The Sound of Lightning by sabcatt

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The Sound of Lightning

1. Just a littol bit of stylistic experimentation/restriction here. For spice. You’ll know it when you see it.

2. See end notes for specific warnings, relating to mental health.

3. Written for fan_flashworks over on Dreamwidth, an excellent ongoing pan-fandom challenge that I encourage any writers (and readers, and other fanwork makers!) to go check out.

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Finwë-Ñolofinwë:

Findekáno had disappeared, which made sense. He was ever the type of boy to conceal his feelings, prone to hiding himself entirely when he became unable to put on a cheery front for those around him. Arakáno's death, followed shortly by the unexpected news of Maitimo's capture, had staggered him, but the most aid his self-willed son would accept from his family was that they let him grieve in private.

Ñolofinwë could not say he was pleased with such a development; they had only been days in Beleriand, and already he had lost one son, though his tears had at last run dry to think on it. What a hungry land! It had taken his youngest child, his eldest nephew, his half-brother… he tried not to fear for Findekáno too, but it was instinct. It was the way he loved.

Findekáno was different. He did not love with fear, but with a reckless need to protect. Ñolofinwë worried that his eldest still felt guilt over Maitimo, and feared what he may do with it, never mind that it would have been impossible for any action of Findekáno's to change his cousin's fate, given the circumstances and Maitimo's own choices.

He wanted peace for his son. He wanted joy for his son. But he had been wanting, had wanted many things for many long years, and it had never availed him. He would settle, he thought, for safety. A storm was coming. The wind was already picking up. He needed to find his children.

 

___________:

Findekáno had disappeared, which made sense. There was no room for him in his skin now, not for feelings nor thoughts such as might be given to an elda. There was only the climb.

There were sharp rocks under his hands and feet; blood in his throat. The taste of ash in the air. Grit and metal—iron, copper—on his tongue.

The sun hung low in the sky, glazed orange by heavy clouds that threatened rain but never delivered. Dry and hot, dry and cold; no matter where he went now, everything was the same. There, nothing to do but walk onward, walk so you didn't freeze, walk until you froze anyway if you were a moment too slow reacting when the ice began to creak. Now, the world so hot, a dull burning stinging at his front and pressing down against his back. There, fog in his breath and fog in his mind. Heavy head, clumsy hands, exhaustion. Always, the cold.

Now, the climb. Nothing above, nothing below. Nothing within. Here, a vessel to move, a tool that would either obey him or fail him.

Forget the aches; ignore the trembling. There was the rock, and the tool, and the goal. He remembered those, and forgot the cliffs that fell away beneath him. Everything fell away beneath him. At the bottom of the cliffs, a family. At the bottom of the cliffs, hope.

The clouds hovered, and waited. Somewhere in this hollow, dim land, his cousin waited. Findekáno had set out to find him. Findekáno was gone, but the climb remained—and he was tired of waiting.

 

Russandol:

Findekáno had disappeared, which made sense. Strange noises were resounding outside, and his cousin was never one to shy from approaching the unusual.

He'd heard such sounds before, maybe, but he couldn't recall when. There was a hissing, but not a hissing he knew; sometimes a rumble, but not a rumble he knew.

And there was Findekáno at the open door again, near beaming. There were strange scents carried in on a cool breeze, blowing through the gap between cousin and doorframe.

“Cousin!” Findekáno exclaimed. “Can you smell the rain? I never thought I would miss rain. Once I never thought I would miss you, either. How many things one finds in the world that one had never thought to think of!” His gaiety faded as he spoke, face turning pensive.

Rain, yes. This, he remembered now. The world, not so much.

Findekáno approached his cot. Wet strands of dark hair clung to his forehead. There was another roar from outside. Was that something he'd forgotten about rain, or something else?

“I am sorry if it is cold for you, cousin. The storm came suddenly, and none had thought to prepare your room beforehand. I have sent for more firewood. I would have brought it myself, but…” He trailed off, and held up bandaged hands. “I am still not allowed to lift or carry anything more than a dispatch. What they are worried it will do to me, I don't know, when you and I have both already survived much worse, but I am on good behavior for my father's sake.”

“Well, if it's for your father,” Russandol whispered. “The roaring is from the storm?”

“Yes,” Findekáno answered. “Thunder. The sound of lightning.”

Thunder, Russandol thought. There had been lightning in the skies above Angband, on occasion, and yes, he recalled the crackling rumble of it. “I had forgotten,” he admitted, “that it comes with… rain.”

Findekáno dropped to his knees. Russandol wanted to stop him, to pull him up, but he had not the strength.

“Why…”

His cousin cut him off by taking his left hand in both of his bandaged ones. His eyes were drawn tight and shining with unfallen tears, but the set of his mouth was tender and determined. “You will have time to remember. You will have time to heal. You will, Russandol. I will not allow otherwise.”

Be careful what you vow, Russandol wanted to say. There are powers in this world that do not care what we intend. And even: I would rather you give up on me than ever put yourself at risk for my sake again.

But those were well-trodden arguments. Findekáno fervently believed that the worst was over, and would not hear otherwise. It was no longer in Russandol to argue with him, yet nor was it now within him to believe.

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Chapter End Notes

Warnings: mentions of canonical character death; grief for close family members; intense and explicit dissociation; memory issues

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