Chapter Text
Curufin shuts the door behind him silently. His father is in the middle of writing a letter, seated at his well organized desk. Although it’s made of fine wood, it’s a simple design that wouldn’t be expected of the outspoken often ostentatious crown prince. Curufin thinks that a lot of things about his father would confuse and surprise most people. He prefers simple efficient designs, he doesn’t prefer gold to silver and he hates wearing more than three pieces of jewelry at a time. Most of his royal portraits are lies, gilded and overly complex and dripping with jewels. It’s only fitting for the greatest jewel smith to be covered in them after all. He also hates to be interrupted and he’s been in a year-long bad mood, so Curufin waits patiently. He counts to ten-- twice over in his head and finally his father's neat signature is inked at the bottom of the parchment before Curufin dares to clear his throat.
“Have a seat Curvo.” Fëanor doesn’t take his eyes off the drying ink.
Curufin can practically taste the waves of nervous energy rolling off his father swallowing up the breathable air in the room. The ominously large padlocked chest in the back corner of the office doesn’t help matters. Curufin knows what it holds: the jewels. Fëanor folds the paper into thirds with swift perfection and slides it into a crisp envelope.
Curufin hasn’t moved.
“I need to request something of you Curufinwë.”
“Anything father.” Curufin nods and swallows deeply. He’s never been afraid of his father, and he isn’t now. Nervous. Anxious. Worried. But not scared.
“Your brother. He worries me with the company he keeps. That vala and his maiar friends. I do not trust them. I adore him as I love all my children as you know my son, but I fear that if the current political situation comes to a head, he will be put into an unfortunate situation, he’ll be forced to choose. I would rue the day I watched one of my children be corrupted by the ways of an unseemly Vala.” Fëanor stills his hands under his chin before continuing, “and I have to admit that you have more influence over him than I. He trusts you.”
Curufin’s eyes widen as he stills his lips from dipping into a deeper frown. Turco.
“Please, Curufinwë, I implore you, go to him. See where his heart lies. Don’t let him be swayed, to be tempted away from us, to fall or be corrupted by the false gods. I fear my heart can’t take losing any more family.”
Curufin’s chest aches. He hasn’t seen his mother in three seasons since she left for her father's estate at the end of last winter. The stilted sound of his father’s voice ringing around in his near empty wine glass still scratches at the forefront of his mind.
She loved me once, with everything she had, and I her. But she doesn’t now and never will again.
Curufin misses her deeply but the thought of losing Celegorm makes his heart catch and stutter in chest.
Does she still love us, father?
He freezes with his heart in his throat. The barely formed idea of Celegorm leaving them makes him desperate.
Has she stopped loving me?
Curufin returns to the present, “Father please, speak plainly; what would you have me do?”
“Go to him. Reason with him Curvo. Sway him if need be. Do not let him be lost to us. Do you understand? Can you help me, Curufinwë?”
Curufin swallows his panic. Turco. Leaving. He nods and tries to clear his mind. Celegorm was always his exception to the rule. Anyone else would be wrapped around his finger within minutes but never Celegorm. He could always stay a step, or five, ahead.
“Father, I- I’m doubtful of my influence over him, but I will try and not let you down. For the family.” Fëanor nods in acceptance before Curufin flees with a parting embrace.
Curufin would usually dress in his finest silks and exquisite gold and gems to intimidate and impress anyone else. He would preen for hours at his mirror, braiding his hair just so until every hair is in place. Curufin knows that nothing like that will work on Celegorm. He would never be impressed by finely embroidered silks, expensive satin or tailored leather. Gems are something any of his brothers could have and Celegorm chooses to wear none unless it’s demanded for court appearances. Material things aren’t impressive. Curufin considers his brother’s heart. Where does it lie. The forest? What in the forest calls to him...
Curufin knows his brother isn’t expected home for at least another day. He pads down the corridor to the edge of Celegorm’s empty chambers wearing only his thick bathrobe. Everyone else is asleep, insomnia has its claws in him and rattles around in his brain like the dull rumble of thunder. He’s leaving you. Think of something or he’ll be nothing more than a memory. Curufin pushes the door open, the aroma of everything Celegorm hits him all at once, he shuts the door and breathes it all in, delightfully overwhelming.
