Many thanks to Istarnie my beta.

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At the main doors of Olwë’s mansions of pearl, armed battle-worn guards turned away the mob, and took Finarfin and Edrahir into the palace.  Once inside, the guards cut their bonds.  The two Noldor graciously, and somewhat stiffly, bowed in gratitude to the guards.

The captain of the guard, another ellon whom Finarfin knew well, saluted them. “Prince Finarfin, it is good to see you safe and…” his voice trailed off a moment as he seemed to struggle for words. “And reasonably whole.  We know that you and your sons had no part in this…this…what happened this day. Why were you brought to us thus by an angry mob? Are you all right? Do you require the services of a healer?”

Finarfin held up a hand to halt the flow of questions. “Please tell me first. Did my wife arrive here safely?”

 “Yes. The Princes Eärwen arrived here safely and is with her parents now,” The captain replied.

“Thank Eru!” Finarfin sighed heavily in grateful relief.  Sensing no animosity from those around him, only genuine concern, he continued. “Princess Eärwen ran away from us maddened by grief. The mob attacked Lord Edrahir and I as we entered the city, blaming us, well, blaming me, for what the Noldor had done. They wanted to kill us and probably would have if one among them had not attempted to reason with them. I asked them to bring us here for the King to judge us and they grudgingly complied.”

“I hope you do not face the king’s judgment for I do not believe that he is feeling merciful just now,” the captain replied candidly. “Prince Fëanor – or is it now King Fëanor,” he added derisively, “Came seeking ships and my lord denied him. Then he left us for a time to wait upon more of your people arriving. When Prince Fëanor returned, he tried to take our ships by force.”

The captain paused, regarding Finarfin closely.

Carefully keeping his emotions in check, Finarfin nodded for him to continue.

 In a low bitter voice, the Captain resumed. “We fought hard, driving his host back three times before he was succored by more of the Noldor. Then there were simply too many of them to withstand! I heard report that your nephew Fingon led this second group.  In fact, I personally saw many of your princes, as well as Prince Fëanor, fighting in the battle. The Noldor are, as you must know, well-armed and have been most viciously determined in their assault, slaying the great majority of our mariners, including King Olwë’s youngest son.”

Finarfin bowed his head, fighting back tears and pressing his bloody lips together to bite back the cry of anguish seeking to escape. No! Not Eärang! Not his little brother…

Relentlessly the captain continued, “I never left Olwë’s side during all of this as my duty and my love for my king require of me. I heard Olwë and many others call upon Ossë to exact vengeance, to destroy the Noldor, but for some reason none of the Valar came. Perhaps Uinen or another of the Maiar did hear our king’s pleas for aid though for I saw the waves rise up and dash many of the stolen vessels.” The captain took a deep breath, and drew himself to his full height – once more the officer in charge. “I continue to receive reports that many drowned Noldor are washing up upon our shores unmourned by those who find them.”

Grief, shame and rage battled within Finarfin as he listened. He had always thought he knew his father’s people, even in the growing restlessness of some to return to Middle-earth, but when had the Noldor become so desperate that they would not only steal from friends, but also kill to achieve their ends?  And when, he realized with ever increasing pain of heart, did the Teleri refuse to give aid to friends, and kill to protect the works of their hands, wonderful to them though the white ships were? And Olwë and others – calling on the Valar to strike down those same friends in Holy Justice – was it not all madness that made mockery of his father’s great friendship with the Telerin king? How could such things ever have happened in the Valar’s own lands?

Bowed by the weight of all he had heard and seen, Finarfin turned away. Head in hands, he collapsed to his knees defeated.  His body ached fiercely while tears burned the cuts on his face. But he did not care. He was aware that the Captain was again speaking, asking him if he needed help – and that Edrahir was kneeling at his side, also speaking with great concern. But for that instant he seemed unable to hear or acknowledge either of them.

Such madness – such slaughter! Now Eärwen’s younger brother – his little brother -- lay dead as well.

Memories of that handsome face with mischievous sea-blue eyes and a brilliant smile flooded his mind. Silver-haired like the rest of Olwë’s line, Eärang was a passionate mariner with hands of great strength, ever willing to assist whoever and wherever he may.  Daring yet caring, surprisingly wise with laughter always on his lips. Earang was the brother he had wished for, yet the kind of son that never could have been born to Finwë. Finarfin’s own son Angrod was much like him and named for him. In that moment Finarfin wondered if even news of the death of Fingolfin would have so pained him

“My prince, should I call for a healer?” the captain asked worriedly.

