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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Fëanor & Fingolfin
Word Count: 5,718
Content Warnings:
Summary:
The moment they are in Fëanor's workshop with the door closed Fëanor turns on him and demands, "Explain. Why have you decided to do something so monumentally difficult so suddenly?"
He does not, Fingolfin notes, say monumentally stupid, or even, you cannot kill a Vala. Only why something so difficult as if it is a given he could kill a Vala given enough thought. He would not be Fëanor without that arrogance but Fingolfin had nearly forgotten how incredibly charming and abrasive it was all at once.
Beginning Notes:
I finished this chapter faster than I thought I would tbh and have a decent barebones outlines for the next [redacted] number of chapters so it's looking good y'all (also i was listening to the live performance of evermore on the eras tour while writing most of this so.... that's the vibe)
chapter title is from Sunoco by X Ambassadors
There wasn't a time / I didn't have / a brother. By the time / my eyes
opened, / he was already here, / but there's so little / time between
us, / he also can't remember / a time before me. / Our origins blur /into
a single birth / between us / and so between us / is a world / and its
beginning. / I tell myself / there's not a world / without my brother in
it. / I tell myself / I'd follow him anywhere / to keep the world / from
ending.
The World at Its Beginning | Dustin Pearson
☀︎
the second loop (continued)
They don't speak of what Fingolfin said on the way to Fëanor's house. Both of them aware of the odd looks and attention they're garnering from the people they pass who are used to them being at each other's throats, not walking calmly together.
But the moment they are in Fëanor's workshop with the door closed Fëanor turns on him and demands, "Explain. Why have you decided to do something so monumentally difficult so suddenly?"
He does not, Fingolfin notes, say monumentally stupid, or even, you cannot kill a Vala. Only why something so difficult as if it is a given he could kill a Vala given enough thought. He would not be Fëanor without that arrogance but Fingolfin had nearly forgotten how incredibly charming and abrasive it was all at once.
He does not have an answer for his brother though. Tries, "Because he is evil and needs to die before he hurts someone."
Fëanor fixes him with a flat glare. "I am willing to believe that Melkor is a fiend as I've always suspected. But you have not suspected this. Explain why you suddenly do so."
"The sword?" He says helplessly, not sure what else to say.
"No. Explain."
He does not want to tell Fëanor the truth. He needs that sword. He would not know how to tell the truth even if he wanted to. He debates this with himself for a time as Fëanor watches him with a strange expression.
He comes to no other solutions. Still does not know how to explain. And so, with a resigned sigh he opens his mind to Fëanor and reaches out. Fëanor recoils and Fingolfin thinks for a moment that he will not let Fingolfin in. But after a second of suspicious squinting, he grimaces and reaches back.
Fingolfin thinks, look, and lets his memories pool between them for Fëanor to sift through. And he does. Immediately latches onto the worst of the memories, his talent for finding Fingolfin’s weak spots unmatched even in this. There's the cool steel of Fëanor's sword against his throat, his father's body, fire on the horizon and salt on his tongue, the blistering cold of the helcaraxë on his face, his vicious grief at waking and finding Fingon gone to rescue Maedhros and being sure he would never see his son again.
And then, Fëanor flipping backwards in confusion, the light of the silmarils, a dizzying rush of resentment and tension building through the years, Melkor always on the sidelines, until it erupts into violence. The sudden, all-encompassing darkness as the trees go out. His earnest, hopeful words, half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. Thou shalt lead and I will follow. May no new grief divide us. Fëanor pauses on that memory longer than the others. The boats again, the helcaraxë, Arakáno's death, the news of Fëanor's death and Maedhros' capture. There's a vicious burst of panic from Fëanor at that and dizzying relief at the memory of Fingon staggering off the eagle with Maedhros.
Fëanor flips through the rest so fast Fingolfin wonders how he's even taking it in. Doesn't pause again until he reaches the war and Fingolfin staring out at the destruction, his heart a racing, jagged thing in his chest. He watches as Fingolfin rides to Angband and challenges Morgoth. Watches as he dies. And then, as he wakes up. He doesn't linger long on the first iteration of this day. Lingers on the last memory Fingolfin has of Fëanor's panicked face before he'd died. Let's go of the memories and thinks, what the fuck Nolvo.
