Khajmel
Khajmel noun. Khuzdul. 'gift of all gifts'. Telchar has a gift for the elf he secretly loves, but finding the courage to give it proves more difficult than he expected.
for @myslashyvalentine & @sallysavestheday
(Teen, No warnings, 3.8k)
Alone in the dim light of his workshop, Telchar toiled.
It was not unusual for him to be up at strange hours, working only by the light of a single lantern, but it was rare these days that he did so alone. For the past several years, when sudden inspiration had struck him, it was Curufin, son of Fëanor, that he called upon first, before even unlocking the workshop door.
Tonight was different. He could not very well craft a surprise gift with the recipient present.
He missed him, though. Curufin’s presence had grown comforting and familiar; he missed the sound of his sharp voice, offering his opinion so freely; he missed the bulk of him, the soothing faint sound of another person in the room - he even missed the swearing under his breath when the metal would not obey him.
It was finished now, more or less. A final polish, so the knife would reflect the glittering Treelight in Curufin’s eyes, and it would be ready for gifting. He was dreading it.
When he had first realised he loved Curufin, he had tried to suppress it. Merely admiration of another craftsman. Just a fascination with his strange Valinorean beauty. It was not as though he had not had a lover before; he was not a young dwarf by any measure, and a smith as renowned as him had no shortage of admirers. Besides, Curufin was not the first Elf he had met either, and he had never found any other quite so beautiful. But there was just something different about him, something that made Telchar feel as nervous as a newborn fawn, and twice as wobbly.
His fear was that he was alone in this feeling. Oh, Curufin was his friend, without doubt. They could talk for hours on end, even when Curufin was usually of few words, and they would laugh until Telchar’s ribs were sore. A month ago his hand had caught Curufin’s hand as they reached for the same ore - like something from an Iathrim novel - and the moment had felt charged, hot as molten glass.
But had it been only a fleeting moment? Or did it mean something? Telchar had always loved mysteries, but now he found himself within one, he was not so keen.
Perhaps elves did not love as dwarves did. Curufin had a son, but he never spoke of Celebrimbor’s mother, and the one time he had tried to broach the topic had been awkward - he had learned from Celebrimbor afterwards that his mother had chosen to remain in Valinor, and his father had never quite forgiven her. He had not had the audacity to ask Celebrimbor if his father had had other lovers since.
Or perhaps he was open to a new lover, but not a dwarf. Telchar considered himself handsome in his people’s view: broad shouldered and sturdy, with a chestnut beard (well - it was more silver than not, now) and hands as nimble as they were strong. But Curufin had never commented on his appearance. That was equal parts a comfort and a fear.
The lantern spluttered out. Telchar sighed, drawn out of his thoughts, and set to polishing and packing the knife.
His worst fear, above all others, was that this would ruin their friendship. If Curufin took it badly (and it was so hard to predict him, strange fey creature that he was)...well, that would mean the end of everything. Rejection he could handle, but if Curufin never wished to work with him again, he would be devastated. But Telchar, as much as he loved his secrets, knew this was one secret he could not keep forever, or his heart would burst.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would give him the knife, and confess his heart, and put this all to rest. One way or another.
***
Telchar’s private dining room glittered like a forge-fire caught in crystal. Veins of gold and silver ran through the polished stone walls, catching the light of gem-studded lanterns on the walls. The centerpiece of the room was a long, low table, its edges carved with intricate scenes of different craftsmen at work - gem-smiths, sword-smiths, weavers, potters, and more, all so vivid they seemed to move when caught them out of the corner of the eye. The air was filled with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and a faint tang of molten metal that never quite left the heart of the mountain.
Telchar sat stiffly on a cushioned bench, hands resting awkwardly on the edge of the table. His usual confidence had been left behind in his workshop tonight. Instead, he glanced nervously at a small, ornately wrought box at his side, tucked just out of sight of his sharp-eyed guest. He’d polished it to a mirror shine, and now the golden surface reflected the flickering lantern light, taunting him with the enormity of what lay inside. More than just a gift - his heart.
Across the table, Curufin sat at ease, or rather, what counted as ease for him. Even centuries at the forge had not stooped him, or perhaps his pride supported his back like an iron rod. He was dressed simply for the occasion, but his dark red shirt seemed to cling to his skin, and Telchar tried very hard to keep his gaze on his face, and not the muscles of his arms and chest. Curufin’s dark hair flowed in thick curls down his back — oh, how Telchar longed to bury his hands in it, to discover if it was as soft as it looked, to hold Curufin close to and kiss it. His face was calm, the faintest trace of curiosity in his bright eyes, which rested on Telchar with a patience that was both kind and unyielding.
