Work Text:
bruise [ brooz ]
verb (used with object), bruised, bruis·ing.
- to injure by striking or pressing, without breaking the skin
- to injure or hurt slightly, as with an insult or unkind remark:
It is a strange world, to have the Sons of Fëanor returned and living nearby and yet Finrod had not spoken to any of them. After a lifetime of politics, it's easy to avoid them despite their sheer number and their freedom to walk around in Aman as they pleased. Finrod stares out of the window, half-hidden behind the curtains to observe the invaders. After all members of the House of Finwë had been returned the living over the centuries, there had been an idea of a reunion. Of a feast, of a new beginning and Finrod had not been cruel enough to vote against it.
His grandfather had spoken with genuine hope in his eyes, it's hard to say no in the light of Fingolfin and Fëanor actively working on a good relationship. It's startling, to witness how they carefully tread through every conversation. How each of them actively listens to the other, how they always ensure to ask after meaning and content, never assuming and honestly apologizing whenever they misstep.
Finrod doubts Fëanor managed to overhaul his entire personality. Maybe he's motivated to build a good relationship with his brothers and Finarfin seems to take it in good humour, too quick to forgive and embrace his siblings to think about past grievances.
"You don't look so happy," Angrod comments and walks up beside Finrod to take a peek out of the window. When he sees what has his brother scowling, his laugh has Finrod's stomach churning.
"Are you also the opinion, I'm too sensitive on the subject?" Finrod hisses. He remembers Galadriel's needling. "Am I supposed to be happy that they walk around in my home unhindered?"
Angrod throws his brother a glance. Compared to Finrod, he appears more serious with his hair drawn back in a ponytail but he's also far from as agitated.
"You have a right to your feelings. I'm simply worried because as far as I know you have not met nor spoken to any of them since they arrived."
He points at the group gathered in the courtyard. The Fëanorians had chosen to settle elsewhere since they returned from Mandos. Tirion was the ground of too many old hostilities and since Formenos had long been abandoned, they built a new place. Neither Finrod nor Aegnor has visited it but Angrod claimed to have been there once.
Finrod isn't happy with the thought but as long as his cousins remained away, he could live with them having a peaceful existence. To have them waltz around beneath his window and practice sword-fighting the entire morning, rattled his nerves.
"I have no overly desire to talk to them," Finrod spats, a tone more bitter than he wanted. "They are clearly having fun."
That observation was true enough. Maglor and Celegorm chased each other around the yard while Maedhros sat on the sidelines obviously acting as a referee. The others are nowhere to be seen but Finrod knows they are around somewhere. The entire band arrived yesterday afternoon.
"They have clearly heard about your reluctance and I don't blame them for giving you the space you claim to have wanted. But do you know what I believe, dear brother?" Angrod had never been one to spare Finrod his feelings. Like always, he chooses brutal honesty. "You regret pushing them away because now you have realized that they are no longer pushing back. You wanted to be left alone and the result is that they are avoiding you."
Finrod grips the window sill hard enough his knuckles turn white.
Angrod's last advice shatters something inside him. His brother says, "If you want them to be your friends again, you will have to make the first step."
But I don't want to, Finrod thinks and shivers, cold and unhappiness seeping into his spine. He hugs himself to keep his composure. He's not entirely sure how he feels about Angrod's tentative embrace after his brother was the one to shatter his resolve.
"Why can they be so happy?" Finrod sobs, unable to take his eyes off the silly dance Maglor creates to escape Celegorm's ruthless attempts to hit him with the staff.
Arms wrap themselves around Finrod's chest, Angrod hugging him from behind. "You will have to ask them that."
It's an old philosophical question. Certain members of the Houe of Finwë have long wondered about the Fëanorian's vitality, their resilience and their boundless energy. It seems unsurprising that the House of Fëanor took a while to recover from the blows they have been dealt but that they rose from the ashes, steadfast and loyal towards each other as ever.
Angrod finally lets go. He pats Finrod on the back, "I can't help you, Findaráto. I died, gratefully knowing that Curufin and Celegorm would do anything for those who would manage to flee my burning lands. I also know that you died with a far different history. But I suspect you still want them as your friends. Otherwise, it would not be so hard to let them go."
