gleaming silver, glinting gold
Feb. 4th, 2022 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparklecryptidRated: G
Pairings: None
Characters: Finarfin, Fëanor
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Author's Note: I actually love Feanor to bits but uh. Finarfin does not share my feelings here. They bicker. Harsh words are said. I guess I could tag this canonical brotherly angst?
Summary: Finarfin gets tired of watching his half-brother taunt Fingolfin. He says something about it.
The palace is a cage.
It wasn’t meant to be one Arafinwë knows. The palace that stands in Tirion was meant to be a marvel, a building that spoke of the talents of the Noldor. It was supposed to show what wonders could be achieved in times of peace and what beauty their hands - ever wandering ever looking for something to mold or mend or make - could create.
The palace in Tirion is a beauty.
Arafinwë hates it. He hates it’s glittering towers and arched hallways. He hates the stained glass that casts a thousand different colors across the throne room. Arafinwë hates the way it’s beautiful, perfect in every way and he cannot help but want to scream whenever he is forced to come back to Tirion. The freedom he feels on the shores of Alqualondë stripped from him the moment he walks through the entrance way into his fathers palace.
If Arafinwë were a better man he might be honest with his father as to why he detests this place. If Arafinwë were a better man he might simply avoid the drama and theatrics that bringing the whole family together undoubtedly brings.
Arafinwë is not a better man. He might smile and speak softly to others, he might comfort his brother and his children when they get into arguments with Fëanáro’s side of the family but he cannot say that he is a better man than Nolofinwë or the others in his family.
If anything Arafinwë is a liar. He weaves his way through court wearing the mask of the pleasant child they knew once. Arafinwë smiles and it is soft and demure. Nonthreatening. He acts less than he is because he knows that his mothers reputation would be tarnished if he spoke out.
One of the many things his mother taught him is to be what those would see you drown want you to be. To prolong his life, to prolong how long he can throw his weight around in the many court intrigues that he wishes he knew naught of. Be what they want to see, Indis had shown him, And they won’t feed you to the wolves when the pack comes howling.
So Arafinwë smiles, soft as gold, and hides the steel and fire that burn in his chest. The Noldor do not need - they do not want - another prince with a temper. They do not need another prince whose soul burns as to rival the stars.
Arafinwë knows he’s a castaway prince, that he’s a prince in name only and that he will never inherit the throne. He does not take off the mask, he does not act on the urge to verbally fight Fëanáro whenever his half-brother taunts Nolofinwë.
He has perfected the mask he wears, he has worn it for centuries now.
There are times he thinks it’s a truer version of him than the fire that burns in him.
The palace is a cage, a stage, a place where Arafinwë learned how to sit and be pretty. It is the place where Arafinwë learned how to lie and dine and smile his way into someones good graces with a part he plays to perfection.
It is the place Arafinwë learned how to lie.
Arafinwë hates it.
-
Fëanáro is right, Arafinwë does take after his mother.
He has her talent for acting.
-
There is only so long someone can go pretending to be something they aren’t until the mask breaks and the actor forgets their lines.
Arafinwë smiles at Fëanáro and the air around them stills as they watch the eldest and the youngest sons of Finwë lock gazes. Arafinwe’s gaze is blue and silver, his mismatched eyes glinting like the shining edge of a knife.
Fëanáro looks at him, curious and furious and willing to shove Arafinwë aside to get to Nolofinwë. For all that his interest is piqued he cannot bring himself to care about Indis’ youngest son.
“My quarrel is not with you,” Fëanáro tells him his voice ringing clear as diamond through the night, “Step aside, Ingoldo.”
Arafinwë’s smile sharpens. Later he will blame this on the wine, later he will try to make amends and play the poor broken hearted brother when Fëanáro rejects his apology. For now though, Arafinwë is furious.
“No,” the mild son of Indis says, “I don’t believe I will. I have long since tired of watching you quarrel with my brother. Is it truly him that you are angry at? Or is it mere circumstance that ignites the wrath in your belly?”
Fëanáro’s gaze burns as fire in the dark.
Arafinwë’s smile does not waver.
“Or perhaps your anger is toward our father?” Arafinwë tilts his head to the side as though to consider his words. “If there is any blame to be had in this, it does not belong to Nolofinwë. Unless you count his birth a crime - a shallow excuse for anger you must admit - then he has done nothing wrong.”
“So why all this rage? You act like a child who has yet to learn how to speak. You lash out because you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“Watch your tongue,” Fëanáro says as he takes a step toward Arafinwë, “You know naught of what you speak.”
“I might not,” Arafinwë agrees, “But your actions effect the entire family, not that you would care. Your flame burns for you and you alone and you won’t stop until you scorch everything you love. Perhaps someone should toss you in a lake, that might cool your temper.”
Fëanáro fumes, silent and seething and Arafinwë finally lets his smile fall. His face is void and empty as he looks at his half-brother.
“You’re terribly selfish, Fëanáro. It’ll doom you someday.”
“You should watch your tongue, half-brother,” Fëanáro warns as Arafinwë turns and walks away, “It’ll be your downfall someday.”
-
Love is a selfish thing, in that way Arafinwë was not wrong. Fëanáro burns himself out and Arafinwë wishes he had tasted the prophecy in his mouth when he had spoken that night.
