Pretend

Extremely AU.  What if Fingolfin had died in the Battle of the Lammoth?--a theory.  This is an experiment of sorts, so don't sue me or anything LOL.  It was just a curious idea that popped into my head yesterday evening and wouldn't go away.  Quenya names used (Argon = Arakáno, Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë).  Yes, in this universe, the random youngest son of Fingolfin exists and therefore the Battle of the Lammoth does take place, even though it's not in the published Silmarillion. Starts during the last year of the Years of the Trees before Anar rises and continues well into the First Age.  Introspection.

Disclaimer: Tolkien created the Silmarillion.  Of course, I'm pretty sure when he wrote Fingolfin as surviving the Battle of the Lammoth, he really meant Fingolfin.

Pairings: none

Characters: Argon, Fingolfin, Fingon, Turgon (mentions Aredhel and the Fëanorions and Finarfinions)

Warning: extremely AU but still somehow follows canon, non-canon character death/survival, very mild gore and blood, mentions of war and depression, self-hatred

Song: Dance with the Devil

Words: 885
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pretend (transitive verb): to give a false appearance of being, possessing, or performing; to make believe: feign; to claim, represent, or assert falsely
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pretend

No one could ever know their little secret.

Arakáno kept it locked tightly away in his heart, pushed away the agony that seemed to radiate through his chest with its every pulse, pushed away the shame that trembled precariously at the corners of his mind, driving him mad.

Pushed away the guilt that burned against his soul like acid.  Was it not his fault?  Had is impetuousness not been the catalyst to tragedy?

Because Nolofinwë was dead.  He was gone.  And Arakáno could blame no one but himself.

He had cradled the body to himself, begged and pleaded and sobbed, listened to the frightening gurgle of blood filling the lungs, watched as crimson streamed from the corners of his father's silently moving lips.  Shaking fingers brushed against his face, leaving behind great smears of red and black, but they could not hide the tears streaking their way down his face at whispered words and crushing, overwhelming sorrow.  The death rattle of those last few struggling breaths still echoed in his ears, haunting him in every waking moment and in every dream.

His brother had taken one look at them on the ground--the younger brother's shaking form and their father's limp, cooling body--and his face had hardened, his eyes the only indicator of his horror and despair.  The next words had struck Arakáno's soul like lashes of a whip. "No one can know."

It was more important to have a leader than a prince.  Arakáno was not needed.

But Nolofinwë was.

Covered in gore and stricken with grief, the youngest child of Nolofinwë had not resisted, had gone thoughtlessly along with the plot, had taken up his father's sword and circlet, had banished the young, fiery spirit from his body and replaced it with the shoddy ghost of someone greater.

The first time he was called "father" nearly stopped his heart.

The first time he was called "your majesty" left him raw and aching and full of shame.

He was not some great king or great leader or wise father.  For Ilúvatar's sake, he had gotten his father killed in a foolish dash across enemy lines without covering his back!  It was his inexperience and rashness that had created this mess in the first place!  How could Findekáno expect him to play at being King?  For that was what he did.  He played.

Pretended.

Lied.

Danced around a secret so great that no one aside from his siblings could ever discover it.  Every time he saw his cousins, he wanted so badly to scream it aloud--that he was not Nolofinwë and never would be!  Call me by my true name, I beg ye!  See me!

But he learned.  He dared not do anything less.

"You will make me proud, hínya," his father had spoken to him, the last words to ever leave his lips as he died within the circle of Arakáno's arms, as he had pressed his sword towards his youngest child.  How could Nolofinwë utter such words after what the youngest child of his loins had done, after the shame his son had heaped upon his family?

However, the words had served their purpose.  He dared not fail his father a second time.

Oh, he learned!  But it seemed to never get easier.  The guilt seemed never to ease.  No redemption was to be found in filling shoes too big, shoes that belonged to someone else.  Like a thief, he languished in a life meant for someone more noble and righteous.  Like a pauper, he answered to respectful bows and reverent words meant for the eyes and ears of someone older, someone who commanded that respect as easily as he breathed, someone who had died for all the right reasons and all the wrong choices.

Eventually, that someone altogether disappeared.

Eventually, Findekáno called him "Atar" and Arakáno kissed his "son's" forehead in parting, whispering a blessing over gold-woven braids, and Findekáno would smile in return at his sweet words like a flower blooming from the ashes of golden years.

Eventually, Turukáno came to him to reveal all his woes--to scream and rage and curse and then curl up into a ball in his lap and weep--as if he were the man who had held the boy in childhood after nightmares in the darkness, comforting strength and confidence.

Eventually, he wondered who it was that had truly disappeared and who it was that remained behind.  When he looked in the mirror, it was not his self that he saw staring back, but a reflection of advice just beyond reach and soft reassurances that didn't quite reach his ears.

Eventually, he no longer wished for those things.  Eventually, the words came naturally to his lips.

And that was the day Arakáno ceased to exist, and Nolofinwë took his place.

They never spoke of the secret.  There had never been need, for it became less a secret each day, less a lie and a falsehood.  He kissed his sons' foreheads and did not think of them as brothers.  He kissed his daughter's cheeks and wondered when she had grown into a beautiful young maiden.

And he no longer pretended.
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Just a little idea that was itching to find its way out of my cluttered brain.  I blame this story I read a while back on AO3 where Thorin dies during Azanulbizar and Dís takes over, pretending to be her older brother, because her people need a prince to follow more than they need a princess to fawn over in the wake of tragedy. 

Let's be honest here, if Fingolfin had died at the very beginning like Fëanor, I think there would have been a few more problems both in terms of leadership of the exiles and in terms of familial interactions.  Can you imagine the fuss the Fëanorions would have kicked up if Maedhros had given the throne to Fingon out of gratitude?

Anyway, I was listening to Dance with the Devil by Breaking Benjamin.  This song is an old favorite and an amazing song.  You know it's good when you've been listening to it since you were like 13 and still like it in college.  And a treat: Fingolfin's Challenge by =Gold-Seven on dA, because he looks kickass and I like the horse.  There's a link to the companion piece (of Morgoth) in the description.

Ja ne.