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lotr_sesaTitle: Old Friends Find Their Own Way
Pairing/Characters: Curufin, Finrod
Rating: PG
Warnings: some mild drunkenness
Notes: Prompt: memories/flashbacks; title from "Dandelion Wine" by Blackmore's Night
Disclaimer: Tolkien’s the genius, I just play here.
It wasn’t long after Orodreth, having failed to dissuade Finrod from departing with Beren, left his chambers that Finrod found himself opening the door to someone else. Curufin, this time, who opened his mouth to say something before noticing the goblet in Finrod’s hand. Then his eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”
.
It was not the first time Curufin had said those words—in that same tone—to Finrod. When they had been young—too young to be permitted more than a glass or two of wine at dinner—Finrod and Turgon had pilfered a few bottles of some particularly sweet and heady wine from Findekáno’s room, not realizing how potent the stuff was. They’d spent an enjoyably tipsy afternoon in one isolated corner of Indis’ rose gardens, until Turgon had started composing a love song for Elenwë, and Finrod had decided to return to his rooms.
By some sort of miracle, he made it through the meandering hallways of the palace without getting waylaid or even seen by anyone, until he reached what he thought was his door, except it was locked. Finrod spent several minutes fumbling with it, wondering when he’d bothered locking his door behind him, and then wondering why he didn’t have a key, unless he just couldn’t find it—or maybe he’d dropped it somewhere. Everything was wobbly and strangely hilarious, even being locked out of his own bedroom.
Except then the door jerked open, and Finrod pitched forward with a yelp, only to be caught by ink-stained hands that couldn’t quite stop his face from colliding with a shoulder covered with dark hair that smelled like smoke. Finrod was shoved back, and found himself blinking at Curufin, who looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. And he was just drunk enough to find that quite funny. But also very confusing. “Curufinwë, what are you doing in my room?”
Curufin blinked. “This is my room.” His eyebrows drew together, annoyance winning out over amusement. “Findaráto, are you drunk?”
“No, this is my room, it’s…” Finrod squinted past Curufin, at a room that was clearly not his. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, the color scheme was all wrong, and a half-taken-apart something stood on the desk by the window. “…Isn’t it?”
“No,” Curufin said firmly. “And you are definitely drunk. Was it Tyelkormo?”
“Hm?” Finrod swayed backward when Curufin released him. Voices around the corner caught his attention, and he recognized Fëanor, and maybe Mahtan. Or Rúmil. Or…
Curufin rolled his eyes and dragged Finrod into the room before the adults could see him. “I thought you were the sensible one,” he said as he shut the door. “Sit down, before you fall over.”
He fell more than sat down on some cushions strewn across the floor. “You think I’m sensible?”
“Not anymore.” Curufin handed him a cup. “What were you doing, getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon, anyway? Where did you even get the wine? Tyelkormo? He would think it would be funny…”
“Findekáno keeps some in his rooms,” Finrod replied. “Though I’ve never seen him drunk…”
Curufin’s lips twitched. “I have,” he said. “He giggles a lot.” Finrod laughed, and his cousin sighed. “As do you, apparently.”
The cup turned out to hold water. Finrod took a sip; it tasted metallic, though that probably should not have been particularly surprising. “At least I’m not composing bad poetry,” he pointed out. “Bad love poetry. Turukáno is composing sonnets for Elenwë.” Curufin wrinkled his nose, and then rolled his eyes. Finrod started to laugh again, and it wasn’t long before Curufin gave in and smiled.
“Then it is a good thing Elenwë isn’t in Tirion,” he said. “And I suppose I’m very lucky it was you who came staggering to my door instead of him.”
Finrod had no doubt that if it had been Turgon who’d mistaken Curufin’s door for his own, he would have been caught outside in the hallway, drunk and embarrassed and likely facing strict punishment from his father, and Curufin would not have had to worry at all about love poetry.
But what he said was, “I didn’t know there were so many awful ways to describe golden hair.” Curufin snorted. “Curufinwë, your room is spinning.”
“No it’s not, you’re drunk.”
Finrod hummed in agreement. “I was going to lie down. In my room.”
