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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Fëanor & Fingolfin
Word Count: 1,538
No Content Warnings
Summary:
But Fëanor was not held guiltless, for he it was that had broken the peace of Valinor and drawn his sword upon his kinsman; and Mandos said to him: “Thou speakest of thraldom. If thraldom it be, thou canst not escape it; for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman only. And this deed was unlawful, whether in Aman or not in Aman. Therefore this doom is now made: for twelve years thou shalt leave Tirion where this threat was uttered. In that time take counsel with thyself, and remember who and what thou art. But after that time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release thee.”
“Well that’s rather stupid,” Fingolfin says.
Beginning Notes:
I swear to god I promise that I have plots in my head that don't involve time travel. But the time travel ones are just so fun and I love them so much, also I'm putting Fingolfin through the ringer in my other time-travel fic so I felt like he deserved to just be a bit chaotic for once
Title from the poem: 'Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out' by Richard Siken
But Fëanor was not held guiltless, for he it was that had broken the peace of Valinor and drawn his sword upon his kinsman; and Mandos said to him: “Thou speakest of thraldom. If thraldom it be, thou canst not escape it; for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman only. And this deed was unlawful, whether in Aman or not in Aman. Therefore this doom is now made: for twelve years thou shalt leave Tirion where this threat was uttered. In that time take counsel with thyself, and remember who and what thou art. But after that time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release thee.”
“Well that’s rather stupid,” Fingolfin says, looking around curiously. What a strange dream to be having. Or. Rather, he had died hadn’t he? So, is this some strange deluge of awful memories he must witness before being allowed to enter Mandos?
Everyone is staring at him. Not a single one of them looking anything other than shocked. He looks to Fëanor, cocking his head curiously at the perplexed anger that lays so heavily on his brother’s face. He had not thought to see his brother quite so soon. He notes the tree light shining bright in Fëanor’s eyes and has a vague feeling building at the base of his neck that this is not quite right. Looks around again, taking in the stunned silence that’s fallen. Looks back to Fëanor. It had not gone this way before.
“Ñolofinwë,” his brother says, irritated and furious and the moment of clarity hits Fingolfin like a lightning strike. His face must do something strange for Fëanor’s eyes narrow.
He had died. That is true. Had stormed Angband and fought Morgoth and died and now he is. He is either clinging still to life and is delusional, or he has in truth been sent back in time. Still. He stands by his words even if they were only spoken because he hadn’t realized this was real. “It’s stupid,” he says again, watches Fëanor’s brow furrow. “What will banishing my brother from Tirion accomplish?” He raises an eyebrow, says challengingly. “I’m sure if my brother wanted me dead in truth he could accomplish it just as easily from Formenos as here.”
At least three people choke. His father, he notes, carefully distancing himself from that emotion, is staring at him horrified. Fëanor smirks, more emotion than he’d ever shown the first time around. “I could,” he agrees easily. This does not seem to make anyone else feel better.
“Your feelings on the matter are noted Ñolofinwë,” Mandos says. “Yet I have already spoken this doom.”
“Then un-speak it,” he says, meeting Mandos’ eyes and tipping his chin up. “It is a foolish punishment. We will not be reconciled by keeping us in separate cities while the resentment grows.”
Mandos, he is pleased to note, has the slightest trace of irritation on his face. “What I have spoken cannot be unspoken,” Mandos says, sounding just the slightest bit impatient. “This is his doom for threatening you, Ñolofinwë, and now he must face it.”
Fingolfin considers this. Looks to Fëanor and finds him already staring back, eyes alight with a curiosity tempered only by the hatred still bleeding through him. “And if I threaten my brother?” he asks, smirking at Fëanor. “Will I also be doomed to twelve years of exile from Tirion?”
Fëanor’s face goes tight with suspicion. Fingolfin looks to Mandos when there is no answer. “You have no weapon with which to threaten your brother,” Mandos says slowly, eyeing him warily. Which is not, Fingolfin decides, a denial.
“Whoever said I needed a weapon?” He asks. The memory of fire and salt flares high in the back of his mind, the memory of blistering cold, and Turgon’s screams, and Argon’s shallow breathing, all crystallizing into a knife. He turns back to his brother and punches him in the face. It is far more satisfying than it has any right to be. “You deserved that,” he tells Fëanor, ignoring the yelling that’s erupted.
