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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Fëanor & Fingolfin | Fëanor & Findis & Fingolfin & Lalwen & Finarfin
Word Count: 6,984
Content Warnings:
Summary:
Anger flares swift and bright in Fëanor's eyes. "Your life is not an acceptable risk! Just because you have continued to wake up so far does not mean you have any guarantee you will continue to do so in the future!"
"I know," he tells Fëanor, because he does. He just hadn't cared. "But even if this is the last song, the last chance, my death would have still run him off. Would have hopefully given you all more time."
Fëanor leans forward until he is right in Fingolfin’s face, a terrible anger on his face, and Fingolfin would be scared if he were not grappling with the idea that the anger is fear for him, not anger because of him. "Your life is not an acceptable risk," Fëanor hisses. "If you were not grievously injured—"
"You'd punch me?" he finishes, laughing softly.
Beginning Notes:
had to purge the demons (all the other fic plots that won't leave me alone) but we're back!!!! :)
ALSO thetiredprometheus made fanart for the scene at the end of the previous chapter and I have been crying about it!! <3
chapter title is from Dead Don't Die by Shinedown
My mother said,
"You two are like those Russian nesting dolls.
There's one inside another inside another inside another inside another."
brothers | Elizabeth Robinson
☀︎
the fourth loop (continued)
Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.
He wakes up in his bed and if it were not for the way his entire body aches he may have screamed in frustration. But it would seem that his fight with Morgoth that morning had in fact happened and he is not dead. Only five hits but considering Morgoth had fled, even if only because the other Valar had been approaching, he will count it as a win.
His body, despite aching, does not in fact feel as if it’s been too deeply harmed. He finds that his ribs have been wrapped and breathing is, he supposes, mildly uncomfortable but the injury doesn’t seem to be dire. His wrist too is wrapped tight and set in a splint. He thinks he may have been dosed with some manner of pain reliever for he feels a bit disconnected from his body even as he takes stock of it.
He is also not alone he realizes, as he slowly sits up and looks around the room. His mother is curled up in a chair, looking exhausted even as she sleeps. Finarfin is sprawled on the settee, brow furrowed, also asleep. And sitting at his desk on the other side of the room is Fëanor, head pillowed on his folded arms, clearly having fallen asleep working on something.
He very carefully eases himself out of the bed and holds tight to it for a moment while he considers his balance. Nods in satisfaction when he doesn’t waver at all. He’s fine. Or, as fine as he can be all things considered. He goes to the bathroom and spends a long moment staring in the mirror, taking in the mottled bruising running down the side of his face and under his collar. The dark, brutal bruise in the shape of a hand wrapped around his throat. He prods at a spot on his cheek experimentally and winces at the dull pain.
He goes back to the bedroom, wanders over to where Fëanor is still sleeping, wondering what he was working on. There are papers spread out all over the surface of the desk but it takes only a few seconds for him to make sense of what he’s looking at.
“Swords,” he mutters, laughing quietly. Picks up one of the designs and can’t even be bothered to be surprised by how solid the designs are despite the newness of them. “You fucking asshole. You better make me one.”
“Obviously I’m going to make you one,” Fëanor grumbles, sitting up and startling Fingolfin. He snatches the design out of Fingolfin’s hand before doing a double take, eyes going wide. “Why are you out of bed?!”
“I’m fine,” he says, snorting at the look of disbelief Fëanor shoots him.
“You are not fine,” Fëanor snaps, rising and trying to herd him back to the bed without touching him. Fingolfin raises an eyebrow and doesn’t move.
“I’m fine. Are you truly making me a sword?”
Fëanor scowls at him, grabs his shoulders, bodily turns him around, and begins pushing him toward the bed. 'I do not trust that Morgoth will not return after what you started," Fëanor say grimly. He watches with narrowed eyes as Fingolfin appeasingly slides back into bed. "You are a fool for attacking him in such a way without any backup."
"It did not matter to me," he says truthfully. "Either I drove him away or I died again. Either was acceptable."
Anger flares swift and bright in Fëanor's eyes. "Your life is not an acceptable risk! Just because you have continued to wake up so far does not mean you have any guarantee you will continue to do so in the future!"
"I know," he tells Fëanor, because he does. He just hadn't cared. "But even if this is the last song, the last chance, my death would have still run him off. Would have hopefully given you all more time."
Fëanor leans forward until he is right in Fingolfin’s face, a terrible anger on his face, and Fingolfin would be scared if he were not grappling with the idea that the anger is fear for him, not anger because of him. "Your life is not an acceptable risk," Fëanor hisses. "If you were not grievously injured—"
"You'd punch me?" he finishes, laughing softly. "I will not apologize if that's what you want."
"What I want is for you to not grow careless with your own life because you think you'll just wake back up!" Fëanor snaps, straightening and running an agitated hand through his hair.
Fingolfin stares at him, thinks back and tries to remember how much of the previous songs he had thrown at Fëanor before passing out. Did not think it was much, only the death he cannot seem to escape. But he must have handed over more than he thought. "I will try to be more careful," he tells Fëanor after the silence starts to linger too long.
Fëanor scoffs. "Do you mean that? Or are you only trying to placate me?"
"I suppose we'll find out," he says with a shrug.
"Just, go back to sleep." Fëanor sighs and reaches out to push at his shoulder. "You need to rest."
"I have rested," he mutters, letting Fëanor push him down. “What day is it?”
“The second day has only just begun to reach its end,” he says, eyes knowing. “The mingling begins soon. Go to sleep. We will all still be here when you awake.”
He considers arguing further and maybe Fëanor can see the thought in his eyes for he sighs and pulls a chair close to the bed. “Go to sleep, Nolvo,” he says, smoothing Fingolfin’s hair down. He starts humming, a suggestion of sleep floating through the air and settling as a crown upon his head. Fingolfin yawns despite himself.
“You cannot do this every time you want me to shut up,” he mutters, eyes already slipping closed. He must be tired for such a soft suggestion to send him under.
Fëanor does not answer until Fingolfin is nearly lost to dreams. And then there is the slightest pressure of lips against his forehead and a whispered, “Sleep well, little brother.”
Fingolfin falls asleep feeling very warm.
☀︎
He dreams of firelight on the water and the shadow of a dragon. The Helcaraxë melting before they have a chance to cross, stranding them in truth. Dreams he is the balrog holding his brother by the throat, he is his brother finally burning himself up, he is walking on the ice as it melts beneath his feet, he is standing on a boat with salt on his tongue, he is cursing Morgoth at the gates of Angband.
And then, Fëanor standing in front of the gates of Angband, a shade of flame and smoke, who looks at him and says, do you truly believe that any of this mattered? That your doomed fight was anything other than doomed? You left your people to carry on alone.
You did the same, he answers. Looks down at his hands and finds them covered in frost.
No, Fëanor says, the flaming coal of his eyes flaring even brighter, I did not mean to die. I did not mean to leave. You hearkened to Morgoth with death already written on your heart. Is it any wonder it was not granted to you when you wanted it so badly?
Fingolfin wakes up sweating, heart a war drum in his ears. He stares at the ceiling for a long minute, his harsh breathing the only thing he can hear, before realizing that part of the reason he feels so warm is because Fëanor has fallen asleep at the side of his bed, one of his arms thrown across Fingolfin's stomach. It does not look to be a particularly comfortable position to be sleeping in.
He does, after some very careful maneuvering, manage to sit up without waking Fëanor, and nearly jumps out of his skin to find Findis perched on the back of the settee staring at them. “It’s creepy to watch people while they sleep,” he hisses at her, pressing his hand to where his heart is still jumping in his chest.
“And it is the height of stupidity to attack a Vala in the middle of the streets,” she counters, lightly jumping to the floor and clasping her hands behind her back. “Yet here we are, my little brother having done such a thing.”
He meets her gaze evenly. Thinks of the last time he’d seen her before the exile, her fury clasped tight in her fists, her hissed words that Fëanor was going to get him killed. “It is only stupid if I failed. And as it would turn out, I did not.”
She scoffs. “And what exactly is it that you did not fail at?”
He is struck, in a way he has not been in a very long time, by how very similar Fëanor and Findis are in their disparaging anger. “I wanted Morgoth to leave Aman. And he has.”
