15 | Our Secrets are our Weapons

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Arafinwë Ingoldo | Prince of the Noldor

Location: Forlond, Forlindon, Middle Earth, Arda

Time: March 2981 T.A

When he opened his eyes, he found himself sitting in front of what seemed to be a large round table made of marble. A white cover was placed over it, with a mix of embroidery patterns. Stars and flowers were sewn upon them. He noticed the silver plate in front of him, a platter of fruit of various types. There were grapes, pears, and apples along with what seemed to be pomegranates. Just as the ones that used to grow in Tirion. [1]

Beside the plate was a cup finding it filled with red wine halfway.

Though as he began to lean or stand, it seemed he couldn't budge. As if he was stuck upon the velvet seat he sat upon.

It was there he panned around the large hall and recognized it now as one of the dining rooms back in Tirion. Back when he was a child, Finarfin remembered dining here quite rarely. His sister Lalwen never liked dining finely and his older brother Fingolfin had long been busy with his own household duties. As for his eldest sister, Findis would often have enough time though not enough to persuade them all to arrive.

Then came his half-brother. Fëanáro rarely dined with them. And if their father attempted to, all they received was a short letter saying that he was either too busy or clearly too angered to confront them all.

So it was a shock, that the first person he looked up to had been him.

And not just Fëanor, but all of his siblings.

Spread equally around the table, Finarfin spotted them all sitting quietly looking in one direction. Him.

First catching his eldest sister's gaze, Findis wore a hurtful expression as she sadly asked, "Why are doing this, brother?" She added with a tone of frustration, "This is not like you."

Finarfin widened his eyes. What was happening? What was she saying?

"What?" He spluttered out, attempting to shift at his spot, "N-Nésa, I haven't done anything—"

Lalwen scoffed, his older sister had discarded her food, her face in disgust focused on him rather than the thrown meal. "Yes, you have!" She snapped straight at him, her voice echoing across the large dining hall. "You sold us over! You're betraying us!"

Finarfin stared, the pit of his stomach dropping. Confusion and a twang of worry began to erupt but he tried not to show it. As calmly as possible, he answered them: "I haven't done anything."

"Oh don't try to lie."

At the far end of the table sat Fëanor, his half-brother lounging lazily upon his chair as he was twirling a knife upon his hand. His eyes burnt a mix of red and blue as he glared into his gaze, feeling as if he was burning him from his mind. Fëanor said in a dark voice, "You knew the consequences of your actions."

Somehow that sent him inhaling sharply. No, he would not fall for his half-brother's trap. Finarfin was controlled and composed as he reasoned; "Fëanáro, I was only trying to help—"

Slamming her knife down, the tip hit the marble with a large clang of metal.

Lalwen leaned over the table as she snarled back, "Yes, by saving yourself!" Tears spilt and rained upon her reddened cheeks. "You are not better than any of us!"

A twang upon the string of his heart snapped.

No. He wasn't saving himself. He was saving them. He was trying to keep this family together.

His eyes looked back to his older sister. Findis' face remained composed, though it wasn't hard to see the tears slipping down.

A look of disappointment at him.

Just like what their mother did whenever they did something wrong in her eyes.

Finarfin's voice began to crack as he repeated once more, "I am trying to save you all. You did this upon yourselves—"

"And yours as well." He noticed Fëanor's eyes glowing with a blue and reddish hue. His spirit practically burned from his body as his voice was underlined with anger, "We all have a price to pay. Secrets are nothing more than a bargaining chip. A temporary haven for you."

No. He was wrong. He had done it to help them. To survive this cause that was doomed, to begin with. Even if he never agreed with his half-brother about anything he had done, he was still kin. His blood.

Turning right in front of him, he stared into his other brother's eyes.

Instead, Fingolfin held nothing but pain in them.

Betrayal.

"Háno, please," Finarfin pleaded to him, trying to beg through to his mind. "You must understand."

But instead, Fingolfin ignored him and stood up from his spot.

Finarfin followed with his eyes, trying to get up but he was stuck on the chair. He began to call out to him. 

"Háno?" 

And yet he didn't respond as Finarfin shouted at his brother.

"Háno!"

Fingolfin walked away as Finarfin continued to struggle and pull himself up.

And as he watched his brother open the door of the dining room, Finarfin widened his eyes as he saw the dark figure engulf his brother – watching as the blade went across his chest in a clean swipe.

That was when he screamed.

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Finarfin flung his body upwards, throwing the covers out of the way with a sudden gasp.

As the ringing of his ears diminished, he then heard the thumping of his heart followed by his deep pants. Only a few words registered through his mind as he attempted to recollect himself.

It was just a dream.

But it felt real. Too real.

