Fintante Week

18-24th of May run by: @stars-and-stuff & @solreefgrace

[fintante-week]

here are the prompts for fintante week 2026, hope you all enjoy and we look forward to seeing what is created! make sure to tag us and use the tag fintante week 2026 in all your creations

Day 1 - Youth

Day 2 - Letters

Day 3 - Betrayal

Day 4 - Lingering

Day 5 - Time

Day 6 - History

Day 7 - Canon divergence / free day

[fintante-week]

an amendment to the post - we forgot to put the dates 😅 they are the same as last year. 18-24 of may

[mugofcomfortandbooks]

Fintante Week

DAY 7

Bronte

Bronte stood at the entrance to Fintan's icy prison, just moments away from confronting his old friend- no, something more. Gathering up all his courage, he took one step inside and was greeted with the sight of the goblin soldiers flirting with each other. Seriously that had to be the first living creature he had to see in the morning. He shouted a few orders at them to take their job more seriously and strolled inside to meet the most powerful pyrokinetic in their world. Fintan was dressed in shallow rags and was paler than the moon, but for some reason his hair looked as smooth as ever.

Fintan

There he was, the love of his life. He even grew his hair again. The sight in front of him was the most breathtaking thing ever. Brown curls, grey-blue eyes piercing into his and beautiful, plump lips pressed into a straight line. He didn't deserve this, no, not at all. Not after all that he had done. He didn't even have the right to stare in this amazing man's face. Bronte cleared his throat forcing Fintan to avert his gaze to his eyes instaed of looking hungrily at his lips, which, he won't mind accepting were looking very delicious.

Bronte folded his arms tightly across his chest, forcing himself to ignore the way Fintan kept staring at him.

"You've lost all sense of shame, haven't you?" Bronte snapped. "After everything you've done, you still look at me like that?"

Fintan laughed softly, though there was no real amusement in it. "Can you blame me? You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Don't." Bronte's voice turned dangerously quiet. "Don't say things like that to me."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, cold and heavy as the ice walls surrounding the prison.

Then Fintan tilted his head. "You came all the way here just to yell at me?"

"I came because the Council thinks you're planning something."

"And what do you think?"

Bronte clenched his jaw. That was the problem. He didn't know what to think anymore. Every time he looked at Fintan, he remembered two completely different people. The boy who used to laugh beside him under silver moonlight... and the man who burned cities without remorse.

"I think," Bronte said slowly, "that you keep pretending you still care about me because it's the only weakness you have left."

Fintan's expression darkened instantly.

"Care about you?" he repeated softly. "Bronte, you were the only thing I ever cared about."

Bronte's expression hardened at those words.

"The only thing?" he repeated bitterly. "Funny way of showing it."

Fintan looked away for the first time since Bronte had entered the prison. The flames around his hands dimmed slightly, flickering weakly against the ice.

"You want to know why I joined them?" he asked quietly.

Bronte's eyes narrowed. "So there was a reason."

A humorless laugh escaped Fintan. "After the Everblaze incident, everyone had already decided what I was." His voice turned sharp. "Monster. Murderer. Madman."

Bronte said nothing.

"They looked at me like I was poison," Fintan continued. "The Council abandoned me. My own students feared me. Even before I disappeared, they were already whispering that I killed them on purpose."

The words echoed through the frozen chamber.

Fintan's gaze darkened with old anger and grief.

"So I thought..." he said slowly, "if the world had already condemned me, maybe I should stop letting them decide my fate. The Neverseen offered me power. Freedom. A chance to take matters into my own hands instead of waiting to be executed for crimes no one cared enough to understand."

Bronte stared at him in disbelief.

"That was your justification?" he asked coldly. "People accused you, so you proved them right?"

Fintan flinched.

"You think joining a terrorist group somehow made you the victim?" Bronte's voice rose with every word. "You burned cities, Fintan! People died because of you!"

"They would've hunted me either way!"

"Because the accusation was true anyway!"

The words hit like a blade.

Silence crashed down between them.

Fintan went perfectly still.

Even the fire around him disappeared.

Bronte realized what he had said a second too late, but his anger refused to let him take it back.

Fintan's voice, when it came, was almost frighteningly calm.

"So that's what you believe too."

Bronte opened his mouth, but Fintan laughed softly before he could answer. The sound was hollow and broken.

"After all this time," Fintan murmured, "you still think I wanted them to die."

"I think you stopped caring who got hurt a long time ago."

For the first time since Bronte arrived, genuine fury blazed across Fintan's face.

"You don't know what happened!" he snapped. Flames exploded violently around him again, cracking the ice beneath his feet. "You weren't there!"

"And whose fault was that?" Bronte shouted back.

Bronte

He felt like he was fighting a battle he didn't want to win. The tightness in his chest, like something was pinching his heart and the burning sensation behind his eyes were tearing him apart. Why was he crying for him?

"I didn't kill them, Minty."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT" shouted Bronte at the top of his lungs. He couldn't take it anymore, all the lies, schemes, mind games, trickery. He just couldn't.

