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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Fëanor & Fingolfin
Word Count: 5,279
Content Warnings:
Summary:
Fëanor’s eyebrows shoot up as he surveys the design. “This is a weapon,” he says slowly, pinning Fingolfin with a piercing gaze. “What on Arda could you need a weapon for? And with such urgency.”
“I really do not see how that’s any of your concern,” he says tightly, feeling his plans for the day slipping out of his grasp. “Give it back.”
Fëanor studies him for a moment. Looks back to the design, brow furrowing as he examines it. “No,” he says finally, folding the paper up and tucking it inside of his pocket. “Tell me why you need it and I’ll make it.”
Beginning Notes:
listen...I honestly didn't mean to make this a WIP or write a second chapter okay, but they decided they had things to say. I do not promise consistent updates but I will try to finish this. I do have the vaguest idea of how the next chapter should go so there's that.
chapter title is from Spider Bites by The Gaslight Anthem
This is how it goes: God says, I will take you or your brother.
God says, You get to choose.
And Cain says, “When you split me and my brother in the womb, you did not divide us evenly. He got kindness, and I got longing. He got complacence, and I got ambition. I want to kill him sometimes. I think sometimes he wants to die.”
I have never made brothers before, God explains. That is how I thought they were made. What more do you want?
“I want to steal some of his kindness,” Cain says, and shakes his pocket knife out of his sleeve.
Hevel | Nathaniel Orion
☀︎
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 this day he had been fucking joking. He is not sure what he is supposed to be doing but clearly he’d failed in his latest attempt. Though, he supposes that shouldn’t be much of a surprise considering he died.
He gets out of bed, gets dressed, and decides that, this time, he definitely needs a sword. Sketches out a rough idea of what he wants and contemplates who to ask to make it. Preferably someone he can pay for speed who will not ask too many questions. But he cannot think of anyone who meets both criteria. It is not, necessarily, that he believes any of the smiths in Tirion would needlessly gossip about his purchases. It is only, that if his memory serves him correctly, Morgoth had made friends with the smiths first, and Morgoth is the one he most needs to keep this a secret from.
So, he prioritizes secrecy over speed and tells himself he’ll simply have to find a way to avoid Morgoth until the sword is finished. It is easier to press the rage down and freeze it when he does not have to see him. Easier to remind himself that no one will truly be hurt for many years still and that there is, in truth, no rush. But, he fears that resolve will last only until he sees Morgoth’s face once again.
Sketch finished, he heads for the city. Belatedly remembers that meeting he had been late to the previous day and then dismisses it. He should, in all likelihood, put more effort into acting as if nothing has changed. But he’s never been so good an actor as to hide his entire personality. Court politics were simple, acting in a way, true, but not to the extent of hiding his entire self. He also, he decides, simply does not care to. It seems a pointless exercise when his entire plan centers around ridding them of Morgoth in the fastest manner possible.
He has the terrible luck of leaving the palace right as Fëanor is arriving. For a moment the image of Fëanor’s face before he’d last died flashes in front of him — the wide eyes, his mouth open on what might have been Fingolfin’s name, his right hand stretched out as he ran. The only time he can recall that his brother has reached for him and he’d died before he could reach back.
“Where are you going?” Fëanor asks, frowning as he pauses at the stop of the stairs. “Did atar not call us for a meeting today?”
“He did,” Fingolfin says, blinking away the image of an un-sung Fëanor. “I have other business to attend to. Give him my apologies.” He keeps walking, hurrying down the steps as if that will make the curiosity flickering to life in Fëanor’s eyes go away.
“Do you mean to tell me, that you were going to simply skip the meeting without a word to any of us?” Fëanor asks incredulously, easily catching up to him.
Fingolfin bites down the desire to tell him to kindly fuck off. “I’ve told you have I not?”
“And if you had not run into me?” Fingolfin does not answer, hoping Fëanor will just leave, but predictably he does not. “I always knew all your speeches on propriety were hypocritical,” Fëanor continues, sounding entirely too smug about it. “Tell me where you’re going.”
“No. You should go to the meeting with atar,” he says stopping at the bottom of the steps. “My business is no concern of yours.”
Fëanor’s head tilts, the curiosity flaring into a full fire. “Is it not? You are skipping a meeting that father has called for. I would say as his eldest child it falls to me to make sure you attend, even if I must drag you there.”
