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

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6. cause you said ours were the lighthouse towers

chapter title is from Gracious by Ben Howard

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H of H: I cannot rise. Too heavy with filth and sin.

Th: Give me your hand.

H of H: I'll stain you.

Th: I'll take it.

H of H Playbook | Anne Carson

 ☀︎

the fifth loop (continued)

Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.

There is one bitten off half-minute where he can almost convince himself that he can still feel Fëanor's warmth against his shoulder and then it fades away and there's nothing left but a deep grief that goes carving its way through him. He stares at the ceiling, feeling too weary to even cry; curls up on his side and pulls the covers over his head.

He has no plans. Even his anger has gone quiet, burnt out and dormant for the time being. He has only grief and a desire to deal with none of this ever again. Does not know how he is meant to watch Fëanor's eyes grow softer in increments over the three days he is granted and then be expected to deal with them going cold and hard again when everything is un-sung. Does not know how he is meant to watch his family begin to stitch itself back together only for all the progress to be un-sung. Does not know how he is meant to be the only one to carry all these memories of different days and have nothing to show for it.

He loses time. Keeps his eyes closed and his mind carefully blank and pretends that the darkness beneath the sheets will never go away. He dozes in snatches. Keeps jerking awake with fear and anxiety thrumming through his veins. Does not want to sleep. Does not want to be awake. Does not particularly want to be anything. He wants to dissolve into smoke and ash the way he'd heard Fëanor had when he'd died. Thinks everything inside of him is too frigid and frozen to do such a thing.

He wonders if perhaps it would have been easier to soldier on through song after song if he had done it all completely on his own. If he'd kept all his emotions out of it until it was over. If Fëanor had never involved himself and forced Fingolfin to deal with him whether he wanted to or not. Fingolfin wants to take all his feelings regarding his brother and stuff them back inside of a box and not look at them for another century. Wants to never have learned that Fëanor is capable of caring about him for it makes everything so much worse.

Makes him wonder if maybe there was something he could have done, before everything went wrong, to make Fëanor see him and care. What an awful idea. To think that if he had only tried harder he could have fixed things. What an awful thing to now have the knowledge that not only is Fëanor capable of caring about him but about the rest of his siblings as well. Was there something more they could have done?

And why, he wonders once again, the thought only making the exhaustion grow, must it all be on their shoulders to fix? Is Fëanor not the oldest? Should it not be his job to bridge the gap?

He does not know how long he lays there lost in his thoughts before he hears the faint sound of a knock from the other room. Knows who it is even before he hears Fëanor's voice float through the air. He burrows further under the covers, wills him to go away. Knows of course that it is as useless a thought as it ever is even before he hears the door to the sitting room open, Fëanor once again having absolutely no respect for locked doors.

He hears Fëanor call his name, less anger in it that he would have expected, and wonders if he should have gone and hidden in his closet until Fëanor went away. An embarrassing thought to even entertain but a promising one if he had only moved faster. Instead he stays quiet and does not move when he hears Fëanor call his name again or when the bedroom door opens.

"Ñolofinwë?" Fëanor sounds more puzzled than angry. Not that Fingolfin can particularly blame him. Not that Fingolfin is allowed to blame him for anything, and if he thinks on that for too long he fears the anger may return regardless of his exhaustion. There's the sound of footsteps moving through the room and then Fëanor tugging at the covers.

"Go away," he says, wincing at how hoarse his voice is.

Fëanor pauses and then begins pulling at the covers in earnest. "What is wrong with you?" Fëanor demands. "You have been missing all day. Atar is worried."

Fingolfin is far too tired to contain the derisive snort that claws its way out of his throat. Fëanor finally succeeds in ripping the covers away from him and Fingolfin squints at the light. Laurelin is terribly bright after hiding in the dark for so long. "Go away," he says again.

Fëanor is staring down at him with a frown. "Have you been in bed all day?"

Fingolfin does not answer. Closes his eyes and hides his face against the pillow. Hopes that this one time Fëanor will go away. He is so tired and Fëanor always finds a way to push him to keep going and he does not want to. He does not want to.

