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

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7. got lost, can't be found

chapter title is from: Battle Scars (Reprise) by Paradise Fears

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Is belonging and fulfillment possible without family? No. Is
it possible with family? No. / You cannot connect if you
keep answering no. / You cannot keep your brother alive if
you keep your mouth shut. / You cannot keep your brother 
alive.

Ghost Of | Diana Nguyen

 ☀︎

the fifth loop (continued)

The dream, that Fingolfin is only half-sure is a dream, is a three-toned shifting landscape strewn out in front of him.

He is himself. Yet knows not who he is at all. Does not recognize the landscape even as he knows it in his bones. The sky is inky black, pinpricks of starlight splashed across it but if he closes his eyes he can feel the heat of the sun upon his face. And beneath both of these things - the knowing and the unknowable - there is a soul-deep foreboding slinking beneath his skin and curling slowly around each bone and tendon until it becomes a part of his body.

He opens his eyes and finds himself standing on the edge of Lake Mithrim, staring out toward Eithel Sirion, toward the spot his brother last drew breath, and when he looks down into the water it is his brother’s face that looks back. Has it not always been his brother’s face looking back? His brother blinks and Fingolfin is standing on the plains of Ard-galen as they burn around him. In the distance he sees a flash of blonde hair caught on the ashy wind and he means to call out but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. All he can do is stand and watch as the flame consumes that as well.

And then, Fëanor standing in front of the gates of Angband, a shade of flame and smoke, who looks at him and says, you always were unnecessarily stubborn.

Was I? he asks, looking down at his hands scraped raw, his bloodied sword lying on the ground. Has it not always been you who is the more stubborn between us?

Fëanor laughs, a sound like gems shattering under pressure, like the crackling of a bonfire. It must be as you said then, must it not? Full brothers in heart we have always been.

Fingolfin studies the shade before him, the burning eyes and crooked smirk. His body feels very heavy, he wishes he would stop dreaming of this. You do not mean that. You would not mean that if you stood before me in truth.

The shade laughs again, all ash and destruction and an acrid haze. Is it not convenient for you then, that I will never again stand before you in truth? For no matter how many times you are called brother, you will know it for the lie it is.

☀︎

Fingolfin wakes up in Lalwen's bed, surrounded by his siblings, mind curiously blank, and heart pounding in his ears. His siblings had, of course, refused to allow him to sleep alone and he had made no move to argue. Will enjoy having them all close while they remember. He wakes however, with Lalwen's elbow in his side and Finarfin's hair in his face and as amusing as it is, the way they have all migrated nearly on top each other, he feels mildly suffocated.

It is not easy, but he does, after some very careful maneuvering, manage to escape the bed without waking anyone. A feat he is rather proud of. He spends a moment standing at the end of the bed just taking in the sight of them all together. Fëanor has turned onto his stomach at one point or another and has his arm flung across Lalwen’s stomach. Findis has managed to turn herself at such an angle that her feet are hanging off the bed, her head pillowed on Finarfin’s stomach. In their sleep they all look peaceful. As if nothing bad has ever happened or ever will. He wants to hold them there forever. Wants to crawl back into bed and pretend that they will always be this way, no hatred to be seen ever again.

It makes his chest hurt to think that they were all always capable of this. To think of how badly they all fractured apart in the end. And he wants to trust that if he rids them of Morgoth that will not happen again but in the back of his mind, he cannot help but wonder if any of it will matter at all. Or if the song will settle and Fëanor will look at them all and remember the hatred he held for them for so very long. He wants to believe this will matter. That they can build something better. But what are three days when held against a lifetime of resentment and hate?

He slips out of the room after another moment of staring and considers where he can go for a moment of peace that one of his siblings will not immediately guess at. Ends up heading for the balcony that is off of the dining room overlooking the gardens. If he sits in the chair farthest to the left then he will not be visible from the windows, a good hiding spot one would hope.

