#taking a break from the pityo and telvo

[kosmic-autokrat]

horrifying quick textpost redraw

original by @heathcliffgirl2002 here

[danafinwefeaelenionfeanorian]

Feanorian Week Day Six: Ambarussa

1396 YT

"Hurry Ambarussa," Telvo.

What are they up to?

"I'm coming," Pityo.

Turca and I stop walking toward Father's study. We were about to ask Father if he wanted to go for a ride. He's been cooped up in his study for days now. It's time to air him out.

Even if he resists.

Ambarussa's footsteps get louder. The pair emerge from the servant's stairs. Goodies and sweets piled in their arms. Oh wow.

"Dana,"

"Tyelko,"

"Ambarussa," Turca and I say together.

"Care to tell us why you have sweets?" I ask surveying their plunder. Tarts, sweet meat, doughnuts, banana bread, candied fruit and a few more I can't quite see right.

"Ambarussa and I were famished from our studies and decided to raid the kitchens," Pityo grins. He shows off his bounty.

"We snuck by old Kesti taking a nap," Telvo smiles keeping his trove close to his chest. So similar yet so different.

Now hang on.

"Kesti isn't much older than me," I cross my arms. Kesti might be four years older. If that. Don’t go around calling her old.

"She's much older than Ambarussa and me," Pityo states.

Well, he's not wrong. I have 167 years on them.

"Her snores could wake you," Telvo paints quite the picture. If Kesti is that loud I don't doubt I'd wake.

"Quite true Ambarussa, then we found the sweets in the pantry," Pityo agrees with Ambarussa.

"Now we're here," Telvo's smile turns into a grin. It matches his twins.

They certainly have been busy.

"Are you going to share?" Turca asks. He leans closer to their horde of sweets. From here I can see a honey cake. Oh, sweet Eru. Please share.

"Perhaps,"

"What will you give us?"

"We won't tell Alo you've been mucking up his kitchens,"

Ambarussa share a look of terror. They look back at me as if assessing whether or not I'll snitch. The twins share another look, bringing their heads closer together.

I swear their use of osanwe is worse than mine and father's. Father and I have conversations through eye flicks, twitches of lips and raised eyebrows. Ambarussa on the other hand, not so much. They don't use visual cues. They simply use osanwe.

They break apart.

Pityo nods to Turca and me. "We have decided you can have some,"

I smile.

"Thank you Ambarussa."

Ambarussa pick sweets for me and Turca. Honey cake for me. Chocolate truffles and salted caramel apples for Turca. Oh and chocolate-covered strawberries for both of us.

We thank Ambarussa and continue on our way to father.

@feanorianweek

[beach-cryptid-of-middle-earth]

After a kin-slaying

in which Maedhros and Maglor reflect on their actions and become kidnap dads

‘The smell of burning flesh is one you don’t get used to.’  

‘But I have learned to ignore it. It is only when I think of Losgar that it angers me, though in truth it is more a feeling of shame and regret that overcomes me.’

Maedhros’ words were spoken in a manner so cold and free of emotion that one would not be able to even guess as to the pain they truly bore. It was a skill he had dreaded since he developed it, Angband had stolen the life from is voice and replaced it with the militant and cold nature that would only further his new reputation, the cold blooded fёanorian who lead his people further astray.

Maglor stood at his side the sights of despair and death that he had seen now thrice stained his vision. Upon hearing Maedhros he did try to bring his brother some comfort and put his blood-stained hand to his shoulder.

‘Nelyo, that was not your fault. You needn’t feel the same guilt that I do.’

‘Then you should not either.’

‘I should have resisted the Atar, I should have stood apart alongside you, I regret not doing so every day and night.’

Maglor had always been master of his voice, the gift of a minstrel, yet with tragedy his tone became desperate and uncontrolled sounding closer to that of a weeping child than a war hardened son of Fёanor.

The kin slayers moved through the fields of slaughter in secret both wished that they had been the ones slain rather than those of the havens and their last brothers. They did not speak as they moved down the slope towards the sea, yet each one knew what the other was trying to hide.

Cool water rinsed wet and dried blood from cloth, skin and hair alike yet the hands of one that slays his kin was in mind and spirit never washed clean of blood. The wine-coloured sea would always remember the blood that she had rinsed, yet would still offer some semblance of renewal to those whose skin she washed clean.

The fading lights of Ariens vessel coloured the last of the sky before Tilion rose, the silver remnants of Telperions lights reflecting in the sea as darkness crept over Sirion as it had in the hearts of those two who still remained here at its shore.

‘We should leave this place.’

‘Where would we go, Kano we are alone now. We are deserted and alone. So where would you go where death could not reach you.’

‘Death will reach us here if we stay, we may just evade it longer if we leave.’

‘You speak as though death is a punishment, when we both know that it is the one secret desire that we both share.’

They both knew they would be compelled to leave; their father’s spite would still haunt the world despite the centuries since his death.

Two cloaked figures along the fading river, their wayward fёar breaking further. Exhausted in body and mind they did stop to rest by a in the shadow of a cave.

The strangled voice of a weeping child was the first sound they heard above the gentle waves, both certain that it was a memory that had been sent to haunt them before they discovered they both could hear it.

The sound amplified by the resonance of the cave walls, Maglor who still was known amongst his brothers to posses his mother’s kinder heart did follow the sound to the child. He took the child in his arms and carried him out of the cave, where he did see his own brother holding a child who was identical in face but who’s eyes showed that his spirit was the one burning with more rage as the other was closer to composed.

‘Ёarendillion.’

‘Are you certain.’

‘There were few children at the havens beside the spawn of Elwing’

‘These children then are motherless because of our oath and action’

‘Many more than just these two I expect Kano.’

‘But the only ones we have met. I will take care of them then.’

