Work Text:
Nolofinwë Arakáno stands before the great doors of Formenos, outside fair Tirion, and breathes in the cool ash of the mountain air.
It has been years since he last saw his brother, the scar on his throat is long-healed, though he shall carry the mark for the rest of his life. The sword is one forged under Melkor’s instruction, he knows, and the power of an Ainu, even one such as him, is not to be scoffed at. But Nolofinwë would not have it removed, even through the healing that might be found in Lórien, though there is little need for it. This is his reminder, and it is a reminder for Fëanáro too, he who dealt the blow and would have dealt death, for it was in his eyes.
It is a terrible thing, to look at one you love and to know that they would choose your destruction. Worse to know your own part in it. And it is worse yet to know that you would forgive them for it- that the deed was forgiven as soon as it were done-, that you disagree with the punishment offered.
For exile, Nolofinwë now knows, had not been the answer. To send Fëanáro away from the court is to cast the dice of Doom; how is peace to be brokered, if its breaking cannot be reforged?
But he could not speak against the Valar, and Nolofinwë, too, had been utterly furious then. So he would not have spoken against them, had he the chance.
Never let it be said that F ë an á ro is the only proud one, of Finw ë ’s line.
Perhaps he is the proudest, though; F ë an á ro would never come to him in exile, were their positions reversed, but Nolofinw ë is not here wholly for himself. Tirion is tense, a pot ready to boil over. Shadows rise and lengthen at the dimmest hour of the Trees, and there are whispers on the wind that Nolofinw ë likes not. His brother is allowed his followers, his sworn bannermen, but it is him who is king, and the Noldor are a pot ready to boil over, for not all dissenters can be exiled- nor would he want them, for they have done little and less to deserve it.
Some are his elder, beholden only to his father who was king- those who came in Finw ë ’s host across the sea and knew M í riel Serind ë but not Indis Laur ë tari, yet did not follow Finw ë into exile with his son. Others are younger, who mislike F ë an á ro but do not seek to banish themselves from Tirion and its delights, though they speak in whispers of the tyranny of the Valar, of their exiled prince, of injustice that must be corrected, and he cannot silence them.
And now that he is here, Nolofinwë knows that he would not wish Formenos on another, even if they were to choose it.
His pride has cooled, and left him with bitter regret on his tongue.
Formenos is not a ruin, but Nolofinwë feels as if it is a moldering edifice on the verge of collapse; the very air within is hot from the forges that his brother and his brother’s skilled son doubtless occupy themselves in, and the dark stone of the mountainside it is built into nearly makes him shudder.
He feels as if he is being watched, even now- and perhaps he is, by his brother, or his nephews, or even his father, though it is only Fëanáro’s gaze that gets under his skin so. And even then, it is with heat, and anger, not the slow crawl of dread.
Nolofinwë shakes it off.
It is a far cry from fair Tirion, where the Noldor make their home. It is a further cry from Nerdanel’s halls, though those sit empty now, for she dwells with his mother Indis, remote in her fury.
That is reconciliation that Nolofinwë knows better than to consider; Anairë had visited Indis but once, and she had returned white-lipped and shaking. Fëanáro’s wife is more resolute than him, and though she is slower to anger, it burns as a flame within her chest.
Anairë had been surprised; Nolofinwë was not. Who else would Fëanáro wed, but one who could match him blow for blow, with equal intensity? Who else could gain his respect so, but a master of their craft, with a sharp wit and a sharper tongue? Mahtan’s daughter is formidable indeed, though Nolofinwë does not understand her in the slightest.
Had he Fëanáro’s love, he would not relinquish it so easily.
But then, Nerdanel is forged from something utterly different. She does not need him; they were equals from the start.
And Nolofinwë? For better or for worse, he has ever been in Fëanáro’s shadow.
He holds no resentment for this, though it is Fëanáro who thought him a predator mirroring each and every step, determined to prove the better, when it was admiration which moved him instead. Simple love, grown thorny now.
He shivers.
These are dark thoughts, for a dark doorstep, and he tamps them down. He is better than that- he must be better than that.
Nolofinwë lifts one hand to the great knocker at the door, but before he can grasp it, they swing open to the red-tinted stone within.
And they reveal a lone figure, waiting in the entryway, arms crossed over his chest.
Ah. So he was watched, and he was expected.
In many ways, this makes it easier.
“Brother,” he begins, cautious.
“Half-brother,” Fëanáro corrects immediately. “Yet call me not even that, Arakáno, for I would fain consider even Olwë where he dwells in fair Alqualondë of the pearls my brother, even by part, over you.”
At least Nolofinwë may count upon him to be pedantic.
Such barbs have long since ceased their sting, yet Fëanáro persists in them.
“Half-brother,” Nolofinwë corrects himself, for he did not come here to draw Fëanáro into a debate of what, precisely, they are to one another. He is a wordsmith, but there is no language to encompass the hurts they have dealt one another. “I had hoped to find you here.”
“And where else would I be, pray tell? My exile keeps me here; doubtless I am easy to find, even for those lacking wits.” Cruel, he can be, but Nolofinwë has yet to misstep.
“Your exile bars you from Tirion, it is you who chose Formenos,” Nolofinwë says.
“And so I did, for where else was I to find safety for my kin?” Fëanáro’s gaze burns as it lands on him. “Though it seems even now treachery darkens my doorstep.”
“Your doorstep does not need me to darken it,” Nolofinwë retorts. A flicker of concern crosses Fëanáro’s face before vanishing. “And I come here not for treachery, but in peace, without bearing arms. I come to see my family. My father, my nephews. My half-brother.”
“All but two are gone from here, hunting, though no longer in Oromë’s train. I had warned them against it, but how fortunate your timing is indeed,” Fëanáro murmurs, his tone suggesting no such thing.
“A shame,” Nolofinwë says mildly. “I have letters from my eldest to yours, I should have liked to deliver them.”
“You did not come here to deliver letters,” Fëanáro snaps. “Enough lies, Arakáno. Enough, no more.”
“I do not lie, but if you wish, I shall be frank about the whole of my reasons for this visit,” Nolofinwë says. He reaches into his cloak and draws forth a bundle of carefully penned missives, which Fëanáro eyes suspiciously. He doubts they shall reach their intended recipients, but he had warned Irissë and Findekáno that might be the case.
They had not believed him, but then, it is not them that Fëanáro’s quarrel was with.
“Very well, then, though you need not bother. I may guess, for there can only be one.” he says, a twist to his mouth. “Doubtless you have come to me, a supplicant in my halls, though you supplicate yourself before others, a messenger from those self-same gods who profess themselves greater than us.”
Blasphemy, though it is eloquently spoken and yet Nolofinwë cannot bring himself to be shocked. His people- and yes, they are his now, with his father’s heir gone and his father with him- have echoed much the same, though they are yet shy of outright heresy.
“Have a care for your tongue, Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë answers. “If I am a supplicant it is because I still bear a modicum of respect for the Valar. Or perhaps it is because I have not yet entertained the lies that some would feed me.”
It is an informal address, of the type he knows Fëanáro resents, yet Nolofnwë persists. The distance between them is as a chasm, yet he must bridge it in whatever way he can. If not for himself, then for their people, for the strife among Finwë’s sons affects them, too.
And if it is not for them, then it is for the proud, selfish kernel at his core; Fëanáro will not ask for forgiveness, and Nolofinwë knows he himself has done nothing to require it, yet what could sting more than pardon from one you refuse to admit you have wronged?
“Take care in your redress, Finwë’s second son,” Fëanáro tells him, warning dripping richly from his voice. “For if you come here to call me a fool, then it is a fool you must be instead, for thinking that I care for your counsel, the venom that drips freely from your tongue. You have the kingdom that is mine by right, are you not satisfied, Arakáno? Will nothing slake thy thirst?”
His speech has shifted into the stilted formal tone of debate, the Quenya words ancient and accented as their father’s when he speaks of the time before Valinor, of the March to arrive here. Of customs abandoned and customs pruned to something new- and of diplomacy, which retains much the old forms, in that both parties are equal.
Yet, Fëanáro uses a more intimate form of address, mirroring his words, even as he decries Nolofinwë’s legitimacy, and this is the scant advantage that must be pressed. It is little, but it is something.
“Nothing,” Nolofinwë says, each syllable carefully measured. “Naught but thee; and the absolution I seek and grant in turn.”
“Speak not to me of absolution, King! What forgiveness could I desire from you? What forgiveness could I grant you, usurper, I named you then, and I do so again.” Fëanáro’s face is twisted, bitter, as if the loss of a kingdom he does not truly want is worse than that of a father. But Fëanáro is a being made for grief, Nolofinwë knows, and he grasps what he has firmly, guards it jealously against those he perceives as a threat.
And his language still slips, out of the register for debate, out of negotiation.
It is unbearably intimate, yet it can only be deliberate. He has never had a careless word, though he coins words carelessly to stymie the masters, adding stresses and iambs, until his very speech pulses like the beat of a heart. Nolofinwë is not so gifted, though he does not let himself be so easily swayed.
“It is not usurpation, Fëanáro, if you abandon your right,” Nolofinwë tells him. He leaves intimacy behind, for now he does not speak as one brother to another- no, Fëanáro has made that all but an impossibility. He speaks as a king to a prince, the words delivered coolly. The blow is aimed precisely, and he sees it land. The widening of silver-grey eyes, the flinch of his body- yes, it hurts Fëanáro where Nolofinwë did not think it would. His half-brother is stubborn. “What have I usurped, with the king and the king’s rightful heir in exile? If you wish to blame anyone for my crown, then look to your father, who relinquished it to follow you here. What have I usurped, tell me, if it was you who held a sword to my throat and profaned the peace of Aman? I would not hold you responsible for the marring of the world, Curufinwë Fëanáro, firstborn of Finwë the Unbegotten, though you would blame me for the same.”
“You- no, you are no marrer, but a product of the marred world,” Fëanáro says, for he can be drawn into a debate upon semantics at any point. “I can only blame your mother, a snake in our household, for bearing you.”
It is a strange exhilaration to know that he cannot be so wounded by one he had once loved dearly. One who he still loves dearly, in true, yet he is wiser for it, more cautious with where he places his affections. Wisdom is earned, and the lessons are oft more painful than that of knowledge, though Curufinwë bears the scars of both.
And Nolofinwë swallows back the anger, and smiles with venom instead.
“So too you must blame our father,” he says.
Fëanáro flinches, as if this had not occurred to him. As if he had not thought that Finwë was ever less than perfect.
Nolofinwë loves his father dearly, but this too is the wisdom he has earned: Love is not enough, and duty must be carried out.
Finwë loves his first son too dearly, and they are all grown rotten with it. This is the fruit that they must reap, and the juice is bitter on his tongue.
There is nothing that Nolofinwë can do to lessen this blow, and he does not wish to. Another advantage to press, and when did he begin thinking so? As if his brother were something to conquer, to endure, rather an a person to be fascinated with? Someone with his own gravity.
He kneels before Fëanáro, and meets his gaze fearlessly.
“You do not blame him,” Nolofinwë says. He is not gentle. “Yet you must, and you know this. You hate this crown that I wear by sufferance of the Valar, but were it not for him, I would not wear it.”
“He does not need to their leave to be king of the Noldor,” Fëanáro says hoarsely. “Not here. Here, we are free of their shackles, here we make our own fate and break the chains of thralldom.”
He does not believe it, though; Nolofinwë can tell.
“Here, you forge chains of your own making,” Nolofinwë corrects him. “I do not claim to be devout; I do not tell you to find faith where there is none, where perhaps there never was any. But hear this, Curufinwë: I am no tame pet the Valar have sent to beg at your doorstep. I come of my own volition, I come with nothing but the hope of peace and forgiveness between us. I come to mend the rift; if I am a supplicant, I bow to thee alone.”
The rift that Fëanáro had created; the censure hangs in the air, amplified by the dark chamber.
“Why are you doing this,” Fëanáro asks, his voice low. The meter is broken, the poetry of his words shattered. Absurdly, Nolofinwë finds himself missing them. Angry- he is furious, no doubt, that he does not have the upper hand, though it is Nolofinwë on his knees.
Do what you must, Anairë had told him, with her eyes dark and burdened with knowledge. She had not told him to enjoy it, though Nolofinwë knows that he cannot keep this from her, either. She knows him, within and without, right to the core. Perhaps she had known it would come to this, too, though she neither understands nor cares for Fëanáro.
An opening, a chink in the armor. When did he become so ruthless?
“Because I must,” Nolofinwë counters. His hands splay on Fëanáro’s thighs, long fingers against rich red cloth. And then he corrects himself: “Because I wish to. For you will not listen without proof, and for that I cannot fault you, but what proof of my love may I offer that you would believe? And what proof of my loyalty? You, who think only the worst of me- how would I convince you otherwise? I do what I must for what is right, Fëanáro, just as you do.”
His fingers do not shake as he removes the breeches Fëanáro wears, nor as he unlaces the undergarments, of plain white, beneath them. He is not hard, yet that too is no object. Nolofinwë knows his own body; he knows what he must do. He strokes, gentle, until it begins to fill his hand, firm.
“And so you shall listen,” he murmurs. “Though I hold you not captive, but rather the opposite, for it is you who has the power here. I thought, what would make you see me- not as a threat, perhaps not even as a brother, but for myself. That I mean you no harm. That I would do anything. It is a neat solution, is it not?”
Flesh stiffens under his palm, hot as a brand.
Nolofinwë holds Fëanáro’s gaze, molten as it is, and takes in the perfect surprise on his face, the flush that creeps over proud, high cheeks- the son of Míriel, taken in hand so easily by the son of Indis.
For once, Fëanáro is struck silent, full lips open but unspeaking, the blade of his tongue stilled.
Nolofinwë has never had that effect on him, not even with the cruellest of barbs that Fëanáro had torn from his own mouth in turn, not even when he refused to be drawn into an argument, for the sake of peace, for the sake of their father. But now, it is a thrill in its own right. He had not wavered when he decided upon this course, but the decision is no longer purely selfless, if it ever was.
He is a good king, but this is no place for him to rule. There are no kings to be had, in Formenos.
But there is power of a different kind.
He takes Fëanáro’s length to his mouth, the motion unpracticed but no less genuine. His half-brother does not demand perfection, as Nolofinwë might have expected; rather, a low noise tears itself from his throat, and strong hands fist into his hair. But he is patient, not brutal. He does not exercise the power he now has, he does not press to fill Nolofinwë’s throat, nor to bring tears to his eyes, though the muscles of his thighs are tense under his fingers.
There is care that Nolofinwë had not thought to find, when Fëanáro’s fingers tremble but do not move, when his name is cried out as a benediction, rather than a curse. Arakáno he is, and yet it has never sounded so sweet.
Nolofinwë groans, approving, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, sloppy and eager. His jaw aches already, the heady taste of salt and musk is heavy on his tongue, his lips are numb, and yet he’s painfully aware of his own arousal, of how Fëanáro is nearly curled around him- not protective, never that, but closer than they have been in a long, long time.
He wants to bring Fëanáro pleasure, blinding and sharp, and it will be the weapon Nolofinwë uses to disarm him, to make him listen. To catch his attention, and to have Fëanáro see him as more than a mistake, as more than proof of an imperfect world, as more than a threat. If not as a brother, then as an equal; if not as family, then as one still cherished, in some way. Fëanáro does nothing by the halves; this will mean something, as it does to Nolofinwë.
He registers words, bitten-off, half-coherent. Curses and praise together, and through it all, his name, in a golden voice that is utterly wrecked rather than eloquent, caught in the throes of pleasure. He is close, Nolofinwë thinks, almost giddy, and so moves faster accordingly.
“Yes, ah- Arakáno-!” Fëanáro gasps out, and he is not as loud as Nolofinwë might have expected, though the pulse of his length, the shudder through his body, is evident.
And then there is silence, but for the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. The bitter taste upon his tongue.
Peace does not come easily; it must be built. The rift must be mended. They are the fruit of their father’s mistakes, and it is rotten to the core.
He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. Nolofinwë counts his own heartbeats as he remains where he is, eking what what contact he may until Fëanáro returns to himself and enforces the distance between them.
He has listened, though. If nothing else, he shall listen.
Slowly, he pulls away, coughing around the sudden emptiness in his throat.
Yet it is Fëanáro who speaks first.
“Is this your reconciliation?” Fëanáro asks, his voice rough. Only he would not relax after coming undone. “Did you think that such wanton behavior, that debasing yourself before me, would serve your goals?”
The fingers in his hair tighten, though Fëanáro is spent, and his eyes are wild.
“No,” Nolofinwë says. He cannot lie- he refuses to lie, and give truth to Fëanáro’s words, though it would be easier to. “I kneel before you as a brother to his elder, as a prince to the king.”
“Yet only one of us has a crown, and it is not I,” Fëanáro says.
“And this by your own doing,” Nolofinwë reminds him. It is not gentle, yet it is true. “Though if you asked, it would be your crown, brother. Would you have me swear an oath to you? Of loyalty, eternal and undying? Of servitude? Would you have me as your vassal, would you welcome such a bond? One thicker than Finwë’s blood through our veins, than a shared childhood in fair Tirion, than sitting at our father’s knee at court, while I watched others drawn into your orbit even as I was shunned?”
He stands, his legs shaky, though he ignores his own arousal.
“For I would, if you asked it of me. I knelt for you then, and I will again. That is my reconciliation, that I may atone for the crime of my birth.” His mouth is dry as he says it, and this is a knife in both their chests. Fëanáro is often said to be a product of Arda Marred, his mother the first to die on these shores, but what of Indis’ children? What of Findis, and Lalwendë, and Arafinwë, and Nolofinwë, who are the product of the best attempt to repair it?
“You would ask me to unmake myself, Fëanáro, and then you would be satisfied, but I cannot, and I shall not. You point the finger at my mother for her folly, but you forget she has Míriel’s own blessing, and you forget that it is your father who wished for me. You name me usurper, you whisper foul lies about me, yet it is you who shaped me into what I am, as much as any other. Behold, Fëanáro, your work!” He continues, his voice low. It does not break though it is hoarse; he has some pride in that, at least. “You will not take my forgiveness and yet I must offer it, and must mean it, though you might call it an empty gesture. Though you had it, and always shall.”
“What you offer-,” Fëanáro breaks off. He does not understand this; of course he would not, for while Fëanáro will never bend, it means that he would rather break. He will clutch onto his grudge as if it were his precious Silmarils. He has never had to compromise, not like Nolofinwë has- compromise hatred and love to find bitterness and blood, from his half-brother; compromise pleasing the Valar over pleasing some of his people; compromise himself for the sake of another. Nolofinwë bends, for he knows how, but he shall not break.
“There are no hidden motives to be found here, only what I have told you. The offer will stand for as long as you require, but- please, Fëanáro. Think on it,” Nolofinwë tells him, carefully even. “That is all I ask. I would have your exile ended sooner rather than later, and so you and Atar may resume your rightful places in court.”
He does not say that the court is as a viper’s nest; surely they must know that. Finwë must know that, if Fëanáro does not, for statecraft was never his heart’s passion.
“You are missed in Tirion,” Nolofinwë continues. “Terribly so.”
Fëanáro let out a low cry, anguished or angry, Nolofinwë does not know, but he does not get a chance to continue. There are lips on his, clumsy in the demand they make, and a hand sliding down his body to grope at his length through his trousers. Nolofinwë shudders, and moans. He braces himself for humiliation, but it does not come, and perhaps this is the smallest of mercies Fëanáro has ever offered him, but it is at least a mercy. This too, is not nothing.
“I miss you,” Nolofinwë presses. “And you need not reciprocate. But you are my brother, half in blood, but full in heart, and I would have you take your rightful place. Your people would have you take your rightful place.”
And what is a king if not one who speaks for them?
What is a king, if not a liar?
Yet lies too have their place; he sees Fëanáro’s eyes close. He hears the rasp of his breath, uneven, and he tips his head back to invite lips to the scar on his throat, as Fëanáro’s hand moves, ceaseless against him.
Fëanáro is not gentle, nor does he offer sweet kisses- rather there are teeth, leaving marks that he will cherish after this, and the burning press of his tongue-, but Nolofinwë would not have it otherwise. He would not know how to imagine it. Fëanáro is hot, as if his fëa has ignited his hroä, at every place their skin touches. Nolofinwë is part of the pyre. He does not mind it so much, now; he burns, too, but he will not be consumed.
He is losing coherence quickly, his hips canting up to seek more pleasure as it simmers low in his gut, as the rough friction, verging on painful, eases as his member leaks precome and makes each slide of Fëanáro’s hand slicker. His train of thought unravels, he feels as an insect pinned to a board, so intense is it to have Fëanáro’s full attention like this. There are no insults to be had here, there is simply Fëanáro, reaching out to touch him and searing through the old, scarred wounds they have left on one another.
“Please,” Nolofinwë gasps out, though he does not know what he is begging for. Release, Fëanáro’s return, leave to remain here himself. “Fëanáro- please, ah- you are, you are missed, you are loved, should- should you not return to your rightful place?”
“Be silent,” Fëanáro snarls out, and his grip tightens. He is brutal as he strips Nolofinwë’s length, the words breathed against the shell of his ear.
“No,” Nolofinwë manages to respond. “No, I am right, and-! And you shall see it, come, please Fëanáro, brother mine-,”
“You would beg for my return and for your release in the same breath, as if the burdens of kingship are the same as the vulgar chasing of pleasure?” Fëanáro asks. His words are cruel, yet again, but yet again they do not hurt. How can they, when Nolofinwë had known already he would debase himself like this? When he has accepted it?
“And if I would?” he retorts, though there is little venom in his words. His length throbs with denied pleasure, his hips twitch upwards. “I-, I make no pretenses, but one begets the other.”
If Fëanáro has an answer to that, Nolofinwë does not hear it, for Fëanáro’s wrist twists just so at the sensitive tip, and he comes with a shout, his world whiting out with its intensity. All he knows is the hand still on him, coaxing every last drop, and the heat of Fëanáro’s body against his own, uncooling and uncompromising.
It does not feel like a victory, but it does not feel like a loss.
It does not feel like anything, as he returns to himself in stages, held up only by Fëanáro’s arm anchored around him, buffered against the cold air of Formenos and the dark, caging ceiling.
He wishes to say something, but he does not. This is the weakness he wishes to destroy in himself, the need that can never be sated. Fëanáro, holding him.
And Nolofinw ë quiet to draw it out, when he ought to press his point.
His mind feels hazy; his goals a fog. Clarity is slow to trickle in.
They do not speak, though Fëanáro does not demand he leave afterwards. No, he instead holds Nolofinwë close still, face pressed into his neck, lips skirting the scar he left, the scar that Nolofinwë deliberately left exposed by his tunic.
And he does not pull away, when Nolofinwë’s hand rests at the nape of his neck.
They breathe together, and if this is peace- if this is its cost, then Nolofinwë would pay it dearly, a thousand times over.
He will not speak; he has said as much as he can. He cannot risk spurring Fëanáro to anger and he cannot risk the quiet intimacy that has settled over them, terrifying in its magnitude. It is something new, fragile and precious, and he would not see it dashed to pieces, nor picked apart and turned to a weapon.
He cannot stay forever, though. His father will return, his nephews will return, and he is needed still in Tirion, and he will in truth be grateful to put Formenos behind him. He would bring Fëanáro with him, if he could. This place is not good for him- cannot be good for anyone.
But the offer would be made too hastily, it would damage Fëanáro’s pride, which he must always have a care for.
Which he would still have a care for, even if he were not here for diplomacy by another name.
For now, Nolofinwë will remain as close as he is allowed.
It is the Mingling of the Lights when he leaves, and for all the distant glow of Laurelin and Telperion, the sky above is dark, shadows cast against the stone of Formenos.
It is a dread place, he still thinks, through the ache in his jaw and knees, and the soft, reluctant steal of pleasure through his limbs.
He will not return. He has done what he can, and what he must.
Nolofinwë Arakáno leaves the house of his brother Curufinwë Fëanáro, head bowed but unhumbled, his thoughts troubled.
And Melkor, who will be called Morgoth Bauglir, the Black Foe of the World, so-named by the very one whose doorstep he now darkens, lingers in the shadows and watches, a smile upon his porcelain-cracked face.