knife to my throat (I'm seeking god again) by queerofthedagger  

| | |

knife to my throat (I'm seeking god again)

The snowstorm comes upon them so unexpectedly, Finrod cannot even be annoyed at himself for missing the signs.

Unfortunately, that does not change how this is the worst possible moment for it—just Curufin and himself, on foot, a day’s walk away from Nargothrond’s warm and well-lit caves.

“Early for this,” Curufin says, frowning northward as if this is an insult devised by Morgoth himself. “Do you think we may yet make it to the village?”

They had been aiming for Aelin-uial, wanting to check on some of Nargothrond’s outposts after the uncommonly high number of raids these last couple of days. The idea had been to go on foot, as inconspicuously as possible, to avoid the hunters; Finrod has a suspicion that the early snow is just another thing meant to squash resistance.

Or whatever is left of it, after the fire.

He shivers within his thick cloak. The snow is coming down hard and fast, more shards of ice than soft flakes. The wind is whistling sharply along the mountain range to their right, and he cannot see much further than a few feet.

Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head. “I doubt it. It is still at least an hour off, more like three, in this weather. Night falls in two, and we do not know how long this will last. We should find shelter.”

He should have listened to Edrahil and gone with someone—anyone—other than Curufin. Foolishly, he had thought it would be an easy trip; that it would be good, in fact, to be out of the kingdom for a bit, let his cousin feel that there were no hard feelings between them. Not enough, either way, to so very obviously avoid spending any time with him alone, when the whole trip had been his suggestion.

“There must be caves around here,” the bane of Finrod’s existence in question says now, frowning against the torrent of ice. “Come on, we need to make sure not to lose each other in this.”

Finrod grits his teeth so hard, his jaw cracks. Still, he lets Curufin wrap his hand around his arm and follows.

By the time they finally find a cave, darkness has crept across the land, and Finrod is cold down to his bones.

They have walked in circles at least twice. Have fought, brief but vicious, over whether they should just huddle in an outcrop of rock that barely provided any shelter, much less any hope to make it through the night. Had argued until Finrod had snapped, “Between the two of us, one survived the Helcaraxë. Last I checked, that is not you, Curufinwë; we move on.”

Curufin had glared but dropped it. They have not spoken since.

The cave now, nestled into the south-western side of the foothills near the Gates of Sirion, is spacious once they squeeze through the narrow entrance.

It is sheer luck that they found it, owed mostly to the persistent glow of the Fëanorian lamps they are carrying. Finrod is too tired to feel bitter about it, shedding his pack as soon as they are inside and unrolling his bedroll.

“We need a fire,” Curufin says, watching him with a frown between his brows. “There are some brushes against the cliff, mostly shielded. Stay here.”

He disappears outside once more, and Finrod watches him go, a strange mixture of age-old anger and exhaustion still frothing inside his chest. It is no use, he knows; the past will not be changed, not any more than the stubborn line of Fëanáro ever will.

He leans back against the stone behind himself and closes his eyes. Listens to the world around him—the drip-drip-drip from deeper inside the cave. The howling wind, a wounded beast devouring the world outside. The slow and steady beat of his own heart, bone-deep, familiar panic unhooking its claws with each moment that he still draws breath.

By the time Curufin returns, Finrod feels less scraped raw; feels, at least, like he might make it through the night without wringing his well-wrought cousin’s neck, memories locked firmly away once more.

“This should help at least a little,” Curufin says, dropping his meagre haul just inside the entrance. He drops his hood, and there is snow clinging to his braids, stark against the black of his hair. It suits him, the coldness, and perhaps that should tell Finrod something about the foolishness of continuing to let himself be pulled into Curufin’s orbit. He locks that away, too.

He joins Curufin, offering him a flint stone. “If you can kindle it, I can sing it to life.”

Curufin nods. With ease, he sets the kindling alight and then watches as Finrod hums, the flames licking along the damp wood.

It is not soaked enough to resist the song, and Finrod exhales with some relief as the flicker of warmth washes across his face and hands.

Without a word, Curufin rises and walks deeper into the cave, dropping his things beside Finrod’s. Finrod knows he should probably thank him, but cannot get the words past his throat. Cannot, in fact, think of anything to say to break the uneasy tension between them, and so he does not.

Stays, instead, crouched beside the small fire, hands held out until his fingertips prickle with the heat. He is overly aware of Curufin moving around behind him; is overly aware of the dark, freezing death just a few steps ahead. Of how utterly trapped they are.

