Between Ruinous Dusk and Restless Dawn by queerofthedagger

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say you want me with your mouth closed

There are some minor canon details/timeline matters I chose to ignore for the sake of making this work. For one, Huan returns to Nargothrond after helping Lúthien escape, at least briefly. For the other, Lúthien did not tell Celegorm and Curufin about her knowledge that Beren and Finrod were captured.

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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Between Ruinous Dusk and Restless Dawn by queerofthedagger

say you want me with your mouth closed

Chapter End Notes