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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Fëanor & Fingolfin
Word Count: 5,541
Content Warnings:
Summary:
Fingolfin feels like part of him is still stuck in Beleriand, blood on his teeth and an all-consuming anger splintering out of control. Like he'll blink and once again see Morgoth's foot coming down. He wants. What does he want? He does not wish to be dead. He is, he supposes, grateful for this chance to fix things as much as they can be fixed. But he wants.
He wants for Fëanor to know him. Wants to work through all the ugly words and acts of violence that had divided them and come out the other side better for it. He cannot throw all the scathing anger in his chest at a brother who does not understand. Cannot scream at this Fëanor for burning the boats, for leaving them to the ice, for Elenwë, for Arakáno, for the countless others who had followed him and paid for it. And so what is he meant to do with the anger? He cannot swallow it all down forever and also salvage his relationship with Fëanor in this new song.
He wants, he thinks, watching a potter unmake a bowl that was marred, to un-sing himself as well.
Beginning Notes:
listen, I have one great love and it's time travel fics, my favorite indulgence - messy time travel where everything goes wrong is even better <3
fic title is from Chemtrails Over The Country Club by Lana Del Rey
chapter title is from evermore by Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver
Creon: Why did you try to bury your brother?
Antigone: I owed it to him.
[…]
Creon: Polynices was a rebel and a traitor, and you know it.
Antigone: He was my brother.
Antigone | Jean Anouilh
☀︎
the first loop
Fingolfin wakes up in his bed. This would not be notable except for two very important things. One - he is staring at the ceiling of a room he has not seen since he left Aman, following his brother into exile. Two - he rather vividly remembers viciously stabbing his sword through Morgoth’s foot right before Morgoth quite thoroughly killed him. He does not think that kind of pain is something one can simply dream up. Does not think Beleriand and everything it entailed is something he could dream up.But the room does not yet dissolve into a dream and so, for lack of better options, he gets out of bed. Stands at the window staring at the light of Laurelin and waiting for whatever strange dream this is to evaporate. He has grown so used to the light of the sun that once again seeing the light of the trees is strange. It is not, precisely, that the light of the trees is not beautiful or that he does not still appreciate it, it is only that half of his heart lies in Beleriand and it is disheartening to him to know that the lands there still lie shrouded in darkness if the trees live.
He is, after spending entirely too long staring out the window, forced to concede that this does not seem to be any sort of dream. Everything he touches is solid, his fëa feels firmly anchored within his hröa, and when he pinches himself, the pain feels quite real. He does not know what exactly is happening, but he won’t figure it out standing here. So, he squares his shoulders, gets dressed, and sets out to figure out what year it is. It is impossible to make a plan if he does not know what has happened and what has not. And he must make a plan.
He does not have to wander far to find someone. Finds Atar in the library with both of his brothers. Wonders absently if he too was meant to be at this meeting but is too distracted drinking in the sight of his father to truly care. How very strange to have lived so long without his father and now, to have him here once again. It is one thing to know that you will one day meet your kin again after being reborn but another entirely to meet your kin once again when none but you are aware that any deaths have occurred.
“I see that your lectures on punctuality are just as hypocritical as I’ve always suspected them to be,” Fëanor says spitefully, a sneer on his face when Fingolfin looks to him.
He would have had a clever comeback for that before he knows, not that he would have ever shown up late before. Now he can only stare, struck by how tame his brother’s dislike of him is, for he cannot even call what he is looking at hatred compared to the madness and disgusted hatefulness that he’d grown so accustomed to at the end. It seems in his memories that it was always hatred. That he was born knowing Fëanor did not want him to exist. And now here is his brother and Fingolfin realizes that he does not recognize him. Has grown too used to being hated to know what to do when he is not.
“I apologize,” he says after his silence drags too long and Fëanor’s sneer has dropped in confusion. “I did not recall there was a meeting today.” Finarfin’s brow furrows in confusion but Fingolfin does not let himself linger on his little brother’s face lest he go back to staring. He never had managed to decide if he was grateful that his younger brother was safe in Aman with his mother or if he was terribly resentful at Finarfin for abandoning him. This certainly isn’t the time to try to figure it out again.
“Are you feeling well, Arakáno?” his father asks, concern creasing his face. Fingolfin stifles the startled flinch that wants to go through him at the sound of his mother-name. Cannot recall the last time he heard it.
