Take a Bow by Zaatar

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Chapter 1

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Enough time had passed for burials and dirges and a day's march when the messenger in his uncle's colors came to Findaráto's camp.

He had expected sooner. And he agreed to go with him immediately.

The kisses he exchanged with his brothers and sister were rushed and solemn with formality. Artanis, Aikanáro, even Angaráto were all as silent as the messenger. All tall, all proud, all diminished in a way Findaráto knew himself to be as well. Stripped of influence and agency, none of them knew how to act. And none of them knew how to live without their father.

But they had discussed this, this inevitability. Fëanáro was newly king. Findaráto newly lord of his House. Loyalties were everywhere divided, but nowhere more so than in the House of Arafinwë, kin to the Teleri of Alqualondë. "They will ask too much of you," Artanis had warned him. "Will you give it?"

"I don't know," he had answered then and he still didn't now. Findaráto had thought it would be sooner. He still was not ready.

He was met by Curufinwë at at the edge of his uncle's camp and there the messenger left him. Not a moment was he left alone and Findaráto knew he was meant to know it, though his cousin's expression was placid and they did not speak. The familiar face set him at ease and at on edge both and he had no doubt that that was the purpose of it.

They dismounted by Fëanáro's tent and a young elf with the star on his tunic tended to the horses. Only then did Curufinwë formally greet him. "Well met, cousin."

"A star shines," Findaráto answered politely.

"We thank you for making haste."

"I am eager to meet my king." Curufinwë did look at him closely then, perhaps searching for a hint of disingenuity. Findaráto gave him none.

They lingered outside the tent, waiting, although Findaráto did not know for what until the cloth entrance parted and Nolofinwë stepped out, then Maitimo. Their faces were drawn, Nolofinwë's pale, though with a strange sort of relief that showed through even with his jaw gritted until his cheekbones could cut. But his face softened as he stepped in towards Findaráto and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. "You have your father's wisdom, Ingoldo," he said lowly. "Use it."

Findaráto nodded and watched them walk away and by the way Maitimo dogged him, it seemed that even Nolofinwë required an escort.

Curufinwë led him to the spacious tent, holding the cloth open for him and stepping in after before taking his spot at his father's right. Watching him. Fëanáro reclined regally under a royal hanging, impossible to read as ever. Stern. Beautiful. Cold with eyes that burned from the inside.

Something in Findaráto withered under those combined stares, identical in intensity if not quite in power. Something in his spirit cringed, even as he drew his body up to full height, tall and proud. "You requested my presence, my lord uncle?"

"Yes, Artafindë." Findaráto knew the use of the Noldorin form of his name in place of his preferred Telerin to be purposeful. And while his uncle always had insisted upon it, it carried fresh insult now. He knew what he was expected to repudiate. Fëanáro extended a pale, bejeweled hand toward a satin cushion. "Do sit."

He would rather not. But now was not the time to disobey his uncle, High King of the Noldor. His standing and that of his brothers, that of his sister, was precarious to say the least. He sat down on the cushion, noticing immediately that Fëanáro's low traveling chair set him high above his own seated form, forcing him to tilt his head up if he wanted to maintain eye contact. Even when Curufinwë sat down just after, his pile of cushions set him higher.

So Findaráto looked up. No son of Arafinwë would allow himself to be cowed, not even under the eyes of the Spirit of Fire.

Fëanáro's face was strangely soft, save for a sharp smile at his eyes. Curufinwë's smile was not so restricted, playing about his lips and in the drumming of his fingers. No more placidity, no more pleasantries. Smug as always, cousin. But he had reason to be now. No grandfather to protect the children of his younger sons, no father-

"It is a pity," Fëanáro murmured in a voice as thick and as slow as batter, "that your father saw fit to leave us."

Findaráto nearly started at the obvious continuation of his own thought. It might have been a coincidence, but he could see the new amusement on his uncle's face. He had been read.

"Arafinwë always had a soft heart," Fëanáro continued and Findaráto noticed with some tightness in his chest that his uncle chose to refer to him in the past tense. Of course. Just as Fëanáro referred to his wife, to all those who did not follow. "And it was only a matter of time before - ah. Where are my manners? Curufinwë?"

