The Brothers' Folly
Year 1490 of the Trees | Year 14277 in the Years of the Sun
It was in the days of the waning peace, beneath the mingled gold and silver of Laurelin and Telperion, that the court of Tirion stood uneasy, and the hearts of many were turned to silence. Though the Trees still shone, and the airs were sweet with the songs of birds and the scent of ever-blooming gardens, a heaviness had fallen upon the high halls of Finwë's house. The court, once a place of song and craft, of discourse and delight, now bore the hush of a shadow not yet seen, but felt by all who walked its polished floors.
Once, the sound of hammer and harp would mingle in the bright towers of the city. Fëanor the Fireborn, eldest of Finwë's line, had walked those halls like the rising dawn—his eyes bright with thought, his hands ever at work, his laughter a thing of flame. To him the nobles came, eager to hear of some new marvel, a jewel wrought or a rune discovered, and the younger smiths and sages followed after him like stars about the morning sun. In those days, he would lay his works before the throne of Finwë and speak their making with pride, and his voice rang like silver on stone, bright and bold.
But now, though the Trees waxed still in their light, and the bells of Taniquetil rang clear over the western hills, the court of Tirion was changed. The courtiers still came, cloaked in silks and star-shot robes, but they spoke in whispers beneath their veils. The lords of the Noldor gathered in tighter circles, their eyes often turned not to the throne, but to the empty space before it, where once Fëanor stood. They waited, and they watched, and their voices bore the cadence of dread.
For Fëanor no longer came to court.
He dwelt apart in his high halls, where the forge-fires never died. He sang no more to his father, nor brought forth wonders to gladden the hearts of his kin. The Silmarils—his greatest and most guarded works—were never spoken of aloud, but all knew that they alone held his gaze. And in his absence, it was Fingolfin who stood beside their father, fair and calm, his voice measured, his judgment sound. He did not speak ill of his brother; indeed, he named Fëanor ever the first of their line, and deferred to him in word and thought. But the court could see it: in his steadiness, in his strength, Fingolfin grew beloved. Not for pride or flame, but for the steadiness of stone.
And so the halls grew colder. Not in warmth or light, but in spirit. Even the laughter of the fountains seemed quieter now. The wind that wound through the city's silver stairs did not sing as it once did. There was an unease among the people, a fear unspoken, like the hush before the breaking of a storm.
Some said that Fëanor was ill. Others said he sought a secret glory still hidden, and would return with a brilliance never before seen. But there were those, older and wiser, who did not speak at all—for they remembered the dark of Utumno, and the lies that wore the face of truth, and the songs that turned the hearts of kings.
And they watched the high towers, where the flame still burned, and wondered what shadow might have passed through the fire unseen.
It came to pass upon a gathering day in the court of Tirion, when the Noldor had assembled to speak of matters of craft and governance, that a storm, long-brewing in silence, broke at last in fire and fury. The high hall of Finwë, wreathed in carved stone and silver lamps, shone with the mingled light of Laurelin and Telperion through the arched windows. Nobles stood robed in splendor, their brows bright with gems; scribes stood ready with quills of gold; and artisans looked on, some weary, some wary—for the air was thick with things unsaid.
Fingolfin stood near the dais, calm and composed, fair of form and noble of bearing, speaking with his father of the needs of the realm—of forges left idle and roads left unrepaired, of the ordering of festivals and the honoring of memory. But as he turned to address the assembly, the doors burst open, and a shadow strode forth clad not in darkness but in flame.
Fëanor came.
His eyes were bright with wrath, and his cloak, black and crimson, flowed like fire behind him. Upon his brow he wore no crown, but the very light of his spirit seemed to burn, proud and perilous. All turned toward him, and the hall grew still, as if time itself held breath.
He did not greet his father. He did not bow to his kin. His gaze fixed upon Fingolfin, and in his eyes burned a fire kindled not only by pride—but by something deeper, colder.
