufin as he unwrapped the bloodied bandages. The bleeding had already slowed. “Nelyo was hurt far worse than this on our journey west, and I stitched him up fine.”

“He was what?” Fëanor looked up sharply, and Curufin only then remembered he hadn’t actually told his father about what he and his brothers called the River Incident. 

“I just don’t like the sight of blood,” Celebrimbor said. His color was better, but he stared resolutely at the far wall as Curufin got out a needle and thread.

Fëanor frowned at him. “I don’t remember you having such trouble before,” he said. 

“Yes, well. Things change.”

“Tyelpë—”

“Atya,” Curufin warned, a little more sharply than he’d intended. He threaded the needle. At least this was a small cut, compared to the claw- and teeth-marks Maedhros had suffered in the hill country near Ekkaia, when a particularly stupid hill cat had attacked, and there was no reason to scold Celebrimbor for it the way they’d all scolded Maedhros. Accidents happened. Curufin worked quickly, aware that his father was watching with one of those unreadable expressions he wore sometimes now, just with a slightly pinched look around his eyes that spoke of concern. He said nothing, though, just guided Celebrimbor’s head to rest on his shoulder, keeping his hand on Celebrimbor’s hair. Celebrimbor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It did not take long, and Curufin bound Celebrimbor’s hand up in clean bandages afterward. “All done,” he said, clearing away the bloodied cloths and bandages. Celebrimbor let his hand drop onto his lap. “Drink more of the miruvórë, Tyelpë. Your sisters are going to want to climb all over you when you return to the house.”

“Everyone’s home, then?” Celebrimbor asked without opening his eyes. He took another deep breath. “All right, I’m all right.” He sat up and took another sip of the miruvórë before getting to his feet with Fëanor’s help. His color was better, and once he was standing he seemed steady enough. He grimaced ruefully when he glanced down at his shirt. “Can you distract them while I change my clothes?”

“Of course,” said Fëanor, already moving to the door. Curufin would likely be answering some hard questions later, but that was all right. They would be no harder than anything else they would be speaking of.

Once alone he embraced Celebrimbor, who dropped his head onto Curufin’s shoulder with a shaky sigh. “I’m all right, Atya,” he said. “I wasn’t looking and knocked a piece of glass off the table and went to grab it, and…”

“I know you are. Such things happen, especially when you work with glass. I missed you.”

“I missed all of you. How are Maglor and Maedhros?”

“Very well—so much better than they were. They missed you, too.”

“I’ll go see them soon.”

“They would like that, but they’re both coming back to Tirion in the spring and summer, so there’s no rush.” 

Fëanor had Calissë and Náriel suitably distracted when they returned to the house, and Celebrimbor slipped upstairs to his room to change into clean clothes. Curufin returned the kit to its place and washed his hands in the kitchen, earning a narrow-eyed look from Tindehtë. “An accident in the workshop. No real harm done,” he said.

“Tyelpë?” she asked.

“Yes, but he’s fine.”

“Mm. I’ll take a look later.”

“I did the stitching—exactly how you taught me. Will you put on tea, please—and bring honey with it?”

When Curufin returned to the parlor he found Celebrimbor there, embracing his sisters, as Fëanor and Rundamírë greeted one another with—well, not warmth precisely, but not the same frigid politeness that Rundamírë had shown when Fëanor had first returned either. Curufin went to embrace Fëanor, since he hadn’t had the chance before. “How was the journey back?” Fëanor asked as he wrapped his arm around Curufin’s shoulders, his grip warm and tight. 

“Very pleasant,” Rundamírë said, “as was our stay in Imloth Ningloron.”

“Did you know that Uncle Cáno met an enchantress that tried to turn him into a statue of ice?” Náriel interrupted. She and Calissë had claimed Celebrimbor’s lap, sitting on the sofa. He rested his arm over the back of it, keeping his bandaged hand out of reach. 

“An enchantress?” Fëanor repeated, his tone suggesting that he didn’t know whether he was meant to laugh or not.

“He escaped because he got very lucky, and a talking beaver helped him and then he met a talking fox that didn’t really help him but was very funny, and then Elladan and Elrohir found him and took him home with them! And that’s why he’s got bits of white in his hair, where the enchantments got caught.”

Celebrimbor laughed. “I hadn’t heard that story before,” he said. “It sounds very exciting.”

