Title: Air Currents
Fandom: Silmarillion
Challenge: Dash
Other prompt: Flight
Rating: G
Length: 400
Content notes: N/A
Author notes: Thanks go to Zhie for encouragement & sanity-checking.
Summary: Fingon contemplates wind and flight


The rain dashed down, fat, cold drops battering at leaves and flowers, flattening the grass, making instant streams of the little paths, flooding the neat gravel, the raked sand. It rattled on the roof of the small pergola Fingon had made a dash for, suddenly knowing what was coming from the smell of the cold wind-gust, the grumble of the cloud. He'd made it mostly dry. He'd found he had something of a skill with reading the weather on the journey up through Araman, honed it by necessity on the Ice. Exercised and taught it as he could in Beleriand.

He hadn't thought of it as a gift, or really as anything but a useful tool. Couldn't everyone read the wind? No, no they could not, not as he and some few others could. It was not until he had left the Halls and returned to Eldamar that he began to realize what that perception meant in Valinor. The weather in Valinor did not obey the same rules it did in Ennor, being much more responsive to Valarin moods and actions as well as the peculiarities of the landscape, which he had known in a general way before the Darkening.

Now it was all much more immediate. Things had changed in Valinor with the rising of the Moon and Sun. There were obvious seasons now; a wider range of temperature, more contrast between different places. And he could not just read the winds, the air-currents, clearly and easily, but anticipate them. That was new. And the source, somehow, really had to be Manwë. Fingon was not entirely -- or at all! -- sure how he felt about that. What it might be a mark of: blessing? Recompense? Forgiveness? Some kind of claim? He was not ready to ask about it yet either.

But he would explore and make use of it without hesitation. There were possibilities.... He had always wanted to fly; imagined, dreamed of it long before ever Thorondor answered his plea-prayer, making it possible to rescue Russo, bearing them both to safety. Not like riding a horse at all. He would not want to fly in this, though. With his elbows on the pergola railing he rested his chin in his hands, letting the wet wind pat his face, tug at his braids. This storm was going to last a while. He was going to enjoy it. And contemplate flying.