From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twenty One

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What about all the broken happy ever afters?
What about us?
What about all the plans that ended in disaster?
What about love? What about trust?
What about us?
- “What About Us” - P!NK

 

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The summer passed quickly, in a flurry of activity. Fëanor finalized the designs for the stage and its lighting, and made all the crystals and gems for the lamps. Celebrimbor came every few days to watch. Some things were harder than others—some tools held particularly painful memories—but he never left until Fëanor had finished whatever the task was. They walked out through the cherry grove afterward most days, and Fëanor started to ask more questions about Eregion, about Ost-in-Edhil and all the things the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had made, and all the things they had done in cooperation with the Dwarves of Moria—about Narvi—to bring back the good memories in hopes that they would, eventually, overshadow the bad for good.

Midsummer was celebrated with all the usual fanfare—with dancing all day and all night, and feasting and storytelling. Afterward Fingolfin, through Gil-galad, insisted that all the craftsfolk take a few days to rest, but after that it was back to making and arguing, excitement erupting anew after the party that had ridden out to examine and map out the place chosen for the feast returned.

More than once Fëanor found himself working alongside Lisgalen, Caranthir’s betrothed. They were of Avarin descent, and had known Celebrimbor in Ost-in-Edhil where they had joined the Gwaith-i-Mírdain soon after the city’s founding, and then survived the destruction of Eregion by chancing to be in Lindon when that war began. At first they were quiet and cautious in Fëanor’s presence, but as time went on they let their guard down a little—though neither Lisgalen nor Fëanor ever mentioned Caranthir’s name. He was growing curious, though, about their engagement and when exactly they planned to marry, for it was going on two years—not a long time at all as the Elves measured it in general, but certainly longer than usual between a betrothal and a wedding. 

As August came on, Indis arrived in Tirion. A few days later, Curufin told Fëanor that Maglor and Caranthir and Ambarussa would be arriving soon too. “He’s finished writing the song, and wants to give a fair copy to Indis.”

“What, already?”

“I was surprised too,” Curufin said. “Apparently he has been very hard at work all summer—but now it’s done, and hopefully he can give himself a little room to breathe.”

“He’ll have all autumn and winter for it,” said Fëanor.

Curufin hesitated for just a second before he said, “Yes, of course.” 

Fëanor glanced at him. They were in Fëanor’s sitting room, seated on the floor surrounded by baskets of gems in varying sizes and cuts needing to be sorted, all intended for the stage at the feast, nearly all of which were ready to have light set inside them. “Is there something you aren’t telling me, Curvo?”

“No.” That time he answered too quickly. 

“Curvo—”

“He’s just very anxious about singing it next year, and Daeron still isn’t back, and Nelyo has been answering letters sporadically at best. I hope he can let himself relax, but I don’t know that he’ll be able to.”

“Findekáno has said that Maedhros is fine,” Fëanor said after a moment, cautious. 

“As fine as can be expected, I suppose, and Findaráto has written to say the same, but it’s not the same as hearing that from him, even if Findekáno and Findaráto do know better than just about anyone,” said Curufin without lifting his gaze from the basket on his lap. “Did something go wrong with these gems? This is a terrible shade of pink.”

“Let me see—oh, those aren’t for the feast. I don’t know how they got there.” Fëanor took the basket and set it aside. “I was teaching Náriel about the pigments last week and let her pick the ones for that set. I’m going to make them into something for her, I just haven’t decided what.” 

“She loves her jewelry box, by the way.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

Like Maedhros, Míriel was also a sporadic writer. She did finally reply to Fëanor’s letter, apologizing while telling him that she was in the midst of a large project of her own and could not leave immediately, though she promised to try to come to Tirion sometime in the autumn, rather than the winter. It was a disappointment but not wholly unexpected, and he didn’t mind too much—he was busy himself, and had only gotten busier since he’d written to ask her to visit. There was plenty to distract him, though not all of it was pleasant. Nerdanel was still in Tirion; they did not work on the same projects—which Fëanor thought was by design—but it was impossible not to see her sometimes, or to at least work in the same building for an afternoon or two. She did not seem to be angry still—or at least no angrier than she had been for years already—but she did not speak to him when they crossed paths, and avoided visiting Curufin and Rundamírë at the same times he did. That wasn’t sustainable, but Fëanor didn’t know what to do about it. 

