Odds and Ends

Canon compliant AU.  Angrod always had a bad habit of buying her expensive, impractical trinkets.  Quenya names used (Angrod = Angaráto).  This story is sort of the next part after "Puppy Love" and "Loved" (and thus is related to "Defiant" and "Flowers"), but the "wooing" part is all done in flashbacks.  Thus, it actually takes place during the First Age rather than during the Years of the Trees.  Sorry for being confusing.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Angrod x Eldalótë

Characters: Eldalótë, Angrod (mentions Eärwen)

Warning: canon compliant AU, class differences, canon pairings, sort-of cradling robbing, fluff and angst

Song: Shirohae

Words: 2,554
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odds and ends (noun plural): miscellaneous articles; miscellaneous remnants or leftovers
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/odds+and+ends?show=0&t=1377977196

They were the little things.

Rising in the morning and reaching for her gilded hairbrush.  The ridiculously gaudy thing rested perpetually upon her vanity, set before a matching silver mirror.  She held it within her hands, weighing its heaviness against the strength of her wrist before raising it to her tangled hair, burnished brown in the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and let it slide through in long, luxurious strokes...

Feeling its teeth gliding through the long locks smoothly...

"What use have I for such a... a... lovely"--expensive--"trinket, my prince?"

His smile dimmed slightly upon her answer, and Eldalótë resisted furiously the twinge of guilt that anchored itself in the harbor of her conscience at the mere thought of making him sad.  Of bringing that disappointed look to his eyes.

"Well, it is meant to be used as any other hairbrush, lótenya..."

Blue eyes fell downcast, settling somewhere around her ankles rather than upon her face or the hand that still held the intricately engraved silver accessory.

"I thought it would suit you."

She gazed at it again, taking in the twining vines spiraling their way upwards, blooms shooting off their stalks and unfurling into starflowers.  Truly, it was the finest of work, and she shuddered to think of how much he had spent to commission such a piece.

And for her...

"Well, it is rather beautiful..." Again, she ran her fingers over its curves. "But, in the future, try not to spend so much on me, my prince!  I am a gardener!"

"All the more reason!" His smile was back three times as bright and his eyes were gleaming with ten times the eagerness to please.  "You really like it?"

"Of course."

"Then... you will not mind a matching mirror... right?"

Snorting softly to herself, she set aside the hairbrush, running her fingers through the smooth locks left in its wake, watching them spin and fall through her grasp in the reflection.  Heavy at heart, she reached back and began a simple braid, quickly weaving the hair tightly together until it came to a tail, hanging over her shoulder and coiling in her lap.

Thinking of him as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a fraying blue ribbon...

"Blast it!" It was loose again, falling all over her sweaty face, getting tangled around her clumsy, filthy gloves and falling into the damp, newly trimmed grass, gathering unwanted green decoration. Truly, she should have it cut.  It was getting so long and thick that her simple, rather mediocrely crafted ribbons constantly slipped out or snapped under the weight.

Finally, she got it all pulled back and wondered if she had any shears lying around that she could--

"You look like you could use a hand, lótenya..."

Startled into jumping, she gasped and felt the messy tail of hair she had gathered at her nape unfurl, spilling once again all over into everything.  Annoyed, she glared up at him.

"Can I help you, your highness?"

"You can call me your prince." Dressed in his well-made, jewel-encrusted garments, he sat cross-legged in the grass beside her, unbothered by the dampness and the mud. "Here, let me..."

His hand reached back, pulling loose the ribbon holding his own hair in place.  Eldalótë could not help but watch in fascination as the golden curls spilled over his broad shoulders and around his sun-kissed, grinning face.  So handsome she almost could not believe he was real...

But then he reached for her hair.

"B-but, my prince, it simply is not proper!" Scandalized, she managed to capture most of her hair and heft it away from his touch.  It simply wasn't right, a prince braiding a gardener's hair, as though she were his...

His...

"Did you not want it out of your face?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Let me try just once.  Please?" His smile was somewhere between boyish and roguish. "If it is horrible, I will let you ban me from hair-braiding.  I promise."

And there were the eyes.  She remembered those eyes so well, pleading and teasing. "Fine... But only once!"

