don't go blindly into the dark by atlantablack  

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my brother // my killer

Chapter title is from Famous Blue Raincoat by Leonard Cohen

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

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