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My beloved Tyelperinquar,
I send you these, knowing well that you do not speak of him, nor wish to. But they are yours by right, and I do not think he would have wanted them lost to time, nor with anyone else. Keep them, or cast them away as you will... only know that they are yours (...)
The chest sat before him, silver gleaming under the dim candlelight. Among the weapons, the mithril armor and so many other things that were sent, it was this luxurious box that held Celebrimbor frozen in place. He did not need to open it to know what lay inside.
Curufin’s jewels.
His father had always worn a multitude of them—boldly, beautifully. From the eternal halls of Aman to the golden halls of Nargothrond, he had drawn every gaze, the light reflecting in the cascade of his black curls, his ornaments glinting like captured stars. A vision to behold, an image of sharp elegance, his presence filling a room before he even spoke—the kind of beauty, it was said, that could capture even a king’s heart.
And yet, there had been one time—just one—when that brilliance had dulled.
The memory was blurred at the edges, distant and hazy, like a dream half-forgotten. Celebrimbor had been small then, frightened, ripped away from everything he had known. The enemy’s golden eyes had held him fast, but it was not their grasp he remembered—it was the desperate strength of the arms that had taken him back.
Uncle Tyelko had carried him, swift as the wind, and then he was there—Curufin, falling to his knees, trembling, breaking.
"My Tyelperinquar, my child,"
His father had clung to him, his sobs shattering the silence, and Celebrimbor had only understood much later what he had seen that day. Curufin, stripped of all vanity and pride. His hair unkempt, his face weary, his haughty blue eyes hollow with sleepless grief.
A father who had nearly lost his son.
A father he had lost now.
Curufin had sometimes spoken—though rarely, and never for long—of the hollow ache left in Fëanor’s wake. It was a grief Celebrimbor had only half understood. Unfortunately, now he comprehended it wholly.
His hand trembled as he lifted the lid. The jewels lay in careful order, untouched since Curufin had last worn them. Diamond-shaped flowers, golden bees and so many more. His breath caught as he reached for one—a jade anklet, carved with intricate swirls of vines. His fingers brushed against the cool metal, and he could almost see it encircling his father’s ankle, catching the light as he walked with his usual grace.
His father, whom he had left.
His father, kinslayer, liar, betrayer.
One of the last things Celebrimbor heard of him was his despair at Nargothrond’s fall—until he learned his son had survived. Then, sorrow turned to satisfaction, and he took pleasure in its ruin, showing no regret for what he had done.
Finrod’s face emerged in his mind—golden and kind, his voice weighted with quiet wisdom. He had taught a young Celebrimbor much about honor and compassion. But the strength to choose his own path… this was his father’s heritage alone. And Celebrimbor had chosen. He had stood by Finrod’s side, and Lúthien had been the final breaking point—the last stone laid in the wall between them.
He knew it was time to let Lord Curufinwë go for good.
Curufin had never fought him, never begged him to stay. He was too proud. They both were.
The wounds were there, deep and unspoken. And now, there would never be a chance to heal them.
Curufin was always by his side. When he crossed to Middle-earth, he carried little Tyelpe in his arms. In Gondolin, he held his hand. In Himlad, he built gardens for him to play in. In Nargothrond, he brought him along—he never left him behind.
Wherever Curufin was, he was there. Always.
So how did it end like this?
His vision blurred. He blinked, only realizing when something cold struck the back of his hand—a single tear, vanishing into the gleaming surface of the jewels.
He let out a slow, unsteady breath, tracing the delicate carvings with his fingertip.
He had never thought to see these things again.
His grip tightened on the silver chest as he shut his eyes. He wished, more than anything, that he could see him one last time.
Just one last time.
But remember, his true legacy lies not in these things but in you, your strength, skills, and the fire of your spirit.
—Your father’s brother, always. Uncle Nelyo.