Silmalir groaned as she fell back into the chair, head spinning as if the world was purposely shaking the air around her. She had no idea where she was, for one, and the ancamir was starting to water her eyes, the walk from the streets to the palace causing her legs to ache greatly. She opened her eyes once more and tried to shake her head free of the dizziness, and there was no surprise when it did not work in the least.

"Poor dear," said Indis, placing a hand on her forehead softly.

Cautiously, Silmalir sat up in her chair and sighed. "My head hurts..."

Indis sighed. "You weren't intoxicated, but the wine must have gotten to your head a bit. Was it your first time?"

Silmalir started to nod, but then, she held her hands up to her mouth and shot up quickly, running over to the washroom and vomiting the wine into the pot meant for excretory purposes. Then she sat back on her heels and coughed.

"Never drinking again," Silmalir declared weakly.

With the grace of a queen, Indis brought her up to full height, only slightly shorter than Silmalir by what seemed to be two centimeters. As she led her to the couch to sit down, her hand rubbed warm circles on the Elf's back. "What pushed you to resort to alcohol?" she asked softly. "Is it the wedding?"

Obviously, Silmalir still wasn't in her right mind. "Why would he marry her?" Silmalir said instead, disregarding the formal address. "How did he...end up loving her? Why doesn't he... He doesn't love me. He doesn't love me!"

"Silmalir...he does... He really does—you just have to believe us when we tell you he does—" Indis tried to tell her.

"How!" Silmalir demanded. "How can I believe anyone when I've been lied to all this time! By him, by his brothers, by Fána, by you! I don't even know you, but you're already trying to lure me into a false sense of security! I'm not going to... I can't... I won't fall for this!"

Silmalir's shouting and Indis' frantic pleading brought attention to Prince Fëanáro, who had been walking down these halls and past Indis' chambers on accident. Upon hearing the apparent discordance in the queen's bedchambers, he sighed and opened the door, wondering if the queen had started to fight with her maid, when he abruptly stopped in his tracks as the door opened to reveal Silmalir and Indis, but standing, and both looking confused as he stood there in the doorway.

"Curufinwë," Indis said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard discordance."

Silmalir shook her head, stepped back as it started to hurt, and bowed apologetically towards Queen Indis and Prince Fëanáro. "I'm very sorry... I was yelling...and I don't remember why." Indis quickly looked to Silmalir worriedly. Fëanáro caught this glance and turned to Silmalir as well.

"You do not remember?" they repeated at the same time.

"No. I am very sorry, Prince Fëanáro, Queen Indis. I shall take my leave now, under your pardon."

Fëanáro and Indis exchanged glances—then Fëanáro caught himself at the last moment and looked away as Silmalir exited the room.

"Your cursed plan," fumed Indis, sitting down on the couch. "Why did you come up with such an idea? Now her mentality is deteriorating! She can not remember what happened five minutes ago, she went out and got drunk, and best of all, she hasn't shed a single tear! Tell me, is this revenge?"

"Revenge," Fëanáro repeated. "You know naught of revenge, my queen. There is only revenge for those who have been wronged, to make havoc on someone else. I am not doing this for the purpose of tearing her apart."

"Then you are tearing them both apart!"

He frowned. "Do you not see your hypocritical tone of voice?"

"And when have I ever taken it upon myself to tear you apart from Nerdanel?" she replied, curling her fingers into fists.

"Your narrow-minded perspective astounds me, queen. When was it only limited to romance? What of platonic love? What of the love that you took from me, the love of my—" Stopping himself, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to replace the mask of reserve. Speaking with Indis always caused his temperature to rise several notches. "My composure is rapidly crumbling apart. I will leave. I am very sorry for the inconvenience, my queen. Have a nice day."

"Silmalir!"

She recognised that voice. She recognised it and was so joyous that she turned around immediately, wincing when her head started to spin again. To her immense rush of happiness, there was Fánamaril, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

And then, Silmalir felt her heart drop when she saw tears in those sparkling eyes.

"Fánamaril! What happened?" She took off running towards her friend. "What's wrong? You're crying!"

Fánamaril stopped. "What do you mean?" she asked, wiping her own tears away. "You're crying too."

"I am?" Silmalir hesitantly felt her cheeks. Indeed, they were wet. "They are." She was confused. "Why am I crying then?"

The last question had to be so utterly ridiculous that Silmalir covered her mouth with a sigh. Both of them eyed each other, scrutizining each other's expressions. Fánamaril knew why she was crying, no matter how much she might have wanted to forget it, but she didn't know why Silmalir was crying, though there were plenty of good reasons why. Silmalir, on the other hand, didn't know why Fánamaril was crying, much less herself.

