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When they spoke of it, it was strictly hypothetical, and never sober.
“What would you say to him?” Always, it was Fingolfin who started it, of course. “If he came back.”
“Which he would not,” said Finarfin. It was a little dance they did to introduce the subject, to make sure that it was clear. “Namo and Manwë said so. He will not come back.”
“No, of course.” Neither of them hoped, or dreaded. “But if he did, what would you say to him?” And then it was on. It happened, sometimes, that one of their sisters joined in (though never at the same time, and neither of them spoke of it to the other), but they did not enjoy these games.
Not that they enjoyed it, exactly, or that it was a game. It was a way for them to deal with the absence of someone they had always known, and more importantly, someone whose presence had always ruled their daily lives.
It was, perhaps, a way to pass the time.
“Until what?” asked Findis. “He will not come back until the breaking of the world.” Until the end of the world, then. She downed her drink and left without a word.
“Maybe you should enjoy the respite, then,” said Lalwen, but she contradicted the statement by immediately bursting into tears. She claimed that the wine had been bad, but she had loved him, in spite of all his faults. Fingolfin understood.
“What would you say to him?” asked Fingolfin.
“I don’t know,” said Finarfin. “What would you say to him?”
Fingolfin had met his brother in the Halls. He knew that, though remembering that time was uneasy. “It’s cavernous,” he told his other brother, the one who had managed to stay alive. “I think.”
“Labyrinthesque,” added Finrod. “Is that a word?” It was not.
“There are columns?” Turgon ventured.
“I wouldn’t swear so,” said his father. Memories of it were like water or sand, hard to hold on to, always slipping away.
He knew that he had seen his brother, that they had, in fact, been together often. He supposed that they’d had plenty to say to each other, though, again, he had no notion of what they’d said.
“But you’re certain that you didn’t fight?” asked Finarfin.
“I don’t feel that we did,” replied Fingolfin. When he thought back on it, he had a strange feeling in his heart, as if he’d felt at home with his brother for the first time. Not at peace; but like they belonged to the same place, together. “We were united.”
“It only took the two of you dying, along with the majority of our family and our people, to achieve it,” remarked Lalwen. Finarfin would not have said it (he thought it, but he would not have said it).
“I think it took my son,” said Fingolfin.
Lalwen, who had witnessed the ravage of her nephew’s death, closed her eyes. “Alas for Fingon.” He had not come out of the Halls yet by then. Namo had claimed that he did not hold him back from life for his crimes against the Teleri, but Fingolfin would not believe it until Fingon himself told him that he had not wanted to leave the Halls.
“When he died, I felt it as though it was my own death,” said Fingolfin. “Every blow, every shameful deed that was inflicted on him. I felt them all. He survived so very long.”
“Nolo,” said Lalwen. Finarfin took his hand.
“I thought my soul would break. It would have, if Father and… If they hadn’t held me together. They kept me from shattering.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Lalwen. Part of her, Fingolfin knew, would always feel guilty for surviving that day, one of the lucky few outside of Turgon’s Gondolindrim who had managed to flee and reach the Falas.
“It was not you, who violated my child,” murmured Fingolfin. “And you could not have saved him. But he, he understood it, I think, to a degree. Only, when Fingon joined us, I could hold him and comfort him, whereas his child survived his torment, and he was alone in the Halls to bear it.”
“Father was there,” said Finarfin.
But Fingolfin shook his head. “Father was not with him then. I think he kept to himself for a long while.”
Lalwen hesitated. “They said he only allowed Namo and Nienna close to him at first.”
“Who said?” asked Finarfin. She shrugged. “You were on a different continent, and you still managed to be better informed than I was.”
“I have my ways, and I cared to know.”
Finarfin’s face did a curious thing that Fingolfin did not decipher.
“What would you say to him?” asked Fingolfin.
“I would tell him that he spent his entire life making mine difficult, and that he can’t do it anymore.”
“Noldomin and Noldoratta” suggested Argon.
