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He was fighting for what he knew was his life.
Tightening his grip on Ringil, he just so managed to avoid another of the swinging blows, Grond coming down hard and rending the earth, even as he threw himself to the side. He stumbled as the ground shook from the impact, foot catching on a stone and bringing him to his knees.
He was tired.
Sweat coated the inside of his armor, and he had started to feel its weight, exhaustion making itself known as the metal he otherwise so easily bore began to press down on him like a cage. Desperately, he tried to catch his breath, but no matter how greedily he sucked in puff after puff of air, there didn’t seem to be enough in the whole of Arda to fill his lungs. Still, with all his might he willed his knees to bear him up, his feet to keep moving.
He couldn’t keep this up for much longer.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice screamed at him to retreat, to get out of there while he still could and count it a victory. But he silenced it, weak and powerless as it was. The cold rage in his heart had long choked out any other opportunity but to see this through to the end. He would avenge the death and destruction that Morgoth had caused – and though he knew he could not, would not win this fight, could not bring back the dead even if he by some miracle managed to slay his enemy – it now seemed to him the only way forward.
There was nothing left for him. The only road forward now was the one that led to his Doom. He had accepted that fate, had, if he thought about the ice sitting in his stomach for too long, perhaps even anticipated it.
With a cry he lifted Ringil high in the air, intending to strike again – strike and strike until he could no more – when suddenly, out of nowhere, something impacted his chest with a deafening crunch. His feet left the ground. Wind rushed past his ears as he was thrown back, dark colors blurring before his eyes.
For a moment there was nothing, as he was suspended in the weightless aftermath of the violence that had ripped him from the earth.
Then, brutally, he hit the ground. His back slammed against the mud and rocks littering the landscape, armor bending under the force as more air than he thought could possibly be in him was driven out of his lungs. His head impacted not a second later, helm cracking open before flying off his head, and briefly everything went black in front of his eyes. Ringil was flung from his hand, fingers letting go on instinct, hand uncurling as his whole body skidded across the ground.
For a moment – short and blessed – he felt stunned, everything appearing like it had been submerged in water, sensation muted while his head was strangely full.
Then, abruptly, the veil drew back, and pain exploded in his chest, coming from both the front and back. His head was pounding, pulsating violently and rhythmically as his vision swam before his eyes. He could feel himself breathing, each rise and fall of his chest drawn against immeasurable pressure, spiked with a sharp stabbing pain.
He tried to move, but his arms felt heavy, unwilling to obey his command, and each twitch sent new shocks of pain through his aching chest. Everything hurt; hurt in such blinding agony it eclipsed all else.
A short distance away he could hear Morgoth laugh, steps falling menacingly as he drew closer and closer. He struggled to shift, trying desperately to shove the agony aside for long enough to get onto his feet. With effort, he forced his arm to move, groping for the hilt of his sword as the imposing form of his foe slowly came into view.
But he could not reach it.
He lay defenseless as Morgoth lifted his iron-clad foot high in the air, malice pouring from his form. Dread pooled in his stomach, heart beating fast.
With the last of his strength, he managed to roll out of the way even as the mighty foot fell, missing being crushed by a hair’s breadth. The vibrations rattled his teeth, travelling down his spine and he felt nausea well up as he turned, shaken and aching and sure that whatever precious time this had bought him, it could not be much.
Against hope though, his roll had managed to put him within range of his sword. Encircling the pommel with shaking fingers, he gathered his failing strength and swung around from his position on the floor, catching Morgoth in the unprotected area of his heel even as the Vala tried to step back from where he had failed to crush Fingolfin.
A piercing cry went up, as Morgoth howled in wrath and agony, stumbling to his knees. Something like satisfaction spread in Fingolfin’s chest at the sight, even as the pain spiked and his lungs felt like they were constricted by thorny vines.
Too late he noticed the trap he had laid for himself.
Whereas before the Vala had towered over him like a storm, now, though his form was bent and his face drawn in pain, his hands were within reach.
And just as he noticed it, they shot forward, encircling him in a crushing grip. They closed around his torso, lifting him off the ground and squeezing; squeezing so tight the metal of his armor creaked, bent, caved where it had not already been deformed by the abuse it had been put through. He choked, breath drawn out of his lungs yet again together with little specks of blood.
