Between Ruinous Dusk and Restless Dawn by queerofthedagger

As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. 
To forget / we built this house knowing / it won’t last.
How / does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands? / 
— Ocean Vuong

*

It is late by the time Finrod closes his bag. He is still not entirely satisfied with the contents, but there are only so many times one can repack for an impossible quest before it starts to feel ludicrous.

His rooms are dim in the torchlight, already tidied up again, and if he did not know better, nothing would look out of place.

He knows, though. It makes all the difference, becoming visible in the details—the simple clothes he is wearing, the empty desk, his jewellery on the dressing table, glittering like a taunt. The empty spot where his crown should rest.

Finrod turns away from it all and pushes the doors open. Nargothrond’s corridors are empty, but anticipation hangs heavy in the air, a shivering nervousness that almost has a taste. He does not ignore it so much as that he knows there is nothing he can do about it—could not, these last few days, leading up to tonight. Can certainly no longer, his pack ready, his few companions most likely as sleepless as he is.

His feet carry him down to the forges of their own volition. It is quiet here as well, but he knows he will find the one person he is looking for.

Why, he cannot say, although then, that is untrue. Then, he had known better for the entire ten years of his cousin’s stay here, and it has not once stopped him—always pulled in by the gravity of him, always telling himself that surely, surely he would recognise when to stop.

He had not. He still stands in the open door of Curufin’s forge, unnoticed for now, and drinks the sight down, letting it soothe the sharp burn of regret that flares alongside the familiar longing.

It has always been at its worst when Curufin was in the forge, so immersed in his work that, for once, he was not analysing and calculating everything around him.

Tonight, he stands bowed over a worktable, hair tied back into a loose braid, sharpening a dagger. Its hilt catches the light, a pattern like snake scales across bronze reflecting it; for a brief, nonsensical moment Finrod wonders if it may be a parting gift, one last convoluted way for Curufin to wish him safe.

He knows better, of course, and even if it was, Finrod can no longer trust such a thing, would not. He had known who he let beneath his roof, all those years ago. He may have forgotten in between—may have wanted to forget—but the writing is on the walls. There is no more room for denial.

The knife is more likely meant for his back than his hands; the last few days have proven it beyond a doubt.

Still. Still, here he is.

“Curufinwë,” he says, and has the rare pleasure of seeing surprise flash across Curufin’s face before it is replaced by polite disinterest.

Curufin’s eyes are very dark as he looks at Finrod. “Cousin,” he says, a first strike. “I did not expect to see you again.” A second.

Finrod steps further into the room and does not rise to the challenge. The one piece of jewellery he kept on his person weighs heavy in his pocket.

“Did you think I would leave without saying goodbye?” he asks, voice soft. It is warm in here from the fires, but Finrod feels cold to the bone. “Despite everything?”

“You are leaving,” Curufin says, as if it is that simple. His eyes track Finrod as carefully as Celegorm does game. Finrod feels like it, too. “Despite everything.”

And they have had this fight a hundred times, ever since Beren arrived—Barahir’s son, Bëor’s descendant, and Finrod does not know how to tell Beren no. Would not know it even if there was no Oath, but amidst all his attempts at explanations and reasons, all the justifications and fury, this is one thing he will not try to explain.

He knows how that would go. He knows how this entire fight goes, knows the arguments and all the things neither of them says. How it burns. Knows how it ends, too, and perhaps that is why he is here, but he wishes they could skip the fight, for once. That they would not have to cut each other to the bone, peel back the skin and flesh until they find something true for a handful of moments.

Still, he says, also for the hundredth time, “I have to. You know that I have to.”

Taking his cue, Curufin’s expression grows hard. He turns away from his workbench to face Finrod, and there are only three steps of space left between them, but they feel as vast as the Ice.

“Poor Ingoldo; no choice but to follow a Man to his death and betray his kin in the process.”

“I made a promise,” Finrod says, and it is useless, so useless. The anger has grown to be a friend though, is what keeps him warm these days, and he is not quite ready yet to let it go. “I expected you of all people to understand the meaning of that.”

“Incomparable,” Curufin says. “And you know it, too.”

In a way, Finrod does. He doubts it is in the way that Curufin is speaking of. “I made a promise. I owe it to him, and who knows, perhaps it will—“

“And do you owe nothing to me, then?”

“As much as you owe me. Did you not make me a promise, too?”

He had not gone there, not before tonight, and Curufin’s eyes flash in response.

“I have sworn you no loyalty, Ingoldo. I owe you no allegiance. Is that what you want? That I kneel for you, forswear my kin and my own vows? To make myself a subject at your feet?”

There are so many things Finrod could say. He flashes his teeth instead, leans in closer. “You do kneel for me so prettily, Atarinkë—“

Curufin makes a noise between incredulous laughter and flaring outrage. In a blink he invades Finrod’s space, wraps a hand into Finrod’s hair and pulls his head back. His height advantage is not great, but right now he is using all of it, eyes glinting with something that makes Finrod’s blood sing.

“Careful—“

“Or what? You will throw me to the dogs? I think you have done so already, and quite thoroughly so.” In a twisted sense, there is freedom in this; the worst has happened. Finrod will leave, and most likely, he will not return. There is nothing left for Curufin to take from him.

Except this. Except them, for whatever that is worth, for whatever they have been. Finrod does not think he was ever sure on that question even during the good times, and by now, there is no point left in asking.

Still. And yet, still.

Curufin watches him, something considerate and careful shining through the cracks. His voice is measured when he says, “What do you want from me, Felagund? Do you not think we have said all there is to be said?”

And that is the truth of it, is it not? Except.

Except, it does not feel like enough. Does not feel like Finrod will be able to bring himself to rise with the dawn tomorrow, to walk out of the kingdom and not look back.

He lets his hand drop from where it found Curufin’s hip, slips it into his pocket. The silver brooch feels heavier still, but he holds it out between, knowing it will only haunt him if he does not.

It is simple, polished silver, but the engravings are delicate, a swirl of poppies, the petals made of red gemstones to match the earrings Curufin wears.

They both look at it, the moment hovering. Finrod tries three times to speak before he can bring his throat to work, to offer it. To say, “I wanted to leave this with you. For you.”

Once, years ago and in the deep of night, Curufin had told him that his earrings represented his son and his wife, and perhaps it is a selfish, deluded, arrogant presumption of Finrod, to put himself among them, but then—

Well, but then, Finrod thinks that they have moved past pretence.

There is symbolism in the choice of flowers, but it is too much to explain. Curufin will know regardless, and perhaps it is wise not to now start saying all those things they have always swallowed.

Curufin’s eyes flick between Finrod and the jewellery as if he is expecting a trick. Finrod waits.

Eventually, Curufin takes it with careful fingers, turning it, tracing the lines. “That is good craftsmanship,” he says, his voice almost, almost, almost soft. “Who made it?”

He knows the answer already, of course; makes Finrod say it regardless. Of course.

“I did. Just because I prefer rock and brimstone does not mean I have forgotten how to make a gift.”

Curufin’s head snaps up, and it is the second time tonight that Finrod has wrought surprise from him, has seen the mask slip. It lingers, this time, something incredulous and jagged revealed underneath. Curufin’s jaw works.

“Stay,” he finally says, the word like torn from him. For all their fighting, for all the vitriol, he had not yet asked—and he does ask, is the thing. It is the reluctance of it that slices through Finrod, that makes him want to flinch back. “Do not go, Ingoldo; you will not return.”

Perhaps the worst part is that right then, tucked away in Nargothrond’s forges, with Curufin’s heat close enough to be a tangible thing, with his silver eyes shining like Telperion in winter, Finrod wants to.

He closes his eyes, inhales. Curls his fingers around Curufin’s hand and closes it around the brooch, not pulling away. When he exhales, he can read his own answer on Curufin’s face, any openness stripped back already.

“I cannot,” he says, and does not apologise.

“You do not want to.”

Before this can turn into another fight, Finrod kisses him, pushing him backwards until Curufin is pressed up against his worktable.

Surprisingly, he goes without protest; pulls away briefly, forehead to Finrod’s without meeting his eyes, and slips the brooch into a pocket of his robes.

He does not thank Finrod, but he leans back in to kiss him again, his fingers slipping into Finrod’s hair with something almost akin to gentleness.

If Finrod let himself, he could drown in it, in the finality of it all. He presses close, digs his fingers into fabric and flesh beneath until he knows he must be leaving bruises—something, anything to leave behind, some semblance of a reminder that means he cannot be forgotten as easily as he has been forsaken.

“I am not going to fuck you in my damn smithy, Felagund,” Curufin says, biting along Finrod’s jaw, down his throat. “Your chambers or mine; take your pick.”

And Finrod should not. He should not have come here tonight, should not let Curufin into his bed once more, as if the last few days have not changed everything between them. But he thinks of his cold chambers, the pack waiting at the foot of his bed, and really, what is there left to lose?

“Yours,” he says, tightening his grip on Curufin’s braid, making him look at Finrod. “Do not think this forgiveness, Curufinwë.”

Curufin’s mouth curls with sardonic amusement, even as his eyes are dark. “I would not dream of it, your Highness.”

Perhaps the worst part, Finrod thinks as they walk down Nargothrond’s empty corridors, is that he still cannot hate Curufin for it. That not even the distance between them, the knowledge of what Finrod is walking into, stops the urge to reach out, trace the familiar features, kiss the sharp mouth that condemns him so.

They are pulling each other back in as soon as the door to Curufin’s rooms falls shut behind them, Curufin walking them over to his bed, pushing Finrod down on it without ceremony. He may pretend that none of this affects him, but his actions betray him—always have. They strip their clothes in an uncoordinated scramble of hands and limbs, leave bruises wherever they touch, wherever their mouths go.

Finrod tastes copper on his tongue, feels too hot in his skin, and still, it is not enough, does not quell the restless want for something—something more, something substantial, something indomitable—burning inside of him.

They are hard against each other and Curufin gets oil from somewhere, but Finrod has no patience left, no desire to let Curufin take the lead tonight of all nights.

He flips them over, plucking the vial from Curufin’s surprised hand. Finrod kisses him, all teeth and hunger, and pours oil over his hands blindly.

“Ingoldo—“ Curufin tries when Finrod wraps his hand around him, slicks Curufin’s cock with rough strokes instead of preparing himself.

“Do not speak,” Finrod demands, except that it sounds horrifyingly close to a plea. Except that it is not what he wants, not truly. Except that Curufin smiles against Finrod’s open mouth, silent lie of obedience, and Finrod feels no further from breaking open than he did at the beginning of the night.

He strokes Curufin a few times, revelling in the change of his breathing, the faint tremor Finrod can feel in his hands, the way his kisses gain a frantic edge. His own impatience keeps him from drawing it out, from taking pleasure in the fact that, despite everything, he can affect him so.

“Ingoldo—“ Curufin tries again when Finrod leans forward, lining himself up; he is unprepared and it has been a while since they have done this, but he does not care. Wants the pain, the burn of it; the way Curufin’s face goes slack, eyes dark as he watches Finrod sink down on his cock, fingers flexing helplessly against Finrod’s hips.

It is going to bruise; Finrod hopes that he will be able to feel it all the way to Angband.

“Did I not tell you not to speak?” Finrod hisses, his voice shaking. It hurts, of course it does; it is the truest thing he has felt in days. He does not stop until he is fully seated, both of them shaking, skin glistening with sweat, the world coming down to nothing but this.

Finrod can tell that Curufin is trying to hold himself still, and something about the consideration, for this, of all things, makes Finrod want to claw at his skin until he draws blood, to bite that beautiful mouth until it is as bruised and ruined as Finrod feels on the inside.

Curufin always revealed most of his true feelings in bed, and tonight, Finrod cannot quite bear it.

He lifts his hips, pulls almost all the way off, and sinks back down in one smooth move. Curufin’s hips buck off the bed and Finrod curses, lets his head fall back; lets himself fall into the rhythm despite the burn, and it is good, so good.

It is still not enough. “Come on, at least try to fuck me like you mean it, will you?”

He is rewarded when Curufin makes a noise deep in his throat, pushing himself up until he is sitting, Finrod in his lap. He buries a hand in Finrod’s loose hair again, pulls sharply enough that Finrod cries out, his head pulled back even as the motion makes Curufin sink deeper into him.

“You always talked too much, Ingoldo,” Curufin hisses, biting a line of burning marks down Finrod’s throat, across his shoulders. He turns them, putting Finrod on his back and pushing his legs up before thrusting back into him with enough force that Finrod feels it all the way up his spine.

Above him, Curufin’s face is finally cracked open, eyes shining and feverish as he lets go of his pretence, of his mask of disinterest, of anything that is not the burning focus that has always made Finrod feel like he was the only thing in the world.

A treacherous idea, and look where it got him; he fists his hand into Curufin’s braid and drags him down, bites his retribution into his mouth, carves it into pale skin with sharp nails—anything, anything to leave a piece of himself behind.

They make a ruin of each other like this, balancing on a precipice of pleasure and pain that should make Finrod want to stop but does the opposite. When he finally tips over the edge, Curufin’s hand around his throat and his entire being shaking apart, he finally believes that he might be able to leave tomorrow and not feel like he is fracturing apart at the seams.

Curufin keeps his pace, unheeding of Finrod’s growing sensitivity until he comes, too, sounds of pleasure as bitten off and swallowed down as Finrod’s own. And yet, once they both stop shaking Curufin stays where he is—forehead pressed to Finrod’s shoulder and their bodies an entwined mess of bruises and betrayal, of sated limbs and final goodbyes.

Curufin does not ask him to stay again, and Finrod is almost grateful. Finrod does not tell him again of his remorse, his anger, his determination, and if he wants to believe that Curufin feels some measure of gratitude for that, too, well—

Not like he will be able to disprove Finrod anymore, will he.

When Finrod wakes, the room is washed in shades of grey, dawn barely breaking through the skylights.

Beside him, Curufin sleeps, his black hair spilling like ink across the white pillows.

Finrod watches him, his throat too tight, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out.

He does not. Curufin has always been a light sleeper, and Finrod wants nothing less than to face him once more, to have their parting be anything other than the memory of a sleep-soft face, and the bruises on his skin to take with him.

He starts humming softly, a lullaby as old as their grandfather had been. He usually avoids using his power on anyone, but in the end, it is not like Curufin is going to be able to hold it against him.

He finds his clothes piece by piece, eyes straying back like moth to flame. Once he is dressed, he lingers beside the bed for a breath, two. Infuses a little more power into his voice and presses two fingers to the corner of Curufin’s mouth—just briefly, just for a moment, one last time.

Then he turns and walks out, only his notes lingering to make sure that Finrod will be gone before Curufin wakes.

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There's an art 
to everything. Even 
turning away. How
eventually even hunger 
can become a space
to live in.
— Carl Phillips

*

If tension in Nargothrond has been running high after Finrod’s departure, in the wake of Lúthien’s escape the air is charged like the open planes of Ard-galen right before a storm.

Curufin watches as Celegorm and Huan stare each other down, the generous chambers feeling inexplicably cramped.

A mutt should not be able to look as imperious and judgemental as Huan does, but in the end, Celegorm is the one to look away first. He does it with a scoff and a dismissive gesture, but Huan lies down in a corner with such deliberate disregard, it leaves no doubt about who is walking away with their dignity intact.

“If you are done,” Curufin says, pushing away from the wall where he had been waiting. “Has either of you seen Tyelpë?”

Celegorm flings himself into one of the armchairs, not sparing Curufin a glance. “Tried the forges?”

Curufin rolls his eyes and does not dignify that with an answer. Huan ignores him, which is better than being growled at, at least.

He considers saying something else—about how he has not seen his son outside of meals in days, how Tyelpë has been distant ever since Finrod’s departure, and how the entire ordeal with Lúthien has only made it worse.

But then, what is the point.

With one last glance at Celegorm, he leaves the chambers. The corridors are strangely silent for midday, silent as they have been since Finrod’s departure.

Curufin did not think it possible for an entire kingdom to feel like it is holding its breath, but Nargothrond does. For now, they may tolerate him and Celegorm at Orodreth’s side, looming behind the throne, sitting at the high table, but Curufin has no illusions about their situation.

For now, their power holds, is almost glistening. It takes only one wrong step, one faulty word for things to tip the scale, though.

He rubs his chest where restless tension has been pressing his ribs together for weeks now, been making him move and act, pushing and tearing at him from all sides. Presses, very briefly, his fingers to the brooch sitting at the base of his throat, and then shoves the thoughts down. 

Despite knowing it unlikely to find Tyelpë there, Curufin decides to check the forges again. No matter the upheaval, they tend to be a peaceful place, and Curufin would not mind getting some work done.

He checks his own workroom first and finds it predictably empty. Like every corner of the kingdom, the corridors down here are twisted and dimly lit by torches, and so he starts down one corridor, checking the three forges there. Circles back, down another corridor, and so on.

It is a clever system, designed to provide a bit of privacy, prevent the noises of work from travelling, and allow the ventilation system to do its work.

Which is certainly not a problem right now. The place is deserted, and Curufin is ready to admit expected defeat and start combing through the stables when he catches the sound of voices from one of the storage rooms.

Stopping in his tracks he listens carefully, but he does not seem to have been noticed yet. On quiet feet he gets a little closer before leaning against a wall covered by shadows; there is no telling whether this will be of any use, of course, but it has never once hurt to try.

At worst, he wastes a few moments. At best, it might be something to give them another edge in the high-stakes strategy game that the kingdom has spiralled into.

“—would think there were news by now if it went wrong, right?” the first voice is saying just then. It is not one Curufin can place, which means it is not one of the councillors or other Elves close to Orodreth.

“Can you imagine, though? Imagine they succeed and bring back a Silmaril.”

“Well, I doubt they would bring it here; for one, was it not meant as a gift to King Thingol? For the other, even if not so, it would be exceedingly short-sighted if one wants to keep it, to bring it back here.”

“I doubt it would be safe anywhere, whether from the Sons of Fëanor or Morgoth himself. I know you say it has been long enough for news to reach us if something has happened, but I am not so sure. Who is supposed to bring us news if Morgoth captured them?”

“They might betray Nargothrond’s location. We would certainly notice, then.“

“Do not be ridiculous. King Felagund may have felt abandoned, but he would not betray the safety of his people to Morgoth. Not for anything.”

“It would not have to be Felagund though, would it?”

“Well, then let us hope that the Man considers the help he has been given an incentive for loyalty, whether that means staying silent once Morgoth catches him or keeping any shiny stones away from here.”

There is laughter in response, and Curufin pushes away from the wall, having heard enough. His mind is racing, a hundred possibilities arranging and rearranging themselves.

Beneath it all, an idea is sparking, taking shape, and it settles something inside of him that has been uncomfortably sharp-edged since he woke up to an empty bed, the fading notes of a lullaby, and Finrod’s brooch in Curufin’s pocket.

“Are you sure about that?”

Celegorm, to his credit, sounds doubtful. He still sits sprawled in the same armchair that Curufin left him in, albeit with two more empty bottles of wine for company.

He is not drunk, not by any stretch of the imagination, but most of the bristling anger and humiliation have drained from him.

Curufin shrugs, deliberately casual. “As sure as can be. Of course, it was no one important having that conversation, and I do not know where they would have got that information from. I do think it wise to follow up on it. It may turn out to be a useless trip, but I rather go on one of those than let them take a Silmaril beyond Thingol’s borders.”

Celegorm nods slowly, his fingers restless on the armrest. From his corner, Huan has stopped ignoring them and is watching instead, his ears perked.

Curufin has always wondered how attuned the mutt is to falsehoods and deception, but he pushes the thought away.

“So, what is your plan?” Celegorm asks, sitting up straighter. He grabs another bottle of wine and gestures for Curufin to sit down. “Talk me through it.”

