Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, plot or franchise of the Silmarillion or related world that the esteemed Tolkien built.
I've read a few stories where Fëanáro lives and they were done brilliantly. My favourite is Ilye's 'The Brightest of Us All' on AO3. My one complaint, however, would be that these stories are so short. This brought me to here – my own version of a Fëanáro lives fic. It's probably nowhere near as good as others out there, but we'll see how it goes.
Regarding names, I have strived to use the Quenya version as, at least in the initial part of this story, I don't think they would have adopted Sindarin versions. Perhaps a bit later. Additionally, the sons of Fëanáro are addressed by both their father and mother names (note that Fëanáro himself is never called Curfinwë). This is because I believe Fëanáro would refer to them as the names he gave them, which are a reminder of their position in relation to Royalty and Finwë. For much the same reason, I doubt Nolofinwë and Lalwendë would call them by their father names. The exception here will become Maitimo for obvious reasons. Finally, the brothers/cousins would probably adhere to the name that each personally prefers.
I have provided an appendix/glossary for those who need it. This appears at the end of this chapter. My apologies for any confusion – I promise to keep the names consistent with each point of view they correspond to and any change in the names given will be explicitly detailed in the story itself should the need arise.
The two elves sat across from each other on either side of a bed. Half-brothers they were, but even that scant shared blood had somehow faded to make them strangers. What brought them together now was all the urgency of all their problems manifested in the third elf lying prone on the bed between them.
It was a hard task, Ñolofinwë found, to admit that the unconscious being was an elf and an even harder one to admit the elf was his eldest nephew, Maitimo.
Bones. That was the first thing Finwë's second son had thought when his gaze had fallen to the bundle held in his own trembling son's steady hands. Covered completely by Findekáno's cloak, there had been no telling it was an elf. Just bones sticking everywhere and grief for lost kin and pity for a bereaved father. Then the wind, as though on Manwë's whim, had tugged back the hood far enough to see skin beyond copper hair.
There had still been no way to tell for sure that Maitimo lived. From the ground they could not have seen his breath stirring so slightly (still so slightly) in his chest, no the fresh blood still sluggishly soaking everything around that arm. There had been no way to tell that the skin, though dry and worn and grey, bore no signs of the decomposition that marked the dead. Yet, somehow he knew as a father knew – Findekáno would not have brought home a fresh corpse had he stumbled upon it. No eagle would have ever returned from Angamando.
In hindsight, it should have been Fëanáro's reaction that told him.
The elf had not screamed or wailed. He had not collapsed upon his knees as he had when news of his father's death reached him, brought by the same son Findekáno had miraculously brought to him. The eagle's wings had yet to settle fully from their flight, but something had settled fully on Fëanáro's face. Beyond the rage there had been fear and what need was there to fear for one who was already dead?
No, Maitimo had lived. A mockery of his mother's given name now perhaps, but he lived. Without a right hand, he lived. Without colour in his face that was not black or blue or yellow or a horrid, burnt red. Without half the flesh he had once possessed, without more than half for those protruding bones seemed to be covered by skin alone. Though the same skin seemed to be covered by scars upon scars. Sprawling and crisscrossed, some thick and some as thin as the thread that cruelly held the elf's fëa in place. His eyes were closed in unconsciousness. That in itself was wholly unnatural.
Matimo lived.
The words of Ñolofinwë's brother blew back to him on the bitter winds of memory: he was lucky Arakáno was dead. There had been anger when Fëanáro had first said it and anger still even when the eagle had come. Now there was just stark relief in the face of truth. He was lucky Arakáno was dead.
Ñolofinwë sighed. Still, Maitimo's condition was only one of the many issues they had yet to resolve.
"He is too ill to move," the Noldor Lord finally braved.
Fëanáro made no reply.
Ñolofinwë sighed again. "I can grant you three days, I think, before my people start baying for my blood as well as yours. Gossip will spread by those who saw him. Our hearts, though hardened, were not frozen on the Grinding Ice. A little longer, perhaps, if Findekáno recounts his story to them and you show some gesture of apology."
"He is my son."
