It may seem hard to believe, but I have spent 3 years writing this story. I can bookmark events over these years by looking at how my writing changes throughout the story (Me: I just talk for a page about civil responsibility, I guess that was the start of covid). In all seriousness, the premise of time travel may seem strange amongst the more common elements, but I hope that I did justice to the moral complexity that was the Fëanorions and also the idea of a society in which people could see the future. Please leave reviews: they help me write things that aren't philosophical garbage :) (Also, I have an account on Ao3, Fire_the_blood_of_ordinary_men, where I post other things, like my dark humor Star Wars series, so go if you like my work)
The elven lady set aside her work with a sigh. She stretched her fingers, extending them one by one. It was almost complete, it being a beautiful tapestry of the house of Olwё. There was a great professional satisfaction that came from knowing that the royal family of the Teleri would travel to Tirion for her work.
"Good morning." She jumped as Artanis appeared behind her. The Arafinwiel looked in awe at the tapestry. "Your work is incredible. It looks as if Grandfather is right there."
"Thank you," The elleth responded with a smile. Artanis beamed back but her smile faded.
"Your fame has spread," Artanis said, her mood suddenly gloomy. The weaver looked confused. "Not like that is inherently bad, except for the fact that Fёanáro has heard of you."
The other's confusion only deepened. "Why is that bad? He has great respect for all craftsmen, the same as all Noldor."
Artanis shook her head. "He dislikes any weavers who create tapestries. They remind him too much of his mother. Soon he will begin to send his sons to scare you away. No one has been able to resist before."
"I will not flee." Artanis looked up in surprise. The weaver rose to her feet, her hair golden-red in the light of Laurelin. "I fear no one, not even your uncle."
The Arafinwiel met her friend's gaze. "I fear that you will stand alone," She whispered, before looking out the window and gasping. "One of my cousins approaches," Artanis said, "I must take my leave. Our family has enough problems without my involvement in this."
"Don't worry about it," The weaver responded. She looked on in amusement as Artanis climbed out a window and jumped a fence. So distracted was she by her friend's frantic escape that she did not hear the Fëanorion enter the room.
"You are the weaver, Culwen?" She spun around at the sound. He stood there, a petite ellon with a rather angular face.
Culwen gave a graceful bow. "I am, my lord." They both looked cautiously at each other. "What is your name?"
"I am Curufinwë," He responded hesitantly, "My father says—'' Curufinwë broke off as if obeying some unwanted impulse, his gaze full with curiosity as he met her eyes. "Is it true that you are from the future?"
She let out a wry smile. "Fantastical, isn't it? I don't understand it at all, myself. In the span of a moment, long bygone eras became the contemporary and the modern became the distant future."
"Is it hard?" He asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "I would think that the future would be very different from the present. Was it hard to adjust?"
Culwen shrugged. "Yes, and no. My mother was a great historian in her time, so I know every important event," Her voice softened, "She was extraordinary. She had the Sight, not for the future, or to See through illusions, but to See the past. Her tapestries depicted events and people from the past, many of which she had never seen."
"Incredible!" Culwen smiled at Curufinwë's exclamation. "Did she teach you how to do such amazing work? Do you have the Sight? What does your father . . . " He was interrupted by a distant cry.
"They are looking for you." Culwen observed. "You should go. Come back anytime, Curufinwë."
He smiled at her. "Call me Curvo."
She had never been an overly religious person, never prone to prayer, praise, and supplication. Manwё had frowned at her, when he came to see the strange elleth from the future, but some of the other Ainur had smiled when he did not see. It was a common thing in her time, after so much pain and suffering occurred. The Valar may have been gods by virtue of their power, but a god is defined not only by their power, but by the will of the people.
Still, there were some Ainur that she respected, for they had in previous days (in days yet to come) proven themselves to the Quendi; Manwё was not one of these. She did not have the absolute faith of the Vanyar, their blind belief in the goodness of the Balar, but that did not mean that she did not pay homage to those who were worthy of her reverence.
