Fly Away by Michiru

Fly Away

Fires burned in Valmar, their smoke and ash rising to stain the white mountain and wreathe Taniquetil, home of the late Senate-leader Manwë, hiding it from view. The wind, for once, carried no faint echo of the voices of the Vanyar; the fair folk had fallen silent, songs and mirth choked off by grief. They had been closest to the High Senate, and thronged the streets, gathering in mute despair at Máhanaxar and the Ezellohar, empty symbols of power broken. To Taniquetil none departed nor arrived.

In a palace lesser than Manwë's, Ingwë was surrounded. The members of his court had long since been given leave to depart, and they had joined the multitude of golden mourners. He sat ensconced at his throne, gaze settled impassively on the magnificent window over-looking Valmar, watching ash drift down lazily to blanket the once gleaming City of Many Bells. About him was drawn an icy sort of dignity, personified in the delicate arrangement of his expression, the distant set of his blue eyes, the gentle placement of his hands on the arms of his throne; down to every last strand of golden hair, he was a King among kings.

Ingwë did not speak to the intruders. There was no need to. He did not look at them, and few attempted to meet his faraway gaze. It was his city burning. His breathing was light and rhythmical, barely marked by the soft rise and fall of his breast. He listened in mute condemnation to the words of the designated spokesman, a young Noldo with a voice to rival that of the greatest Vanyarin singers. Currently it was strangled with shock and a detached notion of horror, but hardened with steely determination. If Ingwë heard the conflict in the young man's voice, he gave no sign.

The gleaming marble floor was scuffed by careless boots and dulled with tracked ash, but still it reflected, in some places, the high vaulted ceiling and its extensive frescos. Overhead were scenes depicting the beginning of days, and other notable moments in history. The sill of the great window was acquiring drifts of ash, and smoke stained the crystal glass; already the throne room was become dark and gray, casting into shadow the gold and marble and jewels. Slowly, the reflection in the floor faded, leaving only the impression of a vast emptiness towering above it.

The spokesman finished speaking. It had been a well-rehearsed speech, and the Noldo had a natural talent with his voice, though it was wasted on merely speaking. Even then, it was pleasant to listen to; easy to drown in its syllables and cadences that even the route-memorized tone could not hide. The echoes of his voice seemed to linger momentarily, before fleeing the dark chamber in search of a Light-warmed room filled with harps and lutes and pages upon pages of music. Silence tightened its grip upon Valmar; the ash could almost be heard, a soft rushing sound that was louder than the muted sounds of a city put to fire.

A question posed, beautiful voice darkening to touch upon a threat and a warning. There was despair, and regret, but above all was the single-minded focus of a goal close at hand. Silence drifted by like the passing of time.

And then, a nod from Ingwë. The spokesman made the necessary concluding statements, formal and breathless and not quite believing; the intruders withdrew.

The High King of the Calaquendi abdicated his throne, and Ingwë slumped wearily to the filthy marble floor, sliding from the throne like water from wax, his knees banging sharply to the polished stone, followed by his bowed head.

This is the way the world ends

Candles burned in Alqualondë, their smoke seeping like mist from closed doors and shuttered windows to swirl and become a collective being that blanketed the quays and wharfs. All along the shore, Telerin voices lifted in the same lament, mourning the loss of their patron Senator Ulmo, their governor Ossë and his wife Uinen. No Teler stirred, nor left their home, and the white swan ships were deserted, left moored at the docks. Soon, news would be sent to Tol Eresseä. The Teleri were not as cosseted as their Vanyarin and Noldorin cousins when it came to ill tidings.

In a palace of pearl and silver, Olwë and his sons met to trade council, brows furrowed beneath circlets of mithril, expressions grave as the sculpted figurines of the raised mural dominating the far wall. Strange, half-elven creatures permeated the mural; men with fish tails and winged women stared at each other, oblivious to their surroundings but somehow aware. Here, as elsewhere in the swan haven, hundreds of candles burned and were reflected a hundred times again in nearly every surface. The light glinted off the stone eyes of the figurines, and shadows flickered uneasily over fins and caressed wings, lending life to the frozen beings.

They spoke hurriedly, musical voices stilted and stifled, eyes constantly drawn towards the patio, which offered a clear view of Alqualondë and, beyond, the sea of Belegaer. Across the ocean, the city of Avallónë glittered in the dark of Arda. It seemed unbearably innocent, as yet untouched by the sudden tragedy, but it would not remain so for long. The smoke rising in Valmar would surely blot out the Treelight soon; that would provide some warning to the Telerin stargazers on Tol Eresseä.

Options were discussed, plans suggested, picked at, torn apart. There was grief, thinly channeled to anger that lapsed into resignation at a word from Olwë. Heavy mist-smoke coiled sluggishly about their boots under the table, dulling silver fasteners and staining sea green leggings. Words were spoken harshly, rising with hopeless fury, a chair overturned like wounded pride and a wave crashing upon the shore of impassive observation.

And then a soft cry, and eyes swiveled back to the patio, back to Belegaer's shore, out to the city beyond where, suddenly, the streets were not as deserted as they should have been.

It began as a far off flickering, glowing red-orange, and a faltering in the ceaseless mourning song. Slowly, torchlight stained the silver city with the red of blood. Wholly unnecessary in Aman, which knew no dark except that created by cellars, the warning was sent and received without a word.

The torchbearers made their way to the palace, and, horrifyingly, the Teleri followed, turning out of their homes and following the dark procession like children. The inexorable elvish tide seemed to be pulled along helplessly in the wake of the intruders. Closer and closer, until, faintly, the anguished cries of the third host could be heard, begging for answers that did not come.

And then the doors were being forced open, and the invaders filed in, holding their torches aloft and filling the council hall with deep shadows and drowning out the soft light of the candles. Straight into two columns they formed up, and the Teleri lingered respectfully outside the hall, fallen silent, eyes turned pleadingly to their king.

A dark figure padded down the aisle created by the Noldorin torchbearers with the easy grace of a predator before its crippled prey. A cloak swept perilously close to a candelabra and a bare hand flicked out, crushing the closest flame between thumb and forefinger. The digits trailed smoke as they came to rest on the hilt of a jeweled sword; stone gray eyes flickering impatiently past the princes until they came to rest negligently on the father.

Olwë stood. The Noldo regarded him blankly, no more forgiving than the raging sea. He was absolute stillness, calm poised, ready to strike. Carnistir Fëanárion offered no promise of mercy in exchange for cooperation. There would be none, either way. Placating the ocean would be more feasible; the only course of action was to ride out the storm and hope there was enough wreckage left to rebuild afterwards.

The Noldorin prince did not speak. Olwë waited for a moment, long enough for the telltale intake of a breath that did not come, before he began. The dark prince was an attentive listener; he gave short, succinct nods whenever necessary, and his fingers curled around the sword hilt when the Telerin king paused, eyes going dangerously flat. Four times the latter happened, and there was a terrifying, spiraling silence, measured by heartbeats hammering in winded breasts, when Olwë paused for the fifth time and did not continue speaking.

"Your welcome is a sham; your friendship is inconsequential; your wealth," here the stone eyes glimmered for a bare moment before Carnistir went on, voice rolling like a current and leaving nothing behind, "is guaranteed, and your services are nonnegotiable." For all his expression changed in the short speech, he may have been a part of the mural, a dark, many-limbed thing shrouded in shadow. The momentary glint could have been candlelight flashing off of graven eyes, or a trick of the shadows.

"What more can you have of us?" his youngest son asked hopelessly. "You have the kingship in all but name, cousin."

For the first time, the Noldo had eyes for someone besides Olwë. A chill stole through the hall, and beyond, the soft breathing sounds of the populace of Alqualondë stopped. Whispers tore back along the congregation of Teleri, traveling back to the palace steps where the last of the third host lingered, unable to move forward for all their kinsmen filling the palace corridors, and returning to the council hall in a swell of murmuring.

The Telerin king became suddenly conscious of the weight of his mithril crown, and for a moment wondered how many ages he had worn it. Lighter than swan down, but still present given the faint pressure that he had borne since leaving Tol Eresseä. In Arda there had been neither the time nor the means to mine mithril, nor fashion beautiful, delicate-seeming circlets from it.

Slowly, absently, his hands lifted to caress the familiar object, given to him once by an old friend as a present from his fledgling craftsman son. His eldest cried out in protest as it was slipped from its resting place on his head, but Olwë barely heard.

"Your father crafted this for me long ago as a symbol of my kingship over the Teleri, and in honor of the friendship between the third and second hosts." He cradled the circlet in two hands, held slightly away from himself at half an arm's length. He spoke distantly, staring over the young Noldo's shoulder into the eyes of his people. Carnistir held out a hand, apparently unwilling to come close enough to take the ornament from the Teler. Olwë could see faint scorch marks on the fingers that had been used to quench the candle.

The crown clattered to the sandstone floor at Carnistir's feet. The noise did not echo in the crowded hall, but left in its wake a ringing silence that rode over the dismayed protests of the Teleri lingering in the corridor. Olwë met the dark stone eyes staring indiscernibly at him.

"Now let him uncraft it," Olwë said coldly. A second hung, out of sync with time—

—and then Carnistir pivoted sharply on a heel, cloak whirling behind him, again coming perilously close to the dancing flame of a lone candle. A flick of his wrist, and the burning wick fell into the softly running creek inter-cut through the ground floor of palace, and the dagger was stowed away again before it even glinted in the torchlight.

The Teleri rushed, backpedaling from the double doors, silently removing themselves from the path of Fëanáro's fourth son. He passed like a shadow beneath the water, the deadly promise of a much bigger, more dangerous fish lurking in the depths, and his torch bearing fellows turned as one, filing after him. Only four remained, one kneeling to retrieve Olwë's crown, the other three approaching his sons. One by one, the former princes of Alqualondë surrendered their mithril circlets, staring rigidly at nothing.

"Your cooperation is appreciated," murmured one Noldo, awkwardly. He continued, reluctantly, "Your wife is in her bed chamber, yes?"

He drew back several paces under the venomous force of the glare Olwë and his sons turned on him. The Teleri swept from the council hall, expressions dark and foreboding; storm clouds looming overhead with no land in sight.

The former king of the second host swept out of the council hall, to the entrance chamber dominated by the grand stair and ascended, hand trailing on the balustrade, flanked by his sons and followed by the four Noldor. Scattered groups of his former subjects riddled the corridors on the way, postures growing stiff and hostile when they noticed the foreigners, watching his progress.

