you're in the wind, i'm in the water by atlantablack  

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1. guess I'm feeling unmoored

chapter title is from evermore by Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver

Creon: Why did you try to bury your brother?
Antigone: I owed it to him.

[…]

Creon: Polynices was a rebel and a traitor, and you know it. 
Antigone: He was my brother.

Antigone | Jean Anouilh

☀︎

the first loop

Fingolfin wakes up in his bed. This would not be notable except for two very important things.

One—he is staring at the ceiling of a room he has not seen since he left Aman, following his brother into exile. Two—he rather vividly remembers viciously stabbing his sword through Morgoth’s foot right before Morgoth quite thoroughly killed him. He does not think that kind of pain is something one can simply dream up. Does not think Beleriand and everything it entailed is something he could dream up.

The room does not yet dissolve into a dream so, for lack of better options, Fingolfin gets out of bed. Stands at the window staring at the light of Laurelin and waits to see if this is indeed some strange dream that will simply evaporate given a bit more time. He has grown so used to the light of the sun that, once again, seeing the light of the trees is strange. It is not, precisely, that the light of the trees is not beautiful; it is only that half of his heart lies in Beleriand, and it is disheartening to know that the lands there still lie shrouded in darkness if the trees live.

After spending entirely too long staring out the window, he is forced to concede that this does not seem to be any sort of dream. Everything he touches is solid, his fëa feels firmly anchored within his body, and when he pinches himself, the pain feels quite real. He does not know what exactly is happening, but it cannot be figured out by standing in his room. So, he squares his shoulders, gets dressed, and sets out to discover what year it is. It is impossible to make a plan if he does not know what has happened and what has not, and he must make a plan.

He does not have to wander far before he runs into someone. Finds Atar in the library with both of his brothers. Wonders absently if he too was meant to be at this meeting but is too distracted drinking in the sight of his father to truly care. How very strange it is to have lived far longer without his father than with him and now, to have him here once again. It is one thing to know that you will one day meet your kin again after being reborn, but another entirely to meet your kin once again when none but you are aware that any deaths have occurred.

“I see that your lectures on punctuality are just as hypocritical as I’ve always suspected them to be,” Fëanor says spitefully, a sneer on his face when Fingolfin looks to him.

He would have had a clever comeback for that before, though he also would have never shown up late before. Now he can only stare, struck by how tame his brother's dislike of him is, for he cannot even call what he is looking at hatred compared to the madness and disgusted hatefulness that he'd grown so accustomed to at the end. It seems in his memories that it was always hatred. That he was born knowing Fëanor did not want him to exist. Now, here is his brother, and Fingolfin realizes that he does not recognize him. Has grown too used to being hated to know what to do when he is not.

"I apologize," he says after his silence drags too long and Fëanor's sneer has dropped in confusion. "I did not recall there was a meeting today." Finarfin's brow furrows in confusion, but Fingolfin does not allow his gaze to linger on his little brother's face lest he go back to staring. He never had managed to decide if he was grateful that his younger brother was safe in Aman with his mother or if he was terribly resentful at Finarfin for abandoning him. This certainly isn’t the time to try to figure it out again.

“Are you feeling well, Arakáno?” his father asks, concern creasing his face. Fingolfin barely stifles the startled flinch that wants to go through him at the sound of his mother-name. He cannot recall the last time he heard it.

"I'm quite well, atar," he says, smiling blandly as he takes the seat next to Fëanor. "I was only preoccupied with my thoughts and forgot." He waves his hand dismissively when they all stare at him. He understands their disbelief, of course. He had always tried so very hard to be the perfect prince, the perfect son; as if by overcompensating for all of Fëanor's perceived flaws, he could win more of his father's affection. There had never been a chance of that working, he knows this now. But still, it would have been unheard of for him to forget any type of meeting, no matter the year, especially one that Fëanor was going to attend. That Fëanor has beaten him to this one says much. He is not even sure how late he is.

They are, as it turns out, discussing the upcoming harvest festival and the parts their father wants them to play in it. He tries to think of a way to naturally work in a question regarding the year but cannot. Still listens attentively and is rewarded with the knowledge that Morgoth is free already; annoying but not surprising. He is unsure as to why he is here, but he cannot imagine why he would have been sent back to a time before Morgoth. Unfortunately, this is all he manages to glean from the conversation. They are all infuriatingly useless in giving up any significant information that could narrow the year down further for him.

