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Turgon knelt down before him at once, and Maglor slid back out of the way. Maedhros, coming through the door and seeing the pile of bloody towels and Maglor’s ruined shirt, let out a wordless exclamation of horror.

“It looks worse than it is,” Maglor said quickly, grabbing his arm. “I think. Let’s give them space okay?”

“If someone doesn’t tell me what happened right now -”

Turgon ignored everything going on around him as Maglor recounted the story in a low voice to Maedhros and Fingon, who’d come in behind Maedhros and had laid a steadying hand on the small of his back. Caranthir was still prowling restlessly around the living room.

“You’re probably shaking because you’re in shock,” said Turgon quietly to Curufin. “It’ll pass; it’s just your body dealing with – ”

“Spare me the medical lecture, I know what shock is,” said Curufin nastily. “Just do whatever you need to do to convince my brothers I’m not going to drop dead.”

Turgon ignored the tone and set to work cleaning the wound as Curufin dug his nails into his palms and tried not to flinch.

In the living room, Maedhros was still trying to absorb what Maglor had told him.

“Wait, Tyelko did this?” Fingon was staring at Maglor. “Why?”

“It was an accident,” Maglor said, for at least the fourth time. “He was…he was scary, Nelyo, he was so angry…”

“What on earth could have made him that angry?” asked Fingon, not taking his hand from Maedhros’ back.

“I think,” said Maglor quietly, still looking at Maedhros. “I think it had something to do with Oromë.”

* * *

Celegorm was sitting on the edge of his bed, Huan curled around his feet. His hands rested loosely on his knees, open and empty. He stared down at them sightlessly. He hadn’t moved in almost an hour, his mind gone white and staticky with shock. Every time he started to sweep the fog back and reflect on what had happened, his subconscious flinched away, the pain overwhelming him.

Curvo Curvo Curvo

Little brother – this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.

I’m supposed to take care of you; you are never supposed to get hurt. That’s what I’m here to prevent.

He let the static sweep back.; he never wanted to think again.

The door creaked open.

Turgon had tracked Curufin’s eye movements with a small flashlight, something Curufin had endured with poor grace, and said dubiously that he didn’t think there were any signs of concussion. His cut had been skillfully taped together with butterfly bandages by Turgon, with instructions to ice the swollen areas around the cut itself, but a bruise was already starting to blossom on his cheekbone. It stood out lividly against his pale skin, and his eye was slightly swollen and starting to close.

Celegorm looked up at him, and let out a choked sound of pure misery. Tears began to leak from his eyes.

Curufin crossed the room swiftly and sat on the bed next to him. “I’m fine,” he said. “I really am. It looks worse than it is.”

“Curvo.”

“Turukáno says it’s not deep, and stitches aren’t necessary.” This wasn’t entirely true – Turgon had highly recommended going to someone who could stitch him up, but Curufin had flat-out refused. Turgon had made do with the bandages and a lot of Betadine. Curufin was being careful to avoid mirrors, but wasn’t letting himself worry about what he must look like.

“It was just an accident, I know you didn’t mean it. I’m totally okay.”

Celegorm shook his head frantically.

“I really am.” And, because he knew it was what was needed, Curufin opened his arms and pulled Celegorm against him, until his brother shivered out of rigidity and slumped into his arms.

Celegorm’s hands clutched at Curufin’s back so tightly Curufin winced, and he buried his face in Curufin’s shoulder, his back shaking with sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, into Curufin’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” said Curufin, over and over, running a hand over his hair, and the back of his neck, trying to put all the soothing tones Celegorm had ever used on him into his voice. “It’s okay, Tyelko, it’s going to be okay.”

But Celegorm held onto him, shaking with remorse and grief, and Curufin couldn’t think of a single other thing to say or do.

Chapter End Notes

2. So! I tend to update every Thursday, yeah? So far this seems to have been working for me pretty well, which continues to surprise me. I have the next two chapters after this written or drafted too, so expect at least two more weeks of regular updates. But I'd feel remiss if I didn't warn that eventually I will be unable to update with the same regularity. Don't worry, I have PLENTY of plot, this story ain't gonna be abandoned, but I have other projects to work on and some things in this story are going to prove fidgety to write, so...my pace might slow. I'll try and warn in advance if the weekly updates are going to slack off. But the good news is that there is no end in sight for DWMP. I have more ideas than I know what to do with, frankly...

Just a taste of your skin starts the healing

Chapter Summary

Let’s invade a bunch of couples’ personal space, shall we?

