Between Ruinous Dusk and Restless Dawn by queerofthedagger

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Prologue: the ghosts in these halls

Written for slide #24 by lassirin/laisrinel, for the Tolkien Summer Reverse Bang! Words by queerofthedagger, a direct link to the artwork is here!

There is a playlist to go with this fic; it is somewhat sorted to go along with the story, so I'd recommend listening to it in order. <3

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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.