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He is alone in the dark.
It began like this, too, a long while ago. It began with a long night, and it began with the faint whisper of something being wrong. The faint warning carried by the wind, who ever favoured itself a friend of elves, and ever was listened to by those willing to lend an ear. It began with some words in the dark, and it began with the heart that thuds against the chest, that beats and beats, and it began with the feeling of suffocation.
Finwë has not lifted a weapon in decades, ages. Far they have come since the wooden spears, and yet the feeling is one that remains the same. There is this moment, when the fingers grip around the handle, a sensation of loneliness that no number of persons around him could ever quiet. It is as if the blade sings, words that he had learned to put aside so many years ago, words smug to be so relevant, even after peace had been promised – and so he thought obtained.
Peace, a word that had lost sense and meaning after too many times of hearing it. Peace, distorted from its initial reasoning, warped to become the answer to all doubts. The eternal justification. It is for peace, they had said, when Finwë, Elwë and Olwë has guided their people through the woods. It is for peace, they had said, when they had walked on, even though some of their owns were snatched into the darkness, it is for peace, they said, when the rations began to be given to the women and children, it is for peace, when they had to fight, it is for peace, when they had to kill, it is for peace, when they had to die.
It is for peace, when Elwë had to abandoned in the dark. It is for peace, when Finwë waited and waited for his lover, for his husband to return, only to be met by pressuring whispers. They need to advance, they could not wait, they could not abandon everything for Elwë, he needed to realize that he was lost, they needed to sail, they needed to trust, they needed to give up.
`
Peace, Finwë thinks, and there is just the faintest traces of bitterness. They had been promised it, when they had came here. They had been promised it – and none of it had been given. Falsities, like Elwë has feared, lies.
For Miriel had died, then. Miriel had died, and that day, Finwë had thought he would die too. Elwë, lost to the dark, Miriel, lost to her apathy, and he, he thought, soon lost to his grief. If Elwë was a wound that bled continually, at least had he the confirmation that Elwë was alive – asking and asking to Mandos for such confirmation. But Miriel? Miriel was a wound which poured poison, a black poison which had gone through his lungs and heart, black poison which made each day ache and some to be more bearable than others. Had not been Feanaro, had not been his son, his most precious flame, had not been someone who needed him, who needed his love, his guidance, his help…
There is a screeching sound outside, but Finwë is not afraid. He has no daydreams about a possible victory. He is not here for victory. He is here to protect the legacy of his son, he is here to give his life for it if need be – for he knows what lays within those gems, even if Feanaro has not admitted it.
The silmarils, both source of joy and infinite sorrow. He feels them in his pocket, heavy, shining through the cloth, through the dark. A beacon of light in the dark, for him to be found first. The silmarils, and how he had been repulsed by their existence, how he had found them horrifying, how he had ached to know that Feanaro had poured of himself and two of his sons into the gems.
His fëa, his very fëa, torn apart to be poured into a symbol of light for his people. His fëa, voluntarily mutilated, the highest crime, the highest sacrifice, so that the Noldor would never fear for light. So that they would never see the darkest of days. A symbol, a hope, a promise.
Finwë would protect it, and he would give his life for it. But Belegurth would not have them.
.
.
.
He wondered if the door would just open, a click as if he was expecting a guest; or if the house would suddenly collapse on itself. He wondered if he would be dragged down by his hair, or if a great claw would come through the walls, he wondered if he should serve tea, or dart his sword at the ceiling.
It comes Finrod hears a knock. It is a faint thing, and has he not been with his eyes riveted on the door, he would not have heard it. A knock, and then, the door opens.
Finwë stays in place, the tip of the sword on the ground and his hands wrapped around the handle.
“King Finwë,” Melkor, the Dark Hunter, says. His voice is deceptively sweet, beautifully so, akin to the silken Valinoran tissue, or the swan feathers within their pillows. His voice is soft, and his face softer even. Beautiful features, as if carved out of one of the statues Nerdanel makes, betrayed by the melted gold of the irises. Nothing would have been amiss if not for those eyes, the windows of a soul Finwë knew to be pitch black. A yellow Finwë has long adored and just now begins to loathe, simmering, inviting, betraying. “It has been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Finwë says. “I have killed two of your wolves once, it is only right that I should defeat their master.”
“Wolves know no master,” Melkor says, lips twitching with a smile that would have been inviting on any other. “Or if they do, they would be as quick to turn upon him than to obey his whims. Do not make a habit of befriending what cannot be domesticated, or in offering the hand, will you see your arm being also taken away.”