"Remember what you told me before I left that day to call upon the everblaze? You told me not to go, to not do it cause they were not as powerful as me. And I didn't listen, but when I went there, awaiting my students, I thought of how each one of them deserved a better life, a longer one, one that didn't end because of whatever mistake would've happened that day."

"WHY DOES THAT MATTER? THEY'RE DEAD ANYWAY!" Why was Fintan narrating a story he already knew the ending to?

"Patience, precious. And then suddenly,"

he continued, voice growing distant with memory, "you crossed my mind."

Bronte blinked.

Fintan laughed softly at the confusion on his face. "I know how pathetic that sounds."

"Fintan—"

"No, listen to me." His eyes locked onto Bronte's. "You always used to tell me I pushed my abilities too far. That one day my recklessness would destroy me." He smiled weakly. "I could practically hear your voice in my head that day, scolding me."

Bronte swallowed hard.

"There was this horrible feeling in my chest," Fintan whispered. "Like something was about to go terribly wrong. And all I could think about was you looking disappointed in me."

The flames around him flickered low and warm now instead of violent.

"So I stopped the lesson."

Bronte's breath caught slightly.

"I told them all to leave early," Fintan said. "Every student. I remember it perfectly because some of them complained about unfinished assignments." His smile became more genuine for half a second. "One of them even asked if I was sick."

Bronte stared at him silently.

Fintan took another slow step forward.

"I waited until the last one walked out the doors before I started experimenting again." His voice dropped. "And then everything went wrong."

The room felt smaller somehow.

"The Everblaze spread faster than I'd ever seen before," Fintan murmured. "I tried to contain it, but..." He looked down at his trembling hands. "You know the rest."

"No," Bronte said quietly. "I don't."

Fintan looked back up at him, eyes unbearably sad.

"The Council arrived before the smoke had even cleared. They saw the destruction and decided what happened before I could explain." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe they needed a villain. Maybe I was simply convenient."

Bronte remained silent.

Fintan's gaze softened as he looked at him.

"Do you know what the last thing I thought before the fire spread was?" he asked quietly.

Bronte didn't answer.

Fintan smiled faintly.

'I should go see Bronte after this lesson.'

The confession hung heavily between them.

"And then," Fintan whispered, "the next thing I knew, the entire world believed I murdered children."

Fintan

Next thing he knew tears was slipping from Bronte's eyes. No, no, no, no. He'd made Bronte cry. Oh no, Fallon was going to kill him. Bronte must've realized the panic struck look on Fintan's face and laughed a bit then cried a bit and then broke down completely and fell to his knees.

Something fragile and desperate flickered across Fintan's face so quickly Bronte almost missed it.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Then Bronte dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion finally breaking through his anger.

"If they're alive," he said slowly, "then I'll find them."

Fintan's eyes widened.

"I'll do my best to prove what really happened," Bronte continued, though his voice remained rough and guarded. "But this changes nothing about the things you've done since."

"I know," Fintan whispered.

Bronte nodded once, stiffly, like he hated how much this conversation was affecting him.

Then he turned away.

The icy wall beside the prison bars groaned softly as Bronte leaned against it, pressing his palm flat against the frost-covered surface. After a second, he rested his forehead there too, eyes closing briefly.

Fintan watched him carefully.

Even after everything— after centuries, after betrayal, after war—

Bronte still carried the weight of the world alone.

Slowly, cautiously, Fintan stepped forward until he stood on the other side of the wall from him.

The chains rattled quietly.

Then Fintan lifted his own hand.

His palm rested against the exact spot where Bronte's was separated only by ice and magic.

Bronte stiffened but didn't pull away.

Fintan leaned his forehead against the frozen wall too, directly opposite him. The cold should've burned against his fever-warm skin, but he barely noticed it.

For the first time in years, they were close enough to touch.

And still impossibly far apart.

The icy wall between them fogged softly with every breath.

Bronte kept his eyes closed, as though looking directly at Fintan would make this harder than it already was.

"You always were dramatic," he muttered quietly.

Fintan smiled against the ice. "And you always secretly liked it."

Bronte huffed out the faintest laugh before catching himself. "Don't push your luck."

"I have to. It's the only thing keeping this conversation going."

Another silence settled between them, softer this time.

Fintan stared at the blurred outline of Bronte through the frost. Even distorted by ice and shadow, he looked beautiful.

"You grew your hair again," Fintan whispered.

Bronte opened one eye. "That is what you've decided to focus on?"

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

Fintan's smile turned unbearably fond. "Because the first time I saw you with long hair, I forgot my own name for a solid minute."

Bronte actually snorted at that.

"You are unbelievable."

"It's true." Fintan's voice softened further. "You looked like moonlight."

Bronte shook his head slowly, but Fintan noticed the faint color creeping into his pale cheeks.

"I hated when you stared at me during meetings," Bronte admitted quietly.

Fintan blinked. "You noticed?"

"You weren't subtle."

"I thought I was being mysterious."

"You looked deranged."

Fintan laughed properly then — warm and genuine, the sound echoing through the frozen prison. Bronte hadn't heard that laugh in years.

And stars, he missed it.

The realization hit him hard enough to hurt.

Fintan must've seen something shift in his expression because his own smile faded into something gentler.

"You know," he murmured, fingers lightly pressing against the ice, "you were the only reason I ever stayed with the Council as long as I did."

Bronte looked at him then.

Directly.

"Fintan—"

"No, let me say it." His golden eyes softened painfully. "Every meeting, every argument, every miserable political dinner..." he said quietly, "I endured all of it because at the end of the day, I knew I'd get to see you."

Bronte's breath caught.

"That sounds incredibly unhealthy."

"It absolutely was."

Despite himself, Bronte smiled faintly.

Fintan's expression melted at the sight.

"There it is," he whispered like he'd just rediscovered something precious. "I've missed your smile more than sunlight."

Bronte immediately looked away. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're lovely when you're flustered."

"I am not flustered."

"You just turned pink."

"The prison is cold."

Fintan raised his eyebrow and winked at him.

Bronte groaned softly and let his forehead thunk against the ice.

Fintan laughed again, quieter this time.

Then his expression turned serious.

"I never stopped loving you," he admitted.

The words settled heavily between them.

Bronte's hand twitched beneath Fintan's

The words settled into the frozen air between them, quiet and devastating.

Bronte stared at him through the ice, his breath uneven.

For a moment, Fintan thought he had gone too far.

Then Bronte laughed softly — not amused, just tired.

"Of course you choose now to say that," he murmured.

Fintan's expression faltered slightly. "Bronte—"

"Do you have any idea how inconvenient this is?" Bronte interrupted, pressing his forehead harder against the wall. "You are genuinely the worst person I could possibly be in love with."

Fintan blinked.

Bronte closed his eyes briefly before finally whispering,

"Me too."

Fintan went completely still.

Bronte opened his eyes just enough to look at him. "I never stopped loving you either."

The pyrokinetic stared at him like the world had suddenly stopped turning.

Then a disbelieving laugh escaped him, soft and breathless.

"No," he whispered. "No, don't joke about that."

"I don't joke."

"Exactly why I'm panicking."

Despite everything, Bronte smiled faintly.

Fintan looked utterly overwhelmed now, golden eyes bright with something dangerously close to tears.

"You still love me," he repeated quietly, as though trying to understand the words.

Bronte's gaze softened despite himself.

"I tried not to," he admitted. "Stars, I tried." A humorless laugh slipped out. "But every time someone mentioned your name, I listened."

Fintan swallowed hard.

"Every time there was news about the Neverseen," Bronte continued quietly, "the first thing I thought was whether you were alive."

The chains around Fintan rattled softly as he stepped closer to the wall.

"Bronte..."

"I was angry with you for so long," Bronte whispered. "But somehow I never stopped missing you."

Fintan looked like that confession alone might destroy him.

"You have terrible taste in men," he said weakly.

Bronte snorted softly. "Clearly."

For a second, they simply stood there together, palms pressed to opposite sides of the ice.

So close.

So impossibly far.

Then Fintan smiled — small, fragile, and achingly sincere.

"You know," he murmured, "this would've been much easier if you'd admitted this centuries ago."

Bronte rolled his eyes immediately. "Absolutely not. Your ego is unbearable enough already."

"And yet you love me anyway."

Bronte sighed dramatically.

"Unfortunately, yes."

And so, with truth finally spoken and the past no longer buried in silence, Bronte and Fintan stood divided only by ice—but no longer by love.

[wolfoxjade17]

This is for KoTLC Fintante week 2026 day 7. Ik I’m really really late but I was in a dhyanam the whole week and I couldn’t like immediately ruin all my new found holiness by writing gay shyt. 🙄. I’ll attach the ao3 link as soon as my dad’s phone gets the ability to post it.

Fintan Pyren was prepared.

Of course he was. This was his chance, his one golden opportunity, to takedown the Council. His chance to finally overthrow the cowardly leaders who had ruined the lives of so many Pyrokinetics, robbing them of their dignity and reducing them to talentless. Everything was set – every piece in the brilliant plan made by him, Gisela and Vespera.

He wished he could claim all of the merit for himself, but he had stolen most of the ideas from Gisela, before who had formulated them before dying at the hands of the ogres after that fateful battle at Mt. Everest.

The Neverseen had the support of the dwarves and the trolls, along with a fraction of the ogres. Queen Hylda was facing her own civil war, the goblins were too divided to protect the elves. And Fintan expected no resistance from the cowardly elves and gnomes – he had the support of all the Exillium waywards, and most of the working class. The Moonlark and her little group of friends were barely a challenge. As Vespera said, they didn't have the ruthlessness to do anything.

The Councillors would barely see what was coming, ducked up in their fancy castles. They'd all be in Eternalia for the summit – and the leftover goblins could easily be taken care of. It was all so deliciously simple.

​Bronte was shivering – he took a deep breath in, and steadied himself. He would not show any sign of weakness – and definitely not today. Today was the day – he'd become one of the first Emissaries. And how could the Council not choose him? He was one of a kind – the only Inflictor in the whole of the Lost Cities. The initiation ceremony was simple – a journey to the throes of the atmosphere, and an oath.

​The ceremony was nearly over when Councillor Fintan introduced himself as Bronte's point of contact with the Council.

​Goblin bodies littered the floor, making a crimson trail which decorating the castle. Empress Pernille's trolls and the Waywards had clearly done their job right. Fintan strutted down the hall, Gethen, Ruy and Vespera at his heels. It only took a second to eliminate the goblins who charged at him – a few strong gusts of wind, a forcefield, and a sharp sword. Though the Council might have been alerted due to the screaming.

​"Are you going to blow open that door already?" Ruy asked. Trix sent a gust of wind at those mighty gilded doors as an answer. The doors blew open, and angry newborns rushed in – Vespera had full control of them.

Fintan savored the expressions on the Councillors' faces as the a force field surrounded him and his comrades – shock, terror, fury. The trolls rushed for those deemed most dangerous – the chargers, the gusters, the vanishers, the beguiler... and Bronte.

​Bronte stared at the white-blond head in front of him. "Is that all?"

Bronte nodded "yes." So far, the investigation has been futile.

Councillor Fintan nodded, like it was a matter of little concern to him. And probably it was. He was a Councillor, he would have seen far worse. Fintan was silent for a while, before he said something that surprised him.

​"Haven't you found a partner yet?" Bronte started.

Fintan continued "Haven't you collected all five of your matchlists?"

Bronte waited a second before answering "Well, I have. But I couldn't find a connection with any woman on them. And anyway, I've decided to stay single." Fintan cocked an eyebrow.

​Bronte continued – "I plan to get on to the Council someday. But I'll have to wait for one of you to get off." Bronte smiled a small smile.

"Is that so?" said Fintan.

Suddenly Bronte felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He was aware of how close they were standing. How those pale blue eyes had an intensity he had never seen before.

​"Well, you can't expect me to retire for you." said Fintan slowly, tracing a finger up Bronte's cheek. Bronte wasn't sure if he was breathing. He lifted his hand and stroked the man's face, staring at his pale lips. Was this how you felt with a match? It would take a second to close the distance on them. Bronte moved closer. He grabbed Fintan's hair and pushed his tongue into his mouth. It was rough, but somehow extremely 

"Fuck" 

Fintan softly sweared as Bronte's tongue scraped the inside of his cheek, slowly nibbling his lower lip, almost crushing it.

​The trolls did their job well. Zarina tried in vain to send a jolt of electricity and kill their attackers, but it jumped straight at her throat and tore it open with its sharp pointed teeth. A fountain of blood erupted from her throat, and she dropped down like a rag doll. All around was death and destruction.

Fintan took a moment to steady himself. He was shaking, breathing hard. After all this time, after seeing all this carnage, after doing so much, he still had a bit of the coward in him.

The surviving councillors were screaming in horror as they watched their comrades fall... Vespera commanded the trolls to stop. They immediately were still. A force field popped into view.

"What... what is the meaning of this?!"

Fintan slicked back his white-blond hair. "This is what I believe is called a coup d'état." Emery started.

A smile spread on Fintan's face as Vespera said "We are going to take over. You have no choice in the matter. Surrender now and come with us. We can make use of your talents. If you refuse, well... we won't hesitate in doing to you what we have done to your fellows."

​Fintan almost jumped as he heard a voice he thought he would never have to again. "The citizens of the Lost Cities will never accept this!"

Fintan looked closely at him. "You survived the troll attack?"

​Bronte had waited for this moment. Centuries of planning, of hoping, of doing every task he was told to do. The Council had drastically increased the number of Councillors, and Bronte was the first one considered.

The eleven other Councillors followed him in a triumphant procession as he walked to his Councillor's castle. Then followed the usual extravagant housewarming ball, with the finest gnomish foods and generous amounts of fizzleberry wine, as only befitting a Councillor. They revelled for hours, but when the sun began to set, they all began to quickly trickle out, one by one. As expected, Fintan was the last to leave. He swayed on the spot he was standing.  Bronte scowled as he led him up to his room. Getting drunk was no behavior for a Councillor. He gently let Fintan lie on his bed, when Fintan grabbed his hair and pulled Bronte's lips to his. Fintan slurred, and pulled away. He grabbed the front of Bronte's tunic and pulled him onto his bed, tracing his jaw. Bronte pulled Fintan closer as Fintan removed his shirt slowly tracing the ribs that jutted out of his bony frame. Fintan swore under his breath as Bronte undressed him... Bronte kissed the pale lips – as the bony hands worked at his pants. Bronte caressed Fintan's body as climed on top of him….

Bronte clearly didn't look good. His fancy councillor's tunic was torn, he was bloody, and his eyes shone with rage and horror and pain.

Traces of betrayal run then deep inside.

"The people won't resist us much if you side with us. We've been stuck with the same horrible systems for millennia. You have hindered the progress of our species, you have enslaved people in ignorance! You have oppressed people for merely for what they were born as! We won't suffer this any longer!"

Bronte gritted his teeth "We will never join you!" The other councillors didn't look as convinced, however. A few were shaking hard enough to faint.

"That was not a request. Of course, it would be far easier for us if you side with us. It would help paralyse resistance. But that's not a requirement."

​The trolls moved closer.

​Emery was the first to bow down. "What do you want?"

"Just admit that we are the new leaders of our world, that you have created a mess, that you support our leadershipm" said Gethen.

Bronte gritted his teeth. Fintan knew that he would never fall. Neither would Oralie, who was staring at Fintan with grief and fury. But Fintan didn't care about her. Gethen had already called dibs for her blood.

But a couple did. Clarette, Emery and Terik agreed while their leftover comrades stood in shock.

Vespera said a few more commands into her mouthpiece. The newborns began savagely attacking the. Fintan watched as two of them lunged at Bronte. Bronte attempted to inflict on them, but he was becoming the only target as more Councillors were ripped apart, more trolls free to attack jim. Blood flowed freely from the place where Bronte was standing. Fintan closed his eyes as a jagged scream rent the air. A small part of Fintan wanted to order Vespera to stop the trolls... He clamped his teeth hard on his tongue, Fintan felt the metallic taste of his own blood as he waited....

It was all over. The castle floor was covered in volumnious amounts of blood. The surviving Councillors were shaking. The bodies of the Councillors littered the floor. And for a couple of moments, Fintan stared at the place Bronte had stood on. ​

[caius-arts]

Fintante Week Day 7: Canon divergence/Free Day

Headshot meme featuring an AU as a 1940s noir murderer/detective

Sorry for the late post, I got sick and the animation took really long to color. It was over 30 hours of work, so I hope you guys like it!

@fintante-week

[spacenuggets]

Sorry this was kinda rushed, I'm getting ready for a trip.

Enjoy the yuri ig 🤗

(I had really bad artblock while drawing this so I couldn't draw Bronte) Sorry 💔

@fintante-week

[ladysencen]

Fintante Week: Day 7

Hiiii, sorry I'm so late!

Hope you like this one none the less;

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Fintan took a deep breath in an attempt to steady his pounding heart. “Calm yourself.” he told himself, sternly. “You are not a coward.”

Yet these words did nothing to sway his nerves. His knees began to shake erratically, and though try as Fintan might to stop it, his nerves grew only the more riotous.

“Five more minutes.” He assured himself, “Five more minutes until you live down in history as the greatest elf there ever as. The elf who conquered Everblaze.”

Fintan had been waiting centuries to finally master it. In spite of Bronte’s countless warnings, Fintan remained steady-fast. There was no way he was going to give up what he had spent his entire life working towards, just because someone told him to.

Of course, Bronte wasn’t just ‘someone’, he was Fintan’s most trusted confidant, his most loyal companion. And perhaps Fintan wanted them to be something more. But that was never going to happen. Not in this lifetime, not in the next. That was the way things had to be.

Just then, his five students arrived. They were all talented, of course. Yet, Fintan knew they weren’t as strong as him, and likely never would be.  

That was actually one of the points Bronte had brought to his attention, each of the hundreds of times he had tried t

“These students of yours do not have your ability, Fintan.” Bronte had told him. “Why can’t you see that?”

While it certainly felt nice to be complimented by the person he’d loved for the better part of a millennia, Fintan believed his complaints to be completely unfounded.  

“Good morning, my students.” he declared, spreading his arms out wide. “Are you ready to see something spectacular?”

Just as Fintan was about to show his students how to conjure Everblaze, just as he was about to go down in history as the greatest elf ever to grace the planet, a vision of Bronte appeared before him.

Fintan knew it was only an illusion of him, yet he had to stop himself from reaching out and touching him all the same.

“Bronte?” he whispered.

“These students of yours do not have your ability, Fintan.” the apparition boomed. “Why can’t you see that?”

For the first time, Fintan truly looked at his students. They were so… young. One only looked about twenty-seven, his features still forming. Fintan gasped, shocked what he was about to do.

“What am I doing?!” he exclaimed.

“I trust you’ll do the right thing.” the vision of Bronte smiled for a moment, then disappeared into the wind.

“Go home.” he told his students, “Now.”

As his students began light-leaping their way back home, Fintan sank to the ground, his head burrowed in his hands. “I could have killed them.”

It dawned on Fintan. He hadn’t. They were still alive. Thanks to Bronte. Or an illusion of him at least.

He knew where he needed to go.

Fintan charged into Bronte’s chambers, his heart pounding.

“My darling Fintan,” Bronte greeted him with a confused smile on his face. “what ever is the matter?”

“I love you!” Fintan blurted out. “From the moment we met, I have loved you. I have tried to fight it, Bronte, truly I have, but it is no use. My heart will not fall for another. Not now, not ever. My heart is, and always will be, yours.”

