and safe may you stay by arafinweanappreciation  

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and safe may you stay

F.A. 455, Minas Tirith

The wind was cold on the night Finduilas’s mother was to leave. She followed her parents down to the dock, wrapping her wool cloak tight around her shoulders as the torchlight danced in the inky black waters of the Sirion. Stars glittered above them, mirroring the frost that was surely now creeping across the ground. A reddish glow marked the northern sky– fires still glowing in Anfauglith following the battle. A constant reminder of danger. A constant reminder of all that had been lost. It weighed heavily on everyone’s minds– her parents most of all. That, she suspected, was why they were here tonight. And why her mother and baby brother soon no longer would be.

They had never officially told her what they were planning, but it didn’t take her long to work it out on her own. The way that her father held onto the new baby as if he would never see him again. The way her mother acted as if she were saying goodbye to everything and everyone. She knew how shaken they had been by the attack, by the loss of her grandparents, by how close they had come to losing everything. But even before then, even before her brother had been born, she had noticed their whispering and furtive glances. She knew that they knew something. That something had suddenly become fragile.

So her mother and brother were going away. They were going to the Falas, where her brother would be raised in the protective shroud of anonymity and obscurity. He would live in no famous city and be known as no prince. The contingency of the contingency, ensuring that even if every realm of the Noldor fell, there would be one descendant of Finwë left to receive the crown. Even she did not know whether they would go to Brithombar or Eglarest. She was envious of him, in some ways. To live a quiet life without eyes on your every move. To learn without judgment. To be free.

They reached the docks, their footsteps thudding heavily upon the wooden planks. She could hear the water rushing past, gurgling against the stones and whispering around the piles. It was even colder, here, above the water and outside the confines of the walls. Two guards in gleaming mail waited in the barge that would take her mother down the Sirion.

Wordlessly, Finduilas’s mother passed Ereinion to Finduilas. Her parents began whispering, surely exchanging goodbyes. Finduilas decided not to listen. She looked down at her little brother, instead. He seemed uncharacteristically content to be up at this time of night, wide eyes taking in his surroundings. Finduilas adjusted her cloak slightly to better protect him from the wind. His round face was already beginning to redden with the cold.

She had considered, for a brief while, volunteering to take her mother’s place. To run and hide the two of them away on the coast, well away from the dangers of the north. But her brother deserved better than that. If he could not have both parents, then he should at least have one, and not just an older sister who knew nothing of raising children. And besides, her father needed her here. She was still his heir apparent. The first resort and line of defense. It was her who had the training and the knowledge to lead their people if anything should happen to their lord, and the lineage to reinforce her claim. But something deep in her chest, sitting somewhere behind her still-beating heart, went sharp at the thought. If she did take her father’s place, she feared it would not be for long.

Sighing, she lifted her baby brother up and kissed his forehead. His skin was still soft, the way that infants’ was. This might be the last time she would ever see him.

What a burden to place on the shoulders of a child who was only just seeing his first winter.

She ran her fingers through his short, silky hair, the thickening curls catching on her fingertips. “I hope that this will never come to you,” she murmured, almost silently. “But if it does, don’t be foolish about it. Evading the Enemy is vengeance enough.” She adjusted her arms, shifting his weight as he squirmed. “And be good for Naneth. That’s the most important part. She worries terribly.”

He, of course, made no response, only looking up at her with great brown eyes that held all the possibility in the universe and none of the understanding. Not yet. Had the wind not been so chill, she would have been tempted to free one of his hands from his warm layers and press one of her fingers into his tiny palm, one last time, like she had when he was a newborn. But he had stopped grasping them a long while ago, anyway. “If I see you again,” she murmured again, “You will probably be full-grown.” Maybe with a child of his own. Or maybe she would have one. If she found someone to have children with. If she lived that long. If it would not be cruel to bring them into a world that would surely see them to their ends not long after their own beginnings.

She was suddenly filled with the irrational impulse to commandeer one of the barges and follow her mother’s down the river. Just until they started their trek across land. Just to make sure that they made it. That they would be safe. That no gaping maw would rise from the river and swallow them whole.

