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arofili · 3 years ago

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Thanks for your reply! Maybe 15 then?

(original prompt was for one that was already taken + arospec Russingon)

15. after a tough day

Maitimo collapsed into his favorite armchair, groaning and rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to stave off the burgeoning headache he knew was inevitable. His mind was a ball of fuzz—he was thinking about everything and nothing all at once, and it was driving him mad.

“Tough day?” Findekáno said sympathetically, walking over to press a kiss to the top of his head. Unasked, he gently moved Maitimo’s hands down and began to knead his shoulders.

Maitimo sighed, forcing himself to relax along with Findekáno’s movements. “Ai, Finno, that feels good,” he mumbled, and got another head kiss for his words. “Yes—all day, every day it’s only plans for festivals and celebrations...and now Curufinwë is getting married! And of course my father wants only the best for his darling baby boy and his perfect Noldorin bride—it’s as if all other issues are forgotten! Well, the roads still need repaving, and the Silversmiths’ Guild is still feuding with the miners, and now to top it all off everyone is asking about when I am going to wed!”

Findekáno pressed on a particularly tense knot of muscle, and Maitimo hissed. “Sorry,” Findekáno said quickly. “Oh, Russo, that does sound quite stressful! Do you think you could go on sabbatical until Curvo’s honeymoon, at least?”

“And leave the council to flounder?” Maitimo grimaced. “I’d be abandoning every real issue—no one else seems to care that there’s more to life than weddings and holidays!”

Findekáno huffed out a soft laugh. “You’re upset because they’re wondering why Fëanáro’s fifth son is marrying before his first.”

“I don’t want to marry,” Maitimo whined. He only felt safe complaining around one person, and in Findekáno’s sympathetic presence he let himself go completely. “It shouldn’t matter—yet even Haru Finwë looks at me like I’m letting everyone down for not getting hitched and producing seven children of my own!”

“Just tell them you’re already married,” Findekáno suggested.

Maitimo scoffed. “To whom?” he demanded. “Not to mention that my eyes bear no trace of a bond, and a High Prince eloping suddenly would be even more of a scandal...”

Findekáno finished his massage and sprawled across Maitimo’s lap, eyes sparkling. “Why, to me, of course, dear Russo!”

Maitimo stared at him, too tired to appreciate the jest. “Be serious, Finno.”

“And what if I am?” Findekáno pouted. “You must know I’m being asked the same now that my own brother is betrothed, and Turukáno is much closer to me in age than Curufinwë is to you. If we just married each other...”

“And have our fathers at each other’s throats again?” Maitimo shook his head. “Besides—I thought you were...well, I thought you also didn’t wish for marriage.”

“Which is why we’d be perfect for one another,” Findekáno reasoned, still smiling with far too much genuine fondness to comfort Maitimo. “We already live together. We needn’t bother with consummation since we can’t have children. And it would stop all those questions!”

“Only to make way for new ones,” Maitimo pointed out, then shook his head at himself for taking Findekáno seriously for even a moment. Even if he couldn’t fathom a different spouse than Finno. Even if it warmed his heart to hear Finno so calmly and hopefully talking about their shared future. Even if...

“But wouldn’t it be fun?” Findekáno said wistfully. “I know your whole point is to focus on the important things, but I have always wanted a big party like a wedding...”

“You’re impossible,” Maitimo informed him, and bent to kiss his forehead...but he didn’t so “no,” not exactly, and he would keep pondering the idea of marrying his best friend for days and weeks after.

(No doubt, that was exactly what Findekáno had hoped for.)

#maedhros #fingon #russingon #maedhros x fingon #qp russingon #qp fic #aro tolkien #silm #silmarillion #my writing #my fic #tefain nin #disorganisedautodidact #prompts #new questions

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mythopoeticreality · 5 years ago

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The Road Goes Ever On- Chapter 2

Ayyy! New Chapter!^^ I have to admit, I got a bit excited and couldn’t really help myself. xD Ah well! Hope y’all enjoy, things are starting to get iiinteresting now... >D

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/54832213

Chapter 2

The forest fell silent at the sound of their approach. From the haunting questions asked by the owls, to the all-too-human screams of yowling foxes, to the skittering of leaves throughout the undergrowth stirred up by wandering voles and mice, all turned to sudden stillness with the first edges of the low-pitched rumble that shook across the forest floor. It was instinct. By the time the braying of the Hunt’s horn echoed through the trees, by the time the wild whoops and laughter danced, darting over the night air, the forest itself might as well have been barren. Dead.