Eventually, he ventured to ask Findis for advice. Nerdanel had always been on friendly terms with his sisters, though, and if nothing else at least Findis would be a willing ear. 

He had found Findis in the hedge maze, sitting among the rosemary and lavender in the center garden with a book. She closed it, using a finger to mark her place, as she thought. “Well, the obvious thing to do in this latest instance is to tell her what passed between you and Maitimo,” she said.

“Even if I thought I could, that would not make things better,” Fëanor said.

“I thought you said you parted on good terms?”

“It’s complicated,” Fëanor said. “But I’m not going to betray his trust just to get Nerdanel to stop glaring at me.”

“I think you are just going to have to be patient, Fëanáro. When Maitimo returns to Tirion and speaks to Nerdanel himself, she will gain some understanding—and when she is less worried about him, she will hopefully be able to appreciate you keeping silent on the matter. But you surely didn’t need me to tell you that.”

“No,” Fëanor admitted. “And I didn’t really mean to ask what I should do about that in particular—just, in general.”

“Ah. Well…” Findis adjusted her skirts, frowning in thought. The sunlight caught on the clear glass beads in her hair and made them glitter like tiny stars. “I do not know Nerdanel as well as Anairë does, or Eärwen—but I think I know you both well enough by now to suspect that you’re going to have to have at least one very loud and very painful fight before you can start to resolve things. I know it isn’t what either of you want, which is why you have been at a stalemate all these years.”

Fëanor didn’t try to hide his grimace. “I was afraid you would say that. I don’t want to fight with anyone, and Nerdanel least of all.”

“I know, but she deserves to vent her anger at the very least. You can sit and listen while she does, but I don’t think she married you in the first place because you were the sort of person to just let someone shout at you.”

“I wasn’t. I would now, though.” He had certainly had practice.

“I think,” Findis said, “that both of you need to say your piece, and to listen to each other. I know you’ll listen, because you’ve made a point of listening more than you speak ever since you returned—which was very strange at first, you should know—but I’m not sure that Nerdanel is ready to listen.”

“There’s nothing I can say to Nerdanel that I haven’t already said. I would gladly let her rail at me for as long as she wanted—if she wanted to, which it seems that she doesn’t, or else she would have already.”

Findis tilted her head from side to side, not quite nodding and not quite shaking it. “I don’t know about that. But perhaps I’m wrong—I have not spoken of you with her as much as you seem to think I have.”

“I don’t know what I think,” Fëanor sighed, “except that you know her better than I do these days.”

“Not as well as Anairë or Eärwen, as I said. Would you like me to ask—”

“Please don’t—I don’t want it getting back to Nerdanel that I’ve been talking about her behind her back.”

“I can find things out in a way that doesn’t involve you,” said Findis, amused. “I’m your nosy interfering little sister, Fëanáro, and everyone knows it. But I have also learned my lesson, and if you really don’t want me to get involved, I’ll keep quiet.”

“If you could just…somehow let her know that I’m willing to listen to whatever she wants to say to me? Just—after Maedhros returns, maybe.”

“Of course.” Findis set her book aside and slid over the bench to take Fëanor’s hand in hers. “Are you all right, Fëanáro?”

He started to nod, but stopped himself. There was no one else there, and Findis had already seen him fall entirely apart. She wouldn’t try to suffocate him with worried looks or pointed questions. “I am—mostly. I just miss my wife. That’s all. I also don’t like how Curvo is forever caught in the middle, especially now.”

“Nerdanel doesn’t like it either—but I really do think it will get a little better when Maitimo returns to Tirion.”

A week after Indis’ arrival in Tirion it stormed, and the day after that, Fëanor was visited by both Celebrimbor and Maeglin. “Have you ever tried to catch lightning in a gem?” Celebrimbor asked. 

“Lightning? No. There are plenty of songs to make normal light flicker in that way if I want,” said Fëanor. 

