Fanfic The Soul's Orb

[Tyelkormo the Fair]

Prologue: Friend of Fortune​

The night is dark, and the Sun is about to rise.



In the gloom, a flicker of white. A moth alights upon a tall stone.

Its round black eyes shine, reflecting some unseen light.



Beneath the whisper of the wind, a voice disturbs the silence.



Greetings, friend.



Though her mouth is invisible, her dark eye twinkles all the more with some hidden knowledge.



You have come to me for a story?



Well. I think I have just the one for you.



It is the story of an Elf with two bodies. Two lives, two families. Two fates… that collide. None know his story but he and I… and perhaps Mandos, the keeper of souls and speaker of dooms.



And now… you.



Ears open? Eyes listening? Good.



Let us go back long ago, long before the Sun’s first rising. To the time of the Trees in Valinor, where the hand of Fëanor created the very stone that entangled our Elf’s fate.



The Soul’s Orb.






(Let us know what you think in the discussion thread, where you can also find the chapter's guide for easier access.)

 

[Tyelkormo the Fair]

Chapter 1: Unseen Stranger
​

Tyelkormo yawned for the hundredth time since he had set foot in his father’s forge for his weekly smithery lessons, trying not to fall asleep again.

It was a hard thing to do, especially if you were not Curvo, who would prefer to spend his bedtime here as well, or if you had a stubborn father called Fëanáro who could not or would not take no for an answer.

So there he sat on a stool, feeling bored out of his mind, listening half-heartedly to his father as he excitedly explained something to him he had little to no idea about.
Something about the correct temperature needed to melt iron or something along that line. Tyelkormo had stopped focusing once he had heard the excited barks of Huan as he had forced Maitimo out of the house to play.

He scowled, rolling his shoulders as they started cramping and dropped his chin on the table as he leaned against it.
Fëanáro, used to his habits by now, reached out a hand and pulled him by his collar so he was sitting properly again, his eyes still on the book he was holding.
Tyelkormo pouted even more but fixed his posture.
Fëanáro, seeing he was behaving, let go of his tunic and went back to his teaching.
But, as expected, the peace did not last longer than five minutes and Tyelkormo was back to squirming in his place again. Fëanáro sighed in frustration.

“All of Tirion would kill to be in your place right now, Turco, with me as your father and Nerdanel as your mother. I do not share my craft with just anyone, son. But you’d rather waste your time here instead of learning something from this. Even Curufinwë has surpassed you in smithery and he is still in his twenties, just an elfling. If you continue on like this, you’ll never learn beyond the basics.”

His father’s tone was chiding and full of disappointment, but had little to no effect on him. He’d heard them a thousand times already, after all, and had come to the realization that ignoring them and acting apologetic was his best and fastest option to get out of there.

He looked down as his father ranted about missed opportunities and such, hiding his eye roll, and only looked up once Fëanáro had finished speaking, trying to look ashamed, even if a little.

Fëanáro sighed but did not push further, putting the book down on the table, wordlessly announcing the end of that day’s lessons.
Tyelkormo tried not to look too happy as he was dismissed, but he doubted if he had any success.

He slid down the stool, picking up his book, and was ready to speed walk out of there before his eyes fell on a small, light gray orb, sitting innocently on his father’s work table.

He stopped on his tracks, mesmerized by the way it reflected the light of Laurelin. He swore he could see a soft mist twirl inside it slowly.
It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

Must have been a new project, then. And an unfinished one at that. Otherwise, his father would have told them by now.

He went towards it and picked it up. It felt cold. Colder than any stone should be, like the chill of a late winter morning of Formenos.
“Pretty …”
He muttered, catching the attention of Fëanáro who was leaning against the table next to him, peering over a scroll.

He looked over at his son, raising an eyebrow. He had expected him to be gone by now, so seeing him still there, and more importantly, curious about one of his works was a pleasant surprise for him.
“Do you like it?”

Tyelkormo looked up at his father, suddenly remembering where he was, before he nodded, eyes falling back to the orb he was holding in his hands.

“What is it?” he asked, and Fëanáro's lips curved up a little.