“It was very silly,” said Calissë. “But no one will tell us how Uncle Nelyo lost his hand, even though he just laughs—”

“Calissë,” Curufin said, as Fëanor’s grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment. “That’s enough. Tyelpë isn’t going to tell you either.”

“It’s not nearly as interesting as talking beavers and enchantresses,” said Celebrimbor, as unbothered by the subject as Maedhros himself. “Uncle Cáno has all the fun, it seems. Anyway,” he went on, tickling Náriel until she squirmed, “I want to hear about your adventures.”

Tindehtë brought the tea, with plenty of honey and with a dozen of Celebrimbor’s favorite strawberry-jam filled pastries, and once Curufin saw Celebrimbor eat one, laughing at Calissë’s description of Maglor’s hedgehogs, and was satisfied that he really was all right, he caught Fëanor’s eye. 

Back in the workshop it was quiet. Outside the clouds had moved in, turning the light through the windows and skylights pale. At a gesture and murmured word the lamps around the walls sprang to life, soft golden yellow. “Why does Tyelpë grow ill at the sight of blood now?” Fëanor asked after a moment. He leaned on Curufin’s workbench, tracing his finger over a knot in the wood. 

“You know how he died, Atya,” said Curufin. Fëanor’s gaze flickered up to his face, his own unreadable. “He can’t bear it for the same reasons he cannot make himself take up gemcraft again.” He paused, for a moment uncertain, but deciding that it was worth whatever reaction he’d get. “It’s something you should understand at least a little—”

Fëanor made a noise that was equal parts bitter and frustrated. He turned away to start pacing around the room, all restless energy, braid swinging with each step. “You are always telling me, Curvo, that I can’t understand.”

“It’s not exactly the same, obviously, but—you never took up any sort of fiber craft, and you wouldn’t let us do it either, and there were the times you couldn’t even look at Tyelko—” Curufin watched Fëanor stop his pacing abruptly, going very still. He did that sometimes now, and it was always strange to see. The Fëanor of his memories was always moving, even if it was just his hands. 

“It was not Tyelko—”

“I know that. But we all have things like that now, things we can’t bear to see or to do, or to hear. For Tyelpë, blood makes him feel ill, and he can’t bear the thought of gemcraft, or putting any kind of power or even small enchantments into his work. It’s only lately that he’ll enter a forge at all. It isn’t something he can just push through—it isn’t cowardice, or—”

“I never said it was,” Fëanor said.

“You would have thought so, once,” Curufin said. He watched Fëanor bite back a sharp retort, because they both knew that it was true, however much they both wished otherwise. “The past is heavy, and some scars can’t be erased even in Mandos.” He thought of Celegorm again, how he’d avoided Míriel for reasons he hadn’t been able to put into words even for Curufin, and that old habit of twisting his hair around his fingers until it hurt.

“I know that, Curvo.”

“You know your own scars, and you can know Tyelpë’s a bit because they look a little like your oldest ones. You don’t really know ours. A single battle is not a war. Alqualondë—it was not Doriath or Sirion. Even the Darkening cannot compare to the Dagor Bragollach or the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” Curufin reached for the bag that held the palantír, tugging the drawstring open so it fell around the stone, which sat dark and still and silent on the workbench, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. “My words aren’t enough, I know—I’m no storyteller like Maglor—and seeing what Vairë wove isn’t, either. This, though—this can bring you closer than anyone’s songs or tales.”

Fëanor looked at the palantír, and then at Curufin. “Your brothers will not thank you for this,” he said.

“It was Maglor’s idea,” Curufin said. “I would not offer something like this without having spoken to all of them. They—we all love you, Atya. But they’re afraid. Caranthir and Celegorm and Maglor are still angry.”

“What can I do, Curvo?” Fëanor asked. He leaned against the workbench again, almost like he needed to so he could remain standing, and looked at Curufin. “What can I do to show them…?”

“Look into the palantír,” Curufin said. “So much of it will be ugly and grievous and terrible—but there is beauty there too, and joy. You used to know us all better than anyone else in the world, but you don’t anymore. Sometimes now you look at me as though I am a stranger, someone you don’t know at all. This is the only way we can think of to start to fix it.” He paused, thinking of Maglor’s request that he not share how his hand and Maedhros’ still burned at the sight of their father. It felt like something Fëanor should know, but Curufin didn’t really know what telling him would accomplish except to pile onto the guilt he already felt—and would feel, after he looked into the palantír. “I don’t know what else you can do, except to keep going as you have been, and let them come to you when they’re ready. Keeping that promise means more than you realize.”

