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Chapter Text

It had begun, Finwë and Indis always maintained, at Nolofinwë’s very birth. He had been a small babe, and quiet - so different from Fëanáro! - but when he had first opened his grey eyes into Indis’ brown ones, a heady fragrance of roses had drifted in through the window. Indis had breathed a quiet prayer of thanks to Yavanna for her blessing, and thought that was the end of it.

It was not.

Two months later, Indis had walked into her child’s nursery to find him covered in dirt, as though he had been rolling around in the garden. He was giggling.

“Finwë,” said Indis, “did you take Nolofinwë outside today?”

“No,” said Finwë, puzzled, coming into the room. “Why, did you - oh.” He stopped and stared.

Nolofinwë smiled back at them. There was dirt stuck in his teeth.

None of Nolofinwë’s nurses, nor the gardeners, nor Fëanáro could tell them aught of how their little baby had escaped to the garden; and they were forced to let it rest. But Indis thought of the scent of roses which had suffused the room when Nolofinwë let out his first cry, and was troubled.

Three days later, it happened again; and two six-days after that, Indis entered the nursery to find her son stroking the velvety petals of a massive rose which had burst its way through the window. She stood in shock; then she scooped up Nolofinwë and went to find her husband.

“We must take Nolofinwë to the temple of Kementári,” she said. “He has been blessed, or cursed, or - touched, somehow, and - I must know.” Know if he will be like Míriel, touched by a Vala and taken too soon, is what she did not say; but she knew that Finwë heard. 

He nodded decisively. “We shall go at once,” he said, and within the hour they had set out from the palace. Indis looked behind the carriage - it was customary to walk on these pilgrimages, but difficult with a babe so young - and inhaled sharply.

White petals were fluttering to the ground behind the carriage wheels.

They went south, south, south. Around them the grass grew greener and more vivid, the trees taller, the flowers fuller. Even the bees were louder, their humming penetrating deep into Indis’ skull.

Finally Finwë called a halt, at the edge of a wide wood. They could not reach Yavanna by carriage; they must go on foot, into the trees.

With little Nolofinwë safely bound to his back, Finwë extended a hand to his queen. He squeezed her fingers as they descended.

“It will be all right,” he whispered, “I am sure of it.”

His mind spoke differently, a whirl of silver-grey grief; but Indis took the assurance as it was meant, and returned the pressure with her own slight fingers.

They set off into the forest. It was cool, the air dappled with green and gold; the thick light of Laurelin flowed through the branches. It turned the black thatch of hair upon Nolofinwë’s head a rich, earthy brown and set Finwë’s eyes ablaze with fire. 

My son, thought Indis. My husband! How I love them! As she spoke these words to herself she felt the air warm around her. Then everything grew very, very still.

What seekest thou, lord of the Noldor, lady of the Vanyar? came a whisper from the branches.

Indis cleared her throat, trying to force words out through her nerves. She looked to Finwë for strength; but he had fallen to his knees in awe. On his back, Nolofinwë burbled happily.

Fear not, rumbled the earth, ask what thou wilt.

“My Lady Kementari,” she said softly at last. “My son Nolofinwe - he is - different. We came to ask why.”

A squirrel chittered in laughter, somewhere to her left. Yes, he is different. He is beloved. All will love him save one.

Which one? Indis wondered; but Finwe beside her seemed to find his voice at last at Nolofinwe’s name. “Have you blessed him, my Lady?”

Blessed? mused a lark. Perhaps. I have given him strength that he will need.

“Need for what?” demanded Indis.

I do not know. I only know that at his birth the very ground cried out, whispered the wind. He will shake us! said the roots. He shall build us! wept the stones. We will embrace him at last, came a voice from the ground below Indis’ feet, but he shall be lifted high.

Indis looked at Nolofinwë, reaching one chubby hand out to touch a bird who was fluttering curiously about Finwë’s shoulder. It seemed impossible that someone so little could lift any stone, let alone shake the very earth, or earn the attention of the Lady Yavanna herself. He was her young son - so very young!

“Will your gift save him?” she asked.

Naught can save him from a Doom he chooses willingly, came a whisper from the heavily-laden air, but we shall be ever with him.

“We thank you for blessing our son,” came the voice of Finwë beside her, strong as stone. Indis herself stood still. She would rather have a child who accomplished little, and was known by few, and lived well and happily. She did not want the choking earth to embrace him, he who was son to one of the Vanyar, who lived upon the mountains and breathed the air of Manwë!