Fintan tried to walk away, but Bronte grabbed his wrist, turning him back towards him. Their faces were mere inches apart. 

“You love me?” Bronte asked, a hint of hope gathering in his voice.

“Always.”

Bronte leaned in closer, his breath warm on Fintan’s cheek. “I love you too, Fintan.” Bronte told him. “I always have.”

Finally, after all this time, the two lovers were in each other’s arms, just as they should have always been.

[spacenuggets]

Sorry this was posted late....very busy with important stuff

Letters- Day 2

*Btw my bff wrote this and wanted me to post it!!!*

@fintante-week

A flash of light blinds his vision for a few seconds and before Fintan knows it, he’s back home. He falls to the ground, dripping blood onto the grass underneath him. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing in the fresh air around him. Fintan needed to get out of there, leave any evidence of what he’s done where it belongs. Burning up into ashes.

It’s quite sad, the first place a pathfinder took him was his home. After all, he isn’t even a resident anymore. No time like the present to reunite with old furniture anyways. Fintan barely manages to lift his knees off of the ground and walk closer to stone walls. Every step sends a sharp jolt through his muscles. 

He’s free, and it only took one dead councillor this time. It wasn’t Fintan’s fault was attacked in the middle of his grand escape. Trying to weaken a pyrotechnic in the middle of a raging fire? It was like a death sentence waiting to happen. 

Fintan’s eyes lay onto the old property ahead of him. His home is definitely in great condition! Great green vines scattered across the cement walls, as bright multicolored wildflowers invite Fintan’s sight, in beautiful disorder. Murky windows plaster the somehow inviting yet cold foundation, keeping in secrets no elf could ever comprehend. They sure did keep this place in the best shape! The door even creaks spookily when he enters.

It smells like dust and old memories. How long has it been since he last slept here? Better question, how long has it been since Fintan slept in a bed. He needs to get out these clothes, he needs to get out of his skin soon. The blood from a previous scrape is drying and cracking just like his sanity. Red liquid gushes from his nose after a punch to the cold floor via Councillor Kenric.

Looks like the council ransacked this place before he could get to it. No tables thrown around or lopsided chairs, but they are clear signs. Open cabinets that are completely empty, of course. He’s not in here to get a snack anyways. Fintan finds his way upstairs to his old bedroom.

Surprisingly, he feels a jolt of fear when entering inside. Messing up a piece of the past itself, or something like that. Nostalgia greets him like an old friend that you haven’t seen since childhood. Nobody messed with this room in a while. It's very clear. 

Fintan slams open the closet door like it’s buried treasure. All of his old clothes on display just for him! It’s easy to find something anyway, he isn’t going to a party. At least, not a party with any guests.

Rubbing the blood off was the hard part. He scratches against the skin only for more red to appear. It’s like they want to haunt him after all this time. The even slight thought of their faces, his friends’ faces, makes him sick to the core of his stomach. Fintan’s breathing becomes heavy after sitting there for so long, scrubbing at his hands, yelling in frustration. Why won't it leave?

He’s done with it though, and that's all that matters. He manages to barely fit into the old clothes, they’re still huge on him anyways. Fintan stared at the faint underline of his ribs beneath the loose fabric. He hasn’t eaten a full meal in so long. All exile has to offer is paste and sadness on a platter. Maybe he should try to find something to eat. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to find something in the pantries. 

             Fintan rummages through his rooms like a stray animal. He hadn’t realized how huge this place was when he was living in luxury. Large windows dot the halls, spreading sunlight in each corner. No place to hide any darkness that might creep in.

             He notices something in the corner of his eye by the third hallway turn. He practically runs toward the back door. The only good thing he remembers about this place, his garden. It’s surprisingly well kept after all this time all alone with no caretaker. His greatest achievement at this point, after all that’s happened.

              Fintan doesn’t trust it at all. No flower grows in such conditions. But who would take care of them? Blossoming rainbows everywhere like a ray of light. Maybe he should give up conspiracy theorizing on a silly coincidence. He sits down on a small garden table to take in the view. Something greets him.

              Letters. They are letters on the table. Did he forget to read them before he left? No, the council would’ve taken them for evidence. They all have the same symbol on them either way, long swirls spin around the envelope opening. Like someone was doodling while waiting for him to come by.

               Fintan reaches his hand to look closer. He opens it aggressively, ripping the careful seams and drawings. He just wants to see who would care to write for him after all this time.

                The paper unfolds slowly into his hands. Long cursive handwriting greets him, and he knows this writing like the flames from his fingers. Fintan’s eyes drown in the letter, taking in each crafted sentence.

                 Dear Fintan Pyren, 

                 I’m sure you won’t receive this letter anytime soon, as you’re currently stuck inside the very core of the world. They’ve chosen to break your mind, I really shouldn’t be talking, I choose this myself. I wish this could’ve been different, rather, I wish we could’ve been different in the end. I would never say this to your face, it would bring too much joy to your enormous ego.

