Nemo me impune lacessit by Agelast

Chapter 1

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The day of the festival started well enough. Nobles and commoners alike woke early and stepped out in their best finery, to songs and chants to charm the land back into life. But winter still ruled -- all but the largest rivers were girded in ice, and even the king’s table lacked meat.

But still, in spots where the river still sang unencumbered by snow and ice, little children (accompanied by sharp-eyed adults, ever watchful of danger) floated little figures of Vána the Ever-young down to the water, and hoped to quicken the pace of spring. The children laughed and shouted to see their delicate paper figures dissolve in the furious, churning waters.

If Vána heard their lighthearted prayers, she gave no sign. The land slept on under its thick coat of snow.

But now the children were safely in bed, and the adults prowled the halls of the city, masked and after things they perhaps should not pursue.

It was Finrod who devised had the festival, almost out of whole cloth. Living underground, he had explained to Curufin as they dressed, was not the natural state of being for Elves. Even the Noldor, however deep they delved, longed to see the stars and breathe fresh air.

“And to let go of their responsibilities, for one day of the year?” Curufin asked, raising a delicate eyebrow. He examined the tiny jet beads that embroidered his sleeves with something akin to distaste. His raven mask was still resting its box on Finrod’s dressing table.

Finrod smiled and adjusted his peacock feature ruff. “Sometimes it is necessary.”

“But still, it is -- dangerous.”

“I know,” Finrod sighed. “I believe I might have to discontinue the practice soon. By the grace the Valar, none of the children have ever been hurt -- but the world grows more and more dangerous. Even a scrap of paper might be our undoing.”

“I meant,” Curufin said acidly, “the practice of said children’s parents to dress up when their little darlings are in bed, and get up to no amount of mischief.”

“Nonsense! It is only a masquerade,” Finrod said. Then he gave Curufin a smile that was not quite sly. “Or do you fear for Celebrimbor’s sensibilities?”

“He is not a child,” Curufin said. “And I doubt he will notice any commotion outside his forge.”

“It is true,” Finrod said, “he is a very serious boy. But what of his father -- will he notice?”

“You will have to see,” Curufin murmured and looked away.

*

It was the time of night when the dancing grew feverish, and the fires burned high and bright. The wine was especially good, for the king's uncle had sent in many casks of the finest Doriathrim wine, sweetened and fortified with spices beyond what Beleriand could offer. It flowed freely, until it seemed that there was no one who was not affected.

Indeed, everything took on the quality of a dream -- or a nightmare. Curufin shruggled away from a mass of bodies, the air already rank with sweat and smoke. He had lost sight of Finrod -- it seemed that half the room had decided to come as peacocks.

Celegorm he had seen for moment or two, explaining to a befuddled person (who was dressed as a peacock), that he was not wearing a massive wolf’s head cloak as a costume of any sort, but rather, it was just something he wore at times.

Orodreth, the poor fool, had chosen to dress as a horse and spend most of his time hugging the wall. He caught Curufin’s look of derision as he passed and threw his head back -- an unconscious gesture, perhaps, but a telling one.

Curufin smiled and went on.

He did not have to look for Finrod long -- or perhaps it was Finrod who found him. They clasped each other’s hand briefly, as cousins might do, and then separated just as quickly. Finrod wore the Nauglamír, and the glitter of the jewels, beautiful, maddening, seemed to wrest all attention from his fair form.

Think of how magnificent it would be if a Silmaril was placed there, Curufin thought, with a flash of insight. Or three.

Such thoughts made his blood run hot, and so he turned all of his attention to Finrod. “Cousin,” he said sweetly, “is there not somewhere you wish to show me? I remember you speaking of it, in days past.”

Finrod’s expression cleared. “So I did. Come with me.”

They left the ballroom together, deaf to the noise and music that followed their steps.

*

Down and down they went, past the living quarters where sometimes the light of the sun could be seen from skylights overhead, down past the kitchens and armories, past the forges and storehouses, past even the dungeons, until they were so deep in the bowels of Nargothrond that even Curufin felt the first inklings of fear.

Finrod carried with him a silver flask, which he offered to Curufin as they made their long and gloomy way downward. The liquor was strong and unmixed with water and Curufin thought that with another, less sturdy specimen than himself, it would be easy to fall into a stupor. Still he exclaimed over it, saying to Finrod, "Is this from your woodland kin?"

"In a way," Finrod agreed.

The way was dark and narrow, lit by faint blue lamps that seemed not to illuminate so much as give some character to the dark. Finrod did not seem to need light, but Curufin did not, either. He would just rather have had it. It seemed as if their trek would never end. But end it did -- their destination was a little grotto at the end of the long, winding steps. The walls of the grotto glittered strangely and when Curufin reached out to touch them, he found to his surprise, the cool touch of metal against his fingertips.

They were many chains, all very fine and delicately wrought, but each was welded to a pair of manacles -- and a collar -- and hung above their heads. Curufin's eyes sought Finrod's in the dark.

"This is certainly a new side of you, cousin," Curufin said with a smirk. “Are they special, in any way?”

"They are," Finrod said, with a particular, bright look in his eye that Curufin recognized. Soon he launched into a detailed explanation of the properties on these particular chains, which -- he said -- responded in part to the will of their maker. Curufin leaned against them and they made a faint, metallic hum.

