our souls real enough to burn
Mar. 28th, 2025 09:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Celegorm/Dior/Nimloth
Word Count: 5,238
Content Warnings:
Summary:
“Dior, son of Luthien,” Námo intones, “you do not belong in these halls. I will show you the way to where your path is meant to lead.”
Celegorm looks to Dior and tilts his head in curiosity at the defiant look being directed at Námo. “No,” Dior says, voice hard. “I feel no call to follow the path of men. I will stay in the halls with my kin.”
“I was not presenting it as a choice,” Námo says severely and Celegorm frowns. Sees Curufin across the room shaking his head and gesturing for Celegorm to join him. He thinks to but then looks at Dior again and gets distracted by the look on his face.
An animal backed into a corner, his mind supplies, glancing down at the way Dior’s fingers are beginning to press into Celegorm’s fëa from how hard he is gripping Celegorm’s wrist.
Dior bares his teeth. “I was not either."
Between the knife handle & its blade,
that is the only home I know
that gives true pleasure—
Yesenia Montilla
☀︎
Celegorm dies, the feral delight in his chest only slightly shadowed by the guilty regret he knows he should feel. He dies with Dior’s venom bright eyes locked on him as the sword slashes his neck. He dies with his own sword buried in Dior’s stomach. He dies and then opens his eyes to the halls of Mandos which are far less impressive than he’d been led to believe they would be.
Curufin and Caranthir are standing on the other side of the atrium like room he's appeared in and turn to look at him with twin expressions of disappointment. He doesn’t get a chance to ask if they’re more disappointed that he’s dead or that he’d lost the fight before Dior is materializing next to him.
“You!” he exclaims before he can think better of it. “Who the fuck taught you to fight like that?”
Dior gives him an absolutely scathing look. “Why? Mad that I killed you?”
“Impressed mostly,” he says truthfully. He takes Dior in for a second and then looks down to his own hands. Or the approximation of hands that he has in the halls. His fëa gives off a slight glow, a soft green that ripples as he pokes at himself. He looks to his right and finds that Curufin is a deep red and Caranthir a rich brown.
Dior though is a deep purple that shimmers, shards of refracted light flickering throughout him like wavering rainbows. “Why do you look like that?” he asks, reaching out to poke at Dior curiously.
His wrist is grabbed before he can and he thinks that if they were truly corporeal the grip would bruise. As it is he only feels a strange pulse of discomfort that ripples through him like a thrown stone. “Do not touch me,” Dior snaps at him. He maybe would have said something more, but before he can Námo appears before them.
Námo gives him a deeply disappointed look, which seems unnecessary. Celegorm’s not sure what the fuck else the Valar had expected from them but it’s their own problem if they hadn’t predicted this. Námo’s attention moves swiftly to Dior though and Celegorm would think that Dior has forgotten that he’s still holding onto Celegorm’s wrist but another pulse of discomfort ripples through him as if Dior’s grip has tightened.
“Dior, son of Luthien,” Námo intones, “you do not belong in these halls. I will show you the way to where your path is meant to lead.”
Celegorm looks to Dior and tilts his head in curiosity at the defiant look being directed at Námo. “No,” Dior says, voice hard. “I feel no call to follow the path of men. I will stay in the halls with my kin.”
“I was not presenting it as a choice,” Námo says severely and Celegorm frowns. Sees Curufin across the room shaking his head and gesturing for Celegorm to join him. He thinks to but then looks at Dior again and gets distracted by the look on his face.
An animal backed into a corner, his mind supplies, glancing down at the way Dior’s fingers are beginning to press into Celegorm’s fëa from how hard he is gripping Celegorm’s wrist.
Dior bares his teeth. “I was not either. My mother was born part elf, part maia. You may have given her the gift of men but that does not erase her heritage. And both sides of her have passed to me. I will not go.”
Dior’s ears are perhaps too sharp for a man’s, though too rounded to be an elf in truth. But, more importantly, there had been something a little too sharp, a little other about him as he’d fought Celegorm in the dim lighting of Doriath. Perhaps it’d been something about the light in his eyes that could not be tree light but was also not quite normal. Perhaps it’d been something in the way he’d managed to dodge blows Celegorm knows should have hit him. Whatever it was, Celegorm fully agrees that there is something very maia like about him. He also finds that he feels deeply irritated at the idea of Námo forcing Dior from the halls. Celegorm is not done talking to him.
