Metal sings against metal as Fëanor parries Fingolfin's thrust, the force of the blow reverberating up his arm. Sweat glistens on his brow, dripping into his eyes with stinging insistence, but he dares not break his concentration to wipe it away. His half-brother presses forward, relentless as the tide, each movement precise and controlled. They circle each other in the secluded practice yard, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the packed earth. Fëanor notes, with grudging admiration, how Fingolfin has improved since their last match—his footwork more assured, his strikes more decisive. The thought both irritates and intrigues him.
"Your guard drops on the left," Fëanor says, exploiting the weakness with a quick slash that Fingolfin barely deflects.
Fingolfin's mouth quirks upward, not quite a smile. "And you telegraph your overhead strikes."
As if to prove his point, he sidesteps Fëanor's next attack with fluid grace. These practice sessions, ostensibly arranged at their father's insistence to foster brotherhood between his sons of different marriages, have become something neither would willingly miss. The pretense is maintained—duty, obedience to Finwë's wishes—but Fëanor knows there is more drawing him to these encounters than filial compliance.
Fingolfin's hair is a fall of midnight, bound in a simple warrior's braid that still manages to look regal. Sweat darkens his tunic between his shoulder blades, the fabric clinging to the contours of his back. Fëanor finds his gaze lingering there as they separate after a particularly close exchange of blows.
"Distracted, brother?" Fingolfin taunts, circling to Fëanor's right.
The word 'brother' carries an edge, a reminder of the blood they share and the complex history between them. Fëanor narrows his eyes, refocusing his attention.
"Merely considering how best to end this quickly," he retorts, lunging forward with renewed vigor.
Their swords clash and slide, edge against edge, the metallic screech setting Fëanor's teeth on edge. He crafted both blades himself, knowing their balance perfectly, yet somehow Fingolfin makes his weapon sing in ways Fëanor hadn't anticipated. The thought that his half-brother might understand something about his creations that he himself does not rankles and fascinates in equal measure.
They are well-matched today, neither gaining clear advantage. Fëanor's style is more aggressive, full of unexpected angles and unorthodox approaches. Fingolfin fights with technical perfection, each movement flowing into the next with practiced precision. Where Fëanor innovates, Fingolfin anticipates. Where Fingolfin executes textbook maneuvers, Fëanor disrupts them with creative counters.
"You've been practicing with the Vanyar," Fëanor accuses, recognizing a particular defensive pattern in Fingolfin's movements.
"And you've developed new techniques you've shared with no one," Fingolfin counters, his eyes flashing with something that might be admiration.
The acknowledgment sends an unexpected thrill through Fëanor's body. To be seen, to be recognized for his innovations—it lights a fire in his chest that has nothing to do with exertion.
Their dance grows more intense, the space between them shrinking as they test each other's limits. The practice yard fades away, until there is only Fingolfin—his quicksilver movements, the controlled power in his arms, the fierce concentration in his eyes that mirror Fëanor's own.
Fëanor attempts a complex feint, but Fingolfin reads his intent and counters with an unexpected move of his own. Their blades lock at the hilts, bringing them chest to chest, faces inches apart. For a breathless moment, they strain against each other, neither yielding. Fëanor feels Fingolfin's breath on his lips, sees perspiration beading on his upper lip, smells the clean scent of him beneath the tang of exertion.
Something shifts in Fingolfin's gaze—a flicker of heat that has nothing to do with combat. Fëanor sees it, recognizes it, because it mirrors what he has been trying to suppress in himself for longer than he cares to admit.
With a sudden movement, Fëanor disengages their blades and sweeps Fingolfin's feet from under him. But Fingolfin, falling, grabs Fëanor's tunic, pulling him down as well. They crash to the packed earth together, swords skittering away, limbs entangled.
Fëanor lands atop Fingolfin, their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. For a moment, they remain frozen, the shock of contact robbing them both of movement. Fëanor attempts to push himself up, his palms flat against the ground on either side of Fingolfin's shoulders, but Fingolfin's hands come to rest on his waist, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer—simply holding him in place.
"We should rise," Fëanor says, his voice rougher than intended. "Before anyone comes."
