Prompt: Opening a Door
@spring-into-arda
He had hoped, for the first few days that he had been back here, that he was not alone. That someone, anyone, had been sent hurtling back to the beginning with him.
His wife. His children. His brother. His half-brother. Anyone.
He’d had particular hope for Feanor, actually, because he had a sneaking suspicion that his getting sent back in time had something to do with Feanor’s mysterious project in the Halls of Mandos.
To all appearances, though, he truly was the only one in all of Tirion that would see Feanaro and think Feanor instead.
So he would have to do this alone.
It was an uncomfortable thought. He had not worked alone, as a general rule; he could not, for the projects he undertook. Politics were not smithwork where a lone genius could emerge from seclusion with a new masterpiece; they were collaborative by nature.
There had been one exception, of course, and it was tempting to have a repeat performance every time he saw Melkor swanning about the streets.
It was probably a bad idea though. Certainly a bad idea.
It was a bad idea that was getting more tempting by the second the longer he waited without any idea how he was going to change the entire course of his people’s history on his own.
Which was why he was here, standing outside the door of the house Feanor kept in Tirion . . . and why he had been here for the last half hour as the light of the Trees faded from silver to gold.
It would not be the first time he had talked to Feanor since he had been unceremoniously thrown back in time, but the first time had been a brief thing; a polite conversation with their father present wherein Fingolfin had (with many quiet mental apologies to the woman in question) insulted Feanor’s mother in Sindarin and watched his face carefully for any reaction.
Since Feanor had immediately demanded to know more about whatever strange twisting of Quenya was being popularized in Tirion now and not punched him in the face, Fingolfin had fairly conclusively proven that Feanor was indeed Feanaro and not his future self.
He did not have to talk to Feanor now. He could go to his father. He could go to Arafinwe. He could go to - oh, anyone. Anyone else.
But if he was truly going to change things, he suspected he was going to have to start here.
He raised his hand to knock.
Before he could, the door was yanked open.
“You can’t knock for at least another five minutes,” a tiny Carnistir informed him. “We have bets going, and if you knock now, no one will win.”
“Ah,” Fingolfin said, blinking rapidly.
It was the first time he had seen his brother’s children since . . . everything.
It was strange to see Maitimo standing behind Carnistir looking so openly and exasperatedly mortified by his brother’s antics.
“Of course you can come in, uncle,” he said. “Atar is very curious to hear the reason for your visit.”
Very curious. Not hostile. Not suspicious. Just - curious.
He had forgotten what things had been like before they got so very bad.
“I will be happy to satisfy him on that point,” he said and finally took advantage of the open door to come in.