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“Not by any method of light capture I know of,” Fëanor said after a moment’s thought. A bolt of lightning was there and gone in seconds. It took much longer than that to sing even a few notes of the songs that caught light into gems.

“So we’d need to come up with something entirely new,” said Celebrimbor, eyes lighting up as he exchanged a glance with Maeglin, who also looked excited by the challenge. “Thanks, Grandfather. We might come back with more questions.”

“Be careful!” Fëanor called after them. He had several ideas himself of how one might start to go about capturing lightning in crystal, and all of them were risky. Especially risky for Celebrimbor, he thought, who hadn’t dared to try something new, and certainly not something new in gemcraft, since his return from Mandos. He had only just started doing small bits of work with gold and silver in Fëanor’s workshop, more as a way to remind himself that the tools were only tools, and could be used to make beautiful things instead of to cause harm. Still, he knew his own mind and heart best, and he had learned to be cautious. Fëanor wasn’t going to discourage him if he felt ready to take risks again—and at least he would not be working alone.

A few days after that, Fëanor went to visit Curufin, both of them taking an afternoon away from work. Curufin had a burn on his arm and Fëanor had come closer than he’d meant to to straining his voice in singing some complicated spells into the lanterns for the stage, and so they just sat in Curufin’s parlor to drink tea and talk. Maglor, the twins, and Caranthir were expected to arrive any day.

“Have you heard from Tyelko?” Fëanor asked.

“No, but I expect he’ll return any time now too. By the way, do you know what Tyelpë’s up to?”

“Something about catching lightning in crystal,” said Fëanor. “He and Maeglin came to ask if I thought it was possible.”

Curufin looked equal parts dismayed and intrigued. “Do you think it is?”

“Not by any usual method, but so it was when I sought to capture Treelight. It’s supposed to storm sometime this afternoon, I think.” The sky had been dark and threatening all day, and as he had walked through the city to Curufin’s house he had heard distant rumblings of thunder. “I’m sure they’ll be doing experiments outside the city.”

As he spoke Celebrimbor came into the room, ink on his fingers and a few clear gems in his hands. “You’d better be taking those outside the city, Tyelpë,” Curufin said. “Your mother will be very annoyed if you catch the roof on fire.”

“Of course we’re going outside the city!” Celebrimbor said. “And when Calissë asked if she could come with us I did say no.”

“Are you sure you should go out?” Curufin asked.

“This isn’t at all like anything else I’ve done,” said Celebrimbor. “I promise, I know what I’m doing.” He paused. “Well, that’s not true—neither of us really know what we’re doing, which is more than half the fun, but I know what I’m doing with myself.”

“All right then. Just be careful, please. There’s a reason no one’s tried this before.”

“That’s also part of the fun,” Celebrimbor said cheerfully. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow!” With that he left the house with his gems. 

There were storms in the evening the next few days, and then the weather cleared and Celebrimbor and Maeglin had to put their practical experiments on hold. The gems they had attempted to catch lightning in had either shattered or melted or both, which was surprising only in that Fëanor hadn’t actually expected them to be able to call lightning down to the place they wished in the first place. “Oh, that part wasn’t hard,” said Celebrimbor. “But diamonds won’t work, so we have to come up with something else. I’m going to ask Atya to help—I can come up with ideas and take notes, but I don’t think I’m ready to actually start mixing things and working the forge yet, and he knows more gemcraft than Lómion. Do you know if you still have your notes somewhere from when you made the Silmarils?”

“I don’t,” Fëanor said. He’d destroyed them some years after the Silmarils were made, when tensions had started to rise in Tirion and he’d started fearing that everything he had made or would make would be stolen. “But I remember it all very well—do you want me to make a new copy? Or I could show you and Lómion, if you prefer.”

Celebrimbor looked at him, eyes gone a little wide. “You’d show us how you made silima?”

“You just asked for my notes, Tyelpë.”

“Yes, but—I didn’t think you would’ve written anything down in detail.”

“I like to think I’ve grown past hoarding all my things like a dragon,” Fëanor said, tugging on one of Celebrimbor’s braids. “I’m not sure it will work well for lightning, because I wasn’t throwing the things at the Trees or anything when I caught their Light. But it’s a place to start.”

