No New Grief by ohboromir

No New Grief

Read No New Grief

Tirion upon Túna. Years of the Trees 1270.

Nolofinwë did not want to be here.

If he could have been anywhere else in the world, he would have fled there at this moment.

His elder brother did not like him. He did not much like Fëanáro in return, so the matter should have been settled, but their father was a stubborn man. Finwë wanted to see his sons united, civil if not friends.

Curufinwë will replace your arms tutor while he is in Tirion, Nolofinwë.

Atar would not hear a refusal.

Fëanáro stood in the courtyard, his face an unreadable mask of cool disdain. He wore the belt Atar had given him last midwinter, the silver buckle of his own device, the black leather sharp against the deep burgundy of his tunic. The fabric clung to his skin, fitted at the waist and shoulders. Nolofinwë’s breath hitched - with the light of Laurelin glinting off his face, he seemed like one of the Ainur standing there, glowing with pride and power.

It was not wrong to think so. They were of the same blood. If he thought Fëanáro handsome, then it was only an objective fact, a reflection of his own self confidence. They were not so different in face, as much as it might upset Fëanáro.

“I had thought you too old to be minded, Aracáno. Perhaps they ought to have left you with Ingoldo and the nursemaids.” Fëanáro’s tone was sharp, but he was in a pleasant mood, for once. INolofinwë distrusted it - what could he have planned that offset his annoyance at playing tutor?

Nolofinwë rolled his eyes. Ingoldo was far too old for nursemaids, but he did not expect Fëanáro to have paid enough notice to care. Atar did not make Ingoldo suffer the ordeal of Fëanáro’s company, or rather, their youngest sibling was wise enough to escape to Alqualondë as often as he could, claiming the sea resolved his headaches. Nolofinwë was not convinced it was the whole truth, and in this moment, he felt a spike of jealousy. Everyone else got to do what they wanted, go where they wanted, but him. He sighed.

“Brother, I-”

“Half-brother.”

“Fëanáro. Are you here to teach our father’s art, or to gloat?”

Fëanáro laughed and raised his spear. There was no war in the Blessed Realm, but Finwë of old had been a hunter, with bow and with spear, and he wanted his children to follow in this tradition. Nolofinwë would not say he enjoyed either weapon, and hunting he had never had a passion for, but he would do as he was expected. He would not give anyone a reason to say he was not a proper prince of their people. Young though he was, he had heard the criticism of his mother and elder sister at court. He would not allow such things to be said about him.

Fëanáro said nothing more but took his place at the far edge of the chalk square. He raised his spear as Nolofinwë mirrored his position. As he opened his mouth to speak, Fëanáro lunged, and Nolofinwë barely darted back in time.

“If you were a deer, you would be dead. Pay attention.”

The first round was over before Nolofinwë could even take that advice, his blunted spear clattering to the floor. Disarmed. Fëanáro stepped back, not even sweating, not even bothered enough to look smug. Nolofinwë grasped his spear again and took his position again, determined to be ready this time – if he could not beat his brother, he would give him a fight for his victory. The following rounds – second, third, sixth, tenth – followed the same pattern. Nolofinwë would be too bold, try to get the upper hand too soon, and wind up on his behind in the dirt. Or he would be cautious, and listen to his brother taunt his slowness, only to be disarmed the second he decided to do more than simply block his brother’s strikes.

Laurelin was beginning to wane when Nolofinwë finally decided he had had enough. He would win at least one round before their lesson ended, he had to, or he was sure his pride would never recover. He lunged. Fëanáro was fast, blocking the blow of the spear with his own, the momentum forcing Nolofinwë to follow the movement of the spear to the left, grunting with the effort. Another lunge, slipping under Fëanáro’s arm, but once again his brother avoided it, darting away. For a big man, tall and strong as he was, Fëanáro was fast, lighter on his feet than Nolofinwë could have expected.

Nolofinwë had thought he was past the heat of his adolescence, past the age of getting aroused at the merest thoughts. He was an elf grown, though he hoped he still had a bit more growth left in him. The thought of Fëanáro’s strength made him a little lightheaded; he thought of him bare chested, shining with sweat, towering over a defeated foe. Perhaps I would be his foe – would I plead for his mercy or his cruelty?