Fëanor closed his eyes for a moment and breathed a sigh. “I do not want to be someone you fear,” he said, very softly. 

“I know,” Curufin said. 

“How did we get here, Curvo?” Fëanor sounded almost lost, and it made Curufin want to take him back to the house and wrap him up in blankets and feed him pastries, like he would Tyelpë or his daughters when they were in distress and need of comfort. That wasn’t the sort of comfort that Fëanor needed, though—if he wanted comfort at all. The best Curufin could offer instead was honesty.

“You taught me to make swords, and then insisted I set aside everything else in pursuit of that mastery,” Curufin said after a moment. He dropped his own gaze to the tabletop, where his hands rested, still with traces of blood under his fingernails. “The way that you spoke of it, of how we would need them—that frightened me for the first time. By the time we went to Formenos—no, even before then, even before you drew your sword at the palace, we were all afraid. Even Maedhros. We followed you because we loved you, but we also feared what you would do if we didn’t.” And they had been right to fear. Maedhros had done no more than stand aside at Losgar, and Fëanor had turned on him with words as ugly as anything he had ever said to his brother. “I know you won’t go down that same road again, I do, but—but I would be lying if I said I did not sometimes fear it, all the same.”

For a little while they stood in silence. The past felt like a physical weight on Curufin’s shoulders, making it hard to breathe. He’d never spoken of those years before the Darkening with his father before. They had both avoided it, had avoided even the Darkening itself. Maybe that had been a mistake. He just hadn’t known how to speak of it without risking a fight, because even now Fëanor had his pride and he did not always react well to being told that he was wrong—though maybe that was another fear that was needless, because even when they did argue and when it got ugly, it wasn’t real anger that Fëanor ever showed. It was just frustration boiling over into something that looked like anger. Curufin knew the difference—knew it in Fëanor and in himself. If Fëanor was ever truly angry these days, it wasn’t with any of his sons.

Now he had spoken of it, and indeed that fear had proved false: there was no anger in Fëanor now. Instead he bowed his head, shoulders slumping. It was a posture of defeat, more than anything else. Finally, Fëanor straightened and came around the workbench to put his arms around Curufin, holding on very tightly. He kissed the top of Curufin’s head. “I’m sorry, Curufinwë,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“We aren’t blameless either in this—this estrangement. It’s just—” 

“No, I am your father, and it was my actions that led you all down this path. It must fall to me to fix this, if it is possible. I’ll look into the palantír—I will do anything you ask of me.”

“It will hurt, Atya,” Curufin said as Fëanor drew away. “It will break your heart.”

“Oh, Curvo. It’s already broken.” Fëanor cupped his face for a moment, as he reached with his other hand for the palantír, drawing it back into its bag to pick it up. “I’m proud of you, you know,” he said, “and I love you—more than anything in the world, I love you, all of you.”

“I know,” Curufin said. “I love you, too.”

Fëanor left, and Curufin sank onto a stool to rest his head in his arms. After a little while he heard the door open again. “I take it you gave him the palantír?” Caranthir asked.

“I did,” Curufin said without lifting his head.

“How did it go?”

“I wish there was another way, that we could just—” 

“I know.” Caranthir rested his hands on Curufin’s shoulders and kissed the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Curvo.”

Curufin raised his head. “Will you at least tell me why you’re still angry?”

Caranthir didn’t answer immediately, not until Curufin turned to look at him. Then he said, “Thinking about speaking to him makes me feel sick to my stomach. I don’t think I’m really angry, but I’m not not angry—but not for me. It’s for Nelyo, and Cáno, and Tyelko—they’re still—it’s—I don’t know how fragile their peace is, still, and I know how good Atar is at breaking that kind of thing, even if he might not mean to.”

