A/N So this is a sequel to my fic "Such is the Past" though I don't believe it is necessary to read that one first (unless you really want to know why Miriel is in this). I thought about making this a chapter in that fic, but I felt it could stand on its own and I'd just make them a series, entitled "to the root and buried flesh," instead. Enjoy, and let me know if you like it!
Oh and I don't have a beta and all mistakes are mine :)
o0o
In retrospect, death was not the worst thing to happen to Finwe Noldoran. He felt no urge to return to life, for his had held the heavy burden of a crown and of a fractured family-not many elves could lay claim to the last. In Mandos Halls he was at peace and he liked it. The only downside was that he had time for introspection. He spent long hours thinking and remembering. The victories and failures of his kinghood never held his attention; instead, his thoughts were filled with family. Scenes played in his head and he went through all the things he could have done to keep Feanaro from committing the acts he had. And it was Feanaro that filled most of his thoughts-ceaselessly Finwe had thought of him-even with the joy of seeing his Miriel again, his thoughts had not shifted. Then Feanaro had arrived at Mandos and Finwe had been glad.
It was then that Finwe's thoughts had shifted to his other children, and scenes once again began to play in his head, but this time instead of thinking of the way he could have made things better for Feanaro, he thought of all the moments he handled wrongly or wasn't a part of with regards to his other children.
Nolofinwe's asking eyes flashed through his mind.
Finwe shook his head. He did not want to think about that-about sons and brothers and swords and the questioning eyes he never answered. So he thinks of something else.
It is not that he had not loved all his children-he had-it hurt how much he had. But he could not lie (not even to himself) and say that he had loved them all the same. He had not, and he was aware enough to know it. The heartbreaking thing was that his children knew it too.
Finwe remembers once when Indis had been visiting relatives he decided to take their children on a picnic. It was so very rare to have them all in the palace at the same time and Finwe did not want to waste the opportunity. They had received his idea with excitement and all took the day off. But it had not ended as Finwe had envisioned it, for that day Feanaro had made one of his surprise visits. The planned picnic had become secondary in Finwe's mind as Feanaro had regaled him with plans for a new invention. It was only past his death, as he sat in Mandos Halls that Finwe remembered the looks exchanged between his other children. They had been both knowing and resigned as Finwe postponed their plans, as usually occurred when Feanaro would visit, and they left the two of them alone.
Later, Finwe and Feanaro had walked in the garden talking until the murmur of quiet voices had stilled them. In a grove of trees were all four of Indis' children. Findis sat with her back to a tree while Nolofinwe laid with his head on her lap-Lalwen and Arafinwe were asleep on either side of him with their heads pillowed on his chest and stomach respectively. Findis and Nolofinwe spoke quietly as she braided his hair. The only thing that Finwe could understand is that they called each other by their mother-names.
An ache had formed in his chest as he watched them and realized he had not postponed their plans-simply excluded himself from them. His children had grown and adapted and they knew the scale of his love, and most painfully, they knew they were not on the winning side. As they grew they had stopped looking to him to change the weighing process, except for once. Gray eyes had looked at him across steel and fire and pleaded for the scales to change-for Finwe to intervene-but he had not, and the eyes had looked away and never pleaded with him again.
Centuries later, In the Halls of Mandos Finwe still felt the ache that the memory brought, which is why he hardly thought of it anymore-or of them. He instead spent his time with Feanaro and Miriel, though not together. None of them were healed enough for that, not yet. But Miriel had started asking of his other family, curious for reasons he could not decipher. And he began talking of them, though not the deep or dark things-such as drops of blood down a fair throat. Instead, he spoke of light things, such as Findis' paintings, and Lalwen's laughter, and they way Arafinwe's hair shone under the trees, and he spoke of Nolofinwe's steadfastness. He sweetly spoke of the four siblings together on a picnic-and it still hurt.