“I’m quite well, Atar,” he says, smiling blandly and moving to sit in the seat next to Fëanor. “I was only pre-occupied with my thoughts and forgot.” He waves his hand dismissively when they all stare at him. He understands their disbelief of course. He had always tried so very hard to be the perfect prince, the perfect son, as if by overcompensating for all of Fëanor’s perceived flaws he could win more of his father’s affection. That had never had a chance of working, he knows now. But still, it would have been unheard of for him to forget any type of meeting no matter the year, especially one that Fëanor was going to attend. That Fëanor has beaten him to this one says much. He is not, truly, even sure how late he is.
They are, as it turns out, discussing the upcoming harvest festival and the parts their father wants them to play in it. He tries to think of a way to naturally work in a question regarding the year and cannot. Listens attentively though and learns that Morgoth is free already, annoying but not surprising. He is unsure as to why he is here, but he cannot imagine why he would have been sent back to a time before Morgoth. Unfortunately, this is all he manages to glean from the conversation. They are all infuriatingly useless in giving up any significant information that could narrow it down for him.
He does try to pay attention, truly, but once his father begins discussing Maglor’s musical performance with Fëanor he finds his thoughts drifting. Absently taps his fingers against his thigh and tries to decide on what his next move should be. First things first, he will go find the accounting books in his office and figure out the year. Easy enough without arousing suspicion. Second things second… he has not the slightest idea. How does one go about fixing an un-fixable relationship with their half-brother, saving their father, and preventing a kinslaying. And those only the largest and most imminent issues! He should perhaps worry about the trees as well, but he does not care to waste time figuring out a solution for that when their destruction will bring about the sun and moon. Let them die as long as their deaths do not pose problems for any future plans he comes up with.
He does wonder if he would stand a better chance in a fight with Morgoth while they are the same relative height. He had gotten in seven blows before, how many more could he get in with the advantage of surprise on his side? Even if it does not kill him it could perhaps force him to reveal his machinations earlier, saving them all a good deal of trouble. And if it does not… well. Perhaps it will be Fingolfin this time who gets sent into exile. That would be interesting. Or, perhaps, for the crime of attacking a Vala he would be exiled to Beleriand itself! The timing would be inconvenient but he could work with it. Still, this is not, he knows, a very practical plan. Only a very satisfying one.
He jerks sideways with a yelp as Fëanor jabs him in the side. Turns his head to glare only to realize they are all staring at him. Again. “Ah,” he says, trying to think of a reasonable excuse and coming up blank. “I apologize. Again. I was thinking.”
Fëanor’s gaze is very hot against his cheek. Finarfin and Atar both look far more concerned about him about than he thinks the situation truly warrants. “What has happened that has you troubled so?” his father asks, leaning forward intently.
“I am not troubled,” he says and ignores Fëanor’s disbelieving scoff. “Only easily distracted today it would seem.” Absolutely no one looks like as if they believe him.
“If you are sure. Still, perhaps we will finish this discussion at a later time. It is not so urgent that it cannot wait.”
“A reasonable plan,” he says, immediately standing and moving for the door. “I will speak with you all later.” He heads for his office as soon as he’s out the door.
It is, he finds after pulling the book off its shelf with hands that do not shake, the year 1435. He sits down heavily and stares at the numbers scratched out by his own hand. He has only fifty years by reckoning of the trees but hopefully that is enough time. He only needs a plan. And a sword. It is very unfortunate that no one has begun making them yet. If he wants one, he will either have to forge it himself or find someone to forge it for him which… will invite questions. He has never spent much time in the forge though. He’s perfectly capable of basic forging but it has never been his preferred craft and he’s not sure he would trust a sword made by his own hand. Not without spending more time than he cares to practicing.
He tries to imagine Fëanor’s face if he were to suddenly start spending time in the forge and has to swallow a hysterical laugh. It would only be another reason for his brother to hate him. His brother who is alive and not slain on a battlefield. His father who is not yet dead at Morgoth’s hand. His son, he realizes with a bolt of grief, who has not yet died before he could even experience the land he had crossed the ice to reach. All his children are still safely within his reach. His wife still stands at his side. He has grown so used to being without her that he had not thought to wonder where she is. He has to put the book down so that he can cover his face and cry. This does not feel real. How can any of this be real? To what purpose has he been sent back if not only to experience all the grief anew. For surely he alone cannot foil the net of malice Morgoth had woven throughout Aman.
“Are you still going to say that you are not troubled?” Fëanor asks sometime later. He looks up to find Fëanor standing in the doorway of his office watching him. Perhaps he should feel honored that Fëanor has decided that he needed to be followed. He mostly just feels annoyed.