He shrugs. "I don't have any explanations. I just need to kill Morgoth."
Fëanor stares at him, plucks at the memory of the burning boats and the betrayal it had carved into him; at the memory of the frigid pain that came from knowing it was not good to be unable to feel your fingers but being unable to figure out how to warm them up, considers them again. And in a move Fingolfin would never have predicted even in his dreams, Fëanor moves toward him and wraps his arms around him before Fingolfin can react. It takes him a few seconds to comprehend that Fëanor is hugging him. Fëanor steps back, an uncomfortable look on his face, before Fingolfin can decide on whether to hug back.
Fingolfin stares, at a complete loss for words. There's a hot, uncomfortable feeling building in his chest that he does his best to push down. "You have died," Fëanor says, as if that's an explanation. "Twice. You are not well."
"I'm fine," he says automatically. "I'm fine. I just, need the sword. I have to—"
"Yes, kill Morgoth, you've said." Fëanor frowns at him. "You don't have a plan."
"The plan is to kill Morgoth," he says, feeling incredibly confused by this conversation. "And then deal with the fallout I suppose."
"That plan has not been working well for you."
He shrugs. "It will eventually."
Fëanor makes a frustrated noise. Snaps, "When? After you've died three, four, five more times?"
"I hope it doesn't take that long," he says, not enjoying the idea of having to find a way to get a weapon so many times when it is such an awful hassle. "But I can only believe that the failure to kill him, or I suppose at the very least, to run him out of Aman without dying, is why I keep waking back up."
"That does not mean you cannot take the time to make a plan," Fëanor says as if that isn't one of the most hypocritical things he's ever said. Fëanor must see that thought on his face because he scowls.
"I have made a plan," he says again, wishing he already had the sword so he could just leave. "The plan is kill Morgoth."
"Eru help me," Fëanor mutters. "No. We're going to go inside. We're going to sit down and make an actual plan. And then I'll give you the sword."
Fingolfin mutinously wonders how much effort it would take to get his hands on one of the hunting spears. Doesn't get a chance to find out because Fëanor grabs his arm and starts dragging him to the house. They pass Maedhros on the way inside, who stops to stare after them with a befuddled expression. Fëanor doesn't slow down until they're in his study and Fingolfin rather wants to crawl out of his skin at being in here again.
Fëanor manhandles him onto the settee and sits down next to him. Looks at the empty fireplace instead of Fingolfin when he says, "Okay. How do we kill Melkor without dying."
Fingolfin stares at the side of his face and turns the word we over in his mind trying to make sense of this. Of anything. Is not sure he likes how out of character Fëanor is acting. That hot, uncomfortable feeling is still trying to expand in his chest. "We?"
Fëanor makes an incredibly aggravated sound and pinches the bridge of his nose as if Fingolfin is the one being unreasonable! As if this is not a perfectly natural question when his brother has never cared to help him with anything before. "Yes, we," Fëanor says slowly as if Fingolfin is being particularly dense, "I have told you already yesterday that I wish to help you. I still wish to do so now that the problem itself has been revealed to me."
Maybe, Fingolfin thinks, the real test is not killing Morgoth at all. Maybe the real test is whether he can handle Fëanor being almost nice to him without wanting to punch something. Without wanting to shake Fëanor and ask, why must it take me dying to make you care? "I—" he stops, not sure what he wants to say. Considers again the merits of just finding a spear.
"I do not want you dead," Fëanor says harshly, "You will let me help you with this."
Fingolfin thinks of cool steel against his throat and the explosive fury that Fëanor had faced him with. Does not know how to ask, is there a difference between wishing I was not born and not wanting me dead? Thinks too of how annoying it is that Fëanor never phrases stuff as a question. He feels so very tired suddenly. Fixing his relationship with Fëanor was meant to be a third task. Kill Morgoth. Deal with the aftermath. Fix his relationship with Fëanor so that it didn't implode later on down the line and turn everything into a fucking mess anyway. He does not want to deal with Fëanor and all the complicated, bitter emotions that he pulls to the surface now.
