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Curufin/Finrod
Written for @curufinrodweek Day 2: Time Travel
“You cannot mean to go after him!” Celegorm exclaims, laughing wildly. “After what we did? You cannot truly mean to go after him.”
"If you would move, then I suppose we would find out."
“What is wrong with you? What about the oath, Curvo?" Celegorm asks, voice low and furious, eyes blazing so much like their father's. "You cannot go after him."
And Curufin — who has seen the endpoint of what that oath cost them, who has reunited with their father, who has listened to their father curse himself for what the oath brought upon them all — finds it the easiest thing in the world to bare his teeth and snarl, "Fuck that god forsaken oath.”
Written for @curufinrodweek Day 3: Hurt/Comfort | Forges & Craft
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—
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—
Finrod: What would you do if you were hopelessly in love with one of your cousins?
Finrod: A cousin with dark hair, but it’s not Fingon.
Finrod: And what if that cousin were married? It’s not Fingon.
Finrod: A cousin who has a kid, it's not Fingon. What would you do?
Maedhros: Forget Curufinwë Atarincë, for your own good.
Finrod: How did you know it was him?
It’s @curufinrodweek, and I'm thinking about Finrod braiding Curufin’s hair at work (as one does). Braiding it in overly elaborate, fancy ways, that is.
And I think Curufin would secretly love it and be so into it, even though he usually tends towards simple, practical styles (forgework and all that).
Not because he is vain (though he is that, too), but because he can walk around with those elaborate, fancy braids Finrod put in his hair and it lets everyone who sees them know: someone cares about him. Someone loves him enough to take the time to do that.
And not just anyone, but Finrod "fairest and most beloved of the house of Finwë" Felagund, widely considered noble, wise and kind, and heir to the throne in a post-canon settting.
It's balm on all of Curufin's insecurities and self-worth issues. And a quiet fuck you to all the people who look at him with suspicion or scorn (and to the parts of himself that believe these people are right.)
Incredible book alert for you all, since I know how many of my friends and followers are also neurodivergent. I've been requesting that our local library buy more ADHD and autism-friendly cookbooks aimed at adults, in an effort to find one that might help me with fixing my extremely broken relationship with food. And for a while it was a bit demoralizing because a lot of them are more recipe-focused, so I'd read them and go "Wow, this book is aimed at people like me and I can't eat any of this stuff, I must be even more broken than I thought"
Enter "How to Eat Well for Adults With ADHD" by Rebecca King.
I am about to sound like a sponsored ad, but this book is absolutely incredible. It's written by a nutritionist with ADHD, and does include some recipes, but they only make up a part of the third section of the book. The rest of it is focused on practical, broadly applicable advice for neurodivergent folks (and frankly, other disabled people) on unlearning internalized ableism around food, how to best organize your kitchen and meal plan (and what to do when meal plans fail), the connections between food and dopamine and how best to use food for stimulation in a healthy way, how hyperfocus and time blindness can get in the way of eating well, how to make sure you're eating enough while on stimulants, the fact that many ADHD people also have ARFID (and the book even emphasizes that ARFID is an eating disorder, not just "picky eating"!!), and takes the strong stance that we should do away with the idea of "picky eaters" altogether in favor of a more compassionate stance on people's complicated relationships with food and eating.
It is strongly anti-diet culture while still emphasizing that good nutrition is important. It has extremely specific tips that make my ADHD heart sing a little, like how best to store specific vegetables so they last the maximum amount of time in your fridge (since we are all very good at forgetting they are there) and what tools can make doing the dishes more manageable. And perhaps most importantly, as someone with severe sensory sensitivities and some very real trauma from having them ignored as a kid and being shamed for them, it made me cry a little bit with how understanding and compassionate it is.
Anyway. I am going to buy a copy of my own immediately, and I cannot recommend it enough. If you, like me, are trying to unfuck your eating habits and neat someone to hold your hand a little in the process -- while still making you feel like an adult, and still offering actionable tips along the way -- this book could be a lifesaver.
(And for those of you who use Instagram, the author has an account that's equally helpful and affirming over there, too, that I followed immediately, @/adhd.nutritionist)
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