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doodle-pops · 9 months

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Hate You, Love You, It's The Same Thing

Curufin x reader

Warnings: none

Words: 1.3k

Synopsis: Curufin can't tell if he hated or loved you, but all he knew was that he felt some attraction towards you.

[Q]: Nai elen siluva omentielva — may the stars shine upon our meeting.

Curufin can’t stand you at all.

The way you smile, or how your eyes crinkle at the corners to produce an extra sparkle in your eyes, the little dimple at the corner of your lips or the way you toss your head back when the joke escalates, or how you would cover your mouth with your right hand—always your right—to hide your smile you once admitted to being embarrassed about; he couldn’t stand you. The longer he looked on, the more agitated he grew—it was the growth in the audience you attracted. Every time you stepped out into public, there was always a crowd, you simply couldn’t have attention on you at all times.

He rolled his eyes when you grew flustered at his older brother's jokes. Maedhros and Maglor, the famously attractive Noldorin Princes. To think that Curufin, after being labelled as a replica of his father would also be considered one of the most handsome elves, was a laughable joke.

Atarinkë. Call me mini father and I don’t even sport a single portion of his looks. If I did, you’d think I would have also attracted many people like him.

He continued to look on as you lifted the wine glass to your lips and took in a deep swig before sighing at the relief you must have felt from suffering a dry throat. All that laughter you had engaged in during the festival, and it wasn’t even nightfall yet. Teleperion was now coming into full bloom, overshadowing Laurelin. He scoffed again. Even Caranthir approached to offer you another glass of miruvórё when he noticed yours reducing; you had all his brothers wrapped around your fingers, and what did you do, flash a smile. Curufin knew that you knew what you were doing, and he hated it.

In fact, it’s not that he couldn’t stand you, he loathed you. Yes, he did.

Huffing and puffing in the deepest corner of the garden, he observed couples stumbling about the ground with unkept clothes, rumpled in areas that spoke of their activities or attempts. Intoxicated he could tell, others merely frivolous, and in his heart, it stung him. It pained him to know that everyone else, even the ones he mocked and considered unappealing and unapproachable were busy being swooned and courted while he remained untouched and unsuited.

Humiliation was not a pleasant and welcoming emotion in the House of Feanor, his father would be quick to inform him to dismiss such feelings. But as much as Curufin attempted to cast it aside, it came crawling back to him like a leach. The sluggish sensation creeping through his veins and pumping its deprivation through his bloodstream forced him to empty his glass and reach for another as a worker made a quick pass through the layout of the grounds.

“Oi, háno! What are you doing sulking all by yourself in a corner? It’s most certainly not like you!” Tyelko’s booming traversed the area, sending shockwaves from his volume of speech. Only Tyelko would ignore his volume and manners, and annoyingly call out his favourite brother without the thought of being counselled.

If Curufin was aggravated, he became infuriated when not only the rest of his brothers cast their eyes upon his shadowed figure, but you. Your kind, sympathetic eyes held his in an unbreakable trance. He felt himself slowly slipping on the ice, but landing on green, luscious grass. He felt himself being transported into a windy field with small rolling hills in the distance, short-kept grass, flowers in their full bloom and radiant abundance and you standing there with the wind in your hair and a gorgeous smile. He could feel how cool the summer breeze was, dancing across his skin and planting kisses as their travel. It was years since the wind had ever felt so divine. As you smiled, there was nectar pouring into his mouth. He couldn't spit it out, even if he wanted to; he didn't want to, he enjoyed the succulent richness of its taste.

He definitely hated you.

“I think he’s broken.”

“I haven’t seen him this lost since we left him in the forest that one time.”

“Think he’s probably drunk?”

“Have you ever seen him drunk?”

Gapping at you the longer your eyes held each other’s gaze, he silently grounded his teeth. He hated you, he chanted, but the butterflies in his stomach and the warmth spread through his skin, starting from his heart sang a different tale. Sharp silver-grey eyes continued to stare, and even you were sucked in the longer your heart swelled. Curufin didn’t know how long he stood there in silence gawking at you, but it was enough to become unconscious to your figure approaching his. The crowded silence had died in the background and his brother’s voices had been shut out the moment you left their company to join his.

