#continuing my headcanon that curufin made the ring of barahir for finrod

[fistfuloflightning]

When Curufin first sees the Nauglamir about the throat of the upstart king, it is Celegorm of all her brothers who keeps her from slaying Dior in his own throne room. They had come to treat for the silmaril, but even as the Oath eats away at her the longer she looks at it, all she can feel is rage.

It was a mortal who desecrated her husband’s city, pillaged her husband’s treasures, and it was an elf lord who took them and turned them into a mockery. Thingol had once called Arafinwe’s children kin, but through his greed he spat upon Finrod’s grave. It is a pity Thingol died when he did—Curufin can only hope the dwarves butchered him thoroughly on her behalf.

It is Finrod’s gift about the peredhel’s neck, and she wishes it were her hands. She knows every strand of gold and mithril, every jewel and crystal strung in glittering pendants. Green stones that Feanor had gifted them on their wedding day, two of which Curufin had wrought into a serpentine ring. Golden stones that glowed with the trapped light of Curufin’s forges, a meager attempt at replicating her father’s works. Shimmering pearls Earwen had crowned her son and grandson with at Celebrimbor’s birth. All these he had brought from Aman—treasures that he had been unable to be parted from, and that he had carried with him even over the Grinding Ice. That the dwarves had painstakingly crafted into a gift for him that he wore until the day he parted from Curufin for the last time.

It is her father’s silmaril the peredhel wears, but it is also her husband’s legacy. And when Dior turns them away and shuts them out of Doriath, she can only mourn all over again.

She continues to lose him, piece by piece. The things they created together—their children, their craftsmanship—all unraveling. And she can feel herself doing the same.