She cocks her head to the side, the light from the mingling catching on her dark hair as she steps closer to the bed. “Fëanor called him Morgoth as well. Strange when we have all known him only as Melkor.” She raises an eyebrow expectantly and he stares back, completely unwilling to have this conversation right now. She must see it on his face because she sighs, some of the tenseness melting out of her posture. “You scared him,” she says instead, tilting her head at Fëanor. “I did not think he was capable of worrying about you, yet he’s barely left your side since we got you back here.”
“He is so strange,” he says, though he doesn’t manage to stop the affection from leaking into his voice.
“He almost watched you die,” she corrects. She blinks furiously for a moment, mouth twisting, and because she is truly too much like Fëanor though she’d never admit it, instead of doing anything reasonable, she walks over and punches him in the shoulder. Hard.
He doesn’t manage to contain his startled yelp and Fëanor jerks upright, looking around with wild eyes. “He wouldn’t even punch me,” he exclaims, pointing at Fëanor. “I am grievously injured!”
“Grievously injured,” she repeats and falls sideways onto the bed as she starts laughing, draping herself over his legs and effectively trapping him in the bed. “You are certainly injured but you are not leaving us for Mandos anytime soon Nolvo. There is no need to be dramatic.”
Fëanor actually snorts in amusement. “He is perhaps too injured for the type of punch I wish to deliver,” he says, stretching and rubbing at his face.
Fingolfin’s heart twists itself into a tight knot at the sight of both his older siblings co-existing and laughing, even if it is at his expense. He could not begin to say when the last time such a thing happened, if indeed it had ever happened at all. He does not want to lose this. He does not. He knows he has run Morgoth away but he does not know if it was enough or if this song will simply trail off into silence as well. Still does not, he supposes, even know if any of this is real. For it does still seem far too good to be true the way Fëanor keeps looking at him instead of through him.
Fëanor looks over at him and frowns at whatever it is he sees on Fingolfin’s face. And as if he is trying to prove to Fingolfin that this is indeed only a dream, a maelstrom of fire appears next to his mind, asking for permission to enter. Fingolfin opens his mind automatically, basking in the warmth, even as he is completely and utterly befuddled by Fëanor being the one to reach out first.
Fëanor, who he can feel sifting through his topmost thoughts, makes a derisive noise. “You are not dreaming,” he says, rolling his eyes so hard it looks as if it should hurt. Findis sits up, looking between them with sharp eyes.
“Perhaps I am,” she says incredulously, “for I cannot imagine you ever allowing either of us into your mind.”
"I do not need nosy little sisters in my mind,” Fëanor mutters, pre-occupied with sifting through the previous songs, studying each fight with Morgoth, and then pausing for a long time on the memory of himself looking at Fingolfin over a fire and saying, you took joy in being king.
Findis stares at Fëanor, a flurry of emotions that Fingolfin recognizes far too well flashing over her face. Little sister, she mouths to herself, looking astonished. The astonishment turns swiftly to fury and Fingolfin should perhaps not be surprised when she abruptly moves to the other side of the bed and punches Fëanor on the arm significantly harder than she'd punched Fingolfin if the way he rears back is any indication.
"What the fuck, Findis," he snaps at her.
"No, fuck you," she snaps. "Nolvo won't say it but I will. Fuck you. You don't get to just, just—" she waves a hand through the air wildly and jabs her finger at him. "—sweep in and decide you suddenly care about us!"
Fëanor stares at her with wide eyes and his mind is still pressed up against Fingolfin's in a way that lets him feel the shock and swiftly smothered guilt that goes rushing through Fëanor before his mind snaps closed. He cannot help but tense when Fëanor's gaze turns back to him. "Well?" Fëanor says, the challenge in his voice clear. "Do you wish to express a similar sentiment?"
Fingolfin thinks of smoke and salt on his tongue, ice in his hair and Turgon's muffled sobs. Thinks of blood on his hands. "I cannot let myself be truly angry at you," he says, pushing the thoughts away with some difficulty. "Not as you are."
Fëanor inclines his head slowly, surely having some idea as to where Fingolfin’s mind had gone. Turns his attention back to Findis and after a moment of serious consideration says, "I do not know how to care about you."
"You seem to be doing a fine job with Nolvo," she says bitterly. It is easy, sometimes, for him to forget that he was not the only one trailing after Fëanor as a child, eager for attention, always cutting themselves open as they tried to steal some of his love. He is just the only one who kept trying long after any sane person would have given up.
