Author: Scheherazade
Title: Beyond the Metamorphosis
Summary: In the First Age of the Stars, Melkor (an evil greater even than Sauron) captured a group of newly born elves. One of them was ready to fight for his life—and for the love he'd left behind.
Disclaimer: Nope. Still not mine, and still no Malfoy. Heehee!
A/N: Thank you thank you thank you mucho for reviewing! It does my heart good to see that people like my inane drivel…MauraMellon, Superboy and Philippa, thank you for your comments! Men…if Finturi wasn't so cute in my head I'd whack him for not listening to Amaniel…sheesh…
This chappy is kind of dialogue-y…not a great deal of action, but there will be later…
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Amaniel…could you still love me like this? The unfamiliar shapes and sounds of her vision swirled around her, garish colors palpably filling her lungs and sensitive eyes like a thick odor. There were no words for the pain they caused her, she who had wrapped a blanket of sunlight around her shoulders, but never seen the way the rays glanced off her thick hair. The colors burned her mind's eye until she flailed out against them, furious and indignant. In her dream, she fell forwards into an abyss, surrounded by blessed darkness once again, but utterly alone…
The lady Amaniel woke with a start.
She had been waking from the same nightmare for several nights now, drenched in sweat and fear. In every vision, she and Finturi were enveloped by vivid colors and a shadow unlike any she had ever known. Tonight, however, other wise and friendly voices were heard, other familiar scents—the voices and scents of old friends.
What did it all mean?
Amaniel felt around for the water she always kept near her bed. She took a long draught of the moon-chilled water; it tasted like fermented wind. That selfsame wind stirred the treetops nearby and whispered against the sweat cooling on her forehead. Sleep now, Amaniel. Let the dreams go. They mean nothing…nothing…
She rolled over and returned to a now-dreamless sleep.
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Finturi sat firmly ensconced between Fëanor and Finarfin, the next youngest after Finturi himself. Finwë, their father, and Fingolfin, the second-eldest brother, sat adjacent. They were gathered together on a veranda of Finwe's stronghold in Tirion to discuss the further affairs of the Noldor; Finwë regularly engaged his sons in such meetings, to prepare them for the lives they would one day lead, and for the trials they would inevitably have to endure.
So far the afternoon had been pleasant, their words soft and slow, as if drugged by the oppressive heat. Summer was noticeably waxing to its zenith, and although Finturi was not greatly affected by the elevated temperature, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable just sitting and languishing. He was also feeling somewhat bored; he never contributed a great deal to these discussions, content to listen and observe instead.
He stretched, tuning out the relaxed voices of his brothers and father; instead he studied their faces, the distinct characteristics each displayed. He watched as Fëanor's lip curled into a sneer at Fingolfin, his now cruelly-twisted face bespeaking disdain. There was no love lost between Fëanor and his half-brothers Fingolfin and Finarfin; their golden resemblance to their mother, Indris of the Vanya, seemed to offend him.
Finturi often wondered why Fëanor seemed to love him so—Indris was his mother as well. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Finturi was not tall and golden like his mother, and instead bore a strong resemblance to his black-haired father; it was easier to forget that the blood of Indris ran through his veins.
Fëanor's own mother, Míriel, had been so drained by her son's birth that her spirit had eventually passed from her broken body. Finwë was devastated by his loss, and for many years it had seemed like he would never love another. He guarded his son Fëanor jealously, as if afraid that he would be lost as well.
Even now, Finturi thought, it was Fëanor that held the biggest portion of their father's heart, and the most valued share of his attention. Finturi didn't mind—his older sibling was wise, and beautiful, and in Finturi's adoring eyes could do no wrong. Fëanor's recent creation of the Silmarils only added to the hero-worship many of the Noldor felt for him; aloof, handsome and brave, Fëanor had proven his worth countless times.
However, as the years passed, it had become increasingly difficult to provoke a smile on Fëanor's face. It seemed recently that only his sons and his youngest brother even saw his playful side—his current estrangement from his wife, Nerdanel, had taken its toll.
