Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters and most of the plot (but not all)
Pairings: Finrod x Amarië
Characters: Finrod, Amarië, Finarfin, Eärwen (random other elves and Morgoth mentioned)
Warning: extreme AU, scarring, (very vague) allusions to torture/violence, canon character death, extreme family issues, depression
Song: Sadness and Sorrow
Words: 1,123
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recoil (intransitive verb): to fall back under pressure; to shrink back physically or emotionally
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/recoil
Home is where the heart is, or so they said.
It was a particularly sore subject for Findaráto. An uncertain subject.
Once upon a time, when he was far away on the other side of Belegaer, all he had wanted was to return home, to embrace his wife, to see his parents, to not have to worry and worry and worry all day and night. There would be no Dark Lord, no armies bearing down upon his helpless people, no glowing stones and ruined friendships. He would not be King. He would not be responsible for his people's suffering. More than that, he had longed for the golden fields and green stretches of evergreen spring going on and on as far as his eyes could see. The familiar warmth on his skin and the earthy scent in the back of his throat.
He had longed for something that had been tarnished, and he had returned to a shadow of what he remembered.
At first, nothing had seemed amiss. Hidden away with Amarië in their humble abode in the forest, all had seemed blissful and perfect. There was love, restful quiet and no shadow of evil slinking downwards to give him chills in the night. But venturing beyond their little slice of paradise, the wild colorful world had dulled into something gray.
People smiled less than he remembered. Whenever he saw them, they looked distant, as if they were not even present in spirit, but lost in deep nostalgia, in some memory of long ago. And when they looked at him, their eyes did not show recognition. More oft than not, fear stared back at him. The twisted scars across his face, the fire in his eyes, his reputation as being one of them--the exiles--made the nameless elves shift back from him on the streets, giving him a wide berth, like he was some feral animal that might snap at their hands if they reached out too close.
But none of those things would have driven him from his home. Let the people think what they would; they had always done so and it had never bothered him a whit before!
No, it wasn't the people. It was his family.
It was his father, who could not seem to meet his eyes.
"Findaráto," he would say, and reach out to lay a hand upon his son's shoulder as they walked together. But his lips were stretched into an unnatural grin, something so fake it looked wrong, waxy and stretched. When Arafinwë turned towards his heir, his hazy blue eyes seemed to look right over Findaráto's shoulder, towards something in the distant past, right through his son.
"Atar?"
And then, when his attention was forcibly drawn, when he looked--really looked--there was such a fierce dose of revulsion in that gaze that it made the younger elf shudder down to his bones. To have such a look directed at him from such a beloved face...
The hand fluttered and faltered midair. Slowly, it would plummet downwards, shrinking away as if to touch a body so marred was to touch something unclean. Never had Findaráto felt more ruined.
It was his mother. When she had first seen him, she had not even recalled his face.
Eagerly, he had been waiting at his father's side, valiantly ignoring the distance--both physical and emotional--filled with thick tension between them, a wide valley opening into an abyss just inches from their boots, waiting to crumble.
She had arrived, standing in the doorway with her familiar silvery hair and blue eyes, unchanged by time. Just as Findaráto remembered her.
He had looked straight into her eyes and smiled. And she had recoiled as if he had slapped her, pure disgust showing on her face for a moment before it was covered in a sheet of tenuous ice and a hesitant smile. "Introduce me to your acquaintance, husband."
How he kept smiling, Findaráto could not recall. His throat had filled with bitter ash and his eyes had stung, but somehow he continued to grin. Somehow he managed not to fall apart.
"Amillë," he greeted softly, longing hopelessly for the embrace that he had missed and craved many a night in the dark depths of Nargothrond, and in the dungeons of Sauron. Oh, how he had missed having her warmth surrounding him! Perhaps it was childish, but somehow he had always imagined it to be her who protected him in the dark, who would light his way through turmoil and despair.
But at his voice, she flinched violently, disbelief in every line of her body, as if she could not believe the horribly scarred creature before her was her precious child. "Ingoldo?" she whispered.
No embrace came that day. And Findaráto felt bereft. Tainted.
He could not stand it! They could not even bear to look upon him.
No matter how Amarië tried to reassure him, tried to console him, the growing empty void in his chest would not be filled--could not be filled. Findaráto could not even stand beside them in a room, for they would naturally situate themselves as far from him as possible, as if he were a frightening stranger and not their firstborn son.
Gradually, the fantasy of the Undying Lands that had nurtured and shielded his hope from destruction for so long had crumbled, until reality set in and crushed every last shard beneath its heels into dust. And a new longing set in.
Home had shifted.
"I want to go," he told his wife. It had been centuries, centuries of this distance, and it hurt too much. He did not know how much more he could stand before it left something irreparably broken inside him. "Amarië, I want to go back over the sea."
Her eyes were resigned, but not surprised. When she embraced him, there was no hesitation, and she did not shrink away from touching the raised scars across his cheeks or flinch at their undoubtedly hideous sight. Against his lips, hers were softer than butterfly wings, no more than the faintest brush of skin against skin, yet more intimate and powerful than any kiss he could remember her gifting him.
"Okay," she whispered, laying her head against his shoulder. "We will go."
As long as he had her with him, he knew he could throw away the wrecked dream of better days gone and past. As long as she never recoiled from his ruined flesh or his tainted soul, he thought he could continue on stumbling through the darkened world.
Her acceptance would give him the strength to face reality. To move on. To live.
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Aw, Finrod angst. How unusual. Forgive me for my depictions of Finarfin and Eärwen. It's not that I don't think they love their son or anything, but five hundred years is a long time, and people change. I somehow doubt the Finrod that returned from over the sea was the same son that they remembered, and not just because of his face (in my AU). So don't hate on them or anything LOL.
Anyway, sad music: Sadness and Sorrow performed by Taylor Davis on violin. Yes, the one from Naruto OST. The original version is awesome as well, just saying. And so, so sad. Every time I hear it, I think about Zabuza and Haku *sighs*.
And some artwork. Since I feel like it, have some Earwen by *Studio- 1901 on dA. That's all I'm giving you tonight, because the internet here works at about the speed of a snail in slow motion, and I've got other things to do besides wait for art to load on my browser.
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