“I am not troubled,” he says just to be spiteful. Fëanor scowls at him and stalks into his office to look at the accounting book he’d thrown on the desk.
“Your finances cannot be that dire,” Fëanor says, scowling even harder. "What is wrong with you? You are acting very strange."
“Nothing is wrong,” he says, ignoring scowl that earns him. “I’m quite well. There’s just…” he trails off, waves a hand through the air to encompass everything. “I’m fine, my brother,” he says, hoping it will nettle Fëanor into leaving. Fëanor though only narrows his eyes because of course he would choose this moment to see through that trick. Well, that’s fine, if Fëanor won’t leave he will. “Regardless,” he says as he stands, “I have things to do. I need to find Anairë and speak with her.”
Fëanor's eyes narrow even further. “Anairë?”
“Yes, you know, my wife. Is that a problem?” He doesn’t care for the queer look that Fëanor gives him. It's a bit too close to concern and Fëanor does not do concern when it comes to him.
“Anairë is in Alqualondë with Eärwen and has been for the past two weeks. They won’t be back for another two. Atar mentioned it earlier while we were waiting for you. You should know that.”
Fingolfin wonders if he can get a second restart of this day. One where he isn’t still mentally reeling from dying and everyone he loves being very much alive. “Right,” he says, at a loss for what else to say. He refuses to say that Fëanor looks concerned but there is definitely less dislike than normal. He decides to not attempt anymore lies that may not land and instead heads for the door. Perhaps walking through Tirion will help him think. It’s been so very long since he’s seen the city, it’ll be good to re-familiarize himself with it. He just needs some air, needs to make a plan.
Predictably, Fëanor follows him instead of taking the hint to go away. “I did not realize you were so awful at lying,” Fëanor says, sounding far too pleased about it.
Fingolfin is not even going to grace that with a response. He is quite capable of lying. Perhaps not at the moment but he feels he has good reason to be a bit off.
He stops moving the moment he walks outside. Stands at the top of the palace steps and has to fight down the tears that want to come. He hadn't truly comprehended the sight of the city from his window earlier, too stuck in the idea that this may all be a dream. But here is Tirion, sprawled out before him, just as beautiful as he remembers it being. He had missed it. Despite how dearly he loves Beleriand, Tirion is still his home, and he wants to save it from the dissent and unrest that Morgoth is spreading like poison through it.
He wants Tirion to stay exactly as it is. Peaceful. Safe. Full of joy and love and music. No funerals. No oaths sworn. He does not want those born here to ever have grief touch them if they do not wish it.
"Ñolofinwë?" Fëanor's voice shakes him out of his thoughts. He has been staring for too long again.
He doesn't answer, heads for the city. He has no destination in mind, only the desire to lose his brother so that he can think and be maudlin in peace. He just needs one day to come to terms with… everything. At least one day. He has time aplenty to take a few days to orient himself and plan but he must have at least one.
Unfortunately, shaking Fëanor when he has his attention set on something is an impossible task. Made even more impossible the moment he'd realized Fingolfin was trying to shake him. After the fourth failed attempt, during which he'd nearly run into three people and Fëanor had looked entirely too pleased with himself, he gives up. He doesn't know what it is Fëanor is hoping to accomplish other than annoying him, but he fears he will not be getting away.
Fëanor tries to start up a conversation only once and sounds terribly uncomfortable about it. But Fingolfin is not sure he can handle any type of conversation with any grace. Feels a little brittle, a little like the reality of what is happening has finally begun to truly sink in. Everything around him is very bright and loud and overwhelmingly real, emphasizing over and over again, this is not a dream, this is not a dream. Their people laughing and greeting him as he goes by, the way all their smiles look so very innocent to his eyes. Morgoth's lie have not sunk in so deep as to pollute the joy, his father has not yet been murdered and left a shroud of shocked grief suffocating them all. And this is not Beleriand where even the true smiles were tinged with an exhaustion that never quite went away.
They are all so alive. Meanwhile Fingolfin feels like part of him is still stuck in Beleriand, blood on his teeth and an all-consuming anger splintering out of control. Like he'll blink and once again see Morgoth's foot coming down. He wants. What does he want? He does not wish to be dead. He is, he supposes, grateful for this chance to fix things as much as they can be fixed. But he wants.