With a hand rubbing across his neck and forehead, he found a moist spot on his skin. His hair clung to the surface as he tried to rub his eyes next, trying to adjust his sight at the dimly lit room. The moment he finally calmed himself, Finarfin suddenly felt a weight upon his shoulder whilst the sound of shuffling made him jerk up slightly.

But as he turned to his right, he relaxed once more – only to find the only face he had hoped to see.

Eärwen leaned up with her elbows, her face clearly concerned for him as she tried to grasp him lightly. 

With a soft voice, she asked him attentively, "Ara? What is wrong?" Her hand trailed up to his face, cupping his cheek as she noted worriedly, "You're sweating, my love."

His head hung low as he let his hands lower onto his lap, staring blankly again. He tried to dissuade the scenes that were flashing past his mind, but nothing could stop the screams that echoed in his head. Not even his wife's lingering whispers as she smoothened her hand at his back.

"Nothing, melmenya." Shaking his head, Finarfin exhaustingly answered, "I...just a dream."

He glanced back at her, her face morphing into a calm demeanour as she questioned, "Do you want to speak of it?"

"I...no." Slight hatred for himself rose as the lie escaped his lips, and yet Finarfin continued, assuring her: "I shall get some air."

He knew Eärwen wouldn't fall for such things, but neither did she have time to retort back as he stood up and left her sitting up in their bed – heading into the conjoining room to grab his robe and cloak.

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He didn't lie to his wife that he wanted some air, even if it was the salty air of the sea.

Even here it felt so different from the coasts of Alqualondë. There, the climate was temperate to even warm, where those who lived upon Eldamar were able to wear only a couple of layers of clothing, perhaps a small shawl or cloak from the chills of the sea breeze. But as the gust of the coast soothed those from the heat, the winds of Middle Earth cast an icy sharpness that sent shivers up his spine.

The wind might as well cut his skin as he walked through the upper walkways of the palace before he returned to the inner grounds and descending to the lower levels, where the training yards and armoury were placed.

Maybe that was a bad decision, considering out of all the people residing in this city – it had to be the one he had wished not to see again tonight.

Standing by the far end was his brother, a sword in his hands as he danced and moved in a fluid motion. There were mannequins lined in a row, stood by a singular pole, and weighted base. Whilst Finarfin moved quietly closer, he moved his arms to shift his cloak more around him, internally taking a breath to prepare himself. Because as much as what had occurred, his heart wished to pull himself and ask him why he had been out whilst everyone else was resting or sleeping after a few weeks of no rest.

Halting with ragged breaths, Fingolfin noticed his presence and glanced sideways at him before he finished off the mannequin, the arms and head almost prying off if he dared to take another slice.

Finarfin asked with a raised brow, "How long have you been here?"

With an exhale, his brother relaxed before he replied: "Since the moon was above."

His eyes wandered again to the mannequin before he looked back at him. Finarfin simply noted, "I can tell. The dummy appears quite slaughtered now."

Fingolfin sheathed his sword as he stared down at the mannequin before he said, "Unfortunately that is the third one I've broken." He then nudged his chin across to the other side of the room.

Wandering his eyes in the same direction, he spotted the two other mannequins that had been (sadly) disintegrated by his brother's intense training. "It appears so," Finarfin mused.

Fingolfin creased his eyebrows as he questioned back at him, "Why are you here? I haven't seen you in the training yards. Or in any since..."

...Since their youth.

In truth, that hadn't been the only time he had been in the training yard – only the time Fingolfin had seen him. The last time had been during the War of Wrath, a year after they had arrived on the shores of Beleriand and had begun training and developing more of their soldiers before there was no time to train at all. He had barely been fit to even lead his people, no less an army. He was no general or a captain. He had read up and consolidated many strategies and information on the art of battle and war, but his experience had been nought.

And after the War of Wrath, Finarfin's own mind had been damaged by the horrors of war and death and his first instinct was to bring his family home. Or those who were left.

Yet all of them refused. Even his only daughter – Alatáriel – chose a dangerous road instead for the sake of safety. He still could not understand her and his children why they chose it. They could have made their own place in Aman, and rule their own house with no fear or danger nearby.

Now it was evident what that fear caused. It had caused violence and anger. A fire that was burning everything through their paths. Why Fingolfin had become a ruthless fighter, deadly and poised that his heart still leapt as he found himself staring at his eyes.

Just moments ago, if he hadn't spoken or said anything: Finarfin would've ended up just like the mannequin.

Finarfin didn't want to reveal why he had been walking around the palace, instead, answering back: "I would have hoped to find you here."

With his brother turning his head slightly, Fingolfin sounded confused and surprised. "I would have thought you were with Eärwen or your son," He walked over to the bench, placing his sword down whilst he picked up a cloth to wipe the sweat off his brow. Fingolfin spoke at him, "Your son seems very prepared for what is to come."

