Trouble in Tirion by lightofthetrees

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Chapter 1

My soap opera prompts were: 

Stock characters: The Rebel

Plot tropes: Catfight

Typical settings: A mansion in the country

I also had "Special episodes: Snow days," but I didn't use it for this fic. Maybe I'll add another chapter or a sequel that takes place in Formenos! 

Thank you to Bunn for beta-reading! :) 

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The chiming of the noontide bells from the tower in the square signaled that Findekáno and Maitimo’s quiet morning beneath their favorite willow tree in Tirion’s gardens was at an end.

Findekáno rose and stretched languidly while Maitimo tidied up the remains of their picnic breakfast – they’d practically inhaled the sweetbread and honeyed apples they’d brought, so all that was left was a small basket and a crimson cloth covered in crumbs. 

“Thank you for a lovely morning,” Maitimo said as he shook out the cloth and stowed it away in his satchel.

“My pleasure.” Findekáno gathered up the notebooks and papers the two of them had been looking at as they ate and passed Maitimo the ones that belonged to him. “I’m glad you were able to make time for the son of a usurper with all that’s been going on.”

Maitimo knew by the way Findekáno parodied Fëanáro’s most serious princely tone that he didn’t mean what he’d said, but the words still stung.

The truth was, he hadn’t seen much of his cousin lately. Fëanáro had all his sons busy forging weapons or training with them while rumors swirled about Tirion like a discordant flood. Maitimo loathed all of it. He could handle trade negotiations, but dealing with blatant falsehoods and backstabbing was much more trying, especially when one of the greatest purveyors of paranoia was his own father. 

It had proven impossible to convince Fëanáro that Ñolofinwë was not plotting against him. To make matters worse, Maitimo was of the opinion that Ñolofinwë unwittingly fed his half-brother’s suspicions by refusing to comment on them. All Maitimo could do now was keep the tensions from erupting into violence—in other words, damage control.

The most important step in that regard was to have Melkor banished from the city, which required his grandfather to make an official decree…which required this Council meeting to go according to plan.

“I’ve touched a nerve,” Findekáno said, his ears beginning to droop.

“Yes, you have,” Maitimo replied. “But it’s all right.” He placed a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder and levelled his grey gaze on his cousin – the determination was Fëanorian, but the promise was all Maitimo, the natural peacemaker, the soother of scraped knees and resolver of land disputes alike.

“You know the request I plan to make, Finno. Once He is out of Tirion, we can put all this nonsense behind us.”

“I hope you’re right,” Findekáno muttered, laying a hand overtop Maitimo’s on his shoulder. “And I know that you’ll do all you can. I’ve missed you, Maitimo.”

“And I you. We will make this right.”

Having gathered their courage, he and Findekáno departed from the privacy of their willow grove and emerged into the gardens proper. Tirion’s public gardens weren’t as grand as Irmo’s or as lush and varied as Yavanna’s, but they were nothing to scoff at. They were a refuge within the bustling city – somewhere the Noldor could go to seek inspiration or simply rest after long days of labor.

Findekáno and Maitimo made their way down one of the river-stone paths that wound around copses of trees and crossed a footbridge over a brook that gurgled its way over a stone incline. The gate that led out to the main thoroughfare lay across a clearing that featured a series of benches and a half-statue, half-fountain featuring a nís carved of stone pouring water from a vessel into the brook. It had been one of Nerdanel’s first commissioned works some years ago.

Maitimo sighed as they passed through the gate – he wished his morning with Findekáno could have lasted longer. He wished they could have spent time in leisure there as they used to, him reading or sketching under the tree’s welcoming branches while Findekáno plucked out new melodies on his harp.

But there was no use losing himself in wishes. Not when he needed to convince his grandfather and the nobles of the court that Melkor should be banished from the city. Some would argue that Melkor had done nothing explicitly against Tirion’s laws. Others would fear the consequences of angering him. All would have something to say about Fëanáro’s claims against the Valar and the mounting militarism amongst the city’s residents.

Silence sat between Findekáno and Maitimo as they passed by the homes and shops of the palace quarter. Stone fences and ornate wrought iron gates separated the flower-filled courtyards of the great houses from the wide, white-cobbled street. The windows of shops and cafes, made from crystal-clear glass, showed the finest of everything from loaves of bread and lovingly-decorated pastries to jewelry, ceramic, and glassware.

Just around the corner from the large public square in front of the palace, Findekáno stopped short and laid a light hand on Maitimo’s arm. “Maitimo, do you hear that?”

“Hm?” Maitimo had been going over his arguments in his mind and letting Findekáno lead the way – he was lucky he hadn’t bumped into any of the other people on the street.