“You have outdone yourself,” Curufin said, his voice low and smooth, warm despite the formality of the words. He always spoke thus, save in the workshop. He gestured to the hall around them, though his gaze didn’t waver from Telchar. “But what is the occasion, my friend, for such decoration?”
Telchar’s face flushed under the praise, and he busied himself with the nearest goblet, running his thumb over each of the inlaid sapphires. He took a quick sip before replying, the sweetness of honeyed mead on his tongue.
“Need I an occasion? I am hosting a prince of the Noldor, after all, and the finest of their smiths yet living.”
Curufin’s lips twitched, a near-smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared. “You are too kind, Master Telchar.”
Telchar shifted in his seat, the box burning beside him. Just give it to him. Get it over with.
He cleared his throat and finally met Curufin’s gaze, finding himself unmoored by the quiet intensity in those eyes. There is something I wish to give you. A token of our deep friendship. No, not obvious enough. A gift of my heart - Too strong?
If Curufin found his silence awkward, he did not mention it. His hand rested on the table between them, close enough to touch. Telchar found his voice.
“You make it easy.” Mahal strike him down, that was awful. He could almost see himself cringe. But Curufin, to his relief, laughed.
“You flatter me, Master Telchar. It is no wonder I find myself drawn to your company.”
His heart hammered in his chest. Had Curufin, ever sharp in the way of elves, perceived his heart, and beaten him to the confession? Telchar leaned a little closer.
“As I am to yours. Quite a pair we make, do you not think?”
Curufin took a sip of his wine and Telchar watched the red liquid bead on his lips. His hand lay on the table beside Curufin’s, now a hair’s breadth away. Curufin continued to speak.
“I do think so.” Curufin’s smile made his head spin. “It is rare to find such like-minded friends. Which is why I…”
Which is why I love you. Which is why I want to kiss you. Which is why I -
“I have invited Celebrimbor here to stay with me. I think it will be a good opportunity for him. And he will be pleased to learn under the guidance of his father’s dearest friend.”
Oh. Telchar took his hand back from the table with the pretext of pouring another drink. His father’s dearest friend.
Perhaps confessing was a foolish idea. He could be content with Curufin’s friendship. He had been for so many years.
“An excellent idea.” He said, though he felt a thousand miles away. “I will be happy to teach him – no doubt he is a better student than yourself.”
Curufin laughed, and the evening continued uneventfully.
***
Alone in his bedchamber, Telchar could not sleep.
Curufin consumed his thoughts, and for hours he tossed and turned, playing out possibilities in his mind. None of them brought him much comfort, and eventually, he gave up. He needed to clear his mind.
Wrapped in an overcoat and house slippers, he stepped out in the night. He walked aimlessly through Nogrod’s winding halls, by the faint glow of the wall lanterns. He saw no one – there must be several hours until dawn yet.
His thoughts turned again to Curufin, and the perfect blade he had made for him.
Would Curufin see the gift for what it was – a love token? If he did, would he reject it, reluctant to be burdened by the expectations of a love he did not return? Or worse, one he did return, but feared to act on due to the judgment of his kin— what if his brothers disapproved of a dwarven paramour? Telchar had never met them, Curufin spoke of them little; he could not say what they were like. What if Celebrimbor saw only an attempt to replace his mother? He would not expect Curufin to put him above his only son.
He was trying to talk himself out of it. He knew it – and yet he continued, letting his feet carry him where fate willed. He had always been a man of logic. He would let himself turn over every obstacle in his mind, and then he would know best how to overcome each – or where to give up.
If he confessed his love, where would it lead? Telchar was mortal, long-lived, but already approaching the latter half of his life. Curufin was immortal, deathless, ageless. What if he did not want the pain of a mortal lover? Even if he did want him, if Curufin ever did return to Valinor, would Telchar be left behind, forgotten as the ages passed, forever a memory?
And then there was the war. Telchar grimaced at the thought. It could all be for nothing, if the Enemy’s armies came and swallowed the world in shadow and flame before anything could blossom.
His feet carried him to the edge of a stone bridge, and he leaned on the railing, staring down into the rushing water below. The roar of the stream could not silence the racing of his mind.
Was it worth it? Was the fragile hope of something beautiful enough to risk the solid foundation they already had?
He thought of the blade again. He would have to name it. It was strong now, nigh unbreakable, but once it had been a clump of raw metal, unrefined, and then frail and molten. It had to be shaped, built upon, cared for. Like the two of them.
