Work Text:
Fingolfin Finwean had the newspaper brought up at ten o’clock in the morning, every day but Sunday. Anaire had long since given up persuading him to spend his Saturdays at home; she never doubted that he enjoyed her company, but she knew that his mind assigned duties that his heart followed, and unfinished work lay heavy on his mind.
The paper was unfolded on his desk by the nervous hands of his clerk, and Fingolfin put up a pretense of waiting even as his eyes scanned for news that might be useful to him. He had a hunger for it, as Feanor did for beauty, as Finwe had for—
For peace?
The word was too simple for his father. Their father. Was that not an answer in itself? The after-thought correction?
Their father, then, had been too complicated for peace, though he seemed to think it suited his equally tangled family.
With the paper before him, and the clerk gone, Fingolfin drank coffee. He had little love of bitter Irish teas, strong or weak. This, too, was treachery to some.
Railroad Planner Appointed: Governor’s Brother Reformed.
Fingolfin set his cup down too hard. The stain spread like blood.
In ten years, Fingolfin's hair had gone silver at the temples. Anaire said it looked distinguished, but he rather believed himself to be defeated in some visible way, by his father's death, by Feanor's jealous rage, by the unrest that grew in his family and in the surrounding city like weeds.
Caught as he was, in shock and creeping fear, he knew that the silver in his hair did not denote wisdom.
Age and shock and longing had only ever made him a fool.
Rising, he reached for his cane. He would call his carriage, and make the errand his brother had cast at him like a stone.
One week earlier…
“Sir,” said the clerk, bowing ludicrously. Who was this man, and how came he to Fingolfin’s service? Fingolfin disliked simpering. It made him feel as if he had to demand respect rather than earn it.
“Yes?”
“Your son is here.”
Fingolfin did not rise, but he watched. He scanned, almost—the way his son’s hair fell over his brow, the tired cast of his eyes. The firm set of his jaw.
He could tell from the look on Fingon’s face that his son was about to ask him someone else’s favor.