The Vanyar would be horrified, she thought with amusement, at the list. Those such as Tulkas and Varda were excluded, while some Maiar were included: Mithrandir and Radagast among them for their great deeds in the second and third ages. Most relevant for her current train of thought, however, was her respect for the Court of the Valar, which surpassed her respect for many of the Valar.
It may seem strange to anyone else that she would hold such reverence for even the Lamesquen, who had, no, who will hunt her future husband's family to their doom, but one cannot say that there was no justice in it. Or, that there will be no justice in it. She put her hand to her head. "Grammatical tenses are confusing." She said with a groan.
"An odd thing to say, I think." Culwen jumped at the unfamiliar voice from behind. She spun around to see an ellon standing behind her; his clothes embroidered with red thread, his hair strewn with jewels, and his face unreadable. He tipped his head. "I admit that some grammatical rules may be complicated or obscure, but sacred grounds hardly seem like the place to contemplate them."
"It is common enough, I believe, for one's thoughts to turn to their youth during rituals or traditions," She countered, "As for me, thoughts of my youth are complicated. Time travel has a way of doing that." A pause. "You are Fёanáro, correct?"
He nodded. "You are as clever as Artanis claimed. I do not think you are old enough to be called wise, but none can deny your brilliance."
"Flattery," She said, "I am honored to receive such a compliment from one such as you, though I am uncertain as to its aim. You would not approach me without some motive, for better or for worse. What could you possibly want from me?"
"It is my curiosity that drives me this day," He responded, "Although for good or bad I cannot say. I have heard much about the mysterious elleth from a future so far away that it seems unimaginable. There are even some," He told her, raising an eyebrow, "Who claim that your skill in weaving rivals even my mother."
"And so you have driven away all those before me." She mused. "It will be good, I think, for art and culture, to have new tapestries being made. A different artist for a different time; a persevering way to show the cultural shifts of the Noldor. And in truth, I do not believe you really care. It would bother you more if someone boasted to have bested Elemmírë, rather than Míriel.
He gave a startled laugh. "I was right about your intelligence. My only critique is that no food would claim to surpass Elemmírë, not unless they wanted to be utterly humiliated."
"Fair enough." She said, amusement filling her voice. "As for that, I have only excelled at the technical side of Singing, in all other parts I remain painfully average."
"That goes for me too." He smiled, his countenance lighter now that there was no one to intimidate. "Out of all of Elemmírë's not sons, it is said that only Daeron has her talent. I am glad that Cáno has learnt so much from her teachings, so that if something happens then her skill will not be lost to the Noldor forever."
"Indeed," Culwen commented, "Although I do not wish to see that which would take out a minstrel of her power. It would probably wipe out the rest of us as well."
He nodded. "A good point. Perhaps I will stop by your place when I am in the mood for some philosophy. I have been lacking a fellow interlocutor since Rúmil was banished."
"It would be a pleasure." She said, before looking at the flowers in her hand. "Ah, I suppose I came here for a reason, didn't I. Sacred grounds and all." She looked at him. "What brings you here? You never seemed to be particularly religious to me."
He shrugged. "Habit, I suppose. It pleases my father and doesn't take too much of my time, so I come occasionally. Some of the Valar have been kind to me, so I stand here and thank them for their kindness. It never makes sense to me, since here on Valinor we can just go and thank them in person.
"That was never a problem, before," She said with a scoff, "Although it was cathartic to yell things at the Valar, even if they were not listening."
"Yelling is always stress-relieving, but you must have caution to ensure that no one else is nearby. I have made that mistake on a few occasions." Culwen let out a startled laugh at his words. He looked at her thoughtfully. "I wonder what sort of horrors await me in the future, that you look at my kindness with such surprise."
"I–"
"Do not bother denying it. Whatever evils haunt me in the future will be my own doing."
She hesitated. "History is kind to only a few."
"That cannot explain everything." He sighed. "Still, you are kind, although you are not as subtle as you try to be. If all were as thoughtful as you, I think that the world would be a better place. I know I would be better myself, for are we not reflections of those who are in our vicinity. We are like still water; merely reflections of that which we see."
