Virtue to Vice
In the great town square of Tirion upon Tuna, beneath the white tower and the royal palace and the lesser silver tree that was now all that remained of its predecessor's image, there now appeared a man.
Technically speaking, he should still have been barred from the city. In later days, none of the guards would profess to letting him in. But they did not have to, for though the love of his heart had always belonged elsewhere, he was born and raised in this city, and thus privy to all the little nooks and passageways that only an intrepid child would know, back when he still answered to a different name.
Now he had returned along those paths and brought with him his long since grown sons climbing after him, and even the grandson that was just barely come to manhood.
But even if he had just knocked on the gates, it was doubtful if the watchmen would have barred him entry, for with the demise of his father, he would not have been wholly unjustified in calling himself their king.
He appeared dressed for war, in gleaming armor, wielding a long, fell sword and a bright red plume atop his helm, flanked by his sons who were likewise arrayed.
Even young Tyelperinquar appeared carrying a sword, though his determination warred with an uneasy reluctance even then.
Feanaro was a far cry from how the people had last seen him; Gone were the torn clothes, the stained face.
Gone was all appearance of weakness that had then been on display; Of course he had washed and dressed himself, as a skilled orator, he knew the importance of making the right impression.
But that wild pale light still remained, and blazed brighter still as it fueled the infamous speech that would be remembered through the ages as one of his masterpieces, almost the very last addition to the list.
Soon a sea of torches was gathered to the town square, and since the palace was right next to it, there is no way that the Regent would not have got word.
It was Lalwen who came running into Nolofinwe's study to inform him.
Brave as he was, even he could not be free of apprehension when he heard that his older sons had already run outside to handle the commotion, though he felt proud of their initiative.
His daughter, though inclined to go, had stayed within the palace, for her brothers had left her with her niece. The golden-haired girl was observing the events with subdued apprehension, calm, yet serious beyond what her young years might lead one to suspect.
Nolofinwe made a point of hastily taking each lady's hands into his own, one after the other, leaving a furtive trace of firm reassurance that may not have been entirely wanted or needed by either… and then he made for the gates, as he saw it, his only choice as the person responsible for the city.
He still thought to disperse the crowd, then, unaware that the gears of history were ticking.
Though of course, by the time he made it near enough to the center stage of the events to make out the outlines of his sons and his nephews' golden heads, Feanaro and his sons were all neatly lined up in a circle, raising their swords into the crimson torchlight, and the blasphemies were already being spoken.
The histories record that the discordant factions of the Noldor came near to blows again that day, but few detail why they didn't.
No mention is made of Arafinwe's speech, other than that his words were soft and unheeded.
Perhaps those who remained behind in Valinor can remember it without shame; Some of those who followed him later might even have been listening, or perhaps later they would say what they were, eager to disdown the fire of their hearts that day as a momentary madness.
Even the brothers of Arafinwe both preferred not to acknowledge what might have happened if he had not staid their hands, where those hands on their sword hilts might have gone if he had not at one point physically placed himself between them, or what might have happened if their reaction times had not been quite as impeccable.
They preferred to act as if this had never happened, one out of pride, and the other out of shame – and, honestly, pride as well.
As for the youngest brother, he spent the rest of the event sitting beneath the white tree, catching his breath, processing what was happening.
His sons had not said anything outright, but he could tell from the glitter in their eyes – all hope was shattered for good when he heard the firm, strong voice of his own daughter rising loud above the throng.
So absorbed was he, despite all his years, in the hard work to keep himself abstracted, that he only noticed the closing steps when their owner sat himself down beside him.
And yet, it was a reflex of his gentle nature to default at once to turning all his energies to comforting the bleary-eyed youth, putting his arm around him thus wrapping his long sleeve around his companion.
The young man relaxed a little, but only barely. The springs of terror were coiled too tensely in his frame.
"What's going to happen now, grandfather? What do I do? Just what do I do…."
"What are you thinking of doing?"
"...I really don't know. I don't really want to leave, but I don't want to fight with my parents or uncle Findarato, either. I just don't want any more fighting. It's bad enough what happened to the king…" his voice faltered there, for a bit. "I don't want to think of anyone else in harm's way….