"Why should he have to leave if he doesn't wish to?" Celegorm hears himself say before he can think better of it. In the distance he can see Curufin covering his face with his hands in despair while Caranthir looks deeply exasperated. "If he says he is not a man then he is not. He surely knows himself better than you."
Dior throws him an irritated look but does not tell him to shut up or fuck off, which really says far more than anything else he could have done. He is not sure where she comes from, but Nimloth suddenly appears behind them and drapes herself across Dior's back, her chin resting on his shoulder. Her fëa is a rich blue that blends with Dior's in a way that makes it difficult to tell where one starts and the other ends. Dior still does not let go of Celegorm’s wrist, but he does relax incrementally.
"If my husband does not wish to leave then he will not," Nimloth says, sounding so utterly sure of herself that Celegorm finds himself reluctantly impressed.
He is also struck with the sudden thought that Dior is attempting to use him as an anchor. As if perhaps Námo will not be able to forcefully make him go if he's held to the halls by others. Finds himself shivering as Dior's fingers sink even farther into his fëa. The pressure where they’re pressed together does not quite burn, for he doesn’t think he can feel temperature in the halls, but it is somehow warm in a way he cannot explain, and he finds himself drifting closer before he can stop himself. His brothers are both giving him deeply judgmental looks, but he's not very well going to leave now.
Námo does not do anything so normal as frown but Celegorm is quite sure they're annoying him. Atar would be so proud that he'd immediately started irritating the Valar upon dying. He has to push that thought away before it truly sinks in. He does not want to think of what else his father may or may not be proud of him for. (What will he do if his father is proud of them for what they did in Doriath? What will he do if his father is not?)
"It is not within my authority to change your path," Námo says finally, voice perfectly even.
"It isn't," Dior agrees easily. "So, go tell the one who does have such authority that I am not leaving."
"I have seen no reason to do so," Námo says. Celegorm feels very sure now that they’ve gone past annoyance and into anger. Whatever talent it was that Luthien had used to enchant Námo, Dior was clearly lacking in it. “You will walk the path of men as you are meant to. It is within my authority to place you upon the path if you require guidance."
Celegorm finds himself twisting his arm so that he can grasp Dior's wrist in return. Nimloth somehow manages to sink herself farther into Dior's fëa, so that they blur together and Celegorm could not begin to tell you where they begin and end. When he looks down, he finds that Dior has sunk his fingers into his wrist so deeply that their fëa's have gone cloudy as their colors poorly mix.
Námo's attention turns from Dior to him. "You have no reason to be involved in this, Turcafinwë." He does not say, it's your fault they are dead to begin with, but Celegorm can read between the lines.
"Consider this me making amends," he says brightly, grinning when Dior and Nimloth both look at him with matching looks of disbelief. "Besides," he says, letting his teeth take over the smile, “I’m doomed to the everlasting darkness anyway. It isn't as if you can threaten me with anything worse." Curufin in the background looks to the ceiling in exasperation and mouths something that is likely very rude. Caranthir pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Your doom is not yet set in stone," Námo says, and there is an awful, echoing quality to his voice that tries to drag Celegorm back to that dark night when everything had gone so irrevocably wrong. "Four of your brothers yet live."
He scoffs, and if he still had a body, if he still had a sword, he'd see if he could beat his uncle in regard to how many hits he could deal a Vala. "And it does not matter," he says, laughing harshly. "It does not matter because you already spoke all of our doom, so they will fail regardless. This isn't even about me. Fuck off and go bother Manwë or Ilúvatar or whoever."
Námo's anger unfolds through the halls like smoke, seeking to press its way between their fëa's and drag them apart. Celegorm digs his fingers in harder out of spite, lets Nimloth pull him closer until he's pressed up against Dior. But for a moment, Námo's anger is so thick and oppressive that all he can see is darkness and he wonders for a moment if he hasn't goaded Námo into simply throwing him into the void earlier than he otherwise would have.
But the darkness fades as quickly as it had come, and when it fades, Námo is gone. Dior though is trembling, fault lines ripping through him. He isn't sure Dior would still be standing if not for them. It would seem Námo had in fact tried to simply pull him away and dump him wherever it is men go. It also seems like whatever he and Nimloth were doing had worked.
