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

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4. tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns of snow

confession: I did not properly comprehend how the calendar system during the years of the trees worked until like 500 words into this chapter..... which I'm belatedly realizing makes the previous three loops cover a larger time span than was going on in my head but it doesn't technically counteract anything I wrote so we're going to ignore that. But if you at some point you feel like the loops start covering more time that would be why.

chapter title is from the poem Seaside Improvisation by Richard Siken

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I: That scar I gave you, how does it feel? 
Y: Like love. 
I: I thought we hated each other. 
Y: That too. 

Joan Tierney

☀︎

the third loop (continued)

Fëanor stays quiet while Fingolfin cries. Tightens his hold when Fingolfin begins to feel as if he’s going to shake apart and lets Fingolfin’s mind stay curled up next to his, even though he can feel the way Fëanor’s mind wants to snap closed. By the time he’s finished crying he feels hollow. All the grief he’s been lugging around for centuries feels as if it has been temporarily scooped out of him, making it blatantly obvious how much space it had been taking up. All the poisoned thoughts he’s been pushing down about dying, about the prospect of facing death again and again, feel as if they’ve been mercilessly wrung out, filtered through him, and come back clean.

When his breathing finally evens out and Fëanor steps back, a distinct air of relief about him, Fingolfin collapses back down onto the window seat, taking the handkerchief Fëanor offers him gratefully. He leans against the window and watches in bemusement as Fëanor disappears into the bedroom. There's the distinct sound of drawers opening and closing, something he should likely be worried about, but there’s no sense of anything alarming coming from Fëanor’s mind, so he really cannot be bothered.

He takes a deep, freeing breath, and is almost surprised to find that he no longer feels two steps away from cracking apart. He still feels overwhelmed and has no idea where to go from here, but at least he doesn't feel like the entire world is trying to compress him into nothingness. This is why Fëanor is so obnoxiously arrogant of course, because too often, he's right.

Fëanor walks back into the room, carrying one of Fingolfin’s travel packs that he seems to have stuffed full. "This is what we're going to do—" he starts, only to be cut off as the door to the room slams open.

"Nolvo, where have you been?" Lalwen demands, breezing into the room. "Are you—" She pauses, her eyes catching on Fëanor. She stares at him for a moment and then slowly turns her gaze to Fingolfin's face, which he can only imagine looks terrible. "What," she says to Fëanor, in a voice that promises great violence, "did you do to him?"

"Peace, Írimë," Fëanor says, amusement in his eyes. “I’ve done nothing. He is merely having a difficult day.”

Lalwen looks as if she’s never heard such a ridiculous statement in her life. Moves over to his side and wraps her arms around him, her chin settling on top of his head. “Tell me the truth, háno, did he say something to you?”

He hugs her back, happy that he seems to have done all his crying, or he’s sure that having his little sister hug him would have set him off again. “He’s done nothing, I am merely having a difficult day as he said.”

She pulls back to stare at him, looking no less doubtful now that the words have come from his mouth. “And what has caused such a difficult day? Is there someone else I should go threaten?”

“Please do not threaten anyone,” he says, smiling at how very serious she is. It was easy to think that being in Beleriand had made her into the stubborn, laughing, vicious warrior she’d been, but the core of her had always been so. Quick to laugh but just as quick to anger. “No one has harmed me. I am only very tired and overwhelmed.”

“Yes, which is why we will be riding out of the city for a few days,” Fëanor announces, smirking when Fingolfin stares at him in bewilderment. “It will do you good to get out of the city.”

“But…I have things to do. I cannot just leave!”

“Those things are going nowhere,” Fëanor says, waving his hand dismissively. “We will deal with them when we return.”

“We?” Lalwen asks, eyes very curious as she looks between them. “What things need to be done that have inspired you both to work together?”

“It’s a delicate matter,” Fëanor says before Fingolfin can think of a lie. “You will find out later.”

Not technically untrue but he does not think it appeases Lalwen. She still looks terribly curious and he’s sure that the minute they arrive back in the city he will have to worry about her shadowing them. He really does have the nosiest family. “I see,” she says, smiling guilelessly. “Then I shall inform the rest of our family of your well-being and where you will be going.”