“You must show me how you have done this,” he said, looking up and seeing nothing but darkness. “It strikes me as particularly useful, in this day and age.”

“Indeed,” Finrod agreed, pushing Curufin's back against the wall. "Shall I give you a demonstration?”

“Absolutely,” Curufin said, with a feral grin. He could not help but admire the way the chains stretched and undulated to Finrod’s whispered commands. In his pocket, he found the flask again, and feeling extraordinarily thirsty, Curufin drank it down. Afterward, his head was still extremely clear, though the room swam somewhat.

In the gloom, Finrod seemed the brightest thing possible, his peacock finery gone -- strange that Curufin should not notice! -- and the Nauglamír throwing off reflections whenever he moved. After a while, it seemed natural that they kiss -- softly at first, but then rougher, with a hint of teeth.

When they broke away, Finrod took a deep breath and stared at Curufin. There was a fey look in his eyes that made something inside Curufin twist and sigh.

"I dream," Finrod said, grinding his hips against Curufin.

"What else is new?" Curufin gasped, aroused.

“It is different,” Finrod said, “I dream of different ways that my city will fall. Through fire, flood -- through you.”

“Oh? Me? What would I do?” Curufin felt the chains surround him, their metallic scent sharp. His heart hammered in his chest, but he could not move away.

Finrod leaned against him, kissed his ear and whispered, "In all of them, I see you betray me."

“Oh, yes,” Curufin gasped. “But surely you knew that I would?”

“I knew. And I accept it for myself. But what of my city? And its people? No," Finrod said, shaking his head. “I cannot let that happen.”

“You would be a kinslayer in heart if not deed, if you were cast me and my kin out,” Curufin hissed.

“They have no power over me, not here, Curufinwë,” Finrod said and Curufin gave a brief, mirthless laugh.

“Of course, cousin. If you can believe it.”

The chains now embraced Curufin now with the urgency of a lover. He did not struggle against them, instead, he was still as the manacles rounded his wrist, the collar his throat. He closed his eyes and smiled.

He felt Finrod’s touch -- and that of the chains -- against his skin, caressed and then the scratch of his fingernails. He was held firm, his feet resting on nothing but air, but he did not choke, not yet. Finrod chuckled, teasing him, but every time Curufin felt close to coming, Finrod would withdraw a little, enough to leave Curufin unsatisfied.

In frustration, Curufin spat out, “Enough of these damn games! I need you.”

And eventually, Finrod took pity on him, and let him come. It was anticlimactic, to be sure -- but then again, Curufin himself had never hesitated to deny his lovers. But Finrod, of course, would never do such a thing.

Curufin recovered, he found that he was still held fast by the chains. Meanwhile, Finrod had begun to pick up the discarded clothes from the floor.

Curufin blinked, and muttered, “Let me down, Findaráto.”

Finrod looked up and shook his head.

Curufin began to struggle. “This is a stupid joke, Findaráto--”

“Goodbye, Curufinwë,” Finrod said, taking his hand and kissing it. Then he turned and pressed a stone at the side of the door. Grindingly, it closed behind him, until there was not a speck of light remaining.

Curufin shouted after Finrod, “My brother will notice my absence, you know!”

Finrod’s voice came back to him faintly, “I can handle him.”

Eventually, the sound of Finrod’s footsteps stopped. TEven in the pitch-dark, the shadows grew around Curufin.

"Findaráto!" he cried, "this isn't funny anymore!”

There was no answer. He tried pulling free from the chains, but if they had been malleable before, they stood fast now, inexorable. The air grew still and warm around him, pressing against him as surely as the chains did.

Curufin muttered a curse.

*

The next morning, Curufin was slightly late for breakfast.

Celegorm looked up from feeding bits of sausage to Huan and grinned at him. “Late night, brother?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Curufin said crisply. He looked sharply over at Celebrimbor, who was slouching in his chair. “Sit up straight, Tyelpë.”

Celebrimbor made a face, but was saved from making a comment by the arrival of Finrod. Finrod looked very well and accepted Celegorm’s invitation to dine with them.

After a long, tense silence on his side, Curufin said to him, “Cousin, I was thinking of a rather horrid tradition that Men have, of walling up their criminals -- Carnistir wrote to me about it, he can tell you all about it, he’s fascinated by that sort of thing --”

“And you wondered what would happen if that happened to an Elf?” Finrod said, buttering his bread.

“Of course, we are not so delicate as they are,” Curufin said, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

“But we still need to breathe, to eat and drink,” Finrod said. “I have always longed for the opportunity to question Maitimo at length about the details of his captivity, but --” He shrugged helplessly. Celegorm looked faintly indignant. Curufin smiled blandly.

“Perhaps it is best not to ask,” he said.

“No doubt,” Finrod said.

“Well,” Celebrimbor said, getting up, “I’m for the forge.”

Hurriedly, Curufin said, “I’ll join you.” He ignored Celebrimbor’s displeased look and let his son go on ahead.

“You have hardly touched your breakfast,” Finrod protested but Curufin waved him away. He was half-way down the hall when he head Finrod say, "Curufinwë, wait! Are you going to the masquerade tonight?”