A Very Fire by Deborah Judge  

"All the Noldor shine brightly with the radiance of Laurelin and Telperion. We all burn, and inside each one of us there is a flame, but none is like Feanor, who burns with the very fire of the One." So Fingolfin's father told him, and so he believed. Finwe knew about light, he had brought the Noldor through great distances in darkness and peril so that they could dwell in the light of the Trees. He could recognize the fire in his eldest son. Feanor raged at times, and shouted, and Indis comforted little Finarfin who was startled by the noise. Fingolfin was not afraid, even as a baby. Was not the rage also fire, the very brightness of Feanor?

In his youth Feanor wandered in the hills, or along the lonely shores of the sea. Sometimes Fingolfin would follow him to the beginnings of the forests. Feanor would twine together leaves to make him a crown, or shape a flower from grasses, and then send him home. But finally a day came when Fingolfin would not be turned aside. He was growing, and his body was becoming strong, and he begged his brother this once to be allowed to go with him.

"You would follow me, then, Son of Indis?" Feanor asked, flashing his dark smile. He pointed to a cliff that rose on the far side of the plains. "I am going to climb that. Do you believe you can follow me?"

Do you believe I have no courage? Fingolfin thought. "Where you go I will follow," he said confidently. Feanor raised an eyebrow, but brought his brother with him to the base of the cliff. It was nearly straight, with nothing for a climber to grasp. Feanor took out his knife. "Watch," he said with a smirk.

He carved out handholds as he climbed. As one hand held him in place, the skilled fingers of the other used the knife to form a place to rest his feet. And so he climbed quickly, creating a path as he went. When he reached the top he sat on the edge of the cliff, his feet hanging over, and stretched out his arms to Fingolfin. "Come, Brother," he called.

Fingolfin did not hesitate. He grabbed the newly formed handholds one after another, pulling himself up. Soon he was far above the ground. A foothold broke. Fingolfin cursed, knowing that Feanor was far too clever a craftsman to create a fragile path by accident. He looked up and Feanor was still there, smiling enigmatically. The ground stretched below Fingolfin, the mystery of his brother above. He deliberated for a moment, then continued the climb with renewed energy.

When he neared the top he saw the upper handholds were gone. Feanor reached out his hands. Fingolfin hesitated for a moment, then took them.

Feanor's hands were hot to the touch. The light of Laurelin was waning, and that of Telperion was growing in strength. Both lights merged in Feanor's eyes, and were consumed by a third light that was not of Valinor. Fingolfin could see the ground so far beneath him. No Elf had yet died of violence, but even Fingolfin knew that there were some things even an Elven body could not survive. Feanor's hands were steady, but he made no move to lift up his brother. They remained there for a time, motionless, not speaking.

"And why should I lift you up, then, Son of Indis?" Feanor asked after a time.

Fingolfin knew he was being tested. He feared less the drop below than the hardness in his brother's eyes. Son of Indis. "Because I want to be with you."

Feanor laughed again, not a cruel laugh as before, but a laugh, perhaps, of comfort. He pulled Fingolfin over the cliff-top and fell backwards with him on the grass. Fingolfin laughed also, and they embraced, and with his unlikely smile his eyes twinkled like stars.

They walked together, holding hands. Fingolfin's body coursed with formless energy. Now I will become fire, he thought, feeling warm from his brother's touch. They passed the shores of Eldamar, and walked through towering forests reaching mountainlike to the heavens. Feanor pointed out every wonder as they passed, from the stallion-like waves to the delicate flowers on the forest floor. But no wonder is like my brother, and no light is as radiant as his eyes. The radiance seemed kind here, as they knit chains of flowers to entwine in each other's hair.

Fingolfin returned often to the forest after that day to look for his brother. Feanor was sometimes there, sometimes not, but Fingolfin would not complain or ask why, any more than he would ask the waves to crash at his will. Feanor sometimes raged and sometimes laughed, but would walk with his brother, and touch his hand, making Fingolfin feel more alive than he had believed possible. I am touched by fire, he thought. Now I am aflame.

Then, after a time, once Fingolfin sought Feanor in their place in the forest and he was not there. This once Fingolfin did not return home, but walked alone through the dark woods, visiting each spot he knew Feanor to have been. He touched trees they had stood beneath, as if to receive from them the memory of fire. Then he heard a noise, and his brother's breathing.

Feanor stood at a distance, hand in hand with copper-haired Nerdanel, his master's daughter. They wore forge-stained smocks, as if coming directly from the workshop. Their eyes were fixed on each other. Fingolfin knew that if he cried out they would not hear him, would not turn from each other for even an instant. Not could he turn from what he saw.

The lovers reached for each other suddenly, bodies working together. They tore at each other's clothes, and Feanor pushed Nerdanel roughly against a tree, kissing her lips, face, and neck. She grabbed his hair to pull his mouth harder against hers. Fingolfin could see the curve of her breast where her dress was torn, and wondered what Feanor's touch felt like on that white skin. He watched Nerdanel take Feanor's hips to bring him between her thighs, and he saw their hair flow together behind her, black and red together merging in a dark flame. Is this the burning I desired? Fingolfin thought, and remembered the heat of his brother's hands.

When Feanor and Nerdanel were wed some time after Fingolfin gave the toasts and blessings befitting a younger brother and drank a great deal of wine.

He courted Anaire assiduously, with flowers and jewels and the finest crafts. Anaire was surprised, but not disappointed, as she had delighted in Fingolfin's company since they began riding together in childhood. They followed custom and allowed themselves only simple kisses before they were wed, but Fingolfin took great pleasure in the soft burning lit in her eyes at even this gentle touch. He never returned to meet his brother in the forest and Feanor did not ask why. In time, when they came of age, Fingolfin and Anaire were married, and spent many hours exploring the now-permitted delights of the body. Fingolfin was content, especially when he awoke to find himself surrounded by Anaire's limbs and the smell of their passion. He tried not to think of Feanor and never spoke his name.

As the years passed, sometimes Fingolfin returned to the shores. The waves reminded him of something he dared not say. He chanced upon Feanor there once, wandering with his family. Feanor held a young boy in his arms who liked to braid his father's hair and sing wordless songs. Nerdanel was round-bellied and bright-eyed, and as her side was a quiet child as tall as her waist. The boy introduced himself as Maedhros, and his brother as Maglor, and solemnly shook hands with his uncle.

"So, Son of Indis," Feanor asked, the old mocking laugh in his voice, "now that you are wed, do you still follow me?"

"Must you take everything for yourself?" Fingolfin responded crossly, struck by sudden fear. Nerdanel laughed, a big booming laugh from her ample belly, but Maedhros's young eyes met his uncle's, as if he knew the truth of those words better than he could imagine. Then the true answer to Feanor's question came to Fingolfin's mind, dark and unbidden. Only call, Brother, and I will follow, now and forever.

When Fingolfin returned home he found Anaire at her studies. He crept up from behind and seized her, kissing her neck as his hands explored her body. She turned in his arms and kissed him, pulling him down with her to the floor. He loved her there, hard, with all the passion his loins could give. But as he felt the soft flame of her breath on his lips, he remembered the heat of Feanor's hands, and he thought of his father's words:

Though all the Noldor burn with an inner flame, none is like Feanor, whose soul burns with a passionate fire, the very fire of the One.

Chapter End Notes

Betareaders from back in the day were Cirdan, Kshar and Maia, as well as the late great Silmfics yahoo group. Still grateful to all of them.

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It was many years before Maedhros visited his uncle.

They had been happy years for Fingolfin in his home in Tirion. One son had joined his family, then another. Fingolfin and Anaire still wanted more children and took much delight in their frequent attempts to conceive them. He had rarely seen Feanor since the night a year before his eldest son was born, which was nearly sixteen years ago. So it was a great surprise when he opened his front door to find Maedhros waiting.

Maedhros was solemn-faced, and tired-looking. Although almost at his maturity, it seemed to Fingolfin that he had not changed very much since they had met seventeen years before. Does he yet burn? thought Fingolfin. Does the fire yet remain? He cast the thought from his mind and brought his nephew inside.

They spoke pleasantries at first, about Finwe and life in Tirion. Maedhros answered every question seriously, as if unused to company. Of course, Fingolfin thought, Feanor guards his sons like treasure, like another item crafted in his workshop. He realized that Maedhros must have scarcely any friends outside his immediate family. Finally, he asked, "And how is it with your parents?"

Maedhros shifted, looking younger than his age. "Mother has moved out," he said. "Again."

The state of Feanor's marriage was a known secret among his family, but Fingolfin wanted to hear more from his nephew. "Again? Do they quarrel?"

"Not exactly. Father…Father makes things, and Mother doesn't like them. She knows his work better than anyone and there are things she doesn't think anyone should be making. She doesn't want to work on them with him and she says they shouldn't be in the house with the children. So she took little Celegorm and walked out."

"Celegorm? Not Maglor?"

"Maglor is old enough not to be taken anywhere against his will, and he wanted to stay with Father. He is learning now…have you heard him sing?" Maedhros flashed a smile, the first smile Fingolfin had ever seen from him.

"I have not," Fingolfin answered, "but from your face I do not doubt that he would be worth hearing." Maedhros smiled again. "But what about you?" Fingolfin asked.

Maedhros did not answer, and looked at the floor.

"Let me guess," said Fingolfin after a time. "Your father thinks you are with your mother, and your mother thinks you are with your father, and you came here. Am I right?"

Maedhros nodded slowly.

"Why?"

The gaze Maedhros gave his uncle had an intensity that shocked him, a sudden flash of burning need. "Because I thought you would understand," he said.

"Understand what?"

"Just…understand."

Understand? Perhaps he did. He remembered walking too close to the fire, passing though it not entirely consumed. Such a fire could scorch a child, burn him until nothing was left but the memory of a flame. Or the fire itself. What fire was there in this quiet youth? Fingolfin had a sudden urge to touch him and to see if his hands would burn.

"You may stay, then," Fingolfin said, "for a few days, or as long as you like. My sons will be glad to meet their cousin."

Maedhros smiled gratefully. "Thank you," he said.

Turgon was asleep in his cradle, clutching a cloth book. "My father's runes," Maedhros said, peering at it.

"Yes, Turgon likes them, although he can't read them yet. His mother thinks he will be a scholar like her one day."

Fingon came running in from the backyard, covered in dirt. "This is Fingon, my eldest," Fingolfin said.

"Hello," Maedhros said. "I'm your cousin Maedhros."

"Hello," Fingon said. "Do you like to climb trees?"

"Where did you find all that dirt in a tree?" Fingolfin asked his son.

"No, Father," Fingon explained patiently, "the dirt is from under the tree. Where the worms are."

Fingolfin laughed. "Ah well. That explains it."

"Well?" Fingon asked Maedhros again. "Do you?"

"I don't know," Maedhros answered. "I've never tried."

"Well, come on, then," Fingon said, grabbing his cousin's hand. "There's a mallorn tree in the backyard." Fingolfin laughed again, nodded his approval, and went outside to watch his son and nephew play.

Fingon was half his cousin's height but he scampered right up the tree as Maedhros was hauling himself up to the first branch. Maedhros moved slowly at first, as if afraid his weight would break the tree, but as he became more confident he began to swing from branch to branch along with his cousin. The tree stretched out in all directions, a leaf-covered playground. After a time Fingon discovered that he could climb on his cousin's broad shoulders and reach above the highest leaves. He picked the finest leaf from the very top and gave it to Maedhros as a present, causing him to laugh so hard he almost fell down.

Watching the boys play in the tree Fingolfin thought he saw the age difference between them evaporate. Maedhros began to move more freely, more openly, and in his bold movements Fingolfin thought he could see the beginnings of fire. Fingon had always been an energetic child, but rarely had taken to someone so swiftly. Could the fire in this boy's soul, carefully tended, bring tamed warmth into Fingolfin's home? Surely it was no less than Maedhros deserved.

They were interrupted by a sudden shout from the front door. Fingolfin did not need Maedhros's suddenly frozen face to tell him who it was. "Wait here," he said, and went to the door to meet his brother.

Feanor burst into the house. "What have you done with my son?" he asked without preamble. The burning in his eyes was hard, and Fingolfin felt a familiar fear.

"I am no thief of children," Fingolfin answered, as calmly as he could. "Your son is almost of age, and is here as my guest."

"Your guest?" Feanor asked quietly, his voice blazing. "He comes without my leave, nor that of his mother. Would you take my son's loyalty?"

Would I take… Fingolfin tasted a sudden hope of power like blood. Was there something he could take from his brother? And if it began with loyalty, could it not end with love? "Would you stay?" he asked. "Maedhros is welcome here, but so are you."

"Am I?" Feanor asked. "Perhaps. But bring me my son."

Maedhros walked in then, solemn-faced again. "I apologize, Father," he said.

"You don't have to go, Maedhros," Fingolfin said.

"Yes I do," Maedhros said. "I'm sorry."

"I hope you come back," Fingon said, appearing at his father's elbow.

"I hope so too," Maedhros answered him.

"Will I see you again?" Fingolfin asked Feanor, trying to keep the longing from his voice. He expected that Feanor would rage, or even strike him, but instead Feanor raised his hand to Fingolfin's cheek with a delicate burning touch. "So," he said, "my son yearns for the son of Indis. Perhaps he is wise, then. Perhaps he is wise." And with that he turned and led Maedhros away.

"Well," Fingolfin asked Fingon, after Feanor had left and he had a chance to catch his breath, "what do you think of him?"

"I think he is very lonely," Fingon said, and left the room, presumably to look for more worms.

Fingolfin began to wander again that night by Telperion's rays while Anaire lay sleeping. He walked along the cliffs overlooking the shores and knelt to touch a carved foothold, after all this time still there. He came back night after night, walking alone, not asking himself what he hoped to find. One night he saw Feanor at the shore, in the arms of his wife. They held each other as the waved crashed over them, wetting Nerdanel's white dress. Feanor kissed her, deeply, and ran his hands over her rounded belly. She responded to his kiss with moans that carried into the distance.

And so she returns again, Fingolfin thought. She is drawn to the fire, unable to turn away.

As am I, Brother. As am I.

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Fingolfin ceased his nighttime wanderings after a time, and soon Anaire conceived again. After much discussion, and some regret, they decided that this would be their last child. According to custom, this was the time for husband and wife to move from the loving of the body to the loving of the spirit. So, with the trepidation of all new lovers, they began their explorations of this new kind of union.

They lay naked, unmoving, no barrier between them yet not touching. Fingolfin looked at his wife's body, so familiar, so perfect. He almost reached for her but, following custom, did not. Instead he met her eyes with his, and they began to breathe as one. Lying so close, their breaths were mingled, the warm air she exhaled filling his mouth. He could sense, rather than see, a window in his wife's dark eyes, an opening to the hidden places of her soul. Slowly he sent forth the tendrils of his mind, using only the soft force of his gaze, to gently pry it open. He felt her doing the same to him, both taking and taken at once. Her breathing came quickly, and hers matched it. Suddenly, the doors were open. He felt colours he could not have imagined, shapes that could not exist outside the contours of the heart. They laughed together, dancing through his soul and hers, each thought a caress of joy. Some rooms were still blocked to him. Although he knew he could go deeper in time, some places would always be closed, for not all the soul can be shared. Yet he rejoiced in what he saw, in what he felt, touched, tasted, sensed with another sense beyond all of these, in the beauty and sweetness he had always enjoyed in his wife, here deeper and sweeter than her most passionate embrace.

Finally they withdrew from each other. They said nothing, for there was nothing further that could be said, no further communication that could be shared. They only smiled, and drifted off to an exhausted but happy slumber.

As the months passed, Anaire seemed satisfied. More than satisfied, she glowed with a peaceful radiance. Fingolfin was also, most of the time. But sometimes he missed the loving of the flesh, and yearned for strong hands and claiming lips. He knew his brother was not content with the loving of the spirit, nor would he be. Nerdanel swelled with her fifth child, which was as many as Finwe had produced from both his wives. Sometimes in secret Fingolfin would touch himself, thinking only of fire.

It was shortly after Aredhel was born that Maedhros came back. Fingolfin welcomed him in, and as they were sitting down Fingon appeared. He was closer in height to Maedhros now, almost to his shoulder, and had recently started braiding his hair. Still, from the way Maedhros smiled it was clear that he recognized him and was happy to see him.

"Hello, Maedhros," Fingon said.

"You remember me," Maedhros responded, surprised.

"Of course," Fingon answered.

Fingolfin smiled. "He's been asking about you. We're glad you could come back. Is your father still angry?"

"Actually," Maedhros said, "My father asked me to come. He says it's good for our families to get to know each other. And, he wants to see you."

"Me?" Fingolfin's mouth went suddenly dry. "Now?"

"He said you could come any time. But I think he is expecting you now."

Fingolfin was standing before he knew it. Maedhros got up as well. "Why don't you stay?" Fingon asked him. "We could go to the lake."

Maedhros looked enquiringly at Fingolfin, who nodded his approval and ran out the door.

Fingolfin knew well the way to Feanor's house. He had been there many times on his nighttime journeys, each time wandering seemingly purposeless, almost surprised to find himself standing over the many-spired complex his brother had designed. This time, at his brother's summons, his feet sped him almost faster than his will.

Feanor was waiting in the great hall of his home. His hair was unbound and he wore the silver circlet of his rank as the heir of Finwe. He stood in the centre of the hall, alone.

"Son of Indis," Feanor said. Fingolfin could feel the fire in his brother's voice, the very fire he remembered.

"Brother," he answered.

Feanor stepped across the room in one motion and took his brother's hand in his. His hand was still hot, and burned Fingolfin's flesh. "Come," he said.

He led him, hand in hand, down winding darkened candle-lit stairs to a jewel-filled cavern. No torch brightened this treasury, yet the light of the jewels within it seemed like the very light of Telperion for brightness. Fingolfin watched silently as Feanor led him among the stones. One jewel seemed as if of crystal, lit from inside with a blue flame. The flame twitched, sending shadows in all directions. Fingolfin touched that gem, and the ones beside it, never letting go of his brother's hand. They were all bright, and warm to the touch. But nothing shines like Feanor, he thought, and nothing burns like his fire.

Finally his fingers came to rest on a green stone about half the length of his palm. At first it seemed dark, the hue of the sea as its waves crash in Telperion's light. But beneath his touch it shone, and seemed like the rays of Laurelin shining through the first leaves of spring. It was flawless, of course, all one color, yet as Fingolfin looked at the stone it took on every hue of the forest, of the dark twig and the light grasses, of flower-branches bound in dark hair, mingled with a fire that burned on its own.

"Would you like it?" Feanor asked.

Fingolfin's hand froze.

"My son has spoken of you and your family," Feanor continued. "I believe that when he fled to you that day there was a wisdom that guided his steps, although it is a wisdom that I do not understand. I would have a bond between the house of Feanor and the son of Indis."

"I have always desired peace with you, my brother," Fingolfin answered, looking from the stone to Feanor's eyes.

Feanor closed the narrow gap between them, and placed two fingers on his brother's lips. "Much have you desired of me, Son of Indis, but not peace. I would give you this stone."

