Through a glass darkly by Aria

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Chapter 1

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Quiet, calm, still; but not peaceful. As eerie and silent as glass in a mirror. For it to be peaceful there would have to be peace, with nerves tight and tension coiled the water could be as quiet as a mill-pond but there would be no peace.

The weapons stacked below, the Teleri unwilling to allow any such object unsheathed on their vessels. Their thoughts are always on their past grievance.

Darkness before the dawn. We should have tried to make landfall before this omnipresent darkness fell. But, does it ever get truly light here, in these lands?

Ossë is restrained, Ulmo and the Aratar have given permission and blessing, and even he does not dare to gainsay them in this and prevent our passage. Although his voice proved discordant in council when the matter of the Teleri were broached, he would not go so far as to damage a labour of their hands, no matter his disapproval of their use.

Cliffs, jagged and high. Is this what Fayanáro first saw at the landing? No, it was still dark then, in that time called the darkening of Valinor, the Darkening of Arda. What did he think when he first saw these cliffs; did he live long enough to see them? What of Nolofinwë and Lalwende? Had they ever been on a ship? So much I don't know. So much I cannot know.

Bah! All of this over cliffs. Still... I grip the railing tighter. Does Lalwende still live? I dare not trust to hope. I have asked both Mandos and Míriel who weaves our family's Tapestry but they are silent on this. I dare not even contemplate what that may mean.

I stand at the ships bow, watching, waiting, the silence is tense. The smooth oak, heavy, sturdy, she cuts through the waves.

The hushed whispers of the Noldor on deck.

I may speak with the accent of a Teler but I am no shipman. All the same, if it were not for the fact that I know our scouts are camped somewhere beside these cliffs I would not have chosen this route. There is something about it, something disturbing.

Dark heads stand together, most remain below. The Deep Elves were not made for water.

So this is the land my family came to; what they left for.

Many say that this Land is quiet, oh so very quiet and still; I suppose in a way it is so. The Teleri talk in hushed whispers of the Noldor on deck and, of the Exiles. The salt in the air is so familiar, mingled with the stench of a thousand corpses. Morgoth's hand sits heavily over the land, and the malaise that afflicts it is not easily ignored. But Aman too is quiet, with so many of her children gone, the land cries. It too has never recovered from Morgoth's touch. Is it possible to recover? I hope so.

Whispers in the dark.

Neither it seems will we ever cope with the loss of my brother's; Fayanáro in particular. The letters, the lights, the skills of hand and mind, the very words we speak; some instances and deeds, all crafted from that mind. I wonder how many of my brother's ingenuities have I used in just thinking these words, I know of two at the least. The letters, the script itself though I have not written the words I see them in my minds eye, and Morgoth; Moringotto he was named by my brother and we too have adopted the name. Even Nolofinwë referred to him as such. I have never hated my brothers, that I think would be like hating myself. I'm not sure I could ever hate anyone... I grieve and I can't understand why some of these events have come to pass, even Findaráto's... But hate?

I think there is only one person I truly hate, if I can hate and that is Morgoth for destroying my family so utterly. But if I have room in my heart to hate only one person and that spot were not filled by the fallen Vala I think I would say that I hate my father.

Finwë Noldóran.

The wooden rail cuts deeper into my hands. The wood unbendable, unbreakable.

The most selfish Elf who ever lived, an exaggeration perhaps, but certainly the most selfish I have ever known. If he had never married mother there would have been little enough ill in Fayanáro for Morgoth's lies to grow upon. Or, if he must have done such -and strange as it may be I do not argue against him having married again- if he had only returned from the Halls and sent not Míriel Therinde -a lovely woman though she is- in his stead mayhap so much would have been avoided.

Around the coast, skirt the cliffs. Mind the hidden rocks in the dark surf.

So yes, if I must hate just one person and if Morgoth had not already filled that post I believe it would be my father. And yet do I truly hate? Findis argues that I do not, but she is not me. She says that it would be impossible for me to hate. Why? I don't know, nor do I understand, nor do I truly care. I know the truth of the matter.

