Tease

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Just Curufin randomly dreaming about the past.  Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë or Curvo, Finrod = Artafindë or Findë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë or Turko, Orodreth = Artaresto, Maedhros = Nelyo, Maglor = Káno and Caranthir = Moryo).  I just thought I'd note that in this story the Ambarussar have not been born yet, so Curufin (in the memory) refers to himself as the youngest brother at least once (I think).  Connects to all Mellow-related stories, especially "Dust", "Whispered" and "Hidden".  Technically takes place in Nargothrond in the First Age, but the memory is in Valinor in the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Finrod x Curufin

Characters: Curufin, Finrod, Celegorm (mentions Fëanor, Finarfin, Orodreth, Maedhros, Maglor, and Caranthir)

Warning: not canon compliant, non-canon pairings, slash, mentions murder, treason, slander and spying, some fluffiness, implied (not actual) cannibalism, insanity, extramarital affairs, somehow surprisingly depressing

Song: Behind These Hazel Eyes

Words: 2,195
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tease (verb): to disturb or annoy by persistent irritating or provoking especially in a petty or mischievous way; to annoy with petty persistent requests: pester
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tease?show=0&t=1375634780

Sometimes, Curufinwë wondered why all good things must end and why the world must inevitably fall to pieces about his head.

Lying still in his cousin's bed, he had to admit that he did not feel sorry.  Not for anything he had ever done in his life.  Not for all the times he had broken noses and bruised jaws and snarled out ill-thought-upon words of fury in the midst of temper.  Not for the First Kinslaying or for spreading slanderous rumors behind Artafindë's back or even for riling up Artaresto until his sweet little cousin was ready to pitch the fit to end all fits and slit his throat in frustration.

The world was not a sweet and gentle place, and Curufinwë would do whatever it took to survive in this hellhole with silken sheets and masterfully carven walls.  He would lie and kill and trick to get what he wanted and needed.

But he wouldn't lie and say it was always easy.  Even he, the most heartless of his brothers--possibly of all his kin--had moments of passing and irritating sentimentality.

Now, as he flicked a strand of golden hair between his fingers and stared at Artafindë's restful, beautiful face caught in an image of pure innocence, was one of those moments.

One of those moments when he thought about the past as it had been and never would be again.  Thought about Turkafinwë before his brother was crazy and about Artafindë before his cousin was sad and about Valinor before the Two Trees had fallen dark and plunged the world into chaos.

About being a kid playing, carefree and clueless about harsh reality, with his brothers and cousins.  Before the politics and hatred and bitterness doused their lives in oil and lit them aflame.

About that silly scowl that Turko always wore on his face when he concentrated too hard.  So caught up in the moment was he that he would have missed a raging wildfire screaming out its fury and bearing its tongues of flame down upon his backside.  Who knew that stringing a bow could be so enthralling?

Personally, little Curufinwë thought it was dumb.  Who wanted to run around getting muddy and cold and wet just to shoot some flee-ridden animals with a bow and eat them?  Normal people just got chunks of meat at the marketplace and let the cooks prepare them into delicious, tender delicacies.  And besides, Atto had been sure to tell the youngest son that he ought not follow his third oldest brother's example many times, adding interesting long words to his explanations--like "malicious", "disobedient" and "bellicosity"--that little Curufinwë did not understand.

He thought they all needed to lighten up.  No one in his house smiled.

"Are you sure we should bother him?" The voice was high and a bit whiny, but Curufinwë was used to that by now. "He doesn't look in the mood for playing, Curvo."

"Don't be such a baby, Findë."

Beside him was his little cousin.  Though, in all honestly, Artafindë was not that little.  He wasn't even a whole year younger than Curufinwë.  Nevertheless, their closeness in ages meant that they were often shoved together to "play" with one another because none of the older brothers and cousins wanted to spend time messing around with the babies of the family and their "stupid" games.

Eventually, they had become friends out of pure necessity.  Or, as much of friends as two boys with fathers who hated each other's guts could become without a scolding.

Thus it was that, since not even Moryo would spend time with him, Curvo had begun dragging poor cousin Artafindë into all his schemes and tricks.  It was absolutely no fun causing trouble (and getting caught) if there was no one to share the fun (and punishment) with.

