"This is where you belong, darling. With us."
"Let your brothers take care of you. Let your brothers love you."
Fingolfin and Finarfin lead Fëanor to a rug spread before the fire. Soon they are both inside him, cocks rubbing together as they stroke to that frenzied, wild rhythm where the only thing in the world that matters is their passion, burning as hot as the fire in the hearth.
"You belong to us."
"Ours. Not hers."
Fëanor forgets about his wife, forgets about his troubles, loses himself in every kiss, every touch, every fuck, wanting them more than he ever wanted her. When they come together it is glorious. Fëanor feels infinite, the three of them three parts of one greater, bright, brilliant whole.
Finarfin's silver-gold hair and Fingolfin's blue-flame eyes captivate him. There is hope here, there is light. So much that it rivals the light of the fire in the hearth... the light of the stars in the sky.
The light is all the more precious for the depression Fëanor has tasted, feeling the distance with his wife, continuing to evade his father's approval. He has his work in the forge to sustain him... and he has this. The love between him and his wife has grown cold, but his brothers are so warm. Here in their arms, the darkness he struggles with seems so far away. The fire in the hearth seems to live inside him, fueled by them, shared with them. There is light here, there is hope, there is joy.
He wraps Finarfin's silver-gold hair around himself like a blanket, and he feels absolutely safe. Like he has come home. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes are Fingolfin's, brilliant blue like the stars under which their people Awakened.
Fëanor thinks of that moment, holding it close to him after they have gone back to their estates and he is in the forge again, alone. He wants to capture that moment... that feeling... its energy, its power. Fëanor thinks the power of their love for each other is the strongest force in the world, the fuel to his fire, the source of the magic that he weaves with each weapon, each shield, each piece of jewelry.
A blasphemous thought: his brothers are more worthy of being gods, than the gods.
His brothers understand what it is to truly love. The Valar demand love from their subjects without earning it, but he and his brothers love in fire and blood.
He thinks of Finarfin's hair, and Fingolfin's eyes. He needs to make something to express everything he is feeling, thinking right now. He pauses his work, sits and closes his eyes, and he sees three gems, burning like the stars. They burn with that power of love, and the way that love can make things right. The light it gives in the darkness.
Jewels. Three jewels, one for each of us. The brightest, most brilliant jewels the world has ever seen.
He has made glass before, but this will be a much more complicated undertaking. He needs to get it just right.
It will be his finest work.
_
"What?" Galadriel's eyebrows shoot up, her mouth makes a thin line.
"Three strands of your hair. Just three. I need them for a project -"
Galadriel raises her hand as if she wants to smack him, but she knows not to strike the eldest son of the High King. She lowers her hand, folds her arms, and shakes her head.
"Why not?" Fëanor's heart sinks, feeling his hopes shatter around him. "Do you not wish to be part of my finest work?"
Galadriel narrows her eyes, and drops her voice, so only Fëanor can hear. "We all know it is not my hair that inspires you, but my father's, and you are only asking me so it isn't too obvious what's going on." Galadriel spits, hideous in rage. "You filthy pervert, corrupting my father with your darkness."
Fëanor fights the urge to tell her actually, he seduced me. But she expects a comeback from him anyway and quickly turns around - he knows she is determined to get away before he can have the last word.
Fëanor has the last word in his own way. Before she can get too far, he grabs a lock of her hair and yanks, plucking three strands.
Galadriel doesn't even turn around. "WE ARE UNFRIENDS FOREVER!" she shrieks.
Fëanor tries not to laugh as he walks off with his prize.
_
When he has everything he needs, he gets to work. He keeps reliving that moment of laying with his brothers by the fire, pushing his strongest feeling of love into the stones... remembering that joy, that hope, that peace. The three stones glow like small suns, glorious.
They are so much more than jewels. Each of them has a piece of his soul. A spark of his fire. Their light.
He works tirelessly in the forge, crafting the jewels, remembering the light. That feeling of how everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. The joy, the wonder chasing away the pain. The three jewels burn like three little suns.
They burn like his love for them, the way his love for them makes him love life. The way the beauty of their love makes all things beautiful.
This is for you, my brothers, you who my soul loves. This is how I feel about you. You give me hope. Give me life. These are the seeds of hope, the light of peace and joy that no darkness can conquer.
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