An update for you all and a few spelling corrections to my earlier chapters. *crosses fingers that no one noticed spelling issues in the first place*

Also forgive me for changing the cover image so often. The first had a copyright issue, and the fire opal I then used had a weird black background. So here's some iolite, hopefully it looks better! :)

Tyelkormo arrived home from the concert well ahead of Maitimo and Makalaurë as he had not lingered as long afterwards as they had. He had just entered the palace courtyard when Huan barrelled into him knocking him off his feet. He fell with a umph onto his back as two large paws held his chest down and he felt the wolfhound gazing at him.

Wearily he opened his eyes, "What?" he hissed. "You are ruining my good robes."

"Your dark haired uncle was here. Except it was not truly him. It didn't smell like him! It was not him!" he told his master, tail wagging in excitement.

"Get off you oaf!" Turko grunted, making a move to sit up. Thankfully, the massive hound got off of him. He stood up and looked around the grass for the golden circlet that Huan had knocked from his head. The fact that the night was falling and the lights mixing did not make the task any easier. At last he found it and shook blades of grass from it. Huan sat on his hunches, tail wagging impatiently.

"Okay, so if it wasn't Uncle Ñolofinwë, then who was it?" He said at last, placing the golden ring back on his head. Mother would kill him if he lost it.

"I don't know, but he went down the road," the hound declared. "Towards the forge!" he added at the last moment, tail wagging even faster as he thought that piece of information might finally spurn his master into action.

The forge, thought Tyelkormo. Of course it had to be the forge, that was his father's favorite place, and if ever there was anything to disrupt the peace of Valinor, Turko knew that Fëanáro was bound to be at the center of it. Not to mention, the Silmarils that had Maitimo acting so weird were created there and it was where that Vala, Melkor, had visited.

"It's alright Huan. Maybe Uncle Ñolofinwë just bought some new perfume, besides Curvo is no doubt already there, he practically ran back from the concert. And father too." Because in all honesty, Turko was tired and not in the mood right now.

"No," the hound howled. "Master's sire took a horse and left an hour ago. Something is wrong. We must go now! I'll even let you on my back," the hound added.

Tyelkormo's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline at that. Huan was extremely proud and save one event when he was an elfling and had twisted his ankle on a rock far from home, Huan had never suffered anyone to ride him. It was enough to get him to relent. "Alright, Huan. If this really has you that worked up," he said, lightly jumping onto his hound's back. He had barely finished his sentence when Huan leapt forward like an eagle taking flight. "Gahh!" Tyelkormo shouted as he struggled to keep his seat and not fall off and crack his head open on the pavement. But too much of his weight was off center and he would have still fallen had Huan not suddenly pulled up short in front of a shocked Carnistir.

His brother's face was a classic look of shock, confusion, and disapproval all wrapped into one. Turko was sure that he somehow managed to look guilty sitting as he was within the manicured lawns of the palace on the back of his hound. But truly this was not his fault.

"Tell him to get on! Three better than two," the wolfhound barked. Still not sure about this whole situation, Turko nonetheless obeyed seeing as Huan was near hysterical in his excitement.

"Moryo! Get on behind me. Huan's gone crazy!" he shouted, grabbing his stunned brother's wrist as Huan again leapt forward. Poor Carnistir had no choice but to leap on or else be dragged through the dirt. As Carnistir found his seat, clutching to Turko's waist for dear life, Huan jumped over the gates and run through the forested area behind the main buildings of Tirion.

When they reached the forge, its doors were wide open. Huan looked ready to charge through it, despite the fact that he would hardly fit. Yet thankfully, for all his eagerness, the hound did not want to injure his riders. "Go!" he barked at Tyelkormo, the urgency in his bark needing no translation for Carnistir. Still a little disoriented, the two brothers slid off and stalked through the door.

They were just in time to see Ñolofinwë emerge from the safe in the back. The tall dark-haired elf clutched a wooden box in one hand and a naked dagger in the other, a dagger that was streaked with red blood.

