I own nothing.
He pushes the doors open, and sees his sister sitting on the throne. Arafinwë was told that she would be, but he is still not prepared for the sight. He is still too used to seeing Finwë sitting there, holding court, speaking with councilors, settling disputes. He is still too used to seeing the King sitting there bathed in golden light. Anything else feels wrong. But there sits Findis, in darkness banished only by torches. There sits Findis, in shadow.
Waiting for him, and what he will say.
Their eyes lock, blue and gray. She has been waiting for him; those who told Arafinwë that his sister is now Queen also told Findis of her youngest brother's return to Tirion. Arafinwë wonders how long she has been waiting for any good news at all. He wonders how long she waited for him, when in his trepidation he walked slowly, paused, for a moment contemplated fleeing into the wilderness so he would never have to face her after leaving her here alone. He wonders what Findis must think, to see him standing before her now, when he had left with their half-brother, their brother and sister. He wonders what she must think to see that he was unable to persuade even one of his children to return with him.
But there is no telling what Findis thinks. She seems much the same as usual. Her sleek black hair and the gold brocade in her green skirt gleams in the torch light. She meets his gaze frankly, her face expressionless, inscrutable just as it so often is. Findis seems calm and composed, despite the state of the world around them, despite the fact that the world has gone dark, their father is dead, Tirion is all but empty and the fleeing Noldor perpetrated a terrible crime in Alqualondë.
(She's going to want to hear about that from him. Findis must already know what happened in Alqualondë, she must, but she's going to want to hear Arafinwë's account of the massacre, and he is dreading having to speak of it. He was not there when his kin perpetrated the massacre, but even being spared that sight is no consolation. The stench of the blood and the cold flesh of the dead haunt his every waking moment.)
As Arafinwë looks at her, though, he does see small differences. The gold circlet that she so rarely wore in the days of light sits on her head now, and gone is the sheer stole that she would wear over her hair—too Vanyarin for the Queen of the Noldor, perhaps. Her posture is stiff; she sits in the (her) throne as though the shadow of he who once sat here is all too apparent to her as well. Findis's long hands twitch in her lap, idle and wishing for something to do. He thinks, with some pity, that she looks somewhat like a doll set upon some heathen altar, tall and still and beautiful, but also constrained
A tumult of thoughts flood Arafinwë's mind, a tumult of memories. He remembers Fëanáro's paranoia over Nolofinwë's perceived designs upon the throne, remembers that Fëanáro completely overlooked Findis. When Nolofinwë finally resolved that Fëanáro was unsuitable as their father's heir, he too ignored that Findis was his elder. Everyone overlooked Findis. It seemed an unspoken understanding that only Finwë's sons were eligible heirs.
He remembers Fëanáro and Nolofinwë squabbling over the succession, remembers how their enmity had divided the Noldor. He remembers that Findis, not even considered a back-up heir by most, was considered a contender for the throne not at all, even lesser in consideration than the least of Finwë's sons.
He remembers that he could be considered a legitimate claimant to the throne over his sisters, even Findis, the eldest of Indis's children. He remembers how important it is for the heirs to the throne to present a united front to the Noldor, even a small remnant.
The thought arises in Arafinwë's mind, that if he pressed his claim to the throne, there are those who would support him.
But Arafinwë knows he won't. Perhaps he has resented being considered the least of Finwë's sons, but never has he resented the knowledge that he was never considered a viable heir to the Kingship of the Noldor. He remembers all too well the divisions Fëanáro and Nolofinwë sparked with their feuding. Findis is his only kin left in Tirion. They were never the closest of siblings, but attempting to overthrow her would involve destroying whatever relationship they still have. She is Queen now, and he, her brother, must stand behind her. The importance of his support is paramount.
This resolution does nothing to alleviate the anxious churning in his stomach as Arafinwë steps forward. How should he greet her, then? Findis is not only his sister now, but his Queen, and she certainly does look the part, sitting tall and gleaming with gold.
And she has not said a word to him. She sits there, tall and silent, staring him down inscrutably, and Findis has not said a word to him.
Should he bow, then? Kneel? Even prostrate himself as he did before the Valar, begging forgiveness for himself and those who had followed him back into Eldamar?
As Arafinwë stands there, wavering and looking uncertainly to Findis, she seems to come to life again, less a doll and more a living, breathing Queen. She stands and walks down from the dais, still silent, the soles of her shoes making a sharp, staccato sound against the floor that echoes in the cavernous chamber. Findis still says not a word as she approaches, and Arafinwë wonders apprehensively what she will say. She stops in front of him, and he waits to be berated for leaving, for going along with their brothers' mad scheme for so long.
Then, she does something that she has not done since he was a child.
Findis throws her arms around his neck. "I am so glad you came back," she mutters, breathing raggedly.
Arafinwë wraps his arms around her back. All of the tension floods out of his body, and he does not think he has ever felt so tired and weary as he does now. "So am I," he says, and wishes his children had come back with him.
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin