Reel On, Love! by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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There must be a limit to the anger I feel, Nolofinwë thought, after Aqualondë. But every time he saw his half-brother, his anger burned hotter, brighter, until he thought that others could see it, casting light into the shadows.

He was not the best sailor, and even below decks, he could hear the sound of the rain lashing against the hull. Of those who followed him, none could truly described as experienced sailors. The ships, as there were, were over-burdened, both by people and cargo. Their only hope was to reach Araman before any of the ships foundered, and wait for those who marched to come to them.

“Uncle.” A shadow detached itself from a tangle of netting and resolved into Ambarussa -- Telufinwë, Fëanáro’s youngest son. He was Arakáno’s elder by a scant few years -- they had been playmates, once.

“My father wishes to speak to you.”

“Is that so?” Nolofinwë said, his voice grating even to his own ears. “And why should I speak to him, young man?”

“He says that if you will not speak to him as a brother, you must come to him as a subject to his king. Your choice.”

“And he makes children deliver his threats? If so, the my estimation of his kingship grows by leaps and bounds.”

“I am no child and this is no threat,” Telufinwë said, and there was a look in his eye that stayed Nolofinwë’s tongue. Indeed, it was not a threat. Telufinwë had the look of a horse about to bolt, terrified and yet.

Finally, Nolofinwë said, “I will come.”

Telufinwë nodded and disappeared back into the gloom.

 

*

Fëanáro was, of course, in the captain’s quarters. Nolofinwë quickly realized that the ship they were was not only a Telerin one, but one belonging to the royal fleet. Perhaps, he thought, pushing open the mother-of-pearl inlaid door -- it was even Olwë’s own personal ship. The sight that greeted him only confirmed his suspicions. Fëanáro sat enthroned behind an enormous desk, hewen seemingly from driftwood. Someone, perhaps not him, had even tried to scratch out Olwë’s personal crest from the side of the desk.

Fëanáro looked up when he entered and nodded. He even had the audacity to smile.

“Curufinwë,” Fëanáro said, “do you not have a child to attend to? I am sure he grows impatient.”
Nolofinwë had not even marked the presence of his nephew before, but now he watched as Curufinwë started from his spot, a protest already on his lips.
“It is not urgent," Curufinwë said. "Telperinquar fares well enough.”
“Nonetheless. I have matters to attend to with my half-brother. You are excused.”
Curufinwë turned and tried to push past Nolofinwë. He said, with gritted teeth, “You are in my way.”
"Perhaps you should move," Nolofinwë said mildly. “I am sure your father did not call me here for you to play such pointless games.”
"Curvo," Fëanáro said softly, and Curufinwë went without another word. He slammed the door behind him, the door rattled in his wake.

And now there were no more distractions.

 

“Not long ago, you swore before the Powers that you would follow me wherever I led. Would you follow me still?” Fëanáro asked. He had never been one for pleasantries, not when Nolofinwë was concerned.

“I am here,” Nolofinwë said. “Is that not answer enough?”

Fëanáro smirked. “No.”

“Then what could possibly reassure you?”

“Sit down,” Fëanáro said, as he rose from his own seat. Nolofinwë sat down on the chair in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. He disliked this intense scrutiny that Fëanáro now trained on him, knowing as he did that that now, as ever, Fëanáro judged and found him wanting.

If he was a weaker man, such a thing would have a staggered him. If he had been younger, perhaps it would have still. But Nolofinwë looked back at Fëanáro steadily, undaunted.

But eventually, Nolofinwë could take no more. Softly, he said, “Fëanáro , please… Remember that I am your brother, and I have sworn to follow you. Know that I take my oath as seriously as you do yours.”

That was when Fëanáro touched him. Nolofinwë flinched, half-expecting a blow, but instead he felt a caress against his cheek. He closed his eyes for moment and took a deep breath. When he looked up, Fëanáro was staring down at him, his face expressionless.

“Fëanáro…” Nolofinwë hated the sound of his voice -- hesitant, weak.

“You have never been able to keep quiet,” Fëanáro said. “I remember when you were a squalling brat, and your mother running around the palace, frantic with worry. And my father was the only one who could calm you. How easy is it to be replaced!”

“I will not apologize for being born,” Nolofinwë said, between gritted teeth. “And he was my father too.”