He sits staring out into the gardens for a long time. Breathes in the fresh air and watches the light of the mingling shimmer. He does not know what to do. Knows that soon he will have to begin this all again and he still does not know what to do. Can only assume that he must kill Morgoth in truth for this to end. A feat that he is not even sure is possible. A feat that is surely impossible without the help of another Vala and he cannot imagine what proof he would have to hold to convince one of the other Vala to aid him.

He's idly considering the second loop and the net that Fëanor had shown him, considering the merits of attempting a similar strategy, when he hears footsteps approaching. He thinks that they will go away, hopes that they will go away, but instead his father walks out onto the balcony, silently taking the seat next to him. Fingolfin searches for the anger he had felt in the last song but finds that he is still too tired for it to come easily to him. He is sure he could summon up all of the anger if he truly wished to, but it sounds exhausting, and he does not truly wish to fight in this song if he does not have to.

They sit in silence for a while and Fingolfin takes the idea of his father alive and well and never dying and turns it over in his mind. Wonders what would have changed if he had not died. Would Fëanor have shown more patience in pursuing the silmarils? Would the shed blood at Alqualondë have never happened? Or would things simply have broken in different ways? Would anything have been better? Would they all have simply found a way to make things worse, to call a doom upon themselves regardless? It is all pointless speculation he knows but it nags at him regardless. His inability to predict how his father living will change things nags at him in the worst way.

"Your mother has been trying to distract me," his father says into the silence. "But I fear she is not so good at distraction as to stop me from noticing the sudden absence of all my children."

He considers that. Wonders if Fëanor had known she was doing such a thing. "They were only trying to help me," he says. Tries to keep his voice even and free of exhaustion. Must fail for his father's gaze snaps to the side of his face immediately.

"And what has happened that only I cannot help with?"

Fingolfin cannot think of anything kind to say. Cannot think of anything that he could say that would not cause unnecessary panic. Instead finds himself asking, “What was Míriel like?” In the back of his mind he is thinking of a sewing room turned into an altar. Wonders what his family would preserve to hold onto him if he followed Míriel to Mandos.

His father goes deadly still, gaze terribly heavy. He refuses to meet his father’s eyes, continues to stare out at the gardens. His father stares at him silently for so long he thinks that he will not get an answer. Does not think any of his siblings have ever had the nerve to ask about Míriel when Fëanor was so careful to hoard every piece of her to himself that he could.

“She—” his father falters so quickly and Fingolfin wonders if he should be surprised at how large the grief Míriel left behind still is. “She was, if you can believe it, even more foolhardy and stubborn than Fëanáro,” his father says, laughing quietly to himself, such love hiding still beneath the words that Fingolfin does not understand how everyone has not been able to hear it. “Always moving, exploring, crafting. I do not think she knew how to slow down.” There is a pause, his father studying him. “Why do you ask?”

“Was she kind?”

“Kind?” his father repeats, sounding bemused. “I suppose. She saw problems and she fixed them. She loved very loudly. But I do not think she was kind in the way that you mean.”

Fingolfin cannot help but wonder what she would have to say if he met her in the halls. Wonders what she would say to all that her son had done in the original song. He wonders too if she regrets it, agreeing to stay in the halls forever. He wishes to rest but he does not think he would want to rest until the world broke. She is the only person he knows of that simply laid down and left willingly. He does not like that he can understand the feeling. Wants to ask her how she managed to leave Finwë and Fëanor behind, how she allowed herself to take the rest offered when he does not think he would be able to convince himself to betray his family by doing so.

“Ñolofinwë,” his father says quietly, “why are you asking about Míriel? What has happened?” His father knows what has happened. Fingolfin can hear the fear in his voice.

“It does not matter,” he says. Does not wish to explain. “You do not need to worry, atar.”

“You are my son,” his father says fiercely, reaching out and grasping his arm. “It is my duty to worry about you.”

He can feel the anger stirring beneath his ribs again but he pushes it down, does not wish to spend what energy he has on being angry. "Perhaps," he says instead, shrugging. "But I have done well enough without you worrying about me. I see no need for you to start now."

