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Nolofinwë wanted to punch Fëanáro.
.
.
Not yell. Not curse into the wind like some tragic hero but just one solid punch to that fire-bright face.
He didn’t care that Fëanáro was his older brother not that the bastard ever acknowledged it.
He didn’t care about the titles, or the songs that called him the greatest mind of the Noldor, or the endless excuses whispered for his cruelty.
He would punch him and he swore it to Eru and all the Valar when they reached the other side of the Helcaraxë. Let Mandos himself drag him screaming… he didn’t give a damn anymore.
The thought had carried him through the crossing more than once, through the frozen wind that bit through flesh and spirit alike.
The only warmth he had was rage.
Rage filled the hollowness left behind by those who didn’t make it. Rage drowned out the memories of laughter turned to screams, of promises shattered by betrayal.
So when they finally reached the distant shore — when the ice gave way to stone and the gray horizon bled into the dark line of land — Nolofinwë exhaled a breath that trembled between exhaustion and wrath.
His hands were raw, fingers stiff from cold, his body screaming in protest, but none of it mattered. They had survived.
. And now, standing on solid ground, all he could think about was marching up to that flame-born bastard and knocking his teeth out.
His sons were shouting in disbelief, in relief, their voices carried by the sea breeze. His nephews were on the shore..the sons of Fëanáro, those same boys who had stolen the ships and left them to freeze.
The sight of them, alive and warm, only made his blood boil hotter and there..there stood Fëanáro himself... or was that Curvo?
Nolofinwë’s jaw tightened as his boots met the shore.
He could already hear the rustle of movement behind him ..Findekáno calling out softly, Írissë trying to calm him, Turukáno muttering something about restraint. Pleas, warnings, futile words that would not reach him.
He was going to storm straight to his brother, grab him by the collar, and remind him painfully that fire burns, but so does ice.
But then… he stopped.
Something was wrong.
At first, it was a vague unease, a flicker of confusion as he took in the sight before him. Fëanáro was standing with his sons, yes but there was something off about the scene. It wasn’t the defiance in the eyes of the Fëanárions that he expected. It wasn’t the silence hanging over them, though that too was strange. It was…
.
.
Fëanáro’s height.
Nolofinwë blinked.
No, surely not.
The distance, the cold, the exhaustion.. it had to be playing tricks on his eyes. But as he stepped closer, the discrepancy became impossible to ignore. Fëanáro, his ever-arrogant elder brother, the so-called most greatest Smith, son of Finwë looked…tall
Noticeably taller
And not in the poetic, metaphorical sense. Physically taller.
He squinted, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he remembered. He knew his brother’s height. Everyone in the family did..it was practically a running joke among them. There was no way Fëanáro had ever been taller than his own sons.
In fact, that was one of the few things that could make Nolofinwë genuinely laugh in the chaos of their lives.. the irony of it all.
The great Fëanáro Curufinwë, pride of the Noldor, master of craft and word, was also the shortest of Finwë’s children. Even their sisters had surpassed him in height, much to his eternal irritation.
There had always been a sort of cruel hilarity in it the way Fëanáro would bristle when anyone dared mention it. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë had made an art out of teasing him for it when they were younger.
They would tower over him just to make a point, drape an arm over his shoulders and grin until he hissed and shoved them off like an offended cat.
And oh, how he would hiss. His hair would puff slightly Nolofinwë swore it did as if his entire being rejected any display of affection that wasn’t on his own terms.
He could still remember that one time when Arafinwë had managed to catch Fëanáro off guard, lifting him clean off the ground in a surprise embrace. Fëanáro had reacted as though he’d been set on fire, all but clawing his way out of Arafinwë’s grasp, his face red with rage and humiliation.
It had been glorious.
Nolofinwë chuckled bitterly at the memory but the humor didn’t quite reach his chest.
____
Contrary to what most people in Tirion believed, their relationship had not always been a storm.
There had been quieter moments — in Fëanáro’s forge, in long debates, in rare laughter when pride loosened its grip.
They had been fragile, fleeting… but they had been real..
Those were rare, precious moments.
Moments when Fëanáro would grin not his sharp, calculating smirk, but a real smile, the kind that softened his entire face. He’d shove Arafinwë playfully when the youngest tripped over his own words or roll his eyes when Nolofinwë tried to lecture him about patience, only to end up throwing something at him for good measure.