“Just lie down there.” Curufin picked up some papers—presumably what he’d been working on when Finrod had barged in. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to get ready for dinner.”
Finrod narrowed his eyes at his cousin even as he drained the rest of the water and flopped down on the cushions. “You’re being nice,” he said, words slurring together just a little bit. Curufin looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t. Normally. Much.”
“Go to sleep, Findaráto.”
.
But that was a long, long time ago, and there was so much more at stake now than getting in trouble with their parents, or just getting along with prickly cousins. Turgon was hidden away somewhere in the mountains, Elenwë was dead, as was Curufin’s own wife, and Curufin had just deftly undermined all of Finrod’s authority in his own realm.
“No,” Finrod said, stepping back from the door, “I am not drunk. What do you want?”
“Then you must be mad,” Curufin said, stepping into the room. “To agree to help that—that mortal—he has no right to the Silmarils! Thingol certainly doesn’t, and—”
“It isn’t about the Silmarils,” Finrod said, thinking not for the first time that his uncle had set into motion far more than he realized. He dropped into his chair, feeling very old and very weary. “What do you want, Curufin? You’ve made it abundantly clear that I’ve succeeded in making myself your enemy.”
Curufin stopped pacing. He stood by the fire, most of his face cast in shadow. “Not yet,” he said after a long pause. “But be he friend or—”
“Do not,” Finrod snapped, “recite the damn Oath to me. I know what it says.”
“And yet you—”
“I have my own oath to uphold, Curufin. I swore to Barahir that should he or any of his House come to me for help, I will give it to them.”
“You won’t succeed,” Curufin said, ruthless. His hands were balled into fists, shaking almost imperceptibly. “You and all the men who follow you will die, all because that foolish mortal has fallen for Lúthien’s charms.”
Finrod almost said that Curufin was severely underestimating Lúthien’s particular charm, but didn’t. He also almost remarked on Curufin’s apparent concern for his wellbeing, but decided against that as well. He’d known when he’d sworn his oath that it would lead him into darkness from which he would not emerge. And he was less than convinced that any concern Curufin might have for him in any way outweighed his father’s Oath.
But in that moment, as he gazed at Curufin, Finrod knew that his cousin, too, was headed into darkness, and into fire, from which he would not return, and he felt immeasurably sad. Rage and bitterness would drive him there, as he continued to fall from who he had once been, in Valinor before the Darkening. He was unmistakably his father’s son, and had been well on his way to achieving equally great things. But now…
“Don’t.” Curufin glared at him.
Finrod blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that, like you know my future.” His lip curled. “My doom.”
He shifted in his seat, and took another sip from his goblet so he didn’t have to answer. Telling what he knew wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. Curufin had always been prickly, in their youth, but that had been balanced by a biting wit and a fondness for practical jokes, and deep, abiding affection and loyalty once it was won from him. Now he was all jagged edges and ruthless cunning; to suit his own ends, he’d turned his back on their long friendship, and destroyed what hope Finrod had thought they had of perhaps taking back some of the land they’d lost in the Dagor Bragollach, even if the quest for the Silmaril itself failed. They were all Doomed, but it seemed some of them were doomed to worse fates than others.
Finrod hadn’t been planning to get drunk that night, but he was starting to rethink that decision. “What do you want from me?” he asked finally. “I am as bound by my oath as you are by yours. I will not abandon Beren. There is more at work here than you or I can fully understand.”
Curufin’s lips twisted bitterly as he turned to face Finrod. “You were supposed to be the sensible one.”
Finrod leaned forward and poured another goblet full of wine. “We were all supposed to be a lot of things,” he said as he leaned back. Curufin, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the goblet and took a large gulp. “Tomorrow we will part as enemies. But tonight I think I would like to at least pretend we are still friends.”
Curufin raised his goblet in a silent toast. Together they sat in silence, watching the fire die on the hearth, lost in memories of better, brighter times.
Pairing/Characters: Curufin, Finrod
Rating: PG
Warnings: some mild drunkenness
Notes: Prompt: memories/flashbacks; title from "Dandelion Wine" by Blackmore's Night
Disclaimer: Tolkien’s the genius, I just play here.