Curufin exhales a measured breath of relief and takes the goblet from Celegorm before sitting down across from him. It earns him a huff, and makes Celegorm drink straight from the bottle.

With a lot of restraint, Curufin does not comment on it.

“If what I have heard is true, they should be on the way back from Angband now. If we hurry, we might be able to intercept them before they enter the girdle.”

“How would we even find them? My tracking is good, but that does not mean I can predict which route they would take.”

“Well, if we track Lúthien—“

Huan growls, his dark eyes fixing on Curufin. He raises a brow and waves him off. “I have no interest in recapturing her, mutt. If you want to reassure yourself, you could always accompany us—after all, all we want is the Silmaril. That, at least, is ours, is it not?”

Huan keeps staring at him, and not for the first time does Curufin get the feeling that the godforsaken dog can see right through him.

In the end, Huan huffs as if in agreement, and if that means he perceived Curufin’s mind, well—so be it, really.

“There is something you are not telling me,” Celegorm says, raising a hand before Curufin can protest. “Do not lie to me, brother, I am not stupid. That said, if there is the slightest chance that our dearest cousin’s mad quest has succeeded, I do agree that we would do well to make sure that Thingol does not get his hands on it. So, again—what is your plan?”

Leaning forward, Curufin puts the goblet on the table and pulls a piece of parchment and a quill close. “We go alone, only the two of us and Huan. I think tracking Lúthien would make sense—I doubt she is going back to Doriath instead of after them—and it is the best lead we have. We travel light, we tell as few people as possible where we are going, and once we succeed, we take the Silmaril to Himring.”

Celegorm hums, looking at the rough map that Curufin is sketching. “What about Tyelpë?”

Clenching his jaw, Curufin suppresses the urge to glare. “We leave him here; I do not want him to get in the middle of any of this. Once the Silmaril is in Himring, we will have to come back here anyway. We can collect him then.”

“Do you think we will be welcome here once we rob their precious king of what he risked his life for?”

This time, Curufin does look up, and he knows that his irritation must be written all over his face because Celegorm’s mouth twitches with pleased amusement.

He pretends not to notice. “Do you think they will care any more than they did when we sent him off with ten men only?”

“Well,” Celegorm says, but then he shrugs. “Not like Tyelpë can avoid you any more than he already is, I suppose. All I am saying is that it might derail our plans for Orodreth.”

“What do we need the power of Nargothrond for when we have a Silmaril?”

He can see the exact moment that the argument makes it through, when the Oath once more shifts and tightens around them.

“What if the rumour was just that?” Celegorm asks after a pause, but Curufin knows that he has already won.

He smiles. “Nothing lost then, is it? Nobody knows where we are going. We return with some game from a lovely hunting trip, and perhaps the tension here will have calmed. There is nothing to lose, Tyelko.”

Celegorm laughs, and his eyes are dark when he looks at Curufin. “I will remind you once more that I am not stupid, Curvo, but as you will. Shall we leave tomorrow, then?”

It takes all of Curufin’s willpower to keep his relief from showing, the way something gargantuan seems to lift from his shoulders.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says, getting up. “I am going to find Tyelpë. Do get your dog under control while we are at it, will you?”

He slips from the room before Celegorm can decide to chuck the bottle of wine at his head, and if there is a purpose in his steps now that had not been there earlier this day, well.

Nargothrond’s corridors are too deserted for anyone to notice.

They ride out of Nargothrond before Arien has heaved herself into the sky.

Autumn is slowly fading, and the early morning air is biting, their horses’ breath like fog when they urge them into a quick trot northward.

Huan is running ahead, unmistakably set on a path. It occurred to Curufin at some point that it was a risky endeavour to trust him after the mess with Lúthien, but considering he has no other leads and no interest in sending Celegorm into another sulk, he keeps that to himself.

For the most part, they ride fast and in silence. When night falls, they have made it as far as Amon Rûdh, setting up a simple camp in the shadow of the mountain. The night is cold and long, but they rise before the sun and keep going, grim determination mingling with a growing sense of foreboding that has them push their horses as much as they might.

By the end of the second day, they are north of the Forest of Brethil. Huan still seems certain of where to go, and neither Curufin nor Celegorm needs to take many guesses of where exactly that is.

Still, once they have a small fire going and are roasting the rabbits Celegorm had caught, Curufin says, “So. Tol-in-Gaurhoth; what do you think?”

Celegorm watches him across the flickering flames, his face unreadable. “I think,” he says, tearing a bit of meat from the bone, “that if Sauron was holding that pass, he would have had us brought to him already. Which means that something must have happened—what that is, though? No idea.”

“He might have been called to Angband if Felagund and that Man were successful,” Curufin says, frowning into the darkness around them. The sense of foreboding grows heavier, and he hates that they cannot keep going. “What do we do if your mutt leads us through it?”

“We go,” Celegorm says, without hesitation. “He will have a reason.”

Huan fixes Curufin with his dark eyes once more, wiping any doubt that he does not know exactly what they are talking about from Curufin’s mind.

“Well, let us hope so. It would be a shame to end up in Sauron’s dungeons,” he says, rising. “I am going to catch some sleep. Wake me for a watch in a few hours.”

Celegorm hums as they both pretend that either of them is going to get any sleep tonight. Curufin is just grateful, despite everything, that it is Celegorm here with him. That Tyelpë is not. That, despite everything, Celegorm does not question any of this too much.

In the morning, Huan is gone. Celegorm searches for him while Curufin readies their horses, and when the mutt has not returned when they are ready to leave, Celegorm’s expression is a study of rage.

Curufin knows that beneath it, Celegorm mourns the loss of that last tie to Oromë, but he knows better than to say that out loud.

Mounting his horse, he merely throws Celegorm a skin of watered-down wine and says, “Come on, we do not need your dog to find the rest of the way. I am pretty sure that by now, the damn island will be impossible to miss.”

Celegorm visibly grits his teeth but follows suit. “This better be worth it,” he says, and Curufin suppresses the sudden urge to laugh.

Any humour, no matter how sardonic, flees from them as they enter the mountain pass that leads up the banks of Sirion. The mountains of Dorthonion rise to their right, the Ered Wethrin to their left, and between them, dread gathers like noxious smoke.

“Are we sure that Sauron is gone?” Celegorm murmurs, his bad mood having given way to the coiled vigilance of war. “I suppose we would have been attacked by now otherwise, but it does not feel like we should be here regardless.”

The worst part, Curufin thinks, is that they remember how it used to feel, back before the fire came. Back when Finrod had built Minas Tirith here, and after he had given it into Orodreth’s keeping. The river, the forest, the mountains—all of it had been full of life, sunlight slanting through the leaves, the water carrying Ulmo’s song.

They may no longer glorify the Valar’s power, but their absence—Morgoth’s presence—is like tangible malice burrowing beneath their skin.

By the time they draw near to the island, the day is fading again already. The horses have slowed on the rough terrain, grown restless amidst the mounting trepidation.

“Do you hear that?” Celegorm asks, squinting against the dim light. Curufin strains his ears but cannot make out a single sound beyond Sirion’s currents.

“Exactly,” Celegorm says, when Curufin tells him that. “Even if Sauron was called to Angband, it should not be this quiet here. In fact, should we not see the Tower looming?”

For a while, they both stay still, watching, listening. Eventually, probably sooner than it should, Curufin’s patience runs thin.

“We are not going to figure out what is going on by staring at the landscape. Or whatever is left of it,” he says, dismounting. He waits for Celegorm to do the same before leading his horse along, picking the rest of the way carefully.

Sirion eventually makes a sharp bend, and finally, they look at the Isle that had once been Finrod’s pride and joy.

They both stop dead in their tracks at the sight that greets them.

“It is… gone?” Celegorm eventually says, and he sounds so baffled that it would be comical if Curufin was not feeling just as stricken.

“I guess at least the bridge remains,” he says, but his feet refuse to move in the direction of it.

Where the fortress of Minas Tirith had been a feat of Noldorin craft only rivalled by Nargothrond’s eventual beauty, only rubble remains. The foundations are still visible, but most of the tower has been cast down, grey stone littering the once beautiful island.

Among the wreckage, Elves are walking around disorientated, their faces drawn and grey in the way that speaks of long captivity.

Curufin does not often feel completely blindsided—not anymore, these days—but he does not have the slightest clue of where to even start. It is still as loathsome an experience as he remembers it to be.

“Right,” Celegorm says, shaking himself like the damn mutt he loves so much. “Whatever happened here, it was clearly neither Sauron nor Morgoth. I have no idea why Huan picked that route, but it would get us to Angband much quicker than any of the detours, so I suppose—“

“Tyelko.”

Following Curufin’s line of sight, Celegorm goes rigid. On the other side of the bridge, the dog in question has appeared.

“Right,” Celegorm repeats, his expression going blank. “I guess at least that means it is—“

“We should go and look around,” Curufin interrupts, something urging him on. He would not be able to explain it, but it is a certainty in the back of his mind, the same feeling of knowledge that told him they had to leave Nargothrond. The same unrelenting itch that the Oath has been these last couple of weeks.

Thankfully, Celegorm does not ask. Instead, he murmurs a few words to their horses in the strange language only he speaks, draws his sword, and then steps onto the bridge as if he expects the very stone to turn against him.

Nothing happens. A few of the Elves eye them with caution as they come closer, and Curufin does not doubt that some of them must recognise them. They do not approach; there is only Huan, regarding them with watchful eyes as they look around the island.

Eventually, he rises and tosses his head in a clear demand to follow him. They exchange a glance, but for all the treachery, Curufin doubts that Huan would lead them into a trap.

Huan leads them deeper into the ruins, past unmistakable remnants of rooms and dungeons, down a collapsing set of stairs, into a room that is less of a room and more of a pit. What is left of the daylight barely reaches down here, and it stinks of death and decay, of desperation and defeat.

Curufin is not squeamish by any stretch of the imagination, but he gravitates closer to Celegorm on instinct; has the strongest urge to turn and leave, all of Sauron’s malice spread out before them.

There are bodies littering the ground, broken and mutilated; Curufin thinks that he recognises half the face of Edrahil. His hair always had such a peculiar shade of blond, almost ashen but with streaks of vanyarin gold.

“Curvo,” Celegorm says, and his voice sounds strangely muted as he presses their shoulders together. He sounds like he used to in Aman, long centuries back when they were still so young that every once in a while, Celegorm’s protective instincts would make an appearance.

Curufin had never been too fond of it, and it had not lasted long beyond his childhood. It is jarring to hear it now, makes him follow the line of Celegorm’s sight while also thinking that perhaps, this has been a mistake. Perhaps, he does not actually want to see what they are about to find. Perhaps this entire plan has not been clever but is about to confront him with things he would rather have no answer to.

When his eyes finally adjust, the first person he can make out is Lúthien. Even down here, her fair face almost glows, and she watches them with a wariness so sharp, Curufin momentarily wants to flinch away from it.

He reluctantly lets his gaze move away from her, and that is when he sees it, sees him.

Curufin would recognise that particular shade of blond anywhere. It does not matter that it is dimmed with blood and grime, that the face beneath is a ruin of a wound. That Curufin can see only half of him, both Beren and Lúthien trying to shield him with their own bodies.

Curufin bites his tongue until the taste of copper blooms across it. Buries his nails into the palm of his left hand, grips his sword so hard that the bones crack, and still, he knows, that for once his expression must give him away easily.

“Finrod Felagund is dead,” Lúthien says, as if to twist the knife. “We were about to bury him.”

Curufin tears his eyes away from the ruined body, looks back at her; looks at Beren who stands behind her, dirty and haggard but alive, and rage rises so swiftly within him that it leaves him light-headed.

“How,” he presses out, not a question but an order. “How did one of the greatest Noldor die in this rancid dungeon but you, wretched Secondborn that you are, dare to keep drawing breath?”

“He saved my life,” Beren says, as if it had been a genuine question. There is no pride or anger in his voice, but there is no humility, either. “When Sauron’s wolves came for me, he burst his bonds and fought them with his bare hands. It was only yesterday, too—it was—“

So close. They had been so close. Curufin looks back at Lúthien and wants to snarl in the face of her pity.

Something about her gaze stays him though, makes him keep his sword pointed towards the ground, and swallow down the acrid words he wants to spit in her face.

She does not look fierce in the way Aredhel or even their mother used to; there is no spine of steel she has suddenly grown, between her days locked away in Nargothrond and this pit of despair. But there is a determination in her eyes that is unaffected by her obvious fear, and Curufin knows to be wary of it.

It does not matter. He does not care about her, never has.

“He—“ he starts, and has to stop again, has to swallow to keep his voice from breaking. “He was our kin. We should be the ones to bury him.”

Her eyes are still full of pity, but he knows that when she looks at them, she sees only monsters. “You did not seem particularly concerned with his fate before.”

Curufin almost laughs, then, but he swallows that down, too.

“Still,” he says, and smiles. “We have our own customs, our traditions. Do you not think being buried in the manner of his people is what he would have wanted?”

“Perhaps,” she allows, but it is no concession. “But then, I doubt he would have wanted his final rest disturbed by those that brought it upon him in the first place.”

“You brought this upon him,” Curufin snaps. “You, who turned up in his kingdom, demanding his Oath to be kept on a quest that could only ever end like this. You, who arrived here too late, who once again only cared for yourself and yours.”

She raises a brow, her pity finally giving way to scorn. “Oh, I am sorry, I seem to have been delayed on my way here. I do wonder how that happened.”

Curufin grits his teeth. He can feel both Celegorm’s and Huan’s eyes on him, and knows that he will have to answer so many questions later on. Knows that he has no leverage here.

His gaze strays back to Finrod’s body, the blood and the bruises, the nakedness of him.

He closes his eyes, takes his pride and his fury, the image of his father’s scornful face and any thought of the future, and shoves them all down. They move down his throat like shards of glass, and his voice sounds like it, too, when he looks back at Lúthien and says, “Please. We will not stand in your way, we will not follow you any further, but please. Let us bury him.”

Perhaps the worst part, he thinks as he watches her, is that he cannot even tell why this matters so much.

Perhaps the worst part is that he knows that to be a lie.

“As you will,” she says, after a long pause. Before Curufin can exhale in world-shattering relief, she goes on, “In exchange for your weapons and your horses; consider it redress for my captivity.”

“There is no—“

“Yes,” Curufin says, before Celegorm can finish whatever he was about to say. Curufin does not look at him, but he can feel his incredulous gaze, can feel the flaring outrage filling the space between them.

His own pride stings like an open wound, and already he is considering how they might catch up to them later; he has no doubt his own desire for redress will make a reappearance soon enough. “The horses are outside. We will lay down the weapons here and step aside, so you may pick them up without expecting an attack. Is that agreeable to you?”

She runs her eyes over him as if still expecting a trap, and truly, it is not like Curufin can blame her, even as everything inside of him is screaming with impotent rage.

Eventually, she gives a sharp nod, her eyes flicking to Huan. Curufin has no doubt that if it was not for the dog, she would have put them under a spell and made it out of here already.

Slowly, carefully, he puts his sword down. Elbows Celegorm beside him without taking his eyes off her, and waits for him to do the same.

He expects him to refuse, and could not even blame him either. Truth be told, Curufin has no idea what he is doing.

He just knows that they must. That he must. Not even the Oath, constant thorn against his fëa, has ever felt as inexorable as this.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Celegorm puts his sword down.

“Knives, too,” she says, jerking her chin at Curufin’s belt.

He grits his teeth but unbuckles Angrist as well.

“Curvo—“

He shakes his head and gestures at the hunting knife on Celegorm’s own belt. “Give it to her.”

Celegorm obeys, even as his eyes spark with fury. Curufin will deal with those consequences later.

For now, he closes his fingers around Celegorm’s wrist and drags him towards the other side of the pit, clearing the way towards the stairs.

Neither Lúthien’s nor Beren’s attention leaves them for a moment, and as Curufin meets Beren’s eyes, he can tell that the Man abhors the idea of leaving Finrod’s body with them. That he is only agreeing to this because he is in no state to fight.

Curufin hopes so dearly that one day he will get to slit his throat, he is sure that if Beren was an Elf, he would be able to pick up on the thought.

As it is, he and Lúthien walk towards the weapons slowly, keeping Huan between themselves and Curufin and Celegorm.

They would not have needed to bother; Curufin holds himself still as they gather the weapons, most of his attention already back on Finrod.

It is how he almost misses it when, once Beren and Lúthien move towards the exit, Huan starts following them. It is only Celegorm’s voice, low but commanding as he calls Huan’s name, that makes Curufin look back.

Huan ignores Celegorm, leaving him standing at the edge of the pit as if he was once again a young Elf, and everyone but his beasts and brothers had abandoned him.

Except this time, his beast is leaving, too, and Curufin—well, Curufin will have to make up for all of this eventually.

The moment that Beren and Lúthien are out of sight, he stumbles over to Finrod’s body, dropping to his knees beside him.

His hands hover, useless, and he cannot quite bring himself to touch. There seems to be more wound than skin left, and it is suddenly hard to breathe.

Behind him, Celegorm’s footsteps disappear up the stairs. Part of him thinks that he should make sure that his brother does not do anything stupid; another, much bigger one cannot tear its eyes away from Finrod, from the result of Beren’s demand and Finrod’s stupid, wretched honour.

“I told you not to go, Ingoldo,” he says, and his voice comes out terrible. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes against the sting of it, just enough to no longer feel like he is going to shake apart.

When he finally feels like he has a grip on himself again, he carefully wraps his fingers around Finrod’s wrist, one of the few places that seems not to be utterly torn. There is blood and grime and hair beneath his fingernails, and Curufin recalls what Beren had said—he fought Sauron’s wolves with his bare hands—so he must have had that hand out of the way.

“You were always more insane than everyone else wanted to see,” Curufin says, and he is mad, so mad, his insides are burning with it. “I would kill you myself if you were still alive. I hope you can feel it all the way to Mandos.”

Perhaps, he understands Lúthien, after all. Perhaps he, too, could have brought this entire tower down if only he had known.

A ridiculous thought, and Curufin locks it away in that box inside himself that already holds all the other uncomfortable, unsettling truths of today. Like he does with that faint warmth against his fingertips, the flutter—

He frowns, forcing himself to pay attention. He traces his fingers along Finrod’s wrist, moves his thumb away; presses more firmly into the soft skin, and holds his breath.

Around them, the pit is dank and miserable, and Curufin has long since learnt better than to hope; to believe that any such lofty concepts are left for him and his ilk.

And yet, he lets go of Finrod’s wrist and leans forward, until he can feel a part of his throat that is not split open. Until he can count the faint—so faint—heartbeats that sluggishly move against his fingertips.

“Tyelko!” he shouts, loud enough that the breaking of the silence feels like a violent thing. “Tyelkormo, get back in here!”

Curufin has never been a healer. His father may have been interested in any craft he came across, but Curufin, as much as he had inherited from Fëanor, has never been much interested in anything that happened outside of a forge.

For the first time in a long time, he feels something awfully close to regret as his hands hover uselessly.

“Huan has gone with them,” Celegorm says as he comes thundering down the stairs. “You better have—“

“He is alive,” Curufin says, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “Valar, Tyelko, he is alive, we should have noticed; he is warm, and all that blood—“

To his credit, Celegorm immediately drops to his knees beside him, fingers easily finding the pulse that Curufin had so desperately sought.

“We need to—“ Curufin starts, looking around them. “Your cloak, come on.”

Celegorm obeys, shrugging out of the red garment and wrapping it around Finrod. It only makes the blood on him look worse, and for the briefest of moments, Curufin has the strangest urge to weep.