"Nolvo?" Fëanor sits on the side of the bed and Fingolfin quietly resigns himself to Fëanor's presence. If he has learned only one thing from the past few songs, it is that the moment Fëanor begins calling him Nolvo, it is too late to run him off. Not, that any of Fingolfin's attempts at running him off on purpose have worked. "What has happened? You have never passed up an opportunity before to try and usurp atar's attention."

"Please go away," he snaps, chest going unbearably tight. It still has not gotten any easier to hear Fëanor's casual dislike of him so soon after he’s had his brother look at him and see him. He tries to pull the covers back over his head but Fëanor grabs them before he can.

"Tell me what is wrong and I will," Fëanor counters, still frowning at him. "You are acting strange."

Fingolfin, horrifically, feels that great all-encompassing grief carve another gash through his body, his breath hitching. "I—," his voice cracks, "I am so tired," he says, which explains nothing. And he is weak and tired and had fallen asleep in the previous song with Fëanor a long line of comforting heat against his side and without any conscious decision made to do so, he finds himself shifting so that he can hide his face against Fëanor's hip.

There is a long silence in which Fëanor does not push him away and Fingolfin finds himself starting to drift again, the warmth radiating off Fëanor sinking into his skin and melting its way through his body. "What do you mean you are tired?" Fëanor asks eventually, hesitantly resting his hand on the back of Fingolfin's head.

"I am tired," he says again quietly. "I do not want to do this. Any of this. I want,” he falters, not sure what he wants. Settles on, “I want to rest. I am so tired, Fëanáro.”

"Whatever has happened cannot be that dire," Fëanor says and his voice is calm but Fingolfin can feel that he's gone tense.

Fingolfin does not answer. Has used up all his words. Stays pressed up against Fëanor and lets his mind drift without thinking about anything at all. It is easier to think of nothing with Fëanor next to him. Easier to rest, safe in the knowledge that should something dire occur Fëanor is nearby. At some point Fëanor begins running his fingers through Fingolfin's hair and it does not take long after that for him to fall asleep in truth.

 ☀︎

He dreams of the ice near the end of their journey. The way they'd all become so accustomed to it that walking onto the grass had felt sacrosanct. The sun rising for the first time and leaving the ice glittering had only made it more so. For a brief moment there had been a tangible hope in the air that the worst had passed. That they had finally made it.

Then there had been only shouting and blood and Fingolfin's heart in his throat as he watched his youngest cut his way through to the captain of the orcs. He does not regret going to Beleriand but oh, some days the bitter grief that it had brought him rivaled the joy so fiercely, as if it was trying to make him regret not regretting it.

He runs, trying to get closer, and he does get closer to Argon than he had during the actual battle. So close that when the orcs sword pierces his belly, Fingolfin is only seconds behind cutting off its head. But seconds are all that is needed and he is once again on bloodstained ground, holding his child and wondering if it was worth it.

In the dream the bodies pile around him. His people mixed with the orcs and he cannot breathe for the stench and the blood staining his hands and—

He sits up in bed with a choking gasp, heart racing. Still cannot breathe around the phantom stench of death. A warm hand settles on his back and he does not even think before instinctively reaching out, his mind scrambling for the fire that it clearly remembers burning his nightmare away before. He does not know if Fëanor recoils this time, knows only that a great fire does indeed go blazing through his mind, and he finally drags in a breath, tries to let that be enough.

"Well," Fëanor says quietly, "I am proven it wrong it seems. It can be that dire."

He pulls in another shaking breath. And then another. Lays his memories out for Fëanor to wade through as he wishes and lies back down, curling up and hiding his face against Fëanor's side once again. Fëanor has re-arranged them at some point while he slept. His brother leaning back against the bed frame, legs stretched out on the bed, presumably to be more comfortable while Fingolfin slept. He feels Fëanor treading water in his memories, cradling them in his hands as they float by. He catches the memory of the boats, fire painting the sky red, and the great billowing clouds of smoke that had blotted out the stars for days as it lingered. Catches the memory of himself, what seems only hours ago, saying very quietly, I believe I am willing to try.

