A Double Chapter today. The last one was a little short, was it not? So here you go. Thank you for being patient with my sporadic updating habits.

Curufinwë did not sleep that night. After finishing the sword he had strapped the gleaming weapon to his side and climbed one of the white towers of Tirion, one that stood by the city gates, and watched the silver night and then the golden morning like a hawk watching the fields. Even as the people began their day and the streets filled with happy men and women conducting their daily business, the eldest son of Fëanáro stood vigilant, staring ever outward where the road bent northwest.

It was late morning when his keen hearing picked up the galloping gate of two horses. Maitimo and Makalaurë no doubt, traitors come back to make fools of them all. Curufinwë sneared. His uncle could have chosen no worse accomplices. His two eldest brothers were fools who were into books and music. They were soft. Weak. It really was no wonder that scheming Ñolofinwë and his slimy son were able to ensnare them.

He gracefully leapt down from the tower and stood before the gates to the White City. His clean, untested blade catching the light of the trees and gleaming with great radiance. And Curufinwë smiled an ugly smile of anticipation as he imagined his brothers fear and shock at being caught. At being bested by one younger than them. So lost in his thoughts was he that he did not look up until to was too late.

Too late he saw that the second horse was not Taracas, glistening black in the sun. No, it was his father's great white stallion, Albitorë. And upon its back was Fëanáro himself dressed in glistening reds and wearing a grim expression, his frown deepening when grey eyes caught Curufinwë standing before the gate.

And riding beside Fëanáro was a wraith from lore. It had tangled, wild black hair and wore a tunic torn and bloody, red and black colors morbidly intertwined. And Curufinwë involuntarily felt a shiver of fear run though him. But then he noticed that the eyes were a sharp and deep and blue, the color of the ocean before a storm. There was no mistaking those eyes.

And from behind that figure was another. One that also had wild, savage looking dark hair. Though this one's eyes were lighter, both in natural color and because wonder and shock and disbelief seemed to lie there instead of the fierce determination of his companion. Findekáno. And though not understanding, Curufinwë gripped his hilt even harder at the sight of his cousin.

But too soon they were upon them. "Curufinwë! Son of my own name! How dare thou stand before me with naked blade," Fëanáro reprimanded as he halted. Albitorë danced nervously before the younger elf. Curufinwë gulped but stood his ground.

"It is not for you that I unsheath this blade, beloved father. But rather for them!" He gestured with the sword towards the two other elves. "Those traitors have connived with Ñolofinwë! They have taken the Silmarils and made us out to be fools!"

Findekáno noticed that Makalaurë did not flinch at the cutting accusations. And he found himself secretly daring Curufinwë. Do it. Just try. Swing that bedazzled sword at your brother who wears the blood of the mightiest of the Vala.

"Whatever has happened to those jewels, my son, it was not the work of Ñolofinwë," he began quietly, catching Findekáno's gaze before nodding to him. "But rather of Melkor….Moringotto as he should be called henceforth," Fëanáro began, his great voice beginning to fill with power. "Yes. I have been taken as a fool! Against my better judgement. Because I knew! I among all the eldar trusted Moringotto the least! But yet it was I who harkened to him! And it was thanks to Kanofinwë, who appeared to me terrible in visage, that it finally got through to me. I have been pestered, nah tormented, by a conscience, a voice that has been talking me that I am wrong… telling me that it was Moringotto who was not to be trusted. And it took seeing Kanofinwë and Findekáno, hearing them say what I knew to be true, for me to agree at last! Wake up son of mine! I will not have you make the same mistakes as I have."

Anger twisted in Curufinwë's face, not believing what he was hearing. For his father to be deceived by his cousin and brother so easily! A snarl escaped his throat, but his anger was cut off by a second beat of soft hoofbeats. All four turned to see a golden haired elf dressed in white and gold, looking regal and elegant as he sat upon a golden mare. His blue eyes were wide, and they seemed to sparkle in the light cast about them, for upon his head was a Silmaril.