“We need to get him out of here before everything else,” Celegorm says. All the agitation has gone from his voice, his bearing going focused as he assesses the damage. “I have a healing kit with me. Thankfully I neither left it with the horses nor had it bartered away by my idiot brother, but he cannot stay down here.”

Curufin makes a noise that is meant to be affirmation and apology both, and lands closer to madness than anything else.

“Moving him is not going to be pretty,” Celegorm warns, moving to Finrod’s head. “Once out of here we need to try to make a pallet, but we do have to carry him up. Take his legs.”

Curufin nods, glad, for once, to be told what to do. “I cannot believe they did not realise—“

“Beren was half-dead on his feet himself. I doubt Lúthien checked, considering,” Celegorm says, moving his hands beneath Finrod’s shoulders. He pulls a grimace as if appalled by what he just said. “No matter, at least they did not bury him. Ready?”

The answer is a resounding no. Curufin bites his tongue and nods once more, lifting Finrod’s legs.

His skin is slippery with blood, his body limp. When they lift him, he exhales sharply though, almost a moan of pain. It is the first sign of life beyond the faint pulse, and it makes Curufin want to run for the hills.

“Steady,” Celegorm says, meeting his eyes across Finrod’s body. “Let me go first.”

They make their way out of the pit with agonisingly slow steps, having to move around dead Elves and debris. The half-crumbled stairs are another trial, and when they finally emerge into the dusk-wrapped evening, Curufin is drenched with sweat, and Finrod is shaking.

They put him down as carefully as they can, wrapping Celegorm’s cloak around him once more. The movement must have been too much though, because Finrod’s eyes snap open, wide and white with pain. His hand flies up, clenching into Celegorm’s shoulder, and Curufin scrambles to catch Finrod’s head before it can hit the ground.

Finrod stares up at him with uncomprehending eyes, his jaw working. When he tries to speak, tears spring to his eyes, his hand twitching as if to reach for his throat.

“It is all right Ingoldo, we have you,” Curufin says, trying to hold him still without hurting him further. “You are in a state, which really, was entirely predictable, but—“

“Curvo.”

Curufin grits his teeth, shakes himself; cannot look away from Finrod, the wide, pained eyes fixed on him as if he were some kind of hallucination.

“You are going to be all right,” he says, makes it a vow all of its own. He knows better than to promise such things, especially considering that he had just bartered away their supplies, but still. Still. “You just have to hold on for a little while longer, yeah?”

Finrod’s eyes are feverish and glassy, the greyish blue of them washed out. He keeps looking at Curufin as if that is the only thing keeping him here.

“Hurts,” he says, and coughs directly after, his entire body shaking with it. “Do not think you are really here.”

Curufin clenches his jaw and does not argue. He can hardly blame Finrod, at least not when he is like this.

Once he trusts his own voice, he looks at Celegorm, who is rummaging through his bag. “Do something, Tyelko, I swear—“

“What does it look like I am doing? We need to wrap his injuries, and I will need to see if I can find plants to regenerate blood, to starve off infection. It would not kill him, but considering how weak he is, I do not fancy taking our chances.”

Inhaling a measured breath, Curufin nods. “Right, I can wrap wounds. Go find your plants.”

Celegorm raises a brow but does not comment on Curufin’s tone. For now, at least—for now, he hands bandages and spare fabric to Curufin, and lets him focus on Finrod.

“We need to clean the wounds first, I do not want to know the things Sauron’s wolves carry around with them,” Celegorm says, rising from his crouch. “There is water in my pack, I will try and find more. Get as far as you can, but maybe start with his throat and his chest.”

“All right,” Curufin says, listening only half-heartedly. He is grateful for the instructions, is not sure he would even know where to start, otherwise, but his mind feels like it is buzzing, everything but Finrod strangely hazy and distant.

With his head in Curufin’s lap and his eyes half-closed, Finrod could look almost peaceful, if not for the absolute wreck of the rest of him.

As Celegorm disappears from the periphery of his vision, Curufin pours water on the fabric of a tunic, and tries to tell himself that regret and guilt are not drawing a noose around his throat.

“You look a mess, Felagund,” Curufin murmurs, and starts carefully, so carefully, to clean the blood and grime off his face. There are bruises and cuts along his jaw and his forehead, a split lip. “Of course, you would save your pretty face; you have always been a vain creature.”

It falls flat, and not only because Finrod does not reply. Curufin moves onto his throat next, cleans the skin along the jagged wound that goes across it. It starts bleeding again sluggishly, and he hurries as much as he dares to bandage it.

He thinks of Finrod’s rough voice, looks at the crimson violence of it, and Curufin has not prayed in a long time, but he thinks—

Well, he thinks if there were any of them still worthy of the Valar’s pity, it should be Finrod. Thinks that if Finrod lives, to please, please let him keep his voice.

Curufin has not prayed in a long time, and he is not about to start now. And yet he hopes, and hopes, and hopes.

By the time Celegorm returns, Curufin has cleaned most of the more dire wounds and bandaged them. Both water and gauze have run out though, and there is nothing left for him to do—Finrod’s head still in his lap, watching his shallow breathing, watching as the night falls around them.

“They left us a horse and our swords,” Celegorm says, in place of a greeting. He puts said weapons down beside them, drops a pile of firewood, and pulls some greenery from one of his bags. “I am assuming they think it a kindness, as if taking what you earned in a negotiation is a gift to give.”

Curufin feels familiar humiliation and anger prickle across his skin. Of course, they would leave a single horse and the swords; nothing like proving your superiority by offering handouts that, an hour ago, were not even yours to give.

He grits his teeth through it. It is going to come in useful, either way.

“They left some of our gear with the horse, too. Most are your clothes, some flints, that kind of thing. If you are done with the wounds, we should try and get clothes on Felagund. The nights are getting cold.”

Celegorm’s voice is all business, and he does not look at Curufin as he builds a fire. Curufin knows that they do need to talk; instead, he says, “What of the thralls we saw when we got here? Did they join our lovely couple on their mad quest?”

Celegorm snorts, the first familiar noise he has made in hours. “I think they sent them back to Nargothrond; at least, I have not seen any of them, but a few fires along the Old South Road. They are going to have interesting stories to tell to Orodreth, I am sure.”

Curufin grimaces, but it turns into cold, hard anger when Celegorm adds, “Speaking of—what about said lovely couple? Should we try and send word that Felagund yet lives?”

“What, so that they can get him killed for good, demanding he fulfil his thrice-damned Oath? They were ready to bury and leave him here; they can take it from here.”

“So I assume the Silmaril that they are planning to steal is no longer our priority?” Celegorm asks, and his voice has that familiar, sardonic lilt that right now, grates against Curufin like sandpaper.

“Because it is so likely that they are going to succeed, is it? With what, a Dwarven knife and the power of love? Do be more serious, Tyelko.”

“Because a rumour to that extent was not the reason you made us run out of Nargothrond, discarding and foiling all of our plans for that accursed kingdom?”

Curufin bites his tongue and inhales slowly. Beneath him, Finrod has gone still again, although the pained tension pressed into the lines of his face remains.

“Tyelko,” he says, just short of a plea. “Can we please have this discussion later? I do not quite feel like having Felagund die on our hands, now that we are here, so—what do we do?”

Celegorm looks at him, his eyes uncomfortably knowing in the dim light. In the end, though, he gives a simple nod, the unnatural stillness vanishing as he starts stacking firewood.

“We should stay here for the night. It is not the most welcoming of places, but we are going to be safer on the isle if we keep watch. Dress him, I will prepare a potion for his blood loss, and hopefully get some life back into him.”

Reaching for the bag of clothes, Curufin asks, aiming for casual and failing, “Do you think he will make it?”

Unfortunately, Celegorm does not need to stare into his soul yet again for Curufin to know that he is seeing right through him. “I do not know, Curufinwë; his injuries are severe, and even if his body makes it, he might yet fade for the pain and despair of it all.”

Finrod would not, Curufin wants to snap, and bites the words back. Nods only sharply and digs through his bag until he finds a loose tunic and trousers, and tries not to wince too obviously when they have to move Finrod again to put them on him.

Once they are done, with Finrod lying on the single bedroll that they have been left with and a small fire burning, silence falls over them.

It gives Curufin time to try and pull himself together. All his usual, meticulous control seems to have shattered between that godforsaken bridge and the pit, and sooner or later, Celegorm is going to start asking questions.

It is not like he does not know that they had lain together in Nargothrond, of course. It is just that Curufin had been perfectly willing to let Finrod walk out of the kingdom and make plans for a future without Finrod in it, and now, here they are.

He does not have the answers himself, is the thing. But he looks at Finrod’s mangled body, fingers aching with the urge to reach out, to find a pulse, to make sure that he is breathing, and cannot quite convince himself anymore that this is what he wanted.

“Here,” Celegorm says, breaking the silence. He holds out a bowl with something steaming that smells faintly of rose and lavender. “Give him that.”

Curufin obeys. It is a slow-going, arduous process. Finrod is not lucid enough to drink, and Curufin is worried about what it would do to his throat if he choked, and so he trickles the potion into his mouth in increments.

He ignores Celegorm, too aware of how much it all gives him away. When he is finally done, night has settled quietly across the island, only Sirion and the crackling of the fire breaking the stillness.

“Here, you need to eat as well,” Celegorm says, handing him a piece of bread and dried meat. He has already stretched out beside the fire, his bloodied cloak beneath him. “Wake me in a few hours to take watch.”

Curufin is exhausted to his bones, but he does not bother protesting. Letting Celegorm have his way means a few more hours of peace, after all.

Or as close as he gets. His gaze, inevitably, is drawn back to Finrod, the marred beauty of him. It has not been Curufin who ruined him so—had not been Curufin who had dragged him out of Nargothrond and into the wolf’s den, who had let Finrod protect him with his life. And yet.

And yet it feels oddly fitting, that such a ruined thing should be Curufin’s.

He is not stupid, after all. He knows what this is, this pit in his stomach, this anger in his chest, the entire reason why he is here.

He is not stupid—he knows what happens to the things he tries to hold on to. And so Finrod looks like a shattered masterpiece; and so Curufin keeps his hands in his lap, and does not reach for him again.

They switch watch twice, but all stays quiet. Whatever Lúthien had done to Sauron must have left an impression, and beneath the furious humiliation, Curufin supposes he could admit to being impressed if he had to.

Thankfully, he does not.

Finrod, for his part, looks less close to tripping over Mandos’ doorstep, and a few hours of sleep have made Curufin find some of his composure, at last.

Which is a small mercy, but he has long since learnt that no one can change the past, and so he puts it aside.

“So,” Celegorm says, once he returns from washing and getting water. “What is the plan, now that the initial heroic rescue is complete?”

Curufin scoffs. “I am not the one who cast down the tower. I think that title goes to that charming woman that your—“

He cuts himself off. Perhaps making pointed comments about Huan’s absence is unwise, if he wants to keep up whatever period of grace Celegorm is currently allowing him for a little longer.

If the look on Celegorm’s face is anything to go by, he can take a good guess at it, anyway.

“We need to redress his wounds, but we have nothing to do so. He needs medical attention beyond what I know of plants that grow in these parts. It is about to dip below freezing soon, too,” Celegorm says, arms crossed over his chest. There is a challenge in his eyes that Curufin does not know the stakes of.

Perhaps the most unsettling thing about all of this has been how out of step they have fallen. For as long as Curufin can remember, they had an understanding between them that was incomparable with anyone else.

Ever since Beren had turned up in Nargothrond, Curufin feels like he has missed a step.

“We only have one horse,” he says, weighing his words. “It is several days to Nargothrond, even with two horses and two healthy riders.”

Celegorm nods, watching. Waiting.

“The closest—“ And it hits Curufin then, what Celegorm is waiting for. What he is waiting to see, if Curufin will think of, much less voice it.

He looks away, into the rubble of grey stone and broken earth. So many dead still unburied here.

“The closest stronghold is Barad Eithel,” he says, despite the way it grates against his throat. “Aside from Doriath, that is, but I doubt we are going to be any more welcome than we were ten years ago.”

Celegorm barks a short, disbelieving laugh. “Do you want to try?”

“Stop avoiding the point, Tyelko.”

“Which is that you want us to go to our dear cousin Findekáno and beg for help.”

“He likes Felagund; I am sure we shall not have to resort to begging.”

“Curufinwë.”

He sighs, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “What do you want me to say, Tyelko? We cannot go to Doriath. We would not make it back to Nargothrond. I do not want to let him die here. It leaves us with precious few options.”

“Fingon will be unbearable about it,” Celegorm says, but it sounds less like a protest and more like a reminder.

As if Curufin does not know. “Yes,” he says, because he does. “But he does like Finrod, so he will bear our presence as much as we will have to bear his righteousness.”

“It is funny,” Celegorm says idly, starting to gather his things before straightening back up and grinning at Curufin, all sharp-edged teeth. “I cannot for the life of me remember agreeing to any of this. Last time I checked—“

“We were going after the Silmaril, yes. So, do you want to accompany the lovely couple into Angband on your own, or shall we launch our own suicide mission?”

“This was your idea; you said—“

“My idea was to intercept Felagund with the Silmaril after the deed, and clearly, the rumour of his success was just that. Which was always a possibility, and yet we both agreed it would be better to be sure than to have it disappear beyond Doriath’s borders.”

They stare at each other across the dying fire. Finrod sleeps on, restless but blissfully ignorant.

“And yet, here we are,” Celegorm says softly, head tilted. Curufin does not believe for a moment that he has fooled him, but then, well—

Then, here they are, regardless.

“Funny how that goes, is it not?” he says, mimicking the sweetly tone Celegorm had used on him. “So. Barad Eithel? We can still try Doriath if you prefer; I am sure Thingol will receive you gladly.”

“You do realise that he will immediately notify Maedhros?” Celegorm asks, and even as Curufin had not, in fact, thought of that, he knows that he has won this round.

“Good,” is all he says, finally moving to gather his things. “Perhaps our dear brother can keep Fingon from killing us once Finrod wakes up and tells his version of the story.”

Travel is slow and difficult. Moving Finrod at all is a nightmare, and that is not even starting on the effort it takes to get him onto the horse.

Celegorm refuses to ride with him, and so Curufin does; one arm securely around Finrod’s waist, Finrod leaning against him, his horse picking its way as Celegorm walks beside them.

They have to take breaks often. They tear their tunics into bandages, and Finrod bleeds through them. The little colour he regained, he loses under the strain of riding.

He wakes every once in a while, panicked and flailing each time. Never quite lucid, although he seems to recognise Curufin.

Curufin wishes he would not. There is always disbelief and hurt, sardonic laughter. As if Curufin is a vision come to haunt him, and whatever Finrod sees an image of torment.

“If we keep this pace, it will take us a week,” Celegorm says, at the end of the second day. They have barely made it out of the valley, and Curufin knows what Celegorm is not saying.

If they keep this pace, Finrod will not make it. And yet there is nothing for them to do but to keep going.

“You could ride ahead with him,” Celegorm says, the next morning. He has returned to his deliberately neutral manner, eyes watchful and too knowing. “You could ride fast for Barad Eithel and be there in two days.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Curufin says. He wishes he could claim that the idea had not occurred to him; that the reason why he is refusing is a reluctance to leave his brother behind, not the knowledge that Finrod would not make the ride. That even if he did, the odds of running into Orcs are way too high—Curufin would stand no chance, alone and with Finrod to protect.

Celegorm is graceful enough not to call him on it, and Curufin does not think about what he will say when said period of grace finally runs out.

So they keep going. The terrain gets a little easier, and in turn, the North gets colder. At night, Finrod shivers, and Curufin wraps him in his own cloak until it subsides, the red gems of the poppies stark against the white of his face.

Finrod wakes more often on the fourth day. He is still not lucid, not much more than restless, but Celegorm’s potions and poultices seem to help a little.

At the end of the day, there are crescent bruises on the back of Curufin’s hands and around his wrists. Curufin has grown familiar with the routine—the way Finrod’s body goes rigid against Curufin’s chest; the way he gasps, something bitten down and swallowed that sounds unlike Finrod. The way he buries his nails into the nearest thing he can reach, and how he does not settle down until Curufin starts talking, low and soothing.

The words do not matter, he finds soon. It is only his voice, the cadence of his speech.

He cannot sing, though; he tried it once, and Finrod had jerked so violently that Curufin had almost let him fall, the horse dancing beneath him with displeasure.

It is a miserable day, cold rain light but unrelenting, and the northern winds of Hithlum greeting them with the unmistakable harbingers of winter. By the time they finally make camp in a small outcrop of rock, even Celegorm seems to be nearing the end of his endurance of nature.

Which is, of course, when a band of Orcs finds them. They had just finished the fire and the setup for the night when a dozen of them breaks through the thin tree line.

They are no match for the two of them, but they are a desperate bunch, and Curufin cannot quite help the distraction that comes with having to protect someone who cannot fight.

It splits his attention, makes him heedless of his open flank. The Orc that gets past his guard falls to Celegorm’s blade before Curufin can curse at the pain, but the cut on his upper arm burns with Orc steel. Celegorm’s eyes are bright and knowing, and Curufin—

Well, Curufin is nearing the end of his patience. He decapitates the chieftain and whatever is left of the sorry band, kicks a head away from him for good measure, and then just about keeps himself from punching the nearest tree.

He is so very tired.

The silence in the aftermath is deafening. Celegorm pretends to be involved in the cleaning of his sword, and Curufin stares down into the grey and soggy land around them, trying not to feel like everything is crumbling around him.

He turns to look down at Finrod, and startles when he finds Finrod looking back at him. His gaze is feverish and too bright, and when he speaks, his voice is still a wreck. Curufin understands him perfectly, anyway.

“I must be hallucinating if you are protecting me from Morgoth’s brood now, Curufinwë,” he says. He smiles, something ironic and loop-sided, a little sad.

By the time Curufin remembers how to breathe around the ice inside his chest, Finrod has already slipped back into sleep.

Finrod does not wake again. He seems to worsen throughout the night, shivering and going as pale as when they had found him first.

Celegorm looks concerned, which is concerning in itself. He finds more plants, brews more potions, and Curufin slowly, patiently, with hands that do not shake because he will not let them, gives it to Finrod as dawn crawls across the starlit sky.

They ride hard that day, pushing the horse and themselves, hoping that the strain on Finrod means he will live, in the long term.

They do not say it, but they both know he will not make it another night in the dreary wilderness.

Dusk is blanketing the lands again when the white towers of Barad Eithel finally rise in the distance. If Curufin were given to bouts of emotions, he could weep.

As it is, he merely urges the horse a little faster, sends another wordless apology to Celegorm and Finrod both, and makes for the gates.

He is aware that they must make a picture, and so he takes care not to appear too threatening. They are greeted with raised swords and notched arrows on the battlements regardless, the Head Guard calling for them to halt.

“We seek shelter and aid,” Curufin calls, his hand flexing against Finrod’s hip where he is holding him. No matter where he touches, he always fears worsening his injuries, but they are close, so close, and he knows that he and Celegorm, if not for Maedhros, would not be welcome here, but Finrod—

“I am Curufinwë, and this is my brother Tyelkormo. We come with Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond; he is injured.”

He does not beg. Does not rush his words or explain himself. He knows, though, that they all can see the matted blond hair in front of him, the bloodied bandages in the torchlight.

He wonders if it will be enough, if Fingon’s guards on their own will know what their King would decree. Wonders what they should do if—

“Let them through!” Fingon’s voice sounds, commanding and impatient. “You have heard him, what are you waiting for! Open the gates!”

Curufin did not think that he would ever consider himself relieved at the command of this particular cousin’s voice, and yet he exhales with bone-rattling relief as the gate ahead of them opens, and they finally ride into the lamp-lit courtyard.

“Explain how this happened.”

“I might, once you tell your healers to let me see him.”

