Disclaimer: Tolkien
created the Silmarillion, not me, and I don't own it
Pairings: none
Characters: Fingon,
unnamed butler (mentions Maedhros, Fingolfin, Turgon, Argon (very obscure),
Orodreth, Orodreth's dead brothers (Aegnor, Angrod and Finrod) and Arien)
Warning:
canon-compliant, has AU elements, canon character death, mentions intoxication,
war and excessive flirting, a touch egotistic (it's in his nature)
Song: The Flame Within
(I will add a link if I find a decent one)
Words: 1,207
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terrible (adjective):
exciting extreme alarm or intense fear: terrifying; formidable in nature:
awesome; difficult; extremely bad
It was the morning of
his coronation, and Findekáno was plotting an escape of legendary
proportions. Surely this travesty could not be allowed to take
place! He would rather have eaten rotten orc-flesh than dress in these
overly heavy, jewel-encrusted, dusty old robes and be set to melt upon the
throne like a candle left too close to the fireplace.
If he were honest,
Findekáno was simply not ready. He would never be
ready, not to become king, not to sit on that throne and throw away his wildness
and brilliant spirit. The young prince could not fathom how fate had
allowed this event to come to pass when already he had escaped its poisonous
claws once and spared his people the ravages of his clumsy reign.
It was a simple fact: no
one in their right mind would put Findekáno Nolofinwion on the throne.
There were many
qualities about the eldest child of Nolofinwë which could be defined as
"admirable", of course. He was well-respected and well-liked
amongst even the most cautious and thorny of elves and men for a reason.
First and foremost, he
was known for his loyalty and daring. Findekáno the Valiant, who never
went back on a promise once it left his lips, who would never turn his back on
a friend no matter the strength of their betrayal or severity of their broken
bonds. Any vow spoken by the prince was a vow held unto death's door or
fulfillment.
Was it not he, the
eldest son, who had traversed the wild, unknown lands of Beleriand, who had
approached the Thangorodrim and sung proudly of his ancient home in defiance
beneath those dark shadows? Was it not he who had risked capture and
death (or worse) to bring his best friend, his dearest cousin, away from
dreadful suffering, to mend their families' broken alliance and the shattered
friendships left in the dust of Fëanáro's madness? No man or elf could
deny his courage, tested and steeled in adversity.
And he would do it
again. He would have given his life for any of his family, even those who
would leave him to die in the dark and cold.
His bright disposition,
too, could not be faulted. Ever since he had been young, had grown free
of the gangly awkwardness of youth, Findekáno had blossomed into a man of
steadfast enthusiasm and a willing heart full to the brim with adventure.
Rare was the moment in which the prince was not broadly smiling and cheerfully
talking. Rarer still was the moment that he faltered in hesitation or
discouragement, for his spirit could not bear such negativity, could not thrive
under such weight.
And all of that was
leaving out mention of the fondness for alcohol--
No one wanted to say
aloud that their beloved prince was, on more than one occasion, a complete
lush. One could hardly fault a man for enjoying a heady wine after a long
day practicing in the hot sun (or the company of many lovely women with whom he
could flirt and coax into removing their icy masks of propriety under the
influence of his innate charm and a few glasses of spiked eggnog). The
prince had never hidden his earthly desire for good food, good wine and
good (feminine) company. And no matter how much he drank or how much
he flirted, somehow the young prince still managed to flawlessly navigate the
treacherous world of a royal socialite.
Friendly, honorable,
handsome and a charmer--but still, Findekáno lacked one intrinsically necessary
quality in any ruler.
He was not responsible.
Odd, one would think,
considering his many other qualities (if he did say so himself), but quickly
his friends and family learned that Findekáno could not be trusted with any
sort of schedule or plan. He could not keep his desk organized or his
wardrobe free of dirty undergarments. He could not even plan a simple
gathering for afternoon tea, let alone run an entire nation of
war-torn, weary people looking up at their king for guidance
and example.
It was not
a position he had ever prepared for or even contemplated, in all
honesty. Of course, he had been trained as a young prince should,
learning all the proper criteria to mold himself into the perfect heir, but he
simply was not suited for a life behind a desk with men and women bowing and
scraping for even a second of his scattered attention. Paperwork,
meetings, councils and sessions of court for endless hours from the moment
Arien rose from slumber until the moment she slipped beneath the covers of the
Door of Night--it sounded like a form of monotonous, bone-wearying torture
meant to wear down his wild, untamed young spirit into a dull, boring,
heartless wretch of a creature.
If one had asked the man
himself, he would have told them that he would make a terrible king.
And the last thing his
people needed right now was a confused, disorganized greenhorn on the
throne. As if the war looming dark on the horizon were not enough, adding
an inexperienced and unprepared king into the mixture could spell utter
disaster. It was a risk his people could not afford.
But it was a risk they
had to take.
As awful as that
truth was, Findekáno knew no other would step into his "father's"
shoes and take his place as High King of the Noldor. He could not ask
such a thing of Turukáno, who had his own safe-haven--his own people--depending
on his pillar of strength for balance and foundation, for protection. Nor
could he give it unto Artaresto's gentle heart; the healer who ruled
Nargothrond was already grief-stricken at the recent demise of all of his
brothers and dragged down into despair by the responsibilities of his
older brother's vacant crown.
Things were as they were
meant to be. Findekáno set aside his wild plots for escape (most
involving daring leaps from the balcony upon velvet rope in which he would
bravely latch upon and scale the side of his own fortress to escape
his accursed fate) and reluctantly accepted his role. Suddenly,
he felt all too tired, all too stretched.
There was a faint
scratch, and the door slid open. "Are you prepared, my king?"
The title rested over
him as a shroud, blocking off his lifeline of sunlight and stifling the golden
bubbles of warmth that usually permeated his soul. Findekáno felt cold
and heavy as he stood, his formal clothing rustling around him as an ocean,
pulling down his shoulders and dragging back against his movements as if they personified
the weight he would carry until the End of Days, or until he fell in
battle. The weight of a king's responsibility in the hands of an unfit
prince.
"As ready as I
shall ever be." And if his smile was wane and pale, it was left to
silence. His butler bowed and held the door open for his passage.
Findekáno crossed over
the threshold and into the realm of kingship.
And a terrible curse it
was. Of that, he had no doubt.
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An exploration of Fingon
as he takes over after the death of Fingolfin. Poor baby. I
honestly cannot imagine that anyone could ever be ready for
something like this (unless, you know, they viciously murdered their
predecessor--happens a lot throughout history), and my head-canon Fingon is
not an ideal king. He's friendly and sweet and more than a bit
of a drunkard who likes to party and flirt, but he is not a
responsible, uptight, proper kingly figure. It's just not his style--I
imagine Turgon as being the "kingly" brother and Fingon as being the
fun guy everyone loves (who has a darker side that no one ever sees).
I was listening to the
song The Flame Within by Yanni from his album If I Could Tell You. But I
swear to you, I cannot find a single decent YouTube recording, and the one
labeled 2- The Flame Within / Yanni is not the song I'm
talking about. Jeez, you'd think people would get it right, but no,
whoever put together that video is an idiot.
Forgive my rant.
It's a gorgeous song and I would love to share it, but I have the album, not a
video, or I definitely would. *sadpasta*
Have a Fingon: Fingon the Valiant by ~Ilweran on dA.
I love the style of this artwork. There's a Maedhros and a Maglor
version, too, I know for sure. Nevertheless, does that face not fit the
timbre of this piece perfectly? He's got a sad, dark side as well, and
it's rearing its butt-ugly face (even though Fingon still looks so pretty when
he's depressed *sigh*).
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