#foresight au

“He’s so small,” he said,not softly, “Such a beautiful baby.”

“I know. He’s mine.” Fëanáro glared, he dared not do anything else.

“You should appreciate it while it lasts,” when he smiled and the scar on his lip twisted strangely, “He’ll not be either for long.”

Fëanáro could see him properly now. He thought he might be an elf, “Who sent you? What do they want?”

He could think of any number of people who’d had reason to come after his own. He could think of none who would sink such treachery. His mind brushed quickly upon the thought of Nolofinwë before dismissing it out of hand. He was too dull for blackmail and far too enamoured with Maitimo to threaten him.

The stranger merely hummed in response, rocking the child gently. He steps towards the window. The light of the trees brushed the shadows off his cheeks and he grimaced. It was as though the air itself was burning. Fëanáro is so aware of the distance between his boy and the window. He inched forward again.

“Please,” he winced, not intending to sound so desperate, “Give him to me.”

The stranger was still staring out at the glowing streets of Tirion. Fëanáro took another step and he sighed. There is a look on his face, tired, like those of the Journey.

“Who are you, what - what do you want?”

The figure turned, leaning against the sill, and regarded him a moment. He opened his mouth as if to reply but Maitimo started babbling up at him, catching them both off guard. He chuckled, electing to ignore the Prince and focus entirely on the nonsense sounds the child was happily spewing.

“Indeed, is that so little one,” He smiled and nods sagely, as the child continued to babble, “Uh huh, of course. Well aren’t you your father’s child. So many words, so little time. You must be careful, you know, people will listen to them.”

He looked up then at Fëanáro. Grave eyes staring right past his fëa and for a moment Fëanáro cannot think to breathe. He is pinned down like a butterfly under glass. Silver eyes like his father’s in shape as well. There is recognition there and… pain, such pain.

“Who are you?” He asked again, terrified of the answer.

When the stranger laughed, it sounded like a foxes scream. With a clumsy movement, for he holds the child in one arm only, he offers him to him and Fëanaro snatches him into his arms. Tears blur his vision as he buries his son’s face against his chest. The baby squeaks that the sudden movement though settles quite happily a moment later.

“I wouldn’t hurt him.” There is a poorly veiled hurt in his voice. Suddenly the great presence that shrouded the elf seemed far less foreboding and mighty.

“I know,” he reaches his free hand out. The elf froze as his fingers brush the edges of his cheek. He saw it now, clearer and clearer. Echoes of Nerdanel, echoes of himself in his face. He reaches up to pull Fëanáro’s hand away, but the prince grabs his wrist and lets out a frail breath. There were scars that ran like pale webbing all across his face, but the burns on the palm of his hand looked agonising and red. They must cause him great torment and yet he had been holding the child the whole time.

“Maitimo,” he said softly and the boy shuddered, “it is you, isn’t it?”

Maedhros stares down at his scarred hand, “Not really. Not anymore.”

Fëanáro felt the air rush out of his lungs. Not even at sight the wraith that was his child but the mirthless smile that adorned his face. There was no life in his eyes, no hope. Everything in him wanted rush forward and wrap the boy in his embrace but fear he could not put into words kept him back.

“What happened?”

Fëanáro watches a million thoughts flicker over his face. He doesn’t answer and familiar, irrational thoughts creeped into his mind as they always do. This was you, they say, as he stares at his son. He shakes his head, he waited for Nelya to deny it but he still says nothing. Why isn’t he saying anything?

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, his hand twitched at his side but he didn’t reach over, “I tried.”

Their home was close enough to the trees that he’d never needed to worry much about it unless they were travelling. But he shivered as a breeze, poured in through the balcony. He wrapped Makalaurë tighter in his blankets as he carried him over to the window to close it.

As he looked out a strange sense of foreboding settled over his heart. The noises of the courtyard disappeared sharply as the latch fell in place. His reflection stared back at him worried, before his breath misted it over. Fëanáro felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and took a breath. They were not alone.

There was a flicker of light in the glass. Two pinpricks of treelight in the shadowed corner of the room. The creaking of the rocking chair didn’t slow, thudding on the wooden floor in time with his heart. The Prince turned slowly to face it. It takes all his will not to pull away, it stinks of salt and rot.

“Who are you?”

He wanted it to step into the light. He wanted it to stay as far from him as possible. Kanafinwë started whining in his arms and Fëanáro hushed him absently. There are no footsteps but he can feel the presence of it approaching. When it finally stopped before him, it loomed over him, tall and thin like a shadow.

It’s face was hidden by a threadbare hood. Swallowing hard, he stepped forward and pulled in back from its face. His chest felt full but hollow. A sob gets caught in his throat. He cannot recognise him. He cannot recognise this poor withered creature.

“Káno?” He prayed that he was wrong.

It blinked a couple of time, dazzled by the candlelight. Tears run down it’s cheeks, leaving pale lines in the dirt on his face that look like claw marks. He reached to wipe them away but pulled back in horror when he found even his touch bruised and tore and the phantom’s face.

“Who did this to you?”

It looked at him - looked and looked and saw nothing. He wanted to pull him into his arms. Hold him until he could remember his name but he was terrrified to so much as take his hand lest it crumble into dust. He could not even put down the little one for fear he might fade away when his back was turned.

So he reached out with his fëa to the frail elf he knew must be his son. There was so little of anything left but he at last brushed upon his spirit. He never felt fire burn cold before but he cradled the spark with unseen hands and prayed it was enough. A soft gasp escaped the elf’s lips. Fëanaro frowned. Had he even heard him breathe before then?

“My child, what happened?”

Fëanáro watched as his eyes cleared and finally focus on him. The weathered lines across its face pulled taut as he stepped back in horror. He raised his hands as though to ward him away and Fëanáro saw the same festering scar that had marred his brother. The vision opened his mouth but spoke in a voice like the whisper of waves on the shore. Leaning closer to hear it let out a whimper and Fëanáro sighed. He could not understand a word from his mouth.

“Káno - ” His own voice trailed off. A sound, a melody, shivered into the air. Too low for him to hear at first, only feel in the still gaping chasm of his chest. Makalaurë’s lips barely moved but the song grew and shifted. It was beautiful. And awful. It crawled to the back of his throat, he felt sick but thought he might fall apart if the boy stopped singing.

Darkness he saw, such complete and utter darkness. He couldn’t move for the terror of it. Blood on the sand and trees of pure silver. Two silver haired boys, or perhaps just the one, they looked so similar, and then their hair bled dark.

He found himself beside them both crouched in… a wardrobe, he thinks? He looks at them both and knows, the way one knows in dreams, first that they are Nolofinwë’s kin. Second, that they must be quiet - there was a monster prowling in the room outside. The music has not stopped, it’s ebbs and swells and it feels as though it’s burning him from the inside out.

He looked through a crack in the wood and saw seven flames burning white against the darkness, only to be consumed, one by one until there were just two. Suddenly they begin to burn bright enough to rival Laurëlin at her prime. He had to look away from the brilliance of it. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He took a deep breath before he turned. The elf stood in the far corner of the room, staring blankly into space.

Fëanáro watched him a long moment but he didn’t stir. The fire crackled untended in the furnace and somewhere above the rain drummed patterns into the room but neither of them made a sound. If he hadn’t known better he’d have thought him one of Nerdanel’s sculptures.

“Curufinwë?” he said at last, gently stepping forward.

He blinked and blinked again before turning at the sound of his voice. His face went white under the grime and blood that masked it. He stumbled back, knocking over a stand of iron pokers.

“Uh oh,” Curvo sang behind him but Fëanáro doesn’t spare him a glance. The vision hissed at the sound hitting the back of the wall hard. He came beside him, hands hovering by his arms but Curufin all but shrieked and shied away.

“No! No, leave me alone, please - ” the boy cried out.

“Peace, it is only me.”

“I can’t! I can’t, Please I’m s-sorry”

Curufin covered his face with his hands and didn’t stop crying. The sound echoed like a curse in room. His whole form, too slight to be healthy shook as he shrank even smaller against the cold stone. Fëanáro didn’t want to push, he seemed so fragile, but if he could just understand what caused his torment perhaps he could avoid this all to begin with.

“Curufinwë, my child, I know you must be frightened,” he tried to keep his voice steady and gentle, “but I must know what happened, I just need you to t- “

“No more,” his whimpering came back together finally into words, as little sense as they made, “no I… there’s no more, please!”

“Curvo…”

“It’s… it’s all gone. I have given up everything,” his voice pitched into something near hysterical, “there is no more, I have nothing more to give you.”

His finger tangled and pulled at his hair and Fëanáro couldn’t bear to watch. He wrapped his fingers around his wrists, hoping in vain to ease them away and Curufin’s head shoots up. Such terror there was in his eyes, Fëanáro stepped back as if burned. His own hands shake at his sides, want nothing more than to reach out again but he won’t. He can’t.

“What troubles you?” he whispered, blinking away tears, “Tell me, I would help you if I can.”

If not in the future, at least now. He would do anything. Anything, if only it would ease the fear that marred his son’s face.

“Please just… leave me alone.” Curufin looked away, shame heating up his face, “Just for a moment, a moment’s rest.”

He doesn’t even look up, though his hand tightened around the side of the crib.

Dread pools in his stomach, he spoke as steadily as he could, “To check on my son.”

He scoffed and Fëanáro is surprised how much it stung. Dark eyes, sharp and piercing flick up and regard him with cool disinterest. He can’t help feel small under his gaze. His lips twist into a scowl and he stalked over to the fireplace. Though he cuts a far slighter figure than the one before Fëanáro can’t stop his heart from racing.

“Is this a dream? Am I dead?”

Fëanaro opens his mouth to speak but his words disappear like smoke.

“Ai Valar, please, I must be dead.”

“Morifinwë…”

The elf chuckled and turned back, his face now shadowed. His clothes were smeared in blood and dirt but he could tell they were once white. There were gems sewn into the fabric the gave him shimmering and ever shifting silhouette leant on the mantle piece.

“Are you real?” The boy asked, he once again looked him up and down, poking his shoulder for good measure.

“I… yes?”

“You look young, were you really so young?”

“Morifinwë…” a bit of ire leaking into his voice. He’s doing in on purpose. Pelting him with questions so he can’t get a word in. Fëanáro can tell by the glint in his eye and a self-satisfied smirk far too similar to his own. He knew this game he could play it -

“Did you love us?”

His mind stuttered to a stop, “What?”

Morifinwë shrugged and looked back down at he fireplace, “I can’t remember anymore.”

He wasn’t quite aware that he stepped forward until he felt of the fire. The face of his son is flushed from the heat of it. His fingers wrapped around his cold hands, there’s blood on them also. Why was there always blood?

“More than anything. How can you even ask such a thing”

Morifinwë twisted out of his grip, fast as a viper grabbing his own wrist and pulling him closer. This one too shall be taller than him, he thought grimly. It’s terrifying how fast his expression shifted. There is an old fire burning in his eyes that kindles at the sight of him and he snarled.

“Then why did you die! Why did you leave us? Those were not your last words.” His voice rose with every word and the child in the crib behind whined. For a moment Fëanáro watched him turn to his younger self, shooting him a rather unimpressed glare. To his surprise, the baby quietened down with a little pout.

“I - “ Fëanáro shook his head, this is enough, the boy didn’t want an answer but he did, “What happened?”

Morifinwë barked a laugh and released him. He took a step back and shook his head. The boy seemed barely aware when Fëanáro reached out again and placed a hand on his arm.

“Moryo,” he pleaded, there was no time. They were never there long, “Tell me, let me fix this.”

“No.”

He looked surprised at his own answer. Fëanáro’s heart sank when he saw his son look up and meet his eyes, for he could see the decision was made and he would not be swayed. He shook his head and shoved his fear back down his throat.

“There’s no time, why wouldn’t you - “

“I’m married.”

“Stop.”

“I married an aftercomer. Her name was Haleth.”

“Morfinwë, your brothers are downstairs, I have seen what will happen to them - “

“I never told anyone, you may as well know.”