“That is a failed attempt of what I’m trying to achieve here, but it is supposed to be something of importance, once I’ve made one that actually works.”

“And what is it going to do?”

Fëanáro came and stood next to him, a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to see him eye to eye.

“It connects souls. That’s the idea of it. You’ll need a pair of them for it to work, of course. Imagine the times you are away with Oromë; if you have one of these with you, you can talk with us whenever you want. Exciting, isn't it?”

Tyelkormo nodded, smiling at the idea.
It was exciting. He loved hunting and learning from his Vala, but the cons of it was not being able to see his parents and brothers for long periods of time.

Having one of these with him would solve all of his problems.
Even though this one did not work, it was still pretty to look at and for some reason, the thought of leaving this here made his heart heavy.

He looked up at his father, who had been watching with him a fond expression.

“You said this one was a failed project, meaning that it is to no use to you, right?”

His father nodded and he continued.
“So …can I keep it if you don’t want it anymore?”

His tone was pleading, and even though his request had left Fëanáro a bit confused, he had no reason to deny him.

“You can. But why do you want it?”
Tyelkormo shrugged, not knowing the answer of this question either.

“I just… think it’s pretty.”
Fëanáro looked at the gray orb, expression thoughtful.
“I suppose so…”

He said and went back to the scroll he was busy with, dismissing Tyelkormo without a word.
Tyelkormo was unfazed by what others would think to be cold indifference, being used to this by now. He knew his father well enough to not be offended by this.

Still looking at the object in his hands, he exited the forge silently, making a beeline toward his room once he entered their house.
Huan was still out, so he was alone in the silence of his room.

It was a curious thing, this failed project of his father, and not just because of the purpose he had in mind for it.
He shook it a little, disappointed to not see the mist twirl faster than it was before.
He dropped it on his bed, jumping on it himself not long after.

Maybe it was just what he thought it was, a pretty trinket.
It suited the royal green aesthetics of his room, which was a bonus at least.
It would look good on his desk, he just had to make a wooden stand for it, which wasn’t hard at all.
He lay there, glancing at the orb every once in a while.

“I wish what you are showing me was real…”

Tyelkormo almost fell off his bed, hearing the stranger’s voice.
He looked around, but found nothing.

His heart was beating fast and a cold sweat ran down his back. Was it… was it a prank? Was this Laurë pranking him? But it was not his brother's voice. It sounded deeper than his. And sad. So so sad.

“He-hello?”
He was not sure who he was addressing there. He must have been hallucinating. That was the only explanation for it. Or it was Laurë after all, having made his voice sound different somehow.

"K-kano? This isn't funny!"
He tried to sound angry but his voice only shook because of the fear he was feeling.
There came the sound of a gasp and he heard it once more.

"Who are you?"
The strange man's voice sounded cold and threatening now. Dangerous.

"I… this is my room. Who… who are you?"
Some of his courage restored, he shot back at the stranger.

"How do you know my brother?"
His head cleared from the earlier panic, he followed the direction the voice was coming from and his eye fell on the innocent looking trinket, discarded on his bed.

But… but father said it did not work. How? And who was this stranger who had access to the other orb? Had he stolen it?

"Who is your brother? I don't know him…"
He said softly, noticing the slight hint of nervousness in the man's voice when he spoke of his brother. He sounded worried.

He took small steps towards his bed and sat on it, a little less on edge now that he knew no one was there with him.

"Don't lie. You just said his name."
The stranger hissed venomously, and Tyelkormo tried not to let it affect him. His trembling hands told a different story.

And …had he said his name? He thought back to the words he had spoken in the last few minutes. The only person he had called out to was his own brother. Could this man's brother have a similar name to Makalaurë?

"I was calling out to my own brother. I don't know who you are or who your brother is."

Tyelkormo tried to sound calm, but he was not sure just how successful he was.

He reached out to the orb with his hands. He would have to return this to his father and not speak of it again. He would get rid of this as no one wanted it anymore, and the stranger could spy on him no longer.
But just as his hands touched it, a sharp pain shot through his head and he fell down on the bed, hands still holding on to it.
The last thing he heard was a gut-wrenching scream before everything went dark.






