seen from United States
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seen from Spain
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seen from Türkiye
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Ladies and Gentleman, he’s done. Fintan says “hello”
saw the most scrumptious fanarts my moots posted for pride month and i realized i needed to lock the flip in and post my own art
but i don't know what ships do lowkey.......
ik i wanna do yuri bc but all the ships are so peak but i can't decide 😭
someone pls help my indecisive ahh and give me a few suggestions in the comments or reblogs....... idk anything helps 🙏
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
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.
1 more day.....until FINTANTE WEEK!
gotta lock in for fintante week 😤
sparks
req by: @lilie-on-mars WC: 2.4k
Fintan x human!reader ; In which Fintan Pyren is oddly intrigued by a human in his studies of the forbidden cities…
content: I didn’t state age exactly but reader is implied to be mid-20s just so an Ancient isn’t going after some 19 year-old… ; college mention (graduate studies); reader is hinted to be a little off the hinges; gun violence mentioned; some foul language
27 minutes and 13 seconds.
That was how long Fintan had been watching her.
For today, obviously. He had first laid eyes on the human woman about seven analysis sessions ago — and she had appeared in three since then.
He sat atop a rooftop, gazing out over the bustling society below — parents pushing their kids about in strollers, pairs walking side by side to their jobs or for leisure, individuals in stiff jackets with phones to their ears. Everyone had something to do; life was in a hurry, Fintan noticed.
But this one… she moved slowly. Not hesitantly, but as though she was calculating something. Each time he saw her, she was taking her time. It was as if she didn’t know — or care — of her human ephemerality. His watch lingered on her actions longer than he intended. He watched her set the bowl of food she was walking with on the ground in front of a stray cat. She crouched down in front of the creature for a few minutes before picking up the now-empty plastic and throwing it in a bin nearby. He didn’t know why, but his eyes couldn’t leave her. She opened the door to what appeared to be some type of coffee shop… but didn’t step inside. Rather, the woman turned around. She stood in the doorway for a heartbeat.
The back of his neck tingled moments before — a reflex he was startled to realize elves even had.
The woman turned around.
She glanced around — looked up.
Her eyes were set straight at him.
Despite the way his heart skipped a beat (out of shock… of course), he didn’t blink. He took it as any other battle of dominance, not looking away. How could she even see him from so far? Fintan only observed from such a distance because of the strength of elvin vision.
She turned back inward, the door closing behind her.
No matter, Fintan thought. She must’ve seen something else.
Just then, an alarm went off. It marked the hour to switch from rooftop watch to integrated observation for the day.
Against his better judgement… he felt called to the building she’d slipped into.
The smells hit him instantly — humans brewed their coffee with such potence.
He took a seat in the far corner of the bustling room, sitting where he could look out over the activity, listen in on every shared word. These were the studies that taught him the most.
“Excuse me, sir?” A waitress brought him from his focus, drawing his attention to the beige cup in her hand.
“…Yes?” Fintan could practically see her go a little cold. He tried to mask into human society as well as possible, but finding common ground when you had five thousand years on them was a little difficult. He was bound to seem… off.
“A, ah, young lady ordered this for the…” she paused to read the scribbled writing on the side. “…‘Spooky man with the… Legolas hair.’ So… here you go.”
Fintan furrowed his eyebrows, hesitantly taking the cup from her hand. “I’m sorry, who?”
She nodded toward the side exit. “Chick just left.”
He looked just in time to see the wave of the woman’s hair outside the glass, hearing the chimes ring with the door. “Hm. Thank you.” He pulled a spare Forbidden Cities bill from his pocket (was a hundred enough for this type of thing? He still wasn’t entirely sure of human financials in the current era, but apparently inflation was quite severe) and slipped it to the waitress without another word, taking his coffee and shoving swiftly out the side door and into the neighboring alley. He glanced around, wondering where she could’ve possibly gone.
His head hit the wall.
“What in Sources’ name—”
“Why are you following me?” The woman had swung him by his sleeve into a wall a little farther from view, his head against the bricks and her forearm at his neck.
To tell the truth, he had no idea. But it certainly wasn’t any human’s place to ask anything of him, let alone to demand.
“Get your hands off of me—” he channeled some heat into his hands, shoving her away by the shoulders. He supposed he hadn’t thought too deeply about that.
Her eyes widened, but she returned her resting face within seconds. “What was… how did you do that?”
