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Let it never be said that Curufin did not care for his family.
For he did not kneel to anyone he did not respect, and with his family's history with the Valar, neither he nor his brothers would ever be found prostrate before any of them.
Yet, here he was. Kneeling before Námo, so low his brow touched the cold and pristine floors of the Halls.
"I beg you, my Lord," he squeezed his eyes shut, for the words felt like acid in his mouth, "let me see my son."
Námo did not speak for a long moment. He stared, deep and searching into Curufin's fëa. Curufin did not know how long he had been on his knees before the Vala, beseeching him. It could have been days, even years, and he would not have been able to tell. Time was fickle in the Halls, and the only way those inside knew of how long had passed since their arrival were the tapestries that Vairë wove for them to look upon their loved ones and lands.
Fëanor and his sons had their own special prison in the Halls, though the Valar refused to call it that. Never to leave unless granted an audience with Námo himself. The only reason they did not now reside in the Eternal Darkness was because not all of them had died. One still lived, though no one knew of his whereabouts or how he fared. Makalaurë had not been seen by anyone in over an Age. Curufin presumed only the Valar knew, and would not tell them unless he began troubling the lives of the Eldar again.
"Why should I?" Námo eventually said, once he had found whatever it was he was looking for inside Curufin. "Telperinquar has renounced the line of Fëanor long ago. That would include yourself, father or no."
"Words said in anger, my Lord," Curufin's voice, embarrassingly, wobbled. Laurë would have laughed. "We had many a spat in the days of Beleriand, and in Formenos before. But I have seen in the Lady's weavings that he still bears love for us, and though hardly believable, even pride. The symbol of our House is carved on his every work of craft. If he had truly meant to be rid of us, he would have created a new signature for himself, instead of the one myself and my father used."
The Lord of the Halls was silent. Curufin took it as a queue to continue.
"I have also seen..." he swallowed thickly, "I have seen what has transpired in Middle-Earth. I know of the horrors my son has faced, and I seek to see him not for simply a reunion, but to offer comfort and love, if he is willing to receive it. Despite the many squabbles of my family, in the end, they do not matter. We love fiercely, loyally, and for eternity. This you well know, as my brothers and I would not have recklessly followed the will of my father so long ago.
"Please, Lord Námo, let me see my son. I give you my word, I shall not attempt to wander the Halls, or try to escape, or even speak to anyone else. I just wish to hold my child."
Námo stepped forward, and tipped Curufin's chin up with a single finger, staring into his eyes. "And why should I trust your word? You, Oath-breaker and Kin-slayer?"
Curufin met his gaze pleadingly. "Our actions were foul and horrid, but has my family ever proven otherwise that we are nothing if not true to our word? Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, that is what we swore, and we upheld it, no matter how much terror and pain we wrought. No matter how much the Oath slowly killed us from the inside, rotting our souls and corrupting our minds."
"Hm," the Vala released him. Curufin kept his head raised. "Perhaps. Though, I still do not understand why you believe that of all the elves in my Halls, Telperinquar would wish for your company? Your comfort?"
"I am his father."
His answer was met with a raised eyebrow. "Eöl was the father of Lómion. The familial tie did not change the hatred the son held for the father."
"Let us test it, then," Curufin proposed desperately.
Námo looked back to him.
"Take me to my son. Should he turn me away at the door, I will leave without protest and never return to him unless asked for. If he is willing to receive my company, then I shall stay until you deem I should return to my father and brothers."
Once more, all was silent. So soundless, yet so loud with anticipation of an answer that Curufin felt the childish urge to cover his ears.
Then, "Alright. But should he turn you away, you will not return unless he requests to see you. Outcast though you are, I am not so cruel to hinder a tortured soul from whatever they need to heal."
Curufin let out a breath he did not know he had withheld. "Thank you, Lord Námo. Thank you."
The room his son had been given was a lavish one, and much nicer than the simplistic and boring look of the one that Curufin had been staying in for several thousand years. This was a room meant to give comfort to the one residing in inside. Silk bedspreads, soft rugs decorating the floor, lightly colored walls.
Tyelpë himself sat in the very far corner of the room, behind his bed, and visible only by the head of dark hair poking out above, a stark contrast from the beige wall behind him.
At the sound of his door opening, his gaze shot up in fear, and his breathing quickened. Curufin ached to reach out to him, but it was not his decision.
"Tyelpë," he croaked, emotion and grief overwhelming him.
"A-Atya? You're here?"
Curufin blinked the moisture from his eyes, smiling hesitantly. "If you would have me."