(Let us know what you think in the discussion thread, where you can also find the chapter's guide for easier access.)

 

[Tyelkormo the Fair]

Chapter 2: The Fading Moon
​

Tyelkormo woke up to a pounding headache, unable to open his eyes yet.

He could not remember where he was, or what he had been doing that had ended up with him being in such agony. All he remembered and cared about was to be relieved of his pain.

He whimpered pitifully, his hand trembling as he massaged the spot on his head where it hurt the most.
His eyes shot open once he felt his fingers touching something wet.
His eyes fell on the spot he had been lying on, and he could see spots of dried blood where his head had been resting.
Did he have a concussion? That explained the splitting headache and the nausea.
Shaking and in pain, he pulled himself to a sitting position, trying not to get sick all the while.

What… what had happened? Why was he hurt? And why was he still on the ground?

Had anyone noticed him getting hurt?
It must not have been long, then, since he had fallen here, unconscious. Otherwise someone, either his mother or his eldest brother, would have noticed his absence and would have come after him.
Still, none of this answered why he had fallen in the first place. He shook his head, regretting it immediately and tried not to empty the contents of his stomach there on his carpet.

His carpet. Where was his carpet?
He suddenly realized he was sitting on the cold stone of the ground, not his own comfortable carpet where Huan liked to lay on.

Huan… where was Huan?
He remembered then. His dog had been out, playing with his eldest brother and… and he himself had been with his father for his weekly smithing lessons.
He looked around, looking for his window, trying to figure out what time of the day it was.
But what he saw only confused him more and brought fear to his heart.

This was not his room. Or any other room in their house. The walls were made of a cheap, dark gray stone instead of the white marble found in every corner of Tirion.
Although… the room looked familiar. It screamed Tyelkormo. From the fur blanket on the bed to the dark green sheets and curtains. It looked like his room, but it was not his. Because it was not their house.
And it was not in Tirion, he realized.
For the silver light pouring inside the room from his window was far too faint to be of one anywhere near the White city.
Were they in Formenos? That… that was the only explanation.
But what about Huan and Maitimo? Had he dreamt those? And if it was night time already, why had nobody come after him?

Had… had he rolled off his bed in his sleep again? That was the most likely scenario. He had never got a concussion from this sleeping habit of his, but there were first times for everything.
He scolded himself mentally, trying to get to his feet so he could get out and ask someone to help him with his head wound. It was not bleeding anymore but he still needed to clean and bandage it.

His pain had lessened and his head was clearer than it had been since he had woken up, but standing was a whole ordeal of its own.
He had managed to get to his knees, his hands on the ground to support himself.

His hands. Those were not his hands.

He slid and fell in shock, groaning as his chin hit the ground.

He would have cried out in pain again, if he was not so afraid of making another sound.
That was not his voice. It was not the voice of someone his age, at all. Deeper than the voice of an adolescent Makalaurë, it was the voice of a full grown Elda, not an Elfling’s.
He trembled as he glanced at himself, not being able to believe what he was seeing.
What was happening?
He looked around the room again, unable to spot anything similar to a mirror.
He always had mirrors in his room. His birds loved playing with it.
This was not his room. This was not his body. This… this…
He scrambled to his feet, the fatigue replaced by the adrenaline caused by his terror, and he bolted out of the room.
He had to find his brother. He had to find Maitimo, or mother, or even father. They’d know how to fix this, whatever it was.

===

Maedhros rubbed the corners of his eyes, thoroughly exhausted. He could not remember the last time he had slept beyond passing out on his chair, spent.
But he could not. Not that he did not want to. It did not let him. It pulled at the strings of his heart, filled his mind until he could do nothing but chant their name over and over, forgetting where he was and even his own existence until something, usually the voice of his little brothers called him back to reality.
And it did not help how one of them was so close to him, he could almost reach out and grasp it in his own hands.
The sympathetic look in his brothers’ eyes told him they felt the same way.
Celegorm, though, did not even try to hide it. His brother visited him more and more often these days, catching him alone in his study, whispering in his ears about the great opportunities they had, now that she was gone.
And he knew it. By Eru, he had thought of it himself long before either Celegorm or Curufin could realize this.
But was it worth it? They could not afford a full on confrontation now. Not when they were at their lowest.

