Thicker Than Water by Noliel

Blood Is...

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Thicker Than Water

It was complete. Celebrimbor held the intricate gold diadem that had taken days to make up to the light and smiled in weary satisfaction.

“‘Galadriel’ she shall now be in more ways than one,” he murmured. The light of a gibbous moon glimmered on the surface of the headdress, giving it a silvery sheen. For a moment, Celebrimbor was reminded of the long tresses of the daughter of Finarfin- reminded of when he had first set his eyes upon their beauty.

His smile faltered; that had also been the last time he had seen his father.

---

“…for once a Feanorian, always a Feanorian,” finished Orodreth coldly, showing a backbone Curufin had hitherto not believed him to possess. He felt Celegorm stir next to him, bristling with wrath, and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder to calm him.

“Then let it be so!” Celegorm said finally, and turned away to go. Curufin followed suit, but not before favouring his half-cousin with a slow, lazy smile that thoroughly disconcerted him.

---

Curufin finished putting in the last of his clothing into a brown, tough-skinned bag as he remembered the events of the previous hours. Another smile played about his lips, but it held none of the mockery of the one he had given Orodreth. Alas, son of Finarfin. You do not know exactly how true your words are.

None assembled there would- except, perhaps, the remainder of the people who had once allied themselves with himself and Celegorm. He had seen the conflicting emotions in their eyes, had glimpsed the pain, the fear, the disgust mingling with torn loyalty…

Footsteps sounded behind him. Curufin straightened as he pulled the ties of his satchel, and recognized the steps as his son’s.

“Tyelperinquar, have you packed?” he asked without turning around.

There was a short silence and suddenly, with a searing twist in his heart, Curufin knew what his son was about to do. His hands slowly fell away from the drawstrings.

“Father, I shall not be leaving with you and Uncle.” There was a tremor in Celebrimbor’s voice, although it carried well across the large room.

Curufin closed his eyes briefly, willing down the angry, bitter words that swiftly rose to his lips. Then, hoisting his bag onto his shoulders, he turned and walked up to his immobile son. He raised his hand to touch Celebrimbor’s face but froze in disbelief when he saw him flinch. Does he believe that I, who have never struck him, will do so now?

---

Celebrimbor looks up to find his father stock still, hand still in the air. There is a flash of bewildered hurt in his sire’s eyes before it disappears and Curufin lowers his arm.

“You will always remain my son,” he says quietly before leaving the room and Celebrimbor in silence.

---

There was a rapid knocking on the door of his finishing-room.

“Enter,” Celebrimbor called, wondering who it could possibly be. The door swung open and the smith watched, surprised, as the messenger he had sent that morning inviting Galadriel and Celeborn to his home near Sirion rushed in, looking harried and panicked.

“I was not expecting you for another day at le-”

“Forgive me, my Lord, but the Lady Galadriel, along with the remnants of those from Doriath crossed my path ere I passed the Mouth of the river-”

But Celebrimbor had stopped listening at the words ‘remnants of those from Doriath’ and had stepped immediately out of the room. With long, hasty strides and a foreboding feeling somewhere underneath his heart, he made his way down the corridor of his home, circlet held forgotten in his hand.

---

Cries rent the darkness as elves bearing torches and weaponry fill the camp.

Celebrimbor stares at the sudden appearance of so many with stricken eyes, unable to move. A sound shakes him out of his state and he sees two elves carrying something in between them run rapidly towards a neighbouring tent. He recognizes one of them- one of his grandfather’s former apprentices, his jaw set hard in pain, but whatever ails him does not affect his speed. They pass by a series of torches and Celebrimbor’s stomach gives a lurch as the light of the flames falls on the limp body the two carry.

All around him the camp is in a sudden uproar and horse hooves thunder in the trees. Desperate, he searches for someone to tell him what is going on, when he sees a part in the crowd. A procession of elves- he spots his uncle Maedhros at the head of it and, energy surging back into his frozen legs, he darts toward him.