But one could not countermand a Vala; and so Indis also dipped her head in thanks. She felt a droplet of water fall upon her forehead; then another, cold little kisses.

Indis, Queen of the Noldor, came a voice from deep within the earth, We are sorry. Thy son shall be happy for many years under our light.

Unaccountably Indis felt the urge to weep. Why should joy be ever taken from her child, who dwelt in safety and peace in Aman? Why could her family not be whole? What a curse was greatness, which Finwë wore like a crown about his brow!

The air about them cooled as the great Presence of Kementári faded, and Nolofinwë beside her let out a long sigh. Finwë slipped an arm about her.

“We have our answer, at least,” he said. “Let us go home, and build a nursery closer to the garden.”

Indis leaned her head upon his shoulder and sighed. “Very well,” she said.

As they walked back, Finwë said, voice suddenly anxious, “I love you, my lady wife; and I love our son. Both my sons,” he added, for Fëanaro was never far from his thought, and Indis loved him for it. “I am sorry to bring you grief.”

“It is no grief to be wedded to you,” Indis told him softly. “It is no grief to raise your sons with you. It is only -” she stopped, and sighed. “It is a heavy burden,” she said finally, “to have a child who is destined for greatness. Already Fëanáro stands apart, and alone. Must Nolofinwë also leave us?”

“Our children shall not leave us,” said Finwë firmly. “Whatever comes, they will have our strength beside them.”

Indis felt another cold swell of foreboding; but she nodded again, and did not weep as Nolofinwë wrapped his tiny hands about her finger.

Chapter Text

The argument began, as they always did, over something small. Nolofinwë did not even know what he had said; he only knew that suddenly Fëanáro had bridled as if at a deadly insult, and ordered him out of his chambers in a voice sharper than the knives he forged.

Despondently he sat down in the garden, digging his hands into the dirt. It had begun as his mother’s; but the flowers had all at once reached out to Nolofinwë’s windowsill, and now it was his as well as hers, a riot of vivid color and lovely smells. It was always peaceful here, and reminded him of Ammë. He could come when he was excited, and watch the heavy heads of the peonies and dragonsnaps stretch out towards them and unfurl new blossoms; and he could come, as now, when he needed to cry, and feel the velvety leaves of elderflower rub against his cheek. Ammë had planted those. She said she found them soothing too.

Perhaps Fëanáro was angry all the time, Nolofinwë mused, because he did not have a garden he had made with his mother. He had nothing that he had made with his mother. “How terrible must that be!” he told a zinnia, which rustled obligingly in agreement. “But still he ought not yell. He is so much taller than me. And sometimes his eyes seem made of fire, and it -” his voice broke, and the dragonsnaps rustled against the tips of his ears.

He scrubbed at his eyes. “It scares me, is all,” he said. “But Ammë and Atya say that I must be patient with him, for he has never had a mother to plant a garden with. So I shall be patient.”

He sat in the garden for a long time, breathing in the fresh air and letting it cool his hot cheeks. Then he rose and went in search of his mother.

She was at her desk, working busily at a piece of parchment. Nolofinwë hovered by the door, watching her work; then she looked up and smiled.

“Aracano!” she said in welcome. Then her eyes went to the tracks of tears still on his cheeks, his red eyes, and concern creased her face. “Are you all right, winicë?”

“Yes,” said Nolofinwë quietly. “I am alright. It was just…” his voice trailed off.

Indis sighed. “Was it Fëanáro?”

Nolofinwë nodded, trying his best not to cry again. Fëanáro was so wonderful, and Ammë and Atya loved him so, and Nolofinwë loved him too. He wanted Fëanáro to show him what he was working on, and look down at him with affection like his friend Elulindo’s brother looked at him, and - and - he sniffled.

“Come here, winicë,” said Ammë, holding out her arms, and he ran into them. She held him tight, rocking him back and forth, and he breathed in the familiar scent of parchment and velvet, and the sense of wind in a high place that she always carried with her. “Everything will be alright.”

“I do not even know what I said,” said Nolofinwë. “I do not understand why he is so angry with me.”

“It is not you,” she said. “I promise. He is just…very deeply hurt.”

