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They were waiting for him outside. Reporters, swarming the footpath, shouting Fingolfin’s name the moment they spotted him. All wanting to know the new twist in the drama. No doubt they were already speculating why he was leaving alone.
He silently ran through his statement as he crossed the plaza. Ten metres of polished white marble, and he’d reach the stairs that would take him down into the fray. He’d pause at the top, so they could take their pictures of him looking smooth and unruffled – if he could manage that, with Fëanor’s tirade burning in his head. He’d say a few noncommittal words that sounded good but said nothing. Just enough to maintain his reputation as the easier brother to deal with. Then security would clear him a path to the waiting car, and he would finally be done with the day’s farce.
He was brought back to the present by a sudden roar from the crowd. The volume escalated so quickly it took him a few moments to register what they were saying.
“Fëanor,” they were shouting, “Fëanor, what happened?”
Fingolfin heard sharp footsteps behind him, the clack of expensive shoes on stone, and then Fëanor grabbed him by the arm, yanking him around so they were face to face.
“What the hell -” Fingolfin began, and then he felt something hard pressing against his throat.
A gun. Fëanor had a gun.
The moment stretched out, taut as a rubber band. The noise died away as the crowd realised what was happening.
Fingolfin swallowed involuntarily, the barrel digging into his Adam’s apple.
Oh Valar, he thought. He genuinely wants me dead.
Fëanor had pulled him around with enough force that they had exchanged positions: Fëanor stood between Fingolfin and the reporters, though Fingolfin had a clear view of them over Fëanor’s shoulder. And they would have a clear view of him.
Fuck.
The cameras would all be trained on his face. He could see the cover shots already: him panicked and helpless, utterly at Fëanor’s mercy.
You don’t grow up heir to a media empire without knowing how to stage a scene.
Fingolfin carefully corrected his expression. Impassive, like this happened every week. Like he wasn’t imagining wresting the gun from his brother and punching him in the face.
Fëanor was looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
“Now that I have your attention,” he said silkily, “why don’t we have a little chat.”
He skimmed the barrel across Fingolfin’s throat like he was judging where would do the most damage. The metal was warm against his skin. Fëanor must’ve had it tucked into his waistband. He’d been planning this, the goddamn –
“I’m afraid I missed your speech,” Fëanor went on. “Care to share what you told Atar? I understand it concerns me most intimately.”
So this was what Fingolfin got for walking out on him. What could he say that wouldn’t make things worse? He’d only spoken freely because Fëanor hadn’t been there to hear it, and he thought Finwë might finally be ready to listen.
Well, if he hadn’t believed Fëanor was dangerous before this…
“Not so talkative now, are you,” Fëanor said.
Fingolfin was weighing his options. Security had rushed in only to stop a few metres away, clearly afraid to get involved. Probably for the best. How would it look for the family if his brother had to be pulled off him like a cat with its claws sunk in?
He would have to talk Fëanor down himself. Fëanor, who was quickly running out of patience. The self-satisfied smile slid off his face.
“What did you say, Nolofinwë?”
They were of a height, but Fëanor was forcing Fingolfin’s head up, holding the gun right below his chin so Fingolfin was looking down his nose at his brother. Every so often Fëanor nudged the barrel higher, eyes glittering at how quickly Fingolfin responded, fingers tightening on Fingolfin’s arm.
“Put the gun away, Fëanor,” Fingolfin said.
“Answer the question.”
“I’m not answering anything with that in my face,” Fingolfin said.
Fëanor flicked the safety off. Fingolfin didn’t flinch.
They stayed like that for a long half-minute, trapped together, eye to eye. The impasse seemed to sap the energy out of Fëanor. When he spoke again, his voice was flat.
“If you try and turn Atar against me again, I will kill you.”
His gaze settled on something over Fingolfin’s shoulder. There must be someone coming out of the building – their father? Fingolfin thought, hopeful, but no. Finwë wouldn’t risk being photographed with this mess, not even in the background.
“What is it?” Fëanor snapped at the newcomer.
“Your father would like to see you.”
Fëanor smirked at Fingolfin, but his amusement slipped away as quickly as it came.
“Go. I have had enough of you today.”