Fëanáro gestured towards a jug on a stand in the corner of the tend and Curufinwë attended to them as a servant might, had a servant been present, taking the jug and pouring the cool wine into jeweled goblets for them both. This meeting was uncomfortably closed and like with the escorts, Findaráto didn't know what it meant for their to be no attendants. He was out of his depths.

Curufinwë leaned in close behind him and Findaráto felt his breath on his ear. And then the touch of a mind against his. Careful cousin. Goosebumps rose on Findaráto's neck. He looks-

-for an excuse. Findaráto knew. He was walking a very narrow bridge. Fëanáro was a storm and Findaráto could not now bow so low before him as to appear weak before his people. But neither could he stand so tall that Fëanáro would feel forced to break him. He closed his mind off. To be read now could mean a disaster.

Ah, father. Did you ready me for this?

Findaráto took a sip of the wine and looked back up at his uncle. This was a performance. Even with all that was riding on this, the principles were the same as any diplomatic exchange back in his grandfather's court in Tirion. Exchanges at which he excelled. He shielded his face as well as his mind, and shaped a pleasant smile about his lips and polite interest at his eyes and brow. He relaxed his posture until he appeared at ease, if attentively so. Findaráto was a sculptor and now his body was his medium as he hewed from himself a perfect diplomat.

When he saw the flicker of annoyance in Fëanáro's eyes, he knew he was successful.

"As I was saying," Fëanáro spoke again, "it was only a matter of time before your father turned his back. He never did handle conflict well, soft hearted as he was." Fëanáro paused, and perhaps he noticed Findaráto grit his teeth, because there was that smile, that amusement again in his eyes. And oh, it rankled.

"I have called you here," Fëanáro continued, "because I have heard his children share the same, ah, how shall I say . . . sensitivities."

Curufinwë's lip twitched and so did Findaráto's jaw as he steadied himself against an anger that burned in his gut like acid. Finwë's temper, his mother had called it. Something he could not have inherited from either parent. Finwë's temper sheathed in Arafinwë's calm. But a calm sorely tried.

Findaráto did not miss what his uncle was saying. He called his father a craven, implied that it ran in his blood to taint that of his children. And now Findaráto wished he might prove him wrong this very moment. He could see himself standing tall, golden and threatening, singing a song of power and image, forcing Fëanáro to face him as he was. To face Angaráto, strong and unyielding in his faith. To face Aikanáro, face hard with fell fire in his eyes. To face lethal Artanis, fighting back at Alqualondë, unbowing and shining and steel as her blade. To sing out: this is the power of the House of Arafinwë!

But it was the thought of Artanis that kept him silent, kept him sitting. His sister could protect herself, true, but she had protected herself too well. It was not lightly that anyone shed the blood of the followers of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë. But then, Findaráto thought bitterly, it was only a little time ago that no blood was ever shed lightly at all.

Fëanáro waited. Perhaps he hoped for a protest, an argument, an excuse. Findaráto would give him none. Curufinwë smiled.

"And then," Fëanáro said smoothly, "there is the matter of your sister." Findaráto's expression froze on his face. Again he had been read.

Or perhaps not. Artanis' fate would be the logical progression of this discussion. Artanis who was in her own tent, well guarded by his father's (no, Findaráto realized, no longer his father's. His now.) forces. But his camp was small and the camp of the House of Fëanáro large and he smelled implicit threat whenever he breathed.

"My sister sues for pardon," Findaráto lied.

Curufinwë raised an eyebrow. Fëanáro's face gave away nothing. "Does she now?"

But his tone betrayed much. Fëanáro disbelieved him and wanted him to know it. Whether Artanis be labeled as traitor - and suffer a traitor's fate - or merely misguided rested on how Findaráto handed this question. You hold my sister hostage, he thought, and this time he did not shield his mind, to ensure my good behavior and that of my people.

Artanis might proudly declare herself traitor. Findaráto would not do so. "We have mutual interests," he said quietly.

"That we do indeed." Findaráto might have been relieved, but Fëanáro was not done. "But Nerwen always has been stubborn. . . " The ugly fondness to his uncle's tone and the over familiarity of his words rose hairs on the back of Findaráto's neck, itched at his skin, and he concentrated on swallowing back a sharp, bitter anger. His sister's honor needed no defense. It spoke for itself and he would only doom her now if he antagonized their uncle.

