The mansions of the Ñoldor were quiet.

No song, no lilting melody - not even the softest twang of harp or breathy moan of lute carrying sorrowful lament echoed through the cavernous marble halls of the castle in Tirion. In the dark the dim radiance of condensed dew of Telperion gave a weak but steady glow; yet even that brilliance was tarnished - for without being replenished by the tree from whence it came the light had slowly began to die. All over Valinor thousands of little lanterns weakened and failed while the corrupted night grew deeper yet.

Night. Never before had they feared the dark. They had spent so many happy and carefree years in the holy light of the Valar that the realm of shadow and shade held terrors before unimagined by the Eldar. The Long Night - that was what they were calling it now. Night without Dawn, The Deepening Dark. At least the Vanyar still sang, sorrowful as it was. Such poetic names were their creation. The Ñoldor just called it ' The Night'.

Tyelperinquar called it hell.

Mingled light gave a soft glow to the bedroom. Amid the soft and white light of the recessed sconces of his room Tyelpë sat before a long mirror framed with pale beige candles that gave a flickering golden glow. Often had he used it in happier days, happier times. Now in the combined light of drying sap and burning wax he could hardly stand to look at his own reflection.

Every flash of his eyes, every tilt of his head, every ripple of dark hair was painful and finally gathering the courage to look full into his own image he had to fight back the tears welling in his eyes as the low chanting litany of a well-worn phrase rattled noisily in his mind.

You look just like Finwë.

Oh how proud he had first been to hear those words in his bright youth, praise that tumbled from the mouths of his uncles and whispered in his wake as he passed through the bejeweled streets of Tirion or among the pearled walkways of Alqualondë. How often as even a young elf had he toddled along his great-grandfather, a laughing, dancing shadow - a small shard from a brilliant jewel holding all the promise of it's forbearer. What joy he had felt when Finwë had coddled him, braiding and brushing the long deep brown locks until they shone and glistened. A wealth of pins, clips, combs Tyelpë held in horde crafted by Curufinwë and Fëanor or gifted to him from the nobility of Aman. For a while it had become ridiculous - every week someone had given him some precious work, and of course Fëanor had to give him something far more spectacular anytime he saw another's work adorning his grandsons hair.

"I stopped wearing other jewelry long ago." Finwë had laughed with Tyelpë. "He'll never let anyone else outdo him, you know how your grandfather can be."

Tyelpë knew all too well.

For a moment Tyelpës hand stilled, the brush - a work of finely wrought silver and boars bristles, glistening with the bright glint of diamonds that gave a soft bluish luminescence in the darkened room - he held poised in the air even as his eyes shifted to his right. By the door of his room stood a wooden folding tray upon which was a series of plates of varying sizes, each crowned with a richly embossed dome. The meal had gone cold more than an hour ago, abandoned where it had been set by one of the servants. In another few hours it might be replaced by another, the pattern repeated for yet another day - for days uncounted.

Tyelpe's best estimation was that he hadn't left his room for around three weeks. Hidden in his room he could reveal himself without need for layers of heavy fabric and the secrecy of swift, unobtrusive movement.

A pang of bitterness filled him at his self-imposed imprisonment. His family wasn't in this room, they were out there - among their kin and united in their unimaginable grief while Tyelpë cloistered himself away and wept in the shadows. He wasn't sure what stung more, that he'd felt the need to hide himself away from the world or that not once, in three long weeks, had any bothered to come looking for him.

You look just like Finwë.

Hot tears pricked and stung at his eyes and Tyelpë blinked them back. Taking a few deep breaths he slowly set down the brush on the vanity beside a constellation of various rings. Slowly bare fingers teased at the long tresses, gently combing through them in slow contemplation. His hair was nearly as long as his great-grandfathers had been. Had. When did they start using that word to refer to him? Looking down at the rippling locks Tyelpës mind wandered to the day it had all ended, the day the light had gone out forever.

He had been in Alqualondë that day with his mother. She hadn't liked the idea of him moving to the forbidding north within the shadow of the towering Pelori and had begged and pleaded for Tyelpë not to go with his father into exile. She saw no reason that her son should be bound to the poor decisions of his grandfather - for who as of late she had acquired a distinct disgust. After lengthy debate and more heated conversations than he cared to recall an agreement had been reached, some time spent in Formenos, some in Alqualondë and though she loathed it she consented.

That day he had ridden as hard as he could to Formenos, hard on the heels of his grandfather. Fëanors leaving of Tirion hadn't exactly been secret - for he had run with all haste to the stables the moment the herald bearing the terrible news of the attack on Formenos had spoken his fell message. Tyelpë had seen Fëanor thunder through the western gate of the city, his horse kicking up plumes of sparkling dust across the plains. Clad as he was in his thick robes of embroidered silk and damask Tyelpë had followed with all haste. The mantle gave to his mother at the great hall - the outer robes were left with the stable-master. On a pale brindled mare known for her speed he followed hard in Fëanors wake.

Even still, with a slower horse and a later start he knew well enough that he would arrive behind his grandfather. The miles stretched long before him in the uncertain darkness and before long Fëanors mount was far out of sight - leaving Tyelpë to ride alone through the night. Ever he urged his horse to greater speed as at the edges of his sight he imagined foul things speeding across the plains, lurking in the shadows of clustered trees under the pale starlight. Approaching Formenos, beneath the roots of the Pelori Tyelpë found to his dismay that the shadows here deepened in places to a near unimaginable blackness - darker than night, inky and lifeless as the void and in the cold north wind he shivered. Riding up the twisting arches of stone bridges that climbed their way into the mountains at last Tyelpë came to the high gate of the northern stronghold of the Ñoldor and found it changed beyond all recognition.