Finwë curls his fingers deeper around the handle of his sword. “Or, in launching an attack, could they taste the vivid reminder of why we thought them subdued in the first place. Because of their initial defeat, which serve as good a remembrance for them and us. Wolves are not deemed the wisest of the forest, for it is the role of the owl, of the bird, but even them kneel before survival instinct.”
There is in turn the edge of laughter on perfectly made lips, and Finwë thinks that he ever loved to be the source of laughter until he had heard this one. It is a soft, and deeply amused laugh, it is the cheer of one who holds precious a piece of information others have not been privy to. It is a triumphant one, although kept quiet for the sake of a reason himself ignores. Finwë looks at him, and there is a sense of dread in his heart that makes his fingers tremble around the handle.
“What you deem wise, little King, and what knowledge I have been given can be as far away as two stars in the sky.”
“Knowledge does not entail to actions,” Finwe says. He looks at him, silver eyes like two gemstones freshly taken out of the mines. “Knowledge entails to advice, and to sharing, never to self-accomplishment.”
Melkor smiles anew, and this one smile is sharp and amused. “Are you lessoning me on proper behavior?”
“Call it paternal deformation.” Finwë releases slightly the grip he has on his sword. “I wonder, does years grant wisdom by force of experience, or is it the active pursuit of understanding that causes it to bloom? Or is it that in walking amongst those of your kind and others, your understanding for the reason for our choices sharpens into new edges? You have been given far greater years than I do, for you saw the blooming of this world even before we were but a thought in our Maker’s mind, and yet if wisdom is forced by the experience of social gathering, am I not wiser than you are?” He smiles as he says this, and it is just enough of derisive to say that Finwë does not think himself wise at all. “Or is it that I call wisdom what should be called kindness?”
Melkor, the Dark Hunter, is listening. He looks at Finwë with still this slight amusement, and the edge of something else entirely in his eyes. It is something that Finwë is trying to pierce apart, trying to understand what it is. He saw it already. He saw it in Feanaro’s eyes when he drew that sword on Nolofinwe, he saw it in his own eyes the day he married Indis.
“Kindness,” Melkor says. “I do not think that you have discovered kindness, yet.” He says this matter of factly. Just flatly enough to be concerning. There is no hatred, nor judgement, and it is this tone which disconcerts Finwë most. “You have discovered leisure, and you have discovered the peace that comes with walking in a circle. You have not discovered kindness, little King, as kindness if a choice, and you have never received the opportunity to make such a choice.”
“Lighten me, then, on your definition of your kindness. I will tell you mine then, and perhaps I might change your mind.”
Melkor looks at him with studied lenience. “Very well.” He takes a step forward. Finwë is half of a mind to offer tea. He does not, and instead he looks at Melkor as if both were sitting in council, and not bright within the dark. “Kindness, little King, is strength.”
A silence. Melkor does not develop any further. Finwë gives him a glance of mild bemusement, waiting for him to continue. But there is no others words, just this sentence. Kindness is strength.
“Kindness needs strength,” Finwë softly corrects.
Melkor smiles. “I said what I said.”
Finwë founds his next words to elude him. He wanted to buy himself time, but the grin is spreading on those cursed lips, and he has no next thought to offer. Or perhaps he has, but articulating them is a strength in itself. “Kindness,” he says. “Kindness…”
There is only silence which meets him. Melkor studies him still, his golden gaze blinding enough to drown any in it, and his grin has faded for quiet contemplation. The gift of waiting, at last, and Finwë did not expect so much. He wants to laugh, he does, for this does not make any sense. He expected a quick death, but it is nothing like he expected it. And he surprises himself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, kindness might win over violence for this one.
“Oh,” Finwë realizes. “Kindness is a weapon.”
Surprise colors Melkor’s face. Then- it morphs into consideration, as if for the very first-time paying attention to Finwë’s words. “And how is it a weapon?”
“Wielded right, helps achieve far more results than any blow. It is the long game, but some of the worthiest are long games.”
Melkor laughs at this. He tilts his head to the side, and long, silken black hair form but a curtain around his pale face. “But it is not kindness which leads to the greatest fits, little King. It is anger, and it is grief. Grief strikes a motivation that knows no competition, and anger in turn fuels so that steps are made forward and forward. I have known no kindness to be behind innovation. Have you?”
“I have,” Finwë says. “I have, and that you have not means that you have paid very little attention to the world you seem determinate to hate. The hatred of the unknown is not hatred but fear. I have, and I have seen kindness cause great progress, and I have seen it prompt us forward.”
“Maybe it is so,” Melkor says, offering a smile full of teeth. “But I do not search if it prompted you forward. I search if it would prompt you forward enough.”