"He is not giving me much of a choice," Fëanor says dryly. Fingolfin cannot tell if Fëanor is upset about that or not. There's another sticky minute where Findis glares as Fëanor stares at her consideringly before, without any warning, he grabs her arm and pulls her half-off the bed and into a hug that nearly sends them both crashing to the floor.
"Why can't you just apologize like a normal person," he mutters, narrowing his eyes when Fëanor glares at him over Findis' shoulder.
Findis, when Fëanor lets her go, hits him again and then yelps when he promptly pulls her all the way off the bed and lets her drop to the floor. "Stop hitting me," he snaps, nowhere near as irritated as Fingolfin would expect. She kicks the leg of his chair so hard that the distinct sound of cracking wood goes echoing through the room.
Fëanor rolls his eyes and abandons the chair, moving instead to sit on the bed next to Fingolfin. He blinks in surprise but leans against Fëanor easily. Findis mutters something to herself and kicks the chair again before clambering to her feet and back onto the bed. She settles down on his other side, resting her head on his shoulder, while Fëanor flares back to life in his mind and goes back to picking through Fingolfin's memories. Fingolfin, for his part, simply lets himself feel quietly happy. Leans all his weight against Fëanor and squeezes Findis' hand.
They sit in silence that way for a while, existing quietly together in a way he doesn't think they ever have. It was not even common for him to sit with Findis this way before. She was busy being angry far away from Tirion as she made a name for herself outside of her family. He was too busy trying to insert himself so far into his father's heart that even Fëanor would not be able to tear him out. He does not think either of them got what they wanted in the end.
"Are you going to go back to hating us after this?" Findis asks quietly later.
There is a heavy pause, both him and Fëanor thinking, after, and wondering if there will be an after for him to have an opportunity to change his mind. "I do not hate you," Fëanor says after a moment.
She snorts. "I don't believe you."
"I do not hate you," Fëanor repeats sounding frustrated. "I do not think of you at all most days." The silence that falls at that is tight and miserable and Fingolfin gets the sense of a great, echoing crackling noise coming from Fëanor’s mind before it snaps closed once more.
"Well," she says blankly, her grip on his hand bruising. "I suppose I wanted the truth."
Fëanor makes a supremely agitated noise. Reaches over, grabs her wrist, and tugs at it. "Come here."
"No."
"Come here, Findis."
She scowls but does clamber over Fingolfin and after some aggravated pushing they end up with Fëanor seated between them. Fëanor hugs her tightly from the side and this time she leans into it, burying her face against his neck. Fingolfin cannot hear what it is Fëanor is whispering to her and does not try, only sits there and furiously prays for this song to last. It is not fair that they are putting in this work and may not even get to keep it.
Eventually Fëanor straightens, though he keeps Findis pressed up against his side. Fingolfin hums in contentment as he leans against Fëanor once more, warm and tired. He's half-asleep when the door to his room creaks open and two blonde heads poke inside. Finarfin's mouth drops open at the sight of the three of them and Lalwen lights up in delight.
It takes no time at all for her to fling herself onto the bed and shove her way between him and Fëanor. He gets an elbow to the ribs at one point and hisses out a pained breath. He had nearly forgotten that he was in fact still injured.
"You're going to injure him further, Írimë," Fëanor says in amusement, but he does not stop her from curling up against him.
"Sorry, háno," she says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. And then to Fëanor, "Does this mean you're going to stop being such an asshole all the time?"
He blinks down at her in bemusement and Fingolfin bites the inside of his cheek to hold in his laugh. Finarfin slowly approaches the bed, watching Fëanor warily as he waits for the answer. "I am beginning to wonder if I am going to be given a choice," he says, as if they aren't all blatantly aware that if Fëanor truly wished to go back to hating them there is not a single thing any of them could do about it.
Finarfin looks at Fingolfin, the question in his eyes painfully clear. Fëanor had already been gone from the palace by time Finarfin was born and he has never truly known Fëanor as anything other than biting words and their father's favorite son. It was not necessarily that Fëanor had been mean to Finarfin when he was young, only that he had been steadily growing meaner to the rest of them and Finarfin was not so stupid as to think that he was going to be an exception when he got older. He smiles as comfortingly as he can and nods. Mouths, it's okay.
