The Words You Left Me by eris_of_imladris

Lead

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.