"Just, fine, do what you will," he says, letting himself slump and put his head in his hands. "It's not as if I have any say in the matter, clearly."
"I do not understand," Fëanor says, sounding pissed off and frustrated at having to say such a thing. "You were high king were you not? You did not look to be awful at it. You are always obnoxiously telling me that I do not think things through. Why are you so opposed to doing so now?"
"None of my plans particularly worked out," he mutters. "I thought to try your approach of blindly rushing in and hoping for the best. It nearly worked last time."
"You are being ridiculous," Fëanor says. Fingolfin is sure he's rolling his eyes. He does not respond and Fëanor does not say anything else, but after a sticky moment his hand comes up and settles on the back of Fingolfin's neck, squeezing lightly.
Fëanor is trying to be comforting and that disgustingly hot emotion goes roaring through Fingolfin before he can stop it, melting the jagged ice in his chest, and leaving a great gaping emptiness behind. He drags in a shuddering breath and tells himself sternly that he will not cry. There is no point. There is not even any real reason to grieve. Everyone is alive and well and he intends to keep them that way.
None of this stops his next breath from catching in his throat. Does not stop the tears from fighting their way free, warm as they roll down his face. Fingolfin has never been a loud crier. Has never seen the point of wanting attention when you were in tears. That has not changed now and if it were not for the way Fëanor's hand tightens on his neck he would think that maybe the tears go unnoticed.
"This is stupid," he says, sitting up and shaking Fëanor's hand off. He wipes the tears off his face and wrinkles his nose at how wobbly his voice is. "I don't have time for this. I have to—"
"If you say kill Morgoth again, I will punch you," Fëanor says mildly.
Fingolfin glares at him. "Well if you want there to be a plan so fucking badly then make one. Go on. How would the great Fëanor kill one of the Valar?"
Fëanor rather looks like he's considering punching Fingolfin anyway. He doesn't though. He also doesn't answer. Steeples his fingers together and puts his elbows on his knees as he stares at the fireplace. "I do not know that it is possible to kill a Vala. Are they capable of dying in the same way we do?" he says thoughtfully. "And if we were able to wound him deeply enough that we could capture him, could we hold him? I do not believe we can trust the other Valar to hold him without giving them undeniable proof of what he means to do."
"If you tell me to give up," he snaps, torn between absolute fury at the idea and sheer bafflement that it is Fëanor who is suggesting such a thing.
"Don't be stupid, Nolvo," Fëanor says. "I do not give up." He falls silent again and Fingolfin sighs, leaning back to wait.
There's a horribly bitter feeling curled up in his stomach that's begging for attention. Fingolfin wants. Has always wanted. Is this not what he had wished for when he was young? For his brother to look at him and finally see him. Why must it leave a bitter taste in his mouth now that it is happening. But he wants the same thing he'd wanted in the previous iteration of this mess. For his brother to know him. Not to just know of the events, but to be able to look Fingolfin in the face and tell him why he'd burned the boats. Why he'd acted as if he was the only one who was allowed to wish for vengeance against Morgoth. Why he'd had to go and get himself killed before Fingolfin could punch him in the face.
Useless, useless wants. Much of what seems to go through Fingolfin's head lately is useless. He thinks, in truth, he just wants to have simply stayed dead the first time. A selfish want but that does not make it go away.
"Perhaps we cannot kill him," Fëanor says thoughtfully, "but depriving him of his hröa would still inconvenience him would it not? Would still put a stop to his plans."
"Yes, but I do not pretend to understand how the Valar work. It may be that he can simply craft himself a new one."
Fëanor hums. "If we can sever his fëa from his hröa I may be able to trap it before he has a chance to do so. I will need to retrieve something from the palace. Come, I will see you back."
"You realize I am capable of walking to the palace on my own?"
Fëanor laughs. "If I leave you alone you will try to steal the sword from under my nose and rush off to fight Morgoth regardless."
Fingolfin absolutely refuses to confirm that he likely would have done that. But Fëanor laughs again at whatever is on his face. "Come little brother, there is much to do."
He herds Fingolfin out the door and out of the house and the entire time Fingolfin is silent, struck utterly speechless by the words that had so easily left Fëanor's mouth. Little brother.
