Finellach by Agelast

Chapter 1

He had slipped away from the nurses quite easily, with hardly a murmur. They were calling his name now, "Finellach! Finellach! Where are you, you silly boy?" He was hardly that. He had evaded capture for more than an hour now, safely burrowed in the darkness under his father's cavernous desk. He curled up there and went to sleep.

The sound of leather boots against flagstone woke him later -- he didn't know how long, though the shadows in the room had lengthened across the floor. The boots strode across the room, this way and that, until suddenly they stopped in front of Finellach's hiding place.

He held his breath, desperate not to be caught. After a few, fraught moments, the boots turned away. Finellach gave a small sigh, and that proved his undoing, because a pair of strong arms reached into his hiding place and hauled him up and up, until he was staring at his father's face.

"Finellach!" his father said, with a fearsome, though patently put-upon scowl, "So there you are! Did you not know that you had driven the entire castle to distraction, looking for you? Your poor mother feared the worst! What could have possessed you to do such a thing?"

Finellach wrapped his small arms around his father's neck, burying his face in the dark fall of his father's hair. "I'm not going, Atto," he said, at last, his words muffled.

"Going where?"

"You know," Finellach said with a loud sniff. He pulled away so he could see his father's face. "You need me here. I've heard you say so."

"Oh --" His father placed a distracted kiss on the top of Finellach's head. "I need you indeed, my bravest, brightest warrior. But you know as your king, I must send you where you are most needed, don't you? And you are needed at the Havens, with your mother and Círdan."

"Stop it," Finellach whispered.

"Stop what?" His father peered closely at him, the tip of his nose almost touching

"Stop being the king and be my father instead!" As soon as he said, Finellach knew he oughtn't have, and even if he hadn't, his father's expression would have told him the same.

His father looked remote and sad, for a moment, before he put on his customary smile. "Ah, my son. If kingship was so easily put aside! You know not of what you speak, though my heart forewarns me that you will know too soon. Remember me with kindness, my dear."

But Finellach could not understand, and began to cry, gathering up hunks of his father's hair and pulling, and pulling until at last he let go of his own accord, too tired to cry anymore.

*

In many ways, living in Círdan's house was a joy, so different than the darkness of Barad Eithel. Light seemed to filter into every corner, and he knew his mother was glad to be among her own people again. Círdan was -- kind. He did not seek to replace Finellach's father in his heart, but rather sought to teach the young Elf all that he knew.

Finellach found that he had an affinity with the water -- gazing at it did not give rise to a terrible longing in his heart, but rather, such love and fascination that he had hardly experienced before. His favorite hobby, after the day's lessons were concluded, was to sit on a outcrop of rock and watch the waves roll onto the shore. When the tide was low, he would carve out little boats -- Círdan had showed him how -- and then set off out into the water. He fancied some other boy finding his little boat on the other shore, though he knew that wasn't likely.

The night had gathered quickly that day, and Finellach struck a flint and lit his little lamp. His stomach rumbled and he was about to turn home when he saw a runner coming towards him. The runner was a ragged Elf, on whose chest was emblazoned a sigil of the House of Fingolfin. He stumbled at the last moment, and cast himself against Finellach's feet.

"Forgive me, my prince, for I bring ill news to you and yours," panted he panted, and Finellach saw that he was greviously hurt.

"I will not hold your news against you," Finellach said gently. "What is your name?"

The runner blinked up at him, his face blank, as he had forgotten, in the terror of his flight. "I am Alagnir, my prince."

"And what is your news, Alagnir?"

"The king is dead," Alagnir said, "the battle -- Hithlum -- all is lost."

"I see," Finellach said, though he could not, quite. His vision seemed to flicker dim, for a moment. "So I am king?"

"Not so, my prince. Not yet. Your uncle, Turgon, still lives and the title goes to him. He and his followers came to us all unlooked for during the battle, and for some time our hope was high that we would still prevail. But -- it was not meant to be. We could not hold against our pitiless enemies nor the treachery of some of our -- allies."

Alagnir spat on the ground. "The Union of Maedhros indeed! May he suffer for he has done!"

"You must--" Finellach stopped, for he knew his voice shook. Alagnir looked at him, his eyes wide. "You must go at once to my mother's house, and there eat and bathe. I am sure we will want to know everything you know. But for tonight -- you must rest and find treatment for what wounds you have."

He helped Alagnir up, and showed him the way to the house, and called for servants to attend to him. Alagnir turned to look at him as he was led away. "My prince, will you not come?"

"I will come," Finellach said. "In a little while."

He waited until the little party had disappeared from view and turned back to his collection of boats. How pathetic and childish they looked to him now! He squatted down and uncapped his lamp, and watched the flame leap bright against the growing gloom of evening.
One by one, he set the little boats aflame, on the water. They bobbed up and down, briefly, before they sank. As the last of them disappeared from view, Finellach thought, I am not my father's son. I will not die as he has done, hopeless and betrayed.

I will live, and and live and live. But I will be Finellach no more.

After all, he thought, he already had other names.