Once a day every day since.  Wistfully, she fingered the satin smoothness, finely woven and strong, before threading it into her hair and tying it tightly to hold the braid in place.  This shade of royal blue, deep and rich, had never been her color--she much preferred browns and greens, simple and natural--but it had suited him terribly well.

Still, he insisted upon using it whenever possible.  She suspected it was a claim of some sort, his manly pride preening and prancing.  Too much, she let him get away with.  It was probably why they had ended up married.

With a sigh, she stood and went to dress.  Something nice and simple, loose-fitting.  Something she could garden in.

Still in-sight of the mirror, she tugged off her sleeping robe, hanging it upon the back of her vanity chair, before tugging her nightgown over her head.  The fabric caught slightly, and she slid her hand upwards, unhooking the lace upon the neckline from the necklace that fell now to rest between her breasts.

Gold and heavy, lined with huge rubies that must have cost a fortune.  She had hated it immensely when first she had received it, but now...

"Absolutely not."

"Just try it on."

It sat heavy against the tough fabric of her tunic, sliding down to uncomfortably rest upon the swell of her chest.  Everything about the rubies and diamonds, refracting a thousand pinpricks of blinding light through their intricately cut facets, sat wrong with her.  Clear red and white on scratchy green and brown.  Extravagant to the point of prodigality clashing sharply with her simplicity.

Eldalótë parted her lips to tell him exactly what she thought of the horrid piece of jewelry--namely that it belonged on a courtesan in a slinky scarlet dress with too much rouge on her make-up smeared face--but then she got a look at his expression.

Of utter adoration.  Staring at her as though she were fallen from the heavens.

"You have no idea how glorious you are, do you?"

And she just couldn't bring herself to do it.

What was she to say to that?

Now she found herself fond of the silly thing.  Wearing it all the time under her clothes, even though nothing she owned matched the blood-colored hue of the stones or the resplendent gleam of the adamant.  Her fingers washed over it for a second, feeling living warmth resting within the jewels, absorbed from lying against her skin.

And then she covered it up with an ugly brown tunic.  She didn't want to think about it anymore.

Instead, she made her way to the kitchen, planning on a simple breakfast.  Oatmeal maybe.

Except she opened the drawer and heard the clatter of silverware before she could reign herself in.  Peering downwards, she stared...

At the box.  Wooden and carved painstakingly into a forest scene by talented hands.  Thin, fragile glass was inlaid on the lid, allowing the viewer to peer through at the marvel below.

Namely, silverware that probably cost more than her entire house.

There was a note, of course.  It had been left on her counter, and Eldalótë knew she would have to lecture "her prince" about breaking into other people's houses, even if he was planning to leave gifts instead of thieving them.

Carefully, she opened the lid, feeling as though she might scratch or break it at any moment, taking in the sight below.  Little doubt was there in her mind that this was actual silver, or that it probably took months of hard work to forge and shape and decorate the unwieldy pale metal into these elegantly curved spoons and knives and... other things.

She wasn't even sure what that was...

The box was carefully packed away, and she barely touched it.  Never had it been used in its entirety except at the wedding (and even then, she still only used one type of fork).  But she didn't mind this gift so much...

After all, it was functional at the very least...

It was better than the necklace, though she had bent over half of the forks within a year and dinged and banged up the rest at a steady pace.  Her mother-in-law would have been scandalized at the dullness and abuse of the silver.  The silver.  It sounded like something a countess should be worrying about, not a gardener.

Still, she pulled out a dish--thankfully simple and unadorned--and set about her meal as the sun rose.

Ignoring the cold feeling of metal in her hand all the way.

Fleeing to the garden quickly after.

Into the early morning light, only just becoming lush and golden in the wake of the pale dawn.  Arien's rays were warm against her skin, brushing away the chill and dew that lingered from the nighttime and casting an eerie, lovely sheen across the yard.

Flowers in every direction were blossoming into color, twining their way up the side of the house, occupying the space beneath the windows, climbing up the gardening shed and taking over completely the fence.  Most would have called it disorganized and overgrown, yet, in her opinion, the yard remained perfectly groomed as always, her personal little paradise protected from the rest of the world.

