“My eyes are silver like Atto’s too.” 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!”
Finrod pressed a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking.
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.”
