#but anyone who does not believe the valar's words and respects their decision to not ever be associated with them is welcomed neutral-warmly

[deadqueernoldor]

Thinking thoughts about those from Cuivienen and how they later treated the Valar, especially after Cuivienen was destroyed.

I imagine a foundation of sorrow and a layer of betrayal and pettiness. They had promised safety. And how did it turn out? Kin of Tata and Tatie their first leaders, slain in Valinor by the Dark Hunter from which the Valar promised protection in Valinor.

And then, the War of Wrath comes and with it the destruction of Cuivienen.

If any of those were re-embodied in Aman, I wonder if they make it a point to always turn their back to Valar and Maiar. I wonder if they only speak in the tongue they had first devised all those millennia ago and spoke in Cuivienen before time and different kindreds changed the tongue, not Sindarin or Quenya from the Great Journey's time or later. I wonder if they sing songs in their ancient tongue, songs about the beauty and unsullied health of Cuivienen every time any of the Ainur are near.

I wonder if the Valar feel any shame when those who they once looked upon in wonder and love gaze back at them with indifference or disgust.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter three

Chapter 3 summary: In the in-between existence of exile, the cold proves too much to bear.

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/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, moderate emotional distress and cruelty, canonical major character death(s). Also: so much angst, 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.)

Chapter notes: Another chapter of this miseryfest! This chapter covers the time in Formenos and its sudden end. I'm going with the HoME version that Fëanor's sons were the ones who found Finwë dead (not a pleasant sight) and then went to Taniquetil to tell everyone there. As usual I'm being as canon-compliant as possible, trying to show the human interactions between the lines of an epic.

*

Chapter III // Cooling embers

When Curufinwë returns from his father's judgement there is a storm in him. He announces that they are going to Formenos in a manner that brooks no argument; he expects none from Tyelperinquar, but judging by the look he gives Netyarë he is not entirely certain about her. Neither is Tyelpë, and he is the one to ask her.

'Mother, you – are you coming?' He sounds nervous and looks like a little boy instead of the tall youth at the threshold of adulthood that he is.

'I am coming', Netyarë reassures him. She would go for his sake alone; she is so sorry that the tensions of the past decades have made him lose trust in his parents' always being there for him.

They all begin packing, each starting with what is most important to them. Netyarë goes to the room where she keeps her painting supplies and tries to sort them into piles of things to be left and things to be taken along, but she finds herself at a loss. Twelve years in the cold north – how can she know what to take? She has little knowledge of Formenos, has no idea how easy it will be to obtain more supplies there. And what will she even paint there?

Hours later Curufinwë finds her sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with pigment jars, paintbrushes and old sketches strewn around her, almost but not quite crying. He sits down next to her and though he says nothing, after a moment she moves closer and leans into him, and he puts his arms around her.

He will not apologise, she knows, for her having to leave her home because of his father, because he never admits that Fëanáro does anything wrong. Not since the Silmarils. But the strong, slightly desperate embrace, the way he buries his face in her hair and the feelings of confusion and grief that she can just about make out from among his anger and resentment for the Valar and Nolofinwë are just enough that she thinks, I would still follow you to the other side of the world, because in spite of everything I am not ready to give you up.

She is not certain if he can feel her thoughts, but in any case, after a while he stands up and takes her by the hand and they go together, and that night he is what keeps her warm when she is afraid of the cold unknown.

*

It does prove to be cold in Formenos, and to Netyarë it feels like it gets colder every year. Their new place of dwelling, the new home of this close-knit royal family that often feels suffocating to Netyarë and at other times like a source of strength, is barely kept warm by the ever-blazing fires in the great fireplaces and the thick furs on the beds.

But the treelight is not only cooler here, it is also dimmer, and it feels like there is little light in Fëanáro's fortress in the hills. The Silmarils and their radiance he locks in a chamber of iron and never takes out, at least not in the sight of others. He and his sons dedicate themselves to the creation of glittering gems and terrible weapons alike, but there is no joy in the work of their hands as there used to be.

Nerdanel did not come. After years of virtual estrangement from her husband, her decision to not follow him wasn't a surprise to anyone, but her choice to go dwell with Indis was, and it added to Fëanáro's embitterment. Netyarë misses her as much as she misses her own mother.

Tinweriel and Tuilindien, the wives of Macalaurë and Carnistir, did come to Formenos, and it is with them that Netyarë spends her days. Tyelperinquar, now considered a man even if he is a few years short of his majority, spends with his mother as much time as he can, but it is not much. Curufinwë expects him to work as hard as the rest of the men of their house and as always he does as his father bids, out of both love and duty.

