"Findaráto's back."
"I beg your pardon?" Curufin looked up sharply from the letter he was drafting to see Celegorm in the doorway. He looked breathless and flushed and like he couldn't decide between worry and relief.
"Findaráto's back," Celegorm repeated. "He just…he and his, those who followed him. They were announced…"
He lives? Curufin was on his feet before he was conscious of the decision to be there. "What," he said, sharply. "What are you – where?" He didn't wait for an answer, already moving for the door. No, he thought viciously, no, this was bad, this could ruin all his carefully constructed plans at one stroke. And if- "Is the man with him?"
"I don't know," Celegorm said, keeping pace with him, plainly uneasy. "I didn't wait to – I came straight to you. Kurvo, he is…" he trailed off. He glanced down and to the right, and then pulled his gaze away, but the reflex of it gave away what he was looking for.
"That hound of yours," he said, and Celegorm shook his head in a short jerk.
"Stayed with the company with Findaráto. He didn't…didn't want to come." Celegorm's voice only wavered slightly, and Curufin knew exactly why – Huan had never been disobedient. Never. Until he had slipped out of Nargothrond with a valuable prisoner on his back. He had returned, yes, but there was a distance there that had not been before.
Curufin pressed his lips together and turned down a hallway, shoved open a door, and burst into a hall. He fell still almost at once, as many pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at him. He could feel their hostility like a hammer. Orodreth's eyes (young fool, weak-willed) were hard as new-forged iron. Beside him, he recognized Edrahil, caught the twitch of his hand toward where a sword might be. Not quite a threat.
Ah, Curufin thought, and could almost see all of his careful plans slipping out of his hands.
"See," Orodreth said, and his voice was hard. "The carrion birds come."
Curufin schooled his face to calmness. "Where is he?"
"You dare," Edrahil interrupted, before Orodreth could answer. "You dare to come here and make such demands, when you as good as-"
Celegorm drew up close behind his shoulder. "Watch your tongue when you speak to your betters," he said, not quite a growl, but Curufin could feel the tension in him, and if he was not careful this could be so much worse.
"Tyelko," he said, quietly, but his brother subsided. He leveled his gaze on Edrahil, who looked more enraged still. "If you have an accusation to make, make it later. I asked a question. I wish to hear the answer. Where is my cousin?"
"Being tended for his wounds." Orodreth said coldly. "Which are dire, yet not fatal. You will have to wait to wreak further ruin."
"You speak nonsense," Curufin said, perfectly level. "I am glad for the return of our king. But if my familial concern is so unwelcome…" He took a step back. Edrahil's eyes narrowed.
"You are fooling no one," he hissed. "Your treachery is known. Your welcome here will not last, snake, when my lord is well he will cast you and yours out-" He could feel Celegorm winding tight behind his back, about to burst out and likely say something unfortunate. Curufin laid a hand on his arm.
"I will," Curufin said calmly, and fixed his gaze on Edrahil, "Graciously forgive your rash words out of what I know is suitable loyalty to and worry for your lord. But I suggest you hold your tongue. Judgment is not yours to pass."
"No," said Edrahil, and Curufin could almost see him trembling. "It's his."
And that might, it occurred to Curufin with what was almost a shiver, almost be worse.
~.~
A thousand variations of the story had spread within an hour of Finrod's return. Beren had recovered a Silmaril from the Dark Lord himself, with Finrod's aid. Finrod had defeated an army of wolves in single combat. Beren was dead and Finrod nearly so. One thing every tale had in common, though: the whispered admiration, the naked awe.
The truth of it, Curufin managed to piece together, was that Finrod had fought the Dark Lord's lieutenant, and won, but at great cost. That the human had sent him back, holding the oath fulfilled.
He heard at least one bard attempting to compose a song out of fragments of at least three different stories.
But the irritation of that was secondary to the common thread running through Nargothrond's halls. Anger. Hate.
None spoke the words to his face, but he heard them in his wake. Betrayer. Their fear. They had known themselves manipulated, of course, by the time Finrod had left, but the shame then at their own treason had been great enough to keep the masses in check. Now, though…
They could feel secure in their self-righteous indignation. That they had been deceived. And he could no longer be sure-
"It's a good thing, isn't it?" Celegorm said, brow furrowed, looking up from where he was sprawled on the floor, fingers tangled in his dog's ruff. "That he's not…that he didn't…"
He couldn't quite say it. Curufin was reminded of Celegorm's uncertainty immediately after, his hesitation, we did the right thing, brother, didn't we do the right thing? He felt a flash of anger and shoved it down.
"In what terms," Curufin said, flatly, worrying at the arm of his chair. "Selfish or practical?"
Celegorm blinked. "They differ?"