They have been going in circles around this for several candle marks, and Curufin is so tired, he thinks it is the only reason why he has not punched Fingon yet.

Fingon, if his expression is anything to go by, has similar urges. He seems less exhausted, but there are deep lines between his brows that had not been there the last time Curufin had the misfortune of running into him in Himring.

He supposes that kingship is no glamorous affair in Middle-earth, these days. Any other day, he would be pleased about it; tonight, he is all but ready to throttle Fingon if he insists once more that it would be best if Curufin did not see Finrod.

He knows that it would be better. The time to do something about it had passed several years ago.

“My healers are doing what they can. He needs rest. I simply do not think that you—“

“We brought him here, did we not?” Curufin bites out, trying a different approach. “If I wanted him dead, if I did not care whether he lived or not, do you think I would have brought him to you, of all people?”

Fingon frowns, as if the mere idea of someone not going for the obvious help regardless of history is alien to him.

The worst part, the part Curufin has always hated most about him, is that it probably is.

“You still have not explained how this happened in the first place. His injuries are unlike—”

“Do I look like a goddamn wolf to you, Findekáno?”

Fingon rolls his eyes. “You do realise that you are very defensive for someone who claims to have had no hand in this?”

“Call it learning from experience, cousin. Now will you let me see him—“

“The story—“

“I am sure Felagund will happily tell it to you once he wakes up.”

Truth be told, it would probably be wiser to tell Fingon something, at least; to spin this into something that does not make it look as terrible as it will, once Finrod wakes. Truth be told, Curufin does not even know where to start. Truth be told, he is so very tired.

“You are very insistent for someone who claims not to care,” Fingon says, echoing his own words. Curufin reconsiders punching him. “But by all means, do go ahead. I doubt anything you can do to him could worsen his state.”

It is a close thing, but Curufin just about keeps himself from flinching; still, Fingon’s eyes are knowing as he steps out of the way.

“Do mind that I have already sent a bird to Maedhros. He should be here within a few days. You are welcome to stay, of course, if you must. Do keep from harassing my people any more than necessary.”

Of course, he does not wait for Curufin to answer, disappearing down the dim corridor with a sweep of his robes.

They had never got on well. At least back in Aman, before the conflict between their families peaked, they pretended to be civil. Nowadays, though—since the Darkening, since the ships, since Maedhros—Fingon has forsworn civility, while Curufin can no longer quite bring himself to display his disdain so frankly.

He may dislike Fingon—and he does, he really and truly does—but he knows about debts and owed gratitude. He may no longer be as close to Maedhros as he once was, may even agree to some extent with Celegorm and Caranthir that any debt has been paid with the kingship going to Fingolfin’s house, but in the end, Fingon had done what none of them dared. Curufin knows what he owes for that.

It is not going to keep him from making sure that their work was not for nought, though.

The guards let him into Finrod’s chambers without protest, even though Curufin can feel their eyes on him. When he slips inside, candles are burning low, the air smelling of antiseptic and salves.

In the bed, Finrod looks somehow even smaller than he had in the forest. He has been cleaned up, white bandages barely visible under loose garments and the blankets on top of him, but his hair, even though at least tied, remains tangled and only cleaned of the worst of the grime.

It is not done, by anyone who is not close family or a partner. Not even Fingon would do so without an unmistakable request.

Curufin is selfishly glad for it.

In the end, for all his insistence to come here, he does not stay long; assures himself that Finrod is breathing, is merely sleeping. That the room is comfortable and that there is nothing he can do, and then he slips out and makes his way to the chambers appointed to them.

Unsurprisingly, Celegorm is waiting for him, sitting by the fire with a pitcher of wine in front of him.

Surprisingly, he says, “Drink. Take a bath. Have dinner. We will talk another time.”

It instinctively makes Curufin want to protest. Ultimately, he feels like he could sleep a hundred years, his entire body aching, and so he does take the offering for what it is.

“Thank you,” he says, after a beat too long. He squeezes Celegorm’s shoulder as he passes, and they both pretend that it is not for more than the reprieve of tonight.

Fingon’s method to keep them from wreaking havoc seems to be to keep them busy.

He allows them a day to rest, and then they are scheduled for patrols and watches. Separately.

Curufin wants to protest that, too, but in all honesty, he is glad for the distraction. They had been running patrols in Nargothrond whenever they were not busy with court matters, and as he somewhat doubts that Fingon would allow them to sit in on his councils, Curufin will gladly take the patrols and guard shifts.

It seems Celegorm has a similar opinion on the matter. If it means that they barely see each other for a week, scheduled for opposing shifts, well—they are both not protesting that too much, either.

Curufin does not go to see Finrod again. Whenever Fingon sees him, he gives him news—unmistakably reluctant but honest, never mincing his words—and Curufin tells himself that it is enough. That there is no reason to go and see for himself or, Varda help him, sit vigil at Finrod’s bedside.

There is only so much Celegorm will ever let him live down. There is only so much Curufin can stand to do while still meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

According to Fingon, the first week is touch and go. Finrod slips in and out of consciousness, and while the healers take care of the wounds, give him medicine for the blood loss and infections draining his strength, there is only so much they can do for a wounded mind.

“They say he was almost gone when you found him. That he should have been gone,” Fingon says, on a night three days after their arrival.

Despite his pride, Curufin had eventually told him the basics; that Finrod had left Nargothrond on a quest. That he and his men had been captured by Sauron. That he had fought Sauron’s wolves, and that Curufin did not know how much time had passed between that and their finding of him.

Fingon had looked at him strangely, a frown between his brows as if he was trying to make sense of it all.

Curufin could relate, but he had kept his silence, at last. It was as much as Fingon needed to know to advise his healers, and Curufin had no interest in rehearsing any of the rest.

Eventually, unconsciousness lightens to sleep. From what Curufin can read between the lines, Fingon spends a lot of time sitting with Finrod—talking, reading, singing. He supposes Fingon would know how to pull someone back from the brink, and if Curufin tells himself often enough that the fact of it is not fanning old bitterness and guilt, he will believe it eventually.

It is enough, he tells himself. Goes on patrols across Anfauglith or down south to the Fen of Serech, fights Orcs and creatures of Morgoth, and just waits for Maedhros’ arrival so that eventually, they can leave. So that things can go back to normal, or as normal as things are ever going to get between Morgoth’s unending assault and the Oath that sits like an animal in all their necks, still, still, still.

Maedhros arrives after one week exactly. He must have harried his horse something fierce for it, but he does look well when he dismounts in the middle of the courtyard.

Curufin and Celegorm are hanging back as Fingon greets him, their touches lingering just enough to notice if you know what to look for.

For once, Curufin keeps his commentary to himself. Beside him, Celegorm stares straight ahead, his shoulders a rigid line of tension.

Maedhros hugs them both, ignoring their stiffness. So Fingon’s message had not been detailed, then.

As if to prove that thought, Maedhros frowns at them, familiar concern sitting between his brows; he had never quite learnt how not to be the eldest of them all.

“What happened? The message merely said that you arrived with an injured Finrod in tow, and to come as quick as possible. Are you all right? Is he all right?”

Fingon gestures for them to walk into the fortress, dusk already settling again. It at least makes Thangorodrim’s peaks fade out of sight, but the days are getting shorter, and the north is always cold.

“Well, perhaps you will have more luck with your brothers, I frankly do not know much—“

“Oh, because you have asked so nicely, have you?” Celegorm says, seemingly deciding that he does want to be part of this conversation. “We told you what you needed to know.”

“Tyelko,” Maedhros says, and he already sounds tired. Which is perhaps not entirely unwarranted, but it grates all the same.

“He is not wrong,” Curufin says, shrugging as Maedhros’ gaze lands on him. “Finrod is doing better, so I dare say he will be able to tell the sorry story himself, sooner or later. Once he does, our dear cousin will believe his version over ours anyway, so why bother?”

“The fact that you already assume the versions to be different is concerning,” Maedhros says, pressing a finger to the spot between his brows. “We will talk about this later. I would like to at least drop off my things and clean up, now that I know that nothing is directly on fire.”

Curufin meets Celegorm’s eyes, exchanging a look. They are going to have to figure out what to tell Maedhros—unlike Fingon, they cannot simply dismiss his opinion. The fallout might just be less severe if they get ahead of whatever Finrod’s take on the events and their gory conclusion is.

By the time Maedhros finds them, it is late into the night. He has shed his armour and court garb, looks less like a warlord and more like their brother. Curufin knows better than to be fooled.

“Finrod is doing better,” Maedhros says, taking one of the armchairs by the fire and pouring them all wine. “He got very lucky.”

There is a shadow of memory in his eyes that makes Curufin shift uncomfortably.

“Fingon said he was captured by Sauron. How did you find him?”

Curufin exchanges another glance with Celegorm. In the last few hours, they tried to come up with a version of events that was neither false nor an admission of guilt. It had proven rather difficult.

In the end, there is nothing to do but to tell him. Maedhros understands the Oath, at least; will have to understand why they could not sit by idly. He will understand, too, why they would have brought Finrod here, and all that came with it.

The thing is, as they tell him the gist of it—of Beren’s arrival in Nargothrond and of Finrod’s oath; of their speaking against Finrod’s plan to march into Angband with an army until he was left with but ten men; of the rumour, the decision to go after him, and, finally, finding the tower upon Tol Sirion cast down—the thing is that even as they talk, Curufin realises that they miscalculated, and more than a little.

“So you sent him right into Morgoth’s hands, to be captured or slain. Just because he ended up with Sauron instead—“ Maedhros stops himself, his lips pressing into a thin line. The scars on his face are stark in the flickering candlelight. His eyes, when he looks at them, are as hard as their father’s in his last days.

“Should we have let him attack Angband on his own? Do you think that would have yielded better results?” Celegorm challenges, a pale brow raised. “And then, what—see Nargothrond wiped from the map? Or wait for him with our own men to take the Silmaril, if he did the impossible and succeeded?”

“He is your cousin,” Maedhros says, and his voice does not rise, his hands do not clench, but his anger has always been a cold flame, rather than a flare. “You sent him to his certain death, and, what—were plotting to take his kingdom for your own? Is that what you were thinking?”

“It is not like—“

“Mind your words, Tyelkormo; there are two people in this fortress that have endured Sauron’s torture, and neither of you is among them.”

It feels like a punch, the stark truth of it. Maedhros rises and walks over to one of the windows. The world behind the glass is dark, but they all remember when the north had burnt; what it had cost, to keep even small parts of it.

“I felt it stir,” Curufin says, keeping his voice carefully level. “The Oath; it felt like going mad, Nelyo. That man arrived in Nargothrond and wanted Finrod’s help to claim a Silmaril, and it was all I could do not to slit his throat right then and there.”

Maedhros does not turn, but his voice holds an edge of scorn when he scoffs. When he says, “If I survived thirty years of staring directly at those accursed stones while Morgoth taunted me, you could have been expected to deal with this, Curufinwë.”

There is no pity in his voice. No accusation either, and in many ways, that is worse. Curufin clenches his jaw and does not look at Celegorm; does not dip his chin, but his chest feels cold, like the ice that Finrod never talks about.

“Do not even think I believe this nonsense of a rumour,” Maedhros says after a long pause, turning to look straight at Curufin. “Or that I am not aware that there is something you are not telling me. The story is patchy; no word have you said of Lúthien, but somehow, she appeared in Tol-in-Gaurhoth? You two used to be better at your lies.”

The air in the chambers turns heavy. Curufin wishes he could be any place but here.

Celegorm sneers; it is a testament to the mess of the situation that he has not yet pounced on Curufin regarding the rumour—or the lack thereof.

“I did not realise that we owed you—“

“Tyelkormo.”

Celegorm snaps his mouth shut, his jaw working. Maedhros does not use his authority often, less so the older they got, but right now his entire presence is a command- Curufin remembers why, despite so many of their disagreements, neither he nor his brothers have ever outright disobeyed him.

Although he doubts that this, these last few weeks, is any better than outright disobedience.

“We found Lúthien in the woods after Felagund had left,” Celegorm says, and the words sound like forced from him, but Curufin is shocked to hear him speak at all. “She was lost and asked for help. We took her to Nargothrond, obviously with no more intentions to send an army along with her than we did with Felagund and his pet human.”

It is a euphemistic account of it all. If Maedhros’ expression is anything to go by, he hears it, too.

“Considering that I doubt she convinced you otherwise—?”

Celegorm’s nostrils flare and he gets up from the chair, pacing the room. His face is a study of rage and humiliation. “An alliance with Thingol, no matter how resentful on his part, would have solved just about all our issues, whether regarding the Silmarils or Morgoth himself. He clearly has no qualms about grudging marriages, or—“

Maedhros raises his hand, and it is enough to shut Celegorm up. For long, dragging moments, Maedhros simply looks at them both as if he has never seen them before.

They have often done deeds he disapproved of. For the first time, he looks sickened.

When he speaks, his voice is deadly soft. “Do you think Aredhel would be proud of you? That she would be pleased? That is what this is about, is it not? Some twisted attempt at revenge, or retribution because Eöl was under Thingol’s direction?”

“It was not—“ Celegorm flushes, hands curling into fists. “That is different, it—“

“Yes,” Maedhros cuts in, his voice like ice. “This is worse.”

Celegorm flinches so violently, it shakes his entire body. His mouth snaps shut and his eyes flash, but he says no more. Which might be a good thing—Maedhros does not look like he wants to hear any more.

Unfortunately, that means all that simmering fury is now getting focused on Curufin; he has the childish urge to point out that it had not been his idea, but he doubts it would go over well, aside from the shaky truth of it.

“A rumour,” Maedhros says, voice dripping with scepticism. “That you heard where exactly? From whom? How much evidence was there that it made you decide to go after Finrod, considering that there is no way these kinds of news would have reached Nargothrond first, all the way from Angband?”

Curufin is smart enough to realise that Maedhros wants no answer, is smart enough not to attempt to give one. Out of all his brothers, Maedhros has always been able to see through him the easiest—through all of them, really, except perhaps for Caranthir. It has not been a comforting thing in a long time, but right now, he knows that if Celegorm had been able to suspect, regarding Curufin’s attitude toward Finrod, then Maedhros most certainly knows. Curufin has no interest in confirming any of it further than he must.

Maedhros eventually exhales as if that is exactly what he expected. His voice is not as biting as it was when he spoke to Celegorm, although he still sounds displeased when he says, “I suppose whatever made you go after them, it was lucky that you did. At least, Finrod lives—how much of a relief that is going to be for you two waits to be seen.”

“We did save his life,” Curufin says, unable to help himself. “And unlike what everyone seems to believe, no one made us do it. Beren and Lúthien were ready to bury him in the same damn place where Sauron almost tortured him to death, because they were too distracted to notice he was not actually dead. Lord, I did not realise he lived until I had bartered our weapons, horses, and supplies away for the simple right to bury him ourselves, and only once they were gone did we realise—“

“You saved his life, yes,” Maedhros cuts in, impatient. “It is debatable if he would have needed saving without you in the first place, so excuse me and everyone else if our awe is rather restrained.”

“And what were we meant to do, Nelyo? Let him throw his army at Angband? I asked it before and it is so easy for you to judge us, but do tell me what you would have done.”

There is a beat, two, and then some of the fight drains out of Maedhros. He rubs his hand across his face, half turns back to the window. In profile, he suddenly looks so much more exhausted.

“I do not know,” he admits eventually, meeting Curufin’s eyes again. “I do not blame you for all of it, for the initial insistence of how doomed that whole quest was. But letting him leave with ten soldiers, walking right into Morgoth’s hand? What you attempted to do to Lúthien? Your scheming in his kingdom? Not even owning up to the fact that you changed your mind, but coming up with some lie of a rumour instead? That, at least, I judge you for.”

Beside him, Celegorm is stonily silent. Curufin buries his nails into his palms and holds Maedhros’ eyes.

“You cannot tell him,” he says, almost pleading. He wants to shove the words back down his throat the moment they leave him.

“You cannot be serious,” Maedhros says—as if this, more than anything, comes as a shock to him. “You sent him to his certain death, and now—“

“We saved him. What does it matter why we did it,” Curufin bites out. “I am not going to beg, Nelyo, but this is not your choice to make.”

“You do realise that it is more or less the single redeeming point of this entire story?”

“You mean aside from the fact that we did save his life?”

Maedhros sighs, something bone-rattling and resigned. “I will not tell him—“

“Thank you—“

“Do not thank me yet. I will tell Fingon, simply because he will throw you out immediately otherwise, and there is nothing I would even be able to say against it. He might do so anyway, to be honest. He will feel honour-bound not to break my word, though; you will just have to deal with the fact that someone other than myself will be aware that you are not completely—whatever the hell there is even left of you to say. I would tell you that you should tell Finrod, but you are not going to see him unless he asks for you.”

Curufin sneers, but he knows that it is half-hearted, at best. “Anything else?”

“You will keep busy, both of you. Run patrols, stand guard, clean the bloody kitchen—I do not care. Stay out of trouble, I mean it. I do not want to hear a single complaint, and if I do, I am sure Thingol would happily discuss matters of redress.”

Neither of them says anything, the tension in the room so thick, Curufin thinks he should be able to touch it.

Finally, Maedhros sighs and drains his goblet, putting it down on the table. He spares them one last glance; says, “You better do hope that he lives, or all the Valar help us,” and then sweeps out of the room without another word, the silent click of the door somehow worse than if he had slammed it.

“So,” Celegorm says, once the silence has dragged well beyond what might be considered comfortable. Neither of them has moved, Curufin in his armchair, Celegorm standing in front of the fireplace.

“So,” Curufin echoes.

“There was no rumour.”

Curufin wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “No, there was not.”

When Celegorm finally looks at him, his eyes are alight with anger. It is not all meant for Curufin, he knows. It is not going to make this any more pleasant.

“You should have told me.”

“Would you have come?”

Celegorm laughs, mocking and fey. “And exchange my best hunting dog for the fuck of yours that you got too attached to? I think not.”

“Your hunting dog had already abandoned you,” Curufin counters, waving a dismissive hand. “Do not put that on me; that, I think, was all you.”

For a brief moment, he wonders if Celegorm will punch him. It seems like a point they may have reached, everything cracked open and crumbling between them.

In the end, though, Celegorm simply turns on his heel and walks out without another word.

Unlike Maedhros, he slams the door. It does not, in fact, make Curufin feel any better.

The next few days are filled with tension and discomfort. If Fingon had been unwelcoming of them before, it is now unmistakably Maedhros alone that keeps him from kicking them out. Maedhros himself appears to be incapable of looking at either of them without something awfully close to shame.

Celegorm and Curufin do not talk. Their schedules, blissfully, continue to be misaligned, and whenever they do share space, they move around each other with as little acknowledgement as possible.

Finrod, from the news that Curufin hears, seems to be improving. A few days after Maedhros’ initial arrival he wakes. A few days after that, the healers say that while recovery will take a while, he will live.

Curufin gets the news while on a night patrol up north. He hears of it only because two of Fingon’s soldiers believe him out of earshot and are gossiping about it. It is less about Finrod, really, than it is about Curufin’s presence in their patrol, but right then, he could not care less.

He does not dare believe it until he is back in Barad Eithel; does not bother getting out of his armour before he finds Maedhros, up on the battlements with Fingon after an hour of search, to ask if it is true.

Maedhros looks at him, while Fingon glares. The two of them exchange a glance and a moment later, Fingon disappears down the stairs, his shoulder knocking uncomfortably into Curufin’s even despite the armour. He barely notices.

Curufin almost expects Maedhros to tell him that it is untrue. That the soldiers had been aware of his presence after all, and thought to play a joke on him.

Then Maedhros says, “He will be fine, Curufinwë,” and he has to bury his nails into his palms to keep from showing the wave of relief that crashes over him.