So what do we do? Can't you talk sense to them?"
Arafinwe sighed deeply, wearily shaking his golden head.
"There are some things that cannot be avoided; They can only be endured."
…
All the wide city was descending into packing.
The small council that had convened in the royal study was meeting strictly to hold council over the undeniable fact that they had thoroughly lost control.
A small remnant was assembled here.
Nolofinwe sat gravelly at his desk, his hands clasped together.
His sister stood not far from him, arms crossed in displeasure.
His younger brother stood gravelly to the side of his desk, his unreadable face deep in thought.
They had not thought to trouble their mother or expected much help to come from their older sister. It was to be surmised that Elenwe and Itarille were with the queen.
Irisse had left the building, by the looks of it disappointed to have missed out on the debate.
Seemingly unaware of the overall gravity, she had rushed past her father and uncle without much of a word, or a real understanding of what just transpired.
One might wonder just how her brothers and cousins might fill her in.
Of the younger generation, only Turukano had come to dutifully report on the inadvisable sentiments flaring among his siblings and cousins.
Young Artaresto had mostly followed along with them because he didn't know what else to do.
The positions of his parents, aunt and uncles were pretty clear – he dreaded leaving, but no less did he dread telling this to their faces.
Thus he was content to sit aside and let his elders speak – once in a while, his grandfather would check on him, at times with some silent gesture of comfort.
He was in fact past his majority, some decades older than his distant cousin Tyelperinquar and hence had been admitted to take part in the debates – he'd voted for remaining, but despaired of it rather swiftly.
He'd been raised sheltered and in love, his education lovingly overseen by his learned uncle, never pushed to grow up quickly, as it should be in an ideal world – but his present surroundings were ceasing to be ideal with every passing moment.
He didn't know what to say. Truth be told, he tended to quiet down in the presence of raised voices. There had been very little quarrel in the house of his parents… until now, that is.
His unease mounted the more the listened to the proceedings.
Grim and severe, Turukano somberly relayed such parts of the debate as he had witnessed, relaying the actions of his cousins and brothers.
His father and uncle listened gravely. Though both strained to keep their composure in their own ways, neither of the two could keep their faces from falling when they heard that Artanis of all people had been arguing strongly in favor of departure – they had counted on her at least to be sensible, or at the very least, on her dislike for her wayward uncle.
Lalwen could not stifle a sound of indignant surprise.
Her brothers were beyond such things, acutely aware that any little thought or notion or idea could now sway the fates of their children, if those dice had not already decided in some decision that they were not going to like.
Perhaps they wondered what to tell their wives.
Intent on facing reality nonetheless, Nolofinwe rose up from his desk, and for a moment, regarded his son.
He was not surprised to see him here, out of all his children, though he'd made a very deliberate choice to ignore that. That, however, did little to stop him from feeling that pang of guilt.
From the beginning, Nolofinwe had of course decided that he was going to treat all his children exactly the same. He'd made a very precise and deliberate speech to Anaire about it that had seemed overwrought to her, since it was something that should go without saying as far as her understanding went – yet still, Nolofinwe was proud, and determined not to pin the blame on his father, as much as he might have grumbled in private.
Still, if such a thing had been possible, he would have measured out every last droplet of affection on a scale so as to ensure that all four of them received exactly the same dosage.
Doubtlessly he harbored great fondness and pride for them all, but still he was not surprised in the slightest that of all the four it would be Turukano who would be standing before him in this moment, ready to move out on his beck and call, to support whatever it was that he should decide.
Nolofinwe hated to admit it, and, so far as he was able he had tried as best as he could to bury this impression, to keep it under such wraps as would be needed to prevent it from ever leaking into his actions or demeanor, but –
of all his four children, Turukano had always been the one most like himself. The most serious, the most reasonable, the one that was always at his right, whom he understood the best.
They had always thought alike, and followed each other's reasoning the most easily, and that is why they were both here now, united in discussing the future.
Here and now, it must have shown.
Their agreement was taken for granted that neither of them was elsewhere, deciding what to tell the other, away with the other scattered members of their clan.
