#lyragothficlets

Finrod froze.

Curufin closed his eyes briefly, like a man greeting fate.

Celebrimbor crawled out from under the tablecloth, clutching a pastry like treasure, and leaned against his father’s knees.

Curufin did not look at him.

“How long have you been here?” 

“Since Lord Finrod said he would perish happily in your eyes.” Celebrimbor turned his full attention to Finrod. “Are my eyes fatal like Atto’s? Do you also want to perish in them?”

Finrod made a sound usually associated with mortal injury.

“Well,” he managed carefully, “your eyes are very lovely. Which is considerably better than fatal.”

Celebrimbor considered this. “Because I am small?”

“Yes.”

He accepted the answer as reasonable.

Then he narrowed his eyes slightly. “Where are the gardens of love?”

Finrod nearly dropped his goblet. “The what?”

“You said you wished to walk there with Atto.”

Finrod nearly walked directly off the balcony.

Curufin’s shoulders shook once—laughter betrayed but contained.

Finrod visibly reconsidered his entire existence. “Did I say that?”

“Yes,” Celebrimbor replied. “What happens in the gardens of love?”

“Flowers bloom,” Finrod said immediately.

“Can I go there too?”

Finrod opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Well,” he said weakly, “perhaps when you are considerably older.”

“How much older?”

“Ancient,” Curufin intervened, finally taking pity on him. “Tyelpërinquar, listening behind furniture is not proper behavior for a prince.”

Celebrimbor looked genuinely puzzled. “But you are a prince, and you do that all the time.”

Finrod choked on his wine.

“What I do is entirely different,” Curufin said immediately.

“Why?”

“It is diplomacy.”

“Uncle Nelyo said it is eavesdropping!”

Curufin went very still for a glorious second, then sighed.

“Enough interrogation. Your nursemaid is waiting.”

Celebrimbor ignored him entirely and turned back to Finrod. “Is your mother really Telerin?”

“She is.”

“The real kind?”

“The extremely real kind.”

“Can she breathe underwater?”

“Only when dramatically motivated.”

“Can she speak to fish?”

“Only the polite ones.”

“Can you?”

“Not really. I am only half-qualified.”

Curufin muttered, “Ingoldo,”

“What?” Finrod said brightly. “He is enjoying cultural exchange.”

“Is it true,” Celebrimbor gasped, “what Ereinion said? Can you fight sea monsters with your bare hands?”

Finrod leaned in confidentially. “Constantly. They fear me.”

Celebrimbor looked enchanted, as though hearing the greatest saga in Elven history.

Curufin finally stood, rescuing what remained of the conversation. “This audience is concluded. Bed.”

“But Atto—”

“Bed. Now.”

“I want to stay,” Celebrimbor protested, then pointed at Finrod. “I like him.”

Finrod softened instantly, honored. He pressed a hand to his chest. “I like you as well.”

“Third this month,” muttered the younger sailor. “Didn’t even leave her shoes behind.”

The eldest took a swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with a scarred hand. “Probably wandered off. Kids do that.”

“No,” said the third, leaning in. His eyes were sharp despite the drink. “You’ve heard the stories. It’s the Witch of the Woods.”

The other two flinched.

“Lives just past the black trees,” he went on, voice low. “The children say it sings at night. Like flutes and bells. They say it walks, but wrong. They say it moves strange. Knees bend backward. Spine doesn’t twist right. Like a puppet with no strings.”

He tapped his lower eyelid.

“Doesn’t blink. Just stares. Golden eyes like a doll’s... glossy, wide. Follows you not with its head, not its face — just the irises. Like this.”

He demonstrated: unblinking eyes rolling unnaturally in their sockets.

The younger sailor clenched a talisman under his shirt and whispered a prayer to the Valar, barely audible.

The old one snorted. “And what, this witch is stealing children out of their beds to eat them?”

“They say it is a he,” the third whispered. “But not really. Just wears the shape of a man. Long black cloak. No shadow. Smells like incense and cold metal.”

He leaned closer.

“Some say it’s him. The Sorcerer. The one the king brought from the East. Only he isn’t a man at all. He isn't anything. Just a mask that talks.”

The eldest scoffed. “You think the king’s pet snake has time to haunt forests and hex brats?”

“He came to Middle-earth with the burners of the ships!”

Celebrimbor ignored them.

“He is the mad king’s grandson!”

That made him look up.

Three elflings stood there, all older than him by at least a few years. One had his hands on his hips in dreadful confidence.

Celebrimbor narrowed his eyes.

“My grandfather was not mad!” he said sharply. “He was the greatest elf who ever lived!”

The children snickered.

“The mad greatest elf!”

Another piped up, “My atar says all the Fëanorians are bad elves!”

