CONCLAVE.

In the dining hall of the House of Fëanor, set in all its glory amongst the proud dwellings of Tirion, the air seemed clotted, thick with deceits and unspoken resentments. Golden light fell in great ribbons through the high windows, dust motes curling uneasily in shimmering radiance, sparking in little flashes of refracted light. They fell like tiny dying stars onto the bare oak table set in the middle of the room, around which a gathering of the sons of Fëanor were arrayed.

With his back to the windows sat Maedhros, idly trailing a finger across the dark whorls of the wooden table. His auburn hair fell like a torrent of flame down his back as he leaned forward in his chair, shifting a little in bored irritation. He opened his mouth to speak, yet as he did he felt an elbow nudge against his ribs, hard enough to make him flinch. With an exasperated look he turned to Maglor, sitting placidly beside him, fiddling with the end of his long braided hair with an expression of nonchalance. Yet as he did so, he caught Maglor's eye, and was mindful of the apprehension he saw there, a brief flare of worry beneath his peaceful demeanour. Quickly, he glanced across the table, to where Caranthir and Curufin sat, both brothers engaged in murmured conversation of the whereabouts of the remainder of their family; Celegorm, and the twins being away on a hunting trip, and their mother occupied with a sudden flurry of artistic motivation, locked away in her sculpting room, carving her statues from blocks of exquisite granites; white and grey and palest pink. And at the head of the table stood their father, his face stony, anger bristling in his every movement, graven into the hard lines of his mouth, woven through the unruly spill of his hair poured like pitch over the shoulders of his russet tunic. An intricate brooch of the eight-pointed star, the sigil of his house shone cold at his collar, the light seeming to shiver down its slender silver rays.

Suddenly, Fëanor slammed a fist down onto the tabletop, rattling the wood against its fastenings. The silence that fell was livid, as all four of his sons whirled in their chairs to stare at him, expressions of shock and consternation caught on their faces.

"I knew it," Fëanor growled, his voice taught and low, setting his jaw rigidly. "I knew it, I know it. My beloved brother, so eager for power. Ever he has sought to supplant me, to usurp my throne. I am the elder, the firstborn son; the throne of the Noldor is mine. And he will climb over my cold, dead corpse before he lays a finger on it."

Fëanor's eyes flashed proudly, and with a measured, feline gait he began to pace behind his sons' chairs, following the table's length up and down the hall, ignoring the incredulous faces of his sons that stared up at him in light of this sudden outburst. "Oh he thinks I do not know," he continued, "that I have not heard the rumours. And how he acts, with his so-called wisdom, his perfect politeness, but beneath his smiles and his bows and his pleasantries I can see it; the gleam in his eyes, the jealousy that burns there. He would have what is rightfully mine. He would spit on the laws of our people for one glistening chance at power…"

Standing once more at the head of the table, abruptly he wheeled around, affixing his sons with a piercing stare.

"I will not allow that to happen."

His proclamation rang about the room for what felt like an eternity, each of the brothers caught off-guard by their father's vehemence, this explosive outpouring of emotion so long left to simmer. Unsure of how to react, each pondered their father's words, avoiding his eyes as gradually each brother came to his own conclusions.

Finally, the silence broke, as Maedhros tentatively leaned forward against the table, softly yet firmly entreating, "Father, these rumours you hear, I have heard them whispered also. But I am left unsure. He is your brother, and he has followed you faithfully all of these years. Why would he turn against you? Why…"

"Enough!" Fëanor's retribution was vicious, sending Maedhros sinking back into his chair in confused dismay. "He is a treacherous little worm; that is why! Is it not enough? He is the poison that runs through the veins, unnoticed, untreated, until it reaches the heart, and then we feel its bite. Oh, he has hidden his fangs well, but for all his subtleties I see them. They are there!"

Resting one hand on Maedhros' arm, Maglor gave him a reassuring squeeze, a wry smile touching his lips. He looked up at his father, his serene blue eyes locking onto his father's dark brown, his irises set like blazing shadows in the brilliance of the afternoon light. Calmly Maglor began to speak, his soft, lyrical voice flowing like molten gold through the room.

"Father, please, listen. I have heard rumours also. Do you not think it strange that these whispers coincide so well with the release of the Enemy? The Dark One has always hated you, father, he has always envied you and all that you have wrought. Can you not see? This is a ploy, one of his tricks, nothing more. He seeks to throw discord among us, so as to better achieve his own malicious ends, though what they may be I do not know."

"And what proof have you of this?" Caranthir asked, his deep baritone and dusky complexion adding a threatening note to his words, although whether this was intended Maglor wondered. His younger brother had always been…intimidating. Maglor arched his eyebrow, bidding Caranthir continue. "Since the Dark One's release he has appeared changed, reformed. He is repentant of his malice, we all stood witness to that. Why then do you lay these accusations at his feet?"

