Disclaimer: All belongs to Tolkien.

Author's Note: To cover my butt from having a limited knowledge of Quenya, I've made it so the character's names are what they would be known on Middle Earth.

Chapter 1

Curufin wiped the sweat off his brow. He wasn't at his forge – as much as he would've liked to have been – he was at one of his Father's ludicrous parties in a vain effort to marry all his brothers off. It seemed half the ladies in the whole of Arda were dancing around him in the hall Father had hired, giggling, waving their fans in some secret code to each other, and flirting with every elf-lord in sight.

He leaned against the wall, hoping against hope that his shirt would blend in with the wallpaper, as he watched his brothers drinking in all the attention as well as plenty of wine. Amrod and Amras were in their element, surrounded by a flock of ladies, and Curufin curled his lip in disgust. The twins would lavish their interest on the prettiest maidens available that night, but they wouldn't commit themselves. The expectant maidens would be sorely disappointed indeed when the twins refused to recognize them the next day.

The music was being conducted by Maglor, and sweet it may sound to others, Curufin couldn't suppress a shudder at the jollity. He wasn't feeling cheerful at all – quite the opposite. His scowl was working to fend the ladies off, and he decided he didn't like that too much either. He liked being alone, but not when everyone else was having a good time in great herds.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Curufin spun around to see his Father frowning at him. "Why are you on your own when even your brothers are being socially active? You know I'd like you to –"

"Yes father," Curufin muttered, turning away. Fëanor was going to lecture him again on the importance of heirs and how it was going to affect his house and on and on and on. That was the one thing that he and his father disagreed on. Fëanor wanted grandchildren – none of his seven sons looked keen on starting a family, though most were well past their majority. Now he was giving intensely annoying hints on the matter, usually in public, and Curufin found that embarrassing and irritating.

"Lady Niphredil and her father are coming later," said Fëanor, a bit too casually, "and it'll be nice if you had a chat with her. She's a good girl, from a good Noldorin family" – he emphasized the Noldorin with a glare at no one in particular – "so you'll have some worthy company."

Fëanor's glance flickered to Curufin's brothers, and shook his head. With a clap on Curufin's shoulder, he was gone. A few moments later Maedhros appeared at his elbow, and offered him a goblet. Curufin took it and sipped; it was good wine, the best his Father had in the cellars.

"Did Father talk to you of marriage?" asked Maedhros with a shrewd look at Curufin's face. "I'm the eldest, and it's worse with me. You should hear him... it's almost as important to him as the Silmarils." His voice sounded oddly bitter.

"Why does he do it?" snapped Curufin. "We've got plenty of time. It's not like we're all going to disappear out of this world any second. And father's trying to set me up with a certain lady called – I can't quite remember, her name was something flowery."

"Was it Niphredil?"

"Yes, that was it. Interested in her yourself? About time too, brother."

Maedhros chuckled good-naturedly. "Don't get all defensive on me," he said. "No, I've heard lots of rumours about her, none of which are very flattering. She's coming later isn't she?"

"Yes – is that her?" Curufin pointed (rather rudely) to a young lady, accompanied by someone who looked like her father, entering the hall. She wasn't pretty, and her expression suggested she was gnawing at a block of ice. Her head was held high as she swept in like a queen.

"Go and find out," replied Maedhros, wresting back Curufin's goblet of half-drunken wine and shooing him away.

Out of the corner of his eye Curufin spotted his father approaching him; he quickly weaved his way into the crowds but his Father was too quick. He felt a hand grab his sleeve. It was Fëanor, looking pleased and smug.

"She's here," he said. "I'd like to introduce you to her."

"Argh – why me, father? Why not any of my brothers?" In vain Curufin protested as he was dragged to Niphredil. She was sitting straight-backed in a chair opposite her father, a sad-looking elf with drooping eyes. Her mouth thinned as Curufin was pushed towards her by a beaming Fëanor.

"Tarcil! Haven't seen you in such a long time; is this your daughter that I've heard so much about? This is Curufinwë Atarinkë, my fifth son."

The sad-looking elf, Tarcil, stood up and bowed. "I am honoured to introduce my daughter, Niphredil." She rose beside her father and bobbed a very shallow curtsey.

"A star shines upon our meeting," she said tonelessly. She quickly sat down again, not looking at Curufin or anyone else for that matter.

Aware that Fëanor was glaring at him pointedly, Curufin asked, "Lady, would you honour me with a dance?"

Curufin knew instinctively she was going to refuse. Relief poured in through his entire being until Tarcil frowned and nudged his daughter's ribs. She gazed up at him without a teaspoonful of emotion in her voice or face.

"I would be honoured."

The party was over. It was so late it was early the next day, and Curufin collapsed onto his bed and went immediately to sleep. Until he was rudely awakened by someone barging into his room and punching him hard in the head.

"Celegorm!" he bellowed, grasping his pillow and holding it over his face to protect himself. "What was that for?"

His brother smirked at him. "You're late for breakfast," he said condescendingly. "And you're late for the forge – father's getting really impatient. We all know what happens when he gets impatient."

Curufin knew that well: his father was never the most even-tempered elf in Eldamar. Throwing aside the pillow, he said, "Let me get dressed –"

"You're still wearing the clothes you wore at yesterday's party?" Celegorm gave him an exaggerated look of pure repulsion. Curufin felt like hitting him – so he did.

Ignoring the yell of pain coming from Celegorm, he changed his garments that his Mother had made; he clenched his teeth at the harsh reality of Nerdanel not coming back. He didn't bother braiding his hair afresh, though it was a wild mop at the back of his head, and with his muttering brother went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Who was the girl you danced with? That was the only dance you had too – she seemed one of your ice sculptures brought to life."

"Lady Niphredil," Curufin answered as they entered the kitchen. On the dining table were some bread, butter and jam, and a jug of milk that smelled sour. Another reminder of Mother's absence.

At that moment Caranthir stuck his head in through the front door. "There you are, Curufin," he said. "Father's waiting for you and he's starting have a fit. Who cares about your breakfast! Just come!"

Celegorm, to his credit, swiftly buttered a slice of bread and shoved it into Curufin's hands. "Tell me more about that girl after," he said with a wink. Rolling his eyes, Curufin ran out the door and hurried after Caranthir to the forges, Caranthir rebuking him furiously throughout the way.