He lowered the gun and released his grip on Fingolfin. Fingolfin didn’t break eye contact. He straightened his jacket, the front wrinkled where they’d been pressed together, and only then did he walk away. Slow and deliberate, though he could feel Fëanor’s eyes cutting into his back. He’d wanted the last word, but he’d taken enough risks already that day. The media parted silently to let him through.
He didn’t break until he reached the car.
As soon as the door was shut he closed his eyes and leaned back on the headrest, fighting to keep his breathing steady. As the driver pulled away from the kerb, an uproar exploded in his wake, and within minutes his phone was ringing. His hands were shaky, and it took him a few attempts to answer the call.
It was Anairë. They spoke for a few minutes, her seeking reassurance that he couldn’t quite provide, not while he was struggling to string a sentence together. Was he ok? He didn’t have an answer for that, and she zeroed in on his uncertainty like a wasp.
“I’m picking the kids up early, and then we’re coming home to be with you. I don’t think you should talk to anyone else until we’re there, Nolo.”
His phone buzzed.
“I might have to talk to my mother,” he said drily. “I’ll see you at home.”
“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” Anairë promised.
He hung up, and immediately answered again.
“Nolofinwë. How are you?” Indis said, as if it were a routine call.
He took a fraction too long to respond, and she repeated his name, alarmed.
“I’m here, Ammë,” he said. “And still in one piece. Don’t worry.”
“Did he hurt you at all?” she asked.
“No. Not physically.”
“Thank goodness,” she said, relieved. “I couldn’t be sure. The videos were all so shaky. You don’t sound like yourself - how are you feeling?”
“Like I need a strong drink,” he said. “How did I look?”
“You conducted yourself well,” she said. “As well as you could, under the circumstances.”
“I tried to act like you would have,” he said quietly.
There was a long pause.
“I’m sorry, Nolo,” she said, sounding weary. “You should never have had to do that.”
“Neither should you,” he said.
He’d seen her around Fëanor, the few occasions she had to be. He’d seen how much it took out of her.
“You did well,” she said again.
Then, with a brisk practicality that was far more natural for her, she added, “I’m trying to call your father, but he’s not answering. I will keep trying until he does. Fëanor needs to be reined in. Don’t let your father talk you into forgiveness, like he talked you into this meeting. This is too much. Fëanor’s gone too far.”
“I don’t think we’re Atar’s priority,” Fingolfin said. “I expect he’ll be talking to Tulkas. He won’t rest while there’s a chance Fëanor will be arrested.”
“No, I suppose not. It’s a pity. A cell might do him some good,” Indis said. “Although…”
“Ammë?” Fingolfin prompted. He knew the sound of a plot forming. She would have a glazed look on her face, the face of a bored wife at a club luncheon, but beneath her pristine veneer the wheels would be turning.
“Your father may have Tulkas in his pocket, but we can go higher than that,” Indis said. “My brother has Manwë’s ear, and you know Manwë doesn’t hold anybody above the law. He won’t take much persuading to insist on some kind of repercussions for this. Legal repercussions.”
“Ingwë has never involved himself in this,” Fingolfin said, doubtful. “Would he really want to now, when there are so many eyes on us?”
“He has,” Indis said softly. “When you were very young. He and I sat down with your father, and we persuaded Finwë to send Fëanor away to school. I wanted you and Arafinwë to grow up in peace. Ingwë can’t act openly, of course – it will have to look like it’s coming straight from Manwë. I think we should consider it, Nolo. If a gun to your throat doesn’t force his hand – how many more chances can we give him?”
“More,” Fingolfin said at once. “Always more. If we walk out, Fëanor wins. It’s what he’s wanted all along. He’ll get the company, and we’ll just get a pay-out.” He stopped himself, aware of the anger bleeding into his words, and only went on when he had it under control again. “You’re right, Ammë. Ingwë may be our best option. But only if we can’t talk Atar into doing something ourselves.”
There was a weighty silence. All their previous efforts to talk Finwë into acting had failed, and if he caught wind of what they were planning, this one would too.
It wouldn’t be necessary if Fëanor hadn’t done what he did, Fingolfin told himself. He started it, not me. I’m just trying to protect myself.
“Well,” Indis said. “There we have it. I’ll give my brother a call. Have you made it home yet?”
“Nearly.”