“You were not worthy of being his son.”

“Really? And do you think he would have been proud of what you have done? Raising your swords against the Telerin -- our friends -- our kin -- all for --”

“The very thing you are now so comfortably sailing on. Your hypocrisy never ceases to astonish.”

“I never would have expected to astonish you, Curufinwë.”

At the sound of his father-name, Fëanáro growled and reached for him.

Nolofinwë rose, ready for a fight, spoiling for it, actually. He braced himself for impact, for Fëanáro’s hands on him, throwing him down.

The kiss took him by surprise, and for a moment he thought that Fëanáro had tried to head-butt him, but had missed. It was but a light press of lips against his own, soon over, but left him blinking in confusion.

It was absurd -- the whole situation was absurd -- Nolofinwë wasn’t about to let Fëanáro make a fool of him. He groped blindly for something to hold on to and caught hold of the collar of Fëanáro’s robe and pulled.

That got his attention. They were almost nose-to-nose.

Fëanáro asked, “What do you think you are doing?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You swore to follow to as I led. Or have you forgotten already your oath?”

“I have not. If you wish to humiliate me…”

“No,” Fëanáro said, moving away from him. “Well, not entirely. But I have long known of your -- longings.”

“My longings? What could you know of that?"

Nolofinwë surprised them both by laughing aloud. His laughter scattered through the silent room, dissolved into nothing.

He had never spoken that particular thought aloud. It had strictly been an infatuation, in his youth. It had not mattered, everyone was half in love with Fëanáro. Nolofinwë, to his shame, had been no different. He had wanted so desperately to have Fëanáro’s attention, to win his affection, his love. But all that had been for naught -- it seemed the more Nolofinwë sought Fëanáro, the more his half-brother pushed him away.

Nolofinwë feared perhaps that he would break his heart, but then he had met Anairë, and then he had married and felt right, felt normal. It had only been a passing feeling, meaning nothing. It wasn’t as if Fëanáro had ever treated him in a loving manner.

He did not want to know how Fëanáro had known, if he had known then… And to bring it up now, after all that had happened! It was grotesque, unbelievable.

Nolofinwë grabbed Fëanáro’s arm, and hissed, “You are beyond words -- I am not the wretch you take me for. You are my brother --”

“I have never seen you that way,” Fëanáro interrupted, blithely. He did not wretch out of Nolofinwë’s grip, but stayed, swaying slightly. In spite his work in the forge, he was slighter than Nolofinwë and less tall -- his strength came more from his burning spirit than anything so prosaic as musculature.

But Nolofinwë knew such apparent passivity was not a sign of weakness, but a warning. He should tread carefully, or Fëanáro’s famous temper would be unleashed.

But Nolofinwë was tired of being careful, of holding his tongue. He had done a poor job of it anyway, so he plunged on ahead, saying, “Damn you. You are a liar. I am not -- I am not as you say.”

Nolofinwë realized that he was still holding on to Fëanáro’s arm, his grip surely tight enough to hurt. He let go, but not before Fëanáro looked at him, many expressions flashing on his face.

“You are,” he said, and paused. His eyes widened. “You are.”

There did not seem to be anymore to be salvaged there. Nolofinwë turned away, to leave, when Fëanáro stopped him.

“I am still your king.”

Nolofinwë felt a strange sort of heaviness upon him. He recognized this belatedly as despair. With some difficulty, he nodded. “I am yours to command.”

“Tell me when this happened. When you realized.”

“I loved Anairë with all my heart," Nolofinwë said. He paused wondering if he could continue. He, however, who lacked both Fëanáro's genius and his father's endless patience, did not lack for courage. He licked his lips, his mouth dry. "But I have always loved you best. At first, it did not matter that you disliked me -- I thought I could change your mind. When I grew older, I saw that you did not hate only me, but my sisters and my brother, and especially my mother. I learned about Miriel, and my love mixed then with pity. I watched, I admired your works and rejoiced in your marriage. I had no expectation that you would ever look to me with anything but dislike. I did not care. I do not care now."

Nolofinwë looked then at Fëanáro, who looked at him almost kindly. As kindly as Fëanáro could ever look to Nolofinwë, which was not very. But still, it was - novel.

Meditatively, Fëanáro said, “Then, stay with me a while.”