☀︎
They pass Finarfin on their way inside of the palace. Finarfin who looks between them with wide eyes and then mouths, later, at Fingolfin. He smiles weakly, having absolutely no intention of letting anyone get him alone long enough to ask him about this. Though he’s sure that will be increasingly difficult considering the rest of his family surely still has questions about his abrupt departure from breakfast.
Fëanor leads the way through the palace and then turns down a hallway Fingolfin never goes down. He has the absurd urge to freeze like a child caught somewhere they shouldn’t be. But this hall, he knows, leads to the family rooms. The original family rooms. Míriel’s room was this way, her sewing room, Fëanor’s childhood bedroom. Fingolfin has never come this way and neither have his siblings. It’s always been an understood thing that this was not an area to explore even just out of curiosity. But Fëanor keeps walking and Fingolfin certainly isn’t going to ask if it’s really okay for him to be down here.
The room that he follows Fëanor into is obviously the sewing room. Bolts of cloth lay scattered on tables and leaned against walls. He sees a rack overflowing with spools of thread in brilliant, vivid colors. There’s a dark green fabric laid out on one table, pins carefully stuck in it, and scissors sitting next to it, just waiting for their owner to return and cut out the pattern they’ve planned. It feels a little like a shrine, a little like a graveyard. A lot like a desperate, wordless plea to let the belief that the room’s owner will return linger just a little longer.
Fëanor is in the back corner of the room, carefully picking through a box of stuff. Fingolfin stands very still just in the doorway and doesn’t touch a thing. Takes in the various half-finished projects and feels a pang of sadness that they will never be completed. Makes sure to keep those thoughts off of his face when Fëanor comes back over hands full of… something.
“I don’t know what my mother intended to do with this,” Fëanor says, voice unusually soft. “Or if it is a relic from Cuiviénen, but the power she imbued it with is strong.” He unfolds a finely woven net that is large enough it could be tossed over Fingolfin’s head and reach his ankles still.
Fingolfin gently touches the corner and flexes his fingers against the song of strength and captivity sung through the threads. “For hunting perhaps, or fishing,” he muses, marveling at how tightly woven it is. It would be extraordinary if this was made in Cuiviénen. It would be extraordinary even if it was not. “You think this can hold the fëa of a Valar?”
“Míriel Þerindë made it,” Fëanor says, eyes blazing when Fingolfin meets them. “of course it can.”
Fingolfin spares a moment to wonder if Míriel had also been as obnoxiously arrogant as her son is and then vows to never let Fëanor know he’d had that thought. “Does this mean you will finally give me the sword?”
“At which point exactly in your life did you lose all of that patience atar is so proud of you for having?” Fëanor asks, snickering when Fingolfin glares at him. “You may have it tomorrow. Morgoth walks the same path through the city every morning. It will be easy to ambush him.”
It is longer than Fingolfin wishes to wait but not so long that he cannot. Fëanor folds the net back up and wraps it in a piece of emerald cloth and Fingolfin follows him back out of the room. When they reach the main halls again they find both Fingon and Maedhros conspicuously lingering in a doorway not too far away. Fingon turns to look at them immediately. Maedhros at least tries to act as if they were not curiously spying.
Fëanor stares at them for a moment, eyes flickering between them, and Fingolfin knows what Fëanor is thinking about. “I am happy you two are friends,” Fëanor declares, nodding decisively. He walks off before Fingon can pick his jaw up off the floor or Maedhros can wipe the deeply startled look off his face. Fingolfin resists the urge to start laughing, tells them both to stay out of trouble, and follows after his brother.
If he ignores the crushing weight of responsibility on his shoulders, it is almost entertaining watching his family scramble to try and figure out what is going on.
☀︎
The sword that Fëanor hands him the next day is remarkably sturdy and well-balanced for being both his first attempt and made in such an astonishingly short time frame. He tells Fëanor as much and rolls his eyes at how smug he looks.
"I assume then that my swords were superior to the ones created by others?"
"Does the sun shine?" he replies absently, still inspecting the sword.
"What is the sun?"