"We're just going to tease him for a while, that's all.  Maybe tie his boot laces together and steal his bow.  You can bet he'll chase us and trip.  It will be hilarious!"

"That's not very nice, Curvo."

"It's just a joke."  He grabbed his goody-two-shoes cousin's hand and pulled him forward in the direction of the bowman. "Just be absolutely quiet, or he'll hear us coming!"

Looking back upon it, Curufinwë felt his lips twitch as his half-hooded eyes drooped, mind falling into a light doze as the golden firelight flickered and danced across the walls and the sheets and burned Artafindë's hair into sunlight.  Surely, Turkafinwë had known they were there right from the start, had heard their entire plan and had merely indulged their childish foolishness.  He had had sharp ears and could sense trouble a mile away, after all...

It had not surprised young Curufinwë that his brother had failed to notice their approach, for he had been practicing his stealth much lately on all his siblings.  The pair of mischievous elflings perched themselves on the back of a tall boulder in the tall grass at the older brother's back, watching his silvered braid swish back and forth with his quick movements.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.

Curufinwë darted out of hiding, giving the tail a firm tug, and scrambled back to his hiding place behind their rock, pressing his back to the stone.  Artafindë, at his side, lowered his head out of Turko's range of visibility like a groundhog darting down into the safety of his burrow and smothered a loud giggle with a pudgy, grass-stained hand.  But the laughter was plain in his wide blue eyes.  They leaned around the rock, peering (blatantly) out at their victim to watch his reaction.

As expected, Turkafinwë had twitched sharply, glazed eyes coming back to reality and focusing into a point sharper than the tips of his razor-edges arrowheads, scouring the surrounding shrubbery and grasses.  Passing right over their (semi-conspicuous) hiding spot with little more than a grunt of dismissal.  His deft hands had not even ceased their work on the bow.

As soon as his back was turned, Curufinwë sent his little cousin a meaningful look.

A "now you try" sort of look.

"Me?" he received silently in reply, wide-eyed and nervous.  Of course, even then he had known that people made nasty rumors about Turko biting people's heads off and roasting their tongues like a barbarian (whatever that was supposed to mean), but his brother wasn't that bad!  He only ever brought home dead ducks and deer!  Never people, no matter their size or level of annoyance!

The young prince gave his baby cousin another look.  The "Are you too chicken?" look that had a flush worming its way up onto the golden-haired boy's slightly chubby cheeks.  Well, a little teasing and peer pressure could go far.  And it wasn't as if Turko would harm them...

Gulping (audibly), little Artafindë jumped out of their hiding spot and bolted forward, pulling sharply on the long silver braid.  Hard enough to snap Turko's head back and make his hands falter in their work as he tipped and tipped...

And tipped over backwards into the grass.  Artafindë was lucky that he was so quick and nimble on his feet, or he would've been caught and squashed.

Turko--instead of getting angry like Atto would have or annoyed like Káno would have or exasperated like Nelyo would have--just let out a gusty sigh that stirred up the grass (and the little ones' fits of half-stifled giggles and snorts). "Pests," he accused lightly, sharp silver eyes, half-blocked by tall grass, finding the pair blinking out at him from behind their rock and staring seemingly straight through all the tall green blades between them. "Better run before I catch you..."

Or maybe he was angrier than Curvo had thought... A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as his fully-grown brother rose silently from the grass, a towering image of a handsome prince and dangerous predator despite his dusty clothing and simple tunic and messy hair.  And then there was that scowl, twisting upwards his pale lips to bare straight, clenched white teeth.

"Come on!" He did the only logical thing a younger sibling does in the face of such an adversary... he ran.  And dragged Artafindë behind him.

"I knew this was a bad idea, Curvo!"

"Just shut up!" Now was not the time to be embarrassed by the fact that Artafindë was mortifyingly correct.  There were more important things to be considered.  Like where to find Nelyo!  Nelyo would keep Turko from eating them both alive!  No one ignored Nelyo when he gave an order, not even their most stubborn, reckless and free-spirited, silver-haired, bow-wielding loon of a brother.

They turned a corner... and promptly ran head first into muddied, well-worn leather boots with strikingly familiar laces.  Laces Curvo had been imagining tied together just a few minutes earlier.

Crap...

"And where do you think you are going, hm?" The look on his older brother's face really was evil, worse than any of the mad-faces or irate-faces or scowling-faces that Atto ever made!