Fëanor holds the memory for a long time before moving to once again run his fingers through Fingolfin's hair, and then says, "I told you did I not? He is not well."

"I never said I did not believe you," his mother says quietly from his other side and he does not quite manage to stop the flinch that goes through him.

Be calm, Fëanor thinks, his mind folding protectively around Fingolfin's. I believed she deserved to know. There is a singularly strange emotion attached to that thought, one Fingolfin has not yet felt from Fëanor. Some strange mix of stale grief and anxious fear all bundled together that sinks into the fire of Fëanor's mind like greenwood and begins to smoke.

Deserved to know what, Fingolfin thinks in bewilderment.

Fëanor does not answer but Fingolfin gets a glimpse of green gardens and silver light, a weeping willow trailing in the river, before it is all locked away from view. Fingolfin has never seen Lórien with his own eyes but seems to instinctively know it despite that. "I am not fading," he says and with how tired how he sounds, even to his own ears, he's not sure he even believes himself. "I do not think I can fade." This he believes.

"Perhaps you cannot fade in this song," Fëanor says gravely, "but eventually the song will continue on unending and what will you do if you have burnt yourself out before you even reach it."

"Arakáno," his mother says softly, "will you not tell me what it is that has happened?" Her hand is shaking when she places it on his shoulder.

Fingolfin does not wish for his mother to know of the tragedy that had settled over their lives. Does not want to explain the hatred and the venom and the slow rupturing of their family. Does not want to hand her the memory of atar's body when there is still so much furious resentment braided in with the grief. Does not want her to see their last conversation or the blood-soaked beach, his footsteps staying in his brother's shadow even then. He does not want her to see all the endless death. No matter that she still remembers Cuiviénen, it is not quite the same as the blatant war that has haunted his footsteps for centuries.

Fëanor sighs heavily. "Just tell her, Nolvo." This is what mother's do is it not? Lend their strength to their children when they need it? There is a heavy dose of bitterness attached to the thought but Fingolfin can feel the way Fëanor is trying to muffle it.

I do not know how, he sends back, miserably trying to convey how very ill equipped he is for such a conversation.

You are unnecessarily dramatic, Fëanor tells him before unfolding himself from around Fingolfin's mind. You told me. You are not such a coward that you cannot do the same for your mother.

He knows of course that Fëanor is correct. Reluctantly leaves the warm safety of Fëanor's mind and reaches for his mother. She is already waiting, mind open wide to receive him, a spring storm that gently washes its way through his mind. Oh, she thinks, the word caught on a breeze. She washes through the memories in no specific order, taking in whichever ones come to her first. Sinks into the last memory he has of her before the exile, the angry words they'd exchanged. Your father followed him to Formenos and got himself killed, she had snapped, and you are going to follow him to a savage land and do the same. He is not worth that kind of loyalty. Not from you.

He is my king, he had said, unable to fathom the idea of staying behind and taking up the kingship when he had only just swore to follow Fëanor.

He will get you killed. He cares not for you, she'd said, part terror, part pleading, all fury. You will regret this.

He is my brother, he had responded, unable to put into words why that was so vitally important, even then, even though he knew Fëanor still would not admit to such a thing.

Was it worth it? She asks.

Yes, he thinks immediately, pulls up what good memories he can muster in the moment. Feels another deep pain of longing to return when he hands over Barad Eithel in the spring, dripping with flowers, the sun setting the white stone on fire as it rises. I want to go back. If I ever fix whatever it is I'm meant to be fixing, I want to go back.

The bed dips behind him as she settles on it, leaning against his legs. And what a strange feeling to be bracketed in by Fëanor and his mother, two people that so rarely co-exist peacefully. Fëanor is still gently combing his fingers through Fingolfin's hair. His mother’s hand settles on his hip, a reminder that he is not alone. She tugs at the parent-child between them that has been so seldom touched since he came of age and quietly begins sending energy through it.

"Thank you," she says to Fëanor, voice carefully even.

"Which hurts more? Losing the one who gave you life or losing the one who you gave life to?" Fëanor asks lowly, some undercurrent of emotion to the words that Fingolfin is too tired to grasp.