There was also another thing that weighed on Nolofinwe's mind, a separate thread of fate that had long been if not forgotten then slipped far from his present mind, brought now to the front like many other things by the unprecedented circumstances that they found themselves in.
Untold ages ago, when the tall, solemn prince standing before Nolofinwe was but a newborn babe in his arms, he'd been approached by a Vanyarin seeress who spoke to him of joyous omens and important links in the chains of fate. He supposed that his more learned brothers could have had more use of the gifts she was offering. He was an administrator and courtier, not a mystic.
But he remembered one sentence very clear: 'His reign of glory will last while the lilly of the valley endures' – fanfiful metaphor, clearly. What reign? Turukano was the second son of a second son. What of his older brother? What of his father and his aunt? What of Feanaro and his many plentiful offspring – though there were just three of them at the time of Turukano's birth.
Nolofinwe had gone with his worries to his mother and she had assured him that the meaning of such prophetic words was often unclear until the circumstances that they pertained to assembled themselves.
Never once had Nolofinwe considered the possibility of Turukano literally wearing his grandfather's crown, but back then, the thought of losing anyone at all had been wholly unthinkable – and now it had happened.
Whatever the High Prince ended up choosing, it would ripple far beyond his sight and the full consequences resounded far away in the murky unknown of his future, and he could not see the ends of it.
He did not like this one bit...
Yet it seemed that it was up to his decision.
His sister and brother had given him their thoughts, but it seems they were looking to him to make a decision.
He couldn't go running to his grieving mother in a situation like this; Furthermore, if she had known what to do, she would be here, telling it to him.
He could well imagine that she must have her face in her hands, or she might be softly, quietly weeping into Findis' shoulder, or Anaire's.
If Nolofinwe could have his will, he would be there with them, but he had other duties.
His life no longer belonged to himself alone, not when there wasn't a king in the city.
The mad jewelsmith could scarcely be counted as one.
Arafinwe was still reluctant to vote for anything other than patience and caution, but Princess Lalwen, for her part, had been frank enough about what was to be done in her view:
"The Lords would back you if you challenged him. You have their trust, and the people's love. You know as well as I that it should be you. "
"That would be sedition – I gave my word-"
"That was then. Before all this."
"What of Findis? She is still the eldest."
Lalwen balked at this at once: "As if she could do it! She'd get laughed out of the town square as the exact sort of servile faint-heart that the son of Miriel has been decrying."
No scandalized looks from her brother or nephew could silence her.
"Don't you understand? The line of succession no longer matters. The protocols don't matter.
The only thing that matters now is that the people have a strong, reliable leader.
One that they can all respect. One who can actually handle the responsibilities instead of leading them on a mad rabbit chase for his own selfish purpose.
Findis is useless, and Miriel's son is useless. A true King must have both virtue and strenght.
It has to be you. No one else can do it. Ascend the throne!"
Once uncorked, this particular spirit could not be stuffed back into the bottle again.
All eyes turned now to Nolofinwe.
Turukano nodded at once, without a second thought.
Arafinwe could be seen to wrestle with himself, to wring through conflicted loyalties and various ill feelings, but at last, he too brought himself to nod.
In truth, Nolofinwe had not known before this moment of the total depth of their faith in him.
He knew he ought to be deliberating, but a part of him could not help feeling stunned, honored, even in this darkness.
Yet before a decision could be reached, there was a rapping on the door; A fist announcing itself with several confident knocks, and then the door swung open, revealing a swarm of determined young nobles.
What sprang to Nolofinwe's eyes first of all was his inconsolable mother, defeated at last in the firm arms of his wife, who announced to him with a single glance the presence of dire trouble.
Yet it was the Lady Earwen who first came stumbling into the room, in a state of dissolution surpassing even the Queen's as she sought her husband.
"Ingo! Nerwen and the boys are speaking madness! Please, please talk sense to them!"
At once, each and every occupant of the room turned around in alarm.
Prince Artaresto's apprehension was so great that he slapped his fingers in front of his mouth, gaping with apparent shock.
He suspected all too well what was about to be said.
It was not just the royal family that had assembled here, but all manner of young princes and noblewomen from the later generations.
The young nobles, however, were quite well organized. By no means did they all come pouring into the royal study; Rather, they cleared the way, for they had chosen one of their number to speak, and chosen well, too -
Who better to wrangle the regent than his own son, eldest and most beloved of the grandchildren of Indis?
Prince Findekano was not expecting a quarrel. He came prepared for a friendly, respectable debate, sure of his case.
But it was clear that the others stood with him in this, as he did with many things.
The lady Artanis had evidently insisted on following close behind, and her brother flanked their cousin from the other side.
It went without question that their remaining brothers followed close behind, as they had ever been his devoted friends, nor could anything less be expected from his younger siblings, which were not far behind, along with the wife of Angarato.
They had some careful plan hatched, but it was plain that their minds were already made up.
And of course, Findekano had a speech prepared, despite the rather sparse time there had been for one to be concocted – but Nolofinwe would have expected nothing less of his son.
"Think of it, father," he reiterated after laying out his closing statement, "Consider it: Wide open places that none of us have ever seen. Smells, tastes and shapes that we cannot foresee-"
Artanis was much in agreement with him:
"Father! For years, I have studied under the best teachers that these lands had to offer. I've honed my lore, my craft, my songs and athleticism – I yearn to put my learning to good use."
But it was Findarato who struck the last blow, measured and more level-headed than both: "Consider also that we are not alone on this great, wide world. Mother, please consider, have we not kin beyond those shores? Long-sundered relatives of whom we have not heard for so long?
Must not the enemy now be surely on his way to wherever they are, bereft of such lore and craft as we have here? How many more families will be bereaved such as ours, if he is left to do as he pleases? How many more beautiful places shall be befouled, before our eyes could behold them?"
They were not impolite. They left quite orderly and unprompted. Only with some reluctance did Orodreth follow when his parents beckoned him to join them, but he did, and so he too cleared out of the room. Most of the youngsters looked to assuage their elders with hopeful words or speeches of determination.
Propriety and protocol had not disintegrated so far that they would not wait on the High Princes' decision -
Of the younger nobles, only Turukano remained within, for he had nothing to await.
"So, father, what shall we do? Should I go and try to dissuade my brothers?"
"There would be no point."
Although he recognized this, Nolofinwe had found no comfort in the eager words of his eldest son, and in his children's determination, Arafinwe saw only despair.
Even Lalwen had little bluster left to speak of.
"I'm sorry, I- I can't claim to understand..."
But her older brother bade her to cease the apologies with a tired gesture of his hand.
"No, it's fine – You were right."
Even Arafinwe conceded at once, though deeply defeated, and loathing all his words entailed: "We can't leave them at the mercy of Feanaro. We can't leave our people-"
"No. We cannot."
In reaching this conclusion, Nolofinwe resolved to accept his fate with grim determination.
"In a sense, this is convenient. I have some business of my own on yonder shores."
Turukano was, for some instants, surprised, but mastered himself swiftly enough before his inner thoughts should be known then.
"Should I send my bannermen to pack then?"
"No. Not you. You stay. You have a wife and child of your own to worry about."
"-and they are resolved to follow me, just as I am resolved to follow you.
To the bitter end – if bitter it must be."
Nolofinwe averted his gaze then, but between the dark and the residual silver radiance in his eyes, the specks of wetness at their edges could not be hidden, somuch as he would have preferred to conceal such weakness from his son.
"-Thank you."
With this passing of the years, this moment would come to weigh heavier and heavier with ever-new regrets.
…
Nolofinwe steps outside, and the crowds are ready to receive him.
It is much as Lalwen said: There are many ready to back him, swept-up as they might be in his half-brother's words, they have not wholly forgotten their lives up until this moment.
The setup calls for some middle-of-the-road reasonable intermediate option, or what can pass for such in a given citizen's personal rationalization.
The stage is set, the script is ready for such a role to be performed – Nolofinwe need only step inside.
He's got a commanding voice and a steady presence. The people know him, they recognize his face.