You stood before him, shorter than most but tall enough to equate his height. His eyes were still locked onto your figure, not realising that you had already crossed the grounds and stood before him, a foot apart. Curufin was still lost in your world, your paradise, refusing to believe that you truly possessed what he already knew you did. He didn’t want to leave, but he also wanted to upkeep his notorious attitude of being unbothered and disinterested. That thread was growing thinner by the second and his patience becoming precarious the longer he spent time in your presence.

But it took a smile from you and a simple greeting to make him shut down.

“Hello, my prince. Nai elen siluva omentielva.” You greeted politely with a curt bow of your head and your hand extending outwards. The same smile he claimed to hate was accompanied by the greeting. You were angelic, or some deity that did not exist in his world or any other realm; too perfect for him to reach out and embrace.

While he thought of himself as high and mighty for bearing his father’s name and the status of a prince, he felt humbled. The genuineness you held in your eyes stripped him bare of all fear and worries that you would judge his character; the one he fought to uphold in honour of another and not himself. You deserved to be treated with the utmost care.

“G-Greetings,” he stuttered with a slight crack in his voice. His eyes made a rough dart behind you and noticed his brothers all gathered to observe. If you weren’t present, he’d toss his glass of wine on them, but then it would be a waste of good mead.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you…looked lonely and I wanted to ask if you would like a stroll in the garden or nearby the lake?” Why didn’t you say he was staring? He was most obviously staring at you; anyone on the premises could see that he was in fact gawking at you.

His palms grew sweaty, and his throat tightened. He hated you, so why would you with your beautiful wine-stained lips and starry eyes ask to spend time in his company? There was a thump in his heart. His tongue grew slack and spoke what he refused to acknowledge sincerely. “…Yes,” he curtly replied. A rosy blush had spread across his cheeks, and it was not from the wine. The unversed unorthodox feeling flowing through his veins was unlike any other he’d experienced. A whisper or two may have slipped into his ear growing up, but never detailed or spoken about on universal levels such as currently.

Uncoordinated body and trembling limbs reached out for you to take—tales of being a courteous gentleman—and almost accidentally spilling your wine. It was a first step into making a move and rewiring the oxymoron his brain and heart were performing, getting them to be on the same level. But even the prince knew that it was a challenge to accept when he detested and craved you at the same time, and a challenge he adored. You gave him a breath of fresh air and something to look forward to, a love unlike any other he would ever experience.

To hate is to love, they are two sides of the same coin. Ah, yes! He definitely hated you.

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curufiin · 1 month

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I Wish I Broke Mirrors

“Instead of promises, 'Cause all I see is a shattered conscience staring right back at me.”

5.7k / warnings: graphic burning, passing smut, one curufinrod story / also on ao3

The first thoughts that entered Curufinwë’s mind when his wife bore him his heir was not one of love or affection. Instead, he found himself looking down at the newborn, still slick with blood, and wondered to himself: is he supposed to look like that?

He was smaller than expected, but no less pink and plump than any other baby, like some defeathered bird that seemed strangely small without its plumage. In fact, he could recall himself thinking that his new son seemed a little… pathetic. A year of work, of panicking and confusion and sleepless nights fretting for the welfare of his wife and his child, of wondering what the hell he was thinking when he pledged his love, everything led up to this moment, and he expected to feel appropriately amazed, like he had made some grand creation beyond the skill of even the Valar. Instead, he felt… maybe just a little more stressed than usual. He did not like all this blood.

Curufin called for the servants to clean up the mess, and promptly left the room without comment.

Later then, when the child was finally cleaned, wrapped in cloth, and no longer screaming with the same ferocity as a rabid animal, he finally held his new son in his arms. Something stirred within him. Was this how Fëanáro felt as he held him? It was only then that he whispered to his son, neither of them truly knowing what he was saying, “I will protect you, my son. I will love you unto the end of Arda.”

***

“No, Tyelpë- wear your gloves. Hold the hammer like this.”

“I don’t want to wear them, Ata-! My hands get sweaty!”

Curufinwë sighed and rubbed at his temples. “You have to, or you’ll get hurt.” However, it was clear from Tyelpërinquar’s growing pout that his son was not going to comply any time soon. He set down his hammer atop his work bench, took off his gloves and his apron, and bade his son to come to him.