“I’ll bring your father when I can. Take care of yourself, Nolo.”
“And you, Ammë.”
The car pulled up outside his building. There were a few reporters hanging around here as well, but he’d arrived quickly enough to beat the rest. He crossed the footpath with his head high, ignoring the camera flashes and the questions, and slipped inside, nodding his thanks to the doorman.
His phone buzzed again: a message from Finwë. His heart sank as he read it.
Are you alright? I’m sorry I can’t talk right now. I’m busy trying to sort things out here, but I am thinking of you, and I’ll call you later.
Fingolfin forwarded the message to Indis with no comment.
The lift delivered him to an empty apartment. Anairë was still out. The place was unchanged from how he left it, a little over an hour ago, and he didn’t quite belong there anymore. When he left he’d been steeling himself to co-operate with Fëanor, in whatever way would make his father happy. Now he was trying to remove Fëanor from the picture completely.
He showered, put on a fresh white shirt and fetched himself a whiskey. It was a vintage Finwë had bought him for his last birthday, no doubt with an eyewatering price-tag. He knocked it back. It was the most his father had done for him all day.
He couldn’t stop checking his phone, in the hope of a message from Finarfin. His brother was out of town. He’d timed the trip to coincide with the meeting.
“I don’t care about the company, Nolo,” he’d said. “You do whatever you think is best. I will support you.”
But when Fingolfin tried to call him, it went straight to voicemail. He’d taken Eärwen and the kids to some remote town up the coast. Somewhere there’d be no paparazzi. Somewhere without decent reception, maybe, or – more likely – he’d just turned his phone off.
Dammit. Just when I need him.
There was no way Finarfin could’ve known what a disaster the meeting would be, Fingolfin reminded himself.
He couldn’t blame his brother for skipping town, but he could’ve done with his perspective right now. Much as he valued the advice of Indis and Anairë, they thought in the same terms as he did. Finarfin did not.
Fingolfin took a seat in the living room, but couldn’t keep still for long. He found himself driving his knuckles deep into the couch, and was pouring himself another drink to settle down when a bustle at the door announced the return of his family.
“Nolofinwë?” Anairë called.
“In here.”
He heard the thumping of bare feet on the wooden floor and Aredhel appeared, running straight for him. He stood up just in time for her to cannonball into him, and lifted her up into a hug. She clung tightly to him, scrunching his shirt in her small fists.
The boys followed at a slower pace, and Anairë behind them. They looked like they’d been evacuated from a bomb threat; pale, shaken, not quite sure if the danger was past or it would blow up in their wake. They clustered around him, as if to reassure themselves by proximity.
Fingolfin set Aredhel down so the others could hug him too. Anairë was trembling beneath her silk blouse, wired up on the kind of anxiety that usually signified a deadline at work.
“How much did you tell them?” he asked her.
“Atar, we saw everything,” Fingon said. “You’re trending everywhere.”
“On all the sites that aren’t ours,” Turgon corrected.
Fingolfin grimaced. So much for trying to protect the kids.
“Were you scared?” Aredhel asked, looking up at him with big round eyes. The fear on her face unsettled him. He wasn’t used to seeing her afraid of anything.
He sat down again and lifted her onto his knee.
“It takes more than that to frighten me,” he told her. “I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I wasn’t so sure of that,” Anairë said.
She sat beside him and Aredhel, the boys settling on the couch opposite, though Fingon was the only one who really relaxed. He put a foot up on the glass coffee table without thinking, and earned himself a warning glance from his mother.
“He can’t have the company if he’s in jail,” Fingolfin said, “and that’s the only thing he cares about.”
He was usually more cautious with what he said around the children, for fear they’d repeat it, but his audacious plan had made him suddenly reckless. Besides, anything he said would pale next to what they’d already seen that day.
“Told you,” Turgon said, looking at his brother. “Finno thought he’d finally snapped but I said he wouldn’t have done it in front of everyone if he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Turno, nobody sane does something like that,” Fingon protested. “Or he’d know he’d never get away with it. There were so many witnesses! He’s going to jail, right, Atar?”
They looked at Fingolfin expectantly.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“He should,” Anairë said. “Pulling a stupid stunt like that, when you two were supposed to be making peace.”