“I… I am glad for you and shall be glad to meet her but - “

“You won’t. But if I tell you, if you change - I may never meet her.”

“Oh, Moryo….”

He chuckled and Fëanáro could scream. He is as mad as the others. He cannot save them, how can he save them?

“I’m a monster, you know.”

Fëanáro grabbed his shoulders and shook him, “Do not say such things.”

Caranthir hissed back with just as much venom, “You don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know what I’d do again for the singular bright summer of my entire life.”

“I love you, Carnister,” His heart spilled out of his chest without warning. He hadn’t even realised how much his question had been gnawing at him until the words left his lips, “More than anything. More than life. More than all the jewels of the the earth and works of my hands, you must - “

His son shoved him off like his touched burned him. Fëanáro couldn’t understand the look on his face but he hated it.

“I’ll see you in the damned void.”

He did stare at sleeping child strangely. He, who looked so much like his own mother and it seemed only grew into her likeness as he grew older. Perhaps, he hoped, this one was spared the same nameless fate of his brothers.

His hand reached down, running along the baby’s cheek, careful not to wake him. It left rusty brown smudge along his face and Fëanáro suddenly felt ill. The stranger’s eyes widen and he let out a thin, breathy laugh. There was something wrong with the his smile as his hand moved to his hip.

“What do you think you doing?” Fëanáro sprang forward. The vision looked up at him and bared it’s teeth. He saw the flash of a knife and with speed he hadn’t known he possessed flew across the room.

He barrelled into him, shoving him into the wall and pinning his arms against it. The knife was oddly long and cruelly barbed. But well crafted, his mind supplied unhelpful. He watched as the elf’s gaze flitted across the room before landing back on him. His scowl melted into another uncanny smile and he bowed his head.

“They shall say to you he will be great. They never said I’d be good.”

Fëanáro had expected him to growl as he spoke. Else that his words would be sharp as his nails or the teeth they whispered past. The visions speaks with a voice like honey. Softly like he knew he’d be listened to and saw no need to raise his voice. Feanaro could feel the power behind the words and ignored it.

“Stay away from my son.”

“Atar,” he said chiding, “Am I not your loyal son? Everything I have ever done, all of it, was for you.”

He twisted his wrist, gently trying to entangle himself from his father’s grip. He slammed his hand back with enough force to make the elf drop the blade, or so he thought. He now recognised the blood on his fingertips and dried in flecks across his face.

“You don’t understand!” he grunted, and for the barest moment he looked afraid, then his expression morphed into one of burning earnestness, “There is something wrong with him.”

Fëanáro searched his pale silver eyes for some reason buried there, some awareness of the madness he was suggesting.

“Trust me,” it whispered and for the most terrible second, Fëanáro couldn’t help but consider his words. , “It would be better if he never lived!”

“Hold your tongue if you have nothing but poison to speak!” Fëanáro spit some of his own power into his words and the boy’s mouth clamped shut. He could have sworn the creature rolled it’s eyes. With far greater strength than his lithe body betrayed he flung Fëanáro off him. The prince stumbled back to avoid the blade swings down by his face, and landed hard to the ground.

“He shall kill your sons!”

Fëanáro brought his hand up to the side of his face, his fingers coming back red and sticky.

“What- ”

It was barely a deep enough to be called an injury but Tyelkormo stared down at him in horror. The blade in his hand clattered to the ground and Fëanáro watched as he seemed to crumple in on himself.

“He… I. I didn’t mean to… I… I’m sorry - I don’t,” Celegorm slid slowly to the ground and murmuring apologies and names Fëanáro had never heard.

He hesitates a moment before shuffling over to him. Careful to block his view of his son, he put his arms around the boy. Tyelkormo is also crying in his crib but Fëanáro didn’t risk glancing at him. He won’t remind the weeping elf of his proximity to the child.

“Turkafinwë…” He said softly, running his hands through his hair as he sobbed against his shoulder. He is shivering and warm as ghosts should not be. The cut on his cheek stung a little but dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. These were more than just visions, they could touch this world - they could harm his children.