United, Divided: The War of Telerin Aggression by eris_of_imladris

Two Brothers

Two brothers on their way
One wore blue
And one wore grey

Fëanáro’s forces were losing in Alqualondë when Nolofinwë arrived. He had been too slow. His brother was under attack, and no matter the circumstances of their parting - or their entire lives together - he would rally under Fëanáro’s banner.

Everything seemed so simple. The Teleri seemed to have attacked the Noldor, and as a proud Noldo, a proud son of his father and brother of his brother, Nolofinwë joined the fight. His sword had its first taste of blood, and even as he felt the horror of participating in such a war, he never doubted it. He’d sworn to do anything for his brother, and he wasn’t going back on that now.

It was only when the fires at the port died down and the men began to board the boats that he heard rumors of another story. Of how Fëanáro and Olwë clashed over the boats, of how a Noldo blade was the first drawn and Fëanáro’s temper took hold of him again. He had no trouble believing this.

Nolofinwë felt sick as he looked at the ruined city in an entirely new way. These mariners, the ones he’d cut down even as they strung their bows at him and swore, they were not the aggressors? They were simply defending their home, he realized, and they would have been successful if his own forces hadn’t come in to save the day for Fëanáro.

Paralyzed by the thoughts racing through his head, he barely noticed that it was the men who’d fought longest, Fëanáro’s men, who boarded the boats first. He nodded his head to the plan of sending the boats back without question. He was doomed, that much was certain, and he’d chosen his side. There was no apologizing to the survivors of Alqualondë, no pardon from Olwë or the Valar or anyone else who could clear his conscience. The only thing that shone clear was that he was fighting for his brother, with his brother, and that was something he’d wanted for far too long.

He believed that until a dread plume of flame rose over the horizon.

One wore blue and one wore grey
As they marched along the way
A fife and drum began to play
All on a beautiful morning

The dark skies were painted with a sinister light, not the one he’d yearned for since the Trees were bled dry, but the light of treachery was the only thing lighting the darkness. Nolofinwë shook with fear and fury as those around him picked up his name as a cry, calling him king as he never wanted to be, pulling out that primal grief for his father that he’d managed to shove aside during the fight but was now returning in full force.

It was joined by a grief no less severe for his brother. For Fëanáro was still his brother, even after this horrible trick, even after destroying the finest works of the Teleri and the only chance Nolofinwë had at reuniting with him and avenging their father together.

Nolofinwë had done everything right. He bowed to Fëanáro as soon as he heard of their father’s death, shoving any treasonous thoughts of leadership aside even when they were thrown in his face. He fought through other elves - innocent elves - without batting an eye, because his brother, his king, had ordered it. He didn’t even react against him when there was a sword at his throat but now, he had to do something.

He stared at the distant flames until a glimmer of an idea came to him. It was completely foolish. Utterly insane. It went against the meaning of his name as much as anything possibly could. But there was no turning back on what he’d done or who he was.

His speech to his people lacked the fire of Fëanáro’s words. They had enough of that already, of his brother who his people would now hate forever. He spoke to them of rejoining their people, of fighting to avenge his father, as if Fëanáro never existed. He knew that in Fëanáro’s absence, he was the natural leader, and anyone who sought to avoid the burden of making a choice would follow him.

When Arafinwë turned back, he nearly wavered. When many of his people followed suit, he stood by, stoically watching as their forces dwindled even more, as the united Noldor force in battle splintered into three. And when all was said and done, he had a handful of family and a band of other Noldor who had sworn themselves to him, taking their first steps on the crunchy ground.

Nolofinwë had never known cold like this. Their food supplies were finite, their morale low. But if he was going to die, at least he would die as he lived: loyal to his brother, even if no one else felt the same way anymore. He would stand alone as a bastion of support both for his people and his brother, and it would unite them. It would have to work. After a gesture like this, Fëanáro would never be able to reject him anymore.

He spoke of revenge without naming names as the days and months and years rolled on, as their dead went beyond number. He hardened, losing his naivete along with the lives of so many who he’d effectively killed. And he had only one thought of hope as his stomach growled and his body shivered and his hands laid the dead to rest and his home and wife became a distant memory.

At whatever cost, he had to get his enemy, his brother, back.

Two girls waiting by the railroad track
For their darlings to come back
One wore blue, and one wore black