It was one of those days. Caranthir - Moryo, then, was barely into his teens. His mind was bent on the task. If he succeded at this, maybe something good would come out of it. Maybe he would be allowed to have his sword, at long last.

It was late. Turko, at the same age, had already got his. The only reason Ata was taking so much time in giving Moryo the chance to prove himself. The chance to be a real warrior was an honor the youth coveted like the awful Melkor would covet the Silmarils. He didn't lack courage, true. He didn't lack skill. What he lacked, was control.

From the moment he'd been able to walk, Moryo had been a dark-hearted child. He had hatred, true, for a lot of things, but he had love as well, tainted in jealousy for what he cared about the most.

There was a reason he ever despised his little cousin Angarato. It was simple. He was jealous. Deep down, he knew that Angarato Angamaite deserved to be loved as he was by the family. Hell. Even Carnistir the Dark relished him - and for some reason, he ever expressed it with in angrier spats than usual, almost taking vicious pleasure in tormenting the blond cousin. He perhaps thought that his own spats of anger outweighed what he called his cousin's "Unbearable Fuzziness." Maybe he thought that in his own, twisted way, he was participating in bringing him to a more balance way of looking at life.

Carnistir fancied himself a realist. It was a lie, like many other things, though it would become truer as he grew more seasoned, more weathered. Few things brought him joy - simply enough, he felt unloved. His father favored Kurvo. His mother favored his little brothers Ambarussa. Maitimo was ever the reasonable, calm brother who kept everyone in line, and Moryo was only the troublemaker, picking fights by boredom, angering who he could. He only ever felt truly happy in the midst of a good fist fight - something Findekano, perhaps did not share, as the beatings were repeated and painful. Of course, that also strained his relationship with his oldest brother. Doubtless, there was jealousy there as well.

It wasn't that Caranthir had no love for his family. In fact, he loved them more than was healthy. Too much, too intensely. It was a blessing that the little brothers were close to him - even if there were things he never quite understood, he was in the right place with Pytio and Telvo. With them, it was right - they were a well-functioning unit, based on teasing and protection. It was then that Carnistir was at his best - he was a true big brother. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that the twins tolerated him for being overbearing. Something that he was grateful for, even though he never said it - it was self-evident in the way he doted on them.

This all came together into one sole truth - the crux of the matter was, Caranthir was dark-souled because he wanted to be loved, to be accepted. He was dark-souled because his hunger for life was too great, and his loyalty to his family, too powerful. Nothing else mattered, but to be a son of Feanaro. Nothing mattered, but to be a Prince of the Noldor, and to be proud of the craft of his father, and of the beauty for the Noldorin women. He wanted to make them proud in turn, to be the best fighter there was. Such was his ambition, but he lacked control.

It was blood lust. It was the eagerness to battle. It was the delightful, inebriating sound of steel as it sang, as it clashed. It was the joy of slicing and dicing. When he was in battle, he fell to the gaiety of the situation, unleashed his own self-loathing and hatred, and projected it on his opponent - and there, he ripped to shreds the avatar of his own inexistent self-confidence.

That was the crux of the matter. And so he learned to project this onto inanimate objects - being a rampaging beast was costly, and though there was growing guilt for every decapitated adversary, that only fed his own self-digust, and in turn, it endangered the only thing that truly mattered: family.

When the time came, he would be ready. When the time came, he would be able to remain calm, at least in appearance. When the time came, he would withstand the test - if he could expulse all that was searing him inside, by anticipation.

There was a place where he'd prepared his own training ground. It was now a field of distruction, and the young Elf stood, sweaty and at peace, black hair lost in the dwindling winds of Valinor. He was ready.

Feanaro came. As always, Carnistir bowed to his father.

"Are you ready, my son?"

"I am ready, Ata. I will make you proud."

His father held the sword to him, by the blade. Moryo's hand fastened on the hilt with a practiced grip.

Moryo executed the complex figure - moving to a dance of circular movements, he demonstrated control that was uncanny for him. His father unsheathed his own sword, and without warning, charged.

The clang of steel resounded in the lonely plain of Valinor. The smile on Carnistir's face was a bit mad.

"So this is the test you would have me take, Ata."

Feanor did not reply - his movements were precise, deadly. His son moved in unison - to fight the man he adulated, that was the ultimate test. To fight him with uncanny skill, to be ready, if he had to, to strike to kill.

He knew his father expected no less, and when the bite of steel came to his thigh, he retaliated without even a second thought, barely missing his father's throat by a hair's width.

Feanor skipped easily out of his reach, and laughed, darkly. He dropped his weapon and waited, clearly expecting his son to charge his unharmed parent.

Caranthir's face was a fierce mask of battlement. His grip on the sword was strong - his knuckles were white. He looked at his father, and for a moment time stood still.

One.

Two.

Three.

At a sluggish pace, the hold on the sword's hilt loosened. The weapon fell on the green carpet of the glade silently.

Wordlessly, Feanor picked it up and gave it to his son.

Caranthir never parted with it for long, ever after.