He sighs, not even bothering to hide it. Translation: she will be ruthlessly gossiping with the rest of his family as they try to figure out what could possibly have Fingolfin and his brother working together. The nosiest family.

☀︎

A few hours later they are on the road. The minute the horses carry them out of Tirion a great weight lifts from his shoulders and a small ball of anxiety at leaving his family in the city with Morgoth settles in his stomach.

It is, he knows, very unlikely anything will force Morgoth to show his hand this early unless it is Fingolfin himself attempting to murder him. A cold comfort. But a comfort nonetheless.

"Do you have a destination in mind?" He asks after they've ridden in silence for a while. "Or are we simply riding in aimless directions."

"We shall ride north until we reach Formenos or until we tire," Fëanor says with an unconcerned shrug. "The destination is not the point."

"And what is the point?"

Fëanor glances over at him, an unimpressed look on his face. "The point is for you to spend time free of Morgoth's shadow so that you may face him with a lighter heart."

"I do not believe my heart shall ever be light again while Morgoth roams free amongst my family," he says darkly.

"I did not say it would be," Fëanor says, rolling his eyes. "I merely said it would be lighter than it is now with the constant shadow of death shrouding it."

Fingolfin quiets at that, considering his heart and his brother's words. There has been a shadow on his heart since Morgoth began his assault against the Noldor and the men of Beleriand. Perhaps even before that, the shadow taking form the moment Fëanor held a sword to his throat. A shadow that had darkened into a rage so black it rivaled Morgoth's hatred. It is death that shadows it, that is true, though he does not believe his own troubles him as much as the deaths of his people.

"You are being strangely calm," he says, instead of responding to Fëanor's words.

"There seemed to be little calm in the last few songs that you lived through. Taking into consideration that they all ended in one or both of our deaths I do not believe my anger would do anything other than hasten that same end." Fëanor's voice is strange and calm but his jaw clenches and his fingers are tight around the reins.

"But you are angry?"

"Of course I am angry," Fëanor snaps before forcefully adopting that strange, calm tone again. "Do you believe I enjoy leaving my family in the city with that fiend?"

"We did not have to leave," he counters, sounding sulky even to his own ears.

Fëanor shoots him a look that says his opinion of Fingolfin has clearly dropped. "If you could refrain from being both repetitive and stupid."

Fingolfin swallows the petty retorts that spring to his lips and stares straight ahead. They ride for a few more minutes without speaking but Fëanor does not suffer silence well when he has nothing to do with his hands. "There is—" he hesitates, an uncharacteristic move that Fingolfin seems to keep inspiring in him lately. "There is," he tries again, the words slow and reluctant to emerge, "a chance that this song will not end well either. But if we are to have a chance you need to be at your best." It clearly pains him to admit to even the possibility of failure.

“And if it is still not enough?”

“Then we will try again.” He says it so calmly. So assured. As if his help in every song is an assured thing when he cares so little for Fingolfin before their minds open to each other.

Fingolfin thinks he hates Fëanor for that a bit. The idea that he must again and again hand Fëanor all his worst memories to gain his brother’s concern is deeply unpleasant but also, traitorously, the idea that Fëanor cares at all still makes that twisted hot emotion go curling through his ribs. This is all Fëanor has ever been. A mess of conflicting emotions that leave Fingolfin’s heart a war zone.

"Tell me of Beleriand," Fëanor says, when the silence once again stretches too long for him. "I wish to know what it will be like."

"You saw it in my memories," he says, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Fëanor waves a hand dismissively. "Yes, quickly and with little detail. Tell me of it."

He thinks of arguing but it is not an awful topic and he finds that he enjoys speaking of the land. Of the sloping hills and jagged mountain ranges. He does not speak of the Helcaraxë or Lake Mithrim and their bitter memories. He speaks of the trek to Hithlum, of the building of Barad Eithel. Speaks of Dor-lómin and how it looked blanketed in snow. He speaks of the few times he'd seen Himring and Helevorn and Himlad and the wide-open fields that Maglor defended. He talks about the forests and the peculiar joy of watching sunlight filter through the canopy of trees, the beauty of the dappled light, juxtaposed against the knowledge of the danger that could lurk behind every tree.