They were a shining company, a blaze even through the Silvery light of Telperion which fell like a mist across Valinor. A blur of light and motion and the thunder of horse's hooves. A sight that was never meant to be seen.

On other worlds, where they were remembered -- even on this world, in the regions beyond the sea and Grinding Ice, where the Powers’ might were not so focused, were the protection the Elder King placed over the Children of this realm was as naught -- none would venture out on this night. Here there were signs written on the air itself, a singing silence, a taste of wild herbs and distant mountainsides stirring in the cold. A sense of Magic that was as much a warning as the ringing of the Hunt’s horns. This was a night for the Oromandi, for the Tavari and the Orrosi. A night for those born before the world and older than its oldest. A night for those who were not of the world, but laughed at it much, and saw it as for the most part a play and a game for their own amusement.

And out here, on this night, a family slept peacefully beneath the stars.

“You were quite right, cousin, they are such beautiful things…”

Two figures stood at the edge of the glade, broken off from the rest of the Hunt, men tall and lean, who moved with all of the causal grace of forest cats. Their hair stirred about them, spinning drifting tendrils that encircled them and obscured their faces, as though a wind whispered through the trees, yet if a wind did blow past, it touched at nothing else.

“Indeed, is it any wonder they were brought here, far from all harm?”

A light chuckle escaped from one, leaning back against a nearby tree. “Oh, no, no! Why, I would do much the same thing were they in my charge…” He stood, creeping nearer a pair of the sleeping elves, a father, who’s son was curled up upon his chest. Kneeling down, he casually brushed aside a strand of hair falling in front of the boy’s face. Blank staring eyes fluttered suddenly back to life as the child lifted his head, blinking curiously at this new stranger. The man smiled down at the boy.

“It is a good thing then,” He said, turning to glance back over to his companion, “That we mean them no harm at all, isn’t it?”

~*~

“How much of this forest do you know?”

“Isn’t that something you should have considered before taking me on as guide?”

“Yet you took up the task willingly.”

Fëanáro shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I know it well enough, having come here before.”

“Is there a break in the undergrowth anywhere near by? An overgrown track perhaps? The ruins of an old road?”

There was a pause, as Fëanáro thought. A road? Out here? To be used by who? Yet, he did remember something… “This way.” he grunted, leading the stranger along

For a long while they moved in silence, picking their way through tangling briers and ducking beneath low lying tree-limbs. It was Fëanáro who finally broke it:“Those hunters, they meant ill with their purpose.” It was a pointed statement, his voice hard as he spoke it.

The Stranger turned a glance to Fëanáro, just long enough to meet his eyes, before simply drawing his attention back out amongst the trees that surrounded them, breathing out a soft snort.

The muscles in Fëanáro’s jaw tensed, teeth sliding across themselves as he gritted them. His nails bit deep into his palms, but he chose to allow for that rather than for his words to bite at the Stranger -- for now, atleast. Instead, somehow managing to keep his tone even, he continued on, “You knew those hunters. They regarded you as a guest.”

The words, and wherever he meant to lead with them were answered only by further silence however. It was the crooked, crossing shapes made by the branches across the sky that the Stranger was more concerned with, tracing them with his eyes as though they were words on a page. Somewhere nearby, an owl’s call echoed. The Stranger’s gaze fell upon the creature as they passed, and he nodded to the beast almost as if in greeting!

If he was any frame of mind to notice, Fëanáro might have been unnerved by just how intent and aware the bird’s gaze was as it watched the two.

As it stood, he only fixed the man with a flat look. “And must I too begin hooting like some wild bird in order to receive acknowledgement? ”

The stranger sighed. He paused for a moment in the road, his eyes narrowing, his head canting to the side as he continued to stare at the crossing tree-limbs above. “You are wondering if you have any reason to trust me.” The man said it as though he were making some observation about the weather.

“And?” Fëanáro pressed.

The Stranger took a step back, letting his gaze fall from the forest canopy and settled his eyes finally on Fëanáro, “I never said you did.”

He didn’t know which was worse, the words themselves, or that bloody matter-of-fact calm that he continued on speaking to him with! As though it mattered not one wit how it was Fëanáro thought of him! Either way, he would have no more of it.“The only reason we now talk is because you made no mention of me to those friends of yours!” The elf snapped, “Because you held me at a disadvantage and chose for some reason to simply release me. You were the one to say you wanted a guide, and yet you do not seem to care if I believe you might somehow still turn around and prove yourself some spy or servant of Melkor’s?”

