The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Steel To Temper

Curufin is determined to stay silent, and Celegorm is determined to make him talk.

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XIX. Steel to Temper

The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the twenty-first day of Lótessë

Someone knocked sharply on the smithy’s door; and Curufinwë refused to acknowledge it.

“Look at this, Maril,” he said instead. The vapours of sweating steel made his eyes water and wetted his hair, but it mattered little: the course of his purpose was straight and clear, and it lay right under his gloved hands. “Look at it! Take the hammer, it shan’t bite you… Good. Now tell me what you see.”

“The steel was not clean, Master Curufinwë,” said the apprentice keenly. “The visor did not have the right amount of silver in it.”

“Which would be?”

“Eight ounces out of ten, Master.”

Another knock was left ignored.

“…good. Can you tell me what kind of alloy do we have here?”

“Silver with copper, Master.”

“What else?”

At the next furious knock, the apprentice’s eyes wandered to the door, but when Curufinwë paid no heed to the noise, he forced his attention back to the smelter.

“Lead, maybe…?”

“You could use a bit more confidence, child,” said Curufinwë; and he leaned closer. There was another element in the slowly decomposing steel; slightly similar with clean silver, yet dark and dull where it was shiny, sleazy and bitty where it was smooth and melted…

Curufinwë swore under his breath as the upcoming knock-knocks evolved into blatant bang-bangs. He had no choice but to open the door; and he performed the deed so abruptly that Tyelkormo almost fell across the smithy’s doorstep.

“Finally!” he sighed. “I was beginning to doubt you were in there at all.”

“So if I pretend that I am beyond the Circles of the World, will you let me work in peace?”

“Ha!” Said Tyelkormo, and for the fraction of a second, Curufinwë could see open mirth in his eyes; then it vanished, and only wariness remained. “Not today. We need to talk.”

“Come in, then. You have ten minutes until I reheat the smelters.”

“I can reheat them for you, Master,” Maril’s voice was thick with plea. “I know how. That way, you shall not be disturbed!”

Curufinwë shot a sharp glance at his apprentice, then looked back at his brother, who stood in the doorway like a rock, reluctant to give space. Annoying as the timing might have been, Tyelkormo looked like he had something to say indeed.

“All right then, young one,” he said, “you may reheat the small smelter and finish our work for this morn. But heed my warning: if so much as a chisel shall be jagged by the time I come back, you shan’t touch anything in my workshop ever again. Is that clear?”

“Clear as crystal, Master Curufinwë,” said Maril.

“I have seen clearer things,” he quipped; yet it was not so much for chiding as for the sake of comedy; and the boy seemed to understand.

~ § ~

The citadel’s four great bastions loomed behind the brothers like greedy fangs as they exited the smithy and walked through the backyard among empty spotting posts and ruinous store-cells, overgrown by amber and ivy. It seemed that Nelyafinwë’s household did not have the means to men all the peeking watchtowers around the lesser regions of the Himring.

Tyelkormo offered his arm and Curufinwë took it, suddenly grateful for the spring wind’s caress on his face. His newly regained – pretended – devotion for work had deprived him of such sensations for what seemed like a very long time.

It was a fair day, and what clouds stormed through the clear skies were frail and almost transparent, lighter than the finest white silk: the sort that brought no rain. They flew high, very high, Curufinwë knew; unfathomably far above the lands and hills, where not even Moringotto’s black hands could touch them.

Tyelkormo did not speak until they were far out in the training fields; and Curufinwë knew better than to rush him. He tried to enjoy the weather instead, and when his brother finally halted, he picked a nice, untamed spot among daisies and dandelions, and settled down to stretch his legs. He had been working all night, and suddenly found that he could easily fall asleep, if not for the sharp nervousness radiating from his brother.

Curufinwë crossed his legs in a pretence of comfort, and folded his hands in his lap.

“Well?”

Tyelkormo settled down beside him, removed his cloak and folded it: lightly yet with respect, the way Mother would. One time, he got a folding line wrong, so he shook out the whole cloak and restarted the process. Once he succeeded, though, he suddenly decided he would much rather undo the foldings, and spread the stained fabric around his shoulders again.