His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched. Again, Fëanáro waited and again, Findaráto would not give him what he wanted. But the silence was long and somehow loud as they both stared at each other with raised chins and proud eyes. A challenge, but one Findaráto could sustain. He looked away with a headache building up behind his eyes. Fëanáro's smile in response was triumphant and for a terrible moment, Findaráto knew him to be unmatchable.

"You are stubborn as well, my nephew," Fëanáro continued in a tone much softer than his smile.

Findaráto lifted his head. "It runs in the family," he said evenly. Our family and he laid claim to the line as Finwë as surely as did Fëanáro. The children if Indis the Fair were made of the same steel as the children of Míriel Serindë and he would have his uncle remember that.

"So it does. But the question remains: am I then reassured? Or am I wary?"

Bow, Findaráto thought. He must always remember to bend, but not too far, and the tent felt smaller as he struggled to come up with a reassurance, an excuse, words of diminishment and protection. "We have ever been loyal-"

"Until recently." But then Curufinwë laid a hand on his father's arm, and this was strange. Fëanáro's smile turned indulgent as he met his son's eyes. Stranger still was how his smile remained so as he directed his attention back to Findaráto. "And yet my son here agreed to bear witness to your character."

Findaráto's mask slipped; he leaned back slightly in surprise. Even Curufinwë's earlier warning had been unexpected, let alone the notion he might speak on his behalf. It was true they were age-mates, had been students together, had teased their tutors and sparred in gardens, and he had assumed that was why Curufinwë had been chosen to accompany him in the first place. But the relationships between the sons of Fëanáro and the grandchildren of Indis had significantly cooled as Fëanáro's animosity towards his half brothers had intensified. No more shared hunting trips, joined feasts, or family festivals, and after Finwë's murder, certainly they had no reason to pretend at familial love.

So why, Findaráto wondered, was Curufinwë now sticking out his neck?

His eyes met his cousin's who smiled gently, benevolently, and undeniably mockingly. Findaráto found himself too tired to reciprocate. Not just tired. Exhausted. Disgusted. Achingly aware of just how deeply he was at the mercy of his cursed kin, this cousin who had killed cousins, this uncle who had killed uncles.

And perhaps this was what Curufinwë wanted. Perhaps that was what they both wanted. The brothers of Fëanáro brought low, their Houses subdued and subject to his. Nolofinwë implicated, Arafinwë absent. And the oldest son of Arafinwë at the feet of the favored son of Fëanáro.

"My cousin is soft hearted, yes, but he is steadfast and wise," Curufinwë said, his words honey-slow. "He mislikes lies and has the makings of a strong ally. Isn't that right, Artafindë?"

Findaráto inclined his chin up in an affirmative, sick in his stomach and in his chest. He had been wrong; he realized this now. This was not only a test. Everything but Artanis' fate had been pre-decided: Fëanáro's reproach and Curufinwë's defense, scaffolding from which they might dangle their pardon and all Findaráto could do was jump for it. This was why Curufinwë spoke for him, to have him at his mercy and in his debt. This was the reason for the sick relief he'd seen on Nolofinwë's face.

But Nolofinwë' had fought with them and followed them. Arafinwë had not and now his children would carry that stigma.

Findaráto did not wish to carry anger towards his father, though, so he brushed the thought aside. He would focus only on what he needed to protect his family and his people. "My cousin honors me with his words," he murmured.

Curufinwë smiled again and Findaráto smiled back and neither of them quite met each other's eyes.

"It is only truth I speak," Curufinwë responded. "I mean no empty flattery."

Their eyes did meet then and Findaráto knew his were furious. I will repay you your kindness times over, he promised. I will not linger long in your debt.

Curufinwë inclined his chin up. Fëanáro set a hand on Curufinwë's shoulder and leaned in towards Findaráto. "My son's judgement is steady. You will then, of course, pledge allegiance in your father's . . . unfortunate. . . absence?"

Findaráto thought of the broken kingdom of his mother's father, of the beaches of Alqualondë, of sands strewn with bodies where once had glittered the gifts of the Noldor, their kin. I'm sorry, mother, grandfather. "I will."

Fëanáro stood then in a graceful movement, showing off robes in both Finwë's colors and his own. They were finely woven and embroidered in gold and silver thread, patterns set with gemstones. Findaráto wondered, as he knelt down on one knee, just how long his uncle had been ready to rule.

"Will you, Artafindë Ingoldo Arafinwion, follow your father back to the lap of the Valar?" Findaráto's fingers twitched in his sleeves. "Or will you follow your king?"

