Whispered

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Treachery has come to Nargothrond.  But all is not as Orodreth believes.  Quenya names used (Finrod = Artafindë, Orodreth = Artaresto, Celegorm = Turkafinwë or Turko, Fëanor = Fëanro).  Basically this happened because I was reading Finrod/Curufin slash earlier today (and one Curufin/Orodreth/Celegorm story) centered around the time when Finrod leaves Nargothrond because of his oath to Beren.  However, after writing "Dust" and "Reap", all of Celegorm's motivations for everything he does have suddenly been altered.  And, of course, Orodreth doesn't know and thinks its the obvious culprit, but Finrod knows differently.  Takes place in Nargothrond in F.A. 465.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none (one in the b/g that Orodreth misinterprets)

Characters: Orodreth, Celegorm, Finrod (mentions Fëanor, Curufin, Beren and the Valar)

Warning: somewhat AU, misunderstandings, mentions war, killing, mass murder, threatening, backstabbing, mild sexual undertones, possible insanity

Song: Calm Before the Storm

Words: 1,343
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whisper (verb): to speak softly with little or no vibration of the vocal cords especially to avoid being overheard
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/whisper

They were everywhere.

Behind fluttering curtains.  Behind closed doors.  But nonetheless, Artaresto heard them loud as thunder, as clear as the midday sun cast upon the earth.  Treachery at its finest and most insidious, close enough to touch his ears but far enough to remain hidden.

"--will bring ruin upon our heads--"

"--is it not disturbing?"

"--would put a man above his own kin--"

"Did you hear that--?"

By the Valar, Artaresto was sick of it.  Everywhere he turned, he could see the dark tendrils taking root in the minds and hearts of the faithful servants of Nargothrond, despoiling their purity and loyalty with lies crafted in darkness and coated in poison.  Poison slowly eating away at his brother's hold on the crown.

"I heard that he took that young man and--"

"--giving that dirty, filthy man special favors--"

"--swore she saw them go into his bedchambers--"

"--is going to just run off and--!"

And it made him sick.

But worse still, he knew the culprits.  Knew without a doubt from which lips these tales of sexual depravity and moral ambiguity had originated, for no men had a more silvered or pointed tongues to wag than the dispossessed brothers.

I told him not to let them make themselves home in our halls. 

He had warned Artafindë, had for once fearlessly told his brother exactly what doubts and shadows crisscrossed in the back of his mind.  Warned him of the tainted, slimy feeling that surrounded what had once been his ill-tempered half-cousins but no longer felt as kin.  Warned and begged and pleaded for Artafindë to turn them away.

But the words of a wary healer could not sway the kindness of their king.

And now look what has happened!

He was going to speak to his brother, and he was going to pound sense into that too-sweet, too-thick head, was going to halt this nonsense in its tracks before it had the chance to bloom any further into a massive disast--

"And where are you going in such a hurry, dear cousin?"

There was hot breath on the back of his neck, and Artaresto shivered all the way down to his toes in primal, concentrated terror, in weakness so great he nearly toppled.  But just for a moment.

A moment was all it took with Turkafinwë, though.

When he turned, knowing silver eyes were boring into him, stabbing shards of glass through his flesh and pinning him in place as a froze rabbit beneath the gaze of a bird of prey.  Always, Turkafinwë had unsettled him, but now it was far past discomfiting, was downright frightening.  The look those eyes gave him, writhing up and down his body, filled his belly with boiling, bubbling dread.

"I-- I think that is none of your concern, Turkafinwë," he rasped out.

"None of my concern," the silver-haired son of Fëanáro purred, leaning towards him, sliding forward and forcing Artaresto into retreat until carved stone met his back.  Hands dug into rock on either side of him, caging him within.  Too close.  Too vulnerable.

They were but inches apart.  Inside those eyes, Artaresto saw his wide-eyed visage reflected back. "Do you intend to speak with Artafindë, little mouse?"

"If I did, it would still be none of your concern." But despite the--perhaps foolishly--brave words, Artaresto's belly quivered.  On either side of his head, nails scraped over rock.  And in those eyes, something mad and fey was burning behind a wall of icy amusement.  Something that resembled more a wild beast than a sentient man.

For a moment, Artaresto could not breathe or think.  For a moment, he feared utterly that Turkafinwë would kill him where he stood--or worse.

But then the moment was gone.

"Release my brother, Turko.  I have want to speak with him."