Which is, of course, the moment that the wolves start howling, the sound impossible to mistake for the wind, even at its most vicious. High-pitched and full of malice, everyone in Beleriand knows the sound of Gorthaur’s hounds; knows to hide, unless they have an army to match him, and hope that they will not be found.

It runs like ice down Finrod’s spine, and still, it is Curufin who moves through the cave at once; who stamps out the fire, quick and without hesitation, plunging them back into dim light and freezing cold.

“Come,” he says, at last, his hand strangely light on Finrod’s shoulder. “Most of our tracks will be covered, and unless we linger by the entrance, they should not pick up our scent.”

Reluctantly, Finrod follows. They sit side by side against the far wall, with one dim lamp before them. All is silent. Finrod’s jaw is clenched, his hands curled into tight fists. He is cold, yes; even more so, he is angry, and he knows that it is an irrational and savage thing, fear desperate for an outlet, but that does not make it burn any less brightly.

Beside him, Curufin breathes evenly, and Finrod thinks of the Ice. How it would groan beneath them, the heaving, grating sound following them always—through arduous hours of the day, into their dreams at night. How they had tied themselves together in the early days to keep from losing each other, and how they had stopped, when one too many Elves dragged each other to their deaths.

How cold had made a home within their bones, and how ever it seems to follow Finrod, still.

His hands tremble, where they lie folded atop his knees. The fingertips are blue now, and he does not know where he has left his gloves—a foolish mistake. Does not remember when he had seen hands like this the last time, and wonders if it had been Aegnor, before he lost use of his left hand. If it had been this that sealed his fate; if perhaps, he could have made it out of the north when the fire came, if only he had been hale.

“You are thinking very loudly,” Curufin says, his voice even. There is no pity in it, no accusation. There is no compassion either, and Finrod has not been this desperate to punch someone in a long time.

Has not thought in years, as much as he is now, that it had been Curufin and his kin who had abandoned them to the Ice. Who were to blame—for each life lost, for the endless, savage days in freezing white. Who had not apologised, never once, not even when Finrod had taken them in, out of the eye of their own storm.

He grits his teeth again, nails digging into the thick wool of his trousers. Little Idril, feet black and withered. Elenwë, eyes wide and lifeless, as they dragged her out. How Turgon has not been the same, ever since; how he had almost wasted away, no matter what they all did to keep him moving.

All they had to do to survive, cooling blood on their hands that will never come off.

With effort, Finrod drags his thoughts away from the images. Focuses on the cave instead, on how quiet it has become. His heart slams inside his rib cage. His hands hurt with the cold. When he fixes his eyes on the entrance, searching, desperate, he sees nothing but white.

“We are getting snowed in, we—“ he tries, chokes on the panic, like water crashing over him. “The snow, we’re—“

“It will block our scent,” Curufin says, looking at him. “It will be fine, in the morning—“

Finrod laughs, a shrill, harsh sound that echoes in the cave. “We need to get out. Oh Varda, we need—“

He scrambles, blood rushing in his ears. Stillness means death, they have all learnt this, and Finrod does not want to die. Has not made it across the Ice, abandoned his father, into Doom and exile to die like this, he has not—

Within a moment, Curufin has slammed him onto the bedroll. Has him pinned, straddling his thighs, wrists pinned harshly against the stone floor.

Finrod fights. Snarls and spits and tries to bite, and when all of that amounts to nothing, he curses Curufin’s name, his house, his entire godforsaken bloodline.

Curufin endures it. Keeps him pinned, unyielding and merciless, and lets Finrod rage, and rage, and rage, until the panic evaporates like smoke, and Finrod slumps against the bedroll.

“Are you quite done,” Curufin snaps, at last. He still does not let go of Finrod, and there is something outrageous and terrible about the fact that he has such an advantage of strength over Finrod.

“We are getting snowed in. It is storming, no one knows where we are, and we are getting snowed in. I know that you have no actual idea what that means, but unlike you, some of us actually value—“

Curufin slaps him. It is not overly violent, has just enough strength behind it to sting, Finrod’s head snapping to the side, but—

But. It is enough to snap Finrod out of it, the shock like a wave of heat washing through him. He keeps his head to the side, stares at the rough cave wall. Takes stock—the muted sounds, like a head underwater. The weight still on top of him, muscled thighs to both his sides, the thin bedroll underneath him.

