Promise
Ingwë had heard of Finwë’s alarming mood change and felt nothing but terror to hear that his friend had lost the joy of his life, and was, by reports, simply shambling through the motions to an inevitable end.
That had chilled him, right to his core. They were still reeling, in many ways, over Míriel’s decision. Still crushed. Still fearful of what this implied for them all within Aman which should have been safe from such things.
He had summonsed his friend and lesser king, inviting him to spend time in the tranquil setting of Ingwë’s residence. He wanted Finwë with friends who would not also have to juggle handling their own king as Finwë’s Tatyar subjects would have to.
Now though, with his friend ensconced here in a set of guest rooms and a reluctant Fëanáro also likewise ensconced. (Apparently the child was given, in Tirion, to locking himself away and losing himself in his studies and crafts and many thought that strange and odd given the child’s bereavement but there were many ways to grieve, Ingwë was well aware of them, and the child’s was text book.
It was not that Fëanáro was not grieving, and was not hurt. No. The child was trying to drown the grief and pain with work. Trying to numb himself. And that was a healthier way of grieving, in some ways, than what Finwë was doing (though not healthy in and of itself.)
The Vanyar coughed, straightening the casual day robe he wore (no finery, this was his home and these were his dear friend and his dear friend’s son as his house guest) and knocked upon the door. “Finwë?” he queried and gave warning before pushing the door open and stepping inside to find his friend, “I came to see if you were settled. Are the rooms comfortable?”
He had agreed to the trip because of Fëanáro.
It was his son who bore the greater wounds, his son who took this the hardest, who would not consider his grief. Though no responsibilities required him to move past his suffering—to tiptoe around grief, a sleeping beast that would consume him if awakened—his dear son seemed less interested in moving through the process than Finwë himself.
The trip was for Fëanáro.
He was certain.
Under the radiance of the Trees, Valimar formed a blinding maze that gnawed at Finwë’s eyes; as his eyes already ached from long periods of working, the light could not now be tolerated. Every curtain in the room was drawn, blocking all but Laurelin’s muffled glare and how it mixed with the hidden stained glass.
Finwë rose from his seat, where he had spent the last hour not reading the scroll half open in his lap. “They are,” he responded, “thank you.” As comfortable as Ingwë could make his rooms, at least. For his friend, though, he smiled. “I admit, I am tired from the trip, but I would still enjoy your company.”
Ingwë looked around the room and took in the darkness imposed by the thick curtains and the dead stillness of the air since the drapes prevented both light and breeze.
At Finwë's words he stepped more firmly into the rooms and took a seat opposite to his friend.
"Do you have a headache?" he solicited, reaching for areason that his friend had been reading in the dark, "shall I call for a healer or some water?"
There was an absence of a child's voice and noise. He looked around the dark room again, his keen gaze piercing the gloom for this was nothing compared to the smothering blackness that had come upon the lakes of their youth. "Where is your son?"