“I don’t understand,” said Nolofinwë. “I know that he has no Ammë, and it is so sad, and I would bring her back and give him an Ammë of his own if I could. But I do not understand why he is angry with me.”

Another sigh. Indis' fingers tapped against his back as they always did when she was deep in thought. “Think of Atya,” she said at last. “Think of how he loves you.”

Nolofinwë did. Atya and his kind silver eyes and his long silky hair, and the warmth in his face when he swung Nolofinwë high in the air. The way he never laughed at Nolofinwë for needing time among the flowers, even though none of Nolofinwë’s friends understood. Atya was loved by everybody, but Nolofinwë loved him most of all.

Indis smiled at him. “Do you think,” she said, “that because Atya loves me, he cannot also love you?”

Nolofinwë shook his head vehemently. “No! Atya loves everyone!”

“There,” said Indis. “You are right. He loves many people in different ways, but his heart is large enough to hold them all. Fëanáro cannot believe this. He is afraid, because Atya married me, instead of always cleaving to the memory of Míriel, that Atya’s heart will turn from him as well.”

Nolofinwë thought about this, absently chewing on his sleeve. Finally he said, “But that is silly! Anyone can see that Atya loves Fëanáro. He loves him most of all.”

Indis' gaze turned sad. “He does not love you less, Aracáno.”

Nolofinwë wanted to argue; but he did not want to make his mother sad. So he said instead, “Atya would never stop loving Fëanáro.”

“No,” said his mother, “but Fëanáro cannot see that. And whenever he sees you, he is reminded of his own loss, and his own fear. It is not your fault. He loves you too, in his own way.”

Nolofinwë sniffled again. “But he is so - so angry. I do not want to make him angry.”

“You do not make him angry,” said Ammë. “It is he who makes himself angry. He does not mean to hurt you.”

Nolofinwë fell silent again. He thought how much it would hurt if Ammë suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a new mother. He would cry and cry, and not leave his room for days. He might even shout and throw things, as he had when his favorite toy horse had been broken.

Finally he said softly, “I am sorry for him. I wish I could help him.”

There was a sudden warmth by his feet, and he looked down. The velvet petals of a deep red tea-rose were brushing against his knees, springing up from a little crack in the marble floor. He petted its petals.

“Oh!” said Indis. “That is lovely! How did you -” she stopped. She and Atya often asked these things; but Nolofinwë could never explain how he did them. They just happened.

He looked again at the deep-red of the rose. It reminded him of Fëanáro, and how he flushed when he was excited, and the bright robes he liked to wear.

He said, “Might i give this to Fëanáro, Ammë?”

Ammë smiled. Her eyes lightened a little. “Of course, Aracáno,” she said. “You have a kind heart, my beloved son.”

Nolofinwë blushed. He did not think it was overly kind merely to love his brother - but Fëanáro had trouble with it, certainly - and Ammë was so kind that she must know what true kindness was. He hid his face behind the rose.

“Do you think I could make another one?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Ammë said, and smiled. “Why don’t you try?”

Nolofinwë knelt to where the rose had burst through a little crack in the floor, hands pressed to the coolness of the stone. He thought of Feanáro again. How he loved his brother! No one was as smart as he, and he could be so kind, when the impulse took him. He had made for Nolofinwë a marvelous little toy: a little horse which wound up with a little key, and which raced across the floor nearly as quickly as a real horse!

He closed his eyes. Lady Kementári, he thought, please. Let me show my brother I love him. Let me show him love is limitless.

He heard a quiet gasp from Ammë; and when he opened his eyes there was a second rose before him, blue as his mother's gown.

Chapter Text

The ground beneath his boots was cold and hard: harder than he had ever felt at h - in Aman.

There he had gone unshod unless there was a ceremony, for even between the stones of Tirion there was life - so much life - wildflowers and herbs and other green and growing things, and they caressed him as he passed.

There was no such life here. There was only the ocean, which sent its liquid nettles flying into the face of his host; and the ice, glittering and frozen and so, so hard; and the stars, which were both brighter and further away than he had ever seen them before.

