Fly Away by Michiru

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Minë

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

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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

 

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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?