Finarfin does not look as if truly believes him but he still moves around the bed to sit on the other side of Findis, squeezing her between him and Fëanor, who reaches over and ruffles Finarfin's hair. Finarfin could not look more shocked if he tried.
Fingolfin looks at all his siblings and feels an icy stone of fear settle in his stomach at the idea of losing this. Wants to keep this so badly he feels sick with it. It is not all fixed and he knows if this song continues they will all continue to piss each other off but it is a start. Which is so much more than they’d ever gotten in the original song. He does not want to be the only one who remembers this. He does not.
Lalwen needles Fëanor for a while longer and then turns and wraps her arms around him. "I am happy you are alright," she says softly.
He cannot help but laugh even as he presses his hand to his chest, a sharp pain shooting through it. "I am going to be less alright if you do not stop squeezing me."
Fëanor sighs and wrangles Lalwen onto the other side of the bed since, in his words, she clearly cannot be trusted with people who are injured. There is a good deal more aggravated shoving that ends with Findis and Lalwen on the left side of Fëanor and Fingolfin squeezed in between Fëanor and Finarfin.
He had done this with his siblings occasionally, when they are all very young and still trying to figure out how to deal with a city that loved them and resented them all in the same breath. All of them piling into the same bed and trying to find some comfort in not being alone. But Fëanor had never once been included in that and would not have wanted to be.
Having Fëanor here with them now leaves him feeling very warm and content with life for the time being. He does not quite manage to fall asleep again, not after having already slept so much, but he still curls up with the rest of his siblings and dozes. Listens to their quiet breathing as they sleep and prays. He does not know if Eru hears him or if he cares if he does. Does not know if he is still dispossessed for all that he is in a time before he was proclaimed as such. But he still prays.
Please, he thinks, we all spent so long fracturing apart. Morgoth has been run off and we are trying to mend the fractures. Please, is that not enough?
I do not know why the songs are being re-sung around me. I do not need to know. But let us keep this one.
Please.
I am tired of rupturing my memories to spark something other than dislike in Fëanor's eyes. I am tired of not being known when I have given so much of myself.
Please.
Fingolfin is still quietly dozing sometime later, mind finally having gone blissfully silent, when he hears the door to his room creak open and the sound of soft footsteps walking toward the bed. Peeks out from under his eyelids and finds his mother standing at the end of the bed, two fingers pressed to her mouth in shock as she stares at them. Or, in all likelihood, as she stares at Fëanor. She stares at them all for a long while before lightly squeezing his ankle and leaving the room.
He does not let himself think about the interrogations that are likely to come over the next couple days. Closes his eyes and focuses instead on how very warm and safe he is.
☀︎
Breakfast the next morning, is as expected, an awful tense affair. One that starts off with Lalwen cheerfully updating Fëanor about her life, a strange affair in and of itself, and ends with Fingolfin trying to escape only to be cornered with questions he refuses to answer.
"But why did you attack him, Ñolofinwë," his father asks in exasperation, looking seconds away from simply throwing his hands in the air.
Fingolfin purses his lips and does not answer, as he has not the last three times his father has asked. After a moment of tense silence says, "I have told you already, I will speak on it tomorrow. I cannot speak of it before then." Will not speak of it until he is sure that this song will continue. Refuses to have another useless, forgotten conversation.
"Leave him be, atar," Fëanor says after the silence stretches for too long once more. "His reasons were sound even if he acted impulsively."
Fingolfin elbows Fëanor in the side irritably. He would like his brother to do any better than this in his situation. Feels that Fëanor would somehow handle things even more impulsively. Their father looks between them with a bewildered stare that Fingolfin cannot truly blame him for. Findis sitting across the table from him raises her eyebrows in disbelief, meeting his eyes and widening her own to the point of exaggeration. His mother has not stopped staring at him since they sat down at the table.
"And you know of Ñolofinwë's reasons?" his father asks Fëanor slowly, looking as if he can't believe the words even as he says them.
"I do," Fëanor says. Lalwen looks like she's absolutely itching to interrogate them and he does not believe he will get away from her even if he does get away from his parents.
"Arakáno," his mother says quietly in a tone that he knows all too well means she is very close to losing her patience. "The Valar wish for an answer immediately as to why you would attack Melkor when he had done nothing to provoke it."