But Silmalir found that she didn't want to know why she was crying. "No, forget that question. Why are you crying, Fána?"

"Because I..." Fánamaril faltered in her sentence. "Tyelkormo."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No, he wouldn't have done such a thing!" Fánamaril exclaimed, immediately coming to his defense. I could almost see what had happened. "He just...kissed me."

"And you're crying because he kissed you," Silmalir repeated, eyebrow raising as she wiped away her tears, and then Fána's. "Did you run away from him? Where is he? Did he apologise for kissing you or was it on purpose?"

"I do not know!" she cried in despair.

Silmalir sighed. "Okay, we will get this all sorted out, all right? Let's just go back to the chambers and - "

"Wait," said Fána, her moment of despair gone. "Why were you crying?"

Then Silmalir's headache worsened, and she resisted the urge to press her fingertips - no, dig her fingertips - into her temples. "I just got drunk, intoxicated, and threw up in the presence of Queen Indis. And then Tyelkormo's father came in and saw Queen Indis and I shouting. That wasn't exactly the best encounter I'd imagined with him."

"And you're sober now?"

"With a major headache."

Fánamaril shook her head. "Let us go to the infirmary to get something for it."

But Silmalir decided against it. "I would really rather endure the pain. It makes me focus less on my surroundings and more on the pounding in my head." Seeing Fána's skeptical look, she tried to smile. "I am not being a masochist or anything. Honestly. It is just that I really would like to be distracted. It's really hard to...focus on anything other than the wedding. It's tomorrow, right?"

Fána's face fell. "We don't have to talk about it if - "

"No, I want to know. I want to know about the wedding."

"Everyone's really excited," Fánamaril said in a low whisper, stepping closer to Silmalir. "But not in the good way," she added. "All of the servants are wondering why Makalaurë suddenly had a change of heart, since last time they checked...you know." Fánamaril took in a deep breath. "But you know what? He didn't. He doesn't like Lady Calwilmë."

"She said it herself."

"And you're going to believe Calwilmë over me?"

"Well, he left me at a damn tree to go with Calwilmë."

Fánamaril threw her hands up in frustration at everything. "That's because little Curufinwë had been born, and Makalaurë was worried that it might have exhausted his mother! It hadn't been on purpose... But I mean, what he's doing now is really idiotic and horrible, but he's being forced. I promise you. Even though it completely makes him look like he doesn't have a backbone, because he probably doesn't right now, he didn't mean to agree with it!"

Silmalir tried really hard to comprehend what was being said. "Forced? Forced into what?" She took Fánamaril by the shoulders. "What was he forced to do?"

"To m—" It seemed that Silmalir would forever remained uninformed of the important circumstances, for Lady Alquasar appeared around the corner, a shocked look on her face as her golden ringlets shifted with her movement. She looked beautiful - even more so than Indis. But she didn't look too happy.

"You have been drinking!" she exclaimed.

Silmalir stepped back in alarm. "Lady Alquasar—"

But she was cut off. "I cannot believe you, Silmalir! You have much more self-respect than that to go off drinking in one of the roughest taverns in Tirion!" Fánamaril turned to Silmalir in shock, but Lady Alquasar was not finished in her accusations. Her truthful, stinging accusations. "Your father would have not wanted to see you like this!" And that was the final chord, for Silmalir knew Lady Alquasar was right. She was inexorably correct.

Silmalir bowed her head. "I am sorry."

"You are sorry," Lady Alquasar repeated.

She hated how she was being treated as a child. Under a appalled gaze and a disappointed one, she could not take the pressure. "I snapped." Then she guiltily allowed her mind to wander back to the confrontation with Indis and Fëanáro. She had lied to get away, saying she did not remember. Had she provoked their worry? And now, she was admitting to drinking. What the hell.

"I snuck out of the palace this morning," Silmalir continued. "I snuck out, went to the tavern, and this Elf came up to me with a glass of ancamir. He wanted to cheer me up. Then I ingested the glass of wine. I went out of the tavern, my head started spinning, and I noticed that Queen Indis was standing before me."

Lady Alquasar not only looked disapproving, but now shocked as the Queen was brought into these affairs. "Queen Indis?"

"I vomited in front of her," she added.

"You are not allowed to drink anything anymore!" Lady Alquasar exclaimed, her cheeks flushing at the thought of Queen Indis witnessing such a horrifying scene. "I want your word, Silmalir!" Silmalir started to turn away; a curt nod was the only thing exchanged, and Fánamaril made to follow after her, ready to demand answers, but Lady Alquasar stopped them both. "Silmalir! Your word! Your promise!"

