Silmarillion Writers' Guild

Title: That Night
Author: Nelyo@LJ / Maedhros@SWG yahoolist
Rating: General
Warning: None, I think
Summary: The burning of the ships, featuring Curufin as POV.

Based upon a fragment of Tolkien’s “The Shibboleth of Fëanor”, HoME XII.

R&R if you have nothing better to do. I already know my English s***** a lot, so, you can skip that part of “of course, you have some problems with the grammar” (;D), but I would love to know your opinion regarding Curufin, how was he (and the rest) portrayed, or the scene itself, whatever.

(And let us hope I won’t mess the place with the lj-cuts, first time posting like this :P)

~~oOo~~

After so many days and weeks sailing to reach the Middle-Earth, Curufin was so wonted to the life aboard the ship that almost missed the balancing deck under his feet. Aye, he already was used to the sound of the waves splashing onto the hulk, to the soft swing of his bed, to the salty sea’s scents. And surely more Noldor felt like him, for what he had heard while setting the camp. Eventually the Noldo pushed away all the thoughts and all the feelings, as he had done for the last years, and rolled on the narrow cot seeking for a comfortable position to sleep. Next to him he could hear his son’s quiet breath. Celebrimbor had fallen asleep very soon, lucky lad.

Finally he succeeded and when someone shook his shoulders to wake him up, gently but firmly, he blinked and wondered how many hours had passed, if it were already time to wake up. Not so many hours as he firstly thought, Curufin realized very soon. The voice that whispered him a few words –a well-known voice, his father’s voice-, made him sit up on his bed. “Join me down at the bay, my son, and bring with you some of your most trusted men.” Curufin blinked again, and before he had a chance to reply back a belated “Aye, Father” in understanding and agreement, Fëanor left the tent. He looked sidelong at Celebrimbor, but he was sleeping the same, unaware of his grandsire’s quick visit.

When he met his Lord and Father again, following his instructions, Curufin found out that, oddly, the beach looked pretty crowded, considering it was time to rest. Many elves were around, still unloading the Noldor’s belongings from the vessels, but they were asked to halt and withdraw to the nearby hill by Fëanor’s Royal Guard. Curufin waved a hand to command his own men to stand at his back and approached Finwë’s Son. “Father?” he bowed, deeply, to the High King, and waited for his words, wondering why so many fires had been lighted. It seemed to him as if the Noldor were about to celebrate a feast and, certainly, to have arrived to these wild shores unharmed was enough reason to hold a party, even if the mood did not invite to celebrate anything. And, besides, Fëanor’s face looked too grim and gloomy, as always since the King was killed.

Some guards walked toward the fires and lighted their torches, and Curufin looked at his father questioningly. Perhaps he would send the ships back to Araman? Would Fëanor send him on behalf of his House to lead them?. As the guards made their way toward the ships next to them, Curufin’s eyes turned to the full armoured noldor. Others were joining them, climbing down the slopes of the hills, taking their torches, moving to the beach, as a luminous and ghostly entourage, while a third group looked at them, mesmerized at the sight of a thousand lights dancing amidst the mist.

“Today, my son” Fëanor suddenly said, startling him, “Our House will prove to the Powers of the West that we shall prevail, it does not matter the price, as it does not matter Manwë and Námo’s curses and dooms. We shall forge our destiny while those who dared to question my rightful claim to the High Kinship of our people as my Father’s heir will diminish or perish, will return back to Tirion, in shame, or will die at the Ice. Take your torch, my son.” Curufin gasped for he understood, now, what those torches meant, what his father was about to do. But then he saw his brothers coming, and Maedhros leading all of them at the vanguard. Slowly, a wide yet cunning smile graced his lips. “As my Lord and Father commands” he said and, taking a torch, the Noldo lighted it and strode toward the ships.

“Now what ships and rowers will you spare to return, and whom shall they bear hither first? Findekáno the valiant?” his eldest brother asked. But Fëanor laughed, “None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!”. And Finwë’s son walked toward the ships as well. One of the guards handed him a torch and Fëanor tossed it and, after him, his fifth son did the same, and a thousand torches followed them too. A fiery glowing red tongue began to be lick the white swan-ships of the Teleri, consumed by the fire, and most of the noldor stepped backward, for the heat was almost unbearable. But Fëanor and Curufin and a few men stood at their place, for all of them were smiths, and thus they were used to the heat of the forges. “Now at least I am certain that no faint-heart or traitor among you will be able to take back even one ship to the succour of Nolofinwë and his folk” he said to Maedhros once they joined back Curufin’s brothers.

In silence, the eldest of the brothers stepped backward, turned on his heel and walked, alone, to the nearest hill, where he stood for a while, looking down, gloomy, at the burning ships, until he gave his back to the sight, as if he could not endure such a painful vision. Nor Maglor dared to approach him, despite he followed his dearest brother with his eyes, touched by concern and grief. Curufin’s gaze, too, turned to Maedhros, while a smirk played upon his lips. I am his son, Maitimo. I, not you, and his true heir, were not for our laws. Perhaps you are the elder one, but he never, never, will pride you as he is proud of me.

“Why do you torch the ships, Father?” Curufin listened, as if from afar, at Celebrimbor’s question, before to notice his son was by his side. “Nolofinwë and Findaráto cannot reach these shores if we send no ships to bring them here to Middle Earth.” Fëanor’s fifth son turned his head to him and met his child’s grey eyes getting wide and shocked at the sight of the beach and the burning vessels. Hardly would the young Noldo forget that night. The bay shined, its shores wrapped in brilliant red, bright orange, golden yellow, turning quickly into dark red shades again. The flames illuminated the sky for a few, short moments, before high towers of dark smoke rose from the beach to hide the stars, shaping threatening clouds over them. Carried by the western wind the ashes began to reach the gathered Noldor, forming dark grey whirlpools, a salty, damp and bitter wind that soon caught their throats and made them cough or irritated their eyes.

“Because they cursed our Lord’s name, which is my father and your grandfather. Because we cannot trust them, since they know no honour. And” Curufin made a pause and reaching out a hand, he put Celebrimbor’s hood on his son’s head and did the same to cover his own hair, black as the wings of a raven and now being tainted, slowly, in a dirty grey colour due the flying ashes. “And because we do not need them. We came here to revenge the High King, and to recover our stolen treasure. But mostly of them left Tirion seeking for their own purposes and goals.” He shook his head. “Nay, we do not need them, Tyelperinquar. All the glory will belong to us, and once we defeat Moringotto, the Black Foe of the World, and recover the Silmarils, we shall build a bright and white city as Tirion the Fair, more luminous, even. There, the Light of the Two Trees will bless the House of Fëanáro and our followers forever, while the cravens and traitors remain beyond the Belegaer, to live and crawl in the darkness, at the feet of the Valar, and as the slaves they are. They deserve nothing else.”

Still his gaze fixed upon the ships, Celebrimbor forced himself to look back at his father. “I understand”, he succinctly said. And, turning on his heel, the young elf wandered off the place and climbed up the hill to join Maedhros. They exchanged no word, but Curufin’s son took his uncle’s right hand and soon they vanished from his sight, as they walked back to the camp, past the hills. Curufin did not try to stop his son, but he could not help but notice, though, that the last touch of innocence his son kept within his eyes had left, and the former glint of youth happiness had been replaced by sorrow and pain and, perhaps... disappointment?. At this last thought he noticed, too, as if a dagger had pierced his heart, and wondered why his own son was closer to Maedhros than to his own father.

Yet, when Fëanor called for him and began to shout new orders, Curufin was ready, as always, to stay by his father’s side. Time he would have to speak to his son.