Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë Aracáno (nolofinwe) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-06-02 12:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !plot |
Who: Anairë & Fingolfin (with a brief appearance of Fingon & Maedhros)
What: Talking, sitting with their son.
Where: Fingon's room at the hospital
When: Now.
Open: To Kytana
Warnings | Status: TBD | in progress
It was hard to say by looking at him what state Fingon was in after the battle. He looked peaceful in his sleep, but that was hardly comforting to those who watched him. Fingolfin felt fear. He knew fear intimately, but his bravery came from facing it no less, but the fear of battle is different from the fear of death. Not his own death, but the death of his son who he loved dearly. He did not regret Fingon's participation in the battle with the machines only days before. He would never ask of his soldiers what he himself was not willing to give, and that included the sacrifice of those dear to him. But what he did regret was the pain it caused Anairë. After two thousand five hundred years together--give or take several centuries--Fingolfin knew her, absolutely, at the heart of her being.
And he could read the subtle changes in her expression, the way she held her shoulders. By all appearances to mortal eyes she looked fine if stoic and reserved, but he could see the hurt in her form and it made his heart ache for her. She loved her children dearly, all four of them, and she had felt them all die one by one, while she stood helplessly behind with no comfort. There was no ease for her suffering. And now she must watch her son as he lay abed, hanging between life or death; he would fade or he would survive, but what choice he took was not yet known to any of them. Not even to Maedhros, who stood resolutely in the corner, the troubled storm in his grey eyes brewing. Fingolfin feared what would happen to him if Fingon died. He feared what Maedhros would do to others in his despair. He was Fëanorian and the rage of Fëanorians could not be quelled by words alone.
Fingolfin looked between his nephew, his queen and his son, and mourned for all their pains. Tears welled in his eyes and without shame he let them fall, then bent carefully to touch a kiss to Anairë's dark hair, his hands resting gently on her upper arms to squeeze them reassuringly. It was the only outward affection they gave each other in public, but their bond went deep and radiated for each other in places other eyes could never see. They were one, their pain was shared, and their fear equal to each others in all things. Fingolfin took a seat, imperious and regal, beside his queen. They were the High Lord and Lady of the Noldor and looked every bit the royalty they were. There was no casualness to Fingolfin's movements, but a fluidity and grace borne of the Eldar, and a masterful purpose in all that he did. Seated even as a mother and father in a hospital room, before their wounded son, there was an ethereal otherworldly look about them. Alien in nature.
"á vala Manwë envinyata inya yondo."
His voice was like music, the words silver bells in the air. It was a quiet plead, one borne of hope that Manwë would heal their fallen son.