The Ring Goes East.

“Come; walk with me, my son.”

Finrod nodded and stood up silently, forcing himself to ignore the grave, curious glances of his siblings as he walked away from the protective ring of their blazing, heart-warming fire.

He noticed the dejected slump of Finarfin’s shoulders, the matted mess of his golden mane, the tired wave of his long hand as he returned every greeting across the crowded camp. Their people huddled together around bonfires, sharing the day’s meal and half-hearted conversations, or humming softly as they worked on deer skins to turn them into coats, bedrolls and boots, while the children played despite the cold bites of the merciless winds.

The day’s meal?  Finrod thought sadly. Nobody knew whether it was day or night, or how many waxings and wanings might have passed since they wandered away from fair Tirion and into those deserted and unforgiving lands. What had begun as a righteous, vibrant march in search of freedom and new horizons was now tainted in blood, ashes and slaughter, and cloaked in an evil that not only shadowed the starry vault but also the fëar of the Eldar, an ominous Doom that now cast a dark shadow over the subdued host.

Where is he going? Finrod wondered, as he followed his father’s hurried, determined steps up on a rocky hill and then down behind some moss-covered boulders into a small ravine, protected from the piercing cold winds from the coast. He finally stopped at a dismal patch of grass beside a singing creek and turned to face his eldest son. Unsettled by the strange expression on his father’s worried features, Finrod spoke first.

“How is Fingon recovering?” Finarfin had left them pitching camp that evening, saying that he was going to have a talk with his troubled eldest nephew. He now shrugged tiredly and shook is head.

“As can be expected. He would not speak much, but he is finally accepting some food. I granted him my forgiveness, little as that may mean to him, so that at least he will not carry that burden,” he added in a broken whisper.

Finrod closed his eyes in despair. The horror at Alqualondë would haunt the host forever, he feared. He had seen many depart in sickened horror of their own kin –his mother among them- and others remain, like his eldest cousin, hands dripping blood and minds numbed by shock and guilt.

Thankfully the fuming ashes of what had once been the beautiful haven of the Swan People were no longer visible from where the host camped now. But the dim light of Varda’s stars still glimmered on the remaining wisps of dark mists that had not been swept away by the King’s mighty winds, in a sad reflection of Telperion’s now forever lost silvery glory.

The host was aghast at what had happened, and the Prophecy of the North was discussed in low voices, in the secrecy of tents when they stopped to get some rest and the memories of the dreadful kinslaying assaulted that doomed people. Few days had passed since the Lord of Mandos had spoken his Doom, and the trickle of groups, small or great, seeking leave from Fingolfin to return to Tirion in shame and sorrow was constant.

Much had been lost, Finrod knew, and his compassionate heart bled in sympathy for his Atar’s grief. 

Finarfin’s next words, though, froze him.

“I am returning, Finrod. I will not be part of this foolishness any longer, nor bow to Feanor’s madness, nor lead our people into this thoughtless attempt to defy the Powers…” 

Finrod gaped. “You are deserting your people, you mean?” Surprise and horror made his words harsher than he had intended, and he blushed at the irate glance his father cast him.

“My people are also those who refused to leave on the first place, and those who refused to take part in this terrible kinslaying. And those who would march away against their own hearts for kinship and friendship's sake, but who are wise enough to admit their mistake now and repent… I raised my children to be counted among the wise,” Finarfin reminded him sternly, watching him through narrowed eyes.

His words stung. Finrod could not believe what he was hearing.

“But what… what of your brothers, your family, your own kin, your duty!”  For a moment Finrod feared he was whining but he did not care. Did his father actually mean what he was saying? Surely he was tired and burdened beyond measure, but he could not be seriously thinking of abandoning his people like a coward! But then, could this stern elf with the steely eyes, the demanding and unyielding expression be still his gentle Atar? Suddenly Finrod felt his knees falter in a way they had not when Námo spoke his Doom.  

“My brothers are tied by their own oaths and the enemy’s lies, and I will not follow them any further into ruin and misfortune,” Finarfin declared firmly. “They would not hear my counsel, and it is my duty to save as much as I can of Finwë’s people. I will not condemn those who would go back, nor myself alongside, because of misplaced pride...Not if I can prevent it.” He stopped for a moment and fixed his son in a demanding gaze. “Regarding my family, I had hoped that we would be again reunited in Tirion.”  

Finrod shook his head in disbelief, fighting wildly to make sense of what was happening, grasping blindly for reasons or explanations.  

“All this is… because of Ammë?” he finally inquired, and then raged at what seemed to him unacceptable selfishness. “You are not the only one who has left his beloved one behind, placing duty before other considerations!” he accused in childish self-righteousness. 

“Do not ever think that you are entitled to speak thusly to me, child!” The voice grew colder and the steely eyes pierced him with a displeasure that Finrod had never seen before glowing in his gentle father’s gaze. “You know not what you are talking about. If that,”  he spat contemptuously, pointing at the plain, silver ring that Finrod had planned to place in Amárië’s slender finger and that now adorned his as a desperate reminder.  “If that actually held any significance, you would not be so eager to depart in search of adventure, forsaking all that you have loved and learned. That ring does not entitle you to even think that you can surmise my feelings,” he added brutally. Finrod felt tears welling up uninvited in his eyes.  