And then he offered Nolofinwë a drink. It was one of Olwë's reserves, of course. It was a light golden color, in a glass shaped like a spiral shell. It tasted sweet, but heady. Nolofinwë had heard strange tales of how the Teleri harvested the plant that they brewed into this drink -- some said it it came from the high desert where no Elf dwelt, others said it came from sea-plants, part of Ulmo’s domain. He had drunk it once, during Arafinwë's wedding.

He drunk it now, feeling like a thief. But the drink was good, and once had, demanded more. He saw Fëanáro’s face flush. So, he felt it too. They drank like this silence, far more than was wise. The bottle was drained, then another.

He did not quite remember what then followed. There was a small tinkling of glass and then Fëanáro's hands were on him, striping him bare of all defenses and he wanted it, stretched toward it, not resisting, but pursuing.

He heard Fëanáro ask, “Do you trust me?”

How could I possibly trust you?

“Yes,” Nolofinwë said. “I trust you.”

 

*

He woke to the ship moving on heavy swells and breathed in sharply. He was not in his own quarters, but rather in a large bed in room that was too small for it. The ceiling, he saw, was mother-of-pearl polished to an almost mirror-like finish. Valar, what taste Olwë had!

Nolofinwë looked around and saw that he was alone. He dressed hurriedly and made his way up to the deck. As soon as he opened the door, it was clear that he had walked into a tempest. The wind slapped against his face, full of icy rain, and he nearly lost his balance when a huge wave rocked the ship. Most of the Noldor were not natural sailors, and precious few of them had ever been on-board anything larger than a rowboat. They struggled now, to keep their ship afloat.

Nolofinwë, knowing as much as the rest, threw himself into the work, lending his strength to the pulling of ropes, and the increasingly desperate measures to keep the ship afloat. Someone was shouting in his air -- through the howling of the wind, it was difficult to hear. He thought it was Fëanáro, in the fitful light, but it was Curufinwë instead.

“A ship went down -- we were able to rescue some aboard,” he shouted, “But this one’s almost crippled and all are hopelessly overloaded --”

“I know it!” Nolofinwë shouted back. “But we have to survive first!” He knew he tempted fate -- Mandos had a cruel sense of humor. A wave larger than the ship seemed to draw itself up from nothing and smash itself against the ship. Nolofinwë pushed Curufinwë towards the mast. Then he grabbed the closest thing to him -- a length of rope, and hung on for dear life.

For a moment, he was submerged and breathed in a lungful of water, and then he was on his knees, coughing and retching. He felt the storm pass quickly, then, but then again, it had never been a natural thing. When he could, Nolofinwë rose and looked for the other survivors, and saw that Curufinwë among them. They regarded each other for a moment, before Curufinwë gave him a stiff nod.

“The other ship,” Nolofinwë said, tasting salt on his tongue. “Do you know who was on it…?”

“None of yours,” Curufinwë said, his mouth straight. “But my wife was.”

“I am sorry,” Nolofinwë began.

“Don’t --” Curufinwë said, and then he straightened his posture, his expression changed. Looking beyond Nolofinwë, he said, “Atar, you are all right?”

Fëanáro.

“Where were you?” Nolofinwë said sharply, turning to him.

“Below, as you should have been,” Fëanáro said cooly. “Come, the both of you. We have much to do.”

*

More storms followed, each more fiercer than the last. But at last they came to the northernmost reaches of the Guarded Realm, and met with the greater part of the Noldor who had marched to the wastes. There, Nolofinwë saw Findekáno again, and embraced him. Fingon was at first stiff in his arms, before he seemed to sag into them.

"So, you do not hate me, then," he said in a threadbare whisper.

"I could never do that," Nolofinwë said. "And I have heard that you have lead our people well in my stead."

Findekáno gave him a wry smile. "I did little, in truth. Once the true -- cause of the battle was revealed, I thought I would be cast out. As it is, neither Aikanáro and Angaráto will speak to me. And they are right to, Atar, I --"

"Hush now," Nolofinwë said, "we will have time to speak of it later. I have much to tell you."

"Was Fëanáro not satisfied with your conduct? That is why he took you on his ship to begin with, did he not? To keep a closer eye on you?"

"I hope I have proved my loyalty to him," Nolofinwë said distractedly. "Come, let us go. I need to speak to your uncle."

