From good to bad by Aprilertuile

---

THE harvest festival

---

More years passed, and nothing changed. Exile was just as mind-numbingly irritating as ever:

-Maitimo and his peace-keeping tentative deserved either a medal or a swift exile from Formenos, either or.

-Makalaurë’s harp would end up meeting a swift and tragic end if he kept singing at odd hours in the corridor in front of Tyelkormo’s room.

-Curufinwë… Probably needed to come out of his study for some air at times but there were battles Tyelkormo refused to bother starting for the certainty of losing.

-Carnistir was somehow the reason the whole family could still continue their trade from Formenos, and how Carnistir managed that, Tyelkormo had no clue whatsoever.

-And finally Ambarussa needed a babysitter and he did NOT volunteer. They were insanely bored and seemed well decided to make it everyone else’s problem. 

Not that Tyelkormo regretted coming. Between that and a cesspit of politics that couldn’t possibly change, ever, because Finwë had been an extremely stubborn leader who picked and chose his councillors to suit him instead of suiting their duties, in his not-so-humble opinion, Tyelkormo knew which punishment he preferred, and it wasn’t Tirion. 

Though that certitude found itself challenged indeed when he was called to his father’s living-room. Again. 

If it was again complaints about the shrine to Oromë he had made in the woods after a hunt that went particularly well at the start of their exile, he was going to scream and throw something at his father this time. 

And if this was about Huan then he would just leave Formenos and leave them in exile alone. He'd go back to the Hunt, there at least there would be less arguments over stupid things. 

All his brothers were coming. Half of them were already in the room when he arrived. Finwë and Fëanáro joining them soon:

“I will be straight to the point: I received a summon.”

“A summon?” Makalaurë asked. 

“To Taniquetil, yes.”

Tyelkormo briefly wondered if it was truly a summon or a nicely worded invitation, though Finwë’s own face of anger seemed to indicate that it was indeed a summon. 

Well, rude. 

Though a summon to Taniquetil this time would only come from Manwë, so what else could be expected really? Manwë was… Different. More distant than Oromë or Aulë ever were and Tyelkormo stayed convinced that the Vala just didn’t understand social cues. And coming from him, that said a lot.

“I understand your distaste, but I can’t help but feel that to ignore it would be… unwise.” Maitimo said.

“I am not a pet or a servant to be so summoned at the will of a master!” Fëanáro spat.

Their exile was never going to end, Tyelkormo could just feel it.

“As I told you, it would be wise to follow through and perhaps see if there’s hopes of reconciliation! Only Melkor wished to see us all so separated!” Finwë argued.

That alone surprised Tyelkormo, Finwë wasn’t usually known to be willing do or say much to antagonize Fëanáro.

If they were honest two minutes, by going with his eldest son in exile from Tirion, Finwë tried to please his eldest son, and only proved he didn’t care much what happened to his other children.

The first rule Tyelkormo ever learnt with the Hunt and with every hunter ever: If you have a weapon in hand you don’t point it toward anything and anyone you do not want to kill.

Finwë knew to hunt. Fëanáro knew to hunt. Neither had great love for it but both could do it. So it was pretty safe to say they both knew the rule… And both disregarded completely what it meant that Fëanáro was so ready to pull a weapon against a half-brother.

Not that he was taking Nolofinwë’s side, but he could acknowledge that punishment had been warranted. Even if he chose to follow his father for he was his father.

“So my father has spoken, and my eldest, what do the rest of you say of this?” Fëanáro asked them.

“It’s useless. The valar have no right meddling in elven royal affairs!” Curufinwë said immediately.

Tyelkormo snorted softly at that.

“I feel… Dad should go regardless of what we think of the valar. The point isn’t to reconcile with the Valar but with the family. Get our place back, you know.” Makalaurë said.

Hm, yes, Makalaurë’s own name must be suffering from the exile. A minstrel that never travelled and was never heard anywhere else but his home wasn’t much of one to start with and would be soon forgotten.

Ambarussa exchanged a look, uncertain.

“Stay or go, it matters not to me.” Carnistir said.

Fëanáro looked to him and Tyelkormo sighed.

“Go. We’ll win nothing if we stay buried in this fortress until the end of Arda.”

And for pity’s sake, let his father not offend everyone in the process; that would only hurt them all in the end.

Ambarussa just nodded after Tyelkormo talked.

“Very well, majority has spoken. Then I will… endeavour to earn our return to Tirion.” Fëanáro said finally with clear distaste before storming out.

Finwë went after him, fretting, as always.

Tyelkormo shook his head witnessing that. Finwë would never learn, would he?

“Hopefully dad means that? I really have enough of being stuck here. Filial loyalty should have limits.” Makalaurë grumbled.

“You’re not the only one who put his life in stasis, Makalaurë.” Curufinwë commented.

“You all manage to get orders and to work more or less your usual way.”

“Tell that to Tyelko.”

“Please, he’s a hunter of Oromë and everyone knows he has his favour, he can go back anytime he wants.”