Webs of gloom stretched along the surrounding peaks with an unnatural dark sorcery that drew all light that crossed it into oblivion. The stones leading into the center court were cracked as if the weight of immense pillars, spear-tipped and stronger than iron had come crashing down upon them. Braziers blazing red-gold into the night cast their ruddy light high up the stone faces and gave the entire entry a dark malevolence as they led deeper into the mountain like some broken piece of Utumno itself had landed within the confines of the blessed realm. Heart pounding in his chest Tyelpë ignored the ripples of fear that pulsed through him and carefully avoiding the light-sucking webs he dismounted and led the horse forward. Shortly he was met by one of the armed guards who remained - the still shaken and terrified elf eagerly taking his mount, grateful for any distraction. Here he learned that Fëanor was already inside with his uncles and father. Softly thanking the guard Tyelpë strode towards the broken doors of Formenos - grandly gilded oaken doors that now lie scorched upon the mosaic stair. And he shuddered as he turned his eyes to those steps saw some dark stain upon the colored glass and pale stone.

The winding corridors he had known for decades were now hauntingly unfamiliar. Beneath his feet cracked the shards of emeralds, pearls, sapphires; the precious stones grinding into powder with each cautious step. Tapestries woven by Míriel herself in happier days lie ripped and trampled callously upon the floor or fluttered in tatters from their bracketed mounts and shards of golden-veined pottery littered the way ahead. Tyelpë could hear voices at the end of the hall and towards this he directed himself, drawn in towards the crackle of torches until he found himself standing in the gaping doorway of the large gathering room. The faces of his family turned upon him one by one as he entered, regarding him with some strange emotion that he had never before seen upon them - yet one he suspected he knew all too well himself now.

Tyelpë wanted to speak, to ask, but words caught in his throat and he could only stare in silence. Then Fëanor turned to him and there was something unhinged in his eyes - wide and wild as they were. Yet for a moment they cleared and Fëanor began to rise - but then his face crumpled, his body sank, and a loud keening wail ripped through the room, resounding shrilly from the vaulted ceilings and sent piercing fear through Tyelpë that set him stumbling back into the darkened hall with his heart hammering in his chest. From a far corner a dark clad elf quickly approached and before Tyelpë could question it his father had ushered him a little down the way. For a moment they stood without speaking, the unearthly keening of Fëanor echoing dully in their ears.

"The messenger...so you know of what's happened?" Curufinwe asked hesitantly. Tyelpë nodded, looking first to the door, then to his father and back to the door. Perhaps if he could just stop shaking it would be easier, maybe if he kept calm he would wake in the morning to the glory of the trees and the love of his great-grandfather. But Tyelpë knew deep in his core that such hope was vain.

With slow, careful words he replied; "They told us the stronghold had been attacked. That..."

It was too much to speak of, and tears spoke instead of words as they fell from Tyelpës reddened eyes. For a long time Curufinwë and his son stood in the darkened hall, the father holding his only son. After an eerie silence had descended upon the house Curufinwë spoke again, lifting Tyelpës face so that he might look him in the eyes.

"You know that he has gone to the halls of Mandos. Yet it is not only our parting but the manner of it that is most cruel. We were careful to hide from father what we did not wish him to see - to lay eyes on grandfather in such a state would surely have broken him. Some devilry of Melkor was surely at work here today, for he was near unrecognizable when we found him - as if he'd been burned."

Curufinwë fell silent for a time, stroking his sons hands.

"You...look like Finwë. So much so. It may be best if you do not see your grandfather for a while - just for a bit until he can come to terms with what has happened."

Any protest Tyelpë may have had died under the imploring gaze of his father and he could only nod mutely in consent.

That had been a month ago.

Now sitting alone in a darkened bower Tyelpë closed his eyes against the night. For fear of Fëanors fragile mind he had kept to himself while his father and uncles stayed by their patriarchs side all hours of the day and night. During the funeral he had remained alone, hooded and cloaked in black velvet, long hair bound and hidden under layers of fabric. Yet in the end even that had not been enough. For the Ñoldor who saw him as they passed gazed upon him with the same grieved expression before turning away with haunting whispers.

"He looks just like Finwë."

The first of his tears fell like a gentle rain onto the backs of his clenched fists knotted on his lap. Tyelpë knew couldn't hide in darkness forever, separated from his kin. But he couldn't face them like this either.

With shaking hand he reached for an elaborate blade resting on the edge of the dresser, glinting palely in the dim light. The fingers on his right hand tangled through his hair wistfully for a moment, then in a deft motion the locks were twisted into a tight cord.

If I don't look like great-grandfather anymore...then there's no problem...

Tyelpës breath hitched a moment and he fought against the pounding in his heart and in his head. Family was more important - it was the most important thing. This was a small enough price to pay.

But his hand on the knife couldn't stop shaking as it lightly rested against the bundled strands and his mind raced with visions of a bright past now withered and dead as leaves in winter; a fading light in the darkness. With a deep breath he steeled himself, grip tightening as he prepared to sever the past that clung to him in heavy locks.

"Don't."

Strong hands stayed him and a warm breath tickled at his neck. Slowly those arms drew him in to a warm embrace, his back pressed against a broad chest as the knife was pried from his hands and set out of his reach. The words in his ear echoed again through a voice cracked with grief.

"Please don't."

The thin misting of tears preluded a downpour. Restraints built against the flood burst and Tyelpë wailed out long held grief while Fëanor gently wrapped his arms about his grandson, the banished king for now a shaky bulwark against the storms to come.