This Shadow will not Endure by Rocky41_7

This Shadow will not Endure

Read This Shadow will not Endure

There were times still that Finrod struggled to anchor himself in the moment. Moments when it felt he was watching or hearing things happening to someone else, not to himself. In the worst of these moments, he could hear instead the echo of Sauron’s voice in the back of his mind like nails scraping through his flesh, feel the coarse weight of chains against his wrists, feel the wetness of his men’s blood against his hands; in these moments, he flailed mentally to grip something present to reassure himself that he was not still a prisoner of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, simply being tormented with a vision of peace he would never know again. In the less extreme, he felt only adrift, curiously watching a scene play out in front of him without actually being a part of it.

He had a sense Amarië was beginning to draw on this. She had a knack for touching his hand whenever he was sitting or standing there, nodding along, appearing—or doing his best to appear—attentive, while his mind distanced itself from what was going on around him.

“Ingoldo?” she said, her fingers delicate against the back of his hand. He experienced these things: first, the touch of Amarië’s hand, breaking through the fog around him; second, the sound of her voice, suddenly clear where before it had been as if spoken through a door; last, the rustle of the leaves beyond the window, drawing him back into the world as if he had been holding his breath but now drew in again.

“Yes?” he said, refraining from shaking his head, as if that would make his voice sound more like his own.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked. Atya had called him “distracted.” He didn’t mean it badly—and it was true. But it felt like such a light word for the preoccupations of Finrod’s mind, even now, years out from his return to Aman.

Finrod observed the room.

Amarië’s front room faced the garden with wide windows and the flowering bushes she had planted outside offered just enough privacy from passers-by; the sunlight filtered through the playfully waving leaves to throw dappled shadows over the front room floor, reaching up to where they sat on the couch to speckle their feet and illuminate the side of her face nearest to the window, lighting up the port wine mark that darkened nearly half her face. On the shelves were a mix of Amarië’s things and gifts from friends—if he had cared to, Finrod was sure he could have placed certain gifts with certain friends merely by the mark of their particular artistry. Behind him, behind the side door that connected Amarië’s apartment to the rest of the house, where dwelt her parents, along with her older brother and his husband, the rest of the family was being too quiet to hear. The room was warm, almost perfectly so—he felt entirely comfortable in his light robes.

“You,” he said. A smile twitched on Amarië’s lips. Today she was dressed in pale pinks and yellows, which complemented her complexion and made him think of the tulip beds laid out around the Fountain of Falling Stars downtown.

“Thinking of me, but not listening to me?” she said. Finrod attempted a smile, but his eyes slid away from her to the floor. “I am perfectly devastated, Ingoldo, that you are not riveted by the updates on my sewing circle.” She waived off his distractibility in a way that made it easier for him to brush it aside, and for this he was always grateful. They both played pretend he had some other reason for being absent, because it did grow so wearisome to keep falling back on the same reasons.

“I am interested,” he insisted, looking at her once more. “Tell me again.”

“Oh no, it was dull enough to go through it the first time,” she laughed. “Even I don’t care to share it again. Suffice to say one of my friends is terribly upset about nothing, but it will pass quickly.”

There was a moment then when he looked at her and debated pressing the issue, insisting she should share anyway, while Amarië considered whether to press the issue of his distraction and insist he tell her what he was really thinking about.

“Do you remember that time we went camping with Turukáno and Elenwë?” she asked instead, and was rewarded with the smile that tugged at Finrod’s lips.

“I assume you mean the time Elenwë got us lost? How could I forget?” he said.

“The same way you forgot the cover to our tent, I imagine,” said Amarië, which earned her a deeply wounded and awfully exaggerated look.

“The weather was supposed to be clear,” he said, as he had said all night through the hail as they huddled the four of them in a tent made for two. “Do you remember how you traded places with Elenwë in the night?”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” she exclaimed. “I only got up in the night and she must have rolled over when I was out…I do remember Turukáno’s face when he woke up in the morning holding me instead of her!” They both laughed and Amarië felt something light and tight in her chest at what seemed to her to be the clearing of clouds off Finrod’s face.

“I do think if it had been anyone but you, that response would have been quite a bit more energetic,” Finrod snickered. Amarië never would have been so well-acquainted with Turgon but for Finrod’s bringing them together so often.

