#Lyragothficlet

[lyragoth]

(...) "Tyelkormo, what troubles you?" 

Celegorm sniffled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Maitimo and Macalaulë," he mumbled. "They are mean!"

Fëanor tilted his head slightly, a faint smile easing his stern expression. "Macalaurë," he corrected gently, emphasizing the proper pronunciation... ever the scholar.

"Macalaulë," Celegorm repeated, his attempt sounding much the same. His tears began to subside.

Fëanor chuckled. "Very well, Macalaulë it is," he conceded with amusement. “Tell me what mischief have your brothers done?”

Celegorm hesitated, then blurted, "They said Uncle Finarfin found me in a bear’s cave and offered me to you and amya!"

“Did they now?” "Yes!" Celegorm's hands clenched at his sides. "Why do people always mistake me for Uncle Finarfin's son? I hate it! Is it because he was the one who found me in the cave?" "Tyelkormo, no one found you in a cave—least of all Finarfin," Fëanor said, exasperated at the absurdity. "You were born of me and your mother. Do not let such foolishness trouble you." His fiery temper kindled at his elder sons’ thoughtlessness. He would see to their discipline in due time. For now, his focus remained on Tyelkormo.

Placing his hands gently on the boy’s small shoulders, he spoke with firm tenderness. "Listen to me, Tyelkormo. You are my son. A Fëanorian, through and through. Maitimo and Macalaurë may jest, but their words hold no truth. You resemble someone precious, certainly not Finarfin, but someone I carry in my heart always, though I seldom speak of her."

Celegorm blinked, curious. "Who?"

Fëanor’s gaze softened. "My mother."

[lyragoth]

As a child, Celebrimbor was utterly captivated by his father.

His young eyes watched in awe as Curufin adorned himself with shimmering jewelry, each one meticulously crafted by his hands.

“Why do you wear so many jewels, atya?”

Curufin glanced down at his son and offered a smile.

“These jewels are emblems of our family’s talents, Tyelperinquar. I wear them not merely to shine, but to honor our legacy and the unique potential we have to create.”

Celebrimbor didn’t fully grasp his father’s words, but a deep desire stirred within him to craft something just as wonderful by himself.

“One day I shall create jewels as beautiful as yours.”

“You shall speak Quenya as a highborn prince first,” Curufin chuckled. “Now, what is more beautiful than beautiful?”

Celebrimbor thought for a moment. “...Glorious.”

“Indeed,” Curufin replied, lifting Celebrimbor into his lap. “In time, you shall surpass me and create your own glorious works. But remember, beauty alone is not enough." (...)

"But how can I be as good as you?"

"Well, what is greater than good?" Curufin prompted.

"...Fantastic?!"

“Fantastic." Curufin declared. "The fire of our house already burns within you, Tyelperinquar. The light in my eyes is reflected in yours.

Now, come, let us attend to your hair,”

As Curufin began to brush his son’s long hair with gentle, practiced hands, Celebrimbor’s thoughts drifted to the evening’s festivities.

“Tonight is the Starlight Festival,” he said with earnest intensity. “I must adorn myself with a multitude of jewels.”

“And why is that?” Curufin inquired with amusement.

“I wish to be more beautiful than you so Finrod will dance with me instead!” the child replied with determination. Then, anticipating his father’s correction, he added, “Not only beautiful—more beautiful than beautiful: magnificent.”

A warm laugh escaped Curufin. “Then I shall make you magnificent to ensure he cannot refuse you.”

[lyragoth]

"Please," Celegorm tore off his helmet and dropped to his knees beside his brother. "Don't go..."  His fingers traced Curufin’s dark hair, now marred with blood. “Stop playing,” he pleaded, his voice trembling as he forced a smile. “Open your eyes.” He hoped for one last trick because Curufin always had a plan, but his brother remained unresponsive. He tenderly brushed Curufin's face, and his hand recoiled at the chill of his skin. Gradually, his smile faded.

Memories of their childhood flooded his mind—Curufin’s laughter, once carefree as they hunted together through the fields of Valinor, now felt like a distant dream. The harsh reality yanked him back to the present and he sobbed openly, cradling Curufin in his arms as he did when they were children. "Little one," he sighed, rocking back and forth as tears fell onto his brother's cheeks. "Blood of my blood,"

(...)

“Don't be afraid,” Celegorm murmured, holding Curufin close despite the excruciating pain tearing through his chest. “I'll be with you soon.”