The scholars and the craftman's guild may know Feanaro, some loyal cadre of old veterans of the journey and malcontent youngsters who know nothing of the beyond and therefore readily fill it with pliable fantasies, but apart from those, most know Nolofinwe better.
Most know that he labored hard at the right hand of his father.
That he was not the one exiled for threat of violence.
He is heeded the moment he steps outside.
The force of his voice weighs heavier than it ever has, now, after losing so much, at a time that feels to him like the end of everything.
Now he'll make a difference – in some corner of his mind, he thinks of it as the difference that his siblings had refused to make. He might not have any famed jewels to break, but he would give what he did have, or so he thought, with just the thinnest edge of pride.
Though at first he kept that thought to himself.
When he comes across the son of Miriel in the streets, pinned down by his suspicious glare and caustically asked what he means to be doing here, Nolofinwe affirms, with some understated defiance, that he is here to do as he had promised: To follow his brother's lead.
If it was not intended as a covert, sanctimonious way to spit earlier accusations of treason and reneged brotherhood back into Feanaro's face, this is certainly how he would have taken it – and plausible deniability aside, Nolofinwe must have known it, though he did not know or trust whatever weighings and calculations must have gone on beyond his half-brother's eyes.
But whatever the result, it pertained to some further, yet unrealized future.
For now, the elder prince seemed to have decided that he should allow Nolofinwe to be of use to him for yet a while longer, or at least, that the time to dispose of him had not yet come.
"Do as you will!", he spat, impatient in his coarse displeasure, carrying on unperturbed.
As he saw it he had places to be, and he was eager to be gone.
…
But Nolofinwe had also another sister, one who remained behind at the palace and watched with a stern, disbelieving glare all of the pulling off the walls of beautiful things and their stuffing into various belted coiffers, a rapacious plundering of an already wounded nation.
The sons of her father made swift work of it: Nolofinwe himself had ordered all the supplies counted, filed and packed into crates, at first to preempt the need for a possible rationing when it was yet unknown how long this barren night might last.
But now it just meant that all that had been packed away could just as easily be hauled off into the distance, never to be seen again.
All around, there was red torchlight and blue lamplight mingling into an inadvisable mixture.
Still she could not believe that there had come a day when her brethren should all come waltzing into the palace halls in unison, led by Feanaro of all people.
Findis was not the sort to buy into the twisted logic of keeping one's enemies close – unmoved as a statue, she strode around the place, her disapproving expression set in place like an iron cast, witnessing in great disbelief the busy work of her father's children.
"Even you, Arafinwe? Even you? I thought you at least knew better."
The golden-haired prince kept his lips fast pressed together. He had nothing nice to say. The more he wrestled with the implications of what he was doing, the more that very fiber of his being resisted his every motion. Of everything his eyes fell on, he wondered if he were seeing it for the last time: Even this? Even this? His heart was fertile ground for such shame as his sister wished to kindle, but for the moment, the bonds of kinship and duty were rooted even deeper, pulling him onward in spite of everything he felt and the whole sum of his wisdom.
The two middle siblings were, if anything, more grimly determined, much more steely in their resolve to stiffly carry on, so they did not get caught in their sister's provocations:
"Come on now! You're going to follow him? Even you, Lalwen? I didn't think that you held the son of Miriel in such high esteem – and you, Nolofinwe? Will you bow to him after he had assaulted you thus?"
Lalwen, at least, could not quite contain herself, though the force in her restrained murmuring was still but a fraction of the displeasure she held within.
"This is not about him!"
"You're right," judged Nolofinwe, but perhaps not exactly as Lalwen had expected him to: "We have to go for the sake of our children. For our people. For the honor of our house."
"Keep telling yourselves that."
Such harsh judgement might have gotten a shamed flinch out of her younger siblings, but ir placed no such constraints on the one who had never accounted himself as her brother to begin with. Smirking perilously and spoiling for a fight, he put down the crate of tools he had been carrying so that he may give his full attention to the act of lambasting her with his spiteful words:
"So, daughter of Indis, you would have us overlook what that bastard did to my father, is that what you're saying?"
"To our father," added Nolofinwe, muttering under his breath, unable to keep silent yet finding it more productive to keep gathering up the inventory scrolls.