Freshly returned Aredhel said, “Your imagination knows no bounds, it’s frightening.”
“Which would be first, and which second?” asked Finrod. “And what of the Gondolindrim?”
Argon had an answer prepared. “Noldoneldë, of course.”
Aredhel rolled her eyes. “Are you sure they didn’t let you out of the Halls too soon?”
As the dead came out of the Halls, there came the question of where the living belonged; was it fair to keep everyone in Tirion under the banner of the Noldor? For that, should they all live in Tirion? What about the Kinslayers who had been found healed and repentant in the Halls, ought they be free to roam the land and, possibly, encounter their erstwhile victims? And who would rule them?
They had delayed as much as they could, but finally, Fingon having been all but pushed out of the Halls kicking and screaming (not truly, but Aredhel had pleaded with him not to let her go back to the world alone, and Fingon had not been able to refuse), it seemed that the time had come.
(One thing had been easy, at least for the question of ruling: Fingon had begun the meeting by declaring his lack of interest in it and his intention to head for Alqualondë as soon as possible to beg King Olwë and his people for forgiveness. Whereupon Eärwen had stood up, embraced him for a long time, and they had left together. That was that.)
For the most part, the former dwellers of Gondolin had been content to huddle together where they could, leading Turgon to float the idea of building a new city for them. “Not New Gondolin,” he mentioned with a pointed look to Argon.
“And not Noldoneldë, or I will riot and oust all of you from the kingship,” added Aredhel.
“Do you wish to make a bid for it?” asked Finarfin, who seemed a little too fascinated by the idea for Fingolfin’s taste.
“Queen Ar-Feiniel,” she said with brilliant eyes. Soon, she laughed. “No. I think I shall have my primary residence in New Gondolin…”
“That will not be its name,” Turgon cut in.
“But my plan for now is to reconcile with Oromë and ask for his leave to hunt his woods again, as I did in my youth.” Her smile wavered. “One day, perhaps, my kinsman will join me there again, if he comes back.”
Fingolfin and Finarfin exchanged a glance. Neither of them said it, but it was on both their minds.
“And you?” Finrod asked his cousin. “You were High-King, and King before that. Are you building your new city so that you have an excuse to wear a crown once more?”
“In his defence, a crown goes with everything,” said Aredhel.
“I do not need a defence, or a crown,” said Turgon. “But thank you for asking. I wish to build a new place for my people, not a new throne for myself. If we must have titles, I will take that of lord of my city. We are not in Beleriand, and we need not have so many kings and high-kings. We must all obey Manwë, in any case, so what is the point?”
“He has been fairly lax in his rule, since the exile,” said Finarfin.
“Has he been pouting?” asked Aredhel. Turgon made as if to swipe at her for the insolence, but she dodged him easily.
“No, not pouting, but I suppose that nothing we could do compared to, well.” None of them was sure whether Finarfin referred to the actions of the disgraced Noldor or that of the Dark Vala, and none of them dared ask him to clarify. After a moment, he went on, “I believe that some of your arguments, Nolo, about the micromanagement of the Eldar and the Valar’s habit to treat us like children…”
“Ah, yes, my speech about self-governance.”
“That. Well, it’s possible that it’s made its mark, albeit later than you’d hoped. He said to me, once, that it had been wrong to try and control us, though at the time, we were speaking of Father’s remarriage. So, Turu… I apologise, Turgon. If you wish to be a king of your new city, it may not be a vain title.”
Turgon considered it. “I believe that it would depend on who rules Tirion, as well as how they would rule us.”
Which brought them back to their original point. “So, it is between the two of you, at least for the remaining, self-identifying Noldor,” Finrod summed up, grinning at his father and uncle. “As we all knew it would be. After all, as long as Grandfather is in the Halls, you are his heirs.”
Not only Finrod’s grandfather. Their brother, too, would be the heir, if he came back ( which he would not ).