He scoffs before he can think better of it, patience painfully frayed. "Fuck the Valar," he snaps, perhaps too harshly if the way all his family, save Fëanor, reel back as if he's slapped them. But he has no kind words for any of the Valar that left Beleriand to be slowly choked to death by Morgoth's hatred. His brother's people, his own son even, may have committed a heinous crime worthy of punishment, but what had the rest of them done? What had Thingol’s people done? The men who had not even yet awoken when the sun first rose? Fingolfin has seen too many of his people die because of that hatred to give the Valar any grace at all.
"Ñolofinwë," his father starts, a thunder in his voice that Fingolfin has rarely heard from him, "the Valar have given us safety, have given us a home. You will not—"
He does not get a chance to continue before Fëanor cuts him off. "Leave him be," he says forcefully, true agitation threaded through the words this time. Fingolfin watches his father falter at Fëanor's tone and swallow the words back down. Is as grateful as he is bitter at the way his father bends so easily to Fëanor's requests.
His father sighs, says after a moment, "I only wish to help support you in whatever has happened, Ñolofinwë. It is not like you. You have always shown great respect for the Valar."
"Because Fëanor asked you to." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them and his mother's eyes go wide. Fëanor's eyes are suddenly hot on the side of his face.
His father's mouth works soundlessly for a moment. "What?" he asks. And he looks so taken aback that Fingolfin wants to break something. Thinks not only of steel against his throat and twelve years of silence before he was forced to bury the anger beneath the grief, but also of a lifetime of knowing that when it came down to it, his father would always choose Fëanor first. Formenos had only been the proof of what he'd already known.
"You wish to support me so freely," he says, each word sharper than the last, "because Fëanor has asked it of you. If he had not you would be taking the Valar’s side.” There is a terrible of moment of silence, no one daring to speak. And Fingolfin knows that he should stop. Knows that, in the event this song does last, this is not something he truly wishes to deal with now, if ever. Still hears himself say, as if from very far away, “You will always take his side. I suppose I am meant to be grateful that he’s chosen to defend me this time.”
There is something especially damning in the way no one else speaks up in his father's defense. "Ñolofinwë," his father says helplessly. "That is not true."
The anger, having been reminded of its existence, goes ripping through his chest at the lie, frost crawling quick and deadly up his throat. "I'm done eating," he says, standing abruptly to leave. He cannot stay here.
He hears several more chairs scrape backwards as he turns away. Does not look to see who. Makes a beeline for the door and is nearly free when his father catches his arm. "That is not true, Ñolofinwë," he says again, sounding far surer of himself this time.
And perhaps if Fingolfin did not have unequivocal proof that his father will always choose Fëanor, perhaps he could swallow the lie. As it is, he has years of anger rooted in his heart, in his lungs, and does not even think before wrenching his arm out of his father's grasp and hissing, "He could threaten to kill me and you would still take his side. Do not. Do not."
He turns and leaves before he gets more than a glimpse of the shock and hurt swiftly spreading across his father's face. Nearly wishes Melkor were still in the city simply so he could have something to go kill. Somewhere to throw all this fury.
Since that is not an option, he instead goes to the gardens. Winds through them until he reaches the one they call Míriel's garden. The one most don’t dare go to because they do not want to face her son in the event they end up there at the same time. There is a spot on the back of one the trees in the corner where the wood curves inward, a perfect hollow spot to sit and press yourself back into if you wish for no one to find you. And this, of all the many hiding spots he has, is the one that no one has ever managed to find him in. For who would ever think to look here for him?
The first thing that he notices when he stops moving, is of course that his ribs are burning from too much exertion too soon. He had not quite run but he had walked very fast to avoid any of his family catching up and his ribs are not pleased. He presses himself back against the tree and buries his face against his knees. Breathes in and out very slowly until his ribs stop hurting quite so much. Wishes deeply that he did not have to deal with any of these awful, ugly emotions that his father brings to life within him. He wants to defeat Melkor and have the song continue unending and then he wishes to leave for Beleriand and not look back. An unreasonable expectation of events.