Fingolfin does try to continue paying attention, truly, but once his father begins discussing Maglor's musical performance with Fëanor he finds his thoughts drifting. Absently taps his fingers against his thigh and tries to decide on what his next move should be. First things first, he will go find the accounting books in his office and figure out the year. An easy enough solution that will not arouse any suspicion. Second things second… he has not the slightest idea. How does one go about fixing an un-fixable relationship with their half-brother, saving their father, and preventing a kinslaying? And those only the largest and most imminent issues! He should perhaps worry about the trees as well, but he does not care to waste time figuring out a solution for that when their destruction will bring about the sun and moon. Let them die as long as their deaths do not pose problems for any future plans he comes up with.

He cannot help but wonder if he would stand a better chance in a fight with Morgoth while they are the same relative height. He had gotten in seven blows before, how many more could he get in with the advantage of surprise on his side? Even if it does not kill Morgoth, it could perhaps force him to reveal his machinations earlier, saving them all a good deal of trouble. And if it does not… well. Perhaps it will be Fingolfin this time who gets sent into exile. That would be interesting. Or, perhaps, for the crime of attacking a Vala, he would be exiled to Beleriand itself! The timing would be inconvenient, but he could work with it. Still, this is not, he knows, a very practical plan. Only a very satisfying one.

He jerks sideways with a yelp as Fëanor jabs him in the side. Turns his head to glare, only to realize they are all staring at him once again. "Ah," he says, trying to think of a reasonable excuse and coming up blank. "It seems I must apologize once again. I was distracted by my thoughts."

Fëanor's gaze is very hot against his cheek. Finarfin and Atar both look far more concerned about him than he believes the situation truly warrants. "What has happened that has you troubled so?" his father asks, leaning forward intently.

"I am not troubled," he returns and ignores Fëanor's disbelieving scoff. "Only easily distracted today, it would seem." Absolutely no one looks as if they believe him.

“If you are sure. Still, perhaps we will finish this discussion at a later time. It is not so urgent that it cannot wait.”

“A reasonable plan,” he agrees, immediately standing and heading for the door. “I will speak with you all later.”

He heads for his office as soon as he’s out the door.

☀︎

It is, he finds after pulling his accounting book off its shelf with hands that do not shake, the year 1435.

He sits down heavily and stares at the numbers scratched out by his own hand. He has only fifty years by reckoning of the trees, but hopefully that is enough time. He only needs a plan. And a sword. It is very unfortunate that no one has begun making them yet. If he wants one, he will either have to forge it himself or find someone to forge it for him, which… will invite questions. However, he has never spent much time in the forge. He's perfectly capable of basic forging, but it has never been his preferred craft, and he's not sure he would trust a sword made by his own hand. Not without spending more time than he cares to practicing. He tries to imagine Fëanor’s face if he were to suddenly start spending time in the forge and has to swallow a hysterical laugh. It would only be another reason for his brother to hate him.

His brother, who is alive and not slain on a battlefield. His father, who is not yet dead at Morgoth's hand. His son, he realizes with a bolt of grief, who has not yet died before he could even experience the land he had crossed the ice to reach. All his children are still safely within his reach. His wife still stands at his side. He has grown so used to being without Anairë that he had not thought to wonder where she is. He has to put the book down so that he can cover his face as hot tears suddenly begin spilling down his cheeks.

This does not feel real. How can any of this be real? To what purpose has he been sent back if not only to experience all of the grief anew? Surely he alone cannot foil the net of malice that Morgoth had woven throughout Aman.

He is not sure how long he sits there, silently crying, before Fëanor’s voice abruptly cuts through the air: “Will you still lie and say that you are not troubled?” Fëanor is standing in the doorway of his office watching him when he looks up. Perhaps he should feel honored that Fëanor has decided that he needed to be followed. He mostly just feels annoyed.

“I am not troubled,” he says just to be spiteful. Fëanor scowls at him and stalks into his study to look at the accounting book he’d thrown on the desk.

“Your finances cannot be that dire,” Fëanor says, scowling even harder. "What is wrong with you? You are acting very strange."

“Nothing is wrong,” he says, ignoring the vicious glare that earns him. “I am quite well. There is just…” he trails off, waving a hand through the air to encompass everything. “I am fine, my brother,” he says forcefully, hoping it will nettle Fëanor into leaving. Fëanor though only narrows his eyes, because of course, Fëanor would choose this moment to see through that trick. Well, that's fine, if Fëanor won't leave, Fingolfin will. "Regardless," he says as he stands, "I have things to accomplish. I must find Anairë and speak with her."

