Am I My Brother's Keeper? by atlantablack  

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Am I My Brother's Keeper?

It's as ancient as Eden, the way of brotherhood. The give and the take, the fury, the grief. It is fire on the altar, it is a baby's grip on his brother's heel, the birthright that was stolen. The younger says to the older, why have you forsaken me, and the older says to the younger, I am not your keeper, and the story always begins and ends in bloodshed.

“the hairpin turn” | quynhorlose

 ☀︎

Fëanáro does not know what to think when he hears the wretched scream like falling stones go echoing through the city. He knows instinctively that it must be a Vala, for who else in Aman could make such a noise, but he cannot fathom a reason for a Vala to be in such pain.

When he first turns the corner, his eyes cannot even make sense of the scene. Even when he has made sense of it, he spends another moment simply unable to believe in it, for once mistrusting his own eyes. These moments sit in the pocket of a minute, precious seconds slipping through the air that he wastes on disbelief. The disbelief gives way quickly though to fear, to a black fury that Melkor would dare to harm one of the Eldar.

Later, he will look back on this moment, on finding Melkor bearing down on Ñolofinwë, and try to brush off the panic that had gone striking through him as irrelevant. It is a panic he would have felt no matter who was engaged in such a foolish fight and so, it does not matter.

Lies, even to oneself, work best when they are shrouded in truth. This does not make them less of a lie.

Melkor's face is cracked open with malice and rage, blood black as tar soaking his robes and marring his skin. There is an arrow still lodged in his shoulder, a bloody spear gripped in his hand. Ñolofinwë is crouched low near several crushed baskets, left hand cradled against his body, lips pulled back in a snarl, blood on his teeth. There is a disconcertingly feral expression that does not belong marring his face, and a deep unease goes trickling down Fëanáro's spine.

He does not get a chance to think on it for the panic spikes sharp and blazing through his chest as Melkor takes a step forward, all murderous intent as he stalks toward Fëanáro's brother. He does not give himself even a second to think before racing down the street to snatch up the bow thrown on the ground.

Fëanáro has long been suspicious of Melkor, yet somehow the pure malice on his face when he whirls to face Fëanáro is a shock. It makes him angrier, makes him a little desperate. He knocks another arrow, painfully aware that this is not a winnable fight, and lets the arrow fly right as his idiot of a brother darts up behind Melkor and stabs him in the back.

By the gods, the noise Melkor makes feels as if it is trying to draw blood all on its own. A harsh, bellowing noise like gravel that goes vibrating through the air as he backhands Ñolofinwë into a wall. Fëanáro looses another arrow, a great swell of horrified fury burning up his throat when Ñolofinwë makes no move to rise. He would give much for a better weapon, something that may actually be useful in ridding them of this bastard Vala.

Melkor turns murderous eyes on Fëanáro and begins stalking forward when a horn sounds through the air from very close by. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpses pale blonde hair, and his chest seizes at the idea of his son so close to danger. It takes only seconds though before Oromë's horn rings forth in response in the distance, Melkor turning furious eyes toward the sound. He looks back to Fëanáro with eyes like the void and snarls. Says darkly, "You will suffer for this," and then becomes as a dark cloud of flickering smoke and flees.

Ñolofinwë has finally risen once more, deathly pale as he leans on a wall, and the furious relief that goes burning through Fëanáro is terrifying in its intensity. “You fucking idiot! What were you thinking!” he yells the moment he is in front of Ñolofinwë.

The look that he receives in return is unsettling. A strange, blank look that lasts too long to be anything other than worrying, before it melts into desperate relief. "Fëanor," he says in a strange accent, a strange butchering of Fëanáro's name. He blinks, seems to hear himself, before saying, "Fëanáro," with such relief it is staggering. He has never once heard his name in that tone from Ñolofinwë.

“You are lucky you are not dead,” he snaps. The uneasiness settling beneath his skin at Ñolofinwë strange behavior causes the words to come out harsher than he'd meant for them to. Ñolofinwë blinks at him uncomprehendingly, wavering just slightly, as if his knees are about to give out. Fëanáro does not even think before raising his hands to catch him if he falls.

“I am not dead," he echoes, voice blank. There is a pause where his face does something very strange, crumpling in on itself and breaking apart into desperate relief. "Fëanáro. I am not dead." He begins laughing, and a sick stone of fear settles in Fëanáro's stomach.

The flinch that goes through his body when Ñolofinwë's mind blows up next to his is involuntary. He lets so few people into his mind, has never been eager to allow another into his thoughts. He does not wish to allow it now, but he can feel that something is deeply wrong, and Ñolofinwë has never bothered asking before when they both knew the answer. So, he grits his teeth and reluctantly opens his mind, reaching back.

The feeling of their minds meeting is a shock. It is as if a burst of bitterly icy wind goes blowing through his mind as Ñolofinwë pushes off the wall. There is ice and despair and a thick, weeping grief wrapped tight around every single memory Ñolofinwë flings at him.

I am not dead, Ñolofinwë thinks, this time. He drops his head against Fëanáro's chest, one hand clenched tight in Fëanáro's shirt as he shakes.

Fëanáro cannot make sense of the mess of memories that have been thrown at him. There are so many, all jumbled together in the wrong order. He does not think some of them were meant to be given to him at all. He curls his hand around the back of Ñolofinwë's neck, worried at the way he is shaking. "If you were not already grievously injured,” he says in a low voice, furious at the sheer amount of death he's grasped in what little he has parsed, “I would punch you.”

"It is a good thing I am grievously injured then," Ñolofinwë responds, voice thin with pain. Fëanáro, still pressed up against his mind, gets an overwhelming rush of dizziness and nausea mixed with a desperation so strong it nearly overwhelms all else.

You are an idiot, he thinks, sighing at the unwilling worry lodged tight and thick in his throat. The song he sings, weaving a cradle of sleep around Ñolofinwë, is one he has not sung since Tyelpe was very small. One he never sang at all for any of his half-siblings. Ñolofinwë does not even try to fight it, collapsing into it eagerly.

Please, he hears Ñolofinwë think quietly, mind nearly lost to dreams. Please let this song last.

Rest, he sends back, spreading his awareness out until he has blanketed Ñolofinwë's mind with the warmth of his own. I will be here when you wake.

His brother is asleep before the thought finishes, and he catches Ñolofinwë neatly in his arms, doing his best to not jostle his injuries for fear of waking him again.

"Atar," Tyelkormo says, appearing in front of him, hunting horn dangling loosely in his fingers. He is very pale, eyes incredibly wide as he looks at his uncle. “Ìrissë ran ahead to alert the healers."

He nods, already moving for the palace. "Go tell Maitimo what has occurred. Gather your brothers. All of you stay together, be on guard."

"On guard for what?"

"In case Morgoth returns," he says darkly, the name from Ñolofinwë's memories springing easily to his lips. It is not likely, but he also will not rule out the possibility. Not after Ñolofinwë has so terribly infuriated him. Tyelkormo nods and races off.

Fëanáro is met at the top of the palace steps by both Indis and Írimë running out the doors. Indis goes pale when she sees Ñolofinwë, but Írimë goes red-faced and furious.

"What happened?" Írimë asks, violence clinging to every syllable.

"He attacked a Vala in the middle of the street," Fëanáro says shortly, striding past her. "The Vala fought back."

 ☀︎

Chapter End Notes

I don't have the slightest clue really what the hell was going on in Fëanor's head for the rest of this loop.....but he was having a rough time for like almost all of it. --- I'm also on Tumblr!

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