If you're still doing the ficlet shuffle thing, feanor? Or curufin, or celegorm if you want more options :)
Our hope is the desperate die wise
Claim your ghost, know the wine for what it is
In the end the ships burn. In the end he pretends he doesn’t mind. In the end, he doesn’t let himself think it is better this way because they are safe.
(In the end, he tells himself that his brother would never risk the Ice.)
He says it is better this way, for what would the host of Nolofinwë have to offer them beyond ill-will and complaints? They had not the oath to bind them here, and they would return in shame and carry on in their half-innocence, back to their lives.
He laughs as the ships burn, presses his hand to his stomach and pretend the ache of lonliness doesn’t trouble him. Pretends not to see Nelyafinwë stand aside. Tells himself it is the right thing to have done and any thought that sounds like for reasons you will never admit to he pushes away, grinds it into the snow and the dirt.
What will become of us
Thrown against stone, we’re hard to get happy
All water knows leaving, hearts bleed their changes
There are bruises at his throat. He presses his hand to them and watches his brother stalk, sulking, hands clenched in fists at his side.
The air tastes of smoke, thick and choking, filling his mouth, his lungs.
“Tyelko,” his voice is a croak, low and hoarse and pained. He doesn’t know what else to say. They are their father’s sons, apologies even now, even to each other, are nothing more than empty words, empty lies. They had made their choices, and he has never backed down before now.
(If his thoughts drift to Tyelperinquar, wondering where he is, whether he’s safe, he doesn’t let it show)
“Now what?” Tyelkormo asks and Curvo merely shrugs, rubs at his throat and ignores the way his brother’s lip curls at the motion.
Now what. Worries his lip between his teeth and breathes in half-imagined ash.