"I'm not going to thank you when this is your fault," Dior mutters at him as he seems to forcibly pull himself back together, the raw edges of his fëa slowly starting to knit back together. He tips his head back to rest on Nimloth's shoulder, still trembling. He does not push Celegorm away now that Námo is gone. Is still holding onto Celegorm’s wrist just as tightly and he finds himself eyeing the long line of Dior's neck and wondering if he could get away with pressing his mouth to it. Highly doubts it and doubts it would be as satisfying in this state as it would be if they were truly solid.
"I didn't ask you to thank me," he says, looking away from Dior's neck to find Nimloth studying him closely. "Said this was me making amends or whatever didn't I?"
"Figured you just said that to piss him off." Dior actually laughs a bit when he says it. All his anger seems to have drained away, which makes Celegorm wonder how badly whatever Námo just did had hurt.
"I did. Doesn't mean it wasn't true."
He watches Nimloth trace her finger along one of the fracture lines on Dior's shoulder and beneath her touch it seems to fully close and smooth out, the mended edges losing the frayed, torn look that they’d held. He curiously does the same to one of the lines on Dior's chest and realizes too late that she wasn't soothing the fracture but letting it pull a strand of her own fëa into itself to help repair the damage. It's a strange feeling, a thin thread of himself unspooling from his finger and attaching itself to Dior instead. He feels he definitely should have asked before doing that. But Nimloth had watched him do it and said nothing, so he’s just going to take that as permission.
"Celegorm," Curufin snaps suddenly, apparently having gotten tired of waiting for him to detach from Dior and Nimloth. He's glaring when Celegorm looks at him, but he knows his brother well enough to see the veiled confusion hiding beneath the anger. "If you are quite done with whatever it is you're doing, we're going to try and find atar. Let's go."
The thing.
The thing is.
Celegorm feels…strange. He feels calmer than he has since well before the trees died despite the words he'd spat at Námo earlier. Like he died and a pressure he was so used to he'd stopped noticing it, had simply vanished, leaving him weightless. And he's not stupid, he knows it is the oath finally having disappeared. Knows that given a few days to adjust the anger will come rushing back through him. But it still leaves him off-kilter, leaves him wanting to claw at that weightlessness and keep it for however long he can.
He also knows that the idea of seeing his father again is not one he necessarily cares for or even cares to examine yet. Thinks again, what will he do if his father is proud of them for what they did in Doriath? What will he do if his father is not? The idea that his father would listen to what they'd done and be proud of them for it makes something deep inside of him feel as if it is ripping. The idea that his father would condemn them for it when they did it for his fucking oath. That is almost worse.
He won't realize until much later when Nimloth tells him, but he's pressed himself against them even tighter, his edges blurring with theirs. "Go on without me," he tells Curufin, keeping his voice light. "I'll catch up later."
"You're not serious," Curufin says flatly. "He killed you."
"I killed him," he says, shrugging. "We're even now."
"We're not fucking even," Dior mutters. "If we get out of here I'll kill you again." He's still trembling just slightly. He still has not even begun to let go of Celegorm’s wrist.
Curufin raises an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Seriously? Celegorm, come on. We need to find atar."
Celegorm swallows down what he wants to say, refusing even now to acknowledge how very furious he sometimes feels at their father and how very little he wants to deal with any of it. Atar had died and Maedhros had been taken and Celegorm, still Tyelkormo then even as the edges blurred, had suddenly been one dead brother away from being King of the Noldor. A title he’d never fucking wanted and never thought he’d have to worry about inheriting. He won’t say that he was thankful to see his uncle appear from across the ice, because Maedhros is plenty thankful enough for them all, but there was a certain air of relief to be breathed in when his uncle appeared.
Atar had died. They’d gladly sworn his oath and stained their hands with their kins blood and all of them, but Maedhros, had burned the boats with barely a second thought. There had been no hesitation in his heart. There had been some squirming unease at the blood but even that had not made him hesitate. And then atar had fucking died and he’d had to watch helplessly as Maedhros was fucking taken from them. Had to watch as Maglor tried to not crumble under grief and a weight he wasn’t built to bear. It had all gone so fucking wrong so quick. And even after Fingon had done what none of them were brave enough to do, nothing had gotten better.