“Quit your fidgeting,” Curufinwë snapped.

“Tricky weather,” said Tyelkormo. “Care for breakfast?”

“You wanted to talk to me, I trust?”

“That, too. But I just came home from patrol, and I would not mind spending some time merely… sitting with you. At peace.”

Peace.

Curufinwë suppressed a sardonic laugh.

“Well,” he said, “if that breakfast you mentioned means dried meat and other horrid things they fed you on the road, then you’re very welcome to share it with someone else,” He threw a lazy glance on his brother’s storm-beaten bundle. “What have you in there?”

“Honey to sweeten your tongue, for one.”

When Curufinwë did not even smile, Tyelkormo added, with a puzzled expression on his face, “It’s not so difficult to switch back to normal, I reckon. To the life of a decent person, who has something to eat every day and a home to return to…”

“You feel humbled, huh?” Curufinwë snorted. “Is that what ails you?”

“I may have felt that way,” said Tyelkormo cautiously. “But I no longer do. I… I have been thinking about things – everything – a lot, Curvo, and I wanted to know… I want to know how you feel.”

Curufinwë slowly, methodically opened the honey jar, dipped his brother’s spoon in it, and licked it off.

His tongue did not feel sweetened.

“How I feel… about what? My feelings, as you call them, are rather reserved these days.”

“So have I noticed,” Tyelkormo sighed. “Three times I departed with the scouts, and three times I came back without seeing you outside your workshop. Do you even eat, brother? Do you even sleep?”

“Sometimes,” Curufinwë tilted his head. “And, occasionally.”

He stuffed another spoonful of honey in his mouth, so that the rest of the sentence would echo only in his head,

…you’re the first one to ask.

Tyelkormo threw a long, clever glance at him above his bread-and-butter, and for less than a heartbeat, Curufinwë feared he’d spoken aloud.

“It is not what I have been expecting, to be sure,” his brother finally said, and his lips curved slightly; so slightly that Curufinwë could not call it a smile. “When Nelyo spoke his judgement, I… I was convinced you would choose exile, you know.”

“Well, so was I.”

“I’m glad that you changed your mind, Curvo.”

Curufinwë smiled innocently. “I did not.”

The bread yanked to a stop in Tyelkormo’s hand, and a bit of butter landed upon his nose. Curufinwë felt a sudden, ferocious need to rub it off, but his brother’s eyes went wide, and – somehow – fearsome and fearful at the same time.

“What do you mean you did not?!”

Curufinwë gave a resigned sigh, and pulled another, not-so-convincing layer upon his mask of careless pretence.

“You cannot be stupid enough to drag me out of my workshop, only to repeat a conversation we’ve already had! You know my opinion, Tyelko: I have already told you that what was best for you may not prove best for me. My interest would have been to hit the road and try my luck once again, one last time… yet sometimes, we’re bound to put others’ well-being before our own. Thus have I stayed, and thus am I newly invested in my work.”

His voice sounded like it was about to betray him again.

Tyelkormo raised his brows. “I thought you enjoyed it…?”

“Oh?” Curufinwë laughed, his voice full of mirth, his eyes two bottomless dark wells. “But I do! I do! I have never been happier in my life!”

He choked on that last sentence; and his voice trailed off, suddenly croaky and utterly, completely – powerless.

“Forget it, Tyelko,” he said wretchedly. “I cannot do this. Not to you. Forget it.”

“Well you would do well to stop indeed,” his brother said coolly. “I shall not be fooled by the magic in your voice.”

Curufinwë forced down another spoonful of honey, but somehow that, too, felt bitter.

“If you must know,” he said, “I spoke with the Counsellor before he left. Or I should rather say that he spoke with me; and as a result, I was forced to choose between two evils. I chose the one that seemed a little less vicious for our family and more mortifying for me.” Curufinwë shrugged. “Thankfully, my self-control did not betray me then, and Tyelcano departed with the assumption that I was feeling better, useful, alive, that sort of thing. I think he desperately wanted to believe all that, so it worked… that was my chance, for otherwise, he would not have been so easy to fool.”