"Stop right there!" Tyelkormo shouted, the last vestiges of weariness fleeing him. His heart pounded as he stared at the image of his uncle, his uncle that Huan had sworn was not his uncle. Suddenly he found himself wishing for his bow.

Carnistir himself had gone rigid as he glanced from Ñolofinwë to the dagger to the crumpled form of Curufinwë laying in front of the heavy iron doors of the forge's safe. The safe where their father kept valuable jewelry and metals that he was still forging. The safe that held the Silmarils.

"Would you threaten your own uncle?" Ñolofinwë asked smoothly, too smoothly as his voice seemed sweet as with honey.

"You are not my uncle!" Tyelkormo declared. But even then a part of him wasn't so sure. The elf had Ñolofinwë's graceful posture that was not so easily imitated. He wore the exact same clothes as he had to the concert. Blue and silver robes made of fine linens and silks.

"Ñolofinwë would never spill the blood of another elf, let alone that of his brother's son." Carnistir said at last, speaking slowly, his steely blue eyes never leaving the form of his brother. The intruders lips pursed, and he twisted his dagger around as if to attack when chaos erupted.

Huan had lost his patience, and the powerful wolfhound barralled his way through the entrance, bricks tumbling to the ground as the wall near the door broke with the force of his leap. He skidded to a stop behind Carnistir, teeth barred in a snarl and ears flat against his skull. For the briefest of moments something akin to fear shown in the intruder's eyes before the wolfhound charged at him, jaws aiming for his throat.

But the intruder was just as quick to react, throwing up an arm in an attempt to protect himself. Huan's teeth bit deep into the appendage, and Carnistir and Tyelkormo watched in morbid fascination as black blood the color of oil welled from the wound. The image of Ñolofinwë flickered, revealing a dark face with chartreuse eyes, a Maia, Carnistir thought in fascination. He watched in silent disbelief as the Maia gritted his teeth and attempted in vain to tear his arm out of the wolfhound's jaws. But Huan's teeth had clamped into the muscle and tissue like a vice, and every movement from the Maia only served to wound him further. At last the dark-skinned being appeared to give up for he relaxed for a second, closing his eyes.

Carnistir had been about to move forward when the being suddenly tensed again, opened his green eyes, and lashed out with a kick at the dog's chest. The moment his struck the wolfhound, a massive explosion of sound and darkness enveloped the place. Carnistir found himself flying backwards, propelled by an invisible force. He felt his head slam into the brick wall, saw stars before his eyes, beautiful pinpoints of light that decorated a scene of perfect chaos as hammers fell from the wall and the earth shook. The last sound he heard before the darkness won him over was Huan's whimpers of pain.

Moments, minutes, centuries later—he was not sure which, Moryo slowly opened his eyes to stare at the damaged ceiling of the forge. Was that a gold bar stuck in the roof like an odd sort of icicle? He shook his head to ensure that his vision was working and immediately regretted it as it felt as though someone had taken an ax to his brain. To make matters worse, his ears were still ringing from the explosion? sound wave? kick? He wasn't exactly sure what to call it yet. That being had certainly been a Maia, and one adapt at shapeshifting, though it had bled black blood. He had read stories of dark beings with dark blood, he thought as he groaned and tried to sit up, but they were supposed at have all been vanquished long ago. He looked over to see Turko, sprawled on his stomach. A jolt of worry ran through Carnistir as he took in his brother's prone form. How injured was he? He was about to tell his brother to get up as well, if only so he could convince himself that the blond was alright, but Huan was faster.

No doubt the wolfhound's ears hurt terribly, Moryo mused as he watched the loyal dog stalk over to Tyelkormo. Still Huan was great in spirit and eager to pursue the one who had escaped him it seemed. "Get up, master!" the hound whined, nuzzling Turko's arm and pawing at his back. Turko only groaned like one with a hangover on an overly bright morning. Carnistir afforded himself a small smile; at least one brother was fine. "He is getting away! We must go now if we are to catch him!" Huan howled.