"I know." Ñolofinwë did not know if his brother was making an argument or a simple statement or an oath of vengeance. The darkness that underscored his voice, disconcertedly, did not make it clearer. "Nevertheless-"
"He is my son." Now Fëanáro's eyes flashed with that famed temper that had somehow become so warped so quickly.
Makalaurë had said his father had changed. Changed indeed the great elf seemed. His physique was near enough to that of the Fëanáro decades ago when Ñolofinwë had last seen him in Alqualondë –where other elves, including himself, had grown in muscle mass, those whose arts in Valinor had laid smithery had changed very little. It was just another advantage his brother had begun with here in Beleriand alongside a dozen ships filled with much needed supplies. Yet, in his eyes there was a shadow there that had not been even upon their father's death. What madness lurked behind it-
But such trains of thought did little to solve the current predicament.
"Three days, Fëanáro," Ñolofinwë said. "I cannot grant you much else. Even that may be too much for some."
"Then perhaps Findekáno should have asked the eagle to land by my camp and not yours."
"My son had no control over that eagle," the younger elf snapped. "His focus was on your son alone. It is by Manwë's will that we were closer to my camp than to yours."
Fëanáro laughed. "Manwë? Still you place faith in that piddling Vala?"
"And still you commit blasphemy against him," Ñolofinwë said dryly. His brother was not fazed.
"Oh, come off the tower you deign yourself to live on," he said. "You turned from the Valar as freely as I. Besides, what reason have you to still clutch to your faith? Tell me, did the Valar aid you at all on the Helcaraxë? Did they come to warm all your cold fingers and toes like a mother does for her babe? Did they come to raise the snow from you to save your clothes from being ruined? Did they come when the ice split beneath your feet? When Elenwë died? Where was your Manwë then?"
The only thing that kept Ñolofinwë from strangling Fëanáro with his own bare hands was that he would have to lean across Maitimo to do so. That was an action churlish enough to keep the elf's anger in his voice alone. He would have to thank Lalwendë later for her wise placement of the only seating in the room. No doubt she knew neither one of her brothers, sharing or half sharing her blood, would dare grow physical in their anger with such a vulnerable member of their family between them. It would just make already bad matters worse diplomatically if one of them killed the other in a fit of rage.
They were already teetering on the precipice of an all-out war. Had almost been at blows before the eagle had landed amongst them.
"You think to mock the Ice," Ñolofinwë said, his voice as cold as that which he mentioned. "You would not, had you experienced it. Imagine snow as far as the eye can see, hard and cold and wet. A sparse distribution of rock pointing out like jagged teeth. It swallowed us up alone and in groups, families broken and lost entirely. Fathers lost and mothers too, like poor Elenwë who left little Itarillë behind. This was what we suffered."
"Perhaps you were just too stubborn to know when to turn back. It is a shame your pride would stop you from admitting this. You would not want all those deaths on your conscience, would you?"
"Like you fail to let the deaths at Alqualondë lay on yours?" Ñolofinwë made to stand, glimpsed a ruined face and settled back into his chair.
The air in the room had grown unbearably tense. It was much like the initial cracking of a sheet of ice: violence could erupt at any moment and plunge them all into the frigid waters to die.
Moringotto was probably laughing at them now from whatever shadow throne he sat upon in Angamando. (Ñolofinwë prayed he was if it would save his own eldest from the Vala's wrath. Findekáno had been brave and rash and a fool.)
"Alqualondë," Fëanáro finally began. "It was a…miscalculation."
And perhaps that was as close as the elf would ever get to admitting a mistake. To the very mistake that had brought the Noldor and his own House their Doom.
The younger of Finwë's sons laughed bitterly. "A miscalculation is one way to describe it. A massacre is another. I am sure the Teleri use that word quite freely, at least those who still live."
"Olwë did not have to be so possessive of his boats. I would have returned them."
"My people blame you for it, of course."
"I heard the rumblings when we left you all those years ago. They blamed me for many things. They still do." Fëanáro looked up. "I did not tell them to draw their swords."
"They shouldn't have had to."
"Bah." Fëanáro tore his gaze away, grey eyes roaming about the room before being drawn once more to the slack face of his son. "If you want gratitude, I already thanked you for coming to our aid after we won. If you want an apology, look elsewhere for it. Teleri blood stains your hands as much as it stains mine."
