Between Ruinous Dusk and Restless Dawn by queerofthedagger

---

a kiss with open eyes

Once more playing somewhat fast and loose with the timeline regarding Beren and Lúthien here.

---

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

*

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

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

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

Before Beren had come to Nargothrond, Finrod had thought—

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

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

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

“What happened to asking nicely, Felagund?”

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

Except for the hair, it seems.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Finno—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it is hope, incredulous and untried.

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curufinwë.” A warning.

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

A peace offering.

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

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

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

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

This, though—

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

He returns in daylight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want, Curufinwë.”

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

Finrod stiffens. “You did.”

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

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

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

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

“Think about it, Ingoldo—“

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

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

“Until you did not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?”

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

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

Finrod looks back. “Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

“As your friend?”

“Yes. That.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And really, what else is there left to say?

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Felagund—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you want it? Did I—“

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

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

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

---

After that, time picks up its pace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really,” Fingon says.

Curufin clears his throat; meets Finrod’s eyes across the table, and Finrod can tell right then that he is not going to like whatever comes next.

“We should return with you,” Curufin says, and he sounds as close to apologetic as he ever does—which is not a lot, in all honesty, but Finrod can hear it in the undercurrent, at least.

It does not help overly with the sensation of missing a step, quickly followed by anger.

“I gave you Minas Tirith; what more could you possibly want?”

To his credit, Curufin winces. “Not much, just—“

“Then why would you need to return with me? Do you not think you have wrought quite enough upheaval within my kingdom?”

Finrod would love to claim that he does not know what has got into him, but—

But. He knows, whenever he does allow himself to think about it, that it had not been Curufin and Celegorm alone who had turned their backs on him, who had let him ride out of Nargothrond with nought but ten men. He knows, too, that if he is unlucky, his people will just as easily suspect him to be under Morgoth’s influence.

His cousins may all be kind enough not to point it out, but those who escape from the enemy’s dungeons all meet the same suspicion. If Finrod is not careful, he will be no different.

Curufin holds his gaze, and there is understanding in it, but there is intractability, too.

“Telperinquar,” Curufin says, unflinching. “As well as our people and our things, of course, but—my son is in Nargothrond, Ingoldo. I would much prefer to pick him up myself.”

And that, Finrod thinks, is that. There is no world in which he would attempt to argue against it, and he can see in both Fingon’s and Maedhros’ faces that they, too, think it best.

“It will help,” Maedhros adds, as if on cue. “I doubt they will be welcomed back with honours, but ultimately, their account of rescuing you will reassure all those who have thought you dead for weeks now.”

Or those who think Morgoth let him go on purpose.

Maedhros does not apologise, even though Finrod can hear it in his tone. It does not help.

---

Truth be told, he cannot quite explain why it bothers him so.

“You expected it to be the place where you would finally get some peace,” Fingon says, when Finrod eventually brings it up. “It is where it all went wrong in the first place; I understand why you do not like the thought. They will not stay long though, if it is any consolation. That was, after all, half the reason you agreed to let them have Tol Sirion.”

A part of Finrod still thinks that he should have sent them off to Himring with Maedhros, and then sent their people and things up by themselves. He also knows that it is a ridiculous thought, because at the end of the day, well.

At the end of the day, they had saved his life.

So he does not think about it. Spends his days preparing for the travel, for the political ramifications of re-establishing Tol Sirion between himself and Fingon, and those of giving the stronghold to the Fëanorians. He bothers his healers until they finally agree that yes, he is healthy and will just have to work on regaining his strength, and then he spends his evenings with Maedhros and Fingon, trying and failing not to make fantastical future plans.

Despite Finrod’s lingering dread, the one he can now often see mirrored in Maedhros’ eyes when he thinks himself unwatched, there is an unmistakable air of hope washing everything a little brighter, a little easier.

Maedhros dreams of a union, one huge assault on Angband. “We kept him besieged for centuries, and even when he broke the leaguer, he could not fully defeat us. Fingolfin was right, all those years ago—we should not have tarried, but we have also grown strong. If we unite our forces…”

And so they dream and plan, and Finrod tries not to let the hope make him blind to the reality that in five hundred years they have not defeated Morgoth. He fails. Tries to be dismayed by it, and fails at that, too.

You survived, Maedhros’ voice echoes in his ears. And you will come back to fight him, Orc for Orc, and it will remind him every single time that he did not win. That he did not defeat you.

“You will have Nargothrond at your side,” Finrod promises, the last night before he is finally set to make the journey back home. The year has turned, the solstice come and gone, and winter has the land in a tight grip.

