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ELVENKING’S HALLS, THIRD AGE.
Thranduil stands on the balcony of his bedchambers and looks out into the distance, deep in thought. Without intention, the fingers of his left hand trail to his chest, on the necklace resting there.
Finrod’s gift to him, all those years turned to decades turned to centuries turned to millennia ago.
The pendant is the leaf-green of Eryn Galen at its greenest, brightest and loveliest, before the spiders and the dread and the darkening—and again Thranduil wonders, did Finrod know what the future held for him?
Thranduil finds that he misses the noldo as much as he always has. Still. He wonders if the ache of longing will ever soften.
**
MENEGROTH, FIRST AGE.
The look in Finrod’s eyes instantly rouses Thranduil’s curiosity. He has never seen the noldo quite so… nervous, is it? It is a peculiar emotion to see on the golden noldo’s face but it must be what it is. Yes, that must be it.
Finrod slides down to sit on the bench beside Thranduil. They are at one of the skylight gardens in Menegroth, the space illuminated by cerulean light coming down from the opening above them. It makes Finrod’s eyes—lined with emerald, dusted with gold—even more magnetic than usually, even in spite of their uncertainty just now.
”Hello, Finrod,” Thranduil says, smiles, encourages.
”I have something for you,” Finrod says softly.
Oh?
Thranduil stares as Finrod reaches inside the layers (and layers and layers) of his clothes and pulls out something.
Is is… a necklace? A simple—yet beautiful beyond words—tear-drop shaped pendant in shades of green, hanging from a black leather cord. It renders Thranduil speechless, quite frankly. He holds out his hand, awed, and as Finrod drops the gift on his palm, he desperately tries to find words, in order not to seem rude.
”Finrod, oh, this is—”
Finrod smiles, now more of his usual jaunty self, and places his index finger on Thranduil’s mouth. Their eyes meet, and Thranduil cannot help smiling, too.
”You will have to find another way of thanking me, in place of unfinished sentences, which I do not accept,” Finrod says, and drops his finger; Thranduil feels a dull pang of loss for it. At the same time, he chuckles at Finrod’s words.
”Do not worry. I will.”
Finrod’s gaze moves elsewhere, somewhere along Thranduil’s hands, and Thranduil’s mind immediately wanders to what kind of gift he will make for Finrod, in return. It is easy to come to the decision that it will be a pendant, too. Something to reflect the colours Thranduil sees in the noldo.
**
ELDAMAR, FOURTH AGE.
Finrod sits on the beach, somewhere south of Alqualondë, and watches Arien’s chariot descend beneath the horizon. Even after centuries, a sunset in Valinor feels strange—an anachronism, almost. Such is the way with many things, these days, he thinks.
In the Fourth Age, time crawls and runs for its life, at the same time.
And Finrod sits still, and thinks.
He thinks of his death. It is a strange thing to go through in your own head. He envies the men for it—for not having to. The horror of succumbing into the darkness is a memory no one should have to bear, Finrod feels.
He thinks of his family, the way they have now been brought together, yet still apart. He does not recall if the smiles of his father were always this restrained, in this Blessed Realm, or if he brought it upon himself with going to Beleriand, if all is not forgiven, even when Finarfin claims so.
He thinks of his lovers, the way he has always been able to get anyone he wants, for a moment, the way they always leave him. (Or does he leave them, before the eventual fallout?)
Above all, he thinks of Amarië, of Thranduil, of Edrahil.
He thinks of the way he wants to be above loneliness, or regret, or yearning, but he is not.
He thinks of the way he used to fill the void inside of him with the bustling of the courts, in Tirion and later in Menegroth and in Nargothrond, but now, now, he no longer has the luxury of loud and distracting and instead, he is here, alone, alone, alone, stuck feeling it all.
As he idly fiddles with the teardrop-shaped necklace resting on his breast, he wonders if he is going to see Thranduil again.
**
NARGOTHROND, FIRST AGE.
