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Anthology for short pieces set in or associated with Rohan. Most of these either feature Eowyn or draw on the material on...
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Karlmir Stonewain
11/15/18 10:47 am
Snow is in tonight's forecast. Bah! It's too early for snow. Time for a sequel to "Islands of Warmth in a Sea of Cold."
11/14/18 10:49 pm
Oops - meant to say, please DM me with your email address!
11/14/18 10:48 pm
Can those of you who want to be involved DM me and I'll send out a group email. Cheeky and Ziggy - I know I did have your emails, but I doubt I've still got them.
11/14/18 10:46 pm
Yay for everyone joining in with the advent calendar (*waves to Cheeky*). It's probably time we got this show on the road.
Spiced Wine
11/13/18 10:42 pm
And it will still feel like a last-minute rush!
Spiced Wine
11/13/18 10:41 pm
I do not believe we’re already thinking of Christmas. Yet here I am ordering pressies, buying cards, making sure I have addresses...
11/12/18 02:03 am
11/11/18 11:12 pm
Cheeky! Hi! Hope you're well :D and never mind putting up with, we need you to provide crazy plot tangles and lighten things up!
11/11/18 06:56 pm
Hi there, I’m happy to do the advent story again as long as you can put up with my ridiculousness disrupting your attempts at a more somber mood :-)
11/11/18 04:45 am
Shout Archive

and the light streams out by arafinwean

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Chapter notes:
Anyway I found the lack of Fingolfin/Feanor/Finarfin fics disheartening so I made my own? This first chapter is just about Feanor and Finarfin though Fingolfin is mentioned.

Also, a warning, my Finarfin tends to differ from common interpretations of him so, yeah, beware.
Fëanáro does not think much of Arafinwë. He does not think much of his too kind half-brother who offers him a smile even as Fëanáro scorns him. Does not think that Arafinwë is half as interesting as Nolofinwë, who Fëanáro can provoke with words barely coated in the honey required of the two of them in court.

No, Fëanáro thinks, watching Arafinwë smile and charm a group of Teleri who are visiting Tirion on business, his youngest half-brother is nothing more than a pretty face. There is no fire to him.

He doesn’t think of Arafinwë again until the next time he attends a festival held in the Tirion’s city square. Strands of silver light up the sky and Fëanáro is captivated by it, has lusted for light since he was a child and clinging to the faint memories of his mother’s hair.

He wants to do more than replicate light, he wants to create his own. Wants to create something that will be known far and wide and he wants what he creates to mean something.

A hand on his shoulder, and Fëanáro turns to find Nelyafinwë staring at him, quirking his brow in a way that tells Fëanáro his oldest son is amused.

It’s odd to find that his oldest has outgrown him, but Fëanáro still feels a rush of pride at how his son can charm lords and ladies almost as well as his uncle.

“Nelyafinwë,” Fëanáro says, “Is something the matter?”

“You should enjoy yourself father,” his lips quirked in amusement even as he says this, “None of us are children anymore, you don’t have to keep chasing us.”

Fëanáro almost laughs.

“I’ll be chasing you seven as long as I live,” Fëanáro informs his son. His eyes leaving his eldest’s face for a moment to trace the path of light that reflects off the various pieces of crystal and glass scattered throughout the square.

Nelyafinwë catches Fëanáro’s distraction and smiles.

“Perhaps we should be the ones chasing you,” he says, and Fëanáro opens his mouth to respond when-

It’s as though a bolt of lightning struck the square because suddenly there’s a light in his mind's eye. A mix of gold and silver and bright enough to put stars to shame, it’s firm and angry and just as quickly as it comes it’s gone.

Fëanáro blinks, coming back to himself, and is reminded of Arafinwë’s heterochromic eyes.

His left was gold.

His right, silver. The same two colors that had appeared just a moment ago.

Fëanáro watches his son take his hand off his shoulder and leave, calling for Arafinwë as he does so.

Fëanáro had known his son and Arafinwë were friends, being so close in age they were bound to bond no matter how much Fëanáro disapproved. Which meant that if Nelyafinwë was calling out his uncle’s name then-

Well, it seemed like Arafinwë might be more interesting than Fëanáro had thought.


He does not seek Arafinwë out right away. He will let the fire in his half-brother cool before he tries to rouse it again.

It turns out that display at the festival was Arafinwë, that someone had insulted one of his children and implied that they were not fit to be apart of the royal family and Arafinwë, calm, collected, boring, Arafinwë had lashed out.

(Arafinwë might be a master of masks, but Fëanáro has always been good at breaking them.)


Fëanáro finds Arafinwë after his half-brothers wife and children had left Tirion for the sand and sea again.

He picks the lock to Arafinwë’s house, slides in through the front door and stops when he sees that the nothing in the house is lit. The only light is coming in through the window.

For a moment, Fëanáro wonders if he’s miscalculated and that Arafinwë has gone out to the market or something equally dull. Then there’s a crash below him and he almost laughs.

What would Arafinwë be doing in the basement?

