The year rushes like a quick river.

Fëanaro is wholly taken with his studies. He moves from class to class until he studies with the young adults; here, he struggles, not to keep up, but because he wants to best each and every one of them by a league despite him being a newcomer. His efforts are mostly dedicated to translating his valinorean knowledge into Mairon's structures. It's a gymnastic of the mind, one that enthralls him so thoroughly he doesn't have the time to fear or grieve anymore. He almost resents the moments when he has to work in the nursery or in the hospital, because he must pushes his current interests to the back of his mind.

He spends time with Fluithin, an hour per week. Those are the only moments when his brain is free from equations and symbols. Everything washes out. Fëanaro talks to her, about everything really, even things he never shared before. At first he doesn't know why. He hardly knows her and has no reasons to confide in her; nonetheless, when they are together, he feels at peace, defenseless but never threatened. The noldo suspects some sort of glamour is at work, something that makes him feel like he can't displease her or lose her unconditional love.

His relationship with Fluithin, if weird, at least brings Fëanaro to the distressing realization that he has been afraid all his life. She looks at him with a purity that was never there in Finwë's eyes. His father's gaze was always clouded with sadness, guilt and disbelief, as if he couldn't be with his son, not fully, his mind being at all time dedicated to his realm, his heart feeling the loss and trying to make up for it. When he is with Fluithin, free of grief and guilt, Fëanaro wonders if Finwë ever understood him, ever tried to understand, or if the son was always a mystery for the father.

Of course, he doesn't bear those thoughts lightly. Away from the goddess's side, the emotions hit him with renewed force. Is he a traitor for doubting his father, his king? Isn't he ungrateful? What did he do to deserve Finwë's love in the first place?

It is too painful to consider, for the answer is always the same: nothing.

He buries the guilt, the pain, the inadequacies he carries under the numbers and letters. At least Fëanaro is good at it. He is a bad king, a useless father and a worse, traitorous son, but when he solves problems he can almost convince himself it doesn't matter, because he's the best at something and that gives him a right to exist.

His final examination approaches. Fëanaro is more than a thousand years old by Mairon's count, an undisputed master in many crafts and lore, the creator of linguistic as a field of lore in Valinor and of many unrivaled wonders, but he is sleepless from anxiety. By the end of the trial he will stop being considered a child. His schedule will change, so will his responsibilities, and he will belong there. Mirfin will cut his face with the markings of adulthood and of his status as a beta. The scars will never fade. He will be expected to cover his skin with white powder and his eyes with black kohl.

He feels like he's killing the elf he was in Valinor, little by little. Each achievement a nail on his coffin.

He must succeed, though. He must rise here if he hopes to do real damages. Or so he tells himself.

Fëanaro passes his examination in front of a jury of eight: seven elves and Mairon himself. They haven't seen each other since their lengthy discussion a few months before. The noldo pronounces the usual greetings and feels his palms go wet. Mairon dictates an equation to be written on the slate wall and waits.

It's a simple one. Fëanaro knows this. He could have solved it when he was eight.

Yet he can't.

If his mind is a machine, then a gear must be stuck somewhere. He needs a very simple formula to solve this but can't remember it. He tries to find it back but can't multiply. He tries to take the longer road and use additions but doesn't know what three plus four amounts to. His hand stays up, his piece of chalk touching the board lightly, unmoving, a testament to his empty mind while he imagines Mairon's glare boring into his back.

"Your time is up," one of the examiners says, and it's true: the hourglass's upper vial is empty. "Call the next candidate on your way out."

Did I just fail a basic test?

He can't believe it. He can't. He can do better than this. He can show them. He knows how to do it. It's simple. Why can't he solve this?

Fëanaro turns to leave, but he catches the glimpse of a smirk on the examiners lips, her satisfaction at seeing the valinorean thrall failing so spectacularly. She thinks him dumb, inferior, and her glee makes something click. The cold recedes and a warm anger creeps to his cheek.

He goes back to the board and writes a single number. Time is up, and it's too late, and this random inscription isn't going to make anything better. It's more a final act of defiance than a useful gesture; by the look on her face, it's useless. Time's up.

"Next question," Mairon dictates, voice clear and calm. The gold powder in the hourglass fills up the vial, an invisible force carrying the particles up. A new equation follow. Fëanaro's hands seems to solve it on its own, right after he finishes copying the maia's words.

