Chapter Text
The ancient family estate at Formenos creaked and groaned against the winter winds howling down from what had been the Helcaraxë, but its thick stone walls, recently restored, held the storm at bay. Inside the library a fire crackled in the brick and tile fireplace, adding warmth to the cold blue light of the Fëanorian lamps mounted on the bookshelves. The room smelled of paper and fire-warmed stone, just as it had Ages ago.
Tyelpë sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace with his bare feet resting on the raised hearth and Annatar asleep in his lap. Silver hair, soft as it had ever been, tickled his chin, but the body in his arms was small and frail, nothing like the powerful forms his dearest love and greatest enemy had once preferred.
A particularly vicious gust of wind caught the chimneys and the fire shivered and sparked, making Annatar start in his sleep. I should ask Atya to check the roof, Tyelpë thought. He would do it himself, but he couldn't leave Annatar alone for more than a few minutes. "I know you don't like the cold," Tyelpë murmured. "Maybe tomorrow we can--"
Someone tapped on the library door twice, paused, and tapped twice more.
"Come in, Atya," Tyelpë called softly. "He's asleep."
Curufin slipped into the library and eased the heavy door closed behind him. "Fucking wind tried to send me back to Mandos, but I got the south cottage roof patched and it should hold until spring. How was he today?"
Tyelpë sighed. "He knew I wasn't Morgoth."
"So better than yesterday?" Curufin struggled out of his snow-laden greatcoat and boots and hung them by the fire to dry.
Tyelpë wrinkled his nose at the smell of wet wool. "Mostly. But he's having trouble walking again."
"Comes with the cold, doesn't it?" Curufin asked. He sank into his own chair and pulled a silver flask out of his pocket.
"I think so. I'll check my notes--Atya, that smells even worse than your last batch. Did you lose a weasel in the mash?"
"Don't think so, but I'll check in the morning." Curufin winked at his son and glugged down half the flask without so much as a wince. "It's not as good as that stuff Moryo used to get from the Naugrim, but it does the job. Want some?"
"Absolutely not," Tyelpë said. "And they're Khazâd, not 'Naugrim'." The only time one of their Mírdain colleagues used that ancient slur in Narvi's presence, she punched him hard enough to send him flying across the masters' dining room and almost out a window. Annatar had laughed himself to tears.
Despite everything, Tyelpë missed that laugh.
"Always so polite," Curufin said. "Are you sure you're really my son?"
Tyelpë rolled his eyes. "I look exactly like you, Atya. Last time I visited Tirion, strangers stopped me in the street and yelled at me because they thought I was you."
Curufin took another pull from the flask. "If they really thought you were me, they would've thrown rocks at you."
"Loose rocks? In Tirion? How dare you accuse the city council of such negligence."
"I fucking hate that place," Curufin muttered. "Should have set it on fire before we left."
Annatar shifted in Tyelpë's arms and whimpered softly. His broken, fingerless hands twitched and clutched at Tyelpë's chest.
"Shh, shh," Tyelpë murmured. "Atya, pass me a blanket?"
Curufin fetched one from a pile by the fireplace and gingerly tucked it around Annatar. "Never thought I'd pity him, of all people, especially after what he did to you, but…" he pointed to Annatar's mutilated hands and shuddered.
"I know," Tyelpë said. His own hands flexed involuntarily, as though reassuring themselves of their wholeness. "I don't think there's anything worse the Valar could have done to him, and to do it when he can't even understand why…"
Curufin turned away and stared into the fire. "Your grandfather was right to name the Moringotto their kin."