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Chapter Text

“When the matter of Finwe and Indis arose [Feanor] was disturbed, and filled with anger and resentment; though it is not recorded that he attended the Debate or paid heed to the reasons given for the judgement, or to its terms except in one point: that Miriel was condemned to remain for ever discarnate, so that he could never again visit her or speak with her, unless he himself should die. This grieved him, and he grudged the happiness of Finwe and Indis, and was unfriendly to their children, even before they were born.”

Something is burning.

The scent is sinking into the silks, the tapestries, the carpets, the silken curtains and beautiful things – the black smoke rising, not from the kitchens, not from any of the various functional or representational rooms, but from one of the balconies belonging to the actual royal dwelling, the master bedroom in the north wing; It is far too up in the intricate web of magnolia towers to be seen much from below, but the scent is pervasive.

Amid the vision of splendor that is the noontide of Valinor, the cover of soot is like a never-ending shriek of discord, like a string about to snap on the painstakingly crafted case of a handmade violin.

The following days, the ensuing rumor mill will be much worse than the fact, there was at most, a single ceramic dish’s worth of blaze kindled from a moderately sized heap of paper.

Trying to save as much as he could from the ashes, the king would find charred heaps of priceless notes –

It would be written of by some as an adolescent tantrum.

It would be considered by others an incident that should make generations of scholars weep while they peered over the preserved copies of the salvaged pages, trying to make out just a little more of the blackened pages while they marveled at the tantalizing insights in the clearly preserved snippets – but at the very bottom of the pile, down with the most blackened and reduced of papers, there was a volume that would take absolutely no effort to recognize, a blackened tome that, even as it was, was easily recognized as the latest edition of Tirion’s loremaster’s journal, featuring among many things a complete copy of the Statute of Finwe and Miriel as well as a transcript of the associated discussions of the Valar.

The wind should blow the ashes far across the famous town square of Tirion; The column of smoke would be seen all the way up to the highest reaches of the Mindon Eldalieva -

But near its bottom sat a malcontent youth on an ornate footstool, feeding bundles of pages to the fire as casually as one might throw breadcrumbs to the birds.

The king came past the curtains with all the jeweled clangor of someone who had not thought he would ever need to run again. Let no one doubt that a mortal would have got something caught in the long trail of his elaborate robes or stumbled on such intricate sleeves – but the king would not suffer to send any lesser servant, and so he comes rushing past the curtains, headdress and all.

Ring-laden, bangle-studded fingers keep the next stash of papers from going flying into the fire, frantically seek out the pale, slender fingers that were doing the throwing.

The King’s face is grave with pained concern. “Feanaro... What are you doing?”

“I’ve lost all interest in studying Valarin any longer.” said the prince, as if that were all the explanation you could ever need.

He has eyes the color of an overcast sky, and they remain transfixed on the flames, as if enamored with the way that he could watch the pages turn to ashes, and feel nothing.

“At least keep it somewhere – just in case. You might change your mind later, and wish you could continue-”

“I won’t.” said the prince.

It was not a loud exclamation, nor a proud, definitive decree, but the King did recognize that tone of finality; He knew better now than to insist, lest the next words out of the young one’s mouth be something like ‘that is my final word.’

He would not waste time expounding on the inappropriateness of setting a fire in one’s private chambers or on all the other options he would have had to get the offending documents removed from his chambers; It was not the first time they were having this argument, and for all of his occasional tactless, sanguine optimism, the king knew full well that this was not about the notes.

“...have you even read it? And I mean, truly read it, with an open mind, good faith and a willingness to understand the reasoning behind it?”

“I’ve understood all that I needed to understand. Even if it is the Valar, I need not suffer anyone to run their mouths at length about how my mother is a selfish, stubborn mule and my father a faithless lazy faint-heart!”

“I am the King. For better or worse, anything I do has an impact on the realm. That makes my character a legitimate matter of public discussion. I knew this and accepted it when I ascended the throne. The Valar too, know this, as it is even more true for them: You must consider that their decisions impact not just Tirion or even Valinor – they must consider the implications for all of Arda and everything in it, for their discussions would concern its very nature – which, in turn, makes this a document of concern to our loremasters, lawyers and theologians. They have to carefully weigh all sides of the matter, my character included. As a fellow ruler and seeker of truth, I must understand this, even if I stand by my point.”

Throughout all of the king’s careful, weary explanation, he saw that he was doing precious little to shift the sullen, defensive look from his son’s pristine features. His form stood hard and immovable in his father’s fretting arms.

At last, the king gave up, succumbing to a drawn, prolonged exhale that carried the exhaustion of many decades. “I know this is hard on you. Originally, I lead our people to the blessed realm so that our children yet to come would not need to know such sorrow. I wished to spare you of this, but in the end, I could not protect you, and for that, I am sorry. But as it stands, you are the only heir that I have, which makes you and your life a public concern as well.

I know that you’re a private person, and that it is not fair to expect you to compromise on that because of a choice that I made before you were even born; That is precisely why I feel so strongly that you should not be made to bear that burden all on your own.

As your father, I know that your heart is with your craft and your lore, and as king, I know well that I would not be doing my subjects a favor if I forced a man of your talents to waste his time at court – if you had younger siblings, you would could just simply leave the royal affairs to one of them. You would be free to focus on what you love, and you would not be expected to have children. You could withdraw from the public eye entirely, if that is what you wanted-”

“What?! Do you think I can’t do it? You think I’m not good enough?! Not suitable?! Is it because of what was said in that debate, or do you just not think me capable? Is it grandchildren that you want, and you think I can’t give them to you-?!”

“I want them more than anything, but first and foremost, my duty as your father is to respect your choice. And given… what happened, I can understand if-”

“I can give you grandchildren! As many as you want! You don’t need another wife for that. You’ve just got to give me a chance to find someone to help with that, unless you expect me to grow your heirs in a vat. I can be Crown Prince. I’ll prove it-”

The king expelled a deeply tired sigh. “It’s not about that, Feanaro.”

“Then what is it? Is mother so horrible a wife? What is it about us that you need recompense for? But I suppose it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. You got your wish. They’ve decided that you should be compensated for being stuck with some tainted aberration in place of your only son!”

Now the ancient king never could stand to see his son in even the slightest bit of distress, and soon had seized the slender youth as close to his chest as he could, stroking his midnight hair like he did when he used to comfort him as an infant.

“Don’t you ever say that-” pleaded the king with no small amount of desperation of his own. “Please, Feanaro. You’re the light of my life. You’re all I have left in this world. Please-”

That was a sentimental exaggeration even then, for Finwe was king in a realm where even the servants and porters lived in bliss beyond compare; But in the end, his son could not rebuff the father whom he loved more than any of the priceless marvels he was yet to make, and ultimately, he relented just enough to allow himself to be fussed over and led away while the burning stash of notes was quietly extinguished and disappeared on his Majesty’s confidential orders.

…

It was deemed a pitch black omen when High Prince of Tirion was conspicuously absent from his father’s wedding feast, but those who had witnessed his departure were probably still in shock over what they had seen and heard earlier.

He had made no secret of where he was going, nay, he had declared it in broad daylight right to new Queen’s face, a deliberate, calculated maneuver dripping with caustic loathing.

“It says right here in this text. ‘Your body shall wither, and we shall not restore it to you’. I wish to be holding her hand when that happens, and I’ll do my best not think about whatever it is you might be doing.”

Never mind that the hand in question had been indistinguishable from cold, unmoving marble for the better part or forty years.

...

“Now you’ve done it! You’ve replaced me! You won’t need me anymore!”

The prince’s voice was defiant, perhaps even combative -

but he had his long white fingers clasped together and his forehead rested on his hands while his silken streaks of raven hair fell into his face.

The scarlet color of his robes only accentuated the contrast of ebony and ivory.

Beside him sat his father like a softer, milder mirror image, a picture of sanguine warmth rather than intemperate heat.

“I will never let anything come between us, come what may. I’ll tell you as many times as you’ll need to hear it: You’re the light of my life – all I have in this world.”

“But that’s not really true anymore now, is it? You are all that I have left in the world. You might be saying that now, but soon, you’ll have forgotten me, just like you’ve forgotten mother. You’ll put away all that reminds you of me, like I’m just another piece of old furniture that you don’t want to look at anymore-”

“I did not forget your mother. Believe me, not a single day goes by when I don’t think of her, and there’s no single thought of her that does not crush my heart with its weight. But she is not coming back, and there’s no amount of grieving I could do that could change this, nor will dwelling on the past.”

“Then how can you- how can you…!”

The king could not believe his eyes.

As long as he could remember, his son had always been rather precocious and acted older than his actual age; Compared to other children, the skill of his hands had always been finer, his speech more articulate, his need for attention, company or instruction far smaller.

Sure, there had been that brief stretch of years where he had been a somewhat clingy child, back when he still answered to a different name, and the King would treasure it forever, but for the most part, it had proved to be a fairly lonesome affair to be the father of a peerless prodigy.

At the time that the current King and Queen had had their fateful meeting on the slopes of the holy mountain, the prince had been traveling in the mountains all by himself. At the time, he had at least two revolutionary discoveries under his belt already: His letters, and the earliest of his lampstones. It was on account of those that he had been bestowed with his current title, for all that he insisted to wear his mother’s unkind prophecy like a badge of honor (surely, she would have reconsidered, if she had recovered, if she’d had more time…)

While his son was young, his father had devoted himself to his care above all, but at the time he considered remarriage, the prince had not seemed to need him very much anymore, absorbed as he was in his countless pursuits;

Now, the king was wondering if his son’s unique talent had not caused him to overestimate his maturity. Maybe it all could have gone different if the King had the time to prepare him, but the prince had returned a few days early from his excursion, and entered the palace by a path of ivy near an eastern-facing window as he sometimes did to avoid the fuss of being formally announced, only to find his father on a couch with a strange woman whom he’d thus far known as a sort of friend of the family, both of them wearing silver rings.

But back then, he had chiefly been angry and discontented, which he was often.

The king had not seen his son weep ever since he was a toddler, many decades in the past, but here he was, hot-faced and in tears, all because of the news that he would be receiving a younger sibling.

“Feanaro – this is good news. This is good.”

But the prince was inconsolable, despite the King’s best efforts.

“You know I tried to look after you on my own as best as I could, but I’ve had the duties of the crown to think about, and I had to do the work of two people with regards to you. I’ve taken many obligations upon myself and I don’t doubt that I’ve fallen short of all of them at times. But now I have someone to help me, and she could help me to look after you as well, if you only gave her a chance-”

“We were fine on our own. We managed just fine without anyone butting in. She cannot be here right now, but I already have a mother – the peerless Miriel Therinde, whose fine work is without equal. I am proud of her, and I don’t need a replacement.”

“There is no one who could replace her. That’s not what this is about….

I thought this would be good for you. You never got to meet them, but you’ve probably heard that King Olwe had two brothers once? Not just brothers – they must have had the largest family out of anyone at Cuivienen. I used to be quite envious of that, and I always thought that I wanted something like that for myself. I want it for you. When your new brother or sister is born, you’ll have someone you can always count on. Someone who is like you, and will always be there for you all throughout eternity.”

“Well that sounds just great.” the prince’s voice was probably colder and sharper than he meant for it to be, but he could not quite bring himself to hold back now. “Maybe when it’s my turn to have a child, I’ll consider giving them siblings. But as for me, it appears that your hopes are doomed to failure. I’m an only child, and thanks to that woman and the decree of the Valar, that’s what I’ll always be.”

…

It was only much, much later that the King at last made his way back to his pregnant wife.

He though her already asleep when he sat down beside her, but though he thought to have been as silent as he could, he soon felt her hands on his shoulder.

“Indis! Did I wake you-”

“It’s alright. I was waiting for you.”

Not for the last time, it had not occurred to him that she would.

“I’m sorry. I should have been with you on a day like this, to celebrate the auspicious news… and I suppose I should apologize for my son as well…”

But of course, she was mild and understanding, and reassuring with her touch.

“Don’t be too harsh on him, dear. I don’t blame him at all. You must consider that you and I will always remember Miriel no matter what we do, whether we dwell on it or not, but all he has to remember her by are her old things and old habits. I genuinely did not intend any insult by my speech, my intention was only to show my goodwill to your people, but if it’s a problem-”

“It’s not. I know how you meant it, and I appreciate it, just as I appreciate your patience with my son. You’re not doing anything wrong. Really, it’s just as your brother told me: I can’t afford to dwell on the past no more. Not when I have a city to rule, and our new child to worry about.”

…

The king had asked his daughter to wait for him on the divan in his study, and that was exactly where he should find her, sitting primly in her spot in her neat, white and gold dress.

The more she grew, the more she she seemed to be maturing into a pallette-swapped miniature of her mother or perhaps, her somewhat more serious maternal uncle, all the same fair, noble features with but a slight difference in the coloration of her eyes.

The closest he could say when pressed to present a resemblance was that his older children had both turned out reserved.

But it was unthinkable to imagine that Feanor would just ever quietly wait on his seat with no questions, no backtalk, no bored attempts to occupy himself somehow.

There was no risk of Findis ever wandering off – she was already such a responsible, well-bred girl. Sometimes, the king found it hard to believe that she was truly his daughter.

And yet he had been dreading this conversation.

“Findis dear, I have something to tell you.”

She calmly looked up at him.

“What is it, dear father?”

“Your mother and I, we had been thinking that now is probably the right time, and so we decided...- Well, the point is that you will be having a little brother.”

The king realized abruptly that he had been bracing for an impact that never came.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news father!”

The girl was measured and serene even in her elation.

“Do you already know for certain that they shall be a boy?”

“Well, no, but your mother seems sure nonetheless, and mothers can sometimes tell such things.”

“When shall he arrive?”

“In about a year, I expect.”

“That’s delightful! That’s quite enough time to get all sorts of playthings ready for him.”

Though he should by all means have no reason, the King was still on edge, and struggled to summon forth his usual eagerness.

“But you do know that it does take a while until you can play with them whenever a new child is born, right? I’m afraid that he might not be much fun at first, until he masters walking and talking and all such things. And because he will be very little at first and require much help, it may be that your mother and I will have a little less time to spend at first-”

But the rosy-cheeked princess seemed unperturbed:

“That’s fine. After all, it was probably my turn when I was very little, right? And I’m a bigger now than I used to be.”

“Well, I’m glad you understand… but there’s something I need you to know no matter what, okay? Something we want you to remember always. We still love you just the same, and we always will. Even if we’ll need some more time for your new brother, I don’t ever want you to think that we love you any less for it.”

“But why would I ever think that, father?” asked the princess, regarding her father with large, innocent eyes.

“No reason. I just wanted to make really, really sure that you know that, because it’s very, very important. Once your new brother gets to be older, we’ll have more time for you again, and if you ever want to have some special alone time with Mama and Papa, just let us know, and we will definitely make time for you.”

“Sure!”

Princess Findis nodded dutifully.

The king considered the small girl for a moment, sitting meekly with her hands in her lap.

“And if you ever have another question about this, or if there’s every any other importand thing you wish to tell us, please don’t hesitate to tell us.”

For a moment, Finwe dared not to believe that it had gone so smoothly, but then, her eyes darted to the side.

“...can it be anything?”

“Anything, dear.”

She smiled shyly, not unlike her mother’s mirthful manner.

“Can I help to pick out some adorable little garments for him?”

At this point, the king could no longer resist the temptation to ruffle her hair.

“Of course you can, dear.”

He bestowed an affectionate caress upon her forehead.

“I’m sure you’ll make a splendid big sister, Findis.”

…

For the most part, Indis had accounted herself lucky with regards to her husband, at least at first.

Eager of face and thoughtful-eyed, handsome in looks and eloquent in speech, he was generally marvelous company.

There was much joy and laughter in their shared home, much pleasant, stimulating discourse to be had – king or no king, he was very involved with the children and often showered them with exuberant affection. They were wanted, beloved, dolefully desired children, and while they were young, Indis felt like all her dreams had come true.

On account of having helped out with her nephew, she was by no means a complete novice to the challenges of child-rearing, but it was reassuring how he already knew exactly how everything worked, how it was all done – when Findis was born, he’d gone and explained to the newly-minted mother exactly how to hold her.

It was all very touching, as long as you didn’t spend too hard about why exactly it was that he knew all this already. Of course, there were times where the shadow of melancholy was quite evident in his eyes, even when he held their children in his arms, but Indis was here for him, and she loved being the source of his joy.

She took charge of the forgotten gardens, rearranged the stale decorations and filled the walls with mirth and song.

It was only that next to their latest family portrait, there would be a large, dramatic painting of a sour-faced youth hanging in the ballroom. It was only that he had other obligations – no, not the city, as much as everyone in it and their dog might have fancied themselves a critic. She’d been involved in matters of rulership since her brother was the chieftain of a small band of hunter-gatherers rather than the crowned king of an advanced, utopian realm.

The problem was his son.

His mother had been an old friend of hers in her youth, and so she had always assumed that any children they would have would grow up playing together.

Instead, Findis and her dear Arakano knew him only as an unfriendly stranger who would drop in unannounced, treat their mother with unforgivable rudeness, shoo them out of various rooms in their very own home, and monopolize their father’s attention for a week or so before departing whence he came like he was just a strange dream.

They learned swiftly that they mustn’t touch his things.

“Feanaro dear. Won’t you come eat something?”

The crown prince of Tirion took just one, single look at the lovingly set table, the uncertain pair of children and the gentle but sad smile of the queen before he irrevocably made up his mind.

The cherry on the cake, for him, was that lady of the house was once again expecting and had only grown more radiant for it, as if the entire intricate, messy process of producing new life had only been a pleasant dream for her.

“Later, perhaps. I don’t have much of an appetite right now, besides, I have work to do.”

He seemed just about ready to turn and leave, and what's more, his words were probably just some transparent excuse to abscond from their presence. Though he did not know it, the King and Queen were thinking exactly the same thing, feeling the exact same memories tugging at their souls, considering a fallen friend who had this habit of forgetting everything and anything around her when she’d get absorbed in concentration, dinner included – and how that had just been a kooky, scattered trait of hers, untill-

The queen diligently strung together some tragic semblance of the same caring smile she’d give her children, knowing well that she would likely see no thanks for it: “Are you sure you won’t at least try a little?”

Indis did not understand anything about what went on beyond these impenetrable silver eyes. Sometimes, though she was ashamed to admit it, she found something startling about the depth and intensity of disdain she found directed at herself.

The king’s smile was stained with sadness; At last, it was he who caved.

“...would you perhaps be more at ease if it was just the two of us? Perhaps somewhere in the old north wing? I so wish to hear more about your apprenticeship.”

“In the stained glass room, like old times?”

“If that’s what you want, dear. You know that you’re the light of my life.”

“Eeeeeh?!” no sooner that the king announced his decision did a tiny voice rise up in confused protestation. “But father was supposed to be having dinner with us today! I was looking forward to it!” The younger prince was pouting unabashed. His older sister might have turned out mild-mannered, but the young son of Indis was a whole different creature, taking much more after his father’s people in temperament and looks, and most certainly not given to any sort of meekness.

The King shot his wife an apologetic look, but she just nodded with a smile, choosing to conceal any cares she might have felt. She had already reached out her arms to gently guide her son back into his seat. “It’s alright, Arakano. Your father and your brother have not been able to see much of each other ever since he’s left for his apprenticeship. We shall let them have a little time to themselves. Perhaps we shall play a little music together after dinner. ”

The boy was not satisfied at all. “But why! Why can’t we just all sit together, at just one table? We don’t mind if you sit with us, and splitting up is just stupid!”

The response was immediate, and razor-sharp.

“Why?! Why?! Well, why do you think. I came here thinking to see my father, whom I love more than anything in the world, but it appears that I shall not be allowed as much as a single moment of peace with him, because you’re here. You and your ilk have already chased me from my father’s house as it is. What more could you possibly want?!”

To accentuate the last sentence, the elder prince slammed his hand upon the table, summoning the clangor of the shaking plates like some wrathful deity would call forth thunder on a stormy night, stunning all present into silence.

Then he left like a plume of smoke escaping through a window that had just been opened.

“Feanaro, wait-”

The king scampered after him with almost comedic immediacy.

Left in the room, Indis began the thankless work of comforting her startled daughter and persuading her still-fuming son to go fetch the harps.

...

“Findis? Arakano?”

Though they had been hard at work at their studies, both siblings looked at once past the edge of the table.

Halfway up the table leg was the adorable little head of a tiny girl in a small blue dress.

While the Noontide of Valinor lasted, Princess Irime Lalwende would be known as the most bubbly and cheerful of her siblings, much as her names would indicate. As the needs of politics and succession were considered resolved on account of her older siblings, she was brought into the world simply for the love and joy of it.

She would be known to ride through the hills of the Calacirya on her trusty steed Morne, and be described as described as having both her mother’s mirth and her father’s passion. Right now, however, tiny princess Lalwen was not looking particularly cheerful at all.

Instead, she was looking very, very confused, her large blue eyes full of question marks.

“There is something I don’t understand.”

“What is it, Lalwen?” her brother was quick to answer. He could not wait to help his darling little sister with whatever misfortune had dared to assail her, though he was thinking of something more like a nasty math problem or a tricky shoe lace.

Instead, the question she posed stunned the room into heavy silence, simple as though it was.

“Is Prince Curufinwe our brother?”

The little princess could not have missed the sudden awkward expressions, but she valiantly kept on explaining: “’Cause father says he is, but he just calls Mama her name, if he even talks to her... Besides, I went to say hello to him and called him ‘big brother’, he got really mad, and he said that he’s not my brother at all.”

At last, it was her brother – the one she was definitely sure of – who volunteered an answer:

“Father says that he is our brother, so he is.”

Even the little princess could sense that he had no desire to draw out the issue, but in her tiny heart was a mighty need to know:

“But then why would he say that he’s not?”

“Both are right.” explained Findis, raising her index-finger as if she were reciting some manner of lore. “He is both our brother and also not our brother. He’s fathers child, so he is, but he isn’t Mama’s son, so he’s also not.”

“But how can that be?”

“Father got special permission from the Valar.” said the young prince, still hoping to leave it at that. But the small princess had to misunderstand in the most heartbreaking manner:

“Wow! So the Valar made an extra special ruling just so Mama and Papa could have us?! That’s amazing! They must have thought we were pretty important!”

Her older sister practically cringed. “I really wouldn’t go around calling that ‘amazing’, you know...”

That’s when her brother’s reluctance turned into sudden alertness: “Don’t. Lalwen is still little.”

But Findis just shook her head.

“She’ll hear people talking sooner or later. Besides, we can hardly have her walking around out there, blabbering nonsense like that.”

By now, the younger princess was looking positively distressed:

“What do you mean?”

Findis leant back and sighed.

“Curufinwe originally had a different Mama, a lady who was with father before us. But she had to go away for some reason, and it seems that she could only have one child, so father decided to get a different Mama, our Mama. No one’s meant to do that, and no one has ever done that before. You either marry one person, or no one. Some consider that a very bad, indecent thing that he did. Even Lord Manwe thinks that he should never have done it. It was a wrongful act, of succumbing to the wrong in this world, and it has only served to beget further wrongness.

That’s why Curufinwe is all twisted like that. If we would go acting all selfish as he does, our mother would scold us. That’s why you’re supposed to have a Mama and a Papa.

He doesn’t, so nobody ever scolds him, so, he’s turned out all crooked.

But the Valar, in their infinite mercy, decided to look kindly upon our father in the time of his weakness. We would do well to remember that, and be grateful.”

Having had enough of the subject, she up and left in clear discomfort.

Like a drowning person seeking for land, Irime Lalwende looked to her remaining sibling.

“So we’re not really supposed to be here? And that’s why Curufinwe is always so mean to us?”

The younger prince looked her in the eyes, firmly grasping her little shoulders.

“Curufinwe is mean because he’s mean. He just is. There’s no reason at all. Mother has always been nice to him even though he goes out of his way to treat her bad. She is waay too nice. If he wanted, Curufinwe could share our Mama, and be our brother, just like that, no problem. He just doesn’t want to. As if being a big brother was so bad! I mean, maybe I was a little bit jealous when Ingoldo was born, but it was just a little bit, because I’m not a baby. Just think about it. Ingoldo is still an actual baby, and he’s already better behaved than Curufinwe is!

And don’t mind Findis. She’s just heard people saying cruel things about us, but they only say them because Curufinwe never shuts up. She’s read something in a book, back when she went to visit Uncle Ingwe… I think she just didn’t like being in a book. ”

“There’s a book with Findis in it?”

“There are books with you in them too. You’re a princess after all. So you can’t let that jerk Curufinwe get to you, or anyone else! If anyone says anything, just talk to me.

I’m not like Curufinwe. And I’m not scared of him, either.

I’m your big brother. A proper one. I will always protect you, and little Ingoldo, too. I will always help you, and I will always be on your side.

So if anyone so much as dares to talk bad behind your back, you come to me.

I’ll talk to father. I’ll do… something. I’ll pull Curufinwe's hair till he cries if I have to. I don’t care that he’s bigger than me, or that he’s ever so clever with his words so everyone believes his nonsense.

If I let them take away your precious smile, I would never forgive myself.”

Lalwen nodded at this, at the time, mostly because she felt she was supposed to do so.

The moment would only acquire its grand significance in retrospective.

“Is it true, though?”

“What?”

“That we’re not supposed to be here.”

“You know, Mama told me once that she first met father when the whole city was still being built. And as far as I know, he only met Curufinwe’s Mama here in Valinor, so, probably, Mama actually saw him first. So who’s to say that he’s not the one who isn’t supposed to be here?”

“Do you really think that?”

So far in her young life, Princess Lalwen had only known the product of her father’s ill-fated first marriage as a nuisance and a ‘meanie’, as she would have put it at the time, but even so, the idea of wishing someone out of existence – especially someone she knew, especially someone who was ostensibly very important to her father – didn’t sit well with her at all, and it probably would have changed how she thought of the younger prince if he had answered ‘yes’.

Mercifully, her faith was rewarded when he shook his head instead.

“What’s the point? I mean, we’re both here. Both him, and us. That’s just how it is now. So why should be fight about what maybe happened or maybe didn’t happen? Fighting about what didn’t even happen is stupid. If it were up to me, we’d just all be friends. But he has to want it too.”

“That sounds sensible.” noted Lalwen.

“That’s because Mama said it to me sometime I was upset. Somehow, she always knows exactly what to say to make people happy.”

…

“His name is Nelyafinwe.”

It was remarkable that Indis’ smile only cracked a little.

Even the king’s composure could not measure up to the queen's as he received his first grandson into his arms:“I-... I’m honored.”

He was a grandfather now, but his wife was not yet a grandmother – and of course, she was not allowed to hold the baby.

Crown Prince Feanaro wore a shameless smirk of pride. Any exhaustion or worry he might have carried just moments earlier had melted of his countenance like wax.

There was very little that could have spoiled his visceral sense of victory today.

Eventually, the other royal children were brought to peer at the bassinet where their new nephew was sleeping. Mahtan the smith had crafted it himself as a gift for his daughter, but it was just a fortunate accident that the light fuzz on the baby’s head happened to match the old master’s taste for coppery sheens.

Princess Findis, now beginning to resemble a young woman in terms of shape, was now lifting up her youngest brother so he could peer in also. Prince Ingoldo did not talk much yet, but everyone in immediate family was convinced that he understood next to everything.

“Can you believe it, Findis? You’re like a real, actual auntie! You’re properly ancient now.”

“Silly goose. I’m your sister. If I’m an auntie, then so are you.”

“I think it’s worth it being an auntie though, if we get to have this cute baby around in return. He’s almost as cute as you!” said Lalwen, adressing her blond little brother, making sure to pat his head for emphasis.

“Ingoldo is still the cutest though.”

“Still, this one turned out pretty cute for being Curufinwe’s baby. Maybe he will be nice like Miss Nerdanel. She says we can call him ‘Maitimo’ by the way.”

“Gooogoo~” babbled the blond child meaningfully, squirming in his sister’s arms as if to address a clumsy wave at the marginally smaller baby.

The other son of Indis, now fourth in line of succession, was standing a bit further back, holding onto his mother’s robe with one hand.

“When I grow up, I’ll make it so that you get grandkids too. And Curufinwe won’t get to hold them. ” He turned up his little nose.

Indis thought that was very adorable and couldn’t help but smile.

“Mh, I don’t know. I’d be glad if he wanted to.”

Chapter Text

“So there we were, alone in the dark. Myself, your uncle, and my best friend, King Olwe’s older brother. The trees were so thick we could hardly see the stars through the canopy. Dark surrounded us from all sides.

We would later learn that, at this time, the Valar were already eagerly expecting our arrival, thinking about how they could make the world safe and ready for us to step foot in it. For that purpose alone had some of the greatest constellations been put in the skies, and their light had reached us indeed – I know now also that we could never have withstood the Marrer if we should truly have encountered him.

Yet at this time, we did not know this. All we knew was that people kept disappearing. All manner of people – people who were important to our communities, to our hearts and souls. To me, the thought of just waiting and doing nothing seemed all but unconscionable. As for my friend Elwe, his very own parents had been among the first of the victims; thus, he was determined to protect his remaining kin at any cost. We would have gone to seek the enemy with us or without us, and his friends, your uncle, and I could not bear to let him go on his own.

We were resolved that we should return to our people together, or not at all, though we only had such simple weapons as our people could contrive at the time – we had little more than a simple wooden spear with a flint tip, a wooden bow strung with hemp fiber, and a sword made from a crude copper alloy that I had fashioned myself.

We said our goodbyes to our friends and our families, and departed into the night. In my heart, I knew that we would not have to walk for long – I suspected that whatever was out there was so far beyond us that it was sure to take note of our challenge. And yet, I walked on. And then...”

The King paused at this point to gauge the expressions of his children.

Findis had never been too fond of the frightening stories – even now that she was older, her father still had to take care not to upset her too much. The littlest prince was nestled in her arms, nuzzling his little face against her neck, and yet it seemed like she deriving no less comfort from holding him than he did from being held. It would be natural then to assume that the younger children would if anything, be even more frightened, but such was not the case.

Prince Arakano and his sister Lalwen were listening to the tale with rapt attention, hanging onto their father’s every word, observing his every gesture with big, curious eyes.

“...and then..?”

Those two were ever so enthusiastic about storytime.

Taking in the idyllic sight of the four of them huddled close on an ornate couch, the king felt a definite pang of fondness and much gratitude for his good fortunes.

He felt the slightest tinge of melancholy, too, when he considered that there was once another child who had greatly loved his tales and ever needled him with insistent questions about every possible detail.

“We soon marked the presence of a shadow close behind us. Something rustling in the bushes. Stalking us, closing the distance. We were forced to wonder if this was exactly what had happened to all the ones we had lost. We knew well that it might have been futile to try and lose our pursuers, but there was no need to even try: We were not going to run from that which we had been seeking. Instead, we drew our arms, and exchanged some last glances. Whatever lurked in the dark beneath the stars, we were willing to face it head-on.”

“...and then, Lord Orome showed up and saved you all?” suggested Findis, not at all very sure. Although she was nearly grown into a young lady, her voice sounded small.

The king, though smiling warmly to reassure her, shook his head.

“We couldn’t have known what it was we were faced with – indeed with what little we knew, we had much more reason to suspect that we would encounter a foe than a friend. At that time, there were no other speaking peoples apart from us, other than our enemies, which we hardly understood, and the Valar and Maiar themselves, which we knew nothing about. The prospect that we might find friends beyond the boundaries of our villages was not one we would have thought of.

On our journeys to Valinor and back, we would get many chances to discuss the experience, and so I learned from your uncle that he had then already suspected that we were in the presence of something holy rather than foul. Why that is I cannot say, but he has told me that he felt it in his heart – somehow, he had faith that we were not meeting our death, but our salvation. Elwe however once confessed to me that he expected nothing but his doom, though he was willing to face it on his feet though our errand be ever so hopeless.”

That’s when the youngest child cautiously extricated his fair little face from his sister’s shoulder, speaking in a voice whose measured tones and clear words would have been accounted surprising for such a small child even among the Eldar: “...and you, father? What did you think?”

“I didn’t have so much as the foggiest idea. But I knew that I would never find out, if I did not stand and face that thing in the darkness. Still, we were very, very fortunate that no more was asked of us that day than just the courage it took to refrain from running away.”

The king’s face was grave as he related this part, and sensing this, the children were more subdued in their excitement than they might otherwise have been. Even so, the older boy’s opinion was clear.:

“That was very brave of you, father.”

“That may be, but it was mostly an act of desperation. If we had not met Lord Orome, but succeeded in seeking out the black rider in truth, the three of us would not have stood a chance.”

…

It used to be that Findis’ younger siblings were never as good at hiding as she was at seeking them.

They were small, noisy and excitable; She was perceptive and diligent – but most of all, she’d had a significant height advantage.

As of late though, it would seem that whatever advantages she’d ever had were rapidly evaporating – either that, or the little ones were simply getting better and better at hiding.

She would have thought that at little Ingoldo would make an easy target, since he was only just old enough to understand the game, but though he had finally started talking (and in fact, surprised everybody by producing complete sentences right away) he still retained an extraordinary gift for being very, very quiet.

Once, Lalwen had searched a room three times before realizing that her tiny, golden-haired brother had been crouching behind the curtains all along – but not before the small boy had politely revealed himself so that his sisters wouldn't get worried about him.

Of course, one might excuse this from Lalwen, since she was only about five years older than him, but as the Responsible Older Sister, Findis figured that she should have no problems prying the other three from their hidey-holes.

Which is why her current struggle to do this was driving her near the brink of despair.

Where could they be? She’d looked everywhere! The throne room, the ballroom, the banquet hall… it was previously agreed upon that they were not allowed to stray into the administrative wings, the servant’s quarters or anywhere else that was currently occupied or otherwise in use, so as not to bother the hardworking palace staff with their games, but most of the actual royal dwelling was fair game… and by now, Findis was certain that she must have combed through each of the many rooms at least twice, if not more.

She’d make sure to look everywhere! Behind all the chests, curtains and banners, under all the tables… Could it be that they were making her go in circles, leaving each part of the palace just as she was about to enter? But how could they leave so quickly, without making any conspicuous noise?

The little princess was beginning to get just a little frustrated. When they’d started this game, the light of Laurelin had been nearing its hour of greatest brightness – by now, the intensity of its radiance was already on the wane.

With a heavy heart, Findis considered that it might be time to throw the towel. Only, that it occurred to her, that it would do little good now to declare her surrender. She wasn’t comfortable with the idea of shouting loudly all over the place, which didn’t seem at all like the action of a proper lady, or a sensible person – but even if she did, was there even any guarantee that her younger siblings would even hear her? The palace of Tirion was big, and the little princes and princess could be concealed in almost any part of it. So if they weren’t anywhere near where Findis was standing, how would they ever know to stop hiding?

It seemed a serious conundrum.

Her upper lip quivered just an itty bit.

What could she do?

Normally when she didn’t know how to proceed, she would dutifully consult her parents, but mother was out in town attending the grand opening of a new public library, and father was in his study, embroiled in very important royal documents.

It would not be as bad as disturbing him during a meeting, or while he was holding court, but Findis figured that any papers that were important enough to wind up on the royal desk in the first place must be important indeed. They must be essential for the upkeep of the city and its surrounding estates! To look through them was father’s solemn duty, just as it would have been Findis’ task to mind her siblings. She’d even gone and promised that they’d be fine without a governess!

She’d been looking forward to hearing father’s praise for how responsible she had been… but how could this ever happen, if she didn’t have the foggiest idea where Lalwen and her brothers could possibly be.

She began to consider all the rooms again, and which of them might possibly have any hiding-places that she hadn’t considered yet…

Looking at the situation only from this one side, one might get the impression that the royal children might be playing a somewhat mean prank on their older sister, but such was not their intention – if anything, they had hoped to entertain her with the added challenge, but for the most part, their thoughts were somewhere else entirely:

The young prince Nolofinwe had taken quite a shine to his father’s adventurous stories, and at the moment liked to picture himself as a grand chieftain leading his people onward to parts unknown.

With a boisterous, conspiratorial smile, he had presented his grand plan to his siblings: “Today, we’re gonna hide out somewhere where Findis is never gonna find us.”

“But how could this be,” questioned Lalwen curiously, “She’s been living here for the longest time out of all of us – I don’t think there would be a single hiding spot left in these walls that she doesn’t know.”

“Oh, but there is!” her older brother boasted with a smirk, looking rather pleased with himself: “’Cause today we’re gonna try hiding in the North Wing!”

That, however, did give his younger sibling a little bit of pause.

Little Arafinwe, in particular, looked somewhat troubled by the suggestion: “But no one ever goes in there… are we even allowed to go?”

“Well, Father said we can go anywhere where we won’t bother the staff, and we can’t bother any staff if no one goes in there. Besides, I’ve seen Curufinwe walk in there once – If he can do it, then why can’t we? We share the same rank.”

This would have been a sound argument, if it did not fail to take into account that Nolofinwe and his little trouble of siblings were a bunch of little kids, while their half-brother was, at this point, an accredited loremaster, a certified master artisan, an accomplished inventor and, most salient of all, a grown man with his second child on the way – but in defense of the young prince, he was now the oldest he had ever been and fancied himself Very Mature.

His glowing speech was good enough for his sister, who clapped her little hands together in great excitement. Her eyes had filled with sparkles while most of her face was taken over by a great big smile.

“That’s the best idea ever! You’re the greatest, Arakano!”

Now that was something that Prince Nolofinwe sure liked to hear – not just that he was great, or greater than others, but greatest. A bold, triumphant feeling swelled his little chest as he basked in the princess’ admiration: “You’re the coolest brother ever! ...apart from Ingoldo, of course.”

Said youngest child, however, was not looking too convinced, in spite of the little encouraging squeeze his sister had just given him.

But, as his older siblings merrily went skipping towards their objective, he followed along however reluctant, for he figured that what would be yet worse than entering a forbidden place would be to be stuck there on his own.

“Are you sure that this is a good idea?”

“Fear not, little brother! Everything’s gonna be great!”

Everything was not great for princess Findis when she at last ended up barging into her father’s office after all, holding back sobs, with tears glittering at the edges of her eyes.

“I’m sorry! I really didn’t wanna bother you, and I know you’re doing important king stuff and all, but I can’t find Lalwen or my brothers- I’m really sorry-”

Fortunately, the princess’ distress did not last very long, once her father calmly rose from his desk and pulled her into a comforting hug.

“Do not worry,” he assured her, taking her by the hand as he led her out of the room, “As king, it is my duty to help all the citizens of Tirions with their problems – that includes the littlest ones. Now, did you check the alcove behind the curtains in the ballroom?”

