Fanworks Tagged with Finrod Felagund

Findekáno’s coronation should have been a grand affair. Moringotto was dead, and the Ñoldor could begin to rebuild and slowly retake the lands the Enemy had destroyed in the battle that they had all thought was the beginning of the end.

But Findekáno’s father had fallen even as he slew the Black Foe. Over four hundred years he had ruled, and Findekáno knew this was quite possibly the worst time for a change in leadership.

He still didn’t know where Turukáno and Írissem were.

He still had not heard from Russandol.

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"What has so shadowed thy spirit? What is this wound thou bearest which I can neither bind nor soothe?"

“The cruelest wound, from which I shall never heal."

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"Heat crawled over the side of Celegorm’s body where Finrod’s shoulder brushed it, but he smirked. He had no wish to wrest the crown of Nargothrond from his cousin, not yet. Finrod was a competent leader, and beloved. Better to leave the Kingdom in his hands — and for Celegorm to hold Finrod in his."

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It is the night of Tirion's masked ball. Fëanáro is after Artanis' hair, Artanis is after a distraction, Macalaurë is deploying all his wiles, and Findaráto is just trying to have a nice time.

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Amarie would appreciate Finrod being less of a distraction. At least he's willing to help fix the problem he caused.

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“Oh,” Elwing said faintly. She felt the need to sit down, but locked her knees against it. “Then—have they been released from Mandos, my lord? I had not heard that you came in person to deliver such news.”

“They have not, not yet,” said Námo, and to Elwing’s surprise his mouth softened into a small smile, there and gone again in the blink of an eye. “Your brothers are still very young; Mandos is not a place for children to grow. They are ready to return to the world, but unlike most others who pass through my halls they cannot make the journey across Valinor alone. Come to the gates of my halls with all swiftness, and you will find your brothers there.” He inclined his head, and was gone.

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Set after the First Age, probably during the Second Age: Finrod is invited to a small private concert in Alqualonde by members of the Falmarin music academy. Introduced to a piece of music he had no idea existed, he is taken aback. 

Now with a related poem: "No more laments for me" posted as second chapter.

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“Can I ask you a question?” Her voice was jarringly loud.
“Of course,” Nóm replied. He didn’t look worried. He thought this was one of her philosophical quandaries. Well, it was one in a roundabout kind of– never mind that, she was probably about to ruin his morning. Both of their mornings.

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Ulmo sends dreams of war and sanctuary to Finrod and Turgon as they travel together along Sirion.

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You have no idea there are two hearts within your chest until one of them stops beating.

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If I sing now, will you answer me?

Once childhood friends, now king and captain, Finrod and Edrahil mourn for what they lost in each other on the Helcaraxë.

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Amarie and Finrod, from paradise through tragedy to rebirth

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For the first time since Finrod’s rebirth in Aman, he and Amarie are intimate.

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That it was returned, he did not question. He could look back now and see everything arranged in its full image, he could trace the careful dance they both wound through this past year; every word, every silence, every touch ringing through with that steady truth. How had he been so blind?

Springtime has come to Estolad. Finrod is struck with a realization he has been avoiding and faces the decisions that lie in its wake.

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Tyelkormo is the beloved daughter of Nerdanel and Fëanor. But what if she doesn't want to be a daughter?

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“Let us not perish here in the long darkness,” Balan said softly, crossing back to take one of the waiting wreaths and set it upon his own brow, “these creatures you chose to form. Remember us, here in our frailty.”

It is Yuletide. The Atani and Finrod celebrate throughout the night as they stay awake to greet the dawn after the Longest Night. Balan's people settle into Estolad, Atani traditions abound, and Finrod faces some memories.

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After capturing Finrod and his companions, Gorthaur attempts to discover their identities...

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It was a custom done in scorn of death, Balan would tell Finrod later that night as they sat beside the fire in the hush of the midnight watch. He might come ever ravening among them, but they would scorn his maw. Even in their rotting they would lay claim to life.

Balan's people are on the road to Estolad. Finrod begins to suspect his own feelings, there is danger on the road, and we witness Atani burial rituals.

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In that moment he envied for the first time the mortality of Men. He coveted a death that came upon you softly, death that whispered and held out a hand and let you slip into his arms in sleep. Death that passed his fingers over your eyes and left a visage in peace. Balan’s death.

It's the Fen of Serech, more or less. An oath for an oath, blood for blood.

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Finrod watches his lover sleep and things about their coming deaths. Luckily, Balan wakes to comfort him.

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Finrod felt the other’s panic strike his perception like a blow and was running even before Balan’s cry reached his ear. In a glance, his eyes took in the scene before him: the camp in sudden stillness, one of the Laiquendi staggering through the clearing, a limp body slung in his arms, Balan and Baran sprinting toward him.

It was Belen in his arms.

The Edain and the Laiquendi cross paths in the woods of Ossiriand and are faced with immediate conflict. Finrod and Estreth work to heal the damage, Balan (Bëor) tries to learn the communication of thought, and the Edain choose where their loyalty will abide.

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It was danger only if the goal was avoidance, and Balan had no desire to escape. The urge to laugh returned and his heart dared Estreth’s cautions to be true so he might find himself ensnared forever, held motionless on this hilltop, a statue cradled within the other’s hands till the world’s ending. If his soul was consumed in the process, then let it be so. It was a fair price.

A few months after Finrod discovered the Edain near Thalos, he continues to dwell with them and form friendships. Balan (Bëor) attempts to learn multiple languages, some old folktales of the Edain come up in conversation, and Balan and Finrod discuss grief with a side of constellations. Balan has a crush.

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“I convinced myself the situations were different. I built labyrinths within my reason to justify the pretense, and in their twisting ways I wandered blind till faced with her grief—the tribute paid in pain, as thou hast named it. Till then I could contend that I suffered so thou might be spared; I grieved so that thou might hold love in memory untarnished. That I learned at the feet of Doom to thus keep its step from thine own neck, and so should goodness come of it. Eru forgive me, I was wrong.”

After his conversation with Andreth forces him to face his own rationalizations and hypocrisies, Finrod realizes he needs to come clean to Aegnor and confesses to him both the consequences of his former advice, as well as his own secret grief that motivated it.

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An ongoing series (estimated to ultimately include around 20-25 works) about Finrod & Bëor, their relationship, and how Finrod copes in the face of that loss. Basically, if you ever wanted a longer than necessary slow burn of these two trailblazing the elf-mortal love tragedy, I've got you covered.

I’m sorry for not having a more consistent schedule on getting these finished, edited, and posted. I’m juggling full-time work and in a busy season there, so I’ve been slipping this in wherever I can, but that does mean I’m a bit unpredictable when it comes to a posting schedule. Currently I'm managing approximately 1 piece every 2 weeks or thereabouts. Thanks for bearing with the slow burn!

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An evolving series exploring the life and times of the two wise-women of the Edain in Beleriand, Adanel and Andreth.

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