Raising an eyebrow, Fëanáro reaches out with his mind and is surprised to find that he can sense his half-brothers fire through the walls. Something must have made him angry enough to draw out that delicious light that Arafinwë does such a splendid job of hiding.

He descends the stairs to the basement, and has to blink to reassure himself that what he’s seeing is real.

All along the hallway leading to the room that he can sense Arafinwë in he can see murals, fresco’s of bloody battles and death. As he continues down the hallway he can see that some depict the death of one person, others the death of multiple people, finally he sees one that makes him stop.

There are seven figures surrounding a burning skeleton.

Fëanáro knows what it is.

He does not want to think about leaving his children behind. He knows the pain of losing a parent far too well. He reaches out to stroke the figures of his sons.

He will not leave them.

He is sure of it.

Fëanáro does not believe in prophecy, he believes in taking fate into his own hands and crafting it as he will.

He will not leave his sons fatherless.

“Yes you will,” a voice says, as if reading his thoughts.

Fëanáro would not be surprised if they had been read.

“And how do you know?” Fëanáro challenges his half-brother, “Because you saw it?”

“Because the path you’re on can lead to no other destination,” the voice says, oddly devoid of emotion, “Because you’ve already decided to make them, and father will always go with you.”

“What happens to him?” Fëanáro’s voice is sharp, heavy and demanding. It would cause lesser men to cower.

Arafinwë does not cower.

He simply shakes his head.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Even if it can be avoided?”

“It cannot be avoided,” Arafinwë’s voice sounds pained, “He loves you beyond all reason. He will follow wherever you go,” Arafinwë chuckles, “Just as you would do anything for him he will do anything for you. He loves you more than anything.”

“Does that bother you?”

“It used to.”

“And now?”

“Now I would rather none love me in such a way.”

“Why?” Fëanáro cannot imagine hiding the full extent of his love beneath layers of masks as Arafinwë seems to do.

Arafinwë is now standing shoulder to shoulder with Fëanáro, both of them gazing upon his death scene.

“My wife has told me that our family loves in such a way it is terrifying,” Arafinwë says, “That our family will turn love into a weapon and make you bleed with it,” a moment of silence, “I have felt that love for my wife and children, but I refuse to turn it into a weapon against them.”

“Are you scared of someone turning it into a weapon against you?”


Fëanáro turns his head and finally looks at his half-brother. Arafinwë looks tired, has the same weariness about him Fëanáro has seen in Irmo’s seers. His golden hair is coming loose from the ponytail that Arafinwë seemed to have hastily put in and he has a smear of red paint across his cheek.

Like blood, Fëanáro thinks, and wipes it away with his thumb.

Like fire.

Fëanáro lets his hand fall away.

Arafinwë blinks, as if startled. His mismatched eyes seeming to glow as they come to focus on Fëanáro.

Fëanáro wants to take the light in those eyes and turn it into gems. Wants to horde Arafinwë’s light away like the Teleri horde pearls. He wants to string every reaction he possibly can from Arafinwë until his half-brother is always on fire.

“That’s always the risk with love Arafinwë,” Fëanáro says, and thinks that Arafinwë is terribly attractive disheveled, “Are you unwilling to take risks?” A challenge.

“I am unwilling to let my family get hurt in the aftermath.”

Fëanáro laughs.

“You care more than you should.”

Arafinwë meets his eyes.

“And you don’t?” A challenge that Fëanáro ignores in favor of answering a question that has been bugging him since he discovered the murals.

“Should you not be with Irmo? Certainly a seer of your talents would be treated well by the Valar.”

Fëanáro does not expect the room to darken with Arafinwë’s mood. He is not disappointed when it does and suddenly the smoldering flame that had led Fëanáro to Arafinwë burns brighter.

“No.” Sharp as a red hot knife, the single word cuts through the air and would have left no room for more questions if Arafinwë had discussed it with someone other than Fëanáro.

“Why not? Certainly you would enjoy it there.” Fëanáro presses.

“I will not be their spy,” Arafinwë says, anger evident in his voice, “I will not allow them to use me to shape the future.”

If Fëanáro weren’t Fëanáro he would have tried to hide the sudden anger he feels at the implication of Arafinwë’s words. That the Valar could have a hand in his fate, in the fate of his family, does not sit well with him.

Fëanáro ignores the first part because he doesn’t want to think of the Valar pitting his own people against each other.

(For some reason, it would not surprise him if they did.)

“What do you mean?” Fëanáro knows what Arafinwë meant, but he wants confirmation of it.

Arafinwë barks out a laugh and for a moment Fëanáro is reminded of a wolf.

When Arafinwë smiles, it isn’t a nice smile.

“Oh Fëanáro,” Arafinwë says, his voice dripping with fake pity, “Did you really ever think we were free?”

Fëanáro never did, but to hear what he thinks come out of the mouth of one member of the family that everyone thinks is tame makes him laugh.

We will only be free when we are separated from the Ainur, Fëanáro thinks, and makes sure Arafinwë hears it.

From the look in his eyes, Arafinwë hears him and agrees.
Chapter end notes:
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