He tells Fëanor of the Edain. Of the men that Finrod had so dearly loved. Of their peculiar quirks and their vicious loyalty. How they aged so quickly but absorbed knowledge eagerly and passed it on down their lines so that it was never forgotten. Tries to explain the sensation of meeting men and knowing that they will die and be sundered from you forever no matter how much affection you hold for them.

He does not speak of the pain and the death. It lingers in the shadows of each story but he talks around it. Finds himself surprised by how much he has to speak of that is good and feels that deep well of longing to return bubble over again. He wants to do it all better. He wants the chance to do it all better. A chance even to find out what Beleriand is like without Morgoth's influence.

Let this work, he prays, give us a chance to build something good.

They don't speak much once Fingolfin has run out of words. Fëanor looks to be lost deep in thought, whether because of Fingolfin's words or the problem at hand or some other reason, he does not know. But he is content enough to ride in silence and just breathe in the fresh air and listen to the quiet. Is content to relish in the novelty of knowing that his absence from Tirion will harm nothing.

Please, he thinks again, watching the way Laurelin’s light catches on the grass and the deep green of the trees, let this be enough. Please, let us fix this.

☀︎

Once, Fëanor looks over at him, eyes narrowed, and says, "You took joy in being king."

It is not a question and Fingolfin is not sure if he wants to laugh or cry or perhaps throw his saddlebag at Fëanor's face. “Considering the cost the kingship came at, I do not believe joy is the word I would use,” he says, eyeing Fëanor’s expression carefully. He will be so very cross if Fëanor has dragged him all the way out here just to yell at him. “But yes, I find the duties of running a kingdom satisfying.”

To his great confusion and relief Fëanor merely frowns at him and turns his eyes back to the road. He thinks of pushing the matter and just as quickly decides he does not wish to actually start a fight. But later, right as the mingling is beginning to fade through the air, Fingolfin finds himself saying, "You keep helping me."

Fëanor cuts an unimpressed look his way. "And what else would you suggest that I do? Leave you to get yourself killed by Morgoth repeatedly."

"It's what I expected you to do," he says bluntly. “It's what I expected everyone to do. I can handle this well enough on my own."

"You," Fëanor says, each word crisp and clipped in a way Fingolfin knows means he's swallowing much crueler words down, "are a fucking idiot."

"Yes. So you've said." There’s a fury suddenly kindling itself in the base of his throat. The ease with which Fëanor speaks of helping him makes his stomach twist and his throat burn. As if it is given. As if Fingolfin should have expected it. As if Fingolfin should be grateful.

"Do you enjoy dying then," Fëanor snaps, twisting to glare at him. "Because that is all you are accomplishing by yourself."

"It is all I accomplished with your help as well," he bites back, sneering at the way Fëanor's nostrils flare in offense. "Do not delude yourself into believing that you could have done better—" the words spill out of him, quick and viscous and covered in venom "—don't forget you died first and left me the mess to clean up. You—" he cuts himself off sharply. This Fëanor has done nothing yet he viciously reminds himself. You, he had been about to say, burned the boats and left us and if we had not been so foolhardy as to brave the Helcaraxë then Maedhros would have died or hung there another century and Maglor would have been High King which would have led to no victories at all. A cruel view of things. But he has spent far too many nights lying awake and playing out in his head how it all could have gone.

Maglor was a good lord and protected the gap well. But he was not Maedhros, able to corral the rest of his brothers with a look and a word. And the sons of Fëanor left to run unchecked while grieving and furious would have accomplished nothing other than more death. For all that he would never have given Fingon his blessing to sneak off to Thangorodrim, he cannot deny that it had been a blessing for the political side of things as well.

Fëanor is watching him, eyes glittering; the light in them always shines so painfully bright when he is mad, and Fingolfin has had many opportunities to learn the different ways the fire in them flickers. Fëanor opens his mouth, likely to say something cutting that will burrow itself beneath Fingolfin's skin, but he does not want to hear it. Instead urges his horse into a gallop and does not think about the last time he'd been astride a horse, galloping towards his death.