Moryo sighed at the scene and standing on shaking feet, made his way over to help his blond brother up. He grabbed his arm, and had no sooner pulled him to his feet than the great white wolfhound of Valinor had nudged its head between Carnistir's legs and had crouched down beneath him before standing to its full height. Moryo's headache quadrupled as he suddenly found himself once again astride the wolfhound's back, a hand still gripping Turko's arm. His brother looking not quite coherent as of yet. But Huan didn't have time for their wits to return or for their poor heads to heal. The hound let out a long howl and Carnistir's eyes widened as he blatantly realized what the wolfhound was about to do.

Headache be damned, Moryo had to get his brother onboard. With all his might, he tried to swing Turko up behind him. Ironically, Huan helped when he took off at seemingly the speed of sound, the momentum sweeping poor Turko off of his feet, and Carnistir was just able to pull him down to sit astride Huan's back right behind him.

"Hold on! And pray that your crazy hound doesn't get us both killed," he shouted as Huan ran away from the forge. Turko was only just coming to his senses but had enough survival instincts to grab onto Carnistir's waist. Several minutes passed until at last Turko appeared to come to terms with his current predicament.

"What about Curufinwë?" he half-shouted, half-spat when Carnistir's long hair hit him in the face. Carnistir wouldn't admit it, but he was touched that the first thought his brother voiced after realizing that he was charging through the night on the back of an excitable wolfhound was one of concern for Curvo.

"Other member's of pack find him. He will be alright." Huan answered between pants as he raced over the landscape, silver twilight descending on the land all the while.

Makalaurë stood before his mirror, braiding his hair in a simple fashion to keep it out of his face. He stepped back and looked at himself. He looked young and healthy, his dark raven hair glistening in the light as he tied off the braid he was working on. His blue-grey eyes had lost their innocence though.

At last he stepped back and donned a sleeveless black cloak. He put his hunting knife in his belt where it could be easily concealed. It felt downright wrong to be going after the Silmarils without a sword, but perhaps that was for the better, Makalaurë thought darkly. He would have taken his bow and arrows, but they were far too conspicuous. He gave his room one last glance before quietly opening his window and leaping into a nearby tree. A few of the Moriquendi elves he once knew would have been quite amused to know how much he found himself in trees as of late, he thought to himself with a faint smile.

Maitimo was already waiting for him by the time he leapt out of the branches. "One last time. To finally end this curse?" he asked.

"One last time," Makalaurë agreed. Like thieves in the night, the two walked across the yard and climbed stealthily over the gates.

Findekáno kneeled in the bushes just beyond the gates to his cousin's palace. He wore a short midnight blue tunic and black leggings, and he had his hair back in a ponytail. He knew his friends were up to something, and he simply wanted to know what. Not to mention he was feeling mischievous as of late. He still didn't know whether he was going to help them or just sit back and watch them dig their own graves. But that could be decided later.

He looked up to see two cloaked figures climb the gate with agile speed to land soundlessly in the other side. Findekáno wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was impressed. Maitimo wasn't exactly a small elf, and Makalaurë never struck him as an athletic type. As the two older elfs left, Findekáno followed behind them. They had not gone more than four hundred yards when Maitimo stopped, sighed, and turned around.

"Go home Findekáno," he wearily said.

Findekáno just raised his eyebrows. "Lighten up, my friend. You're as bad as Turukáno. What can be so serious about a couple of jewels anyway? Are you afraid your lady friend will reject you?"

The look those two gave him, dark and without humor, made Findekáno falter, maybe he shouldn't have insulted Maitimo's crush, if he really did have one. But just last week they had raced horses through the forest together, laughing the whole time and exchanging good natured taunts. Now Maitimo was acting like a stoic statue. Maitimo looked inquisitively at him and then his eyes softened.

"Very well. I do owe you my life. But this is your last warning to step back and claim innocence in the future." Findekáno wasn't exactly sure what to make out of the statement. Because while he did warn his cousin once that a certain plant he had considered eating was poisonous, the incident hardly counted as saving his life. But now was not the time to ponder it at the moment.