She had only ever shared it with him.

"Do you not think golden shears were a bit much, my prince?"

"You can call me Angaráto, lótenya."

He had forgone his fancy clothing and braids today, donning a simple silver circlet and loose-fitting tunic.  It did not even seem to bother him, sitting around with her in her personal garden, blocked from sight and without a chaperone.  Then again, a common woman like her needn't be watched so closely, for she had no virtue to guard...

Carefully steering her thoughts away from dangerous territory, she examined the shears.  In general, gold was not used for tools such as these.  Too soft and malleable.  But her suitor was a prince, not a craftsman or a gardener, and she doubted he would understand that she would prefer something in iron over something in gold for such dirty and unseemly tasks as yard-work.

"My prince..."

"Teach me how to garden."

Why would he want to know such things?

"It is not work meant for royalty, my prince."  And she wasn't sure she trusted him anywhere near her rosebushes.  He could do whatever he wished to the ones on his father's estate, but hers were her babies, and she wasn't about to let him anywhere near them with shears, golden or otherwise.

"But you seem to love it so much!" He drew closer, and she felt him press against her back, chin coming to rest on her shoulder.  Breath washing over her ear and cheek, intimate and close. "I want to understand."

A shiver ran through her body at his proximity.  At the touch of his hands on her wrists, arms wrapping themselves in a living, flexing cage around her body.

"Show me..."

She never could say no to that man!

Huffing, she went and recovered her tools from the shed--even the blasted, useless shears--and pulled on thick boots over her loose trousers.  Like a fool she probably looked as she slapped on a wide-brimmed hat and yanked on gloves that hid away any elegance her hands might have possessed.  Better that way.  She had never really been all that beautiful in the first place.  Satisfied that she looked sufficiently messy and unappealing, she set about her work.

There was always weeding and watering and tending to be done.  She would start with the roses and work her way around the yard.  And she would not think any more about him...

Unless she saw...

That...

It had grown over the years since he had given it to her.  She stopped beside the red tulips, staring down at their graceful, towering forms heads above any nearby plants, richer in color than any rubies.  They seemed to soak in the sunlight and glow, their translucent petals fluttering softly with the breeze.

He, of course, never understood why she planted rich purple tulips right beside the red.

Against her will, she felt her eyes blurring.

"I brought something for you, lótenya."

He had been bringing her things ever since that day in the garden when she realized--in horror and unwanted delight--that he had somehow never gotten over her, the family gardener.  That he still believed he loved her.

Of course, it didn't change his class.  Her prince had yet to realize that many of the expensive, fancy things he bought for her were simply impractical for her lifestyle.  She took about the same amount of pleasure in heavy, glistening stones and silver mirrors as the women of court took in dirt under their manicured nails.

Still, he didn't mean any harm by it.  She just hoped that, whatever it was, it wasn't quite as bad as had been the shears.

"Yes, my prince, what... is..."

He was holding a pot.  A rather more-decorative-than-necessary pot, to be exact.  But it was not the pot itself, with its gold inlay and swirling designs, that caught her attention.  Rather, it was what rested within the pot.

Oh... It was beautiful...

Tall and healthy, a perfect bloom unfurling to receive sunlight.  Her fingers reached out to trace the edge of a fragile, soft petal.

A red tulip.

"Know you what this means, my prince?" she whispered.  Feeling her heart skip a beat in wonder and nervousness.  The butterflies always fluttering about her stomach whenever he was nearby now felt like they were wildly trying to flee the prison of her belly, so violently were they roiling and twisting.

"Of course I know." The crooked smile he offered made her heart melt. "As soon as I realized, I... Well, I planted one for you, before I even came back from the academy.  Though I was certain I had killed it a few times, it seems to have managed to thrive beneath my clumsy care."

She could barely breathe.  He had not bought it, but planted it himself?

"I told you, I love you.  I always have, and I always will.  When will you believe me, Eldalótë?"

And she believed.

It was unbearable, seeing the two--red for her and purple for him--side-by-side.  When, in reality, they were so far apart.

And she struggled not to weep in full.