He wants, he thinks, for Fëanor to know him. Wants to work through all the ugly words and acts of violence that had divided them and come out the other side better for it. He cannot throw all the scathing anger in his chest at a brother who does not understand. Cannot scream at this Fëanor for burning the boats, for leaving them to the ice, for Elenwë, for Arakáno, for the countless others who had followed him and paid for it. And so what is he meant to do with the anger? He cannot swallow it all down forever and also salvage his relationship with Fëanor in this new song.
He wants, he thinks, watching a potter unmake a bowl that was marred, to un-sing himself as well. That would not solve anything, would lead only to a repeat of the same dismal future, but he does not want to be the only one to remember when he has all this anger inside of him, all this grief. They lost so many people. To the ice, to the battles, to a land that was hostile to them even as they loved it. He does not want to be so terribly alone. The sole grave in a city that does not yet know death.
He does not know how long he wanders the city lost in thought, knows only that Fëanor shadows him the entire time. Which is strange in and of itself. It has always been the other way around. For much of his childhood he’d found just as much safety in that shadow as he had suffocation. He hadn’t yet understood that his brother only tolerated him. Had followed him around, content in the knowledge that as long as he kept his footsteps in his brother’s shadow then nothing could harm him. It hadn’t occurred to him that hurt would come from his brother. And then he’d gotten old enough to realize that his brother tolerated him but did not want him. Had gotten old enough that his brother stopped blunting his words.
Eru, but part of him is still that same child clinging to his brother’s robes as he follows him from lesson to lesson. It feels like all he had ever wanted was for his brother to look at him and see him instead of a threat or a burden or a mistake. Stupid of him really. How do you fix a relationship that’s been rotten since it was created?
He is beginning to consider turning and heading back to the palace when he turns a corner and freezes, ignoring Fëanor bumping into him. There is Morgoth a bit farther down the street. He takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that he does not even have a sword and so attacking is simply not an option. Not that he should attack to begin with. And maybe, maybe, he could have walked away but he looks to the elf Morgoth is speaking with and everything in his mind goes as still and as white as freshly fallen snow.
Fingon is not smiling, does not look to even be particularly interested in whatever conversation is happening, but he is still talking with Morgoth and Fingolfin has had a very trying day and simply cannot be expected to bear the sight of Morgoth talking to one of his children as if he does not want them all dead.
"Fing— Findekáno," he calls, regrets how tight and furious his voice sounds.
Fingon's head snaps around, eyes terribly wide. He walks away from Morgoth without even saying goodbye which would be more satisfying if Morgoth did not take that as a fucking invitation to trail along after him.
"Atar," Findekáno says warily, eyeing Fëanor with no small amount of trepidation. It is uncommon to see them both in one place when not necessary. Uncommon for Fingolfin to speak to any of his children in anger. “Has something happened?”
“Come, I need to speak with you at home.” He tries to banish the anger from his voice and fails. Moves to leave, knowing Fingon will follow, but cannot get away fast enough.
“Prince Ñolofinwë,” Morgoth says, voice slick and sickeningly pleasant. “And Prince Fëanáro. How fortunate I am to run into you both at once.”
That terrible, jagged anger is clawing its way up his throat again. The same anger that had led him to an unwinnable battle and he must leave, or he will do something incomparably stupid. “We are busy,” he snaps, not even bothering with the pointless exercise of trying to stay pleasant. “Let’s go, Findekáno.” He forces himself to turn his back to Morgoth, despite every instinct telling him otherwise, and stalks off.
The noise of the city is strangely muffled, his heartbeat very loud in his ears. If only he’d had a sword. He is not sure if he will be better able to play nice with Morgoth once he has had a few days to cool down. Has an ugly feeling that he will not be able to ever speak to Morgoth with anything other than venom ever again. Which means, which means, he needs a sword. A terrible plan. He wants to say that he can do better than that but is not sure he can. Not while Morgoth is near his family. He simply cannot bear to let Morgoth slide more lies and hatred into the minds of those he loves.
A hand grabs his wrist, pulling him to a halt, the grip bruising, and he swings his fist without even thinking. Fëanor catches his fist and Fingolfin blinks at him in surprise. His heart is pounding like he’s run a race he realizes. Fëanor is frowning severely at him and when he looks around he finds Fingon staring at him with wide eyes.
“Where are you going?” Fëanor asks, voice surprisingly calm.
Fingolfin stares at him, looks around and realizes that he is… nowhere near the palace. “I—” he grasps for an answer and can only find the truth. “Away from Morgoth.” Fëanor’s frown deepens. “Melkor,” he corrects. He is not doing a very good job at whatever it is he was meant to do being thrown back to this time. He tugs his hands out of Fëanor’s grip and looks around once more. He must have either been walking terribly fast or he’s walked for longer than he thought, for he’s brought them out to the edge of the city. Close to Fëanor’s house actually.
