Ki-Barzil : "place of Iron", the name used by the uruks for Angband (since they won't call their country "prison of iron").
Agarin : Mirfin's Gashan
Lammoth : Empty lands south of the Helcaraxe where Fingolfin arrives, immediatly meeting an army of orcs in battle.
"You backstabbing piece of shit," Fëanaro half-hisses, half-shouts. "You pretended you were going to help! How did you dare to look me in the eyes while you were plotting to refuse me?"
"I never said I would argue in favor of your request," Mirfin answers, sternly, and thanks Fluithin that at least, his little brother waited for them to be alone. His new status as a child protects him but he would still deserve quite a trashing for his words, and the Mulak is starting to think pain isn't teaching Fëanaro anything. "I said I would relay your request, not that I agreed with you."
"You brought me in front of him knowing he would refuse!"
"Yes, and? Are you going to accuse me of giving you false hopes? I think my behavior gave away that you were going to stay."
"Why? Why did you do this? Why do you hate me so much?"
"Hate?"
"You deprived me of my only way out!" Fëanaro shouts. He grabs a recipient full of water and sends the pot flying against the wall. Breaking precious furniture, wasting water – does he even know that these things are rarities in Ki-Barzil?
Well, now is perhaps not the best time to lecture the noldo about the worth of vital resources, not when there are more sobs than screams in his voice, not with his shacking shoulders. People never cry here, and when they do in public, the display is considered shameful… but is it the same for Fëanaro, Mirfin wonders? What if crying is thought perfectly normal among his people?
"Fëanaro. Listen…"
"NO! No, I'm tired of listening to you! I'm tired of this retched place, of you, your horrible people, your twisted gods, your lies!"
"I am trying to help you."
"Then help me escape!"
"I can't."
"Liar! You are a king there! You can but you won't!"
"Listen, you fool," Mirfin hisses menacingly, advancing at a predator's pace toward his prisoner. "You must never speak of escaping again. Never. You are bound to this place body and soul. Even if I could get you out – and you are right, I won't get you out, we would never make it to you people. We would both die for nothing. You are only hurting yourself by pretending that anyone can save you when all three gods have their eyes set on you. Believe me or not, but I am trying to help you."
"How? By flogging me? By keeping me tied to the wall, chained on the floor? By treating me like a child?"
"Yes. Yes, I am treating you like a child. Or a pup. Because I do not know how to deal with you. I am trying, but I can't make head or tail of you more than half the time. If only you could open your mind, I could…"
"GET OUT OF MY MIND!"
How a simple, soft prodding can elicit such a violent reaction, Mirfin doesn't know, but Fëanaro looks like someone hit him. He yanks a tapestry from the wall and throws it mercilessly to the floor, only to crumble in its folds like a broken doll, crying in despair at his powerlessness.
How is Mirfin supposed to react to this? He is a warchief, build for leading, brutality and discipline, none of whom remotely works with his prisoner. If Mairon wanted him broken, it would be easy – but he wants him mended, and asks someone who never did this before.
"Alright. I will not attempt mindspeech unless you ask me to." He approaches the shaking body with care, hands held palm out in front of him in a universal gesture of peace. "Will you at least let me explain why I argued against your request?"
It takes a long time of painful sobs before Fëanaro calms enough to nod.
"I don't think you are able to make this decision right now. You have endured things that are… very hard, from your point of view. I was unable to understand that and did not treat you in a way that could allow you to recover. You are tired, disoriented and you have not accepted that you cannot leave. You can grieve for your past life, but it is gone, Fëanaro, and you need to go forward now."
Mirfin sits on his heels near his brother. He dares not touch him yet, but at least his presence is tolerated.
"You know nothing about Ki-Barzil. My people is very different from yours, but you may be surprised by us. You may even be content one day. If you give up and die now, you will die without giving yourself a chance. I do not think that is what Fëanaro son of Miriel does. You rebelled against the false gods and came all the way to here. You are a fighter. If you truly have a death wish, then I want you to fight it long enough to figure out what you really want. In a year, you will be considered as an adult, and then neither I nor Mairon will be able to refuse you should you still want to die. One year, Fëanaro."
