Curufin listens raptly. He does need Celebrimbor, and he no longer feels that he has to be the older and wiser one. Sometimes when his son speaks, he feels that he is in the presence of what his mortal friends might call an old soul: one who is inexplicably knowledgeable and sensitive to the nuances of love and connection with others, and with the earth itself.
He smiles a little when Celebrimbor gives him guidance. He does not think him presumptuous, and he is keenly aware of the love and concern that inspires his son's words. For his father, it is enough that Celebrimbor keeps on speaking, that he continues to articulate his understanding of the family temperament and of the nature of his own being -- and that he grows in confidence, as a result of this speaking and understanding.
"Did I ever tell you that in the last hour of my life, I rejected the Oath? Lúthien's son lay dead, and I was mortally wounded. I could have spent my last moments stripping poor Dior of his armor and searching him for the Silmaril -- at the time, I was pretty sure he was wearing it around his neck or had it stashed in a tunic pocket. But I didn't. Instead I crawled to where Celegorm lay dying and Caranthir was sprawled, dead, and I laid myself down beside them. I took their hands in mine, and I abandoned hatred. I chose love."
And he gazes into his son's beautiful silver eyes, and he sees the stubbornness and fierceness of Celebrimbor's love. And he knows, clearly, in what way they are akin, and how much so.
Under the trees at last, he can see why Celebrimbor wanted to come here. The dark green shadows of the living grove obscure the sight of the many-windowed buildings, partly because they obstruct it, and partly because the vibrant living energy of the trunks and branches and leaves cools what is left of his rage, soothes it as water soothes a thirsty throat.
"I hope so," he replies, softly, to his son's assertion that Curufin helps him stay strong. "I want to be of help to you. It is my joy and my consolation, if that can happen."
And he responds to that embrace, wrapping his arms around his son's shoulders in tenderness.
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He smiles a little when Celebrimbor gives him guidance. He does not think him presumptuous, and he is keenly aware of the love and concern that inspires his son's words. For his father, it is enough that Celebrimbor keeps on speaking, that he continues to articulate his understanding of the family temperament and of the nature of his own being -- and that he grows in confidence, as a result of this speaking and understanding.
"Did I ever tell you that in the last hour of my life, I rejected the Oath? Lúthien's son lay dead, and I was mortally wounded. I could have spent my last moments stripping poor Dior of his armor and searching him for the Silmaril -- at the time, I was pretty sure he was wearing it around his neck or had it stashed in a tunic pocket. But I didn't. Instead I crawled to where Celegorm lay dying and Caranthir was sprawled, dead, and I laid myself down beside them. I took their hands in mine, and I abandoned hatred. I chose love."
And he gazes into his son's beautiful silver eyes, and he sees the stubbornness and fierceness of Celebrimbor's love. And he knows, clearly, in what way they are akin, and how much so.
Under the trees at last, he can see why Celebrimbor wanted to come here. The dark green shadows of the living grove obscure the sight of the many-windowed buildings, partly because they obstruct it, and partly because the vibrant living energy of the trunks and branches and leaves cools what is left of his rage, soothes it as water soothes a thirsty throat.
"I hope so," he replies, softly, to his son's assertion that Curufin helps him stay strong. "I want to be of help to you. It is my joy and my consolation, if that can happen."
And he responds to that embrace, wrapping his arms around his son's shoulders in tenderness.