One by one, the king listed a long string of possible locations, until they had been narrowed down to just one option – an option that his daughter wouldn’t have thought up, though she could not help but notice the sobering of his expression as the conclusion formed in his mind.

“I think I know where they are.”

The princess noted also that her usually talkative father did not say much as he led her down an unfamiliar sequence of turns, to a part of the residence that she’d only ever passed by.

They entered some hallways that she was used to being led past every day, but had never once walked down. Unlike with the other places she wasn’t allowed to go, princess Findis couldn’t really name what was actually past here, but very soon, the decorations began to look unfamiliar, clashing with the style she had come to expect in the rest of the palace, the light, elegant ornaments chosen according to her mother’s tastes.

This place was hung with heavy dark colors and saturated vibrant hues of almost ostentatious, baroque opulence. Especially notable were the textile works – tapestries, tablecloths and curtains, each and every one a marvel such as a master artist might produce just once a lifetime, except that the littlest accessory was resplendent with masterful embroidery, the sort that one would maybe commission once or twice in their life for their wedding or their child’s majority gift.

The princess was reminded of one of her friends, the daughter of a lord who in his spare time, liked to do pottery – He loved to be at work day in, day out, for every free minute of his immortal life, so their mansion was filled with so much fine earthenware that you’d think they were running out of places to put it – it probably would have piled up, if he didn’t gift the excess to his friends, or barter for it, or give it away to whoever had need of it.

The vibrant masterpieces covered everything, their colors undimmed by time – in the undying lands, even things left long unattended never collected any dust.

“It’s so pretty…” marveled the young princess, more awestruck than excited. “I didn’t know we had such a pretty place in our home! But why does it look so different from everywhere else?”

“That’s because it hasn’t been changed in a long, long time. Back when our people first arrived in Valinor, the artists used to be somewhat more adventurous with their styles. Not yet as tasteful, maybe, but just as lovely in its own way…” even as he said this, the king’s expression took on a strange, contradictory quality, which confused his daughter in a way that she couldn’t really articulate or grasp. She couldn’t tell the memories bound up in these rooms were making him happy or sad, though these things ought to have been opposites in her understanding, and the thought that they might perhaps lay closer to each other than this might suggest unsettled her just the slightest bit, as if the ground on which she were standing were but a thin shell atop a gaping chasm.

“Then why don’t we ever come here? Is this a bad place?”

“Not at all. This is the treasury that holds some of my most cherished memories – it’s just that coming here makes me a little bit sad now.”

“I don’t understand, father... If it makes you sad, why would you keep it as it is?”

Simple and innocent as this question might have been, it left a minute crack in the king’s composure – just for a moment, he had to grapple with some old pain before he could continue speaking, wearier than before:

“When your uncle and I chose to lead our people to this Blessed Realm, it was precisely so that you would never have to know that answer. It brings me joy to know that I have at least succeeded with you, though I was not able to do the same for your brother.”

“You mean Curufinwe?”

“...yeah. You know the large balcony that you can see from the town square? It actually leads to this part of the palace. When this place was first built, this wing was intended as the actual royal dwelling. When your mother moved in, I had the master bedroom moved to the western side, so that your mother could wake up beneath the light of the trees and look out at the gardens and the holy mountain – it was the least I could do, after she had moved far away from her home just to be here with me. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of all these things that used to belong to Curufinwe’s mother – though even at the time, I didn’t come here all that often anymore. I had more or less moved into my study once your brother was old enough to have these rooms all to himself – and in the end, he left as well, though he sometimes stays here with his family whenever he comes to visit, so for now, I’m leaving everything as it is.

See that statue over there? That was actually added just recently, by Miss Nerdanel… also, this is just my impression, but I think there might be something or someone hiding behind it, but I’m not certain – maybe you should go and check...”

As one might imagine, her siblings were eventually spied out and collected, but her father’s words would continue to confound the princess Findis through the ages.

….

By the time that the youngest of the three princes had been born, it was no longer attempted to unite them all at the same table outside of formal feasts and public events, which mercifully tended to involve much longer tables.

The king and queen accepted that the forced, tortured debacles that resulted from their attempts had never brought the children anything other than dismay, and skipped right ahead to the inevitable result.

If the second prince showed up for lunch and found his father absent, it was not usually hard to guess where he had gone. His sisters would no longer even expect their father if they’d caught any signs of their half-brother’s presence. Findis dutifully endured it; Lalwen put up a brave face and tried her best to stay positive, but as for their brother… he was a very pouty little boy on such occasions.

“But father was just telling us this cool story from the journey!”

“And I am sure he’s looking forward to telling you the rest of it, when he gets the chance.”

Seeing his mother and sisters just grin and bear it merely served to further prince Nolofinwe’s displeasure, for he felt like it was his solemn duty to be outraged on their behalf also.

“I get it!” he spat, “Father likes Curufinwe better than us.”

“Oh Arakano my dear – you know… you know that’s not true…”

But he did not know that. He didn’t even think that his mother sounded like she really, actually knew this, as always she was trying her best to be kind and strong, but the doubt was writ all over face, no matter how much Nolofinwe wished to hear her speak with absolute certainty, for whenever she did, he always believed her.

“It is true!” he retorted as if to shout over the absence of a certain answer, “It’s like he forgets all about us whenever Curufinwe shows up! No, even when he isn’t here, it’s Curufinwe this, Curufinwe that!”

“You know it’s not that simple-”

“Right. I know. We all have to put up with him cause he’s such a terrible jerk that only a mother could like him. But since he doesn’t have one, I guess father has to be the one person that likes him. I just wish he’d hurry up and go back to wherever he came from, so we can go back to being happy.”

“Arakano. That’s a very ugly thing you just said.”

Her tone was not at all harsh, but it was firm –

His mother looked disappointed, and Nolofinwe hates disappointing his mother. But in this moment, that just made him madder. It just made him think how she was always trying to be fair and be nice and accommodate to every whim, every unfairness, even to the point of defending her ungrateful stepson, who only ever stepped and stomped and spat on that.

He hated that Feanaro had taught him what it feels like to hate something.

But before he could say or do something he would truly regret, the blaze of his displeasure was doused all at one by the touch of two tiny arms wrapping themselves around his chest.

“Don’t be sad, Arakano. I love you.” spoke the youngest child’s tiniest voice, muffled from the way he’d pressed his little face into his brother’s robes, hugging him close, as if somehow a great weight of importance depended upon it. “Mama and Lalwen love you too. And Findis. And your friends. Everyone loves you! So please, don’t be upset. Please don’t go.”

“...what do you mean, Ingo? I’m not going anywhere...”

…

The birth of prince Kanafinwe was confusing to his uncle, by then, a tall boy inching on the edge of adolescence.

This was because he had always thought of his half-brother as the type who hates children – he used to be a child, and his siblings had been children, and Feanaro had never done anything else than to chase them off whenever they’d had the audacity to cross into his presence as if they had been trespassers in their own home.

Sure, there was Maitimo, but the elder prince was always so concerned about his status and his legacy that it wasn’t hard to imagine why he’d want to secure his position in the succession – that much wasn’t surprising, but what Nolofinwe didn’t expect was that Feanaro would continue to have more children, least of all in such quick succession.

“I want them to be close enough together that they can be each other’s playmates, so that they will grow close in friendship, and forge a bond that will last them all their lives-” he would confide to the King at the next great feast, the first time that the rest of the royal household had got to see him after receiving his announcement.

“I wish to grant my sons the gift of such companionship since I never had any brothers.”

Never had any bothers.

The nerve of him, to say such a thing while Arafinwe was right there, playing in his father’s lap, and the queen and all her progeny gathered there at the table.

The king was taken aback, but, as expected, there was no reprimand.

“That is very good,” was all he deigned to say, his tone just a little sad and worn. “From the bottom of my heart, I hope they’ll get along.”

...

Nolofinwe didn’t want to say the sort of things that would disappoint his mother.

It’s just that this was the only way to get any reaction out of Feanaro that was something other than a haughty sneer – to get his attention at all.

Now he knew, for a fact, that he was in truth reflected in his eyes –

Now he could prove, at least to himself, that he would not back down from the terrifying light in that sneering bastard’s eyes – that he was not afraid to face him with all of his tiny might.

Once the words started gushing out, he couldn’t hold them back.

For once, it felt good to let loose all the poison he had swallowed up. He wondered if that’s how Feanaro felt all the time, spewing his cutting remarks whenever he would.

Nolofinwe liked to think of himself as someone who played fair, but he knew that if he did, there’s no way that he could have won against his brother’s sharp, clever tongue.

He was so much bigger, so much well-versed in the ways of the words and well-armed with stinging barbs and cutting remarks -

The second prince had come to learn early that you couldn’t hope to hold your own against a far mightier opponent without going all out:

“-at least unlike you, I don’t go around taking out my misery at everyone in sight, like some sort of immature child, and you’re supposed to be my older brother?Have you ever once in your life thought about the feelings of anyone other than yourself? Have you ever consider what it’s like for father for you to come waltzing in here, offend his wife, start a quarrel in front of his entire court, and bring strife into his house? Father’s been very patient with your lapses in judgment so far, but as his loyal son, it pains my heart to see his mercy rewarded with such ingratitude.

He showers all his attention upon you, and all you do in return is cause him to worry and embarrassment! Rather than assist him with the affairs of his realm, you are just another burden for him to carry!”

Nolofinwe knew at once that his aim struck true – and that he had gone too far.

His words had not been calculated, not at first, not like Feanaro’s often were, but once he felt that he had drawn blood, in a manner of speaking, he did not let up:

Cause there was Feanaro, the radiant, the masterful, greatest-of-all-in-each-part, and he was gaping like a fish, and his left eyebrow was twitching furiously – where were his clever words now?

And it seemed just so tempting to double down:

“You’re just. Too. Much. You’re out of control. A liability for everyone. You think you’re so great, but what you don’t realize is that everyone’s just walking on eggshells around you, waiting until you finally go away, giving you everything you please so that you don’t throw a tantrum. But aren’t you just a little too old to keep blaming everything on mother? We get it. You’re miserable. That’s no reason for you to go and take it out on everybody else! But no. You just can’t stand for other people to be happy! You just can’t stand that father found some happiness with mother and us – no, you’d rather that he’d be miserable forever. You’d rather make everyone miserable!”

“You- you accursed little brat- How- how dare you!”

Now he was really mad, his regal countenance transformed into something that was almost vulgar and feral.

If there was any sound comeback, Nolofinwe had no doubt that Feanaro would certainly have thought of it by now, but he hadn’t, because he there couldn’t be -

That’s how Nolofinwe knew that he was right.

Now it was no small thing to behold the greatest of the Eldar in all his fury, but Nolofinwe didn’t care, not at that moment.

He hoped only to cause a fuss so big that his father would finally have to interrupt it –

But no such thing took place.

Instead, it was the lady Nerdanel who rose from her seat, clearly incensed:

“Feanaro! What are you doing, yelling like this at a half-grown boy, and at an official function at that?! Are you out of your mind?”

A somewhat longer argument ensued between the two – it was only fortunate that both of their small children had been left at the house of Mahtan so as not to make them sit still through the lengthy proceedings at the palace.

Nolofinwe remained standing where he was, somehow just angrier still instead of feeling the relief he had expected until his mother ushered him and his siblings into a nearby room. She was too concerned with smoothing over the event to bother with doling out much scolding – or maybe she was just too shocked. She was reluctant to depart before she had visited at least a brief, cursory hug onto her eldest son, just as a token to indicate that he was still loved, though she couldn’t have been feeling all that proud of him at that moment – He’d begun all this to defend her, but, in the end, it seems that he had accomplished little but to make himself yet another nuisance to her…

He had been so, so tired of just taking it.

Their mother was gone for a while until either of them dared to speak. Findis was picking at the wreath of leaves that was once on her head. Lalwen couldn’t sit still, bouncing her legs and shifting in her seat, looking unusually glum – she had so been looking forward to this event.

Little Arafinwe was just being quiet.

None of them looked very much at the others, aside from Arafinwe, who watched everyone with shy apprehension.

The tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

You could have heard a pin drop – or a voice, when it drew every eye to its origin:

“You didn’t have to say it,”

Findis, now on the cusp of womanhood, wouldn’t even look at her brother.

“We all know that Curufinwe is being impossible. There’s no need to say it.”

Nolofinwe was minded to suffer this, feeling his own shame rising up now that the steam had been blown off, but what he didn’t count on was for young Lalwen to leap to his defense:

“So what? Should we just lie down and take whatever he says?!”

“If that’s what will stop him from making a scene and shaming us all any further, then yes, we should.

Before you go scolding anyone about causing trouble for our parents and being out of line, you should first look at yourselves! Because of you two and your little cockfight, we have been shamed before the entire court. They’re all going to look. They’re all going to talk. They are all going to take this as much more proof that a shadow lies upon all our house.”

“They won’t.” contradicted her brother, “They respect father too much. They’ll just feel sorry for him, like they ought.”

“Besides, it was all Curufinwe’s fault!” added Lalwen – but Nolofinwe wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wasn’t sure of his actions, or that they deserved to be that much agreed with.

Findis seemed to think so, too: “So what? So what if it was his fault. What good will it do to egg him on? He’ll just take it out on all of us. Let’s just… not cause any further impropriety.“

“Now wait a moment, Findis!” interjected the younger sister, “You can’t seriously be pinning this on Arakano! It was Curufinwe who started this. It was him who started everything-”

The two sisters were both stopped in their tracks when they each felt a little hand tugging on their gowns.

“Please don’t fight-” their little brother urged them, softly but insistent, “It’s okay, it’s over now. Maybe both our brothers said some things that they shouldn’t have, but, there’s no more reason to fight anymore.” He looked up at them with big, teary blue eyes. “Please, no more fighting.”

Back then, that was enough – after this, they all sprung from their places and swiftly found themselves far too busy with consoling him to stir up any further trouble.

“Ohmygosh Ingoldo we’re so sorry!” babbled Lalwen, clasping her little hands in front of her mouth.

Findis suddenly found herself in perfect agreement: “I never should have raised my voice in front of you!”

“Yeah! You’re all right- I dunno what got into me. I shouldn’t have let him get to me like that. I’m really sorry…”

“Will you apologize to Feanaro as well?”

asked the youngest, in that same earnest, innocent voice.

“I know he’s not very considerate, and rude, and hot-headed, and proud, but you shouldn’t have said that thing about how he’s too much, and just makes everything worse for everybody. Nobody deserves to have that said to them, even if they’re mean.” he articulated earnestly, thinking that he must try as hard as he could to get this point across, though his siblings were astounded to hear such profound speech coming from the littlest among them. “He also has good points, and father loves him, and he is my brother, too. So please? Will you apologize to Feanaro as well?”

“Yes. Yes of course. On my honor.”

(

The actual apology turned out to be a tepid, rigid thing, facilitated by the watchful eyes of the aggrieved-looked King and a very displeased Nerdanel, and hence, not at all a space where a true exchange of feelings was likely to occur.

The brothers each brought out their pre-prepared apologies like actors saying their scripted lines.

The one genuine line was Nolofinwe’s, who, mindful of his little brother’s presence, felt compelled to make an awkward addition to the lined he’s carefully crafted:

“I don’t actually think you make everything worse, obviously.”

“Ah, I see.” the elder prince mumbled, noncommittally.

Somehow, some part of him had still expected Feanaro to take back some insult of his own.

But they were expected to remain for a while at the same table and look peaceable, so they did.

Neither had much of an idea how to respond to each other’s presence if it wasn’t through reserve or hostility. At some point, one of them might have awkwardly asked for the other to pass the salt. Perhaps, an optimist might have remarked that the hostility had been a cover for this lack of knowing what to do with each other.

At last, Nolofinwe thought of something: “How’s Maitimo?”

“Oh. Great. He’s talking now. A lot, actually.”

“Ah… next time, if you bring him, we probably shouldn’t start arguing again. For father’s sake as well.”

“Yeah...”

)

...

Soon after Findis had reached the age of majority, she announced that she would be taking an ordinance in the priesthood of Varda, vowing to take no spouse and devote her life to reflection, study and pious service.

Granted, she’d never shown the inclination to marry to begin with and had always been strong in the faith, which made this not as much of a shocking sacrifice as it could have been, but she could have remained single and practiced her faith without making this the center of her life – in her statement on the matter, she had written that she had always felt that she owed her very life to the clemency of the Valar and that she looked forward to receiving their righteous guidance, though one might wonder if she longed for it so strongly because she had little trust in her ability to rightly guide herself, or if she had not felt this great desire for deliverance and purity because she felt upon herself the taint of an inadvisable union.

At the very least, her decision broadcast the intention to stay away from the affairs of state, reducing her position in the line of succession to even more of a formality, and that was for some considered a fortunate, even noble thing – if she didn’t have any interest, then it was the right decision to do, a fortune she was afforded by being one of many siblings – neither of them would be pressured to shoulder their parent’s legacy all on their own. It spoke well of her that she knew the worth of other things but power and chose to make room for those who were better suited instead of claiming for power and renown for its own sake, unlike, as it would later be added, certain other people…

That, at least, was what Findis was hoping for them to think – that they would see that she wasn’t tainted. That they would all finally be satisfied and leave her be.

That Feanaro would leave her be, now that she was no longer a threat.

With her dark hair concealed under her traditional veil, she could have looked like any other Vanya, any other initiate looking to become an instrument for the designs of the Valar…

which was precisely what Findis was longing to be.

...

Princess Irime Lalwende was bored. Very bored. Extremely bored. Booored.

Under normal circumstances, she could always count on her older brother to do something fun with her, but as of late, he always seemed to be busy with his studies – he kept asking their father to let him sit in on royal business such as meetings and court sessions, eager to start doing his part to help administer the realm.

Her mother had told her that he was becoming a young man, and that this must be why he was looking now more and more to be respected as one and contribute to the larger world, reassuring her that she would surely catch up to him when it would be her turn to grow up too, but though Lalwen did, in fact, feel a little bit left behind, that wasn’t really what had felt so off to her.

She didn’t understand. The Nolofinwe that she knew and loved longed for recognition, yes, but he also loved nothing more than to go out riding with her.

“Come oon, play with me!”

“I can’t right now.”

“Our horses must be missing us!”

“I assure you that I am taking good care of them, and that the stablehands are making sure they get enough exercise.”

“But I wanna go nooow, you never spend any time with me anymore!”

“I said not now!”

The young prince regretted those words almost as soon as he saw his sister’s crestfallen look.

“-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be short with you. I promise I will make the time tomorrow. You’re important to me, that’s never going to change – even as we grow up. I swear it.

But this is exactly why I can’t afford to slack off.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve read the statute, you know? Not long ago. It talks over and over again about how great they think Curufinwe is going to be, but do you know what’s also in there?

It says that we shall be great also. The Doomsayer’s own words. - And I shall prove it. I have to.

I will, so that you and Findis and Ingo won’t have to worry about it.

I must – I must do well at my studies, I must conduct myself beyond reproach, I must do my duty to our people and help father with the governance as soon as I can, so that Curifinwe’s cronies will not find anything to fault us for. I am going to become the most noble, most dutiful prince that our people could ever wish for.

I’m going to prove that we’re worth it – The exception, the complaints, and any nonsense of Curufinwe’s. And maybe, just maybe, who knows – at the end of it, maybe he won’t be getting all the praise in the world, and there might be just a little left over for us. At least, people stop running their mouths about father and mother, if there is nothing bad they can say about us.

I’ve got to make up for Curufinwe’s mess. And for that, I’ve got to read these reports and know what’s in them at the meeting tomorrow.”

“...but you’ll still play with me after that, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll meet you at the third golden hour, no matter what! …. but Lalwen, before you go-”

“...yes?”

“You can keep saying ‘Arakano’ when it’s just us and our parents, but, when we’re out in public, could you perhaps make a habit of addressing me more formally? I am Nolofinwe, high-prince of the Noldor – it is time I started acting like it.”

“...Sure… Prince Nolofinwe…” She laughed a bit to cover the awkwardness.

That, more than anything, was the moment for which the princess Lalwen would never ever forgive her elder half-brother – this was the instant in which something inside her went hard.

In later days, much much later, when they were all grown and each of her brothers had had children of their own, she would often hear their contemporaries express much surprise at her nephews and niece – Turukano was deemed the one who most resembled his father, but as for the others, she would often hear people remark how they were surprised to find them such an energetic, adventurous bunch, when High Prince Nolofinwe (and later, High King Fingolfin) was such a proper, dignified person.

But those people never knew him like Lalwen did – when she looked at her niblings running wild in the hills, or smiling broadly in their dealings with their friends, she would remember the cheeky boisterous boy she had once known, and see, perhaps, what her brother might have been if he were not weighed down by such a heavy fate.

Lalwen herself never read the statute, not up to her old age – She didn’t want it to change her. It was, above all, something concerned with her parents, and not with her, who had only come afterward.

If that’s what it took for her to remain herself, if that’s what it took for her to keep smiling, as her brother would undoubtedly want her to, then she wanted nothing to do with it.

She supposed she should count herself lucky that she could afford to do this, brought into this world when the succession was long since taken care of, for no other reason than for the joy of it, she could afford to remain just ‘Lalwen’, to ride through the land and do as she pleased without ever feeling pressured to let herself tied down in any way.

But she never forgot that she owned at least some of that freedom to the diligence of her elder brother.

…

As the golden light began to dwindle, the stream of petitioners was beginning to dwindle to a close. The king and queen of Tirion had every reason to consider this an all-around productive day.

The days in which Queen Indis had found herself mildly startled by the occasionally much more heated tones of the debates compared with the audience sessions of her brother were long past, and in turn, many of the citizens had grown used to her, and she’d learned to live and wrangle even those ones who could never be convinced.

She surely never tired of watching her husband in his element, ever engrossed in animated conversation, though for today, she was looking forward to their chance to retire to the Gardens – but first, they would have to see the last two citizens who had announced themselves for today.

With a brief, routine gesture, the king indicated for the porter to let in the first one – only for the woman to stand back in surprise, and then perform a hasty bow.

It soon became apparent why, for the Elf coming through the door was no other than their older son, the High prince Nolofinwe – in some of his best robes, too. In his approach, he followed the protocol to a T, as any higher-ranking noble might, bowing deeply before he began to speak:

“My father and king… lady mother… I come to you with a humble request.”

The king seemed, if anything, a bit befuddled by the stringent formality – “Arakano dear, if you wanted to talk with us, you didn’t have to book a formal audience-”

“It concerns the future of the realm.” the prince clarified.

“Alright then. Let’s hear it.”

“Very well. For many years now I have heeded your commands to the best of my ability and taken care now that my comportment befits a representative of our house and our whole people. I have refrained from any indiscretions or rushed, premature decisions-”

Unlike a certain somewhere who ran away to get married from one day to the next at just about the first opportunity, without consulting anyone at all.

“...but I believe now that the time is ripe for me to take a spouse. I ask now that you arrange a suitable match so far as you deem it proper.”

“I see… Is there anyone in particular that you have in mind?”

“I leave this up to your discretion, so that it may benefit the interests of our house and our people.”

The king paused thoughtfully as if he had been expecting something else.

“We’ll think about it and let you know shortly, but, if there’s anyone in particular that catches your eye, just let us know.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

The prince bowed deeply, and then left.

The royal pair exchanged a doubtful glance, but decided to talk over what they considered a personal matter once the last petitioner was taken care of...

Except that it turned out to be Lalwen, wearing a big, big grin.

Unlike her brother, she didn’t bother very much with the ceremonials, swiftly stepping right up to her parents’ thrones to lean in for a conspiratorial whisper: “He likes the Lady Anaire.”

The king and queen shared a moment of fond laughter.

“I had my suspicions-” Indis confessed.

“Truly?” the king raised an eyebrow, “He did lavish great attention on her, but I was under the impression that his zeal was entirely toward his due diligence as a host.”

“No dear, that would have been an excess of politeness even for him…”

The royal pair giggled, unabashedly enough that their nearby daughter rolled her eyes.

“So, what do you think? More grandkids?”

The Queen forgave her husband's lapse immediately because of the great enthusiasm apparent in his demeanor, but, she was keenly aware that this would be ‘more’ grandchildren only for him, since she had none as of yet.

“Expect none from me – I’m all down for being the cool aunt, but, I don’t think I’m really the maternal type.”

“We know this, and we support your choices, darling, but consider… the Lady Anaire and Arakano are both rather tall, do you think their children would be somewhere in between, or even taller?”

“Beats me!”

...

Of all the five siblings, if they were five, Arafinwe was, perhaps, the only one who had read the statute in its entirely and understood it as it was meant to be understood, in the way that the Valar intended, and in the contexts of the limited understanding and precedent of those early days.

He had come upon it rather incidentally, just as part of his studies as a scholar, and he tried his best to read it as he might read any other study materials that did not pertain to himself, trying to appraise it calmly and objectively, with both a scholar’s distance and a wise man’s empathy.

He recognized the good intentions as well as the limitations of everyone involved and thus, did not reach the end of the text with any particular grudge.

He did not presume that he could have done much better in place of the Valar or even in his father’s stead, though he sighed deeply, looking out at the jewel-strewn beaches from his guest room in Alqualonde, whi had as of late become his favorite retreat from the city of his birth – he could not fault Feanoro all too badly for never spending any time there. He too, knew what it was like to stand out – back in Tirion, he was easily identified in any crowd on account of his distinctive golden head, and in Valmar, he was told that he talked much about anything and everything. People never seemed to know if they should relate to him as an insider or a stranger – of course, his siblings were all the same, but in their cases, people’s initial assumptions quickly seemed to come down one way or another. This was part of why he liked it here – To the Falmari, he was just like any other stranger. He liked the people here – they were largely too engrossed in their daily works and the beauty of nature to bother getting complexes over philosophical treatises of days past. He thought there must be a pearl of great wisdom in that, the likes of which his brothers might never understand.

Ironically enough, it occurred to him them that out of the four siblings (if they were four), he was probably the one who knew Feanaro the best, though he wouldn’t expect his half-brother to recognize this – it was only that the name ‘Curufinwe Feanaro’ was impossible to evade if you were looking to become anything like a lore-master.

He was seldom in the palace by the time that Arafinwe had been old enough to remember it, and he never paid him too much heed, perhaps thinking him beyond notice compared to the more assertive Nolofinwe.

Arafinwe had come to know him between the lines of his steady stream of publications, the many opinionated remarks, the rambling footnotes that only hinted at the existence of complicated constructs of interlocked thought. It was here that he came to see a rather different person from just the harsh voice in those endless, pointless arguments- He still wanted nothing to do with those. He stayed out of them as best as he could, fleeing especially from any suggestions that he ever take a side.

Of course sometimes one of them would be more difficult than the other, but he didn’t find it productive to dwell on that.

Nolofinwe was his brother whom he loved, by whom he knew himself to be well enough esteemed, and he found that one could arrange oneself well enough with Feanaro as long as they didn’t wait any great affection and kept to reasonably limited expectations.

One had to accept a certain distance, as one would when handling a particularly moody, rather bristly hedgehog, and one would have to make their peace with never getting past that wall in his heart, but if you settled on his terms, didn’t act too familiar and gave him his space, he would easily give you yours. He was still standoffish, prickly and most certainly not humble, but if you could live with that, he was still a fascinating person of great boldness and who could offer the most unique insights.

He found that one of the best ways to get some conversation out of him was just to talk about his work, or anything else to do with crafts or lore – his pride as a scholar and sheer preoccupation with his many projects would quickly drown out everything else and get him talking to no end – it was not even particularly impersonal since he tended to be very, very opinionated. Arafinwe might not always agree with him, but he did find without fail that he had good points to make and in-depth considerations to offer either way, so he often just kept his own thoughts to himself, or presented them softly and pliably, like little more than suggestions.

Feanaro would be too busy launching tangents, rambles and dramatic eloquent tirades and treatises to bother with any personal hostility – On particularly good days, he might even mention something about the kids or the missus, and endure any anecdotes that Arafinwe might have to offer in return, though Arafinwe knew that he oughtn’t expect this to mean any more than it did.

He just couldn’t seem to understand why his brothers seemed to repel each other like the wrong ends of two magnets, why he couldn’t just get one of them in a room, and have the other in it, too – but if his father wanted to commiserate about that, he would find himself wondering if the king could not have done more to dissolve this state of affairs.

But it would not be helpful nor kind to say such a thing, therefore, he didn’t.

He nursed the little chafing sand grains of bitterness by himself like a cat licking its fur clean, trying not to bother anybody else about it.
It was easy enough to forget our here, with the relaxing rhythm of the crashing waves nearby and the household of Olwe to keep him company.

He was in absolutely no hurry to leave...

…

“Oi! You there! Wait! Hey, you!”

Stopping his calm, measured stride, the youngest son of Finwe turned around to see a tall, dark imposing figure all but thundering down the nearby ornate winding staircase, with little to no thought given to the possibility that he might fall.

“Ah. High Prince Therindion. Well met.” his mild greeting stood in total contrast to the rough, unpolished words he had been addressed with.

“Father has informed me that you were to have your final exam today. You didn’t fail, did you?”

“Oh no, not at all. Worry not. You’re in the presence of Tirion’s newest certified loremaster. Your old teacher sends his greetings, by the way.”

“What a relief! So the royal house of the Noldor might yet hold on to some portion of its dignity. Wait a moment, I have something for you, as befits the occasion. I would hope that at least father would have acquainted you with the custom?”

Arafinwe nodded mildly, opening up his right palm.

The gift was deposited in the younger elf’s hand without any ceremony or packaging. The brilliant green gems caught the eye at once.

“You may wear this every day without concern, it’s no amateur work, this should last you to the ends of Arda no matter what you do with it.”

“Interesting choice with the serpents.”

“They’re often looked like as emblems of evil because their bite can be harmful, but as anyone should know it is merely the dosage that distinguishes a poison from a cure. To me, that suggests wisdom. And it’s motion, complete and flexible without legs, hands or wings, suggests a kind of completeness – I figured that if you managed to pass your exam, you might have what it takes to appreciate this.”

“You have my thanks. I like it. I shall treasure this.”

“You’d better – incidentally, I’ve heard you’ve been spending a lot of time in Alqualonde lately. That woman – your mother, didn’t she teach you to play the harp? So, you ought to have heard about some decent music schools, right?”

“Is this about Makalaure?”

“Precisely.”

The golden-haired prince sighed wistfully, “They grow up so fast, don’t they? I didn’t fully realize how big he’s gotten until I saw Nolofinwe’s son. Have you seen him? He’s tiny! You always forget how tiny they are at first! Do you ever get used to that?”

“Well so far, I haven’t...”

There was almost, for a moment, some semblance of warmth in that exchange, before the crown prince hurried off toward the next of his many endless pursuits.

Chapter Text

Fault Lines

...

“...and then he said – ‘I do wonder what kinds of bizarre crossbreeds might result from that. If you do get her pregnant, I would like a sample of the results.’”

“He did not!”

“Oh yes he did! I told him that since we were talking about my future children, and not one of his hybrid pea plants, he’d have to ask their permission first before plucking out any of their hairs.”

Though Arafinwe seemed determined to laugh it off, his brother did not find the matter he was relating particularly funny: “What on Arda is wrong with him? Why would he even say such a thing? Who in all of Ea would hear of their brother’s marriage, and respond like that?”

Nolofinwe’s disbelief bordered on the beginnings of wrath, but, the younger prince remained decidedly unperturbed: “Someone who spends more time locked up in his workshop than in polite society, I would presume. Or maybe, someone who has been used to being regarded as an anomaly that is discussed in the journals to the point that he no longer finds it odd.

You know, if the two of you would just talk, I think you’d find that you have a lot more in common than you’d think.”

“Ah, so I’m the one who needs to make an effort. You wouldn’t think of asking this of Curufinwe.”

“I’m asking you because asking him is pointless. You could start by not addressing him that way. I know you’re just being polite, but, everybody knows he prefers ‘Feanaro’, so, if you go for the other one, he’ll think you’re ignoring his preference on purpose.”

“So you want me to call him ‘Feanaro’?”

“- if you were anyone else, yes, but if it’s you or me, he’d probably think we were being too familiar.”

“Too familiar! We’re his brothers!”

“That’s how you see it, and that’s how I think, but he doesn’t agree. He’ll tolerate being addressed as our kinsman though – I’ve found that he responds best if I just go for ‘Therindion’.”

“Sure. Why not. Should I perhaps be performing a merry dance as well, or jump through a hoop?”

“I’m not asking that you talk the old way all the time, just when you’re talking about him and the lady Miriel – or, if that’s too much for your pride or your aesthetic sensibilities, perhaps you could just talk to him in Vanyarin, he won’t be able to say that that’s newfangled or incorrect.”

“Seriously? Whose side are you even on?”

“There are no sides.” by Arafinwe’s standards, that was said in an uncommonly firm tone of voice, though he was no harsher than a mildly exasperated parent would be. "I'm just telling you a few simple, easy things you can do to avoid strife, because I know that you don't want it, and because I have faith that you will listen to reason."

Still, it was enough to shake his brother out of his obstinacy.

Behind it, a certain exhaustion revealed itself, but all in all, his demeanor softened.

“So… you say he’s been growing plants?”

Feanaro was still his brother. Nolofinwe was still interested in hearing what might be going on in his life.

“He’s been dabbling in it, at least – once Tyelkormo was born, he marveled that his children were all so different from each other, though they were all his sons, and that got him interested in how different traits are inherited – after that, he spent some time pouring over various population records, but, generations of Quendi arise much too slowly for the limits of his patience, so, he got himself some plants so that he could confirm his speculation in a speedy manner. He says he thinks that all living things contain certain blueprints of information that are passed on to their children, and he’d done some clever mathematics to prove that we each have two copies of those, one from our fathers, and one from our mothers – He found that if he crosses the flowers, some traits are either there or not, others show intermediate stages, and some can be freely combined while others are always passed on together – but ultimately, they always appeared in certain ratios. So, if he crossed white and red flowers, sometimes the resulting flowers would all be red, or they would all be pink, but if he went and crossed those further, he would always get the same ratio of red to white to pink-”

Nolofinwe sensed that his brother believed this to be something very exciting, but he couldn’t quite grasp its an appeal – mostly, it was the administrator in him that protested to what appeared like inefficiency:

“If he wants to know so badly how it works, why doesn’t he just ask Lady Yavanna?”

“Well, he argues that the world, through its marring, has diverged from the original plans of the Valar, so that their initial designs would only be rough approximations. For example, he theorizes that these blueprints inside us were once meant to be eternal, but that they have in fact, become changeable, so that anomalies can occur. This is less the case here in Valinor, but he’s got quite the collection of seashells and seeds that have washed onto the beaches of Eldamar from beyond. The first ones he got were probably gifted to him by King Olwe who’d brought some along from the journey, but since then he’s gone and combed the beaches for any strange shells – I believe that’s what he was doing when he first met Miss Nerdanel.”

Nolofinwe furrowed his brow at this, as if he found it somewhat disturbing.

“Why would he collect broken, aberrant shells of all things, when we have proper ones all around?”

“First of all, I think, he’s always been obsessed with anything and everything to do with the outer lands. I don’t really understand, but, II guess he must have liked father’s old stories as much as you… it’s more than that, though. Most of those anomalous changes are mere errors, that would cause plants or creatures to be misshapen but, he found that in some rare cases, the changes could be impressive. He found plants that would grow especially large flowers or fruits, for example…”

“Now that at least seems like it might actually be useful for improving our harvests…”

“Not that there is any need of that, when Lady Yavanna already sees to making sure that we all have enough…”

“Maybe not right now, but our population’s been increasing.”

Arafinwe smiled. “Our people are very fortunate to have both of you in their midst. He just does whatever strikes his fancy, so, we can’t leave it on him to follow through on applying his ideas for the common good.”

“So, did he find some anomalous crops that could be useful?”

“Oh, he did more than that. Apparently, he went out to the very edge of Valinor’s plain, where the light of the Trees barely reaches, and found an anomalous version of a common herb – as we know it, its juices contain some beneficial properties, but in the variant he found, the compounds in the leaves are much increased, to a degree where they would be harmful to most animals.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of useful?”

“By itself, yes, but Feanaro found that he could use the venom to deliberately cause errors and aberrations in other plants. As with the shells and seeds he found near the sea, most of those changes were just harmful errors and some of the seeds did not germinate at all – Even among those that had useful traits, most were still riddled with errors, which limited his options somewhat. For example, he would find a rose with much larger blossoms, but they’d be too heavy for the plant to bear, especially as it would be further weakened by the errors it had incurred.

But he kept breeding this, and experimenting with the growing conditions, until… - wait, it’s best if I show you…

For reasons unknown to his brother, Arafinwe went rummaging through the layers of his robes.

“Look here! A blue rose!”

“Is this made out of crystal?”

“It’s encased in crystal so as to preserve it, but it used to be a real actual Rose. He said I could keep it, since he would no longer be needing it.”

“...surely he did not make it himself?!”

At this point, even Nolofinwe could not hide his awe.

The younger prince remained calm: “So he says, but if you ask me, that’s overstating it. I don’t doubt that a great deal of work has gone into this, but he did not make the noxious herb, nor the rose seeds that he used to begin with.

As for him, he says that this method is still rather crude, and that the best way would be to alter the blueprints directly so that you could pass on any trait to any plant, but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to make that a reality – Miss Nerdanel thinks that he’s been getting bored of it as of late – he hasn’t the patience to wait for plants to grow, and living things don’t bend to his will quite so easily as metal.”

“But how could he stop now, when he is this close to completing something so useful?”

“Ah, dear brother of mine, I regret to inform you that you and Findis are the only responsible people in this family.”

…

The two brothers had had many conversations like that, over the years.

This one took place near the pearly white docks at the Haven of Swans.
“So, have you decided yet?”

“I think, if I go with something like ‘Findarato’, that should hopefully shut up all the sides of the family.”

“And Earwen?”

“I’m afraid she’s insisting on ‘Ingoldo junior’. I tried to dissuade her, but, she says she’s got a feeling about it. Looks like we might be having another scholar in the family… like it wasn’t already redundant back when I took my exams.”

Nolofinwe, however, took issue with this.

So far, he had been making light conversation while bouncing his cheerful toddler, but now he had stopped, eliciting a few surprised noises from little Findekano.

“You should be proud of yourself, and Earwen is right to think so. I very much agree - you should have more confidence in yourself. No, honestly, I mean it. I truly think so. Everyone is going on about Curufinwe, how extraordinary he is, how brilliant, how eloquent, how good-looking. You are also good-looking. You are also eloquent. You are also brilliant, and if you weren’t in Curufinwe’s shadow, everyone would acknowledge that.”

Oblivious of the serious topics being discussed, the child produced some displeased squeaks, demanding to be rocked some more.

His father obliged, sort of, but his attention remained largely fixed on his brother.

