empty spaces by queerofthedagger

Finarfin: Determination

‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed.’

The sea crashes. The wind is cold and merciless this far up north, the silence an almost tangible weight. Finarfin has not been able to look at either of his brothers since they had left Alqualondë behind.

It feels like waking up—this, now. The dooming voice, the shaking ground. The unease breaking through the deafening numbness that they all have clung to.

Finarfin straightens. Raises his voice. “We shall return,” he calls; it is meant for his own host. He has no hope left for anyone else.

For none but his host, his children.

Finarfin turns. Meets Finrod’s eyes. Galadriel’s. Aegnor’s. There is pleading in the ocean blue of them, pleading and fire and the unyielding pride that all of Finwë’s children tend to wield.

Finarfin is familiar with cursing their nature—in exasperation, in humour, in anger.

“Atar,” Finrod says, his voice low. His hand is curled tight around the hilt of a sword. “Atar, please.”

The sea crashes. The wind howls. In the distance, Tirion’s lights gleam, and Finarfin can see the future stretch ahead of them, smoke and blood, crushed hope and ruin.

He swallows; tastes ash. Holds Galadriel’s burning gaze.

“We return,” he repeats, voice an unshakeable thing.

He knows before any of them move that his children, not even his children, will yield.

Finarfin is familiar with cursing their bloodline’s nature; he has never done so with an anguish so sharp-edged, it almost brings him to his knees.

A moment they hover, the exhaling of a breath.

‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed;’ he needs no doom, no treasonous brothers, no Middle-earth to believe it true.

Finarfin turns, wordless. The biting north wind freezes the wetness on his cheeks. He returns to Tirion as blinded as he had left it.