Later, when their children had left them alone, Finarfin said, “I will give you the kingship if you wish.”
“I know,” said Fingolfin. “Perhaps there was something to Argon’s suggestion.”
“Dividing our people? Is that wise?”
“Not dividing them, acknowledging the divide.” Fingolfin took a moment to measure his next words. “None of them considers themselves abandoned by those who stayed, and if they ever did, they do not now. We all know what we owe, to you and to yours.”
Finarfin got up. “We will not speak about debts, Finwë-Nolofinwë. Be the king or don’t be, but…”
“Oh, Ara, please.” He reached to take his younger brother’s hand, made him sit back down. “Forget debts, speak about gratitude and understanding. Nevertheless, you can’t erase what happened and pretend that things are as they were, that we are one people. We who went to Beleriand, we who were unsafe for so long and survived. We who did not survive, we who lost. Perhaps we must be under a different banner as you who won. It would be too simple to say that we are one people after an age of being several.”
Finarfin squeezed his hand and let go. “Two kings, then? Or more. This will soon prove difficult, especially when our brother’s followers decide that they would rather be ruled by anyone rather than us.”
“I think that ship sailed a long time ago,” chuckled Fingolfin. “Don’t they already go through Nerdanel when they need something? It may be that we have been fooling ourselves and that she should be queen of us all.”
Finarfin tilted his head to the side, pondering it. “That is tempting. And that way, if he came back…”
“Which he would not.”
“Of course, but if he did, he would be content that at least someone competent ruled in his absence.”
“What would you say to him?”
“That when I injured Morgoth seven times, it wasn’t a reference to the number of his sons. I would have kept going, if I hadn’t died. It doesn’t truly matter, only, I don’t want him to take it as a compliment.”
The closest Findis came to saying that she missed her only older brother was when she finally, finally, chose to officially become a servant of Manwë.
(Unofficially, she had been one of his most devoted followers for most of her life, and would have asked to be elevated before if it had been possible, and if it hadn’t meant leaving their mother. With Fingolfin back from the Halls and Lalwen back from Middle-earth and Finarfin not having to shoulder the kingship alone, and now that the rules to join the service of the Valar had somewhat loosened, Findis at last had no excuse, and had to dare, and be rewarded.)
Her family gathered at the foot of the Taniquetil to see her off (not all of them; her brother and six of his sons were in the Halls, of course, as well as two of Finarfin’s children; and then, there was Fingon, who had come back from Alqualondë just long enough to obtain a horse and leave Tirion again, in search of… well. Fingolfin did not know what his son was in search of, but he knew that he would not find it in the dark stretches of land south of the woods of Oromë).
The children (who were not children) embraced their aunt one by one. Then, Nerdanel kissed her cheek awkwardly, and then Anairë, and then Eärwen, the three of them stepping away to leave Findis’ siblings and mother a moment with her.
“I wish your father could see you,” said Indis, kissing her daughter’s hands. “He would be so proud.” Findis bowed her head in grief. All this time, and still, his absence still wounded them.
“Is it strange that I envied you for seeing him?” she asked when it was Fingolfin’s turn to kiss her goodbye, last of her living siblings. “Father, I mean. Although, not him only. I…” She flushed, embarrassed. “I know that he is there for a reason. Not Father. And yet.”
“And yet,” Fingolfin echoed.
“What would you…”
“No,” said Findis. “No, what would he say to me ? Have you thought of that?”
The construction of New Gondolin, as everyone called it, though Turgon assured that it was not called that, was well under way, when Namo came to visit it and asked for a meeting.
“Do you mean ‘demanded’?” asked Lalwen when he related the exchange at their next Royally Mandated Family Dinner (Except For Fingon Because Oromë’s Hunt Was Not A Postal Service Unless It Was An Emergency And Family Dinner Did Not Count As One). Lalwen had made a lot of progress in her efforts to trust the Valar again, but even then, there were some areas in which she was lacking, namely, expecting them to be polite. Fingolfin did not blame her. Much.