His growing obsession with his new creations, the Silmarils, also claimed more and more of his time. This troubled Finturi, but he brushed it aside; the Silmarils were beautiful and enticing, but Fëanor would tired of them eventually, just as he would of any other toy. Of this Finturi was sure.
A bee whined around the room, looping in and around the faces of the gathered elves. Finturi watched its progress, thinking about Amaniel. Where was she now? He had seen her every day since their mutual declaration of love, but had only time for a few breathless kisses. He wished that the pair of them could be at their secret meeting place right then, entwined in each other's arms. But for the moment, he was confined to this increasingly stuffy room. The bee flew out the window. Mentally berating himself for daydreaming, Finturi's wandering attention returned to the discussion at hand, in time to hear Finwë say
"…Many of our brethren have begun to speak against the Valar. I hear whispers, murmurs of dissent, every day growing more numerous, and louder. We must be wary of Melkor—"
"Melkor!" Fëanor spat. "What do the affairs of the Noldor have to do with him?"
"Don't forget, Father, that Manwë, the ruler of the Valar, has pardoned Melkor. He no longer poses a threat to our security," said Fingolfin.
"I hear, but still I am wary," said Finwë. "He is as dangerous now as he ever was, should he decide to strike again."
"Melkor is Wethrinaer," said Finarfin quietly. "We should be cautious in invoking his help or attention. But for the meantime, we must keep our suspicions hushed and attempt merely to quell the surging dissidence of our people, the Noldor."
"It won't be as easy as that," said Finwë sadly. "Our people have begun to smith weapons and divide themselves along family lines. Conflict may be rooted deeper than we think, and even harder to alleviate."
"Family lines, family ties—they mean nothing," said Fëanor quietly, his eyes alight. He stared hard at Fingolfin, his face a mask of abhorrence. "Brothers against brothers, sons against fathers, usurping, betraying…it happens all the time," his gaze traveled from Fingolfin to the other three elves gathered around the table. "We should take solace only in ourselves, because we may never know who our allies—and enemies—are." His harsh tone sent shivers down Finturi's spine. What was Fëanor talking about?
"Take the Valar. Why do we trust them so? Why do they hold such sway over our lives? I say we cast their imperious commands aside, and seize our rightful authority, away from Valinor, their kingdom." Fëanor, the aptly named "Spirit of Fire" concluded.
An uncomfortable silence so thick it seemed to impede inhalation settled itself around the table, hushing their voices more effectively than the escalating heat. Finturi shifted in his chair, staring at the floor. Where were these incendiary words coming from? Surely not from Fëanor…
Fingolfin finally broke the silence.
"Amin merna quen—to say such things is wrong, brother," he said. "The Valar shelter us and give us strength. It is not our place to question—"
"You would say that," Fëanor spat maliciously, his long fingers clenching like bird claws on the arms of his chair. "No matter. You have nothing to fear from them. You are their pet, their minion—Prince Fingolfin, singled out by the Valar for greatness." Fingolfin's face registered complete confusion as he took in his brother's fuming face.
"I wish I knew how to stop your anger, Fëanor. It will only lead to pain." Fingolfin said. Silence fell again. Finturi coughed self-consciously, and Finwë jumped at the opportunity to wrest the conversation from its current course.
"Ah! Finturi! We have yet to discuss the most important item on the agenda: your upcoming marriage to Lady Amaniel! The Eve of Faradome is probably the most opportune date to hold the service, if both you and Amaniel agree." Finturi winced inside his head at his father's less-than-skillful topic change, but the tension that had vibrated in the very particles of the air was quickly dissipating as the talk turned to Finturi's wedding.
Wethrinaer: deceitful one
Amin merna quen: I wish to speak
Faradome: Summer Solstice
Once again, all Elvish comes from (www.)
I'm not too happy with this chapter…I think it could have been better…oh well…I might revise it and repost it, but I really want to get this hammered out. Sorry it took so long.
Review and tell me what you think of my (unedited) drivel! Continue? Set fire to my hard drive? There are some interesting twists and turns planned for further on…so keep reading! I'll try not to disappoint! ^_^