#sometimes you are simply seized by the fatal noldorin need to kill a god

[tanoraqui]

excerpT Tuesday

Inspired by the excellent pieces @thelordofgifs has been sharing of their Fëanor/Nerdanel fic, I wrote a whole little scene of my very-slowly-written Finarfin Beats the Shit Out Of Morgoth fic! [not real title]

Unsurprisingly, the gathered forces of the last of the Noldor and their allies, armed and ready for a venture into the very realm of Discord, ended up waiting outside Angband’s fallen gates while engineers and scouts did their best to confirm that the entrance itself wouldn’t slay the next elf to set foot within it. Thus was war!

Finarfin stood easily. His way forward was clear. He watched from across the rallying-ground as Elwing and Eärendil’s sons, who wished to join the main thrust of the attack, argued with Gil-Galad, Galadriel and Maglor, all briefly united in strident opposition to that wish. It was the most genuinely animated that Finarfin had seen Maglor on this cursed shore.

“How is the sword?” asked Celebrimbor, who, like his last living uncles, had invited himself unasked into Finarfin’s vanguard. For this final battle, for the first time that Finarfin had seen, he wore plate and surcoat emblazoned with the eight-pointed star. In addition to his own ruby-hilted greatsword, he bore half a dozen throwing knives, narrow blades all marked with Curufin’s personal crest.

He also retained a distinctly proprietary interest in the craft of his own hands, even when it had been a collaborative project and already handed off to its proper wielder. Finarfin had made his own sword in Aman, the first he’d ever owned, after he woke one night from pain like claws in his chest and knew his firstborn dead. Scant years after knowing, in his and Eärwen’s hearts if nothing else, their second- and thirdborns dead, and Fingolfin at their heels, and countless others. He had consulted philosophies on the nature of Ainur, on the nature of Discord and its defiance, and—with no clear thought of when he’d use it, only that it was this or fade from grief—he’d forged a blade honed for the specific purpose of slaying Melkor.

When he’d arrived in Middle Earth at last, after countless more wrenching deaths and a Silmaril-flash of hope, he’d shown it to Celebrimbor, who was much grown from the restless octogenarian Finarfin remembered. Fëanor’s grandson had held it for a few moments, murmuring, “Oh…oh!”; interrogated him on its making for an hour; then vanished. They’d repeated this interaction several times over the next decades, until one day Celebrimbor, along with a dwarf and man whose names Finarfin never learned but who bore the signs of master crafters, presented him with a new sword. It was called Anan-Noldoron, Justice of the Noldor, he was informed in no uncertain terms; and it would achieve his aims, if anything could.

He drew it now, in the sunlight before Morgoth’s cracked-open gates. Anan-Noldoron shone like flame in the rays of Laurelin’s legacy. Its balance was perfect. It was long, but Finarfin was tall. It brought some of the same peace and purity as the hospital tents, honed to a ruthless edge.

Celebrimbor took it unasked, tested its weight, and handed it back with a judicious nod. He hadn’t really outgrown his youthful restlessness.

Across the field, Elrond and Elros lost their argument, and were consigned to the forces who would stay outside, at the back of the forces waiting to catch the flushed prey. Galadriel thoroughly won hers; her young king, Gil-Galad, looked surprised to realize he’d agreed to stay with them.

(Finarfin knew his daughter followed him into strategy meetings for her own ambition and because she knew that he couldn’t bear to turn her away. She called him “Father” and he drank it in; she never addressed him with any formal title that diplomacy didn’t demand.)

The engineers declared themselves satisfied and all the scouts returned alive and unharmed.

Finarfin hadn’t resheathed his sword. He gestured, and Amarië raised her trumpet to sound the final advance.

Tagging anyone who is inspired to work on their own stubborn WIP!