Nolofinwë had not sought to bring life out of the frozen ground. Perhaps he could have. He had done so in Aman, still, after the Doom fell. He had seen the ships burn on the far shore and his heart had leapt in such rage that he found his vision suddenly obscured by a thornbush. It had ripped into his skin as he tore his way free - was that Yavanna’s rage, or his own? - but the pain only spurred him onward. It was satisfying to feel the stinging cuts against his face, to shed some measure of his own blood after what his people had done, and it had silenced, for a little, the voice inside his head which cried, “Nolofinwë! You fool! You have Doomed your people for love of a madman. He burned you - will always burn you!”

But only for a little.

He had tried, briefly, to grow something that could provide food for the host, early on in the march. But nothing had come. Was Yavanna’s power limited here, or had her blessing been revoked at last? After his many follies, was this the one that broke her love? It had broken Indis’ love for him, certainly - and why had he abandoned her, who loved him well, instead of Fëanáro, who loved him not at all?

Because Fëanáro loves you not at all, a treacherous voice whispered, and you felt your mother’s love was assured.

Well - and if it was true - there was no point in dishonesty, on the Ice - perhaps Yavanna, She who was Mother to the Trees and all the green growing things, and who had been a warm glowing presence about Nolofinwë since he was old enough to gently touch a flower petal, was right to disown him.

But he did not know.

The host went on.

The stars were bright and cold. They glittered on the Ice.

Perhaps, Nolofinwë thought, during the host’s resting-period, perhaps it was that he could not feel. He bloomed when he felt. The Ice had frozen all feeling out of him.

He sat, and concentrated. Tried to feel the earth about him, the trees behind him, the life that he knew must teem under the Ice, in the water.

There was nothing but his own breath surrounding him.

He reached out again. Perhaps - if he thought of Fëanáro -

He could not think of Fëanáro. If he did he would fall into despair. Here on the Ice, at least, there was nothing but step, and step, and step. One foot in front of the other. Step - step - step - when I see my brother again, I will -

He did not know what he would do. But he would provide for his people, and avenge his father, who had loved him - loved Fëanáro - and how could Fëanáro have done this, when Finwë had loved him so, when Nolofinwë had loved him so -

There came steps, and he looked up to see his eldest son standing in front of him.

“Are you well, Atar?” asked Findekáno. His tone was low. He had been a loud child, boisterous and exuberant, and Nolofinwë had had to speak to many trees in apology for his son’s reckless climbing, and plead that they not let him fall.

They never had.

Would they now?

Nolofinwë shook himself. He met his son’s eyes, the closest he could come to a smile in this cold that brought bodies together and robbed them of intimacy. 

“I am well enough,” he answered. “And you?”

Findekáno sighed. “I do not know.”

“Do you - wish to speak of it?” Nolofinwë asked, haltingly. It was so difficult, to speak on the Ice. Difficult to speak to his son, who had watered the ground with Telerin blood as easily as he had once watered Nolofinwë’s gardens; whose hands had been stained with red the shade of the roses Nolofinwë had grown with Anairë; whose eyes were hollow with grief and guilt. Nolofinwë expected that his own eyes looked the same. He could not bring himself to look.

Findekáno hesitated. “Atar - I am sorry.”

Nolofinwë looked up, startled. “For what?” There were so many things Findekáno had to apologize for - but none to him . If anything, it was Nolofinwë who was the failure, who had not seen how deep Findekáno’s feelings ran, how desperate he had been for escape, for excitement, for anything that was not politics and Tirion and the feud -

Findekáno paused again. His eyes skated across the Ice, catching on every pit and crack in the silver darkness, highlighted by the stars.

At last he said, “If I had not raised my sword at Alqualondë -”

He stopped. Nolofinwë could not think of a single thing to say. He waited, frozen.

Findekáno opened his mouth again. “And if I had stood behind you earlier - if I had seen how deeply the feud pained you - I - this could have been stopped. I see how you suffer, Atar. And so I am sorry. I did not realize.”

Nolofinwë stood. He could not feel his fingers, but for once it was not because of the cold. It was shock. His mind was like an upturned vase, a garden after a storm, leaves everywhere, brown and dead.

Findekáno stood before him, eyes downcast. At Nolofinwë’s silence, he continued, “But I am - here now. Anything a son can do for his father, I will be happy to do.”

At last Nolofinwë said, “Is the host losing faith in me? Do all see - do they think I am incapable of leading?”

“What - no!” Findekáno exclaimed. “Of course not! It is not - our host has nothing but admiration for you. It is just that I am watching you, as I have not had cause to before.”