Even when he was younger, when his walk was more of a waddle than anything else, when he would point at something and shout either “Ata!” or “Ammë!” until someone understood, Curufinwë could see that his son was destined for greatness. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if his son was born under the full bloom of either of the trees like he was, and no Vala had come to fetch him away to study under their wing (he was still quite upset at Tyelkormo for seemingly abandoning his family for so many years without even so much as a half hearted note that he’ll miss them). If he wasn’t a prince, some passersby might even say that his son looked just as unremarkable as he did when he was born, but Curufinwë knew he saw something they did not.

There was a glint in little Tyelpë’s eyes the moment he was first brought into the forge, eyes wide as he peered over Curufinwë’s shoulders at Fëanáro hammering away at a new necklace. When he was given the smallest chisel to hold, Tyelpë laughed with glee as if rejoicing that his grandfather somehow knew that he would carry on their legacy as crafters. He told Curufinwë that when he became of age, and Curufinwë knew Fëanáro had a questionable definition of “of age”, that he was to be taught the art of jewelry making immediately.

He will make history, Curufinwë thought idly to himself on a past balmy afternoon, watching his son run around the front yard. His name will be known across Arda. It must be.

He lifted Tyelpë up into his arms with a grunt. “You’ve grown, haven’t you? You’re heavier than I remember.” A kiss was pressed to his son’s forehead, and he earned a giggle in response. “My little Tyelpë has grown so much, yet he still does not know the importance of workplace safety.”

“I don’t like wearing gloves,” Tyelpë protested again, laying his head against the nook of Curvo’s neck. “I’ll be super careful. I won’t get hurt.”

“You don’t know that,” a soft chuckle came from Curufinwë as memory rushed over him. He was still young, too young to know that sometimes uncomfortable things are necessary. He did not think the metal would still be so hot. “Even when I was being careful, I’ve hurt myself. I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Tyelpërinquar.”

Tyelpë’s face, without warning, grew dark. “Will I die if I get hurt?”

Curufinwë froze. “What?”

“Am I gonna die, Atar? Like… like grandpa Fëanáro’s Ammë did.”

In truth, he did not know what to say. Each word he tried to send out felt stuck, like an insect that flew blindly into a spider’s web, and no matter how hard he tried, the only sound he could make was a vague sputter. And Tyelpë’s next reply— “that’s what happened, right? She got hurt. And she died. And Grandpa Fëanáro is still upset about it.” —did not help matters at all.

“No,” he finally forced himself to say, holding his son tight in his arms. “You won’t die. I’ll make sure of it- I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

Much to his pleasure, Tyelpërinquar seemed content with his reply. He sat his son back down, and knelt to his level. “Put your gloves on now, will you?”

***

Curufinwë frowned at the taste of blood in his mouth as he sheathed his sword. Before him was a bloodbath— bodies of Noldor and Teleri strewn about like hay in a barn, pools of red staining the sand and washing into the Sea. It felt like yesterday when his father perfected the Silmarils, only to lock it away within the depths of Formenos, and for Morgoth to steal what was supposed to be their family heirloom, killing King Finwë in the process.

The word still felt foreign on his tongue. Kill. Before now and save for Míriel, no elf had died on the blessed lands, much less from another’s hand. Yesterday (or what felt like yesterday), Morgoth slew Finwë in his own house. Today, they are the ones who would take lives.

He wiped away a thin streak of blood trailing down his cheek from a small cut, ignored the dents in his armor and the gash on his shoulder blade, and tried to make out names amongst the pile of bodies as he walked along the shore, hoping to whatever vain power watching that he would not be able to recognize any of the faces. “Tyelpë?” Calling out with a trembling voice, his speed walk broke into a run. “Tyelpë?! Where are you? Tyelpë!”

Pain gripped at his chest, the distant fear that he would find his son dead encroaching ever closer with each moment spent searching. He didn’t know what he would do if his son was dead. He didn’t want to think about it. So, he did not think, only kept running, pushing past those who were still well enough to stand.

“Curvo! Come here!”

Between his own panic, the tears that stained his eyes making it difficult to see, and the ever growing ringing in his ears, Curufinwë ran blindly towards the voice, with little idea of who it belonged to, or whether or not he simply imagined the voice in the first place.

For once, Tyelkormo’s bloodied figure was a sight for sore eyes. Behind him was a smaller elf clad in light armor, clinging to his arms and trembling. “Tyelpë,” Curufinwë reached forth, scooping his son into his arms, and held back a sob as best as he can. “Oh- oh, my son, my gem… don’t cry, I’m here. You’re going to be alright. I love you.” He glanced up at Tyelkormo, who had backed off away from the pair, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest. “Was he hurt?”

