Hidden

Mellow Soulmate AU. Orodreth has been ordered to stay clear of his half-cousins. Naturally, the first thing the younger brother does after being ordered around by his older brother is exactly the opposite of obeying the chain of command. Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Orodreth = Artaresto, Finrod = Artafindë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Curufin = Curufinwë, Curvo, Fingon = Findekáno). I'm having fun with this. Connected directly with "Whispered" and somewhat with "Dust" and "Snore", though I there are still holes that I intend to eventually fill. Takes place in Nargothrond in the year F.A. 465.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Finrod x Curufin (Finrod x Amarië implied)

Characters: Orodreth, Finrod, Curufin, Celegorm (mentions Amarië, Fingon, Fëanor, Maedhros, Thingol and (indirectly) Beren and Lúthien)

Warning: extremely AU, slash and het, adultery, secret liaison, betrayal and slander, threats (death threats?), misunderstandings galore, insanity

Song: Incantation

Words: 1,950
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hidden (adjective): being out of sight or not readily apparent: concealed; obscure, unexplained, undisclosed
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hidden?show=0&t=1371340162

Artaresto did not know his half-cousins well enough to pick up on unspoken clues of motivation or see through facades of sick amusement and enjoyment to the darkness hiding underneath. They were, to him, a mystery in which he did not wish to enmesh himself, a chaotic force that he did not need to understand intimately to know that they were treacherous creatures.

But he knew his own brother better than most--sans perhaps Amarië--and he could tell that Artafindë was keeping something hidden from his sight. Was keeping secrets and sneaking around in clandestine meetings like a thief or a traitor.

That the whispers of slander and sinfulness smearing the king's name did not spur his brother into a righteous displeasure was worrying. That Artafindë did not take up the invisible sword of rhetoric and slay those demons before they had a chance to possess any more faithful minds and poison and more unsuspecting thoughts against him left Artaresto itching for answers.

Because the only reason he could think that Artafindë would not protest the lies abounding in the halls of Nargothrond would be... if they were true.

The murmurs about bringing death and doom upon the city. Of taking the atan under his wing and into his bed. Of throwing aside all morals and ideology and political weight in favor of taking on a mad quest from which none would return alive. For a boy he didn't even know.

Each day, the rumors became wilder, and Turkafinwë's smile broadened in silent glee--was toothy and satisfied, a cat settled in with its saucer of rich cream and plate of gourmet fish filet.

And Artafindë was not even fighting back.

Instead, he was sneaking around in the shadows and secret passages, constantly glancing over his shoulders. Artaresto had seen him do so many times before, but never had it been so pronounced as it was in these days of troubled bonds and whispered betrayal. Disappearing without a trace. Bolting his chambers shut at night and refusing to answer to knocks. Telling Artaresto that the upheaval was none of his concern and it would all be taken care of. That he should stay well out of the way lest he become an unintended fatality.

But Artaresto could not let this silent confrontation rest. Could not roll over and display his vulnerable belly in submission to his vile half-cousins who plotted so blatantly to displace his brother in shame and usurp the throne for themselves so that they might have a powerful foothold again in Beleriand. So that they might have an army at their backs to serve their evil purposes, Artaresto did not doubt.

And he had to do something. Even if Artafindë did not want him involved.

And that was why he began to spy on his brother.

At first, it was perfectly innocuous spying. He would quietly slink around in the shadows, evenly layering his footsteps with Artafindë's so they could be mistaken for an echo until the king either ended his journey in a completely unremarkable location or managed to lose the inexperienced stalker in the labyrinth of tunnels. Or he might slip into the king's unlocked, unattended study every now and again in order to rifle through papers--letters from Nelyafinwë and Findekáno detailing war efforts, documents on the food supply into the city or alliances dictating trading routes with the dwarves in Ered Luin and Thingol's people in Doriath.

Nothing incriminating appeared. At first. Not until afterwards.

After the spying moved to more private fields of battle.

Like the bedchambers.

