Chapter Text
Before, there had been fire.
Fire and ash and pain. Not of the flesh – even as his fëa incinerated his body. Life was ripped away from him, burning everything it touched as his namesake foretold; Fëanáro acutely felt the inexorable chains of his vows tighten around his neck, and he knew, then, true agony.
The last remnants of Morgoth’s enchantments and illusions were finally unveiled, and he was free of the blinding spells that had fogged his judgment and driven him into madness.
His sons, his followers. His father. He had failed them. He had failed them all.
The Oath collected yet another due.
Fëanáro’s spirit tore from his body leaving only ashes behind. As he tottered on the brink of nonexistence, Dark and Death toyed with the irony of his destiny, each fighting for his soul like he was a coveted prize. Enfeebled by the experience, he had no choice as, at last, one of the Valar prevailed and drew him with an irresistible pull back to the very place he had sworn never to return.
Now, he opened his eyes and darkness was all around him.
It didn’t make sense. He should have been cast into the Void. Námo had pronounced their Doom, yet here he was, in the Halls of Mandos, staring at the dark walls of a dark cell. His breathing seemed too loud in his ears in the stillness of this tomb.
Why?
He cast his eyes about for a door. There it was: iron, unlocked. It opened without a sound, and Fëanáro emerged on a vast, seemingly endless corridor that, left and right, stretched as far as the eyes could see. A breeze blew carrying the scent of the breath of the earth – damp and cold – and moved strands of his hair.
Beyond the corridor, an enormous antechamber opened into nothingness. It appeared to have no ceiling, no walls. Distant light filtered through invisible windows and gave him the impression of infinite dimensions.
Fëanáro realized then that his fëa also shed a soft golden reflection on the immediate area around him. He stared down at his hands and body, noticing they had acquired a diaphanous quality, and he could see through himself.
A projection, he mused, not without scientific interest.
He still wore the garments that shrouded him in death: light armor, a heavy, red winter cloak lined with fox fur – made by his sons as a gift before they departed Valinórë – and his father’s crown. His fingers traced the gold upon his head, its weight and touch a familiar thing that had grounded him thus far.
Before Fëanáro could grasp the fact that he could think and see and feel, very much like he had when he was alive, emotion overcame him, and he could only focus on the gargantuan yearning like a gaping hole that had made him who he was.
Ammë. And then: Atar.
“Námo!” he cried, heart thundering in his chest with the force of his longing.
His only answer was the echoes, resounding in a thousand oh-oh-ohs. And then, silence, dead and stony as the cold walls that surrounded him.
But Fëanáro was not one to give up. “Námo, where are you?” he tried again, “I demand to see my mother and father!”
His bellow shook the stillness of the halls, and he saw through his peripheral vision other fëar scuttling away in panicked, lit shadows, disturbed by his disregard for their perennial rest. Heavy silence and blinding darkness descended upon him. Fëanáro’s only reference was the sound of his rattled breathing and his fëa’s muted glow; beyond that, there was nothing.
A faint rustle of clothes to his right caught his attention and he whirled in anxious anticipation.
It was not the Lord of the Dead. A Maia stood there instead, clad from head to toe in a gray mantle that undulated airily. Fëanáro couldn’t tell if it was a male or female form, but that hardly mattered now. The only thing that mattered-
“Where are they? Where are my mother and father?” He took a step forward, hands outstretched, ready to clutch at the Ainu’s robes, his voice tinged with desperate hope.
The Maia cocked their head like a night owl, the veil shifting slightly over its figure. “That is for Lord Námo to tell you.” Their voice was distant and fleeting, a whisper of wind in a cave.
Fëanáro bristled. “Why am I even here?”
“All souls return to Mandos’ Halls,” they replied with an impassive tone.
“I thought my Oath condemned me to the Void,” he scoffed.
“Your sons are still alive to fulfill it.”
Fëanáro swallowed hard. As he took his last-ditch breath, he had beholden the peaks of Thangorodrim at the far-off distance and had known, with the foreknowledge of death, that no power of the Noldor would ever overthrow them. His beautiful boys were still out there, fighting an unwinnable war. He had to keep faith that they would recover the Silmarilli somehow, for the vengeance for Finwë’s death – and his own – was beyond the power of the Eldar.
He breathed in deeply, trying to assuage the despair that threatened to burst from within, shoving away all thoughts of- of- abandonment. He couldn’t- he didn’t-
“My mother and father,” he insisted, voice rough and thick with too many emotions, spine straight as a spear: the bearing of a King. “I demand to see them.”
“That is for Lord Námo to grant you,” they repeated.
