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queerofthedagger · 29 days ago

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Monaaaaa 👀 number 26 for the kiss prompts with curufinrod please

Thank you bestieee, some hurt/comfort/homo-erotic wound-tending just for you mwah <3

like thunder in the stillness

[Curufin/Finrod | T+ | 4,7k | ao3]

Finrod gets hurt. Curufin does what he must.

Finrod knows from the very start that it is a stupid idea.

Leaving the safety of Nargothrond’s walls is never wise, these days. It is considerably less so on his own, no matter how unadorned his cloak, how well it blends into the surrounding landscape, how swift his horse.

He only needs a few hours, though. An afternoon of crisp autumn air, of silence, of peace and quiet. Of distance between himself and his sharp-eyed cousin, between the thrill that runs down Finrod’s spine at the sight of him and the way Curufin seems to make a challenge of provoking it.

Only a few hours, but such desires are bold in this land nowadays. Inevitably, predictably, Finrod pays the price for his foolishness.

The Orcs come out of nowhere, dozens of them, having him surrounded before Finrod is done pulling his sword. The scene doubles, throws him back in time until the land around him smells of smoke and he is surrounded by a different company, is saved by someone who looks like Bëor but is not him.

Finrod shakes himself and lets his horse leap forward, cutting down the Orcs that have dared to push close. Their companions cheer, mocking, knowing that no matter what he does, Finrod is theirs already.

No one is coming this time, Finrod knows it deep in his bones. He had been a fool to leave, had been told so in flaying words by Curufin, and now he will pay the price for it.

He sinks his blade into the unguarded stretch between the helmet and pauldron of yet another Orc, and barely manages to twist out of the way of a mace coming his way. He wonders if Curufin will be pleased to be proven right and almost loses his balance as his horse stumbles, catching herself at the last moment.

For every Orc he fells, three more seem to appear, and Finrod snarls as desperation mounts within him. They are grabbing at him, crowding close, and he knows it will not be long until his horse baulks or falls. Until he falls, and Finrod knows, too—he knows that he will die here if he is lucky. It does not mean that he wants this to be the end.

And so he holds on; raises his voice in song the way Maglor does sometimes, letting go of ideas about honour and fairness, and starts to fight to survive. To return to Nargothrond if only to tell his thrice-damned cousin that he was wrong.

The Orcs fall around him. Still, it is not enough. When the first black arrow whizzes past Finrod’s ear, he knows that it will be over within moments.

The next arrow hits its mark, a sharp point of pain bursting through his shoulder. He wavers on his horse, grits his teeth. Plunges his sword into yet another Orc and tells himself that if he is to go down like this, he will take as many of them with him as he can. Will make sure that he dies here before they realise who he is, distant memories of Maedhros’ mangled body itching at the back of his mind.

The resignation is not unfamiliar, and yet it remains a strange thing, a haze that envelops his mind and allows him to fall into the brutal rhythm of battle. Into focusing only on that which is before him and ignoring everything else—the growing scratch in his throat from using Song for what it was never meant to do. The taste of blood in his mouth.

Later, this is what he will blame it on that it takes him so long to notice the answering hymn of rage, the sudden unease among the Orcs. He does not notice that they fall more swiftly than they should; that they turn and flee, their company scattering with warnings of a trap, of more Elves to come, of this not being as easy a taking as they expected.

Finrod’s horse stumbles, then goes down. He still expects to be skewered the moment he lands, and screams at the pain that ricochets through him at the impact. The expected blow does not come.

He stares at the grey-blue sky above him, the colourful way and dance of the trees. It is the first time that he consciously notes the silence—or at least he does once the pain ebbs down a little, allowing him to catch his breath.

“Findaráto.”

“Oh,” Finrod says, blinking as Curufin appears in his field of vision. “I am hallucinating. That makes sense.”

It is almost a relief, the idea that he may simply be dead already, and he exhales with it.

Pain laces through him anew, making him arch.

Not dead, then.

“You are not,” Curufin says, his voice harsh even as he kneels gracefully beside Finrod. “But I dare say you will soon wish that you were.”

In the corner of his vision, Finrod can see the arrow sticking out of his shoulder. He tries for a smile. “Because you are going to tell me that you told me so?”

“Yes,” Curufin snaps, some of his cold mask cracking for a split-second. “And because there is no way that you will make it back to Nargothrond like this, and I am, infamously, no healer.”

“Should have brought your brother,” Finrod says, but he fails at the levity he was aiming for. Curufin’s brow ticking up is proof enough of it.

“You should not have left on your own in the first place,” he counters, but it lacks his usual bite.