Yes, and that was honestly the first thing Tyelkormo planned to do once their father got the right to go back to his usual life. And if this time it betrayed his faith in Oromë to his father then so be it, he was far too tired of the whole crown debacle to bother trying to hide anymore.

Living for years together with no real escape from company had taken its toll and he wanted OUT.

There should be limits, as his brother so justly said.

His father took the time to prepare his belongings to travel, and locked the Silmaril in a safe in the fortress.

The fortress seemed honestly lighter once Fëanáro was gone. They just had to wait now. They could just wait now.

Not always his strongest suit, admittedly.

The night of the festival, even as the light of Telperion was shining, the brothers had set themselves to share a festive meal with their grand-father.

However in the middle of the meal, the light of Telperion disappeared, leaving them all at the light of the fragile candles they had lit for the feast.

“What…”

Finwë shivered:

“Get out of the fortress.”

“What?”

“Do not argue, do what I tell you, get as many of our people out. Just. Just get out of here.”

“What are you…”

“IT’S AN ORDER FROM YOUR KING! GET OUT!”

Maitimo took control of the situation, sending Tyelkormo to find a path that was not the main entrance and still safe to take in the darkness, while his brothers went to gather their people to follow him outside…

Tyelkormo had no idea what was happening inside, but one thing was sure, once the servants and guards were outside with him, it was unbridled chaos pure and simple. Everyone was panicking.

Only for them all to freeze in terror when they heard the wretched sound of a shout of pain… And so they stayed frozen until they saw darkness go.

“We need to…” Maitimo whispered.

But Tyelkormo was quickest, and ran toward the broken entrance door of the fortress, ran inside… And found, at the light of his father’s lamps… the lifeless body of his grand-father, bloody, bearing a deadly wound.

Tyelkormo heard people coming behind him and covered the body of their king with his cloak. He then stood at the entrance of the room, blocking it. He stopped Tyelperincar from entering the room, and then Ambarussa.

“Tyelko…”

“Nelyo. Grand-father’s gone.”

“Gone.”

“Dead. He’s dead. Our king is dead. You don’t want everyone in this room and you don’t want little Tyelpe to see this, believe me.”

“And the Silmarils are gone.” Curufinwë said in a blank voice, watching the state of the room.

“What can we do?” Makalaurë asked in a lost voice.

“Keep people out of here for one. There’s something foul in this room.” Tyelkormo said in a low voice.

He couldn’t point at what it was, but he could feel it. Something dark. Something sinister.

“We need to warn our father and uncle on Taniquetil.” Maitimo said firmly. 

“And to deal with the body. He’s our grand-father and king, we can hardly leave him on the bloody floor.” Carnistir pointed out darkly.

“I’ll…”

Tyelkormo could see calculation in Maitimo’s head. The will to spare them the horrible work battling with the knowledge that he was their father’s heir and knew better than all of them combined how to deal with court. How to write a proper missive to announce bad news.

“Maitimo, you deal with the missive and dispatch messengers.”

“It must be people, not birds.”

“Yeah. We’ll… Take care of our people and grand-father.”

Maitimo left them to it, going to his own office to write a missive.

“Do you want me to help with… That… Duty or to deal with the servants?” Makalaurë asked.

“I’m not dealing with our people at this time, do your duty with them and save me from it.” Tyelkormo answered curtly.

No, he wouldn't have the patience to deal with a bunch of panicked people begging to know what they should do like the children they weren't anymore. 

“And take Tyelpe with you while you do it.” Curufinwë decided, pushing his protesting son toward his brother.

Makalaurë pulled his nephew out, and Tyelkormo could just feel his brother’s relief and guilt when he left the room.

“What’s your plan?” Carnistir asked Tyelkormo.

“We can’t do miracles at this time, I’m afraid. Historically our people burnt their dead when they could recover bodies I believe I recall from Rúmil but I think if we do that before dad comes back it’ll be a nightmare.” Tyelkormo answered with a wince.

Their father was not going to take this calmly or reasonably, and this time around their mother wasn’t here to discuss things with him to help.

“It’s our grand-father. How can you be so… So calm about all that?!” Ambarussa asked them quietly, voice shaking with emotions.

“Because if we’re not calm, we have our people who will panic, my son who will panic, which will increase the danger we can potentially be in. If you want to fall into hysterics, go to your rooms and do it out of sight and away from people’s hearing!” Curufinwë snapped at their brothers, clearly out of patience.

“Because the hardest is yet to come.” Tyelkormo answered tiredly at the same time.

“What hardest?”

“You think it’s hard knowing grand-father is dead? Think. What kind of relationship did we have with him? Not really a close one. It’s all mostly father. And father doesn’t yet know his dad is gone. You want hard? Wait until dad is back.” Carnistir snapped.

Ambarussa left running, tears running down their cheeks.

“Should we see?” Carnistir asked Tyelkormo who shook his head.