“No,” said Turgon, “he asked if I would grant him a meeting.”
“And?” prompted Finrod.
“I said that I would, but I would like it to take place here, with my uncles and liege lords.”
“I can’t believe you managed to raise one proper child,” said Nerdanel. “My congratulations, Verrendo.”
“I’m proper,” argued Argon, who had not bothered to change out of his riding clothes before sitting for the meal.
“So, what you’re announcing is that Namo is coming here,” said Finarfin. “My goodness. What do you serve to the lord of the dead when he calls on you?”
“Does he drink tea?” wondered Finrod.
“Does he drink at all?” added Aredhel.
“I’ll ask Amarië.”
Amarië did not have time to investigate the matter before the meeting. Ironically enough, Namo was not one to be kept waiting long.
And he did not come alone, though his guests declined any offers of tea. “Truly, Grandfather, I am not thirsty,” said Idril. She and her mortal husband took their seats as far from Namo as they could. Fingolfin wondered if she was afraid that Namo would snatch Tuor up and carry him off to the afterlife if they came too close.
“Well, fair Lord Namo,” said Finarfin, evidently the bravest of them. “Perhaps you might tell us what you wished to discuss with my nephew?”
Namo spoke, though Fingolfin had guessed his purpose from the moment Idril had come into the room with him. “I have decided to release from my Halls one who has committed many ill-deeds. Before I do so, I will consult the ones who have suffered from his crimes.”
“Oh,” said Turgon. He bent forward and buried his face in his hands, though he did not weep.
Idril stood up. “For my part, I have no objection against Maeglin returning, because I know that you would not let him come back to life if there was a danger against me, my husband and my son. Also, I think it would help us all move forward, and I am not glad to know that there are some who are in the Halls when they could be out of them. But if I may, my Lord Mandos, do you believe that we alone suffered from his crimes? We alone cannot decide for all, nor should we.”
“Nor will you. I alone decide who walks out of the Halls of the dead,” he reminded them. “I have already decided. However, Maeglin’s victims deserve a warning. Others suffered, it is true, but he targeted you in particular, which is why I came to you. For the others, I think that their lord can prepare them better than I.”
Their lord straightened up, his face resolved. “I would like to be there when he wakes, if I may.”
“I assume that Aredhel will also come,” said Fingolfin. “Shouldn’t she be present for this?”
“She is not his victim.”
“But she suffered,” said Idril, “not only before she died. She came to me after she was reembodied, and she knelt low in front of me, full of shame for her son’s actions. My own aunt, my proud aunt who cared for me after my mother’s passing. She had to stoop for shame. Maeglin will have to apologise to her for this, as well as for the rest.”
Tuor half lifted his arm, as if asking for the right to speak. “Has he shown remorse?”
“I do not let the unrepentant out,” said Namo, not unkindly.
“And he is… improved?” Turgon asked with eyes full of sorrow.
“We have done all we could to help him,” said Namo. “Enough that he will not be a threat to others. In that way, he is improved, as much as he could be within the Halls. But it has become apparent that Elves cannot complete their journey of healing without taking the last steps, and those they cannot take without rejoining the world they are bound to. Maeglin is ready to take these steps.” He stared at Turgon. “Nienna bid me say that she would encourage you to help him, amongst all others. Too long, he has followed in the footsteps of his sire; now, it would be best that he followed in yours, for you took him once as a son.”
“I did, and was ill-repaid,” said Turgon. Glancing at Idril, he continued: “But I would take on that task, for my sister’s sake if not for his. For mine, too, as I did love him once.”
As much as he could, Namo looked glad to hear that. Some arrangements were made, Turgon and Idril (and Tuor) left to seek Aredhel, and in the end, Fingolfin and Finarfin were left alone to unpack.
“‘I did love him once’,” Fingolfin quoted. “He makes it seem so simple.”
