starspray | Add Another Stone

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: T
Characters: Finrod, Celegorm, Curufin, Fingon, Turgon
Warnings: (past) Character Death, general Doom of the Noldor, some violence
Summary: The thing about forgiveness, he thought, was that it was so much easier when the object of it was far away—or dead. It was so much easier to let it all go when those responsible were far away and unable to do any more harm.

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Some time later, after they’d exhausted themselves further and torn their clothes half off, and given each other even more bruises—mutual, this time, and far more pleasurable—Celegorm collapsed on top of Finrod, and did not roll away, as he would have once, as Finrod expected him to. Instead he pressed his face into the crook of Finrod’s neck where it met his shoulder. Finrod could feel the heat of his breath ghost across his skin. “I missed you,” Celegorm whispered.

Finrod turned his head, and picked a leaf out of Celegorm’s hair, which was tangled and matted with spots of sticky blood. Finrod’s blood, from the cuts on his palms. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. His rage was spent, at least for the moment, but he still had no forgiveness to offer, and couldn’t force the truth up his throat—that he had, desperately, missed Celegorm too.

By then it was getting late, and the night was growing cool as the wind picked up, chasing away the clouds and the humidity. Celegorm pulled Finrod to his feet, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Finrod knew it was better if they parted ways. If they stayed, sooner or later it would just turn into another fight—and eventually Celegorm would start fighting back, and Finrod didn’t think he could bear to hear whatever cruel things he might say on top of what had been said long ago.

He was so tired, though, and sore, and it was dark, and—

“Come on.” Celegorm took him by the hand, very gently, and led him to where he’d set up his own little camp on the other side of the tree where Finrod had first seen him, next to a spring bubbling up out of the moss. A fire was already laid, and it was only a matter of minutes before Celegorm had it crackling merrily. They cleaned themselves with the cold spring water, and put on clean clothes—and then Celegorm took Finrod’s hands to smear some fragrant ointment over them before wrapping them in fresh bandages. He did not ask how Finrod had cut his hands in the first place.

In fact, they did not speak much at all. To speak was to bring up the past, was to risk an argument, was just to invite pain, and Celegorm seemed as reluctant to do that as Finrod was now that the explosion of their initial encounter had passed. Finrod let Celegorm press waybread into his hands, and let him sit down shoulder to shoulder with him by the fire, leaning back against one of the giant tree roots. The bread was sweet and light and with that particular combination of spices Nerdanel used that Finrod remembered from his long-ago youth.

He fell asleep slumped against Celegorm, and roused only slightly when he shuffled them around so that they could both lie comfortably, pressing himself against Finrod’s back and draping an arm over his stomach. They’d never done this before—never slept together, one of them always slipping away in the dead of night in Nargothrond. Finrod had never even thought to want it.

It was nice, though, was the last thing he thought before sleep claimed him for good.

Morning came, and Finrod woke slowly, feeling comfortable and drowsy and warm. He couldn’t account for it at first, until he shifted and became aware of all his sore muscles and bruises. Then he opened his eyes to find himself still tucked up against Celegorm, who was playing with a strand of his hair, still pressed against his back and with an arm around him. They were under both their blankets, and though the day would be warm the morning was yet cool, and it was…it was still so nice.

“Why are you here?” Finrod whispered without moving.

“As I said, looking for you.” Celegorm kissed the back of Finrod’s head.

“But…” Finrod wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask, or whether it even mattered. He knew that he should tell Celegorm to leave—to tell him that he never wanted to see him again, that he would never make the mistake of trusting him again, not after what he had done. He’d said those things to Curufin and meant every word.

But he’d just slept for hours with Celegorm at his back, and what bigger show of trust was there?

“There are a lot of things I need to do, apologies I need to make,” Celegorm said. He spoke only just above a whisper, with his face tucked into Finrod’s hair. “But I needed you to be the first. I’m sorry, Findaráto. For everything.”

“How…how long since you even came back? You had not returned when I left Tirion.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A year, maybe. Maybe a little more. I was too impatient to linger in Lórien, and I didn’t stay long at my mother’s house either. I went to Tirion and you weren’t there—so I left to find you.”

Nerdanel lived these days very close to Aulë’s halls, far from Tirion—and even farther, probably, from where they were now, though Finrod couldn’t be quite sure. He hadn’t been paying much attention either to the passage of time or to where he was, trusting that when he wished to return home he had only to turn his feet east, and he would eventually see Tirion on the horizon, shining in the morning light spilling through the Calacirya. For a moment he closed his eyes to picture it, expecting to feel a pang of homesickness—surely he should, by now.

He didn’t.

He had, Finrod thought as he watched a rabbit make its way slowly past the little hollow under the roots where they lay, thought himself secure. Thought himself happy, healed—even after Curufin had come and thrown everything he’d believed about himself into question, he’d thought that he could right the ship, could continue as he had been, quashing the anger and striving to forget all about it. He had built walls around his heart and thought them impenetrable. But then, he’d thought the other walls he’d built were impenetrable, too.

