50 Shorts for 50 Silmarillion Elves (and Maiar, and Valar)

Fingolfin

Sentence (or 2) Bio: Fingolfin was the second son of Finwë, first son of Finwë with his second wife, Indis of the Vanyar. He was high king of the Noldor in Beleriand and died in one to one combat with Melkor

The days my brother visited the palace were always the busiest, full of servants attempting to clean and Atar's eyes scanning every inch of the rooms he entered to find an error, as he knew my elder brother would. When I was younger, this was a routine I didn't quite understand. After all, why should we go through such labours to perfect a place Fëanáro called home? Surely he knew the state of constant disarray most of the palace was in and would not care much for the specks of dust that might find their way onto the floor over time. Still, my opinion tended to be generally disregarded in exchange for the chaos that reigned in anticipation of his visits.

Quickly, I learned to expect nothing more than stuffy uncomfortable clothes and disappointment from his visits, for these were the only results that I ever received. It was more of a relief than anything else when my little brother was finally old enough to suffer through the injustice of being subtly but poignantly insulted for hours on end alongside me. Knowing that Arafinwë was very unlikely to take any offence, or even notice the jabs Fëanáro sent in his direction, I was able to feel some semblance of happiness at the idea of being able to ignore my elder brother entirely in favour of taking care of my younger one.

As usual when my brother arrived Atar hurried us all to the door, pulling his eldest son into his arms with fierce abandon I nearly never received, leaving us all with little doubt as to who his favourite was. Whispering something into Fëanáro's ear, he led his eldest son back into the palace, leaving us to trail awkwardly behind.

I do not know how old I was when I suddenly realised how lonely he must be, with no one but his father to love him.

Ordinarily, this was when I would break off, utterly ignored in the face of a better prize, and would be allowed to sit and read for the rest of his visit, my eyes on the words but not absorbing one of them in the hopes of hearing some unintentional praise towards myself fall from Fëanáro's tongue. No matter how hard I tried, I could never quite make my detachment from Fëanáro a reality.

Today Arafinwë, still too young to realize that he was not at all wanted, and as desperate to push his way into Fëanáro's heart as I was (though more willing to show it), ran off after them, his golden hair flying behind him, little legs pounding on the floor as he attempted to keep up with Atar's long strides. At the best of times, I still struggle with such, though I have now surpassed my father in height. It took me a second too long to realise that my little brother was gone from my side, and by then he was too far away from me to tug back. I was, as my mother told me, far too old to run in the halls.

Forced to stand and walk, I watched as Atar broke away from Fëanáro, oblivious of his youngest son running in the hall behind him, and turned to enter a small room, no doubt to retrieve the outrageously large pile of presents he had amassed for his eldest son since Fëanáro's last visit (only a month before). As soon as Atar was gone, Arafinwë skidded to a stop in front of Fëanáro, and pulled something small out of his pocket,

"Náro, Náro?" He asked, young voice still high pitched and blue eyes locked on Fëanáro's with such hope that I almost did break into a run to save my little brother from the terrible disappointment he was about to face. Fëanárolooked down at him, an expression of slight distaste on his face and said,

"What?" His voice cold and firm, daring Arafinwë to respond, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was not welcome. It was a voice I recognised well, the only one my brother ever directed towards me. Holding up the small object he had taken out of his pocket, Arafinwë held it up proudly,

"You make this." He said simply, and Fëanáro nodded once, the expression on his face now bored and impatient. Arafinwë beamed at him, and I took another step forward, attempting to hide even as I got closer. In his hands, my little brother held a small gemstone, in which a fire seemed to flicker. I immediately knew what it was, one of his more recent inventions, a lamp that allowed the owner to make light in the dark.

What the dark was, I was not entirely sure, but I had heard Atar talk about it with some of the eldest of our kind.

"Teach me how to make it?" Arafinwë asked hopefully and Fëanáro narrowed his eyes,

"Absolutely not. My work, my hands. You have no business learning it." Arafinwë's face fell, and I felt a surge of pity for my little brother; after all, how many times had I been similarly rejected? However, he was not finished hoping, and frowned in confusion at our eldest brother,

"But why? I want to make pretty things too! I can give them to Atar and Nolo and..." his voice trailed off at the look on Fëanáro's face,

"No." He said firmly and walked away. Arafinwë, always so much braver than I am, rushed after him, and now I did run, determined to catch him before he truly aroused our brother's anger, but was too late,

"But we are brothers Náro!" He said, voice wobbling with confusion and tears, and I knew then that he had said the wrong thing. Fëanáro turned around with fire in his eyes, glaring at Arafinwë as if simply his gaze could strike my brother down where he stood,

"You are not my brother." He said icily and slammed the door through which Atar had gone what felt like an age ago. Now standing alone, Arafinwë stood speechless for a moment before collapsing onto the ground in a heap of tears. It was then that I found my feet, always the coward, always two steps behind where I should be. I ran to my little brother, headless of propriety, and gathered him into my arms, shushing him and rubbing his shoulders, attempting to copy what my mother did to me when I was upset. Still quivering in my arms, Arafinwë looked up at me with tearful eyes and asked,

"Nolo, why does Náro not like us? We're family, Atar and you and I and Náro and Ammë, why doesn't he love us the way Atar loves us?" I sighed deeply, cursing my brother for his bitterness, and cursing Arafinwë for his perceptiveness. Deciding that truth was always the best path, I said softly,

"Oh Aro, don't you know Fëanáro has never been OUR family?" 

Words and Notes:

Atar: Father

Ammë: Mommy (Much more familliar)

Arafinwë/Aro: Finarfin

Nolo: Fingolfin

Fëanáro/Náro: Fëanor

thanks to @Silentx13 and her feels for inspiring me, I really enjoyed writing this one, it's an idea that has been bouncing around in my head for a while, and it felt good to finally get it down.