Olwë tried not to think, as time passed and he made his way to the private wing of the palace, about how badly he had failed his people, or about what Elwë might say if he had not vanished in the forests of Arda. He tried not to think of his daughter, who had married Fëanáro's youngest half-brother, or of the young woman who had married Fëanáro's second son. He tried not to think of anything.

And yet, as he made his way to his and his wife's bedchamber, he could not help but think that, for just a moment, he had seen the flash of a challenge answered in Carnistir's cold, stone-dead eyes.

This is the way the world ends

In Tirion, nothing burned, save for fires in the hearths and forges that, as ever, kept the city running. The streets were as busy as usual, though slightly less crowded. Doors and windows stood open; there was a thunderous, hazy excitement in the air.

Few could see the smoke on the air, or taste the tears on the wind that blew from Alqualondë. Those who did spoke not, walking quietly with downcast eyes. They did not turn their troubled gazes to the soaring alabaster of the Mindon Eldaliéva.

The silver crown of the Mindon barely reared its proud head above the faint, drifting tails of smoke, telltale signs of destruction, providing light in the dusky glory haze that had descended over the Noldorin city. Directly beneath it, in the court chamber built long ago by Finwë, his youngest sons sat. One cautious and grief-stricken, the other outraged and bitter and too loud; the first and younger hushed him often, attention divided between the panoramic window and the door.

"I will not be quiet!" Nolofinwë spat. He stood and paced restlessly, caged. "He was murdered at Formenos- Formenos! - and Fëanáro has the gall to point fingers at the Valar!"

"He was grieving," Arafinwë protested dully, soft and almost dazed.

"He was mad," Nolofinwë snarled, "then and now. And he will drag the whole of Aman into madness with him!" He glared about the circular room, fury incarnate with no direction.

"Fëanáro only does as he thinks is best," Arafinwë said quietly. "He has only ever done what he thinks is best."

"What he thinks is best!" Nolofinwë exploded, echoes ringing up to the high-domed ceiling before falling upon their heads. Arafinwë stared in horrified alarm at the door, as though it might have ears, but Nolofinwë continued, oblivious to his brother's distress. "What right has he to impose his standards of right and wrong on the rest of the world?"

"He is the King." Nolofinwë's face contorted, pain bone deep and beyond words. Arafinwë half rose, reaching out to Nolofinwë, but he pulled away.

"He has no right to that, either," he muttered lowly.

"He is oldest."

"He is nothing!" Nolofinwë hissed. "All my life I have studied and practiced to be ready to succeed Father when he grew tired of ruling! He never once showed the slightest inclination for the kingship, and now— now—" he clutched his head, tightly coiled braids of hair resisting the intrusion. Arafinwë watched him, empathetic, but did not approach; his eyes flickered, maiden-timid, at the door again.

"All this time," Nolofinwë continued, more calm, cold, calculating, eyes and voice darkening. "All this time, while he has been pursuing his own whims and fancies, I have been the one who toiled to make the lives of the people better. And now, not two months since Father's death, he thinks to come in and beguile the people into merrily partaking in his chaos." His voice was yet softer still, whispers of wind and mist over chill stone, and Arafinwë noted uncomfortably that his brother was talking more to himself than to the chamber at large.

"They are following him," he pointed out, whispering, unclasping sick, sticky slick hands and wiping them on his knees. "Valmar and Alqualondë…" he trailed off, fixed on an unwavering stare.

"But they don't," Nolofinwë said, intense, leaning over Arafinwë, a looming tower of strength and knowledge and unshakeable determination. His eyes did not glitter feverishly; they were remarkable for their clarity, reason springing deep within. Arafinwë remained still only by dint of long years of courtly training, knew this was not idle ranting, and dug his nails through the silk robes he wore, piercing his knees. Nolofinwë had thought long and hard on this.

"They don't follow him," Nolofinwë repeated. "The people speak of a great Noldorin victory, of the accomplishments of the high princes. There is no talk of 'King Fëanáro'."

"Nolofinwë…" his brother seemed not to hear him, chose not to hear him, stubbornly insistent that Arafinwë should see it his way. Two peas of a pod, he thought numbly, Nolofinwë and Fëanáro. The idea used to make him laugh, that the two who hated each other so fiercely were so alike. Now it chilled him to the bone, set his teeth on the edge of a chatter that would send him into despair or madness if he let it begin. He sucked in a breath and clenched his teeth; let it out and bit the insides of his cheeks, gripped the arms of his chair, white knuckled.

"The people follow me, Arafinwë, not him. They will partake in his rebellion, his merry bout of destruction, but when they tire of it, they will turn to me. To us," Nolofinwë amended graciously. Arafinwë shook his head, the vehemence of a rising tide within him startling, foreign. It was cold as twilight, fervent as wild fire, and hinged, somehow, on that he had never wanted to rule.

"And what then?" he asked, emotion strong-arming his voice until it was unrecognizable, hard and brittle. "What then? Will Fëanáro willingly step aside as you commandeer his blood-right? And I do say you, Nolofinwë," he added sharply, shaking now, but not from fear, "for I will have no part in this." Nolofinwë stared down at him, silent and perhaps impressed that his meek younger brother was indeed the one before him speaking. Then he shrugged, impassive.

"All of Aman will turn against him," he said. "Once the Noldor regain their heads and turn to me, the Vanyar and the Teleri will rally behind us. He will have nowhere to run, no allies beside him. He will have no choice but to accept my rule." Arafinwë looked hard upon his brother, deep into the grey storm of his eyes, which was calm, confident, unconcerned. And he laughed. Nolofinwë flushed; for just a moment they were children again, watching as Nolofinwë piled brick upon brick to build his tower, until the top could not be seen by wide, child eyes, and yet Arafinwë knew to watch the bottom for the flaw, and it came crashing down, just as he knew it would. But this time it had not happened yet, and Arafinwë could see from afar where all the problems began and ended.

"Fëanáro," he said, a giggle still rippling his voice before he sobered and saw the embers of rebellion crash down and catch flame in his brother's corpse. "Fëanáro will not step aside and simply accept that the people choose you. He will fight, forever, if need be, alone, if need be. And he would not be alone," he said sharply as Nolofinwë waved away the danger. "There are those whose loyalty to him is unquestioned, unending, undeniable. And they will not abandon him. So my question to you, Nolofinwë," and this time it was his own voice, ringing clear and strong, that set him glancing at the door, "is still: what then?"

"It would be a fight," his brother answered simply. "He would lose; even he couldn't beat the odds that would be stacked against him."

"Bloodshed," Arafinwë stated, the word lifting up and carrying away the lingering childhood of the moment. Even Nolofinwë seemed uncomfortable with the concept, or at least found it distasteful.

"He would start it," he said, blunt, assured. And he would. Fëanáro had the nerve to do that sort of thing, to take jealousy and grief to a place where common kinship had no meaning and a ceremonial art turned deadly; had the nerve to do the unthinkable, until those caught up had no choice but to defend themselves. It was Nolofinwë who earned his horror; he had considered this.

"What do you have the nerve to do?" Arafinwë whispered to the chamber at large, to the alabaster walls and the abstract white gold detailing, to the emerald highlights. Nolofinwë's eyes narrowed darkly, his lips set firmly. He turned and stalked away. "He wouldn't accept the loss," Arafinwë called after him faintly. Nolofinwë paused, glared back at him. "He would come, and keep coming back, until the End of Days or victory."

"Then eventually he will fall. And I say will, Arafinwë, not would, because this is going to happen." There was a challenge, sharp and grave, in the pronouncement. "The people will turn on him, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. When that happens, I'll be waiting." Arafinwë bowed his head, had no response to that. Nolofinwë made for the door, conversation, confrontation over.

"Nolo," Arafinwë said, one last effort, infant plea forming and flying from his lips of its own accord. Nolofinwë paused, hand on the door. "Don't do this. Don't give him another reason—"

Frustrated, bitter, old child hurts rearing back, "Since when has he needed a reason?"

He was gone. Arafinwë laid his head on the table and cried.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-T. S. Eliot

It was bright that morning, the morning after armed men had broken into his house, swords drawn and laid across his and Eldalôtë's throats, demanding to know where his uncle was. Angaráto had stared, blear-eyed and grimacing, at the men incomprehensively, until Artaher's terrified, shrill scream rent the clinging shroud of sleep from his mind.

His son was now sequestered safely in his mother's arms, eyes red and swollen from fear and crying. Eldalôtë was pale and shaken, eyes bright with unshed tears, her blonde hair wispier than usual, falling out of its hastily thrown together bun. They sat between Ingoldo and Aikanáro, the last seeming grim and silent, the first merely preoccupied. Mother sat on Ingoldo's left, dark smudges beneath her eyes testament to many sleepless nights; she had much of Ingoldo's worried attention, all his prodding and gentle comforting. A chair stood empty at Aikanáro's right; none of them had seen Nerwen for weeks, since the Overthrow.

There was also an empty chair on Mother's left, for Father, who was standing near Fëanáro, within the semi-circle of seven chairs arranged before them. Two, the second and the fourth, were unoccupied; Macalaurë and Carnistir were still abroad, subduing Valmar and Alqualondë.

Curufinwë Atarinkë's wife and son stood behind his chair, in row with other somberly dressed men and women, favored servants and soldiers; they looked cold and dignified, though Tyelperinquar at times seemed to forget to be stern and forbidding, fidgeting and tugging his mother's hand impatiently. There was no place in the line for Macalaurë's wife. She was Telerin. Angaráto wondered bitterly what she thought of her husband's new position as governor over the third host. Perhaps her absence and the lack of a space gave some indication.

A single chair was set, forefront, within the semi-circle, but Fëanáro was not seated. He stood, a sword at his side, a plumed helm beneath his arm, dressed in full armor. It glinted bright in the Treelight, making Angaráto grateful for the burgundy cape Fëanáro wore. His head pounded from lack of sleep; the air was hot, stagnant.

They were seated closer to the end of the semi-circle, arranged in an arc behind Atarinkë and Ambarussa. Opposite to them, arcing behind Maitimo, Macalaurë's empty chair, and Tyelcormo, was Nolofinwë's family. It began, like theirs, with an empty chair, but Uncle Nolofinwë was nowhere to be found. Aunt Anairë might have been carved of marble, but marble itself would have envied her stiffness, her poise. Beside her sat Findecáno, his face blank, a bruise rising prominently on his cheek. Then Turukáno and his family, his daughter likewise enveloped in her mother's arms. Ar-Feiniel was next, glaring bitter daggers at Tyelcormo's back, her jaw and fists clenched.

Beside her another empty chair.

Angaráto felt sick; they had been forced to dress quickly, and so he had grabbed a heavier robe, meant for visiting Grandfather Olwë by the sea, not for sitting out in hazy hot Tirion High Square all morning. They were all ill-dressed; Ingoldo wore what looked like a woman's night slip beneath his thin over-robe.

