The moment Curufin left for the forge, Celebrimbor waited exactly three heartbeats before slipping inside.
He approached the infamous mithril case with reverence and anticipation, as if he were about to uncover a secret.
Inside was beauty—powders of crushed starlight, kohl as deep as shadow, and a shimmer of Elvish glitter that trembled faintly.
Celebrimbor forgot to breathe for a moment.
To him, this was not a mere collection of objects. It was simply all the parts of Curufin that made him unmistakably, impossibly beautiful, gathered into forms small enough to touch.
“Magnificent,” he whispered to himself, a word he had heard his father use many times, and decided was powerful enough.
A few moments later, he looked like a festive disaster.
The glitter was everywhere on his face. The kohl had… intentions, but no direction. His cheeks bore two uneven crimson streaks that suggested either war paint or a collision with a berry bush.
Celebrimbor, however, saw none of this.
On the table beside him lay one of Curufin’s many ornate masks; he chose one—daisy-shaped filigree set with tiny pearls.
Celebrimbor had always assumed his father's luxurious masks must serve some very important purpose, so he placed it carefully over his face...
It was slightly too large.
He could still see. Barely.
“Perfect,” he declared, voice muffled and delighted.
He slid one foot into a pair of Curufin’s high-heeled boots and immediately discovered an important thing:
They were extremely tall.
After a very serious moment of consideration, he stepped out of the shoe with great dignity and decided that elegance did not, in fact, require high heels.
“Unnecessary,” he concluded, in the exact tone he had heard Curufin use when ending an argument that was no longer worth entertaining.
He climbed onto a stool before the mirror, draped himself in a trailing crimson silk robe (far too large), and struck a pose.
“Ah,” he said in his best imitation of Curufin’s smooth tone, tilting his chin very deliberately. “Trust me, brother, we had better make ourselves scarce.”
It was not quite Curufin’s elegant, knowing laugh. It was smaller, brighter—like a giggle.
He turned, letting the robe swirl dramatically (and nearly taking the stool with him).
“Yes, yes, indeed,” he said with a dismissive flick of his hand to an imaginary audience. “As I expected.”
He straightened, lifted his chin, and regarded himself in the mirror with approval.
“As you wish, darling,” he informed his reflection. “The King said—ah—‘Tyelperinquar, you are… magnificent.'"
He nodded, deeply satisfied.
Curufin’s voice. And Celegorm’s.
Panic exploded into action.
He scrambled—robes and masks off, jewels tossed back, powders shoved into the box.
The lid snapped shut just as the door opened.
“…I will ask just once,” he said slowly, “what are you doing here?”
Celebrimbor straightened, though his pointy-ears dropped for a moment.
“I was... looking for... Huan?”
Curufin’s gaze shifted to the unmistakable smear of colors across his son’s cheek.
Celebrimbor paused, thinking carefully, and then—deciding.
“I ran,” he said gravely, avoiding his father's eyes, “and fell. And the paint-box fell also. Into my face.”
Celegorm could no longer hold it; he burst into laughter—loud, delighted, entirely unhelpful.
“He is yours,” he said, clapping Curufin on the shoulder. “Always a sketchy answer ready.”
Curufin did not look amused.
“You know you are not permitted to use my things.”
“You are not to wear these pigments, nor these heavy jewels,”
“And you are not to enter my chambers surreptitiously, either!”
“I only wanted to be beautiful like you!” Celebrimbor burst out, with complete sincerity. “So everybody will stare at me when I cross the great hall as they stare at you!”
That—as always—made Curufin falter.
He exhaled, the severity slipping despite himself. He could not quite bring himself to reprimand Tyelperinquar—not when his eyes looked at him like that.
“Go,” he said at last, waving a hand. “Wash your face.”
Celebrimbor nodded and turned to leave—then paused.
“How do I look, Uncle Tyelko?” he asked, exactly the way Curufin always asked Celegorm.
Celegorm folded instantly, laughing again—but softer this time.
“More beautiful than your father,” he declared warmly. “The most beautiful elven prince.”
“Then surely Finrod will think so too,” he concluded. “And he will take me walking in the gardens, as he does with atar.”