Wait. Where were the people on the street? In that moment, it occurred to Maitimo just how eerily empty the palace quarter was for this time of day.

“Listen.”

Maitimo did listen, and he inhaled sharply, not at all liking what he heard: a raised voice and the low susurrus of a crowd, all coming from the square directly in front of the palace.

A Valar-damned commotion.

He and Findekáno exchanged looks of concern and then picked up their pace, Findekáno keeping pace with Maitimo’s long strides through sheer determination.

As they rounded the corner that brought them to the square, they could see that a large group of well-dressed elves had gathered outside the palace gates.

They were also nearly knocked over by Fëanáro, who came barreling through the crowd like the prow of a ship cutting through choppy water.

At the sight of the fully armored High Prince, a heavy lump of dread settled in Maitimo’s throat. “Atar, what happened?” he asked, voice strained and stomach sinking.

His father stood before him, momentarily stunned by the collision, with fire in his eyes and naked steel in his hand. The crimson plume of his helm fluttered in the breeze.

Maitimo desperately searched his face for some shred of an explanation. “Should you not be at the palace? The meeting is supposed to begin soon.”

“Meeting?” Fëanáro’s eyes flashed silver and he barked out a laugh. “My naïve Nelyafinwë, there will be no meeting. The traitor Ñolofinwë made sure of that. He thought to whisper in the King’s ear beforehand, to discredit me and to speak the lies of those who keep us imprisoned.”

It was no secret that Fëanáro mistrusted his half-brother almost as much as he disdained the Valar, but the acid, the absolute disgust, in his tone made Maitimo fear that his father had crossed a line today that he had not dared to before. Maitimo heard Findekáno’s breath catch.

“Where is Ñolofinwë now?” Maitimo asked. He kept his voice low and calm despite the wild fluttering of his heart in his chest. Behind his back, Findekáno sought his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. He felt his cousin’s intention if not the exact words: I’ll find him.

“He flees like the coward he is,” Fëanáro spat, eyes narrowing as he watched Findekáno inch backwards into the crowd.

For a fleeting moment, Maitimo wondered if he would have to hold his father back from pursuing Findekáno. The fact that what he had imagined was not wholly out of the realm of possibility made him faintly nauseous. 

Thankfully, though, there was no need for Maitimo to intervene. Instead of giving chase, Fëanáro raised his voice so that Findekáno could hear. “And his offspring are no different, I see! Lapdogs of the Valar, all of you!”

“Atar.” Maitimo’s tone turned from silk to steel. Contrary to popular belief, his patience was not infinite. “What. Happened.”

Fëanáro looked the way he always did when he was forced to explain something again. “It is as I told you. Ñolofinwë was already in the Council chamber when I arrived, speaking with my father and attempting to sway his opinion against me and against what is best for our people! I confronted him and he fled. That is all.”

“You confronted him, blade in hand?”

“I confronted the traitor where he stood before my father, and I issued him a final warning at the gate.” As Fëanáro continued speaking, Maitimo could feel the horrified curiosity of the elves around them closing in. “He could find no words to speak against me, for he knows the truth of what he tried to do, and so he fled.”

“We should go.”

Fëanáro laughed again. How Maitimo hated this new, humorless laugh of his father’s. “Do you think I am afraid of pursuit? We have trained with weapons to prepare for precisely this day.”

“I am not afraid,” Maitimo said, though his racing heart begged to differ. “I simply think we should discuss what happened somewhere less…public.” 

Fëanáro considered his son’s words for a moment and nodded. “You are wise, my son. Let us return home. Your mother and brothers must know what transpired today.”

 

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My dearest Findekáno,

Maitimo nearly crumpled this piece of paper along with its predecessors in the wastebasket beside his desk, but he took a moment to steady himself and dipped his pen back into the inkwell before continuing.

I am sorry I did not write earlier. It has been difficult to find words to express the heartache I feel regarding the current situation…

Nothing he could write would be a sufficient apology, but he would not be allowed into the palace or Ñolofinwë’s estate until the Valar’s judgment upon his father had been rendered.

But I will give it my best attempt. I cannot be silent when I know how deeply my father’s actions have wounded you and your family.

My father is changed, Findekáno. He is not the person he once was, and that terrifies me. Where he used to see possibilities and opportunities, he now sees shadows of betrayal around every corner. His beliefs about the Valar, as you know, have grown ever more extreme – apparently, they are now not simply the keepers of a gilded cage but our jailers, who seek to contain and control us lest we grow more powerful than they can handle. He guards his Silmarils closer than…well, my eloquence fails me here, but he cradles each of them as if it is a newborn, as if it will disappear if it is out of his sight for more than a few moments. 

