Work Text:
She walked in the dark places of Mandos Halls, the places that were made for those new to healing and that did not yet want their sorrows shown in light. Yet it was not fully dark, for high in the walls there were torches that gave their warm glow to the hurting. It was not a place she ever visited, yet she felt a compulsion--a pulling of her fea. It was strong enough to make her leave her weaving and take to the halls she avoided.
He sat with his back to a hallway wall and his head resting on his arms where they crossed over his pulled up knees. The torches made shadows dance about him. This was the one she was looking for. Her shadow cast its way towards him, and as it covered him it caused him to slowly raise his head. The light played in the gray of his irises as their eyes met and she felt her breath catch in her throat. He looked so like his father.
He was the first to speak. “I thought you would be taller.”
For all she sought him out, she could not think of what to say.
“It seems even in death your shadow is cast upon me.” There was a brittleness to the smile that accompanied his words. Yet she could still find nothing to say. In the silence he let out a weighted sigh and looked away before he spoke again, “Forgive me, I have no right to such words.”
She licked her lips and took a step closer. “It seems to me that you do,” she said at last.
He did not respond.
She tentatively stepped closer to him, until she stood beside him. Slowly he looked up at her, “How may I help you Lady Miriel?” His voice held an old tiredness.
She pursed her lips, “You are here to be helped, not to give help.” She then slowly sat down beside him. He looked away, the flicker of the nearest torch catching his attention.
“Of course, my mistake. Though I still question as to why you are here?” He now turned to her, “Were you in search of a different son of Finwe?”
She did not answer right away. No she had not been in search of Feanaro. She did not know what to think on that subject. But she had seen Finwe, and they had done much talking. Perhaps it was that such conversation that had awakened that pull in her fea. That urging to speak to this son of her husband of old. She realized she had taken too long to answer when Nolofinwe began talking again.
“I supposed I should thank you.” He said, “If not for you I never would have existed. Well if not for your death actually. Which is probably something I should not say. But I’m dead too, so what do I care.”
She once again did not know what to say, but he didn’t seem to mind as he continued speaking, “Of course there were those that said that it would have been better the other way and that Feanor would have behaved much better if it had been.”
He looked at her with a conspiratorial smirk, as if speaking of how some thinking it would have been better if he had not existed was a grand joke between them. He did not sound like the dutiful and serious son Finwe had spoken of.
She did not like that train of conversation, so she changed it, “Have you spoken with Finwe yet?”
Fingolfin did not seem to mind the change in topic, though he only shook his head in response.
“Why not?” it was none of her business, yet she could not help her curiosity.
He merely shrugged. “I plan to, eventually. But he has you and Feanor now, he has no need of me.”
There was no hurt in the words. No bitter note. They were merely spoken as facts. It was truth as he saw it, and he spoke it as any might point out how the weather is a little warmer than usual. It was no bleeding wound, and Miriel did not know why it caused a pain inside her. This was a stranger before her. There were no thoughts of who they could have been in life. No questions of whether they would have remained strangers or been friends. No they were as summer and winter, not meant to touch, and the beginning of one could not commence until the end of the other.
Yet she recalled when Finwe spoke of his eldest son of Indis, there had been nothing but pride and love in his words. But hidden in his tone there had been a weary sadness, and Miriel could not help but wonder at the meaning of it.
“Your father has need of you.” She paused, not sure if she should continue. “And he does love you.”
“I know he loves me. Finwe never made us question of his love. It was always evenly split,” he looked at her with another conspiratorial smirk, “Half went to Feanor and the other half to the rest of us.”
And now it appeared they had another grand joke between them. But just as quickly as the smirk came, it left, like the last whispers of a candle being taken by a breeze. And she found herself being scrutinized by eyes that were so much like Finwe’s and yet so different. These eyes held a deeper darkness in their depths, and for the first time, she caught a glimpse of what had become of their owner. There was a marring in the deep hidden places of his fea. Nolofinwe Finwion was as scarred as the land he had shed his blood upon.
“Why are you here, Lady Miriel?” There was such a tiredness to his words, as if there hung a persistent weight on each of his exhales. He did not yet seem to realize that he did not need breath in this place.
Yes, she knew now why she had been led to him. “Why are we all here? To get and give healing.”
“And you believe I need healing from the pains of my childhood? Come now, Lady Miriel, there are far worse things than the favoritism of a father.”
“Perhaps, but are not all hurts meant to be healed here?”
“If that were so, then what would we be left with?”
“We would be left with who we were meant to be.”
“Yet not who we are. We would be as a song devoid of melody. And what worth would there be to merely exist for a shallow bliss?”
“I see you were named well Nolofinwe, for you do possess wisdom.”
He mimicked a laugh, it was a dark and bitter thing.
“You flatter me, Lady, but I believe it is Arafinwe that is the wise one.”
“And can there not be more than one wise one?”
“Why of course, but only if more than one makes wise decisions.”
“And only Arafinwe made wise decisions?”
“Always. He avoided being doomed and all that that curtailed. And was he not the one that decided to leave the never ending politics of our family? While all I ever did was fuel it. And it was Ara that was not surprised when…” He shook his head, as if dispelling himself of the thought. “None of that really matters anymore, at least not to me.” He gave her a crooked grin.
She wondered when his last real smile was.