"We're alone," Fingolfin replies softly. "I arranged for the practice yard to be private today."
The implication in those words—the premeditation they suggest—sends a jolt through Fëanor's body that he cannot disguise. Beneath him, he feels Fingolfin's response, the hardening evidence that this proximity affects them both similarly.
"This is madness," Fëanor whispers, even as he makes no move to separate them.
"Perhaps," Fingolfin agrees, one hand sliding up Fëanor's back to tangle in his sweat-dampened hair. "Does that concern you? You who have never feared to challenge convention?"
The question strikes at the heart of Fëanor's self-conception—the innovator, the rebel, the one who pushes boundaries others accept without question. To balk now, at this transgression, would be inconsistent with everything he believes himself to be.
"No," Fëanor admits, lowering his head until their foreheads touch. "But you—you who follow every rule, every protocol with such devotion—why would you risk this?"
Fingolfin's other hand rises to Fëanor's face, tracing the sharp angle of his cheekbone with a gentleness that belies the strength Fëanor knows those fingers possess.
"Because there are some hungers that transcend propriety," Fingolfin murmurs. "Some desires worth the risk of ruin."
The admission breaks something loose in Fëanor's chest. He closes the last distance between them, claiming Fingolfin's mouth in a kiss that contains all the intensity of their sword fight but channeled into a different kind of combat. Fingolfin responds immediately, his lips parting, his tongue meeting Fëanor's with equal fervor.
The kiss deepens, grows wild, untamed. Their bodies move against each other with the same rhythm they established in battle, a push and pull of power, neither willing to fully submit. Fingolfin's hands are everywhere—tangled in Fëanor's hair, sliding beneath his tunic to explore the heated skin beneath, gripping his hips to guide their movements together.
"Wait," Fëanor gasps, pulling back just enough to speak. "Are you certain? Once done, this cannot be undone."
Fingolfin's eyes are dark with desire, his lips reddened from their kisses. "I have wanted this—wanted you—since I first saw you demonstrating smithcraft to our father's court. Your fire, your passion, your brilliance—how could I not desire it for myself?"
The confession humbles and inflames Fëanor in equal measure. That Fingolfin, always so composed, so perfect, has harbored such thoughts about him—it's intoxicating.
"Then take what you desire," Fëanor challenges, rolling onto his back and pulling Fingolfin atop him. "If you dare."
Fingolfin's eyes flash at the challenge. He captures Fëanor's wrists, pinning them above his head with one strong hand while the other works at the lacings of Fëanor's tunic. "I have never lacked courage," he says, his voice a low rasp. "Only opportunity."
Their clothing becomes an impediment, dealt with in hasty, uncoordinated movements, neither willing to separate long enough to undress properly. Tunics are pushed up, leggings pulled down just enough, the urgency of their need overwhelming any thought of comfort or decorum.
When they are finally skin to skin, Fëanor gasps at the contact—the heat of Fingolfin's body against his own, the hardness of him pressing insistently against Fëanor's thigh. Fingolfin's mouth traces a path down Fëanor's neck, teeth scraping across his collarbone, drawing a hiss of pleasure-pain.
"I've imagined this," Fingolfin confesses against Fëanor's skin. "In dreams that left me burning with shame come morning."
"No shame," Fëanor says fiercely, pulling Fingolfin's face back up to his. "Not between us. Not in this."
Their mouths meet again, the kiss deeper, more deliberate now. Fingolfin's hand slides down Fëanor's body, finding him hard and ready, wrapping around him with confident pressure that suggests this is not the first time he has touched another thus. The thought sends an unexpected surge of jealousy through Fëanor, quickly subsumed by pleasure as Fingolfin's thumb circles the sensitive head of his cock.
"I want more," Fingolfin murmurs against Fëanor's mouth. "I want all of you."
Fëanor understands his meaning instantly. They have crossed into territory from which there is no return; why stop at half measures? He reaches between them, his fingers finding the small vial of oil he keeps in a pouch at his belt for tending to his sword after practice. Wordlessly, he presses it into Fingolfin's free hand.
"Are you certain?" Fingolfin asks, echoing Fëanor's earlier question.
"Yes," Fëanor says simply, spreading his thighs in invitation.