‘Kano you cannot raise the children of those you have slain.’

‘Why not, I will never be able to repay my debt but maybe I can lessen it.’

‘I do not think one act of kindness to these children will save you from judgement, but I will not stop you, though I judge it to be unwise.’

‘When has any elf that carries the name Finwё been known for their sound judgement.’

‘I could say the same to you.’

‘Where did you find the second child.’

‘He was in the foam of the waterfall.’

Each Fёanorian held one equally exhausted child on their backs as they made their journey away from the mouth of Sirion.

 Hours had passed silently and the light of day had reached its peak when Maglor spoke again.

‘Nelyo, I have thought of what to call them, the one in the cave will be Elrond and the one in the water will be Elros.’

‘Have you not thought that they may already have names.’

‘They would not give them; I expect they are too fearful to speak for now.’

‘Be warned not to grow to fond of them dear Kano, I know in your heart you are trying to fill the hole left by Pityo and Telvo but they are not Ambarussa and will not replace our brothers. And do you not think Ёarendil will hunt us to the ends of Arda when he learns that his sons are in the hands of those kin slayers that drove his wife into the sea for a stone.’

‘I do not understand why she would rather sacrifice herself for a stone than ensure the safety of her children.’

‘Silmarils have the power to move anyone to corruption, we of all should know that.’

‘You are right I am a monster. All the horror I have caused does haunt me and now that I see the children who’s lives have been broken by it, I am afraid that I do not feel even half of the pain and grief as I was able when we first killed at Aqualondё. And I do not know if it is because my heat has grown weary or cold. I can no longer recognise myself, the hair I once saw as beautiful and soft is now coarse and as blood stained as my hands that are now covered in scars and callouses in the places I hold a sword and not a harp, my voice that was once so beautiful that it was loved by all in Tirion is now full of pain and is stretched thinner with each strained and impure sound, eyes that once gleamed with the light of the trees are now darkened like storm clouds and only shows a hopeless bleak Fёa that breaks further everyday yet grows continuously colder. So, you are right my dearest Brother I am corrupted and twisted and… broken.’

His voice strained further and further as he spoke, becoming more desperate. It became clearer and clearer in his voice that he was holding tears back in the eyes that grew more desperate to.

‘Kano, you are not a monster. The acts of horror and devastation that we both committed were only of the oath that is our father’s creation, we were just the blind fools that chose to follow him. And even then, my sweet Kano you still do have our mother’s kindness, enough do to save these children despite knowing it will be seen by anyone else as a crime and a dishonour as their father still lives. You are no monster; you are the kindest of my brothers.’

Elrond had heard from his mother about the terrible kin slayers and their actions that made them irredeemable in the eyes of any of the eldar that still did live, he had never expected that they would be capable of regret and grief. Yet a compassionate moment between two brothers who behind the cruel iron and masks, that made all see only the cold-blooded nature of their father, made him understand that behind all evil there is pain and a broken life that is deserving of love and forgiveness, a belief he would then keep with him throughout all the ages of Arda.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic

Summary: During Curufin and Netyarë’s year of engagement, he and his family offer to help Netyarë perfect her dancing skills. The help from Curufin’s brothers proves to be of questionable value.

This fic is part of my Fëanorian marriages series but works just fine as a standalone.

Length: ~1,100 words; Rating: General audiences; Some keywords: Family, dancing, humour

AO3 link

*

On light feet

It is not always easy for Netyarë, the process of becoming part of Curufinwë's large and tight-knit and proud family. But there are moments that are easy and effortless and fun and this is one of them, twirling in Curufinwë's arms around the largest room in his parents' large house.

Netyarë has always liked dancing so she accepted at once when Curufinwë offered to teach her the more intricate dances favoured by the nobler folk of Tirion, with their more plentiful free time and expensive dancing tutors. He even promised the help of his family members.

Makalaurë and Tinweriel volunteered to help, both with music and with dances that need more participants than two; Tyelkormo had, apparently, also been easy to persuade as he happened to have little else to do; and the twins are also 'helping'. They had refused when Curufinwë asked them but hadn't been able to when their father told them to take part. They are to learn the dances, too.

So the ballroom in Fëanáro and Nerdanel's house is filled with noise: Pityo and Telvo arguing about whose turn it is to dance with Tyelkormo who is taking on a woman's role in the absence of enough women, the noise from the boisterous litter of puppies that he brought with him to socialise them ('To dancing?' Makalaurë had asked, dubious) and of course the lovely music from Makalaurë's harp.

He shouts commentary over the golden notes every now and then.

'You're too stiff, Curvo', Makalaurë comments for the third time. 'Are you not enjoying dancing with your bride-to-be? One would think you'd like this dance the best since you don't have to relinquish her to anyone else for even a moment.'

Netyarë tries to keep in her laughter as Curufinwë grinds his teeth and says, 'I would be more relaxed if Telvo and Tyelko didn't keep trying to dance into us.'

'We're not', says Tyelkormo over his shoulder, but his grin says that he certainly is.

'Boys, boys', admonishes Tinweriel. 'Go to the other end of the ballroom for a while. And move your hand down a little, Tyelko, you're not holding Telvo right.'

'Dancing as a woman is harder than I thought', Tyelkormo grumbles, but he does as Tinweriel instructed.

'Now let us all focus', Makalaurë says as he sets his fingers back on the strings. 'Relax your knees, Curvo.'

'For the fourth time!' Curufinwë snaps. 'You're here to provide music, not commentary, Cáno.'

'I am here to teach, too', Makalaurë points out a little condescendingly, even in Netyarë's opinion.

Netyarë sighs, wondering how much learning will actually happen in between the bickering of brothers.

'Come now, Curufinwë', she says. 'Makalaurë means no harm. You may have been a little stiff. This is meant to be a fun practice.'