For they were the little things--the odds and ends--that reminded her.  Of how he pursued and courted and wooed her into love through sheer stubbornness and naïve charm.  Of how he had married her and made her the happiest woman in the world, just like he had sworn as a silly young child with a silly bout of puppy love.  A prince and a gardener, like a fairytale.

They were the little things that reminded her.  That he was gone.  And that a part of her life, the part he used to fill with his vibrancy, the part that had molded into a dreamland at his side, was empty.

They were the little things that reminded her.  That they were all she had left.
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First off, the flowers.  Red tulips symbolize "perfect love" because of a Turkish love story that, if I recall correctly, as something to do with jumping off cliffs to prove undying love.  I believe I've mentioned it once before in "Puzzle" ages ago.  The purple tulips, on the other hand, symbolize (specifically) royalty, and thus are rather metaphorical when placed next to the red ones, at least in my head. Even though the real meanings of flowers wouldn't apply in Tolkienverse, I used them anyway for fun.

This pairing seems for some reason to capture attention.  In any case, I didn't want to write an actual courting scene, because today is definitely an angst day, but I thought I'd put some cute stuff together and used the cuteness as a catalyst for the sadness.  I know, horrible, right?  But I can't help myself.  How is it that stories that should be cute always end up sad?

The song, of course, fits perfectly in my opinion.  Shirohae (once again, from the Naruto Shippuuden OST II by Yasuharu Takanashi) has this sort of tone about it, with the gentle guitar theme and the quietness of it all, somewhere between memory, acceptance and nostalgia.  Not really sad, but not happy either, if you know what I mean.  And even though it's far from my favorite song on the OST, I still have a strange fondness for it.

Hope you liked.

P.S.: lótenya means "my flower"

Precious

Canon compliant AU.  Of the birth of Findis.  Quenya name used for Fëanor (his father-name Curufinwë, not to be confused with his son Curufin).  This is connected very closely to "Hold" and "Dim" amongst other pieces.  And yes, Findis is a canon character, not an OFC.  She is never mentioned in the Silmarillion and never leaves Aman, so nothing is really known about her.  And yes, she also was born before Fingolfin, who is actually Finwë's third child, not second.  Takes place (probably) in Tirion during the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or any other works of Tolkien

Pairings: Finwë x Indis

Characters: Finwë, Indis, Findis, Fëanor (mentions the Valar, Eru and Míriel)

Warning: canon compliant AU, canon character death mentioned, past depression, family feuds, mostly fluffy cuteness

Song: Khushnuma (Don't You Worry Child)

Words: 1,128
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precious (adjective): of great value or high price; highly esteemed or cherished
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/precious

It was a day Finwë had, for the longest time, never believed he would experience.  A little dream that he had, long ago, believed shattered beyond repair.  One he had thought he had given up on the somber gray evening of his first wife's willing death and never dared again to touch, to hope...

But he found himself standing outside the heavy doors, his oldest son at his side after fourteen grueling hours of pacing up and down the hallway and waiting with his heart caught like a knot in his throat.  The moment was finally here.  A hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing supportively, and for once no sarcastic look twisted Curufinwë's handsome face as he grinned excitedly.

And the king could not help but take a deep, wracking breath as he reached for the handle to the door, fingers atremble.  As he pushed it wide open and peered inside, lungs frozen in time.

The image before him left him breathless.  Utterly and completely.

The open room, airy and soft, was filled with lazy golden rays peeking through the lace curtains and spreading across the bed wherein lay his wife curled halfway beneath the blankets.  Indis was leaning back on a mountain of pillows, loose golden hair spread out around her, rolling sweetly over her shoulders, washing over the sheets in thick, languid rivers.

In her arms lay a tiny white-wrapped bundle, squirming and cooing softly.

Silently, he watched as she cradled the baby, rocking and crooning, her tired features glowing with such tender joy that Finwë felt her capturing his heart and holding it hostage all over again.  He had thought he could not love her any more than already he had, but at that moment...

She looked up, and he was drawn forth like as a fish hooked on a reel, pulled dazedly into this paradise until he perched helplessly upon the bed at the side of this angel.

"How are... are you feeling?" His voice trembled.