“No,” his brother muttered in response, and herded them both onto the ship where the rest of his brothers and his father waited. Tyelpë was lead below the deck to check for injuries (a demand from a paranoid Curufinwë), while he and Tyelkormo stayed atop.

Now that they were out of earshot, Tyelkormo finally allowed his disdain to show like foul, noxious blooms. “Why the hell did you drag him along?”

“What are you trying to say, Tyelkormo?”

“Curvo, my fucking god. You brought Tyelpë with you? What the hell was going through your mind when you thought that was a good idea?”

A sudden rage flared up in Curufinwë, and he made not even a half hearted attempt at restraining the flames of his fury as it erupted full force towards his brother. “You would want me to abandon my own son, Tyelkormo?” The icy sharpness of his usual anger was all but gone. He wanted to strangle his brother, throw him overboard for even daring to suggest that he should’ve left Tyelpë behind with a woman who did not even care enough to follow him into exile out of love for her own son. “What would you have me do then? Leave him to a hoard of traitors who only wish to sit idly in their homes, praying to powers which will not answer our cries?! Is that what you want me to do, leave him to fend for himself on lands that do not care about him?!”

“Curvo, for fuck’s sake! He’s barely an adult!” Tyelkormo fired back with equal ferocity.

Indignation coursed through Curufinwë’s veins, his fists wound tight beside him, teeth gritting together with enough force to crack stone. “Forgive me, I did not know you were his father,” he hissed. “Why, yes, I shall trust your wisdom on how to best care for the boy, when you have only ever raised a dog, one that you received as a gift because you abandoned us.”

He ignored the dozens of eyes staring at them, ignored the soft whispers of judgement spreading throughout the boat. If they think him a monster for not wanting to leave his son to the false gods that have only ever tried to cage them, then so be it. Only a father would understand the sacrifices one must make for their child. Descending down the steps to the cabins, Curufinwë sat down beside Tyelpë, arm wound around the other’s still trembling body as his son sobbed lightly into his chest.

“They’re- they’re dead, Atar,” Tyelpë whimpered pitifully.

Curufinwë sighed. “I know, little one. But think of them not as could’ve been husbands and could’ve been wives, do not ponder the lives they might’ve led. Perhaps in another life, the Teleri might’ve lent us their aid in our time of suffering, and none of this would’ve happened. Here, now, however, they are traitors to our cause, do you understand that?”

A slight movement against his chest alerted him to his son’s nodding. Curufinwë smiled. “Good boy. Remember, let not your friends seek your good graces, only to spurn you when you seek their aid against a greater enemy, for evil thrives in ignorance and inaction.”

Tyelpë sobbed into his chest, and that is when Curufinwë knew there was nothing else for him to say. With a kiss to his son’s head and soothing whispers, he carried Tyelpë and laid him down on a bed. “I love you, my gem. And I’ll never, ever leave you. I promise.”

—

Ash and fire were all Tyelpërinquar could smell on his father for the next several weeks. Curufinwë first wailed when he returned to Hithlum— he did not know whether for his own wounds, or for the loss of Grandfather.

He often tried to avoid his father’s tent, especially when he first returned; even looking at his father’s wounds made him grimace. The way Curufinwë stared through him, however, told him that he hardly registered the burns. He was crying for Fëanáro. And upon hearing how Grandfather had passed, Tyelpë knew all too well where those burns came from.

Days later, the screaming came. He watched Curufinwë writhe on the bed as Tyelkormo did his best to relieve his pain and heal his flesh, shouting with delirium about leaving the burns below his neck alone. He said something about how wanted the scars to remain, as a reminder to himself what the war against Morgoth had cost them, yet Tyelpë could not help but wonder if whatever displays of symbolism and reverence was worth the mind numbing pain his father must’ve felt, for each instance came the time to change bandages, Curufinwë would scream and scream until his throat was raw and tears flowed freely from his eyes.

The next time he visited his father was during one of his pain induced deliriums.

“You came…” Curufinwë muttered weakly, reaching out with a bandaged hand.

Tyelpë swallowed. He did not consider the fact he would actually have to converse with his father when he decided to stick his nose in the tent, much less the fact that Curufinwë would no doubt begin a long lecture about his failure to see him, his lack of manners, and whatever other scoldings he had in mind. He forced himself to still his heart and mind. It would be improper to leave before he’s even greeted his injured father.