"One year? How do you know it is going to last only one year?"
"I do not think Mairon will wait for much longer. You have things to learn, but if you are as brilliant as he says, you will pass all your class soon enough. Furthermore, ever since you received Fluithin's blessing, Mairon planned to elevate you to the rank of Gashan."
The title has been explained before. Fëanaro sniffs and starts to put himself together, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and re-arranging his hair.
"Why would I want to be a Gashan?"
"Because a Gashan answers only to Mairon and Fluithin. No one –not even me – will be able to punish you, give you order or makes demands. Since neither Mairon nor Fluithin are interested in quendi, you will be free to refuse any sexual proposition you aren't interested in. You want to be free: become a Gashan, and you will have the closest thing to freedom you will ever achieve here."
His brother stays silent, eyes darting to the mess at his feet; Mirfin lets him. Their conversation is starting to sound civilized again. He only needs more time, and a gentler touch.
Still, he is relieved when Fëanaro starts speaking.
"I cannot. I am not…" He freezes and obviously changes his mind. "I cannot work with Mairon. He… I am scared. Of him. I am scared like never before. Do you understand?"
"You were a prisoner of war – an elf with no rights. Mairon treats his subjects with fairness. His laws are clears, there are no reasons for him to hurt you if you obey them."
"You do not know everything." The noldo shakes his head. "He is…" He breathes, as if speaking words in silence. "I cannot go to Fluithin for protection."
"Why?"
"I do not like her," he says, but it sounds like he means to say she is repulsive in some way.
How could someone not like Fluithin is beyond Mirfin. She is their Mother! What is more natural that to love one's mother?
"Why?"
"She stole my mother's face and pretends to be her. It is spine-chilling beyond measure."
"Ah." Mirfin finally sits aside Fëanaro on the crumpled tapestry. It's going to be a long talk. "I should have explained. It is my fault. Yes, Fluithin wears Miriel's face, and she speaks as if she was our mother, but she doesn't pretend to be her. She is the incarnation of Motherhood and has no fixed appearance. She takes faces according to the needs of the people around her and her own preferences. Since she met Miriel and I was always quite attached to her memory, it is one of her favorite faces, but she is merely acting as an incarnation of Miriel as a mother, and that does not make her Miriel at all: our mother was Miriel the Embroideress, Miriel the Wife, Miriel the Hunter, Miriel Who Talks With Birds… she was a lot more than the face Fluithin wears, and Fluithin does not pretend to be all of her. She thought you would be soothed by the sight of her and did not mean to scare you. Just… tell her next time. If this bother you, she will appear differently."
"How do you know she met my mother?"
"I was here." He remembers his mother screaming, Finwë doing nothing, and Fluithin's shadowy arms around him. "To meet is perhaps not entirely right. She saw her. They never had the occasion to speak with one another."
"I still do not believe you are my brother."
"I know," Mirfin allows with a sigh. He doesn't think it's about believing, but rather about wanting to believe. "But Miriel is still my mother and she wanted you. I owe her to try to like you."
"You should not. She died because of me."
"How?"
"I killed her. They say my spirit burnt too much and she could not bear the strain."
"Who said that?"
Fëanaro withdraws, fingering a loose thread, but Mirfin is not going to let the matter to rest. She is his mother, he has the right to know. He repeats the question with more authority.
"The Valar." He adds, when he understands that Mirfin will not back down: "When father wanted to know if she would return, or when, or if he could… they discussed the matter of my birth, and concluded, more or less, that it was either the Marring of Arda, me, her weakness, of a mix of those, that were responsible for her death."
"I don't know what the "marring" is. But you? How could you be responsible for her death? My mother had childbirth sickness. She knew and Finwë knew. Even I knew another pregnancy was bound to be dangerous. Her death had probably nothing to do with that supposed "fire" of yours."
"Father would never have taken the risk if she was sick."
"Finwë wanted children. He kept babbling about how he was going to have at least a dozen in Valinor."