"So my brethren are in agreement for once, huh?" had Findis been a less tactful, reverent person, she might have descended into bitter, sardonic laughter.
"Fools. All you need to do is to be patient a little while, so the Valar can restore him to his form. You know this as well as I."
"Do we? Do we really? - Your blind faith is adorable."
This earned him marked glares from Lalwen and Nolofinwe, but their prior thoughts were soon to be swept away in the gale of his arguments: "Are you really sure about that?
Cause I reckon father himself was once urged to be patient, by the great Rainmaker himself, no less – and where is my mother now? Was she returned to us just in time to play with her grandsons?
Don't mess around with me. What far-fetched, harebrained reason could you contrive for why I would ever pay heed to even a single one of their promises?"
Findis softened no more than he did, and coldly shook her head. "In the end, father shall come forth from Mandos and find you all gone across the sea."
"Then if your faith is so great, you're welcome to stay here and wait for it until the breaking of the world."
If you had tasked some sadistic spirit with finding the optimal way to inflict the greatest possible anguish on Indis the Queen, the resulting scenario would not have differed much from this most recent sequence of events.
She was now long past the point of composure or even the capacity for it.
Yet still, somehow, there was not an ounce of blame in her tearful voice, even as her dear children stood line up before her to say their farewells.
"Arakano dear, are you really, really sure that this is what you want?"
Decked out and ready for travel, Nolofinwe did not feel as if he could have turned back no matter how much he might have wanted to.
"What I want does not matter," he asserted, somberly, "I have a business to attend to. But rest assured that I shall not return until the hurt that was done to us has been avenged sevenfold."
The Queen did not find this assuring.
"Just please be careful, alright?"
Somewhere near the door arch there was, of course, a dark, moody figure who had little sympathy for the tender scenes before him, and saw no reason to restrain the ugly feelings that welled up in his chest at the sight of the Queen's desperate last affections to her son.
"Hurry along! We have places to be!" he shouted, yelling across the room in not-so casual impatience.
Not far beside him, his eldest son was however intent on dissuading him before he could provoke any of the others present into taking umbrage:
"Have a little patience, father. Surely these few minutes will not matter so greatly in the grand scheme of things."
Of course, not all of Maitimo's brethren had gone to see their own mother, though she yet lived, for they already knew what she was going to say.
The procession continued, a series of rehearsed farewells where the participants had steeled themselves too much for any real softness to be exchanged.
When begged to be cautious, Lalwen insisted that she could handle herself.
Arafinwe could not quite bring himself to look his mother in the eyes, speaking a few scattered words about something like grim necessity.
Prince Findekano was smiling when he came to bid his farewells:
"Don't worry too much, grandmother. Everything's gonna be fine. I know that you will miss us, but I don't want you to think of us with sorrow. We will be exploring foreign places, seeing sights we've never seen, people we've never met, building great and lasting things, legacies of our own – if there's one thing I'll regret, is that we won't be able to introduce you to any brides or husbands that me might find ourselves on the other side of the sea-" he said this as one might crack a joke, not like one uncorking a new fount of sorrow, but he must have realized his error by the time that he trailed off.
"Anyways-" he added, and he spoke more quietly in this, "I'm sure that Uncle Feanaro is being way too pessimistic about the Aftercomers. If we talk to them, they could even become our allies!
And who knows – I think I'll be staying behind to rule my new realms, but there's a good chance that at least some people might want to go back after Morgoth is defeated. Father and Mother might – so maybe one day, we'll be able to send you a message, and tell you what has become of us.
I'll be sure to ask Findarato to send you sketches of any new additions to the family that you might want to know about…"
Yet even there he had to stop himself from straying into painful territory; For Findarato himself had already been told that his fiancée wouldn't be coming with him.
Thus the line proceeded, up to such daughters-in-law that already existed and more distant descendants such as Itarille (who remained remarkably contained, if somber) and Artaresto, who lost his composure entirely and spent several minutes tearfully clinging to the Queen.
Even Maitimo and Makalaure lined up to pay such tepid, stilted respects to her as might be squared with their loyalty to their father.