Mentioning his brother, Finarfin could only swallow down the bile that rose in his throat – compressing that flare of heat that made him inhale sharply.

If there was one that he was more concerned about was his children – especially Finrod. He had been thankful that his younger sons were not here. With Angrod and his wife back in Aman, he was at least safe from the harm that was happening here. Just as Aegnor was...but that had been something that Finarfin had been forced to deal with.

He knew his youngest son didn't approve of anything that was happening. So to not risk their plans, he had no choice but to send Aegnor away. Thankfully it was with Maedhros and Lady Illyria Ettelëa, knowing that if Finarfin had sent him to Lord Aranwë and Lady Melian he didn't know what would've happened to his son. The three as well as Lord Dior and his oldest hadn't known yet, but eventually, they would wonder what Finarfin had done to Aegnor. He would have to come up with a reasonable excuse as to why he sent him with the Fëanorians.

However: there was nothing left to save when it came to his eldest child.

At first, Finarfin was pleased with Finrod's position with the members leading the Noldor. Proud and happy, he watched his son lead like it was second nature to him. Even back in Eldamar and Valinor, his son had changed: no longer the youthful and ambitious ner but now mature and composed. He had become wise during his time in Beleriand and the Halls of Mandos, accepting and understanding his mistakes and had only become a beacon of heroism in the Valar's eyes.

In the beginning, Finarfin couldn't help but just be happy. Happy to have his son back, to walk with him in the gardens of Tirion and speak of the things they had learnt over time.

Then the ages passed and soon he began to see the cracks.

He began hearing the praises of his son. How Finrod had been brace defending the atan Beren and Princess Lúthien Tinúviel from Morgoth's Lieutenant. How he had been the first of their kind to approach the Atani, gaining some alliance and friendship with them. How he had built a fortress and gained ties with the Kingdom of Doriath. How his wisdom had matched his father and showed the purity of the Calaquendi.

His son was showered with praise by the Valar, and more and more he was seeing the effects of it.

Finarfin had been wrong to assume that Finrod had changed. His son's ambitions had simply just gotten bigger, and something which worried him more. And the more his son was blinded by the Valar's praises, Finarfin feared how much this would cause them all.

With all of these fears swirling around him, he didn't dare to show them in front of his brother. He couldn't.

Instead, he gave his brother a sad smile as he responded, "And I wish it isn't something that he should be looking forward to." Finarfin took another breath before he elaborated, "He has done a lot and yet continues to follow everything that is said. And Me? I am...unsure of what is to come. For me and our family."

Fingolfin moved to him, placing a hand upon his shoulder as he spoke: "Little brother, I know we had our differences. I understand there is a burden that came with our choices and our paths." He glanced down at him with a sympathetic expression, "But know that I am here now."

A feeling of doubt struck him as he eyed him back.

Yes. He may be here but hadn't changed things of what he had done. What Fingolfin had done to him.

"And yet you still followed him. Despite knowing well what would have happened. What it would cost you," Finarfin stared blankly back as he thought, 'What it had cost me.'

His eyes narrowed as Fingolfin pressed, "We were younger. We wanted vengeance for father."

"And mother?" He questioned back at him, removing the hand from his shoulder as he took a breath. "I know we do not...We question our mother's teachings, especially Aranye, but it doesn't mean we have to do this." Finarfin's voice ended in a tight tone, trying his best not to remember the blood.

His brother's dead body upon the floor.

Blinking once more, he found his brother reassuring him, "Arafinwë. None of us are safe anymore." Fingolfin inhaled, leaning down now before he muttered the next words, "If Nerdanel says who she is, then perhaps we have a chance of surviving this. Her heritage bounds us to a chance."

"And what if this isn't enough?" Finarfin hissed back, "What if Illyria Ettelëa being a child of Varda is not enough to save us?"

'What if wasn't enough to save you...' That was what he was begging to say back, but he couldn't.

Finarfin couldn't fall into his pride. He had to do this for his family.

"Then we will fight." His brother firmly stated, the words sending a stabbing feeling at Finarfin's heart. "And I will do it until my very demise."

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Mairon | Lord of Mordor

Location: Barad-dûr, Mordor, Middle Earth, Arda

Time: March 2981 T.A

Mairon stood upon the balcony of his tower. Barad-dûr, the very tower which he had built over an age ago, was now standing proudly better than before. Protected by the weapons they had gained from the trip they had taken briefly across the worlds; it would be impossible for any of the free people's try and take even a step into the Plateau of Gorgoroth and be obliterated in a blink of an eye.

However, despite the access to Earth's weaponry, they were unfortunately limited to such resources. And the blame for that would have been the White Wizard himself.

Saruman.

The Maia had made a grave mistake in turning against him and thus turning against Morgoth. Mairon had known that the Maia had gotten greedy. He wished for the One Ring, which could only be wielded himself as well as the Silmaril in the grasp of the unknown sorcerer. Now word has passed, and he watched from his tower Isengard burst into a blinding light like as if a star had exploded in the lands of Middle Earth.