Instead, she gently pressed her fingers against his forehead, and began to sing, low and quiet and soft. A lullaby. One that her mother sang, sometimes, about the shores of Lake Mithrim on a summer evening. She tried to layer her melody with power, as she had been taught. The same kind that went into the protection spells Aunt Galadriel had been teaching her. The ones meant for the borders of Minas Tirith, learned in her turn from Queen Melian, part of the Song itself. Weaving a net of diversion and confusion and redirection. She did not know if it would adhere to a person, but she wanted to try.

As she finished the first verse, her parents turned towards her. Her father gestured for Ereinion, so Finduilas kissed his forehead once more, and passed him back. Her father took him, surely impatient to hold him for what they all knew would be the last time, and her mother caught her by the arms, pulling her into an embrace. Finduilas could smell the rosewater she used on her face at night. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” she asked, once more. Too late, even if Findulas had changed her mind.

“You know I cannot,” Finduilas replied, eyes threatening to fill with tears.

Her mother pulled back just long enough to press a kiss against her cheek. “You and your father need to take care of each other,” she said.

“We will.”

“You have cousins in Mithrim, and your uncle in Nargothrond, should you find yourself in need.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They stood there for a long moment, in silence, and Finduilas stifled a sob that she had not known was building in her chest. They released each other, then. She could not see her mother’s face through the tears burning in her eyes. Her mother reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “You are strong,” she said. “And I am proud to be your mother.”

With that, she stepped away, back towards her father. Together, as Finduilas watched, they managed to tuck Ereinion into the sling around her mother’s chest. He helped her onto the barge, then stepped back to stand next to Finduilas, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Together, they watched as the crew untied the docking line and slipped off into the night. They remained there, shedding silent tears, until the barge passed into the darkness, and beyond their sight.

F.A. 495, Nargothrond

Finduilas threw open the heavy wooden doors to the armory, not caring who or what might be on the other side, and strode across the stone floor. There was no time. “Celebrimbor is already gathering the household,” she said. “I want you to take anyone who can go immediately and get the Girdle of Melian between them and whatever comes down the river.”

She stopped in front of the niche that held the remaining swords that belonged to her family and picked up her own, drawing it from the sheath to check the blade. She had learned after the Dagor Bragollach, but she was rusty. It had been Gwindor whom she had practiced with most of the time, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, it had been too painful. Even after he returned, the grief remained. And now it was further renewed. She did not let that line of thought carry her any farther. There would be time to mourn the dead later. Once her people were safe.

“I don’t have the authority,” Gildor protested. He looked as if he were in almost as bad a state as her. Leaving the two of them in charge was feeling increasingly like a horribly foolish decision.

“You’re the foster-son of Finrod Felagund,” Finduilas said, tying the sword belt around her waist. “Close enough to a prince.”

“I was never officially fostered– you know that. I don’t even know if Thingol knows that I exist.”

Finduilas snatched her late uncle’s sword from its place of honor and tossed it at her cousin. “Then give him this and tell him I sent you.”

Gildor caught the sword, stumbling back slightly. “What about you, Fin?” He asked, his gaze already dark with the knowledge of what she would say.

“These are my people,” she said, unwilling to waver. She was surprisingly calm, considering the situation and the panic around her. “I will not abandon them. I will bring up the rear with whatever guards do not accompany the retreat.” Her current dress certainly was not ideal for the situation, but it would have to do. No time to change.

“You’ll die,” Gildor insisted, trailing behind her as she made for the corridor. “And then where will we be? The bloodline of Finwë in Beleriand will be all but destroyed! Let me stay here instead.”

Finduilas did her best not to let her expression betray anything. She tried not to even let her thoughts flicker to her little brother, even now dwelling safely somewhere in the Havens at Sirion. It occurred to her, dully, that someone would have to send word to her mother about what had happened. She would pen the letter from Menegroth, if she made it that far. Send it to Círdan. He would see that it reached its intended recipient, just as he had managed to tell her father that his wife and son had survived the sacking of the Falas.