Ingoldo, glancing up from Mother, must have discerned his train of thought. He caught his eye and leaned over, murmuring, "That style robe went out of fashion centuries ago." Angaráto stared at him, disbelieving, annoyed, as Ingoldo winked at him. It was the wink that did it, goaded him into a response.

"I suppose it's in fashion to wear ladies' undergarments?" he hissed back. Ingoldo flushed, grinning guiltily.

"Who can say what our tailors are thinking?" he wondered in mock disparagement. "But, as princes of the Noldor, it is our duty—" and here Ingoldo cracked up, unable to maintain his dignified air; Angaráto joined him, giggling incredulously, helpless and nervous, trying to muffle the sound in the silent square. Ingoldo’s good cheer had always been infectious, though Angaráto knew there was a touch of hysteria in his own. Several of the men flanking Fëanáro's semi-circle turned to glare, Fëanáro himself flashed them a quick, dark look, and Aikanáro shot him a warning glance as Turukáno sneered.

Ingoldo cleared his throat, settling back into his chair, patting Mother's arm comfortingly as she pulled his sleeve, eyes commanding him to be quiet. Angaráto sobered quickly, touching the hand Eldalôtë laid on his shoulder. Tyelperinquar glanced back at them curiously, scowling and turning away shyly when Ingoldo smiled at him.

"This isn't a picnic, you know," Aikanáro whispered harshly, leaning past Eldalôtë.

"Pretend that it is," Ingoldo instructed through lips that barely moved. He was smiling at Fëanáro, who had thrown another suspicious glance their way as he reached the end of the dais. "Your hair's sticking up, Aiko, didn't you brush it?" Aikanáro scoffed in disgust, leaning back, crossing his legs and glaring the other way. After a moment, his hand itched up to comb his hair down. "Better," Ingoldo laughed, earning a disgruntled scoff. Ingoldo winked at him again; Angaráto shook his head.

"You're mad," he muttered.

"Not yet," Ingoldo replied, frowning as though puzzled by his own statement. And then Ingoldo looked askance, alarmed, at Mother, before Angaráto could ask what he meant. She had pitched forward, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands.

"Oh, hurry back, Ingalaurë," she moaned softly, paying her eldest no mind. Angaráto grimaced, unused to his father's amilessë, but instinctively sought the slight form, standing dwarfed next to Fëanáro. Ingoldo put his arm around Mother, murmuring to her quietly. He brushed her silvery hair behind her ear, frowning at Nerwen's empty seat.

Too many empty seats, Angaráto thought, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. Nerwen, Uncle Nolofinwë, and now Arakáno— where were they? The heat was oppressive, cloying, golden Treelight sparkling on Fëanáro's armor as he paced impatiently, Father constantly turning his head to follow, one hand out-stretched as if to grab his arm as he passed by. Angaráto closed his eyes.

"Water, please," Eldalôtë said. His eyes snapped open, ice plugging his veins as his wife spoke. There was no response from those standing behind them, more favored servants and a select few lords and ladies of the court whose presence Fëanáro had found stomach-able or necessary. There were a large number of foreign men in this larger semi-circle, who, from the bare glances Angaráto had snuck at them, looked Noldorin, and wild. It was these that most worried him, along with the soldiers forming a perimeter around the platform they were arranged on. He turned to shush Eldalôtë, but she was facing the wall of unfriendly faces.

"Water," she repeated firmly. "It's hot, and there are small children here." Her hand was pressed to Artaher's flushed forehead. One of the men glanced down at her, grimacing; Angaráto stood, looming protectively over his wife and child. His nose was barely level with the man's chin. Worse, the hammer-sharp rap of Fëanáro's pacing stopped. He looked over his shoulder, Eldalôtë prodding him to step aside so she could see as she turned around, facing forward again. Fëanáro was eying them coldly. Ingoldo inhaled sharply, Aikanáro tensed, and Mother lifted her head, going pale and pursing her lips when she saw Fëanáro's steady gaze.

"Water, Grandfather?" Tyelperinquar echoed hopefully as Father finally snagged Fëanáro's elbow. Atarinkë went suddenly stiff, one hand clenching on his armrest. Fëanáro nodded irritably, jerking his arm away from Father. His wife, Aunt Nerdanel, was nowhere to be seen, Angaráto noticed, sinking numbly into his seat and wrapping an arm around Eldalôtë's shoulders. There was only one chair within Fëanáro's semi-circle of sons.

A single decanter of water was brought out; after a moment of confusion, in which Artaher pointed out that they had no cups, Angaráto came to the conclusion that they were meant to drink directly from the decanter. All of them. Aikanáro, his eyes flickering over to Nolofinwë's family, said as much out loud, voice low and dark. He passed it directly to Artaher without touching a drop. Artaher drank greedily and climbed into Angaráto's lap, not taking further notice of the slight, his hair slick with sweat, heat radiating off his small body. Eldalôtë barely sipped the water, her eyes tight with a distaste Angaráto could feel echoed in the pit of his own stomach, her knuckles white as she clenched her hands in a twisting knot her lap. Angaráto made himself drink sparingly and passed the decanter on swiftly. Ingoldo gave it straight to Mother, coaxing gently, teasing about cooties.

Angaráto tried combing his fingers through Artaher's ruffled hair, but it was tangled into knots and he soon gave up. He watched the decanter travel around to Nolofinwë's family, where it ended its journey at Findecáno, because Aunt Anairë refused to even look at it. He waited for someone to carry it to Tyelperinquar, wondering why Fëanáro would make his grandson drink after everyone else. Perhaps the single decanter had not been meant as an insult after all. It was a fool's hope, and Angaráto knew, but it still hurt to see the second decanter carried up to Tyelperinquar on a tray with a silver cup. His mother poured water into it and handed it to her son, pointedly not looking back at them as she did. Artaher made a soft noise of protest; Angaráto shushed him.

"But it isn't fair," he mumbled. "We had to share. We didn't even get a cup." Tyelperinquar glanced over his shoulder, face blushing guiltily, or perhaps already flushed because of the heat. Atarinkë said something cutting, and Tyelperinquar whirled back around, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. Angaráto sighed, squirming, trying to unstick his undershirt from his back. Artaher began sniffling quietly, and Angaráto groaned.

"Not now," he pleaded. Eldalôtë shot him a reproachful look; Ingoldo tapped his shoulder, holding out his arms to Artaher, who scrambled willingly into his uncle's lap. Angaráto folded his arms and looked away. Father was following Fëanáro now, skipping steps to keep up. Fëanáro reached the far end of the dais, Father on his heels; Angaráto cringed, seeing the collision before it occurred.

Fëanáro whirled around, cape flapping, and found himself breast-to-nose with Father, who made to step back as Fëanáro shoved him away. Off balance, he reached out, grabbing Fëanáro's arm to steady himself reflexively. A twist of the arm delivered Father's wrist into the elder prince's hand, and Angaráto waited, dreading, for the blow to fall as Mother inhaled.

A full range of emotions flashed across Fëanáro's face; then, settling on irritation, Fëanáro moved Father off to the side and continued pacing. Angaráto stared, disbelieving, and Ingoldo let out a shaky sigh as Mother slumped in her seat. Father, rubbing his wrist gingerly, set off after Fëanáro again.

So this is how liberty dies

Arafinwë took it as a good sign that Fëanáro had chosen not to dislocate his arm; he had done so once before, when they were younger, for spilling wine on a robe made by Míriel Serindë. And Nolofinwë still to this day darkly recounted how Fëanáro had broken his wrist for touching the ring intended for Nerdanel.

‘To this day, if he lives,’ he thought, catching up to Fëanáro. He could feel Tyelcormo and Atarinkë's eyes, following him following their father. They had watched him coldly since he had arrived, struggling past the attendants and bodyguards. He ignored their scrutiny, and Fëanáro, for the most part, ignored him.

"Why are your legs so long?" he complained, at Fëanáro, to no one in particular. "Your mother wasn't tall." It had long been a source of irritation for Nolofinwë, that Fëanáro was a head taller than him when genetics demanded that Indis' children should inherit her Vanyarin stature, and Fëanáro his mother's slight form. Arafinwë had been unbothered by it, being shorter than both of them, but he had never tried to keep pace with either of them; Nolofinwë, when they were children, had always slowed to match him, and Fëanáro had hardly been around. He was beginning to see why Nolofinwë had made such a fuss about it.

Fëanáro glanced sideways at him, sweeping past again. Arafinwë would not have been surprised to learn that Fëanáro felt him unworthy to refer to his mother, by name or not. Still, it was a relatively mild reproof, not even a glare behind it. "She wasn't," he said, louder, jogging to walk side by side with Fëanáro. "Father always said Serindë—" he stopped. Telling Fëanáro that Father had remarked on his mother's shortness in comparison to other Noldorin women would not be wise, however mild his temper.

"Þerindë," Fëanáro corrected absently. Arafinwë sighed; that old argument. They were nearing the point when Fëanáro would abruptly about-face, cloak whirling high enough that its hem would brush Arafinwë's knees. "Why are you still here?" he asked, curiosity and suspicion making for an interesting couple in his voice.

"You mean we can leave?" Arafinwë asked wistfully, thinking of bed. Unlike the rest of his family, Arafinwë had not been forced to dress without looking at the items he chose; he had not been roused in the midst of sleep. He had been awake all through Telperion's gentle silver sentry, sitting in his study in the Mindon, trying unsuccessfully to pen his thoughts on paper. The soldiers who had kicked the door in hours before Laurelin began to shine had confiscated those papers— as 'evidence'— and then marched him to the High Square.

"I mean you can take your seat," Fëanáro snapped acerbically. "I have answered your driveling questions; you have no further need to follow me about like a second shadow."

Fëanáro had indeed answered his questions, saying that the people deserved to know how their interests fared "abroad" when asked the purpose for this gathering. His queries as to his mother's whereabouts had been met with a dark look and the cold assertion that Fëanáro neither knew nor cared. He was told, furthermore, that the people expected to see the royal family standing together, united, and that setting up such a function as this took time in response to his asking why they had been dragged from their beds before the first Mingling. They had been good answers, truthful, probably, and yet…

"Sit," Fëanáro snapped as he stumbled, the light glinting off his armor blinding Arafinwë to an uneven spot on the dais. He shook his head, stiffening as Fëanáro balled a fist in his tunic. "What else could you possibly have to ask?" Fëanáro bit out dangerously.