“It’s indestructible,” Celebrimbor pointed out.

“And that might work against you,” Fëanor replied. “A lightning strike won’t harm the silima, but I’m not sure what will actually get it inside.”

“Well, a substance that won’t just shatter when it’s hit is more than we have now, and it will be a step in the right direction. But there’s no real hurry—we’re all busy, and we might not get any good storms the rest of the year.”

“I’ll write out the method and the materials,” said Fëanor, “and perhaps you can start thinking of how it might be adjusted for your needs.” It would be a good theoretical puzzle to use to pass the time that winter, if nothing else.

Fëanor was aware when his other sons arrived in Tirion, but he didn’t seek them out. He didn’t want to bother Maglor before he could speak to Indis, and finally be done with the song until its performance. The twins, of course, came to him—he stepped out of the old house one morning to find them in the courtyard. “Is there even anything left to do in there?” asked Amrod. 

“Unsinging the songs holding the foundation is taking time,” Fëanor said, and cleared his throat. He had been singing for half an hour in a very dusty room, and sounded like it. “How was the trip from Imloth Ningloron?”

“Quick and fine,” said Amras as Fëanor embraced them both. “Cáno’s going to give the song to Indis today. Have you heard from Míriel?”

“Not in some weeks; she may or may not be able to come before Curvo and Rundamírë’s babies are born. But both she and Indis have said there was no real hurry to finish the song—and at the latest she’ll hear him sing it next summer.”

“I hope she’ll get to look at the illuminated copy that Elrond and Celebrían made first,” said Amrod. “It’s beautiful. What have you been up to, Atya, aside from singing to the mice?”

“Singing to gemstones,” Fëanor said, and they both laughed.

Fëanor didn’t go to visit Curufin’s house; Caranthir was likely to be there, and Fëanor was still meant to be waiting for him to start any conversation. Maglor did not return to the palace after his meeting with Indis, either. Fëanor just hoped that he was actually trying to relax.

Then, a week after he stepped out of the old house to find Ambarussa waiting for him, he returned to sing some more songs, this time going down into the basement storerooms. It was dark and cool there, musty smelling and stale, and he didn’t stay very long. His voice was already strained from all the other work he had been doing, and on that afternoon he found he didn’t really have the heart for it. After he gave up singing he wandered through the house, allowing himself to indulge in old memories and missing the long-ago years when the idea of that house crumbling or breaking or even ever standing empty had been unthinkable. When he emerged into the sunshine he sat down on the steps, and sighed. The sun was warm, its light deepening to gold as the afternoon started to wane, and he spared a moment to miss, too, the similar-but-different heat of Laurelin.

He didn’t see where Caranthir came from. One moment he was alone on the steps, and the next his son was beside him, scowling down at some dandelions growing up through cracks in the flagstones by their feet. His cheeks were pink already, and he gripped the step on either side of him with white knuckles. Fëanor waited, but Caranthir didn’t speak. “…Moryo?”

Caranthir took a breath, and the words came tumbling out in a rush like he just wanted to get it all over with. “I need you to know,” he said, gaze fixed on the ground, “that I’m never going to be what you wanted me to be. I’m never going to be good at anything, not the way you think I should be, and I don’t want to be—and I’m done trying. And—and I need you to know that I don’t forgive you. Your stupid Oath turned us into monsters and then got us all killed—and I don’t care what anyone else says, it’s still your fault Nelyo remembers what he does because if it weren’t for the Oath he never would’ve gone to treat with Morgoth the way he did, and never would’ve gotten captured. He’s never hated you for it, either. He still loves you, after everything, and that’s why it hurts him so much.” As he spoke his flush deepened, the way it always did—that tendency from childhood that had made it impossible for him to keep his real feelings hidden—that and his propensity to speak before thinking. This speech, though, sounded like something he had rehearsed—probably on his way there that afternoon.