"That may be true," She said, "But we are also individuals. Sometimes the still pool reflects not what is outside, but rather what is within. It is the privilege of each of us to choose what version the world sees."
He raised an eyebrow. "That is easy enough to say, but very hard to achieve in practice."
"That is also true."
"Do you know what becomes of you, in the end?" He asked, hesitant even as curiosity filled his voice.
She looked away. "My mother sought to keep the truth from me, but she could not control the wills of others. I had a cousin, close in age to me, who was honest and either cruel or kind. I asked her, and she told me." Her voice softened. "History said that Culwen, Curufinwë's wife, went mad, driven to despair by the knowledge of what she did not do."
He put a comforting arm on her shoulder. "Let us pray here, in this time, for an uncertain future. Do what you can, daughter, and stay strong. We can do nothing more than we are able."
"And pray to Beya that there will be justice in our lives. Perhaps he will listen, today." She said.
Curvo and Culwen sprawled together on the grass. "It has been just over a year since we met." Curvo announced.
"Already?" Culwen responded, laughing. "It seems like it has only been a few months, or that it has been forever. A childhood spent learning about the past did not prepare me for being in love."
The ellon turned to face her. "You never answered my questions," He said teasingly, "The ones from when we first met."
"What were they?" She asked.
He leaned back down next to her. "Did your mother teach you how to weave such amazing work? Can you See the past like your mother? What does your father do?"
"My mother taught me everything that I know about weaving," Culwen said, "But I do not have her Sight. I do have a different kind of Sight: I can See what is. I cannot be swayed by illusions or fair words. What about you? Do you have the Sight?"
"I can See the future to some degree," Curvo said quietly, "But mostly just bits and pieces of what is to come. I wish I could not. I feel that there is only darkness in the future."
Culwen sighed. "I fear that you are right. Perhaps we should stop this now, before our love gets corrupted in the pain and death that is to come."
"No!" They both winced at the sharpness in his voice. "Sorry," He said, lowering his voice, "But that isn't the right thing to do. We should not abandon all hope now, in fear of things that will be."
"Even a moment of happiness makes everything worth it," Culwen mused, "It seems strange, perhaps, for a prince of the Noldor to marry a stranger from the future. Would you be willing to withstand the gossiping of the people?"
Curvo smiled. "I do not fear the thoughts of others." He held out a beautiful ring to her. It was an astonishing creation, gems embedded in the delicate silver ring.
Culwen gasped. "That is beautiful. Did you make that?"
"I did." He took a deep breath, "Culwen, I love you. Whatever the future may bring, I would rather face it with you by my side. Will you marry me?"
She hesitated for a moment, remembering all that would happen because of her choice. Then she looked at him. "I love you, enough to disregard my fear."
He beamed and pulled her into an affectionate hug. "I swear I will always love you," He whispered, "No matter what may happen."
"That is such a sweet sentiment." The couple jumped apart as the interloper spoke. He was an ellon with blond hair, a bow strung over his shoulder, and a huge dog at his heels.
"Turko," Curvo began.
Turkafinwë smiled grimly at his younger brother. "Let's see what father thinks of this." He said, before stalking off, followed by Huan.
Curvo paled. "You'll meet my family next," He promised, "Before they start hunting you down."
Culwen walked down the lane. Sure enough, she had been invited to Fëanáro and Nerdanel's house for dinner that evening. She had spent most of the afternoon anxiously awaiting the event. Fёanáro, known as Fёanor in her time, and his sons were infamous. Even though she had already met him, she could not remove her anxieties about a more formal relationship.
Just before knocking on the door, she hesitated, overcome by sudden doubt. "Do I dare," She muttered, "Share the fate of the house of Fёanor . They may have been redeemed before my time, but does that really absolve them of their crimes and the punishment? My own death is harsh. If I make a different choice now, could I prevent it all?"
"Do not fear now, Culwen." She jolted as an elleth appeared behind her. The weaver winced at the intensity of the elleth's gaze.