“Uncle! Uncle Maitimo, is the-” Celebrimbor’s words stick in his throat as he sees Maedhros’ grey, drawn face. Sees his eyes. His gaze travels behind to see the rest of his uncles- Where is father?- walking into camp. Each cradles something in his arms- pieces of broken, twisted and tempered armour, burnt clothing, fragments of a spear, a sword, and-

“No,” he breathes, as his eyes fall upon the tattered red plume of the helmet Maedhros holds. Grandfather... The world fades into black and the last thing he remembers seeing are the dimming stars.

---

“-Macalaurë still out there searching-“

Voices. Loud, angry voices sounded from somewhere close by.

“-your own son lying senseless and where is it that Tyelkormo finds you?!”

A hand stroked his forehead and idly smoothed his hair. Celebrimbor opened his eyes and saw the tired face of his uncle Amras, red-rimmed eyes frowning at something his nephew could not see.

“-for the ring while everyone thought you dead or worse-"

Craning his neck, Celebrimbor could just make out the sight of his father standing near the far corner of the tent, Amrod yelling hoarsely at him. The torchlight glinted off the tear-tracks on his uncle’s face as he grabbed Curufin and shook him. A few feet away sat Caranthir, the knuckles of his hands straining against the skin as he gripped his hair.

”-you think the rest of us don't feel- don't-”

Celebrimbor sat up on the bench at the exact moment his uncle’s voice cracked and Amrod stood there quietly shaking, head bent against Curufin’s shoulder as his hands clutched his brother’s collar. Curufin, motionless and with a dull expression on his face, said nothing, a detached quality in his eyes.

No. Detached was not the word. Dead, thought Celebrimbor dizzily.

The silence was broken by Caranthir’s rough, tortured and almost pleading voice, a voice his nephew had never before heard him use.

“Stop this, Atarinkë-”

The name seemed to jolt Curufin as a spasm crossed his features, and he moved suddenly, startling Amrod’s grip off of him before leaving the tent swiftly.

With a cry of alarm, Celebrimbor leapt up and followed, not heeding the calls of his uncles as he sprinted barefoot into the night, weaving through the crowd of elves.

He reached the end of the encampment and pushed aside branches as he kept running before bursting into a small clearing. Curufin was on the other side, about to disappear again into the trees, and despairing that he would lose him, Celebrimbor cried out, “Father, wait!”

Curufin stopped. Hesitantly, Celebrimbor moved forward with his arms outstretched in an empty embrace as his father slowly turned, his clenched right hand held out.

“Father?”

Fingers opened to reveal a simple gold band, and Celebrimbor’s eyes stung with a sudden pain as he recognized his grandfather’s ring. Vision blurring rapidly, he stumbled towards his father until his arms were empty no longer.

Through his own sobs, Celebrimbor felt the trembling of Curufin’s shoulders and for one horrified, sick moment he thought his father was laughing. Then relief flooded him as tears seeped into his shirt, and Celebrimbor kept weeping as he held his father close. The ring fell to the ground.

---

There is a clatter-

“Curufin has been slain as well.”

-and for a moment, Celebrimbor does not know that the diadem has slipped from his slackening hand; there is only room in his mind for what he has just heard Celeborn say.

Galadriel turns away from her husband who has just entered the crowded main hall, and Celebrimbor can see the dismayed look on Celeborn’s face as he realizes exactly who has overheard him.

‘You will always remain my son.’

Suddenly, Celebrimbor understands fully the echo of his father’s words, understands that they had held none of the taunting and bitterness he’d once thought them to. They were a simple truth, stating what he had always known and would now never forget. Once a Feanorian...

“Celebrimbor-” starts Galadriel, sympathy in her beautiful face.

“I am Curufinwion,” he says in a barely audible voice as his heart breaks.

---

Later that night as he packs his belongings, the tears finally creep down his numb face.

He has no one to hold him.