His bones felt like they were about to shatter. Blackness started to creep in at the edges of his vision, and he felt a terrible wave of vertigo hit.
This was it. This was going to be the end. There was no escape. No chance, nowhere to go – time was up.
And with that realization came a strange calm; he knew what he would do.
If this was to be how it ended, he would make Morgoth pay for it one last time.
Mustering the last of his strength he swung with a great roar, wildly, blindly, at the face of his Enemy, intending to mar him with one last strike before his fëa abandoned his hröa and took flight towards Mandos.
The blade caught something. Hard. A clear ringing filled the air, like a bell, piercing the sudden silence that fell around it. Vibrations shot up his arm, even as he dropped his sword.
Then, everything turned white.
For a split-second there emerged only a slight glow, a small glimmer, a tiny light making itself known as little more than a fine line, before suddenly and rapidly it exploded in a great outburst, like rivers of radiance bursting forth from a dam.
Rays of gold and silver pierced the fumes that hung about, poisonous and foul, and illuminated the dim and dreary desolation surrounding the gates of Angband. The clear, high pitched ringing continued to grow, light swelling to a blinding brilliance as his senses became overwhelmed. Everything was bright, a shadowless light that brought such painful peace that it left no room for any thought within his mind.
There was a terrible scream. It sounded somewhere close – somewhere in the distance – he could no longer tell – encompassing everything. Distantly he noticed there was a smell of burning in the air.
Suddenly, the pressure around his chest let up and he could feel himself slip. But before he could worry about falling light somehow materialized and shot forth to catch him, swirling around him in a blur and suspending him in midair.
And then all he could feel was dazzling luminescence. It was warm, like fire, like a blaze swallowing everything around him – and yet its destruction did not touch him. He felt content and comforted as it cradled him, a strange familiarity washing over him that felt like danger and safety rolled into one. And as it wrapped around him, burning brightly, he felt himself drift away, giving himself up to the dark that had been pulling at his edges.
* * *
When he woke up again Morgoth was gone. He was confused; had in truth not expected to open his eyes ever again this side of the sea. Not after Morgoth had him in his grasp – not with the state his body had been in. There should have been – he should have been – well, he supposed he had rather expected to land himself in Mandos.
But his body still felt real, still ached and hurt like it never had before, not even on the darkest days on the Ice. His breath rattled in his chest, coming in flat stuttering bursts that shot stabs of pain through his body, and he could feel something dig into his back uncomfortably – possibly his armor from where it was horribly bent and broken.
But Morgoth was gone.
Blearily he tried to focus. As he looked around to shake off the disorientation he still felt, his eyes caught on a shining figure of light sitting some paces to his left on an upturned rock, holding what, upon closer inspection, was his sword.
But as the image slowly came into focus, he became less and less sure he wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t dead and experiencing some kind of hallucination.
Transfixed, he could only stare. And as he stared, astonished, the other stared right back, straight at him, unsettling him deeply yet drawing him in. Through their eyes shone a tightly controlled blaze, while their body glowed with silver golden hues of radiant light. It was like fire was looking at him directly, the confines of a hröa peeled back until there was only a thin layer of corporality holding the pure unbridled energy at bay behind a flimsy, translucent shell. It was overwhelming. It should have been agonizing.
He felt himself tremble under the silent regard, goosebumps spreading on his skin as his heart rate picked up even as he wrenched his gaze away.
And though he had been clad in more layers of flesh the last time they met, still the figure was unmistakable. He knew those hands, clasping his sword. Those arms connected to a torso. That raven black hair faintly illuminated as though the stars had caught on its strands, and that face, beautiful as it was sharp and deadly. He knew those eyes, looking at him, fixed on him with all their smoldering focus while the light kindled behind them burned through him with all its force until he felt naked and exposed.
He knew. And yet it could not be.
Fëanor.
His brother was supposed to be dead.
His mind rebelled, could not reconcile what he saw with what he felt. Could not grasp the truth he was presented with, with the knowledge he held. His brother was dead, and it was impossible that he should be here, should be looking at him.
He had the strange urge to touch, to test if his hand would go through him were he to brush his fingers against Fëanor’s skin. He felt a little disturbed by the impulse and would not dare to, even were he in reach to do so; even as he felt the light beckoning him to try.