It reminds them all of the Bragollach; reminds both Finrod and Fingon of the Ice, and those that condemned them to it. It is not a great time for travel, not even the relatively simple road south to Nargothrond, but Finrod cannot bring himself to wait another two months until Vána finally graces the lands with spring.

“It makes strategic sense too,” Fingon says, a little pompous and with obvious humour, when Finrod asks him if he minds. He is right though, even as Finrod laughs and pulls him into a hug so full of gratitude, he kind of wants to choke on it.

Nargothrond needs its king. Minas Tirith needs to be manned. Maedhros needs to return east, and Finrod—

Finrod needs space. Things between him and Curufin no longer seem as sharp-edged and bruising, but he has not forgotten.

I owe you no allegiance, Ingoldo. We have not come after you for that purpose.

He does not think he can forget; not until spring, or summer, or yet another one of Morgoth’s winters.

---

The day of their departure dawns with sharp winds and an overcast sky.

Most of Fingon’s men are used to such weather, and those he insisted on sending along stand stoically inside the courtyard as Finrod, Celegorm, and Curufin say their goodbyes.

“Write,” Maedhros says, when Finrod pulls him into a hug. “Visit, if you like, or send an invitation. Do not be a stranger, Felagund.”

Unlike with his brothers, when he uses the name, it does not sound like an insult.

“I will,” Finrod says, and finds that he means it. A companionship has grown between them during his recovery that is reminiscent of days back in Valinor, back when they had shared academic interests and a desire for peace and quiet that was hard-won in Finwë’s house. That they had lost, somewhere between burning ships and the Grinding Ice, between Thangorodrim and the distance between their realms.

Saying his farewells to Fingon is easier, if no less melancholy. Their friendship has always been steadfast, and Finrod doubts not that it will stay so.

“I am glad our cousins had a moment of mental clarity and brought you here,” Fingon murmurs into Finrod’s short hair, both humour and regret in his voice. “No matter how much I wish we had reunited under better circumstances.”

“Next time, then,” Finrod says, and does not think about how the road to Fingon will now always carry him past Curufin.

Always, except this time, that is.

They debated the matter for hours but ultimately decided that before the pass was manned properly, it would be wiser to take a detour. They would ride west until the shores of Lake Mithrim, and then turn south, crossing through the mountains until they would hit the Old South Road just south of Tol Sirion.

It would make it impossible for any of Morgoth’s forces to corner them in the narrow pass, and ultimately only adds two days to their journey. It also means that Finrod does not have to camp a night on Tol Sirion, and he would be lying if he claimed that it was not a relief.

It will be easier, he muses as they ride out of Barad Eithel, to return to it when it is something new, something changed. Not his first home here; not the place where he had almost lost his life to Sauron’s malice.

And so he lets the freezing wind coming out of the west bite at his skin. Breathes, deep and easy, as his horse picks its way over the perilous ground. Thinks, with a glance at Curufin riding beside him, that perhaps the future is not such a grim thing, after all.

---

For the most part, their travels go smoothly.

Or as smoothly as can be expected. Fingon had heaped furs and stores on them, but nothing can make a week-long journey in January enjoyable, exactly.

Ever since the Dagor Bragollach, inns and taverns have become an uncertainty. You might end up with a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, or Morgoth’s forces might have got there before you, either bribing or threatening owners to give up any travelling Elves and their allies.

As such, they are avoided as much as possible. Even if that means pitching tents on top of snow-covered ground, and sleeping close together the way they had done on the Ice.

Personally, Finrod thinks it might do Curufin and Celegorm some good, although he has to admit that they do not complain.

In fact, they speak altogether very little. Curufin has a strange habit of fussing over Finrod in the evenings, insisting he lets the healer check over his last remaining wounds, especially the one on his throat; making sure he eats and sleeps. It makes Finrod wonder, makes him hope stupidly.

He keeps telling himself that Curufin and Celegorm will hardly be able to claim Tol Sirion if Finrod does not make it back to Nargothrond, and to stop overthinking it. It does, predictably, not work overly well.

He does notice that Curufin’s strange insistence to make sure that Finrod is all right, for whatever reason, is about the only interaction he has. Celegorm, for his part, stays as far apart from the group as he can, silent but his expression tight with even more disdain and anger than he usually wears.

Finrod asks Curufin about it once, deep in the night as they switch for the watch. Curufin had joined him a little early, sitting down beside Finrod to press their shoulders together, and warming his hands on the fire.

