Finwë Ñoldóran

At Finwë’s words he stepped more firmly into the rooms and took a seat opposite to his friend.

"Do you have a headache?" he solicited, reaching for areason that his friend had been reading in the dark, "shall I call for a healer or some water?"

He sighed, settled into the chair as if he wished to become one with it, and then rolled up his scroll. "I admit," he said, "I do not remember it being so bright here. But it is to be expected so close to the trees." Finishing his tidying, he tipped the scroll back into its tube and capped it off.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Are you even listening to yourself?"

"Are you sure they won’t find out?”

"Are you sure this is legal?”

"Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

"Are you threatening me?"

"Be mine."

"Do I know you?"

"Do you love me?"

"Do you remember this?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Don’t go."

"Don’t let me die"

"Don’t look at me like that."

"Don’t make me beg.”

"Don’t you dare come near me!"

"Don’t you dare."

"Explain yourself."

"For you, I would _____"

"Give it back."

"Give me another chance."

"Have you ever even done this before?"

"How drunk are you right now?"

"I already regret this."

"I am not wearing that.”

"I can’t believe you missed that."

"I can’t do this anymore."

"I can’t even look at you."

"I could kill you!"

"I dare you." or "I dare you to _____."

"I didn’t do it.""

"I didn’t know you could do that."

"I don’t want to look at you right now.”

"I guess this is goodbye.”

"I hate you."

"I have to go."

"I just want to cuddle."

"I know your secret.”

"I love you, but I really wish I didn’t.”

"I love you."

"I miss you so very much."

"I missed you."

"I need a drink."

"I need a hug."

"I never really loved you."

"I owe you."

"I think I broke it."

"I think I’m falling in love with you. "

"I think I’m forgetting something."

"I think it’s broken.”

"I trust you."

"I want to be yours."

"I want to try this thing I read in a book.”

"I want you. Naked. In my bed. Now."

"I’ll be there in five minutes.”

”This is really inappropriate.”

"I’m all for spicing thing’s up, but isn’t this a bit much?”

"I’m bad for you.”

"I’m dying."

"I’m going to be sick."

"I’m not speaking to you anymore."

"I’m pregnant and it’s yours."

"I’ve never heard that one before."

"If you stay quiet, no one will know.”

"Is that my shirt?"

"It was me"

"It’s so beautiful.”

"It’s time to choose.”

"Just five more minutes."

"Just go."

"Just leave me alone."

"Just let me die."

"Just relax."

"Just what did we do last night?"

"Kiss me you idiot."

"Kiss me."

"Make me."

"Marry me?"

"My Parents don’t know"

"My parents know.""

"Never again."

"Nh, don’t be so rough!"

"No, that can’t be my baby."

"No! You can’t die on me now!"

"Put it away.”

"Put your trousers on!"

"Put. The. Weapon. Down."

"Shut up and listen."

"Take responsibility."

"That isn’t mine."

"That looked easier on TV."

"That sounds painful."

"That was a bad plan."

"That’s mine!”

"That’s the cheesiest pickup line I’ve ever heard."

"They’re coming.”

"This seems familiar."

"This stays between us."

"Truth hurts, don’t it?"

"Want to hear a secret?"

"We need to talk."

"We’re moving too fast.”

"Well that was unexpected."

"What are we doing here?"

"What are you afraid of?"

"What are you touching?"

"What are you?"

"What do you need?"

"What happened to you?"

"What have I done this time?"

"What if someone catches us?”

"What sort of noise was that?”

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"What were you thinking?"

"Where are my clothes?"

"Where did you find this?"

"Where do you even find this sort of thing?”

"Where were you?"

"Who’d have guessed you could pull such a face?”

"Why are you wearing that?"

"Why yes, I am as think as you drunk I am."

"You could have died!”

"You could have killed someone!"

"You coward."

"You don’t need to be so gentle.”

"You drive me crazy!"

"You have ten minutes, so make it quick.”

