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The silence is shattering. Fingolfin can hear the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, a sudden flood of fierce heat at having his half-brother overhear his plea to their father. Is it shame, he wonders, this strange heat that makes him feel weak and sick? There is anger, too, of course, for how can he not feel anger? There is jealousy, which even now he tries to tell himself is but a son's natural desire to receive an equal share of his father’s love. And then there is that inexplicable weakness, his stomach clenching with hot, shameful regret, because as much as he believes the words he spoke to their father to be true, a part of him quails at the thought that Fëanor heard these words, and judges him by them.
No, perhaps it is right that he feels shame. He should not have spoken words he would have hesitated to speak to his brother’s face, after all, no matter if he thinks that his father needs to hear them. But it is too late to take his words back, to rephrase them to sound less accusatory even to his own ears.
He leaves the room, his teeth clenched as the silence behind him slowly swells into a soft murmur. He can imagine the rumours that will arise from this. He can imagine his half-brother's prideful words, the way that Fëanor will twist his own words from plain, if impassioned truth into the machinations of someone trying to usurp his place.
There is the sound of boots on the marble floor behind him then, fast steps, and for a moment he wonders whether it is his father or his half-brother, torn between hope and fear and a strange, breathless uncertainty at facing the burning heat of his half-brothers rage once more.
Maybe it will not be so bad. Maybe, this time, Fëanor will at last see him as an equal – for how can there be rivalry between them unless deep in his heart, Fëanor does not indeed fear that there is a reason for why their father might love him more?
He holds his breath as a hand clasps around his shoulder, roughly pulling him around to press him against the wall. Fëanor is resplendent in his anger, and he hates himself for noticing this. But how can he not, when the the way his half-brother's eyes burn with rage and fierce pride make something shift inside him, a terrible, sick heat gathering and curling in his stomach to have all that fearsome energy focused on him?
His lips part, and he cannot even say if it is to defend himself, or to plead for forgiveness for the rashness of his words. A part of him is breathless and rejoices at the way he now has his brother's full attention at long last, wondering, terribly, shamefully, what Fëanor were to do if he were to speak further words of pride.
Fëanor leans closer, holding him pinned against the wall with his body as much as his gaze, and Fingolfin feels faint as he wonders whether Fëanor can hear the thunder of his racing heartbeat and will think it fear.
Then Fëanor draws back, and he almost speaks something terrible, something unforgivable, just to keep his brother from leaving. But that is not needed. Fëanor draws his sword, and Fingolfin watches how the light glistens on the sharp blade that is set against his chest. He is light-headed now, giddy with a feeling he has never known before. Maybe he should be afraid – no. He is afraid. But that fear is what makes this encounter so strange. How often has he dreamed of having his half-brother's attention, his trust and affection as a child?
How strange that having his brother threaten to take his life is in the end so much sweeter than any of those childish dreams of love.
He breathes calmly as he watches Fëanor. Is this the way an animal feels that has come face to face with the hunter at last? There is peace in this – a languid sweetness like honey in the knowledge that he is at his brother's mercy, that all it would take is a move of his brother’s hand to spill his blood, to pierce his chest.
It is inconceivable to think of Fëanor committing such a crime, but the threat of the blade itself makes him tremble and feel weak, and he wants, he yearns–
He does not even know what he wants, only that he wants Fëanor to do something, to ask something. All he wants is a chance to do Fëanor's bidding, and when his brother speaks, he flushes, watching his lips move without understanding the words at first.
“See, half-brother! This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls.”
"I seek to be the master of none." His voice is breathless, rough with fear that sounds so much like arousal that he flinches with shame.
Fëanor simply watches, still holding the blade to his chest. “Then what else is thy desire?”
He swallows at last, his chest rising and falling with each breath while the sword's tip rests threateningly over his heart. It is impossible not to be aware of how at Fëanor's mercy he truly is in this moment. It is almost enough to swear himself to his brother, reckless, needing – but then Fëanor seems to realize that what has his brother tremble is not fear, or not fear of him, at last.
“What–” he says, then breaks off with a sound of disbelief, the tip of his sword lowered just a little so that Fingolfin feels the loss of contact as an ache.
“Brother,” he says very softly in a shameless plea that gives away all the terrible, shameful heat in his blood, and for the time of one heartbeat, he sees Fëanor gaze at him with sudden understanding, the corners of his mouth curling with what could be amusement, or pleasure, or derision, and then–
He tastes blood at the force of the slap that whips his head to the side. There is an answering throb between his legs, and he moans softly as he licks at the cut at the corner of his mouth, drunk on some feeling he cannot name.
