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His gaze, inevitably, is drawn back to Finrod, the marred beauty of him. It has not been Curufin who ruined him so—had not been Curufin who had dragged him out of Nargothrond and into the wolf’s den, who had let Finrod protect him with his life. And yet.

And yet it feels oddly fitting, that such a ruined thing should be Curufin’s.

---

Through careful manoeuvring and a few lucky coincidences, Curufin saves Finrod's life without having to admit to anything so humiliating as having emotions. Contrary to what one would expect, this does not make things all that much easier.

Alternatively: Curufin lies, Finrod lives, and somehow they do still manage to figure it out, for better or for worse.

Maedhros dies and opens his eyes to Losgar, to ships unburnt, and a heart like a mad thing. It depends on who you ask if this is a good thing or not.

Erestor lay up against a tree, brown washed to black in the wet of the snow. The black disc of the new moon sailed across the dark sky. Erestor wished it were gone. He had no need to look into dark eyes any longer.

He was dying.

(AKA Erestor unwittingly travels back in time to the days between the Dagor Bragollach and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, meets the sons of Feanor, Thingol and his ilk, many Laiquendi, many Dwarves, and Men besides, and THEN decides to solve the drowning of Beleriand himself. This has nothing to do with his personal problems. Nope. Not at all. Erestor is having regular feelings.)

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Galadriel looked up to find Celeborn following. “What is it you seek?” he asked as she filled the silver ewer from the clear and cold waters of the stream.
“My cousin,” she said as she turned to the silver basin. “It is a new Age; if he lives still, I would find him and bring an end to his long exile.”

Elladan really wasn't planning to get thrown back in time to Beleriand, but the world didn't bother asking his opinion. Now, he struggles to find a way back home as the First Age unfolds around him. The host of newly acquired relatives, including a great-uncle with a flair for dramatics, sons of Fëanor who insist on being people rather than historical villains, and a several-times great-grandmother with some unexpected skills, just make it more overwhelming.

And where is Gil-galad, anyway? Shouldn't he be around here somewhere?