His father's grip on his arm tightens for a moment and though he does not look at his father's face he imagines it looks similar to the last song — wounded in a way that it should not for what else could his father possibly expect of him. "Of course I have worried about you," his father says quietly, and there is indeed hurt threaded through the words. "Ñolofinwë, you are my son. I know that— I realize there has been strife between you and Fëanáro but that does not mean I love you any less or that I do not care."

It would be nice, truly, if Fingolfin could simply take the words at face value and believe them, but he cannot. "Fëanáro is honest about his feelings," he says, sighing and pulling his one leg up to his chest so that he can rest his chin on his knee. "He does not hide his feelings for a person or pretend to feel that which he does not. For all his faults that is not one of them. And you are his father more than you are anything else, more than you are king, more than you are my father, more than you are a husband — you are his father. You have never been able to hide it, just as you have never been able to admit it. But it is—" he sighs, feels so weary, "—it is fine, atar. We all must have one love we put above all others must we not? That yours is your son is not a failing." He does not say that he could never pick between his children, would not even begin to know how, but they are his great love, the one love he will put above all else, so he does in his own way understand.

There is a long moment of silence that stretches itself out, honey-thick and cloying. Caught in the back of his throat, the fear that because he has put so much of himself on display, this will be the song that continues unbroken. Would that be so awful? He does not know. They sit as such for a long while, his father's grip on his arm never loosening. The mingling has long since ended, Laurelin cheerfully dancing through the air, when his father sighs, says, “What troubles me, is how certain you sound in those thoughts.”

He shrugs, wishes to go back to bed. Wishes for this conversation to be over. He does not care to fight his father at the moment. Does not care to attempt to change his mind when the days will only un-sing themselves.

“I love you and all of your siblings equally,” his father says, voice terribly intense with his own stubborn belief. “Let me help you, Ñolofinwë. Whatever has happened that is so dire, let me help.”

He turns that over in his head. Does not know what to do with it. Would never have known what to do with it. “It is a comfort that you do believe that,” he says after a moment. “Believing something does not make it true.”

He thinks his father means to say something else but there is a shuffling sound near the door and then Fëanor stepping out onto the balcony, face tight with displeasure.

“Nolvo,” Fëanor says, voice tight. “Come, we wish to make a plan for tomorrow with you.”

Fingolfin does not particularly wish to move. Does not particularly wish to talk about the inevitability of yet another song. Does not particularly wish to do anything. The conversation with his father has left him feeling drained and ready to go back to bed. Fëanor must see it on his face for his jaw clenches tight. He crosses the balcony in two quick steps, brushing their father’s hand off of Fingolfin’s arm as he pulls him to his feet. Fingolfin lets himself be pulled up and guided back inside, does not have the energy to stage a battle of wills with Fëanor.

“Fëanáro,” their father says tightly, standing and following them “what is wrong?”

“It is fine, atar,” Fëanor says, not sounding as if anything is fine at all. “I am handling it.”

Their father, in a move that he thinks surprises all three of them, grabs Fëanor’s arm and pulls them to a stop. “Tell me what is wrong with him, Curufinwë,” he says, eyes harder than Fingolfin has ever seen them when directed at Fëanor. “If it is what I think you must tell me.”

“I am handling it,” Fëanor snaps, his grip on Fingolfin’s arm going painfully tight. “I do not need help.”

“You will let me help,” their father says, the command in his voice so strong it almost overpowers the fear. “He may be your brother, but he is my son, I will help.” There is something singularly strange in their father voicing their brotherhood and Fëanor not immediately, savagely denying it.

“Why?” Fëanor snarls, a dark and terrible emotion braided through the anger in that one word. “So that you can ‘help’ him the same way you helped my mother? He is my brother and I am handling it.”

It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room as their father reels back, eyes blown wide with shock. Fingolfin is nearly scared to breathe, Fëanor’s grip on his arm gone so tight he feels sure it will bruise. There is another suspended moment of silence, Fëanor’s jagged breathing the only noise, before he turns and drags Fingolfin out of the room.