Oh. Nolofinwë did not know what to think. His children always seemed to be racing before him with nary a glance backwards, just like Fëanáro before them: valiant, charming, brilliant and shining. They were uninterested in Nolofinwë who was slow-growing, who was rooted, who could grow little flowers - an amusement for children - and was blessed by a Vala who blessed all the Eldar with abundance already.

Nolofinwë had never thought to leave - to leave Tirion, let alone Valinor. He was grounded as he was. If anything, he thought, it should have been Anairë who left, Anairë who was bright like their children, who eclipsed even the largest of the sunflowers he could grow, Anairë who had stood firm by Eärwen’s side and said, you can follow your brother into folly and ignore the blood on his sword if you wish, but I will not! and whose eyes had been dry when he glanced back.

But here he was - and here was Findekáno, looking at him.

“Thank you,” he said at last, haltingly. “I am sorry. I do not think I have been the father I should be. And I should never have let the feud get so far. But we are here now and -” he drew himself to his full height - “we will cast down the Moringotto, and avenge Finwë’s death -” his breath caught, still, at the memory of his father so still upon the ground - was this how Fëanáro had felt, every time he saw his mother, so pale upon a bed of flowers in Lórien? - “and we build for ourselves a new home. I swear it.”

“And I will be there to help,” said Findekáno, eyes shining.

Beneath his feet, a single snowdrop bloomed.

Chapter Text

The day was fine, and Fingolfin breathed in the fresh air with relish. It had been long years since those first days encamped at Mithrim, breathing in ash and smoke and breathing out bitterness and hatred - but they were difficult to forget. The Morgoth could rain down fire and dirty air again, if he wished, and destroy the green fields the Noldor had labored over so long. Every day he did not was a day Fingolfin counted a blessing, for all that being blessed seemed impossible for those under the Doom.

After all, Yavanna’s hand had not deserted him; and here, in Beleriand, that was no small thing. 

Blessed by the Valar, the Noldor had whispered, when flowers had bloomed below Fingolfin’s marching feet, and spread in his mingled joy and rage to the entire host. Blessed by the gods, the Sindar had whispered, when Fingon had rescued Maedhros and arrived on eagleback beyond hope.

The house of Fingolfin is blessed, the house of Fëanor self-cursed, came the whispers. Perhaps the house of Fingolfin will save us from our Doom.

Fingolfin did not know if he believed that; if the hand of Yavanna upon him was heavy, the hand of Mandos was heavier still, and the hands of Vairë wove ever onward a tale that seemed to him to have a woeful ending. But it was - useful - and if it kept his people happy, and unafraid, it was a story he was happy to reinforce.

And so he stepped down from the ramparts, and strode down, out of the main buildings that made up Barad Eithel. Here, outside of the keep, there were hothouses and farmland aplenty, and Fingolfin made his morning rounds with his head held high and the heavy circlet glittering upon it.

“We dedicate this land to Yavanna,” he cried out with a loud voice, approaching the first row of little green shoots. He knelt and placed his hand upon the ground, feeling with relish the soft dirt work its way into the creases of his palms and under his nails. It was a tangible reminder that kindness could still be found, here in this land they had been Doomed to.

Thank you, my Lady , he thought, and felt an answering pulse of warmth around him. A little worm made its wriggling way out of the soil and brushed by his fingers; the buzz of bee and beetle and butterfly around him intensified; and he closed his eyes for a moment and merely felt. Despite the guards about him, the looming knowledge of his other duties for the day, and the faint outline of Thangorodrim in the distance, there was a little trickling tendril of peace within him. It was lovely.

Beneath his hand, little shoots began to spring up. During the early days, about Mithrim, he had spent himself and his gift to the utmost, growing crops for his people, and it had worked - for awhile. But not only had he been constantly exhausted, the ground itself had grown fallow within a short span of years, and they had had to move to another patch of ground entirely and wait many years before the spent dirt would grow anything again. A gentle warning from Yavanna, perhaps: do not be greedy. Hold a flower in your hand, but let it go.

So for now, he only felt the little green shoots tickle his palm, and then lifted his hand and let them lie. They  would grow in their own time, as they had always done, and he would watch them in joy despite the encroaching darkness - as he had always done.