The Bosun comes to me advising of the estimated time we should make landfall, his eyes are hooded. He is Teleri, he fought at Alqualondë and though they may forgive in words they will never forget.

I will never forget. Nor will Eärwen.

I nod, I speak letting him know that I understand. A shout that is more of a whisper against the sea. Or is that a whisper that sounds like a shout?

I miss the brother who would throw this unwanted interloper up into the air and catch him, not with madness in his eyes but with a laugh and a grin.

I miss the brother who spoke sense and gave wise counsel to father, not the idiot who swore himself to follow with no thought.

I miss the sister who, although I hated it, would plait my hair with wild abandon, not she who spat venom at anyone close.

I miss their sons and daughter's who I was, in cases, barely older than, and I miss their children. Small babes who knew little of the world last I saw of them, now grown tall beyond my sight.

I miss my sons and daughter, and hope that everyday our final parting will not be for a very long time yet. I would see them all again.

Most of all I miss my family. We were not perfect, any of us; I least of all. I am a Noldo with Vanya blood who speaks with the accent of a Teler. No doubt if I was not the only son of Finwë left in Aman, Tirion would have had nothing to do with me and the Valar would have pushed me out of Valinor so quick I would not have had time to spit.

Waves dash against the bow, throwing spray up into the air, into the mist and night.

Long ago my mother named me "Ingoldo", the Noldo, one pre-eminent amongst the kindred. Did she see then what would happen? I don't want to know, but I can't help think about it in the darkness before the dawn. And then the walls press close. What is Fate, what is Song and what is our own Will? Do we make our future or is it already known? Ai Ilúvatar, why create us if you already know how we will act? What use is our acting and pretending that we have free will if this has all been ordained since before ever we were born?

The waves swell higher, no matter Ossë's restraint, waves upon a shore will always be rough.

My hair, bright and shining (or so I have been told), whips about in the sudden surge. Surely I must look fay. A dark shape with wild hair. The thought twists a smile, a grimace. Surely I must be fay to have insisted so long and hard for this.

What was it that Fayanáro once said? All of Finwë's descendants are fay in some way, including their sire. He had said it in deprecation after losing an argument to Findis and watching her leave in temper, her hair as black as a storm. Even if he had lost the argument, he had still won the war, having the final word does that to such a discussion. I had watched their argument unfold, although I forget now the reason behind it, I had long since learned that they gained some measure of sport in their arguing, unlike those between Fayanáro and Nolofinwë, and so had not interfered. Fayanáro had then turned to me -stolen both my book and mead, shaking his head at the first in mock despair at the topic and draining the second to my consternation- given me his words of wisdom, grinned in humour and then insisted that I accompany him to see his youngest at the time. Fayanáro and I were never friends but he was still my brother and as youngest of Finwë's sprawling brood I think I engendered the least threat in his mind; certainly he never seemed to scorn me in the same way as our other siblings especially Nolofinwë, even if in appearance I look more Vanya than Noldo. Ingalaurë he called me, loathing my mother-name with a passion, and not finding much favour with my father-name either. The fact that I was not yet forty-five, he did not live with us, Nolofinwë was nowhere to be found and Morgoth was still chained likely didn't hurt matters that day.

It seems he was right; we did follow him. May I never tell him that, for although I love my brother he is insufferable when he believes -or knows- that he is right.

Lights out of the darkness. Land ho? I strain to see against the oppressive night.

A shout, a call in alarm. I jerk backwards towards the mast and the stern. Too close, too close. Willo-the-wisp... at sea?

Puppets on a string.

Scared of our own shadows.

The ship rocks. The dark wave horses galloping along the port side. Where her sister's sail I cannot see; hopefully not too close or we shall have more problems assailing us than just gallopers, winds and sharp hidden dangers.

Stomachs on high and low, may they please be still. I'd rather not enrage Ossë further than necessary. Did I really advocate for this course of action?

Of course I did. I did so long before my brother's great-grandson ever arrived in Aman.

To go from having one of the largest families in all of Aman to being one of the smallest and most desolate is strange and disconcerting.

The day will come, I hold to hope, when all will be returned, but I don't know when. All I know is that when the last blood is spilt and sword sheathed I will welcome them home.

