A Walk down Memory Lane by Raiyana

An inventor's goggles

Read An inventor's goggles

She was Makalaurë’s guest, the young maiden with the shining silver hair that looked like his favourite metal wire, except it must be soft, swishing gently against her fine green silk dress as she walked beside Makalaurë through the gardens. Her hair, pulled back with some kind of leather hairpiece fastened with a reddish wooden pin, had been decorated with a small pink rose that Curvo recognised as one of those that grew in Ammë's rose garden. Well, it was technically Ammë's garden of statues, but the roses thrived there, winding around their bases and filling the air with their scent. He wasn’t close enough to hear them, fascinated by the way her hands moved like birds through the air when she spoke. Káno’s eyes crinkled, laughing at whatever it was they discussed. The girl pulled a battered quill from her belt and pretended to stab him, which only made Káno laugh harder and then her face split in an answering smile and she jotted down something on the paper she carried.

“Curvo!” Atto called, impatient but not yet angry, breaking the spell of his thoughts. “Stop dawdling, son, there’s work to be done!” Fëanáro snapped.

Curvo had long-since learned not to mistake his usual gruffness for anger; it would vanish once they began actually working and he could feel that same drive to create singing in his own fëa. He nodded.

 “Coming, Atto,” he smiled, but Atto had already turned around to head for his own work area, a ‘you were the one who wanted to learn to work bronze.’ thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Curvo turned away from the girl and forgot about her in favour of focusing on his work.

 

 

“…but what if you added drums, simulating the sound of waves?” Telperína asked, leaning back on her elbows and tossing a few strands of grass at Makalaurë, who was strumming his lap harp, trying to get his theme to work. “I could ask one of my cousins to play Ulmo; and you know you could persuade Carnistir to play Ossë…” Makalaurë laughed.

“Moryo on the stage?” he asked, the fog of musical distraction giving way to complete focus as he heard what he had just said, boggling at his silver-haired friend.

Telperína looked straight at him, her face entirely serious. Makalaurë opened his mouth, already shaping the first words of a long rant about why that was the most insane idea he had ever heard. She let him go on for almost a minute before her straight face cracked and she burst into clear laughter.

“You were pulling my leg,” Makalaurë said rolling his eyes in displeasure.

“Your face!” she crowed, chuckling.

“I suppose Carnistir might offer to do costumes to escape such a chore…” Makalaurë grinned mischievously, poking her hip with his foot.

Telperína looked down to be sure he hadn’t dirtied her dress; she was well aware that her presence in the house of Prince Fëanáro would not be received gladly by its illustrious patriarch – but being dirty and unkempt wasn’t likely to endear him to her presence if they ever met. Poking him back with her own foot, Telperína still couldn’t help return his smile.

“You’re the one who wanted to do a play about the Great March!” she pointed out. “I was perfectly happy telling the story of the construction of Tirion – perhaps then your Atar might approve of my presence here! – but noooo, the mighty Prince of the Golden Voice had to butt in with his grand plans.”

“Tirion is dull!” Makalaurë objected. “The Great March is far more interesting.”

Telperína sighed in response, throwing up her hands in a plea for patience from the Valar that Makalaurë ignored in its entirety. Sometimes the King’s grandchildren were more vexatious than they knew.

She wasn’t really angry, and Makalaurë knew it, his grin that combination of teasing familiarity and amusement that usually made her temper dissipate like dew before Laurëlin. Telperína sighed again, exasperated, getting to her feet and scowling at her unrepentant friend. Muttering to herself, she stomped off, promising dire retribution as soon as she had found a cool drink. Turning back in the doorway of the house, she offered to fetch one for Makalaurë, but he just played a few more notes, all his attention returned to the harp in his lap. Shaking her head at him, Telperína turned, striding off in search of the kitchens.

If he had known where she would end up, he might have stopped her – or at least warned her – but Makalaurë did not look up to see where Telperína’s feet led her.

 

 

“Hello?”

Curvo stiffened at his workbench; everyone knew better than to disturb Atto in the forge; even he was barely tolerated here. Ammë might be the only one whose presence would not be greeted with a fierce scowl, and she would never just barge in; it wasn’t her voice either way. Pushing his goggles up his forehead – Carnistir claimed they made him look like peculiar owl, but Curvo found his invention useful when he was creating tiny details – he turned around, lifting a hand for silence.

His hand fell, but he managed to keep his jaw from following.

Her silver hair seemed to shine in the dim light of the forge, catching the gentle glow of Telperion and spinning it into silk. It looked even softer up close.

She blinked, her eyes unused to the dimness coming in from the brightness of day.  

“Can I help you?” Curvo asked, vaguely surprised to hear the words leave his mouth.

“Oh!” she said, blinking large green eyes – a peculiar pale colour, but it seemed to suit her; a Vanyarin by blood, perhaps? – and biting her lip. “I- I’m afraid I am lost,” she added sheepishly. Curvo nodded. She was new here; it was easy to get lost in their sprawling home.

“Curvo! Did you finish the hinges yet?” Atto called from further in the forge area; Curvo’s shoulders stiffened as he cast a guilty look at the hinges that he had been etching patterns into.

“Not yet, Atto!” he called back, unsurprised to hear Atto sigh, but more than a little astonished to feel him come up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking down at the piece on the worktable.

“Not bad, son,” Atto murmured, tracing the design with a sooty finger hovering just above the metal. Curvo felt a glowing ember of pride in his gut. “And who are you?” Atto continued, his head snapping up in the direction of the most beautiful creature Curvo had ever seen. He wondered if her hair would feel like silver in his fingers. The thought made him blush, but even his sternest admonitions had no effect on the heat in his cheeks.

“Ai!” she gasped, bowing hastily. “Prince Fëanáro! I am Telperína, Faniel.” Curvo did not wince, feeling Atto’s hand tightening on his shoulder, though he felt tempted. Fananis was famous in Tirion for her beautiful garments, and someone Moryo had competed with – and lost to – in design challenges, Curvo knew. Furthermore, she served as Indis’ personal tailor, and Atto had little but scorn for anyone even loosely connected with the Queen’s household. Telperína looked like she knew that already, however, her lip back between her teeth as she darted a nervous glance past Curvo’s ear.

“Why are you in my house?” Atto asked, in that voice that meant Curvo and his brothers would be in trouble soon.

“I am… I am here with Makalaurë,” she replied, “we are working on a play together…” Almost despite himself, Curvo was impressed that she didn’t shy away from Atto’s simmering temper.

“And where is Káno?” Atto’s voice clearly implied that she was hardly welcome with his son, but most assuredly unwelcome alone.

“In the gardens, my lord,” Telperína replied, bobbing a quick curtsy. “I meant to return there, but I was… lost.”

“I’ll take you back to Káno,” Curvo heard himself say, unprepared for the bright smile he earned from the girl at the offer. He absently wondered if she could see the heat in his cheeks, hoping the darkness of the workshop and the brown hue of his skin would conceal it. Atto sighed behind him. Curvo turned his head slightly.

“Very well, Curvo,” Atto frowned, still looking like he wanted to banish Telperína from the grounds entirely, and then his hand left his shoulder, “but I expect those hinges to be finished this afternoon.” Curvo nodded. With a final curtsy from Telperína, Atto returned to the depths of the forge.

Curvo hurried to offer her his arm, just like he’d seen Maitimo do for the ladies at court – even if Maitimo’s fingers were never smudged with charcoal at court. Telperína smiled again, making him feel warm all the way down to his toes when she took it like he was a proper adult, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm, distanced from skin by the leather arm guards he wore.

“This way,” he said, thankful that his skin was darker than Ammë’s; maybe she wouldn’t notice his blush.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said demurely, following his lead.

“Call me Curufinwë,” he replied, once more feeling the light of her smile wash over him, along with an itch in his fingers to test whether her hair truly was as soft as it looked.

“Very well,” she acquiesced, “thank you, Haryon Curufinwë.”

 

 

When they emerged into the Tree-Light, Telperína felt light as she escaped Fëanáro’s simmering anger on the arm of Curufinwë, abruptly deciding that he was her favourite of Makalaurë’s brothers, even if Prince Maitimo had been more graciously welcoming. Noticing the fading blush in Curufinwë’s cheeks made her wonder how young he was; not much older than her, probably, she judged. The splash of colour across his cheekbones was oddly adorable, and she felt her mouth stretch in a smile in response as she walked with him. He remained silent, even though his mouth opened a few times as if to speak, and Telperína had ample time to study him as they walked, intrigued by this younger brother of Makalaurë, who did not seem to have much in common with her friend. He resembled his Atar greatly, as the stories said, but there was a lightness in him that she had not seen in Fëanáro. His clothes were less fine than she would have expected from a Pince – Makalaurë always looked like he was ready for a ball, and Prince Maitimo had been gallant like a hero from a story – but Curufinwë was dressed simply: a red shirt, sparsely decorated around the collar, fingerless leather gloves that stretched to his elbows, and a pair of buckskin leggings. The peculiar eyepieces remained pushed halfway into his dark hair; she wondered what they were for. He had been making intricate patterns in metal when she interrupted his work; using the funny-looking eyepieces – perhaps they enhanced his sight or accuracy? – and a set of metal instruments that resembled a cross between pens and knives, tapping on the handles with a small mallet. She wanted to thank him, but managed only a polite curtsey when he left her at the entrance to the garden – she could hear Makalaurë’s playful harp in the distance – before turning on his heel and leaving her to stare at his surprisingly strong-looking shoulders as he walked away.

 

 

It was surprisingly easy to pump Makalaurë for information about his guest, Curvo thought, doing his best not to smirk at the thought. All he had had to do was drop a disinterested half-warning about his brother keeping his friends away from Atto’s forge in future, and he had been treated to a long lecture expounding on Telperína’s presence at the house, her many virtues, and brilliant artistic skill – Makalaurë’s friends were always ‘the best’ at some form of art – apparently Telperína was a playwright.

“I thought her quite brave,” he offered placatingly, near the end of Makalaurë’s tirade, “she did not cower when Atto asked her who she was – and she a Vanyarin, to boot!” Of course, the Vanyar could be brave, but those who hailed from that people tended to quail at Atto’s dark regard – Telperína had not, and that alone would have made her interesting to Curvo’s mind, even if he had not been intrigued by her smiling eyes or her silvery hair already. His brother took the bait. From the other side of the table, Maitimo shot Curvo the kind of glance that told him his oldest brother knew exactly what he was doing, but was inclined to let him – even Maitimo liked to tease Káno sometimes.

“Half-Telerin,” Makalurë corrected, as Curvo had known he would, sniffing haughtily, “her Atar is a Telerin merchant, trading in cloth. Her Ammillë is Vanyarin; Fananis, the tailor.” Curvo hid his smile in his goblet. “Telperína doesn’t think of herself as a Vanyar, though,” Káno added, spooning up the last of his dessert.

“Aye,” Curvo replied, lifting the cup in a silent toast at Maitimo, “but ye’d best keep her away from Atto nonetheless, if you’d like her to keep visiting.”

Maitimo’s smile was mischievous for only a second, the tilt of his head wry as he returned Curvo’s toast, but it was enough. Maitimo approved – and he wouldn’t tell Makalaurë, which was at least as important – even if Curvo still didn’t know how his oldest brother always knew what he was up to. It was vexing, at times, though not so much as Káno’s likely response. His second oldest brother liked teasing, and Curvo was not at all inclined to listen to wild speculations – or, Aulë forbid, songs – about himself and a girl he had met only the once.

 

The Loom

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Loom

“You can’t wear that, Curvo,” Moryo said, sighing heavily.

“Wha?!” Curvo replied, whirling, almost tripping himself with the sash he’d been trying to tie around his waist. “Car-! What are you doing here?” Moryo simply raised an eyebrow at him, his grey eyes gliding down Curvo’s attempts at formal dress with agonizing slowness.

“Saving you, onórincë,” his older brother sighed, pushing a lock of dark hair out of Curvo’s face. “Yellow-and-green is not your colour, trust me.”

“It’s not?” Curvo asked, looking down at the trailing gold-thread tassels dragging across the floor. “But Atto-”

“Atto is the High Prince, Curvo,” Moryo chuckled, “he could wear anything and no one would dare tell him it didn’t look good with his skin or eyes – you, however, I’m not going to let get away with it.”

“But I like yellow!” Curvo tried to protest, though he let Moryo pull his tunic off, his brother tutting at the small scorchmarks on the hip. Curvo scowled at him on principle, but Moyo didn’t seem to notice – or care.

“Not this shade, you don’t,” Moryo replied, pursing his lips and tossing the garment to the floor. “You’ll need something in red, for grandfather’s house, of course,” he muttered to himself. Whirling towards Curvo’s wardrobe – he’d only jut finished the red mahogany piece this afternoon and he’d been in the process of transferring his clothes when Ammë knocked to tell him to get ready – Moryo tutted again. Curvo flushed slightly – Moryo always had a way of making him feel like a child – but obediently pulled on the clothes his brother handed at him. Soft tunic in a dark grey beneath a deep red robe edged in golden yellow embroidery that Curvo was quite certain he’d never seen before.

“Can I still wear my new cloak-pin?” Curvo asked, pouting just so Moryo wouldn’t think he was giving in.

“Yes,” his brother agreed distractedly, “fine work with the gems – it will look very good with the cloak I’ve brought you.” Jerking his head towards the parcel Curvo hadn’t noticed him drop on the bed, Moryo turned his attention to the display of jewellery that littered the surface of his desk, poking at a few pieces that were only just about to be finished and humming thoughtfully.

Undoing the string that held the fabric wrapping together, Curvo found a garment that was certainly worthy of any prince. He smiled, pressing his face against the fine cloth.

The cloak was made of soft wool, dyed a fine burgundy and the Star of Fëanáro embroidered in Moryo’s own careful hand on the back. Fine fur lined the trims and the inside had been made from a golden silk he had seen Moryo make on the loom he’d helped Atto make a few weeks ago.

“You’re getting quite good at faceting, Curvo,” Moryo smiled, picking up the clasp and helping him fasten the cloak at his throat. “Now, let’s go make Maitimo proud of us by not picking a fight with anyone.”

“Isn’t that mostly you and Tyelko?” Curvo asked, pulling on his boots and following Moryo out the door. His brother huffed a laugh under his breath.

“Aye, well, I help you, you help me, yes?” he replied, winking at Curvo and setting his own cloak around his shoulders. Curvo shot it a look.

“Alright,” he agreed, amused at the idea that he should be able to keep his elder brothers out of trouble – Maitimo was the one who did that, while Maglor created diversions, but he promised himself he’d stay near Moryo during the ball – and, perhaps, Moryo’s deterrent effect on courtiers would let him plan out the clasp he’d make for his cloak.

Smiling, his mind already full of design ideas, Curvo joined his family, for once looking forward to one of grandfather’s soirees.

Arm Guards and a Dagger

Read Arm Guards and a Dagger

The work was good, hardened steel, finely decorated with a border of stylized Huans running down deer. He had used soft lambs-wool and some leather made from one of Tyelko’s own kills for the padding and straps. He had made the armguards for his brother – no particular occasion – and Tyelko had immediately decided that a Hunt was in order to celebrate.

Curvo wasn’t quite sure how that translated to him coming along on said Hunt – Carnistir was tagging along looking for some sort of rare plant for his dyes, and Maitimo was coming to keep an eye on them – let alone Kano who was working on a new play with Telperína and had coaxed her into coming along, armed with a lap desk and quill pens.

They rode out on a brilliant bright morning, Tyelko in the lead with Huan loping along beside him. Curvo found himself riding next to Telperína, Makalaurë having moved ahead slightly to needle Moryo about some thing or other – Curvo wasn’t paying much attention to his two brothers.

“You like the hunt, Curufinwë?” Telperína asked quietly, turning her head to look at him.

“Not so much as Tyelko,” Curvo chuckled, “I find more enjoyment in the making of my brother’s tools than their use, though I am no poor hunter myself.”

“My family are mostly fishermen,” Telperína said, “I’ve never been on a real hunt. I’m not sure why I’m here, really,” she admitted quietly, “I’ve never even shot a bow. I don’t know that I want to…” She looked somewhat apprehensive at the idea – Curvo silently agreed, having a hard time to imagining her revelling in the challenge of the hunt and the kill like his cousin Aredhel, for example.

“You won’t have to,” he promised softly. “Not if you do not wish to – but I can teach you to shoot at targets that aren’t alive, if you like?”

“Thank you, Prince Curufinwë,” she said quietly, smiling at him with obvious relief. “Perhaps I would like that,” she nodded thoughtfully, “though I don’t think I would enjoy killing – even for food.”

“With Tyelko and Maitimo along we’d never go hungry,” Curvo soothed. “And Carnistir is good at finding edible plants, too, and even Makalaurë is a good shot if he doesn’t get distracted by the tune of a new bird…” Telperína laughed brightly, glancing at the back of Makalaurë, who was leaning precariously far towards Moryo, apparently intent on whatever he wanted to say.

“Makalurë does lose himself in music betimes,” she agreed, “but perhaps I will take your word and remain in camp – I brought my pens and paper, thinking I should find inspiration in the wilds.”

 

At the end of the day, they had found a nice spot for their camp, beside a deep pool with a small waterfall and fine grassy banks dotted with shady-leaf trees.

Tyelko woke them all almost before the mingling of light had begun to wane – Laurëlin’s golden light was only just beginning to hint at the brilliance of day. Picking up his spear and bow, Curvo’s eyes were caught by the play of the shadows of the leaves above on the shiny blade of the weapon. Moving the spear slowly, the leaf-shaped shadows running across the metal in fascinating waves of light and dark gave him an idea. A knife, perhaps, though it could work for a spear, too, the leaves trailing down the blade in cast shapes and etchings, crafting the handle to look like the branch on which they grew. Perhaps he could make a spearhead that fastened to its shaft with vines of metal, dark iron with brightly polished highlights to form the veins of the leaves.

The design slowly took shape in his mind. Looking around, his eyes fell on Telperína, the light of Laurëlin making her silver hair shine. Some of the purple flowers that dotted the grass around them had found their way into her long plait, falling over her shoulder – the end had turned black with the ink it had flicked across though she had not noticed. The sight filled him with soft amusement. He almost forgot what he was thinking about, wanting to reach out to follow the curves of her braid with his fingers, finally discovering whether it was as soft as he thought.

“Can I borrow some paper?” he asked, pulling his mind away from her hair. Telperína jumped at the sound of his voice, her pen dropping a large blot of ink on her page.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, staring up at him, “I thought you had all left, Curufinwë. You startled me.”

“My apologies,” Curvo mumbled, feeing sheepish when he realised that she was right – he must have been lost in his imagination and his brothers had left without him. Left him alone with Telperína, whose capacity for immersion in her projects matched his own. “I was thinking about a new project,” he admitted, “and I’d like to draw a few sketches while it’s fresh in my mind.”

Telperína smiled. “Sure, málo,” she said, handing him a blank page from her stack, a small frown appearing on her face as she pulled out the pen-drawer and studied its contents. “I don’t have any drawing brushes along, though,” she said, giving him an apologetic glance up through the fringe of her lashes.

“I have a stick of charcoal,” Curvo replied, taking the paper and returning to his previous seat, using one of his own arm guards in place of a lap desk.

Silence fell between them, only the chirps of birds in the branches overhead breaking the hazy afternoon idyll.

 

Looking at his paper, Curvo tried to transfer the image of his knife from his mind to his fingers, but every time he tried to draw the curve of the edge, it turned into something else, until he was staring at a page nearly filled with the teasing curve of Telperína’s smile, the slant of her eyes, or the lines of her neck, waves of silver hair kissing the skin.

Staring at the drawings – no more than hastily sketched lines, indistinguishable to anyone but him as visions of Telperína – he knew exactly what they were. He huffed. Infatuation, he chided himself, that’s what this is. Infatuation and no more.

Turning the paper over, Curvo forced his mind back to the image of his leaf-knife, his fingers gripping the stick of charcoal tightly as he drew the design, painfully aware that Telperína had raised her head to stare at him but not willing to return her gaze, half-afraid that she would see…

Ignore it, it will go away.