Ñolofinwë remained unmoved. The words were his brother in full, his half-brother as the other had always steadfastly pointed out. (Not always, perhaps. There was a time once- But that was centuries ago, before things had changed and shadows sought to poison the ears of greatness.) Blunt and true. Fëanáro had never been one to believe in telling lies. Had never believed what he said could be one. It had always made pointing out his false logic difficult. Ñolofinwë had sworn to follow Fëanáro; he would not have betrayed him to become king whatever rumours said.
Silence fell upon the room like a sword upon an elven head. With neither of its conscious occupants having anything to say to the other that was not fuelled by anger and hurt so it was that neither spoke. That left them with little to do but muse.
It was abundantly clear as to what Fëanáro was musing.
As aloof as the smith often appeared, he was a very tactile being. Always touching something of whomever he was with be it hands or hair or clothing, always fiddling with something when he could not touch, tinkering away at anything in grasping distance – Ñolofinwë could scarcely remember a time when he had been still. Even in rage he had shaken like the leaves in a tree assailed by wind. Even in the greatest of griefs he had taken to his feet and fled. So to see him now so hesitant to touch, fingers creeping forward to a shorn copper head before falling dead upon the pillows and remaining there unmoving… It seemed as unnatural as Maitimo's closed eyes.
What had Fëanáro been thinking when he had abandoned his son to their father's murderer?
Yet, Ñolofinwë knew well there had been little else his oldest brother could have done. When faced with such decisions, the life of one meant little compared to the life of hundreds of others who also looked to you for guidance. It had been a hard lesson to learn on the Ice, but a lesson nonetheless. Beleriand was not as Valinor had been, any mercy it had once possessed had been drowned out long ago by its screaming.
His eldest brother had not given up on his eldest son – even when the news had first been delivered to those of Finwë's House who had survived the Grinding Ice with that damning phrase 'seek Nelyafinwë Maitimo no more, he is dead', the eyes of Fëanáro had shown determination more than grief. No less than twenty times the elf had ridden out in force towards Angamando, Makalaurë had informed him, only to be rebuffed by the forces of Darkness no less than twenty times before even drawing close to its looming gates. No great losses had been suffered by his brother's people, not since the loss of Maitimo. Still, no great gains had been made either.
Eventually, thoughts had to be turned to fortification and ensuring those who still lived continued living as more than just exiles in a wild land. How much had it hurt the first son of Finwë and only son of Miríel to tear his gaze away from Angamando, even if temporarily?
"He will live." The healers had said as much, however uncertainly, when they had finished tending to the wreck of his nephew's body, though Ñolofinwë suspected they had been, in part, too afraid to say otherwise in the face of Fëanáro's burning glare. Even now the elf did not appreciate the comfort.
"I cannot leave him. Not again."
Ñolofinwë closed his eyes. "If you stay here I cannot guarantee there will not be violence," the Lord said wearily. "Please, think at least of M…" A glimpse of a ruined body. "Maitimo, I implore you."
Fëanáro growled, his sharp gaze returning to the one across from him. That he had picked up on his brother's hesitation seemed to incite his fury further. "If you cannot guarantee his safety-"
"I can," Ñolofinwë interrupted, well aware of the threat hanging in the air. "So long as you are not here."
The other seemed to think on this. "One of his brothers-"
"Would cause the same trouble, though less of it," Ñolofinwë said.
"I will not just abandon my son here, not like this!"
"He will still have family around him, if that is your concern."
Fëanáro snorted and it didn't hurt as much as it once had. The Helcaraxë had cooled much of his desire to be acknowledged by his brother as more than some whelp whose mother had imposed on the role meant to be filled by someone else. (And still some small part of him longed for something more than the derisive indifference and fierce rivalry they had settled into for a long-forgotten reason.)
"If you expect us to stay away until he is fully recovered and well enough to travel…"
It was, indeed, a big ask. Disputed King or not, betrayer or not, Fëanáro was also a father who had just gotten back his son.
