Fic: fingertips smudged in blue ink

[ingenious_spark]

Title: fingertips smudged in blue ink
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Relationships: Caranthir/Finrod
Characters: Caranthir, Finrod
Word Count: 366
Summary: After everything, Carnistir and Findaráto make a life together.

(fingertips smudged in blue ink)

Carnistir sighs softly when he finds Findaráto asleep at his desk, face pillowed on his arms.

“And they say I’m the workaholic,” he murmurs softly, moving to wake the other. There’s no need to rush anymore, but he supposes that Findaráto’s extensive time spent with humans in Endórë instilled him with a greater need for haste than most others. They’re in Valinor once more,and time is, as it has always been, meaningless here.

He stares at Findaráto’s sleeping form, taking in the way his sleeves are pushed back, bearing the silvery memory-scars of how he’d died there, in a pit fighting a werewolf with no other weapon than his body. It always baffles him why the son of Arafinwë has even chosen to give him the time of day, much less taken him into his seaside home, in this isolated, lovely lighthouse and farm.

In his youth he hated all of Arafinwë’s children, largely from the misguided hope that his father would approve. Now he sits under cherry trees at dusk with Findaráto, eating the fruits of their combined labors.

It’s poetic, somehow, but Carnistir’s gifts have never been with words, but with numbers. He can calculate Findaráto’s being down to the intricate fractals of his nerves, but it’s not usually something people like to hear. He sighs softly, touching the back of a thin hand, fingers smudged with sapphire colored ink.

“If you sleep like that you’ll get a crick in your neck, Ingoldo.” Carnistir says softly. Findaráto wakes quickly, leaning back and stretching, as Carnistir steps back.

“I’m sorry, goodness, what time is it,” he asks, blinking sleep from his eyes. Carnistir smiles faintly.

“I’ve supper ready, unless you’d prefer to eat your papers and ink,” he teases gently. Findaráto rolls his eyes, and then surveys his ink-smudged hands in dismay.

“I might be eating ink either way,” he jokes warmly. Carnistir’s smile widens.

“Well, go get washed up, then.” He urges gently. “Supper will still be there in two minutes.”

“Unless your enormous cat decides to eat it for us!” Findaráto laughs, kissing the corner of Carnistir’s mouth and heading off to the washroom. Carnistir only smiles.