"Nothing. Only—"

"Only what?" There was definite suspicion in Fëanáro's voice now, no longer tinged by curiosity; Arafinwë heard the soft scrape of a sword leaving its sheath behind him, and wondered vaguely how Fëanáro managed to communicate soundlessly with his men.

"Nothing," he answered, and then, seeing Fëanáro's eyes narrow and go cold, he amended, "You are the High King."

"And you think to curry favor by annoying me?" Fëanáro sneered, dismissive; he dropped Arafinwë's tunic and resumed pacing, gesturing with a flick of his wrist at one of the swordsmen, who imperceptly sheathed his blade.

"No, but…" Was there no way to explain it? Fëanáro would never believe it, even if he deigned to listen. ‘We are supposed to be brothers, you and I,’ Arafinwë thought. Fëanáro shot him a look over his shoulder; Arafinwë blinked at him in surprise. There was distaste in that look, and loathing, and a decidedly firm stance; the folded arms pose Arafinwë recognized from childhood when Fëanáro would resolutely refuse to take part in family functions, despite Father's pleading.

And there was raw pain, also; he left me, and something else, obsessive attachment, this was my father's post—

Arafinwë slipped his arm through Fëanáro's, squeezing his gloved hand gently, and said, "Fëanáro, he was our father too." He tightened his grip as Fëanáro made to slip away, continue on, staring fearlessly up into the blank face, the eyes that gave no flicker of emotion, to affirm or deny. Somewhere, something inside of him demanded acknowledgement. "He was our father, too," then, when no response was forthcoming, "you can't change that." A smile twitched the corners of Fëanáro's lips at that, the half-cocked, reckless grin Fëanáro wore as a young man as he boldly asserted, oh yes I can.

"We'll see," he murmured, detaching himself from Arafinwë, leaving him with his heart in his throat and the haunting echo.

We'll see.

He felt suddenly vulnerable, standing back to watch Fëanáro pace with the grace and cheer of a satisfied cat. No one told him to find his seat, even as more soldiers began taking up place around the perimeter of the Square itself, as people began filing in, staring around in open curiosity. Not a few of them smiled broadly at Fëanáro, and past Fëanáro, too, smiling at— him?

"They don't follow him," Nolofinwë had said, the last time Arafinwë had seen him. "The people speak of a great Noldorin victory, of the accomplishments of the high princes. There is no talk of 'King Fëanáro'." That had been weeks ago. Weeks later, it appeared to still be true. Only now Nolofinwë, with his talk of usurpation and patient scheming, was nowhere to be found. The thought felt like ice sitting in his stomach, but Arafinwë put it aside, summoning up a tight, strained smile for the public. He would not risk a wave; this was Fëanáro's function after all, and he had no desire to appear to be stealing his place.

It was as the square started filling, both with citizenry and the sound of many conversations held at once, that Arafinwë noticed something wrong. Those nearest the dais were murmuring in concern, brows furrowed and eyes dark, their discomfort rippling outwards, spreading further back in the crowd. He followed their gazes and found Fëanáro. Fëanáro, who was roving restlessly up and down the dais, unsmiling. Fëanáro, who made no move to placate or even acknowledge the growing crowd. He looked every inch the worried king; Father had taken up the same pose and motion when concerned, had adopted the same forbidding expression. Father had known better than to show such a face to the public.

But Fëanáro disdained putting on appearances, and Fëanáro's pacing never signified worry. He would not play candid politician for the people, would not think to smile or wave, would fidget if asked to stand still when he was so obviously filled with energy and excitement. It brought a true smile to Arafinwë's lips, pushed away the spiraling echo of things impossible. Nolofinwë, who had grown up in court, had always despaired Fëanáro's lack of decorum, his disrespect for court manners. Nolofinwë would have never been seen pacing in public, restive or no. Nolofinwë would have been a conventional king.

‘Conventional, but not necessarily better,’ Arafinwë thought, approaching Fëanáro cautiously and bowing. Fëanáro stopped, gaze flickering over him, irritation curling his lips as he halted his route. Arafinwë straightened, tugging the helm out from under his arm, murmuring, "You're frightening them." Fëanáro glanced over his shoulder, grimacing, at the hopeful, upturned faces, noting the concern, and sighed, exasperated. "You look unhappy. Relax, smile; remember that you're here to tell them about our interests—" he tried to pronounce 'abroad' and failed. "—in Valmar and Alqualondë."

"And?" Fëanáro, grudging, reluctant, refusing to see the point, same stubborn child that Nolofinwë had been when they first went to Alqualondë and he had obstinately insisted that there were supposed to be pearls on the beaches.

"Does it go ill?" Fëanáro graced him with a look of incredulous disgust. "Then look happy," Arafinwë advised, backing away with another small bow. He placed the helm on the arm of Fëanáro's chair, and tried to look decorative and supportive, folding his arms before him and smiling in the vaguely innocuous way that had allowed him to listen in on important conversations as a child when mature, inquisitive Nolofinwë and even entitled young adult Fëanáro were sent away. Only Uncle Ingwë had had the sense to wryly order him out of the room with his brothers when matters of grave consideration were brought to the table.

And now Fëanáro was speaking, loudly declaring that all was well, that Valmar and Alqualondë had fallen to the Noldor without a fight, and, over the rising cheer of his people, Arafinwë was left to wonder how such news made all things 'well'. Fëanáro continued, his voice charismatic and enthusiastic, the same voice that had proudly proclaimed Maitimo's accomplishments, Macalaurë's talent, that had paraded each of his children's abilities before Father in their turn, leaving Nolofinwë silently glaring at his plate and Arafinwë murmuring that his tutor had praised the poem he had turned in that day.

That was years ago, and, as all seven of Fëanáro's sons settled into their majority and Fëanáro began refusing to attend Father's feasts, Arafinwë had thought never to hear that tone again, left in peace to quietly gush over his own children's more ordinary achievements. Ingoldo wrote a book; Angaráto won a swordsmanship competition. Aikanáro was the victor of a foot race. Artanis came of age with a beautiful ceremony she herself had planned. Father had smiled wanly at him, leaving Mother to congratulate him too much, making words to fill the silence following his quiet, apologetically unimpressed shrug.

Such memories rode a wave of bitterness that he had always tried to suppress; he could hear his own voice answering him, high and rounded with youth, "It's not his fault, Nolo. Fëanáro's just tons more impressive than us." Nolofinwë had told him to shut up. Arafinwë understood the sentiment. Fathers were not meant to pick favorites, among children or grandchildren.

Father's favoritism had led him to death.

Arafinwë's head snapped up; it had fallen submissively during the course of Fëanáro's speech and his own, dark thoughts. Fëanáro was quiet, now, waiting, hands clasped behind his back, index finger tapping his wrist impatiently. Arafinwë glanced discreetly right and left, heart racing foolishly. He felt like a schoolboy caught daydreaming. Had Fëanáro asked him a question? A second later he dismissed the thought as irrational, by-product of similar situations when he had lost himself in a daze and missed his cue. If Fëanáro had spoken to him at all, he would not be calmly facing the crowd as he waited for a response. No, Fëanáro would be glaring daggers at him, trying to put the right reply in his mouth, never mind what he actually felt on the matter.

He let go of a tense breath, sighing heavily. One of the young men behind him shifted, clothing rustling; isolated Tyelcormo, sitting between absent Macalaurë and Carnistir, fidgeting with as much grace and tact as a child one quarter his age. Maitimo murmured something calming, his voice tight and restrained, not at all reassuring. What had he missed that had court-savvy Maitimo anxious? Arafinwë caught a flicker, directly behind him, and glanced back, staring at Carnistir's seat—his empty seat. He turned back more slowly, breathing deep and wondering if the heat was causing him to hallucinate.

Fëanáro still faced forward, even as some began muttering in concern, craning their necks, standing on tiptoe to peer further back on the dais. Utterly nonplussed, Arafinwë looked again over his shoulder, eyes roving automatically over his family, pale Eärwen and worried Ingoldo, clasping flushed Artaher to his breast. Angaráto carefully ignoring his brother and son, mindless of the hand Eldalôtë pressed to his knee, Aikanáro glaring at him, get back here idiot—

Arafinwë made himself look past them, to the wall of servants and soldiers and nobles who fenced them onto the dais, who faced unflinchingly forward. They were haughty and— for some reason Arafinwë could not even begin to guess— armed. None of them gave any clue as to why the crowd was determined to see past them. He knew that, technically, the dais was in the center of the High Square, but Fëanáro had erected barriers in the past week, blocking off much of the Square from view. Several merchants, who used the area to hawk their wares, had complained good-naturedly about the inconvenience, but seemed unsurprised when told that Arafinwë had no idea what it was about.

"That Fëanáro's a tricky one, isn't he?" they had joked, leaving Arafinwë to force a laugh and reflect sourly that kingship had not altered Fëanáro's tight-fisted grip on his secrets.

He glanced at Fëanáro; now all of his fingers were drumming his wrist, tense and irritated; Arafinwë wondered uneasily what had gone wrong. Maitimo exhaled slowly, controlled and crowd-conscious as ever, doing his level best to appear relaxed, and probably succeeding in the eyes of everyone but the person who had taught Maitimo his stress-relieving techniques. They had been young then, Arafinwë younger than his first half-nephew and barely older than the second. Maitimo had been wide-eyed and alarmed, used to the privacy of Fëanáro's residence in Tirion, utterly unexposed to the rigors of Noldorin high politics; Fëanáro had done his best to shield his children from it. Nevertheless, tradition dictated that royal children's Naming Days be held in Tirion before the court, and Maitimo attended every one of his brothers' Naming Days, placing himself at the mercy of the nobility who adored finding fault in Fëanáro and all that he did.

It had seemed a small thing, then, to inch closer to the odd, copper-colored boy attending his second brother's ceremony and quietly correct his posture, his breathing; tell him how to channel his nervous energy invisibly. Maitimo had graced him with a smile, wryly addressing him as 'Uncle' when he already had a foot of height over Arafinwë. Those days he had cherished, before Fëanáro and Nerdanel's marriage had visibly strained, before Fëanáro argued with even Father, who had previously been spared his first son's temper, before the halls of Finwë's palace in Tirion ceased to be graced with Fëanáro's copper-strong presence, striding briskly to his destination.

They were passed, and he grew tired of reminiscing.

He looked back, one last time, at the wall of Fëanáro's supporters, staring straight ahead impassively at nothing, and minutely shook his head, feeling a small flash of irritation for missing whatever Fëanáro had said that had the people so intensely focused—

The line moved, parting smoothly, the middle members stepping forward and to the side without changing their blank stare. They swung like a gate, hinging on the members closest to the break in the original line, and turned, forming a column leading to the space between Nolofinwë's family and his own. The next line of Fëanáro's entourage split like the first, the semi-circle bisecting, creating another column. Arafinwë turned back to Fëanáro, but he seemed to be paying the sudden move no mind, staring into the crowd intently; his fingers, clenched around his wrist, white-knuckled anticipation, gave him away. Arafinwë shifted closer to Fëanáro's unoccupied chair, fingers resting briefly on his discarded helm. The metal, burning, scorched his fingers.