Fingolfin had a sudden fear that this was a test, yet another test of Feanor's. He remembered the cliff, and almost falling. "Yes," he said.

The stone lay heavy on his chest where Feanor placed it. It shot rays of fire through his soul, into every breath of his flesh. Fingolfin felt a sudden strength in his hands, and in his limbs, and he met Feanor's gaze without turning aside. They touched hands, and returned to the entrance hall.

"I am not one for dinner parties and house guests," Feanor said, "but my sons may go to you if they wish it."

"And may I come back?" Fingolfin asked, touching the green stone above his heart.

"Not often," Feanor answered, "once, perhaps twice a year. But yes, you may return."

They touched hands once again, and Fingolfin set off. He walked slowly, feeling the weight of the stone on him. I bear a flame, he thought, I touch fire, and I burn. But even before he reached home, the heat of the stone burned less than the memory of his brother's touch on his lips.

Fingon came home much later. "What did you do at the lake all day?" Fingolfin asked him.

"We climbed over rocks and explored in the forest and threw acorns and met a salamander and talked to it," Fingon answered. "And Maedhros told me about his family. Can I go visit them?"

The thought of Feanor's hot hands on his son's young face made Fingolfin go suddenly cold. "I don't think so. But Maedhros can come here whenever he wants. And he has younger brothers who are closer to your age."

"Good," Fingon said. "They can play with Turgon and Aredhel."

Fingolfin's mind was already working ahead. There was something Maedhros clearly needed that was driving him to Fingolfin. And Maedhros brought into Fingolfin's home something of Feanor. The improbable affection that seemed to be developing between his impetuous son and Feanor's eldest could only help. He could imagine Feanor's sons in his household, warming it with the very fire of their father. And, if his sons were present, would Feanor always stay so distant? A bond between our houses, Fingolfin thought, touching the stone at his chest. But who is the binder, and who the bound?

Anaire noticed the stone, but as it was a gift from a brother she could not object. When he asked her to resume the loving of the body she consented, although she no longer took pleasure in it. Fingolfin's soul was becoming increasingly clouded with rooms he did not wish to share. Sometimes she touched the stone as he lay in her arms, and felt its heat, and wondered.

Chapter End Notes

The green stone is none other than the Elessar the Elfstone, which according to HoME XI, p. 176–177 was given by Maedhros to Fingon long before it played a role in the relationship between Aragorn and Arwen. I'm giving it a somewhat more complicated and fraught history in this fic. This was one of those things that made me feel like I had to come back and finish the story - when I left it on (very long) hiatus the wrong person was holding the stone, because I didn't manage to resolve the thing I was setting up. Don't worry, the stone will get to Maedhros and then to Fingon eventually.

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Fingon knew he shouldn't be at Feanor's home by himself. His father had told him not to go there, that while he cared for his brother he worried about what he might do. He had a strange look whenever Feanor was mentioned and sometimes went by himself to Feanor's home and would't let his children come with him. But Fingon was fully grown in body, though a few years below his maturity, and for more than a decade he and Maedhros had been close friends. Surely by now he must be old enough. Fingon had been curious to finally meet his friend's father, so he had come to his house and let Feanor lead him to this room filled with gemstones and crystals

They sat across a white table with one clear round jewel between them. Feanor cupped his hand around it. "What do you seek, Son of Indis?" he asked again. His eyes were dark, burning and taunting. Almost against his will, Fingon followed his uncle's gaze to the centre of the stone.

He saw white cliffs, crashing waves, burning heat. He saw a male lion pouncing, towering in its masculinity, with eyes that seemed like his own. He saw two figures, limbs entwined in a passionate embrace, and knew with certainty that one was himself. He felt the intensity of their pleasure, and their heat…

"Stop that," Fingon said. He could see why his father didn't like him. "And stop calling me 'Son of Indis.'"

"I name you after your father," Feanor responded. "But as for the stone, it is your own desires that it reveals."

Fingon closed his eyes and willed his mind blank. When he opened them again the stone was flat and colourless.

"You have strength, though you are young," Feanor said, almost mocking, "and the stone is not your master. But will you not learn from it? For it has much to teach. I ask again, Fingon son of Fingolfin, what is it that you desire?"

The colors of the stone shifted then from white to green, not the green of the stone Fingon's father always wore, not quite, but the green of hills, of a landscape not of Valinor. The colors resolved into the picture of a vast expanse streaked with rivers, the dark and gold and red of trees, the white stone of tall mountains. Fingon saw great cities built, brick by brick, and beyond each city yet another dark wild to explore. In a high city there was a king, and a throne, and a crown. And whose face was that beneath the royal circlet? Was it his? Or his father's?

"What are you, Son of Indis?"

The picture dissolved into a single white-gold flame, burning, soothing, touching, seeing.

"Can I go now?" Fingon asked, jerking his eyes from the stone.

"You came willingly, and I do not hold you," Feanor answered. "Go, and think on what you have seen. Return when you will, for I have much to teach you."

When Fingon left Feanor's house he went instinctively to the rock by the lake where he liked to sit with Maedhros. It seemed like the safest place, and he wanted to avoid his father for the moment. Father on a throne, with a crown, ruling over lands vast beyond imagining…or was it me? Was it this that Fingolfin had been seeking, when he went alone to his brother? And what do I seek?

Fingon thought of his other teacher, Arosanwe of the Vanyar, who had been his mother's teacher before him. Arosanwe taught that all was based on love: the love of the All-Father, from which emanated the music and the Valar. The love of the Valar, each for the other and for the one, that lay at the root of creation. The love blessed on us by our creators, which leads us back to union with the primordial music. Love, said Arosanwe, is the only guide that we are given. "Love," he said, "and do as ye will." Was this like Feanor's teaching, to know one's desire? Are the longings of the heart also emissaries of the Valar, sent to teach their truths? Or are they from somewhere else, somewhere that Fingon could not even imagine?

And what is it that I desire?

It was in these thoughts, uncharacteristically quiet, that Maedhros found him. He shivered, unexpectedly, at the familiar touch of his friend's hand on his back.

"What did my father do to you?" Maedhros asked. His eyes narrowed, and he looked as angry as Fingon had ever seen him. He wondered what his face revealed to inspire such a response, and touched his cousin's hand in reassurance.

"When you look into the stone, Maedhros, what do you see?"

"He gave you the seeing stone?" Maedhros scowled. "How could he force you, underage…"

At that moment, Fingon felt far from underage. "I'm old enough to be your friend, aren't I? Tell me what you saw."

Maedhros let out a sigh and sat down next to his cousin. "I saw myself fighting."

Against your father? Fingon thought but did not say. "You mean, hitting someone? With your fists?"

"No, with a long metal stick, a sword…aren't you going to tell me what you saw?"

"Yes," …two bodies entwined … "Just not now."

They sat quietly, their feet dangling just above the shallow waves. Fingon picked up a flat stone and threw it with one long motion, watching as it skipped across the water. His cousin's mute presence made him feel stronger, and he began to relax muscles he had not known he had tensed. "What's a sword?" he asked after a time.

"It's something dark-Elves use in Middle-earth, when they have enemies to fight against. Like a knife, made of metal, but longer, and sharp on both sides. Here, let me show you." Maedhros took two stones and knocked them together to form an edge. Then he picked up a branch from the forest, and used the stone to scrape away its sides until it was sharp-edged and pointed.

"What do you do with it?"

Maedhros jumped to his feet, mock-sword in hand, and strode a short distance into the forest. Over the years he had become far more comfortable in his motions than he had been when he first came to Fingolfin's home, but here with a wooden sword in his hand he moved with a violent joy, as if with music in his limbs. He faced a tree as if it were an opponent, thrusting, turning, dancing around it. The light of Laurelin lit his copper hair, and his eyes were brighter than all the gemstones of Feanor. Fingon watched, amazed, his friend, always so quiet, now transformed. Or perhaps it is my eyes that have changed, and I only see what was always true.

"Would you make one for me?" he asked.

Maedhros bent to pick up another branch.

"No, a real one, from the forge. You've made one for yourself, haven't you?"

The sudden grace in Maedhros's limbs shifted back to his more usual hesitation. "Why?"

Because it means something to you. "So I can practice with you." So I can dance your dance with you, and be with you in what makes you alive.

Maedhros dropped the wooden sword and climbed back on the rock to sit next to his friend. "It doesn't make sense, I know. There isn't anyone to fight in Valinor, and the Valar take care of everything we need. But in Middle-earth our kinsmen the Sindar battle Orcs, and wolves, and other evil creatures. The Powers called us here and I do not want to go against their word, or against grandfather's wisdom. But this does seem to be what I am made for."

"Middle-earth," Fingon breathed. "That is what I saw. Middle-earth." Green endless hills and dark places. Rivers. Mountains. Space. Freedom. He imagined himself at his cousin's side in the wild lands across the sea, and smiled at the thought.

Maedhros looked up with a sudden curiosity and hope. "Then I will forge you a sword."

They remained by the lake for a long time that day. When Fingon finally did return home, after the light of Laurelin had faded into the silver light of Telperion, he was quiet, and avoided conversation with his family. His mind was on distant lands, and swords, and all that he had seen that day in the stone of Feanor.

Chapter End Notes

Arosanwe of the Vanyar is based on Augustine of Hippo. I think he would have liked it in Valinor. Fingon also quotes him in my fic Across the Ice. Fun fact: I have references to religious texts all over my fics but Fingon is the only character I've ever had quote St. Augustine. I'm sure there's a reason for that. None of this is to imply that he would have approved of anything Fingon does, either in this fic or in canon.

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A step backwards, half a step forwards. The metallic sound of steel on steel. Fingon was slowly learning Maedhros's sword-dance, taking on the ease of his motions with sword in hand. He knew in his mind that this dance was for killing, that somewhere far away these motions were taken in the face of darkness and not with a kind and loving friend. But here, among the trees by the coast in the peace of Valinor, the dance of blade with blade, spinning body and raised hand, seemed only for the delight in the movement. He saw the fierce joy in his cousin's eyes, and felt its echo in his own, and was content, and more than content.

When they tired from the dance, they lay silent on the grass in the shelter of a mallorn tree. At moments like this, withdrawing from the peculiar intimacy of combat, Fingon found that he could use the concentration of mind that Feanor had taught him to penetrate his cousin's spirit, only slightly, just as far as the outer mists. Even from that distance he could sense the sharp peaks, the pools of muted yearning, and yet, beneath these and surrounding them, a burning taste of nectar. He felt the happy response of his friend on the edges of his spirit as well, and was amazed, as always, at the gentleness of touch from such a blazing soul.

The light of the trees mingled, and the waves turned silver as Telperion waxed in strength. They had come to the forest, as always, far from Tirion, to practice the dance of the swords. Fingon had not told his family of this dance, not yet. It would raise too many questions about things he did not want to speak about, like Beleriand, and his occasional visits to Feanor. And what was the use of swords in Valinor, aside from the beauty of their dance? Surely he could keep this private, the secret joy of blades clashing.

"When do you have to be back?" Fingon asked after a time. He wished he could learn mind-speech; his voice sounded jarring to him always, after such fluent speaking of limbs and spirit.

"Not for a while. I left a half-forged pendant at the workshop, but Father said that he would take care of it. He is always encouraging when I come out here with you."

I wonder why, Fingon thought. He was still not sure how he felt about his friend's imposing father. He had been to see Feanor three more times in the years that had passed since that first visit. Feanor had shown him how to shape the visions in the stone to his will. They had seem more of Middle-earth, of endless shores and lands, and great kingdoms of wood, vale and forest. There were monsters to fight and terrible dragons and Fingon saw himself brave in battle, Maedhros alongside him. Sometimes he saw himself as a king.

This last time, however, the stone had shifted under Feanor's gaze and shown strange images of Fingon's father, plaiting flowers in Feanor's hair. They walked hand in hand past the shores of Eldamar, so close that no light shone between them.

"What have you done with my father?" Fingon had asked, amazed. He had always thought his father hostile to his brother, but now it seemed that what passed between them was more complex than he had imagined.

''He came to me willingly, as did you," Feanor had answered, his lips curling in an almost-smile, "and I gave him only what he desired."

And what is it that I seek, Fingon thought, remembering this exchange. The question still held him, but he was glad not to have to answer it, not yet.

"Do you ever think about not living with your father?" he asked Maedhros. His younger brother Maglor was already married, and the little twins Amrod and Amras where still living with their mother, who had, according to family rumor, left Feanor for good.

"No," Maedhros said after a pause. "Not often, not really. Or I do, but then I think, all I am is from him. But he can be harsh, sometimes, and hardly anyone can speak to him in a way that he will hear. Now that Mother is gone, it seems that no one can. Father tells me that when they were young, working for Grandfather Mahtan, she once made a ruby, perfect and delicate, with the shape of a flame at its heart. She brought it to Father, who worked with it to make the flame seem even more alive. Then she put it down on the table in front of him, took a hammer, and smashed it with one blow."

"Was he angry?"

"He says that is when he knew he was going to marry her."

Fingon laughed. So that is what it takes to open a flaming heart. "Did you ever try breaking anything?"

"I never made anything perfect enough to break. It doesn't matter," he added quickly, as Fingon began to reassure him, "I know I am without my father's talents, or even my mother's. That is why he gives me the seeing-stone, I think, so that I can imagine something else to do with my fire, something that isn't about the forge. My mother says that everyone has their own language, their own way of speaking, and if you can learn it you can speak right to the heart of who they are. She could learn anyone's, but I think I am only now, with the sword, beginning to learn my own."

I will never learn Feanor's language, Fingon thought, but I will learn yours, and speak it with you. His limbs remembered the beauty of the sword-dance and the song in his friend's motions.

When Fingon got home Turgon and Aredhel were waiting. "You're plotting something," Turgon said. "I want to know what it is."

Fingon didn't want his father to know but there was no particular reason not to tell his brother and sister. "Feanor knows about lands beyond the sea where the Dark-elves are fighting enemies without any help from the Valar. He's been showing them to me. If he goes there, with Maedhros, I will go too."

"Great," said Aredhel. "We're coming with you."

It wasn't difficult to think of Aredhel as a warrior. Most days she was out hunting with one of Maedhros's brothers and would return covered in blood. Turgon was different, he spent his time reading and making line-drawings of places he could builld. "Are you sure you want to fight?" Fingon asked.

"If they're under attack they'll need fortresses and walled cities," Turgon said. "They'll need that as much as weapons."

"Are you so unhappy here?" he asked. He had thought it was just him. Well, him and Maedhros.

"Not unhappy," Turgon said. "It just feels like there is more that I could be doing." And that also made sense. Turgon spent his days helping their father with administration. But what is the use of being an architect in a city in which every necessary building has already been built? An organizer in a place where every necessary system had been built before they were born? He could see how Turgon felt as stifled here as he did.

It made sense. They would go to Middle-earth, even if the Valar disagreed.

"Let's not tell Father yet," Fingon said. "I don't want him to know that I go to Feanor's house by myself and let him show me visions." Fingon thought about his father wearing a crown, and then about Feanor plaiting flowers into his father's hair. He was becoming less and less sure what his father would think, and more and more certain that what was going on between his father and Feanor was more complicated than it looked.

"Not yet," Turgon said. "Once we have a clearer plan."

And then Father will want to go with us, Fingon thought. It had to be. He had seen his father with him in these distant lands. But Fingolfin had never sought to be a warrior. Then he realized what he had seen, when he saw his father and Feanor together. It wasn't only hatred. There was something else. Something that almost, in a terrible way, looked something like love.

Father would go for love, he thought.

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The first time Fingolfin saw the Silmarils was when they were displayed in the Great Square in Tirion.

It had been many years since Fingolfin had begun his twice-yearly visits to Feanor, each a precious gift. They would walk together, holding hands, or sit close together on a cliff overlooking the waves, or in Feanor's workshop in the depths of his home. Sometimes Feanor would make sketches of him that he would never let him see. "I am looking for the light in your eyes," he would say, "so that I can find it in a jewel."

Feanor often led Fingolfin through the wonders he had created. One was like the dew on a new-budded Niphredil, fragile, and yet imperishable stone. Another, white in beauty like the snows of the peak of Taniquetil. On each of his visits Fingolfin saw these marvels, and new ones, and wondered at them. Now Feanor had crafted something beyond these, beyond the greatest wonders of the Noldor, or any of the peoples of the Elves.

They were like crystal of diamond and they shone with the light of the blended Trees together. Fingolfin stood in the square and watched them as the light of Telperion faded and the light of Laurenin grew, but always the light of the SIlmarils outshone them. And there was another light in them that was not of the Trees but of the stars, the stars that had shone upon then in Cuivienen where they were made before the Trees had even been formed.

All who dwelt in Aman came to behold the Silmarils and all wondered at them. Fingolfin sat and listened while people stopped to speak. "It is the light that the Valar made for us," said one, "made imperishable by Feanor." Their father had journeyed to this light, brought his people from east to west and across the sea. Now his eldest son had done something new with this light that had never been done before.

Others said something different. "This is a light that can do what the light of the Valar cannot. It can be brought to dark places, places where light is needed." In Middle-earth lived kin that Fingolfin had never met, who had not followed his father on the journey. There were so many dark places in the world.

"The light is greater than the light that Yavanna made," said another. "It takes the different forms of light and mingles them into one, inseperable." And truly it was. It was as if the first light which had been separated into lights of silver and gold in the Trees was merged again into one in the SIlmarils, back into the very light of creation.

Fingolfin saw something else: this light was his brother's soul. There was something in it that was like a feeling that he only had when they were together. I always knew you were beautiful, he thought.

On his next visit Feanor brought Fingolfin to see the Silmarils alone. Fingolfin followed his brother hand in hand down the shadowed staircase through the darkened workshop. He had not thought he was to be allowed to see them like this, in private, the way only Feanor's family could behold them. But now, touching his brother's hand, Fingolfin trembled to realize that he was being led to these very jewels.

They lay, unencumbered by any setting, on a table covered by a green cloth, so small, each scarcely larger than an Elven palm, yet so overwhelming in their presence that they seemed to fill the hall with their beauty alone. In the dark their light was different. In the light of the Trees they had received the light they absorbed and gave it back in hues more marvellous than before. Yet in the dark they shone of their own radiance like pure starlight, like a light that could conquer any dark.

Fingolfin stretched out his hand.

"Do not touch them," Feanor warned.

Why not? Fingolfin wondered, but did not ask, for he could not speak.

The Silmarils shone with a light of complete purity, as if hallowed and blessed by the Valar, and beyond. A light that could transform any darkness, it seemed, into a place of peace. Though all the crafts of Feanor were of surpassing loveliness, never had Fingolfin seen such beauty, or imagined that such could be. Surely this was the fire of which his father spoke, the very fire of the One. A fire that burned so bright, and so pure, could be none other.

"Are they not beautiful?" Feanor asked.

Fingolfin wheeled in shock. Feanor had never doubted the beauty of his crafts; why would he ask of this, his highest creation? And what was that in his brother's voice? Could it be weakness? Could it be need? In Feanor?

Had the Spirit of Fire forged a flame that could consume even himself?