"Usurper," he said, and his voice cut like steel. "You stand in my place. You wear my father's favor. You speak to my people as though you were heir of Finwë. But I am his firstborn! I am the Flame Unchained! Did you think I would not see what you do in my absence?"
Gasps rippled through the court. Finwë rose to speak, but the moment hung too swiftly.
In Fëanor's mind, a whisper curled like smoke:
"He wants what you made. He wants your father. He wants your place."
The words of Melkor, long planted, now bloomed like poisoned thorns. He could hear them still, even now—though Melkor had not walked in Tirion since the Trees last mingled their fullest light.
"You dare to wear honor like a robe stolen from my forge," Fëanor snarled, stepping forward, "while I labor in silence? You speak for our father while I alone bear his fire? I will not suffer a thief in my house."
And then, before any could stop him, he drew his blade.
It gleamed in the light of the Trees—a bright thing, beautiful and deadly. A gasp arose from the assembly, and many recoiled in fear. For in all the long peace of Aman, no blade had ever been drawn in wrath between kin.
Fingolfin did not flinch.
He looked upon his brother with a sorrow that went deeper than fear, and deeper still than pride. And though his hand moved not to his sword, his voice, when it came, was clear and steady.
"I only stepped forward, brother," he said, "because you stepped away."
And there was silence.
Fëanor stood, his blade trembling in his grip, his fire wild and uncertain. The shadow behind his eyes flickered, as if uncertain whether to hold or flee. And the light of the Trees, which had never feared the sons of Finwë, now fell strangely across the floor—broken, uneasy.
Then came the sound of Finwë's voice, calling his son's name not as a king, but as a father. And Fëanor turned, and the wrath faded—but not the wound.
And word flew from the court that day like fire through dry leaves: that Fëanor, son of Finwë, had drawn steel against his brother. And though Melkor had vanished from the sight of the Valar, his shadow lingered in the hearts of the Noldor, darkening the paths yet to come.
The Ring of Doom lay in silence beneath the stars, gathered in stillness were the Valar—great among the Ainur, radiant with power, yet heavy now with grief. The Trees yet gave forth their mingled light, gold and silver flowing through the high airs of Valinor, but in that moment, the world felt dimmed. For though peace had reigned long in Aman, a blade had been drawn in Tirion, and blood—though unshed—had stirred the very foundations of the Blessed Realm.
Tulkas, mightiest in strength, stood with fury in his gaze. His hands clenched and unclenched as he paced the outer ring. "This is no small trespass," he said, his voice like thunder under the earth. "To raise sword against kin in Aman—this is not the way of the Children, nor the will of Eru."
Aulë bowed his head, sorrowful, for it was by his teaching that Fëanor had first come to love the shaping of things. Yavanna said no word, but the wind rustled her green raiment like leaves in mourning.
Varda, Lady of the Stars, sat veiled in starlight. Her gaze was distant, sorrow etched upon her face like frost upon morning grass. She spoke no word of doom, only watched, as one who sees the shadow begin to move though the sun still shines.
Manwë, High King of Arda, stood at the center. The air about him stirred with quiet power, and the eyes of all turned to him when at last he lifted his voice.
"Fëanor, son of Finwë, you have spoken words of division and drawn sword in wrath against your own blood. Though no blood was shed, the wound is made. For the safety of Aman and the healing of your spirit, you are banished from Tirion."
His voice was heavy with sorrow.
"You shall dwell in Formenos, in the northern hills, for twelve years. Not as a prisoner, but apart. And in that time, you shall ponder your words and your flame. The Silmarils, you may keep—but guarded ever by your own hand."
Fëanor said nothing. His eyes blazed, and his jaw was set like iron. He bowed neither in thanks nor regret. No word passed his lips as he turned from the Ring of Doom, his cloak billowing like stormcloud behind him.
And the Valar spoke no further of Melkor. Despite all, despite even Alcaron's earlier words of warning, they did not summon him. They did not call him to answer for the whispering seeds he had sown.