“I am honored that you have such great faith in me, but, don’t you think that father already has more than enough brilliant sons to worry about?”

“You are too humble. You shouldn’t have to hide yourself because of him.”

“Your concern is touching, but I think Lalwen and I have rather grown past the days when we needed our overzealous Big Brother picking fights to defend our honor.

I can see how you and Feanaro might find this a little hard to understand, but I care nothing for accolades. All I truly desire is to lay back and watch my kids building sandcastles by the beach, and maybe help my father-in-law with writing his speeches once in a while. You can have your spotlight all to yourself~”

“Great. Now you’re even more mature than me.”

“Is that what this is about? Oh come on now brother, no one would doubt that you have many great strengths of your own.”

“I know. It’s just hard to remember sometimes when my brothers are all such handsome, eloquent geniuses…”

Clueless of what was being discussed, but very much sensing the dampening of the mood, little Findekano decided that they should all be doing something fun instead, and extended his little hands toward the clouds. “Up! Up!”

His father knew exactly what that meant from long experience, and swiftly proceeded to stand up from his place, pick up the child with both hands, taking care to arrange him securely on his shoulders.

Pleased by his newfound tallness, the little prince squealed with delight.

“Oh my, what a brave little adventurer we have here~

Say, brother, why don’t you take him for a bit of a walk so he can burn off some of that energy? I think Anaire would appreciate it if she didn’t have to run after him in her present condition.”

…

On another occasion, the brothers were meeting in an archway overlooking a patio near the southern gate of the palace, when they noticed a familiar trail of people marching through the gate.

First there was one unmistakable presence marching proudly in the front, and not far behind, there was a scarce less conspicuous cloud of fluffy red curls and glimpses of simple work clothes.

The loud and fussy bundle they’d brought with them on their last visit was transformed into a leery dark-haired child with thick, fleshy limbs.

From past experience, the sons of Indis had no doubt that that boy would soon be arriving on his own two feet, yet another rough-hewn thing of the wilds much after the manner of his brothers, youths like chiseled marble, all gleaming hair, vigorous limbs and prodigious vitality, each one an immaculate specimen, each one, the coalesced image of power and strength and appetite, each one, carrying that same white-hot-metal blood.

No doubt that they would all be thoroughly washed, impeccably groomed and laden with baubles and precious clothes by the time they were presented in court, but marching in, they appeared just as they were, coming from the woods, chests bared, sharp wooden sticks in hand, with simple bands and cords for decoration, wrapped in leathers that they had stripped off their own catches and tanned by their own craft.

The herculean, pale-haired youth who had been all but running alongside his parents wasted no time jumping straight into the courtyard fountain, splashing water everywhere across the white tiles of the terrace, further spreading the muddy prints left by his bare feet, though his father made no move to discourage him:

“Listen up children – this is my father’s house, which makes it yours by birthright – Never forget: Everything that you see here before you is yours to do with as you damn well please, and none shall deprive you!”

The rascal in the fountain, now thoroughly soaked, took that as an excuse to go frolicking all over the courtyard, tracking dirt all over the white stone floors.

Nerdanel might have said something, had she not had her hands full with her youngest trying to escape so that he might join his brother in his reckless merrymaking.

Feanor himself soon came to her aid, releasing the child from her sling and setting him down on the floor so that he might go where he would.

The older sons seemed more reluctant, less like princes coming home, and more like travelers marveling at a strange and foreign kingdom, though they would appear worthy and formidable even in the measliest of rags.

When the lords or courtiers wished to get into the good graces of the king these days, they might try praising the bearing and speech of those three, and the beautiful words they could choose when they cared to, without doubt, come from the lineage of great artists and orators, but even the praise was always just too much.

“There he comes again,” surmised Nolofinwe.

In the presence of his younger siblings, he would still, at times, allow himself to be sour and bitter. Sometimes he found himself wishing that Arafinwe would be returning the favor:

“And before you know it, he’ll be leaving.”

“He shows up whenever he pleases, does whatever he likes, when it pleases him – with no regard for anyone other than himself.”

Arafinwe, though observing the scene with some sense of concern, had nothing to add to this.

But his brother’s displeasure was such that he went on and on and on:

“He is come to make us all miserable, since he has no joy in his life.”

“Now you’re overstating it. He delights in his craft. He has joy in his family, just like you and I. He likes traveling, being active, seeing new places, no different from Lalwen. He’s just here to visit father, same as me.”

“And here comes father!”

The king had come indeed, quicker than one might think likely, and speaking to his entourage of putting on a feast, though even that thought seemed vanished from his mind the moment he caught sight of his heir.

“Oh, Feanaro! It is so good to see you! You should have come sooner! I have missed you bitterly, you know you’re the light of my life! And Maitimo – you’ve been growing so tall – and little Carnistir-”

“I’m sorry, your Majesty – I’m afraid this one hasn’t been turning out all that sociable.”

“Ah, but he has Miriel’s eyes-” remarked the king, with that same, strange melancholy that he expressed when he first got to hold young Tyelkormo, or when he first witnessed prince Makalaure idly singing to himself – that drawn, heavy joy that seemed to be only for this Miriel person and all those who had come from her.

He took his sweet, sweet time to bestow each of the new arrivals with a tight, eager hug (apart from the youngest boy, who as of yet refused to be persuaded), swapping stories and letting the two youngest ones make a mess to their heart’s content before thinking to lead them inside, where, one might presume, there would be more mess.

“It’s always the same, over and over and over – He decides to drop in out of the blue, and right away, father drops everything to shower him with praise and throws him a feast! What has he ever done to deserve that?”

“Well, I suppose he’s a respected leader among the scholars, and you’ve got to admit that his inventions have been a boon to the realm…”

“I am the one who has been by father’s side day and night, supporting him in all affairs of the realm, while all of you have been going off doing whatever you please!”

Arafinwe knew better than to be offended. Once more, he kept to himself what he doubted would help.

“Do you resent it?” he asked calmly.

“That’s not the point. When is the last time he threw a feast for me?”

“I believe it was on the occasion of your last begetting-day. No, wait, actually, that would have been the anniversary of your wedding.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. You know as well as I that he is father’s favorite.”

“And you are mother’s. And Lalwen’s. And everyone else’s really. I’d get just a teetsy bit jealous, if you weren’t my favorite too.”

“Sometimes I do wonder how you can be so nonchalant!”

“I just don’t see a point in getting worked up. It is what it is.”

“So you say. But you know something? Sometimes I wish that father would make such a fuss about me. Just once.”

“He doesn’t have to, because you don’t give him reason to worry. He doesn’t have to celebrate and rejoice when he sees you, because he can see you as often as he pleases.

Now come on. Let’s get the kids so they can go and meet their cousins. My boys have been telling me all about Findekano’s devious plan to get Maitimo and the others to join in on one of their trips to the marketplace one of these days. Then again, I believe this might be a ploy to get them to tell them everything about their latest travels.”

...

But Nolofinwe could not say that he always found the company of his sisters much more comforting. Lalwen would tend to agree with him, yes, but she would agree with him so much that he’d just end up regrettably aware of his prouder moments.

“He was so rude! I can’t believe how rude he was! Can you believe it? In front of the children, too! Has he no shame? Like – how does someone like that get counted among Tirion’s greatest orators?”

“Having great skill is not the same as having the wisdom to know when to use it.”

That was Nolofinwe being diplomatic.

“Nah. You know what I think, brother? I think that ‘great eloquence’ of his is all just hot air!”

“Now, Lalwen, I know as well as you how... frustrating he can be, but we shouldn’t dismiss all his accomplishments simply because we do not see eye to eye.”

“So, what you’re saying is, he doesn’t care to be civil. He could, if he wanted to, but we’re just not worth it are we?”

“Be quiet.” hissed Findis, who had been following along with them without saying very much of her own, up until this point. “We’re going to be heard.”

But her sister wasn’t having it: “Yeah right – You think you’re so above it, you and Ingo. You think you’re too good for this.”

“All I think is that before you concern yourselves with the shamelessness of Curufinwe, you ought perhaps consider your own.”

“Ah, that’s it! You’re ashamed. You’re ashamed of all of us, even father and mother-!”

“I would not need to be, if perhaps you would not shame yourselves with your disgraceful behavior.” she responded, quiet, subdued, yet cold.

“You can’t be serious-”

“Be quiet.”

After all these years, during most of which they had long since been adult, it would seem that their older sister’s displeasure still held the authority to silence them without the need for her to even raise her voice – and once they saw why she had bid them to be silent, as she went on to indicate with a slight gesture of her hand, neither of them could disagree with her judgment.

They felt shamed indeed, if perhaps not as shamed as she would want them.

On a flight of stairs, near the end of the hallway, there were three children playing, or doing something like playing – one was polishing a hide, another seemed to be stringing a bow and the last, just a little older than the other two, was engrossed in tinkering with something that resembled an assortment of metal chains.

The presence of children, at last, reminded them that they were supposed to have been adults, if not a prince and two princesses, leaving them mindful to slip into their roles.

It was Lalwen who addressed them first, leaning down a bit, donning her big, signature smile, which was, in this moment, truly more of a trademark performance that something genuinely felt.

“Hello children! Aren’t you bored sitting around here by yourselves? Why don’t we go find something nice for you to play.”

“We can play by ourselves.” replied one of the younger ones, standoffish and guarded.

“Ah. Alright then. Have a nice day, Telufinwe.”

“What the heck? I’m Pityo!”

“Unbelievable!” chided the older one, in a child’s idea of a dignified, disapproving tone, “Wait till our father hears about this!”

But no sooner than their elders had begun to look apologetic, one of the younger brothers burst out laughing. The one who had spoken first, with the slightly lighter hair.

“We got em!” He gave his brother a playful shove – the other twin, who it must be assumed, was actually Pityafinwe. “Their faces!”

They had just about the same haughty snorting laughter, though the one with the lighter hair – definitely Telufinwe – was smirking just a little wider.

All that ended quickly though when they took note of their older brother’s displeasure.

“What are you doing, you idiots! You’re not supposed to tell people that we’re pranking them while we’re still pranking them! That’s why I didn’t wanna bring you babies! Why did Tyelkormo have to be busy today? Unlike you, he can actually act for five minutes!”

Though he had at first seemed the most aggressive one of the trio, the younger twin went quiet very quick – it was the older, the one with the slightly darker hair (Pityafinwe?) who proved not so easily cowed: “If you’re just gonna complain about everything, then maybe you and Tyelkormo can do your stupid pranks yourselves, and leave us out of it! Mama is so gonna scold us…”

“So? You want your Mama, Ambarto? Are you gonna cling to your Mama’s skirts like a baby?”

“Cut it out already! You’re barely older than us!”

Being a father himself, Nolofinwe felt very much like he ought to intervene.

“Now, children, don’t fight, and don’t pick on your brothers. You may be young, but you must be mindful to conduct yourselves as it befits princes of the Noldor.”

“And what’s that got to do with it?” the older boy turned to him with a defiant, cold smile which, in later days, would come to be thought of as a characteristic expression of his. “My father’s a prince of the Noldor, and he walks all over the lot of you.”

Suddenly back to forming a united front, the three boys devolved into jeers and snickering.

As the one among their number who had the most experience with rambunctious children, Nolofinwe thought it best to refrain from dignifying this with an answer for now. Maybe he would speak to Nerdanel some other time, or perhaps, to Maitimo.

“Please do!” insisted Lalwen on the way out.

“Those kids scare me sometimes.” confessed Findis once they had turned the corner. “Especially that one… you know, Nolofinwe, at times I wonder if you and Ingoldo should really be letting your children play with them so much…”

Except that both of her siblings were convinced that this would have been going too far.

“Nah, that’s just how kids are sometimes. All they need is a serious scolding from someone they actually listen to, sooner rather than later, lest they end up taking after a certain someone.”

Nolofinwe found that he wished to bring an end to this discussion: “I will speak to Nerdanel.”

Someone would need to do it, after all.

...

The King was most pleased.

“Well done, Nolofinwe! Finally, a daughter! Isn’t she just the ittiest, bittiest, most precious little girl that you have ever seen? She looks just like Lalwen as a baby! Don’t you think so too, Indis?”

The queen’s smile was radiant, first and foremost of course because of the tiny new family member, but, just as a bonus, this was one of the few times that she and her husband were actually sharing one of their firsts in perfect synchronicity.

High Prince Nolofinwe himself was measured about showing it, but, he was most certainly enjoying to find himself so suddenly at the center of attention for once.

“We’re calling her Irisse, because she has fulfilled so many of our long-held desires.”

“Oooh,” asked the princess Lalwen in a mock conspiratory tone, “Do I detect a little homage?”

She rarely called herself ‘Irime’ unless she were introducing herself with her full titles at a high-profile event, but still, the similarity was too clear to be a coincidence. “Thanks, bro. I’m most honored. I can’t wait to be a bad influence on her!”

“In moderation!”

“Sure, sure Anaire. No need to worry!”

The new baby’s mother, still mildly exhausted but glowing with joy, was seated in a big chaise not far from her commotion, in the company of her own parents, and her two older sons who had flocked to her side almost as soon as the long wait had ended. They had already had a go at their new sister just a little while ago. Turukano, in particular, had immediately taken the tiny bundle into a great big protective hug, while Findekano had been wiggling his fingers to entertain her – but now, they were showing their gladness at having their mother returned to them at last after the exertions of the day.

“You know,” mused the Queen, catching sight of the older boys, “We had thought that you two were pretty much done with your family planning.”

“Oh no, we’re actually thinking that we might have one more. We just wanted to wait until the boys were properly grown, so that we could give each of them their proper attention – there’s no need to rush.”

Lalwen, meanwhile, had turned to where her remaining siblings were standing, politely keeping themselves off to the sides of the commotion, Findis in her ceremonial robes, and Arafinwe, mild-mannered as ever, wearing light, informal clothes in the Telerin style, one arm around his gently smiling wife, her face full of joy for the fortune of her friend.

“You know, little brother, if your lady is carrying a girl as well, the number of ladies in this our house will see a sharp increase!”

“Who knows~ We did match last time.” replied Earwen, referring to the last time that she and her sister-in-law had given birth in the same year.

Her husband looked pensive about that, furrowing his brows for a moment, until at last, he chose to say only this:

“There’s no if about it – I’ve seen her.”

“Whoha, really? How come you haven’t told me!”

“...it was not a very clear vision,” said the prince, grasping for words to describe his vague and nebulous premonitions to both his sister and wife. The latter at least could understand a bit, having felt some ripples of things to come upon the births of her older sons, so she knew enough to let her fingers seek her husband’s hand – but his sister, oblivious of such things, was unperturbed in her curiosity: “Did you at least see what she’s gonna look like?”

That, fortunately, turned out to be a safe subject: “I think she’s going to be quite tall. She much resembled mother, in fact, except perhaps for being somewhat broader in stature.”

“I won’t lie, I’m kinda excited that I’m finally getting some nieces. I would have loved another nephew just the same, but, I already got plenty of those… Imagine Findis, ” she added, turning to her sister for just a moment before speeding off to enjoy the rest of the festivities, “We’re gonna be the busiest aunties in all of Tirion~”

That wasn’t even so much of an understatement, especially if one were to count the record-breaking progeny of Feanaro.

Before her sister could run off, Findis managed to smile in return, but just about the proper, measured amount.

She of course also shared in her brothers’ joy for their sake but, though she wouldn’t say this in public, she wasn’t much for children, or, indeed, for festivities – she knew to show up when she was expected, or that it should be an honor to officiate the newborn princess’ naming ceremony not long from now. Sometimes, when she was particularly tired and had not seen to her duties in a while, she idly wondered if that was yet another fruit of the taint upon their house.

Right now, though, she felt secure enough to reject that thought – it’s not like she didn’t like her nephews – many of them had long since got to an age where they could participate in serious debate. She was especially fond of Turukano and Findarato, whom she had at times tutored and managed to interest in some Vanyarin philosophy.

On a few occasions, she’d even gotten some questions from Feanaro’s children, usually when the boys had been tagging along with their cousins – for they had their own lessons with other tutors, when the eldest prince did not insist on instructing them himself.

She wasn’t close with them, though -

Findis struggled to endure the most pleasant of small children, and she was convinced that Feanaro’s offspring must be the worst of them all. It wasn’t their fault, really, but it was to be expected that one such as Feanaro would utterly fail to put the fear of the Valar in them. What was he thinking, raising that over-sized flock of boys like wild creatures in the forest? It was evident in their behavior towards her that it had not been expected of them that they treat her with respect, not as their aunt, nor as their elder, and most certainly not as a member of the clergy.

She saw their mother as a wise, pious woman who was doing her best to remedy this, but, one couldn’t overlook that her husband wasn’t helping the issue very much at all, and with such disparate examples, one shouldn’t be surprised when those boys ended up thinking that they might as well chose to do whatever they please, as if the presence of one upright and one questionable example had only served to muddy the distinction between the two.

It was pointless to complain of them to Feanaro, for they could do no wrong in the eyes of their father.

If they ever got into any sort of scuffle – which was often, especially for the middle three –, their father would take their side without fail and refuse to hear of it.

Though Findis noted (with a detached sort of pity that was near to disgust) that he was probably just passing on the great indulgence that he had received in his own upbringing.

Arafinwe for his part agreed that Feanaro was probably spoiling them more than he ought, but as was his wont, he had a softer, gentler assessment of the matter: “He’s just trying to give them what he feels he didn’t have.”

Of course, in Findis’ eyes, her little brother had always been far too patient, and much too indolent, in a way, not too different from their father.

Still, even she had been expecting that sending those wild boys to serve in the followings of either Aule or Orome would have straightened them out.

As for the seven sons themselves, they weren’t here right now to see the new princess, and neither were their parents, though it was inevitable that they would come to know her when they next venture into the palace.

Who knows what the eldest prince himself might think – he’d often boasted that he had gifted the king with more heirs than both his other sons combined, but that was now due to be made untrue as soon as Earwen would be delivered of her baby… and much more so if Prince Nolofinwe should indeed make good on his plans to bestow his new daughter with an appropriately-sized playmate sometime soon. Anaire was only half-joking when she had remarked that she thought Feanaro perfectly capable of declaring that they were doing it purely to get on his nerves, though Nerdanel denied any whispers that they might get themselves an eight child out of sheer spite: “Nah, we’re done, we got more than enough~

We agreed that the twins would be the last, and you know he would rather swallow his hammer than eat his own words. He even went and named the last one ‘Telufinwe’ and everything.

- Besides, we’ve been putting off a lot of ideas for projects that we couldn’t do with a trail of small children behind us. For example, we’ve been thinking of climbing Mount Hyarmentir.

I expect that we’re gonna end up burning through our list pretty quickly once the twins reach their manhood, now that we’re gonna have all these splendid, strong young men to help us~”

She had said this, at the time, with the biggest, fondest of grins.

“Our boys are quite the handful sometimes, and they all share their father’s great talents for driving me up the walls, but all things considered, I couldn’t be more proud of my family.”

Those were the days, when she could still say this wholeheartedly.

But sometime later that same evening, maybe Lalwen had said something in her never-ending quest to provide her brothers with all that which her brothers renounced in being too noble for their own good, or perhaps she had simply voiced some observation to her mother, if Indis had not picked up on the need for her presence all on her own, much like she used to anticipate her children’s needs when they were but tiny babes not yet versed in the power of speech.

Maybe it was just the sort of thing that mothers could feel – or perhaps it was not so much mothers as certain empathetic personalities, or simply those older and wiser.

Whatever the specifics, she appeared at her younger son’s side as the festivities were winding down, finding him thoughtfully looking out a window as the pure white of the mingled lights were slowly but surely overtaken by pure gold.

She didn’t even make him say it, gently broaching the subject all on her own.

“So I’ve been told that you’ve seen your...daughter.” she began, still getting used to the word.

Perhaps she knew very well that this alone would leave her youngest in need of her company.

She had guessed all too true: As he considered his answer, much of the levity drained from his features.

“I believe it was her – at least, I do not know who else it could have been. She looked too much like Findarato to be anyone else, though she was most certainly a lady. She was standing at the edge of a great mellyrn forest, in a place I didn’t recognize in the slightest – and the wood itself was simply unknown to me, but the world around seemed to me very, very strange – a muddied, cold and wan place, brittle as the ashes of a fire long cooled.

I can only assume that this moment lay very far in the future, after all, the Valar have told us that most of the time allotted to our world in the great music is yet to come.

So that itself shouldn’t surprise me – but she was standing there, great and tall and masterful, and yet bent with weariness and resignation, reaching her arms up to the skies, singing some desperate plea, in the presence of some...people, arrayed as travelers, which it seems were about to depart by ship. One of their number, I think, was a youth of Telerin lineage, but I knew not what to make of the others. I have not seen their like before - don’t believe they were even of the Quendi.

My daughter, I think, was bidding them farewell, but in my dream, I could not make out her words, nor could I speak to her. I found myself standing in the shade of the canopy, but if I tried to step out of the trees so that I might go to her, I could not pass – it was as if the very air had turned into something thick, cold and foreign.

I saw myself calling her by the names that neither myself nor Earwen have even picked out yet, but she was too far off for my voice to reach her, and the people that I saw there around me did not seem to know who I mean, though they were clearly her entourage, carrying, in many cases, the banners of our house. But they had never heard those names, nor had they seen me.”

“Perhaps she had taken another name?”

“Perhaps. Wherever it is, I must conclude that it’s an important moment in her life, for it to have rippled all the way here. I imagine that place she was at must be dear to her as well, or it will be, or it was – for I saw it once more, in another vision, except it was all withered and abandoned, and all the leaves were fallen, and there was no one there – not even my daughter, or any travelers, strange or otherwise, except for one single, hooded figure, a lady I believe, who was weeping endless bitter tears into the soft brown earth, amid curled dry leaves and shriveling flowers.

I couldn’t even begin to guess who she was.”

“Did she perhaps resemble anybody that we know?”

“I honestly can’t say – perhaps there was a distant resemblance. At times I looked at her face and thought that she might be Telerin, other times, I doubted that she is an Elf at all. And just once, I was almost convinced that she marked my presence – just very briefly, before she must have dismissed me as a phantom, perhaps an afterimage of the former dwellers in that country.

Of course, she couldn’t have, and even if she could, she seemed in such a state of grief that I doubt she could have noticed much of anything, even if I had been there with her. She kept crying out or mumbling, saying things like ‘Oh beloved, how could you leave me here like this’, or, ‘Oh father, why didn’t I listen?’ She can’t have been speaking to me, but, my heart felt heavy as if she was.”

The golden-haired prince was trying as best as he could to maintain an even tone, but who if not his mother would have noticed the swell of concern building beneath as he described this upsetting scene, which to the denizens of the blessed realm would have been unspeakably foreign?

Without his asking, she had moved to take hold of his hand.

“I had a vision too, only once, when I was expecting your brother…” she at last revealed, with a notable reluctance that had still not overcome her wish to comfort her son.

He could imagine why she had not spoken of this very often – she preferred to look at the brighter side of things, situations, or people. Usually (if not always), a wise attitude that served her well.

“It wasn’t quite so strange as what you describe. Perhaps not as far in the future… but I saw an unknown place as well, a wide, flat plain of nothing but cinders far and wide. And in that place, riding like the wind, whipping up the black dust, there was a shining, majestic apparition – a warrior arrayed in glittering armor, riding atop a great stallion, like a specter of great wrath made flesh, speeding undeterred towards darkness.

When you brother was first born, he was such a dear and lovely babe, and I doubted for a while if he could truly be the one I saw, but he has now come to look exactly like that mighty warrior from my dream, apart from the armor – I have not seen swords or armor since the later days of the great journey, so I cannot imagine what he would ever need it for.

I wished so much that I could know what had him so upset, that I could go and comfort him, perhaps… how is it that I’m not with him when he seems to be in such great pain? Where is your father? Where are Anaire and their children?”

Mother and son shared a pair of drawn, pained looks.

“We’ll just have to wait until it happens. Until then, all we can do is to show them that they are loved...”

…

But for all the scattered moments chafing feelings and quietly festering, unspoken things, here’s an illustration of Before and After:

Before the lies, the wives of all three princes were good friends, and they in turn close in friendship with the queen, and when they all sat together in the unfading gardens, under the ancient light that shone bright but did not burn, perhaps watching the children playing nearby, discussing each of their latest exploits, or engrossed in discussing the seating arrangements for the next royal feast, there was no strife there.

At most, there might have been slight exasperation, or perhaps mild concern.

The Queen, quill in hand, thoughtfully regarded the scroll on which a sketch of the tables already accounted for a great plenitude of quarrelsome nobles. That was had kept her busy enough as it had, though she feared that appeasing her own house would be no lesser task – which is why she had enlisted the help of her daughters-in-law: “So, Angarato and Aikanaro get along with Tyelkormo and Curufinwe junior, but they don’t get on with Carnistir?”

“Alas, no such luck.” lamented Nerdanel in a playful imitation of a long-suffering tone. “I’m beginning to fear that those three are something of a lost cause… They do get along with each other, though, so you maybe you could put Tyelkormo and Curufinwe in the middle, and then place Carnistir on the other end?”

Anaire soberly shook her head, “That might work for a rectangular table, but I’m afraid we’re looking at a circular situation here. We’ve already picked out all the decorations, and to change it up at this point would be a pain.”

This explanation was necessary because unlike the other ladies, Nerdanel and her band of children had only just arrived the day before.

The queen spread the paper further on the garden table, so that the paper rolls at each side obscured less of it with their shadows, so that all of them might take a closer look.

“...do you think Findekano would be fine sitting next to Makalaure?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Don’t worry about that. Findekano gets along with everyone.”

“Seriously, how do you do it, Anaire? Yours are all so sweet and well-behaved! Compared to them, my boys are basically wild animals!”

“Honestly Nerdanel, I’d say yours turned out pretty well, considering what a supreme grouch their father is-”

They could all laugh about that, back then. It was just a benign little joke with limited consequences, gently poking fun, without any sharp edges or coiled springs of old resentment.

Even Earwen chuckled a bit, though she was gentler, more reserved and more sensitive than the others. They still had things to laugh about – that was the rule, not the exception, hardly even worth noting, such that their thoughts soon returned to matters of business.

“Could we split them up between three tables?” proposed the Queen. “Five seats each, maybe?”

Anaire’s mind immediately set to work: “Hm. That might work. Even Feanaro won’t find anything to complain about if we just sort them by age. If we cushion the twins between Irisse and Arakano, and then put Artanis between them…”

Nerdanel was in swift agreement: “She would make sure that they don’t run off on their own, and I’m sure the twins would love to impress their little cousins with the latest tale tales from our travels… and I don’t think we need to worry about the older ones fighting, either.”

Earwen still had some doubts: “Uh, but, are you sure that it’s a good idea to put Carnistir with Angarato and Aikanaro?”

“Curses! You’re right!” exclaimed Anaire, noting the hole in her plan. “The middle table still presents a bit of a problem.”

“They’re big tables though,” suggested the Queen. “There’s no reason why we couldn’t have a table with six people at it. Maybe we could have Turukano or Findarato watch over them so they don’t argue?”

“Uh, that- that won’t be possible.” stated Anaire flatly.

Earwen smiled shyly as she attempted an explanation: “It’s just- Findarato and Turukano. The two of them are such good friends, and they really, really wanted to sit next to each other, so we promised that they could. They’re always being so responsible at home, so, I’d hate to take this away from them…”

“No argument there…” agreed Nerdanel. “But you know, I think you’re worrying about the wrong one. I’ll be the first to admit that Carnistir has a bit of a mouth on him, but he’s got a good heart. The one to watch out for is Atarinke. As of late, he keeps talking his brothers into all sorts of inadvisable schemes.”

“Reminds me of someone,” quipped Anaire with a slight, playful smirk – but soon she was back to focusing on the business at hand: “So, do you think the others will behave themselves if we banish him to the kid's table?”

They might have. But the ladies would never find out, for as soon as this plan came to the ears of the young prince himself, he was most unhappy.

“I don’t have to sit at the kids table, do I, father? I mean, I’m about as far ahead in my studies as Carnistir, and he doesn’t have to sit at the kid’s table. So how is that fair? I don’t wanna sit with Ambarussa, they’re practically babies. So it makes no logical sense for me to sit at the kid’s table, right? Right?”

One could have mentioned that the gap between Little Curufinwe and the twins was not all that big, or that the young princess Artanis (another resident of the kid’s table) was also further advanced in her studies than was usual, but somehow, neither of those facts did get mentioned.

Instead, Feanaro had warmly placed a hand on the shoulder of his much-displeased son.

“Of course you don’t have to. Come on Curvo, let’s go and see the king. I shall speak with him. Surely, this has got to be an oversight.”

And that was that.

During their next joint teatime in the gardens, the ladies found themselves sent back to the drawing board.

Earwen, at least, was making a feeble attempt to keep up the hope:

“Couldn’t we just talk to Feanaro about this? Or perhaps to the king?”

But Anaire dismissed this out of hand, growing more and more aggravated with the situation:

“That would be futile. The whole thing was forced to begin with. Having five kids per table was at least logical, symmetrical and consistent, but the moment we change that up, it becomes arbitrary. So why couldn’t be changed on a whim?”

At last, the Queen made a valiant effort to soothe everyone’s nerves: “...perhaps we could just seat everybody with their siblings? Turukano and Findarato might be sad, but, if it’s the same rules for everyone, maybe they won’t mind as much...”

“Nerdanel’s kids will be awfully cramped.” thought Anaire, not really feeling the suggestion.

Still, Earwen was willing to stay hopeful:

“What if we use four tables? We could push them together in pairs of two, and then we have all of Nerdanel’s kids on one pair of tables, and all of ours around the other two – and of course, we’d put Findarato next to Turukano… what do you think, Nerdanel?”

The famed mother of seven considered this. “I don’t think my boys would mind, but I’m afraid Feanaro might take it the wrong way, like we were being singled out or something. Besides, I want them to spend some time with other kids their age – they don’t get very many opportunities for that, and it would really do them some good.”

The Queen sighed in a somewhat ambivalent manner when she heard this. “It might, right? The King tried the same with their father, though he says that he didn’t have much luck with that. From what I’ve heard, Feanaro used to grow bored with the other youths fairly quickly, and few of them were interested in hearing him go on and on about nothing but advanced linguistics or the physics of light…”

“Once a showoff, always a showoff, huh?” quipped Anaire.

Nerdanel begged to differ, shaking her head. “I don’t think that’s what it is – not that he isn’t a showoff, or that he wouldn’t do better if he could muster up more patience for other people’s interests if he wants them to return the favor, but I wouldn’t say that showing off is the main part of it – It’s just that he can be really passionate about things. He really is, there’s no pretense about it. I’ve never met another person with such strong feelings about the fine distinction between artistic movements, or the mechanisms of nature – maybe that overwhelms people sometimes. That, or they get convinced that he must know what he is doing, even if they do not – you can win many followers that way, but finding real friends is harder…”

The Queen smiled wistfully.

“I’m glad that he has at least one person who understands him so well…”

Nerdanel chuckled fondly. “Feanaro might not be the easiest person to understand, but you know me – I like a challenge. Besides…” she added, taking note of that brief, downcast flicker of the eyes that the Queen had let slip through, “I don’t think that it’s really you whom he resents. What he begrudges is the very injustice and imperfection inherent in the very world we live in. I’m certain that the Valar labored long and hard to give us the world we live in and make it as pleasant and beauteous as they could, but, as a fellow artist, I know very well that no project ever quite turns out like you planned it…”

“I’m not sure I believe such humility from the woman who invented several genres of art singlehanded.” replied Anaire in mild amusement.

Nerdanel took it all in good sport: “That is only because you’ve never seen what my ideas look like in my head before I go and pick up my chisel!” but once the ensuing laughter had died down, she went back to being serious: “The thing about Feanaro is, for better or for worse, he’s got the heart and mind of a scholar. He tends to look at things as action and reaction, cause and effect. For an inventor or a craftsman, that’s a very useful mindset to have. But when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail, and not everything is best understood in those terms.

Sometimes things are just sad, or unfair, without there being anything that you can change, or anyone being at fault – or even if there was a cause, that isn’t the same as blame. He just wants something tangible to be mad at, because he can’t exactly take the very concept of unfairness and debate it into submission, or beat it into shape with a hammer.”

“That’s a lot of words to say that he’s a child,” joked Anaire succinctly, “It’s like when Turukano couldn’t reach some toy on the top of a table as a little boy, and threw a tantrum at the table for being this way rather than accept that it was beyond his limitations to reach it. He outgrew this long ago.”

“Surely, “ added Earwen with a good-natured chuckle, “I doubt that there is any table left in this world that he cannot reach.”

Nerdanel sighed. “You know, I’d even agree with you that Feanaro doesn’t know his limits, but that hasn’t been from a lack of trying to find them. Most obstacles are to him as high shelves are to Turukano. And if you can’t feel your limits, how can you confirm your own existence? We realize it only at the boundary between ourselves and the world, and the place where we end and others begin – one day we all notice that we are separate from our parents, and that’s how we know we exist. We look at the sum of the differences and similarities that we notice between ourselves and our peers, and that’s how we find out what characteristics we have – by brushing against our boundaries, we find out the shapes of our bodies and our minds. That’s why I keep making sculptures, even if I know that they’ll never turn out the way I pictured them in my mind. And that’s why Feanaro is so restless in finding ever new challenges to occupy himself and always aiming for ever bolder feats. He doesn’t know any other way to feel that he is, in fact, alive.”

“That is all well and good, and actually kind of fascinating,” conceded Anaire, “but, it still doesn’t solve our table problem…”

With that, the conversation came crashing back down to earth with all the suddenness of a clumsily dropped teapot.

Nerdanel, however, seemed to have thought of a solution – in a gesture of triumph, she slapped her right fist into her left palm:

“You know what? I think I’ve got it! I’m just gonna tell Tyelkormo and Atarinke that I am counting on them to prevent any incidents. Let them think they’re supposed to mind Angarato and Aikanaro. That’ll make them keep Carnistir in check, if only because they wouldn’t want me to tell their father how they failed at a Certified Big Boy task! See? With a little persuasion, you can solve everything!”

And then, the conversation dissolved into pleasant laughter, to which even Earwen contributed a few shy giggles – you know, back when all four of them still had things to laugh about.

…

Many eons later, the queen would find herself lying awake in the royal bed-chamber, still located in that same, light-filled room, with the great glass windows, looking out at the garden, and westward beyond that, to where the white column holy mountain stretched up from the horizon so far into the heavens that its summit was beyond the upper bounds of the panoramic window, for all it’s wide view of the downward sloping hill of Tuna below, or the wide silver sky stretching above -

The room was filled with the gentle light of Telperion, its soft beams falling in through the square window panes, still leaving refuge for pleasantly cool shade – and yet, somehow, the Queen could not seem to stifle her disquiet.

“...darling?”

“Hm?” The King did not seem to be suffering from those same troubles. She could tell that he must have been just about to doze off when her voice had called him back into wakefulness. – whatever strange, worrisome tension she was feeling in the air, he seemed just about oblivious to it… She couldn’t fault him for being inattentive here, he had every reason to be tired given that they’d only just returned from their long journey that had been the tail end of their visit to Valimar.

Indis knew better than to be resentful or disappointed – if her beloved was at peace, then that was good. But some part of her had hoped that he had sensed it too, that it wasn’t her alone in all of this great city.

Everything around her suggested that there was absolutely no reason for her to feel doubt – everything she saw, everything she heard, everything she could touch with the surface of her body.

For eons on end now, her life had been a long, glorious rondo of nigh-uninterrupted bliss – there were a few things she regretted, chiefly to do with her stepson and the long absence of her best friend, but for the most part, even her most far-fetched, unlikely dreams had come to her unlooked-for – She woke up every day next to the love she had once thought unattainable; She lived in a place that was unmatched in all the world in its bliss and its beauty, under the watchful eyes of the very stewards of the One; She spent all her days bringing smiles to people’s faces. Her brother and his children were always glad of her visits; And even her children’s children were long since grown into fine, accomplished men and women, and some of them even had children of their own.

On all counts, there was not very much reason for her to experience any sense of unease.

And yet...

“Say, my love,… what did you think of Lord Manwe’s brother?”

“-Lord Manwe’s brother?”

The king was all awake now, all at once, all the heralds of sleep had gone out of him – it might have been the topic itself, or the marked absence of his lady’s usual mirth.

He made a point of sitting up, turning to look at her face – For a moment, she hoped that, perhaps, he was not untouched at all… but that was soon dispelled by the awkward confusion evident in his speech:

“He was… not at all what I expected. You might see a kinship in the sense of majesty about them, but, if there is, it would be a majesty of a different nature. I don’t know what it really means for them to be brothers, since they have no mother, and no father but the One, but then again, I suppose I should know that siblings can be very different from each other sometimes…

Maybe this was different at one time, but, if I hadn’t known it, I never would have thought that the one we met is Lord Manwe’s brother…

He was certainly… fascinating, I’d say. If nothing else, he had some intriguing things to say...”

He paused here and there to search for words. That was unusual for him.

“You didn’t forget that it’s his fault what happened to Miriel, did you?”

“Of course not.” assured the king, his countenance much darkened. There was no hesitation there, like this was what had been lurking beneath his earlier reluctance. It returned when he tried to amend his words. “I’m just… trying to keep an open mind...”

“Don’t listen to him!” insisted the queen, surprised by her own urgency. “Not once. Not ever.”

On her next inhale, she found herself upright, and by the time she exhaled, her fingers had found themselves attached to the king’s silken sleep-robes.

Before she knew it, she was curled up against his chest, crying in desperate sorrow. “I just have – the most horrible feeling.”

The King blinked. Unsure of what to do, he figured that he couldn’t go wrong with putting his arms around his wife.

“Indis, what’s the matter? What vexes you so?”

“Can’t explain it- It’s just -”

This was as far as her weepy voice would serve her.

She gathered her wits for a moment, and then, asked only one thing:

“Darling, where is Arakano?”

“Arakano?”

“Yes- where do you think he is?”

“...in his suite, I would presume. Or possibly still in his study… Excuse me, but I’m surprised that you would ask about him of all people.”

“Why is that?”

Why indeed.

“...It’s just that he seems like the least likely person for you to ask about. Feanaro is often traveling abroad; Arafinwe spends much time in Alqualonde now, Findis often visits your kin on the holy mountain, and Lalwen greatly loves the hills, fields and woodlands around the Calacirya – but Arakano? He rarely leaves Tirion at all. We see him almost every day. We just saw him a few hours ago when we first arrived. Where would he even go?”

But the Queen was already climbing out of their bed, so her husband followed behind her.