Maedhros is still watching him, his red hair gleaming in the torchlight. Usually, it is a few shades darker than their mother’s, but right then, it makes Curufin think of her; her kindness, her iron spine. The way she had looked at them after Alqualondë.

“You do know that it is no crime to care for the fact that he lives?” Maedhros asks, his voice almost soft. “I feel that this should be obvious, but perhaps someone ought to tell you.”

Instinctively, Curufin sneers. “You would think so, would you not?”

Maedhros merely rolls his eyes. “Not even our dear father, whom you are so desperately trying to make proud, could find much to say against Finrod, brother, and he has been dead for long centuries. He is not going to return from the dead and proclaim his disappointment simply because you did not let your own die in cold blood.”

“Thank you, I am aware of how the Halls of Mandos work,” Curufin snaps. “If you are quite finished guessing at my mental state, I will thank you for the information and take my leave. Celegorm is going to make a rampage of our chambers in the morning, and I would rather catch at least a few hours of sleep before then.”

He turns before he can see the disappointment wash across Maedhros’ face. Or he tries to—he is almost off the battlements when Maedhros’ voice reaches him.

“He asked after you. He wants to see you.”

Curufin freezes, his hand coming up to brace himself against the wall.

“Wait until tomorrow,” Maedhros adds, voice a little softer yet. It goes hard again a moment later when he adds, “Behave yourself when you do, Curufinwë. Trust me when I say that I will tolerate no more malice against our cousins from you or your brother.”

At another time, Curufin may have had a response to that. Tonight, all he can do is straighten his spine and walk away, taking solace in the fact that he at least did so with some shreds of dignity.

He tarries, the next day. Tells himself several times that he is not at the beck and call of Finrod Felagund, and finds himself so close to madness that it makes him itch for a sword and something to sink it into.

In the end, he knows better than to fool himself; straightens his clothes, sets his shoulders, and makes his way back to Finrod’s rooms for the first time in over two weeks.

Curufin almost expects to be stopped, but while the guards watch him with the same wariness that everyone else does, they let him pass without comment.

The door to Finrod’s room stands slightly ajar, which means Curufin cannot linger, cannot try to steel himself, lest Finrod might catch a glimpse of him.

He has no idea what to expect. He draws a deep breath and raps his knuckles against the frame before he can overthink it any more than he already has.

The voice that answers him is hoarse and scratchy. “Come in.”

When he does, Finrod is sitting upright in bed. The air still smells of antiseptic and salves, but there are flowers on the bedside table and the windowsill now; a woollen blanket in the colours of Fingolfin’s house; a harp resting in the corner of the room.

They look at each other, five feet of space feeling as vast as the Western Sea.

“Curufinwë,” Finrod eventually says, his expression carefully blank. “I wondered whether you would come.”

I did before, did I not? Curufin thinks, and clenches his teeth against the confession of it. “You asked,” he says instead. “I did not think you would.”

Finrod’s mouth twitches, almost as if into a smile. There are still various bandages wrapped around his arms and his torso, peeking out from beneath the loose tunic he is wearing. His hair is still a matted, tangled mess that makes Curufin want to wince in sympathy.

“Will you sit?” Finrod asks, and for all the oppressive uncertainty between them, the way he raises an expectant eyebrow with the question is familiar.

Curufin does, and he takes the additional moment to take Finrod in more carefully—the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the restless tapping of his fingers against the sheets. The way his eyes track Curufin as if not certain yet that he is safe.

Curufin is familiar with it. Maedhros, after Thangorodrim, had been much the same.

“You live,” he says, once he leans back in the chair. It is comfortable, the kind that allows you to spend hours at someone’s bedside, and he wonders whether it was Fingon or Maedhros who had put it there.

Finrod hums, nowhere near as melodious as he used to. “I have you to thank for that, I hear.”

Curufin instinctively straightens. He doubts not that Maedhros would have kept his word, that he would have made sure Fingon did, too, and yet—

“Do not flatter yourself, Felagund,” he says, keeping his voice cool. “We were not going after you for that purpose. You got lucky, as you are wont to do.”

Finrod’s face does something complicated, and he looks away from Curufin, his jaw working. It pulls at the scratches on his face, and Curufin presses his fingertips into the soft material of the chair beneath him.  He is hard to read, and it leaves Curufin unsettled; he did not use to be, not to Curufin.

“Of course,” Finrod says, after a moment too long. “No matter, I thank you nonetheless. I did have a request of you, though—I doubt you will mind, considering.”

A sense of foreboding settles on Curufin’s shoulders. He raises a brow. “Ask, then, cousin.”

He expects Finrod to talk around it—whatever it is. He has always been someone of too many words, of sweetness so genuine Curufin could not resent it as much as he should.

Now, though, Finrod simply looks at him, straightforward and unadorned. Gestures vaguely at his own head and says, matter of fact, “I need you to cut my hair off.”

“I’m—you what?”

It is not done. It is not done that anyone but close family or partners tend to someone’s hair. It is not done even by those to cut an Elf’s hair.

It does not matter; even if it was, the idea of taking a knife to the gold of Finrod’s hair is obscene, is unthinkable.

“My hair,” Finrod repeats patiently—as if the issue here is a lack of understanding. “It is beyond salvation, and frankly, it is driving me insane. I do not doubt that Fingon would try and salvage it if I asked, but I would rather not. I might convince Maedhros to cut it but—well. He would hate doing so. You, on the other hand, would not mind, considering.”

Considering. We were not going after you for that purpose. I owe you no allegiance, Ingoldo.

“You ask for much, Felagund,” he manages to say, his heart a wild beast inside his chest.

“Why? You sent me to my death, and then you saved my life. Neither was about me. I ask you for help with my hair, and you will cut it. Neither of us will mind. It is a simple request, Curufinwë, but if you do not feel like you can, I will find another way.”

He will find someone else, or he will do it himself; somehow, that is worse.

Curufin wonders if it is a test, and then dismisses it. Finrod has always been silver-tongued and more keen than many gave him credit for, but he is rarely so calculating. He wants his hair gone; he concludes that Curufin cares little enough to do it and hates him not enough to slit his throat while he has the chance.

What else is there left to do, then, than to confirm the assumption?

“As you wish,” Curufin says, tilting his head. “Now? I assume it must be uncomfortable, although I doubt a bed is the best place to do it.”

“I can stand,” Finrod says, nodding toward the corner of the room where a chair is placed in front of a mirror. “Now would be well, if you do not mind.”

Curufin wants to laugh. He bites it down and rises from the chair. “Of course; whenever you are ready.”

As Finrod forces himself out of bed, as he makes his way through the room with slow steps, it becomes obvious that I can stand may have been euphemistic. Still, he does not ask for help, and Curufin does not offer any. He merely watches as Finrod settles on the wooden chair with a poorly concealed sigh of pain, and then comes to stand behind him.

In the mirror, they look like day and night; it had always held a certain fascination to Curufin—all their differences. How despite all of them dictating that there should be nothing but indifference between them, they kept pulling each other in.

Today, the bruises and exhaustion make Finrod look washed out. His skin is pale and his eyes dim, and Curufin has to breathe carefully through the guilt that wants to make a home beneath his breastbone.

Father is not going to return from the dead and proclaim his disappointment simply because you did not let your own die in cold blood. Curufin averts his eyes from Finrod’s in the mirror.

“Considering your dear heroic couple took mine from me, I will need a blade, Felagund.”

He expects Finrod to ask; instead, he merely gestures to the bed. “Beneath the pillow. I forgot; I apologise—if you would.”

Curufin knows for a fact that Finrod did not use to make a habit of sleeping with a knife beneath his pillow. He does not comment on it; simply grabs the knife, simple and unadorned, and comes to stand behind him once more.

“How do you want it?” he asks, not touching. Then, “I have never done this before.”

Finrod smiles at him through the mirror, a tired thing. “Me neither. And as short as it must.”

That, Curufin thinks, would mean all of it. He cannot—will not.

Slowly, reluctantly, he touches his fingers to Finrod’s hair. The healers washed the worst of the blood and dirt out of it, of course, but it is unmistakably tangled. Unmistakably ruined. In spite of it, its famed golden sheen is still coming through; in spite of it, it is still soft beneath Curufin’s fingertips.

He runs his fingers through it with a little more purpose. Thinks that perhaps—perhaps, with the patience one needs for difficult metals, with time, he could—

“Curufinwë,” Finrod says, an edge to his voice. When Curufin meets his eyes in the mirror again, there is something hard and foreign in them. “Cut it off; just do it, will you?”

So, Curufin does. It is clumsy, the knife not made for such a task, and no matter how careful he is, he knows that it is not a painless process.

Finrod endures it stoically, his eyes fixed on himself as his hair falls like Laurelin’s leaves; softly, golden, almost too beautiful to look at.

It is slow-going. Curufin cannot bring himself to cut anything above Finrod’s ears, and he tries to touch as little as possible, but his fingers keep brushing warm skin. At the base of Finrod’s throat, he can see his pulse kicking; can feel the hitch in his breathing whenever Curufin brushes against him, and it feels—

It feels like condemning him all over, Curufin’s hands wreaking destruction unnameable upon him. It feels like the first true thing he has done since handing Finrod over to Fingon’s healers. His hands do not shake, and the blade does not slip, and when he is done—when Finrod’s hair is shorn short to his chin, uneven and choppy—Curufin rests his fingertips against his neck; brushes his thumb along his bruised jaw, meets his eyes in the mirror, and asks, “Why do you always let me do such things to you, Ingoldo? Should you not know better by now?”

Finrod laughs, a hoarse, terrible sound, and lets his head drop back. It comes to rest against Curufin’s chest, a warm, solid weight.

He blinks up at Curufin, his eyes now longer just as dim; raises his hand, slowly and with obvious pain, and presses two fingers to Curufin’s mouth as if in prayer.

“If I knew,” he says, smiling and so sad that Curufin can taste it in the room, “I would have stopped long ago, Curufinwë.”

In Curufin’s right hand, he still holds the knife. Beneath his left, Finrod’s bones feel more frail than they ought. He leans down, and presses a kiss to Finrod’s mouth—expects, almost, for the knife to turn against him for the sheer impudence of it—but Finrod’s hand slips into his hair and holds him there, exhaling against Curufin’s mouth.

The angle is awkward, and in the back of his mind, Curufin can hear Maedhros’ warning, but Finrod bites at Curufin’s bottom lip until they both taste blood, and perhaps—

Well, perhaps, that is how it is supposed to be. Perhaps, that is always how it was supposed to end.

Chapter End Notes

Obligatory I actually really quite like Beren and Lúthien, Curufin is just, unsurprisingly, a cunt. Don't come for me and all that lmao <3

A direct link to the art can be found here! <3

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This night, I say the name of the knife that wounds me still:
your hand almost gentle on the hilt; desire sliding neat
between my ribs, skin bruising soft as the rot-sweet peach.
I am reaching now for the pit of my heart, I am praying to you again.
I surrender my grieving made offering, I hail the winter
giving graceless way to spring—beg forgiveness by that awful
reverence, which I offer both what I love and what I fear.
— Yves Olade

*

Finrod wishes he could say that, after he let Curufin cut his hair and kiss the blood from his mouth right after, he does not let him back into his rooms. It would, unfortunately, be a lie.

It has always been like this. The two of them falling together, gravitational pull, while the knowledge that it could only ever end in tears was like a third person taking up space between them.

There were moments, of course. When they got lost in conversation about craft or politics. When Curufin’s sharp tongue was turned to flaying someone in humour until Finrod couldn’t swallow down his laughter any longer, or when Curufin watched him discern matters down to their inner-most particles as if it was something he could listen to for hours. Moments when their hands were not ungentle, their teeth not always seeking exposed flesh and vulnerable openings.

Before Beren had come to Nargothrond, Finrod had thought—

No matter now. Now, Curufin is standing beside him in front of the open window, his expression as impassive and cold as it had been those first few months in Nargothrond. In the north, Morgoth’s mountains stand black against the pale winter sky.

“Kiss me,” Finrod demands, turning away from hell and toward Curufin. The black smoke reminds him of Sauron, of his wolves, of the dungeons and those that had not made it out with him.

He should not. But Curufin, for all his detachment, meets Finrod’s eyes and smiles, just a little. Touches two fingers to the corner of Finrod’s mouth and tilts his head.

“What happened to asking nicely, Felagund?”

Finrod scoffs and leans in close, sinking his teeth into the familiar shape of Curufin’s bottom lip.

It is still good, so good; the way they fall together, and how it makes Finrod’s mind go blank.

He knows better, of course, than to think that it is a mere base need, but what does it matter? Curufin’s edges are easier to cut himself on than those of his memories, and if there are moments that allow him to keep pretending, if only for a little—

The way Curufin touches him—not with care, exactly, but precision, perhaps—never landing on Finrod’s injuries; the way Curufin kisses him, eyes closed, like this too is something he could swear himself to—

Well, if Finrod pretends, it is only he who must deal with waking up in an empty bed afterwards. That, at least, he still knows how to do.

It has been a week since Curufin had cut his hair, and still, Finrod catches Maedhros looking. It grates against his skin, and when it happens for the fourth time today, he no longer manages to bite down his annoyance.

They are up on the battlements, even though the walk took Finrod an hour. He is exhausted now, leaning against the stone balustrade, but Maedhros is solid and patient beside him.

Except for the hair, it seems.

“You did it too, after Thangorodrim. I thought you of all people would understand,” Finrod says, and it comes out as more of an accusation than he means it to.

It had been a scandal back then, almost as big as his abdication the day after. Since then, the Noldor in Beleriand have got a little more used to unconventional body modifications, but even among all that, cutting hair remains rare.

Maedhros hums, with a voice hoarse in the way that Finrod’s own is too, these days.

“I do understand. I understand, too, why you let my brother do it. I am merely wondering if you might want to talk about it yet, or if I shall do more harm by pushing.”

“It is hair, Russandol. It will regrow.”

“It is not about the hair though, is it? It could have been salvaged; if it was that, you would have let Fingon do so,” Maedhros says, and his voice is kind, but his eyes are too knowing.

Finrod wants to flinch away from him, from the words, this entire conversation; is painfully and viscerally reminded of the vulnerability that came with being stripped bare before Sauron, and how it was exploited, too.

But then, few are there who survive the enemy’s dungeons and are then trusted to share the home of their kin, and Maedhros—Maedhros has been nothing but good to him.

“Did it feel…” He casts his eyes across the land, the midday sun almost warm. They are looking south, the Vale of Sirion sprawling far beneath them, and Finrod swallows until he can get his throat to work. “It is the one thing that I could still call mine; to do with as I please. The wounds, the scars, no matter what the healers do, I will now always carry them. It must seem ironic that I would then go and mutilate my hair too, but—“

“It is no mutilation,” Maedhros says, a note of steel in his voice. He touches his fingertips to the ends of Finrod’s hair where it brushes his jaw, and his expression softens. “A bit choppy, perhaps. My brother has always worked better with metals than with soft things, but—“

He sighs and lets his hand drop. “It did feel like that, yes. If I am being entirely honest, it will probably never stop feeling like that. But at the end of the day, you are the one who walked away and lived. You are going to keep fighting where Sauron lost—to you, almost thrice—and with every Orc you kill, it will feel a little less like you are still down there. Or up there, in my case, but you know what I mean.”

Finrod laughs, cannot help it. “Leave it to you to tell me that the answer is murder.”

“I am my father’s son,” Maedhros says with a grin. It makes the scars on his face shift with it, and Finrod does not think he had ever quite understood what it meant, until now. Does not think anyone does, who has not been there. It makes him mourn for Maedhros in retrospect, in a different way than he had when Fingon brought his mangled body back.

It is oddly comforting though, and he turns his eyes back south before the gratitude can show too plainly on his face.

“Do you think we have a chance? Despite everything?” Despite the way it feels, knowing so intimately what the darkness tastes like? Despite having stared it right in the face, and coming back out something other, something changed?

Maedhros shrugs, and wraps an arm around Finrod’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Who can say? But even if we do not, I do believe it will be nicer to die on a battlefield than in a dungeon.”

Finrod snorts and leans more firmly against Maedhros. He does not disagree, truly, and there is a strange comfort in the way that Maedhros appears to have no more of an answer than Finrod does. That he does not pretend otherwise.

The sun is dipping low in the west, taking with her what little warmth she shared and washing the grim land of rock and ice golden, if only briefly.

“You grew it back out,” Finrod says, after a long pause. It is a question, even though Finrod cannot quite bring himself to pose it.

“Yes,” Maedhros says, and his smile softens. “Fingon gets antsy when he cannot occupy his hands, and there is only so much hair on his own head that he can braid.”

The laughter is so surprising, it comes out harsh and unlovely. Maedhros keeps smiling though, and Finrod is less shocked than perhaps he ought to be that he does feel better, a little lighter.

“Thank you,” he says, bumping their shoulders together. “For what it’s worth, yours was just as choppy. No wonder Fingon made you grow it out again.”

And as Maedhros laughs too, offering his arm as support for Finrod to lean on as they go back inside, it feels a little less like failure to accept it.

Of course, any relief is short-lived, these days.

They have barely made it down two flights of stairs when the entire fortress trembles as if with sudden shock. Thunder claps outside, the stone rattling with it. From below, people start shouting.

Maedhros’ hand drops to his sword, even as he holds on to Finrod. They hover there frozen—a beat, two—but eventually, Maedhros offers Finrod a tight smile. “Come on, time to get you out of harm’s way.”

Somewhat unsurprisingly, when they arrive back in Finrod’s chambers, Fingon is waiting for them.

He turns as they enter, his eyes going to Maedhros first. It is not unusual, of course, but today there is unmistakable concern in it, and Finrod can feel himself grow tense.

“Sit,” Fingon says, gesturing to the armchairs in front of the fire. There are two pitchers of wine on the table, goblets already poured. “I cannot tell yet whether these are good news or not, to be frank, but we will need the wine either way.”

With a glance at Finrod, he adds, “I cleared it with the healers. Go ahead.”

Finrod wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the foreboding is so thick within his throat that any humour gets tangled up right within it.

So they sit, Finrod on the couch and Maedhros in the armchair. Fingon keeps pacing, three strides through the room, turn, coming right back.

“Finno—“

“Beren and Lúthien were successful,” Fingon says, the words coming out so fast, they run into each other. “They got a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown and escaped. The thunder and earthquakes, I assume, are his fury. I do not know yet if we should be concerned, but from what I have heard, the Eagles have brought them to Doriath.”

A pause. Maedhros, hesitant, “Those are swift news.”

“Funnily enough, it was your dear brother who gave them to me. Every animal is in an uproar about it, it appears. Huan has been with them; Beren got injured—he lost a hand, can you believe it—by Carcharoth, and Carcharoth, in turn, has gone mad with the Silmaril inside of him.”

Finrod blinks. Maedhros says what he cannot help but think as well. “Are you sure that Tyelko has not merely been in his cups? He took the loss of Huan hard, even if he would never admit so.”

“My scouts report the same. Thorondor was seen, there is a beast wreaking havoc, and well—we do know what it sounds like here, whenever Morgoth gets into a rage.”

They all stare at each other, the idea of it only slowly, almost reluctantly settling in.

“They did it,” Maedhros breathes, moments or hours later. His eyes are very bright, and there is laughter running through his words. “A Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown. That is…”

Fingon smiles, but he looks like he still cannot quite decide whether this is good news or concerning. Finrod can relate; thinks of Curufin, and the way a mere rumour of such a success had been what made him leave Nargothrond in the first place.

“Are you sure the Eagles took them to Doriath?” he asks, drumming his fingers against his leg. He tells himself that it is concern for Beren and Lúthien first and foremost, and to some extent, it is. At the same time, he—selfishly, so selfishly—does not want to see Curufin storm off on yet another doomed quest.