While his brother leaves the room, Finrod wishes they had a closer relationship. Angrod cares enough about his well-being but they aren't close friends. They had their differences well before they left Valinor. Living in Beleriand, hundreds of miles apart didn't help.
Leaving Minas Tirith to Orodreth didn't help either.
Angrod never said it but he viewed Finrod as a coward for retreating to Nargothrond, for building it as far as possible. No matter how valuable the live-stock, the farms and the products were Nargothrond produced, as the eldest Angrod always believed Finrod should have been leading at the frontline.
But I didn't, Finrod thinks bitterly and continues to watch the Fëanorians outside. Not until I got dragged into a ballad by my own foolishness.
Finrod had lived long enough to know that guilt over Angrod's and Aegnor's deaths had driven his action when Beren stumbled into his halls. Otherwise, he might have chosen a different approach. Centuries of reflection brought him to the painful conclusion that helping Beren didn't equate to waltzing into Angband with him, though Finrod never made it that far. The Silmaril had been Beren's own goal, Thingol's foolish price.
Maybe, Celegorm and Curufin had been right, in a certain way.
Maybe, they even had been right in their attempt to stop him, regardless of the way they chose to make it happen.
Slowly relaxing, Finrod takes a last glance out of the window. He hadn't seen Celegorm since the First Age and his memory cannot provide him with how his cousin looked like at their last meeting. Compared to the young Elf mocking his brother and roping Maedhros into his games, the Celegorm from Nargothrond had been a terrified animal. Hurt and lashing out at the first sight of danger, of anything that could tear the fragile family apart.
You walked across half of Beleriand to get to safety, Finrod muses. He remembers the day the refugees arrived at his doorstep, most of them on foot. You depended on me to keep you safe and I threw my promise into your face when Beren arrived.
He had been King of Nargothrond, he governed over a large population of Elves.
Elves.
Beren had been a man.
I chose. I chose without thinking twice what I was choosing.
Finally seeing what his brother had been trying to tell him, Finrod gathers all his courage before he can find an excuse. Checking his clothing, he decides to change it into something more appropriate. Half an hour later, he steps into the courtyard.
From the door, he can see that Celegorm and Maglor are still going at it, only that they have chosen to bully Maedhros instead. The eldest Son of Fëanor armed himself with a staff to fend off his two vicious little brothers. The rest of the brood is nowhere to be seen.
"Would you like to join them?" A woman asks who has been sitting on a bench near the door.
She's dressed in training clothes as well, simple and already smudged from the times she must have been thrown into the sand.
"I think so, yes. It might be the best way to start a conversation," Finrod explains. To his surprise, he laughs at himself when he adds, "Especially, if it comes to blows anyways."
The woman smiles. Her eyes are kind and her pale hair makes her look familiar. Finrod tries to place her face. Before he can ask about her name, the woman says, "It's a good way to get to know them, in any case."
She rests her own staff in her hands. A lighter sword for practising rests next to her knees. Finrod gathers that physical activity or sword fighting has been far from her daily routine until very recently. Her stature appears thin, weak but not frail. Not anymore at least, if Finrod judges the spirit behind the woman's eyes correctly. However, she looks like she threw herself at practice with determination, regardless of her limitations.
"Why? Is it not a rather volatile way for someone still recovering their strength?" Finrod asks before he can wonder if he's crossing boundaries. The Elleth had the look of those who had recently returned from Mandos.
The woman's eyes shine with mirth. "Mayhaps, but it's something they all enjoy and are good at. They are very patient and kind in teaching me and they forget to keep their guard up while they pass around instructions."
A loud crash sounds over the yard. Maedhros had fallen against a wooden dummy and now he's cursing and running after Maglor while Celegorm is too busy gasping for breath while tears of laughter stream down his face.
It's a good look on him. Finrod cannot remember Celegorm looking like this while he lived in Nargothrond.
I might be meeting a stranger, Finrod realizes.
"Thank you," Finrod says and bows to the woman before he steps into the light, waiting patiently for the Fëanorians to recognize him.
Míriel leans back and counts her bruises.