1. The Death of Atarinkë- Gift for maeglin
Prompt was;"I'd like something about Curufinwë (Atarinke, not Feanaro) in Valinor - preferably before the tragedy at Aqualonde."
The Death of Atarinkë
"Let me try, Grandfather"
Mahtan looked down at his grandson, seeing a bright light in the half grown elf's eyes "What did you say, Atarinke?"
The boy went to answer but frowned and stamped his foot "I'm Curufinwë , not Atarinkë."
Mahtan sighed, bitterness thick on the exhalation. With great deliberation he set down his hammer and tied up the billows before walking around to the other side of the anvil. He stood in front of his grandson and stared at him.
"Do you care so little for your mother that you would cast off the name she gave you?"
The ellon didn't even blink "All the others use their amilessë, but I want to be different. Even Mother's name for me acknowledges my likeness to Father, and I choose to use his name above all others for that reason."
"In doing so you ostracise those of your kin who your father is bitter with, indeed you even push your brothers away..." He frowned down at the other elf "You are the fifth son, Atarinkë, not the heir, do not boast of rank above your abilities..."
"I do no worse in holding my father name than Finwë did naming his other son."
Mahtan held his temper, but it took effort "Cease this anger... It avails as little as that of your father on the wedding of Indis." Slowly he turned back to the anvil and began to pump the billows again, raising the heat of the fire " I will teach smith craft to my Atarinkë, but not to Curufinwë." He waited for a long moment, but his ears only heard the crash of overturned metal and the slam of the smithy door.
The master-smith sighed again, this one tinged with despair. His eyes didn't see the flames that leapt in the forge fire, though they did see flames. The flames of an angry fëa, burning its hröa to bitterness, vengeance twisting all the fine skills of art into skills of violence and war.
And now my grandson follows the same path, drawn like a moth to flames,ensnared by his father, binding himself by fëa to some horrid, fiery destiny.
He shivered despite the heat and began to hammer at the metal, smashing it flat again and removing the tîw from its front. It was meant to be a Begetting Day gift, but now there was no reason to finish it.
For Atarinkë was dead.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.