“I think the tent might’ve taken a tumble. You and Elenwë could’ve been more help,” she pointed out, as she had before.

“We thought you two could sort it out,” Finrod said with a smile closer to the loose, easy manner he used to carry before the sky had gone dark. But just as readily, there slipped into his gaze a drop of sorrow that had not been there before and Amarië’s heart sank. Mentioning Turgon was always a gamble—Finrod delighted in memories of his oldest and dearest friend, a cousin who was like a brother to him, but he also grieved their long separation and that he no longer knew Turgon’s fate in Middle-earth. She shifted nearer to him on the couch, laying a hand on his leg, crooked under him so they could sit facing each other.

“I haven’t been camping in quite a while now,” she hinted.

“Perhaps we should go,” he said.

“While the weather is nice!” she agreed.

“The weather is always nice here,” Finrod said with a faint chuckle that was somehow wearier she would have otherwise expected. He fell silent and Amarië took his hand and rubbed it between her fingers. He squeezed her fingers in response and after a moment, his gaze returned to her. He reached out and smoothed a few loose strands of hair back behind her ear and Amarië caught this hand too, and turned to press a kiss against his palm.

“Only if you wish to go,” she said. “There are many things for us to rediscover here; I would not be terribly picky.”

“Neither would I,” he said, feeling his heartbeat more acutely at the touch of her lips. “I will go anywhere you like.” As long as I am permitted, he didn’t add. He didn’t need to—not when his own mother was still avoiding him on the basis of the slaughter at the Swanhaven. No one in Valmar or Alqualondë wanted to see him; a great many in Tirion didn’t either, but they didn’t have the option to refuse him entry, certainly not when Finarfin sat the throne of the high king.

“Always so accommodating,” said Amarië with a playful smile, leaning in nearer. “And if I wished to remain right where we are? Right here?” She watched his expression.

“Then I would wish to remain here as well,” he said, curling his fingers around her hand. He wanted to say he would always prefer to be where she was, but it seemed like a hollow sentiment after he’d spent nearly six hundred years apart from her by his own choice. So he said nothing.

“Good,” said Amarië, and she kissed him.

They had kissed since he had been home—since they had realized neither of them had ever moved to break their engagement—but it had not gone much further than that. Finrod’s recovery had been a slow process and neither of them wished to rush anything, and there were moments he simply found being touched at all intolerable. He hated that—hated that Sauron even now could make his skin crawl at the touch of his beloved.

Now, though—now Amarië’s kiss chased away the last of the shadows muddying the edges of his mind and he leaned into it, breathing in with delight the smell of her hair and the perfumes she wore. She had no plans to make it a quick affair either—she moved nearer, pushing him back against the seat of the couch so they were clumsily piled half on top of each other, and her mouth parted against his. He opened too, readily welcoming her and one hand moved up to brush over her face and delve back into her strawberry blonde hair, though he made an effort not to make a mess of her braids.

When finally she drew back for air, she gazed down at him and Finrod felt tremulous: as though she made him into some delicate, wobbly thing which could be crushed with no effort at all. He wanted to throw himself at her; he wanted to hide under a quilt; he wanted to stop feeling that his emotions were some runaway cart perpetually out of his control.

“My sunshine boy,” she said softly, stroking his cheek. This was something new—she had not had the notion of sunshine before, when the had been first engaged. It would have been more appropriate then, he thought with chagrin. But before he could let these doubts dig in, Amarië was kissing him again and he made a sound in his throat like an animal whimper. Amarië pressed closer to him, warm and heavy on top of him and he gripped her waist to keep her there until she shivered and he could feel that she was becoming aroused.

“Amarië,” he started when they broke apart again, catching their breath, their lips flushed and swollen.

“Yes?” she said. Finrod looked stupidly at her, wondering what the devil he had meant to say, if anything. He was grateful these days for a single thought in his head he could put to words. Was it out of place to tell her he wanted her never to let go of him again (impracticalities aside, of course)?

“I missed you,” he said at last. Amarië’s face broke into a smile.