Fëanáro set his jaw and exhaled loudly, infuriated. “And where is your Lord? Won’t he deign to speak to the one he damned?”
His voice dropped, acerbic, but the Maia stood as a statue, head tilted to one side, examining him. Judging him. Fëanáro thought he could hear the words you damned yourself but the notion merely ignited the simmering fury in his blood.
Before he could say more, the Maia’s head slowly tipped up, and Fëanáro could do nothing but follow the movement with his eyes, disconcerted, waiting for Námo’s apparition. He realized the Maia might have heard a soundless call, for, although Fëanáro could not see them, their eyes regarded him for another moment, until they coalesced into darkness and vanished.
Fëanáro’s fëa kindled with frustration and impotence. His haloed light pulsated, briefly illuminating his path as he walked through the empty chamber, nervous hands touching the delicate mithril brocade on his sleeves. He looked for the fëar of others, but all the souls he had seen were gone. He was alone.
Long he searched and called for those who were dead. None came.
Darkness closed in around him, and he trembled. Sudden fear gripped his heart: was this all there was? Age upon age of loneliness in the dark? Were all the things he had done for his people as dead as he? The innovation, the ingolë he had gathered and shared freely with those who had come to him, the thirst for more…
Was all of that lost and forgotten? Was he so soon forgotten?
Fëanáro’s wrath for their neglect would be great indeed if only the stab of grief didn’t sink deeper. He had never cared about power per se, but he had called friends those who had taken a place by his side on the forge and cherished even more the friendship of those who had sworn to follow the tip of his sword. They had bloodied and bled in his name.
Would none keep him company in this desolate place? Was that truly all he deserved?
…
No. The Spirit of Fire, they named him, and so he was – damned and doomed. Let them run away, more mice than men, scared of their own shadows. He returned to his cell unbowed and undefeated, magnificent cloak trailing behind him like a peacock’s opened tail.
This was the Valar’s fault. It lay solely at their feet – if it wasn’t for Morgoth’s lies, for Manwë’s inadequate meddling at every stage of his life, or Varda’s aloofness…
Whether in his defiance of the rule of petty gods, who knew and understood nothing of the Firstborn, or in the mending of his first family, Fëanáro had been denied time and again.
Mother. Father.
He paced his cell for what seemed days uncounted, unable to find rest or solace. Until, finally, cold fog announced Námo’s arrival. It seeped from under the Vala as he glided inside Fëanáro’s cell, uninvited. He was clad in darkness.
Not menacing like Melkor’s darkness had been – rather distant and impenetrable as the space between the stars, languid as wisps of clouds. Like his Maia, a gray veil covered his face, his hands joined before his tall frame.
“Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion,” his voice resounded off the walls in deep echoes. “Welcome.”
“Long you have made me wait, O Lord of the Dead!” He snapped, red fury hushing for a moment the longing of his heart.
“Not a day has passed in the outside world,” Námo said, dispassionate voice as enraging as his statuesque poise.
“I demand to see my mother and father,” Fëanáro raised his chin in a manner that would have cowed even his half-brother in long-forsaken Tirion.
“Your mother has left my Halls.”
“She has been reborn?” Fëanáro’s heart thumped against his rib cage with the joyous, unexpected news.
“She has been chosen as one of Vairë’s weavers.”
Fëanáro’s world reeled. He groped for the wall, fearing his knees might buckle. “She will never return,” he murmured when at last he could form words.
“She has been chosen,” the Vala repeated.
Fëanáro didn’t know if it was the manner with which Námo said those words, but he grasped them under a different light, and they gained a new, terrible meaning.
“Are you telling me that Vairë recruited my mother like a soldier for an army? Did she even have a say in this?” Fëanáro’s voice rang in echoes.
Námo remained mute and impassive, veils undulating regardless of Fëanáro’s lancing pain.
His temper boiled, and he balled his hands into fists, wanting to throw the Ainu down on the floor and beat clearer answers out of him.
“Take me to my father, then. I want to see him, at least.”
“You cannot. He has been moved,” Námo, merciless, answered.
“Moved? Moved to where?” Fëanáro shouted, his scarce patience long gone. “I thought there was nowhere else to go, except back to life or to the Void!”
“Your father now resides in a realm between my domain and Irmo’s, a place where his soul has at last found peace.”
Wild hope exploded in his chest. “Take me there,” he said with urgency.
“You cannot.”
“I need to go! He must surely miss me as I miss him, and there is no-”
“You cannot,” Námo’s booming words were final. “It is a place reserved for those who cannot yet return to the land of the living, but neither can they inhabit these Halls any longer, for their process of healing is all but complete.”
Hope died as quickly as it had bloomed. Cannot return.
His mother would never return. And he, now dead, could never reach her. And his father…
He didn’t know when Námo left him, as he didn’t realize he had fallen to his knees, hands curling, nails biting at his flesh until he bled – a cruel parody of life!
Lies! Everything the Valar had ever said or done was no more than lies!
His fëa’s light blinked so brightly it engulfed the entirety of the small cell and went out. He was cast once more into deafening darkness.
Mother…
Forever sundered.
They had taken everything from him. Even his wife, with her misplaced worshiping, went back to sit at Aulë’s feet like a prized pet.
She was also lost to him.
Finwë was the last source of comfort he could have found in the nothingness of this houseless existence, and now the hope of reuniting with his beloved father was also gone.
Fëanáro buried his face in his hands, forlorn, bowed under the weight of eternal solitude.
And, for a very long time, darkness was all he saw.
***
Fëanáro couldn’t say how long it had been when he finally arose. His fëa had regained its faint glow, but his cell looked even more empty and claustrophobic without the hope of reunion to console him. His light armor shifted like a second skin, and Fëanáro drew what small comfort he could from the work of his hands. The crown – his father’s crown – felt leaden upon his brow, and carved indentations as it had never done before.
With a heavy heart, Fëanáro crossed the threshold and stepped into the diffusely lit antechamber, still devoid of movement. He walked through corridors and halls, gray and silent as a tomb ought to be.
Suddenly, his eyes caught a glimmer of silver on the ground. A thread of mithril.
Where had that come from? Was it left there on purpose for him to find? Fëanáro looked around, puzzled, expecting to see the owner of such a thread – he knew his followers used mithril and hísilanya, a fashion he had established in honor of his mother, the greatest weaver the world had ever seen. Mithril was a particularly challenging metal to bend and allowed for intricate and unique embroidery, and only under his tutelage could one learn how to wield it.
However long he waited, no one appeared to claim the loose thread. Fëanáro had to rein in his disquiet, and when he was ready to leave it be, another glimmer of mithril appeared a few yards ahead. He frowned, and, as he approached it, another appeared. Then another. And another. He found himself following an unknown path, away from the antechamber and his prison cell.
Until, far ahead, he saw a reddish beam of candlelight seep from a high archway. He strode eagerly to it, his curiosity never diminished even in death, only to find himself staring at an interminable corridor of tapestries that hung from invisible walls, from which the yellow-red light emanated. He walked down the line and watched, entranced, as each panel – woven in such fine thread they looked like paintings – depicted different scenes from his family’s lives: quarrels between brothers, adventures among cousins, family gatherings at his father’s palace…
He stopped short at one particular image: his mother and father watching as he took his first steps as a very young baby. He smiled ruefully at the memory of his father constantly speaking proudly of his premature nature, but the smile soon faded. Fëanáro missed him – both of them – like a missing limb. And as he stared at his mother’s beautiful, serene face, the tapestry shifted slightly.
She blinked, and looked straight into his eyes.
Fëanáro’s gasp broke the silence of the chamber.
“Ammë,” he murmured and reached out to touch the fantastical fabric, but a sheer of an invisible material prevented him from feeling its texture.
Another slight change in the scene, and her hand reached down to caress child Fëanáro’s hair, their gazes still locked. Míriel wore a small smile, sadness softly marking her youthful features.
Fëanáro sucked in a breath.
She knew.
Of course, she knew about everything.
He lowered his eyes, unable to look at the one he idolized and not feel a sting of guilt – he had never wanted such bloodshed to taint the white-pearled beaches, not like that. Only an arrow had been fired from the Telerin ramparts hitting one of his soldiers – whirring a hair’s breadth from Carnistir’s head – and wrath had guided his further actions.
Later, they learned the soldier would live, but it was already too late.
Fëanáro had drawn his sword and shed the first blood, and still he didn’t regret it – thus the guilt and the shame. He could not look into his mother’s face and tell her it was a deed well done. He knew now it was not, but he would do it a thousand times over if it would protect any of his sons’ lives.
Movement in the panel made him look up again; his mother’s smile deepened a little, as if she had heard his thoughts and understood his innermost insecurities, the fierceness in his blood – that impossible love that makes one commit acts of madness if only to spare their children from further grief.
Fëanáro stared at his mother’s face for as long as he could, until it changed into a scene at Mahtan’s forges. From there, as he watched his young self accomplish a first real experiment with copper and glass, his mind wandered to the places it usually did – towards creation. The tapestries were an indisputable marvel, and he was intrigued by the logical implications of what it meant to have History immortalized in woven patterns, accessible to any who sought a better understanding of the world.