"You know me. I am with you to the end." Maitimo nodded in response and together the three continued their night journey through the forest just behind the shops. At last they reached Fëanáro's forge in the small clearing at the end of the road. All three of them stopped in their tracks. The was door had been flung clean off its hinges and lay a distance away. The entrance looked as if a wild horse had careened through it and part of the brick wall was missing.

"What I wouldn't give for a sword," Makalaurë declared, blue-grey eyes wide as he tried to imagine what could have caused such damage. It didn't help that his first thought was balrogs. Though if he were honest to himself, a blaring would have leveled the place, not just crashed through the door.

"Did your father finally lose it?" asked Findekáno, awe evident in his voice.

"Except that he shouldn't be here. Mother said that he left a note, telling her that he was going to visit Olwë and purchase some new tools from the merchants in Alqualonde," whispered Maitimo.

"Is it Moringotto then?" the singer asker, glancing at the forge with new trepidation.

"I do not know."

"The black enemy? I hope you guys haven't been spending too much time trying to write poetry" Findekáno commented. The Fëanorians didn't respond to his jest. Really, since when had they become so serious. "Well, at any rate, let's find out who it is," he added. "It's not like you two don't have a right to be there. Perhaps Curvo just got frustrated."

Maitimo nodded because although a part of his mind yelled at him to run, reminding him that he did not stand a chance against Morgoth with just a hunting knife, there was no way he was turning back. Therefore he walked through the ruined doorway, lowering the hood of his cloak as he did so. Darkness surrounded him and silence reigned in the small space. But Maitimo swore he could hear the faint sound of someone breathing.

Very carefully he lighted the oil lamp near the door and froze as the yellow light rolled back the darkness of the night. The forge was in complete disarray. A heavily anvil lay on the floor tipped over. There were tongs and hammers littering the ground. And molten metal had spilled near the furnace. But that was not what concerned the eldest son of Fëanáro.

The heavy door to the backroom safe, where his father kept valuable jewelry and metals, was wide open. And in front of it lay Curufinwë, blood running from his lacerated side and a large bruise decorating his jaw.

The two sons of Fëanáro ran to their cousin, but Findekáno stayed rooted to the spot in shock and horror. Until that day no elven blood had ever been spilled in Valinor, and the sight was terrible for the son of Ñolofinwë to behold. Maitimo and Makalaurë, however, had no such reservations about blood, and they ran to their brother. Carefully the Makalaurë pulled his brother's head into his lap and inspected the discoloration of his jaw, gingerly running his fingers over it and feeling for any sign that it was broken. Maitimo had begun efficiently shredding strips of his tunic and binding the deep wound on Curufinwë's side.

As he did so, Makalaurë looked around. There lay a large sword with a half completed handle not to far from where his brother lay, and he assumed that Curufinwe had tried to defend himself with it while guarding the entrance to the safe. But while he would become skilled with a blade within a few short weeks of their arrival in Beleriand, Makalaurë knew that his brother had never held one before this night. What concerned him more was the open door to the safe.

"Findekáno, can you support his head for me? I am worried that he has a concussion and a bad one at that." His cousin nodded as he overcame his shock and carefully knelt beside Makalaurë. Carefully the minstrel lifted Curufinwë's head from his lap and placed him on Findekáno's. He then stood up and walked into the safe, already knowing what he would find. A sapphire necklace, a handful of unset emeralds, a circlet made of diamonds and musgravite, bars of gold, mithril, and platinum, none of it was touched. But he did not see the box that Maitimo had described as holding the Silmarils.

He heard soft footsteps and looked up to see Maitimo's silver-grey eyes scan the small room. "It is gone," he said simply.

"Morgoth no doubt."

"But why did he take it now, when he waited so long last time?"

"Because of you."

Realization came upon Maitimo: "He reasoned from my memories that we would try and take them first chance we got."

"And he probably realized that we would take them Manwë."

"But wouldn't that work out all the better for him? The Noldor would then not pursue him to Arda, and he would be left alone."

