a haunting, a making by queerofthedagger  

“You said I killed you—haunt me, then!
Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad!
Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”

—Emily Brontë

*

The only light in the room comes from the fire. It crackles, a comforting noise interrupted only by the repeated fall of a hammer.

The arrowheads pile to Curufin’s left, gleaming in the yellow light. Despite his exhaustion, his hands are steady, knowing what hinges on this; on tomorrow; on the outcome.

Oh, how well he knows. The jewel itself, an age-old promise unfulfilled. The cost of it—a son, their honour, a—

He cuts the thought short. Easier to think of a child who escaped, than a—cousin, lover, cataclysm—who had not. He breathes, gathers himself. Drops the finished arrow onto its pile, each of them waiting to find their home in the traitorous flesh of the Iathrim, ever friends of—

He cuts the thought short. He finishes three more before the room goes cold.

Curufin exhales, and does not stop his work. Sometimes, it will pass without torment. Sometimes, he can convince himself that it is not real, a mere spectre of his mind, come to haunt him. That it is well-spun regret, not retribution.

A foolish notion, for Curufin feels no regret. He cannot. Cannot remember all those nights that—

He cuts the thought short.

In the corner of his eye, Finrod’s form morphs and twists, dark spots against the flickering light like gore and blood on sun-kissed skin.

Is this what he did to you? Curufin had asked once, one of the first times—drunk, not-grieving, his mind a war zone. Finrod had smiled at him then, almost tenderly. It revealed the gorge within his well-loved cheek, and Curufin would have flinched if not for the memory of pressing his fingers there, a coward’s imitation of intimacy.

“Worse,” Finrod’s ghost had said, and vanished, leaving Curufin to the rolling nausea of sour wine on an empty stomach.

Now, Finrod moves through the smithy, translucent fingers trailing across bare-boned equipment. He seems unperturbed by Curufin’s attempt to ignore him. “Do you ever miss it?”

Curufin stiffens, the rhythm of the hammer faltering. He should not answer—ever does he know it. Ever does he fail, words pressing against the back of his teeth, until he can no longer cling to his indifference.

“Miss what?”

“Nargothrond,” Finrod says, simple and devastating. “The forges of it; the nights we would spend there.”

At last, Curufin abandons his work, the faint tremble of his fingers too dangerous. Looking at Finrod—whatever is left of him—he tilts his head. “No,” he says, simple; it almost sounds true. “Do you?”

Finrod stills. Shrugs, at last, and says, “I miss what I built. I miss my home. I miss not what you made of it; what you made of me, within those walls.”

Curufin laughs, a harsh, discordant sound that reverberates unpleasantly in the bare room. Finrod’s ghost, he has learnt, retained none of his silver-tongued subtlety; or perhaps that is just what happens when the approximation of a lover sends you to your death.

“Do you regret it, then?” he asks, his tongue loose with the late night, the wine, his sore heart. Some nights, he wishes, he wishes—

He cuts the thought short.

Finrod holds his gaze; even in this form, shifting and made of memories, his eyes remind Curufin of summer days at Alqualondë; remind him of simpler times; remind him of blood on white sand, of his father’s fell laughter, of fate unspooling around them like a net just waiting to ensnare them all, drag them to the bottom of the pearl-white sea.

Curufin has long since drowned, and so, when Finrod does not answer, he merely smiles. “If you let the wolf inside your home, Ingoldo, do you blame the wolf, or do you blame your own soft heart?”

“I assume that you think yourself the wolf, in this scenario?”

Curufin sighs, taps his fingers against the table. “What do you want, Findaráto?” A name like a secret.

Finrod smiles, sharp and beautiful. “Do you not know yet?”

“If you think that you can stop us from what is planned, that you could do so now when you could not even—“

“Do not be foolish,” Finrod laughs, a tinkling, discordant sound shivering down Curufin’s spine. “Unlike what you seem to believe, I did not think such a thing even when I let you share my bed. It does not mean, though, that your deeds weight any less heavy, Curufinwë.”

Curufin snorts, because it is that, or to throw his hammer. He has tried that before; it had done little, except feel like failure all over.

“Even in death, you speak in riddles.”

“Even in death, you cannot let me go.”

Curufin staggers, catches himself. His jaw hurts, his fingers, his fëa—every part of him an open bruise. “What do you want, Findaráto.”

Finrod sighs, as if still, this pains him. The kindness in his eyes is a greater insult than anything he could have hurled at Curufin otherwise. “A goodbye, of sorts. I assume that soon, you shall join me in the Halls.”

A beat, two; Curufin recalls Finrod’s bursts of foresight; recalls how Finrod had known, better than any of them, that he would not return from his quest. Even still, the anger rages and rages and rages within Curufin’s blood, the humiliated hurt of being abandoned, replaced, betrayed so easily.

And yet, and yet. It almost tastes like hope, in the back of his throat—not Finrod, not this, of course. Curufin knows better than to dare hope for salvation.

“I think not,” he says, a smile like a knife. Even in death, Finrod cannot hide the way he wants to flinch from it. Once, Curufin managed to draw more pleasure from that.

The ever-lasting darkness shall be my lot, he does not say. At least there, I will finally find oblivion.

He blinks, and Finrod is right before him, cold seeping off his form like the ice he never talked of. Never once has he tried to touch Curufin—now, when he reaches, Curufin instinctively flinches.

Finrod smiles. “We shall see, Atarinkë. Fare you well.”

With that, he is gone, leaving Curufin alone in the forge, hands clenched tight around his worktable and the phantom sensation of once-beloved fingers against the corner of his mouth. Leaves him to think of that last night, of regret, of how, even after all his time, his heart—

He cuts the thought short.

Chapter End Notes

Alexa play haunting by Halsey etc etc.

Thank you for reading! You can also find me on Tumblr <3

Leave a Comment