Because the last time he had asked that question--asked Míriel as she held their child for the very first time and looked dispassionately down at the curious silver eyes and toothless smile--he had received only dead silence as an answer.   And a tiny, exhausted frown.

It was the thing of nightmares, the image of Indis looking up with distant, dull eyes and frowning in fatigue and discontent.  The image of her holding out their newborn child and turning away.

But when she looked upwards, a blinding smile spread across her flushed and sweat-dappled face.  Despite how exhausted she must have been, despite the damp curls of gold sticking to her cheeks and neck and the bags forming under her shimmering, teary eyes, Finwë knew she was the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld.

"Wonderful." Her hand reached out, grasping his own firmly and squeezing, and she stretched upward to press a soft kiss against his parted lips. "We have a daughter, husband."

A daughter... Ai Eru!  He had a daughter...

Indis held their child, raised the tiny form and pulled back the soft, bunched blanket to reveal the blotchy little face.  Already decorated with pale eyelashes and huge blue eyes that blinked up at him from the chubby-cheeked, flushed visage.  By the Valar, he hoped they stuck and did not fade to gray, for they brought to mind the woman at his side, and he could not think of a better color.

"So I have a sister?" On the other side of the bed appeared his eldest son.  Finwë, startled, stared at the dark-haired young prince, the very image of his late wife with the same scorching, fiery eyes and the same zest for life.  He had expected the boy--who made his dislike for Indis plain even to the dullest of dullards--to stand in the corner of the room and leave his father and stepmother to coo and fawn over his step-sister in quiet, brooding silently beneath a façade of feigned pleasure.

But there he was, sitting himself down on the mattress and taking a good long look at the tiny little girl.  Not glaring at Indis with murderous intent.  Not muttering words of scorn at her usurpation of Finwë's affections.  Just looking curiously at the wriggling child, a small hint of something that might have been affection and intrigue upon his sharply angled features.

It was by the skin of his teeth that Finwë managed to keep from crying at the sight.

Of his wife and their newborn daughter safe and sound, happy and bright with life and anticipation of a brighter future.  Of his eldest son outstretching a finger, allowing the graceful digit to be captured and gnawed, laughing softly despite the baby drool.  Of his broken family coming together, jagged and misfit pieces all somehow collaged into a precious picture of companionship and harmony.

Their family was far from perfect.  He didn't think his son and wife would ever see eye-to-eye with one another or hold any sort of affection for one another.  Didn't think that the birth of a child, a new baby in the household bringing back to life wistful memories of childish laughter ringing down the vacant hallways, would change family dynamics drastically.  Didn't even think that it would bring them all closer at the end of the day, for he knew the stubbornness of his son and the unyielding nature of his wife.

But for the moment, singular and soft and timeless, they were all together somehow.  And happy.

It was much more than had ever hoped for after bidding farewell to Míriel and watching her breath leave her body for the final time.  It was the answer to an ancient prayer spoken in the days of youth and naivety, before everything had gone so terribly wrong.

No matter how the future unfurled, no matter how torn and ragged his family became or how much bitterness, hatred and prejudice lay as the bricks of an impossibly high wall keeping them all apart, Finwë knew this moment was enough of a blessing.  Throat tight and eyes blurring slightly at the edges, he nestled himself beside his wife, putting an arm around her shoulders and pressing her against his shoulder as she began to drift to sleep.

Together they watched Curufinwë playing with his baby sister in the soft afternoon light.  Finwë did not think he had ever felt more complete.  So wrapped up in softness and contentedness and bliss.

It would not last.  But still, he cherished the picture, for all its fleeting fragility.  Hardly dared he to blink, for he did not wish to miss even a second.

He wanted to remember this forever.
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Perhaps corny, but I had to do it after I dropped the word "precious" in "Hold" the other day.  It just stuck permanently after that.  And, honestly, I really needed the cuteness and tenderness today.  It has been a very, very long day for me and I couldn't write angst today.  I'm already on the verge of tears and I don't think I could write something actually sad.