Nolofinwe died and Finwe could not find it within himself to look for him. He knows that when he does he will have to look into those gray eyes, and Finwe is terrified of what he will find in them. So he does not look, and besides, he is sure that Nolofinwe will look for him. He will search for his father and when he finds him, Finwe will be ready. Except Nolofinwe does not search and Finwe hears nothing of his son since his arrival to the Halls-the circumstances of which he has also avoided thinking of.
"Finwe," it is Miriel's voice calling his name.
"I am here," he responds.
"She turns into his chamber and says, "I have brought someone to you." She gestures to somewhere out of his view...and in steps Nolofinwe.
Finwe's breath catches in his chest. It is his son and yet...it is not. His eyes are gray, his hair is dark and his skin is fair. He is the same height. But he is changed.
"Father," the voice is soft and Finwe fears looking into the eyes.
"I found him in the Shadow Halls and convinced him that seeing you was no imposition," there was an edge to her voice he had not heard before and it awakened him.
He looked at his second son and saw how he hovered near the door as if he was not sure if he was welcomed. And the realization of his own selfishness nearly choked Finwe-he was no better father in death than he had been in life.
"Nolo," he breathed out and rushed to his startled son. Nolofinwe was tense and did not return the hug at first. He slowly brought his arms around his father, though he did not relax.
"Come. Sit. We have much to speak of," Finwe led his son to sit down and tried not to think about how cold his son's fea had felt in his arms.
"I will bid my farewells now," Miriel spoke, "I hope to see you again, Fingolfin."
His son nodded, "So long, Lady Miriel." And she was gone.
Fingolfin, the name resounded in Finwe's head. He had still to look his son in the eyes-he does not recall ever being such a coward before. Finwe steels himself and looks into his son's eyes. There is...nothing. No hate, no condemnation, no blame, and no pleading. But there is also no love or joy. Just icy nothings.
"Why did you not seek me out?" Finwe asks.
A small curve pulls one side of Nolofinwe's mouth up. Fingolfin. Finwe never remembered Nolofinwe to be one for bitter smirks.
"And could you have not sought me out?" Nolofinwe asks.
Finwe does not know how to respond to such a truth. He had not been prepared for it. He did not think that his son would question him so-not Nolofinwe. He once again looked at the cold eyes-Fingolfin-and realized that he does not know this son. The son he knew had had the blue of calm water etched in the gray of his eyes, not the blue of a winter storm. Finwe now regretted his avoidance of any knowledge of what had happened in Arda Marred. At first, it had been too much for his wounded fea. He had learned of oaths and dooms...and it had nearly broken him anew. Then Feanaro had arrived to the halls and Finwe put all his focus on him, as if it would somehow fix all the dark things created by his son's hand. Finwe did not pay attention to what his second son was doing. He did not wish to know, though that did not necessarily keep him from seeing tapestries of ice. And for all that he would have preferred not knowing how Nolofinwe had died, it was an impossible thing to not learn.
"Forgive me. I should not have said that," his son spoke again, "Truly, I had not expected it of you." He said as if it absolved Finwe of anything.
"Still," Finwe said quietly, "I should have sought you out. You are my son, and I should have made sure you were ok."
Nolofinwe simply shrugged, as if whether his father cared enough to find him after his own death was of little matter. Fingolfin. Finwe wanted to grab him and shake him and yell who are you. All he knew was that this was not his little Nolo before him. His sweet boy that had been filled with curiosity, and when grown had always stood behind Finwe as a steady force. This elf before him was a force alright, but not a steady one. His son had become the force of war drums and ringing steel. Finwe looked at him and felt the chill of never-ending ice and drowning water. Before him was a king crowned in blood and doom. He was Fingolfin and Nolofinwe had died long before he had challenged the dark Vala.
Finwe was filled with a bitter pain, for the son he knew was forever lost to him, and he knew those gray eyes would never ask anything from him again.
"What is it you mourn father?"
The question pulled Finwe out of his thoughts and looking up he saw all the dark unhealed things in the other. "I mourn you Nolofinwe," he said. And though his words were not meant to hurt he saw that they did-it was the first showing of any feeling within the other.