Fëanáro’s spear caught his cheek.

“I think we are done for now, Aracáno.” Fëanáro’s sharp voice cut through the haze of heat in his belly, and Nolofinwë nodded stiffly, eager to be out of that gaze. His brother did not force him to endure a lengthy goodbye; evidently, he was as eager to leave as Nolofinwë, though no doubt for entirely different reasons.

He maintained his composure long enough to slip behind the back of the shed, and then his spear clattered to the floor as he shoved his hand into his robes. He was too pent up for teasing, and he dared to close his eyes as he wrapped his hand around his cock, brushing his thumb over the head of his cock. Perfect.

As he built a steady rhythm, he imagined his brother’s voice, standing over him, instructing. Look how desperate you are for my touch, Aracáno, he would croon, as he pinned his brother to the wall. Look how your little cock jumps and leaks for me. Do you want me to take care of that for you?

“Yes.” he breathed to no one, his second hand slipping up his shirt to pinch his own nipple - he had read, once, in one of the books he had slipped from Atar’s library, a scene where that had seemed so pleasing, but doing it himself was not as satisfactory as it had been in his mind. He wished it were Fëanáro’s clever fingers instead.

Like a hunted deer. Only, you are so eager to be prey now.

Nolofinwë bit his lip to hold back his groan, as he spilled over his hand, staining his dark trousers.

Training with his brother would be a torment of a different kind, he suspected.

Alqualondë, Years of the Trees 1350.

Nolofinwë would not describe himself as a partier. For the most part, he found them a trial. Among strangers, there was always mindless chatter and gossip he did not care for, or politics, or people trying to get to his father through him. Atar had prepared him for it, but he did not enjoy it. He doubted even his father did.

Family parties were worse. It was always such a hassle to wrangle everyone, young and grown, into one place at one time - someone always had a trip with Lord Oromë that day, or someone else was out sailing, or someone was buried in his workshop and refused to be drawn out. There was usually an argument or three and Nolofinwë usually drank far too much wine.

But Atar loved it, and hosted them so generously, no one really refused.

Arafinwë had inherited that taste for parties. His younger brother had but to write a charming letter or two, and even Fëanáro would accept his invitation. Nolofinwë had to admit, he was impressed with how smoothly he navigated Fëanáro’s moods, how he seemed able to please - as far as Fëanáro was capable of being pleased, he supposed - their elder brother so effortlessly.

Ah, Nolofinwë was not ignorant. He would admit it. He was envious of Arafinwë, of Fëanáro’s lack of dislike for him.

He sighed and sipped his wine.

“Thou does our brother a disservice with thy scowl, Aracáno.”

Nolofinwë tensed, schooling his face into calm as he turned to face Fëanáro. Once again, he looked magnificent, in elegant formal robes, his throat and brow adorned with golden jewellery of his own making. Fëanáro only ever wore jewellery he or his sons had made; some called it pride. Nolofinwë called it arrogance.

“I am surprised you came, Fëanáro. I did not think Alqualondë was to your taste.

“There is plenty to my taste here.” His gaze darted meaningfully across to where Arafinwë was entertaining a cousin from Taniquetil.

Nolofinwë’s heart lurched, jealousy and lust making his blood burn. Fëanáro only meant he got along better with their amiable brother. He did not mean that Arafinwë had what Nolofinwë had always craved - no, he could not mean that, surely. Fëanáro would not imply such a thing in public… would he?

His mind spun: Arafinwë with his legs spread on his grand white bed, Fëanáro bent over him, their hair tangled on the sheets. Arafinwë pinned to a wall, Fëanáro’s hand around his throat, Arafinwë’s legs around his waist… and Nolofinwë imagined himself, too, with them. Behind Fëanáro, taking him while he took their brother, or on his knees for his half-brother, taking him in his mouth while Arafinwë lounged and watched – ah, he did not care so much for Arafinwë, fair as he was, but he would indulge him if it would impress and please Fëanáro.