Artaresto could honestly say that he had not meant to pry into his brother's personal life quite as much as he had. Originally he had only planned to see if anything was being kept locked up in the king's private rooms, well away from slippery Fëanárion fingers and greedy, self-serving councilors. Perhaps his brother had a journal. Perhaps he was sneaking around with an unmarried lady.

If it had been that simple, Artaresto would not have minded. Indeed, he would have questioned why Artafindë bothered to keep such an affair secret. Originally he had questioned when he had stumbled across the partially open door and heard the noises--blatant sounds of lovemaking rising as a subtle song into the candlelit night. As much as Artaresto admired his brother's loyalty to Amarië, she had stayed behind and refuted his suit, and Artafindë needed to move on and provide an heir for his kingdom, built from the foundation up by his own two hands, lest it fall into unclean ownership.

As he peeked in the crack between the wood and the frame, watching two forms writhing together beneath the sheets at the peak, half-hidden by shadows, he had almost rejoiced. If this was all that Artafindë had been hiding, Artaresto felt he could sleep in peace.

Until he saw the other lover's face.

And it brought him to light-headedness. His cheeks must have gone milk-white as the blood drained out of his shocked features. Wide-eyed, he couldn't help but stare as the two elves laid together in the night, their voices mingling softly and their hair entwined, ink run through with veins of gold. The reasons for keeping this liaison hidden suddenly were all too evident.

Because it was none other than Curufinwë Fëanárion who graced the king's bed. Sweat-slicked and gleaming in the firelight, eyes shining blindingly, like twin stars in the shadows. A hand rose, stroking over pale, naked flesh until the rosy sheen lined beneath the skin faded. Until the panting aftermath of heat and passion died down to calm, deep breaths and languid, heated kisses of afterglow. The dark-haired elf looked glorious, mussed and with swollen lips, gaze half-hooded with fatigue and satiation. Artaresto would have been a liar had he not admitted--at least in the very darkest depths of his soul--that he felt himself stir at the image.

But for the life of him, he could not understand what his brother was thinking--bedding a married man. Not only that, but bedding their married half-cousin. It was wrong. So wrong that Artaresto's stomach twisted into knots of nausea and his mind recoiled. Especially when Curufinwë's hands stroked his brother's equally naked body.

"Are you feeling better, my king?" And didn't that kinslayer just sound so pleased with himself? The disrespectful tone and words made the younger brother's blood boil.

"There is no need for mockery, Curvo," Artafindë chastised, barely loud enough for Artaresto to hear. "I know what you have been up to--you and Turkafinwë. But you should both know that I will not change my mind."

"This is madness, cousin." Artaresto shuddered--after doing that together, Curufinwë could still call Artafindë cousin? "This suicidal mission that the whelp wants to trick you into undertaking will lead to nothing but misery."

"For whom?" Artafindë sounded enquiring, but as Artaresto backed away, he could sense the underlying annoyance, the hard bite of a politician prodding and pinching his opponent into submission. "For you? For Turkafinwë?"

I do not understand. Would they not benefit from this crazy undertaking, by having Artafindë out of the city and beyond reach of the people?

"For everyone involved!" Curufinwë countered in a low voice.

"Except the two most involved," the king then corrected.

In apparent frustration, Curufinwë let out something between a groan and a hiss of anger. "You cannot be serious, Artafindë..."

Now, his brother was sitting up, and as much as Artaresto wished to flee at the sight of his brother's nakedness completely revealed, he hungered for the rest of the argument. "You are frightened that we shall succeed in our quest. Admit it."

"I said no such thing," Curufinwë countered, now also arising from the curling waves of damp silk. "You will fail."

"Will I?"

They stared one another down. And Artaresto gritted his teeth. Because even in this most secret of meetings, more hidden truths and motives passed unseen and unheard in the undertones of riled words and venomous bantering. And it was clear that, whilst the two might be sharing bed and body, they did not share anything that even remotely resembled love.