Tyelpë slowly rose from his corner, walking at a snail's pace to cross the room. His hands trembled as he reached out, but Curufin did not move to meet them. He would not startle his boy so.
One hand cupped his face, thumb wiping a lone tear, and then Tyelpë began to cry.
He collapsed against Curufin's chest, arms thrown around his shoulders and face buried in the hollow of his neck as if he were still a small child. "Atya!"
Curufin wrapped his arms carefully around his son, as if the slightest pressure would break him. Tyelpë held no such concerns, and clung to Curufin tightly, as if he would disappear at any given moment. The sobs that wracked his chest tore at Curufin's heart, and no matter the ill-will they had spit at one another so long ago when they parted, he would always love his son vehemently.
"Oh, yónya," he whispered into Tyelpë's hair, rubbing gentle circles on his back. "Oh, my boy... Shh, I am here. No tears, it's alright. You are safe. You are loved. I love you."
"I thought you had gone to the Darkness," Tyelpë cried, "I thought I would never see you again!"
"Not yet," Curufin shook his head, kissing his son's temple. "We have not left the Halls yet. One of us remains in Middle-Earth still, and until your Uncle Kano joins us, we remain here. I am here for you."
The last Curufin had seen his son in Vairë's tapestry of his son in his quarters, Tyelpë was naught but a bloated corpse stuck through a wood pole, being marched out to war as though he were a mere banner. His body had been mutilated beyond recognition, arrows embedded in his chest and sides, like the orcs had decided to have target practice before battle. It had sent a wave of anger and sorrow and hatred through his body so intense that he'd ripped the weaving to shreds with his bare hands, and destroyed nearly half his room in his furious rampage.
A careful trust Tyelpë had placed in Annatar, hoping to find a friend who loved the forges as much as he did, and friendship grew between them. Curufin had watched in horror as the Enemy had invaded his son's realm without issue, despite the warnings of Erenion and Artanis. He had watched love fill his son's eyes over time for his newfound friend, and though it was heartwarming to see him as exited as an elfling once more, it was overruled by the heightening terror for his child who was unknowingly in the presence of the Second Dark Lord.
He swore many Ages ago that he would never again utter any sort of Oath, but in that moment, he vowed to himself that no matter what, Þauron would never again touch his family. Not his brothers, nor his cousins, his brother's foster-children he'd never even met, and especially not his own son. He did not care what he had to do to make sure of it, did not care who he would have to fight or even kill, the Enemy would not lay a hand on his family again.
Tyelpë pulled away only far enough to press their foreheads together, his eyes closed even as tears were still dripping from them. Curufin wiped them away with gentle brushes of his fingers, and did not move from his son's hold.
"I'm so sorry, Atya." Tyelpë sobbed. "I've missed you so much. I am sorry. For my words, and my actions, and everything."
"You have nothing to apologize for, yónya," Curufin whispered. "It is I who should be sorry. For all of our arguing, I never should have left you. It was your choice to leave, and you had every right, but I should have sent word more often. I should have checked on you, sent you my love and my support. I was no better than Finwë with my uncles. You deserved better, and I am sorry that I was not."
Tyelpë shook his head, his hair flying all over with how wild and desperate the movement was. "My last words to you were of hatred and ire I did not mean. By the time I wished to apologize, it was too late, and you had already gone from the world. I feared I would never get to tell you. It was one of the greatest regrets of my life."
Curufin ran his hand through Tyelpë's hair to untangle it, smoothing it down once more. "I am here now, and I will tell you as many times as I need that you have nothing to be sorry for. No matter how hateful your words were, there were truth to them even if I did not see so in the moment they were said. You are my son, I should not have retaliated as harshly as I did. I inherited my father's temper, as did you, but it was no excuse for me to speak to you the way I did."
His son sighed, and leaned his weight against him, curling back into his former spot and clinging tight once more. "I am glad you're here, Atya."
"As am I," Curufin breathed, relishing in holding his son once more. It had been far too long, and too much time spent in suffering solitude. "I have spoken with Námo, and we came to a compromise. Though I cannot permanently leave my confinement and cannot stay with you forever, before the time comes when I must go to the Darkness, if you ask for me, he will bring me to you, or you to me. You are not alone, yónya. I will be with you as you heal from your suffering. And I promise to you that no one will ever hurt you again."
Tyelpë did not respond with his voice, but the way that he sagged in relief against Curufin's chest said more than enough.
Curufin kissed his son's head again, and held him tight─not to be suffocating, but to give security. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Atya. When you return, will you give Grandfather and my uncles my love as well?"
He smiled. "Of course, Tyelpë."