Whatever Betide by sallysavestheday

Whatever Betide

The tale of Edrahil’s love is danced in silence.

All through their youth in Tree-lit Valinor, he stands at Finrod’s shoulder, carrying and keeping and consoling, advising gently when his Prince treads too far down a reckless path, following after to make amends with the offended when his guidance is refused. His sobriety balances Finrod’s sparkle, grounds his flights of fancy, eases him down from the highs of music and merriment and ebullient thought that would otherwise leave him drifting unaware through the streets of Tirion and Alqualondë, trailing a pack of worshippers and less-savory hangers on.

Ever the faithful servant, Edrahil keeps his own devotion quiet. He tucks it away with Finrod’s shirts and hose and robes of state, unspools it as he patiently disentangles his Prince’s jewelry after parties and concerts and playful outings with his wild cousins or his insouciant friends. He wraps it around every goblet of wine and mug of morning-after remedy, folds it into picnic blankets and cloaks and parasols and sheets. He binds it into bouquets and nosegays, breathing words of tenderness softly over the blossoms when no one can see.

His caution attunes him to danger; it gives him a keen sense of risk. As Melkor’s machinations begin to ripple through their sheltered world, Edrahil seeks out Maedhros with a warning and a request: he knows the House of Fëanor is crafting weapons; will they train him in their use? Once he is proficient, he takes his Prince aside and quietly passes that knowledge on. Finrod’s strength and grace and fluent ability with steel ease Edrahil’s worries. The salt tang and tension of their training satisfies his cravings as much as he will ever allow. A touch to correct his Prince’s form, a sweet bruise earned fairly…these small intimacies fill the purse of his love to overflowing. He counts that silver nightly in his dreams.

In Exile, they fight back-to-back, secure in each other’s rhythms even when they battle in the dark. Edrahil is Finrod’s captain, now, and the buoyant Prince’s spirit counterweights itself with Edrahil’s seriousness, his dry, self-deprecating wit. Edrahil treasures the time they spend together, assessing and planning and calculating, gold hair and black tangling over map tables, fingers brushing and breath warm on each other’s cheeks as they move their counters over the rough outlines of this country they must somehow come to know as home. It is enough. It must always be enough.

The caverns beckon – a grand adventure. The brilliant Prince is elevated to a graceful King. Nargothrond blossoms with Finrod’s vision; it is kept safe by Edrahil’s care. In the stillness of the night watches, he polishes Finrod’s armor, halfway to dreaming as he works the hinges and oils the plates. Each touch is a caress, a blessing. He runs his loving fingers over the joints of elbow and knee, smooths the chilly curves of the protective steel, imagines the warmth of Finrod’s skin in the vulnerable openings of the throat, the ankle, the hip. He sings, low and tender, where no one will hear him. Each verse is a charm of protection, a spell of concealment, a plea for mercy, for time.

There is no question of him remaining when Finrod follows Beren. It is a lost cause, he knows. Doom rides with them. But his King holds his heart, and he will not send him into the dark alone.

In the gloom of the tower, when all song has failed, Finrod strains against his chains and finds Edrahil’s battered face with his own ragged fingers. He traces Edrahil’s mouth with silent tenderness – the whole world and a lifetime in one sweet caress.

Edrahil tastes the grief and yearning on Finrod’s bloody fingers. He turns his head as the wolves begin to howl again, and pours kiss after kiss after kiss into the cracked cup of his beloved's hand.

Chapter End Notes

If you need a happy ending, read Now, I'm Found. :)