The crowd was murmuring now, as four armed soldiers marched up the newly made passageway, leading a fifth man, his hands bound behind him. He heard Anairë make a soft noise, dismayed and fearful. They split at the last semi-circle, the one consisting of Fëanáro's children and most trusted officials, two going one way, the other two leading the bound man in the other direction, passing Arafinwë on their way to stand, reunited, near Fëanáro.

Arakáno, Nolofinwë's missing youngest. His eyes were wide, terrified, in the instant they met Arafinwë's, and he took a step forward, only to be arrested by the sound of Fëanáro's voice.

"Sornafinwë Arakáno," he said crisply. "Youngest son of Nolofinwë Aracáno. My half-brother, Nolofinwë, who—with the full knowledge and blessing of the Valarin Senate—murdered King Finwë." Cries at this, shock and disbelief; outright anger. Fëanáro silenced it all with a look. "I see that many of you doubt my words, even though I am your king." Uneasy shuffling, eyes straying warily to the armed soldiers watching emotionlessly; few would recognize the tone Fëanáro used as approving, not condemning. "I would never expect you to believe such a claim based on one man's words alone. Sornafinwë will be given the chance to declare his innocence or guilt in regards to the charges brought against him. I call on the name of the One to ascertain the truth of his statements. Should he speak falsely, I ask that he be struck down at midday. In the name of Ilúvatar I ask this." The crowd shifted, interest drawn by the unusual statement. While belief in the Senate's religion was widespread, few put much stock in it. Not as much as Fëanáro was, setting himself up for such a public embarrassment should nothing come of it.

One of the soldiers stepped away from the group as the remaining three surrounded Arakáno, one on both sides and behind, cutting off Arafinwë's view of his nephew, who had been staring at him silently, pleadingly. He was terrified, younger even than Artanis, barely out of his majority. A child. He left his post by Fëanáro's throne, striding demurely but purposefully forward, standing just behind Fëanáro, laying a hand on his arm. Once again, the metal seared; Arafinwë could imagine steam rising from it, the hiss of unsuspecting foodstuff as he dropped it into a pan too hot, oblivious of the burning until dinner, when Aikanáro wryly tapped a knife against a carbonized piece of meat, letting the over-loud tapping sound speak for him as his eldest brother gamely attempted to eat and Angaráto with his delicate stomach pushed his plate away.

"Fëanáro," he murmured through lips that never faltered smiling, "what do you mean by this?" Fëanáro, also, maintained his neutral expression, looking out over the crowd and beyond, seemingly unconcerned with the list of crimes being read to their left.

"…that you did knowingly and willingly partake in…"

"How better to prove a man's guilt than appeal to the all-knowing eyes of the One?" Fëanáro countered carelessly. Arafinwë, glancing up, saw no trace of the mockery he knew lay beneath the words.

"You've never displayed such faith in the Valarin religion before." The words were bright; on Fëanáro's arm, his fingers clenched, despite the pain. Fëanáro made an approximation of a laugh.

"Do you plead guilty?" Arakáno shook his head, unable to speak past the cloth binding his mouth; it was gauzy, translucent in the bright light of the morning, as Laurelin grew stronger. It would be invisible to the Noldor from the distance and angle they were at. "Let it be known that the accused pleads innocent."

"Why do you fear his words, Fëanáro?" There was a bite in his voice now; Arafinwë could do nothing to suppress it. There were tears in Arakáno's eyes, and he could hear a voice calling, uncle, in the same tone that had dragged him from his study to find Aikanáro had broken his hand whilst breaking another boy's nose. Little, trusting Arakáno, whom Nolofinwë had named steadfast.

"Who says I fear them?" And that was that; Fëanáro would never justify his actions to another. They simply were. It was this kind of immunity that Nolofinwë had so admired, the ability to stand over a mess and say, 'Yes, I did it,' and to stare, fearless, daring his opponent to make something of it.

"And if Ilúvatar does not strike him down?" His own voice twisted sarcastically, the skepticism Eärwen scolded him for; but where did a Noldo, not drawn to the workmanship of governor Aulë, learn of religion? They were hardly a superstitious people to begin with, not like the Vanyar, who devoted themselves to purity, nor the Teleri, with their ghost stories of the old world.

"He will." He saw again the smirk, the folded arms, the young adult looking up at Mother with raised eyebrow and curled lip, oh yes I can, and shivered.

"Do you deny that you were caught last night, fleeing from King Fëanáro's detectives with your father?" Arafinwë's ears pricked at this, some small clue of Nolofinwë's whereabouts, but it was another voice that caught his attention.

"No!" Findecáno, gasp breathy and frightened, rising from his seat to be stopped by one of the calm, fur-clad Noldorin men standing behind him, forcing him to sit with an iron grip on his shoulders. Maitimo, quieter even than Findecáno, shushed him, wind caressing curtains in an open window. Shush.

Arakáno nodded his head, bewildered and obviously not lying, tears rolling down his cheeks, fear, uncle! more urgent now. Arafinwë grit his teeth, smiled wider, and looked up at Fëanáro again, who was finally watching, eyes staring, hungry, fixed unerringly upon Arakáno, near trembling with intensity.

"Let it be known that the accused answered affirmatively. Do you deny that your father, with the full knowledge and, indeed, the consent of the Senate, murdered King Finwë?" Again Arakáno nodded, soft cries muffled by the cloth around his mouth, angry and hurt and frightened and how could they think that? filling his whole body, but he knew better than to struggle. "Let it be known that the accused answered affirmatively."

"Then it seems this trial is over," Fëanáro declared, Arafinwë jumping at the proximity, pulling his hand away, raw red and stinging. "We await the One's decision." He turned neatly, claiming his throne for the first time all day, drawing his helm into his lap and examining it closely, unconcerned. Arafinwë followed, standing at his right side, as the soldiers again split, one keeping firm hold of Arakáno, standing next to Arafinwë but keeping the boy an arm's length ahead of them, another standing at Fëanáro's other side, the last two taking up position at opposite ends of the semi-circle made by his and his brother's families.

"What game is this?" He was angry now, frustrated by behavior Fëanáro would condemn in others but was freely practicing himself.

"No game," Fëanáro answered, dark and eager.

"You can't truly expect some mythical Allfather to do as you ask," Arafinwë snapped, glaring down at Fëanáro; the crowd could not have cared less about them, now, transfixed by Arakáno and his rapidly approaching doom; Laurelin reaching her zenith, Telperion's light fading as he prepared for the mingling, one last flash of light before Laurelin was given free reign.

"Of course not." Fëanáro was running his thumb along the helm, some fault line, real or imagined, earning a frown. "That's just a story for the gullible." Arafinwë exhaled carefully, restraining the impulse to bat the helm from his hands and demand Fëanáro's full attention, as well as the more childish one that wanted to jump up and down, crowing triumph for correctly anticipating Fëanáro's motives. "The truth is much more mundane; you can, if you desire, consider what I said earlier an appeal for success." This was the Fëanáro of old, the one who threw out possibilities like confetti, uncaring and unconcerned.

"Success for what?"

"A new invention. It can glean the genuineness—or dishonesty—of a statement." And this was even more the Fëanáro of old, who could unveil the creation of some marvelous thing so dispassionately, already striving for the next goal, losing interest in a thing as soon as it was complete. It was this attitude that Nolofinwë had envied, the elusive trait Fëanáro possessed that would not allow him to linger long on any accomplishment, no matter how great, because there were always more ahead. In their youth, before admiration had turned, soured into jealousy, Nolofinwë had been infatuated with how such a relentless attitude could be used to solve the problems of the people, moving from one issue to the next, leaving a perfect society in its wake.

"You created—"

"No, I didn't. An advisor of mine did." Fondness, strange in Fëanáro's voice when speaking the word 'advisor,' which he had formerly sneered, meaning Father's clerks and pages and sycophants. It was surprising, comforting, even, to know that Fëanáro's mind could be changed.

"And it is activated by light?"

"That," Fëanáro said, plucking wayward strands from the helm's plume, "would be absolutely inane." As are you, his tone implied. Arafinwë waited for the explanation; Nolofinwë would have been in a rage by this point, shaking Fëanáro to get the answer out of him. "Constructing something that needs light to function is foolish unless you know for certain the light will never go away."

"Are you implying that the Trees—"

"Trees die," Fëanáro said shortly. "Why not those two as well?" Impossible; this was blasphemous, never mind whatever nonsense Fëanáro wanted to spout about mythical, otherworldly beings. But now the silver light of Telperion was fading, leaving only Laurelin shining; the Mingling was only moments away.

"So then what does activate it? And what does it do?" It was so easy to fall back, to get into the routine of Finwë's unimportant, son, trying to make friends with his distant half-brother. Fëanáro looked at him and, despite being seated, was nearly level with his eyes.

"If he lies, he will fall down. If he tells the truth, nothing will happen. The premise is simple enough," he added acerbically, when Arafinwë continued only to stare at him.

"And what happens if he falls down?" Fëanáro met his gaze coolly, unconcerned, and Arafinwë bit his lip, looked away first.

"As for your other question," Fëanáro continued pleasantly. He nodded his head at the soldier behind Arakáno. Arafinwë looked and, seeing nothing, turned back to Fëanáro, nonplussed. Fëanáro gestured impatiently, more specifically in the area of the man's hands; peering closely, Arafinwë could almost see a thin, black string, leading to the bound young man. A bright color would reflect the light of the Mingling, draw into question the divinity Fëanáro claimed would judge Arakáno. "I wonder if you might do me a favor," Fëanáro murmured, small, strange smile curling the corners of his mouth. Not a smile, Arafinwë thought, refused to see it as such. "We are, after all, supposed to be brothers, you and I." There was a scathing twist to the words that made Arafinwë flinch, his own thoughts, parroted back to him.

"What favor?" he asked. Fëanáro gestured at the string held by the soldier, asking him to activate the device at the exact moment the Mingling began, but his eyes were saying something different, dark and threatening, elusive, Nolofinwë murderer, accomplice? —

Arafinwë took the string—wire, he realized as it coiled in his hand—from the soldier with a curt nod to Fëanáro, heart pounding, ridiculously loud, unreasonable to be this apprehensive; Arakáno had told the truth. Arafinwë had been present when Nolofinwë heard the news that Father had died; had put his own grief aside in lieu of his brother's, which had startled, frightened him by its intensity. A man who could kill his own father—whatever man might be capable of such a thing, Nolofinwë was not him.

