Disclaimer: All belongs to Tolkien.

Chapter 2

Fëanor gazed at his Silmarils, enraptured. They blinked at him like newborn infants, sparkling brighter than any of Varda's stars. In a strong iron case, nestled in a bed of black velvet, Fëanor could hardly bear to take his eyes off them. With a dirty finger he stroked their shining surfaces, and they remained clean despite his grimy hands. So beautiful, so pure, so fresh like the Waters of Awakening...

"Father?"

It was Maedhros, the eldest. He reminded Fëanor of Nerdanel in so many ways, not least for his auburn hair. And Fëanor didn't want to be reminded of Nerdanel, she who had forsaken him and his sons. What kind of mother and wife did such a deed?

"What is it?" Fëanor said in a carefully neutral voice, shutting the iron case with a snap. He turned around to face his son.

"Did your father ever force you into something you didn't want to do?"

Fëanor hesitated. "Yes – and no."

"You're forcing Curufin to get married when he –"

"Enough," said Fëanor impatiently. "We've talked this a number of times. I have no wish to be a cow, chewing over old material again and again."

"But father..." Maedhros began.

"That is enough! Even your cousins are wedded, and Fingon has a son. Fingolfin has two sons. I have seven. Why does he have more grandchildren than I do?"

Maedhros sighed. With a quick bow he left. Fëanor turned back to his Silmarils, safe in the case, and so wonderful to behold, far more beautiful and marvellous than anything in the world...

"So, Curufin," said Celegorm, grinning, "tell me of your lady."

"She's not my lady," replied Curufin automatically. "She's just this girl Father bullied me into meeting."

"What's she like?"

"Dull. Cold. Boring."

"Dull and boring mean the same thing, brother," Celegorm drawled.

"There's nothing left to say. In that one dance we had, we didn't speak a single word. She seemed utterly uninterested in anything, always staring over my shoulder or hers. When the song was over, she practically fled."

His brother looked at him in mock-distaste. "Are you that unpopular with ladies?"

Curufin threw a cushion at him. The lounge they were in was a mess, very dusty and the windows were filthy. The carpet had a thick layer of dog hairs – Huan, that monstrosity of a beast was to blame – and no one could be bothered to do any cleaning. Not like they ever had enough time to clean anyhow. Maglor always singing or composing new songs, Maedhros was away constantly, Curufin himself was at the forge with Caranthir all day, Celegorm out hunting with the twins at all hours, and of course Father was forever engrossed in making something new or spending time with the Silmarils.

If only Mother was here... Curufin was pulled back to the present when Celegorm clicked his fingers at his face. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am!"

"Good – oh, there's Maedhros storming up the path." Sure enough, there was a bang as the door was opened and shut and the eldest of Fëanor's sons stomped through the kitchen and into the lounge.

"It's useless," he said to a bewildered Curufin and Celegorm. "Father is intent on forcing you into a marriage with Lady Niphredil." He was looking at Curufin as he said that.

Celegorm laughed. "Come, it can't be that bad!" he said.

"Lady Niphredil is –" Maedhros stopped and started again, this time in a quieter tone. "You won't be happy with her, Curufin," he said. "She loves another, they say. It'll be difficult to live with a lady whose heart isn't given to you."

"What gives you the idea that I'm going to marry her?" snapped Curufin, baffled and angry. "I have absolutely no intention of marrying her; I've only known of her existence for two days!"

"You know Father," said Maedhros patiently. "He'll do whatever he wants. He wants you to have children, Curufin, because you have his talent in crafting, and he wants more to be like him. Lord Tarcil, that's Lady Niphredil's father, is desperate for any elf-lord to have his daughter – so the father's consent is secured."

"All this talk of marriage!" Celegorm snorted like a horse. "It's making me sick. What's for dinner, Maedhros?"

"What we've always had: bread and butter. What gave you the idea it's going to be any different today?"

"It'll be different –" the brothers jumped at the sound of their Father's voice from the kitchen "– because I've invited Tarcil and his daughter for dinner tonight."

"What!" Maedhros ran into the kitchen, Celegorm and Curufin at his heels. "Father, who's going to do the cooking, preparing, and, and – and you should've told us earlier."

Fëanor shrugged. "I've ordered some food," he said, looking around at the dank benchtops and the oak dining table. "Do you lot ever clean?" He put on an apron and started to wipe away the dirt and mould with a wet cloth, motioning for his stunned sons to help him.

Curufin had just cleared away the last pile of dishes into the cupboard when the doorbell rang. Celegorm went over to open it to reveal the twins and Caranthir, carrying a large bundle each. A delicious smell wafted in, the aroma of freshly-baked bread, cheese, roasts, and sweets, almost knocking Curufin faint. "Here, I'll help you with that," he said, pushing Celegorm out of the way.

The brothers set the table as well as they could (though a small tussle erupted over which napkins to use) and dressed in their best attire for the guests. Maglor was away and would not be returning until the next day according to a slightly derisive Fëanor. They waited nervously at their chairs, all eyes fixed on the door, wondering when the guests were ever to turn up.

Just as Caranthir muttered terrible oaths, Lord Tarcil and his daughter arrived. Curufin was ordered to let them in and take their cloaks – he silently cursed his Father as he hung up the cloaks with every person watching. They all sat around the large oak table and ate their dinner. The twins made up most of the conversation, telling everyone excitedly of their latest hunting adventures, with Celegorm interrupting every now and again to correct a minor detail and to shoot down their glorious moments.

Niphredil was as cold as ever, not speaking to anyone. She occasionally smiled at the twins' funnier tales, but the smiles were brief and far between. Her grey eyes glimmered in the candlelight, and her mouth was as thin as ever. She was wearing all white, and a silver chain necklace twinkled around her pale throat. Curufin couldn't stifle a sniff at the necklace: it was cheaply crafted, and the smith had made a vain attempt to make it look more original by using a pattern of different shapes to construct the chain. A few (badly cut, in his opinion) diamonds hung from the necklace. Curufin wondered where she had got such an odious piece of jewellery from.

"Do you like my necklace, lord?" asked Niphredil, seeing his gaze. "It was my mother's."

He was extremely tempted to say he thought the necklace was a piece of garbage, but tact held him in check. So he replied, "It's beautiful, lady." He winced at the snickers coming from around the table; was it that obvious he was lying?

"Thank you lord Curufin," said Niphredil coolly. "No doubt you think you can craft a far better one yourself."

Taking no notice of the twins' muffled laughter, he fixed Niphredil with an unblinking stare and said, "You are a fine reader of thoughts, my lady. I can make a far better one than what you're wearing – and I am not ashamed to admit it." He leant back in his chair and carefully avoided his father's wrathful expression at the head of the table. Celegorm, who was sitting beside him, chuckled softly and patted him on the shoulder when no one was looking.

"I think it's best if we left now," said Tarcil quickly, clearing his plate and standing up. He nodded to his daughter, who followed suit. "No, my lord Fëanor, there is no need to escort us out given that the door is only a few feet away," he said when Fëanor made a move to rise. "Thank you for the dinner."

Niphredil said nothing, but curtseyed respectfully and went after her father out the door and into the silvery light of Telperion.