"We cannot simply turn back, Findaráto! He will do more evil to the world, he has to be stopped!" Artanis was not going to be swayed from the issue.
"At the very least, should we not get Tyelpe back?" Angaráto added quietly. "He was our friend, and he's been dragged further into this mess unwillingly."
Tyelperinquar had advocated against even going down to the beach, but Artanis wouldn't hear it. Her mother's people--his mother's people--were being slaughtered.
Findaráto's lips pressed into a line, his brow furrowing into a scowl as he regarded his sister. "You know what you're asking of me. You heard Námo. If we leave, we aren't to come back. Amarië and I..."
Arafinwë's children fell into an awkward silence. Findaráto and Amarië were to be married, and soon. This, however, would put those plans on hold indefinitely.
Artanis was the first to avert her gaze. "I know. Stay if you want, get married, have children. I'm going, father be damned. I cannot sit idle and do nothing while Fëanáro burns the world down."
Findaráto made a noise of exasperation after a few long moments and let out a sigh. "And I can't let you lot go without me. Fine. We'll rescue our dear cousin and thwart Fëanáro . And then what, dear sister? Come back and hope that Námo's changed his mind?"
Artanis pursed her lips, avoiding her brother's gaze. She, of course, did not mean to return. "Or you could send for Amarië to join you, when he's been dealt with. Build a kingdom to rule, like we were taught."
"Just so we're clear, you mean for us to never return."
Artanis startled a bit at the word 'never', her eyes going wide. "No, not...not never, just..." But she could already feel that particular ugly tingle that represented a truth she did not want to face. They would not return to these shores again. Not alive. She balled her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. She hung her head, stray golden strands of her hair that had gotten free of her braids falling into her face.
"Are we going or not?" Aikanáro finally spoke, his arms crossed over his chest, an impatient look written into his features. "If we debate too long, all the boats will have left and the decision will be made for us."
Aikanáro spoke truly; Ñolofinwë's followers were gathering the last of the boats to pursue Fëanáro's. Without another moment of hesitation, the four proceeded to the quay, securing their passage away from Alqualondë. They would meet Tyelperinquar again soon, of that Artanis was certain.
Fëanáro was of the opinion that if one wanted to learn a particular craft, it was best to go to the source. Curufinwë always emphatically agreed to whatever his father said, so little Curufinwë--he detested this name, there being two others that bore it before him, and his mother had not given him a name yet--was sent to the Teler to learn the methods by which one smithed silver. He was young, still a child, but possessed of a great talent. A talent that only his father and grandfather seemed to grasp of the entire family.
That was not to say that little Curufinwë's uncles weren't talented. Macalaurë made music that made even the Maiar weep to hear. Maitimo was a hero without parallel. Tyelcormo and Carnistir were skilled hunters, and while the Ambarussa were still young, they also gravitated toward their elder brothers' bows.
Fëanáro did not hide his disappointment with his sons; he would have preferred they all become artists of some sort. But he also did not hide his pride at their accomplishments. Indeed, he sang their praises to the very heavens. That praise was all little Curufinwë's father lived for. He could have done without all the embarrassment, preferring to simply work rather than hang on every word of another.
While tempers were marginally milder in the Telerin forges, it was very much the same. Everyone got scolded for something or other, and only the youngest cried. Little Curufinwë had learned early that tears got one nowhere under Fëanáro 's supervision, likewise it went for his own father. Even so, words weren't so harsh here, and he found that he enjoyed working with the pale metal. He also enjoyed watching the glass makers, promising to come back when he was older to learn its craft as well. Glass was highly prized in Tirion, being so far from the sea and sand.
When he returned, having learned much from the Teler, he presented a fine silver comb to his mother. Ignoring his father's wont to point out its flaws, his mother swept him up into her arms and called him her little Silver-fist. Telperinquar.
Tyelperinquar, Curufinwë corrected her, with some gentleness. That was the proper way to say it as the Ñoldor did, for the first had been styled in Telerin.
Delighted, he hugged his mother, having gotten a name that he liked at last.
"I didn't imagine we'd find you so soon," Findaráto stated, amusement playing about his features. "Certainly, not like this."
Tyelperinquar had his hands raised in surrender, on his knees. There was only a hint of a plea in the Ñoldo's features; clearly the son of Curufinwë wasn't desperate. Yet. "I'll submit to whatever punishment you see fit, just don't send me back there. Grandfather is raving mad, and not even Maitimo nor Macalaurë can make him see sense. My stomach roils as if it's had bad food in it whenever I'm in my father's presence."
He let his chin drop a degree. "Ambarussa was speaking of leaving, both of them. Turning back to beg forgiveness from Námo. I couldn't wait for them to take a ship, but I do pray they succeed. This is madness. All of this is madness."
"Not that we ever doubted your conscience," Findaráto extended a hand to his cousin, bringing him to his feet. "You've a Teler grandmother too after all."
Aikanáro punched Tyelperinquar in the shoulder, once. "You should've fought harder. Bite 'em if you have to."
"We're not babies anymore, 'Náro," Tyelpe snorted. He paused for a just a moment before laughing quietly. "I was sorely tempted to, though." Aikanáro laughed, hugging his cousin fiercely.
What had been a relatively happy reunion had turned to ash in mere hours. Tyelperinquar had told Ñolofinwë all of what he'd heard and seen at his grandfather's camp. When Ñolofinwë and his followers had advanced upon the bay where Fëanáro's ships had been moored, they found the remnants of fire instead. Smoke and ash and detritus littering the shores, and Fëanáro gone with all his company.
Tyelperinquar sank to his knees in shock, but it was Findaráto that spoke, his voice hushed. "What will we do, uncle?"
Ñolofinwë's jaw tightened as he grit his teeth. "I, for one, will not turn back. There is still the matter of my father, King Finwë, being slaughtered while the Valar do nothing. I will continue in my cursed brother's wake, and I will welcome any that follow me."
Those that followed found what could only be described as hell ahead of them. Leagues of snow and treacherous ice as far as the eye could see, of the likes that not even Tyelpe had experienced in Formenos. Cold took many at night, in ones and twos, where they'd gone to sleep and simply hadn't woken up again. The ice took more, shifting and treacherous, making Ñolofinwë's advance slow and painful.
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
2087
turnnoffyourmind