They bickered like children, traded insults like jesters, and yet, beneath it all, there was affection..the kind no one else ever saw.
No one but aside from Rumil. His father’s right hand man.
It was a smile that said: I know exactly what you three are up to.
He could never tell whether He found their behavior amusing or exasperating. Probably both. But He would wear that smile whenever one of them came home with soot-stained fingers and an expression too innocent to be true.
It was the same smile He wore when someone mysteriously misplaced one of Finwë’s prized robes or when the kitchen staff found a suspicious amount of half-finished pastries gone missing after midnight.
Nolofinwë had hated that smile as a child.
Not because it was unkind but because it made him feel guilty, even when he’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Somehow, that look alone was enough to make him and Arafinwë squirm and exchange nervous glances, as if they had indeed been caught plotting something.
“Why do you smile like that, Rumi?” he had once asked him, voice small, eyes wide with the earnestness of youth.
“Because,” He had said with a laugh, brushing a lock of black hair from his face, “It’s a secret! "
Nolofinwë shook his head at the memory, a soft huff escaping him even now.
Behind closed doors, they were simply brothers.
He could still remember the sound of their bickering echoing off the marble walls — Fëanáro’s sharp tone clashing with Arafinwë’s laughter, and his own voice somewhere in the middle, half-exasperated, half-amused.
Sometimes their arguments grew heated — Fëanáro’s pride often clashing with Nolofinwë’s stubbornness but unlike in public, those moments rarely ended in lasting resentment.
Once the steam burned off, they would settle into silence, the kind of silence that only family could share.
It was in those quiet hours that Fëanáro let his guard down, his hands stilling from work, his voice losing its usual edge.
He might mutter an apology or something close to one while pretending to adjust his tools. Arafinwë would be the first to break the tension, usually with some ridiculous remark that earned him a glare and then reluctant laughter.
For a little while, they were just brothers — no half this, no step that, no politics or pride.
But of course, that delicate peace never lasted.
Fëanáro refused to let anyone outside those walls see it.
“Appearances matter,” he had once told Nolofinwë when pressed about it.
“They expect a storm, so I give them thunder. Let them think what they will. It keeps them wary.”
Nolofinwë had argued, of course. He’d called it foolish, short-sighted, lonely. But Fëanáro only smirked, that same proud glint in his eyes, and turned back to his forge as if the matter was settled.
And perhaps it was — for him.
For Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, though, it stung. To be close only in shadows, to laugh only when unseen... it left a bitter taste in the heart.
They had worked so hard to break through his walls, to build a fragile bond from the ashes of suspicion and jealousy. They had endured his moods, his scorn, and his impossible standards, all for those rare glimpses of affection.
And then the Valar... those blasted Valar had shattered it all.
One word, one punishment, one exile — and everything they had built came crumbling down.
Their laughter, their trust, the brotherhood they had fought to preserve..gone.
Nolofinwë could still feel the echo of that loss, the way his chest had ached when he realized that Fëanáro had turned his back on them for good. That the brother who once bickered and smirked and secretly cared had been consumed by the flames of his own pride.
All their hard work, their fragile progress — undone in a single stroke.
And for all his composure, all his supposed strength, Nolofinwë had never been able to forgive that.
Not the Valar.
Not his father.
And not even Fëanáro.
Nolofinwë didn’t care if Fëanáro pointed a sword at him. He really didn’t. The edge of steel, the hiss of threat, the flash of fury in his brother’s eyes — none of it frightened him anymore.
He had seen worse. He had endured worse.
No, what truly enraged him wasn’t Fëanáro’s blade, but the fact that everything they had built between them — every fragile thread of brotherhood, every hard-won spark of trust — had been shattered.
And not by Fëanáro’s hand alone.
By the Valar.
Those self-proclaimed guardians of order, those lofty beings who claimed to love the Children of Ilúvatar they had ruined everything.
They had judged without understanding. They had seen Fëanáro’s fire and called it dangerous…his pain and called it pride…his fear and called it defiance and in doing so, they had pushed him further away.
Nolofinwë clenched his fists as he thought about it about how easily the Valar tore their family apart under the guise of righteousness.
It was their interference that had sown division between Finwë’s sons
Their decisions that had pushed Fëanáro into paranoia and bitterness. Even patient Arafinwë, who once defended the Valar at every turn, had begun to lose faith.
