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[cyrefinn]

{ @mercysought​ liked this for a starter }

Thargelion was not his land, yet Curufin loved it well, and not only for the sake of his brother Caranthir. He loved the way the wooded region seemed thrown open under the sun, as if about to embrace the skies above it. He loved the way the squat trees stood staring up at the great yawning blue beyond. And he loved the people.

Perhaps because Thargelion was so far east, perhaps because strange peoples seem always to be drawn to the edges of the world, only to bump up against mountains, Caranthir seemed to rule over the widest variety of colorful folk. Casari there were in the mountains beyond Lake Helevorn, strong and skillful workers of rock and metal. Proud Atani roamed the lands also, hard, suspicious folk, with all manners of strange philosophies and furtive lives.

And dark Moriquendi there were also, it seemed. For when Curufin first arrived at the court of his brother, he found Caranthir gone. His servants swore that he would not be long, so Curufin allowed himself to be settled in, but his heart was restless; and it was in roaming the halls of his brother that he came upon her.

Her look surprised him; it was immediately clear she was no Noldo, yet there was some strength in the way she carried herself. She wore not Caranthir’s colors, nor his device, yet went unhindered. Her strangeness piqued his curiosity, and he hailed her.

[cyrefinn]

So it has been a week.

I owe one starter and many delinquent replies, all of which I will get to later today and tomorrow, since I wasn’t able to be on at all for a while. Most of the responses will probably be queued just to make it look like I am sometimes active during the week too.

[cyrefinn]

beyondforests·:

Survival is the key.

Were it not for that, for the good of his people, he would’ve much rather swallowed his blood than his pride. Now he is nothing, a shade of what he once was, standing in the ruins and ashes of what used to be. A simple ward, kept on an undoubtedly short leash. He’d not tried to test it’s current length, and likely wouldn’t for a while.

Yet he is patient, he can wait, bide his time. The throne is not the only way to keep his people safe. He only has to have Curufin’s ear, above everyone else, to be the voice of reason and guidance. Not an easy task, he knows, but it would be far less bloody than a rebellion and much more practical.

“I know these things. All of this has already been— quite the adjustment.” That was putting it lightly. Having to bend to the will of kinslayers is tough to swallow, especially when he was once soaring so high. He wonders if it will ever get easier, though the thought of that is disconcerting to part of him. At the very least, he still has his rooms and his paints. One small beam of light in this whole situation; there was more time to paint and to read.

Reaching for the wine bottle, he pours himself a generous glass, more than what would likely be considered appropriate, though his nerves care not. “I will do what I must, and serve you to the best of my ability. This is my new reality, after all, and mourning over what I once was will change nothing. I have to keep moving forward. I only wish to know what is expected of me.”

Watching Thranduil pour himself a new glass—see how much he pours! Not as undisturbed as he would have me think, then—and considered him thoughtfully. What thoughts stirred behind that carefully composed expression? Could he truly have so easily surrendered? Was he truly resolved to his fate?

Curufin wondered. Within him burned an undying fire, the selfsame fire for which his father Fëanor had been so known. Not for naught was Curufinwë named for his sire. Many had remarked how well the son took after the father, in skill of hand, in interests, in mind, in mood. And in spirit also. Surrender, submission, resignation: these words represented concepts that Curufin understood and could identify in others, yet they remained foreign to him.

Still, it was not his wont to question overmuch the caprices of fortune. Let Thranduil Oropherion submit, if he could. His new lord would not complain of it.

“Very well. I commend you on your wisdom. Here, then, is what is expected of you.” Curufin lifted his own glass to his lips, drained it, and motioned for Thranduil to refill it. “That you keep my counsel, loyally and confidentially. That you serve me in all that I might require of you, be it to provide me with information, to represent me in foreign diplomacy, or to fight by my side against our enemies. Finally, that you unite your people and help them navigate their new political reality and prosper in it.

“In the meantime, I would have you undertake your own self-improvement. Continue your studies, as they were before the battle. All that you need will be provided. Train with arms regularly. Have you had much training in combat before?”

[cyrefinn]

[cyrefinn]

beyondforests‌:

Oh, this was a blow to his pride, but he knows very well that it will recover soon enough. Pride was what got his dearest uncle killed, what shattered the safe halls of Menegroth in the first place. For now he would swallow it, no matter how bitter the taste. Curufin won this battle, devastatingly so, yet there is still the bigger picture to consider. The war is far from over.

Steeling himself, he lowers his head, a sign of humbleness, surely. “You were right about there being something more to me than mere counseling, and of course, about my proximity to the royal chambers.”