Fëanor's eyes narrow even further. “Anairë?”

“Yes, my wife. I am sure you are capable of remembering her. Is my speaking with her a problem?" He doesn't care for the queer look that Fëanor gives him. It is a bit too close to concern, and Fëanor does not do concern when it comes to him.

“Anairë is in Alqualondë with Eärwen and has been for the past two weeks,” Fëanor says slowly, studying him with sharp eyes. “They will not be back for another two. Atar mentioned it earlier while we were waiting for you.”

Fingolfin has a brief, half-hysterical moment where he wonders if he can get a second restart of this day. One where he is not still mentally reeling from dying and everyone he loves suddenly being very much alive. “Right,” he says, at a loss for what else to offer.

He refuses to say that Fëanor looks concerned, but there is definitely less dislike than normal in his eyes. Fingolfin decides to not attempt any more lies that may not land and simply heads for the door. Perhaps walking through Tirion will help him think. It has been so very long since he's seen the city; it will be good to re-familiarize himself with it. He just needs some air, needs to make a plan.

Predictably, Fëanor follows him instead of taking the hint to go away. “I did not realize you were so awful at lying,” Fëanor says, sounding far too pleased about it. 

Fingolfin will not even grace that with a response. He is quite capable of lying. Perhaps not at the moment, but he feels he has good reason to be a bit off.

He stops moving the moment he walks outside. Stands at the top of the palace steps and has to fight down another wave of tears that wish to fall. He had not truly comprehended the sight of Tirion from his window earlier, too stuck in the idea that this may all be a dream. But here is Tirion, sprawled out before him, just as beautiful as he remembers it. He had missed it. Despite how dearly he loves Beleriand, Tirion is still his first home, is still part of his heart, and he wants to save it from the dissent and unrest that Morgoth is spreading like poison through it.

He wants Tirion to stay exactly as it is. Peaceful. Safe. Full of joy and love and music. No funerals. No oaths sworn. He does not want those born here to ever have grief touch them if they do not wish it.

"Ñolofinwë?" Fëanor's voice shakes him out of his thoughts. He has been staring for too long again.

He does not answer, heads for the city. He has no destination in mind, only the desire to lose his brother so that he can think and be maudlin in peace. He just needs one day to come to terms with… everything. At least one day. He has time aplenty to plan, but he must have at least one to orient himself and remember how to exist around a family that has not finished splintering apart.

Unfortunately, shaking Fëanor when he has his attention set on something is an impossible task. Made even more impossible the moment he had realized Fingolfin was trying to shake him. After the fourth failed attempt, during which he'd nearly run into three people and Fëanor had looked entirely too pleased with himself, Fingolfin gives up. He does not know what it is Fëanor is hoping to accomplish other than annoying him, but he fears he will not be getting away.

Fëanor attempts to start up a conversation only once, sounding terribly uncomfortable about it, but Fingolfin is not sure he can handle any type of conversation with any grace. He feels a little brittle, a little like the reality of what is happening has finally begun to truly sink in. Everything around him feels very bright and loud and overwhelmingly real, emphasizing over and over again, this is not a dream, this is not a dream. Their people are all laughing and joking as they go about their days, greeting him as he walks by, and all their smiles look so very innocent to his eyes. Morgoth's lies have not yet sunk in so deeply as to pollute the joy; his father has not yet been murdered and left a shroud of shocked grief suffocating them all. Most importantly, this is not Beleriand, where even the true smiles were tinged with an exhaustion that never quite went away.

They are all so alive. Meanwhile, Fingolfin feels like part of him is still stuck in Beleriand, blood on his teeth and an all-consuming anger splintering out of control. Like he'll blink and once again see Morgoth's foot coming down. He wants—what does he want? He does not wish to be dead. He is, he supposes, grateful for this chance to fix things as much as they can be fixed. But Fingolfin wants, he still wants—

—he wants for Fëanor to know him. Wants to work through all the ugly words and acts of violence that had divided them and come out the other side better for it. He cannot throw all the scathing anger in his chest at a brother who does not understand. Cannot scream at this Fëanor for burning the boats, for leaving them to the ice, for Elenwë, for Argon, for the countless others who had followed him and paid for it. And so what is he meant to do with the anger? He cannot swallow it all down forever while also salvaging his relationship with Fëanor in this new song.

He wants, he thinks, watching a potter unmake a bowl that was marred, to un-sing himself as well. It would not solve anything, would lead only to a repeat of the same dismal future, but he does not want to be the only one to remember when he has all this anger inside of him, all this grief. They lost so many people. To the ice, to the battles, to a land that was hostile to them even as they loved it. He does not want to be so terribly alone. The sole grave in a city that does not yet know death.