"I think Mother would have liked them," Feanor continued.

Mother? Feanor surely could not mean Indis, the mother who had raised him, and he never spoke about his mother Miriel to Fingolfin. And what had she to do with these radiant gems? "But you never knew your mother."

The moment of seeming weakness was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. Feanor raised one eyebrow, and the corner of one mouth, and his eyes were as hard as the jewels he had shaped, and burned with the very fire. "No," he said. "I did not."

A moment passed, and another, between the twin fires of Feanor and the Silmarils. Then, a sudden motion and Feanor crossed the narrow distance between them, seized his brother's face, and pressed it to his own. A heartbeat. Claiming lips. An overwhelming fear, and beneath it a yearning that nearly made him gasp. Fingolfin wrenched his face aside, placed his hands on his brother's chest, and pushed him backwards with all his strength.

"Are you mad?" he shouted, trying without success to ignore the rising heat in his body. "What madness has taken you?" For it could be nothing but madness, no reason other than madness to kiss a brother with so much desire.

A breath taken by two chests as one. A gaze. An absence of forgiveness. Fingolfin touched the green stone at his chest for reassurance, as he had become accustomed over these years, but it was cold, as cold as the eyes that faced him.

"I think I should go," he said.

"Yes," Feanor answered. "You should go."

Feanor made no move to lead his brother to the entrance-hall as he always did to end their visits, so Fingolfin turned and groped his way through jewel-filled caverns, not looking right or left, not to marvel or to stone. Even the radiance of Laurelin as he emerged could not warm him and seemed dark after the light from which he had turned away.

Chapter End Notes

If you would like to see a happier ending to this chapter, see chapter 1 of 'A Burning Flame', the collection of happy ending AUs for this story.

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Fingolfin had never been in darkness. He was born in the Land of the Trees, with its constant immersion in light of gold and silver. Even the caverns of Feanor's home were always well lit with the fires of torches and gemstones. He knew that to find darkness in Valinor one needs to seek it, to look in caves and tunnels by the coast, and such had never been his desire. But when he left his brother and the light of the Silmarils even the light of the Trees into which he emerged seemed faded.

A moment passed, in which he thought to turn, to return to Feanor, perhaps to ask his forgiveness. But for what? For being born the second child, the son of a living mother? For having a flame that did not yet consume? He did not understand what Feanor sought of him, nor the strange need in his brother's eyes. It had a name that perhaps he had heard once, that lingered about the edges of his mind, but when Fingolfin reached for it, it was gone.

He walked to the cliffs, to the very cliff he had climbed with Feanor in his youth. The handholds were still in place, and he climbed down them one by one into the sand by the beach. The green of the sea reminded him of the stone around his neck, but when he looked down at it the colour had darkened, to a green that was closer to black. He bent down, took a handful of sand, and used it to scrape the memory of his brother's kiss from his lips until they bled.

What longing had seized Feanor as they stood before the Silmarils? What had he sought as he reached for his brother? Was there a power in the light of the stones to make one believe that there are no limits to what one can take?

This is a light that can do what the light of the Valar cannot. Fingolfin did not remember who said this, which voice from the crowd, but it felt terribly, dangerously true, for the Valar would not use their light to harm.

His face still burned where Feanor's hands had been. He felt damaged by that kiss, as if invaded by something more insidious than memory, something that went from his lips into his chest.

Why would Feanor seek to do him harm?

The question, once asked, brought its own answer. He had heard the rumors, of course. Small love has the proud son of Miriel ever had for the children of Indis. The rumors had impressed him little and had seemed as malicious tales spread by the ignorant. For who knew of Fingolfin's visits to his brother or the secret of the stone that he wore always? But there was something that frightened him now in Feanor, in that nameless look that Fingolfin could not recognize. Fingolfin faced the namelessness for a moment, then gave it a name, and called it madness. It was a kind of madness that he had not expected. Perhaps those who shared the rumors knew things that Fingolfin had not allowed himself to know.

He returned to his friends, who had told him of the rumors, and asked if there was anything more to tell. They told him of weapons called swords, secret large knives forged by Feanor, which could remove an Elven head with one blow. What need was there for devices like this in Valinor? What enemy did Feanor plan to fight? For what purpose were these weapons forged, if not to drive the sons of Indis out from Tirion? The weapons added strength to the rumors of Feanor's plots, rumors that before Fingolfin had not thought to believe. When Fingolfin inquired more of these weapons, what they look like and how they are used, he was told to ask his son.

Fingon denied nothing. "I have a sword and have been trained in its use," he said, "but I have done no evil with it, nor shall I."

"The mere possession of these weapons is an evil," Fingolfin shouted, pacing angrily, "and the greater evil is that you kept them secret from your house, when they are possessed by our rivals."

"If that is the name that you give to Maedhros and his family then it is well that you are unarmed," Fingon said.

Fingolfin had imagined, once, that he could take in Feanor's son and give to him what Feanor could not. Had he instead lost his own son to Feanor? "I ask again," he said, "will you give over the secret of the making of swords?"

"I have not the skill, Father." And if I had, Fingolfin could almost hear from his son's set lips, I would not share it with you.

"Then you will be confined to your rooms until it is discovered, in consideration of the treason you have shown your house and your family." There were no guards in Fingolfin's household, as none had ever been needed, but perhaps some would have to be appointed until these times of trouble were over, until the madness of Feanor could be brought under control, and until he had some understanding of what was happening in his own home.

"If you like, Father," Fingon said, sounding almost conciliatory after his earlier defiance, "I will show you the beauty of the sword dance."

"There is no beauty in weapons," Fingolfin said, and sent his son away.

His lips were still raw from scraping them with sand. Feanor, it was said, hated him in ways that Fingolfin had not allowed himself to see, so bewitched he had been by the scarce moments of his brother's attention. Feanor was forging weapons for no clear purpose. Feanor was going mad.

The need for action seemed more than clear. It was imperative that the members of his house arm themselves to prepare for attack, and only the Feanorians knew how to forge these armaments. Of all the Feanorians who knew this secret, there was one who might perhaps be induced to tell him. And if Feanor had used the affection that had developed between their sons for his own purposes, it seemed only right that Fingolfin should do the same. He sat down, put his face in his hands, and waited for the inevitable visit from Maedhros.

Chapter End Notes

For a short and G rated AU happy ending for this chapter see chapter 2 of A Burning Flame.

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The mingling of the two lights was the time of greatest brightness in Valinor, a time when light was gold and silver as one. For Maedhros it meant the end of the workday. A time of anticipation, and dread.

The moment the new light of Telperion touched the fading light of Laurelin, all hands fell as one. The seven sons of Feanor and their father with one motion brought their tools in their right arms to the floor, and stood, facing west. Then the joining of souls could begin.

It began with pleasure, as it always did. A soft, kind light, extending from Feanor through Maedhros, then to Maglor, then to the others, one by one. Although exhausted from the day's work at the forge, Maedhros felt his strength return, and grow. His brothers' minds joined with his, and he could feel them all. Curufin, clever and distracted, now bringing the sharpness of his mind into the circle. Celegorm, who had spend the day smashing at his stones as if he wished with all his will to be elsewhere, now relaxing into the union. Maglor as always came willingly, and the twins and young Caranthir followed. Each brought a touch of brightness with them, a unique presence that was theirs alone. But brightest of all was the fire of Feanor, a fire so bright nothing could contain it. It flowed through all at that moment, seeking and claiming, and merging the brothers into one.

In the pleasure there was also fear. There was a part of him that wanted to hold back, to keep some small place that was Maedhros and not Feanor. But Feanor's demand was too strong. The silence Maedhros wore about himself as armor during the day was of no use here. So it always was, now, when Feanor stretched forth his mind. It had not been thus when Nerdanel had labored with them at the forge. Then, she had waited, with Feanor, and the children would join with them or not, to whatever degree they would. Maedhros would go, then, to the edges of his parents' joined soul, feeling only the gentle warmth of their love. Now, there was no waiting, and no gentleness, only a swift darting from mind to mind, flame-like leaping. Maedhros could refuse nothing now. Only some few feelings he tried not to feel, some knowledge he tried not to know. Somewhere he could go, someone he could be with, some place that was not here, someone who would welcome him... He abandoned the thought quickly. That which was not held could not be taken. Or so he hoped. Then he let go of his hopes, and felt only fire.

It was at that moment that Feanor brought forth the Silmarils, when each son felt only Feanor in his mind. Maedhros could not see, for his eyes were not his own, but he looked, as they all did, through Feanor's eyes. What colors were those he saw? They had no name, nor should they. They felt to Maedhros like love, like desire, like...thoughts he could not think with his father in his mind. So he thought of his father instead. And how easy to do nothing else. There is no fire like the fire of Feanor.

There are other fires, the thought came unbidden into his mind. At the edges of his memory Maedhros could feel a white gentle flame that was altogether different, that came with a friend's swift elegant movements and strangely gentle touch. He gazed once again at the Silmarils and it was gone.

The sons gathered around their father, and with a single motion each placed their right hand on the jewels. The pleasure Maedhros has felt at the joining only intensified at this touch. With seven hands touching the three jewels they did not darken. Rather the light shone through the flesh, illuminating them, transforming them into hands of light. It burned, hot, a heat more intense than that of the forge, but there was no pain in it. Only need. This was not the first time the brothers had touched the Silmarils, although Feanor permitted it only rarely, but each time was more intense than the one before.

"Swear," Feanor said.

"I am a son of Feanor," Maedhros said, and in that moment it was all he was, nothing but a pure extension of his father's will.

"Oaths bind us together," Feanor said. "They make us strong."

And who could not rejoice to be bound to such fire? The SIlmarils shone beyond any beauty of this world. Who could not be glad to be bound to them?

"I swear," said Maedhros. Nothing existed but beauty and perfection and he was at its center. "I swear."

Feanor placed his own hands on top of those of his sons. What do you see? he asked.

The answer came from one mind in one voice. There is nothing like the fire of Feanor. It is you.

They remained for a moment, bathed in light, as if Music become flesh. Then Feanor turned, breaking the contact, taking the Silmarils away from his sons' hands. No one moved until the Silmarils were returned to their vault.

Maedhros stood for a while, unable to move or think. The burning was still in his eyes, his limbs, his soul. It hurt that it was gone, and it hurt that it had been. He knew, dimly, that he was expected somewhere, somewhere he often went after work, but could not remember it.

Finally Feanor came to him, and put his hand on his shoulder. "You should go," he said. "I think your friend is waiting for you."

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When Maedhros went to see Fingon as he usually did after work it was Fingolfin who met him at the door. He gestured for him to sit. Fingolfin began reasonably, sensibly. It had come to his attention that Feanor and his house had been forging swords. Now, were they in fear of some new enemy? If so, surely the house of Fingolfin need weapons to fight at their side. Or is it for some other reason?

Maedhros did not answer, wrapping himself in silence. It was true, since the forging of the SIlmarils his father had seemed more desperate, more afraid, holding on to him and his brothers like he needed them as his allies against a terrible enemy. And something else had happened recently, Maedhros had been close enough to his father's mind that he could see the difference. But something had changed in Fingolfin as well.

Feanor forged swords because he likes anything that gives him power. Maedhros himself forged swords in dreams of fighting a dark enemy in Middle-earth, away from his father, alongside his friend.

"Where is Fingon?" Maedhros asked. It was clear something was very wrong.

"He kept a secret about swords that the head of his house needed to know." Fingolfin said. "So he is confined to his rooms until I understand what is going on."

This was not how Fingolfin normally treated his children. What had he seen? What was he trying to do? "Is this what you think you need to do to me?" Maedhros said.

Fingolfin did not back down. "Your father has been allowed to grow in strength unopposed. Once, you ran to me from him. You wanted to be understood. I did not understand, and for that I am more sorry than I can say. Now I understand more, I think, I have seen your father in his…madness," Fingolfin hesitated over the word, "the way he must have been with you and your brothers. And I fear for my son."

And for yourself. Something in Fingolfin's eyes reminded Maedhros of how he felt after the joining. What had his father done to him? None of the brothers had ever tried to rebel against Feanor. Was it possible?

"I will never be as strong as your father," Fingolfin said, as if answering Maedhros's unspoken question. "But I may be strong enough to resist him. With your help. I can go to King Finwe. I can go to the Valar, and ask them to intervene to heal your father, if he is willing to be healed. But only if we have swords. If my house takes a stand against your father, we need to have some means by which to protect ourselves."

And you believe swords will suffice? "If not, what will you do?"

"We will leave," Fingolfin said flatly. "I, and my house, and anyone who will follow me. We will found a city elsewhere in Valinor, where Feanor will not be welcome."

So this was the threat. It hit Maedhros harder than he had expected. The thought of having Fingon taken from him into distant exile was unbearable to him. As unbearable as the thought of betraying his father. What was most terrible was that Maedhros could not deny that under the present circumstances it might be a good idea. Feanor's mind-hold over his sons had become more and more intense in recent years, since Nerdanel had left. The few times Fingon had gone to see Feanor had frightened Maedhros enough. What right had he to expose his friend to the madness that was the house of Feanor?

The emotions piled up one on another, confusing Maedhros into paralysis. His loyalty was to his house. But was this really a betrayal? Fingon already had a sword, and Feanor did not seem to mind. Perhaps on some level Feanor wanted to be opposed, to not be the only one with strength. Maedhros wished he could be stronger himself, but his father's fire was just too strong. It was not until Fingolfin's face softened that Maedhros realized that he had been crying.

"Let me speak to Fingon," Maedhros said, "and then I will decide."

Fingolfin hesitated, and then nodded, looking ashamed. He sent messengers, and in a moment Fingon was there. Fingon looked from the guilt and anger on his father's face to Maedhros's tears, and then exploded.

"How dare you, Father! Fight your own mad battles with your brother!"

Fingolfin tensed. "You dare rebuke me…"

All three were shocked to hear Maedhros laugh. "I never rebuked my father," he said, bemused. "I never thought I could."

Working in the house-forge there was a strange giddiness in Maedhros's motions. He worked without thinking, sounding almost young when he spoke to give instructions. And when Fingolfin finally held a sword in his hand he looked transformed. He lifted his sword experimentally over his head, and then with confidence, becoming taller in his stance.

It seemed right. It seemed right. But it felt wrong. The lightness faded from Maedhros's motions. Although this was nothing his father had forbidden, still Maedhros could not escape the certainty that what he was doing was something Feanor would not like. He willed himself to continue working, giving instructions to the smiths of Fingolfin's house in a toneless voice. All the while memories of the morning flooded his mind. Fire. Light and fire. Silmarils. Feanor. The hand that had touched the jewels hurt in memory. What if Feanor was angry at him? Could he stand it? Could he live? His hand at the forge began to imperceptibly shake. He gave certain instructions, forged the swords a certain way. There was a limit to what he could do.

Finally, it was done. Fingolfin took over, then, giving orders and directions to his house. Maedhros left the forge and wandered slowly off until Fingon found him. Fingon was clearly still angry, and grew angrier as he took in the fatigue in Maedhros's eyes and the tremble in his hand. With a visible effort, he put the anger aside for the moment.

"What do you think your father is going to do when you get home?" he asked.

"I don't know," Maedhros answered vacantly. "Do you think I should go home?"

"No," Fingon said. "I don't think you should go home. I think you should stay." Then he took Maedhros by the hand and led him upstairs to his darkened room, where he held him and touched his tears.

In the dark they embraced like children. They made their own darkness in the eternal light of the trees, closing all the shutters in Fingon's chambers, for Maedhros had had enough of brightness. When Maedhros trembled in fear or weakness Fingon stroked his hair, and pulled him closer against his chest. Maedhros needed the strength of his friend's arms. He had never in his life felt so weak, so empty. But even in this there was a place of strength. Only that morning he had thought that he could not live without Feanor. Now, there was a small part of himself that was his own. Smaller than he would like, but something.

There is a comfort in darkness that there is not in light. A quietness, and a peace. At least in darkness a light can be seen that a bright burning would dim. So was the soft white flame of friendship.

Maedhros had not embraced anyone, not even his littlest brothers, since Nerdanel had moved out for the last time. It was not something he would have thought to want, let alone to ask for. He could not open his mind, for fear of the stormy confusion inside. So he pulled closer into Fingon's embrace, and let that be his solace. Though the shaking did not completely stop, nor the ache in his heart to return to his father's union, he had bought with this ache the precious and fragile knowledge that he could turn against Feanor, even only a little, and still he could live.

In the morning he took breakfast with Fingolfin and his family. No one said anything as days passed and Maedhros still did not return home.

Feanor sent one message: Return my son.

Fingolfin's reply was as simple: Your madness endangers him.

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Anaire left the house as Telperion flowered that night, saying she did not wish to share her home with weapons. She said she would go to stay with her friend Earwen, for doubtless she and her husband had shown more sense.

Fingolfin let her go. Finarfin had already accepted the swords he had sent over, as Fingolfin had known he would, and had shared them with his wife's family. His younger brother had little initiative of his own but could be counted on at least to follow. When Anaire returned, she sat with her husband across the table covered with swords. She looked at them, as the hours passed, and did not speak. As the flowering of Laurelin neared she took a blade in her hands.

*

Fingon opened the shutters of his rooms in the light of Laurelin to see Feanor standing in the courtyard. Maglor was on his right, and Celegorm on his left, and all three were armed. They carried large swords, heavier even than his own, and they wore tall helmets with plumes of red. They stood silent, unmoving, but their very stance was both a challenge and a threat.

Before Fingon knew what he was doing, he was outside in the courtyard, facing them. Facing Feanor. Feanor's eyes burned into him, and did not allow him to turn aside. He felt the invading force of Feanor's mind probing into his, thick dark tendrils that would tolerate no blocking.

"I do not fear you," Fingon said.

I have not asked for your fear, the thought was placed in his mind.

"Then what do you want from me?"

Feanor raised a hand, clenched it, brought it down. At the edge of his vision Fingon could see a glance from Maglor that looked like sympathy. Then Feanor's mind-touch was all he felt, battering at the walls of his mind.

Where was his father? Where were Turgon and Aredhel? What had possessed him to come out to face Feanor alone?

You are braver than your father.

Fingon knew the voice was Feanor's, and saw the weakness of his own resistance. He dropped his mind-guard, and let his thoughts be filled with anger for the one who stood before him. You are no teacher, he made himself think. You hurt people. I will not learn from you.

Will you not? Thoughts came unbidden, one by one. It was like the seeing-stone, only more, for the images were not outside him but seemed to spring from the deepest places of his soul. He felt the sword-dance in his limbs, vanquishing dark creatures, and then saw the admiring eyes of those who would call him a hero. His brothers, his sister, and even his father were in danger, but he knew his valor kept them safe. Bards sang of his deeds, a joyous song of triumph.

And there was more, another prize for the hero. A gentle touch, pliant lips, a body as aroused as his own opening beneath his sharp thrusts. His breath came hard at the unfamiliar feelings

Unfamiliar. Therefore, not his own. "You tried this once on me already," he said. "You might as well stop. It worked better with the seeing-stone."

The last statement was a misstep, for it was clearly false. Fingon felt Feanor's laugh in his mind. You ask me to stop the desires of your soul?

