“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.

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

My personal character playlist for Finrod :)

best listened to in order

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

Aegnor cut him off, eyes blazing in self-defense as he slipped into the half-forbidden tongue of their mother’s people. “I did not know that you knew each other when—”

“That does not matter!” Finrod said, also dropping Sindarin in favor of Telerin. It was easier to argue in the language of their childhood rather than diplomacy. Besides, it afforded them some privacy. “It shouldn’t matter whether she knew me or not! You should not have done this!”

or: Aegnor panics, makes a decision, and goes to his oldest brother for validation. It does not end well.

The halls were not so unlike his own

A sound came, then, that was not sleet or wind or the heavy breathing of one who slept. It was footsteps, crunching in the ice outside. They stopped for a moment, and the tent flap opened, granting entrance to both Ingoldo and a cold gust of air. His face was red with cold.
“How did it go?” he asked in a low voice as Ingoldo turned to secure the flap once more.
“As well as can be expected.”

Galadriel could never have been expected to take the news of Finrod's death well.

On the night after the coronation, the wind was cold. Fires still burned in the north; their light could be seen, flickering on the far reaches of the horizon, but they provided no warmth. A figure stood on the ramparts of the keep at Hithlum, where the ceremony had been held, more solemn than joyous. The wisdom of having so many of the rulers so near the great darkness to the north, given what had happened– what was happening– was questionable, at best. But their luck held. For now.

A conversation between two kings of the Noldor.

The truth was, she should have been dead. The spear that was now leaning against the wall behind her should have killed her. The healers had told her that they had never seen someone survive such a wound, especially without the aid of elvish medicine, as she had been for the first days after the people of Brethil had found her. 

“Tell me…” the exhausted king said, looking directly into the commander’s eyes. He was covered in grime, soot and dirt, ash and blood, mud and sweat. His eyes were haunted. The War took its toll, after all, the very ground itself turning against them. The ruby light of the flames only served to reveal their hollowness. “The forces here. The orcs. Never before have I ridden against a host who parts and flees at the very sight of me. Why do they do so now?”