That place somewhere under Fëanor’s ribs hadn’t hurt in a while, but it ached now, sharp and fresh. He had been trying to figure out for months where he’d gone wrong with Caranthir—and now he knew. What he had thought was encouragement had been received as admonishment. What he had wanted his sons to believe was that they could do anything they wished—that they were talented and intelligent and capable of great things. What Caranthir had heard, was that Fëanor thought he must do great things—that his lack of ambition meant that he was lacking. By the end, Fëanor thought bitterly, he had probably been right.

Caranthir had never said anything about it before, but of course he wouldn’t have. He probably hadn’t had the words, before, and Fëanor would have misunderstood if he had tried. Somewhere in between those games of hide-and-seek in the peonies and Caranthir’s adulthood, Fëanor had stopped really seeing his son. Maybe it had been by design—Caranthir keeping his desires and interests to himself for fear of judgment—but there shouldn’t have been that fear to begin with. 

Caranthir went on, “He can’t hate you, and Tyelko thinks he hates you but he doesn’t, not really, but I do.”

This was more or less what Fëanor had expected to hear, or something very like it—if not from Caranthir, then from Celegorm. Caranthir paused, as though expecting Fëanor to say something—sitting stiffly as though he were bracing himself. There were a lot of things Fëanor wanted to say, but he didn’t think Caranthir was done, and his words weren’t as important. Finally, Caranthir took another breath and said, “But I love all of them more than I hate you. So I’m not—I’m not going to try to keep avoiding you and I can be polite, but I don’t—” He took another breath and the next words came out in even more of a rush: “I’m going to get married and you aren’t invited, and I don’t care if you approve or not. I don’t need your blessing. But you don’t get to take any of that out on Lisgalen like you did on Daeron, or I’ll—”

This, Fëanor could answer, and maybe at least put that worry to rest. “That was a misunderstanding that’s since been corrected,” he said. “I’m not angry, Carnistir—”

“You’re always angry.”

Fëanor wanted, very much, to deny that. He didn’t even think Caranthir was speaking from recent observation—he was remembering all those years of fraying tempers leading up to the Darkening. But he also wasn’t entirely wrong. “Well,” Fëanor said, “yes. But I’m not angry at any of you—and you least of all, Carnistir. And—” It did hurt, hearing that his son did not want him present at his wedding, but it wasn’t anything Fëanor didn’t already know. “Maybe you don’t need my blessing, but you have it.”

Caranthir still wouldn’t look at him. After a moment he asked, “Who are you angry at?”

He probably should have anticipated that question. Fëanor stretched out his legs, still feeling a little cramped after his time in the gloomy basement, dislodging the seeds of a dandelion. The breeze caught them, and they whirled gently as they floated up and away. “Myself,” he said, offering up a truth he had shared with no one, not even Finwë’s grave, “when I stop to think about it too long. So mostly I try not to think about it.”

Caranthir loosened his grip on the stair and looked directly at Fëanor for the first time. “How’s that working?” he asked. 

It was working quite well lately, but only because he was busy enough that each night saw him going to bed tired enough to fall asleep quickly, rather than lay awake staring at the ceiling and thinking about everything he’d done wrong. He sighed. “Depends on the day.” Caranthir looked away. For a few minutes they sat in silence. Somewhere a dog barked, and somewhere else children laughed. Where they were it was very quiet. Fëanor thought about how loud it had once been—how much laughter these walls and flagstones had once been witness to, how Caranthir had run after his older brothers as a little child, and shadowed Fëanor even when he had lost interest in forging anything of his own—even if he didn’t want to do it himself, he had always enjoyed watching others at work. Caranthir’s words had clearly cost him something to say aloud, so after a while Fëanor offered up some more difficult truths of his own, “When I lost my father, I forgot that I was one, too. Or at least I forgot what it meant. I forgot what just about everything meant, except vengeance and what I thought was justice. I don’t know how to make up for any of it, how to fix any of the things that I broke. These days I doubt whether I ever really understood what fatherhood meant—well, obviously I didn’t, since it is clear I failed you in ways I have not even been aware of. And—Carnistir, I’m sorry. Whatever I made you believe I wanted before—all I want now is for you to be safe and to be happy. You’re my son, and I love you—and if I made you think that love was ever conditional, I’m so, so sorry.”