"Just get out of my head."

You are braver than your father. Invitation as well as praise. Fingon felt nameless desires course over him, and named them false, and did not move.

As if invoked by Feanor's words, Fingolfin finally appeared. He strode confidently across the courtyard to stand in its centre, next to Fingon, facing Feanor. Behind him followed all the members of his house: Anaire, Turgon and Aredhel, each one bearing a newly forged sword. Each brought several guards with them. They formed a half-circle around the edge of the courtyard. Aredhel hesitated briefly, looking to her friend Celegorm, but when he did not acknowledge her she took her place in the line.

Alone between his two sons, surrounded on all sides, Feanor looked strangely frail. Fingolfin placed his right hand on Fingon's shoulder and smiled broadly.

So this was why Fingolfin had delayed so long. He had needed the time to organize his entrance. The time Fingon had bought him. He seemed to have served his purpose. Fingon bowed to his father, and ran back to his chambers.

Maedhros was still there, looking blankly out the window. "Why did you leave me alone out there?" Fingon snapped.

"What could I have done against my father?"

"What can any of us do against your father?" A hero needs help from no one, the thought came, in a voice like Feanor's. You are braver than your father. "But never mind that. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"Somewhere your father and my father aren't."

"And just where would that be?" Maedhros finally turned around, and the exhaustion was visible in his eyes. Fingon reached over to touch his friend's arm to steady him - and a shock of arousal shot through him, vivid as the lusts Feanor had planted in his mind. Or drawn out of it. He jerked his hand back and wiped it roughly against the cloth of his leggings.

"There is only one place where we can be free of our fathers," Maedhros continued, in real or feigned ignorance of what had just taken place. "Only Middle-earth. And we need my father's help to get there." Maedhros paused, as if trying to will himself courage. "And that means I need to go back to him."

"Do you want to?"

Maedhros looked out the window for the space of a long heartbeat, and then back again. "Yes. I shouldn't. But, I do."

What was this hold Feanor seemed to have over everyone? Maedhros, Maedhros's brothers, Grandfather Finwe, even Fingon's own father. Even, at times, Fingon himself. "Well, then, I suppose you will," Fingon said.

*

Feanor's hair was unbound, and his eyes were dark, dark like the star-lit skies in places beyond the light of the trees. The tension in his stance revealed each line of his muscled body. Fingolfin appraised his brother as they faced each other, taking in the tall red plume, the form-fitting leather armor, the sword that was a perfect match to his own. He placed his hand at his waist, where his sword-belt hung. How had he never noticed that when he stood at his full height he was the taller of the two?

"You have forged swords in secret," Fingolfin said, pointedly looking down. "You seek to drive me from Tirion. You will answer before the Valar, and Finwe our father."

Feanor looked side to side, at the weapons surrounding him, and then back to Fingolfin. "Give me back my son."

"Your madness endangers him." Fingolfin's gaze moved from his brother's eyes to his chest, his arms, and his hands. He knew they would be hot to the touch. I have been touched by fire. I am aflame. Fingolfin felt the fire, and knew it to be in himself. He took Feanor's hands and brought them to his chest, where the green stone lay, resting Feanor's fingers against the stone he had forged. "We are one, brother," Fingolfin said. "Let there be peace between us."

Feanor left his hands on the stone for a moment, and then lifted them slowly away. "I do not offer peace," he said, softly, "nor do you seek it. I fear neither the Valar nor our father. Only return Maedhros to me."

A breath. Eyes met, and held, neither taking nor giving.

"He comes, Father," Maglor said, the only words he had spoken.

Maedhros crossed the line of Fingolfin's house to step into the circle. Then he turned back to Fingon, who stood still at the doorway. "Bring me my sword, the one we forged yesterday," he called. Fingon nodded, and ran off.

"Do you return with me?" Feanor asked.

"In a moment," Maedhros said.

Feanor turned back to Fingolfin, his mouth twitching. "You have something else that is mine." He placed his hands again on the green stone that Fingolfin wore. It blazed at his touch. A swift tug, and it fell into his grasp. Then he reached back with both hands to clasp it firmly around his own neck. It burned brightly there, casting shadows of green light around the courtyard.

Fingolfin reached for it instinctively, and then returned his hand to his side. "We will meet in Finwe's court."

"We will."

By that time, Maedhros had his sword. He lifted it above his head, and all eyes turned to him. Then, he grabbed it by both ends, and bent it across his knee. Fingolfin watched in amazement. Everyone knew Maedhros was strong in body, the strongest of all his people, but to break forged steel? Maedhros continued, bending the sword until it was beyond use. Then he threw it on the floor. "Did you think I would bear this against my cousins?" The silence in the courtyard carried even Maedhros's soft voice.

"Not this sword," said Feanor, "Nor these cousins. Shall we go?"

Maedhros nodded, and took his place next to his father and brothers. "I will return," he said to Fingon.

"Of course you will," Fingon answered.

Fingolfin watched as they moved away. I have faced the fire, and it does not burn. He had lost the stone, but it had been an encumbrance, binding him to Feanor in a way that did not give strength. And Maedhros had shown that Fingolfin had a power of his own, subtler than his brother's perhaps, but potent nonetheless. If the hand that can bend a sword is strong, the voice that the wielder of that hand will hear is stronger still. Maedhros had forged swords at Fingolfin's demand, and denied his father his complete loyalty. If words were stronger than swords, Fingolfin knew that he could face Feanor before Finwe, and emerge victorious.

*

Aredhel clasped hands and cheered. Turgon smiled. Even Anaire looked relieved. And Fingolfin blazed, as if he had won a great triumph.

Well, Fingon reflected, if his father did not have the wit to understand everything that had just happened, he was certainly not going to explain it to him. As strong as Maedhros was, he could scarcely have bent Feanorian steel. By breaking a sword, Maedhros had shown not only his unwillingness to fight against the Fingolfinians, but the weakness of the weapons he had forged on their behalf. He had brought his safe return home with the revelation that his betrayal of his house was less complete than it had seemed.

We are pieces in a game, Maedhros and I, in a mad game of strategy played between our fathers. But if pieces on a board could think, could feel, then perhaps they could move in ways not intended by the players. Perhaps they would want not to be on different sides.

Fingon had his own sword, the white-blue blade Ringil. Maedhros had forged it for him in the forge-fire of the Feanorians and it could not be bent by any hand. One day, he would wield it against a real enemy, alongside his friend. In Middle-earth.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, of course, Ringil is canonically Fingolfin's sword. Yes, he will get it eventually. No he will not steal it, he's making bad choices but not that kind.

For a happier AU in which Feanor and Fingolfin do violent sex instead of violent threats and Maedhros and Fingon talk about their feelings, see chapter 3 of A Burning Flame.

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He did not wait until the appointed time, for that would have been foolish. In such a battle, against an enemy far stronger, one must use whatever weak weapons one may possess. So Fingolfin strapped his new-forged sword to his belt, covered it with a long cloak, and set out to arrive just before the meeting at the court of King Finwe.

On the stone arch above the gateway to the court were drawn the emblems of Finwe and his three sons. They were not new, but Fingolfin paused to look at them. Feanor had made his first, shortly after he had forged his Silmarils. His sign was a gleaming jewel of multicoloured fire, radiating light on all directions. Finwe had chosen his in response, for if any are to have signs so must the king. His sign was simple fire alone, pulsing out in a circle. It is the fire of the one he had said, but once he called Feanor by that name. Little Finarfin had chosen his next, light with no fire, silver as well as gold, as if to flaunt his Teleri wife. Fingolfin followed his father's lead, and took the flame. For Feanor is not the only fire.

"Father," Fingolfin whispered, trying to feel like a child approaching a parent, but all he could remember was Finwe's dark eyes, dark like Feanor. All the Noldor burn, but Feanor burns brightest of all, with the very fire of the one. Fingolfin gripped the hilt of his sword through his clothes, held it for a moment, then released it and strode into the hall.

Finwe smiled, as if at an overenthusiastic boy. "Wise-child," he said, "you are welcome. What..." Before he could continue, Fingolfin was at his side, kneeling.

"Father," he said, "I must speak with you before the council."

Finwe put his hand on Fingolfin's shoulder. His hand was long, with narrow fingers, just like Fingolfin's own. But larger. It must be larger. Fingolfin bent his head. In smallness there is also power.

"I must speak of your son Feanor," Fingolfin continued. "He has done an evil deed, forging weapons in secret."

"Ah, Wise-child," Finwe said. "You are so quick to see evil. But Feanor, Feanor is quick to take power, for the fire that burns in him is too strong to be contained." Fingolfin clenched his jaw as Finwe spoke, knowing what was coming. "It is the fire of the one."

Fingolfin forced himself to go on. He had not expected Finwe to listen to him, nor did it matter that he would not. He only needed to speak, and to continue speaking until the appointed time. "Feanor has corrupted my son, stealing his loyalty, so that he is now one with those who speak against the Valar."

"There is no corruption in Feanor," said Finwe calmly, explaining. "And Fingon is old enough to converse with his uncle. I would not see suspicion between my children."

There. Footsteps nearing the door. Fingolfin raised his voice, knowing that these were the words history would hear. "King and father," he exclaimed, "will you not restrain the pride of our brother, who is called the Spirit of Fire all too truly?" Finwe opened his mouth, but Fingolfin rose to his feet and continued as loudly as he could. "It was you who long ago spoke before the Quendi, bidding them accept the summons of the Valar to Aman. It was you that led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to the light of Eldamar. You sought the light of the Trees. If you do not now repent of it, at least you still have two sons who honor your words."

And then it was done. Feanor was in the room, his eyes darker than the angry red plume of his helmet. He looked from Fingolfin, to Finwe, and back. "So it is," he said. He moved towards Fingolfin then, slowly, until they were face to face. "My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters."

It was as if all the world was reduced to Feanor's breath, soft, hot, demanding. And his eyes, alight with anger, and with something far beyond it. Fingolfin wished suddenly that Finwe would speak, but he knew that he would not, that any escape from Feanor would need to come from his own soul.

And did he want escape? There was a weakness now in Feanor that he had not thought to see, and the fire was his own. "Brother," he almost spoke, almost loud enough to hear. Then his hand found again the sword-hilt at his waist. Deliberately, Fingolfin turned away from Feanor, and took one step closer to Finwe.

A clang of metal behind him, and Fingolfin smiled, for victory was near.

"Go and take your rightful place!" Feanor shouted.

This is my rightful place. Everything that you have, everything that you are belongs to me. Fingolfin bowed before Finwe, as low as he could, not looking behind him. Without a word he strode out to the gates, knowing that Feanor would follow. The house of Finwe was in the great square beneath the Mindon, and many were assembled there. At the gates Fingolfin waited, and then turned to face Feanor. It was a dance, almost a seduction, and it seemed as if he had known the steps all his life. The crowd was behind Fingolfin, so the assembled lords could see Feanor's face but not his own.

Feanor glanced from side to side, looking at the crowd, but returned always to Fingolfin, as Fingolfin had always returned. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

Following you. I will always follow you, brother. "Taking," he said. They were close again, closer than they had been before, whispering words from one mouth to another. Fingolfin had a sudden memory of the kiss before the Silmarils, the demanding touch of Feanor's lips that he had not been able to understand, and in that moment it made sense, although not in the way it seemed. There was a kind of intimacy in what they were about to do. He placed his right palm on Feanor's chest. The metal of Feanor's breastplate was not cold but soft and yielding, and it seemed to ripple around his outstretched fingers. "Taking," he said again. "Your inheritance. Your place." Your fire. "Your father." None burns brighter than the fire of Feanor. "Your son." Fingolfin drew his cloak back slightly to reveal the sword he wore, unmistakably of Maedhros's making. Then he returned his hand to its place on Feanor's chest. It rose and fell quickly beneath his hand. Fingolfin bent forward. His lips brushed the point of Feanor's ear. "Son of Miriel," he said.

Feanor suddenly, convulsively pushed him away. Fingolfin still had enough presence of mind to fall on his back, landing at Feanor's feet. He reached inside his cloak, as if to draw his sword. A flash, and Feanor's sword was at Fingolfin's neck. The next step in the dance.

Both were breathing hard. The thick point of Feanor's sword joined them, hand to neck. "See, half-brother," Feanor said finally, "this is sharper than thy tongue." The crowd drew closer. Fingolfin was tempted to run his hands up the sword, to show he did not fear it, but for the sake of the watching crowd he refrained. Instead, he did not relent his intent gaze from Feanor. The armor shifted, and he saw the green stone at Feanor's neck. Ah, brother, as you sought to bind you yourself are bound. Fingolfin mouthed a kiss.

"Try but once more to usurp my place," Feanor continued, weakly, lowering his sword, "and the love of my father, and maybe this sword will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."

It was a vain threat, of course. Fingolfin knew that if Feanor had been truly able to kill him he would have fallen to his death from the cliff many years ago.

The crowd meanwhile began to whisper: swords...madness...danger...swords. Feanor did not move as Fingolfin rose to his feet. Madness. He is mad. He is mad.

It was some time before Fingolfin noticed that his father had emerged, and was standing silent, as if far away. Was this the one who has led the Noldor so bravely, now so without power in the face of his children? Fingolfin went to stand next to him. "Father," he said, "one loyal son remains to you." Finwe did not answer, and his eyes were still on Feanor, and on the crowd that whispered his name.

The trial after that was inevitable. Feanor stood in the Ring of Doom and told a fantastic story about a demon voice, strange whispers, treasonous rumors, a force that craved his Silmarils. Tulkas set forth and sought such a spirit, but could not find it. He brought back an even stranger story, that this spirit had become a cloud. And it seemed to be so, for the light of the Trees had dimmed. But as Fingolfin watched Feanor in the circle, answering calmly, submitting himself to the Valar, the Trees were not all that had lost their light. When the Valar proclaimed exile on Feanor, he accepted it without comment or argument. Then Finwe stepped into the circle, head bowed. "I accept exile along with my firstborn," he said. He took off his crown and placed it on the floor, as if it were nothing to him. Feanor still did not speak.

Am I the dark cloud that has dimmed the light of the fire? But what else had been his intent? "I will release my brother," Fingolfin called out, regretting everything, hoping it would make a difference, knowing it would not. Feanor did not even look at him as he set off to begin his journey northward, and Finwe spared only one glance at his second son.

When they were out of sight, Mandos lifted the thin circlet of gold that had been Finwe's crown and handed it to Fingolfin. "This is your judgement," he said.

"Judgement?" Fingolfin asked. The metal was cold in his hands.

"Did you believe you would not be judged?" Mandos said. Then he too was gone, leaving Fingolfin alone.

Fingolfin held the crown for a long time before placing it on his head. But it did not warm, and the gold was dull without fire.

Chapter End Notes

This is where the fic was left as a WIP for 24 years. Over the years I sometimes heard people say it looked like a completed story, and I can sort of see it, but it wasn't the story I had intended to tell. I never intended to leave Fingolfin here, his character arc takes a dramatic turn in the very next chapter. Also, both the stone and the sword are still with the wrong people.

When I left the story the outline was written and I had pieces of drafts of the rest of the chapters. Unfortunately the drafts were terrible. I tried so hard to fix them, but when I look at them now I can see it wasn't a technical problem that could have been solved by more revision. It was that there were scenes I wasn't emotionally prepared to write so I wrote all kinds of garbage instead. Once I wrote those two scenes (one in chapter 13 and one in chapter 15) the rest of the fic came very easily.

Even though the rest of the chapters are new and the writing style may be a little different I am still trying to tell the story little Deborah wanted to tell all those years ago, not the story I would tell now. The plot outline is what I wrote in 2002 and there are some pieces of old drafts that I was able to repurpose.

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In the months after Maedhros went into exile Fingon trained his brother and his sister in the use of their new weapons. They each took to it passably enough, although each was difficult in their own way. Turgon, when he could be dragged from his books, fought conservatively, solemnly, keeping his sword close in and his opponent far away. Aredhel fought wildly, hacking at things with no technique at all. Teaching them was annoying work, but it enabled him to somewhat evade the even more burdensome administrative responsibilities that the exile of Finwe had dropped on his family.

The most that Fingon could say for his younger siblings is that at least they had remained for the lessons. His mother had not. She had left the sword on the table and crossed her arms. "I will not do this," she said.

Fingon had raged, begged, pleaded. "Don't you remember the sword at Father's neck?"

"I remember," she said. "But I do not recall that it was an enemy who placed it there." Soon after she left to stay with her parents, for what she still said was a short visit.

Anaire remembered, or said she had, but the difference was that she had not seen it with her own eyes. Fingon had. Fingolfin had told him not to go, but of course he went anyway, placing himself in the back of the crowd where he would not be seen. When Feanor lifted his sword Fingon had run forward, but the matter was resolved before he reached them, and Fingolfin did not notice. But the image remained indelible in his mind and heart: the sword in Feanor's hand, his father on the ground beneath it, holding the entirely inadequate sword that Maedhros had made.

And Maedhros had followed Feanor into exile.

Sometimes Fingon went to the lake, to the trees by the shore that they used to climb, and sparred with their branches. While the wind blew and the leaves surrounded him he moved alone in the sword-dance and felt almost alive. He especially liked to dance in the maple tree, where the light of Laurelin shone fire-red through the leaves and he could imagine Maedhros dancing around him, as it was, as it should be.

His father was trying to be kind. Fingolfin often sat with Fingon by the hearth-fire late into the night when neither could sleep and reassured him, over and over, that one day the exile would be finished, and Maedhros at least would return. If not Feanor, at least Maedhros. If not Feanor.

But then at the dawn, as the light of Laurelin mingled with the fading light of Telperion, they rose from too little sleep and went to the armory to spar. Fingolfin was nothing like his younger children. The dance was in his body, his blood, as if the presence of a sword were enough to transform him. Very quickly they were evenly matched, at least when using the wooden practice swords.

It felt, sometimes, like sparring with another version of himself. Now that Fingon was full grown he and his father were the same in height and reach. Fingon was slightly quicker on the attack but Fingolfin was far quicker to evade and despite being his father never hesitated to jump through or around any of Fingon's defences. Though Fingolfin was as graceful as Fingon himself it was clear that he was learning to fight with intention to win.

After some months Fingolfin insisted on using the real swords. He promised he would be careful. Fingon did not want to do this but he could not think of a way to evade. The sword Maedhros had made for his father was not good and there was no other sword that Fingon could give him. When they sparred together his father's sword was easy to smash aside. Fingon tried to pull his strokes but he had no practic at doing that and certainly did not know how to fight that way with his father. In a moment Fingolfin was on the ground.

Fingolfin touched the sword that lay at his neck and Fingon recognized how he was standing. It was the indelible image in his mind from the steps of Finwe's court, two brothers and a sword, and Fingon knew in whose place he stood. Fingolfin touched Ringil like there was a question he could not bear to ask.

Fingon returned the next day to continue practice, since he knew that he should. He sparred with his father as well as he could, giving him all the training Maedhros had given him long ago. Then he went to the lake, and sat under the maple tree, and tried not to return to the hearth-fire until long after Fingolfin had gone to sleep.