More than that, would something made by the hand of a god show hidden truths and unspoken secrets so long kept from them?
He remembered the half-stories he had heard from those who had survived the dark, terrible years when Quendi would vanish in the forests and return as monsters – unrecognizable but for the Light in their eyes that no sorcery could extinguish. Fëanáro tried casting his mind into that moment in time, but the scene that unfolded in the panel instead stayed his speculations.
His half-brother’s banner billowed defiantly against a blizzard that raged on and on and on. He watched, agape, as Nolofinwë’s grim, determined face appeared, stitch by stitch, feverish blue eyes an intense point of color amidst all that white. With one hand Nolofinwë held a furred hood around his face, cloak flying wildly at his back. With his other hand, he gripped firmly the jeweled pommel of his sword.
Following behind, a long line of people faced the storm, heads bowed against the unrelenting wind. Findekáno was at his side, spine straight, mouth open in a shout, his bleak complexion matched that of the brother closest to him – Arakáno. A little further away, Turukáno held his wife and daughter on each side as if he could protect both from the cold with his arms. Írissë was not far behind. On the other side of the tapestry, Lalwen, Nerwen, and two of her brothers, bows in hand, faced a polar bear thrice their size.
Few horses remained, and fewer provisions.
Fëanáro didn’t know what to make of it. His half-brother was supposed to have stayed behind – it would have been better for everyone. Nolofinwë could have picked up what remained of their lives and ruled the Noldor undisputed like he seemed to have wanted their whole lives. Fëanáro wouldn’t deny him that satisfaction.
They could both have been kings, each on one side of the Sea.
You shall lead and I will follow, his half-brother had said, and he had been true to his words.
Bile rose on Fëanáro’s stomach. Once he arrived, Nolofinwë would undoubtedly question Nelyafinwë’s right to the crown, and that alone was enough to want to tear the tapestry down and shout at his half-brother’s impertinence. He breathed. Nolofinwë wasn’t important. If he wanted to prove his bravery facing the Grinding Ice, it was his choice.
Nolofinwë’s stare bore straight into his soul, so Fëanáro took a step away from his image, dispelling the sensation and wanting to look upon the faces of his sons. Before he could get far, the tapestry shimmered and shifted, changing the scene it depicted.
A group of soldiers bearing the eight-pointed star rode North over a green plain, surrounded by mountains on each side. In the background, three monstrous peaks split the landscape, yellow, thick fumes encompassing it. At the head of the cavalry, red hair flew under a helmet he recognized as his own making.
Nelyo.
His heart ached, and his fingers skimmed over the tall figure.
What was he going to do? Was he riding to bargain with Morgoth? Fëanáro felt fear unlike anything he had ever experienced before. There could be no bargaining with the Dark Vala. But as High King of the Noldor, Fëanáro knew there was no other choice. Pride swelled in his chest at the thought of his eldest boy, handsomest and wisest of them all. He would be a great King, better than Fëanáro could have ever hoped to be.
The tapestry froze at that moment, and although Fëanáro hungered for more, pouring his will into a new vision, the scene didn’t change. He bit his lower lip in renewed frustration. He walked down the lane of tapestries, expecting news from the rest of his sons (are they all still alive?) but the depictions focused on things he didn’t care about – Nolofinwë’s deeds on the ice didn’t rouse his compassion.
The host that trailed behind held no interest in him. Traitors and usurpers!
(How much they must hate him now).
He wanted to know about his sons!
(Mother… Father…)
He forced his mind further back, into a past that was not his to test the power of his will, and very slowly one of the panels changed and showed a lake under starlight. Male and female elves, nude and shining against a dark sky, pointed above in wonder and laughed, portraits of innocence as they discovered Life. This was how it had been at Cuiviénen?
Fëanáro watched it for a while, intrigued by what those first elves did and who they were, but his heart was not upon it. He needed to know about his sons.
He walked back to the main tapestry, but it still captured Maitimo’s ride towards Morgoth’s looming fortress. He blew an irritated sigh through his nose, reluctant to accept there was nothing more to be seen. He returned to the cell, one slow step at a time. As he went, his fingers unconsciously traced the cuffs of his clothes and-
The mithril embroidery was gone.
He halted, eyes wide in bewilderment. He thought about the thread lying on the ground and calculated it would be the exact amount to make the adornments of his sleeves.
Fëanáro scoffed, a sneer curling his lips up as he understood this was “the price” he had to pay to visit the tapestries – and he knew this was not his mother’s doing, for she would never deny him the vision of his children.
Well, so be it. He would undo the precious gift his sons had given him if he could see but glimpses of their lives.
