Thanks for the review, Hawk Master, it is very much appreciated. As for the change in Feanor's attitude towards Fingolfin . . . well, I wrote this chapter as a bit of an explanation. Read and review!

Feanaro watched sadly from his balcony as Fingolfin and Finarfin chased each other around the gardens below. Their dreams, unlike his, were too young to die. The dark cloud of Melkor had not yet descended upon their minds, for they were oblivious to such fate. He turned away when Fingolfin looked up at him, smiling. He could not bring himself to look into those eyes, whilst knowing that one day they would be closed forever. He squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out the picture in his mind of the mangled body as it was laid down upon the mountain.

He walked slowly from his room, unaware as to his destination. He found himself out in the gardens, where his brothers continued their game, whatever it was. Fingolfin laughed merrily and waved at him. Feanaro nodded before stumbling around the corner and being violently sick. He leaned against the wall, trying to hold back the tears which threatened to spill forth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Feanaro pushed himself to his feet. He jumped when a hand was laid on his shoulder.

"You have seen it." It was more of a statement than a question.

The noldo looked up at Manwe and nodded. "Is there nothing I can do?"

The Vala wiped the hair from Feanaro's face. "Nothing. It is as Eru will have it."

"There must be something!" Feanaro cried in anguish.

Manwe pulled the small body into his arms. "I would change it, for I love your brother too, but I cannot."

"I would go in his stead. I would follow Melkor into the very dungeons of his lair! I would face balrogs and orcs, I would slay my own people if it meant keeping him from harm."

Manwe grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "No!" Then more gently, "No, Spirit of Fire, let us all hope it will not come to that."

"I fear for him, Sulimo."

The Vala smiled gently and said, "You are his older brother, that is your privilege."

"Privilege?"

Manwe sighed and got a far off look in his eyes. "Aye, you always get to fear what they are getting into." Feanaro could tell that he spoke from experience.

Later that day, when Feanaro was in his bedchamber seeking solitude, Finwe came to him. Feanaro was astounded as to why he could possibly be so joyful, when it seemed to him that a dark cloud hovered over them all. Beaming, Finwe embraced his son. The action was not returned. Oh, Feanaro wanted to throw his arms around his father and weep, but his own pride kept him from doing so. Sensing his son's mood, Finwe sat down beside him on the bed.

"Ion nin, Mahtan is coming to dine with us this evening. If it is not too much to ask, I would appreciate it if you would dress appropriately."

Mahtan taught Feanaro in the smithy nearly every day, and had seen him at his worst. He wondered why his father made the request. Yet, he did not ask. "I shall." He offered his father a weak smile.

"Good. I shall see you then?"

Feanaro nodded. "I will be down soon." He chose from his wardrobe a long robe that was silver in color. It was all he had that seemed appropriate. Everything else was either too drab or too ornamented. Then there was, of course, those things that were stained by dirt and time, testament to a childhood spent in Tirion. Once he was dressed, Feanaro placed a mithril circlet upon his brow and brushed his hair with an ivory comb. It was all he could do. He could not change what unnerved most people about him. He could not change his eyes.

He could hear laughter as he descended down the stairs. He greeted his father, and then Mahtan, and then . . . he heart tripped on its own feet, stunned. Feanaro was unused to be at a loss for words, yet as he stood there he could find nothing to say.

"Aiya, herinya. Coanya ná coalya. Hantanyel an tulielya." He choked out before falling into the nearest seat. He did not speak throughout the entire meal. He did not need to. He was sure that his eyes said all that was needed. He had unusually emotional eyes, even for one of the eldar. Fingolfin and Finarfin were laughing at him, commenting on his gawking. He did not reprimand them.

"Good night, prince." The phrase pulled him out of the fog. She was watching him, amused. He felt like a fool. He found that he did not particularly mind feeling like a fool. Not if it meant being looked at by this star-kindler.

He found his voice. "Good night, my lady." The raw emotion in his voice surprised even himself. Nerdanel lifted an eyebrow at him. Feanaro felt himself blush. "Please, come again." He hated pleading. He hated sounding like some weak kneed child. It was all worth it if she would come back, though.

Nerdanel smiled slightly and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Neri, nalar iluve i er. Na lissi. U-estelo, anan lissi. she thought to herself. Men, they are all the same. He's sweet. Hopeless, but sweet.

Feanaro stared down the great stairs and watched Mahtan and his family ride away. Only once they had descended down the hill and into the trees beyond, out of sight, did he descend the rest of the way down the stairs. Though he did not follow the road, instead he turned off and continued into the shadows of the woods.

The distant light of the waning Telperion could not penetrate the thick forest. The only light came from the stars. For some reason that Feanaro could not explain, even to himself, the darkness soothed him. His wanderings led him eventually to a glade. Through the center a thin silver creek ran. He knelt beside it and cupped some of the water in his hands. As he was about to splash his face with it, Feanaro felt himself being pulled once again into the world of dreams.

There was a roar like thunder as the Balrog cracked its whip. The tongues of flame wrapped themselves around him, searing his flesh. He knew the battle he fought was a vain one, but he did not care. His sword was notched, and could not cut his flaming bonds. He let out a cry of pain as his skin was broken, and his blood ran freely down his arms. The demon of Morgoth pulled back his whip to strike again, and Feanaro stumbled backwards. Another Balrog advanced upon him from behind. The noldo was barely able to parry the blow it dealt him with its fiery blade. Beyond the wall of fire that engulfed him, Feanaro could see nothing. Gothmog's whip encircled him, and his skin hissed in the boiling heat. Dark spots crawled slowly in front of his vision. He fell to his knees. The Lord of Balrogs came in front of him, ready to deal the fatal blow. Feanaro struggled to stay conscious. Suddenly the Demon fled. Feanaro collapsed onto the ground, and could hear voices around him.

Feanaro was jerked back into reality. He lay on his back in the grass. His hands were shaking. A thick fog had blanketed the ground. It took him a while to realize he was being spoken to.

"Feanaro!" Fingolfin's voice broke the silence of the night. "I heard you screaming . . . . ."

"I am fine." The lie came before he thought to say otherwise. "It was only a dream."

Arato did not seem convinced, but offered his older brother a hand. Feanaro took it. It was then he knew he would do anything to keep Fingolfin from setting foot on Arda, even if it meant burning all the ships in the Sea.

I wonder what he saw tonight,

Such a thing to cause him fright.

I do not try to grasp his thought,

Or see what I know I cannot.

Simply put, I know he's fey,

But I am his brother, so I will stay.

Over seas or grinding ice,

I hope my loyalty will suffice.

We both are held by the bonds of kin,

I am Finwe's son, Fingolfin.