Telling himself so did not make him any less aware that she was sitting only four feet away, her pen resuming the rhythmic scratching of letters. Curvo wondered what her play was about, but Kano was surprisingly secretive about the work, communicating in quiet whispers by the evening fire.

 

Sitting by the fire, a morsel of venison frying slowly on the end of the skewer he held over the flames, Curvo found himself staring at nothing once more, Kano and Telperína close together on the other side of the fire as she showed him the things she had written in their absence.

“You’re going to burn your supper, Curvo,” Tyelko chuckled, wrapping his fingers around Curvo’s wrist and yanking his skewer away from the flames. “Where is your head at, little brother? You’re supposed to be the best of us at fire!” He didn’t wait for a response, patting Curvo’s shoulder and turned his attention to his own meal. Beside him, Huan was grinning, expectation in every strand of fur. Curvo laughed at himself, punching Tyelko in the shoulder and throwing the wolfhound a fresh morsel as he waited for his own piece to cool enough to touch.

Across the fire, Telperína glanced up, her smile soft and warm as she looked straight at him.

Curvo blamed the flush in his cheeks on the heat of the fire, determinedly looking away from the Vanyarin playwright.

Infatuation, nothing more, he repeated in his head, and Atto doesn’t even really approve of our friendship.

A Bow - or Two

The Hunting trip continues

Read A Bow - or Two

Bow

On the second day of the hunting trip, Telperína again found herself left alone with Curufinwë for company, though this time she remembered his promise. Picking up the bow she had bought in Tirion – Curufinwë’s snort of derisive amusement spoke eloquently to its quality – she trapped a quiver of arrows to her hip and attempted to string the bow.

“You said you’d teach me,” she pointed out, when he’d watched her struggle for some minutes.

“So I did,” he replied, getting to his feet with a shrug, “but that looks far too rigid for you – it’s not made for your level of strength.” Telperína glared, though it was half-hearted at best; he was right, no matter how much it vexed her.

“This is the one they sold me,” she said, frowning at the length of wood. Curufinwë sighed, eyeing it with a craftsman’s scorn.

“Wait a moment,” he muttered, turning to rifle through his pack. “I finished one I meant for my cousin Aredhel; it’ll be less wrong for you than that one, at least.” Holding up the bow, he continued mumbling to himself, “I wondered why Makalaurë thought I should bring it for testing… but maybe he meant for you to do the testing.”

 

Curufinwë’s body seemed to radiate heat against her back, though Telperína told herself not to notice, keeping her focus on the weapon in her hands. The wood had been carved with angular lines at the grip section, inlaid with a paler wood and sanded smooth, oiled to a buttery soft sheen. The curve bent to the string, the finely feathered arrow caught between her fingers, her hand and forearm wrapped in a layer of protective leather.

“Keep your eye on the target,” Curvo said quietly. Telperína stared at the small charcoal circles he had drawn on a tree on the other side of the clearing. The arrow wobbled slightly. “Steady,” he murmured, warm fingers closing over hers. Telperína shivered lightly. “Cold?”

“No,” she said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the heat rising in her cheeks. When he had offered to teach her, she had not expected to be standing so close, nor to feel so… affected. “How do I shoot?” she asked, trying to take her mind off the warmth of Curufinwë’s touch.

“Pull back evenly,” he said, his grip firm but gentle as he pulled back the string with her. “And release.” His breath tickled, fluttering a loose lock of hair across her cheek.

The bow sang.

Curufinwë chuckled.

“I’m sure you were no better the first time,” Telperína complained, staring at her arrow with dismay. The red feathers stuck out from a thorny bush – several yards from Curufinwë’s target.

“Worse, I promise.” Turning his head, he gave her a crooked smile; the twitch of his lips and a softness in his eyes gave away his mirth. Telperína scowled, but Curufinwë amusement was infective, and her annoyance melted away into bright laughter. “You’ll get better,” he continued, yanking the arrow from the shrubbery.

“Perhaps,” she replied, giving the bow a dubious look. At least Curufinwë hadn’t laughed at her – not really – which Makalaurë certainly would have. For a moment, she thought she could see his superior smirk before her eyes. “… Don’t tell your brother how terrible I am?”

Curufinwë’s smile widened, but he nodded as he handed her the arrow.

“As you wish,” he promised. “Now, try again.”

Telperína lifted the bow, putting the arrow to the string with a look of concentration.

“Relax; you want to pull with your back, not your elbow,” Curufinwë murmured, walking behind her.

The bow twanged again.

Telperína stared at the arrow quivering in the tree with disbelief for a moment before whirling around to beam at Curufinwë. “I did it!” she exclaimed, waving with the bow towards the tree. “Did you see, Curvo? I really did it!”

“You did!” Curufinwë smiled. “Well done.”

She hugged him.

Curufinwë stiffened, a soundless question escaping him even as his hand curved around her waist, as though he meant to dance with her.

I wonder if he’s a good dancer?

The thought flashed across her mind in a moment, bringing with it an image of them dancing together – she was wearing a sea-green-blue gown with frothy white lace and Curufinwë looked resplendent in golden robes with a red cape – that rung with some indefinable sense of home. Tearing herself away from the image and the arms at once, Telperína flushed, looking down at the verdant grass at her feet. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she stepped back, glancing up to apologise for her presumption. The words escaped her, staring into those golden-brown eyes.

Neither moved.

Curufinwë opened his mouth slightly, breaking the spell of those eyes. Telperína whirled around, almost running to retrieve her arrow, praying that the redness in her cheeks would be attributed a flush of victory.

When she turned around, Curufinwë’s expression was unreadable

“I’m-” she began, at the same time as he said,

“Maybe another shot?”

Snapping her mouth shut around the unspoken apology, Telperína nodded, gripping her bow far too tightly as she moved back to the starting point.

Curufinwë kept himself more than three feet away from her.

The rest of the afternoon passed in silence.

When Makalaurë and the rest of Curufinwë’s brothers returned, she lay down the bow gratefully, taking up her lapdesk and quill once more and allowing Makalaurë to fill her mind with lyrics and dialogue lines until Telperion’s light was alone in the sky.

She dared not look at Curufinwë all evening for fear of blushing – Makalaurë was not blind, and he would ask awkward questions. After all, she told herself optimistically, nothing happened; we will both forget my lapse of decorum and stay friends.

Vëassë Tyeroliëo and a Bowl of Cheese

Because of this discussion, Maglor is now the president of the association for the appreciation of cheese in Tirion... Moryo does not quite approve.

Read Vëassë Tyeroliëo and a Bowl of Cheese

“It’s just cheese, Makalaurë,” Carnistir said, giving his brother an exasperated glare. Makalaurë gaped at him, looking almost physically wounded as he clutched the small container to his breast with an affronted huff.

“Just cheese?” he screeched, glaring at Carnistir. “This is first class Tyeraman!”

“It’s cheese,” Carnistir scoffed, picking up one of the flaky crackers that Makalaurë had had the cook bake special. “And a dry biscuit.”

“With herbs!”

“Sorry,” Carnistir drawled, crumbling the small square between his fingers, “dry biscuit… with herbs.”

“You know Makalaurë likes his cheeses, Moryo,” Maitimo interrupted, dropping a hand on one of their shoulders. He didn’t squeeze, but Carnistir suddenly felt very aware that he might. “Perhaps you’ll come to like it if you try it.”

“I think it’s quite tasty,” Telperína said, biting into her cracker and attempting to catch the crumbs before they fell down her neckline. Carnistir smirked at Curvo, who seemed far more interested in the journey of the crumbs than the argument over the cheese. It was adorable how he still thought no one had noticed his massive crush on the silver-haired playwright, really. “It’s a subtle flavour, but I like the combination.” Stuffing the rest of her cracker into her mouth – Curvo looked disappointed for a moment before he remembered that his brothers were watching – she chewed thoughtfully.

“I still don’t see any reason to make a cheese-club,” Carnistir said, but accepted a cracker of his own, the soft pale cheese with its white rind lying innocently on the crunchy pastry.

“It’s not a cheese-club, Moryo!” Makalaurë protested, coming down from his ‘at least someone appreciates my hobbies’-cloud long enough to glare at Carnistir. “I have founded the Association for the Appreciation of Cheese – and you are definitely not going to qualify for membership! – in an attempt to bring the different cheesemaking traditions of Aman together!”

“Yes, but Vëassë Tyeroliëo?” Carnistir asked, doing his best to ignore the way Curvo watched Telperína spread the cheese on another biscuit. It seemed like a borderline erotic act, the way his brother’s eyes glowed, and that was something Carnistir did his best not to imagine – he hadn’t even kissed the girl yet, he had no grounds to be looking at her that way.

“The Fellowship of the Cheese-People is a perfectly good name!” Makalaurë exclaimed, wincing when Maitimo’s hold tightened. Carnistir let out a small grunt.

“Fine.” Gritting out the word insincerely, he accepted the small cracker with bad grace.

“Eat it.” Maitimo’s command was as hard to disobey as one of Atto’s, but Makalaurë’s smugness when Carnistir finally popped it into his mouth was mitigated by the way he tried to cringe away – evidence that Maitimo’s silent warning was delivered equally to both of them.

Carnistir ate the cheese.

It was annoyingly tasty.

Not as annoying as watching Curvo eat his morsel from Telperína’s fingers, of course; that sappy smile looked wrong on Curvo’s face, too reminiscent of the way Atto would sometimes stare at Ammë. Carnistir sighed. Last time, they’d received new brothers shortly after he’d caught that look on his Atar’s face. And Curvo hadn't even kissed the girl yet.

Chewing, he nudged Curvo wordlessly, the ósanwë equivalent of ‘I see you’ making Curvo fall off his chair and stealing the attention of their brothers.

Carnistir stole another of the small crackers while no one noticed. Maybe the Cheese-People wouldn’t be a complete waste of time…

Feast of Splendour

This chapter was partially inspired by the Notion Club Challenge, the In Rare Form challenge (including a fairy tale), and the Season's Greetings challenge as well as the mirror from the original Museum Challenge xD

Read Feast of Splendour

Fairy tale

“But you simply must come!” Makalaurë wheedled, giving her his best pleading look. “It’s the Asar Alcarinqua! Everyone is going to be there!”

Telperína laughed. “It’s a Ñoldo festival, Makalaurë,” she pointed out, “and I am no Ñoldo.”

Truth be told, she was somewhat tired of hearing about the Festival of Splendour; everyone in Tirion seemed to be in a tizzy over the festival and its attendant challenges and displays of skill. She had not yet moved here when the last one was held, though she remembered hearing of it in Alqualondë.

“But you’re my friend!” Makalaurë protested, waving off her lack of Ñoldor affiliation with an annoyed gesture. “And everyone is welcome at the festival grounds, regardless. Do say you’ll come!” Catching her hands, he smiled that smile that usually made people do his bidding. “I’ll be premiering a new piece of music, too, and there are the craft challenges which are praised by all – Curvo has hardly left his workroom in weeks, and Atto is working on something he promises will be spectacular though he’ll say nothing else about it. And I heard that your ammë is taking part in the tailoring challenge this year, I think,” he added slyly.

“Some day, I will figure out how you can always know all the gossip despite never being seen to be gossiping yourself!” Telperína groaned. She had hoped he would be unaware of that small fact. Ammë had only just decided to enter the challenges that morning!

“Little birds tell me,” Makalaurë replied, entirely deadpan.

Telperína laughed, though part of her thought it might be the honest truth – Tyelkormo could speak to animals, trained by Oromë, so why should Makalaurë not be able to converse with birds? – and Makalaurë’s smile didn’t say, either way.

“Very well,” she said, caving to his infectious joy, “I will attend your recital.”

He cheered.

“I should get going!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I need to have a word with…”

But whoever it was trailed off into thin air, and with a small peck to her forehead, Telperína was abandoned in the gardens.

Shaking her head to herself, she chuckled. It was so typical of Makalaurë to remember an appointment only when he was already late for it, and she had become used to his abrupt goings over the yéni; by now, it was simply something her friend did.

Looking out at the garden, she enjoyed the breeze, scented with honeysuckle, that wafted her hair gently, the shade of the large tree she leaned against keeping her from being too warm even at the height of Laurëlin’s power.

 

---

 

Curvo wandered through the gardens on his way back from the kitchen – his leaf-blade had been so much admired that he had played with the thought of shaping more plants from metal, but that required studying specimens in their own habitat – munching on a bowl of raspberries he had charmed from the cooks.

She’s back.

Telperína was sitting beneath the large beech tree, dappled shadows moving over her with every rustle of branch, one leg bent to support a lap easel holding a sketchbook that looked like the ones he bought from Parmatan. Hers was bound in thick blue paper, while he always bought the crimson ones – he liked the bright vibrancy of it, set against the gold-leaf embossing, even more than he enjoyed the affiliation to Atya’s house – matching her thin linen dress and the blue ribbons in her hair. Her fingers held the ink brush with the seeming carelessness common to those who have learned how to write or draw for hours without straining the hand or fingers, moving in gentle strokes across the creamy paper.

“You have been abandoned, Tel- my lady?” he asked, almost without meaning to, her name turning into a more formal address as an afterthought.

Telperína jumped slightly, her brush leaving an unsightly blotch of ink on the paper, and the hummingbird she had been drawing disappeared from its bright blossom at the sound of Curufinwë’s voice.

Gah! She had thought herself quite alone – the walled gardens of Fëanáro’s house had been planted to foster a serene privacy in those who walked it, an escape from the noise of Tirion – and Telperína was not best pleased about the interruption – or the splattered sketch.

“You startled me, Prince Curufinwë,” she told him, looking up at him.

“My apologies,” he muttered, looking genuinely contrite. “I did not mean to.”

Telperína smiled at his concern – Curufinwë really was a kind ner, despite the stories of his prickliness that floated among the inhabitants of Tirion. “No matter,” she said, giving him a liquid shrug as she blew across the page, drying the ink. “I was only playing with a new brush.”

“Is that what brings you to our gardens?” Curufinwë wondered, popping a berry from the bowl he held into his mouth. “I did not know you were an artist.”

Telperína’s cheeks heated slightly. “I’m not, she admitted, “but sometimes words won’t cooperate and so I draw instead.”

“I should have thought Makalaurë’s antics fodder enough for any writer’s pen,” Curufinwë chuckled, “but I have not seen him today. Was he meant to meet you?”

“Your brother…” she trailed off, gesturing with the brush in the vague direction of the bustling city that existed right outside the walls of the grand house – when you were inside the gardens it seemed hard to credit that there was a whole city so close by – and shrugged. “He went off somewhere.”

“Makalaurë is a poor host,” Curufinwë said, looking towards the closest wall with a small yawn. “Abandoning his guest with no refreshments or company.”

“I am accompanied by the birds,” Telperína replied, tapping her drawing with a finger. “Though you have a point about refreshments… it is very warm.” She had barely finished the sentence before Curufinwë had thrust the bowl he carried at her, filled to the brim with juicy-looking raspberries, an abundance of deep red deliciousness. He looked tired, she realised, remembering Makalaurë’s words. “Would you… perhaps you might join me?” she added, patting the grass beside her in invitation. “If your own work is not pressing?”

Curvo sat down at once, seeing the surprise on her face clearly, long legs stretching out upon the grass beside her. “Not so pressing, for now,” he offered as some sort of explanation; he rarely spent time with her alone, after all, remembering too clearly what he’d felt last time.

But it’s not going away, this feeling, Curvo thought, and with his customary practicality resigned himself to the desire for her company and her smiles that steadfast denial had not diminished. And Atto will just have to accept it. Somehow.

Not that he was in any hurry to make that happen, either.

Telperína’s smile when she stole another of his raspberries made him feel warmer than the golden light of Laurelin.

“What are you working on?” he asked, trying to hide the way his cheeks heated.

“I meant it to be another instalment on my series on the Valar as people,” Telperína replied, frowning at her sketchbook, “though the words do not wish to flow, and so I am drawing sketches instead.”

“What is the story?” he asked, leaning closer to look at the book.

Telperína’s slender fingers turned back a few pages. “I was exploring the nature of Tulkas,” she explained, “and then… in the Library, I came across a scroll – just the one – which claimed that he and Nessa have a son.”

“The Valar have children?” Curufinwë exclaimed, looking at her with something like astonishment.

“Maybe,” Telperína shrugged, “but not in the manner of birthing them, I think – or rather, not in a physical sense of birthing, though some mingling of essence seems to occur. Tulkas and Nessa, for example – their son is called Telimektar, in the scroll – we know as honour and courage for Tulkas, and swiftness and grace of foot for Nessa… and their son is a warrior, also, but different to his father, for he is a guard, and not a soldier.”

“Guarding what?”

“I don’t know!” she sighed, putting her brush down. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The scroll also made mention of Meássë Ráva and her brother Makar, but the material was so weathered with age that it had almost disintegrated entirely.”

“So make it up,” Curufinwë grinned. “Make a new story for them – who can say it is not the truth? – and you can read it to the audience at Asar Alcarinqua.”

“Just… make up a story? I couldn’t do that…”

“Surely, you could – it’s like inventing a new object, something no one has thought of before; often, you base it on concepts from earlier works, from the minds of your teachers or mentors, right?” Curufinwë said, eye alight with passion. “But that doesn’t make the object useless or wrong, you see? It’s just new.”

“I like the way you think,” Telperína laughed, picking up her brush and flipping to a blank page. “Well, then…”

“Once upon a time now shrouded in myths,” Curufinwë intoned, settling himself against the tree and snagging a couple of berries, “there lived a young warrior called Telimektar.”

Telimektar was brave, for so had he been created, and skilled in the arts of the body and weaponry. He was a master of horses, and a lover of bright blood-red flowers.

In this land, there also lived a woman, and her name was Meássë Ráva. She was fierce and strong, and spent her days with her brother, Makar, hunting bears and wolves in the freezing north and draping herself in their freshly cut off skins.

In all the land, no huntress was as skilled as Meássë, whose skin was stained red with the blood of her kills more often than not.

And she was who Telimektar’s heart chose.

But Meássë spurned him, for she loved freedom, and feared to be chained to one who might seek to corral her spirit.

His mother counselled against it, telling him to see sense, to choose a love among ladies of refinement and beauty, and brought before him the loveliest of her handmaidens.

Telimektar danced with the ladies, but none stirred his heart as did Meássë.

His father laughed, but agreed with his mother, though the lovelies he presented were of different stock, able to fight and ride horses; more than one even beat Telimektar in battle.

But Telimektar’s heart was not so easily changed, and in the night he went to Meássë again, promising upon his blood that he should never seek to diminish her, if she would call his heart home.

And Meássë saw the truth in him and was moved by it, but still she would not be swayed so easily, and rode off laughing, challenging him to win her kisses in a race.

And Telimektar rode for her, all through the night, until they arrived at the Stone at the Heart of the Forest. There, he caught her – though some say Meássë let him – and kissed her sweetly.

But Makar, who had been watching, laughed at Telimektar, and called the game too easy.

‘Nay,’ he said, ‘for to win my sister, you should fear her whip as much as you long for her kisses.’

This, to Telimektar, sounded wise, and so he proposed a different race.

This time, they would race to the sea, and if he caught Meássë before then, he would kiss her – and if he did not, he should flee before her whip until they reached his home and there she would win a forfeit.

And so the game of Miquë Roitaro was invented, and it was taught to the Noldor by Tulkas, who was the father of Telimektar, in honour of his son who guards in the heavens.

 

But Vairë’s loom did not show Telimektar living happily with his wife for all time.

For darkness and ill-content grew among the people, whispered words taking roots in corrupted hearts until it could not be concealed, and the Enemy was free to make war upon the Valar and the world.

It is known that he was defeated, chained by the great Tulkas, and thrown into the depths of Mandos.

But it is less known that the one to stand guard over the vanquished foe is the brave Telimektar, though his shape is wrought in the stars of Varda’s hands, his silver girdle and shining sword ready to defend evermore.

And Meássë yet roams the frozen lands, hunting the fell beasts of the north, draping herself in their bloody skins… but not always.

Sometimes, she will return to her lover, her arms still stained with the blood of her kills, and Telimektar welcomes her home with a smile and the kisses she earned so long ago.