There is no joy left in his laughter, and my mother has told me that he barely sleeps. I fear what he will become if all this continues. 

Still, none of that is an excuse for his abhorrent behavior in the throne room and before the palace gates. There is nothing I can say that will erase the words he spoke to your father.

I understand if you do not wish to send a reply.

Yours,

Maitimo

Maitimo folded the letter with his characteristic slow meticulosity, then sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. It was finally done. Writing to Findekáno was the most difficult thing he would have to do before his father returned home to announce the Valar’s sentence, and now he was finished. Why had the aching in his chest not ceased?

Releasing his held breath, Maitimo procured a block of crimson sealing wax from the top drawer of the desk and lit its wick using the candle on a nearby table. He watched the tiny flame as it began to soften the wax, and all he could think of was his father’s name. Spirit of Fire. Whatever he ignited, he drew everyone and everything around him into the resulting conflagration. He consumed everything without thought of consequence.

He wounds us all with his selfishness, Maitimo thought. The disgust that lurked in the pit of his stomach felt blasphemous, but he could not rid himself of it.

He tipped the stick of wax over the folded letter, watching the red pool onto the pale parchment like blood.

“Are you ready to send your letter?” Tyelkormo asked, poking his head into Maitimo’s study – as usual, without knocking.

Maitimo nodded and pressed the seal – his personal seal, not that of the House of Fëanáro – into the rapidly-cooling wax. “Are you sending one to Írissë?”

“What for? There hasn’t been a judgment yet. And it wasn’t me who threatened her father.”

“You don’t want to reassure her that you don’t think the Valar want to imprison us?”

Tyelkormo shrugged and moved to lean against the doorframe. “The Valar treat us like children, and it’s certainly stifling, but they never intended to imprison us here. Írissë knows what I think, and so does Oromë. Not everyone’s as eager to write novels’ worth of letters as you are, brother.”

Maitimo sighed. “I suppose you have a point. But Findekáno would surely think something was amiss if I was silent. It isn’t like me.”

“Not when it comes to sending secret letters to Findekáno, no,” Tyelkormo replied with a wink. He sauntered up to the desk and extended a hand. “I’ll make sure Alarco gets this to him quickly.”

“Thank you, Tyelko.” Maitimo gave him the letter and a tight-lipped smile.

“It’s the least I can do. I know you’re worried, Nelyo.” His pale gaze shifted briefly to the door, and he lowered his voice when next he spoke. “Between us, I hate this as much as you do. I can’t say I’m opposed to training with weapons, or traveling to the hither shores, but all this business with Uncle Nolo…” He shook his head. “Something’s wrong. I just hope the Valar don’t make it worse.”

 

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Fëanáro returned from the Ring of Doom three days later, and Nerdanel and all his sons awaited him in the entrance hall of their home, simultaneously eager to hear what news he brought and filled with dread that the Valar truly were as tyrannical as the rumors had said.

Maitimo sat at the bottom of the stairs, beside Makalaure and Tyelkormo. The Ambarussar were perched behind them, further up, while Carnistir and Curufinwë shared the upholstered bench near the closet full of cloaks and boots.

They hushed, nearly in unison, as the front door opened and Fëanáro entered looking weary but none the worse for wear.

Nerdanel rushed forward, enveloping him in her strong embrace, and he whispered something in her ear that Maitimo could not hear. When she released him, she remained beside him, gripping his hand with her own.

“The Doomsayer has spoken,” Fëanáro said, surveying the small crowd in the foyer as if they had gathered in the palace square to hear his proclamation. “We shall go to Formenos.”

Maitimo’s heart thudded in his chest with the finality of a falling hammer. We. Had the Valar pronounced this sentence upon all of them, or did Fëanáro assume the unwavering loyalty of his family in accepting his Doom as their own?

“Exile, then?” Maitimo asked, his voice rising above the murmurs and myriad half-formed questions from his brothers. Silence settled upon the group once more as they waited for an answer.

“Indeed. We are not to return to Tirion for twelve years.”

Carnistir frowned. Curufinwe appeared to be making a calculation in his head. Tyelkormo and the twins exchanged expressions of relief. Nerdanel squeezed Fëanáro’s hand, and her expression lost a bit of its tension.

“That is not so long,” Makalaure offered, though beside him, Maitimo’s heart sank. Not so long if you could bring along those dear to you, like Curufinwë, or flee into the woods for a rendezvous, like Tyelko. Írissë was disobedient enough to join him somewhere isolated. 

