Here's my participation for the @nolofinweanweek, Day 3 (with the prompts Mithrim/Long Peace). The original piece was written in Spanish, and it's posted in the SWG (so any translation weirdness is on me lol)
Rating: G Characters: Fingon, Fingolfin Relationships: Fingon & Fingolfin Wordcount: 1,7k
On the night before the Dragollach breaks, Fingon and Fingolfin talk.
Before the storm
Fingon breathed in deeply, letting the cool air of the night fill his lungs before he returned inside. It had been only one week since his two brothers had gone only the Valar knew where, and not even a goodbye note they had dignified themselves to write.
A red rage blinded him and Fingon breathed once again, feeling how his hands slowly let go of the balustrade. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he walked toward his father’s chambers with long strides.
He called once and entered when he heard the command, closing the door behind himself.
His father stooped over a pile of papers, maps, books… for a moment, he looked like the oldest of the Edain, and the thought brought a lump to his throat. But when Fingolfin raised his head and their eyes met, he was the High King of the Eldar again, brilliant and magnanimous as a shooting star.
Fingon couldn’t help smiling at the mental image.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” Fingolfin asked with his brows creased.
“No! Not at all,” Fingon began in his light and uncaring way. But it was a lie, and Fingon couldn’t lie – especially to those whom he loved. “Well, I wanted to know how you were.”
The concern didn’t leave Fingolfin’s eyes. On the contrary. His father gestured to a chair in front of him, and Fingon obliged – it was an invitation to talk, more than to sit down.
Fingolfin put the papers aside and Fingon smiled. His father never put work before family, and not even the war had changed his habits.
“And that silly smile?” Fingolfin asked with a half-smile of his own.
“I told you it's nothing,” Fingon shrugged. “I just like being with you. With family.”
Fingolfin’s countenance changed at once, and he lowered his eyes, the smile gone. “Yes, family. I wish I could have kept mine by my side.”
The lump was back on Fingon’s throat. He reclined over the desk and put a hand over his father’s stronger ones. “You have me.”
Fingolfin asked for his other hand and squeezed them hard. “I have you, my little star.”
Fingon laughed at his childhood name. “I think I am no longer a little star, Atar.”
“It is true,” Fingolfin answered with a sad smile. “You are the bright, burning star of our people, who has everyone's undying love and loyalty.”
Fingon didn’t like the creeping darkness of those words.
“If I am that, then you are the guiding star of all the Elves!” He tried giving his voice the light tone he usually made his father laugh, but Fingolfin sighed and avoided his gaze.
“I don’t know what I am any longer, my son.”
“I am telling you, Atto!” Fingon's voice gained emotion and strength, and he tightened his grip on his father's strong, calloused hands. “You are our sun! We couldn’t live without you. I couldn’t live without you.”
He swallowed the tears that insisted on springing to his eyes, trying with all his might not to make his father’s ominous words more than they were. Fingolfin looked at him intently, and by the slight furrow in his brows, Fingon could read the love his father felt for him – and the trust.
It was Fingon’s turn to avert his gaze. His father had him in too high esteem, and Fingon wasn’t the perfect son Turgon had always been. Foolhardy, impulsive, bigmouthed… Not to mention that he would never produce an heir to the House of Fingolfin.
“Stop thinking what you are thinking,” Fingolfin chided him not without sweetness.
Fingon snorted and was about to reply, but his father let go of his hands and stood up. He went to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“I know you wished that Turno and Írissë were with us,” Fingon said with sincerity.
Fingolfin stopped mid-action, hands in the air. He turned his head above his shoulder and looked at Fingon, blue eyes shining like two fleeting gems reflecting the light of the fireplace. “Of course I wanted them to be here, by our side, under my protection – and where I could always see them.” He breathed in. “But your brother thinks he has a mission, and I won’t be the one to tell him otherwise.”
“You won’t be- for Eru’s sake, Atto! If there is someone who can say something to Turukáno it’s you! You are the High King of the Noldor!” He slammed the desk with the flat of his hand. “He is an idiot if he thinks he can rule without answering to you!”