☀︎

They do not go back to Lalwen's rooms, instead Fëanor leads him out to the gardens, and so once again he ends up sitting in Míriel's garden, hiding beneath a tree with Fëanor. He is not sure if Fëanor has brought them here because of Fingolfin's memories or because he simply wants the comfort of this particular garden. Supposes it does not matter either way.

He does not know what to say. Does not know if he should say anything at all. Though this is not so strange an experience when it comes to Fëanor. Chooses in the end to say nothing, for what could he possibly say. Instead, he leans his head against Fëanor’s shoulder and lets his eyes slip closed. Fëanor tilts his head in response, resting his cheek against the top of Fingolfin’s head. It is strangely peaceful sitting beneath the tree with Fëanor. If Fingolfin had his way he would simply stay suspended in this moment until he has pieced himself back together enough to want things other than rest. Other than for this to be over so he can simply lay down and close his eyes for a very long time.

He knows this is not the correct reason to wish for the un-singing to cease, and in truth it is far from the only one he has, but it is the one that feels most important to him in this moment. He should be stronger than that. He does not think he knows how to be.

“When this is all over,” Fëanor says abruptly, “do not dare just lay down and give up. Promise me you will let me help you.”

“You do not even know that you will want to help me when this is over.”

“I will want to,” Fëanor says, voice still dark and furious. “And make no mistake, if it is possible then I will discover a way to retrieve those memories which have been stolen from me.”

He sighs at the mere thought of Fëanor trying to mess with the song of Arda just to retrieve his memories. If it were anyone else, he would call it a truly absurd claim, but he has seen what Fëanor is capable of and would not doubt that his brother is capable of this as well.

“Promise me,” Fëanor demands again when Fingolfin makes no answer.

“Yes Fëanáro. I promise I will let you help. I fear I will have little choice in the matter regardless.” He means for the words to come out dry but ends up sounding only terribly tired and painfully fond.

“Good,” says Fëanor, sighing deeply. He wraps his fingers around Fingolfin’s wrist and squeezes tight.

He leaves two of his fingers pressed to Fingolfin’s pulse and a wave of fondness overwhelms him so suddenly he must close his eyes. The shade from his dream flashes across the back of his eyelids, its spiteful words echoing in his mind — you will know it for the lie it is. He opens his eyes, tilting his head back to stare up at the light filtering between the leaves. “Do you truly believe, that if you were to regain all the memories you’ve lost, that you would still wish to help me?”

Fëanor is silent for a long time and when Fingolfin glances over at him he finds that Fëanor’s eyes are closed, a frown creasing his brow. Fingolfin nudges him slightly in the side, raising an eyebrow in question when Fëanor glances at him.

“The answer must be yes,” he says, though he is still frowning. “I would have the memories of our violence against each other, this is true, but I would have my memories of these previous songs as well.” He pauses, hesitates as he meets Fingolfin’s eyes, his own very troubled. “In one song un-sung I watched you die. In another it was nearly the same. I cannot know my thoughts from any of those songs, but you are a fool Ñolofinwë, if you believe I would be able to watch you die and feel nothing at all.”

He stares, completely and utterly taken aback. Thinks again of the shade haunting his dreams and hates that he does not know which to believe. Knows which one he wants to believe but is so terribly fearful of finally believing Fëanor only for it to all shatter apart in his hands once more. "You cannot guarantee that."

Fëanor rolls his eyes, sighing as if Fingolfin is the one being deeply unreasonable. "The songs are not so different that I do not know myself. Yes—" he snaps, slashing a hand through the air when Fingolfin opens his mouth to protest. "—even the original song in which I left you. I know myself."

"Well. I suppose you are giving me no choice but to believe you." He does not say that he cannot. Will not be able to until the song continues unbroken and he is able to watch as Fëanor's eyes stay softened toward him. Fëanor hears it anyway and sighs, knocking their shoulders together and leaning back against the tree again.

"You will see," Fëanor says as Fingolfin rests his head on his brother's shoulder once more. "I am correct."

He makes no answer. Closes his eyes, listens to Fëanor breathe, and though he knows it is useless, cannot help but pray, please, please do not steal this away from me again.