Her eldest son was much surprised to find his parents knocking on the door of his study at this time of day, and yet more amazed to find his mother near tears, still in her nightgown, with her golden hair still braided off to the side to keep in in order while she slept.

No sooner than he had the time to take in her unkempt appearance, he found her arms thrown around his chest.

He was taller than her now, and significantly broader, though she was herself of a tall, athletic build.

The high prince shot a questioning look at his father once he spotted him trailing after her, but the king only shrugged.

The queen cupped her son’s face with her hands.

“You know that you are loved, right? You know that you are beloved by everyone in this city, right?”

He knew not how to respond.

“Promise that you won’t forget that. You are wonderful just as you are, and you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, alright? Don’t you ever, ever doubt that.”

Aggrieved to see his mother so distressed, Prince Nolofinwe nodded firmly, more out of reflex than anything else.

But in the light of later events, one must assume that the meaning behind her words failed to percolate through down to the deeps of his soul.

Chapter Text

From the moment that Melkor had been introduced to the puny flesh creature known as ‘Finwe’, he’d found himself beset by the overmastering desire to bash his head in.

Oh how that miserable Elf could talk and talk and talk!

Patience, Melkor, he told himself, play it nice, play it cool, just nod and act interested, just so long as it might take for those fools to take their eyes off your back….

Though every second that he was forced to feign humility just increased his desire to break that creature’s mouth.

It was a day of festival in his brother’s so-called ‘city’ (what’s with all the bells?) and for the first time in the days since his release, he, the mightiest of dwellers in all this narrow cosmos, would, at last, be suffered to attend – but first, his brother had taken him aside and explained, in that insufferable, serious voice of his, what he might expect there.

“It’s important that you understand, brother-”

It took every bit of Melkor’s fortitude to refrain from repeating this in a squeaky, mocking tone.

“-that your actions have consequences – especially now, that we no longer have this world all to ourselves. See that child over there – though his time has been brief compared to ours, he is accounted one of the wisest and eldest among his people, who hold him as a beloved and cherished leader worthy of great respect.

Because of your deeds, he has been parted from his spouse. Surely you can understand his sorrow since you were not able to claim the spouse that you wished for.”

‘And whose fault is that?’ thought Melkor, for like many great powerful men he was under the illusion that the lady of his choosing would have fallen to him by default if it were not for his perceived rival as if she were a magnet drawn to the strongest attractor, not a sentient being making choices.

When it suited him, he would admit to the knowledge that his brother must be too damn naive to realize that he was pouring salt into his wounds, but right now, he felt like taking it as deliberate mockery.

“I know that you never would have intended for this and must not have realized what you were doing -”

‘Ah, do you? Do you, brother?’ thought Melkor, though his lips said, “Yes, Manwe.”

“-but this was still the result. You must understand that the Children of Illuvatar do not come into being in full possession of all their faculties and powers. For them, the flesh is an intrinsic part of their being, so they must grow and mature with it, meaning that they have at the beginning of their existence a vulnerable, impressionable period in which they require the care of their elders. And this one had to care for his offspring all on his own, though he should have had the help of his beloved – perhaps, you should speak to him, so that you understand the burden that your actions have imposed on him. I feel that you shall have great benefit from this if you do.”

All his great power and it was still barely enough for Melkor to hold back a sigh, or desist from rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Manwe.”

Honestly, all things considered, Melkor could not understand what the big deal was about – from what Manwe had told him, that Elf had been granted a replacement that was rather easier on the eyes, from a much more influential lineage, and much more pleasant than the mouthy shrew he used to have. The old one should’ve been useless to him anyway if she could not make him any more spawn to secure his power and do his bidding.

Furthermore, this ‘Finwe’ seemed to have done quite well for himself, as far as flesh creatures go, possessing riches upon riches beyond imagining and power far and wide. And the darn fool gave it away with open arms – had he not even pestered Manwe that they might go fetch that even punier batch of flesh creatures that were so fond of that blasted Ulmo and his bluish pits of slime, and sent them wagon-loads of precious stones until they knew not what to do with them and threw them all over the floors? Had he not gone and sent his underlings to polish up their piteous dwellings?

If it were Melkor, and he could have his way with any patch of land here, he wouldn’t think of sharing it with anyone.

No wonder that that fool Aule seemed so attached to this particular batch since they shared his passion for throwing pearls before the swine.

But even throwing out his riches with open arms, this ‘Finwe’ creature was tremendously wealthy, and surrounded all over with those who would do his bidding, so why would he care for one lost creature, or that he must tend to his spawn alone? Why would he bother with this at all, when he could just leave it to his servants so that he might kick back to enjoy his wealth and power?

Melkor had lived a long time, and never once in all those eons had he encountered anything as bloody annoying as those ‘Noldor’ creatures. And yet, they seemed just barely the most tolerable out of all the kindreds. The once that dwelt by the shores were yet punier, and while the golden ones favored by Manwe and Varda were eminent in their power (by flesh creatures standards), they plainly seemed to lack all imagination – or that’s what Melkor was telling himself after he’d spent long years in vain trying with careful, tentative probing to see if there was any way that he could derail their ways of thinking, envying the loyalty and obedience they had to his brother.

If only he could have got those bloody orcs to follow this diligently instead of devolving into petty squabbles…

Though, if they did, he would certainly do other things with them than to keep them close like pretty songbirds and listen to the effusions of their puny thought when Manwe could have made them sing only of his glory. Yet they praised him often enough even unprompted, unlike the orcs who had obeyed Melkor only out of fear.

So, like a child who could not have what he wanted, Melkor convinced himself that he wouldn’t want the golden flesh-things anyways, nor any of their annoying poetry that so delighted Manwe.

To think that he’d spent three ages in that lightless prison for the sake of those puny things!

What was Illuvatar thinking?

He was yet to see what was all that special about those creatures, that his brethren were so enamored of them, or that Illuvatar would set aside this little place in all of Ea and say, ‘this is just for them and you can’t have it, unless you labor for its upkeep.’ (as Melkor would paraphrase it) – and then there was, of course, his brother, going ‘Naah you can’t decide everything on your own here all of us worked hard’ (also paraphrasing) – but who cares if they worked hard if they didn’t have any bloody vision.

All the wide expanse of Ea tasted sour to him, knowing that he was barred from doing as he pleased with this one measly speck.

And for what?

These things like pretty songbirds, and the third batch of creations, which, insofar as Melkor had been able to discern (and here he was less aware of the limits of his own understanding than his brethren), were set to be even punier.

The old man must be losing his touch, for it seemed to Melkor that every batch of creatures was turning out less impressive than the last, starting with mighty forces like the Valar to end up with such limited creatures…

And yet it seemed they had more riches to their name than Melkor in his present state of humiliation.

Varda had instructed them specifically to not shower him with gems as they’d done with all his brethren until his ‘atonement’ was ‘complete’.

Not like he wanted any, anyways…

Ah, but who was he kidding, Melkor very much did want them, like he wanted all things that they wouldn’t let him have – Especially that shiny sapphire on Manwe’s favorite staff.

‘Aule has outdone himself with this one, huh?’ he’d stated, feigning flattery, while his breast was full of ice and fire, blazing with piercing, frosty envy at the thought that he had not thought of this himself.

But it was not in fact Aule who had conceived of that peerless thing – no, as Manwe would have him believe, that was a gift from the Noldor, an artificial crystal fashioned to match the precise shade of the sky – and there Melkor was forced to admit that maybe those annoying creatures might have some worth after all, perhaps as thralls, if some greater will were to direct them to something useful…

And yet Manwe would have him believe that he treasured it mostly because it had been a gift from those new subjects of his, more than for its radiance alone…

Melkor wasn’t buying it, truth be told.

Though he considered whether he ought to catch himself some of these, so that they may make him some of those nifty trinkets as well.

Though, since he was the mightiest, he fancied that he would deserve a jewel even brighter than the one Manwe had received…

But here he stood in simple white penitent’s garb, while even the puny elf before him was laden with baubles. It was easy to believe that somewhere out there, beyond the walls of Valmar to which Melkor still found himself confined, there was a great white city stuffed to the brim with genius artisans, and that this man was its overlord.

Such wealth he had, and he spoke instead of how his subjects were squandering it with gifts or friendship or any flights of fancy that came to their mind. Such power he had, and he gushed over the ingenuity of his underlings, such an exceptional position, as one looked toward as a savior and prophet, and he spoke almost more of his personal life than of anything he did with his high seat of power, going on and on about the various pursuits and accomplishments of his over-many descendants.

Melkor would have loved to cut his family tree down to a manageable size if only so he didn’t have to pretend like he cared to remember all their names.

So apparently, someone called ‘Little Itarille’ had built an impressive wooden model of a tower, much delighting her father, a grandson of Finwe and the head of the city planning council. Who cares? Certainly not Melkor. Some brat called ‘Tyelperinquar’ had an amazingly large vocabulary for his age? So what! But if you hear Finwe tell it, you’d think that kid was the best thing since the Two Trees. Also, a certain ‘Artaresto’ had… brought back nuts and rocks after climbing a large hill near Alqualonde? ...somehow, that last one sounded particularly unimpressive…

So yeah, Finwe Noldoran: He was loquacious, he was annoying, but most of all, Melkor could already tell that he would get nowhere with him. Sure, he was putting up a good impression of friendly chatter, but there was always a certain reticence there, a marked difference in energy compared to how he spoke to others. He knew the darkness; He had seen it with his own eyes, not just with the tales of others. He would not be convinced that it was other than it was.

He was acting friendly because he was making an effort to be so, but there was always a residue of something else underneath, a different, harder feeling, which he kept concealed, something that pulled from beneath at his charming airs, giving it the occasional tinge of awkwardness.

He was welcoming Melkor out of some willingness to see the good in people and most of all as a concession to his trust in Manwe, so, it could not be used against Manwe, without whom this Elf’s wariness would only have increased. Maybe if it was him alone, Melkor might have contrived something, but Finwe’s Queen would not even suffer to stay in his proximity for too long, and she was ever whispering into her husband’s ear…

But there was no need to bother with them: Since the days of his imprisonment, when all the Quendi had lived in a few lakeside villages made of simple huts, their numbers had greatly increased, and all this hall was filled with younger creatures who never knew the dark – ignorant, sheltered brats they were, and yet brats with the capacity to make mighty tools, for each one nurtured in this hallowed land while the trees were in flower would have sucked in the light of creation with their mother’s milk and become suffused in it through all the days of their lives to the point that it was basically leaking out of their eyes….

Most useful among these would be those who were already influential in the tenous web of their society – like for example, the children of the king. And since he seemed to be insisting on telling you all about those, you might as well take notes.

He went on and on, pointing out his offspring among the revelers, “There is Findarato, one of our greatest philosophers. Here is Maitimo, a gifted orator, much like his father. Over there is Tyelkormo, much revered in the order of the hunt, and there next to him is brother Curufinwe, a celebrated artisan and also something of an accomplished equestrian. And there is my son Nolofinwe, who has been a steadfast help to me in all things, and his son is Findekano, a jack of many trades, but most of all gifted at winning people’s hearts… Next to him are Aikanaro and Angarato, the children of my younger son, Findarato’s brothers. Those three are such good friends, they’re always together! See, there is my daughter Findis, high-priestess of Varda. There is Makalaure, who has been hailed as the greatest musician in Valinor. There goes Artanis, the winner of our most recent athletics competition, but she is deep in all manner of skill and lore – she has been a student under Yavanna and Aule themselves until they confessed that they had nothing left to teach her... ”

He just couldn’t seem to shut up…

Melkor wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his gaze from trailing off. At last, he thought he’d glimpsed something like the opportunity for a segway: “Was it her who made that chain around your neck? The student of Aule, I mean...”

“This? Oh, right.” Finwe grasped it with his hand – the marvelous, unparalleled thing.

He was king of a city of master artisans, a beloved ruler in peacetime, decked out in splendor, clad in radiance – and yet, of all that he had on his person, this one bright platinum necklace was the most opulent at all; The gems within it shone with colors too luminous to be real, their edges bright and without error, what could have clashed arranged in such a way that each part brought out each other’s splendor, the metal that held it, pure as a mirror, except that if mirrors were grey because they returned all the light they caught in a slightly dimmer hue, this one had no such error, returning the light it reflected yet brighter than before.

The design was ingenious, there were shapes voluptuous as an omniferous tree laden with all kinds of fruit, and yet sleek elegant like the bare laws of nature themselves both combined into one continuous thing.

By all means, the king should have flaunted it like his very pride, and yet, this of all things was almost half-hidden under the layers of his garments, bright peridots, and deep garnets just barely poking out.

“You’ve been looking at it, haven’t you?”

Yes, yes he had been, but in Melkor’s mind, this pathetic little creature wasn’t supposed to be capable of noticing that.

But he was not so observant to suspect the deeper thoughts behind it, too thoroughly distracted by whatever feelings or memories he connected with that splendid piece:

“My son made this, the eldest one. I always take one of his works wherever I go, so I can always have a part of him close to my heart.”

“Sounds like you’re very fond of him, huh?”

“He’s my everything.” the king confesses, in one unguarded moment of sincerity. Whatever his reservations, he does not seem to think that he needs to be too wary here amid the glory of Valimar itself.

“Now where might he be… oh, there he comes!”

But the sights of Melkor would have turned in that direction even if the little creature beside him had not pointed anything out.

The room was filled with… well. Melkor for his part did not believe that any of the flesh creatures would have truly understood what it was. The light of creation that gave all things their being; The light of truth that exposed everything. Of the ones gathered here under this roof, maybe himself, Manwe, and Varda could be considered to have an inkling.

And yet, one of those creatures had it bound up in three minute orbs of what looked to be diamond-glass, but must certainly be something else, for how could anything from within this world imprison that which had come from without?

When he cast down the lamps and spilled the greater part of what the Old Man had given to Varda, it never occurred to him – or Mairon for that matter – to gather it up in some handy, portable vessel. He’d thought that fool Manwe was just gushing and exaggerating when he said that the Eldar had gone on to surpass their teachers in some things… hard as though it was to believe that the one wearing these jewels was of the same kindred as the silly, garrulous king.

Melkor blinked, and looked again, with such subtle perceptions as were afforded to the mightiest of the beings in Arda, he looked at that Elf – and he could see that he was an elf, his radiant innermost tied quite firmly to his flesh, wholly incapable of some of the most basic things that even the least of Maiar could accomplish with a simple thought -

And yet, he had made those gems, and Melkor had not.

He recalled the echo of his creator’s voice, about how nothing he could do would not in some way become the instrument of his plans and their beautification, and he knew at once that this ridiculous creature would not have been allowed by the laws of this world until he’d gone and bent them out of shape.

Melkor was no longer paying the least bit of attention to Finwe, and yet he kept talking, and his words trickled into the dark Vala’s vast consciousness: “This is Feanaro, my cherished, first-born child, all my pride and joy… “

Every fiber of his being was ablaze with loathing and envy as he watched that glory-crowned Elf swing himself down on a couch next to a lady who could only be his wife, eagerly talking with his sons, taking a small child in his arms (no doubt, his spitting image of a grandson), discussing finer points of theory with a gaggle of fellow scholars, moving and gesticulating a lot, every step bound up in energy…

He came over once to speak to his father, holding a platter of entrees of which he offered some to the king, but to Melkor he said naught.

That Feanaro – for despite himself, Melkor couldn’t help but think of him as a person with a name, an existence that irked him so much that he had to acknowledge it – actually had the gall to pointedly ignore the mighty Vala, so have him suffer the indignity of markedly clearing his throat, and then, when the elf prince just kept talking undaunted, got him to the point that he had to address him himself – he spoke with the sorts of obsequious, flattering words he would expect to work on most powerful men, and that drew Feanaro’s attention indeed, but all that Melkor earned himself was the coldest possible glare.

“You – I know who you are.

I don’t know what possessed your brethren to let you go, but you’re not fooling me.”

Now Melkor did not even need his eyes to be aware of the Elf’s heartbeat, the tensing of his muscles, or the wavering of his spirit – he couldn’t be as fearless as he looked, but he didn’t crack.

There was a force driving him on like a storm of flames, driving him to voice what he must have wanted to make heard for all the many centuries of his life:

“I loathe and despise you, more than anything in this world, and I wish for you to know that if it had been up to me, they would have thrown away the key and forgotten all about where they put you.”

Melkor couldn’t believe the insolence; Were it not for his sheer disbelief, he might have forgotten all about his endeavors of getting in the others’ good graces and eviscerated that Elf on the spot.

But he didn’t and so, the prince lived to turn and leave, making a show of striding away proudly which his hair and clothing swishing behind him; He was gone before his father could manage to use his words.

For a moment, you might have spotted genuine alarm on his features, like on the face of any father who saw his child boisterously kicking a hornet’s nest, but the king had smoothed it all over by the time he chose to speak: “You must forgive my son – He can a little… temperamental sometimes. He’s always been something of a loner, the sort to be drawn to dark and distant places, only ever marching to the beat of his own drum… Still, he has been hailed as one of the most influential inventors, thinkers, and visionary leaders of our civilization. He has even been called the greatest of our people. He certainly is to me, though I cannot claim that my judgment is unswayed by the fact that I am his father…”

He said many more things, but this was enough for Melkor to understand.

Loathing festered in his heart as his eyes followed that insolent elf through the room… His gems granted him a spotlight wherever he went – and just moments before, Melkor would have been convinced that it was impossible for the light to sting his eyes, but…

His bold-faced scorn would have been more than enough for Melkor to begin contemplating the destruction of this ‘Feanaro’ person, but this went far beyond this...

“You’re like me, yet you’re successful?

Unforgivable.”

That could not be allowed.

Not under any circumstance.

From that instant on, the idle thoughts of Melkor were ever drifting towards a means of contriving the ruin of his rival – for so he held him, despite the absurdity, despite the gap between their power.

He would stoop to pettier things yet; This here would one day be thought of as merely the beginning.

Valinor was by its definition a place of harmony and order – the bits that had turned out the most according to plan, painstakingly scooped up and walled-in in Manwe’s desperate effort to salvage the wrack of the lamps.

But it was not entirely untouched, and neither were the guests that Manwe and the others had brought in from without – Their pity might yet come to cost them all.

As for the Elves, they were also free-willed creatures, and as much as that had vexed Melkor in his efforts to subdue them to his will, who said that this could not serve his purpose?

All he needed to do was to keep his eyes peeled, his ears sharp, listening for the very echoes of the melody that he himself had shouted into the void before all days, to look for a chip or a crack, a scent of blood in the water, so much as a single loose thread on which to pull so that he might unravel all of their neat, orderly paradise…

And before long, he found it: Just the slightest rift, begging to get a wedge jammed into it.

Sometime during the festivities, the Noldorin princes offered to relieve the musicians of their duties for a moment, and put on a little performance of their own. Some of the older brothers, the philosopher one, and the popular one with the golden braids, and one of the sons of Feanaro – what’s his face? In Melkor’s estimation, there were far too many of them…

Yet somehow, the posse of harping Maiar who had been there for the making of the world vacated the stage for the illustrious guests, who after a brief discussion set to work at once, ostensibly rather glad of the opportunity, and if you looked just at those three, they seemed unified enough, driven by their shared passion perhaps – Going in, Melkor was rather convinced that the princes’ music would turn our rather puny compared to the musicians that Manwe had picked out from among his own people, which is to say, even punier, as Melkor already found it befuddling that they would bother with the instruments when they had themselves mighty voices like to wind and thunder, though only moments later, he would never have admitted to that claim once it had been proven wrong.

He might not have understood the delight that his brethren had in this world and its creatures, nor in the higher learning that might come from studying the works of others, but the beauty of the piece spoke for itself like the light of truth that cannot be denied, and even Melkor had to acknowledge it at least in the sense of wishing he had thought of it itself or failing this, that the ephemeral notes in the air were something that he might grab or take possession of, or that he might bring such songbirds as the other Valar had down into his earthen fortress.

He’d previously tried to fetch some of course, but by the time he had the orcs thus broken that they would serve his purposes, what was left of their capacity for song and dance were nothing to write home about, and yet he could not squeeze it fro them wholly in his spite, even if they only made crude marching musics of slaughter and plunder.

Like an accidental noise of falling thing, it was if compared to what the princes contributed on a whim for no other reason than the joy they took in their crafts.

Clearly, the eldest of the bunch was surely the most skilled, but though he was the greatest, he did not protest at having to share his stage with the others; The voice of the youngest, however, held power beyond the simple words and notes, a slight strain of the same kind power that had caused this world to be and could yet alter his fabric… and he was using it to adorn his performance.

Yet remarkable as they were, they had both mildly followed after the middle prince with the gold-plaited braids, who it appears had hatched this whole idea, content to have his own considerable performance serve as adornment for the others, and neither of these three could Melkor understand, nor the idea that any of them would forgo personal glory to pool their talents into something greater than its part…

But there was one piece of all of this that Melkor could not have failed to grasp, something he was bound to notice from the way that his eyes couldn’t help themselves from ever darting back to Feanaro and his marvelous gems.

He had since sat down at one of the long ornate tables, with some generous helping from the buffet piled up before him, in the seat of honor to the right of the empty high-back chair that was likely reserved for Finwe himself – the Queen would have gone to his right, though she was currently catching up with her relatives in a different part of the room.

Her stepson, in the meanwhile, was not touching his hoard to various intriguing-looking snacks very much while his son was yet working the harp. His countenance and face were very much filled to great abundance with both fondness and pride.

Seated next to the king’s eldest child, you would expect the second-youngest, but she had her own place of honor with the rest of the priesthood – yet she could have that seat every day when there was revelry in Valimar, and no one would have been surprised if she had chosen to sit with her family on the occasion of their visit – but more remarkable than this might be the reason why she might rather pass on sitting between her brothers: For in place of his sister was the second son of the king, High Prince Nolofinwe, likewise very distracted from the fig that he had been chewing on by the musical performance – and while the songs went on, it would have been no surprise that the brothers weren’t exchanging many words.

But even once the applause had died down, long after the younger princes had been each been pelted with flowers and confetti, the brothers did not speak much. They did not, as one might expect, immediately turn around to start discussing the performance, but kept looking right past each other, markedly avoiding whichever corner in their field of vision that the other was supposed to occupy.

It wasn’t just the obvious tension between them, but the proud, stubborn refusal to acknowledge each other’s existence. They each took their place because it was expected, but that was it, the best that could be expected of them.

At one point, the younger brother offered some token words of tepid congratulation, to which there was a terse, noncommittal reply from the elder, and that would be the extent of their conversation.

On their own, each was a majestic immortal being; Together, it seemed like every ounce of their spirits wanted to retreat from the other, leaving in their places a rigid skeleton or formal automatisms and a tight coil of thick, defensive bristles, at arms’ length, just about as close as they could bear to be before the spikes each of their armor would rend the other’s flesh – a fragile equilibrium it was, kept alive and sustained by hollow notions of civility and duty.

Ever since his release, Melkor had done little else but to conceal his grudges so he’d become something of an expert on the subject of biting back resentment – he knew it when he saw it, like Manwe knew justice and Varda knew purity.

He knew at once that he had found it – The weakest link in all of Manwe’s perfect paradise.

It might be argued, of course, that if he had not found it here, he would just have kept looking until he found something else that would have served his purpose.

But he needed to look no further, and thus, the second most unhappy family in Valinor was spared from finding out the full extent of what they were capable of, and never made it into quite as many history books.

Melkor asked around – carefully, casually, after many conversational twists, turns, and misdirection – and what do you know? The unanimous consensus among the festival guests turned out to be that those two were not especially close.

Better yet: From some of the people he asked, he got a rather one-sided tale that suggested that they clearly favored one High Prince over the other. Feanaro was popular with the scholars, Nolofinwe with the courtiers…

At one point, Melkor had to stuff his mouth with snack cheese to keep from bursting out in gleeful laughter.

Bingo. Jackpot. He’d found what he came for – he could work with this. He could work with this alright – though his first order of business would have to be to keep sucking up to Manwe so that he’d be let out of Valimar and left to wander all of Valinor without supervision…

Do not suppose, however, that the dark Vala left this gathering still holding back his cackling.

For no sooner than his plot was hatched, his decisions made, a turnstile of fate perhaps locked into place, did its equal opposite reaction ripple back from the future.

Melkor’s attention was drawn, at first, by mere curiosity, by an uncommonly tall Elf entering through one of the door arches, carrying a golden-haired little girl with a weepy, puffy-looking face, perhaps the reason why he had not joined the festivities earlier.

At once Melkor perceived the insignia of the royal house of the Noldor on his person, and he felt what couldn’t be a chill running down his back nor a shadow falling on his soul, for both chill and shadow were of his own making and served his beck and call.

He perceived rather something like an icicle in the spring, getting thinner, more slippery, more transparent, though the final obliteration of its solid structure was still far away.

He would ignore this in defiance until the Prince escaped him on the worst possible day.

…

Inevitable as his works would seem one day, the Dark Vala had his work cut out for him, and in the beginning, his labors were long and unavailing.

He had no hope of swaying the king – He remembered the dark days of the beginning and didn’t trust Melkor as far as he could’ve thrown him.

His first thought had been to maybe get one of the elder sons to take Finwe’s place by stoking their resentment, only to find each of their loyalty to their father utterly ironclad, for reasons wholly beyond his comprehension.

Feanaro should have made the easiest target, since he was, in a sense, the one person in all this land with the most awareness of the Valar’s limitations. He knew full-well they couldn’t fix everything.

But there was a long way in-between healthy skepticism and any degree of useful hostility, and while it might be very much possible to move him there on account of his proud and grudging character, it was considerably more difficult if you happened to be Melkor, for the crown prince hated him with passionate fervor, and waste no opportunity to let him know this. He rebuffed all attempts to beguile him directly.

In all he did, he was aggressively independent, admitting only a small, select circle. I was a struggle to convince him of anything, even for his father or his wife. The number of people he trusted could be counted on one hand, unless you counted his sons, who might bring the count up to just under a dozen. Attempts to bribe him with access to power or knowledge proved fruitless, for his disdain was so great as to overpower any other impulse and every time he asserted that if you wanted something done right, you ought to do it yourself… that the contributions of others would only dilute his thinking or get him lost in comparisons and imitations antithetical to true novelty.

Oh yes: That tiny Elf deigned to tell the makers of the world exactly how it’s done, leaving Melkor standing there, seething with envy, preoccupied, as it were, with the ‘kinds of comparisons and imitations contradictory to true novelty’

As for the son of Indis, he just so happened to keep some friendship with Ulmo, who had almost certainly warned him off. And this even though Ulmo hardly even came to Valimar! Talk about back luck.

Unlike his elder half-brother, he usually kept a veneer of dignity and propriety, but past this token courtesy, he kept away, refusing to even greet him, and telling all his household to do the same.

Out of all the royal children, he judged the younger princess the most credulous, but she was greatly swayed by the directives of her brother and besides harbored no detectable ambitions.

The other two were wholly hopeless, taking much after their mother’s people; The older daughter held a great distaste for politics and a fervent reverence for the Valar, and the youngest was useless in Melkor’s eyes – a quiet faint-heart, he would call him, so as not to think of his observant, knowing eyes.

Once, he’d gotten the elder prince to stay in a room with him by enticing him with a bit of verbal sparring, hinting ever so obliquely that one of his theories on the nature of the universe might possibly be wrong, he carefully strews in the insinuation for which all this setup has been but a stage: “You might be right in that respect – are you not the greatest of your people? They ought to listen to their betters, though perhaps it’s not surprising that they do not when even the king does not follow you in this. We don’t have parents or offspring like you do, so maybe this is just an aspect where the minds of our peoples are very far apart, but it does strike me as strange that you still have a lesser man ruling when a better exists.”

This was, perhaps, too much too soon; He meant to flatter the Elf’s ego; Instead, he was faced with his bristles: “What’s it to you anyways?”

“Oh, forgive me if I overstepped – it is just that I cannot help but take an interest in you. You and I are so much alike.”

That puny Elf ought to have been flattered, hardly deserving comparison with the mightiest being in this world, but instead, he had the audacity to scoff:

“What would I have in common with the likes of you?”

“Oh, I do not believe that you haven’t noticed.

Look out at this fenced little garden, all running smoothly like clockwork, all very pleasant… for those who could ever be satisfied with such a thing, always walking in front of the cart than someone else straps to your back. But that could never be enough for men like you or I – Those who have the brilliance to aspire to true greatness, who would never be satisfied with dancing to someone else’s Pipe… We do not belong in a gilded cage such as this. And how could it be otherwise, considering that I created you.”

Bull’s eye. For one moment, Melkor thought that the little Elf might forget himself, and attempt to strike his better with his puny little hands. But for all his bravado, even he was not so brave.

Though, if Melkor were able to die at all, there’s a chance that the piercing brightness of those smoldering eyes might have done it.

He needed to seize this moment before the prince had the time to regain those famed wits of his:

“All your life, you have been looked at something suspicious. Something they don’t understand. Sure, Manwe may pity you, too, but do you want his pity? Or do you even need it? They’ve told you that you’ve been the victim of an injustice, but come to think of it, this whole ‘justice’ thing’ seems rather overblown, right? After all, that supposed ‘injustice’ has worked out rather nicely for you. It’s not exactly ‘fair’ that you should be born with so much more power than has been allotted to the remainder of your people-”

Knowing naught of what was good for him, that wily Elf had the gall to spit at Melkor’s feet.

Had he been holding anything at the moment, he might have been crazed enough to cast it at the Dark Vala’s face.

“You actually think I’m going to thank you for killing my mother? Preposterous! Your lot must be very different from us indeed.”

Melkor tried his wiles on the younger brother as well, when he invited himself to Tirion, putting on some spiel about how it would be an honor to be led around the place by the son of the king, such that Nolofinwe would feel honor-bound to comply, even if he kept all he said to a purely professional level, dropping not a single unnecessary word.

They were just passing by the ballroom of the palace, where there was a great portrait of the royal family in their younger years, the King and Queen with all their little offspring swarming all over them like ants – and right next to it, there was another, of a single sullen-looking youth taking up as much space on the wall as everyone else in the other image put together. A piece that was hung in this place for longer than Nolofinwe had been alive. It must seem to him now to be just a little longer, possibly less than the gap between his own two batches of offspring which had long since ceased to matter, the blink of an eye now – and yet it has been there for as long as he could think back.

“Ostentatious, isn’t it? There’s another huge one in his Majesty’s study. You just can’t get away from his mug inside this castle. You can’t write a letter without using the glyphs he invented, you can’t call in the lords for a meeting without using a Palantir, or pass through the inner corridors without passing rows and rows of those lamps, or visit a local soiree without everyone being about the latest work of his son at you – you know, the musician one.”

“My brother is very accomplished.” was all that Nolofinwe said to this, a simple, sober statement, wisely enough, continuing his stride unperturbed until they reached the next destination worth pointing out. But Melkor was pretty confident that he must be making progress at getting under his skin.

“I imagine it must be quite grating for you. You don’t see him showing around any guests.”

Particularly not those making a point to annoy the hosts.

“Believe me, I understand! I too would love to go a single change of the lights without having to hear everyone going on about my oh-so accomplished big brother! You can’t walk two blocks here without hearing anyone singing the praises of Manwe. It’s worse yet in Valimar… I mean, I am mightier than he, and yet, it was him who was put in charge of this joint! Can you imagine?”

“What I imagine is that Illuvatar would have had a good reason for that.”

“Oh, how very faithful of you. How very faithful and loyal and hardworking… So very long-suffering and forgiving…. I just wonder if anyone’s ever gonna reward you for it.”

Though he resembled him much in face, Prince Nolofinwe was not so easygoing as his overly loquacious father. Melkor could tell that he was getting near to over-straining his patience. He knew that he had to be careful now lest his intentions should become too apparent… but what the hell? You’ve got to make your own fun in this place, and Melkor got so few opportunities nowadays.

“You know, you remind me a little bit of how my brother used to be, all the way back in the timeless halls. So reliable and steadfast and always eager to please. But you wanna know the difference between him and you?”

“No.”

“Alright then, I’ll tell you anyway, as a bit of solidarity between underestimated younger brothers… In Manwe’s case, our father actually noticed. I mean, of course, he did – he’s Illuvatar, the creator of the universe, the one who sees all things. Yours might be a king, but in the end, he’s but a fallible creature of flesh and blood, sentimental and easily swayed by shiny things. You can’t always expect him to know what’s good for him… Oh, I’m sure he means well, but you’ve got to admit that your brother is ever so gifted at wrapping people around his little finger-”

Oh, would you look at that – that must have struck a nerve. There was a glint of something confrontational in the prince’s eyes, a quick shift in his weight…. But whatever it was, it remained contained, for now, lending a firmness to the second princes’ undaunted voice:

“It is true that my brother can be difficult sometimes, but he is still my brother. Watch what you say about the king and his household in the walls of his own house.”

That irritating little…!

Okay. Fine then.

He would use other means then.

Melkor was not at all a patient person – Indeed his anger swelled ever further with every moment that it went without an outlet.

But he was older than the universe, used to operating on very different timescale even compared to the Eldar.

No doubt that Manwe and the others would feel that the peace of their paradise had been poisoned in the blink of an eye.

It had been more or less the same in Almaren – not everyone who’d been working for Melkor knew they were working for Melkor.

You don’t need someone to agree with you; Indeed, you’d be surprised at how easily you can get them to accept some premise if they’re distracted by trying to argue against you on a completely different topic.

A seed once planted could come to bear fruit many years later.

Though they might now rebuff him, he was certain that both the princes must even now be ruminating on some of what he said.

He swore that all their virtues would be made into his tools.

There is always, always a weakest link somewhere.

…

Once he got permission to leave Valimar, Melkor set himself up in Tirion permanently.

Manwe had bidden him not to accept any special honors, so as a show of penance, he took up fairly ordinary lodgings in the artisan’s quarters.

The noise of the multitudes wafted up to him from the streets, the sounds of tools striking material, chattering voices, the smells of daily business, and smoke of forges and cooking fires poured from the chimneys;

Oh how he wished to change every noise in this place into screams and moans of agony, chained to the rhythm of his own, commanding voice, like to a single, cosmic drumbeat in the full extent of its splendor.

In the building across the street, there was a wainwright’s workshop.

A little family business, in which all the artisans had known each other for days untold, and each spent hours beyond accounting perfecting his own specialty.

Any carriage or coach coming out of that place would be a wholly unique piece with its own charm and beauty, a love’s labor of many hours, be it an opulent, representative piece for one of the local nobles, a practical vehicle to serve the needs of another local business or just a simple, ordinary means for a typical citizen to get from A to B.

Even the more humble pieces were elegant in their simplicity or may arrive covered in detailed geometric carvings if the user so desired… for this was the splendor of Valinor, where things of great beauty were like grains of sand on a beach.

The business had a long waiting list, but they did not refuse any sort of customer in favor of another, serving people from every station and status, and offering their services as much to visiting strangers as they did to their fellow citizens of Tirion.

There did Melkor knock on the doors to find himself a job, like any other citizen.

Manwe was sure to find such ‘humility’ pleasing, sigh contentedly to himself, and then move on to something different…

Though this was only part of his intentions.

The elves in the workshop are reluctant at first. They remember, correctly, that he is the brother of a king, and notice that he has to duck a bit to pass through their door frame.

Only the Vanyar are really used to seeing all that many Ainur on a regular basis. Of course, there are those among the Noldor who travel around the place, more so than among the other kindreds, visiting the inner plains and all that dwell in the lands of the Valar, but not everyone does, and those who do, don’t stay too long. They have absolutely seen a Maia before (and possibly interested them in some carriages), even the other Valar, maybe out in the streets or during holiday ceremonies, but it is not an everyday sight.

They stand around in amazement, stumble over any instructions, and they cannot endure his gaze for long. Small pleasures, thinks Melkor, but on the surface, he claims to be looking for nothing other than penance and brushes off any attempts to address him as “Sir”, “Your Highness” or “Milord”.

There is a bit of method-acting going into his claim that he only wishes to reconnect with his original desire, which once upon a time was to simply make novel things.

At first, he simply does what he is asked, nothing more, nothing less, just long enough for everyone to get used to him, and then just a little bit longer for good measure.

But whatever he did, he made sure to do it well, garnering any number of “Thank you’s” and ever so slightly working his way up to ‘You’re amazing’-s and ‘You saved me’-s, as slowly as he could without appearing threatening. He waited until they’d say it as one would to an old friend.

Only Melkor himself would ever know if there was ever a moment where he felt tempted to become the mask, to abandon his faraway fantasies of grandeur to take up the joy of making once again.

But what is known for sure is that he must have studied the artisans in that workshop down to the most minute detail, their weaknesses, their flaws, their hidden wishes, and their deepest insecurities.

Within the decade, the Marriage of the Master Artisan was noticeably on the rocks, some of the most dedicated apprentices had struck out on their own over creative differences, and lifelong friends once united in passion had become embittered rivals.

Much of what made the establishment’s style unique was diluted so that it would in time lose its prestige.

But not yet – not at first. In the beginning, the employees of that little business would have seen the star of their fortune rising, feeding the conceit that lent its teeth to each of their ensuing arguments.

Melkor was non remotely suspected – indeed, he seemed the architect of the recent success, at least the single one that everyone could agree on even if they were first naming themselves.

He would carefully plant an idea, and then watch the Master and his lady wife fighting over which of them had come up with it first.

“What if instead of producing each piece with long extensive labor, we would make them en mass from uniform, mass-produced pieces? We could deliver so many more!”

The artisans would never have agreed to compromise their quality and aesthetic all at once, but bit by bit, their carriages became less unique, less well-made, less long-lasting, and yet this seemed at first a success since it caused their customers a need for frequent replacement.

Others wished also for sudden success and were directed to consult Melkor, who then just proceeded to remind them ever so gently that he was far more than a common artisan and could offer them not just minor tweaks to their technique, but untapped knowledge from the corners of the universe.

That’s how he got his foot in the door with the scholars, and he revealed to them in those days a great number of truths which, when only half understood, could be prone to throw the mind into doubt. It is not impossible that the misunderstandings here were, in the first place, Melkor’s own, but he certainly wouldn’t have refrained from misrepresenting anything that could be twisted to his use.

…

This was when the rare travelers would first have noticed something off, bringing back confused tales to the inner lands, or to the shore-rims of the foamriders.

It was not yet coalesced into a discernible cloud of disharmony and malcontent – No, the first sign that Princess Earwen of Alqualonde had of anything being amiss, long before the blood in the harbor, was when her eldest son returned from his travels to the white city, beset with a strange sort of melancholia.

He tries his best to hide it, but of course, his mother senses it at once, and tries undeterred to gently coax it out of him – She thinks at first that he’s reticent out of embarrassment, that’s a normal, harmless matter – a quarrel with Amarie perhaps?

For why else wouldn’t he tell her, if their bond was always one of closeness and trust?

