#and let’s be honest everyone was talking over Feanor’s head all the time about how ‘that poor boy must be so messed up’

[amethysttribble]

I am not immune to a good ‘Feanor Needs Therapy’ joke myself, but when I stop to think about it, I’m compelled to believe that, actually, Feanor was in therapy from the moment he could talk and it made him worse

[mists-of-hithlum]

Finally! I did finish this, right before midnight my time. A piece for the second day of Finwëan Ladies Week that is quite a bit longer than I meant it to be.

I apologize for any mistakes, it is late and this is not beta’d. Please point out the mistakes to me if you find them because English is not my native language.

Quenya

Atar – Father

Nésa - Sister

Nolofinwë (Nolvo) – Fingolfin

Arafinwë – Finarfin

Curufinwë Fëanaro (Curvo) – Feanor

Moringotto – Morgoth

Endor - Middle-Earth

“Irimë?”

“Irimë, where are you?”

“Irimë, you were supposed to stay with me! Come back here, right now!”

Findis sighs and smooths out her blue dress. Running around up here was supposed to be Nolofinwë’s task! She really does not know why she agreed to cover for her younger brother. Her dress was made for a council meeting, not for chasing after her little sister! She nearly stumbled over its edge no less than three times while running up the stairs and she still could not find Irimë anywhere. Oh, she is not looking forward to the lecture she and Nolofinwë are going to receive from Atar.

How do you just lose a sibling? Especially in a single building? The palace of the House of Ingwe is big, yes, but not nearly big enough for Irimë to disappear like this. Or at least it shouldn’t be! Findis has spent far more time than Irimë in here. She should be able to find her sister if she sets her mind to it!

Findis is nearly ready to just give up and let her sister get up to whatever mischief she has set her stubborn head to next when her ears pick up a nearly inaudible sound. A quiet giggle, coming the door to her right. She sighs again. If her sister has sneaked into the guest rooms rooms again, she is not going to protect her from the scolding Atar is going to subject her to.

“Irimë? Are you in there?”

Only silence answers her, but the door is slightly ajar. That is all the proof she needs to walk straight into the room.

“Irimë!”

Her little sister kneels on the bed. She is wrapped in blankets and pillows, all of them not meant to be used by the bored youngest daughter of Finwë Noldoran, who is in that exact moment handling out trade agreements with the owner of this palace, Ingwë, king of the Vanyar. Findis would like to curse loudly and creative but unfortunately, the source of her problems is too young to hear words like this. And a proper lady should not curse, regardless of circumstances. At least that is what Rilmanissë keeps telling her.

“Findis! Did you come to play with me?” Irimë’s big, blue eyes gleam with innocence, but Findis knows her sister too well (and has spent too much of her afternoon climbing through dusty unused passages and abandoned storage rooms). Findis can feel the comfort and warmth Irimë feels right now without even coming near her sister or the blankets.

“No, I was searching for you. You ran away from the meeting and your brother and me spent the whole time combing the castle for you. Why did you hide here?”

“Because it’s quiet,” Irimë tells her. “No one comes here. It was a bit boring at first, but then I found the blankets.” She beams with pride. Findis is tempted to hide her head in her hands. She does not need much imagination to know how the other rooms must look but she is too tired to make an attempt at fixing it right now.

“You need to come with me, Irimë. The others are worried.”

“Oh, Nolvo?” Irimë looks even more innocent. That does nothing to soothe Findis’ nerves. “I told him already. He’s on his way with food from the kitchen.”

“And you two are planning to do what, exactly? I can not just leave you without anyone of age, you know that.”

“But we won’t be alone.” Irimë’s eyes remind her of those of a little dog, the way she looks at her older sister. “You will stay here, right?”

“Please?” adds Nolofinwë. He carries a basket full of various specialtys of the Vanyar but Findis believes to see some Noldorin cuisine too. His breathing is heavy from climbing so many stairs.

“I need to attend the council meeting,” Findis protests.

“You’re already too late for that,” Nolofinwë counters with a wide grin. “Or do you want to run down all those stairs and then arrive too late at the door, causing a scene?”

Findis sends him an angry glare. They know her too well.

“Please, Findis. A whole afternoon, just us.”

Findis is seriously tempted before the annoying bit of her head reminds her of who she has forgotten while running through Ingwë’s castle.

“What about Fëanaro? He will be angry we excluded him.” Not that her elder brother is pleasant company when he is in one of his moods – especially with Nolofinwë nearby – but he would at least deserve an invitation., if only that he wouldn’t complain afterward or plot some elaborate revenge.

“Curvo?” Findis still has no idea how Fëanaro has not murdered Nolofinwë for the epessë he so clearly despises. “Oh, he left. I think about half an hour ago? Muttered something about spending his time somewhere actually useful. I am quite sure he went in search of a forge.”

“Of course he did.” Findis can’t stop the words before they leave her tongue.

“So you’ll stay?”

“All right.” Findis lets herself fall onto the bed too and grabs a pastry.

Her father has centuries of experience with diplomacy. He will know how to handle this.

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"Irimë, did you go insane too?”

“Why? Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you, completely, and you know that,” protests Findis. “But nothing awaits you in Endor aside from fire and death!”

“How can you be so certain? Have you seen everything the future entails, nésa?”

“I do not need foresight to tell you such.” Findis feels an icy calm in her body. “Anyone with eyes could tell you that you will not stand a chance against one of the Valar.”

“Just because no one has tried before does not mean it is impossible.”

Findis recognizes the defiant look in her sister’s eyes all too well. But it is not any longer about running of in search of an adventure or the next mischief she could get up to. If she lets her sister go now, it will be her death. Findis has never posessed the gift of foresight, unlike many of her family, but mere elves will not be enough to stand against a Vala. Even if it is her brilliant, doomed, insane, genius brother Fëanaro.

“We will go, Findis. And you cannot stop us.”

The fury in Irimë’s eyes also flows in the bond Findis and her sister share since their birth. They have both tried to close it off before the confrontation but anger and worry make Findis unable to concentrate enough. She suspects it is the same with her sister.

“So Nolofinwë and Arafinwë will not abandon this foolish quest either?”

“Moringotto killed our father!” Now the final dam is broken and Irimë’s feelings unleash. Findis can feel them in her stomach, mingling with her own fury and creating a dangerous mixture. She needs more willpower than she can ever remember to stay calm.

“He was my father too.” Ice covers her voice.

“And you want to let his murderer get away with it!” For the first time Irimë rises her voice.

“Father would not have wanted for you to run to your deaths!”

“Father would not have wanted to die!”

Both sisters are breathing hard.

“Atar loved us, nésa. The least we can do for him is to avenge his murder.” Irimë is pleading. It takes Findis a lot of strength to refuse to allow those words into her heart.  She cannot afford any cracks in her decision.

“Someone has to stay here and lead our people when you all are convinced to throw yourselves as fast as possible inside Mandos!” she retorts. It is cruel and she knows it, but she is desperate. Why would nobody listen to reason?

Irimë flinches as if Findis had struck her. “So that is what you think of us, your siblings?”

The bitterness in her voice is unmistakable.

“If that is what you choose to believe, it is up to you. But I hope you will think better of me when we return with Morgoth’s head in our hands.”

She leaves before Findis can muster up any form of retort. Only her retreating back with shoulders set is visible.

Findis does not have the gift of foresight but she knows in her heart that this was the last time she will see her sister alive.

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It takes her a long time to work up the courage for what she is going to do. The bond between her and Irimë has darkened in the time they have not seen each other. The once brilliant green of her sister’s fëa has darkened to a matter green, like you would find it of plants growing in the shadow. Her own thread of the bond looks the same shade of gold as always but it is thinner than she remembers.

Findis hesitates for a moment. Does she truly want to do this?

And then, like always, Irimë manages to ruin all the plans she made in a few seconds.

“Findis?”

She startles. The bond between their Fëas has not been active since that last argument between them. After the horrors of Alqualonde Findis was not exactly feeling encouraged to seek her sister out and Irimë had always been able to out-stubborn everyone around her, even among the Noldor.

And if she is honest, then she was not sure anymore if a connection between them would even be possible. Endor is far away from Valinorë and she knows of many who’s bond is so fragile they cannot talk anymore.

“Irimë?”

She is cautious. No one could blame her. The destruction of Alqualonde is years past but she will never forget the sight of blood on those stairs.

“I… I wasn’t sure you would actually answer.”

Irimë must truly be nervous when she relapses into a way of speech she has not used since they were both children.

“Why should I have not? Despite everything, Irimë, you are still my sister. Just as Fëanaro was always our brother, no matter how he loathed to call us such.”

There is a feeling of amusement in their bond but tainted by wariness and grief. Oh Eru, so much grief.

