Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion. Lindalórë is mine, and so is the second spontaneous baby.
Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë, Celegorm x Lúthien (one-sided), Beren x Lúthien
Characters: Lindalórë (OFC), Curufin, Celebrimbor, Celegorm, Lúthien (mentions of Beren, the Valar and Ilúvatar)
Warning: almost canon-compliant AU, OFC, OMC (unborn), premeditated sort-of-almost-kidnapping, unrequited love, insomnia
Song: Anakin's Dream
Words: 1,259
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snore (intransitive verb): to breathe during sleep with a rough hoarse noise due to vibration of the soft palate
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/snore
The most difficult part of sleeping in the same bed as her husband had at first been his obnoxiously, abrasively loud snoring.
She imagined it was much akin to hearing a fierce mountain cat snarling down upon its unfortunate prey. Those first few nights in her marriage bed, Lindalórë had found herself unable to sleep for the steady, powerful vibrations rumbling through her husband's chest and shaking her down to her bones. No amount of comfortable down pillows (over her ears or otherwise) could quiet his ear-shattering racket enough for her to find rest.
Yet after a week, she found it endearing.
After a month, she could not sleep without the cacophony of sound buzzing in her ears.
And now that he was gone, she could not sleep at all.
Bad enough that she was approaching her ninth month of carrying a child alone without useful hands to reach up to the top shelves of the kitchen cupboards for midnight snacks, without a soothing deep voice murmuring words of love against her belly, without clever hands to massage the vicious ache from her back and feet each evening.
But now she could not find rest in her own bed.
It was a large bed, spacious and soft, the mattress full of the fluffiest down that gold could purchase. "Nothing but the best for my darling," Curufinwë had purred in her ear, his voice full of husky delight and heartbreaking affection. He made sure the sheets were the gentlest, smoothest of silks and cottons so her soft skin could not be bothered. He made certain the curtains were let down at just the correct angle each night, so that, come morning, the fiery glow of Laurelin would not wake her at an unholy hour in the morning.
So many things she had relied upon him for once, and until he had vanished she had not even realized what an essential part of her life he had become, like a necessary limb that, in its absence, left her crippled, unable to function as an individual.
Without him here, her bed was not welcoming. The silk sheets were cold and barren, as uninviting as the hardwood floor. They smelled like soap and sunshine instead of masculine spice and smoke from the forge. Many a night she found herself shivering, arms wrapped about her waist as it grew rounder with child, and desperately she wished for the comfort of his rippling arms and deep snores against her smarting back.
It was too silent. So silent it seemed as though she were the only soul left in the world.
Alone. Bereft. Cold.
All too often, in the darkness, Lindalórë clutched at her nightgown and wept bitter tears at her fate. And then, spent from weeping and choked with despair, she desperately wished that the deep, rumbling purrs would rock her into pleasant dreams.
But if wishes were horses...
And every time, she awoke to an empty bed and terrible peace.
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Many a year later and a great many leagues across the sea, another lay awake.
His nest was neither soft nor silken. It was a mere bedroll laid upon the rocky forest floor. There was no pillow to be found to cradle his head and naught but the distant, dwindling fire to warm his chilled body. Though he had slept upon the hard ground--rocks digging pits into his back--many a time before, he found no rest this night. And it was not because of the unfortunate ubiquity of sharp stones.
Across the fire, his brother was sleeping soundly. At his side, his son had settled down for the night and had fallen into Lórien's embrace almost as soon as his head had hit the padding of his fur jacket. Somewhere between them, the lady Lúthien was probably having sweet dreams of prancing in the woods hand-in-hand with her handsome mortal lover, rosy-cheeked and laughing and too in love to see the lurking monster staring her straight in the face.
Tyelkormo was in love with her.
He had been for a long time, ever since his first glimpse of the Princess of Doriath. But seeing it on his brother's normally sneering, poisonous features was like blow to the gut. The sickness of infatuation, of helpless, guileless affection, was slowly drowning his brother. Soon enough, Tyelkormo would think of nothing but her--if that was not the case already. Of her hair. Of her lips. Of her eyes. Of her voice whispering his name in the darkness, a small ray of hope leading his way out of madness. Hopelessly ensnared by a venomous daydream, by false redemption.
It was painful to watch. Seeing that look on his brother's face was like being stabbed in the gut, like having that serrated knife twisted and turned until he just wanted to roll over and beg for death if only for the agony to cease tormenting him.
Because he knew how Tyelkormo felt. He knew. He understood. And he knew how this situation would end, knew that someone would end up hurt.
He wouldn't wish this hurt on anyone, because he could swear it slowly killed him a little more each day. Each moment. With each breath, the air worked to suffocate him with invisible ropes of longing.
He missed Lindalórë.
He missed her like he would miss his right hand. He missed her like he would miss his eyesight. Without her, he didn't feel like himself, did not feel strong or powerful or complete. Something terribly important and vital to his existence was missing, had been ripped away and left behind a ragged, bleeding, gaping wound that festered and refused to heal.
Just beside him, Telperinquar rolled over and heaved a loud breath before letting out a snore that would deafen an orc. "He gets that from his Atar," she had told him when he had first noticed, smiling fondly as she stroked his hair. "Your snoring could wake Ilúvatar himself!"
Was she relieved that his snoring no longer graced their shared chambers?
Did she miss him at all or was she furious and cursing his name? Did she think about him still--every day and every night--as he did her? Or had she found someone else, someone who could give her everything he could not offer in exile and shame?
His hand slipped into his tunic, grasping at heated, delicate metal, the finest piece that he had ever crafted with his own two hands and vermilion heart. Fingers traced intricate patterns of the locket, so familiar he could have drawn them exactly a hundred times over in his sleep. Underneath the metal warmed by his flesh and fire, her image was lying in wait, her green eyes wide in innocent beauty and wonder, captured forever as she had been before tragedy had torn them asunder.
By the Valar, he missed her!
"Forgive me," he whispered into the black night. No one was awake to hear him.
No one was awake to witness the tears that followed. He gifted them unto the earth in silent entreaty, a plea and a wish wrapped into a package of unending sorrow. For just a moment of smelling her sweet scent of lily. For just a moment of her soft warmth cradled safely in his arms. For just a moment of her endless, loving gaze.
But no unnumbered amount of tears would ever be enough to change the past.
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I could not help myself. This idea came to be while I was in the shower and it would not leave me alone. How the prompt "Snore" turned out to be such an angsty thing, I couldn't tell you, but it did, and now you have Curufin feels. For some reason, people never feel sorry for the Fëanorions--and I've been told this before by other Silmarillion fans when I wrote "Apart" two years ago and posted (a heavily edited version) on dA. The locket that he's got under his shirt makes its first cameo in that story, and now it's stuck.
Anyway, the music did nothing to help cheer up the mood. In fact, I thought of it just as I was getting out of the shower and it was perfect and I can't believe I haven't already used it on a prompt! John Williams, you are amazing. Anakin's Dream from Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. Close your eyes and listen to it. Don't open your eyes. Don't read fanfiction. Don't even think. Just listen to it all and oh the feels!
Forgive my music-dorkishness. We devoted musicians cannot help ourselves. And also, yes, in my head-canon Celebrimbor was there when they found Lúthien. This is probably how he figured out exactly what was going on with his dad and uncle.
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