The light of the Trees was dimming and was less than it had been.

*

There had only been a few moments when Fingolfin had thought that he was bright enough to be loved by his father. Now Finwe was gone. His father and his brother were gone. That meant the High Kingship was his, for all the good that it did him.

Although Fingolfin had never sought to be king he found that he was not unsuited to the role of governance. It was plotting, careful work, involving many charts and diagrams, to make sure water flowed through the pipes, produce was brought to markets, streets were clean and buildings were maintained, trees to be planted wherever appropriate and grasses and flowers grown all through Tirion. His son Turgon was with him nearly every day, eager to learn. Turgon's older brother Fingon was nowhere to be seen during the workday, appearing only to teach sword skills to his family. One night Fingolfin sat down with Fingon and explained to him that if he was to be king, strange as that was, then Fingon was crown prince, and with that role comes responsibilities. The next day again Fingon was not with him at work, nor the next.

It was many days later, sitting my the fire, when Fingon at last told him what the swords were for. He spoke of great lands far away, a place where the Dark-elves fought Orcs without allies. He wanted to go there and fight by their side, in this place of no Trees.

This was the place, Fingolfin knew, where his father was born. His father had journeyed from there over the sea, seeking the light. Would his son go back to the darkness? Father, will I be as brave as you? Could he finally be worthy of his father?

In Valinor, High King Finwe was the first of their line. Even the names of his parents were forgotten. Who had they been? What were their dreams, if not of light? It was not wrong for their descendants to seek after those dreams instead of the ones his grandfather chose.

"I am sorry that I suspected you," Fingolfin said. He felt the judgement of Mandos on him in this long sepearation from Feanor and in what he had inflicted on his son. "But why did you not tell me earlier, so that I would know that your swords were not for any evil purpose?"

Fingon said nothing. A long moment passed.

"Where did you learn about this land?" Fingolfin asked. "Was it from Maedhros?"

"It was from Maedhros," Fingon said. "But not only."

And there it was. They had both been caught up in the fire from which Fingolfin had hoped his son would be spared.

"When I spent time with Feanor I learned very quickly why you didn't want it," Fingon said, "but he didn't hurt me. I can't stop hoping they'll return."

It was getting darker. No one spoke of the dimming light. Perhaps, Fingolfin thought, he had misremembered the brightness of the Trees. Or his brother's absence made everything seem darker than it was.

*

The court of High King Finwe at Formenos was, like his court in Tirion, surrounded completely by windows. The High King had led the Noldor to the light of the Trees through danger and darkness, he wanted that light around him always. That light, he told Maedhros, was the same as the light in his eldest son. It was the reason he was willing to go with Feanor into exile. "We are here for light," he said. "That is what we follow." Every day Maedhros would watch his father bring the Silmarils out into the court so that his grandfather could stand in the triple light of the Trees, his father and the lights his father made. This is what they were here for, he understood. This light made his family what it was. It was their purpose, their way of being in the fire of the One. And if the light of the trees was less than it had been, at least Finwe and his household had Feanor and the Silmarils.

When the Silmarils were returned to his place Feanor walked with his son by the large expanse of gemstones sparkling in the light of Trees. "He came to me again." Feanor said.

"The one who wants to teach you?" Maedhros knew of this secret visitor, the one who claimed unknown wisdom. He had never met him, but hoped that one day his father would trust him again enough to allow it.

"I don't know what he can teach me," Feanor said. "Perhaps nothing. He claims to be a Vala, but I have not known them to be wise. At least he could tell me about the Silmarils."

"The Silmarils?" Although he saw them every day it was hard to disguise how much he longed to see them again.

"They take the light, and put it in a place, where it burns. What if it were joined with the darkness, forging two into one, two that should never have been separate?"

Since the stranger's visits Feanor had become like this, speaking in images that Maedhros could not understand. He had heard strange rumors of battle among the Valar. Could this being have brought news of these battles to Feanor?

"Two into one." Maedhros said. "Manwe and Malkor?"

Feanor looked at him coldly. "Is that the only example you can imagine?"

Maedhros flushed. He remembered Fingon in Fingolfin's courtyard, shouting for Feanor to get out of his mind. "I still want to go to Middle-earth, Father."

"I know." Feanor stopped, and fingered a jewel. "Fingolfin was a fool. He has the kingship, for the moment. I have Father, and you, and will have his son. It is a worthy trade."

"And you will help me leave. With Fingon."

"Maedhros," Feanor said. "This you must understand, as my son." He brought Maedhros's hand to the stone at his chest. "This stone was formed to make into one what should never have been two. I would give it to you but I cannot yet bear to part with it." The green stone was warm under Maedhros's touch. "You will in time do what I cannot. I will need you to act for me on that day."

"Did you learn this from your teacher?" Maedhros asked.

"That there are things I cannot do?" Feanor said. "It is the only wisdom he has given me. But I have little interest in wisdom."

Feanor took Maedhros down to where the Silmarills were kept. When the vault was opened and they were uncovered their brightness still burned as deep as ever, even though the light of the Trees was becoming slowly ever more dim. Feanor placed one in Maedhros's right hand. The light was alive, and flowed through his body. It was as if light flowed along his skin and through it, touching every nerve with the most intense pleasure. His body felt transparent, as if the light were more real than flesh, as if he were a being of pure brightness. He touched the ridges on the jewel, the facets, and each touch was another sensation.

Only a light this bright could turn an Elf into living flame, transform him into a being beyond sentient recognition. Maedhros knew that this very fire could break him, could shatter him, but at the moment of filling he would not mind being broken.

"Swear," Feanor said. "Oaths will make us strong. If we have sworn to each other even the Valar cannot overcome us." It was the words of his youth in the smithy and he felt them around him.

"I swear," Maedhros said, "I am a son of Feanor."

"Are you a vessel for this light?" Feanor's voice was dim, in the background, but the fire was in it, and it slid into Maedhros's body as if it belonged there.

"Father," Maedhros thought, and could not know if he spoke the words aloud. "I am as large a vessel as you need."

*

When he could put aside how much he missed his friend, Fingon could notice that there were some advantages to Feanor's exile. One was that he was spending much more time with his father, who seemed much less distracted. It made it easier to talk to him, to tell him a little more about the visions Feanor had shared with him.

A little. Not everything. Not Father's face beneath a crown. Not the strange longings Feanor had placed into his mind. Not the truth about the swords Maedhros had forged for him.

Fingon had sent his father to confront Feanor with a worthless sword, because he was angry with him. Fingon has seen the sword at his father's neck and knew he sent his father to face it defenseless.

The next time they sparred Fingon let his father use Ringil and was defeated so quickly it was embarrassing. Fingolfin said nothing and handed him back the sword.

*

As the years of Feanor's exile passed Fingolfin saw changes in his family. Six years into it he celebrated Turgon's wedding. It was clear that Turgon was smitten with his new wife and they were both very happy to be married. Finarfin and all his children were at the wedding. Feanor and his sons were not. Even if they could have returned from exile, Turgon had no interest in inviting them. "I saw what he did to you," Turgon said. "I saw the blood at your neck."

"I was not innocent," Fingolfin said. "I provoked him."

"He decided to draw his sword," Turgon said. "He alone is responsible."

When he could, Fingolfin went out to the lake alone. His wife was gone. He had deceived his children. His eldest son had deceived him in return.

Brother, Fingolfin called across the lake. This was never what I wanted.

But what had he wanted? What had he ever wanted? Only his brother's fire.

He burns with the fire of the One, their father had said. If it is from the One, what could it be but love, the love with which the All-father made the world?

The little Fingon had told him about the lands to the east began to take a new shape. A place without light, with few great cities. A place where the Valar never came. Who would go into this place of darkness except for love?

*

Fingolfin knew the road to the Halls of Mandos. Everyone did, although few traveled it. The road was dirt, and unworn. Fingolfin walked along it alone and resolutely.

It took days to walk but that did not matter. Turgon could take care of the kingdom if necessary. And it would not be for much longer.

For who would walk this path? Only one who believed that justice had not been done, or who wanted to appeal to the Judge for mercy. Fingolfin could imagine young Feanor here, walking alone, to beg for his mother to return.

And she did not, and Feanor grew to be what he was. Fingolfin stopped, and imagined he could see the ancient footprints on this path from Feanor's youthful feet. Better to think about that while he was walking and not about what he was here to do.

When Fingolfin reached the Halls, he found that they had no door. It made sense. Why would houseless Fea and disembodied Valar require an entrance? So he stood outside, at a distance. "I am willing to renounce my kingship to have my brother back," he said.

There was no response. Fingolfin had not dared to prepare these words, for fear that if he thought them he might not be able to say them. So he began again. "I want my brother to return," he said. "I do not know what to do without him. I do not know what I am. I thought I could be like him. I thought if I were king I could have what he has. But..."

Fingolfin stopped, and then realized what he had come here to say. "I miss him. I love him."

A dark figure stood in the distance. Fingolfin could hear a voice in his mind. Know that this love will destroy you.

Fingolfin thought of the emptiness of kingship and his son's hand on a sword at his neck. What was this exile if not a slow destruction? Then I am destroyed.

The dark figure turned, and passed from Fingolfin's sight. It took a moment for Fingolfin to reflect on how strange it was that from a distance Mandos and Feanor looked so alike.

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Irnina for betareading all the new chapters. 

There's a minor canon divergence in this fic in that the darkening of Valinor happens slowly over many years rather than all at once.

This is the last we will see of Anaire in this fic. If you want to know what happens to her and to Nerdanel read my story The House of Feanor.

I also don't really give Aredhel a character arc in this story, if you want to read my take on her (and Aredhel/Celegorm) see my story The Guardian of the Walls.

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Every exile must come to an end. Fingolfin's father had told him this once, speaking of the long journey to the blessed realm through withered lands. This time of Feanor's judgement had felt like exile, not only for Feanor and Finwe but for Fingolfin himself. When he heard that Feanor would join the great feast on Mount Taniquetil, Fingolfin had allowed himself to believe that the exile would soon be over.

At last they were together at the feast of Manwe. Feanor stood alone his neck was bare of any jewel. His eyes flicked over the crowd and remained on Fingolfin, seeking, daring, taunting. Will you still follow me, Son of Indis?

This was more dangerous than the cliffs of their childhood. These steps of their dance would need to be taken before all those assembled here, and he could not ask Feanor not to let him fall. But by now Fingolfin had learned not to be afraid. He stepped into the circle and took the place opposite his brother, the place appointed to him, the place for which he was made.

In the eyes of the crowd Fingolfin knew that he was the one who had been wronged. "I will do as I promised," Fingolfin said so that all might hear. "I release thee, and remember no grievance." He had the power to do this. He had the power to forgive Feanor.

Feanor took his hands with warm fingers, but his eyes were cold. What darkness in Formenos had shaped this brittle gaze? Fingolfin felt a sudden urge to embrace his brother, to clasp him to his chest here before everyone, to press against this exiled being and squeeze the coldness from his eyes.

"Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be." Fingolfin realized that he was begging. All who watched would think him generous and Feanor cruel. He felt cruel himself. He had come to Taniquetil to find his brother again. At last it came to him, with an ancient memory, and he knew what Feanor was waiting for him to say. "Thou shalt lead and I will follow," he said, willing him to understand. I am not here to defeat you.

Feanor smiled at last and in that moment it seemed to Fingolfin that he had very much misunderstood. But then Feanor moved towards him and his shirt fell open to reveal the green stone shining beneath it. "So be it," Feanor said. Their joined hands came to rest on Feanor's chest, and the light of the stone pulsed through their fingers. To Fingolfin it seemed far brighter than he remembered, the silver-green brightness outshining even the mingling light of Laurelin and Telperion. When Fingolfin at last looked aside, it seemed only natural that the light of the Trees had begun to seem dimmer than it was.

*

"Tell me about light," Maedhros asked his grandfather. The reasons that people had given for the dimming of the light were difficult to understand, something about a giant monster and a war between the Valar. Finwe insisted that the reason was entirely simple: the exile of his oldest son.

Maedhros expected that High King Finwe of all people would know, since he knew more about light than any of the Noldor. "Why is the light of the Trees so important?" Maedhros asked. "Why was it worth the journey?"

"Did you not see it in the Silmarils?" Finwe answered.

The Silmarils were beautiful, they were compelling. They were not something Maedhros could explain. "I can see it," he said. "It is beyond my understanding."

"Do you ever feel that you are stronger when you see it?" Finwe asked. "That you are more than yourself? That is what I felt when I first saw the light of the Trees. Our first doom was to fade. The light of Valinor gave us life, until the world's end. That is why when the Valar called us to come to live in the light we listened, and we listened even though Mandos the Judge named it as a doom."

"You endured a doom to come here?" Maedhros asked.

"I would do so again. I would face any doom to follow the light. That is why I came here with your father." Maedhros could see the parallel. Grandfather was not turned aside in his journey to the light of the Trees by a doom of Mandos, as he was not when he gave up his kingship to follow his son to Formenos. "There are things in this world for which it is worth bearing a doom. My brother Ingwe Lord of the Vanyar was the first to understand this. I am glad that I also understood it in time."

*

"If you would follow then come," Feanor said. Their ritual was done, they could escape their roles for a time. Feanor reached out his hand and Fingolfin took it, then stared at where their hands were joined. The touch was like soft flame licking at his fingers. "You swore," Feanor said. His eyes were bright. They walked hand in hand through the streets of Tirion until they reached the home in which they had been raised, the old palace now many years empty. Feanor led him up a long staircase to a high room, perhaps an old ballroom, empty and with great windows. The light, which had been dimming now for many years, was fading slowly.

"You have defeated me," Feanor said. "What is your prize?"

Fingolfin had promised to follow. He had gone to Mandos to ask for his brother. He did not feel like he had won anything until this moment when he was with Feanor again. "Only to be with you," he said.

When Feanor pulled him down to sit with him in the middle of the floor he did not object. Feanor placed his head on his chest, as if expecting to be held. Fingolfin wrapped an arm about him, helpless to not comply.

He had tried fighting his brother, tried forging swords to oppose him. Years of loneliness and longing had been his judgement. He would fight no longer. Every inch of his body felt a desire to be close to Feanor and to press him to himself as well as he could.

"I know about the plan," Fingolfin whispered. "My son told me. Take me with you."

"Beloved," Feanor said. "I have seen you there. You will be king."

*

"Then what is the doom that we face now?" Maedhros asked.

"Maedhros," Finwe said. "Surely you know. What happens when we die?"

"We go to Mandos," Maedhros said.

"That is not death," Finwe said, "not completely. Our spirits endure and we can return to our bodies, if we so desire. So when do we truly die?"

"Never," he said. And then he realized what his grandfather was asking. "When the world ends."

"And then what?" Finwe asked.

What happens after the end of the world? "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Finwe said. "There is nothing we can build that will live after us. Nothing that will endure past the end of our lives. That is the doom that has fallen upon us with eternal life."

It was something so obvious, all the Firstborn knew it. They were immortal within the bounds of the world. When the world will end so will their lives. They will die at the same moment as everything that exists. It was obvious, and no one ever wanted to speak it.

"What is there when everything is gone?" Finwe said. "Only darkness everlasting."

*

"Your son has gone to my son," Feanor said. "So much he has longed for him." Feanor spoke his words into Fingolfin's chest, a kind of longing in his own voice.

That much Fingolfin understood. It had become clear to him that whatever Fingon felt for Maedhros had gone far beyond friendship. If they wished to wed he would not object, not that it would make the slightest difference to Fingon if he did.

"What is your son doing to my son?" Feanor said. "Has he touched his lips? Will he lie down with him? Has he claimed him? Has he enjoyed him?" Feanor was breathless as he spoke.

"Is that what you wish we were doing?" Fingolfin asked. Something felt inevitable and he did not want to name it any more than his brother did. They were touching from cheek to hip and Fingolfin had to prevent himself from pressing his lips to his brother's hair. "Is that what you want?"

"I wish you were destroyed inside me," Feanor said. "I wish we were never made." His breath was on Fingolfin's face.

"Do not regret your making," Fingolfin said. "I do not."

"My son is well-formed," Feanor said, his hand on Fingolfin's lips. "He will be a feast to your son, a delight. Has your son stripped mine down to his nakedness? Has he kissed his naked body? Will he take him into his mouth? Will he move inside him?"

Fingolfin gripped a fistful of Feanor's hair and pulled his head sharply back. He had sworn to follow, he was following, he could not say this was too much but he needed his son left out of it. Feanor's eyes were lamps in the dimming light. "Stop," he said. The thought of Feanor directing his fantasies towards his son made him ill, but he also could not pull away from him. Which left only one option, which was to stop thinking and let Feanor reach up and take his mouth.

It took an act of will not to pull away. He let Feanor's lips remain on his, then let Feanor pry open his mouth to take what he needed. A breath, then he gave back, letting himself taste. He felt their shared breath move through them, in one mouth and out the other, one breath for one soul that should never have been two...

The desire was so sharp it felt like pain. I want this, he thought, and the thought surprised him. I want. I want. He pushed down on Feanor, pressing him down until he lay beneath him. Feanor's hands were claws on his back, and then fists.

Surely this was not the worst thing they had both done.

"I will do this gladly," Fingolfin said, whispering into Feanor's mouth, grasping for reasons and sense. "Gladly, if it will bring peace between us. If it will end the madness."

"The madness will not end," Feanor said. "There will never be peace." His kisses were hungry and full of need and would accept no hesitation.

Around them the light dimmed and Valinor slowly became dark.

*

"The One who has formed light has also made darkness, the One who has made both peace and war," Finwe said. "Light must shine in the darkness and the darkness will not consume it. Your father was born with the fire of the One. He placed in jewels that will hold the light past the end of the world, into the time when darkness falls."

Around him the light darkened and dimmed. Maedhros felt like a fool but he had to say the obvious. "Grandfather," he said. "It is becoming dark now."

"It will never become dark while my son lives," Finwe said. "Nor while the work of his hands endures."

*

"Is it this?" Fingolfin asked. He needed to know. "Is this what you wanted? Is this what I wanted?" Just this touch, these kisses, this overwhelming sudden joy. He touched the green stone at Feanor's chest. Feanor evaded the tender touch to bite Fingolfin on the cheek, which made Fingolfin laugh.

Were they lovers now? Was that what was going to happen? He had not heard that this was a thing that was allowed between brothers, but he had also never heard of Valinor being dark. Would they be married, like he had been with Anaire?

Why was it becoming dark?

"Now you be quiet," Feanor said, then grabbed his mouth so there was no more to say.

Through the windows they could see Tirion lit with torches as darkness fell.

"Look at my people," Feanor said, after a time. "How they find their own light. Who could not be proud to rule such as they?"

*

"Everything I am is from the light," the High King said. "I was born in starlight and came here to raise children who would be made wise by the light of Trees. All my children and grandchildren have grown in this light. I will fight for this light to the end of my strength."

*

"Would you swear?" Feanor said. "There is something I have crafted, an Oath strong enough to withstand any Vala. I would share this with you."