Arafinwë and his children had chosen to march rather than step foot on the stolen ships. Nolofinwë's reunion with his brother was much less warm than his with Findekáno, but they did get a chance to speak before a messenger came to tell them that something strange was afoot.

And there was -- at the foot of the mountains, there was a dark shape moving toward them at great speed. The Noldor gathered together and waited. Though there were many people, a heavy silence was upon them.

Arafinwë turned to Nolofinwë and asked, in a whisper, “What you do think that is?”

But it was his daughter who answered. “It is our Doom.”

(And so it was.)

*

“It is Fëanáro’s fault that we are doomed! If we had not heeded his seductive words, we would not be here, abandoned by the Valar, with murderers among us!” The voice that had been speak cut off then, quietened by Nolofinwë’s approach. They looked at him, his lords, his followers, and expected him to agree.

But Nolofinwë was not so foolhardly. He told them to temper their words, and look to the preparation ahead of them. Had Finwë not been their king too, and beloved by them? Could they stand while his murderer ran free in the lands of Middle-earth, unchecked by any of the Valar?

It was as if a curtain had been dropped, between him and them, and slowly, they withdrew without many words. Nolofinwë wondered at that, but then felt a hand on his shoulder and wondered no more.

“Why did these cowards not flee as your brother did as soon as that prophecy was spoken?” Fëanáro’s lips brushed against Nolofinwë’s ear. “It seems that they have taken Námo’s words into their hearts.”

 

Nolofinwë saw that he was being shepherded toward Fëanáro’s tent and acceded to being led to it. It was not a long walk. The air outside was shrewishly cold, but inside it was warm and brightly lit. He was silent for a moment, thinking furiously, before he said, “They speak out of fear for the unknown. Time will fasten their resolve. We cannot turn back.”

“Indeed,” Fëanáro said, the fire from the brazier paling against the brightness of his eye, “none of us can go back now.”

“Fëanáro, I --” Nolofinwë took hold of Fëanáro’s hands, though he pulled away. “I do not think you were wholly to blame. It is easy to see now the work of Melkor in spreading the seeds of discontent among us. As for what happened in Aqualondë…”

“Your son’s arrival was most prompt,” Fëanáro said, his face carefully blank.

“It cannot be taken back, nor can the ships,” Nolofinwë said firmly. How easily it is done, to sell yourself! He felt a stab of self-loathing so intense that he was sure it showed on his face, but Fëanáro merely nodded.

He invited Nolofinwë to sit on a comfortable divan and look through the plans he had drawn up, most importantly, the best way to transport the bunk of the Noldor on the ships to the other shore. He paced around the room before settling on another chair, opposite Nolofinwë.

Multiple trips would be needed, as well as the building of other ships to bolster their fleet. Idly, Nolofinwë told him what he knew of ship-building, which was little and all gleaned from Arafinwë’s years of courting Eärwen.

The thought of his brother and his wife stopped Nolofinwë short. He had not tried to dissuade Arafinwë from turning back, confident as he was that Arafinwë would come back himself. A lifetime of leading his gentle brother, who always agreed rather argued, had made Nolofinwë complacent. There had been a streak of iron in Arafinwë after all. He had turned away and not returned.

“I should have tried harder to dissuade Ingoldo,” Nolofinwë said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice.

Fëanáro looked up from his papers. “His departure helps us but little. His group was the smallest by far.”

“I do not mean in terms of room in the ships, because the rightness of the three of us seeking our father’s killer. I thought Ingoldo understood that…” He looked up to see Fëanáro looking at him speculatively, his writing forgotten for a time.

Nolofinwë flushed. To be the object of Fëanáro’s regard was not an easy thing. It was too intense, that scrutiny, the feeling of being mentally weighed, measured and shifted with a blink of an eye. In a way, it was pleasurable too, and when Fëanáro looked away -- all too soon -- Nolofinwë felt a definite loss.

“Our father, yes. He would often speak of you,” Fëanáro began awkwardly -- Nolofinwë saw him struggle with these words, and the feelings behind them, unfamiliar to Fëanáro, no doubt, and laced with regret. “He was proud of your accomplishments as well as mine. Though in later years, he felt that he did not express this as well as he could have. He had wished to go with me to the harvest festival, to see you, but I would not have it.”