His mother does not answer. Fingolfin is already drifting again, being lulled back asleep by the safety and warmth on either side of him. He wonders if perhaps Fëanor is right to be worried for he does not think he should still be so bone-tired after sleeping for so long.

Right as he's slipping into darkness he hears his mother say, "Does it matter which hurts more? Pain is not a competition, Fëanor. Even if I did lose my son to exhaustion I would not set my pain on a scale against yours."

Sleep take him then and if his brother answers he does not hear it.

 ☀︎

He does not dream. Exists without having to acknowledge that he exists. If he could have stayed in that liminal space forever he would have. Fingolfin is tired of existing. Is tired of planning, tired of tearing himself open so that his family can use the blood as a path to fixing themselves.

He is just tired.

As it is, when he wakes once more, he finds himself simply thankful for the lack of dreams. Keeps his eyes closed and takes in the warmth he can feel still surrounding him. Fëanor is still next to him, his fingers tangled in Fingolfin’s hair but slack as if he’s fallen asleep. There is another body in the bed next to him as well, their back pressed against his and it takes a few moments to figure out who, but Lalwen has never been good at being silent, always moving or laughing or yelling or singing. She’s chosen a quieter path this time and is softly humming — a cheery tune that goes spinning through the air to get caught on the doorways and the curtains, ready to settle on your shoulder when you least expect it and give you a burst of cheer.

He can still feel his mother feeding energy through their bond, a thin stream of slow but steady energy, as if he is once again an elfling who cannot survive on his own. He thinks it is perhaps helping, for he is still so tired it aches, but it no longer seems to be sunk into his bones.

"Nésa," he says softly, carefully turning to face her while trying to not wake Fëanor.  

Her humming cuts off and she turns over to face him. Her face is creased with a worry that is completely at odds with the tune she'd been humming. "Háno," she returns, knees knocking against his. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, presses them to his pulse, and he wonders what they've told her. "They said you are tired," she says quietly, eyes narrowed. "Fëanáro is worried and they said you are tired."

"I am tired," he agrees softly and she must hear some of it in his voice for fear strikes across her face.

"But why," she demands. "How does one suddenly, does one—" her voice breaks. "You cannot do this háno, you cannot."

"Ask ammë." He cannot tell it all again. "Or Fëanáro I suppose."

This was perhaps the wrong thing to say, for given an immediate and clear target she sits up and with no hesitation pokes Fëanor in the arm. And then harder when it does nothing. "Fëanáro. Fëanáro. Náro!"

After the fifth time she says his name Fëanor jerks awake. "Írimë, what are you doing?" He sounds deeply irritated even as his hand seems to automatically settle on Fingolfin's head.

"Nolvo said to ask you what is wrong." The demand in her voice is sharp.

There is a long silence before Fëanor sighs explosively. "The song of the world is being sung and un-sung about him every three days. He is thousands of years older than us and has died many times and has not yet found a way to make the song stick, which is the most immediate issue, though far from the only one."

Her grip on his wrist goes bruisingly tight for a moment. "If you were anyone else I would accuse you of trying to make a fool of me," she says lightly. "So, what are we doing about it?"

"We are letting him rest," Fëanor says, that strange undercurrent to his voice that Fingolfin cannot parse still present, "in hopes that it will help him continue on during the next song."

"Absolutely not," she says immediately. "He is not going to lay in bed for three days. How will that help anything?"

"And what would you have him do instead?" Fëanor snaps.

"Do I get any say in this?" he asks, a weak spark of amusement flaring to life in his chest despite everything.

"No," Lalwen tells him, already moving to pull him off the bed. "Let's go. You're not going to lay in here for three days. One was enough."

"The mingling has not even begun yet," Fëanor says in exasperation. "Where exactly are you going?"

Fingolfin lets himself be pulled out of bed and shoved toward the closet. "You have no imagination," Lalwen tells Fëanor, ignoring his sputtering as she tells Fingolfin to get dressed.