Instead of Curufinwë’s typical rhetorical questions that always paved the way to a scolding, he was met with a chilling word from the other.

“…Father.”

If he hadn’t wanted to run before, Tyelpë certainly did now. It frightened him to know that even as Curufinwë laid on his bed, bandages soaked with blood and pus, all he could think of was Fëanáro. Fëanáro, who had already been claimed by the fires of his own soul, the same fire that burned his flesh.

Curufinwë shifted on the bed with a soft moan. “I- should’ve… been behind you,” he uttered, staring beyond his not-son at the cream stitchings of the tent. “I should’ve. I should’ve done so many things.”

He blinked at ‘Fëanáro’, who stood tall and silent and unmoving, a great marble statue with eyes downcast in judgement. “I know you… cannot forgive me. I cannot forgive me either. We were so… so close…”

“But you- you will forgive me,” he turned away then, and Tyelpë found himself releasing a breath he did not know he was holding. “I will not… let the Enemy possess what is yours by right, Father. I will avenge you. I will.”

The very air itself seemed to choke the life out of Tyelpërinquar’s lungs, and Curufinwë’s words were like great black claws squeezing ever tighter around his throat. He could not stay here for another second. He did not want to stay here for another second. Tyelpë turned then, and ran, forcing his eyes close so that he would not think about the last phrase out of Curufinwë’s mouth:

“For you, Father… I must.”

***

It was almost a relief seeing Finrod again; it was some return to normalcy, and Curufin knew that his cousin was still grieving over the loss of his brothers to the fires of the Black Foe. But had it not been for them, Finrod would’ve lost a nephew as well— Orodreth was tattered and beaten when they carried him from the battlefield, but not dead, and under the gentle hands of Nargothrond’s healers, he would recover in no time.

Finrod had thrown a great feast at their coming. To call it lavish would’ve been a great understatement for the table laden with piles upon piles of food and drink, the sparkling chandeliers crafted of crystal and casting brilliant rainbows across the great hall, and the very centerpiece of it all, Finrod himself.

He shined as if he was Laurelin personified, his golden hair gleaming from the firelight, and on his neck was clasped the Nauglamír, equally beautiful as Finrod himself. Curufin noted between sips of wine that his cousin looked remarkably like one of the Ainur, so breathtaking in his visage and his pale robes. His people loved him, and he was fueled by their adoration, focusing that energy into ever grander projects that turned Nargothrond from simply a hidden city to a rival of Tírion itself.

And so, Curufin indulged himself like he hadn’t done so for so many years. The food was excellent, as was the wine, but he found himself wanting something else altogether. His gaze landed on his cousin, and he sighed.

They came to the halls seeking respite, but Curufin suspected respite was not all that Finrod seeked. The party carried on just fine without them; Celegorm always knew how to please the crowds, and Celebrimbor seemed to have found himself in a passionate discussion about the architecture of Nargothrond.

“Funny that we always seem to run into each other,” Finrod laughed, face flushed from alcohol. He held another glass of wine in his hand. “I thought I’d never see you again, and I had… made peace with that. I’m glad to be proven wrong.”

“As am I, Ingo.” Curufin’s heart fluttered at the nickname; how he had dreamt of saying it for years upon years now, praying to unanswering Valar that he may see his love one more time. Perhaps the Valar do still watch over him. He may never know- but he knows he cannot let this moment go to waste.

Their lips met in a clandestine kiss, Finrod’s hand reaching up to cup his cheek and pull him closer as he set the glass of wine aside. It was enough to bring tears to Curufin’s eyes, tears which he eagerly blinked away as he drank in the taste of Finrod, of wine and sweet nothings and daydreams came true. He did not protest when Finrod tugged at his hair or sank his teeth into his nape, and only voiced concern when they mutually felt the need to undress.

“What if- what if someone sees…?”

“Let them,” Finrod said dismissively, tracing the shape of Curufin’s hips.

Curufin stiffened, but bit back further protest. He was not afraid of someone catching them in the act. Well, he was, but one could hardly blame them for being carried away by a night of passion and drinking. What he was truly afraid of, however, was the hideous truth that laid below his silken robes and gloves.