The stranger blinked. “Melkor?”

Fëanáro opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later, falling silent. His lips pressed into a pale, hard line, a long sigh escaping him. After some moments he finally found his voice again.“Do not think to mock me, now.”

“I am not.”

The elf gave a sharp snort, “Come off it! How can you not know of the very source of all evil in the world?”

“I am from Elsewhere. That is why you are here as my guide.” The words were spoken so simply, and even as they were still being voiced the man was already starting off again, waving for Fëanáro to come along.

“‘Elsewhere’” The elf scoffed, “and where would ‘Elsewhere’ be? The shores of Cuiviénen? Beyond the very spheres of the Earth?”

And the stranger still said nothing, simply shutting his eyes and lifting his shoulders in another one of those bloody shrugs again!

“No….” Fëanáro murmured… “No, that could not possibly…”

“Do you really think your world could be all that there is?” The stranger asked.

But Fëanáro did not answer. Whatever it was that he thought of the man, there was something to the way he’s asked the question, to the way he spoke of it, as if it could be so simple, that seemed genuine.

And it was, the Noldorin Prince had to admit, intriguing. Worlds beyond his own to explore and discover? Vast places full of knowledge still outside his reach? Despite himself, he found he wanted to believe this stranger…

“If you are from this ‘Elsewhere,’ then tell me,” Fëanáro asked, “How did you find your way here?”

A spark of something familiar lit the Stranger’s eyes when Fëanáro asked. He recognized it, had felt that particular kind of pride that came whenever he was asked of his own projects.

“I built a Road,” The man replied.

~*~

Horns, or the echoes of them. They called to Tyelcormo from the edges of his dreams. He turned in his sleep, twitching at the sound. "Not now...a few more moments..." came the words, soft and slurred.

The Horns sounded again.

He awoke on instinct as much as anything. When the horns sounded, you got up -- so it was, riding in Oromë’s company. So, slowly, the silver-haired elf stretched, a low groan escaping him and his eyes blinking blearily open as he pressed his hands over his face. Tyelcormo dug in his elbow beneath him, pushing himself upright. Memory -- where he was, that he was with his family, that he could actually sleep in for a time -- filtered back in slowly. The Horns must have been a dream...

Still half-asleep he blinked in Telperion’s light, his gaze absently scanning over the clearing.

And then he tuned to Curvo.

“Ilúvatar in--fucking shit!” He’d lept up half-way through the phrase and was already shaking his brother awake. “Curvo, Curvo!”

Still on the ground, Curufinwë swatted his brother back, in his sleep. “Continue Tyelco, and you will loose your hands.'' His words were a near growl.

“It’s not my hands you should bloody well be worrying about, eejit!” Another low curse escaped Tyelco, and he was on his feet once more, pacing now to the edge of the glade.

“What are you--” Curvo murmured, beginning to push himself upright. He froze. His eyes widened. The realization clubbed him over the head like a hammer in the forge. The weight that had been resting on his chest all night, the warm little bundle that had slept so peacefully curled up in his arms? Gone.

A strangled sound came cracking out of Curvo’s throat. “My son.” He breathed, “My-- Tyelco!”

Tyelcormo snapped his head up from the earth he crouched over, gaze darting towards his brother, now on his feet as well and coming towards him fast.

“Where is my son?” The words were soft, as Curvo ground them out, yet there were swords that would seem dull in comparison.

“I don’t know.” Tyelcormo murmured, heaving himself back up off of the forest floor. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders, looking him in the eye “But we are going to find out.” And with those words he gestured out, along the ground, in the direction where the broken, disturbed undergrowth left a track.

Curufinwë said no more, only sliding the hunting knife on his belt free from it’s scabbard, before setting off.

#Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell #Silmarillion #john uskglass #Feanor #Celegorm #Curufin #Fic

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elesianne · 8 years ago

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter one

Here’s the first chapter of my new story that I had tremendous fun writing although I also almost made myself cry once. It starts out relatively happy and gets more and more miserable as I tear apart a happy relationship I established in an earlier fic. There will be four chapters in all.

Story summary: Curufinwë and his wife burn as one flame, but when darkness creeps in nothing is left but embers and then ashes.

A study of the disintegration of one marriage among the downfall of the Noldor as a people.