***
The next time Fëanáro returned to the tapestry, he was not ready.
He never would be.
If he had a living heart, it would have ceased beating.
In agony he watched as Maitimo – his little fox – was taunted into a conflict he could never have won.
He watched until he could bare no more.
The horror of his little boy’s fate, tortured and hung to rot, speared through him, wrenched his soul, and tore it apart.
He screamed in pain, in rage.
In insurmountable grief.
He screamed and wept until his throat was raw and he tasted blood in his mouth. With each anguished cry, golden motes of his fëa fluttered away from its core, dissolving his being.
Fëanáro wished he had been cast into the Void.
“Námo,” he rasped weakly. “Námo, please. Don’t let him suffer,” he begged, thick tears spilling down his face.
He didn’t expect lenience from the Judge of the Dead.
Nelyo… Nelyo, forgive me. Forgive me!
“Please!” His miserable supplication was the only sound. “It was supposed to be me in his stead! Please… don’t let him suffer,” his voice ended in a pained whisper.
Fëanáro’s fëa curled into itself, snuffed out like a candle. At last darkness overcame him, and he lost sense of all else.
***
Consciousness returned to him slowly, and he stared once more at the inside of his cell. He didn’t know – and didn’t care – how he had returned.
So this was to be his punishment. He would watch his sons’ fates, whatever they may be, either jubilation or torment. He would watch, because he couldn’t keep away. He needed to see and to know.
It was his punishment, and he accepted it with opened arms.
His Oath. Their Oath – the one he bade them repeat and swear upon his dying body. And they had.
They had.
Taut chains squeezing around his boys’ necks, forever doomed, and it was his fault.
Bitterly Fëanáro wept, for there was naught else to do.
***
The urge to see his sons again was stronger than the pain he felt. Fëanáro followed the mithril thread to the tapestries with unsure steps, not knowing what he would be forced to see.
Day after day he returned, and still he saw the same: Maitimo, hung by an arm on a steep cliff, with no hope of escape. It was a matter of time until his little fox gave up on life and returned to him.
Forgive me!
There had been a theory among the scholars of Tirion that elves under extreme suffering of the body would fade. Fëanáro knew he would force his fading if it would liberate him from such fate.
But Maitimo endured.
Apprehension, longing, and despair crawled like ants under his skin. He wished for nothing more than to see his eldest again but in what manner would his soul arrive?
(Would Nelyo even want to see him? Did he blame-).
The fates of his other sons were unknown. Fëanáro kept waiting, slamming his mind force upon the tapestry and demanding a change, but Vairë was not one to be moved from the lesson she wanted to teach him. His mother was but a vessel of the gods’ will, and he hated the Valar even more for that.
Until, at last, the pattern began to shift, the red hues that marked Thangorodrim’s landscape gave way to grays and browns and blues.
Yet his sons were not there.
The scene depicted his half-brother’s family, reunited under a tent on solid ground.
So they had done it. They had crossed the Helcaraxë. Fëanáro raised his eyebrows, relenting, impressed by Nolofinwë’s stubbornness.
There was something strange about the scene, though.
Nolofinwë sat despondently in a chair, hand pressed against his forehead, emaciated like Fëanáro had never seen him before, Findekáno’s hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support, face grave and mirthless – so unlike his nephew. A necklace, bedecked with a single turquoise teardrop hung loosely from his half-brother’s fingers. Fëanáro remembered seeing that before, but where…?
He ran his eyes over the tapestry again. Írissë and Turukáno hugged little Itarillë between them, and they wept. Elenwë was not there. Neither was Lalwen.
And Arakáno…?
Realization sunk in.
They were all dead.
His eyes flew back to Nolofinwë’s drawn features. Fëanáro’s chest felt too tight and he wished, for the first time, he didn’t have to feel compassion for his half-brother. Not like this.
He lowered his gaze, a deep frown across his face. He wanted to hold vigil over Maitimo’s torment – it wouldn’t assuage his guilt, but it was the very least he could do. Then, unbidden, the desire to look upon familiar faces in the desolation of the Halls overwhelmed him.
Fëanáro ran from the tapestries’ chamber unto the main vault, eager heart jumping ahead, eyes darting this side and that, looking, searching…
No one.
It remained hollow and gloomy, even more so than before.
His punishment. Forever bound to loneliness and insecurity. No love, no comfort was there to be found.
Fëanáro craved the things he had not a right to. He had resigned himself to watch and witness, renouncing all else. Maitimo’s torture and torment. Nolofinwë’s losses. His kin’s sundering.