Maglor opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Curufin spoke, brushing his raven fall of hair back from his face, and glaring at Maglor sharply from beneath his heavy eyebrows. "Our uncle has always been aloof, and our cousins slippery. Always they have hungered for power, waiting like carrion-birds circling a kill."

"Careful what you imply, brother!" Maedhros growled, causing Maglor to jump at the ferocity of his brother's voice. Curufin looked on, the faintest curls of disdain pricking at the corners of his lips as Maedhros continued. "I will not suffer insult to Fingon, nor his siblings, especially based upon such unfounded rumour. Ever has he been my friend, my closest friend, and I will not have him insulted by the likes of you."

But Curufin ignored the threat in Maedhros' voice, angrily replying, "And are you so eager to leap to his defence? Do you have such proof of his innocence? I will not deny that you spend most of your time in his company, gallivanting around the countryside like a pair of star-struck lovers. But how much do you truly know him? Would he open up his heart to you?"

At that Maedhros bridled, his breath inhaled in one sharp, lingering hiss. And beside him, Maglor inwardly braced himself, wincing as he knew that Curufin's words would hit their target well, and he prayed that his brother would not do something regrettable. He watched the play of the muscles in Maedhros' jaw, sliding under his skin as he fought back a scathing retort, until gradually he relaxed, sinking a little lower into his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. A thin smile forced across his lips, and tersely he asked, "Pray tell me, brother, what would you know of the matter?"

"…Rumours reach my ears too, brother. And how interesting they are. Two young lords slinking around by candlelight, clothes shed in the most unexpected of places…Well, next time he visits, lock the door and ask him. Lay his heart open before you. Spread his secrets rather than his legs."

Maedhros flushed crimson at his last sneer, a snarl of fury twisting across his face. And almost faster than the eye could follow he lunged around the table, knocking aside Maglor's restraining hand that reached out to stop him, grabbing Curufin by the front of his tunic and hauling him from his chair, leaving him to dangle in his grip, his hands scrabbling against Maedhros' for purchase in some instinctive attempt to break free. Maedhros' knuckles were white and bloodless around fistfuls of Curufin's black tunic, and roughly he pulled him close, their noses almost touching, Maedhros' hazel eyes boring into Curufin's, like liquid pools of ink, dark and wetly shining. Tendons jumped bold in his neck, his arms shaking with a combination of anger, and the effort of holding his brother's weight, as Maedhros hissed,

"You overstep your bounds."

But Curufin smiled, un-intimidated by his elder brother, and jerked his head back, a malicious, knowing grin curving across his face. He cocked his head mockingly to the side, and something cruel glittered behind his eyes. Releasing Maedhros' fists with one hand, he brought it level with his groin; forming a crude, unimaginative gesture, accompanied by a series of low, guttural moans and grunts, the method of their making painfully obvious with the lascivious grin plastered across his face, his tongue licking across his teeth. And for a moment Maedhros was still, paralyzed in stunned disbelief of his brother's arrogance, his boldness, but rage swiftly overcame him, like oil poured over firewood and igniting into flame. His cheeks and neck mottled scarlet, and he recoiled, his right hand letting go of Curufin's tunic, arcing back with dangerous intent; to slap him, to strike him, to wipe that stupid smug smile off of his face, to make him unsay what was said, take back his venomous words and the lethal slivers of truth strung within them. And Curufin just stood there, smiling that insufferable smile, waiting for the blow he knew was to come, secretly exultant that he could affect Maedhros so, twist him around his finger, with all the right words in all the right places disarm him, leave him bleeding on the floor. So he watched, and he waited, seeing the muscles tense in his brother's arm, the veins rising under his skin, waiting for the pain to crash down upon him…

"Maedhros, stop!" His father's voice sliced through the air, sharp and whip-like. "This has gone far enough. Let him go, now!"

Grudgingly Maedhros let go of Curufin's tunic, shoving him back down into his chair, and with a look that could have felled birds from the sky stalked back to his own seat on the opposite side of the table, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists, a vein pulsing along his neck, still flushed a bright crimson. He flung himself down, staring hard at the table, his auburn hair falling like a wave of flame across his scowling features, fortunately obscuring his view of Curufin, who settled back into his chair with a triumphant sneer, that was rapidly smoothed away into wry neutrality as he noticed Maglor's pointed glare. At the head of the table, Fëanor asserted himself once more, incensed by his sons' behaviour.

"I will have no more of this. You squabble amongst yourselves like petty children. I have heard tale of these disgusting lies also. And I will not hold with them. Maedhros, you and your cousin will separate…"

Maedhros' head snapped upwards, his eyes flaring as he stared at his father in horror. Cold rills of panic ran through him, the air seemed to punch out of his lungs, and he opened his mouth to retort, not even knowing what words he could possibly say but before he could utter a syllable Fëanor snapped, "Don't argue! I have heard enough lies and pathetic protests for one day. You will not see him, Maedhros, you will not be in his company. This is final. You will obey me in this, or else I will set you in bonds. My dearest brother searches for every way to undermine me. And here, my eldest son and his fucking like cats in an alleyway! I will not have it. Do you understand me?"

And for one horrifying second it seemed like Maedhros would scream, hurt and despair whirling within him, their blades dragging through his innards, but he remained still, and silent, staring hard into the table, his hands clenched around the arms of his chair. And shakily he exhaled, biting his lip hard to still the trembling of his jaw, suddenly tasting the salty wash of blood in his mouth where his lip split under the pressure. He grimaced, then slumped back into his chair, folding his arms once more across his chest and sullenly glaring his boots, avoiding the probing eyes of his brothers.

"This insubordination shall not be tolerated any longer. I will speak to my father, and we shall set the situation to rights. My brother shall be reminded of his place," Fëanor spat as he turned upon his heel, crossing the room to stand facing the window, looking darkly out over the courtyards and domed rooftops sloping down the city's side, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. The red velvet of his tunic suffused into the afternoon's golden radiance, setting crimson silhouettes wavering about him, limning him in arterial light, a halo steeped in blood.

Behind him, Fëanor heard the scrape of wood over stone, the quiet rustle of fabric as Maglor twisted in his seat to face him, apprehensively watching the hard set of his father's shoulders, the tightness of his hands clasped behind his back as he scowled out of the window.

"Father," Maglor spoke, a note of urgency ringing through his usually balanced tones, "I urge you not to do anything rash, I do not think…"

"Rash?!" Fëanor spat, swinging around to face his sons once more with a look of contempt. He strode back to the head of the table, his eyes caustic, and with a final look he spoke, the words pouring like molten steel over his lips, puissant and edged in deadly potential. "Maglor, do you take me for a fool? You speak of rashness…No. But every slight he has paid me shall be returned in kind. I will not be made a mockery of in the halls of my father, though the Valar rain down their judgement upon me.

And let them try! For too long they have caged us here, trapped behind their walls of stone, these mountains that they claim protect us, but from what? The Enemy himself they have brought among us, loosed him upon our people…But no matter. He is of little consequence. It is his brethren with whom I have quarrel. We are ignored but for what knowledge they deign to teach us, imprisoned for their jealousy of our creations. For have I not wrought what they could not? Who among them, among all of the beings of Arda can match my craftsmanship? And what they cannot make for themselves they would possess, and they would be revealed in their corruption for doing so. My creations are my own, not theirs, and never but with my leave will they be taken from me. And my leave I shall not give to them. Let them gnaw on their lust like feral dogs over a bone, but they will not take from me what is rightfully mine.

Ever they seek to contain us, use us like slaves to make their trinkets, to dance for their amusement. But the beauty of our people, of my people waxes strong. We deserve more than slavery. I remember the starlit meres of my birth, the rolling grasslands, the vast emptiness in all of its possibilities, waiting there for us beyond the shores of the sea. But we were taken, misled, and thrown to fester in their cage, like dark flies breeding maggots that start to squirm in the wound, devouring, destroying until we collapse. And they will do nothing. The Valar sit in their lofty halls and they watch and they judge, but they will do nothing.

So I will act before this infestation spreads any further. I will suffer this insult no more. On the morrow, I shall have audience with my father, and our wrongs shall be put to right."

Abruptly Fëanor spun on his heel, stalking out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him, its percussion rippling through the astonished silence left in his wake. All four of the brothers looked at each other in helpless consternation, each shaken by their father's words, and what actions he dared to imply. With an exasperated sigh, Maglor shook his head, muttering, "This is a mistake. But in his pride, he will not even stop to listen, to think…"

"And will you be the one to tell him that?" Curufin broke in, "I do not envy your place if you try."

Then Caranthir, unusually quiet through most of the afternoon's proceedings spoke, in his rumbling baritone questioned, "But what if he is right? You are not blind; it is plain that our uncle desires greater power, and more control over our affairs. And by what right may he claim this? He is not the elder. He is not the superior. The sooner father talks to the king, the better, so our uncle's arrogance may be stilled forever, and that of his insufferable sons."

Glancing at Maedhros' still sullen expression, Maglor started forward as if to speak, but Maedhros' chill voice cut over him, every syllable strained and icy, and sounding as though it hurt.