Nolofinwë had seen it.. the quiet tightening of his brother’s jaw, the sighs that no longer carried reverence but weary frustration.
Arafinwë, ever the peacemaker, had begun to mutter words like unfair and blind when he thought no one was listening.
Yes. Even Arafinwë was running out of patience with them.
Because it was not Fëanáro who had started this madness.
Nolofinwë knew that deep in his bones, in the marrow of his heart. For all his elder brother’s temper and pride, Fëanáro had never been cruel not truly. He was sharp, yes. Harsh when cornered, unyielding in his beliefs, but there was a line he did not cross. He was passionate, protective, stubborn to the point of foolishness, but cruel? No.
That cruelty — that darkness — was something else.
Someone else.
Melkor.
That wretched, silver-tongued Vala.
From the moment Melkor’s shadow crept into Tirion, Nolofinwë had felt the change. It was subtle at first Fëanáro’s words becoming edged, his suspicion sharpening, his once fierce independence turning brittle and defensive. The Fëanáro who had once laughed, grudgingly but genuinely, with his brothers behind closed doors began to withdraw again, as though the warmth they shared had been nothing but an illusion.
And Nolofinwë had watched helplessly as Melkor’s poison did its work, twisting the fire in his brother’s heart until it burned everything it touched.
The Valar never saw it or rather, refused to. They were too blinded by their own sense of superiority, too eager to assign blame, too proud to admit their own failures. To them, Fëanáro was a troublemaker, a threat to peace.
To Nolofinwë, he was a brother slipping through his fingers.
And the Valar had done nothing to save him.
They didn’t know.
.
.
None of them did...not the Valar, not the nobles of Tirion, not even their father — how much it had taken for him and Arafinwë to reach Fëanáro’s heart in the first place.
How many tears they had shed, how many humiliations they had endured, how much pride they had swallowed just to earn a smile or a nod of acknowledgment.
They didn’t know the shamelessness of their efforts and Eru, there were many.
Like that one particular day, burned forever into Nolofinwë’s memory.
He could still feel the mortifying heat in his cheeks when he remembered it.
It had been one of those times when Fëanáro, infuriated by yet another argument with Finwë, had decided to storm off and cut all ties with them..again.
He had declared, with his usual flair for drama, that he was done with “false kin” and would not return. His forge had been packed, his apprentices instructed, and he was halfway to the gates before either Nolofinwë or Arafinwë could react.
Desperation made fools of them both.
Before either of them could think better of it, Nolofinwë had grabbed one arm, Arafinwë the other, and between the two of them, they had all but thrown themselves at their elder brother — in public.
In full view of servants, courtiers, and half the city square.
They clung to him shamelessly, arms wrapped around his waist, pleading like spoiled elflings denied their sweets. Nolofinwë could still hear his own voice cracking as he begged, could still feel Arafinwë’s weight pressing against his shoulder as they both refused to let go.
“Fëanáro, please!” Arafinwë had cried, his tone bordering on comical in its desperation.
“Don’t leave us again!”
“Think what you will of Atar,” Nolofinwë had added, jaw tight, dignity long since abandoned, “but don’t you dare think you can cut us off too!”
He had expected mockery. He had expected Fëanáro to shove them off, to sneer and storm away.
Instead, Fëanáro had stood frozen, crimson-faced and not with fury this time, but with sheer embarrassment. His hands had twitched uselessly at his sides as he glanced around at the staring crowd.
“Get off me, both of you!” He hissed under his breath, his voice strained.
“Eru above, Nolofinwë, have you no shame? Arafinwë, stop sniffling!”
“Not until you promise!” Nolofinwë had shot back, tightening his grip, ignoring the amused murmurs from the bystanders.
“Promise what?” Fëanáro had demanded, his ears burning.
“That you won’t disappear again,” Arafinwë had said, voice trembling but determined.
“Not from us. You can hate Atar if you want but not us. We’re still your brothers, whether you like it or not.”
There had been a long, awkward pause. Fëanáro’s shoulders had slumped, and for one fleeting moment, his expression softened. He hadn’t said a word not then but he hadn’t left either.
And that had been enough.
It wasn’t their proudest moment.. far from it. Even now, Nolofinwë winced at the memory. But they had been desperate. Desperate enough to trade their dignity for a sliver of connection.
And it had worked. For a time, at least.
Their father never knew, of course.