“Do not dare to call me that.” Fëanor gives him a long, considering look, then sheathes his sword and strides off, and Fingolfin slides to the ground, fighting the urge to take himself into his hand as the coppery tang of blood spreads through his mouth.
#
The ships burn. The ships burn, and through the flames I look west, and there is nothing but shadow and hungry fire and sparks filling the air like a cruel, new breed of fireflies given birth by these ungoverned lands and the fierce, burning ambition within me. And has not that, too, been given to me by Eru?
I stand, unmoving, and I watch, knowing they watch in return. Let them. These are darker days. These are days of blood and war and fire. Let them see, and let them know the truth of the oath they have sworn. These are not days to let the whispers of the Valar and their servants quell the passions in our hearts until we sit at their feet lost in a drugged stupor, quarrelling at best like tired children while darkness seeps into the heart of our lands.
No. Those days are past. These are different lands, and I will make them mine, and for all the long years we have wasted while Morgoth's power grew anew, I shall be harder, merciless as the fire that even now engulfs the brightly painted sails.
I stand, and I watch, and though they are silent, I can hear their questions. What about those we left behind? What about you? I imagine your face, and almost I smile. Not from derision, or pleasure at what betrayal you must be feeling, or from revenge. I am not so petty. No. I imagine you standing at the shore, looking out to the east, watching the same fire I see, and I wonder – would you still look at me as you did when I held my blade against your chest, when you were helpless and so angry you trembled, and yet, there was a sudden, strange softness in your eyes as you beheld me, as if this final threat of mine was the friendly touch you had been waiting for all these many years – as if it were as intimate, as gentle as a kiss?
I did not kiss you then. How could I, when you looked at me like that, your eyes a promise of that truth between us? Sweeter is the power you hold in your hand, a well-hidden gem to take out and examine in hours of leisure to marvel at its beauty. To take it then would have been to squander it, a gem given away for the cheap satisfaction of seeing you humiliated, of proving to all those gathered that in truth, I am and always shall be foremost.
No, better to keep this secret you have given me, to hold it in my hand and see that sudden softness in your eyes whenever you come into my presence. You are as aware of the power I hold over you as if I wore this beautiful gem of yours around my neck on a chain of gold. And to see you so bound to my will is sweet, sweeter than any forced show of subservience. Remain, then, and remember the power I have over you. Or try to follow, try to prove yourself worthy of my attention, as you have always done. Both of it will be sweet, brother.
#
They leave Losgar behind on the horizon as they press east, banners flying as brightly as the sails of the ships that are now bitter, cold ash by the shore. It seems as if Fëanor banished that memory from his own mind the moment he turns away from the embers of the swan ships, and those of his sons who will ask questions later he stops with a raised hand, pale skin encased in gloves of black leather. They do not press for answers – not because they are afraid of his wrath, but because they know the mood that will come over him betimes, when his eyes are alight with a fierce light, and it seems to them that he must be contemplating the Silmarils in his mind.
When they make camp, late at night, Maglor will lean against his chest, a lap harp forgotten in his fingers as wine makes him warm and pliant, and his hair mingles with Fëanor's as he sings sadly of how the smoke shrouded his father's flame in a veil of black. He never stops Maglor from singing, though what he sees is not the Silmarils, but star-grey eyes darkening with helpless heat.
#
It is the sound of trumpets in the distance that announces the host of Fingolfin. Fëanor stands unmoving before his tent near the shore of Lake Mithrim, banners fluttering in a sudden gust of wind as slowly, they come closer. The host of Fingolfin – or, more importantly, Fingolfin and his sons, clad in blue and silver, mounted upon sturdy horses that lack the fine-boned swiftness of the steeds they brought on the ships.
Their eyes meet. Their eyes meet, and for one moment, all Fëanor can think of is the fine tremor when he held his blade to his brother's skin, the way his eyes darkened with something quite unlike rage.
It pleases him still, after all of this time, to see Fingolfin react to his presence. And react he does – where the letters they have exchanged were terse, verging on the edge of insult, the sparsity of description about what his half-brother and his host went through in their crossing of the Helcaraxë a bitter accusation in itself, now that they are finally face to face, a part of him revels in his power.
And it is power. No simpler proof, no proof more powerful than seeing that one heartbeat of softening, of – need, head snapping up haughtily like a spooked, fine-blooded horse to hide from any onlooker that band of power that still runs between them. He can feel it quiver and vibrate, the way the fine, pale skin of Fingolfin's bared throat pulses with the quickening heartbeat. He imagines pulling on that invisible rein, feeling that moment of prideful resistance until eventually, inevitably, proud, haughty Fingolfin will yield, will submit to his will though he is hot with bitter anger, will stand before him, filled with memory after memory of pain, of rejection, of loss and bitter, bitter loneliness – and then his lips will part as he looks at his brother, and for a moment, he will not be able to talk as Fëanor's presence overwhelms him, the way it has always done.