"He would never pressure her into…"
"I never said he did. Mother would not have let him pressure her into anything. She was stronger than this. You were born because she decided you were worth it. She probably wanted you more than herself the minute you started to exist. Those false gods lied. They made her look like a weakling and they sullied you, most probably because they knew she did not want to come to their golden prison in the first place."
Fëanaro meets his affirmations in sullen silence, though he, at least, does not retract further into himself. His posture is stiff and he shifts uncomfortably.
"Does your back hurt?"
"No," the noldo lies stubbornly. "I can bear it."
"Let me have a look."
"I said I can bear it."
"I will have to change your bandages anyway."
"A beta can do so."
"I would rather do this myself, if you do not mind. We should spend time with each other."
Fëanaro does not agree, but he does not disagree either. Mirfin orders another jug of water to be brought (and the tapestry to be repaired and hung back to the wall), and his brother does not struggle when he helps him out of his tunic to check his damaged back. The linen is dotted with small blood stains. Fëanaro shudders when Mirfin peels the bandages off him, but manages to keep up the pretense of stoicism.
"Why do you hate Finwë?" The elf asks, strain in his voice. He is trying (and failing) not to sound angry.
"I do not hate him," Mirfin retorts. He starts to clean the wounds with alcohol and ignores Fëanaro's hissy breathes. "We never enjoyed the relationship I had with my mother. He was away to the West when I was born and for many years. When he came back, the Voyage took much of his time. I think I was a little jealous of him. Before his return, I had mother all for myself."
"I do not understand why he did not mention you. Father and I have... had, a very close relationship. You are a big secret to carry."
"Honestly, I hated him when I understood you did not know me." Mirfin had thought himself over it, but he was wrong. Millenia after the facts, Finwë's abandonment still stung. Perhaps children cannot really get over their parents, whatever happens. "I thought about it. It makes sense. Finwë wanted to leave Middle Earth because he hated everything there. He hated the dark, the Shadows, and he hated his own people as they were. He wanted mother to wear thin clothes of linen instead of furs. He wanted the rich food of Valinor, not the eternal roasted forest game and wild roots. He was here, talking of silk, spices, jewels and pearls, buildings made of stone and tools of metal. Once he had seen Valinor, Middle Earth looked retarded to him. When he finally arrived... I think he just wanted to leave everything behind and start a new life."
"He lied to me. I was fascinated by Middle Earth, but now I see I knew barely anything about the land."
"Of course he lied. Parents always lie to their children to protect or indulge them. Or perhaps he started to romanticize Middle Earth after he left. Or the Valar found a way to make all the old one forget about us. I don't know. I don't think he expected you to ever leave. We hoped for our brothers' return for years, but no one ever came back from Valinor. We believed the Valar were keeping you imprisoned."
He finishes covering the wound with the grey, mending healing-paste, and starts to circle Fëanaro's chest with new, clean linen.
"They said we could leave, but they lied," Fëanaro admits bitterly. "I marched my people north until we understood that the ice was not crossable, and then it was impossible to find ships. They were just waiting for us to turn around and beg for their forgiveness."
"We thought the ice impassable as well. Lord Mairon ordered several expedition in the past and most were... inconclusive."
"Thought?"
"Yes. Our half-brother crossed it. There was a battle in Lammoth. I think one of his sons or one of his nephews died."
"Which one?"
"I do not know. He was a prince, but we know nothing more."
Fëanaro turns, eyes shining, his expression demanding.
"How much do you know about the Noldor? Do you know if my sons are alright?"
"I have heard nothing about one of them dying since your successor was captured."
"His name is Nelyafinwë. Do you know what happened to him? Is he dead? If he was, would I know with Fairëliantë's curse?"
"Quiet."
"Tell me..."
"Quiet. I have to ask one of my betas. I need to concentrate."
Mindspeech is easy for Mirfin since Mairon trained all his Mulak hard, but he can't reach his intelligence beta with Fëanaro's starry glare digging into him and his deep voice charged with power trying to make him tell. The noldo shuts up, but he does not stop his heavy staring.
"I do not know what happened to him. Some uruks from the Vanarsh were executed for cowardice a few months ago. They were supposed to patrol the mountain near the place where your son was... detained. He is not here anymore."
"He escaped then?"