He swallowed, trying to make sense of it all, of the ache steadily building inside his chest until he could no longer tell apart how much of it came from having his body uselessly thrown to the ground and how much of it was him choking on the unbidden swell of emotion he fiercely tried to suppress.
His brother was dead.
His mind kept snagging on this. Fëanor had been dead for so many years. Had died even before Fingolfin had ever set foot on the hither shore, before he had ever had a chance to confront him over his final betrayal. Before he could take Fëanor by the shoulders and find absolution for his own mistakes by screaming all the anger and grief he kept coiled tightly in his gut at the brother he could blame for his misfortune without regret.
There was an obstruction in his throat, breath coming harder as he choked on his own thoughts, a thousand conflicting feelings desperately warring for dominance. The specter of his brother kept looking at him, continued boring into him with such intense focus he felt the world narrow around himself, as though it bent to obey Fëanor’s wishes, like all things did.
Like he tried to tell himself he never would again.
Then, suddenly, Fëanor moved – if move was the correct word to use.
His limbs appeared to glide, light trailing in the wake of his movements even as it enveloped him. It was all around him, it moved with him and gave shape to him, yet seemingly obeyed his command.
And in this light Fingolfin saw him tilt his head, looking down at Ringil where it sat in his hands, and then back up to pierce Fingolfin’s soul again, before, like a bolt of lightning illuminating the dark, he spoke.
“You kept it,” his brother’s voice sounded, coming from somewhere deep within the blaze and yet carrying as though it hung upon the very air surrounding them.
He started. It was not what Fingolfin expected to be the first words out of his brother’s mouth, should they ever speak again. He had thought that, should such a thing ever come to pass, he would face his brother’s wrath, would have to weather the storm of his accusations. Though a small, foolish and unrealistic part of him he knew he could not trust had hoped for a show of remorse. But a comment on his choice of weapon? He could not begin to fathom why this of all the things he could ask, all the things he could scream, was what his brother wanted to speak of.
It seemed that even in death Fëanor would always manage to surprise him, to confuse him, no matter how much he studied him.
He glanced at Ringil, sitting in his brother’s iridescent hands, and could not help thinking that he had. He had kept the blade and could hardly explain it. Had never thought he would have to. And now, confronted, the words stuck somewhere inside him, mingling into a knot of complicated emotions lodged deep within him.
Oh, this was a little-known fact – that his sword came from the hands of the brother who had once used a blade not dissimilar to threaten him with, to cut open his skin. He could still feel the ghost of the sensation all this time later, a sharp edge digging into the softness of his throat.
They had barely been on speaking terms after that – after the incident with the sword, after his brother’s banishment to what then had seemed to him a harsh and cold environment far to the north, long before he had to learn, through grief and hardship, that it was possible to traverse even the darkest, most hostile corners of Arda and survive.
Yes, it was when the crown had sat upon Fingolfin’s brow as regent of Tirion and he had spent his days stewing in angered bitterness, when a messenger had come from Formenos.
After his initial confusion he had anticipated a letter – perhaps from his father, who had wrapped himself in silence after his departure. But there had been none – not on this day and not on any that would follow. His father would remain silent as he was absent, a cold wall of unacknowledged abandonment that would not thaw until his death, upon which the words that lay unspoken between them became destined to remain unsaid forever.
Instead, there had been a box, unmarked but carved with the star of his brother’s house. And in it, a sword. There it lay, cold yet beautiful, wrought with a silver hilt and emblazoned with small blue gems that refracted the light stunningly, set within beautiful swirling designs.
The blade had been sharp. The maker had been unmistakable.
It was a stunning gift made with cunning hands. And yet it had come with no message, presented to him, who had been cut by his brother’s sword before.
He hadn’t known what to make of it then. Had never understood why Fëanor made it for him in the first place. Had, at first, expected a trap, though what it was he could not decipher. Idly he had entertained the thought that perhaps it was poorly crafted – though he had fast abandoned the idea. His brother was too proud to ever leave a work he finished subpar, would sooner die than present a blade that was less than perfect – even when he had given it to one he did not love.
Long he had wondered, puzzled over it and could not discern what his brother had thought. Perhaps it was an insult – he had wondered but could not explain the care which went into the making. Perhaps it was an apology – he had dared to think, before discarding the thought as folly. He'd scowled at himself then, anger and resentment mixing with an aching, wounded feeling he did not know how to banish.