Findekáno…well, Maitimo and Findekáno were much alike. They were both the eldest sons of incredibly wilful fathers, and deviating from their fathers’ wishes was a tricky business, if it was possible at all. Appeals to Ñolofinwë’s generosity of spirit, or to propriety, could often change his mind. As for Fëanáro, a well-structured argument supported by plenty of data could usually encourage him to try a new method in his workshop or to consider a new proposal at a council meeting. Usually. The current situation was a matter of the Valar’s authority, which Ñolofinwë would not challenge, and Fëanáro’s personal convictions, which were as immovable as the Pelóri.

“And when we return?” Maitimo asked, the confidence in his voice failing to lift his spirits by proxy.

Fëanáro met his eyes. “Ñolofinwë has offered his forgiveness, and the matter will be considered settled.” Under his breath, he muttered, “We shall see.”

Maitimo scanned his brothers’ faces as they chattered amongst themselves, searching for any signs that he might not be alone in his frustration. Even his mother proved unreadable. He would have to ask her how she felt about this – but later, when Fëanáro was out of earshot. Far out of earshot. If he thought there was dissension within the ranks of his own family, his thin veneer of nonchalance, of adherence to the Valar’s will, would almost certainly shatter. 

“When do we leave?” Curufinwe asked, bringing the family’s attention to a singular focus once more. “I will need to make preparations for traveling with Tyelpë, especially if we will be gone for so long.”

“We will have one week to gather our belongings and provision ourselves appropriately,” Fëanáro said. “I will be under ‘house arrest’ until that time, so I shall have to rely on you to gather what we need.”

One week! Did he dare hope that Findekáno would meet him one final time before they were forced to spend twelve years – twelve years in the frozen north of Formenos! – apart?

More than he needed to pack away his belongings, more than he needed to make sure that the family’s food supply for the journey was adequate, he needed to know if Findekáno intended to say goodbye, and there was only one way to find out.

 

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Bathed in the silver light of Telperion, the gardens were cold and distant and dreamlike. Some flowers slept until the next mingling and others turned their faces to the almost-eerie glow, eager for its cool and soothing touch.

Maitimo silently slipped through the trees, heart still pounding from escaping his father’s house in secret. He’d consulted Tyelkormo and Makalaure, the resident experts of slipping out of the house unseen, and their advice had guided him through the experience successfully. Leave while Atya is in the forge. Walk softly – toe to heel, no boots – and don’t climb out any windows that lead to the back garden or Ammë will catch you. 

The journey through Tirion’s streets to the gardens had been easy enough – there weren’t too many elves out and about at this hour. The gardens themselves were empty save for the splashing of the fountains and the occasional sounds of night birds and crickets.

When Maitimo glimpsed Findekáno waiting beneath their willow tree, his fëa sang out, soft and tentative, and Findekáno’s answered. They held each other close, Findekáno resting his head just above Maitimo’s heart and Maitimo pressing a kiss into his hair. A mockingbird called somewhere nearby, filling the still air with its soft music.

“You didn’t answer my letter,” Maitimo said, after a moment. 

“Once I heard the judgment, I knew you would be here. Twelve years, Maitimo!”

“It is not forever.” Maitimo wasn’t sure whether he was trying to comfort Findekáno or reassure himself.

“No. It will feel like forever, though. I will not tell you that you cannot go – for if there is one person I trust to help your father see sense, it is you!” He glanced up at Maitimo, a spark of optimism in his soft brown eyes. “And there is some good in all this.”

“Oh?”

“The Valar have finally recognized Melkor’s role in what’s been going on,” he said. “Last anyone heard, Lord Tulkas has gone to apprehend him and bring him to the Ring of Doom for judgment.”

“Well, that is something,” Maitimo said, a smile flickering across his lips. “These twelve years will not be completely in vain, then.”

“Perhaps not – but ai, how I will miss you!” Findekáno pressed his face into Maitimo’s shoulder, dampening the fabric of his shirt with tears.  

“I will write to you as often as I can,” Maitimo said softly, and he could feel his own eyes beginning to sting. “Without my father growing suspicious as to why so much paper and ink is disappearing, of course.”

Findekáno laughed, but his jollity came with considerably more effort than usual. “Of course. We will have to plan a great feast to celebrate your return. A feast of reuniting!” He placed his hands on either side of Maitimo’s face and looked up at him as if he sought to memorize every line and curve, every freckle. “Or perhaps we can simply share a bottle of wine and forget our fathers and the Valar and Formenos.”

“I’d like that,” Maitimo said, leaning down so that their foreheads touched. “I’d like that very much.”