Beneath Finrod, the ground is very cold, even through his leathers. He watches as Curufin inspects the buckles; tests how firm the material is.

“We will have to cut the arrow off first. I cannot get you out of this without potentially making it worse, and I need to stem the blood once I do that. Not to mention that while these leathers might let an arrow through, I doubt they will let it out. You truly are a fool, Ingoldo, what were you thinking—“

Finrod lifts his hand—the left one, where the entire arm is not burning yet—and wraps it around Curufin’s wrist, finding warm skin. Curufin snaps his mouth shut, glaring down at Finrod, and for long moments, they merely look at each other.

Something passes between them that Finrod knows the shape of, and still does not dare put a name to.

He pulls his hand away. “How did you know how to find me?”

Curufin purses his lips and says nothing.

Foresight, then. Curufin has it, every once in a while; even though he never admits it, Finrod knows how to recognise the signs.

He wonders just how much Curufin sees. What he knows of his own end, of those of his brothers, his son. Of Finrod’s. If he wonders, too, whether they are helpless against their doom, or if banishing it to the shadows, looking ahead, pretending that it does not linger, wait, breathe down their necks, may mean that they can yet escape it.

Curufin, as usual, offers him no answer. He has stopped prodding at Finrod and is looking around, taking in the clearing, the felled Orcs, the falling dusk.

“We need to make camp,” he says. “We cannot return to Nargothrond tonight, and aside from this place not being safe, I refuse to spend the night in the company of rotting Orcs. There is a ravine not far from here; it should do for the night. How are you feeling?”

As if he had tried to wrestle Tulkas and lost, Finrod does not say. He lets his gaze run through the clearing and finds both their horses standing off to the side, watching with eyes attentive in the way that only those bred by Fingon are.

“I am not sure I can make it far,” he says, and Curufin scoffs.

“I am not expecting you to ride, you fool. I will cut the arrow, and you will rest for a moment. We will make our way over, I will make camp, then we pull the bloody thing out and—and take care of the wound.”

There is something he is not saying, they both know it. You cannot pull out an arrow and take care of the wound with nothing but whatever small healing kit Curufin brought.

Finrod does not have it within him to argue. Finds, to less surprise than he ought, that he trusts Curufin. At least with this.

He gives a sharp nod and gestures as if to say get on with it, then. He is immediately punished for it when the movement aggravates his shoulder.

It is more telling than anything else so far has been, that Curufin does not remark on this. He merely lays his left hand on Finrod’s chest, a firm weight; slides it up until he can splay his fingers around the arrow, and then looks Finrod in the eye.

“Bite down on your bracer,” he says. He does not apologise, but then, Finrod is almost grateful that he does not.

He does not tell Finrod to brace himself either. He grips the arrow firmly and keeps Finrod still when he jerks. Brings up his knife and snaps the arrow with one quick cut that reverberates through Finrod’s bones, until he is shaking with the suppressed urge to scream.

When he lets go of his bracer moments or an eternity later, there are tooth marks deep in the leather of it.

Curufin is looking at him, his eyes dark. His hand still rests on Finrod’s chest, a reassuring weight; Finrod’s own hand has clenched into the fabric of the red cloak, he realises, keeping Curufin close.

Again, they hover there. The pain is too much to think about the weight of it, but beneath it, Finrod notes it, turns it, prods at it like a wound that refuses to scab over.

Around them, the forest is quiet. Eventually, Curufin sighs almost inaudibly and moves away.

“Here, come,” he says, offering Finrod a hand. The pain has just receded enough that Finrod no longer feels like he is going to throw up, but he nods and takes the offered hand.

Curufin is clinical about it when he helps Finrod sit. When he waits for Finrod to catch his breath and then pulls him up in one quick, strong move that makes Finrod bite down on his tongue until he tastes blood.

Curufin does him the favour of not commenting on his swaying, but he does not let go either. Wraps an arm around Finrod’s waist, and lets Finrod sling his good arm around his shoulders in return.

If Galadriel could see him now, she would laugh, Finrod thinks, and then banishes the image. He will be lucky if he sees his sister again at all.

They make their way out of the clearing slowly. Each step is agonising, every light disturbance and movement aggravating the wound. Finrod grits his teeth and keeps walking.

Curufin looks straight ahead, but through the leathers, Finrod can feel his fingers flexing against his hip again and again. He tries to focus on that, on Curufin’s warmth beside him, the scent of fire and metal, like lightning during summer storms.

It helps more than it has any right to, and Finrod does not have the strength left to recall all the reasons for why this is so. For why he should not indulge in the idea that it may ever mean comfort, rather than warning.