Their life in Formenos is strange. Fëanáro pushes to create more and more riches and weapons, then hoards them behind iron doors. It is clear he is preparing for something, but there is never talk of what. It is an in-between existence they have there in their temporary exile; no one knows what their life will be like when it ends. Returning to life as it was before seems impossible, as if Fëanáro's sword at his brother's throat had severed all ties to what came before.

Netyarë does her usual work at first, painting frescoes on the walls of the halls and chambers of the stronghold. Yet it is not such a pleasure here as in Tirion, for this is not a real home, not a place anyone cherishes or wants to stay at. After a while she puts away her buckets of limestone and her plastering tools, and spends her time drawing sketches and doing oil paintings. She captures Tuilindien engrossed in her books, paler and quieter now but somehow still gentle and affectionate with Carnistir, and Tinweriel with her flute that she still plays though she no longer sings merry songs with Macalaurë.

Most of all Netyarë draws and paints Tyelperinquar. Usually from memory, since he has little time to pose for her, but this is no problem for her. The features of her only child are drawn indelibly in her heart and she can retrieve them from there and capture him in ink or paint whenever she wishes. She records him hard at work at the forge, his lanky form growing stronger every day, and with his eyes shining with joy when he shows her something particularly fine he has made, or when he gives her one of his creations as a gift.

One evening Finwë, Fëanáro, Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar are gathered close together inspecting a piece of work Tyelpë has finished that day, and the sight of their four dark heads together brings Tyelcormo and the Ambarussar almost to laughter, so similar do they look. They have the same sleek dark hair, the same long nose and high cheekbones, and they differ very little in height or build. Yet the way they each hold themselves sets them apart, and that contrast is no doubt part of the reason for Tyelco and the twins' merriment.

Even in self-imposed exile, Finwë exudes calm authority; next to him, Fëanáro appears restless, a prowling beast even when he stands still. Curufinwë, on the other hand, seems to be cold and still all the time now, his watchful gaze always on his father first and others second. Tyelperinquar, like Finwë, is what he always has been: eager to learn and listen, as quick to a smile as to a frown but far more steady than his uncle Tyelcormo who is similarly capable of both.

Netyarë is so struck by the sight of the four of them that she has to paint it even though the similarity between her son and his father's line is also a source of pain and worry for her these days. (Tyelpë inherited from her nothing in looks but his eyes, a pure grey in colour rather than blue or silver-blue, and far more likely than the others' to be full of warmth – not a dangerous fire that burns too hot but a warmth of affection or joy.)

Curufinwë used to be one of her favourite subjects, but in Formenos she never paints him except as one figure in that one big portrait of the four men. He had been affectionate and attentive with her when they came to Formenos and remained so for a time, as if to make up for her having to leave her family, friends and work in Tirion, but eventually he began spending far more time with his father and brothers than her. The silence and distance are opening up between them again, and she does not know how to stop it, and she is no longer entirely sure she wants to.

She doesn't paint her husband anymore because to paint him as he had been, full of love and light and warmth for her, would be too painful, and to depict him as he is now, growing cooler and more distant and yet like a furious bonfire that scorches those who come too close, would be worse.

Some of the fault may be hers, for she finds it impossible now to be friendly towards Curufinwë's father. She could never not respect Fëanáro's unparalleled skills and his fierce intelligence, but she no longer admires them. However brilliant he is, he has brought more sorrow and strife to his people and to his own family than he has wrought things good and beautiful, and she believes it would be better if he were less of a genius.

As Curufinwë grows ever colder Netyarë becomes more impatient and quicker to anger. She had been tired of tolerating his changing moods, and now she is tired of trying to coax any warmth out of him. There seems to be very little that he is willing to give her freely these days, of his time or attention, and he seems to have no kind words left for anyone at all.

It should not only be me being generous, she rages in her mind. It is not right that I should be the only one to give anything of myself.

Just as much as she seethes she wonders, How did we come to this? I thought we used to burn so bright together. Was it just a trick of the light?

What they share becomes less every year. While he still seems to be making any kind of an effort with her she is willing to give him, and herself, the comfort of their lovemaking; she is still faintly hopeful of rediscovering what they used to have.

But as time passes he becomes ever more reserved and haughty and comes closer and closer to cruelty in his interactions with her, and she shifts farther and farther away from him, no longer allowing him into her mind or her heart or, in the end, her bed. Passion is the last thing they share but after affection is gone, it burns itself out soon, too.