“The police are likely to get involved,” Fingolfin said. If Ingwë does his part. “And the media will be following the investigation closely. So whatever you hear at home has to stay at home, ok? We can’t trust anyone who’s not family.”
“So same as usual, then,” Fingon said.
Fingolfin had to smile.
“Well, there’s nothing more I need tell you then, is there?”
Though the conversation was over, they all stayed together, reluctant to leave him alone. Turgon helped Aredhel with her homework while Fingon did god-knew-what on his phone. Fingolfin was glad of the company, subdued though it was. Most nights he was home too late to see much of them, or else they were busy with friends and extracurriculars.
He tried calling Finarfin again, without success. Sighing, he brought up his inbox and began to sort the emails that’d poured in during the last few hours. His assistant could have done it for him, but he wanted to know who was willing to back him and who was still hedging their bets.
There was a message from Fëanor titled ‘;)’ which he deleted without opening. The rest were expressions of support or requests for interviews. He rejected most of the latter, but flagged a few from the more prestigious publications as possibilities. He could do with a little positive PR, while he had the spotlight. Something that would make him look less of a victim.
Anairë was trying to catch up on work too, though Fingolfin could see she wasn’t making much progress. She kept glancing up at him, and when she looked back at her screen she was slow to find her place again.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Come here.”
She gave her laptop a final glance, slid a few inches closer and laid her head on his shoulder. He tucked his arm around her and held her close. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to Turgon’s patient tutoring, until Fingolfin could feel her tension easing.
“I thought I might lose you today,” she said quietly. “As I was watching, I kept thinking that I’d been so stupid to encourage you. I should have been cautioning you instead.”
“Caution would have served me no better,” Fingolfin said. “Finwë didn’t want to hear what I had to say, and Fëanor didn’t hear it at all.”
Anairë raised her head, astonished.
“He didn’t? Then what set him off?”
Fingolfin smiled, though he’d been irritated at the time.
“He was late. I could’ve been saying anything before he got there, and he chose to imagine the worst.”
“Of course he did,” Anairë said. “That way he could have his little scene, even if you’d decided to be conciliatory.”
She shook her head and reached for the whiskey. Fingon eyed the bottle hopefully.
“Absolutely not,” Anairë said.
“Worth a try,” Fingon said with a grin.
The cook had been given the night off, so they ordered dinner in. The boys consumed most of the food, and were just emptying their plates when Indis swept in. She was, as always, inscrutable and impeccably attired. Her ash-blonde hair was in a flawless wave and her expression betrayed none of the stress she was under.
There was a bustle as everyone clustered around to greet her, kissing her powdered cheek and, in the children’s case, receiving the once-over. She had an uncannily accurate eye for determining exactly how much each one had grown. Checking if she needed to start wearing higher heels, she said.
She wrapped Fingolfin in a rare embrace, whispering “I need to see you alone.”
He offered her a cup of tea, and she followed him into the kitchen to make sure he made it properly.
“Did you speak with Atar?” he asked, filling the kettle.
She shook her head. “He’s been with Fëanor all afternoon.”
“That doesn’t look good for us,” Fingolfin said.
“He’s going to come. I said I’d serve him divorce papers by midnight if he didn’t.”
“That’s not an empty threat, is it,” Fingolfin said.
Indis held his gaze. “It’s not off the table, regardless of what happens tonight.”
Fingolfin found himself wondering just how much his father was willing to lose.
“Now, Ingwë is with us – if nothing else, he would rather not have to deal with Fëanor as CEO – and Manwë, too. We’re in a strong position, Nolo. We can ask for whatever we want and Finwë will have little choice but to agree.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, picking an invisible piece of dust off her dress.
“It feels like we’re organising a funeral,” Fingolfin said.
“We are,” Indis said, fixing him with her ice-cool gaze. “And we’re making damn sure it won’t be yours.”
She stopped abruptly at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, relaxing only when Anairë came into the room.
“Am I interrupting?” Anairë asked.
“She should know,” Fingolfin said to his mother, and after a pause she nodded.
“We’re discussing terms,” Indis said.
Fingolfin held up an extra cup and Anairë nodded, taking a seat across from Indis. He poured the tea, inhaling the slightly bitter scent of the brew as he joined them at the table.
“What terms?” Anairë asked.
Fingolfin and Indis exchanged another look.
“I want Fëanor disinherited,” Fingolfin said. It was the first time he’d said it aloud. “Out of the company, out of the city. Out of our lives.”
I want to be defined by something other than him.
“It’s what we should have been pushing for all along,” he continued. “Only now, we have a real chance of getting it.”
Anairë nodded.
“I think you need security,” she said.
Fingolfin opened his mouth to disagree – the optics would be terrible – but Anairë held up a hand.
“That or a restraining order, Nolo. I could’ve watched you die on a livestream. And you hadn’t done a thing to him. If you take the company from him, he’ll have nothing left to lose. No reason not to hurt you too.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway again. This time it was Aredhel, come to present her latest horse drawing to her grandmother. She kept darting looks at her father, as if to check he was still there, while Indis accepted the gift graciously.
They took that as their cue to return to the living room and the children, and for an hour or so it was almost like the afternoon had never happened. Indis lightly interrogated her grandchildren about school, Aredhel started nodding off but refused to go to bed, and Fingolfin put his phone on silent, though kept it close enough to see any incoming calls. None were the ones he was waiting for.
It was dark by the time Finwë arrived. Aredhel was finally asleep, the boys had retreated to their rooms, and so he entered the living room to complete silence. Indis made no move to get up, acknowledging his presence with nothing more than a cool look.
He looked exhausted, enough for Fingolfin to feel guilty for the demands they were about to make of him. What had Fëanor put him through in the last few hours?
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him, Nolo,” Finwë said, his eyes filled with utter sincerity. “It should never have happened, and I promise you I am doing all I can to remedy it.”
Fingolfin could have predicted he’d say something like that, only a step or two removed from a formulaic corporate apology, but dammit if it wasn’t working on him, at least a little. He’d spent the evening fearing Finwë would brush this aside, like he’d brushed aside so much before.
Indis, however, was less impressed.
“Are you,” she said.
Finwë glanced at her, assessing the scope of her displeasure and whether she could be put off.
“I may have a solution,” he said wearily, rubbing his chin. “But there’s something I need to ask of you, Nolofinwë.”
There was a tiny frown on Indis’ face. Alone, Fingolfin was easier to sway, and they both knew it.
He nodded and followed his father into his study. Finwë took the leather armchair, Fingolfin’s reading chair. It was easily big enough to fit the children on the arms – or had been, a few years ago.
Fingolfin was tempted to stay standing, to remind Finwë that all the power with him. Instead he poured his father a bourbon and sat in the chair opposite.
“Listen, you are foremost in my priorities right now,” Finwë said. “I can’t imagine what it felt like to go through that so publicly, and I swear I will do everything in my power to make it right. But Nolo, there’s a risk this is going to spiral out of my control. Out of family control,” he corrected, leaning forward. “Tulkas was evasive when we asked for clemency. He hinted there’s someone higher up who wants to see Fëanáro punished. I know you must be angry at him right now, but even so, you must see that he needs help, not prison.”
“How are you going to keep him out of it, if Tulkas can’t help you?” Fingolfin said.
“We have to handle it ourselves. We’ve weathered bigger scandals. Make it out like it was no big deal. He just lost his temper. He didn’t really mean it.”
“It felt like he meant it to me,” Fingolfin said, heart sinking.
“I know. And I’m not saying there won’t be consequences for your brother,” Finwë said. “But we are the only ones who should be deciding what they are. Whatever it takes to make you feel safe around him again, I will do it, Nolo. Whatever you want.”
“I want a restraining order. And I want Fëanor out of the company.”
Finwë jerked back, like Fingolfin had struck him in the face.
“You know I can’t do that to him. It’s what he’s most afraid of.”
“He’s a liability, Atar, you must see it,” Fingolfin said, a little desperately. How was he turning into the aggressor here? “He planned the whole thing – he probably tipped off the media too, to make sure it got everywhere.”
“There’s no reason to think that,” Finwë said. “It was no secret that the two of you hadn’t spoken for months. Of course the media were there.”
“Then what about the gun?” Fingolfin said. “How did he get it so quickly? He didn’t pull it out of thin air. He wanted to humiliate me in the most public way possible, and -”
“He’s going to apologise, Nolo,” Finwë said, cutting him off. “Live on television, for everyone to see. To your face, if you’re willing.