Tag-type thingies (for the whole story): relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë/Canonical wife, as well as various family relationships; some keywords: darkening of Valinor, flight of the Noldor, married couple, love, heartbreak, angst, hurt/comfort, then just hurt, sucks to be Celebrimbor

Warnings (for the whole story): Some sexual content, references to violence, emotional distress and cruelty, canonical major character death(s). Also: so much angst in later chapters, excessive metaphors about fire and light. Rating: I rate this story as Mature to be on the safe side. I chose it because of the general dark mood of the story; sex and violence is very shortly described, nothing graphic.

(Also posted on AO3, DeviantArt and FF.net because I’m overly thorough.)

Story notes: Build them up then tear them down, that's the Tolkien way, isn't it? I'm following that proud tradition with this four-part fic about the disintegration of Curufin and Netyarë's marriage, the happy beginnings of which I have written about before - this fic should work as a standalone, though. This time the story is told from Netyarë's point of view while trying to also portray Curufinwë relatively sympathetically.

I aimed to be as canon-compliant as possible: relevant to this story is a note about Celebrimbor in HoME XII: '--- though inheriting [Curufin's] skills he was an Elf of wholly different temper (his mother had refused to take part in the rebellion of Fëanor and remained in Aman with the people of Finarphin)'.

Chapter 1 summary: Great disasters begin from small cracks in beautiful things.

Chapter I // White fire

Happiness, Netyarë comes to realise when it is already slipping through her fingers, is something one should never take for granted. When she married Curufinwë, and when Tyelperinquar was born, she was happier than she could ever have imagined possible, and for a little while she remembered to appreciate it for the precious thing it was.

Then happiness became an everyday emotion and she began to think, or rather subconsciously believe, that her life would always be as happy, that she and her husband would always love each other and find great pleasure in acts of love and that they would have more children to treasure, and that is when the happiness starts to crack.

It is just little cracks at first. Curufinwë being more short-tempered with her than usual, being stricter with Tyelpë than the boy deserves, the occasional uncomfortable silences at their shared meals instead of easy conversation, her not wanting to tell him of her day because he looks like he would not be interested in listening, but afterwards finding him displeased that he had not known something. There are fewer of his grins for her to kiss, as she likes to do, and fewer of her smiles are genuine.

Curufinwë and Netyarë have always understood each other very well in spite of their different family backgrounds, his in royalty and hers in trade. They both have passion and ambition for creating beautiful things and gaining renown for it, they both know how to charm and influence people though they do it in different ways, and he can see when there is distress behind her practised smile as easily as she can recognise the heat of anger or passion that he hides in his cool, controlled gaze.

But there are things she does not understand. His arrogant pride in his bloodline, his unwavering conviction that his family deserves unquestioning respect, his loyalty to his father even when he knows Fëanáro is in the wrong. These things are difficult for her to comprehend because she comes from a family that is completely undistinguished in either greatness or wretchedness, and while she loves her parents and her brother she is not as close to any of them as Curufinwë is to his father.

Even when she does recognise why he feels and acts as he does – what aspects of his character, what experiences and opinions his deeds arise from – she finds it difficult to accept that he cannot choose to act otherwise.

On good days these things do not matter, but in darker times they open a wide gulf between them that neither knows how to cross. She does not understand him, and he thinks it must be for want of trying.

The bad days between the two of them start with the Silmarils, as so many things do.

Even before Fëanáro shuts himself alone in his forge, Curufinwë has known without being told that his father is planning something greater than anything that has come before, something he is devoting all of his fire to create. Curufinwë has been grieved by the friction that has come between his parents recently when Fëanáro has heeded Nerdanel's advice less and less, and he is further grieved that his father does not share with him this new project of passion.

The day Fëanáro bars Curufinwë from the workshop as he embarks on his new project Curufinwë comes home in the middle of the day and also shuts himself alone in his study, refusing to talk with either his wife or son. But when it is time to go to bed he paces around the bedroom and words pour out of him, almost as if against his will.

'I understand that he would not want the apprentices or my brothers around; they can be nothing but a distraction when there is difficult work to be done. But I have never got in his way or hindered him in any way. I am always willing to work together with him, or if I am not skilled enough, to act as an assistant, or just watch. But now he shuts even me out and will not even hear me, and I don't understand.'