“Go ahead,” Fëanor says, “tell me again that you aren’t troubled.” He raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“I’m not troubled,” he snaps. “I know exactly what the trouble is. That isn’t the problem.”
“But there is a problem.”
Fingolfin is not going to grace that with a response. Turns to Fingon instead. “I apologize, Findekáno. I am not angry with you, only… well. I am not angry with you.” He smiles apologetically and gets an uncertain smile in return.
“It’s fine, Atar,” he says, glances at his uncle. He looks terribly young and Fingolfin feels another stab of rage at how quickly his youth had been stolen from him.
“Alright, let’s go,” Fëanor says, grabbing Fingolfin’s arm. “We’re going to my house. You’re going to explain why you’ve lost your fucking mind overnight. You have never been so blatantly rude to someone before. Let alone one of the Valar.”
“Fuck the Valar," he mutters before he can stop himself. Ignores Fëanor's startled look. "I am not going to run away. You can let go of me.” he says, annoyed and slightly amused despite himself. He is not sure where Fëanor thinks he could run away to that he would not be found immediately.
“You have been trying to run away from me all day,” Fëanor points out. “And that was without me forcing you to explain what’s wrong.”
“It is amusing that you think you can force me to do anything,” he says. Tries to think of what he’s going to tell him and gets distracted by the idea that this is the closest Fëanor has come to showing concern for him since… Eru, since childhood probably. If he had realized acting wildly out of character would shock Fëanor into showing an emotion other than hate he’d have tried it a long time ago.
“I’m sure I can find a way,” Fëanor says mildly. It’s a bit unnerving how calm Fëanor is being about all of this actually. Still abrasive but… strangely calm. Fingolfin doesn’t trust it.
Findekáno breaks away from them when they reach the house. Gives him another uncertain smile and then makes a beeline for where Nelyafinwë is sitting under a tree. He should do something about that after Morgoth is dealt with. Proclaim his support so they don’t spend the next few centuries acting like their secret is well kept.
He is marched into Fëanor’s office and deposited in a chair near the fire. He blinks at him in bemusement as he sits down across from him. “I feel as if I’m on trial,” he says. “I can promise I have committed no crimes.” Yet.
Fëanor scoffs. “Well, that wasn’t going to be my first question, but good to know we can cross that off. Tell me what's wrong."
“Why? If I want help I certainly wouldn’t be here. It isn’t as if you've ever bothered pretending to care before.” It comes out far more bitter than he’d meant for it to and he wants to stuff the words back down his throat as soon as he says them. This is absolutely not helping with the goal of fixing his relationship with Fëanor. He has fifty years until the trouble starts, surely a year long sabbatical to remember how to function in an acceptable way wouldn’t be too awful. He is only going to make things worse if he is not left alone to pull himself together.
Fëanor is glaring at him but also clearly biting his tongue. “You are not,” he says after a minute, voice carefully controlled, “going to get out of this by convincing me to throw you out. I am not so easily fooled.”
Centuries worth of unspoken arguments try to claw their way out of his mouth. He clasps his hands together tightly, pretends they aren’t shaking. “I am sure I could convince you,” he says after he’s swallowed the worst of the arguments down. “After all, it isn’t as if I usually have to do much to set you off. Merely breathing seems to work most days. I’m sure if I keep talking I can do a much better job.”
Fëanor cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing as he watches Fingolfin. "You are very combative today. Unusually so. What are you trying so hard to hide?" He looks so curious, like Fingolfin's a particularly interesting puzzle for him to take apart.
It makes him want to break something. Makes his throat close up. All he'd wanted for so long was for Fëanor to just pay attention to him in a way that didn't hurt. He never really outgrew that want. Stopped trying to achieve it, but he never stopped wanting it. But he's not. He doesn't want to be puzzled apart. He doesn't want attention only because he's sparked his brother's curiosity. Curiosity that once sated will leave Fëanor content to go back to hating him. "I am not a puzzle for you to solve," he says tightly, wondering if he can get away with just walking out. "I don't see why it's any of your business what's wrong with me."
"Ah, but! You admit then that there is something wrong!" Fëanor smirks at him and Fingolfin’s vision blurs. He blindly reaches for the vase on the table next to him and throws it at Fëanor's head. Hopes it's not too valuable. Has no intention of sticking around to find out. Fëanor ducks and Fingolfin makes it half-way to the door before Fëanor grabs his arm. "Nerdanel made that," he snarls.