“If you touch me I’ll bite your hand off,” he says, perhaps a touch too viciously if the way Fëanor’s eyes widen is any indication. “I am not going to the meeting. I am busy.”
“By all means,” Fëanor says, giving a mocking bow and sweeping his arm out. “Go on then. I have not stopped you.”
“Do not follow me,” he warns, takes two steps away and frowns when Fëanor mimics him.
“Ah ah, I did not say I would let you go alone,” Fëanor says, high pitched and mocking, a terrible light in his eyes. “What are you trying to hide?”
“I am not hiding anything,” he gets out, grinding his teeth together. “Please, go away.”
The please, if anything, makes the light in Fëanor’s eyes even brighter. His eyes dart down to the design Fingolfin is clutching in his left hand and then back up. “Come now, Ñolofinwë, if you are not hiding anything, simply tell me where it is you’re going so that I may relay the information to atar.”
He debates the possibility of getting out of this conversation without giving some type of concession and comes to the sour conclusion that there is none. “If you must know, I am going to a forge.”
Fëanor’s blinks at him, confusion making its way onto his face. “Whatever for?"
“To have something made, as that is what people usually go to forges for in my experience,” he says dryly.
“Which forge are you going to? Have you at least picked someone of decent quality?”
Truly Fingolfin should have known this would only inspire more questions. He should have lied. “That is none of your concern. Though I’m sure the quality will be fine.”
Fëanor’s eyes narrow. “What, are you having made?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing you’ve made before, you do not need to worry about it.” He curses himself the moment the words leave his mouth and Fëanor’s entire body tenses up in offense.
“And so you do not believe I could make it?” Fëanor demands. “Show me what it is. I can make it better than any other smith in this city.”
“I had no idea you were so eager to craft me something,” he says, just to watch Fëanor puff up even more in offense.
“I do not wish to make you anything. I will not, however, stand for this insult! Show me what it is you want made.” Fëanor holds his hand out expectantly, as if Fingolfin will simply hand over the design.
“No,” he says simply and walks away. Perhaps he can do a better job of losing Fëanor in the city this time. Unfortunately, he does not account for the treachery of brothers, and so does not anticipate Fëanor following behind him and snatching the design straight out of his hand.
“You! Give that back!” He makes a grab for it but Fëanor simply dances out of the way as he unfolds the paper.
Fëanor’s eyebrows shoot up as he surveys the design. “This is a weapon,” he says slowly, pinning Fingolfin with a piercing gaze. “What on Arda could you need a weapon for? And with such urgency.”
“I really do not see how that’s any of your concern,” he says tightly, feeling his plans for the day slipping out of his grasp. “Give it back.”
Fëanor studies him for a moment. Looks back to the design, brow furrowing as he examines it. “No,” he says finally, folding the paper up and tucking it inside of his pocket. “Tell me why you need it and I’ll make it.”
Fingolfin stares at him. Tries to make those words make sense. Perhaps none of this real, he considers for the first time. Perhaps this is some elaborate test designed by the Valar. A punishment of some sort for those who are dispossessed. It does not otherwise seem likely that he would have two days in a row where his brother is strangely civil.
“Come!” Fëanor says when Fingolfin doesn’t answer. “We shall walk to my house while you decide how to tell me what your need of such a thing is.”
He takes off without waiting for Fingolfin to agree and Fingolfin after a moment follows him. He could, he supposes, go draw another design and just try again. But he’s not sure Fëanor wouldn’t simply take to stalking him to figure out the reason and that seems unnecessarily complicated. “You’re going to miss the meeting with atar,” he says uselessly.
Fëanor flicks him an unimpressed look. “We are both already very late. And what does it matter? You were already going to skip it.”
He sighs. Spends the walk trying to think of a way to spin the story so that it sounds as if he’s simply put all the clues of Morgoth’s treachery together himself without any future knowledge at all. Does not think there were enough clues yet at this point for him to have gathered. Also cannot think of a way to explain why he would have jumped from this discovery to murder without, at the very least, consulting atar.
Fëanor is quiet as they walk. Though, if Fingolfin knows his brother at all, that is likely less because he is giving Fingolfin room to think, and more because he is too busy planning how to make a sword so well-made no one else will be able to make a better one. Still, if it were not for the conversation waiting for him at the end of the walk, he would find this peaceful. It’s comforting, in its own way, to have Fëanor whole and alive next to him. He had been too preoccupied with his thoughts and the overwhelming crush of emotions the previous day to truly appreciate having Fëanor follow him around the city. But, even though he’d still rather be alone, he can appreciate now the novelty of having Fëanor walk with him without the oppressive resentment lingering around them.
