Stars by curufinweatarinke

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Chapter 1

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Tyelpë is excited. The smithy is a place he has known since he was very young, sat in a corner as a chubby baby on a blanket, smashing away at things with a soft toy hammer in imitation of his father. And now, he is to be instructed in how to make his first item of jewellery.

He spends a long time carving out the mould, attempting to get every detail right. It’s difficult to carve it into the wood, but he wants to do his absolute best to show Father and Grandfather that he can follow in their footsteps. Father presides over him as he carefully removes the crucible with the molten silver from the roaring furnace, then pours it into the mould.

After a short while, Father tells him to tap the design out of the mould and carefully quench it in the trough of cold water kept for that purpose.

Finally, Tyelpë holds his creation in his hands. “It’s- It’s wonky!” Tyelpë says in disappointment. Grandfather and Father come over to look.

Grandfather raises an eyebrow. “It’s a first attempt!” he says, plucking the silver from Tyelpë’s hands to inspect it. “And for a first attempt, it’s a very good one! I’ve had apprentice hopefuls who give me worse things than this.”

At his side, Father is nodding happily. “This is wonderful Tyelpë! A lovely design choice, and an excellent start.”

Their praise helps, but Tyelpë is still unsatisfied. The design is an eight-pointed star, but certain parts of the mould hadn’t filled properly, and some areas hadn’t been carved with the precision necessary so the finished product is wonky.

Still, their pride creates a warmth in his chest.

“Yes, and it’s a difficult choice for a first time,” Grandfather is saying. “Very well done, Tyelpë.” He places the piece back in Tyelpë’s hands, pats him on the head and returns to his work.

Father stays. “What will you do with it?” he asks.

Tyelpë hasn’t thought about it. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I was going to show Uncle Turco and everyone else but after that I don’t know.”

“If it’s alright with you,” Father says, “I would very much like to have it. Your grandfather kept my first piece, and I would very much like to have yours.”

Tyelpë blushes. “Of course! But, wouldn’t you rather have something else I do later, that’s better?”

Father’s eyes are warm as he takes the star from Tyelpë. “No, there’s nothing I’d rather have than this.”

-

Great Grandfather is dead, and the world is dark now. Tyelpë’s father and uncles have sworn an unbreakable oath to retrieve the Silmarils and have their vengeance on Moringotto, or die trying and be damned to eternal darkness.

“We will have to leave,” says Father. “Already we make for Alqualondë to petition Olwë for his ships.”

Tyelpë nods, still feeling numb from everything that has happened. He was in the house with Great Grandfather and the others when he came. He remembers seeing the sky turn black, then hearing the shouts, then running to see Uncle Nelyo and Uncle Káno kneeling next to the body, blood pooling around them.

Great Grandfather is dead, and Grandfather is mad with grief. Tyelpë wants to climb into Grandfather’s lap to receive warm cuddles and to attempt to give succour, but Grandfather has gone already to Alqualondë. So he hugs Father instead.

Gently, Father asks, “Will you come with us?”

“Of course I will,” Tyelpë replies before even thinking. “I need to say goodbye to Mother first but of course I’ll come with you.”

Tyelpë only sees his mother twice a week. He loves her, but staying with her as opposed to leaving with his father is almost inconceivable.

His father leans over to pat him on the head, and his necklace swings out from beneath his tunic. The lumpy eight pointed star pendant on it gleams in the lamplight.

“I will come with you,” says Father, “and then we will journey to Alqualondë together to meet everyone.”

-

It is cold, and Tyelpë is hungry. Himlad has fallen now, in the Dagor Bragollach, and its people wander now, their path blocked on several sides. The lands the refugees travel through are barren and even Uncle Turco is not returning with much to eat.

Huan whines next to him, and Tyelpë huddles closer to his warm fur. Spitted over the fire are two sad looking birds that Uncle Turco managed to shoot down. He shares his catch with the others in their group, and this is what is left for them. It’s not very much after days of walking, and more to come.

Father drops a whole bird into his hands. It is warm, and greasy with cooked fat and is everything Tyelpë has ever wanted.

“Wait,” he says, “what about you and Uncle Turco?”

“We’re sharing,” says Father, in a tone that brooks no argument. He fishes for his knife to slice the other bird in half.

Next to him, Uncle Turco nods. “Yeah, we can manage. We’ll feel better knowing that you have a full stomach,” he says.

Tyelpë tries to offer a leg to Huan who huffs and whaps him with his tail, before giving up and eating the whole thing. His stomach silenced, he lies back to stare at the stars above them, the night lit by the light of Tilion. He is asleep in minutes.

-

The corridors of Nargothrond are silent, save for Tyelpë’s own frantic footsteps as he runs to Father and Uncle Turco’s quarters. He reaches them, to be met by Father exiting, carrying his pack.

“No,” says Father before Tyelpë can even speak. “You’re not coming.”

“I have followed you through fire and blood,” says Tyelpë. “I will follow you even now.”

“I said no,” replies Father. He reopens the door, and gestures Tyelpë inside. Uncle Turco is packing a few last items, and looks up when they enter. “Turco agrees with me. You’re staying.”

Tyelpë’s fists clench, and he fights back tears. “But I-“ he starts, interrupting himself with a sob. He should not be crying, he is an adult many times over. But the thought of being left here alone is almost overwhelming.

He starts as he is hugged both front and back. Father is shorter than him now, by a long way, and his arms wrap around Tyelpe’s chest, while Uncle Turco loops his around Tyelpë’s shoulders from behind him.

“I do not do this lightly,” Father says, voice wavering.

“Nor I,” Uncle Turco murmurs quietly.

“I want you to stay safe,” Father says. “I want to fight knowing that you are in a safe place, and that I can rest easy. You have no Oath. I would never retract this Oath for myself, but you are not bound by it as we are. Please, stay here.”