“I have not heard that name in a long time. They call me Lalwen, here.”

“Lalwen?” The name feels strange on her tongue even if a bond between fear does not require her actually speaking the words. “A form of Lalwendë?” She had always thought her sister preferred her Father-name. A strange thought, that so many people only knew her by another name entirely.

“The Sindar here are not used to speaking Quenya. We made it easier for them and for us.”

“Why did you reach out to me, Irimë? It is not to discuss names. You are not the one of our family who was obsessed with linguistics.”

A sudden jolt of pain from the bond makes Findis flinch.

“Findis, Feanor - Fëanaro… Our brother is dead.”

“What?” It takes her longer than it should to recognize that she has whispered the word out loud.

“He fell shortly after his arrival in Middle-earth – I mean Endor.”

“No.” It is all Findis feels capable bringing into words right now. The glowing feeling of attempted comfort from the bond tells her that Irimë – or is it Lalwen, now? - felt the uproar of feelings in her fëa. “How?”

“Morgoth.” Even if she cannot see her the face of her sister, Findis can picture the disgust on it still perfectly. “That is how we are calling Moringotto in these days.”

Findis is filled with too much grief to lord a “I told you so” over her sister. She knew the moment her siblings departed that they would most likely never return, but hearing it from Irimë…

Fëanaro had never been the most pleasant of brothers and she could have not existed at all for some days in his eyes, but he is still her brother. Was. Was still her brother. Her irritating, insane older brother that had succeded at everything and infuriated the whole Court of the Noldor. Her brother who had loved his wife even after wedding much younger than it was proper. Their children and the smile on Fëanaro’s face when his sons were around him.

The way he smiled less and less after Melkor was freed. Gleaming eyes in the firelight, speaking of words promising doom to more than the one who spoke them.

“I cannot…” She takes a shaking breath. “I need to be alone right now.” She can feel one last wave of warmth from the bond, then it is silent once again. Irimë’s presence has all but disappeared. Findis closes her eyes and the sobs begin.

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“Lalwen? Are you here?”

Irimë Lalwendë, princess of the Noldor, now called Lalwen and famous for leading High King Fingon’s personal guard turns her head when someone opens her tent.

“You knew I was in here. Why did you even ask?”

Her nephew smiles. It still stings, seeing how her reminds her even more of two lost brothers when he makes that expression, but time has dulled the grief in her heart. It was likely talking to Findis that brought them once again to the forefront of her mind.

She does not know why exactly she decided to call out to her sister. She knows even less why Findis answered in truth. It cannot simply be memories from a time long past.

“There is a last meeting to be had,” Fingon explains. “I thought you would like to be present.”

“Again?” She raises her eyebrows. “I thought we discussed everything necessary already?”

“You know Maedhros. He always wants to make sure everything goes according to plans.” His smile has been washed from his face and replaced by a thoughtful frown.

Lalwen rises from the pitiful thing that has been her bed for months now. “Do you have second thoughts?”

That shakes him up. “And you say I ask stupid questions!” A hint of the old charm and easy laughter lies in his voice that all but disappeared after his father’s death.

She smiles too. Sometimes Fingon is just too earnest for his own good. The responsibility of a whole people will do that to you.

“Let’s go. There is still enough time to rest after we sent Morgoth running to the hills!”

The fact she cannot tell how much of her nephew’s cheer is faked and how much is genuine should probably frighten her, but this is a battle lost a long time ago. They will meet Morgoth on the battlefield tomorrow, for better or for worse.

“Lead the way.”

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Lalwen exchanges a glance with Fingon. They will not get out of here alive. Her nephews’ eyes tell her that he knows. They share a nod.

She strengthens her grip around her battle axe. At least they will die together. But there is one last thing she needs to do before Namo will claim her soul.

“Findis?”

“Nésa? I am in a council meeting right now. Is there another time?”

“I love you.”

“Irimë, what…?”

“Don’t forget. Please.”

Pain.

Searing, neverending pain. Oh, she hates those Balrogs.

“Irimë, answer me.”

She falls.

“Irimë, we’re not children anymore. Stop ignoring me.”

“Irimë, that’s not funny.”

There is no breath in her lungs left.

“Irimë?”

“Nésa!”

They say Princess Findis just collapsed in a meeting one day. Though many tried to find out the reason behind this, the princess steadfastly refused to share. But sometimes, you would find her standing on the highest balcony in King Ingwë’s palace and looking into the east for hours, never moving, never saying a word.