Arakáno glanced back, tentative, hands balled into fists behind his back, uncle? Arafinwë tightened his grip on the wire, winding it about his fingers, and smiled at his youngest nephew, reassurance, everything will be fine, confident as Father had also seemed, more. Arakáno nodded once in acknowledgement, trusted him.

Telperion flashed, bright and silver, Arafinwë gave the wire a jerk. There was a soft snap, some thin, delicate twig snapping; the one eye facing Arafinwë went wide, and then it went blank. Arakáno collapsed.

There was silence, and in that silence, Arafinwë stared down at his nephew, the wire sliding from his fingers, pooling near his feet, slinky, chiming spare change in his pocket. There was a looming impossibility that necessitated confrontation; Arafinwë waited, uncertain, for another to address it. Nolofinwë was not a murderer; could have taken his own life more easily than Father's. He waited.

It began as a low rumbling, far off in the bowels of some monster, and, suddenly, swelled to an unappeasable roar; the soldiers surrounding the dais lifted sheathed swords, wooden staffs and pikes, taking up a ready position and barring the way from the furious, rioting crowd. Arafinwë caught words, snatches of words, thrown out and dancing to his ears, harsh, grating.

"Murderer!"

"Kinslayer!"

"They're all traitors!" This voice was louder, clearer than the others; there was a pause, a glance at the crossroads, and then the roar of the crowd returned to a new theme.

"Vanyarin scum!"

"Spawn of Indis!"

"Traitors! Murderers! Kinslayers!" Arafinwë peered out over a yawning abyss, incomprehensive, feeling his family stiffen in shock, as the Noldorin crowd surged forward, as if to storm the dais, shrieking anger and hate; someone began the cry, "Hail Fëanáro, High King of all Aman," and another group screamed for Nolofinwë's blood. Fëanáro, sitting with his head cocked to one side, propped on his fist, was smiling.

We'll see.

Slowly, as the guards were crushed back against the base of the dais, he stood up, raising a negligent hand, calling for order and silence. Arafinwë felt his eyes drawn downwards, resting again on Arakáno as his head bowed beneath the turmoil.

"It would seem the One has brought this matter to rest," Fëanáro said, arresting, magnetic; the mob slowed, became again a crowd attentive to its new king. "Nolofinwë did indeed murder of Finwë Nólemë at the behest of the Senate." Grief strangled his voice, and anger, burning bright and hot, so unlike Nolofinwë's icy maneuverings. " I assure you, I will not lay this matter to rest. Wherever Nolofinwë runs to, I will find him, and he will be brought to justice." A cheer, ragged with fury, stirred Arafinwë's hair with its vehemence, a golden curl brushing his cheek. "In the meantime, I see no reason to resort to petty violence when dealing with the murderer's family. They will be questioned regarding their involvement at a later date. It is possible," there was a soft, faint stress on the word, subtle skepticism, "that they were not involved." There was something wrong about his nephew, a faint thought buzzing insistently in Arafinwë's mind as the people voiced their own doubts, more venom flung at him, his family, Nolofinwë's.

"Until such a time, I ask you to return to your business," Fëanáro concluded, gathering dismissed, soldiers directing the Noldorin crowd out of the Square, back about their lives. They lifted their voices one last time, as Arafinwë finally recalled a hunting trip with Father, a doe whose neck had snapped when she leapt a ravine, her head lolling at a strange angle, the same angle Arakáno's head now lay at.

"Hail Fëanáro! Hail the High King!"

With cheering, and applause.

-Matthew Stover

Chapter End Notes

Dedicated to my lovely reviewers, Staggering Wood-Elf and Dawn Felagund. Matthew Stover wrote the novelized version of Revenge of the Sith, for those who don't know. Yes, I am a geek. No, I don't care.

I hope this chapter was an enjoyable reading experience, because God knows it wasn't a fun writing experience towards the end. I endeavored to not make the death scene cheesy, and tried to make our favorite Noldo act relatively in-character. That probably failed. Maybe if I bribed him with Silmarils?

The wind must have been high in Valmar, whirling the limbs of Telperion and Laurelin into a fervor; Treelight chased strange patterns over the textured wall. He stood in an unfamiliar carpeted hall, on the outer frame of the palace complex. They had been rushed from the Square to the Mindon, haunted by slurs against Grandmother Indis and jeers of Kinslayers. Somewhere along the way, what was left of Nolofinwë's family had been whisked away, and Aikanáro could only clutch, dazedly, at half-formed, frantic images: Father supporting Aunt Anairë as she sobbed Arakáno's name; the gold in Findecáno's braids flashing against his high, bruised cheek; little Itarilde held fast in her mother's arms. His own family, divided from their cousins, had been deposited like so many leaves by the wind.

He had broken his arm once as a child, and the initial agony had passed quickly into a blessed numbness. Afterward, when Uncle Nolofinwë asked him what foolishness he had been getting up to, he had been quite unable to recall. This whole, long day must surely be the same. It would pass into nothingness, and someone would have to remind him why they had been dragged from their beds before Laurelin's first light, why Arakáno had fallen, deceptively warm, to the ground.

Faces cycled by, voices warning them not to leave their designated area. Angaráto, calm and unfeeling as a distant mountain, inquired as to the limits of that space; upon receiving his answer, he strode down the hall, vanishing into a room presumably within the permitted area.

Aikanáro surfaced slowly from a half-formed realm of shadows, where Arakáno's frightened face flashed before his eyes and Laurelin's brightest moment almost obscured his crumpling form. The anticipated numbness failed to arise; indeed, Aikanáro felt more acutely the horror of his cousin's death with each passing moment, somehow worse than Grandfather Finwë's because he had seen it happen. Death was not at all the creeping monster he had envisioned; it guised itself in light and struck as fast, and perhaps that was most offensive of all, that something so hideous dared masquerade as something so divine as Treelight.

He straightened up and looked around as the outrage, the utter wrongness welled up and threatened to overwhelm him. Mother stood off to one side, eyes uplifted, hands clasped before her. Eldalôtë, ever the dutiful daughter, hovered near her, fingers combing idly through Artaher's hair. The child was the color of bleached whale bone, shaking. Ingoldo was slumped wearily on the floor by Aikanáro's feet, elbows on his knees, fingers kneading his temples. The pastel nightdress was rather more rumpled than it had been previously, and torn at the knees; a stray thought asked how much Amarië would mind. Father, like Angaráto, like Nerwen, had vanished.

Two Noldor stood apart further down the hall, where it branched into another, less intimate corridor. The one was slightly shorter than average, with thick, copper-brown hair, the other much smaller with darker hair. Fëanáro's youngest, the infamous twin princes.

Ambarussa the younger stared back at him with no discernable emotion, as though his father had not held Aikanáro's family complicit in Grandfather Finwë's murder until further notice, as though he had not accused Uncle Nolofinwë and Arakáno. As though they were mere friendly acquaintances rather than-

Aikanáro frowned, turning away. He saw again Arakáno, slyly flirting with the daughters of Tirion's lords, sneaking with Aikanáro to the wine cellar when the adults were preoccupied, helping him tease the strange Vanyarin monk Ingoldo insisted was their brother, Arakáno's cousin. He wanted nothing to do with Ambarussa's amiable distance.

Time passed, leaf by leaf, Laurelin fading now, Telperion strengthening. They had other guards, Aikanáro noted, glancing around listlessly as Ingoldo climbed gingerly to his feet as though sore, favoring his right knee. Artaher had regained some color and began swatting his mother's hand from his hair, burrowing into Eldalôtë's skirts, mumbling tentatively about being hungry.

"Food will be brought to you," Ambarussa, the darker and elder, reported blandly, not quite hostile but not overtly friendly. Artaher perked up momentarily, permitting Eldalôtë to resume stroking his hair. When the promised food was not immediately produced, he grew tetchy again, shifting restlessly, eventually pulling away entirely. Glancing uneasily at the silent, armed men posted at either end of the hallway, Artaher hesitated, standing barely apart from his mother, one hand still balled in her skirt, unsure where to go when the adults were just as directionless as he was. Aikanáro beckoned to him; the boy flitted to his side like a bird from one perch to the next, crouching in his shadow.

The last Mingling had long ended before they were brought food; a tray of bread, cheese, fruit and iced wine. A simple, but not altogether uncharitable meal- no single decanter for twelve.

"You'll find an area for dining through the door on the end," Ambarussa said, waving vaguely in one direction as a stone-faced man bore the tray towards a room several doors down from where they were loosely grouped. Mother gathered herself slowly, linking arms with Eldalôtë and following after the man. Aikanáro swung Artaher up to his hip, trailing after Ingoldo, not because he was hungry, but because spiders crawled in his veins, urging movement.

He plucked up the bread knife before anyone was seated, concentrating on making symmetric slices as Ingoldo awkwardly, lifelessly intoned Ilúvatar's blessing, Angaráto's usual duty. Aikanáro remained standing until he caught sight of Mother's pointed stare. There were bags under her eyes, deep, spreading bruises that bespoke exhaustion, pain. He sat, acquiescing silently, still clutching the bread knife, ignoring whatever food Eldalôtë set before him. Ingoldo picked uncharacteristically at his food, crumbling bread and cheese into mountains and dropping strawberry islands into his wine. Mother mutely corrected Artaher's handling of his wine glass; the boy, after unsuccessfully trying to wriggle away, slammed the glass back to the table with unnecessary force, shattering the stem. Eldalôtë started violently at the sound of breaking glass, white-lipped and shaking as Mother converged on Artaher, scolding him in an anxious undertone. Ingoldo gazed blankly at the spreading rush of red that swept across the pale table like blood until Aikanáro dropped a napkin in its path. The wine soaked through the white fabric, displayed death in its true form as Aikanáro knew it, not the false, silent death that left Arakáno a warm corpse with a twisted neck.

"Aikanáro!" He started out of his morbid reverie, blinking incomprehensively at his mother. "Take this to your father and brother." She pushed what was left of the dinner tray forward. Less than a quarter of the original food was missing, and most of what was gone had been added to Ingoldo's food village. Aikanáro stood, his chair grating harshly against the polished floor.

Angaráto was easy to find; the first door Aikanáro tried revealed his brother, already ensconced behind a fortress of books with a garrison of papyrus, quills and ink. Angaráto mumbled perfunctorily when Aikanáro offered him the tray, reaching out blindly to grab bread and peach wedges with ink-stained fingers. Aikanáro was out of the room, searching for Father, before he realized he had not scolded Angaráto's poor eating habits.