“I am speaking to thee, Aracáno. Have the grace to pay attention.”

He was brought back to his dull reality by Fëanáro’s teasing tone. It did not match the expected sharpness of his words - something glinted in his brother’s dark eyes. Nolofinwë narrowed his eyes.

“Say something worth my attention, brother, and I shall.”

Fëanáro laughed. “Thou art irritable today. Are the festivities not to thy liking?”

“Arafinwë’s hospitality is always pleasant. But I must admit, as I am sure you know, I prefer more productive activities.

“Productive.” Fëanáro’s eyes darkened. Nolofinwë felt rather like a mouse under a hawk’s gaze. “Indeed, there are many productive things I think thou might be doing. Getting on thy knees for me, for example.”

“Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë nearly lost his grip on his glass, eyes wide.

“Do not tell me thou do not desire me. I have watched thou for so long. I have seen how thy lustful gaze lingers. I am not blind.”

Nolofinwë’s throat was dry. Had he been so obvious? Why had Fëanáro never mentioned it before? What had changed now? This was a trick. Fëanáro wanted to make him make a fool of himself.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“That is a lie.” Fëanáro advanced on him, close enough that Nolofinwë could feel the heat of his breath, close enough that it was improper. This is a dream. He does not want me as I want him.

Fëanáro did not kiss him, but instead cupped his face with one large hand, his fingers - so nimble, so clever, his fingers that had earned him such renown - tracing the arch of Nolofinwë’s cheek.

“Meet me in the hall. Ingoldo will not notice your absence.”

And then he was gone, before Nolofinwë could even recover his breath to answer. It took several long moments for the room to right itself. Nolofinwë’s face burned. But no one else seemed aware of how his world had just been upturned - the party carried on around him as if nothing had happened. He swallowed the last of his wine.

If he did not go, it would haunt him forever.

He found his brother waiting in the hall and all the blood in his body raced to his cock.

Fëanáro was braced against the wall, his robes opened to reveal his smooth, muscled chest, flushed red from the heat and the wine. He had unlaced his trousers and was stroking his cock, freely in the hall where anyone might walk in on him. Where Nolofinwë might walk in on him.

As if in a trance, he sank to his knees before him, brushing aside Fëanáro’s hand to curl his fingers around his cock. It was full and heavy in his hands and he could not take his eyes from it as he stroked it leisurely, brushing his thumb over the tip to collect a few beads of precum, relishing the power in felt in having his brother like this. Fëanáro’s eyes were on him, the usual haughtiness in his gaze replaced by pure, dark lust. Nolofinwë wanted to savour this moment, enjoy the prize he had been competing to win for so long, but his brother did not want to wait, and the hallway was hardly private.

Fëanáro tugged at his hair. “Thy mouth, Aracáno. I know thou art not shy.”

Not to let the taunt go unanswered, Nolofinwë leaned in, first teasing the head of his cock with the flick of his tongue, adjusting to the deep, salty taste of him. Even here, it seemed his brother tasted of the forge, of fire and ash and smoke. It was more intoxicating than Lorien’s finest wine. Nolofinwë swallowed him almost to the root, his nose brushing against the soft curls. For a moment, he just enjoyed the weight against his tongue. Then he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, mirroring the pace he liked himself. It seemed his brother liked it too, as the hand in his hair tightened, nails scraping against his scalp.

Fëanáro let out a deep groan, not even bothering to muffle it. Nolofinwë doubled his efforts, lavishing his cock with his tongue, one hand braced against Fëanáro’s thigh, the other stroking the length of his cock that Nolofinwë could not fit in his mouth.

“Ah, yes…” Fëanáro encouraged, his moan delightfully sinful. Nolofinwë felt him throb and twitch in his mouth. He judged he was close – and he was right, as with little warning, his brother pushed his head down, making him splutter around his cock, and then his mouth was filled with the salty taste of his brother’s seed. Nolofinwë swallowed it all, not unused to this position.