It is right, that way. One of the few things that are still right. The only thing still right maybe, in a world where he met Morgoth's demons on the field of battle and failed. No. The infinitesimal softening of Fingolfin's gaze, and the way Maglor will lean against him in the evening, his small harp cradled in his lap, spilling notes of sweetest sadness. That is all that is still right in a world that was charred by Morgoth's malice, robbed of the light of the trees, robbed of his father, wise, beloved Finwë, robbed of–
Fingolfin stands before him, and his gaze, cool and passionless, floods over the aching, charred wasteland that is his heart in the absence of the Silmarils like cool, sweet spring water, or heavy clouds after a summer's drought. And then Fingolfin's lashes are lowered, and a heartbeat passes between them, and for all the onlookers that have gathered around them, breathless and eager and prepared for violence after all that has come to pass, Fëanor rejoices, the pride that had been wounded just as surely as his sword arm soothed by that instinctive softening of Fingolfin's gaze, the proud, strong warrior clad in his armour of anger still helpless and subservient before his older brother's fire.
As it has always been. As it will always be, he thinks, and he does not speak, no word to acknowledge his brother's presence. What he wants to say – what he wants to hear – is not for this moment with a thousand eyes resting upon them with expectations of violence, of hatred, of pleas for forgiveness.
Instead, Fëanor turns, wordless, and steps into the tent. Fingolfin follows him, and once they are well shielded from all eyes by the heavy fabric of Fëanor's own tent, he turns to face his brother, and does not even flinch when Fingolfin's hand connects with his cheek, a furious, back-handed slap. Again Fingolfin raises his hand, and Fëanor smiles as he reaches out with his good hand – the left, uninjured by the duel with Gothmog that smashed more than just his pride. He grips Fingolfin's wrist, and they stare at each other for a long moment. He can see the heaving of his brother's chest, the emotions in his eyes that are at last unguarded, here were no one can observe. He is still smiling. Fingolfin's rage does not anger him. No, it was always the way that his brother's concession to him was so hard won that made it so thrilling to force him to submit to his own will again and again. He is glad that has not changed.
"That is enough," he says calmly, tightening his fingers until he know he will leave bruises, and the hot rage in Fingolfin's eyes turns into something warm and molten.
Fingolfin makes a broken sound. "One slap? And that is enough for – for those nights on the ice, for – we lost – Fëanor, you did not see them slide beneath the – how, how could you, how can this be enough–"
"Enough," Fëanor repeats and steps closer, not without compassion – but there will be time for that later, perhaps. His hand is still tight around Fingolfin's wrist, a shackle, but they have no need for iron, they who have forged their own chains long ago.
"Remember your oath," he says, his tone imperious, wondering for a moment at his own cruelty, this lack of empathy towards his own brother. Oh, he does not deny that they suffered. But then, so have they all suffered. But this chain he has wound around his brother’s heart is a cruel chain, and it is because they both wish it to be so. It would be more cruel, he thinks almost wistfully, to deny his brother this. Fingolfin came to him, after all. He followed him. Fingolfin followed Fëanor, and so he cannot deny his brother Fëanor, and all that this means.
"Remember your first oath, brother. Remember it well, for it still holds true here, on these shores."
"Thou shalt lead, and I shall follow," Fingolfin grinds out, tossing his head again like a nervous stallion, proud and strong and brave, once more baring that deep, deep faultline that pierces his heart to his brother in a move that is so sweet, so breathtakingly gallant that Fëanor can never help but be drawn to it. No, he is Fëanor, and if that is to be cruel, then that is only because it is all they have left now. It is familiar, and he cannot deny that it is sweet, as sweet as it has always been to see his proud, stern half-brother speak such words of reluctant submission despite the fire of his own blood.
And it is sweeter still to grab his brother's shoulder, and to see Fingolfin fall to his knees at the pressure – pressure that is not gentle, but that is meant to remind Fingolfin of his place, and even here, even after everything that happened, that act is enough to make the proud diplomat fall silent and gaze up at him from his knees with the raw need of the youth he had once been.
Fëanor wonders idly if this is how Fingolfin imagined their encounter. Has the thought of apologies, of pleas, of Fëanor on his knees at last warmed his brother's heart during his cold trek across the grinding ice? But Fingolfin's eyes soften, and his fingers tremble as he rests his sweating palms gently against the hard muscle of Fëanor's thighs, like a man seeking to reassure himself that he is not dreaming.
The thought brings its own heat, his brother unable to escape dreams of such subjugation even when he should be lost in thoughts of hate, sweating and turning in his furs at night as he dreams of Fëanor's cruel touch while all around him, his own people curse his brother's name with helpless rage.
It is sweeter than ever before, Fingolfin's breath against his stirring length, the heat and the wetness of his mouth, and as rewarding as it is to see his eagerness, to imagine Fingolfin grateful for this (as he should be, that cruel, excited part of him supplies), it is not enough, not after all this time. He uses his good hand to grasp Fingolfin's hair, his fingers winding through the dark tresses in a caress, then tighten harshly to remind Fingolfin of his place, of who is in power here. He keeps him in place as Fingolfin gasps and chokes and still keeps trying to take him so eagerly as Fëanor takes what he wants, thrusting roughly without thought for his brother's comfort – though past the tears that gleam on Fingolfin's long lashes at his roughness, his eyes are wide and dark, the grey pupils unfocused, looking up at Fëanor with wild need.
He does not even know why he does it. When he comes, he pulls out at the last moment, and Fingolfin gasps and shudders as he looks up at him with wide, wild eyes, lips red and wet and so, so tempting that the sound Fëanor makes as he watches streaks of his seed land wetly on his brother's face is that of a mad animal, tormented and hunted.
It should not have been like this, Fëanor thinks dimly, then shakes his head, angry at himself as Fingolfin licks his lips, panting for breath and looking far too much like their father for there ever to be love without hate.
Fëanor turns without a word and sits down on a heap of cushions as Fingolfin raises a hand to brush back his hair, watching silently as the heat in his brother's blood starts to cool until he can tell it balances on the edge that leads from tiredness to shame.
Fëanor holds out a hand in wordless invitation at last, his eyes lingering at the drying smear of his seed near Fingolfin's cheekbone, the elaborately braided hair that is mussed from the way he pulled on it, the wariness returning to grey eyes. No. Fingolfin looks far too much like their father for there ever to be hate without love.
When Fingolfin comes to join him, he leans against the side where Gothmog's strength has shattered his shoulder, the arm limp between them like debris, a foreign object without feeling. There is silence but for Fingolfin's painful gasps for air, and then his brother bows his head, aching for the embrace he does not dare to take even after what they have just done.
“I miss him too.” Fingolfin's voice is broken when he refused to break before, the words raw and helpless and full of despair as if at last he fears that this what is between them, that lightning-sharp sweetness of Fingolfin's reaction to every touch, every blow, every word that is said or not said, is in truth something stale and bitter like the dregs of jealousy. Fëanor wants to recoil for a moment as he sees himself as his brother's jailer as surely as the Valar had been jailers of all of them in Aman.
No. No, it had been never like that, and while a part of him knows that he is cruel, he also knows that it is not more than what Fingolfin can take, even after all that happened. He pulls him closer with his good arm, feeling the familiar circle of hate-jealousy-need-desire as Fingolfin relaxes against him, proud face vulnerable as his eyes close in exhaustion. With the eyes of their father hidden at last, the unwonted repose makes the similarity only more startling to Fëanor.
“I know,” he says, and his brother shudders once in his arms, though he keeps his eyes firmly closed. Fëanor runs his left hand slowly over the sweat-matted tresses, following the cheekbones, the line of his lips, the vulnerable arc of his exposed throat while Fingolfin stays silent and unmoving, as trusting as a child. At last, Fëanor bends forward, pressing his lips to Fingolfin's brow like a benediction.
“You were the first who swore your oath to me,” he says softly, watching the way Fingolfin's pulse flutters. His brother does not open his eyes, but Fëanor can feel him listen with all the desperate need of their childhood. “You swore to follow me, even then, before everything, when father was still alive. You were the first – and the dearest, brother. Never forget that.”
Fingolfin's arms come around him at last, and for a moment, he allows himself to take comfort in them. No one has held him like this since Morgoth slew his father. Fingolfin is strong, as strong as ever. Fingolfin is still his, as he has ever been. For a moment, Fëanor can admit his own weariness as he leans against his brother, clutching at him with all the wordless despair of their doomed task. This cannot last, he knows it. And Fingolfin's people will want concessions, apologies – something, anything, that will give meaning to their trek through the ice and what they see as his betrayal.
He will find something. Whatever they want, it cannot matter. In the end, they have all sworn his oath. As has Fingolfin, who has kept his oath – who has followed through tears more bitter, to lands much farther than anything they had imagined at the time.
But Fingolfin has kept his oath, and that is what is important. Fingolfin has followed – and so Fëanor will lead. He, too, will keep his oaths, until the very end.