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There was only so much Fëanor could take. Growing up without his mother, the guilt of what happened to her weighed heavily on him. The grief of her absence was as a sharp ache that never went away. Still, he could bear that.
The anger his father’s second marriage caused, the indignity of knowing that Míriel—who had died to bear Finwë an heir and give life to Fëanor—was being replaced by the Vanya (out of spite, Fëanor refused to ever say or think her name unless absolutely necessary) was a heavier burden that wrapped its hand around his throat; squeezing the very breath from his body. It pressed on his breast nigh to the point of pain. The rage born of Finwë’s apparent betrayal of dear Míriel attacked Fëanor as an actual beast might.
Yet he bore these misfortunes with outward grace. Life continued as it always had and Fëanor took as little notice as he could of his stepmother and how Finwë had fit her perfectly into his life and affections as if his past love had never existed, even in memory. What was there to do but hold one’s chin up and look to the future while ignoring the cruelties of fate as best one could?
Then the children started appearing. Seeing Finwë’s pride and joy concerning the brats, and especially his eldest half-brother, broke Fëanor in a way he hadn’t thought was possible.
The best solution he found was to let the pain out—where it could no longer threaten him and make itself known. The bitterness and anger of his father showing his half-siblings favor didn’t weigh and hurt his body too much when allowed to escape through the myriad shallow cuts on his back. The bitterness of being the only child in Aman to suffer the loss of a mother lessened and felt less likely to suffocate the very life from him when it found release in the countless tiny droplets of blood which fell onto the floor surrounding him.
Living in close quarters now with Nerdanel and their young children, as well as being the head of the house, whom the household staff regularly sought out, meant Fëanor needed to be discreet with the flail, a tool he had created himself for letting his less savory sentiments emerge through blood and pain. It would not do for word to get out that he was altering his own flesh in an unnatural manner. While his father may not care for him, he still held the respect of the Ñoldor at large. He was even gaining a positive reputation among the Vanyar and Teleri. He wished to preserve that.
And so, in the dark of his forge when the sounds of the manor would die away under Telperion’s light, Fëanor would occasionally seek the comfort of his flail. Nerdanel would never even know he was gone from their bed. He was quiet in leaving and would return while she was still sleeping, careful not to disturb her slumber. Wiping away the blood and using a fast-acting poultice to smooth the cuts and speed the healing process, even his wife never knew what he got up to as long as he hid his back for a few days after self-flagellating.
Sometimes Fëanor was able to forget the flail; for years at a time even. Many other thoughts occupied his mind at these stages—the birth of a son, the crafting of new gems, the obsession with capturing the light of the trees. Then he would see or hear something that brought back the black emotions stronger than ever. The worst came after seeing his eldest half-brother’s smug face about Tirion.
Thus Fëanor found himself one day, releasing hatred and envy for said half-brother with physical pain. Not one member of the household or staff should have been afoot at this hour, much less near his workspace, which was far from the living quarters.
Despite his keen hearing, Fëanor was dismayed to only hear purposeful footsteps coming towards him when they were nearly at the door. He had but time to don his thin work-shirt and hide the instrument of his self-torture when there was came the expected knock. He knew the sconces were burning in the walkway to the forge and doubtless the sound of his movements had been heard from without. This visitor needed to be acknowledged and admitted.
“Enter!” Fëanor called out.
In came the last person he wanted to see: Fingolfin.
“What brings you here at so late an hour?” he scoffed at Fingolfin. “Come to spy on me? Do you desire to replicate my craft?”
"You wound me with your accusations brother. I come on our father's behalf, bearing an urgent missive,” Fingolfin replied evenly.
“Hand it over, then, errand boy,” Fëanor motioned to the scroll in Fingolfin’s hand.
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Fingolfin didn't share his concerns with anyone; he didn't think it was his place. But he knew something was amiss. Being keen of eye, he has noted the blood spattered around the floor where Fëanor had been standing. The forge had been cold as a stone as well, and dimply lit. His brother had clearly been in his workspace to seek privacy, not to perfect his craft. And he had likely been injured. In the moment, surprised as he was, Fingolfin had simply allowed himself to be ungraciously escorted out, only having the thought to ask his elder brother if he was well.
"Quite, and I am sure you are as well," Fëanor had replied curtly, before one of servants had led him to the stables and watched as he set course on his horse toward Tirion.
For some reason he couldn’t put to words (was this intuition?) Fingolfin was troubled by Fëanor’s wellbeing. He needed to ensure his brother was healthy and unhurt, despite being fully aware the sentiment would never apply in the reverse situation!
