"Finwë the Dark", Atar had named him after he was born, looking at the mop of ebony hair surging on top of his head, so black that it could have been an extension of the Void; so black that looking at it, one could drown.

One could drown in the fourth prince's eyes, too, for they were stormy grey with a centre that darkened and darkened until it was pitch black: windows to the inner workings of his mind, ever silent, every secret, ever painstakingly accurate.

Atar understood what it meant to be Dark. Atar knew; for he mastered all deeds he'd done, and all works he'd made, and the fourth prince was one of his works, forged of questions and defiance; questions he maybe had, defiance he maybe felt, yet hid, or veiled with a second layer of negation.

Morifinwë was Fëanáro when he lost his mind. Morifinwë was what Fëanáro strove to be, if only the chains of leadership and diplomacy could fall off his wrists and ankles. Morifinwë was a beacon to light Fëanáro's hidden shifts of mood, the invisible frown of his features, his hidden displeasure in works smooth and perfect as he gritted his teeth and searched for another error that could be corrected.

Darkness hid errors and veiled endeavours, and mocked the eye, and sought a deeper understanding. Darkness, in itself, held no purpose and sought no victory, and those who tried to bend the Void to their will fell and shattered.


Ammë joined the choir of witty synecdoches by calling him Red-Faced: whatever that meant, however was that to be understood.

He used to dwell on that, for years – how one brother was called Well-shaped, the second a Cleaver of Gold, the third a Hasty Riser, and then there was he –


Red, in itself, was a noble colour; it figured on Father's sigil, it made paintings vivid and flowers rare, it made her mother stand out as an exceptional beauty among Elvenkind. It was also the colour of blood and suffering, before blood and suffering even existed among the fourth prince's notions. Yet red, upon the face, was a bad sign – in any case, that of uncontrolled emotion, or stirrings of inappropriate behaviour, his father's counsellor oft said, and raised his finger: often smudged with ink, yet never red.

He had tried to control it, sometimes; yet his blood was quick to rise, making Tyelkormo unworthy of his name, and it wrote ANGER upon his face with large scarlet letters.

His eyes stung.

Maybe Ammë was a witch, and this was a curse.


His face remained red for a long time after the ships had been burned, Father killed, the brother he'd idolised taken away, the brother he'd scorned sat upon an imaginary throne with an imaginary crown, because the crown had burned with Atar, burned to ashes, although silver, to his best knowledge, did not burn.

In the strange tongue of the Moriquendi, his name had an edge to it, and was deep and dark like the hole in his chest where the heart should be, and the echo of its beat. Caranthir. The name was like a sealed castle, the sort where wolves go to gnaw on bones. It also spoke of authority, somehow. And it also was true, for his face was now more frequently made red by indignation, incompetence or the sort of sorrow that burns your insides and angers you instead of making you despair.

The fourth prince had sometimes considered to take another name, maybe a new one, maybe one that did not shallow his being down to shards of colours or shady symbols.

He had though about some possibilities, wasted a couple of minutes on this, then laughed.

He did not need a name.

His person did not need elaboration.