“I think Tyelko doesn’t hate Atya so much as he hates himself,” Curufin said. “I don’t know how to help him either, how to get him to let it go.” Curufin was not the only one who had inherited all of their father’s ugliest traits, but Celegorm believed that was all he had inherited, and sometimes Curufin thought that they were all he reduced himself to. He didn’t know how to make him stop, to make him see that he was so much more than all of the anger and the guilt that even after spending so many years with Nienna seemed at times to be eating him alive. Even in that, he was like Fëanor—and both of them were too often too good at hiding how they really thought of themselves. Curufin had had a glimpse, that afternoon, of some of what his father usually hid so well. It made something under his ribs hurt, like a knife had been shoved between his lungs and his heart. 

“I think it will help,” Caranthir said after a moment, “knowing that he’s seen…whatever it is he’ll see. That he’s seen us, as we were, the good and the bad. I hope it will help, anyway. Cáno’s going to have to talk to him sometime about that song he’s writing. Maybe this will make it go easier—and maybe if Cáno can speak to him and have it go well, it’ll be easier for Tyelko.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Curufin said. “He said he’s going to come to Tirion next year…”

“I think that’s why. Not just Atar—he’ll be talking to everyone.”

“I don’t remember him ever needing to consult with so many others for any other song.”

“He’s never written a song like this before. It feels like it might be one of the most important songs he’s ever written. I don’t know why.” Caranthir slung his arm over Curufin’s shoulders, resting his forehead against Curufin’s temple. “I don’t see a way forward for me right now, Curvo,” he said, “but neither did Nelyo or Cáno before they went to Lórien. That means something. I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of it.”

“I don’t mind being in the middle,” Curufin said. He had at first, when Celegorm had been furious with him and it had been harder to believe the assurances of his other brothers that they weren’t, but that time was long past. Someone had to be the bridge between Fëanor and the rest of them, and Curufin was glad to play the part—if only he could a way to close the gap altogether. All he wanted was for all of them to be able to let the past go once and for all, to move forward—and to be able to do it together. 

“Ambarussa are planning to seek him out, you know,” Caranthir said after a moment. “They were thinking of it even before we decided to give him the palantír.”

“I did know that,” Curufin said. Ambarussa seemed to be the least angry of everyone. They seemed to carry the quiet and peace of the deep forests with them wherever they went. Of everyone, their meeting with Fëanor was most likely to go well. If they could find a way to share that peace with Fëanor, maybe… 

“Come on. Everyone’s going to wonder where we are.” 

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed much more cheerfully. Celebrimbor had recovered his composure quickly, and laughed off his injury, and much of the conversation centered around either Imloth Ningloron or plans for the coming winter. Curufin never felt happier than when his little family was all gathered together, especially if at least one of his brothers was there too, and for a little while he could put his father and the palantír out of his mind and just enjoy being at home again. 

Rundamírë had been talking recently of having another child, to make the number an even four, and when she mentioned it at dinner Caranthir laughed. “I think that’s what our mother said—make it an even six—only for us all to be surprised by Ambarussa.”

“Well, between your mother and Celebrían, at least I will have no shortage of advice when it comes to twins, if such a thing should happen,” Rundamírë said. “What do you think, Náriel, would you like to be a big sister and not the baby anymore?”

Náriel wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a baby, Ammë!”

“I like being a big sister,” Calissë said, and so of course Náriel immediately decided that she would very much like to be one as well. 

“Well, I suppose that’s decided,” Celebrimbor said. “And you didn’t ask, but I do very much like being an elder brother.” 

“Maybe,” Curufin said. “But we have a wedding to get through first.”

“I still think we should elope,” Lisgalen said. 

“You can’t elope, not with all the Mírdain already planning the biggest party we’ve held since the end of the War of the Ring,” Celebrimbor protested. 

“Well, maybe we don’t want a party,” Lisgalen said. “And if someone wants to talk about traditions we can just say we’re following some obscure Avarin way of doing things, and who’s going to question it? My own parents did it, so it’s at least my family tradition.”

“You can try to tell my mother that,” Caranthir said, “while I hide away somewhere.”

“Just warn the rest of us before you run off,” Curufin said, “so we know when to plan the party upon your return.” Caranthir made a face at him, and Lisgalen laughed. “Some traditions can’t be entirely evaded, Moryo! Only delayed. Letting all your friends and relations drink good wine and dance all night in your honor is one of them.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Mithrandir to make some fireworks for the occasion,” Celebrimbor said.

“Yes, fireworks!” Calissë exclaimed. “Just like at Midwinter last year!”