'And you!' Curufinwë lets go of her so suddenly in the middle of a step that she is left trying not to trip over her own feet. 'From you at least I would have expected no critique, Netyarë.'

Oh dear, Netyarë thinks, and out loud in quite another tone says, 'Oh, dear, I am sorry. This is a bit stressful situation, isn't it, besides being fun.'

Fortunately she is better at soothing ruffled feathers than not ruffling them in the first place. She can see Curufinwë untensing, his shoulders relaxing, his frown easing.

'Fine', he says, and takes her hand, but then lets go of it again. 'I am going to take a break and allow Makalaurë to concentrate on his playing for a while since he'll have no need to critique my form. You can dance with Telvo. Tyelko looks like he is in need of a break too.'

'Telvo keeps stepping on my toes and I am certain he does it on purpose', Tyelkormo says. 'I will happily relinquish him to you, Netyarë. May he have more mercy on your toes.' With a great bow, he retreats to the side of the dance floor and bends down to greet the puppies in their crate.

'Actually', says Tinweriel, gliding in, 'you will dance with me, Telvo. Pityo, you have mastered these steps so you will make a better practice partner for Netyarë while Telvo will get a chance to actually learn with me since he'll feel no need to play the fool like he did with Tyelko, will you, Telvo?'

The stern look she aims at Telvo has Netyarë quite convinced that Tinweriel's toes will fare better than Tyelkormo's.

The four of them take their places.

'You are not very much taller than me, Netyarë', Pityo observes happily. 'This will be easier than with Tinweriel.'

'Happy to oblige', Netyarë says drily. 'It won't be long until I will not be taller than you at all.'

She hides her smile at his proud expression at that. She remembers how gleeful her own little brother was when she grew to be taller than her though it was only by an inch. Little brothers are amusing creatures, and dear.

While older ones, she discovers, can be rather ridiculous, too.

'May I have this dance?' Tyelkormo is bowing, formal and haughty as any courtier, to Makalaurë.

Everyone else bursts out laughing but Makalaurë who, bemused, says, 'I am playing.'

'Curvo can play this song, can't you, Curvo? You may be a little rusty but you are not bad at it. You see, Cáno, I have just mastered the art of dancing the woman's steps, and divested as I am of my previous partner, I must get another chance to show off my skills.'

'Mastered is a generous word for it', Makalaurë laughs, but he gets up from his harp. 'If you will play, Curvo?'

'For this spectacle, happily', Curufinwë replies.

Pityo takes again Netyarë's hand that she'd held to her stomach as she laughed, and they take their positions. Just as Curufinwë's fingers begin plucking the strings, with a little hesitation but growing surer by the second, he calls out over the music, 'One word of criticism from you, Cáno, about this, too, and I'll take my bride and leave.'

'Don't worry, Curvo', Tyelkormo calls back. 'If he starts saying something rude, I'll headbutt him.'

Netyarë trips over her feet. Pityo catches her with a panicked whimper.

'I hope you'll take notes on how to be a supportive brother', Curufinwë says to Makalaurë.

'We are not going to be learning very much today, are we', Pityo whispers to Netyarë.

'Not with your brothers going on like that', she whispers back, but she grins, and she feels light on her feet.

*

A/N: Banner photo by East Meets Dress on Unsplash.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter fifteen

Chapter summary: Carnistir reflects on himself, Tuilindien feels homesick, and there is another difficult conversation including apologies, this one heavier than the ones before.

Rating: Teen and up audiences; Chapter length: ~4,500 words

Tag-type thingies for the whole story: years of the trees, romance, falling in love, family, courtship, anger management issues, the Noldor, the Vanyar, some fluff and some angst, happy ending

Chapter notes: This was a tough one to write, and I'm not all that happy with it even after a lot of rewriting. It has certainly taken me far too long though (… eight months. I'm so grateful to all who are still following this story) so I'm posting it now.

If you think that Tuilindien or Carnistir is overreacting, remember that this is pre-darkening Valinor: there is pretty much no violence, and Tuilindien has lived all her life among the Vanyar who are even less prone to lashing out than the Noldor of the 'blissful noontine of Valinor'.

(If you’ve forgotten what happened in the last chapter, you can read it here on Tumblr and here on AO3. This new chapter on AO3 here.)

*

Chapter XV // Contrition and consideration

'You should take them home', Tuilindien says when the cakes and tea have been consumed, mostly by the twins who are now almost cheerful enough as they'd be if they had been invited.

Carnistir has only sunk deeper down in misery.

'I'll take them home', he says. It is the right thing to do. 'But Tuilë – I need to talk to you in private.' All he can feel from her is a strange sort of exhaustion. It is disconcerting.

'Tomorrow', she says. 'No, the day after. I have meetings and a party to attend tomorrow.'

'Tonight.' He cannot wait. Tuilindien's exhaustion is only growing, and inside Carnistir himself there is a black mass is even worse than the earlier tension whose breaking brought them to this point. 'Late tonight after any other things you might have to do, if no other time is good for you.'

Carnistir notices that the twins are quiet now, watching him and Tuilindien carefully. She also stays silent for a moment.

'Very well', she says finally. 'Come to the palace two hours after Mingling. I should be free then, but I don't want to wander far so late. Do you know of a suitable meeting place in the palace or nearby?'

He must know, surely, after spending much of his childhood playing there, but he can only think of one place. 'The gardens.'

'Where we met.' Tuilindien's graceful nod is very solemn. 'I will see you there tonight.' She turns to the Ambarussar, and to them she grants the gentle smile she hasn't shown Carnistir since he lost his temper. 'Pityo, Telvo, thank you for talking with me. Next time, though, you must have permission to come. It is not right to cause a scare to your parents and… upset to your brother. Remember to apologise them all.'