Fëanor had stumbled back when Fingolfin punched him, but it takes him only a moment to recover his bearings, and snarling he launches himself at Fingolfin who grins and steps out of the way. He moves to grab his brother’s arm as he passes by, intending to twist it behind his back, but his mother has grabbed his arm and pulled him back before he can. His father has done the same to Fëanor before he could gain his bearings enough to try and attack Fingolfin again. He smiles winningly at Fëanor’s glare and turns back to Mandos. “Well?” he demands.
He thinks, that if Mandos were not one of the Valar, he would be pinching his nose in irritation. Manwë’s forehead is creased in bewilderment. The rest of the Valar are staring at him with some mixture of confusion and horror. “That was not a threat to the same level as Curufinwë’s,” Mandos says. “I have seen no reason to cast any doom upon you.”
“So it is you who casts it then?” he asks conversationally, curious and highly amused by the alarmed looks he’s receiving. “Not Ilúvatar himself?”
There’s a brief pause, all eyes stuck to Fingolfin with horrified fascination. “We all speak together on which punishments need to be spoken into being,” Manwë says calmly. Any trace of confusion has been hidden away.
Fingolfin feels that was an avoidance of the actual answer he’d wanted. He considers his options. He could continue to cause a fuss and see if he can simply annoy the Valar into rescinding the doom. It could be useful information later to know if they truly do not have the power to rescind that which they speak into being. He could also, simply pack up and follow Fëanor to Formenos regardless. Though that stands the possibility of Fëanor genuinely trying to murder him now that Fingolfin has punched him. “What happens if he doesn’t go?” he asks curiously.
He thinks Mandos does in fact sigh this time. “The doom has been spoken. He will leave Tirion for twelve years.”
“And if he does not?” He asks again. Fëanor’s gaze is burning against his cheek and when he turns his head to meet his brother’s gaze he finds only blazing curiosity, the hatred temporarily missing in the face of a new puzzle for Fëanor to work at.
“And if I do not?” Fëanor echoes, turning to face Mandos and Manwë as well. There is an obvious faltering at the image of them united in this question.
“This decision is not up for negotiation,” Manwë says, a burst of power leaking into his voice and slamming through the room.
Fingolfin narrows his eyes. Considers his options again. Thinks of Melkor and the Silmarils and his father’s death. Thinks of blood and fire and ice and salt. “He must leave Tirion then. And you have said that Manwë is the king of all Arda.” There’s a dawning suspicion breaking across many of the watching faces. He looks to Fëanor once more and tilts his head in question. Fëanor looks back, all his emotions except for curiosity locked away. “I will follow where you go,” he says softly, the words meant only for Fëanor.
He does not know if Fëanor believes him. Does not know if this is going to go any better than it did last time. But he will not walk the same path again when he knows what lies at the end. If it must all still end in blood and death then let it have arrived despite his best attempts to subvert it, not because he walked straight toward that end.
Fëanor nods slowly after a long moment of studying him. Looks to Manwë and says, “You have spoken your doom! I will abide by it and depart from Tirion. And if all Arda is beneath Manwë’s rule as you claim then neither will I depart from his realm though I will still free myself from this thraldom. And those who wish to free themselves from bondage may follow me and we will create our own kingdoms in the land we once forsook and build new creations that outshine even the ones we have created in your realm.” He turns to face the crows and flings his arms wide, bright and burning and effortlessly drawing the crowd to him. “Let those who wish to follow me depart and prepare themselves. Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Too long we have been cooped here in this narrow land! Now we will be free!”
All around him, Fingolfin sees enraptured faces staring back. Several of the Valar shift uneasily.
“Curufinwë—” Manwë begins.
“Fëanor!” His father exclaims.
Fëanor does not acknowledge either of them, instead looks at Fingolfin, a challenge clear in his eyes, and then strides from the circle of doom. Fingolfin looks to his father and hesitates only a second before following him. He does not know what he has just changed or begun, but surely, surely it will be better than before. He will make it better. For he can stand no other outcome.
End Notes:
Finwe: Did Fëanáro just...usurp me?
Indis: Usurping would imply he plans on sticking around to take the crown. He seems quite set on leaving.
Finwe: I'm not sure that's really a meaningful difference.
Indis:
Finwe:
Indis: More importantly, did Fëanáro just usurp you and take Ñolofinwë with him??!
Finwë: Ah. Well. At least they're getting along?
(Spoiler: Indis is not impressed with that argument.)
Originally posted on AO3