“What are you thinking of?” Celegorm asked after a little while.

It was easier, somehow, to talk like this—without having to look at each other, but with the comfort of closeness and the weight of Celegorm’s arm over his. “I built Minas Tirith upon Tol Sirion, and it was a strong place, a beautiful place,” Finrod whispered. The rabbit hopped forward and nibbled at a blade of grass. “Then the world caught fire and Gorthaur took it and made it an abode of wolves and darkness, until it was broken apart in the end. I also built Nargothrond, that I loved even more, and it was so beautiful, and even stronger—and hidden, and safe—and then that, too, was taken and burned, defiled by Glaurung and become the abode of dragons and their curses until it drowned with the rest of the world. And here—” His breath hitched. His hands curled into fists, ragged fingernails catching on the edges of the bandages. “Here, I dare not build anything, because when it too crumbles in the end it will not be because of dragons or wolves, but because of the rot that comes from the inside.”

“There is no such rot,” Celegorm said softly.

At this Finrod twisted around to look at Celegorm. “You say that, after I did this?” he asked, brushing his thumb over Celegorm’s bruised eye, already starting to turn purple. “Perhaps you goaded me, but if I hadn’t already wanted to hurt you—”

Celegorm caught his hand and kissed his fingers, the same knuckles that had given him those bruises, before leaning in to whisper, lips ghosting over Finrod’s, “I like your edges, Findaráto, the way you’re sharp as flint under the surface—the way I know there’s always a risk of being cut if I’m not careful. I like that I’m the one who gets to see just how dangerous you are, like a snake in the grass.” He still held Finrod’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and in startling contrast to his words his kiss was the sweetest thing Finrod had ever experienced, soft and warm. “When we heard what you did—how you slew that wolf…” Celegorm’s teeth caught Finrod’s lip, briefly and gently, before he drew back, eyes glimmering in the early morning shadows. “I think I was the only one who wasn’t surprised.”

Finrod drew back, though he couldn’t go far with Celegorm’s arms still encircling him. “I’m so glad my death was a pleasing story for you—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What did you mean, then? I died, Celegorm, and it wasn’t for you to turn me into some—”

“It was the worst news I ever got,” Celegorm said with surprising ferocity. “I stopped caring—about any of it, except the Oath, and only because that was inescapable. When you died—it was not a pleasing story, Finrod. It killed me, too.”

Finrod didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that. “But you still—Lúthien, and Doriath—”

“I was a dead man walking already, and you were gone. What did any of it matter? I knew we’d never get the Silmarils back, no matter what we did or who had them—I’m not stupid. I knew what it meant that we were doomed, and my family cursed twice over. If I was already destined for the Everlasting Darkness—”

“If I mattered so much to you, you must have known I wouldn’t have wanted—”

“You weren’t there to want anything anymore, and you only ended up in that dungeon because of Doriath—”

“No. No, do not lay that at my feet—”

“Of course I’m not—”

“Do not say it was for my sake that you did any of it—”

“It wasn’t! I’m just trying to tell you—”

Finrod pulled himself free, though a part of him regretted immediately leaving the warmth of Celegorm’s arms. He scrambled out of the blankets, startling the rabbit into fleeing. He felt so stupid—for a moment he’d let his guard down, let himself believe that maybe there was something to salvage here, when of course there wasn’t. There wasn’t getting back anything that he had lost in Beleriand. Least of all this.

Celegorm followed, and this time when Finrod swung at him he caught his fists easily, one and then the other, and pushed them down, pinning them to Finrod’s sides, standing so close that Finrod had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. “Celegorm the Cruel, they called me by the end. Did you know that?” he asked, all softness gone, eyes hard and dark and full of something Finrod couldn’t name. “I deserved it, as I deserve all they will say of me now when I return to Tirion—and when I make my bows and speak my apologies I’ll mean every word, and no one will believe any of it. That’s fine—I don’t intend to stay, so I don’t care, they can all sneer at me as much as they want, and I won’t be there to hear. But I regret everything I did more than any words in any tongue can say, from the swearing of the Oath to the slaying of Dior Eluchíl in Menegroth. If I could undo it all I would. If I could unmake myself so I was never there to do it, I would. If I could trade places with my brother—or if I could consign myself to the Everlasting Darkness in truth so Maglor could be found, could come home, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would do the same if it meant you could return home unburdened by all the anger and hurt that I have caused you.

“You don’t have to forgive me, Finrod. If you never want to see me again—fine. That’s fine. I just need you to believe me.”

“Everything?” Finrod asked before he could stop himself. His voice sounded very small in his own ears.

Celegorm closed his eyes, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Finrod’s. “Almost everything,” he amended. “I regret how it ended, but I can’t—no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself that it was a mistake. In Nargothrond. Us.”