Netyarë is glad that her husband is telling her about the cause of his distress, but she does not know how to help him. She has always been just as happy to work alone as with others, and though she was apprenticed in her youth, she has never had someone even close to what Fëanáro is to Curufinwë. And she feels like she has never come to understand her father-in-law, similar in nature to her husband though he may be. She is very close with Nerdanel, but Fëanáro is still a mystery to her, one she thinks is too great for her to ever solve. Not that she is certain she would like to; he scares her just a little bit, though she wouldn't admit it.

(Curufinwë is his father's son, much of the same furious white fire burning inside him, but it has never hurt Netyarë because when she is with him she finds flames inside herself too that she never really knew were there.)

She tries to find the positive in this new development and to use it to comfort her husband, so she tells Curufinwë that perhaps he should see Fëanáro's isolation as an opportunity to pursue some projects of his own that he has been thinking about but pushed aside to concentrate on work his father wants to do. This turns out to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

Eyes flaming, Curufinwë begins to speak. 'You –' He swallows, clenches his fists and looks at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable though she can feel his fury in her own spirit. He storms out and does not return until the next evening.

He apologises to her without either of them knowing exactly what it is that he is apologising for, and she forgives him, though she thinks she will be cautious for a while. A little crack has appeared in her trust that she is capable of understanding him, and in her trust in the strength of their relationship.

They discover passion in the void left by the passing of anger, as they often do. After, when she lies with her head on his chest and strokes his hair that is tangled with her own, black amidst brown, she thinks of how fiercely sweet it is to come together after being sundered by disagreement. She wonders if those couples who never fight ever have anything like this, a passion that burns so hot she marvels at not finding her skin singed.

The next morning when they rise at the same time she finds bruises on her arms and hips and sees deep scratch marks on his back, and she wonders if after all it would be better, safer, if they did not burn quite so hot together.

But Curufinwë seems a little calmer now, and no longer speaks of sorrows. He dedicates himself to teaching Tyelperinquar while Fëanáro works alone on his secret endeavour. To Netyarë it seems like her husband is suddenly determined to make sure that Tyelpë misses nothing that he could teach, to prove that he is willing to share all he knows and to involve his son in all his projects even if his own father does not do the same with him.

Netyarë is glad that Curufinwë found something meaningful to pursue while he does not work with his father, and that he is taking such pains to teach their son. But after a while Tyelpë begins to look pale and tired when he comes home from the workshop with his father at night, and a few times he almost falls asleep into his food at dinner.

She tells Curufinwë that he is driving their son too hard, setting too quick a pace for his learning. 'He is still just a child, Curvo, however talented or smart he may be.'

'He has not complained.'

'You know that would not be like him. He is proud that you are teaching him, and eager to do his best, but it does not mean that you aren't putting too much pressure on him.'

It is one of their after-dinner moments when they each work on their own projects, usually engaged in planning for the future or making notes on the past day's work. Tyelperinquar often joins them to study for a while, but on this night as on many nights recently Netyarë has sent him straight to bed after dinner because he seemed so exhausted.

Curufinwë never takes well to being told he is doing something wrong. 'I think I know how to raise my son, Netyarë.'

'He is our son, not yours. Just because Tyelpë is a boy, and takes more after you in his skills and interests, does not mean that I have any less claim on him or any less say in how he is raised.' She has never had to say these things before. 'I thought you agreed with me on this.'

'I do.' He drops his head to his arms, suddenly looking as exhausted as Tyelperinquar had. 'I am sorry, beloved. I will try to be more patient.'

He does try, and Tyelpë does look less overworked after their conversation, and Netyarë tries to remember this when later things turn worse again.

Fëanáro's secret work takes a long time, but when he finally shows it – first to his family, as is his habit with all his creations – it is greater than anyone could have imagined. In their brilliance the Silmarils far surpass all of Fëanáro's earlier works, indeed all the works of the Noldor.

'I could not have done this', Curufinwë says to Netyarë when they have a moment of looking at the jewels alone. His voice is equal parts awe and desperation. And Netyarë hears what he does not say: But I could still have been there. I would still have helped, in whatever small way. He did not need to shut me out.

Netyarë is too awestruck to have any wise reply. 'They are all the colours at once, and yet there is no colour like theirs in the whole world.'

'No', Curufinwë agrees. 'I can fashion gems of any shade, but the light in these… it is truly the light of the Trees, and the light of the greatest spirit of our people.'