The examination lasts forever, yet ends quickly, for his mind is always running, occupied, and Fëanaro does his best to be as fast as he can. They don't tell how he fared but he's not worried.

He passes more exams in the following days: linguistics, geometry, medical knowledge and nursing, religious education (this one is more of an exam about hiding his disgust and letting literal warg shit out of his mouth than actual lore) and finally crafting. Fëanaro hasn't actually made anything since the necklace debacle years before, if he doesn't count the mending of his own socks. The craft of choice is normally chosen by the teachers.

He's sorted into metal working.

He's supposed to have a full week to work on the commission. Craft always come last, which is fortunate since Fëanaro, now that the time has come to take back his tools, spends half the night before shaking from a panic attack. He tries to sleep, but can't, until his breath becomes so ragged Mirfin wakes with a worried look. He's cold, nauseous, his bowels clenching.

He notices the exhaustion on Mirfin's face as his brother rises and makes him tea.

"I'm sorry."

The Mulak shrugs. He sees enough with barely any light, but Fëanaro can't. He actually likes it: he discerns the general shape of the elf's face, but not the scars or weird absence of eyebrows, and the bleached hair seem more natural. He can pretend Mirfin belongs to his people.

"I won't mind. If you decide to move back to where you can actually rest, I mean."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No," Fëanaro answers without any hesitation. He's used to sharing his bed with his brother now – he's used to thinking of him as family. "But you may want to."

"I don't need your approbation or authorization to do anything. If I wanted to leave, I wouldn't be there."

He comes back with two cups and sits carefully on their blankets. Fëanaro struggles up against the cushions. His breath sounds normal now, if a bit laboring, but every organ between his neck and navel feels heavy and tense. He accepts the cup with sincere gratitude.

"I have never explained why I sleep here most of the time."

"I always assumed you enjoyed my company," Fëanaro jokes. Both elves ignore the strain in his voice.

"I do. It's not the only reason. The truth is that I have wanted to move out of my chambers for quite some times but was unable to do so without an alibi. With you, I just have to let people assume and my reputation is safe."

"Assume what?"

"That I am bedding you."

The tea goes out of his mouth with an explosive gasp. Some even goes up his nose, and the noldo has to cough out whatever got stranded in his throat.

"I haven't told anyone it's true," Mirfin defends himself, "I just didn't say I wasn't."

"Why for the sake of Eru didn't you? It's disgusting!"

"Why?"

"We're both males!"

"Well, sex doesn't have to actually produce children."

"You're my brother!"

"Incest is only problematic if reproduction is intended. That's obviously not the case here."

"You should at least have asked me if I was... what if I don't want people to think..."

"Fëanaro. Calm down. No one cares if we actually have sex or not, and it's not likely to happen. I'm not interested in males."

"But..."

"Among my people, having sex with people of your own sex or family isn't problematic, it's only a matter of what the dominant one wants if there is an imbalance of power, and what both want if the partners are equals. You have been living in quarters meant for my concubines... sexual partners, for months now, so yes, those who bother to care probably think we have sex. I didn't tell you earlier because there's no shame attached to those rumors. If it was damaging to your reputation, don't you think I would have done things differently?"

"But we aren't lovers. I don't get what you gain in by letting them believe we are."

"They think I live with you now because I get sexual gratification out of it. The other possibility is that I don't live in my own chambers anymore because I don't want to be here, which means I either want to insult my Gashan or am afraid of her. I'd rather look like I have a... understandable weakness for you despite you being less than attractive than look like I am failing as a Mulak."

Less than attractive? That is, certainly, the first time Fëanaro is called ugly to his face. He's not surprised, though, since his glowing eyes seem repulsive to the people of Ki-Barzil.

"I never met your Gashan. Surely she is not scary enough for you to fear her."

"It is common knowledge Agarin is sick, but most people don't know..." Mirfin hesitates. "She's dead. She's been dead for months."

"Dead? There's a corpse in your chambers?"

"No. She should have died months ago, but Mairon has arranged for her body to be kept alive. She's comatose. But yes, it feels like there's a corpse, but it's not decaying so..."

"There's. A corpse. In your bed." Words can't convey how appalled Fëanaro is. You bet Mirfin prefers to share his brother's sheets, even if the mattress is too small for two and everyone believes... "What in Mandos is Mairon even thinking?"

"As long as Agarin breathes, no Gashan can be named. She will die once the next one is ready."

"So he's basically keeping her alive to fuck up his own laws."

