Wow this is my first crack at writing about the Silmarillion, as usual I own nothing. I apologize for any mistakes in spelling or timeline that I may have overlooked. Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated.
All the Stars in the Sky
In the end the Bards would say they had gone mad, each and every one of them.
Curufin would contest that. Perhaps loyalty and madness were two branches of the same tree but that did not make them equal.
It was Maedhros that found him first, amid the haze and smoke of battle. Later in his life Curufin would blame himself, for not staying by his father's side. Instead the lust of battle had drawn him away on rivers of blood. He ought to have been there, to take the fatal blow. It was retrospect. In the moment it did not even cross his mind. The world was descending into panic.
Feanor lay upon the ground, his body the twisted center of a crater. Elsewhere bodies were burning and the ashes of them fell all around like pale grey snow. His armor was rent beyond repair, the Silver Star upon the breastplate barely visible for the blood. Each breath came as a gasp.
"Someone find a healer!" The others were quiet, as if they already knew: there was nothing any healer could do. Curufin knew it also. It was an unacceptable answer. It did not seem possible that the greatest among their race should die. That their father should die.
If only the Valar would take one of them (all of them) so that their father might live.
"Again." Feanor whispered. Maedhros fell to his knees and Curufin beside him. "Say it again."
They had drawn their swords, still bloody from battle, forever cursed from Aqualonde. The words of the oath seemed to throb in the silent air. In Tirion they had surged with wild excitement and battle lust, now it was a grim pledge, and all the more determined.
Their father smiled and shut his eyes. They were his sons, every last one. Curufin cried out as the body of he who had given them life and purpose burned to ashes, leaving nothing but ruined armor in its place.
The others had risen then, but he could not bring himself to move. Not until Celegorm came and dragged him.
"It's over, we must move on."
How? How can we move on from this? It seemed to Curufin that the world had tipped off its axis, all the heavens thrown askew. Feanor had been the light that the seven rotated around. He had burned, now were they too condemned to the fire? Or the darkness without him? The world was mad, not they. Above them all the stars seemed to be laughing, cold and remote. He had only curses for them.
The seven would (must) move on. They would move on with swords in their hands and blood streaming from their fingertips. Feanor's death would not be in vain. Curufin knew it would be avenged it sevenfold. It was loyalty, correct at least even if others deemed it ill.
They will pay for this. Morgoth, the Valar, even their own kin would all pay a price of blood. I will fulfill your oath, even if the others turn aside.
He alone was faithful.
.0.
Curufin listened to Caranthir rage at their brother in silence.
Maglor was unmoved. No host could they spare for their eldest brother. They must abandon him to his fate.
"He is our blood! You would leave him for dead?!"
"I care for our brother as must as you, but we do not know if he yet lives. I would not risk more lives unless we are given proof that there is hope for him."
Curufin sat back and swirled the wine in his goblet. To aid Maedhros they would have to turn aside from their quest. That could not, would not be. After all they had sworn it. He wondered if Maglor knew it as well. The oath to reclaim the silmarilli was beyond any one of them. Maedhros, he thought would understand that.
Caranthir did not, storming away from the table. Leaving their brother—now king—with insults lingering in the air.
"What would you have me do Curvo?"
The face of his elder seemed broken, wearied. I would bear this crown better than he. But that was blasphemy. They must stand united in this at least.
"We cannot risk a mission for one we do not know if alive." We cannot abandon our father's last wishes.
Maglor smiled, "Thank you."
Feanor had given them life. Maedhros would simply be the first to give his back in return. In the end they all would.
That at least seemed just.
.0.
It was Curufin's turn to be angry now. Their eldest brother—so recently returned from his torments—was too soft, too forgiving. He hailed their cousins as saviors, passed up his regency to Fingolfin. Their uncle had usurped them, even as Father had said. Maedhros simply turned a blind eye.
What would Feanor think?
Unlike Caranthir—who shouted and made harsh remarks during council meetings—Curufin did not wear his anger openly. It was a cold thing, like ice. No longer did he dine and hunt with his elders (save Celegorm only).