Might as well start on Father’s task.
He doesn’t light any lamps or candles, no need when he already knows where everything is. He trails his fingers on the neat, unused desk. Celegorm hates writing letters. He prefers to speak in person, to use his voice to delight, sway, lull, and charm. Celegorm has a lovely voice, Curufin freely admits that he loves his brother’s voice. Not meant for singing, but wonderful at telling tales. When they were growing up, Celegorm had been the favoured storyteller in the family. Curufin wonders idly what story Celegorm would choose to tell him if he were here now.
One of adventure? One of war and heroism? One of love-- or loss?
Curufin picks up the spare bow pinned between the large armoire and desk. It had been a gift from their grandfather, their mother's father. It was somewhat plain, but finely crafted, thick and sturdy, much like Celegorm himself. Curufin worried his thumb over the wood before returning it. The hunt. It was what ran thick and burning in his brother’s veins. Was that the only thing that burned within him?
Curufin trails his fingers over every surface he can touch. As if the wood and dust will leap into his head and tell him what to do, the story of how to save himself from an unbearable loss. His fingers graze the stack of unused paper. The near-new quill and ink jar. Over every surface of worn wood furniture. Celegorm had insisted that every piece remain and not be replaced when asked-- he refused new items if the old one’s were still properly functional. The bed in the centre of the room, however, was the large and luxurious exception.
Curufin had seen it on many occasions of course. Celegorm had cut, and crafted the frame himself. The linens were the most luxurious thing in the room. Soft and supple to his touch, Curufin couldn't help himself. He sat on the edge of the bed and fisted handfuls of the satiny fabric. He shifted back and rested his shoulders into the plush, down-filled bedding and let his mind wander.
What made Celegorm choose these exact linens. Did he prefer the pale grey over other colours for a reason? Was the down an indicator that he got cold while he slept? Had he spent his nights here alone, had he been kept warm by more than the bedding? Had anyone else ever slept under these sheets? The thought of Celegorm’s hot hands over the small waist of a maiden in this very spot made Curufin’s mouth water. His saliva was like bitter acid on his tongue. The spike something akin to disappointment-- not quite jealousy-- wasn’t something he was accustomed to feeling. He pushed it out of his mind and wondered if she would be tall and silver-haired like him? Was Celegorm a selfish, vain lover? Or would he tend to her needs first? Curufin drags his manicured nails over the cotton wondering if anyone else had done so in the heat of ecstasy.
But-- what if there had been no maiden at all. What if Celegorm had brought a man to bed. Just the thought of some strange male in this bed, demanding Celegorm’s intimate attention makes jealousy, true hot burning nasty jealousy seep deep into Curufin’s bones. Would it have been someone in Orome’s party? Another hunter? Is that who Celegorm would abandon him for? Curufin’s breath quickens as he considers it: that Celegorm may have taken a lover-- a fellow hunter, someone like himself instead of-- Curufin clamps his eyes shut and stops the thought before it can fully form. His brothers fingers combing through long dark hair isn’t something he needs to dwell on.
He may already be lost to them and that’s why he has spent so much time away. Curufin considers that someone else may be the reason he could count the hours he’s seen his dearest brother in the past half year on one hand. Five if he was being generous, counting the time they had sat in complete silence during meals or the forced times they were brought together for family affairs. His eyes burn considering that there may be nothing he can do to keep his brother.
You were supposed to be mine forever.
He can see it now; life without his brother and it’s all wrong-- upside down and empty. Curufin opens his eyes and looks around, Celegorm has been gone for nineteen days now. What if-- no. He won’t consider that Celegorm may not return at all. It picks away at the edges of his thoughts anyway.
Instead he gives in. He wonders what it would have been like instead-- instead of a strange hunter. If it had been him in this bed. Naked, touched and desired by Celegorm, his bow rough hands all over him. He grits his teeth and ignores the tight flutter in his chest.
Fuck-- when had Curufin let Celegorm stitch himself into his heartstrings like this. Just the thought of their fingers twined in this bed makes shivers roll up every notch in his spine. The tendrils of anything more erotic would surely wreck his body.
He closes his eyes and lets his mind settle as he drifts to sleep.