Please.

Would it be so terrible to let us keep this song?

☀︎

He must doze off, lulled to sleep by the rustling leaves and Fëanor's breathing. Wakes some unknown amount of time later to Fëanor still a warm line of heat against his side and the quiet murmur of voices.

It takes a moment for the words to pierce through the haze of sleep still lingering around him but slowly he realizes that it is his mother's voice he is hearing. He registers as well the tension he can feel where Fëanor is pressed up against him.

"—know that right? There was nothing you could have done. That does not make it your fault."

Fëanor makes a noise far too like a snarl for Fingolfin's comfort. "And who are you to tell me such? I do not need your input."

"If—," her voice breaks but she steadies it and continues on. "If Ñolofinwë in truth makes the decision to follow Míriel after the song has been fixed, that will also be no fault of yours."

His brother makes a derisive noise, fingers flexing around his wrist. “You speak placating nonsense as usual,” he says darkly. “You saw Ñolofinwë’s memories as well as I. Yet you would try to convince me I hold no fault in any of this.”

There is a long pause in which he nearly begins to doze off again before his mother says, “I cannot stop you from taking the blame upon your shoulders, but you are wrong, Fëanáro. You—”

“I—” Fëanor hisses, “—let that thrice cursed Vala pollute my mind with lies in the song un-sung. I have walked through his memories and traced the patterns. If you think that this does not all begin with me—”

“Do not be so self-centered and conceited as to think you were the only one who brought about the future in that song,” his mother snaps, a thread of steel to her voice that he has seldom heard. “You undermine the choice he made to follow you by taking all the blame upon yourself.”

“Thanks, ammë,” he mutters, opening his eyes to find his mother sat upon the ground as well and watching him with a raised eyebrow. Fëanor’s fingers have gone tight around his wrist. “I am unsure if I am being defended or condemned.”

His mother sighs deeply, eyes raising skyward for a moment. “I am condemning no one,” she says, sounding deeply exasperated even as she reaches over to squeeze his ankle.

He hums; tries to not wonder how long he has slept. How little time he has left. “How did you find us out here?”

Fëanor snorts. His mother sounds deeply judgmental as she says, “I am your mother and the bond between us is open. It was not particularly difficult, Arakáno.” And then, in response to the question she must be able to clearly see on his face, “Your father wished to follow after you. I have come instead.”

It is a strange and uncomfortable notion that any scenario involving Fëanor could have Indis as the best person to approach him. It is stranger perhaps that Fëanor has tolerated her presence for a second time in the span of three days, even if it has been an angry, begrudging tolerance.

"Do you—" his mother starts, hesitates as she studies his face. "Do you wish to return inside? To see the rest of your siblings again?" She does not say, before it is too late, before they forget you again, but the words are so very loud regardless.

"No," he says quietly, pulling his knees to his chest and staying pressed up against Fëanor. "I have no wish to move from where I am." It will already hurt to lose this again, he does particularly wish to exacerbate the hurt more than he must.

Fëanor has been silent and tense next to him since he woke but now nudges him in the side. "Tell me of Beleriand. You enjoy speaking of it, your memories of it are all bathed in fondness. Speak. Tell us of it."

His mother settles more comfortably against the garden wall that she is leant against, folding her hands in her lap and watching him expectantly. He knows this is a ploy to distract him from the grief looming around the corner, but he does enjoy speaking of it. Had enjoyed the few days he was granted with Fëanor in the third song where he got to speak of the joys to be had instead of all the pain.

He picks back through his memories, settles on the first year that the men had arrived in Hithlum. Spends a long while speaking of some of the rather more humorous incidents that had occurred as they learned how men worked. The strangeness of how men would suddenly become ill and bedridden, not from any mortal injury, but simply because their constitution was strange. How many times it was not even a thing to be dreaded, simply something to be born. For it did not kill them, it only left them miserable and glowering as you laughed at the way they sounded with their stuffy noses and scratchy throats. He speaks of their fierceness and their thirst to learn, to experience life fully. Speaks and speaks and though he does feel the slightest bit lighter for it, he also feels desperately homesick by the time his voice falters.