Celegorm knows what a cornered animal looks like. Has been the one running animals into corners often enough to know the look in their eyes when they realize there’s no way out. He knows Maedhros hasn’t stopped looking cornered and hunted since Fingon bore him away from Thangorodrim. Knows that the look gets even worse when the silmarils are brought up.
He knows Maglor forgets that Celegorm is not always cutting words and laughter. He knows that Maglor forgets that when he says he was the best of Oromë’s hunters, he means he was also the best at sitting and waiting, at watching for patterns in the way animals moved. He means that he noticed when Maglor stopped mentioning atar unless someone else did first. He noticed when Maglor began working on the Noldolantë more than any other piece, when the verse discussing the kinslaying at Alqualondë began growing longer and longer. He knows there’s resentment breeding in Maglor’s chest and that it will only grow worse now that he has lost three brothers.
He does not know how much of himself to lay the blame for at atar’s feet. Cannot know for sure that all the things he’s done aren’t just his own fault. His own twisted nature rearing its head because some part of him has always been a little more monster than elf.
Nimloth’s hand is suddenly grasping the back of his neck so tightly it demands all his attention as the pressure rushes through him. He blinks, realizing that Curufin’s face had at some point changed from expectant irritation to worry. Looks down at his body and is both surprised and not surprised to find that he’s flickering in and out of view, wanting to escape even as he keeps his fingers buried in Dior’s wrist.
He shakes his head violently and then looks to his left, finds Dior already looking back, eyes narrowed in thought. There are, he realizes, places where all three of them are blending together. Everywhere he touches their fëas turn cloudy, the colors unwilling to mix.
“Celegorm stays with us,” Nimloth announces after the silence stretches without Celegorm saying anything. “Námo will likely return, and he has proven to be a good anchor in the event that Námo once again tries to steal my husband from me.”
“I knew you were just using me for my body,” he says automatically, smirking at the flat glare that earns him from Dior. Nimloth’s hand merely tightens even further on the back of his neck.
“Whether or not he stays isn’t up to you,” Curufin snaps and the look he throws Nimloth is vicious.
She snorts, not daunted in the least. “Does he look as if he’s trying to leave?”
Curufin looks to him again, still so expectant that it only makes Celegorm want to cooperate less. Whatever his brother sees on his face causes him to snarl and throw his hands in the air. “Fine. Do what you want then. Try to not get yourself thrown in the void early because of Luthien’s spawn.”
He turns and storms away before Celegorm can decide if he wants to respond, though the effect is rather lost when they lack the ability to stomp or make any noise at all when they walk. Curufin says something to Caranthir, who has been leaning against a wall and watching with a bored expression. Whatever he says causes Caranthir to look at Celegorm for a moment, a calculating look on his face, and then he simply shrugs, flips Celegorm off, and turns and walks off down a random corridor. Curufin looks back at Celegorm only once more, lips pursed in a tight line, before following Caranthir.
“Huh,” he finds himself saying after they’re out of sight. “I didn’t think they’d actually leave.” He’s not sure how he feels about that.
“Shocking,” Dior says as Nimloth pulls herself off of him. “The faithless Fëanorians are also faithless to each other.”
Celegorm doesn’t really think before he throws his elbow into Dior’s side and then tries to get his hands around his throat. Unfortunately, with the way they’d been pressed against each other the angle is fucking terrible to pull such a thing off, and Dior tackles him. They end up on the ground, Dior straddling him with his hands around Celegorm’s throat, and Nimloth standing over them with an unimpressed expression. Celegorm thinks about fighting back, but the initial rush of anger fades so quickly it’s gone by the time they’re on the floor.
Instead, he simply blinks up at Dior and takes the opportunity to curl his hands around the back of Dior’s thighs. That flickering rainbow mirage is brightest behind Dior’s eyes and Celegorm still feels strange, his insides empty of the oath that had held him together for so fucking long. It makes it easy to let himself play a part he’s never had to play. To bare his neck a little more and simply go loose and still beneath Dior.
Dior’s grip doesn’t falter but the light behind his eyes shifts. Nimloth sits down cross-legged next to him and says mildly, “You didn’t try to go with them.”
He shrugs. “This is more interesting.”
“And you didn’t want to go." It’s not a question.
