Note: I believe Celegorm is "the Fair" because his hair is silver, not gold. His grandmother (Míriel Serindë) was supposedly silver-haired. Genetics. Makes sense to me. Feel free not to agree.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion or Finrod would not have died
Pairings: none
Characters: Celebrimbor, Curufin, Celegorm (mentions of Beren, Finrod, ten other elves, Orodreth, Fëanor and Ilúvatar)
Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, allusions to torture and violent death/murder, lots of treachery, more sadism, insanity, fairly explicit violence (only punching), blatant reference to Fëanor through diction (because I'm such a dork)
Song: Forsaken
Words: 1,759
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remain (intransitive verb): to be a part not destroyed, taken, or used up; to stay in the same place or with the same person or group; to stay behind; to continue unchanged
Shame burned like a brand under his flesh, too hot to bear, nearly bringing a stuttering cry from his trembling lips.
Telperinquar could not allow himself to think of the horrors that his dear kinsman--one of the bravest and most beloved friends he had ever claimed--had faced in the deep, hopeless darkness of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, could not allow himself to think of the fates of the elves who had gone forth faithfully beneath the banner of their honorable king.
For he could imagine all too well from the words of Beren what exactly had become of those they had sent forth from the gates of Nargothrond with naught but the clothes on their backs and steadfast loyalty in their hearts. In his head, their names resonated, bounding from hidden corner to hidden corner and filling him with a terrible echo. The images that formed in those secret nooks broke convulsive shudders over his flesh, quaking through his muscles.
Dead. They were all dead.
And he knew who was to blame.
Knew it as surely as he knew his name and his father's name and his grandfather's name. Knew it like he knew the art of metallurgy with his arms and the intricacy of craftsmanship with his eyes. In his mind again, he could see his father's dark, sneering smile reflected upon the wavering mirror of his memories, blazing eyes gleeful as Felagund threw down his circlet and declared his people forsaken.
It was not out of fear or impotence that the Fëanárions abandoned their most kind-hearted and generous cousin to the certain torment and nasty end awaiting him at the hands of Morgoth's Lieutenant. It was out of treachery that they withheld their sword arms and locked themselves away in their chambers "in grief" at his wretched fate.
It was disgusting. Revolting. Just being near them made him feel unclean.
"We will be leaving immediately." The familiar voice that Telperinquar had once held more beloved than any other now sounded foreign, gravelly and raw, like some sinful and evil spirit possessing that familiar form, twisting it into a malformed mockery. "Pack your things, yonya. We depart before Arien's rays darken."
That voice he had once held more beloved than any other now filled him with smoldering rage, something that lingered just on the edge of desperate hatred and teetered towards revulsion. When he looked, his father was throwing together a pack--more than they had allowed Felagund and his companions, the young prince noted--and beyond him Turkafinwë was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed lazily and without concern, a light in his eyes that made his nephew want to back away. It was the light of a rabid animal beyond logic and reason, teeth bared and prepared to remove fingers of the unwary.
But even that could not deter him now. Bile crept up the back of his throat at the thought of owning kinship with these men, though he loved them with all his being despite the plainly evil shadow lurking beyond the edges of wild silver eyes and upon sinful and broken souls.
How far did they expect his unconditional love and familial loyalty to extend? To greed and treachery? To hatred over bitter words? To glee at the unfortunate fate of his kin?
To betrayal of subject unto king and cousin unto cousin? Of elf unto elf?
As much as he loved his father and uncle--and let it be known that Telperinquar loved his family; let none think it otherwise!--he could not step over such a deadly line, the line between salvation and damnation, the line that would seal his fate as a cursed son of the House of Fëanáro until tumult and madness carried him unto his deathbed with a knife in his back and blood of the innocent staining his hands. He could not join them in fleeing these halls on the tail of misfortune and bitterness.
He would remain and repudiate.
He would not hold kin with monsters, even if one had brought life unto his body and spirit. Even the loyalty of a son to his father would not bind him in chains of molten steel, burning him and caging him and breaking him. Telperinquar would not allow it.
As a son of the House of Fëanáro, no force on earth could stop him once his mind had been decided. Not even the force of his father's own sheer stubborn will.
"I shall not."
Curufinwë froze mid-motion, his forearm half-buried in his pack. The elder elf did not turn around to face him, but Telperinquar could see the beginning of shivers of fury run through the taut lines of that body, like the tension of a coil about to snap and whip a weal of fire across his flesh. "You will come with me, yonya." The words were harder than steel and diamond, unbendable and unbreakable.
But if he yielded now, he would never be free. He had to tell himself that. He had to.
"I shall not go anywhere with traitors."
Eyes like shards of glass sheered into his skin, leaving behind painful, invisible gashes bleeding determination. In those moments when he first beheld his father's face, Telperinquar thought he witnessed the second coming of Fëanáro, so powerful was the fire that glowed like a star beneath the veil of his father's body. Rage fuelled the flames of spirit until Curufinwë seemed a hundred feet tall, looming over his child who had in truth grown four inches above his lofty height. The urge to shrink away like a castigated child itched in every muscle Telperinquar possessed, but he steeled himself, locked his trembling knees and clenched his sharp, cleft jaw. And he looked into those rattlesnake eyes with disdain near dripping from his incisive gaze.