He needed to do something. A sharp desire to work with his hands flooded him, the need to forget his own name over the blow of a hammer on metal.
Fëanáro returned to his cell – what was there to be done? He would never again be bestowed indulgence. His father was lost to him, as was his family.
Just as he had conformed with the prospect of non-existence – if unlife could be called that! – depleted of any true healing (something he hardly deserved), Fëanáro was surprised to find a table in the likes of the one he used to have in his private study in Formenos.
Upon it, paper, a quill, and ink.
There was kindness, after all, in the heart of the Ainur. Even for one as damned as he.
***
Fëanáro couldn’t believe his eyes.
He had screamed in denial when Findekáno drew the arrow, but now he stared astonished at the tapestry, heart pounding madly as his nephew jumped on the back of a great eagle – a prayer that had pierced the clouds and the cold façade of the Valar – and braved the jagged escarpment that held Maitimo captive. Findekáno’s feet slipped more than once, his hands and arms scraped and bled, but once he was there, he didn’t give up.
Fëanáro wished, not for the first time, that he could gather them both in his arms.
A hand was the price for Maitimo’s release. His stomach revolted at the sight as Findekáno, pale-faced and bloodied, hauled his cousin onto the back of the giant bird and bore him back to the Nolofinwëan camp.
His little fox was safe.
Fëanáro fell to his knees and wept, hands shaking. “Thank you,” he whispered, not knowing if he could be heard – or by whom. A soothing presence radiated from the panel like his mother’s warm fingers on his hair, and little by little his shaking subsided.
Relief and gladness washed over him for the first time since entering this accursed Halls.
***
A lifetime it seemed to take for his son to recover.
Fëanáro stood guard as he followed Maitimo’s slow come back. He raged and cursed Morgoth as he saw the many wounds inflicted on his little boy’s flesh, and how the scars never faded, no matter how many concoctions and unguents the healers applied – the only ones allowed in Maitimo’s tent, apart from steadfast Findekáno.
“Forgive me, Nelyo! I am sorry, I am so sorry!” Fëanáro chanted in an incessant litany.
At last, Maitimo recovered enough to receive the visit of his brothers, who had come from their own camp on the other side of a frozen lake.
Fëanáro’s heart swelled at the sight of his children. Alive! They were all alive! He wished he had hugged them one last time, told them he loved them before… before.
But the elation was short-lived. He had to witness, bleeding inside, how they begged for Maitimo’s forgiveness for abandoning him to death. Macalaurë knelt at his bedside and wept for days, and all of them were too shaken, incapable of looking their brother in the eyes.
He couldn’t hear the exchanged words, but by the look on their faces, Fëanáro didn’t have to. Regret and sorrow. Guilt. The same feelings that accompanied him in the solitude of death followed his sons like shadows.
It was his fault.
(I am sorry, Nelyo!)
After those initial weeks, Nolofinwë visited frequently. He sat by Maitimo’s side and kept him company. Fëanáro knew that, behind his mask, Nolofinwë was capable of affection, but the way he treated Maitimo denoted love and care beyond the little intimacy they had shared so far.
His son, face buried on Nolofinwë’s chest as he wept, displayed a vulnerability he hadn’t allowed any of his brothers to see, nor his dearest cousin. His half-brother held him like a father would, a hand running soothing circles on Maitimo’s back – some of Nolofinwë’s fingers were black at the tip, burned cold and rendered useless.
The engraved scene brought tears to Fëanáro’s eyes and assuaged some of his fears and doubts towards his half-brother. He even admitted that, perhaps, he had judged Nolofinwë too harshly.
As time passed, Fëanáro understood how Angband stole Maitimo’s innocence, and he… changed.
Forever maimed he was, but more than that. Grim and mirthless, deep lines around his eyes a constant evidence of his lack of sleep. His only source of comfort seemed to be Findekáno, who rarely left his cousin’s side, and was the solid rock on which Maitimo leaned – a small comfort amidst the utter misery Fëanáro felt whenever a new panel showed him his eldest son.
Fëanáro’s only reprieve – accompanied with renewed stabs of guilt – was knowing that not even burning the ships and crossing the Ice had been enough to ruin their friendship.
Though Findekáno’s devotion to Maitimo was not new, it appeared to have also changed. Oh, Fëanáro remembered the little boy with round blue eyes that always trailed after his adored eldest cousin.
(And Fëanáro shoved away the image of a young Nolofinwë doing the same when they were younger).
There was something in the way Findekáno’s eyes shone with tenderness that indicated such change, even if Fëanáro couldn’t grasp its meaning. It didn’t really matter, though, for Maitimo appeared happy when in his cousin’s company, and that had to be enough.