 

Telperína smiled when she left the daze of a completed first draft; she would refine it further, but the story was there now – and as Curufinwë had said, who should say if might not have happened…

“I like this, Curu- oh!” Turning to share her joy in her new creation, she saw only his long legs for a moment, stretched away from the tree and then warm weight of his head resting on her own outstretched thigh registered.

Looking down, her smile grew softer as she turned a page and picked up her drawing brush once more.

Curufinwë’s mouth was smeared with raspberry juice at the corner, and his long lashes cast beautiful shadows over his brown skin.

He looks so tired…

Telling herself that was the only reason she did not wake him, Telperína turned her attention back to her sketchbook, draping a fold of her discarded cloak over his shoulders on a whim she carefully did not examine further.

The brush drew bold lines and swooping curves until Curufinwë’s sleeping face filled the page, making her happy to have captured his likeness so well, shading the side of his nose and the small dip in his chin with great care.

“I did not think you an artist, too, my lady.”

For the second time that day, Telperína glared up at an intruder, though this time she managed not to splatter her drawing with unwanted ink.

“Prince Maitimo!” she gasped, staring up – and up, it really wasn’t fair on her neck for Curufinwë’s brother to be so tall – at the serene face of the eldest son of Fëanáro.

Maitimo bowed gracefully, sweeping off his hat with a flourish that would be more suitable to a grand ballroom than a small garden – and more welcomed by one of the tittering ladies that always seemed to be eyeing him than a somewhat disgruntled writer with a dash of ink across her nose… and his brother’s head in her lap.

At least it was neither Fëanáro nor Makalaurë who had caught them, she thought, a warm blush spreading across her fair cheeks.

“An idle pastime,” she shrugged, keeping her voice low although a quick glance showed Curufinwë still fast asleep beside her, face softened in repose in a way that made him resemble his ammë.

“It is a fine piece – very true to its subject,” Maitimo objected calmly. “Do not disdain it.”

“As you say,” Telperína replied, but her joy in the sketch had diminished – part of her felt it should have been just hers, to share or not, or at least only shared with Curufinwë himself at first.

“I am pleased to see him sleep,” Prince Maitimo added, “he works very hard… I,” he paused, considering her with a look that made Telperína suddenly aware of every crease in her dress and wonder if her hair looked like a bird’s nest. Maitimo smiled, and a bird trilled in the branches over her head. “I should be obliged to you if you let him sleep.”

With another bow, Prince Maitimo was gone, and Telperína could breathe again.

 

---

 

In the end, Curufinwë awoke soon after, when Telperína had gone back to staring at the garden’s flowers as she thought about her story – speculative imagination rather than purely historical, which was new and terrifying on several levels… but also freeing, in a way, leaving her wondering what other stories she might dream up to entice an audience.

“Wh-” Curufinwë spluttered, sitting up straight in an instant, Telperína’s blue cloak falling down to lay across his leg. Twisting around, he stared at her, blinking some sort of dream out of his eyes. “Telperína?” Glancing down at her thigh, her dress creased in the shape of his head, he flushed, golden eyes flashing back up to her face with a guilty cast to them.

For a moment, time was suspended between them, and Telperína felt herself drawn into his eyes, the memory of the time she had hugged him coming unbidden to her mind.

“You seemed to sleep so sweetly,” Telperína said, offering him a small smile, “I thought it a shame to wake you…” And I liked having you with me when I worked – you’re not a distraction, like so many people, you’re just… there. Of course, she couldn’t tell him such things, but it didn’t change the fact that she had liked the way he felt next to her, had enjoyed the solid weight of him against her body.

“I should…” he trailed off, eyes darting down once more only to be forced back to her face.

She opened her mouth, fingers poised to flip the page, to show him the drawing she had made – Maitimo had seen it, it seemed only fair – but Curufinwë was on his feet in a flash and striding out of the garden in the next moment, leaving her to stare after him in utter confusion.

 

She knows, Curvo thought, exhilarated and panicked at once, speeding towards the sanctuary of his workroom. Looking at himself in the mirror – eyes shining, cheeks flushed and his hair in more disarray than usual, a tell-tale crease on his cheek from sleeping with her dress – her leg – as a pillow – he groaned.

She must know, now. Telperína’s soft smile filled his mind but did not give away whether she felt for him the fondness due a friend’s younger brother or… more.

What will she do? What will I do?

Pacing his workroom did not bring him an answer, and thinking about her only made him wish that he’d been brave enough to lean into that frozen moment, to learn if she would move towards him or not, which would have been a clearer answer than his own speculations.

Her lips look so soft.

Touching his own bottom lip, Curufinwë kept pacing, wondering just how this girl could affect him so greatly – particularly considering his general lack of interest in the ladies of court, whose presence he found a boring vexation at best. And still he had sat with Telperína, listened to her talk about a craft that he didn’t much care for himself without being overwhelmed by familiar boredom. He hadn’t even wanted to wander off when she had fallen silent, an intense look of concentration on her face as she wrote letters into her book, muttering partial sentences to herself.

No, he’d found her calming.

Calming enough to fall asleep in her lap, with no memory of how he’d ended up there, his head resting on the soft fabric of her skirts and his nose filled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and the sharpness of fresh ink.

And the work he had so worried about earlier had crystallised in his mind, needing only the labour of his hands to bring it forth… and Telperína’s presence was the reason.

Scoffing at himself for the sentiment, still he felt it was true, trying simply to void the realisation waiting around the next corner of his mind.

“You are my best inspiration; always you make me see the things in my mind clearly.” The words, spoken with excitement, were some he had overheard many yéni before… but they were Fëanáro’s and he had known they were a declaration of love made to his ammë.

I… love her? He had known that the fondness and interest he’d felt when he first met Telperína had grown, deepened… but the realisation of his own heart’s desire hit him like a sledgehammer.

Curufinwë stumbled, leaving heavily on his work desk to keep himself upright.

I am in love… with Telperína.

Sinking in the chair, he turned the thought over in his mind, watching it shift from the malleable diffuse haze of a new idea to the crystal-clear diamond of realisation.

I love Telperína.

 

 

---

 

 

“We’re going to miss the best part if we don’t hurry up!” Makalaurë announced.

Telperína opened the door to her house, a yawn still playing around her mouth. She had been up late the night before, spinning a tale she did not know where would go until she watched the words form on paper before her. This new form of writing was exhilarating… but also hazardous to her sleep. Staring at Makalaurë, she blinked sleepily, smothering another yawn with her hand.  

“The craft fair begins early – I want to see what Curvo did, and Atya’s secrecy should be revealed, too, he said.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she laughed, putting on her shoes, “hold your horses.” She would almost rather have stayed home to see what else might spill from the new wellspring in her mind and onto the page, a snippet dancing just out of reach in her thoughts.

“That reminds me, I should show you the games!” Makalaurë continued, eyes bright with anticipation as he tugged on her hand.

Telperína sighed, following him down the street. She had not told him of her story of Telimektar, or of Curufinwë inspiring her to write something new, but Makalaurë did not seem to note her preoccupation, continuing to babble about the festival as they walked.

“There are ball games, yes,” he continued, “but also Miquë Roitaro – you’ll have heard of that; my cousin Artanis usually trounces all the young neri brave enough to challenge her.”

“I have heard of the kiss hunting game,” Telperína replied, intrigued despite herself, resolutely not examining the possible reasons for her sudden interest.

“It’s good fun!” Makalaurë exclaimed. “Even Moryo likes going, so I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“We shall see.”

 

---

 

 

It was fun, Telperína had to admit, admiring a piece of fabric woven with a pattern of tiny white flowers against a blue-grey background – it was too thick for a full skirt, but she thought it might do for panels interspaced with fabric of similar hue but different weave, as well as a bodice. Perhaps with embroidery done in silver…

Ammë would like to see it.

On a whim, she bought four lengths of it, smiling at the nissë who wrapped up her purchase. Despite her own lack of interest in the craft of tailoring, Telperína remained her mother’s daughter, and she had always appreciated the effort it took to make clothing.

The fabric also gave her an excuse to visit the metal-crafters’ stalls, losing Makalaurë to an impromptu concert along the way without noticing as she hunted for some silver thread and a piece for her hair to match the garment taking shape in her head.

“Well met on this morning, my lady.”

Looking up at the words, Telperína smiled. “This is your work?” she asked, gesturing at the wealth spread out on the table before her.

Curufinwë nodded. “Some of it – these are simpler pieces, not the competition work,” he explained, “during the Asar Alcarinqua, I am here as a smith first, a Prince second.” Tilting his head, he looked at her, studying the parcel under her arm and the silver bracelet she was fingering. “I had not expected many Teleri to show up.”

“The Noldor are not alone in appreciating a day of feasting,” Telperína replied, regretting her sharp tone when his face blanked. “I’m sorry – I did not mean to be rude.”

“I didn’t mean – you are welcome here, of course,” Curufinwë protested. “Just… I did not expect to see you here.”

“Makalaurë was most insistent,” Telperína shrugged. “And you yourself said I should bring my – my story to read here.”

Looking down at the glittering pieces on display – a wealth of jewellery, of course, but also finely wrought iron tools with inlaid handles – she tried to decide if she could afford the price a Prince’s work must command, putting down the bracelet with a small sigh of regret.

“I’m… I’m pleased you came – I am sorry I was not…” he flushed.

“Think nothing of it,” she hastened to reassure him, “I was not at all offended by your uhm… falling asleep.” Blushing at the memory, she managed to smile at him, noting the tenseness leaving his shoulders.

“Still… have you signed up for the readings?” Curufinwë asked. “I should like to hear it.”

Telperína shook her head – she had thought about it, but she hadn’t quite dared to stand before the whole gathering and declaim something that was essentially an elaborate dream put to paper. “Not today… It’s too big, here.”

Curufinwë did not press her, as Makalaurë would have, and suddenly Telperína realised why she had not told her friend about her newest work.

“I’m sure you will find enjoyment here regardless,” Curvo heard himself say, not quite prepared for the bright way Telperína suddenly smiled at him, making his heart pound in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, fingers still resting on the small silver bracelet.

“It would suit you,” he muttered, nodding at the bracelet, oblong silver beads set with iridescent freshwater pearls. It would be perfect for her, echoing the silver of her hair and the pearl studs he had seen in her ears once. He had made it with Irissë in mind, but suddenly it was Telperína’s bracelet.

“But not my purse, I fear,” she admitted, cheeks glowing slightly, taking her hand away.

Curvo caught her hand, deftly clasping the bracelet around her wrist before he even realised that he was holding her hand. “Call it payment for being the first to hear a story you wrote,” he mumbled, and dropped her hand like she had burned him, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the way his fingers trembled with the memory of her skin.

Telperína’s cheeks were on fire, staring at him and pressing her hand to her chest as she tried to come up with an appropriate response to Curufinwë’s unexpected kindness.

“Are you… sure?” she wondered, reluctantly holding out her hand towards him so he could take it back. Please say yes.

Curufinwë nodded tightly, his face set in a mulishly stubborn expression.

“Then… I thank you, Haryon Curufinwë.” Curtseying deeply, Telperína hardly dared look up him, afraid of what her face might betray. In her chest, her heart hammered like it might beat its way out of her body.

“Just Curufinwë,” he replied brusquely, staring at his own boots. “We are friends, after all.”

She couldn’t read the expression on his face, but Telperína’s heart slowed a little at the words. Friends, yes… and how would he know that the giving of pearls among Atto’s kindred is tantamount to a declaration of deeper feelings than that?

Moving around the table in a flash, Telperína rose on tiptoes, pressing the smallest of kisses to his cheek; he might not have intended more than the gift said, but she still felt it required a special response… “Thank you, Curufinwë,” she whispered, ghosting away as swiftly as her feet would obey her, certain that her flaming cheeks would tell everyone who saw her how impertinent she had just been.

She hoped none of her friends had spotted her, at least, certain that she’d never live down the presumptuousness of kissing a prince. Groaning to herself, she ducked into a space by the juice-seller, tossing down a cup of cool pomegranate cordial and tried to calm herself.

I still like him more than I should, it would seem.

 

Back at his table, Curufinwë stared after her, fingertips gently touching the spot she had kissed, stupefied by the whole interlude.

Why did she…?

It took three tries before he heard Tyelkormo calling.

 

---

 

 

“There you are!” Makalaurë called, startling Telperína out of her circling thoughts. “What are you staring at goats for?”

“Yes… I-” Telperína realised that her aimless wandering had indeed brought her to the livestock area of the festival, a placid goat chewing on some long grass as it stared back at her. “Eh…”

“Come on, they’re about to announce the winners of the crafting competitions!” Makalaurë interrupted, grabbing her parcel and walking back into the crowd, annoyingly certain she would follow.

Which she did, huffing at herself.

High-handed Ñoldo. Then she had to smile, remembering the excited look on his face. Catching up with Makalaurë, she linked her arm with his to avoid losing him in the crowd again. “So who are we rooting for?”

 

---

 

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d stood on the platform for the judging of crafts, but Curvo suddenly felt incredibly aware that the crowd might contain Telperína – would she care to see the forgeworks show or would she be more interested in the fabrics and finery of the weavers’ guild?

He didn’t know, looking out over the crowd almost without seeing, trying to spot her silver hair.

“Nervous, Curvo?” Tyelkormo asked, but nerves were far from his mind at that moment – or at least the kind of nerves that Turko meant.

“No… I know I’m good.” Technically brilliant, if that wasn’t too boastful, though he only really cared about Atto’s opinion of his work, Mahtan and Aulë coming in second on that scale.

She’s here!... with Makalaurë.

“Oh wee Telpë? Yeah, I spotted her earlier; her ammë is up against Moryo, I think,” Turko replied, making Curvo realise he’d spoken aloud.

Flushing, he turned away from where he’d spotted the distinctive silver hair that marked her Telerin heritage, forcing himself to pay attention to the announcement. His own effort for the contest was a hand-mirror, the back of it decorated with golden inlays against the deep red cherry wood in a pattern of constellations around the central medallion of their family crest and set with rubies. It was skilfully made, though Curvo thought it lacked… something.

“You never are satisfied with your efforts, eh, Atarinkë,” Tyelkormo teased.

Curufinwë punched him good-naturedly in the arm. “Don’t call me that.”

“Just saying,” Tyelormo laughed, rubbing his arm with a slightly rueful grin. Huan did the dog-equivalent of a laugh, headbutting Curvo’s hip. “You can’t deny he does that, too.”

“It’s just… it’s pretty, but it’s not new, you know,” Curvo muttered, scratching the dog’s head gently. “I’ve made hundreds of mirrors – I’ve made a lot of everything, improved existing things, but there’s nothing really new to do… The other day I started ‘weaving’ – only don’t tell Moryo I called it that – a shirt of metal wire, just to try something I’d never done before.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Tyelkormo opined, tugging playfully on a long lock of his hair. “Where would you wear a thing like that? Isn’t it heavy?”

“Well, a little – but less than I’d thought, really,” Curvo admitted. “I don’t know – maybe if you’re working with something sharp you don’t want to be cut by? But then it’d need sleeves…”

He barely heard the excited announcer award him a prize, lost in wondering at the possibilities for making useful things with the metal wire. Protection seemed a noble goal – he had made arm guards for Turko to that purpose, for example, protecting his arms from the sting of a released bowstring – and if that was the purpose, it should be extended towards the thighs and over one’s arms…

“Think you could make a whole suit of it?”

Not that such a thing would necessarily be useful, but it’d be a fun project, making a metal-suit that a ner could walk around in. Maybe he would get Turko to test it – it seemed just the thing Tilion would be game for, shooting his friend with arrows to watch them bounce off the metal mesh suit.

It’d need to be something other than silver, for that, though, it was too soft. The silver version could still be pretty, though, added to everyday clothing. The thought made him look for Telperína again, wondering if she was proud of his winning; she had been his unwitting inspiration, after all.

But she wasn’t looking at him at all.

Curvo stared at the crowd without seeing anything but the way her hand stayed on the strange ner’s arm – she would touch Makalaurë, of course, though only as a friend, and he knew him so it didn’t matter regardless. But this stranger was wrapping his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close enough to press his lips against her temple.

And she smiled at him.

 

---

 

 

“Curufinwë looks… odd,” Telperína said, looking up at the stage. He looked almost angry, as though he was annoyed with the praises showered on his workmanship.

Beside her, Makalaurë shrugged. “He’s got an idea for a new project,” he assumed. “It usually looks like that on Atto, too. Preoccupation.”

“And on you, actually,” Telperína added, “when you’re coming up with a new piece of music.” But is it? There’s something else in there…

“Well, he is my brother,” Makalaurë sniffed, breaking into a grin. The thought she had almost snatched disappeared like smoke in the air, and Telperína turned back to her friend. “Speaking of family, if you want to see your Ammë’s work we should head over there,” he pointed, “that section is dedicated to the crafts of Vairë’s domain.”

“Aunt Fananis got Eldalótë to model for her,” Leptafinya added. “I helped her with the sewing.” They held up their fingers, wiggling them to show off the bandaged tips. “So much sewing.”

“Aww, you poor thing,” Telperína giggled, catching her cousin’s hand and blowing gently across the wounded digits.

“I’m sure Moryo’s fingers look the same,” Makalaurë replied, “he’s been working on the creation ever since Fananis announced that she would be taking part.”

“I do wonder why,” Telperína mumbled.

“She wanted to show off,” Leptafinya shrugged, “and getting one over on Fëanáro’s son would sweeten the pot for her, I don’t doubt – even more so than beating Morifinwë himself, I mean.”

“Has something happened?” Telperína replied; Morifinwë’s rivalry with her ammë had been ongoing for years now, but it was usually a friendly thing so far as she knew.

“Some sort of clishmaclaver,” Leptafinya shrugged. “Involving one of the creations she made for Indis… but as I heard it – you know how gossip flows through a sewing room – it was Fëanáro’s doing; he never did like the Queen.”

“Well, let’s go see what my brother has created then,” Makalaurë said, gesturing for Telperína to precede him. “I suppose we’ll have to be on rival sides now.”

“Should we not congratulate Curufinwë?” Telperína wondered, though she began moving towards the area he’d indicated. “Bring him along?”

“Nah, he’ll be heading to his workroom or the forge, I bet. Shame, really, he’ll miss the races.” Makalaurë shrugged. “He and atar are both like that – ammë, too, to be fair. And Moryo.”

“And you,” Telperína chuckled, bumping him with her shoulder.

“I don’t know what you mean, lady Telperína,” Makalaurë replied, mock-affronted, “for I am the soul of courtesy and would never abandon my friends to create a song.” He tried to keep a straight face, but it cracked in seconds. Laughing, he waved at Morifinwë up on the platform, his younger brother scowling back.

Telperína tried to smile at him, but the scowl grew at that, so she turned her attention to Ammë’s creation, unveiled at that very moment, hardly recognising Eldalótë beneath the dress that sparkled like jewellery in the Tree-light.

“Oh!” she whispered. Eldalótë’s beauty was praised deservedly, but it nearly drowned in the glory of the dress. She couldn’t quite tell what the material was, clinging to every curve of limb yet kept oddly modest by the sparkling gems washing up her body in a sinuous wave of stars. “Varda’s Stars…”

“That is… quite something,” the person beside her mumbled.

Telperína nodded but did not look to see who had spoken.

There was little competition, despite the beauty of Morifinwë’s creation, which had been made in a deep green silks and linens and looked as though it was stitched from leaves, leaving the model looking like she had stepped from a dream of Yavanna’s making. Telperína thought it might be the more technically advanced dress – and certainly special.

But the Star-dress outshone it.

She did not quite like the gloating look on Fananis’ face when she accepted her prize, however, wondering what exactly had been said between Queen Indis and Prince Fëanáro.

 

---

 

 

“I’m going to beat Irissë today,” Tyelkormo sang, Huan jumping around them as they walked towards the athletics field and the race tracks.

“You always say that,” Curvo pointed out, “but she beats you just as often.” Gesturing towards the field, horses and people already milling around, watching the stone-hurlers at play, he added, “Moryo’s books are proof of that.”

Turko simply shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We play for personal stakes.”

“You don’t play it for kisses?” Curvo wondered. “I’m sure you could win easily against any other lady.”

