The Words You Left Me by eris_of_imladris

Two

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.