He wants to be able to look at his father without seeing his back as he'd left Tirion. Without seeing blood. Does not know how to achieve that when he knows that his father's love for Fëanor is an insurmountable obstacle. Fingolfin wants this to work, and then wants to un-sing himself so that he can look at his family and not see ghosts.
Gods, he just wants this to work.
"You cannot always hide here when things go wrong," Fëanor says suddenly, stepping around the tree and sitting down next to him.
Fingolfin stares. "How did you…?"
Fëanor rolls his eyes. "You have been hiding in this same spot since you were twenty." He raises a deeply judgmental eyebrow when Fingolfin continues to stare. "It is my mother's garden. Did you think I would never notice you here?"
Fingolfin does not say, yes, because if you had you would have thrown me out. Fëanor must see the thought on his face regardless because he sighs and settles back against the tree, knocking their shoulders together.
"You were twenty and crying," he says, sounding deeply uncomfortable. "I was not going to tell you to leave."
"And the next time?"
Fëanor shrugs. "You were not harming anything. And it is a good hiding spot if you are hiding from anyone but me."
Fingolfin is not quite sure what to do with that. A complete revision of his childhood where he’d always thought that no one at all knew where he was. He had of course heard Fëanor come into the garden sometimes when he was hiding, but he’d never shown himself and Fëanor had never given any indication that he’d seen Fingolfin, so he’d always assumed he had not been found out.
“I do not understand you,” he says, feeling very tired. “You hate me yet you continue to do this every time I open my mind to you. I do not understand it. You hate me.” The last words come out far more plaintive than he’d meant for them to but he does not understand.
Fëanor is silent for some time and Fingolfin leans his head back against the tree and tries to simply breathe. Knows that he needs to come up with a plan for when he inevitably must face his family again. But is at a loss as to what exactly to do and is exhausted just thinking about facing them.
“You asked me in the last song,” Fëanor says slowly, “if I truly hated you. I do not know my thoughts from that song—” and oh, there is true fury hiding in those words, at the idea of memories stolen. “—but what I do know, is that you are my brother, even if only half, and that no matter my hatred for you, whether it be in the past or not, I have never wished you dead.”
Fingolfin thinks of steel against his throat and does not want to call Fëanor a liar over a future that has not yet come to past but cannot help but wonder regardless. Thinks again of the question he had not been willing to ask in the second song. “But, what is the difference between wishing I was not born and wishing me dead?”
“That is a simplification of the issue,” Fëanor says dismissively. “I do not wish you dead. Whether or not I wished for you to be born is irrelevant.”
He says it so easily. As if this should be something Fingolfin already knew. And Fingolfin hates him for it a little, for the ease with which he reconciles the hatred and the care all in one breath. The ease with which he takes everything in for none of it in truth affects him. What does it matter to Fëanor that in a song un-sung he’d held a sword to Fingolfin’s throat? What does it matter that their father had finally shown his hand? What does it matter that he had accepted Fingolfin’s oath and then left him behind anyway? This Fëanor has no need to truly care about any of those things for he has not done them and is likely firmly convinced he will now never do them. And gods, Fingolfin wants to hate him for it. He thinks that if he let himself, it would be easy to let this fester into an untreatable wound. Is not entirely sure it is not going to become one regardless.
How do you rise from a grave that was never dug? How do you forgive an act never committed?
“Come,” Fëanor says when it becomes clear Fingolfin has nothing more to say. He stands and holds his hand out. “We are going to my house.”
Fingolfin stares at him, chest aching, and a great ball of fury desperately trying to find a way out of his throat. He loves his brother. To his detriment, he loves Fëanor. But he does not think he likes his brother very much sometimes.
Some emotion he can’t identify flickers across Fëanor’s face at whatever it is he sees on Fingolfin’s, but he only says once more, “Come. Unless you wish to speak with atar again today.”
Fingolfin very much does not wish for such a thing and so he forces himself to swallow the fury down. Sticks it beneath a great sheet of ice and takes Fëanor’s hand. It is not until they are sitting in Fëanor’s study — Fëanor with an array of designs spread out on the table, Fingolfin curled up on the settee with a book — that he looks at Fingolfin and says, “You know you must let it all out eventually? You will not fix anything if you do not.”
“And you believe things are fixable,” he returns quietly. “You believe things are fixable between us?”