“Are you thinking of doing something about the beast?” he adds, and the longer he thinks about it, the more questions he has.

Fingon shakes his head. “From what we know so far, he headed for Doriath. Apparently, Melian’s girdle did not keep him out. There is nothing I can do unless Thingol asks for help.”

“Unlikely,” Maedhros says, and his elation has already given way to consideration; Finrod can see it in the way he is staring off into space, pressing a finger to his mouth.

It is the same gesture Curufin makes when he is thinking through some theorem or other, and that was not a reminder of gentler days that Finrod needed tonight.

Fingon hums in agreement. “I doubt Beren and Lúthien would trust us for help either, if for some reason they have not made it to Doriath. Although of course, if they ask, I will help. For now, I increased patrols and watches, and we will have to see how things play out.”

“I shall send word to Maglor,” Maedhros says. “And talk to my brothers. A Silmaril behind Doriath’s borders is as inaccessible to us as in Morgoth’s crown, even if perhaps less of an insult to my father. I would rather make sure that they get no ideas about it anyway.”

Finrod grimaces and finds the expression mirrored on Fingon’s face.

They drink their wine in silence for a while. The walls still shake in intervals, and thunder rumbles outside, a storm without release.

“It can be done,” Maedhros says, some indefinite amount of time later. There is wonder in his voice—or perhaps not wonder, Finrod thinks, as he watches his profile.

Perhaps it is hope, incredulous and untried.

“There might yet be a chance for all of this to end,” Maedhros adds, his eyes fixed on Fingon, and Finrod realises what he had not quite wanted to see earlier.

He had not seen Maedhros hopeful in a very long time.

Now, in the face of it and with Sauron’s shadow still sitting in his neck, he cannot decide whether its reappearance is a cause to rejoice or an omen.

Finrod is not surprised when, late that night, Curufin slips into his room.

Finrod is still up, sitting by the fire with the second pitcher of wine that Fingon and Maedhros left behind when some news or other finally pulled them away.

In a way, Finrod was glad for the reprieve. He doubts his healer’s agreement to let him drink wine meant an entire pitcher, but tonight, no one is paying attention to him, and so he sips it slowly, letting the sweet bitterness of it calm him as much as it might.

No one is paying attention to him. Except for Curufin.

Rána hangs low in the sky, nearly done waxing. The winter night has crept into the chambers, the fire burnt low, but ever since the Ice, Finrod at times finds the cold grounding.

“Ingoldo,” Curufin greets, lingering by the door.

Finrod had expected to see him agitated. Instead, he seems strangely pensive.

“Curufinwë,” Finrod returns, tilting his head. “I wondered if I would see you tonight.”

With a slight hum, Curufin settles on the armrest of Finrod’s chair. It is not made to be lounged on, but somehow, Curufin makes it work—leaning back, one arm across the back and legs crossed, plucking the goblet from Finrod’s hand to down it.

He frowns at it, once he is done. “Are you meant to drink?”

Finrod shrugs. With a sigh, Curufin rests his cheek against the top of Finrod’s head. It is not a tender gesture, feels almost condescending—and yet, there is something intimate to it, too. Finrod stays silent.

“I suppose my father would find it funny,” Curufin says after a while, tugging lightly at a strand of Finrod’s hair.

He touches it much, ever since he cut it. Finrod has not quite made sense of it yet, but he does not mind, and so he lets him.

“Of course, once he was done laughing at Morgoth for being out-sung by Lúthien Tinúviel, he would probably launch an assault on Doriath’s borders, but at first, he would find it funny. Did you know that Beren contributed as good as nothing? Fell asleep, right alongside—“

“Curufinwë.” A warning.

Curufin sighs and pulls away to pour them more wine. He drinks, then hands the goblet back to Finrod.

A peace offering.

Finrod bites his tongue, then asks, “How is your brother taking it?”

“Oh, he is furious,” Curufin says. He sounds strangely delighted. “I think Maedhros is currently busy keeping him from trying to launch said assault. You know how he is.”

Yes, Finrod wants to say. Not so different from you, most of the time.

He does not; once, he thought he could read Curufin quite well, and in a way, that had been true. If anyone had asked him before Beren’s arrival how he thought such a thing might go, he could have predicted it perfectly—right up until the part where Curufin was the one to save his life.

This, though—

Curufin sighs again and slips from the chair, coming to kneel before Finrod. His eyes are very bright, flecks of Telperion’s silver that Finrod still, still, still loves more than he ought, shining in the grey of them.

“Kiss me,” Curufin demands, tilting his chin up. From where Finrod sits, it looks almost as if he is baring his throat, but this—this, he is familiar with.

This is something he can make sense of, and so he pushes his fingers into Curufin’s hair, pulls a little; leans forward, ignores the way it makes his stitches pull, and slots their mouths together to kiss wine and the taste of blood off Curufin’s tongue.

If it helps distract him, well; who is Finrod to judge, no matter the things it does to the bloody, pulpy mess of his heart?

Days pass. The earth stops shaking, and Morgoth goes as quiet again as he ever does.

News still comes out of Doriath, of Carcharoth causing death and destruction, a beast gone mad that no Elf or Man can stand against.

Finrod thinks of Galadriel. Tries not to worry and fails, and knows that there is nothing he can do about it—knows that most likely, she thinks him as dead as most of his people do, considering that she has not appeared on Fingon’s doorstep yet.

It feels like stolen time, feels wretched to let everyone believe the lie that Celegorm and Curufin had set into the world. Still, Finrod cannot bring himself to ask Fingon to send messengers. Tells himself that the current situation demands different priorities anyway, and almost believes it, at least for as long as the daylight lasts.

Finrod’s wounds slowly but surely close, scabbing over. He loses some of his bandages.

Curufin visits most nights. Finrod waits for and dreads it in equal measures, and he supposes in some ways, that is not so different from Nargothrond. Except.

Except that their words have grown harsher, while their hands are gentler. Finrod knows it is because despite all his malice, Curufin is mindful of his injuries, but it messes with his head, all the same.

He keeps telling himself that he will stop. He keeps doing the opposite. Everything feels like being in stasis; like being stuck, treading water.

Maedhros looks on, knowing. Fingon tries to say something a few times, but Finrod brushes him off. He does not know what he is doing; does not know how to explain that it is the only thing that makes the voices in his head go quiet for a while.

Then comes the news of Carcharoth’s defeat. Of Huan’s death, and Beren’s, and how Beren returned, brought back from Mandos himself by the sheer love of Lúthien.

It is a hopeful story, and Finrod is no bitter person, never has been. Even he swallows though, when Fingon first tells it to him, something both awestruck and reserved in his words. Knows what they are both thinking—of Angrod and Aegnor, Fingolfin and Aredhel and Argon. Of all those they had lost on the Ice, and all those they had lost since.

“How is Celegorm taking it?” he asks Curufin once more, that night.

This time, Curufin does not laugh, his face stony and silent.

If Finrod is rougher with him that night if only to make him forget, neither of them mentions it. Afterwards, though, Curufin presses his face into Finrod’s neck and breathes and breathes and breathes, only slipping out of the room when Finrod is drifting off to sleep, dawn breaking across the eastern sky.

He returns in daylight.

The death of Carcharoth means that some of the security measures are getting relaxed, and the general mood in the fortress seems lighter than it has in days. Finrod is beginning to think of leaving for Nargothrond, at least soon. Of going home.

When Curufin enters, there is a light in his eyes that immediately puts Finrod on edge.

“Do you have a moment?” Curufin asks, shockingly polite.

Finrod has been sitting by the fireplace, trying to read one of Fingon’s poetry collections. He puts the book aside and gestures for Curufin to take the couch.

Curufin does; he does not fidget, of course, but there is a current of energy running through him that tells Finrod he would, if that was something he did.

His eyes, though, are calculating, his expression proud.

“What do you want, Curufinwë.”

If Curufin feels caught out, he does not show it. He holds Finrod’s eyes instead, and says all matter of fact. “I saved your life. We did.”

Finrod stiffens. “You did.”

“As a general rule, that constitutes a life debt.”

Finrod’s first instinct is to laugh. He grinds his teeth together and raises a brow. “And what is it that you think I owe you?”

“So, I have been thinking about Tol Sirion—“

Finrod does laugh then, harsh and painful. Curufin snaps his mouth shut, clearly annoyed, but he waits until Finrod meets his eyes again.

“Think about it, Ingoldo—“

“Do not call me that,” Finrod snaps, surprising himself. Something within him is breaking open, something bitter and angry and so, so done. “You are the reason I ended up there in the first place, Curufinwë. You did not come after me, you did not come there to save me. Which is well within your right, of course, but the nerve to sit before me now—“

“It needs to be manned,” Curufin cuts in, his voice like ice. “Sauron abandoned it, but if we leave it empty, Morgoth will retake it. It is strategically important, and it is going to be difficult to hold. We did it with Aglon for years—“

“Until you did not.”

“—and we need a place to stay. Or would you like us to return to Nargothrond with you?”

Finrod stares at him, the proud tilt of his chin, the remorselessness in his eyes.

We were not going after you for that purpose, Felagund.

“Of course, you would want the very place where I was almost tortured to death,” he says, and his voice does not sound like his own, sounds like something ruthless and scorched. “One final triumph, I suppose.”

There is a sharp, brimming stillness that follows his words; as if something had cracked within the room and their ears are ringing, waiting for the pain to set in that must inevitably follow.

Curufin’s eyes are very dark. He leans forward, holds Finrod’s gaze; distantly, he notes that Curufin’s hands are clenched into fists so tight, his knuckles are white with it.

“I want to tear it down,” Curufin says, low and fierce. “I want to eradicate the place where he almost killed you, and then I want to build something new on it. Something without pits, and thralls, and fucking wolves. Something that will stand against him and remind him every time he looks south that he cannot win. That he will not.”

He leans back, space expanding. Finrod feels alive for the first time in weeks.

“Think about it,” Curufin says, after another beat. He rises from the couch and walks over to the door. Stops once more in the frame, and does not turn back when he says, “You can accuse me of many things, Felagund, but do try and stick to those rooted in truth.”

Then he is gone, and Finrod stays where he is, frozen until the urge to throw something finally fades.

“Strategically, it would make sense,” Fingon says, frowning up at the ceiling.

He has his legs thrown over Finrod’s lap, his upper body dangling half off the couch, and his expression is unmistakably saying that he loathes admitting it.

“I doubt he proposed it for the strategic value,” Finrod counters, but it is half-hearted at best, and they both know it.

It is strategically sound. That is perhaps the worst thing about it.

“I do not have the men to spare for it,” Fingon says, almost apologetic. The Bragollach has spread all of them thin. “Neither does Maedhros.”

Neither do you, he does not say. Not if Curufin and Celegorm take their people out of Nargothrond, which they will. Which will be for the best.

Finrod sighs, letting his head fall back until he can join Fingon in counting the cracks in the ceiling. “What did Maedhros say?”

“What do you think?”

“That it makes sense, strategically. That he will not support it if I do not want it.”

“That is what I said,” Fingon says, lifting his head to look at Finrod.

Finrod looks back. “Exactly.”

With a sigh, Fingon flops back, then pushes himself up to sit beside Finrod. “It is true, though. It makes sense, but the world will not end if you decide against it. It is an outrageous demand, all things considered, and while they may have saved your life, I do not think you owe them anything. Elbereth, they can be glad Maedhros still has not disowned them for some unfathomable reason, or I might have tried them for treason after all.”

“It was my kingdom,” Finrod points out, unable to suppress a smile.

Fingon turns his nose up and says, in his snottiest voice, “And I am your High King, Felagund. Do show some respect.”

Finrod laughs and collapses into Fingon’s side. It is safe, familiar, and it sobers him right back up. “What do you think I ought to do? Not as King, just—“

“As your friend?”

“Yes. That.”

Fingon sighs and leans his head against Finrod’s. “I think that the real issue here is not Tol Sirion. I think it is far more the fact that he spends most of his nights in your chambers, after both almost getting you killed, and saving your life.”

“You think me a fool,” Finrod says, closing his eyes. “He does not even care, and here I am—“

“No,” Fingon says, sitting up straight and turning until he can look at Finrod. “I think that if Curufin did not care about you, he would have left you there to die, the way his brother would have. He would not spend most of his nights in your bed. I think the question is simply whether someone who also does all that other shit and can never admit to caring is worth all this heartache.”

Finrod averts his gaze; pretends that his eyes do not sting. “I just wish—Elbereth, I just wish it could be easier than this.”

“If it was easier, Findaráto, you would have got bored by now,” Fingon says, taking Finrod’s face between his hands to turn it back to him, and pressing a kiss to his brow. “Such is your nature, even if most are too blinded by all your charm and manners.”

“Are you saying I should—what? Stay with him? You cannot stand him.”

“Oh, I cannot. I simply do not believe that telling you so again will change the fact that you are incapable of staying away from him, and that is clearly a mutual problem. I am just here to try and nudge you into protecting your heart as much as you might, and removing the two of them from your kingdom seems to me a great start. If it helps us fight Morgoth while we are at it, that is a welcome bonus, in all honesty.”

“Very clever,” Finrod says drily, but he is smiling. Then, after a moment, “It was my first place here, in Middle-earth. It was the first place I built for myself ever, actually.”

Fingon hums, refilling their goblets. “I know; I felt conflicted when I gave Dor-lómin up too, and it was nowhere near as convoluted a situation as this is. That said…”

He hesitates, tilting his head at Finrod, his long braids shifting and catching the light. “Do not take this the wrong way, but you lost it long ago, Findaráto. Perhaps not when you gave it to Orodreth, but certainly when Sauron came. This is only taking it back, even if you do not do so yourself—which, considering, may be for the best.”

Finrod grimaces at the idea of returning to Tol Sirion anytime soon, then collapses back into the couch with a sigh.

“When have you become so wise, Fingon the Valiant?”

Fingon grins, and downs his entire goblet of wine in one go. “I have had a Fëanorian to deal with for centuries, cousin; what do you think?”

“That speaks to your lack of judgement, not mine,” Finrod points out, but they both know he does not mean it. Shaking his head, he adds, “I suppose I shall tell him, then. He is going to be so pleased with himself.”

“You do not have to,” Fingon says, suddenly serious. “I know what I said, but if you do not want to—if, in fact, you never want to see him again—“

Finrod laughs, and it comes out sadder than he means to. “He is only going to haunt me through his absence if I try not to.”

Fingon looks at him, long and considering. Eventually, he nods though, as if that makes perfect sense.

And really, what else is there left to say?

In the end, Finrod does let Maedhros take the news to his brothers, and tells himself that it is dignity, not cowardice.

He makes it a point to attend dinner in the Great Hall that night, for the first time since he got here. His healers are reluctant to let him go, but even everything else aside, Finrod is pretty sure that he is going to go insane if he spends one more day holed up in his chambers.

It has been well over a month since they brought him here, and all he has done is sit in bed or armchairs and walk through corridors on his cousins’ arms. Once he is back in Nargothrond, he is going to stay awake for a week.

It is a good decision; the dinner is lively, the High Table full between all of them, and the entertainment a delight.

Finrod focuses on not looking at Curufin, and fails miserably; he is dressed in his usual dark red robes, his jewellery gleams in the firelight, and his hair is a complicated array of braids that Finrod wants to take apart.

The only consolation is that Finrod finds him looking back just as often.

Still, it is a good dinner, something settling within Finrod’s chest at how it feels like stepping out of still waters.

It is late by the time the company is breaking up. Finrod lingers, and catches Curufin’s wrist as he passes. “Come with me,” he says, except that it is less of a request and more of a demand.

Curufin looks at him, eyes silver-dark and impossible to read. In the end, he dips his chin, smiles. “After you,” he says, and does not pull his wrist out of Finrod’s grasp as they make their way to Finrod’s chambers.

Finrod pushes him up against the door the moment they get inside, pushing his hands into Curufin’s carefully braided hair, watching it fall apart as he does.

Curufin laughs, pleased and almost warm; curls his hands around Finrod’s hips and pulls him closer, until he can brush his mouth along Finrod’s jaw, his ears, up to his temple.

“There you are,” he says, pulling back to look down at Finrod. “I nigh on feared that Sauron took all the fight out of you.”

“You—“ Finrod starts, fury licking up his spine. His gaze falls down, though; falls onto the brooch that is holding Curufin’s cloak together, and his throat goes dry, words getting caught up in it so suddenly, he clicks his mouth shut.

“You kept it,” he says, when he can finally bring himself to speak. The red gems of the poppies gleam in the low light, and he brushes his fingers against them, almost expecting them to dissolve beneath his touch.

Curufin cups his jaw, makes Finrod look back up at him. “Of course, I did. It was a gift, was it not?”

“But you—“

Curufin kisses him, pulls him closer until they are pressed together. There is an edge to it but no bite, and Finrod falls into it, licking into Curufin’s mouth until they are both breathless with it.

He tastes the wine on his tongue. When they break apart, Curufin runs his fingers through Finrod’s hair, saying, “It suits you, you know?”

Finrod wonders how he did not notice sooner. “Are you drunk, Curufinwë?”

He rarely is, is the thing; says it makes him too inattentive, when in fact, it simply makes him more honest. A little softer.

Curufin smiles though, tipping his head back against the door. “A little, but not much. Do not worry, Ingoldo, you shall not besmirch my virtue.”

“What virtue,” Finrod laughs, almost surprised to hear the sound. There is an ease to this that they have not shared since Beren arrived, and like the brooch, he expects it to crumble the moment he tries to hold onto it.

“Exactly,” Curufin says, his grin sharp. “So will you take me to bed, or will I have to beg?”

“You have not begged for anything in your life, ever.”

Curufin’s smile grows, like a cat pleased with itself. Finrod cannot help but kiss him again, bite his soft mouth. He turns them, walks them over to the bed and pushes; watches, transfixed, as Curufin sprawls across the sheets and simply blinks up at him, expectant and bright.

Finrod joins him, leaning over him. Kisses him again, and their hands turn frantic as they divest each other of their clothes, an urgency to it all that feels less like one step away from cruelty, and more like—

Like whatever it is that they once shared, some thread of understanding that wove all their mismatched pieces together.

“Come on, Ingoldo,” Curufin murmurs, breath hot against Finrod’s mouth. “What do you want?”

A dangerous question, and Finrod stops, looks down at him. His hair spills like night across the white pillows, but there is colour high in his cheeks. His braids are coming loose, the gems that were woven into it glittering in the light like the pearls of Alqualondë, and Finrod thinks that if this is what damnation feels like, then he is well beyond the point of return.

He leans down to kiss Curufin again, trail his mouth along the sharp edge of his jaw, and find the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver.

“You, on your knees,” he says, and drinks the laughter Curufin answers him with down like honey.

A moment later, he finds himself on his back, Curufin hovering above him. There is a glint in his eyes, but he kisses Finrod again like he cannot stop from doing so, greedy and demanding and so, so good.

Beneath his hands, Curufin’s skin is soft. Finrod cannot help but dig his nails into it, leaving marks that will stand red against it come morning.

He bites his tongue as Curufin kisses his neck, his shoulder, bites his collarbone. They are both hard already, and Finrod, despite the clear intent in Curufin’s hands and mouth as he moves down Finrod’s body, can still not quite believe that this is happening.

They have lain together many times, even after Tol Sirion. It had always been half gravitational pull, half power struggle.

Finrod does not know what has changed. If it was as simple as his agreement to give Minas Tirith to them, to him, or if there was something more to it.

A dangerous thought, no, a stupid one. He is distracted from it when Curufin grazes his teeth over Finrod’s ribs, the sensitive skin there that had only just healed.