With some subtle, well-directed prodding and loving words, he got him at least to relax into her arms – he held onto her, suddenly, all too tight, careless of his strength.

He didn’t resist her, but her touch brought him no comfort.

When he let go at last, he looked her in the face and asked her:

“Mother, have you ever wondered what will become of us when the Great Music is at its end?”

She had no answer for this.

…

Every movement, no matter how righteous, is going to have its crazy fringe.

That is why not everyone who supports the same measures follows them for the same reason.

Part of the mortifying ordeal of being known is that you cannot choose what people will like about you, what draws them to you, or what they might make you a symbol for.

There is no belief so pure that a wicked one could not fashion it into a club with which to beat others.

Some favored Price Feanaro because they truly believed in all his noble talk of freedom and independence; Others disliked the foreign Queen simply for being foreign and followed the son who despised her simply because he was a full-blooded Noldo.

And like it was with his detractors: There was much genuine criticism to be made of his rashness, and partiality, and there were those turning up their noses when he didn’t always act like a conventional prince… or at all conventional. To them, Nolofinwe did the trick simply because his mother was a princess.

Even among those who held steadfast to the Valar you might find those who did it with a holier-than-thou attitude, a love of looking virtuous more than a love of virtue itself, which was more like to put people off than to lead them back into the fold.

All these scattered embers, Melkor went to find, and to stoke, and soon there were little fires everywhere.

Chapter Text

Lalwen had been a sought-out, wanted summer child, born at the noontide of paradise, once the matters of succession were long since resolved on account of her older brothers, brought into this world for no other reason than joy and delight, and so they named her ‘Desired’ and ‘Laughing Maiden’, and that name had served her well once, back when she used to roam the hills.

But now summer was over, and she had little left to laugh about.

Now she went about in silver armor, her long, dark curls tied up behind her back, marching forward in a resolute stride, a look of grim severity on her face.

Like many in her city, she had not had a sense of the temperature rising, little by little, until it was well-nigh near the boil.

She did not always walk about with a sigil-carved shield, looking behind her at every turn;

Visiting her brother had not always involved telling a passphrase to a guard.

She did not use to carry a sword concealed underneath her cape.

There was a time when she never would have believed the news she was now hurrying to share –

“Beware!” it was said to her, “Small love has the proud son of Miriel ever had for the children of Indis. Now he has become great, and he has his father in his hand. It will not be long before he drives you forth from Tuna!”

The source was nebulous at best; She never doubted this and so believed that she had never lost sight.

But greater than her suspicions was her concern for her brother, who was sure to bear the brunt of the assault, as he ever had for so long as she could remember, taking the blows in her stead, and that of their other sister and brother who would prefer to stand aside.

Well, she wouldn’t.

Sure she had considered that the rumors could be wrong, and so she thought herself in control of her fate; But greater than the embarrassment of being mistaken was the terror she would feel knowing that she had failed to stop a real and potent threat.

She could not afford to proceed with caution, she thought, not when the price of being wrong could be so high.

She would not have known to weigh the price of being wrong in the other direction; It was an unknown in this yet untarnished land.

The son of Miriel and his unforgiving scorn, however?

That was very known to her indeed.

This is why she made the choice to conceal the source of the warning from her brother – For his own good, she thought, so that he might heed it.

Had he known then that the tip had come from Melkor, he might have dismissed it out of hand.

…

Arafinwe had a very bad feeling about this.

In fact, it had been a long long while since he didn’t.

After the fact, it would seem all but obvious that a seer of his caliber would be left with a constant throbbing in his third eye just in advance of the second greatest cataclysm that would ever comes to Valinor’s shores, but while he was in it, the bothersome sensation was so persistent so as to cease being a useful signal and end up being just a distraction that was best numbed out with potions and draughts.

It’s not that he wanted to avert his sight from the truth – or so he told himself – but the two eyes in his face were more than enough to tell him that things were bad.

He felt the knot in his gut growing ever tighter as he watched his brother and sister coming at each other with blades.

It was just a friendly sparring match of course, though all the other warriors on the training grounds stopped their works and gathered round to see this particular match, for there was nothing else like it to be seen.

The prince and princess swept forward like winged beasts, leaping to great heights and crossing blades up in the air, assaulting each other from above, below, from every possible angle.

Their brother stood at the sidelines like everyone else, a swish of formal robes in an anthill of armored warriors, a ray of gold I a sea of dark heads. He wasn’t observing them for the first time – he could tell how their work, condition, and technique had gotten deadlier.

He wouldn’t call it better – though even he needed all of his attention to follow the speed of their blows. Nolofinwe was greater in strenght, but Lalwen was faster.

His stern face was glistening with sweat by the time that he overpowered her – she wore a ferocious grin as she picked herself up the ground. This match she had lost when her shoulders touched the ground, but in a real fight, she might have continued, or so she thought.

She would not yet have known that a real enemy might not be so generous as to grant her that chance.

Pleased with herself despite her loss (for her brother’s position was absolute in their camp, or more so yet to his admiring sister), she called out to her younger brother on the sidelines: “Not bad, huh?”

Her face fell along with most of her energy when she actually took in his face, restrained in disapproval, but heavy with unease and very far from pleased.

She trailed after Nolofinwe as he cleared their spot, leaning on his sword here and there, his breathing still elevated as he asked what was basically a somber version of the same question.

The golden-haired prince felt a particularly unpleasant pang of foreboding digging in between his eyes.

“I want no part in this, and you know it.”

“And yet you are here with us.”

Yes, yes he was. Though Arafinwe felt as of late that he was being tested. His sister, too, regarded him with expectant blue eyes, round and clear like her mother’s, yet lined up into an expression she would never have worn.

“Look, Ingoldo - I’m not asking that you pick up a sword. I’m in need of your opinion, your judgment – yours was always the clearest of us all.”

“That’s a lot of faith that you’re putting into me, brother. I wouldn’t be so sure of this…”

Arafinwe was, after all, still here.

“I’m not even sure what you’re so frightened of. If you keep going like this, you might as well ask Lord Tulkas if he wants to spar with you. I’m not sure what kind of enemy you are expecting.”

“You do know,” said Lalwen, not accusing but markedly sharp.

Arafinwe wanted to sigh. Or scream. Or cry.

“Feanaro is only one man. He’s flesh and blood just like you. He eats, sleeps, and, believe it or not, once in a while he visits the lavatory. He’s nothing so frightening as to merit this. As far as this nonsense goes, you probably surpass him in skill already. I’ve seen him going at it with his people; He’s just hacking at wooden poles left and right with no thought of dodging. He doesn’t know his limits – He’s much too used to being able to overpower just about any opponent with that obscene strength of his. The only one who can come even close to giving him any real challenge is Maitimo. If he had asked me this same question, I’d tell him to try sparring with you for a change, but as things stand, I’d be much too worried that you two might end up skewering each other for real.”

The rather grim warning was not what ended up sticking in Nolofinwe’s ears:

“Then you’ve seen him? He’s actually making preparations in secret?”

His sister’s question was even bolder:

“Did you sneak into his hideout?”

To Arafinwe, they both seemed frighteningly quick to assume the worst.

“I did no such thing.”

Lalwen smirked: “Then he thinks you’re beneath his notice, huh? It’s an error he’ll live to regret.”

Nolofinwe’s mind was elsewhere, however:

“Then he’s flaunting his aggression in our faces. I can’t believe he’s dragging his children into it, too...”

“Yes. The same as you, brother.”

The older prince restrained any displeasure he might have felt, but his steely determination did not waver for one moment: “I am defending myself, my family and my people.”

“You see, brother, the problem here is that he thinks he is doing exactly the same.”

Nolofinwe said nothing to this, but his sister did nor remain quite so calm, almost giving the voice of what went unsaid in the bristling tense air: “You can’t be serious! Then what would you have us do instead, Ingoldo? Remain defenseless and turn our back until he sees fit to plunge a dagger in there? I think not.”

Arafinwe’s countenance remained sober. He didn’t have much left to appeal to, nor much hope of succeeding, but this once, he made a valiant attempt at not shirking unpleasant duties:

“You don’t know for a fact that he is going to do that. You don’t even know where that whole story came from.”

“I know enough. I hate to say this, brother, but you’ve been gone from Tirion for a long, long time. Our brother has… changed, as of late…”

Chastised just a bit, Arafinwe might have been willing to leave it at this and keep stewing in foreboding.

Lalwen was not:

“Changed Changed how? Oh cut it out! He’s the same as he’s always been. He’s just saying the quiet parts out loud now that his fame has gone to his head.”

“Even if that was true, Father would never allow it.”

The princess was not so impressed:

“Oh, you think so? Look me in the face, Ingoldo, and take a look at reality. You’re not a fool. When has father ever done anything to keep him from doing with us whatever he wanted?”

“This is different. This isn’t just some… childhood squabble.”

“Exactly! This is life or death, and still, he does nothing while that madman plots against us. When has the son of Miriel ever shown the slightest bit of care for us? When has he ever treated us with anything but disdain? He can’t even be bothered to hide his loathing… You know as well as I do that he wants nothing more than to make it so that none of us ever existed.”

Arafinwe narrowed his eyes, creasing his forehead into a deep dark frown.

His pale lips pressed together into a thin straight line.

“That I will believe, but there’s nothing in this world that could convince me that he would ever act against father.”

Nolofinwe scoffed at this: “Is he not acting against father right now? All this riling up the people with this absord talk that we would all be better off if our people had never followed him out of the wilderness? Father has been very… patient with him up until now. He likes to see the good in people. He feels sorry for him. Guilty for displeasing him, even. He’s not looking at this with sound judgment. For his good as well as that of our children, we must take this into our own hands!”

It was not just that prophetic headache that made Arafinwe feel like the world was spinning.

Overwhelmed as he felt, he kept the mastery of his own person, restraining whatever he might have felt or thought from showing on his solemn features, condensing it all into one single, bitter question:

“Say, with the way that you’re talking of swords, mastering them, having them made… aren’t you worried that they’re going to be used?”

His words fell on deaf ears.

...

Arafinwe passed Feanaro in the palace just a few hours earlier, with his head held high and his sons in tow. The missus was conspicuously absent.

Arafinwe took stock of their procession, sticking to his corner, keeping out of their way. They just passed him by, like he wasn’t even reflected in their eyes – the eldest of the seven looked severe, the second, deeply concerned; Most of the others could not hide their smirks, or the sense of hostility radiating off in waves.

They had changed their clothes, but the grime sticking to their boots betrayed where they had been.

Arafinwe knew better than to try talking to any of them.

Across from himself, in another door arch bordering the same central passageway, Arafinwe spotted his two younger sons and his nephew Findekano, still often seen as an inseparable trio even now that Angarato had a family of his own to mind.

He didn’t need foresight or mind-speech to suspect that the thoughts running through their minds must not have been too different from his own.

Here was a cause that did not seem lost yet – he made sure to smile at them, to say some words of reassurance, maybe, insofar as he could do that without lying.

“I just don’t get it!” confessed Angarato morosely, “We’d been hoping that we could all hit the town for old time’s sake while Eldalote is taking Artaresto to see her parents, but now we’ve got this whole… situation… after we came all this way! Carnistir has been insufferable the whole time, and now Tyelkormo and Curvo won’t even talk to us, just because their father told them to… what are they, children? Didn’t he have Russandol when he was barely of age? At this point they’re barely older than him. Curvo’s got a kid of his own. Shouldn’t they have learned to think for themselves by now? How can they do this to us? Didn’t our friendship mean anything to them at all? How can they spread such lies about us!”

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” cautioned Findekano, ever the open-minded one. “We don’t know that they did. Russandol swears he knows nothing of this, and he’s nothing else if not a man of his word. At least, I don’t know why he would lie. I think deep down he knows this whole thing is nonsense…”

“Does he? He sure doesn’t act like it...”

“That’s exactly what concerns me. As he tells it, we’re the ones doing the plotting as far as they’ve heard. Even Turukano and I were named as conspirators – That’s why Uncle Feanaro wants them to stay away from us. I don’t think Russandol ever really believed it, but he came to me demanding an explanation.” admitted Findekano. A rare glimpse of sorrow broke through his sunny, diplomatic demeanor, “Something really doesn’t add up here. - if we didn’t spread it, and they didn’t, either…”

“You sure he’s not just screwing with you? That would seem to be the simplest explanation if you’re asking me… I know it sucks. We didn’t expect Tyekormo and Curvo to turn on us either, but, their actions speak louder than words... ”

Findekano seemed… uncertain, in his uncles’ estimation. He saw the arguments, but he was still reluctant to decide on any condemnation.

“It feels like we’ve been away for long…” mused Aikanaro, who had been observing the debate in silence, with a troubled, pensive look on his face. “...though it hasn’t been that much longer than usual.”

Arafinwe did what he could to smile and present his usual calm, unperturbed self now that his sons and nephew were probably counting on his familiar solid presence more than ever:

“This is all troubling indeed – but I don’t see why it should stop you three from enjoying your day off. You have worked hard you deserve a reprieve from your duties.”

“I guess you’re right…” judged Angarato, “In any case, my in-laws are expecting us for dinner by the first silver hour. I don’t want to tell them that we spent all this time sulking when they ask us about our days.”

But once they had left, Arafinwe couldn’t stop thinking about his nephews’ words, which had been troubling indeed.

...

“I for once don’t see why Tyelkormo and the others would do this. I just don’t believe it.” confessed the princess Irisse, bouncing her legs as she waited for her soon-to-be-playmate to finish that one-more-chapter she’d wanted to read before going out.

“Of course you don’t.” replied her cousin Artanis, clapping the book shut, “You and your brothers are all horrible judges of character. One day, it shall become your undoing.”

This she spoke with such certainty that she considered the topic all done for, and swiftly moved on to the next as she tied her riding boots:

“Did aunt Lalwen say where she’s going to pick us up?”

By the stables, as it would turn out. Their outings together had been something of a long-calcified ritual, dating back to when the ladies had been little girls languishing with their playthings while their older brothers went in and out the palace and its various rooms for plenty of important work, too young to go out on their own – at the time, Lalwen had offered to go with them them, acting much as if her presence was but a convenient excuse for the girls to be allowed to go wherever they pleased, and it was under her tutelage that the girls had learned to love the woods and the hills.

Of course, it was long, long ago now that the younger princesses had ever thought of themselves as little girls, or since those outings had long since morphed from a measure for the amusing of children into pleasant togetherness on a more even basis.

Even so, in these uncertain times, the young princesses might still find some relief in this remaining regular occurrence remaining unchanged, even if a certain proud platinum blonde would not admit this even to herself until she was a very different, much older person far removed from everyone she had known in those early days.

But this older, wiser person would remember Lalwen as she had been once the last splinters of her good cheer had come off on the ice, and struggle to determined how much of what became a hollowed mask, in the end, had still been genuine on this occasion.

High on horseback, on their way from the stables, the three ladies happened to pass the king as they rode past the gardens, not all too close honestly, but so distantly as to be outside a mortal’s range of sight, and the king himself certainly did see them.

His granddaughters would remember him sitting at the dinner table, engrossed in some intense conversation with his eldest son, patient but exhausted in the face of his many emphatic gestures, and then, the king standing up and waving, looking to get their attention with some sort of casual greeting.

His daughter must have seen him, but she made no answer – she just kept riding forward, suddenly strange and cold, saying no word to the younger ladies.

They would remember this differently, the elder – if only by a few months – recalling the instant where the mood around her suddenly turned cold, and the younger, hiding behind hate to stave off the fear and dark foreboding that gripped her heart… fighting down unseemly frustration at her cousin’s confusion to reassure her later from a place of benevolence.

Princess Artanis had never liked her uncle. He was unfriendly and catty, and overly opinionated, something to be endured rather than welcomed – besides, she’d often had the feeling that he was looking at her as some kind of thing, a fascinating research sample maybe, lacking all of the warmth that one would expect a man to show towards his family members.

But what began as an ordinary bad impression had since coalesced into something more, some worst possible feeling, like an ugly blotch of dark ink that followed him wherever he went, ominous chains following to the future, like the Ouverture of a darker theme.

She looked for rational justifications in her mind precisely because she could not put it into words – something tainted, something discordant… a rotten black heart full of thorns.

…

“See father? They’re definitely plotting something!”

“Your sister probably just wasn’t paying attention, dear.”

“I’m telling you, something’s going to happen. Something big. I’ve been feeling it for a long, long time now…”

“...since you started working on the Silmarils?” guessed the King… it was probably for the best that his son was to absorbed in his own argument to register that sad, tired look in his father’s eyes.

Or perhaps, he did notice.

“Long before that. It’s the reason I created them in the first place. I feel it with everything that I am. If it’s not the Valar, or that woman, it’s something else, but I am certain. More certain than I have been of anything in my life. And I for once don’t plan to sit and wait here until it comes.”

“Look around you, Feanaro!” the King, who had not thought of sitting down yet, stretched out his arms in a semi-circle to gesture far and wide at his surroundings – the fresh grass, the great branches of white that could be seen poking through the white marble towers from the town square, the whole wide sky awash in golden light.

“What thing of that sort could possibly happen here?”

“You know better.” said the prince, asserting it to himself in disbelief. “You know this place isn’t safe. You and I must know, even if everyone else were led astray, and all the world against us. You used to live free before you ever even knew of this place, or have you forgotten that as well?”

With a drawn sigh, the king crumpled back into his seat, his voice suddenly quiet.

“I’ve only told you the parts that were worth remembering. You don’t know what’s out there – and I’m glad that you don’t know. I’m glad you didn’t have to know. And no matter what went wrong along the way, or all the things that didn’t turn out like I imagined them, I will never regret coming here. If I hadn’t come here, I could never have had you, nor your brothers and sisters. And I would never choose a world without you exactly as you are, no matter how imperfect the circumstances through which you came to be.

Before you curse this place, I just want you to consider that the very light you would renounce is shining out of your eyes this instant. You wouldn't have been as you are if this world were without flaws, or if we’d never come here. ”

Far from comforted or enlightened, the prince left this conversation disturbed. But he said to himself that he was not trapped, not while he still had possession of that which he had stashed away in his vault. Which made it ever more vital that it should remain in his control.

…

(Arafinwe too, thought of telling his father of his foreboding, but he didn’t see how further panic was going to be helpful in this situation;

He simply didn’t know enough. What little he could gleam was too vague, too heavy on the fabric of time.

Could the thing even be avoided? Would flailing to prevent it just make it happen quicker?

Lalwen and Nolofinwe didn’t seem to feel anything – they seemed to take after their father in that regard. How enviable, to be free to move and choose as one might without feeling the constraints of inevitability.

Arafinwe didn’t know if Findis knew anything. It had been long since they’d had the time to speak and meet.

The life of a high priestess was a busy one, far more than the leisurely affairs of a Third Prince who was 17^th in line.)

...

The children of Indis met again in a corner of the royal palace – well, almost all of them.

“Where’s Findis?”

Nolofinwe sighed deeply as if he would have preferred to forgive and forget the absence that had now been brought to the forefront of attention by his own remaining sister. “She says, I quote, that ‘she will have no part of our plotting’.” The Second Prince’s view was more sympathetic than anything else: “I don’t know what she’s heard… it’s been long since she has been to Tirion. She doesn’t know what’s going on down here.”

“No wonder!” spat Lalwen, “She’s always thought herself too good for us, hasn’t she? She can stay up there for all I care. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t rat us out to the Valar if she didn’t like what we were talking…”

“So this unfounded suspicion has gone to your head as well?” remarked Arafinwe, his voice tinged with sadness.

Though present, he was lingering near the cloth that hung across the door arch, painfully aware that the remaining three of them no longer presented much of a unified picture.

Even between the ever-inseparable middle two, he could sense the growing impatience that rung in each of Lalwen’s pacing steps and Nolofinwe’s somber reluctance to agree with her words quite as readily as she did with his. His discomfort was particularly palpable each time she criticized their father, but what he might not admit to himself in the inner depths of his heart might be a different matter altogether.

He stuck to safer territory then: “What of him speaking openly in the town square? Is this unfounded too?”

Arafinwe wondered how long it was since either of those two had been comfortable with saying any of Feanaro’s names. In public, Nolofinwe would still make a show of referring to him as ‘our brother’, but increasingly, it was becoming just that, a performance, because he felt their father would expect him to, and because he felt somewhere that the brother in question should be more ashamed of not doing the same – a display of generosity from a position of righteousness atop just enough of a genuine wish remaining for the true reality to keep picking at the scab.

He didn’t think that Lalwen ever had any positive feelings towards Feanaro whatsoever; She’s never had the need to cling in desperation, with far worthier options around. If any bond remained, it would be a dark and blackened thing, dangling nowhere on the other side.

He chose to ask the hard question:

“So, what do you intend to do?”

Nolofinwe spoke at last, like a glacier finally moving.

“...father is calling the lords into assembly to discuss the matter.”

“Finally!” quipped Lalwen.

“So, do you want me to proofread your speech?”

“Actually, I was thinking to dispense with that altogether, and speak with father myself before the event. Let him know that he can count on me, at least. And yourselves, if you will pledge yourselves to our cause. Lalwen’s already given me her yes. So what about you, brother. Can I count on you?”

It was a certain, leaderlike speech, a broad invitation, like asking was merely a matter of formality – but there was still a question there, and not without reason.

Arafinwe was, more than anything else, alarmed:

“-Before the meeting? That’s a breach of protocol. If Feanaro finds out-”

But Nolofinwe would hear none of that:

“I think we have all done rather enough catering to his whims. I must do what is best for our house and our people, no matter what he says.”

“There are other ways to do this."

"Then what would you propose I do? Let him go on and on with his clever tongue until he's swayed all the lords to his heresies?"

"You're more popular with the lords than he is - they are by no means guaranteed to follow his lead. Besides, tensions are high throughout the city right now, this is not the time to needlessly provoke him…”

“Provoke him?! Is it a ‘provocation’ now if I want to speak to my own father in my own house? Don’t you and I have as much of a right to be here as he does?”

“Of course not – but the assembly is a delicate situation… If you act on your own like that, you will just confirm everything he thinks.”

“Which exactly why we have no time to bother jumping through Curufinwe’s ridiculous hoops-”

That was the point when something shattered, silent yet deafening.

“Yes. Yes it is ridiculous.” conceded Arafinwe, his voice not yet raised. But it was steadily getting there, and this was a very strange thing to witness.

Even his own brother had only the vaguest notion of what his angry voice even sounded like, but now that he heard it, he’d never forget.

“Yes,” he began, gaining traction with every word, “It’s farcical, idiotic, and above all things inane. Sometimes you do have to do ridiculous things. All the things that you’re too good for. Sometimes you have no choice but to bend and fawn and grovel. Sometimes you have to go and make yourself the buffoon and do without your pride, your self-importance, and your daily pinch of adulation, along with everything else you think is so more important than anything else, no because you love it, but so that for the low, low price of compromising your dignity, we might actually keep this entire city from descending into riots – unless that is not, in fact, what you want!”

“Ingo...-”

“You don’t get it, Ingo.” shot Lalwen, “He’s not gonna suffer us no matter how much we dance to his bloody tune – he hates us just for existing, and he’s not gonna be satisfied until we’re gone from this world!”

“This is not about Feanaro-” the youngest retorted, hands actually clenched into fists – and then, becoming aware of himself, he unclenched them, and he surrendered. “You know what?! Fine! Do what you will. You can have my support or whatever, I’ll do whatever you want. That’s what all of you are gonna do anyway, no matter what I say. Do as you please! Do what you cannot leave be! Go ahead and do it!”

This would be the only time in all the life of Arda that Lalwen and Nolofinwe had ever seen their younger brother lose his bearings.

…

Later that day, princess Lalwen would do her best to make sure that her brother understood at least one thing:

“I am always on your side, you know that? I’ve been on your side from the day I was born.”

But Nolofinwe was not reassured.

He kept thinking about the words of his brother.

The younger one of course – the only one who counted for much these days.

...

Long now the scholars would wonder whatever it was that went through Prince Nolofinwe’s heart when he found the infamous sword pointed straight at his chest.

Anguish and betrayal perhaps? Immovable courage? Some indescribable rending of the heart at the sight of a sin that had never been committed before?

The truth of the matter was that he was in no place to feel much of anything – most of his consciousness was taken up by racing calculations:

‘What are the odds that he’ll actually do it?’

‘What’s the chance that anyone will intervene?’

‘What sort of damage could he do with that weapon?’

‘How might he react if I reach for his arms?’

‘Could I find any way out?’

Every motion in that moment was deliberate, every rise of his chest so controlled as not to brush that dangerous tip, consciousness condensed on keeping perfectly still.

To think that for a moment, he’d had his case in the bag, that his rival had very much done him the favor by showing up fully armed and waving his sword around like a lunatic, like all he needed to do was bow, not look like a raving lunatic, and let everything else gracefully demonstrate itself.

He’d felt this prick of instinct traveling up his spine like something was distinctly off when His Highness The Crown Prince did not immediately storm off in a rage, but he’d dismissed it, all the same, resolving that at the very least he would certainly be the one leaving with his dignity intact.

Then, on the steps of the palace, he found himself rudely seized by the arm and brought to a point where the chance for every single kind of inviolacy would find itself in question.

Never had he felt so aware of every precious fiber in his body.

He could smell his assailant’s sweat, every single flushed pore, a twisted knot of brows, that reasonable facsimile of what could have passed for his father’s nose right next to the wild white eyes of some strange woman who wasn’t his mother.

Now that he had seen this, he figured that he’d never run the risk of fearing any other thing ever again.

Calm.

Keep calm now.

Don’t do a single thing that could have provoked him;

Master yourself. Don’t respond.

Breathe…

The other one blinked first, pulling back his weapon, sauntering off straight through the scandalized crowd completely shameless, like one who just mercifully stopped short of exacting the fullness of his rights.

As for Nolofinwe, he went to do that which he always did when he needed someone to make sense of the world for him.

He went to seek his brother.

...

He expected no solace from his parents in the palace.

He was long gone when his father followed out to the stairs, coming face to face with the crowds in the central town square from which the news had already spread beyond all hope of control.

…

Part of him was not even sure if Arafinwe was even going to take his side.

Family was supposed to stick with you… allegedly… and his younger brother had always been on the fence, always telling him what he ought to do better or how he wanted nothing to do with ‘your quarrels’.

He considered I-told-you-sos. He did weigh the possibility that he might have truly, irrevocably done it now.

But the news had traveled quicker than his body – guess a certain someone shouldn’t have invented the Palantir then if he didn’t want the news of his misdeeds traveling out.

When the gate at Arafinwe’s temporary residence was unsealed, the golden-haired prince came tumbling out just inches after the lock bolt, clasping his arms right around him like he used to do it as a little boy. Even in this same moment, he shivered from the sheer horror and wept hot tears of relief.

Of course he did – this was what a brother was supposed to do, this was the normal, expected reaction to learning that a loved one had only just escaped the clutches of danger.

Once his stay here was known, they just all came pouring in – Lalwen was next, gripping him fiercely to hide her rage-contorted face behind his shoulder. The kids all practically got in line, and even Arafinwe’s seemed to feel the need to at least touch his hand or grab his shoulder.

Anaire, whom few things could daunt most of the time, just wept endlessly into his chest, running her hand over his chest, arms and face again and again as if to smooth over a crumpled piece of clothing. Turukano kept stressing over what to tell his daughter whose keen eyes must have certainly taken in the turmoil of the adults around her despite Elenwe’s valiant attempts to soothe her.

By the time Laurelin reached its zenith, then Queen came running with her ornate shoes held in her hands – it seems like no number of her subjects had been able to restrain her from running all the way through the town on her bare feet, having torn out and discarded a number of heavy lop-sided hair ornaments on her way, tearing the seam of her robe.

She pulled all three of her present children close to her at once and refused to let go for an inordinately long time.

All throughout this Nolofinwe was still somewhat numb, focussed largely on doing and concerned with bringing the queen some cloth so towel off her feet, but all this was just to an arbitrary cushion to stave off thinking through the implications for the city until he was reasonably calmed down.

Even so, they must all have been aware that the world they had known could never go back to the way it had been before.

(At no point had Nolofinwe ever asked where his father might be – he’d assumed straight away that he would be otherwise indisposed.)

Chapter Text

Now did Findis come down from the mountain.

An incident of this magnitude couldn’t possibly be ignored.

She was part of the delagation that accompanied the Valar themselves when they came down to investigate the matter; She took part in the questionings and investigations and was present in the assemply as one of many jurors when the son of her father proudly declared himself without a single shred of doubt in the rightheousness of his unprecedented actions.

When Manwe himself consulted her privately to ask her opinion of what might be behind the happenings in Tirion, since it was after all her birthplace, she felt the taint of the association, and judged that it was obvious, for there was one man in all of the city who was most eminent in his pride and flagrant blasphemy, his intemperance made manifest once more by this newest transgression that had outdone all the ones preceding.

But as it stood, her brothers had answered their questioning with contradictory claims, and Findis was asked not as a loyal servant, but as the sister of the accused parties which of the two she believed. They even apologized to her, for forcing onto her what they thought must be a ‘painful choice’.

She felt very little attachment at all that could have moved her heart to pain.

The more she’d heard of both the offending event and the leadup to it, the more she’d felt her chest turning to a stone.

“I don’t know what either of those two are thinking. It seems to me that they have both gone mad – but if you ask of me my best guess, I would guess that the origin of the matter lies with Curufinwe Feranaro. His iconoclastic heresies have long masqueraded as scholarship, and his disposition is known to us all.”

But the King of Arda had just regarded her with some wistful concern, and at last concurred with his wife and appointed Doomsman in their suppositions that there must be more at work, and as the fuller picture emerged over the course of the investigations, the outline of that picture left her on the surface, duly concerned, and in the depht, struggling explain away the touch fear licking up her spine.

She had lived a long time and seen many things, thus having the wisdom to recognize a presence that lay wholly outside the scope of her long, regular experience. There was something new at work here, something disordered, portending the disruption of all she had known, and she did not like it once bit.

So she did what she had always done in the clutches of doubt, and clung ever fiercer to that which she thought to be certain.

…

While both questioning and judgement were still ongoing, fragments of a heated discussion were heard from the lodgings of prince Arafinwe. Of course, it was not the princes’ own words that were hear from the windows.

“He is – NOT – our brother!” declared Lalwen, interrupting the lord of his house in his quieter, gentler words.

She was pacing, gesturing, fuming – and her hairs were out of place.

Her sister, if anything more put-together than usual, looked on from the side of the room like a statue.

“He never wanted to be our brother. He never acted like it – I say he can have his will. As far as I’m concerned, he’s no brother of mine! Our brother”, she stressed, “- just had a deadly weapon pointed to his heart. What manner of family are we if we do not stand with him?”

Immovably rooted in her place, Findis balked at this:

“So because Curufinwe transgressed, you want us to transgress yet more in response? Two wrongs don’t make a right. We shall not lessen the amount of sin in this world by adding to it ourselves in the name of its prevention.”

“We don’t really know what happened yet-” cautioned Arafinwe, struggling to keep it from sounding like exhausted pleading. “Let’s just wait for the end of the trial-”

In her exasperation, Lalwen’s arms when swisching through the the air.

“Come on now! Whose side are you on?”

“There are no sides-” insisted Arafinwe – thought he wondered why he kept trying. He didn’t feel like anyone here was listening to him very much, as of late.

Or maybe they were: The oldest of his sister fixated him with cold eyes: “Are there? Cause I think this matter is very clear. The people of this city are callously renouncing all the good and generosity they received by the grace of the Valar. They are proud and ungrateful and drunken with their might; If the works of their hands and the knowledge they have gathered blind them to goodness and truth, it would have been better for them if they’d kept living in huts rather than to raise up the towers of their pride. They’d all do well to do penance – and that includes you, Arafinwe. You know in your hearts that our brothers are both in error and rebellion, that they are both drunken with jealousy and pride, and utterly irresponsible in their petty rivalry - and yet you dither in calling it by its name. Have some fortitude, will you?

You can’t avoid taking a stand forever.”

It seemed then to Arafinwe that his much divided sisters were suddenly an united front, boring into him with their eyes and urging him to choose.

But he could not.

“You’re all mad!” judged Findis, in more disbelief than wrath, “All four of you have gone completely mad!”

….

The instruction, in itself, was pretty simple:

“Now go to your room, and fetch all the things you’d like us to bring.”

And yet young Tyelperinquar couldn’t seem to shake off this sense of unease that seemed to be permeating the entire town as of late, but most of all his household, and lingered in the doorway, reluctant to bear the tension in the air without the company of his father, though it was no lesser in his presence.

If he had the choice, he would have clung to his father’s robes and refused to leave his side even for a moment, but of course that wasn’t much of an option, since he was supposed to be a big boy now. His father and grandfather always stressed how it was crucial for a man to stand on his own.

Speaking of his father, he was, for the most part, acting like nothing was wrong. All day long, he’d been issuing confident, purposeful orders to all the staff, overseeing with hawkish exactitude how all their belongings were packed away into crates, barels, wagons and carriages.

But there was a subtle, imperceptible difference that the soft heart of a child was bound to pick up, like a crooked note in a symphony.

“Aren’t you forgetting to pack Mama’s stuff? Won’t she be coming with us? Is it going to be a special boys only retreat? Is that why Grandma isn’t coming, either?”

“I expect they’ll follow us soon enough, once they come to their senses.”

There were many follow-up questions that one might have asked to that, but for the first time in his life, Tyelperinquar found that he didn’t want to know the answer to something.

He felt hot and squirmy inside, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

He wished he was with Mama, but if he went to look for her, father would probably get mad.

He wanted to run and hug father, but that would have meant acknowledging a distress that father seemed determined to ignore. It didn’t seem okay to say very much of anything.

Tyelperinquar wanted very much to stand tall and proud like a big boy, but it took all his strenght to keep his lip from quivering.

“I’m going to miss playing Itarille and Artaresto…”

“Never mind them! You’re going to have plenty of splendid new playmates when we get to Formenos.”

“But they’re my friends!”

Now this did draw Prince Curufinwe’s attention ftrom the tools that he had been in the process of packing away.

Right away, Tyelperinquar felt a distinct sensation of panic. Now he’d done it, he feared. Now he’d gone and said something that was not alound…

Hearing the thunder brewing, the boy branced himself for the lightning to strike, but though the charge was clearly present in the air, the strike never came. His fathere merely dropped what he was doing, walked over to the bewildered child and knelt down, so that what he clearly considered important words could be spoken from eye to eye: “Listen son, there’s something that you better understand sooner rather than later: In life, there’s nothing and no one you can count on, except for your family. No one else will stick it out with you no matter what, so you should stick with us as well. Don’t let anyone or anything come before your own blood. Believe me, those two brats are not your friends.”

“But aren’t they our family, too? Isn’t Mama family? Isn’t grandma?”

“They’re supposed to be,” conceded the Prince, though there was something clearly smoldering under the surface. “but it seems they don’t feel like acting the part.”

There was a very ugly expression on his face as he said that.

Normally, whenever he was upset, Tyelperinquar would have ran into his father’s arms for comfort, but now he didn’t know what to do.

“Daddy, I’m confused.”

This he said because of all the complaints he could think of, this one seemed to be the most acceptable.

Yet his feeble attempts at expressing concerns were brushed aside as the immature understanding of a child.

“You’ll understand when you’re older. Now go and fetch your things!”

….

It only became history in hindsight.

When the fateful decisions were first made, they were uncertain, reluctant affairs, many times second-guessed and underestimated in the far-reaching consequences that they would never have had if any detail in what came after had been otherwise.

“The Lords have served me faithfully many years, but by now they’ve each minded their own fiefs for almost as long, so they can tend to consider those first-” the King instructed, though what he’d meant to be a sober reminder of important matters could not held but be suffused by the taut emotional tension that had gripped the entire city.

He could not find it in himself to sound much like an exacting lord and teacher, and his second son listened dutifully in unreadable silence.

“Make sure that you also listen to the guildmasters and don’t lose touch with the problems and opinions of the common men on the ground. When you are in charge, there will be many who would sing your praises and nod to your every word – these you must beware, lest you lose the invaluable guidance of honest counsel.

Moreover, I expect that you might want many of your own staff – I leave this up to your discretion, but whoever you choose, I advise that you foster a relation of trust with them, so that they may prove your most potent assets.”

“Yes, father.” spoke Prince Nolofinwe – a somber, dutyful acknowledgement, nothing more, nothing less. The silver light falling through the windows threw his face in sharp relief.

If you supposed that this conversation was about the management of the city, there was little more left to discuss, and yet, the King seemed to find this lump of doubt in his throat, some unacknowledged shame tugging at his shoulders, a feeling that he ought to say more, if there was anything that could be said under these circumstances, as if words could have made it better. It had long been Finwe’s chosen business to better things with words, but all his rhetorics failed him when it came to his family.

“I don’t doubt,” he tried to make clear, “that our fair city will be left in good hands – besides, you’ll be having Findekano and Turukano to support you much as you have supported me – they’ve come into their own so nicely-”

All true, heartfelt sentiments – yet both men knew that the chief concerns hanging of their heads were not chiefly to do with the administration of Tirion.

The presence of things unspoken took rather palpable form in she shape of Prince Maitimo, whose distinctive tall shape could be glimpsed just beyond the sheer drapes in the door arch, where he was waiting for the king, presumably, because their carriage had arrived.

He wasn’t the only one present. What should have been a light-filled room framed by slender marble columns was now somehow overcast with some imperciptible gloom.

The queen stood aside, her face concealed because she could not fashion its features into anything helpful or pleasant to the situation.

She had the nominal support of her daughters, but while their arms might have been on their mother’s arms and shoulders, the younger’s fierce glares were aimed very much at the center of the room, while the elder remained unreadable, thought it would seem that in their shared dissaproval of these going ons, they had found a temporary truce.

They glared holes into their father’s back where their mother would not, observing as the king went through all the expected notions, formally declaring his second son as his steward, handing over the crown, all of that.

In the opinion of the two chief witnesses, it was all kind of a farce.

Well – Lalwen was there as witness. Findis was, at least in theory, supposed to preside over this in her function as a cleric, but no oe could say what sort of blessing one might expect her to bestow when the Valar she was supposed to represent had witheld theirs.

“Worry not,” the King had told her, “I know you have your own duties to attend to and shall be expected back on the slopes of Oilosse – We won’t keep you long, your brother can handle the affairs of state – it is enough if you offisciate the ceremony.”

And here she was, officiating. Silently doing her part.

Though she had denied any intentions to return – “The Valar”, so she had decreed, “would rather that the peace of these lands were not disturbed again. My duty is here. With these wayward people, and with my mother.”

She didn’t count them as her own people, least after this ominous unrest that she could not understand. Her own kin had become strange and absurd to her.