“I’d rather not, it’s really not pretty. I’ll carry the… Body to his room and… Put him on the bed for now. Rúmil did say that elven bodies didn’t decay right? That’s why they burnt them? To save them from the desecration of animals finding the bodies or orcs or whatever?” Tyelkormo said, bracing himself to do that.

“I’ll try to…” Curufinwë said pointing at the room:

“Lock it behind us. Carni will go open grand-father’s room for me and empty the corridor until then, but lock the room and lock it tight, Curvo. No one should enter this place.”

They did that. Tyelkormo feeling sick at carrying the body of someone he knew. Someone from his family. Someone who could be just sleeping if not for the painful grimace of his face and the wounds on his body.

By the time they arrived to the room, he could feel blood seep through his clothing, and he felt he was going to throw up. It was definitely different knowing it was someone’s blood than being covered in the blood of an animal he had hunted.

Very different.

It took only hours until their father came back, but those hours were terrible. Most of their people were staying outside the fortress, too fearful to come in.

Tyelkormo had thankfully bathed and changed so he wouldn’t be a vision of horror to his father.

But it mattered very little. Fëanáro was incandescent with rage, tears running down his face, half mad with grief, and the tale he told them…

Oh that tale… Námo knew Finwë had died straight away. But he had said nothing. No. He, they, the valar, wanted his Silmarils and they didn’t care that Finwë was dead.

But surely it was a misunderstanding. Tyelkormo knew Oromë wouldn’t do something of the sort.

So while their father requested to be alone with his father for a moment, while his brothers stayed close at hand, he left the fortress, and went to the shrine.

Or that was his plan, but Oromë found him first:

“I have a question to ask you, my lord Oromë, and I need to know you’ll be honest in your answer.” Tyelkormo said in a blank voice before Oromë could say anything.

“I’m listening.”

“Father came back already. He told us an interesting tale… Of you Valar not informing him, or anyone really. Of the death of his own father, our king, in order to press your advantage and obtain the Silmarils.”

Oromë looked, for once, inscrutable and Tyelkormo closed his eyes against the tears of grief he could feel coming. Oromë was never inscrutable. Not to him. 

“Is it true, my lord?”

Silence stayed between them for a while. 

“Is it true? The question needs a simple yes or no answer, my lord.”

Silence again, regret showing on Oromë’s face. 

“IS IT TRUE?!” Tyelkormo shouted at him. 

The silence lasted long enough that he turned to leave, tears falling down his face. 

“Those who are wiser… Thought that perhaps we could… Heal the greater, longer lasting harm if your father…” Oromë started quietly. 

“Finwë… Was our king. And more than that… He was our kin! The minimum of respect…”

“Tyelkormo, his death is but one death. It’s sad, but he can come back to life. The greater number would have benefitted from…” Oromë tried.

“Your kin… Killed my grand-father. Your other kin then lied about it to my family and both in order to steal what belongs to him… And you call the death of an elf… Not a kind of harm that deserves the minimum of respect?” Tyelkormo said, still with his back to the Vala, hands closing into fists.

“Just one elf in the grand scheme of things, Tyelkormo. He can and will surely come back to life but the trees…”

“Our kin over the sea live without the light of the tree. But a member of my family has been killed by one of yours. What are you doing Valar, to respect your promise of safety? That promise you gave to lure our people to these shores in the first place?”

Tyelkormo turned, but Oromë was gone. 

“YOU COWARD!” Tyelkormo called after him, knowing he would be heard… And ignored.

How could he have been so wrong?

Finwë was just an elf. He himself was just an elf. What were they all for the Valar? Not beings worthy of respect apparently. Not his grand-father, certainly not his father, or his uncles apparently. No… apparently not…

Was it all they were for the Valar? Just mere details to use or discard at their convenience. Tools to manipulate to their own end and if one died, well, too bad?

Was it all he was to Oromë?

Him, and his twin brothers and Irissë and every elven member of the Hunt?

“You coward.” He repeated in a broken whisper, tears falling down his face.

He didn’t know how long passed, but he walked back to the fortress in the dark, eyes slowly getting used to the light of the starts to light his path.

Upon joining his brothers again, they all noticed his face, his eyes. The fact he had cried.

“Tyelko?”

“Is dad still with…?”

“He’s making plan, and he’s not letting us help. You were gone… For a while.”

Tyelkormo nodded, but didn’t answer the implicit question. He didn’t want to answer it. He knew that Curufinwë at least wouldn’t let it go for long, but if he could save that discussion for later…

He would have thought that the death of the king of one of the nations of elves living on their shore would deserve more than to be hidden, reduced to a bargaining tool in an argument. And if a king deserved that, then what about others…? Tools, nothing more. And he didn’t know how to tell them that. He didn’t WANT to tell them that.

It only confirmed everything his father ever said about them. He had been blind. Stupid. Deaf possibly too.

And he neither wanted to say it aloud nor wanted to confirm their father’s tale to his brothers. Not just yet.

Fëanáro was in a fey mood when he left his office with one command: “we’re going back to Tirion, and we’re leaving this cursed land.”