“But that’s the glory of it!” Turko protested. “We’re equally good, so it’s more fun – Irissë gives me a challenge…

“And none of these other ladies have the ability to put you on your arse with a bow,” Curvo replied drily.

“And I don’t particularly want their kisses,” Turko nodded.

I do… at least one of them, Curvo thought, spotting the bright silver hair of Telperína next to Káno’s pink-and-grey shoulders.

The ner who had kissed her temple in greeting was still with them.

“Do you feel alright?” Turko asked. “You look a bit off – ate something odd?”

“I’m fine.” Curvo forced the words out through gritted teeth, surprised by the strength of his jealousy when he watched her laugh at something the stranger said.

“I’ll give you odds on Artanis’ first challenge,” Moryo said as he walked up. “Angaráto has money on two minutes – what’s wrong with Curvo?”

“He ate something off,” Turko replied, patting Curvo’s shoulder. “It’s the wrestling for her?”

“Aye,” Moryo nodded, “I actually had someone come and ask me what the odds of her losing were.”

Tyelkormo almost fell over laughing, supporting himself on Curvo’s shoulder.

“You’re not sick are you?” Moryo asked, chortling himself as he reached out to feel Curvo’s cheek. “You don’t feel warm.”

“I said I’m fine, “Curvo grumbled, pulling away from Moryo’s touch. “We should go watch Artë trounce whoever dared challenge her.”

“Some Vanya,” Moryo shrugged, leading the way towards the wrestling circle, “Aþion, I think he said.”

“I guess he didn’t know any better,” Turko shrugged, “hopefully he’s actually going to try – it’s so boring when they tap out after 30 seconds.”

“He didn’t look like much to me,” Moryo replied, “I think Anga’s two minutes were too kind by far.”

“Bleh,” Turko sighed. “Oh well, it’s still worth it to watch Artë in action.”

 

---

 

“Did Curvo eat something bad?” Makalaurë said, aiming the words at Tyelkormo who shrugged.

“No I did not! – who is this?” Curufinwë objected, scowling at Makalaurë and gesturing at Leptafinya beside her.

“Congratulations, Curufinwë,” Telperína said, “this is Leptafinya, a cousin on my mother’s side.”

“Well met, your highness,” Lepta added, bowing politely.

“Oh, er – well met,” Curufinwë nodded back.

“Anyone seen Irissë?” Tyelkormo wondered, staring around the throng of people beginning to fill the stands along the racing grounds.

“Cheering on Artanis, I think,” Telperína replied, shielding her eyes as she looked back treewards to see Irissë’s dark hair and white clothing shine in the mingling light. “Not that she needs it.”

“Let’s go watch, then,” Tyelkormo exclaimed, haring off with the large dog at his heels, carving a path for the rest of them to follow, laughing at his eagerness.

 

“Irissë and my brother always race each other first,” Curufinwë explained, gesturing at the two arming up their horses near the starting line, waiting for the last of the stone hurlers to vacate the pitch. “Don’t bother taking Moryo’s offer of a bet; they’re evenly matched and I think they’d both keep going against each other until the horses fell down if not for the fact that there are other riders.”

“You don’t take part, Haryon?” Leptafinya asked over Telperína’s head.

Curufinwë shook his head. “I’ve no desire to win anyone’s kisses, and I’m not so popular as to be challenged to it like Russo or Káno,” he shrugged.

“Maitimo does not strike me as the type to favour kisses from ladies like that,” Telperína chuckled, nodding at someone dressed for a High Court ball feathering her lashes at Maitimo’s kindly bland face.

“Sadly not an epiphany that has occurred to any of those ladies,” Curufinwë grinned. “I keep telling him he’s too kind when he turns them down.”

“Maitimo is a very kind ner,” Telperína agreed, distracted by the horn blowing for the beginning of the races.

At the starting line, Irissë was now facing off with Tyelkormo, clearly deciding the terms of their personal wager.

“Moryo runs the general betting pools,” Makalaurë explained, gesturing at his brother, “but Turko and Irissë always goad each other into personal bets.”

“Beyond the forfeit of a kiss?” Telperína asked.

“Oh yeah, neither of them cares that much about the kissing aspect – it’s bragging rights they go for,” Makalaurë laughed. “Irissë is not so popular a challenge as our cousin Artanis; I think it’s because Artanis looks more innocent, but don’t tell her I said that – I don’t care to be challenged to another wrestling match.” He shuddered in an exaggerated way, the billowing sleeves of his rose-and-grey robe fluttering. The silk ensemble, embroidered with silver feathers and large chrysanthemum blossoms, would be more at home on a stage or in a serene library – definitely not a practical choice for a dusty festival ground.

And yet Makalaurë looked as fresh as he had when he arrived at her house that morning, while Telperína was aware that the bottom hem of her own dress had collected a fair amount of dirt already.

On the track, Tyelkormo was mounted on a large grey gelding, Huan lying in the shade of a tree overlooking proceedings and gasping at the heat.

Telperína rather envied the hound; the day was considerably warmer than she enjoyed, and the throng of people meant any breeze that could snatch at her hair and cool her neck had long-since become no more than a flutter of wind by the time it reached her.

Mounting her own horse – a pure white mare, because Irissë never did things by halves, much like the rest of Finwë’s descendants – Irissë let out a loud whoop and set off in a gallop towards Tyelkormo.

The race was on.

 

---

 

 

“You win,” Telperína laughed, sucking on her ice lolly as they walked back towards Tirion proper. “I did have fun.”

“Good. Sorry Moryo was a bit…” Makalaurë replied.

Telperína shrugged. Morifinwë had never particularly liked her and she understood his disappointment at losing to her mother even though it wasn’t a reason to sulk at her. “It’s fine – Curufinwë is nice.”

“You may be the first to say that and mean it,” Makalaurë laughed, “but I’m glad we didn’t scare you off.”

“I’m sorry to have to break it to you, Makalaurë,” Telperína told him sweetly, “but it’ll take more than the sons of Fëanáro to scare me off.”

His laughter was infectious, ringing against the stone walls of the building around them.

“You know, I actually believe that.”

 

A Gift

Inkwell

Pectoral ornaments (Ferno's outfit was inspired by these, though mostly by traditional aztec jewellery)

Read A Gift

As a begetting day gift, it was hardly ostentatious, he thought, considering his reputation, which allowed him to get away with giving much finer gifts than most. Furthermore, it was practical, a gift Telperína could use every day, scribing her plays and stories.

The gilt bronze he had used showed perfectly, forming intricate patterns of lines and spiralling whirls surrounding small roundels of brightly shimmering shell bartered from Artaresto. The play of colours reminded him of Telperína, changing in hue from a vivid green – her favourite dress – to the soft pink of her cheeks blushing.

He had considered silver gilt for the highlights, but somehow that did not feel as right as making the small ornate inkwell from gold and bronze, reminiscent – he’d never admit the reason beyond artistic preference – of his own eyes, his favoured colours and the colours of his house. There was no bright red, and he had not traced the famous Fëanorian star into the work – he had been tempted but he had restrained himself – the small inkwell carrying traces of both of them only to his eye. The tiny hinges, too, reminded him of their first meeting, though they were hidden within the lid, the decoration on the outside of the box much finer than the work he had been doing that day.

Looking at the small eight-sided inkwell, Curufinwë smiled, imagining her joy in receiving it.

Wrapping the gift in silk and tying a green silk ribbon around the box, he moved to the next task on his list, casting an anxious glance at the sky; he didn’t want to be late.

 

Trying to decide what to wear was a far more daunting prospect, though he had long-since realised – mostly based on Carnistir’s disdainful looks – that his sense of the aesthetic did not extend to outside his workroom. Instead, he allowed Carnistir – whose taste no one dared question – to dress him for official functions, accepting the badly veiled teasing as his brother’s due for the favour.

Tonight, Carnistir’s sartorial whims saw Curvo dressed in a dark silk robe with pale grey leggings and his favourite leather boots. The robe was open somewhat further down his chest than he might have chosen, but Carnistir had insisted, and at least the sleeves – wide and puffy around his upper arms – tapered closely around his forearms and wrists. The billowing sleeves that seemed to be the height of fashion these days he had refused, never feeling quite comfortable in clothing that would potentially drag across the materials of his workroom – no matter that the black silk robes were much too fine to wear in the forge.

At the very least, there was no hint of the colourful sprawl of Káno’s robes – Curvo did not wish to resemble a great glittering beetle-wing – and he had stopped trying to sneak in yards of ruched fabric, which meant Curvo would accept the plunging neckline without protest.

Carnistir had sighed at him, when he touched the tight sleeve with a satisfied smirk but that was a point of contention long-since fought between them. Curvo might be aware that he was woefully inept when it came to fabrics, but Moryo seemed almost physically pained by his attempts at tailoring, which made threatening to ignore his suggestions a valuable tool of extortion.

The black robes, to Moryo’s credit, came with a copper-tone leather lapel and high collar; crisp swooping lines to match his slim but powerful build. The leather, which Curvo had tooled and dyed himself even if the design was Carnistir’s creation, was decorated with the spikes of Atto’s Star surrounded by tiny faceted garnets. It filled him with a sense of comfort, somehow, wearing materials he had worked himself. The soft but stiff leather collar was held together across his chest with a simple ring of burnished copper and decorated at the shoulder points with dangling golden ornaments, in deference to the sparkling fashions of court.

Curvo had to admit that his brother had done well in the making of the garment – even if it meant enduring Moryo’s smug looks – because when he looked in the glass he looked… well, he looked like someone who belonged at a party full of the best and brightest young artists in Tirion, which was the point exactly. Adding a pair of extra-pointy earbobs – his own invention, though  Carnistir had somehow made them all the rage of current fashion – made from matching filigree to his person, Curvo felt ready to brave the social circles of artistic Tirion. For luck – and as a last-minute addition – he added a small piece of silver wire to the pocket of his cloak, fingering the bow on the present absentmindedly.

 

At least the dress Ammë had made her was more than fine enough, even if Makalaurë – as usual – resembled a peacock more than an Elf. Hiding a smile behind her hand, she watched him strumming a lyre he had found somewhere – unless it had been stuffed up one of his voluminous sleeves, he had not brought the long-necked instrument – abandoning his silver harp for once, playing to a gaggle of tittering ladies. Wryly, she once again thought of a peacock – the blue sleeves, the gem-strewn hair-piece, and the iridescent green cape completed Makalurë’s ensemble splendidly – with a harem of female admirers.

Feeling smothered by the amount of people who had descended like vultures on what ought to have been a small party to celebrate her begetting day, Telperína sent Makalaurë a harsh glare that he completely missed. Sighing – Why was she friends with a Prince, again? – Telperína poured herself a goblet of wine, looking at the gathered crowd. A few of the cousins she had personally invited were cowering timidly in a corner, staring wide-eyed at the sea of Noldor who seemed to have overtaken her small home in a flood of chatter, perfume and some kind of herbal smoke that filled the air with cloying sweetness. She doubted she knew even half of them; most of them probably had no idea this was meant to be her celebration, not Makalaurë’s. The wine he had ordered was good, at least, from a Vanyarin vineyard she liked, but it didn’t ameliorate her simmering temper.

Abandoning her friend to the loud clamours of ‘Encore’, Telperína made her way through the crowds, silently hoping that Makalaurë wasn’t the only of Fëanáro’s sons in attendance. She had invited Curufinwë, personally, for friendship – Surely, they were friends now? – though he had not given a decisive answer either way.

Catching no sight of the dark curls – cut short since he had set half of his hair on fire when the little Ambarussas startled him in the forge – her mood fell somewhat, but she made a determined effort to ignore the slight of his absence. Curufinwë was her friend.  

 

 

“Dance with me!” Cousin Ferno, the only one who looked more glittering than most of the Noldor, called, catching her around the waist on her second circuit of the main room. Telperína laughed at the sight of him, decked out in an outrageous golden get-up she recognised from the court of Ingwë as the costume of Laurëlin from the spring festival. Decorated with gems and beads, it gleamed against his brown skin. Chiefly made of brightly polished gold; it left almost nothing to the imagination, but her favourite cousin had never been shy. Ferno grinned cheekily, probably aware of her thoughts, and pulled her along towards the impromptu dancefloor that had formed by Makalaurë who had been joined by a few other musically inclined acquaintances and was occupied with a rousing rendition of an old Telerin shanty that put colour in more than one set of cheeks with its lewdness. He winked at her, and Telperína laughed, letting Ferno twirl her around. The music was swift and joyous and Telperína forgot that she had been annoyed at her friend’s absence.

 

 

He was late, Curvo realised when he arrived at the house his carefully penned directions indicated. The sound of several instruments, a few singers soaring above a sea of conversation and laughter, streamed from the open windows, floating towards him as he walked through the balmy night air. Telperína had called it a ‘small get-together of friends’ when she invited him, and this looked more like most of everyone Káno knew in Tirion – a few obvious travellers from elsewhere in Aman.

The crowd was nearly overwhelming, the heat of many bodies pressed together hitting him with an almost physical force as soon as he reached the door. Someone handed him a goblet of dark wine, and Curvo had emptied it before he managed to cross the floor, intending to ask Káno where he could find Telperína, the small present in its carefully selected wrappings weighing on his mind. Anticipation made his steps light, and then they faltered, leaving him buffeted by the crowd until he ended up wedged beside an end table – which held a carafe of wine, so he refilled his goblet – and a large planter overflowing with elanori. Curvo hardly noticed, his eyes glued to the lithe steps of Telperína dancing with some ner he did not recognise, the nut-brown skin and golden hair marking him a Vanyarin like her ammë. The green dress with its wide neck lined in wavy silver embroidery and gossamer sleeves split at the shoulder swished around her legs when she twirled in time to the music. Her feet were bare, aside from a thin silver anklet with three small bells on it; the same Telerin type he had been coerced into making for little Artë a few months ago. The metal glinted in the candlelight when the ner picked her up and spun them around, making the dress flare out behind her. She smiled at the stranger and Curvo began to wonder why he had thought coming to this party was a good idea. Telperína laughed, saying something to her partner that made him grin at her. Curvo scowled at him.

Downing his third goblet, Curvo kept watching – he wasn’t the only one caught by the sight of the strikingly handsome couple; Telperína with her colouring reminiscent of Telperion and her partner exuding Laurëlin’s warmth. The gold in his hair echoed in the wide golden collar he wore, lapis lazuli beads flashes of bright blue combined with warm red carnelians. The golden arm-lets, decorated with more carnelians in a geometric pattern of squares caught the light, reflecting onto his golden skin – he was not wearing a shirt or a tunic or anything – and the golden-hued tan of his leather leggings. Suddenly, Carnistir’s whims seemed modest in the extreme, and Curvo toasted his absent brother with another mouthful of excellent wine.

“Onórincë!” Káno exclaimed, clearly more than well on his way towards inebriation, and stole Curvo’s goblet, draining it in one swallow. “I didn’t think you were coming!” His voice, a few levels louder than the din around them, slurred only slightly – Káno rarely sounded drunk, even though his balance was obviously affected.

“Here I am,” he agreed, wondering if Telperína would mind him leaving without greeting her – he could always bring her present over tomorrow – while Káno continued to babble drunkenly at him.

“Little brother!” he continued loudly, “Here you! Are! All dressed up for Telpë’s begetting day!” Curvo winced. Makalaurë gave him a somewhat off-centre smile and a small wave before turning away again, pushing the wine carafe into Curvo’s hand along with his now-empty goblet. “Come, all you jolly sailors,” he began singing, somehow still able to hit the tune perfectly, lurching back towards the group of musicians who picked up the rowing tune almost immediately. Curvo shook his head in amusement, pouring himself some more wine.

“That on the Seas do ply,” Another singer chimed in, catching Káno by the arm and attempting to dance with him. Curvo chuckled, the warmth of the wine he had drunk spreading in his belly.

“Haul up your boats and wet your throats,” Káno replied, his voice harmonising with the Telerin elf’s on the last line: “For rowing makes us dry.”

Curvo snorted, wondering if Káno had ever tried rowing a boat and deciding it was unlikely – his concept of sailing ran along the lines of ‘I will play you music to paddle by’, which had made Tyelko splash water at him, but Maitimo had taken the oars with Tyelko, proving that they were just as good at sailing as Angaráto and his brothers. For a moment, he relived the look on his cousins’ faces when they had beaten them to the finish line, but then a new singer broke through his thoughts, her clear voice rising above the melody.

“Come all you pretty fair maids,” she sung, “wherever you may be.” Curvo’s eyes once more found Telperína, no longer in the arms of the golden stranger, but standing next to Káno who was laughing between notes as she sang her verse, the tune flowing through the small silver flute Curvo had made for his last begetting day. “Bring in your lines and pour out the wines; the sailors return from the sea.”

A chorus of voices soon took up the song, merriment sounding through the building as more and more celebrants joined in.

 

Come, all you jolly sailors
That on the Seas do ply
Haul up your boats and wet your throats
For rowing makes us dry

Come, all you pretty fair maids
wherever you may be
Bring in your lines and pour out the wines
Our sailors return from the sea

Come, all you wealthy merchants
who keep your goods in store
the sails are trim and the light is dim
The crew is now coming ashore

Come, all you crafty Captains
who read the wind and tide
Abandon the wheel, enjoy a good meal;
the ale down thirsty throats slide!

Come, all you clever scribes
whose hands are stained with ink
lay down your tomes and come from your homes
to give pretty lassies a wink!

Come, all you singing potters
who make ceramics so fine
bring out the jugs and pour ale in the mugs
then lay back and see the stars shine!

Come, all you bonny farmers
who bring in corn and grain
The harvest is stored and dues paid the lord
so lifting your glass is no strain

Come, all you crafty coopers
who shape the barrel and cask
You’ve earned a drip and as for a sip
you don’t even have to ask!

Come, all you busy scholars
who stand around and think
bring up a seat and get off your feet
The time has come for a drink!

Come, all you drunken dancers
who move with stumbling grace
Come through the door and step up to the floor
to find your lover’s embrace!

Come, all you rowdy singers
whose voices sound out in cheer
lift them all high, then drain your cups dry
I’ll pay for a song with my beer!

Come, all you friendly strangers
who met the first time tonight
Enjoy the grape’s boon and strike up a tune
we’ll feast till Laurëlin’s bright!

Curvo listened to snatches of song, escaping through the open doors and finding him on the airy balcony where he had sought refuge, looking out across the brightly lit windows of Tirion. The scent of roses hung in the air around him, coming from a large planter filled with white night-blooming flowers.

 

“Have you seen Curvo?”

Telperína looked up – looking at Prince Maitimo always made her feel especially small, even though she was about average height herself – and shook her head, the sting of disappointment from before piercing her once more.

“I haven’t, Haryon,” she said, “I didn’t think he wanted to come?” She had hoped, yes, but Curufinwë was not much for parties, and this had turned out rather a bit larger than she had planned when she asked him.

“I saw him!” Makalaurë mused drunkenly as he came up behind her, leaning heavily on her shoulder as he blinked blearily at his older brother, “little brother, my little baby brother, Curufinwë Atarincë! With a goblet of wine.” He gave them a drunken grin, and then turned back to the two musicians still playing, demanding back his lyre. Prince Maitimo – somehow she still felt awkward leaving out the honorific, even in her own mind – sighed, shaking his head with a small smile.

“I’d take him home, too, if I thought he’d come,” he apologised quietly, nodding towards Makalaurë, which made her notice the vacant expression on Findekáno’s face, hiding in his cousin’s large shadow, both arms wrapped around Prince Maitimo’s waist. Telperína suddenly thought she might get used to calling him Maitimo – at least in her head – looking at the gentle way he picked up the incoherent ner. “I’ll have to get Finno to bed, though; someone convinced him to try some herbal smoke and he rather overindulged, I think.”

“It’s fine,” Telerína replied, glancing over her shoulder as her friend twanged his way through an old ballad. They both winced. “Makalaurë has slept here before; I’ll brew him some tea and send him home when he wakes.”

Maitimo laughed, though she had a feeling it wasn’t at her.