"You are Aelinelen." Culwen stammered, looking at the stone basin in Aelinelen's hands. "What are you doing here? Manwё banned you from being near Finwё."
"He will not come tonight," Aelinelen said, "For Indis and I are old friends and she will prevent him from coming. Why do you hesitate now? You already know that Fёanáro will not prevent your marriage, for he loves his sons more than stories of his mother."
Culwen frowned. "I know well the history of the first age, of the kinslayings and the death of Finrod. How can I just watch and change nothing?"
Aelinelen gave a sad smile. "We all have our part to play. Perhaps fate is predetermined, or perhaps you have only heard of one possibility. If you change what you do, then you might make things better, or things might get worse."
The weaver sighed. "Your words are accurate," She said, "And akin to what I have heard before. I will follow my heart and be with my love."
"I wish I had done that," Aelinelen said, "If I had stayed with my husband, if I had not crossed the traitorous sea, then perhaps things would have been different."
"If not for the curse on the house of Finwё," Culwen responded with a smile, "Then I would not have been born. All things have good results in the end, however hard it is to see at first."
Aelinelen returned the smile. "Then your choices will also be used for good."
The door suddenly swung open, revealing an irritated ellon. "Are you going to linger on our doorstep all night or are you going to come in?" He said, exasperation clear in his voice. Aelinelen only smiled at him.
"Don't be rash, Fёanáro, She said, "That could get you in trouble one day."
Fёanáro, as she had already known, fully supported their relationship. Nerdanel had been delighted by the thought of another daughter-in-law, in addition to Alatatir. Only one person was angry about the engagement.
"Hey!" Culwen gritted her teeth at the voice. Curvo sighed as his brother approached.
"Will you stop it, Turko?" Curvo hissed. "My fiancée is none of your concern. Please, just stop bothering her."
Turkafinwë frowned. "She is not worthy of the house of Finwё." His frown deepened into a scowl as Culwen started laughing. "What is so funny?"
"That is not your choice." She said, amused by his rage. "You feel that worth is measured by great deeds and skill. If my weaving does not impress you, then perhaps my archery will."
The hunter raised a doubting eyebrow. "You, an archer? Don't be ridiculous."
"So, you are afraid of being bested by me?" Culwen replied. Turkafinwë didn't respond, instead glaring at his future sister-in-law. "Then come, let us have an archery contest. One arrow, the best shot wins."
"Very well, Turkafinwë said. "If you wish to lose to me, then I will not prevent it. Should we start now?"
Culwen only smirked in response, before heading to the archery range. They soon arrived, acquiring a crowd on the way. No one expected the slender elleth to win, but their speculations only served to widen her smile.
"Don't worry." She whispered to an anxious Curvo. "My father and uncles started teaching me archery as soon as I could walk. I am sure to win this."
Curvo frowned. "His anger will not lessen with this contest. My heart tells me that this conflict will cause problems later. I do not wish to choose between my wife and brother."
"I cannot help with that." Culwen replied, grief in her voice. "I can only advise; I cannot choose for you."
"Let's worry about that later." Curvo said, as they reached the archery range. "For now, you need to beat a follower of Oromё at archery."
"That's the easy part."
Turkafinwë laughed as she brought out her bow. In fairness, it did look ridiculous; a longbow that was slightly taller than her. "How can you expect to aim using that monstrosity?" The ellon scoffed.
Everyone watched as he aimed, shot, and barely missed the center of the target. He turned to face her. "Even with a poor shot like that, you still won't win this." Turkafinwë said, with his voice filled with pride.
Culwen ignored him, instead carefully raising her bow. For a shot at a stationary target it hovered over the ground, with one arm at the top and a leg at the bottom to stabilize it. The last hand carefully placed the arrow, which was thicker than a usual arrow, and drew that string back.
"This whole thing is ridiculous," Turkafinwë told her, "And you are no archer if you think a bow like that would work."
"You are a fool." She said. The arrow flew true, passing through the target with great force, dead center. Culwen turned to face a shocked Turkafinwë. "I won. In the future, remember this day. I use this bow as a challenge, not because I am foolish."