He wonders again if he should take this as a sign that this is some type of trick or Valar-induced illusion. Cannot help but think that would make more sense than the idea that time has bent itself around him. Would make more sense than the idea that the song of Arda is being un-sung and re-sung based on seemingly nothing but his own actions. But, he tells himself sternly, if it is not an illusion or a trick then every action matters; and as he has no way to know he must treat this as if it is all very, heartbreakingly real.
He does not, in the end, come up with anything at all to tell Fëanor by the time they reach his house. Follows Fëanor into his office and wishes he could apologize for punching his brother the day before without sounding like he’s rather lost his mind. Though, he could simply punch his brother again and then apologize. The idea has merit depending on how this conversation goes.
“Well,” Fëanor demands once he’s herded Fingolfin into a seat. “Explain.”
Fingolfin stares at him. Does not know what to say. Does not even know how to tell the truth. “Does it really matter?” he asks plaintively. “Can’t you just go back to not caring about what I do?”
“I cannot help but think that I will very much care about whatever it is you plan on doing with this,” Fëanor says, a strange expression on his face as he watches Fingolfin. “In fact, I feel that a great many people will end up caring about what you do with it.”
“Well, yes, but then it’ll already be done so I won’t care if you pay attention.” This is perhaps not the best thing to say if he wishes to alleviate suspicion.
Fëanor studies him for a moment. It is making Fingolfin uncomfortable that he cannot identify the expression on his brother’s face. “Is someone,” Fëanor pauses with a grimace. “This sounds absurd, but, is someone threatening you?”
“Well, I suppose in the most literal sense, yes,” he says. Fëanor’s face darkens and he hastens to add, “but not in the way you are surely thinking.”
“Please, enlighten me then. In what other way can one be threatened?” There’s a fury building in Fëanor’s eyes, made brighter by the way they catch Laurelin’s light.
“It’s fine. I’m handling it. There’s no need for you to concern yourself with it.” He pauses, considers how long a sword will take to be made. “There is also no need to bother anyone else with it.”
“Ñolofinwë,” Fëanor says, voice deceptively mild. “You are going to tell me who has decided it is acceptable to threaten a member of the House of Finwë or I am going to drag you to atar so that you can tell him.”
Fingolfin considers this. Briefly wonders how fast he could find Morgoth this time if he grabbed the dagger and ran again and dismisses the thought just as quickly. He doesn’t particularly feel like dying for no reason yet again. But still, it irritates him on a deep, visceral level that Fëanor is only doing this because he likely sees this as a potential threat against his children and not because he particularly cares about Fingolfin’s wellbeing. “No,” he says. Takes satisfaction in the irritated curl of Fëanor’s mouth. “And I’ve told you, if you touch me I will bite your hand off. I do mean that in the most literal sense.” He’s sure he wouldn’t make much progress before Fëanor simply knocked him out, but that isn’t the point.
“What are you trying to hide,” Fëanor says softly, cocking his head to the side as he studies Fingolfin. His eyes are two bright flames and Fingolfin thinks he would be more intimidated by Fëanor’s ferocity if he had not seen true monsters of fire in Beleriand. “We are not leaving this room until you tell me,” Fëanor says, completely serious and unfailingly confident in the idea that Fingolfin will break first.
He shrugs, makes himself more comfortable on the settee. “I had no idea you were so eager to spend time with me,” he says, wondering how far he would have to push to make Fëanor kick him out. Is sure he could accomplish it, but is just as sure that Fëanor would not be the only one furious and hurt at the end of it.
Fëanor doesn’t respond, only continues to study him intently, as if he can pluck the answers out of Fingolfin’s mind if he only concentrates hard enough. Fingolfin turns his attention to window, to the sprawling view of the land behind Fëanor’s house. Everything is so green, so healthy. There’s no rot hiding in the land, just waiting for an opportunity to spread. Is it shameful of him to miss Beleriand regardless? To look at all this beauty and want to leave it?