He was a prince! But what good had that done anyone? Perhaps he somehow deserved this agony for not being able to deter the Noldor from leaving on this foolish quest. He had thought to do all he could to bring wisdom and caution to that meeting in Tirion, and so at least give time for reason to again take hold of minds. He had done all he could to stop them from leaving! Yet they had shouted him down in their anger; they had demanded to leave Tirion at once - at least many of them had.  Now, just a few short “days” into the Noldor’s march to freedom, his kin were murdering each other. And he was trapped in the middle of warring factions yet again.

Thank Eru he had not arrived to find the battle joined for he honestly did not know on whose side he would have fought.  With whom would he have sided: his people by choice or his people by blood? Whose blood would have stained his sword, stained his fëa? It was a blessing that he was not here to witness his kin killing his friends. He was not greatly comforted by this realization, but it was a blessing nonetheless.

 “My lord, should I call for a healer?” the captain repeated with growing concern.

Finarfin did not look up when he felt an arm around his shoulders or heard Edrahir quietly replying. “I will tend to him myself. Your healers are busy enough.”

“Take the prince to his chambers. I will send word to Princess Eärwen that you have arrived. I will see to it that whatever you need is brought to you there,” the captain said.

“Anything you can do for us would be most appreciated. My thanks to you, Captain.” Edrahir graciously replied.  After a pause, he quietly asked, “Captain, have you heard any word of my wife or the House of the Seven Shells?”

“Yes, my lord. I have. Your wife is here and safe.” Edrahir sighed audibly at this while the captain spoke on. “The House of the Seven Shells fought valiantly. They were better armed and better trained in the use of swords than most. I know your lady’s naneth was most displeased when you and your son Lord Edrahil gifted her husband and sons with swords and instructed them in their use.  But there are many who live now because of it.”

“But do my wife’s kin yet live?” Edrahir asked in desperation.

The captain’s voice trembled with grief. “The Lord of the Seven Shells, his sons, and grandsons all bear grievous wounds.  I have not heard if they are expected to survive or not. They are here in the palace for their homes were too far away to bear them thence safely. They are receiving the best of care by healers trained in Lorien by Irmo himself. Your wife arrived shortly before you did and is with them now. Lord Edrahir, I am so very sorry to bear such terrible news.”  

Breathing raggedly, Edrahir was silent for a time before finally saying, “Tha-thank you for telling me.  Please…please have someone keep me apprised of their conditions.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The arm around Finarfin’s shoulders squeezed gently. “Come, my prince,” Edrahir encouraged helping him to rise unsteadily to his feet. “Let us go to your chambers and see to your wounds.” Then for Finarfin’s hearing only, he quietly added. “And we may grieve in solitude, my friend.”

 Finarfin numbly obeyed without looking up. Throughout the long journey through the palace to his rooms, he kept asking over and over sometimes aloud and sometimes in his thoughts, “What have we done? Dear Eru, what have we done?”

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They arrived at their destination to find a fire burning cheerlessly in the hearth and a few candles dully illuminating the sitting room. A decanter of red wine graced a table beside a plate of cheese and bread. Basins of water for washing steamed beside hand towels and two pieces of soap.

Edrahir eased Finarfin into a chair beside the table. As he prepared the first towel, Finarfin attempted to wave him away, admonishing, “I am fine! Leave me in peace. See to yourself first.”

Edrahir continued anyway, scolding. “You are not fine. You are still bleeding, my prince.” He began gently cleansing Finarfin’s face. “Besides, what would your wife say if she saw you like this?  And more importantly, I fear what my wife would say if I let you upset your wife so much.”

Stopping and wincing himself every time Finarfin flinched in pain, Edrahir apologized, “I am so sorry, my friend. I wish they had not brought us scented soaps. Then again, perhaps they did it on purpose knowing it would hurt.”

“Do you think she will still care?”

Edrahir paused in his ministrations. “My prince?”

Finarfin’s voice sounded strained and weak to his own ears. “Do you think she will care what has happened to me? Do you think she will wish to see me again? Her brother is dead. Her people are dead. I failed in all that I hoped to achieve.” Slowly, he shook his head unable to stem the new flow of tears. “I failed my people. I failed her people. I failed her. Why should she ever wish to look upon me again?”

 Setting down the towel, Edrahir planted himself squarely in front of Finarfin. “My prince, look at me.”

When Finarfin did not respond, he grabbed his shoulders and firmly shook him. “Finarfin, look at me!”

Reluctantly, Finarfin complied.

