May These Bones Live by Belforte  

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May These Bones Live

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"Atya, I'm scared."

A small voice caught Curufin's attention as he lowered his gaze to meet two large, frightened brown eyes.

Tyelpë was a sensitive child, far too sensitive for Curufin's standards. 

He often wondered if his mother's personalty had smoothed out all the rough edges of Fëanor's son, but at the same time Curufin didn't view that with disappointment or regret, not at all.

It was more simple curiosity, as if his son allowed him to bring out a side of himself no one else knew.

He caressed his son's face, sighing. "Why are you afraid, Tyelpë?"

The little elf clutched the blankets of the bed, his small, round face and brows furrowed in pure terror. "I'm afraid they'll come for me too."

Curufin's eyes widened, taken aback.

Then he tried to compose himself and pulled out a chair to sit on: this might take longer than he'd anticipated. 

"Who should come get you, Tyelpë?" 

Celebrimbor hid his face under the blanket, leaving only his eyes exposed. "Morgoth," he whispered as if the mere mention of that name would make the Enemy materialize in the room.

Perhaps he was already there, hidden between the wardrobe and the wall, thin and dark as a shadow: as soon as atya walked away, leaving him alone, Tyelpë will be able to see hands crawling from the darkness to grasp him.

"I... I don't want them to take me away!" the little elf whimpered between sobs. "They've taken Uncle Nelyo, they'll come for me too!"

Curufin's heart ached.

Celebrimbor knew what had happened to Maitimo, how Morgoth had deceived and captured him. 

He certainly had no idea how great his cruelty could be, and he didn't yet know the meaning of sadism, but the mere thought of Maedhros being taken away by the cruel Vala was enough to unleash pure terror in Tyelpë.

Curufin cursed himself for having let his son know what had happened to his uncle, but he tried to remain calm and caressed the elfing's face, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

"No one will come for you, Tyelpë," he whispered, trying to sound as confident and reassuring as possible. "I won't let anyone hurt you or take you away from me."

Tyelpë sniffed and hugged the arms tightly to his own chest.

He wanted to believe his atya.

He really wanted to believe him: atya was excellent at daggers and swordfighting, he was also excellent at bowmanship, and at riding! He and Uncle Tyelko were excellent at riding and hunting too!

But Uncle Nelyo was also excellent at fighting.

And that hadn't been enough to defeat Morgoth.

The little elf began to cry, harder and harder.

"Uncle Nelyo..." he sobbed harshly, keeping his eyes closed, "Is he still alive?"

Curufin stared at his son.

No, it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Tyelpë was a child, he shouldn't know these things: he should have spent his own time playing carefree, laughing and running around the furnace while he was scolded for endangering himself.

He should be busy scraping at most a knee, a small wound that would have been healed with a bandage and a hug.

Not grieve for his uncle and fear his own end.

Curufin laned toward him, trying to look in those teary brown eyes. "Nelyo is strong: I'm sure he will fight to return home and won't let Morgoth harm him."

The boy wiped the mop with the sleeve of his robe, and Curufin bit his tongue to avoid scolding him in that damnably delicate moment; a robe ruined by mucus was replaceable, but a child's fragile soul was not.

"Uncle Nelyo is powerful and strong, but I am not..." Celebrimbor lowered his gaze, humiliated. "If he were to capture me, I would not be strong enough to return home."

Curufin remained silent, terrified: he imagined Tyelpë locked in those prisons, scared, alone, wounded.

No comfort, no familiar face, no warmth to cling to.

Terrible images began to creep in, intrusive thoughts that the elf tried to push out from his mind. 

But the more he squeezed his eyes, the more he could hear Tyelpë's screams, and cries mixed with the cruel laughters of Morgoth and his servants.

All while Curufin stood there helpless and unable to save him.

Curufin rose abruptly and embraced his son, burying the face in his black hair. His son was small, but he already had that distinct smell of charcoal typical of forges.

They were so similar that Curufin felt like he was hugging his own father, but in miniature.

He began to tremble and didn't even realize he'd begun to cry himself, clinging to his son as if Morgoth were truly there and tearing him away.

No, please, he thought to himself, Don't take him away from me.

"Atya," the boy sobbed, his eyelids fluttering as he gently caressed his father's shoulder, "Are you... Are you crying...?"

Curufin sniffed, the tears still falling with no way to stop them, then gently brushed Celebrimbor's hair back so he could look into his eyes.

He smiled sadly. "Even grown-ups cry, my little prince."

Tyelpë looked at him puzzled, his brows furrowed in confusion, but at least he had stopped crying. "...even Uncle Nelyo cries sometimes?"

Curufin laughed bitterly. "Oh, he cries the most of all."

"Do you think in this moment he's crying too because he misses us?"

Curufin stifled a sob, his eyes still moist.

"Yes, I think he is. But just a bit."

Celebrimbor thought about it. "I cry because I miss him, too. And I cry because I'm afraid they'll take me away, and I'd miss you all. But if I were in Angband, I'd find Uncle Nelyo, and perhaps he'd be less alone."

The elf ruffled his hair, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "You won't go to Angband, especially since I and all your uncles are here to protect you. If Morgoth wants to take you, he will have to take all six of us first."

"Even Uncle Tyelko?"

"Especially Uncle Tyelko, Tyelpë.”

The little elf yawned and Curufin was happy to see that he'd managed to calm him down. He slowly lay down on the bed, but continued to stare at his father despite the blankets trying to envelop him.

"...atya, can you hold my hand until I fall asleep?"

Curufin nodded and took his hand, gently stroking the back of it. "I will stay here with you until you fall asleep. No one's coming, and tomorrow I'll braid your hair and we'll go create something together in the forge."

The boy smiled and nodded, shaking his head. "Yes! I want to learn to make beautiful jewelry like the ones you and Grandpa make."

"All right," he tucked him in more tightly, a hint of tiredness creeping into his voice, "but now go to sleep, it's late."

Celebrimbor rested his little head on the pillow and slowly his eyelids closed until his breathing became ragged, slow and regular. 

But Curufin remained there for a long time, still holding tightly that little hand, still too small to have the calluses of work and war.

Tyelpë's little body was small, infinitely small, but the elf knew full well that his son would grow up in the blink of an eye and would regret not being able to pick him up and play with him.

He caressed his little round face, still wet from tears, and sighed.

Curufin wondered if it was true that Maedhros would be strong enough to return home, and he also wondered how terrible they would all meet their end.

He knew their life would not be easy.

But Celebrimbor had to stay out of it all: his future would have to be brighter and more powerful than the Silmarils themselves.

But above all, he wanted Celebrimbor to live. 

Happy, far from the blood that Curufin could already smell in his nostrils, far from the blades and the fear.

He caressed his son’s slender back, his chest rising and falling slightly to the rhythm of that silent snore.

He kissed his hair, lingering for a moment to inhale the scent of his beloved child.

Yes, it smelled like charcoal from a forge.

He smiled and quietly walked out of the room.

Before he could open the door, a wish, or perhaps a curse, hung in the silence and darkness of the child's bedroom.

"May these bones live, Tyelpë.”