☀︎

He rides until his horse begins to tire and then dismounts, guiding her off the road. It's easy to begin setting up camp. Easy to keep his mind perfectly blank of anything except the next task, like the strike of hooves against the dirt had driven all the painful thoughts into hiding. Easy. Until Fëanor catches up and then it all tries to come roaring back to the front of his mind. All that bitter anger that is so good at hiding itself when Fëanor is acting uncharacteristically thoughtful and throwing Fingolfin off-kilter, only for it to come flooding back in with no warning and leaving his tongue blistering.

Surprisingly, Fëanor does not immediately confront him. Only stares at him darkly as they go about their business and so he keeps his silence as well, sure that anything he has to say will make matters worse. They lay on opposite sides of the fire to rest and Fingolfin does not know if it is the weight of Fëanor's anger on the camp or the lack of a weapon while sleeping outdoors — but it takes him a very long time to fall asleep.

☀︎

When he awakes on the second day the mingling is nearly at an end, Laurelin cheerfully tossing light through the sky. He spares a moment to simply stare at the sky, surprised that he's slept for so long. Surprised too at the lack of nightmares. When he does rise he finds Fëanor sitting beneath a tree, sketching a design in his notebook, brow furrowed in concentration. Fingolfin wonders if he even truly slept.

He finds that he does not wish for the oppressive fury of yesterday to linger — the anger and resentment having once again cooled and hidden itself away — and so once he has food in his hands he seats himself at Fëanor's side. His brother tenses but he does not tell Fingolfin to go away. Nor does he tell him to mind his own business when Fingolfin curiously leans closer to peer at the design.

"Swords," he mutters, laughing under his breath at how predictable it is.

"Tell me of the weaknesses in the one I made you previously," Fëanor demands.

Fingolfin almost can't believe Fëanor would even admit to there being weaknesses but then, he thinks perhaps Fëanor just assumes that there are always weaknesses, always ways to improve upon anything he touches — whether that be his craft or the people in his life. "The balance was slightly off," he offers. "The hilt far more ostentatious than needed for a fight. And I would have preferred it to have had a marginally longer reach, though I know others would disagree.”

Fëanor’s sketching pauses for a moment as he surveys the design with a critical eye. Fingolfin closes his eyes and leans back against the tree when Fëanor goes back to sketching. It’s peaceful, the cool breeze, the sound of birds greeting the day, the quiet scratch of Fëanor’s pencil against the paper. He knows of course that the anger is still there, simmering in his chest. But he wants to enjoy this. He wants to be able to look back later and finally have some good memories of Fëanor to dwell on instead of all the bitter ones left to him.

Maybe that’s why he reaches out. Or perhaps he just reaches out because he wants the reminder that this is all real. Despite the anger and the bitterness and the impotent helplessness that is lurking in the wings of his mind — perhaps he just wants the reminder that this is real and the people he loves are alive. Fëanor, when Fingolfin’s mind delicately curls up next to his craving the warmth, sighs heavily in annoyance, but still opens his mind a crack so that Fingolfin can bask in the overwhelming cacophony of noise and heat that spills out.

He must doze off again at some point, for he finds himself standing on the battlements of Barad Eithel staring out at the mountains covered in a blanket of freshly fallen, untouched snow. It is so quiet. There is not even a whisper of wind to indicate another snowstorm approaching. There is also a distinct lack of noise coming from Barad Eithel. No yelling or clashing of swords from the training grounds. No chatter carrying through the wind as people go about their days. Not even the sound of a horse’s hoof striking the stone. He thinks that if he were to go and look he would find himself completely and utterly alone.

And then, the air shimmering and shifting sideways, a great veil seems to be lifted from his eyes, for he beholds suddenly that the land in front of him is not empty, but instead scattered with his kinsfolk, all running towards the gates of Barad Eithel as a great vat of flame belches from the sky and melts its way down the mountain. But it seems to him, and to them as well if their dismayed cries are any indication, that no matter how much they run they never draw any closer even as the molten flame creeps closer and closer.