He raised himself to his full height, and said the words that were by now a tradition of the growing season: “We give thanks to the Lady Kementári, who blesses us with her abundance and does not withhold her hand in our time of need. She has not turned her face away from those who are Doomed, but reaches out in mercy. Let us all do likewise in this time of prosperity, and not forget her gentleness in the face of sorrow, nor her fierceness in the face of trial.”

“Let us all do likewise,” came the answering murmur from the watching crowd, and then a chorus of voices was raised, singing in joy, blessing the seedlings. 

Fingolfin turned his face to the Sun, closed his eyes, and let his voice lift to join the others in Song. It was a welcome respite from the traveling he would do later that day.

As soon as the song was done, he turned away with his guards, toward the stables. There was not only the farmland directly within Barad Eithel to bless, but also all that within the surrounding area, as far as Tol Sirion to the east and sometimes - if nothing urgent pressed - the Falas to the south. It made for many long and exhausting days and far too many state dinners for one who was constantly swimming in correspondence anyway, but -

The Noldor had never yet had a year of starvation. Their fields had always yielded, their storehouses were full. Fingolfin would not take a chance on this being otherwise: would not by carelessness seek to lose the Lady’s favor. He did not know how he had gained it. He did not know what she had seen in Indis’ little babe, to bless him such.

His mother had known, and his father. He had asked them, growing up, and they had always fallen silent, and looked grieved. Eventually, he had stopped asking. There was enough else to grieve them - mostly Fëanaro, Fingolfin thought now with a familiar stab of grief and regret. And so he did not know. He did not know how to please the Lady, besides offering her songs and seedlings.

Perhaps that was enough. This was peace, he thought, here upon the green earth of the land his ancestors had been born in: the land his father had loved first.

He strode onwards, his back to the mountains. Tulips tickled his heels.

Thank you, Lady, he thought again.

Chapter Text

Everything had burned.

His brother’s dreams, his brother’s hopes.

His own wish for peace.

His gardens: the gardens that he had so carefully blessed over hundreds of years. The gardens that had brought him the love of his people. They were burning, burning burning burning. He could feel leaves withering, stalks melting, the ground becoming fallow and scarred before its time -

No.

This could not stand. This would not stand.

“Bring me my horse,” he commanded. His voice was shaking. He hardly noticed. “Bring me Rochallor.”

“But, Aran -” protested Heledhon, the seneschal on duty - “it is not safe - we need to regroup -”

“And were my people safe, when they burned in their fields?” Fingolfin demanded. “Were our crops safe? Were the little insects that live among the flowers safe? Not even the smallest weed can escape the Morgoth’s attention. It will not stand. I will not let it! Am I not Yavanna’s chosen?”

“Very well,” Heledhon muttered. "As - as the king commands." His voice was blank: with grief or shock or pain, Fingolfin did not know.

Rochallor was brought to him. Fingolfin armored himself for war with steady hands. The breastplate, graven with roses: in memory of his brother. The eagle feather in his helmet, for his son. Findekáno, Turukáno, Irissë: forgive me, he thought. Forgive me for not saying goodbye.

He mounted himself and rode out.

The wind whistled in his ears. Rochallor was moving, faster and faster, hooves pounding into the earth. And the earth was pushing back to him, yielding easily and sending his mount forward. We love you, Beleriand murmured. Avenge us.

They reached the scorched furrow across which the Balrogs had marched, from whence had come the flames which signalled Fingolfin’s own loss.

There was weeping all around. For a moment, Fingolfin’s rage faltered, reaching earth-shattering loss beneath.

The dormice were weeping in their burrows, for their children lost to the fire. Spiders cried out for their beautiful webs. The bees starved in their hives. The beautiful flowers that had grown here: gone, all gone, trampled and ripped apart and torn aside in a litany of death, death, death -

Everything stopped as Fingolfin approached. Avenge us! they cried. Strength poured into Rochallor’s legs, into Fingolfin’s arms. Vaguely Fingolfin was aware of a bright light around him, of green where there had been barren dirt, flashes of red in the corner of his eyes. There was nothing in his mind but the thought: the Morgoth will pay. He will pay for this.

They reached the gates. Fingolfin leaped from his horse and pounded upon the gates, gates that he had first cried his defiance to four hundred years and more gone. “Moringotto!” he cried. “Enemy of life, King of nothing! Coward, craven, lord of slaves I name you! Your rule is vain! Come and fight!”