Finwë, who adored his firstborn with all the fierce blindness of a parent’s love, would have fainted outright if he’d known that his “beloved sons” had resorted to clinging to Fëanáro in public like unruly children just to keep him from walking away.
He would have wept, probably, or written a dozen letters of apology to Fëanáro for the perceived insult.
No...that truth remained between them.
A secret, ridiculous memory of what they once were: three brothers, flawed and foolish, bound by love strong enough to defy pride and perhaps, if not for the Valar’s meddling, strong enough to endure.
“Uncle…”
The hesitant call pulled Nolofinwë or rather, Fingolfin, as the Sindar would one day call him from his thoughts. He turned sharply at the voice, one that carried both the steadiness of command and the tremor of guilt.
Maitimo stood before him, tall and proud despite the exhaustion that clung to his frame. Behind him, the other sons of Fëanáro busied themselves helping the weary survivors from across the Helcaraxë, tending to wounds, distributing blankets, and setting up temporary shelters along the frozen shore.
It was a strange sight, seeing Fëanáro’s sons those fiery, untouchable princes — kneeling in the snow, lending aid to the very people their father had abandoned.
The wind carried the faint murmur of orders, the shuffle of boots, the crackle of makeshift fires. There was tension, yes — the kind that lingered after betrayal but also something else beneath it, something that almost resembled remorse.
Maitimo’s grey eyes, once alight with his father’s fierce brilliance, now seemed dulled by a shadow of sorrow. His shoulders were squared as always, but the guilt weighed heavily upon him, evident in the faint tremor of his hands.
“Uncle,” he began again, voice hoarse from exhaustion, “I apologize for Atto’s behavior. We tried to persuade him, truly we did, but it was no use.” He exhaled shakily, eyes flicking downward as if ashamed to meet Nolofinwë’s gaze.
“He burned the ships before we could do anything. The others tried to stop him, but—”
His words faltered, breaking like thin ice under too much weight.
Nolofinwë said nothing at first. He simply looked at his nephew.. really looked at him.
The boy, no, the man, standing before him was no longer the bright, confident Nelyafinwë Maitimo he remembered from Tirion. The one who used to tease Findekáno with good-natured patience, who used to pull Fëanáro away from his forge long enough to eat or rest.
This was someone older, wearier. Someone who had seen too much.
Maitimo’s expression twisted faintly when his uncle did not respond immediately.
“We… we tried, Uncle,” He repeated, as if saying it again might lessen the weight of his father’s crime.
Nolofinwë inhaled deeply, the cold air stinging his throat. His gaze flicked briefly to the others the remaining sons of Fëanáro. Curufin stood rigid as ever, face unreadable, his hand resting on Carnistir’s shoulder to steady him. Ambarussa whispered quietly among the weary followers, while Macalaurë spoke softly to a wounded ellon, his voice low and soothing.
But one face was missing.
Nolofinwë frowned slightly.
“Where is he?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with the authority that came from years of command.
Maitimo froze.
The question hung in the air like a blade. The wind quieted, and even the soft sounds of the others moving about seemed to fade for a moment. His nephew’s lips parted, but no sound came. His brothers stiffened every single one of them exchanging glances that only deepened Nolofinwë’s unease.
“Where is your father, Maitimo?” he pressed, the gentleness fading from his tone.
“Where is Fëanáro?”
Maitimo’s shoulders tightened, the muscle in his jaw working as though he were physically biting back words. Curufin looked away. Macalaurë’s hand stilled mid-motion, his eyes dark with something like dread. Even the usually irrepressible Ambarussa twins had gone silent, their expressions unreadable.
And then Nolofinwë noticed it.. another absence.
“Where is Tyelkormo?” He asked, scanning the group again. The silver-haired son, ever restless and loud, was nowhere to be seen. That in itself was concerning.
The silence deepened. The kind that made one’s heartbeat sound too loud, too intrusive.
Maitimo finally spoke, voice strained and low.
“Can we… talk about this in private, Uncle?”
That single request made Nolofinwë’s brows arch. He had heard many tones from Maitimo over the years defiance, respect, annoyance, even affection but never this. Never this quiet, careful hesitance, as though he were afraid the truth itself might wound those who heard it.
He studied the boy.. no, the man standing before him. Despite the exhaustion weighing on him, despite the guilt carved into every line of his face, there was still that familiar Finwëan stubbornness there. A mixture of his father’s fire and Nolofinwë’s own restraint.