He really is going to eat us!

Powerful hands caught the backs of their tunics before either of the tiny children could scurry off in the opposite direction.  With ease, Turko lifted them off the ground, one held in place by each of his broad hands, dangling them helplessly.  And on his face was a grin that would have made Curvo's friends at school wet themselves in fright.

"Caught you."

Shuddering, Curvo closed his eyes tight...

And then he was being tickled even as his rump hit the ground.  Laughter helplessly bubbled up from his belly, choking out his breath, as long-fingered hands crawled across his sides like spider-legs, hitting all those sensitive spots until he was rolling about, squirming like mad to escape.  Above him was that blurry figure of his older brother and that evil smile softening into genuine amusement.

By the time the torture ended, Curvo was gasping for air.  Flopping over, he laid limp in the grass, propping his chin upon his tiny crossed arms.  Beside him, little Artafindë was red in the face, chest still hitching with giggles as he lay spread out on his back, hair mussed and filled with green remains and old, torn leaves.

"You're mean, Turko," the little brother complained, half-hearted at best.  In truth, it was rather nice to see Turko smile.  And to know that he wasn't going to roast them and eat them for evening meal.

"Tease someone your own size next time, troublesome brats"

There was that helpless affection that bubbled over in his chest right then, when a hand came down and ruffled his hair playfully.  Atto never did that.  And he was never this nice, even though he always called Curufinwë "son" and not "brat" or "pest".  He wondered if his face had that same amazed and adoring look upon it as did his little cousin's when they looked up at the older elf sitting upright against a tree with a crooked smirk and devilish eyes.

Wondered if Artafindë felt like they had the most awesome older brother (cousin) ever, too.

"Hm... Curufinwë..."

The soft voice drew him away from the pleasant memory-dream.  Blinking, he realized he was still sequestered up in his cousin's private chambers, still naked and a little sticky and sweaty.  And they were no longer in their years of carefree youth or the green, safe forests of Valinor so far away.  Artafindë was shaking him awake with pursed lips and slightly worried eyes instead of a cute, shy grin and wide, awed sky-colored orbs.

"Dawn is upon us.  Were you planning to leave before the morning guard duty makes their rounds?"

Normally, he did not stay even this long, screw waiting until the night guards left their posts to switch with the morning ones.  But it seemed that tonight was one of those nights in which he was tricked into sleep by haunting memories of older times.  Better times.

Times when Turkafinwë still smiled and he really didn't have to worry about his dear older brother tearing his face off and roasting his carcass over a fire-pit for dinner.  Times when all of them could laugh and boast and tease freely without worrying about politics and family feuds and accidentally offending the others.

Times when everything hadn't been so damn complicated--

"Do not worry." He hoisted himself out of bed and set about dragging on his rumpled clothes from the night before without even bothering to clean himself first.  They would be washed this evening anyway. "I shall make myself scarce before your servants and assistants arrive to prod and poke at you like vultures, dear cousin."

--but those times were long passed.

"See that you do." The friendliness was absent.  It was almost as if they were complete strangers.  As if those fond times they had spent together before this tragedy were useless, valueless trinkets without meaning.

There was no more time for teasing and games.  And no more time for laughter.
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This turned out to make a lot more sense with the prompt than I had expected it to.  To be honest, I took one look at today's prompt and had a "what the hell do I do with that?" moment.  But I think it turned out to be rather cute... in a depressing-ish sort of way.  I have wanted to do background on the very random friendship between Finrod and Celegorm for a while, and this is as good a start as any, ne?

To be honest, the ages of the Fëanorions are never mentioned anywhere as far as I know, but I tend to write Maedhros somewhere between Fingolfin and Finarfin, with Caranthir about the same age as Fingon and Curufin about the same age as Finrod and Turgon, with the twins coming in behind even Aredhel and Galadriel (probably even Argon), but only some of that is canon.  I blame the cute comics I've seen on dA.

*cough* Anyway... Behind These Hazel Eyes (Kelly Clarkson) really has nothing to do (lyric-wise) with the piece itself, but just happened to be what I felt like listening to today as I was writing.  It's properly depressing enough, in any case, and some of it is (vaguely) applicable.  Well, in any case, it's just an older song that I've always been rather fond of.  So yeah.

That is all for today.