Fingolfin looks up and stares at Fëanor in bemusement. How Fëanor managed to miss this when looking through his memories Fingolfin does not know. "You really did die incredibly early didn’t you," he says, amused when Fëanor scowls at him. He opens his mind and holds out a memory. Fëanor doesn't recoil this time, though he still hesitates for a moment before reaching back. The sun rises for the first time in the memory, bathing the world in warm light. At the time it had felt like a manifestation of their hope.
"Perhaps we should kill the trees after this so that the Valar are forced to make the sun," Fëanor says, laughing at the scandalized look Fingolfin throws him.
"I am not killing the trees," he tells Fëanor, only half-sure if his brother is joking. "Killing Morgoth will be the cause of quite enough problems."
"Indeed." Fëanor picks up his own sword. "Onwards then! I am eager to rid us of this nuisance!"
He's out the door before Fingolfin can react to Morgoth being called a nuisance. "A nuisance," he mutters. As if Morgoth was no more than an annoying insect. He wonders how badly it would piss Morgoth off to be compared to such to his face.
☀︎
Later, Fingolfin will curse them both as fools for having hope. Will curse Fëanor for being so fucking arrogant and sure of himself that he'd dragged Fingolfin along with him into believing that they could win this. But in the minutes before the fight, his brother beside him and on his side, his sword a comforting weight in his hand — in that moment he feels so fucking hopeful he can feel it in his teeth.
And then the fight happens.
Morgoth dodges their initial strike, dashing their hope of wounding him immediately as Fingolfin had done before. And for a few minutes Morgoth tries to keep his cover, likely in hope of using this as a way to ruin Tirion, but his hatred of them ends up being larger than his desire to keep up the ruse. Then there is the moment, when Fingolfin has the sick, startling realization of how much stronger Morgoth is without a preemptive stab wound to the neck slowing him down or the hallowed light of the silmarils burning him.
He does not have a weapon but he does as Fingolfin had feared he would and grows taller than the trees. Some part of Fingolfin thinks that he should just go ahead and give up and resign himself to once again doing this all over again. But the part of Fingolfin that had dug its teeth into the idea of Beleriand so firmly he had braved the ice rears its head and snarls. Maybe they can't win this, but that doesn't mean he won't try.
Trying, in the end, does no good. Despite Melkor's strength he still gets five hits in. Fëanor gets in six. And, oh, it is so terribly satisfying to hear Morgoth's furious bellowing, but the satisfaction crystalizes into frigid fear when Fëanor fails to move out of the way in time and gets caught up in Morgoth's hand. Fëanor looks like nothing more than a doll caught in Morgoth's fist and Fingolfin cannot bring himself to watch when Morgoth hauls back and throws Fëanor. Fingolfin has no hope that a throw from that height is anything but a death sentence. Finds himself nothing but bitterly relieved when a couple of minutes later he once again finds himself sprawled on the ground as Morgoth's foot comes down.
Perhaps this is just the way he's meant to die, he thinks, aiming his sword upwards so that even as he dies, he gets the glory of listening to Morgoth scream.
☀︎
the third loop
Fingolfin wakes up in his bed.
He stares at the ceiling, the silence feeling so very loud. There's a scream building in the base of his throat — fury and grief and a great weeping hopelessness that he cannot give sound to for fear of it overwhelming him. He breathes in slowly, focusing on the way his chest moves, all of his ribs in their proper place. Breathes out just as slowly, tries to let the tension out with it. Lays in bed for too long focused on nothing but the feel of air moving in and out of his body.
When he finally gets out of bed and gets dressed he finds that he feels brittle. Still a little too aware of his own breathing, everything else feeling very far away. He feels a little like it would take little more than a bumped elbow on a doorframe to send cracks running through him. He does not actually have a plan when he leaves his room. Stands in the doorway for too long trying to decide where to go and is thankful no one happens upon him.
He finally settles on heading for the gardens. If he goes to the city he stands the chance of running into Morgoth again and he is not sure what he will do if he sees him again so soon. What he does not account for, as he heads for the gardens, is how long he's taken to simply get ready and leave his room. Turns a corner, finds Fëanor walking toward him, and freezes in his tracks. Realizes far too late he's forgotten that stupid meeting again. It always seems so small and unimportant in the face of everything else.