He jolts, as if stricken by a blow. What does he mean by that…? Finwë shut his mouth with a snap, although he had opened it. He looks at Melkor in mild horror, and despite himself, takes a step back. What…? “Why…?” he asks, and his voice is fainter than he would like it. “Why would you wish for this? Which reasoning…”
Melkor laughs once more. It echoes through the dimly lit chamber, sending shivers down Finwë’s spine. He considers what Finwë asks for a moment, and when he speaks next, there is no mistaking the glint of deep amusement within his voice. “You ask for what even the King of Kings does not know. Knowledge comes with a price. Is it one that you feel ready to pay for?”
Finwë's gaze narrows, a cascade of thoughts streaming through his mind as he unravels the enigmatic tapestry woven by Melkor's cryptic words. The gravity of the moment descends upon him, a profound awareness that he teeters on the edge of a decision destined to sculpt the fate of his people. But what to chose? How to decide? He knows too little for a decision to be made all it should be.
"What cost?" Finwë demands, his voice now a measured cadence cutting through the charged air. “Speak with clarity. I shall not be swayed by veiled threats or elusive riddles. If a toll accompanies the knowledge you proffer, let it be revealed.”
Melkor's laughter recedes, replaced by a calculating gaze that usurps the earlier amusement in his eyes. “The cost is profound, little King. It demands sacrifice—of ideals, alliances, the very sinews that weave the fabric of your world. Knowledge is not a gift freely bestowed; it emerges through upheaval, the dismantling of boundaries.”
His mind races, a maelstrom of contemplation swirling within as he grapples with the weight of Melkor's proposition. Foreboding tendrils seek to entwine him, yet he resolutely pushes them aside, refusing to succumb to the tendrils of fear.
“And what assurance can you offer that the knowledge gained justifies such sacrifices?” Finwe asks. “How do I know it will usher in a better world, rather than one consumed by the chaos you promise?"
Melkor inches closer, casting a formidable shadow that engulfs Finwë, his looming presence eclipsing the King of the Noldor. “Assurances,” he says, his voice a resonating echo in the chamber, "”re mere comforts for the frail. I will not push you to know, Finwë. It is a but a gift that I am giving you. A one-time offer, if you will.”
“Then,” Finwë says, and raises his sword. He smiles, and his smile is a sad one. “I will take it.”
.
.
.
There is no fight.
It can not be called a fight. It is not a quick thing, and Finwë never really hoped. He might have by the end, but it was the folly of one facing his death, and realizing he would rather live. There is no fight. There is Melkor, and there is a large spear made of silver, and Finwë has no time to fight.
The spear pierce through his stomach, pinning him to the wall, just short enough from his lungs. He knows Melkor could aim, and he knows it is purposeful that his death is not immediate. He will choke on his blood, and he will gargle, and he will hear and see as the Silmarils are taken from his pocket, hear and see as Melkor leans towards him.
There is a faint kiss to Finwë’s cheek, where the jawline touches the ear.
“When Eru wove the fabric of the world with his song, he entrusted me with a grander purpose,” Melkor murmurs. His thumb gently grazes Finwë's jawline. “He composed me to fulfill this purpose, to be the catalyst for change that you required. When Eru sang the world into existence, it became too rigidly defined, little King, leading to the emergence of the One Task. Thus, I was fashioned to be the thorn in your side, urging you to break free from apathy, compelling you to address the singular flaw in the Design. I was destined to rectify the Design. Your journey to Valinor was not intended, and it falls upon me to correct such an error. I am tasked with guiding you back to the lands where you rightfully belong. It all commences with your demise, my sovereign, and unfolds with the destiny of the Silmarils.”
Finwë is choking, tears of blood and horror running down the length of his cheeks, and Melkor pulls back.
“It only begins,” Melkor says. “But the one mercy I grant you is that you will not be there to see it.” He tilts his head up, and looks at the ceiling, eyes piercing through it to gaze at the starless night. “Kindness is a weapon, maybe, little King. But mostly it is a strength that I hope I will have.”
Finwë makes a gargled sound, trying to pull out the spear from where it sank into him. He is weeping, trying to talk but he can only choke, pain everywhere—
He wants to see the stars—he wants to see the light— he wants to see his sons—
I’m so sorry, Finwë thinks. I’m so sorry. Naro. I’m so sorry. Nolofinwe. Ara. I didn’t win. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you.
“May your slumber be undisturbed,” Melkor says. “And may my strength not fail me.”
I’m so sorry.
I tried.
I tried.