“Well, I’ll leave that to you, but if Curvo is here… keep an eye out for him?” he asked, looking as dignified as a King, even with Finno drooling on his shoulder. “Finno isn’t the only one who is new to the joys of alanessë.” Maitimo gave her a wry smile, and Telperína ignored the way Finno was nuzzling into his neck, muttering something soft and slurred.

“I’ll go look for him again,” Telperína promised, ignoring the warmth in the pit of her stomach at the thought that he might have come to her celebration, after all; it wasn’t every day a nissë turned 80 yeni.

“Thank you, Lady Telperína,” Maitimo said, offering her a polite bow and hoisting Finno higher into his arms, soothing him with whispered words when the dark-haired ner muttered something she did not catch. “And congratulations on your begetting day, once again.”

With a final nod, Maitimo and his semi-conscious burden were gone. Snagging a goblet of wine to wet her suddenly parched throat, Telperína set off for one more circuit of the party, skilfully avoiding Ferno’s second attempted dance.

 

He lost track of time for a while, the redolent scent of the roses mingling with the heady wine he had guzzled as he looked at their fair city – Atto would have been disappointed to see him act like an inexperienced youth unused to wine, Curvo thought, raising his goblet in a silent wry toast at the spectre of his absent sire.

“You came!”

Curvo startled, nearly dropping his goblet, which had somehow remained half-full, and whirled to face her.

Her smile was as bright as the Mindon Eldaliéva, her gentle green eyes sparkling with delight and her cheeks flushed with wine and cheer. He smiled back involuntarily.

“Telperína…” he murmured, one hand sliding into his pocket, twisting the ribbon that tied the wrappings of his gift closed between his fingers.

“I’m glad you’re here, Curufinwë,” she said, wobbling slightly when she moved to stand beside him, leaning against the balcony railing. “I thought you weren’t coming – why didn’t you come talk to me?” she asked, looking across the glimmering city. Curvo didn’t have a reply – how to explain the painful way his heart squeezed watching her dance with Prince Half-Naked? – and remained mum. “It is my begetting day,” she continued, turning her head to pout at him after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes… Happy begetting day,” he said brusquely, thrusting the gift at her with enough force to make her wobble. Clearing his throat, Curvo felt himself flush with embarrassment, but all Telperína’s attention was absorbed by the small parcel wrapped in silk.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, turning it over slowly. “Thank you!”

The smile she gave him was bright than the first one, as impossible as that seemed.

Curvo’s cheeks heated once more. Rubbing his neck, he nodded at the gift. “Open it.”

 

Telperína didn’t notice the silk wrapping float down to land on her foot, staring raptly at the small inkwell she held, turning it this way and that to watch the colours change with the light. “Oh!” she breathed, enchanted, “It’s beautiful!” Pressing a small hidden catch, the bottom panel of the inkwell – empty, still, waiting to be filled with her favourite ink – popped out, revealing a small tray with four finely crafted nibs. “You’re so clever!”

Looking up – and it was still slightly odd that she had to look up at him, but he had grown an inch taller in the past year – she smiled at the way he fidgeted at her praise.

“You like it, then?” he asked softly, as though he hadn’t been certain she would.

“I love it!” Telperína gushed, carefully lifting out one of the nibs to study it in the light of the stars whirling above. “It’s so useful – and pretty!”

 

“You’re pretty!” he blurted out the words in a single exhalation of sound that ruffled her silver hair – when did she move so close? – and made her smile up at him.

“Thank you,” she replied, pretty pink staining her cheeks as she looked down at her feet, fingering her dress lightly. “Ammë worked hard on it; she said it would be good for dancing, but I didn’t get to do much of that.” A small moue of disappointment flashed across her face then, and Curvo drew a slight sigh of mingled relief and vexation that she had mistaken his words.

“Oh?” he asked, feeling ineloquent and stupid. He was the son of mighty Fëanáro – and an adult, too – not some bumbling child.

“You should dance with me!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright as she smiled at him, catching him by the arm. Her slender fingers felt warm through the fabric of his sleeves, her thumb making small circles on his forearm.

“I’m not sure…” Curvo tried, feeling less than completely steady himself, unsure whether he should blame the wine, still, or her intoxicating presence. “There’s no music,” he tried, gesturing towards the doors she had left open with his free hand.

Telperína pouted. “Dance with me?” she asked again, and he couldn’t say no, not when she looked at him with those green eyes that still made him want to stare at her forever.

Moving slowly, once of his hands caught hers – the one holding the inkwell – bringing it to rest on his shoulder; his other moved to the small of her back, tugging her a few inches closer as he tried to convince himself he was dancing with some uninteresting lady of court – perhaps at one of Grandfather’s balls.

It didn’t really work.

Telperína hummed, a slow tune Curvo recognised as one of Káno’s compositions. Her hair, artfully styled and held with pearl combs and roses, still fell down her back in soft silver waves, tickling his fingers. It was as soft as he had always believed. Her body, pleasantly curved – he knew that, from watching her, but it was different to feel it beneath his hands – swayed lightly to the tune she was humming, leaning into his touch in a way that was a hundred times more heady than the wine.

“I’m glad you came, Curvo,” she murmured sleepily, leaning her head against his shoulder. It couldn’t be comfortable, what with the stiffness of his leather collar flashed through his mind first, swiftly followed by the familiar use of his name, making his spine sing.

“I’m glad I came, too,” he whispered, losing himself for a heartbeat or an eternity when she looked up at him, her smile soft in the starlight. Telperína’s soft humming continued, though neither made much effort to follow the steps of any dance learned at balls. Then she giggled, tracing her fingers along the outline of the Star on his lapel.

“I called you Curvo,” she said, the giddiness of the wine evident. “Cuuuurrrvo,” she continued, rolling each syllable around in her mouth in a way that made it sound more than half-way indecent. Curvo shivered.

“You can call me Curvo,” he replied, his mouth dry, “I like it.”

“Are you going to call me Tyelpië if I do?” she asked, grinning at him. Sliding her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, her smile softened. “Your hair is pretty,” she murmured, her other hand leaving the stiff leather to tangle in his hair with its fellow.

“So is yours… Tyelpië,” Curvo sad hoarsely, giving up any pretence of dancing in favour of holding her.

Telperína laughed softly, green eyes shining brightly up at him. “Thank you, Curvo…” she murmured, licking her lips slowly, making them glisten.

Curvo wanted to kiss her, fall into those eyes and kiss her like he had not dared before, remembering a bright summer day in a verdant glade where the impulse had been overcome by his own anxieties. Her nails scratched lightly through his curls, fingertips tugging gently at the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

Glancing at her mouth once, he leaned in slowly, closing his eyes instinctually. Her breath smelled sweetly of wine.

“There you are, Onórincë!” Makalaurë bellowed drunkenly, making Curvo’s head snap up just before he could meet her lips with his own. Telperína stiffened in his arms. Curvo’s eyes flew open, his head jerking back as he let go of her. “Was- was looking for… for you!” Turning his head, Curvo aimed his harshest glare at his drunken sot of a brother. Makalaurë smiled vacantly back at him. “Nelyo left.” Makalaurë nodded to himself, listing dangerously as he tried to leave the support of the doorpost.

Curvo caught his arm with a scowl. Telperína caught the other, holding Makalaurë steady until he could manage to take most of his brother’s weight. “Well, you found me,” he bit out. And I pray you could have waited a minute, brother, he added silently, glancing at Telperína, who was staring wide-eyed at Makalaurë, her face completely blank.

“You didn’t say hello to our hos- … hos-… my friend!” Makalaurë continued belligerently, poking Curvo’s chest at each word and staggering drunkenly. “It’s impol- imperlite, what it is!” he added, scowling. Curvo scowled back.

 

“Perhaps you should go get some sleep,” Telperína suggested, carefully not looking at Curufinwë – was he really going to kiss her? – who looked like a thundercloud as he glared at his brother. He… he was. Curufinwë… Curvo wanted to kiss her! Telperína felt herself blush, but he had told her to call him that, hadn’t he? The heat in her cheeks increased making her feel oddly tongue-tied as she looked up at Curvo’s forbidding glare, so unlike his shy smile and suddenly reminiscent of High Prince Fëanáro in a way that she rarely noticed anymore.

“Telpë!” Makalaurë exclaimed, noticing her presence for the first time. “I found Curvo! Little Curvo! My brother, Curvo!” Gesturing wildly at a point slightly to the left of his brother, her friend beamed genially. His childish excitement was almost enough to make her smile. If only Makalaurë had showed up a little later… The heat in her cheeks flared again, and Telperína carefully looked down at her bare feet, hoping that neither brother would read the direction of her thoughts on her face.

“Yes, you did,” Telperína agreed soothingly, ignoring the nickname, “and now he is going to take you home to bed, yeah?” And then she would find her own bed and determinedly not imagine the heat of his arms around her body… much.

Makalaurë nodded happily, slumping against… Curvo’s chest. He shot her a look over his brother’s drooping form, but Telperína could only shrug; she might have offered them a place to sleep, but somehow she did not think the offer would be met with gratitude this time.

“Yes… night Telpë,” Makalaurë agreed.

 

Curvo sighed heavily, grabbing hold of Makalaurë’s robes with one hand and yanking him rather ungently into his arms. He’d never been good at ósanwë, but, somehow, he knew it would work this time. I may never forgive you, brother, he promised darkly, sending the thought into Makalaurë’s mind with all the venom he could muster and feeling slightly appeased by the pained groan that escaped the sot.

“Good night!” Telperína called behind them, watching him stride through the balcony doors.

“Goodnight…” Curvo called back over his shoulder, adding her Telerin nickname only in his mind. Tyelpië… happy begetting day.

He was halfway down the street when her gentle voice reached him, ósanwë clearer than her speech had been. Despite the smell of alcohol and the reek of sweet alanessë that clung to Makalaurë, Curvo smiled, feeling the soft affection of her thoughts caress his fëa.

Dream well… Curvo.

Floor Tiles

Read Floor Tiles

Tiles– shaped like Star of Fëanor

“What did you do to my brother!” Makalaurë scowled darkly when Telperína opened the door, far earlier than she had expected him to be conscious after his inebriation the night before. Confused, she blinked up at him, having spent the better part of the last hour reliving that almost-kiss – it was an almost-kiss, right? – and trying to talk herself into heading to the palace to speak to Curvo.

“…What?” she asked, staring at Makalaurë’s still-reddened eyes as her friend narrowed his gaze at her.

“Curvo!” he exclaimed, loud enough to bring the attention of her neighbours. Telperína sighed. “What did you do to Curvo?!” Makalaurë repeated.

“I don’t know what you mean!” Telperína finally exclaimed, feeling exasperated. “I haven’t done anything to Curv-Curufinwë!” Biting her lip at the near-slip, she stared at Makalaurë in abject confusion, trying not to blush at the thought of the night before.

“But he’s locked himself in the forge!” Makalaurë replied hotly, gesturing violently with one arm in the direction of his home. “And he won’t talk to anyone – not even Tyelko – and then I remembered that he was with you just before we left, and he was angry all the way home – so you must have done something!” Eyes as frantic as his voice, Makalaurë stared at his friend, and Telperína felt suddenly light; Curufinwë had wanted to kiss her, and he’d been angry with Makalaurë for interrupting!

Why he had locked himself in his workshop today, she couldn’t explain, but Telperína knew she was right about the night before.

“I’ll… go talk to him?” she asked, staring at Makalaurë’s hands running frantically through his hair, obviously worried; he looked more dishevelled than she had ever seen him, including the time he had climbed a tree to pick cordof and fallen through several metres of branches before Tyelkormo caught him.

Makalaurë smiled brilliantly, grabbing her by the wrist and began to sprint down the street, forcing Telperína to abandon her shoes to keep up after one of the low-heeled silk slippers fell off, bouncing on the cobbles behind her.

 

“I brought Telperína!” Makalaurë said breathlessly.

“You…!” Carnistir growled, kneeling by the door. “I almost had the lock picked!”

“I still say we should climb over the roof,” Tyelkormo said, scratching Huan’s neck and waving one of his hunting daggers in the direction of the roof. “It’d be easy enough to drop down through one of the smoke vents; the ceiling height means it’s only a nine-foot,” he looked at Telperína, who gaped at him, “well, if it’s her, maybe a ten-foot drop…”

“We’re not dropping Telpë off a roof!” Makalaurë objected, finally letting go of her wrist to gesture angrily at his brother. Telperína rubbed her sore wrist, staring at the tableau of them; Maitimo was overseeing Carnistir’s progress with picking the lock, blithely ignoring the way young Pityo was climbing onto his shoulder, waving at his twin who was perched on Huan’s furry back and gave her a gummy smile. Makalaurë was arguing with Tyelkormo, interspersed with encouragement for Carnistir, whose expression was darkening by the minute.

“…Have you tried knocking?” Telperína asked, repeating herself twice before anyone heard her; still confused as to why they all seemed to assume she would be the best person to send inside – and why it was even necessary to send anyone in the first place.

“He’s not answering,” Maitimo finally replied, giving her a smile that didn’t disguise the worry in his eyes. “Usually, if Curvo is lost in creating something, he will at least leave the door unlocked, so we can bring him food if he disappears for too long… but he went in there as soon as he came back from your celebration, and the door has been locked since.”

“There’s a strict policy in this house about unlocked doors to craft-rooms,” Tyelkormo explained quietly, suddenly seeming just as worried as his older brother. Pityo babbled something, tugging on Maitimo’s copper hair. “If nothing else, we need to be sure we could reach him in an emergency, or drag him away from whatever project it is when he needs to eat; locking himself away like this is… not like Curvo.”

“Did you try the garden entrance?” Telperína asked, reminded of the first time she had met Curufinwë and his intimidating atar; hadn’t she come from the gardens?

“This isn’t Atar’s workshop,” Carnistir replied, fiddling angrily with the lock, “that one’s a corridor further down and to the right from here; Curvo’s personal work room doesn’t open unto the gardens – there is one window large enough for a person to get through, but -” he glared at his pale-haired brother, who did his best to appear innocent. Carnistir scowled at him, obviously blaming Tyelkormo as he continued, “but it is completely blocked by Ammë’s statue of Oromë hunting a giant wolf.”

“Yes, yes,” Makalaurë snapped impatiently, for once visibly displaying his kinship with Fëanáro, “but can you get the door open, Moryo?”

Carnistir cursed, pulling back the narrow piece of metal he had been trying to unlock the door with. It was bent in a way a lockpick shouldn’t be, Telperína guessed, based on his dark frown. She sighed, already knowing what would happen next.

“The roof it is,” Tyelkormo announced, poorly concealed glee on his face. Makalaurë scowled at him.

“We can lower you down with rope,” Maitimo suggested, heading off Makalaurë’s protest swiftly.

None of them heard her ‘why me?’ as they strode off, discussing something to do with pulleys.

Telperína sighed. Maitimo’s worry had sown a small seed in her own heart though, taking root and sprouting swiftly; Telperína forgot her question, following behind the brothers and wondering just what was up with her… friend.

 

 

The less said about this, the better.

She considered herself an agile dancer, but for a moment she found herself envious of Aredhel’s acrobatics among the branches of the woodlands; Aredhel wouldn’t even have been offered the rope, she would simply have jumped down the smoke-hole, a daring grin aimed at Tyelkormo on her face. Hanging on to the rope as Maitimo and Tyelkormo – unanimously voted the strongest brothers in a way that she tried not to find unflattering to her figure – lowered her down through the smoke outlet of the workroom, Telperína hoped that Makalaurë would not put her current predicament into one of his annoyingly persistent songs.

Why am I friends with these neri, again?

Glancing upwards, Telperína caught Carnistir’s encouraging smile, doing her best to sculpt her face into an expression of someone who was not at all intimidated by being lowered into a dark space like some sacrificial offering to a ravenous beast in return. It did not look like it worked, a worried flash crossing his face before it disappeared from the hole.

Dropping to the floor, Telperína had momentary fear of gnashing teeth as she stared into the dim room, but then semi-familiar shapes began to appear as her eyes adjusted to the low light coming in from the rows of tiny windows built into the walls. The forge had gone cold and dark, no embers left.

“I brought a sack of food,” Tyelkormo said, blocking the light coming in from above for a moment as he tied the sack to the rope they had pulled back without her notice. “In case Curvo’s hungry.”

Catching the sack – it wasn’t that heavy, but she could feel several pieces of ceramics through the cloth, as well as a loaf of bread.

“Bread, some butter, a small flagon of wine,” Tyelkormo listed. Telperína nodded.

“Which way?” she asked, but she hadn’t needed the answer. Light shone from further in, faint but enough to show her the way.

Telperína followed.

The room she entered was empty and dark. She spared a thought to hope that Curufinwë was actually in his work rooms rather than holed up in say, the library, breathing out a sigh of relief when she heard a sound from somewhere further ahead.

Making her way across the cool floor tiles, Telperína admired the craftsmanship lavished on them; each had been marked with lines, but the joins were so invisible that the whole floor seemed made from a multitude of iterations of the star of Fëanáro’s house.

“Curufinwë?” she asked softly, stepping through a doorway to find him hunched over a table, his body hiding the project from sight. Walking closer, she reached for him, pulling back before she could touch. He was fast asleep, still wearing the goggles he had told her made cutting gems easier. He murmured something, snoring lightly. She smiled.

Tip-toeing back, she raised her head, this time addressing Maitimo above. “He’s asleep at the desk.”

“Ah,” he replied, seeming relieved, “good; it was about time.” Telperína frowned. “He’s been working on some project for the past five days without sleep,” Maitimo revealed, “that’s why we were worried today; five days is a long time to stay awake working, even for him.”

“I’ll see if I can’t find the key,” Telperína decided, “then you can get him to bed.”

Nodding, Maitimo disappeared from view, and Telperína returned to Curufinwë’s cluttered workroom smiling to herself; wondering what he would say to find her there when he woke..

 

Part of her felt like an invader as she moved through the room, looking for anything resembling a key, holding an oil lamp aloft to chase away the shadows.

Curvo was muttering in his sleep, though he had pushed the goggles halfway up his forehead, leaving reddened indentations in his cheek where the leather rims had pressed into the skin. Long lashes – she hadn’t realised they were that long – fluttered against his skin, the eyes beneath their lids moving frantically.

I love him…

Startled by her own thought, she dropped the small hammer she held, wincing as it hit the floor – the loud sound seemed to ring through the room – and turned to stare at Curufinwë, still sleeping.

He smiled sweetly, murmuring something soft but did not wake.

Telperína drew a breath of relief, her search completely forgotten as she took a seat on a three-legged chair beside him, pulling her legs up and resting her chin on her knees, looking at him and turning the idea of love over in her mind.

“Tyelpië…” he murmured, startling her out of her thoughts. He was frowning in his sleep, and she felt an overwhelming impulse to touch him, to smooth that wayward curl out of his face, her fingers lingering lightly along the upper ridge of his ear, following the point and curve in a soft caress.

Love.

She tasted the word but did not say it, watching the frown disappear as her fingers continued running lightly across his ear and back.

I love you.

 

He blinked himself awake slowly, smiling softly at her. Telperína smiled back.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked quietly, resting her cheek against her knee and tilting her head to look at him. Curufinwë frowned, staring at her, mouthing her name. Reaching out, Telperína put her hand on his shoulder.

Startled, Curufinwë reared back, grabbing a swath of cloth and covering his work in the next moment, staring wildly at her. “Tyel-Telperína,” he stammered, getting to his feet awkwardly, trying to keep himself between her and whatever he was working on. Curvo pushed a hand through his hair, his eyes glancing from her face to the project and back to her face in rapid succession.

She jumped up from her seat, reaching for him, suddenly worried. “Curufinwë, are you well?” Biting her lip, she caught his elbow, all hints of his earlier serenity vanished in an instant.

“What… err, what are you doing here?” he asked, blushing, “… Telperína?”

The flush in his cheeks was fascinating, his eyes flashing between her face and whatever lay beneath the cloth on the desk – she had caught a flash of silver when he jumped, but not enough to tell what the project had been – as he swallowed nervously. Slipping past him, she took a seat on the edge of his work desk, turning her back to the project.

For once, she ignored the way her usually immaculate clothes would surely be dirtied by the contact, trying to give him back some of the calm she had unintentionally wrecked with her presence. Biting her lip, she looked up at him, giving him a small smile.