By the time they reach the ravine that Curufin has been talking about, Finrod is shivering, his temples and neck damp with sweat. Still, he waits when Curufin tells him to, leaning against the towering cliff that grows into the sky on one side of the narrow ravine.

He watches as Curufin grabs a bedroll off his horse and stretches it out in the small space that is sheltered from the wind, and then comes back to him, wordlessly gesturing for Finrod to lean back on him.

Sitting down makes him want to scream all over, and Curufin allows him to breathe a few times before he moves away again. He collects wood with quick, methodical movements, and it sparks to life beneath his fingertips as if it were just waiting for him to ask.

Still not speaking, Curufin kneels before him once more. He meets Finrod’s eyes in question, and when he finds no refusal, he starts on the buckles and ties of Finrod’s leathers.

Finrod looks at him up close, long shadows of his lashes across sharp cheekbones, flecks of blue and green in the grey of his eyes. He swallows, and does not ask what Curufin is thinking.

His expression may be carved from stone, but Finrod knows him well enough to know that beneath, a storm is brewing. He is not sure he wants to know what will follow in its wake if it is unleashed, and so he curls his hands into fists and keeps his eyes fixed past Curufin’s shoulder as he pulls the lacing free.

Finrod is no stranger to pain, far from it. Still, when Curufin says, “Brace yourself,” and pulls the thick vest off the remaining shaft of the arrow, Finrod does not quite succeed at biting down on the anguish that rises in his throat.

Curufin catches him, one hand an anchor on the nape of Finrod’s neck. Even through the dancing haze of pain, he can tell that Curufin’s entire body is brimming with tension.

“Come on, lie down,” Curufin eventually says. Where others would sound soft, his voice comes out harsh; still, he does help Finrod do so.

Finrod closes his eyes and can no longer bring up the self-restraint not to reach for Curufin; to not clench his good hand into Curufin’s cloak, to make sure that he does not go far.

It has been a long time since Finrod felt so low, and it is a strange thing, the way he wants to flinch from such vulnerability in front of Curufin. How, at the same time, he cannot help but trust him. To be relieved that it is him—practical, clinical, not shying away from Finrod and his pain.

It has always been what Finrod liked most about him; a dangerous thing. The irony of this being what may yet save him now is not lost on him.

“Here, bite down on this,” Curufin says—orders, really—dragging Finrod back to the present.

It is not Finrod’s bracers again but the hilt of a small dagger. He recognises it as one of Fëanor’s, the leather wrappings around the hilt stitched with red and golden thread—a homage to Míriel.

He wants to laugh, but Curufin has already moved on, pulling aside Finrod’s tunic with careful fingers. They are cool against his hot skin, and Finrod wishes—he wishes that this were not the first time that Curufin touches him so.

Finrod takes the dagger and bites down on the hilt.

Once more, Curufin uses one hand to hold him down. He meets Finrod’s eyes briefly, something unreadable in his gaze; distantly, absurdly, Finrod thinks it may be the closest he will ever get to an apology.

Then Curufin grabs the shaft, fingers strong, and pulls the arrow out in one swift, merciless move. Finrod screams.

Blood wells to the surface, hot and sticky. It runs over Curufin’s hand and down Finrod’s neck, the smell almost overwhelming. Finrod thrashes when Curufin presses fabric against the wound with enough force that darkness dances along the edges of Finrod’s vision.

He is breathing harshly, and it sends pain lacing through him with every inhale, every exhale. His hands have found Curufin’s legs, his wrist, nails digging into fabric and soft skin.

Finrod would apologise, but he does not think that he has anything but curses and confessions within him.

He looks at Curufin. Curufin keeps looking at his hands.

“The bleeding does not stop,” he says, his voice like thunder in the stillness.

Finrod has no answer, even if he could speak. Beyond Curufin, the ravine has gone dark, stars blinking deceptively peaceful through the treetops. The only source of light is the fire, but it is enough to see the creases on Curufin’s face, the tightness around his eyes.

“Findaráto,” he says, finally meeting Finrod’s eyes again—a storm staring back at him. “The bleeding is not stopping.”

He takes his hand away from the wound to show the soaked-through fabric to Finrod. He lets it drop, replaces it with more of the same, but Finrod—

Well, Finrod knows, then, what he is not saying. He finally takes the knife from between his teeth, bares them at Curufin.

“Say what you mean, Curufinwë. Have you not wished death on me often enough to not flinch from it now, of all times? You warned me—the Orcs—it will not even be your—“

“Shut up,” Curufin snaps, and his voice is a violent thing, cutting Finrod to the bone. “You are not going to die here, Ingoldo, or so help me—“

He cuts himself off, and it is clear now, so clear, what he has tried to keep contained beneath that implacable mask, the rage a white-flamed, snarling beast finally breaking through the cracks.

