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"No, Tyelpë. You will stay in Nargothrond and tell no one that you tried to reconcile with us."
"Atya—"
"If anyone asks, you will say that our deeds were so terrible they finally overcame your natural loyalty to your family and your love of your father." Curufin paused and took a long swallow from his goblet of Dwarven whiskey. "From now on, you will go by 'Celebrimbor' and use no patronymic, and you will curse my name if anyone tries to attach it to you. Do you understand?"
"I will not—" Tyelpë protested. He looked to his uncle for support, but Celegorm only shook his head and turned away.
Curufin slammed his fist on the mantel. "You will. This is my last instruction to you as your father, Tyelpë. You will do as I say. "
"Atya, why?" Tyelpë asked, bewildered. "Did you have a vision?"
"I should have sent you away long ago," Curufin muttered. "Why are you here at all; I should have left you with your mother—"
"I chose to come with you—"
"You were a child! You didn't understand what you were choosing—and I feared to leave you within reach of those who might seek revenge—it may be too late to save you from the doom of our family, but you will never call yourself one of us again; you will not use our names or mark your work with our star, do you understand?"
"Atya, what did you See?"
Curufin shook his head and pulled frantically at his hair. "No. No. I cannot speak it. To whom would I pray to spare you? The Powers and the One alike turn away from us." He took a deep breath and pointed to the door. "Leave us, Tyelpë. You are not my son."