He does not know how long he wanders the city lost in thought, knows only that Fëanor shadows him the entire time. This is strange in and of itself, for it has always been the other way around. For much of his childhood he'd found just as much safety in that shadow as he had suffocation. He hadn't yet understood that his brother only tolerated him. Had followed Fëanor around, content in the knowledge that as long as he kept his footsteps in his brother's shadow, then nothing could harm him. It had not occurred to him that the hurt would come from his brother. Then he’d gotten old enough to realize that his brother tolerated him but did not want him. Had gotten old enough that his brother stopped blunting his words.

Eru save him, but a part of him is still that same child clinging to his brother’s robes as he follows Fëanor from lesson to lesson. It feels like all he had ever wanted was for his brother to look at him and see him instead of a threat or a burden or a mistake. Stupid of him really. How do you fix a relationship that’s been rotten since it was created?

He is finally beginning to consider turning and heading back to the palace when he turns a corner and freezes, for Morgoth is suddenly in front of him a bit farther down the street. He takes a deep breath, ignoring Fëanor's disgruntled grumbling at bumping into him. Forcefully reminds himself that he does not even have a sword, and so attacking is simply not an option, not that he should attack even if he did have a weapon of any kind. And maybe, maybe, he could have walked away, but he looks to the elf Morgoth is speaking with, and everything in his mind goes as still and as white as freshly fallen snow.

Fingon is not smiling, does not look to even be particularly interested in whatever conversation is happening, but he is still talking with Morgoth. Fingolfin has had a very trying day and simply cannot be expected to bear the sight of Morgoth talking to one of his children as if he does not want them all dead.

"Fing— Findekáno," he calls, regrets immediately how tight and furious his voice sounds.

Fingon's head snaps around, eyes terribly wide. He walks away from Morgoth without even saying goodbye, which would be more satisfying if Morgoth did not take that as a fucking invitation to trail along after him.

"Atar," Findekáno says warily, eyeing Fëanor with no small amount of trepidation. It is uncommon to see them both in one place when not necessary. Uncommon for Fingolfin to speak to any of his children in anger. “Has something happened?”

“Come, I need to speak with you at home.” He tries to banish the anger from his voice and fails. Moves to leave, knowing Fingon will follow, but does not move fast enough.

“Prince Ñolofinwë,” Morgoth says, voice slick and sickeningly pleasant. “And Prince Fëanáro. How fortunate I am to run into you both at once.”

That terrible, jagged anger is clawing its way up his throat again. The same anger that had led him to an unwinnable battle, and he must leave or he will do something incomparably stupid. “We are busy,” he snaps, not bothering with the pointless exercise of trying to stay pleasant. “Let us go, Findekáno.” He forces himself to turn his back to Morgoth, despite every instinct telling him otherwise, and stalks off.

The noise of the city is strangely muffled as he walks, his heartbeat painfully loud in his ears. If only he’d had a sword. He is not sure if he will be better able to play nice with Morgoth once he has had a few days to cool down. Has an ugly feeling that he will not be able to ever speak to Morgoth with anything other than venom ever again. Which means, which means, he needs a sword. It is a terrible plan. It is not a plan at all. He wants to say that he can do better than that, but is not sure he can. Not while Morgoth is near his family. He simply cannot bear to let Morgoth slide more lies and hatred into the minds of those he loves.

A hand grabs his wrist in a bruising grip, pulling him to a halt, and Fingolfin swings his fist without even thinking. Fëanor catches his fist, and Fingolfin finds himself blinking at Fëanor in surprise. Distantly, he realizes that his heart is pounding as if he has run a race. Fëanor is frowning severely at him, and when he looks around, he finds Fingon staring at him with wide eyes.

“Where are you going?” Fëanor asks, voice surprisingly calm.

Fingolfin stares at him, glances around, and realizes that he is nowhere near the palace. "I—" he grasps for an answer and can only find the truth. "Away from Morgoth." Fëanor's frown deepens. "Melkor," Fingolfin corrects. He is not doing a very good job at whatever it is he was meant to do being thrown back to this time. He tugs his hands out of Fëanor's grip and looks around once more. He must have either been walking terribly fast or he's walked for longer than he thought, for he has brought them out to the edge of the city, close to Fëanor's house.

“Go ahead,” Fëanor says, “tell me again that you are not troubled.” He raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“I am not troubled,” he snaps. “I know exactly what the problem is.”