“Very well then – then I will ask nothing more than that you keep your mother company, and help out Nolofinwe in with your own gifts.”

To all this she had stood at attention and nodded, but said very little.

The thoughts of the younger sister were by comparison simple, and rather plain on her face as the little performance of court ritual began to near its end.

“So you’re really going to leave us? After all that? At a time like this?”

The King certainly flinched in such a way that would suggest that he very much felt his daughter’s cutting words.

Nolofinwe himself would dutifully restrain the very sister who was intent on defending him, but she would not hear it.

The king, however, intended to answer for himself.

Like one who was being pulled at once into many directions, he struggled for once to find the right words. Maybe, or so he felt, there could be no right words on a day where there could be no right choices.

He was surely pained in his answer, but in the end, he did not change it:

“I cannot leave him. No matter what he has or has not done – I can’t. He’s my responsibility.”

“You speak of responsibility?!” to the surprise of everyone present, it was not Lalwen, but Findis from whom this exclamation had come. “Have you no responsibility to us then? Is Nolofinwe not also your son? Is mother not also your wife? Have you no obgligation to your people, whom you are leaving behind when they need you the most? Have you no obligation to the Valar, who have blessed you beyond al measure and shown you mercy in your weakness?!

Have you no shame?!”

“Findis, please, enough!” at least it was the queen, worn and weary, who put an end to is, grasping her daughter’s hand with her own, revealing her drawn and tear-stained face.

Even now her tired voice was gentle and forgiving, "Do what you must.”

“It’s alright dear, I understand – Go forth.”

In later years, Findis would come to feel a great deal of shame for her very first impulse – which was to turn on her mother and accuse her of shamelessness as well, if she were willing to put up with this unforgiveable slight. Only duty restrained her, her ideas of being a good daughter, or a faithful devotee. She would ever be shamed that it wasn’t compassion, that her arms were hard and her glance disapproving even as she went through the rituals of support.

Stonehearted would be the person who did not even feel the least bit of shame after witnessing the queen’s pained humility.

One way this was evident was that Maitimo had passed under the drapes.

“Please, my ladies, don’t be upset-” he was in all ways the perfect picture of courtly politeness, except that he would not address the queen by her title nor his uncle as a relative while his father yet lived. “My father may have made some… questionable decisions because he thought himself beset by enemies on all sides. In coming with him, we shall show him that he has many loyal allies around him, and by the time we return, he will surely have seen that there was never any cause for suspicion – and then it won’t be long until we can put this entire matter behind us.”

It was still thought possible then that all things might be forgiven, but it was already in doubt wether the people would forget.

Finwe, for his part, did not take it for granted that he would be welcomned back into his seat of power or the queen’s bedchambers; but it was the sacrifice he’d been willing to make out of all possible branches of impossible decisions.

...

The king did not pass his youngest son until he was halfway out the gates.

He marked the prince’s presence by a sympathetic hand on his shoulder; If not quite a gesture of support, it was at least of a show of pity and understanding.

Though prince Maitimo must have certainly marked his approach, he said nothing and stood aside, going but a little ahead to keep a respectful distance, so that father and son might be granted a moment of privacy, perhaps making a lenient interpretation of the orders he’d received from his own sire.

“I can imagine what you’re thinking – you may go ahead. Let me have your opinion as well.”

“Nah, “ judged Arafinwe, keeping whatever thoughts he might have readied in the secrecy of his heart concealed behind , “Once upo a time, I might have, but then I became a father myself. They’ve all turned out so much rowdier than I had bargained for. Artanis is always badgering me for new things to do; I thought I’d finally had that sorted out when Aule and Yavanna consented to have her study in their household, but now she’s gone and told me that she’s tired of that, too. Recently, they’ve all been talking as if this far wide land were suddenly become small and narrow. I think they may be starting to consider it – all this talk of leaving. Young Artaresto came to me about that recently - He didn’t want to contradict his own father to his face, but I think the directions that the discussions at the dinner table are taking are beginning to trouble him a great deal… I didn’t know what to say I tried as best as I could to comfort him, but I was rather at a loss – Angarato himself had said nothing of the sort to me. I don’t know what to say, because I do not understand it. I can’t imagine looking at all the forests, towers and brightness in this land and ever wanting anything else – I may be their father, but that doesn’t mean that I always understand them. ”

“I don’t understand it either!” confessed the king, “I look at them, and it’s like they repell each other by some unknown force like the wrong ends of two lodestones, and I cannot say why. ”

“So you were content to just let them avoid each other until the end of Arda without ever doing anything about it?”

“What can I do? Any time that I made them be in the same room, all that ever accomplished was to make them both miserable. Yet be their faults as they may, it seems plain to me that neither of them is capable of this sort of… plot. But somehow I cannot make them see that.”

“You can see it because you know them both well, and so do I, but in that, we might be the only ones in all of Aman - my brothers, at least, do not know the first thing about each other – not at all. Not if they’d each so easily believe the that other would ever betray you. They don’t know each other, and an unknown can easily be painted over by anything – you might be told anything about it and you couldn’t easily confirm or deny it. They could tell you anything about it and you’d have to take it on faith. You can project anything onto an unknown – including one’s worst nightmare. If we told either of them that the other isn’t out to get them, they’d have to take our word for it, and they wouldn’t have more or less proof than for the words of Melkor.”

“Yet I would think that they would trust our word over his.”

“Can they?” questioned Arafinwe somberly, “Can they really? Have we been so reliable, father? -”

This here was a classic example of a pause for emphasis, the virtue of which Finwe himself had once taught his youngest son to appreciate, not unlike his brothers.

He’d told him also that such moments are good opportunities to come out with a surprising retort to deny your opponent of the reaction he wants you to marinate in, but the king could muster no such remark, so that his youngest son proceeded in his speech unchallenged:

“See, I can’t judge you too harshly, because I’m not blameless myself in this. I cannot stand quarrels. I want nothing to do with them; Lalwen and Findis are right about that at the very least. If I could, I would pretend they don’t exist and do my utmost to stay out of them forever – no, I have done exactly that far too often. I’ve avoided dealing with it. I’ve just – waited for it all to go away. So I can understand you, really – but I am not the King.”

Arafinwe would, of course, have the skill to chose his tone of voice in such a way that these words, despite their strict meanings and evident intention, did not have the effect of a cutting reprobe, though they were putting forth an unpleasant truth that his father had hitherto been looking away from.

The king looked rather pensive at that, though his chain of thought ended in a bitter smirk, a sort of expression that looked very unfamiliar on him from the perspective of his son.

“Am I?” he mused, “Cause it seems to be that Manwe is the one handing out judgements in this city as of late.”

“If he’d left it up to you, could you have been objective about it? Would the results have been likely to inspire very much faith in our house? It was probably the least worse option.”

“Is that what you really believe?”

“What I believe is that we can’t ignore fighting in the streets. Or any of this crazy talk of… leaving. Though I can’t deny that my own inaction also played its part in getting Earwen and the kids caught up in it as well.”

“Is it crazy?” mused the king. “You know, back in the day, many of our elders didn’t understand why we would ever want to leave cuivienen. Coming here seemed like madness to them.”

“Really?” Arafinwe raised an eyebrow. This was not one of those stories that he’d heard time and time again.

“Really. Tata and I did not part on good terms.”

“You never mentioned that.” It was no accusation at all, but certainly some sharp observation.

“It seemed an unfortunate tale not worth the telling, not a grudge worth keeping, with the sea between us and all. He’d thought that my intention was to be… stirring up things…” the king slowed down a little here, as though becoming aware of the irony in the very moment of speaking it.

“And there I was, the most convinced of all, urging everyone forward though they’d all wanted to settle down and start their families any time we came upon a particularly fair patch of land. I kept arguing that we should all wait to come here, where we might be able to settle in bliss and live in safety. I believed in it. I supported it in word and deed, I stood for it, putting my name and reputation on the line. I waited. I delayed, until we finally glimpsed the light on the other shore. I left my closest friend, and half of everyone I’d ever known, and I did it all without mumbling. I never asked reward, other than a safe place to raise my children a nd some nicer crafting tools for my fiancé. That’s all the reward I could imagine then – I was born in a hut with a dirt floor that was maybe rather larger than my neighbor’s because I’d worked out some neat trick from playing around with flintstones.

And now, my wife is gone, and my children are going at each other with swords – and if you asked Manwe, I’m sure that he would tell you that it’s all because I didn’t have enough faith or patience! - So yes, I sued! Of course I sued! I would do it again! It had nothing to do with Feanaro. I wasn’t asking restitution from him.”

“Is it as Arakano said, then? Did you repent of your choice to lead us here here?”

“Not particularly. I cannot truly say that I have been ill-treated, or that the same has been true for my people. No one among the Eldar has had to depend on huts or flintstones for a very long time. I have no quarrel with Manwe, though we may have our disagreements. If he has made errors, then they are probably lesser than mine – none of us can do more than try to do our best, each according to our measure. If I petitioned him at all, that was because I trusted him – because I’d trusted that under a just rule, I would be able to demand my right and that any disagreements we might have could be settled in an orderly manner through discourse and mediation, and I cannot say that I was dissapointed in that sense – certainly not with you standing right beside me. I got what I wanted insofar as this was possible, right? In that regard at least, I cannot consider myself wronged.

The issue is rather that I had a choice, as did all of those who came with me. None of you were ever asked. I’m certain that, if I’d chosen to go through with the wedding before my departure – if you’d all been born earlier – then your brother would have chosen to remain behind, and I should never have seen his face again.”

“I don’t believe that”, noted Arafinwe somberly.

“Why is that?”

“You’re going with him now. If he had stayed, then you would have stayed with him, and it is mother and I who are never going to see you again – would have, I mean. We never would have-”

Even as he was correcting his words, Arafinwe felt the solid awareness of certainty suddenly spreading through his body, like the penny of foreboding that had been twirling in the air for long had at last finally dropped – But he never got the chance to respond to this conclusion: The conversation that had begun on the way out to the stairs of the palace, where the seminal misdeed of the tragedy had taken place not too lon ago, was now come to an end in the great square, with both men sitting, arms crossed, across from each other in the plaza, with the crystal-like branches of the White Tree Galathilion spreading out above their heads.

Arafinwe noticed first, for he was somewhat less absorbed in his emotions, and ceased the motions of conversation as the first inklings of an oppressive, smoldering aura began leaking in their presence like the first scent of smoke.

It wasn’t long before Arafinwe found himself fixated in the crosshairs of a disdainful pair of storm-grey eyes, courtesy of that tall, familiar shadow who seemed to treat his very presence as a deathly insult, with a serious yet apologetic-looking Maitimo following not too far behind.

Arafinwe took this as his cue to remove himself from the situation.

“Have a safe trip”, he said only, quiet as ever, as he picked himself off the low wall he had been sitting on, “All of you.”

...

Nolofinwe did not change anything about his father’s office.

It was only meant to be a temporary arrangement after all – sure, the great darkwood desk started looking rather more organized, and an extra set of orderly quils off to the side, but all that was left as is was spared with reverence; Not even that obnoxious, gold-framed larger-than-life portrait of a sour-faced adolescent Feanaro did get the boot; That, he deemed petty and unsportsmanlike and going in the direction of confirming all the slander that had been spread around his person, though the prince regent did not completely suceed in convincing himself that he was beyond fazed.

Sometimes, when one of the lights was on the wane and the second not yet rising to meet it, Nolofinwe felt like the painting was judging him

– not that he’d ever seriously entertain such a a ridiculous notion.

His sisters had reminded him often that he was technically the king now, one with pride, and another, with sharp appeals to his responsibility, as if Nolofinwe had not felt it all his life - They wanted him to get rid of it – one out of simple dislike for the pictured person and dislike for their father’s leniency on him, the other, because it seemed to her innapropriate and inauspicious to have the likeness of a sentenced criminal displayed in the office of the king – if it truly was such a thing: The guarded, soft-faced youth captured forever in that painting had comitted no crimes yet, and neither had whatever painter had produced it and, no doubt, greatly prided themselves of having contributed something to the royal study.

Nolofinwe sometimes wondered what the painter in question might now think about what had become of the young prince who he had once captured with his brush-strokes.

“Who cares!” fumed Lalwen, on one occasion where she was leaning at his desk, having just brought some reports from the guildmasters that she’d been tasked to meet with.

“I wonder if he’s happy now, since he’s finally gotten what he wanted – He’s got father all to himself now. He’s torn us all apart. I bet he gets a real kick out of it when he pictures mother sitting by herself here all on her own!”

Nah. Privately, Nolofinwe was not so hopeful. He doubted that they half-brother thought very much of them or their mother at all, now the he was, in a fashion, rid of them.

But that’s not what he said.

“This isn’t my study. I’m only taking care of things for father. I doubt he would want me to start redocorating while he’s away.”

“You could at least get it out of sight, so he can hang it up again when he returns, if he still thinks that’s a good idea.”

“When Curufinwe returns – and father with him – I shall release him, and do my part to put all this behind us, so that everything can finally go back to normal.”

“You think? I don’t expect Curufinwe to have any shame, but I’d find it rather bold-faced of father, if he thought that he was still welcome with all the ones he deserted – You’re far too forgiving, Nolofinwe. You’re going to get screwed over. You know that that sneering bastard wouldn’t hesitate an instant to stab you in the back if he got the chance; You don’t need to let him in order to prove a point, and certainly not for father’s sake. He can clean up his own mess for once, instead of always dumping it all on us! It’s time we had our own lives – we don’t exist to wipe up anyone’s mess. Nor father’s, and certainly nor Curufinwe’s. You’re the king of Tirion now. Peoplewant you to be king, in case you didn’t notice. And you know why? Because you’re popular, and competent, and just, and because didn’t abandom your post. You didn’t bugger off to Formenos, or to Valmar, or Alqualonde – You’re here, doing all the work. You have the people’s support – act like it. As I see it, you are the rightful high king of the Noldor!”

“I’m father’s steward, nothing more –“ said Nolofinwe, perhaps a bit more forcefully than it was merited. I will not make his lies true by my own hand.”

Findis, too, had plenty a whole lot to say to him – she established herself, in effect, as the coming and going liason between the throne and the Valar, who of course had great interest into getting the situation in the city under control.

Nolofinwe sometimes privately thought might think that they were barking up the wrong tree, seeing as all troublemakers had removed to Formenos, though of course, as far as his big sister was concerned, none of them could ever repent enough.

Sometimes, though he wasn’t proud of the thought, Nolofinwe found himself thinking that Findis should try ruling Tirion herself if she thought she could do it so much better. It was so much easier to critique everything as an outsider – she of course would have contested that this same distance was what made her more objective, while she accounted him as scarce less prideful than their shared half-brother.

If she was going to huff and puff like the eldest, then she might as well act the part and take the throne. But no, she wouldn’t stain herself with that, to her, ingloriously prideful office – never mind that without power and its realistic inconveniences, you cannot do anything, no matter how much you complain….

“That’s not it”, remarked Arafinwe, on an occasion when his brother had vented to him about this. “It’s not that she thinks herself to good for it; It’s that she wouldn’t trust her own judgement.”

“Nonsense! Does she not lead people as High Priestess? Elves and Maiar both.”

“It’s not her skill or discernment that would be in question”, observed Arafinwe, sadly “I think she strives so much toward goodness and purity because she isn’t certain of her own goodness in the deep of her heart. If she were to rule here on her own, she’d have to make quick descisions in response to unforseen circumstances. There would be no time to confer with and refer back to the Valar on every little thing; She would need to make a decision and stick with it even when she can’t be sure it’s truly right – She doesn’t trust herself with that power.”

“I know,” conceded Nolofinwe, “I know, it’s just…”

“...exhausting to have to be the patient one?”

“Yes. How do you do it?”

“With varying degrees of success.”

(The brothers shared a wan little smile there, though it was soon to be chased away by thoughts of business)

“Anyway – now that you’re here, I’d like your opinion on the latest petitions.”

….

During the years of the crown prince’s exile, the queen was still making public appearances, both official ones alongside her son, and those expected at public functions.

They were perhaps not as numerous as they had been before – after all, some of the queenly duties had now been passed on to the Lady Anaire;

She was of course ever-ready to advise the new de-facto royal pair in whatever function that might be needed, and had declared this to assure both the lords and the citizenry that they could still hope for constancy and stability from their royal house, but in truth the Prince Regent and his wife had long-since been involved in the ruling of the city and already knew how everything worked.

But Indis let it not be said that she had hid herself from view, nor would be be accused of abandoning her people, though she was of course long used to the reality that those who were really motivated to do so would find something to accuse her of wether or not she even tried.

She never stopped smiling – Though who in their right mind would blame her, if the radiance of that smile never quite reached what it was before?

Only those close personal friends who had known her for long would have noted that she seemed at least a little more withdrawn during that time, like she saw less reason to show herself beyond the needs of duty and propriety if she had little mirth or laughter to add – those things, she had always gladly shared, but her burdens and sorrows were not the sorts of things that she wanted to go handing out.

She busied herself instead with the gardens, an old habit perhaps awaking from the faraway days when she’d felt a similar sorrow, though it was a rather different thing to nurse a private dream that you’d once thougth impossible than to see that dream fulfilled and then stand in its shards with the certainty that it never could have been what you had hoped it to be.

You can no longer comfort yourself with blissful fantasies of ‘maybe’ and ‘what if’; But worst of all, you can no longer say to yourself that it is only a dream.

More and more often, she was seen looking out from the westward windows of those rooms that she now had to herself, looking, perhaps, out to her old home – though she had, by now, spent more time here than anywhere else. Perhaps it was rather the simplicity of earlier days that she missed, a community where she could just fill her part of the whole in a harmonic peace and just be, without having to brave the ever-questioned existence as the controversial foreign queen.

She had long borne it for her beloved’s sake, but now, he wasn’t even with her.

But wether they accepted her or not, the queen had not forgotten her people – for them, and for her children, she resolved to keep up her strenght, at least where people could see her.

She had company from her children and other descendants of course – her son, in particular, often sought her wisdom and experience.

He would not ask so directly as when he was a child, nor would he await her answer with transparent apprehension, but as his mother, she sensed well enough that he was, probably, looking for signs of approval and pointers of directions, any signs that he was doing well.

He was acting strong for his family and the people; Indis though that he should at least be allowed some indulgence by his dear old mother, so she made sure to remind him on every possible occasion:

“I’m proud of you, Arakano. You’re doing splendid work.”

She spared him the speculations about whatever his father may or may not have thought.

The two men had their own corresponse anyways; The Prince Regent penned regular letters, keeping his father involved about the going-ons of the realm.

He was greatly busy with those, however, so the one to visit Indis the most often was actually her oldest daughter, at least when she happened to be within the walls of Tirion, and had not gone to Valimar to make reports or offisciate rituals.

You might have thought (and this was not lost on the Queen) that, if Findis was too busy to be regent, she’d have no time for her lady mother either, but this was not so – rather, the eldest princess made certain to dwell with the queen when she was in Tirion, and if she went away, she usually returned with tokens, trinkets and messages from the inner lands and the rest of her family, many of which expressed great concern over these unprecendeted effects and rather wished that they could see Indis and support her in their midst, as well as any of her children who should wish to come with her – but Nolofinwe, at least, was at present very much not free to move, and there was little chance that either his mother or younger sister would have deserted him while that lasted.

Which is not to say that this did not awaken a certain patient longing in the Queen’s breast – fain she would have liked to stay where she was welcome and belonging, surrounded from all sides by peace and love. So she was the last who would ever fault her dauhter for preferring to spend most of her days in such a place.

“You know you don’t have to have dinner with me every day my dear.”

“Yes I do. Others might have forgotten their duties, but I have not. And it is hardly every day, only when I am in town. The faith teaches us to help where we are needed – and right now, I am needed here, wether it is convenient for me or not.”

Findis might not always have had the strenght to say this with conviction; for long, she had avoided her hometown indeed; She would still argue that Lalwen and Nolofinwe went too far when they accused her of being ashamed of their unusual, imperfect family or wanting to disavow them… no, perhaps, it was easier to admit in hinsight, after her present feelings had shifted.

Maybe at first it was only virtue and duty that had led her of making a show of caring about their mother, to hastily shovel dirt into the hole of her father’s sins.

Findis had certainly never disliked her or been on especially bad terms, but she’d never been especially close with Indis like Nolofinwe was. Her memories of Indis from childhood were largely positive, though she’d looked at her, as with her father, as a weak, flawed person who must be supported with love but never thought up as a template to emulate. She’d sort of grown appart from her just as a side-effect of avoiding her with all the rest. Looking on with her heart clouded by the shame she’d felt in childhood, she’d often wished that she could be part of a normal family that was not in any famous legal documents and not being debated over.

She’d sometimes wondered why her mother couldn’t be content with just some normal Vanya husband with no prior baggage, no kingdom filled nosy critics and most certainly no preexisting heretic sons leftover from whichever lady would have been their first choice.

Now, Findis wondered how she’d ever let that happen – So far as she could tell, as she was now, with the discernment of an adult and ages worth’ of accomplishments to stand upon, Findis could not find the queen anything other than an exemplary image of godliness, full of of patience, forgiveness, gentleness, grace and dedication, all imbued with a consciously chosen kindness and warmth that Findis herself couldn’t always muster even when it seemed appropriate. Indis had no reason to hold back her feelings, for they were mostly good and wholesome. She would have no reason to be reluctant in letting loose, when she need not have the fear that anything wicked may come tumbling out; Good people don’t need rules. Rules get put up when self-indulgent takers make it so that no one can have nice things.

Until recently, for example, there had never been a need to state out loud that you weren’t supposed to go around pointing swords at the throats of your fellow-citizens.

There did not use to be any swords at all, and now they were, and whose thought was that?

Who had to go and make it exist when there used to be no such thing?

Who made it keep existing, when it could to be forgotten?

Certainly not Indis.

Once Findis had begun to spend more time with her again, she had found it to be both a pleasure and a relief, like meeting just about the only sane person in a city gone stark raving mad (with the possible exception of Arafinwe, and that may be because he had spent so much time in Alqualonde)

The queen was patently not weak or corrupt or self-indulgent; Her strenght was of a quiet, enduring sort that Findis wasn’t sure she could be capable of.

But Findis judged at last that she should not have waited for that proof – for her mother was clearly an innocent here. If her goodwill had been ill-used by some self-indulgent powerful king, that was none of her fault.

Yet Findis wasn’t sure if she could do right by her even now, especially when it came to the particular request that was ever so often mixed-in with her parting words: “Please support your brother – he is facing such a challenging time right now; He has been through such a terrible thing.”

Findis made an effort to soften her words to her mother, but she stopped short of speaking any outright falsehoods.

Of course she wished for her brother to suceed in his administration of the realm; But she would not follow him on any sort of unjust path.

…

The great vault of Formenos could be thought of as a massive hollow rectangle made entirely out of iron, secured by numerous means both visible and subtle, buried beneath the lowest roots of the fundament underneath the heavy towers – and yet, it was suffused by light, as if it were permanent day, yet cooler and cleaner – even when the chamber was broken open and all its contents ransacked, a pitiful remnant of radiance would be left clinging to the walls, dissipating slowly into the sky, above a world that should never again know its like, but that day was not yet come.

Right now, the king had come into it with the simple intention of seeking his son.

He made a bit of a point of checking just about every other place before this one, yet more than he would admit this to himself, he had begun to expect that he could usually count of finding him right here if she should exhaust the first couple of obvious spots.

The number of people that would be suffered to cross the chamber’s threshold without soon meeting with the business end of a sword could be counted on a full set of fingers, but for all of them but himself, the exiled crown prince would have recognized their presence just from the rhythm and cadence of their steps, so there was no sign of alarm, or much of any other reaction.

The king calmly set himself down to eldest son, who was ever and anon interrupting or obscuring some of the radiance that drenched the room by turning one of its sources around in his hand.

If he held one of the silmarils in his palm and angled his arm away from himself in just the right way, the prince would be able to observe the bones in his hand through the back of it; In passing through his flesh, the light took on a pinkish hue that would spread of over most of the room and the assorted treasures within.

Privately, the king thought this a little eerie, but this, he did not say, nor did he wait for any acknowledgement of his presence. “So this is where you are!” he remarked in his best attempt at sounding casual.

There was, at first, no obvious sign that his son had heard him, and and first, the king let himself be content with this, but after a while, the words on the tip of his tongue escaped his

“You know, you have told you that you have made your gems very much indestructible, so I doubt that they are going to change very much from the way that you keep looking at them.”

“I know,” the Prince conceded, letting out a sigh – a sign of weakness that he would probably not have allowed himself in the presence of anybody else.

He did, at last, put his gems back in their display case, and turned to speak to his father, still seated on a heap of various treasures.

“I came here to think.”

“Ah! What about?” The king’s front of good cheer may have been masking a layer of concern, but only to an extent; This wasn’t too different from many other conversations they had had over the centuries. Finwe had had all the time in the world to get used to his eldest son’s eccentricities and regarded them mostly with fondness. This, so far, was to be counted as a success seeing that the prince was actually showing some modest signs of opening up:

“My next project, possibly.”

Encouraging news, if he was thinking of something beyond this present situation. Asking him to talk about his latest work had always seemed to encourage him.

“Ah, so what’s it going to be?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

“Can’t think of anything?” and here there was a playful hint to the king’s voice, as if the very notion that his son could be out of ideas were amusing by its oxymoronic nature.

The king did not expect the degree of genuine frustration contained within the answer:

“Yes. No. I can think of things. I can think of a lot of things. But not a single one of them seems to match up to these.”

There was no need to specify, not when the light of the gems suffused the entire room.

“Do you remember when I first unveilled them? Even those bloody Valar were mighty impressed! I’d never seen that kind of look on most of their faces. I bet they didn’t expect that some little specks of dust like us could do something that they can’t. But this once, they were forced to acknowledge it!”

But the grin that this reminescence had brought to the prince’s features soon faded from there.

“Usually, whenever I’m done with a project, I’d already be thoroughly bored of it. I could see it’s flaws and shortcomings already, and these became, more often than not, the seeds for my next endeavor. But with these? Nothing. I’m drawing a complete blank. I can’t see a single way to possibly improve upon this or surpass it. I don’t think I could even repeat it.

I’ll be halfway through sketching out some idea, and then I’ll wonder to myself what the point even is – I can picture the people talking: ‘Oh yes, yes, very ingenious, but it doesn’t really measure up to the silmarils; He must be losing his touch’ and the worst is that it might be true.

Maybe this is as far as I go. Perhaps I have spent all that I had to offer – think on that: All I had to offer is here in this box, where anyone could pick it up and run for it.

It is as if my heart is outside of myself – It keeps making me uneasy.

It has me wondering, sometimes, if this is why I have been allowed…”

“Allowed?”

The King did not quite follow, which, to his son, seemed a definite surprise. He’d have thought that everyone must be thinking of it all the time, each time that they looked at him.

“Well you know! All that drivel that the Valar like to spew, about how everything happens for a reason and every single black stain in the world only serves the great plan of Illuvatar, how every mishap turns out for the better in the end… - was this whole mishap permitted so that I coud make these, for some arcane purpose other than my own?”

“As if your precious life were some evil that needs justification. You’ve spent all of it only adding to the glory of the world.”

“You say this because you are my father.”

“Well – I am! Before anything else. I’m still aware, of course, that it’s been a long, long time since I had anything to teach you – it’s been thousands of years since I’ve actually invented anything. But if I may presume to advise a great master, I would tell you that it seems to be like you’re simply having a bit of an artistic blockage.

It is honestly not surprising – you’ve been through a lot in these couple of decades. You’ve had all thisa slander and plotting against you, by the marrer himself, no less! And on top of that you have been quarreling with your brother and your wife. You’re away from home in a cold, dim, unfamiliar place – so don’t be too demanding of yourself. Just – take a break for a bit. Distract yourself. Fill your mind with other things for a bit, as one would let a field lay fallow after bringing in great harvests.

When I am – stuck, in some fashion, I always find that a little bit of sweet company always lifts my spirits. Perhaps you should write to Nerdanel, it might not be too late-”

“I don’t need her!” hissed the prince in disdain. His displeasure was not per se directed at his father; it just evaporated into the room, maybe as a means to prove something to himself.

“What would I want with a so-called wife who’d take the word of my enemies over my own?! I count myself glad to be rid of her!”

“I know that you’ve had your… differences, as of late, but she has been by your side for thousands of years, and now you are alone. It’s only natural that you’d be affected by that – there is no shame in admitting it. We all need the help and support of others at some point. It’s alright to rely on others… and perhaps, it is presumptious of me to point this out, now, when I have not always shown it to you when you were young. Your mother could not be there, and I was so distraught over her loss that you might not always have felt like you could turn to me, either…

But you know, Nerdanel is still alive. She’s still out there, doing things – you could go to her at any time, and speak to her, you could ask her forgiveness-”

“Why? So that she can betray me again? I think I’ll pass. I couldn’t rely on that stubborn mule even if I wanted to. I couldn’t rely on anything – no one can. Nothing is ever reliable; Nothing is ever constant. There’s no one who couldn’t fall away, or leave, or betray you, nothing that couldn’t possibly crumble under your grasp. And this doesn’t have anything to do with you, or with me, or with mother – it’s always been the case. Mother is just the reason we noticed; It’s just that everyone has forgotten it, because there is nothing anywhere in this land, down to the smallest root and branch that doesn’t dance to the tune of the Valar.

But that’s just a false security. A lowering of the odds. It just means that danger finds us less often, and that when it does, it finds us wholly unprepared.

Either of us could be wiped out at any possible moment. Everything that we care about could be destroyed. If you know of any reason why we can’t be, I would like to hear it.”

For his part, the king found that this didn’t ring true, or that it didn’t seem like the complete story to him, but the counter-proof he had been asked to provide just would not occur to him.

All the explanations he could cite were of the kinds that his son had already preempted – that it was unlikely, or that it had not happened yet – this he would consider a reasonable enough justification not to dwell too much on the possibility of desaster when it was so unlikely to come true, but as for reasons why it couldn’t happen – those he could not provide.

In looking for them, he left open the space open for his son to speak next:

“I don’t think it was fate. Or providence, or any ‘greater plan’. I don’t see how anything could be worth that. That’s just their excuse.”

It went without saying here that he was speaking of someone whom they had both lost.

“It didn’t just happen - it was them with their judgement, and it was Melkor, the one they’ve set loose, who is still our there, scheming whatever he will- and none of us is doing anything about it.”

“I thought that, too once. Even before that business with your mother. So I went charching into the forest with a lumpy copper sword, and it was only by great fortune that I happened to run into Lord Orome instead. It is beyond us.”

“Is it? I could have sworn that the sword I made for you is not lumpy copper. Besides, surrender is what got us here. It’s what made them run and hide themselves away in this little corner of our world, while turning their backs on all the rest of it, giving it all up for lost just because it no longer follows their neat little plan. I may not have their power, but I do still have my will. And that, they shall not take from me while I still draw breath.”

…

“Oh yeah, that was Melkor. Didn’t I mention?”

The King was not the only one that froze in his tracks when he heard this – that casual remark, thrown about wich such careless defiance as to seem petulant, changed all about what had previously just seemed like a mildly annoying occurrence retold as an anecdote over dinner.

Sitting at his father’s right, Maitimo was evidently trying to keep the disbeliev out of his voice when he spoke next:

“And what, may I ask, did you do next?”

“I told him to get off my lawn of course, duh. I swear, none of those Valar even realize how bloody transparent they are. They probably think they can tell us anything!”

“You tell them, father!” chimed Curufinwe Junior, ever the yes-man.

Then that was that, and the conversation moved on. Tyelkormo and the twins may later have referenced the encounter in some crude jokes later on.

And for the first time, Finwe wondered if his son was not right in saying that the years of bliss had made them soft and unaware of danger. Feanaro had preached readyness and prepared his sons for danger, but now, it seemed to Finwe as if even they did scarcely know what they were dealing with – and if these were, among the denizens of Valinor, the most prepared of all, then what of the rest?

Still one tends to turn back on old patterns in times of desperation. Knowing that this was beyond him, Finwe’s thoughts turned to those more powerful than he.

What pushed him forward in the end was the icy realization that the monster from the woods of his youth was not yet finished messing with his sons.

So once all the plates were cleaned, and all the diners ready to scamper off in their respective directions – first of all Feanaro, who had never once put aside thre thought of preparing for some eventual departure – the king made sure to pull aside the eldest of his grandsons.

“Maitimo dear, I would never ask you to keep a secret from your father – but if you had to send a messenger to go to Valimar without drawing much attention or stirring up any trouble, who among the staff would you choose?”

But there was no need to be subtle. Maitimo understood, at once, and seemed somewhat relieved, if anything, once he grasped the king’s purpose, at last letting some of his own concern shine through in his grandfather’s presence which he might have otherwise hid to stay strong in front of his brothers and nephew.

“Consider it done.”

If Feanaro ever heard about the messenger, it didn’t arouse his suspicion.

…

“Grandpa. I got a surprise for you.”

“Ah, do you?” with some mild amusement, the prince looked up from the many struck-through diagrams on his sketboard to the youth that had just valiantly entered his study.

In those days, Feanaro couldn’t shake off the impression that any time he blinked, he’d find his grandson just a little taller. He used to find it irritating when his father used to say similar things about himself, but now, he had grown to understand him.

Nowdays, the pair often commiserated on the matter of Tyelperinquar’s recent impressive growth spurts.

But it wasn’t just his height that was changing; There was a certain timidity still pulling at his from the edges, but the boy seemed determined to step forward, making himself boldly put one foot in front of the other and then, at last, hold out something in his palm.

All that composure faltered at once when Feanaro’s first reaction was to bang the little gift against the heavy granite surface of his desk – though his intention became clear at one when he beheld the scratches left on the tiles.

With a thin, hopeful grin, he turned the trinket he had received over in his hand, inspecting it for any flaws or damage.

“Not bad – the rounded edges are very even, and none of the finer detail work is sloppy. Did your father help you with this?”

“Uh-uh. He wanted to, but I didn’t let him. I made it all myself! I even picked out the metals and prepared the alloy.” insisted the boy, speaking in a quick, hasty manner, pushing himself to boldness.

“Papa wanted a more flashy shape, but, I thought that a ring would be more practical. All the while I was making it, I was thinking happy thoughts, and singing happy songs, so that it would always cheer you up - ah, and here’s a chain you can put it on while you’re working.”

The chain was none too shoddy, either, but what the old master found the most remarkable was that the material of the ring did indeed carry a faint hum of power within it – a mere party trick, really, but beyond impressive for someone still in the double digits.

Forgetting his other cares for a moment, he allowed himself to be very, very pleased.

“It looks like I might be having to give someone extra lessons.”

Despite his big, big grin, the boy did not immediately catch his drift:

“Oh- why? Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all! That’s precisely what’s remarkable! This puts the masterpieces of my apprentices to shame, and I’m talking about the half that passed their exams!”

For all that his awkward lanky adolescent limbs had stretched as of late, prince Tyelperinquar proved still capable of some very child-like awe. His grey eyes went wide as saucers, glittering like moonstones.

“Really?”

“Oh yes.”

“Really Really??”

“Would I saw this lightly? Actually, I’m beginning to get the feeling that you might just give me some real competition somewhere down the line.”

“-do you really mean it? Cause, if you did, that would make me the happiest boy in all of Valinor!”

“I don’t just mean it – I’m looking forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Then came the day when the letter arrived at the fortress of Formenos, and long lay opened on the great table in the royal dining hall while its recipient paced and fumed across the mosaic tile floors.

His father was soon engaged in some token efforts to calm him down.

“It’s an invitation, dear, not a command.”

“Just an invitation alright – from the one who controls the air we breathe. I’m sure there’ll be absolutely no consequences for abstaining.”

“Alright – we can stay then if this is what you want-”

“If only I could! Fear not, I won’t give them the satisfaction of dragging me to their little ‘celebration’ in chains – though I’m not surprised that they want to make a spectacle of me; Such has been their delight from the day of my birth! - Alright then. Let’s go have a spectacle. They shall get their wish! We shall perform a little farce and play patty-cakes. But they can’t expect me to smile about it, or to play along with their fiction that I am taking part in it of my own free will.”

…

The days marched on; Gold turned to silver and silver turned to gold, over and over, until the day of high festival was at last drawing near.

Under the circumstances, it might not be unexpected if the high priestess coordinating the ritual sought out the Prince Regent who would be representing the Noldor – the festival was a momentous occasion in and of itself, marking, as it were, the 4000^th aniversary to the end to the great journey (at least so far as the Noldor and Vanyar were concerned) – moreover, there was a definite intention from the side of the Valar to use this auspicious day to promote redemption and reconcilliation, thinking that they might yet file away this period of disquiet as a temporary blip in a long, uninterrupted history, a small irregularity, maybe, like there had been others in the past – a curiosity for future generations to raise their eyebrows at.

Still, so far as Nolofinwe was concerned, this seemed to him less like a discourse of political import, and rather more like a stern admonishment from his older sister.

She invited herself in as he was being dressed by about four separate attendants, the reason for this being that he had arranged to wear his best of everything, things to which he actually cut put a number as to how often he had worn them because he only got them out for round-number occasions – and now they were all being affixed onto his person at once, including various prominently displayed gifts from the other influential figures on the continent, chosen as signals of diplomatic intent.

From his long garments, to his many ornaments to his elaborate hairstyle, many parts of it were far too complicated for a single person to get them onto himself, especially if he was in a hurry.

Reflected in this was his concern with his representative function and a great deal of nervous overthinking – or that’s how far as he’d be willing to admit to his reasons – but he had very definite imaginations of what his sister must have privately thought on her own part when she shot him that sideways look upon her arrival.

“What are you supposed to be? You look like a bejeweled peacock!”

That could have been a playful, tension-breaking remark if it had come from Lalwen or Arafinwe, but the way that Findis said it was not encouraging at all.

“I am supposed to be a prince of the Noldor.”

he said, knowing well that many would still manage to find far too much white and gold in his getup; “I must represent our people, in father’s stead.”

There was no question to what Findis intended to be – she herself had shown up in the austere garb of the priesthood; Any special insigniae of her rank not yet donned, every last of dark hair tucked away behind her ceremonial veil.

The taint and responsibility of mundane worldly leadership were, to her, clearly something lesser, something that could be left to her foolish little brother, and even then, only with serious reservations.

“Then I hope that you will listen to reason where he would not. Today is a holy, auspicious day – we are to commemorate the arrival of our forebears in this promised land. Do not profane it with your petty feuds. Do not let your pride or your temper get the better of us. Don’t shame us in front of the Valar and Uncle Ingwe.

If Curufinwe insists on bringing shame onto himself, then that’s between him and Illuvatar; The price of his folly will be on him. But you must not let him drag you down to his level.