He knows, of course, that he has already done that once. That he had followed Fëanor into exile and even when he had been handed a convenient reason to turn around, he had still pushed forward. But that had not been about Beleriand. He had no deep connection to the land, only a burning desire to avenge his father’s death, to mend the relationship with his brother; and then he had simply wanted to prove Fëanor wrong. He had wanted, to arrive in Beleriand and throw Fëanor’s betrayal in his face and scream it out until at least a little bit of the splintering, icy hurt in his chest had melted away. And instead he had arrived to find that his brother was dead and his nephew taken. There’d been no fight to be had, nothing to sooth any of the hurt.
But now he simply wants to return because he misses the land. As dangerous and as marred as it is, he wants to go back. There had been something singularly satisfying about building something good and strong and beautiful there despite everything trying to stop you from doing so. Barad Eithal had been his in a way that Tirion was not and he wants it back. He wants his father safe and alive and for Tirion, for Aman as a whole, to be free of Morgoth’s poison, and then he wants Barad Eithal back. He wants to do it all better. Surely, with all the knowledge of what’s to come, surely he can do it better.
"What do you wish to do in Beleriand?” he asks Fëanor, who is still watching him. “You speak of wanting to go there. What do you wish to do when you arrive? Build a new city? Explore the entirety of the continent? Spend the next century fighting the enemy so that the land can be safe?” Fëanor had never actually gotten a chance to do much of anything at all in Beleriand. Had arrived and fought Morgoth's forces and died. Fingolfin has always wondered what it would have been like if he’d lived. If anything would have been better. If everything would have been worse.
Fëanor is quiet and when Fingolfin looks to him, he finds his brother has turned his gaze to the window, brow furrowed in thought. “Why must I pick only one of those?” Fëanor finally asks, looking to Fingolfin again, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Why do you care? You are always quick to speak against my desire to leave.”
“Yes, that is rather hypocritical of me isn’t it, since I’ll be going there as soon as I can.” He had been so sure back then that leaving Tirion was a slap in the face to their father, who had gone through much to lead their people to Aman. Had given little thought to whether he wanted to leave, only to how he might best use his brother’s folly to earn a little more of his father’s love. Only to how he might best carve a new gash into the wound between them. He does not know if it would have fixed anything to have supported his brother in this, but he does not think it would have made things worse.
Fëanor looks incredibly confused, an expression Fingolfin is unused to seeing on him. “You just said last week that it was useless endeavor and a folly to even consider such a thing,” Fëanor says, sounding rather pissed off. “What has made you change your mind so quickly?”
He shrugs. “Does it matter? I’m going to leave regardless of what’s changed my mind.”
He wonders for a moment if Fëanor will try to hit him, so annoyed does he look. “You do realize, I hope, that we do not actually have permission to leave. Which is what I have been petitioning for and you have been fighting me on.”
Fingolfin smiles. “I never said I was asking for permission. I simply said I’m leaving.”
Fëanor stares at him, mouth slightly agape, and then his eyes narrow in suspicion. “I do not believe you. I do not know what you are trying to accomplish but I am not a fool, Ñolofinwë. You have not changed your mind so easily.”
“Believe what you will,” he says, shrugging again. What a novelty it is to speak so freely. He will have to find his court manners once again eventually but for now, it is quite freeing to not worry overly much about what he says. “If I leave are you going to try to stop me?”
“Tell me who is threatening you and you’re welcome to leave,” Fëanor says, eyes still narrowed.
“You cannot keep me here forever.”
“I do not see why not.”
Fingolfin snorts. “Putting aside how terribly bored you will soon be, Atar will come looking for you eventually, at which point I’ll be able to leave.”
“I will tell him you are being threatened and refuse to let me help you.”
“And I will say you are lying.” He pauses, considers that sentence. “Also, you do not wish to help me. You only wish to make sure the rest of your family is safe. Rest assured that they are in no danger.” He is smart enough this time to keep off the caveat of, for now.
“Do not presume to tell me what I do or do not mean,” Fëanor snaps, “I have said I wish to know who is threatening you and that I wish to help and that is what I mean. You will not assign your own meaning to my words.”
“You never actually said you wish to help,” he points out.
Fëanor throws a pillow at his head, which he supposes is better than the vase he’d thrown the previous day, if not more childish. “If I did not wish to help I would not be wasting my time talking to you!”