“It’s our wedding!” Caranthir protested, though he was also laughing. “Do we get a say in whether or not there are fireworks?”

“No!” Celebrimbor said. “Not if you refuse to plan a party at all.”

“Just don’t put Ambarussa in charge of the wine,” said Caranthir.

“No, I’ll ask Finrod instead—”

“Or Finrod! He’s even worse—”

Later that night, as they prepared for bed, Rundamírë asked, “You gave the stone to your father?” 

“I did. He’ll probably be up all night with it, so I’ll go find him tomorrow.” Curufin sighed as he sank back onto the pillows. It was wonderful to be back in his own bed, but he did not foresee sleep coming easily. Rundamírë finished her own nighttime preparations and slid into bed beside him, dousing the lamp and plunging the room into darkness. The city’s nighttime sounds drifted through the open window alongside with the slightly-chilly breeze, familiar and comforting. Curufin lay and stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to that and to Rundamírë’s soft breathing beside him. 

In the morning he left the house, going first to the palace. “Did something happen yesterday?” Lalwen asked him when she found him coming out of Fëanor’s rooms, which had been empty but for the palantír on the floor near the bed; Curufin had picked it up and put it into a cupboard, out of sight and out of the way. “He seemed upset this morning. Did you quarrel?”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“The cherry grove, or else your old house. But what happened, Curufinwë?”

“We didn’t quarrel, Aunt Lalwen.”

He found Fëanor beyond the cherry grove, sitting behind Finwë’s old workshop, which had stood closed and shuttered since the Darkening. He wore yesterday’s clothes, and his hair was bound up in a tangled and unraveling braid. Curufin slid down the wall beside Fëanor, and leaned against his shoulder. “What did you look for?” he asked.

“The end, for all of you,” Fëanor said, voice hoarse. It shouldn’t have been surprising, really, that he would seek for the worst things first. His eyes were red, though whatever tears he had shed were long dry. “And Cáno, left behind—” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes, covering his face with a hand. “I don’t know how it came to that. I don’t—I never wanted—”

“I know. Atya—” 

“Do not comfort me, Curufinwë. Let me sit with this, all that I wrought.”

“No.” Curufin sat up, turning so he sat facing his father, rather than side by side, and laid a hand on his arm. “The point isn’t to punish you, Atya. The time for all that is long over, for all of us. We have all come to terms with what we did, as much as we ever can; we’ve done what we could to atone, though little enough has ever been asked of us. The past is still heavy, but it no longer drags us backward when we look to the future. We do not want that for you—we do not want you to lose yourself in the darkness.”

“I am long overdue for—”

“No, you aren’t. That’s not what this is for. I told you yesterday that it is your understanding that we need—we need you to see us, to know us as you once did, for all that we are and not just the things that are said of us or that we wish to or can share with words. The palantír shows you nothing but the truth unvarnished, good or bad, without anything embellished or left out. Look for us during the Long Peace next. That time shaped us as much as all that came after, and in much better ways. We were happy, for such a long time—and the battle that you led, though it ended with your death, made that possible.”

“Yet it all ended in fire.”

“Yes, it did. The Oath slept, and our Doom waited, but neither could be escaped forever. Remember, though, Atya: it was all so long ago. Morgoth is locked away beyond the Doors of Night, and Sauron is no more, and we have all passed through Mandos and come out again. We are all here.”

Fëanor did not lower his hand. “But not whole.”

“Whole enough. Have you seen those pieces of ceramic—bowls and cups and things—that were broken but repaired afterward with gold?”

“Your mother has some.”

“Think of us like that.” Curufin imagined Gandalf chuckling to himself somewhere, remembering how he had used that same metaphor to try to get them to see themselves and one another more clearly, to see that it was possible to move forward—to come back together in a way that could never be exactly the same, but could still be beautiful. “We’re all like that, all of us who lived and fought in Middle-earth. And—if you saw the cups at Ammë’s house, then know that it was Cáno who made those repairs. He learned how in Imladris.” He let go of Fëanor’s arm, sighing. “When you do want comfort, you know where to find me.”

Fëanor caught his hand before he could rise to his feet. “I love you, Curufinwë,” he said quietly. “It feels as though I cannot say it enough.”

“I know you do, Atya. I love you too, so much.” Curufin leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Please be kind to yourself.”