Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Orodreth, Curufin (mentions Celegorm, Finrod and the Valar)
Warning: non-canon compliant AU, non-canon relationship implied, very dysfunctional families, fear of assault/rape, paranoia, general mind-fucking and surprising epiphanies (for the author)
Song: Soviet Connection
Words: 1,591
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evidence (noun): an outward sign: indication; something that furnishes proof: testimony
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/evidence
Ever since the night that Artaresto had discovered his brother's secret affair with their half-cousin--and had been caught in the act of spying on his own king by said half-cousin--he had known confrontation was inevitable. Had been jumpy and paranoid and uncomfortable, his skin itching unceasingly as though waiting for that prickle of unseen eyes crawling across bare flesh.
Waiting for the strike.
He had not expected Curufinwë to wait so long to act.
Since the very day his brother had departed, Artaresto had expected an attack--had expected to be cornered and interrogated, and thus made every effort possible to avoid being alone without a guard. But days--weeks--had come and gone. He had even seen the other man--
Seen him with that disgustingly knowing look in his sadistic eyes and that gloating smirk curving upwards his full lips. Telling him. Mocking him. "We both know what you have done, little spy. You have not seen the last of me yet."
And Artaresto could barely look at that face for the embarrassment and confusion swamping his normally coherent and nonchalant thoughts. For the memory of twisted sheets and breathing gasps and murderous plots...
--but as of yet Curufinwë had not approached. Nor did he appear to have informed Turkafinwë of the incident in the king's bedchambers, or Artaresto was certain the irascible older brother would have rent his limbs from his torso in a fit of fury and bloodthirsty glee for daring to jeopardize their treacherous plans to usurp the king and mount the throne. He was afraid of Curufinwë, but Turkafinwë downright terrorized anyone in their sane mind.
Quite frankly, he wished his half-cousin wasn't waiting for Eru-only-knew what to happen before approaching. It was frustrating and maddening, waiting and glancing over his shoulder like a terrified, hunted animal.
Being stalked by the hunters.
And, like a stalking predator, his half-cousin struck when least expected--quick and quiet.
"Are you quite well, sweet cousin?"
It took every scrap of his willpower not to startle. As it was, Artaresto could not help the stiffening of his spine or the shudder that rocked his body. Slowly--very slowly, as he analyzed the likelihood of a guard or courtier coming down this deserted hallway in the middle of the night--he turned to look upwards...
Into eyes that would have put a mountain lion's to shame for predatory gleam. And he might as well have been the helpless, lamed deer stumbling through the underbrush hopelessly for all the good it would do him to try and run now.
He at least didn't think Curufinwë would kill him... yet.
After all, Artafindë was not dead yet. And if the king yet lived, even the death of his temporary steward would only grant the brother's scepter-ship until the real king returned victorious from his ridiculous quest.
Unless his brother didn't return at all.
"I am quite well, Curufinwë." He managed to keep the quaver from his voice utilizing every bit of control over his body that he possessed, and it somehow came out--however quiet--still firm and stable. "Was there something you needed, cousin?"
"That is precious," his counterpart purred, and the laughter that followed grated on Artaresto's nerves, for it sounded too much like a snarl, too much like teeth about to rip apart flesh.
"Let us not play coy now, little spy."
And his mouth was dry. So very dry. And his lips trembled as they parted.
He could pretend at ignorance or blatantly lie, but was there really any use in denying the truth? He had been seen, and there was no way he could convince Curufinwë that he had imagined everything, because they both knew he hadn't. That night, both of them had caught the other in a trap of information and coercion, and it was all a matter of who acted when and where that would decide the victor--the survivor--and the loser.
And Artaresto couldn't afford to lose.
He had seen them together. Seen and heard Curufinwë threatening the king.
If that was not evidence of treason, then what could possibly be?
But then why did it feel so like his cousin held the upper hand in this game when it was Artaresto who held the damning hand?
"I only do what I feel is best for my people and my brother," he finally managed to choke out. "Do not think I did not hear your words imparted to my brother. Do not think I do not understand your plan! You want the king to die so that you might have at his throne. And if he does not die on his quest, you will do anything--even assassinate him--to reach your goal."
Those eyes were neither repentant nor startled at the revelation. They were not shocked or guilt-stricken. In fact, as they narrowed dangerously, Artaresto thought the glint inside carried a small dose of amusement. As if the traitor found the steward's words to be a joke--laugh-worthy. And it left Artaresto's throat closing in utter fury.
How dare he laugh when Artafindë might be out there dying over some stupid glowing rocks and promises to fleeting mortals--with the undoubted and unquestionable loyalty of only ten courageous subjects--thanks to these barbaric murderers!