Behind his voice there was the twittering of songbirds, the buzzing of bees, the marching of ants, the songs of crickets. The whisper of a green shoot breaking through the crust of the earth, reaching for Anar. The crash and boom of a great tree falling, and the life it sustained long after its own death.

The Morgoth had none of that. He could not create, only destroy.

Fingolfin pounded again upon the great iron gates. There was no life in them. He felt a great derision rise up in him.

“Come out and fight!” he called again, “or I shall tear down Thangorodrim stone by stone. The creatures of Beleriand cry out their defiance, lord of nothing, king of no one! Come and fight!”

There was a great groaning, heaving sound. The gates trembled. Behind him Rochallor trembled as well.

A shard of cold fear pierced through Fingolfin’s heart. What was he doing? His brother had fallen against Balrogs, his brother who was made of fire: and he, he who was of the earth, what could he do against the evil that had slain the Trees? My children, he thought, I shall never see them again.

The Trees, came a voice on the wind, whisper-sighing through the air, tugging gently upon his braid with mother-fingers. They were so beautiful.

I know, Fingolfin thought. I know. So much beauty, lost.

For the Trees, he thought. For the little creatures burned. For my people now lost. I will deal to the Moringotto a mighty wound, and he will never forget.

The Black Foe of the World stepped forth from his gates, dragging behind him a mighty hammer, taller than Fingolfin himself, taller even than Fëanáro had been.

“What little creature,” Morgoth rumbled, “dares challenge me?”

“Finwënolofinwë,” Fingolfin cried, “son of Finwë whom thou hast slain, brother of Fëanáro whom thou hast slain, protector of the green forests of this earth that thou hast ruined. I am Kementári’s champion, and I will strike the life from thee.”

A laugh that shook the blackened earth. “Tiny flickers of flame, easily snuffed out. And thou - thou too wilt fall.”

“But thou wilt remember the strength of my arm,” Fingolfin said lowly, and raised Ringil. It gleamed in the Sun with light, and more than light. The gleam of Anar, but also the silver of - of Telperion glinted upon his blade.

My lady Kementári, he thought, do not forget me.

The ground erupted around him.

For a brief, dazed moment, he thought that it was Grond, striking the dirt about him, and wondered how he was not dead.

Then he saw it: a thicket of thorns. The brilliant red of roses, the flaunting beauty of poppies, the sharp spears of lavender. They surrounded him; they lifted him up.

Beneath his feet the earth moved again. The restless flutter of beetles’ iridescent wings, the chittering of spiders, the hissing of little grass-snakes. 

The earth moved with Fingolfin as he struck, deep into Morgoth’s side. The Vala howled in rage and pain. His blood spattered to the earth, sizzling as it fell. A drop struck Fingolfin’s cheek and he flinched as it burned its way down his face.

Grond thudded downward, and Fingolfin barely dodged out of the way. Blackened leaves blew into his face. Petals flew upward, curling up and crumbling into dust.

The Trees…

Fingolfin turned about and swung again, catching Morgoth’s forearm as he lifted his great hammer. A second howl, shaking the earth. A second shower of blood. A flock of starlings fell stunned to the earth, their little bodies crushed and burnt.

Morgoth tossed his hammer to his other hand, more quickly than should have been possible, and clipped Fingolfin in the shoulder. He fell dazed to the ground. Something was broken. More than one something. Blood was trickling down his nose, dripping onto his chest.

Get up, sang the birds. Get up, rustled the roses. For Fëanáro. For Finwë. For your children.

Fingolfin hurled himself up and flung himself again at Morgoth. A second wound opened upon Morgoth’s right arm.

For Maedhros, he thought grimly. For all my nephews.

Blood was dripping into his eyes, he could not see - 

Grond smashed into his left side, hurling him again to the ground. The burned stalks of a zinnia tickled his nose.

He could not breathe.

The dust of the flowers tickled his nose, harder. Up! Get up! Four hundred years of beauty! they whispered in his ear.

He levered himself upright, leaning upon Ringil, gasping in great lungfuls of air that seemed too hot and too tight. I cannot, he thought. I am too tired. I am sorry.

Look up, whispered a little mouse.

Fingolfin looked up, and felt a grim sort of satisfaction. Morgoth too, was gasping, clutching at his arm, crimson tears welling in his eyes. That was why he had not yet raised Grond again.