***
Maitimo knelt before Nolofinwë’s imposing throne, engraved with precious stones.
The gathering of the Noldor followed suit and bowed in deference to the new High King.
Fëanáro seethed, jaw set so tight his whole face hurt. Had he truly thought Nolofinwë had any love for his children? Where had he taken that ridiculous idea from?
There he sat, back straight and emotions buried under the hateful diplomatic mask that had been the cause for so many of their misunderstandings in the past.
Usurper and betrayer! Had he no sense of justice, of honor? How could he do that to Nelyo, after all his son had gone through?
He wanted to tear the tapestry apart – this was exactly what he feared! His children didn’t deserve this treatment! How could they abide it? How could Nelyo-
Fëanáro focused his attention on his eldest, and his train of thought was cut short.
Maitimo’s face was grave and his eyes glittered, earnest and true. There was eagerness there that Fëanáro hadn’t foreseen.
And while his half-brother didn’t smile, he looked intently and realized Nolofinwë seemed far from being satisfied. The aloof mask was not, as he assumed, haughtiness, but resignation.
Fëanáro stared long at the new King as if seeing him for the first time.
So it was not a requirement for saving Nelyo’s life, Fëanáro mused with a frown. His half-brother continued to surprise him. This was not the man he remembered.
The crown he wore was new, mithril and silver lined with blue sapphires – Curufinwë perfected the style of intricate flourishing he had become known for in Tirion. The jewels matched the color of Nolofinwë’s eyes and highlighted them.
His half-brother sat regally, and Fëanáro thought, with a jolt of shock, that he looked beautiful.
But the thought was fleeting. He could see now that the crown was a physical weight over Nolofinwë’s brow – one that he would have to carry alone.
Fëanáro saw it in Maitimo’s face: his son was glad to be rid of it, at least.
He had the Oath to fulfill, and that was load enough.
***
Fëanáro smiled sadly.
His sons were kings on their own terms, great lords of their people. Scattered, but ruling Endórë from North to East. He took what pleasure he could just by watching their lives unfold while blissful peace lasted.
Maitimo and Findekáno were fierce companions, and his son’s fortress was mighty in its practicality. Macalaurë was often seen in the company of a silver-haired Sinda, and Fëanáro wondered at the nature of that friendship – it didn’t look like it was merely that. Just like Carnistir’s with the pretty brown-skinned warrior.
Tyelkormo and Atarinkë shared the rule of a cold plain that lay between two rivers, and it seemed that Ambarussar’s dwellings were not far from theirs, for Fëanáro would oft see them hunting together.
He smiled, for his sons seemed happy at last.
It was at this point, after ensuring his children were safe, that Fëanáro returned to his cell with sparks of what he had thought lost to him. He had a sudden urge to create, to put projects and ideas out of the paper – and the more he thought about it, the more the Halls responded to his yearning.
Up to a point where he would imagine having materials for an experiment and said materials would appear before him like magic. He didn’t know why it started happening or who he should thank for this small mercy. The only thing that mattered was that he could both watch his sons and work with his hands.
For a long time, Fëanáro dedicated himself to replicate the things that had made him the greatest craftsman of all the Noldor: lamps, gems that shone from within like they had a light of their own, jewels, and books of lore.
The small cell soon became a room covered with shelves and paintings and experiments – both ongoing and abandoned – much like he did when he was alive. The little room became an exact copy of his old study, and he chuckled at the irony of that.
His sons lived and smiled. And for a while, he was content.
Of his half-brother, however, Fëanáro had no news.
He knew for certain Nolofinwë still lived for Findekáno had not been made king, but Fëanáro had somehow missed the thread of his life.
How could Fëanáro have lost sight of him? No matter how hard he forced the visions, no new scenes of his half-brother appeared.
It was uncanny.
Fëanáro wondered if Nolofinwë was somehow hiding from him – which was ridiculous, for how could he know what happened in the Halls of the Dead?
No. This was something else, and Fëanáro had to fix it.
So after having a fill with the sight of his children, Fëanáro started looking for Nolofinwë’s thread in the tapestry’s never-ending chamber.
He walked down the long line of golden-lit panels for as long as he could, ever searching, stretching his mind to anything he could remember of his half-brother: the colors of his house, his sigil, the clothes he had favored in Tirion.
It was not enough.
Fëanáro would return to the frozen images of his sons or to his own room empty-handed.
Uneasiness settled in his bones. Why couldn’t he find Nolofinwë?
He tried using different artifices: thinking about the braids he used to plait or even how his unbound hair fell over his shoulders sleek and straight, shining like polished onyx.
