i miss you like a knife by atlantablack  

Not only had my brother disappeared, 
but—and bear with me here—a part of my very being had gone with him.

Stories about us could, from then on, be told from only one perspective. 
Memories could be told but not shared.

Where Things Come Back | John Corey Whaley

☀︎

The problem with grief, Ñolofinwë has learned, is that it does not coexist well with anger.

It is difficult to feel fury without also feeling a sick rush of guilt when all you want is for a person to return to life, to return to your side. Fury can wait, can linger like smoke as it awaits its turn, its teeth buried too deep beneath your skin for it to ever be fully torn away. The grief does not wait. It washes over your head in a crashing wave and does not allow you to break free until you have rent yourself in two trying to surface for air.

How is one meant to hold both and not also be awash with the guilt that comes from being angry at someone who is gone?

Ñolofinwë does not want to miss Fëanáro.

He does not want to care, does not want to have this awful, disgusting, hollow ache in his chest that will not leave. He does not, but he had arrived in Beleriand only to learn that Fëanáro was dead, and for a moment, it had felt like falling. Had felt like maybe he never left the ice, and this was one last fever dream to haunt him all the way into death, for how could Fëanáro, of all people, be dead?

He burnt himself to ashes, Makalaurë had told them, voice remarkably steady for one who clearly did not want to speak of it. It had taken several back-and-forths of clarification for Ñolofinwë to realize this was meant in the most literal manner possible. His brother had managed to outshine everyone else even on the matter of death itself, and he had been forced to close his eyes for a long minute for fear that he would start crying or laughing, or worse, both.

The grave that Ñolofinwë is currently kneeling in front of is empty—nothing but a placeholder to memorialize the spot where Fëanáro had died. There was no true need for Ñolofinwë to ride out to it, no true need when his brother no longer resides anywhere he can visit, but he had felt a sick need to stand in the spot Fëanáro had last drawn breath. Even standing here, staring down at the grave marker, the charred ground where nothing has grown back, it still does not feel real.

Fëanáro has been a cornerstone of his life for so long that Ñolofinwë does not know how it can ever feel real. He feels shaky, the foundations of his life gone crumbling beneath him one after the other; his father slain, his marriage cracked apart, Arafinwë’s back as he left, Fëanáro dead. He knows he must continue carrying on, but facing down a future devoid of the ones who had helped build him up, each in their own way, feels nearly more daunting than staring down the endless white of the Helcaraxë. 

Ñolofinwë does not cry, though even now, weeks after learning of Fëanáro’s death, he still feels the tears burning behind his eyes. He does not cry, has not cried since his father died, could not afford to cry on the ice where the tears would freeze on your face, but oh, how he wants to. He kneels in front of the grave and considers it, tries to pick apart all of the writhing emotions in his chest.

"You were meant to still be alive," he murmurs, feeling absurd. "I was going to punch you, even if it meant you pulling a sword on me again. I was going to…" he trails off, not sure what he was going to do. The plan had never much gone beyond that. Beyond screaming at Fëanáro until some of the icy betrayal in his chest melted away. "You were meant to still be alive," he says again, voice plaintive and small even to his own ears.

It is not that he had held any hope of fixing things, of there ever being anything but bitter resentment between them, but he would rather a raging river of hatred to this terrible silence. You cannot fight with a ghost, and Ñolofinwë has so much he wishes to fight about. Instead, he is left with this: two hands that he refuses to let shake, grief like a knife against his throat, a list of battles left standing in a stalemate, a thousand barbed insults scraping his throat raw as he swallows them back down.

"Stealing the throne is not satisfying if you are not here to hate me for it," he mutters, feeling the guilty urge to check over his shoulder to make sure no one has heard that particular confession. In truth, it has been a long time since Ñolofinwë could have said with any confidence what it was he wanted from Fëanáro.

The throne, yes, for it is an easy thing to want, to throw a gauntlet down as he declares his claim and have Fëanáro rise to meet him in response. He had wanted Fëanáro's respect, earned or stolen; he had not cared. He had wanted Fëanáro on his knees, by choice or by force; he had not cared. He had wanted Fëanáro's love, an age-old want that was carved into his bones, but he was not so foolish as to believe that particular want could be obtained. And now he will have none of it, will be here in this strange land that is his for the taking, and there will always be a hollowness to it that comes from not having had to take it from his brother by force.

"If I thought it would bring you back, I would swear off the crown for good," he says wistfully, meaning every word. "I do not think you would believe me, but you would be here, so what would your belief matter? There would be other ways for me to incite your rage even if I did end that particular quest.” 

What Ñolofinwë wants is for Fëanáro to be here, to explain it to him with no pretense, no dancing around the subject, no subterfuge or exaggeration—he wants to know the full of it, of why his brother felt the way he did. Maybe it truly was as simple as that Ñolofinwë is the son of Indis. Maybe there was never anything more to it until Ñolofinwë began making a name for himself and drawing Fëanáro's individualized attention.

Ñolofinwë does not believe it though. He does not think you can hate someone so deeply for something as simple as their birth. But then, Fëanáro had ever been an overachiever, perhaps he had been so when it came to the matter of hatred as well. Ñolofinwë does not care, he wants to hear it anyway. If it is to be a knife, then he would rather one wielded by Fëanáro’s hand.

"Could you not have just—why did you have to go and get yourself killed?" he demands of Fëanáro's grave. "Fuck, Náro. You were never meant to die. Can you not just—" he cuts himself off, throat tight with unshed tears. Anything else he may wish to say has frozen on his tongue, and he can do nothing but stay there kneeling as he presses his forehead to the smooth stone.

He stays as such for a long while, until his knees begin to ache and a light rain begins to soak through his clothes. "I will miss you," he murmurs finally, throat still painfully tight. "I know you would not believe me, but I will miss you. Even as I hate you for what you did,  for all that you would never give me, I will miss you."

For a brief moment, he swears, it is as if a warm blanket has been wrapped around his shoulders, smoke and iron in the air, the barest pressure on his shoulders—

—and then he is just cold and wet, nothing but the smell of damp dirt and grass in the air.

Ñolofinwë does not look back when he leaves, heart an aching, twisted thing in his chest, and when he licks his lips, he pretends that the rain does not taste of salt. His brother is gone, and the awaiting land will not wait for Ñolofinwë to grieve.

 ☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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