Curufin took pride in the fact that all the elves which thought to bask under Finrod’s laughter and light would never see what he was truly like. Only the closest family and friends were allowed to glimpse beneath the mask of kindness and nobility Finrod had always worn.
It had been two days before the end of Tirion’s celebration of Finrod that he’d found his cousin sitting on ground by an abandoned alley, near a ditch. Finrod’s festive clothing were rumpled and soiled by vomit beyond any hope of salvation, and there were no flowers in his hair now, and his golden locks were tousled and tangled.
Finrod looked as if he had been mauled and dragged out of a tavern, and robbed.
Curufin walked toward him, made sure he was still alive, and then tried to lift him up, and walk him home.
They staggered together down the abandoned street, Telperion shining silver around the world, and Finrod chuckled.
“Not the very best in Aman now, right?” He slurred at Curufin as he chuckled brokenly.
“No, certainly not,” Curufin wrinkled his nose. They paused and he sought to wrap an arm closer around his cousin’s waist. Finrod was the taller elf (Curufin barely reached his eyes), yet Curufin was the stronger one, made tough from all of his work in the forge and the unending busy lifestyle of a Fëanorian. “You smell like vomit, your hair is rumpled, and you are most certainly the Ugliest Elf in Aman.”
Finrod giggled like no tomorrow. “Yes. Yes. Call me Ugly, for that is what I am, and only so very few understand that and see it.”
“Then you shall be Ugly henceforth.”