Tyelpë swallows, and gently returns his father’s embrace. “They will not trust me. Why would they let me stay?”

Father looks up, and he is crying. “There is a way,” he says, “though I do not like it.”

Tyelpë knows what he will say before the words leave his lips.

“You must denounce us,” says Uncle Turco behind him. “Say that you renounce our actions and that you will not leave with us because you think we were wrong.”

“No!” cries Tyelpë. “I don’t want to-“

”Please,” begs Father. “I need you to stay here. I need you to stay safe.”

Tyelpë is crying now too, and he can feel wetness seeping into his hair from where Uncle Turco’s face is pressed into it.

“Will they even believe me?” he asks finally.

Father scoffs, breaking the hug to wipe at his eyes. “They are weak-willed fools here, so simple minded that anyone with the slightest bit of authority can sway them. They will believe you.”

Tyelpë wipes his own eyes on his sleeve as Uncle Turco breaks the embrace too, to finish packing. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he says.

“You can,” says Father, “for us.”

-

He hears of his father’s death on a clear morning, and it is like a punch to the gut. Uncle Nelyo’s face is grim.

“I came to find you,” he says. “It was difficult but I managed to locate you in the end. I wanted to tell you personally.”

Tyelpë nods. “And Uncle Turco and Uncle Moryo too?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Uncle Nelyo. He holds out his arm, and pulls Tyelpë into a one-handed hug. His armour is cold against Tyelpë’s skin, but it is still a comfort. After a while, Uncle Nelyo pulls away, reaching into a pocket to remove a chain with a lumpy eight pointed star on it. Tyelpë recognises it immediately, and his heart sinks at the full proof of his father’s demise.

“We took it off his body,” says Uncle Nelyo, as if from a great distance as Tyelpë reaches for the pendant. “I thought you might want it.”

Tyelpë looks up into Uncle Nelyo’s impassive gaze. “Thankyou,” he says, moving to clasp it around his own neck. “I appreciate your forethought.”

Uncle Nelyo claps his gauntleted hand onto his shoulder. “It’s what he would have wanted. What will you do now?”

“I think,” says Tyelpë, “I will go East. I am done here.”

Uncle Nelyo nods. “His last words were that he was glad that you were not there.”

Tyelpë watches Uncle Nelyo return to his guards and climb onto his horse. “I know he was,” he says, and even though it is true, he does not hurt any less.

-

“What is that?” Narvi asks, blunt as always.

“What is what?” Celebrimbor replies, distractedly. They are drawing up plans for the doors of Khazad-dûm and it will be a shining symbol of their friendship and the relationship between the smiths of the dwarves and the elven crafters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, so Tyelpë is paying extra care to the design plans.

“The eight pointed star,” says Narvi. “You’re putting it on these doors, you wear a slightly wonky version around your neck, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how the streetplan of Ost-in-Edhil is laid out in a similar shape!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Celebrimbor says, smiling. “They’re laid out in a nice geometric pattern that just happens to coincide with an eight pointed star.”

Narvi laughs. “Oh, of course! But I mean it, what is it?”

“At one point, everyone would have known it,” Celebrimbor says, tracing the star on the door plans. “It is the symbol of my house, of my father and my grandfather.”

“Ah, of Fëanor?” Narvi asks. “I had heard of his star before but I did not think to link it.”

“Yes,” replies Celebrimbor. “I always thought it was a shame he did not live long enough to meet any dwarves. He would have loved your people.”

“Really?” asks Narvi, laughing again. “You are not just saying this to get on my good side, are you?”

“No, I swear!” says Celebrimbor. “You are a people whose language is sacred, who value craft and smithing above other things. He would have loved to meet you.”

-

He does not know how long he has been here. Time has blurred into a constant mess of pain. Annatar- no, Sauron has only allowed him to keep one thing. The pendant with the star, the first thing he created.

Sauron sees it as a mockery, a reminder of Celebrimbor’s beginnings and also enjoys the symbolism of allowing the last of the House of Fëanor to wear an imperfect version of the eight pointed star.

Celebrimbor does not let him see the warmth it brings him to still have it, here in Barad-dûr. Sauron has attempted seduction, has attempted niceties, has tried torture. Still, Celebrimbor holds fast.

”Look at me,” Sauron says, tilting his head up from where he kneels with the toe of a boot. Sauron sits enthroned above him, a mocking smile on his face. “Still you deny me, despite all this pain. Where are the rings?”

Celebrimbor shakes his head, and is knocked backwards as Sauron’s boot kicks him in his throat, and Sauron rises to tower above him, one foot on his heaving chest.

“You are a fool, Celebrimbor,” the Dark Lord says, pressing down until Celebrimbor’s ribs ache. “A naïve fool. You were so innocent and ignorant, and your trust was so easy to gain and your city so easy to take.”

Celebrimbor begins to laugh, and does not stop until the hall is echoing with his hysterics. Sauron removes his foot to kneel down and wrench Celebrimbor’s head up by his pendant.

“What is so funny?” he hisses, and Celebrimbor gasps his reply out, looking into those sulphurous eyes.

“You really think I didn’t know?” he laughs. “How naïve. You think you fooled me so completely? If you had, there would be no rings that you did not know of.” He chokes as Sauron twists the chain tighter in his anger. “Whose son am I? I knew the moment you came to me that you were not as you seemed, and what followed was almost directly from my father’s playbook. I knew, and now you will never find the three.”

Enraged, Sauron pulls the necklace even tighter, and Celebrimbor can feel himself dizzying. He does not fight it, and welcomes the rushing darkness as his spirit finally slips free of Sauron’s grip, all necromancy forgotten in the Dark Lord’s blind rage. His last thought is that he hopes his father would be proud.