Curufinwë's face, reflected into harsh angles by golden light, was akin to Fëanáro's terrifying visage, a threat and a promise sharper than the edge of a diamond and more unyielding than mithril rested in the pits of those eyes, swallowing whole any attempts at cordiality and amiable negotiation. It was like looking at a ghost more daunting even than the original creation of flesh and blood, for it was clear that Curufinwë made no idle threats or promises. He meant what he said. And there was no insanity to excuse his madness, for those eyes were clear and conscienceless.

He would make sure Artafindë failed. Through stealth. Through betrayal. Through violence. Just like his hot-blooded sire before him, Curufinwë would do whatever it took to arrive at the end which he desired, damn the means and the consequences.

"You can count on it," the snake-tongued, dark beauty hissed as he pulled Artafindë close again, as their mouths clashed violently.

When he pulled away, Artafindë laid a backhanded slap to those porcelain features. A strike that did not even serve to wipe away the satisfied leer twisting upwards those lips. Curufinwë the Crafty was not a title earned lightly, nor one undeserved.

"Get out."

"Oh, are we playing that game now?" Curufinwë licked his lips as though his narrowed eyes beheld something deliciously tantalizing as they slithered up and down Artafindë's body. "Are you worried someone might find us together, my king?"

The voice was too knowing. The smirk was damning. And the white-hot feel of eyes piercing his flesh and soul sent the spy into shudders. Artaresto felt cold sweat break out over his skin, dripping down his spine as terror burned a hot brand into every inch of his flesh. Curufinwë knew...

The starlit eyes were staring straight into him over Artafindë's shoulder. And the smile that bloomed over his half-cousin's lips was not meant for the king, who merely scoffed out a "do not be melodramatic, Curvo" and turned to the side, picking up his nightshirt from the marble floor. No, it was meant for the king's successor, peering inside the hidden depths of scandal and sin, watching the unfolding of wickedness.

Warning him. Promising him.

Curufinwë licked his lips again--eyes focused on the intruder--and his smile widened. Artaresto did not stay to see the pure white gleam of bared teeth in an animalistic display of posturing. He fled back the way he had come, shaking from head-to-toe in visceral sensation even once he had reached his own chambers and bolted the door in his wake. The prince pressed his back to the wood and breathed in deeply, trying to dispel the images branded unto the backs of his eyelids.

Of his brother and cousin naked and entwined. Of the red handprint swelling on that pale, perfect cheek. Of the grin that spoke only of impending vengeance and destruction.

Of all the things he had expected, he had not expected this. And the shattering revelation did not even scratch the surface of the secrets hidden deep in the shadows that lay heavy over Nargothrond. Secrets Artaresto knew he should never have dared try to uncover.

It was a dangerous game that they played. And Artaresto feared it was not one he--or Artafindë--could hope to win. Not against the pure ruthlessness of the House of Fëanáro.

But it was not a game they could afford to lose.
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Poor Orodreth does not understand Fëanorion motivation. He just can’t get a break, can he?  But then, we already know what’s up with the brothers, or at least one of them.  In any case, even though the “secret” is already out, I’m still enjoying writing this very much.  It’s not that I like poking fun at Orodreth (okay, I do a little), but I like the idea of putting a spin on Tolkien’s stories.  It makes me very pleased in an odd, creepy sort of way.

In any case, was listening to Incantation (Part C Opus 1) from the Bleach Hell Chapter OST by Shiro Sagisu (of course).  I absolutely adore the Hell Chapter OST.  It just gives me shivers all over and squeeing fangirl moments.  The flavor and texture all fits so well, and it's unique and fun and out there, which I greatly enjoy.  It actually reminds me quite a bit of Danse Macabre (Camille Saint-Saëns--may have heard of him if you've watched Fantasia 2000).  Anyway, it has little to do with the story itself other than give the "drama" seasoning.  I just like it, that's all LOL.

And now, I must be going.  Movies to watch.  Siblings to pick on.  The usual, you know.