“No,” she replied, weaving among the frantic preparations for retreat. “We need someone who knows the landscape like the back of their hand, and you fit that description better than I. Besides,” she narrowly dodged a guard running for the doors, “We both know you’re no soldier.”

“Neither are you.”

“At least I was trained to direct them.”

“They have a dragon.”

“I know.”

Glaurung the Golden, foul servant of Morgoth and scourge of her people for some two hundred years. It had been his flames that claimed the lives of three of her grandparents. It was said that he could know and invade the minds of Men– driving them mad or taking their memories from them with nothing more than a glance of his eye. She did not know if he could do so to elves, but she would not take the chance, with all that she knew: the location of the Havens, the existence of her brother, the habits and strength of those realms that remained… she would have to remain entirely inconspicuous. She could do nothing to draw his attention or mark herself as her father’s heir. Including heading the retreat.

With all of the chaos, Finduilas almost did not notice Celebrimbor sprinting towards them until he nearly collided with her.

He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, though he did not wait long, speaking between inhales. “They’ve reached the gates,” he gasped.

Finduilas’s heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of her feet.

“Go!” she ordered, mostly speaking to Gildor, and flinging out her arm. “And don’t argue! Don’t bother with provisions– take anyone who will follow you and run! Through the secondary passages!”

With a final, hesitant, glance backwards, both Gildor and Celebrimbor went running down the hallway, calling for the occupants of the hall to evacuate. Finduilas turned on her heel and went to find the commanding officer who had been left in charge. It turned her stomach to know that it was those who were weakest and slowest who would bear the brunt of the attack. The sick and the injured and the elderly Atani and the families with children. But there was no time for an organized retreat. Silently, she invoked Tulkas and Oromë, Nienna and Manwë and Mandos– anyone who might help her people survive this. She knew it was likely in vain, but she had to try. She owed them that.

A roar echoed through the caverns, announcing Glaurung’s arrival. It was followed by a thousand voices crying out in terror. Finduilas did her best to steel her nerves, though every instinct she had was screaming at her to curl up and hide. Her hands were shaking.

So this was how it would end. Her brother one step closer to a fate that should have never been his to bear. In truth, it never should have been hers, either. Not that it would be for long.

She could only hope that most would escape, and that he would avenge the rest.


c. 517, Havens at Sirion

Ereinion lay on his back on the deck of Círdan’s favorite fishing vessel, staring up at the stars. It was quiet, with no people around. Only the waves and frogs and nightbirds and crickets. His spear lay next to him, dead wood and stone. His fingertips hovered over it, not quite touching. He couldn’t even really bring himself to look at it.

Dírhaval had performed his work earlier that night. His long labor of love. Narn i Chîn Húrin. Technically, it was beautiful. Even Ereinion knew it. Despite that, the reception had been mixed. To say the least. Many of the survivors of Nargothrond had not gone at all. Gildor had not. His own mother had stood and left as soon as Gwindor’s name had been spoken. He should find her, sooner rather than later.

For his own part, Ereinion had stayed there, rapt in horrified fascination. He had exchanged a few glances with Tuor, both of them seemingly trapped in some kind of self-inflicted torture.

It was the most detailed account he had ever heard of the fall of Nargothrond. Of the deaths of his father and sister.

He looked over at the spear again. It was the weapon of choice, here on the coast. He had trained with and used one his entire life without even knowing. It was as familiar as the sound of the sea or the sight of the reeds moving in the wind. Looking at it now turned his stomach a little. Would she be upset, if she knew?

He’d never met her, so he couldn’t guess, and he was loath to ask his mother anything about her, lest she become even more tight-lipped.

He could abandon it entirely, he supposed, rely on the swords they were trying to train him to use. Some of them would be pleased. It was more kingly, in their estimation. Spears were for fishermen and lesser soldiers and low-born hunters and orcs.

He wondered if it made anyone less, in their estimation, to have died to one. Probably, for some. At least a little.

