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They walked slowly through the illuminated halls of Nargothrond, their steps echoing from the cavern walls. Slow steps, always slow these days, but steady. Finrod kept his hand on Bëor's arm, but Bëor didn't need to lean on him. Even at his old age, his back was still strong, his posture straight and proud; but his joints ached so badly on some days that he could barely get out of bed. Today was not one of those days, and they made it to their favourite place – a small cave in the depth of the fortress, through which a little underground river rushed – without even stopping once. They used to sit on the moss by the water, but in later years Finrod had had a small bench built there, cushioned and comfortable.
Bëor sat down with a smile on his face, his eyes bright in the light of the cavern, but with far too many wrinkles around them. They wouldn't have bothered Finrod if they hadn't been a constant reminder of Bëor's mortality. He sat down and curled up against Bëor's shoulder, relieved to feel still such strength in Bëor's arm as it wrapped around his smaller body.
Over forty years since Bëor had left his family and his people to stay with Finrod, forty good years, full of love and tenderness, forty years spent almost constantly together. Such a short time in the countless centuries of Finrod's life, but so long for a man who had been in his forties already when Finrod had met him, who had said even back then that few of his people ever reached his age, that sickness and injury took most men before that.
Finrod kissed Bëor's beard – completely white these days, with not a hint of brown in it – then sighed happily.
“You're strong today,” he said, kissed him again. As if to reply Bëor's arm tightened a little around him – a reminder of the man who had lifted Finrod up as if he weighed nothing, held him up while Finrod protested half-heartedly and laughed. Even with the white hair and beard, and the countless wrinkles around his eyes, Bëor was still beautiful in Finrod's eyes, and not only because he still looked at Finrod with so much love and adoration that it could have warmed the elf on the coldest night.
“Maybe you're getting better,” Finrod added. Bëor's hand, the one that had been caressing Finrod's hair, stilled. He frowned.
“I'm not sick, my prince.” His fingers, still strong, although they had lost some of their old nimbleness, cupped Finrod's chin. “I'm old. There are good days, and there are bad days, but at the end of both I will still be old. There is no getting better from that.”
Finrod flinched and looked down. He felt a lump in his chest, a sick feeling as a dark voice in his head kept repeating over and over again that they didn't have much time left. He shook his head.
“Surely you still have many more years. Your people always died awfully young in the wilderness, you don't even know how many years you can live if you're safe.”
“True.” Bëor's hands were gentle as they resumed caressing Finrod's face, stroking his hair reverently. His hands were always so gentle. Finrod couldn't imagine a world without their touch. “But I am old. I feel it in my bones, in my heart. There will be a morning when I won't wake up.”
“How can you be so calm about that?” Finrod heard his voice quiver. He moved closer to Bëor, let those strong arms envelop him. It felt safe, as if his happiness was not about to be snatched away from him – whether it was in one year or in ten, it would be too soon, far too soon.
“It's the way of the world. Everything is born, and everything dies. Your people are the exception, my prince, not the rule.” Bëor kissed Finrod's forehead. “Death doesn't frighten me. I only wish it would not bring you such grief. I wish you could keep all the happiness of our years together without ever feeling the pain of loss.”
“My kind, we only love once,” Finrod said quietly, not for the first time. “There will be no more joy for me once you're gone.”
He took Bëor's hand and put it on his heart, made himself look up again into those loving eyes. He shuddered when he imagined them broken and dead and empty.
“You will never be forgotten. You won't just disappear like others of your kind, but you will live in my heart until the world is broken and remade.” He smiled sadly. “And I have to believe that we will meet again when that day comes.”
“And I will wait for you, wherever my soul goes after death. It's tied to yours, my prince. Surely we are not meant to be apart forever”
Not for the first time Finrod wondered what cruel twist of fate had made him love a mortal, when such a thing should have been impossible. Elves were meant to spend all eternity with their love, not to lose them after half a century and dwell forever in loneliness. He wondered if this was part of his people's curse, that their love would be lost and ruined like everything else they found in Middle-earth.
Warm lips covered his face with kisses, the familiar scratch of Bëor's beard tickled his skin, and Bëor's fingers ran through his hair, half undoing the braids he himself had braided just an hour before. He was warm, and alive, and full of a love that still took Finrod's breath away after all those years.
“Today is a good day, my prince,” Bëor whispered into Finrod's ear, his voice as deep as ever, a low rumble that vibrated through Finrod's body. “Let us not speak of death and grief. I would make you smile for as long as I can.”
Bëor kissed him then, not a chaste, sweet kiss like before, but one of passion and want. His vigour had somewhat lessened over the years – one of the many things Finrod had to learn about humans and old age – but there was still desire in him; he still kissed as if he could never get enough of Finrod's lips, still touched him as if he could barely believe he was allowed to.
Forty years together, and their bodies moved like one, finding effortlessly into each other, even as Finrod had learnt over the years that he had to be considerate of the ailments of old age. And although on some days Finrod missed the passionate younger man who had easily lifted him against walls and taken him right there, he did not enjoy this any less. It was light and life and warmth, and Finrod did not know how he had ever lived without it, or how he would ever live without it again.
He curled up on Bëor's lap afterwards, their arms wrapped around each other, Bëor's face buried in Finrod's dishevelled hair. The little brook still gurgled nearby, quiet and steady. Almost like a vision Finrod could see himself sitting there by the water, alone and crying into the stream. He bit his lip and forced the thought from his mind, buried his face against Bëor's neck until he could feel his strong pulse under his lips.
“Your hair is a mess,” Bëor mumbled gently after a while.
“That's your fault,” Finrod said, his attempt at a pout quickly turning into a smile. “You'll have to braid it again.”
“Oh, with pleasure, my prince. I live to serve you.” Bëor laughed, his fingers idly playing with a strand of Finrod's hair. Finrod let him braid it every morning, although truth be told Bëor spend at least as much time playing with Finrod's hair as actually braiding it. Bëor untangled the strands carefully, smoothed his hair out where his own hands had grabbed it too tightly before. Finrod sighed and relaxed against him.
Bëor was right. This was a good day.
It was the kind of day he would remember forever.