The Words You Left Me by eris_of_imladris

Third

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.