“What was Arafinwe not surprised about?” She asked.
He became serious, “You still have not told me why you are here, Lady Miriel. Is there something Finwe needs? Or if Feanor is the reason you are here, I am afraid I have no help he would take… or that I wish to give.”
“I believe I already said that you were meant to be helped here, not give help.”
“So you did.” He turned and watched the torches flame flicker.
She studied him. She could not help with the hurts of war and blood drenched dooms, but maybe she could help with the old hurt that he had deemed small and insignificant. Why else would she have been led to him? It was the little healings that made way for the healing of the big wounds--the still bleeding cuts. Though she could not answer as to why it had been she that had been given this task. This was not her duty. She weaved, and she was quite content with that. But she could not let this go, and she did not know why. Perhaps it was that she saw the man she once loved in his face, and she did not like the darkness that marred it.
Yet that thought caused a twinge of conviction. Why must she only wish to help him for his resemblance to someone else? She looked at his profile and wondered when the last time was that someone looked at him and saw only...him. Not Finwe’s son. Or Feanaro’s brother. Not even King or Warrior. Just Nolofinwe. And in looking, really looking, she began to see the differences. Like there was more blue in the gray of his eyes than Finwe, or that his skin was a touch paler and his jaw a bit sharper.
“I am not my father, you need not feel obligated to help me,” he did not look at her as he spoke.
“Why do you not accept the help? It is freely given.”
“Is it?” His words were pensive as he continued to stare at the flame. One would assume he would despise it, seeing as how he was so burned by fire--or the spirit of it.
“Must all things have a price?”
A slow smile appeared on his lips. He could show so much through all his smiles and smirks, so much, yet none of it joy. He still did not look at her. “No, not all.” He now looked at her. “But most do.”
“And you believe my help comes with a cost?”
“You would forgive me if I question the validity of your help, or your reasons for giving it, Lady Miriel.”
“Yes I forgive it, and I understand it too, Nolofinwe.”
“Fingolfin.”
“Pardon?”
“I would prefer it if you called me Fingolfin.”
“As you wish...Fingolfin.”
She supposed it made sense, for who was Nolofinwe but the prince of a peaceful Noldor, a prince that was burned and frozen at once to his end. Yet Fingolfin was a King that had survived both the ice and the spirit of fire. Fingolfin had wounded the dark Vala. It was a name drenched in just as much blood as its career. It fit.
“You still have not given me a satisfactory answer. You say you wish to help me because I need healing, yet that is not your job. I do not see why my healing should matter to you. I am neither my father nor my brother...forgive me, half-brother.” He looked at her as if he expected her to be angry at his perceived mistake.
She did not react, though she felt a spark of anger, who it was meant for she did not know. She was not her son to react to such things. She instead asked, “Must it be for Finwe or Feanaro that I help you?”
“I do not see any other reason.”
“Are you not reason enough?”
He shrugged, “You do not know me.” He hesitated, as if rethinking what he was gonna say, but then shrugged again in a what-does-it-matter gesture. “I assumed you would hate me.”
Her eyebrows drew together, “Why would I hate you?”
Another shrug, she was starting to wish he would go back to smiling. “I am Indis’ son.”
“And what does it mean to be Indis’ son?”
“It means the standard was already forged and cooled before I was born. I was not judged for what I did, but for what I could do.”
“And did you meet these standards?”
He let out a bitter huff of air, “Could anyone?” Then a slow dark smile spread across his lips. “But did I not exceed them in death? Was my death not greater than his?”
She did not need to ask who he was, and she did not know how to respond. She was not qualified for this, so she changed the subject. “What was Arafinwe not surprised about?”
“You are persistent. Though I do not know why that should surprise me--” He shifted-- “Alright. He was not surprised when father sided with Feanor after he threatened to kill me.” The words were to the point and devoid of emotion. “Though.” He looked pensive. “What should have really surprised me was how I was surprised.” There was a dark upcurl of his mouth that she would not dare call a smile. “Really I should have seen it coming. But of course, there were things that were much more surprising that came after. What is a sword to the throat considering?”
He did not finish what was to be considered. She knew. She had helped weave red on silver. And perhaps he was right. What was such a hurt against so much red. Red of blood and red of flame. Yet was it not the beginning (actually it had been the end, yet no one had known it then)? But she had been sent, and she could help with nothing else but this--the very first stab in a trail of betrayal. She could help to bandage this cut, if for no other reason than that she could not now let it go.
“Why do you not speak to your father?” She said, “I could take you to him.”
“I believe I already said I would. But I do not wish to impose, not upon you or him.”
“It is no imposition upon me, and what imposition could a son be to a father?”
“You really believe he wishes to see me?” And in those words his voice lost the strength of centuries of command, and in its place was the quiet insecurity of a son questioning his father's care.
Miriel felt an anger course through her veins, yet she clamped it down. That was it, she was dealing with it now. “Come now, why would he not wish to see you?”
He shrugged. “I failed. I could not avenge his death. I could not fulfil my oath to Feanor.”
“And you believe these to be reasons for him not wanting to see you?”
His only response was another shrug.
She’s heard enough. In a quick motion she got up. “Come.”
“Pardon?” He looks up at her in confusion.
“We are going to see your father, and this is not up for debate. So come.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if gauging her sincerity, and then slowly got up and followed her.