It turns out that the twins have the good sense to at least look chastised as they promise to her that they will.

'Until tonight, Carnistir', says Tuilindien and leaves, returning to her lodgings alone, unescorted by Carnistir for the first time since they started seeing each other.

As Carnistir leads his little brothers home, they try to speak to him – to explain or apologise, he doesn't care. He tells them that there is nothing to talk about. 'You were wrong to follow me and I was wrong to drag you out of the bushes so roughly and to grab Tuilindien's arm. We all know we shouldn't have done those things. That is it.'

Pityo and Telvo try to say something more, but Carnistir cannot really listen. Getting them all home is all he can concentrate on. Most of his mind is screaming at itself, and it is so loud he cannot hear anything else.

Their parents are in the hall waiting for them, worry evident on both their faces, and rise to their feet as soon as Carnistir shepherds the twins through the door.

'I am sorry', he says to his parents, and then realises that he shouldn't have, perhaps, since he wasn't responsible for the twins following him. He had told them to stay home.

Then he flees, going out the door again, because he doesn't want to explain to his parents all that happened.

As soon as he's outside he realises he doesn't know where to go. This is his home. He could go to Makalaurë's house, but although Makalaurë wouldn't push him to tell what has upset him – he never does, and for that he is one of Carnistir's favourite people – he would still look worried, and Carnistir doesn't think he can handle even that.

He needs to go somewhere, though, before his parents or the twins come to look for him. He heads for the stables, grabs Varnë's brushes and tack from the tack room and goes to her stall.

He brushes her mahogany coat until it shines. Varnë is in an unusually relaxed mood, perhaps still happy with him because of yesterday's long ride and afternoon in the forest glade, and barely fidgets while he tends to her.

After brushing her he cleans her hooves and even carefully – and cautiously, because she is a kicker – detangles her tail and it is time to put on her bridle and saddle, he finds that he doesn't want to do that. He knows that the way he is feeling, the terrible twisting weight inside him, is all his own fault and he doesn't deserve to run away from it by galloping into the Calacirya with Varnë.

There are no other people in the stable. He collapses in the corner of Varnë's stall and leans against the wall.

He knows he has a terrible temper. He always has had it, and he has always known. His parents, especially his patient, understanding mother, have worked with him to help him learn control it, and he truly has become better at it. As a child he screamed at something or someone practically every day, and as an adolescent he got into actual physical fights with Tyelko so often that Carnistir suspects it was part of the reason why their parents sent Tyelko to stay with Oromë.

Tyelko grew into adulthood and better control there, in Oromë's woods and house, and as the years went by Carnistir… also learnt. But clearly not enough, because he still does things he doesn't want to do, not really, not any other part of him but that dangerous thing that lives too close to the surface in him and sometimes tenses up so tightly that it explodes and makes him physically aggressive.

No. Not a thing. He mustn't think that it is a thing inside him. It is him, not anything else; it is a part of his fëa that gets so angry, and it is his hröa that grabs and throws and breaks. It may be a part of him that he often despises and wishes didn't exist, but it is an indelible part of him nonetheless. He must take responsibility for his actions.

When he was a child his parents told him that taking responsibility means apologising, promising not to do it again, and then doing everything he can to keep that promise.

He supposes that still applies, also in this case, and that is why he insisted on seeing Tuilindien soon. He wants to hear from her what he can do to make things right with her.

And before then he needs to think of what to say to her, he realises. He needs to decide on specific words, or he might not get any out, or he might say something to make things even worse. He is not very good at apologising, though he has done rather a lot of it in his life because of his temper.

He hasn't lost control this badly for a while, though. Now that he takes the time to think about it, he realises it must be because of all the things that have been going on in the last couple of weeks. While courting Tuilindien has brought him much joy and he doesn't regret it at all, it has brought along with it also stress and hurry, most of it either directly or indirectly caused by his father.

Carnistir wanted to meet Tuilindien every day, and to prove to Fëanáro that he could do it and still do all of his work. And he could – yes, Curvo helped him last night, but he only needed the help because he decided to finish that project early. Everything else he has completed on time, and any time left over from work he has spent with Tuilindien.

So he did both things he wanted, but he couldn't do them without losing control of his temper. He didn't break Tuilindien or even her arm, but he did hurt her. There might well be bruises on her arm right now – Valar, it makes him nauseous to think of it – and he hurt her in other ways as well.

Thus his success is turned into failure and he into this damned coward who hides in his horse's stall rather than face his family.

'Damn it all, Varnë', he says out loud. The mare comes to him and nuzzles his hand, looking for treats. 'Nothing for you this time, girl', he says to her and moves his hand to scratch her ears so that she won't nip at it in disappointment.

She blows warm air onto his face as he pets her, and he takes comfort in their quiet moment together. For a long time after he got Varnë he never even dared to sit down when she was nearby because it made him too vulnerable to her aggressive behaviour. They have made a lot of progress since then.

Taming Varnë, not that she ever became very docile, was part of his efforts to learn self-control during his growing years. He eventually won her over by patience and perseverance, by not giving into his desire to rail at her and to answer to aggression with aggression. It was important to him that they got along, so he worked hard.

Tuilindien is even more important. He hasn't known her for long but he is absolutely certain that he wants her to stay in his life, to grow ever closer with her until they give the promise that makes them inseparable. The thought of her going home and never coming back is so terrible that Carnistir refuses to think about it for more than a second.

Even that second makes breathing hard. He buries his head in his hands and scrunches his eyes shut, concentrating on nothing but making his lungs work and his heart beat at a bearable pace.

There was nothing really wrong with his life before he met Tuilindien. He had his work and his family and friends, and a position in society that in the end is probably more beneficial than it is bothersome.  But he knows that if he loses her now, because of his own intemperance, his days will seem so bleak. He hadn't known to desire it but having someone who is something special to him and he is equally special to is coming to be very precious to him.

