Fly Away by Michiru

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Atta

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

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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