#eärwen has all the rights to be hurt. as does finarfin. the flight of noldor was something that hurt them both horribly

[that-angry-noldo]

"Why did you choose them?"

There is a cold, almost dark curiosity in Eärwen's voice; she tilts her head, glaring at her husband in the light of a poorly lit room.

It is an unfair question, Eärwen knows. Whatever answer Arafinwë gives, she won't be satisfied with it. She watches him struggle, watches words flying through his mind, thoughts racing eachother.

She waits.

What will you say, she thinks, how will you answer? Will you make excuses, will you deny it all?

Arafinwë looks to the window. It's pitch black outside - not even stars shine through the heavy fog of clouds. Eärwen can notice him biting the inside of his lip - a gesture she's all too familiar with; it is ironic, something so well known feeling so distant. (She feels satisfaction. Dark, vengentful satisfaction - true, he hides his nervousness well, but Eärwen still picks up at his signs: how his fingers tug at his sleeves, how his head is just a tad bit tilted, how his lips are slightly pursed. Good, she thinks. You should be nervous.)

"What do you want to hear?" he asks quietly, and looks at her.

Eärwen wants to laugh, or maybe to strangle him. She can't quite decide.

"The truth," she finally says, and smiles sharply. She's hurt, and the wound she was healing all these years is opening again; she's desperate, desperate for her husband to break, to admit he was wrong, to beg for her forgiveness on his knees.

Arafinwë's eyes look straight through her. Eärwen hates it, how he can read her so well after all this time of estrangement. He lowers his head.

"I can give it all to you," he says. "I can tell you I was going for our children, because that would be true - I couldn't stand the thought of leaving them alone, I couldn't stand a thought of abandoning them, not after I abandoned you already. I can tell you I was afraid, and it would be true, too - because I am a coward, and I was a coward, and a coward I will forever remain. I can say it was my egoism, and you will laugh, because you surely called me so countless times already; because in my heart, I was as swayed by the promises of new undiscovered lands as my people were. So tell me, Eärwen Olwiel, what do you want to hear?"

"I," Eärwen Olwiel growls, "want to hear the truth."

Arafinwë jerks his head, and there is challenge in his eyes.

Eärwen feels grim satisfaction.

"I will tell you, then," he says, and his words are bitter. "When I arrived, all I saw were flames. I saw my brother stained with blood, horror on his face. And then, in one moment, I felt pain. Strangling, stiffling pain - I'm sure you felt it, too."

Eärwen grits her teeth. (Her heart stings. Elulindo's death was a weeping wound on their house. It still is, though her brother is between the living again - but he's not the same, he'll never be the same, things will never be the same as they were.)

"And it was confusing," Arafinwë continues, dark and bitter. "Because there I was, standing on the white sand, though it was red, and there was fire all around me - yet all I felt was that strange, new absence; what could it possibly be? And I heard my brothers talking and shouting, and I saw my children around me - they were horrified, Eärwen, Artanis was shaking, and Artaresto-"

Arafinwë takes a sharp breath, and shuts his eyes; he sways a slightest bit before speaking again.

"Findaràto was by my side all that time," he says. "He asked if we should keep moving. I didn't answer, because all I saw were flames, and sand, and pain. Everybody went, so I went with them, and I know- I know, I should've stopped, I should've screamed, but- but I didn't. It hurt. I felt like something was torn away from my very core, and it stung. Every step, it stung. I saw ships passing us, and they felt like a dream. It wasn't real - it felt like a vision, a very detailed, a very horrifying vision; but it hurt, and I couldn't understand why. And - I know it's not an excuse, I know I should've known better - but Findaràto was right there, and I thought, if he's going, it surely must be alright. So I went, and it kept getting colder, and colder."

Eärwen is silent. (The wound, she thinks, never even started to heal, and every Arafinwë's word feels like a new one opening.)

Arafinwë takes a breath.

"Then," he says, "came Mandos, and all the pieces fell together - the blood, the fire, horror on Nolofinwë's face; and all of it came crashing back. Every step, every tear, every word. I howled. I howled, no - I went mad. I reached for Elulindo, and I-" he stops again, and his face is pained, eyes glistening with tears - "I couldn't find him. I felt nothing but void."

The room is silent. Eärwen thinks back to her brother, her brave, her brilliant, her reckless brother, and her heart wants to weep.

"I stormed to Feanàro. I saw nothing but him, with that proud, insufferable scowl on his face. I though of a sword on my hip. I wanted to kill him, I wanted to tear him apart, I wanted to drown him, to burn him, to- he laughed me in the face. You came this far, he said, and it's only now you realize our path is marked with blood? And - I looked at Nolo. I always looked at Nolo, you know? Lalwen was right by his side. They didn't move. They looked right at me, yet they didn't move. I turned around, and I saw my children, and they didn't move."

Arafinwe closes his eyes, and Eärwen feels chills running down her spine when he laughs, swaying, high and weak and hysterical. Tears run down his face, and he presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stiffle his reaction, to even his breath; it lasts for long minutes, and Eärwen wants to leave. The wind howls outside, and Arafinwë's eyes focus on unsteady light of the candle. Finally, he turns to her.

"Here," he says weakly, "you know the truth now. I was weak, and I was a coward, and - and I- and you- this explains nothing, that excuses nothing, but-"

There's no hope in his eyes, she notes, detached. He looks frail in candle's light, weary and afraid; Eärwen purses her lips, and hopes he doesn't notice them trembling.

"I don't forgive you," she says, quiet. "I'm hurt. By you, and by your kin, and that wound is too fresh to be healed by one confession."

What was left of light in his eyes fades; he looks away.

"I understand," he whispers. "I thought so. I'm sorry."

Eärwen wants to say something else - that her heart bleeds not only for her people and family, but for him too; that her empty bed is unbearable some nights, that she misses his touch, that she craves his presence oh so badly some days; but she purses her lips and orders herself to be silent, to be proud, to be cold.

She turnes away and leaves the room.

They part ways, covered by night.

Eärwen sits in her bed. She wants to shut her marriage bond completely.

She sits, and sits, an she never does.