Fingolfin uncorks the vial with his teeth, pouring the oil over his fingers with a practiced motion that again makes Fëanor wonder who else has known his half-brother in this way. The thought is banished when Fingolfin's slicked fingers press against him, circling, then breaching, the initial intrusion both foreign and achingly familiar. Fëanor has known this pleasure with Mahtan, but Fingolfin's touch is different—more tentative at first, then more demanding as he gauges Fëanor's responses.
"More," Fëanor urges, rocking against Fingolfin's hand. "I'm not fragile."
Fingolfin adds another finger, stretching him more insistently now. "No," he agrees, his voice rough with desire. "You are many things, brother, but fragile is not among them."
The word 'brother' in this context sends a forbidden thrill through Fëanor's body, a reminder of exactly how taboo their actions are. He finds, to his surprise, that the transgression only heightens his arousal.
When Fingolfin deems him ready, he withdraws his fingers and positions himself between Fëanor's thighs. The blunt head of his cock presses against Fëanor's entrance, pausing there as Fingolfin looks down at him, seeking final confirmation.
"Yes," Fëanor says, reaching up to grip Fingolfin's shoulders. "Now."
Fingolfin pushes forward in one smooth motion, filling Fëanor completely. They both gasp at the intensity of the connection, holding still for a moment to adjust to the overwhelming sensation. Then Fingolfin begins to move, establishing a rhythm that starts slow and deliberate but quickly builds in intensity.
Fëanor matches him thrust for thrust, his body arching to take Fingolfin deeper. One of Fingolfin's hands grips Fëanor's hip, guiding their movements, while the other wraps around Fëanor's length, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts.
"Look at me," Fingolfin commands, and Fëanor opens eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed.
Their gazes lock, blue meeting silver, and something passes between them that transcends the physical—a recognition, an understanding, perhaps even a kind of surrender that neither would admit to outside this moment.
Fëanor feels his release building, a pressure at the base of his spine that spreads outward with each thrust. Fingolfin's rhythm grows erratic, his breathing harsh, his grip on Fëanor's hip nearly bruising.
"Together," Fingolfin gasps, and Fëanor understands his intent.
He lets go of the last vestiges of his control, allowing the pleasure to consume him. His release comes in powerful waves, spilling over Fingolfin's hand and onto his own stomach. Fingolfin follows moments later, burying himself deep inside Fëanor with a final thrust and a hoarse cry that he muffles against Fëanor's shoulder.
They collapse together, sweat-slicked and trembling, hearts racing in tandem. For long moments, neither speaks, the magnitude of what they've done settling over them like a weighted blanket.
Eventually, Fingolfin withdraws, rolling to lie beside Fëanor on the packed earth of the practice yard. Their hands find each other, fingers interlacing in a gesture almost more intimate than what preceded it.
"What happens now?" Fingolfin asks, his voice quiet but steady.
Fëanor turns his head to study his half-brother's profile—the straight nose, the strong jaw, the lips still swollen from their kisses. "Now we face reality," he says. "What we have done—what we may yet do—cannot be known. The consequences would be... severe."
Fingolfin nods, his expression sobering. "Our father would be devastated. The court would be scandalized. Our positions, our reputations—"
"Destroyed," Fëanor finishes for him. "We must be careful. More than careful. We must be cunning."
A thoughtful look crosses Fingolfin's face. "Perhaps the solution lies not in secrecy alone, but in misdirection."
"Explain," Fëanor prompts, intrigued by the calculating glint in Fingolfin's eyes.
"What if, in public, we were to appear not as lovers, but as rivals? Even enemies?" Fingolfin suggests. "No one would suspect the truth if they believed we despised each other."
Fëanor considers this, turning the idea over in his mind like a curious gem. "A performance," he muses. "A false face shown to the world."
"While keeping the truth between ourselves," Fingolfin agrees, his fingers tightening around Fëanor's. "Can you play that role, brother? Can you pretend to hate me before others?"
Fëanor smiles, a sharp expression that doesn't reach his eyes. "I am not without skill in deception. And the rewards for successful pretense would be... significant."
Fingolfin returns his smile, equally predatory. "Then we are agreed. In public, rivals. In private..."