Do not provoke him again, do we understand each other?

If he asks you to grovel at his feet, kiss them and wash them with your hair.

If he socks you across the face, turn the other cheek so he can bust it up too.”

‘And if he stabs me for real, should I take care not to ruin his robe with my blood?’ he thinks but does not say, though he definitely felt it.

Perhaps, if he did say it, she’d lecture him for saying ridiculous things, for never in all the history of the Eldar had any elf killed another; Though Feanaro had made his whole career of thinking up all sorts of things that had not been there before.

Outwardly, Nolofinwe showed little of these brooding thoughts;

After he kept it together with that sword inches from his largest blood vessels, there is very little left that could perturb him.

He wasn’t afraid of Feanaro, and he certainly wasn’t going to flinch away from Findis who was at most, armed with a few words that probably came out more cutting than she intended.

He simply endures it like he endured the hairdressers.

In time, the procedure is over with – both the arduous getting ready, and Findis’ long laundry list of complaints and stern warnings. She leaves soon enough, having more important places to be;

Yet Nolofinwe knows well that he shall not escape his own coach to Valmar.

There might be some miserable business ahead of him, but he would face it, if no one else would.

And he would get out of it with his dignity, jeweled hairpins and all.

There is one relief waiting for him, at least – when he comes into the great hall, he spots the unmistakable tall figures of his sons and find his children all waiting, all of them likewise arrayed in their best, except for Irisse, who had opted for an elegant, minimalistic white dress and little more, though that would be expected of her. The people would probably be far more concerned if she’d suddenly dropped her role as the idiosyncratic young noblewoman. She’d never had reason to suspect that she would ever have been judged any stricter than the daughter of a second son.

Anaire reaches out her arms and leans in, as much as their ridiculous getups allow, staying close no longer than was proper but long enough to let him feel a fleeting sense of solidity.

“Stay strong, my love.” she whispers, just before they draw apart.

Nolofinwe exhales all the way out, further than he had in a while, though he noted this only after the fact.

In the coach itself, they find the Queen and her younger daughter waiting, each trying hard to believe their own facsimile of their once-natural good cheer.

The coach itself is a large, dignified exemplar pulled by six majestic white horses, often used by the king on state visits, though it was not so old that Nolofinwe would have ridden in it as a boy.

The color scheme was supposed to go with his father’s orange sigils; It clashed somewhat with his own blue ones.

Nolofinwe never had it repainted since he had, after all, still been expecting his father to return.

It was large enough that prince Turukano could seat himself inside without any undue contortions, but its limit was reached when it came to his youngest brother – which was no great tragedy, really, since he and his sister had called dibs on the seats on the roof.

Yet even their much expected bluster had a bit of a forced quality to it – the tension must be pervasive, then, if even the younger two saw the need to lighten their father’s mood.

The second bench on the roof was already filled by Elenwe and her daughter, who had wanted the best view of the landscape. One could not doubt that her aunt and uncle had every intention to keep her entertained and most of all distracted throughout the journey, but who could say what good that might do – She was turning out to be a rather perceptive young lady, that one – it may well have been that her smile was in fact for the benefit of her elders.

This left the prince regent and his wife to board the inside of the carriage with their two older sons, joining the Queen and her younger daughter inside: “Nolofinwe! You look like a bejeweled peacock!”

Lalwen, of course, would have said this in fondness, and the coincidental resemblance to their older sister’s earlier words only helped in bringing a thin smile to Nolofinwe’s face.

For a moment, he felt welcomed on all sides, and as the long journey led them further and further inland through the fair gardens of the Valar, he actually came close to allowing himself to relax.

Findekano was rather determined to make some pleasant conversation and had soon affected all the occupants with his optimistic disposition. The Queen’s face, too, livened up more and more the further they came inland, as the golden shine on the horizon took over more and more of the sky. Soon they would be seeing its source up close.

It was a balmy, pleasant day and outside the air was honeyed with the fragrance of flowers.

Little by little, the warmth without seeped into each of their hearts, all valiant semblance of lightheartedness began to turn to something genuine, and just for a moment, Nolofinwe actually began to consider that it might just all work out after all.

It was the last time he would ever feel warm, all the way down to his heart.

He thought himself to be long past listening to that spoiled, childish part of him that never wanted for this ride to end, but looking back, he’d be aware that it was there.

If only all the ones he cared about could have kept laughing like this forever…

Little could he have known that he was feeling this warmth of gold for the last time.

All such indulgent sentiment was soon forcibly ejected from his mind by awareness of duty: When the golden domes of Valmar came into view, it meant that it was time to get down to business…

…

Maybe, for a time, there was a fleeting, treacherous moment where the beginning of that day had resembled any other festival, like the hundreds and hundreds of others that Nolofinwe remembered. The sort that were pleasant, and yet so unremarkable that the memory of them all blurred together.

They’d all been in good spirits while they got off the carriage; Turukano had helped his daughter climb down from the roof, lamenting that she had grown too tall for him to carry her on his shoulders like he used to do some years before.

Lalwen was exchanging some private jokes with her niece and youngest nephew.

Indis chose some quiet moment to place her hand on her son’s right shoulders. “It’s almost done now. You’ve done very well.”

The younger two of his children were engrossed in pointing out the sights of the city to their niece, while Elenwe calmly followed and sometimes added the occasional anecdote about her own upbringing in these parts.

Indis, too, had much to say about what had changed since her own days here, and what had stayed the same. That persistent sense of heaviness was almost lifted off of her, but not quite.

Nolofinwe idly wondered if it wasn’t getting a bit cool, which should have been strange so near the origin of warmth, or under all his layers of festival clothing, but he didn’t think much of it, having many other things to worry about.

They met Arafinwe and his descendants on the way to the festival grounds; Lalwen noted with precious little subtleness that Findarato had actually brought a plus one. The shy, well-bred girl at his side was much embarrassed, hiding her face in her long golden locks.

Artaresto was somehow already calling her ‘Aunty Amarie’.

Angarato and Aikanaro quickly attached themselves to Findekano and started swapping stories of their journeys.

Angarato’s wife trailed behind them with their mother-in-law.

They told that the youngest sister had already rushed ahead – she was personally acquainted with Aule and Yavanna from her time under their tutelage, and was apparently hoping to discuss something before the proper festivities began. Bold of her, certainly, to expect some of their time.

Elenwe, too, met up with some of her relatives, as did her cousin Laurefindil, who had followed the royals from Tirion – his father was one of Nolofinwe’s bannermen.

Together, they slowly made their way through the city, as all the folk therein poured towards the place of festival, multitudes of Vanyar and companies of Maiar in all their glorious, manifold forms.

It was on the green hills and swards outside the city, not far from the site of the trees, where all the people from the inner lands were gathered with the Valar themselves in their majesty, along with all that had come from Tirion.

It was here that all the royal retinue was warmly greeted by their Vanyarin counterparts, first of all Ingwe and his eldest son, both of them alike in their enviable gift for remaining measured and calm while still retaining a welcoming lightness about them – like, well, exactly like people who had spent all their lives in undisturbed harmonic bliss.

Unlike with the other two clans, the first tribe had come to Valinor in its entirely, so there was no shortage of ancient relatives waiting to see Indis, and all the descendants she had brought along.

They were already expecting her eldest daughter to be busy elsewhere with the preparations; They probably knew her the best out of the four, which left them eager to catch up with the other three. Out of them, only Arafinwe looked anything like any of their other cousins, though they for their part were more likely to stress his similarities to their father’s family.

It has always been an odd contrast; back in Tirion, almost no one knew anyone of their generation knew anyone who had come before their parents, and maybe some aunts and uncles that had come along on the journey. One might almost be forgiven to think that time had only really started with the founding of the city; Anything here that predated that had been put there by the Maiar as part of their own, distinct history.

Though from what he’d heard from Arafinwe, the people in Alqualonde were much less reluctant to reference this or that long-lost great aunt from the other shores, probably because those people had usually just wandered off after seeing a pretty animal wandering by, or found a charming little lake whose manifest reality had exerted a more profound pull on them than tales of glorious distant lands – much more of a coincidental parting than a definite breach – though Nolofinwe himself would not come to conceptualize it as such, not until he’d have lived to another set of events that could serve to add perspective or comparison.

For now, he was busy giving polite, cursory answers as to how he had passed the last twelve years, waiting for the festivities to proceed.

Tellingly, Ingwe shut down any attempts by his nephew to address him more formally in these changed circumstances, saying that today was a day for unity, joy and togetherness.

Nolofinwe appreciated this, he really did – though he wondered how much of those ideas would survive contact with Feanaro.

He was still nowhere to be found, and not just him alone;

The crowd would actually have looked thinner than in the preceding years, on account of some marked absences; It was a slight difference, but one that the elves with their fine memories would definitely have felt.

Many took note of that, and one began to wonder when the trail of revelers from Formenos was due to arrive – the journey itself would be longer, so it was not at first suspected that the designs of Manwe had gone awry.

Soon it became apparent, however, that the second trail of visitors was never going to materialize.

There was but one lone traveler – no trace of Finwe, or the younger princes, or anyone else at all, nor even guards and attendants.

There was only Feanaro, in the sort of light, white sleeveless robe that would normally go underneath a more elaborate outfit, a simple cord for a belt, and not a single object of metal or stone anywhere on his person.

His long black hair was windswept and unbound, hanging down the sides of his face.

Visibly malcontent, he sullenly trudged before the thrones of the Valar. “You made me come, so here I am! Are you entertained yet?”

At the time, the Prince Regent was watching from his place of honor with his wife, mother and siblings. Even Findis had managed to join them for a narrow window of time, mostly because their mother had pleaded for her to be present – but when she caught sight of her wayward half-brother, she cringed. Hard.

She would have stopped herself if she could have.

“He’s making a spectacle of us!”

In this, as in many things, her sister had a difference of opinion: “What’s it got to do with us if he insists on making an oaf out of himself?”

But the Queen, distraught by the rancorous turns in the discussion, advised her children to have patience: “Remember that your true enemy is not him, but the slander that would drive you apart. Prove yourselves through your actions. Have courage, and be kind. If your honor speaks for itself, then no lies shall tarnish it. You won’t even need anybody to acknowledge it, because you’ll carry the proof of your own truth in your hearts.”

“That was very well spoken, mother,” said Arafinwe, well aware of all the moving parts and individual actors that would have to come together for such an outcome; Afterwards, he would suppose that this might have been enough, in a less flawed, more rational world.

….

When the much-dreaded ceremony approached, Nolofinwe found that one of his very own sisters seemed all to glad to throw him to the wolves.

“Go on then. Do it.”

All that was missing was for her to give him a good push forward – only that it would not do for the Regent Prince and the High Priestess to be seen acting like a pack of squabbling siblings. How very unseemly would that be?

But not all of them were so concerned with appearances:

“Oh Findis, cut it out. Nolofinwe was the victim of this crime, in case you don’t remember. He doesn’t have to forgive Feanaro for anything; If he did, it would be out of the goodness of his heart.”

“And it is that goodness which I shall endeavor to choose today”, he declared, firmly and kingly enough to silence both voices. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Arafinwe, who nodded for him to proceed – and then he stepped forward under the watchful eyes of the powers, under the eyes of all.

Indeed it took all his goodwill, all his determination, not a small amount of his considerable courage, and every wise word ever told to him by his elders, but in that moment at least, Nolofinwe was truly willing to be the bigger person about this and let bygones be bygones, trying as he might force down his misgivings even though his half-brother made it very clear that he did not want to be here.

Aside from the obvious statement entailed in his getup, standing there on the other side of the ring before the thrones of the Valar, he was not making the slightest effort to reign in his morose countenance. The one small mercy that Nolofinwe could be grateful for was that the crown prince’s contempt seemed more focussed on the powers themselves as of now.

But if this whole endeavor was, from the first, doomed to fail, then Nolofinwe did not want to be the one responsible for its failure.

Someone had to make the first step, so he willed himself forward with stoic endurance.

Not to be outdone, Feanaro came too, though he had to force every step or motion despite himself, as he might if he were merely subjected to some outward force pulling at his limbs, and every little move required him to overcome himself – as if those few steps would have been such a big deal, as if it were truly that disgusting to ask another’s forgiveness.

And yet he came, and met his half-brother in the middle, and eyed him up and down before flinging his hand forward in a jerky, grudging motion, as if to say, ‘Fine, here, take it!’

And Nolofinwe did, reaching out with his own and clasping it firmly.

“As I promised, I do now. I release thee, and remember no grievance.”

He wasn’t actually sure if he’d ever touched Feanaro’s hand before.

As one might expect, it was somewhat calloused from countless years of work – he had remarkably long, bony, slender fingers, nothing like Nolofinwe’s own thick square hand, some shades lighter, too.

Long had he chased after that hand, trying to catch up to it, maybe even grasp it, even, and in this holy place suffused in radiance, it was tempting to indulge in long-buried hopes.

The lights were now blending together all around them as gold faded to silver, giving rise, for a moment, to that very purest light in which all things seemed a little closer to what they truly were (and that, too, was for the last time) and in that brightness, he thought, just for a moment, that Feanaro looked above all things tired and cautious, and not truly all that different from himself, and he thought of what his eldest nephew had said at the time of their parting, about how he just needed people to let him know that they were not going to betray him.

– so, Nolofinwe held on to that hand, and added the following with sudden, urgent sincerity: “Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. Thou shalt lead, and I will follow. May no new grief divide us-”

Honestly, Feanaro did not seem to know what to even do with that sort of statement.

He had expected to find his rival hard-faced and restrained, or perhaps boastful and defiant.

He had no script or speech prepared in case of sincerity, it would seem.

“I hear thee.” he conceded, in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. “So be it.”

Scholars of later ages would of course note here that Feanaro had made no assurances of his own.

…

The Valar, thus far, were willing to count this as a success, and took the handshake of the princes as a sign to start the rites, the dancing and the feast – and what a feast it was.

Bitter hindsight would make the genuine attempts to outshine the dark with an abundance of all that is good and wholesome into a final, desperate denial.

The Powers That Be had looked to make this a celebration such as there had never been before – and as there would never be again, not in that light, not in a land that had never known bloodshed.

He who was afterward known as the great poet Elemmire for the famous lament he made of the events of this day was back then just an ordinary spectator in the crowd, though he might have traded all his later fame to go back to being an elf yet untouched by that day’s grief.

Nerdanel, too, was actually present, though she was far from the action and would not hear in detail about the deeds of her children and former husband on that day until they were told to her after the fact; She had not come with any of the royal delegations but arrived with her father and their flock of ruddy-haired clan members alongside all the other devotees of Aule, Maiar and elves alike. She spent most of the evening sitting across from a particularly haughty disagreeable Maia by the name of Curumo who was expecting her to be all too impressed with his latest deeds. She tried to focus on spending some quality time with her extended family and following the solemnities in a way that would not have been possible with her unbelieving husband in tow, but the marked absence of her own brood from the ranks of the various cousins and nephew weighed on her heart like a persistent shadow.

Historians would lament that Feanaro had denied the crowds the sight of the Silmarils, but she who had once been his wife could not have cared less for the brilliance of the gems; To her, it was rather the harping of her son that was sorely missing from the perfection of the feast; in the bitterness of later days, she would begrudge that on top of all other wrongs, her husband had with his antics deprived her of one last chance to hear prince Makalaure’s singing.

She would hear of his later works only through renditions of soldiers returning from the war of wrath – gloomy songs of black deeds and dark days.

Prince Arafinwe was at one point sitting in the meadows with his wife and sisters, including his sister-in-law, all arranged on hand-made covers around several platters filled with some choice selections from the buffet. The cutlery was the fine silver from one of the palaces in Valmar; The cover was in fact the handiwork of the golden princes’ wife – the daughters of the Teleri were overproud of their textile works and it seemed a fitting thing that something for the use on such an auspicious day would be provided by the lady of the house. However, there were no many of Earwen’s people who had found their ways to these festivities – it was, after all, not the anniversary of their arrival to Valinor; That was yet to come.

She had come here to support her husband and accompany not just her children, but also her best friend.

The need for formalities was supposed to have been over, yet the time for some actual revelry not yet exhausted – Even Findis had managed to join them, having peeled herself out of her ceremonial getup.

They were only waiting for Nolofinwe, who, as expected, did arrive – but not he alone.

It would be no exaggeration to say that almost every one of the distinguished nobles present did an undignified double take at the sight of his companion – Aranfinwe alone was unperturbed, merely smiling in approval.

His sisters were frozen in place, the Lady Anaire could not quite keep her eyebrow from twitching, and the Lady Earwen tensely saught her husband’s hand, though all that was dispelled when Nolofinwe took control of the situation with his firm and deliberate speech: “I was thinking that our brother Curufinwe might want to join us at the feast – in the spirit of unity.”

His unexpected companion wasted no time in repeating that last bit in a high silly voice, exaggerating the overly formal tone. “’Our brother Curufinwe’ – ‘in the spirit of unity’ – what a farce! -Just… just call me ‘Feanaro’, if you must, alright?”

There were a good amount of confused blinks.

The only one not stunned into silence was Arafinwe, who took it upon himself to break the ice by breaking into a wide, wide grin that was not altogether acted:

“Well would you look at this! After thousands of years, we finally wore him down!”

“Ah – Alright then!” added Earwen, making an earnest effort to chase off her unease with applied kindness: “You’re very welcome to sit with us!”

This moved even more skeptical among those present to play along at least, for her sake maybe, or Nolofinwe’s.

Anaire discreetly grasped her husband’s hand in support once he had seated himself, but otherwise observed the situation cooly, none too optimistic about the odds of success.

The sisters might have had to overcome some deep-seated recoil from the terror of their childhoods.

But the one the least sure of what to do with Feanaro was Feanaro himself.

He set himself down onto the covers between his brothers, but he did so rather awkwardly, half-guarded still, tempted to hold himself apart, or perhaps simply reluctant to become part of the great circle in which everyone else was seated.

In the latest centuries, Lalwen had come associate great animosity towards this son of her father’s, but she was so stumped by this surreal situation that she was pretty much running on automatic, and as it would turn out, her most ingrained coping mechanism was still to make light of things. She was half embarrassed when she heard herself speaking, putting on a smile: “Uh – You might wanna try the venison roast – it’s pretty good- I think-”

Feanaro made no answer to this at first, though he certainly helped himself to some of the feast, reaching for some bone that was sticking out from the platter and taking a generous bite from the slab of meat hanging off of it.

“Ish preddy good alright, I’ll haf’ to grant em that-”

This, at last, was more than Findis could take.

“Where are your manners?” she hissed through gritted teeth. “It’s a day of high festival, for Manwe’s sake, use a fork!”

“Manwe can’t tell me what to do, and neither can you.” he retorted, flagrantly licking the excess grease off his long fingers. But there was no real vitriol left behind it, and Nolofinwe, too, notably had a humorous undertone to his words when he spoke next: “You’re nagging us, sister? Didn’t you say that we’re supposed to focus on our own best behavior?”

Thus assaulted from many sides, even the restrained high princess could not stave off a little bit of embarrassment:

“Fine! So long as you do not quarrel...”

Unconcerned, the crown prince kept chewing his meat.

“Uh, you seem to be liking it a lot,” observed Earwen, looking to strike up a friendly conversation.

“Nah – this is just them flaunting their powers to dazzle us. These fat, braggart handouts are nothing compared to the satisfaction of something you’ve caught and skinned yourself. I really should have had something before heading out, like father said, but I just-”

“You just wanted to be mad?” suggested Arafinwe, a little bit teasing perhaps, but yet said in such a soft, disarming manner that even Feanaro could not take offense.

“-Perhaps.” the crown prince forced himself to admit, the faintest redness of shame implied on his cheeks, just for a moment – “But never mind that – Tell me, how’d you let that brother of yours walk out of the palace with that ridiculous arrangement on his head?”

Nolofinwe supposed that it had been inevitable after even his more courteous siblings had taken turns taking shots at it. “Let me guess, you don’t approve?”

“It’s been bothering me this entire time. You see, the worst part of it is that it is almost perfect, so that one cannot ignore how the purple gems stick out. If they’d use a more bluish purple, it would go excellently with all the rest and even that bland yellow would really pop – but these are more of a reddish purple. I cannot believe how the same person who coordinated all the rest could have made such an obvious mistake! Did your servants perhaps let one of their apprentices pick those out?”

“I do not now,” commented Nolofinwe, half-suppressing a chuckle, “-but I’ll be sure to ask them – though I’m afraid that coming from you, the words ‘almost perfect’ might be construed as praise.”

“No way,” blurted Lalwen. “You of all people are gonna tell us that you seriously like Nolofinwe’s getup?”

Irritated, Feanaro probed his brothers for an explanation.

Arafinwe, at last, volunteered to supply it, but not after taking just a little good-natured relish in the master artisan’s rare confused expression.

“I’m afraid that our sisters and I might have been teasing him just a little bit.”

“Whyever would you do that? - Other than the reddish-purple gems.”

“You don’t think it’s just a wee bit… ostentatious?”

“No. Why?” he judged, bluntly, gesturing toward Nolofinwe. “He’s representing our people, after all.”

“Ah, really?” asked the second prince, maybe just a little bit harsher than he meant to – “I would not have thought that you would consider me part of them.”

“Look – I just think that people should be ruled by someone like them. Someone who understands their passions, pursuits and priorities – not some ivory tower nobles who have more in common with other rulers than the subjects they’re supposed to stand for. I’m sure that even Manwe must be a fine ruler for Maiar, or else they wouldn’t follow him so fervently, but-” he caught himself before going off a rant. “-in any case, I can see that you’re making an effort. I appreciate that, and I’m sure our subjects do, too. At least it gives me hope that father shall not find the city overgrown with vines by the time he returns – I can see that you’re trying. You look like a prince of the Noldor.”

“Says the man dressed like a beggar, wolfing down his dinner with his bare hands.”

“Ah- that, I cannot deny. Should’ve brought the Silmarils. And father.”

“And your boys! Do you have any idea how much our kids have been missing them?”

“I’m not surprised that they have. After all, I have the most amazing sons in all of Aman.”

“Next to mine, maybe.” boasted Nolofinwe unabashed, moved well beyond his earlier stiffness.

“Uh-huh,” said Arafinwe, nodding along because he knew full well that his daughter was the most accomplished in her generation and hence feeling no need to prove this in any sort of context.

By that point, even Lalwen and Findis had thawed up a bit; The younger princess’ smile was beginning to take on a more genuine quality: “And they say that those three have nothing in common!”

“Whatever do you mean?” demanded the crown prince, merely huffish rather than incensed.

“Well – you’re all very fond of kids, aren’t you? Even you have to admit that, ...Big Brother.”

Truth be told, Lalwen was actually a little relieved when he cringed at that.

“Let’s not get that far ahead of ourselves –”

“I rather agree, actually.” quipped Nolofinwe in mock indignation. “That is one title I am not yet ready to share. You may be the Crown Prince, but ‘Big Brother’ is me.”

That’s when it happened at last, that all the residues on tension at last melted into genuine, full-throated bursts of laughter, starting with Lalwen and Arafinwe, and then spreading all around the circle among all those present, like sparkling droplets of light.

“But you know,” concluded Arafinwe when he was the first to regain his bearings, “It really is a shame that father isn’t here - if he could see you two getting along for once, I think he might weep for joy.”

…

But by then it would only be a short while until the lights started going out.

Indeed that stray blissful moment in which all five children of Finwe sat together jesting like ordinary siblings lasted only just a few hours – and that is hours such as mortals would have known them, measured as what would later be the twelfth part in an average day of the sun.

It started at first as a faint coolness of the sort that might be felt from a cloud blocking out the sun, the sort that would be thought up as a momentary fluke that could not possibly last long – and then, with the suddenness of on who has been distracted by their book through the evening hours suddenly noticing that they can scarcely see the letters in the dark, the revelers at the festival all woke up to a world that was rapidly draining of warmth and color.

Part of the crime’s insidiousness was that the pair of thieves had gone first for the one tree that was not currently set to shine, so by the time that the second foundered, it was already far too late; All across the green hills, the various festival-goers looked up just barely in time to see streaks of dark vapor taking the skies before the dimming backdrop of silver – excluding the Maiar, most of the individuals present had never known so much as an instant of unbroken dark; To them, the world must have taken on a suspended, liminal quality as the ever-widening shadows started coming in from all the wrong angles.

Before long, countless voices would be screaming in the dark.

Back on the royal picnic blanket, Prince Arafinwe sat frozen in place, eyes losing focus.

His wife had reached for his hands, but his fingers were senseless in her grasp.

“It’s coming – it’s coming now.”

“What?!”

“Whatever it is that has been coming this whole time.”

Somehow, Feanaro seemed to understand immediately what was meant – as if Nolofinwe had been the only one locked out of the loop. In an instant, he felt thrust back into the plain unremarkable middle brother again; The moment had passed. The magic had gone, the sense of possibility dissipating with the sad remnant of the radiance.

He lost sight of Feanaro in the crowd – he’d been the first to leap to his feet, snapped back to alertness all once, the blazing white echo of light in his eyes now brighter than what remained of its source in the skies, and then he was moving, running, leaping, one of the first ones pushing ahead of the masses to see what had happened, pausing only to tear the lower strip off of his robe to run unimpeded.

The leftover cloth was trampled by the panicking multitudes; Where its owner had gone, Nolofinwe could not say.

He felt the constraints of his tight royal getup, ill-chosen purple stones and all.

He felt the walls of his usual personality, what habitual patterns and attentions were engrained enough to somehow persist through abject pandemonium.

He saw the stricken faces of the people; Snapshots he would remember forever: The cool, pessimistic appraisal in the gaze of his wife, his younger brother’s deflated look of surrender as if this somehow did not surprise him as much as it should – At his side, Earwen was visibly panicking; Lalwen stood at attention with mounting urgency; Findis stood there with wide, uncomprehending gray eyes, her furrowed brow as her mind strained to make sense of what it was experiencing. She was probably the worst of all, completely shut down as her entire concept of the world imploded on itself. Moments ago, she would have vigorously reassured you that no such evil could ever befall under the Powers’ watchful eyes…

Nolofinwe thought of his mother and his children, somewhere out there in that same crowd.

He was beginning to notice a cloying smell taking hold of the air, and along with it, felt the vestiges of ancient instinct that he didn’t even know he had rising through his being as a wave of revulsion - He did not even know what decay was, and this was so much more.

People were gagging all around; Some were swaying on their feet – Nolofinwe, though, wasn’t one of them. Firm and resolute still, his voice cut above the din:

“Everybody stay calm! We need to find some light and find out what is happening. There must be cooking fires still burning nearby, or perhaps some lamps…”

He would come to find that most people typically obey a loud, confident-sounding voice when they’re teetering on the edge of chaos; As much as they have it in them to freeze up or panic, they also have in them an impulse to help, and this all the more in times of chaos; It only needs a little push to tip them one way rather than the other.

With the steadfast aid of his brother, the ladies and many individual bystanders (including one mildly cantankerous but largely reasonable Maia who conveniently possessed the ability to conjure fire out of nothing), it did not take long until Nolofinwe had managed with his quick actions to at least forestall the emergent panic and procure a steady source of torches.

But once that was ensured, his attention turned to the inevitable question of what might be going on and the eminent need for deeds and measures, for by now, it was well and truly dark – most of the spectators in the crowd could not have known the reason yet, but in that moment, the black vapors of Ungoliant blocked out even the stars.

Clasping her hands in a quick gesture of trust, he left his wife to hold down the fort – for many years after, he would rack his brains in regret about how easily that simple gesture had come to them then, a simple affirmation of warmth, solid and reliable even without great flourish.

Earwen stuck close to her friend just from lack of knowing what to do in such an unprecedented situation – but still, she could pull herself together enough to tell her husband to go with his brother, who would surely have need of his wisdom in deciding what to do next.

“The powers must be doing something about this already-” insisted Findis, “They must be-”

“Then let us go find them,” resolved Nolofinwe, grimly determined to do something at least, and even if it was only to offer his modest services.

He made his way to what had become the center of a landscape of ruin.

Always and ever, through every one of his very many years, he’d known this hill close to the outskirts of Valmar as something very close to the beating heart of Valinor, the shining pendulum that drove the passage of its time, slow and graceful and eternal – now there was no time, no days, no light, no gold, no silver, nothing but the merciless open sky bare of radiance, a gaping chasm open to the hungry void and the world beneath it, naught but a rapidly cooling speck after the cutting north wind had blown out all its hearth.

There was no winter of death in Valinor, nothing withered or dried. Anything that ever disappeared did so in the furthering of some other life – fields were harvested, animals ate the grass, the beasts were eaten by its other or sometimes hunted by the people. A plant may expend all its resources in bringing forth its seed, as might some insect or mollusk which only mates once.

But nothing disappeared on its own, and nothing, thus far, had been violently interrupted or failed to flourish from intolerable conditions.

This is to say that Nolofinwe had not even seen a wrinkled fallen leaf before.

Now they were everywhere – falling down from great heights as if the sky itself were coming down in bits and pieces, so bereft of all light that they flitted through the air as solid black shapes; only their outlines could be discerned, and only for so long as they fell – they crumbled to dust at the slightest touch, or decayed to a shapeless wet sludge beneath an onlooker’s boots, caking them as he passed.

Once the Two Trees had been the sources of all light upon every single one of Nolofinwe’s many days – now, he could not lift his torch high enough to see more than a glimpse of their darkened boles.

Anyone might be forgiven for despairing under the circumstances, but Nolofinwe did not. Steadfast he pressed onward, but not from ignorance: He understood at once that any constant he had ever taken for granted during his long, long existence was now fundamentally in question, and yet grim determination drove him on.

It was not long before he could hear the cries of lamentation – the ones who were supposed to have the answers most of all were themselves stricken beyond help: There was Yavanna kneeling on all fours, spent from her futile efforts to recall her creations to life. There was Vana, scarcely less distraught than her sister; And there stood Irmo, looking on no less horrified than any other spectators.

One would assume that Tulkas and Orome would have departed to lay hands on those responsible, and perhaps Nessa as the fastest among the Valar had gone with them as a scout, but it was doubtful that they would get anywhere in this gloom.

Meanwhile, Manwe was holding council with his queen as well as Ulmo, Aule and Namo, considering what was to be done, but it was apparent that nobody could do very much at all -

No one but one, who stood defiant with his back turned to the crowd, fists clenched in the gloom.

Nolofinwe had not arrived in time to hear the full conversation; He’d been left to piece together what happened from what the other spectators could tell him.

He had no idea of his half-brother’s reasons, what drove him on, or what he’d been asked to give up; He heard only that he might have had a chance to reverse this tragedy, and that he had chosen to squash even that last spark of hope, willingly and fully conscious.

And stronger than the considerable revulsion one would feel at such a selfish, irresponsible act burned the envy in the ugliest depths of Nolofinwe’s soul: Once again, it was all about him. All up to him – If he tried to picture what it might be like, to be capable of fixing this debacle, to be able to help where even the Valar despaired and walk afterward through the streets where all would admire him for that then... there was one horrible moment before his reason and responsibility caught up with him in which felt like he might do anything to have such renown and recognition, and he could not imagine a reason for why his half-brother might have chosen as he did unless it were for the sheer kick of having that power and then withholding it from others simply because he could.

The Valar might have been bound to accept Feanaro’s choice by all of their byzantine non-interference rules, but as one of Feanaro’s fellow-creatures, Nolofinwe had no such special obligations to one who clearly thought that he did not owe anything to anyone.

Nolofinwe wasted no time in marching right up in his face and pulling him around by roughly gripping his shoulders. Were it not for the presence of the Valar, he might not have kept himself from punching his half-brother right in the face.

“Feanaro! How could you?!”

The son of Miriel pulled free of his grip at once, retreating into that insufferable sneer of his that always felt like he was looking down on you, even if Nolofinwe was in fact just about an inch taller.

“You, too…? - but of course. Your pledge of brotherhood is amazingly worthless if it takes you all but a few hours to renege on it. I should have known that you would be right around the corner to join in stripping me of my rights like the scavenging Vulture that you are!”

“Your rights?! Your rights?!” For once, Nolofinwe could think of no good reason to hide his ire: “This is NOT about YOU, this is about our people, our homeland- Have you no ounce of decency or obligation anywhere in your body?! Don’t you feel any responsibility towards any our subjects?! How can you do this to us?! ”

“Ah right!” he spat back, dripping with sarcasm and vitriol: “Because I’m the one who did this! It doesn’t matter what, it always seems to be my fault to you lot – and all the while, Melkor walks free.”

“It doesn’t matter who started it – you could have done something about this, and you chose not to. You’re doing this to all of us right now!”

Feanaro refused to hear it. Some fearsome mixture of volatile sentiments flashed in his eyes, but an instant later, all that was drowned out by a sudden forward motion, unmistakable in its intent -

For one moment, Nolofinwe thought that he had truly sealed his fate this time. The Valar had not allowed any weapons to be brought to the place of the festival, but he would not put it past his so-called brother to come at him with his bare hands right here for all to see – but it seems the disgraced prince had not completely forgotten where he was, and caught himself in time, bringing forth his aggression in words rather than action:

“Oh, I get it – I’ve heard this all a million times, about how everyone and everything would be so much better off if only it weren’t for me. Well, then tough luck for all of you, because HERE! I! AM!”

Nolofinwe could scarcely believe his pointy ears: “Have you ever once in your life thought of anyone other than yourself? You’re a disgrace to all our house! You have so little pity for your people, yet you dare call yourself their prince? As if the title were just another gem for you to strut around with, and not an obligation… - Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been this way – and they all let you get away with it because you’re highborn and learned as if either of those things could mark the character of a man...And maybe this time, when he hears of your deeds today, even father will be forced to acknowledge your true self at last!

Poor, poor father. For it would seem that his ungrateful son has turned out to be the most self-absorbed, the most egotistical, the most capricious, most hard-hearted-”

Nolofinwe did not get to finish his litany of epithets, for that is when the messengers arrived and drew a commotion. Both men turned around and drew apart.

The new arrivals had come to seek Manwe, and they were Noldor – not just any Noldor: Neither of the two can’t have taken too long to recognize the seven princes at the front of the train – no, there were eight of them: Following close behind the sons of Feanaro was a young man whom Nolofinwe did not recognize at once – a striking mirage of that portrait in Finwe’s study. It could only be the son of Curufinwe the Younger – technically, he was also called ‘Curufinwe’, but almost everyone had immediately taken to referring to him by the only slightly less pompous title of ‘Tyelperinquar’, probably to avoid any scenario where someone might shout ‘Curufinwe!’ down a hallway and find that all three come running, grumbling about being disturbed in their work.

He was practically still a child when his family left for Formenos; Now, he was near to full manhood.

The princes dismounted and purposefully made their way through the ranks of the panicked revelers in their crooked festival clothes, each of them as grim-faced as they had ever been seen.

None of them were easily rattled, and this was widely known, so it can’t have taken long for a sense of foreboding to sink down on the onlookers – all the more when, among their number, only Maitimo had the presence of mind to make a somber report of what they had witnessed, and even he was beside himself:

“Blood and Darkness! Darkness and Blood! The King is slain and the silmarils are taken!”

There’s probably at least one dull thump somewhere in his vicinity, but Nolofinwe hears it not.

The world has fallen away.

Contrary to the slander of Melkor, he had never wanted to be King; Not while his father had lived.

He’d been waiting for Finwe to return, to perhaps get a little praise for his running of the city in his absence; if he could not be like Feanaro in his eyes, then he could at least be himself – until now.

Turns out that there was quite a big difference between not enough and nothing; Between faraway and gone.

Some of the gruesome details at least filtered into his consciousness; The unsightly debate that followed, echoes of Feanaro’s querulous voice somewhere off in the distance, for of course he’d go and make this about him.

Nolofinwe cared nothing for it, and cared not where he might have ran off to.

His presence wasn’t one that would pull at his mind with strings of concern like his wife, mother, siblings or descendants; That sort of bond could not be built in just a few hours.

Thus, Nolofinwe did not pay him any heed, and did not learn some crucial morsels of information that might have swayed his later words and actions in another direction.

…

The palace was silent and empty in the uncertain dark.

By now, Manwe had sent a gust of wind to blow away the cover of black vapours, so that the stars could be seen, but to those who had been raised from the first under the light of the now-defunct trees, it would have been profoundly eerie to see them this far inland, though the Eldar could well make do with the faint starlight falling in through their windows much as their ancestors had back in the outer lands.

The royal study was still cluttered with the belongings of men whose return was now uncertain.

Prince Nolofinwe had long sat here in silence, though this dimmer light left space for heavy shadows across his features.

Along with his family, he had made sure to escort his people back to the city in an orderly fashion; He had made speeches and overseen the gathering of lamps and lights, whichever token measures could be taken to keep the city minimally functional and the morale from collapsing altogether.

He was glad that he had his mother at his side – as one of the comparatively few who still remembered life before the light, she had given a heartfelt, impassioned speech in the town square, though she must have been hurting most of all.

Of course, the lack of light had not yet lasted long enough to affect the crops; If this went on long enough, well, the city obviously had its granaries and storages, for convenience if nothing else, but beyond that it was out of his hands and up to the Valar.

It was one thing while he could still act.

He’d have thought that his children would have more need of him at this time, but they had made him very proud; They had in fact been a great help on the return march; Now they were dispersed on the city on various errands. They had gotten so mature, so resourceful in their own right – Turukano and Findekano in particular. He couldn’t shake the impression that they were keeping up a brave face for his sake as well.

Once he could spare a moment, he did what he could to comfort his mother and siblings, but they, in turn, did not wish to keep him from his duties.

Lalwen was a big help, at least – and Findis, too, in her own ways, despite their differences, he had to grant her that. She’d stayed with their mother when he, as the Regent, could not, and this much alleviated the guilt he felt at any moment that he had to leave her to herself.

Of course, when he was with her, his duties to the city called to pull him the other way.

Arafinwe’s children, too, had volunteered to help – the eldest of course, but even the youngest came to him many times, eager for things to do.

Arafinwe himself had of course refrained from departing under these circumstances, and more than it would feel fair to admit, his brother was glad to have him here. Just earlier, Nolofinwe had visited him and Earwen in their quarters and made the point to squeeze his younger brother’s hands in support – though he would not be comforted:

“Don’t let your guard down.” he announced, ominously. “There’s more coming. It’s not over yet.”

It was upon Nolofinwe to dole out the tasks and hear reports of them – which meant that, once the worst of the worst had petered out, he had little left to do but wait.

Now and again, his wife had come to keep him company in his study, and long did she stay by his side, putting her arms around him from behind, leaning forward to press herself against him as he sat unmoving, and so she had spent a long time, though he could not find it in himself to make much reciprocation.

