Chapter Text
One of Írimë’s earliest memories was from the day of her twentieth begetting day. She had been sobbing uncontrollably, her small frame shaking wildly and her shrill wailing piercing through the walls. Mother had rocked her back and forth to calm her, but she had kept crying nevertheless. Findis, too, had done everything in her power to sooth her, but to no avail.
And then, her older brother Ñolofinwë, who had, before this point, ever been awkward with her (not knowing how to handle a child,) came to her and took her hand in his.
He’d led her into the garden, and she remembered that he had set her on his shoulders so that it seemed that she could see the world in all its entirety.
Now, she no longer could recollect with clarity why she had been crying, but the feeling of warmth and happiness that had filled her when her brother had spent the day playing with her was forever engraved into her heart.
From that day forward, they had remained close, always going to each other for strength and comfort.
Arafinwë was born in the winter. Finwë had proudly upheld his last child in the waxing light of Laurelin, and Indis had smiled. Ñolofinwë, Findis, and Írimë, too, had been glad at his birth.
But when Indis heard the father-name of their new son, she had frowned.
None but Findis, later, asked her why, to which Indis made no answer.
The answer came on Arafinwë’s twelfth begetting day. Ñolofinwë had been sitting with her by the balcony, and Findis had been sewing. Mother and Arafinwë were not far off. All had been silent besides the sounds of the wind and the birds in the garden.
That is, until Curufinwë had passed by.
“Who is that, Mother?” Arafinwë had asked. Írimë had looked up in surprise from her book and spotted Curufinwë.
Mother had smiled, a sad smile, and replied, “That is your half brother, Fëanáro,”
Arafinwë had stared for a long time after him and said, “That name suits him well,”
“That it does, Ingoldo.”
It only occurred to her, several years later that Mother had chosen a ...strange name for Arafinwë. For Finwë had named his sons “Wise” and “Noble,” whilst Indis named them oppositely. If Finwë had ever noticed this, he had never mentioned it—at least, not before his children. So maybe he had brought it up with Mother. Towards the Dark days and Fëanáro’s banishment, they had often spoken together behind closed doors, and Írimë had never had quite the skill—or heart—to eavesdrop on them in such times.
Whatever the case, she had once mentioned it to Ñolofinwë who had only shrugged in response.
“It is true, dear sister. He is wise.”
“But not wiser than you, surely.”
“I do not know, sister.” And that had been that. They had not spoken of it again for a long time.
She was not really sure she agreed. Her younger brother was too soft spoken for her tastes, never arguing with any. And he had been slow with his words as an infant, unlike Ñolofinwë. True, both of them– all of them –they would never have intellect to match Curufinwë’s, but wisdom was not intelligence. It seemed to her that in all aspects that Ñolofinwë was wiser. He had courted Anairë much more efficiently and successfully, whereas Arafinwë had struggled intensely to even speak with Eärwen.
No matter how hard she looked, she could never see Arafinwë as wise.
Then had come the Unlight and Father’s death.
She had spoken against Fëanáro alongside her brothers, and yet, despite their efforts, he had prevailed.
As he always did.
Father’s love and attention, the admiration of the people, the friendship of Aulë—
Everything.
There’d never been any hope of winning. From the beginning, Fëanáro had always been the victor. And now they followed him; some had loved their King greatly and wished to avenge him, others loved him no less but wished more for wide lands and free skies, and yet others believed that the Valar enslaved them.
Írimë had been none of these.
Ñolofinwë had refused to abandon his people to his mad brother, and she would not abandon him either.
In Araman, Arafinwë left them.
“You fool! Cannot you hear the cries of your children or see their despair? And yet you would leave them?”
“Nay, sister...I hear them, and I too despair. But they will not join me.”
She had stared at him in contempt and anger. “And neither shall I.”
“But, Lalwendë—!”
“Do not call me that!” She had snapped, her calm slipping away with all joy. “My laughter and gladness died with Father, and now you would grieve me further.”
He shrank from her and cast his eyes to the cold ground. “Sister,” he whispered at last, “do not think that you will find any joy in the East. Return with me to Findis and Mother.”
“You are a fool and a coward, Arafinwë.”
“That may be, sister...that may be.”
“I am ashamed to have you as a brother.” And with those words, they had parted.
She followed Ñolofinwë through the horrors of the Ice, and together, they set foot on the shores of the Hither Lands. She was by his side when they arrived at the gates of Angband and smote upon them.
Four hundred years was a long time—enough time to start thinking. She tried to think of all the good things, of Ñolofinwë holding her hand and guiding her, of Father telling her tales of Cuiviénen, of Findis teaching her to sew and Mother teaching her to dance—
She tried not to think of Arafinwë. It hurt too much.
One morning, in his fortress in Hithlum, Ñolofinwë had sat down beside her upon the turrets, and they had spoken.
“Rightly was our brother named Ingoldo by Mother.”
“Truly, brother?”
“Aye, dear sister.”
He paused there, and they sat in silence, side by side, for a long time.
“I have never been wise.”
“Brother?”
“Ingoldo was wise to forsake the march. I was—and still am—a fool.”
“He did not forsake the march. He forsook us.”
“Nay, sister. We forsook him.”
She had not understood him, then.
And then he died.
As she stood upon the walls of Hithlum, alone, and looked North, she wondered that she had shed no tears at the news of his death. He was her beloved brother whom she loved above all.
So, why wasn’t she crying?
And then, she realized. If there was someone to weep with her, she would. But there was no one.
Turgon had vanished from all knowledge, Aredhel with him. Fingon was king–he couldn’t cry. Argon—
Dead.
Anairë would never learn of his death, nor would Mother and Findis.
And then, Írimë wished that Ingoldo was with her. Of all of them, he had known best how to comfort, how to care, how to heal a broken heart. Were he here, he could fill that emptiness in her spirit that nothing else could.
We forsook him.
If only they had all been as wise…
I’m sorry, Ingoldo...so, so sorry. You are wise, and I’m proud to be your sister.
She wanted to be twenty years old again, with Fingolfin at her side to comfort her and Mother to hold her. Findis would have dried her tears, and Father would have ruffled her hair.
But she was no longer a child, and they were all lost to her.
No matter how hard she had tried to only remember the good times, there were also bad memories.
The Ice, the blood on the white ships that wouldn’t wash away no matter how hard they tried, Father’s dead body, still and bloodstained…
Mother’s silent tears—Írimë had never noticed them. Ingoldo had, and wept with her.
Then, she cried. Noiseless, slow tears that trickled down the face.
Then she sobbed, sobbed through the night until her throat was raw and there was nothing left to bleed.