Anyway, maybe Fëanor might be a bit OOC, I guess, but I think he could get over himself (with the help of his massive daddy complex) for one day and be f-ing happy for Finwë, who's been through a lot of shit and really deserves this moment.  Who knows, maybe Fëanor and Findis will actually be close brother-and-sister-wise?  In any case, I can't imagine him seeing Findis as the "threat" that he will see Fingolfin as (somewhat justifiably) in the future, and so I feel he could relax a bit and take the initiative to at least appreciate a sibling a little bit.

The song today is related to the story.  I'm linking up the actual PianoGuys website because it has a translation of the Hindi underneath and I think it fits Finwë and his family absolutely perfectly.  And Khushnuma (performed by ThePianoGuys and Shweta Subram) is a gorgeous cover of Don't You Worry Child (by Swedish House Mafia).  It's got this message to it, you know.  And I love the cultural mixture (and the suits that Shweta wears are lovely also) that gives this song a refreshing flavor.  It reminded me of sunlight and Indis' hair.  So sweet.

That is all I have for today.  I shall do my best to be on time with tomorrow and Sunday's updates, but I'm moving back to my dorms on Sunday, so I may post late.  But I will post.  After all, I've hit 200 stories.  No use in backing down now :D.

Pierce

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Curufin is beginning to see disturbing parallels between his cousin and his wife.  Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë, Finrod = Artafindë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Celebrimbor = Telperinquar).  This story mentions, of course, Amarië and my OFC Lindalórë.  She did, in fact, appear in the early drafts of "Apart" (a story of mine of dA), which is Finrod's POV of this scene.  That was written two years ago, and she's stuck permanently.  Anyway, also related to "Whispered", "Hidden", "Evidence" and "Cut" amongst others.  Takes place in Nargothrond in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: pre-Finrod x Curufin, Finrod x Amarië, Curufin x Lindalórë (OFC)

Characters: Curufin, Finrod (mentions Celegorm, Celebrimbor, Lindalórë (OFC) and Amarië)

Warning: non-canon compliant AU, OFC warning, non-canon relationship implied, pre-slash, pre-incest and pre-adultery, mentions murder, faint sexual undertones

Song: Soundscape to Ardor/Morning Remembrance

Words: 1,779
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pierce (verb): to run into or through as a pointed weapon does: stab; to enter or thrust into sharply or painfully; to make a hole through: perforate; to force or make a way into or through; to penetrate so as to move or touch the emotions of
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pierce

Too many evenings were spent this way.

Before the fire, Curufinwë perched upon a think, cushioned chair, perfectly still and quiet.  The heat from the golden-red waves dancing in the fireplace burst across his face, their glowing shadows flickering over the picture he cradled within his palm.  The picture to which his eyes were riveted.

He wondered if she remembered him at all.  If she even missed him.

If she felt as he did...

So beautiful she was before him, her dark curls piled into an elegant coiffure atop her head and her smile out-shining the stars for its whiteness and purity.  And her eyes, a mixture of the newness of spring and evergreen of winter, burned out at him, piercing and unblinking, eternally captured with their shimmer of delight and adoration.  So glorious but bringing such sadness.

Almost he could imagine running his fingers over her cheek and reaching up to pull her hair free of its bonds to flow loose in the ocean air.

Even so far apart, Curufinwë could swear he fell in love with her more and more each day.

But all he had of her was this locket.  The heavy golden trinket--one of his earliest and clumsiest but by far most beloved works, a treasure forged through his own blistering sweat and tears of utter frustration--held her portrait.  Were it not for the tiny painting, done with remarkable detail and skill to capture perfectly her visage in vivid color and graceful line, he was afraid he might have forgotten her face beneath the weight of tragic fate and ruthless battle.

He wore it against his heart.  Every day.  To bed.  To battle.  To death, should it strike him down.

Licking his suddenly dry lips and trying to ignore the stubborn sting of his eyes, Curufinwë released a sigh, still enraptured with her image.

More than anything... he missed her.

Felt a shroud of loneliness falling over his life and blocking out comfort and contentment.  It was not that he stood alone physically.  Turkafinwë haunted his every shadow and Telperinquar remained as fiercely loyal as ever.  But it was not the same.  Not the same sort of companionship and trust and that which had rested between him and his wife.

