A/N: Build them up then tear them down, that's the Tolkien way, isn't it? I'm following that proud tradition with this four-part fic about the disintegration of Curufin and Netyarë's marriage, the happy beginnings of which I wrote about in Sparks fly out (this fic should work as a standalone, though). This time the story is told from Netyarë's point of view while trying to also portray Curufinwë relatively sympathetically.

I aimed to be as canon-compliant as possible: relevant to this story is a note about Celebrimbor in HoME XII: '- though inheriting [Curufin's] skills he was an Elf of wholly different temper (his mother had refused to take part in the rebellion of Fëanor and remained in Aman with the people of Finarphin)'. I use Quenya names because this story takes place in Aman.

Warnings (for the whole story): Some sexual content, references to violence, emotional distress and cruelty, canonical major character death(s). Also: so much angst, excessive metaphors about fire and light.

About the rating: The M rating is a cautious one. I chose it because of the general dark mood of the story; sex and violence is very shortly described, nothing graphic.

Chapter I / White fire

Happiness, Netyarë comes to realise when it is already slipping through her fingers, is something one should never take for granted. When she married Curufinwë, and when Tyelperinquar was born, she was happier than she could ever have imagined possible, and for a little while she remembered to appreciate it for the precious thing it was.

Then happiness became an everyday emotion and she began to think, or rather subconsciously believe, that her life would always be as happy, that she and her husband would always love each other and find great pleasure in acts of love and that they would have more children to treasure, and that is when the happiness starts to crack.

It is just little cracks at first. Curufinwë being more short-tempered with her than usual, being stricter with Tyelpë than the boy deserves, the occasional uncomfortable silences at their shared meals instead of easy conversation, her not wanting to tell him of her day because he looks like he would not be interested in listening, but afterwards finding him displeased that he had not known something. There are fewer of his grins for her to kiss, as she likes to do, and fewer of her smiles are genuine.

Curufinwë and Netyarë have always understood each other very well in spite of their different family backgrounds, his in royalty and hers in trade. They both have passion and ambition for creating beautiful things and gaining renown for it, they both know how to charm and influence people though they do it in different ways, and he can see when there is distress behind her practised smile as easily as she can recognise the heat of anger or passion that he hides in his cool, controlled gaze.

But there are things she does not understand. His arrogant pride in his bloodline, his unwavering conviction that his family deserves unquestioning respect, his loyalty to his father even when he knows Fëanáro is in the wrong. These things are difficult for her to comprehend because she comes from a family that is completely undistinguished in either greatness or wretchedness, and while she loves her parents and her brother she is not as close to any of them as Curufinwë is to his father.

Even when she does recognise why he feels and acts as he does – what aspects of his character, what experiences and opinions his deeds arise from – she finds it difficult to accept that he cannot choose to act otherwise.

On good days these things do not matter, but in darker times they open a wide gulf between them that neither knows how to cross. She does not understand him, and he thinks it must be for want of trying.

The bad days between the two of them start with the Silmarils, as so many things do.

Even before Fëanáro shuts himself alone in his forge, Curufinwë has known without being told that his father is planning something greater than anything that has come before, something he is devoting all of his fire to create. Curufinwë has been grieved by the friction that has come between his parents recently when Fëanáro has heeded Nerdanel's advice less and less, and he is further grieved that his father does not share with him this new project of passion.

The day Fëanáro bars Curufinwë from the workshop as he embarks on his new project Curufinwë comes home in the middle of the day and also shuts himself alone in his study, refusing to talk with either his wife or son. But when it is time to go to bed he paces around the bedroom and words pour out of him, almost as if against his will.

'I understand that he would not want the apprentices or my brothers around; they can be nothing but a distraction when there is difficult work to be done. But I have never got in his way or hindered him in any way. I am always willing to work together with him, or if I am not skilled enough, to act as an assistant, or just watch. But now he shuts even me out and will not even hear me, and I don't understand.'

Netyarë is glad that her husband is telling her about the cause of his distress, but she does not know how to help him. She has always been just as happy to work alone as with others, and though she was apprenticed in her youth, she has never had someone even close to what Fëanáro is to Curufinwë. And she feels like she has never come to understand her father-in-law, similar in nature to her husband though he may be. She is very close with Nerdanel, but Fëanáro is still a mystery to her, one she thinks is too great for her to ever solve. Not that she is certain she would like to; he scares her just a little bit, though she wouldn't admit it.