"Is that what you think?" Curufinwë asked him, still smiling--still silently laughing. "Do you think we would go to all that trouble just to get rid of Artafindë?"
Yes. Why else would you? Nothing else makes sense!
"He is in your way." Gulping, Artaresto dared--just this once--to stare down his taller, stronger and more powerful diabolical half-cousin. Silver eyes clashed sharply with blue, intangible chortling to overflowing outrage. "But hear me when I say this, traitor. I have proof--evidence seen through my own eyes--of your treason, and if anything happens to my brother...
"I swear..." And Curufinwë did not look away. Neither did Artaresto avoid bellicosity, no matter the recklessness of that openness.
"I swear I will make you sorry."
And he hated those eyes, because the laughter did not go away with the threat spoken in utter sincerity. It only seemed stronger, as though the words of utmost contempt were absorbed and fed oxygen to the fiery, fey silver light growing and growing into an inferno of glee. Those lips twitched, and for the first time Artaresto--of his own free will--wanted to take part in violence, if only to replace that sight with a blooded, bruised and frowning mouth curved in shame.
But before he could even think to move, a hand reached out, grabbing his shoulder. And Artaresto's gut clenched--
By the Valar, he is going to kill me right here...
--but Curufinwë only shook his head as if in disappointment.
"Fool," the Fëanárion muttered. "You have evidence of something. The real question is this: What do you actually have evidence of?"
What is that supposed to even mean?
"You see, little cousin, we are more alike than you think--you and I."
The hand on his shoulder tightened, and Artaresto quivered, his anger dying down into a pathetic simmer beneath the obdurate hardness in those eyes, overlapping and lacing and twining with that small bit of amusement and an overflowing flood of determination. And he knew that a mere threat wouldn't be enough to stop his cousins--had known it from the very beginning.
"But you are correct. Artafindë has refused to remove his obstacle from my path. And no matter how similar we are, little spy, I'm afraid I can offer no compassion or sympathy for your plight. Artafindë's ridiculous quest must fail. Will fail."
So close was his half-cousin that hot breath washed over his cheek, soft puffs of air brushing across sensitive, prickling skin. "And if you do not stay out of my way, I will remove you as well."
Just like that, the tension burst and Artaresto could breathe freely once again, because Curufinwë pulled away and walked by without a second glance, as though the entire altercation were a concocted fantasy. No flashing knives and silent death. No wandering hands pinning and capturing. No hunter chasing down and ripping apart his helpless prey.
"What do you actually have evidence of?"
And, suddenly, everything was much more confusing than it had been before. So much more contradictory. He could make neither heads nor tails of the Fëanárion. Could not tell if those words were a ploy or a distraction or the truth or a mixture of all three churned into an unrecognizable tangle of fated strings and pathways. Maybe it was all a massive soup of chicanery designed to send him into a downward spiral of confusion so that Curufinwë might somehow defeat him in this sick, twisted little game.
Nevertheless, he was beginning to wonder exactly what the parameters of "winning" even were. Because none of his half-cousin's words or actions made sense.
All he knew was that Artafindë needed to come back alive and well. Nothing else mattered.
And he was beginning to wonder if Curufinwë's goal truly was to see the king dead and take control of Nargothrond. Or if he had missed the point of the game completely.
If there was, perhaps, a reason that Artafindë had ordered him to stay out of the way.
"There is much underneath this situation that you do not know or understand..."
If, perhaps, he was in over his head.
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The entirety of this piece is me having fun mind-fucking with Orodreth. Poor baby. But we all know how this is going to end. And, actually, I can't imagine Curufin being all that upset with the initial outcome--until he and Celegorm have that run-in with a certain couple that I periodically hate on. Oh, the plans! I have to get through Of Beren and Lúthien before starting on Of Túrin Turumbar, which will (considering Orodreth's love interest) be quite the rollercoaster ride.
But that is for later. This arc is, at the moment, crawling along. But I rather like how it's nearly chronological, since so many of my other arcs just skip around to and fro wherever they please with no semblance of order. That, and Orodreth has become one of my favorite characters, even though he's mentioned like twice in the entire Silmarillion (okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but still...).
Anyway, I chose spy music for today. I know, I know, way to be cliché, right? But I used it anyway because it was performed by a full orchestra and is so awesome, so who can blame me? Soviet Connection (by Michael Hunter) from Grand Theft Auto 4. It's from the album The Greatest Video Game Music. Actually a very good collection, by the way. They've got plenty of fun stuff packed in there. Anyway, it fit, so I used it and had fun.
Tis all I have for thee today. I bid thee adieu, for now I must sleep.
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