In the end he had given up trying to figure it out. Had closed the lid and put the box into the far recesses of his storage space, trying to forget it. Tried to forget the blistering fury that barely covered the desperate hurt beneath and focused on reigning.
But he’d kept the sword. Had kept it and cared for it and when it came time to depart Aman, he had not hesitated to take it with him.
And when, after Fëanor left him behind in Araman, he resolved in his anger to cross the northern wastes, he had given it a name: Ringil. The cold. For the icy fury he had felt, the anger laced with real hate that had welled up in his heart even as he felt the desperate needles of hurt prick his skin like a merciless winter storm.
He never thought he would have to examine his actions; would have to provide answers to questions he barely understood himself. Could not bring himself to say I could not bear to leave it. But couldn’t avoid the question entirely either. And so eventually he had to answer.
“I did. It is a good blade.” he admitted, voice coming out thick and a little wet as he forced himself to speak, his lungs to keep working.
“Of course it is. I don’t make substandard swords,” the amalgamation of light that looked like his brother stated. He looked so confident, so casually proud, yet indignant, brows drawing together in annoyance at not getting the answer he was looking for – a gesture so painfully familiar, it hurt Fingolfin’s heart as he recalled those very mannerisms from the past.
“But why keep it?” Fëanor probed, not letting Fingolfin evade the question, fiery gaze still intensely focused on him as though Fingolfin was a puzzle he could not decipher.
“Why does it matter?” Fingolfin tried to deflect, but Fëanor’s eyes seemed to drill through his soul in search of answers, laying him bare. He felt exposed, was painfully aware he was still lying on the ground in an alarming display of vulnerability. And he had no desire to explain to Fëanor the complicated knot of feelings that had made him cling to the damn sword like it was one of his most precious possessions. He would not humiliate himself so.
“Was it not a gift?” he asked, trying to guard himself. Little sense as that action had made, he had never doubted that much.
The fire and light across from him flickered. Fëanor looked like he had bitten into something sour, his body’s outline fizzling at the edges as emotion rippled through his form. “It was,” he said, clipped and to the point, before impatiently pushing on, a glare evident in his eyes. “But why keep it?”
He wished he could shield himself from the assault, tried to push himself up into a seated position but had to give up when again pain, sudden, sharp, and terrible shot up his torso. He flinched, dropping back down and curling into himself until he was lying on his side. Could not stop himself from feeling shame, like a coward, for hiding his face, despite the agony he was in.
And as he tried to breathe through both the waves of pain and the terrible embarrassment that pressed down on him like a rock, his brother stared at him with a strange kind of blank yet intense look he could not place.
Fingolfin found he could not bear to look at him. Still could not bring himself to answer. Not here. Not now. Not when something raw and vulnerable was creeping up his throat, squeezing it shut, even as he desperately tried not to feel it.
And as he fought against his own mind, cursing his own softness, he felt the old grief and resentment rear again their familiar heads – like the companions they had long been, inextricably linked to all that lay between him and his brother.
Long ago something terrible and dark had begun to nest in his heart, an old wound, twisted with acrimony spreading its roots through all that he was.
“What does it matter? Have you nothing better to ask me? It’s not like you cared when you made it,” he snapped, before he could reign himself in, the words escaping without his consent and hanging between them like a heavy drape of lingering grievance.
Fëanor looked surprised, briefly, almost baffled, though strangely the fury Fingolfin expected remained absent. There was a small hesitation – noticeable only for the way it was entirely uncharacteristic of Fëanor – before he answered, painfully honest as he always was, spearing none the brunt of his feelings.
“You are right, I did not care,” the damning words left his mouth.
“Ah.”
He closed his eyes, as hurt coursed through his body, bitter as it was unwarranted. He had never assumed there was any affection behind the gift and yet – something inside him felt betrayed. It stung, the knowledge he had always had, had never really doubted, still settling heavy in his gut as it was confirmed.
When he opened his eyes again, he was just in time to catch the tail end of something that looked like annoyance, yet not crossing his brother’s face. It was fleeting, gone again before he could fully discern it.
