#he he finweon family drama lets gooo

[that-angry-noldo]

You Don't Know My Name - part two

[in which Fingolfin is questioning his life choices (again), Finarfin is still an amnesiac and none of them thinks, "hmm, our names sound kinda similar, wonder what that's about"]

[Part one]

Fingolfin looked at the place where a warrior stood just a moment ago. On a blood stain. On the corpse of an orc. On the flask thrown aside. Fingolfin concluded that he was not, in fact, dreaming. Fingolfin made several notes.

First, never believe Feanor when he boasts that the local roads are the safest in the kingdom and are impeccably guarded.

Second, don't believe idiots (Feanors) who assure you that their escort is top class and eats orcs for breakfast.

He turned, looked around the battlefield. A dozen dead elves. Four more were wounded, the severity of the injuries varying from elf to elf.

His father stood staring at the nearest body. His eyes were wide open.

Fingolfin turned once more to the spot where the boy had been wounded, and bit his tongue to keep from swearing. He cursed the day the heavens decided that Nolofinwe without magic was exactly what this world lacked.

And now a mage, a rather strong mage, is in their forest, which may or may not be infested with orcs. Together with his wounded son, whom - to be honest, Nolo would not have given him more than twelve years.

He cut the distance to his father, who still hadn't recovered from the shock, and took him by the shoulders.

"Are you injured?" he asked quietly. There was no answer.

Nolofinwe took him aside and sat him down on the grass. He threw off his cloak and wrapped it around Finwe's shoulders. 

He lingered for a second, then stood up.

Nolofinwe appreciated his ability to set priorities. At the moment, the priority was to make sure that aid was already on its way and to organize a camp of some kind. He couldn't let himself be caught off guard again.

His people - no, Feanaro's people - had already sent a signal through the Osanwe; help was due in an hour or two, though knowing Fëanor and his love for Finwe, Fingolfin expected to see his half-brother much sooner.

Fingolfin was thinking about the orcs. 

He ordered them to take the bodies of the fallen to the side, to close their eyes, and to cover them with cloaks.

(He tried not to think about how quickly he began to call the elves, who were riding next to him an hour ago, bodies).

Fingolfin was thinking about the orcs. It was alarming how they managed to make their way so deep into the country. The dull rage with which they growled, swinging their swords, was even more unsettling. 

Fingolfin thought that ten of them had fallen. The fact that they were not ready for it. That nothing could have predicted it. That if it wasn't for - 

If it wasn't for the gray-eyed stranger and his son-

He forbade himself to think about "if it wasn'ts".

Be that as it may, Fingolfin was thinking about the orcs. For the first time, he felt relief at the thought that Fëanor would soon be here.

He had only an hour to wait.

"Nolo." 

He turned to his father, bowed his head as usual.

"Where is that man?" The king's voice sounded... quiet. Broken. 

"He disappeared," the prince simply answered, looking impatiently at the road.

"Disappeared," Finwe said dully before falling silent.

Fingolfin tried not to think about the fact that his father had not even asked if his youngest son was all right.

~

Fëanor did arrive quickly, rushing to his father, clutching him in his arms, ignoring the orc corpses.

Nolofinwe closed his eyes, separating himself from everything for a second. He could still catch fragments of his older half-brother's worried babbling, though. 

Something in his heart clenched, and Fingolfin pursed his lips. He once had a brother whom he should not have called a half-brother.

Arafinwe had golden hair and large gray eyes.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts. Arafinwe disappeared decades ago. It's not worth it - he can't start drowning in memories now.

He did not notice how the camp was made, how Fëanor and his father jumped on their horses.

"Find him," ordered Finwe quietly. "I want to thank him." 

You can thank me, too, thought Fingolfin, but remained silent. He approached the healer, took a bag with medicine from her - he remembered that the boy was wounded.

And then Fingolfin was left alone.

Well. That's all there is to know about the value of a Noldor prince's life. He clenched his teeth, holding back a furious scream.

Fingolfin, Prince of the Noldor, son of Finwe - YES, FINWE, I AM STILL YOUR SON - was left alone on the forest road, surrounded by gloomy trees and the bodies of orcs.

He shouted. In despair. In powerlessness. The crows flew into the sky in fright, cawing anxiously.