"Forgive me," Finwe said, "It seems that I have now hurt you with both my silence and my words."
"Do not think on it, Father...It is of little consequence," Fingolfin said with a small smile.
"But it is of consequence. How I loathe that I taught you that your pain matters so little."
"It was a necessary lesson and better that I learned it young," Fingolfin gave another one of his shrugs.
If Finwe had a still beating heart he would have ripped it out himself and crushed it-he did not deserve it.
"Pain matters little when survival is at stake," Fingofil continued, "Anger is much more useful. In that I now understand Feanaro better," he said pensively.
It was matter-of-fact and looking at him Finwe knew that his anger had not been the same as Feanaro's. Where Feanaro had burned any in his way with his anger, Fingolfin's anger had been cold and calculated-until the end that is.
"Your anger did not seem to be very useful against Morgoth," Finwe said.
Finwe did not know what sort of response he had expected to his remark but his son's first full smile was not it. It was a vicious thing, and Finwe could almost picture it dripping with blood.
"He will forever limp. That makes it useful enough for me," Fingolfin said.
"You died!" Finwe could not keep himself from raising his voice.
"And what of it?" Fingolfin matched his intensity, though he kept his voice low, "Alive or dead I will never be Nolofinwe of Valinor again-you would have mourned me anyway."
"I.." Finwe begins to speak.
"What can you say, Father? Would you not mourn me as I sit before you if I had kept Feanaro from getting himself killed? Or if I had taken a step forward when your son held the sword to my throat? Then perhaps I would still be what you remembered...or at least a part of him may still remain." Fingolfin paused and Finwe knew he was not speaking to his son, but with a peer.
"Do you wish to know what my anger did for me?" Fingolfin continued. Finwe did not want to know. "It got me across the ice. It turned the ice warm under my steps, for the anger burned much colder inside me. It was not bravery that saw me through, but anger and hate-hate for your son." Fingolfin's eyes burned, "That's right Finwe Noldoran, for just as much as you love him I hated him."
Your son-not brother, "And do you still hate so?"
"No," The response was quick. "I neither hate nor love. I do not know which is worse, the hate I felt or this...indifference." Fingolfin looked genuinely curious before continuing, almost as if talking to himself. "It seems to cover everything...Though perhaps it is better that way, as the hate and pain now outweigh the love I once felt. This numbness is better." Then his voice once again grew hard. "Do not worry, your son is safe from any malcontent I have felt."
Finwe felt out of his depth. He felt small, and the reality of the son before him caused every part of him to ache. He took a hand in the breaking and remaking of Nolofinwe Finwion. He had blood on his hands.
"It is not Feanaro that I worry for now," Finwe said through a closing throat. Reaching forward he grabbed his son's hand, "I love you, my son, know that."
"I do father-I know your love. I know how far it goes and where it ends." The words were calm.
Pleading eyes flashed through Finwe's mind.
"I have taken too much of your time," Fingolfin said and he suddenly stood up, signifying the end of the conversation, "Forgive me." he headed for the door.
Finwe got up, "Will you return?"
"Will you look for me?" and with that Fingolfin, former High King of the Noldor, left.
Finwe felt cold.
It was a shrouding silence that met Miriel when she returned.
"I have failed," Finwe whispered.
"It is not too late."
"He is gone. My son does not believe I have his best interest at heart. He will never trust me."
"Do you not have eternity?"
"We may have eternity, but also an eternal memory. With all the healing he will receive, he will love again, and he will forever be my son, but Fingolfin will never again have the trust Nolofinwe had," He mournfully looked at her, "I saw it die. His brother held a sword to his throat and I did nothing. He looked at me and I could see the pleads for intervention in his eyes, and I did not answer them. Then I left. Know that and tell me it can be forgiven."
"Perhaps it cannot be forgiven, but it does not mean that you can betray what is left of your son for the mourning of what is gone."
Finwe closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his fists, "You are correct. From now on I will go to him."
Miriel merely answered with a nod.
Finwe still felt cold.