Feanor's hand was under Fingolfin's thigh. He could see very little. "I will fight any Vala," Fingolfin said. "Any that is your enemy."

"Then swear," he said. "You have already sworn. Swear again. Swear with me." Then he kissed him and pushed any thoughts away.

*

It was as if there was something living in the darkness. Maedhros felt his grandfather's strength fading. He grabbed his sword but he could not fight it, there was nothing to fight. Darkness was all around him and High King Finwe stood alone against it.

In the dark Maedhros heard his grandfather's last words:

"You have come for the lights of my son's forging," he said. "You will not have them while I live."

*

"What happens now?" said Fingolfin. They were still on the floor, still holding each other. All was completely dark.

"Now," Feanor said, "the Valar will destroy me."

*

The maple and mallorn trees touched and intertwined, merged and separated, like Fingon's memories of the sword-dance. Darkness had fallen, but what of that? His sword Ringil shone blue-silver in the starlight with the light that Maedhros had made in its forging. Here on the outskirts of Formenos Fingon held his sword aloft and called out to Maedhros in his mind.

It was still too far. Maedhros was still too distant, as he had been since his father's exile to Formenos too long ago. But now Fingolfin was off reconciling with his vision-mad brother, so the long exile must be coming to an end. At least that was what Fingon had concluded, and therefore there could be nothing wrong with him riding madly in the direction of Formenos within three heartbeats of his father's departure for Mount Taniquetil. If he was wrong, he supposed he would sort it out with his father when he got back. At this point, it was hard to care. Soon, he would feel Maedhros's mind-presence, and see him, and touch him, and...

And then what? Fingon remembered the rush of strange feelings the last time they had been together, the deep shock of longing at Maedhros's touch. He had thought that they would pass, without Feanor there to send them. Sometimes they had, even for months at a time, until he woke from a dream shaking. Or he would be beneath a red-leafed tree, imagining the sword dance, and in his mind it was only a small gesture to cast the sword to the ground and take Maedhros by the waist.

Feanor had not sent this, not from such distance.

And what is it that I desire? He let himself think it with full intention. He imagined Maedhros in his arms, bodies pressed close together. What would it feel like to kiss him? To lie down beside him? He let the image sit in his mind. He felt no shame at it and no fear.

Maybe it doesn't matter where it came from. Anything that was in his body was his now. The thought felt true, with a kind of overwhelming certainty. He remembered the leaf from the top of the mallorn tree, the first present one of them had ever given the other. He felt the light through the leaves of the trees around him.

Then the light started to dim. It felt to him in that moment like a gentle caressing darkness like that he had shared with Maedhros on their last night together. Formenos was closer now. Fingon called out again in his mind, letting the certainty he felt shape his mind-touch into the purest, clearest shout. Nearing Formenos, he felt Maedhros at last.

Maedhros's spirit was screaming, wailing, racked and twisted with unspeakable horror.

*

The only light was from stars and torches. In the Ring of Doom Feanor stood alone, answering the Valar. "You will not have my consent to take the Silmarils," he said. "They are my soul. Without them I will surely die."

Feanor's words were confident but there was a weakness to him, as if his life-force was slowly leaving him as the light seeped from Valinor.

Yavanna asked him again, begging him to break the Silmarils and release their light. "Melkor is like you," Feanor said, "for he will not allow light that is outside of him. What reason have you given me to prefer you to him? Rather I should give them to Melkor, for he too is a Valar, and of your kin, and perhaps less full of lies."

"Do you judge us?" asked Mandos.

"I do judge you, Mandos," Feanor said. "This darkness is your judgement."

"Thou hast spoken," said Mandos. In the distance there was a sound of weeping, forever inconsolable. In the Ring of Doom the only light that remained was from the green stone at Feanor's neck.

*

Fingon arrived too late. Helplessly he wandered the halls of Formenos, his useless sword trailing. Around him the evidence of battle littered the palace. Maedhros's agony still burned in his soul, bringing with it the terrible relief that at least Maedhros was alive.

He found Maedhros at last, with all his brothers, kneeling over what looked like a body. Fingon had never seen a dead Elf before, not even in the seeing-stone. His grandfather was covered with deep gashes that split him open from breast to abdomen. His skull was crushed, mangling his face beyond recognition. Still, there could be no doubt as to his identity. The sons of Feanor knelt around the body, silent in their grief.

"Grandfather," Fingon said.

Maedhros nodded. Silently, Fingon knelt down beside him. No wound showed on Maedhros's body, no visible damage aside from the screaming of his soul. "It wouldn't fight me," Maedhros said. "I couldn't fight."

There is a darkness that is an absence of light, and there is another darkness that is a thing in itself, with a power to strangle the very will. "I didn't know it would be like this," Maedhros said.

Chapter End Notes

Feanor's E-rated Maedhros/Fingon shipping was one of the scenes I couldn't write 24 years ago. I can barely bring myself to write it now, it creeps me the heck out. But the story wouldn't work without it, I needed Feanor to go just.that.far in projecting himself on his son and also not understanding that boundaries of any kind are a thing that exists. As soon as I wrote that scene the rest of the fic was much easier to write.

*

Mandos on the light of the Two Trees:
"...it is doom that the Firstborn shall come in the darkness, and shall look first upon the stars. Great light shall be for their waning."
"At the last, therefore, the Valar summoned the Quendi to Valinor, there to be gathered at the knees of the Powers in the light of the Trees for ever; and Mandos broke his silence, saying: ‘So it is doomed.’ From this summons came many woes that afterwards befell."

*

There is a short G rated Finwe lives AU in chapter 5 of A Burning Flame.

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In the dark outside his grandfather's home Maedhros watched the stars. In Finwe's childhood these stars had been his only light but, strange as it was, Maedhros had never seen them before outside of the visions his father and his teacher had shown him. Each star was a single bright spark. The light they gave was only enough to shine, not to illuminate. It was not a way that Maedhros had ever thought lights could work.

Grandfather Finwe had left these stars forever for the lights of Valinor. They had only returned after his death.

Maedhros thought about the dark-Elves, their sundered kin in Middle-earth. They had not come to Valinor and had kept the stars, and the threat of death that Grandfather thought he had forever escaped.

Maedhros had never known a dead person. He had heard, of course, of the story of his grandmother, but she died when his father was born so to Maedhros she was nothing but a story his grandfather sometimes told. Maedhros had watched as the dark shape took his grandfather's life, carving gashes in his body where blood and innards dripped out of him. He had not thought to do anything to stop the bleeding. It had not occurred to him until later that there was anything he could do.

After his grandfather's death he had gone with his brothers to the Ring of Doom to tell the Valar what had happened. Feanor had come back with them but then had run off into the night. No one knew where he was. Some of his brothers were looking for their father, others were sitting with their dead grandfather. Celegorm was holding his hand. Maedhros had come to sit outside by himself and watch the stars. No one had any idea what to do when someone was dead. Maglor would try to express it in music, he said, would write songs for him, but so far no songs had come.

Maedhros felt Fingon before he saw him, the tendrils of his mind reaching out in concern. He had stayed with Finwe's body, the only representative of his House. "Turgon's here," he explained, then sat next to Maedhros so close they touched at the hip. Fingon put his arms around Maedhros's waist and his forehead down on his shoulder. It felt easy, simple, like nothing had been for the last twelve years.

"My father is out waving a sword," Fingon said. "Shouting that Morgoth is a coward for attacking his father unprepared and should show his face if he wants to challenge the house of Finwe."

"Maybe we should get him a better sword then," Maedhros said. Was this what people did when someone died? Did they fight? Was that what fighting was for?

"Not necessary," Fingon said. "If Morgoth shows up I'll be out there in front. And so will you."

"But you don't think he will," Maedhros said. Fingon shook his head, working himself deeper into Maedhros's arms. It made sense. If Morgoth took the Sillmarils he wouldn't risk them or himself until he did...whatever he was going to do with them. Rather than answering, Maedhros took one long finger and traced it down the back on Fingon's neck. He was rewarded by a shiver that Fingon made no effort to hide, going through Fingon's body and back into Maedhros.

Is this what to do when someone dies? He wondered if it was like this for the dark-Elves, when they lost a loved one in battle, if they go to their closest friend and find ways to be close to them. He kept stroking Fingon's hair. It felt good.

He felt a spark flicker from Fingon, then felt him pull it back, hesitant. There was no reason to hesitate. Hadn't they always been there for each other? "Can I kiss you?" Maedhros said. When Fingon nodded into his shoulder he kissed Fingon's forehead, then his nose, then finally, at last, his lips. It was a soft kiss, gentle. He still felt it down to his loins. This is what life feels like, he thought, when we need to remember that we are alive.One kiss followed another, bodies pressed close together. Around them was only starlight.

But their grandfather was dead and Valinor was inexplicably dark. As they sat together in the grass, their minds coming together, they could not disguise from each other the tension and fear that they were trying to push away.
.
That was how Maglor found them. "Father is in Tirion," he said. "You need to come now."

*

Feanor stood in front of the court of the High King wearing the crown he had taken from his father's body, still covered with blood.

"Here once was light," Feanor said, "that the Valar begrudged to Middle-earth, but now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless for ever, a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless sea? Or shall we return to our home? In Cuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city!’

The crowd was large and it grew. Fingon thought no one would notice him in a crowd that size, but Feanor set his eyes on him firmly. "I am not the only valiant in this valiant people," Feanor said.

And of course he was not. Fingon remembered the lands that Feanor had shown him, the crown over his face. He thought about going there, himself, to fight, himself, not waiting or hiding behind anyone, Valar included. He saw Feanor standing wearing his own father's blood, grief in every inch of his body, and still speaking of action and hope and a next step they could take. This is what you were trying to teach me,, he thought.

*

Without the light of the Trees there was no way to mark the changing time so Fingolfin had no idea how long he ran. He knew the evil being that had killed his father escaped north so he ran north after him, but soon was lost in dense forest. Morgoth, Feanor had called this being that had killed their father. Morgoth, Fingolfin shouted. Everything was dark around him, but no enemy came.

Feanor had said that he was going to be destroyed and Fingolfin had not thought to put his own body between Feanor and death. Their father had been killed and Fingolfin had not been in front of him. He had not seen his father since he sent him into exile and took his crown. "Morgoth" he shouted. If there is to be another death let it be my own.

In the light of the stars he knelt, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed. Then he screamed again. He wanted his father. He wanted his brother to come take him in his arms. He fell to the ground and let himself cry into the dirt.

To his surprise it was his other brother who found him. Finarfin had never interested him particularly, he had always been quiet and of no particular ambition or initiative. But Finarfin too had just lost a father. Fingolfin expected he would need to pull himself together to act somehow as an older brother to his sibling, but when he went to rise Finarfin touched his shoulder.

"Feanor is speaking in front of the high court of the King upon the summit of Tuna," Finarfin said. "He has violated his terms of banishment and is wearing Father's crown."

And you think I should have it instead? the thought came. Was Finarfin offering an alliance? The thought tasted like metal in his mouth. He wanted Feanor's arms around him. He wanted Feanor's mouth under his.

"He is talking to the crowd," Fingolfin said. "You should hear what he is saying. I am afraid he is trying to go places we will not be able to come back from. You might be the only one he can hear. We are going to need to say something."

But wherever he goes I will follow. In this Finarfin at least was correct, if Feanor was speaking then Fingolfin needed to be there.

*

When he came to the square Maedhros left Fingon in the crowd and ran to Feanor's side. Maedhros stepped forward to join his family and felt the familiar presence of their minds. He felt his father's will surrounding and suffising them. Without the Silmarils at the center there was a terrible emptiness, like a gash had been torn in his father's soul.

"We will go further than Orome," Feanor said, "endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light."

Did you not see it in the Silmarils?/ his grandfather had asked. And now his grandfather was dead, killed in front of Maedhros by whatever it was that took the Silmarils from them. The light of the SIlmarils was gone, the light for which his grandfather had given his life.

What happens when we die? his grandfather had asked. Only everlasting light made death possible to bear.

"Fair shall the end be,’ he shouted Feanor, ‘though long and hard shall be the road. But let us swear. Let us take an oath. For if we go against the will of the Valar we must know that we will hold firm to our resolve. If we cannot trust the Valar let us trust only in each other. Who will swear with me?"

Maedhros knew for what he was made, he knew for what he was formed, the grandson of the leader who journeyed across the sea in search of light and the son of the man who places the light in a jewel. He was a fighter improbably born in a land of peace. He would wage war against the dark to bring the light back to his family.

"I am a son of Feanor," he said. "I will swear."

Together with his brothers he swore the oath.

*
 

Fingon watched Maedhros and his brothers take the oath. No one else stood with them.

He hated that Feanor had done this but he was not willing to leave Maedhros alone. Not when Feanor, for all his cruelty, was correct. Fingon had seen his grandfather's body, had been too late to defend him. He was not going to leave his grandfather unavenged.

Feanor's words were in his mind. Am I the only valiant?

"You are not the only valiant of this valiant people," Fingon shouted.

*

There was still dirt on Fingolfin's face from when he was crying in the forest. It was only a short time earlier that Feanor's mouth had been open beneath him. Now his father was dead and his brother was administering eternally binding oaths that could follow them to the world's end.

Crowds were gathered in front of the High King's court in Tirion. The last time they had been here together Fingolfin had come with a plan. He had come first and let Feanor follow him into the trap he had made. Now Feanor was here and Fingolfin would need to plan quickly.

He could take the oath together with Feanor and his sons. That seems to have been what Feanor wanted. This was the oath that Feanor had crafted, strong enough to withstand a Vala. That was Feanor's plan. Fingolfin could do one better. He had no more love for the Valar than Feanor did, the Valar who had left their father to die without any of his sons. But they were powerful, and many of the Noldor would not want to rebel so openly against them.

There was a role Fingolfin could have in Feanor's plan, whether or not Feanor understood it. Few would follow Feanor and his oath. More would follow if Fingolfin gave them a simpler path. Fingolfin did not need to take his brother's oath. He had already taken a different one. He had sworn to follow and would not be left behind. "Brother," he said, "surely our father must be avenged. But you are not our father's only son."

Feanor looked to him with confusion that made Fingolfin almost change his mind. Brother, he thoughtI am not betraying you. I will never betray you.. "The host of Fingolfin need take no oaths," he said. "We have not rejected the Valar, nor their authority in all matters where it is just for them to use it. But if the Eldar were given free choice to leave Middle-Earth and go to Aman, and accepted it because of the loveliness and bliss of that land, their free choice to leave it and return to Middle-Earth, when it has become dark and desecrated, cannot be taken away."

And there it was. The words Fingolfin had spoken looked like a challenge to Feanor, an opposition. It gave the Noldor a seeming alternative. But it was an illusion. The plan he had set out was identical to Feanor's and those who followed him would take the same road. Fingolfin's challenge was not directed at Feanor but at the Valar. Were they unjust rulers, who had brought people here to take away their freedom? It was a challenge he had veiled in courtesy and so made all the more difficult to evade, but stripped of the fair words it was nothing more than asking the Valar if they wish to be known as masters of slaves.

"I have an errand in Middle-Earth, the avenging of the blood of my father upon Morgoth, whom the Valar let loose among us. Let us go not for oaths but for love," Fingolfin said "and not to seek the hidden treasures of Feanor but to find what light can be found in a place where the Trees never grew. This is the path of the house of Fingolfin."

"The house of Fingolfin and his children," said a voice from the crowd and in a moment his son Turgon was standing beside him. Aredhel ran to his side. "There are wide unguarded lands in Middle-earth and people in need of protection," Turgon said. "Let those who seek to build fortresses and cities join with our house." In a moment Turgon's friend Finrod was with him, and Finrod's sister Galadriel.

Fingolfin met Feanor's eyes over the crowd. He was following. He was keeping up. He would not fall. I will place my body between you and the darkFingolfin thought. Only do not leave me behind.

"There is a third son of Finwe," said Finarfin, unexpectedly. Although he spoke softly everyone turned to listen, because they had not expected him to speak at all. "I see you are both collecting followers. Some of them are my children. I will not fight you for them. But I do want to speak." It was hard not to think of him as very young, for all that he had grown children who had already chosen a faction.

"Father used to speak to me," he said, "of life in Middle-earth. How before he came here there were days when they would go out and then at night there was one fewer in their group. Once it was a close friend. Once it was someone in his family. They would be taken by the Hunters and never again seen. I think we do not know what it is like, for a loved one to be dead. To have someone in your life and then not be able to see them anymore because they are no longer alive. This is something we three brothers have only just learned.

"You speak of adventure, and danger, and valor, and bravery. But sometimes all that happens is that someone is gone and will not be with you that night, nor ever. We are about to do something it will not be possible to take back. This is the first death we have known in many years. In Middle-earth death will not cease.

"Feanor, you say the Valar are our enemy. They have not protected our father, who made the long journey at their call. Still, they have protected us many times over. Fingolfin, you say they will not restrain us. They are asking us not to go. Manwe Lord of Eagles, who has always been our protector, is asking us to hold back. There are many things we do not yet understand. It is time for us to listen."

It was a good speech, better than Fingolfin would have thought his little brother could give. There was even wisdom to it. But it was too late. Feanor was already committed, his oath had been taken. Even Manwe would not welcome him if he turned back. And if Feanor was going then Fingolfin would go, with any who would follow him. Though he had not sworn Feanor's oath that oath would bind him still, because he had promised to follow.

"Will any speak for the Valar?" Feanor shouted. "Will any come to respond to our complaint?"

A voice from the crowd began to speak, naming himself a messenger of Manwe. He said that the Valar would not hold against their will anyone who wished to go, but that they would also not send any help, and that these two houses together could not defeat one Vala. "So your oath is in vain," he said.

"Say this to Manwe," Feanor said. "Though we may not defeat Morgoth we have enough valor to fight him."

"If you doubt," Fingolfin said, "look at all those who stand alongside us, who will go with my house into exile."

Finarfin reluctantly stepped forward to stand alongside his son and daughter in Fingolfin's host. Despite his words, he would not be separated from his children.

"Here once was light," Feanor said. "Without it darkness everlasting will be our fate, in Valinor or out of it."

Finwe had spoken of a fire in Feanor that was a fire of the One, a fire beyond the Valar. Fingolfin would follow it to the end of his life. "It may be," Feanor said, "that Eru has set in me a fire greater than thou knowest."

*

In the aftermath of the speeches Feanor and his sons left quickly, with Fingon and a few others running after them. Fingolfin needed to speak to Feanor privately. He needed to touch his hands. What had Feanor understood, of what Fingolfin was doing? What had he seen? What had he not been able to see, in his grief and rage and strange new weakness?

He needed to speak to Feanor but in the moment he had other responsibilities. Was he still High King? Feanor was wearing the crown, but Fingolfin had the trust of the people. Few had left with Feanor. It seemed that the most part of the dwellers in Tirion refused to renounce Fingolfin as their leader. He knew that those who had agreed to follow under his host were expecting to see from him the kind of organized leadership he had shown as High King for twelve years.

Would he kneel to King Feanor? He imagined himself on his knees surrendering his will to the fire that consumed his soul. If he did, what of him would remain? In any case he had not knelt. He had followed, and brought more followers with him. For a moment he let himself imagine standing beside his brother, king and king.