“He has not only your manners, but your heart too,” said Finarfin. “Maeglin will show a hint of regret and Turgon will already have forgiven all.”
“Perhaps. In the meantime, Maeglin is coming out.” He paused, allowing Finarfin time to answer. Finarfin did not answer. “I did not think I would ever get to meet my grandchild. Did you?” Finarfin hummed. “It goes to show, that…” Expecting to be interrupted, he trailed off, and was mildly disappointed when his brother did not pick up the thread of the conversation. “Well, Ara?”
“Finish your sentences.”
“Namo has a heart.”
“Namo did what Namo does.” Relenting, Finarfin got up to fetch a bottle of wine from the reserve he kept at the back of a cabinet. “Let us examine the situation. Maeglin was not an exile, though he was born of one. He did not disobey the ordinance of a Vala. He was corrupted by one, yes, but from what I gathered, it happened reasonably often in Beleriand. He betrayed his people and attempted to murder his kin, yes, but again, people have been let out of the Halls with more on their conscience. He swore no oaths condemning him to everlasting darkness if he failed. No one ever said, ‘do not do this thing, or no pity and Halls for eternity’.”
“But there was pity,” said Fingolfin. “According to Namo’s judgement, I should be in the Halls as we speak, my children and yours should be there too.”
“My sons are,” Finarfin remarked. “All but one, and he died after they did.”
“You know why Aegnor will not leave the Halls, and Angrod will not leave without him. But they could leave, if they would. Because no matter how stern Namo is or claims to be, even he can be moved. If he showed pity to a little girl who cried for her mortal love, if Beren could be returned, why then not my brother? If their followers who swore no oaths but slayed their kin out of loyalty could repent and be forgiven, why not my brother’s sons, who were tied to their Oath? Why should there be pity for all the world and all of the people in it but not for the son of Finwë?”
“Say rather, for the brother of Fingolfin,” Finarfin said softly. “As you did love him once.”
“As I recall, I did not love him alone.”
Finarfin bowed his head and said nothing for a long time. Eventually, he whispered, so low that Fingolfin wasn’t sure that he’d heard correctly. “I knocked on the door.”
“The door?” repeated Fingoldin. It sunk in. “The door.”
“No one answered, of course.” He laughed at himself. “Of course no one answered. It was so terrible. There I stood, at the door of the Halls of Mandos, and I thought, ‘my brother is in there’. I hated him so much by then, and still I could not not try. This is what I would say to him. That I hated him, but still, I tried.”
“Ara…”
“We are his father’s sons,” said Finarfin. Never before had he interrupted someone. “He should have tried. So, if he comes back…”
“Which he will not.”
“No,” agreed Finarfin, “but if he did, I would say, ‘I tried for you, and I expect some level of effort on your part in return.’”
Fingolfin might have laughed such a simple statement off. But he knew all too well what it had been like, to grow up in the house of Fëanor (for it was their brother’s house, first and foremost, when he lived in it) and be ruled by his moods. They had learned, almost before they’d learned to speak, to divine when Fëanor was happy and when he was not, when to leave him alone, when to leave Father to him, when not to remind him of their presence.
And he had not always been cruel; but in a way, seeing the small, bitter twist of displeasure on Fëanor’s face and knowing they caused it was worse to bear than hearing him lash out and slam the door on his way out. His heart had been broken by the circumstances of their existence, and he would never let them forget it, and he would never try to forgive it.
He had never tried for them. Even his rare acts of kindness had not been bequeathed out of love for them, but to please their shared father. Only in the Halls, when both of their souls had been bared, when it was easier to see all the ways they were alike than all the things which separated them, only then had Fëanor taken Fingolfin by his side.
If he came back (which he would not), it would not be a bad thing to ask. Full-brother in heart, or not at all. Fëanor was the most skilled of all of them. Certainly, if he tried, he would succeed.
“That’s good,” Fingolfin said at last. “Can I use that?”
“No, that is my thing,” replied Finarfin. “You can use the Fingon death story.”