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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Things That Can and Can’t be Fixed

Sorry I’ve been gone for a while! I was hard at work on some original stuff, and then when I tried to turn back to this, the piece I wanted to write just wasn’t working. So I finally decided to write this instead.

The original plan is for Curufin, Celegorm, and Caranthir to stick together in the attack on Doriath. Celegorm and Curufin work well together, and Caranthir’s much larger forces will bolster their own.

Maedhros concedes all of those points, and then sticks Maglor with Celegorm and Caranthir and keeps Curufin by him. His official reason has something to do with strategy, but Curufin’s pretty sure that Maglor’s snide comment about Nargothrond is far closer to the true.

Curufin grits his teeth and agrees to the plan. As long as the plan works, he doesn’t care how it does.

The plan does not work.

When the battle’s over, he walks into the throne room and sees three of his brothers lying dead on the floor, insufficiently protected by the armor he’d made them.

It is some comfort to see that Dior and Nimloth lie dead too. It’s not enough.

So when Celegorm’s servants confess what has become of two of Luthien’s grandchildren, Curufin snarls and says, “Good.”

He can’t help remembering, though, how a lifetime ago in Aman Celebrimbor had gotten lost in the forest on a hunting trip Celegorm had talked Curufin into. He’d been so young then. So small. He’d been curled up under a tree and weeping when Curufin had finally found him, and then his son’s whole face had lit up like it contained all the light of the Trees combined.

He thinks of his brothers when he says good.

He thinks of his son when he stalks after the furious Maedhros to find them, cursing himself as he goes.

By the time he finds the children, they are far past either weeping or hope.

He thinks of them when two of Caranthir’s old people cautiously present him with the two ash covered elflings they’ve found. He thinks of them, and he thinks of the Ambarussa, the only two of his brothers that he ever got to hold.

His improvements to their armor had still not been enough.

“They’ll make good hostages,” he says shortly and goes off to tell Maedhros. His brother can be the one to handle things from here. Curufin has no patience for dealing with anyone descended from Luthien’s brat.

Maedhros just keeps staring bleakly into the funeral pyres when Curufin tells him. His brother has been fracturing fast since Doriath, and none of the tools Curufin knows how to wield can possibly meld him back together.

That still doesn’t make this Curufin’s problem. Someone else can deal with it.

That’s the line he holds to until their shock wears off and they both start wailing as the remaining forces march away from the city. Curufin waits with growing impatience for someone else to deal with it before finally turning his horse around and riding hard back to the wagon they’re being kept in. The guards look at him helplessly when he arrives. Does no one else know how to deal with children?

He sings them a soothing lullaby to get them to shut up and because despite what their parents probably told them, he’s not a complete monster.

He sings it in Quenya because that’s the tongue he once sang to Celebrimbor in, and because they’re descended from Thingol, and Curufin’s never claimed to be without spite.

If Maglor had lived, he probably would have trained them to sing, but Maglor had never seen Luthien’s power honed into a weapon. The twins can sing well enough on their own; Curufin’s not about to hand hostages a weapon he can’t just as easily take away from them.

Instead, he teaches them how to use the forge.

The one he has in their last remaining fortress is small and poorly supplied, but he makes do. More and better weapons are always needed, as is more and better armor. Making new things is difficult with the limited materials, but there’s always room to improve the old.

Maedhros’s armor is the best it’s ever been.

Teaching them brings back unwelcome memories of times long gone. Of his own father teaching him how to create wonders. Of in his own turn teaching his son.

His son who now hates him. He hast at least that advantage when dealing with these children: They already hate him, so he can hardly make that relationship worse.

He continues with that assumption until he sees Elros practically glow when he grudgingly praises his latest effort.

Apparently, with Maedhros still all but ignoring them, they’ve latched onto him like magnets to iron.

Curufin doesn’t want Luthien’s third generation brats to latch onto him. He wants his own family back.

But this is what he has, and he has to admit, if only to himself, that it’s nice to hear small feet moving through the workshop again.

He manages to find enough scrap metal to melt down to make them their own armor and finds ways to adjust it as they grow.