“I thought I asked you to call me Tyelpië,” she murmured, all her earlier hesitance disappearing in an instant. Telperína smiled. “Curvo.”

“Ahh, yes,” he began slowly, pushing the goggles further into his dishevelled hair; Telperína’s smile widened, but she didn’t tell him how adorable the look really was as he continued, “but what are you doing in my… my rooms… Tyelpië?”

“Your brothers were worried about you,” she replied, feeling a slight shiver run up her spine at the way he said her name; it was not like Atar’s rhythmic lilt, nor like Ammë’s almost song-like softness. In Curvo’s mouth, her name became husky, intimate in a way that brought the aborted kiss back to the forefront of her mind. “You aren’t supposed to lock the doors, apparently.”

Right now, she felt quite happy that the doors were locked – hopefully his brothers had gone elsewhere once they left the roof rather than wait outside for her to unlock it with the key she had completely forgotten to look for – smiling at him. Curvo flushed.

“I didn’t want to be interrupted,” he replied, scowling in the direction of the door. Telperína shrugged lightly, reaching out to cup his cheek and turn his face back towards her.

“Well, I’m glad to have a chance to speak with you,” she murmured, licking her lips as she wondered if she was bold enough to take – soberly – what he had offered her last night. His skin was soft and warm beneath her fingertips, and her legs parted almost instinctively to allow him room to stand between them when he shuffled forwards, leaning into her touch.

“About what?” Curvo asked quietly, suddenly much closer than he had been, his golden-brown eyes blazing with fire. Telperína felt warm all over.

“This,” she whispered, drawing him that last bit further, close enough to press her lips against his. They were soft; surprised, almost, she thought, pulling back slightly. The side of his nose rubbed against hers, his shocked exhalation warming her lips. “I…” Looking down for a moment, Telperína felt herself blush deeply, cursing her fair skin for giving away her emotions.

“Look at me,” he whispered back, lifting one hand to cup her chin gently, raising her face. Telperína stared up at him, feeling apprehensive at the way her heart seemed to jump when he traced her bottom lip with his thumb.

“Curvo…” she murmured softly. Parting her lips slightly, her tongue flicked across that digit, wetting her lips.

Curvo didn’t seem to know what to do with his hand, his balled-up fist resting heavily on the wooden desk, holding his weight as he dipped his head carefully, kissing her slowly this time, sliding his lips across hers in a teasing caress. Tracing her lower lip with his tongue, he caught it gently between his lips, his fingers running into her hair in a mirror of the caressing she had done when he was asleep.

Tangling her fingers in his short curls, Telperína sighed happily into his mouth, her eyes falling shut. His arms stood taut on either side of her body, and Telperína could feel the rapid beat of his heart against the palm of her hand where it rested against his neck.

“You…”

Telperína opened her mouth, letting her own tongue run lightly across his upper lip and Curvo lost whatever he wanted to say. She vaguely heard the sound he made in response, making her smile into the kiss as his hand clutched her hip, sliding her tongue between his lips.

Pulling him closer, she explored, tasting the roof of his mouth; hitching one leg around his hip to keep herself from falling backwards when he surged closer, his chest pressed against hers, his palm warm and broad against her back. His hips fit in the cradle of her legs, pressing into her as his tongue ventured across her lip, chasing her own back into her mouth. She moaned softly, sucking on his tongue and drinking the small sound of surprise straight from his lips.

“Curvo…” she purred, enjoying the way saying his name made him shiver against her. “My Curvo.”

He drew away, breathing hard as he stared at her. Telperína’s own chest heaved in equally rapid pants, her fingers curled around his shoulder. She could feel him, feel him pressed against her, hard and wanting, and the sheer desire coursing through her in that moment was more intoxicating than she had ever expected listening to the stories of older cousins. For a moment, she felt scared of feeling so much, but this was Curvo leaning over her and she simply wanted more. Staring up at him, she tried to still her racing heart; this was going a little too fast.

“You…” he tried again, his voice noticeably different, rougher than usual; it seemed to surprise him, too. Telperína giggled, letting her legs release him. Letting go of his shoulders, she fell back onto the table and stared at the ceiling, the blown-glass lamp hanging from a piece of netting glowing softly above her. Curvo slumped into the chair she had just vacated, she heard it screech slightly with his sudden weight.

 

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, when his breathing had returned to normal. Telperína rose onto her elbows, staring at him.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, frowning.

“I didn’t…” he bit his lip indecisively, “I didn’t expect you to…” he gestured at her, blushing. “I thought you were a dream, at first…” he admitted sheepishly, “kissing me…”

“You seemed to want to…” she replied, her eyes dropping to stare at the patch of skin below his throat left bare by the undone laces of his work tunic, “at least last night.”

“I did!” he exclaimed, knocking over a pot of something metal when he gestured wildly towards her. “I mean, I – I do, but…” Blushing fiercely, he fell silent once more, staring at her with an almost desperate look in his eyes, as though he was making sense and she was the one who didn’t understand anything. He was right about the latter part, at least, Telperína did not understand what had changed between them, but it did not feel like a good thing.

“I… I want you, too, Curufinwë,” Telperína admitted softly, biting her lip when he froze at the words, staring silently at her.

“…” His eyes flicked away from her face and back, his mouth moving but shaping no words as he stared at her.

“Well,” she whispered quietly, “say something.” Curufinwë remained silent, and her heart fell, tears pressing against the back of her eyes. “Curufinwë,” she said, sitting upright and clasping her hands in her lap, frightened by the silence. Had she been mistaken? “Just…” Biting her lip, she squeezed her fingers with the other hand, trying to keep the tears from falling, and looked up at him. “… just say something – anything.” Please.

“Stop biting your lip,” he said hoarsely, his hand returning to her chin, his thumb tugging her bottom lip away from her teeth. Telperína stared.

“Wha-?”

“I didn’t plan for this,” he muttered to himself, running his free hand through his hair in agitation, pushing the goggles off his head to clatter unnoticed on the tiles behind him. “You… you’re not supposed to be here – this is all wrong!”

Letting go of her face, he turned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he paced in front of her, angry muttering falling from his lips.

“Give me the keys, then,” Telperína said frostily, covering up her hurt, “and I’ll leave.”

Hopping down from the table, she turned, looking for something that looked like a key and grabbing the first she saw, hoping beyond hope that his brothers were not waiting outside the door when she reached it.

“No!” Curvo exclaimed behind her, and for the second time that day, her wrist was caught in an inescapable grip. Telperína tried not to wince; Makalaurë’s haste had left finger-shaped bruises ringing her wrist, but she wasn’t going to let Curv- Curufinwë see that his touch hurt her.

“Let go of me!” she demanded, suddenly painfully aware how much stronger he really was.

“No. Don’t you see?” he asked behind her, still holding her wrist, “I told you this was wrong. Why did you have to come here, of all places!”

“I told you,” she hissed, yanking futilely on her captured limb, “Makalaurë fetched me.” She didn’t think she’d ever forgive him, either, making her believe… making her hope.

I love you.

A pox on Noldorin Princes. All of them.

“Please, Tyelpië,” Curufinwë said quietly behind her – the name hurt, now – rustling with something, “turn around.”

She did, still clutching the key.

She stared.

It made no sense.

“What…” she asked, pulling her hand away when he let go of her wrist, cradling it against her chest as she took an involuntary step forwards. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, staring into those soft golden-brown eyes.

“I couldn’t decide,” he muttered sheepishly, gesturing at the three rows of seven rings – silver rings – that lay on the table top, the cloth he had thrown over them when he woke to find her no longer hiding his work from view.

“Decide what?”

He was blushing again, but it was the look in his eyes that made her heart beat faster, made her hope again.

“Which one to give you,” he said quietly, “when I told you I love you… when I ask you to be my wife.” Running one hand through his hair again, he gave her a crooked smile. “I had a plan, you know,” he added ruefully, staring down at the multitude of rings. “I was going to bring you a nice meal and take you away somewhere pretty…” he chuckled wryly, “I didn’t get much further than that.”

“You… want to marry me?” Telperína asked faintly; her heart racing swifter than any horse could gallop.

“Melanyet.” Swallowing hard, he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing from her face to the rings once more. “It-it seemed a good plan at the time – unless you don’t…”

She kissed him.

Curvo’s arms wrapped around her back, holding her close as he returned the kiss.

“Melanyet,” she whispered softly, nipping at his bottom lip. “And, you know, I did bring food – and this place is…”

“It’s a work room, Telperína,” Curvo chuckled, looking around; it was reasonably clean, but definitely not what he’d call pretty.

“The floor is very pretty.” She glared at him, daring him to protest.

“Are you…” he stared at her, clutching her tight.

Telperína nodded. “Ask me.”

“Telperína,” Curvo murmured, his eyes blazing with something that was at once strange and so well-known she wondered how she had ever questioned the way he felt about her. Sliding one hand into her hair, tucking a loose lock behind her ear, he cupped her face. “Tyelpië…” She shivered, biting her lower lip. “Merin vesta tyenna. Man indotya ná?”

“Indonya ná ve indotya,” she replied solemnly. “Apa mine yénenna, veryuval -”

The rest of her sentence was lost to the Void as Curvo’s lips came back with a vengeance, slanting across hers in a kiss that sparked that same fire in her flesh she had seen in his eyes. His nose brushed lightly against her cheek when he pulled back for a moment and then his lips pressed against hers again. “My Tyelpië,” he murmured softly, her name caressing her lips when he exhaled, leaning his forehead against hers.

“Yes,” she hummed back, twining one of his soft curls around her fingers and opened her eyes to stare up at him. She smiled.

“My Tyelpië…” he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment, shivering when she tugged gently on the hairs at the nape of his neck. “My wife.”

Leaning up on tiptoes, she pulled him back to her, the kiss deeper, slower, this time; learning what the other liked best. Curvo’s hands roamed down her back, wrapping around the tops of her thighs as he picked her up, carrying her back to the work desk and setting her down on the smooth wood.

“Pick one,” he murmured between kisses, waving towards the selection of silver beside her.

“This one,” she said, reaching for a simple band of silver with a round sapphire bracketed by two small pearls.

Curufinwë made a wounded noise, catching her palm in his own and lifting it slowly. “Did I do that?” he asked, staring at the bruising on her wrist in abject horror. Telperína lifted her free hand, turning his face and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“Your brother was very…enthusiastic about requiring my immediate presence,” she mumbled, flushing. She idly wondered what had happened to her shoes.

“I am going to… hit him,” Curufinwë growled, glaring blackly at the door.

“Later, Curvo,” Telperína giggled, too happy to care about her sore wrist. Scooping up the ring she had chosen, Curufinwë pressed and apologetic kiss against her bruises, sliding the small piece of jewellery onto her finger with an immensely satisfied expression.

“My Tyelpië,” he whispered, smiling into the kiss she gave him.

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, Telperína pulled him into her kisses, wrapping her leg around his hip when he pushed her down flat against the desk. His body felt good, pressing against hers in the best way, as he plundered her mouth with a happy groan of pleasure. “Curvo…” she moaned, tilting her head back to give him access to her throat, shuddering lightly when he found an even more pleasurable spot to torment there. “Ai, Curvo…”

“Curufinwë Atarinkë!”

Curvo stiffened, turning his head. Telperína froze, one hand buried in his hair and the other resting very far down the small of his back – far enough it probably wasn’t his ‘back’ anymore – as she waited for the inevitable explosion of temper. Telperína wondered if there was anyone she’d rather not have been interrupted by, but short of the King himself, she couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be happy with their news.

“Hello Atar,” Curufinwë said, straightening and turning around to face Fëanáro – oh Valar, they would have to have a feast, inviting well… everyone. And her parents would have to sit next to Prince Fëanáro and Lady Nerdanel – quietly panicking, Telperína hid her face against Curufinwë’s shoulder, feeling slightly comforted when he took her hand, squeezing it gently.

“You know better than to lock the doors to a work room, son,” Fëanáro thundered.

“Yes, Atar,” Curufinwë replied, “but the work was important.” Mastering herself slightly, Telperína hopped down from the table, taking his hand in her own and stepping up beside him.

“I saw as much,” Fëanáro replied evenly, raising an eyebrow at him. Telperína nearly giggled at the deadpan tone. Curvo’s face turned a bright red. Catching her wrist again, he pulled her hand forward, lifting it to press his lips against her knuckles.

“I should like to introduce to you, Telperína Faniel – my future wife,” he said, standing tall under Fëanáro’s frank gaze, which seemed to take in every aspect of their appearances. Silence reigned, father and son locked in a mutual staring contest. Then Fëanáro nodded, a rare smile breaking out on his face.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Telperína,” he said quietly, catching her hand and repeating Curvo’s knuckle kiss. Then his eyes turned mischievous, looking at his son once more. “You both ought to get cleaned up before you tell your Ammë, however, Curvo.” Shaking his head, he turned around, blocking the doorway for a moment. “I don’t need to know what you were doing in here – but it certainly left marks.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him.

“Did he just… accept this?” Telperína whispered, staring at the door in disbelief, “and how did he get in?”

“Atto taught me to make locks,” Curvo shrugged, “I’d guess he could make a key quite easily if he thought it necessary.”

Telperína laughed brightly, leaning against him. After a moment, Curvo joined her.

“He was right, though,” Curvo admitted, blushing as he looked at her, matching his hands to several marks left on her soft blue dress and tracing a bruise left behind on her collarbone in the shape of a kiss. “We should get cleaned up.”

Telperína nodded, taking his hand in hers. “I have to give you your ring, too, though I don’t know where I’d find one; you’re the best jeweller I know – and I could hardly ask Prince Fëanáro…” she murmured, looking at her own with a soft smile. A flash of silver appeared before her, resting in his palm like it had flown there.

“Already made – I wanted something simple, for me, if I’m to be wearing it when I’m working,” he replied, blushing when she picked up the small piece of jewellery and slid it onto his finger.

“It suits you,” she smiled, pressing a kiss to the cool metal.

Lifting her face, he kissed her once, hard, before taking her hand and placing it on his arm, leading her out of the dim work room and into the bright light of Laurëlin.

I love you, she thought softly, watching their new rings glitter as the light hit them.

I love you, too… my Tyelpië. It was hesitant, requiring concentration – small lines appearing between his brows – but she heard him, squeezing his arm with a soft smile on her face as she walked into their future.

---

Chapter End Notes

Valarin Quenya used:

Melanyet. Merin vesta tyenna. Man indotya ná?

I love you. I want to marry you. What is your will?

Indonya ná ve indotya. Apa mine yénenna, veryuvalwe!

My will is like your will. At the end of one year, we shall wed!

 

There may be an extra chapter or two for this, but probably not before the deadline...

 

How many objects could you find for the Museum? ;)

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Screen

Round end table

Armchair

This came about because NelyafinweFeanorion asked about the brothers' reactions. Enjoy!

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The golden light of day had revealed more smudges than the single lamp in his workroom, though it had also revealed her loving smile and so Curvo thought it worth the trade, even if he wanted to remain alone with her forever, discovering all the ways he could make her sigh with his kisses. He wasn’t quite sure how he had talked her into staying with him, promising her a bath and a robe rather than letting her go home to her own house, but here she was, in his rooms, separated by nothing more than a sectioned screen that Moryo had once made on a dare, plaiting coloured reeds together and thinking it ought to be a carpet runner; unfortunately, it was terribly uncomfortable to walk on, and so Curvo had mounted it on frames and created a small hiding space for his bath behind it.

She was splashing.

Curvo shouldn’t be thinking about water lapping at her skin, he knew, staring at the patterns on the screen, all red and golden and green, flowing together in shapes that were pleasingly angular but seemed to blur together as he tried to stare through the tight weave, imagining the sight just beyond.

He groaned.

 

“Oh, good,” Maitimo exclaimed, dropping Pity onto his bed, “you got out.” Curvo gaped; whirling to stare at the rest of his brothers crowded together in the doorway.

Behind the screen, the splashing stopped instantly.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Curvo.” Maitimo frowning at him with that disappointed expression should be forbidden, Curvo thought, wincing. He nodded.

“But I had to-” he tried, though he knew it would do no good. He held back a yawn – whatever small nap he had managed before Telperína woke him had not restored his energy greatly; Curvo knew his brothers had been right to worry, no matter how reluctant he was to admit it – even to himself.

“Yes, you know the rules are there for a reason,” Tyelkormo chimed in, giving his best version of an innocent smile, as if he wasn’t the one who most often broke the rules.

Scowling at Tyelkormo and wishing they’d all leave did nothing, Curvo found, sinking down onto his armchair with a sigh and tracing the inlaid patterns that decorated the wood with his fingertip, avoiding looking at any of them.

“Did Telperína go home?” Makalaurë asked, glancing around the seemingly-empty room. “I didn’t see her leave.”

Curvo held his breath; it was one thing to engage himself to her – quite another to be caught with her naked in his rooms. He flushed.

“Yes…” he said, casting about wildly for a way to get rid of them all – maybe except Pityo, who was snoring on his bed – and coming up short, “Why did you send her into my room – and how; the window’s blocked by that silly statue of Oromë?”

“Smoke hole,” Tyelkormo said, lounging insouciantly in the other armchair, bouncing Telyo on his knee. “Moryo tried to pick the lock, first!” he defended himself when Curvo glared at him. Telyo laughed brightly. “But your lock won, and so she went in through the smoke vent – it’s not my fault your windows are bloody stupid!”

“Tyelpië is not Aredhel!” Curvo exclaimed, for a moment fearful that she could have hurt herself dropping down and forgetting that Telperína had been perfectly fine.

“I know that, brother,” Maitimo soothed, “we lowered her down with some rope. Did you eat anything?”

“Wait, what?” Curvo felt too sluggish to follow his leap of conversation.

“I take it you did not,” Maitimo tutted. Almost on cue, Curvo’s stomach grumbled at its empty state. Maitimo glanced at Tyelko, frowning lightly.

“But I gave her the food,” Tyelko groused, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring back at their oldest brother. Curvo tried not to laugh.

“Yes,” he nodded, “she did say something about food…” then he blushed, even as he tried not to, remembering how that conversation had ended, feeling the ghost of her fingers in his hair. Running agitated fingers through his short curls – did she prefer the long hair? – he tried to banish the heat from his cheeks.

“You didn’t have that ring before,” Moryo observed quietly, and Curvo lost all control of his cheeks, lowering his hand to stare at it, seeing again the soft smile on her face when she looked at hers in his mind. “Wait…” he paused, and Curvo wasn’t quick enough to snatch back his hand before Moryo had caught it, turning it this way and that. “You didn’t…” he continued, something like wonder in his face. Curvo nodded once. “You did!” Moryo exclaimed, picking him up in a tight hug, “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations on what?” Makalaurë drawled, studying the flute that was left half-carved on Curvo’s dresser. “He’s been able to work silver for years, Moryo. That ring isn’t even complicated, it’s just a simple band.”

Everyone stared at him. Maitimo was the first to crack a smile, but Tyelko’s loud laugh rung through the room before he could speak.

“Our little brother is engaged, Káno,” he drawled, jumping up to wrap Curvo in another tight hug as soon as Moryo let go. “To Lady Telperína.” Tyelko smiled widely, his strong hug nearly squeezing the breath from Curvo’s lungs, the unspoken approval making him feel warm all over. Tyelkormo was good at ósanwë, but he never really sent words, having learned the art with Oromë’s hunting dogs and Huan; Tyelko’s soundless communication was made up of emotions and imagery, but Curvo never had trouble understanding him.

“Engaged?” Makalaurë shrieked, dropping the flute to stare at Curvo, whose blush returned with a vengeance. “To Telpë!? My Telpë?”

“She’s not yours, Káno,” Curvo scowled, “And she doesn’t like Telpë!” He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that, but it felt like truth.

“But… but you! But she-!” Sinking down onto the bed next to Pityo, Makalaurë stared at him, shocked. “Little Curvo… in love? Since when?”

“At least since you took her hunting with us, Káno,” Moryo replied drily, always pleased to know things Makalaurë didn’t, “though possibly before that – our Curvo looked mighty pleased to have her in his arms with no one watching, even if he was teaching her how to shoot.”