The silence grew long between them, filled with unspoken thoughts.He thought of me, but he loved me less, and this, everyone knew. Nolofinwë stared up to the ceiling of the tent and watched the fabric dip and billow on the breath of the wind.

Fëanáro rose and came to where he was, and cupped Nolofinwë's face in his hands. Nolofinwë looked up, startled, his mouth a little open -- if not in astonishment, then with something like anticipation. Fëanáro sank to his knees, in front of Nolofinwë and kissed him. This kiss was not an unexpected one, nor, to be truthful, unwelcome.

Fëanáro kissed like he spoke, passionately, holding nothing back. He threaded his hand through Nolofinwë's hair and then jerked it back, almost hard enough to hurt. They stared at each other, breathing hard. Fëanáro's hand dropped, and covered now the back of Nolofinwë's neck.

"Do you know," he said, "how long it has been since I have touched anyone?"

"Since Nerdanel left you, I should think," Nolofinwë said, fighting back a smile. "I know it must have been difficult for someone like you. I mean -- seven children! -- your ardor is certainly, er, famous."

"Nolofinwë."

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"All right."

Nolofinwë sighed and lay back, letting Fëanáro touch him. In a way, it was soothing, to have another person so close to him once again. Despite his teasing, he knew what Fëanáro meant. Though his marriage with Anairë had been a loving one, in recent years, they had all but separated, in heart and then in body. For a moment, he had a vision of her, arms around Eärwen. He dismissed this as a thought unworthy of both of them -- or, if it was true, what of it? Surely, he had relinquished all claims upon her love, once he had left her.

Above him, Fëanáro made a displeased noise. He clearly disliked not being attended to. But -- another worry assailed Nolofinwë.

“What if someone comes in?” His voice was thick, even to his own ears and Fëanáro grinned like a cat.

“No one may come in without my say-so,” Fëanáro said smugly, and would have explained how that was if Nolofinwë had not kissed him again just then. But it was not enough, those kisses, not this time. Blindly, Nolofinwë reached down, and fumbled until he grasped Fëanáro’s cock, and began stroke it.

That got his attention. Fëanáro practically purred.

“Is this what you want, Fëanáro?” Nolofinwë whispered and grinned when Fëanáro hissed a quiet yes.

Relentlessly, his hand still moving, he asked, “What else would you like?”

“Kiss me --”

This, Nolofinwë did.

“Let me take you.”

Nolofinwë paused for a moment, but not long enough to pull back, to balk at the idea. “I’ve never --”

“I have.”

“With whom?”

“Careful, Nolvo. You cannot be privy to all my secrets.”

Hearing his nickname spoken by Fëanáro pleased Nolofinwë very much. He grinned and found himself saying, “Yes, yes, Fëanáro, do it.”

Fëanáro pulled away and got up. He stripped down quickly, despite the cold that was seeping into the tent as the light from brazier grew low. Neither of them thought to refuel it. Instead, the light from Fëanáro's lamps replaced the light. Everything took on a blue and black cast, only their bodies showed white against the gloom.

Nolofinwë lowered himself on the floor and took off his clothes. He watched as Fëanáro made preparations -- dug through his pack until he found a small bottle of oil. He opened it to check if it was the thing he was looking for. A faint smell of sandalwood filled the air.

Fëanáro caught Nolofinwë looking and smiled. "I use it sometimes to soften my hands. It was of Mahtan's making."

Nolofinwë nodded and Fëanáro crouched down and embraced him. "Last chance," he whispered. "Say no and we will never mention it again."

"Yes, Fëanáro," Nolofinwë said, putting his arms around Fëanáro's neck. "Yes, my love."

He heard Fëanáro moan softly at his words, and smiled.

Now, everything took a quality of a dream. What Fëanáro did to him was odd, but not unpleasant. He wondered who had taught Fëanáro these things, and why. Then he forgot to think altogether. His heart hammered against his chest, as he moved with Fëanáro, for once, in perfect harmony. He loved him, he admired him, he wanted him. And it seemed that Fëanáro felt the same, wanted the same.

Nolofinwë raked his nails down Fëanáro's back, heard him cry out.

Later, when he came, he could have sworn there were tears in in Fëanáro’s eyes, but he could have been mistaken.

*

This is a new world.