Pairings: None
Characters: Finarfin, Fëanor
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Author's Note: I actually love Feanor to bits but uh. Finarfin does not share my feelings here. They bicker. Harsh words are said. I guess I could tag this canonical brotherly angst?
Summary: Finarfin gets tired of watching his half-brother taunt Fingolfin. He says something about it.
The palace is a cage.
It wasn’t meant to be one Arafinwë knows. The palace that stands in Tirion was meant to be a marvel, a building that spoke of the talents of the Noldor. It was supposed to show what wonders could be achieved in times of peace and what beauty their hands - ever wandering ever looking for something to mold or mend or make - could create.
The palace in Tirion is a beauty.
Arafinwë hates it. He hates it’s glittering towers and arched hallways. He hates the stained glass that casts a thousand different colors across the throne room. Arafinwë hates the way it’s beautiful, perfect in every way and he cannot help but want to scream whenever he is forced to come back to Tirion. The freedom he feels on the shores of Alqualondë stripped from him the moment he walks through the entrance way into his fathers palace.
If Arafinwë were a better man he might be honest with his father as to why he detests this place. If Arafinwë were a better man he might simply avoid the drama and theatrics that bringing the whole family together undoubtedly brings.
Arafinwë is not a better man. He might smile and speak softly to others, he might comfort his brother and his children when they get into arguments with Fëanáro’s side of the family but he cannot say that he is a better man than Nolofinwë or the others in his family.
If anything Arafinwë is a liar. He weaves his way through court wearing the mask of the pleasant child they knew once. Arafinwë smiles and it is soft and demure. Nonthreatening. He acts less than he is because he knows that his mothers reputation would be tarnished if he spoke out.
One of the many things his mother taught him is to be what those would see you drown want you to be. To prolong his life, to prolong how long he can throw his weight around in the many court intrigues that he wishes he knew naught of. Be what they want to see, Indis had shown him, And they won’t feed you to the wolves when the pack comes howling.
So Arafinwë smiles, soft as gold, and hides the steel and fire that burn in his chest. The Noldor do not need - they do not want - another prince with a temper. They do not need another prince whose soul burns as to rival the stars.
Arafinwë knows he’s a castaway prince, that he’s a prince in name only and that he will never inherit the throne. He does not take off the mask, he does not act on the urge to verbally fight Fëanáro whenever his half-brother taunts Nolofinwë.
He has perfected the mask he wears, he has worn it for centuries now.
There are times he thinks it’s a truer version of him than the fire that burns in him.
The palace is a cage, a stage, a place where Arafinwë learned how to sit and be pretty. It is the place where Arafinwë learned how to lie and dine and smile his way into someones good graces with a part he plays to perfection.
It is the place Arafinwë learned how to lie.
Arafinwë hates it.
-
Fëanáro is right, Arafinwë does take after his mother.
He has her talent for acting.
-
There is only so long someone can go pretending to be something they aren’t until the mask breaks and the actor forgets their lines.
Arafinwë smiles at Fëanáro and the air around them stills as they watch the eldest and the youngest sons of Finwë lock gazes. Arafinwe’s gaze is blue and silver, his mismatched eyes glinting like the shining edge of a knife.
Fëanáro looks at him, curious and furious and willing to shove Arafinwë aside to get to Nolofinwë. For all that his interest is piqued he cannot bring himself to care about Indis’ youngest son.
“My quarrel is not with you,” Fëanáro tells him his voice ringing clear as diamond through the night, “Step aside, Ingoldo.”
Arafinwë’s smile sharpens. Later he will blame this on the wine, later he will try to make amends and play the poor broken hearted brother when Fëanáro rejects his apology. For now though, Arafinwë is furious.
“No,” the mild son of Indis says, “I don’t believe I will. I have long since tired of watching you quarrel with my brother. Is it truly him that you are angry at? Or is it mere circumstance that ignites the wrath in your belly?”
Fëanáro’s gaze burns as fire in the dark.
Arafinwë’s smile does not waver.
“Or perhaps your anger is toward our father?” Arafinwë tilts his head to the side as though to consider his words. “If there is any blame to be had in this, it does not belong to Nolofinwë. Unless you count his birth a crime - a shallow excuse for anger you must admit - then he has done nothing wrong.”
“So why all this rage? You act like a child who has yet to learn how to speak. You lash out because you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“Watch your tongue,” Fëanáro says as he takes a step toward Arafinwë, “You know naught of what you speak.”
“I might not,” Arafinwë agrees, “But your actions effect the entire family, not that you would care. Your flame burns for you and you alone and you won’t stop until you scorch everything you love. Perhaps someone should toss you in a lake, that might cool your temper.”
Fëanáro fumes, silent and seething and Arafinwë finally lets his smile fall. His face is void and empty as he looks at his half-brother.
“You’re terribly selfish, Fëanáro. It’ll doom you someday.”
“You should watch your tongue, half-brother,” Fëanáro warns as Arafinwë turns and walks away, “It’ll be your downfall someday.”
-
Love is a selfish thing, in that way Arafinwë was not wrong. Fëanáro burns himself out and Arafinwë wishes he had tasted the prophecy in his mouth when he had spoken that night.