He does not know what his face is doing but Fëanor stops walking as well. "Ñolofinwë," he says cooly. "The meeting is the other direction if you've forgotten how to get there."
Fingolfin cannot respond. Can think only of Fëanor caught in Morgoth's fist. It is not as if Fëanor is the first loved one he has seen die. But there is something unsettlingly jarring about seeing someone die and then having them alive and well in front of you so soon after. To say nothing of the sick feeling in his stomach at once again hearing Fëanor speak to him as if he's never wanted to do something less.
"What is wrong with you?" Fëanor asks after the silence has stretched entirely too long. He's scowling and glances past Fingolfin, clearly wondering if walking away and leaving Fingolfin to his break-down would be the preferable option.
"I—" he tries, has to stop when the word catches in his throat. He had listened to Fëanor in the unsung day, say little brother like he almost meant it, and Fingolfin hadn't realized it at the time, but there'd been a shard of hope stitching itself onto the part of him that has always wanted to fix what was broken between them. Feeling all of the stitches unravel is abruptly too much. This is all too much. He thinks he means to make some excuse before going back to his room but the only thing that comes out of his mouth when he opens it is a tiny, wretched noise that settles loudly between them.
He shakes his head, turns and leaves. He will not call it running but Fëanor calls his name and his steps quicken.
☀︎
He ends up sitting in the window seat, knees hugged to his chest as he stares out at Tirion. Anairë loves this window seat, cites it always as her favorite part of their rooms. Had enjoyed sitting and reading under the light of Laurelin while Fingolfin worked at his desk. The silence only ever broken by her reading a particularly interesting passage out loud for him or by him asking her opinion on one thing or another. He would finish his work and sit with her then, content to listen to her read.
Those days had grown fewer and fewer as his tension with Fëanor had stretched itself tighter and tighter. She had never fully left him as Nerdanel had Fëanor but at the end the space between them had echoed every time they spoke. Their marriage bond a small, tightly coiled, miserable knot in the back of his mind that he didn't dare touch. It is fully present in his mind now, a garden arch covered in freshly bloomed roses where he could easily walk through and find her on the other side. He doesn't dare draw her attention to the icy wasteland that is his mind currently but just knowing that he could is a warm thought to take comfort in.
He does not know what to do. Closes his eyes and sees Fëanor flying through the air. Opens them and can think of nothing but the way the failure stings. Closed them and thinks of Arakáno, of Írissë. Of Turgon building walls so high it locked even his family out. Of how he'd left Fingon to run a kingdom doomed to fall. Opens his eyes and blinks against the way they burn.
He does not enjoy crying but that does nothing to stop the tears from spilling over. He does not know how long time will continue to be sung and unsung. Does not know if he has a set number of attempts. If one day he will die and that will be the unfortunate song to stay sung . Or, perhaps worse, there is no limit and he simply tries and tries forever until he gets it right. This is only the third song, perhaps the fourth if he counts the original, and he already feels too brittle to do anyone any good.
He has no plans. Once again has no sword, not that it had done him any good. And he is so very tired.
He stays sitting by the window, silently crying on and off, for some indeterminable amount of time, until someone knocks on the door. He stays silent hoping whoever it is will simply leave. Knows better the minute Fëanor loudly says his name. But just because it is a lost cause does not mean he will speed up the outcome. He stays silent and keeps his attention on the view outside of the window. Doesn't react when Fëanor barges in after presumably having sung the lock open.
He does not have the energy for Fëanor. For all the awful three-pronged emotions he pulls forward just so he can find the softest spots to stab them back through. His brother makes him feel like a little kid still clinging to the robes of someone Finwë had taught him to idolize. Makes him bitter and angry with nowhere to put either emotion.
"Ñolofinwë, what is wrong with you?" Fëanor demands the very minute he walks in. "You have been missing all day and I have heard atar enquire after you one too many times. I will drag you out of this room if I must.”
Fingolfin considers responding but the idea of speaking is exhausting. He continues staring out the window instead. His eyes are traitorously burning again and he dearly wishes Fëanor would leave so he can be miserable in peace.
