A/N: The story of Finrod and Amarië has haunted me from the first time I read the one passage in the Silmarillion where the latter is mentioned: "...But foresight came upon Felagund...and he said: 'An oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfill it, and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.' But it is said that not until that hour had such cold thoughts ruled him; for indeed she whom he had loved was Amarië of the Vanyar, and she went not with him into exile."
So I determined to attempt to make Amarië more to me than just a name, and this was the result. The first chapter is Amarië's POV, and beware, quite angsty. Any tense confusions are intentional (or uncaught), to portray the passing of time has become distorted to either Amarië or Finrod. I have also used Sindarin names such as 'Finrod' probably even when, according to strict canon I should have used 'Findaráto'. This is simply artistic interpretation (or laziness) on my part, though I am a purist myself.
Some explanation is also required concerning Amarië's name. According to The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth, Amarië means "of the home", (hence the title) the main element being "mar", which is Quenyan for "home."
Silmarillion literacy is definitely a must for this fic.
Chapter One:
I awoke this day, to find the staggering radiance of Arien at its height. I shall never grow used to her blaze, never be accustomed to being roused by anything other than the dazzling, yet gentle and restrained mingling light of Telperion and Laurelin. Not even after so long.
Had it been so very long? I know not. Time itself seems strange and unfamiliar after the advent of Anár. My sense of time is thoroughly perplexed, unsure whether to measure the passing days, passing yen, according to the agelessness of the Eldar and Aman, or the vessel that scorches the eyes of those who seek in vain to gaze upon the Stars the Kindler had placed there in twilights before Elven memory.
Cuiviénen. I recall my own awakening there, long ago. Before sun and moon, before the sundering of the Quendi. When we all stood as one Eldar beneath the undimmed brilliance of the stars, chanting our praises and simple lays. There was nothing but the stars, and our joy.
How tranquil it seems now, how impossibly long ago. Until Morgoth, as the Noldor rightly call him, who mars all things, even now. Fear enveloped our existence, fear of a malevolent shadow that should blacken the stars from our sight.
My thoughts linger there, in abhorrence, as I gaze longingly at Ezellohar's withered trees, barely aware of my surroundings, which, save the Trees, all seem to fade to insignificance with each passing day. How I long for that time when I had walked carefree under their united gold and silver hues, never entering my mind even in my most whimsical or foreboding thoughts, that one day that it should one day be no more than a grief-stricken memory. Now what was gold is black, and what was the most brilliant of silver is deathly gray.
The Quendi, all of us, even unto the Avari and Úmanyar, are gifted with clear recollection, so that we may imprint an image in our hearts and minds, but even the memory of the Eldar wanes and fades. But if I could preserve the radiance of the two aldar in all their splendor, precisely as they were, I would not, could not. For I would see them devoured greedily by shadow and blackness, and remember that they were no more... and that I could not bear.
He had left me enough sorrow to last me throughout the ages of my existence, and it was no less poignant now. Finrod...
I had walked with him under the solace and beauty of the Trees once. Once...
We had found love there, but its promises and our vanished joy were now as desolate as the remnants of the Trees.
Of the home, I thought bitterly. Amarië was a name I upheld all too well, and now even it seemed to taunt me. But what else was I to do? I was Vanyarin, and my people had always remained faithful to the Valar, and loved Aman most. I was entranced yet with Valinor, could not leave. I was of the Calaquendi, how should I dwell among those who were not? And I was afraid. Afraid... afraid to face shadow, to battle fire and ice. My will was no match for Morgoth's, no match for thralldom and death. But that you should endure this entered not into your minds, fool Noldor, not even yours, Finrod! Yes, and you too were eager to go, too eager, to leave, and too confident of swift triumph. You could see it not, would not see, that even then you were his thralls. In your haste you were dismissive of doom. Do you think even now it will not find you, kinslayers? And because I know it will, I weep, weep to think you might have been among these cursed slayers of kin, my beloved... and I weep, because Mandos cannot be gainsaid.
I loved him, the eldest of Finarfin. But I could not leave, not for him, not for any love, for Aman was foremost in my heart, and only near the trees could I be and live happily.
But even Aman holds little joy for me now. I am haunted by the shadow of regret, of longing, the specter of doubt whispering the tantalizing 'what might have come to pass.' What might have come to pass- if I had gone with him.
And every time Tilion waywardly traverses the vault of the stars, I wonder, as many sundered lovers do, if he looks on wandering Isil and the Star-host as I do, remembering.
Remembering me.
Amarië, they call me.
Perhaps. But how can I be of the home, when my heart truly dwells in the keeping of him across the sea, wide and great though it be?
Finrod. I used to question, Why did you go? Why must you bring such pain upon me?
And if you asked the same of me.
Or, were you content with your victories, the realms under your sway -and dare I wonder?- your life with another?
But I received no answers.
Now I simply long to see you once more, to converse with you and clasp your hands, so that you will not depart again.
Once you visited my dreams. We gazed on each other, poured our weary hearts that still longed for what once was out to the other, embraced and kissed as we used to do; only to awake and discover it was but a dream. A dream... did you share it, Finrod?
Or is my love now unrequited?
But there is no vessel to sail me to your side, save if I should leave the land of the living, and no longer dwell among them.
Among the living...
Am I, indeed? For as Arien vanishes from sight every evening, I sense a part of me ebb away with her light, fading with the sunset, lost to an eternity of sorrow. And as the uncounted yen pass, I feel myself dwindle into little more than a shade. A shade that yearns and longs for you, Finrod.
There have been few Quendi who have left Arda's circles, even including those who have fallen now at Morgoth's hand in Endóre. I often list them in my mind, wondering if I shall share their fate, and if my burdened fëa will no longer pace the confines of my fading body, but burst forth to join those tarrying in Mandos. There were those at Cuiviénen, taken by the shadow, but I knew nothing of them, if they had perished, or were thralls of the darkness yet. There was broideress Míriel, the first Queen of the Noldor, who had wed Finwë, (thy grandsire, Finrod) and who had imparted so much of her spirit in bringing forth her son that the remnants were not enough to sustain her, and now lay lifeless in the keeping of Estë. Finwë had followed her, slain by the one his son hated most, the unhappy first to die thus in all of Aman, but not the last...
Fëanor, their son, also journeyed there. Even we in Valinor had seen his fiery spirit as it burned streaking, scorching, as it always had, towards its final destination, dissolving to naught but a trail of ashes.
The victims of the Kinslaying...
And then I feel the stab of grief as I know, in my heart that you are among them who have gone to Mandos, Finrod. Of how and why, I have no knowledge. Do I even wish to know?
I felt your agony in the hour of your death. I sensed your spirit cry out to mine, and leave me behind once again.
Our hearts are still bound, son of Finarfin, though you be claimed by Námo's shadow and I linger on...
But not for long, shall I tarry, Finrod. For this is one voyage I shall not hesitate to make.
And then I shall be Amarië no longer.
To Be Continued... possibly. Possibly. If you think it worth continuing, REVIEW! Otherwise, it will probably vanish into the hordes of one-shots.