Artafindë.  Thank the Valar!

And he was released.  Turkafinwë pushed away from the wall as he was bid and stalked away into the shadowed corridor.  There was between he and the king naught but a momentary, testing glance.  Harsh blades clashing silently, filled with whispered secrets to which Artaresto was not privy.  But it drove the Fëanárion back as a dam holds back a river.

Only when Turkafinwë was gone did he dare speak.

"You know what they are saying about you."

Artafindë gave him a look, nonplused and almost disinterested. "Of course I do, little brother.  I would be a fool not to notice how Beren's arrival has stirred up the political stew."

The younger brother bit his lip.  Now was the moment to act.  In his belly, satisfaction at his half-cousins' defeat was just waiting to unfurl. "Why do you allow them such free rein, those sons of Fëanáro?  They whisper and hiss sibilant lies behind your back, slander your honor and your propriety.  And yet you sit in your chambers conferring with that atan and do nothing to cease the spread of this disease of weak-minded fools!"

"Let them say what they will." A stone-cold look was directed his way.  One that warned him to discontinue his argument, to call a surrender and bow to his brother's--his king's--wishes.  But how could he when a knife could be plunged into Artafindë's back any moment?  And how could his brother care so little for his own safety and reputation, for the reassurance that he would not be usurped from his own throne by the kinslaying traitors?

Was that it?  No fight?  Just surrender.

"I know you and Turkafinwë were once friends, brother.  I understand that much.  But he has changed much, and to allow him to do as he has done to your good name--"

But before he could finish, Artafindë snapped, snarled out words with bared teeth and wild eyes. "You understand nothing."

Silence lingered heavy between them.  A chill ran down Artaresto's back, for the look in those blue eyes was too uncontrollably resplendent, too undeniably reminiscent of other brilliant gazes filled with unorganized, illogical craziness bent on ripping their world apart.  It was too like looking into the eyes of a man Artaresto feared would ravage and break him out of vindication and wrath.

Too much like Turkafinwë.  Too much like Fëanáro.

But then the fey light vanished, and in its place was that ever-present calm.  The endless patience pretending that it was not as a shattered mirror glued back together, pretending it was not riddled with cracks. "There is much underneath this situation you do not know or understand, little brother.  Please, for your own sake--and safety--do not interfere."

"This is about those glowing rocks," he gasped out. "Is that not what it is that drives them mad with lust and thirst for spilled blood?"

But Artafindë shook his head. "Have you ever known Turkafinwë to care for gems of great wealth or beauty, or for his father's approval and pride?"

And when he looked into his brother's eyes, he saw those secrets.  Secrets that whispered at the surface of his mind, but which were just beyond his hearing and sight, just out of reach of understanding.  If there truly was something more bringing hatred and darkness to the hallowed halls of Nargothrond than he knew or suspected, Artafindë would not speak to him of ulterior motives and the twisted avenues of Turkafinwë's mind, not aloud.  Not a word.

"All I wish to say to you, Artaresto, is that you should stay well out of their way and ignore their words.  Let me handle this delicate situation."

Yet beneath those words were a lie and a plea.  More.

He bowed his head. "If that is as my king wishes."

Much more.  Those secrets whispered not only beyond fluttering curtains and closed doors, but in maddened silver eyes and equally dark blue.  In his cousin's twisted mind.  In his king's heart.

He did not speak to Artafindë again.
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As stated before, this is all the result of some slash that I read earlier today when I was horny and looking for something to keep me busy.  Originally it was going to be a continuation of yesterday's piece, but maybe I'll save that for later.  This is, in fact, the beginning of a bridge between my Orodreth arc and my Mellow AU, as well as the beginning of more of a focus on the heady and restless political atmosphere of Nargothrond that exists from Beren's arrival until its destruction.

I think it will be fun. <3

The song I was listening to is Calm Before the Storm from the Dirge of Cerberus OST (the composer is Masashi Hamauzu, and surprisingly not Nobuo Uematsu, who did much of the FF soundtracks).  Despite the interesting change in composer (forgive my snobbishness), I find the soundtrack to be quite lovely for the most part.  And I like this song.  It has the "cracked patience" sitting right there, the calm just waiting to shatter into a million little pieces.

Fitting or no, it gave me my atmosphere.  This did not turn out exactly as I had imagined, but certainly it didn't turn out bad either.  I am satisfied.