Tyelkormo was watching him with a very strange expression.

“And are you not alive, at least?”

“Alive, yes, in the sense of breathing and spitting on things,” Curufinwë shrugged. “But I… how could I even hope to explain it? This, all of this is terrible for me, Tyelko. I feel unwanted: no one would even invite me to the dinner-table if not for the sake of blood-forged bonds!” Curufinwë fell silent for a few seconds, amazed by the harshness and the bile seeping from his own voice; yet now that he spoke his mind, the rest came spilling out. “And if that wouldn’t make me miserable enough, I can always feel Nelyo’s eyes on me: watching, pondering if I’m planning to betray him. He would not let me move a grass-blade without his knowledge. Do you not see, Tyelko, how my name has been besmirched, how my person bemired…? Do you think I have truly earned this…? And even if I have, for every sinner, there is a trial, and at every trial, the accused must have a choice.”

“And you had one!”

“Ah-hah, that is where you err,” Curufinwë laughed mirthlessly. “Tyelcano made me stay and endure; yet all I can think of now is how great would it be to live, to ride around Beleriand on my own horse, as my whole master, doing what I please! Tasks be damned! Responsibilities be damned! Past, present and future be thrice-damned! For I am tired, so tired of everything! Yet if this cannot be, and my fate is to stay here and be despised, at least let me continue being despised in piece and silence, and – most importantly – alone!”

“Trust is a fragile thing, brother,” said Tyelkormo in a puzzled voice. “We broke it.”

“Oh, don’t start with that!” Curufinwë seethed. “You broke it, is what you wanted to say. And Counsellor Tyelcano told me the same thing. It is said that the blades of trust are hard to forge and easy to blunt, he cooed in that deep wise voice of his, yet once they are sharpened anew, they slice the very stones from the earth. And he expected me to believe that. Trust is granted or denied, Tyelko – it is there or it isn’t. There are no logical foundations for trust! Elsewise, we’d always be capable of thinking through our choices and decisions, and we could not be deceived.”

“I do not agree with you!” Tyelkormo swallowed. “I refuse to. We have done great wrongs, Curvo, and I do say we. I was part of it, just as much as you were; but there must be a way back for us, a way to regain Nelyo’s trust and a way to make him proud!”

“Do you mean that we should start begging for things that are ours by birth-right?!” Curufinwë said in a low voice.

“Nelyo’s trust is no birth-right. We have cruelly misused it. Now we must be punished.”

“And, as usual, my punishment is bigger than yours.”

“Indeed?” Tyelkormo’s voice was very still, yet somewhat menacing. “Mine, who roams about Himlad restlessly, among ruined watchtowers and bowelled corpses? Mine, who still lives on salt beef and lukewarm water? Mine, who…” His voice trailed off, as if something had dawned on him. “But wait, maybe you are right,” he said, his tone suddenly vicious. “Maybe it is truly more difficult for you to lock yourself up in your workshop all day, and order your apprentices around, than it is for me to protect our borders! Maybe it is much easier to try and face your own mistakes and learn from them, to try and learn how to be humble while it is clearly against your nature, then to crawl around in the dark, cursing and muttering under your breath. Alas, my poor brother, how outrageous it is that you have been forgiven! It must be a horrendous punishment for one so selfish and vain as you to be faced with generosity beyond justice. You are right, you should have been kicked out from this castle and dragged along Himlad’s wastelands for every eye to see: that is what you would have deserved! Shame on you, Curufinwë, and on everything you said! How can you still feel sorry for yourself?!”

There was a long pause.

“You have a bit of butter on your nose,” Curufinwë said.

“Butter,” Tyelkormo responded, puzzled, as if unsure of the word’s meaning.

“Aye. Right there. No, there. No… let me,” Curufinwë leaned forward. “There,” He licked his fingers. “It goes well with the honey.”

Tyelkormo was staring at him.

“Curvo…?”

“Hm?”

“Is that all you have to say?! Quit muttering incoherent phrases and answer me!”