“At least do keep your mind on me while I do this for you, Ingoldo,” Curufin murmurs, but there is no heat behind it. He runs a hand up the inside of Finrod’s thigh, his eyes dark and intent as he watches the way Finrod’s breathing changes; the way Finrod shivers beneath his hands, every touch like something new and fatal.

“Well, I would if you got on with it,” Finrod counters, but it comes out breathy, and Curufin laughs in return.

His casualness is belied, too, by the flush high in his cheeks, the way his hands shake when he pushes Finrod’s legs up, spreading them further.

When he finally puts his mouth where Finrod wants it most, swallowing him down, it is still so unexpected that Finrod’s hips buck off the bed.

Curufin hums around him and holds him down before he sets his tongue to chase any coherent thought out of Finrod’s brain.

He has always been good at that; has, Finrod knows, always enjoyed it far more than he wanted to admit. He sinks his hand into Curufin’s hair and pushes him down; moans at the noise Curufin makes in return, something both outraged and on the brink of coming apart.

“Touch yourself,” he demands, knowing Curufin will not, otherwise. It should not thrill him as much as it does, but it does, and he lets his head drop back as Curufin loses his rhythm briefly in response.

They are both teetering on the edge, and it is ridiculous how quickly Finrod gets there, but then Curufin swallows around him and Finrod’s hand flexes against his head instinctively, keeping him down. Curufin moans, the sound of it travelling all the way up Finrod’s spine, and he tips over the edge before he can stop himself, his vision going white at the edges.

Curufin works him through it before he pulls off. His pupils are blown wide and his hair a mess, but he has let go of himself, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach. He simply watches Finrod, fingers digging into his thighs.

“Come here,” Finrod says, his voice rough. He pulls him close, and Curufin is still hard, trying and failing not to rut against him.

“Still so desperate,” Finrod muses, smiling against Curufin’s mouth. “Lie down.”

“Felagund—“

“Hush; do not pretend, for once, that you do not enjoy this,” Finrod says, and it is easy, all of a sudden, the way it used to be not too long ago.

He arranges them until they are both on their sides, Curufin’s back to Finrod’s chest. He slots a leg between Curufin’s thighs, wraps a hand around his cock; goes at it slow and teasing, the way he knows Curufin likes. Kisses his jaw, his neck, breathing lightly over his ear until Curufin is shivering and cursing, his hand scrambling against the covers.

“Why do you always have to make this so difficult, Curufinwë?” Finrod murmurs, trailing kisses over his shoulder. “I know what you like already, after all; why not let me give it to you?”

Curufin makes a noise high in his throat as Finrod twists his wrist, letting his head drop back against Finrod’s shoulder. It bares his throat, and Finrod sinks his teeth into the virgin-white skin there, enough to leave a mark.

It finally tips Curufin over the edge, his hand digging into Finrod’s thigh as he is coming apart. Finrod holds him through it, holds him close; for once, it seems, that Curufin has no desire to immediately put distance between them.

“Well,” he says instead, his voice languid and content. “You do still know how to do that.”

Finrod snorts and presses his nose into the soft, dark hair. “Are you implying the last few times were unsatisfactory to you?”

Curufin turns around until he can face Finrod. The kiss that follows is slow, almost, almost, almost gentle.

“No,” he finally says, but he sounds pensive. “But you seem more—here, I suppose. Less like you are using me to punish yourself, and more like you are enjoying yourself.”

Finrod freezes at the—partial—truth of it, something cold settling inside his chest. He did not expect Curufin, of all people, to read him that well, although he probably should have.

“Why did you—if you knew, why would you still want—”

Curufin shrugs, running his fingers idly through Finrod’s hair. “Who am I to judge that what you choose to break yourself against?”

Finrod stares at him, his throat dry. He does not know what to feel, how to put into words the pit inside his chest.

“Did you want it? Did I—“

“Do not be ridiculous, Felagund,” Curufin laughs, rolling them until he lies on top of Finrod, smiling down at him. “I always want you; you should know that by now, should you not? What do I care why you choose to lie with me, as long as it is a pleasant experience?”

Finrod wishes that want would mean the same thing here that it does for him; wishes, too, that the way Curufin kisses him then did not make him believe—almost, almost, almost—that perhaps, despite everything, it does.

He pulls Curufin closer, fingers to the unflinching pulse of him, and lets himself believe. If only for as long as night lasts.

After that, time picks up its pace.

There are plans to be made, both for Curufin and Celegorm’s establishment in Tol Sirion, as well as for Finrod’s return to Nargothrond.

Fingon, when he brings it up, looks apologetic. “I know we have not talked about it, but it is going to be a thing. People have believed you dead for these last few weeks, and it will not be easy to deal with the fallout of that.”

It is, admittedly, not something Finrod had spared overly much thought for. In the direct aftermath of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, he had understood why Curufin had made the decision. Finrod highly doubted Beren would have insisted upon the Oath, considering Finrod’s state, but he did understand.

He had understood, too, why Fingon had been reluctant to send out messengers to proclaim the opposite, the political implications during a time such as this not easy to manage, especially while Finrod’s recovery had been uncertain.

He had put it off though, these last couple of weeks. He knows.

“Well, do you think there is a better way to go about it than to return to Nargothrond?” he asks, raising a brow at those present.

It is only Fingon, Maedhros, and Curufin, but the latter two have kept quiet ever since the conversation turned to this, and so Finrod wonders. He always wonders.

“Not really,” Fingon says.

Curufin clears his throat; meets Finrod’s eyes across the table, and Finrod can tell right then that he is not going to like whatever comes next.

“We should return with you,” Curufin says, and he sounds as close to apologetic as he ever does—which is not a lot, in all honesty, but Finrod can hear it in the undercurrent, at least.

It does not help overly with the sensation of missing a step, quickly followed by anger.

“I gave you Minas Tirith; what more could you possibly want?”

To his credit, Curufin winces. “Not much, just—“

“Then why would you need to return with me? Do you not think you have wrought quite enough upheaval within my kingdom?”

Finrod would love to claim that he does not know what has got into him, but—

But. He knows, whenever he does allow himself to think about it, that it had not been Curufin and Celegorm alone who had turned their backs on him, who had let him ride out of Nargothrond with nought but ten men. He knows, too, that if he is unlucky, his people will just as easily suspect him to be under Morgoth’s influence.

His cousins may all be kind enough not to point it out, but those who escape from the enemy’s dungeons all meet the same suspicion. If Finrod is not careful, he will be no different.

Curufin holds his gaze, and there is understanding in it, but there is intractability, too.

“Telperinquar,” Curufin says, unflinching. “As well as our people and our things, of course, but—my son is in Nargothrond, Ingoldo. I would much prefer to pick him up myself.”

And that, Finrod thinks, is that. There is no world in which he would attempt to argue against it, and he can see in both Fingon’s and Maedhros’ faces that they, too, think it best.

“It will help,” Maedhros adds, as if on cue. “I doubt they will be welcomed back with honours, but ultimately, their account of rescuing you will reassure all those who have thought you dead for weeks now.”

Or those who think Morgoth let him go on purpose.

Maedhros does not apologise, even though Finrod can hear it in his tone. It does not help.

Truth be told, he cannot quite explain why it bothers him so.

“You expected it to be the place where you would finally get some peace,” Fingon says, when Finrod eventually brings it up. “It is where it all went wrong in the first place; I understand why you do not like the thought. They will not stay long though, if it is any consolation. That was, after all, half the reason you agreed to let them have Tol Sirion.”

A part of Finrod still thinks that he should have sent them off to Himring with Maedhros, and then sent their people and things up by themselves. He also knows that it is a ridiculous thought, because at the end of the day, well.

At the end of the day, they had saved his life.

So he does not think about it. Spends his days preparing for the travel, for the political ramifications of re-establishing Tol Sirion between himself and Fingon, and those of giving the stronghold to the Fëanorians. He bothers his healers until they finally agree that yes, he is healthy and will just have to work on regaining his strength, and then he spends his evenings with Maedhros and Fingon, trying and failing not to make fantastical future plans.

Despite Finrod’s lingering dread, the one he can now often see mirrored in Maedhros’ eyes when he thinks himself unwatched, there is an unmistakable air of hope washing everything a little brighter, a little easier.

Maedhros dreams of a union, one huge assault on Angband. “We kept him besieged for centuries, and even when he broke the leaguer, he could not fully defeat us. Fingolfin was right, all those years ago—we should not have tarried, but we have also grown strong. If we unite our forces…”

And so they dream and plan, and Finrod tries not to let the hope make him blind to the reality that in five hundred years they have not defeated Morgoth. He fails. Tries to be dismayed by it, and fails at that, too.

You survived, Maedhros’ voice echoes in his ears. And you will come back to fight him, Orc for Orc, and it will remind him every single time that he did not win. That he did not defeat you.

“You will have Nargothrond at your side,” Finrod promises, the last night before he is finally set to make the journey back home. The year has turned, the solstice come and gone, and winter has the land in a tight grip.

It reminds them all of the Bragollach; reminds both Finrod and Fingon of the Ice, and those that condemned them to it. It is not a great time for travel, not even the relatively simple road south to Nargothrond, but Finrod cannot bring himself to wait another two months until Vána finally graces the lands with spring.

“It makes strategic sense too,” Fingon says, a little pompous and with obvious humour, when Finrod asks him if he minds. He is right though, even as Finrod laughs and pulls him into a hug so full of gratitude, he kind of wants to choke on it.

Nargothrond needs its king. Minas Tirith needs to be manned. Maedhros needs to return east, and Finrod—

Finrod needs space. Things between him and Curufin no longer seem as sharp-edged and bruising, but he has not forgotten.

I owe you no allegiance, Ingoldo. We have not come after you for that purpose.

He does not think he can forget; not until spring, or summer, or yet another one of Morgoth’s winters.

The day of their departure dawns with sharp winds and an overcast sky.

Most of Fingon’s men are used to such weather, and those he insisted on sending along stand stoically inside the courtyard as Finrod, Celegorm, and Curufin say their goodbyes.

“Write,” Maedhros says, when Finrod pulls him into a hug. “Visit, if you like, or send an invitation. Do not be a stranger, Felagund.”

Unlike with his brothers, when he uses the name, it does not sound like an insult.

“I will,” Finrod says, and finds that he means it. A companionship has grown between them during his recovery that is reminiscent of days back in Valinor, back when they had shared academic interests and a desire for peace and quiet that was hard-won in Finwë’s house. That they had lost, somewhere between burning ships and the Grinding Ice, between Thangorodrim and the distance between their realms.

Saying his farewells to Fingon is easier, if no less melancholy. Their friendship has always been steadfast, and Finrod doubts not that it will stay so.

“I am glad our cousins had a moment of mental clarity and brought you here,” Fingon murmurs into Finrod’s short hair, both humour and regret in his voice. “No matter how much I wish we had reunited under better circumstances.”

“Next time, then,” Finrod says, and does not think about how the road to Fingon will now always carry him past Curufin.

Always, except this time, that is.

They debated the matter for hours but ultimately decided that before the pass was manned properly, it would be wiser to take a detour. They would ride west until the shores of Lake Mithrim, and then turn south, crossing through the mountains until they would hit the Old South Road just south of Tol Sirion.

It would make it impossible for any of Morgoth’s forces to corner them in the narrow pass, and ultimately only adds two days to their journey. It also means that Finrod does not have to camp a night on Tol Sirion, and he would be lying if he claimed that it was not a relief.

It will be easier, he muses as they ride out of Barad Eithel, to return to it when it is something new, something changed. Not his first home here; not the place where he had almost lost his life to Sauron’s malice.

And so he lets the freezing wind coming out of the west bite at his skin. Breathes, deep and easy, as his horse picks its way over the perilous ground. Thinks, with a glance at Curufin riding beside him, that perhaps the future is not such a grim thing, after all.

For the most part, their travels go smoothly.

Or as smoothly as can be expected. Fingon had heaped furs and stores on them, but nothing can make a week-long journey in January enjoyable, exactly.

Ever since the Dagor Bragollach, inns and taverns have become an uncertainty. You might end up with a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, or Morgoth’s forces might have got there before you, either bribing or threatening owners to give up any travelling Elves and their allies.

As such, they are avoided as much as possible. Even if that means pitching tents on top of snow-covered ground, and sleeping close together the way they had done on the Ice.

Personally, Finrod thinks it might do Curufin and Celegorm some good, although he has to admit that they do not complain.

In fact, they speak altogether very little. Curufin has a strange habit of fussing over Finrod in the evenings, insisting he lets the healer check over his last remaining wounds, especially the one on his throat; making sure he eats and sleeps. It makes Finrod wonder, makes him hope stupidly.

He keeps telling himself that Curufin and Celegorm will hardly be able to claim Tol Sirion if Finrod does not make it back to Nargothrond, and to stop overthinking it. It does, predictably, not work overly well.

He does notice that Curufin’s strange insistence to make sure that Finrod is all right, for whatever reason, is about the only interaction he has. Celegorm, for his part, stays as far apart from the group as he can, silent but his expression tight with even more disdain and anger than he usually wears.

Finrod asks Curufin about it once, deep in the night as they switch for the watch. Curufin had joined him a little early, sitting down beside Finrod to press their shoulders together, and warming his hands on the fire.

Curufin had shrugged, though, his expression closing off. Deciding that it was not his problem, Finrod had dropped it; they would figure themselves out eventually.

They reach Nargothrond a week later, its scouts spotting them long before the river comes into sight, Finrod knows.

In return, they unfurl Fingon’s banner, and Finrod makes sure to keep his hood drawn into his face. They do not know what kind of welcome any of them will receive, but it will be easier to talk to Orodreth than to the weather-worn guards of the outer lands.

Predictably, the High King’s standard allows them easy passage until they reach the entrance of the caves.

It is, Finrod thinks idly, a security risk. Nothing is stopping Morgoth from impersonating any of them this way, after all.

He puts it away for a later time, and dismounts behind the five guards that accompanied them. Behind him, Curufin and Celegorm do the same, just as one of the lesser counsellors appears, demanding, “Declare yourselves.”

Casting back his hood, Finrod steps forward, smiling as best he can.

“Lord Satya,” he greets. “I trust it has not been so long that you no longer recognise me?”

The shock that washes across the poor man’s face would be comical if it was not so swiftly followed by unease.

“King Felagund! We heard word that—“

“I am aware,” Finrod says, inclining his head. “It was a misunderstanding, at the time. I had been injured grievously, and King Fingon kindly took me in. It will be easier to explain out of the cold.”

Satya nods, if a little unsure of himself. It is, Finrod muses, going better than it could have; none of the guards have reached for their weapons, and everyone seems wary but good-willed.

Considering the general opinion that the kingdom had of Finrod when he left, well—he had, perhaps, braced himself for the worst.

“Who are your companions?” Satya asks, glancing behind Finrod.

Before Finrod can decide how to put this in a way that will not throw up even more questions—something he had, in all fairness, tried to come up with for weeks without getting any closer to a solution—Curufin steps up beside him, casting back his hood.

“I dare say you will remember me too,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade. “But generally speaking, my brother and I are the ones you can thank for bringing your king back—as well as for the fact that you only hear of his survival now. You are welcome, and my apologies, both.”

Finrod has to admit, as little as he will ever do so to Curufin’s face, that it is an effective introduction. It is simply so bold that no one quite knows how to question it, and as Finrod does not refute it right then and there, everyone else present seems to accept it.

Their shifting and furtive glances are telling, though. Finrod doubts that the thralls that had escaped from Tol Sirion in the wake of Lúthien’s victory would have had many good things to say about the brothers.

“Come,” Satya says regardless, shaking himself. “I will send word to the King—to the steward, I mean. Leave the horses, I am sure you must be travel-worn.”

They are, but Finrod feels like he could take on Sauron once more and win this time, too. Something about seeing Nargothrond again, the familiar halls, the familiar faces—the kingdom he had built, when he had been so certain that he should never see it again—is finally wiping the last clinging remnants of shadow from his mind.

He meets Curufin’s eyes where he is walking beside Finrod and cannot help but grin. “How bad do you think it is going to be?”

Curufin snorts, almost as if against his will. “If they cast you out again, I am not taking you in, Felagund; just so you know.”

And Finrod—well, Finrod wants to be outraged that Curufin, of all people, dares to make a joke out of it. There is something, though, to not expecting anything less anymore that makes him merely roll his eyes and follow Satya into the throne room.

The first to burst through the doors is Celebrimbor.

He stops just inside, eyes flying across their small company before settling on Curufin, his expression disbelieving and, most of all, guarded.

It is the first time that it occurs to Finrod to wonder what Nargothrond thought had happened to Curufin and Celegorm. From what he had gleamed, the two of them had not explained their leaving, and it had been over two months since then.

“Is it true?” Celebrimbor asks Finrod, his voice carefully neutral. “Is it true that they saved your life?”

Usually, Celebrimbor is not someone any easier to read than the rest of his family. Right now, the hope in his eyes is bordering on desperation.

Beside Finrod, Curufin is holding himself very, very still.

Finrod has never been particularly privy to the intricacies of their relationship; he knows that there is love there, and respect. He also knows that it cannot always be easy. That in those last few days before he had left with Beren, he had rarely ever seen the two of them together, had seen Celebrimbor watching Finrod with apologies written all over his face.

“It is,” he says, and this time, the smile does not come easily, but it is true, nonetheless.

He does not add how it had not been for his sake. He assumes Celebrimbor must know, to some extent, or will at least find out eventually. Who is Finrod to judge whether that will change anything?

Celebrimbor gives a sharp nod and then looks at his father, the two of them hovering there, seeming to have an entire silent conversation. Most likely, they do—Finrod knows that they are used to using Ósanwë between them, usually when working in the forge.

At the end of it, Celebrimbor flies through the room, hugging Curufin with so much force that they stumble a few steps before Curufin catches them.

Despite himself, Finrod smiles, relieved that whatever else is going to happen in here, the two of them will be all right.

“Not a word,” he hears Curufin say, even as he looks Celebrimbor up and down.

Celebrimbor rolls his eyes in response, but he, too, unmistakably makes sure that they are all in one piece, his eyes lingering on Finrod’s scars before turning back to his father.

Finrod wonders what it must be like, belonging to that narrow circle of people that Curufin so unabashedly shows his love for. For whom he would do anything, without the need for excuses, justifications, lies.

He banishes that thought when the doors open again, this time a little more sedately, and Orodreth steps inside, followed by a small group of councillors and Finduilas.

Something unravels inside of Finrod at the mere sight of them. Orodreth is looking at him as if not entirely sure whether he should be relieved yet, but Finduilas is smiling so brightly, Finrod kind of wants to weep.

“You are back!” she exclaims, and she does not quite tackle him the way that Celebrimbor had done with Curufin, but she is warm and familiar in his arms, and it takes a gargantuan effort to let her go.

When he does, Orodreth’s expression has softened. “Uncle; it is good to see you. We had thought you lost.”

It is then, in the quiet tone of Orodreth, that Finrod finally believes that things will be all right. The wariness continues to be palpable, more so in some of the guards and councillors than in his family, but they all want to believe him returned, and so eventually, they will.

Then Orodreth’s gaze falls onto Curufin and Celegorm, and all ease and relief leeches out of him, his spine going rigid. “And what, pray tell, are the two of you doing back here?”

Which, in all fairness, is more of what Finrod expected. He still finds himself taking a step forward as if to shield them. A ridiculous thought.

And yet.

“Peace, nephew,” he says, and he just knows that somewhere, Fingon is laughing at him. “They are why I am here. They are those who can vouch for the fact that I am not one of Morgoth’s thralls.”

An uncomfortable silence follows, and Finrod sighs, gesturing towards the council chambers a room over. “It is a long story. Let us sit, and perhaps call for wine and food.”

