don't go blindly into the dark by atlantablack  

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nothing ain't forgiven on this holy ground

Chapter title is from Hope It Don't by All Tvvins

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

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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