Findis: On a Rock, Praying by Himring

A Season on Taniquetil

Fingon has settled back into life in Tirion for some time, learning to live without Maedhros. Now duty to a relative summons him into Vanyarin territory.

Set in Valinor after Fingon's re-embodiment, after the events of my story "The House that Fingon Built".

Read A Season on Taniquetil

 

It was said that, if you started the climb in brand-new boots, however sturdy their soles, they would be worn through by the time you reached the top of Taniquetil. How often the truth of this had been tested, Fingon did not know. If the Valar did want you up there, they possessed devices as effective as any Feanorian contraption to achieve that end, for all that some parts were invisible.

But he was not attempting that climb today. He was merely scaling the lower slopes in order to reach the plateau where Findis lived the life of a hermit.

Many Vanyar believed that, through the ascetic life that Findis led, she was attempting to expiate the sins of all her family. Fingon doubted this—it had always been as impossible to keep Findis from meditating as Maglor from singing or Feanor from the forge. Nor did he feel especially pious as he took his turn, sweeping the hut, preparing the occasional meal and milking the goat. He had never really questioned his aunt’s holiness, but sometimes he was less sure what exactly that intense contemplation of hers had to do with the Valar or Eru—or with anything else.

Findis spent whole days and nights in rapture, perched unmoving on a rock, or on her knees in prayer. But when she awoke, she was quite willing to converse civilly with Fingon—she did not even prove impractical, as long as matters did not require her attention just when she was listening for something else only she could hear.

It was calm up there on the mountain, alone with the sun and the wind and the snow. The only occasional excitement was provided by the goat—who was just a goat and, like any goat, respected neither mystic nor prince.

When he left, Findis said: ‘Next time you come, bring that cousin of yours.’

‘Cousin?’ he asked.

Findis clicked her tongue impatiently. Minor details like names often escaped her.

‘The redhead—the one you love.’

He was taken completely by surprise. Long-unaccustomed tears rushed to his eyes.

‘I can’t. He hasn’t returned from Mandos.’

‘Pish’, said Findis indignantly, promising: ‘I’ll pray for him—and you.’

‘Will it help, praying?’

It was that important; he would never have been rude enough to ask, otherwise.

‘I have no idea’, answered Findis, with devastating honesty. ‘But it feels as if it ought to.’

---

Chapter End Notes

I thought I had already posted this one here, but when I tried to cross-refer to it, I could not find it. So I decided to post both pieces featuring Findis together.

Written for the International Day of Fanworks Challenge at the Library of Moria

The prompts (for which thanks to Tallulah) were: shoes, mountain, contraption

The Hermit

A piece from Findis's own piece of view.

Also featuring Findis's thoughts on Finarfin as King of the Noldor.

Inspired by Loreena McKennitt's song "Skellig", a B2MeM prompt by Huinare. Also for LLA 2016 (see End Notes)

Quenya names used: Arafinwe, Finwe-Arafinwe: Finarfin; Feanaro: Feanor

Read The Hermit

 

Findis had finished her hunk of bread. She picked up her dish, carried it a short distance from the hut and upended it in the usual spot, spilling the crumbs on the ground. Then she sat down, a couple of steps away, and waited. After a few minutes, her acquaintance, the field mouse, emerged from behind a tussock of grass and began to investigate. She watched the quivering nose as it found the crumbs and began to feed.

Sometimes, it crossed her mind that the moral underpinnings of her habit of feeding her leftovers to the mice were, perhaps, not quite sound. Was she showing an unfair preference and favouritism towards the small, furry and cute? But she let the thought slide away again. She had learned long ago not to attempt to answer every question.

Her brother Arafinwe had been to visit her, recently, and he had tried, again, to persuade her to abandon her lonely vigil. He meant, well, Finwe-Arafinwe. He thought she was being saintly, sacrificing herself by her retreat up here on Taniquetil. She thought he was being saintly by staying down there--returning to Tirion and trying to deal with the mess, taking up the title of king of the Noldor. Even with the support he did have, she was sure that there must be days when he longed to slip away, down the Calacirya to some lonely fishing village, buy a boat and sail away down the coast...