He starts spending some nights in the small cot in the room that acts as his study. She does not comment on this and is too proud to ask him not to, and eventually he moves all of his things out their shared bedroom and has a proper bed made for the study.

She is relieved more than anything else, she finds. The bed feels too big for her alone, but it is easier to find sleep when she is not laying with her back turned to his, wondering if they will ever turn to each other again.

*

When they have been in Formenos for a few years, not long after Fëanáro drove Melkor from his door and a new fear settled into the hearts of everyone in Valinor, Tyelperinquar comes of age.

His celebration is not what it should have been. The coming of age of the eldest grandchild of the king of the Noldor would have been, if things were different, a joy-filled occasion marked by great festivities that had the whole city of Tirion abuzz with excitement. And all of Tyelperinquar's family and friends, not just his father's closest kin, should have been there.

Curufinwë doesn't like it when Netyarë leaves Formenos and goes to visit her family and her mother-in-law in Tirion, but she no longer cares about his opinions and goes every now and then. On one visit, shortly before Tyelperinquar's begetting day, she asks Nerdanel to come to Formenos for the party. Nerdanel is quiet for a long time and then says that she believes it will be a happier event if she does not come.

Fëanáro has not forgiven his wife for what he deems unjust desertion, and Netyarë knows this, so she says that she understands.

'I can see that you do, better than I hoped you would', Nerdanel says quietly, and Netyarë can see a world of sorrows behind her eyes, and she knows that there are more in her own, too, than there were when they last saw each other. It is not uncommon for husband and wife to become estranged, but it is usually a slow and peaceful process – a growing apart – that bears little resemblance to the way both Nerdanel and Netyarë have become lost to their husbands.

When Netyarë returns to Formenos she brings with her a statue Nerdanel has sculpted as a gift for her grandson. It is one of Nerdanel's abstract works, a graceful shape that imitates no form found in nature or formed by other hands, but it brings to mind nothing as much as hope arising out of darkness.

Netyarë and Curufinwë both want Tyelperinquar's coming-of-age celebration to be a good one, and both make efforts to do it so, planning, making arrangements and preparing gifts. They do not do the preparations together but in parallel; it is the way they live their lives now, close by but never touching.

They manage tolerably, Netyarë thinks, being glacially civil to each other and creating an otherwise warm atmosphere for Tyelpë's celebration. Yet her happiness and pride, at least, are ruined when over dinner Tyelpë notices her flinch when Curufinwë, sitting next to her for custom's sake, accidentally touches her hand when he reaches for something on the table. Curufinwë snatches his hand back as well.

Confronted with evidence of his parents' aversion to each other, the happy glow disappears from Tyelperinquar's face for a moment and is replaced by a scowling grief until he pulls himself together and assumes a smile again, bright and brittle.

My son is learning to wear masks too, then, even if he is not very good at it yet. Netyarë might cry, or shout out in anger, if she were not in the middle of a feast. But she is, so she too summons a smile, and it is brighter than Laurelin's light is this far north, for she learned a long time ago how to cover whatever else she is feeling with a smile, and she has had plenty of opportunities to perfect the deception.

Fëanáro does not bother with masks and smiles, not among family whose absolutely loyalty he demands and in most cases has. He makes little secret of his lack of affection for Netyarë. He thinks that she does not support Curufinwë enough, even while he respects her for at least being in Formenos unlike Nerdanel; but because it is no more than he considers just and right, it wins her little regard.

Netyarë tries not to care about her father-in-law. And in spite of his intense gaze and forceful personality, Fëanáro's dislike of her is a tiny drop in the ocean of grief that fills her whenever she thinks of all the love that has been lost between her and her husband.

*

Then comes the day of darkness, arriving at the time of the harvest festival where Fëanáro set out alone, defiantly dressed in everyday clothes. When the light fades Maitimo has led his brothers out on a hunt, since they had been feeling restless, but Tyelperinquar has taken the opportunity to spend some time with his mother.

They try to have a festival of their own, in a fashion, those of them in Formenos who are not too irate or restless, but once again celebration is only a pale shadow of what it should be. The king is grim for Fëanáro's absence and, it seems, some foreboding that he will not share with anyone.

And when the darkness embodied comes to the fortress and demands his due, Finwë faces it alone when others flee. Tyelperinquar has bared his sword, ever-present on his belt, but at his grandfather's urging and his own overwhelming fear he too runs, hand in hand with Netyarë.