And Findaráto thought of his sister, furious, fighting proud, and his father, sickened, turning back. I am sorry.

"I will follow my lord uncle, High King of the Noldor."

Fëanáro held out his hand and Findaráto to kissed the rings on his fingers.

---

It struck Findaráto, as Curufinwë led him through the camps of his brothers, just how different was the atmosphere here than was at his own circle of tents. So much less restrained. Here, people spoke loudly and often, and while many still bore the stunned look so familiar after the slaughter of Alqualondë, still they went about their lives, fetching water, laundering clothes, combing horses.

Murderers.

But no, there was strain even in this. Squires who did know how to clean blood from armor, healers helpless before unfamiliar wounds. There was Maitimo speaking urgently with Findekáno, and while Findaráto could not hear his words, it seemed to him that they were pleading. There was Telufinwë washing his hands over and over, deadened eyes staring south as his twin tried to speak with him. And here came Tyelkormo riding up on his great horse, hound bounding at its side. His face pale, his sword arm strapped to his chest in a sling. He dismounted clumsily, with obvious struggle, and a wince as his wrist was jostled.

"Valar damned it to the fucking hells," he growled and as always his manner conflicted with his fine, flashy clothing and the glittering gems woven into his hair and at his ears, throat, and fingers.

Findaráto noticed dried blood caked under his nails and rings.

Saw his young cousin, his mother's sister-son, lying dead on the beach, gutted, once white sand dark and sticky with his blood.

"I hear you are a most infuriating patient," Curufinwë said with a casual note in his voice that had been absent back in the tent. "Your healer told me she was ready to poison you. Or herself."

It was disorienting, Findaráto thought, how they could just go on, as if his fate had not just been decided in Fëanáro's tent, as if they were all meeting in the halls in Tirion.

"And I hear you should fucking shut up," Tyelkormo grumbled. He stopped by Findaráto and made eye contact only for a moment before breaking it and shifting his weight from side to side. It could have been guilt, though perhaps merely discomfort. They had played together once too. Tyelkormo used to lead him around on a pony when he was quite young.

Findaráto's eyes kept straying to that dried blood.

Cousin who killed cousins.

" Ah. Fin. . ." Tyelkormo shifted again. "Didn't think- sorry for your loss." At first Findaráto wondered at what might have been an apology or an admission of guilt, but no, Tyelkormo would do what his father had all but forbade. There would be no acknowledgement of the Teleri as kin.

"My father lives, Turcafinwë."

"Right. Of course. I only meant . . ." Tyelkormo looked from Findaráto to Curufinwë, but Findaráto could not see the look Curufinwë's face.

The younger brother nodded to the elder in dismissal. "Father waits, Tyelko."

"Right," Tyelkormo repeated. "I'll just . . . Fin. Kurvo." He turned and strode towards Fëanáro's tent. Huan offered Findaráto a baleful look before following at Tyelkormo's heels.

"What a mess," Curufinwë murmured as he led them to where their horses were tethered. Perhaps he meant. Tyelkormo. Perhaps just all of it. Findaráto did not know and did not ask.

They rode back to Findaráto's camp in silence. Cold and calm and how proud his father would be to see him so perfectly controlled. Down to the bland smile on his lips as he rode into his own camp. And how it must annoy Curufinwë. Curufinwë whom he now owed. Curufinwë who was, perhaps, still waiting for more harsh of a response, one Findaráto might have been prone to give when he was younger. But Findaráto would give him none. He was the head of his House now. He had more to protect. More to lose.

They both dismounted, clasped arms, exchanged a kiss of kinship. All in the middle of the camp where everyone could and should see. Now was a time for mending only. Or so Findaráto told himself.

"You are good to have escorted me back."

"You are good to have followed." The word choicely picked.

Voices low. "Of course, cousin."

"Of course."

"Valar keep you."

"And you."

Farewells voided by the Doom set upon them by those who once kept them. All piety voided now.

Curufinwë mounted his horse and left. Artanis pulled back the fabric of her tent, staring after him with hard eyes she then turned on Findaráto. Her posture was haughty, her face disappointed. "You bow too deeply, brother."

---

No, he would realize later as only his visible puffs of breath clouded the sight of flickering fire on the horizon. No, he had not bowed deeply enough.