He looks to those farthest back, those closest to the flame, and finds, to his deep grief, Fingon and Maedhros. But not as they were last he saw them. This is the ash covered face of a Fingon who has only just slid himself from an eagle’s back and the bloodless face of Maedhros, eyes barely open as he half-slid, half-fell into Fingon’s arms, seeming to cling to consciousness only through sheer stubbornness. And still, despite the wrongness of it, the flame creeps closer and he cannot close his eyes, cannot force his feet to flee to the stables, cannot force his voice out of his throat, he can only watch as the flame creeps closer and closer and —

—then he is staring at the sky as he’s forcefully jerked awake, Fëanor’s grip on his arm brutal, and the blazing maelstrom of Fëanor’s mind seeming to have done its best to burn the nightmare away. He had not even been aware that you could do such a thing. Is very sure that you should not do such a thing. He stares at the sky for a long moment, heart racing, still feeling frozen, mind sluggishly trying to re-orient itself. Cannot decide if Fëanor is still a comfort or a suffocating heat threatening to burn through him.

He drags in a deep breath and sits up, flexing his fingers and shaking Fëanor's hand off his arm. He does not, in the end, close his mind; only sits there, listening to his heartbeat slow. Fëanor does not try to ask him about it and after a moment, when it becomes clear Fingolfin will not be speaking, he goes back to sketching — but he keeps his mind pressed against Fingolfin's, a warm presence to lean against.

☀︎

Mid-day, when Fingolfin begins feeling restless, unused to so much inaction, they pack up camp and begin riding in the direction or Formenos again. Fëanor talks out loud about the sword designs, bouncing ideas off Fingolfin, though he has little input to give. And when he grows tired of swords, he turns to the other fights he'd seen in Fingolfin's memories. More importantly, he turns to the dragons and the threat they present.

In this Fingolfin has ideas. Fëanor is the inventor but Fingolfin had lived and fought there - from a tactical standpoint he is the more experienced. It is a novel experience, the two of them bouncing ideas off each other and arguing little. It does not, precisely, help him settle in his skin. For this is not a reality he knows how to settle into the shape of. But it does help further calm the prickling anxiety beneath his skin.

The camp is calmer when they finally stop to rest, none of that anger suffocating them. It still takes him a very long time to fall asleep, his ears always straining to catch the sound of an oncoming threat and his hand itching for a sword to be within reach. But eventually, lulled by Fëanor's steady breathing and the crackle of the fire, he falls asleep.

☀︎

His dreams are not kind.

It is the ice. The slow creaking that haunted their steps and sung below them as they slept. The screams that always broke out every time they lost another to the unforgiving icy water. Sometimes, the ice would groan as it shifted, an aching sound that always heralded a shift in the currents beneath the ice.

The animals that survived, or worse, thrived, on the ice were monstrous and hungry. Beautiful white bears larger than a horse, with teeth sharp enough to kill you in one bite. And that was if you were lucky. Because if you did not die immediately then your death would be a slow, torturous affair. They tried to save every single elf that was injured. They did. But it was blisteringly cold and resources were spread thin and the wounds just seemed to sap whatever energy an elf had until they quietly died.

They could not even bury them. The best they could offer was to let them slip into the icy water so that at least their body would not later be mauled by an animal.

Fingolfin had never enjoyed the cold. But he thinks for many of them, by the time they made it to Beleriand, they knew the cold so intimately that it was easier for them survive in the colder regions. He had taught himself to appreciate the biting wind on his face when he stood on the ramparts of Barad Eithel out of spite. If he could still love the heat that fire gave them after everything, then he could make himself still love the cold as well.

His dreams are not kind.

He dreams of Fingon gone to Thangorodrim and never returned. He dreams of Fingon gone to Thangorodrim and hung up beside Maedhros, their only comfort whatever weak words they may offer each other. He dreams of Aredhel being pulled beneath the trees of the forests she loved so well.

Dreams of Fëanor standing in front of the gates of Angband, a shade of flame and smoke, who looks at him and says, even if I had known the harm you were capable of dealing him, Ñolofinwë, even then, I would still have burned the boats. Did you think any of it would matter to me?

He jolts awake, heart racing, and his cheeks wet with tears. The mingling has already passed, Laurelin's light drifting through the air. Fingolfin puts his hands over his face and tries to think of anything but the sharp ache in his chest.

When he finally sits up, feeling more tired than he had before he'd lain down, he finds Fëanor sitting near the fire, quietly watching him as he spins a hunting dagger between his fingers. There are dark circles beginning to appear beneath Fëanor's eyes and Fingolfin spitefully hopes that some of his memories are haunting his brother as well.