When Maedhros decrees that the children are to be sent to Gil-Galad, Curufin considers arguing with him, but Maedhros has turned into too brittle a metal to be worked with, and his brother’s faith in him is fragile enough without him seeming to challenge the elder’s power.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, and tries to convince himself of it as he brings down his hammer again and again.

Their armor has to be perfect before they leave.

The night before they go, Elrond lingers in the forge and asks him, “If we see Celebrimbor, should we tell him - “

“Tell him anything you like,” Curufin interrupts. “I don’t care.”

Or, rather, Celebrimbor wouldn’t.

His father’s work burns his hand, and Curufin doesn’t care. Fire and his father are inextricably bound together. Of course it burns. Curufin had often been burned as he learned his father’s craft until he mastered it at last. Devouring heat is just one last opportunity to learn.

Maedhros sees things differently.

Maedhros -

The armor was never built to withstand that kind of fall.

He rounds up what followers they have left and finds them a place deep in woods he’s never walked before. They build again, one last time, a small place, but one he thinks they can hold.

The Silmaril he sets on the wall of his workshop, never minding the light’s faint burn.

News comes slowly to them and late.

By the time he hears of Elros’s choice, there is nothing he can do. No metal made by even his hands can save a mortal from age.

By the time he hears of Celebrimbor, it’s probably too late too, but he and all his people ride out anyway.

The city is just visible in the distance when for the first time in an Age, his son’s mind reaches out and touches his own.

Celebrimbor doesn’t speak.

He screams.

When the agony, far beyond any lullaby’s ability to soothe away , ends at last, there is a finality to it that there has never been before.

Curufin turns his horse, but not for home.

Gil-Galad dislikes wearing two of Celebrimbor’s rings at once. The power tugs at him in ways that feel dangerous, so instead he keeps one locked in his desk.

He regrets that choice when he walks into his study to see an elf examining it. He regrets it more when the elf looks up and he realizes who it is.

“Curufin Feanorian.”

The last of Feanor’s line ignores him. “I see how he did it now,” he says softly, probably to himself. “Very clever, Tyelpe. But I think I may yet be able to do you one better if Atar’s work allows.”

“What are you doing?” Gil-Galad demands, and this time Curufin answers.

“Studying the workmanship,” he says, and his voice turns dark with rage. “If it’s rings Sauron wants, then rings he will have. If it takes every drop of my fea and breaking the Silmaril itself, I will make such rings as to make him regret ever having heard of a forge.”

Looking at the light like dragon flame in his eyes, Gil-Galad believes him.

#curufin #alternate universe #canon divergence #silmarillion #celebrimbor #elrond #elros #maedhros #gil-galad #character death #fic #in which curufin's love language is better armor

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Oh god don't take risk assessments from Fingon, Gil-galad. I'm so glad the family claims him, and I'm curious to hear the author's theory on where this one is from. My dumb theory: since the Elves' Maia heritage is down to Elrond, his sons, and maybe Elured and Elurin, it would be nice if he turned out to be related to the missing twins. My actual theory: no one in particular, the world is built by the ones who show up to work.

It’s not a dumb theory! It’s not, however, what I went with. For that, see below.

Quick note: Maglor’s wife in this is the same as his wife in my alternate character interpretation snippet for her. This will probably make more sense if you read that first.

Maedhros is barely a shadow when he first gets there, but Fingon stubbornly sticks around.

When Maedhros is well enough to listen and, in his opinion, in need of some distraction, he finally asks.

“I’m trying to figure out Gil-Galad’s parentage. I don’t suppose you know?”

Maehros looks startled, which is at least better than horrifically depressed. “He’s not yours?”

Fingon’s heard that from others. A lot of others. He doesn’t know why everyone keeps assuming that.

“Not mine.”

He’ll have to try Maedhros’s brothers later. For now, he’s right where he needs to be.

“Fingon,” Curufin says from his place on the floor. He hasn’t bothered to open his eyes. Fingon never did learn the trick to that. “What do you want?”

Nice to see his time in Mandos hasn’t changed him. “To talk.”

“About?”

Fingon gives up and gets straight to the point. “Offspring.”

Curufin cracks one eye open and rolls over to face him. His face is shadowed through the bars. “I didn’t think you had any.”

“Yours,” he clarifies.

That catches Curufin’s attention completely. He rolls to his feet, face tense. “Has something happened to Celebrimbor? The tapestries here are useless.”

Whoever’s in charge of these things apparently decided Curufin would benefit from graphic scenes of Finrod’s imprisonment. Fingon’s been trying not to look at them.

“He’s fine,” he assures him. “Or at least he was fine the last time someone died, there hasn’t been nearly as much of that going around since the war ended. I wanted to ask about the potential for . . . other offspring.”

Curufin looks around the lonely confines his cell with grim amusement. The bars are set deep into the stone. If there’s hinges or a lock, they aren’t visible. “At the moment, I would say the potential was low.”

“Already produced offspring,” Fingon further clarifies.

Curufin frowns. “Why . . . ?” His face goes pale. “Has Nirivel . . . Is there a child she’s saying is mine?”

Judging by his face, if that was the case there’s no chance the child actually would be.

“No, no,” Fingon assures him. “Nothing like that. I’m just trying to figure out who Gil-Galad belongs to.”

Curufin rolls his eyes. It almost distracts from his slowly returning color. “And you couldn’t just say that? In case you’ve forgotten, Fingon, my wife stayed on these shores. Gil-Galad was born in Beleriand.”

That’s not actually technically a denial, so Fingon pushes on cautiously. “Under the circumstance, remarriage - “

Curufin stalks forward until he’s gripping the bars in a white knuckled rage. “I am no oathbreaker,” he hisses.

“The Valar know we all wish you were,” Fingon mutters without thinking.

Curufin steps away from the bars. The rage has disappeared into a blank pleasantness that makes Fingon far more uneasy. “Forgive me. I should not have been so surprised by the question. I shouldn’t have forgotten that you were of the line of Indis and have strange ideas of family fidelity.”

“Of the two of us, which of us actually - “ Fingon cuts himself off. “No. We’re not having this fight again. Or the other fight. Or any fights! I know what I need to know.” He hesitates before he heads back into the maze of winding tunnels. “Maedhros sends his love.”

Curufin actually looks relieved for a moment before the mask descends again. Fingon’s surprised he saw anything; solitary must have decayed Curufin’s skills at hiding considerably.

The relief brings to mind what had escaped him before. “You do know about - ?”

“How he died?” Curufin interrupts. He smiles bitterly. “You’re not my very first visitor. Nienna brings news sometimes.” His look turns puzzled. “How are you here? Namo sentenced me to solitary confinement.”

“I petitioned to visit Maedhros,” Fingon explains. “Repeatedly.”

Curufin makes a show of looking around. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s not here.”

“Yes, well, by the time he gave in, he was far too frustrated to be careful with his word choice, and what he actually said was ‘Visit the kinslayer if you want to!’ Which as I view it, really gives me leave to visit just about everyone here.”

For the first time in centuries, he hears Curufin laugh.

He stumbles across Uncle Feanor next.

He’s . . . not entirely sure what he’s seeing at first when he does.

“Are you unravelling Vaire’s tapestry?” he chokes out.

Uncle Feanor leaps to his feet. “Findekano! What an unexpected pleasure. I’d been hoping for a chance to thank you for what you did for Maitimo.”

Fingon can’t tear his eyes away from the loose threads that once made up an entire wall of tapestry. Some of them have been laid out in complex patterns. “It’s Fingon now,” he manages. “And you’re definitely unravelling the tapestry. Why are you unravelling the tapestry? There’s a stone wall behind it, it’s not like it’ll get you out! Is it the scene?”

The scene is . . . Maedhros yielding the crown to Fingon’s father which strikes him as a little petty, but at least it explains why Uncle Feanor’s unravelling it.

Or not, because what Uncle Feanor actually says is, “Oh, no. I needed materials, and this was the best option.”

“Materials? What can you possible do with all that?”

Feanor eyes the mass of thread thoughtfully. “Well, it’s woven through with the essence of time and space, so I’m hoping for a form of transport through either.”

This terrifying image needs only a moment to sear through his brain. “Please don’t invent time travel, Uncle Feanor.” It comes out a little strangled.

“Why not? There’s a good deal that could be improved from what Nienna tells me. Anyway, that can’t be why you’ve come. Do you have news? Have you seen my sons?”

Fingon tears his eyes away from the threads. “Two of them. Curufin and Maedhros. Curufin’s well enough. Maedhros is . . . better.” That’s really the best he can say of that, so he hurries on. “I’ve been trying to discover Gil-Galad’s parentage. Unless he’s Galadriel’s, we’re pretty sure he had to come from your branch.”

“Another grandson!” Feanor sounds both surprised and delighted, which at least answers the question that Fingon had been trying not to think about having to ask - Namely, if Feanor had been responsible. The timeline had made it unlikely at best, but he’s trying to be thorough.

“I’d probably best delay testing this until you know more,” Feanor muses. “I’d hate to accidentally wipe a grandson out of existence.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Just - Hold off.” Please, please hold off on potentially destroying the very fabric of Arda. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Just maybe not until he’s figured out how to make sure Feanor’s focused on the geographical aspect of travel.

He has no idea how long it takes him to find Celegorm, but if anyone asks later, he’s going to tell them weeks. That’s certainly what it feels like. The tunnels here are far less open that most of Mandos’s Halls, and he’s starting to feel claustrophobic.

He can only imagine what it must be like in the cells.

Celegorm manages to get the first word in because Fingon is too busy gaping at the image on his walls. It’s Huan as he dies, in vivid enough detail that it makes Fingon want to cry out, and he barely knew the hound.

“I don’t know where Maedhros is,” Celegorm says. He’s sitting by Huan’s head. It’s possible that he was petting the cloth just before Fingon showed up; Fingon certainly isn’t going to judge him if he was.

“That’s alright,” Fingon tells him. “I do. He sends his love. I also saw your father, who was very eager for news of all of you.” Fingon leaves out the rest of what Feanor is currently very interested in. He’s not sure he can get through it without his terror showing through, and that could very well start a fight. “If I see any more of your brothers, is there a message I should carry along?”

“Tell them that with practice and application, it is actually possible to climb these walls.”

Fingon blinks. “And this will be . . . useful in an escape attempt?”

“It’ll be useful in not going out of our collective minds,” Celegorm snarls. “There’s no room to move in here.”

Fingon eyes the tiny space and remembers his own growing claustrophobia. “I see your point.” There’s really no way to gracefully segue into this next bit, so he just dives right in. “Remember Gil-Galad?”

Celegorm frowns. “Of course I do. Why? Is he dead?”

“No, thankfully.” Fingon watches him carefully for a reaction to this news, but Celegorm just shrugs.

“Good for him. What about him then?”

“Is he yours?”

Celegorm stares at him for a very long time. “You do remember the whole Luthien incident, don’t you?”

“I think everyone does.”

“Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. “You might remember that part of that incident involved me trying to get married. So unless you’re suggesting that I succeeded, had him with Luthien, and then somehow invented time travel and sent him back - “

Fingon flinches at the words ‘time travel.’ Thankfully, Celegorm’s in full on ranting mode and doesn’t seem to notice.

His ears are still ringing when he finds his next cousin. “Amras!”

The twin looks up in desperate hope, but the light in his eyes fades quickly. “Amrod,” he corrects.

“Right. Sorry.” He should have just gone with Ambarussa.

At first glance, the walls in Amrod’s cell look fine. It’s just him and Amras eating a meal together, right after a hunting trip judging by the gear on their horses.

Then he realizes that Amrod’s backed himself up against the image of himself so that it looks like he’s sitting beside Amras, and he has to fight back a wince.

“If I find him, I’ll come back and let you know,” he promises. The corridors he hasn’t taken are still mysteries, but he’s keeping good track of the ones he has. The last thing he wants is to get lost here. He’ll be able to find his way back easily enough.

A bit of the life returns to Amrod’s face. “Would you? I just - It’s not that we were never apart. It’s just never been for this long before.” He looks down for a moment. “Have you seen any of the others? Are they alright?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Fingon says which Amrod, fairly, doesn’t seem to find all that reassuring. “Listen, I don’t suppose you ever - “

The answer, it turns out, is no.