A flash of brighter light caught his eye. Across the bridge were several guest houses carved into the stone, with brightly painted doors. All were dark now, save one, where the glow of a candle peeked out from behind a curtain. The door was ajar. The door was familiar. Curufin’s apartments.
He could not stop himself. Telchar snuck closer, leaning again against the wall and putting his ear to the gap in the door. He recognised Curufin’s tone at once, followed by the gentle voice of Celebrimbor.
Curufin, so often precise and commanding, sounded hesitant. Vulnerable.
“It feels ridiculous,” He was saying, his words punctuated by the scrape of wood on stone, someone pulling a chair out. “I’m not some young fool anymore, Tyelpë, and yet here I am, fretting like I am barely a hundred years old. It’s absurd.”
“It’s not absurd,” Celebrimbor replied, sounding almost amused. “It’s... surprising, perhaps. But only because you’ve kept yourself so guarded. It is good to see you care for someone again.”
Telchar’s breath caught. He pressed himself against the cool stone wall, torn between slipping away unnoticed and staying rooted. He didn’t know what was worse; hearing this, or not hearing it.
“And what am I to do about it?” Curufin’s voice was bitter now. “Approach him like a blushing suitor? He is renowned among his kin, wise beyond even his years, and I—” He broke off, the words hanging heavy in the air. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost broken. “I am nothing like his people. Friendship is one thing, but love? We are so different.”
Telchar’s heart twisted at the rawness in Curufin’s tone. It was strange, hearing him—so proud, so self-assured—speak of himself with such doubt. He wanted to step into the room and tell Curufin exactly what he saw: brilliance, beauty, and a fire that burned as bright as the light in his eyes. He balled his hand into a fist, keeping himself still and silent.
Celebrimbor’s voice remained steady, with no trace of exasperation. “You do him a disservice, Father. Telchar’s no fool, and he’s not cruel. He’d see your heart for what it is. Besides – do not pretend you are different from him. I have seen you work together. You are one and the same.”
There was a long silence, and Telchar wished he could see what was happening. Then he heard quick footsteps, and the door shut. He could hear no more, but he didn’t need to.
Curufin, struggling to confess? Wrestling with the same doubts and fears that had plagued Telchar for months?
It felt impossible. And yet, he had heard it with his own ears.
Stepping quietly away, Telchar hurried off before they could notice him. The night air was cold but he hardly felt it. His heart was light again. When they next met, he would give Curufin the knife—and with it, the truth of his own feelings.
Perhaps it would end in nothing, or perhaps it would be the start of something wonderful and new. Either way, Telchar was done waiting.
The next time they were alone, he would tell Curufin everything.
***
“Is there a reason for this, Master Telchar?”
It had taken a bit of persuasion, but he had convinced Curufin to ride up to the highest viewing point on the mountain – not quite the peak, but a natural ledge that had been fenced off by artisanal designs carved into stone pillars.
“Afraid of heights, lord Curufin?” he laughed, looking away from the blue horizon to Curufin, who was grasping the edge of the barrier tightly.
“No.” Curufin answered, too quickly, and his relief was clear as they stepped away from the edge and to the blanket Telchar had laid out, laden with food and drink.
“But you did not answer the question – is there a reason for all this? – we usually eat in your apartments.”
There was a curious note in his voice, and Telchar clung to it, hoping it was a good omen.
“I did not realise you objected to any form of excitement. It is nice to break from routine sometimes, lord Curufin.”
Curufin laughed and picked up his drink. He was even more lovely like this, in his tight work clothes, animated as he spoke, the sun casting a warm halo of light over him, that made the polished gold buttons of his shirt glitter.
Beside him, the box with the knife felt cold despite the midday heat, reminding him of his goal. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. There was no better moment – they were alone, the mood was light, and if he was eating and drinking Curufin might not try and talk over him, as he was wont to do when he got over-excited.
“But that is not to say there is no reason for the change.”
Curufin raised an eyebrow and leaned a little closer, ears pricked for a secret.
“Curufin,” Telchar began, voice low, though there was no one to overhear them here save the donkey, “there is something I must confess—a truth I have hidden in the embers of my heart for far too long.” Uncharacteristically nervous, he toyed with a bead on the end of his beard-braid.
Curufin’s eyes widened. “Telchar, I-”
“No, do not interrupt me. I fear if I stop I will not be able to start again.”
His gaze never wavered as he continued, focused on one of those bright buttons. It was easier than looking Curufin in the face. The words flowed like the spring thaw from his lips, everything coming so easily now that there was no chance to go back.