When Fëanáro’s shudders subsided and his grip loosened, Nolofinwë pulled back, still on his knees, and wiped corners of his mouth with the end of Fëanáro’s robe. Let him explain any awkward questions there.

Fëanáro smiled down at him, looking more pleased with himself than with Nolofinwë’s performance.

“I hope we shall bond more in the future, half-brother.”

Nolofinwë hoped so, too.

Tirion upon Túna, Years of the Trees 1490.

He thought about the day it all fell apart often.

If it was in more pleasant circumstances, Nolofinwë mused, it would have been quite enjoyable. He had often pictured himself on his knees, at Fëanáro’s mercy, or lack thereof. They had played at it, sometimes, and he had found the ending quite rewarding. Even then, his body had betrayed him, the hint of lust in his blood as his brother’s rage focused on him.

Fëanáro had pressed the point of his sword to Nolofinwë’s throat, accusing him of all manner of ridiculous things. Usurpation? What was there to usurp - their father was alive and well. There was no need for this kind of talk. But Nolofinwë was resolute, and he had remained silent in the face of the threats, meeting his brother’s eyes without fear or blame. His heart clenched. Was it all, everything they had shared, for naught?

He did not remember much that had passed since then. Fëanáro was cold to him, even as Nolofinwë pronounced him forgiven. The words had tasted hollow and stale, like raw dough.

Even if he had known then what was to come, he would not have looked on those days fondly, abandoned by lover and brother and father and king. Left to maintain Tirion while his father played in exile with Fëanáro.

He felt as though his world had become dull and empty. All the colours of life dimmed. He was alone. But he did not show it. Among others, he was almost jovial, almost himself, tired, perhaps, from the new stress of maintaining Tirion, but nothing more. They did not know how despair and sadness threatened to swallow him from within. Nolofinwë was steadfast. He would bear this, and he would bear it in silence.

Fëanáro did not summon him again. He did not go to him – he was not a lovesick youth, nor a whining hound. He would not crawl back to his brother’s side and beg to be allowed in his glory again. They had been lovers, but they had not loved, or else if they had, Fëanáro had burned that love away.

Nolofinwë was not sure if he loved him or if he hated him. But he missed him. By the Valar, he missed him. Tirion was not the same without his sharp and clever remarks, without his constant presence in the forges of the palace. Nolofinwë missed him in more than just his bed, though to no one would he ever admit it.

That he had taken Finwë with him in his stupid, petty game was another bitter blow. Nolofinwë had always believed when his father had claimed not to have a favoured son. Fëanáro had been treated differently, yes, but Nolofinwë had understood it. His brother did not have a mother – he needed Atar more. By the time he was grown, it had not been so noticeable, as they both grew into their own lives. Now, though, he was not so certain.

Damn Fëanáro! Was there nothing his presence did not shatter? Were even Nolofinwë’s dearest childhood memories of his father kindling for Fëanáro’s rage?

When news of Atar’s death reached him, the empty void of Nolofinwë’s heart deepened, fathomless as the darkness that swallowed Valinor. There was no place for rage, no place for anything but the deep grief and despair that threatened to overwhelm him.

It was in that darkness that he met Fëanáro again.

I will follow you, he had pledged, taking his brother’s hand and kneeling before him, his king. His word he had kept; the desire for vengeance burned cold in his breast. They would have no aid from the Valar, from the Vanyar, from the Teleri – the princes of the Noldor had only each other, only their own people. Loyalty to Fëanáro was an easy thing to give, even after all his brother had done to him.

It was what Atar would want. The shadow of his memory loomed over them, in those dark hours, greater than any Doom.

Nolofinwë had spilled blood for his brother, he had followed him even through this madness, though Arafinwë had not. He could not help but feel vindicated for it, proud that he had at last proved himself more worthy of Fëanáro’s favour. He should not think such dark thoughts, but he could not help it. It distracted him from the hollowness in his heart, the ache in his legs, in his shoulders, as they loaded Fëanáro’s host onto the ships. So many had been lost in the storm.

“You will return for us, brother?” He stood at the shore, voiced raised to be heard of the rattling of the rigging in the wind. His brother had promised they would return, and Nolofinwë had believed him. Did that make him a fool?

