With Doom We Come by Lingwiloke

Chapter 1

Seventh ring, balcony, you know which one. Meet me at the full bloom of Isil.

The cryptic note is written on a piece of crinkled parchment wedged into the gap between her chamber door and the wall. Whoever wrote it is lucky Finduilas has found it, instead of one of her chamber maids, or - Valar beware - her father, when he came looking for her earlier in the morning. Voices float up the corridor, and she quickly crumbles the paper in her hand and stuffs it into a pocket of her dress, hiding a smile. She is quite sure she knows who has left her this note, and it sends a rush of warmth through her. Veriël, her maid and closest confidante, scoffs at her "silly boy" and his sentimental nonsense. Finduilas finds it endearing.

She likes his flowery advances - she likes his bravado, too. Where others treat her with polite deference - she is the king's daughter, after all! - he courts her with an enthusiasm and irreverence she cannot but love him for. Sending her secret little notes like this, leaving flowers at her door, tugging her into a dancing crowd at the autumn festival and twirling her about for all to see. Yet he is never truly disrespectful - he always waits for a nod or a smile before taking her hand to tug her along, he listens when she talks and asks genuine questions - even when she is going on about court matters, or her fossil collection that she knows he does not quite understand her fascination for. And that one day when he ran into her on her way to pay her respects to her mother's memory-

"My Lady! What are you waiting for? We will be late to the meal!"

Veriël is standing at the far end of the corridor, waving impatiently. Hastily, Finduilas closes the door, and rushes to join her.

***

The night is beautiful. A gentle breeze caresses her skin, bringing with it the fresh smell of spring. The sky is clear, and the light of the full moon is bright enough that she extinguishes her lamp when she steps out onto the balcony.

Gwindor is waiting for her already, a tall figure in the darkness, and she takes a moment before she approaches him, enjoying the opportunity to see him in an unguarded moment, when his attention is not focused on her.

Does he look anxious? Scared? She wonders. He is younger than her, but not by much, and he has seen his fair share of fighting; though never a battle as large-scale as what is awaiting him and his comrades in the North now. He has suffered his fair share of losses also, most acutely felt that of his brother, taken – likely, hopefully dead – during the Bragollach. It is not something he talks about often, but she knows how much he misses Gelmir.

And indeed, his expression is - not anxious, but thoughtful, serious. He seems older somehow. More like the leader of men he will have to be, in the coming battle.

When she steps out of the shadows to greet him though, his face lights up, and just like that, her cheeky admirer is back. "Faelivrin! You came!"

She smiles. "Next time you might want to be a little more careful where you place your little notes, this time father almost found it.” Though she has a feeling that her father might just not have been quite so surprised by that, she prefers to pretend otherwise.  “And what is this about Faelivrin? I think you must be mistaking me for someone else, my Lord." ,she adds, playfully.

She is surprised when that actually makes him blush. But his voice sounds confident when he answers: "Your beauty, my lady, reminds me of the gleam of the sun on the pools of Ivrin. It is only right that I should name you so. Unless-" The slight hesitation, tiny waver in his voice, is easy to miss, but Finduilas takes notice. "Unless the name displeases you, of course."

She quickly shakes her head. "No. I must say I- I quite like it, actually." Now it is her turn to blush.

His smile is luminous. "I shall remember that, then."

"So... Is that why you asked me to meet you in the dead of the night? To tell me that I remind you of the pools of Ivrin?"

At that, his face grows very serious all of a sudden, and maybe now there is a touch of nervousness? "That is one thing I meant to tell you, but- there is something else." He takes both her hands in his, and suddenly she finds herself holding her breath.

“Faelivrin - Finduilas… There is something I would ask you.”

***

The ceremony is held in the midday sun, out on the terrace in front of the gates. There could be something said about bright light to combat the darkness, but Finduilas merely wonders how much longer they will have to stand here and stare into the glaring sunlight. She can hardly see Gwindor from where she is standing. She touches a hand to her pocket, where the fine silver ring is kept safely inside its little velvet pouch for the time being, and thinks of its twin, on Gwindor’s hand. Her eyes are watering, and it has nothing to do with the sun. She has tried hard to not think too closely about where he is going but...

She has seen it, the darkness. Has felt the mind-numbing, all-encompassing fear that comes with it. The screams. The pain. The blood.

How can she let him go into this? How can she let him go alone?

Yet she will stay.

There is no place for her among the warriors, many of whom are younger than she was when she when she saw the darkness descend upon her home, when she saw her mother fall, dragged to her death by a winged, clawed shadow she could barely make out in the suffocating gloom.

She never learned to fight, or at least that is what her father believes - her father, who wants nothing more than to keep her save from everything, and would never let her go, even if he knew about her secret lessons with Gwindor, her pretend fights with Veriël, the simple sword hidden in her closet.

She thinks of her mother then, who fought, and died, and of her brother, whom she has not seen for since he was a small child, barely able to walk. Is he happy now, as far away from the Darkness as one may be in these dark times? She does not know. (If her uncle's Sight holds true, she may never know, and all her father’s efforts to protect her are in vain).
He is speaking now, imparting well-wishes to the gathered warriors.

He will not leave, either. In a way, she is glad – one worry less to keep her up at night – but there is a simmering resentment as well, unvoiced anger deep in her gut - why must you be this way, why must you always assume the worst, why can you not have faith, why must you be so stubborn – Is not their common hatred of the Morgoth the one thing that unites them, even with the sons of Feanor, even after everything? And if they stand united against him, may there not be hope?

But she does not say that. She knows her father would not listen if she did, and so here they stand, side-by-side, watching.

Watching as the company is leaving, Gwindor, their captain, at the head. As they go, to War. To the North, were the Dark Enemy is waiting. Were death might be waiting too.

Wait, she wants to call, do not go!

She doesn't. She stays silent and watches them ride by - a pitifully, frighteningly small army. and she thinks, fervently, he will come back. He will. And she will be there, waiting for him.