The Words You Left Me by eris_of_imladris

The baby in his father’s arms has darker hair than his, and his father’s eyes and height and name. There is no Indis in this child. He is a copy of Finwë, and Fëanáro is afraid.

He goes by his mother-name to remind the Noldor that she still exists, as if his grief and talent were not proof enough. But she is dead, and he needs Finwë, he needs the love only a living parent can provide, and he watches it slip out of his fingers as the baby tightens his hold, gripping the king’s hand as he smiles.

He leaves without telling anyone, without even changing his clothes, and takes out his feelings on a lump of metal in Mahtan’s forge. He does not eat, drink, pause, because he knows if he does, he will hear his father’s voice again, calling the baby Nolofinwë.

How could an infant be wiser than him? He discovers new things in the forge every day, but now he resolves to find a way to excel in scholarly pursuits, to convince Finwë that he is worthy of being called wise, and every other praise belongs to him. He is his father’s son – but even that is true no longer, even that needs a qualification of “older” that can be dispensed with all too easily. Who would choose a king of skill over one of wisdom?

The thoughts hammer at him as he pounds the metal. The baby’s name sets them as equals, but he already has so much more – the looks, the mother – that Fëanáro knows he must compete like he never has before. There is no option of losing, of becoming less than he is. His mother gave him life, and he will not give it away for the sake of his father’s philandering.

He picks at dinner at Mahtan’s table, washes the day off him and finds a tear in his fine tunic. He wonders if his father will ever look for him, if he can ever go back, if an orphan boy can even afford the water he pours over his soot-stained hands.

That night, in Mahtan’s home, he takes the tunic he tore and a needle, and tries to find his mother. The needle is slow and clumsy in his hands and sharp when it enters his thumb, and when the blood wells up, he clenches his fist. This will be his last moment of weakness, he decides as tears stream down his cheeks. He will have to become more than his father, more than even his mother. It is the only choice for him to survive, and he will let no one get in the way.

Nolofinwë cannot remember a time before he knows of Fëanáro’s greatness. He revolutionizes as easily as he breathes, and he thinks in ways Nolofinwë can’t begin to imagine. He shines as bright as the Trees themselves, and all Nolofinwë wants is to get closer to the light that he is lucky enough to be related to.

But when he voices that thought, he is met with a sigh and a turn of the head, a clench of a fist that perhaps Fëanáro wished he hadn’t seen. Or perhaps he had, because when Fëanáro turns around, the fierce determination in his eyes is back, and he calls him half-brother.

Half is so much less than Nolofinwë wants to be. He knows he is no Fëanáro, inventing languages and learning forgecraft for no reason other than to look impressive. Compared to Fëanáro, Nolofinwë does seem like half of a person, and knowing that his own brother sees him as such only makes him believe it more.

His parents and Findis try to help, but their words stumble. Findis is too critical of Fëanáro, Indis too quiet, Finwë too loud in his defense of his firstborn son. Nolofinwë learns that “half-brother” can tear his family apart if spoken aloud, and so he learns to stay silent. He hides his pain behind smiles that look too easy, behind studies that only make him think of why he is even learning. Fëanáro is his father’s heir, no matter their mothers; why does he have to work so hard to be so much less?

The nights are hardest; when there is no one to make small talk with, Nolofinwë is alone with his knowledge that he is so much less than he needs to be. Second son or not, his father is a king, and he needs to please him, even if it is in such a small way. Finwë smiles at his attempts at scholarship and crafting, but he needs that shine that comes into his father’s eyes every time Fëanáro presents a new discovery. He knows it is Fëanáro’s shine alone, but sometimes, he wishes his brother would share.

He tries, several times, to get Fëanáro to help him become better, but he is met with a carefully built wall and no room to squeeze through. He wonders if Fëanáro is lonely in there, but with no way to get in, he will have to stay on the outside, only a half-brother.

But he still longs to be close to Fëanáro. They call him a living flame, and no matter how many times he is pushed away, Nolofinwë cannot stop himself from getting drawn in.

As if Nolofinwë was not enough of an insult, Indis’s second son with Fëanáro’s father is named Arafinwë. First wise, then noble, and Fëanáro wonders if anything he has done since Nolofinwë’s birth has mattered at all.

Since his one night of weakness, he has grown from strength to strength, but everything pales in comparison to the face of the new baby and of Indis, healthy after delivering a nearly unheard-of fourth child. He hears the words in the marketplace, not whispers but spoken at full volume, that the Valar bless Finwë’s second marriage, and he knows what that means.

Finwë treats him kindly, but the way he treats Nolo and the girls – and the new baby, of course – is beyond compare. Fëanáro’s own childhood had been filled with grief, and nothing he did had been enough to jolt his father out of the subdued state he was in. But this new Finwë carries his children on his shoulders, reads them stories, tucks them in to bed and hovers in the doorway until they fall asleep. He loves them with his actions, and all the words of praise in the world are not enough for Fëanáro.

He needs to take action, he tells Nerdanel one day after coming home in a rush, his braids askew. She turns from her work, touching his arm with a hand crusted in dried clay. He tells her in a rush that he has been thinking about what she asked, and that he might be willing to sire a child.

Her face breaks into a large smile, and he pictures the muscles withered and limp as her body lays in Irmo’s gardens, and he nearly freezes.

But then he remembers Finwë with his new baby and with Nolo who looks more like him every day, and the kingship that alone can prove his father’s love. If Fëanáro can conquer his greatest fear, he may be able to earn that love at last, and he will be unchallenged, alone at the top. The mere thought fills his heart with dread, but he knows he must exchange one fear for another, for he would never forgive himself if he chose to stand by. He will not let Nolofinwë win by his own inaction.

When Nerdanel tells him she is pregnant, he is seized with a nauseating mix of joy and terror. It is the biggest risk he has ever taken, gambling the life of one who he knew loved him unconditionally in such a callous manner, but he knows that if he fails to play all of his cards now, there may not be another chance.

He lies awake at night staring up at the ceiling, wondering if the deadly game will only leave him more alone. But then he hears the words in the marketplace, and he sees his father clapping Nolofinwë on the back, and he knows there is no going back.

Nolofinwë walks into the room to find the perfect tableau before him: Nerdanel, her hair spread out and a smile on her face, looking over her husband’s shoulder at the little bundle in his arms. Fëanáro holds the baby so gently that Nolofinwë marvels. He never knew Fëanáro could be gentle.

“Come meet my son,” he says, and Finwë exclaims loudly. The messenger had said nothing of the baby’s gender, nor had anyone throughout the long year of waiting. Nolofinwë follows his father and sees the tired look behind Fëanáro’s eyes, but the size of his smile makes even Nolofinwë feel welcome as he wanders closer.

Nolofinwë looks down at the baby and thinks about how he, as a child, would have given anything to be in Fëanáro’s arms, warm and loved and safe. But not even Arafinwë got his eldest brother’s affection, and if Fëanáro never loved Arafinwë, he certainly never would have loved him. He was always worse, as if it was his fault that he was born looking like his father, as if he could help his hair and his height. But even though the child in Fëanáro’s arms is a redhead like his mother, Fëanáro looks so happy that Nolofinwë allows himself to believe there may be a chance. They are older now, and there is no need to stick to the squabbles of childhood.

His faith lasts until the child’s naming day. Fëanáro holds him again, loath to surrender him to anyone, and Nerdanel stands beside him and his joy is all-encompassing as he names the baby Nelyafinwë.

Third Finwë, Nolofinwë realizes as people cheer. He meets Fëanáro’s eyes, silently asking why, why this was such a large conflict that he could not put it aside even now. And even after he deflects Nolofinwë’s hesitant remarks, citing that he was only trying to say the child was the third of Finwë’s firstborn line, Nolofinwë knows what it truly means.

The smile was never for him. The smile was at him, laughing at him, just as Fëanáro had laughed at him every day of his life.

If the first son isn’t enough, the second is named Kanafinwë, and Nolofinwë knows for sure that it is about him, mocking his mother-name, and when Finwë says nothing, it becomes his fate to smile at the babies while his insides boil.

And it continues, five more sons, five more Finwë names ending with Telufinwë, as if none of Nolofinwë’s eventual children or the children of his siblings exist. And then he crafts the silmarils, three gems of pure starlight, that make the rest of the Noldor look at Fëanáro the way Finwë always does. Nolofinwë is forgotten as he always has been, just the ordinary one, not worthy of any special attention.

But with the silmarils come madness, and Fëanáro comes up with an insane idea to leave Valinor and return to the desolate land of Aman. And Nolofinwë, after many years of waiting, sees his chance.

The people divide into factions more readily now, and he is surprised to find that some people would prefer him on the throne above Fëanáro. But this has never been about the throne. He needs to show his father his loyalty in a way that he never could before – rather than trying to match up to the incomparably bright Fëanáro, he must find a way to dull his brother, bring him down to his level, and hope that Finwë will see the equality between them. Only then will Nolofinwë have a chance.

He wears his finest robes, trying to borrow some of Fëanáro’s confidence as he approaches the king. His spirit soars as he finally speaks his mind, the rush so loud in his ears that he does not notice the doors opening behind him.

He hears the rumors before he hears Nolofinwë’s words themselves. As he thunders into the throne room, all he can hear is the triumphant call of vindication in his mind: I was right, I was right.

Nolofinwë’s words echo in his ears as if he screamed them. Of all the conniving ways he tried to get close to the father who he resembled too much, Nolofinwë had never gone so far, and Fëanáro had benefitted from his cowardice up to this point. But now, with so much at stake, Nolofinwë was flailing about in throes of treachery, his smug face not even surprised to see Fëanáro there.

The words fuel Fëanáro’s steps forward. Of course, Nolofinwë begins with basic flattery, lauding his father’s accomplishments and power. Finwë usually has little patience for the ones who attempt this method, but for his precious little Nolofinwë, he might listen. Fëanáro’s steps hasten.

Nolofinwë speaks then of two sons to honor Finwë’s words, and Fëanáro stops in his tracks, eyes blown wide as his hand flies to the sword at his hip. It is a natural response, in his mind, to being attacked.

The room is entirely silent, but he hears the words again and again, wounding him deeper than anything before. In front of the entire court, in front of every lord who mattered, Nolofinwë has shown his true colors, and nothing can take back the power that he has given himself. Who is he, to assume such things? And who but a treacherous weasel would speak of someone when they are not there?

And who is he to speak of honor, he who has had everything come to him so easily, who was loved and cared for from the moment of his birth, who was given chances that Fëanáro never had, who was assumed by many to be the rightful High Prince simply because his mother was stronger? Who is he to speak of disadvantage, when he has been on top all this time, without having to shine like the Trees to get noticed? He has no grounds to speak, but Nolofinwë stands his ground, glancing back at his father for the backup he will undoubtedly receive.

Fëanáro appeals to his father with his eyes, and Finwë speaks softly, trying to calm him, but Fëanáro hears nothing but the tone. The words are too soft, not harsh at one who started everything in the first place. The calmness of his words hurts more than the content of Nolofinwë’s, and Fëanáro’s shell shatters as he draws his sword.

Nolofinwë stands before his father, standing still even as he can feel the pure rage emanating from Fëanáro. He wonders what words he will conjure to get out of this, and is shocked when the point of a gleaming silver sword finds its way to his breast, and he is summarily instructed to take his due place.

Has he not taken his place his whole life? Nolofinwë wonders, even as he shuffles past Fëanáro. But he does not lower his eyes in deference, nor does he even whisper an apology. He is too shocked to say anything, too close to the strange phenomenon of death that only Fëanáro’s mother knew to come up with a retort.

He hears Fëanáro following him, and the confidence from before wells up in him again. He yearns to tell Fëanáro that he meant what he said, that he has done nothing but take his due place his whole life, and any scheming or deception Fëanáro has seen is born of his great mind that corrupted all too easily. But he resists the impulse, knowing that he is finally in the right, objectively, and no one will be able to question him if he does not defend himself.

The sword finds him again, Fëanáro’s eyes blazing as he spews more insults, threatens to take his life in front of all of Tirion. Nolofinwë wants to recoil from the hatred he sees in his brother’s eyes, and another part of him yearns to bend the knee right then and there and earn his brother’s love, but he can do no more than walk away. The tears enter his eyes when he is indoors again, the realization hitting him that even with taking his due place, Fëanáro hates him, and may hate him always.

There is a trial soon after, and Fëanáro looks small next to the Valar who preside over his judgment. Nolofinwë finds his voice then, telling his side of the story in the calmest words he can muster, hiding the shaking of his hands inside his long sleeves. The punishment is given, twelve years without Tirion, twelve years in which they will each have time alone to figure out what to do next. There is a possibility here for reconciliation, and Nolofinwë is eager to offer it, feeling guiltier than ever at his words taking Fëanáro out of the home he loves. And yet, the guilt is tempered by the knowledge that he will be able to forge a true bond with his father, for he can be the brightest once Fëanáro is in Formenos.

And yet, he finds himself alone in Tirion as Finwë leaves to follow his favorite son, taking a side Nolofinwë didn’t know could exist any longer. Nolofinwë knows at last that he must never speak against Fëanáro again lest he lose everything, and he takes the task of ruling as a punishment, never stopping to appreciate something that will become an impossibility as soon as Fëanáro’s time is up. And when it is, he appears before the Valar once more, in plain clothes, without the Silmarils, without Finwë. Fëanáro, at last, stands alone.

Nolofinwë offers forgiveness, holding out his hand and promising to always follow Fëanáro’s lead. He takes the high ground as a prince should, and he wonders how Fëanáro will answer this, now that he knows the consequences of treating him with violence.

And Fëanáro, master of languages, meets his sincerity with silence.

It is a son’s job to avenge his father, especially one who – Fëanáro’s heart thuds harder at the notion – died to try to save the works of his hands, the very works he created to make Finwë choose him above any others.

The world makes no sense without Finwë, where the Valar forsake their protective roles and he is left alone to defend everything his people hold dear. And even now, even after all has changed, there are still some who question his oath that he pledges to show his honor to the people, who question the way he leads, who question his need for hips to sail to Aman and find his silmarils again.

They are all that is left of his father, created for his sake and the one thing that had made Finwë’s eyes shine for him like they shone for Indis’s children. And they are gone to him, just as his father has passed into a new realm that Fëanáro never imagined him going to, and his world crumbles around him. He needs to go to Aman to pick up the pieces, and his words gather an army, mighty and strong, cutting easily through the greedy Teleri thanks to his superior craftsmanship. Some part of him knows this would not be what Finwë wants, but he knows now, just as he has all his life, that the moment he stops fighting his circumstances is the moment he loses.

But even now, after his proud display of strength, the army is fragmented, fractured into pieces by who they support. Even Finwë’s death has done nothing, even with him living in Formenos these past twelve years, even with him protecting the silmarils with his body when he, among very few elves, knew the pain of death. Even that convinced only some of the Noldor that Fëanáro is his rightful heir.

So he makes sure that only his people board the boats, and as they clamber onto land after their great journey, he picks up a torch to cast light into the unbearable darkness Morgoth has cast. He hears Nelyo come up beside him, asking which boats will go back, already asking for Nolofinwë’s firstborn son, who he calls valiant for some reason beyond Fëanáro’s reckoning. Even his own precious firstborn child has fallen prey to the lies of Nolofinwë’s rationality.

He laughs to himself as he considers that, at the end, Nolofinwë did get one thing right. Fëanáro would lead his people, as was his destiny from birth, and especially from the moment of his father’s death. Silmarils or no, father or no, he is the true High King of the Noldor, and he knows of only one way to keep that for himself once and for all.

He throws the torch.

Nolofinwë knows as soon as he sees the spark across the horizon that glows to a blinding blaze that no one is coming back for him.

He is surrounded by his supporters, all claiming that this gives him some sort of excuse to return to Tirion and claim the kingship that should be his. But he is seized by a sudden desire to jump into the burning waters and swim.

It is impossible, he knows, and yet his heart aches. His father is gone, and Fëanáro is gone as well, and he wonders if he can survive without the lights of the Trees and his brother. His world feels unfathomably dark, and he wishes nothing more than to sink to his knees.

But he cannot afford to be weak. There is no time anymore for conciliatory words, and there is no way to explain what Fëanáro has done. It is an action of pure hate, and part of him wants to swim across the great sea alone just to return Fëanáro’s favor with his sword, and scream at him the way Fëanáro once shouted at him. But another part wishes to see his face, even drawn with hatred, and know that someone is feeling the same pain as him.

Arafinwë finds the choice to return to Tirion easy, and many follow him, but many others look to him for guidance. The distance is too far to swim, and Alqualondë is bereft of any boats that could take them. It seems like there is no choice, but, he thinks to himself, Fëanáro is not the only one in the family to be determined to follow sworn words. His words in front of the Valar had been different, a promise of hand in hand, following his older brother’s lead. He, like Fëanáro, will see his promise through.

In the end, he forces no one, and no one swears any oath. They simply pick up their supplies and trail behind, and with each crunching step of his foot on the icy wasteland, he hears his own voice, sees his own desperation as he offers his loyalty to Fëanáro and is rewarded with the deaths of the people who followed him. He tries to explain himself to the grieving families, but his words fall into the deep snow.

Returning to Tirion would be wise, but the little boy inside of him will never give up that final chance to make everything right. His mere appearance would let Fëanáro know that he meant everything he ever said, that he intends to follow and do nothing more, and he would finally see a smile on his brother’s face. Together, he tries to believe even as he hardens on the exhausting journey, he and Fëanáro could do anything.

The wound burns inside him, and Fëanáro knows even before blood bubbles at his lips that he is dying. It is a strange feeling, and he wonders if his mother felt this way, on her childbed with his unheard cries beside her, or his father, a blade through his gut, watching their great enemy steal his son’s prized creations.

His son! He is aware of Nelyo’s arms around him, and the hurried footsteps beneath him jostle something inside him that makes him want to cough and gasp at once. Pain flares behind his eyes, nearly enough to make him willing to succumb to the strange sensation of death.

But no! He cannot lose, he will not die on the first assault. He will not let Morgoth win the day, nor will he tolerate a messenger to be sent back to Nolofinwë that Fëanáro threw his life away, so afraid of his own shadow that he threw himself into a battle he could never win. He is vastly outnumbered, overwhelmed, and while part of him knows that the size of his army is his own fault, there was no way to get around that. It was far too late for that.

He feels a hand in his – one of his sons, he is unsure who, and the voices around him meld into one. He blinks slowly, and he can almost see the crackling fires of his home in Tirion as the valaraukar roar in the distance.

Even the image of home feels alien to him. What will his home be like now, with Finwë’s younger, cowardly sons returned? Nolofinwë showed his true colors when he spoke of two loyal sons, and the words twist into his wound, making the blood pour out beneath his armor. Of course, underneath, his true self is as weak as the others, but he could never show how much the idea frightens him. Two sons in Tirion, the perfect family, no interloper to threaten or to even make anyone think too hard. It is all too easy, no challenge, no competition. Nolofinwë was always a weakling for competition.

“Promise me,” he begins, but he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, even if his mouth still worked. What does he truly need, at that moment? Peace seems out of his grasp as death is forced upon him, and not even the three silmarils in his arms with Morgoth dead beside him could stop that. Nothing can help except for the eyes of his eldest, his Nelyo, and in the bleariness and tears, Fëanáro sees his father’s eyes beaming at him with pride.

He weeps as his sons’ lips weave the Oath, and the ashes in the air form chains around them, binding them to his fate. He reaches out and his hand is shaking, finally reflecting the weakness Nolofinwë always tried to exploit in front of his father. The thought breaks his vision and makes his last breath a scream, but this, at least, he knows will be attributed to his wounds. No one will know his weakness but him. He has won at least in this.

Nelyafinwë kneels before him, and in another life, he would not have hesitated to brush the tears from his eyes, hold his one remaining hand and tell him that everything would be all right. But instead he just looks at his half-brother’s child, Fëanáro’s beloved firstborn son, and all he can see is destruction. The little red-headed boy who could have brought them together was gone, as was any potential for reconciliation.

It was a brave gesture going to his knees, he knew this, but his lips offer no praise. His words remain frozen, stuck on the Helcaraxë when he had nothing but his pride to keep him going forward. Nolofinwë, who he had once been, would have acted with wisdom and restraint, but Fingolfin leaves the one who he can only think of as Nelyafinwë on his knees for just a moment too long, a moment in which he remembers his nephew’s father-name and realizes that he has won. He is loved, and Fëanáro is hated; he is king, and Fëanáro is dead. The grief of losing a beloved brother is locked too far inside for any of it to show.

His people are already doomed for his foolish heart, and he seals away anything else that could hurt them as he nods his head for his nephew to rise. Marks of torture make him stand slowly, bracing himself, but Fingolfin does not move. He is not little Nelyo’s uncle anymore. He cannot be, when he looks down and sees nothing but sneers and laughter and hatred and burning ships.

But he will shove all of that aside, bury it so deep that no one will ever be able to accuse him of a tenth of what Fëanáro felt when he drew his sword. He must be a king of ice, so solid that nothing can break him. He will throw away Nolofinwë and become as close to his father as he can, leading his people on a new journey, and he will draw strength from the legacy he tries to salvage as he adopts his new name.

Fingolfin means many things – an adaptation to language, a son’s wish to be enveloped in his father’s arms with nothing between, a proud thought that makes him hold his head higher and feel like he can challenge anything in the world and prevail.

I am more Finwë than Fëanáro ever was.

He is lying to himself, but no one remains to question his words.