I have bound myself to the impossible, Fingolfin thought. This will not be in Arda Marred.

Chapter End Notes

Feanor's speech in Tirion is a direct quote from the book. Fingolfin's speech is mostly taken from the Shibboleth of Feanor. Some other dialogue is paraphrased.

For an AU in which Fingolfin takes the oath with Feanor and his sons go toAll Your Fleeting Life chapter 6 of A Burning Flame.

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This is what a burnt city looks like, thought Fingolfin. This is what happens when fire is uncontrolled.

He came to Alqualonde late, after his two sons and those who followed them. He saw his people wounded in the streets. He grabbed the first passerby wearing his colors and asked what happened. "The Teleri attacked us," he said. "They shot us with bows. We thought we were going to die."

"It was the Valar," said the next. "They turned the sea against us and the people of Alqualonde were their allies."

In the distance he saw another answer: the fair Swan-ships, renowned for their beauty, and on their decks the crew wore the colors of the house of Feanor.

What have you done, brother.

*

These were the things Maedhros knew how to do with swords: he could forge them. He could dance with them in a way that was beautiful. He knew that they could be used to fight enemies, like orcs and wolves, like they do in Beleriand. He knew that they could be used to scare people, like his uncle did to his father and his father did to his uncle.

He had not previously known that they could be used to kill kin.

Or perhaps he had known, in the sense that it was clear to him that if a sharp blade came into contact with a soft object it was the soft object that would yield, no matter whose body it belonged to. Maybe even, if he had thought about it, he would have realized that there is nothing to distinguish the feel of going into a wolf's belly from that of a person.

On the shores of Alqualonde Maedhros knelt as his brother Maglor sang his lament.

*

In the ruins of Alqualonde everyone seemed at a loss. Some were sitting by themselves or in pairs, staring vacantly. Someone had found a piece of fallen wood and was smashing it repeatedly against a stone. Others had found a store of wine and were drinking it very very quickly. There were some who were lying down, seemingly unharmed but unwilling to get up. Others were bleeding.

The first order was to get help for the wounded. Fingolfin took the wood away from the person smashing it and asked him to go find bandages. Then he tried to pull up one of the people who was lying down. After a few tugs he seemed embarrassed and got up himself. Fingolfin pointed him in the direction of one of the wounded and told him to bind his wounds with whatever he could.

In the distance he saw King Olwe and his companions distributing blankets to the Teleri, even those who did not seem wounded, even though the weather was not unusually cold. King Olwe would know what to do, of course. Of all those present he was the only one who had led people in battle, when his people faced Melkor's dark servants in Middle-earth before their journey to Valinor.

Like Fingolfin's own father. Who they were going to Middle-earth to avenge, and whose wisdom could not help them. Fingolfin shook his head. He needed to focus.

"Aredhel," Fingolfin called. "Go back to the supply carts and get blankets and give them to any of our people you see. If they are willing, wrap the blankets around their shoulders yourself, so they know you are concerned for them." Aredhel nodded and ran.

"Turgon," Fingolfin said. His second son had been in the front but had come back to find his father. "I need you follow King Olwe. Watch what he's doing for his people who are..." He did not know what words to use to describe what he was seeing. It was not something anyone born in Valinor had ever seen. "People who are not wounded in their bodies but hurt because of what they saw. Or what they did. Try to figure out how he is helping them. Then come back and do the same for ours. Do not check with me first." It was time he started trusting his children. He was going to need to rely on them for the journey. "If he asks what you are doing or thinks you are a spy, say you are there to help. Then do it. You will learn more that way."

Where was Fingon? He had gotten ahead of everyone, would have been among the first to reach Alqualonde.

Had he led Fingolfin's people into battle?

What have we done?

As Fingolfin kept looking for Fingon he saw more and more of his people wandering aimlessly. There were a few who lay lifeless on the ground, though they had no visible wounds. Keep them moving, he thought, so they do not lie down and wish themselves dead. If someone could walk he sent them fetching supplies and if someone could move their hands he set them to binding wounds. He had agreed to come here. He would not let his people die if he could help it. He made sure no one was left alone, in the hope that if one gave in to despair the other could lift them.

*

There were things Fingon thought he knew how to do with swords: protect the weak, defend the vulnerable, defeat the enemy. Support your friend.

The weak, like his fellow Noldor whom he thought he saw being attacked by the Teleri mariners at Alqualonde, at the command of the Valar. He thought.

He knew, he supposed, that the sharp end of a blade makes no distinction between kin and enemy, between a decision made with great forethought and and understanding one made without a second thought. He did not know that he would ever sit here on the shores of Alqualonde with the blood of his kin on his blade.

He had trained for years in how to fight. He had never for a moment trained in how not to fight. He had not thought it would be difficult.

He dropped his sword and sat down some distance away. He didn't want to be near it. It was there that his father found him. He sat down beside him, saying no words.

How long had his father been here? Had he participated in the battle? What had his father seen of what we had done?

I have a sword and have been trained in its use, he had once shouted at his father, but I have done no evil with it, nor shall I.

"What did you see?" Fingon asked.

"Very little," Fingolfin said. "I was too slow, the battle was done before I arrived. Everyone I ask tells me something different. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Battle..." Fingon said. "I was the first of our host to arrive. The Feanorian host was fighting. The Teleri were shooting them, they had hunting bows, but they also had swords. I thought our people, our fellow Noldior, were in danger...how did the Teleri have swords? Why would they have them? What did they need them for, if not to attack our people at the urging of the Valar?"

Fingolfin was silent for a long time, and Fingon heard his own words and his own suspicions. They were the same as his father's, when he had learned that the house of Feanor was forging swords. Then he thought about what had happened next: Maedhros had forged swords that he was able to bend.

"It was the swords we made," Fingon said. "How did they get them?"

Fingon watched the understanding grow on his father's face. "That is my responsibility," Fingolfin said. "And my foolishness. If one house had swords I thought we all should have them," Fingolfin said. "I did not think..." He stopped. Fingolfin stopped, because in retrospect it was so obvious, if either of them had stopped to think it through. If the houses had swords to defend themselves against each other, they would eventually be used against each other. There was no other possible outcome.

"They had swords," Fingon said, "but they didn't know how to use them. No one taught them like I taught you. And those were bad swords, like yours. We made them bad on purpose, and I didn't tell you because I was mad at you." And then his kin used them to defend themselves, against him, and died.

"And I knew the swords I sent them were not good," Fingolfin said. "I knew it when you and I sparred together. But I didn't think they would ever need..." Fingolfin did not need to finish that sentence either. He did not think that his kin would need to defend themselves against his son.

"Feanor and his sons took the Teleri ships," Fingolfin said, not bothering to make it a question. Fingon nodded. Feanor and his sons. He had not seen Maedhros in the battle but of course he had been there, and if he had killed of course Maedhros had as well.

He had tried to get Maedhros away from his father. They had both tried to get away from him. But Maedhros had gone back to his father and Fingon was not willing to leave Maedhros.

"So what do we do?" Fingolfin asked.

We. They both had the same question to answer, it seemed. It was not that long ago that Fingon had ridden madly towards Formenos, desperate to see Maedhros after twelve years of separation. Not that long before that he sat with his father in front of a fireplace listening to his father's hope that Feanor would return. "If not Feanor," his father would say, "at least Maedhros. If not Feanor."

Whatever was between his father and Feanor, Fingon hated it. He had seen Feanor's sword at his father's neck and seen his father look at Feanor as if all the light in the world was in his eyes.

He could not hate it enough to make it go away. "Neither of us are going to leave them," Fingon said.

And it wasn't just about Maedhros. Fingon had thought he would be good at fighting. He had been unfortunately more than correct. He needed to get to a place where there were better people to fight than his kin, and he needed to get there immediately. He could not stay here, where the memory of the blood he shed would call out from the earth.

"We have people for whom we are responsible," Fingolfin said. "I swore to Feanor that I would follow him, but there are also people who chose to follow our house."

"Then we'll have to do better." Fingon said. "We're not going to leave them and we're not going to let them turn us into murderers. We need a way to remember who we are. We don't use our swords to hurt people. We do better than this." Then he had an idea. "We need an oath, an oath for our family, for the house of Fingolfin. Something that says we're doing something different from the house of Feanor."

"Feanor wanted me to swear his oath," Fingolfin said.

The tangle of emotions between his father and Maedhros's father was too much for Fingon to follow. "But you didn't," he said.

"I did not," said Fingolfin. "But I followed him. I had an oath of my own, to follow him. Oaths are respected even by the Valar. They will keep people together when their courage fails."

"But we can't be under his vow," Fingon said. "Maybe he's right, but if we're going to take a vow we need our own."

Fingolfin thought for a moment, then put his hand on Ringil. "I promise to do what I can to protect people, for as long as I have the strength," he said.

"That's good," Fingon said, with a rough laugh. "I like that." It was clever. He had not made an eternal vow, but only to do what he can for as long as he can. It would bind them but not break them.

It took him another moment to realize what else his father was saying. There may come a time when his father's strength will be gone. Fingon was his father's eldest son. He would need to be ready to lead.

He would do it. He put his hand on the same sword and repeated his father's words. "You're not the worst High King the Noldor ever had," he said. "And I will do my best to be a prince."

"Feanor is High King," Fingolfin said. "He is our father's heir."

"That's not true," Fingon said. "You were made High King by the Valar and it was never taken back. And you said you're not rebelling against them. Feanor is but you aren't. That was in the speech you gave. People followed you instead of him." Fingon was not used to being afraid but the thought of Feanor as High King made him start to panic. "Feanor isn't going to lead us anywhere but the Halls of Mandos. I know you didn't like being king but it won't be so bad. We'll make it not so bad. I'll help you. I won't keep secrets from you again." He was binding himself to his father's work as surely as Maedhros bound himself to his. Like Maedhros, he had taken the same vow as his father. He would also need to protect his people until he ran out of strength. "You wouldn't lead people into a kinslaying. You need to be in charge, not Feanor."

"I am not innocent," Fingolfin said. "You of all people know that."

Fingon ignored him. "And you need to take my sword. No, you have to," he said, when his father opened his mouth to disagree. "You know your sword's bad too." He had put his father's life in danger on purpose, out of anger, without thinking about the consequences. His father could have been killed like his kin, because of what Fingon himself had done. "I can't touch that thing again."

Fingolfin's hand was still on Ringil but he did not pick it up.

If Fingolfin was reluctant to lead the Noldor, well, there was something Fingon could do about that. One of his father's men was carrying the standard of the house of Fingolfin, stars on a blue field surrounding a flame. Fingon grabbed it and lifted it high. There was no time to delay.

"Followers of Fingolfin," he shouted. "Prepare for the journey."

He held the staff with both hands, leaving Ringil on the ground until his father took it. When the High King lifted it up it glittered like ice in his hand.

*

Maglor's song carried through the city, entering into all the cracks and ruins. He stopped by a ruined home and sang of what it was. He knelt by the dead and sang of their lives.

Maedhros could see what Maglor was doing. If the house of Feanor was going to rule that meant it had to make their claim to everyone, the murderers and the wounded alike. The song was a song of witness. The son of their king had heard their cry, could sing it back to them in a melody that was beautiful. Maglor sang of the Silmarils, of their overwhelming beauty, of the fervor of the vow that had brought them here. Then of the battle. You were brave, he sang. You, and you. The song encompassed everyone who had fought, those who had not fought and still been harmed, and even those whose bravery was only in enduring what they saw.

He sang of the swan-ships, so lovely on the waters. He sang of the long journey ahead. Through sorrow they would go on, and the deeds they will do will be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.

What will be left when everything is done, when all the light in the world fades? What will endure of all their deeds? Only that they once were done. Only that the song about it once was sung.

Fair shall the end be, though long and hard be the road.

In Maglor's song Maedhros heard the way of his own family: let horror fall, only let it be worthy of song.

In the distance he saw his uncle making another kind of claim. Under the banner of his house he was organizing everyone he could find, handing out blankets and food. Fingon would be with him.

So much they had dreamed of adventures, of using their swords to protect and to defend. Instead it was this, the fighting of kin against kin. The ships had been necessary, a request from one king to another in a time of urgent need. It was not right for King Olwe to refuse. But this should not have been Fingon's first battle.

Maedhros remembered their one kiss, so sweet, like a bright ray of light in a completely dark world. If that was all there would ever be, still it felt like a miracle. Only turn from me, he thought. I am not worth what I have done to you.

*
 

And how could there not be judgment? In the ruins of Alqualonde it was still unclear how the battle began but it was certain how it ended, with the ships of the Teleri in the hands of the house of Feanor. There were Teleri dead in the streets. Many, it seemed, had been killed by Fingolfin's own son.

Some found their judgement immediately, in the wrath of the sea. Others went north, by boat or on foot, to the empty waste of Araman, and found their judgement there. Its bearer was a dark figure standing on a tall rock. Was it Mandos? It was hard to tell.

Fingolfin was on foot, walking with those who had chosen to follow him. Feanor jumped from the ship to the shore and Fingolfin ran to him, though they had not spoken since the oath-taking. There could be no doom for Feanor that Fingolfin did not share. Their hands touched as they heard the words spoken.

Tears unnumbered shall ye shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.
For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death’s shadow.
 

In the silence, the speaker waited for a response.

"We have sworn," Feanor said, "and not lightly. This oath we will keep. We are threatened with many evils, and treason not least; but one thing is not said: that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens. Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda."

The words of the Doom rang in Fingolfin's mind. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. But they seemed a riddle. Did not the journey of his father, begun with such hope, come to evil end? Had it not led him to death's shadow, and to being slain? The light of the Trees, the gift of the Valar, was given with good intent, and now they were standing in darkness and the light was gone.

If this is their Doom, has anyone ever been able to avoid it, Elf or Vala? Can any wisdom or goodness create something that will never turn to evil end?

...by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. Could he love without fear of betrayal, knowing that betrayal might come and being willing to endure it? Let us not suffer Feanor had said, from cravens or the fear of cravens.

He had always known that Feanor was mad. He had always known that Feanor would betray him. Could Fingolfin face that without fear?

At that he laughed. What choice had the curse left him? There was nothing that would not end in evil. He could plan and plot and hold himself back and try to erase all love from his body and he would be no less subject to the curse.

There was no uncursed path. Not for those who take the journey against the will of the Valar, and not for those who remain in darkened Valinor to grieve lost friends and family. It was possible that no uncursed path had ever existed. If it had, his father had not found it.

If all comes to an evil end, he thought, let us at least begin with love. He would love with all his strength and protect with all his strength until all his strength was gone.

Fingolfin returned to his camp in a daze, in time to say goodbye to his brother Finarfin. "We lack the wisdom to guide ourselves," Finarfin said. "Let the Valar guide us." Although the guidance of the Valar was unimpressive it was hard to say that the Noldor had done well in guiding themselves. Everything felt futile, vain, as purposeless as wind.

But turning back was no better. It was hard to imagine that Mandos could inflict any curse on Fingolfin as cruel as the one that Finarfin was taking upon himself, knowing that his children were going to a place of death and he would not be with them. Had Galadriel raised her sword in the kinslaying? Had Finrod? It was hard to know, but in any case they would not follow their father, who had returned alone.

"Don't think about turning back," Fingon said to Fingolfin. "We need you. We need you to be king."

"Did we not swear an oath?" Fingolfin said. They had an oath that was theirs, father and son, to protect those they could. He would hold it against his other oath, the one he made to Feanor: You shall lead and I shall follow . It was possible that the pull of these two oaths would keep him in balance.

At least until they tear him apart. To evil end shall all things turn that begin well.

*

In the night Fingolfin stood on the shore, a torch in his hand. One of the swan-ships drew closer and Feanor stood at its prow. In a few moments he had jumped down and they were in each other's arms. They kissed without hesitation, in full sight of the ships and their crew. It is not shameful for brothers to embrace, nor to kiss, and if their kisses lasted longer than was common between brothers it was scarcely worth anyone's notice after all that had been done.

Pressed against him Feanor told him of the wrath of Uinen's tears as he shook with fury. "Do the Valar and their Maia fear me, that they slay my people?"

Fingolfin thought of his son's guilt and Feanor's lack of regret. He said nothing. Instead he told Feanor of the promise he had made, to protect until the end of his strength.

Feanor's smile was soft and he brushed Fingolfin's hair away from his forehead like a beloved child. "I knew you would be king," he said.

"You would call me your king?" Fingolfin asked. Would it be that simple?

"You will be king, but not of me," Feanor said. "I did not submit to Manwe Lord of the World. I will not submit to you. Do not attempt to make peace with me. "

The madness swirled between them. They were close enough that Fingolfin could kiss the side of Feanor's neck. To evil end shall all things turn that begin well. There could be no end to this in which they did not crash on each other like hurled stones. If only they could collapse into each other, dissolve the separateness that was so hard to endure.

"Is there no peace we can make?" Fingolfin asked.

"Not until one of us ceases to be," Feanor said. "Any world in which we both exist is a broken world."

Feanor was weakening. They had all been cursed to die. "Do not wish for our death," Fingolfin said.

"I have known death since the hour I was born," Feanor said. "It kept me company in my cradle when my mother was gone. In the mind of the One an hour and eternity are the same. A moment is a thousand years. Let our lives be short but our deeds be worthy of song."

Feanor would not submit and could not be trusted. All friendship would end in betrayal. All works would end in evil that began with good.

Let us at least begin in love, he thought..

"I would love you," Fingolfin said, "though it damns me. Though it dooms me. Though it destroys me." His twin oaths pulled him, one from each side. The two might rip him to pieces. He would endure to the end of his strength. Any world in which we both exist is a broken world. If this world could not be healed he would live in it as well as he could in the days that he was given in his fleeting life. "Let us take the time we have," he said. "Until the the shattering of our world tears us apart. Until the few moments we have are gone. Until the doom falls upon us."

Chapter End Notes

Feanor's speech after the doom is taken from the book.

I know in Tolkien's chronology there is quite a bit of time between the kinslaying and the doom, I'm going with a shorter timeframe here.

For an AU in which Fingolfin turns back in this chapter instead of Finarfin see my story Water on Stone.

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In the beginning, Feanor said, the All-Father created Arda through music..He made lesser beings and delegated to them his power. These beings, these small creatures, took control of our world. They made laws that were not good so that we would not live by them.They hid their light from places that were dark. They created a place of illusion and said it was good. They promised our father light and brought him here to die in darkness.

When I was born, I am told, the fire in me consumed my mother's spirit and body. I grew, they say, with a secret fire within me, a secret that those who made this place are not able to understand. With this fire I lit vessels of matter which will not be known until the Sun passes and the Moon falls. I lit them with a light that cannot be broken within the Kingdom of Arda. The fates of Arda, earth, sea, and air lay locked within them. Then the light was taken.

Eru has set in me a fire greater than you know.

This place is a place of illusion, a place of everlasting darkness that calls itself light. I first saw through this illusion when you were born, when I knew that we had been poured into the cage of two separate bodies. Any world in which we both exist is a broken world. I would break it further until my body breaks open and the shell of the world cracks so the light within it can appear. I would tear it to shreds with my hands until all that is left is song.