“You say that you wish to return,” Fëanor says mildly, though his eyes are narrowed in thought when Fingolfin meets his eyes.

“I do,” he agrees. “Very much so.”

Fëanor studies him for a moment and nods decisively. “Good. You cannot fade and also return to Beleriand. We shall simply have to ensure that your desire to return to Beleriand is greater than the temptation to fade.

He blinks. Had not thought of it in precisely those terms before. Cannot even say that Fëanor is not correct, for if it comes down to a choice between resting in Mandos or returning to a Beleriand hopefully free of Morgoth — is that even a true choice? “You are incredibly irritating,” he tells Fëanor, giving in to the urge to wrinkle his nose and stick his tongue out. It is childish but he feels that he deserves at least one childish moment.

Fëanor smirks at him, opens his mouth as if to say something and then glances at Indis, closes it again. His mind blows up next to Fingolfin’s in the next breath and he curiously opens his mind.

It is my duty as your brother to be annoying as well as correct. That is how this works is it not? Fëanor thinks, raising an eyebrow smugly. The thought is coated in reluctant affection and sends steam billowing through his mind as it collides with the icy landscape.

As my brother, he thinks blankly. His dream flashes through his mind again, all ash and fire and acrid haze. He tries to banish it before Fëanor can see but his brother snaps out and latches onto the thought the second he realizes that Fingolfin does not wish him to see it. For no matter how many times you are called brother, you will know it for the lie it is, the shade laughs, all mocking cruelty.

Fëanor holds the dream for a moment and then burns it away the same as he had done with the previous nightmares. “You are a fool,” he says aloud and aggressively tousles Fingolfin’s hair when he opens his mouth to argue.

“There’s no need to be rude about it,” he mutters, elbowing Fëanor in the side and fixing his hair. Freezes a bit when he meets his mother’s eyes, for she has two fingers pressed to her mouth as she watches them, eyes painfully bright. Fëanor tenses and then very obviously forces himself to relax.

The mingling is beginning to fade through the air. Laurelin dimming and mingling with Telperion, leaving their little spot in the garden muted and dream-like. He sighs, mentally reaching for Fëanor. Delicately curls up next to Fëanor's mind and hides a smile when he reaches back, blanketing Fingolfin’s mind with his own.

“Tell us a story, ammë,” he says, resting his head on Fëanor’s shoulder once more and ruthlessly pushing the grief down, down, down. “No one ever wishes to speak of Cuiviénen but I wish to hear of it.”

Fëanor hums faintly, more interest than he would normally show in anything Indis might have to say. His mother sighs, eyes going distant. She moves to sit on his other side, taking his hand in hers. Ever so slowly begins to speak of darkness. Of a blanket of stars that they used to guide them, to anchor them. Of hungry forests. Bottomless lakes with gaping mouths. A hunter in the dark.

He breathes in deeply, fights the closing of his eyes for as long as he can, but eventually all of it — the cadence of his mother’s voice, the warm comfort of Fëanor’s mind blanketing his own — lulls him to sleep.

He falls asleep safe and warm. Falls asleep knowing that he is not alone.

☀︎

the sixth loop

Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.

He grants himself five minutes to simply breathe around the empty space on either side of him. Grants himself five minutes to grieve. Then grits his teeth and forces himself to get out of bed before he gives into the temptation to turn over and go back to sleep.

He does his best to pack the grief and exhaustion away as he gets dressed. Carefully shoves it all to the very back of his mind. Leaves it behind a thick sheet of ice and resolves to not touch it at all costs. Cannot afford to lose himself to it again.

He sketches out a rudimentary sword design and strides out of the palace. He could, in truth, go to a different forge. Has gathered himself and left the palace early enough that Fëanor has yet to arrive and will have no knowledge of it. He could attempt to do this on his own and see what happens. Foolishly perhaps, he does not want to. He wishes for his brother to be at his side and is selfish enough to chase that want.

