don't go blindly into the dark by atlantablack  

Death, like a snake, slithers through the dry grass and lies in wait.

But before they were dead, they were children.

Cain, the elder twin, was tall for his age, freckled and angry, and was always blamed for the dropped glass or forgotten chore. Abel, the younger, was soft in the eyes and slow to speak, hands well-trained in how to restrain his brother. Neither of them were gentle.  Both of them choked on the words ‘I love you’.

IN THE FIELD | Nathaniel Orion

☀︎

Ñolofinwë is thirty the first time Fëanáro truly snaps at him in anger. His brother had looked as if he regretted it in the same breath, had not done so again for a very long time, but he had not taken back the words he’d thrown through the air. You are not my brother, he’d snapped, eyes dark and furious. And if you must be, then you are half in blood only, though even that is more than I wish for. 

It is nothing that he had not said before. Only, before, it had been said in the patient tones of one teaching a child. There had never been any malice behind the words. It had always been a tap on the nose, half-brother, Nolvo, remember? Fëanáro messing up his hair until he laughed and agreed that yes, yes, we’re half-brothers, Náro! I know! It had not struck him as a cruel thing to be. He had not realized then that when Fëanáro said, half-brother, what he meant was — unwanted, a mistake, a marring.

He had not, and oh, what a beautiful thing to be unaware of. How bitter it tastes to have what happy memories he has of Fëanáro all retroactively shaded by the dislike his brother must have felt even then.

Later, he had learned that he’d simply had the misfortune of approaching Fëanáro on the anniversary of Míriel’s passing. Fëanáro would have likely continued to blunt his words until Ñolofinwë had come of age if not for that one day. For even though Fëanáro had gone back to blunting his words afterward, the memory of that anger had lingered between them. Had sapped any gentleness out of the admonishments, for Ñolofinwë knew what Fëanáro truly wished to say.

Then Fëanáro left for Mahtan's, did not return, and that was simply that.

Ñolofinwë, on the days that missing Fëanáro had felt like a sore tooth, had repeated the words in his mind and reminded himself that they were not brothers. Not in truth. Not in heart where it mattered, and missing someone who cared not for him was foolish.

It was foolish, and so Ñolofinwë tucked it all away. He did not miss his brother, for he had no brother to miss. He had his sisters, and then he had Aro, and that was enough. It was enough. (But sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes it was not.)

☀︎

The first time Ñolofinwë sees the silmarils, they are laid on dark red velvet in a case made of cherry wood, and Fëanáro is beaming with a vicious pride as their father praises him before the court. He stares at the light and thinks of nothing so much as he thinks of himself at ten years old, tiny hands stretched upward toward the light of the trees, asking why, why, why, and Fëanáro exasperatedly telling him that he did not yet know but he would figure it out one day.

It seems that his brother has indeed figured it out. Ñolofinwë wants to ask how, but knows Fëanáro will not tell him, and he is not in the habit of wasting his breath on questions he already knows the answer to. When he looks away from silmarils, blinking away the spots of light dancing in his vision, he finds Fëanáro watching him with a smug look. Whether he is smug at having their father so effusively praise him in front of the court or at having created something Ñolofinwë cannot help but be deeply in awe of is anyone’s guess. Though he is sure it is in truth simply a mix of the two that will make Ñolofinwë want to punch Fëanáro when they next speak. 

He waits until the gathering is beginning to draw to a close to approach his brother and offer his compliments. “You have truly outdone yourself this time, Fëanáro,” he says, keeping his voice perfectly neutral and pleasant. “I do not believe anything will ever be able to surpass the silmarils in beauty.”

Fëanáro smirks at him, fingers curled protectively around the lid of the case. "I know," he says, assured of his own superiority as always. He offers nothing else, only watches Ñolofinwë challengingly. Though what it is he believes Ñolofinwë is going to do or say, Ñolofinwë cannot imagine.

He swallows down a sigh and smiles as genuinely as he can. "I only wished to provide my compliments; I will not keep you. I am sure you have others you wish to speak with." He tilts his head in acknowledgment and moves to leave, but is stopped by Fëanáro speaking.

“You will not find me so easily fooled by false compliments and smiles,” Fëanáro says in a low, suspicious voice. The words are whip-sharp and strike his cheek where he has half-turned away. 

Ñolofinwë reluctantly turns back toward Fëanáro. “What are you talking about, brother?" The familial address is an unnecessary provocation, but he is so incredibly sick of Fëanáro’s growing dislike bleeding into every interaction they have. 

As he expected, Fëanáro's eyes narrow, nostrils flaring in anger. "Half,” he snaps, as if Ñolofinwë has somehow forgotten. "I have heard the rumors circulating, and you will not convince me to ignore them by offering me false compliments. Did you think I would not notice? Did you expect plans of usurping the throne to not reach my ears?" Fëanáro's tone is so dark that Ñolofinwë's stomach lurches uncomfortably; there is a miserable thought attached to the feeling that he shoves away entirely, cannot deal with in this moment.

He also finds himself blinking in confusion. Cannot decide which part of that was the most ridiculous. The idea that he would waste his time being foolish enough to try usurping Fëanáro's position as heir, or the idea that anyone would be able to look at the silmarils and not mean their compliments genuinely. "Do not be absurd, Fëanáro. If I wished to do such a thing, I would not be so stupid as to let there be any rumors of it." It is perhaps not the best response, especially given the way Fëanáro's eyes go flinty with suspicion. He shakes his head and goes to leave once more, but pauses, swallowing around the tickling sensation in his throat. "And I do not offer false compliments, brother. They are beautiful and I am, as always, terribly impressed."

He leaves before Fëanáro can once again snap at him, rubbing at his chest absently as he walks to his rooms. Wonders at these rumors Fëanáro has heard. For he does believe Fëanáro that there are rumors, he only does not understand where they are coming from. He would gladly take the spot as their father's heir; this much is true. Knows well that Fëanáro would sooner be off dedicating himself to learning every craft in Arda or to smithing even more elaborate and beautiful things, than be in the palace taking care of the paperwork and council meetings. But Ñolofinwë is not stupid despite what Fëanáro seems to think. Their father will never rescind the heirship from Fëanáro. The only way for Ñolofinwë to have it would be to usurp both Fëanáro and his father, which is such an absurd thought it does not even bear contemplation.

Fëanáro is, as usual, the only one who does not seem to understand this. 

He cannot help but reflect on how very dark Fëanáro's voice had gone as he spoke, of how lately their fights feel more and more volatile, as if there is an invisible fire being fanned to life between them, ready to burn the little goodwill that had been between them away. His brother has never liked him; he knows this, even when he wishes he did not. But they used to be capable of being civil. Fëanáro did not like him, but when forced into the same room he would ask after Findekáno and Írissë, showing a fondness for Ñolofinwë's children in a way he had never done for Ñolofinwë himself. He would speak of his own children and their accomplishments; he had, before Nerdanel left, spoken of her carving and what muse had struck her that particular week. They had never spoken of anything truly personal; he could not have described them as having a relationship in any sense of the word, but they had spoken. 

Now, Fëanáro speaks, and it spears through Ñolofinwë, for these days it sounds entirely too much as if true hatred is hiding in his brother's words. He had not enjoyed Fëanáro's alternating dislike and disinterest toward him, but it had been something he could tuck away and only mourn occasionally. This, this, makes him wish to throw something at Fëanáro’s face and scream until he inspires some emotion other than disdain and hatred within his brother. 

There is nothing he can do about it, he knows this, of course he knows this. But in the back of his heart, curled up and hidden away, there is still the shadow of a child that wants so very badly to fix whatever it is that is broken between them. Who has not yet grown old enough to realize that you cannot fix something that was never there. It is this shadow that occasionally clambers out from its hiding place on the nights he struggles to fall asleep and leaves grief clogging his throat. 

His chest that night when he lies down to rest feels incredibly tight, and he turns on his side, closes his eyes, and tries very hard to not think about hatred and brothers and childhood wishes that are best forgotten. Hugs Anairë close and thinks of his wife, his children, his full-siblings, and parents; thinks, this is all I need.

It is, as always, only half of the truth.

☀︎

Fëanáro has spent more and more time in court in the past few years, ever since the people of Tirion began to become more and more divided in which of Finwë's children they support. He is an increasingly regular part of Ñolofinwë's day, and it is painfully clear to him that it is making Fëanáro both miserable and annoyed at being miserable. But he has seemingly decided that he must become a regular part of court life in order to stop Ñolofinwë from performing underhanded acts such as usurping him. Ñolofinwë perhaps should be honored that his brother has such a high opinion of his ability to scheme and play underhanded tricks. Is maybe a little pleased despite himself. 

However, he is mostly annoyed and tired of having to hear blame cast for acts he has not, and will not, commit.

If he thought there was even a small chance of convincing Fëanáro the idea was complete nonsense, and that he was quite welcome to travel and explore and lose himself to his craft for weeks at a time as he enjoyed doing, then perhaps Ñolofinwë would attempt to speak to him about it. But the one time he had idly remarked that Fëanáro surely must miss traveling, his brother had glared at him with such dark resentment it had seemed to brand itself onto his skin. You will not get rid of me that easily, Fëanáro had muttered before walking away.

This is all Fëanáro ever is. A fight to be had over and over again. Ñolofinwë suggests an improvement to one of the guilds, and Fëanáro finds a problem with what he has suggested; he suggests a solution to any problem at all, and Fëanáro finds a better one. He would not mind if it were Fëanáro truly wishing to engage in discussion or collaboration, for he does enjoy hearing his brother's ideas; he sometimes has ideas born from listening to his brother speak that he wishes he could share. But to constantly have to defend his own ideas from being torn to shreds is an exhausting exercise in patience that he would rather not have to deal with, and it all only grows worse after the silmarils have been presented at court.

Whether it is Fëanáro feeling bolstered by their father's praise or his ever-growing suspicion of Ñolofinwë, he does not know, but he knows that Fëanáro somehow becomes even more bull-headed and impossible to speak with. He feels as if more and more often he leaves meetings with his chest so tight from fury or hurt or grief or irritation or some awful cocktail of all four that he feels as if he cannot breathe quite right around it.

It is after one such meeting that he finds himself coughing as he walks to his office. A strange, lingering cough that leaves him feeling as if something is caught in his throat. It lingers until he is sitting at his desk, and then quite suddenly he finds that he cannot stop coughing, for there is something caught in his throat. The object, when he manages to dislodge it and spit it into his hand, is such an absurd thing to see come from his mouth that for a moment all he can do is stare.

Lying in the palm of his hand are three flower petals all outlined in a blush-red that bleeds through pale yellow. He stares at them for a long time trying to make sense of their presence. He knows what they indicate. It is not as if the flower-sickness is an unknown entity, even if it is not one thought often of. He just does not understand why he has it when he is very happily married. But. But his chest has been strangely tight these past few weeks, he realizes with dawning horror. There has been a strange tickle in the back of his throat, which he has been writing off. But he does not—

There is no one else.

He crushes the petals in his fist and drops them in one of the drawers of his desk. Resolves to put it from his mind until he can decide if it was a strange fluke or until he can figure out the impossible who of it all.

He does not mention it to Anairë when he returns to their rooms. Does not know what he could possibly say, and so he says nothing at all.

☀︎

The tightness in his chest does not abate as the week goes by. He keeps a careful eye on his emotions and cannot figure out who could possibly be causing this when he has not felt a single untoward emotion toward anyone at all. Coughs up pale yellow petals twice more before the week is over.

Later, he'll call himself a fool for not realizing immediately, for of course, in this too, Fëanáro has somehow made himself the center of both the problem and the solution. But the pieces do not click into place until Fëanáro sneers at him from across the table, mocking disdain for the suggestion that he has offered lingering about his brother's mouth, and in the next direct second, he feels the unmistakable tickle in the back of his throat that he is fast coming to learn heralds a coughing fit.

He makes his excuses as quickly as he dares, trying not to draw suspicion while also swallowing around the ever-growing feeling that he must cough, that his body is not going to give him a choice. He makes it two rooms away, ducking into a thankfully empty parlor, before he must lean against a wall and violently cough until he has dislodged the flower that has made a home of his throat. It is only a small one, but it is still a flower. No longer mere petals, but a beautiful, pale yellow carnation that struggles to unfurl petals weighed down with saliva. It is so small he thinks he could maybe swallow it back down if he were of a mind to, but the mere fact that he has progressed to a full flower so quickly, no matter the size, is alarming in and of itself.

He leans there against the wall for a long while, simply staring at the flower, until he hears footsteps in the corridor. Tucks the flower into his pocket and takes a deep breath. Wonders how long he will be able to do so easily. For here is the thing that Ñolofinwë has already accepted, had accepted the moment his mind made the connection—

He is going to die.

Maybe it will take a few months. Maybe it will be faster, spurred on by Fëanáro’s ever-growing dislike. Maybe it will be slower, held back by some stupid hope that still festers in his heart. But he is going to die, for this is not a love he can obtain, and there is nothing he can do about it.

There is nothing he can do about it.

This is still only half of the truth.

☀︎

He is meant to take dinner with his father and both of his brothers that night since Arafinwë has come up to visit for the week. He does not believe he can bear to see Fëanáro's face so soon after such a realization. Does not believe he is even capable of making it through dinner without violently coughing, and he refuses to explain this to anyone until he must. Instead, he changes into casual clothing and slips out the back of the palace. Winds through the gardens until he reaches the one that used to belong to Míriel, that still is spoken of as being hers. At the very back, in the left corner, half-concealed by a tree, there is a narrow space where you can slip through the hedges separating the palace gardens from the sprawling forest behind. A quicker and more discreet route if you wish to be left in peace with your thoughts.

The forest is very quiet compared to the constant noise of Tirion and the seemingly never-ending conversations that come with court. He winds through the trees for a while, keeping his thoughts carefully blank. Instead listens to the breeze blowing through the leaves. The crunch of his own footsteps as he walks. The birds singing as if nothing has ever gone wrong, as if nothing could ever go wrong.

He stops when he reaches the river, sitting and leaning against a tree, watching as the water meanders downstream, and wonders if there are simple beauties such as these in Mandos. He has no reference with which to picture the halls and thinks the unknown of it all makes this worse. As if it is not already awful enough.

Here is the whole truth of the matter —

Ñolofinwë thinks, there is nothing I can do, but what he means is, there is not an option available that I am willing to take. For of course there is a way to live, if he is only willing to give up the part of his fëa that holds all the unreturned love. He is not. Even if he were not wary of finding out exactly how much of his fëa he would lose, he is also simply not willing to tear such a vital piece of himself away. If he loves Fëanáro this deeply, then who would he be without the love?

Perhaps, he thinks bitterly, he would finally be able to match Fëanáro when it comes to the hate always being tossed between them. This is not a thing he wishes to match his brother in, though it would be easier if it were. What he has wished for, what he has always wished for, foolish though it may be, is for Fëanáro to look at him and see someone he wants to be next to, someone he can work with. He wants his brother to look at him and call him brother in return, but if he cannot have that, then he wishes for Fëanáro to respect him enough that their lack of brotherhood becomes irrelevant. 

Ñolofinwë will not deny, in the privacy of his own mind, that he wishes sometimes for the heirship, wishes even at times for the crown itself. He is not foolish enough to attempt to gain either, but he has at times wished for them. But the heirship, the crown, they are only worth anything at all if Fëanáro has looked at him and willingly handed them over. This is the part that Fëanáro will never understand. That it is, in the end, only in part about the simplicity of finding joy in the art of ruling. The far greater part of him simply wants his brother to believe in his ability to rule.

Which is to say, he supposes, that he simply wants his brother to believe in him. What a foolish thing to still want after all this time, when things between them have only ever grown worse between them instead of better.

He does not wish for anyone to know of this. To know how desperately, how pathetically, it seems he still wishes for his brother's love. Does not want to have to look Anairë in the face and tell her that, between the two options laid before him, he is taking the one in which he leaves her. Does not wish to tell his father and deal with the look on his face when he realizes he will lose another loved one to the halls.

Does not ever, ever want to see what Fëanáro’s reaction will be. For it will either be the final straw, a complete disinterest in a pain he has caused, or an uncomfortable pity which will sting and burrow under Ñolofinwë’s skin. His brother cannot, for better or worse, be anyone other than who he is, and who he is does not allow for any love in his heart when it comes to his half-siblings. It is simply a truth of the world. One that Ñolofinwë has clearly never managed to accept considering the situation he has found himself in.

He stays sitting in the woods until the first signs of the mingling begin. Is sure his father will have questions as to where he has been. Is sure Fëanáro will find a way to be suspicious even of this. Is sure, that if he lets Arafinwë look too closely, his little brother will see that something is wrong, and so he must be careful to not let him look.  Will have to be very careful to keep this hidden until he has worked out a plan for how to best lay this before his family. Or, rather, how to lay it before them while causing the least amount of pain.

If he could spare his father the grief of knowing that one of his children has caused this to happen to another, he would. Does not wish to leave and have a host of blame and anger turned in Fëanáro's direction, for surely that will make nothing in Tirion any better at all. But he cannot bear the idea that Anairë, that anyone, would spend the rest of time believing he had betrayed his love for Anairë so thoroughly. He cannot stay, but he can at least give her the comfort of knowing it has nothing to do with her.

He does not return to the palace in the end. Instead sits in the forest until long after Telperion has overtaken the mingling, quietly listening to his own breathing, and wondering how much it will hurt to die.

☀︎

The next day, when Anairë worriedly asks where he had been, he tells her that the tension of the courts, the tension with Fëanáro, had simply driven him to need space to clear his head. It is not a lie, though it is not strictly the truth.

When his father asks why he had missed dinner, he answers that he had been feeling troubled and had taken a walk in hopes the fresh air would help clear his thoughts. Fëanáro's gaze burns against the side of his face as he speaks, and he forcefully keeps his mind as blank as possible. Shoves it all down, down, down until he can almost not hear any of it all.

He gets through court and then locks himself in his study and coughs. Does so again and again, day after day. Becomes well-practiced in finding ways to duck out of conversations quickly when Fëanáro joins them. Stays in the same room as Fëanáro only as long as strictly necessary. It is easier to keep the coughing to a minimum when he does not have to see Fëanáro, does not have to speak with him, and so he does his best to avoid both.

Still finds himself sitting at his desk two weeks later, looking at the papers strewn about it — the half-made plans for dinners and visits to Alqualondë and gifts to be bought for begetting days — and finds himself wearily wondering what the point of any of it is. His chest has begun to dully ache near constantly, and the flowers, though slowly, are growing in size.

He wonders if he gave up court life, if he moved to Alqualondë and never let himself see Fëanáro again, if he could perhaps simply stall the sickness indefinitely. Does not know what he would do with himself and is sure that his foolish heart would find a way to turn even missing Fëanáro into a death sentence. For all that every interaction with Fëanáro is a battle that leaves his chest too tight he still does not wish to never see his brother again.

He does not go to court the next day. There is nothing he truly must be present for, and he is tired. Wishes for one day without having to see Fëanáro's hatred directed at him. He is not so foolish as to believe that this will save him from coughing up flowers, but will still spare himself any pain he can.

He considers walking through the city, considers spending time with his children, considers spending time with Anairë or his siblings, or his mother — but all these options will come with questions he does not wish to answer, and so he once again finds himself walking through the gardens and slipping out into the woods. He does not think of anything for a long while. Keeps his focus on his own feet and the trees and the patches of sky he can see flickering through the treetops.

It is a relief to finally sit down on the riverbank, his chest a shade too tight from the time spent walking. If he moves at a measured pace and does not breathe overly deeply, he can sometimes forget that there are roots so, so slowly winding their way around his lungs, and preparing to strangle him to death at some nebulous point in the future. But the pressure on his lungs is very slowly becoming more and more noticeable as the days pass, and he does not care for the idea of how much worse it will become before this is over.

There is an ever-present, hard pit of emotion lodged deep in his stomach at all times these days. A simple question stuck in his throat every time he sees Fëanáro — why could you not love me? He knows why of course. Knows that Fëanáro will never be able to look at him and see him without Míriel’s ghost hovering in the background. It makes nothing better. Nothing can make this better. He had thought he’d accepted this as a fact of the world. But it seems he had never quite managed to fully prune the stubborn strand of hope woven through the love. 

Later, as he arrives back at the palace, he runs into Fëanáro going the opposite direction. Fëanáro, who stops in the corridor and stares at him with narrowed eyes. Drags his eyes over Ñolofinwë’s rumpled clothes, the grass stains he’d accidentally acquired. “You were not in court today,” Fëanáro says, accusation and question all wrapped into one.

“I was not feeling well,” he says, waving a hand through the air dismissively and hoping it distracts from the exhaustion he hadn’t quite managed to keep out of his voice. “I simply needed some space to think.”

Fëanáro does not accuse him of treachery or lies immediately as Ñolofinwë would have expected him to. Instead stares at him with narrowed eyes for another long minute. Still, it is maybe something about the curve of his mouth or the slant of his eyes, something in the dark way he is watching Ñolofinwë, but in the back of his throat the slightest familiar tickle makes itself known. "I am afraid I must go," he says, since it does not seem as if Fëanáro intends to say anything with any haste. "I will see you in court tomorrow, half-brother." He trips over the last word, has never bothered to add the qualifier at the beginning, but he has no wish for Fëanáro to hold him here longer.

He does not wait for a response before setting off down the hall, still catches a glimpse of Fëanáro's face twisting with suspicion, confusion evident as well in the creases of his eyes. He walks the slightest bit faster, the cough building in the back of his throat near to forcing its way out.

He barely manages to close the door of his study behind him before he must bend over as he coughs, the feeling of soft petals dragging up the inside of his throat nearly making him gag. What finally falls out of his mouth is not a singular flower but a handful of lavender flowers. All so very small that one would have been no problem at all, but there are seven in his palm, all clumped together. He separates them, runs his finger over the soft petals. Must go sit in his chair and bury his face in his hands as a wave of bitter hopelessness goes tearing through him.

He does not enjoy the feeling of simply giving up. Feels as if surely there is something he can do to both halt this and retain his feelings. But the flower sickness is a well-worn horror story wrapped up in a fairytale. The idea of being loved so thoroughly just enchanting enough for most to not think of it as such a terrible thing, for surely the love will be returned. There have been no deaths from the sickness since the great journey to Aman, and only one case where a rendering of the fëa had to occur to save the one in love. He does not like the seeming inevitability of being the first death to occur. Does not like any of this. Feels as if he is constantly thinking himself in circles, but he does not know what to do.

He never has when it comes to Fëanáro.

He wishes this were not the refrain of his life.

☀︎

Life carries on.

Ñolofinwë feels as if the world should be holding itself still and silent. At least until he has gathered his courage around himself well enough that the idea of dying no longer sticks in his throat when he thinks about telling anyone at all about the countdown hanging above his head.

He continues going to court, deals with Fëanáro watching him more and more closely with every passing day. Begins taking small steps back so that his absence will not be as painfully noticeable when he is gone. Coughs up flowers every day and does his best to hide how very exhausted he is as the coughing grows more and more painful, the flowers growing larger.

His desk drawer is littered with flowers, some still vibrant, the older ones withered and brown beneath them. There is an abundance of tiny lavender flowers strewn through the drawer, those never coming up alone, instead crawling up his throat in bunches of six or more. There are beautiful, miniature golden-orange marigolds, small enough to fit up his throat and so, too small to be mistaken for a naturally grown flower. An immediate giveaway if anyone were ever to see it in his hand. The pale yellow, blush-tinged carnations that are slowly, but steadily, growing in size are the worst, for they are the only flowers he knows the meaning of.

Disdain. Disappointment. Rejection. What else is there to say?

He has no desire to know what the other flowers mean and are screaming for anyone to see, so he has not looked. Has already heard enough. Closes his eyes and sees Fëanáro's curled lip and bitter gaze staring back. Opens them, stares at the flowers in his hand, and abruptly feels so blisteringly angry that he must stand and leave the palace before he does something dreadfully foolish like hunt Fëanáro down just to start a fight. He wants to scream, but is not sure he would be able to do so without the entire affair ending in tears.

There is no point in the anger. Nowhere for him to throw it that would truly make him feel better, and so he must swallow it all down until he chokes on it as well.

He spends the afternoon roaming Tirion instead. Talking to his people, listening to the anecdotes they wish to share, to the minor issues cropping up here and there about crafting guilds and trade logistics. Mentally notes down what he should make sure to bring to the court's attention before he must fully step back from his duties. Takes note of who talks freely with him and who does not. Sees invisible lines drawn in the sand everywhere he looks and does not like it.

He returns to the palace later, anger burnt out and lungs aching from exertion. Here is what he has not said, has barely let himself think —

Ñolofinwë does not want to die. He has wrapped it all up in acceptance, in love, but he does not want to die. He loves his wife and children. His parents. His full-blood siblings. The people of Tirion. All the people in Aman. All the lands he does not spend enough time roaming. He has no wish to leave.

This should make the choice easier, should it not? For what is one brother who hates him when held up against everything else? It should be an obvious and easy choice. And yet. And yet. He cannot do it. He cannot.

Fëanáro does not deserve it from him, and yet, Ñolofinwë will give it regardless.

☀︎

Nothing gets better.

Ñolofinwë goes to court and day by day, continues taking the smallest steps back, biting his tongue in places he would normally speak. Does it as slowly as he dares as he tries to draw no one's suspicion. Fëanáro's suspicions grow regardless, and he hates that he cannot be sure if they are being exacerbated by Ñolofinwë drawing back or if he simply is suspicious of Ñolofinwë because his brother is always suspicious of him.

“You are acting strange, Ñolofinwë,” Fëanáro says one day, catching him as he is about to leave. “Whatever it is you are planning, do not think that I will not find out.”

He has sighed aloud before he can stop himself. "I am not planning anything, Fëanáro. I know you hold no trust for me, but I speak true when I say you have nothing to worry about from me."

Fëanáro’s eyes narrow, and though they are swimming with bitter resentment, there is also a flash of confusion that makes him wonder what Fëanáro heard in his voice. “I do not believe you,” Fëanáro says after a moment, voice guarded but strangely neutral.

“I know,” he says, mouth quirking with resigned amusement. “You never do, brother. You never do.”

Later, he coughs up more lavender, the flowers large enough now that he finds himself bracing his hand on his desk as he bends over and coughs so violently he tastes iron on the back of his tongue. This time the flowers do not leave his throat until he has gagged around them and forced them up.

He sits hunched over in his chair for a long time afterward, breathing jagged and throat raw. For the first time in his life, he finds that he is truly scared. It is a viscerally unpleasant feeling and claws through his chest, up his throat. He is scared and does not know what to do and wants—

He wants what he’d always wanted when he was still small enough to think the world was an easily fixable beast — he wants to be able to run to someone bigger than him and have them fix it. To listen to Fëanáro explain it all as a thing to be built and taken apart and put back together correctly. Stupid, useless wants that he had left behind in his childhood.

He forces himself instead to stand and locks it all away, presses the fear down as far as he can, and when he returns to his rooms that night, he kisses Anairë on the cheek and smiles as if nothing bad has ever happened at all. He has never felt so much like the conniving creature Fëanáro believes him to be. 

☀︎

It is a month and a half after the first flower petals first appeared that he is once more forced into close quarters with Fëanáro. 

His father has requested their attendance at dinner, stating he wishes to spend time with them, and he has forced himself to attend. He does not know why his father continues to uselessly attempt to fix what is broken between his sons, but he does not want to refuse to go and endure the questions as to why. Forcefully realizes shortly into the dinner that he should have simply done so regardless of what questions he would have been forced to deal with, for he does not believe he will be able to make it through this dinner. It was foolish of him to believe he could.

He does manage to make it halfway through the meal. Eats little but pushes his emotions so far down inside of himself that he can, for a little while, endure the sneers and thinly veiled insults. For a little while he feels nothing but a blank placidness that shields him well. Fëanáro casts queer looks his way throughout the dinner, a speculative gleam to his eyes that means Ñolofinwë should be worried. If he were allowing himself to feel anything, then perhaps he would be.

He means to continue this throughout the entire dinner. Knows that if he leaves mid-dinner it will cause great suspicion, but their father says, your brother— and Fëanáro darkly corrects him and says, half— and Ñolofinwë, for a split second, loses his grip on his emotions. The urge to cough overcomes him before he can regain it. It is such a stupid thing to care about; is nothing he has not heard many times before, but it is still like sandpaper against his raw heart. He breathes in slowly as he swallows down the cough, makes his excuses in a perfectly even voice, and has fled the room before his father can ask any questions.

The coughing fits have been steadily growing worse and worse as they become more easily triggered. Yet for all that things have grown worse, it still takes him aback how much worse it can still become without killing him. It is terrible enough this time that he finds himself on his knees, palms pressed to the floor as he violently coughs and struggles to breathe. Whatever is lodged in his throat this time is larger than anything he has coughed up previously. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, breath whistling as it struggles to emerge.

He gags as he forces his body to cough harder in hopes of forcing the object up his throat. Gags again at the feel of rough tendrils slithering up his throat as the obstruction is dislodged. What finally falls out of his mouth, speckled with blood, is another bedamned carnation, but one that has vein-like roots attached at the end where it would have tried to merge with the roots slowly crawling around his lungs. He stares at it for a moment and then carefully sits up, collapsing back against his desk, still fighting to regain his breath.

"Ñolofinwë," Fëanáro says, and he snaps his head around to find Fëanáro standing in the doorway looking genuinely horrified. "How long has this been happening?"

Horrifically, he feels the slightest tickle in the back of his throat, and he cannot bear to have another fit right now. “Please go away,” he says, voice wrecked and raw and terribly small.

Fëanáro though has not once done as he asked and instead comes farther into the room, eyes fixed on the flower still clutched in his hand. "Why the fuck have you let it progress this far?" Fëanáro snaps, somehow managing to sound irritated and disappointed in him even when showing what seems to be genuine concern.

"Please," he says once more, breathing in shallowly, "go away. It is not your concern." The lie burns leaving his mouth, breath catching in his throat as he furiously swallows down the cough that wants to emerge.

Fëanáro crouches down to look him in the face, eyes dark and furious. "Are you so stupid that you wish to die?" he asks harshly. "I will not bother mourning you if you bring this upon yourself."

That, it seems, is abruptly too much. He has barely a second to register what is about to happen before he must bend over as he begins to cough again. He had, foolishly, not realized it could grow even worse within the span of only a few minutes. Yet it feels as if there is barely any room at all in his throat for air to make its way past the obstruction, and he finds himself once again bent over and desperately trying to breathe as his body tries to expel the wrongness.

His mouth tastes like copper and dirt, black spots dancing around the edge of his vision, and it is not until a warm hand settles on his back that another flower finally falls from his mouth. It is such an awful sensation, the way it crawls up his throat, roots trailing behind it. 

"Not my concern," Fëanáro says flatly. No one had ever accused him of being slow on the uptake, but Ñolofinwë rather wished he were not quite that quick.

"Please stop talking," he says, the words barely more than a whisper. His throat hurts fiercely, blood still sharp and hot on the back of his tongue.

Surprisingly, Fëanáro listens. His hand is still resting on Ñolofinwë's back, a comforting pressure as his lungs remember how to work. If Ñolofinwë were a foolish elf, he would take advantage of this moment to lean on Fëanáro and pretend that his brother actually cares. But he is not quite that foolish and is also not convinced that would not make this entire matter worse.

He is not foolish, but he also does not shake Fëanáro's hand from his back.

When he finally looks down at the flower clutched tight in his hand, he finds that it is a marigold, a deep yellow and shot through with a dark red that hides the blood speckled across it.

"Grief," Fëanáro says, voice strangely blank and clinically detached. "Marigolds represent grief."

Ñolofinwë sighs, not bothering to hide it. Of course his brother would know that which he had no wish to learn of. Fëanáro reaches over and plucks the carnation from the floor where Ñolofinwë had dropped it. Turns it over in his hands and says quietly, "Disdain, disappointment, rejection." He is clearly reciting from memory, but hearing the words from Fëanáro's mouth makes Ñolofinwë's heart twist.

"Just," he sighs, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between his legs, feeling so incredibly tired. "Just go away, Fëanáro. Please, just go away." He still does not shake Fëanáro's hand off his back. Cannot bring himself to lose the comforting weight sooner than he must.

"Why have you let it progress this far, Ñolofinwë?" Fëanáro's voice is grave, and beneath it, more fucking judgment.

"What else would you have had me do? Should I have thrown myself at your feet begging? I see no point asking for that which I know you cannot give.”

Fëanáro's answering silence, the gaping space where a witty response should be, is so very loud. Still, Fëanáro does not leave, nor does he remove his hand from Ñolofinwë's back. Says after a long while, "You intend to die. To reject the possibility of healing and let this kill you."

"I will not allow my fëa to be cut apart and stitched back together. For it to be made as if none of this has ever mattered. I will not do it," he says as fiercely as he can, his throat burning with the force of his words. This he is sure of. If there were another way, perhaps. But there is not and the only solution available is not one he is willing to accept. "You are my brother, and I love you. To my great detriment, I love you, and I will not have that torn from me."

"You are a fool," Fëanáro says in a low voice, though, for the first time in Ñolofinwë's memory, Fëanáro does not correct his usage of ‘brother’.

"You have ever thought so. Which means this should come as no surprise to you.”

"No. I did not think you foolish. I thought you scheming and cold. Practical, perhaps. Clever enough to try and cheat me of my birthright if left to your own devices. I thought you ruthlessly aiming for my position as heir. For my position in my father's heart." He pauses, laughing harshly. "Though, I suppose this will likely accomplish the former well enough, for what father loves the son who lives more than the one who has died."

Ñolofinwë breaths in slowly. Breathes out the same. Means to say something measured and calm. Instead, he hears himself snap, "You are somehow both the smartest elf I have ever met, while also being the stupidest.” He is unable to bite the words back and no longer sees any reason to. He jerks away from Fëanáro's touch, standing and stalking across the room to the window so that he can press his forehead to the cool glass.

He turns back around only a moment later when there is a distinct lack of yelling from Fëanáro. Finds him red-faced, fists clenched, eyes narrowed. He is clearly fighting down whatever it is he wishes to say in response, and Ñolofinwë does not know how to feel about this strange consideration that he would not have expected to receive. Finds himself helplessly drawn back across the room, wishing to have Fëanáro next to him more than he wishes for space. He sits back down on the floor next to Fëanáro, slumping against the desk. It is more vulnerability than he would normally ever permit himself to show in front of his brother, but it feels as if it is a bit too late to be worrying about such things.

Fëanáro shifts, angling his body toward Ñolofinwë. “Just have the healers remove it," Fëanáro says, deadly serious as he watches Ñolofinwë.

He snorts despite the way it hurts his throat, "Why? So that I can learn to hate you as deeply as you hate me? I have no wish to be like you, no matter how dearly I love you."

Fëanáro jerks back, looking as if Ñolofinwë has slapped him, an expression he has never before managed to inspire on his brother's face. "And so you would rather die?" he snarls.

"I would remain myself. I will not have things stolen from me. If that means that I die, then I suppose that is what it means." He tries to sound calm, tries to sound as if this is something he is at peace with. Will not tell Fëanáro, of all people, how terrified he is of what his dying will do to Anairë,  his children, his siblings, his parents. Will not admit to Fëanáro that he very much wishes to live, for there is nothing Fëanáro can do. Nothing that he can do that Ñolofinwë will believe, which is the crux of the matter.

Fëanáro studies him for a long while, fists clenching and unclenching as he tries to solve an unsolvable problem. It is nice, in a way, to know that no matter Fëanáro's hatred of him, his brother still does not seem to wish him dead. It is not enough, but it is still the smallest comfort. "You will die,” Fëanáro says again, voice tight, jaw clenched. “Surely you do not wish for such a thing.”

“What I wish for does not particularly matter,” he says before he can think better of it, lips tugging up into a bitter smile. “I have already made my choice, Fëanáro. If I were going to allow the healers to touch me I would have done so weeks ago so that none of you ever became aware of this at all.”

Something dark flickers through Fëanáro’s eyes at that, his fists clenching tight atop his thighs. His brother does not speak again for a long while, instead studying him with dark eyes, attempting to solve him the same way he might solve an equation. Ñolofinwë closes his eyes and just breathes. Tries to appreciate the novelty of Fëanáro caring in his own begrudging, resentful way. They sit that way for a long stretch of time, until Ñolofinwë’s throat no longer hurts quite so bad and his breathing is perfectly steady as if nothing had ever happened.

Fëanáro’s gaze does not break from his face the entire time.

“You are not allowed to die,” is what Fëanáro finally says, voice dark and furious, some other emotion hiding between those two that Ñolofinwë cannot identify.

He opens his eyes, blinking uncomprehendingly. “Even you cannot bend life and death to your will,” he says dryly. If such a thing were possible he is sure Fëanáro would have already found a way to do just that.

"No," Fëanáro says, shaking his head sharply. Says nothing else for a tense moment, and Ñolofinwë waits, watching Fëanáro argue with himself. Fëanáro draws in a deep breath, narrowing his eyes. "You are not allowed to die. I will fix this."

“You cannot—”

“I can,” Fëanáro says sharply. “Am I not the cause? I can fix this.”

He stares. Opens his mouth and cannot think of what to say. Can only stare as he tries to comprehend all that fixing it would mean. “Fëanáro,” he says helplessly.

The doubt and overwhelm must be loud in his voice for Fëanáro scowls at him. “I can fix this,” he insists once more. Ñolofinwë is not sure which of them he is trying to convince.

“Can you?” he asks. “This is not a gem to be cut or something to be molded or crafted. You hate me—” the words catch in his throat and he clears it, tries to distance himself from the words “—do you truly believe you can change that? That you will be able to look me in the eyes and say that you love me, that you believe in your heart that we are brothers, and mean it. Do you truly—”

“I am aware of what I have said and implied,” Fëanáro snaps, though there is a wild look in his eyes that Ñolofinwë does not particularly like the look of. “I am not incapable of learning.”

“No,” he sighs, leaning his head against the desk and closing his eyes once more. “No, I don’t suppose anyone has ever been able to accuse you of that.”

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

Flower Images I Used As Inspiration

• Carnations: [1] [2] [3]
• Lavender: [1] [2]
• Marigolds: [1] [2]

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There wasn't a time / I didn't have / a brother. By the time / my eyes
opened, / he was already here, / but there's so little / time between
us, / he also can't remember / a time before me. / Our origins blur /into
a single birth / between us / and so between us / is a world / and its
beginning. / I tell myself / there's not a world / without my brother in
it. / I tell myself / I'd follow him anywhere / to keep the world / from 
ending.

The World at Its Beginning | Dustin Pearson

☀︎

Fëanáro says, I am not incapable of learning, and Ñolofinwë knows that this is true, but he cannot believe Fëanáro. Not about this. Had, in truth, half-believed that Fëanáro would simply change his mind and decide to ignore the matter until Ñolofinwë was forced to reveal the sickness to the rest of their family.

He discovers the following day that, to Fëanáro, learning seems to mean barging into the palace before breakfast has even concluded so that he may drag Ñolofinwë out into the gardens. Anairë and his children stare after them with perplexed looks that leave Ñolofinwë dreading having to figure out how to explain why Fëanáro is willingly spending time with him.

He carefully places all his emotions inside a box, tries to think of nothing but what is directly in front of him. For all that Fëanáro seems genuinely intent on trying, he does not believe this first attempt will be anything less than disastrous.

Fëanáro leads them to the eastern corner of the gardens where a fountain is hidden. It is a small pavilion, the north entrance nearly obscured by a weeping willow. It is not an area he has often visited. It is, however, very private, and he can easily see why Fëanáro chose it.

He waits until they are settled side by side on a bench, staring at the fountain so that they do not have to look at each other, to ask: “Well, what is your plan to fix this then?” For all that he does not believe this will work, does not believe Fëanáro is capable of loving him, he still finds himself curious as to what exactly Fëanáro plans on attempting. Curious as to how long Fëanáro’s resolve to pursue a solution will last. 

Fëanáro is quiet for a moment, fists clenched tight. “We must talk, must we not?” he says in a low voice; trying to hide the distaste at the thought, Ñolofinwë is sure. “The solution is for me to… the desired outcome is for me to be able to say that I—” he pauses for so long that Ñolofinwë is not sure he is even capable of finishing the sentence. But finally he spits out, “—that I love you. That I view you as a full brother in heart.”

“And mean it,” Ñolofinwë tacks on, staring at the fountain and trying to imagine Fëanáro ever saying any of those words and meaning them. Cannot picture it even as a mockery. 

"And mean it. Yes. You know I do not lie about these things, Ñolofinwë. If I say it, I will mean it." He sounds deadly certain of himself in this, and Ñolofinwë does not doubt him, not in this of all things.

As it turns out, neither of them seems to know how to speak to the other when honesty is demanded. Ñolofinwë cannot think of anything to say that Fëanáro will not take offense to or twist into an insult. Cannot think of anything to say that would not make it seem as if he is trying to guilt his brother into loving him. Fëanáro is silent as well, likely unable to think of anything to say that is not insulting. Unable to think of anything to speak about when he does not care about Ñolofinwë, and he is not in the habit of bothering with small talk. But despite the awkward silence, despite the pressure slowly making itself known in his chest, it is nice to have Fëanáro next to him while the air is mostly peaceful.

Fëanáro breaks the silence with a frustrated noise, standing and pacing, agitation clear in his shoulders. He spins toward Ñolofinwë on the fourth pass, pointing aggressively. “I do not like you.” 

“I know,” he says dryly. “That is rather what has gotten me into this mess.” 

Fëanáro scowls at him. “I do not. So, tell me something about yourself that will change my mind. We must start somewhere.” 

Ñolofinwë stares at him. Wonders how offensive it would be to break down into laughter. “I do not know what I could tell you that you do not already know,” he says, reluctantly amused at the way Fëanáro is attempting to blindly charge through this. “I am the same person I have always been. Nothing about me has changed.” 

“Something must have,” Fëanáro says, giving him a look that clearly says he has missed something obvious. “If you have always felt this strongly, then why is it only now that you have developed the flower-sickness?” He raises an eyebrow and nods decisively when Ñolofinwë can do nothing but stare at him. “Precisely. Something in the way you feel about me has changed and caused this.”

He considers that carefully for a moment, splitting himself into parts and then placing them back together. If Fëanáro never lies about his feelings toward a person, then Ñolofinwë matches him only in how he never lies to himself. “I do not believe anything has so significantly changed in my own feelings,” he says slowly, holding his hand up when Fëanáro opens his mouth to interrupt. “No, I believe it may be some combination of sudden extended exposure to you in a way I have not had to deal with in a very long time, and that lately, your feelings toward me have noticeably darkened.” He does not say, in a way that feels a little as if we are, over and over again, standing in a pool of sunlight as you snarl that you are not my brother, that you will never be my brother, not in any way that matters. Thinks maybe Fëanáro hears it regardless, if the way his face twists is any indication. 

Fëanáro shakes his head as if in denial. “You hate me,” he mutters. “You wish to insert yourself into spots that are not yours, into positions that do not belong to you.” 

“I believe it is rather demonstrably obvious that I do not hate you,” he says with a sigh, rubbing at his chest where an ache has begun to make itself known. 

“But do you deny the rest?” Fëanáro demands harshly. “You wish to take my place as heir. To steal Atar’s love.” 

“Love is not a thing that can be stolen. If it were, do you think I would not have already tried to steal yours so that I could rid myself of this problem? I wish for Atar to love me, of course, do not give me that look,” he snaps, for Fëanáro’s scowl has gone dark and cruel. “It is not unreasonable or strange for one to want their father's love. But I have no desire nor need to deprive you of such.” He breathes in deeply, pressing hard on his chest as the tightness worsens. 

“You are avoiding the question of the heirship,” Fëanáro says dangerously, taking a step toward him. “Speak true, Ñolofinwë. I will know if you lie."

“I have not lied to you,” he says evenly, forced to pause and focus on drawing in another deep breath, the slightest tickle taking up residence in the base of his throat. “I am not trying to steal anything from you. I would not. I will admit to believing that I would enjoy the duties of your position far more than you seem to, but I am not aiming to steal it from—”

Ñolofinwë must break off to cough, has the pointless desire to bang his fists against the bench in helpless frustration. 

He thinks that perhaps he can escape with only a small coughing fit, one that involves no flowers at all, only a terribly tight chest that threatens to turn on him. Thinks that until he gets himself under control and looks up to find Fëanáro watching him with suspicious, worried eyes. 

It is, of course, the suspicion that his body decides it cannot stand. He has only a second to register what is about to happen before he is bent over, violently coughing as the flowers fully lodge themselves in his throat.

Fëanáro curses, moving to sit next to him, a hand settling on his back as he fights to breathe. It is easier this time, thankfully. Perhaps because of the knowledge that this is Fëanáro trying, even if he is terrible at it, perhaps because Fëanáro's presence alone eases it if only the slightest bit. The flowers, though they cling to his throat and make him gag terribly as they come up, do come up without too much trouble.

He is left, in the end, with a handful of lavender flowers in his hand, and Fëanáro's hand a burning brand on his back.

Fëanáro sighs heavily after a moment, reaching over to pluck one of the flowers from his palm. "Lavender," he murmurs, running his thumb over the petals. "Distrust. A bit on the nose perhaps."

Ñolofinwë would have something scathing to say in response if his throat did not burn. Instead, he crushes the rest of the flowers in his fist before dropping them to the ground. "No more accusations then?" he asks hoarsely after a minute.

"And what else should I accuse you of?" Fëanáro asks, his hand still pressed to Ñolofinwë's back. "Faking this sickness? Such a thing is not possible. I could say that everything you have said to me today is a lie. But to what end, when we both know how this will go if I cannot fix this?"

“To what end,” he echoes, swallowing around the lump of emotion threatening to choke him in place of the flowers. What end indeed. For there is no end to this but one that ends with him in Mandos, sundered from his loved ones for the crime of loving one person too deeply. How absurd that there can even be such a thing as too much love. 

The silence stretches for a long time, the sound of the water fountain a soothing melody, the breeze blowing through the gardens cool against his skin. Fëanáro's hand never leaves his back, and Ñolofinwë still finds the idea of Fëanáro caring in any capacity so novel that he cannot bring himself to shake it off.

“You truly have no designs to usurp the heirship?” Fëanáro asks after the peace has begun to lull Ñolofinwë into a sleepy trance. 

His brother shifts to look at him, hand finally falling away, and Ñolofinwë blinks at him. Fëanáro stares back with a furrowed brow and a mouth that seems to only ever frown when in Ñolofinwë's presence. "Fëanáro, tell me, what would I have to gain from doing such a thing? A heirship is only any good if there is something to inherit, and if I in truth, decided to take up the foolish task of usurping your position, rest assured that there would be a revolt in Tirion." He cannot help but sigh at the perplexed irritation on Fëanáro's face. "I do not wish to steal it from you, brother. But even if I did wish to, even if I were willing to ignore our father’s wishes, I am not foolish enough to think that the resulting political mess would be worth it.” 

Fëanáro considers him for another minute through narrowed eyes. “You do not wish to steal it,” he says slowly, his talent for narrowing in on the pieces Ñolofinwë least wants him to pay attention to unmatched. “But you do wish for it.” 

He sighs, considers his options, considers lying. But as they had said, to what end would lying accomplish anything at all? "Yes, Fëanáro. Yes, I wish for it. Wishing for something does not mean I intend to act on such desires."

"Then what," Fëanáro asks quietly, eyes bleeding venom, "is the point of wishing for such things? The heirship is mine. You will not find it so easy to oust me —"

"Do you listen to me when I speak at all?" he snaps, standing and moving out of reach. "Is it not abundantly clear that I have no wish to deprive you of anything? That I have no wish to oust you from anywhere you wish to be? My reasons for wishing for such are my own, but they do not involve harming you." He pauses, glances over his shoulder to find Fëanáro still watching him with a dark expression. Shakes his head and says in disgust, "I do not know why you are even bothering with this. I will leave you to your suspicion."

He leaves quickly before Fëanáro can think to stop him and immediately ducks into a different corner garden, heading for the back hedge and feeling a surge of victory when he finds a thin area where he can slide through and disappear out into the forest. He is sure Fëanáro has already moved to follow him, but hopefully he will not think to check for such things.

Ñolofinwë cannot stand the sight of Fëanáro's face any longer. His chest is still unbearably tight, and he is sure that there will be more flowers expelled from his body before the day is over. He has no desire to have Fëanáro see it happen again. Does not like the strange looks—half-pity, half-genuine care—that he receives when the coughing is witnessed. 

It is nice, in a way, that Fëanáro wishes to fix the unfixable. It is also the worst thing in the world, for how terrible to have proof that Fëanáro has always been capable of putting in the effort if he only wished to. How absolutely fucking humiliating that Ñolofinwë was not worth the effort until he was dying. 

He should not be so surprised. He should not. But he lowers himself onto the ground next to the river, stares at his reflection in the water, and cannot help but wonder—

—is there something more I could have done to make you love me?  

☀︎

Fëanáro does not give up, though Ñolofinwë had not truly expected him to. He would not be Fëanáro without his specific brand of bull-headed stubbornness, always convinced he is right and that he can do anything he sets his mind to. Normally, Ñolofinwë would agree, for it does seem unlikely that there is anything you could put in front of Fëanáro that he would not master, given only a bit of time. But this, this, he does not believe is within even Fëanáro's capacity. 

He would be amused by being the obstacle that Fëanáro finally cannot overcome, if not for the tragic ending of it all.  

Still, Fëanáro barges into the dining room the next morning to once again drag him out to the gardens, and Ñolofinwë, despite believing this is a pointless exercise in frustration, follows. He does not believe this will work, but oh, there is a little corner of his heart that so desperately wants it to. Fëanáro points at the bench when they arrive at the garden and immediately takes to pacing once Ñolofinwë has humored him and sat down.

“You ran away yesterday,” Fëanáro says after a moment, slanting an accusing glare his way. “We will accomplish nothing if you run every time you become upset.” 

Ñolofinwë has several things he’d like to say to that, ranging from the rude—perhaps if you were not such an insufferable, suspicious asshole, I would not feel the need to run—to the rather pathetic—I do not want to see the pity in your eyes when I begin choking on my foolish love for you. Swallows all of it down and instead says, "The conversation had reached its limit of usefulness. We were not going to accomplish anything when you were only interested in accusing me of things I am not doing and do not wish to do."

Fëanáro pauses his pacing to stare at Ñolofinwë with narrowed eyes. “You have admitted in your own words, you wish to have the heirship. Why should I not accuse you of that which is true?” 

There is a split second where Ñolofinwë genuinely considers punching his brother, for there is nothing to lose at this point, and it would be so very satisfying. “If you will recall,” he says through gritted teeth, “I also clearly stated I have no intention of ever attempting to obtain it.” 

Fëanáro scoffs and returns to pacing. Ñolofinwë sighs and slides off the bench onto the grass, crossing his legs and making himself more comfortable. He is sure that he will not be able to get away with running off so easily this time, and it does not look as if Fëanáro truly has a plan other than blindly charging at the problem and hoping for the best. Which is, he thinks, mildly amused, one of the reasons he believes he would be better suited to the heirship, for this is not an uncommon way for Fëanor to approach problems. He watches Fëanáro pace for a while longer before tilting his head back against the bench and closing his eyes, turning his attention inward and slowing his breathing, counting each inhale.

They stay in this stalemate for a good while, the silence almost peaceful but for the nearly tangible agitation rolling off Fëanáro. Ñolofinwë keeps his eyes closed, his breathing steady, and thinks of nothing but the fact that Fëanáro is here. He did not leave Ñolofinwë to suffer alone. He did not write Ñolofinwë off as a lost cause. He did not immediately go tell their father and shift the problem to someone else's shoulders. He did not curse Ñolofinwë out or rejoice in the idea of his death. No, instead, he has decided to try to fix things. No matter what Ñolofinwë believes the inevitable outcome of this to be, it does not discredit that Fëanáro is trying. 

Fëanáro abruptly makes a sharp, frustrated noise and throws himself onto the ground near Ñolofinwë, shoving at his knee to get his attention, as if he could somehow have forgotten Fëanáro’s presence.

“Have you come up with some sort of useful plan then?” Ñolofinwë asks, not bothering to open his eyes, attempting to keep a tight hold on both his breathing and emotions. 

“Perhaps if you were not so deeply aggravating to be around, this would be easier,” Fëanáro snaps. 

Ñolofinwë does not sigh or throw his hands up as he wishes to. Instead shrugs, says as casually as he can, “You are welcome to leave. I am not holding you here by force.”

There is a beat of silence before Fëanáro says, low and cruel, "You seemingly wish to put so little effort into this, that if I did not know better, I would almost think that you want to die.”

He does open his eyes at that to glare, irritation coating his tongue. “I do not wish to die. I simply do not understand why you are even bothering with this,” he snaps. “It is not as if you actually wish to care about me.” 

Fëanáro stares at him for a blistering moment, something far too close to true hate flashing through his eyes. “I will not look Atar in his face and tell him that I freely allowed you to die, when I am capable of fixing this,” he says, fists clenched tight where they sit atop his thighs. 

He says it so evenly that the air punches out of Ñolofinwë, a tight, wretched emotion crawling up his windpipe and trying to close off his throat. For of course Fëanáro is not doing this because some scrap of affection for Ñolofinwë managed to squirm itself into his heart after all these years. In the back of his mind, he knew this; of course he knew this already. But oh, how it stings to have it thrown directly in his face. "The problem, is that I do not believe you are capable of it,” he tells Fëanáro, taking a savage pleasure in the irritation that bursts across Fëanáro’s face. 

“I am,” Fëanáro grits out, an angry flush spreading across his cheeks. Ñolofinwë does not think Fëanáro even believes himself. 

“How? Tell me how, Fëanáro. You cannot learn to love someone when it is not something you wish to do. That is not how this works.” 

Fëanáro stares at him with glittering, furious eyes for so long that Ñolofinwë begins to think he will get no answer at all. He holds his brother's gaze and does not allow himself to reach up to rub at his chest where an ache has begun to build.

“I do not want to do this,” Fëanáro admits, a quiet fury still hiding in his voice. “I do not care for you, and I do not wish to. But I will still not allow you to die. I will simply have to find a reason, to find something about you that will make me wish for such things.” 

“You make it sound like such a simple thing.” His chest aches terribly at the confession, even Fëanáro’s stubborn insistence that he can fix this doing nothing to lighten the ache. “What could I possibly do that would convince you to want such things? Nothing about me has changed. I am still the same as I was before this sickness took root in my chest. If you did not care for me then, why should you suddenly find yourself capable of caring for me now?” 

“That is a lie,” Fëanáro says, though there is no malice in the accusation, only simple fact. “You are more honest this way.” His mouth actually quirks up in a smile when Ñolofinwë stares incredulously at him. 

“I was honest before as well,” he says, miffed at the implication that he has been lying to his brother when he has not. He has, perhaps, bent the truth occasionally when needed, or quietly let Fëanáro’s assumptions work in his favor as they may, but he has never lied. 

Fëanáro scoffs. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you would not have snapped at me so easily nor admitted to wanting the heirship. You are more honest whether you wish to admit to it or not.” 

Ñolofinwë finally allows himself to reach up and rub at his chest, drawing in a deep breath. “I have nothing to lose,” he murmurs, closing his eyes once more. “What does it matter if I anger or upset you? None of it will matter sooner or later.” 

Fëanáro has snapped his hand out and grabbed Ñolofinwë’s wrist before the last word even fully finishes leaving his mouth. His grip on Ñolofinwë’s wrist is brutally tight, nails digging into soft skin. “You will not die,” he snarls, grip tightening until Ñolofinwë meets his eyes. “Stop speaking as if your death is an inevitability. It is not. Have some faith in me that I can fix this.” 

He smiles, a little sad, a little amused. “Oh, Fëanáro, why should I put any of my faith in you? I love you, that does not mean I trust you or am capable of putting any faith in you.” He does not bother trying to gentle the words, and Fëanáro does not flinch, but he still drops Ñolofinwë’s wrist as if burned. 

“Then what does it mean?” his brother asks, eyes burning. “What is the point of it if you do not trust me?” 

“Who told you that love had to have a point to it? You are my brother. No matter that you have never called yourself such, no matter that you deny it, no matter that I am not yours. You are my brother. And so I love you. I am no more capable of changing it than I am capable of changing the color of the sky. It simply is.” 

There is a moment of silence, Fëanáro’s eyes going to the sky as if to check the color, and then resting on the spot where Ñolofinwë is still absently rubbing at his chest, the ache not growing worse, but also not abating. This is the longest conversation they have had without a fight erupting in a very long time, and it is as temptingly hopeful as it is painful. Fëanáro is, as usual, right in his assertion that Ñolofinwë is being more honest than he would otherwise be. It is almost shockingly relieving to let the words that have festered inside of him for so long spring free. To put the words out there and not have Fëanáro throw them back in his face would be a dream if not for the circumstances. 

"Fine," Fëanáro says finally, meeting Ñolofinwë's eyes. "Fine. I believe you."  His voice is threaded through with so many emotions that Ñolofinwë cannot begin to single any one of them out.

“Believe me? About which part?” 

Fëanáro shrugs. “That you love me is undeniably true, as I have seen the flowers come from your body myself. If I am to believe that, then I must also believe that you are being truthful when you say that there is no point to it, you simply do—” he looks more and more uncomfortable the longer he speaks, but does not stop “—and if I believe that, then I suppose I must believe that you speak true when you say you do not wish to steal what is mine. For what type of brother would do such a thing to a sibling that he loves?” 

Ñolofinwë stares at him a while. Stares a while longer. Breathes in shallowly around the hope that so desperately wants to grow. "Just like that? All these years, and you finally believe me, just like that?"

“You make it sound like such a simple thing,” Fëanáro tosses back at him, mimicking his words from earlier. “These are exceptional circumstances, are they not? I believe you capable of lying to me if the mood suits you, but you are not capable of faking the flower-sickness. And if that is real, then I must follow the logical progression of thought that follows,” he says, raising an eyebrow expectantly, “which leads me to the conclusion that you do indeed mean what you are saying.” 

“The logical progression of thought,” he echoes. Something about the idea of Fëanáro applying logic to his feelings when it comes to the matter of any child of Indis is so unbearably absurd that he finds himself hiding his face in his hands and laughing. He laughs until his stomach hurts and then makes the mistake of looking up and meeting Fëanáro’s eyes. His brother looks so befuddled and annoyed all at once that it sends him into another helpless fit of laughter. 

He still does not truly believe this will work, but the laughter is cleansing in a way, and when he finally straightens he finds that the pressure on his chest has lightened the slightest bit. “You are utterly ridiculous,” he tells Fëanáro, not even attempting to keep the affection from his voice. “I still do not believe you—no, do not give me that look, I do not. I do not know how to believe you. But if you are willing to believe me, I will follow your lead and try to believe you in turn.” 

“How kind of you,” Fëanáro says dryly, a strange look in his eyes as he watches Ñolofinwë. 

“Very, yes. But,” and here he must pause to smile, the hope getting caught in his throat and stealing his voice, “perhaps you could come up with an actual plan. Something that relies on things other than us sitting out here and hoping for the best.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Fëanáro snaps, scowling at him, but for once there is no malice in it.

Ñolofinwë does not want to have hope, but it settles beneath his tongue and winds itself around his ribs regardless, makes a home of his body. The problem with hope, is that it is as impossible to escape as despair. And how much worse will it hurt at the end, if he has allowed himself to hope, only for it to all go rotten regardless of their efforts. Is it not easier to not hope at all?

For hope, when he is unable to picture a happy ending, only feels a lot like fear.

☀︎

Their appearance in court the next day draws more attention than usual. In part because it is unusual for Ñolofinwë to have been absent for so many days without a word of explanation. In part, he’s sure, because Fëanáro had been absent as well, and the Noldor are not a foolish people. A coincidence it could be, but they all must know it is likely not. The strange, almost peaceful, council meeting that follows only puts more attention on the matter, for it is painfully obvious that Fëanáro is biting his tongue at times, a practice he does not usually bother with. 

Ñolofinwë speaks, and Fëanáro does not immediately attempt to discredit his thoughts. His brother speaks and does not plant barbed attacks inside his words. Ñolofinwë, at one point, out of pure curiosity to see how Fëanáro will react, brings up an idea he has been idly thinking on for many weeks. He puts the proposal for a festival on the table. It is one he has designed to help mend what seems to be an ever-growing rift within the Noldor. He sits back when he is done speaking, waiting to see what will be said in response.

It is not surprising when everyone’s eyes immediately move from him to Fëanáro, for it is clear to everyone what exactly is causing the rift, and if it were any other day, Ñolofinwë would say that it is just as clear how Fëanáro will react to the suggestion. If it were any other day. But this day, Fëanáro only stares at him silently for a long, tense moment, both of them perfectly aware that Ñolofinwë’s body is always only one slight away from sending him into a coughing fit. 

“The suggestion has potential,” Fëanáro says after another moment, tension evident in his brow and shoulders, though his tone is perfectly even. “The details can be improved. If we are going to hold a festival, it will be one to be remembered.” 

Shock goes visibly rippling around the table. Their father is looking between them with a furrowed brow, eyes cautiously hopeful despite the confusion. Ñolofinwë knows that if they are not careful, the secret of his sickness will get out to his family far quicker than he wishes. He cannot quite bring himself to care when he is having the long wished for experience of engaging in an actual conversation with Fëanáro during council, instead of a badly disgused war of barbed words.

There is nothing decided at the council that day, but tentative plans are proposed, and careful discussions are had that do not end in fighting. When council breaks, and everyone else files out looking vaguely dumbfounded by the lack of arguing, Ñolofinwë finds himself thinking that it will be a pity if this does not work, for the festival is a good idea, and he would rather like to be around to see it. 

☀︎

Anairë gives him a queer look when Fëanáro shows up after dinner to drag him outside once again. He knows that one way or another he will have to tell her soon. She knows him too well to think that Fëanáro suddenly being present so often could be caused by anything other than extenuating circumstances. But for now, he slips away and follows Fëanáro outside, breathing in the fresh air and hoping that it is a good sign that he has made it through the day without yet coughing up any flowers.

Once they reach the garden, Fëanáro sinks onto the grass, crossing his legs, foregoing the bench entirely, and Ñolofinwë, after a second's hesitation, follows suit. They sit there, silently considering one another for a long minute, the entire week having been so strange that it feels as if they surely should look different to accommodate for the sudden changes between them. But they are still simply themselves. Fëanáro's shining eyes, burning with a fire unquenchable; Ñolofinwë's spine of steel, always refusing to melt beneath his brother's fire.

“Tell me then, of what it is you enjoy doing when you are not speaking of politics,” Fëanáro says, breaking the silence. When Ñolofinwë just stares at him uncomprehendingly, he scowls and says, with clear discomfort, “You told me to make a plan. I have been told that a good way of encouraging affection is to take an interest in the other person’s hobbies.” 

Ñolofinwë blinks. Raises an eyebrow. “You have been told? Who in the expanses of Arda have you asked for advice on such things?” 

Fëanáro's gaze does not waver, but his cheeks go slightly pink. "Nerdanel had many words of advice for me after the situation was explained."

Ñolofinwë stares, completely befuddled by all that implies. Nerdanel has not spoken to Fëanáro in months; for her to be aware of the situation can only mean that Fëanáro had intentionally sought her out for advice. All of which seems absurd to him. Fëanáro must misinterpret his expression, for he frowns and adds, "She will not tell anyone. I have full faith in her ability to keep such things secret."

“I was not worried about such,” he says, for it had not even occurred to him to worry about Nerdanel. “I am only surprised that you asked for advice.” 

Fëanáro tenses, offense written across his face. “I am perfectly capable of having figured it out myself,” he says tightly. “It seemed only prudent, however, to ask for advice, considering the time limit we are under.”

“I am not judging you,” Ñolofinwë says gently, strangely touched that Fëanáro has done something so out of character, all to help him. “I was merely surprised.” 

"Yes, yes, very well. Answer the question," says Fëanáro, brusquely waving the words away, cheeks still tinted pink. 

Ñolofinwë hums, considering the question. "I take pleasure in aimlessly riding around the countryside, though I seldom seem to find the time do so. I suppose most often these days, when I have time to relax, I simply read. Oftentimes, Anairë will join me. Other times, I will draw if the mood strikes me."

Fëanáro makes a strange face at him, mouth pulled up on one side in disgust. “Is that all you do? Nothing else?” 

“We cannot all attempt to learn every craft in Arda,” he says dryly. “But that is not all I do, only the things that I do with the most regularity.” 

"Fine, what then do you read?" Fëanáro asks, looking impatient. For all that this line of conversation was his idea, he seems to have tired of it already.

He sighs, turns over in his mind whether responding to the question is worth it. They could sit here for the next hour as he painstakingly lists every book he’s read and every picture he’s drawn and every route he enjoys taking when he goes out riding. He could recount his entire life in excruciating detail, and he does not believe it would do them any good. If his hobbies were enough to catch Fëanáro’s attention, they would have already done so long ago. “This is a pointless line of conversation,” he says, bracing himself for the argument he’s sure will come. “You do not care about the books that I’ve read or the things that I’ve drawn. I am not a checklist you can mark off. Ask me questions on topics you care about, or ask none at all.” 

Fëanáro's mouth does indeed twist into a bitter, mocking smile. "You said to make a plan, and I did. Now you do not like it. Do you have any better ideas?" he sneers, derision bright in his eyes.

“Tell me that you truly care about any of that,” Ñolofinwë demands. “Speak true. Is there any part of my life that you truly wish to hear about?” 

“Of course there is not,” Fëanáro snaps, “is that not why we are here? To try and find a part of it that I may care about?”

He blinks rapidly. Knows that he is the one who voiced the sentiment. Is aware that he had already known the answer to the question. It still feels a little like a slap to the face to hear Fëanáro so easily agree that he cares not at all for any part of Ñolofinwë's life. "Will you miss me at all when I die? Even a little bit?" he hears himself ask blankly.

“You are not going to die,” Fëanáro snarls, fingers digging into his thighs as he glares at Ñolofinwë. “Stop speaking of it—”

“That did not answer my question. Phrase it however you like. If I die, will you miss me?” 

Fëanáro hesitates, the anger sliding from his face as he studies Ñolofinwë. “It would be… strange… to have you gone,” Fëanáro says slowly, carefully weighing each word. “I believe the days spent in that council room would be somehow more boring than they already are if you were gone.” 

Ñolofinwë almost wants to smile at that, just a little. It is likely the closest thing to a compliment he will ever receive. Breathes in. Breathes out slowly, heartbeat loud in his ears. Finds himself wondering once again how badly it will hurt at the end, when he cannot force the flowers up his throat, when the roots fully sink into his lungs. “I do not understand you,” he says, feeling very tired, chest tight and pained. “How is it so easy for you to not care? Not only about me, but about any of us. Findis, Lalwen, Aro. How do you simply not care?” 

There is an even longer hesitation this time, a complex ball of emotions flashing through Fëanáro’s eyes. “You followed me everywhere when you were little,” Fëanáro says eventually, voice low and tight. “You would follow me to lessons, to the library, to my discussions with Rúmil, on my walks through the garden, everywhere I allowed it, you followed me for as long as you could. Even when you became aware that I did not want to like you, that I did not care for it, you persisted in doing so.” He pauses, studying Ñolofinwë through narrowed eyes. “Do you believe that it was easy for me to not allow myself to care? You were young and trusting and hung on to every word I said. Of course it was difficult to keep you at a distance.” 

Ñolofinwë feels cold and numb. Is not sure if he cannot breathe because of the flower he can feel beginning to lodge itself in his throat, or because this, more than anything else Fëanáro could have said to him, stabs directly through him and cannot be healed. Of course there was never anything he could have done to be enough. Fëanáro was never going to allow himself to care about a child of Indis, and there is nothing he could ever have done to change that. His face must be doing something terribly tragic, for Fëanáro begins to frown in concern right as his body sends him into a violent coughing fit. There is no warning, no true build-up, only a throat that is mostly clear one moment and blocked off the next.

He doubles over, coughing as he chokes, only narrowly stops himself from scratching at his throat, for this flower is larger than the others have been, less malleable, less moveable. He coughs, and nothing changes. He lurches onto his knees, digging his fingers into the dirt as he bends over, hoping uselessly that gravity will help. It does not. There is only a sound like rushing wind in his ears and iron bursting bright and bitter across his tongue. The flower moves only the barest inch as he gags, and the panic that threatens to take over makes it only harder to breathe.

There is a dull noise in the background that he cannot make out, and then there is Fëanáro's hand pressed firmly against his back, running soothing circles across it. Stupidly, perhaps because of the grounding pressure, perhaps because of the fear he'd heard in Fëanáro's voice, the sensation does indeed help, and the next time he coughs, the flower moves halfway up his throat. A terrible position for it to be in, scratching at his throat where its soft petals hide deceptively sharp edges. He gags again, would have fallen as it finally leaves his throat but for Fëanáro's hands quickly gripping his shoulders and holding him upright.

He sucks in a panicked breath and then another, desperate and greedy for air. Stays bent over and curled in on himself as his lungs remember how to work. Stares at the yellow marigold on the ground, blood dotting the petals, and getting lost in the sharp red that fades up the petals. Fëanáro does not loosen his grip on Ñolofinwë's shoulders until he has eased himself upright and collapsed back against the bench, rubbing at his chest, his throat burning. He also does not move away after, instead sitting next to Ñolofinwë and pressing their shoulders together. While Ñolofinwë still refuses to let himself lean on Fëanáro, he also cannot bring himself to move away.

"Grief," Fëanáro murmurs, plucking the flower from the ground and turning it over in his hands. "Marigolds represent grief."

Ñolofinwë has nothing to say to that, to what he likely could have guessed if he'd tried. They sit in the garden for a long while after, Laurelin dimming as Telperion joins her, the mingling washing through the garden, leaving it hazy and tired. There is no sound but the quiet rustling of leaves, the slow fall of the water in the fountain, Ñolofinwë’s own shaking breaths.

Fëanáro reaches over at one point and grasps his wrist, pressing two fingers to Ñolofinwë's pulse as he breathes in deeply, exhaling in a rush. "I do not want you to die," Fëanáro says in a low voice, shaking his head sharply when Ñolofinwë opens his mouth to protest. "There is no greater reasoning behind it, I am not saying it merely to placate you. You know I do not do such things. I—" he hesitates, throat working around the words as he squeezes Ñolofinwë's wrist painfully tight. "I do not want to watch you die," he says, and Ñolofinwë is taken aback to hear real fear beneath the words.

“You would not have to watch,” he says hoarsely, wincing at how raw his throat is. 

His brother makes a low, derisive noise and looks over at him, face grim as he meets Ñolofinwë's eyes. "If I fail, if you are to die because of me, I will not do you the dishonor of leaving you to suffer it alone. One way or another, I will be at the end of this with you."

Ñolofinwë must close his burning eyes and tip his head back against the bench. He will not allow himself to cry. Has his pride still even if he has little else. He does not know if anything they are doing will matter in the end. Thinks it should, for surely all that they have confessed in the past week matters. Surely the effort that Fëanáro is putting in matters. But not wanting him to die is still a long way from love. 

Ñolofinwë is too tired and too heart-sore to have any hope, but he allows himself to lean against Fëanáro just the slightest bit. "One way or another then," he says, opening his eyes and staring at the canopy of leaves above his head. It is not enough, but there is a morbid comfort to be had in the knowledge that Fëanáro will be with him if this goes ill. A comfort to be had in knowing, that in the end, Fëanáro wishes for him to live.

Fëanáro's fingers flex around his wrist, and he closes his eyes, breathes in, and thinks, he wants me to live. 

Breathes out and wishes that were enough. 

☀︎

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This is what I want: I want to grab my
brother's hand and run back through
time, losing years like coats falling from 
our shoulders.

I'll Give You the Sun | Jandy Nelson

☀︎

Ñolofinwë does not wish to tell Anairë. 

He dreads the entire conversation. The heartbroken look that he knows will carve its way onto her face, the way he will be able to offer nothing to soften the pain. He does not wish to harm her, and yet, when the conversation arises, he is unsure how he will be able to do anything else.

Still, no matter how little he wishes to have the conversation, he cannot keep it from Anairë forever. For no matter that Fëanáro seems to be genuinely trying, nothing has truly changed, and every day it grows just a little harder to breathe. It is inevitable that he will make the mistake of thinking for too long on the entire matter, on Fëanáro and how sometimes the effort that he seems to be putting in almost hurts worse than if he had put in none at all; the knowledge that he is capable of trying scalding. It will inevitably linger in his thoughts, and so the coughing fit that suddenly overtakes him as he prepares for bed is inevitable as well. It is awful enough that it leaves him clutching at the nightstand as he doubles over trying to breathe, though not so awful that he ends up on the floor, a small mercy. The flower that finally falls into his hand is no bigger than the previous one, a cold comfort, but the terrified disbelief on Anairë's face when he manages to straighten makes it all far worse.

“It is not you,” he says, and then wants to slap himself when her face breaks open with hurt. “No, I am sorry, no, I mean that you are my wife and I love you. It is not a slight against you. You have done nothing wrong. It is—“ he falters, throat closing up at the threat of having to speak the words aloud.

“It is who?” she asks quietly, fingers clenched tight around the comforter.

"It is not always romantic," he says softly. "Did you know that? And he, that is, I am of course destined always to be undone by the way I cannot hate him in return."

It takes her only seconds to understand. She knows well the way Fëanáro has always been a sore spot for him. “Fëanáro,” she says flatly, eyes flashing. “Of course.” She runs a hand over her face, sighing as she reaches for him.

He goes, feels as if a weight has lifted from his shoulders with the confession. They curl in against each other, and for a while she simply traces his face with her eyes, reaching out to place one hand on his cheek. "You will not have it removed?" she asks quietly, her eyes already overflowing with grief, for she knows the answer.

“He is my brother,” he says tiredly. “If I take away the love I hold for him, bitter though it may be, who do I become?” 

“Would it matter so long as you live? You are capable of learning to be someone who does not love Fëanáro to the point of death.” 

“Am I?” He swallows hard, tries to imagine having his fëa ripped apart only for it to be put back together void of a love he’s held since childhood. Cannot. “Would the person I become be one that you wish to know?” 

To her own detriment, she hesitates. “I cannot imagine you without it,” she admits, eyes closing in defeat. “But I would much prefer to learn you anew and have you alive than to lose you completely.” 

“I am sorry,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “I cannot do it. I cannot give it up.” 

“He will not thank you for it.” 

"He has not, and he thinks me a fool, but he is trying to fix this.”

Her eyes snap open, lashes damp and eyes full of shock. “Fëanáro knows?” 

"Have you ever known him to mind his own business? He found me out, for of course he did. And he has insulted me and called me foolish and implied a great many negative things about my character, but—" he pauses, thinks of Fëanáro pressing two fingers to his pulse, to the promise that he would not be left to die alone "—but he is trying. And he is scared, even if he will not say as much aloud."

“That, I have trouble believing,” she says, though some of the tension in her face eases. “He is trying to learn to love you in return? Truly?” 

“Truly. It is quite strange.” He does not manage to hide the foolish affection that creeps into his voice. 

"Well, let us hope then that Fëanáro succeeds in this as he does at everything else he sets his mind to," she says quietly, leaning in and kissing him. "I do not want to lose you."

“I do not want to go,” he responds, pulling her in closer. 

"And yet, if Fëanáro fails, you will." There is nothing particularly accusing in her tone, but Ñolofinwë knows her and knows that if he were to reach across their marriage bond he would find far more anger than he is being shown.

"Yes," he sighs, uselessly apologetic as he kisses her once more. "Yes, I will leave, and I will hate it and miss you, miss my family, the entire time. I wish I could say differently, but I cannot."

She stares at him for a long minute, nails briefly digging into his face, before she sighs and tucks her head beneath his chin. "You would not be yourself if you made any other choice, and yet, I still wish you would, if only because I do not wish to be left alone." Her voice just barely trembles on the last word, and Ñolofinwë's heart clenches painfully.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs again, “I am so sorry.” The words fix nothing, but he has nothing else to give.

☀︎

“You finally told Anairë,” Fëanáro says dryly the next day when he walks into Ñolofinwë’s study. 

He looks up from the list he had been writing to frown at Fëanáro. “I did. How have you learned of it?” 

“Your wife has a sharp tongue and is startlingly free with her words when angry,” he says, sounding mostly amused, though there is something else lurking beneath the words that Ñolofinwë wonders if he should worry about. 

“I see,” he says slowly, studying Fëanáro’s overly casual posture as he leans his hip against the desk. “Do you wish to tell me what you spoke of with her?” 

Fëanáro snorts. “Spoke with,” he mutters. “That implies that I was allowed to say much at all. No, it was merely an observation. Do not worry yourself about it,” he says, waving his hand dismissively and craning his neck to look at what Ñolofinwë had been working on. 

He considers pushing, but does not particularly feel like looking for problems where there truly are none. Instead turns his paper so that Fëanáro can easily see it. It is a list for the festival he hopes will have a chance to occur. Contests that could be held, various performances that could be put together, food planning, specific ways to integrate his supporters with Fëanáro's, to fully erase the gap that has been growing between them.

Fëanáro hums in consideration, plucks his quill from his hand, and without so much as a by-your-leave, begins crossing lines out and scribbling new ideas down. Ñolofinwë huffs in annoyance only to find himself blinking in surprise when Fëanáro turns the paper back toward him, offering him the quill. 

“Well?” Fëanáro asks, shaking the quill impatiently when Ñolofinwë only stares at it. “Are we going to plan this or not?” 

Ñolofinwë stares at Fëanáro for another moment, throat tight as he realizes what is happening. Fëanáro is attempting to appear casual, as if this is a common occurrence between them, but his fingers are clenching the quill a touch too tightly, his shoulders tensing as he shifts uncomfortably under Ñolofinwë's stare. Ñolofinwë clears his throat, taking the quill from Fëanáro. "Are you going to loom over me the entire time? There is a second chair for a reason."

Fëanáro rolls his eyes even as his entire body relaxes. He grabs the chair and, instead of sitting across from Ñolofinwë, pulls the chair around so that they may sit side by side. A rush of overwhelming affection rushes through Ñolofinwë at the gesture, giddy hope trying so desperately to infuse itself in his veins. 

“Go on then,” Fëanáro says once he is seated. “You have a vision for this festival, do you not? Speak of it to me. I will help you fix—help you complete it.” 

“Thank you,” he says without quite meaning to. It comes out far too raw and vulnerable; they both know he is not thanking Fëanáro for his help with the festival. 

“Do not thank me,” Fëanáro says quietly, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Not for any of this. Especially not for this.” 

“You do not have to do this,” he points out reasonably. “I did not expect you to do any of this.” 

Fëanáro tilts his head, a strange, almost melancholy look in his eyes. "You were so small when you were born," he says quietly, sending Ñolofinwë reeling. "Atar handed you to me often, as if proximity alone would change my mind about you. It did not, but…" he trails off, reaching out and gently shoving at the side of Ñolofinwë's head. An affectionate gesture from Ñolofinwë's childhood when he had not yet even reached Fëanáro's hip. "You were so small," he says once more. "You say I do not have to do any of this. Do I not? If I am not your keeper, then who is?"

It is perhaps his imagination, but for the briefest second, it feels as if the pressure on his chest falls away completely. "I do not need you to be my keeper," he manages after a speechless moment. "I only need you to be my brother. And," he says, holding up his hand when Fëanáro opens his mouth, "I will thank you if I wish to. Perhaps you believe I do not realize what this is costing you, but I do. I had good reason to believe you could not give this.”

“And you believe now that I can?” Fëanáro asks, eyes darkening, the bitterness trying to sneak back in. 

He wants to say yes. He wants to believe that there is a happy ending at the close of all this. “I do not know,” he says, smiling sadly. “Let us hope so.” 

“Let us hope so,” Fëanáro echoes, and they speak of it no more. 

☀︎

They do continue attending court, though less often than before. Something that he knows is causing suspicion amongst their families. For Ñolofinwë to have suddenly abandoned his long-held schedule would have been suspect enough. For Fëanáro to have so suddenly joined him in doing so only causes the rumors to spread faster. 

When they do attend meetings, Fëanáro tries to be less condescending and disdainful. He even manages it the majority of the time, an act which gains strange looks from many people and is surely setting the rumor mill of Tirion ablaze. He still slips here and there, his instinctive reaction to Ñolofinwë still scorn, but even his scorn is a pale imitation of his former venom.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me, Arakáno?” his father asks, stopping by his study one day, his mouth set in a solemn frown. “You have been less present at court the past month.” 

“I am fine, Atar,” he replies with an easy smile. “I believe that I simply overworked myself and so, I have finally yielded to Anairë’s advice to take a step back for a short while.” 

His father does not look as if he believes Ñolofinwë, but he also clearly does not know what to accuse Ñolofinwë of. He does not get a chance to decide, for Fëanáro strides into the room, frowning down at something in his hands. "Ñolofinwë," he says, not looking up, "did you write these notes while half-asleep? Or after one too many glasses of wine perhaps? Your handwriting is atrocious and—" he looks up, going painfully still and silent when he notices their father watching them with a furrowed brow.

Ñolofinwë, however, is busy frowning, for he recognizes the papers in Fëanáro's hand. "Where did you get those?" For Fëanáro has somehow found his notes on succession rights. Though, to call them 'notes' may be a generous statement, for he believes he had been slightly drunk when writing them. They are less true notes, and mainly annoyed ramblings about the uselessness of succession rights when it is unlikely their father will ever step down from the throne. It was customary, of course, for one to do so in the times before the great journey. However, their father has never given any indication that he plans on following that tradition. There had also been, if he remembers correctly, half-drawn plans for new cities outside of Tirion. The thought that the simplest way to resolve this feud would be for them to both simply build and lead their own cities had briefly taken hold of him. It is not as if there is a lack of room in Aman. He had discarded the idea the next day, but he had kept the notes.

“They were in one of the drawers of your desk,” Fëanáro answers, glancing over at him, not looking at all remorseful for having just admitted to snooping through Ñolofinwë’s desk. “Atar, what are you doing here?” 

Their father’s eyebrows go up as he looks between them. “I was speaking with Ñolofinwë about his increased absences from court,” their father says slowly, before turning his gaze fully to Fëanáro. “I intended to speak with you about the same.” 

“I have been unexpectedly busy,” Fëanáro says tightly. “I apologize.” 

"I see," their father says after a moment when it becomes clear that Fëanáro will offer nothing more. He looks between them once more, and though Ñolofinwë can tell that he wishes to push, he does not. Perhaps because the idea that Fëanáro had come here of his own volition to speak with Ñolofinwë is so strange that their father does not wish to disturb whatever fragile peace may have settled between them. Perhaps because of how painfully obvious it is that Fëanáro wishes for the conversation to end, his entire body angled toward the door as if he wishes to flee. He only bids them both farewell and leaves, clapping Fëanáro tightly on the shoulder as he passes.

The action only causes Fëanáro to tense further. He stares after their father for a long moment when the door closes, so tense that Ñolofinwë wonders if he will not also leave.

He should simply wait, give Fëanáro a minute to gather himself. Instead, he leans back in his chair and says snidely, "If you are incapable of handling Atar knowing that you are capable of speaking to me with something other than contempt, this will never work."

Fëanáro turns to him with such a filthy, dark look that Ñolofinwë nearly flinches. Has not had such a look directed at him since Fëanáro began attempting to fix things. To have it sent his way once more leaves his chest insistently aching. “That is not my issue,” Fëanáro grits out. 

Ñolofinwë raises an eyebrow, not believing him in the slightest. Still, he does not push, instead motions at the papers in Fëanáro's hand. "Shall we speak instead then of your snooping through my things?"

“I was bored,” Fëanáro says, expression lightening the slightest amount. “These notes are… interesting.” There is nothing particularly accusatory in his tone, but Ñolofinwë thinks that is perhaps because he does not know what to accuse Ñolofinwë of. There is nothing incriminating in those notes. Only bitter ramblings and half-legitimate plans. 

“I believe I was, in fact, drunk when I wrote those,” he says, holding his hand out expectantly. “I imagine they are quite interesting.”

Fëanáro hands him the paper back, studying him intently for a moment before sitting down. He immediately begins drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair as he continues to stare at Ñolofinwë. He does not know what it is his brother wants him to say and cannot be bothered to puzzle it out. Instead turns back to what he had been working on before he was interrupted. It is not a task he is enjoying. 

Findekáno has been trained, of course, on what is both needed and expected from the lord of a house. He knows the details of managing the household, ensuring that those directly under their care continue to be cared for, what is expected of him at court. All his children know these things, even Írissë, though she will never have to make use of them. Findekáno is not, however, expecting to use his training so soon. Ñolofinwë has been writing notes on any details he can think of that may not seem immediately obvious. His leaving will be a trial on his family already; if he can lighten the weight the slightest bit, he will.

Fëanáro rises at one point as he is writing and begins restlessly pacing. Ñolofinwë ignores him. His brother can either speak his mind or remain silent. He will not waste his time attempting to guess what Fëanáro is troubled by. He is preoccupied enough with his writing that he does not notice when Fëanáro's pacing leads him to Ñolofinwë's shoulder until he makes an agitated noise.

“You are not going to die,” he snaps, stalking away and then turning back around to point at Ñolofinwë. “You are doing yourself no favors by viewing your death as an inevitability.” 

"And you are doing neither of us any favors by pretending that my survival is one," he responds coolly. "I hope that these notes are not needed. But I would rather have them prepared and unneeded than leave Findekáno to figure it out alone in his grief."

A look of such intense fury passes over Fëanáro’s face that Ñolofinwë finds himself tensing. He does not understand why Fëanáro should be so angry. He has not said anything particularly outrageous. Fëanáro, after a breathless moment of staring at Ñolofinwë as if he wishes to punch him, shakes his head in disgust and storms out of the room. 

Ñolofinwë stares after him, feeling rather befuddled by the entire encounter. He is quite sure that there was more to that than he is grasping, something hiding beneath Fëanáro's words that he simply is not privy to. That knowledge does nothing to stop his chest from dully aching. Does nothing to stop him from later coughing up another carnation when he spends too long reflecting on the utter fury in Fëanáro's eyes.

He does not know what was going through Fëanáro’s mind, but he does know that the entire encounter did nothing but make him more doubtful this will have a happy ending.

☀︎

Later, he will not be able to tell you why the entire encounter builds itself up into an insurmountable wall inside his mind. Knows only that the look on Fëanáro's face has not stopped haunting him and that his chest has not stopped aching since.

He does not go to court the next day. Does not go to his study or anywhere that Fëanáro may easily find him. Instead, he slips out through the back of the gardens and into the forest. Has not done so since Fëanáro found out about the sickness but he finds himself craving the solitude. He does not wish to deal with Fëanáro's whiplash moods or the argument that is sure to happen the next time they are in the same room.

The forest is quiet and stepping beneath the canopy of leaves sends the slightest ripple of calm through him. He stands perfectly still for a long while with his head tipped back, simply listening to his own breathing and enjoying the silence. Continues down to the river a while later, walking slowly as he focuses on his breathing. It is… distressing, how terribly his lungs ache by the time he reaches the river. It is not as if he is unaware that the sickness is progressing, but it is still unsettling to have such obvious proof.

He sits next to the river for a very long time, doing his very best to think of nothing at all. Not the anger or the grief or the desperation that sometimes tries to carve itself into his bones. He watches the water flow downstream and counts his breaths. Eventually finds himself idly thinking of skipping rocks across the lake as a child. Of how Findis had taken him to the lake by herself when she should not have, both of them still too young to be so far from the palace alone.

They had stayed out there for hours as she patiently showed him how to skip the stones correctly, how to find the best ones to throw. They had been arguing about the usability of several stones when Fëanáro had walked into the clearing, looking cross. Fëanáro had, of course, been roped into the search for them when they could not be found in the palace, and he had been quite put out about it. But he had still listened to Findis explain what they were doing without yelling. And when Ñolofinwë had stuck his hands out, palms full of stones, demanding to know which Fëanáro deemed best, they had both been treated to a lecture on aerodynamics and water density and why the stones skipped the way they did.

In the end, their father found them all still by the lake several hours later, Fëanáro having thoroughly forgotten that there were others worried about their whereabouts. But what Ñolofinwë remembers most about that afternoon, golden as it had been, was how very happy Fëanáro sounded when speaking of things he was passionate about. How brightly he had smiled at them when they managed to ask a question he deemed worthy, and how there had been no hate, no badly hidden resentment behind it.

It was those moments, rare as they had been, that had hurt the most. The ones where Fëanáro briefly forgot that he was not allowing himself to love them. 

Ñolofinwë thinks sometimes that it would have been easier to not love Fëanáro at all, if it were not for the way he almost knew what Fëanáro's love would have felt like in return. But he cannot imagine it, not in truth. Can scarcely imagine anyone having the full weight of Fëanáro's blinding joy turned on them and coming out of the encounter doing anything but loving him.

"Have you been out here all day?" comes Fëanáro's voice suddenly from behind him.

Ñolofinwë jerks, had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard the footsteps approaching. Fëanáro is standing off to the side, arms crossed and frowning as he watches Ñolofinwë. "How did you find me?" he asks after a moment of blank staring.

Fëanáro raises an unimpressed eyebrow and sits down cross-legged near Ñolofinwë. “Tyelko saw you out here last month. He mentioned it to me.” 

The answer is terribly obvious now that he has heard it. “Well, you have found me. You can leave now that you have accomplished such.” 

“I will not,” Fëanáro says sharply. “Why have you been out here all day? We were supposed to speak.” 

"I did not want to speak." He is being stubborn; he knows this. Yet, the idea of sitting through another conversation with Fëanáro, in which he must once again have his brother's anger directed at him, is not one he wishes to confront. Ñolofinwë is tired of the hatred and anger and the resentment. He is just… tired.

Fëanáro is watching him through narrowed eyes, only the thinnest sliver of confusion visible. “What has happened that you are so suddenly avoiding me?” 

Ñolofinwë can only stare at him in disbelief.  “Have you forgotten the events of yesterday so quickly?” he asks incredulously. 

“We did not quarrel,” Fëanáro says, frown deepening. “I was… irritated. That I will admit. I do not see why that should cause you to avoid me.” 

“Irritated,” he repeats disbelievingly. “No, it does not matter. I do not wish to speak with you. Go away.” 

“No.” There is a pause in which Fëanáro tilts his head, mouth turning down at the covers, a leaf having fallen from the tree hanging in perfect balance on his shoulder. “You are being foolish. I am trying to help,” Fëanáro says, words perfectly crisp and clipped. 

The leaf wavers and falls. 

“Just go away,” he snaps. He is so very tired of fighting the urge to cough, sick of coughing, sick of his chest constantly aching when Fëanáro looks at him. 

“My leaving helps nothing,” Fëanáro snaps back. “We must keep speaking—”

“You do not want to speak with me! That is the problem, Fëanáro! You cannot accomplish something when you do not want to succeed, and you do not want to view me as anything other than your hated half-brother. Just go away!” 

Fëanáro’s lips thin, nostrils flaring in anger. “You are not going to die.” 

"You do not truly care if I live or die," he sneers. "Rest assured, you can tell Atar that you tried, and I will say nothing to contradict you."

Something terribly wild and scalding sparks to life in Fëanáro’s eyes. “I have tried,” he snarls, fists clenched tight atop his thighs. “I am trying. You are making it very difficult right now to continue doing so.” 

“Then do not.” He stands, no clear destination in mind, knowing only that he wishes to leave this conversation. Makes it only two steps before Fëanáro has followed, grabbing him roughly by the arm. 

“You are not going to walk away from this,” Fëanáro says, implacable and as confident as ever that he will be listened to. “I will not allow you to simply give up.” 

“Do not touch me,” he snaps, violently jerking his arm out of Fëanáro’s grip. “Just go back to the palace, Fëanáro. What does it matter to you if I die?” 

“I do not want you dead!” Fëanáro shouts, eyes blazing with too many emotions for Ñolofinwë to parse. "Stop attempting to place words in my mouth! I have never liked you, but I have never wished you dead.” 

Ñolofinwë’s body feels cold as he stares at Fëanáro, the words echoing through the forest so loudly that he finds himself distantly hoping that Tyelkormo is nowhere nearby. "That is not enough," he says, unsure if he wishes to scream or cry or perhaps punch Fëanáro. "It is not enough to not wish me dead. I need you to want me as your brother. To mean it."

"Do you think I do not know that? I am trying."

"You are not trying hard enough.” The words come out a little mean, a little desperate. He has only a second to register Fëanáro's entire face twisting with anger before his fist is flying at Ñolofinwë’s face. He just barely dodges and has grabbed Fëanáro’s arm and twisted on pure instinct before his mind catches up to what has just happened. 

Fëanáro trips him, and Ñolofinwë drags Fëanáro down with him as he falls, receiving an elbow to the stomach for his troubles. He half-expects Fëanáro to attempt to punch him again now that they are both winded on the ground, but his brother only makes an agitated sound and shifts so that they are lying side by side on the grass. He feels he should say something, but he cannot find any words inside himself. Can find nothing but the huddled shadow of his childhood self whispering, why does Náro not love me? Did I do something wrong? Knowing the answer to the question does not erase the emotion. 

“I should not have done that,” Fëanáro mutters sometime later. 

“What does it matter?” he asks dully. “It is not as if a broken nose would have been the thing to kill me.”  

Fëanáro makes a noise akin to a teapot whistling as he grabs Ñolofinwë’s wrist and digs his nails in painfully. “You are going to live,” he says to the sky, voice filled with an utter conviction Ñolofinwë cannot mimic. “I want you to live. I am very good at getting what I want.” 

That does startle a laugh from him. The idea that he could be someone his brother wishes to keep around is absurd, and yet, when Fëanáro phrases it in such a way, it sounds perfectly natural. Ñolofinwë breathes in carefully and thinks of the prior day, of Fëanáro's face so furious, the way he'd gone still as a hunted animal the moment he had seen their father watching. Steels himself and asks, "But will you be able to stomach loving me when our father takes it as your acceptance that this is your family? If you are to call me your brother in heart and mean it, does that not mean that you have two sisters and one other brother as well? Does that not make us all a family, though you have ever refused to see us as one?"

There is a long pause in which Fëanáro’s fingers go so brutally tight around his wrist that he is sure he will have a bruise to show for it later on. “Tell me,” Fëanáro says softly, “which is worse — my father looking at me with pride because I have accepted you, or my father’s disappointment and grief, and perhaps even resentment, that I have cost him a child?”

“He would not resent you,” he replies without hesitation, unable to imagine their father ever resenting Fëanáro. 

Fëanáro makes a soft noise and shifts next to him, fingers loosening around his wrist. “Would he not? If you were to lose a child to the flower-sickness, would you not resent the one they had loved?” 

Of course he would. Of course he would. But… it is Fëanáro. “He would not,” he says again, though the words come out far weaker. 

“You believe he loves you so little?” 

“I believe he loves you too dearly.” He almost believes the words. 

Fëanáro laughs; a bitter jagged noise that rips through the air. “Perhaps he would not admit to it. Perhaps he would never speak of it to me. But I would know. I would be able to see it. I do not wish to cause my— to cause our father grief. I do not wish to poison his love for me. Learning to love you seems to be the only acceptable option, does it not?” 

Ñolofinwë is not sure if he is still offended by how little Fëanáro has factored Ñolofinwë himself into the decision. His chest still aches, just sharply enough to make him aware that he is terribly close to having a coughing fit at the slightest provocation, but his chest aches at most things his brother says, so that means little. “I am surprised you did not simply attempt to find a cure for the sickness. That you did not decide that would be easier than this.” Around his wrist, Fëanáro’s fingers twitch, the silence damning. He sighs in exasperation, should not be surprised. “You did try, did you not?” 

“It would have been foolish of me to not have at least tried,” Fëanáro says tightly. “Given enough time, perhaps I could do it. But time is not necessarily a luxury that we have.” 

“No, it is not,” he agrees quietly, shaking his wrist loose from Fëanáro’s grip so that he may instead clasp his brother’s hand tightly, trying to press everything he cannot bring himself to say into the gesture. “You really believe this will work?” 

“I would not have said so if I did not. Now, stop being so maudlin—” he has flung a handful of leaves directly into Ñolofinwë’s face before he can even blink at the tone shift “—it is not helping.” 

"You—" he splutters, sitting up and swiping the leaves away. He grabs a handful to fling at Fëanáro, but he has forgotten how close to the river they are, and before he can register what it is that he has grabbed, it has already left his hand, a perfect handful of mud and leaves flying directly into Fëanáro's face.

There is a terrible moment of silence as they stare at each other, Fëanáro’s eyes very wide, mud slowly dripping down his cheeks, leaves stuck in his hair. Ñolofinwë does not have time to muster a defense before Fëanáro has retaliated by grabbing a handful of mud and throwing it in his face.

It all goes rather downhill from there. It is ridiculously childish to be scrambling around the riverbank, throwing mud and leaves at each other. And yet, he laughs more in that one afternoon than he has in months. Fëanáro laughs as well, true joy in the sound, and for a brief moment in time, despite the pain and the anger, despite it all—

—everything is ok.

By the time they call a truce they are both soaked to the bone from falling into the river, covered in mud and grass stains. It lends a distinct air of secrecy to the entire thing as they try to sneak back into the palace without anyone seeing the state that they are in. He wonders if this is what his childhood could have been like if Fëanáro had not constantly tried to keep him at arm’s length. 

Anairë raises an incredulous eyebrow at him when he slinks into their rooms, but something in her face and posture also lightens in relief when he explains what had happened. Ñolofinwë cannot bring himself to believe this has a happy ending, is too scared of how badly it will hurt if he allows himself to hope, and is then proven wrong. Instead, he sinks his teeth into Fëanáro's vicious belief and tries to let that be enough for them both.

☀︎

Life carries on. The coughing fits do not stop. The flowers continue to grow larger. 

For all that their conversation by the river had felt like a turning point in their relationship, when it comes to the sickness, it is as if nothing has changed at all. 

Fëanáro continues to stubbornly try, and Ñolofinwë continues following his lead because he does not know what else to do. Above his head, the countdown slowly continues ticking down to the day the rest of his family finds out. To the day that he finally runs out of time. It is a constant thought in the back of his mind. The dread beneath the thought matched only by Fëanáro’s continuing stubborn insistence that he will live. 

Ñolofinwë wishes to believe his brother so badly that some days it causes the ache in his chest to worsen, the absence of hope aching in its emptiness. But no matter that Fëanáro’s attitude toward him is softening in increments, no matter that these days when Fëanáro speaks to him there is no hatred in his voice, no matter that this perhaps could work if only they had more time—

Ñolofinwë, deep in his heart, knows that he is still going to die. 

☀︎

The flowers continue to slowly grow in size every few days, matching his own continuing hopelessness. The coughing fits begin to come on even more abruptly, no warning, no time to prepare himself. Just a sharp pang in his chest and an abrupt lack of air.

The sicker Ñolofinwë grows, the more overbearing Fëanáro becomes. Having Fëanáro shadow him near constantly, irritation and worry and what may even be the beginnings of genuine affection caught in every movement, every word — he does not know if it is helping, or if it is making everything so, so much worse. 

The knowledge that Fëanáro is genuinely trying, he believes helps the slightest bit. The knowledge that Fëanáro cares enough to want to try, to want to help, soothes some of the bitterness. But trying is not the same as actually caring, and it is painful in its own way to have what he wants so close and yet so far away.

This particular day Fëanáro is pacing as he gets caught up in telling Ñolofinwë a truly embarrassing story from Maitimo's youth and looks over at him with a bright grin when he cannot help but snort. This would not have set him off, but Fëanáro seems to catch himself grinning a moment later, for his face visibly tightens, the expression disappearing, and before Ñolofinwë can do more than register the sharp pang in his chest, he has bent over as a painful cough tears out of him.

Distantly he hears Fëanáro curse, and warm hands catch him by the arms as he slips off the bench and onto his knees, violently coughing, chest heaving as the flower in his throat attempts to block off all air. He does not know how long he stays knelt on the ground coughing, copper heavy on the back of his tongue, nothing helping, the flower implacable and unmoving. By the time he gags hard enough that it forces the flower up his throat, his vision has gone spotty, head swimming, his entire body shaking as he desperately gasps and drinks in large gulps of air.

Fëanáro is rubbing circles on his back, and as his heartbeat slowly quiets, he realizes that his brother is also murmuring over and over and over, breathe, breathe, breathe, a distinct note of panic laced through every word. In any other circumstance, the idea of Fëanáro panicking over him might be funny. As it is, all he can do is half-collapse against Fëanáro as he sits up, his head still spinning. It is a testament to how badly he has scared Fëanáro that instead of being pushed gently away, Fëanáro's arm goes around his shoulder as he tucks Ñolofinwë more firmly against his side.

Once, he would have pulled away, tried to save himself from the even worse hurt of briefly feeling as if Fëanáro truly cared, only to have it pulled away from him later. Now, he is too exhausted to care and leans all his weight against his brother, relishing in the comfort being so freely given. Looks down at the ground and finds another bedamned carnation splattered with the same blood that is on his hands. His throat feels as if he has gargled gravel, so the blood is not necessarily a surprise, but it is as gut-wrenching to see as ever. 

“I am going to fix this,” Fëanáro says fiercely, wrapping his other arm around Ñolofinwë as well so that he is well and truly hugging Ñolofinwë for the first time in centuries. The last time they had hugged was when he had been so very small, young enough to not truly understand anything yet, before Fëanáro had ever snapped at him, and he had simply thought his big brother was the smartest person to exist. It is completely impossible for him to do anything other than lean into it and close his eyes. 

“You cannot fix everything,” he says softly, even that making his throat burn. 

Fëanáro is quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around Ñolofinwë as if daring someone to take him away. “Perhaps not,” Fëanáro says finally, voice flinty, “but I can fix this and I will.” 

He clenches his hands into fists, attempting to quell the tremors still running through him, and swallows around the painful swell of emotions Fëanáro’s words invoke. “I hope you are right,” he says, shifting slightly and leaning even farther into the embrace, resting his head against Fëanáro’s chest. He means to stop there, he does, but rather without his permission, the words torn from him, he finds himself saying, “I don’t want to die, Náro." It is the first time he has let the mask of acceptance falter, and it makes something in his chest crack open, a three-pronged grief spearing through his lungs and twisting. “I don’t want to," he says again, and it should maybe be freeing to admit it, to put it out there, but all it does is make the grief twist farther through him, leaving him shaking as he ruthlessly fights down the tears. He still has not quite lost all his self-respect. 

“Okay. Okay. I know,” Fëanáro says softly, hugging him tighter. They sit quietly for a long while as Laurelin dims and mixes with Telperion, the mingling washing through the garden and leaving the world feeling muted and far away. Fëanáro does not let him go, does not let his hold on Ñolofinwë loosen even an inch. “I am trying, Nolvo,” he says eventually, awkward and painfully earnest. “I am trying.” 

“I know you are,” he says, feeling so very tired. “It is a comfort to know that you care enough to try.” 

“But it is not enough.” 

“No. No, it is not enough.” 

☀︎

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I wanted to get it right so badly that I always got it wrong
So you keep pushing on
You hope it won't be long
'Til you can find the child you were
And find a way to get along

Don't go blindly into the dark
In every one of us shines the light of love

Light Of Love | Florence + The Machine

☀︎

Their father requests their presence at dinner. 

Ñolofinwë is sure this is because their father’s suspicion of their strange behavior has only grown as the weeks pass. For all that their father has always wished for them to get along, Ñolofinwë is certain he stopped believing it to be a possibility a long time ago, so it is reasonable that their sudden change in behavior is causing him great suspicion. 

Reasonable. But incredibly inconvenient. 

Still, declining the invitation would only cause the suspicion to grow further, and so he accepts. He nearly believes it will be okay, for there are rare days when his time spent with Fëanáro does not make him cough, and he is hopeful that this dinner can be one such day. Sits at the table across from Fëanáro and endures their father's careful, probing questions as he tries to figure out what has changed between them without directly asking.

What causes the entire situation to go sideways however, is that he makes a joke regarding one of the discarded entertainment ideas for the festival, and instead of scoffing as he normally would, Fëanáro snorts in genuine amusement, flashing a grin at him. He does not even seem to realize that he's done so until their father draws attention to it.

“It is good to see you enjoying your brother’s company, Curufinwë—” their father starts, tentative hope in his eyes. 

He is interrupted before he can continue by Fëanáro snapping, “I do not enjoy—” he cuts himself off abruptly, face stricken, his eyes darting to Ñolofinwë and filling with helpless fear. 

Ñolofinwë knows that it is an instinctive reaction on Fëanáro’s part. He knows this. But oh, how it stings to have had Fëanáro hug him and say that he is trying, only for him to still so quickly and instinctively attempt to deny enjoying any part of Ñolofinwë's company. He draws in a shallow breath, tries to push the emotion away. But Fëanáro is still watching him, the helpless fear in his eyes so strange and out of place after such easy dislike that it only emphasizes the entire mess. He breathes in again, and his breath catches, a cough lodging itself in the base of his throat and fighting to be let free.

He stands, intending to leave, having no care for what his father thinks, if only he does not find out the truth. He could perhaps have gotten away with this, but Fëanáro stands as well, worry carved across his face, and before he can escape, his father has grabbed his arm.

“Ñolofinwë, what is going on?” he demands. “The both of you are acting very strange.” 

Ñolofinwë shakes his head, knowing that if he opens his mouth, the cough will break free. Knows too that he does not have long before it will force its way out regardless. Fëanáro steps around the table, eyes darting between them, stress evident in the tight line of his shoulders. His brother is not one who is typically unsure of himself, and seeing him so now is not helping. Ñolofinwë clears his throat, swallowing convulsively around the intruding sensation of a flower making itself known, jerks his arm from his father's grip, and goes to leave.

He could perhaps have still gotten away with it, but Fëanáro follows the moment he begins walking for the door. Says, “Nolvo," in such a painfully concerned voice, as if it is not Fëanáro's fault that this is happening, and the cough tears its way out of him. After that, he is far less worried about concealing things from their father and far more concerned with breathing. He bends over, pressing his hand to his throat as he violently coughs, the flower making its presence viciously known. Warm hands grab him by the arms and guide him down, into a seated position, so that he can more easily bend over, pressing his palms to the floor as he desperately tries to get the flower out of his throat, out of his body.

This one though does not wish to be expelled, jagged edges dragging against his throat and leaving copper bursting bright and hot across his tongue. He can hear nothing but his own ragged attempts at breathing. Feel nothing but his body shaking and what must be Fëanáro’s hand warm against his back, rubbing what is meant to be soothing circles on it. Shakes and shakes as nothing helps. Gags until he is choking on bile as well. His head is swimming so terribly, vision blurred, that if it were not for Fëanáro’s hands holding him up he would have already fallen. 

It is not until Fëanáro leans in closer, putting his mouth right next to Ñolofinwë’s ear, and whispering over and over, breathe, brother, breathe, that he finally manages to gag hard enough to force the flower from his throat. Spends another minute after coughing and sucking in desperate breaths of air as his head continues to spin, before collapsing against Fëanáro. 

Fëanáro does not waste a second before wrapping him in a hug, pressing his mouth to Ñolofinwë's temple. Fëanáro is shaking as well he finds, now that he can focus on things other than his own breathing. He is not quite sure how long they sit there, both shaking, Fëanáro's grip on him nearly painful. He knows that the tighter Fëanáro hugs him, the slightest bit lighter the pressure on his chest feels.

Ñolofinwë does not remember that his father is still present until he says, “Arakáno,” in the most devastated voice Ñolofinwë has ever heard from him. 

He blearily opens his eyes to find his father kneeling in front of them, tears on his cheeks, his expression raw and broken apart as he holds the flower that must have fallen from Ñolofinwë's mouth. It is a violently orange lily that deepens to blood red farther down the petals, the first of its kind that he has coughed up. Attached to the bottom are tangled roots dark with blood where the flower had nearly succeeded in fully latching on to his lungs. 

“Hatred,” Fëanáro whispers, mouth still pressed to his temple. “Orange lilies represent hatred.” Ñolofinwë closes his eyes again, cannot bear to see that bedamned flower or his father’s broken expression. “I do not, I do not hate you,” Fëanáro says, voice so soft Ñolofinwë nearly misses it. “I do not.”

“Still not enough,” he rasps out, coughing again at the way the words scratch at his throat. Fëanáro’s arms tighten around him to the point of pain. His father’s heartbroken gaze is heavy upon them, his throat is burning, his chest still dully aching, and it is not enough.

It is not enough, it is not enough, it is not enough. 

He still leans into the embrace and wraps his arms around Fëanáro in turn, breathing in as deeply as he can and wondering how much longer he will be able to do so. He has no delusions that he would have survived that coughing fit if Fëanáro had not been present. The sickness is so attuned to his emotions that it knows when Fëanáro has done something that points toward improvement. He does not know if this is typical of the sickness, doubts any do, for when has there been a case such as this? 

Brother, Fëanáro had said, voice quiet and terrified. It is not enough, and he does not believe Fëanáro would have said it yet without fear pumping through his veins, but he has said it. He has. He wants to believe that means they still have enough time for this to end well. "Brother," he murmurs, the word only audible due to the dead silence of the room.

There is a moment of hesitation, Fëanáro breathing in deeply, before he says quietly back, “Yes. Come, little brother, let us get you to your rooms so that you may rest.” 

It’s not enough to bet his life on, but it is all he has. So, he places his wager in Fëanáro’s favor and hopes that his brother’s stubbornness wins out once more. 

☀︎

His father, unlike Fëanáro and Anairë, does not keep the news of Ñolofinwë’s sickness to himself. Ñolofinwë had known he would not.

His mother’s heartbroken gaze cuts through him. 

His children’s disbelief and horror burns to see. 

It is worse than he had thought it would be, to have to look his children in their faces, and tell them he will not let the healers cure him. Findekáno's gaze turns to the balcony, to where Fëanáro can be seen sitting alone, staring off into the distance, and a rage that Ñolofinwë has never before seen on his oldest flashes through Findekáno's eyes. Turukáno refuses to meet his eyes. Stares over his shoulder with a clenched jaw, clutching Elenwë's hand as she stares at him, horrified. Írissë is simply watching him with wide, terror-stricken eyes, hands clapped over her mouth in disbelief. Arakáno has sat down heavily onto the settee and is staring at Anairë pleadingly, as if she will be able to tell him this is only a poor joke.

None of them understand. All of them so clearly resent Fëanáro in that moment that he knows his dying will do nothing but make things far worse for relations amongst the Noldor. There is nothing he can do about it. He wishes that this time the words did not ring true. 

“I have been writing notes for you, Findekáno,” he tells his oldest as they are preparing to leave. “In case you must take over the running of the house.” 

There is a moment of blank incomprehension before the blistering rage once more flashes across his face. “Let us all pray to Eru that Fëanáro is truly trying as you say he is, Atar,” Findekáno says darkly. “Else we will see how he fares against someone who is truly trying to oust him from the line of succession.” He has stormed out of the room before Ñolofinwë can think of a reply to such a blatantly treasonous statement.  

“I would advise not dying, Atar,” Turukáno says as he hugs Ñolofinwë tightly and moves to leave. His eyes are hard and glinting when he glances toward the balcony. “You know I will support my brother if you do.” 

"Please do not commit treason if I die," he says pleadingly. "I do not wish for this to tear the family further apart."

Turukáno only raises an eyebrow and promises to return the following day. 

Írissë hugs him tightly, eyes dry even as her hands shake. “You are certain he is trying?” she asks, voice muffled against his chest. 

"Yes," he replies softly. "He is trying. There is hope yet." He does not believe his own words, but he can feel some of the tension leave her body, and does not regret the words. Watches Arakáno sag slightly in relief as well and only hopes he will not have made the entire affair worse when his reassurances prove false.

He does not wish to leave them, and yet, when it comes down to it, he will. That is all that will matter to them in the end, the simple fact that he has left.

That he had a choice, and he did not choose them.

☀︎

“He is not worth this,” his mother says to him softly after everyone but Anairë has left. She runs a hand over his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You say he is trying, but even that does not make him worth this.” 

“He is my brother, Ammë,” he says, sighing at the way her nose wrinkles. “I no more know myself without my love for him than I would without my love for you. I will not rip my fëa to shreds only to tear him out.”

“You would be whole without him,” she says, frowning severely. “You are a brilliant, amazing, intelligent person without Fëanáro. You would remain so if you saved yourself and did not rely on Fëanáro giving that which I do not believe he can give.” 

He smiles sadly, takes her hands between his. “He is my brother,” he says once more, willing her to understand. “He is half of me. What is a fëa worth if half of itself is gone?” 

He is perfectly capable of existing without his brother. Has done so for most of his life. But his brother is the cornerstone of his childhood, an invisible wall of resentment that he cannot match; love so sharp it tastes like iron; anger so bitter it is as if a knife is pressed ever against his throat. He is the invisible measure Ñolofinwë can never reach, the voice in the back of his head admonishing him for ever trying to match anything his brother has ever done. He is kindness given out so rarely that it felt almost sacrosanct when it was. Ñolofinwë is scared that if he takes all that his brother is, and unravels the braid, takes out all of the love, winds what's left back together — he is so terribly afraid that it will turn into a bitter hatred so dark and violent it may finally rival his brother's.

He cannot risk that. He cannot. Better to die with love in his heart than live and become an angry, bitter version of himself.  

“He is my brother,” he says once more into the silence. “I do not know who I am without my love for him held as part of me.”

“You could learn,” his mother says desperately, eyes bright with tears. 

“No, Ammë,” he says gently, kissing her hand. “I am sorry. I am. But I cannot.” 

☀︎

Everyone in his family has an opinion on the matter. Everyone looks at him and asks, why will you not let the healers fix it? He is not worth this. Not from you. 

Everyone, but the rest of his siblings. 

For who else would be able to understand the breadth of Fëanáro's shadow, the weight of the love that he will not accept, the jagged edges of resentment that carve through that love?

When his siblings come to see him, Lalwen says nothing, only settles on the settee and wraps her arms around him. 

Arafinwë stares at him for a moment and then shakes his head in disgust. “I told you that you cared about him too much, did I not? And you told me that it hurt nothing to care as much or as little as you wished. Do you still count this as hurting nothing then?”

“I believe I can be forgiven for not realizing this was a potential side effect of caring too much,” he says dryly. 

“Would it have stopped you if you had known?” Arafinwë demands, staring at Ñolofinwë through narrowed eyes. “Even if you had known, would it have stopped you from loving him to the point of death?”

“Come now, Aro,” he returns, smiling sadly, “do not ask questions you do not want the answers to.” He looks behind his brother to Findis leaning against the doorway watching him, brow furrowed, mouth curled downward as she considers him. “Findis, any words for me then?” 

She studies him for another moment before her eyes move to the balcony, where through the closed door she can see Fëanáro. He is still giving Ñolofinwë privacy as various family members come and go, but is unwilling to be too far from him. "He is actually trying," she says, half statement, half question.

“He is,” Ñolofinwë agrees. “I do not know if it is going to be enough, but Findis—” he meets her eyes and tries to compress their entire childhood into his words “—he is trying. He refuses to let me give up; he is scared, he has hugged me, scolded me, laughed with me. If he can only allow himself to care fully, then perhaps he will be able to say the words and mean them."

“But will you be able to believe him?” 

And that is the crux of the matter, is it not? Will Ñolofinwë be able to believe in something he does not believe Fëanáro truly capable of? "I do not know," he says, heart twisting miserably when Lalwen's arms tighten around him.

Arafinwë scowls and storms out onto the balcony, the door slamming closed behind him. Fëanáro glances at Arafinwë and motions to the seat beside him before returning to gazing off into the distance. Arafinwë's stride falters, the reaction not what one would have expected from Fëanáro, but he recovers a second later and takes the offered seat. Ñolofinwë is curious as to what is being said, but turns his attention back to his sisters instead.

"You are being a fool," Findis tells him sharply, even as she moves to perch on the arm of the settee, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. "I should expect nothing less from you, I suppose."

“If I take away the love, who do I become?” he asks, words muffled against her shoulder. 

She sighs heavily, shoves at him until he shifts so that she may sit down next to him, leaving him squished between his sisters. “I do not know,” she says finally, squeezing his hand tightly. “Even on the days that you claim you hate him, the love is so fierce beneath it all that it is impossible to imagine you without it.” 

“Will you also tell me then that I could learn?” 

“No. I will not waste my breath when I know you will not be convinced.” 

“He does not hate you,” Lalwen says softly. “He would not be hovering so terribly even now if he hated you.” They all look to the balcony where Arafinwë is in the process of jabbing a finger at Fëanáro as he speaks. Fëanáro bats Arafinwë’s hand away irritably as he snaps something back. 

"I know he does not. I know." Maybe it would all be easier if the problem were so clear-cut, if Fëanáro simply hated him and that was that. Instead, they are here, Fëanáro no longer hating him but unable to be entirely what Ñolofinwë needs. "It is not enough," he says, closing his eyes and fighting down a burning wave of tears.

It is not enough. None of it is enough. 

What a terrible refrain. 

☀︎

His family hovers for a few days until Anairë firmly reminds them that nothing will improve if they do not allow Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro some privacy. They all leave after that, some more reluctantly than others, and it is then once again just Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro left to fix an impossible situation. 

They continue to speak and slowly learn each other without hatred polluting the air. Some days they sit in the gardens, some days in his study, and some days, when Fëanáro can no longer be still, Ñolofinwë follows Fëanáro to his forge. It is a novelty to be invited to Fëanáro's forge. To sit quietly and listen as Fëanáro speaks, gesturing as he explains so rapidly that at times Ñolofinwë completely loses track of what he is talking about. He does not care. Cares only for the way Fëanáro grows freer with his smiles, for the way that when Ñolofinwë asks questions or offers commentary, he receives only well-natured responses in return.

The air between them grows calmer and gentler every day, even as Ñolofinwë's breathing becomes more and more labored. Eventually it reaches a point that even walking down to the gardens begins to exhaust him.

For all that he continues insisting to his family that Fëanáro is trying, for all that it is true, it is impossible to deny that trying is not enough. That though the progression is slowed by Fëanáro so clearly beginning to feel something, the sickness still grows worse with every passing day. 

And in the back of his mind, buried so deeply he can almost ignore it, is a guilty little voice that is happy. For perhaps this will not work out for them in the end, but there is a long-ignored bruise staining his fëa that is slowly healing the more time he spends with Fëanáro speaking with him instead of at him. To have been given the chance to fix things with Fëanáro even this much, to have been able to sit and speak with his brother and have it not end with fighting — a guilty, disgusting little voice in the back of his mind is pleased despite the shadow of death hanging about him. 

He will not tell any other of this, for it is a cruel thing to admit to. Still, sometimes, when he returns to their rooms and speaks to Anairë of his conversations with Fëanáro, she looks so sad that he thinks perhaps she guesses. He hates it. Hates the harm he is causing his family by refusing to allow the healers to help. Hates the harm he would cause if he did. He hates the entire affair and yet still. Still. 

A part of him is so, so, so happy.

☀︎

"Tell me something good," he says two weeks later, sitting back in his chair with a sigh and rubbing at his chest. They have been sitting on his balcony brainstorming the festival that may never come to pass, and Ñolofinwë is tired. "Anything good.” 

Fëanáro blinks in surprise, sitting back in his seat and steepling his fingers together as he considers Ñolofinwë. “There is little good news to be found these days,” he says after a while, scowling when Ñolofinwë throws a quill at him. 

“You must be able to think of something.” 

The silence between them twists and grows thorns as Fëanáro’s frown deepens. “I want you to live,” Fëanáro says finally in a low voice, the words almost seeming torn from him. “I want you to live so that we may scream at each other and work all of this out properly without worrying that it will end with you choking on the floor. I want—” he hesitates, dropping Ñolofinwë’s gaze and staring over his shoulder instead for a long moment. “I want to make this work,” he says in a rush, meeting Ñolofinwë’s eyes once more. “Does that count as a good thing?” 