"You lied to me!"

"You mean everything to me."

"You owe me."

"You. Come. Snuggle. NOW!"

"You’re all out of ____."

"You’re an idiot.”

"You’re bad for me.”

"You’re dead to me."

"You’re pregnant and It’s mine"

"You’re really good at this…”

"You’re so weird.""

Ingwë had heard of Finwë’s alarming mood change and felt nothing but terror to hear that his friend had lost the joy of his life, and was, by reports, simply shambling through the motions to an inevitable end.

That had chilled him, right to his core. They were still reeling, in many ways, over Míriel’s decision. Still crushed. Still fearful of what this implied for them all within Aman which should have been safe from such things.

He had summonsed his friend and lesser king, inviting him to spend time in the tranquil setting of Ingwë’s residence. He wanted Finwë with friends who would not also have to juggle handling their own king as Finwë’s Tatyar subjects would have to.

Now though, with his friend ensconced here in a set of guest rooms and a reluctant Fëanáro also likewise ensconced. (Apparently the child was given, in Tirion, to locking himself away and losing himself in his studies and crafts and many thought that strange and odd given the child’s bereavement but there were many ways to grieve, Ingwë was well aware of them, and the child’s was text book.

It was not that Fëanáro was not grieving, and was not hurt. No. The child was trying to drown the grief and pain with work. Trying to numb himself. And that was a healthier way of grieving, in some ways, than what Finwë was doing (though not healthy in and of itself.)

It was his son who bore the greater wounds, his son who took this the hardest, who would not consider his grief. Though no responsibilities required him to move past his suffering--to tiptoe around grief, a sleeping beast that would consume him if awakened--his dear son seemed less interested in moving through the process than Finwë himself.

The trip was for Fëanáro.

He was certain.

Under the radiance of the Trees, Valimar formed a blinding maze that gnawed at Finwë's eyes; as his eyes already ached from long periods of working, the light could not now be tolerated. Every curtain in the room was drawn, blocking all but Laurelin's muffled glare and how it mixed with the hidden stained glass.

Míriel chuckled softly and dipped into a curtsey, “greetings Lord Ošošai,” she managed the maia’s name better than Finwë had.

Her own dress was a shimmer of marigold silk with gold woven into her belt and her shoes, modestly covering her breasts and with long drapping sleeves Finwë though especially fetching. Combined with the flare of her skirt, he had thought her the best dressed amongst the party but Lord Ošošai’s dress certainly competed strongly.

"Marriage," Míriel mused, and Finwë cast her an alarmed look, trying mentally to tell her not to feed the Maia a fairy tale because she would. She would with the chance.

His intended shot him an amused look, “we have a feast my Lord,” his intended seemed to have chosen truth, “and we exchange tokens of marriage, in …. in Cuivienen we touched our flesh with ink but I do not know if that will continue now. Sometimes our families will exchange tokens to show they they support the marriage.” 

He straightened his posture, a calculated gesture as he clicked curiously and rumbled constantly. Any time that his knowledge was lacking and he was left uncertain, it made him feel uncomfortable and weak; straightening to his full height, towering over his companions, was a visual reminder of who was superior.

Upon Miriel's wrists and fingers especially there was brilliant red tattooing done with a delicacy that made Finwë wonder what other witchcraft had been inacted in the smaller village further into the hills of Cuivienen that his love had heralded from. He remembered his own tattooing. The stone needle had not been nearly fine enough to do some of the designs that she bore.

In the end, nothing she had said had truly mattered or cared. Their marriage had faded peacefully as was proper sometime ago, and it had honestly been a relief that she would not come with him to Formenos.

"Ah but it is so lovely to hold a baby," he mused, leaning down and kissing the warm forehead of his great grandchild before straightening and noting that for all his silence that the babe did not lack energy.

My he was like a young kitten with how he was batting the little bead about on its ribbon.