He, in turn, never left his spot near the exit, ever tapping his foot as to remind all the ones gathered of the passage of time though the feeble starlight in the blacked-out skies no longer could.
So, Indis had to come to him, knowing well that she'd be setting herself up to suffer the indignity of his rejection.
Her feelings about this son of her husband's were no longer as uncomplicated or pure as they might once have been, before he had gone and caused such suffering to her family.
But he was still the child of her beloved and of one who had once been her best friend, and it appeared that she would not see him again.
So she put her hurt and grief aside and drew near, open arms barely raised in futile hope.
"Listen, I- I want you to know that I never, ever meant you any harm.
I can't imagine how hard this must be on you. If I have ever done anything to make it harder, however unintentional – then I am sorry."
He stood unmoved, cold and hard as ever.
"Then maybe you should have thought of this a long, long time ago."
The blow, though verbal, very much connected as intended, yet still the Queen drew nearer:
"If your father were here, I'm sure he would want me to-"
He recoiled at once in absolute disgust.
"Don't you dare touch me."
It was apparent that he did not say worse for one reason, and one reason only:
Getting into a swordfight with Lalwen and Nolofinwe at this point in time would not get him any closer to his vengeance or his gems, or to any further ambitions.
He had neither love nor patience for the Queen, but he could muster this much strategic acumen at least.
Still, he must have felt like he had taken all that he would – he removed himself at once with brisk, resounding steps without sparing her even one further glance.
…
But Indis had one more child.
One who was not departing.
She who waited outside that gateway, standing in judgment over all that would pass through it.
"Even you, Nolofinwe? Have you no pity even for our mother?"
There was some finely aged, long-preserved resentment mixed in there.
"I am disappointed in you. You're a disgrace."
It didn't quite have the intended sting – after all, he'd been told this and things very much like this for most of his life, usually by sharper tongues than hers.
Her disapproving glares earsed her some huffing and puffing from Lalwen and managed to get a good flinch out of Arafinwe; Even the apologetic politeness of her nephews did not soften her stance.
The sons of Feanor answered her with callous jeers and the occasional quip of 'Make me!' with only Makalaure showing the slightest succeptibility to guilt, but he soon hurried along to keep pace with his brothers.
Findis knew better than to waste her breath on Feanaro himself – she was alltogether too disgusted to even speak to him, and judging by his upturned nose and great determination to pass her by as if she were made of air, attempting to speak to him would not have done much good.
By and large, her demeanor was calculated to communicate that she was disapointed but not surprised, and she remained in her stone place for the whole procession, pitiless to her kinsfolk except for one:
"Artanis! You, too? I would have thought that you at least would have known something of duty."
The youngest child of Finarfin remained unfazed, more calm than she was flippant:
"Worry not, Auntie, I know what I'm doing. You're concerned about the wrong person. Feanaro and his hellspawn are as vile and repulsive as they are overconfident; They'll waste no time in destroying themselves. As for Findekano and the others… their hearts are in the right place, but they are all trusting fools, and reckless besides – except for Turukano, who has the same exxagerated sense of responsibility as Uncle Nolofinwe.
Finally, my brothers are neither fools nor scoundrels, but they are soft-hearted. They lack the stomach for what needs to be done. Findarato at least agrees that it is madness to bring Itarille and Artaresto, but though we tried to convince them, Angarato and Turukano wouldn't listen."
"And you have none of these faults?"
Findis coldly raised an eyebrow.
She doubted that her brilliant niece would have failed to hear the sarcasm, but it seems that she chose to ignore it: "No, not at all. Like I said, I'm not the one you should be worried about."
She is perfectly calm, polite even.
"So I should expect you to return without a scratch?"
"I'm not planning on coming back at all."
At last, Findis could not keep from shaking her head. "You better get a handle on that pride of yours, kid – or you might find yourself becoming something you're not going to recognize."
But even this did not perturb the self-certain princess. She wasn't even angry: "Thanks, Auntie. Duly noted. I'll make sure to keep this in mind."
And then she left.
...
The children of Nolofinwe had been grown adults now for what would have been longer than many lifetimes of mortals now; Surely they were to be held responsible for their own sins.