“So there is a problem.”

Fingolfin is not going to grace that with a response; turns to Fingon instead. “I apologize, Findekáno. I am not angry with you, only… well. I am not angry with you.” He smiles apologetically and gets an uncertain smile in return.

"It is fine, Atar," he says, glancing at his uncle. He looks terribly young, and Fingolfin feels another stab of rage at how quickly his youth had been stolen from him.

"Alright, that is enough, let us go," Fëanor says, grabbing Fingolfin's arm. "We are going to my house, and you are going to explain why you have lost your fucking mind overnight. You have never been so blatantly rude to someone before. Let alone one of the Valar.”

“Fuck the Valar," he mutters before he can stop himself, ignoring Fëanor's startled look. "I am not going to run away. You can let go of me,” he says, annoyed and slightly amused despite himself. He is not sure where Fëanor thinks he could run to that he would not be found immediately.

“You have been trying to run away from me all day,” Fëanor points out. “And that was without me forcing you to explain what is wrong.”

“It is amusing that you think you can force me to do anything.” He tries to think of what he’s going to tell Fëanor and gets distracted by the idea that this is the closest his brother has come to showing concern for him since… Eru, likely since childhood. If he had realized acting wildly out of character would shock Fëanor into showing an emotion other than hate he may have tried it a long time ago.

"I am sure I can find a way," Fëanor says mildly. It is honestly a bit unnerving how calm Fëanor is about all of this. Still abrasive but… strangely calm. Fingolfin doesn't trust it.

Fingon breaks away from them when they reach the house. Gives him another uncertain smile and then makes a beeline for where Maedhros is sitting under a tree. He likely should do something about them after Morgoth has been dealt with. Perhaps proclaim his support to Fingon so that they do not spend the next few centuries forced to continue keeping their relationship a secret. A problem for a later point when he is not being marched into Fëanor’s office.

He is deposited in a chair near the fire and blinks at Fëanor in bemusement as he sits down across from Fingolfin. “I feel as if I am on trial,” he says. “I can promise I have committed no crimes.” Yet.

Fëanor scoffs. “Well, that was not going to be my first question, but good to know we can cross that off. Tell me what is wrong."

"Why? If I wanted help, I certainly would not be here. It is not as if you have ever bothered pretending to care before." The words come out far more bitter than he'd meant for them to, and he wants to stuff them back down his throat as soon as he's said them. This is absolutely not helping with the goal of fixing his relationship with Fëanor. He has fifty years until the trouble starts; surely a year-long sabbatical to remember how to function in an acceptable way wouldn't be too awful. He is only going to make things worse if he is not left alone to pull himself together.

Fëanor is glaring at him but also clearly biting his tongue. “You are not,” he says after a minute, voice carefully controlled, “going to get out of this by convincing me to throw you out. I am not so easily fooled.”

Centuries worth of unspoken arguments try to claw their way out of his mouth. He clasps his hands together tightly, pretends they aren’t shaking. “I am sure I could convince you," he says after he's swallowed the worst of the arguments down. "After all, it is not as if I usually must do much to set you off. Merely breathing seems to work most days. I am sure if I keep talking, I can do a much better job.”

Fëanor cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing as he watches Fingolfin. "You are very combative today. Unusually so. What are you trying so hard to hide?" His eyes are bright with curiosity, as if Fingolfin is a particularly interesting puzzle for him to take apart.

It makes Fingolfin want to break something. Makes his throat close up. All he'd wanted for so long was for Fëanor to just pay attention to him in a way that did not hurt. He never really outgrew that want. He stopped trying to achieve it, but he never stopped wanting it. But he is not—he does not want to be puzzled apart. He does not want attention only because he has sparked his brother's curiosity. Curiosity that once sated will leave Fëanor content to go back to hating him. "I am not a puzzle for you to solve," he says tightly, wondering if he can get away with simply walking out. "I do not see why it is any of your business what is wrong.”

"Ah, but! You admit then that there is something wrong!" Fëanor smirks at him, sounding so terribly pleased with himself, and Fingolfin's vision blurs. He blindly reaches for the vase on the table next to him and throws it at Fëanor's head. Hopes it is not too valuable. Has no intention of sticking around to find out. Fëanor ducks, and Fingolfin makes it halfway to the door before Fëanor grabs his arm. "Nerdanel made that," he snarls.

"Well maybe if you were not so unbearable she would still be here and you could ask her to make another," he snaps. Does not care that it's a low blow, means every word.