“I can’t either,” Finrod said. “But I also can’t—I’ve been so angry for so long, with nowhere to put it. I can feel it festering inside me, like a wound—”

“So lance it,” Celegorm said, and released him. “If you need to hit me again, hit me. I deserve whatever you—”

“I did hit you, and it didn’t help. I don’t know what I need—don’t you see? There’s something broken in me that I don’t know how to fix, and—”

“Finrod—”

“I died, Tyelko! And it hurt—”

That was what no one ever spoke of, on those rare occasions when they spoke of death. It was always—do you regret it? Was it worth it? Did you die fighting? Was it an end truly worthy of the songs we have made of it?

He had never dared to say aloud before that it had hurt—had barely dared to think it, in the privacy of his own heart. That the pain had been unbearable. That he did not regret losing his life for Beren’s sake, but it had been agony, and it had not been quick; that he had felt every drop of his life’s blood leave his body, and he had been so afraid—that it had been so dark, and his last living thought had been a child’s desperate wish for his mother.

“It hurt,” he whispered again, eyes stinging with tears that he did not want to shed, “and you weren’t there.”

“I know,” Celegorm said simply. “I’m sorry.”

He did believe him—Finrod believed that Celegorm meant every word that he said. It was all just, suddenly, too much. “Please leave,” he said.

“Finrod…”

“I need you to leave.”

Celegorm still hesitated. “For good, or can I come back?”

Both, Finrod wanted to say, even knowing it was nonsensical. “Just—just go. Please.”

Celegorm brushed his knuckles with agonizing gentleness over Finrod’s cheek, and then without another word he gathered up his things and departed, leaving Finrod alone in the little mossy hollow. It was very quiet. The trees were so tall that all the birds in the canopy sounded very faint. Finrod didn’t move for a long time, just staring at the tree roots without really seeing them. Only when he was absolutely certain that Celegorm was long gone did he allow himself to break. He sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself as he bent over.

No one ever acknowledged, either, the ghostly marks that echoed scars that some carried back with them from Mandos—that Finrod, selfishly, hoped others had carried back, for he had never shown his or been shown anyone else’s, and he couldn’t bear the thought that he alone had come back so marred. The ghost-scars he bore were nearly invisible most of the time. Finrod hadn’t even realized they were there at all until he’d first heard the Lay of Leithian performed, and woken up hours later from a nightmare in which he relived his own death over and over as the singers chanted in the shadows around him. He had turned on the light and looked down to see livid red marks splayed across his chest, claw marks raked down his sides. They hadn’t hurt, exactly, though they had been tender to the touch. By morning they’d faded again, and he didn’t know if it was only the knowledge of their presence that let him see the faintest discoloration in his own skin afterward, if he looked close enough.

He didn’t have to look now to know that they were there. The fëa remembered, even when the hröa was new.

The tears spilled—and spilled, and spilled. He hadn’t known that he had so many inside of him. He didn’t know it was possible to be unable to breathe and yet have his body so continually wracked with sobs. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wept since his return from Mandos, but these tears were different. They were not for Nargothrond or Edrahil or Beren or Aegnor or for anyone or anything else. These were selfish tears, for himself and his own pain and fear and his own broken heart—for the fact that it was still broken even now after he’d thought it mended, and the fact that it could still break again, pieces crumbling away even when there shouldn’t have been anything left to break.

Eventually, he did run out of tears, and Finrod just sat for a long time, leaning against the tree and listening to its slow, sleepy thoughts.

As the morning wound on and shafts of golden sunlight pierced the canopy, he roused himself, and gathered up his things, finished breaking the camp and scattering the ashes of the fire long gone cold. Then he chose a direction at random and started to walk, just needing to be moving. Finrod kept his head down and his gaze on the ground in front of him. Soon the trees thinned out, smaller and younger, and the sun shone more brightly through the branches. He could hear birdsong, and soon came upon another stream flowing along merrily, tumbling down a series of miniature waterfalls. He followed it until he reached the edge of the forest, where wide plains opened up before him, golden-green and splashed with bright color where wildflowers bloomed. In the west the sun was sinking in a brilliant display of fiery color. When Finrod looked up he saw the first stars appearing with the coming twilight.

He was tired, and still sore, and by now he regretted sending Celegorm away. The breeze swept down from the north and it carried a slight bite—summer was waning again. Winters in Valinor were mild, for the most part, but suddenly Finrod dreaded the coming cold. Usually he delighted in the frost and the beauties of snow and ice—but now his mind and heart were full of ancient wounds, and when he thought of the cold he thought only of the terrible crossing of the Helcaraxë.

Again, he thought of returning to Tirion, to the comforts of hearth fires and soft beds and thick walls to keep out the wailing winter winds. Still, everything in him rebelled at the thought. Returning would mean explaining his absence to his parents. It would mean having to speak to Turgon again, and most likely finding some other old friend or kinsman returned to them—but never who he most wished to see. Never Aegnor. Never Galadriel. He just—

He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Instead of east he turned his steps south, hoping to outrun the coming chill.