"Ñolofinwë," Fëanor snaps, before falling silent as he gets close enough to get a good look at Fingolfin's face, which he is sure is a blotchy tear-stained mess. He watches Fëanor’s reflection in the glass as he takes a step back and then awkwardly hovers there, clearly trying to decide if he should leave or stay.
Fingolfin closes his eyes, presses his forehead against the cool pane of glass. “You can leave,” he says quietly, “just don’t tell atar, please.” He does not think he can bear to face his father. Does not want to lie to him and does not want to spill his secrets and have to lay all of his failures at his father’s feet.
He waits for the retreating footsteps but they never come. Instead, after another minute of dithering, Fëanor’s gaze hot against his skin, Fëanor determinedly walks over and seats himself opposite of Fingolfin in the window seat. Fingolfin opens his eyes as the cushion shifts to find his brother sitting cross-legged across from him, considering him with a heavy gaze. The window seat is small enough that their legs nearly touch, would touch if Fingolfin uncurled from the position he’s in.
“What has happened, Nolvo?” Fëanor asks, voice too serious to be comforting, but too quiet to be abrasive.
Fingolfin thinks of his brother in his workshop, watching Fingolfin with serious eyes, saying, you have died twice. You are not well. Thinks maybe Fëanor had been right. Wishes very suddenly, with a sharp pang, for his brother to hug him again. Wouldn’t know how to ask for that even if Fëanor did remember the unsung days. But the wanting still gnaws at him and has him closing his eyes again, ignoring the tears that start up again.
Fëanor makes a frustrated sound and pokes his knee. “Nolvo, what’s happened?”
And Fingolfin is tired and grieving and is not sure if this is some twisted chance to fix things or a divine punishment and he selfishly wants the previous version of Fëanor back who had looked at him and seemed to actually see him. He is too weary to speak but. But it’s easy to once again open his mind. Easier now that he has a better idea of how Fëanor will react.
Fëanor still recoils before hesitantly reaching back, but he has, Fingolfin notes absently, reached back every time. It’s almost interesting how Fëanor flips through the memories in almost exactly the same order. The only difference being that this time Fëanor lingers over the previous unsung days. Lingers the longest, oddly, on the memory of himself barging into breakfast to announce he’d made a sword.
He says nothing when he’s done. Let’s go of the memories and goes to close his mind off again but hesitates when Fingolfin’s mind stays pressed up against his, showing no signs of wanting to retreat. Fingolfin should apologize for that but it is comforting having the blazing maelstrom of Fëanor’s mind pressed up against his. It’s impossible to feel alone when Fëanor is so vividly, achingly loud and alive.
“You fucking idiot,” Fëanor says on a sigh. He stands, forcefully pulling Fingolfin to his feet as well, and before he can do more than make an irritated protesting noise, Fëanor has already pulled him into a hug. Fingolfin goes still, expecting it to be over as quickly as it started. But Fëanor gives no indication that he’s going to let go and so, Fingolfin hesitantly hugs back. There’s an ugly, painful sob trying to claw its way up his throat as Fëanor’s arms tighten around him. He tries to swallow it down, tired of crying, tired of all this unfathomable grief. But with their minds still pressed together Fëanor must be able to feel the emotion even without Fingolfin directly sending him the thought, because he lets out an aggravated sigh, and very quietly, like he’s worried someone else will hear him and start spreading the gossip around Tirion posthaste, he says, “You must let it all out. Your mind feels like a tightly coiled spring. Cry little brother. We will figure out the rest after.”
Fingolfin sucks in desperate, gasping breath, thinks of firelight against the water and salt on his tongue, and feels a long frozen hurt crack down the middle as the first sob finally breaks free.
☀︎
End Notes:
To Fëanor's deep surprise he does not in fact like watching Fingolfin die. It keeps activating his big brother sleeper cell instincts all at once and his internal dialogue is just a lot of stressed out, angry yelling
[insert B99 meme of Rosa holding the dog] - Fëanor: I have had Fingolfin for one day but if anything happened to him--
Findis: you've literally had him for his entire life? He isn't new.
Also on AO3