He pushes himself to his feet and moves to Fëanor's side, dropping down next to him and pressing their shoulders together. Fëanor tenses for only a moment before relaxing against him.

"Is it truly hatred that you feel for me?" he hears himself ask, voice tired and thin, the echoes of his dream lingering in the space between each word. Fëanor does not answer and Fingolfin stares into the ashes and thinks of his childhood. Of knowing early on that, though he would never admit it, atar loved Fëanor best. Findis had known it too and had resented it. Mimicked Fëanor and escaped the palace as soon as she came of age, going to dwell with their mother's people. Fingolfin though.

Fingolfin had listened to atar speak of Fëanor and had thought, I want to be just like him. Had thought, atar wants me to be just like him. It had taken him so long to figure out that those were separate things. He knows now of course, that no one could ever hope to live up to the bar that Fëanor set. Knows now, that even if he could, it would not have mattered.

"It must be hate," Fëanor says finally, the words slow and heavy. "I have hated you for so long. It cannot be so easy for me to change my feelings within the course of only a few days."

"Maybe. Maybe it is so easy because you did not hate me. Not in truth."

Fëanor scoffs, shooting a disparaging look his way. "You are a fool if you think that."

"Then perhaps I am a fool," Fingolfin says with a sigh. It would not surprise him if he is simply reaching for smoke. "But why does the truth have to be a battle? Why can it not simply be a storm that has passed."

"A fool," Fëanor says again, but there's no bite to it and he does not move away from where their shoulders are pressed together. Fingolfin doesn’t think that’s enough to build hope on, but he will regardless.

☀︎

They discuss ways to immobilize Morgoth in a fight as they ride farther north. All their ideas though hinge on being able to slow him down enough that they have an opportunity to trap him. And that is where they falter.

"Maybe we don't need to immobilize him, Fëanor says finally. "Only stay alive long enough for one of the other Valar to appear."

"You trust them?" he asks doubtfully. Unable to imagine a world where Fëanor trusts the Valar.

Fëanor laughs. "Of course I do not. But if they approach he will either flee and implicate himself, or they will restrain him from killing us and we can argue as to why he should be thrown back into the void." It is not a bad idea and they put it as their backup plan.

When they grow tired of planning Fingolfin finds himself speaking about the children, about what they accomplished in Beleriand. He had not been able to protect any of them as well as he'd have liked. But it did not mean they had not accomplished much, even if some accomplishments came to him only by whisper.

Turgon and Aredhel he can say little on for he knows little. Galadriel he knows little of other than she'd disappeared into Doriath and had seemed to have no interest in coming out.

He speaks briefly of the aftermath of Maedhros being rescued. Not of his injuries or his nightmares but of the stubborn will he'd set to recovering. The way he'd dragged himself through recovery and what he couldn't find the will to push through Fingon and his brothers had pulled him through. He speaks of Fingon and Maedhros sparring. Of how he had grown in skill despite everything.

He speaks of all the children setting out in different directions to build their own fortresses and how he'd wanted to keep them close even as he knew they'd never let him. He speaks and he speaks and then must stop for the grief of what all has been lost wells up inside of him and threatens to overflow.

Yes, there had been death and war and blood and destruction. And it was easy for his mind to go there first. But when he speaks to Fëanor he remembers that there was also much that was good. They had built homes and planted roots and it pains him that all of that is gone. That only he will be able to truly remember how brutally Morgoth had tried to beat them down and how they'd managed to thrive despite that. Despite the doom. Despite everything.

"I want to go back," he says plaintively.

Fëanor stares at him with dark eyes and says, "I know. I can hear the land in your voice."

☀︎

Later, when they're quietly eating dinner, Fëanor looks over at him and says, "You took joy in being king."

Fingolfin sighs. "I believe I already responded to that."

"You were good at it." This is not a question. "You loved the land and the people."

Fingolfin stares at him, throat tight. Fëanor stares back, mouth pursed unhappily. "What do you want me to say?"

Fëanor shakes his head. "I wish for you to say nothing." He does not elaborate further and Fingolfin does not push.