But so are they…

A treacherous part of his mind replied, messing with his head again and again.
He sighed, leaning back against his chair, trying to forget. Trying to breathe.
Maybe taking a walk outside could help him. He had been confined in this room for far too long, the air of it was stifling his breath.
He stood up, cracking the joints of his neck as he did, and began making his way out of the room.
He was already feeling better, his mind less like a raging sea full of what ifs and the outcomes of his decisions.
His good mood only lasted long enough for a body to collide with his own.
He was thrown to the ground, with the other Elda falling on him.
His breath was knocked out of his lungs, and the other man groaned, revealing his identity.
He mentally cursed his brother and his still childish antics before he tried to sit up, already used to the dead weight who had no plan to move any time soon, if he had any say in it.
“Celegorm… aren’t you a bit old for these kinds of pranks?”
But his brother was not listening, a hand placed on his head. On the wound on his head, to be precise.
“What have you done again? Why are you hurt?”
He had been home, as far as Maedhros was aware. How he had gotten hurt inside their stronghold, Eru only knew.
Finally able to look up and look at him, he saw his brother’s eyes widen and to his alarm, he started tearing up.
He reached out a hand, his touch hesitant and his hands trembling as he traced along the scar on his left cheek, his tears finally falling.
Maedhros had stopped feeling self-aware of his scars a long time ago. They were a part of him. They were what made Maedhros Maedhros, the warlord all the minions of Morgoth feared.
But for some reason, the look in his brother’s eyes made him want to hide away in a corner, never to see the light of the day.
Maedhros could see pure agony in there when Celegorm looked at him. As if the idea of it was breaking his heart over and over again.

“What has happened to you Timo?”
Celegorm’s voice was impossibly small when he called him with his favorite nickname from their childhood, and he felt the sudden urge to hold him like he used to when his brother was just an Elfling.

Finally finding his voice, Maedhros asked.
“What do you mean, brother?”
What did he mean? Had he forgotten? Was this a prank? He scolded himself mentally. Even Celegorm wasn’t so cruel to make jokes with something as serious as his scars and missing hand.

His missing hand, which Celegorm seemed to have noticed just then, if the quiet sob he let out was a sign of it.
Maedhros had tried to wipe away his brother’s tears out of habit, but with his left hand still caught under Celegorm’s weight, he had reached out with his right, forgetting for a moment there was nothing there.
This time, Maedhros did not hesitate and embraced his brother as he began crying in earnest, trembling and shaking.
He freed his left hand and held Celegorm’s head close to his chest, stroking his hair, his whispered comfort falling to deaf ears.
He did not know what was the cause of his brother’s strange behavior, nor could he care at that moment. He had to help him calm down if he wanted any answers.

Celegorm was full-on panicking by then, and his weeping was getting louder and louder, attracting their brothers' attention too.
Caranthir burst out of his room in his sleeping robes, looking frantic.
His eyes fell on them and widened, seeing the two of them in that state.
Maedhros could only shake his head, at a loss himself.
Soon, the rest of their brothers joined them, all either dressed in a thin robe similar to Caranthir, or just a pair of pants, having gotten out of their room in a hurry.
Someone dropped in front of him. Maedhros finally looked up from the hysteric figure of Celegorm, and found Curufin there.



Curufin knelt down, his face expressionless as he took stock of what he was seeing. Without touching his brother just yet, he examined the face leaning against Maedhros’ chest.
The dried blood drew his eye first. A wound to his head. The beginnings of a bruise, implying the cause was something blunt, not edged. Had he fallen? Or… become unaware of his surroundings?
Eyes, not merely half-closed from the swelling of tears, but squeezed tight shut. As though there was something he did not wish to see.
And this state of abandon, of being utterly lost in whatever had shaken him so; it was akin to grief or terror. These entangled the very soul, strung it along helpless under their influence.
All this spoke to Curufin of foresight. A vision of some kind. He had long suspected his brother of being prone to such things, though Celegorm had never made mention of it. But with the heavy and relentless spur of the Oath in their minds, wearing their souls down day by day, he could imagine even his powerful brother being brought low by a bout of dreadful foresight.