“How is it that he can reduce me to tears as if I still were an elfling eager for his approval!” he thought angrily, dazzled and disoriented by the haughty, determined, irate lord before him, barely comprehending that his world was crumbling down and that his own father was not against bitter retaliation  

They studied each other in silence, and finally Finrod lowered his gaze, ashamed of his own defiance yet hurt by his father’s ruthlessness. 

“I would not abandon our people to the dangers of the lands of yonder just because they are fooled or misguided…” he finally dared in a broken whisper. “We should not desert them…we owe them…” 

Finarfin shook his head slowly; and Finrod could see an immense grief slowly swelling within his father’s eyes. 

“You are wise my son,” he sighed sadly, in a voice that sounded closer to the firm yet reasonable, supportive Atar Finrod had known for all his life. “And you will become even wiser, my heart tells me, but can you not see now that against one of the Powers we Firstborns are helpless? That there is nothing we can do to overthrow his evil?” 

“But surely we can oppose him?” Finrod argued, his hope raised by his father’s softened tone. “Perhaps we were not meant to be caged in Valinor; perhaps our place is back there, fighting the Enemy in the lands of our birth and bringing light and wisdom there?” He bit his tongue a moment too late, as he perceived that he was repeating Fëanor’s words. The sad look in Finarfin’s eyes told him that his father, of course, had noticed as well -and was hurt.  

“And do you think this is the appointed time to test that assumption, my son?” Finarfin inquired sadly after a long, heavy silence.  

Finrod closed his eyes in anguish, willing his fëa to follow where his Atar was leading, but instead Fëanor’s words echoed even stronger in his ears, fuelling the longing they had stirred. “I… I do not understand, Atarninya, please help me,” he pleaded.  

“I cannot help you, Yonya,” the answer came in a whisper, and Finarfin’s words pierced him with a sadness he had not felt possible to feel. “It is time for you –for all of us- to decide whether we shall tread in twilight, turning our backs on the Powers who cared for us and fed our fëar with their light and knowledge, or honour their teachings surrendering to the advice of the King of Arda and trusting the will of the One.” They locked eyes for a moment, then Finarfin sighed in a broken voice. “Whatever path you shall tread, it is for you to choose.” 

Finrod felt at a loss, struggling against a choice he had never thought would be forced upon him. He felt as if he were walking a narrow path over a bottomless chasm, and with a sudden surge of foresight he knew that whether he would find a safe course now, or he would have to follow the hardest way to wisdom and understanding was about to be decided, while his beloved father watched helplessly from the other side. 

Slowly Finrod raised his head and met his father’s unwavering grey gaze.  

“I cannot… I cannot leave them, Atar..” He could not hold back a harsh sob as Finarfin braced himself for what he had to do. His eys fixed on his son's, he pulled off a ring from one of his long, slender fingers, a golden circle made of twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers that the one upheld and the other devoured; the badge of his House.  

“Lord of my House in Exile I name you, Lord Findarato, and it will be your duty to serve and protect our people. Do not fail me in this,” he commanded in a cold firm voice, as he placed the ring in one of his son’s fingers.  

Eyes wide in shock, Finrod opened his mouth to protest, but his father’s stern gaze kept him in place. “Not before falling shall the child learn to rise and stand. Your path is yours to choose, yet may you never repent of this day, and may Námo be gentle to you when you reach the bitter end, my son,” he added harshly.  

Finrod gaped, stripped to the bone before his father’s impassive gaze. It felt to him as if he had been brutally dispossessed of his innocence and thrust in a world of fear and change and responsibility. The calm figure that had soothed and guided him throughout his life was now a demanding, unforgiving judge before him, ready to step out of his life, to turn his back on him and walk away mercilessly, leaving him to his chosen fate. The feeling of bereavement almost choked him, and he feared his voice would break.  

"Will you… Will you not give me your blessing, Atarinya?"  

“I have already given you all that was mine to give.” Finarfin’s voice was thick with tears. “May you always walk in light, my son.” Thus Finarfin left, and not a glance he spared for his fairest son, who was a child anymore.  

A/N

This is an expanded version of a drabble that can be found here at SoA  

It had been born as a vignette, pity I did not find it earlier, (and had the time and inspiration to polish it up to a readable state) so apologies that the prequel comes after the sequels...

Ammë: Mother, in Quenya

Atarinya. My father in Quenya

Yonya: My son, in Quenya.

The rest of the names are in their Middle-earth versions, for the readers' comfort.

The description of Finarfin's ring is taken directly from the Silmarillion.

There is an undetermined amount of time between Alqualondë and the Doom of Mandos, iduring which the host kept going. So I supossed that Earwen remained right after the kinslaying and that Finarfin retraced his steps only after the Doom was spoken.

Would have Finrod surrendered his father's ring to Barahir? I think it could have happened. Yet as it happened in "The Ring goes West" we are simply playing in unchartered territory, so it is up to the reader's benevolence to accept the posibility and follow the speculations.