Wolf at the Door by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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A family reunion.

“Wolves,” Finrod said with a wan smile, “were kinder than my own kin.”

 

Orodreth quailed, shame written on his face, and even Celegorm, shameless in most things, could not meet his eye. Finduilas and Celebrimbor were quiet, transformed into children again, gazing wide-eyed at the spectacle of their elders, at their folly and self-deceit. They hold each other’s hand. It was strange to see. If asked, Curufin would have said that his son and his cousin hardly knew each other.

 

Curufin had stood apart when the huddle of elves swarmed around Finrod, clinging to him, touching his cloak, in wonder that their beloved king should come back from his quest, alone and alive. Rumor told of how Melian’s daughter had pulled him from the rubble of Tol Sirion (as it was again) and had sung back the blood into his veins, and so Finrod stood before them, hardly changed at all.

 

Except that he had changed, there was a hard edge to his words and looks than had not been there before, and a ring of scars, angry and red, around his neck. He had changed, he was not as warm as he had once been. But if he changed, and so had they, the people of Nargothrond, who had been full of fear and doubt, began to see another way. And the sons of Fëanor, grown used to their power, saw it slip quite completely from their hands. Again.

 

The crowd dispersed, leaving behind only the family. None could meet his eyes.

 

Only Curufin dared try, a thoughtful frown on his face. Finrod gazed back at him, his gentle smile belying his bitter words.

 

After a moment of silence, Curufin gave a stiff nod. He said, “If it pleases you, my -- lord,” he hesitated over the word king, even after all of this, he still did not feel that this title was quite deserved. “My brother and I will leave as soon as we are able. It will take a little time to gather our goods and our people.”

 

“No, that would not please me,” Finrod said, over Orodreth’s muffled gasp. There was silence, a quick exchange of looks, when Finrod continued on, more sedately, “I would not dream of putting anyone out. Not in a time like this.”

 

“There is a very bitter winter ahead,” Curufin said, dropping his gaze at last.

 

“It is better to be in here, than out there,” Finrod agreed.

 

 

Leave-taking.

Time passed, winter melted into spring. Messengers came from Doriath, telling the resolution of the tale, of Lúthien triumphant and Beren rescued, of their wedding and especially of their eternal gratitude to Finrod, King of Nargothrond, and most faithful friend.

 

With spring came the movement of Curufin and Celegorm’s people, for of course, they could not stay, and soon their chambers were emptied, fires of their forge doused, and none remained save for Celebrimbor, who would not go. He did not have his father’s way with language, so he said it bluntly, biting the words off, painfully quick. “I will follow you no more. You can take the Oath with you when you leave, I’ll have no part in it.”

 

And he looked at his father, expecting anger, abuse. At least, some disappointment.

 

“If that’s what you want,” Curufin said, coolly. The boy had never understood the all-encompassing importance of Oath, the way it ought to give each and every one of them a purpose, a meaning in life. But if Celebrimbor wished to be purposeless, if he wished to drift away... Well, let him.

 

Ah. But there was a part of Curufin that was relieved to let his son go -- to let him be what he wanted to be. What would Curufin do, if he had no Oath to dog -- to guide him? Perhaps Celebrimbor would find out. Perhaps he’d make something of his life. Something great.

 

Curufin glowed at the scope of his magnanimity, at his generosity. He was an excellent father, wasn’t he? He smiled gently at his son, touched the boy’s face, for the very last time.

 

Celebrimbor let himself be touched, and looked suspicious.

 

But he said nothing.

 

 

Resolution at any price.

There remained only one more person to see before he left. There was trouble at the door, the new guardsmen were reluctant to let him through, as if he could’ve harmed their king more than he already had. Finrod called to let him in, and Curufin slid into through the crack in the door before it closed with a final bang. Finrod lay in the dark, his eyes closed, his hair spilling across the pillow. Curufin crossed the room quickly. He lit a candle and held it up to Finrod’s face.

 

Finrod blinked, and for a moment, his eyes burned red. His voice was sleepy when he said, “Leaving already?”

 

Curufin set the candle down on the table next to the bed. He turned back to Finrod and murmured, “In the morning, yes. For Himring.”

 

Finrod shifted in his seat and said, “You’ve been very subdued, since I returned. I wonder why? It isn’t guilt, surely.” He sat up and looked at Curufin, expectant.

 

Curufin sat down on Finrod’s bed and put his feet up, not caring if he got dust on the sheets. He tried to think. They had never been close, he and Finrod, not in Valinor nor in the time after. Finrod had plenty of friends and admirers, the best being Turgon and Amarië. Curufin had never needed friends, not when he had brothers. And his father.

 

“No, not guilt. I thought I acted rightly.” And I still do, though that went unsaid. Finrod nodded, as if he heard it anyway. They moved closer, and Curufin’s hands strayed across to Finrod’s thigh, and that soon turned into a caress.

 

Finrod fell back with a sigh. He looked intently at the elaborate carving on the ceiling above his bed. Curufin hesitated, more uncertain than he usually allowed himself to be. They had not touched since Finrod had come back. And as for their little dalliance before -- well, Curufin was a married man, of course, and Finrod, a promised one. Such an affair meant nothing, they were just a temporary easing of loneliness, just another way to persuade, to get closer, to drop a soft word into a willing ear.

 

It should have meant nothing at all.