At length, however, she too had to leave – they both had so many others to be concerned about, so many responsibilities. Neither of their bodies belonged only to themselves anymore.

So she left, probably, to see to their children, or perhaps to Earwen and Arafinwe.

And it was only then, when Nolofinwe had the whole of the office to himself in the cold dim light, that his own hot sticky tears did flow.

This whole room was still filled to the brim with his father’s things, with the memory of too many years too count, ages upon ages of fondness, warmth and connection…

And why did he ever feel like this was not enough, just because there was someone else getting special attention and accolades sometimes? Let Feanaro keep the glory and the lip service, if that’s what he wanted; If that’s all he was capable of wanting in his small, greedy heart.

Nolofinwe understood in that moment that he’d take an eternity of being second fiddle if he could just have Finwe coming through that door, putting the smiles back on the faces of his mother and siblings -

But he no longer had that choice.

...

It was not, strictly speaking, a vigil.

There was no established ritual for such things, no precedent, no rules.

What had been brought into the hall was not strictly speaking a coffin, only the nicest storage chest that was still in one piece after the wrack of Formenos.

It seems that Prince Maitimo had given very strict instructions that the box was to be tightly sealed before he sent four servants as the makeshift royal pallbearers – he had seen what was inside, and he deemed that more enough. There was no need for anyone else to be subjected to it – which would be why Princess Lalwen had thrown herself atop the sealed container, halfway across its length, to weep bitterly where her face met its barrier.

“I didn’t mean it!” she forced out between urgent, bitter sobs, “I didn’t mean to be so harsh – I thought we’d meet again. I’m sorry! I forgive you! I forgive you!”

Sitting against the other side of what was not technically a casket in a world that had had no need for such a world, there sat the Queen, bare of all ornament, pale against the dark robes of mourning – but even now, her focus was on anyone but herself, as she feebly tried to console her younger daughter. The elder one still sat there speechless beside her, though the empty look of shock on her features had since faded into something like solemn thought.

The youngest son of the king stood a little further aside. His pain seemed less that of a raw, open wound, but more like the inevitable conclusion of something he had long since expected to come – a dim resignation amid scenery of desperate anguish.

And then there was his brother.

He’d been the last to join them here. He’d been seeing to the city. He’d been the one with the strength left to take that off of everybody elses’ hands.

Who could have said what was going through his mind? His tightly restrained features were unreadable but for their severity. Who could have said what he was thinking? Who could have fathomed it?

A swirl of so many, many feelings, pressed flat beneath the weight of duty.

He walked into the hall, straight down the path laid out by the carpet in the middle, and knelt at last before the vessel of his father's remains, his tall, imposing stature all down on all fours.

The laments of his mother and sisters ceased with his arrival, put away for a moment when they all turned to acknowledge him.

They all must have felt something – several somethings, overlapping yet not exactly identical – when they noted the gleam of his armor.

Both his gesture and the declaration that followed was meant in part for them as well, though he addressed it at someone who no longer even inhabited the space within that carven wooden chest:

“I promise that I won’t let this stand. He will pay for this if it is at all within my power.“

Now Findis stirred, and not even the concerned glances of her mother beside her could hold her back as she rose, not even mumbled words from her younger brother about the time and the place. She had her eyes set straight on her purpose:

“Are you mad? - No really, are you mad?”

“I don’t know how I wouldn’t be, at a time like this.”

“Foolish little brother – you were supposed to have grown up ages ago! Don’t you get it? - It is just as Lord Manwe said. If he’d come to the festival instead of indulging Feanaro’s histrionics, he would be with us right now.”

“How can you say that!” sobbed Lalwen through the fabric of her sleeves. “How can you say it at a time like this… in a place like this…!”

But Findis would not be held back anymore, not by her mother’s pleading looks nor her youngest brother’s diffident mumblings about a time and a place.

“There’s no two ways about it. All of this got started because father couldn’t put his duty over his feelings. All of Aman has paid the price for that, not just he alone. ”

“You’re cold as ice…” hissed Lalwen, though her heart was not in it, and her hurt feelings fell short of true disdain. She could not even pick herself off the carven wood, her usual forwardness blown out with the light.

But her sister stayed hard:

“This is the cost of his sin. This is the consequence of his actions – and what will your actions be, little brother? What will you do?”

Nolofinwe said nothing, but inwardly, he perhaps felt that he’d had just about enough of his older siblings insisting on the authority of seniority when they had never acted the part.

But of course, that wasn’t fair. There could be no comparison between the two.

That should be apparent whenever there was the slightest thread of patience to spare.

Which, right now, there wasn’t.

…

The seven brothers had searched many more reasonable places before this, but at least some of them must have known that they would come to find their father here.

Maedhros’ somber face at least betrayed no hint of surprise.

Gone was the ethereal presence of the many Maiar that used to fill these parts with their strange smells and lights – they had all been called away, if not for the festival, then certainly for the resolution of the tragedy at its ending, or the mourning of its cost.

Gone was the gentle light of Telperion that had once softly suffused the landscape.

In the still darkness, its dream-like colors had faded to a murky afterimage of themselves; in black and white, it seemed no different from any other woodlands.

And yet the Willows were still there, bent low towards the ground, and something else was still there.

Not the shell of the woman who has once laid beneath them, not for a long, long time.

Her discarded shell had withered away long ago, its connection to her snapped the moment that her absence was made permanent.

But she who chose this unprecedented fate had left beneath her a spot bereft of grass where nothing ever grew again, the only barren patch in all this fertile land, soiled by whatever taint she had brought with her from the outer lands.

Now, her son no longer fit inside this shadow of her silhouette; He was broader, taller, stronger than she had been even at her best before she had decayed into the wispy, barely-there something that he would remember.

Even before the late king’s second marriage, he had no memory of any time when she’d been anything other than a silent, unmoving statue – nothing but her own discarded vessel, really.

And yet this is where he came in the pits of his anguish, face pressed against the grassless dirt.

Though they finally found him, they were reluctant to draw near – in all their countless years, none of them had ever seen their father weep.

They’d only ever known him as a relentless torrent of strength and energy, and even in despair, he was terrible.

It would have to have been Maitimo who stepped forth first, somber and resolute, as calm as he could force himself to be. He set himself down on his knees beside his sire, but as of yet did nothing further than to address him in a respectful, collected manner, holding back on what might have been unwelcome gestures.

“Father. Please. If you’re going to be ...leaving, then at least let us make you comfortable.”

“Leaving…?”

The thin, wan voice that answered back was barely recognizable to the brothers.

And yet he sat up, his face still stained with tears, snot and dirt, but washed clean of any readable expression.

Even so, his eyes still held a sharp, actinious light.

Cold white shine lit his pale cheeks, gloaming through tangled raven strands.

“They would all like that very much, now would they? If I rolled over and died just like they asked me to. If I just laid down and took it.”

It was no longer really clear who ‘they’ really were in this equation – the Valar? Melkor and his underlings? Indis and her children? The distinction was blurring.

But one thought alone was crisply delineated:

“I will not. I refuse. I defy them. I am not going to do them that favor.”

He set his hand down on the ground, pulling himself up, rising to his feet, stretching up to his full height as his sons stood in attendance, tightly clenching his fists.

“Pack your things. We shall be leaving indeed. But not for Mandos.”

Chapter Text

Virtue to Vice

In the great town square of Tirion upon Tuna, beneath the white tower and the royal palace and the lesser silver tree that was now all that remained of its predecessor’s image, there now appeared a man.

Technically speaking, he should still have been barred from the city. In later days, none of the guards would profess to letting him in. But they did not have to, for though the love of his heart had always belonged elsewhere, he was born and raised in this city, and thus privy to all the little nooks and passageways that only an intrepid child would know, back when he still answered to a different name.

Now he had returned along those paths and brought with him his long since grown sons climbing after him, and even the grandson that was just barely come to manhood.

But even if he had just knocked on the gates, it was doubtful if the watchmen would have barred him entry, for with the demise of his father, he would not have been wholly unjustified in calling himself their king.

He appeared dressed for war, in gleaming armor, wielding a long, fell sword and a bright red plume atop his helm, flanked by his sons who were likewise arrayed.

Even young Tyelperinquar appeared carrying a sword, though his determination warred with an uneasy reluctance even then.

Feanaro was a far cry from how the people had last seen him; Gone were the torn clothes, the stained face.

Gone was all appearance of weakness that had then been on display; Of course he had washed and dressed himself, as a skilled orator, he knew the importance of making the right impression.

But that wild pale light still remained, and blazed brighter still as it fueled the infamous speech that would be remembered through the ages as one of his masterpieces, almost the very last addition to the list.

Soon a sea of torches was gathered to the town square, and since the palace was right next to it, there is no way that the Regent would not have got word.

It was Lalwen who came running into Nolofinwe’s study to inform him.

Brave as he was, even he could not be free of apprehension when he heard that his older sons had already run outside to handle the commotion, though he felt proud of their initiative.

His daughter, though inclined to go, had stayed within the palace, for her brothers had left her with her niece. The golden-haired girl was observing the events with subdued apprehension, calm, yet serious beyond what her young years might lead one to suspect.

Nolofinwe made a point of hastily taking each lady’s hands into his own, one after the other, leaving a furtive trace of firm reassurance that may not have been entirely wanted or needed by either… and then he made for the gates, as he saw it, his only choice as the person responsible for the city.

He still thought to disperse the crowd, then, unaware that the gears of history were ticking.

Though of course, by the time he made it near enough to the center stage of the events to make out the outlines of his sons and his nephews’ golden heads, Feanaro and his sons were all neatly lined up in a circle, raising their swords into the crimson torchlight, and the blasphemies were already being spoken.

The histories record that the discordant factions of the Noldor came near to blows again that day, but few detail why they didn’t.

No mention is made of Arafinwe’s speech, other than that his words were soft and unheeded.

Perhaps those who remained behind in Valinor can remember it without shame; Some of those who followed him later might even have been listening, or perhaps later they would say what they were, eager to disdown the fire of their hearts that day as a momentary madness.

Even the brothers of Arafinwe both preferred not to acknowledge what might have happened if he had not staid their hands, where those hands on their sword hilts might have gone if he had not at one point physically placed himself between them, or what might have happened if their reaction times had not been quite as impeccable.

They preferred to act as if this had never happened, one out of pride, and the other out of shame – and, honestly, pride as well.

As for the youngest brother, he spent the rest of the event sitting beneath the white tree, catching his breath, processing what was happening.

His sons had not said anything outright, but he could tell from the glitter in their eyes – all hope was shattered for good when he heard the firm, strong voice of his own daughter rising loud above the throng.

So absorbed was he, despite all his years, in the hard work to keep himself abstracted, that he only noticed the closing steps when their owner sat himself down beside him.

And yet, it was a reflex of his gentle nature to default at once to turning all his energies to comforting the bleary-eyed youth, putting his arm around him thus wrapping his long sleeve around his companion.

The young man relaxed a little, but only barely. The springs of terror were coiled too tensely in his frame.

“What’s going to happen now, grandfather? What do I do? Just what do I do….”

“What are you thinking of doing?”

“...I really don’t know. I don’t really want to leave, but I don’t want to fight with my parents or uncle Findarato, either. I just don’t want any more fighting. It’s bad enough what happened to the king…” his voice faltered there, for a bit. “I don’t want to think of anyone else in harm’s way….

So what do we do? Can’t you talk sense to them?”

Arafinwe sighed deeply, wearily shaking his golden head.

“There are some things that cannot be avoided; They can only be endured.”

…

All the wide city was descending into packing.

The small council that had convened in the royal study was meeting strictly to hold council over the undeniable fact that they had thoroughly lost control.

A small remnant was assembled here.

Nolofinwe sat gravelly at his desk, his hands clasped together.

His sister stood not far from him, arms crossed in displeasure.

His younger brother stood gravelly to the side of his desk, his unreadable face deep in thought.

They had not thought to trouble their mother or expected much help to come from their older sister. It was to be surmised that Elenwe and Itarille were with the queen.

Irisse had left the building, by the looks of it disappointed to have missed out on the debate.

Seemingly unaware of the overall gravity, she had rushed past her father and uncle without much of a word, or a real understanding of what just transpired.

One might wonder just how her brothers and cousins might fill her in.

Of the younger generation, only Turukano had come to dutifully report on the inadvisable sentiments flaring among his siblings and cousins.

Young Artaresto had mostly followed along with them because he didn’t know what else to do.

The positions of his parents, aunt and uncles were pretty clear – he dreaded leaving, but no less did he dread telling this to their faces.

Thus he was content to sit aside and let his elders speak – once in a while, his grandfather would check on him, at times with some silent gesture of comfort.

He was in fact past his majority, some decades older than his distant cousin Tyelperinquar and hence had been admitted to take part in the debates – he’d voted for remaining, but despaired of it rather swiftly.

He’d been raised sheltered and in love, his education lovingly overseen by his learned uncle, never pushed to grow up quickly, as it should be in an ideal world – but his present surroundings were ceasing to be ideal with every passing moment.

He didn’t know what to say. Truth be told, he tended to quiet down in the presence of raised voices. There had been very little quarrel in the house of his parents… until now, that is.

His unease mounted the more the listened to the proceedings.

Grim and severe, Turukano somberly relayed such parts of the debate as he had witnessed, relaying the actions of his cousins and brothers.

His father and uncle listened gravely. Though both strained to keep their composure in their own ways, neither of the two could keep their faces from falling when they heard that Artanis of all people had been arguing strongly in favor of departure – they had counted on her at least to be sensible, or at the very least, on her dislike for her wayward uncle.

Lalwen could not stifle a sound of indignant surprise.

Her brothers were beyond such things, acutely aware that any little thought or notion or idea could now sway the fates of their children, if those dice had not already decided in some decision that they were not going to like.

Perhaps they wondered what to tell their wives.

Intent on facing reality nonetheless, Nolofinwe rose up from his desk, and for a moment, regarded his son.

He was not surprised to see him here, out of all his children, though he’d made a very deliberate choice to ignore that. That, however, did little to stop him from feeling that pang of guilt.

From the beginning, Nolofinwe had of course decided that he was going to treat all his children exactly the same. He’d made a very precise and deliberate speech to Anaire about it that had seemed overwrought to her, since it was something that should go without saying as far as her understanding went – yet still, Nolofinwe was proud, and determined not to pin the blame on his father, as much as he might have grumbled in private.

Still, if such a thing had been possible, he would have measured out every last droplet of affection on a scale so as to ensure that all four of them received exactly the same dosage.

Doubtlessly he harbored great fondness and pride for them all, but still he was not surprised in the slightest that of all the four it would be Turukano who would be standing before him in this moment, ready to move out on his beck and call, to support whatever it was that he should decide.

Nolofinwe hated to admit it, and, so far as he was able he had tried as best as he could to bury this impression, to keep it under such wraps as would be needed to prevent it from ever leaking into his actions or demeanor, but –

of all his four children, Turukano had always been the one most like himself. The most serious, the most reasonable, the one that was always at his right, whom he understood the best.

They had always thought alike, and followed each other’s reasoning the most easily, and that is why they were both here now, united in discussing the future.

Here and now, it must have shown.

Their agreement was taken for granted that neither of them was elsewhere, deciding what to tell the other, away with the other scattered members of their clan.

There was also another thing that weighed on Nolofinwe’s mind, a separate thread of fate that had long been if not forgotten then slipped far from his present mind, brought now to the front like many other things by the unprecedented circumstances that they found themselves in.

Untold ages ago, when the tall, solemn prince standing before Nolofinwe was but a newborn babe in his arms, he’d been approached by a Vanyarin seeress who spoke to him of joyous omens and important links in the chains of fate. He supposed that his more learned brothers could have had more use of the gifts she was offering. He was an administrator and courtier, not a mystic.

But he remembered one sentence very clear: ‘His reign of glory will last while the lilly of the valley endures’ – fanfiful metaphor, clearly. What reign? Turukano was the second son of a second son. What of his older brother? What of his father and his aunt? What of Feanaro and his many plentiful offspring – though there were just three of them at the time of Turukano’s birth.

Nolofinwe had gone with his worries to his mother and she had assured him that the meaning of such prophetic words was often unclear until the circumstances that they pertained to assembled themselves.

Never once had Nolofinwe considered the possibility of Turukano literally wearing his grandfather’s crown, but back then, the thought of losing anyone at all had been wholly unthinkable – and now it had happened.

Whatever the High Prince ended up choosing, it would ripple far beyond his sight and the full consequences resounded far away in the murky unknown of his future, and he could not see the ends of it.

He did not like this one bit...

Yet it seemed that it was up to his decision.

His sister and brother had given him their thoughts, but it seems they were looking to him to make a decision.

He couldn’t go running to his grieving mother in a situation like this; Furthermore, if she had known what to do, she would be here, telling it to him.

He could well imagine that she must have her face in her hands, or she might be softly, quietly weeping into Findis’ shoulder, or Anaire’s.

If Nolofinwe could have his will, he would be there with them, but he had other duties.

His life no longer belonged to himself alone, not when there wasn’t a king in the city.

The mad jewelsmith could scarcely be counted as one.

Arafinwe was still reluctant to vote for anything other than patience and caution, but Princess Lalwen, for her part, had been frank enough about what was to be done in her view:

“The Lords would back you if you challenged him. You have their trust, and the people’s love. You know as well as I that it should be you. ”

“That would be sedition – I gave my word-”

“That was then. Before all this.”

“What of Findis? She is still the eldest.”

Lalwen balked at this at once: “As if she could do it! She’d get laughed out of the town square as the exact sort of servile faint-heart that the son of Miriel has been decrying.”

No scandalized looks from her brother or nephew could silence her.

“Don’t you understand? The line of succession no longer matters. The protocols don’t matter.

The only thing that matters now is that the people have a strong, reliable leader.

One that they can all respect. One who can actually handle the responsibilities instead of leading them on a mad rabbit chase for his own selfish purpose.

Findis is useless, and Miriel’s son is useless. A true King must have both virtue and strenght.

It has to be you. No one else can do it. Ascend the throne!”

Once uncorked, this particular spirit could not be stuffed back into the bottle again.

All eyes turned now to Nolofinwe.

Turukano nodded at once, without a second thought.

Arafinwe could be seen to wrestle with himself, to wring through conflicted loyalties and various ill feelings, but at last, he too brought himself to nod.

In truth, Nolofinwe had not known before this moment of the total depth of their faith in him.

He knew he ought to be deliberating, but a part of him could not help feeling stunned, honored, even in this darkness.

Yet before a decision could be reached, there was a rapping on the door; A fist announcing itself with several confident knocks, and then the door swung open, revealing a swarm of determined young nobles.

What sprang to Nolofinwe’s eyes first of all was his inconsolable mother, defeated at last in the firm arms of his wife, who announced to him with a single glance the presence of dire trouble.

Yet it was the Lady Earwen who first came stumbling into the room, in a state of dissolution surpassing even the Queen’s as she sought her husband.

“Ingo! Nerwen and the boys are speaking madness! Please, please talk sense to them!”

At once, each and every occupant of the room turned around in alarm.

Prince Artaresto’s apprehension was so great that he slapped his fingers in front of his mouth, gaping with apparent shock.

He suspected all too well what was about to be said.

It was not just the royal family that had assembled here, but all manner of young princes and noblewomen from the later generations.

The young nobles, however, were quite well organized. By no means did they all come pouring into the royal study; Rather, they cleared the way, for they had chosen one of their number to speak, and chosen well, too -

Who better to wrangle the regent than his own son, eldest and most beloved of the grandchildren of Indis?

Prince Findekano was not expecting a quarrel. He came prepared for a friendly, respectable debate, sure of his case.

But it was clear that the others stood with him in this, as he did with many things.

The lady Artanis had evidently insisted on following close behind, and her brother flanked their cousin from the other side.

It went without question that their remaining brothers followed close behind, as they had ever been his devoted friends, nor could anything less be expected from his younger siblings, which were not far behind, along with the wife of Angarato.

They had some careful plan hatched, but it was plain that their minds were already made up.

And of course, Findekano had a speech prepared, despite the rather sparse time there had been for one to be concocted – but Nolofinwe would have expected nothing less of his son.

“Think of it, father,” he reiterated after laying out his closing statement, “Consider it: Wide open places that none of us have ever seen. Smells, tastes and shapes that we cannot foresee-”

Artanis was much in agreement with him:

“Father! For years, I have studied under the best teachers that these lands had to offer. I’ve honed my lore, my craft, my songs and athleticism – I yearn to put my learning to good use.”

But it was Findarato who struck the last blow, measured and more level-headed than both: “Consider also that we are not alone on this great, wide world. Mother, please consider, have we not kin beyond those shores? Long-sundered relatives of whom we have not heard for so long?

Must not the enemy now be surely on his way to wherever they are, bereft of such lore and craft as we have here? How many more families will be bereaved such as ours, if he is left to do as he pleases? How many more beautiful places shall be befouled, before our eyes could behold them?”

They were not impolite. They left quite orderly and unprompted. Only with some reluctance did Artaresto follow when his parents beckoned him to join them, but he did, and so he too cleared out of the room. Most of the youngsters looked to assuage their elders with hopeful words or speeches of determination.

Propriety and protocol had not disintegrated so far that they would not wait on the High Princes’ decision -

Of the younger nobles, only Turukano remained within, for he had nothing to await.

“So, father, what shall we do? Should I go and try to dissuade my brothers?”

“There would be no point.”

Although he recognized this, Nolofinwe had found no comfort in the eager words of his eldest son, and in his children’s determination, Arafinwe saw only despair.

Even Lalwen had little bluster left to speak of.

“I’m sorry, I- I can’t claim to understand...”

But her older brother bade her to cease the apologies with a tired gesture of his hand.

“No, it’s fine – You were right.”

Even Arafinwe conceded at once, though deeply defeated, and loathing all his words entailed: “We can’t leave them at the mercy of Feanaro. We can’t leave our people-”

“No. We cannot.”

In reaching this conclusion, Nolofinwe resolved to accept his fate with grim determination.

“In a sense, this is convenient. I have some business of my own on yonder shores.”

Turukano was, for some instants, surprised, but mastered himself swiftly enough before his inner thoughts should be known then.

“Should I send my bannermen to pack then?”

“No. Not you. You stay. You have a wife and child of your own to worry about.”

“-and they are resolved to follow me, just as I am resolved to follow you.

To the bitter end – if bitter it must be.”

Nolofinwe averted his gaze then, but between the dark and the residual silver radiance in his eyes, the specks of wetness at their edges could not be hidden, somuch as he would have preferred to conceal such weakness from his son.

“-Thank you.”

With this passing of the years, this moment would come to weigh heavier and heavier with ever-new regrets.

…

Nolofinwe steps outside, and the crowds are ready to receive him.

It is much as Lalwen said: There are many ready to back him, swept-up as they might be in his half-brother’s words, they have not wholly forgotten their lives up until this moment.

The setup calls for some middle-of-the-road reasonable intermediate option, or what can pass for such in a given citizen’s personal rationalization.

The stage is set, the script is ready for such a role to be performed – Nolofinwe need only step inside.

He’s got a commanding voice and a steady presence. The people know him, they recognize his face.

The scholars and the craftman’s guild may know Feanaro, some loyal cadre of old veterans of the journey and malcontent youngsters who know nothing of the beyond and therefore readily fill it with pliable fantasies, but apart from those, most know Nolofinwe better.

Most know that he labored hard at the right hand of his father.

That he was not the one exiled for threat of violence.

He is heeded the moment he steps outside.

The force of his voice weighs heavier than it ever has, now, after losing so much, at a time that feels to him like the end of everything.

Now he’ll make a difference – in some corner of his mind, he thinks of it as the difference that his siblings had refused to make. He might not have any famed jewels to break, but he would give what he did have, or so he thought, with just the thinnest edge of pride.

Though at first he kept that thought to himself.

When he comes across the son of Miriel in the streets, pinned down by his suspicious glare and caustically asked what he means to be doing here, Nolofinwe affirms, with some understated defiance, that he is here to do as he had promised: To follow his brother’s lead.

If it was not intended as a covert, sanctimonious way to spit earlier accusations of treason and reneged brotherhood back into Feanaro’s face, this is certainly how he would have taken it – and plausible deniability aside, Nolofinwe must have known it, though he did not know or trust whatever weighings and calculations must have gone on beyond his half-brother’s eyes.

But whatever the result, it pertained to some further, yet unrealized future.

For now, the elder prince seemed to have decided that he should allow Nolofinwe to be of use to him for yet a while longer, or at least, that the time to dispose of him had not yet come.

“Do as you will!”, he spat, impatient in his coarse displeasure, carrying on unperturbed.

As he saw it he had places to be, and he was eager to be gone.

…

But Nolofinwe had also another sister, one who remained behind at the palace and watched with a stern, disbelieving glare all of the pulling off the walls of beautiful things and their stuffing into various belted coiffers, a rapacious plundering of an already wounded nation.

The sons of her father made swift work of it: Nolofinwe himself had ordered all the supplies counted, filed and packed into crates, at first to preempt the need for a possible rationing when it was yet unknown how long this barren night might last.

But now it just meant that all that had been packed away could just as easily be hauled off into the distance, never to be seen again.

All around, there was red torchlight and blue lamplight mingling into an inadvisable mixture.

Still she could not believe that there had come a day when her brethren should all come waltzing into the palace halls in unison, led by Feanaro of all people.

Findis was not the sort to buy into the twisted logic of keeping one’s enemies close – unmoved as a statue, she strode around the place, her disapproving expression set in place like an iron cast, witnessing in great disbelief the busy work of her father’s children.

“Even you, Arafinwe? Even you? I thought you at least knew better.”

The golden-haired prince kept his lips fast pressed together. He had nothing nice to say. The more he wrestled with the implications of what he was doing, the more that very fiber of his being resisted his every motion. Of everything his eyes fell on, he wondered if he were seeing it for the last time: Even this? Even this? His heart was fertile ground for such shame as his sister wished to kindle, but for the moment, the bonds of kinship and duty were rooted even deeper, pulling him onward in spite of everything he felt and the whole sum of his wisdom.

The two middle siblings were, if anything, more grimly determined, much more steely in their resolve to stiffly carry on, so they did not get caught in their sister’s provocations:

“Come on now! You’re going to follow him? Even you, Lalwen? I didn’t think that you held the son of Miriel in such high esteem – and you, Nolofinwe? Will you bow to him after he had assaulted you thus?”

Lalwen, at least, could not quite contain herself, though the force in her restrained murmuring was still but a fraction of the displeasure she held within.

“This is not about him!”

“You’re right,” judged Nolofinwe, but perhaps not exactly as Lalwen had expected him to: ”We have to go for the sake of our children. For our people. For the honor of our house.”

“Keep telling yourselves that.”

Such harsh judgement might have gotten a shamed flinch out of her younger siblings, but ir placed no such constraints on the one who had never accounted himself as her brother to begin with. Smirking perilously and spoiling for a fight, he put down the crate of tools he had been carrying so that he may give his full attention to the act of lambasting her with his spiteful words:

“So, daughter of Indis, you would have us overlook what that bastard did to my father, is that what you’re saying?”

“To our father,” added Nolofinwe, muttering under his breath, unable to keep silent yet finding it more productive to keep gathering up the inventory scrolls.

“So my brethren are in agreement for once, huh?” had Findis been a less tactful, reverent person, she might have descended into bitter, sardonic laughter.

“Fools. All you need to do is to be patient a little while, so the Valar can restore him to his form. You know this as well as I.”

“Do we? Do we really? - Your blind faith is adorable.”

This earned him marked glares from Lalwen and Nolofinwe, but their prior thoughts were soon to be swept away in the gale of his arguments: “Are you really sure about that?

Cause I reckon father himself was once urged to be patient, by the great Rainmaker himself, no less – and where is my mother now? Was she returned to us just in time to play with her grandsons?

Don’t mess around with me. What far-fetched, harebrained reason could you contrive for why I would ever pay heed to even a single one of their promises?”

Findis softened no more than he did, and coldly shook her head. “In the end, father shall come forth from Mandos and find you all gone across the sea.”

“Then if your faith is so great, you’re welcome to stay here and wait for it until the breaking of the world.”

---

If you had tasked some sadistic spirit with finding the optimal way to inflict the greatest possible anguish on Indis the Queen, the resulting scenario would not have differed much from this most recent sequence of events.

She was now long past the point of composure or even the capacity for it.

Yet still, somehow, there was not an ounce of blame in her tearful voice, even as her dear children stood line up before her to say their farewells.

“Arakano dear, are you really, really sure that this is what you want?”

Decked out and ready for travel, Nolofinwe did not feel as if he could have turned back no matter how much he might have wanted to.

“What I want does not matter,” he asserted, somberly, “I have a business to attend to. But rest assured that I shall not return until the hurt that was done to us has been avenged sevenfold.”

The Queen did not find this assuring.

“Just please be careful, alright?”

Somewhere near the door arch there was, of course, a dark, moody figure who had little sympathy for the tender scenes before him, and saw no reason to restrain the ugly feelings that welled up in his chest at the sight of the Queen’s desperate last affections to her son.

“Hurry along! We have places to be!” he shouted, yelling across the room in not-so casual impatience.

Not far beside him, his eldest son was however intent on dissuading him before he could provoke any of the others present into taking umbrage:

“Have a little patience, father. Surely these few minutes will not matter so greatly in the grand scheme of things.”

Of course, not all of Maitimo’s brethren had gone to see their own mother, though she yet lived, for they already knew what she was going to say.

The procession continued, a series of rehearsed farewells where the participants had steeled themselves too much for any real softness to be exchanged.

When begged to be cautious, Lalwen insisted that she could handle herself.

Arafinwe could not quite bring himself to look his mother in the eyes, speaking a few scattered words about something like grim necessity.

Prince Findekano was smiling when he came to bid his farewells:

“Don’t worry too much, grandmother. Everything’s gonna be fine. I know that you will miss us, but I don’t want you to think of us with sorrow. We will be exploring foreign places, seeing sights we’ve never seen, people we’ve never met, building great and lasting things, legacies of our own – if there’s one thing I’ll regret, is that we won’t be able to introduce you to any brides or husbands that me might find ourselves on the other side of the sea-” he said this as one might crack a joke, not like one uncorking a new fount of sorrow, but he must have realized his error by the time that he trailed off.

“Anyways-” he added, and he spoke more quietly in this, “I’m sure that Uncle Feanaro is being way too pessimistic about the Aftercomers. If we talk to them, they could even become our allies!

And who knows – I think I’ll be staying behind to rule my new realms, but there’s a good chance that at least some people might want to go back after Morgoth is defeated. Father and Mother might – so maybe one day, we’ll be able to send you a message, and tell you what has become of us.

I’ll be sure to ask Findarato to send you sketches of any new additions to the family that you might want to know about…”

Yet even there he had to stop himself from straying into painful territory; For Findarato himself had already been told that his fiancée wouldn’t be coming with him.

Thus the line proceeded, up to such daughters-in-law that already existed and more distant descendants such as Itarille (who remained remarkably contained, if somber) and Artaresto, who lost his composure entirely and spent several minutes tearfully clinging to the Queen.

Even Maitimo and Makalaure lined up to pay such tepid, stilted respects to her as might be squared with their loyalty to their father.

He, in turn, never left his spot near the exit, ever tapping his foot as to remind all the ones gathered of the passage of time though the feeble starlight in the blacked-out skies no longer could.

So, Indis had to come to him, knowing well that she’d be setting herself up to suffer the indignity of his rejection.

Her feelings about this son of her husband’s were no longer as uncomplicated or pure as they might once have been, before he had gone and caused such suffering to her family.

But he was still the child of her beloved and of one who had once been her best friend, and it appeared that she would not see him again.

So she put her hurt and grief aside and drew near, open arms barely raised in futile hope.

“Listen, I- I want you to know that I never, ever meant you any harm.

I can’t imagine how hard this must be on you. If I have ever done anything to make it harder, however unintentional – then I am sorry.”

He stood unmoved, cold and hard as ever.
“Then maybe you should have thought of this a long, long time ago.”

The blow, though verbal, very much connected as intended, yet still the Queen drew nearer:

“If your father were here, I’m sure he would want me to-”

He recoiled at once in absolute disgust.

“Don’t you dare touch me.”

It was apparent that he did not say worse for one reason, and one reason only:

Getting into a swordfight with Lalwen and Nolofinwe at this point in time would not get him any closer to his vengeance or his gems, or to any further ambitions.

He had neither love nor patience for the Queen, but he could muster this much strategic acumen at least.

Still, he must have felt like he had taken all that he would – he removed himself at once with brisk, resounding steps without sparing her even one further glance.

…

But Indis had one more child.

One who was not departing.

She who waited outside that gateway, standing in judgment over all that would pass through it.

“Even you, Nolofinwe? Have you no pity even for our mother?”

There was some finely aged, long-preserved resentment mixed in there.

“I am disappointed in you. You’re a disgrace.”

It didn’t quite have the intended sting – after all, he’d been told this and things very much like this for most of his life, usually by sharper tongues than hers.

Her disapproving glares earsed her some huffing and puffing from Lalwen and managed to get a good flinch out of Arafinwe; Even the apologetic politeness of her nephews did not soften her stance.

The sons of Feanor answered her with callous jeers and the occasional quip of ‘Make me!’ with only Makalaure showing the slightest succeptibility to guilt, but he soon hurried along to keep pace with his brothers.

Findis knew better than to waste her breath on Feanaro himself – she was alltogether too disgusted to even speak to him, and judging by his upturned nose and great determination to pass her by as if she were made of air, attempting to speak to him would not have done much good.

By and large, her demeanor was calculated to communicate that she was disapointed but not surprised, and she remained in her stone place for the whole procession, pitiless to her kinsfolk except for one:

“Artanis! You, too? I would have thought that you at least would have known something of duty.”

The youngest child of Finarfin remained unfazed, more calm than she was flippant:

“Worry not, Auntie, I know what I’m doing. You’re concerned about the wrong person. Feanaro and his hellspawn are as vile and repulsive as they are overconfident; They’ll waste no time in destroying themselves. As for Findekano and the others… their hearts are in the right place, but they are all trusting fools, and reckless besides – except for Turukano, who has the same exxagerated sense of responsibility as Uncle Nolofinwe.

Finally, my brothers are neither fools nor scoundrels, but they are soft-hearted. They lack the stomach for what needs to be done. Findarato at least agrees that it is madness to bring Itarille and Artaresto, but though we tried to convince them, Angarato and Turukano wouldn’t listen.”

“And you have none of these faults?”

Findis coldly raised an eyebrow.

She doubted that her brilliant niece would have failed to hear the sarcasm, but it seems that she chose to ignore it: “No, not at all. Like I said, I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

She is perfectly calm, polite even.

“So I should expect you to return without a scratch?”

“I’m not planning on coming back at all.”

At last, Findis could not keep from shaking her head. “You better get a handle on that pride of yours, kid – or you might find yourself becoming something you’re not going to recognize.”

But even this did not perturb the self-certain princess. She wasn’t even angry: “Thanks, Auntie. Duly noted. I’ll make sure to keep this in mind.”

And then she left.

...

The children of Nolofinwe had been grown adults now for what would have been longer than many lifetimes of mortals now; Surely they were to be held responsible for their own sins.

But to their father, that just increased the weight of his failure to keep them from damnation.

Yes, his brood was impetuous; As bold and brave he had praised them.

Proudly he had watched on as Lalwen led them in daring games.

Once they saw the signs of fighting, a decision was quickly reached.

Still, he thinks, they would have listened to their father. And if they had not, then at least he could have claimed in good conscience that he had done all that he could.

No amount of rationalizations, no contemplations of possibilities could explain away that just for a moment, even he had doubted.

In the darkness of the long night, Nolofinwe thought it possible that the Valar may indeed have sent the Teleri to waylay them – that his own brother’s in-laws would give the order.

All the favor of Ulmo and all the friendship with the family Olwe weighed less in that moment than the much younger webs of rumors and uncertainties.

But the lies of Melkor might have had an unexpected ally in his brother’s callous admonishments, all that part about how Finwe ought to have come to the feast.

It was not even that Nolofinwe disagreed – it was the salt upon the raw wounds, rubbed in with the clearest and purest of intentions.

If there was a window of time in which he could have shouted for Findekano to stop, it passed unheeded, and so the golden-braided prince advanced with the vanguard.

...

And this is what it lead to:

Artanis in white Armor, standing in the blood-splattered streets of the city of her childhood, tall long blade inches from her first cousin’s neck.

“Move aside, Findekano. I don’t want to kill you. You’re not the one I’m after.”

...

She found her prey soon enough.

Halfway through his bloody handiwork, Feanaro encountered some resistance worth his notice.

He’d been making short work of the sailors – for all their valor, determination and desperate ferocity, they were both armed with simple fish-spears and nets devised for safe use in peaceful purpose.

But then, when he least expected it, lost as he was to the frenzy of his scarlet path, a sound off to the side alerted him of his right-hand captain clattering to the ground in all his armor, not speared from the front, but stabbed with a sword from behind by an assailant who had passed unquestioned behind their own lines:

Here was not a defenseless unarmed mariner, but an even match to the attackers: A tall warrior in shining armor, her hair like native electrum tightly braided into a radiant crown.

She had no words for him but one:

“YOU…! YOU-”

Now here was an opponent that could resist him, perhaps one of the few among his own kind capable of giving him a fight, to really get his blood running – He had to pay his full attention to every strike now. Here was, for once, a real challenge: It was exhilarating.

Even one such as she could not remain wholly unfazed by his shameless scarlet laughter – in her later days, this might have been different, after she lived to gain greater wisdom and tamed powers far greater beyond those contained in her sturdy arms and legs; But that day was not come yet, and young as she was now, he brought upon her the bitter taste of defeat, a humiliation that she would never forget, and resent until the world’s breaking.

One moment she was sure of her footing, the next, his blade had drawn a trickle of blood from cheeks caked with the jeweled dust of the beach.

“Take your due place, you mongrel bitch!”

He did not so much spare her, as that would imply some deliberate decision not to kill her – what he might have done if the thought had occurred to him, no one could say.

But as it was, he simply did not think of it – even then, the world was still young, and sin a novel thing upon it.

Instead he went and jumped over her to continue his bloody handiwork, as one would skip over a log in the woods, or any other pesky object blocking ones path.

She was left amid the cracked planks of a wooden pier, stewing in wounded pride and resentment that would last to the breaking of the world.

…

Before this very moment, it had not come to pass before anywhere in the land of Valinor that any parent would have raised their hand against any of their own children.

Prince Findekano should be the very first, struck across the face with a vicious slap by his own mother, hard enough to make his ears ring.

He looked on in dull surprise as she screamed into his face:

“Murderer! You are not my son!”

Like many of the hasty deeds and harsh words that followed the darkening of Valinor, they should long be regretted.