Though his words had reflected strong resolve, the sight of that gem was enough to break Fëanáro's state of mind. The darkness came whirling back in full force, and what was once clear truth just moments ago now seemed confusing and convoluted as the dark twisted his mind. Battle raged in his soul, and Fëanáro's features twisted and he roared. Albitorë reared in distress. But for Makalaurë, time seemed stop as a spell was cast over him.

Unaware of his own actions, Kanofinwë began to sing. His great voice filled with power, and indeed it was a song of power that left his throat, sung in an ancient language forgotten by all but the Vala. He did not immediately realize that it was his voice that sang nor did he know how long the song continued, if it was for mere moments or for centuries. It was if he were floating in a foggy dream and that all reality was merely a shadow of some greater truth.

But then the spell left him and took with it his strength. He fell as exhaustion crashed over him in a wave. And everything went black for a moment…. Or perhaps it was for a thousand years.

But as surely as the never-ending beat of the waves upon the shores of Alqualonde, Makaluare's consciousness returned to him and he became aware that all those around him had also collapsed. Even the horses were laying on the ground, their riders next to them with eyes closed. Horror grasped his heart and squeezed. "Oh Eru! What have I done!" He wanted to scream those words but his voice came out in a croak. He rushed to his father's side, and reached for his neck, falling in relief when he felt a pulse. Makalaurë knelt for a moment before staggering to his feet and stumbling to a nearby tree where he fell to his knees in exhaustion once more.

The large oak seemed to rustle its leaves in greeting but the worn elf did not notice. Tears begin to fall from his eyes as in his exhaustion his steadfast resolve and confidence began to fail and his wounded heart lost its protection.

"Oh Eru!" He prayed. "You sent me back to make it better! To fix things. And look at what I've done!" strangled sobs escaped Maglor's hoarse throat. He lifted his head to see his family. Fingon, wounded and still bleeding from his shoulder. His father, torn apart by an inner struggle that was slowly destroying him. His uncle Arafinwë, who was never supposed to be a part of this in the first place, laying prone in the dirt with that cursed jewel. Maitimo gone.

"I have failed." Makalaurë cried. "This is not how it was supposed to be." Suddenly, a feminine hand touched his shoulder. Makalaurë looked up to see Nienna, her silver hair tumbling in waves down her thin form and soft silver eyes looking into the distance. She sighed and turned to look at the elf before stirring down next to him.

"There are many among my brothers and sisters who do not know why I cry. They think I am fragile, a girl unfit for the power I have received. They do not know that I cry not because it is sad, this world and the state that it is in. No, I cry because I see what this world could have been. You see a sapling die and it can be sad, because it is no more. Though many wouldn't shed tears over it. But I see a sapling die, and I do grieve. I mourn because I know that that little sapling could have been a great evergreen pine, so towering and splendid that eagles would have made their nests in its branches."

"I did not know you to be a Vala of many words," Makalaurë croaked.

"No, dear. But I think we are the same. You cry now not because your family sleeps. You cry because you think they are less now than what they ought to be."

"They are broken, and it is my own fault. We are supposed to be kin. United as one against evil."

"Spoken like a king. You see greatness in your people."

"I among all the eldar am least fit to be king."

Nienna laughed a quiet laugh. But said nothing in response.

"Did you inspire that song? Cast your sorcery on me?"

"Yes, I had pity on you."

"You have only delayed the inevitable. They will wake up and be at war once more."

"Not necessarily," she said gracefully standing and walking over to Arafinwë and taking the circlet from his brow. "We can heal this rift easily as your uncles mean no harm," she said studying the circlet and the jewel set within. We have Arafinwë and Fëanáro here already. I can easily fetch sensible Ñolofinwë. And then we shall have the two sons of Ingwë explain by whose treachery these Silmarils have ended up in their possession, and direct all of you father's rage in the right direction. I will help you."

And suddenly Makalaurë felt soft lips touch his brow and he fell asleep in the Vala's arms.

Arafinwë liked to believe that he was easy-going. He took everything in stride and generally did not have trouble going with the flow. There were exceptions, of course, but generally he managed to avoid confrontation and drama. But although he awoke in a beautiful garden to the sounds of a fountain and the smell of a multitude of flowers, he could not shake the feeling that he had just jumped into a maelstrom of drama. He looked around and found his two brothers sleeping on the ground beside him. Also present were three of his nephews: Makalaurë, Curufinwë, and Findekáno. Yep. Something had gone down. But Arafinwë was a noble elf, and so he did not give voice so such thoughts. Instead, he sat up and looked up when he heard the sound of soft but sad music coming from one of the trees.