“None of your business.”
“The fuck it’s not.”
Fintan furrowed his brows. “Excuse you?”
“You’ve been watching me from rooftops for the last month.”
“Very bold of you to assume it is you that I’m watching.”
“I’ve seen you in completely different parts of the city three times!”
Fintan sighed. “That has all been coincidence. Had I been following you, you wouldn’t have noticed, to start. Secondly… if you considered me a threat…” He silently lifted the cup of coffee in his hand, raising an eyebrow in something that looked to be judgement.
She pursed her lips. “Thought some attention get you to leave me alone.”
“Lie.”
“Fine,” she folded. “Figured if you were so interested, I’d meet you face-to-face.”
He put his hands out plainly. “Here I am. Satisfied?”
She glanced him up and down — her examination stirring him in a way he couldn’t describe. “Very.”
Fintan may have never been so confused in his life. He had lived a very long life.
“Whatever your… motivations may be,” he cleared his throat, a certain heat brewing beneath his collar that didn’t seem associated with his ability. “What do I have to do for you to leave me alone?”
“Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“Yes? Clearly.”
“The color rushing to your ears says otherwise. …Hey, next question, what the hell is up with your ears?”
The breeze had managed to tug his waist-length locks away from his ears, and he hadn’t brought a Masker with him this time. This girl had completely disarmed his cold, sharp defenses. He was running out of options.
He closed his eyes briefly. He didn’t want it to come to this. He reached into the pocket of his cloak—
and the Melder he had halfway pulled out was sent flying from his hands.
He grasped his aching hand. “What the hell, don’t kick me!”
“Don’t shoot me!” The girl put her foot down, smoothing her jacket.
He blinked. “…Why would you do that?” He knew humans were violent, but considering they had just meant, he wouldn’t have expected such reflexes from a woman of her age and composure.
“I’m a female college student in a heavily populated area; God forbid I take a self-defense class. You should know better than to pull a gun on me in broad daylight.”
Fintan rolled his eyes. “It’s not a gun—and at this distance, it would’ve stunned you with minimal memory loss… I think.”
“Okay, well, here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to take off that stupid ominous coat with the armory in your pockets, and then you’re going to tell me where you’re from.”
Fintan tilted his head, daring to take a few steps forward. “And why would I do that?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Because I have a phone, and you don’t have a gun anymore, and I can call the cops.”
He knew he could just leap home any minute and make every effort to never see this woman again. He could also simply kill her now. For whatever reason, he felt compelled to do neither of those things.
“…Fine.” In complete and utter spite of himself, he shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, left in the closest thing a tunic could be to a T-shirt. He held the jacket out in one arm. “Happy?”
Her eyes traced his now-exposed forearms—one heartbeat before she pried herself from distraction. “…Walk with me. It looks weird just standing here.”
Fintan ran a hand down his face. Was he actually about to do this?
…
“I’ll answer six of your questions. You have to promise you won’t tell a soul, and I can’t promise you’ll get complete answers. Then I leave.” The words felt odd in his mouth, the thought of obeying someone else—obeying a human—leaving more bitter an aftertaste than ruckleberries.
The woman crossed her arms. “Why six? Why not… seven?”
She paused as though that was expected to have some meaning.
He shrugged. “Fine, seven.”
“…I guess you wouldn’t get that, would you… Perfectly fine for me. Are you human?”
He pursed his lips, avoiding eye contact as he recovered from the whiplash. He had been expecting a ‘are you here to hurt me?’ or maybe a ‘do you work for the government?’ It seems she went straight to the point. “…No.”
“Great. Alien? Wait, that wasn’t my question. Two — what are you, then?”
He sighed. Completely avoidable situation, by the way. “Elf.”
“Ha! So the Legolas bit was right.”
“Those books have been out for one hundred years. I am tired.”
She gave him a sideways glance, then trained her gaze forward once more. “You shouldn’t be. He’s hot, it’s an honor.”
Fintan’s brows furrowed. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
It was as if she’d sensed his headspace shift, because she abruptly changed topics. “Okayyy, number three. Oh, I’m takin’ these down pretty fast — how old are you?”
“Extremely.”
She paused in her steps. “Like… a really good 50? Can you give me a little more than that?”
“Not unless you want that to count as number four.”
“Ugh, old people are no fun. Fine, four: explain your elf-land to me.”