But as he stares at the sky later, trying to fall asleep, he thinks of everything Fëanor hadn't said. The stark consideration in his eyes. And Fingolfin will not allow himself to truly hope, not yet, but a spark still kindles in his chest.

☀︎

the fourth loop

Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.

He stares uncomprehendingly at the ceiling. Is sure that he had still been outside beneath the sky when he’d fallen asleep. He is just as sure that he had not died. And yet, here he is, back in his bed, and he knows without checking, that time has un-sung itself again. Knows without checking that Fëanor has once again forgotten everything.

The understanding creeps into his thoughts slowly, held back only by his unwillingness to acknowledge what some part of him has already grasped. He does not want to understand. But he cannot push it away forever and — three days. He had, has, three days. Because it is not enough that he must repeat this again and again until he wins safety for his family! No! He must also do so within a set number of days!

He has to pull a pillow over his face and scream. He screams until his throat feels raw, until the pressure in his chest no longer feels as if it is going to collapse his lungs. Then he gets up, dresses in his hunting gear, and stalks out of his room in hunt of a spear.

It’s easy enough to grab a spare hunting spear and then, as an afterthought, because it certainly can’t hurt, he straps on a couple of hunting knives and slings a bow and quiver of arrows onto his back. He does not feel angry precisely. Not in the way he had when he’d stormed the gates of Angband and called for Morgoth to face him. His mind is eerily silent, focused only on the best manner in which to begin the fight. He feels deadly furious in the same way the Helcaraxë had during the times the wind had died down and they’d trekked across it in a blanket of white silence. It had no need to do anything but wait until one of them stepped in the wrong place, until one of them simply ended up with the cold too far into their lungs. Similarly, he has no need for subtlety when one way or another Morgoth is going to flee from his hand. If it’s this song or ten songs from now - Morgoth will run from him.

He could of course do many things. Could go find Fëanor. Could sit down and piece together any one of the plans he had outlined with Fëanor. But there is, in the end, nothing to lose and everything to gain from simply going for Morgoth immediately. At worst, he dies and once again wakes up. At best, he ends this.

Grievously injuring Morgoth with a knife to the neck had prevented him from growing quite so large, though why precisely that was so effective he couldn’t say. But it stands to reason that if he can wound Morgoth in a similar manner before the true fight begins then he’ll have an advantage.

He did not linger in his room overly long this time, so there is much time left still before that meeting and Fëanor is not yet present to interrogate him. He still slips out the back of the castle, into the gardens, and moves toward the city from the side. He refuses to be waylaid this time.

Fëanor had been correct when he’d said that Morgoth walked nearly the same path in the city every morning. And it’s simple enough to find a corner to linger in on the outskirts of the city while he awaits Morgoth’s approach. Best to attack before he gets into the city proper. Less opportunity for anyone else to get in the way.

The surprise, is that this works.

He sees Morgoth approaching and crouches in the shadows, breathes in slowly, and as soon as Morgoth’s back is visible breathes out in a rush as he throws the spear straight and true. It is a pity that the Valar do not seem capable of dying at the hands of an elf, for Fingolfin would have just struck the killing blow. The bellow of pain that erupts from Morgoth as the spear pierces his belly seems to shake the ground, but Fingolfin does not let himself stumble or hesitate.

He draws his bow and shoots once, twice, thrice — the first misses as Morgoth whirls to face him; the second grazes his cheek as all his treacherous beauty melts away to reveal eyes so full of loathing that they suck the light from the air; the third buries itself true in Morgoth’s shoulder and his yell of pain shakes through the streets once more. And then, with a sickening squelch he reaches behind him and pulls the spear out of his body, staggering to the side when it rips free. Fingolfin really wished that the Valar could just die like the rest of them.

He throws the bow to the side, finding it useless now that Morgoth is moving toward him with murderous intent. His movements are jerky and Fingolfin palms a knife in each hand, wary of the spear’s reach and unsure how much strength Morgoth still has.

He waits until the last moment, until Morgoth is so close that he is pulling his arm back to strike, and then he feints left, darting forward on the right and slashing his knife across Morgoth's arm. But either Morgoth anticipated the feint or can move faster than Fingolfin had thought possible, for even as his knife draws blood Morgoth is grabbing for his throat and there is one awful cut off second where he cannot breathe before Morgoth throws him across the street. He lands poorly, a sharp pain radiating through his chest and, if the searing pain is any indication, his left wrist is now broken.