Yes. It was a waste. A shameful, egregious waste of a skilled fighter, a gifted strategist (a friend? No, never quite that.). "No," he said, perhaps too sharply. "They do not. And the answer is no, brother. It is not entirely a good thing. Not for us."
Celegorm shifted, uneasy. "But it turned out for the best," he said, "Didn't it? There was no battle against Sauron with great loss of life. The human is on his own, likely to fail in his foolish quest. Findaráto lives. I don't see-" He did see, of course. Curufin could see it in the worry, however well hidden, in his eyes. He wanted reassurance, not truth.
"Somehow I doubt," he said dryly, "That Findaráto's people will see it that way."
"What will they do?" Celegorm asked nervously, and Curufin shook his head.
"Exile us? Kill us? I do not know, Tyelko."
He could almost feel the waves of Celegorm's uncertainty beating against him. Incredulous, "You don't know? Brother, you always-"
Curufin's anger flashed again. "And now I do not," he snapped. "Silence, Tyelko, and say no more to me unless it is aught of use." He felt poorly almost the moment the words were out, but dismissed the feeling. Celegorm would forgive the hurt. He always did.
And he did not know and did not like not knowing. Did not like the feeling that his fate was a horse that had just taken the bit in its teeth and was running with it, and all the struggle in the world could not change where it went now. That he had lost control of the metal and the forge was shaping something without him.
(That the knot of feeling under his breast was not altogether what it should have been, not entirely anger or frustration or even fear but something of relief or shame.)
And nothing he could do yet, but to wait.
~.~
Celegorm fled on a hunt. He tried briefly and feebly to convince Curufin to follow, but seemed to want the time to himself. Curufin let him go, and made his own way to the healing chambers. At first he merely intended to see how Finrod's recovery had progressed, but then he could not keep himself from slipping into the room.
Finrod, he observed from the doorway, was still pale as milk. His fair hair was dull rather than shining gold, and his expression was tight as though he were warding off some pain even in repose. He did not look wounded, though, more wasted, as though his body had burned away. Curufin felt a curling of disgust.
He fought Sauron himself, the popular tales went, near-truth winning out over exaggeration. And cast him down. Such is the power of the House of Arafinwë, undiminished from the Elder Days. That was Finrod, Curufin thought. Virtuous. Pure. Holding himself at lofty heights, always above, lily-white hands unstained-
The bitterness tasted manufactured even merely in his thoughts. Curufin took two steps closer, half fragements of something beginning to form in his mind, but it disintegrated when he realized that Finrod was looking at him, eyes open. He fell still.
"You came," Finrod said. His voice was ragged and hoarse. "I wondered when you would."
Curufin raised his eyebrows. "Your guards did not turn me back."
"I did not ask them to." Finrod's gaze pulled away. "I wished to see your face. To see if you could meet my eyes. Now I have."
"Disappointed?" Curufin asked, not quite a drawl. Finrod's smile was thin and cold and looked strange on his face, too stark on the gaunt planes of what was left of him.
"Not surprised."
Curufin closed the last of the distance and sat beside the bed, settled his hands on his lap with decorous care. "You ought to know better of me, Findaráto." His cousin, Curufin thought, looked almost like a specter, some spirit clinging stubbornly to flesh. As he sat, Finrod looked back at Curufin. His eyes were cold, but they burned in a face haggard and weary, skin almost grey with a bright burn of color in his cheeks.
"Did you expect me to die?" Finrod asked, and his voice was perfectly calm, the fierceness of his face belying the tone.
He could lie. Of course he could lie. I thought better of your strength than that, perhaps, or I thought you would turn back before throwing your life away. "Yes," he said, simply.
"I thought you would deny it," Finrod said.
"You would know it for a lie. When you left, I did not think that you would return."
Finrod's eyes bored into him. "And is that what you hoped for? Or did you mourn for my anticipated fall?"
"I did my grieving when Barahir's get first arrived here, bringing stormclouds of ill omen with him. When he asked of you what I could not allow."
"And how you must have grieved."
Curufin felt a tug of impatience under his sternum. "If you seek remorse in me you know you will not find it," he said, sharply.
"And guilt?" Finrod asked, eyes narrowing. "Or shame? What will I find if I seek those? Do you feel a shred of anything, Atarinkë, that is not cold ambition, that is not slavish devotion to your father's memory?"
"What need have I," Curufin said, "Of anything else?" and Finrod stared at him, seemingly in disbelief.
"Your heart is cold, Curufinwë," Finrod said. "You are ice, not fire. Your father, at least, burned, but you are hollow."