Father proved more difficult to find; he had escaped to the room at the very end of the corridor, a library that looked out onto the street. He seemed as detached as Aikanáro wanted to be, staring blankly at his right hand. Aikanáro, finally, left the tray on the desk, was turning to leave when he heard his father call his name, softly. His gaze had shifted to Aikanáro's right hand, and he realized he was still clutching the knife in a death grip. Father held out his hand, eyebrows drawn in familiar concern.

"Give me that." Aikanáro almost didn't recognize the voice as Father's; there was note of authority in it that Aikanáro would have known in Uncle Nolofinwë, but that was foreign to meek, non-confrontational Arafinwë. He handed over the knife, slowly forcing himself to uncurl his stiff fingers. Father smiled briefly at him, a vague, half-grimace that faded quickly, insubstantial mist. He left the library with that smile haunting the corner of his eyes.

Mother seemed comforted when he returned without both the tray and the knife; Aikanáro had no heart to contradict her relieved murmur about Angaráto's appetite. Artaher interrupted with a wide yawn, and Ingoldo listlessly suggested they look into retiring for the night.

There were five rooms dedicated to sleeping on the corridor, or, rather, four initially designed for it and one hastily converted by means of a pallet shoved between two art displays. Aikanáro glanced down at Artaher, already trembling as he eyed the looming sculptures casting shadows in the dimly lit room.

"I'll sleep here," Aikanáro declared, interrupting Eldalôtë's logical conclusion that Artaher, being smallest, was the best fit for the makeshift bedroom. Eldalôtë hesitated, protesting, assuring him that Artaher would be fine. Aikanáro, in response, plopped down on the pallet, careful not to wince as one of his elbows knocked against a marble corner, and began pulling his boots off. The Vanyarin woman left after a moment, shaking her head and muttering about Noldorin men beneath her breath. Artaher hesitated when she had gone, glancing after her uncertainly before rushing over to Aikanáro and flinging his arms around his shoulders. Aikanáro had no time to return the impromptu hug as Artaher fled back to the light of the corridor.

Aikanáro had not believed he would be able to sleep; every time he closed his eyes, Arakáno's frightened face appeared, pleading for life. Somehow the sight had lost its edge, and Aikanáro woke to golden light filtering around unfamiliar pedestals. There was something wrong, something he was unable to place. It was not that he had forgotten, even for a moment, the events of the previous day; if anything else, sleep had etched them deep into his memory. There was an odd sound, and the sound had woken him, but the sound was muffled and piercing at the same time- the sound of a child screaming outside the room.

Aikanáro rose like quicksilver, was out the door before he knew it, tripping over Ingoldo in the corridor, stumbling out of his room as well. Artaher stood outside the door to the library Father had been in last night, shoulders drawn back, arms rigid at his sides, crying wordlessly. Aikanáro, running to his side, saw why.

The bread knife was stained in blood.

Sorrow makes us all children again - destroys all differences of intellect.

He could hear Anairë screaming, and when he opened his eyes, she screamed still, though he could not see her. Instead, Arafinwë saw a peach colored ceiling, golden Treelight flashing off it, pounding in his head in time to Anairë sobbing her youngest's name. He was in a bed, he determined fuzzily; his head was stuffed with cotton, his mouth like bitter parchment gone sour, dry and foul-tasting.

"He's conscious, my liege," someone murmured, purring the final syllables, cool voice and a pitch that defied description, striking a chord deep within the recesses of his instincts. He sat bolt upright; the room spun crazily.

It was a man, his hair bright, shining— brilliant gold, Arafinwë tentatively decided. A man of incredible beauty, delicate features and perfectly formed limbs, of a stately height and lordly mien. Arafinwë felt himself relax, put at ease; Anairë shrieked murder at him and he cringed.

"So I can see." Fëanáro, pacing restlessly, preoccupied, hands full of a mass of metal threads, weaving them into a pattern. He glanced over, gaze inscrutable, fingers still dancing tight, curving figures, eyes narrowed as though he looked upon an uncooperative piece of metal. Then, with a frown that was more of a grimace, Fëanáro tossed aside his weaving, turning fluidly to face Arafinwë, hands deftly resting on his hips. The half-formed pattern sailed through the air, clink-slinking, skittering across the floor—

—spare change in his pocket; wide and blank and fall—

"Father— oh." Ambarussa— red hair dark, closer to Fëanáro's black than to Nerdanel's red; Pityafinwë, the elder— stood in the doorway, disdainful expression cast to the unnamed man, who drew suddenly closer to Fëanáro.

"What is it?" Fëanáro asked over his shoulder, eyes still boring into Arafinwë's, who sat frozen beneath that sharp, eagle stare. Ambarussa answered, similarly distracted, trading cold eyes with the stranger.

"Maitimo. The iron and steel guilds are refusing to cooperate. They say they won't discuss it with anyone except the High King." Fëanáro grimaced at that, Ingweron. Arafinwe could see the inner workings of his mouth, teeth and tongue forming the imperative 'change' behind closed lips.

"Melkor, go tell them that there will be no discussion and that Nelyafinwë is acting by my authority." The man pouted, drawn out of his and Ambarussa's staring contest.

"Yes of course," the man said, but his tone and posture and unmoving stance said something else entirely.

"What is it?" Fëanáro repeated, irritation creeping into his voice.

"It's just that— well, we don't know— you can't be sure he is doing as you said."

"I know that, brazen as he is, Nelyafinwë would never dare defy me outright," Fëanáro snapped silkily, dangerously. The man— Melkor— half-nodded in agreement, angling his gaze down and to the side as though searching for the best way to phrase himself.

"Regardless—" Melkor hesitated; at Fëanáro's short, sharp glare he continued, "I would rather stay close by. Why not send Pityarussa with your message?" Ambarussa twitched violently at the epessë, eyes narrowing, lips tightening, yet he said nothing to indicate his grievance.

"If I may," he interjected mildly instead, "the guild councils would likely not accept my word; they have determined to make a nuisance of themselves." He did not address Melkor, but rather Fëanáro, seemingly progressed to ignoring the golden-haired stranger from his previous, ill-concealed hostility.

"In that case," Melkor countered sulkily, "they will no more listen to me than to your sons, Fëanáro." He was losing ground, and the argument.

"They will learn," Fëanáro said briskly, dismissive, untangling Melkor from himself; sometime during the conversation he had drawn closer and closer to Fëanáro, was now nearly entwined about him, clasps and buttons and hair snaps catching, sticking. Fëanáro freed himself with the skill of an experienced parent, directing the man toward the door with a hand on his back.

Melkor twisted at the last moment, seizing hold of Fëanáro's hand, whining, "What if he tries something?" Arafinwe shrank away from the quivering, accusatory finger extended at him. There was an anxious, worried cast to Melkor's face, pleading.

"He won't try anything. And if he does," Fëanáro overrode Melkor's protests, "if he does, I'm sure I'll be able to handle it." There was a sardonic twist to the words, a certain cast to his lips that implied sarcasm, but it was strangely gentle, muted.

"Fine," Melkor muttered, graceless, injured pride and rapidly blinking eyes. "Fine." He dropped Fëanáro's hand and pivoted on his heels, stalking past Ambarussa without so much as a glance. Ambarussa, for his part, kept an eye on Melkor until he disappeared out his door; kept his ears pricked, listening for his footsteps even after he had gone, until the sound receded into silence.

"Uncle," he greeted suddenly, nodding his head politely. Arafinwe started to be thus addressed, had never been familiar with Fëanáro's youngest sons. But Ambarussa seemed guileless and friendly now that Melkor had gone, smiling faintly, harmless enough—

—younger even than dead Arakáno, and the thought strangled Arafinwë's tentative answering smile, rendering it twisted and lame. Ambarussa's face fell slightly; Fëanáro cleared his throat, sharp and on edge, don't you have somewhere to be—

"Father," Ambarussa said abruptly, unusual chill in his tone, a bite to the ending r.

"Pityafinwë," Fëanáro returned, syllables staccato-sharp, ungraceful, bringing a grimace to Fëanáro's face as he spoke them. Similarly strange.

And somewhere Anairë cried, "Murderer!" ringing through his ears like the sting of her hand across his cheek, and Angaráto, arms out-stretched, diving between them; Findecáno pulling his mother away, Ingoldo's hand on Arafinwë's shoulder, Aikanáro kneeling beside Arakáno, ripping the gauze away from his face, lifting him up off the ground; Turukáno advancing on Fëanáro.

And Curufinwë Atarinkë's voice, lifted high and proud, a sword held at Elenwë's throat, "Why don't you think a little?" Ar-Feiniel dragging her brother back, glaring daggers at Tyelcormo, standing faithfully by his favorite brother.

"Why did you do it?" Fëanáro demanded, dispelling the waking terror. Arafinwë started, blinking. Ambarussa was gone; the door was closed, they were alone. Arafinwë was confused.

"You asked me to," he answered, rasping, a frightening skeleton voice, unrecognizable as his own. Fëanáro raised a skeptic brow, lip curling disdainfully.

"When was that?"

"Activate the device; supposed to be brothers—"

"You aren't referring to the device," he croaked uncertainly. Fëanáro was accustomed to obedience, would not wonder why he had been obeyed.

"No," Fëanáro said shortly, bemused. "You were quite helpful in that regard." Arafinwë felt his stomach turn, bile climbing his throat at the casual dismissal.

"Then what?"

"Your arm," Fëanáro snapped, abruptly furious, bending as though to retrieve the abandoned threads still glittering on the floor but anchoring himself at the last moment. Arafinwë stared at him, uncomprehending; he glanced to his left arm, flat by his side, then to his right arm, heavily bandaged at the wrist.

The memory snapped into place, the same scene playing behind his eyes, the same sounds and reactions in his ears. His hand attached to the device that snapped his nephew's neck. The spiraling weight of years and life Arakáno would never experience rested on his head. His hand. Unbearable.

Fëanáro snarled softly under breath. "You realize that your attempt to kill yourself so soon after Nolofinwë's plot was uncovered is highly suspicious. A full investigation of your rooms and correspondence is being made. Until such time as it is completed, you and your family will be kept under house arrest."

"I didn't," Arafinwë said, interrupting, breaking Fëanáro's stride. "To kill myself— that wasn't my intention."

"Then what?" He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, eyes flashing, authority insurmountable.

"You wouldn't understand it," Arafinwë said finally, tiredly, looking away, falling back on the pillows.

"Try me," Fëanáro ordered coolly, intellect insulted now, determined to prove him wrong. Arafinwë stared at the ceiling, trying to find a way to articulate the sum total of experiences which had led him to take the knife to his wrist.