"In private, whatever we wish to be," Fëanor completes the thought, sealing their pact with a kiss that holds both promise and conspiracy.
They rise, helping each other dress, erasing the evidence of their encounter as best they can. Before they exit the practice yard, Fingolfin catches Fëanor's arm, pulling him close one last time.
"Remember," he says softly. "Whatever words pass between us before others, know that they are only words."
Fëanor nods, already composing in his mind the cutting remarks, the disdainful glances, the barely civil interactions that will become their public persona. "And what passes between us in private," he replies, "will be all the sweeter for the restraint we show elsewhere."
They part ways at the yard entrance, Fingolfin turning toward the path that leads to his mother's residence, Fëanor toward his own workshops. To any observer, they would appear as two princes concluding a reluctant training session, nothing more. The secret they now share burns between them like a forge-fire, hidden but no less intense for its concealment.
Shadows dance across the walls of Fëanor's private study, cast by a single lamp burning low on his desk. The hour is late—most of Tirion sleeps, allowing the half-brothers their clandestine meeting. Fingolfin's hands move with practiced ease over Fëanor's bare chest, tracing the contours of muscle with appreciative fingers. They have maintained their charade well these past months, their public exchanges laced with barely concealed contempt while their private encounters burn with passion undiminished. Tonight they are careless, though—the door not fully latched, their voices less guarded than usual. They do not hear the approaching footsteps until it is too late.
"Ñolofinwë? Are you in here? Father wishes to—"
The voice cuts off abruptly. Fëanor and Fingolfin spring apart, but not quickly enough. Finarfin stands frozen in the doorway, his golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, his green eyes wide with shock. The youngest son of Finwë stares at his half-brothers—Fëanor with his tunic unlaced to the waist, Fingolfin with kiss-swollen lips and guilt written across his face.
For a moment, no one speaks. The only sound is the soft hiss of the lamp and their collective breathing. Finarfin's hand remains on the door handle, as if uncertain whether to close it or flee.
"Arafinwë," Fingolfin finally manages, his voice unnaturally high. "As you know, we were just—"
"I know what you were 'just' doing," Finarfin interrupts, his voice surprisingly steady. He steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. The soft click of the latch engaging sounds like a death knell in the silent room.
Fëanor's mind races through possibilities. Denial seems pointless. Threats would only confirm their guilt. Perhaps an appeal to family loyalty?
Before he can formulate a response, Finarfin speaks again. "How long?" he asks simply.
Fingolfin and Fëanor exchange a glance. "Some months," Fingolfin admits.
Finarfin nods slowly, his expression unreadable. "I suspected something had changed between you. The hostility seemed... performance rather than genuine." His gaze shifts to Fëanor. "You are not as good an actor as you believe yourself to be, brother. Not to those who know you well."
Fëanor straightens, pride bristling even in this compromised position. "And now? Will you run to our father with this tale? Expose us to the court's whispers?"
To his surprise, Finarfin laughs—a soft, almost sad sound. "Is that what you think of me? That I would destroy my own brothers for the sake of propriety?" He moves further into the room, his steps measured, deliberate. "No, Fëanor. I have no intention of exposing you."
Relief flickers across Fingolfin's face, but Fëanor remains wary. Nothing comes without price, especially silence.
"What do you want then?" Fëanor demands. "In exchange for your discretion?"
Finarfin stops before them, close enough that Fëanor can see the fine strands of gold in his hair, the faint flush spreading across his cheeks. "Perhaps," Finarfin says, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper, "I want what Ñolofinwë has found."
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. Fëanor's eyes widen as he recognizes the hunger in Finarfin's gaze—a hunger directed not just at Fingolfin, but at him as well.
"You wish to join us?" Fingolfin asks, disbelief coloring his tone.
Finarfin's smile is a strange blend of shyness and determination. "I have watched you both all my life—always apart, never belonging. Ñolofinwë caught between two families, you, Fëanor, caught between what was and what is." He reaches out, his fingertips brushing Fëanor's bare wrist. "I too know what it is to want what one should not have."
