Candlework by Agelast

Chapter 1

Candlework was busy work, necessary work, work that could be done through the lifetime of several candles. It went on regardless of the hour, in this cave that knew neither noon nor night. Smoke wafted up to the (presumed) heavens, and made the cream-colored stone grimy and dark. Curufin’s work tarnished Finrod’s, and that was how it should be. Finrod, if he were here, would have smiled and shaken his head. “My work is meant to be used, cousin,” he would say. Fatuous, foolish and fair.

That was Finrod, once. But he was dead now, or so Curufin heard.

There was not much he did not hear; gossip had a way of winding down to his workshops, and curling, panting slightly, eager for his approval, certainly, to be fed and petted and told that he had done well. But it was Celegorm who (until recently) did well with pets.

Curufin was more likely to give a curt nod, and go back to his work.

His candles flickered now, and he would soon have to ring for the girl to come in and cut the wicks and replace the ones that had burned too low. Again, the light blinked and danced, as if teased from a gust of wind.

Curufin lifted an inquisitive head, sleek and dark, so much like his father. Head and brain and mind, all of that. Oh! But lesser, that was true. So very true. Fëanor had been a visionary, one who could twist the threads of fate in his masterful hand -- until he grew caught in them, in the fullness of madness and pride.

But Curufin? He was an onlooker, who picked at the weakest knots, almost indifferent to the results.

His mouth quirked into a grim smile, thin-lipped and pale though it was. It was only in the privacy of his own head that Curufinwë Atarinkë could ever acknowledge his own inferiority -- or Fëanor’s flaws..

A drop of wax fell upon his hand and he pulled it away with a hiss. He looked up, curious as to where the drop had come -- when he saw his cousin leaning down beside him, a mild and interested look on his face. In death, as in life, Finrod could never resist reading over one’s shoulder.

Improved bridge plans could wait.

“This is a dream,” Curufin said, his voice firm.

Finrod nodded sympathetically. “Almost certainly.”

He set his candle down. It was a thick, white candle, the kind that were found aplenty in the kitchens of Nargothrond. It burned with a pleasant scent, faintly of beeswax.

Corpse candles, Curufin thought, and he remembered the desperate flight from Himlad before, of lanterns and candles lit on the windows of houses scorned by dragon flame, its inhabitants tucked inside. A work of the Enemy, enchantments mention to kindle hope, and then snuff it out.

Finrod blinked, his eyes a calm, placid blue. He looked the same as he had done, the last time Curufin had seen him. Less impassioned, perhaps, and desperation wiped clean from his fair and noble face. His throat, peeking out from his tunic, was white and unblemished, unmarked by any wolf’s teeth. The light of the dying candles caught in his hair, throwing off, as it did, a truer, unsullied light.

He was beautiful.

Curufin felt certain, as he looked around to see his candles go out, one by one, that he would not like to be alone with Finrod in the dark. But soon, there was no light at all, except that of Finrod’s own candle, which did not seem to shrink, but instead burned hot as its flames rose higher.

Curufin’s hands, sure and clever, shook only a little as he took the candle from the table. The wax was warm (solid and real) in his hands. The drops ran into his hands, dribbled on his tunic, ruined the cloth. He got up, slowly, his chair scraping at the floor. He raised the candle to Finrod’s face.

Finrod smiled gently, a martyr’s smile, inscrutable in the dark.

Curufin crept close, his breathing loud in the quiet of the chamber.“What do you want?” His voice seemed thin and reedy, no silver tongue in evidence anywhere.

“Oh, you know,” Finrod said. His smile deepened, became wolfish.

And long while after, he blew the candle out.

*

From a long way away, someone was speaking to him.

Curufin growled, “Tyelpo, you know I don’t like to be disturbed...”

He jerked back with a groan, his neck protesting at being held in such an awkward position for so long. His head ached, there was a faint ringing in his ears.

It was not Celebrimbor who woke him. His son had not bothered him in such a way for many years since. It was the girl who collected the candle nubs every morning, to be melted down again to make new ones. Her dress was patched and red, with dribbles of wax stuck in some corners of her apron. She scampered back, alarmed.

Impatiently, Curufin waved her away -- and paused. His hands, fine draftsman’s hands, were spider-webbed with thin lines of wax. The wax broke apart and revealed his flushed skin. His table was empty -- his careful plans lay crushed and torn on the floor. The only thing remained was a little nub of a white candle, of the most common sort.

The girl, regaining her courage a little, reached for it to put in her basket, but Curufin said sharply, “Leave it! Take the rest.”

When Curufin was finally at peace again, he took the nub and put it in his pocket. Later, as the flames from the forge grew high and hot, he took the melting ball of wax and tossed it into the heart of the fire.

There was a little white spark, and then nothing.