"At least until he wakes," Ñolofinwë conceded. "If the healers are right in their suspicions, that may not be for a while yet." However much it pained the uncle in him, pained the father who could sympathise with another and knew he would have to watch his own son wrangle with his own pain and guilt, it was a fact that still brought a temporary solution. "Tempers should be able to cool on both sides, even if it is just a little. We can reassess the situation then."
It was only one of many situations that needed reassessing. Still, now was not the time to discuss them.
"And you want me to leave in three days?"
"It would be best," said the leader of those who had braved the Ice. "I will send you letters personally, daily if you need, informing you of his condition and any changes. I can have the healers send reports."
"Daily?"
The other breathed. The healers would not be happy, yet… "If they must." He waited, almost nervously.
"Very well," Fëanáro finally said, though it clearly pained him. "I will stay away until he wakes."
"Until then," Ñolofinwë answered, verbally sealing their deal.
Fëanáro laughed. It was not a pleasant thing to hear. "What have we dragged our children into? Death and torment and Doom."
The words were a far cry from the sure, remorseless elf Fëanáro had crafted himself to be.
"We did not know," his brother said. We could not know.
Words fell away, then, in the wake of morbid thoughts. Would their wives forgive them should they ever be allowed to return to Valinor? Would Anairë forgive him for the loss of Arakáno and darling Elenwë? It was their father who had been killed. Yet, Finwë had been their children's grandfather too. Even when Arafinwë had turned away, his sons and daughter had not. So it had been, so it would always be; in the deepest pits of his heart, Ñolofinwë knew not one of their children could have been made to stay behind.
"He had no part in the burning at Losgar."
"What?" Ñolofinwë glanced at his ruined nephew and then back to the one who had spoken.
Fëanáro's face settled into a blank mask. "Nelyafinwë, my eldest son and heir to the title and crown of the High-King of the Noldor after me, did not take a torch to the ships or pick up a torch at all. He poured no oil and turned his back on all those who did. Tell your followers if it will help ease their attitudes towards him being here."
For a moment potent rage took root in Ñolofinwë's bones. How could his brother dare to say such a thing? "I know you are the least sensitive elf I know, but even you could not stoop so low as to invent such a lie to protect your own. Paranoid you might be, but it is not justified here. We are not monsters or the Enemy. Our hearts did not freeze on the ice into rock. That you would deign to think-"
"I do not jest nor make light of the Helcaraxë," Fëanáro snapped. "Hard as someone like you may find to believe, I did know a few amongst those who crossed with you who perished along the way. I too am not Moringotto to be indifferent to suffering. Nor am I a liar as he is. By Ilúvatar I swear it: Nelyafinwë Maitimo argued to send back the ships for those left on the bloody shores of Alqualondë for Findekáno and his father and all their ilk and those who followed them, and when his argument did not prevail turned away from the torches and from me."
The declaration left Ñolofinwë reeling. He tried very hard not to look at the nephew before him, the one who, by his father's truest word, had not betrayed them. It would help his people to know they had not been entirely forgotten and yet… To reveal such a thing so soon would be too soon for many, no matter who Fëanáro swore by. Trust was what they would have to rely on, a stout belief that no one would harm someone so close to death.
Still, his nephew had remembered. His poor, ruined nephew.
Finally, Ñolofinwë spoke and bitterly so. "You would think we'd have learnt not to swear by now by the name of the All-Father."
"It is a fool who makes an oath he cannot keep and cannot break," Fëanáro replied. But his gaze was on his son and something else underlined his tone that Ñolofinwë could not identify.
What could the other say to that?
Wordlessly, Finwë's second son rose and walked softly to the door. His nephew's eyes might be closed in deep unconsciousness, unlikely to wake even to the demands and pleas of his father, but the room still called for a softness that was hard to give. Reaching for the handle, Ñolofinwë made to open it.
"You swore to follow me, Ñolvo," Fëanáro's voice called after him. "Remember that when you think to forge yourself a new crown."
His half-brother made no reply. Still a chill traced its fingers down his spine. His own oath may not have been as dark as the one Fëanáro wrought in grief and madness and bound his sons to as well, but perhaps it would prove just as damning.