Curvo wondered if his cheeks could catch permanent fire. “I-,” he opened his mouth to protest but couldn’t quite find the words. Infatuation, he had called it then, and scoffed at himself, but he had known he was lying.

I liked you then, too – more than I should, the soft admission floating into his mind on her voice did not make him blush any less, suddenly reminded that she was right there and still naked.

“I’d say earlier,” Maitimo interjected calmly, patting Makalaurë’s shoulder with an amused grin, “our Curvo was very interested in your friend… the day he saved her from Atto’s wrath.”

Makalaurë spluttered something unintelligible, staring at Curvo who felt himself nod, a single tight jerk of his head; he had found her most beautiful, even then, even before he knew her heart well enough to feel his own flutter at the thought of her smile. In his head, he could feel Telperína’s soft laughter, quiet and happy in a way that made his heart swell.

 “Well, then,” Káno said, nodding as he got to his feet; Curvo immediately felt worried. That look on his brother’s face was one he had learned to treat with wariness. “I think I feel a song coming on!” Káno exclaimed, his eyes glittering mischievously. Curvo groaned, hiding his face in his hands. With a teasing smile, Makalaurë took up his most dramatic pose, declaring in a loud and far-carrying voice. “Curvo and Telpë, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Makalaurë fell back onto the bed, laughing at his own wit, and the rest of them shook their heads, fondly exasperated.

Really, Telperína commented drily in his head; Curvo had to stop himself chuckling, though he could not stop the small smile that appeared on his mouth.

“Have you told Atto?” Tyelko asked. “Or Ammë?”

“Atto knows,” Curvo replied carefully, determined not to think about just how much Fëanáro knew. “But I thought I should get cleaned up a little before I told Ammë…”

“Well, then,” Maitimo decided, nudging Makalaurë off the bed, “Káno will go and get you some food, and when you have eaten we’ll let you get a few hours of sleep; the rest of you can keep people away from here for a few hours, I’m sure.” Nodding in that way that meant it wasn’t simply a suggestion, Maitimo dismissed the others, who left with a few more good-natured jibes that Curvo knew he wouldn’t have avoided no matter how they’d found out.

 

Behind the screen, Telperína was enjoying the bath, scented with an herb she didn’t recognise but quite liked, sluicing water over her skin and rinsing her hair with a smile. Curvo had gallantly offered her his own back, the sunken marble a thing of beauty, the edge carved with a series of fantastically lifelike animals in miniature.

Getting out of the bath, she towelled off her skin, admiring the thick weave of the towel. Wringing the water from her hair and taking the thin silk robe he had handed her from the small end table where she had left it, Telperína froze at the sound of loud voices. The seven brothers all together in one small bedroom made her blush at the idea of discovery, a sudden thrill of fear-tinged excitement running through her.

The conversation – at least she now knew why Maitimo had thought to send for her, in a sense – only made her blush brighten, feeling almost like an intruder as she listened to them spill things Curvo might have preferred to admit to her himself.

Frowning at the nickname Makalaurë liked to use for her – it still sounded wrong to miss out the softening y in her name that came from her Telerin Atto, even if her name in Tirion was generally pronounced without; especially for a nickname that implied close friendship – Telperína listened to their teasing. Feeling her cheeks heat at the thought that Curvo had been just as affected by that day in the woodland glade as she had felt, but at the same time feeling a sense of satisfaction, she reached out to him, brushing against his fëa in a light caress.

I liked you then, too – more than I should, she admitted, thinking it was only fair to tell him so, now that she was unwittingly being served up such tantalising glimpses of his heart. Maitimo’s statement made a light gasp escape her, clapping her hand over her mouth in the next moment though she knew they had not heard her over Makalaurë’s loud singing. Fondly exasperated with her friend, she still couldn’t stop herself remembering the adorable way he had blushed the first time she took his arm, even if it lay many years in the past. Had he really liked her, even then? She had thought his assistance kind, his features intriguing, but she had not truly believed him in any way amenable to her presence.

With a slight sigh of relief, she heard Maitimo order them all out to let Curvo rest; she felt slightly guilty that she, too, was keeping him from sleeping. The tiredness that threaded through his voice made her heart squeeze, wanting to scold him for recklessness at the same time as she wanted to kiss him for the care he had lavished on her gifts.

 

“You may come out now, Lady Telperína,” Maitimo called wryly, making her stiffen in shock. On the other side of the screen, Curvo groaned.

“Maitimo,” she greeted, stepping out from behind her cover, the crimson silk robe belted tightly around her body. Her hair was making the back and shoulders wet, and she knew she must look more than a little worse for wear compared to her usual fine dress. Combing through long silver strands with her fingers, Telperína waited for him to speak, knowing that Maitimo lingering – and not giving her away to the rest of them – was a good sign of his regard.

“Nelyo…” Curvo muttered, getting to his feet and wrapping a bare arm around her shoulders, tugging her against his side. Telperína flushed, wrapping her arm around him in turn and letting him lean on her when he sagged lightly.

“You’re asleep on yor feet, Curvo,” she scolded ineffectually, moving with him towards the bed.

“This is my wife, Tyelpië,” Curvo continued stubbornly, staggering slightly when his foot hit the bedpost. Maitimo chortled, grabbing his other arm and holding him steady.

“You may wish to use the word ‘betrothed’ for now, little brother,” he murmured, lowering Curvo to sit on the bed. Maitimo knelt to pull off his boots. Curvo nodded happily.

“My Tyelpië,” he repeated softly, smiling up at her. Telperína bent to kiss him, pulling back before Curvo felt quite pleased to let her by the look on his face. She smiled, pressing him down onto the bed.

“Go to sleep, Curvo,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to his cheek, “my Curvo.” Pityo turned over with a small snore, and Curvo climbed under the sheets with a happy groan that turned into a somewhat louder snore than his little brother’s, curling up around Pityo.

Amused, Maitimo offered her a gallant arm, leading her out the door and closing it softly behind them. “This was not what I had expected from today,” he said quietly, striding off down the hallway, shortening his steps to let her catch up. “What happened to your foot?” he wondered, a small frown on his face as he looked at her bare toes. Telperína looked down. Her left big toe was bleeding slightly from a torn nail.

“Makalaurë,” she said, gesturing in the direction of her home with her free hand. “He moves very swiftly; I had to abandon my shoes at one point. I must have hit it on the cobbles.” She had noticed the pain at the time, though it had paled against the throbbing in her wrist, but the water of her bath must have removed the small clot of blood. Maitimo’s eyes hardened.

“I apologise,” he replied softly, “I did not ask him to force you here.” Catching her wrist gently, he raised an eloquent eyebrow. Telperína nodded. Maitmo sighed. “I’ll have a word with Káno,” shaking his head, he led her down a small side corridor, “let’s get your wrist tended, too, I have some oil for the bruising.”

“Lady Telperína,” the nissë walking towards them, a stone-dusty apron wrapped around her curves, the red hair she shared with three of her sons making her impossible to mistake for someone else. Lady Nerdanel smiled. “Don’t you usually visit Makalaurë?” she asked, frowning mildly as though Telperína’s presence was a puzzle.

“Yes, my Lady,” Telperína replied, bobbing a quick curtsey, “or Curvo.” The name slipped past the guard of her teeth, already too familiar to her to go back to the formal Curufinwë. Telperína blushed brightly.

“Lady Telperína met with an unfortunate accident, Ammë,” Maitimo interjected smoothly, making Nerdanel’s focus shift, “she was caught in a prank-war of Turko’s and Moryo’s – she fell and hurt herself a little.”

“Oh dear,” Nerdanel sighed, “will those boys never grow up? And you’re all wet, dearest – isn’t that Curvo’s bathrobe?”

“It was near to hand,” Maitimo deadpanned. Telperína felt dumb-struck at his audacity.

“Well, I shall send one of the servants with a dress for you when Maitimo has seen to your injury,” Nerdanel promised. “Did you get Curvo out of his workshop?” she asked, turning to her son once more.

“Yes, Ammë, he’s in bed asleep, now. Turko will bring him some food later, but I’ve told the rest of them to leave him be until he is rested.”

“Good, good,” Nerdanel replied, “off you go, then, we can’t have our guests be injured. I’ll have a word with Moryo and Turko about their behaviour.” Her stubbed toe was beginning to smart, Telperína realised, looking down at the bloodied appendage and cradling her wrist against her chest.

“Did you finish that statue of Yavanna, yet?” Maitimo asked. Nerdanel frowned lightly, shaking her head. “I thought it might be suitable to form her shape together with that of a tree, her roots stretching deep into the ground.”

“And her branches – or arms – reaching for the light and air…” Nerdanel mused thoughtfully. Whirling on her feet she hurried off in the direction she had come from, a hasty ‘don’t expect me for dinner’ thrown over her shoulder.

Gaping up at Maitimo, Telperína could hardly believe her ears. “You lied to Nerdanel!” she exclaimed.

“She won’t remember to scold Moryo or Turko,” he replied, “that’s why I asked about the statue. You will learn, Telperína, that my family is very distractible by creative impulses… Curvo is no different, really.”

“But…” Telperína tried, but she had no real argument.

“I didn’t think you were so keen to explain to my Ammë why you are wearing Curvo’s robe, Curvo’s ring and was found bathing in his personal chambers…” he teased. Telperína blushed brightly, glaring at him as she smacked his arm like she would have Makalaurë. Maitimo grinned, a smile that transformed his face, softening the kingly visage and making him the fond older brother of Makalaurë’s many stories. “We’ll treat your foot, and I’ll send a page for one of Ammë’s dresses – that robe is hardly conspicuous if you were to wear it home-” Telperína knew he was right; the back of it had been embroidered with a giant Star of Fëanáro that spanned her whole body. “- and then you can return when Curvo is awake – or he could fetch you, I assume you haven’t told your parents either.”

“Very well,” Telperína sighed, taking his arm once more and letting him lead her down the next corridor.

Circlet

What do Fëanor and Nerdanel think about their son's engagement?

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The Festival of Flowers was coming up; Makalaurë had talked her into – after a long hour of questioning her feelings for his younger brother that made her head spin – writing a short play for a new Tirion Drama Group to perform. He claimed it was part of being a member of Finwë’s house, being a patron of arts and craftsmen, but Telperína was well aware that he was – with a remarkable lack of subtlety – teasing her.

The play was simple, a tribute to Estë, who rarely received the accolades due her, Telperína thought, focusing on her gardens, the lake and the small isle where Estë found her own rest. The players were inexperienced, which might be another reason Makalaurë had foisted the task of their patronage onto her, but Telperína didn’t mind. A few of them had true potential; appearing at the Festival might open doors otherwise closed – particularly under the sponsorship of a Prince.

She did find some resentment for her friend due the fact that she had suddenly become too busy to spend all the time in Curvo’s company that she desired, wanting to learn the small things she had not known about him through years of friendship.

To that end, she had snuck away from rehearsals, making her way to the sprawling abode of Fëanáro; feeling little more than a sliver of guilt for abandoning the day’s work. Makalaurë had written the music, but wouldn’t be playing until the performance, so he hadn’t bothered to show up; she knew he was working on a flute and harp duet with a friend elsewhere.

Following the sound of hammers working in tandem, she reached the forges easily, amused for a moment when she remembered her first visit; she stood in just the same spot now, watching Curvo bent over a piece of leather destined to become part of a horse’s tack. The small mallet he used to tap on the handle end of the stamp made rhythmic sounds, but he noticed her presence blocking the light. Continuing to the end of the curve he was making, he looked up, the expression on his face changing in an instant from annoyance at being interrupted to joy at seeing her. Telperína smiled.

“Tyelpië!” Curufinwë exclaimed, putting down the tools and jumping to his feet. Further in the forge, the sound of a larger hammer against metal stopped for a moment but then picked up once more. Fëanáro was there, then, she knew, though he seemed to approve of her – for now – so long as she did not distract Curvo too long.

“Hello Curvo,” she smiled, the sound of her Telerin nickname in his Noldorin tongue still new and exciting. “I am playing truant, today,” she continued, stepping into the workroom.

Curvo chuckled. “Your play not going as well as you’d hoped?” he teased.

“The play is fine, even if the actors are slightly amateurish,” she shrugged, “I shall be far more frantic when we get close to the performances, but it’s in the hands of the director; there is less work for me to do now that the staging of the scenes has been planned out.”

“And so, you are running away to let them work on it without feeling that you are hovering?” he asked, giving her a small wink. Telperína laughed.

“See, I knew you’d understand,” she chuckled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Want to join me?”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, catching her round the waist when she stepped away and tugging her back towards him. Telperína followed willingly. “If you kiss me proper, my Tyelpië,” he added, giving her a cheeky smile.

Kissing him properly was no hardship, and Telperína set to her task thoroughly, wrapping her arms around his neck and tangling her fingers in the short curls at the nape of his neck.

“It is odd how much I have missed you of late,” she murmured, giving him another kiss for the way his bare arms went around her; warmth and gentle strength holding her close.

“I have missed you, too,” he replied, kissing the tip of her nose. She crinkled her nose slightly in response, but Curvo just chuckled, giving her another kiss before turning around to store the leather strapping away properly, returning his tools to the proper hooks and drawers. He was so very methodical that way, she mused, not for the first time slightly charmed by the old outlines painted on the walls – each tool had its proper home.

Wrapping one arm around her shoulders when he was done and tucking her into his side, Curvo led the way out of the workshop, the sounds of small birds warbling over head as he turned them towards the rose garden.

 

“What do you want to do, then?” Curvo asked softly, picking one of the prolific mauve roses and using it as an excuse to run his fingers through the loose locks of Telperína’s hair, twisting the strands around the stem to keep the flower in place and missing her answer entirely thinking about what kind of hairpiece he could design to hold flowers. Maybe he could create a tiny vase of a sort to ensure the flower lasted as long as possible, hiding it as part of an elaborate filigree piece? Or perhaps he should simply make a bunch of tiny rose buds and attach them to some of the long needles the Vanyar used to pin strings of gems to their hairdos? He had seen Lady Indis wear such things; it didn’t look difficult. Cutting petals from glass or gemstones should be doable, too… and not just roses; Telperína liked those bluebells that grew near Alqualondë, but they never lasted the journey to Tirion – she would enjoy wearing a version of them, even here. He could make her a flowering circlet, to start, while he worked out how to add living flowers to the creation; how to create facsimiles of living flowers that looked real…

 

“Curvo?” Telperína asked, looking up at the distant expression on his face and recognising it as the look he got when he was considering a new project. His fingers were still tangled in her hair, but she quite liked feeling his arms so close around her, humming gently under her breath as she waited for his thoughts to come to a conclusion.

“New project?” Tyelkormo asked suddenly, making her jump and wince when the motion pulled on her trapped hair. Turning her head slightly, she glared at Curvo’s closest brother over his shoulder – he was still not entirely forgiven for the whole rope climbing exercise. Tyelkormo just grinned back at her.

“I assume so,” Telperína smiled; it was impossible to stay mad at Turko, his boyish grin lighting up his features as Huan jumped around them, nudging her hip with his nose.

“And you don’t… mind?” the pale-haired elf replied, frowning lightly.

Telperína shrugged. “Why?” she asked.

Curvo’s fingers suddenly tightened in her hair and his lips crashed down on hers in a kiss that left her breathless. “I’ve got it!” he crowed, untangling himself with exquisite if impatient care before bounding off back towards the workshop. Bemused, Telperína ran the tip of her finger over her lips, feeling an echo of that kiss turn her cheeks warm.

“That,” Tyelkormo said, nodding in the direction of Curvo disappearing through the door. “I assume you had plans for coming here today that did not involve my brother abandoning you in the Rose Garden.”

Scratching behind one of Huan’s ears, Telperína smiled at the ner she had realised was the most protective brother of her future husband, even if Tyelkormo had not given her a full-fledged interrogation like Makalaurë.

“This is who he is,” she pointed out, “and I love him. The way he loses himself in his craft… I find it endearing.” Tyelkormo nodded, gesturing further into the garden – an unspoken invitation – or command – to join him. Huan licked her hand once before bounding back to his Master’s side, barking at a passing bumblebee. “Curvo is…” Telperína began slowly, blushing at the first word that popped into her head. Mine. “Creative,” she settled on at last, “and I would not wish to curb his imagination; how could I claim to love him if I wished to change such an intrinsic part of who he is?” she shrugged. “So what if it was not my plan to spend my day in your company?”

Tyelkormo hummed. “And you do love him,” he mumbled softly.

Telperína nodded. “I do.” Not to mention watching him work was… delicious. But she’d keep that thought to herself and sneak back to the workroom later – maybe she could bring a pen and some ink for sketching…

“Good,” a new voice replied, making both of them stiffen. Huan barked happily, watching as Tyelkormo whirled around. Telperína’s cheeks coloured brightly, curtseying hastily. “That is good,” he continued, which did not set her at ease whatsoever. Fëanáro might approve of her engagement, but she was not quite convinced he actually liked her. “Turko… go.” Fëanáro’s voice was not unkind, but his tone brooked no disagreement and Turko vanished with alacrity, a sharp whistle making Huan follow on his heels, licking Telperína’s hand again in passing. It was somehow comforting, as she straightened under the gaze of those eyes, so similar to Curvo’s and yet so strange to her; missing the softness she loved so dearly.

“Haryon Fëanáro,” she greeted.

“Perhaps just Fëanáro, now,” he replied, gesturing towards the garden of rose-entangled statues to make her continue moving, “Telperína.”

“As you wish.” Nodding respectfully, she turned back towards the garden, hyper-aware of his silent presence beside her.

“My wife’s garden,” Fëanáro announced, and suddenly that light that had been missing appeared in his eyes. Telperína felt warm, certain that her cheeks were growing pinker and cursing her fair skin in silence. “My Nerdanel.”

“Yes?” Nerdanel replied, her curly red hair appearing from behind an unpainted statue – it looked to be Yavannah, the ever-present roses twining around the statues cunningly worked into the design of Her garments. Telperína began to feel somewhat ambushed, even if neither of Curvo’s parents could have known she would stop by today. Carrying a loosely woven basket with a few cut-off roses and a small pair of scissors, Nerdanel closed in, pecking Fëanáro’s cheek in greeting. “Hello, my love,” she nodded, returning his smile with a radiant one of her own. “What brings you out here today?”  

“We agreed to speak with Telperína, my love, remember?” Fëanáro said, still wearing that incongruously soft smile that made her think of Curvo; in her mind, Fëanáro was a stern character, which made Curvo resemble him less in passing, but this version of the aloof High Prince was altogether different. Telperína felt oddly honoured to be allowed to intrude on the two of them, to be allowed to see them so differently to the people she had met as an acquaintance of the house, or seen at official feasts.

“Oh… so we did,” Nerdanel nodded slowly, giving Telperína a gentle smile. “About the engagement.”

 “Yes,” Fëanáro added, gesturing towards one of the benches – an oddly fluid and formless statue seemed to loom over it, stretching its wings out like a roof above it – nestled among the rosebushes. “About this engagement.”

“What about the engagement?” Telperína asked, instantly defensive. Were they going to object now they’d had time to discuss it?

“We want to make sure you’ve thought it through, is all,” Nerdanel said softly, putting the basket down on the ground and taking Fëanáro’s hand as though looking for comfort.

“You’re quite young – just turned 80, I believe? – and Curvo is only 90 yéni himself…” Fëanáro added, lifting Nerdanel’s hand and kissing her knuckles gently.

Telperína crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly angry. Was it not enough that she had to listen to tongues wagging about the news in the street, claiming she was looking to elevate her position? That she had had to justify her feelings to her parents, and even to her best friend?

“You were younger still when you wed,” she replied frostily. “And I feel no uncertainty in my heart about this path; I have s…” Her mouth fel shut, cutting off the sentence as she remembered a brilliant spring afternoon in a forest glade and a feeling of home in the arms of a dance that had not happened… yet.

Valar help me that was 20 yéni ago!