He clicked his tongue, lazily tying his hair into a low bun. “That’s not a question.”
“Well, maybe I’m not asking.”
He slowed his steps, leaning down to speak lower. “Mind you, I still have seven knives on me.”
She stilled for a moment. “…I have one, and I think it’ll work just fine.”
He narrowed his eyes. He was being tested, and he hated it — but he couldn’t possibly stop. It was for his own amusement, clearly. He could get a kick out of blowing her mind a little. If she ever turned into trouble…
“…It’s called the Lost Cities. The places you humans thought were long gone or just outright fictitious; we alongside all the creatures you dismissed call them home. We travel on lightbeams and almost all of us have powers—that’s how I burned you earlier. …You passing out yet?”
She was quiet for a few moments, their steps in the evening being just barely heard over the street beside them.
“…Okay. Yeah, okay. Atlantis? Don’t even answer that one, I knew it. I’ll think all of this over later, you seem like a busy man. Five: why are you here? Why are you watching me?”
Fintan blinked a few times. She had just… accepted all of that. He felt there was more he didn’t know. He hated it. There was nothing he didn’t know. “Again with the ego. It’s not you, none of this is about you. I’m… studying humans. I want to know what sets you apart from us, why you act the way you do. How we are so similar yet so far apart.”
“…Interesting. Number six — yeah, why don’t we know about you guys? You look, like oddly human, except for…” She didn’t know a non-awkward way to say your paralyzing beauty or your piercing eyes. “…You know, the uncanny valley vibe.”
“We used to be intertwined. But we were too advanced for humanity’s barbaric violence, the ways driven by such short, anxious lives. We vanished from human life and cut ourselves off from you all before you destroyed all of us and then yourselves.”
Her eyes widened a little. “Okay, damn. Screw us, I guess. …You’re probably right, though.”
He steered them around a corner, ducking them into another alley. It was quiet in a softly understanding way. “My turn: why are you okay with all of this?”
She sighed. “I mean, it’s a lot to take in, but it’s… exactly what I’ve been expecting. I’m a little bit like you.”
Fintan seriously doubted that, but he let her continue.
“I’m working on my PhD in theoretical physics, and I… kinda needed this. Like, I could build an entire thesis off of you. But I don’t know the odds of that, so I’ll take what I can get. All that to say… I’ve spent years poring over studies, and I knew we’ve been missing something.”
There was something so deeply intriguing, familiar about her that kept Fintan in the conversation. “I’ll accept that. …One more question, human girl.”
“Drumroll, please. Number seven…” She stepped impossibly closer to him — he managed not to back away. “What do you use on your hair?” She tucked a loose, windblown strand behind his ear. “I mean, this is—”
He snatched her wrist, batting her hand away from his face. “What are you doing?”
“Ow!” She cradled her hand, now red and steaming. “Holy shit, are you insane?”
“Have I not made that abundantly clear?”
She held her burnt wrist in front of her face, blowing on it softly. “…Yeah.”
Something cold settled in his chest at the pain etched into her features. He didn’t know why he couldn’t control himself by now. How he managed to hurt things so quickly.
“I… I’m sorry.”
Sources, Fintan was going to go home and brush his teeth of all the words that have felt disgusting in his mouth.
Her eyes softened. “No, I—I should be careful.”
The silence grew almost awkward. He had to break it. “I’m glad you found my existence helpful. I must go. And this time, I expect not to see you again.” He stalked further down the alley, raising a leaping crystal from around his neck.
“Right. Hey, Goldilocks—can I get a bonus question?”
In spite of all of his better judgement… Fintan turned around. He said nothing, simply raised an eyebrow.
“Same time next week?”
The woman’s smile was unlike anything he’d ever seen before—it didn’t look particularly different in any way, but the way he felt his insides contract, as if his stomach were full of halcyons fluttering their wings. It was excruciating, and he wanted to feel this way every day for the rest of his life.
He cocked his head. “If you can find me.”
The last thing he saw was a glimmer in her eye before the light took everything away.
…He had never gotten her name.
•••
A/N: long overdue!! thank you again for how patient you’ve been with me on this one, I hope it’s what you hoped for 🫶🏽 had to step out of my regular characters on this one and I hope I did him right. I’m kinda invested now lol
POV: me knowing that fintan is my favorite character but also realizing that I will never EVER get near his ahh in real life because he lowkey might burn me alive if i get too close:
