Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
WARNING: The characters may be very out of character. If they are, I apologise.
"Where might I find the High King?"
The voice is quiet, as if the speaker has forgotten how to talk – or has not spoken for a very long time.
The greeter stared at the tall Elf. He is clad in a simple white tunic, grey leggings and boots and a white hooded cloak. The hood is pulled over his head, so it is impossible to see his face – which appears to be the intention. From what little hair is visible, it is obvious that he is golden-haired and is certainly at least part Vanya.
"You will find him in the palace gardens. The King often walks there alone at night."
The tall hooded Elf bows his head. "Thank you." He turns and quietly walks out of the hall, his feet making no sound.
The greeter continues to watch the stranger as he left. There is something familiar about him. He sounds exactly like... But no, it cannot be. It is impossible.
... ... ...
Everything is the same as it was. And yet it is not. It is not the light of the Silver Tree that illuminates the gardens – it is Isil instead. The gardens are a symphony of light and shadows, and he passes from one to the other as he silently walks.
The moonlight bathes him in brightness, and the cool breeze swirls around him almost playfully. He can scarcely believe he is here, that he is alive.
Why is he alive?
His thoughts turn to his friend, whom he last saw languishing in the dungeons of Morgoth, who was also permitted to return from death – but only because of a sacrifice that far dwindles his own.
He closes his eyes. He can remember the claws and teeth tearing into his flesh, yet he would have willingly undergone that a thousand times if it had meant saving Beren's life – or indeed the lives of any of their companions in that dungeon.
He comes to a large oak and stops, running a hand down its side. The leaves rustle, sensing the presence of an old, beloved friend.
The Elf is startled out of his memories by a tall shadow standing a short distance away. The figure approaches, as noiselessly as a hunting owl.
He looks almost exactly the same; yet there are echoes of sorrow on his face and in his eyes. He is wearing a deep blue robe and a golden coronet upon his head.
Finrod pulls back his hood, and the starlight glints upon his hair.
Time seems to come to a stop as the two Elves stare at each other, the leaves rustling in the trees around them.
Finarfin moves towards Finrod, robes flowing as he does so. He stands in front of his son, looking directly into eyes the exact same shade as his own. Raising a hand in a cautious, tentative manner – almost as if he is afraid to do so – he touches the younger Elf's cheek.
"It is you."
He does not seem surprised to see his son.
"Olórin told me...to expect you."
"What did he say?" Finrod whispers.
"That you were newly released from the Halls of Mandos. Yet when Olórin told me how you died, why you were slain and..."
Finarfin clenches his fists in his robe, trying to control himself. When he next speaks, his voice is husky and filled with emotion.
"You have shown yourself to be a far greater Elf than I. Never doubt that I was always proud of you, and that I have always loved you. Yet when I heard his words, I was overjoyed to call you my son – and overwhelmed that I was permitted to be your father."
There are so many things Finrod wishes to say to his father; yet when he opens his mouth, they do not come out. He cannot say them. Instead four words leave his mouth, his voice no louder than the leaves in the trees.
"I love you, Father."
Slowly, Finarfin raises his arms and holds them out to his son. Finrod takes one step forwards and his father's arms surround him gently, almost tentatively and yet so securely – as if Finarfin is holding the most precious, delicate treasure in the whole of Arda.
For his part, Finrod returns the embrace and rests his head on Finarfin's shoulder. Why does he still feel so safe in the arms of his father? He should not – he knows he should not. He is no longer a child; he has been slain by terrible evil; he has returned to life because – so he was told – of his courage, loyalty, and his willingness to sacrifice himself for his friend. So why does his father's embrace remain the safest refuge he has ever known? He just cannot understand it.
Finarfin releases Finrod and holds the younger Elf's face in his hands. The King's eyes are shining with joy and love.
At the look in his father's eyes, Finrod feels a smile slowly blossom over his face.
When was it since he last smiled?
He knows they will have many things to speak of, and that there are many things they will have to understand about each other. For now, though, what matters is that Finrod is home, where he belongs.
Father and son begin to walk, side by side, beneath the trees.
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