"What did you say to me?"
"I said I shall not go anywhere with traitors," Telperinquar repeated fiercely. "Nor will I own kin with them. Go forth and be gone! Do not darken the doorstep of this kingdom with your filth any longer than necessary!"
For a second the light that blazed from his father's eyes was nearly too bright to look upon without burning up into ashes. Terrible and filled with darkness so powerful its stench permeated the room, Curufinwë came upon him like a phantom in the night. The younger elf could not anticipate the blow, only notice the throbbing deep in the flesh of his cheek and jaw mixing with strong pleasure boiling in his blood. A fist curled in his tunic and pulled him forward until hot breath washed over his ear. "Say that again to my face, boy!"
He did not need to speak. An eye for an eye. A fist for a fist. A bruise for a bruise. His father stumbled away with an equally aching jaw, and Telperinquar came away with smarting knuckles and a smirk on his thin, bloodless lips.
"Leave it, brother. We have not the time for spineless whelps." Where Curufinwë had been filled to the brim with white-hot anger, Turkafinwë bubbled over with sick amusement at the entire situation, unbothered that his kin looked ready to filet each other open to the bone. And though his words twisted the visceral pride in Telperinquar's gut until it was knotted tightly and almost physically painful, the young elf would not allow those words to spur him into foolishness. What was pride worth when it came at the price of his dignity and self-respect?
Calmly, he hefted his father's pack and grasped the front of his father's tunic, tossing both into his uncle's waiting arms. "Get thee gone!" he snarled. Equally infuriated and with a last hiss of loathing words, Curufinwë picked his ruffled self up from where he was cradled against his brother's broad chest and stalked away looking ready to do someone severe injury.
Turkafinwë just laughed and laughed. When he reached to ruffle his nephew's hair and press jolly kisses to his cheeks, Telperinquar did not dare resist, did not even dare breathe. Curufinwë, he could handle. But his uncle was too unpredictable, too mad with greed and envy, too stained with the cursed oath to allow for relaxation in his presence. At any moment, that amusement could change to ice cold hatred.
And the young elf knew his uncle would not hesitate for a moment to slay him should the fancy come upon him in a sudden rush of passion. In that way, Turkafinwë was less man and more animal, a hedonistic creature of instinct and desire. Rabid.
"Behave yourself, dear nephew," the silver-haired noldo purred, running his spidery fingers over Telperinquar's sharp, purpling cheekbone once more. And then he was gone.
And the young elf was alone.
Gulping, he slammed shut his door and pressed his back tight to the heavy wood, feeling suddenly weak from head to toe, as though he were made of water. All of his actions suddenly fell down upon his shoulders at once in a landslide of unwilling guilt, unwanted pride and no small amount of pure disbelief.
For he had defied his father, whose will and fire were second only to that of the Spirit of Fire himself. The crushing burden dragged him down to his haunches, spine creaking against the door, the back of his head thumping loudly on the hard surface. "Aiya! Ilúvatar," he breathed.
But the shame that had been churning in his belly was gone. Those monsters--murderers in all but name, traitors in all but word--were no kin of his! Not anymore.
And he was no longer a son of the House of Fëanáro, though that blood flowed still hot through his veins. It had been harnessed and tamed, locked away and disowned.
Telperinquar hoped the breaking of familial bonds would be enough. Enough to allow him to keep his home here in Nargothrond. Enough to allow him to retrain the trust of his friends and comrades and kin. Enough to keep the curse of his vehement blood at bay.
He would remain.
Remain the last of his House with nobility in his breast and honesty in his voice. No Oath would govern his will or take his life.
To hell with the curse. No doomed words would decide his fate. At this thought, breathlessly, Telperinquar laughed.
The golden glow of blossoming satisfaction was magnificent.
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Can you blame me? I do believe the exact quote is "In that time Celebrimbor the son of Curufin repudiated the deeds of his father, and remained in Nargothrond" (The Silmarillion, Of Beren and Lúthien, page 208). Guess what? I learned a new word today! Isn't that wonderful! (I am such a dork. Forgive my freakishness.)
And the lovely song I was listening to: Forsaken by Within Temptation. They're not everybody's cup of tea (symphonic metal) but I love them. Well, I'm not too crazy about their really old stuff or their really new stuff, but they are still one of my favorite bands. Dutch. Eru forbid someone from America might actually make music worth listening to. It drives me up the wall, the things supposed "music artists" sing these days. Nicki Minaj anyone? (*goes to be sick in a corner*)
Sorry about that. If you don't agree that's fine. In any case, I bear a gift. Forsaken by Morgana, a lovely (angsty Maglor) story also written to this amazing song. Her works tend towards fluffy happy endings, but I love them anyway, so if you're bored check it out. They're a bit more LotR oriented than Silmarillion oriented, though.
Have a lovely day. :D
PS: yondo (son) + -nya (my) = yonya (my son)
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