Curufin’s hands, now both wrapped around his wrists once more, pressed against rough stone beside his head.

At last, he turns his head back, glaring. “I understand why you did that, but that does not mean you had any more of a right.”

Curufin shrugs, unapologetic. There is something almost comforting in the lack of pity or guilt, if it were not so utterly insolent. “You were panicking. Again.”

“Well, I am terribly sorry. Please excuse that you are the literal last fucking person I would ever want to be caught in a snowstorm with, Curufinwë.”

For a fraction of a second, something almost like hurt flashes across Curufin’s face, before his expression smooths over once more. “Tough luck, I fear. I am not going to let you walk out there, just because you are too sensitive to cope with my presence.”

Finrod inhales sharply; holds the air inside his lungs, and then exhales, slow and measured. “I know what you are doing,” he says at last, because he does, now that his head is no longer buzzing with bristling panic. “You are not subtle.”

“Well, is it helping?” Curufin asks, a brow raised. He looks so much like his father, like this, arrogant and sure of himself, Finrod wants to punch him all over.

He does not deign it with an answer. “I am fine now; you can let me up.”

It is cold, he does not say. Curufin studies him for a moment longer, his grey eyes bright and sharp in the dim light. Some of his braids have come loose, hairs curling with the damp against his temples, and Finrod becomes promptly overly aware of all the points where they are touching; of the position they are in.

Whatever he finds on Finrod’s face, Curufin finally lets him go, his fingers uncurling slowly from around Finrod’s wrists. He rises, unfolding himself from atop Finrod, and sits back down in his previous spot.

Finrod, to his own horror, instantly misses the weight and warmth of him. He swallows against it and pushes himself back up to sit beside Curufin.

What a mess it all has turned into, within mere hours, and perhaps Finrod should have expected it. Perhaps he should have known that letting his cousins stay in his kingdom had been folly to begin with; should have known that putting in conscious effort to get along would only ever bring ruin; should have known, in truth, that he is a little too drawn to the sharp, dark ruin that has ever been Curufin.

He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his head on them. Sighs, and watches openly as Curufin leans back against the wall of the cave, eyes half-closed.

Finrod is not fool enough to have missed the way Curufin, too, at times looks at him. Is not fool enough to make himself believe that his own attraction is some new thing, something only pushing to the surface now that they are trapped together like this, the undeniable way Curufin had saved Finrod from a worse fate, tonight.

Not that Finrod will ever thank him for it; he cannot. But he knows Curufin’s sharp-tongued, bristling demeanour for what it is, and it does not change that the two of them, whatever lies between them, are a cataclysm waiting to happen. Does not change that, in truth, Finrod should be careful to turn his back, lest he find a knife in it.

And yet, and yet.

Beside him, Curufin shivers. Finrod, too, feels the cold settling beneath his skin in ways that he knows to be a warning sign.

Now, to freeze to death, or to plunge himself down a well that he knows they will not be able to come back out of? In the end, there is no choice at all.

With a soft sigh, Finrod tilts his head back, fixing his eyes on the dark ceiling above. “You know, back on the ice…”

Curufin goes unnaturally still. Says, “Ingoldo—“ when Finrod does not go on, as if it is not far too late for apologies between them.

“Isolation meant death, no matter our differences. And oh, what differences we had,” Finrod says, his voice soft. He thinks of Fingon, his clothes still splattered with the blood of Elves who had taught Finrod how to sing the tales of their kindred. Thinks of Fingolfin, head held high and proud, even as he bowed beneath his grief, the weight of both his brothers’ absence.

Thinks of Turgon, like a hollow ship in the wind, coming apart beneath Finrod’s hands.

The guilt, ever, like flint stone beneath his breastbone. He comes to kneel before Curufin, features both dear and beloathed; tilts his head, and feels certainty seep back into the marrow of his bones, something wild and untethered finally going quiet.

“We need to keep warm,” he says, unthreading his coat. “Come now; it will be better, I promise.”

Curufin blinks at him, colour rising to his cheeks. He opens his mouth, closes it; stares at Finrod, as if, amidst Finrod’s returning confidence, he now can only flounder.

“I will punch you, Felagund, before I let you fuck me just to keep you from panicking about a bit of cold.”

Mere minutes ago, Finrod would have gladly done some punching of his own at such a comment. Now, he only laughs and pushes himself between Curufin’s legs until he can kneel between them.

“Curufinwë,” he says. For long moments, they stare at each other, the world dampened and cold around them.

At last, Curufin sighs. Averts his eyes, as if searching for an answer outside of Finrod’s face, and then, at last, looks back at him.

“This changes nothing,” he says, almost softly. “It cannot.”

“I know,” Finrod says, because he does. Ignores the pang of grief that rattles through him, an ache for something that, in some other world, they might have been. “Take off your cloak, put it down. Let’s lie down.”

After a beat, Curufin does, his movements slow and careful. He does not take his eyes off Finrod until they sit before each other in their tunics, breath misting in the cold air.

In some ways, it takes more bravery than plunging into battle—to lie down, while holding Curufin’s gaze. To watch him move into the space beside himself and not flinch from the expectation of a knife against his throat. To take his own cloak and spread it across both of them, a barrier against the world.

They lie facing each other, limbs stiff and awkward. Finrod’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out; his mind is screaming with the urge to run.

At last, he sighs. “Looking at each other will not keep us warm, no matter how hard we try,” he says, and pushes closer; wraps an arm around Curufin’s waist and pulls him in, at last exercising his own strength.

It does not take much, in truth. In truth, Curufin resists briefly, and then goes willingly, folding himself into the space against Finrod as if he has been waiting for it—the act of it made easier by circumstance, by winter pressing in on them, by the way they do not need to look at each other as they finally fall together.

Curufin’s arm comes up and wraps around Finrod. Warmth seeps from him, his calloused hand pressing firmly between Finrod’s shoulders. Beneath them, the bedroll is hard, but they slot together, limbs tangling and chest to chest, Curufin’s forehead to Finrod’s chin.

He smells like ash and brimstone; smells like snow and endless winter, and oh, Finrod knows of ruin, of endless ice. Knows of what it means to condemn himself, and what it means to thaw again, coming back alive.

When, at last, Curufin tilts his head back to look at him, eyes silver like Telperion in full bloom, Finrod cannot stop himself from kissing him any more than he could ever stop his own body from fighting for survival.

Curufin makes a noise in the back of his throat like plunging into water. He pushes his fingers into Finrod’s hair, grips too tightly, pinpricks of pain down Finrod’s spine, and meets him like a starving beast. It is all terrible hunger, all push and pull; Finrod wrestles him onto his back, presses him into the bedroll as if in retaliation. Swallows the noise Curufin makes in return, and then stops thinking altogether, when Curufin’s fingers push beneath his tunic, points of ice against heated skin until Finrod threatens to shake apart.

They do not undress beyond that, moving against each other in a graceless, desperate dance; do not find their release, and it is strangely alright despite the need beneath it all—as if it is a promise for later, beyond the secret want confessed against each other’s open mouths.

And oh, how Finrod will make up for it, once they are back home. He will lay Curufin out on silken sheets, bare and warm in the light of the fire. Will take his time, with his fingers and his mouth, and see him come apart, one carefully constructed layer at a time. Will watch him, will kiss his own name off the vicious mouth, and then bring him to the brink all over.

And oh, oh, how Finrod will pay for it, he knows, he does. There is no salvation waiting for them, no way for this to end in anything other than what has long-since been ordained for them. Finrod knows just enough of his own future to not delude himself; knows just enough about the Elf he shares his bed with, to know that he is much more likely to push Finrod into the open knife than he is to leap in front of him.

Finrod knows all this, he does.

But for now, for now—for now, Finrod presses his face into the crook of Curufin’s neck. Rocks against him, slow and languid motions without any aim; let’s Curufin kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until their lips are bruised, and their bodies loose with warmth and want.

For now, he lets Curufin wrap around him, like wildfire beneath the summer sky; falls into the heat and does not think about what tomorrow will bring.

In the morning, they wake tangled together. Curufin watches him, face unreadable, and there is no tenderness in his eyes, but there is no insult dripping from his tongue, either.

In the morning, they dress in silence, and Finrod does not thank him, but he does not cast blame, either. They push their way out of the cave, with sticks and hands, until the snow gives way; emerge, with ruddy cheeks and stinging hands, and breathe, at last, once more.

In the morning, they emerge as something other than what went in, and Finrod—

Finrod wonders if he will come to regret it. Looks at Curufin’s face under the winter sun, silver eyes already fixed on Finrod, and thinks perhaps, it does not matter.

Perhaps all that matters is that, for now, Finrod is not quite frozen solid yet.

Chapter End Notes

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

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment