None might restrain him by Lyra

When he woke up, he had a body, but it was not his own.

He realised that within seconds. Then he wondered how he could be so certain. It had been a while - decades, surely - since he had been embodied. That in itself would account for the alien feeling. Indeed, in many ways the body felt like the one he remembered: tall, broad-shouldered, strong-armed. He let the hands that were much like his own explore the rest of the body. The face did not feel unfamiliar. The hair was longer than he had worn his, but then, hair grew all the time, so that in itself meant nothing. His tongue roamed through the cavern of his mouth: it felt the way it should.

"Right," he said experimentally. "What is going on?" The words came out without hesitation.

He hadn't expected an answer, and indeed, there was none. He tried to sit up and suceeded easily. He began to wonder whether he had been caught in a dream - for how long? Had he never died? What else had never happened? - and that was where the strange thought of being in a stranger's body came from.

No. It wasn't his own body. He was absolutely certain of it. Something was strange about it, and although he could not put a finger on it - figuratively or literally - there was no doubt in his mind that his spirit was in a body that it didn't belong in.

"Well, zat's strange," he said, and frowned as his tongue stopped just short of the alveolar ridge instead of moving on towards the teeth. Definitely not his own body.

Still, it was a body, which was a luxury he hadn't had in however long it had been, and he was going to use it. He remembered that a body had eyes, and opened them. A look from the window let him know that he was not in Mandos anymore. Instead, he appeared to be in Middle-earth, in the pale light of a cloudy morning, in a room that he did not know. The mountain range to the North, however, was grimly familiar. So was the face that he saw dimly reflected in the window-glass. Nolofinwë, of all people.

No matter. Fëanor allowed himself a smile. The mirror-image of his half-brother smiled back at him. He had another chance for revenge. There were plenty of reasons at this point - his father's death and the theft of the Silmarils was still relevant, certainly, but these already hefty reasons had been given additional weight by, oh, things like his own death. Or Maitimo's torment, which Námo had taken as a jumping-off point for lecturing him about the consequences of his actions.

Was Námo behind this? It was entirely possible, but Fëanor refused to let that slow him down. The important thing was to get the job done before anybody noticed, or before anything could be undone. He rummaged through his half-brother's chests until he found clothes suitable for battle. Bursting into the corridor, he told a surprised servant to call for the armourer, to make his horse ready. Ignoring their concerned questions as they gabbled at him first in Sindarin, then in confused Quenya, he put on Nolofinwë's armour, took Nolofinwë's horn and sword and shield. (It did not matter - not much, anyway - that he would fight in his half-brother's colours. How he would reveal his true identity once he had won, once he came back triumphant, was a problem that he would take on later.) Determined, he followed an unhappy page-boy to the stables, where Rochallor had been saddled and prepared.

Just as he meant to ride off, his nephew came running - valiant Fingon, who had clearly been alerted by the noise and commotion. "What is the meaning of this, Father?" he aked, his honest eyes narrowed in confusion. He, too, was speaking Sindarin. Things had changed.

Fëanor felt that it would not do to ride off without a word. This one, at any rate, had proven his worth, and deserved - well, not a full explanation, particularly as Fëanor himself wasn't entirely certain what was going on - but some acknowledgement, at least.

"There is something I must finish," he said, making up for the vagueness of his words by expressing them with great fervour. "If I don't do it now, there may not be another time for it." He paused, and then decided to be generous. "You're a good man, Findekáno. Quite possibly the most worthy of us." And with that, without giving the other a chance to reply or unmask him, ignoring the shouts begging him to come back or at least wait, he rode off towards Angband.

- - -

Later, they would say that grief and despair had made Fingolfin the High King snap; that there had been so many losses and bad news that in his wrath he had seen no other way than to challenge Morgoth himself, alone; that there had always been a streak of reckless madness in the House of Finwë. And Fingon in sorrow took the crown.

- - -

Later, also, Námo stood before Manwë, trying to appear non-chalant. "Do you remember the experiment I proposed, a while back?" he said, sounding to all intents and purposes as though the question was purely academic.

"The one where you wanted to put the fëa of Curufinwë into the hroä of Nolofinwë, to make him walk in the other's shoes?" Manwë asked mildly. Námo's face remained deadpan as always, but his spirit grimaced in dismay. "Yes. That one."

Manwë's voice was impossibly soft, detached. "What of it, Brother?"

"Well," Námo said vaguely, "I have come to the conclusion that it was not such a good idea after all."

Manwë tilted his head, making Námo feel as though he was some minor Maia rather than Divine Judgement incarnate. "Would that have anything to do with the fact that both of their spirits are in your keeping now?"

Námo felt his body break into a cold sweat, a novel and unpleasant experience. "Possibly," he said. "There might well be a connection."

Manwë gave him an uncomfortably long look. He did not ask for further details, however. It would have achieved nothing. Sometimes you had to know when not to question further.

Chapter End Notes

This is, of course, pure crack. Nonetheless, I can't resist noting that Fingolfin, just before he sets out to challenge Morgoth to single combat, is described in terms otherwise reserved for his more impetuous half-brother...

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