Fingolfin threw him one of those looks that used to shut him up when he was a boy. “Yes, I am the King, but I can’t go against your brother’s wishes.” He returned to his place and extended Fingon an overflowing glass of wine. Fingolfin took a long sip before he continued. “If he wants to find refuge elsewhere because he thinks he will protect Idril, so be it. I would do the same for any of you if I were in his place.”
Fingon huffed in disdain. “You would never be in his place because you would never listen blindly to a counsel given by the Valar.”
His father shook his head as though unsure of his answer.
“Don’t tell me you would!” Fingon’s outraged voice resonated through the room.
Fingolfin's mouth curled in anger, but in the next moment, he sighed. “I never was one for foresight. Arafinwë is gifted, and his children but… I do not know what I would do in his place, Finno. Your brother told me he listened to Ulmo’s voice as clear as day, not like in a dream, and that the vision was so real there could be no doubt: he must find the refuge from whence the salvation of the Eldar shall come.” He sighed again, and it pained Fingon to see his father suffering.
“You have forgiven him.” It was not a question.
Fingolfin’s brows furrowed but he didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I have. Of course I have. I would forgive any of you anything.”
Fingon swallowed the words that tasted of blood. Alqualondë remained unspoken, but there was no need to bring such bitter memories to light.
“And Írissë?”
Fingolfin’s face changed to one of irritation. “Your sister is as gruff as a wild cat, and there was no way I could keep her locked in the palace, or even in Hithlum!”
The truth of his words made Fingon laugh.
“Besides, Írissë still has pending issues with your cousins, and I don’t think she will rest until she solves them.”
“You mean until she cuts Turko’s head off.”
“More likely his balls,” his father muttered, and the two of them looked seriously at each other before sharing a long and loud laugh.
“Well, I haven’t,” he said in earnest, and his father cocked his head, confused. Fingon continued: “I haven’t forgiven Turno, and I don’t think I ever will.”
“That is a very strong word, son,” Fingolfin replied in a pacifying tone. “Besides, you don’t know if he has forgiven us for what we did for Fëanáro and his children.”
It was Fingon’s turn to frown so deeply he could feel the creases on his forehead. He bit his lower lip thoughtfully.
“I thought we had left all of this behind us, but it seems our crimes and the Doom will follow us wherever we go.”
Fingolfin touched his arm gently. “Then imagine your brother has seen a way out from this and grasped it with both hands. Try to forgive him.”
Fingon exhaled aloud, a harsh answer already at the tip of his tongue about how Turgon had never forgiven him for becoming Maedhros’ best friend, and how this had embittered the good relationship they had as children. Elenwë’s death had been the last straw for Turgon’s hate towards Fëanor’s children, and by saving Maedhros' life, Fingon had also been charged as guilty in his brother’s eyes.
Fingolfin squeezed his forearm gently and cut his thoughts short.
“I know you think you are not enough but you are, my son. You are. Everything and more.”
Fingon lowered his eyes. Yes, this was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? His father, as usual, had nailed on what lay deeper inside Fingon’s soul.
“I am happy that you are here with me, Finno, and I am forever grateful for your loyalty.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Atto. I love you, how could I not be loyal to you?”
Fingolfin’s sad smile told him that it was exactly this loyalty he had expected from his other children, who chose to solve their problems and heal their wounds without his help. Without him. Anger and resentment for his missing brothers climbed up his throat, and Fingon had to fight back the tears once more. His brothers were two bastards for having hurt their father so, and Fingon thought he would never forgive them for this treason.
“Finno, stop.” Fingolfin’s low voice made him raise his eyes to his father. “Do not follow through this path. Forgive them, and trust them. Your brothers will return when it is time. I am sure of it.”
“You said you were not one for foresight,” Fingon replied with obstinacy, but Fingolfin chuckled.
“Indeed I am not. But I know, deep within my soul, that they will not abandon you.”
“Abandon us,” he corrected without thinking.
But Fingolfin didn’t answer.