“I missed you too, silly thing,” she replied, and when she pounced on him again he surged up to meet her, heat welling up in his gut and sinking lower. Amarië shifted again and he pulled her to straddle one of his legs, where he could clearly feel her growing hard. She drew her knee up further and Finrod could not help but moan as she brushed against his groin. Amarië responded by pressing down more against his hip and he nipped at her lower lip, aching, aching.

“Findaráto,” she said breathlessly and the sound made him throb; he grabbed the back of her head and dragged her into another kiss; if she had something that must be said, she would have to make more of an effort—but apparently she did not, for she simply sank greedily into his kiss.

He was present, he was here; there were no voices; there were no sounds but his own increasingly desperate noises of arousal and Amarië’s heavy breathing; there was nothing but her hands on his chest, and—and—

Amarië’s hand had found its way between his legs and he gasped sharply as she palmed against him, unable to control the instinctive jerking of his hips towards her hand. It felt—perhaps it was an effect of the Halls?—it felt as if it had been lifetimes since anyone had touched him. Encouraged by this response, Amarië wriggled her hand down the front of his undershorts and drew out his cock, stroking him breathless, turning him incoherent with half-stifled whines and whimpers.

“Amarië,” he implored, for what he didn’t know. “Amarië.” He was shivering. “Oh.”

“Do you want me to?” she asked softly. She had not offered up ‘til then; she had wished to let him take everything at his own pace, once she had seen how delicate he was on his return.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, yes, please. I need you.” That he felt bone-deep, as if for that moment, she was the only thing holding him together. Her hand stilled and she fell on him in another kiss; Finrod pulled her firmly into his lap and her weight on him was something divine; how could he think about anything else now? “Do you have…?”

“I do,” she panted, drawing back. “But not here; I haven’t locked the side door.”

This revelation resulted in Finrod immediately snapping his head around as if Amarië’s mother and father were like to burst through the door at once, and Amarië laughed.

“Remembering our close calls?” she teased.

“Do not make me think of that now,” he reprimanded her feebly, with no desire to relive young adulthood and the handful of times his up-until-then flawless image in the eyes of her parents had nearly been shattered by catching them necking somewhere in the house. Not that it had been much prior to their engagement, but still. Finrod, as a prince of the Noldor, had an image to uphold (a notion all the more bitterly amusing now).

“Come on,” she said, rising to her feet and pulling him along after. He pinned her against the wall near her bedroom door and kissed her senseless; Amarië put her hand between his legs again and he couldn’t stop himself from rutting into her touch, his face flushed, ready to fuck her hand if she would let him; he was not in a position to be choosy. If she wasn’t careful, he was going to finish before they got to do anything more.

But Amarië, this time, had the more sense of the two of them, and herded him into her room (and locked the door) before she started peeling his clothes off like he was a particularly delectable kind of fruit. Her hands roamed over his ribs, his chest, his shoulders; he wanted to press her fingers through his flesh and wrap them around his heart. Instead, he got to work on the fastenings of her robe, making relatively rote work of undressing her. For a moment then they just stood and looked at each other, as if walking onto a long-remembered road and trying to recall exactly where to go. Finrod was relieved that his hands did not tremble when he reached for her; when his hands slid over her pert little breasts and cupped them; when his lips met her throat, her neck, her collarbone; when he drew her against him and felt her squirm with her growing arousal it felt so simple, so easy: easier than walking through the front door on his first day back in Tirion.

One hand slid down over her hip to stroke her, rewarded with her hot hardness in his hand, with the way she twitched into his touch with a soft noise of satisfaction, a kind of sigh, as if she was receiving something she had been waiting for, leaning just a touch against him until he let go of her.

“Look at you,” he sighed, drawing his fingers from her throat down to her bellybutton. “Many wonders have I seen the world over, and all would I trade for a last look at you.”

“Then sound a little more joyful about it,” she teased, scratching at the nest of brown curls around the base of him. “Or have I not earned a portion of your joy?”

That brought a wry smile to his lips.

“I am duly chastised,” he said. “My joy in Valinor has most often its source in you. Let me make it up to you.” His hands moved almost reverently down her sides, then back to her ass, to squeeze and pull her nearer; he wanted to trace over every inch of her with fingers and lips and tongue, but he knew he would not last long enough for that, not now.

We have time, he reminded himself forcefully. We have time, we have time.