Curufin had shrugged, though, his expression closing off. Deciding that it was not his problem, Finrod had dropped it; they would figure themselves out eventually.

---

They reach Nargothrond a week later, its scouts spotting them long before the river comes into sight, Finrod knows.

In return, they unfurl Fingon’s banner, and Finrod makes sure to keep his hood drawn into his face. They do not know what kind of welcome any of them will receive, but it will be easier to talk to Orodreth than to the weather-worn guards of the outer lands.

Predictably, the High King’s standard allows them easy passage until they reach the entrance of the caves.

It is, Finrod thinks idly, a security risk. Nothing is stopping Morgoth from impersonating any of them this way, after all.

He puts it away for a later time, and dismounts behind the five guards that accompanied them. Behind him, Curufin and Celegorm do the same, just as one of the lesser counsellors appears, demanding, “Declare yourselves.”

Casting back his hood, Finrod steps forward, smiling as best he can.

“Lord Satya,” he greets. “I trust it has not been so long that you no longer recognise me?”

The shock that washes across the poor man’s face would be comical if it was not so swiftly followed by unease.

“King Felagund! We heard word that—“

“I am aware,” Finrod says, inclining his head. “It was a misunderstanding, at the time. I had been injured grievously, and King Fingon kindly took me in. It will be easier to explain out of the cold.”

Satya nods, if a little unsure of himself. It is, Finrod muses, going better than it could have; none of the guards have reached for their weapons, and everyone seems wary but good-willed.

Considering the general opinion that the kingdom had of Finrod when he left, well—he had, perhaps, braced himself for the worst.

“Who are your companions?” Satya asks, glancing behind Finrod.

Before Finrod can decide how to put this in a way that will not throw up even more questions—something he had, in all fairness, tried to come up with for weeks without getting any closer to a solution—Curufin steps up beside him, casting back his hood.

“I dare say you will remember me too,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade. “But generally speaking, my brother and I are the ones you can thank for bringing your king back—as well as for the fact that you only hear of his survival now. You are welcome, and my apologies, both.”

Finrod has to admit, as little as he will ever do so to Curufin’s face, that it is an effective introduction. It is simply so bold that no one quite knows how to question it, and as Finrod does not refute it right then and there, everyone else present seems to accept it.

Their shifting and furtive glances are telling, though. Finrod doubts that the thralls that had escaped from Tol Sirion in the wake of Lúthien’s victory would have had many good things to say about the brothers.

“Come,” Satya says regardless, shaking himself. “I will send word to the King—to the steward, I mean. Leave the horses, I am sure you must be travel-worn.”

They are, but Finrod feels like he could take on Sauron once more and win this time, too. Something about seeing Nargothrond again, the familiar halls, the familiar faces—the kingdom he had built, when he had been so certain that he should never see it again—is finally wiping the last clinging remnants of shadow from his mind.

He meets Curufin’s eyes where he is walking beside Finrod and cannot help but grin. “How bad do you think it is going to be?”

Curufin snorts, almost as if against his will. “If they cast you out again, I am not taking you in, Felagund; just so you know.”

And Finrod—well, Finrod wants to be outraged that Curufin, of all people, dares to make a joke out of it. There is something, though, to not expecting anything less anymore that makes him merely roll his eyes and follow Satya into the throne room.

---

The first to burst through the doors is Celebrimbor.

He stops just inside, eyes flying across their small company before settling on Curufin, his expression disbelieving and, most of all, guarded.

It is the first time that it occurs to Finrod to wonder what Nargothrond thought had happened to Curufin and Celegorm. From what he had gleamed, the two of them had not explained their leaving, and it had been over two months since then.

“Is it true?” Celebrimbor asks Finrod, his voice carefully neutral. “Is it true that they saved your life?”

Usually, Celebrimbor is not someone any easier to read than the rest of his family. Right now, the hope in his eyes is bordering on desperation.

Beside Finrod, Curufin is holding himself very, very still.

Finrod has never been particularly privy to the intricacies of their relationship; he knows that there is love there, and respect. He also knows that it cannot always be easy. That in those last few days before he had left with Beren, he had rarely ever seen the two of them together, had seen Celebrimbor watching Finrod with apologies written all over his face.

“It is,” he says, and this time, the smile does not come easily, but it is true, nonetheless.

He does not add how it had not been for his sake. He assumes Celebrimbor must know, to some extent, or will at least find out eventually. Who is Finrod to judge whether that will change anything?

Celebrimbor gives a sharp nod and then looks at his father, the two of them hovering there, seeming to have an entire silent conversation. Most likely, they do—Finrod knows that they are used to using Ósanwë between them, usually when working in the forge.

At the end of it, Celebrimbor flies through the room, hugging Curufin with so much force that they stumble a few steps before Curufin catches them.

Despite himself, Finrod smiles, relieved that whatever else is going to happen in here, the two of them will be all right.

“Not a word,” he hears Curufin say, even as he looks Celebrimbor up and down.

Celebrimbor rolls his eyes in response, but he, too, unmistakably makes sure that they are all in one piece, his eyes lingering on Finrod’s scars before turning back to his father.

Finrod wonders what it must be like, belonging to that narrow circle of people that Curufin so unabashedly shows his love for. For whom he would do anything, without the need for excuses, justifications, lies.

He banishes that thought when the doors open again, this time a little more sedately, and Orodreth steps inside, followed by a small group of councillors and Finduilas.

Something unravels inside of Finrod at the mere sight of them. Orodreth is looking at him as if not entirely sure whether he should be relieved yet, but Finduilas is smiling so brightly, Finrod kind of wants to weep.

“You are back!” she exclaims, and she does not quite tackle him the way that Celebrimbor had done with Curufin, but she is warm and familiar in his arms, and it takes a gargantuan effort to let her go.

When he does, Orodreth’s expression has softened. “Uncle; it is good to see you. We had thought you lost.”

It is then, in the quiet tone of Orodreth, that Finrod finally believes that things will be all right. The wariness continues to be palpable, more so in some of the guards and councillors than in his family, but they all want to believe him returned, and so eventually, they will.

Then Orodreth’s gaze falls onto Curufin and Celegorm, and all ease and relief leeches out of him, his spine going rigid. “And what, pray tell, are the two of you doing back here?”

Which, in all fairness, is more of what Finrod expected. He still finds himself taking a step forward as if to shield them. A ridiculous thought.

And yet.

“Peace, nephew,” he says, and he just knows that somewhere, Fingon is laughing at him. “They are why I am here. They are those who can vouch for the fact that I am not one of Morgoth’s thralls.”

An uncomfortable silence follows, and Finrod sighs, gesturing towards the council chambers a room over. “It is a long story. Let us sit, and perhaps call for wine and food.”

---

What follows are long-winded, continually interrupted explanations of the last few weeks. From Curufin and Celegorm’s decision to leave Nargothrond—slightly embellished, truth be told; somehow they manage to talk around the fact that it was the Silmaril that drove them—to reaching Tol Sirion only shortly after Lúthien. The bartering to be allowed to bury Finrod themselves; realising he is alive; deciding to leave Beren and Lúthien in the belief that he was not.

“And you did not think to send word to the contrary to us?” Orodreth cuts in, his brow raised. The worst of his outrage has calmed, but this, at least, he clearly still struggles with.

Finrod cannot blame him, truly. He does not know how he would take it if he were made to mourn one of his family only to find out that it was not so.

“We were not intent on taking any risks, considering. You know how it goes with messengers, nowadays,” Curufin says. He is utterly unapologetic, and as usual, it takes the wind out of everyone’s sails. “We brought him to Fingon, and we all agreed. You may take the matter up with the High King.”

Finrod sighs. The sole silver lining here is that no one would dare to go to Fingon about it; unfortunately, it is also exactly why Curufin says it.

Things continue in that manner, and at the end of it all, no one is that much more endeared to Curufin and Celegorm than before—although the latter, uncharacteristically, had stayed silent through most of it. At least no one any longer seems intent to chase them out of the kingdom immediately. Or suspects Finrod to be a thrall.

Still, it is entirely expected when Orodreth eventually leans back, his loose hair cascading over his shoulder, and asks, “So, what next? Do you think it wise for the Fëanorians to stay in Nargothrond, after everything?”

Finrod bites down on a grimace. “No. But with Sauron gone from Tol Sirion, and none of us on our own having the men to retake and hold it—“

“Tell me you are joking.”

Orodreth had held the fortress for nearly thrice as long as Finrod, so Finrod is not surprised to find his own initial outrage mirrored and amplified.

“It needs to be manned, nephew,” he says, as he had told himself countless times. “It protects us down here, too, and neither I nor Fingon or even Maedhros have the men to spare anymore.”

“And you would trust them?” Orodreth counters, his eyes sweeping over Curufin and Celegorm with so much disdain, the family resemblance is suddenly and painfully obvious.