Fëanor was proud, Fingolfin reasoned. If something was the matter, if perhaps he was hurting himself in pursuit of his craft, Fingolfin knew his brother would rather peel off his own skin rather than admit to an iota of weakness.
The only course of action that could provide any answers had been risky, yet Fingolfin did not regret his decision once he learned the dreadful, dark truth about his brother. The trusted spies he had set to watch discreetly through the narrow opening of the forge at the height of Telperion’s light night after night had finally come back with a shocking report of what Fëanor needed absolute privacy down there for. It horrified Fingolfin.
While Fëanor had never permitted a fraternal bond to ever develop between them, Fingolfin never held anything against Fëanor—he sympathized for his motherless childhood, not even daring to imagine the same for himself. He admired how persuasive and incredibly skilled Fëanor was. Should their father ever choose to step down from the throne or depart to the Halls of Mandos, it was undeniable his brother would be a worthy replacement to the throne of the Ñoldor.
Fingolfin couldn’t admit to knowing what had occurred at the workshop. Doing so would necessitate admitting to spying and cause a possibly irreparable rift in their family. It would also be of no help to Fëanor’s fragile state of being. Fingolfin would attempt for now to do the best he could for his brother, try to repair on his own what he could only assume was the cause behind Fëanor’s self-flegellation: bitterness over Finwë's marriage with Indis. If that wouldn't have any effect, perhaps Fingolfin would need to consult Finwë. He was hoping not to though; the fewer knew Fëanor's secret, the better.
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When Fingolfin visited Fëanor within days of making his decision, he was, of course, not welcomed in with open arms.
“Why are you here?” Fëanor demanded of him when he had finally been admitted to the reception chamber.
“It is merely a social visit. I desired the pleasure of your company. Surely we need not meet only out of necessity?”
“You have arrived at a busy time; many concerns occupy my thoughts. Nor do I trust your intentions, Ñolofinwë.”
“Why do you mistrust me, brother?” though he was hurt by Fëanor’s words, he kept his tone mild. This wasn’t about himself, after all, but about helping his brother.
“Half-brother,” Fëanor jolted out of his seat, his displeasure plain. “Do not pretend we share two parents.”
“Half-brother by blood, full brother in heart.”
“Your tongue is sharp as ever,” Fëanor said, with a sarcastic smile. “What do you hope to achieve by buttering me up so?”
“Nothing, believe me! My heart grieves for Míriel—even though I never knew her—and you as well. It is a cruel twist of fate that mother and son were separated so early in life.”
Fëanor, with a severe expression on his sculpted features, turned to look out of the closest window and remained silent for such a long time Fingolfin began to think perhaps he had made a mistake in speaking on topics so close to the heart. Eventually, though, he turned back around.
“My father never spoke of her after the last time he visited the garden. He forgot her; forsook their love as if she had meant nothing to him.”
“Her fëa had departed to the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps it pains him to speak in remembrance of her. Did you never bring up your mother?”
Fëanor merely shook his head.
“You resent my mother, don’t you? And by association me and my siblings? It’s why you see the family as little as possible?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Fëanor asked, “In my place?” He no longer seemed angry nor combative, just weary and earnest. “It’s simple, my mother and I were replaced. I’m simply heir to the throne now. And do not think I won’t defend that right with every bone in my body.”
Here he shot Fingolfin a suspicious look. Fingolfin simply put his hands up and said lightly “I sincerely wish for father to rule eternally, and have no desire at all for the throne. But, dear brother,” he added more solemnly, “you are absolutely not replaced. I hate to hear you say that. On multiple occasions our father has confided to me his sorrow at not having a closer relationship with you for how you live outside of Tirion and occupy yourself constantly with family and craft. He loves you fiercely and misses you. After all, we are only blessed with your company when it is necessary.”
Fëanor was looking forward but didn’t appear to be seeing him. Indeed, he was as one deep in thought. Fingolfin tentatively put a hand on his shoulder, to which his brother didn’t react.
“Please think on what I’ve said, dear brother. Myself and my siblings would be happy to see you more often at the king’s house as well. And if we don’t… you might be unfortunate enough to see more of me,” he quipped, waiting for a reaction.
When Fëanor still hadn’t moved after a long moment, Fingolfin made to leave, bidding his farewell. That was when Fëanor looked at him with mild surprise.
“Leaving already? Dinner will be ready shortly. Would you honor my family and guests with the pleasure of your company, brother?”
Fingolfin smiled. Perhaps his humble plan could indeed work?
“Thank you for the invitation. I would be honored to dine at the house of Curufinwë tonight.”