“You have always tried to bring wisdom and peace to situations. You tried your best to bring the Noldor to their senses many times in these recent days, but THEY refused to listen! Even you cannot compete against Prince Fëanor in a battle of words and will – at least not yet. Fëanor can intoxicate the heart with his eloquence – but only for a time. He was groomed for the task of ruling from the very beginning, yet he has failed in his first test as king and proven himself unworthy of the honor. He is as desperate as he is mad!”

The hard edge of the lord’s voice softened. “Prince Fëanor led the Noldor to this end, not you, my lord. The Noldor, for the most part, chose to follow on. You did not make that choice for them. Now, you are betrayed as much as anyone, Finarfin – my friend, perhaps more so. The trust of the Noldor was betrayed by their king. The trust of the Teleri was betrayed by their friends. You were betrayed by your kin and your own people. Your wife knows what has happened and who is to blame. She will not abandon you. You are both victims of this treachery, as my wife and I are.”

Finarfin stared silently mollified as his long time companion and counsel picked up the towel and resumed cleansing bits of rock and shell from the wounds.

Then Edrahir boldly ventured further. “Your brother Fingolfin cares deeply and the Noldor love him, desiring his rule over Fëanor’s, but he always lets Fëanor stir his temper to madness. You are a third son, not even a high prince, yet you care more about your people than Fëanor does. He disregards the worth and wisdom of others –even his wife and her kin’s devotions to the Valar– allowing his arrogant pride to rule him. You value the strengths and abilities of others. You embrace the ways of your mother’s people and your wife’s– even calling Eärwen’s folk your own. Your wisdom and thought rule you. You stand beside others, not over them.  That is something your half-brother can never do and he will fall because of it. He has fallen because of it.”

He placed a fresh folded towel over the left side of Finarfin’s face. “Hold this in place to stop the bleeding. You need stitches. After I cleanse the blood from my face, I will go in search of a healer.”

“I think you need stitches in your brow as well,” Finarfin quietly pointed out. “I can mend nets and sails, but I do not think that you would wish for me to try to mend your skin as I do not wish for you to attempt to mend mine.”

Edrahir grimaced in reply, obviously unable to smile through swollen lips.

A short time later, Edrahir departed, leaving Finarfin alone with his grief and his thoughts.

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The candles burned at a third of their original height while the fire struggled in fading embers. Clad only in his shirt and leggings, Finarfin rested awkwardly draped across the bed. His body ached fiercely where the multitude of punches had struck him. He did not know how long he had dozed nor cared when a newly mended Edrahir roused him upon entering with a bone-weary healer in tow.

The healer’s touch was neither comforting nor gentle as he repeatedly tugged a needle through unwilling skin, then wrapped Finarfin’s chest to support a broken rib. The prince winced with an occasional hiss, resisting the urge to cry out while the healer worked. Though there were no herbal remedies for pain left in Alqualondë, Finarfin doubted that any might be offered to an injured Noldo no matter the healer’s claim that all injured were to be treated with the same respect in spite of kinship.

Once the healer ended his assault, Edrahir assisted his lord in struggling back into his shirt, tunic and robes, mindful of his injuries.  Within moments of finishing, a servant arrived summoning them both to an audience with the King.

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Olwë looked tired, the diminished shadow of a great king brought down by battle and betrayal, worn with grief. Even in this shattered state, his presence filled the room, obscuring all else. Olwë’s hollow blood-shot eyes held Finarfin in a piercing accusation, leaving the Noldorin prince with little doubt that had he come into the king’s presence any sooner, he would have departed in pieces-- daughter-husband or no. 

The captain of the guard calmly detained Edrahir just inside the doorway to Olwë’s chambers, leaving Finarfin to face the Telerin king alone. Steeling himself against the pain it would cause his injuries, Finarfin wordlessly moved forward, bowed low, then knelt in submission at Olwë’s feet.  He had no idea what he was to say to Olwë, so he decided to be penitent and simply respond to the situation as it unfolded.

“I asked the Valar to kill them,” Olwë began without preamble. “I begged the Valar to destroy all of the Noldor for what they were doing, for what they did to us.” Glaring at the humbled prince with unmasked fury, he slowly and repeatedly circled him, his words dripping venom. “I watched. I prayed. I shouted and I screamed. I cut them! And I slew them! But still they came! They betrayed our friendship… They stole our ships... They slaughtered my people... They murdered my son... The waves even now wash red upon our beaches stained with our blood and theirs.”