"You wound me," Curufin said, quietly, the mocking smile called easily to his lips. Something simmered in his stomach, bitter and sour like vomit. "But I have always known that you think yourself better than me. Have you heard the songs, cousin, how sweetly they celebrate your bravery, how swift they are to worship you who were so quick to betray you because of a few pretty words-"
"I don't want their worship," Finrod said, and it was suddenly fierce, full of startling anger. "Do you know what I do want, Curufinwë? I want my brothers to be alive. I want to look at my people without wondering if they will turn on me again. I want to think that you truly believed you were doing the best thing for our kin. But I do not. I never will."
Curufin lifted his chin and met Finrod's eyes without shame. "You are quick to think evil of me, cousin."
"Do not bait me." Finrod's voice almost trembled. "Or I will be tempted. Edrahil wants you dead. He has not said it, but I see it in his eyes, and the way his hands twitch when he hears your names. He would kill you himself, I think, and damn the stain on his soul."
Curufin snorted. "If the whelp tries me, he will lose."
"He will not," Finrod said. "Not without my word. And I will not give my word, not for that."
"And what is your word, then," Curufin asked, proud of how even, calm, careless his voice managed to be. Finrod looked at him for a long moment, then closed his eyes.
"I have not yet decided," he said, and Curufin could hear nothing in his voice, read nothing, and felt a quiver of anxiety stir and raise its ugly head. "Go. Don't come to me again."
No one, no one, had ever so summarily dismissed Curufin. Never would he have obeyed them if he had. And yet he stood and moved toward the door, though he stilled, not quite through. "—I did not want you dead," he said, to the door, without turning about. "I do what I must. But I did not want you dead."
~.~
Hatred swirled around them like ever darkening stormclouds, and Curufin's uneasiness did not abate. His uncertainty did not abate. His dreams that had always been quiet were troubled and full of some vague horror. Celegorm spent too much time locked away in his rooms alone, brooding, or else hovering too close to Curufin's elbow.
I have not yet decided.
Finrod was just, Curufin told himself. Was fair. Was soft-hearted. (He need never lift a finger. All it would take would be his silence, and we would be condemned.)
The Oath is what matters, above all, Curufin reminded himself. Stop this foolishness. You cannot always play fate, you cannot always bend her to your will.
"If he had died," Celegorm said, just once, and stopped. "Kurvo," he said, then, slowly. "I'm not…I'm glad Findaráto's all right." Curufin held his silence, fingers playing with a pen.
(It is not treason to yourself, to think that perhaps it is better this way than the other.)
He did not see Orodreth at all. Edrahil he passed in the hallways, once or twice, always without speaking. Your hatred is almost admirable, he was tempted to say. Tell me, whelp, are you in love?
Findaráto makes it easy, does he not?
(You are hollow, he heard. And he was. He always had been. It was what he needed. So it was, and so it must be.)
~.~
Finrod was recrowned, with no great ceremony. The king reassuming his rightful place, and Orodreth knelt. "The rightful king," he cried, and it was taken up by every voice in the hall, a desperate proof of their allegiance.
They stood before the throne, then, and Curufin waited for the hammerstroke to fall. Could almost feel the eagerness for blood, Finrod's hounds baying at their backs. Celegorm was tense, nervous, almost unable to keep still.
"Tyelkormo," Finrod said, and his voice was clear once more, strong and pure. "Curufinwë. My cousins, whom I took in from exile, who have fought for the safety of our city, who have been valiant defenders of our freedom."
Murmurs, behind them. Restive, unhappy rumors. Curufin narrowed his eyes. What are you playing at, he thought, and braced himself.
"Accusations have been made," Finrod was saying. "Charges have been leveled…of treason. Of betrayal. And while I must admit my disappointment that my people would not follow the quest to which I had sworn myself…I can only assume," and here, Finrod's eyes flicked to Curufin, and met his eyes, "that my cousins acted only out of concern for the safety of this city. Out of prudent caution did they stay that potentially rash action that my honor, my oath, demanded."
Oh, Curufin thought. Oh. You are clever, cousin, you are clever. It would be too quick to punish us with pain. Cast us out and risk the wrath of our brothers. But to make it all part of your intentions, to make us weak, shying from battle, you will bind them to you tighter than ever. Strike at our pride. At the shame you were seeking to find in me.
I will give you nothing, he thought, holding perfectly still, his head lifted, spine ramrod straight. You will have nothing from me. Celegorm, at his side, was almost squirming, his eyes cast down.
You've lost, Finrod's stare said, even as his words were so sweet to almost be cloying. His hands, Curufin noticed, were clenched on the sides of the throne. White-knuckled. Angry, Curufin thought. He had always wondered what true anger would look like on his calm, imperturbable cousin.
Now he knew.
Finrod's eyes blazed like brands, and oh, the things he might forge from that fire. From the hate and the fury and the rage barely held in check, as intimate as a kiss and meant only for him. And oh, Curufin thought, oh.
He had never looked so beautiful as then.