[Silmarillion]: Wise
But that was a lie. He envied most of them, for one reason or another, and therefore resented them. Quietly, of course, with the possible exception of Findekáno but then Findekáno didn’t seem to be able to do anything quietly.
Mostly, though, he resented Findarato. Findarato could do no wrong. Findarato was always right. Findarato had everyone’s love - Angrod looked up to him, Artanis looked up to him, even Findekáno would listen to him sometimes if no one else other than Maitimo. Findarato was wise, Findarato was respected, Findarato was patient and thoughtful and deliberate, and Tyelko sometimes thought he was very close to hating him.
He sat up halfway and pitched the dart across the room, where it stuck in the wall with a heavy, satisfying thunk, like a knife or sword striking bone. The other two followed a little lower.
Especially on days like today.
“I am restless. Are you restless? On a day such as this, with orcs harassing Maitimo, we should not be cooling our heels.” Tyelko kicked his legs up on the couch. “We should be fighting. I want to be fighting.”
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said today, Turco.” Kurvo didn’t look up from picking his nails with the small hunting knife he carried everywhere, even here. “You know it is the wisest course. We wouldn’t reach him in time to do any good, and might as well leave our flanks exposed for the smallest force to sweep down and slaughter all in their path.”
Tyelko leaned his head back, reclining fully again. “Then leave some here. I could ride myself if our king had not forbidden it.” He snorted. “It has been too long since I had a good fight.” He wanted one. Perhaps it was stupid and unwise - Eru he hated that word! And all of its myriad uses - but he wanted one anyway, wanted to throw himself into the fierce joy of physical exertion and - well, killing. It was just another type of hunting, after all.
Kurvo glanced up, through his eyelashes, looking drolly amused. “Turco, sometimes I would swear that the older you get the worse you become. A good fight. I wonder that you haven’t gotten yourself sliced open yet.”
He grinned, broadly, if slightly bitterly. “I’m too good for that, Kurvo. You just haven’t seen me use my talents in too long. Maybe I will leave.”
“It wouldn’t be wise.”
Tyelko rocketed to his feet and stalked over to the wall, abruptly angry. Wise. Always wise. Finrod was wise. Damn. He yanked the darts out of the wall, one by one, punctuating his sentence with the gesture. “I do not want to be wise-“ ktchunk “-I want to be reckless and foolhardy and-“ ktchunk “I want to kill something.” Ktchunk, and he turned to face his younger brother, glaring a little and holding the three darts clenched in one white-knuckled hand.
Kurvo raised one slender, graceful eyebrow very slightly. “You are lucky I understand what you mean, brother. To anyone else, you might sound almost dangerous. It would be disobeying our king to leave, if you recall.”
The king. King Findarato. Wise King Findarato. Tyelko felt his irritation surge. “So be it. What do I owe him anyway? I am a prince in my own right; Fëanor’s son. His father is last-born.”
Kurvo raised the hunting knife to his nails again, paring away a small sliver. “And yet he has been chosen as leader of this place. If you were simply to ignore his command, this place would disintegrate into chaos. Do you want that? Morgoth lies in disorder, remember.”
“No,” he snapped, “No, but what does he deserve command for in the first place? What right has he to any kingship, to any obedience from us-“
“I should warn you, brother,” Kurvo said, almost deadly soft, “You begin to speak treason.”
The word should have stopped him, but Tyelko was tired of it, of Finrod’s holding back and refraining and dragging his feet, when there was so much to do, and he would not leap and do it, and tolerated the insults that Thingol had issued. “Yes, Kurvo, and would you have me killed for it? If wise Finrod could tolerate to take so much action, when everything is slow and deliberate and we sit here and wait for the danger to come to us, what kind of a fight is that? If I were lord here-“
He realized, a moment later, what he’d begun to say, and halted. Kurvo was very still, the knife paused under the palm of his right hand. “Am I correct,” he said, in a very soft, almost silky voice, “In interpreting, Turco, that you have thought of being king in Nargothrond?”
Not in so much detail, he wanted to argue, but nodded jerkily instead, not taking his eyes off his younger brother. He trusted Kurvo completely. And yet - yet. Treason was one thing, and a more personal betrayal quite another.
“And would you,” Kurvo said, still quiet, “Be willing to take that post, should anything…untoward…happen to our cousin?”
There was a brief, awful squirming sensation, as he considered what sometimes in the very deep and darkest places of his heart, the things he had considered. It was easy for a blade to slip. Easy for a small error to be made - but he could not, even still, soil his hands so far, and flinched from the thoughts as they occurred.
But it needn’t be- almost against his will, he nodded, now unable to look away. Kurvo looked like he wanted to smile, but didn’t. “And should that untoward incident be somehow tied to yourself…indirectly, of course - would you accept that, as acceptable price?”
No, he wanted to say. No, I would not, I am not yet - but he thought about it, thought about the way Findarato frowned looking at him and said, too quietly, “No one must leave, is that understood?” and forced him to nod and bend his head, and the times he had been chastised by that same stern look, and the way Artanis’s eyes glowed looking at him with sheer admiration, wise Findarato, brave Findarato…
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself with the undertone of savagery in his voice. The metal tips of the darts cut into his hand as it clenched. Kurvo smiled, a slow, dangerous, slender thing, eyes the color of metal.
“I’ll see what I can do.”