Fake

Canon compliant AU.  Once upon a time, Fingolfin adored his older brother.  But that was a very long time ago indeed.  Quenya names used (Fingolfin = Nolofinwë, Fëanor = Fëanáro).  This is, basically, the rift of the House of Finwë as witnessed by a young child growing up.  You can, perhaps, understand why it is that Fingolfin comes to rather despise his brother.  If anything, I would say this is paired most closely with "Devious", "Precious" and "Murmur", but is related to many others, like "Waste" and "Bite".  Anyway, takes place in Tirion during the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Finwë x Indis (background, but important)

Characters: Fingolfin, Fëanor, Finwë, Indis, Findis

Warning: canon-compliant AU, dysfunctional family, estranged siblings, almost but not quite child abuse, family feuding

Song: Gollum's Song

Words: 1,278

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fake (adjective): not true or real: meant to look real or genuine but not real or genuine

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fake

There was always something just on this side of wrong about the way his older brother smiled.

When he was very small, Nolofinwë had taken no note of such intricacies in his interactions with the shockingly tall, awe-inspiring Crown Prince, too entrapped in the tangled net of a younger sibling’s blind regard to see.  Before he had been old enough to understand the political subtleties that raced through the undercurrent of palace life, the tiny prince had toddled about after those clicking heels and that long, lovely hair of braided hair and those beautiful, glowing eyes with adoration and idolization that could come only with the purest and strongest of unconditional love.

All he had wanted was that attention focused upon him, even for a few moments.  It always made him feel so special whenever Fëanáro granted him that boon, whenever his brother picked him up and smiled down at him.  But such embraces never lasted long, for all their sweetness equally bitter, and always after a few moments he was set aside like an abandoned toy.

He hadn’t understood, for what child could?

But one could not remain oblivious forever.  And, eventually, though, he began to notice things.

“Leave your brother be, darling.  He is quite busy.”

Like how his mother never wanted him alone with his older sibling, never left the room when they were together, always held him tight in her arms whenever Fëanáro was near.  As though she were frightened of what the glorious, fire-eyed man might do when her back was turned.  As though no trust—to love—lay between them as would between a mother and her son.

“Come, child, it is time for your nap.”

Like how his father would always make any excuse to separate the pair whenever Nolofinwë took to morphing into his older brother’s personal duckling.  Finwë tried hard to be subtle and to cover up his misgivings, but something in his eyes and his voice always betrayed his concern, laid bare his anxiety.

“Will you play with me?”

And Fëanáro would smile.

“Maybe some other time, little brother.”

Like how, no matter how much he begged to be held or cuddled, no matter how good he was and quiet he was, no matter how many times he asked politely just like his emya taught him, Fëanáro never wanted to spend time with him, never wanted hugs or kisses on the cheek.  Never wanted to read stories.  Never wanted to play.  Never wanted to sing.

At first, he had written it off—had not emya said he was busy?  But Nolofinwë was a smart child, an observant child.  And, as he grew into his intelligence the world became clearer, was unveiled in all its paler—and darker—glory.

Because, when he was older, he began to notice the strain of his mother’s lovely smile whenever his brother was in the same room.  He began to notice how Fëanáro never looked at her; how he pretended she wasn’t there.  He began to notice how, whenever his parents were sitting together, Nolofinwë perched innocuously between their warmth and tenderness, his brother would leave and his mother and father would not allow him to chase after that retreating back to implore his beloved sibling to stay with them.  To sit with them and be a part of them—their little family.

He most especially began to notice the tension of his brother’s smile.  The erratic twitch of his jaw and beneath his eye.  The annoyance that sparked like crackling embers from the hearth.  The paleness of his lips as they stretched over his teeth.

It looked painful, he had thought.  Uncomfortable.

Fake.

That was the word that had come to define their interactions.  Their family.  Their lives.

Even though he was older and smarter, even though he could speak more intelligibly and had become more observant, his brother’s behavior toward him had not changed.  Fëanáro would gift him with an indulgent, feigned smile and a few soft crooning words that melted like warmed chocolate, and then he would set Nolofinwë aside or send him from the room without a second glance.  Without even parting words of affection.

There was pretend warmth.  That voice was never rough or harsh.  It was never even cold or distant.  But it was a lie.

Just like those eyes were a lie.  Just like that smile was a lie.

Just like their “family” dinners at the big table in the dining hall were all lies.  Just like their pleasant gatherings in the sitting room were all lies.

Because Fëanáro would sit and pretend to be happy and content as he prattled on meaninglessly to his father and never glanced toward Indis or toward Findis and Nolofinwë.  Finwë would sit and pretend to enjoy their time together like a proud father as his knuckles blanched white when his fingers clenched taut upon the arm of his chair.  Indis would plaster a smile upon her face and stare straight ahead with her hands folded demurely, pretending with equal vehemence that Fëanáro was not present.  And Findis would cross her arms and glare petulantly at the wall, her blue eyes glimmering with half-hidden tears.

Nolofinwë began to see.

See that the happy times he recalled like fuzzy daydreams of infanthood were naught but delusions.

Their family was not a happy one.  His emya would call his older brother “dear” and Fëanáro would address her as “mother”, but Finwë would stand between them as though he feared one might attack the other but knew not which side he would take for he loved them both.  Even his crooning, soothing words, though, lacked that ring of sincerity, felt forced and not genuine.  For kind words in this house were nothing more than a façade, and placating hands were the only fragile threads keeping the chaos of discord from falling upon their heads.

The second-born son of Finwë was growing up.  And he was no longer oblivious.

He could see the sadness layered beneath his father’s cheery words now plainer than a red flower in broad daylight.  He could see the stress that tainted his mother’s eyes, the glisten of silent tears that trailed over her cheeks like the dew of Telperion rained from the heavens.

But, most of all, he could see the crimson gleam of hatred that lingered in the depths of his brother’s eyes.  No matter that that smile was always cordial, that those words were always kind, that those hands were always gentle.  He could see.

Like a wildfire it screamed and clawed and writhed, barely hidden just beyond something cool and cracked.  That gaze would settle upon him—upon the second-born who was no longer a baby but had reached the height and inquisitiveness and perception of a young child—and somewhere in those depths Nolofinwë would see the way they shifted into something frightening.  Dark lashes would narrow about silver-white, and a cold shiver would slide down the child’s spine.

Eventually, Nolofinwë stopped trailing after his older brother.  Stopped begging for attention.  Stopped watching in awe and adoration.

Stopped, because all that he had ever loved about Fëanáro had been a lie.  Fake.  As fake and broken and unnatural as had become their family.  Nothing but a lost little daydream melted away beneath the garish heat of midday.

Sometimes, he wished he had never grown up.

At least then he would have the bliss they called ignorance.  At least then he could pretend that the love they shared was real.

At least then, maybe, he could have stayed happy.