He wondered if seeing one in the hands of a king could change that.F.A. 455, Minas Tirith

The wind was cold on the night Finduilas’s mother was to leave. She followed her parents down to the dock, wrapping her wool cloak tight around her shoulders as the torchlight danced in the inky black waters of the Sirion. Stars glittered above them, mirroring the frost that was surely now creeping across the ground. A reddish glow marked the northern sky– fires still glowing in Anfauglith following the battle. A constant reminder of danger. A constant reminder of all that had been lost. It weighed heavily on everyone’s minds– her parents most of all. That, she suspected, was why they were here tonight. And why her mother and baby brother soon no longer would be.

They had never officially told her what they were planning, but it didn’t take her long to work it out on her own. The way that her father held onto the new baby as if he would never see him again. The way her mother acted as if she were saying goodbye to everything and everyone. She knew how shaken they had been by the attack, by the loss of her grandparents, by how close they had come to losing everything. But even before then, even before her brother had been born, she had noticed their whispering and furtive glances. She knew that they knew something. That something had suddenly become fragile.

So her mother and brother were going away. They were going to the Falas, where her brother would be raised in the protective shroud of anonymity and obscurity. He would live in no famous city and be known as no prince. The contingency of the contingency, ensuring that even if every realm of the Noldor fell, there would be one descendant of Finwë left to receive the crown. Even she did not know whether they would go to Brithombar or Eglarest. She was envious of him, in some ways. To live a quiet life without eyes on your every move. To learn without judgment. To be free.

They reached the docks, their footsteps thudding heavily upon the wooden planks. She could hear the water rushing past, gurgling against the stones and whispering around the piles. It was even colder, here, above the water and outside the confines of the walls. Two guards in gleaming mail waited in the barge that would take her mother down the Sirion.

Wordlessly, Finduilas’s mother passed Ereinion to Finduilas. Her parents began whispering, surely exchanging goodbyes. Finduilas decided not to listen. She looked down at her little brother, instead. He seemed uncharacteristically content to be up at this time of night, wide eyes taking in his surroundings. Finduilas adjusted her cloak slightly to better protect him from the wind. His round face was already beginning to redden with the cold.

She had considered, for a brief while, volunteering to take her mother’s place. To run and hide the two of them away on the coast, well away from the dangers of the north. But her brother deserved better than that. If he could not have both parents, then he should at least have one, and not just an older sister who knew nothing of raising children. And besides, her father needed her here. She was still his heir apparent. The first resort and line of defense. It was her who had the training and the knowledge to lead their people if anything should happen to their lord, and the lineage to reinforce her claim. But something deep in her chest, sitting somewhere behind her still-beating heart, went sharp at the thought. If she did take her father’s place, she feared it would not be for long.

Sighing, she lifted her baby brother up and kissed his forehead. His skin was still soft, the way that infants’ was. This might be the last time she would ever see him.

What a burden to place on the shoulders of a child who was only just seeing his first winter.

She ran her fingers through his short, silky hair, the thickening curls catching on her fingertips. “I hope that this will never come to you,” she murmured, almost silently. “But if it does, don’t be foolish about it. Evading the Enemy is vengeance enough.” She adjusted her arms, shifting his weight as he squirmed. “And be good for Naneth. That’s the most important part. She worries terribly.”

He, of course, made no response, only looking up at her with great brown eyes that held all the possibility in the universe and none of the understanding. Not yet. Had the wind not been so chill, she would have been tempted to free one of his hands from his warm layers and press one of her fingers into his tiny palm, one last time, like she had when he was a newborn. But he had stopped grasping them a long while ago, anyway. “If I see you again,” she murmured again, “You will probably be full-grown.” Maybe with a child of his own. Or maybe she would have one. If she found someone to have children with. If she lived that long. If it would not be cruel to bring them into a world that would surely see them to their ends not long after their own beginnings.

She was suddenly filled with the irrational impulse to commandeer one of the barges and follow her mother’s down the river. Just until they started their trek across land. Just to make sure that they made it. That they would be safe. That no gaping maw would rise from the river and swallow them whole.