“Yes,” Finrod says. Perhaps the wildest thing is that he means it, too. “And regardless, the decision has been made. Perhaps we should talk about the rest in private?”

Across from him, Orodreth clenches his jaw; breathes slowly, in and out, in and out.

Eventually though, he nods. “One more thing.”

With steady hands, he takes the silver circlet off his head and sets it on the table between them. When he smiles at Finrod, it is genuine and full of relief. “Welcome home, my King. We are grateful to have you back within these halls.”

---

The conversation with Orodreth lasts long—reassurances that it was all true, relief, condolences for Finrod’s hair. Plans to write to Galadriel and Thingol, to go through the kingdom’s affairs over the coming days.

Apparently, a king returning from the dead causes work.

Finrod is grateful, for the stately help and the warmth of his nephew both; feels settled and home for the first time in ages, and still, at the end of it, he is more exhausted than he has been in weeks.

Or perhaps, that is not entirely correct, but he does feel wrung out, feels the weight of a kingdom settling back onto his shoulders. It is good, everything within him coming awake beneath it.

It is heavy too. Always has been.

He makes the way to his chambers on his own, Nargothrond quiet with the hour. Torches light the way, and the stone is cold with winter where Finrod trails his fingers over it.

His chambers are dark when he gets there, only a low fire in the hearth spreading some low light.

“Curufinwë,” Finrod says, and smiles, knowing it to be hidden yet.

Curufin hums, stepping out of the shadow. On the table, there is a pitcher of wine and several unlit candles.

“What gave me away?” Curufin asks, lighting them with a flick of his fingers.

“You are becoming predictable. You spent more nights in my chambers in Barad Eithel than not.”

“Are you complaining?”

Finrod thinks about it. Curufin’s hair is unbound, falling over his shoulders without braids or gemstones. He is wearing a simple tunic and little jewellery. It hits Finrod, how unguarded Curufin has grown in his presence—wonders whether it is trust or the knowledge that Finrod cannot, could not bring himself to harm him, even if it was in his nature.

“No,” he says, too honest. Stepping closer, he wraps an arm around Curufin from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Did you find everything as you left it?”

“Anything Tyelpë did not tear through, yes.”

“He was concerned.”

Curufin hums in agreement, finishing with the candles. He does not so much as lean back into Finrod’s embrace as that he shifts his weight—which does, ultimately, have the same effect.

“What about you?” he asks. “Your nephew and councillors ready yet to chase us out of the kingdom?”

It is complicated, Finrod wants to say. Wants to explain, as if Curufin does not know—better than Finrod, probably. There are details of the time after he had left that Curufin has been purposefully vague about and that Finrod, in a burst of selfishness, has not asked too much about.

It had been a little too easy, perhaps, to focus on recovery. To delay taking up his responsibilities again until he was back within his own kingdom, without Fingon and Maedhros there to shoulder some of it.

Tomorrow, though.

“I think you have a few days,” he replies, glad that Curufin cannot see his expression. “How are things with your brother? You two still seem… tense.”

It is as much of a question as he has ever asked. Back in Barad Eithel, he had assumed that Curufin and Celegorm spent time together outside of Finrod’s orbit. He cannot say if whatever wedge that has lodged itself between them is of a recent nature, or what caused it.

Curufin goes still within his arms, then purposefully relaxes. “We will be fine. We had some… disagreements, but we will be fine, once we are on Tol Sirion. We always are.”

That, at least, Finrod believes. Still, Curufin sounds as if he is trying to convince himself as much as Finrod.

With a sigh, Finrod pulls away and pours them both wine. “So, when will you leave?”

“Eager to get rid of me, are you, Felagund?”

Finrod is tired of the games, though; thinks they are past pretence, at this point. What is there left to lose?

“No,” he says, and holds Curufin’s eyes as he drinks. “And you know that, too, Curufinwë.”

Curufin looks at him, his eyes dark in the dim light. “Well, it is not that far per the Old South Road, I have heard; especially when the northern passage is safe.”

It is, Finrod thinks, as close to an admission as he is ever going to get. He rolls his eyes and puts his goblet down.

“Kiss me,” he demands, already pulling Curufin close by the lapels of his tunic.

Curufin does; if Finrod tells himself that perhaps, this is all that matters, he might believe it eventually.

---

The next few days are a rush of activity. Finrod’s councillors, his captains, his seneschal, and several other household figures all urgently need his opinions on this matter and that issue. His family wants to spend time with him, a feast wants to be thrown, and there are missives that have been left unanswered.