Sitting there with her blue dress draping elegantly over the branches was the Vala, Nienna. "Good morning… or I guess good afternoon, Prince Arafinwë," she spoke in her soft voice as she put down her flute. "Your family should be joining us shortly."

"Where are we?"

"One of my secluded gardens. Do you remember what happened?"

Arafinwë's brow crumpled as he tried to recall. He was just traveling back from Tirion after visiting some of the Vanyan high court. And at the gates…. a rearing horse…. a naked blade… a song unlike any he had ever heard before. He shut his eyes against the images.

"I remember only slightly." The Vala nodded. Just then there was a groan, and Ñolofinwë sat up, looking most unprincely with twigs in his hair and a confused expression on his face. This was followed by a muffled curse from Fëanáro. Yep, the sons of Finwë were all here alright.

Nienna leapt down from her tree. "Alright…" she began only to be cut off.

"Nienna?" She looked towards a blinking Findekáno.

"Yes, son of Ñolofinwë?"

The young elf gulped. "Nothing, it's just…. you never really interact with elves much… and I guess… I guess…. you thought you would be more…. sad."

The Vala smiled softly. "Usually, dear one. But today I feel hope again in my breast. I feel a bit of my old self from before the beginning of time. Do not drag me back down to depression just yet."

Findekáno blushed and nodded. As he propped himself up besides his cousins. Makalaurë looked slightly out of it, tired blue eyes gazing up at the silver-haired Vala. Curufinwë was glaring at her, his muscles tense. But he said nothing.

"So, princes of the Eldar. My heart has been torn to pieces too many times for you three of you to cut it anew. Let's solve our grievances here," with that she gracefully pulled the Silmaril from behind her back. Findekáno gasped. Curufinwë's eyes narrowed. But Makalaurë's eyes never left her face.

"Arafinwë, you were wearing this on your brow. Pray tell me honestly who gave it to you?" Arafinwë felt his heart speed up at the sudden scrutiny. "It was Anairë, my sister by marriage."

"And Ñolofinwë, did your wife also give you a gem like this one?" The dark-haired elf nodded.

"She said it was a gift from the Valar. She said that the three of us each received one."

"So you do not who made these?" The Vala asked softly. Ñolofinwë nodded as a sinking feeling descended upon him. What trouble had his beloved found herself in?

"Of course you do!" came a furious voice. Curufinwë made to stand, but Makalaurë was there holding his brother's arm.

"It was I," said Fëanáro softly. Ñolofinwë looked at his brother in confusion, and his face paled when he put it all together.

"So that is why you attacked me at the gates, nephew of mine. You thought I stole it."

"More than that you stabbed me!" Nienna lifted her hand, and looked at Ñolofinwë. The poor elf looked aghast at the accusation, his hurt expression only amplified by his bed head.

"This is the second time I have been accused of such, but I assure you it is not so. There is darkness still in this land. By some power you saw what was not, beloved nephew! Search your heart, you will know that I speak the truth."

Nienna looked about to say something but then she paused. "Naracalammo," she muttered.

"What?" asked Ñolofinwë.

"Naracalammo, has Anairë never spoken of him? He is a Maia, a master of illusion and trickery. And one with more than enough reason to hurt you, Ñolofinwë."

"Of course he has reason! There are plenty of Maia working for Moringotto...Melkor; they all want to make that sick bastard proud," Makalaurë spoke up, his words laced with both exhaustion and emotion.

"No, beyond Melkor. This would have been personal."

"I have never heard that name before," Ñolofinwë declared softly. "Why would he want to hurt me?"

"Because you stole his beloved. Before you, fair Anairë was in love with dark Naracalammo. I know. I know because I wept for their parting. For his selfishness. For the death of their innocent daughter…."

Silence reigned. "Daughter," Ñolofinwë gasped.