Celebrimbor's grip tightened around the silver flower. He stared at them for a long moment.

Then, very slowly, he stood up.

Celebrimbor was smaller than them, with ink stains on his sleeves and silver filings in his hair. But Curufin had taught him never to bow his head in shame.

Celebrimbor dusted off his silk tunic with dignity.

“You will regret saying such things,” he informed them.

The children rolled their eyes.

“Or what?”

Celebrimbor lowered his voice dramatically.

“My uncle Tyelkormo will hear of it.”

Silence.

Even among elflings, the name carried weight.

One child frowned uncertainly.

“Tyelkormo the Fair?”

“Tyelkormo,” said Celebrimbor gravely. “The Cruel Hunter.”

He stepped closer.

“He hates elflings.”

The children exchanged looks.

Then Celebrimbor added:

“Except me.”

The oldest child laughed nervously.

“You are lying.”

“My uncle talks to beasts.”

“That isn't frightening.”

Celebrimbor considered this.

“He also ripped an orc's heart apart once.”

“What?”

“With his bare hands.”

All three children stared at him.

“He hunts the forests every night,” he continued darkly. “And sometimes he finds children wandering alone.”

One of the younger elflings took a frightened step backward.

"And then, what?" Celebrimbor pressed onward mercilessly.

“He ties them to trees so the wolves can devour them.” Then he added, “Not me, obviously, because he likes me.”

The smallest child looked alarmed now.

“You are making this up.”

Celebrimbor looked offended.

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are!”

Celebrimbor paused.

Then he said thoughtfully,

"He has an enormous hound that eats people!”

“That is not true!”

“It is! Huan is as big as a horse, and he eats elflings… except me.” Celebrimbor added. “And Uncle Tyelko says frightened children taste much better.”

At this point, one of the elflings actually looked ready to faint.

The oldest tried desperately to recover. “W-well—my atar says Tyelkormo lives far away!”

Celebrimbor smiled pleasantly.

“Lies. If my Atto is nearby, Uncle Tyelko is too. They are best friends.”

Absolute horror descended upon their faces.

“And,” Celebrimbor continued, enjoying himself immensely now, “I shall tell him exactly what you said about my grandfather. His father.”

The smallest child burst into tears instantly.

“I do not want the horse-dog to eat me!”

The others panicked at once.

“He is gonna leave us in the forest to die!”

And suddenly, all three fled across the courtyard screaming.

Eitt haust kom hann að veislu mikilli. Menn spurðu hann að nafni, en hann kvaðst það síðar mundu segja. Um kvöldið var honum boðið að syngja, og tók hann þá hörpu sína. Varð þá hljótt í skálanum.

Þá kvað hann um Celebrimbor, son Curufins, sonar Fëanors, og sagði að enginn smiður hefði verið meiri. Mönnum þótti undarlegt hversu glöggt hann kunni frá þeim tíðindum að segja, er gerst höfðu löngu fyrir daga allra lifandi manna.

Ungan sá ek bróðurson minn, er við eldinn lék hann; mjúkar hendur mótuðu málm af föðurarfi.

Síðar smíðaði hann hringi þrjá af visku; eldur, vatn og vindur vörðu verk hans lengi.

Bjartur smiður smíðaði bauga með miklum mætti; ljós álfa dvínaði eigi meðan lifði hans list.

Að því loknu lagði maðurinn frá sér hörpuna. Sumir sögðu að tár hefðu sést í augum hans. En er menn leituðu hans næsta morgun, var hann farinn. Menn vissu eigi hver hann var né hvaðan hann kom. Sumir sögðu að hann mundi eigi vera maður af mannlegri ætt, heldur einn þeirra sem fara óséðir um heiminn og birtast mönnum um stund. Aðrir sögðu aðeins að hann hefði borið mikla sorg í brjósti og gamla söngva í minni sínu.

Small notes: 1. I wrote this piece inspired by Icelandic sagas, as if it had preserved a memory of Maglor wandering among Men long after the events of LOTR. The people who hear him sing don't know who he is, only that he is a strange harp-player. 2. The poem is inspired by dróttkvætt. I know true dróttkvætt has very strict rules of rhythm, syllables, and internal rhyme, so this isn't meant to be a reconstruction of a real skaldic stanza, just my attempt to capture the feeling of it: a praise-song carrying memory, honor, etc, although the poem is not really a warrior's praise of Celebrimbor, but an uncle remembering the child he saw grow into the greatest smith of the Elves in Middle-earth. 3. The Days of the Sturlungs were a period of Icelandic history, roughly 1220–1264, when Iceland was dominated mainly by the Sturlung family. During this time Iceland was not ruled by a king; instead, powerful chieftains (goðar) competed for influence.

