Category: Tolkien-Universe
Rating: M
Couples: -
Warnings: AU, blood, mentions of torture, character death, Loss of bodily autonomy (no Non-con)
Chapter: 60
Copyright: Characters & places © By Tolkien Estate, Plot & OC´s © by me
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In the end, all three headed for Lorien, though Curufin only went because he did not want to leave his brother just yet. Fëanor entrusted his sons to his brother - a thing he wouldn't have done a couple centuries ago, but matters had changed.
He remained in exile, taking a house in Barad Eithel, far from any centers of power he could be suspected to exert any control in, and under his brother. He felt sick the first time he entered into a smithy, phantom-pains echoing in his hand.
The limb was still a mess, and the healer that was attending him was still concerned about how well he'd ever be able to use it properly again. A minor price, he supposed. He'd figured that after he'd managed to figure out the Silmarils, he could figure out smithing with a claw of a hand. If he ever became able to enter a smithy again.
Nerdanel moved to Barad Eithel as well, though the both of them took different guestrooms as they fixed their marriage. Their remaining sons remained in the Eastern holdings of the House of Fëanor, while Finarfin's children followed their father back to Valinor. He half-wondered how poorly Artanis' relationship with her Sindar was handling this, but he didn't feel like he would be allowed to ask.
For the next couple years, they received monthly updates about their family-members' recovery. After two years, Curufin returned to Beleriand with two of his Arafinwean cousins, having been more or less booted back by Caranthir, if the statements regarding the matter could be taken honestly. The general consensus of the House of Finwë was that it sounded like the Caranthir of old, which was also a great relief to all of them.
Two decades after that, word came from the West that Finarfin had retaken his crown from his son's regentship. No word on a possible reconciliation however, but that might well be because family-news did not usually get send with formal announcements.
The first time he and Fingolfin saw their younger brother was at the 30th anniversary of Morgoth's defeat, when a large festival was arranged on Ardgalen, in the shadow of formerly Thangorodrim, and in sightline of Barad Eithel and Dorthonion.
"Ah..." He felt something cold around his heart when spotting one of the members of his brother's train. Dressed in white and gold, his fourth son wore a beautifully woven headwrap, hiding his black hair completely. Painful, but understandable that he might want to distance himself from the father that had started this mess.
"Father." Caranthir softly greeted him, hands hidden in the luxurious sleeves of his robes.
"Caranthir?" He had not heard that his son had chosen a different name by now.
"Yes." He inclined his head some, as in the distance Finarfin formally greeted Fingolfin. "Are you well?" He was terribly formal, but at least they were talking.
"I am. And I am relieved you seem to have recovered well." Fëanor whispered, his hand itching to reach for his child.
"I have, thank you."
"Would... would you be willing to have dinner together some time this week? With the rest of the family?"
"I... am."