The touch sends an unexpected jolt through Fëanor's body. He has never thought of Finarfin in this way—the youngest half-brother, quiet and diplomatic, always overshadowed by Fingolfin's perfection and Fëanor's brilliance. Yet now, seeing the raw desire in those green eyes, Fëanor finds himself intrigued by the possibility.
"It would be dangerous," Fëanor says, not as rejection but as warning. "Three of us, all Finwë's sons..."
"The risk is already taken," Finarfin counters. "Two or three, the transgression is the same." His hand moves from Fëanor's wrist to his chest, fingers splaying over the bare skin revealed by the unlaced tunic. "Let me in. Let me share this with you."
Fëanor glances at Fingolfin, seeking his reaction. To his surprise, he sees not jealousy but interest kindling in his half-brother's eyes.
"The choice is yours, Fëanor," Fingolfin says softly. "You began this path. You decide how far it extends."
The power of decision settles over Fëanor like a mantle. He studies Finarfin anew—the quiet strength beneath his gentle demeanor, the undeniable beauty of his features, so like Fingolfin's yet distinctly his own.
"Very well," Fëanor decides, reaching for the remaining laces of his tunic. "But understand this, both of you—tonight, I am not your elder brother. Tonight, I am simply yours."
The words hang in the air, charged with both surrender and command. Finarfin's breath catches audibly, while Fingolfin's eyes darken with renewed desire.
"Mine," Fingolfin murmurs, stepping close again, his hand curling possessively around the nape of Fëanor's neck.
"Ours," Finarfin corrects, his earlier hesitation melting away as he moves to Fëanor's other side.
What follows happens with dreamlike inevitability. Clothing falls away beneath multiple hands, kisses are exchanged in varying combinations—Fëanor tasting first Fingolfin's familiar mouth, then Finarfin's untried one, sweeter somehow, with an underlying heat that surprises him. The brothers touch each other with increasing boldness, learning new bodies, new responses.
Fëanor finds himself caught between them—Fingolfin behind him, chest pressed to his back, while Finarfin kneels before him, exploring Fëanor's body with hands and lips that gain confidence with each gasp they evoke. The sensation of being surrounded, wanted by both his half-brothers simultaneously, is heady beyond anything Fëanor has experienced.
"I want to watch you take him," Finarfin says suddenly, looking up at Fingolfin over Fëanor's shoulder.
The directness of the request from usually diplomatic Finarfin sends a shudder of arousal through Fëanor's body. Fingolfin's arms tighten around him, lips brushing his ear.
"Shall we show him how well you yield to me, brother?" Fingolfin murmurs, his voice a low rumble that Fëanor feels against his back.
"Yes," Fëanor agrees, past pride, past restraint. "Show him."
They move to the low couch in the corner of the study, positioning themselves with a coordination that speaks of their growing familiarity with each other's bodies. Fëanor finds himself on hands and knees, Fingolfin behind him, Finarfin watching with undisguised fascination as Fingolfin prepares Fëanor with oil-slicked fingers.
The sensation of being opened, made ready, is familiar to Fëanor now, but the knowledge that Finarfin observes every reaction, every shift of expression, adds a new dimension to his pleasure. He doesn't hide his responses—the catch in his breath when Fingolfin finds that perfect spot inside him, the way his back arches when those clever fingers twist just so.
"He's beautiful like this," Finarfin says, his voice thick with arousal. He kneels beside the couch, one hand stroking Fëanor's hair back from his face. "I never imagined you could look so..."
"Vulnerable?" Fëanor suggests, a hint of his usual sharpness returning.
"Transcendent," Finarfin corrects, leaning forward to claim his mouth in a kiss that steals what little breath remains in Fëanor's lungs.
Fingolfin chooses that moment to withdraw his fingers and press forward with something considerably larger. Fëanor gasps into Finarfin's mouth as Fingolfin enters him with exquisite slowness, filling him inch by inch until he's seated completely, their bodies joined as fully as possible.
“Perfect," Fingolfin whispers, his hands gripping Fëanor's hips with bruising force. He begins to move, establishing a rhythm that makes Fëanor rock forward with each thrust, his face now level with Finarfin's evident arousal.