What follows are long-winded, continually interrupted explanations of the last few weeks. From Curufin and Celegorm’s decision to leave Nargothrond—slightly embellished, truth be told; somehow they manage to talk around the fact that it was the Silmaril that drove them—to reaching Tol Sirion only shortly after Lúthien. The bartering to be allowed to bury Finrod themselves; realising he is alive; deciding to leave Beren and Lúthien in the belief that he was not.

“And you did not think to send word to the contrary to us?” Orodreth cuts in, his brow raised. The worst of his outrage has calmed, but this, at least, he clearly still struggles with.

Finrod cannot blame him, truly. He does not know how he would take it if he were made to mourn one of his family only to find out that it was not so.

“We were not intent on taking any risks, considering. You know how it goes with messengers, nowadays,” Curufin says. He is utterly unapologetic, and as usual, it takes the wind out of everyone’s sails. “We brought him to Fingon, and we all agreed. You may take the matter up with the High King.”

Finrod sighs. The sole silver lining here is that no one would dare to go to Fingon about it; unfortunately, it is also exactly why Curufin says it.

Things continue in that manner, and at the end of it all, no one is that much more endeared to Curufin and Celegorm than before—although the latter, uncharacteristically, had stayed silent through most of it. At least no one any longer seems intent to chase them out of the kingdom immediately. Or suspects Finrod to be a thrall.

Still, it is entirely expected when Orodreth eventually leans back, his loose hair cascading over his shoulder, and asks, “So, what next? Do you think it wise for the Fëanorians to stay in Nargothrond, after everything?”

Finrod bites down on a grimace. “No. But with Sauron gone from Tol Sirion, and none of us on our own having the men to retake and hold it—“

“Tell me you are joking.”

Orodreth had held the fortress for nearly thrice as long as Finrod, so Finrod is not surprised to find his own initial outrage mirrored and amplified.

“It needs to be manned, nephew,” he says, as he had told himself countless times. “It protects us down here, too, and neither I nor Fingon or even Maedhros have the men to spare anymore.”

“And you would trust them?” Orodreth counters, his eyes sweeping over Curufin and Celegorm with so much disdain, the family resemblance is suddenly and painfully obvious.

“Yes,” Finrod says. Perhaps the wildest thing is that he means it, too. “And regardless, the decision has been made. Perhaps we should talk about the rest in private?”

Across from him, Orodreth clenches his jaw; breathes slowly, in and out, in and out.

Eventually though, he nods. “One more thing.”

With steady hands, he takes the silver circlet off his head and sets it on the table between them. When he smiles at Finrod, it is genuine and full of relief. “Welcome home, my King. We are grateful to have you back within these halls.”

The conversation with Orodreth lasts long—reassurances that it was all true, relief, condolences for Finrod’s hair. Plans to write to Galadriel and Thingol, to go through the kingdom’s affairs over the coming days.

Apparently, a king returning from the dead causes work.

Finrod is grateful, for the stately help and the warmth of his nephew both; feels settled and home for the first time in ages, and still, at the end of it, he is more exhausted than he has been in weeks.

Or perhaps, that is not entirely correct, but he does feel wrung out, feels the weight of a kingdom settling back onto his shoulders. It is good, everything within him coming awake beneath it.

It is heavy too. Always has been.

He makes the way to his chambers on his own, Nargothrond quiet with the hour. Torches light the way, and the stone is cold with winter where Finrod trails his fingers over it.

His chambers are dark when he gets there, only a low fire in the hearth spreading some low light.

“Curufinwë,” Finrod says, and smiles, knowing it to be hidden yet.

Curufin hums, stepping out of the shadow. On the table, there is a pitcher of wine and several unlit candles.

“What gave me away?” Curufin asks, lighting them with a flick of his fingers.

“You are becoming predictable. You spent more nights in my chambers in Barad Eithel than not.”

“Are you complaining?”

Finrod thinks about it. Curufin’s hair is unbound, falling over his shoulders without braids or gemstones. He is wearing a simple tunic and little jewellery. It hits Finrod, how unguarded Curufin has grown in his presence—wonders whether it is trust or the knowledge that Finrod cannot, could not bring himself to harm him, even if it was in his nature.

“No,” he says, too honest. Stepping closer, he wraps an arm around Curufin from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Did you find everything as you left it?”

“Anything Tyelpë did not tear through, yes.”

“He was concerned.”

Curufin hums in agreement, finishing with the candles. He does not so much as lean back into Finrod’s embrace as that he shifts his weight—which does, ultimately, have the same effect.

“What about you?” he asks. “Your nephew and councillors ready yet to chase us out of the kingdom?”

It is complicated, Finrod wants to say. Wants to explain, as if Curufin does not know—better than Finrod, probably. There are details of the time after he had left that Curufin has been purposefully vague about and that Finrod, in a burst of selfishness, has not asked too much about.

It had been a little too easy, perhaps, to focus on recovery. To delay taking up his responsibilities again until he was back within his own kingdom, without Fingon and Maedhros there to shoulder some of it.

Tomorrow, though.

“I think you have a few days,” he replies, glad that Curufin cannot see his expression. “How are things with your brother? You two still seem… tense.”

It is as much of a question as he has ever asked. Back in Barad Eithel, he had assumed that Curufin and Celegorm spent time together outside of Finrod’s orbit. He cannot say if whatever wedge that has lodged itself between them is of a recent nature, or what caused it.

Curufin goes still within his arms, then purposefully relaxes. “We will be fine. We had some… disagreements, but we will be fine, once we are on Tol Sirion. We always are.”

That, at least, Finrod believes. Still, Curufin sounds as if he is trying to convince himself as much as Finrod.

With a sigh, Finrod pulls away and pours them both wine. “So, when will you leave?”

“Eager to get rid of me, are you, Felagund?”

Finrod is tired of the games, though; thinks they are past pretence, at this point. What is there left to lose?

“No,” he says, and holds Curufin’s eyes as he drinks. “And you know that, too, Curufinwë.”

Curufin looks at him, his eyes dark in the dim light. “Well, it is not that far per the Old South Road, I have heard; especially when the northern passage is safe.”

It is, Finrod thinks, as close to an admission as he is ever going to get. He rolls his eyes and puts his goblet down.

“Kiss me,” he demands, already pulling Curufin close by the lapels of his tunic.

Curufin does; if Finrod tells himself that perhaps, this is all that matters, he might believe it eventually.

The next few days are a rush of activity. Finrod’s councillors, his captains, his seneschal, and several other household figures all urgently need his opinions on this matter and that issue. His family wants to spend time with him, a feast wants to be thrown, and there are missives that have been left unanswered.

Meanwhile, Finrod is still trying to figure out how to write to Galadriel, how to tell her that, actually, he is not quite dead, to please not kill Fingon about the lack of news, and to maybe let both Thingol and Beren know, sending his apologies and congratulations to the latter.

All that, loath as Finrod is to admit it, is not even starting on the fact that he would like to spend some time with Curufin before the Fëanorians leave Nargothrond for good.

Truth be told though, Finrod thrives under the stress. He has been sitting idle for so long, he feels as if he is made of excess energy and a buzzing mind.

It does make the days march on ruthlessly, and while Curufin keeps slipping into his chambers more nights than he does not, Finrod knows that their days are numbered. Knows, too, that it will be good; the space, the distance, the room to sort out his thoughts.

To perhaps finally find it within himself to move on, because a little easier things may have become, but Finrod has never made a habit of breaking himself against someone who does not return his love. Curufin, it seems, is simply and unfortunately something he struggles to let go of, unless he is out of reach, or actively trying to take over Finrod’s kingdom.

As the latter appears to have resolved itself in strange ways, he can only hope that the distance will eventually do the trick.

It will be good, Finrod knows this. The Fëanorians have—more or less—peacefully lived among his people for over a decade, but in the wake of everything that has happened, it will be good.

Still, Finrod makes it a point, on a quiet afternoon a week after his return, to find Celebrimbor in the forge that very early on, he had claimed as his own.

It is an organised mess in the way his father could never tolerate. It is, Finrod knows, one of the main reasons that they do not share a workspace unless they are collaborating on a project.

Finrod lingers in the doorway for a while, watching Celebrimbor work.

He is a little less attentive than his father, but he does notice Finrod after not too long.

“Uncle,” he says, smiling as he carefully puts the chainmail aside that he has been working on. It looks close to being finished; he must plan to take it with him. “How can I help you?”

Finrod wonders how long it will take them to rebuild the fortress on Tol Sirion. How long until they have forges? Will they have sleeping quarters to keep out the winter, before winter ends?

He shakes the thought. Down that road lies only folly.

Finrod walks further into the room, looking at what must be months’ worth of work.

“Nothing specific,” he finally says, focusing back on Celebrimbor. “I merely wanted to speak to you before you leave. I know it is a week or two off, but things have been so hectic and, I assume, will only get more so.”

Celebrimbor frowns. “I appreciate it, but it is not going to be far. We will see you rather sooner than later, will we not?”

Finrod winces. He is not sure how much Celebrimbor knows of what is going on between Finrod and Curufin, but as a general rule, Curufin has never been particularly forthcoming to others about it.

“You two are all right,” Celebrimbor insists, tilting his head. He does not sound upset about it; just puzzled. “He came after you, saved your life. You recovered and agreed to let us have Tol Sirion. As far as my father’s relations go, this is a shockingly peaceful parting.”

Finrod snorts; put like that, Celebrimbor probably has a point. He shrugs, though. Curufin may tell his son what he likes, but Finrod made no promises that he would soften any truths for anyone—cannot believe that Curufin much cares, either.

“He did save my life, yes. Because he happened to come across me when going after the Silmaril. Do not mistake me, I am grateful, but it does not exactly change the fact that I went on that quest with only ten men thanks to him, and would have died there too, if not for his Oath. In its consequence, it changes nothing; in the intent, though—well. It does feel different.”

Celebrimbor stares at him. Blinks; snorts; runs a hand across his face and finally laughs, the sound edged with a hint of madness.

It is just the slightest bit reminiscent of Fëanor, which is not something Finrod has ever associated with Celebrimbor.

“Are you all right? I am sorry, I did not mean to—“

Celebrimbor waves his hand dismissively. He draws a deep breath and stares at the ceiling as if counting for patience or praying for strength, and then looks back at Finrod. “That, and excuse my language, is utter bullshit.”

“What? I am—“

“Who told you that? My father?” Celebrimbor cuts in, and he is still grinning, but it is the disbelieving, exasperated kind of grin that Finrod feels Curufin is particularly well-versed in drawing from people.

Again, though; Finrod is rather certain that he has not before seen it on his son.

“Okay,” he says, shaking his head. “Explain.”

Celebrimbor rolls his eyes, but he says, “There was no rumour. He always left to go after you, except that he is my father, so of course, he could not tell anyone that. He did not even tell Tyelko, it is why they are fighting. Which, in turn, is how I found out, although I should have realised.”

Finrod’s chest feels curiously cold—as if someone had cracked it open, spilling all the hope and longing he had kept buried inside of it all over the soot-stained stone floor of the forge.

“How could you have realised?” he asks, some base instinct taking over. He is not sure that he should not be sitting down.

Celebrimbor grins, sharp-edged and pleased and entirely too reminiscent of his father. “I, too, overheard the conversation that he turned into a so-called rumour. He did not know, but I sensed him; of course, I only put the pieces together once they came back here, and it all came out. It was that far from a rumour.”

Finrod stumbles a step back, two, until he can lean against one of the worktables. He knows that if he were to look down, he would find his hands shaking.

“What did they say?”

“Can you imagine if the King and Beren succeed, basically,” Celebrimbor says, shrugging. He picks up a file and spins it between his fingers, watching Finrod closely. “I am sorry that you have to find out from me. I think you deserve to know, though—I know it does not make everything all right, but even if he was never going to admit it, he did eventually change his mind. Maybe it does count for something, for you.” A pause. “It did, for me.”

It does, Finrod wants to say, and cannot bring his throat to work. When he does speak, his voice comes out as hoarse as if Sauron had just tried to tear his throat out.

“Are you sure?”

Celebrimbor smiles, and there is way too much knowledge in his eyes for someone who should not be seeing so much.

“I am sure,” he says. “He is up packing, by the way. Celegorm is out hunting, and I am going to be quite busy here for a while longer.”

If Finrod were in less of a state, he would have something smart to say to that assumption. As it is, he nods numbly, turns on his heel, and walks out.

Or almost—he does remember to turn in the doorway and offer Celebrimbor a smile that must be shaky around the edges. “Thank you,” he says, and then he goes, hearing Celebrimbor hum behind him.

He does not bother knocking. The entire way up to the Fëanorian quarters passes in a haze, and so Finrod walks into Curufin’s rooms with no better idea of what to say than he had down in the forges.

Curufin stands bowed over his weapon table, a dagger in his hand. Distantly, Finrod thinks it is familiar—its hilt seems to be adorned with something that looks like scales, catching the light. Then he remembers—Curufin had been working on it the night before Finrod left, and everything becomes suddenly and painfully sharp.

“Ingoldo,” Curufin says, his voice mild. “Have you forgotten about the concept of knocking?”

Finrod crosses the distance between them in three quick strides. He takes the dagger from Curufin and drops it onto the table, then fists his hands into the front of Curufin’s robe and walks him backwards until his back collides with a wall, all the air going out of him.

“You lied,” Finrod snarls, his voice shaking. Curufin’s eyes go wide, then narrow, a frown appearing between his brows. His hands settle on Finrod’s hips, not quite pushing him away, but a warning, all the same.

“I have not, actually, in recent—“

“There was no rumour,” Finrod cuts in. He draws a breath and gentles his grip a little bit. The shock that washes across Curufin’s face would be a pleasure to see if Finrod was not so, so mad. “Why would you—“

“How would you—“ Curufin starts, but the fight goes out of him halfway through. He sighs. “Tyelpë.”

“At least your son has some decency,” Finrod says, sharper than he means it.

Curufin raises a brow. “He does have the best of me. Irrelevant. And what would it have changed, if I had told you?”

“Everything,” Finrod snaps, and everything within him feels on the brink of shaking apart. “I have spent weeks—months—thinking that you were content to let me walk to my death, while I was foolish enough to, even after that, keep coming back to you. It would have—“

He cuts himself off, tries to take a step back, and finds that he cannot, Curufin’s hands suddenly going fierce on his hips.

“When the north burnt, I came here,” Curufin says, his eyes bright and intense as he casts them across Finrod’s face. “We stayed. We ran patrols and provided guards, and work. We accepted you as King. I shared your bed, I—and then, Ingoldo, you went to your death to accompany some man to help steal our birthright. You are the one who left, and then I came after you anyway. I saved your life and brought you to Fingon, of all people, I stayed while you recovered. My brother is still not talking to me because of all of it. I came back here; I will take over the Watch Tower to your kingdom. If you have not—“

He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “You walked out. I lied.”

“Because of an Oath—“

Curufin raises a brow, mouth curling with mockery.

Finrod looks away from him. The room is messy, with clothes and trinkets strewn everywhere. Curufin is leaving, Finrod thinks. Curufin had lied. Curufin had come after him.

It does not change the fact of all that happened before; all that happened after. But in a way, Finrod supposes, Curufin has shown him as much of himself as he could. Finrod just does not know if it is enough.

He looks back at Curufin, proud tilt of his chin and the way his eyes are fixed on Finrod, and knows that to be a lie. He rests their foreheads together, breathing him in; Finrod stayed for all this time, even when he had not so much as believed that Curufin cared.

As if he could bring himself to walk away now.

“A rumour, Curufinwë, really; I should have known.”

Curufin hums, as if in agreement. His expression is still guarded, his fingers stiff and unmoving against Finrod’s hips.

If it were anyone else, he thinks Curufin might try to apologise; as it is, eventually, Curufin sighs, the fight draining out of him. He runs a hand up Finrod’s arm, pushes his fingers into Finrod’s hair; pulls him close and kisses him—gently, this time, gently.

“As if I would let something as idiotic as an oath to some man let you get out of this,” he murmurs against Finrod’s mouth, his smile obvious, and Finrod—

Finrod cannot help but laugh, the weeks of sharp-edged longing, the uncertainty, the numbness of Celebrimbor’s revelation finally bursting within him. He pulls Curufin impossibly closer and presses his face into his shoulders, trying and failing to get his laughter under control.

“Leave it to you to always proclaim your feelings in the most ridiculous manner possible,” he finally says, looking back up to brush another kiss to Curufin’s waiting mouth.

Curufin raises a brow, imperious, but he does not protest. Says only, a little resigned, a little haughtily, “Do not let it get to your head, Ingoldo,” and then kisses Finrod again, open-mouthed and hungry, belying all his careful composure.

Finrod lets him, lets himself finally fall into it. Lets Curufin revert their positions and watches with hitching breath as Curufin drops to his knees before him, eyes glinting with pleased mischief. Lets Curufin take him apart, as only he knows how to do, and thinks that perhaps—

Perhaps, at the end of it all, it had been worth it.

Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it changes very few things.

They lie in bed the morning of the Fëanorians’ departure, Nargothrond quiet beyond the doors for now.

The candles have burnt low, dripping idly over their sockets. Finrod has not slept, has watched Curufin beside him breathe, stolen moments of tenderness he locks away beneath his ribs.

Curufin wakes slowly, in no hurry to pull away, for once.

Finrod runs lazy fingers through his hair and says, “I miss travelling, I think. I have been stuck in one place for too long.”

“You would say that.”

“Think about it; would it not be nice, to go away for a while? A break from everything? I have always been curious about what lies East of the Ered Luin.”

It is unrealistic, of course. Between his absence from Nargothrond, and Curufin’s endeavour to rebuild Minas Tirith, not least to mention the ongoing war, the odds of either of them taking a vacation anytime soon are low.

Curufin smiles, even though he tries to hide it against Finrod’s shoulder. “You confuse me for a lover to spend your honeymoon with.”

“Admit that it would be nice,” Finrod laughs, unruffled. “You would have time for your smith-work. No worrying about politics, or appearances, or any of your brothers.”

The last point is still a little sore, although Finrod thinks it has got better. Truth be told, he tries not to ask.

Curufin sighs though, rolling onto his back to stretch. “All right, it might be nice,” he admits. Before Finrod can gloat, he props himself up on an elbow and smiles down at Finrod, all teeth. “We would also murder each other within a week.”

Finrod rolls his eyes and kisses him, but realistically, that is probably not too far off.

And so, Curufin packs his last remaining things into one of the many wagons. He orders his brother, his son, and his people to their respective horses; nods a frigidly polite goodbye to Orodreth and Nargothrond’s Lords.

And then he turns to Finrod and bows until he can press his lips to Finrod’s ring—the one that, only days ago, Beren had sent back.

They had said their goodbyes already, but Finrod’s heart still trips at the gesture.

I owe you no allegiance, Ingoldo, indeed.

“Fare you well, cousin,” Curufin says, his smile almost teasing. He turns, then stops, tilting his head. “And Felagund? We may be in need of an architect; may I count on you for help?”

Behind himself, Finrod can hear people bristle.

He ignores them, smiles back—a little sharp, a little pleased. “Anytime, Curufinwë; all you have to do is ask.”

Curufin laughs, and then he swings himself on top of his horse and rides out of the courtyard at a quick trod, his red cloak snapping in the wind.

Beneath Finrod’s own cloak, the dagger with its scales and poppy-red gemstones is a comforting weight against his hip.

*

It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don't you? You are clever enough.
I am a demanding creature. I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. 
But I am your servant. When you starve I will feed you; when you are sick I will tend you.
I crawl at your feet; for you before your love, your kisses, I am debased. 
For you alone I will be weak.
—Catherynne Valente

Chapter End Notes

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