clock: turn back, turn back— by atlantablack  

clock: turn back, turn back—

Isn't it funny? How the cold numbs everything but grief.
If we could light up the room with pain,
we'd be such a glorious fire.

Clock: turn back, turn back— 
everything you've dialed to black.

Lashed to the Helm, All Stiff and Stark | Ada Limón

 ☀︎

Fëanáro knows that he is supposed to say, if he’d known what would happen, he wouldn’t have done it. That he wouldn’t have paced through the halls, watching the tapestries appear, and seen his brother poised in front of Morgoth, preparing to fight, preparing to die, and gone a bit mad with grief.

He has spent centuries watching as his children hurt because of things that he set into motion. Has spent centuries watching Nerdanel silently live alone, all the stone beneath her hand still screaming her love. Has spent centuries watching Ñolofinwë first cross the ice like a fool and then lead the Noldor. He had watched as his brother had gone to the arbitrary grave marker his sons had set in place to honor his passing and despite the ships, despite the ice, despite all the hatred, despite it all —

Ñolofinwë had grieved him. The grief evident in every thread, every stitch. Ñolofinwë knelt in front of a grave, one hand upon the marker, his head bowed, and Fëanáro had hated him even as he regretted the boats; had wished that he were still alive so that he could shake the fool for crossing the ice in the first place.

It had taken Fëanáro many centuries still to accept what Ñolofinwë had offered all those years ago, but there is nothing to do in Mandos except think and he had eventually accepted it as truth — they are full-brothers in heart if not in blood. And now his brother, now another person he loves, is going to die at Morgoth’s hands and he cannot stand it.

Fëanáro is so tired of grieving those he loves. Is tired of watching the death and the destruction and having to stay suspended in Mandos, unable to do anything as he watches all his people slowly walk to what can only be a bitter end. So yes, he knows he should say he would not again go find a tapestry of where it all went irrevocably wrong and begin shredding it apart. Knows that he should say that had he known what it would do he would not have tried to interfere with the will of Eru but.

But he is suddenly standing in the middle of the palace library, tree light dancing through the windows, and staring at him with open mouthed shock is Ñolofinwë, who is very much alive. So no, he finds he does not regret it at all.

“Fëanáro, what—” Ñolofinwë starts but Fëanáro does not give him a chance to finish speaking before he is striding across the library toward his brother.

Ñolofinwë tenses the minute Fëanáro begins walking toward him, face tight with trepidation, and then goes completely still when Fëanáro pulls him into a furious hug. It is the first time in a very long time that he has hugged Ñolofinwë. The last time likely having been before he’d left for his apprenticeship with Mahtan, when Ñolofinwë had been very young. He does not know what year it is that he has thrown himself back to. Does not know if this is real or some illusion he has wrapped himself in by un-weaving tapestries threaded through with time. But his brother feels solid and warm and alive in his arms.

There is a dull thud as the book Ñolofinwë had been holding drops to the floor and very slowly, when Fëanáro does not let go, Ñolofinwë hugs him back. He can feel Ñolofinwë breathe out shakily when Fëanáro simply hugs him tighter. “I am so very confused,” Ñolofinwë says quietly, though he makes no move to let go.

“I’ve un-woven time,” he says blithely. “What year is it?” There is a very long pause where he can nearly hear Ñolofinwë questioning his sanity without having to use ósanwe at all. “The year, Nolvo. What year is it?” he prompts once more.

“1469,” Ñolofinwë says after another moment, voice perfectly even. He still has not tried to step away which Fëanáro thinks is actually rather astonishing considering the year. Things were already very ugly between them by this time. How easy would it have been to fix things between them even then if he had been willing to cede even an inch? Though, he supposes he would have had to cede rather more than an inch and that would not have been likely in any circumstances outside of the present one.

“I would call you mad,” Ñolofinwë says, finally pulling away so that he may step back and study Fëanáro’s face, “except that I can think of no other reason for both your abrupt appearance in the room and your sudden willingness to show an ounce of affection toward me.”

“Ah, come now, brother. That does not mean I cannot also be mad.” He grins widely though it drops as he watches Ñolofinwë’s face twist with shock and something far more bitter and darker that he locks away before Fëanáro can decipher it.

“Brother,” Ñolofinwë echoes quietly, eyes carefully shuttered. “Yes, I suppose you must have gone quite mad.”

He purses his lips and looks away. It is not that he has not accepted it. It is not even that he begrudges Ñolofinwë his suspicion. It is only that he is now standing in front of a Ñolofinwë with no memory of all that would soon have come to pass and he does not quite know how to explain. “You are my brother,” he settles on after the silence begins to grow thorns. “Half only in blood but full in heart. It simply took me a very long time to see it.”

Ñolofinwë’s eyes flare wide with a shock so deep he can barely see the hope hidden at the bottom. “What strange future have you come from that you have chosen to believe this?”

“Not strange,” he says quietly, looking out the window at Tirion spread out in front of them, glittering and beautiful. “No, it was dark and full of anger and blood and regret. But it was not strange. I do not intend to let it come to pass again.”

“So dark you had to find a way to defy even time itself,” Ñolofinwë says quietly, a strange expression in his eyes when Fëanáro once again meets them.

“Trust me,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up at the irony of such words, “it was not a future worth seeing.”

Ñolofinwë studies him for another moment, the doubt still lingering in his gaze, and then nods sharply. “Very well. Tell me of what came to pass. I will aid you in averting this supposedly dire future.” There’s a challenge and wary hope all tangled through the words at once. Fëanáro is not sure even Ñolofinwë knows exactly how he feels about this.

Fëanáro does not know if he even knows how he feels about it himself. For it is one thing to watch in the halls as those you love race toward a bitter death and know in your heart that your brother is your brother in truth. It is another entirely to have Ñolofinwë alive and well in front of him and have to acknowledge his changed feelings toward his brother for all others to know and see as well. It is strange and uncomfortable but he is going to fix this. He is. There is no other acceptable option.

“Come then little brother,” he says, reaching out and mussing Ñolofinwë’s hair before he can react. “Let us talk.”

Ñolofinwë’s face is an amusing combination of offense and baffled hope but it his eyes that are screaming the truth and it is as simple as it has ever been if Fëanáro would have only let himself look — it is love cut through with bitterness. It is love.

He can work with that. 

 ☀︎

Chapter End Notes

I've had this bouncing around in my head for a while but no real thoughts for what happens after so figured I'd just post it as it is! I'm on Tumblr as well!