Earwen and Finarfin are the most even-tempered noldo around and somehow spawned these total chaos rockets who bite werewolfs to death, fall in love with mortals, and run off with hippies in the woods. Since Finarfin is more straight-laced than Turgon, the only explanation is that Earwen is secretly also an eldritch diva who presumably brews moonshine and has even less sense than her children.
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Harbor boy Finarfin!
Or the one that just wanted his brothers to get along and was so done with drama he moved to the sea :)
And that concludes Finwe's boys, but perhaps I'll continue with their kids
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Teen and Up Audiences | Graphic [but often poetic and/or supernatural!] Depictions of Violence | Gen
Words: 8,619 | Chapters: 1/1
Relationships: Finarfin & Galadriel, Finarfin & Maedhros
Characters: Finarfin, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Galadriel, Anairë, Maedhros, Eönwë, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Celeborn, Amarië, Irimë |Lalwen
Additional Tags: War of Wrath, I tagged everyone but really it's about Finarfin, kingship, and personal and collective vengeance/justice/trying to kill an unkillable dark god
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Lalwen complained in greeting. “Two brothers I have already lost, blindly charging that place. Must you add a third to my tally?”
“Maybe,” Finarfin said bluntly. It was still gentler than the truth on his tongue: It’s my turn.
(Or: in which Finarfin is, after all, the third son in the fairy tale.)
I worry that I’ve hyped this up too much by having it as a WIP for so long, but Here it is at last: Finarfin’s due shot at 1v1-ing Morgoth (more or less), a cornerstone of my personal elaborate tapestry of Arda headcanons! (I regularly forget that the sword isn’t a canonical legendary weapon.)
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Finarfin appreciation ~
A sketchy doodle of Finarfin in summer evening wear. Didn't use my usual inked-line art, so this was an experiment. 🙃
Loving the sheerness of colored pencils here 👀
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i will lead not my people into ruin assured, arafinwë spat.
his brothers's eyes were on him, united as never they had been before; but well he could see how thin the thread was that bound them. betrayal námo had prophetized, and grief unbearable, certain diminishment.
you mean truly the turn the hands of your vassals into dishonour greater than the one we have cast upon ourselves already? shame be upon the ill-use of bonds, and oaths, and love! if any among you were worthy of being called princes among our people, you would go no further.
his children went regardless. it was a sorry thing, to know he had sired and taught no true princes after all. some among their followers had wished to go regardless - but there was no need that they should have such a plenty of lords to do it for!
the ones who remained clung to arafinwë, well after his ascension. valar-named, he was king assuredly, a bitter office and unwished for; but his people clung to him. he could not release them from their own deeds, not the duty they bore to the teleri - but he could sit with them in sharing fashion, and be as guilty and angry and mournful as they were.
finwë would not have ruled so, but finwë was dead. fëanáro most assuredly would not have sat himself kneeling on the floor in humility before his wife, or accepted insults in his court's throne chambers - but fëanáro was ash bourne away in a foreign wind, and it was arafinwë among his kin who knew how to do patient work, hard work.
nolofinwë ought to have inherited these tasks. but in the end he loved his pride and his courage and his wrath the better than his city. in a small and rueful way, arafinwë was glad; his brother had given too much of himself to it already, as a prince dutiful and resented. it would have spent him of his powers to do it crowned.
arafinwë did it himself. through the darkening, when he made certain none starved more than others, and all those failing in body and spirit were attended; and the long ages under the moon and sun afterwards.
first of all the returned exiles was his own firstborn son, half-penitent and largely altered, in love with the land across the sea. as far as due payments were, it was less than the valar might have given.
the sloughing cold of araman bit his throat. arafinwë sat beside finrod, and embraced him, and raised him up; he heard the rushing of the waves, uinen's wrath, and the dead dark greater than the darkness where námo's words rang still.
where the fairness, where the mercy? he did not rail his wrath that one son was too little, and did not weep for all the childless parents that dwell in fair tirion - but they were his people, and he felt their grief as his own. he had held all their hands, he knew the names of all those who had abandoned their land in his brothers's trains.
he embraced his son, stroked his tresses, let himself be a bulwark against his tears. a king he was, the best among his people. to him it was to make fairness, if it was hard to find. hard work, patient work. it never did grow lighter.
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