Meanwhile, Finrod is still trying to figure out how to write to Galadriel, how to tell her that, actually, he is not quite dead, to please not kill Fingon about the lack of news, and to maybe let both Thingol and Beren know, sending his apologies and congratulations to the latter.

All that, loath as Finrod is to admit it, is not even starting on the fact that he would like to spend some time with Curufin before the Fëanorians leave Nargothrond for good.

Truth be told though, Finrod thrives under the stress. He has been sitting idle for so long, he feels as if he is made of excess energy and a buzzing mind.

It does make the days march on ruthlessly, and while Curufin keeps slipping into his chambers more nights than he does not, Finrod knows that their days are numbered. Knows, too, that it will be good; the space, the distance, the room to sort out his thoughts.

To perhaps finally find it within himself to move on, because a little easier things may have become, but Finrod has never made a habit of breaking himself against someone who does not return his love. Curufin, it seems, is simply and unfortunately something he struggles to let go of, unless he is out of reach, or actively trying to take over Finrod’s kingdom.

As the latter appears to have resolved itself in strange ways, he can only hope that the distance will eventually do the trick.

It will be good, Finrod knows this. The Fëanorians have—more or less—peacefully lived among his people for over a decade, but in the wake of everything that has happened, it will be good.

Still, Finrod makes it a point, on a quiet afternoon a week after his return, to find Celebrimbor in the forge that very early on, he had claimed as his own.

It is an organised mess in the way his father could never tolerate. It is, Finrod knows, one of the main reasons that they do not share a workspace unless they are collaborating on a project.

Finrod lingers in the doorway for a while, watching Celebrimbor work.

He is a little less attentive than his father, but he does notice Finrod after not too long.

“Uncle,” he says, smiling as he carefully puts the chainmail aside that he has been working on. It looks close to being finished; he must plan to take it with him. “How can I help you?”

Finrod wonders how long it will take them to rebuild the fortress on Tol Sirion. How long until they have forges? Will they have sleeping quarters to keep out the winter, before winter ends?

He shakes the thought. Down that road lies only folly.

Finrod walks further into the room, looking at what must be months’ worth of work.

“Nothing specific,” he finally says, focusing back on Celebrimbor. “I merely wanted to speak to you before you leave. I know it is a week or two off, but things have been so hectic and, I assume, will only get more so.”

Celebrimbor frowns. “I appreciate it, but it is not going to be far. We will see you rather sooner than later, will we not?”

Finrod winces. He is not sure how much Celebrimbor knows of what is going on between Finrod and Curufin, but as a general rule, Curufin has never been particularly forthcoming to others about it.

“You two are all right,” Celebrimbor insists, tilting his head. He does not sound upset about it; just puzzled. “He came after you, saved your life. You recovered and agreed to let us have Tol Sirion. As far as my father’s relations go, this is a shockingly peaceful parting.”

Finrod snorts; put like that, Celebrimbor probably has a point. He shrugs, though. Curufin may tell his son what he likes, but Finrod made no promises that he would soften any truths for anyone—cannot believe that Curufin much cares, either.

“He did save my life, yes. Because he happened to come across me when going after the Silmaril. Do not mistake me, I am grateful, but it does not exactly change the fact that I went on that quest with only ten men thanks to him, and would have died there too, if not for his Oath. In its consequence, it changes nothing; in the intent, though—well. It does feel different.”

Celebrimbor stares at him. Blinks; snorts; runs a hand across his face and finally laughs, the sound edged with a hint of madness.

It is just the slightest bit reminiscent of Fëanor, which is not something Finrod has ever associated with Celebrimbor.

“Are you all right? I am sorry, I did not mean to—“

Celebrimbor waves his hand dismissively. He draws a deep breath and stares at the ceiling as if counting for patience or praying for strength, and then looks back at Finrod. “That, and excuse my language, is utter bullshit.”

“What? I am—“

“Who told you that? My father?” Celebrimbor cuts in, and he is still grinning, but it is the disbelieving, exasperated kind of grin that Finrod feels Curufin is particularly well-versed in drawing from people.

Again, though; Finrod is rather certain that he has not before seen it on his son.

“Okay,” he says, shaking his head. “Explain.”

Celebrimbor rolls his eyes, but he says, “There was no rumour. He always left to go after you, except that he is my father, so of course, he could not tell anyone that. He did not even tell Tyelko, it is why they are fighting. Which, in turn, is how I found out, although I should have realised.”

Finrod’s chest feels curiously cold—as if someone had cracked it open, spilling all the hope and longing he had kept buried inside of it all over the soot-stained stone floor of the forge.