The girl turned around, a dark frown on her face. "You will have my word when the wedding is over." Then she laughed harshly. "I imagine I'll need twenty glasses of ancamir to be drunk senseless enough so I won't have to focus on the celebration."

Calwilmë sat at the desk of her room, staring mindlessly at the window. The honey had come out, certainly, but Silmalir's words, stinging, were on her mind. Her eyes wandered to the quill in drowning in the ink well, and she sighed, knowing that she would not be able to think clearly unless she wrote a response to her father's letter.

Dear Atar,

Yes, Tirion's fine. But I just really wish to come home now... How is Ammë doing? Is she still tending to matters at court? Anyway, I just wished to ask after your health. I know that recently you have been having trouble hunting, what with your breathing problems and all, but I really hope you do not overdo yourself. If I lost you, I don't think I would have anyone else left who cares...

In frustration, she scratched out the last line with bitter vigor, at last crumpling the paper in her hands as she placed her head on the table, sighing. She left the quill tip to drown in the ink well once more and fingered her sleeve absentmindedly. Everything was such a mess...

The only way to set this right...was to say no.

She wanted to go back to her people.

Makalaurë hit his head against the wall once more. He had been pacing around in his room for the past twenty minutes, trying to think of a way to resolve all of this. Every solution involved offending Calwilmë, hurting Silmalir, and permanently trapping him in bitterness. Whatever the solution was, however, it would disobey his father. But he couldn't find a reason to care about such things now. Tyelkormo had gone into his room an hour ago, a helpless look on his face.

Then he exited through the second-story window, unable to be restrained within a closed space for more than an hour.

It seemed that they both had problems, but time was running out—too little time was alotted to help them solve this. Obviously, Fánamaril had done something to alter Tyelkormo's personality. He used to be so damn arrogant, and now he was soft mush in her hands.

"She is driving me crazy—no, insane!" exclaimed Tyelkormo, running a hand through his hair too roughly and pulling his braid out into disarray. "Varda's stars, what have I done?"

"Shouldn't I be asking myself that question?" Makalaurë told him, his frustration running deep. "I have screwed up so badly, and you're here asking what you have done? Valar, you must have murdered someone if you're asking yourself that! If you're asking me that!"

Tyelkormo sighed. "Why are our lives so screwed up now? Why can it not go back to the way it was? I liked the palace better, but now I cannot stand the sight of it unless she is within the vicinity!"

"Easy for you to say—when I see her, I know she cannot stand the sight of me," Makalaurë replied. "I'm assuming you are speaking of Fána?"

"And you are speaking of Silmalir," Tyelkormo returned, leaning aganist the stony wall. "Maitimo is quite lucky, not falling in love... What say you that he will fall in love with Lady Aicelen or Lady Lohtilin? Perhaps we should not have... But I am not even sure I love Fána, whereas you most definitely, infinitely love Silmalir, except you are being an absolute jackass, with what you are doing now." At Makalaurë's sigh, ready to admit that Tyelkormo was right, his brother intercepted him. "Honestly, you love her, and you don't even stand up for it. Why do you let Atar push you around like that, damn it!"

And then he wrenched open the window, pulling the drapes away and stepping outside with a final, restrained glance that sent Makalaurë stepping back.

Makalaurë had kept silent. He knew, so much, with so much pain, that he was never the favorite son, the one whom Atar would have chosen to go to Aulë with when developing some sort of new craft. He wasn't athletic, and nor was he notorious for his temper or his appearance, but his voice stood out. And what good did that do? Valar, he didn't know. He was a disappointment to the family.

Ammë tried to convince him otherwise, but he was always the brother who sang everyone else to sleep on dreamless nights.

His father. Or Silmalir. Which one? He couldn't discern them now as his head swam with the images of them both, frowning each other. No...frowning at him.

They both had those stony grey eyes, the walls of unyielding kingdoms, and though soft they would be, terrible would they become, as if the sun had frozen over, casting grey shadow where light was not—and so became the kingdom of mist, the kingdom of smoke, wispy shadow, their eyes reflecting upon the stone foundation once they were angered. They were alike. Why had Makalaurë not noticed this before?

Deciding against wounding his bandaged hand, he slid down the wall in silence and held his head in his hands, one aching in pain and one just numb.

Tomorrow was the wedding.

Tomorrow was the end of his life.

I am so, so sorry for having this so late. I'd like to think I've improved a bit and given most of my characters some substance. Or not.

Heh.