He sounds so annoyed. Fingolfin holds the pillow that Fëanor threw at him and tries to think past the uncomfortable, lurching feeling in his chest. “But—” he frowns. “But you don’t like me. Why do you care?”
“You are still my father’s son. You are being threatened. Whether or not I like you is irrelevant,” Fëanor says in a tone that implies this should be obvious.
Fingolfin draws in a breath around the ice suddenly splintering apart in his chest. Feel’s very small suddenly and so tired of seeing Fëanor’s face that he thinks he might scream. “Right.” He blinks rapidly. The sword can wait until tomorrow. He absolutely cannot stay here a moment longer. “I have to go,” he says and stands. Moves for the door as fast as he can without running. Jerks away when Fëanor reaches for his arm and snarls, “Don’t touch me.”
Fëanor recoils, eyes very wide. He does not know what Fëanor heard in his voice and does not particularly care. He pays no attention to anything on the way back to the palace. Thinks he might have been terribly rude to several people and cannot bring himself to care. He does not stop moving until he is back in his room and then stands in the center of it breathing hard, trying to think past the, the. Fuck. It is hurt, he supposes. He should not be surprised that Fëanor can still hurt him, even now, with no knowledge of the history Fingolfin remembers.
He will, at heart, always be that same little boy, who had wanted his brother to call him brother in return. It is an old hurt and he hates that Fëanor manages to bring it so sharply to the surface even now.
The day is not even halfway through but Fingolfin goes back to bed. He is very tired suddenly. Cannot bear to face his father who makes him want to cry, or his mother that he has not seen in so long he is not sure he can recall her voice, or his little brother who he had missed so terribly, or Findis who had hated him for following Fëanor, and he especially cannot face his little sister who had followed him to Beleriand and who he had seen die but been too far away to save. All of that to say nothing of his children. No, he does not think there is a single person in his family who is ready to face.
☀︎
His sleep is fitful. Haunted by deaths that happened and deaths that hadn’t. He dreams of ways that he could make all of this worse. See’s not only his father’s body lying dead in Formenos but Fëanor’s as well. Dreams of a world where Fëanor is never exiled and Morgoth grows tired of waiting and simply begins killing them one by one himself.
He dreams of the boats burning. And for a while that is all he can see at all. A great, mocking fire shining back at him from across the sea. He wakes to the sight of his ceiling and the lingering, imagined smell of smoke. Telperion’s light is shifting softly throughout the room and he feels no better than he had before he’d laid down. He lays in bed and spends a very long time carefully thinking about nothing at all until the tightness in his chest eases and the mingling of the trees begins.
He drags himself out of bed and gets ready for the day. Steels his spine and reminds himself that he was king and that he is perfectly capable of getting through a difficult day. He cannot hide away from everyone forever if he wishes to accomplish anything. It still feels like the most arduous task ever to simply leave his room.
It is still rather early when he emerges but unfortunately, most of his family, with the exception of Finarfin and Fingon, are early risers, and so the breakfast table is already full when he arrives. It is disconcerting how they all turn to stare at him as he enters.
“I told you he wasn’t dying,” Findis says after a moment of awkward silence, her worried eyes belying the tactless statement.
“I’m quite well,” he says mildly, moving to sit between her and Turgon. He ruthlessly pushes down every single emotion that is trying to bubble up his throat and blocks them off behind a thick sheet of ice. This is not the time. “Was there a reason you were concerned about my health?”
There’s a flurry of looks exchanged and then his father, at the head of the table, says mildly, “It is simply unlike you to miss any meetings. We were worried when we couldn’t find you the rest of the day.”
He hums in acknowledgement, focusing on the toast he’s buttering so he doesn’t have to look his father in the face. “I got caught up in a conversation with Fëanáro. It lasted longer than expected.” The startled silence that falls over the table would be funny if it were for literally any other reason.
“A conversation that lasted the entire day,” Aredhel demands, eyes wide with disbelief when he looks at her. She is so terribly young he realizes, a sharp pain piercing his heart, and it has been so terribly long since he has last seen her. It felt sometimes, despite knowing of her true fate, as if she’d simply vanished into thin air in Beleriand.
“Not the entire day. I simply retired early when I returned home.” This does not lessen the concerned and alarmed looks he is on the receiving end of.