Nolofinwë said nothing for a moment longer. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. “Very well,” he said quietly.
“Lead the way.”
The relief that flickered across Maitimo’s face was fleeting but noticeable. He turned without another word, striding toward a cluster of rocks farther along the shore, where the wind carried less and prying ears could not reach.
Nolofinwë glanced back at his sons. Findekáno met his gaze immediately, eyes questioning, protective as always. His eldest had always been quick to read the tension in him.
“Stay with the people,” Nolofinwë said firmly.
“See that they have food, warmth, and rest. I’ll return shortly.”
Findekáno’s jaw tightened. “But, Father—”
“That’s an order, Findekáno,” he cut in, tone soft but leaving no room for argument. The young ellon hesitated, then finally nodded.
“Yes, Father.”
He turned to his brothers and the others gathered nearby, his voice rising with calm authority as he began to direct their efforts. Nolofinwë felt a flicker of pride even in the weariness that clouded his heart... his son had inherited his steadiness well.
Then, with one last glance toward the shore at the weary faces, the quiet fires, and the restless sea Nolofinwë followed Maitimo.
The older of Fëanáro’s sons walked ahead, silent save for the crunch of his boots against the snow. His posture was stiff, the weight of unspoken words heavy on his back. Nolofinwë could see it that same mix of fire and sorrow that had once burned in Fëanáro’s eyes long ago, before the Valar’s meddling, before Melkor’s lies, before betrayal had turned love into ruin.
Whatever Maitimo was about to tell him, Nolofinwë knew it would not be good.
And yet… some part of him already knew the answer he would hear.
They continued walking through the forest, the crisp air carrying the faint scent of burning wood and oil from the campfires ahead. The deeper they went, the clearer the sounds of construction became the rhythmic thud of hammers, the scraping of wood, and the low murmur of voices working late into the night.
Fingolfin’s eyes caught the flickering glow of torchlight illuminating tents arranged in organized precision. It was a sight that spoke of both exhaustion and determination, the aftermath of chaos turned into desperate productivity.
When they emerged into the clearing, Fingolfin noticed the largest tent at the center — a structure sturdier than the rest, almost regal in its bearing despite the rough canvas and hurried stitching.
Around it were other smaller tents, clearly intended for the camp’s leaders and healers. Beyond them, the faint outline of something being built, a hall, perhaps, or a forge rose against the firelit darkness, its wooden framework half-finished.
It was surprisingly orderly for a camp that, by rights, should have been drenched in despair after what Feanaro had done.
He followed Maitimo through the camp, unease tightening in his chest.
“…I would hope you are not going to freak out when you see Atto.”
Nolofinwë frowned.
“What did that idiot do now?”
Maitimo’s mouth opened and closed like a fish caught on dry land before he sputtered, “Of course not, Uncle! Well—” He hesitated, grimacing, “—he almost did, but he’s alive.”
Fingolfin stopped in his tracks, staring at him incredulously.
“Almost did?” He repeated flatly, the words dropping like stones. His tone was controlled, but his knuckles tightened at his sides.
“Explain that, Nelyo.”
Maitimo exhaled, shoulders sagging, as though the weight of the entire House of Finwë rested on his back.
“Atto… was foolish,”
He said at last, his voice tight, frustration seeping into his tone. His crimson hair glinted in the firelight as he shook his head, jaw clenched.
“He confronted..well.tried to confront Morgoth and we tried to stop him, but by the time we reached him, he was already—” He stopped, the memory clearly too raw, then muttered, “—he was already bleeding out.”
A sharp sigh escaped Fingolfin, his brows furrowing deeply. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, voice laced with bitter familiarity.
“Of course he was.”
Feanaro. Always Feanaro.
That same reckless arrogance that drove him to challenge Valar, forge cursed jewels, and lead their people to madness — it had not changed. Fingolfin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the frustration simmering within him.
How many times had he watched his elder brother rush headlong into disaster, pride outweighing reason?
Sometimes he truly wondered how Feanaro had managed to win Nerdanel’s heart with that unbearable temper and impossible ego. That woman must have possessed the patience of Eru Himself.
Maitimo glanced at his uncle, cautious but somewhat relieved at the lack of immediate fury.
“At least he’s recovering,” he offered, though his tone was heavy.
“He’s… calmer now. Different. I think the pain forced him to think — truly think for the first time in a long while.”
Fingolfin gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Feanaro? Thinking before acting? That would be a miracle worth recording by the scribes of Tirion.”
Despite himself, Maitimo gave a faint, tired smile. “It’s true, Uncle. You’ll see. He’s… changed, though I can’t yet say if it’s for the better.”
That earned a skeptical hum from Fingolfin, who crossed his arms as they neared the central tent. His sharp blue eyes caught the faint movement of shadows within, and he could already tell that the air inside was thick with tension — perhaps even regret.
As the campfire’s light flickered over Maitimo’s face, Fingolfin noticed the exhaustion etched into his nephew’s features guilt, weariness, and something like fear. Whatever had happened to Feanaro, it had shaken his sons to the core.
Fingolfin straightened his posture, his expression hardening into one of cold composure.
“Very well, Nelyo,” He said quietly, his voice steady and regal.
“Show me your father.”
Maitimo nodded silently, drawing back the heavy flap of the tent.
The faint scent of herbs and smoke drifted out, mingled with the iron tang of blood long cleaned but not forgotten.
And inside, sitting near the dim light of a lantern was Feanaro.
“So… how is Naro?”
Fingolfin finally asked, his tone calm but carrying that quiet edge of command that always made even the most composed of his kin pause.
The question, however, made Maitimo visibly stiffen again. His broad shoulders, which had only just begun to relax, tensed once more, and he averted his gaze. Fingolfin’s sharp eyes immediately caught the movement the flicker of hesitation, the uneasy swallow, the telltale signs of guilt and uncertainty. It only deepened the faint frown that settled on his features.
“Maitimo,” Fingolfin said slowly, “what happened? Is it serious?”
“Umm… well, Uncle, that’s the thing…”
Maitimo trailed off, his voice wavering slightly... a rare sound from the ever-composed eldest son of Feanaro.
“It’s not that simple to explain.”
Fingolfin’s brows knit together.
“Not simple?”
He repeated, his tone carrying a note of suspicion as they came to a stop before a closed tent flap sturdier than the others, bound by thick ropes and sealed against the wind.
“You’re starting to sound like your father,” he muttered under his breath.
“Just answer plainly — is he alive, and is he lucid?”
“He’s… both,” Maitimo managed, rubbing the back of his neck, “But you’ll have to see for yourself.”
That did not comfort Fingolfin in the slightest.
Still, he said nothing more, only gave a curt nod as Maitimo hesitated one last time before finally pulling back the flap of the tent.
The moment Fingolfin stepped inside, his senses were assaulted by the heavy, cloying scent of herbs and crushed leaves.
It was pungent almost dizzying, the kind of scent that spoke of strong medicinal poultices and desperate attempts at healing. His nose twitched involuntarily, and he wrinkled it in mild irritation.
Whoever was responsible for brewing whatever concoctions lingered here must have used enough herbs to cure an entire battalion.
His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting within. There were candles burning low on wooden stands, their flames casting a soft golden glow across the tent. The interior was tidy but clearly lived in blankets folded neatly on one side, a makeshift table scattered with scrolls and vials, and on the far side, a large cot where someone lay resting.
When Fingolfin’s gaze finally landed on the figures within, his steps faltered.
Tyelkormo...Tyelko, the loudest and most impulsive of Feanaro’s brood was perched beside the cot, his blond hair mussed, an exhausted smile tugging weakly at his lips as he spotted his uncle.
“Uncle,” Tyelko greeted, his tone subdued but respectful. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Fingolfin gave him a curt nod in return, his attention already shifting to the figure beside him and then his breath caught.
Because there, lying against a pillow, half-buried beneath a blanket far too large for him..was a child.
.
.
An elfling.
But not just any elfling.
The boy’s hair, dark as obsidian, shimmered faintly in the lamplight, and the sharp, unmistakable curve of his features struck Fingolfin like a hammer. His heart skipped a beat as he took an involuntary step forward, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
The resemblance struck him like a hammer.
Dark hair. Finwëan features. That proud line of the jaw.
Fingolfin blinked once, twice.
No.
The child stirred slightly, candlelight catching the familiar curve of his brow and the realization hit him all at once.
Fëanáro
.
.
.
And suddenly Fingolfin’s mind went into disarray.
“Is he…?”
Fingolfin started, his voice faltering for once as his gaze darted between Maitimo and Tyelko. The unspoken question hung heavily in the air.
The nephews exchanged a glance. Maitimo looked guilty, while Tyelko looked as though he would rather face a pack of rabid orcs than answer. Fingolfin turned back toward the sleeping elfling, his brows furrowing deeply.
“This—this makes no sense,” he muttered to himself.
“He can’t be… He can’t be what I think he is.”
Because the implications were absurd.
It was impossible..utterly impossible that Feanaro had sired another child. For one, Nerdanel would have told someone and Feanaro would definitely brag about it again..and for another, the timeline didn’t add up the math wasn’t mathing, as his sons would say even setting that aside, Feanaro, for all his flaws was not a faithless man.
Whatever pride or temper he possessed, betrayal of his vows was not one of them.
It was also impossible that any of Feanaro’s sons taken a lover, much less fathered a hidden child.
So there was only one remaining possibility..one that made Fingolfin’s blood run cold with disbelief.
The elfling was Feanaro.
The realization struck him like a blade to the chest, and his lips parted in stunned silence as he looked once more at the sleeping child..the curve of his lips, the faint crease between his brows even in slumber.
Eru help them all.
Feanaro had somehow.. impossibly been turned into a child.
Fingolfin’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the solemn exchange between Tyelko and Maitimo. Neither spoke, but the heaviness in their eyes.. the silent understanding of shared burden was enough to confirm what he had only dared to suspect.
When Maitimo finally nodded, stepping toward the bed where the child sat propped against pillows, Fingolfin’s grim expression deepened. There was no denying it now. That small figure, with eyes that burned faintly like starlit embers, was indeed Feanáro.
“Well…” Fingolfin began, his voice rougher than intended as he forced a strained smile.
“Hello there, little one… Naro… Curufinwë… Feanáro.”
The words tasted awkward on his tongue. He cringed at his own choice of address as each name more uncertain than the last. Eru above, how did one even speak to an elfling version of their infamously volatile elder brother?
“Uncle, we’ll leave you and Att—” Maitimo began, only to stop abruptly. He cleared his throat, visibly catching himself, “—you and Naro alone for a while.”
Fingolfin’s sharp gaze flicked toward him at the sudden correction. Maitimo’s tone was careful, deliberate, almost rehearsed. And that was when Fingolfin realized what it meant.
He didn’t remember.
Feanáro didn’t remember who he was.
The revelation settled heavily in his chest. Fingolfin’s shoulders sagged slightly as he gave a small nod of acknowledgment, watching as Maitimo and Tyelko quietly withdrew from the tent. The flap closed behind them with a muted rustle, leaving him alone with the soft crackle of the oil lamp and the rhythmic whisper of the wind outside.
Silence stretched between them — a strange, uncertain kind of quiet that Fingolfin was not used to when it came to Feanáro.
The child sat on the bed, legs tucked neatly beneath him, his small hands resting idly on the blanket as he gazed out the narrow window slit.
The faint glow of the campfire outside painted his dark hair with warm copper undertones, and for a moment, Fingolfin was struck by the surreal contrast..this was the same brother who once blazed like a wildfire across Aman, now sitting still and subdued, staring at the snow-dusted forest with a calm that felt… foreign.
‘He’s strangely quiet for an elfling,’
Fingolfin thought, his brows furrowing as he observed him.
In all the stories he had heard and from the faint memories he still carried Feanáro as a child had been the definition of energy. Restless, insatiably curious, and unrelentingly confident. He had been the kind of boy who would take apart a lamp just to see how it worked, then scold their father when he failed to put it back together correctly.
But this Feanáro… this small, withdrawn child sitting before him… was different.
He looked fragile, as if one wrong word might make him shatter.
Fingolfin exhaled softly, dragging a chair closer to the bedside and lowering himself into it with a quiet creak. He didn’t speak at first.. didn’t want to startle the boy but instead, he simply studied him in silence.
The stillness stretched for several long moments before the elfling suddenly turned his head.
“You look like Atto,” The boy said suddenly.
The voice was soft, young, but unmistakably Feanáro’s that same precise diction, that same faint ring of certainty. Fingolfin blinked, caught completely off guard by the observation.
“I… do?” He managed, his tone hesitant.
The elfling nodded solemnly, those bright eyes narrowing ever so slightly in concentration as if comparing the faint details of Fingolfin’s face to some memory in his mind.
“Yes. A little older maybe,” the child murmured, tilting his head,“And your hair’s lighter. But you look like him.”
The statement struck Fingolfin like a subtle blow to the chest.
He opened his mouth ready to reply but the words tangled on his tongue.
What could he possibly say?
That he was not Feanáro’s father, but the brother he had loved and fought for across centuries?
The truth sat heavy on his tongue.
He wanted to tell him.
But if Feanáro truly remembered nothing…
Fingolfin could not bring himself to shatter what fragile calm remained.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze softening as he studied the boy’s curious expression.
“…Do I, now?” He said at last, forcing a faint, wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The Elfling nodded again, turning his gaze back toward the window, seemingly content with that answer. Fingolfin sat there in silence, his thoughts spinning, the weight of the unspoken truth pressing heavy against his chest.
He didn’t know what to say...not yet and for the first time in a long while, Fingolfin felt utterly lost.
“...You’re my brother, aren’t you?”
The quiet, almost hesitant voice broke through the heavy silence so abruptly that Fingolfin nearly jolted from his seat.
His head snapped toward the child, eyes widening. For a brief, breathless moment, all he could do was stare unsure if he’d heard correctly.
Feanáro was still gazing out the window, his small frame bathed in the pale glow of morning light filtering through the canvas. His tone hadn’t carried accusation or confusion merely quiet certainty, the kind that came from a mind that saw too much even in innocence.
“They aren’t very quiet,” Feanáro added matter-of-factly, as though it explained everything.
Fingolfin blinked, taken aback, before realization dawned on him.
‘He must mean his sons,’ Fingolfin thought, wincing inwardly.
Of course. The House of Feanáro was not exactly known for subtlety or silence. Even in whispers, their voices carried emotion — fiery, passionate, impossible to contain. It wouldn’t take long for a keen child, even one with no memory of his past, to overhear their words and piece things together.
He exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Trust Feanáro even as an elfling to be perceptive beyond reason.
“Yes,” Fingolfin finally admitted, his voice soft, almost tentative.
“I am.”
The boy turned then, small and solemn, his dark eyes catching the light. For a heartbeat, Fingolfin’s world stilled.
Feanáro blinked once, and then slowly, almost shyly.. a smile formed on his lips.
It wasn’t the sharp, pride-tinged smirk Fingolfin had grown used to seeing in his elder brother. Nor was it the rare, mischievous grin from centuries long gone. No..this was something else entirely. Something gentler.
The light from the window framed Feanáro’s face in soft gold, washing over his delicate features the curve of his cheeks, the faint tilt of his chin, the unguarded warmth in his expression. It was a sight Fingolfin had never seen before.
For the first time in all his long years, Fingolfin saw his brother smile not with arrogance or defiance, but with something quiet and fragile.
And it caught him completely off guard.
It was as though all the walls, all the edges that had once defined Feanáro, had melted away in this small, childlike form, leaving behind something purer.
“Ah…”
Fingolfin breathed softly, unable to hide his astonishment. He had to avert his gaze for a moment, the lump forming in his throat catching him off guard.
He could count on one hand the times Feanáro had ever smiled at him. Most of their interactions had been filled with tension, sarcasm, and unspoken longing for reconciliation that neither would voice.
To see that familiar face now open, peaceful, kind felt like witnessing something that belonged to another world entirely.
Yet beneath that smile, Fingolfin saw something else.
It was subtle... a flicker of melancholy in those bright eyes, a faint downturn at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t the sulking pout of a spoiled child nor the brooding silence of an adult. It was a sadness that didn’t belong to an elfling
Fingolfin’s heart clenched painfully in his chest.
He knew that despite being an efling, Feanaro might still remembered what happen and those feelings might have remained even if the bearer doesn't remember it.
And as Fingolfin watched, he knew Arafinwë would agree with him completely that this strange, gentle sadness was unlike anything they had ever seen in their fiery brother.
“Eru…”
Fingolfin murmured under his breath, barely audible. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the child...his brother.
Feanáro tilted his head slightly, his small brow furrowing.
“You’re staring,” he said simply.
Fingolfin blinked, startled from his thoughts and for the first time in a long while, he laughed, a quiet, breathy sound that carried a trace of warmth and disbelief.
“Yes,” he said, his tone gentle. “I suppose I am.”
And deep down, he thought..perhaps this time, if fate was merciful, he might finally have a chance to understand his brother.