“Don’t look at me like that. I gave it to you regardless after all. Because –“ Fëanor cut himself off, expression stormy. He frowned, brow furrowing in an agitated scowl before continuing. “It does not matter. I made it and I chose to give it to you, little though you have thanked me. It doesn’t have to mean anything else. What I cannot understand is why you would keep it. There were many blades to choose from ere we left Aman – do not deny it and feign ignorance, I know your people made weapons too. I did not think you wise enough to pick the best. So why? I grow tired of asking.”
He almost laughed. It was so very Fëanor. If he was crazy and delirious, at least his mind remembered to portray his brother correctly, remembered the casual way he wore his confidence just shy of being conceited.
It made something inside him ache, a terrible pang of absence he wished he did not feel.
In the end, the answer was simple – so painfully so, it was simply impossible to say.
It should have been easy to hate Fëanor. To resent him fully. To remember only his cruelty and his anger and his disregard and the many ways in which he had made Fingolfin’s life a nightmare over and over and over again.
And yet he still could not bring himself to hate that which he had never managed to disentangle from himself. Who was he, without his brother? So much of who he was, he measured always against his brother – Fëanor had been both goal and obstacle for as long as he could remember. He could no more hate his brother than he could hate himself. Could separate himself from feeling a love that tasted more like grief and anger, sharp and metallic on his tongue, yet unmistakably coming straight from his heart no matter how much he resented it. It shamed him.
“Is it not enough for you to know I did,” he said, trying to twist himself away and escape his brother’s eyes. “Since when-,” he had to break off unexpectedly as pain shot up his chest, sudden and overwhelming. He must have moved too much. He curled into himself further, trying to ride out the tide until the feeling died down enough he did not feel like he would throw up or pass out. Or worse: both. Time passed as he writhed in pain, agony numbing all other senses.
When he could focus again, Fëanor had moved from his perch on the rock, light trailing behind him as it fell to the ground in little bursts, glittering like stardust following his steps. He bent down at Fingolfin’s side, like a pillar of light falling in on itself as it engulfed Fingolfin where he lay, hands methodically freeing him of the armor he was still caught in. His face was unreadable yet somehow full – full of that strange emotion Fingolfin still could not read.
He let it happen, too confused and entirely too spent to even think of objecting. Could not protest when some of the pressure on his lungs let up as the bent metal encasing his chest was removed. His brother’s hands shone, silver and gold mixing to illuminate them in a pleasant but penetrating radiance. His touch felt warm, warm like a fire on a cold winter night. It was pure energy tightly controlled, fenced in, dimmed until it was almost gentle, but powerful enough in its essence for Fingolfin to know it could easily become scorching.
It did not hurt, did not burn him even as light danced along his skin in little flames where Fëanor touched him.
He had never thought Fëanor could feel like this, had never seen much of his gentle side. Had only ever known his rage.
This strange care – it made his chest hurt as something pressed against it from inside him, and he had to avert his eyes, focused on his sword instead, lying carefully set aside on the rock.
For a while there was silence. He complied when Fëanor moved him this way and that, freeing him of his armor and prodding at his injuries while he quietly wondered if he had not died and lost his mind in the process, for the situation was so utterly bewildering he could not fathom it was happening in truth.
When time passed and the glowing form of his brother still had not dissipated, he forced himself to remove his gaze from his sword and grudgingly focused on Fëanor again.
His brother looked grave – serious in a way he seldom saw. There was something caught in the clench of his jaw, the way his brows were furrowed and his expression almost somber yet devoid of the sour hatred that usually lurked there. There was resentment hiding in those fiery eyes, yes, but it was doused by what seemed to him surprisingly like concern.
Then, Fëanor spoke again, haltingly as though the words were pressed out of him.
“Any other blade and you would be dead.”
His brother looked torn between pride and consternation.
“What?” he rasped, surprised, staring at Fëanor uncomprehendingly. He was under no illusion that he should have survived this fight. He had never, if he was honest, considered the possibility even before he had voiced his challenge.
But it had not been his sword that saved him – and he had not thought his brother humble enough to downplay his own involvement. For, as he was beginning to understand, the light that had enveloped him – had carried him without harm and cradled him in its warmth – was the same light that had burned Morgoth, had caused him to scream in agony so loudly, even Fingolfin, in his delirium, had heard him as the Vala had run off.
And that light had been his brother.
Fëanor rolled his eyes, shifting around until he sat next to Fingolfin, both of them now on the muddy ground, before he spoke again, looking at Fingolfin as though he was particularly dense – though his judgement still lacked the edge it usually came with.