Instead, she gently pressed her fingers against his forehead, and began to sing, low and quiet and soft. A lullaby. One that her mother sang, sometimes, about the shores of Lake Mithrim on a summer evening. She tried to layer her melody with power, as she had been taught. The same kind that went into the protection spells Aunt Galadriel had been teaching her. The ones meant for the borders of Minas Tirith, learned in her turn from Queen Melian, part of the Song itself. Weaving a net of diversion and confusion and redirection. She did not know if it would adhere to a person, but she wanted to try.

As she finished the first verse, her parents turned towards her. Her father gestured for Ereinion, so Finduilas kissed his forehead once more, and passed him back. Her father took him, surely impatient to hold him for what they all knew would be the last time, and her mother caught her by the arms, pulling her into an embrace. Finduilas could smell the rosewater she used on her face at night. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” she asked, once more. Too late, even if Findulas had changed her mind.

“You know I cannot,” Finduilas replied, eyes threatening to fill with tears.

Her mother pulled back just long enough to press a kiss against her cheek. “You and your father need to take care of each other,” she said.

“We will.”

“You have cousins in Mithrim, and your uncle in Nargothrond, should you find yourself in need.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They stood there for a long moment, in silence, and Finduilas stifled a sob that she had not known was building in her chest. They released each other, then. She could not see her mother’s face through the tears burning in her eyes. Her mother reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “You are strong,” she said. “And I am proud to be your mother.”

With that, she stepped away, back towards her father. Together, as Finduilas watched, they managed to tuck Ereinion into the sling around her mother’s chest. He helped her onto the barge, then stepped back to stand next to Finduilas, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Together, they watched as the crew untied the docking line and slipped off into the night. They remained there, shedding silent tears, until the barge passed into the darkness, and beyond their sight.

F.A. 495, Nargothrond

Finduilas threw open the heavy wooden doors to the armory, not caring who or what might be on the other side, and strode across the stone floor. There was no time. “Celebrimbor is already gathering the household,” she said. “I want you to take anyone who can go immediately and get the Girdle of Melian between them and whatever comes down the river.”

She stopped in front of the niche that held the remaining swords that belonged to her family and picked up her own, drawing it from the sheath to check the blade. She had learned after the Dagor Bragollach, but she was rusty. It had been Gwindor whom she had practiced with most of the time, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, it had been too painful. Even after he returned, the grief remained. And now it was further renewed. She did not let that line of thought carry her any farther. There would be time to mourn the dead later. Once her people were safe.

“I don’t have the authority,” Gildor protested. He looked as if he were in almost as bad a state as her. Leaving the two of them in charge was feeling increasingly like a horribly foolish decision.

“You’re the foster-son of Finrod Felagund,” Finduilas said, tying the sword belt around her waist. “Close enough to a prince.”

“I was never officially fostered– you know that. I don’t even know if Thingol knows that I exist.”

Finduilas snatched her late uncle’s sword from its place of honor and tossed it at her cousin. “Then give him this and tell him I sent you.”

Gildor caught the sword, stumbling back slightly. “What about you, Fin?” He asked, his gaze already dark with the knowledge of what she would say.

“These are my people,” she said, unwilling to waver. She was surprisingly calm, considering the situation and the panic around her. “I will not abandon them. I will bring up the rear with whatever guards do not accompany the retreat.” Her current dress certainly was not ideal for the situation, but it would have to do. No time to change.

“You’ll die,” Gildor insisted, trailing behind her as she made for the corridor. “And then where will we be? The bloodline of Finwë in Beleriand will be all but destroyed! Let me stay here instead.”

Finduilas did her best not to let her expression betray anything. She tried not to even let her thoughts flicker to her little brother, even now dwelling safely somewhere in the Havens at Sirion. It occurred to her, dully, that someone would have to send word to her mother about what had happened. She would pen the letter from Menegroth, if she made it that far. Send it to Círdan. He would see that it reached its intended recipient, just as he had managed to tell her father that his wife and son had survived the sacking of the Falas.