                Sincerely, 

                Councillor Bronte

                 How pathetic. A Councillor writing to a convict like you would write to a close friend updating them on school drama. Fintan grabs another envelope and rips another one open. Much more delicious than any meal he could’ve found. 

               Dear Pyren,

               I’m writing you another letter. This feels like a necessity rather than a choice by now. All I know is that the council is still deciding whether to heal you or not. I’m not sure if I want to see your face again. You screamed at me the last time we met, right before your sanity was crushed like an insect. Your eyes are pale and soulless, such a stark contrast to who you used to be. Your hair tangled into blonde knots across your shoulders. I would list every feature I’ve seen but then this would turn into an essay instead.

               Your Old Friend,

               Councillor Bronte

               This one is more desperate. Fintan wants to laugh at how sad Bronte sounds. His old friend must’ve written this one late at night. He wants to cry at how his friend thinks they could’ve ever been something more in the future. Life would’ve ruined them in any universe. Fintan slides more letters over.

               Each one is the same over and over again. Bronte writes like these letters are a diary. Maybe they are, in his own cursed way. But the final one is different, it’s scribbled in a rush.

                Dear Fintan,

                It’s time. Tomorrow you’ll be awake and, well, somewhat conscious and intelligent. We’re all doomed basically. I don’t think I can do this anymore really. I don’t want to see you again, I don’t want to ever see you. I’m tired of regretting whatever we’ve become. Whatever happens tomorrow won’t matter, because you’ll still be who you choose when you set that fire. I don’t expect anything from you anymore.

               Yours Truly,

               Bronte

               That’s it. No more writing from him after this. Fintan wonders if Bronte was planning to write more letters after this. It doesn’t matter either way. He wants to burn each letter one by one as revenge, but something stops him. He grips the letter like a stuffed animal for a child. It's weak. He doesn’t care either way.

               If Fintan takes these for himself however, Bronte will surely notice it. Or maybe he won’t come out after such a terrible incident, just for the fear of getting caught. Although, if he can remember anything about his old friend, it’s that he can hide behind a mask for any situation. At this point, Bronte might come back even if Fintan killed hundreds more. He could take that risky chance.

               Fintan whisks through his offices quickly. No paper or pen taken, or at least, they might’ve been checked for some secret information or messages. He pulls out the sheet and takes a second to think before he writes, after all, he doesn’t want to sound too much like he’s begging to Bronte.

                The pen flows like fire, stretching its inky flames over the paper effortlessly. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to get out, how much he wanted to say to the Councillor. Each word is serious as he could get out. Every sentence sounds so very different than what it should. It’s something Bronte would sit there thinking hard about, never to realize it’s clear as the air. It’s simple, in shorter words.

                Dear Councillor Bronte,

                I find your hesitation quite amusing actually. How can you say something so strange? You should hate me truly, as everything I’ve ever done is against your will and principles. But you still care about me, it’s quite clear. I can see it in every horrific painting you make of me. You try so hard to hide it, but as your only reader, it’s quite obvious sadly. You stayed the exact same, hiding and quiet. Following orders no matter the cost or consequences. I hope you enjoy it.

                Love,

                Fintan Pyren

                It’s fine. Why would Bronte care at all? It doesn’t matter if it sounded like a student wrote it for an assignment one hour before it was due. Bronte would dip into each sentence, taking its meaning to the furthest reaches possible. He could analyse every single word for star’s sake, and wouldn’t find any message to be hidden.

                Fintan finds a spare envelope and draws his own symbol on it for good luck. A large Noxflare at the center point. Bronte will recognize it, he has to after all this time thinking over each interaction they ever had. It’s just in his nature.

                He leaves the letter on the table where he found them, and as a final message to his friend, he grabs the other letters for himself. His own little present to read when world domination gets a bit boring. There’s not necessarily much entertainment in the Neverseen at all.

                Fintan quickly grabs his pathfinder and heads out of the area. Who knows when Bronte might be back to leave another scrawled message in the empty garden. He wouldn’t want to have another conversation with him face to face that’s for sure. Who knows what could happen with them so close to each other again. Looking back into those deep eyes he hadn’t seen in years truly.

                 It doesn’t matter. He pulls the crystal up to the ever glistening sun. Look at him, taking a peek around an old house and writing letters to torment an old friend while countless burn alive. He truly has become someone unrecognizable, now in this state. It doesn’t matter and it won’t ever matter. He’ll be grand up there, on a throne again, when the time comes.

[starryseaotter]

Hi, I'm Otter! I've been a long time lurker on tumblr and decided what better time to start posting than during @fintante-week! With that here is what I did for days 1-2

[starryseaotter]

@fintante-week Day 4 - Lingering

[starryseaotter]

@fintante-week Day 3 - Betrayal

One more coming later today!

