Fly Away by Michiru

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Prologue

Edited 9/23/11 as part of my goals for the Season of Writing Dangerously.

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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