“I love you. I have loved you for more than a year now - love that has grown from seed to forest as we have worked together, as I have learnt from you and you from me. I have tried to deny it. I can no longer, else I will lose my head. Curufin, son of Fëanor, I love you.”
For a moment, everything was frozen. Telchar held his breath. Even having heard Curufin talk with his son, a part of him still feared he had been wrong, or that it had somehow been a dream, or that Curufin had changed his mind.
Then, as if spring had come, Curufin’s surprised smile blossomed into radiant joy.
“Oh, Telchar,” he breathed, his voice trembling with relief and laughter. “We have both been fools. I have longed for you for months. I did not speak because...” Ever careful with his words, he paused. “Quite honestly because I was afraid. It has been a long time.”
“It is good to hear you say that.” He looked a tad guilty, but not surprised, and he knew he would have to admit what he had seen, lest Curufin get the wrong idea. “I… I have a second confession – I heard you speaking with Celebrimbor the other night. About me – call me a wretched eavesdropper if you will, but it gave me the courage to speak to you now.”
Curufin looked confused for a moment, then he grinned. “Oh! That makes sense, now. Celebrimbor must have known you were there – he was acting very strange, confronting me so suddenly. The crafty, they should call him.”
“Then we have him to thank.” Telchar laughed, then reached for the box at his side. “I made this for you – it is a custom to give a new lover a gift when one begins a relationship, and I should have given you one when you first came to Nogrod. I hope this makes up for that oversight.”
Curufin took the box and opened it. The curved knife was cushion on a pillow of red. Curufin picked up delicately and held it up; the dark metal gleamed where it caught the sun, revealing the intricate designs carved into the metal – runes for strength, courage, and good fortune. The hilt was simple, yet elegant, deep dark wood that was extraordinarily comfortable in hand.
“This,” Curufin was lost for words – an astoundingly rare achievement. “Telchar, I cannot accept this. It is a masterpiece.”
“Well, I was making it for you. It could be nothing less than perfect. You’d notice.” He teased, watching Curufin examine every inch of his work. “I will wear it always – if such a knife as this cannot protect me, then nothing can.”
“I should hope it will protect you. It can cleave iron, you know. For when your brothers get you into trouble again.”
“Oh, Telchar, this… I could kiss you this second.”
“What is stopping you?”
The blade fell to the blanket with a soft thud as Curufin closed the gap between them, tangling his long fingers in Telchar’s hair. As they kissed, Telchar felt the world melt away around them. Curufin was more of an adept kisser than he had expected; he kissed him with fervour Telchar did not expect of him, pushing him back against the blanket.
There was no more need to talk; it was not the tongue of Elves or Dwarves that took over them, but the instinctive language of lovers, forge-roughened fingers pulling at buttons and clasps to seek skin. Telchar was breathless, desperate – he wanted to devour him, to hold a piece of him under his skin, forever close and never fading.
Curufin’s shirt, gold buttons and all, lay discarded now, and Telchar marvelled at him. If he were a sculptor, he would have cast him in marble, or obsidian, or if an artist, he would have searched the world for the right pigments to paint him. But he was a blacksmith, an inventor, and the knife was his monument to his love. Not grand, but subtle, sharp as Curufin himself.
“You are beautiful.”
“So many have said.” Curufin laughed. “But with your eye, that means a great deal. Ever you select the finest gemstones, every project that is touched by your hand is perfect in every detail. To be beautiful to a mind like yours means more than any praise from any elvish poet.”
Telchar could bear it no longer. He leaned up and pulled Curufin in by the arm, until he was over him entirely, long legs either side of his hips. He kissed him, holding him in place. Curufin tasted of iron and sweetened wine – his lips parted for Telchar without any resistance, and Telchar thought he must be tasting the divine, tasting the flame in Curufin’s blood. Their bodies rocked together, delicious friction sparking lust within him – he would have him here if Curufin allowed it, though he wished he had thought to bring something more comfortable to lie on, where they could relax, take their time exploring the desires that both had held in check far too long.
Oh well. There would be other times – they had plenty of lost time to make up for.
Breathless and warm-cheeked, Curufin finally sat up, still straddling him. His eyes were deep and dark with want. “Is anyone expecting you back in the city?”
Telchar shook his head. He had told them they were going on a reconnaissance trip, to identify potential new materials in the mountain-rock. No one would expect them any time soon and he suspected now that Celebrimbor had been deployed to deter anyone from following them.
“No.”
“Good.” Curufin leaned in again, with a smile like a wolf’s. “Then I can take my time with you.”
They were not back in Nogrod before nightfall.