He came to a halt in front of Finarfin. “And for what? Was leaving Aman so important that it was worth killing for… worth dying for? Can you tell me? Can you tell the widows and the orphans and the fathers who have lost their sons? What of the families who lost their livelihoods when their ships were stolen? What am I to tell them? What reason am I to give for all of this bloodshed? Have you no answers, spawn of Finwë?

Speak!”

Finarfin drew a careful breath. Looking down at Olwë’s boots, he summoned what little wisdom and courage remained to him. “I have no answers, my lord king. There is nothing I can say that will adequately explain what has happened. Fëanor leads a significant number of the Noldor. He was never the wisest of my kin, but now he is fey. He is out of his mind with grief and anger over the theft of the Silmarils and the death of our father. He cares nothing for anything save vengeance. You refused to give him a means to achieve that vengeance, so he took it by force.”

Finarfin paused momentarily. He could not; he would not try to understand the darkness that his half brother had become that day. Sighing deeply in resignation, he gasped at the sudden sharp stabbing pain that movement brought, then he continued breathlessly. “I…I  have heard that the vanguard of my brother’s host, led by Fingon, arrived to find battle joined, and rushed in to lend aid to Fëanor’s host. I cannot justify that any more than I can justify the initial attack. I have no answers – only questions myself. I am sorry for what my people have done.”

“Last I heard, Finwë had three sons! You also are a son of Finwë!” Olwë barked reaching out and snapping Finarfin’s head up to meet his blazing eyes. “You are responsible for the actions of your people. You are responsible for leading them wisely. Why did you do nothing stop this folly of leaving Valinor? Surely you realized there are only two ways to the eastern shores – the impassable Helecaraxë, and our ships! Why did you not stop this?”

 “I tried, my lord!” Finarfin replied, anger edging his voice. “I spoke against Fëanor before our people. I tried repeatedly to persuade them to give pause and consider before they did something they would later regret. But Fëanor’s serpent’s tongue persuaded them otherwise. They shouted me down and demanded to leave Tirion at once. I arrived in Alqualondë after the battle had ended. I and the Noldor who travelled with me took no part in it!”

“Yet you were fool enough to follow Fëanor out of Tirion!” Olwë bellowed.

“Yes,” Finarfin looked down again, his voice much calmer. “Yes, I was, though I was most loathe to depart. Fingolfin and I thought it best to accompany our people and try to protect them from Fëanor’s rashness rather than abandoning them to his misguided ways.”

“You failed.”

The prince looked up, squarely meeting his accuser’s gaze. “Yes,” he quietly agreed. “We failed.”

Olwë loomed over him declaring, “I should kill you now for that.”

“It is well within your right,” Finarfin stated matter-of-factly.

Long agonizing minutes of silence stretched out awaiting the pronouncement of doom, but Finarfin never looked away. If Olwë killed him, it would be a welcome release from the burdens he carried. If he left him alive, Finarfin could think of no worse punishment than having to live with the knowledge and guilt for what his people had done. Perhaps death would be better. It was Olwë’s place to judge and his to accept. There was little honor left to the House of Finwë, but at the least he could accept the punishment nobly as a prince.

“You do not turn away,” Olwë observed after at time. “You do not beg for mercy.”

“No, my lord,” Finarfin said simply.

“It was your wife’s kin – your kin by marriage who were destroyed by the Noldor.”

“Yes, it was.”

Olwë looked on him considering for a long while longer, then declared. “It is not your place to serve punishment for what they did.” He reached out his hand to Finarfin, who stared at it uncomprehendingly, unable to move.

“Arise, Prince Finarfin.”

“Mm…my lord?”

“Take my hand and stand up, husband of my daughter.”

Finarfin tentatively grasped the proffered hand and shakily regained his feet only to find himself pulled into a tight fatherly embrace. “I have already lost one son this day,” Olwë said fiercely. “I do not wish to lose two.”

Quietly gasping in agony, Finarfin attempted to return the hug convincingly enough to satisfy his father-in-law and earn a quick release.  He had not previously realized just how painful a broken rib could be!

Drawing away, Olwë stepped back and continued, oblivious to Finarfin’s physical pain. “Fëanor should be the one kneeling before me here.”

Placing an arm protectively across his chest, Finarfin took shallow breaths easing the discomfort before responding, “Fëanor will not even bow before the Valar. I doubt he would kneel before you.”

Olwë shrugged. “In truth, I would agree with your half-brother about not bowing to the Valar at this moment.”