Curufin visibly reins himself in, his nostrils flaring. “I will have to cauterise the wound, or you will bleed out, but by all the Valar, Ingoldo, I will do that before I let you die in this godforsaken forest from something so pathetic as an Orc arrow.”

Somewhere deep beneath the layers of fear and pain, Finrod thinks that he would like to pick the words apart one by one, dig his nails into their edges, break them open. Find all that they so cleverly do not say.

Here and now, his mind keeps catching on one word alone, his heart kicking rabbit-fast inside his chest.

“Surely, there is another way?” he presses out, fingers digging into the flesh of Curufin’s thigh. “Cauterising is a mannish solution, it is—“

“It is the only thing I can think of to stop the bleeding. The arrow must have been poisoned, the wound is deep, and I know Turko has used it before. We are all cursed to die more easily in these lands, Ingoldo; your golden head as much as my dispossessed one. You can die and meet your brothers in the halls to tell you the same, or you can let me do this. And I am not about to let you choose.”

Finrod flinches from the words. Pulls air into his lungs through gritted teeth, holds it. His shoulder throbs. Beneath his hands, Curufin is strung tight, his eyes shining silver in the dim light.

Finrod wants to live. Above everything, always, he wants to live. It is what carried him across the Ice, through battle after battle, into the depths of the earth.

Finrod wants to live. If he trusts anyone to press fire to his skin to make it so, it would be Curufin.

“Alright,” he says, and tilts his chin up as best he might in his position. “If you mess it up, rest assured that I will return to haunt you for the rest of your days.”

The corner of Curufin’s mouth twitches, minuscule reprieve from the fury still drawing his features tight. He does not say anything though, merely keeps one hand pressed down on the fabric over Finrod’s wound. He grabs another one of his knives and holds it into the fire.

His expression is stoic. Finrod tastes fear in the back of his throat like acrid poison.

Perhaps Curufin senses some of it, or perhaps, it is coincidence. Perhaps he cares nought for the pain he is about to inflict, or perhaps, if the Gods still care a little about Finrod, he wants to offer Finrod whatever comfort he may give.

Whatever it is, Curufin turns to look down at him once more. Says Ingoldo, voice low, and lets go of the fabric for just long ago to brush strands of hair out of Finrod’s face. “You will be fine, all right? I told you; I am not going to let you die here.”

Finrod would answer, but Curufin’s hand returns to the wound, presses down. His face blanks over once more and he says, all cold sharpness, “Bite down on the knife. Brace yourself.”

Finrod does. He closes his eyes, buries his fingers into whatever parts of Curufin he can reach, and pretends that he cannot smell the hot metal, cannot tell when Curufin braces himself, too.

He pulls the fabric away, and moves. Finrod opens his eyes and watches Curufin’s face—the cracking, splintering wreck of it—as he presses the white-hot blade to Finrod’s shoulder.

Finrod must scream, he thinks. The pain is like nothing he has ever known before, is cutting down into his very core and beyond. Is turning him inside out, every dark part of him coming apart for Curufin to see, until finally, finally, finally the world goes blissfully, mercifully dark.

Waking is an arduous process, slow and heavy and as if he were back on the Ice.

There is a cloak wrapped around him, though, a fire burning. Someone is sitting close by, whittling away at something or other if the smell of fresh wood is anything to go by.

Finrod’s shoulder throbs sharply, and the remaining memories come back, the smell of burnt flesh bursting across his senses as if it had only waited for him to catch up.

He must make a noise because a hand lands on his good shoulder, heavy but reassuring.

“Ingoldo,” Curufin says, his voice quiet, restrained.

Finrod blinks up at him and notes that he looks tired. Some of his braids have come loose and the skin beneath his eyes is dark. Behind him, dawn is painting the sky in the first pastels of autumn morning.

“Curufinwë,” he says. “I live.”

It is meant to be a jest, after the darkness of the night. Curufin’s face clouds over though, and his eyes flash. He takes his hand back and then, very deliberately, keeps himself still.

Finrod sighs. “Help me sit?”

Despite—despite whatever it is Curufin is struggling with, Curufin does. His hands do not linger and he does not meet Finrod’s eyes, but he does. Hands him a waterskin after, and tugs the red cloak back around Finrod wordlessly. As if all these actions do not hold weight and meaning, coming from him.

Finrod drinks, and looks into the smouldering embers of the fire.

From beside him, Curufin watches.

“You saved my life,” Finrod says. “You did not have to.”

