Silmarillion Fulfillment

**Another 30 Days of Headcanon piece from awhile back.**

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He had always been the watchful one, the best at reading people — better even than Maedhros, who was born to be a king. He knew what you were supposed to say, what the others wanted to hear (and even if he didn't always say those words, he _could_, if he wanted to, and that was the important part).

It was laughably easy, sometimes, to manipulate others.

Even his own brothers — Celegorm, in particular. They fell into their roles so easily, so naturally, and sometimes Curufin wondered if he should have been born the older brother — or the eldest. After all, he was Atarinkë, and his father's fire was mirrored most strongly in him.

There was no resentment, of course, but the thought was there, always: _if I was the eldest, if I was the heir…_

Of course, he had to stop there, because being the heir meant — what? That his father would have to die in order for him to come into an inheritance, of course. Wasn't that the definition of an heir? And that was unthinkable, impossible. Death wasn't something that could touch his life.

(Later, he would look back on that — that naive, childish thought — and almost laugh, and almost mourn for what he had lost since then)

He drew his sword first, that night under the stars when the words rolled off their tongues and the darkness seemed to throb in response to their Oath — _this is right_. It was all he believed, in that moment. This was his father's Oath, and it was his Oath, as it was all the sons'.

His father was the only one he had never been able to twist to his will, the only one that he was honestly in awe of (and the only one he feared, sometimes). Maybe it was just that they were too alike.

(He would do anything for his father, he knew, and that was a good thing — or at least a _correct_ thing)

His father came to him first of all the sons, as they prepared to set out across the dark water. And Curufin threw the first torch onto the deck of the white ship as Maedhros pleaded with their father to stop, to go back for the others. He watched the flames rise, a great crackling noise as the ship timbers groaned and snapped, and knew it was too late to go back — but it had been too late for a long time, and this was still the right thing to do.

Too soon, there was battle and smoke and death once more. And Fëanor rushed ahead, reckless battle light in his eyes, and Curufin thought, _It's okay, he's Atar, he's untouchable, and he will win us victory all on his own_ — and he let his father out of his sight.

It was Maedhros who noticed first, Maedhros who gave a great cry and summoned the brothers to their father's aid — and it should have been Curufin, and if it had been maybe they could have gotten there in time, and maybe it wouldn't have happened as it did. But even as they reached their father and bore him away, off the battlefield, there was thick red blood bubbling from his mouth, and his armour was charred black, and every movement seemed to cause him pain, though he never cried out.

That was what Curufin remembered most, later — that silence, and then the words, hissed out from between clenched teeth. And he took the Oath again willingly, eagerly, though he could hear the hesitation in the other voices.

_I'll swear anything, Atar, anything you want, just — just don't die._

But as soon as the last words faded, Fëanor closed his eyes, head falling back into Curufin's arms. For just a moment, Curufin felt his father's chest rise and fall in one last breath — and then his outline seemed to brighten, and fade, and fall away. Curufin was left holding an armful of hot ash, dark grey staining his arms like blood, wind whipping it up into his eyes, mingling with the tears that had begun to fall. He reached out, tried to hold on to his father, and caught nothing but ashen flakes.

He thought that was the end, the worst that this world could give them — what could come after the death of their father? How could the world possibly continue on?

But it did, of course. And he if he had thought that was the worst, the world had much to teach him. They had come to Middle-earth to recover the Silmarils, their family's pride, but it seemed the longer they stayed, the more they lost. A brother, a crown, their lands. And more than that, something he couldn't quite put into words — but it was something in the look in his cousin's eyes as he betrayed him to the darkness, the hopelessness in his brother's empty face after the silver and blue banners foundered, the way none of them slept soundly anymore.

Sometimes, he would stand in his forge, over the fire, and wonder why he couldn't seem to create anything anymore, why everything but the most simple of tools seemed imperfect. He wondered if it was his punishment, for failing to fulfill his Oath, after so long.

He saw so many dead in his dreams, but the only face he could remember clearly was his father's.

_I tried, Atar_, he told the empty air. _I'm still trying — I'll never stop trying, it was my Oath too—_

So of course he supported Celegorm's furious desire to attack Doriath, because it felt like the one thing he could do to keep it all from falling apart. And the others, no matter what they said aloud — they knew they had to go, too.

(He wanted to believe that the Oath could be fulfilled, that it had not been in vain since the very moment they took it, because he still thought it had been _right_, and it was all he had left of his father, and if this was not true then he would have to accept that everything else had been a lie, too.)

The enemy fought well, and he realized that he had become far too used to seeing red blood stain his sword, feeling his blade pierce elven armour. The dying spat at him with their last breaths, called him kinslayer, cursed him and his brothers and his father. He wanted to tell them the truth — the sons of Fëanor had had no more of a choice than did those who fell defending their homeland, because what they did was the only thing they could do.

They surrounded him, bright swords flashing, and his one, distant thought was: this is how Atar died. He tried to fight them off — tried, and failed, like everything else in his life — and felt their blades slam home, felt the spread of warmth and sudden, blinding pain.

He refused to cry out.

They left him there to die in a pool of his own blood, and he wanted to force himself to his feet and continue to fight, because maybe this would be the time they succeeded, and maybe he could see a Silmaril again before he died, but he just couldn't.

_I couldn't fulfill our Oath._

_I'm so sorry, Atar._


End file.

Silmarillion, Family