Finarfin gaped, completely taken off guard by this blatant blasphemy from the mouth of a devout follower of Ossë and Ulmo. “My lord?” was all he could think to say.

“The Valar have abandoned us. In our hour of greatest need, they refused to come and they let us die.  They let us die by the hands of our neighbors and kin! After their mighty words and the exiling of Fëanor when he merely drew a sword on his brother, one would think they would have intervened here. But they did not!” Olwë spat.  “They allowed us to die – the Noldor and the Teleri both.”

Olwë turned away for a time, but Finarfin did not dare break the silence. He could not believe he was hearing this!  But had such thoughts not occurred to him as well?

The Vanyar see turmoil and turn to the Valar in prayerful hope and submission, never questioning why, only how they can serve to make things better again. Perhaps…perhaps he was not as much a son of his Vanyarin mother as he had believed for this kinslaying had shaken him to the core. It had tested his faith and found him wanting!

At last Olwë turned to him again, fresh tears drying on his haggard face, looking every bit the devastated king of a slaughtered people.   “What will you do now?” He croaked.

Good question. What would he do now?

“Will you continue on to Middle-earth, my son?”

Finarfin could see only one course of action open to him. He had an obligation to his people and an obligation to try to restore honor to his father’s house. 

“No, I will not. But I will not return to Tirion just yet.”

Olwë regarded him curiously. “Do you intend to stay here and help us then?”

“No. I am sorry, but no. At least not yet.” Finarfin felt himself strengthening with resolve, realizing with certainty even as he spoke that this was what he needed to do. “Instead I will rejoin my people. I know for a fact that I am not the only one sickened by the actions of Fëanor. I know I am not the only one who regrets ever leaving Tirion. I intend to go among the Noldor and convince those I can to return to Tirion with me. The Noldor are a broken people now. I believe there are many who would return with me. Then perhaps…perhaps in time, we can redress the atrocities our people have committed against you.”

The Telerin king nodded approvingly. “I admire your courage and your willingness to try to save even those who have wronged you so. I do not know that I could perform the task you have set for yourself. It is a pity that your father never saw this in you, so concerned he was with Fëanor and Fingolfin. You will make a fine king indeed.”

“King?” Finarfin asked taken aback. “No, I am no king! That title is for my brothers to contend for. Not I.”

“Someone will have to rule the Noldor in Aman. If neither of your brothers returns, then that someone will be you.”

“Me? But I do not…I am not…”

“Finarfin, after what I just witnessed in you, I have no doubt that you will do well should that title and responsibility be bestowed upon you.” Olwë turned to his right, extending his hand.

“Daughter, do you think that you can overcome your grief and forgive your kin by marriage enough to go among them again? Can you find the courage to match your valiant husband’s and assist him in the task before him?”

The prince looked in wonder, seeing his tearstained wife standing with her mother and bandaged brothers and their wives. How long had they been there? When had they entered the room? Had Eärwen been there all this time? He had not had the chance to speak with her about any of this! He had not had the chance to explain. What would she…

The full force of Eärwen launching herself into his arms effectively silenced his fears mid-thought. Cringing against her attempt to snuggle up against the broken rib, he shifted her a bit to nuzzle on his other side.

“That would seem to answer to my questions then,” Olwë observed, smiling slightly.

“I love you, my husband,” Eärwen said, standing on her toes to kiss him. “Tell me how I can help you and I will--even to dwelling amongst your people once again.”

Carefully holding her close, he buried his face in her hair and whispered, “Thank you, my beloved. More than anything I needed to hear you say those words. I love you so much.”

Drawing away, she eyed him critically, gently probing his bruises and stitches, inspecting the healer’s work. “Oh, my love, what you have been through this day…” she sighed.  Shaking her head, she gave him one of those smiles which so completely warmed his heart, and he felt his healing begin. 

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“After they had marched for a great while in the unmeasured night,… they beheld suddenly a dark figure standing high upon a rock…Then all halted and stood still, and from end to end of the hosts of the Noldor the voice was heard speaking the curse and prophecy which is called the Prophecy of the North, and the Doom of the Noldor….

But in that hour Finarfin forsook the march, and turned back, being filled with grief, and with bitterness against the House of Fëanor, because of his kinship with Olwë of Alqualondë; and many of his people went with him, retracing their steps in sorrow, until they beheld once more the far beam of the Mindon upon Túna still shining in the night, and so came at last to Valinor. There they received the pardon of the Valar, and Finarfin was set to rule the remnant of the Noldor in the Blessed Realm.”

The Silmarillion - Of the Flight of the Noldor.