My contribution to @jrrt-native-languages-fest Translation to English under the cut

From within the tall, shining doors came a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, for Eru’s sake,” muttered Fëanor. “He’s back again!”

Nerdanel, passing through the hall and knowing exactly what the little elfling’s important business was, laughed. “Maybe he wants to borrow another book,” she said, not even looking up from the clay she was molding.

"A book?" Fëanor pinched the bridge of his nose. “He cannot even read a Quenya script without drawing a horse over every vowel mark.” "Indeed. I think he’s aiming for a whole son this time.” She chuckled. Fëanor gave her an exasperated glance. “You shouldn’t encourage that, or else he’s going to come and annoy us every day. Besides,” he threw a hand up dramatically, “do not jest! they’re cousins!”

"Oh, so now Nolofinwë is your brother?" Nerdanel snapped, wiping her hands on her apron. “For Elbereth’s sake, Fëanáro. Finno is only an elfling. Go meet your nephew before he tries to storm the palace gates again.”

Fëanor muttered something inaudible as he headed toward the gates. No matter how much he claimed to despise Nolofinwë’s line, Fëanáro could never quite bring himself to mistreat a child—especially one who looked up at him with those little dark eyes, grass stains on his knees, and the courage of ten full-grown elves.

“Lord Curufinwë!” Fingon chirped as soon as the tall figure appeared in the doorway. “I came to ask you something vital!”

Fëanor raised an eyebrow. “Did you now? And what makes you think I have the time for petitions from small horsemen invading my courtyard?”

“It’s not invading!” Fingon protested. “I knocked first. Well, almost.”

Fëanor folded his arms. “Very well, Findekáno. Speak your request. Make it quick before Laurelin fades.”

Fingon puffed up his little chest. “I want to marry Maitimo!”

There was a long pause. Somewhere inside the palace, a servant dropped a tray.

“Excuse me?” 

Fingon held up his rose. “So he can come play with me every day, and we can have lunch together, and he won’t have to go home when it’s late! I brought a rose so you know I’m serious, my lord.”

Fëanor stared at him, torn between outrage, laughter, and the terrifying urge to ruffle his hair.

A calm voice behind him spoke.

Celebrimbor turned.

"Come here," said Curufin, opening his arms.

Celebrimbor went willingly, climbing into his father's embrace.

"Perhaps next time, do not convince half your friends that your uncle eats children."

"They are not my friends," Celebrimbor said, and then he considered his father's words. "Did I do something evil?"

Curufin pressed his lips together, fighting a smile.

"Not really. I cannot deny that your description of your uncle was not wholly inaccurate."

Celebrimbor beamed.

He had known his father would understand.

"But Tyelkormo has never eaten a child."

"Ah."

"He merely enjoys being mistaken for someone who might."

Celebrimbor nodded gravely.

That seemed an important distinction.

Curufin brushed a dark curl from his son's forehead.

At that precise moment, another voice called from farther down the path:

"Tyelperinquar!"

The voice carried easily across the courtyard.

A moment later, someone strode into view, bright as sunlight, a hunting spear resting across one shoulder. Dust clung to his boots, and blood scattered all over his hunting attire.

The fleeing elflings saw the terrifying figure.

"He found us!"

"Don't let him take my heart!"

They screamed louder.

One tripped over a flowerpot.

Celegorm stopped dead in confusion as the children vanished around a corner.

“... What did you tell them this time?”

Celebrimbor's face lit up.

"Uncle Tyelko!"

Celegorm pointed at him immediately.

"No. Explain."

"What?"

"The crying."

Celebrimbor lifted his arms expectantly.

Celegorm snorted but shifted his spear to one hand and scooped him effortlessly from Curufin's arms.

Once comfortably accommodated, Celebrimbor looked up at Celegorm with immense pride.

He approached the infamous mithril case with reverence and anticipation, as if he were about to uncover a secret.

It clicked open.

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.

He saw only perfection.

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.

Next came the shoes.

He slid one foot into a pair of Curufin’s high-heeled boots and immediately discovered an important thing:

They were extremely tall.

He stared at it.

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.”

He paused.

He attempted a laugh.

It was not quite Curufin’s elegant, knowing laugh. It was smaller, brighter—like a giggle.

It came out… adorable.

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.

Then—

Footsteps.

Voices.

Curufin’s voice. And Celegorm’s.

Celebrimbor froze.

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?”

A beat.

Curufin’s gaze shifted to the unmistakable smear of colors across his son’s cheek.

“And your face?”

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.”

Silence.

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.”

“But atar—”

“You are not to wear these pigments, nor these heavy jewels,”

“But atar—”

“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.”

Celebrimbor beamed.