It sounds terribly sentimental, but he has realised that he wants to be someone's most important person – though that isn't quite right. He doesn't want to be just someone's most beloved, he wants to be Tuilindien's.

To have a chance with her, he will try harder and do whatever it takes to better manage his temper. He had thought that he'd come far enough with it, but clearly he hasn't if he isn't able to keep himself from hurting the one he wants to cherish and make happy, and also from bringing his little twin brothers to tears with his anger. That isn't acceptable either.

Mind made up and resolve steeled, he gets up and brushes horsehair and bits of straw off the fine breeches he so carefully chose just a few hours earlier. He feeds a few carrots to Varnë, gives her a scratch goodbye and goes in to the house, not exactly intending to seek out his parents or youngest brothers but not sneaking around either.

*

Tuilindien slips into the palace gardens after dinner. Carnistir probably won't be there yet but she wants somewhere where she can be alone. Fortunately she didn't have to socialise much after her meeting-gone-awry with Carnistir. She spent the afternoon at the library working on her own, getting little work done, and then an hour before dinner cuddled up in bed together with Cirincë.

Cirincë, the sweet girl that she is, had been worried about Tuilindien even though she'd tried to assure her that she was alright.

'No, you are not', Cirincë had said, perceptive as ever, her bright eyes intent on her sister. 'But I won't ask you about it if you don't want.' Cirincë says this with a slightly self-congratulatory tone at her own maturity.

If she wasn't so young Tuilindien would have told her all about it, because Cirincë is a wonderful listener. But she is only a child, no matter how precocious, and so Tuilindien had lain down on her bed and said that she would rather not talk about it.

She hadn't turned away from Cirincë though, and Cirincë climbed on to the bed with her and curled up close like an affectionate cat – like Tuilindien's little white cat at home that she misses very much.

It seemed Cirincë is thinking along the same lines, for after a while, she whispered, 'I miss home' in a small voice.

Tuilindien drew her into her arms and stroked her hair, noting absent-mindedly that it would need to be rebraided before dinner. 'We'll go home soon', she told her little sister, and herself.

She is grateful that there are few people in the garden now, and that she finds the secluded corner unoccupied.

She sits down on the long bench surrounded by tall bushes. Waiting is difficult this time, and she clenches her hands in the skirt and stares at the silvery sky.

She decides to spend the time before Carnistir arrives strengthening the wall she imagines at the borders of her mind whenever she tries to quieten the connection between Carnistir and herself. There is a part of her that grieves at doing her best to shut him out, but she tells herself that the coming conversation needs to be handled with the head, not the heart.

*

When Carnistir arrives he sees Tuilindien already there, sitting in almost exactly the same spot as the night they first met. She is staring down at the ground and the long cascade of her hair hides her face. He can't feel anything from her either, the connection between them completely quiet for once.

'Tuilë', he greets. Then, because he is enough of a son of Fëanáro that he realises at least some nuances between words and knows which belongs where, he corrects himself. 'Tuilindien.'

'Carnistir.' She rises to her feet but doesn't extend her hand to kiss. Her hair is completely unbound, a golden river, and it makes something in him clench painfully.

She doesn't immediately say anything else, so Carnistir says what he came here to say.

'I am sorry.' And then, once that most important thing is said, 'I did not mean to hurt or scare you, or my brothers, but I know I did. I am sorry.'

Tuilindien sits back down, regarding him with a serious look. 'Thank you for apologising. Are Pityo and Telvo still alright? They seemed fairly cheerful when you went home.'

'They are well', says Carnistir. 'They… our parents did chastise them and our father set them some writing exercises to do, but their high spirits didn't seem to suffer from even that. I went… out for a while but when I went home again I let them in to my room to do their task there. They were still there when I left to come here.'

'I am glad', says Tuilindien. 'They are so fond of you that I would be sorry if any estrangement had grown between you because of today's events.' She busies her fingers with fiddling with her sleeves as she talks, looking down. 'I don't know if they mentioned it to you, but I talked with them while you went inside the teahouse. I asked them if you… how you usually are with them when you lose your temper. I wanted to hear from them that you don't hurt them, no matter how angry you are.'

She is talking fast, forcing the words out in quick succession, emotion making her speech grow more Vanyarin by the second. 'They said you have never hurt them on purpose, and never done more than today when you dragged them out of their hiding place. I was very relieved. I am very aware that people and customs are different and I have been – I am trying to understand you, but there are things I couldn't accept. Hurting children is one of them.'

'I couldn't accept it either', he says.

Tuilindien nods.

Carnistir continues, every word heavy but necessary. 'I can't accept what I did to them today. It was already far too much. Also what I did to you – I should have just asked you to come with me instead of touching you roughly. But I am not good with words at the best of times and when I lose my temper I tend to lose control of words too and resort to physical action.'

'You are speaking very clearly now.'

'I thought about what to say beforehand. All the hours between when we last saw and now.'

'I thought about it too', she says. She is still playing with her long sleeves, pulling them over her fingers and then letting go again.

He thinks it must be a nervous habit, but it is a new one, different from her usual playing with her skirts or hair. He realises, and his heart goes cold when he does, that it seems new to him because she has not worn long sleeves before. She has seemed like the kind of person who doesn't get cold easily. It is not very cold now, though the evening has turned to pure silver.

'You're wearing thick, long sleeves', he observes out loud, letting the words hang in the air between them.

Tuilindien says nothing, and seems far away from him, nothing between them but air now that their connection is silent.

'Pull your sleeves up', he tells her.

'No.' She curls up her fingers again.

Carnistir's heart is an unbearable weight in his chest. 'I need to see your forearms, I need to see if I left marks –'

'No', she says again. 'It doesn't matter.'