“Lay down,” Amarië instructed, pushing him back towards the bed.

She got the oil from where it was tucked coquettishly behind various creams and perfumes on top of her dresser and took in the sight of her beloved on the bed, Finrod the Fair, all golden hair and golden limbs and a shadow in his eyes she had never known before his return. She wanted to shout it away; to chase it out of this space that should be theirs, that should be sacred, and not a shelter for Finrod’s torments.

He had not told her how he’d died, not yet. Only that it involved a promise he refused to break.

She was gentle with her fingers; she was always gentle, and Finrod could weep about it (and once, when he’d been drunk, he had). Nevertheless, she was quick, guessing correctly she could not string him out much at all that day. Even so, he was writhing impatiently on the bed as subtly as he could manage by the time she got herself in position. (She knew him well enough to recognize both his impatience and when he was trying to hide it.)

“Are you ready?” she asked and he nodded quickly, looking up at her with those big brown doe-eyes for which she’d been weak since she was ten years old. There was a helpless vulnerability in him there, like he would not or could not hide that he was putting himself so much into her hands; it was a kind of courage, she supposed, but she and Finrod had always made these gestures so easy between them it had never seemed to stand out before.

Amarië smiled and took his hand and kissed his fingers, and then she entered him. Slow, slow, even though she had prepared him for this, because it had been a long time for him, and she didn’t want even a hint of pain. Her breathing grew labored and she restrained herself to the pace she had set; she had forgotten how good it felt to be inside him. She didn’t know if there was something particular about Finrod’s body, or if it was just that her affection for him rendered her particularly sated by his hröa. Looking at his face didn’t make it easier to control herself: he had a knit between his brows and his blush streaked vividly across his cheekbones and he was making these tiny noises as she pressed in like she was cracking him apart at the seams. When she bottomed out he let out a moan, reaching up to bite on his knuckle and Amarië drew in a quick breath, her fingers twisting up in the sheets.

“Alright?” she checked. “Are you ready?” Finrod made a high-pitched wordless whine and nodded, his hips twitching, his cock flushed and achingly hard. “Do you want this?”

“Please,” Finrod begged, a slight arch in his back as if he could urge her deeper. She leaned down to kiss him and he gasped at the pressure of her weight on his need; she swallowed that noise into her kiss and stroked his thigh.

“I’ve got you,” she promised softly, drawing back enough to look down into those warm brown eyes.

Finrod gave a shaky nod and cupped her cheek and gave her a quick kiss.

“I’ve got you too,” he murmured. She let them stay that way a moment, putting aside the animal need whining in her flesh, before she repositioned and began to thrust into him. The breaking cry that Finrod let out at that first thrust made her dizzy and she had to fight the urge to move faster, harder. She kept it slow and deep for now, and it seemed to be right, for Finrod was shuddering apart already, whimpering and moaning under his breath, his hips jerking clumsily up against hers.

“Do I need to make you turn over, Ingoldo?” she teased when his juddering motions interrupted her rhythm. He only gazed wide-eyed up at her and she kissed him gently, raking her nails lightly down his chest. “No, I would see your face today,” she declined quietly, stroking his cheek. She kissed him again and picked up her movement until Finrod was gripping the sheets as if trying not to fall from a great height, his breathing coming trembling and uneven, his cock leaking as desperate little noises spilled endlessly past his lips.

The world was Amarië and her sparkling eyes and the wobble of her breasts and her cock striking at his core again and again and her hand caressing—on his thigh, on his hip, his chest, his shoulder. The whole of Eä was condensed into how she looked at him as if—as if—as if she were in love still, even now, with him as he was. Without warning, Finrod climaxed, punctuated with short little gasps as pleasure rolled over him in shockwaves, leaving him limp and dazed on the bed.

Amarië thrust a few more times, but she saw how he flinched at this contact, over-sensitive now that he had finished, and she pulled out, using her hand instead. Finrod pushed himself up with one hand, and the other curled over hers, so together they brought her off until she too, spilled her seed across his belly with a low moan. The room was filled with the sound of their panting.

Amarië leaned in and kissed Finrod back down onto the mattress and then curled up against his side, laying her head on his chest.