The door closed and Ñolofinwë leaned against it. He refrained from burying his head in his hands. When his host had arrived, swiftly they had descended upon the abandoned camp of Fëanáro and his followers. The clash with orcs that had befallen them almost immediately after stepping off the ice had cooled their desire for a meeting of arms, at least for a time, and quickly then the host had moved on towards Angamando, leaving only those weak and sick behind with enough warriors to defend them.
The failure there had burned them all. Only half-heartedly they had taken comfort in the fact that Fëanáro and his ilk had not yet succeeded either despite their lengthier stay in Beleriand. That too had become more bitter when, upon returning to their camp, they had found several wagons of supplies and a score of animals, goats and sheep mostly, waiting. There was no insignia upon any of the goods nor any letter or guard in accompaniment, yet they had known. The same betrayer who had abandoned them now provided for them. It only stung more that they could not afford to reject what had been given. Medicine and supplies and animals for work and wool and food were sorely needed. So Ñolofinwë had done what his brother could rarely do, swallowed his pride.
Everything had fast become so very complicated. How could it be that two brothers, half though they were, were at such odds? That two factions of the same people could scarcely share the land they found themselves upon? That a hero in one world was viewed as a traitor in another? Findekáno's role in delivering a son of Fëanáro would not be forgotten nor likely forgiven by many who had crossed the Helcaraxë.
Not for the first time, Ñolofinwë wished his father could be there with him.
The elf gathered himself, drew himself up and pushed on. There were others waiting for him. He walked down the hall and entered into a nearby room.
Lalwendë looked up from where she had been sitting with Findekáno. It was the latter who spoke first, however.
"Is he-"
"Still unconscious," Ñolofinwë answered grimly. "The healers suspect he will remain so for a while."
"And our brother?"
Findekáno snorted, leaning back against the wall of the hallway. Both of his elders ignored him.
"Has agreed to leave in three days," Ñolofinwë said.
His sister looked surprised. "I had not thought… Not with the state that our poor nephew is in. Fëanáro was never known to take it lightly when one of his sons was hurt in Valinor. I could almost feel sorry for Moringotto."
"Except that he killed our father and now this." Ñolofinwë laughed humourlessly. "The situation in Tirion was never as it is here. The Noldor were not divided into factions so dangerously. A love for courtly processes and debates Fëanáro has never had, but even he understands how quickly things might erupt into violence here if he stays any longer. He will swallow his pride for Maitimo, at least."
"How could such a thing even be feasible?" Lalwendë shook her head. "I never believed that the Enemy could make orcs from elves, but now I am not so certain."
"Maitimo is not an orc!" Findekáno exclaimed, all but launching himself to the defence of his cousin. Every hair on him was bridling with anger and not a little frustration, and it occurred to Ñolofinwë that his eldest was likely caught in a place somewhere amid adrenaline and exhaustion and distress. A feat as he had accomplished never came cheaply. Maitimo had lost his hand. What had his son lost? Ñolofinwë feared the answer.
"Of course not," Lalwendë said sadly. "He has too much of his father's spirit in him for that. I suppose we should be thankful."
And yet Ñolofinwë knew she was thinking. How much had Moringotto punished Maitimo for just that? How much worse had the name of the father made torment for the son?
"It would be best if you or I were to deliver food to the room for our brother," he said, drawing his mind back to their current problem. "Anyone else…"
"I will do it," Lalwendë said. "I'm still not sure you won't strangle him and that he won't goad you into doing so. I, at least, have the advantage of being an elleth. He was always more gallant to those bearing a feminine physique – Nerdanel's influence, of course. He was a heathen, like the rest of you I was forced to call brother, to all the elleth that dared roam father's palace, until you all found wives to knock some sense into you."
Her brother gave a wan smile. "Thank you."
Lalwendë kissed him chastely on the cheek. "Think nothing of it, Ñolvo. It is only for three days."
"Until Maitimo wakes," Ñolofinwë replied, returning to rubbing his face. "We have only managed to put off the issue, not solve it."
"But it gives us time," Lalwendë pointed out.
"Aye." Her brother looked at her once more. "What are we to do, Lalwen? The Noldor should not be sundered as we are, and yet here we are. What paths must we endure to fix this?"
"The path of sleep, for one," his sister answered. She gave both father and son a hard stare. "Both of you need it."