Now he knows there are bruises, and he needs to see them. 'Of course it matters.'

'No, it doesn't. You know you hurt me and you have apologised for it. What does it matter if you see my arm? You would still be sorry if there weren't bruises, wouldn't you?'

'Of course I would! I have never regretted anything so much in my life. But Tuilindien –' he takes a quick step closer to her and reaches out towards her. She flinches, just a little, but it is enough to make him take two steps back.

'Please', he says again. 'It is important to me.'

'But why? Tell me, why?' she asks, clearly anguished but still trying to understand him like she always is.

'So that I have even more reason to never do something like it again.'

After a moment, Tuilindien pulls up one of her sleeves, holds it up and extends her arm. She doesn't look at it, or him, gazing aside instead. There are wilting white flowers on the bushes around them, and on her forearm there is a series of already fading but still clearly visible small bruises, his fingerprints. This isn't the way he would ever have wanted to leave his mark on her.

And this is where he finds himself unable to speak, though he isn't angry at anything but himself, and it is a cold kind of anger for once. He stares at those bruises and stores them in his mind together with the little sound of pain she made when he grabbed her and the look of fear in her eyes afterwards, and swears to himself that he will never cause any of them again.

He realises that he hasn't said this out loud, and that he should. 'I will never touch you without your permission again', he says. The words come out scratchy. 'I promise, Tuilë. Never without your permission, and never with anything but gentleness. I will work harder with my temper and I will keep it in check.'

'I –' Tuilindien lets her sleeve drop down to cover her arm again. 'Thank you.'

Why is she thanking him? She is ridiculously, inexplicably polite, he thinks. Then he realises, and is slightly astonished at himself for managing to realise it, that she has been even more polite to him after the incident than before. Perhaps it is a way to protect herself, as instinctive as his habitual brusqueness.

He doesn't know what else to say, what he could say.

So they are quiet for a moment. The air smells of the dying flowers around them, the same flowers that were in the height of their bloom when they met here for the first time. It feels a like mockery to Carnistir who finds it difficult to just wait for Tuilindien to speak while she again uses her hair to conceal her face and a new-found control of their connection to conceal her feelings from him.

Eventually, because despite his many flaws and earlier hiding in the stable he isn't really a coward, he asks, 'Will you see me again, Tuilindien?'

She considers her answer for a moment. He counts his heartbeats while she does in order to keep himself from demanding for her to speak.

'I was to go home soon', she says in a measured tone. 'And I think that it is for the best to keep to that original plan now. I will give my apologies to Rúmil and tell him I cannot stay to assist him after all. I will go home and think about you and us.'

'You don't have to leave to think.' He has to try.

'I do, Carnistir, I do.' She lifts her hair away from her face finally, to flow down her back, and gives him a tiny smile that there is something wrong with. 'I need distance and time. I ask that you grant them to me and don't try to change my mind.'

His mouth is dry, and his face feels heated. He sits down on the bench and drops his gaze to his hands, to the smudges of ink still on his fingers from last night's hurried planning and writing. He must stare at them too intently, for his eyes almost burn.

'Carnistir.' Her tone is too kind, and too tired. 'I am not leaving because I no longer care for you. If I didn't, I could stay here and do the work with Rúmil. It would be easy to stay. It isn't easy to leave.'

He isn't certain what to make of that. 'Is there anything I can do?' he asks.

'I already asked for time and distance', she says. 'Aside from that – I suppose there is one question I've been wondering about.'

'Ask me.'

After a moment of gathering her thoughts, Tuilindien asks, 'Why did you get so angry today? I have been wondering, because though I have been told that you lose your temper at the smallest provocation, you have kept calm in my company in situations more infuriating than what happened today at the teahouse.'

'Yes', he says miserably, because he has realised the same thing.

'So I cannot help wondering what made you so angry today.'

He breathes in the cloying scent of dying flowers and thinks. Beside him Tuilindien plays still with her sleeves and skirts, her hands like restless little birds incapable of staying still. They wrinkle the fabric then smooth it out, regretting the wrinkles.

'It wasn't just about the twins at the teahouse', he says at length. 'It did all happen suddenly, but it had been building up for a while. Since I came home from our ride yesterday.' He pushes his hands into his hair, no doubt messing it up further. 'Or perhaps since I first met you. I have been wondering what to do and my brothers – some of my brothers – have been making fun of me, and my father has disapproved. Less vocally now', he hastens to add, 'but still. He is not happy that I am seeing you so much. And I have been working more than usual on top of seeing you.'

'And resting less, perhaps?' She seems to search his face.

'Yes', he admits with a sigh. 'And I am a damned fool for not keeping it in mind, but I always find myself especially bad-tempered when I don't sleep enough.'

Tuilindien contemplates this in silence for a moment.

*

Carnistir's answer is close to the things Tuilindien had thought might be involved when she'd wondered about him, curled up in bed with Cirincë, missing home.

She almost opens her mouth to begin to summarise what he said and to add her own thoughts about it, but remembers all the times that Lirulinë has told her not to take care of other people's feelings so much. She would like to keep untangling this mess of emotions in Carnistir, and in herself, and between them, but she is tired and hurt and so it takes less effort than it usually would to take her older sister's advice. Carnistir's emotions are his own business, and Tuilindien will need the time and distance she asked for to sort out the rest.

'Thank you for the reply', she says. 'I will think on it, among other things, when I get home. Thank you for not making it difficult for me to leave.'

It is still difficult to take a step away from him instead of reaching out to smooth his black locks that are a worse mess than she has seen before.

'It is late', she says, the trite words heavy on her tongue. 'I should retire. Cirincë will be waiting up for me.' She cannot keep herself from adding, 'You need the rest too.'