When word reached Tirion of the judgment, there was silence in the high halls. But greater still was the silence that followed King Finwë's response.
"I will go with my son," he said.
And none could sway him. Not the entreaties of the council, not the weeping of the lords, not even the soft words of Fingolfin or the grief of Alcaron, who had come swiftly from Eärondë upon hearing of the trial.
So it was that Fëanor departed from Tirion in bitter silence. At his side walked Nerdanel, his wife—her face solemn and unreadable. Behind him marched his seven sons, each bearing his own fire, each shaped of his father's spirit.
The Silmarils were borne in a casket of black stone wrought with fire-runes, sealed by Fëanor's own hand. With them went many treasures—gems of surpassing craft, tools and works of the forge, writings in flame and gold.
They passed through the gates of Tirion as the Trees began their mingling. The golden light of Laurelin and the silver of Telperion flickered on their cloaks and hair. But it seemed, as they passed, that the air itself dimmed—that a fire was being carried away, and with it, a shadow smoldered.
The gates closed behind them. And Tirion, though it still gleamed in the light of the Trees, felt colder for their going.
The golden courts of Tirion had never felt so hollow.
The judgment of Fëanor was spoken—solemn and irrevocable. Twelve Valian years in exile. Not chains, but silence. Not wrath, but sorrow. Formenos would be his dwelling, far from the hearts of the Noldor. Yet it was not the exile that pierced most deeply—it was the shadow he left behind, trailing like smoke through marble halls and memory.
Alcaron stood with Nimloth, Elenwëa, and Almirion near the western gates of Tirion, where white stairs descended toward the shining plain. Their travel was prepared, their hearts wearied. They had come to lend their voices to reason, to bear witness to the breaking of kin. And now, they longed for home—for the clear skies of Eärondë, where stars did not dim and shadows were not made by brother's hand.
Alcaron looked once more upon the city that had birthed them all. The towers gleamed still, proud and tall, but the light upon them felt strained, like a song sung without harmony.
Then came Fingolfin, swift upon the stair. He bore no guard, no herald—only gravity, quiet and dignified.
"Alcaron," he said, "do not leave yet."
Alcaron turned, calm and weary. "What more is to be said, brother?"
"Not by me," Fingolfin replied. "By the Elder King."
So it was that they climbed again the hill of Taniquetil, and entered the halls of Manwë Súlimo, where the wind never ceased and wisdom wore no crown.
The Elder King received them not with thunder, but with stillness. Varda stood beside him, radiant and silent. Tulkas spoke no words, though fire glinted behind his eyes.
Manwë said simply: "The House of Finwë must endure. Fëanor has departed. Finwë has followed. Alcaron, second son of Finwë, I ask that you remain—to guide the Noldor in his name until the years of exile pass."
No command. Only a call.
Alcaron bowed his head but did not answer.
Later, in the guest chambers of Tirion, beneath lamplight shaped like stars, he sat with his wife and children. Silence held them for a time.
At last, Nimloth spoke: "The world has changed, my love. And yet, the light remains in you. If they ask for you, it is because they still see it."
Elenwëa, quiet and steady, said: "Let me return to Eärondë. The people trust me. I will not let our flame go out."
Almirion, restless and bright, leaned forward: "If you stay, Father, let me stay with you. I would know the Noldor not just in glory, but in grief. I would learn what it means to serve, as you have."
Alcaron looked upon them, and the weight of both love and loss bore down upon him like the slow tide of time.
"Then so shall it be," he said. "We came to witness an end. Now we must tend what remains. I will serve as they ask, until the sun returns to our house. Elenwëa will rule Eärondë in our name. Nimloth, if you remain, I shall not be alone."
And thus the second path was chosen. Not homeward, but onward. Not in sorrow, but in silent strength.
The flame of Eärondë would not falter. And in Tirion, a quiet light would remain, kindled by hands unburned by pride.