“How could you have realised?” he asks, some base instinct taking over. He is not sure that he should not be sitting down.

Celebrimbor grins, sharp-edged and pleased and entirely too reminiscent of his father. “I, too, overheard the conversation that he turned into a so-called rumour. He did not know, but I sensed him; of course, I only put the pieces together once they came back here, and it all came out. It was that far from a rumour.”

Finrod stumbles a step back, two, until he can lean against one of the worktables. He knows that if he were to look down, he would find his hands shaking.

“What did they say?”

“Can you imagine if the King and Beren succeed, basically,” Celebrimbor says, shrugging. He picks up a file and spins it between his fingers, watching Finrod closely. “I am sorry that you have to find out from me. I think you deserve to know, though—I know it does not make everything all right, but even if he was never going to admit it, he did eventually change his mind. Maybe it does count for something, for you.” A pause. “It did, for me.”

It does, Finrod wants to say, and cannot bring his throat to work. When he does speak, his voice comes out as hoarse as if Sauron had just tried to tear his throat out.

“Are you sure?”

Celebrimbor smiles, and there is way too much knowledge in his eyes for someone who should not be seeing so much.

“I am sure,” he says. “He is up packing, by the way. Celegorm is out hunting, and I am going to be quite busy here for a while longer.”

If Finrod were in less of a state, he would have something smart to say to that assumption. As it is, he nods numbly, turns on his heel, and walks out.

Or almost—he does remember to turn in the doorway and offer Celebrimbor a smile that must be shaky around the edges. “Thank you,” he says, and then he goes, hearing Celebrimbor hum behind him.

---

He does not bother knocking. The entire way up to the Fëanorian quarters passes in a haze, and so Finrod walks into Curufin’s rooms with no better idea of what to say than he had down in the forges.

Curufin stands bowed over his weapon table, a dagger in his hand. Distantly, Finrod thinks it is familiar—its hilt seems to be adorned with something that looks like scales, catching the light. Then he remembers—Curufin had been working on it the night before Finrod left, and everything becomes suddenly and painfully sharp.

“Ingoldo,” Curufin says, his voice mild. “Have you forgotten about the concept of knocking?”

Finrod crosses the distance between them in three quick strides. He takes the dagger from Curufin and drops it onto the table, then fists his hands into the front of Curufin’s robe and walks him backwards until his back collides with a wall, all the air going out of him.

“You lied,” Finrod snarls, his voice shaking. Curufin’s eyes go wide, then narrow, a frown appearing between his brows. His hands settle on Finrod’s hips, not quite pushing him away, but a warning, all the same.

“I have not, actually, in recent—“

“There was no rumour,” Finrod cuts in. He draws a breath and gentles his grip a little bit. The shock that washes across Curufin’s face would be a pleasure to see if Finrod was not so, so mad. “Why would you—“

“How would you—“ Curufin starts, but the fight goes out of him halfway through. He sighs. “Tyelpë.”

“At least your son has some decency,” Finrod says, sharper than he means it.

Curufin raises a brow. “He does have the best of me. Irrelevant. And what would it have changed, if I had told you?”

“Everything,” Finrod snaps, and everything within him feels on the brink of shaking apart. “I have spent weeks—months—thinking that you were content to let me walk to my death, while I was foolish enough to, even after that, keep coming back to you. It would have—“

He cuts himself off, tries to take a step back, and finds that he cannot, Curufin’s hands suddenly going fierce on his hips.

“When the north burnt, I came here,” Curufin says, his eyes bright and intense as he casts them across Finrod’s face. “We stayed. We ran patrols and provided guards, and work. We accepted you as King. I shared your bed, I—and then, Ingoldo, you went to your death to accompany some man to help steal our birthright. You are the one who left, and then I came after you anyway. I saved your life and brought you to Fingon, of all people, I stayed while you recovered. My brother is still not talking to me because of all of it. I came back here; I will take over the Watch Tower to your kingdom. If you have not—“

He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “You walked out. I lied.”

“Because of an Oath—“

Curufin raises a brow, mouth curling with mockery.

Finrod looks away from him. The room is messy, with clothes and trinkets strewn everywhere. Curufin is leaving, Finrod thinks. Curufin had lied. Curufin had come after him.

It does not change the fact of all that happened before; all that happened after. But in a way, Finrod supposes, Curufin has shown him as much of himself as he could. Finrod just does not know if it is enough.