Black robes slid off his shoulders, but the skin beneath was not smooth and perfect as it had been all his life. The shocked silence from his cousin answered all of his fears.

“Curufinwë,” Finrod started, struggling to tear his eyes away from his cousin’s now naked body. He so wanted to touch the scars, kiss them, tell them that no marring of his body will ever change the love he held for him, but Curufin had always been the finicky sort. Sometimes, he did not know if there was even a correct response. “Curvo… what happened…?”

Did he even want to explain? A shaky breath took hold of Curufin, and he stared down at his arms and chest, and the scar tissue that pulled at and contorted his skin. Even now he could still remember the pain, the smell of burning flesh, the zeal in Fëanor’s voice as he urged them to avenge him, and as he cursed Morgoth with his dying breath. He took a deep breath, and affirmed the tale that most took as legend. He spoke of the ship burnings, how Amrod had nearly died, how Fëanor could hardly accept resting a night before launching his assault upon the gates of Thangorodrim. Then, Fëanor charged forward by his lonesome, and from behind, his sons could see naught but whirling columns of flame.

“We brought him to the slopes of Ered Wethrin so that he may look upon foul Thangorodrim one last time. I wished to hold him, for he was dying, and…” he held out his arms with sorrow. “His flames are now part of me, and we are together forever.”

Unease gripped Finrod’s heart as a serpent coiled around its prey, strangling it slowly before devouring it whole. For all the years he had known Curufin, never had he done something so drastic in the name of his father. Curufin avoided pain where he could, and he still remembered distinctly his alarmed cries when, as a boy, a wound had turned to a scar on his body, as well as his frantic attempts to remove it. Now, standing in front of him was an elf who would let the flames of Fëanor consume him whole— as if he was not really looking at Curufin at all, but an apparition of his father.

“I understand if you find me undesireable,” Curufin muttered, “horrific, even, like some beast created fresh from the Black Foe’s mind.”

He would’ve continued, but was stopped short by Finrod’s lips upon his own, his wrists raised to his side and held against the wall. He could hardly comprehend his cousin’s love for him now, much less believe it in earnest, if not for each kiss after the other that was pressed against him, from his cheeks down to his neck, trailing down his scarred chest to his arms, and a final one on the palms of his hands.

Finrod’s breath was hot against his skin. “I’ve loved you, Curvo,” he said dreamily, letting go of the other’s wrist so that he may brush a thumb against his cheek. “I always have, and I always will, and no scar of yours will ever change this. I love you.”

“Ingo…” he willed his voice to remain steady, yet even with all of his efforts, he still could not drive away a faint waiver in his tone, nor could he stop his tears from falling. “Ingo- Findaráto. I love you too.”

There, against the walls of Nargothrond, he took him, a union in both mind and body. There could be no doubt that somebody saw- the rumors came far swifter than either could prepare for, yet each time he was asked, Curufin merely responded with an uncouth smirk. He did not care about their gossips, nor how they sneered at his love for his own cousin. He only wanted this, wanted Finrod, to stay forever, and he promised to himself that he would do whatever in his power to achieve it.

***

“What do you mean, ‘I will not come with you’?! I am your father, you wretch! You are my creation, you are of my flesh, and you will follow my command!”

Curufin’s screams of fury rang clear as a bell tower across Nargothrond’s town hall, and while he was typically a person who carefully groomed his self-image, their ejection from his cousin’s kingdom meant he no longer had any use for upholding his reputation. They saw him as a usurper, and try as he might, the people had already poisoned themselves with this perception of him and his brother.

He had hoped that Celebrimbor had not fallen for their lies as well.

Celebrimbor stood in front of a gathering crowd, his silver circlet almost reminiscent of a crown, sword sheathed by his side, his armor gleaming under the torchlight. Did he think himself some champion of the common folk? “No more of this, Father.” His brows furrowed as he spoke, the same way that Fëanor’s would when he was set on a path, whether that path led him to good or evil. “I will no longer let myself be a part of your atrocities, even if I cannot sway you from your Oath.”

“And that oath should’ve been your oath too, had you not been too much of a coward to swear it.” Curufin hissed, letting his words contort into the shape of a terrible beast, its fangs dripping with venom. “You come from the line of Fëanáro, or have you forgotten that too, whilst you mingled with the craven kind that is Findaráto’s people? Has their treachery taken hold of you as well?”