Finarfin watches, mesmerized, as Fëanor's expression shifts with each movement of Fingolfin's hips. On impulse, he brushes his thumb across Fëanor's lower lip. "I want..." he begins, then stops, uncharacteristically hesitant.
Fëanor understands. Without words, he leans forward, taking Finarfin into his mouth even as Fingolfin continues to claim him from behind. The dual sensation—being filled at both ends, used and wanted by both his half-brothers simultaneously—sends a shock wave of pleasure through Fëanor's entire body.
Time seems to distort. Fëanor loses himself in the rhythm they establish together—Fingolfin's powerful thrusts driving him forward onto Finarfin, then back again in an endless cycle of giving and receiving pleasure. His world narrows to sensation: the fullness inside him, the weight on his tongue, the sound of twin gasps and moans surrounding him.
"Look at him take us both," Fingolfin says, voice strained with pleasure. "Who would believe the proud Prince Fëanor could be so... accommodating?"
Finarfin's hand tangles in Fëanor's hair, guiding his movements with surprising assertiveness. "He was made for this," he replies, his usual gentleness giving way to something darker, more primal. "For us." He grabs Fëanor's hair. "Our fuckslut."
The words should anger Fëanor, should chafe against his pride, yet in this moment, they feel like truth. He surrenders to the sensation, to being possessed so completely, used for their pleasure and his own.
It's at the height of this surrender, caught between the mounting pleasure of his half-brothers, that the vision comes—sudden and overwhelming as a lightning strike.
Light explodes behind Fëanor's closed eyelids, not the golden lamplight of the study, but something purer, more profound. He sees the Two Trees—Telperion and Laurelin—their mingled light more brilliant than he's ever perceived it before. The light seems almost tangible, a substance that could be captured, contained, preserved...
The vision intensifies as Fingolfin changes angle, striking that perfect spot inside him that makes stars burst across his consciousness. The physical pleasure and the mystical vision merge, becoming inseparable. Fëanor sees crystals forming, growing, geometric perfections that could hold light within their structure, could trap the radiance of the Trees in solid form.
Finarfin's pace quickens, his grip in Fëanor's hair tightening almost painfully, dragging Fëanor back to the physical world momentarily. But as he opens his eyes, the vision doesn't fade. Instead, it overlays reality, so that when he looks up at Finarfin's face contorted with approaching climax, he sees also the golden hair falling about his shoulders—hair that seems to capture and reflect the lamplight in a way that echoes the Trees themselves.
The revelation hits Fëanor with stunning clarity—the secret ingredient he has been missing in his attempts to preserve light. Hair, with its complex internal structure, its ability to catch and refract light... but not just any hair. Hair like Finarfin's, that seems to glow with an inner radiance.
With this knowledge comes another realization—if he were to ask Finarfin for strands of his hair to create these jewels, the request would be laden with meaning, potentially revealing the intimacy they now share. Such a public connection between his greatest creation and his half-brother would invite scrutiny they cannot afford.
The vision and these realizations pass through Fëanor's mind in seconds, even as his body continues its dual service to his half-brothers. Fingolfin's thrusts grow erratic, his breathing harsh, signaling his approaching climax. Finarfin too is close, his hips moving with less restraint, pushing deeper into Fëanor's mouth.
"Together," Fingolfin gasps, reaching around to grasp Fëanor's neglected arousal. "All of us, together."
The combined stimulation—Fingolfin inside him and around him, Finarfin filling his mouth, both claiming him so completely—sends Fëanor over the edge. His release hits with the force of a breaking dam, pleasure crashing through him in waves that seem to echo the pulsing light of his vision. He's distantly aware of Fingolfin following him into climax, spilling deep inside him with a hoarse cry, and of Finarfin's release moments later, which he swallows without thought, savoring every drop.
They collapse together, a tangle of limbs and harsh breathing, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through their bodies. Fëanor lies between his half-brothers, spent and sated, yet his mind races with the implications of what he has seen.
"You went somewhere," Finarfin says later, when they've cleaned themselves and redressed, their passion cooled to a comfortable warmth. "During our... joining. Your eyes, they looked beyond us."
Fëanor hesitates, torn between the desire to share his vision and the need to protect its potential. "I saw something," he admits finally. "A creation unlike any I've attempted before. Jewels that could capture and preserve light itself."