He briefly considers fighting it. Is sure that if he wished to go back to bed Fëanor would let him and in a battle of wills he is sure Fëanor would eventually win. Though, he cannot in truth say how long a battle of wills between Fëanor and Lalwen would last. Long enough that fighting it seems as if it would take more energy than he cares to put forth. She grabs his wrist and starts tugging him out of the room as soon as he's done, Fëanor following behind them looking exasperated and thoroughly through with the whole adventure.

The palace is silent as they follow Lalwen through the halls, everyone else reasonably asleep. It has been a long time since Fingolfin has snuck around the palace at night. It feels a little like a dream he's had before. Stalking the palace halls, looking for solutions to problems he cannot solve, and then waking in his bed in Beleriand with an ache in his chest.

She leads them outside and into Tirion, weaving through the quiet streets and never letting go of Fingolfin's wrist, as if she expects him to flee if she lets him go. It is his lot in life he supposes, to be forcefully guided through the city by his siblings. She walks on and on, leading them out of the city heading north and looks over her shoulder with a sharp grin when Fëanor quietly goes, oh, I see.

She leads them up a hill, up onto the rocky cliffs, the sea spread out before them, and then farther up still. He is beginning to find himself curious, sure she has a destination in mind but unable to imagine what is up here other than more rocks.

They reach a point where thickets of thorns begin lining the cliffs, a warning to be careful, and Lalwen slows, lets go of his wrist. Slides sideways suddenly into a gap between the thorns and disappears down the cliffside. Fëanor grabs his arm when he lurches forward after her, stopping him from flinging himself directly into the thorns.

"She is fine," Fëanor says exasperatedly. "Only dramatic and reckless."

Lalwen's head pops up over the side of the cliff. She's grinning wildly and Fingolfin is firmly convinced that everyone in his family is insane. "Come on," she says, waving impatiently. "Don't slip."

Fingolfin briefly considers refusing but sighs after a moment and carefully slides between the thorns to find that there's a narrow incline hidden behind them that drops down sharply, which she had slid down, and at the bottom he finds there is a cave that goes back a good way.

Fëanor slides down behind him, pushing him into the cave and away from the edge. "You are going to fall one day going down so quickly," he tells Lalwen.

She snorts and waves her hand dismissively at him. "You are no fun. I have not fallen yet."

“Yet,” Fëanor mutters.

Fingolfin looks around the cave with a steadily growing baffled amusement. “Nésa, how did you get all of this stuff down here?” There’s a pile of blankets, a small end table, cushions, lamps, a precariously balanced stack of books that must be damaged by the weather and he can only hope are not too valuable.

She shrugs. “Set it on the ground and let it slide down. Some stuff made it and some did not. What you see is what survived.”

He cannot help but laugh and wonder how many things are lying at the bottom of the sea that had not made it even as she guides him back toward the opening of the cave. She drops a cushion on the ground and pushes him down onto it. Walks off and comes back with a blanket that she drops on his head. Fëanor and Lalwen settle on either side of him and he does not want to admit it, but the fresh air, the view of the sea — it is helping the slightest bit.

They sit in silence for a long while. He pulls his blanket tight around shoulders to ward off the chill from the ocean air and leans his head on Fëanor’s shoulder, happily soaking up the heat from where they are pressed against each other. Lalwen presses against his other side, her fingers tangled with his as she hums the same cheerful tune she’d been humming when he woke. The mingling begins to fade away slowly, Laurelin asserting herself through the air, and he watches the golden light play across the ocean and wishes for nothing so much as he wishes for the simple beauty of a sunrise.

He opens his mind, reaches out to both of his siblings at once. Look, he thinks, handing them both a memory of standing in the middle of Ard-galen, miles and miles of uninterrupted green grass and wildflowers stretching out in front of him as the sun slowly rose and painted the sky golden-red.

It’s beautiful, Lalwen thinks, dancing through his memories of Beleriand. She does not linger on the death or war or pain — dances through the sunrises and sunsets, the summer thunderstorms and swirling snowstorms, finds the simple joys such as galloping around Hithlum as he trained Rochallor. She finds the laughter, slides between the memories and plucks out every moment of joy she can find. It was all beautiful, she thinks.

Not all.

Enough.