An austere face, all strong lines, and a chiseled jaw. Noble cheekbones and the nose that marked Finwë’s house – similar to his own.
Deep blue eyes like the ocean.
Fëanáro’s throat felt suddenly constricted.
Where was he?
At long last, after days of uncertainty, Fëanáro found a sign that could lead him to answers: more loose threads on the ground, this time golden like the embroidery of his tunic’s hems. Indeed, when he touched it for confirmation, the pattern was no longer there – and he knew for certain he was on the right path.
He followed the threads with a jog, barely able to contain his anxiety, until he became face to face with an unsettling scene.
Nolofinwë stared outside a round window. The yellow light of the new morning star bathed him with gentle fingers, and highlighted weariness that should not exist in times of peace. His brows were drawn down, and preoccupation thinned his lips into a line. An elegant hand rested on the casing, but the knuckles were white with the force of his grip.
He wore no crown in the privacy of his chambers.
Fëanáro was relieved to see him, but the state in which he found his half-brother concerned him more than it would have, once.
What had happened to provoke such distress?
Was Nolofinwë of the same mind as Maitimo, looking ever North towards the Enemy, fostering black thoughts? If so, it was only reasonable – Morgoth was not to be trusted, even if he appeared to be under siege.
But his eyes…
Fëanáro saw more than concern in the glitter of its blue depths. There was dread and turmoil and sorrow – all of which he could understand – but also hopelessness. A deep sense of powerlessness reflected into Nolofinwë’s entire countenance, and Fëanáro couldn’t help but feel troubled.
His half-brother despaired, and nobody knew of his anguish – not even his son and heir.
And it was all his fault!
Fëanáro wished, not for the last time, that things had been different between them.
***
Fire.
The plains before Thangorodrim burned, and the flames consumed all in its path.
Crops. Houses. Livestock and wildlife.
People.
In its wake, Angband’s armies covered the landscape, a black wave of foes.
Angaráto and Ambaráto were caught in the midst of it.
Arafinwë’s golden boys.
(My fault).
The Enemy was prevailing.
Fëanáro witnessed, helplessly, as his sons ran to and fro like leaves in a storm, even more scattered than before. Their lines were cut, and communication was impossible. He knew they all lived, but they had no way of assuring each other was safe.
On another panel, Nolofinwë and Findekáno – armors splattered with black blood and gore, swords in hand – stared with anxious eagerness at the burned vastness that had once been a green plain, eyes searching ever East.
Findekáno seemed like he was about to take flight from the balustrade, the only thing keeping him still was his father’s hand on his shoulder. But his half-brother’s face revealed even less hope than he’d ever seen.
Of course. They didn’t know his sons were alive and still fighting.
Fëanáro ran a hand over his hair and exhaled through his nose, guilt rising like bile in his throat.
The siege was broken.
Eventually, to his immense relief, Macalaurë joined Maitimo while his fortress in the North held, but Tyelkormo, Atarinkë, and Tyelperinquar had to flee South to Findaráto’s hidden realm, while Carnistir regrouped with Ambarussa in a distant, grassy hill.
They lived.
Not everything was lost.
***
A warrior rode out in a barren plain, the horse’s hooves lifting up ash and dust. Raven black hair flew under a pointy helmet, and the blue jewels of his shield glittered with the few sun rays that managed to pierce through fog and smoke.
Rider and horse were the only sources of light in the desolate landscape, shining with a faint silver glow – and Fëanáro watched them with bated breath, incapable of believing what he saw.
“He wouldn’t…!” For a moment of sheer madness, the world stood still as Fëanáro believed his half-brother tried to invade Angband alone to reclaim the Silmarils – it would give them a much-needed advantage in the war, though it was madness.
The scene shifted slightly and a sword flashed, unsheathed, with an icy gleam. Nolofinwë waited.
A challenge.
“No...!”
Fëanáro put both hands on the tapestry as if he could stop the scene from happening.
“You damned fool,” he lamented, eyes glued to the image that unfolded, inexorable as the sands of time.
Then Morgoth came. It was an uneven duel as could be expected.
But for every time his half-brother was beaten back, he managed to injure the Enemy. Fëanáro barely breathed as Morgoth pinned him to the ground with a gigantic iron-clad foot – and Nolofinwë’s final, glorious movement tore a scream from the Vala as the Elven sword inflicted a permanent wound underneath the armor.
The scene shifted again to show Nolofinwë’s wolfish grin before Morgoth stamped on him with all his might.
And though filled with undeniable pride, still Fëanáro screamed, heart cleaved in two.
“Brother!”
Nolofinwë took his last breath, and everywhere there was grief for their fallen star.