Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Celegorm x Lúthien (one-sided), Beren x Lúthien
Characters: Curufin, Celegorm, Finrod (mentions Lúthien, Beren, Orodreth, Celebrimbor and Fëanor)
Warning: not really canon compliant but follows canon, premarital sex implied, extramarital sex implied, dysfunctional family, murder, back-stabbing, language
Song: Prelude to Ruin
Words: 1,272
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cut (verb): to penetrate with or as if with an edged instrument; to hurt the feelings of; to strike sharply with a cutting effect
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cut
There were few things Curufinwë would hesitate to do if it meant keeping safe his family.
And he considered Turkafinwë family, perhaps more so than any of his other brothers. It may have been by chance that they fled south together amidst the ruin of Beleriand--by the whims of fate that their final destinations had become so closely entwined that they could no longer be separated--but he could, at the very least, honestly claim that he would never leave his older brother's side willingly whilst he still drew breath. And no force in all of Arda would be able to pull him away.
He didn't think anyone would understand the connection they shared. Would understand the centuries-younger brother standing guard over his older sibling with unceasing vigilance.
But none of them knew Turkafinwë. Not the way Curufinwë knew.
They saw something uncontrollable and frightening and filled with shadow. They looked into those silver eyes and saw the reflection of a monstrous phantom, a nightmare created to simplify complicated truths and complex webs of lies and rumors. They looked at his brother and saw the return of Fëanáro in all his insane, terrifying glory.
That image couldn't have been farther from the reality of his older brother.
They didn't see the love-struck, hopeful man left shattered in the wake of betrayal, used by that Sindarin whore and thrown aside like trash. They didn't see the distant, wistful longing in despairing eyes as he waited for her even knowing she would never return. They didn't see rows and rows of cuts bleeding out--both tangible and untouchable--carved into vulnerable flesh and soul.
They didn't see the soft underbelly of Turkafinwë, the broken child crying in the corner, missing the vast green fields so beloved to his heart. They didn't hear the vivid memories coming back to haunt in the night, leaving the older brother shuddering and sweating in the dark.
They didn't come home to find blood everywhere and blank, flat eyes staring at the walls, thoughtless and numb to the outside world. In the morning, Turkafinwë never remembered harming himself, never remembered crying or wailing.
But Curufinwë did.
And he would do anything and everything to help. The hurts on the outside, he could bandage and heal. The others...
Well, they were more complicated to bandage. And he didn't think it was possible for the festering wounds to heal fully, not when the poison flooded through darkened, sickened veins could not be withdrawn.
He was called Curufinwë the Crafty for a reason, though. Ingenuity ran through his blood.
And he found other ways of keeping Turkafinwë balanced on the edge of madness and coherence. Found ways of stitching up open lacerations and soothing deep bruises. And he didn't care how many others were hurt in the process, because nothing mattered more than keeping hold of the last tenuous strands of his brother's hope and sanity.
Because, while others worried about his brother exploding into a murderous rampage and killing innocent bystanders, Curufinwë worried about coming back to their chambers one day to find his brother with slit wrists.
Much better than he whispered little black lies into his brother's ears and sent the problem-infested man off to uproot some stuck-up noblewoman's reputation and expose her for the prostitute she was. Better that he slandered the king's favorite councilors in his brother's hearing and left Turkafinwë's sadistic tendencies to spread those words to every available ear within two hundred leagues of Nargothrond.
Better that he took his brother out into the wilds every two weeks and let him slaughter animals and enemies alike to his heart's content until there were no more bodies to bleed and no more innards to spill. If ending lives and dancing around in oceans of blood made Turkafinwë smile and laugh instead of scream and rave, Curufinwë would line up hundreds of leagues of sacrifices to be cut down beneath his brother's blade the same way his brother had been cut down beneath the selfish lusts and desires of the object of his fascination and infatuation.
And if he had to go behind his brother's back, he would do that, too.
He lied. He coerced. He had even threatened Artafindë for the sake of his brother, tried to break his cousin's unbreakable honor if it meant that there would be no foolish quest to solidify the love of that horrid Sindarin princess and her sleazy human toy. That there would be no chance of consummation of the relationship tearing his brother's mind apart. That there would be not even a miniscule chance of a Silmaril being uncovered from the iron crown.
And he would make the king into his next sacrifice if Artafindë dared to stand in his way.
Anything to staunch the bleeding cuts rent through the man that had once been his brother. Anything to keep the remaining sanity from spilling out like sand between his fingers.
Looking into the blue gem-eyes of the king, he knew that Artafindë understood, even though the king did not agree--did not want to forswear his own oath in favor of his former friend and current lover. Not only did the king understand that Curufinwë would do anything to keep safe those who he held close to his heart, but the king knew that by stepping in the way of Turkafinwë's reckless and destruction love, he risked his reputation, kingship and mortal life.
Knew that Curufinwë would remove the obstacle he presented in the path if he made himself into the enemy, if he helped Beren further destroy the little hope left that kept Turkafinwë from completely losing himself in the flames and shadows.
No one could be allowed to harm that which he held dear. And if all those around him viewed him as a two-faced, backstabbing traitor, he could not have cared less. Artaresto could continue to hiss slimy insults at his back and spy on his "secret" liaisons with the king, calling him a whore and a murderer. Telperinquar could continue to look the other way as his father ripped apart the king's bonds of loyalty with his subjects, could continue rejecting his family members with blatant disgust. And Turkafinwë could continue to remain oblivious to the stark manipulation rampantly weaving in and out of his life--oblivious to the fact that his own brother was the puppet-master forcing Nargothrond's political atmosphere to dance to a new tune.
Curufinwë did not care what anyone thought. For they could not hate his shadowy image of malice and betrayal half as much as he would hate himself if he laid back and did nothing as his brother slipped away as water through cracked glass. If he became the one man he despised with toxic passion. If he became his father.
And if there was one way in which he could never compare himself to ruthless, impassive Fëanáro, it was in that his family came before anything and anyone else--above oaths, promises and revenge. And that was his pride and salvation.
He would never stand down and never give in. He would be as an iron and adamant shield. No one would shatter the fragile glass heart hiding beneath a shield of wrathful wildfire and icy amusement. Not whilst he still drew breath. Not whilst he still had the power to staunch the blood-flow and stitch shut the gaping wounds.
Not whilst he still had the strength to protect. And to heal.
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More Nargothrond and Beren and Lúthien-related character development and drama. I'm finally starting to piece together more of Curufin's character. Most of his brothers are getting along in the character-development department, but he was a hard one to figure out. I mean, I didn't want him to be exactly like Fëanor. Everyone writes him like that and it drives me crazy. He's not a psycho, and I think it's weird that he sticks so close to Celegorm all the time, and now I'm starting to figure out why. I mean, in my head-canon. It pleases me.
The song for this piece is Prelude to Ruin by Takeharu Ishimoto from the Crisis Core OST. Pure solo piano awesomeness! I love the dissonance and the variance in rhythm and melodic ideas. It has this beautiful atmosphere that just makes me shiver, and it greatly pleased me. Besides, I thought the title rather ironically fit into the prompt and the premise, yeah? Poor Celegorm and Curufin. We all know this isn't going to end well.
Sorry for lack of plot and dialogue. Monologues are fascinating insights into the mind, even though they can sometimes be a little boring. Well, not to me. I just hope I didn't bore you too much. And have a good day. :3
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