Curufin sighed, the metallic light of his eyes softening somewhat. He shuffled closer and laid a gentle hand upon Celegorm’s shoulder. “Tyelkormo… what is it you saw? Did you have a dream of some kind?”
Feeling the scrutiny of his eldest brother’s gaze, Curufin glanced up at Maedhros briefly, then returned his attention to Celegorm, rubbing his shoulder as he waited for a response. “Just wait,” murmured Curufin. “He’ll be alright.” Though privately, he had misgivings.



Curufin’s voice seemed to have some effect on Celegorm, for his shoulders relaxed, if only a little, and then, he raised his head, looking for the source of it.
Once his eyes fell on Curufin, light returned to them and his face brightened just a little.
“Atar?”
Everyone stilled and looked at Celegorm with shock and fear written across their faces.
Maedhros’ heart sank. What on Arda was wrong with their brother?

Curufin faltered for a moment, before automatically correcting him. His own voice sounded hollow in his ears. “Not Atar… Atarinkë. Curvo.”
Celegorm’s eyes were open, and Curufin searched them, as his brother’s expression slowly turned to one of confusion, with an edge of panic.
Had he lost his mind? Whoever was looking at him through those eyes was not the Celegorm he knew. And yet, it really couldn’t be anyone else. There was something achingly familiar about his demeanour, yet it… it made no sense at all.
Curufin was finding it harder and harder to keep his thoughts straight. He should be re-evaluating the situation, thinking of other possible causes for this, but… his brother’s petrification was worming its way into his heart also. Curufin cursed under his breath. Why did they have to be so close to each other, he couldn’t help if his mind was going to cloud over like this.
He could not keep the slight tremor from his voice, as he senselessly asked his helpless brother for the answer to this puzzle. “Please, Tyelko. Tell me what’s going on.” Curufin swallowed and bit his lip, angered. He would have to think on it again in the morning, if Celegorm’s spell had not passed by then.



(Let us know what you think in the discussion thread, where you can also find the chapter's guide for easier access.)

 

[Tyelkormo the Fair]

Chapter 3: Transportation

​

Celegorm woke up, and he was more comfortable than he had been in a long time. He was lying on a soft surface, the fabric of it smooth like silk, the likes of which he had been deprived of since leaving Aman.
He did not want to get up. If it was up to him, he would have lain there for an eternity.
But the light of the morning was pouring in, lighting up the whole room and even if he wanted now, he could not go back to sleep.
It was morning. And they were in the middle of a war. No man was allowed to sleep in and slack, least of all he, who was a lord of their people.
The sun was up, and so should he be.
Ignoring the urge to stay where he was, he tried to open his eyes and get up.
His limbs, though, felt like mush. His eyelids were heavy, and not just due to sleep.
His body felt weak like it had never before, and moving felt like too much work.
He made a noise of frustration at the back of his throat. His voice felt like it had not been used in a long time and sounded scratchy.