It wasn’t long after Orodreth, having failed to dissuade Finrod from departing with Beren, left his chambers that Finrod found himself opening the door to someone else. Curufin, this time, who opened his mouth to say something before noticing the goblet in Finrod’s hand. Then his eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”
.
It was not the first time Curufin had said those words—in that same tone—to Finrod. When they had been young—too young to be permitted more than a glass or two of wine at dinner—Finrod and Turgon had pilfered a few bottles of some particularly sweet and heady wine from Findekáno’s room, not realizing how potent the stuff was. They’d spent an enjoyably tipsy afternoon in one isolated corner of Indis’ rose gardens, until Turgon had started composing a love song for Elenwë, and Finrod had decided to return to his rooms.
By some sort of miracle, he made it through the meandering hallways of the palace without getting waylaid or even seen by anyone, until he reached what he thought was his door, except it was locked. Finrod spent several minutes fumbling with it, wondering when he’d bothered locking his door behind him, and then wondering why he didn’t have a key, unless he just couldn’t find it—or maybe he’d dropped it somewhere. Everything was wobbly and strangely hilarious, even being locked out of his own bedroom.
Except then the door jerked open, and Finrod pitched forward with a yelp, only to be caught by ink-stained hands that couldn’t quite stop his face from colliding with a shoulder covered with dark hair that smelled like smoke. Finrod was shoved back, and found himself blinking at Curufin, who looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. And he was just drunk enough to find that quite funny. But also very confusing. “Curufinwë, what are you doing in my room?”
Curufin blinked. “This is my room.” His eyebrows drew together, annoyance winning out over amusement. “Findaráto, are you drunk?”
“No, this is my room, it’s…” Finrod squinted past Curufin, at a room that was clearly not his. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, the color scheme was all wrong, and a half-taken-apart something stood on the desk by the window. “…Isn’t it?”
“No,” Curufin said firmly. “And you are definitely drunk. Was it Tyelkormo?”
“Hm?” Finrod swayed backward when Curufin released him. Voices around the corner caught his attention, and he recognized Fëanor, and maybe Mahtan. Or Rúmil. Or…
Curufin rolled his eyes and dragged Finrod into the room before the adults could see him. “I thought you were the sensible one,” he said as he shut the door. “Sit down, before you fall over.”
He fell more than sat down on some cushions strewn across the floor. “You think I’m sensible?”
“Not anymore.” Curufin handed him a cup. “What were you doing, getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon, anyway? Where did you even get the wine? Tyelkormo? He would think it would be funny…”
“Findekáno keeps some in his rooms,” Finrod replied. “Though I’ve never seen him drunk…”
Curufin’s lips twitched. “I have,” he said. “He giggles a lot.” Finrod laughed, and his cousin sighed. “As do you, apparently.”
The cup turned out to hold water. Finrod took a sip; it tasted metallic, though that probably should not have been particularly surprising. “At least I’m not composing bad poetry,” he pointed out. “Bad love poetry. Turukáno is composing sonnets for Elenwë.” Curufin wrinkled his nose, and then rolled his eyes. Finrod started to laugh again, and it wasn’t long before Curufin gave in and smiled.
“Then it is a good thing Elenwë isn’t in Tirion,” he said. “And I suppose I’m very lucky it was you who came staggering to my door instead of him.”
Finrod had no doubt that if it had been Turgon who’d mistaken Curufin’s door for his own, he would have been caught outside in the hallway, drunk and embarrassed and likely facing strict punishment from his father, and Curufin would not have had to worry at all about love poetry.
But what he said was, “I didn’t know there were so many awful ways to describe golden hair.” Curufin snorted. “Curufinwë, your room is spinning.”
“No it’s not, you’re drunk.”
Finrod hummed in agreement. “I was going to lie down. In my room.”
“Just lie down there.” Curufin picked up some papers—presumably what he’d been working on when Finrod had barged in. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to get ready for dinner.”
Finrod narrowed his eyes at his cousin even as he drained the rest of the water and flopped down on the cushions. “You’re being nice,” he said, words slurring together just a little bit. Curufin looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t. Normally. Much.”
