Lay the Heart Bare, Leaf by Leaf by IdleLeaves  

Remain

Finrod and Finarfin, before the War of Wrath.

The regiments assemble outside the gates of Tirion, new-wrought armour silver-bright and shining in the swiftly rising sun.

Finrod stands at his father's side as Finarfin speaks to those gathered before him, his voice - sincere and even-tempered, yet sharp-edged with conviction - carried on a gentle, steady wind.

The early morning light softens, dimmed by swells of cloud drifting in from the west. The air smells of rain; it's past time to depart. Finrod has followed his father, through the streets and into the rocky meadow beyond the city walls, because he must - but he will go no further. He'll neither take the road to Alqualondë nor board the ships bound for Beleriand; instead, he'll withdraw, and wait, and ignore the unease that already threatens to settle, cold and constant, in the pit of his belly.

Finarfin reaches out his arms and holds Finrod tightly for a long moment, kissing his forehead like he's still a child in need of reassurance. Be safe, Finrod thinks; it doesn't need to be said.

When Finarfin leads the host away, this time, he does not look back, and Finrod questions, briefly, his own need to remain.

* * *

He returns to the meadow after nightfall. Behind him, Tirion lies still and near-silent, though its innumerable blue-white lamps have only just begun to flicker and spark. The rain has ceased and the clouds have parted, leaving the stars bright and unwavering in the sky.

Finrod kneels in the damp grass between clusters of night-blooming white bellflowers, and tips his head back to take a deep breath of clean air. His faith had faltered long ago, and the Halls had not restored it. Still, for the first time since Beleriand - since Dorthonion had burned, Aegnor and Angrod lost to the flames - he folds his hands together in his lap, and prays.

He prays for those who now travel eastward, that their losses will be few, and for the mariners who wait for them in the harbour, that the winds and waters will be kind. Most of all, he prays for his father: that he will return by sea, and not by way of Mandos. That he will not find himself on his knees, blood spilling onto a dust-shrouded battlefield, as his sight darkens at the edges and a numbing chill seeps into his bones.

That he will not learn, firsthand, what it feels like to die.

Finrod shivers, though the wind is warm. In the grey branches of a mountain elm, a thrush begins to sing. The stars above shift and blur; Finrod draws his cloak around him and blinks away his tears.