#i think i like fingolfin thinking fingon was dead... it makes his despair more painful 😩😩😩😩😩

[southfarthing]

did fingon see fingolfin leave for angband? did he beg him to stay? did he bitterly accept his fate? did fingolfin go to his death with the knowledge at least that his son would continue in the ashes?

or did fingolfin think that fingon, too, had died? were they separated by flame and shadow so terrible that fingolfin mourned his firstborn and heir, now his third dead child, and thought there was no future for his family?

did fingon only see fingolfin's wrath from afar in confusion? did he see his father ride northward and never return?

[sweetteaanddragons]

If you're still taking prompts, could you please do I don’t want an apology, I want you to tell me how you pulled it off, Feanor and Fingolfin, surprise me

Two quick warnings for this one:

One, it contains a darker version of the Valar than I actually think canon points to.

Two, it contains references to suicide and a brief discussion of exactly what qualifies.

That said, here you are!

. . .

There was nothing but silence in the darkness, and Fingolfin wasn’t particularly surprised. After all, he was, as of yet, the only elf to commit this crime, at least according to Mandos, and in this it was Mandos’s vote that counted.

Mandos said it was suicide, and Fingolfin didn’t know how to argue with him. He had, after all, in a fit of despair taken action he knew was likely to lead to his death.

If that was truly all it took, though, he was a bit surprised to find himself truly alone. Surely he was not the first elf who despaired of victory that had chosen to charge into battle anyway.

You’re not here because you charged Morgoth, a doubtful part of himself that sounded suspiciously like Feanor said scornfully. You’re here because you came so close to succeeding. You stabbed a Vala seven times. Did you really think they could stand for that? 

Fingolfin pushed that thought aside. He didn’t believe that. That was just the darkness talking.

And the silence.

And the cold.

. . .

It wasn’t the first time his thoughts had sounded a bit too much like Feanor, but usually he did it on purpose: On the Ice, he’d had whole imaginary conversations that mostly consisted of him shouting at Feanor and receiving wholly unsatisfactory replies.

What did you expect, Finwenolofinwe? That I would take you along? You, who longed to be king?

Or, I’m not sorry.

Or - when the cold bit too deep and exhaustion loomed like death waiting to fall and he needed one warm thought to cling onto - I never thought you would do this, Nolo. I thought you would go home. I wanted you to go home.

It was the kindest he could make his brother sound. He’d tried to make his half-brother apologize, but even in his imagination, the words always felt weak and pale. Feanor wouldn’t apologize. Not to him. Not about this. Not without cold irony ringing through every word.

He’d kept talking to him even after - After he learned what had happened. Especially then. He’d needed closure, and Feanor, of course, had refused to give it to him.

The day after his coronation, he’d tried to imagine what Feanor would have said to him.

So you finally got what you wanted, Nolo. It was the kindest thing he could make himself believe, and the words still echoed bitterly in his mind.

He wondered if Feanor would have believed him if he had turned to his half-brother and said that, in that moment, he’d realized too late he didn’t want it after all.

Not if it meant the Ice claiming so many of his wearied people. Not if it meant his nephew scarred, bloodied, and telling him, as they talked things over, that he didn’t dare trust himself.

Not if it meant his brother turned to ash before the gates that he did not yet dare charge.

. . .

He talked to Feanor more now, even though he still had to imagine the answers.

He talked to lots of people. His voice was the only sound in this place, and he had to think of something to keep from going mad.

He talked to Fingon, imagining a hundred different scenarios his son might be facing now that he was king and advising him how to face them. He talked to Turgon and tried to convince him to leave wherever he was and go help his brother. He talked to Idril and told her how much she’d grown. 

He wondered if she had. He hoped she had.

He tried to talk to Maeglin, but he’d never met his grandson, and so his imagination failed.

But talking to the living was painful because it stirred up all the restless fears he couldn’t soothe. Were they still alive? Were they free? Were they hurt?

Just what had he abandoned them to?

The dead were easier, mostly, but he couldn’t talk to Aredhel without every word turning into, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t protect you, I’m so sorry, or Elenwe without wondering, Do you hate me now? Do you wish your husband had been any other man’s son?

He couldn’t imagine talking to his father at all.

Feanor, though - Feanor was easy. He had lots of things he’d never gotten to say to Feanor’s face, and he didn’t have to worry about biting back the worst of it the way he did when he tried to think about talking to his father. He and Feanor had never shied away from shouting terrible things at each other.

And whatever conversation he had, he could always run it through at least three times without getting bored with it because he had to keep editing Feanor’s responses. He had known his brother well, but he’d never gotten any better at predicting him, so he had to stop and think a long time about what would have been likely to come out of Feanor’s mouth next.

When he tried to talk about his mother, Feanor insulted her so badly that Fingolfin refused to speak to him for a week.

When it finally occurred to him just how ridiculous that was, he laughed until it hurt, and he realized that his whole body was shaking with sobs.

Possibly this wasn’t working nearly as well as he’d hoped to keep himself sane.

It’s less boring than the alternative, Feanor said, and for once, Fingolfin couldn’t argue with him.

. . .

He saw things in the darkness sometimes. Glints of color, flashes of light. Just his mind playing tricks on him, he knew, but he appreciated those tricks. Anything was better than the dark.

This faint glow of flames was new, though. They had the warm look of embers, and it made him think of Feanor, who had always burned so fiercely, and whose spirit had burned so strong it had scorched the earth behind it when he died.

“Hello, Feanor,” he said cheerfully, because he might as well address his remarks to this particular trick of his mind for as long as it lasted. 

“Hello,” Feanor answered a bit warily. “You’re happier to see me then I expected.”

Feanor’s voice sounded different than usual, and Fingolfin frowned over it for a moment before pushing it aside.

If he was forgetting what his brother sounded like, it was better not to think of it.

“Is that what we’re talking about today? Why I’m angry at you? I thought we’d worn through all the possibilities on that.”

“There are a few things we never got the chance to talk about,” Feanor’s voice said, and it sounded closer this time, and still so strange. The lights had moved closer with it, perfectly paced. “This, for instance. I never meant to lead you to this, Nolo,” and his voice sounded so -

Fingolfin flinched away from it. No, that wasn’t realistic at all. Feanor reserved that depth of pain in his voice for when he talked about the death of their father. The line might work, but the tone was all wrong.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Fingolfin froze.

The hand pulled back the instant it felt his stiffness. “My apologies,” Feanor said, voice retreating to formality -

Fingolfin lunged forward towards the light and grabbed onto it. Arm, shoulders, back, real, all real, and he clung to the form as tightly as he could. Real or a new depth to imagining, he didn’t care.

He felt warm. For the first time since the darkness, he felt warm.

“Feanor,” he choked out. “You’re real.”

Hesitant arms wrapped around him. “I hadn’t realized the matter was up for debate.”

“You weren’t here before,” he said, and that shouldn’t have really explained anything, but maybe it did, because Feanor held onto him a bit tighter.

“I wasn’t,” he confirmed, but he said it like he meant something else, like he was sorry, well and truly sorry in a way Fingolfin had never heard before.

“Don’t - “ he shook his head, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not yet. “It doesn’t matter. Not when - How are you here?”

He held on even tighter as he said that as if the action could prevent his mind from realizing it was just another trick and making everything melt away.

“I was in the Halls at first,” Feanor said. “They had to wait and see if I would be forsworn or not.”

“And you were?”

He could feel Feanor shrug. “It’s not settled yet. I made a bit too much of a nuisance of myself,” and there was a story there, something Feanor wasn’t telling him, but he hardly cared at the moment, “so they sent me here. Naturally, I set out to explore the place - “

“Naturally,” Fingolfin echoed.

“And I heard you talking. After everything that’s happened, it seemed a bit petty to avoid you.”

Fingolfin was pretty sure his grip had turned painful, but he didn’t much care. “If you leave me alone in here, I will hunt you down and kill you a second time,” he said, voice steady.

“I’m supposed to be the kinslayer. You’re supposed to be the good son,” Feanor said, and Fingolfin wasn’t even going to try to untangle that below surface level.

“No, that’s Finarfin,” he said.

Feanor actually laughed. “You’ll have to tell him you said that.”

“How?” Fingolfin asked wryly as he finally managed to loosen his grip, just a bit.

“No idea,” Feanor said cheerfully. “But I’ll figure out something eventually, and you might as well come along for the ride.”

“Much obliged,” he said dryly.

He still didn’t let go.