The cry from the lookout breaks the silence.

Glass shatters; movement erupts.

The land is nigh.

Light has been seen.

A world in the dark.

When the last sword is drawn and then at last sheathed, I will welcome them home. May that day come soon, may all of our days come soon.

 

 

It is said that Morgoth looked not for the assault that came upon him from the West; for so great was his pride become that he deemed that none would ever again come with open war against him. Moreover he thought that he had for ever estranged the Noldor from the Lords of the West, and that content in their blissful realm the Valar would heed no more his kingdom in the world without; for to him that is pitiless the deeds of pity are ever strange and beyond reckoning. But the host of the Valar prepared for battle; and beneath their white banners marched the Vanyar, the people of Ingwë, and those also of the Noldor who never departed from Valinor, whose leader was Finarfin the son of Finwë.

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Chapter End Notes

 

Authors note: As to whether Finarfin is truthfully introspective is arguable, as is the point as to whether he truly hates his father. Morgoth yes, however his feelings as regarding Finwë are so mixed that whether he sees the truth of the matter is unknown. Certainly he believes that this is the truth.

 

Use of Ingoldo and other points: Tolkien's final word on the matter of the mother names of Fingolfin and Finarfin were as follows as laid out in HoMe 12: Fingolfin's was changed to Arakano and Finarfin inherited the name Ingoldo. I have used the name Ingalaurë here as an epithet as it is something I could see Feanor calling his youngest brother. I have noticed on the internet that people have often taken notice of this change with regards to Fingolfin and then failed to notice the rest of the note with regards to Finarfin which takes away from his character, in my opinion. Moreover Finrod was given the mother-name Ingoldo by his own mother, which makes much more sense if it was his fathers before him. Indeed considering the eventual fates of the sons of Finwë it makes much more sense for Finarfin to hold the name Ingoldo, he does indeed become High-King of the Noldor and is the only one of Finwë's sons to survive into the times beyond the tales. He would indeed be: the Noldo. But he is also the youngest son of a family with very many personalities, his own feelings of inadequacy are therefore understandable. I won't go further into my own interpretation of Finarfin's character here as it is not the place, but after finding all (or at least as many as I could find) quotes pertaining to Finarfin in Tolkien's published works a very different version of the character emerged than what is often portrayed in fan works. For an example, the Anglo-Saxon version of his name: Finred Felanop means Finred (no explanation is given in the text as to the meaning) "very bold". Certainly not a coward then, and his own children were known in Beleriand as the "sons of Arfin" using his device and not creating a new one (the ring of Barahir is the badge of Finarfin and his house after all not the badge of Finrod alone). Moreover after Fingolfin's death it was Finrod who changed his father's Sindarin name to Finarfin proclaiming his father's right to inheritance. If the Noldor had thought so little of the youngest son of Finwë it is highly unlikely that his children would have made such moves regarding their father. But I digress as usual and should really turn some of these notes into an essay or something equally useful.

The Finarfin presented here is one that is determined to discover what has happened to his family. He has argued for years, unsuccessfully, in favour of the Eldar (and Valar) to move themselves and help in Beleriand but he would not simply run off and help them by himself; doing so would cause a further sundering of the Kindreds that he, quite simply, could not stomach.

He is highly self-deprecating and it is this that is his greatest fault. Just as many fan-authors cannot see the worth in Finarfin, neither can Finarfin. He is the younger brother of two brilliant Elves. One of whom was considered the greatest of all and the other, one of the greatest leaders the Noldor would ever see, couple that with a prophetic mother-name and he is bound to be self-deprecating. As he states he is a Noldo that looks like a Vanya but speaks with the accent of a Teler; he is not a reliable narrator being too close to the subject matter (especally with regards to Finwe) and this must be remembered.

 

Anyway, final note to say that I hope you enjoyed reading this take on Finarfin as he journeyed to Beleriand at the start of the War of Wrath. This is written in a similar style to "A Smile" an older story of mine, and although I still find it odd writing in first person, in the case of these two I also find them strangely liberating with regards to POV. Now I really should get around to writing that essay rather than creating extensive author's notes.