“Amras!” he says with considerable confidence.

“Amrod,” the Feanorian corrects.

Fingon’s jaw dropped in horror. “I’ve circled back around? No, I can’t have, I - Wait a minute. Your wall hangings are a bit different. One of you’s lying,” he concludes triumphantly.

Amras - Amrod - whichever one he is has risen in the interim and crossed to the bars. “You’ve seen him? You’ve seen Amrod?”

“I knew you were Amras,” he mutters petulantly. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He misses you desperately and gave me about a hundred messages to give you. I’ll try to remember them in a minute, but first I’ve got a message of my own.”

“Of course,” Amras says and sets his jaw. “Doriath or the Havens?”

Fingon’s actually doing his best not to think about either of those messes. He’s not king anymore, it’s not his responsibility. “Neither. Gil-Galad.”

“What’d we ever do to him?” Amras protests.

“Created him, possibly. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Creat- Like with gears? Because that’s really more along Curufin’s line.”

“Like with a woman,” he says in exasperation.

“Oh. No. I thought that would be a bad idea, what with the Doom and all.”

Fingon can’t exactly argue with that. “Maybe Celebrimbor managed to slip away from his father long enough to meet a girl.”

“Anything’s possible. Have you asked Caranthir yet?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Fingon wheedles. They’re not quite to the end of the line yet - there’s still Maglor and maybe Celebrimbor - but they’re getting close. He’d had a good feeling about Caranthir.

“We tried,” Caranthir says. His voice has an edge of anger, but what’s far stronger is the longing, mixed with grief. “Right up until she died.”

. . . That doesn’t actually rule it out. And if he’s any judge of his cousin, Caranthir would very much like to be a father.

Firien goes on his list of people to track down.

“Maybe he’s Maglor’s,” Caranthir suggests.

“Maglor’s not dead, though, so I can’t ask him.”

Caranthir looks at him like he’s being exceptionally stupid. “Have you tried asking his wife?”

Fingon feels exceptionally stupid.

“Did Aranel actually fight at Alqualonde, or was she just there?”

“She fought.”

“Right. Then she’s got to be around here somewhere.”

By the time he actually manages to track either of the wives down, Celebrimbor’s died. Despite what Curufin seems to think, Fingon retains enough tact to wait until he’s somewhat recovered to ask him if he’s responsible for Gil-Galad.

He’s not, but he is able to relay a series of increasingly improbable and hilarious theories that are apparently floating around the court.

Then in quick succession, he finds Aranel and Firien and Aredhel finds him.

Aranel’s locked in with the kinslayers and is the first person who’s been less than pleased to see Fingon.

“Come to lecture me on corrupting my husband?”

Fingon has to take nearly a minute to process this. Finally, the best he can come up with is “What?”

She looks up at him. Her face is set in hard lines of preemptive anger. “That’s what Atar said when Namo let him see me. He said my marring must have corrupted the prince. Maybe even his whole family.”

Maglor used to verbally eviscerate people for saying much, much less. Fingon wants no part of that minefield. He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to blame you for your husband.”

Judging by the way her eyes shutter, that probably still wasn’t the right path to take. Some marriages shattered in the long war; apparently their’s did not.

“I just came to ask about any . . . children.”

“Children?” she repeats blankly. “You mean the Peredhel?”

He’s surprised she knows about that until he takes a closer look at the tapestry. He’d thought it was just Sirion burning, but no. It shows Maglor claiming the twins as well. Apparently someone’s given her context.

“I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking that’s the part I should be most upset about,” she says heatedly. “He defied his Oath when he let them go when it was safe. I’m proud of him, not concerned because he was raising children while I was gone!”

“Not those children,” he corrects, because he’s not about to get in the middle of that whole mess. “I meant any children you might have had with him. Together.”

“Why?” she asks with a slow edge of suspicion.

Fingon explains Gil-Galad.

“What happens if you don’t like the answer you get?”

Fingon honestly hasn’t considered this up to now. “What do you mean?”

