Grave

Pretend AU.  Like seriously, it won't make a lick of sense if you don't read "Pretend" first.  Fingon has demons he will never speak about.  That he can never speak about.  For the shame.  Quenya names used (Fingon = Findekáno, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë or Arakáno (in some cases), Argon = Arakáno).  Basically this is based off a really radical and random "what if" idea that I had once way back when.  And it just sort of decided to write itself.  Takes place in the First Age post-Dagor Bragollach.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Fingon, Argon (mentions Fingolfin, Turgon, Aredhel, Finwë and Anairë)

Warning: non-canon compliant, non-canon character survival (and death), secret identity, deception, self-hatred, survivor's guilt

Song: A Way of Life

Words: 889
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grave (noun): an excavation for burial of a body; burial place
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/grave

Before him, so innocuously placed upon the grassy, emerald rise of the hill overlooking the white city below, was the grave of his king.  His predecessor.  The inscription, curling and elegant in his younger brother's hand, read Nolofinwë Arakáno of the House of Finwë, High King of the Noldor.

It lied.

Findekáno knew this intimately.  Felt guilt wrack him down to the center of his bones as his eyes traversed the tengwar again and again.

It should have been his name written there for all to see.  And it should have been his body buried beneath stone, not the body of his young and reckless brother.  Not the body of the sacrifice he had so eagerly and heartlessly pushed forth to shield him from the ravages of duty.

But, upon finding his youngest brother crouched over his father's body, the oldest son and heir of the House of Nolofinwë had been selfish.  Had looked into his future as the king struggling to hold together his exhausted and terrified people as they were slowly torn apart by their strange reality and had panicked.  Had pushed away the supposed bravery for which he had been named Astaldo and instead turned-tail to flee like a coward, throwing forth his youngest brother--whom he should have comforted and protected--as a piece of meat to a hungry wolf.

"You shall take up his name, and Arakáno Nolofinwion shall cease to exist.  We cannot afford to lose our strong leader now."

"But, brother..."

"I am not your brother.  Not anymore."

Stricken and horrified eyes had looked up at him from a dirtied and tear-stained face.  But, all too quickly, the young and vulnerable appearance melted away, and the boisterous confidence and arrogance faded, leaving behind the stern and penetrating appearance of the father.  Truly, in that moment, Arakáno had appeared every inch their father.

As he hid the body away and played at the grieving father setting aside his emotion for the sake and survival of his people.  Sacrificing.  Giving.  Both kind and unyielding, the powerful and respected leader that they needed to lead them into their new lives across the sea.

There was not time for stumbling around in the darkness.  There was not time for panicking or breaking the mask.  There was not time for anything but wholehearted acceptance of the role--of the new life.  And Arakáno had adopted his father's life as though it were second nature, fitting into his shoes as though they had been crafted to fit.

Had become so much like their sire that Findekáno sometimes forgot that it was, in fact, not his little brother who had died that day at the Lammoth.  That it was not his father who gave him precious wisdom and advice whenever he needed guidance and support, who hugged him close and rocked him gently when he needed comfort and always seemed to know what to say to calm his racing heart when he was distraught.

But now that man--that living lie kept so secret--was dead.

And Arakáno did not get to keep his true name.  Not even in death.  It was all a lie.  A farce.

He had lived as their king and sacrificed himself as their king.  Had performed his duty a thousand-fold over and again.  Whilst Findekáno was hiding away with his tail between his legs.

Never had the newest High King felt so ashamed of himself--so disgusted with himself--as he was at that moment.  Looking down upon the grave of his brother knowing that, if he had done his duty as the crown prince, the person whose corpse rotted beneath those stones--beneath that lie--might still be alive and breathing.  Would still be living and laughing and smiling and fighting.

If he had taken responsibility--if he had taken up the reigns he had been born to hold and become the ruler he had been born and bred to be--would his little brother have lived through all this war?  Would Arakáno have been happy and carefree?  Would he have been married, perhaps a father?

If Findekáno had done his duty, at least his brother would have had that chance.

But Findekáno had taken everything for nothing in return.  Arakáno could not marry, because Nolofinwë had been married.  Arakáno could never play childishly and enjoy free time, because Nolofinwë had been stoic and responsible.  Arakáno could not even go to his older siblings for advice or to confide or even for a shoulder upon which to cry, because Nolofinwë had been their father.

Arakáno could not live his own life, because he was living the life of another.

Because Findekáno could not bear to do his duty as prince.

And now Arakáno was gone.  Killed performing the duty--shouldering the burden--that should never have been his to bear.

"It really should have been me." Swollen-eyed, throat tight in sorrow, the oldest brother stood and traced his fingers over the name again and again and again.  Wishing it said the truth instead, if only so that his wistful mind might imagine life free of the brand of guilt and shame.

And helplessly, the new High King could not help but wonder if things would have been different...

If only... If only...