"Yes. A stillborn babe with mocha skin and unseeing blue eyes. Half Maia, half eldar. But Naracalammo had been twisted by then, and perhaps it was for the best. Still, he hates you. And he hates your wife. This would have been a perfect revenge. And with his great power of illusion, he could have stolen the Silmarils for Melkor while he wore your visage."

Curufinwë looked as if he wanted to protest, but he didn't have the chance. "It is true," he father spoke up. "I myself saw Naracalammo working with Moringotto. I did not know the extent of his powers. But I swear by my beloved mother's grave that he is in league with Moringotto. Moringotto who attacked my son and my nephew," he gestured to the younger elves.

"Here," Arafinwë spoke up, holding out the Silmaril. "It is yours is it not?"

Fëanáro slowly took the flaming gem in his hands and at once his body seemed to relax. In an instant the tranquil garden seemed even more peaceful as if an undetected strife had fled.

But Curufinwë worked his jaw. "I can't believe this. You all are delusional," he pinned his father with a deadly gaze, steel cold eyes challenging him. "I thought you and I were the same. But how easy you are swayed by Makalaurë's silvertongue and a few sweet lies from them," he seethed, gesturing to Ñolofinwë and his brother and son. "It is iron and steel that I believe in, those things I can see with my own eyes. I don't trust honeyed words, especially those that come from the Valar," he glared at the silver-haired Vala of Sorrow. "Forgive me, but I will have my leave now."

Nienna said nothing, simply smiled sadly. "Your heart has become calloused and you thirst for war. What side will you fight on?" And with that she sighed and Curufinwë vanished by her magic.

Ñolofinwë gulped before standing. "He is young and misguided by the darkness of the age. I will hold no grievance against him or you," he said nodding towards Fëanáro.

His half-brother looked up from the jewel in his hand. "He was not wrong, my son. My spirit cannot rest living a dull life in Tirion, and perhaps I also thirst for war. Only now I see that my true enemy is not my own family! Ha! What pathetic opponents you two would have made. Instead of singing about some lame fencing-match between us, let's give the singers a far greater story. The story of a great war against the evil wrought into the world by Moringotto, once the greatest of the Vala. Will you stand by me, brothers?"

Arafinwë sighed. It appeared as if Fëanáro were still mad. However, at least his ambition was now not directed at his brothers.

"Of course, when the time comes. But before any war is won or lost, I believe I must confront my wife," was Ñolofinwë's reply.

""I am going after Maitimo," whispered Makalaurë, speaking up for the first time in awhile. There was a haunted expression on his dirty face.

"I wish to go with you, my son. But I must get Curufinwë back into line. His disrespect will not be tolerated."

"Curufinwë and the Ambarussa have been banished for threatening Ñolofinwë a few days ago. They leave for Formenos in the morning. I advise you to let them be. They are still very young and full of passion, but they will not have the support of any of the people if all three of the sons of Finwë present a united stance. They will be powerless, and the banishment will give them some time to cool off. I might even recommend giving them the Silmaril. They will certainly guard it well," said Nienna.

Fëanáro looked down at his prized creation, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Very well, see to it that they receive it. Do you know where the other two are?"

"One they already have. Anairë gave it to Pityo in a moment of regret. The last is still in Melkor's hands."

"Along with three of my sons." Fëanáro paused for a second and looked at his elder half-brother, a calculating fire in his eye. "Ñolofinwë, I need you to stand watch over Tirion whilst Makalaurë and I recover what is ours. But let us show to the people that there is no ill-will between us."

Shock crossed the dark-haired elf's face when he realized what the proud son of Finwë was saying. "You don't have to…"

"And normally I wouldn't, but we will need to full strength of the Noldor behind us and for that this will be necessary. Arafinwë, keep rumors under control. When the news breaks, I want it to do so our way."

"Manwë help me," the golden haired elf muttered, suddenly feeling like he had inexplicably found himself in war meeting. Fëanáro was like a wolfhound that had caught a new scent. He had narrowed his focus and wasn't letting go anytime soon. The spirit of fire was preparing for war, and not even the object of his prior passion, the silmarils, could distract him now. Clearly, as he had just willingly handed one over to his wayward son.