“Go to sleep, Findaráto.”
.
But that was a long, long time ago, and there was so much more at stake now than getting in trouble with their parents, or just getting along with prickly cousins. Turgon was hidden away somewhere in the mountains, Elenwë was dead, as was Curufin’s own wife, and Curufin had just deftly undermined all of Finrod’s authority in his own realm.
“No,” Finrod said, stepping back from the door, “I am not drunk. What do you want?”
“Then you must be mad,” Curufin said, stepping into the room. “To agree to help that—that mortal—he has no right to the Silmarils! Thingol certainly doesn’t, and—”
“It isn’t about the Silmarils,” Finrod said, thinking not for the first time that his uncle had set into motion far more than he realized. He dropped into his chair, feeling very old and very weary. “What do you want, Curufin? You’ve made it abundantly clear that I’ve succeeded in making myself your enemy.”
Curufin stopped pacing. He stood by the fire, most of his face cast in shadow. “Not yet,” he said after a long pause. “But be he friend or—”
“Do not,” Finrod snapped, “recite the damn Oath to me. I know what it says.”
“And yet you—”
“I have my own oath to uphold, Curufin. I swore to Barahir that should he or any of his House come to me for help, I will give it to them.”
“You won’t succeed,” Curufin said, ruthless. His hands were balled into fists, shaking almost imperceptibly. “You and all the men who follow you will die, all because that foolish mortal has fallen for Lúthien’s charms.”
Finrod almost said that Curufin was severely underestimating Lúthien’s particular charm, but didn’t. He also almost remarked on Curufin’s apparent concern for his wellbeing, but decided against that as well. He’d known when he’d sworn his oath that it would lead him into darkness from which he would not emerge. And he was less than convinced that any concern Curufin might have for him in any way outweighed his father’s Oath.
But in that moment, as he gazed at Curufin, Finrod knew that his cousin, too, was headed into darkness, and into fire, from which he would not return, and he felt immeasurably sad. Rage and bitterness would drive him there, as he continued to fall from who he had once been, in Valinor before the Darkening. He was unmistakably his father’s son, and had been well on his way to achieving equally great things. But now…
“Don’t.” Curufin glared at him.
Finrod blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that, like you know my future.” His lip curled. “My doom.”
He shifted in his seat, and took another sip from his goblet so he didn’t have to answer. Telling what he knew wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. Curufin had always been prickly, in their youth, but that had been balanced by a biting wit and a fondness for practical jokes, and deep, abiding affection and loyalty once it was won from him. Now he was all jagged edges and ruthless cunning; to suit his own ends, he’d turned his back on their long friendship, and destroyed what hope Finrod had thought they had of perhaps taking back some of the land they’d lost in the Dagor Bragollach, even if the quest for the Silmaril itself failed. They were all Doomed, but it seemed some of them were doomed to worse fates than others.
Finrod hadn’t been planning to get drunk that night, but he was starting to rethink that decision. “What do you want from me?” he asked finally. “I am as bound by my oath as you are by yours. I will not abandon Beren. There is more at work here than you or I can fully understand.”
Curufin’s lips twisted bitterly as he turned to face Finrod. “You were supposed to be the sensible one.”
Finrod leaned forward and poured another goblet full of wine. “We were all supposed to be a lot of things,” he said as he leaned back. Curufin, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the goblet and took a large gulp. “Tomorrow we will part as enemies. But tonight I think I would like to at least pretend we are still friends.”
Curufin raised his goblet in a silent toast. Together they sat in silence, watching the fire die on the hearth, lost in memories of better, brighter times.
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Thank you
Date: 2014-12-26 02:13 am (UTC)You just turned a perfectly fucked up christmas to a good end. This is just the kind of story a needed.
You really good at writing this two (if you have more Noldor stories let me know) I adore Curufin, but he is really hard to write. So every good story makes me incredibly happy. Hope you love your story as much as I love mine.
Enjoy the rest of this year and get a good start into the next. The best wishes, Daydream.believers.daughter
Re: Thank you
Date: 2014-12-26 03:10 am (UTC)