Chapter Text
They asked him why he went.
Why wise and fair Findarato kept going after Aqualondë, why he abandoned his father, why he foolishly trekked the ice. Why did he, one who emerged so easily from the halls, who was so universally beloved, who had not a little foresight, why did he cross the sea when there was so much ruin in the going and the staying?
Finrod’s answer was simple.
“Lust.”
They laughed and did not believe him.
He knew the truth, though, had seen his lasciviousness painted clearly first in Sauron’s song and then on Vaire’s tapestries. And confronted with it from the outside, Finrod realized now that he hadn’t sounded or looked attractive, and that… that galled him.
He had wanted them to admire him, him and his crown and his realm and his magnanimous nature. King Finrod… he’d panted after that title. Found the lands, built towers and caves and halls until they were perfect, recruited the people to fill his halls. To look at him upon a throne. Because he’d always known he’d do it well, he would- he did!
And Finrod had known it too, but even as first son, he was still the first son of the third son and the second daughter. Feanor had taken up the sum total of possibility in Valinor, it felt like, but in the lands beyond… Finrod had panted after the possibility.
Galadriel did too, but people were always less forgiving of such lusts in lady’s, and Finrod… he hid it better.
Instead of cold pride, he had warm confidence, and rather than foolish determination, he had bright ideas, and while some used fear, Finrod only ever wanted to be loved.
And he had been plenty prepared to get it in the new lands, letting everyone else dirty their hands along the way. Let Feanor kill for the boats Finrod would use, let the weaker on the Helcaraxë die so to that he could get his people to his kingdom, built his beautiful halls while others died on the frontlines…
He had given the Men knowledge and friendship and only wanted their regard in return. But, oh, how he’d loved- desired their regard. It invigorated him, when the people looked at him for help, for advice, when they liked him. He wanted them to like him so much.
Sat upon his throne, draped in silks and gems, adorned with perfumes and gold… that was the only satisfaction Finrod needed.
The knowledge that they loved and lusted for him was enough.
And once he had it, he wanted to keep it. But he could not deny Beren, for many reasons, but one was that if he faltered then, he would never be seen and untouched and pure and shining again. What a foul trap.
Sauron saw right through him too, and that was why he died. For his lust.
And at its worst his lust had been as cruel and greedy as Celegorm’s for Luthien, as prideful and callous as Curufin’s for Nargothrond, but at its best?
At his best, Finrod had loved.
At his best, he had enjoyed Andreth’s cutting words. Admired the words of the Dwarves that they would forever deny him. Had known Curufin and Celegorm’s people would never adore and respect as his own did but let into his home anyway.
Finrod knew he was not all cruelness and greed and panting desire.
But stuck and still in the Halls of Mandos, he finally had to look all his dirtiness beneath his sheen of gold.