“And I didn’t want to go,” he agrees. “I want…” He doesn’t know what he wants. The answer had always been easy. He wanted the silmarils back and Morgoth dead or at the very least cast back into the fucking void and he wanted his father back and some of the light to come back into his brothers’ eyes. One of those is now achievable and he’d sent his brothers off to achieve it without him. What does he want? To not be thrown into the void. But there’s no way for him to work toward that goal. It rests wholly on the shoulders of his brothers who still live.
What does he want?
Dior’s grip loosens, his gaze still locked on Celegorm’s face. Fighting in the halls seems to be terribly impractical. It had not been pleasant how tightly Dior had squeezed his throat, but neither had it hurt, and if he had squeezed much harder they likely would have just started to melt into each other again. “What are you going to do if Námo does talk to Ilúvatar and the answer is still no?” he asks, sick of his own thoughts.
Dior groans in frustration and pulls his hands away, reaches for Nimloth with one and jabs the other in the air as he speaks. “I don’t care. I’m not going. They cannot make me go, and I have no longing to leave as the men do so there is nothing to draw me away.”
Nimloth presses her mouth to the inside of his wrist for a moment before saying, “There are always ways out. One simply has to find them. If they will not listen to our reasoning, then we will simply take other steps to ensure results.”
Celegorm stares at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. Dior frowns down at him but now that he’s started Celegorm is finding it rather hard to stop laughing. “Perhaps you should go find my father,” he manages to get out. “I imagine he already has a plan for what it is you’re trying to do.”
“Nim,” Dior says plaintively, staring at her considering expression, and looking very betrayed.
She smiles, reaches out to cradle his cheek. “If he can help then is it not worth a try? Besides, this one isn’t so bad now that he’s dead.”
There’s a beat of silence as they both stare at her. “He killed me!” Dior says loudly, the words seeming to vibrate through his fëa.
“Yes, and now he’s dead. Which seems to have had a strangely mellowing effect on him.” She peers down at him and then pokes his cheek. “It did not seem to have had such an effect on the other two though.”
Celegorm snaps his teeth at her finger just to be annoying. “I’ve not mellowed out,” he tells her. “I’ll try to tear your throat out again soon.”
She seems to genuinely consider this for a moment. “Perhaps,” she says finally. “I suppose you do seem to enjoy pursuing fruitless endeavors. I wish you luck killing that which is already dead.” Dior looks disgustingly fond as he watches her, the dark purple of his fëa going lilac in places for a moment, and Celegorm wants. wants.
His hands are still curled around Dior’s thighs, and he digs his fingers in until they begin sinking into Dior. Watches him shiver and look down with an annoyed frown. Looks to Nimloth and finds her watching him curiously. Celegorm wants.
“Let’s go explore,” Nimloth says, standing up. “There must be something interesting in these halls.”
Dior stands as well before reaching down and yanking Celegorm to his feet. “I am capable of standing on my own you know,” he says, even as he lets the momentum drag him right into Dior’s space.
“Are you?” The light behind Dior’s eyes dances and he smirks as he says, “You lost your footing so easily right before I killed you. I wasn’t sure you could handle standing on your own.”
“You know,” Celegorm says, and he really can’t be blamed for the words that spill out of him, “if we still had bodies, I’m not sure if I’d try to kill you again for that comment or kiss you.”
Dior blinks at him, looking a bit thrown, and the light behind his eyes scatters. “Kissing is less damaging,” Nimloth says helpfully. She looks amused when he glances at her.
“Don’t worry,” he tells her, “whichever I pick, I’ll be sure to give you both the same treatment.”
She laughs at him and drapes herself over Dior’s back again to stare at him. “Perhaps I’ll just kill you as you kiss me.”
“That would be smart.” He hadn’t really expected this thought to be entertained, but Dior is still just staring at him. His hands are still wrapped around Celegorm’s wrists from where he’d pulled him to his feet, and he feels them tighten as the silence lengthens.
He isn’t sure if it’s the pressure or the feel of Dior’s fëa beginning to mingle with his again, that strange not-warmth that spreads out from the points where they’re touching, but he decides he has nothing to lose and finds himself silently drifting forward to press his mouth to the place Dior’s pulse should be as he’d thought of doing so much earlier. It is not as satisfying as it would be if it were warm skin and a beating heart beneath his mouth, but it is still satisfying in its own way. Dior shivers and his grip on Celegorm’s wrists grows nearly as tight as it had been earlier when he’d been trying to keep himself from being ripped away.