"I wouldn't be so sure. Father is rearing for a fight, as you said earlier. And besides, his ultimate plan is the destruction of all light. He destroyed the two lamps, and the trees, I bet he even plotted the darkening of the sun and moon. If Manwë uses the Silmarils to rekindle the trees, then it just puts him back a step."

Maitimo nodded, the reasoning made sense, but for some reason he was still not so sure. Morgoth seemed too cunning to knowingly invoke the wrath of the Noldor, the thorn in his side for all those years. But if he was hellbent on destroying all light then it was possible. Besides, he thought, Maitimo knew from personal experience that Morgoth got a sick satisfaction out of killing and torturing the Children of Ilúvatar. Perhaps he wanted the Noldor to come, to smote themselves on the walls of Angband, to burn with dragon fire, and to die in agony of his own design.

"We need to get Curvo back," Makalaurë's voice jostled Maitimo from his thoughts. The two of them walked back out of the safe to where Findekáno knelt with Curufinwë's head in his lap, gently stroking his dark hair back. Their cousin looked up at them in wonder.

"So…" he began, his voice strangely accusatory considering the circumstances. If there was one thing about Findekáno, it was that he possessed an uncanny ability to adapt and overcome whatever life threw at him.

Maitimo and Makalaurë looked at each other and then tried, and failed, to smile the most innocent of smiles. As it were, they just looked even more guilty.

"So…" Findekáno continued, still trying to process all that he had witnessed. "Here, I had believed that we were going to have a fun night sneaking around, borrowing some gems of your father's so Nelyo could impress some lady friend of his… but I am getting the increasing feeling that there is something you are not telling me," he added, looking down at the now bloodied strips of Maitimo's tunic that bound his cousin's side.

Makalaurë bent down to gently pick up said cousin. "The understatement of the age, Findekáno," he said as he hoisted Curufinwë into his arms. "But right now getting Curvo back home for the healers to care for him is more important."

Telufinwë, as it were, was in the library reading about treatments for broken bones, which while uncommon in Valinor, did still occur when elflings fell from trees so someone was thrown by a spooked horse. He was currently enamored with a fair elf maiden from Alqualonde named Sarpalarë, who had a keen interest in the art of healing. Suffice to say, he was hoping to impress her with his newfound knowledge for making slings using only materials found in the woods.

He was interrupted from his studies when he heard the heard the palace's large wooden doors slam open and his eldest brother's voice call out, "Help! Curufinwë has been hurt. Fetch a healer!" Immediately he got up and ran down the hallway to the foyer. He heard footsteps coming the staircase and saw Nerdanel hurrying down the steps trailed by Indil, a healer that had lived with the family ever since their father was a child. Although trained by Estë herself when the firstborn had first arrived in Valinor, Indil's brown eyes still went wide in shock when she saw the dark haired elf lying in his brother's arms. But she recovered quickly and took command of the situation.

"Bring him to the healing room in the eastern wing," she commanded Makalaurë. "Findekáno fetch me some hot water. Telvo, I heard you have a sudden interest in healing? Well, now is your chance to learn. Come with me." Telvo didn't bother trying to explain that he was simply trying to impress a girl. It would not have gone over very well with the stern healer of the house. He followed Makalaurë, Indil, and Nerdanel as they hurried to the room set up for healing.

"What happened?" Nerdanel asked, her voice breaking as slightly as she watched Indil peel away the blood-strained strips of Maitimo's tunic. When she saw the ragged cut in her son's side, she stiffened and grabbed Maitimo's bicep in a vice-like-grip for support.

"We don't know," Makalaurë said. "We were taking Findekáno to see the Silmarils only to find them gone and Curvo unconscious before the safe."

"I suspect Melkor." Maitimo said darkly.

"Telvo hand me that cloth and dip it in the hot water," Indil commanded when Findekáno arrived with a bowl. "The wound was bound exceptionally well considering the circumstances," she glanced at Maitimo. "Perhaps I have impressed the wrong Fëanorian into my field," she said nodding at Telvo as he handed her her the damp towel.