Ñolofinwë feels as if he is going to choke from nothing more than the devastating cocktail of grief and hope and misery all lodging itself in his throat. “And if this works,” he says, swallowing around the threat of a cough. “If this works, would you not afterward simply box the love back away and go back to hating me?” 

"You are a greater fool than I could have fathomed if you believe I would do such a thing," Fëanáro snaps. "I wish to make this work—" he gestures between them sharply, eyes bright with annoyance "—this relationship, this… brotherhood, past what is only required for you to live.” 

"You—" he falters, cannot figure out how to go on. In the depths of his heart, nestled as far back against his ribcage as it can be, is that faint shadow of a child still too young to understand hate, and he is, as always, staring up at Fëanáro as if his brother has hung the stars themselves. Sometimes these days, he feels so very much like that child once again. As if surely Fëanáro simply holds all the answers, and if he only gives it a bit longer, his brother will be able to fix this, for he can fix anything. "But why, Fëanáro, why, did it have to come to this for you to even want to care?" The question comes out far more plaintive than he'd wished for it to. He nearly wants to take it back.

“I cannot change what is already done. I am trying now though, am I not?” Fëanáro does not apologize as one would perhaps believe appropriate, but his eyes are shadowed and troubled in a way Ñolofinwë has never seen directed at him.

“Yes. Yes, you are trying now. But will it be enough?” He must cover his eyes with one hand as he breathes in slowly, throat tight with unshed tears. “Will any of this matter in the end?” he mutters, anger sparking through his chest before sputtering out, his exhaustion too great to allow a full fire to grow. 

Fëanáro reaches over and shoves at the side of his head, eyes glittering with anger when Ñolofinwë looks up to glare at him. "It will matter," he says slowly and clearly, each word packed tight with a furious conviction. "Even if it did not work, it would matter. Does the process of creation itself not matter just as much as the end result?"

“Our relationship is not a jewel to be—”

“Do not be purposefully dense,” Fëanáro snaps, throwing his quill back at him. “It matters. I had not thought to ever give you this. Does my doing so, no matter the reason, does that not matter?” 

Ñolofinwë knows that it matters. Of course it matters. But he is tired and bitter and hopeless, and underneath it all, the thing he least wishes to acknowledge, he is scared. He cannot say any of that. Has admitted as much to Fëanáro once already and cannot bear to do so again. “Tell me something good,” he says again, embarrassed by the pleading note in his voice but unable to erase it. 

Fëanáro’s entire face softens, eyes going painfully sad as he reaches across the table to wrap his fingers around Ñolofinwë’s wrist. “I want you to stay.” He shakes his head when Ñolofinwë opens his mouth to argue, squeezing his wrist tight. “No, nothing more, nothing less. I want you here as my brother. Half in blood, yes, I have said so often enough. But I wish to have you as my full brother in heart as well, though I cannot mean it fully yet. Is my wanting you here, wanting you to stay — is that not a good thing? A good sign?” 

“Oh,” he says faintly. Does not know what else to say. Knows only that there is a faintest stirring of hope valiantly trying to make itself known from beneath his firm belief that this is doomed to failure. “I— yes, of course. Of course that is a good thing.” 

Fëanáro smiles, and though there is still a strained edge to it, there is also genuine pleasure behind it. “Good. Now, tell me of this competition you wish to hold? You have it marked only as a team competition using the diving cliffs at the lake?” 

"Ah. Yes. I do not know if this will encourage unity or simply divide our people in new ways," he says, unable to stop himself from laughing. "It is a strange idea to be sure, but here, look at the distance of the cliffs from each other—" he glances up as he explains and finds Fëanáro's face drawn with concentration as he listens, genuine curiosity bright in his eyes, and for a moment, the hope escapes its confines and unfurls throughout his chest. Leaves everything bright and golden, the future painted in vibrant colors that hurt to look at.  He pushes it back down, locks it up, and tucks it away once more. Cannot bring himself to allow the hope to grow.

The warmth of the emotion still stubbornly lingers as he knocks his foot against Fëanáro's and explains the ridiculous competition he has come up with. And that night, in his dreams, all he can see, no matter where he looks—

—is light. 

☀︎

With how far the sickness has progressed, the roots likely having already fully wound their way around his lungs, he should perhaps not be surprised when he finds himself waking in his bed with no memory of how he arrived there. Yet it is still surprising as he wakes slowly, mind fuzzy and unwilling to fully leave his dreams, for it is sure there is pain waiting for him elsewhere. 

He has no memory of going to bed. Blearily searches his mind and finds that the last thing he remembers with any surety is sitting on the terrace with his family as they ate lunch. He had started coughing, he knows, though there had not been any flowers, just an awful, sudden tightness in his chest that had sent his head spinning, and had apparently also sent him into unconsciousness. 

As he continues drifting closer to wakefulness he realizes that there is a voice speaking. The words are soft, worry infused into each syllable, grief and fear mired throughout. Fëanáro is speaking quietly of their childhood, disjointed anecdotes that have no direct correlation he can find. Ñolofinwë turns toward the sound, opening his eyes to find Fëanáro sitting beside his bed, anxiously turning a ring over and over between his fingers. 

Fëanáro goes silent when their eyes meet, and Ñolofinwë has never before been able to so easily name the emotions on his brother's face. It is guilt and fear all mixed up and sitting lopsidedly on a face not made to bear such emotions. "Náro," he murmurs, throat raw in a way that indicates his coughing must have been harsher than he truly remembers.

“Nolvo,” Fëanáro returns, reaching over and gently smoothing down his hair. “Go back to sleep. Rest.” 

He is not entirely sure he has much of a choice. His entire body feels heavy and exhausted, his chest uncomfortably tight. “I passed out?” 

“You did,” Fëanáro says tightly. “After coughing up blood and nearly hitting your fool head on the table falling over, you did pass out.” 

“Oh,” he says faintly, struggling to recall any of that. 

Fëanáro scowls at him even as he grasps one of Ñolofinwë’s hands in his. “I spoke with our healers, one of whom remembers dealing with the flower-sickness in Cuiviénen. She said you likely have less than a month left. After I told her how long this has been going on,” Fëanáro continues in a dark voice, his grip on Ñolofinwë’s hand bruising, “she also said that you should already be dead.” 

It is less shocking than he would have thought to hear the words. Some part of him has known that he is living on borrowed time. That it is only Fëanáro’s stubborn refusal to give up and Ñolofinwë's unshakeable longing to believe his brother that has been slowing the sickness. He is not surprised to find that it has finally progressed to a point that even Fëanáro cannot slow it any longer. “We have finally run out of time then,” he says, closing his eyes in defeat. 

“No,” Fëanáro snaps, terrified and furious that he is terrified. “Don’t you dare just give up. There is still time, little though it may be.” 

"Perhaps." He squeezes his brother's hand tight and cannot help but think that if he must die, at least he can die with the air between them having been cleansed of hatred. It is not enough. But it is still something. It still matters. “Keep speaking. You were talking of our childhood. Will you continue?” 

There is a long pause, where he knows Fëanáro wishes to argue with him, before he sighs and says, “Yes. Yes, fine. Rest, Nolvo, and I will speak.” 

Ñolofinwë slowly falls back asleep to Fëanáro weaving stories through the air of the parts of his childhood that he was too young to remember. He has only the barest edge of awareness left when Fëanáro stops speaking and sighs. He must believe Ñolofinwë to be asleep, for he says quietly, "Nerdanel accuses me of being willfully blind to my own feelings. She says that I already feel what needs to be felt to fix this. I do not know if she is right or if I only wish for her to be right." A long pause follows before Fëanáro squeezes Ñolofinwë's hand once more and lets go. Stands and smooths down Ñolofinwë's hair once more, lips pressed to his forehead as if in prayer. Please, let this work, Fëanáro whispers. You cannot die on me now, little brother, you cannot. 

He clutches those words tight as sleep finally takes him, lets them soothe his dreams and shine light through the despair always trying to blanket his dreams in darkness. It is not enough. Not yet. 

But maybe. 

Just maybe. 

Maybe soon.  

☀︎

Some days now, Ñolofinwë wakes and cannot find the energy to leave his rooms. His body feels too heavy to move, each breath a struggle, lungs fighting to push enough air through his body, hampered as they are by the roots slowly constricting around them. Fëanáro is barely even a trigger anymore these days, all his edges forcibly gentled, but the ever-creeping despair continues to grow alongside the kernel of hope that has stubbornly planted itself in his heart. Fëanáro is gentled, he is scared, he has called Ñolofinwë little brother and sounded as if he meant it.

He still cannot push the words up his throat that Ñolofinwë needs to both hear and believe. 

In any other scenario Ñolofinwë would not mind this. He would gladly give his brother time to come to terms with his feelings on their relationship. But of course, in any other circumstance, his brother would not have dreamed of calling him brother in return. No matter how he looks at the situation it always ends in darkness. 

Still, despite this, despite it all, Fëanáro's words keep echoing in his mind, nourishing the hope growing in his heart. If Fëanáro can call him 'little brother' and mean it, could he not also easily love Ñolofinwë given only a bit more time to swallow the idea?

Could this not work if only they had just the slightest bit more time?  

Please, he finds himself praying over and over during the pauses between sentences and the quiet moments in conversations. Please, just give us a little more time. 

We just need a little more time. 

☀︎

It is only a couple of weeks later that they find themselves once again in the gardens, Ñolofinwë having stubbornly made his way outside despite how terribly it exhausts him. He wishes for the fresh air and to be surrounded by nature far more than he cares about the effort. Fëanáro is sitting on the edge of the fountain staring at nothing as he thinks; Ñolofinwë cross-legged on the grass, idly sketching his brother. 

It has been what feels like an age since he allowed himself to simply sit and draw, mind going silent as he focuses. Fëanáro is a striking figure as always, brow furrowed in thought as he leans back on his hands, face slightly tipped toward the sky. The ends of his hair are nearly brushing the water in the fountain, and Ñolofinwë is carefully sketching out the razor-thin space between the two when Fëanáro looks over at him.

“I love you,” he says, so simple and quiet that the words do not even register. 

Ñolofinwë does not even stop sketching for one long, sticky drawn-out moment. Jerks his head up a second later to stare at Fëanáro, hand slipping across the parchment and ruining the sketch. “What did you just say?” he asks hoarsely, for surely he must have misheard. 

Fëanáro rolls his eyes and stands, dropping onto the ground in front of Ñolofinwë a second later. He crosses his legs, knees knocking against Ñolofinwë's, and meets his eyes evenly. There is a certain level of calm assuredness drawn about Fëanáro that has been absent for the past couple of months. "You are my brother in every way that matters," Fëanáro says clearly, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice, "and I love you."

Ñolofinwë’s entire mind goes utterly silent and blank as he stares at Fëanáro, who expectantly stares back. The words are completely unfathomable. He has wanted to hear them for so long that he does not know what to do with them now that they’ve been said.

“You do not mean that.” 

There is a beat of terrible surprise, the air itself seeming to go still, before Fëanáro's eyes narrow. "I do not say that which I do not mean," Fëanáro says furiously. "I would not lie, not about this, not now."

He closes his eyes, cannot bear to look his brother in the face. Ñolofinwë almost believes him, almost. He is finding though, that even with Fëanáro having said the words, having sounded as if he meant them, there is a part of him that simply cannot accept him. His brother does not normally lie; this is true. But these are not normal circumstances, and there is the smallest part of him that cannot help but wonder how far Fëanáro would go to prevent him from dying.

Just because Fëanáro does not usually lie does not mean he is incapable of it. Ñolofinwë finds that it is easier to imagine Fëanáro lying than it is to believe that his brother truly means those words. “I don’t…” 

“Is the idea of me loving you still truly that unbelievable?” Fëanáro asks, eyes dark and troubled. “I told you that I would fix this.” 

It is not unbelievable, for it is clear to anyone with eyes that Fëanáro's feelings toward him have softened in leaps and bounds over the past couple of months. The logical progression of thought says that it is only natural for love to follow. It is not unbelievable. And yet, he knows that despite this, he does not truly believe it, for the sickness has not changed.

“I want to believe you,” he says, running his hand over his face. “I want to. I just— Fëanáro, I do not know how to. It has been centuries. You have hated me for so long. How am I meant to believe you now?” 

Fëanáro stares at him, the first stirrings of hopelessness evident in the creases of his eyes and the distressed, downturned corners of his mouth. “Tell me how to prove it,” he says softly, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around Ñolofinwë’s wrist. “You must figure out how to believe me. If you do not—” he cuts himself off, mouth twisting. 

“If I do not,” he agrees with a sigh. “I do not know, Fëanáro. It is not a thing that can be so easily proven.” 

“Is it not?” Fëanáro asks, tilting his head as his eyes brighten with an idea. A second later his mind has reached out and brushed against Ñolofinwë’s own. 

He instinctively flinches away from the sudden blaze of Fëanáro’s mind next to his before hesitantly opening his mind and reaching back. He seldom allows people other than Anairë inside his mind; is aware that even they share their thoughts far less than most bonded couples. But it is Fëanáro. Even if these were not extenuating circumstances, he cannot imagine a situation in which he would turn his brother away, not when the occurrence is so singularly strange. 

Fëanáro’s mind blazes through the waterfall guarding Ñolofinwë’s thoughts and sends steam billowing around them. Here, Fëanáro thinks, is this not love? 

A great swell of emotion slams through him that he must close his eyes against. He breathes in and feels the love in his fucking teeth. Fëanáro, it turns out, loves the same way he does everything else — single-mindedly and with great devotion when the mood suits him. It is as if Ñolofinwë has sat down next to a fire on a cold night, but that the fire surrounds him, curls around his ankles, and drapes over his shoulders. He breathes out and hears the crackling of the fire, each spark that dances through the air singing, brother, brother, my brother, over and over. 

There is white flame flickering around the edges of the emotion, a violent fear that turns the edges of the love into a tattered mess of desperation. Ñolofinwë instinctively sends his own love out to soothe it; a great, frothing wave of emotion that has been held back for so very long. It does not put the fire out when it crashes down as one might think it should. Instead, the water crashes through and then beneath the flames, allowing the fire to dance atop it, edges soothed.

They sit that way for a long while, simply letting the emotions rage between them. The violence and anger and resentment and bitterness all wade out between them one at a time as well. They draw each emotion in and add it to the mix until Ñolofinwë could not begin to say where his emotions end and Fëanáro's begin. They sit there until Ñolofinwë breathes in, and for the first time in weeks, the air flows easily. 

It makes it all the more terrifying when, a second later, he finds himself bent over violently coughing. He gags painfully around the intrusion for whatever is crawling up his throat is creeping, slithering upward, all dirt and rot, blood and jagged edges. He does not know what is worse — the pain or the way he cannot stop gagging, bile rising to choke his airway off even more. Fëanáro curses, his mind expanding until it covers Ñolofinwë's entirely, a blanket of soothing warmth. It does not manage to calm the distressed panic beginning to build in his mind, but it is still a comfort in its own way to be so utterly surrounded by the warmth of his brother.

For all that this is by far the most painful of all the coughing fits he has experienced, it also is over quickly. What falls from his mouth this time is not a flower. It is instead a tangled mass of roots, the ends tinged red from where they had tried to take root in his lungs. He stares at them for a long time in disbelief. Catches his breath as he slumps against Fëanáro and continues to stare. 

Breathes in and feels nothing but air. 

Breathes out as if nothing has ever been wrong. 

And Ñolofinwë, who has not cried once during this entire ordeal, must cover his face as the tears finally break free. Fëanáro's mind is still pressed up against his, and their combined relief and love and hope all overwhelm him so immediately and without hesitation that he cannot hold the tears back.

Fëanáro wraps him in a hug, lips pressed to his hair as Ñolofinwë cries and thinks over and over, I am going to live.

He is going to live. 

"You actually did it," he murmurs, caring not for how the words pain him.

"I told you," Fëanáro says, smugness rippling through his mind, "I am very, very good at getting what I want."

He laughs, the joy bubbling up suddenly, and twists to hug Fëanáro in return. His brother is his brother in truth, and the love is so golden that when Ñolofinwë closes his eyes, for a moment, he swears, he can see a great, giant ball of light illuminated in the sky casting hope upon all of Arda.

It feels a little like an omen. 

Feels a lot like the future unfurling before him, bright and ready to be seized with his brother at his side. It is what he has always wanted. It is what he had always thought he’d never had. 

Ñolofinwë reaches out, grabs it tight with both hands, and vows to never let it go again. 

Fin.

Chapter End Notes

Flower Inspo

• Orange Lily's: [1] [2]

In case anyone was wondering what the "ridiculous competition" was that Ñolofinwë was explaining to Fëanáro - when I was talking with Anna about what kind of contests they could have at a festival, so I could give them something to talk about, she suggested tug-a-war & mentioned that in Squid Game there is apparently a Tug Of War to the death in the show. Which, obviously we're not doing that, but I did think it would be funny if because it's the Noldor and they are competitive, they found a nice set of cliffs of reasonably height, with a lake in the middle (I'm sure it's conveniently there), and they played tug of war and the losers fall in the lake.

 Hope everyone enjoyed the angst <3 I'm on tumblr as well!

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