What he had with Turkafinwë was between brothers.  Familial devotion and buried fondness, but a certain sort of distance.  A coldness of embraces and a calculating gleam of the eyes.  And what he had with Telperinquar was little better, the love between a father and his son.  They had affection and bonding, some measure of trust.

But he longed.  Longed terribly for someone to sleep beside him.  To kiss his lips.  To be his confident in the dark when he reached his most vulnerable.  Not for a brother and not for a son.

All those things she had been for him.  But he had left her behind, fool that he was.

Alone.  He was alone.  And even he, the ruthless killer and heartless manipulator, was no less of a soul than any kind-hearted gentleman or sweet-cheeked lady.  No less needy.  No less wistful.

Looking down at her face was its own form of torture.

Black on snowy white and ringing the brilliant verdant.  Dazed, he ignored the flicker of firelight across her face--reminding him all too painfully of candlelit nights of passion--and concentrated on memorizing and remembering and driving away the need.

That was how it had been for centuries.

At least, until a shadow flickered across his eyes and disrupted the vision.  Reflexively, he snapped shut the locket and stuffed it beneath his shirt, hiding it away from prying eyes.  There were very few people he would trust with his weakness.

Glancing upward, a part of him was disgustingly grateful that it was Artafindë who had infringed upon his privacy.  His noble and kind cousin would not willingly use any knowledge of this sort against him.  Not even to save his own life.

"Cousin, was there something you needed?"

Artafindë gave him a knowing look, but thankfully did not bring up the subject that hung heavily between them, filling the air and bricking up a wall of miscommunication.  Instead, the golden-haired man grinned wryly. "I merely found myself in a spot of boredom and decided to seek out my favorite cousin.  Is that a crime?"

Without waiting for an answer, the King of Nargothrond sat down in the adjacent chair, relaxing back into the stuffing with a bone-weary sigh.  Had one been unfamiliar with the mannerisms of the King, they might have believed such a blatant lie because of the relaxed nature of the body and the steadfast and languid stare of the eyes, but Curufinwë knew better.  He had practically shared a nursery with this man and knew all too well what exactly was eating at his mind.

Probably the same that is haunting the corners of mine own.

Her.

Curufinwë's Lindalórë.  Artafindë's Amarië.  In some ways, the pair of cousins were all too similar and yet so very intrinsically different.

But Curufinwë knew... knew that his cousin felt this cursed weight as well.  This loneliness lingering as a deadly heaviness over the spirit, suffocating and dampening, weakening and tormenting.  Just as Curufinwë longed for the companionship of his wife, Artafindë longed terribly for his fiancée, his sweet Vanyarin lady wreathed in gold and softness.

Artafindë first broke their silence. "You miss her."

It stung, like dirt in an open wound.  Stiffening, his eyes flashed toward his cousin, a sneer twisting at his lips.  To say it so openly... so blatantly...

"I do not see what it should matter to you, cousin."

It hurt.  And even before the eyes of Artafindë, the last thing he wished to do was cry.

"I was just--"

"I do not care.  If all you came here to do was bother me, you should leave."

Leave me alone to suffer in silence.  Leave me to my loneliness and go drown in your own.  Please, make not the truth any more real.

But at his acerbic manner, Artafindë's eyes only gentled further with that softness which embodied the inner beauty of his cousin's spirit.  Until they were liquid with empathy, the kind of pure understanding that sent a heart-wrenching jolt through Curufinwë's chest.  There was just this power about those eyes and that sad, crooked little smile in the flickering light of the fireplace.  Sucking him in and brushing away the resentment.

This man was staring straight through him.  Knew him so well that Curufinwë could not hope to hide away from the piercing eyes... like hers...

So agonizingly familiar.

He understands.  Damn him.

Because despite the pain, there was deep-seated pleasure.  The feelings Curufinwë craved like a drunkard craves fine wine, the bond of companionship that he missed, seemed to abruptly snap into place, like a jolt through his spine.  Sending the Fëanárion's heart pounding.

"I miss Amarië as well."

Damn him for making me feel this way.  So easily.

