the largesse of the sea maiden.

Curufinwë strode down the hallway with such a vehement anger on his face, that everyone who remembered him that day would say that, that moment, he was very much akin to Fëanor than he ever will be.

Nargothrond is his; he has succeeded with his long and meticulous planning, and earlier that night, the final piece had fallen into place. The Houses of Nargothrond -- both the Eldar and Edain ones, have clamored to oust their own king, forgetting, for a moment, through the sweet poison of Curufin's words -- that Finrod Felagund found them a safe haven, and secured that safe haven for four hundred, unbroken years. The aristocrats had many excuses: malcontent, mainly from the Eldarin houses -- because Finrod had long flouted norms and societal expectations ever since setting foot on Beleriand. To openly stop wearing his betrothal ring was a great affront, especially to the lords of many houses, who have made the journey with him, and who have seen him as a young elf in Aman. This, and Finrod's profound refusal to take a proper wife, sire proper heirs -- leaving Nargothrond insecure. It was no big feat to realize and understand that Artaresto was unpopular; too soft, indecisive, too easily malleable. Nargothrond and the lords wanted someone strong; as strong as Finrod had been, before grief from Angrod and Aegnor's demise wormed its way into his heart, and chipped away the iron composure a King was supposed to have.

And now the Adan.

Curufin snarled at the guards and they let him pass, and he throws open the double doors leading to Finrod's chambers. They slam shut behind him. There is a fire in the hearth, and no book, no ornament, no vase is out of place -- except perhaps the second set of double doors leading to the main bedchamber is open. Curufin strode toward it with purpose.

And there he finds him: the lover he betrayed; the lover he stole realm, people and crown from -- the lover whom he bedded despite his relentless politicking, the lover he kissed despite his insidious plans, despite his conspiracies and treacheries with the Houses of Ruby, Sapphire, Turquoise, Chalcedony and Lapis.

Finrod, sitting there on the floor, packing a satchel for a trip -- golden hair unbound and streaming behind him. Curufin clenched his hands into fists. He knows that Finrod knows he is here, but the golden one won't face him.

(And Curufin can still hear the dull clang of the silver, serpent-flower crown of Nargothrond made when Finrod cast it on the floor of the throneroom. Aside from the oath this sound will echo in his mind many years later. It will keep awake through the night, will haunt his most terrible nightmares. He will see Finrod wearing it; Finrod, his body mangled, his stomach torn open, and he is extending blood and guts toward Curufin in silent offer, and the crown of Nargothrond is on his head, the only part of him not stained red by--)

Finrod picks up a dagger. He unsheathes the blade, inspects it by the light of the candle, and sheathes it again. Before it can go into his satchel, Curufin crosses the distance and catches him by the wrist.

"Don't talk," Finrod says, and he does not even give Curufin the satisfaction of looking at him. His hand, his wrist, is limp in Curufin's hold, and Curufin wants to crush his wrist. "You'll ruin everything."

But Curufin pulls Finrod into his hold, and he lets go like he has never let go before, since Fëanor burned. The tears that stream from his silver eyes are crystal clear, and in his head, the Oath is a thousand scratches and clicks, insects, legion, tormenting him, calling him to action, blotting out everything else. Everything, except for his terrible desire to keep Finrod here, keep him here, even if it meant to kill him, prevent him from fulfilling the thrice-damned Oath those Edain never deserved.

(Rats. Rats they were, these Secondborn, opportunists, weaklings.)

"No one has to leave, Ingoldo," Curufin whispers fiercely, clutching Finrod to him how a man might cling to a rock against the tide, to prevent himself from being swept away to the point of no return. "Stay with me. Stay here. You do not need to honor your word over the likes of that scum. It was not the aid your oath contemplated. Let him attempt his foolish errand. Do not die for some miserable creature's lust. Do not. Do not ask me to let you go."

Finrod leans into his hold. It is as if one of those countless evenings, in the bliss of Nargothrond, where they sat here on this very same floor, just like this, Curufin cradling his golden one in his arms as they exchanged sweet nothings, and Finrod caresses his cheek just like this, with a soft touch, and Curufin kisses his fingertips, his palm, his wrist.

"If this is a chance to save you," Finrod whispers. "And save you all, then I will take it."

Curufin's face crumples. He sobs outright, burying his face into that golden hair he loves. There's no saving us, Ingoldo. Don't you see? We doomed ourselves. We can not get out. We can not escape.

He feels Finrod kiss his hair.

Spare Artaresto. Spare Findi. Spare her, above all.

Curufin grips Angrist by the hilt. His mind plays how this should have gone: He unsheathes his dagger, and as he held Finrod tenderly in his arms he slits his beloved's throat, and he holds him still as he bleeds out, as he chokes, as the light goes out of his lovely blue eyes. Curufin holds him there long after the terrible deed is done, and afterward, it will be his turn to take his own life. In Mandos, at least, they will be together.

But Curufin does not do it. He can not. He will not. In hindsight, perhaps he should have. Then Finrod would not have perished alone, a wretched death in the dark, forsaken by everything that he held dear.