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Findekáno looks defiantly into the flames that ever roar in his uncle’s eyes.
He does not fear fire. How could he when flames burn into his own heart? When embers gleam between beloved tresses in the light of Laurelin?
‘I love him,’ he admits to Fëanáro. ‘I have loved Russandol for longer than I can remember my own name. My fëa is bound to his like the Valar to Arda, and nor you or my father, or Manwë himself could undo this.’
Findekáno feels himself shiver at the boldness of his statement. He has not confessed this fully to anyone, not even to Maitimo. Not like this, at least.
The older elf stares back at him, unmoving for long moments. It is not often that Fëanáro, the greatest among the Lambengolmor, the inventor of their script, lacks for words.
When his voice comes, at last, it does not carry wrath as Findekáno expected. Rather, a thread of pity resonates through the solemn statement. ‘You will suffer for this love.’
‘So I shall,’ Findekáno offers steadfastly before asking, ‘You are not angry?’
‘I cannot be angry at the truth,’ his uncle says simply. ‘I expected a lie when I asked for your motives behind spending every waking moment with my eldest as of late. We both know you have no love for court. I would not be surprised if your father sent you to spy on my family.’
Findekáno knows this is an act of provocation, but it still hurts.
‘Do not speak of my father!’ He raises his tone and notices how Fëanáro’s pupils widen. He drops the act.
'A day may come when you will have to make a choice,' Fëanáro warns.
'I will always choose him,' Findekáno proclaims. Certain. Foolish.
‘You are both young.’ Fëanáro’s tone mellows, and his shoulders drop. ‘I know your hearts burn hot with this feeling now, but love is creation, Findekáno. It will take more from you than you shall receive. And the more you give, the more it will demand until you are utterly consumed and turned to ashes.’
The last words are delivered in a pained whisper. Findekáno finds he has no suitable response. Such vulnerability is not something to be seen from Fëanáro. He wonders how much of Míriel’s loss drives his uncle’s words, and his heart sinks. What else does Fëanáro fear losing?
A strange urge overcomes him to step closer, to offer a hand, a comforting touch. Findekáno draws nearer, but he does not reach out. Instead, he asks, ‘If love is creation, do you regret creating the Silmarils, then? Did you not give some of yourself to them?’
Fëanáro screws his eyes shut and exhales audibly at that. He slowly closes the distance between them and cups Findekáno’s face before placing a kiss on his forehead. As he does with his own sons, Findekáno realizes.
His uncle walks away without offering an answer to his questions.
Fëanáro’s words are fierce and fell, and Findekáno cannot decide what kind of feeling stirs his heart as he listens. Shared sorrow for the slaying of Finwë? Anger for a raised sword against his own father? Pity for the rape of those brilliant jewels—that fragile remnant of Treelight?
Madness absorbs the crowd as the speech grows in strength. But it is not until Fëanáro looks straight at him, speaking as if for his ears only, that Findekáno lets himself get carried away.
‘Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people,’ the white blaze of Fëanáro’s eyes bores into him. ‘And have ye not all lost your King? And what else have ye not lost, cooped here in a narrow land between the mountains and the sea?’ His uncle questions and pointedly looks from him to Maitimo and back.
The flames roar through Findekáno’s body, and after that, there is no stopping, no sensible thought, until they spill blood in Alqualondë.
It is only when the first ship is ripped from the harbor forcefully that he realizes what they have done. What he has done.
‘Curse you, curse your name, Fëanáro!’ Findekáno screams his rage as his half-uncle turns to march forward, seemingly unconcerned with the scene of horror in his wake.
Findekáno hates Fëanáro for making them leave their home like this. He resents him for bloodying their lands. For making him a kinslayer.
Findekáno traces the scars upon Maitimo’s face with a finger. His touch is light, only hovering above the sleeping elf. Maitimo has had few instances of consciousness since they returned from Thangorodrim.
He withdraws his hand quickly as someone enters the tent, unwilling to expose this kind of intimacy to anyone else. He relaxes somewhat as he recognizes Turukáno’s soft steps. His brother joins his quiet vigil for a while before Findekáno finds his voice.
‘I am grateful you have come,’ Findekáno whispers tentatively.
‘I came for you. I have not seen you in days.’ Turukáno’s tone is neutral, almost detached.
Findekáno finally looks away from Maitimo and studies his brother’s face. ‘Turno, I am aware this is not easy for you. It is not simple for me either, if you will believe it.’
‘I do not condemn you for what you did. In your place, I would have done the same. Besides, who am I to judge what Manwë has ruled?’ Turukáno pauses before his last words come with an edge of steel, ‘but do not expect me to follow him as a King to our people.’
Findekáno remembers then Fëanáro’s words from long ago. He has made a choice, choosing Maitimo over his family, over everything else.
Before he can find a suitable response, Turukáno closes the flap of the tent without looking back at him.
The victory of the Dagor Aglareb tastes sweeter than summer rain. Their people are singing together in joy like they haven’t done since Tirion, it seems to Fingon.
It is the fruit of his father’s labor, reigning with much care and making a whole from a people divided. Fingolfin also celebrates alongside soldiers and Lords alike, and Fingon lets him be. But as soon as they return to Barad Eithel, he seeks a private council with his father.
‘I was told that you fought in the front lines,’ Fingon gets straight to the point.
Fingolfin spills ink upon the parchment beneath his quill and rolls his eyes in pretended annoyance. ‘Uh, I knew it was a terrible idea to allow you to select the King’s Guard.’
‘It was unwise of you,’ Fingon presses further.
‘Findekáno, spare me the lecture.’
‘You appointed me a commander of our host and I intend to see my orders respected upon the battlefield. That includes you, my King.’ Fingon emphasizes that last word.
Fingolfin rises abruptly from his desk and his voice with him. ‘It is absurd that you of all people should disapprove of valor in battle!’
Fingon’s own words gain strength to match his father's. ‘You ache for a good fight, I know this father, but you are a King and it is not your place to chase after Balrogs!’
‘Not just any Balrog, Findekáno. It was Gothmog, and he got away, may he rot in the pits of Utumno! But if it came to it again, rest assured I would not miss a chance to take down the slayer of my brother!’
Fingolfin’s words echo against the stone walls of his study for what seems an eternity. Fingon remembers acting no differently when he leapt to avenge Arakáno at the Lammoth. He unclenches his jaw, ceding at last, this ridiculous argument.
‘Promise me that you will keep yourself safe,’ he tells Fingolfin as he wraps his arms around the strong shoulders.
‘Worry not my son, if Morgoth wants my head, he will have to claim it himself,’ his father says laughingly as he tightens their embrace. Fingon buries his face in Fingolfin’s chest and allows the familiar warmth to drown the uneasiness that grips his heart.
The Fëanorians come to swear their fealty months after Fingon’s coronation. Always late, Fingon thinks bitterly and then remembers that the grief is speaking through him. The roads are perilous, he knows this and searches for a feeling of gratitude. It is not an easy task nonetheless, especially when Curufin arrives from Nargothrond shortly after Maedhros.
Fingon stares up at his beloved, both relieved to see him alive and annoyed for summoning a brother who is still all too proud of his House and all too similar to his father.
‘Curufin is here in good faith. He has also lost much in the fires, Fingon, let him have this at least,’ Maedhros whispers in his ear as he ushers him to the workshops and a waiting Curufin.
Fingon wants to protest, for he does not need a reminder of Fëanor, especially not after the loss of his father. But despite it all, he finds he cannot begrudge this to his cousin. Curufin has mended and embellished the crown for every King of the Noldor after Finwë, save Maedhros, who had refused to touch the thing. His crafty hands had lined the crown with rubies for Fëanor, inlaid crystals for his own father, and are now threading a string of gold for Fingon himself.
As Curufin inspects the headdress one last time, Fingon does not miss how his cousin rubs the rubies there.
They have this in common now, Fingon supposes, the shared grief for a father dearer than all the glory of Beleriand. So, he lets go of his grudge for the moment and steps closer, allowing Curufin to fit the crown upon his brow. His cousin’s hands are steady, and the circlet rests perfectly upon his temples.
‘You spoke well today at the reception, cousin,’ Curufin begins as he arranges his braids around the crown. Fingon only hums in response.
‘You sound quite like my father,’ Curufin tells him. Fingon shoots back a dark look, but his cousin smiles pleasantly, ‘It is a compliment. There is power in your voice, the people will heed your words.’
‘Even you?’ Fingon says on an impulse.
‘The Enemy has wronged us both equally now, did you not say so yourself? If you choose to fight, I shall be there,’ Curufin responds with conviction and guides him by the arm to a mirror.
Fingon beholds his own reflection and, for the first time ever, believes that he might have it in him to become a worthy King to his people.
There’s naught but death and fire for leagues ahead. Fingon looks around to where his Lords lie dead about him. They have fallen in concentric circles, attempting to protect him. Their King. The one who led them to death.
How fitting, Fingon thinks in his exhaustion, that he should die like this. Alone, in flames, much like Fëanor.
His gaze turns then to where Morgoth’s captain scorches the ground still. Gothmog, the slayer of Kings. Bile rises in Fingon’s throat. Not despair, not yet. Wrath overwhelms him rather, a great madness of rage as if the breath of Tulkas himself has filled his body.
His hands are empty, he has lost his sword, shield, and dagger. Fingon strides to where his Sinda standard-bearer lies with his lifeless eyes still open and picks up the banner of his House, blue and silver.
He looks south, where Turgon and Húrin’s ranks are defending, and then east to where the hosts of Maedhros still stand. He hopes they do. Fingon will ensure they do, with whatever is left of him.
A burst of fey laughter escapes his mouth as he shakes the pain and fatigue from his limbs. Memories of a lifetime swirl before his eyes. Love, anger, betrayal, love again.
‘I suffered! I gave all of myself! And it was worth it, do you hear me?’ Fingon screams with all of his strength to the sky above as if his words might reach Fëanor through fire and smoke, all the way to the Everlasting Darkness.
Fingon tightens his fingers around the metal pole of his banner and flies straight at the Balrog.