“I have nothing to answer.”

Tyelkormo grabbed Curufinwë by the shoulders and shook him so hard that his teeth clanked together.

“Stop – being – all – dramatic – about – yourself!” He seethed. “Stop it! Stop this… theatre, your pretences, your bad lies and big scenes, all the soundless sulking and the great monologues! Stop ignoring me and everything I say! Stop playing with the power of your voice, stop avoiding everyone, stop fooling me, stop flickering like a candle being blown out by the wind! Just – stop! I can’t help you if you shut me out! No one can! You will destroy yourself, Curvo, and no one will be able to help you then!”

“I don’t want anyone to help me!” Curufinwë said, precisely articulating every word. “I don’t want to be helped! I don’t want to get better! I prefer crawling around my workshop in the darkness, as you call it. Just leave me be! You are not helping by dragging me along, only to convince yourself that I am all right. I am no responsibility of yours, Tyelko. Nor anyone else’s.”

Tyelkormo stared deep into his eyes, and Curufinwë knew he saw the sincerity in them.

Indeed; he truly meant what he just said.

The slap was open-handed, magnificently arched and so forceful that his whole skull resonated with the blast it gave; and for a few moments, his vision was reduced to bright spots floating upon an endless horizon of darkness. The slowly fading picture was so overwhelming that it shut out the sensation of pain for a whole minute, before Curufinwë could even think of raising his hand, and sticking a finger under his nose. His mouth filled with the peculiar, metallic taste of blood.

Curufinwë flexed and unflexed the muscles in his hands, paying no heed to the red river dripping down his chin.

“I have enough problems without you breaking my nose, Tyelko,” he said, his voice still flat. “But if that is what you want, I will suffer it. Go on. Hit me again. Spit on me for all I care. I will not be cowed, and you will not change my mind. If you want to cause terrible pain, though, I’d suggest breaking my knees. Injuries effected upon my head may temporarily render me even more tunnel-visioned and stubborn than I already am, you see.”

“I don’t want to cause you pain,” Tyelkormo said, his voice frightened. “I just want to wake you. I just want my brother back. At whatever cost. We have always threaded our paths together. Why would you suddenly leave me, Curvo? Is that what you would call fair? The witty, lofty-tongued dunderhead I know, the dunderhead you are would not choose the easy way, and let himself be drowned in his own mistakes and stupidity! Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro, the brother I have known for long years would raise his head with pride and honour and he would fight, because he would know when he is needed!”

“Raising my head would mean looking around, and looking around would mean acknowledging things,” said Curufinwë, a lot more honestly than intended. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Sooner or later, you must,” Tyelkormo countered. “Carnistir has come, and he brought an army of Men with him, along with many news. I met him yestereve out in the wastelands, then rode far ahead to bring Nelyo the word. I gravely doubt that he would grant you the chance to go on hiding and skulking.”

“I do what I please,” said Curufinwë, and for a short moment, his usual loftiness crept back into his speech. “Tell me about this army of Men!”

“Come, eat with us tonight,” said Tyelkormo, “and you may meet them. There is a Council to be held as well.”

“I no longer frequent dinners and council meetings.”

“Then crawl back to your cellars to feast on lead and bits of coal! If they’re bitter enough, you might still come back to your right mind, and act like a son of our sire again!”

Curufinwë could feel from the tone and rhythm of his words that Tyelkormo had finally grown tired of him.

The prospect filled him with dread rather than relief.

“Tyelko,” he said in a low voice. “I am not wanted at the high table.”

“You are!”

“You are the only one who wants me there.”

“That is not true. Our whole family wants you there, and it is your duty to come. You must meet these Men, Curvo. They shall very likely be our new allies, and our only hope to drive the Orcs out of Himlad – if they could be trusted. Since the Counsellor is not here, Nelyo might have need of your mind-reading skills.”

“I cannot read minds, Tyelko, you know that very well.”

“But you’re a fairly good liar,” Tyelkormo winked. “Therefore, an excellent spotter of lies.”