Mairon couldn't help but smirk when he spectated. 

Saruman had thought he could match against the Oialëa. A being that was beyond his own strength. He didn't know how powerful she could become, especially when he knew from Angband that it would only take a few more times that the power residing inside her would be unleashed.

But now neither his ring nor the jewel was on this plane of existence. Saruman had lost not only half of his army but two of the most vital things they had needed to destroy the peoples of Middle Earth. Mairon cared not to save him nor punish him. It would be a waste of time to approach the almost broken Maia that was now imprisoned in his own tower by Yavanna's creations.

The next option now was to prepare for the direct hit. Gondor was almost at his grasp, with Minas Tirith barely holding and besieged, the next thing was now to begin their stretch towards Rohan whilst the Haradrim and Corsairs of Umbar alongside the Variags of Khand would take from the east and stretch from Dol Amroth towards the gaps pass the White Mountains. Soon in perhaps a month or so, they will be able to destroy the army which has troubled him.

Words and whispers of the heir, which seemed so impossible. The last time a king had stepped into the lands of Gondor was thousands ago. Until the Witch King destroyed Arnor and began the decline of the house of Númenor. But now there was a rumour, of a ranger from the north bearing the blood of Númenor. The Heir of the Kings that destroyed him almost three thousand years ago.

Mairon was not afraid. No. But it would be careless of him to ignore such things. He had to be wary, no doubt this could potentially rile up the people of this continent and destroy the plans he had. His plans had already toiled when the Oialëa decided to protect his ring with whatever power she possessed.

He had tried to find them. The halfling that bore his ring.

But with one touch upon the ring and Frodo Baggins, his very spirit had been burned. A part of him had felt itself singe in ashes, trying to hide it as he felt his power slightly diminish. Mairon had no choice then but to leave the halfling wherever he was, furious that something so simple and so weak and small had prevented him to gain the other part of himself.

He had no choice but to wait. He tasked the Nazgûl to continue their search whilst trying to maintain the fear on the Gondorians through their scouting missions. Once Thuringwethil returns, he would then be able to provide them with enough Earth weapons to begin the first damages upon the land.

Because despite Dagor Dagorath arriving, it would be pointless to maintain this world as perfect as it was supposedly. They will destroy this world and recreate it in his and Morgoth's vision.

As he turned his heels away from Mordor, he glided over into the large domed room and eyed his current lieutenant. His spirit and form had yet to be recovered yet, but it was not for long.

Whilst two orcs were dressing them, Mairon walked around the room as he spoke loudly, "I hope you are ready," He began, turning his gaze momentarily at them as he gently touched the ring upon his fingers. "You must thank Lord Melkor for such a privilege. He would not have provided you such an honour if he had not known what you had done to the Oialëa two thousand years ago..."

There was a moment of silence before he heard their voice echo through the helmet.

"I did what you had asked of me, my lord." They spoke with a slight rasp, "You said to find the weakness."

Mairon praised with a slight smirk, "And you did." He gleamed as he continued to circle the room, watching as the now shimmering armour – now enhanced by the Silmaril's power over them. "And you shall do so again. But not her."

Whilst he knew that he should give the resources more in tackling the armies that would arrive, he knew who would be there.

A certain child of the Eternal.

The elf that decimated half of Saruman's army in blinding light.

And Mairon shall now have that.

Walking up to the now-dressed soldier, Mairon looked before him. His armour now radiating with fear and power. He grinned, eyes burning towards the former human that had been at his command.

The Witch-King of Angmar bore his deadly gaze upon the Lord of Mordor. He questioned him, "Who am I to seek?"

Mairon answered him simply, "You will find the daughter of the Oialëa..." He continued with a deadly and blunt tone.

"...And destroy her."

The newly revived Witch King lowered his head before he knelt before him.

"I shall do so at your command."

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[1] - Fruits Symbolism: The fruits on the table show several meanings regarding the dream sequence and why there are those. Especially the apples and pomegranates, with the apples being inspired by the Apple of Eden from Christianity. And pomegranates represent immortality and death from Greek Mythology.

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A/N: Another chapter update which revolves more around Finarfin and more on Sauron. Again, I'm not sure if I warned you before but here again: if you don't like my portrayal of Finarfin and his decisions in this fic then fair enough. But this is my sort of way. I always thought Finarfin, being the youngest of Finwe's children, is more adamant in following the Valar than his siblings and hence why he probably has nightmares because he has this internal battle between his loyalty to the Valar and the loyalty and love for his family.

As for Sauron...You're doing well sweetie. :)

One more update and I will have to pause for a moment until I've had the time to get around to some writing.

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Edited: 01/02/2023