He had forgotten, Arafinwe had, she thought, how well she had proved to everyone that she was not at all of a saintly temper, not when stuck in the palace of Tirion, having to deal with all comers, relatives or not, on a daily basis--and no corner secluded enough to hide her head in, sit undisturbed. She had as vile a temper as any of her siblings. Well, not quite, perhaps--she had done a great deal less of shouting, at any rate, made much less noise about it. But there had been incidents she deeply regretted, afterwards. Sometimes love and good intentions were just not enough...

She had been praying for courage to face the day, every day.

In this at least, she had understood Feanaro. They were polar opposites; it had given her a headache sometimes, just to look at him. But she had understood that his need to be constantly on the move, through space, in his mind, was as profound as hers to be still.

Oh brother mine, where have those restless feet of yours taken you...

Arafinwe, youngest and calmest of her siblings, had stayed with her a few days. He had mended the hole in the roof where some of the thatching had blown away in the last gale. He had found peace on the mountain with her. Some of her visitors did. Some visitors made the mistake of thinking that that peace was hers, hers to give or withhold. She had watched Arafinwe walk away, visibly less burdened than he had come, his shoulders straighter, his step more assured. She had been glad. But he was wrong to think that she could take her peace and bring it down the mountain with her, to Tirion. Like a favourite aunt sharing out candy in brightly coloured wrappers...

She still prayed for courage every day.

Those also serve who only sit and pray. At any rate, she hoped so. It was the best she could do for them, really, the kindest, to be still, to be here when they chose to make the climb, come all the way up here. And sometimes they found peace up here. And sometimes she heaved a great sigh of relief when they went away again.

There was a bit of vanity involved, of course. Wasn't there always? It tickled her vanity, sometimes, to be thought saintly, just as no doubt Finwe-Arafinwe was sometimes tickled pink at the idea of wearing the crown.Vanity could be useful, sometimes, helping to smooth over the rough bits, the pain. But if it ever ceased to be a bit of a joke, if she ever started taking herself seriously as a saint, that would be the time to leave.

The mouse had long ago finished the crumbs. Time to move, to move on. She got up, a little stiffly.

In the single large oak chest in her hut sat the old Vanyarin prayer book her mother had given to her as a child, beside the hour glass. She had not used either of them in a long time. She knew all the contents of the book by heart.

She walked past the hut and clambered up onto her favourite rock. She saw that a storm was beginning to roll in from the sea, black clouds spilling across the high tops of the Pelori. It would take quite some time before it reached the slopes of Taniquetil.

Now who was it who she had meant to pray for today, specifically? Some of the names came and went, but the faces stayed with her. This one, in times past, she had seen startled by joy and too quickly made guilty, stubbornly clinging to abnegation.

Do not be so quick to give up the wrong things, my dear...

She was still praying and meditating, when the outliers of the storm reached her. The first gusts tugged at her hair and her clothing. She did not notice.

---

Chapter End Notes

Begun as a possible sequence for this year's B2MeM; this part finished for Legendarium Ladies April

B2MeM challenge: B2MeM 2016: Memories. B2MeM 2015: Song prompt - "Skellig", by huinare: I could see this Loreena McKennit song applying to many characters in the Legendarium. Is this character contented with their simple life of religious/spiritual seclusion? Or lonely? What has caused them to take this path? OCs welcome.

Legendarium Ladies April prompt: Poetry Prompt for 2 April: New Year’s Resolutions, by Susan Sontag: Kindness, kindness, kindness. I want to make a New Year’s prayer, not a resolution. I’m praying for courage.

 

[If I ever continue the sequence as I originally conceived it, I'll have to re-think the arrangement of the stories, because the pieces won't all feature Findis]