Because why NOT set up a bunch of scenes where everyone’s in bed? I’m a real writer, I swear.

Chapter Notes

0. There is a good deal of bed-talk in this chapter – nothing massively explicit, but sexual content heavily implied and a fair amount of physical intimacy (make-outs and the like, with at least one scene that’s pretty much everything but explicit sex). Also brief mention of how a person with sexual trauma in their past deals with sexual intimacy, but nothing of the trauma in question is detailed.

1. There is also some pot smoking.

2. …I swear this is a chapter with content and not only sex and drugs. I just had fun framing a bunch of character interactions with 1) nudity and 2) doobies.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Someone was shaking her lightly. “Artanis!”

Galadriel rolled away from the touch, burying herself under the blankets. Someone fumbled after her, and a familiar voice called her name again, and finally, fingers gingerly pinched her nose.

She sat bolt upright, gasping. “What – ”

Celeborn was sitting up next to her, watching her with soft, serious eyes. “You were grinding your teeth again,” he said apologetically. “And…flailing, a bit.”

“Oh.” Galadriel raised her hand to her jaw, which did indeed feel tight and a little achy. It must have been a bad night for it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been sleeping badly for days,” said Celeborn gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said, and lay down again. But she rested her head against his chest and felt him lift a hand to run it over her hair.

She lay awake as she listened to his breaths slow and deepen; heard the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath her ear. She waited to be lulled back into sleep by its familiar beat, but sleep was proving, as Aredhel had once put it to her, an elusive son of a bitch. Finally, she pulled herself carefully free of Celeborn, who sighed and turned over in his sleep. She brushed his hair, silvery fine in the moonlight, out of his eyes, and bent down to kiss him on the temple. Then she straightened up and went out into the hall.

In her overlarge nightshirt (stolen from Finarfin, and reading, My wife went to med school and all I got was this t-shirt and financial security), she drifted aimlessly around the apartment like a tall, pale ghost, her bare feet falling in what she thought of as her insomnia superhighway. She could have walked the path with her eyes closed. Around the outside of the living room, letting her hand pass over the backs of the armchairs – twenty five steps; around the kitchen, wincing slightly as she felt the crumbs under her bare feet – twelve steps. Whose turn is it to sweep? We haven’t shifted the chore chart in weeks… Around the living room again, on the inside this time, stepping over the pile of Finrod’s books and around the sawhorses Aegnor had set up to wax his skis – fifteen steps. On her third circuit, she couldn’t help but glance towards Finrod’s room – the door hung open, and the room beyond was quite obviously empty. She told herself she didn’t care where he was – though she suspected she knew – and went back to her bedroom, her jaw already set, a headache building in her temples.

Why do you bother worrying over him?

As she laid her hand on the doorknob, the door across the hall creaked open, and Aegnor looked out, his hair standing straight up all over his head, his eyes sleepy.

“Oh, it’s you.” Aegnor stifled a yawn and scrubbed up his hair even further. “I thought maybe…”

“He’s not home.”

“Yeah.” Aegnor eyed the door to their older brother’s room, and sighed. “What else is new. You have the anti-sleeps again?”

Galadriel’s lips twitched at the name that Eärwen had coined for the insomnia that had plagued her oldest son and only daughter all their lives. “I suppose so.”

Aegnor gestured towards her room. “Your boy in there?”

“Yes.” Galadriel pulled her nightshirt back over her shoulder, where it was slipping down. “It’s good he’s an easy sleeper, or all my thrashing would make him sleep as badly as I do.”

Aegnor looked thoughtful, and like he was struggling with something. “Y’know what I would suggest? If you weren’t my baby sister?”

“What’s that?”

Aegnor smiled crookedly. “I’d suggest waking your boy up and going to town on each other.”

“Aiko.”

“Yeah, pretend I didn’t say it. Even though it would probably help. And if you do take the advice I definitely didn’t offer, please god keep it down so I can’t hear.” He turned and went back into his room, saying over his shoulder, “More effective than a warm glass of milk and counting your steps, I bet.”

Galadriel stood thoughtfully in the hallway, hand still on the doorknob. Then she pushed it open, and stepped into the dark room. “Telepë,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Hmnh. ‘m now. D’you wanna talk aft’rall?”

“No.” Galadriel slid onto the bed, her knees pressing down the blankets on either side of his waist. “But I’d be interested in some active not talking with you.”

* * *

“Ahh.” Aredhel settled her chin down contentedly, and Elenwë laughed and pulled her hair.

“You’re poking me, you sharp-chinned harpy.”