As night fell, Celegorm’s servants stumbled upon him clinging to Curufin's body in the kingly hall. In the dim light of their torches, the brothers' faces reflected a strange state of peace.

Together in life, together in death, they parted from the world as they had lived in it: inseparable.

[lyragoth]

My beloved Tyelperinquar,

I send you these, knowing well that you do not speak of him, nor wish to. But they are yours by right, and I do not think he would have wanted them lost to time, nor with anyone else. Keep them, or cast them away as you will... only know that they are yours (...) _ The chest sat before him, silver gleaming under the dim candlelight. Among the weapons, the mithril armor and so many other things that were sent, it was this luxurious box that held Celebrimbor frozen in place. He did not need to open it to know what lay inside.

Curufin’s jewels. His father had always worn a multitude of them—boldly, beautifully. From the eternal halls of Aman to the golden halls of Nargothrond, he had drawn every gaze, the light reflecting in the cascade of his black curls, his ornaments glinting like captured stars. A vision to behold, an image of sharp elegance, his presence filling a room before he even spoke—the kind of beauty, it was said, that could capture even a king’s heart.

(...) His hand trembled as he lifted the lid. The jewels lay in careful order, untouched since Curufin had last worn them. Diamond-shaped flowers, golden bees and so many more. His breath caught as he reached for one—a jade anklet, carved with intricate swirls of vines. His fingers brushed against the cool metal, and he could almost see it encircling his father’s ankle, catching the light as he walked with his usual grace.

His father, whom he had left.

His father, kingslayer, liar, betrayer. One of the last things Celebrimbor heard of him was his despair at Nargothrond’s fall—until he learned his son had survived. Then, sorrow turned to satisfaction, and he took pleasure in its ruin, showing no regret for what he had done.

Finrod’s face surfaced in his mind—golden and kind, his voice weighted with quiet wisdom. He had taught a young Celebrimbor much about honor and compassion. But the strength to choose his own path… this was his father’s heritage alone. And Celebrimbor had chosen. He had stood by Finrod’s side, and Lúthien had been the final breaking point—the last stone laid in the wall between them. He knew it was time to let Lord Curufinwë go for good.  Curufin had never fought him, never begged him to stay. He was too proud. They both were.

The wounds were there, deep and unspoken. And now, there would never be a chance to heal them.

His vision blurred. He blinked, only realizing when something cold struck the back of his hand—a single tear, vanishing into the gleaming surface of the jewels.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath, tracing the delicate carvings with his fingertip.

He had never thought to see these things again. (...)

His grip tightened on the silver chest as he shut his eyes. He wished, more than anything, that he could see him one last time. Just one last time. _

But remember, his true legacy lies not in these things but in you, your strength, skills, and the fire of your spirit. —Your father’s brother, always. Uncle Nelyo.

[lyragoth]

"Your strange companion, who shadows you constantly—is he of the elves?" Celebrimbor chuckled lightly, "No, not of the elves, merely strange." Sensing Narvi's lingering doubt, the elf attempted to explain the nature of his enigmatic friend as best he could for a dwarf. "He is a raw force of the world, a fire that tempers, brings warmth..."

"Fire may also spread and destroy," Narvi countered. Celebrimbor fell silent. He opted instead to tend to the fire; as he carefully stirred the embers, he observed the shimmering sparks ascending into the night sky, seemingly mingling with the distant stars. Stars... The elven prince explained to Narvi the essence of the stars, (...) their luminosity waning over eons until they eventually ceased to shine. Little stars diminished in size, while greater ones met their end in explosive displays akin to fireworks, transitioning into mysterious and dark celestial beings.

Celebrimbor elaborated, "Stars' brilliance varies, as do their lifespan. They may burn with different intensity, and yet although their destinies may diverge, their origins remain consistent" he continued. "In much the same way, we all are akin to the stars, for within each fëar burns a fire, whether tempestuous or tempered, derived from the same imperishable flame..." Gazing into the flickering flames, Narvi's contemplations turned to Celebrimbor.  The dwarf's mind dwelt on the inevitable passage of time, a matter that had never before haunted his thoughts.

He and Celebrimbor were constantly together, past the forests, above the mountains, and beneath the purple skies. Yet, akin to the big and small stars, their fates would diverge. Narvi was a mortal dwarf, unlike Celebrimbor, an immortal elf. At that moment, he understood the elven prince as a distant dream, walking a path of starlight in a realm beyond his reach.

[lyragoth]

The sun dipped slowly behind the mountains, painting the sky in hues of orange and blue. Golden light stretched across the courtyard, where a wounded warrior stumbled through the gates—a savage figure drenched in the remnants of orcs. At first, the guards hesitated, failing to recognize the blood-soaked creature before them. But when they glimpsed the majestic-crafted Fëanorian star beneath the armor, they promptly opened the gates—this was Lord Celegorm of Himlad.

Celegorm's golden braids hung loose and tangled, streaked with the dark blood of his enemies. The air around him was thick with the stench of iron and death, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp leaves from the forests he had so fiercely defended.

His eyes, usually bright and vibrant, were now clouded with brutal intensity. His breath came in harsh gasps, and though his movements were refined, like a predator, his heart still raced with the adrenaline of battle. A feral animal caught between the thrill of the hunt and violence, he had found his way home by sheer instinct alone.

Curufin stood still and poised, watching him from the arched entrance. His delicate hands, adorned with rings, gliding gracefully along the stone railing as he descended the stairway. He did not rush to meet Celegorm. Celegorm had deemed it unnecessary to bring Curufin along to confront the small band of orcs threatening the forests bordering Himlad. He demanded that Curufin stay behind, arguing that one of them needed to command the realm. They clashed. Two days heretofore, just before dawn, Celegorm had departed hastily and surreptitiously with two warriors, only to encounter a far larger horde than expected. He returned alone. Such recklessness was no surprise to Curufin, though it always left him deeply resentful. Yet there was little purpose in speaking to Celegorm when he was in this tempestuous condition, consumed by the shock of battle. Curufin sensed the storm brewing within his brother, having learned the signs well. The handmaidens piled up behind Curufin, their expressions a mix of unease and curiosity. They hesitantly approached to assist their lord, but Curufin raised a hand, stopping them.

“No,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. “Let him be.”

Only he could approach Celegorm now, offering the solace he desperately needed. It was safer this way; Celegorm could be unpredictable—even dangerous—in such a state

[lyragoth]

The forge was stifling, thick with the scent of molten metal and the faint trace of vanilla candle. With precision, Curufin fitted ornate screws into the joints, ensuring each finger would move fluidly. He murmured incantations under his breath, imbuing the metal with his own magic to enhance its strength and flexibility. An ethereal chime of elvish enchantment wafted through the air, casting a shimmering light across the forge. "Magnificent," Curufin's eyes fixed on the gleaming prosthetic. “It is almost fully functional. Do not overwhelm it with fighting! Now, open and close your hand." Maedhros' golden fingers curled into a fist before stretching out again. It was a masterful creation, forged with a care that transcended mere craftsmanship—made with love. As he examined the movement, his gaze fell upon his brother’s face, illuminated by the trepidating flames. Curufin’s features—delicate yet proud and intense—evoked a haunting familiarity. He carefully reached out with his golden hand, lifting Curufin’s chin. "You are so beautiful," (...) "So are you," Curufin smiled, softly kissing the cold metal knuckles. "We all are."

"...It is as though I am gazing upon father."

Curufin momentarily stilled, a flash of sadness washing over his smile. "Father is not here, Nelyo."

"I know you grieve his absence most keenly," Maedhros observed gently. "You remain trapped in that day when he vanished in your arms like ashes slipping through your fingers—"

"Enough." Curufin cautioned, his gaze avoiding his brother’s. "He is our father too, Curvo." Curufin's response was a huffed sound. A clear sign he wished to speak no further on the matter. With a gentle understanding that only an older brother possessed, Maedhros recalled how little Curufin would hide beneath the table whenever upset with his elder brothers. Celegorm would invariably find him and report to Fëanor, leaving Maedhros and Maglor to face the consequences of their younger brother's shenanigans. Curufin had always been stubborn... spoiled... a golden child. And as Maedhros regarded him now, it felt like witnessing the same elfling. “Curufinwë,” he called upon their father’s name, smiling despite their shared sorrow. “You mastered your craft in the fires of war. Despite our tragedies, your talent has never faltered—it has only deepened. You carry father's legacy within and he is proud." Curufin raised an eyebrow while polishing the prosthetic, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Did I ask for praise?” He glanced up, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“You are insufferable,” Maedhros retorted.

“And you lack a sense of humor,” Curufin chuckled softly, a rare flicker of his former mirth resurfacing. “It is well known that I could surpass Father, had I not exhausted all my magic in the crafting of Tyelperinquar…”

Maedhros laughed heartily and affectionately ruffled Curufin’s hair. “I am a fool endeavoring to uplift your spirits!”