After a moment of hesitation, he lifts his chin to look his new king in the eye. “I am Tharantuil Oropherion, grandson of Olwë and nephew of Elu Thingol, and the former crown prince of Doriath. Dior was my King Regent. You sacked these halls mere days before my coronation. 

“What I was, I can be no longer, I understand that. I am simply grateful that you have afforded me generosity thus far.” 

The heady rush of victory was sweeter than any wine, warmer than any fire in winter, more satisfying than any meal, exciting and intoxicating. He never tired of it; each time was like the first. Riding into battle, closing in on his prey during a hunt, lifting up a finished work of craft and finding it without flaw—all these things sent the blood pounding vigorously through his veins, but victory was, perhaps, his favorite. It was all Curufin could do to swallow his grin. 

Not just victory, too...he had Thranduil’s submission as well. There was no mistaking that deferential inclination of the head, that meek tone. He hadn’t even had to try. To humble further one he knew now to have fallen from so high was sweeter still. Pleased, Curufin regarded his new ward with approval, raising the glass once more to his lips to savor his victory.

Now the thrill began to fade, and the ease of it all inspired a sobering sliver of wariness. The cynic in him smelled a trap; yet if the Thinda did have deception in his heart, it would be long in coming to fruition. He would have to bide his time; and Curufin, too, could be patient. He would lie in wait and watch, and be ready with steel and flame at the first sign of treachery.

“There,” he said now, warmly, “that wasn’t so hard, was it? Since you told me the truth early on, I will not punish you. You did the right thing—for it would have gone ill with you had you kept this secret.

“You understand, then, that it is impossible to undo what has been done. With that comes a change in status for you. I understand there may be an adjustment. Yet if you serve me well and faithfully, I will reward you with certain concessions. Perhaps even a title, with all that comes with it...in time.”

[cyrefinn]

bloodclovengold·:

There was something breathtaking and intriguing about the sea. It seemed to  s i n g  to him, calling his name—Macalaurë! Canafinwë!—, appealing him to respond in kind. He had no words for the waves rolling to either side of them, breaking on the pale wood of their stolen swan ship, but his heart was stirred with the melody of them.

He had originally come up to stare in wonder ahead, but Macalaurë saw now his brother Curufinwë standing at the forecastle and approached, pausing just behind him.

He would know that golden voice anywhere. In song, no one was mightier than his brother Macalaurë. Now Curufinwë turned to face him, relieved at the distraction; he was not loath to turn his back on the gaping waters. There was something almost m o c k i n g about them. They seemed to echo the Doom that had been pronounced for them (as if the words needed help ringing in his ears).

“Cano,” he greeted succinctly. “I thought you were below. Have you come to seek me especial, or did you merely yearn for fresh air?”

[cyrefinn]

taintedfirelight·:

This Elda is confident in his words indeed. It merely amuses Mairon– the Maia is as much a smith of words as he is a smith of metals. This encounter will provide welcome entertainment, and a chance as good as any to exercise his mind. 

The placid smile remains on the lieutenant’s features, which are far more fair than might be assumed of the chief servant of Darkness. Lieutenant of Melkor though he may be, that does not mean that Mairon takes no pride in the crafting of things beautiful. His fána is no exception to this. 

Mairon catches the shift of his hands, fire eyes flickering downward. The smile widens just slightly, and his eyes close part-way. As though daring the son of Fëanáro to blow his horn. If he does so, there will be nothing of him to find. 

He’s smart– he doesn’t make that move, and Mairon is pleased. It would be so dreadfully boring if he were to force a fight, if he were to halt this little game of minds before it had even begun. 

A light laugh escapes the Maia, at the same time pleasant and terrible. 

❝ Why, how courteous of you. To allow me to tell you my own name, rather than placing one upon me without my own input… I must say, a courtesy I have not been offered by many of your kin. ❞

❝ You may call me Mairon, if you should wish to call me anything. Or if you are so staunchly against using that name, simply address me as Lieutenant. ❞

What an expression—had he seen his hand move, or had he perceived his thought? The Maia’s fair features were arranged in an oddly provocative expression, as if having guessed his thought and daring him to follow through. No: Curufin’s mind was closed, for it had been many long centuries since the Quendi were accustomed to keeping their minds láta to all. With his brothers still Curufin was affine, and they could perceive each other’s thoughts and communicate in that way; but any adversary attempting to penetrate a closed Eldarin mind would be rebuffed with a force still stronger.

Although it was fitting that, in the presence of the Eldar, he chose to appear fair, the lieutenant’s laugh reminded Curufin how different the Ainur were to the Quendi; only such a being could produce a sound at once pleasant and unpleasant, merry and threatening, light and painful to hear.

But the words saw Curufin’s slight smile return, comfortable—as comfortable as he could be in this precarious situation—once more. And he allowed himself to quirk an eyebrow.

“Mairon? You were known in Valinor by that name, is that not so? I would never presume to know your mind, Maia—yet it is strange to me that you keep that name. For you rebelled against the despotic Valar early, when the world was young; you saw them for what they are before any of us Children had the chance and wisdom.

“Do you not desire a new name, that better reflects who you are today? For are you not an exile, as are we? Are you not more powerful now in Beleriand, with your own dominion? Are you not a visionary, mighty in your own right, truly a self-made lord?”

[cyrefinn]

There is swift Maglor, the mighty, the b a r d ——           Maglor, whose voice is like the    s                                                                           e                                                                                 a

[cyrefinn]

{ @bloodclovengold​ }

There was something intoxicating and harrowing about the sea. Y a w n i n g wide all around them, dark waters stretched out whispering waves in all directions. The Telerin ships glided smoothly, cutting through the undulating ocean as gently as a warm knife through butter, but Curufinwë was not at ease. They sailed towards unknown future—likely a bloody one—and unknown land. Who among them could tell where lay the end?

The silence aboard their ship belied the disquiet they all shared. The blood they had spilled into the sea would not rest quiet, he deemed. And now, as if to underline his thoughts, soft footsteps creaked behind him to announce the presence of another.

[cyrefinn]

Parellel Universe - Redding, CA Lassen Lupine Floral Sunset at Whiskeytown Lake - Redding, CA Lupines at Salt Creek - Redding, CA

 by Adam A

[cyrefinn]

{ @edhelquendi​ }

Grief had sobered them, quenching the flame of their hunger with the ice of a dozen flaming swords. Now the spirit of Fëanáro had passed beyond this world, it was to Maitimo they now looked at this desperate hour. And the hour was desperate, determined to squeeze them for all they could bleed, even to their wits’ end.

The heart of Curufinwë bled for his father, and he felt raw all over; but now was not the time to indulge his feelings. For while the others watched Morgoth’s embassy, Curufinwë watched his brother, their king. They had promised their answer shortly—and when all began dispersing, he closed in to catch Maitimo before anyone else could.

      “——Well? What do you think?”

[cyrefinn]

.I find myself with some time on my hands, so like for a starter! Brownie points if we’ve never interacted before.

[cyrefinn]

x

[cyrefinn]

beyondforests‌:

Fear takes hold, making his blood run cold and his heart beat quicken. Could Curufin have found the decree? Perhaps one of the other members of the Court could have thrown him to the wolves to save their own skin. There were a handful of councilors who weren’t exactly thrilled when he managed to unseat one of their own with his wit and charms.

Perhaps with Curufin he’s bitten off more than he can chew. There’s no one here to help him get out of trouble when he digs himself too deep a hole. Downing the rest of his wine, he places the glass on the side table next to the sofa he’s currently lounging upon. He sits up straighter now, determined to survive.

“Very much so. I have seen what you did to certain members of the Court once you claimed Menegroth as your own. Though, I think you already have an inkling of who I was, just by your earlier words, and I am— conflicted. The question I keep returning to is will you execute me or will you remember that I have sworn my loyalty to you.” 

It never failed to warm him, to quicken the beating of his heart, when a game began to draw to its close, when victory was at hand. He could all but taste it, it was so close. He had taken Menegroth for his own seat, for safekeeping, and now it and all its denizens would bend to his will.

He let the silence stretch just a little longer, considering Thranduil unblinkingly, just for the sake of the game...then, finally, Curufin smiled. “Execute you? My loyal ward, who swore me fealty?

“Thranduil, you have been a model citizen thus far, all things considered. Know, then, that the Fëanorian way is to reward loyalty, not slaughter it. Remain allegiant and true to me, and you will find me generous. Keep no secrets from me and I shall ensure you have whatever you desire.”

[cyrefinn]

beyondforests‌:

       He knew playing this cat and mouse game with his new lord would not be easy, and yet he was hoping that it would be a less of a challenge than it was turning out to be. Quietly, he weighed his options. The longer he hid his parentage, the safer he was— until Curufin found out. Or perhaps, this was all a test to see if he could be truly loyal. Ah, Crafty One indeed.

“Whatever I was before the sacking, I know I will never be again. You know as well as I that I swore loyalty to you, and in doing so likely turned off any potential ally I might have had among the survivors.”

Tilting his head, he glances up from his glass. “I was a councilor before the sacking, like my father before me. Is that what you wished to know?” A half truth, perhaps, but still a truth. 

Half in mockery and half out of some earnest sentiment, Curufin mirrored the young Thinda’s movement, regarding him wryly. He could smell a technicality from a league away, and it made for no more than a paper shield against the sharp edges of his words. It did nothing more than delay the inevitable: that Curufin would see the truth laid bare before him, sooner or later.

“You counseled others, I’m sure,” he said with a laugh. “But I think not so little of you as to believe that is all there is to you. Mere councillors do not live so close to the royal chambers, nor are they typically so young. Thingol your king had already lived for many years ere the sun rose for the first time. Would he need your counsel?”

Finally reaching himself for the wine, Curufin mulled over Thranduil’s tight-lipped reluctance. Ah, but it is a fine vintage. With a satisfied sigh, he leaned back from the table and quirked an eyebrow at his clearly uneasy ward. “Do you think I will be wroth at the truth? Is that what you fear?” It was not an altogether unreasonable conclusion to reach; by their own hands and by the hands of their servants, Curufin and his brothers had executed a handful of Thingol’s court during the Sack of Menegroth and in its immediate aftermath. If Thranduil was close to Doriath royalty, he could find cause to fear.

[cyrefinn]

taintedfirelight‌:

Mairon is unconcerned. A single Elda– even one of the house of Fëanáro (he has recognized that particular strength of fëa quite swiftly)– cannot stand a chance against one such as himself. He would have the poor thing within his dungeons eventually, but he has time. And he wants to make used to it. 

It’s so fun to play with the emotions as he does. 

When the command is shouted, the Maia waits a little longer in the shadows, closing his eyes several times, dragging it out for long enough to create tension but not long enough that it gets boring. 

He allows his footsteps to be heard as the dark wings fold in tightly against his back. His form shifts, and they vanish, leaving him standing on his own two feet, in his most favored form. As he steps into the moonlight, Mairon extends a hand delicately to one side, and the cloak of shadows is whisked away, the golden fire-like light of his own being clashing with the silver of Isil’s beams. He greets the elf with a smile that is somehow both gentle and predatory. 

❝ Wandered close to the darkness, have you not, Fëanárion? ❞

The thing waited so long before revealing itself that Curufin had already decided it understood not what he had said. He was debating whether to try another tongue when suddenly it moved, drifting forward, changing...

Changing its fana. Just my luck. Ainu to be certain, and not a friendly one by the look of it. Given the locale, it took no great effort of mind for Curufin to identify the being who now met him in the moonlight. By the Valar, he actually came himself.

He straightened then; no blade would save him against Thauron. This would require all his guile; one false step and it could spell his end. And how far away were his companions? Too far to hear his voice...but he had on him a hunting horn. Ever so slightly, Curufin’s hand twitched — but no, not yet. If he blew the horn, he would have to fight until his companions found him, and that had an excellent chance of ending badly.

When the Maia spoke, Curufin couldn’t help but answer with a smile of his own, curving his lips slowly into a warm arc that did not reach his eyes.

So, we want to talk, do we? That was good—for Curufin could talk.

“I suppose so,” he conceded, almost apologetically, but not without a hint of boldness. “Do forgive me if I intrude—you know me, it seems, and I believe I know you also. What do you call yourself these days, Lieutenant of Morgoth?”

[cyrefinn]

He watched Thranduil sip the wine like a wildcat would watch its grazing prey before it pounced, imagining how the flavors would swirl in his mouth: blackberry, spice, a long finish... The wine was from some of Menegroth’s finest stores, but Curufin himself was still, and did not reach for his own glass. Nothing could distract this predator from his prey. He was determined to mark every twitch, every change in expression, anything that would give something away.

But it seemed his new ward was near as fond of playing games as was Curufin himself. Very well, I’ll bite. It would be tricky to dance within the limits of his knowledge, but there was nothing Curufin liked so well as a challenge.

“Accuse you? No.” He smiled a smile soft as silk. “I wish we could be friends, Thranduil. Let not the recent events that have happened here stand between us; they were political only. I have much I could offer you: the friendship of the Noldor, protection, comfort, even your former status, reinstated. But I must trust you in order to give you all that.”

@cyrefinn continued from ☼

             For a moment he falters, hand hesitating as it reaches for a goblet no doubt filled with fine wine. There’s little doubt that his new king has learned something of him, though he’s unsure just how much. He’s not had the time nor the energy to go sneaking around to see what was left after the sacking. Steeling himself he takes a long sip of wine. 

                “Admit the truth of what, my lord? Have you something to accuse me of?”

                 Two can play this fishing game, he supposes, not ready to reveal his hand until he has at least a hint of what Curufin believes he knows.