(Curufinwë is his father's son, much of the same furious white fire burning inside him, but it has never hurt Netyarë because when she is with him she finds flames inside herself too that she never really knew were there.)

She tries to find the positive in this new development and to use it to comfort her husband, so she tells Curufinwë that perhaps he should see Fëanáro's isolation as an opportunity to pursue some projects of his own that he has been thinking about but pushed aside to concentrate on work his father wants to do. This turns out to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

Eyes flaming, Curufinwë begins to speak. 'You –' He swallows, clenches his fists and looks at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable though she can feel his fury in her own spirit. He storms out and does not return until the next evening.

He apologises to her without either of them knowing exactly what it is that he is apologising for, and she forgives him, though she thinks she will be cautious for a while. A little crack has appeared in her trust that she is capable of understanding him, and in her trust in the strength of their relationship.

They discover passion in the void left by the passing of anger, as they often do. After, when she lies with her head on his chest and strokes his hair that is tangled with her own, black amidst brown, she thinks of how fiercely sweet it is to come together after being sundered by disagreement. She wonders if those couples who never fight ever have anything like this, a passion that burns so hot she marvels at not finding her skin singed.

The next morning when they rise at the same time she finds bruises on her arms and hips and sees deep scratch marks on his back, and she wonders if after all it would be better, safer, if they did not burn quite so hot together.

But Curufinwë seems a little calmer now, and no longer speaks of sorrows. He dedicates himself to teaching Tyelperinquar while Fëanáro works alone on his secret endeavour. To Netyarë it seems like her husband is suddenly determined to make sure that Tyelpë misses nothing that he could teach, to prove that he is willing to share all he knows and to involve his son in all his projects even if his own father does not do the same with him.

Netyarë is glad that Curufinwë found something meaningful to pursue while he does not work with his father, and that he is taking such pains to teach their son. But after a while Tyelpë begins to look pale and tired when he comes home from the workshop with his father at night, and a few times he almost falls asleep into his food at dinner.

She tells Curufinwë that he is driving their son too hard, setting too quick a pace for his learning. 'He is still just a child, Curvo, however talented or smart he may be.'

'He has not complained.'

'You know that would not be like him. He is proud that you are teaching him, and eager to do his best, but it does not mean that you aren't putting too much pressure on him.'

It is one of their after-dinner moments when they each work on their own projects, usually engaged in planning for the future or making notes on the past day's work. Tyelperinquar often joins them to study for a while, but on this night as on many nights recently Netyarë has sent him straight to bed after dinner because he seemed so exhausted.

Curufinwë never takes well to being told he is doing something wrong. 'I think I know how to raise my son, Netyarë.'

'He is our son, not yours. Just because Tyelpë is a boy, and takes more after you in his skills and interests, does not mean that I have any less claim on him or any less say in how he is raised.' She has never had to say these things before. 'I thought you agreed with me on this.'

'I do.' He drops his head to his arms, suddenly looking as exhausted as Tyelperinquar had. 'I am sorry, beloved. I will try to be more patient.'

He does try, and Tyelpë does look less overworked after their conversation, and Netyarë tries to remember this when later things turn worse again.

Fëanáro's secret work takes a long time, but when he finally shows it – first to his family, as is his habit with all his creations – it is greater than anyone could have imagined. In their brilliance the Silmarils far surpass all of Fëanáro's earlier works, indeed all the works of the Noldor.

'I could not have done this', Curufinwë says to Netyarë when they have a moment of looking at the jewels alone. His voice is equal parts awe and desperation. And Netyarë hears what he does not say: But I could still have been there. I would still have helped, in whatever small way. He did not need to shut me out.

Netyarë is too awestruck to have any wise reply. 'They are all the colours at once, and yet there is no colour like theirs in the whole world.'

'No', Curufinwë agrees. 'I can fashion gems of any shade, but the light in these… it is truly the light of the Trees, and the light of the greatest spirit of our people.'