He looks back at Curufin, proud tilt of his chin and the way his eyes are fixed on Finrod, and knows that to be a lie. He rests their foreheads together, breathing him in; Finrod stayed for all this time, even when he had not so much as believed that Curufin cared.

As if he could bring himself to walk away now.

“A rumour, Curufinwë, really; I should have known.”

Curufin hums, as if in agreement. His expression is still guarded, his fingers stiff and unmoving against Finrod’s hips.

If it were anyone else, he thinks Curufin might try to apologise; as it is, eventually, Curufin sighs, the fight draining out of him. He runs a hand up Finrod’s arm, pushes his fingers into Finrod’s hair; pulls him close and kisses him—gently, this time, gently.

“As if I would let something as idiotic as an oath to some man let you get out of this,” he murmurs against Finrod’s mouth, his smile obvious, and Finrod—

Finrod cannot help but laugh, the weeks of sharp-edged longing, the uncertainty, the numbness of Celebrimbor’s revelation finally bursting within him. He pulls Curufin impossibly closer and presses his face into his shoulders, trying and failing to get his laughter under control.

“Leave it to you to always proclaim your feelings in the most ridiculous manner possible,” he finally says, looking back up to brush another kiss to Curufin’s waiting mouth.

Curufin raises a brow, imperious, but he does not protest. Says only, a little resigned, a little haughtily, “Do not let it get to your head, Ingoldo,” and then kisses Finrod again, open-mouthed and hungry, belying all his careful composure.

Finrod lets him, lets himself finally fall into it. Lets Curufin revert their positions and watches with hitching breath as Curufin drops to his knees before him, eyes glinting with pleased mischief. Lets Curufin take him apart, as only he knows how to do, and thinks that perhaps—

Perhaps, at the end of it all, it had been worth it.

---

Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it changes very few things.

They lie in bed the morning of the Fëanorians’ departure, Nargothrond quiet beyond the doors for now.

The candles have burnt low, dripping idly over their sockets. Finrod has not slept, has watched Curufin beside him breathe, stolen moments of tenderness he locks away beneath his ribs.

Curufin wakes slowly, in no hurry to pull away, for once.

Finrod runs lazy fingers through his hair and says, “I miss travelling, I think. I have been stuck in one place for too long.”

“You would say that.”

“Think about it; would it not be nice, to go away for a while? A break from everything? I have always been curious about what lies East of the Ered Luin.”

It is unrealistic, of course. Between his absence from Nargothrond, and Curufin’s endeavour to rebuild Minas Tirith, not least to mention the ongoing war, the odds of either of them taking a vacation anytime soon are low.

Curufin smiles, even though he tries to hide it against Finrod’s shoulder. “You confuse me for a lover to spend your honeymoon with.”

“Admit that it would be nice,” Finrod laughs, unruffled. “You would have time for your smith-work. No worrying about politics, or appearances, or any of your brothers.”

The last point is still a little sore, although Finrod thinks it has got better. Truth be told, he tries not to ask.

Curufin sighs though, rolling onto his back to stretch. “All right, it might be nice,” he admits. Before Finrod can gloat, he props himself up on an elbow and smiles down at Finrod, all teeth. “We would also murder each other within a week.”

Finrod rolls his eyes and kisses him, but realistically, that is probably not too far off.

And so, Curufin packs his last remaining things into one of the many wagons. He orders his brother, his son, and his people to their respective horses; nods a frigidly polite goodbye to Orodreth and Nargothrond’s Lords.

And then he turns to Finrod and bows until he can press his lips to Finrod’s ring—the one that, only days ago, Beren had sent back.

They had said their goodbyes already, but Finrod’s heart still trips at the gesture.

I owe you no allegiance, Ingoldo, indeed.

“Fare you well, cousin,” Curufin says, his smile almost teasing. He turns, then stops, tilting his head. “And Felagund? We may be in need of an architect; may I count on you for help?”

Behind himself, Finrod can hear people bristle.

He ignores them, smiles back—a little sharp, a little pleased. “Anytime, Curufinwë; all you have to do is ask.”

Curufin laughs, and then he swings himself on top of his horse and rides out of the courtyard at a quick trod, his red cloak snapping in the wind.

Beneath Finrod’s own cloak, the dagger with its scales and poppy-red gemstones is a comforting weight against his hip.

*

It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don't you? You are clever enough.
I am a demanding creature. I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. 
But I am your servant. When you starve I will feed you; when you are sick I will tend you.
I crawl at your feet; for you before your love, your kisses, I am debased. 
For you alone I will be weak.
—Catherynne Valente

---

Chapter End Notes

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