Though if he was interested in horse riding for long days at a time over any terrain, she, whilst still not interested in marrying him, would be interested in seeing if he had ever thought of riding the ranges near Aulë’s workshop.

And his opinion thereof if he had thought of it, of whether the pass near the smaller marshy valley near the end would be possible in Spring.

She was not interested in travelling with him either.

"I know why they are so interested in the marriage.I am uninterested and not obliged to cater to those wishes which would be the only way to please them at this point. I do not want to marry you. I will not marry you." she could see their fathers further away in the garden, talking and glancing towards them. Her mouth turned down. 

Time was run out.

Ah, maybe he was merely objecting that strenuous intention to go against whatever decision their fathers had agreed upon, a behaviour against anything he had ever tried to learn and adapt to. That beside her statement of understanding. He was not sure she was truly understanding – tilting his head, Ingwion considered that maybe she was only acknowledging his reasoning and completely ignoring it.

A silent, slow breath escaped his lungs and his shoulders dropped down. That situation was tiring and he was out of ways to phrase his intention to try and make that liveable for both of them. Thus he thanked the sudden interruption and glanced over their fathers – certainly the smile that he built remained stretched on his lips, in the awareness of the conversation they had just finished, which did not seem less troubling than the one their parents had had, and not less secret.

« When we can talk freely again, I would like you to tell me how you know why your father wants this » he added, in a low voice. That detail was stuck in his mind; true, he could simply ask his own father. Swallowing, he stood up with a fluid movement and straightened his back, smiling toward the two Kings to welcome them. He did not miss their hinting glimpses toward them, which made him feel almost gloomy. But when they approached, he still greeted them with a gracious nod.

"We decided that we were tired of conducting our business inside a muggy office when we could enjoy the breezes from the Mountains and also enjoy the gardens whilst still discussing relevant business," he replied out loud, 

He looked between the two, admiring them. They were both handsome and young, proud in bearing and in their heritage. Intelligent, and apart from Olwë’s young children, the only two of the same relevant social status as one another.

As they approached and Ingwë spoke aloud, he took the moment to examine his friend's son. Ingwion was not unpleasant; as an athelete and a noble, he assured to be sound of mind and body alike, a worthy match for Fëanárë if she might not see it now.

Not only that: were his daughter to wed Ingwion, the old ties between the First and Second Clans would be forged again, more solid than before. After the turmoil around his second marriage, a tie which only split them further, it would be good to have a new bond.

But that was only assuming their children wed in good spirits. The look on Fëanárë's face told him this was not so.

"Grandfather," he called after a while, though hesitantly. "Have you spoken to the lady Indis yet?"

In the end, nothing she had said had truly mattered or cared. Their marriage had faded peacefully as was proper sometime ago, and it had honestly been a relief that she would not come with him to Formenos.

—

Finwë tried not to swallow obviously.

He failed.

The Maia’s eyes were unusual, he’d not seen their like before. They reminded him of the flashes of something beneath the water they’d seen whilst crossing the land bridge which had become Tol Eressëa. 

"I am the leader," he confirmed again, "it is a pleasure Lord Ošošai," his tongue tripped over the name awkwardly.  The noises behind the words were sinking into his head and buzzing, the clicks and the chirps and the low warbling that seemed to be taking the place of actual emotion for the bland voice. 

Her own dress was a shimmer of marigold silk with gold woven into her belt and her shoes, modestly covering her breasts and with long drapping sleeves Finwë though especially fetching. Combined with the flare of her skirt, he had thought her the best dressed amongst the party but Lord Ošošai's dress certainly competed strongly.

"Marriage," Míriel mused, and Finwë cast her an alarmed look, trying mentally to tell her not to feed the Maia a fairy tale because she would. She would with the chance.

His intended shot him an amused look, "we have a feast my Lord," his intended seemed to have chosen truth, "and we exchange tokens of marriage, in .... in Cuivienen we touched our flesh with ink but I do not know if that will continue now. Sometimes our families will exchange tokens to show they they support the marriage."