Fëanor is not far from his house when Fingolfin intercepts him. He frowns at Fingolfin and opens his mouth to speak but Fingolfin cuts him off before he can attempt to start an argument. "I need your help," he says, the words no longer burning as they once would have.

Fëanor's mouth stays open in shock for a moment as he stares. "My help," he says skeptically. "Is it to find your way back to the palace and the meeting atar has called?"

Fingolfin rolls his eyes at the provocation and instead holds out the design. "I need this made."

Fëanor scowls at him. "I will not forge you anything," he snaps even as he snatches the design away, seemingly incapable of not sating his curiosity. He glances at the design, eyes narrowing as he takes it in. "This is a weapon," he says slowly, looking back up. There is a bright spark of curiosity in his eyes just as Fingolfin had known there would be.

"Yes, I need it made with haste. I wish for you to make it."

Fëanor studies him for a moment and then looks once more to the design. Looks to him and stares for long enough that Fingolfin must fight down the urge to shift uncomfortably. "No," Fëanor says finally, even as he pockets the design. "I do not know what you want this for or why you have come to me, but I will not make it." He says it so calmly. There is not even anything particularly cruel in the words or tone, but it still spears Fingolfin through the chest.

He stares. Does not know what to say for his throat feels too tight to say anything at all. "Right," he forces out, voice blank. He had expected…anything else. More of Fëanor's unrelenting curiosity, his burning need to drag Fingolfin's secrets from him, his love of crafting things no one else has yet crafted. It is what has happened consistently in every song so far. He had not expected this and does not know what to do with it. Could open his mind regardless but finds himself recoiling at the idea of Fëanor helping him only because he has once again submitted himself to the hemorrhaging of his worst memories.

He stares at Fëanor for another moment, Fëanor who stares back with a raised eyebrow and some challenge glinting in his eyes. This is one of his brother's tests, though he could not say to what to end, and Fingolfin does not have the energy to deal with his brother’s whiplash moods, does not want to rip himself open again just so his brother will care.

“Right,” he says once more. Turns on his heel and walks off. He will simply try to do this on his own.

“Ñolofinwë,” Fëanor calls after him, sounding terribly annoyed. Fingolfin does not pause or turn around. Does not care what his brother has to say.

He perhaps should not be surprised when Fëanor follows after him and grabs his wrist, but the fury that had been conspicuously absent the last song goes ripping through him so quickly it feels as if he has taken a knife to the chest. He does not think before swinging his fist, which connects with Fëanor’s face cleanly. Based on the way his knuckles sting and the blood on Fëanor’s face, he is rather sure he has just broken his brother’s nose. Fëanor stumbles back, eyes wide with shock for only a moment before fury blazes to life in them, the light behind his eyes seeming to flare brighter.

“I should have you on your knees before the court for that,” Fëanor snarls, paying no attention to his nose or the blood on his face.

He cannot help but laugh, bares his teeth and says very slowly and clearly, “Fuck. You.” There is no pleasure to be had in the way this shocks some of the fury off of Fëanor’s face. It does not stop him from wanting to say it again. Instead, he shakes his head in disgust, turns, and walks off. Fëanor does not call after him again. Does not follow him. Fingolfin had not wanted him to but something in his chest still shatters and he finds himself struggling to breathe in around the bitterness and grief filling his lungs.

A little while later the spear, when he picks it up in his hand, feels as if it is already coated in blood. This will not work. He knows this. But he has nothing to lose by trying and most importantly, he is not afraid to die.

☀︎

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Chapter End Notes

Fëanor: I'm not going to help you 

Fingolfin: okay, guess I'll die then 

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9/20/25 update: I am alive! I am working on this fic! I started this fic about a month after I'd finished reading the Silmarillion! So, as you can imagine, my understanding of the characters has morphed quite a bit in the past 9 months. I'm currently editing the first seven chapters - the plot itself shouldn't change, just grammar, wording etc... I'll be noting down if anything important changes in the end notes! And then hopefully ch. 8 will be up soon-ish after I'm done with that <3

I'm also on tumblr!