Findekáno crossed his arms. "I want to sit with Maitimo."
"Can you do so without antagonising your uncle?" Lalwendë asked. Her nephew did not drop his gaze, but she gave a humourless twerk of her lips all the same. "Three days, Finno. Then you may sit with him."
"For as long as your duties permit, in any case," his father declared. "You have neglected them long enough."
His eldest bowed his head, acknowledging the truth of his Lord's words. Still, his eyes shone with no regrets. They never did when his valiant son had done what he thought to be right.
"This can be discussed latter," Lalwendë interrupted. "Neither of you will not be expected for breakfast so be sure to make the most of it. Now, if you will excuse me, I will inform the healers and guards of our guest. I do not want to see either of you before the sun rises."
With that, she strode off with all the purpose of a king. Ñolofinwë looked after her with an almost bemused expression.
"And to think she claims me as her Lord," he muttered.
Findekáno glanced at him. "What?"
"Nothing." The father examined the other, finally alone with his wayward and disobedient son. He thought of fifty things to say and said none of them. Thought of another and quelled it as well. Anger was not the way to go about this, even that sparked by concern and love.
His son, ever braver, spoke then. "Whatever you say, I would have climbed the stars themselves to bring him home."
"This is not some tale, Findekáno, where the hero always saves his friend and returns home to live in comfort while his foes cower forever in their wretched holes!"
And sometimes the anger won out.
"I am not a child," Findekáno snapped back. "I know this is no tale. In no tale would the air burn as it did in Angamando. In no tale would the shadows passed feel as though they were lying in wait to devour you. In no tale would screams echo endlessly on the winds bringing both terror and unimaginable despair. In no tale would my most beloved cousin-" He cut himself off, tore his gaze away and worked his jaw furiously. For all the stars that had lit the darkness, it looked like he was trying not to cry. "I know I could have died."
"Yes," his father all but shouted. "You could have been caught as well! Would you have me suffer as Fëanáro has suffered these past years? Would you be the cause of further grief for Iríssë? For poor Turkáno who has already been wounded deeply by the loss of his wife? Would you have them suffer as your cousin's brothers have?"
"They did nothing to save him!" Findekáno raged. "They left him there. They, his own family, abandoned him like they abandoned us!"
"Like you abandoned us in your idiotic quest?"
Any lesser elf would have stopped short at the blow, but Findekáno was made to move, to do, to speak where no others would. "I will not be like them," he said, voice dripping with a coldness he had found only on the ice. "I do not abandon my kin."
"No," Ñolofinwë agreed. "You just leave them without a word or some semblance of a sign that you have not been taken-" The Lord choked on the last word and grabbed his startled son, pulling the younger into his chest. "I though I had lost you too, my valiant boy."
Findekáno buried his head into his father's robes. "I didn't want to have to lose anyone else."
Ñolofinwë sighed. He should have known. Arakáno's ghost hung over them with as much weight as Elenwë's. More so for two embraced, for neither the father nor the eldest son had managed to cut their way through the foe in time to save him close though they had been. They still had not spoken of it. Perhaps, Ñolofinwë thought, they should.
"Is the situation here really that precarious?"
The question was unexpected, though not surprising. Ñolofinwë looked down at his son solemnly. "I am afraid so, dear one. Elves do not forget nor forgive grievances against them so easily. Your uncle alone stands testament to that."
"Should I have brought Maitimo to the other side?" Findekáno asked. His underlying question was clear: is he in danger here?
"The eagle did as it saw fit," his father answered, neither a confirmation or denial. "We shall manage the situation as best we can. If it is within your cousin's strength to heal, then your deed will not be in vain. I myself will tend him day and night if that is what is required for this to be."
"But he will wake?"
Ñolofinwë did not answer. False hope was as cruel as despair and twice as deadly when revealed. His son was not stupid, but an optimist he had ever been.
"He will wake," the younger said more determinedly. "He has to if only to show Moringotto that no stubborn son of Fëanáro can be broken by him."
His father hummed in reply. Stroked his son's tangled hair. "Keep willing it so. Perhaps Maitimo will hear you."
Another pause. Another silence in which Finwë's second son could only think of what they had been brought to. The other elf present was thinking too.
