alystraea:

first-son-of-finwe:

sparklecryptid:

On the battlefield Arfin is a menace. His blades, sharp as scythes, cut through flesh the way an oar cuts through water. He moves smoothly, silently, as though he weighs nothing and is made of air itself. The only reminder of his mortality is the bloodied gash that starts at the bridge of his nose and crosses his cheek to his ear.

Fell and fey he has become, the camp whispers when they think their king can’t hear them. There are whispers comparing him to Feanor, to Fingolfin, they say Arfin is more like a storm than the sea. More like a tempest than a clear day.

They wonder how it took them so long to see it.

Arafinwe was never the safe one.

And now in the middle of a war, he has no reason to pretend to be.

(He meets with Sauron on the field, the world holds it’s breath.

Neither the Maia or Arfin left their blade, instead, a smirk worms its way onto Saurons’s face.

The Maia sings, and Arfin’s rage is so unholy, so unrefined and raw, that when the High King of the Noldor opens his mouth, it’s as though a hurricane came storming out.)

@gxldenfinwe

Revenge for Finrod.