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Title: Bedrolls
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: Celebrimbor/Narvi
Disclaimer: I do not own The Silmarillion and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Narvi is cold at night; Celebrimbor seeks to rectify that.
AN: Written for the prompt 'Huddling for Warmth' for my Trope Bingo table.
Narvi is shivering again. Celebrimbor knows little of what it means to be cold – Elves don’t feel it as mortals do and the bite of winter is a fleeting thing – but he knows that Narvi feels it deeply. It cuts through him; through his clothes and hair and flesh, and seeps down into his bones. Out here, in their camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, he is curled in his bedroll and desperately missing the warmth of the mine and the insulation of thick stone.
He is small, curled up so. So cold that Celebrimbor can hear his teeth chattering and his breath stuttering. It is a noise that makes his heart ache.
Narvi is different somehow, from the other Dwarves he has met. How, Celebrimbor knows not – he is short and bearded and as sarcastic as they come. He is gloriously skilled, but that’s not it either. It frustrates and excites him all at once, and laying here listening to Narvi suffer is painful.
He sits up. Narvi doesn’t so much as twitch – either he is somehow managing to sleep through the chill he feels or he is determined to ignore Celebrimbor’s actions. Celebrimbor waits a moment more, trying to determine which, but another body-wracking shudder has him sliding to his knees and crawling across the floor of their tent to where Narvi is laying.
Another moment’s hesitation. Enough to decide that the myriad reasons why he shouldn’t do what he is about to are worthless before he curls himself around Narvi and drags his own bedroll over them both. He casts an arm over Narvi’s body, drawing him close, and he feels it when Narvi stops shivering.
He is sleeping, he decides, and he finds comfort in that. There will be no awkward questions tonight, at least. They can be saved for the morning when all will no doubt be different between them. He tries to imagine a day without the sound of Narvi’s laughter or a gruffly spoken anecdote; without the sound of his name – at least, a variant of his name, which is apparently near-impossible to pronounce when one’s first language is Khuzdul – on Narvi’s lips. He has lived such days before; lived a full age of the world filled with such days, but the thought of them now seems near unbearable.
Narvi shifts against his side, moving so that his back is pressed neatly to Celebrimbor’s belly – a perfect fit; a missing puzzle piece – and his body is curved around Celebrimbor’s forearm. “Sleep,” he mutters, his accent so thick as to be near incomprehensible. “I can hear you bloody thinking.”
Celebrimbor smiles, draws him closer, and nods – pressing his nose into the tangle of Narvi’s hair, smelling stone dust and the river water he used to try and wash it. “As you wish,” he replies.
He thinks, as he casts his mind into the realm of dreams, that he was cold as well, on his own. That perhaps he simply didn’t notice it before this night.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: Celebrimbor/Narvi
Disclaimer: I do not own The Silmarillion and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Narvi is cold at night; Celebrimbor seeks to rectify that.
AN: Written for the prompt 'Huddling for Warmth' for my Trope Bingo table.
Narvi is shivering again. Celebrimbor knows little of what it means to be cold – Elves don’t feel it as mortals do and the bite of winter is a fleeting thing – but he knows that Narvi feels it deeply. It cuts through him; through his clothes and hair and flesh, and seeps down into his bones. Out here, in their camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, he is curled in his bedroll and desperately missing the warmth of the mine and the insulation of thick stone.
He is small, curled up so. So cold that Celebrimbor can hear his teeth chattering and his breath stuttering. It is a noise that makes his heart ache.
Narvi is different somehow, from the other Dwarves he has met. How, Celebrimbor knows not – he is short and bearded and as sarcastic as they come. He is gloriously skilled, but that’s not it either. It frustrates and excites him all at once, and laying here listening to Narvi suffer is painful.
He sits up. Narvi doesn’t so much as twitch – either he is somehow managing to sleep through the chill he feels or he is determined to ignore Celebrimbor’s actions. Celebrimbor waits a moment more, trying to determine which, but another body-wracking shudder has him sliding to his knees and crawling across the floor of their tent to where Narvi is laying.
Another moment’s hesitation. Enough to decide that the myriad reasons why he shouldn’t do what he is about to are worthless before he curls himself around Narvi and drags his own bedroll over them both. He casts an arm over Narvi’s body, drawing him close, and he feels it when Narvi stops shivering.
He is sleeping, he decides, and he finds comfort in that. There will be no awkward questions tonight, at least. They can be saved for the morning when all will no doubt be different between them. He tries to imagine a day without the sound of Narvi’s laughter or a gruffly spoken anecdote; without the sound of his name – at least, a variant of his name, which is apparently near-impossible to pronounce when one’s first language is Khuzdul – on Narvi’s lips. He has lived such days before; lived a full age of the world filled with such days, but the thought of them now seems near unbearable.
Narvi shifts against his side, moving so that his back is pressed neatly to Celebrimbor’s belly – a perfect fit; a missing puzzle piece – and his body is curved around Celebrimbor’s forearm. “Sleep,” he mutters, his accent so thick as to be near incomprehensible. “I can hear you bloody thinking.”
Celebrimbor smiles, draws him closer, and nods – pressing his nose into the tangle of Narvi’s hair, smelling stone dust and the river water he used to try and wash it. “As you wish,” he replies.
He thinks, as he casts his mind into the realm of dreams, that he was cold as well, on his own. That perhaps he simply didn’t notice it before this night.
