Fly Away by Michiru

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Neldë

Updated as part of my goals for the Season of Writing Dangerously. I'm going to say that eight minutes past midnight counts, since a good portion of that time was spent trying to figure out what the Quenya for "three" was...

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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