Soon Maedhros moved them east away from their conspiring cousins.
"We will guard here, and watch for the coming of Morgoth."
Guarding was not reclaiming. Wars were not won by watchfulness.
Curufin took his leave of Himring soon enough, Celegorm following as well. His son would come also, unwilling though he seemed. No child of the house of Feanor would so lightly throw aside an oath. When the time came, Telperinquar too would swear it. It was his legacy. The legacy of their house.
Himlad was their home, a high pass with Doriath beyond it. There they could wait. There they could gather their strength.
Curufin had a forge set up there, so that he might work, and his son might come into his craft.
The steal crumbled in his hands. Jewels might as well have been glass. Without his father the forge was empty and void. It held no joy.
When a sword shattered under his hammer for the tenth time, it became the last. Curufin abandoned the craft all together. Telpe was left alone in the smithy. Instead he trained himself solely for war. Years had passed, and still the Silmarils were beyond them. Patience was a virtue but they could not wait forever.
.0.
"We are leaving."
"No!"
Curufin stared down at his son, a face reflected like a mirror. He was not a child anymore.
"You will do as I say or you are no longer my son."
"Then I shall be fatherless." There was anger and bitterness there. "I want no part of this cursed family."
Telperinquar's eyes were not like his father's—silver and stealy even as Feanor's had been—but soft blue. His mother's son. There was too much of her in him. How had he not seen all along? She had cursed him too, turned her back on them and abandoned them, just like Telpe would.
You have no loyalty.
Celegorm and he took their horses and faithful followers that night. They rode like a gale out of Nargathrond. The people cursed them: Celgegorm the wild hunter, and Curufin the crafty, traitors both! His son did not follow. Let him rot. Faithless. Curse him.
He is nothing to me.
Later he would dwell upon the name he had been given. Curufin the Crafty. Could the people not see it was Curufin the loyal? Curufin the faithful?
All he did, he did for their father, for the oath they had sworn to him. If that was a curse then let it be so. Never would any say that Curufinwe Atarinke had turned aside, or waivered in his dedication.
Gladly he would give his blood for it.
.0.
Lying upon the stones of Menengroth, looking up at the cavernous ceiling Curufin could only laugh. He laughed at the folly of the world, and the madness and the heartbreak that had led them here. It was bitter and choked. The blood in his throat made it barely a whisper. Everything had spiraled, coming full circle. All of it amounted to nothing at all.
They had rode out so recklessly, so full of hope. Hope that this time the oath would be fulfilled. It had been Celegorm's idea, and Curufin had supported it. His brother's rage and desire for revenge against Doriath paled to his own driving need. Had he not sworn to make the world bleed?
Now the only blood he tasted was his own. It seeped, gurgling from a raged hole in his armor. Oh he had been quick, but Dior had been quicker, fighting like a caged animal.
Somewhere beyond his field of vision he could hear Celegorm and Dior, still fighting.
His sword lay nearby, where it had fallen inches from his outstretched hand. He willed himself to pick it up, to continue fighting. Father help me! I am not done yet! His fingertips would not obey the command of his mind.
Tears stung at his eyes.
Somewhere the sound of a body hitting the stones. Celegorm or Dior? It hardly mattered.
They had failed. He had failed. The silmaril was gone, born off by ill fate named Elwing. In the end it was all for nothing.
What had they done to deserve this? What had he done? Father why have you turned your back on me? I was faithful to you, I would have fulfilled your oath.
His gaze narrowed, to just the patched of stone above his face. They seemed to swim, in and out of focus. The tears came faster. The pain was so intense he longed to be held, to be comforted. There was no breath left in his lungs. Panic took hold, blind and suffocating.
Help me someone! Please! Don't let me die here! He wanted to see the stars again. To die as his father had, under the open sky. Instead he was confined, trapped beneath a thousand tons of rock, miles from the open air.
His mouth could not form the words he wished to cry. And there was no one left to hear.
Alone.
It seemed as if the ceiling was drifting away, burned by the tears and blood. The pain that made everything blur.
I've failed you father. I'm sorry.