The feeling of compassion washed through his veins, poisonous in its terrible lightness.  Tearing through the loneliness.  The heavy glow of camaraderie instead settled over them, blanketing their private little world.  Almost against his will, Curufinwë released a small, bitter smile.

"No one likes to be parted from their loved ones."

And, of course, Artafindë read him like a book.  Effortlessly. "If you ever need someone to speak with..." you may come to me.  I will stay silent.

"I see... I think you need someone to speak with more than I, cousin." And I will listen to every word.  Because those same insecurities--

The thought of her turning away...  The thought of returning home to an empty house and cold bed...

--haunted him at night in the dark when the silence became too much.  When there was no breath in his ear to quell the rising surge of need.

"Do you suppose she shall wait for you?" he asked.

"I hope so..."

For that long moment, that impossible gap was bridged.  The wall between them--their sundering through sin and feuds and violence--was completely pierced.  Curufinwë felt almost as if... as if he could reach out and touch...

And feel...

Though he shouldn't...

"Is that why the King of Nargothrond has yet to find a sweet elf-maiden to produce an heir?" he teased coolly, trying to draw away from sudden, dangerous heat. "It would be safer, would it not be?"

For everyone involved.  You.  And me.

As soon as Artafindë parted his fine, full lips, Curufinwë knew he was about to hear an excuse. "I do not care much about the line of succession.  I have a brother, and that is plenty enough."

Curufinwë knew how he felt.  Understood that there would be no other spouse.  No matter how it pained Artafindë to be so completely alone, the sole ruler of a stronghold under constant siege and danger, standing against a near undefeatable foe, shouldering such responsibility.  The kingship was more a curse than a blessing, one Curufinwë would never desire.

But there was something else... an insidious little idea at the back of his mind...

"I hope you meet her again, one day..."

As their moment drew to a close, they had a connection.  So close and so perfect that it resonated.  That it planted those little seeds in the back of Curufinwë's dangerously impulsive and unpredictable mind.  He looked again at his cousin, who was smiling oh-so-sadly and averting his ocean-deep eyes, staring into the flames.  Reflecting.

All of Artafindë was reflecting.  Like a mirror.

But as they sat in silence, the feeling drained.  The piercing, left unattended as those of the flesh, healed over and left between them that wall once more, draping them with their iron-weighted shroud and leaving them to their individual bitterness.  Only so long could he stand the chill before Curufinwë rose and bit his cousin good-eve, daydreams of his beloved wife once more overtaking his wild mind.

Leaving him cold and empty and alone again.  The feeling left a bad taste upon his tongue.  As he returned to his quarters, he tried not to think of what had transpired.  Tried not to remember that little sparks of pleasure amidst a sea of pain.

But still, the thought was planted.

And the need for that companionship, assuaged for a moment only, came back ten times as fierce.
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Originally I had planned for this to end with Curufin actually propositioning Finrod (or vice-versa, possibly), but then it just sort of went off in its own direction and I decided I wasn't going to make the scene longer in order to force the issue.  Besides, I think the story itself got the point across in several different ways.  I actually rather like this.

The dialogue is nearly exactly the same as it is in "Apart" (I think I changed one word), but "Apart" is written from oblivious Finrod's POV and ends before "Pierce".  You could kind of say that they are partner-pieces, I guess, even though "Apart" isn't actually on my blog and was written several years ago.  And yes, the locket with Lindalórë (she was an unnamed OFC at the time) was already present, as was her appearance.  I had to take it out in the final on dA so it could be filed in the family archives as technically "canonical", but the unedited version is on fanfiction.net under my username EbonyKittyCat552.  I wince whenever I read stuff I wrote two years ago, but it could have been much worse LOL.

I chose Soundscape to Ardor/Morning Remembrance (Rayden's remix combines both songs together) mostly because I've been listening to it for a while (and like the breakbeat remix better than either of the original forms of either song--they're both from Bleach, in case it wasn't obvious), but I thought it had a suitable presence about it.  This one I just don't know how to explain, but it just does.  And, though dubstep is definitely not my cup of tea, I really do like this.

That is all I have for you today.  I am going to go collapse in bed now.  College starts again next week!  I have a shit-ton of stuff to get done. *dies*