“You speak of treachery, yet who was the one that wove terror into the people’s hearts with words that reeked of the poisons of Morgoth? Was it not you, Father, who whispered of fallen kingdoms, of the Black Foe’s wrath?” Even as his son spoke against him, Curufin could not help but feel a misplaced sense of pride. His son had come so far, from a miserable whelp to a true elf lord.

Yet, as swift as the pride swelled into existence, it twisted into a terrible wrath that only further stoked his fire. For who was the one that raised him? Who brought him to Beleriand, away from the Valar who could not even Aman from one of their own? Was it not him who taught him the art of the forge, the art of words, how to lead and inspire? “You forget your place, Tyelpërinquar. You would be *dead* without my guidance.”

“Your guidance led me into a kinslaying, Father. I will argue with you no longer— I have made my choice, and if you still hold any love for me in your heart, you will accept my choice.”

Pain gripped his heart, and Curufin could not tell whether it was from rage or from regret. He lunged forth, stopping just short from where his son- where what was once his son stood. “Fine, you ungrateful wretch.” A hand shot forth through the air, grabbing the eight starred brooch that was pinned onto Celebrimbor’s blue cape. With a violent yank, Curufin pulled it from the cape with an all too satisfying ripping sound. “Then you will be my son no longer, and you shall know no love from me, nor from the House of Fëanáro.”

Celebrimbor did not respond.

“You will come to regret this, Tyelpërinquar.” From where Celebrimbor stoof, Curufin seemed no longer like his father— darkness clouded his eyes, and malice poured forth like a tidal wave from his words. For a moment, he felt no different from an agent of the Enemy. Was this truly the man who had raised him? Was this what he had called father?

Curufin snarled as he mounted his horse. “Mark my words.”

***

If Celegorm found it difficult to pretend that he did not care, then Curufin, he realized, found it utterly impossible. Celebrimbor’s abandonment of him weighed hard on all the brothers, him included. He still had fond memories of play-fighting with his nephew using sticks, teaching him to fish, watching him grow from Curufin’s little prized jewel to an elf prince worthy of a throne like any other. But Celebrimbor was not his son.

His brother hid it well, at first. Any mention of Celebrimbor was simply brushed off, and aside from a family brooch they had no use for, it was as if his son was simply erased from his mind, like he never existed in the first place. Then, the mere mention of his name would set him off. The spare brooch disappeared. Eventually, Curufin began to unravel.

It began as any other day for Celegorm: he checked their food supplies, and was dismayed to find it lower than he had hoped. Though the great forests of Ossiriand proved plentiful in game, he still was unused to hunting without Huan, even if he loathed him for his betrayal in a time of need. Even so, hunting still brought him content and a brief respite from their pitiful situation, so he took it upon himself to restock, and pondered if he should bring along the twins.

His ears twitched at a foreign noise. It was not an animal cry, nor did it come from the direction of the wilds, but that of one of his brother’s tents. Celegorm stood, setting his bow aside, following the noise until he stopped before the tent of Curufin.

No doubt his brother had finally realized the futility of trying to ignore the pain of his loss, but Curufin was never pretty when grieving. The events with their father were still fresh on his mind after so many years; one does not simply get used to the screams in the night and the phantom-like wailing. As much as he did not want to subject himself to another shouting match because he could not figure out exactly how the other wanted to be comforted this time, he still pushed aside the flap of the tent, and stepped inside.

A sob came from the far end of the tent, and Celegorm’s gaze followed the sound until it finally landed on his brother, curled atop a crude bed that was nothing more than large animal pelts atop sheets made of leaves. “Curvo?” He approached the other slowly, with the same caution that he would use when approaching some small, flighty game.

Curufin turned on the bed to meet his gaze, and only then did Celegorm see just how small his brother seemed now, compared to his normal self that stood tall and proud and spoke with the utmost confidence. Even when Curufin was lying through his teeth, and when Celegorm knew he was lying through his teeth, there was always a small part of him that believed his brother’s words. If he said they could defeat Morgoth with only the swords by their sides, then oh, did a part of him think they truly could. They were invincible once.