“Shh,” murmured Aredhel, her eyes closing as she laid her head on Elenwë’s thigh. “You like when I poke you.”

“Not like that.” Elenwë tugged her hair again, but stopped as Aredhel opened her eyes and lifted her head.

Aredhel was settled between Elenwë’s bare legs, the two of them sprawled content and happy in the nest of blankets strewn over Elenwë’s bed. Aredhel wrapped her arms under Elenwë’s hips and tugged her down, like she was arranging a pillow into a more comfortable position. She pressed an affectionate kiss to Elenwë’s soft belly, nuzzling against the light blonde hair running down from her belly button. Then she turned her attention to the curves over Elenwë’s hips, paying particular attention to the sweet white lines that striped Elenwë’s golden-brown skin. Aredhel ran her tongue along the stretch marks, tracing the lines like they were some sort of secret alphabet and making small happy noises as she did so, and Elenwë once again lost the battle with laughter.

“Ireth, you’re tickling, I told you – ”

“’s not my fault,” said Aredhel, her voice muffled as she nuzzled against Elenwë’s warm flesh. “’s totally your fault for being all…edible.”

“Edible? I – ow!” Elenwë gave an exclamation as Aredhel nipped at her, and reflexively clamped her legs tight against Aredhel’s shoulders.

“Oof.” Aredhel tried to wriggle free, and failed. “Ah. Help.”

“Don’t mess with dancers,” said Elenwë warningly. “For we have legs like steel traps and I will snap you in half.”

“Please don’t,” said Aredhel pathetically. “I need both my halves. You need both my halves.”

“I could just take the half without a pokey chin and sharp teeth and a big mouth.”

“You like my big mouth.” Aredhel waggled her eyebrows and discretely tried to pull free again, but Elenwë crossed her ankles at Aredhel’s shoulder blades and refused to budge. “Oomph. I just spent two hours demonstrating all the reasons you like my big mouth…”

Elenwë yawned deliberately, and dug her heels into Aredhel’s back. “What have we established about tickling?”

“It’s cute? And it makes you laugh in this really appealing way like you’re going to die?”

“Sadist. It’s torture, and it will earn you a kick in the face.”

Aredhel was about to make a clever and obnoxious rejoinder, when she remembered all the less spoken, more serious rules that Elenwë followed without question or hesitation –

(There are times when I won’t take my clothes off to make love, please don’t make me, please don’t ask;

there will be times I do not want anything in me, however gentle or loving, not there;

while I will do anything to you, ever, happily, sometimes I need you to not touch me, at all, no, not even like that;

I need to be able to see everything, always, I cannot make love in darkness, you cannot cover my eyes…

And more, so many more, and the rules changed all the time, and Elenwë was always patient, and never troubled by them, and Aredhel loved her so much it felt like a fist, clenched tight beneath her ribs…)

– and she closed her mouth.

Elenwë was watching her, her brown eyes curious, and still lit with laughter and a hint of warning – she was serious about the tickling – and Aredhel kissed her belly repentantly.

“Okay, no tickling. I promise.”

Elenwë smiled and unwrapped her legs so that Aredhel could pull herself up to drape over Elenwë’s body. “That’s better.”

They kissed softly in the dim light of the scarf-draped lamp by the bed, only breaking apart when Aredhel’s phone rang. She groaned reluctantly against Elenwë’s lips, but pulled away.

Elenwë made a quiet noise of complaint. “Can’t it wait?”

“I’m on Arko watch this weekend,” said Aredhel, pushing herself up and sliding half off Elenwë to stretch out for her phone. “I’m on call for any potential bail-outs or trips to the ER…his frat brothers have me on speed-dial.”

Elenwë shook her head. “You three enable him.”

“We three keep the little mofo alive. Anyway,” Aredhel finally managed to grab her phone and drag it to her ear. “Hello?”

Elenwë curled onto her side to watch as Aredhel frowned and sat up, pulling free of Elenwë. “…Finno? What’s up? Uh, no…I haven’t talked to him in a couple days. He hasn’t even been answering my texts, not that that’s anything new. Though usually it’s a matter of hours, not days. Wait, are you saying something’s up with him? What? No. No. He did wh – he threw – did anyone – Oh, fuck. FUCK.”

Aredhel was sitting on the side of the bed now, hunched over and intent, her hair slipping, tangled and wild, over her shoulders, the little braids Elenwë had put in it earlier slowly unwinding.

“He’s going to fucking kill himself over this. He’s going to be a fucking mess. Have you seen him? Is this to do with – Hang on, do you know about the whole – Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. I gotta...”