"Am I to be punished?"
Ñolofinwë tweaked his lips at his son. "What do you think? I cannot have my eldest son flout my decrees freely when I except all others who follow me to obey them."
"You did not say I could not go," Findekáno pointed out.
"You did not ask permission."
"I-"
He was cut off. "The standoff you landed in the middle of would have fast turned into a fight and then a war. The eagle's presence alone quelled much of it, and the rest came to a swift end upon the sight of you with your poor cousin afterwards. Still, dear one, it was your disappearance that sparked it."
Findekáno's mouth fell open, though no sound came out.
"Some here thought your uncle had taken you hostage," Ñolofinwë said, then, upon his son's look, quickly added, "Not me. I suspected where you had gone after the patrols found nothing of you. I knew when Iríssë told me your harp was gone – Maitimo gave it to you did he not?" Without waiting for confirmation of something he already knew, he continued. "I suppose the standoff was partially my fault. Upon realising this I rode straight to Fëanáro after he had sent me a missive that none of his patrols had seen you either. I informed no one of the message outside that he had sent it and it regarded you, nor did I explain my urgent need to see him or why I was taking a score of warriors. I had hoped he would know of a way to fetch you back before you could be captured." He laughed humourlessly. "Of course, several of the Lords here, well meaning I am sure, got the idea he had kidnapped you and was holding you for ransom."
"For what?" Findekáno cried. "It's not as though we have riches and they have vastly more supplies than us."
"For my allegiance," Ñolofinwë said plainly. "I still have not bent the knee to my brother."
"But you have already sworn to follow him."
His father gave a sad smile. "That was before the Helcaraxë. Things have changed and all those politically inclined know it. My refusal to kneel thus far has, in no small part, contributed to the tensions between our two encampments."
Findekáno stilled at this. Was silent for a moment, before: "I wish we could go back to the way things were."
"Oh, my brave child," Ñolofinwë said. "But, alas, we cannot. Ever was time meant to march forward and not back."
"If only we could," his son lamented. "Arakáno would be safe. Elenwë and grandfather and Maitimo-" He broke off with a sob.
"What was done to him was a crime that should not exist. However, he is there no longer. Take heart in that."
"Oh, Father, the things I saw! And I never viewed the Pits of Angamando where they keep those their vile Lord has imprisoned." The distress on Findekáno's face was as potent as the distress that had been in Ñolofinwë's own heart upon his eldest son's disappearance. "He had been kept there, I'm sure of it. Those scars you cannot receive from rock and exposure alone."
"I know." And if his son had been seeking for someone to contradict his logic, he found them not in his father. Softly now, coupled with a sigh, Ñolofinwë said again, "You are a fool."
A pause, then in a voice as small as it was strong, "I could do not different."
I know. In the face of Findekáno's bravery that shone even now from him, Ñolofinwë knew. His son had been made from the stuff of action, the need to do instead of sitting idly by when things came to pass as was his brother's wont. In Tirion it was a recipe for troublemaking. In Beleriand it could quickly lead to his death. Arakáno had the same streak of valour in his fëa, only without the maturity of his brother the quell it. It had made him deadly to the first orcs they had faced and rash and dead.
He did not want to lose any more of his children. Did not want Anairë to be left wondering after another who had gone to Mandos' halls.
Findekáno, meanwhile, had not let go. It seemed he was loath to do so. His father felt much the same.
"Come to bed," Ñolofinwë said at last. He was sure he was holding most of his son's weight as exhaustion sunk its claws into the youth. Findekáno blinked up at him then nodded mutely.
There was something clearly wrong with his eldest, something else that was eating away at his large and noble heart. Yet, his father did not have the will to discover what it was in that moment, too filled was his own heart with grief and regret.
They had marshalled their children like fawns into the wolves' trap. This simply the price of their folly.
Quietly the pair entered into the younger's room only a few doors up the hallway. Helping Findekáno free himself at last from his dirtied and bloodstained clothes, Ñolofinwë too helped the young elf to cleanse his hair and back from grime. He himself cleaned his hands and arms, stripping off the outer robe and one beneath that had too become stained with blood. His nephews blood.