He ruthlessly pushes the pain away and gets to his feet quickly, keeping his left hand tucked against his stomach. Finds Morgoth already striding forward and braces himself, bends his knees just slightly, knife clutched tight. If he’s going to die again, he’s going to at least make the bastard hurt as he goes out. Morgoth is three steps away and Fingolfin’s mind is very quiet and —

— an arrow comes flying through the air and pierces Morgoth’s knee. Morgoth spins around, stumbling as he does so, and there is Fëanor, furious and blazing, Fingolfin’s dropped bow in his hand. Drawn by the noise, Fingolfin thinks, distantly noting that Fëanor is not the only person suddenly nearby. But Morgoth’s back is right there and his hatred of Fëanor already so dark that he’s temporarily forgotten Fingolfin, and it is the easiest thing in the world to dart forward and bury his knife in Morgoth’s back, twisting and jerking it sideways as he goes to move away.

Morgoth screams, his entire form flickering, and for a moment Fingolfin sees dragon fire and ash at the center of him. Then he is too busy trying to not pass out as Morgoth backhands him so hard it sends him crashing into a wall. Distantly he thinks he hears the call of a horn but the sound of his own breathing is so loud that it’s hard to tell. Each breath hurts but he makes himself open his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet again, legs shaking and vision blurring for a moment when he moves his wrist wrong.

It blurs and then when it clears he sees that Morgoth has fled. The horn rings through the air again, still distant but drawing ever closer, and it is nice to know that Fëanor had been right. When pushed into a corner, Morgoth would flee before the other Valar arrived. He leans against the wall, trembling and so fucking relieved he could cry.

“You fucking idiot!” Fëanor yells, appearing in front of him suddenly, incandescent with rage. “What were you thinking!”

Fingolfin stares. Thinks of himself asking, and if it is still not enough, and Fëanor’s calm, then we will try again. Thinks of the implicit promise in that. A promise that Fëanor had not seemed to doubt would carry across songs. “Fëanor,” he says. Catches the name sliding out wrong and corrects himself. “Fëanáro.”

Fëanor’s eyes narrow even as his hands hover near him, ready to catch him if he falls. “You are lucky you are not dead,” he snaps.

“I am not dead,” he agrees. And then, the absurdity of such a statement hits him and he starts laughing, which sends pain branching out through his chest. “Fëanáro. I am not dead.”

There’s a flicker of uneasy fear in Fëanor’s eyes at his laughter. He pulls in a gasping breath, nausea swirling in his stomach, and opens his mind, reaching out desperately. Fëanor flinches even as he reaches back. I am not dead, he thinks, pushes off the wall and steps forward to drop his forehead against Fëanor’s chest, this time. He flings his memories of death at Fëanor and feels his brother stiffen.

Fëanor’s hand settles on the back of his neck and squeezes, feeling nearly as much a threat as a comfort. “If you were not already grievously injured,” Fëanor says lowly, voice dark and furious, “I would punch you.”

“It is a good thing I am grievously injured then.” He leans more of his weight on Fëanor. His head aches and every time he opens his eyes his vision swims.

You are an idiot, Fëanor thinks, the thought very heavy. And before Fingolfin can think to respond, his brother is quietly singing a cradle of sleep about him. He could fight it if he cared to. But it’s so much easier to sink into the warmth of it and hope that he will not find the song has unsung itself when he next awakes.

Please, he thinks, prays, hopes, pleads as he falls asleep. Please let this song last.

Rest, Fëanor thinks, his mind wrapping around Fingolfin’s protectively. I will be here when you awake. If Fingolfin had still been awake, he’d have told his brother to not make promises he couldn’t keep.

☀︎

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Chapter End Notes

Fëanor on his way to the castle and suddenly hearing Morgoth bellow in pain: what the fuck is going on

Fëanor arriving at the scene of the fight and at first only being able to see that Morgoth is bleeding: what fucking idiot decided to fight a Valar in the streets????

Fëanor finally catching sight of Fingolfin looking half-feral and cradling his wrist to his stomach: wait. that's my fucking idiot