But later, kneeling blood-spattered on the slaughterhouse floor, surrounded by dead whom the foolish Valar would call his kin, he knew better. Tyelko, the hasty one, all bumps and bruises and scraped knees, bowling them over with his hugs, and how happy Makalaure was to have a baby brother. Curvo, the skilled one, sharp as a sword's edge, peppering them with questions about everything he could see or hear or touch, his wit as sharp as his intellect and as subtle and deft as his hands. And sullen, quiet Carnistir, innocent of Tyelko and Curvo's wrongs, but lost in the middle of his brothers as he often was in life, but for his flashes of furious temper.

You absolutely killed me with this paragraph. Just perfectly beautiful and heart wrenching.

Yes! I live for this kind of tragedy and Fëanorian brother-feelings! (Does it make me a masochist that I willingly look for stories that make me cry?)

Absolutely tragic and so beautifully done!