Curufinwë rarely likes his wife, or anyone else, to be aware of his moments of weakness, but Netyarë can tell that this moment is very difficult for him. He feels lost as more than ever he realises of how much less remarkable his talents are than his father's, and the feeling of loss is mingled with a resentment. He has put as much of himself in these jewels as in any of us, Curufinwë is telling her without wanting to. In me or any of my brothers.

Netyarë does not know how to console him, and in spite of the greatness of the Silmarils and the way they make her heart sing as they do to everyone who sees them, she is selfishly glad that Curufinwë is not capable of binding so much of himself into anything he creates. His creations are more of his hands than of his spirit, and he despairs for it while Netyarë is relieved that she will never lose him to his craft as Nerdanel seems to be losing Fëanáro.

Soon after Fëanáro's Silmarils have awed all of the Eldar and the Valar alike and been blessed by Varda, a new cause of contention arises between Curufinwë and Netyarë, its roots in wider disquiet among their people. For seemingly out of nothing, discontent arises among the Noldor. There is talk of the Valar keeping them captive here under their rule while the lands they could have ruled in the east will soon be taken over by a lesser race of second-born whom the Valar have kept secret from the Eldar.

To Netyarë it feels like the whole world has changed. All her life, all the concerns in the life of their people have been about forging one's path and finding one's own place in the world they live in, in Eldamar under the rule of the Valar; now some are questioning the rightness of the whole world order.

And chief among those who challenge the belief that all is as well as can be is Fëanáro. It comes as no surprise to Netyarë that he soon becomes the loudest voice of dissent: she knows that he is unwilling to take part in anything without being in its lead, and he is by nature disinclined to accept any authority except his own and his father's. For a time Fëanáro only voices his opinions among his family and followers, but in later years private conversations and whispered insinuations will turn into loud words out in the open.

From the first, Netyarë finds it difficult to agree with her father-in-law, and with her husband who inevitably thinks alike with his father. For to her, it seems that they have all they could need here. And she does not feel oppressed by the Valar – she does not even feel particularly ruled by them, for she has always felt the authority of King Finwë more keenly in her everyday life than that of Manwë. That has changed little after she married the king's grandson; but perhaps those who were born among the rulers of the Eldar feel differently about Valar.

Trying to understand, she asks Curufinwë what there is in the lands across the sea that cannot be had here.

'Freedom', he answers, and, 'Wider realms that we could rule on our own.'

'Do we not have freedom here?' she asks. 'And was there not death and darkness in those lands, and for that our people came here? Following your grandfather, no less.'

He looks at her a long time, weighing his words. 'Tirion may be enough for you. For some, the whole breadth of Aman is too narrow a world.'

Fëanáro has indeed travelled the breadth of Aman, explored even the least known, cold and distant corners. In youth he went alone and with Nerdanel, and later with his sons. Netyarë has also been invited on a few journeys but always chooses to stay in Tirion, where her work is. The white city of the Noldor, which she has in a small way made more beautiful with her art, is indeed enough for her.

Netyarë notices that Curufinwë said that Aman is too narrow 'for some' and knows that what he means is 'for my father, and for me'. You would be a king, my love, she thinks, but I have no desire to be a queen.

Though he studiously avoided mentioning the difference between the classes into which they were born, an unspoken awareness of it is in the air between them now after having lain near-forgotten for years.

Out of loyalty and love and any real passion for opposing opinions, she does not speak against her husband or his father in public and rarely even in private. Yet she does not change her mind, and neither does Curufinwë, and instead of keeping them together as she intends it to, her apparent acquiescence becomes an ever-widening distance between them.

She would have thought that with how even amiable conversations that the two of them have tend to grow heated and be full of sharp-edged words, any truly important difference of opinion between them would manifest itself as loud arguments. Yet it seems that the more serious their discord, the more it shows only as a freezing silence that slowly creeps from their lips into their hearts.

A/N: I hope that Netyarë doesn't seem out of character in this story; in Sparks fly out, which ended up being written from Curufin's point of view 95% of the time, she perhaps came off harder than I'd intended. In my head she has always been a lot warmer and kinder as a person than Curufin, though she's also sharp-tongued, and Tyelperinquar/Celebrimbor gets his gentler nature from her.

Following chapters will be longer, especially the next one that covers the many years of unrest and strife among the Noldor as Melkor spreads his malice.