Without asking, Ñolofinwë collapsed onto his son's bed pulling his son down with him. "Sleep," he whispered gently. "I will stay."
Findekáno and finally let his eyes glaze over in slumber. His rest would not be a peaceful one, however, and already a frown came to mar his exhausted face.
Ñolofinwë pulled his son closer still and clung to him as he had all those centuries ago when the child had first been placed into a new father's arms. The elf Lord closed his eyes, pretending he could not feel the quaking that gripped him in turn. Arakáno was dead. Maitimo was not. There was no need to question which House of Finwë's eldest sons would suffer the worst Doom.
GLOSSARY OF NAMES BELOW
*Does not include OCs or characters who only have one name in cannon (e.g. Gothmog, Elenwë, Ulmo)
ELVES
Main Sindarin name [if applicable] = Quendi name/s (nickname/s)
Feanor & sons (& grandson):
Fëanor = Fëanáro; Curufinwë à *Note the latter name is only rarely applied to him and is used mostly for his son of the same name [see below]
Maedhros = Nelyafinwë; Maitimo (Russandol, Nelyo)
Maglor = Kanafinwë; Makalaurë (Káno)
Celegorm = Turcafinwë; Tyelcormo (Tyelko)
Caranthir = Morifinwë; Carnistir (Mori)
Curufin = Curufinwë; Atarinkë (Curvo)
Amrod = Pitafinwë; Ambarussa (Pitya)
Amras = Telufinwë; Ambarussa (Telvo)
Celebrimbor = Telperinquar (Telpe)
Fingolfin & children (& daughter-in-law & granddaughter):
Fingolfin = Ñolofinwë (Ñolvo)
Fingon = Findekáno (Finno; Fin)
Turgon = Turkáno
Aredhel = Iríssë
Argon = Arakáno (Ara)
Irdil = Itarillë (Celebrindal)
Finarfin & children (& grandson):
Finarfin = Arafinwë; Ingoldo (Ingo)
Finrod = Findaráto
Angrod = Angaráto
Aegnor = Ambaráto
Galadriel = Artanis (Alatáriel)
Orodeth = Artaresto
Other members of House Finwë:
Írimë; Lalwendë (Lalwen)
Thingol (& wife):
Elu = Elwë (Thingol)
Melian = Melyanna
VALAR
Morgoth = Melkor (Moringotto)
Aran Einior = Manwë (Valtur)
Elbereth = Varda (Elentári; Tintallë; Gilthoniel)
Mandos; Námo
Óli = Aluë
Ivon = Yavanna
Lórien; Irmo
Araw = Oromë (Tauron)
FOLLOWERS OF MORGOTH
Gorthaur (the Cruel) = Sauron; Annatar
PLACES
Helcaraxë (Grinding Ice)
Angband = Angamando
Aman; Valinor (Blessed Realm)
It was hard to figure out how to write this: I wanted to keep Fëanáro's madness or at least some aspects of it whilst being able to justify how he was jolted out of the craze that cumulated in Losgar and him charging Gothmog (because him being completely crazy wouldn't work here). I think, in part, being near fatally injured and then losing Maitimo immediately after would be a good reason. Thus came about his freak out regarding what he's dragged his kids into (something Nolofinwë would probably sympathise with). Meanwhile, the Oath also needs to be present because that's a thing that wouldn't just go away.
There was also the problem of trying to fix the problems between the different Noldor factions – with Fëanáro still alive Maitimo could not give over the crown and I doubt his father would. Nor can Nolofinwë exactly bend the knee to his brother for a multitude of political and personal reasons. It would be a short story, however, if they warred with and subsequently killed each other upon Nolofinwë's immediate arrival (however interesting). Reaching a truce seemed the next logical step, with Nolofinwë not yet pledging himself to Fëanáro and the latter not yet demanding absolute fealty. Findekano's rescue of Maitimo here is again the start of forming a bridge between the two Noldor factions. I see both brothers eventually agreeing to for the time being invest their efforts in securing themselves against Melkor and agreeing to work together (at least temporarily) for that purpose.
In any case, my apologies if anyone is out of character or I've stuffed up in any other way. Please leave a review if you are interested!