Fëanor hesitates, eyes conflicted, torn between his hatred and whatever new emotion it is Fingolfin has managed to wake in him. And then, very quietly, like he’s unwilling to truly let the words be woven into the music of the world, “I believe that I am willing to try.”
Fingolfin stares. It is the largest concession Fëanor has ever granted him. For all that he has helped Fingolfin over and over the past few songs, he has never so explicitly stated his willingness to try to mend things between them. It leaves heat skittering uncomfortably through his chest. Makes him want to swallow the anger forever. Makes him angrier. Why is this what it must take to make Fëanor willing to fix things? “Letting it out will do me no good when you hold no answers for me,” he says instead of any of that.
“And yet you must anyway.” Fëanor tilts his head and considers Fingolfin for a minute, eyes terribly sharp as they take him in. “I do not have the exact answers you wish for but I am still myself.”
“Yes,” he says, wishing for this conversation to be over. “That is rather the problem.”
Fëanor’s mouth tightens into a thin, unhappy line but he says nothing else. Turns back to the designs he’s working on, as if there isn’t a chance they will not even matter anymore once this day has passed. Fingolfin tries to read but cannot focus, finds himself instead aimlessly staring out the window, trying to decide what he will say to his father next he sees him. Comes no closer to an answer. Can think only of how there is nothing his father can say to him that will change his mind when he has the truth held in his hands. Knows that he must find a way to fix it anyway but cannot fathom how. Still does not understand why this must be his responsibility to fix. Is his father not the elder of them all? Is Fëanor not the oldest sibling? Why must any of this be on Fingolfin’s shoulders?
Why, when he is not the one who swore a damned oath, when he is not the one who slayed their kin, is not the one who did so many unforgivable things — why is he the one who must do this all over and over again to fix things? And for a moment the Fëanor from his dream flashes before his eyes, all flame and smoke and brutal words — is it any wonder it was not granted to you when you wanted it so badly? He shakes the thought away, refuses to dwell on the words his own mind has created.
And so it goes. The soft scratching of Fëanor sketching out designs and muttering to himself under his breath the only noise for a long time. But slowly Telperion begins to creep forth, the mingling on the horizon, and a knot of nausea settles in his stomach. For all that this day has been a misery he does not wish it to end. Is scared of what he will do if the song ends. Is scared of what he must face if it does not.
“Move over,” Fëanor says, startling him. He had not even noticed Fëanor standing up. Fëanor sits down next to him and tucks Fingolfin against his side as if Fingolfin is simply another one of his children. With the way the agitation is still prickling beneath his skin he does not think he cares for it. “Rest, Nolvo. There will be time to figure things out later.”
He does not, Fingolfin notes, say tomorrow, only later. And Fingolfin wants to fight him on it. Wants to stubbornly stay awake until the song either continues unhindered or is un-sung before his eyes. Does not want to close his eyes with no idea where he will be when he opens them. But Fëanor is warm and he is so tired. “I do not want this one to end,” he says quietly, closing his eyes and letting himself lean on his brother.
Fëanor smooths down his hair and sighs. Says quietly, “I know, Nolvo,” and there’s a quiet fury hidden beneath the words. And then even quieter, “Rest little brother, we will figure it out when you wake.”
Fingolfin falls asleep warm, his brother a long line of heat against his side, an offer of reconciliation held between them. Falls asleep knowing he is not alone.
☀︎
the fifth loop
Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.
End Notes:
Look, if you're like, hey, where were are all of Fingolfin's children? He's hurt surely they're worried? Good lord the cast was already large enough this chapter - I wasn't going to add his four chaotic children that would have derailed things so badly. I promise they’ll have their moments later. Let's just say that they've all been absorbed into the Feanorian sibling mass. They saw Fëanor fretting over Fingolfin and took that as their cue to to forcefully merge Fingolfin's kids in with them. Maedhros obviously is fretting over Fingon & Celegorm over Aredhel - but the others have all begrudgingly taken Turgon and Argon under their wing as well - even if in Turgon's case it is very much under duress. He did not ask for this, does not want this, and quite frankly is going to escape the minute he gets a chance.
--
Lalwen at some point very seriously: If all you needed to stop being an asshole was a hug I would have given you one years ago
Fëanor: -.- You are dearly making me want to be an asshole again
Lalwen: :)
also posted on ao3