Not used to pain, is he? Fingolfin thought, and thrust Ringil forward, slicing open the front of Morgoth's knee, clinging to the hilt for dear life as the ground again shook about him. Morgoth howled and stumbled backward, Grond thudding into the ground behind him.

Fingolfin felt great weariness overtake him. I am dying, he thought suddenly. Dying, and all alone -

Not alone, rustled the grass about him.

Very well, he thought. Very well; but he shall remember us.

He mustered his strength and stabbed upwards again, striking deep into Morgoth's thigh. A gout of flame shot up from beside him; slow as he was, he barely missed being burned. Only the flutter of many tiny wings saved him, waving away the worst of the flame -

Support my arms, he pleaded to the creatures about him, give me strength awhile yet, and felt his limbs grasped by vines, his wounds staunched by spiders.

He charged forward. A slash across Morgoth's stomach; a spurt of blood that burned his neck and hands. His left hand would hardly respond to his commands now. He opened it, letting his shield fall. No use for it now. His head throbbed; his vision flashed; he could not get in enough air -

Morgoth doubled over in pain, and Fingolfin, and ivy-vines, and grass-snakes, and garden-spiders drove Ringil into his chest: a killing blow for any being that could be killed.

The blood that rushed out at that was black and foul. The ivy about Fingolfin melted away at the onslaught; he was covered in the bodies of little bugs, iridescent wings still beating frantically as the life fled their hröar.

More fire, more flame, more ash: Fingolfin stood alone against the Black Foe of the World. His left leg began to tremble; he fell to one knee.

Morgoth grated out, in a voice that was terrible to hear, "And so you kneel before me as you ought."

"I do not," spat Fingolfin. He leaned once more upon Ringil; levered himself to his feet. "I shall not."

It hurt to move his chest. He did not know how he was still breathing. Morgoth was moving, what -

A blinding flash, and a missing moment. Fingolfin found himself lying upon char and dirt. There was a great pressure on his chest, forcing air out and out and out; his head rang; there was a terrible burning in his eyes. A terrible coldness in his limbs.

"So shall all the Noldor crumble," said Morgoth, his voice a wheeze - Fingolfin felt a flicker of satisfaction amid the agony of his dying - and then Morgoth's foot came down upon Fingolfin with terrible force. No breath, only pain -

"Crumble - perhaps -" he forced out. "But kneel - never!"

His blood-slicked fingers found the hilt of his sword once more. Just a little, he begged the grasses that were beginning again to spring up about him. Just a little more.

For you, they whispered, for you -

They swung -

A scream of rage and pain from the Morgoth. The shadow of a great hammer blotting out the Sun.

Let me be remembered, Fingolfin thought, bloodied hand tearing uselessly at roses, snowdrops, tulips, blooming and dying at once in time with his useless breaths. Let us be remembered. We were not only a people of war. There was beauty here. There was beauty here, I swear it -

The hammer fell.

Chapter Text

The battle had been long, and the war longer.

Forty years in the making. Forty years of grief after grief, loss and loss. Finarfin had regained the lost years of his children, of his brothers and his brothers' children; but that could not bring them back, the living laughing people he had so loved.

But now they were marching up to Angband's gate at last. Many were weeping openly. Eönwë was a steady presence beside him; Finarfin leaned upon his solid arm when his legs began to shake a little too much.

The Valar in their splendor led the way; then they halted. Finarfin frowned. What was this new delay for? Surely they had waited long enough!

There was a sea of red in front of Angband's gates. Was it - was it blood? Some new foul enchantment?

The voice of Kementári rang out above the throng.

"At his birth the very ground cried out! Finwënolofinwë, champion of little creatures!"

Nolofinwë, Finarfin thought, and wanted to weep.

He has shaken us, came a deep voice from the earth. He has builded us, came a cry from the stones. We have embraced him, came a whisper from the field of red, but he did not stay with us. He was lifted high and dwells now beneath stone and sea.

"This place stands," said the Lady Yavanna, "as a memorial to the one I blessed. He brought beauty from ashes, life from death. From him has come salvation. To him will come peace."

May it be so, Finarfin thought, looking closer at the field. It was vividly red, though now that he looked closer he could see specks of green.

Poppies, he thought suddenly. It was not blood at all. It was flowers.

Here his brother had fallen. But here he had lived.

I remember you, he thought through a tight throat and burning eyes. Brother, I remember you.