[islavyou-art]

fintante week day 7- free day/canon divergence

final day of fintante week! canon divergence

@fintante-week

fintan bronte kenric and oralie double date!

au where they’re all councilors at the same time but kenric still knows to be fearful of fintan…

[akiosilverbangs]

@fintante-week day seven free day bc idk where else to put this. Tomodachilife trend

Ty to @solreefgrace for letting me use your miis

[keefetheshimmerbooty]

I fear I won't be able to get this done in time before @fintante-week is over but here is part of my WIP Bronte for free day (he is being sad thinking about Fintan)

[autistic-arsonist]

@fintante-week day 7 free day

A fanfic of fintan and bronte in their younger days and bronte almost dies and stuff

[islavyou-art]

fintante week day 6- history

day 6-history!

@fintante-week

featuring sophie this time!

anyway not sure why sophie and bronte are hanging out but in the graphic novel i do remember she read a book with fintan in it so…

plus bronte will never give up a chance to bully children so

[ladysencen]

Fintante Week: Day Six

Hiii!! I'm a little late for uploading, but I hope you like it!

Always in My Heart - ladysencen - Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger [Archive of Our Own]

Fintan sighed, donning his robes. Today was the day he was to wed that odious Vespera. Well, she wasn’t that terrible, but this marriage certainly was.

Fintan couldn’t believe his ears when Fallon Vacker told him that not only did he have to marry Vespera, he was also exiling his best friend, Bronte. Of course, his feelings for Bronte weren’t exactly platonic, but that was besides the point. It was just so horrendous, Fintan could barely even think about it.

“Good morning, Fintan!” Bronte strolled into Fintan’s chambers.

About the whole Bronte getting ‘exiled’, Fintan brought him back the second Fallon died, in a mysterious incident about a month after Bronte’s exile. Not that Fintan had anything to do with it…

“My dearest Bronte! How are you on this fine day?” Fintan asked.

“Not as well as you ought to be, I am sure. My good sirrah, this time four hours hence, you shall be Fintan Folend. Oh, how grand this all shall be!”

“Bronte,” Fintan asked quietly, “are you truly happy for me?”

“Of course!” Bronte assured him, though there was no true conviction behind his words.

Fintan’s sullen face suddenly brightened, as an idea began forming in his mind.

“Bronte, is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, gesturing to Bronte’s rather drab robes.

“Yes…?” Bronte replied, confused. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I have just had the most wonderful idea.” Fintan dashed over to his wardrobe, and pulled out an emerald green robe, with hundreds of intricate details dancing along the side of it gleefully. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Fintan. It’s beautiful.” Bronte reached out to touch the robe, before recoiling his hand as though he had been burned, clearly having thought better of the idea. “But I can’t. Fintan, what will people think? I am married. You are to be married. What if they draw the wrong conclusion?”

Fintan stepped closer to Bronte, until he could feel his breath warm on his cheek, “Let them.” he whispered.

Bronte gasped as Fintan’s lips made his way into his. After protesting for a moment, he finally gave in, melting against Fintan with a sigh of happiness.

“Tu es l’amour de ma vie.” Bronte murmured.

“Je suis à toi.” Fintan whispered back.

Just then, Vespera charged into the room, declaring, “My love, are you almost ready? The ceremony is starting soon.” As she seen the two together, her eyes began to bulge. “You!” she shrieked, pointing at Bronte. “You foul, licentious creature!”

“Vespera, my dear. You have nothing to worry about.” Bronte assured her, holding out his hand.

“Nothing to worry about?!” Vespera screeched. “That inclement had its filthy hands all over you!”

“My dear, you’ve have gotten the situation all wrong. You see –”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Vespera spat. “That creature will hang for his crimes!”

“Surely you cannot be serious?” Fintan whispered, a lump slowly forming in his throat.

“Dead.” Vespera assured him. “Just as your friend soon shall be.”

Vespera calls of, “Guards, seize him!” could hardly be heard over Fintan’s cries, his grief seemingly hell-bent on destroying him.

“Je t’aime pour l’éternité, ma chéri.”  Bronte assured him, as the guards dragged him away from Fintan, forever.

“Je t’aime de tout mon coeur.” Fintan muttered after him, sinking to the ground, his head burrowed in his hands.

Vespera grabbed him roughly by the arm, hissing, “Come, Fintan. Let us not mourn on this most glorious day. We can deal with the fiend later.”

As Fintan watched the flames rise above the sky, he had one condemning thought, “It’s all my fault,” he whispered, his hand rushing to his face, “it was all my fault. I was the one who brought him back. I was the one who made him wear those stupid robes. I’m the one who kissed him. He was safe, until I came along. It’s all my fault.”

Fintan only wished that he could be on that pyre with Bronte. That he could die in the arms of his beloved.

But Fintan knew that was not possible. He knew he would die surrounded by his servants and subjects, yet he would die more alone than Bronte.

That was the way things had to be.

[caius-arts]

Fintante week day 5: History

I thought it would be fun to draw their young selves in Ancient Greek clothing! Took a lot of inspo from @/blended-ice (their art is amazing) and I’m deeply sorry for any historical inconsistencies

So I put Bronte in clothing to symbolize Athena with some red for ares and Fintan in yellow and gold to symbolize Apollo and purple for royalty

@fintante-week