But to their father, that just increased the weight of his failure to keep them from damnation.
Yes, his brood was impetuous; As bold and brave he had praised them.
Proudly he had watched on as Lalwen led them in daring games.
Once they saw the signs of fighting, a decision was quickly reached.
Still, he thinks, they would have listened to their father. And if they had not, then at least he could have claimed in good conscience that he had done all that he could.
No amount of rationalizations, no contemplations of possibilities could explain away that just for a moment, even he had doubted.
In the darkness of the long night, Nolofinwe thought it possible that the Valar may indeed have sent the Teleri to waylay them – that his own brother's in-laws would give the order.
All the favor of Ulmo and all the friendship with the family Olwe weighed less in that moment than the much younger webs of rumors and uncertainties.
But the lies of Melkor might have had an unexpected ally in his brother's callous admonishments, all that part about how Finwe ought to have come to the feast.
It was not even that Nolofinwe disagreed – it was the salt upon the raw wounds, rubbed in with the clearest and purest of intentions.
If there was a window of time in which he could have shouted for Findekano to stop, it passed unheeded, and so the golden-braided prince advanced with the vanguard.
...
And this is what it lead to:
Artanis in white Armor, standing in the blood-splattered streets of the city of her childhood, tall long blade inches from her first cousin's neck.
"Move aside, Findekano. I don't want to kill you. You're not the one I'm after."
...
She found her prey soon enough.
Halfway through his bloody handiwork, Feanaro encountered some resistance worth his notice.
He'd been making short work of the sailors – for all their valor, determination and desperate ferocity, they were both armed with simple fish-spears and nets devised for safe use in peaceful purpose.
But then, when he least expected it, lost as he was to the frenzy of his scarlet path, a sound off to the side alerted him of his right-hand captain clattering to the ground in all his armor, not speared from the front, but stabbed with a sword from behind by an assailant who had passed unquestioned behind their own lines:
Here was not a defenseless unarmed mariner, but an even match to the attackers: A tall warrior in shining armor, her hair like native electrum tightly braided into a radiant crown.
She had no words for him but one:
"YOU…! YOU-"
Now here was an opponent that could resist him, perhaps one of the few among his own kind capable of giving him a fight, to really get his blood running – He had to pay his full attention to every strike now. Here was, for once, a real challenge: It was exhilarating.
Even one such as she could not remain wholly unfazed by his shameless scarlet laughter – in her later days, this might have been different, after she lived to gain greater wisdom and tamed powers far greater beyond those contained in her sturdy arms and legs; But that day was not come yet, and young as she was now, he brought upon her the bitter taste of defeat, a humiliation that she would never forget, and resent until the world's breaking.
One moment she was sure of her footing, the next, his blade had drawn a trickle of blood from cheeks caked with the jeweled dust of the beach.
"Take your due place, you mongrel bitch!"
He did not so much spare her, as that would imply some deliberate decision not to kill her – what he might have done if the thought had occurred to him, no one could say.
But as it was, he simply did not think of it – even then, the world was still young, and sin a novel thing upon it.
Instead he went and jumped over her to continue his bloody handiwork, as one would skip over a log in the woods, or any other pesky object blocking ones path.
She was left amid the cracked planks of a wooden pier, stewing in wounded pride and resentment that would last to the breaking of the world.
…
Before this very moment, it had not come to pass before anywhere in the land of Valinor that any parent would have raised their hand against any of their own children.
Prince Findekano should be the very first, struck across the face with a vicious slap by his own mother, hard enough to make his ears ring.
He looked on in dull surprise as she screamed into his face:
"Murderer! You are not my son!"
Like many of the hasty deeds and harsh words that followed the darkening of Valinor, they should long be regretted.
Finarfin is not the one who "didn't go" – That's Findis. Finarfin is the one who almost went despite everything and then stopped himself just short of going through with it, and then had to go crawling back and explain why he didn't go to everyone whom he'd just told why he must leave. That's a very different place to be in. One that must have taken a lot of strenght or a lot of desperation to traverse...
more on that in the grand finale where everything comes to a head