When the worst darkness passes from Formenos – the one that is not simply an absence of light but a presence of evil – the sons of Fëanáro returning find the king dead and all others in hiding. As reward for his valour, Finwë had only received a terrible death, his body broken and his face twisted into an image of pain.

When Curufinwë sees that Netyarë and Tyelperinquar are unharmed he doesn't say a word but pulls them into his arms. Both of them; Netyarë freezes, but as she feels Curufinwë's whole body shake she forces herself to relax and lays a hand on his back and after a moment begins to cautiously and very gently stroke his hair. Her other arm she winds around Tyelperinquar.

They remain there like that for a while, Netyarë within the arms of her strong men, comforting them both while the crush of darkness in her own heart is eased by the embrace.

Eventually Curufinwë pulls away, stands a little apart and says, in a steady voice that is clearly the result of a struggle, 'The king is dead, the Silmarils and other jewels gone; we must ride to Taniquetil to tell everyone.' He wipes away the traces of tears from his face with a leather glove, stands up ramrod straight and turns to go, expecting his wife and son to follow after him.

They do, and they stay together and close to him in the days that follow, though there are no more embraces, and as grief becomes slightly less fresh the memory of a moment's closeness fades as well.

*

When the sons of Fëanáro finally find their father, wandering half-crazed with grief, they bring him to Tirion to recover, caring little that his exile has not yet been lifted. The whole family gathers for a sombre dinner at Fëanáro and Nerdanel's old house that is musty with disuse and filled with darkness and memories.

Carnistir and Tuilindien and Macalaurë and Tinweriel will go to their own houses for the night, but Curufinwë wants to stay in the old family home with his father and unmarried brothers. So he, Netyarë and Tyelperinquar stay even though the house they used to live in is close by, along the same street, and even though Fëanáro will allow none to console him, not even Curufinwë. His desperate grief is turning into desperate anger, and he is starting to speak words of revenge and rebellion. Curufinwë appears relieved by this change; Netyarë is disturbed.

Having gone days without food, they now prepare and eat a grave dinner together, simple fare that none of them have an appetite for anyway, and speak little while they dine. Tyelperinquar seems restless during the meal and as soon as he has cleared his plate, he pushes his chair back, bows to his father and grandfather and says that he will go light fires in the bedchambers.

'Tyelpë, we will need –' begins Netyarë quietly.

'I know, mother.' There is a wealth of disappointment and hurt in her son's voice; he must be disappointed  that his parents haven't really managed to find a way back to each other in spite of the shared grief and fear at the overturning of their world. 'I know we will need three bedrooms between us, you and father and me.'

Both Curufinwë and Netyarë are profoundly grateful when none of the others present remark on this.

Soon they retire to their bedchambers for the night – although to call it night is purposeless, for the death of the Trees and the following ever-present darkness eradicated the distinction between night and day and made such words meaningless, but they are used nonetheless to keep some sense in the world. Curufinwë and Netyarë's fingers touch for a moment when he hands her a lampstone, and the touch brings them both a small measure of comfort that neither expected.

Netyarë is hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when there is a knock on her door.

Thinking that it is her son feeling restless or lonely, she quickly tiptoes to open the door and finds her husband at the threshold of her room for the first time in years. He is pale and instead of holding his usual proud stance, he looks like he might collapse at any moment.

'I cannot sleep', he says in a ragged voice. 'I keep seeing his burnt and ravaged... corpse.'

If he had come to her in anger she would have slammed the door in his face, but she cannot stop her heart aching for his grief. The last few days have been terrible for her, and they must have been far worse for him, who has been both grieving his grandfather and fearing for his father's sanity.

She opens the door wider and he steps in, and she lets him into her arms and her bed, and she might let him into her heart if he asked.

*

She wakes when he is pulling on his clothes from where they lie scattered on the floor. He is clearly trying to keep as quiet as possible, and she does too, letting him think that she is asleep, watching him from under her lashes. In the blue-white light of the lampstone they did not cover for the night, Netyarë can see that her husband is still pale, his jaw is drawn tight, and his movements are controlled and stiff.

Even when he glances at her before stepping out the door his eyes betray no emotion, no anger or grief or love, only a cold determination. He looks like a stranger to her, and he looks more like his father than he ever did before.

*

A/N: It’s probably pretty clear by now that Curufin (and also Netyarë to a lesser extent) has a tendency to use sex as a band-aid – a source of comfort and a substitute for other kinds of intimacy. It's not really helping.