They heard hurried footsteps and Pityfinwë rushed into the room. He glanced at Curufinwë and his face blanched. "By the Valar!" he swore under his breath.

"Alright, it's getting too crowded in here," Indil declared as he entered. "Telvo and Nerdanel can stay. I need the rest of you out so I can work. Don't worry, the cut is deep but far from anything important. The bruise looks mostly superficial. He'll be fine."

With that Pityfinwë, Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Findekáno were all unceremoniously pushed out of the room. They walked for a few steps when Pityo seemed to break down.

"What is going on? I go for a walk, and now Curufinwë is unconscious! He even has his eyes closed!" Pityo half-sobbed. Maitimo winced, the elder twin was in near hysterics. He had forgotten how naive they had all once been to pain and injury. He looped an arm around the other redhead's shoulder's, and comfortingly soothed his hair.

"It will be alright, Pityo. Telvo's in there, and"

"Telvo is useless," he huffed.

"Well he's at least been trying to read up a bit on the healing arts. And I assure you that Indil is the greatest elven healer to ever walk in Aman."

Pityo in that moment seemed to compose himself. He stopped walking suddenly, shrugging off his brother's touch. Maitimo took a step back, confused. Pityfinwë whirled around then, glaring at the two eldest and the son of Findekáno in turn. "You know something, don't you? You are avoiding my question. What. Is. Going. On." he demanded, unshed tears glistening in his eyes.

Makalaurë sighed. "Somebody stole the Silmarils. We believe that Melkor, Manwë's brother, is not be as redeemed as he claims to be."

"What evidence do you have to backup such a claim? In case you haven't realized, Melkor isn't exactly in a position to ruffle feathers!"

The others didn't reply. Pityfinwë stared at them. "You all have gone off your rockers. And you've gone and involved the House of Ñolofinwë in our personal business," he said with a nod towards Findekáno. "I'm done," he added tersely, walking off to his own rooms.

Makalaurë sighed and looked at his brother and cousin. "He doesn't mean it. Pityo is just hurt. I think he feels twice as much as he should. And sometimes he will be all mopey and depressed and…"

"And sometimes he is the son of Fëanáro," Findekáno finished for him. "Honestly, I am surprised at how stoic you two are being," he added looking at the brothers on either side of him. He walked to the window and took in the silver night. "It is late, cousins. It would be impolite to send me home in the dark…."

Maitimo sighed. "You can stay here." Findekáno didn't even try to hide his smile. There were few people who kind get under Russandol's skin, and he enjoyed being one of them.

An hour later and Maitimo closed his eyes and sunk beneath the hot water of his bath with an inward sigh, letting the heat wash away his stress. It had been a long day. He was also getting tired of everyone not taking him seriously. Part of him had wanted to lash out at Pityo. Maitimo cringed at the thought as he resurfaced and took a deep breath. Such an action would have been born out of anger. And he would have been acting like his father. Maitimo shuddered. No, he just had to be patient. He used to find it easy, but Beleriand had seemed to have ripped the last of his patience right from his soul. He sighed and tipped his head back, letting the water caress his skull. He would work on it, he finally resolved.

There was a soft knock on the door and his brother walked in, wearing a red satin robe and his hair was wet and down, dark tendrils trailing down his back. "If you've come to seduce me, Maglor, I am not interested."

"Fingon is here. He wants to understand 'the understatement of the age.'"

"Of course he does," Maitimo replied tiredly before allowing his upper torso and head to slide back under water, a clear dismissal if ever there was one.

Makalaurë, was of course, not impressed. He crossed his arms as his brother disappeared under the water. When he didn't resurface, he stalked over to the tub and thrust a hand in where his brother's head had last been. He then proceeded to grab a fistfull of hair and physically pull his head back above the surface.

"You orcish fiend!" Maitimo spat, reaching back to grab onto Makalaurë's hand where it was still tangled in his hair. Makalaurë laughed and released his brother.

"Come on, you've been in there long enough," he said as he opened the door and left.

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