I'll Be Yours If You'll Be Mine by NelyafinweFeanorion

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Chapter 35

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Anairë looked around the table and felt contentment wash over her at the sight of her children and her husband gathered together. It didn't happen often enough anymore.

Her children had all been out of sorts yesterday-Turgon understandably but Aredhel and Fingon had been also.

There had been an underlying tension between her eldest son and her daughter that was unexpected-they were usually far more in tune with each other. That discord was still evident in their interactions today although Aredhel seemed in a far cheerier frame of mind after her outing with Tyelko.

The same could not be said about Fingon. He was uncharacteristically quiet during the meal and more than a little distracted. It might be worth finding some private time with him later, she thought. Tonight would not be an auspicious night for her husband to have his talk with Fingon. She hoped Fingolfin realized that.

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Fingolfin did not realize that at all. He had noticed his daughter's more cheerful demeanor and he had picked up on Fingon's more subdued presence. Something was troubling his son; it seemed this was as good a time as any to get some answers and get to the bottom of Fingon's mood.

After dinner, as they were all milling about the kitchen cleaning up, Fingon felt his father's hand grip his shoulder. "Up for a game of chess tonight? It's been awhile," Fingolfin asked.

Fingon smiled. His father had a unique way of connecting with each of his children, especially when he sensed they needed to talk.

With Aredhel it was always something active-going for a run together, a hike or a bike ride. With Turgon it was their shared love of Premier League, their undying support of Manchester United-conversation was easier somehow when their eyes were on the television screen in front of them. Fingon frowned as he realized he didn't know how his father bonded with Argon-he had effectively moved out when Argon was only eleven or twelve. Even the first few summers he had spent at home after moving out hadn't revealed that to him.

For himself it had always been games-puzzles when he was young or complicated Lego sets, chess coming in the later years. It was easier to talk with the distraction of the game.

He became aware of the fact that he hadn't answered his father's question, the weight of his father's hand still on his shoulder and his curious gaze still fixed on Fingon. "Sorry," Fingon said. "My mind wandered for a minute there. Yes, I'd love a rematch. I need to redeem myself for losing to you last time."

Fingolfin smiled. "Don't be so sure you'll win this time. I've got a new chess app on my phone now. If I can beat that, I should be able to beat you." He squeezed Fingon's shoulder affectionately.

Fingon snorted. "Kid's game. I've had that on my phone for years, Dad. Just you wait."

"I"ll go set up the board in the living room. Find me when you've finished here," Fingolfin said.

"Way to get out of clean-up, Fin," Anairë said as she came up behind her husband and bumped her hip against his.

He turned away from his son to wrap his arms around her and kiss the top of her head. "You've got all these helpers. I'm just in the way."

"Nice try," she responded. "I'll let you weasel out this time since you're taking up space and not really making yourself useful." She glanced behind him, noting Fingon had moved to the sink a few feet further away from them. She pulled her husband back, towards the pantry, putting even more space between them. Anairë leaned forward, her breath ghosting over Fingolfin's ear and lowered her voice enough to have her words audible only to him. "Don't you pester him tonight, Fin. I know what you're doing and I'm don't think he's in the right frame of mind for an inquisition tonight."

"You underestimate me, my dear. He's got something on his mind. This is the best way to get him to open up." Fingolfin breathed into Anairë's ear, following his words with kisses along her jawline. That drew a snort from his daughter, who was watching them from across the kitchen and an eye roll from his youngest son. Good. Let the kids think this was just one of their ridiculous flirtations and not a serious, clandestine conversation.

"I promise I won't push. If I don't get anywhere then he's all yours, ok?" Fingolfin added.

Anairë kept the flirtatious vibe going as she ran her hands up into his hair, the slight warning tug as her fingers tightened their grip unseen by the others. "Don't pull a Fëanor," she whispered, grinning as he pulled back to glare at her. She tugged at his hair one more time, winked and walked away, leaving him stunned as he stared at her.

Turgon caught the look and started laughing. "You sure you and Mom don't need some private time tonight, Dad?"

"Ugh," Argon groaned. "Do you seriously have to say stuff like that, Turgon?"

"I think they're cute," Aredhel said, walking up to pat her father on the cheek. "It shows love can survive into old age, even with troublesome kids about."

"Who are you calling old?" Fingolfin sputtered, his glare now directed at his unrepentant daughter.

"I thought you had a chess board you were supposed to be setting up," Fingon said, a brighter smile on his face than Fingolfin had seen all night. "Unless, of course, you've had second thoughts about taking me on?"

Fine then. He could take a little humiliation if it brought a smile to his son's face. "I certainly am not sticking around here," Fingolfin said, as Aredhel stuck her tongue out at him. "I'll see you shortly, Fingon. Game on."

Despite his apparent earlier distraction Fingon was holding his own in their chess match, much to Fingolfin's delight. Fingon was making him work for every move and he was relishing the challenge.

Fingon checkmated him four moves later. The game had lightened his son's mood as Fingolfin had hoped it would. "Another game?" he asked Fingon.

"I'm up for it. See if I can finish you off with fewer moves. You made it challenging tonight."

Fingolfin set up the pieces. The rest of the family was in the family room; watching a movie, based on the sounds emanating from that room. He was glad he and Fingon were alone.

"You excited about your internship?" he asked casually, as he lined up the white pawns in front of him.

"I am. I was lucky to get such a good firm for it," Fingon replied.

Fingolfin met son's eyes over the chess board. "You know it's not luck, Fingon. You're at the top of your class. They were lucky to get you."

That made Fingon smile again. "I'm hoping I can turn this experience into a job offer."

"You think Barad-Eithel would be a good fit?"

"I'm hoping it is. I won't know until I spend some time there, of course, but I really liked what I saw when I interviewed. Barad-Eithel or Dor-Lomin-either one would work." Fingon looked down at the chessboard before continuing. "I'd like to stay in Tirion, if I can." His eyes flicked up to meet his father's.

"You mother will be thrilled to hear that," Fingolfin said.

"And you?" Fingon asked.

"I'm ecstatic to hear that. I know you each need to find your own path in this world but I can't help wanting to keep you close." A fond look came over his face as he spoke. "Barad-Eithel is as good as it gets around here."

"I know. That's why I hope this whole internship thing works out and I can come out of it with a position there." Fingon picked up a black knight and twisted his fingers around it. "Which reminds me-I think I need to look into getting a car, Dad. I don't think public transportation is going to cut it, especially if I have to go on site visits. I don't want to be the guy who always needs a ride, you know?"

"I think that's a good idea," Fingolfin agreed. "I'm impressed you've managed this long without one. I got one as soon as I moved out of the dorms."

"The apartment is so close to campus that's it's never been a big deal. I don't go out that much and Finrod has a car. It's never been a necessity before. But now-I think it will make things easier with the internship and give me more flexibility with my schedule-not having to rely on the trains."

The trains? That was an odd statement, Fingolfin thought. He would have expected Fingon to mention the buses or the metro not the trains. The trains were mainly for travel out to the suburbs, to Formenos.

Oh. Formenos. Of course. Maedhros lived in Formenos. That's where the bookstore was. He remembered Anairë telling him that. And that's where Finwë's lake house was as well. Perhaps work was not the only reason for Fingon's sudden interest in acquiring a vehicle.

Well, it was as good an entry point as any, Fingolfin decided.

"So you want to look at cars with me while you are home? So we can get one for you before the start of your internship?"

Fingon nodded. "I'd like that. If you've got the time, Dad."

It brought a pang, hearing Fingon say that. There had been many years when he didn't have the time, when work had consumed him. When the goal of being a partner at the firm had been his main focus.

Fingolfin had always strived to carve out time for his family, even with the supercharged life of a busy attorney. It had been hard and he had missed more things than he liked to admit. But he had made the effort and had been present at most of the crucial times. There had been some tough years, yes, but since he had become a partner he had regained more control of his schedule. He ran his mind through the events of the coming week. He would make time for this with Fingon.

"I've got nothing planned for tomorrow or Tuesday. I'm not due back at work until after Christmas. I'm sure your mother won't mind us checking out cars for a few hours. I would expect the dealerships are trying to meet some year end quotas. We might end up actually getting you a good deal." Fingolfin leaned forward. "You have any plans?"

Fingon's face flushed at the question. Interesting. "Nothing definite. Might just try to see Maedhros a bit but that shouldn't be an issue. He's off those days too, so whatever works for you."

"All right then. Why don't we go tomorrow morning? We'll get an idea of what's out there and what you're looking for."

"With my budget used is probably my best option," Fingon said wryly..

"Don't be so sure," Fingolfin chided him. "I'm happy to help in any way I can, including financially."

Fingon shifted in his seat. "You already cover my tuition, Dad. And my rent and other expenses. I can't ask you to buy me a car too. I've got money in my savings account and I can get a loan-maybe." He frowned. "Maybe not without a job."

"Don't worry about the money, Fingon. You know your tuition is mostly covered by scholarships you earned. I told you all long ago that Mom and I would cover the expenses while you were in school so you wouldn't have the distraction of having to find time to work and study at the same time."

"I know, Dad, and I appreciate that. But a car is an added expense-plus the insurance and maintenance costs."

"Six months from now you'll have a job and you'll be able to pay for all that yourself-your rent, the insurance on the car. All of it. For now, let me help. I'm willing and able to do it." Fingolfin paused, considering if he should mention the trust and deciding it was the right thing to do. "You do remember your trust fund became accessible to you once you turned twenty-five."

Fingon shifted again. "I know. I just haven't wanted to tap into that." He frowned. "Although I probably should, shouldn't I? You're paying for all three of us and Argon soon enough."

Fingolfin reached across the table and tapped Fingon on the knee. "Stop. Don't think about it that way. I've wanted you to live as if your trust fund didn't exist for a reason. I wanted you to use it for the really important things-a down payment on a house, a vacation you really wanted to take, a fund for your own children." He tapped Fingon's knee again. "I'm willing to pay for a car for you, Fingon, but I'd rather you bought a new one. If you're concerned about the cost and are determined to pay for it yourself then let's compromise a bit. Let me pay at least half of it, leave your savings alone and pull a little bit from the trust to make up the difference."

"You're pulling your negotiating skills out, Dad," Fingon said, leaning back in his chair to regard his father thoughtfully. "My turn to negotiate back. I don't really need a new car-there are plenty of quality used cars that are as good as new. Let's find one and I'll agree to split the cost with you."

"And if you can't find a good used one in the amount of time we have?" Fingolfin asked.

"Then I'll get a new one," Fingon acquiesced.

"And still let me pay for half?" Fingolfin asked.

"Yes," Fingon said hesitantly. "But I pay all the expenses and upkeep myself."

"Deal." Fingolfin reached his hand across the table.

Fingon shook it. "Thanks, Dad. I don't think I say it often enough. I really appreciate all you do for me."

"Hearing you say that makes me feel like maybe I am doing something right," Fingolfin said, watching Fingon place the knight back on the board.

His son looked at him quizzically. "Why would you even question it? You've always been there for us."

Fingolfin's face clouded as he thought back. "Not always. There were times when I was too caught up in work, too many late nights that I spent at the office, too many things I missed."

"You never made us feel that way, Dad. We always knew your work was demanding. But we also knew that when you were home the focus was all on us. I never felt like I came second to your job-because when you were with us it was all about us."

"Thanks, Fingon. It means more than you know to hear you say that." Fingolfin's face cleared as he looked at his son and Fingon thought about how vulnerable his father looked in that moment-open and tentative-not an expression he was used to seeing on his face.

"It was enough, Dad. It was more than enough." Fingon believed every word he was saying to his father. There had been nights when Fingolfin had come home long after they were all asleep. There had been missed games, plays, events that he had not been able to be a part of; but the times that mattered, the times that really counted? Fingolfin had always made the time for those. Time for one-on-one chats, times when he was a sounding board, a shoulder to lean on, times when he gave advice and times when he was simply a solid, stable presence they could rely on.

It was odd and vaguely disturbing to see this side of his father, a side filled with doubt and regret. It was also uncannily familiar. Fingon realized again just how similar he and his father were-in so many ways.

He regarded the board in front of him, the pieces all set up, ready to move in the complex patterns he and his father would choose for them. "Your move?" he said, gesturing to the board.

A smile came over Fingolfin's face as they settled into the routine of play. He had gained a greater insight into his son's growing need for independence tonight. Not the independence of a teenager looking to spread his wings but of a man ready to take on responsibilities and the consequences of them.

He moved his chess pieces, countering his son's moves but once again it appeared that Fingon was thinking far ahead of him, his own pieces rapidly diminishing and his king harried by Fingon's attack. Fingolfin was likely only delaying the eventual checkmate. He was on the defense by default, unable to man any kind of offensive tactics.

Fingon had leaned back in his chair, at ease, a look of satisfaction on his face and his eyes far more alert that when Fingolfin had first suggested they play.

He hated to dampen the mood and he had told Anairë he wouldn't push but there was no guarantee he would get time alone with his son like this over the next few days. He had questions and only Fingon would have the answers.

It was checkmate. Fingolfin set up the pieces again.

"So, we'll look for a car tomorrow morning then," Fingolfin said, repeating his earlier statement. "You mentioned you'd been relying on the train schedules a lot more recently. What's in the suburbs that's caught your interest?" he asked.

A tell-tale flush colored Fingon's cheeks again. "Maedhros lives in Formenos. I thought I'd mentioned that."

"I'm sure you did. Your mother said something about it also but I haven't heard you talk about him much," Fingolfin quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly.

Fingon's brow creased. "I suppose I haven't talked about him a lot." He paused, his eyes meeting Fingolfin's. "It's something special and I guess I've kept it fairly private."

"Are you ok with telling me a bit more about it?" Fingolfin asked. "After all I've heard Turgon gush about Elenwë earlier today and I met Aredhel's Tyelko as well. It's only fair I hear about Maedhros too."

The look Fingon gave him was an appraising one and it made Fingolfin uncomfortable; as if Fingon was weighing his options before deciding to speak.

"Well, you already know him, don't you?" Fingon finally said, watching his father closely.

That was not what Fingolfin was expecting him to say but somehow he was relieved that Maedhros had obviously already broached the subject of their acquaintance. He had been unsure if he would do so, considering the circumstances of their interactions. So how much did Fingon know? He would have to tread lightly here-there was a fine line between attorney-client privilege and sharing personal information with his son.

"So Maedhros told you we were acquainted?" Fingolfin asked, keeping his tone casual.

"He did. It surprised me, actually. I suppose I knew you had worked for Finwë and then on the lawsuit but I hadn't realized you two would have met," Fingon said. He was finding his earlier annoyance at Maehdros not sharing this information was bleeding into his current conversation with his father.

"Yes, well the circumstances were a little . . . well, awkward to say the least." Fingolfin realized he was flailing a bit and internally cursed. He didn't know how much Fingon knew and he wasn't going to reveal anything if Fingon didn't know. He needed to be cautious.

Fingon narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I am aware of the circumstances."

"Aware in what context?" Fingolfin asked carefully.

Fingon regarded his father. He was finding his earlier irritation with Maedhros was fading while his vexation with his father was growing. Maedhros' interactions with Fingolfin had ultimately been associated with his kidnapping, Fingon realized. Now that he was somewhat removed from the conversation it was easier to understand Maedhros' reluctance to speak of it.

But his father? He could have mentioned that he knew Maedhros. He could have said he met him during the lawsuit and left it at that; Fingon knew his compunction for confidentiality. He most definitely would not have elaborated further and Fingon could respect that.

Perhaps, he amended. Would he truly have let it go at that? Or would Fingon have gone to Maedhros for answers? He probably would have and things might have gone differently between them, that early in their relationship. Maedhros may have retreated completely and they would not have what they had now.

HIs father was looking at him curiously. "Fingon?"

He had allowed himself to get distracted. He shifted his attention back to Fingolfin. "Context? I know what happened to him, if that's what you're asking."

"Ah." Fingolfin rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers together. "I wasn't sure how much you knew about that."

What had Maedhros said? A settlement had been reached after his kidnapping. The information had been kept away from the press. Fingon suddenly realized who was probably responsible for that. He knew what a formidable negotiator his father was.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Fingon asked "You got Morgoth Industries to settle. You kept the whole thing quiet, didn't you?"

A pained look crossed Fingolfin's face. "You know I can't talk about any of that, Fingon."

"I can always ask Maedhros but I'm sure you had something to do with it," Fingon replied, his anger at his father fading as the more rational side of him sifted through the information.

Fingolfin was a paragon of discretion. He would never compromise an attorney-client confidence, even if his son was dating said client. No, it wasn't fair to be angry at his father. It wasn't in Fingolfin's nature to share what he considered privileged information-even something as seemingly innocuous as having met Maedhros-it would have led to questions he couldn't and wouldn't answer.

"You can ask him whatever you like. It's his story to tell, after all, not mine," Fingolfin said. He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak again, leaning forward towards Fingon, but then he closed his mouth, an uncertain look coming over him.

It faded and a more determined countenance took its place. "How is he?" he finally asked Fingon. There was genuine concern in his voice.

Fingon softened, all his sharp-edged irritation fading away at his father's tone. "I'm sure much better than when you last saw him," he answered. "He still has issues-nightmares and flashbacks. Not often, not all the time, but enough. It's still there." Fingon considered his next words. "I think the bookstore and the move to Formenos have been good for him."

"I'm glad," Fingolfin said. "And you?"

"Me?" Fingon looked perplexed. "What about me?"

"How are you about all that?"

"About what happened? Or the flashbacks?" Fingon questioned.

"Both, I suppose."

"I'm just there for him, whenever he needs me to be," Fingon explained. "The nightmares, the flashbacks, they're part of him now. But that's just one small bit. They are troublesome and frustrating for him-I think that's what bothers me the most-how they make him feel."

Fingolfin couldn't help himself from asking the next question. "Is he getting help? Seeing a counselor or psychologist?"

Fingon shook his head. "No, not since . . . right after." He hesitated, not sure if he should share what Maedhros had confided in him. But there wasn't anyone more circumspect than his father. "He did mention it might be time to try again." He looked at Fingolfin closely, to gauge his response.

Fingolfin leaned back and seemed to relax a little. "I think it would help," he said. "I don't know if he ever took me up on it but I had suggested he see Finarfin."

"Finrod's dad?" Fingon was surprised. He knew Finrod's father was a psychologist but he hadn't expected to hear his name in this context.

"Yes. Finarfin has a lot of experience treating patients with PTSD. It's really the focus of his practice."

"He's an expert in PTSD?" Fingon asked.

"He is. Primarily in abuse and rape contexts but I do know he has significant experience with war veterans and others with atypical PTSD causes. I've had clients referred to him before." Fingolfin tapped his fingers on the armrest. "He's very good at what he does."

"I'll keep that in mind," Fingon said.

They sat in silence for a few moments; Fingolfin pressed his lips into a thin line, his fingers continuing to drum on the armrest. He hesitated, shaking his head before speaking again. "Fingon, I don't really know how serious this relationship with Maedhros is . . . "

"It's serious," Fingon interrupted, a hardness coming into his blue eyes at his father's words.

"Ah." Fingolfin shifted in his chair. "I still feel I need to tell you this." He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I don't think it's the best idea for you to get too serious. There's a lot of background with Maedhros and I know it's not going to be an easy thing, being with him."

Fingon's gaze had become positively frigid but Fingolfin had to get this out. "He's not the most stable, even from the little I know and from what you have shared. I don't want you getting in too deep."

"I believe that's my decision to make, not yours," Fingon's tone was as frosty as his gaze.

"Fingon, truly, I am not trying to meddle."

"Aren't you?" Fingon interrupted. "It strikes me that's exactly what you're doing."

"I'm just giving you my opinion, my advice," Fingolfin said.

"And it is just that-advice. Advice I am not obligated to follow. I would think with you being aware of the situation you would be more understanding."

"Fingon, I feel for the boy, really I do. I just don't want to see you get dragged into his drama." Fingolfin saw Fingon clench his jaw and grip the arms of his chair hard enough that his knuckles whitened.

"Dragged into his drama? You truly think that?" Fingon leaned forward, his eyes flashing with indignation, his tone clipped and cold. "Maedhros has done everything in his power to keep me clear of any drama. He's been reluctant to tell me about any of this, reluctant to let me in because he's ashamed of it. Because he, like you, seems to want to protect me from the ugliness of it all." Fingon slammed his fist onto the armrest. "I'm the one who dragged it out of him, pushed him to open up because he means so much to me and I am not willing to watch him suffer through this on his own. I want to help him in any way I can." His eyes narrowed. "I won't have you putting that on him too."

"Fingon . . ."

"No, Dad. You don't seem to understand. I love Maedhros. With no reservations. I know his past and I will do anything to help him. No one 'dragged' me into anything and I resent the implication. This relationship is the best thing that has happened to me. He is more than I ever hoped for. We are good for each other. And there is no way that I'm going to back away from this, no matter what you say."

Oh, shit, Fingolfin thought. He should have listened to Anairë. It was usually Aredhel who dug her heels in, not Fingon. Shit. Shit. Shit. He should have steered clear of this conversation. He should have watched and waited to see how this relationship went . . .

A cold realization derailed his self-condemnation. Did Fëanor know about Maedhros and Fingon? There was no way Fëanor could be at ease with this turn of events, not if he knew Fingon was Fingolfin's son. Maedhros would likely get an ever sterner talking to, if not an outright ban on dating Fingon.

"Fingon, please. Just hear me out. I'm not asking you to end the relationship. I'm just asking you to be cautious." Fingolfin ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. "Maedhros' father and I . . . well, let's just say Fëanor and I have a strained relationship, at best. I can assure you Fëanor won't be pleased to hear his son is involved with you. I can say with confidence that Maedhros will get far more of a lecture than you have gotten from me. I'm not trying to break up your relationship but I can't promise that Fëanor won't tell Maedhros to break it off when he realizes who you are." He gave Fingon a pleading look. "I don't want you to get hurt, Fingon. It may very well happen through no fault of your own, but more so because of who you are."

"So are you planning on having this same conversation with Aredhel? Because she happens to be dating one of Fëanor's sons as well. Does this warning apply to both of us?" Fingon's tone was terse.

"I may have to speak to her," Fingolfin admitted. "I'm sure Fëanor will be giving Tyelko a piece of his mind also. Fingon, please understand-I have nothing against Maedhros-or Tyelko, for that matter. I just know there is a high likelihood Fëanor will make things difficult for them and by extension you. Not due to you but because of me."

Fingon's eyes widened. "Maedhros hasn't said anything about his father." He chewed on his bottom lip. "How bad are things with you and Fëanor? Is it just generalized dislike or are we talking Capulet/Montague type hatred here?" He gave a weak smile to go along with his attempt at humor.

Fingolfin let out an involuntary bark of laughter. "Definitely not that extreme," he said but his countenance quickly grew more serious. "We just don't get along-that's probably the best way to explain it."

"That's a pretty vague way to explain it," Fingon countered.

How could he make it clear, Fingolfin wondered. How did you explain about friends so close they became godfathers to each other's children, as his father and Finwë had been? What could Fingolfin say about Fëanor, losing his mother when he was just a child?

He looked down at his hands and thought back, the memories overwhelming him.

He had been older when he had finally heard the full story of his god-father's beloved wife Miriel--the cancer that had been diagnosed during her pregnancy, her staunch refusal of treatment-unwilling to risk any harm to her unborn child. The chemotherapy post delivery but the unfortunate devastating recurrence when Fëanor was only four years old. A recurrence that led to her death within the year.

He had witnessed Fëanor's guilt over it first hand, years later. Years when they were as close as brothers.

His own father had died when Fingolfin was seven. An aneurysm. Sudden death. He and Fëanor had grown close those years. Indis and Finwë had strived to find some normalcy for their boys, blending their families at holidays and vacations, the boys growing up as close as siblings, their three year age difference of no consequence.

That changed when they were teenagers. When Finwë and Indis' feelings for each other progressed from companionship to something more.

Something Feanor would not countenance. And Finwë, Fëanor's doting father and Fingolfin's loving god-father, put his son's wishes ahead of his own. He distanced himself from Indis and by default Fingolfin too.

The boys' deep friendship had faltered and soured-Fëanor blaming Indis and Fingolfin blaming Fëanor.

They had regained some semblance of their former relationship during their years at Cuiviénen. An uneasy truce, helped along by Nerdanel and Anairë, punctuated by lively conversations and debates but also brought low by overriding competitiveness.

They maintained a very distant but overall cordial relationship in the years that followed. Until Finwë's death. Their shared grief had drawn them together-closer than they had been for years. They grieved together, sought each other out as never before, supported each other without the bitter undertones.

Fingolfin had been Finwë's trusted attorney for years before his death. It was natural for him to be the one Fëanor trusted with the legal matters after his death. But as the years passed and the case lingered unresolved an undercurrent of tension grew between them.

It all came to a head with Maedhros' kidnapping. There wasn't enough hard evidence linking Morgoth to the kidnapping directly. Any suit would fail at convicting Morgoth. The only result would be to force Maedhros to relive the entire experience in a public forum. It wasn't worth putting they boy through that, in Fingolfin's view.

Fingolfin's vociferous opinion and opposition again brought him into conflict with Fëanor. They had their most bitter and hateful confrontation. Words were said that could not be taken back and Fingolfin had found himself ousted as the head of the legal team representing Fëanor.

The only silver lining was the team's solid refusal to pursue futile legal action against Morgoth directly for Maedhros' kidnapping. Citing the paucity of evidence directly linking him they had finally accomplished what Fingolfin had been unable to-Fëanor reluctantly went along with their recommendations to settle

Fingolfin had skillfully negotiated behind the scenes. He obtained a settlement far greater than expected and an end to the years of legal wrangling.

He received no thanks from Fëanor for this resolution and their relationship appeared permanently fractured.

Looking back Fingolfin would have done nothing differently except push for an earlier conclusion to the legal battle, if only to save Maedhros from the suffering that would come.

Fingolfin, caught up in his memories, didn't realize that he had buried his face in his hands keeping him from noticing the alarmed look that came over Fingon's face.

"Dad?"

Fingon's voice startled him out of his reminiscences and brought him back to the present. He looked up, his bloodshot eyes meeting his son's worried ones.

"Are you ok?" Fingon's voice was gentler than it had been.

He had not meant to alarm Fingon. The overwhelming onslaught of memories had been unexpected and left him profoundly unsettled. "Sorry. Talking about it just took me back." Fingolfin rubbed his forehead, noting the throbbing of his head with irritation. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"No," Fingon said. "I didn't realize it was that upsetting to you, to talk about it. I didn't mean to be so flippant about it." Fingon looked at him searchingly. "I didn't know."

He would have to give him some explanation, Fingolfin determined. "Listen, there was a time, long ago, when Fëanor and I were close." May as well be honest about it. "As close as brothers. After he lost his mother and I lost my dad. Things changed as we got older and our relationship became more complicated. We did ok for awhile and actually became quite close again after Finwë died." Fingolfin pinched the bridge of his nose and briefly closed his eyes before continuing. "I was head of the legal team pursuing the wrongful death proceeding for Finwë. Fëanor and I had a falling out of epic proportions after Maedhros' kidnapping. Things have been strained, to say the least, since then."

"It was you," Fingon said, his words tumbling out. "I suspected you were the one who negotiated the settlement and kept Maedhros out of court. You got the police to keep it quiet. It was you."

Fingolfin's eyes widened in alarm. "Fingon, you know I can't talk about it."

Fingon interrupted, shaking his head. "You don't have to confirm it. I suspected it earlier, when we were talking about it. That's why you spent time with Maedhros after the kidnapping. I know how close you are to the police chief. It only makes sense that you were the one to keep it all quiet. I know how skilled you are at negotiating. I don't need you to confirm anything, Dad. I know it was you."

Fingolfin nodded silently, shoulders sagging in silent confirmation.

"I should have realized," Fingon said. "I was frustrated at both you and Maedhros for not mentioning you knew each other but that wasn't fair. You both had your reasons." Fingon moved to put his hand on his father's knee. "I realize you have your concerns but what I have with Maedhros-we can work through anything, even his father's disapproval." Fingolfin tilted his head up to meet Fingon's eyes. "I need you to understand, Dad. Nothing you say is going to change my mind about this."

"I see that," Fingolfin replied.

"I'll mention Finarfin," Fingon said and then moved to grasp his father's hand. "I'm sorry you lost a friend over this. It sounds like Fëanor meant quite a lot to you at one time."

"He won't like this, Fingon. It won't be easy for Maedhros when Fëanor finds out," Fingolfin warned.

"He doesn't have to like it. He just has to accept it."

Fingolfin made a strangled sound. "Fëanor doesn't just accept things, Fingon. It's not in his nature." He tightened his own grip on Fingon's hand. "For your sake and Maedhros', I wish it wasn't the case, but I've known him my whole life. He doesn't bend, not willingly." He stared down at their joined hands. "I'll be here for you, if you need me. If you love each other I can respect that. I'll do whatever I can to help."

"Thanks, Dad," Fingon said. "That means more than you know."