“No,” she replied, weaving among the frantic preparations for retreat. “We need someone who knows the landscape like the back of their hand, and you fit that description better than I. Besides,” she narrowly dodged a guard running for the doors, “We both know you’re no soldier.”

“Neither are you.”

“At least I was trained to direct them.”

“They have a dragon.”

“I know.”

Glaurung the Golden, foul servant of Morgoth and scourge of her people for some two hundred years. It had been his flames that claimed the lives of three of her grandparents. It was said that he could know and invade the minds of Men– driving them mad or taking their memories from them with nothing more than a glance of his eye. She did not know if he could do so to elves, but she would not take the chance, with all that she knew: the location of the Havens, the existence of her brother, the habits and strength of those realms that remained… she would have to remain entirely inconspicuous. She could do nothing to draw his attention or mark herself as her father’s heir. Including heading the retreat.

With all of the chaos, Finduilas almost did not notice Celebrimbor sprinting towards them until he nearly collided with her.

He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, though he did not wait long, speaking between inhales. “They’ve reached the gates,” he gasped.

Finduilas’s heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of her feet.

“Go!” she ordered, mostly speaking to Gildor, and flinging out her arm. “And don’t argue! Don’t bother with provisions– take anyone who will follow you and run! Through the secondary passages!”

With a final, hesitant, glance backwards, both Gildor and Celebrimbor went running down the hallway, calling for the occupants of the hall to evacuate. Finduilas turned on her heel and went to find the commanding officer who had been left in charge. It turned her stomach to know that it was those who were weakest and slowest who would bear the brunt of the attack. The sick and the injured and the elderly Atani and the families with children. But there was no time for an organized retreat. Silently, she invoked Tulkas and Oromë, Nienna and Manwë and Mandos– anyone who might help her people survive this. She knew it was likely in vain, but she had to try. She owed them that.

A roar echoed through the caverns, announcing Glaurung’s arrival. It was followed by a thousand voices crying out in terror. Finduilas did her best to steel her nerves, though every instinct she had was screaming at her to curl up and hide. Her hands were shaking.

So this was how it would end. Her brother one step closer to a fate that should have never been his to bear. In truth, it never should have been hers, either. Not that it would be for long.

She could only hope that most would escape, and that he would avenge the rest.


c. 517, Havens at Sirion

Ereinion lay on his back on the deck of Círdan’s favorite fishing vessel, staring up at the stars. It was quiet, with no people around. Only the waves and frogs and nightbirds and crickets. His spear lay next to him, dead wood and stone. His fingertips hovered over it, not quite touching. He couldn’t even really bring himself to look at it.

Dírhaval had performed his work earlier that night. His long labor of love. Narn i Chîn Húrin. Technically, it was beautiful. Even Ereinion knew it. Despite that, the reception had been mixed. To say the least. Many of the survivors of Nargothrond had not gone at all. Gildor had not. His own mother had stood and left as soon as Gwindor’s name had been spoken. He should find her, sooner rather than later.

For his own part, Ereinion had stayed there, rapt in horrified fascination. He had exchanged a few glances with Tuor, both of them seemingly trapped in some kind of self-inflicted torture.

It was the most detailed account he had ever heard of the fall of Nargothrond. Of the deaths of his father and sister.

He looked over at the spear again. It was the weapon of choice, here on the coast. He had trained with and used one his entire life without even knowing. It was as familiar as the sound of the sea or the sight of the reeds moving in the wind. Looking at it now turned his stomach a little. Would she be upset, if she knew?

He’d never met her, so he couldn’t guess, and he was loath to ask his mother anything about her, lest she become even more tight-lipped.

He could abandon it entirely, he supposed, rely on the swords they were trying to train him to use. Some of them would be pleased. It was more kingly, in their estimation. Spears were for fishermen and lesser soldiers and low-born hunters and orcs.

He wondered if it made anyone less, in their estimation, to have died to one. Probably, for some. At least a little.

He wondered if seeing one in the hands of a king could change that.

Chapter End Notes

if you have been listening to me rant on tumblr for the past year, I am here to tell you that that was a sampling of btmats gil-galad at the end there.

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