“I will tell you,” she sighed, “my dreams did not recollect you nearly as well as I imagined they did.” They’d made rather a mess of dear Finrod, but she made no move to peel away from him to trouble herself with any cleaning; the sound of Finrod’s heartbeat was a blanket pulled around her shoulders she had been too long without. She rested a hand against his sternum, her thumb stroking the warmth of his skin.

There was a noise he made, which wasn’t quite right, and she knew it at once, before the shudder went through him and his breathing changed, so when she pushed herself up on one elbow and saw that he was crying, she was alarmed, but not surprised.

“Findaráto?” she asked, at once all anxiety and trying not to show it too much. “Did I hurt you?” she fretted. Choked, Finrod shook his head vigorously, covering his mouth with one hand.

“No,” he whispered, strained. “I—no, you did nothing wrong.” He struggled upright, wiping aggressively at his eyes. “I don’t know—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!” she exclaimed. “Is—is something wrong?” The question made her feel like an idiot, when Finrod was in tears in her bed; her stomach twisted in the way it did when she stepped off the stairs thinking there was one more step than there was. It was the first time they had—since he had been back and—Eru, had she been awfully, awfully selfish? Amarië reached out to touch his back, and then thought maybe Finrod would not want to be touched by her then and drew back.

“I should apologize,” she said softly. “Perhaps it was too soon for this.”

“No!” Finrod burst out, rubbing his forearm against his eyes like he could scrub the tears away. “I wanted this. I wanted this with you.” He looked over at her, glassy-eyed, with that worried furrow between his eyes she saw too often anymore and a tightness in his jaw.

“Still,” she said, carefully placing a hand on his arm. “Perhaps we were…too eager.” Finrod shook his head again, breathing slowly and deliberately, trying to regain a semblance of calm. “Do you want to talk about it?” she suggested after a moment.

“I can’t!” The frustration in his voice struck at her heart. “I don’t understand. Everything was fine—it was—but then—” He made a wordless sound of aggravation and doubled over, covering his eyes with his hands.

This time Amarië did put her hand on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. It rent her heart: her sunshine, her daffodil, her shoot of Laurelin to be so aggrieved and bowed with woe and haunted by phantoms and ghoulish memories she couldn’t begin to understand. Sliding an arm around him, Amarië leaned against his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, Ingoldo.” She stroked his hair awkwardly from her position and kissed his bare shoulder. “I’ve got you.” When they had paused there a few moments, she said: “Why don’t we lie down a while, hm?” She scratched her nails lightly over his back and re-arranged the pillows so she could lay comfortably back against the headboard, then gestured him over. Finrod lay down alongside her, head somewhere between her chest and her shoulder, and she carded her fingers through his thick golden waves. Frustration and embarrassment lingered in Finrod’s silence. She was not used to his having things to be embarrassed about around her.

“Tell me something about Endor?” she said. This was a prompt she used often when he lapsed into brooding silence or wistful looks; if she had to guess, she would say he was homesick. He had a whole (growing) journal of notes on his time there, for a purpose he had not yet revealed, perhaps on which he had not yet decided. It pleased her to see him with a project; it was good to have his mind focused on something.

Finrod considered her question as he usually did, careful in his selected response. Amarië guessed he painted a very pretty picture of Middle-earth—she did not understand, how he could speak so lovingly of a place which had left him shattered into so many pieces. But maybe she didn’t need to understand—maybe it was enough to listen.

“In many places in Endor, there are four seasons, very distinct and much harsher than here,” he said at last. “In winter, most of the plants die and many animals go to sleep—” There was no word for ‘hibernation’ in Quenya, “—during the coldest parts. There is snow, sometimes many feet deep even away from the mountains, and it falls like a blanket so that when you walk outside, the world feels almost silent. You must rely on stockpiled food or you will be very hungry. It is a time of danger for mortals especially, as they are more susceptible to cold than we are. Every year many of them will perish. So when the weather warms and spring comes, and the plants and animals return, there is much rejoicing. The peoples of Middle-earth, particularly the Atani and Quendi, have many celebrations for the changing of the seasons, and we did not wonder why, when we had seen them for ourselves.”

“You liked spring there, then?”