He would not close his heart to his brother – grief had driven Fëanáro mad, who could think otherwise?, but it would not claim him. I am not mad, he told himself, trudging through the bitter snow. I will temper his rage. I will find him again and show him the meaning of brotherhood. I will come to him. I will keep my word.

The Halls of Mandos, Date Unknown.

The Halls of the dead were not dark. They were bright as Laurelin’s gleam, but they held no warmth, not for Nolofinwë. His spirit languished, consumed by the despair that had brought him to challenge Morgoth. But no such relief would he find here, alone. Even the maiar of Namo did not come to him, as if they were afraid, and perhaps they were right to be. He did not know how he would act, if one of them tried to comfort him. He did not want comfort.

“I have a suggestion for thee, son of Finwë.” Námo, in his steely gentleness, did not fear him. “Thy heart is weighed heavy with thoughts of thy brother. Would thou like to see him?”

“His spirit remains here?” He had thought him lost to the Void.

“Alone in the dark, but here.”

Nolofinwë nodded his assent, mute. Námo led him through the winding corridors of his halls, until they came to a great, heavy door. Nolofinwë could feel the power radiating off it.

Námo’s touch opened it, and the Vala stood back. Nolofinwë stepped into the darkness, which suddenly grew bright at his coming.

There he was.

“I never thought I would see you again.”

His brother’s fëa still burned, but it was different, dimmed. He was not the raging inferno of a man he had once been – he was smouldering like a dying campfire, ember and ash. Nolofinwë did not feel pity. Only grief, that so high a spirit could be so reduced.

Fëar did not age in death, but his brother’s grief was thick and palpable as it had been in life. Nolofinwë knew that feeling; his own despair had pushed him to death, and he despaired still, in the long quiet hours of the Halls, as he thought of his children lost and his people scattered.

“You are the source of all my sorrow, Fëanáro. I came out of curiosity.”

“Curiosity? Am I a spectacle for you to wonder at? Has Nolofinwë the Steadfast, Nolofinwë the Noble, come to gawk at his doomed brother?”

“Gawk? Were it not for the words of Námo, I would not think of you at all.”

“And still, you deny it! You have always thought of me, Nolofinwë. Aracáno. I have been in your mind since the days of our bright youth! If I desire for you to think of me, you will! Always you will bend to my will in the end – did you not swear me loyalty, after all? Are you an oath breaker after all?”

Nolofinwë’s rage bubbled up inside him, spilling out until it swallowed him, the air between them fizzing and crackling.

“Loyalty! What reward have you shown me for it, brother of mine? I have knelt for you and fought for you and bled for you, and you did naught but burn away any care there was between us with the swan ships!” He advanced on him, shoving him back – though neither had a physical body, fëa could touch fëa – and to his surprise, Fëanáro did not resist. He held him there, forced to look into his spirit, forcing him to see what he had done to the brother he had once claimed to care for.

“You abandoned me. You tried to deny my right to avenge our father and our home. You took your pleasure from me and when I was no longer to your liking, you cast me aside. Think, Fëanáro, of what we could have been! What could we have done if we had come to Beleriand together? How much suffering might we have spared our people?”

Fëanáro’s spirit spluttered and hissed. Even in death, he was proud. But time and reflection, while it had not tempered him entirely, had changed him. He did not shove his brother away, did not protest as Nolofinwë let spill all his griefs and hurts, did not deny what he had done. To deny it was to admit it was wrong.

“I am sorry, Nolofinwë, for all the hurt I have done to you – poisoned as I was by the lies of Morgoth, grieved as I was by the long memory of my mother’s death. But I will not take responsibility for what I have not done – never did I claim to love you, never did I force you to cross the Ice, nor did I bring you to Morgoth’s feet. Those griefs are your own doing.”

Nolofinwë released him. He did not want to hear this. Was this even his brother, or was this some test of Námo, to try and force him to acknowledge wrongs he had not committed?

He turned and left the room, the heavy door snapping shut behind him.

He would not think of Fëanáro anymore.