“Of course it was conditional,” Caranthir said. Fëanor winced. “What you thought of us was more important than anything—you made sure of that. All your expectations—because we were your sons we had to be the best at whatever we chose to do, but of course it had to be something you approved of.”

Fëanor bit his tongue until it hurt against the desire to argue. That he hadn’t really meant any of that didn’t matter—it was what his sons had heard, and he couldn’t undo it.

“And—the way you only had to glare at Maedhros to make him stop talking to Fingon, the way you shouted at Celegorm until even he gave in and abandoned Oromë. That’s why we all went to Formenos instead of following Ammë like we should have, why I never had the nerve to tell you that what I really wanted was to go learn everything Yavanna could teach me. It’s why we swore that stupid Oath, and what we all died for. The best thing you ever gave us was each other, but we even lost that in the end—we’d all turned on each other by the time we came to Doriath, because we all hated ourselves and we were starting to hate one another because none of us knew how to break the Oath and we were too scared even to try. And that’s why Maglor was scared to come see any of us when he first came back here, because he’d thrown the Silmaril away and he thought we’d be angry at him for it. You did that. To all of us.” By the end it sounded as though he was fighting tears, and he rose abruptly to his feet.

Fëanor had known that Maglor had been deeply hurt, and even angry at Maedhros, and had been afraid of many things—he just hadn’t thought that his brothers had been among those fears. He’d seen in the palantír and heard in the things Curufin had said how they’d all lost themselves by the end—but Curufin had never been as blunt with it. Seeing it from the outside was different from hearing in Caranthir’s voice how it all still haunted him.

“Moryo,” he began, though he didn’t really know what it was he wanted to say.

“I still don’t forgive you. For any of it.” The tears seemed to be winning; Caranthir’s voice broke, which put the lie to his pretense of anger—he would grow sharp and sometimes loud when angry, but never tearful. Fëanor moved without even thinking about it, getting up and pulling Caranthir into his arms, holding on as tightly as he dared, one arm around his back and the other hand resting on his hair. Caranthir was the same height as Ambarussa—the same height as Fëanor himself; it felt like he was forever going to be surprised by that. He still kept thinking of him as that little giggling wide-eyed child who didn't yet know what anger or sadness really were.

He kissed Caranthir’s temple and said, “You don’t have to forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it.” Caranthir’s breath hitched, but he neither wept nor said anything. “But I do love you, Morifinwë. I love you so much. And I’ve seen your gardens, and they’re beautiful—as Thargelion was beautiful, the fairest of all your realms in Beleriand—and I have spoken to Lisgalen, and they are wonderful. You are wonderful, in the way you care so deeply and the way you make sure others are cared for.” Fëanor was sure that Caranthir was still upset on his own behalf, but the larger part of it seemed to be for Maedhros and Celegorm, and perhaps still for Maglor too. “You don’t need my approval, but I am so proud of you.” 

Caranthir was silent for a few moments before he asked, abrupt, voice thick, “What are you going to do after you’ve torn it down?”

Fëanor didn't want to let go, but that was a clear signal that Caranthir did. He released him and stepped back, glancing toward the doors, at the uneven glass panes and the warped wood, at the windows above staring down at them like empty and mournful eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Caranthir rub his sleeve across his eyes, and he didn’t turn back, pretending he didn’t notice. “I don’t want to build another house, since there’s no one who would live in it, but I also do not want to give up this bit of land to someone else.” 

Caranthir lowered his arm and shoved his hands into his pockets. Without looking at Fëanor he said, “You could plant a garden.”

Fëanor didn’t mean to laugh, but it bubbled up anyway. It was a good idea, and one he had briefly considered. It was just beyond his skills. “I’ve killed every plant I ever attempted to tend, even the hardier ones that I was promised hardly needed any attention at all.” He folded his arms and turned back to face Caranthir, who looked startled but, thankfully, not offended. “A garden would only wither under my care.” 

Caranthir stared at him as though he’d started speaking some incomprehensible language. Then he nudged a dandelion with his foot. “You haven’t killed these.”

“A fine garden that would make,” Fëanor said, “all dandelions and thistles and whatever crab apples whose roots I’ve missed. I—” Movement near the gateway caught his eye. It was Curufin—and that would be alarming even if he wasn’t out of breath and looking worried. Curufin never came back to the old house if he could help it. All thoughts of thistles fled Fëanor’s mind. “Curvo? What’s wrong?”

“Is Maglor here?” Curufin asked.

Fëanor blinked. “No. I have not seen him at all in several days.” He’d run into him briefly on the street, but had been late for a meeting with Celebrimbor and others of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and hadn’t been able to do more than exchange a greeting. Maglor had seemed perfectly fine then—cheerful, in fact. 

Curufin looked at Caranthir. “Moryo, have you seen—?”

“No,” said Caranthir. “What happened?”

“He hasn’t come home,” said Curufin. “He was supposed to come back to spend the afternoon with the girls, but he didn’t—and he sent no note, and Fingon says he was fine at lunch. Ambarussa are also out looking for him, but we’re running out of places to try.”

Fëanor went to put a hand on Curufin’s shoulder. “Curvo, it’s all right.” Curufin was still prone to worrying—especially as Rundamírë’s pregnancy progressed—but there wasn’t anything dangerous in Tirion. “He won’t come to any harm—”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Curufin said. “I’m worried about what happened to make him disappear.” 

Fëanor frowned, but before he could ask what that meant Caranthir said, “Curufin—” He paused briefly before switching to a language he must have thought Fëanor didn’t know—it was the same tongue he and Maedhros had used the first time Fëanor had seen them, coming upon them by accident by the river behind Nerdanel’s house. He had not made any particular study of this one, but he recognized the word for river now. Curufin replied in the same language.

Caranthir pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he said, falling back into Quenya, “I might have a few ideas. And someone should be at home in case he comes back and it turns out he’s fine.”

“Arimeldë is there. But—”

“Could he not have just gotten caught up in something?” Fëanor asked.

“Maybe,” Curufin said, doubtfully, “but he’s been gone all day—and without even sending a message or an apology to Calissë and Náriel. That’s not like him.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Caranthir. He gripped Curufin’s shoulder briefly as he passed. “We’ll find him and then all take turns yelling at him, and then lock him up in your house until next summer so he can’t do it again. It’ll be fine.” With that he left. 

It was getting dark by then, though that didn’t mean any increase in danger—though the knowledge that it was safe meant little to those who remembered when the dark held nothing but danger. “Where did Findekáno last see him?” Fëanor asked Curufin.

“Apparently Pídhres ran off into the garden after lunch, and no one has seen him since. But I walked through the gardens—I even went out to the cherry grove—but he wasn’t there.”

“Has Pídhres turned up?”

“No.”

“And you’re certain something is wrong?”

“It was Ambarussa who started to worry first,” said Curufin. “I didn’t know he hadn’t returned after lunch until I got home and Amrod said that Calissë had been asking for him. But I don’t know what could have happened, is the problem—except I think he’s been having nightmares again.”

“What was it Moryo thought might have happened?” Fëanor asked. Curufin hesitated. “I want to help, Curvo, but I can’t if I don’t know what to expect.”

“He wanted to know if I thought it might be something like the River Incident.”

“I thought it was Maedhros who was injured, then.”

“He was hurt worse, but Maglor had already strained his voice singing the river down in the first place, and then he lost it entirely after almost drowning and then trying to shout at Maedhros about it. This voice was fine, but he got lost in dark memories for a while because of it. I don’t think he’s gone and lost his voice somehow, but—something like it, maybe. Something that reminded him too strongly of the past, I mean.”

“He spent decades in Lórien, Curvo. Surely that kind of thing—”

“And the rest of us spent centuries in Mandos. It’s not that simple, Atya.”

Well, they couldn’t know one way or the other until they either found him or he turned up to laugh at them all for worrying unnecessarily. “I’ll see if he’s returned to the palace, for whatever reason,” Fëanor said. “Did you check the library?”

“No, but…”

“He won’t have left Tirion, so he must be somewhere. We’ll find him, Curvo—as Moryo said, it’s going to be fine.”