“I liked all the seasons,” said Finrod. “Each of them has its own risks, but also its own beauty. I liked to ride out into the woods during the winter and see the snow-laden branches of the trees and the places where ice covered the river. I liked coming back to sit by the fire and have mulled wine and take stock of our reserves.” He snuggled against her and she felt their combined fluid wet against her side. He did not say that he disliked traveling more than a few miles from home or over the plains in winter where the snow seemed to stretch out endlessly or staying out until his toes grew numb because of what it made him remember. He did not mention Elenwë then.

Amarië scratched her nails against his scalp, cradling his head against her.

“I wish I could have seen it,” she said honestly. Finrod hesitated.

“There is much in Endor I would have shared with you,” he said softly. “But there is much else I am glad you never had cause to suffer.”

“Still,” she murmured, and they both lay unhappy in their choices. Finrod’s arm tightened over her and he pressed his face against her breast and Amarië held him closer. Then he said:

“You should not have waited for me.”

Once, she would have said she had a good guess at what was going on in Finrod’s head at any given moment. Not for certain, for no one could ever be certain of Finrod’s mind but Finrod himself, and he had more control over himself than most gave him credit for. At times now she felt she grasped at that closeness, but too often it felt there was a shade between them and sometimes it seemed to her that he was crying out to her about something she couldn’t hear.

But her thoughts on this particular statement were the same no matter what had brought it on.

“Findaráto,” she sighed, “I am sick to death of being told what I should and shouldn’t do, so don’t you start. I have made my choices, the good and the bad, and I will live with them as I may. You worry about your own choices. And,” she added, “if you think my parents did not already make a titanic effort to convince me to put you aside and choose another betrothal elsewhere, you are as optimistic as anyone has ever given you credit for.”

“Did they?” Finrod asked, sounding sweetly, naively surprised.

“Of course they did,” she said. “You remember how upset they were about the rebellion. I couldn’t have been too quick about it.”

“Mm.” Finrod made a chagrined noise. “That does explain a few things.” Amarië cringed.

“I will give my apologies for whatever it is they’ve done,” she said.

“You needn’t,” Finrod said. “I will be the last to advocate the necessity of apologizing for the actions of family members; I would never stop.” Amarië snorted and then wondered if perhaps he hadn’t meant that to be funny, but Finrod huffed as well and made some watery noise of amusement. He drew back from her to look on her face and she tried desperately to read his eyes. I knew you once as I knew myself, she thought. I will know you again. No shadow of Endor nor evil of Moringotto will keep you from me.

She had made a vow once, at twenty-two, that someday she would have Finrod Finarfinion to husband, and to that vow she held still (though Finrod had been asleep at the time she declared it).

“I missed you,” he said very quietly. Amarië bit her lower lip, her throat tightening and it seemed to her those three spare words carried a great deal.

“I missed you too,” she said. For several moments, they said nothing else, and then Finrod drew a hand up her thigh, too soft to be suggestive.

“I want you to know that I—please don’t take my response today as—I wanted to be with you. I still do. Right now everything is…” Again, the furrow of his brow, this uncertainty so unfamiliar to her in his manner, “…complicated. But complicated does not necessarily mean bad,” he added quickly. “If there was a problem, I would tell you. You…you know how you ease my fëa. Home isn’t home without you.” His voice grew softer still. “I trust you with all things, Amarië.”

Amarië nodded, finding herself unexpectedly reassured.

“I trust you,” she said. “Don’t let me hurt you, Ingoldo.” He nodded and lay back down, and Amarië resettled so they lay face-to-face. “Tell me more about the spring celebrations,” she said, tracing her fingers over his chest.

A smile crossed over his face.

“In some of the Mannish villages, they would crown the most beautiful youths in wreaths of flowers, so I am certain if you had been born a Man you would have received many such crowns…”

Amarië smiled too, and let Finrod talk until she could almost smell the cider and taste the honey-cakes of springtime, and they lay under the comforting blanket fortress of their stories as when they were children, and for a beautiful while, there was nothing else outside of that.

---

Chapter End Notes

Finrod is going to get around to writing the entire library of academic literature on Middle-earth for Tirion's university, just wait and see.

Amarie's promise is a reference to this little fic of mine.

I wrote this instead of studying but I know how to prioritize fr

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