Fic - Holy Saturday
On the day that Eru died, the earth fell into darkness as Arien left her station in the sky, her flames quenched, and stood weeping in the gardens of Lórien.
When the One had entered into Arda, Ainur and Eldar alike had looked on in wonder and awe, and asked themselves what this might mean, and what His purpose was. They had waited with hope and yet with trepidation, for the mischances of the world were many, and even from infancy the child’s enemies were not few.
And yet, for all that, they had never truly expected this. Never been able to comprehend the possibility. They had seen defeats, they had seen disasters, yes, but never like this. From the greatest of the Ainur to the youngest of the Eldar, all were equally at a loss. How could a world exist without its Creator?
Many joined with Nienna to weep and to mourn. Others fell into despair. And still others fell to anger, saying “The Atani are no Eruhíni, but children of Morgoth.”
In Tirion, two alone resisted despair and rage alike. One was golden-haired, and had been among the first to prophesy that Eru would one day enter into his creation and heal it of the marring. Even now he had not lost faith, and urged others to wait and hope, that this was not the end; and the strength and warmth of his spirit were such that those who heard him took comfort. But when he heard the words of the wrathful, he pressed his lips together and looked away, and would not answer lest he should do more harm with hasty words.
The other had hair of flame, and somber looks that carried beneath them a peace unshakeable. For the most part he spoke little, but sat with the grieving, his solidity a bulwark against despair. For he had known despair unto death, and passed through it, and it could no longer touch him. And when he heard the words of anger, he looked at the speakers, and they fell silent. Evil he had known and done, as few others among the Eldar, and received pardon unimaginable; his certainty of guilt was deeper than their certainty of righteousness, and they foundered in it.
Yet the weight of the world’s mourning lay heavy even upon these two, and in time they withdrew a little for rest.
Finrod lay on his back, eyes closed, as if it was an effort to continue even to draw to draw breath. “Do you truly still still see hope?” he asked in a undertone.
Maedhros looked at him with consideration. “It scarcely matters,” he responded. “I did not see hope when I hung from Thangorodrim. I did not see hope in years after the great defeat. I did not see hope when I took the Silmaril in my hand. I did not see hope when I first came to the Halls. That I did not see it did not mean it was not there.” After a pause: “And you?”
Finrod waited a little. “I have believed in this more than aught else in Arda. I believe - I know - that is has a purpose; and I choose to believe that purpose has not yet failed, though for the present we and our kindred alike must wait in the dark.”
And they returned again to their work.