Carnistir raises his head. 'It isn't as easy as just going home and falling to bed', he says.

'Of course it isn't', she tells him. 'The right thing to do now isn't easy. I told you.'

He just looks at her, and truly, it would be easier to embrace him and forgive, to give in to her too-soft heart.

'Would you stand up?' she asks instead. 'You are sitting on half of my cloak.'

He stands up quickly and picks up the dove-grey cloak, looking slightly confused like he hadn't really even noticed it. She takes it from him. It is only thin silk, more for looks than warmth, but the feeling of familiar delicate softness is comforting.

'Goodnight, Carnistir.'

'Goodbye, Tuilindien.'

His voice holds all the emotions she has ever heard in it, but she turns her back on him and walks away. She wraps herself up in her thin grey cloak and reminds herself of the worth of self-respect, and the wisdom of giving serious matters due consideration, but they do not keep her warm even in the summer night, nor do they make it easy to not look back at him.

*

A/N: In the next chapter, Carnistir seeks advice and lodging at Makalaurë's house, and Tuilindien goes home and walks on the slopes of the Taniquetil. Or possibly in the next two chapters. I'm not certain of where the chapter division will be yet.

Thank you again if you're still here / also if you're a new reader! <3 I know this story has progressed very slowly, but it is still a beloved project and I will keep on working on it.

[elesianne]

Fëanorian mother-names: Ambarussa, Umbarto, Ambarto

I didn't even try to stop myself making this really long because it's for two boys instead of one and they deserve to have a long story together, and because the matter of their names is rather complicated – so this ended up monstrously long, almost 2k words. I placed a cut in the post so that this doesn't take up too much space on your dashes.

This is more angsty than the earlier ones (goes from kind-of-angst to fluff to angst) as could be expected, and a bit weird. I don't know what came over me. No, actually, I blame the whole prophecy of doom of thing. That kind of stuff brings out the worst in me.

[The big brothers: Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Atarinkë.]

UPDATE in April: I’ve posted all of these in edited, slightly improved form on AO3.

*

Ambarussa, Umbarto, Ambarto

It is Nerdanel who suggests that they have one more child. They have not spoken of the matter after Curufinwë learned to walk and talk; their consensus then was no, or rather not yet at least. Fëanáro never brings up the topic after that, which to his wife is no surprise. He is so happy teaching Curufinwë that he finds no sorrow in their youngest son leaving behind early childhood, all too soon too tall and too proud for parents' hugs and indeed eager to grow up.

They have had five children, Nerdanel reminds herself, a greater number than in most families, a greater blessing than anyone should dare demand. All boys, but bright, beautiful boys she loves with all that she is. Wanting a girl is not why her heart yearns for another child, she believes. It is simply that her arms feel so empty. She finds herself visiting often her sister and her friends who have young children, to try and satisfy that longing for a cheerful, trusting toddler to hold, or a peacefully sleeping babe to gaze down at.

It doesn't help, just makes things worse. I am still young enough and strong, she finds herself thinking. I could still have children and have much to give them. It just feels so selfish when she already has so much.

Fëanáro has no such concerns. When one night she turns to him and asks what he thinks of having another child, he asks 'Why not?' with a smile as fierce as his spirit.

She has no answer to that, only doubts so small she dares not speak them aloud. A quiet, distant fear that she wants another child because she feels she had so little to give to the last one they had, the one who is so wholly his father's son. Another fear is that perhaps Fëanáro would give her that one child more just because he always wants everything, not because his heart yearns for more children to join their family as hers does.

Then again… children are a blessing from the One; surely they will not be given any more if it is not right. And Nerdanel knows her own strength. Even if Fëanáro is engrossed with new, ever more ambitious projects and at times has little patience for their children except for Curufinwë his apprentice, even if he will not give as much of his time and spirit to a future child as he has given to the ones that came before, she is confident she can make up for his shortcomings.

A few years later when she holds in her arms two red-haired babies, near mirror images of each other, she wonders no longer about her selfishness. She and Fëanáro have been blessed again, and their little twins are perfect, and it is completely right that they are here, part of their family. Fëanáro smiles at her and their newest sons with tears in his eyes, then leans carefully over the sleeping babies and kisses her with love and tenderness, and there is no thing on Arda that she could regret.

She does wish her husband had a little more diplomacy in him, though, when he announces the names he chose for the children that they have already agreed shall be their last. Pityafinwë, little Finwë, is a sweet name, but Telufinwë, last Finwë, is another insult to Fëanáro's half-siblings who may well still have several children between them since they are younger than he is and do not have families as large.

Telufinwë's name does not cause as much of a stir as Nelyafinwë's did but still Nerdanel hears of disgruntled mutterings from those who already have little love for her husband, and she has the added worry of her older sons' reactions to those mutterings.

At one court function she happens upon Maitimo dragging Tyelkormo and Carnistir out into the garden, 'to cool down', as he says to his mother. Nerdanel is almost certain that this has something to do with the remark they overheard earlier about Fëanáro's arrogance; she supposes she should be grateful that Fëanáro himself wasn't there to hear it, and that Maitimo is managing his most hot-headed brothers who had made a rare alliance in order to defend their father.

It is clear, then, that it would be better for Pityo and Telvo, as they are called within the family, to receive their mother-names sooner rather than later. Yet Nerdanel is reluctant to hurry, held back by the memory of disappointing Curufinwë. Though Curufinwë didn't take the opportunity she offered for him not to have the first mother-name she had chosen, she wants her youngest sons to also have that opportunity. For that she needs to wait until they are old enough to make the decision.

So Nerdanel waits until they are old enough to have a conversation with, a simple one at least. She thinks of two names, similar but different, and arranges a quiet chat between the three of them. While the twins fight as much Tyelkormo and Carnistir used to, unlike those older brothers they are inseparable rest of the time, and Nerdanel thinks they would like to have this conversation together.