"Do not fucking talk about things you have no understanding of," Fëanor says, a terrible rage in his voice as he shakes Fingolfin.

Fingolfin punches him, and this time his fist connects. In the same moment he kicks one of Fëanor's knees and, when it buckles, wrenches his arm out of Fëanor's grip. He is out the door before Fëanor can recover. He spots an ornamental dagger on a shelf as he rushes out of the house and grabs it instinctively. It is Fëanorian, so it will be well-made despite the fact that it's mainly for show. It's not enough, but it'll simply have to do.

Fingon calls after him as he rushes down the road, but he doesn't have time to reassure him, or Fëanor will catch up and drag him back inside. This is quite possibly the worst plan he's ever had. Worse even than riding up to Angband to challenge Morgoth. At least then he'd had a proper weapon. But Fingolfin is rather done with whatever this nonsense is. If he dies doing this then maybe his death can be a solid rallying moment for the Noldor.

Hunting Morgoth down is not difficult. As Fingolfin had expected, he had lingered in the city, near enough to Fëanor's house that Fingolfin would have to pass him to get back to the palace, but not so close that it looked as if he was waiting. He is, to Fingolfin's satisfaction, engaged in a conversation, his back to Fingolfin. He sends a silent apology to whichever elf he is about to traumatize, sliding up behind Morgoth as quietly as he can, and stabbing the dagger into the side of Morgoth's neck with all the force he can muster. Twists and slices sideways as he pulls it out and dances out of reach.

Morgoth is not the only one to scream, Fingolfin is sure, but his scream is a bellow that drags like falling rocks through the air and drowns out everything else. Unfortunately, the wound does not kill him, but Fingolfin had not truly expected it to. Killing a Valar was likely beyond any elf. It does, however, noticeably weaken him. He staggers as he whirls around, and Fingolfin should have moved with him, stabbed him in the back while he's weak, but he wants Morgoth to see his face, to know who it is that's harmed him. Hubris on his part, but what does it matter?

And oh, good, he has cracked the mask that Morgoth wears, the hatred in his eyes sucking the light from the air. He grins, grips the dagger, and waits for an opening, waits to see what Morgoth will do. "Melkor the cowardly," he says, the words just loud enough for Morgoth to hear him. "Unable to defeat us in truth, and so you try to turn us against each other. I name you Morgoth. I name you enemy of all of Eru's children."

Morgoth snarls and inconveniently grows in size, though he is only twice Fingolfin's size, not towering over him as he had before. The wound Fingolfin has dealt him seems to truly be troubling him. Fingolfin darts forward as he's in the process of growing and slashes his heel, taking the risk of stabbing the dagger through the back of his knee as he moves past him. He barely dodges the kick Morgoth aims at him as he roars in anger.

Someone shouts his name, but he does not pause to check who. Barely evades Morgoth reaching for him and circles around as he tries to keep Morgoth's back to him. Waits until Morgoth wobbles from the wound to his knee and dashes forward, stabbing the dagger into his heel, in the exact spot Fingolfin had slashed at earlier, hoping to unbalance him further. But Fingolfin's luck rather runs out there.

Four hits, he thinks as Morgoth backhands him into a wall before he can get out of range, not bad considering the weapon I was working with. The yelling of the crowd has grown in volume, and he is sure this time that he hears someone yelling his name.

He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest. Manages two steps forward and sighs in resignation as Morgoth picks up an inconveniently placed anvil and hurls it at him. He does try to dodge. Goes to throw himself to the right, but is just a few seconds too slow.

He locks eyes with Fëanor right before a shattering burst of pain cascades through him and thinks, he looks scared. He would not have known what to do with that thought even if everything had not gone black immediately after.

☀︎

the second loop

Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.

He blinks up at the ceiling, taking in the complete lack of pain in his body, and then pulls a pillow over his face and screams. When he had asked for a second restart to the day, he had been fucking joking.

He gets out of bed, gets dressed, and decides that, this time, he definitely needs a sword.

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

Fingolfin: I am good at planning. I was high king. Plans are my thing.
Fingolfin after seeing Morgoth: Okay. So the plan is murder.

--

Fëanor: I feel like this abrupt shift in behavior from my half-brother is both suspicious and concerning....
Fëanor arriving just in time to watch Morgoth backhand Fingolfin into a wall: WELL I AM DEFINITELY CONCERNED

--

9/21/25: SPAG & syntax updates made - no plot changes

I'm on tumblr as well, atlantablack

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