He wanted to break down, to go away, run into the forest, forget the path, disappear, disappear, no.

It will kill your father.

You remember what happened when Arafinwe disappeared, right?

Fingolfin took a breath, tied his horse to a branch, and went into the forest.

Fingolfin had no magic. He couldn't make the stones glow like Feanaro did. Couldn't calm people down with his sole voice like Findis did. He could not charm the crowd with his singing, as Makalaure could. However, as an un-gifted person, Fingolfin knew about magic. Uh.

A Lot.

It was the product of hours spent in the library trying desperately to figure out what was wrong with him, and the systematic cramming of theory years later. Yes, Fingolfin could confidently say that he knew more about magic than the average mage. Irony of fate, perhaps.

So, Fingolfin knew that targeted teleportation took a long time, while spontaneous teleportation could belong to the category of magical emissions provoked by severe stress and a desperate, uncontrolled desire to get to safety. Such an emission carried the mage a short distance to a place that was the least similar to the association of "danger" in his head.

Therefore, he had to get on the trail of the warrior soon.

He wanted to get on the trail soon.

He doubted that the warrior had the necessary medicine for his son.

~

Finarfin had experience working with wounds. He knew how to stop bleeding, clean cuts, find healing herbs, and apply bandages; he had done it many times on himself and others; sometimes, as Eärwen ran her fingers over his scars, he would smile, thanking the gods for their assistance.

He never thought that prayers for help would pour from his lips, not as thanks, but as a plea. He never thought that his head could hold so many voices at once. He never thought he would panic over a simple injury.

He had never thought that his Finrod might be wounded, that he might lie before him, with a red stain on his shirt, that from his lips would come this cry, this silent cry, that—

The hands worked mechanically, treating the wound, the lips whispered soothing words. Thoughts were begging, begging to do something, begging to hide; his eyes burned, but he could not cry while his son was in danger, while his wound-

He blessed Eru that the wound was not fatal, that it would not leave his son crippled. He cursed himself for not being ready, for relaxing too much, for leaving the health and regeneration potions at home, for not bringing bandages.

He couldn't even heat the water.

A branch cracked.

Finarfin shuddered, his hand twitching for the knife.

It was a dark-haired warrior.

"Back," growled Finarfin, leaning over his son, not taking his eyes off the stranger, putting an order in his voice.

The elf shuddered; for a second his eyes were clouded by the effect of magic, but he frowned, blinked, and bowed his head.

"No." 

"Go away." 

"I want to help." 

Finarfin almost wanted to snarl, saying that he could manage it himself, but hesitated at the last moment. He couldn't even heat water.

He clenched his hands into fists and nodded.

The warrior sighed with relief and got to work.

~

Nolofinwe worked quickly, precisely, and carefully.

Remove any blood from the wound. Uncork the crimson-pink health potion, pour half a glass on the wound; unwind the bandage, bandage the wound with the help of a warrior; make him drink a few drops of regeneration, put a palm on his hot forehead.

The warrior seemed petrified. The only sign that he was alive were the eyes that looked at his son's face with a mixed expression: anxiety, fear, hope...

Nolofinwe put the bottles and the remains of the bandages into a bag.

Now, without Nolofinwe's movements, his low voice, and the goal of saving the boy - an awkward silence reigned between the two warriors.

Which wasn't ideal. Nolofinwe had an order, after all. Bring the warrior to his father.

"You saved my son." 

The warrior's voice sounded tired.

"You saved me," Fingolfin shrugged, his gaze fixed on the boy.

"What is your name?" 

"Nolofinwe." 

"Nolo... finwe," the warrior exhaled. "Mine's Finarfin." 

It was strange that the warrior - Finarfin - used the Sindarin version of his name, but Fingolfin said nothing.

He got up, turned to Finarfin.

He had golden hair and large, tired gray eyes. For a second he  thought-

Nothing. Not now. 

"Your son needs help," he said. "My father has the best healers in the kingdom. Tirion isn't very fat from here. The forest, on the other hand, will be dangerous for you." 

Finarfin looked at him for a few seconds, then stood up and lifted his son in his arms. Fingolfin sighed with relief.

He turned and led them down the path to the road.