It is a letter in the midst of many, at first, to Finrod. He does find the surprising weight of it curious, but that is about it, up until the moment he pulls out the letter and in a flash of green and gold, something falls on his desk.
A pendant.
Then, he recognizes the handwriting.
Dear Finrod,
Firstly, I feel I must apologize. I did intent to return your gesture and your lovely gift—that I hold in my heart in more worth than you could ever imagine, and always will—during your stay in Menegroth.
But your departure did catch me a little by surprise. I will not deny it, or refrain from saying it. I will also admit it did sting me a little—and thus, needed time before my first letter to you. But I do understand—you have more pressing matters at hand, than me, a son of a Lord from Doriath, a mere grey-elf.
Regardless, please accept this pendant. It is a lot alike in what you gifted me those decades ago, but a version which I find to be reflecting of your soul, Finrod, or at least, the way I have come to know it—but also, a reflection of everything I feel for you.
I hope you will cherish it as I cherish mine.
Yours, Thranduil
Finrod observes the pendant more closely, now. It is a stunning swirl of colour—teal and gold and aquamarine and lilac.
He presses the pendant to his chest and wishes Thranduil was there with him, instead of just the letter, and the gift.
(Maybe he never should have left.)
**
ALQUALONDË, FOURTH AGE.
The elf that has arrived and caused a commotion with the fashion of doing so—on a raft, with a dwarf, no less—need not introduce himself for Finrod to know who he is. Maybe it is the sandy blonde shade of his hair, maybe it is the colour of his congenial eyes, maybe it is the courteous curve of his mouth.
Before he can say a word, Finrod cuts him to it. ”Well met, Thranduilion.”
”I—ah, greetings, um…?”
”Finrod Felagund.”
The elf’s eyes lighten up. Finrod idly wonders if he has just read about him or if Thranduil has ever mentioned him. ”Oh. It is my pleasure to meet you. My name is Legolas.”
Finrod suppresses a chuckle at that. Greenleaf, of course. He would not have expected any less of his once-lover. Then, Legolas’s—now, Finrod wonders how long it will take for him to shift to Laicolassë, or if he is as stubborn as some—eyes shift to the ruddy dwarf beside him.
”This is Gimli the Elf-friend, son of Gloin, Lord of the Glittering Caves,” he is introduced.
”A pleasure to meet you, Felakgundu,” Gimli says and holds out his hand. Finrod takes it, shakes it, with utmost curiosity, and decides he must get to know this one.
”Likewise, Gimli, son of Gloin. I would love to hear stories of these Caves of yours. Over a pint, perhaps. But now, if you will excuse me, I must ask your companion—how fares his father?”
A series of undoubtedly conflicting emotions cross over Legolas’s comely features. Ah. Of course. Thranduil is a complicated person; of course, he would be a complicated father, too.
”Well, the last time I saw him”, is Legolas’s vague answer, which Finrod settles for, in name of cordiality. Maybe he should invite the prince—that is what he is, is he not?—for a pint, too, to pry a more detail answer out of him.
”I am glad to hear it,” he says. Means it, mostly, although he does wish Thranduil would be here, with his son.
(With Finrod.)
**
EDGES OF THE FOREST OF REGION, FIRST AGE.
Thranduil has agreed to join his father in welcoming the noldor kindred of the King to the realm of Doriath out of pure curiosity, this he will admit. It feels like a pastime to bring variety to the life in court, to wander out of the cavern-city for once.
He has never before met any of the noldor, either.
And, sure enough, the host is a sight to behold—a golden, shining spectacle on tall, beautiful steeds.
While most others of their company seem to have eyes only for the lovely Lady Artanis, hair like waterfalls of molten gold and eyes like songbirds, Thranduil finds himself transfixed on the brother, on the prince.
Finrod, he finds out later. The most fitting name, he thinks.
When the golden prince guides his steed to ride beside Thranduil, eyes twinkling with interest and curiosity, he does not even attempt to assuage the butterflies roiling in his belly.