“You mistake our meaning, Telperína,” Nerdanel said, reaching out to take her hand and squeezing it gently. “We do not object; if you can make each other as happy as we have been, then we could ask for no better for our son… we simply want to be sure that you understand that there will be talk – by right, Maitimo ought to have been the first to marry in his generation, and many will be… unkind, and not only because of your youth, but also…”

“What my wife means to say,” Fëanáro interrupted, “is that we heard much of what we believe they will say of you when we wed – and you should pay them no heed.” Wrapping his arm around Nerdanel’s shoulders, he kissed her temple. “I had no doubt – and I was lucky Nerdanel believed me – that I had chosen right for me. As long as you hold to your heart, you will do well in this.”

“Why are you only telling me this?” Telperína asked softly.

“Because the rumours calling you rather unflattering things – claiming that a son of mine could be hoodwinked in such a manner,” Nerdanel scoffed angrily, “has already begun to flourish and we want you to know…”

“It is not unlike what they said of my Nerdanel,” Fëanáro muttered, sparks of anger darkening his eyes, “thinking I should have married better – as though anyone else might have been a better wife to me!”

“We are on your side,” Nerdanel finished, putting her hand on Fëanáro’s thigh, “yours and Curvo’s.”

“I… thank you.” Telperína felt overwhelmed.

“Perhaps you should leave me to get better acquainted with my soon-to-be-daughter, Fëanáro,” Nerdanel murmured, patting his knee and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Fëanáro nodded, returning the kiss and disappearing with a small bow in Telperína’s direction, his shoulders taut with lingering anger as he strode off.

For a moment, both nissi followed him with their eyes, and then the silence of the rose gardens fell once more, only the sound of the birds chirping to break the calm of the day.

“Should we have waited?” Telperína asked, turning to look at Nerdanel who was leaning back against the bench, the golden light playing over the stars in her skin.

“I think there would be little point,” she murmured, her eyes closed, “we have long watched him look at you when he thought no one was looking; Curvo truly is much like his Atto – he would not have asked you lightly.”

“He didn’t really mean to,” Telperína admitted, glad that Nerdanel’s eyes remained closed as her cheeks burned. “I think I rather made him.”

“I doubt you could make Curvo do such a thing against his will,” Nerdanel chuckled. “He’s always been headstrong like his Atto – he even came out legs first when he was born, just to be contrary.” Laughing, she reached out to squeeze Telperína’s hand again. “Do not worry, my dear, as far as I am aware, my son had been working tirelessly to come up with a way of ascertaining your feelings for quite some time now… I reckoned you had given him incontrovertible proof that you desired him, too, when I heard he’d locked himself in his forge.”

“I…” Telperína flushed again. “I told him goodnight in ósanwë,” she murmured. Nerdanel smiled gently.

“Curvo is not good at speaking mind to mind…” she replied, “but he is very good at picking up emotions in things sent to him – Tyelkormo would speak to him like that when he was little more than a babe in arms.”

“Thank you for… believing in us,” Telperína said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Nerdanel smiled, getting to her feet. “But I did not mean to keep you from your original purpose in coming here – if you are anything like me, there’s a very enticing sight waiting for you back in the workroom.” Winking, she turned away, letting Telperína hide her suddenly flaming cheeks in her hands.

Getting to her feet, the younger nissë began making her way through the garden of statues, almost at the hedge marking the entrance when Nerdanel spoke again.

“I realise you may wish your ammë make your wedding dress…” Nerdanel called. Telperína froze. “But Moryo would love to work on it, too, even if he’d never ask you. Think about it.”

“I… I will, my lady,” Telperína called back. Carnistir rather intimidated her.

“Do call me Nerdanel… daughter.”

Smiling brightly, Telperína fled the cool green of the rose bushes, the scent of them lingering around her as she moved back towards the workrooms.

 

“Tyelpië!” Curvo exclaimed, running towards her with something thin and metal in his hands. “Look! I had a great idea for a hair-piece of sorts – of course, this is just a prototype – and I’ll make it with proper pearls and gems, but it might still fit – and, no, I couldn’t make you wear such half-finished work – and-”

Pressing her fingers against his lips to still the excited babble, Telperína laughed happily, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

“If you made it for me, I’m sure I’ll love it,” she promised, feeling him relax into the kiss as his fingers once again tangled in her hair. I love you. Filling the thought with all the joy she was feeling, she pushed it gently towards him, feeling his arms tighten around her in response, swallowing his light groan in return.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, kissing her slowly. Then he pulled back, those golden-brown eyes soft like toffee when he smiled at her, tugging on her hand. “Come on, I think I have a mirror somewhere.” Glancing back at her to make sure she followed, a pleased look on his face like satisfaction, Curvo booted the door open, nearly tripping himself in his excitement.

“Oh,” Telperína whispered, looking at herself in the small mirror he held up for her, reaching up to touch the circlet of silver-wrought roses with her fingertips, “it’s beautiful, Curvo.”

Wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, Curufinwë leaned in to press his lips against the point of her ear. “Not so beautiful as you,” he whispered, making her tremble lightly and turn her head to kiss him properly, losing herself in the meeting of mouths and feeling the shape of his fëa glowing warmly as it brushed against her own.

 

The Dress

So this... happened.

Read The Dress

It draped around her, showing off her curves in a way that he probably ought to thank Moryo for at some point, but already knew he would forget to say. It didn’t matter, his brother would see it in the way he could not take his eyes off her, more than uncommonly clumsy when they all ate together, missing his mouth because he was too busy watching her.

The fabric stretched and flowed around the breasts that had grown heavier – and far more sensitive – as the seasons changed, outlining the bump that had at first been little more than a firmness he could feel when he pressed his palm against her body but was now akin to a slowly ripening fruit. Endlessly tempting, her body, round with their child, her skin glowing, and her hair even more silvery than usual, soft and full when he wrapped his hands in it, like liquid silk where it pooled on their sheets when he came home filled with forge-fire and she… she stoked it, that fire blazing between them, entirely too aware of the desperate way he wanted her these days, and more than willing to take advantage of it.

Of course, he was more than willing to let her, his joy in discovering her curves not at all diminished by the time that had passed since he had first touched them, slid his hands over her skin and heard her sigh out his name with her pleasure.

Intoxicating.

It was a thirst that could only be slaked by the both of them, together, in love, their passion fuelling the happiness of their growing son. He had never thought of it, before, how much he could love the feel of his hands gliding over the spot that held his son, sensing that tiny wisp of fëa reach out to touch his own in a fleeting caress – an ‘I am here’ that had changed everything the moment he had first felt it burst into life, sharing a moment of tearful joy with his wife, both of them curved protectively around their child who had just begun growing.

He was being sappy in love, and he knew it.

Knowing did not make him want her any less, of course, he thought ruefully, tearing his eyes away from the tempting slope of her breast in an attempt to focus on his grandfather speaking at the head of the table – or at least his plate – but knowing it was a futile endeavour as soon as he caught the way her eyes flashed down to his lap and back up, her sweet mouth curving in a smile aimed at Aredhel on the opposite side of the table.

Turning her head towards him, as though she knew what he was thinking, Telperína smiled slowly, closing her lips around her spoon, the tip of her tongue appearing to lick up a stray droplet. Curvo’s mouth felt dry, but licking his lips didn’t help. Part of him wanted to spirit her away, back to their rooms to make love to her, or just hold her, feel the small life growing inside her. The part that wanted to spend hours worshiping her for the gift she was giving him warred with the part of him that was beyond anxious to ensure that she ate enough for the both of them. Telperína’s smile grew, her green eyes sparkling at him; Curvo knew she knew what he was thinking, feeling her small fingers rub slowly across his thigh, drawing tiny circles in areas designed to light the embers that always seemed to smoulder beneath his skin, simply waiting for her touch to set the fire ablaze. Catching her fingers, he twined his own in between those slender digits, stilling her roving hand but not removing it from his thigh, curling his fingers beneath hers.

I want you, too, my love.

Her face didn’t change, but Telperína had always been more inscrutable when she was using ósanwë than Curvo had ever managed. He spluttered out the mouthful of soup he had just taken, squeezing her hand tightly.

Minx. He accused, watching her smile turn knowing, her fingertips making tiny rubbing motions over his thigh.

You love me.

Dinner dragged on interminably.

 

Cornering her in the corridor leading away from the dining hall, Curufinwë caught his wife by the waist, leaving her in no doubt of her effect on him as his lips found her neck, homing in on the spot that always made her sigh, going soft in his arms. This time was no different; Telperína uttered a soft moan, pressing back against him and tilted her head to the side, lifting a hand to pull her hair over the opposite shoulder.

“My Curvo,” she murmured, his name ending in a gasp when his lips firmed against her skin, sucking a light bruise into being. Turning around, she sighed, kissing him eagerly and wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You are a tease, love,” he told her, pressing her against the wall and claimed her mouth again. Telperína whimpered slightly, pulling him closer still.

“You keep looking at me, Curvo,” she accused breathlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair when he moved down her throat, a soft moan spilling from her lips when he found that spot on her neck she liked him nibbling. Curvo smiled into her skin, running his hands down her body, curving around her backside – also plumper – and pulled her into his body, curving himself around the small bump between them.

“You invite my staring,” he muttered, losing the train of thought when she hitched one leg around his hip, rubbing herself against him and licking along the shell of his ear. Wrapping his calloused fingers around her buttocks, he lifted her easily, her other leg wrapping around him as he carried her down the corridor. “Temptress.” Telperína chuckled huskily, turning her full attention to the pointy ridge of his ear, nibbling softly as he tried to remain steady, her hands busy undoing the laces at his throat.

“I never claimed otherwise,” she whispered, snaking her fingers underneath the hem of his clothes, “and you’re just as tempting, to me.”

“Tell me we don’t have to return to the feast,” he begged, though he probably wouldn’t have turned around if she had told him they ought. Tyelpië just laughed, nipping at his ear and soothing the slight sting with her tongue.

Discovering the door to the room they shared in grandfather’s house, Curvo booted it open, pressing her up against the mosaic-tiled wall just beyond the doorway as he kicked it closed once more. Telperína gasped, shying away from the cool tiles, but leaned back against it in the next moment, surrendering to the pleasure of feeling his mouth on her breasts with a moan.

“Curvo,” she groaned, pressing his face into her chest, her legs locked tight around his waist. “I need you.”

Lifting his head, he took her mouth passionately, one hand tracing the flare of her hip, running down her thigh to find the bottom hem of the dress, tugging it up to discover the bare skin beneath.

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his own need into the apex of her thighs. Telperína hissed, her head falling back against the wall with a soft thud as he pulled the hem up over her waist. Her clever fingers had undone the lacing of his trousers at some point, leaving them gaping at the hip, and she pushed them down with the foot that skimmed his arse. Green eyes sparkling at him, she dared him to comment. Curufinwë chuckled into her mouth, stealing that first sound of pleasure she always made when he first entered her in a gentle kiss.

The coupling did not remain gentle; for that, she had teased him too long, and her body was too slick and ready for him. Curufinwë hissed lightly, thrusting into what he thought must be the greatest pleasure imaginable, his forehead meeting the wall above her shoulder with a groan. Telperína’s lips returned to his ear, whispering things that were equal parts loving and lewd.

Curvo smirked, turning his head to suck kiss-shaped bruises into her neck, marking the spot that made her keen and clench around him in deep purple. Tyelpië’s foot pushed insistently against his arse, even as her words were reduced to moans and small gasps of pleasure. Curvo sped up his thrusts until her head was bouncing against the palm he put between it and the hard tile of the wall with every move he made.

“I love you,” she whispered into his mouth; the meeting of lips was less a kiss than a shared panting of breath, chasing the peak of pleasure together. Pincing her arse, Curufinwë laughed happily, pushing aside the fabric that hid her from view long enough to let his clever fingers play over her slick flesh, catching the bead of her flower between two digits and plying it skilfully.

Telperína panted in his ear, her fingers leaving marks on his shoulder as she tightened almost unbearably around him, reaching the peak with a shuddering cry of his name. Pride filled him, spurring him on until the clenching movements of her inner walls were suddenly too much. Stifling his groan against her breast, giving her a small nip that made her shudder and clench around him once more, Curvo lost control, exploding in starlight.

He felt her soft fingers teasing along his scalp, slowly bringing him down from the heights of pleasure. Her body still quivered rhythmically around him, more than enough to make him hiss at the almost painful pleasure of it. Lifting his head, he sought her mouth blindly, sharing a kiss that felt nearly desperate.

“I love you, my Tyelpië,” he murmured, returning to his own mind at last, feeling the joy of her fëa twined with his, the pleasure they had shared making the bond glow. Telperína smiled, leaning back against the wall with a soft smirk on her face.

“I love you, Curvo,” she said, pressing a kiss against his nose. Hissing softly when he slipped from her body, she brought her legs back down to the floor, looking up at him with those green eyes he adored so much. For a moment, he simply held her, feeling his heart slow down as he kissed her gently, slowly, his hands roaming over her skin without purpose. Telperína sighed into his mouth, hugging him tight. Feeling the tiny fëa brush against him with a content air, Curvo smiled, stealing another kiss. Telperína chuckled. “Let’s stay here all night,” she whispered softly, “I have no desire to listen to your Atar sniping at his brothers.” Curvo nodded. Drawing the dress down her arms to pool at her feet, he knelt, pressing a kiss against her tiny belly.

“As my lady commands,” he said, giving her a cheeky wink that made her laugh again and swept her off her feet. Telperína laughed, pulling him down for a kiss as he carried her to bed.

They both fell asleep, curled up naked together, the small bump of their son between them, protected – and loved – by his parents.

Rocking the Cradle

Read Rocking the Cradle

“Perhaps our children will not feud so,” Telperína sighed, taking a seat next to Turukáno’s equally pregnant wife with a small moan of relief. Voices drifted towards them, but Telperína did not care to follow the topic, turning her face West to enjoy the golden light bathing her skin after the cooler temperatures inside. As much as she loved her son, his growth was becoming a strain on the bladder he liked to press against. Stroking her distended middle, Telperína shared her joy in the warm light with her son who moved drowsily.

“With those two as fathers?” Lady Elenwë chuckled, patting her own belly gently, humming to its little inhabitant. “Only if we make them friends from the beginning.”

The two nissi smiled at each other; an unspoken pact to continue their friendship in the next generation.

“Somehow, I think Turukáno is the one of his cousins that Curvo enjoys the most,” Telperína replied, nodding at the two ner who were currently locked in a hot debate that she had given up on following some time ago. One-upping each other in the crafting of some thing or other, usually. “Turukáno and Irissë – neither are afraid to stand up to him.”

“He hides it well,” Elenwë remarked drily, a smile lingering on her lips, “but I believe you are right… they are quite similar, really, aren’t they?” Studying the two, she nodded to herself. It was not just the family resemblance, there was a similarity of fëa to Turukáno and Curufinwë Atarinkë.

“Too similar, perhaps, betimes,” Telperína smirked, just as both neri raised their heads to look at them. Elenwë’s clear laughter filled the room, sparking the amusement in Telperína until she too felt overcome with a need to laugh at the increasingly bewildered expressions on the two craftsmen’s faces.

 

 

“Turukáno and his wife will be visiting our home tomorrow,” Curufinwë said, gently pulling pins from Telperína’s silver hair and letting the locks glide through his fingers.

“You did not have enough arguing this evening?” Telperína teased in return, shivering at the feel of his lips on her neck for a brief kiss before he returned to the task at hand.

“My workshop is superior,” he told her, “and Turukáno is labouring under the wrongful impression that his idea of a cradle is better than my intended modifications on the model that Atto made for us. I cannot let him linger in such ignorance.”

“Obviously,” she chuckled. “I like Elenwë – perhaps she will enjoy the rose garden…” Leaning back against Curvo’s chest, she smiled, turning her head to kiss him when his arms came around her, his fingers playing over the bump of her stomach. The babe kicked against the touch, making her giggle. “I guess the little one agrees.”

Curvo’s rich laughter filled her with joy, while inside her their child seemed to dance along.

 

 

Morning brought rain, drumming cosily on the roof of Telperína’s glass-walled garden, filled with lush greenery and the scent of orange blossoms.

Moryo, deploring her skill at producing baby-sized clothing with familiar teasing as he tried to teach her to knit, was uncharacteristically silly, making her laugh by telling old stories of Curvo as a baby. Telperína laughed brightly.

“Somehow, I can believe Fëanáro said that,” Elenwë offered quietly when she walked in, “I fear you will have your work cut out for you if the little one takes after his Atar.”

“Ah, but, as Nerdanel tells me, there is great joy in the sight of one’s husband chasing after one’s son while trying not to find him as hilariously adorable as he really is,” Telperína smiled, getting to her feet slowly to embrace her friend in welcome. “You have met Carnistir, yes?” she introduced.

Moryo rose, too, offering Elenwë a courtly bow.

“I shall leave you to your guest, Sister,” he said, gone before Telperína could protest.

Sighing, she returned to her seat, looking at the mess of yarn in her lap with some relief when she tucked it out of sight beneath the rolled-up balls of yarn in her basket.

“I married into a family of the greatest crafters our peoples have known,” she chuckled, “yet I know I shall never learn to enjoy this one.”

“I find the clacking quite soothing – but Turukáno is far better at it than I am,” Elenwë laughed. “He has gone to join Curufinwë in the workshop, I believe – something about cradles?”

“Curvo believes his redesign of Fëanáro’s cradle to be superior to Turukáno’s,” Telperína sighed, exchanging a long-suffering look with Elenwë that had them both giggling like young girls, “trust those two to find an excuse for competition even in the births of their children.”

Laughter won, and the talk turned to more interesting topics as the day warmed until the glass room became too warm for comfort and the ladies retreated to Telperína’s favourite bench in the rose garden.

 

 

“Well, obviously, it needs to move!” Curvo exclaimed, gesturing broadly towards the cradle, decorated with all of Ataryo’s skill and since inlaid with the names of each of its occupants. He had already decided exactly where to put the name of his son, chased in silver for his ammë’s – it filled him with warmth to imagine Telperína an ammë – hair and set with rubies. “The question is how it should move.”

Turukáno had brought his own cradle – an obviously inferior design, even if those metal corner caps had been done beautifully – currently studying it thoughtfully. “Side to side,” he finally said, “like a Telerin ship on the sea.”

“Hmm,” Curvo grunted, knowing that Telperína would love that idea, reminded of her own childhood in Alqualondë. “You’re thinking springs?”

“Maybe rope suspension?” Turukáno offered, reaching for a draft pen and a clean wax slate, scratching an idea into the soft material.

He had barely finished before Curvo snatched the tablet and another pen, his lines adding to and modifying the design before Turno grabbed for it once more, all the lines coming together to form a new whole.

 

 

“Look Tyelpië!” Curvo called, swooping down for a kiss before Telperína had even realised he’d arrived, skidding some contraption or other on the gravel path before picking her up with enviable ease – moving had become far more cumbersome these days – and kissing her properly. She smiled against his lips, feeling his joy wash over her fëa, the fire that always accompanied success in his workshop lighting embers in her blood.

“What am I looking at?” Telperína asked, giving Turukáno a small smile and a nod.

“It’s our cradle!” Curvo exclaimed, gesturing grandly. “Well… theirs,” he added, running a hand down the curve of her belly, laughing when their son kicked against the touch. “But look – it moves!”

The cradle seemed to have sprouted a metal frame – curlicues looking like waves, as though it sailed – and wheels.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him honestly, kissing him once for the effort and thrice more for the way he smiled at her praise.

“It moves,” Turukáno smiled, pressing on the wide handle attached to the metal frame.

The wheels creaked a little – Curvo frowned at that – but the contraption rolled over the ground, the cradle in its frame rocking gently, suspended with ropes and springs.

Elenwë grinned proudly, bending to press a kiss against his cheek. “So clever!”

“We shall make another, of course,” Curvo told her, and Telperína tried not to groan at the thought of the kind of modifications that model would get in an effort to out-do whatever Turukáno would do to his.

Catching Elenwë’s eyes, she saw her own wry amusement reflected in the taller nissë.

They both laughed.

Curufinwë and Turukáno both looked nonplussed, staring at the two of them, then glancing at each other. Curufinwë’s eyebrow travelled partly up his forehead, but Turukáno just shrugged helplessly, staring at his giggling wife.

“I already love it, melmenya,” Telperína promised, hiccupping with mirth as she tried to still her laughter. “Surely our children will, too.”