United, Divided: The War of Telerin Aggression by eris_of_imladris

When Johnny Comes Marching Home

When Johnny comes marching home again
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!

Arafinwë trudges into Tirion. His body is weary, his mind even more so. He almost lacks the courage to look into Eärwen’s face, knowing that he is a Noldo and he is now the enemy. She meets his eyes, a familiar exhaustion lining her face.

The people who stayed behind are weary too. Afraid, creeping out from their houses and standing together in the dark. There is no sound. No inspiring speeches flow from his lips. He is not Fëanáro, setting their blood aflame as easily as he breathes. Nor is he Nolofinwë, who can come up with the perfect solution in a matter of moments.

No, he is just Arafinwë. Just the third son, the one no one expected to come home at the head of an army. Some see it as cowardice, he can see it in their eyes, and others wonder why he left in the first place. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s the one who came back, no matter what anyone wanted.

He knows his mother will be pleased to see him, but she will also look behind him for her other children who have gone away. Does he have the courage to tell her he failed to bring them back, that Nolofinwë’s loyalty will be the doom of them both? And what can he say in the face of Eärwen’s grief? He cannot tell her of how his army arrived third, after most of the destruction was already done. She would think he was making excuses, and that would make it even worse.

What can he say? Fëanáro has speeches for moments like these, bursting with anger. Nolofinwë’s voice is smooth and calm, even with a sword pressed into his throat. When it is Arafinwë’s turn to speak, there is nothing left to say.

He walks through the streets and crowds fill them. No one speaks, as if the darkness is in their throats and not just their minds and eyes. This is not the homecoming Fëanáro promised, where he would bring the light back to the world himself with the silmarils on his brow, make a new home in lands where their people could reign supreme. There is no joy to be found, only whispers and rumors and doubts.

He is battered and bruised and just wants to go home, even though he knows there is no home anymore, not for him. He mourns for the Trees and his father, for his brothers and their victims as one, as he retreats into silence in the palace of Tirion.

The men will cheer and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we'll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.

The ceremony is something he never expected to prepare for, and Arafinwë stands alone, solemn and quiet, as he is proclaimed High King of the Noldor.

He never thought of it, never wanted it. He feels more alone than ever within the throng of people. There are some people who try to smile, but the event feels more like a formality than anything else. No one wants to be responsible for the Noldor, not anymore. Not when they are to blame for everything since the Trees were destroyed.

The crown settles strangely on a bruise on his forehead. The gold doesn’t quite hide the purple that blares how wrong this whole situation is. And yet, the Valar sanctify it as if nothing ever happened.

Was this how Fëanáro felt, he wonders, when his father married Indis? Did he feel like he stood there in his finest robes, trying his best to look like the prince he was supposed to be, all the while knowing in his gut that everything was wrong? Did he too feel powerless to speak up, to tell everyone around him that things weren’t supposed to be this way?

Regardless of how he feels, he says the words, he does the ritual, he is king. The one thing both of his older brothers wanted, and now irony reigns supreme. He tries to convince himself that this is not a reign either of them would have wanted, there is no life to the Noldor anymore, and only he is there to lead the lifeless.

He forces himself through a celebration of victory. The tables are lined in royal purple, everything is purple, if only so he can take comfort in the blending of his brothers’ colors. The fiery red of Fëanáro and the subdued blue of Nolofinwë are all that remains of them here, all that will ever come back. He knows this as surely as he knows his own name. Even if they tried, if they had a change of heart like him (which was as unlikely as Morgoth returning the silmarils and Finwë to life in one), they made their choice.

The victory that some of his people remain here feels hollow. He spoke a vow of empty words, for there is nothing to protect, and the food sliding down his throat has no taste. And yet, there is so much to do, more than his father ever had to consider. There are reparations with the Teleri for the stolen boats and lives, rebuilding a home in the darkness, finding a way forward for a lost people.

He supposes this means he needs to be a hero, but who is supposed to be his villain to defeat? Not Morgoth, out of reach, and his brothers can never be his enemies. He is unsure, uncertain, perhaps feeling like his father did when stepping on a clean new shore. He’s no hero, and he’s barely a king. The first battle is done, he thinks as he sinks into a chair, but the war is by no means won.

Get ready for the Jubilee,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give the hero three times three,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The laurel wreath is ready now
To place upon his loyal brow
Hurrah! Hurrah!