"I wouldn't put it that way but yes."

"The next candidate must be truly exceptional."

"I doubted he was worthy of Mairon's attention, but I'm starting to see he is."

"Lucky one."

"I'm talking about you. It's you we're waiting for."

Fëanaro waits for Mirfin to laugh it off, but his brother's face is deadly serious. Panic creeps back up and...

No.

"You're wrong. I can't be. You said it yourself. I was an awful king. I can't."

"Are you truly surprised? I wasn't allowed to tell you, but I hinted with no subtlety that you could hope for the position."

"Not now! In a decade, a century, but not now!"

"Gashans and Mulaks remain in place for centuries. I don't agree with the means, but I agree with the end. If anyone else becomes a Gashan you will fall under his or her authority instead of mine. You will have to defy him or her to get the place, and such an act can be attempted once every ten years only, with a hundred years between each attempts. I had to play along and you have to be named. Do you think I didn't take your suicide attempt seriously? I'm starting to understand you, brother. You won't survive here unless you can rule."

"I'm not ready, there's too much..."

"It doesn't matter. I've been both the Mulak and the Gashan for the Tatyarsh ever since Mairon gave you to me. I'm used to it. I will help you."

"The Gashan is meant to be the highest religious authority..."

"You won't. I will be the exception, but I will be the Great Priest for our people."

"You have it all tied up, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Everything but me. I'm not suited for this task. I can tolerate living here as long as all I have to do is read, take care of children and heal wounded people, but I won't flog, torture or help Melkor in any other way. You know this."

Mirfin doesn't answer. Fëanaro never heard him lie since Mirfin prefers to keep silent rather than arrange the truth to look nice. He's both brutally honest and manipulative.

"What if I fail tomorrow? Can I remain among the children?"

"Yes," Mirfin reluctantly admits. "But you will gain one year only. Students who fail twice are either sorted among the uruks or not sorted at all."

"Would that be a solution?"

"Not sorted at all means that I get to slit your throat so your soul can be reborn as something lesser, so no, that wouldn't be. Anyway, you won't fail."

Fëanaro is still stuck at "slit your throat", and how little it shocks Mirfin. The noldo wouldn't kill any member of his family. Yes, he drew a sword on Nolofinwë, but he only meant to threaten him (that, and he had liked the punchline "sharper than thy tongue"; he had been quite the drama queen, before killing became real). He has never killed anyone in cold blood and hopes he never will be able to. There's something monstrous in the casual way Mirfin talks about delivering death.

Would he slit Mirfin's throat? Fëanaro tries to picture a red smile on his brother's throat. The vision makes him sick, dragging him back and under; he's suffocating, the taste of bile on his tongue. He has a moment of absence before he wakes, safely tucked into his elder's arms.

"It's alright. I'm here. You're safe."

No, I'm not. Father would have protected me against anything. Even Nolofinwë would have fought before I was stupid enough to leave him behing. You would slit my throat and you would only feel a bit sad for a few days!

"Answer me. Please."

It's not a "if you'd like" please, but more like a "you can't say no but I'm trying to soften it with honey" please. Fëanaro closes his eyes. Why can't Mirfin just stop talking and keep stroking his hair in silence?

"I'm scared."

"I know."

"No, you don't." He doesn't know how to explain. Fëanaro thinks Mirfin does know fear, but only as data to be processed before he takes an educated decision. He's so used to pain and responsibilities and being the rational Mulak that he is that he's not likely to ever be ruled by his emotions.

He shuts up for once. Did he hear his cadet's thoughts? No, he can't; Fëanaro can't remember when his mind was opened for the last time. He doesn't even know if he will be able to open it again one day.

"The last time I worked with metal, it didn't end well."

The hand of his hair doesn't falter, regular as a clock. Anchoring.

"Melkor commissioned a necklace from me. When I showed it to him. He tried to..."

The Black Tongue doesn't know the word "rape", and the quenya's one is old, one of those rare words only linguists and historians claim to know. According to the Laws and Customs, elves can't rape each other: what use is there in naming a concept that can't exist? He remembers learning it when he read it in a long list of abuses Melkor had inflicted on the elves before they came to Valinor.

"He tried to have sex with me. Against my will. Mairon convinced him to stop because obviously it would have been very bad for my health I think? Obviously not because he cared about things like consent. Perhaps he was jealous of that as well. Anyway it didn't end well and Mairon tortured me after that for absolutely no reasons because I swear I hadn't done anything remotely deserving of that, I mean I know now that I didn't behave with sufficient humility and submissions but I didn't know what would happen, I was so stupid, I..."