 

Curufin swallowed hard, his voice taking on a new, untested tone of uncertainty. He played with it, making Finrod’s name waver, stretch, break. Regret colored his words, a novel shade. “Findaráto. I did not mean for this to happen to you...”

That was a lie.

 

He had meant for everything that had happened to happen, he had wanted Nargothrond, and he had wanted the throne, he had wanted everything. And Finrod knew this, full well. Why had he come back? Curufin knew he could have subdued Orodreth for a long while yet, perhaps not forever, but long enough for Curufin’s purposes. But with Finrod, it was difficult; Finrod could not be subdued, Finrod who had changed, who now looked at him with such knowing eyes.

 

Finrod tutted quietly, shaking his bright head. “Poor Curufinwë, you are always trying, aren’t you? To replace what was lost, to take what never was yours.”

“I know what is mine,” Curufin said tightly, thinking of his father’s face, bathed in the light of the Silmarils, then again, obscured by darkness as he felt to ash. Swear again! Fëanor’s voice echoed in his head, reverberated slowly and faded away.

 

“Nargothrond was never yours,” Finrod’s voice was sharp, his mouth near Curufin’s ear.

 

Curufin smiled. “Ah, yes, we are forever dispossessed. Thank you for reminding me.”

 

Indeed, Curufin took no pleasure in this; he was not Maedhros, who took it as only what they deserved, only their due. Maedhros had not, in Curufin’s opinion, especially wanted to keep the crown. He had been relieved when it passed from him and his brothers. That was cowardice, plain and simple. Curufin would never forgive his eldest brother for that, not as long as they both lived.

 

He ran an idle hand down Finrod’s stomach, fingering a scar he found there. It had not completely healed, the scar was still pink and raw against Finrod’s fair skin. He waited for Finrod to wince, to tell him to take his hand away. But he did no such thing, instead he pulled Curufin towards him, his grip like iron. Curufin scrambled towards him, on hands and knees, dignity pushed to the back of his mind.

 

He was doing this for reasons of his own, he reminded himself, kissing Finrod, pressing him down into the soft mattress. Finrod spread his legs, and Curufin sank in between them, removing their clothes roughly, seeking new patches of skin to kiss, to mark. He lingered on the scar at the base of Finrod’s throat, where the wolf’s teeth had found their home, he bit at it, his tongue flicked out to taste what he could.

 

Then Curufin blinked and found himself on his back, with Finrod looming above him, his face half-hidden by his golden hair. His voice was a harsh whisper in the dark. “Do you know how it is to hear your men being torn up so close to you that their blood gets on your skin? You can feel their dying breaths, you can hear their cries, but there is nothing you can do. Nothing.”

 

Finrod rocked his hips against Curufin, his arousal apparent against Curufin’s thigh.

 

Curufin licked his lips, and bit back a moan. He could not move, but he arched his back, wanting to come as close to Finrod as he could. “And in the dark,” he said, panting. “All alone except for that wretched mortal who brought you there.”

 

Finrod bowed his head, as if weary. “The dark leaches into your skin until it becomes part of you.”

 

“Why did you lose? Was your singing so terrible?” Curufin could not help moaning when Finrod’s nails raked against his skin.

 

“I could not win against faithlessness, against cruelty, against kinslayers who will never repent,” said Finrod, his teeth gleaming in the fitful light. Curufin remembered (not that he ever forgot) that it was Finrod’s mother’s people that died that day in Aqualondë. No, no, not only them, what of the Noldor, had they not suffered? Had they not died? Finrod’s loyalties were always suspect, always.

 

Impatiently, Curufin bucked against Finrod. He pressed his hands against Finrod’s chest, over his heart. He growled, his voice thick. “Enough. Fuck me already.”

 

* * *

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh was the only noise in the bedchamber. Finrod came with sigh and pulled away. He doubled over while Curufin stretched out, mellowed out. He touched Finrod’s side, felt it rise and fall as he breathed. Finrod collapsed next to him, and unfurled himself with a groan.

 

Curufin caught a handful of of Finrod’s bright hair and wound it around his fingers and pulled him close. In a whisper -- he did not know why he needed to whisper, just that he did -- he said, “But still. To kill a werewolf with only your hands and teeth. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

 

Finrod just looked at him, momentarily blank. “That was all I had.”

 

He flexed his hands, as if to test their strength.

 

Curufin touched the fast-fading bruises on his own neck and smiled.

 

Then, he moved as if to consider. “Well, it’s a bad craftsman who blames his tools. I suppose the opposite also applies.” He shifted even closer to Finrod, until they were lay skin to skin. Barely enough room to breathe. He wanted Finrod to touch him again, to make it hurt, more than it already had.

 

* * *

Curufin waited until Finrod’s breathing slowed and his head drooped onto his chest. His eyes, of course, did not close. Curufin did his best to be utterly quiet. He pushed himself off the bed, and began to gather up his things, pulling himself together quickly.

 

Finrod stirred and woke, and watched him go. His face was empty of expression, there was no triumph on it, or regret.

 

Curufin hesitated at the door. He was at loss as to what to say. You’ve won, perhaps, or I am sorry. Nothing came out. He did not quite dare to say anything.

 

Finrod’s eyes seemed to stay with him, large, grey, and missing some vital spark.

 

Curufin turned quickly and opened the door. The light from the hall spilled into the darkened room. He went through and closed the door behind him.

 

 

He left Finrod, alone, and in the dark.