Curufinwë knew he was running out of arguments. And as he looked at his brother once again, the shadow was lifted from his heart.

Would it hurt to give in to the only person’s desires who truly cared about him? Would it hurt to go to that dinner and feel miserable there, instead of continue feeling miserable down in the smithy? Curufinwë concluded that his choice did not matter. He could might as well go to that Valar-forsaken feast, and meet those Valar-forsaken Men.

Tyelkormo was still looking at him expectantly, so he cleared his throat.

“Three things, Tyelko,” he said. “One: I don’t care about your Men. Two: this dinner will put me through torment your feeble mind cannot imagine; therefore, you will have to compensate me. Thoroughly. And three… I am not convinced – I have merely taken pity on you.” Curufinwë crossed his arms. “And I might still change my mind – but as things are now, then yes, I will go to that sorry dinner. But only for your sake. I want you to remember that.”

“I will,” said Tyelkormo. His hands were warm as he raised them to his face. “Thank you, brother,” he added slowly, sincerely. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Well I suppose I don’t,” Curufinwë sighed. “But I do know that if you don’t pull out your water-skin in three seconds to clean my face, you’re going to regret it. I cannot waltz around this castle all bloody and smudged like some scoundrel!”

“You are a scoundrel,” Tyelkormo raised his brows, but there was mirth in his eyes. “Maybe we all are.”

The only answer Curufinwë gave to that was raising a finger; then, when Tyelkormo did not seem to get his meaning, he raised the second one.

“All right, all right!” His brother sighed, and proceeded to remove the patches of dried blood from his face. His skin was filled with watered wine, and Curufinwë scowled at the scent of stale alcohol.

“Besides,” he heard himself saying, “it might be worthy of note that it still hurts.”

“Aye,” Tyelkormo muttered. “I’m good at punching people.”

“You know, I’ve never realised just how good you are.”

“Should I say thank you?” Tyelkormo winked, but his voice was regaining its seriousness. The more blood and dirt he removed from Curufinwë’s face, the more he seemed to lose his humour.

“Ah…,” he said after a time, “Curvo… I’m sorry. I didn’t know I hit that hard.”

“You left a mark.” Curufinwë knew it would happen so. He knew it right from the moment he received the slap.

“I’m afraid I did.”

“And? How do I look?”

“Like someone who’s been punched in the face,” Tyelkormo said truthfully. “By an expert.”

“Wonderful. This is just what I needed now.”

“But it also makes you look… fierce,” his brother tried. “Like, I don’t know, like someone who picked a fight with a band of Orcs. Bare-handed.”

“Oh yes, surely. And the Orcs just slapped me instead of giving me a black eye at the very least.”

Tyelkormo raised an eyebrow, and Curufinwë drew a sharp breath.

“I don’t have a black eye, now, do I?”

“Currently,” said Tyelkormo, “it’s a red eye.”

“Wonderful. Truly. Congratulations.”

“Curvo, I’m so sorry!” Tyelkormo exclaimed. “Not sorry I slapped you,” he precised with a grin, “but sorry I left a mark. Truly. Sincerely.”

“Forget it,” Curufinwë waved his hand. “It’s not like it will hurt my dignity, either way. I don’t have much left.”

“Curvo…”

“I mean it.” Curufinwë held his brother’s hand. “I daresay this dinner will be quite interesting. But will you do just one thing for me, Tyelko?”

“Anything,” came the answer.

“Let us keep in secret how this happened,” Curufinwë forced a grin on his face. “We shan’t tell anyone. Ever. Let’s always remain very grave, theatrical and mysterious about it.”

“Let’s,” Tyelkormo echoed happily.

“With time, even we will forget what truly happened, and the impossible pieces of fiction floating around shall take the place of true memories in our heads. And thus, your punch-mark on my face shall become myth and legend.”

“As my lord brother pleases,” Tyelkormo grinned.

I am no lord, Curufinwë thought as he faked another smile. And you cannot please me.

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Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

Maril [m. glass / crystal], who is an apprentice here, made several appearances in my other works (no longer published, I think), so some of you may remember him.