“What if he is mine? Is he marred in your eyes? What if he’s not, and he’s not Firien’s either? Is he not worthy of the crown? Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Honestly?” Fingon takes a deep breath. “I’m curious. I don’t have any better reasons. I’m just dead and bored and curious.”

She doesn’t believe him. Fingon can’t quite blame her. She’s been judged her whole life for the circumstances thrust upon her at her birth, and that only worsened after true marring was revealed in Melkor; it’s little wonder she fears the same for Gil-Galad if it turns out he’s not quite as perfect as everyone thought.

“In that case, you can consider it settled. He’s mine. Mine and Maglor’s.”

Fingon . . . isn’t sure if he believes her. “Why send him to Nargothrond? Why keep him a secret?”

“He was stolen,” she says promptly. “We thought he was dead and had no words to share our grief. I have no idea what happened in his early life. I had no idea where he even was until you explained Gil-Galad’s circumstances. That’s not what I named him.” She reels this off matter of factly with no obvious sign of grief.

Fingon is particularly suspicious of the stolen child part of this story given what she’s been staring at for these past few centuries. “What did you name him?” he challenges her.

“Fingon,” she says instantly. “Because Maglor was so grateful for what you’d done for his brother.”

Fingon is . . . almost certain she’s lying. Almost.

On the other hand, it’s the best explanation anyone’s been able to hand him yet.

He’s still mulling it over in his mind when he emerges back into the Halls proper. Firien immediately comes flying into him. Only her tiny height keeps him from toppling. “You found him!”

“Found who - Oh, Caranthir, yes.”

“You found him too? Can you show me where? And what do you know about my baby?”

He’d forgotten how very little like Caranthir Firien is. Also -

“Your baby?”

According to Firien, she hadn’t realized their efforts had finally succeeded when she volunteered to go with the trading caravan. By the time she realized, it seemed safest just to continue on. All had been well until the return, when they’d been attacked only minutes after she had given birth. She had died shortly after hiding the baby as best she could.

Her telling is somewhat more convincing than Aranel’s. Then again, she also used to be a performer, so . . .

Fingon hates his life. Death. Whatever.

Naturally, that’s when Aredhel shows up and announces that Gil-Galad is actually hers.

Her grandson, that is.

According to her, Turgon had pressured Maeglin to marry someone to turn his mind away from Idril. He’d given in and married a girl who’d gotten tired of always coming in second place and run off, apparently while pregnant.

Fingon has no idea if any of that’s true and has no way to check it because Aredhel’s the only one who actually knows where to find Maeglin, he doesn’t have a name for the girl, and Turgon’s already gotten early release for good behavior.

Namo’s been hinting strongly about good behavior lately. Fingon, increasingly convinced that he’s the only reason that his Feanorian cousins are still sane and that his uncle hasn’t gone ahead with his plans to possibly erase them all from existence, cheerfully ignores him.

That’s the short list that at long last he’s able to present Gil-Galad with. If Gil-Galad is in fact part of Finwe’s family tree - and judging by his power and a certain resemblance, Fingon is inclined to think he is - than those are his most likely options.

“Firien’s story is remarkably similar to a theory Elrond came up with,” Gil-Galad says wistfully. “He has an uncanny knack for being right about things, you know.” He sighs.

“Cheer up,” Fingon tells him. “Like I said, we can always pester Namo into telling us eventually. Or you might feel something when you meet them! And really it’s only two options since we know Aranel has to be lying since she claimed to actually name you . . . Although Maglor probably wouldn’t mind claiming you, given his track record, so we could always just pretend you were and go with it.”

“No,” Gil-Galad says firmly. “I want to know the truth.”

“Let’s start with the ones we won’t have to sneak you in for then, and then I can introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Fingon’s money’s on Caranthir.

. . . Which means Feanor will now feel free to resume his experiments.

Oh, well. He hasn’t gotten this far by being cautious. How badly could it possibly go wrong?

Fingon shuts that thought down quickly and drags Gil-Galad through the Halls to Firien, who takes one look at Gil-Galad and throws herself at him, wrapping him in the tightest hug she can manage, even though her head barely comes up to his chin.

She’s crying. Gil-Galad, who’s holding her like she something fragile, looks like he might start.

Fingon feels a bit like crying too.

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