"Well maybe if you weren't so unbearable she'd still be here and you could ask her to make another," he snaps. Doesn't care that it's a low blow, means every word.
"Don't fucking talk about things you have no understanding of," Fëanor says and shakes him.
Fingolfin punches him. His fist connects this time. He kicks one of Fëanor's knees and when it buckles, wrenches his arm out of his grip. Is out the door before Fëanor can recover. He spots an ornamental dagger on a shelf as he rushes out of the house and grabs it instinctively. It’s Fëanorian so it’ll be well made despite the fact that it’s mainly for show. It's not enough but it'll just have to do.
Fingon calls after him as he rushes down the road, but he doesn't have time to reassure him or Fëanor will catch up and drag him back inside. This is quite possibly the worst plan he's ever had. Worse even than riding up to Angband to challenge Morgoth. At least then he'd had a proper weapon. But he's rather done with whatever this nonsense is. If he dies doing this then maybe his death can be a nice rallying moment for the Noldor.
Hunting Morgoth down is not difficult. As Fingolfin had expected he's lingering in the city, near enough to Fëanor's house that Fingolfin would have to pass him to get back to the palace, not so close that it looks as if he's waiting. He is, to Fingolfin's satisfaction, engaged in a conversation with his back to Fingolfin. He sends a silent apology to whichever elf he is about to traumatize, slides up behind Morgoth as quiet as he can, and stabs the dagger into the side of his neck with all the force he can muster. Twists and slices sideways as he pulls it out and dances out of reach.
Morgoth is not the only one to scream, he's sure, but his scream is a bellow that drags like falling rocks through the air and drowns out everything else. Unfortunately, the wound does not kill him, but Fingolfin had not truly expected it to. Killing a Valar was likely beyond any elf. It does, however, noticeably weaken him. He staggers as he whirls around and Fingolfin should have moved with him, stabbed him in the back while he's weak, but he wants Morgoth to see his face, to know who it is that's harmed him. Hubris on his part but what does it matter.
And oh, good, he has cracked the mask that Morgoth wears, the hatred in his eyes sucks the light from the air. He grins, grips the dagger and waits for an opening. Waits to see what Morgoth will do. "Melkor the cowardly," he says just loud enough for Morgoth to hear him. “Unable to defeat us in truth and so you try to turn us against each other. I name you Morgoth. Name you enemy of all of Eru's children."
Morgoth snarls and inconveniently grows in size, though he is only twice Fingolfin's size, not towering over him as he had before. The wound Fingolfin has dealt him seems to truly be troubling him. Fingolfin darts forward as he's in the process of growing and slashes his heel, takes the risk of stabbing the dagger through the back of his knee as he moves past him. He barely dodges the kick Morgoth aims at him as he roars in anger.
Someone shouts his name but he doesn't check who. Barely evades Morgoth reaching for him, circles around trying to keep Morgoth's back to him. Waits until he wobbles from the wound to the knee and dashes forward, stabbing the dagger into Morgoth's heel, in the exact spot he'd slashed at earlier, hoping to unbalance him further. But his luck rather runs out there.
Four hits, he thinks as Morgoth manages to backhand him into a wall before he can get out of range, not bad considering the weapon I was working with. The yelling of the crowd has grown in volume but this time he’s sure he hears someone scream his name.
He pushes himself to his feet, ignores the sharp pain in his chest. Manages two steps forward and then sighs in resignation as Morgoth has already picked up an inconveniently placed anvil and hurled it at him. He does try to dodge. Goes to throw himself to the right but is a few seconds too slow. Locks eyes with Fëanor right before a shattering burst of pain cascades through him and thinks, he looks scared. Wouldn't have known what to do with that thought even if everything hadn’t gone black immediately after.
☀︎
the second loop
Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.
He blinks up at the ceiling, taking in the complete lack of pain in his body, and then pulls a pillow over his face and screams. When he had asked for a second restart to the day he had been fucking joking.
He gets out of bed, gets dressed, and decides that, this time, he definitely needs a sword.
End Notes:
Fingolfin: I am good at planning. I was high king. Plans are my thing.
Fingolfin after seeing Morgoth: Okay. So the plan is murder.
--
Fëanor: I feel like this abrupt shift in behavior from my half-brother is both suspicious and concerning....
Fëanor arriving just in time to watch Morgoth backhand Fingolfin into a wall: WELL I AM DEFINITELY CONCERNED
Also posted on AO3