“What?” Fingolfin said, stunned. “How did you get him to agree to that?”
Finwë hesitated.
“Atar?” Fingolfin prompted.
He knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. Had Finwë promised Fëanor he’d get the company? Fingolfin couldn’t think of anything else that would compel Fëanor to admit he’d done wrong.
“You need to forgive him.”
“Is this meant to be on live TV as well?” Fingolfin asked.
Finwë nodded.
“We’ve got a slot lined up on our late show tonight. With our people, of course – they’ll go easy on you. Just a brief appearance from the two of you, and he’ll do most of the talking. All you need to say is that it was a misunderstanding, that you’re working on your relationship and you’re not holding a grudge.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Fingolfin said.
“I’m not asking you to mean it,” Finwë said, exasperated. “You just have to say a few words, that’s all. For my sake.”
“My own brother put a gun to my head,” Fingolfin said. “A half-assed apology won’t erase that. It won’t get anywhere near the circulation, for starters.”
Fëanor being arrested, however…
“Then what do you propose?” Finwë said. “If Fëanáro goes to jail, I’m finished. We’re finished.”
Fingolfin started to object but Finwë kept talking.
“The family and the company are one and the same. If people lose confidence in either one, our shares will crash, and there won’t be anything for you to inherit. Either of you. We can’t fight without destroying everything we’ve built together.”
Fingolfin wasn’t convinced. Together?
“You built this company, Atar, when we were still learning the alphabet.”
“What we have already means nothing,” Finwë said, his hand falling with a loud smack on the arm of the chair. “Nothing if we can’t keep expanding. Without Fëanáro’s new platform, we’re going to be left behind. The new app already did wonders for us.”
“I know, Atar,” Fingolfin said.
He was reminded of that whenever he walked into Finwë’s office. Fëanor’s Time cover hung in a frame on the wall.
“But there are other developers out there,” Fingolfin said. Ones who won’t bring a gun to a board meeting. “Why can’t you send Fëanor off to Silicon Valley where he can buy himself a start-up to play with?”
“That would be a consolation prize and you know it,” Finwë said sharply. “Don’t ask me to do anything of the sort, Nolofinwë.”
He softened.
“I don’t have endless time. I can’t step down until the two of you can manage by yourselves, and right now that seems very far away. Things can’t continue like this. We’re going to get a family therapist – the best in the city. You and your brother can talk it out until you’ve reached some sort of détente.”
Not good enough, Atar, Fingolfin thought. And yet it hurt to deceive him, as deceive him they must. If Finwë learned his wife and son didn’t trust him to resolve this himself, that they had resorted to pulling strings – the betrayal would devastate him.
“I’ll do the appearance tonight,” he said, reluctantly. It would buy them time. “I will think on the rest.”
“Thank you, Nolofinwë,” Finwë said, smiling for the first time that night. He leaned back in the chair, the leather squeaking slightly. “You never fail me.”
He checked his watch.
“We need to leave for the studio by quarter past,” he said. That gave them half an hour. “PR has put together some lines for you to use. I’ll forward them to you.”
“I can write my own,” Fingolfin said. He would decide exactly how much territory he was conceding. Not an inch more than was necessary, even if it was only temporary.
“Take a look anyway,” Finwë said. “I know you’re good on your toes, but it can’t hurt to have them up your sleeve. We don’t want anything unexpected happening on the air. There’s been enough of that already today.”
He downed the last of his bourbon and set the glass on the desk with a decisive thunk.
“Now that’s settled, will you ask your mother to come in? I have some more atoning to do.”
Anairë and Indis had their heads together, talking quietly, but they broke off as soon as Fingolfin came in.
“Atar wants you, Ammë,” Fingolfin said, careful to shut the door behind him.
Indis didn’t move.
“Is he giving you what you asked for?”
Fingolfin shook his head.
“He refused to even consider it,” he said. “I haven’t mentioned our friend in high places. I think he’d term it blackmail.”
“No, best not to,” Indis said. “He won’t like being forced into anything.”
“He won’t punish Fëanor at all?” Anairë asked, disbelieving.
“No,” Fingolfin said. “But Manwë will.”
More than I ever could.
Fëanor was going to wish today had never happened.