[lyragoth]

"He sleeps," (...) Mairon, previously known as Annatar, circled the majestic skiff, caressing the intricate silver patterns and gem-laden surface. The extended sleeves of his white attire and the spaces beneath his fingernails retained the vestiges of dried blood. Through the cold crystal, the Noldor prince remained the most beautiful to him, nestled in everlasting repose. His raven-wavy hair, embellished with black pearls, framed his pale skin and sprawled like a cascade against the pristine canvas of lilies.

"Silver befits you, Tyelperinquar," Mairon remarked with a semblance of a smile. Upon another meticulous contemplation of his face, it dawned upon Mairon that death intended to mocky him, because inconceivable as it seemed, death only served to enhance the beauty of the elf.

Just a fortnight before with five resounding strokes of the silver hammer, the prince collapsed, lifeless in his murderous arms. Yet, for Mairon, not entirely so. He clung to a glimmer of hope, his heart yearning for the dawn of a rebirth, enduring the anticipation of a long awakening that held the promise of eternity.  "You may unveil your azure eyes once more at any moment," Mairon whispered, leaning closer to the crystal barrier that separated him from the prince. "Until then, I shall guard your slumber, my precious," _ In XIX Brazil, there was a literary movement called "Ultra-romanticism" which is characterized by the themes "Death" and constant morbidness. As a sucker for Ultra-romanticism, I was trying to flirt with some of its elements such as escapism (Mairon's denial of reality in favor of the world of dreams), subjectivity, and conscience of solitude.

[lyragoth]

(...) He reclaimed Curufin’s lips, this time deeper and more desperate.

Curufin’s fingers tugged at the ribbon of Finrod’s tunic, loosening it as his hands roamed freely over Finrod's chest. He grabbed Finrod by his collar, pressing their flushed bodies together.

Overcome by desire, Finrod spun Curufin toward a nearby tree, pinning him to it with more forceful, frenzied kisses.  His lips trailed feverishly down Curufin’s neck to his collarbone, tasting every inch of exposed skin he could reach. (...)

"You have haunted my thoughts all day," Finrod growled, fingers digging into Curufin’s hips as he pressed against him hard and insistent. "I need it. Come to my chambers." "No," Curufin's breath was ragged, his fingers unbuttoning Finrod's trousers "Here. Now."

Just as Finrod was about to lower them to the ground, a small, clear voice broke the spell. “Atya?”

The sound was like a splash of cold water, instantly snapping them out of their heated passion. Finrod froze, his hands still possessively cupping Curufin's thighs, but the fire between them instantly extinguished.

Curufin’s eyes widened in surprise, his head turning sharply toward the source of the interruption: Standing under the moonlight was little Celebrimbor, clutching a stuffed animal in one hand, his blue eyes fluttering with innocent confusion.

“Atya, why are you out here?” Celebrimbor yawned the words in sleepy wonder. “I woke up and you weren’t in bed. You promised you would sleep with me.”

Finrod immediately stepped back, his body still buzzing, now laced with an uncomfortable guilt. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he tried to steady his breath, struggling to recover from the overwhelming pleasure that had nearly consumed him.

Curufin, however, softened instantly. The lust in his eyes disappeared, replaced by tenderness. He knelt to his son’s level, delicately brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “What is it, little one?” 

“I had a bad dream. Worse than bad... Horrifying.” Celebrimbor’s voice trembled slightly as he rubbed his eyes. “The red-haired sorcerer dragged me to the forests, far away from you and Uncle Tyelko. He had yellow eyes and—” “Hush, now,” Curufin soothed, pulling his son close. “Uncle Tyelko telling you horrifying stories again, hmm?" He lifted Celebrimbor into his arms, and the boy nestled into the crook of his neck, the nightmare disappearing in the comfort of his father's embrace. "No sorcerer will ever take you from us, Tyelperinquar.” 

Finrod watched the scene, torn between finding it adorable and feeling unsettled. (...) Curufin turned with quiet grace, his crimson robes trailing behind him like a veil. His son’s small hand clutched the golden necklace draped around his neck as they walked toward the palace. Finrod remained motionless, observing them go. Such an endearing moment dissolved the remnants of his frustration. He adored seeing that caring side of Curufin—a rare glimpse of vulnerability few had ever witnessed in the elf lord.