It is the truth, for what it is worth. Curufin exhales harshly. “Because clearly, you are incapable of keeping yourself alive. What were you thinking, Finderáto? Not only to leave Nargothrond on your own as if you were still a spoilt Princeling, unaware of the dangers of the world, but to try and battle an entire company of Orcs? You could have fled. You could have—you could have done anything other than what you did, and what if I had not caught up with you? You are so arrogant, so convinced you are invincible, and for what? For me to play the healer, make you suffer, all for your vanity? You have always been a thoughtless creature, but this—“

“Curvo,” Finrod says, soft. He has not used the name since Aman, and it makes his cousin stop in his tracks.

Curufin’s face is a riot of rage, and his eyes are very bright in the morning light.

“Come here.”

Curufin’s mouth curls, his eyes flashing dangerously. He is so furious, Finrod would not be surprised if he was about to be struck where he sits, but the thing is—

Well, the thing is that Finrod has known what hovered between them, ever since Curufin came to Nargothrond in the wake of the fire. Had known it through late nights spent working side by side in the forges, or sitting over plans for the kingdom, for their survival, over grain reports and guard schedules. Over theoretical discussions on craft and philosophy.

He had known what it meant when Curufin’s eyes followed him through Nargothrond’s dim corridors; what it meant, in turn, when in every room Finrod searched him out first.

He had known what it meant, the same way Curufin did. And yet it had always been Finrod who stepped back from that precipice, who broke away from the unyielding intensity of those silver eyes, who snatched his hand back at the last possible moment.

Who, after all, would believe that Curufin could ever be something to be kept, to be tamed? Who could think that it was anything but sheer arrogance to kiss the mouth that held such sharp tongue and teeth, to expect anything but to be burnt to the bone if one dared come too close?

So, Finrod knows. Knows, too, why he was a fool to leave his kingdom without a guard, and why he did so regardless. And yet here they are, Curufin not finding him once again, but having saved him, too; a storm as unpredictable as the winds out of the west that can turn a battle but rarely do.

Finrod swallows. Smiles. His shoulder throbs in accord with his heart.

“Come here,” he repeats, reaching out, just enough to tangle his fingers into the seam of the woollen tunic Curufin wears.

“If you think—“

“Curufinwë,” Finrod says, laughing, sharp. “Do not make me ask again. Please.”

Something breaks then, he can see it. Curufin sways where he sits, his eyes dragging across Finrod’s face. Finrod makes use of what little grip he has on him and tugs him close.

Curufin goes. Imperceptibly, slowly, but he leans closer; moves until they are leaning toward each other, close enough that Finrod can feel his warmth, can feel Curufin’s breath against his mouth.

“Closer,” he says, an order and a request. He does not wait for an answer or to be obeyed; leans in the last few inches, and brushes his mouth against Curufin’s, even as his shoulder screams in protest.

“I am sorry,” he says, against the waiting mouth. A shudder goes through Curufin, and Finrod is too close to make out the look on his face, but he knows, still, that it must be something awfully close to surrender.

He wonders if this is what Celegorm feels like, whenever he tames one of his beasts. Although somehow, Finrod doubts that Celegorm ever feels this thrill of warning, this lingering impression that he may find himself with his throat torn out, the moment he dares to let his attention slip, no matter the supple compliance beneath his hands.

He kisses Curufin again, lingers this time. Curufin hums, a low, pleased sound. He is careful when he curves his fingers around Finrod’s jaw, his thumb pressing into the corner of Finrod’s mouth, and then he is kissing Finrod properly, all teeth and tongue and lack of air.

“If you ever do something like this again,” Curufin says, nipping at Finrod’s bottom lip, “I will let the damn Orcs get you.”

Finrod laughs, light-headed and delighted, pulling him in, closer, closer, closer.

“I will make it up to you,” he vows, and licks into Curufin’s mouth, chasing the taste of something new and precious, something so bright it might yet keep out the shadows.

Curufin huffs, and pulls away. When Finrod looks at him, there is no anger left in his eyes, no resentment. There is only the deceptive calm after impact, right before the torrent hits.

“You better,” Curufin says, and he kisses Finrod’s cheek, his nose, his mouth. “You waited long enough, and I do not go through this disdainfully mannish ordeal for just anyone.”

Finrod rolls his eyes and kisses him again. If it has the advantage of shutting Curufin up while they are at it, he will keep that to himself, for the time being.

The storm will catch up with him soon enough.

#answered asks #mona's writing #magicinavalon #tolkien #silm #curufinrod #'i should take prompts' i said. 'I'm sure they'll be 1k tops' i said. anyway #mia tag #<33

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