“Think of the scandal this would cause,” Nimloth says quietly, laughter clear in her voice. She shifts so that she can curl her hand around the back of Celegorm’s neck again.
There’s another moment of tense silence and then Dior snorts, dropping one of Celegorm’s wrists to thread his fingers tightly through Celegorm's hair. “Yes, I imagine fucking the person who killed you would cause quite a scandal.”
Celegorm hums quietly, feeling very content. Cannot remember the last time he'd felt truly content and lacking that itch beneath his skin always pushing him to make something bleed if it would only get him what he wanted. “I hope you remember later that you’re the one who brought up fucking. All I mentioned was a kiss.”
Dior tugs sharply at his hair which, sadly, does not hurt, only grabs his attention. "What I should do," Dior says, venom leaking into his voice again, "is gut you again when we get out of here for what you tried to do to my mother."
"You should," he says, though he would like to say that he wouldn't give Dior a chance to kill him again. That he'd gotten lucky the first time and it wouldn't happen again. But he doesn't particularly feel like embarrassing himself if that ends up not being true.
Dior makes a disgusted noise. "It's not satisfying when you don't fight back."
"I'm dead," he mutters. "Give me a few hours and I'll be angry again."
There's a long stretch of silence where Celegorm presses himself even closer, until his entire fëa is pleasantly warm, and then he just kind of, floats. Dior's hands gentle after a few minutes and Celegorm lets his mind go completely empty. Doesn't think about oaths or darkness or death or anger or duty or grief. He just exists in a bubble of warmth and soft light.
"I was serious about wanting to explore," Nimloth says after far too short a time, but there's a strange note to her voice this time that makes him pull back to look at her face. "If I stand here much longer with nothing to think about but worry for what happened to my children, I may decide to try my hand at killing what's already dead as well."
It's anger, he realizes with some surprise, the strange note in her voice. It's the first time she's truly sounded angry since they all arrived. He looks to Dior and finds he's closed his eyes, his face tight with pain. He has no apologies to give and no excuses to make, so he simply steps back. It is not that he had forgotten there were children in Doriath. But it's far more jarring to be reminded of it now that his thoughts aren't clouded with spite and anger.
The thing about being a monster, he had found, was that it was very easy to be one if you were very good at closing your eyes. The trouble, he had always known, would come when he opened them again and had to find a way to shed the wolf pelt he'd clad himself in. Had to find a way to wash away the blood he'd gleefully painted his face with. He had not, necessarily, wanted to be a monster. But oh, it had been so very easy to become a thing he’d grown up learning to hunt. What is easier than becoming a thing you already know the shape of? He knew the way a monster moved, the tracks it left in the dirt, the smell of it, the way it was all teeth, all bloodlust, all survival and loyalty to none but the few it deemed pack.
Being dead and weightless has not taken that knowledge from him. But it is harder to imagine wanting to put the wolf pelt back on now that he's taken it off. Harder to imagine ever putting it back on now that a sick knot of guilt has begun to form in his stomach as his mind replays the word over and over again — children. children. children. He does not want to think he was the type of monster who slaughtered children just as easily as everyone else. But in truth, Doriath is nothing but a red haze of bloodlust and the startling, crystal-clear memory of Dior matching him snarl for snarl. His fight with Dior he remembers vividly.
Nimloth nods decisively as he steps back, grabs Dior's hand, and begins moving toward a corridor that lies in the opposite direction of the one his brothers went down. Dior grabs Celegorm's hand as he goes and drags him along. Celegorm can think of about a hundred ways for this to all go horribly wrong and very few ways at all for it to go right. That doesn't stop him in the slightest from following.
(He never does end up regretting it.)
☀︎
End Notes:
I wrote this in two days and have stared it for so long I'm no longer sure if any of them are even slightly in character but damn if I didn't have fun with it regardless. Also, I know from Celegorm's POV it probably seems like Námo is being absolutely awful but in his weak defense, Dior is the first peredhel he's literally ever had to deal with and he really genuinely believes Dior should be taking the gift of men. But like he could have been less an ass about it.
Curufin watching Celegorm watch Dior & involve himself in that whole mess: I recognize that look on his face..... but surely not....
Also Curufin five minutes later to Caranthir: Dior, despite literally killing him, has somehow managed to seduce Celegorm. His wife is helping him.
Caranthir: yeah that tracks. We'll send atar after him later.
Originally posted on AO3