*

The two hosts proceeded separately. Feanor's hosts on the ships and on foot and the much larger host of Fingolfin behind them. They made camp not far from each other. From the camp of Feanor came Maglor's music, answered by Finrod from Fingolfin's camp. On the second night Feanor came to Fingolfin's tent and
in a moment was on him. Fingolfin could feel the growing weakness in Feanor's body and still he hurled himself at Fingolfin, hungry for any kisses he could claim.

After that the floodgates were open. All through the march, when they could they went off together to find some privacy behind a tree or a burned building. Fingolfin learned to press him up against things: walls, tree trunks, anything that would hold their weight. Feanor was hungry for kisses, needy for them.

"It won't be much longer," Feanor said. "Not in this world." That, Fingolfin understood, was why they were allowed this, a last moment to be as close as bodies allow. This truly was madness, the push of skin against skin, strength against strength, heartbeat against heartbeat. The fire of Feanor was consuming him. He was glad to be consumed.

*

Fourteen days into the journey Fingolfin broke up a fistfight between one of Finrod's guards and a guard from his own house who had been in the vanguard with Fingon. When he spoke with them, separately, each told the story of the other's unprovoked attack at Alqualonde.

The children of Finarfin had grown up along with their mother's Teleri kin. It was not a surprise that they wanted to protect them, but that meant that members of Fingolfin's host had joined the battle on opposing sides.

Finrod would neither confirm nor deny. "I have chosen the doom of the Noldor," he said. "I am of your people now."

"Is that what you will tell those who fought on the other side, if they wonder if you can be trusted?"

"Do you think that is likely to happen?" Finrod asked. "Is that something people under your governance are likely to say?"

"There is no reason to expect the children of Finarfin to forgive us," Turgon said to his father later. "We have made no moves to apologize to their relatives or to return that which was stolen." Turgon had been in the front with Fingon but had never been willing to speak about it. Had he joined the battle against his friend? He was unwilling to say.

"Feanor will never return anything, and I'm sure he has no regrets." Fingon said. "Moving closer to one house will take us further from the other."

Fingolfin spoke to Feanor about it that night in the tent, pressed close together. "We are one people," he said.

"We are two hosts," Feanor answered. "The greater part follows you and are not sworn to my oath or my vengeance."

"How do we go forward?" Fingolfin asked. It felt like he had tried everything. Feanor would not submit to him and although he had promised to follow Feanor he was not going to submit to him either, certainly not to be an accomplice in wrongdoing. He had not taken Feanor's oath, nor had those who followed him. If neither would submit and they followed different paths, what would become of their people?

"There are things I am not able to do," Feanor said. "Soon I will break and you will go on. Light will shine from the fire that consumes me and will illuminate your path."

*

"I gave away the sword you made for me," Fingon said to Maedhros as soon as he could find him. "I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive..."

As soon as Maedhros had his arms around him everything else fell away. With his head against Maedhros's chest it felt like nothing had changed since they were young. But so much had. "I gave the sword to my father," Fingon said. "Since he's going to lead us."

He felt Maedhros tense at the words. "You know I am a son of Feanor," Maedhros said. "I follow the path of my father the king."

"I know," Fingon said. And your father isn't going to lead us anywhere but the Halls of Mandos.. "I won't fight against you. I won't be your enemy. But I don't want to follow your father again. Not after Alqualonde."

Maedhros's hands were on the prince's crown in his hair. By naming his father king, Fingon abruptly realized, by making himself crown prince, he taken that from Maedhros. He wanted to beg forgiveness. I never wanted to take anything from you . "I'm not angry," Maedhros said, before he could speak. Maedhros let go of the crown and went back to stroking Fingon's hair. "This is between our fathers," he said. "I will never fight you."

There was a certainty in Maedhros's words, a conviction, that ran through Fingon's body like a sudden spark of joy. The thing that was between them was so true and real that their fathers could not corrupt it, nor could they break it apart.

"Alqualonde never should have been your first battle," Maedhros said. "I thought you would turn back with your uncle."

Fingon's laugh shook both of their bodies and he reached up to pull Maedhros down so they were face to face. There was so much before them, all the great deeds and great kingdoms they had imagined. "I'm never turning back," he said. "Never." Then he kissed him with all the certainty in his body.

*

"If only we had been twins," Feanor said, "born to the same mother, grown in the same womb.'" They were lying together in the complete darkness, in Fingolfin's tent, Feanor's head on Fingonfin's chest and all their limbs entwined. "I could have grown with you like this. Until the moment of my birth it would have been all that I knew, you close against me. Then in the same crib, skin to skin. When my hands learned how to grasp I would have held you. When my mouth first moved I would have tasted you. The first word I spoke would have been your name. The first necklace I would have forged would have been to adorn your neck."

Fingolfin let himself fall into the fantasy. Feanor was fading. His body was thin. Soon the time would come that in the absence of Treelight they had agreed to call morning, when Feanor would return to his ship and Fingolfin would do his best to keep his people alive. His people who, with some few exceptions, largely hated Feanor. He wrapped his arms around Feanor and let himself enjoy the closeness.

"My first arousal would have been at the sight of your naked body. My first orgasm from rutting against your thigh," Feanor continued. Fingolfin rolled on top of him, letting their bodies press together through their clothing. "My first opening at your fingers. My first claiming when you entered me."

In the dark Fingolfin held him. They would have this at least. Doomed and cursed, they would have this.

"It is good that it will be you, to be king after me," Feanor said, "If anyone, then you. You will live when I am gone."

Fingolfin felt Feanor shiver in his arms. When I am gone, Feanor had said, as if that were something that Fingolfin would survive. As if he would not throw himself in fury at any Vala that tried to take him.

Fingolfin turned him over, pushed him down. "If we had been born to different fathers," he said. "both great princes, I would have been your best friend in childhood. When I learned to walk I would have gone to you. I would have courted you as a child with flower-chains and ribbons. I would have filled your father's home with lavish gifts and swear that nothing is lovelier than your eyes. Every brave act I would have done would be for your hand. I would have wed you in Tirion in front of all the Valar. My soul would have entwined with yours as our bodies joined and all would see it in our eyes. No one would doubt that I am yours and yours alone, not ever or for a moment. At the moment of your death," Fingolfin paused. Feanor needed to hear this, to stop his fantasies that Fingolfin would be his heir. "I would die alongside you, to be with you in the halls of Mandos rather than outside the halls without you."

Feanor reached up and pulled him close. "I do not ask you to forgive me," he said, lips against Fingolfin's neck. "Not for any of it."

*

On the march Fingon borrowed a hunting-bow from Aredhel and practiced shooting at rocks and leaves. It was different from a sword, much less intimate and personal. If he killed something - or someone - the blood would not stain his face. He was idly shooting targets when Feanor came to sit down next to him.

"You are not welcome here," Fingon said.

"You speak this way to your king?" Feanor said, but he was not angry. Nor did he make any move to leave.

"The last time I will ever follow you willingly was at Alqualonde," Fingon said. There was no sound like the scream of the dying, a sound that Fingon would hear in his dreams. It would remind him of his decision to follow Feanor.

"Nevertheless," Feanor said. "You are a creation in which I take pride. Sculpted finely, like a jewel that burns inside with the fire of the one."

The words scraped at Fingon's soul. There was a truth to it. He had let Feanor inside his mind far too often, for all his youthful conviction that he could protect himself. He said nothing.

"The Helcaraxe stretches from here to Middle-earth. You can lead your people across the ice. You and your father will break through the ice with your fire and you will reach Middle-earth a leader. They will all follow you. Your father will be king of the Noldor, until he comes to me. You will be a hero and a great leader. That is why you and your father have to lead them now."

Weren't they going to take the boats across? Wasn't that why they had done this? Wasn't that what the battle at Alqualonde was for? Fingon couldn't think. None of this made sense.

"I wish I could see your great deeds in Middle-earth," Feanor said. "I wish I could live to see it. I wish I could see the kingdoms you and your father will rule."

"I don't want you there," Fingon said. "I'd throw you out."

"I would expect nothing less," Feanor said. "Only care for my son."

Fingon did not owe Feanor an answer and felt uninclined to give one. "Why does it matter so much to you?" he said.

"He will need to bear much, before the end," Feanor said. "He will need your valor. And you have always been my ally."

How much of his life had Feanor shaped? "You always wanted me to be with him."

"I created nothing that was not in your own mind," Feanor said. "I only let you see it, so that you would act before it was too late."

Everything that had come from Feanor's mind had turned to horror but this one thing would not. He had promised Maedhros that their fathers would not come between them. "I can't change what you did to me," Fingon said, "Or anything I've done. But I will love Maedhros as long as my soul exists. I will love him as long as his soul exists. I don't care if you made me do it. I don't care if you made him do it. It is still more real than anything in the world."

"So many oaths," Feanor said. "But this one you will keep."

*

On the shores of Losgar the sons of Feanor disembarked. Maedhros prepared to return to bring across the others, starting first with Fingon. Of course that was what his father would want. Instead Feanor took up the torches and began to set fire to the boats.

It didn't make any sense. "You wanted him to come with us." All the visions his father had shown him of Maedhros and his friend together. Why would he do this?

"Do you think I came here for any other reason than to fight Morgoth and die?" Feanor said.

"You spoke of great deeds," Maedhros said.

"I said he will do great deeds," Feanor said. "They both will. If they cross the Helcaraxe that will be the first." Another boat was set alight.

"You can't do this," Maedhros said. "You're playing games with the life of my friend."

"No games," said Feanor. "He won't fail. They won't."

Feanor gave a torch to Maedhros. "Now you do it," he said.

In all his life Maedhros had never refused a direct command from his father but at this he stood aside.

"There will be death," Maedhros said. "If they attempt to cross the Helcaraxe. People will die."

"There has already been death," Feanor said. "We have both been part of it. More people will die. But not my brother."

And then Maedhros saw it, saw the madness between his father and his uncle in a way he had never seen before. If his father went to die fighting Morgoth then his uncle would follow him and also die, there was no chance it could be otherwise.

"We should never have been two," Feanor said. "Only one of us should ever have been. The world cannot endure both. I will be consumed. Let him carry the light. He will burn with the very fire of the One. I wish I could live to see it."

The ships were burning and Maedhros could not stop it. His father was going to die and he could not stop it. His beloved friend and his brave uncle were going to suffer on the ice and there was nothing he could do to help. He had promised Fingon that they would not be separated by their fathers and he could not keep that promise. What, then, was the use of his strength?

The light of the burning ships was the only fire left in Feanor's eyes. He took the green stone from his neck and placed it in Maedhros's hands. "You will do what I can not," he daid.

*

In the distance the ships burned. A great shout rose up as they knew they had been betrayed.

The first thought Fingolfin had was for the beauty of the swan ships, now destroyed. The second was of overwhelming longing to be by Feanor's side. It was only third that he realized: they had been abandoned.

Next to him Fingon fell to his knees, his face in his hands.

And what was left for them? They had renounced the protection of the Valar and had refused the last opportunity for repentance that his brother Finarfin had taken. Would they throw themselves into the water that had taken their kin?

Beside him Fingon started shaking, his face still hidden. Aredhel stood by the shore hurling curses and insults across the waves.

Fingolfin put his hand on Fingon's shoulder, in an attempt to steady both of them. Fingon grasped his hand. "There's another way to go," Fingon said, staring at the flames. "We can go across the ice. It will be hard but we can do it."

Fingolfin thought that would be true of everything, now.

The flames reached to heaven and across the water to Fingolfin. Of course his brother's last words to him would be fire. You are fire he thought. He felt in his body this gift his brother had given him: to lead the Noldor on a crazy, desperate journey, to fight the enemy and die. To do great deeds and to fall. And then at last he thought, when I fall I will go to you and what should never have been two will be one

In the distance Turgon was shouting. "Are we not a hardy people? Can we not solve any problem to which we set our minds? We have no need of ill-gotten stolen ships."

Fingolfin was proud of his practically-minded son and soon he would go to join him. But all he could see was his brother's last message.

"You are committed to this," Fingon said. "Still." Know that this love will destroy you.

They were going forward in the face of the curse, in the face of the knowledge that all begun with good intent would end in evil, their lives would end in death, and love begun would end in betrayal. That it had happened already changed nothing.

"I am," Fingolfin said. Then I will be destroyed. If it was madness, so be it, even while their ships burn. Love is the fire that burns us, that makes and unmakes us, that shatters us on the ice and burns us in flame and leaves us glad to be destroyed. Love is the curse that damns us and that makes us unafraid to face damnation. It is the fire of the One.

In that moment, for a moment, he saw reflected on the ice a glimpse of the All-father who would let his world be torn apart, against the will of the Valar, only to let light like this come into it. Who would break open his entire world just so that his creations could have a little bit of light.
Brother, he thought. Beloved. Let me only do this, let me only burn with the fire you have given me. Beloved. I will be with you soon, as soon as I can, only let me protect my people as I have sworn.

"What burns within us cannot be quenched by ice or water," Fingolfin said. "We will come to Middle-earth."

Chapter End Notes

The title of this chapter (and of the fic) is from Song of Songs 8:6-7
Love is strong like death
Jealousy is strong like Sheol
Its flames are flames of fire
A very fire of God.
Great water cannot quench love...
If a man would give all the treasures of his house for love he would still be rejected.

Feanor's retelling of the creation story and his own role in the fall (or not-fall) is inspired by the 2-3rd century Gnostic text Hypostasis of the Archons.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypostasis_of_the_Archons

There's also a shoutout to the Arcade Fire song 'My Body is a Cage', which I also think suits this version of Feanor.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6F_Hx3oLfvU

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What was bound to the rock was an empty shell, his father's fire gone from him. His inheritance was a set of tasks that could not be done. Morgoth could not be defeated and the Silmarils were lost. There is nothing I can do that you can not, he thought. Father forgive me.

What was freed from the rock was remade. No longer well-formed, no longer a formed thing, rather hewn from stone with a single stroke. He had never imagined Fingon would find him. When he touched him a fire returned, a bright white fire lit by Fingon's own flame.

There was so much his father had not been able to do. Maedhros gave Fingolfin's people horses and other goods to help make up for what was lost on the ice. Then he knelt to Fingolfin and willingly made him king. He was a son of Feanor and would follow his path. He had promised Fingon that their fathers would not separate them. Nothing was taken from me, father. It was a riddle his father had never been able to solve, how to kneel without giving up power. It turned out that it was simple enough. Himring belonged to Maedhros, and the armies of his brothers, and the front lines in the fight against Morgoth. High King Fingolfin consulted with him on all things. He was still part of the ruling family, as he was married to the High King's son.

At Fingon's urging they held a small but formal wedding as soon as Maedhros was well enough to stand. It was the right choice, a way to begin with hope.

It was not until twenty years after their wedding that Maedhros gave Fingon the green stone. "I remember this," Fingon said. "My father used to wear it all the time."

"My father made it for him," Maedhros said. The burden of whatever had been between their fathers lay heavy between them. You will do what I cannot, Feanor had said. There had been so much yearning between them. Feanor had always wanted Maedhros to be as close to Fingon as he could. Feanor had always wanted Fingon as his heir.

I'm going to love you like I chose it, Maedhros thought. With all the history that bears down on us, still you are the one I chose.

"I had plenty of time to think on the mountain," Maedhros said. "And I realized: Morgoth was defeated by the Valar a long time ago. Why did he come back now? It had to be our fathers fighting each other that created space for him. It was only when there was a break between our houses that Morgoth was able to come in."

"I asked for help from Manwe," Fingon said, "even though we rebelled against him, and even though the Valar said they wouldn't hear our cries. Are you saying that is why he helped us?"

"When we were separated the Valar left me to be tortured and left you to freeze," Maedhros said. "But when you risked your life to find me Lord Manwe sent a miracle. My father used to talk about a crack that appeared when Grandfather remarried, and then when our two houses became separate. He said that was why he made the stone, to forge into one what should never have become two."

"I never forgave your father," Fingon said, "not for what he did to me and not for what he did to you. It took me a long time to forgive mine." He touched the stone. "I hope we can do better."

There was so much that Maedhros carried from his father and in that moment none of it felt impossible. He would bring vengeance against Morgoth for his father and grandfather, and he would free the SIlmarils from Morgoth's dark crown. He would heal the breach between their houses.

There is another fire, Maedhros thought. A fire my father never found. It sheds light but does not destroy, gives heat but does not consume. One torch lights another and light shines in darkness.

"I was lit by your fire," Maedhros said. "When you brought me back from the dead." The fire between them would sustain them, would strengthen them in the long war to come.

In Fingon's hand the green stone shone, giving light to Himring and to the dark lands beyond.

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Soon, brother, I will go into battle against the one by whose hand you fell. I will not defeat him. I do not have the strength. But I will strike a blow, and I will wound him, and I will call your name.

Ice and fire, fire and ice. So we are, brother, and so we were made. Fire forged you, made you and unmade you, brought you to Beleriand in the burning of the ships. Ice molded me, the star-lit wastes of the Helcaraxe, hardening my body and soul, shaping me, at last, into a king. Fire and ice, brother, you and I, scourging and sustaining our people between the twin deaths of hot and cold.

When ice touches fire it dissolves in the heat, first becoming water, then fading into mist in the air. Fire is drenched, becoming smoke, and smoke and mist merge, ascending, and become one.

I have reached the end of my wisdom. But what should wisdom avail us, we who followed our folly into exile? The peoples of Beleriand will see my one last madness, a madness worthy of one who would follow Feanor. And they will see our enemy wounded, and they will take heart in the darkness in which we have fallen.

My human allies have shown me death. They mourn it, but there are other losses greater. Cowardice, or betrayal. A life unlived. A love eternally unspoken.

If ice and fire could join, could merge into a oneness without destruction, what would that be? Red and yellow encased in a clear crystal of blue and white, like the rising of the sun at the entrance to Beleriand, flashing and reflecting, warming and cooling, more than alive.

Ice and fire, fire and ice. So we are, brother, and so we shall be. For I will come to you at the end of days, when you hold at last the Silmarils and cannot forsake them, we who should never have been separate will take the Silmarils and we will hold them in our open hands. We will break them open, and they will fall, unheeded, a tool that has served their purpose. Not from them will come the light of Arda Healed, but from our own hearts, broken and rebroken once more.

Do you compare yourself to a Silmaril?
No, brother, that you yourself have done.

And so broken, fire and ice become one. But in jewel or in smoke-filled mist, who can say?

The rest I leave to my son, and yours. We who were so wise have left so much unlearned, so much forgotten that even my human allies know. In the end of days when we stand before Eru the All-Father in the remaking of the world, it will not matter whom we have defeated, but only if we have stood together against the shadow. In this you were right in the end. Though our kingdoms and even our lives shall not last, truly have we done deeds both great and terrible. In truth, we have already both gained and lost the Silmarils.

I go into battle against an enemy I cannot defeat. I will ride like a star into darkness. Your fire-spirit will be with me in the final struggle, and when I fall, brother, it will be into your waiting arms.

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