'I have chosen names for both of you', she tells the excited boys who have guessed that something important is about to happen.

Their excitement seems to fade, their legs no longer swinging, faces fallen.

'Names?' asks Pityo.

'Yes, names', their mother says. 'I know it is a little earlier than for some children, but I would like to give you names of my choosing.'

The twins look at each other, then at her.

'We'd rather just have one name', says Pityo.

'Ah.' Taken aback, Nerdanel says, 'I am glad if you like the names your father gave you, but you know, don't you, that everyone gets a name from their mother as well. You can decide which one to use –'

'No, that's not what he meant.' Telvo gives his twin a slightly annoyed shove. 'He meant that we'd rather have one name we shared.'

'Yes', pipes Pityo, shoving back. 'We don't mind you giving a name but could you give us just one? We don't need two.'

Nerdanel's first instinct is to laugh; the twins are looking up at her eagerly and earnestly, blissfully unaware of the peculiarity of their request. She stifles the laugh, though, and explains gently that names are meant to identify, and that everyone has different names because of that.

'We already have different names', Telvo points out, always the one to lay out careful arguments where Pityo is more likely to simply insist. 'We are Telvo and Pityo. So people can identify us by those names. But we would like a name to share, as well.'

'Oh my silly little redheads.' Nerdanel lays a gentle hand on each silky head. 'Are you sure? There are times when you like to be separate, as well.'

She reminds them of a few of those times, but in return they remind her again that they do have the different names too and can use those when they wish.

'Very well', Nerdanel says, recognising the stubbornness these children have inherited from both of their parents. 'But you need to wait a few days at least. Neither of the names I had for you suits both. I think you need to have a very special name to share, don't you?'

The twins agree with enthusiasm but then they turn out to be almost as impatient in waiting for a name as Carnistir was: they follow her around the house and badger her for it for the next few days, and Nerdanel finds it difficult to think. No foresight arrives, which is no surprise for she never had any, and neither does any special insight. All she can think of is simple names, and she tells her impatient children as much when they hop into her studio and ask once again.

'A simple name is alright', says Pityo. 'A simple name can still be special, can't it?'

'Of course it can', Nerdanel assures the child she has called little one for years, for that is what the shortened version of Pityafinwë's name amounts to.

'So give us a simple name', says Telvo.

Nerdanel blows marble dust off Telvo's red curls and ruffles Pityo's. 'Ambarussa.' Top-russet.

The smiles she receives in return for the name tell her that she has not made a mistake like she did with Curufinwë. The twins are happy with their mother-name, and so is Nerdanel; it is a simple but sweet and affectionate name for sweet, affectionate boys. And it describes in its own way how the twins have always been happy with the colour of their hair, delighted to share this unusual feature with their mother and their adored, idolised big brother Maitimo who was already a man grown by the time his youngest brothers were born but no less loved by them for it.

Fëanáro is not happy with the name when he hears it, or rather, he is no happy that the twins share it. He says nothing in front of the jubilant Ambarussar, as Nerdanel already has begun to call them in the plural, but when they retire to the privacy of their bedchamber he tells her he doesn't approve of her decision.

Nerdanel had not asked for his approval beforehand, for the giving of a name is between the parent and child alone. Nerdanel never spoke against the names Fëanáro gave their first and last child, though they grieved her.

But Fëanáro asks that she give the twins different names, even after she explains why she chose to break tradition.

'It is not right', he says. 'Similar though they may be, they are different, and all their names should reflect that.'

'I think–' begins Nerdanel and then says no more, for at that moment, finally, suddenly, arrives foresight.

She sees nothing for a moment, a darkness unlike any she has ever seen around her like a suffocating veil placed upon her eyes and nose and mouth, then there are smells – something metallic, something salty, then the smell of fire. And then there is nothing but fire, all around her, and it burns everything away, it burns her away.

When she returns to her self and her bedroom and her husband, Fëanáro is shaking her. 'Nerdanel!' he shouts at her.

Nerdanel pushes him away. 'I am fine', she says hoarsely.

'You looked so strange for a moment.' He looks very disquieted.

Nerdanel raises a hand to her face and is amazed to find no tears. Surely such loss as she felt should be mourned…

'Nerdanel!' Fëanáro grabs her again. 'What is wrong with you?'

She turns his hold on her arm into an embrace, leaning into him; after a moment his arms settle around her more gently and help her stop shaking. 'Umbarto', she says into his chest. Fated. One of our children is doomed to a grim fate. Oh, why did you have to ask me for another name?

Fëanáro flinches at the sound of the word from her lips. 'Surely you mean Ambarto? Umbarto is no name for a child. Nerdanel, did you have a –' He can't even bring himself to say it.

Nerdanel says nothing, just holds on to him and prays, prays that this first ever vision of hers will prove false though she knows it doesn't work that way.

'He should be called Ambarto instead', says Fëanáro after a while, his voice as broken as hers. Exalted.

'As you wish', she says. 'It will make no difference.'

Now she does cry. Oh, how she wishes at this moment that she never had any foresight, yet she will only come to wish for it more in years to come.

*

A/N: I chose to make this final scene between Nerdanel and Fëanor less confrontational than Tolkien's short description of it makes it appear, because I like to think that while they had disagreements in their marriage already before the Silmarils, the strife within the Noldor and Fëanor's rebellion, they were mostly able to negotiate through them and remained close. Nerdanel saw Fëanor's flaws but loved him long despite them, aided by her wise and understanding nature even during difficult moments.

I really enjoyed writing these, quick and messy as they are, especially because I got to explore Nerdanel's character more through the names she gave her sons. She's almost always a supporting character in my fics but I am very fond of her.

Thanks for reading :)