above all shadows rides the Sun by quillingmesoftly

above all shadows rides the Sun

Prompt Quote: "But Gwindor sat in dark thought; and on a time he spoke to Finduilas, saying: 'Daughter of the house of Finarfin, let no grief lie between us; for though Morgoth has laid my life in ruin, you still I love. Go whither love leads you; yet beware!" ~ Of Túrin Turambar

Read above all shadows rides the Sun

When he goes to see her, he does not know why.

She still lives in Valimar, according to his father. His father, whose skin is unmarred and unwrinkled, whose back is straight and whose hair is golden as ever. But his eyes give the lie away: the loss of his children, his sisters, his brothers, has all shaped and wounded him, so very deeply, to the point where Finrod had nearly not recognised him.

Saelind would have laughed, if he had told her, he thinks, as he walks. If he spoke to her again of the immortality and memory of the Elves holding them fast to Arda, in all its woe and grief. And then she would tell him that it was better than the darkness of uncertainty, and that they still had sunlight, and no arthritis. 

Stars, he misses Saelind. 

Valimar is still filled with singing, still filled with joy, the light of Vása high above illuminating the city differently. The colours are fiercer now, the shadows stronger, the world filled with greater contrast. 

He turns down the street, and sees her, sitting cross-legged on the stone fence outside her house as she used to, a notebook open on her knee, scribbling in it.

He walks closer, waiting for her to hear him.

She does not, not until he is less than two yards away, and then she glances up.

Her eyes meet his.

She stands and jumps off the fence, threading her pencil into her hair, and snapping the notebook shut, and then stills, hesitating on whether to walk forward or not.

“Amárië,” he says. 

“Findaráto,” she says, and her voice is still the same, in cadence and pitch, but that is not his name. Not anymore.

Now he knows why he had to come, at least. 

He gives her a smile, runs a hand through his hair to acknowledge the awkwardness of it, in order to move past it. It was a technique that Bëor had excelled in, and used to great advantage in Nargothrond.

Nargothrond. Was Orodreth doing alright? Had he–

He breathes in. The air is warm, even now that the Trees are gone, and far too humid to be Beleriand. 

He is in Aman. His part in that story is over. But Findaráto is still not his name. Not anymore. 

“I’m going by Finrod, these days,” he says lightly. “It’s been a long time, since I’ve been Findaráto.” 

Her eyes are not the same. They are weighing and assessing. They are hesitant. 

Slowly, she walks forward, and gives him a quick, awkward hug, the gesture signaling the words to come: “I’m sure it has been, Finrod. It has been a long time since I was your Amárië.” Her tone is thoughtful, rather than upset, as she draws back from the hug.  “I don’t think I will ever be her again.” 

She has made her decision, and all he feels for it is relief. Relief that she did not try and kiss him, relief that she will not ask him to reform their betrothal, relief that she no longer wishes to marry him. There is not even a faint sting that logically should accompany such a rejection. 

(Do moths pity candles, Saelind?)

“You could start going by your father-name. Ingolmiel has quite a pleasant sound,” he suggests. 

Her nose wrinkles. “Because I’ve always been such a dutiful scholar’s daughter.” Her voice is bitter as she shakes her head, as though trying to shake that old insecurity of hers off. “I suppose I have been, in the end. I didn’t go with you into Exile, after all.” Amárië questioned many aspects of the way of life of the Vanyar, but the questioning was never as heated as those that the Noldor directed at the Valar. Rebellious only to a point, and the questions of her poetry had always had an undercurrent of wry reverence to them, as though she had recognised that even if the ways of the Vanyar were flawed, she could only escape them to a point.

Finrod understands that questioning better, now. He thinks that he sees her more clearly, too. 

Her cheeks have flushed, and she looks at him, blue eyes suddenly wide, as she asks abruptly: “Are you well? I heard about your–” 

“Strangely, yes!” Finrod says, when she cuts herself off. He laughs, and the sound is startling to him, as it falls from his mouth. “You can say it, Amárië. My death.” Apparently, this would be one of the consequences of living re-embodied: reminding people that his death was over. 

“It doesn’t…hurt, to discuss it?”  

He shakes his head at her, smiling. “The ending was dark, but there was joy and life and love before it. Even under the shadow. And beyond it…” 

Beyond it, where Bëor and Barahir have gone, beyond it where Andreth has gone, where Beren will go someday–

If Saelind has found light, if all her culture’s theories at last turned out to be incorrect, Finrod hopes that Beren will survive the meeting, and that the irony of it will prove a small consolation.

Await us there, my brother, and me, he’d told her.

Depending on what kind of mood she is in by the final meeting, he might have to duck. 

The air is humid in his throat as he breathes in again, and he gives Amárië a reassuring smile. “Well, beyond it, the Halls of Mandos, which were not so bad.” But no Saelind. And no Barahir, or Bëor. “And now, Vása in the sky above us.”

Before that reunion happened was Arda, in all its terror and woe, ferocity and beauty. 

Amárië smiles, and sits back up on the stone of the fence, her notebook flipping open again. “How much have you heard of its making? It’s an interesting story.” 

“Not as much as I would like,” Finrod says, sitting down on the fence beside her. “Tell me.” 

---

Chapter End Notes

I have given Amárië the father-name of Ingolmiel, meaning Scholar's Daughter. I think she was rebellious enough that it caused friction between her and her parents, but not quite rebellious enough that she wanted to leave the Noldor in their Exile. 

Vása is the Quenya term for the Sun.