“It is only because of my meticulous skill that your strike managed to –“ he broke off briefly, a fierce scowl passing over his face, before shaking his head minutely and continuing, though a hint of agitation entered his voice, “to put a crack – a small one. Tiny and not structurally relevant. Easily fixable, if one has the skill – but even a hairline fracture was enough for me to escape –“
“A dent in what, Fëanáro? What happened?” he interrupted, as his brother veered off.
Again, for a second something dark went through Fëanor’s eyes and it almost looked like he might snap, his body stiff with tension, the light hugging his form wavering, blurring his edges. But surprisingly – again surprisingly – he held back. His voice was clipped, restrained and detached as he continued.
“The Silmaril. The leftmost one – always the weakest of them, mind you. My flawless craftsmanship saved your life, Nolvo.”
What?
He felt as though his heart stopped, blood freezing in his veins. He could not possibly have heard that right. Yet Fëanor looked at him, face grim, eyes swimming with a strange mixture of what looked like pride as much as it reeked of resentment. He felt the world tilt on its axis, and he would have thrown up had he not already been lying down, had his stomach not been painfully empty from not eating for days.
He’d put a crack – a hairline fracture – into a Silmaril?
He felt himself shudder, something terrible going through his body as several realizations struck at once, followed by even more questions.
Shakily, he breathed, beating back the mounting dread that threatened to choke him until he could speak. There would be time for emotions later, he told himself, firmly locking them away inside the increasingly crowded space inside his mind he stuffed all the unwanted feelings into that he had no time to address. This was his chance to reach for answers – to make sense of the strange mirage before his eyes.
He gathered his courage.
“Is that how you’re here?” he asked, though there could only be one answer.
If it was not madness, nor death that made him see his brother, then it could only mean the rumors had been true. He had not believed it when it was said that Fëanor had poured part of himself into the creation of his gems. Had not held it to be any more than a metaphor for their worth. Apparently, he had been wrong. It would not be the first time when it came to his brother.
Fëanor looked at him silently, a harsh line to his face. He did not answer – only held Fingolfin’s gaze while the light danced around his form, shifting between golden and silver hues as tiny particles refracted brilliantly in many colors as though to demonstrate that which should have been obvious.
Fingolfin closed his eyes, taking a moment to truly take in the truth that was lain out before him. It was unfathomable, completely incomprehensible. But it was. And so, he forged on.
“I … I remember striking at Morgoth – I remember his hand around my chest.”
He remembered the terrible claustrophobic feeling as the pressure increased and his body began to give way. Still, he could feel the pain; still he bore the injuries of the encounter that should have killed him. And now Morgoth was gone. And his brother was here, looking over him.
And therein lay the issue. This, above everything else, he could not make sense of.
Not when that meant that Fëanor had saved him instead of pursuing Morgoth. Had not gone after the Silmarils when clearly, he had the power to. Had stayed, something vulnerable inside him screamed, clawing at his insides.
“Why?” he choked out, the singular word all that made it past his lips.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could feel himself wonder if this was truly Fëanor as he had known him. How much of this was him? Where did he start and the Silmaril end? Did it make a difference when one was wrought from the soul of the other?
It was overwhelming to think about.
Again, Fëanor’s voice cut through the circles his thoughts had gotten themselves into. As he refocused, he noticed Fëanor had moved from his position again, was now squatting down right next to Fingolfin, face close and looking at his brother so intently the focus alone felt like it could incinerate his skin.
“My point is,” his brother said sternly, slightly cocking his head as he brushed aside all questions Fingolfin held, “that was incredibly stupid. Fine blade she may be – but she cannot kill a Vala.”
Again, he had to close his eyes against the onslaught of sensation. His brother’s face was close enough he could feel warmth radiating from his form, could feel his skin prickle under the intense regard. He felt another rush of feelings well up as he heard what sounded like concern peeking through the reproach that infused the words he spoke.
Somehow, he found he could hardly bear it. “If you have returned to life only to lecture me Fëanáro, leave it. I do not need to hear this from you of all people,” he said sharply, feeling raw and vulnerable.