“Tyelko,” he sat up, rising to his feet, stumbling forth and pulling Celegorm into a loose hug. More sobs spilled forth from him, “Tyelko…”

Celegorm did not know what to say. While he could sway crowds to his will with frightening skill, and his skill with words even rivaled that of his late father’s, he had always found himself at a loss when the words that he needed to say were comforting. Whereas speaking to a crowd was little more than a comfortable stroll along a clearly lit street for him, trying to quell the sobs of his little brother was more like stumbling through a darkness that swallowed him whole. He pulled Curufin close, a hand brushing through his dark curls.

“He’s… gone… he’s gone.” Curufin’s distraught voice only confirmed his suspicions: the loss of Celebrimbor had finally pierced through his defenses, and he was breaking into ten thousand pieces, pieces Curufin did not even bother with picking up. “Tyelkormo, I’m- I’m never going to see him again.”

“You don’t know that,” Celegorm tried, though they both knew it was a lie. The best case scenario, at least in his mind, was for them to never cross paths with Celebrimbor again— because that meant Nargothrond still stood, and as long as Nargothrond stood, Celebrimbor was safe.

As it often went with Curufin, the reassurance only made him feel worse. “Don’t lie to me,” even if he somehow did cross paths with Celebrimbor again, Curufin found the concept all too daunting. Would Celebrimbor even want to see him again, when he was now nothing but a disgraced shell of his former self, when he had fallen so far beyond irredeemable that even his son, who stood with him through kinslayings and burns, ambushes and assaults, would abandon him?

Celegorm sighed in defeat. There really was nothing else he could say, was there? Nothing that would change the fact that his nephew, Curufin’s son, was likely gone forever, nothing to change the fact they are now nothing more than dispossessed wanderers roaming the forest without aim.

“I’m going hunting,” he said, at last, if only to break the uncomfortable silence that had formed. “Our foodstuffs are getting low.”

“Wait- let… let me come. Please.”

He looks his brother over. Especially now that they no longer lived in the comforts of a kingdom, coddled by servants and their status alike, Curufin looked entirely unsuited for the rigors of the hunt. He was visibly paler compared to when they still dwelled in Nargothrond, and his skin clung tightly to his bones, like he had not eaten for the past week. Knowing his brother, it may not be entirely far from the truth.

Pity filled Celegorm’s heart. “Curvo… you need to stay. You look terrible.”

Their exile had not been kind to anyone. Celegorm himself suspected he had lost some of his muscle mass since the failed union, primarily due to their lacking food supplies, and an air of despondence followed them wherever they camped. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Please, eat something.”

He tried to turn and leave the tent for his horse, but Curufin’s grip around his waist only tightened, his face sinking deeper into his chest as he began to sob again. “No! No, don’t you go anywhere- anywhere without me, do you understand?! You’re… you’re the only one I have left, Tyelko- don’t leave me.”

“I won’t, alright? I’ll come…” he paused in the middle of his sentence. ‘Home’ didn’t seem like the right word to describe their shabby encampment. Home was something that ceased to exist long ago. “I’ll come back in no time.”

“Swear to me. Swear to me you’ll never leave me.”

“I swear, Curvo.”

At last, Curufin (though reluctant as he is) released his brother, his gaze casted towards the ground where a rug should be, but a deer hide stood in its stead. “…I’m coming with you anyway. You need someone to stop you from getting distracted.”

Celegorm sighed, though he could not help but let a thin smile show through. “By Oromë’s will… fine, since you clearly trust me that much.”

—

Blood stung Curufin’s nose for a second time. It was not the foul smelling black of Orcs, but the ruby red of Elven blood, metallic in scent as it gushed forth from his chest.

Across from him laid Celegorm, slain by the miserable child that was now the king of Doriath— was, until he too fell from a final thrust of Tyelkormo’s blade.

He promised he would protect his son, yet Celebrimbor would not even utter his name.

He promised Father he would recover the Silmarils, but he had utterly failed, when it was so clear in his sight.

He promised Findaráto his heart, yet sent him away to his death.

With what strength left in his arms, he pulled his brother’s corpse close to him. Celegorm promised to not leave, and here he was, dead.

And Curufin felt so terribly alone.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion #curufin #celebrimbor #celegorm #finrod #silm fic #curufinrod #tyelpe #tyelkormo #atarinke #finrod felagund #writing #c+c week 2024 #hi it’s the fic i spent like a month on yay #‘wow it took you almost a month to write 5k words?’ yeah i know #also listen i know this heavily features curufin and tyelpe instead of curufin and celery but #it’s mainly about curufin and his promises. ok. so i’m counting it

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