Fëanor is silent, still blazing in the memory of the sunrise, and then, we should kill the trees after we have taken care of Morgoth.

There’s a beat of dumbfounded silence as they both look at him. “Excuse me?” he demands. “We cannot kill the trees.”

“You wish for the sun. For the moon. Why can we not?” Fëanor says in such a reasonable tone one might be tempted to believe him in any lesser matter.

“I do not in truth know how either came into being,” he points out. “We cannot kill them.”

“I’m sure he can, he is quite capable of it,” Lalwen says, still cheerfully poking through his memories, “but he perhaps should not.”

He elbows her in the side hard. Does not like the stark look of true consideration that has settled on Fëanor’s face. “In your memories, when we quarreled I spoke of thralldom,” he says, sending a chill through Fingolfin’s heart. Fëanor tugs at the memory and Fingolfin snaps his mind closed. Fëanor levels him with an unimpressed stare. “I spoke of thralldom and of bondage and freedom. I see now that I was right but that I should also have spoken of abandonment and duty to our kin still in the East.”

Fingolfin is not sure if he should despair or take hope in the way Fëanor has shifted his perspective slightly to the left. Is not sure how he feels about the fact that after so long in Beleriand, he is not even sure if he disagrees with any of his brother’s words, only the manner in which he spoke them. Yet still. “You cannot kill the trees,” he says again helplessly. There is something viscerally wrong about the idea of committing the same act which Morgoth did even if for better reasons.

“Is it not our duty to force the Valar’s hand when we know that they are capable of providing all of Arda with light and warmth if they would only try?” Fëanor is deadly serious, righteous fire cutting through every word.

“We could also simply ask,” Lalwen says, reaching over and sharply tugging at Fëanor’s hair. He hisses in annoyance and jerks away. “Not everything must be a war.” Her laughter is muted as she studies Fëanor. “Is that not how all of this began in the un-sung song? War between brothers? War between the Noldor and the Valar? Blood threatened and blood spilt?”

“And you think that they will do as we ask?” Fëanor asks derisively. “You believe that they care about the land they have left shrouded in darkness?”

Lalwen rolls her eyes and in the same breath, reaches behind herself, grabs another pillow, and swings it directly into Fëanor’s face. Fingolfin falls backwards to avoid also being hit and then watches in dismay as Fëanor tears the pillow from her hands and smacks her in the face with it in retaliation. Something she does not seem to mind in the slightest as she steals Fingolfin’s pillow and promptly begins to try her best to beat Fëanor over the head with it. And then they are off, scrambling around the cave as they try to beat each other up, all while sniping at each other about the merits and drawbacks of killing the trees.

Fingolfin sits and watches, eyebrows raised incredulously. He is not quite sure he’s ever seen anyone attempt to de-escalate a brewing argument with Fëanor in such a way and is only half-sure it’s working. Is only half-sure this is not going to end with one of them tripping and hurting themselves.

"I should throw you in the sea," Fëanor mutters later after they've finally tired themselves out and collapsed near Fingolfin. They did not come to an agreement but they also did not erupt into a true argument as he had expected.

Lalwen snorts and half-heartedly aims a punch at his shoulder. "I would drag you with me."

"You are both ridiculous," he tells them, feeling disgustingly fond regardless.

"And you are smiling," Lalwen says, relief bright and terrible in her eyes.

He is smiling, is not quite sure when he started, but there is something incredibly light and uplifting about watching the two of them fight with no intention of true hurt. It feels too much like hope and he is tired of hoping only for it to come to nothing but it is so difficult not to when he is reminded that there is so much laughter still to be had.

"We will solve this," Fëanor says into the silence, fire blazing in his voice and the stirrings of an oath beneath the words. "You must not give up."

"I am not giving up," he agrees, "I cannot give up. But I am still tired." It is still there, waiting only for him to lay back down. It is easier in the light with his siblings near him, but he knows he will lay back down and will not want to rise again. Does not know how to fix that.

Fëanor's face goes tight with worry but he says only, "Then we will lend you energy until you can continue on your own."