It was the wrong reaction. Anger pierced his brother’s eyes, breaking the restraint that held him back, and before he knew it there was an impression of hands on his shoulders. And though he could only half feel them, they pushed him onto his back, as Fëanor shoved himself into his space even more until his face, bright and furious, was so very close it felt almost blinding. Wild eyed, he hissed.
“And who else would tell you? Don’t be stupid Ñolofinwë. Of all the things you are, this is not one of them. It does not suit you.”
The hands travelled up his shoulders until they sank into his hair, gripped the back of his head almost painfully, Fëanor’s face now inches from his own.
“I would know,” he whispered dangerously, hot breath falling onto Fingolfin’s face. “I have sat upon that Dark Vala’s brow for centuries. I have seen through his eyes, I have heard his thought, I have been forced to watch as he spread his malice and hate throughout the land my sons call home, while he wears my stolen gems upon his head. I know what he is capable of. I have seen what he has done.”
Fingolfin had to avert his eyes as Fëanor spoke as it dawned on him that his brother had seen the ruin of Beleriand, had seen everything, caught within the very gems that sat upon their enemy’s crown.
Something heavy squeezed his gut. He needed to escape, needed Fëanor to not be so close, to not stare at him as though his gaze alone could strip him bare and lay out all his thoughts for everyone to see.
He should have perhaps enjoyed catching Fëanor’s attention so thoroughly, Fingolfin thought, but he could feel nothing but the desperate need to make it stop, as each second burned him worse, pouring salt into a wound he pretended he did not have.
He could not stand to be judged by the brother that had abandoned him; could not stand to see something that almost looked like worry – angry and snarling as it may be – directed at him, when Fëanor had left him behind in pursuit of his Silmarils before.
His chest ached, ribs digging into his lungs painfully as he breathed hard in agitation.
In the end, he could not withstand the assault. And so, the box within his heart keeping his emotions locked away could hold them no longer. Fierce and powerful resentment, laced with bitter love swept forth like a raging storm and threatened to swallow him whole. He tasted it on his tongue, the fruit of his feelings bursting open to flood his mouth, to sting his eyes with tears he did not let fall. He tried to breathe through it, but the pain would not give, lodging itself behind his ribs, radiating outward and poisoning his thoughts before he could begin to even hope to banish the feeling.
“Then why save the thief of your crown – and not chase the thief of your jewels? For thieves we both are to you, are we not? Have you not accused me of such before? Do not deny it, half-brother,” he snapped, trying to twist out of his brother’s hold. But Fëanor held fast, looking at him with harsh eyes.
There was something bitter there, lurking within his expression – an old anger that yet remembered the blistering fury with which he had scorned Fingolfin. It simmered still, mistrust and spite swirling beneath the surface, barely concealed.
He fisted Fingolfin’s hair painfully for a moment, grip growing tighter until it became almost unbearable, before slowly letting up, the pressure of his hands gentling just a little as his brother visibly restrained himself before he answered, clipped and through gritted teeth. “I have seen what Morgoth has done. But I have also seen what you did.”
Fingolfin could not help the startled laugh that escaped him at the pronouncement, made with such seriousness his brother seemed to think he was declaring his worth through such an utterance alone. He shook his head. “Then surely you have all the more reason to leave me to die now.” His hand reached up to rest on his chest, where he could still feel the pain slowly spreading further and further, could feel how breathing became harder and harder the longer this went on. Perhaps, if they talked long enough, he could escape this charade by simply dying on his own.
“You are not like him. Stop being an idiot, Ñolofinwë. Father did not raise a fool,” Fëanor hissed, frustration clear in his voice, harshly yanking on his head once more, before he abruptly released his hold on Fingolfin’s hair, sliding his hands around until they rested around Fingolfin’s face, cradling it gently but firmly, hands full of the soft promise of restrained violence. It was strange, so very strange his breath caught on his lips.
“Don’t mistake me. I have not forgotten what you did and I shall not forgive it,” he whispered, voice quiet but intense. His hands burned just on the edge of painful where they cupped Fingolfin’s jaw, forcing his gaze to remain locked with Fëanor’s eyes as they flashed, a fathomless depth of blazing fire. “I remember your treachery despite your oath. I know you devised to supplant me even as we marched along the shores of Araman. Do you not even now call yourself by my father’s name Finwë-Ñolofinwë? You wished to replace me while feigning loyalty,” he hissed, tightening his hold as it snaked down around Fingolfin’s neck, thumb caressing the scar where once Fëanor’s sword had cut his skin before he squeezed. The radiance around his brother flared, swelling to a bright and merciless brilliance that shone from his form.