There was a gasp from a strange but familiar voice and Celegorm could see shadows of people moving behind his closed eyes.
There was a hand on his forehead and then, the sound of a beloved voice called him. He felt like weeping.
“My prince? Can you hear me? Tyelkormo?”
Sídhel was calling him. Sídhel, who was like a second mother to him, to them all. Sídhel, who had been burned by the fiery breath of the dragon years ago, lost to him, buried under the crumbles of what was the stronghold of Himlad.
The Valar were cruel. Why did they let him dream of her, but did not allow him to see her? To speak with her? His tongue felt like a pebble in his mouth, making him unable to utter a single word.
So he did the only thing he could do, and wept. His tears fell, wetting his cheeks.
Gentle hands stroked his cheeks, her tone tinged with worry as she called his name over and over again.
He longed to answer her, but he could not. And so he cursed Irmo, Námo and other names he could remember for that was all he could do.
“Why… why is he crying, Sívenettë? Is he in pain?”
A childish voice spoke, sounding nervous.
“I’m not sure, Carnistir. He does not answer me. Can you go get your mother or your brother? Maybe they can help him.”
There was the sound of the footsteps of small feet hitting the ground, and Carnistir was gone.
Carnistir. Caranthir. The voice belonged to his first ever baby brother, he remembered now. Little Carnistir’s memories had long given its place to Caranthir, the bitter and rageful lord of Thargelion, who only met with people when he could gain something out of it.
His little brother had been gone for quite a few centuries, and Celegorm’s mind had only found it logical to store away the sweet memories of their childhood. They were no longer needed, after all.
What was the point of this? To show him what he had lost? Was this Lúthien, torturing him from the afterlife?
Whoever it was, they were succeeding.
The thought of her brought back the old fury in his heart. So he relied on the anger like he always did and it did not disappoint him. It never did.
It gave strength to his treacherous limbs and warmth to his frozen hands, and he finally opened his eyes, if only a little. The Golden light of the sun did not allow him more than that, no matter how angry he was.
Sídhel was there by his side, the sight of her enough to make him sob. The last he remembered of her was her body burned to the bone, her throat cut by the cruel hands of the orcs. It was hard to forget that image, even if she was more than alive in his dream.
She was holding a cup of what seemed to be water in her hand, making him realize just how thirsty he was. Could he get thirsty in a dream? He cared little at that moment.
She pulled him up with little effort, considering how much bigger he was compared to her, helping him drink without choking.
The water soothed the dryness of his throat, making him wonder if he could talk then. He had to try.
“Sí… Sídhel…”
It still sounded scratchy and weak. And… and child-like. Not his own. This had not been his voice for a long time. Too detailed. This dream was too detailed.
Sídhel seemed confused, though, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Who are you calling my boy? It’s just me, Sívenettë.”
Celegorm continued. He had to tell her, even if it was just a dream.
“I-I’m sorry…”
This did not help Sídhel, who appeared to be worried now too.
“I can’t understand you…”
She settled him back on his pillow, a hand on his forehead.
“But you don’t have a fever…”
She looked helpless for some reason, and Celegorm only knew it was his fault.
“I’m sorry…”
He repeated, but it only made her more distressed.
At that moment, two pairs of footsteps were heard, but Celegorm, still lying on the bed and unable to move, could not identify them until they spoke.
“Couldn’t… find… Ammë…”
“What is it, Sívenettë?”
The first voice belonged to little Caranthir.
The second… he hated the second. He loved him, he missed him, and he hated himself more for this.
He hated that the last words he heard from him was him sealing their fate, cursing them to void and the darkness beyond that.
He loved Fëanor, and he hated that even now, he longed for his comfort.
“I’m not sure, my prince. He woke up and started crying as he heard my voice, and he keeps… saying words I don't understand. I thought he might be delirious, but he doesn’t have a fever either. You are more than knowledgeable when it comes to languages. Maybe you can understand him.”
Sídhel’s concerned voice drifted and Celegorm could see Fëanor nearing him, concern hidden behind his indifferent gaze.
He hated how he still could notice this after centuries.
“Turco…”
“No…”
“Son…”
“Don’t call me that…”
Fëanor frowned, face tensing up in worry.
“It’s not similar to anything I’ve studied, but it sounds like Quenya, but a bit primitive. As you have guessed, he must be delirious.”
He sat down by the edge of the bed, reaching out a hand to touch his forehead.

And it burned. It burned him to the bone. Scorched his flesh like nothing had done so before.
Celegorm screamed.

***​

Curvo had crept into the forge after Tyelko had vacated it, intending to observe his father at work. Fëanáro always pretended not to notice, but every time Curvo crossed the threshold, a faint smile could be seen forming at the corner of his mouth.

Then Carnistir had come, saying something about Tyelko. Something was wrong with Tyelko, and he needed help. Fëanáro had risen swiftly and followed.
Curvo had followed along too, of course.