"Do not speak that way of your kin, Caranthir. Theirs is a nobility that runs deep, even if you refuse to see it."

"If you say so, brother," came the retort, dripping with sarcasm, drawing a smirk from Curufin, and an ugly scowl from Maedhros, glowering at him from across the table. With a lazy half-smile, Caranthir rose, arranging the dramatic sweep of his embroidered robes behind him with a flourish. "Now, I shall await the return of Celegorm and the twins from their hunt. They are due back, by now. Perhaps they will have caught more than a hare apiece this time!"

Curufin stood also, following Caranthir as he strode towards the door, a derisive grin affixed on his face. "Better than you can do, brother!" he called. "The idea of hunting is to hit your prey, you know, rather than create an obstacle course of arrows for it to run straight past!"

With mock theatricality, Caranthir sighed, pausing in the doorframe, one hand raised to his forehead, a ridiculous look of anguish contorting his dark features. "Oh you cut me to the quick! I've seen maidens throw a spear better than you, Curufin, and blindfolded at that!"

Curufin coloured at the jest, and seeing Caranthir slip out of the door stormed after him, beginning a round of colourful bickering that would undoubtedly last them the night; all snide sarcasm and passive aggression as was their wont. Their voices echoed down the corridor, the clatter of their boots against the marble floor slowly fading into silence, leaving Maedhros and Maglor sitting alone in the hall, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

A melancholy silence stretched between them, as the first glimmers of silver crept into the golden afternoon light, little motes of dust shivering as the light fractured upon them. Both brothers watched them, until Maglor pushed himself back in his chair, slouching wearily against its carved back, one hand resting under his chin.

"They're fools, both of them. They speak so confidently of what they do not know. And Curufin grows ever more like Father with every passing moment…"

Maedhros glanced over at him, his lip curling in distaste.

"Mmm, a silver tongue and a perilous temper to match. Joyous…"

Slowly he stood, rolling his shoulders left stiff from where he had been leaning, and wandered towards the doorway. He paused as he reached the door's frame, turning back to face Maglor, still sitting at the table, his long braid snaking over his shoulder, the loose strands of hair at its end splayed like black filigree over his blue jerkin.

"Well, I'm off," Maedhros said jauntily, "I'm going to find Fing…" And then he paused, the name dying in his throat, left hanging incomplete in the air between them. Almost imperceptibly, he flinched, closing his eyes for the briefest moment, a taught quirk passing over his lips as he fought down the rush of emotion that swirled sickeningly within him. He opened his eyes once more, gazing distantly towards the windows, and faintly said, "Nobody. I'm going to find nobody. Nobody at all."

And his gaze flickered across to Maglor, half-dreading his reaction, disgust, revulsion even. But the sorrow that he found there, the raw pity shining in his brother's gentle eyes shook him, wrenching all the harder that nameless, aching emotion carving its way through him.

"I am sorry, brother. Truly." A whisper. Its quiet sibilance lapped at the edges of the room.

And suddenly Maedhros turned, unable to bear it, his brother's terrible understanding, his pity, the acknowledgement of his actions and the burning humiliation that spilled out with it, his darkest secrets uncovered, laid bare and dissected before him, for them to sneer at, for them to judge him. Anger and shame and agony all smashed together and warped tore at him, the crush of feelings writhing in his stomach, coiling in his lungs, and he raised a trembling hand, brushing back his hair from where it fell in burning strands across his face. His back turned, not trusting his voice, he uttered tersely, "I'm sorry too. I'll see you tomorrow then, at court," before striding quickly from the room, his head bowed.

Maglor sat alone in the hall, quietly watching the golden quality leach from the air, its grand radiance replaced with subtle silvers; colder perhaps, and paler, but no less beautiful. As the last glimmers faded, he smiled sadly, and reached beneath his chair, plucking a small harp from a bag stashed there earlier, thrown aside once his father had hurriedly called their meeting. His fingers ran over the strings, a chorus of sweet notes humming through the air, and slowly he worked into a rhythm, a lilting melody sifting from the endless possibilities, the infinite potential of the strings stirred to life in his hands. And as their notes echoed around the hall, sadly he thought of his brothers, his father, their concourse earlier and what actions may come of it. Until tomorrow then, Maedhros, he though forlornly, tomorrow, and whatever misfortunes the new day shall bring.

For the ease of the reader, all names have been left in Sindarin form. I know, I know, they probably should be in Quenya, but then that drags up issues of using mother-names versus father-names, with the odd epessë or nickname thrown in to thoroughly confuse everyone. So, for clarity's sake, Sindarin names shall be used forthwith.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this little series, which is soon to be updated. (I know, how unusual for me!) As always, reviews shall be treasured. May your day be free of rampaging Balrogs. theeventualwinner.