Fingolfin tried to swallow, flinching back from the onslaught as his breath stuttered yet again against his will, and he reached up instinctively, blindly. But he could not. His arms were trapped between his chest and his brother’s arms. He struggled against the hold, a sliver of fear entering his veins, hands pushing against the strange non-solidity of his brother’s form, but he was only rewarded by more pain shooting up his spine as he jostled his injuries.
“That’s not what I was doing,” he forced out finally, hoping to escape. It hadn’t been, he told himself, not quite. He had meant to – he wasn’t even sure. But he had never meant to take the crown from his brother by force.
But did you not take it all the same? – a small voice in the back of his head, fragile and soft and drowned out by all the hurt still flowing through him whispered to him.
“Don’t deny it. Your scheming worked,” Fëanor only scoffed derisively, though his hold let up minutely, allowing Fingolfin to gasp for air.
“I just…” He choked on the words, unable to say them even as his breath slowly returned to normal. Something inside him screamed, tore open. Raged at the thought of admitting that he had wanted recognition – wanted anything from his brother. He squeezed his eyes shut, frustrated and angry and hurting – wishing it would all just stop and yet hoping, with an increasingly traitorous certainty, that his brother would not remove his hands entirely.
“It does not matter,” Fëanor dismissed, an iciness to his voice that chilled his bones as he brushed away Fingolfin’s objections without giving them time to grow “This isn’t about that.” Still, his hold gentled further, until he was no longer squeezing but rather holding Fingolfin’s neck.
When he opened his eyes, his brother had shifted backwards a little, and his face had calmed from the blazing rage that had erupted just moments earlier, fire firmly contained again. For a long moment Fëanor held still, the flickering luminescence around him the only indication of his thought.
Finally, he lifted his right hand, bringing it up to the side of Fingolfin’s face until the tips of his fingers brushed against his temple in an electrifying spark.
“I told you I have seen what has transpired,” his brother spoke, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, as he leaned in again, putting pressure on the hand still resting around his throat – not enough to cut off his breathing again; just a reminder of its presence as his brother shifted his weight.
“I know you have treated my House with grace. And I have witnessed your valor,” he frowned as he said it, as though the words were distasteful, but the effect was offset as his left hand crept up to join the first.
“And so, I find that,” the odd note Fingolfin could not identify reentered his voice even as Fëanor seemed to war with himself for a moment, struggling against a pride that would not let him speak, “I do not want you dead. Not when I can do something about it,” he finished, Fingolfin’s face now cradled within his hold, strangely gentle, though it felt no less dangerous.
Heat emanated from Fëanor’s form, like a fire drawing closer. It was almost unbearable. And against Fingolfin’s will it had him completely entranced. Warmth exploded in his belly, as the phantom sensation of a hand imprinted itself firmly on his face. He shivered, goosebumps travelling up and down his skin.
He felt like he was losing it – unable to keep up with his brother’s quick temperament as he shed his last slivers of sanity.
He did not care.
His brother leaned in, face coming to rest only inches away from his own as he whispered, the last traces of anger leaving his eyes. “And … you kept my sword, even when you had no reason to. So, I have to step in when you are being foolish.”
“Fëanáro,” he whispered, voice broken. His heart ached. Bitterness threatened to suffocate him even as he felt a deep tenderness make him go soft. If only his brother had looked at him like that while he was still alive. It burned, to be trapped under his hands now that everything was too late. Still, he could not stop himself from leaning into the touch – could not help his traitorous heart beating in his chest, could no longer deny to himself the way he craved this with all that he had, wishing to never let his brother out of his sight again.
“That is why,” still Fëanor’s voice was soft, his hands little more than a light pressure, “I do not need to forgive you to do this.” Fëanor’s arms snaked around his head, into his hair, a cradle of warmth pulling on the tender roots still aching from his brother’s earlier assault.
Fingolfin felt tears start to spill down his eyes, felt something deep inside him tear open in grief, as it did in want. He could not help it, reached out and clutched at the barely corporeal light that was his brother and pulled, ignoring the pain and the way black spots started to dance before his eyes.
Their lips met and for a while everything else ceased to matter.