"Do you really think it is that easy?" He does not mean it is an accusation or dare. Genuinely does not believe it can be that easy when Míriel had not been loved any less than he and had still slipped away.

Fëanor narrows his eyes, the desperation badly hidden beneath the stubborn furiosity when he says, “It will. I will not—,” he scowls as his voice cracks, “—I will not lose anyone else.”

Fingolfin does not have the heart to tell him that it will not be his choice. Fingolfin will not give up, only because he cannot. The songs will continue to un-sing themselves until he fixes whatever it is that must be fixed and he will carry on until he manages it. But he does not know if when he fixes things— he does not know. He is so tired and there is still so long to go with no promise of rest in sight. “I will try,” he settles on, unable to offer anything else.

Lalwen and Fëanor have never looked so similar as they do in that moment, staring at him with wounded, terror-stricken eyes.

“As long as you try,” Lalwen says after the silence has begun to suffocate them all. She wraps her arms around him, flinging her legs across his lap as if she can keep him safe merely by covering his body with her own. He rests his head on top of hers and closes his eyes. Hums in contentment when Fëanor settles on his other side, his arms wrapping around them both.

“We will solve this,” Fëanor says once more. Fingolfin isn’t sure any of them believe the words but it will have to be enough for now.

 ☀︎

They all troop back to the palace when mid-day begins to approach and his stomach makes a truly awful sound as it reminds him of just how long it has been since he last ate. They will not allow him to go back to his rooms. They do not say that it is because they do not wish him to go back to bed, but he can see it in the look they exchange. Instead he follows Lalwen to her rooms as Fëanor disappears to find food.

Lalwen’s rooms are a riot of color. Bright yellow tapestries, violent pink flowers, scarves of all colors braided together and hung across various surfaces. There is not a single neutral color and it all clashes in such a way that it nearly hurts his eyes to look at. “Your room is a tragedy,” he mutters, curling up in an armchair that is a deep purple which does not match the rest of the furniture at all.

“My room is interesting,” she says, grinning as she always does when someone says this. “It is not my fault I am the only one in this family with a personality.”

“Your personality is tragic as well then,” he tells her only to receive a pillow to the face for his troubles. “I cannot believe that you got away with hitting Fëanor in the face,” he says after he has thrown it back.

She brightens, true excitement playing across her face as she flops onto the settee. “Yes, I knew he secretly liked me!”

Fingolfin’s chest aches at that. Is not sure that is true at all. Still remembers that it had not been until Lalwen was fifteen, just old enough to understand Fëanor’s dislike of them, that she had taken up the habit of calling him háno instead of his name, a habit that had stuck even as she’d gotten older. It has never been a mystery as to what inspired such a habit, though he is sure Fëanor has never paid it any attention at all, and he wants to shake Fëanor every time he is reminded that it is not only him that was hurt by Fëanor’s inability to act as an elder brother should. But he will not say any of that to her. Says only, “I’m sure he’ll never admit it.”

Fëanor, when he finally returns, brings not only food but Findis and Finarfin trailing behind him as well. Findis stands in front of his chair and stares down at him for a minute, hands on her hips and brow furrowed, and then turns to Fëanor. “I am still not sure you’re not simply trying to make fools of us but I suppose he does look tired.”

Finarfin, standing behind the settee with his arms crossed, frowns at Findis. “Fëanor would not lie about such a thing.”

“Listen to Áro,” Fëanor says, glaring at Findis even as he passes Fingolfin a plate of food. Finarfin shoots a startled look at Fëanor’s back.

“Yeah, don’t be stupid, Fin Fin,” Lalwen says, smiling sharply when Findis turns her glare from Finarfin to her.

“Call me that again and I will strangle you with one of these stupid scarves,” Findis snaps. “It is a valid concern considering who it is that told us such a thing.”

“And what does that mean?” Fëanor snaps back, feet planted as he squares off with her.

“It means,” Findis says viciously, “that you have never shown any of us an ounce of care before and that I have no reason to believe you would do such a thing now unless to mock us for your own amusement.”

Fëanor does not flinch. Does not try to argue otherwise. Only stares at her as the tension pulls tighter. “I have not cared for you,” he agrees finally, “but that does not mean I wish any of you dead or that I would mock such a thing.”