"… Arakáno is… dead. And I killed him— with this hand." Fëanáro frowned speculatively.

"Indirectly, yes," he conceded slowly. "But he was a traitor— a murderer himself. You have no reason to feel guilt." Arafinwë shook his head; Anairë sobbed, anguish beyond words.

"We aren't meant to die," Arafinwë protested quietly. Fëanáro was silent, staring at him with distant, pained eyes; no one knew better than Fëanáro the façade of their immortality.

"You will be kept here under surveillance," he said at last, sighing, turning away as he spoke. "I will personally consider your involvement in this matter." Arafinwë allowed his eyes to slip shut, blocking out the golden Treelight— odious in its beauty, somehow. Whatever else Fëanáro had to say was lost in a rush of voices and Arafinwë stood at the threshold of a gray forest, wherein someone beckoned to him.

The wisest know nothing.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Mindon yet flew the standard of Finwë from its peak, but two of the three flags honoring his sons had been removed, replaced by two more of Fëanáro’s. There had been a general consensus among the people of Tirion that the sight of Kinslayers’ pennants flying near to their victim’s was intolerable; they had demanded that the emblems be taken down and Fëanáro had complied— more than complied: Findaráto, with his forehead pressed against the cool glass of a street-side window, could espy thin trails of wisping black smoke, could faintly hear the crackle of distant flames. Uncle Nolofinwë’s flag was being publicly burnt in the Square.

In the wake of Father’s sudden madness, all the doors in their section of the palace had been taken out, and an armed guard stood at attention on each side of the empty frames. The strange, fierce men frightened Artaher, and with Eldalôtë coming apart at the seams and Angaráto firmly ensconced in ‘his’ study, Findaráto had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on the boy. His nephew hovered at his knees, unusually small size exaggerated by his huddled posture as he listlessly traced the thin embroidery winding down the leg of the pants Findaráto wore.

He winced as Artaher’s fingers jabbed at his knee; he had stumbled sometime during the nightmare flight from the Square and landed hard, tearing a hole in his robes. Amarië’s slip had been shredded, the fine cotton fraying quickly. It was easily fixed, Eldalôtë had mumbled in the early hours of Laurelin’s dawning, watching him worry the hole as their makeshift prison was combed for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing had been found, save the soiled bread knife, and no one had sent word of Father’s condition.

He had been fortunate to discover several changes of men’s clothes in the room he had claimed. He could deduce very little about their previous owner, save that he was forgetful and either paid homage to the Two Trees or was an avid gardener: all the garments were done in natural patterns and color schemes. Less fortunately, they were somewhat too large for him and were made of one of the many fabrics that caused Findaráto’s skin to itch and flush. Eldalôtë, in her distracted state, seemed more likely to unravel Amarië’s slip entirely, but if it kept her preoccupied from their current predicament, Findaráto did not grudge her the cost of a new one.

A few carriages rolled in and out of the main courtyard, or at least the sliver of it which Findaráto could see; the steady stream had been enough to draw his attention from the black traces tainting the sky. Most he could not identify; they were shabbier than the typical fare the palace gates were privy to, and displayed no emblems readily apparent. The most he could do for these was to analyze what materials they were made of. Several were made, in whole or in part, with the distinctive black pine of northern Aman, constructed in styles centuries out of fashion. Likely these belonged to the representative members of Fëanáro’s foreign army. Others showed the influence of the green birch of the highlands of Aulë’s Reach, an area Uncle Nolofinwë had long distrusted as stout supporters of Fëanáro. His suspicions had not been unfounded, it would seem.

Then there were those he did recognize—the iron and steel guilds’ ornate carriages sharply reflected the Treelight with their distinctive shows of craftsmanship; the Fellowship of Manwë’s Chosen displayed the winged arrow crest over their plain white carriage. He recognized the deep brown of the Huntsmen of Oromë’s carriage from Aikanáro’s steady association over the years, though its customary seal was missing, a portent Findaráto could not yet decipher.

It was the flash of silver that caught his attention, the glint of polished pearl and bleached willow, inimitable in all the world: the royal carriage of Alqualondë. Findaráto followed its gracefully swooping form as far as he was able, eventually throwing open the window and leaning out over the street as much as his stability would permit. The guards in the vicinity stirred warily (by the creaking of leather and the clinking of mail), though none made any move to stop him from dangling out the window. Artaher whimpered softly, and Findaráto felt small hands knot at the back of his tunic as the boy crowded closer to him. Findaráto steadied his grip on the frame, not at all liking to think of the irony of his nephew accidentally knocking him from his perch in light of the Kinslayer accusations.

The swan-sculpt carriage came to a stately halt at the front entrance. The left-hand door burst open prematurely, and Findaráto felt his lips quirk as he wondered which of his uncles so impatiently disregarded the Noldorin footmen now scrambling to their duties.

The sluggish burgundy ensemble that leapt nimbly to the pavement robbed Findaráto of what mirth he had entertained; the bushy black head turned unerringly in his direction and for the brief moment when their eyes met, Carnistir Fëanárion snarled silently at him. Then he was overcome by the arrival of his eldest brother; Maitimo greeted him warmly, leaving Findaráto to reflect that it had probably been several weeks since the siblings had seen each other.

Though distracted, Carnistir continued to shoot glares off in Findaráto’s direction, until Maitimo took notice and followed his vitriolic gaze. The elder brother’s face sobered in an alarmed fashion, and he spoke sharply, mute from the distance, distinctive copper hair catching a breeze and whipping into Carnistir’s line of sight. A pair of doormen startled, and Maitimo, raking his hair back, repeated himself, gesturing urgently in Findaráto’s direction. The pair blanched and charged into the palace, even as Carnistir sneered something that gave his brother pause.

Maitimo glanced from his brother to Findaráto, his head cocked questioningly. The two princes linked arms, Carnistir pulling his brother away at only a slightly less hurried pace than the doormen as Maitimo continued to study him thoughtfully.

Findaráto willed his racing heart calm, irritated to be so caught off guard, but remained transfixed by the Telerin carriage, which had yet to depart. He had forgotten Carnistir’s involvement in the pacification of Alqualondë, but the carriage’s lingering might just mean—

The right-hand door swung out sedately, and Grandfather Olwë stepped out onto the paved ground nonchalantly, as though oblivious to the overwhelmingly restrictive setting. He glided past his conspicuous guard with a casual flick of the wrist, demoting the unfortunate man to escort as easily as if he still wore Alqualondë’s crown. As though Grandfather Finwë was alive and his presence at the Mindon could be explained as a casual meeting between old friends.

Findaráto slipped back into the corridor as the sound of pounding feet heralded the breathless arrival of the doormen. From what he gathered between their frantic gasps for air, they had been ordered to prevent him from flinging himself from the window on pain of exile by Prince Maitimo. It was a perfectly ridiculous interpretation of events—until Findaráto recalled Artaher screaming in terror and Father, bleached pale except for the horrid gash in his wrist, the bloodied knife, and then he was not so certain his half-cousin’s fears were unreasonable.

I know well what I am fleeing from…

Ingoldo swept in, Artaher clinging to his shadow, just as a guard ushered Mother in, stern-faced and cold-eyed. Aikanáro glanced up sharply as the Noldo made to grab Ingoldo’s elbow, dragging him back toward the empty door frame. Aikanáro found himself on his feet almost before he could trace Arakáno’s corpse in the way Ingoldo went limp as a willow twig under the guard’s hold. Mother’s touch on his elbow stopped him from lurching forward, but the stranger’s eyes marked the motion and then darted to his fellow sentries.

“You are to return to your rooms,” he ordered. “The Teler Olwë wishes to speak with the lady.” Mother’s fingers went rigid on his arm, and Aikanáro folded his hand over them reflexively.

“We’re not leaving,” he snapped, willing Ingoldo to pull himself free.

“And why should you?” Grandfather Olwë asked as he breezed into the room, trailed by a pair of harassed doorsmen. “I should like to speak to my grandchildren as well.” He paused, rocking back on the balls of his feet, as he took in the scene: Aikanáro’s fierce posture, Mother pale, Artaher shrinking behind Ingoldo, who had yet to detach himself from the guard. “Where is my son?” Mother gave a soft cry under her breath, sinking into Aikanáro’s vacated chair; the concern in Grandfather’s face gave way to outright alarm.

“Father is—resting,” Ingoldo said haltingly. “There was a—an accident. With a breadknife.” At Grandfather’s incredulously raised eyebrows he shrugged helplessly. “We’ve been told he’s recovering well enough.”

“Fetch us some refreshment,” Grandfather ordered distractedly, flicking his fingers to dismiss one of his Noldorin shadows. “And ask your king if I might visit my son.” Aikanáro wondered how far the unfortunate youth would get before he realized he’d unthinkingly obeyed the command of the deposed Telerin king, and the thought brought an unbidden smile to curl his lips.

Grandfather sat across from Mother, steepling his fingers and frowning pensively. “How have you all fared?” Ingoldo finally slipped through the Noldo’s fingers, ushering Artaher before him and taking a seat to Grandfather’s right. Aikanáro remained standing, reclining against the wall, his eyes still flickering uneasily to their silent audience.

“Well enough,” Mother murmured, her voice strangely steady. “Considering the circumstances. How is—everyone?”

“We’ve done rather well,” Grandfather assured, smiling warmly; Artaher abandoned Ingoldo to climb into Olwë’s lap. “Governor Macalaurë was kind enough to allow us to maintain our residence in the palace, so we’ve not wanted for anything. Thank you,” he added, as a bottle of chilled wine and set of glasses was delivered to their table. Aikanáro realized, with a jolt like missing a step, that he recognized the girl who placed it there; she had always blushed when he smiled at her during Grandfather Finwë’s banquets. Her eyes sneered at him as she left.

He accepted the glass Grandfather Olwë proffered, hands shaking about the stem, simply for something to occupy himself with. He let the conversation roll over him, Mother choking out the tragedy of Arakáno and Fëanáro’s fictions. Grandfather didn’t appear to be paying it any more mind than he was; his fingers tracing thin lines in the condensation on his glass of wine.

Of a sudden, Aikanáro caught the sharp reflection of his gaze; and held under them. Slowly, he dropped his eyes to the glass, the lines suddenly folding into tengwar.

Nolofinwë Artanis Ships—

One of the guards shifted at the door, and Grandfather smeared the glass clean, his expression neutral as he turned back to Mother. Aikanáro inclined his head slowly, catching a bare whisper of Grandfather’s mind against his, the familiar bulwark of the sea. Strength. Courage.

…but not what I am in search of.

-Michel de Montainge