"I do not know. I only know he is not there and some uruks were punished in the same area, around the time of his disappearance. If you want to be sure, you need to ask Mairon, but I would not recommend this course."
A smile slowly creeps up his cheek, the first real one since Mirfin met him. When he is happy, Fëanaro almost looks beautiful despite his unsettling eyes.
"He is gone. I know he is."
Mirfin does not comment. He is relieved to see his brother happy for once, but a noldorin prince (even an escaped one who will probably never recover) is a future enemy. He hopes his nephew is dead.
"I have work to do. You should rest. I will send someone to wake you so we can dine together."
"Alright," Fëanaro answers, made far more amiable by the "good" news. As he settles on his bed, Mirfin eyes the manacle, and his brother tenses when he follows his glance.
"Do I have to..."
"No. I will not escape. I promise."
The Mulak studies his face, unsure if he can trust him. He does not want Fëanaro to do something stupid, spurred by the hope of his son's supposed escape; nonetheless, he refuses to destroy this precious moment of joy, as the manacle will surely do. The noldo is a fragile thing.
"Fine. I trust you."
Do not disappoint me.
Fëanaro nods, as if he heard the thought; Mirfin knows he did not, since his mind is constantly unnaturally closed. The noldo lays on his stomach, on his beddings on the ground, and smiles brightly, his eyes almost white under his raven black locks. For one moment Mirfin wonders if Fëanaro is not acting a little and launching some sort of charm strategy on him.
Coming back to work is not pleasing. The Mulak's lengthy discussion with Fëanaro made him late and obliges him to speed his afternoon to a mind numbing pace. He reviews the new batch of uruks with a stern face (hiding his feelings: they are not stronger than the former ones, their weapons still subpar compared to those of the Noldor, and so they will die), then moves to the forges since his Gashan is lying lifeless on their bed. He sends a beta to the nursery in order not to be late for Mairon's council, where the news are as grim as they were a week before: still no progresses about the sun, still working on it, more lands lost in Hithlum to the banner of Nolofinwë, another spring that failed and the necessity of building new pipes to bring water from the snowy mountains, a costy but much needed infrastrucure that is bound to require too much working force.
You look tired, Singer, Mairon whispers in his mind at the end of meeting. Should I relieve you of some of your duties?
No need, my lord, Mirfin answers dutifully. Loosing duties means loosing status, and status is hard to gain.
You have endured a harsh punishment recently. Do not overwork yourself.
How nice that Mairon remembers a flogging he never saw, and Fëanaro conveniently does not!
The punishment was deserved. I will heal quickly. Forgive me, my Lord. I will disappoint you again.
You never disappoint. How does your brother fare?
Better. I have managed to successfully communicate with him. He is starting to warm up to me.
Is he ready to join the teachers?
He is unpredictable, but I believe a full time occupation will have a positive outcome.
I have given orders for an accelerated part-time course in language for him. I believe working in the nursery will be pleasing to him. He will start tomorrow.
I will give the necessary orders to my Gashan's betas, my Lord.
I will expect regular reports of his progresses. You may leave.
Mirfin bows and obeys.
He sends a beta to check on Agarin and see, as always, if she is fit for diner. It is more an habit than a necessity now, since she has been catatonic for a year, but protocol is important: as long as the Gashan lives, her Mulak must show proper respect to her, even as he dreads the prospect of sleeping near her corpse-like figure.
Compared to her chalky face and too-thin skin, Fëanaro is brimming with life. He is still floating on the happiness of Nelyafinwë's disappearance, and to see him smile is oddly refreshing.
Mirfin arranged their diner to be a private affair. Most of the time, he eats with a least a dozen of his beta. He can not afford such display of Fëanaro yet for fear of his constants missteps.
"Do not sit there," he stops his brother before he sits near him, on his Gashan's empty cushion. "I am supposed to keep at all time room for my equal. You can sit here," he gestures toward a lower cushion and is pleased when Fëanaro obediently settles there. "Diner for two is very unusual. Normal occurrences are common meals, with the banqueters sitting according to their status. In such an event you would sit very far from me. The most respectful way of sitting is on your knees, sitting on your heels. In less formal meetings such as this one you can stay cross-legged. We eat most of our food with our fingers, so you will wash your hands before each meal. Water will be passed down, first to the Mulak and Gashan, then down the table, so that the level of purity decreases according to rank. You will not dry your fingers. For each course, always wait for the people higher than you to begin eating before you touch anything."
The Mulak eyes his charge, waiting for any question or protest, but Fëanaro is nothing but attentive. Until…
"Before each meal, there will be a blessing, pronounced by the highest religious authority, usually the Gashan. You must keep your head down, eyes opened, hands on your knees."
"A blessing in whose name?" Fëanaro asks, his fists closed, knuckles whitening.
With a slight gesture, Mirfin dismisses the two servants from the room. He just has a feeling that things aren't going to go smoothly.
"The God of the Gods, of course. Lord Mairon, Lady Fluithin and Lady Fairëliantë are merely trusted counsellors of the King of Arda. It is He we thank for bread and water."
"I am not praying to Melkor."
"You will not have to. Your religious authority as a Gashan will be exceptionally passed to me. Unless we eat separately…"
"I will not pretend to pray either. I will not sit there listening to blessings pronounced in honor of my father's murderer."
"I will pretend that I did not hear you. Blasphemy is punished by quartering. Slow quartering."
"Finwë is also your father."
"If he was in my place, what do you think he would say? Do you think he would ask you to condemn yourself to a terrible fate, knowing you will not die during the process, or that he would not care that you bow your head and shut your mouth once in a day?"
"He would not bend! He would stand proudly and fight, as he did in life!"
"And he would die in a most horrible fashion for absolutely nothing!" Mirfin must have hit a nerve, because his brother's face blanches. "Some fights cannot be won. This is one of them, surely Finwë would understand."
"I am not hungry."
"Did I allow you to leave?" Mirfin asks as Fëanaro begins to rise. "Sit."
"No."
Mirfin is on his feet before him. He pushes him back down with a hand, clutching his shoulder like a claw.
"When I give you an order, I expect to be obeyed."
"Or you will whip me? Are you my brother or my jailer?"
"Both. I can be your brother and ally. The choice is yours."
"The choice! Between what? Submitting in shame or suffering without end?"
"There is no shame in yielding when faced with impossible odds."
"Nothing is impossible. My whole life, I went farther than anyone would have thought because I refused to yield!" His bony shoulder starts to shake under Mirfin's hold. "I would have gone to the end of the earth, fought anything for him." His face shows pain, though Mirfin can not guess if he is hurting his back or if the agony bleeds from Fëanaro's spirit. "I was so angry. I could have defied Melkor alone, fueled by rage. Until Fluithin came and drained all feelings from me. Now I am only tired and hurt. Fire turned to ashes."
Mirfin allows his finger to relax, turning the gripe into a firm caress. He kneels in front of the defeated figure and slowly brings his other hand up to cup his cheek.
"I wish you no harm."
"I know." A sigh. "But you still hurt me."
"You make me hurt you."
"I am not making you do anything, Mirfin. This place is making you."
"We do not choose where we live."
"We could."
"Perhaps. But not now. This is my home."
"It is a terrible home."
"It is your home now. Give it a chance."
He brings his brother into a hug with minimal resistance, soon overcome as Fëanaro accepts to melt against him and settles his brow in the crook of his neck. Now that the conflict is gone, Mirfin feels incredibly tired. Tired of his dying mate, crippled people, decaying home. Tired of his difficult brother; tired of remembering Finwë.
"Why do you always try to touch me?"
"I do not know how to reach you with words."
"I hate being touched by people outside my family."
"I am your brother."
"I hated my brothers."
"They are still your family."
"I know. It seems very petty now."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"… no. When you touch me, I feel like... someone is actually there. This is the only moment when I am not feeling deaf." Fëanaro's body grows heavier. "You know I will always curse him. I will say nothing, but I will curse him with all my soul."
Alright, Mirfin murmurs into his hair. It is better than nothing, a good start, better than he could hope for.
Now, he just has to hope it will last for the coming days, when Fëanaro will be out on his own.
