with death on his brow like a crown by Arveldis

with death on his brow like a crown

Read with death on his brow like a crown

i.

Finrod feels the first splintering when he, Aegnor, and Angrod journey to the halls of Bëor’s folk to witness the passing of the house’s headship to Boron.  

Boron’s granddaughter Andreth, full grown into womanhood, stands with her father and siblings, directly across the hall from Finrod and his brothers. She is proud, Finrod deems, with her head held high, but the laughter of youth still limns her features. At his side, Aegnor watches her from the corner of his eye, giving little heed to the ceremony.

And in his heart Finrod feels something shift, a pebble stirred by the current.

 

ii.

The next time Finrod visits the halls of Bëor with his brothers, Andreth has recently returned from her uncle’s house. Finrod inquires about the lore she has learned from Adanel, and although she answers his questions readily, with matching enthusiasm (if rather protective of the Edain’s lore), her gaze strays to where Aegnor sits. There is no mistaking the light in Andreth’s eyes as she looks upon Aegnor, nor the answering glow in his as he turns to meet her gaze.

And in his heart Finrod feels something wrench free, wrested from its home, and a shadow fills its place.

 

iii.

“It will come to grief. You know this,” Finrod says.

“Does not everything in these lands come to grief?” Aegnor asks, gazing at the forested march of highland slopes that wreath the lands before Thangorodrim.

“Your love for her need not.”

“You would have me forsake that which I hold dearest,” Aegnor says, features inscrutable.

“I would have your memory of her, and hers of you, remain undimmed by grief.”

Aegnor turns, eyes strangely bright. “After the siege breaks, I will not depart from the Halls, for grief there still will be—grief of a sundered present and stolen future.”

 

iv.

Aegnor returns from the Aeluin troubled and grieved, burning with restless resentment.

He says nothing to Finrod—who watches closely—merely buckles his vambraces and tucks his helm under his arm. He does not meet Finrod’s eyes as he turns to leave.

Finrod catches his arm. Aegnor pauses.

“You need not leave for the siege now,” Finrod says. It is part apology, part plea and not enough.

“There is nothing left for me here,” Aegnor says, looking at last into Finrod’s eyes. Despite the fire of his anger, Aegnor’s gaze is hollow.

And Finrod sees death in his brother’s eyes.

 

v.

“Andreth fears for you,” Finrod says, barely louder than the popping of coals in the iron braziers that circle the tent’s interior. “She wishes for me to tell you not to be reckless, not to seek danger beyond need.”

Finrod watches his brother’s back as he stands silent. “Would you refuse her wish?”

“I would have her live out her days in what peace may be wrested from these lands and not fear for one whose time is near.” Aegnor turns at last. Grief etches his features, death weighs heavy on his brow, but he is braced in grim resolution.

 

+1

A weight settles upon Finrod’s heart as he listens to Beren’s tale, and he sees more clearly now the coming of his death that he had foreseen long ago—alone in a sharp-fanged darkness, pinned in a battle beyond his strength.

And he wonders at the ease with which he spoke of death to Andreth, when it was still distant, still foreign. He wonders at the resolve of Aegnor, who had seen the coming of his own death and met it with grim determination—anticipation, even.

And Finrod wonders at his own readiness, and of the doom of loving mortals.