Curufinwë rarely likes his wife, or anyone else, to be aware of his moments of weakness, but Netyarë can tell that this moment is very difficult for him. He feels lost as more than ever he realises of how much less remarkable his talents are than his father's, and the feeling of loss is mingled with a resentment. He has put as much of himself in these jewels as in any of us, Curufinwë is telling her without wanting to. In me or any of my brothers.

Netyarë does not know how to console him, and in spite of the greatness of the Silmarils and the way they make her heart sing as they do to everyone who sees them, she is selfishly glad that Curufinwë is not capable of binding so much of himself into anything he creates. His creations are more of his hands than of his spirit, and he despairs for it while Netyarë is relieved that she will never lose him to his craft as Nerdanel seems to be losing Fëanáro.

Soon after Fëanáro's Silmarils have awed all of the Eldar and the Valar alike and been blessed by Varda, a new cause of contention arises between Curufinwë and Netyarë, its roots in wider disquiet among their people. For seemingly out of nothing, discontent arises among the Noldor. There is talk of the Valar keeping them captive here under their rule while the lands they could have ruled in the east will soon be taken over by a lesser race of second-born whom the Valar have kept secret from the Eldar.

To Netyarë it feels like the whole world has changed. All her life, all the concerns in the life of their people have been about forging one's path and finding one's own place in the world they live in, in Eldamar under the rule of the Valar; now some are questioning the rightness of the whole world order.

And chief among those who challenge the belief that all is as well as can be is Fëanáro. It comes as no surprise to Netyarë that he soon becomes the loudest voice of dissent: she knows that he is unwilling to take part in anything without being in its lead, and he is by nature disinclined to accept any authority except his own and his father's. For a time Fëanáro only voices his opinions among his family and followers, but in later years private conversations and whispered insinuations will turn into loud words out in the open.

From the first, Netyarë finds it difficult to agree with her father-in-law, and with her husband who inevitably thinks alike with his father. For to her, it seems that they have all they could need here. And she does not feel oppressed by the Valar – she does not even feel particularly ruled by them, for she has always felt the authority of King Finwë more keenly in her everyday life than that of Manwë. That has changed little after she married the king's grandson; but perhaps those who were born among the rulers of the Eldar feel differently about Valar.

Trying to understand, she asks Curufinwë what there is in the lands across the sea that cannot be had here.

'Freedom', he answers, and, 'Wider realms that we could rule on our own.'

'Do we not have freedom here?' she asks. 'And was there not death and darkness in those lands, and for that our people came here? Following your grandfather, no less.'

He looks at her a long time, weighing his words. 'Tirion may be enough for you. For some, the whole breadth of Aman is too narrow a world.'

Fëanáro has indeed travelled the breadth of Aman, explored even the least known, cold and distant corners. In youth he went alone and with Nerdanel, and later with his sons. Netyarë has also been invited on a few journeys but always chooses to stay in Tirion, where her work is. The white city of the Noldor, which she has in a small way made more beautiful with her art, is indeed enough for her.

Netyarë notices that Curufinwë said that Aman is too narrow 'for some' and knows that what he means is 'for my father, and for me'. You would be a king, my love, she thinks, but I have no desire to be a queen.

Though he studiously avoided mentioning the difference between the classes into which they were born, an unspoken awareness of it is in the air between them now after having lain near-forgotten for years.

Out of loyalty and love and any real passion for opposing opinions, she does not speak against her husband or his father in public and rarely even in private. Yet she does not change her mind, and neither does Curufinwë, and instead of keeping them together as she intends it to, her apparent acquiescence becomes an ever-widening distance between them.

She would have thought that with how even amiable conversations that the two of them have tend to grow heated and be full of sharp-edged words, any truly important difference of opinion between them would manifest itself as loud arguments. Yet it seems that the more serious their discord, the more it shows only as a freezing silence that slowly creeps from their lips into their hearts.

A/N: I hope that Netyarë doesn't seem out of character in this story; in Sparks fly out, which ended up being written from Curufin's point of view 90% of the time, she perhaps came off harder than I'd intended. In my head she has always been a lot warmer and kinder as a person than Curufin, though she's also sharp-tongued, and Tyelperinquar/Celebrimbor gets his gentler nature from her.

Following chapters will be longer, especially the next one that covers the many years of unrest and strife among the Noldor as Melkor spreads his malice.

#tolkien #silmarillion #tolkien fanfiction #silmarillion fanfiction #curufin #curufinwë #burning out #celebrimbor #angst #romance #netyarë #curufin's wife #my fics #elesianne's fics

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