“What does it matter to you if we die?” Findis asks, nothing but cruel practicality in her voice. “It would be only one less child of Indis for you to hate. What do you care?”

“Findis,” Lalwen hisses.

Fëanor’s nostrils flare in anger, jaw clenching tight. Fingolfin is not quite sure how this spiraled out of control so quickly but he thinks back to the last song and thinks maybe he should not be surprised. “Findis,” he says softly, grabbing her hand. “He is trying to help.”

She looks down sharply, frowning as she takes him in again. “You are always too quick to forgive him,” she says, though some of the bite has left her voice. She studies him for another moment, sounding bewildered when she says, “You do sound tired. What has happened so suddenly to exhaust you so?”

“I—” he does not know what he means to say and his voice breaks before he can figure it out. Saying any of it out-loud feels too big, too all-consuming. He shakes his head, gesturing toward Fëanor and Lalwen instead. Settles back in his chair and sets to work eating instead.

There is a moment of silence, Fëanor and Lalwen looking at each other expectantly. Findis puts her hands on her hips, foot tapping out an impatient rhythm. “Well?” she demands.

Fëanor and Lalwen stare each other down for another minute before Fëanor makes an aggravated noise and says nearly the same thing he had told Lalwen earlier. "The song of the world is being sung and unsung about him every three days. He has died many times and seen far more years than us and has not yet found a way to make the song stick, which is the most immediate issue. He is exhausted and we—” he says fiercely, pointing at Findis, “— have already had this fight once before.”

The silence hangs stifling in the air for a moment before Finarfin makes a dismayed nose and says, “What is wrong with this family?”

They all cannot help but laugh at that, for is that not the question everyone in Tirion has asked since Míriel faded. Findis drops to the floor in front of his chair, leaning her head against his legs, Fëanor sits beside Lalwen on the settee, and Finarfin folds himself into the other armchair, sitting cross-legged as they all silently eat and consider each other. 

“How far into the future did you live?” Finarfin asks curiously when he’s done eating. He’s studying Fingolfin in a way that draws to mind nothing so much as Fëanor in the first few songs curiously studying him as if he wishes to break the problem apart and examine it. It is still not a feeling Fingolfin cares for no matter that it is from a different source.

“Too far,” he says, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him just at the thought of all that had occurred. “Or perhaps not far enough. Perhaps the song would not have un-sung itself if I had carried on.” The Fëanor from his dream flashes in front of his eyes again, 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? He does not want to say that the words hold merit. Cannot deny that the first part is true.

“Will it be worth it?” Findis asks, tipping her head back to look up at him, mouth set in a thin, serious line. “When it’s over and the song continues unbroken. Will it have been worth it?” Her eyes flick to the settee where Lalwen is resting her head on Fëanor’s shoulder and he knows what she is really asking.

You wanted Fëanor to acknowledge you. To acknowledge us. Is the price too high now that what you wanted has been granted? He does not know. If he had been given a choice, which would he have chosen? Would he have chosen to keep a song full of blood and death where he got to rest in the halls? Or would he have been told the cost of the constant un-singings and grabbed onto the chance with both hands? He fears he knows the answer and it makes none of this any better. But. “Yes,” he says, breathing in around the lack of hatred in the room. “Yes, it will have been worth it.”

It will have been worth it. But that does not mean he will manage to stick around for it once the option to rest is given to him once more. He doesn’t say that, won’t put such thoughts into the air to be woven into the song, but he meets Fëanor’s eyes and knows that the words have been heard regardless.

 ☀︎

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Chapter End Notes

There would be something singularly ironic about Fëanor being the only person in Aman to have lost a mother to fading & Indis being the only mother in Aman to have lost a child to the fading. Very inverted mirrors of them. 

-- 

Lalwen every single time she wants to be annoying: Fin Fin :) Fin Fin :) 

Findis: I will drop you off at Mandos myself if you do not stop calling me that. 

Lalwen: :) 

Findis: ... 

Lalwen: Fin Fin :) 

[cue something breaking]