Silence
For Furius
- Part One
Curufin, holding both his little son's arms above the toddler's head, led him back and forth through the great hall, securing the child's first hesitant steps. The ceiling of Formenos' main hall was high, and the four walls wide apart: light as they were, Celebrimbor's clumsy footsteps resounded loudly in the room. The light of Telperion came streaming in from the tall windows, flooding every corner with soft radiance. The child stumbled often, but his father's able hands kept him from falling: every awkward stagger was accompanied by a fit of lively giggles, as Curufin lifted his son high in the air to deposit him again on the ground. Sometimes, the father suspected that the toddler had tripped on purpose, only to feel himself being hauled upwards in such a fashion. Celebrimbor, though a little retarded for his age in that field, could already walk quite well when left alone to himself.
A touching sight. Fëanor, one hand playing with the circlet he had taken off his brow, sighed with ease, and reclined into the velvet-cushioned armchair. See how glad they are, he thought, how glad to be together. We are together now, and nothing can tear us apart.
Now Curufin was kneeling down in the far end of the hall, his arms wide open, and Celebrimbor gauchely made his way into his father's embrace.
A slight click to their right alerted them of the door being opened.
"Curvo." All three looked up.
"Father." A wide grin spread over Fëanor's face, as Finwë smiled, a little wearily, upon them all. Nothing can tear us apart.
"Go to him, Tyelpe." Curufin gently pushed his son forwards. Fëanor was slightly disappointed. It was one of his fifth's son's weaknesses, to insist on still using the child's mother-name to address him; though he had to agree that sometimes the name Curufinwë could lead to dreadful confusions. However, the word kept tugging at his heart. Was it not precisely small things like these, which went on digging the gap between them all, preventing them from becoming as one?
With one finger, he traced the smooth outline of the silver wreath.
The High King of the Noldor knelt to receive his small great-grandson in his arms, and ran a hand on the boy's cheek; it was pale, though flushed pink with joy. The child's eyes shone.
"He looks like you," the king said, lifting his eyes to gaze at his eldest son, a warm smile on his face. "At this age, you were exactly like him." Both motherless? Fëanor thought. Yes, that makes us alike. He quickly shook the thought away. "Look at him," Finwë went on. "The very portrait of his grandfather… and his father."
Curufin, now sitting on the ground, laughed. Fëanor shook his head, opened his mouth, but closed it again, and a small smile stirred his lips.
Wrapped in the King's loving embrace, the small Celebrimbor tilted his face to look up at his great-grandfather.
"I like your eyes," he said. "They look like the Sea."
Finwë's smile grew wider, and he placed a light kiss on the boy's forehead.
"And where, my little one, would you have gained knowledge of the Sea's untold guise?"
Celebrimbor did not answer him directly. "They are the colour of Father's knife."
Curufin stopped smiling.
"I took him down to the beach some times ago," Fëanor offered in reply to his father's previous query. "A storm was about to break out."
The child's eyes lit up even more, and Finwë was almost upset by their alluring resemblance with the eyes of Fëanor. "I found a seashell! It has the voice of the Ocean trapped in its cage. If I put it near my ear I can hear it sing for me." Then the beam suddenly went out on his face, like a candle extinguished by a breath of wind. "Do you think," he asked in a whisper, "that the Lady is sad to be held in bounds?"
Finwë shuddered, and closed his arms tighter around his slender frame, though he was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to let go and push the feeble child away.
Then Fëanor was standing over them both, despite the fact that they had not heard him come.
"It is not her," he explained, kneeling down, "who is caught inside the shell and ensnared in chains, but only the sound of her voice;" the tip of a finger touched the boy's nose, making him squint, "and that for the sole delight of little children like you, who crave to hear her music even when they are away from her house."
Celebrimbor did not look satisfied by this particular enlightenment, and frowned in a suspicious way. "But can she still sing when her voice is taken away from her?"
Fëanor laughed outright. "Of course she can! When a smith pours his talents and skills into the making of a stone, does that mean that he is unable to make more stones after it, more beautiful than the first?"
Unnoticed in his corner, still sitting on the ground, Curufin blinked. It had been a long time since his father had spoken like that. Not since the Jewels had been wrought. But then the maker of the Silmarils was no mere smith; he was something more. And his seven sons were never very sure if the radiance of the two Trees was the only thing the Spirit of Fire had trapped into his Gems of Light.
Celebrimbor seemed like he was going to ask another question, but was prevented from it by Fëanor suddenly swinging him up on his shoulders, making him shriek in terror and delight. Once he had secured the child in that position far above the ground, the High Prince in exile took the finely chiselled circlet that marked his royal heritage from his own head, and placed it upon the child's; being far too large in circumference, the wreath slid from Celebrimbor's brow unto his neck.
"It suits him, doesn't it?" Fëanor called out to his father. "Doesn't it? I cannot see."
The small child was overcome by fits of laughter. "It's too big!" he managed between two outbursts, and promptly caught the hiccups from having gulped in too much air.
"Do not worry, small one." Fëanor contorted his neck so as to be able to catch a glimpse of his grandson. "If you wish, I will make one for you, that fits you so nicely that you will never wish to take it off."
"But he will soon grow out of it, a new one would have to be made every year," Curufin pointed out.
"Then so shall it be," Fëanor answered curtly, not allowing him a glance. He knelt again and allowed the child to get off, who uttered faint words of protest. "Curvo deserves it." He ruffled the child's hair with his hand, and took his circlet back. It was the custom for a heir to wear the mark of his birthright only when his own hands would allow him to shape his crown himself; but far from the restraining walls of Tirion the White, what law of the Valar could reach the loneliness of their exile? And are we not together now, and thereby in need of no stranger's decree?
Celebrimbor had taken one of Finwë's large hands in both his small ones, and attempted to pull the ancient elf to his feet.
"Come," he urged him, "I will show you my shell. I keep it in my box of precious things."
The King and the child were well on their way to Celebrimbor's room through darkened corridors when Fëanor regained his previous position in the chair, and absorbed himself in the contemplation of something known to only him, one hand once more lazily toying with his wreath.
Still sitting on the cold marble ground, Curufin seemed deeply engrossed in the carving of a pattern on his leather belt, keen eyes zealously following the dance of the dagger on the hide.
~