Archive of Our Own ^beta

Arafinwë is tired. But well, he's always tired thes days, so that is no big difference. He wonders absently where everyone is now. If he's bitter about it, he acknowledges it not.

He can see no light coming throught the window.

He can see no stars in the skie, chokes as it is by darkness.

There is a fire in the hearth. Dying embers, and the pristine shine of a small lamp. One of his brother's lamps. Fëanáro had always liked to store light, even before the Silmarilli. He looks at it now, with dull green eyes circled with purple bruises.

Arafinwë is tired.

The child in him wants his mother. But she has gone with her kin, in Valimar, and will not be back. Or not for a very, very long time.

The brother in him wants his siblings. Brave Lalwendë, strong Findis, wise Ñolofinwë, and -yes, even brash Fëanáro. But they all left, three of them to Endorë and the last with their mother. All gone.

The husband in him wishes for Eärwen to be here, but he knows that she has stayed in Alqualondë, and will likely never set foot in Tirion again.

The father in him is yelling at him day and night -or what passes for such today- for leaving their children in Araman. Kind Findaráto, quiet Angaráto, wild Aikanáro, and clever Artanis.

The child wants his father. The brother tells him he's dead. The child starts crying. The father is too angry at himself to notice, and the husband too sad.

The King tells them all to be quiet, he can't concentrate.

A log pops in the fireplace, and he flinches. He realizes that there is a  splotch of dark ink on his paper sheet. He stares at it absentmindedly for a time, before crumpling the paper in his hands ans starting all over again.

Arafinwë is tired.

There's a headache building behind the bridge of his nose, and his writing hand feels stiff.

He rubs at his eyes, but it only makes it worse, so he stands up -too quicly and almost falls back on his chair. Instead, he lays a hand on the back of it, and sighs. 'It will have to do', he thinks.

It will have to do, because even with the few people left with him, nothing is enough.

Take a nap, suggests the Father. You should eat something, also. Arafinwë eyes the small but full bowl that has now grown cold. He is many things, right now, but hungry is not one of them. Or maybe he is, but has forgot. Anyway, he will not let it waste when food is so scarce (even if he's not the one who will eat it in the end).

My father makes the best cakes, the Child whispers while sniffling, and he starts crying again. The Brother is instantly by his side, but being the last of five, is not very skilled at comforting small ones. The Father is the best at it, but he's arguing with the Husband right now. The Brother tries to call them, but they doesn't hear.

The Uncle comes. He's hunched with sorrow, but soothes the crying child all the same. The King turns away from whatever he was trying to do and tells them to please, leave him alone, please.

Arafinwë is tired. Arafinwë is cold. He would like to hear something, anything in that deafening, strangling silence. He would like to see another light that that of the white lamps, also, but he knows that the day will bring no light, as it did not yesterday and the day before.

Ingwion finds him just before going back to Valimar with his father, sprawled under his table, with dry tears on his cheeks. He puts him on the couch and leaves.