"The light of the Trees?" Fingolfin asks, intrigued despite his post-coital languor.
"Yes," Fëanor says, his excitement building as he speaks of it. "But I need... I need hair that can hold light, reflect it, refract it." His gaze moves to Finarfin's golden mane, and understanding dawns in his half-brother's eyes.
"You would use my hair for this working?" Finarfin asks, a hint of pride coloring his tone.
Fëanor's heart sinks as he considers the consequences. "I cannot," he says reluctantly. "To connect you so visibly to my greatest work—it would raise questions. Suspicions."
The momentary hurt in Finarfin's eyes is quickly replaced by comprehension. "You need another source," he says. "Someone with similar qualities, but without... complication."
"Yes," Fëanor agrees, his mind already turning to possibilities. "Someone with hair like yours, but with whom my relationship is formal, distant."
"Galadriel," Fingolfin suggests after a moment of thought. "Our niece. Her hair is said to capture the light of both Trees."
"Artanis," Finarfin nods, using her father-name. "Yes, her hair would serve. And no one would question a master craftsman approaching a young relative with such a request."
The path forward clarifies in Fëanor's mind. "I will seek her out tomorrow," he decides. "Three strands only—enough for my experiment without raising undue curiosity."
The next day, Fëanor approaches Galadriel in her gardens, where she often walks in the mingled light of the Trees. She stands tall and proud, her golden hair indeed capturing light in a way that reminds him of Finarfin's, yet with silvery strands interwoven that add a unique luminance.
"Lady Artanis," he greets her formally, using her father-name as is proper in such settings.
She turns, her gaze cool and assessing. Though young by the reckoning of their kind, there is ancient wisdom in her eyes that has always unsettled Fëanor.
"Lord Fëanor," she acknowledges with a slight incline of her head. "What brings you here? I thought your work kept you ever at your forge."
"It is because of my work that I seek you," he says, deciding on directness. "I am attempting to create jewels that might capture and preserve light itself. To accomplish this feat, I require a special material—hair that holds light within its structure."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "And you believe my hair might serve this purpose?"
"I know it would," Fëanor says with certainty. "Three strands only—that is all I ask."
Galadriel studies him for a long moment, her gaze seeming to pierce through his careful facade to the tangled truths beneath. When she finally speaks, her voice holds a chill he did not anticipate.
"You have great skill with words, kinsman, as with metals and stones. Yet I can hear in your voice that you foresee more than just jewels in these strands."
Fëanor maintains his composure, though inwardly he wonders how much she perceives. "I foresee a creation beyond anything yet made in Aman," he says truthfully.
"Perhaps," she concedes. "But what else might these jewels bring? What consequences unforeseen even by the wise?" She shakes her head, the movement causing her hair to catch the light in a display that only reinforces Fëanor's desire for it. "No, Fëanor. What you ask, I cannot give."
Frustration rises in him, sharp and immediate. "It is but hair, Lady Artanis. It grows back."
"It is not the asking but the asker that concerns me," she replies, her gaze unflinching. "There is a shadow in you, kinsman, that I will not contribute to." She steps back, putting distance between them both physical and symbolic. "You and I, we shall be unfriends forever."
The finality in her words strikes Fëanor like a physical blow. He stares at her, anger warring with grudging respect for her perception. Without another word, he turns and leaves, his mind already working on alternative approaches to his vision.
The rejection stings, but it does not deter him. There are other ways to capture the light of the Trees, other materials he might use. And if Galadriel will not aid him willingly, perhaps her rejection is itself a gift—freeing him to pursue his vision without the complication of connection to his half-brothers, without the risk of exposing the secret they now share.
As he returns to his forge, Fëanor's thoughts move between the memory of pleasure in his half-brothers' arms and the crystal clarity of his vision. The Silmarils are taking shape in his mind, becoming more real with each passing moment. They will be his greatest creation, untainted by connection to forbidden desires, pure in their purpose if not in their inspiration.
And if, in their making, he thinks sometimes of being caught between Fingolfin and Finarfin, of surrender and discovery and transcendence—well, that will be his secret to keep, along with all the others.
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