Curvo peered into the room. His brother was lying in bed. Was Tyelko hurt? Atar did not like it when people were hurt so badly they had to be put to bed. He never said it, but Curvo could see it. And when Atar didn’t like something, Curvo didn’t like it either.
He stepped through the door. Then hesitated, coming no closer. Tyelko was saying strange things. Curvo listened carefully from where he was, but he couldn’t understand. He wanted to come closer, to ask…

Tyelkormo screamed, and Curufinwë wailed. His hands on his ears, he sank down to the floor, crouching, still listening out fearfully through his hands for whatever was happening with his brother, fighting with his own instinct to block out the sound.


Fëanáro snatched away his hand.
He watched in horror as his son, having stopped screaming, fell unconscious on his bed, his forehead imprinted by the embossments of his ring.
He held up his trembling hands, willing his stomach to settle as he found the burned skin of his own child attached to that cursed jewelry.
He took off the ring in haste, throwing it on the ground, shaken to his core.
Carnistir embraced Curufinwë as his little brother began crying, his own tears falling despite his attempts at stopping them, whimpering as he watched Tyelkormo lying there, unconscious.
Sívenettë recovered from her shock first, the oath of a healer giving strength to her frozen limbs. She had to act fast.
“Get your sons and leave, my prince. They are distressed. Leave the rest to me.”
“But–”
“Look at them, Fëanáro! They can’t stay here!”
Sívenettë yelled, pointing at the crying Elflings, huddled close to each other. Carnistir was sobbing too, by then, Sívenettë’s shouts adding to his distress.
Fëanáro did not protest as he was pushed out of the room, holding both of his sons close, stroking their heads, trying to calm them down, yet his own heart felt like it could burst out of his chest any second.

A door opened at the end of the hallway, and Makalaurë left his room, yawning, having just woken up.
He stopped in his tracks once he saw his father and two youngest brothers, crouching in front of Tyelkormo’s room, the little boys weeping and his Atar bearing a haunted look.
“What’s wrong?”
He asked, his voice hoarse from sleep. No one answered him, causing him to frown and approach them, shaking Fëanáro's arm a little to catch his attention.

Fëanáro was not looking at him, his mind running with the thought of what had just happened.
That ring… he knew why it had burned his son. Aulë had given it to him as a sign of friendship, long ago when he had just met Nerdanel. He had hallowed it himself, he told him once, to not suffer the touch of those who have evil intentions. That way, he could easily recognize his friends among the sea of enemies surrounding him.
It had never burned anyone, though, and at some point, he had stopped believing the words of the Vala, coming to the conclusion that the Vala had a weird sense of humor.
But no, it had burned his son. His son, who was barely out of childhood, not even a teen.
What evil could the creation of Aulë find in him?
Not in him. It was not him who was evil.
He suddenly remembered the words Tyelkormo kept spouting, and how none of them made any sense to him.
He, who had surpassed the great Rúmil as a linguist.
How could his young son, who had not shown any interest in learning any languages but those of birds and beasts, speak one so fluently while Fëanáro had no idea what it was?
It pained him to admit it, but Tyelkormo’s case sounded far too similar to the horror stories Finwë told him as a young child.
Elves who looked like them, but spoke the foul tongue of the Dark Lord. The Thralls. The ones who only Eru Ilúvatar was capable of saving.

Not my Turco… please don’t take him away too…

A single tear fell from his eyes. He could not take it. If anything happened to his son, he could not bear the grief of it.

He would not allow this to happen. No. His son would not be lost to him. Not as long as he lived.
He had to do something. He had to ask for help.

Atar would know what to do…

He would go to Finwë. Ask him for help.
He’d–

“--tar! Atar!”
Makalaurë called him. When did he come there?
It did not matter. He could take care of his little brothers while he was gone.
“Watch them until my return. Take them to your own room and entertain them. Don’t let them come here. Do you understand, Kano?”

Makalaurë shook his head, confused and a little scared.
“I… why are they crying Atar? What has happened?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Just do as I said.”
And he left the children there, barking orders at the servants to ready his horse.

Makalaurë stood there, stunned, and for a few seconds, the only sound breaking the silence of the hallway was the sniffling of Curufinwë and Carnistir.
Eventually, remembering his father’s orders, he put a hand on his brothers’ shoulders, leading them to his room.
“Come on, let’s go play a game in my room. I have snacks there too.”



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