He felt tears on his cheeks, and no air in his throat.

"I gloated that I was the better craftsman. I said to his face he wasn't better than I was when I was two hundreds. I mocked him and his craft – I don't want to risk it again."

"You won't. You know better now, it won't happen. Your last encounter with him was very courteous."

"But what if I do something better than he does? Or something he doesn't know how to do? I can't do something bad on purpose because he will know, but if it's too good he'll be jealous again and..."

"Curufinwë."

It's the first Mirfin uses his father's name; it makes Fëanaro freeze. No one called him Finwë ever since the king died.

"Yes. It's your name. Skilled-Finwë. Honestly, it sounds stupid, and skilled-hair-chief has a ridiculous ring to it, but that "skilled" part is the reason why Mairon wants you. I doubt he wants you to fail."

"Is insulting my name supposed to make me feel better?"

"Father named me Mirfin. I don't think it's any better."

"Shiny-hair."

"My hair were pitch black like yours and drank light like ink. He should have called me Morfin or something like that."

"You're trying to divert my attention."

"Of course. You are worrying for nothing, but anxiety can't always be fought with rational words, so I'm trying to make you laugh."

"It's not working."

"Try harder."

"We've been talking about rape," he says the word in quenya, "and torture and corpses in your bed. Your sense of humor is awful."

He tries to play along, he really tries, but it works for one minute and fails for the next. He also doesn't like how Mirfin always find a way not to talk about the horrors of this place, but there's no use insisting: Fëanaro knows, by now, that he's not the only one in denial.

"Do you have a mother's name?"

"Of course. I was sixteen when Finwë came back, people did need to call me before that."

"You never told me what it is."

"No. I always use Mirfin here. My mother name is... personal."

"You never use it?"

"No. Mother asked me not to some time after father's return."

"Why?"

"I wasn't very friendly to father. I think she was trying to give the impression that I cared about him. I did care, I was just not very good at showing I did. He had been away for so long everyone thought he was dead, and then he came back changed and never really had time, nor for mother, nor for me. We didn't..."

"... speak the same language?"

"Exactly. Did you..."

"All the time. I think he meant well but..."

"... mother always understood me perfectly."

"I never had to explain. Not with her. For the time it lasted."

"Our mind come from her. It's no wonder she gave you such a strong name. She knew who you were. She didn't want you to be merely a continuation of herself."

"How did she name you?"

Mirfin's hesitation betrays him; for once, he may have treaded on a ground not comfortable to him. Only when Fëanaro starts to believe the Mulak will never answer does the name falls out of his lips.

"Therin."

Needle.

"She was often called Therindë after my birth. She invented sewing during her pregnancy and named needles therin too. She liked the word play. When people called her Therindë, she always joked that one knew if they were praising her for the needle or her son."

"Did she teach you needlework?"

"She tried. I was more interested in running around. I thought I had the time."

"I can pass the exam for embroidery instead of metal-working," Fëanaro half affirms, half begs. Surely, Mairon wouldn't feel threatened by needle-work? At least, if he were to be recognized as an embroidered rather than a smith, he would keep being useless in the war effort. "It's not my specialty, but mother taught me and I did some very acceptable work for my family. I'm sure I can pass."

"You have already been sorted."

"The examination hasn't started yet! I'm sure you can convince Mairon!"

He gives Mirfin his best cute-face, full of hopefulness. Fëanaro isn't exactly known for those, and they mostly worked on Finwë and Nerdanel, at least until she learnt not to be moved by them, but with red rimmed eyes, genuine fear and need in them... if it doesn't move Mirfin, then nothing will.

"Please. I can't work with metal and jewelry again. I don't know if I'm even able to. I can bring back mother's work..."

"Don't even try to use Miriel against me, Fëanaro," Mirfin snaps. "Do you honestly think you will fail as a smith? Don't try to manipulate me. It won't work."

"I don't know. I may managed or I may freeze like I did for the math examination... only I don't think I will be able to snap out of it."

The Mulak's glare pins him, searching for any sign of dishonesty.

"Fine. I will talk to Mairon."

He stands.

"Now?"

"Of course now. When do you want me to deal with it? Tomorrow morning? Don't worry. I can do without sleep."

There's no reproach, but Fëanaro still feels guilty... guilty and relieved.