“Arakáno,” his mother says, the demand in her voice quite clear. He clenches his jaw and breathes in deeply before looking up at her. It is his mother, pearls strung through her blonde hair, blue eyes intent on his face as she tries to pick apart what is wrong. He convulsively swallows down the sudden urge to simply put his head in her lap and let her sing the troubles away as she’d done when he was young. “Tell me truthfully, are you well? Did Fëanáro say something to you?”
He can see his father tense up out of the corner of his eye. His mother is usually more discrete when she questions him on what his brother has said to him. Perhaps she can tell that he has absolutely no intention of being alone with any of them if he can help it. “My brother said nothing unusual, amil. I simply found myself tired.” This also does not lessen the concern. He is not sure what else he can say to assure them he is fine. He glances around the table — his eyes linger too long on Arakáno and are stinging by the time he pulls them away. Everyone looks entirely too concerned about him.
He finishes his toast as quickly as he can without looking as if he’s rushing. Doesn’t bother with any other food. He’d only come to breakfast so that he could reacquaint himself with everyone’s faces. “Well,” he says, standing and ignoring his mother’s disapproving look at his plate. “I have business to attend to so I will—”
He is cut off by the door slamming open and Fëanor striding into the room. He is, Fingolfin notes, wearing dirty clothes that clearly indicate he’s only just come from the forge. His hair is braided and his eyes are so bright it nearly distracts from the dark circles under his eyes. “Ah,” Fëanor says, pausing for half-a-second to blink at everyone. “Yes, hello atar. Everyone else. Ñolofinwë, let’s go. I made your project.” He motions impatiently when Fingolfin doesn’t immediately move.
Fingolfin stares. Discretely pinches the inside of his wrist and keeps staring. “What?”
“Is there something wrong with your hearing?” Fëanor asks, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go.”
“No, what,” he demands. “It has not even been a full day. What do you mean you’ve made it?”
Fëanor snorts, waving a hand through the air dismissively. “I am simply very good at my craft,” he says arrogantly. “And Curvo helped me with much so it went faster.”
Fingolfin viciously reminds himself that it would be unbecoming of him to throw a goblet of juice at Fëanor’s face. “What?” he asks flatly. “Do you mean to tell me that you told your son?”
“Worried?” Fëanor asks. There’s a dreadful glint of amusement in his eyes that is sorely testing Fingolfin’s patience.
He bites back several nasty responses, including, if I weren’t opposed to kinslaying I would test it on you first. “You said, you would only make it if I told you why,” he says, keeping his voice carefully even, very aware of his family’s heavy stares.
“What was it you were so fond of saying yesterday,” Fëanor says, raising an eyebrow mockingly. “Does it matter? I’ve made it. Now let’s go.”
Fingolfin narrows his eyes, takes everything he knows about his brother and strips it down to the basics. An inability to allow anyone to be better than him at anything. An inability to not make something once he has an idea in his head. An inability to mind his own business. “You made yourself one too, didn’t you?” he asks resignedly. Fëanor’s pleased smirk is answer enough. “Yes, fine. Let’s go.”
“Boys--” his father starts in alarm, rising to his feet.
“I apologize, atar. This is really rather urgent,” he says smoothly, already moving toward the door. Doesn’t give him a chance to answer as he slips out of the room.
“Urgent is it?” Fëanor asks, eyes very bright when Fingolfin glances at him.
He sighs, debates the odds of accomplishing literally anything else without Fëanor curiously shadowing him. Finds the odds to be so near zero they aren’t worth mentioning at all. “Well,” he says, watching Fëanor carefully, “considering I’m planning on doing my best to kill Melkor, yes, I’d say it’s rather urgent.”
Watching his brother trip in shock will easily go down as one of his favorite memories. “You’re going to do what?!”
☀︎
End Notes:
Fëanor: acts civil
Fingolfin: is this a reason to believe this is a punishment created by the Valar??
--
Fëanor seeing the weapon design: I am both intrigued and concerned. Mainly intrigued. Mostly intrigued. Maybe a dash of concern for spice.
Also, note: I did do research on how long it would take to make swords, but I'm taking creative liberties as 1) I want to 2) the elves can like sing to metals and whatnot right? which must speed stuff up and 3) it's Fëanor.... what else needs to be said?
edit: I finally wrapped my head around the conversions from 1 day by the time of the trees versus one day by time of the sun & yeah, no, that was plenty of time for Fëanor to make a sword. I no longer have regrets about how fast he made it
Also posted on AO3
