Chapter 8 – No More Games

To understand our history you must understand one thing, a lie - repeated often and with fervor - will become true, be there a mountain of evidence to the contrary. Morgoth's lies were superb in this regard. They were whispered so often and by so many that by the time my father lashed out against his brother, the lies had all but become true.

I was there that day, in the courtyard below my grandfather's house when my father, in a fit of rage, pursued Fingolfin to the palace gate. I saw it then, for the first time, the depths of my father's hatred for his half-brother. He threw Fingolfin against the stone wall, and as he did so, I recalled my father's words to me, words he repeated time and time again: 'An enemy must be defeated, Kana, even if your blood flows in his veins'.

I admit to you now – I had not been listening.

All those years my father instructed me, I nodded as a dutiful son should, but I had not heeded his words. But his actions, in that moment, were impossible to ignore. He drew his sword and pressed the tip of the blade to my uncle's heart. Fell words he spoke, so terrible that they are remembered by all to this day. I remember them too, but it was not what he said that turned my blood to ice. It was his eyes. They were terrifying. I knew as he spoke that he meant what he said to Fingolfin, and I feared, too, that he might prove it even before the gathering crowd.

My uncle held his tongue in the face of father's threats. And as he passed me and my brothers, Curufin and Caranthir laughed. The sound only served to deepen the horror that kindled within me. I turned to Maedhros, but found myself unable to speak. Maedhros, too, stood speechless. Father's gaze remained on his half-brother, and when Fingolfin vanished from sight, he turned away from the murmuring crowd and stepped back through the palace gate. A thing dawned on me then, a revelation to my confused mind.

My father had raised a sword against his brother – and it was not a game.


Valinor
Age of Trees

Elemmírë flung open the door, neglecting even the semblance of decorum in his haste. He had come as soon as he heard the news of Prince Fëanor's banishment. The story, in all its varied versions, reached the far corners of Aman with speed. It was on the lips of great Lords and common laborers alike. Elemmírë, ever the loyal friend, knew he was needed at Maglor's side.

"Makalaurë!" he called as he strode through the sitting room and on to the bed chamber. "Maka?" Elemmírë came to a halt when he reached the door. Maglor's room was in a state of disarray. Many items were strewn across the floor. The culprit was there still, shoving clothing into a wooden trunk. Elemmírë had never known his friend to be so careless with his possessions.

"What is this?" he asked, startling Maglor with his sudden appearance. "Where are you going?"

Maglor looked to the ellon in the doorway briefly before turning his attention to a drawer. He continued with his packing, avoiding his friend's gaze. "My father has been exiled from Tirion," he said in answer.

"I heard," Elemmírë replied, "but where are you going?"

"I go with him," Maglor said.

"Why?" Elemmírë asked, confusion written in the lines of his face. "You have committed no crime."

"I am his son," Maglor replied, as if this explained everything.

Elemmírë might have laughed if not for the tone in which the statement was made. He found the sentiment strange coming from Maglor. There were perhaps no two ellyn in Arda less alike than Fëanor and his second son.

Elemmírë was about to spout something clever to that effect when a metallic glint caught his eye. A large, jewel encrusted object that resembled an oversized hunting knife lay in the middle of Maglor's bed. Elemmírë reached for it. "What is this?" he asked, as he drew the blade from its scabbard.

"It is called a sword," Maglor said, his eyes fixed purposefully on his linens.

Elemmírë studied the object in his hands. Maglor's father-name was etched into the blade. "Is this the gift from your father? The one you would not show me?" he asked.

"Yes," Maglor said after a moment's pause.

A dawning expression of understanding began to form on Elemmírë's face as he studied the blade. "Makalaurë … such a thing …," he shook his head in horror, "it could have but one purpose." Elemmírë recalled then the many tales of Fëanor's punishment. All of them said he had threatened his brother with a great blade. "Is this what Fëanor used to threaten his brother?"

"It is," Maglor said; his tone carefully controlled.

Maglor's quiet confirmation was more than Elemmírë could bear. "This is madness!" he cried, startling the other ellon with his outburst.

"You exaggerate, as always," was Maglor's flippant reply.

"Exaggerate!" Elemmírë growled, pointing the sword at his friend's chest. "Maka, this blade was not made for cutting rope or cleaning rabbit." Maglor's expression remained an unflinching mask in the face of his accusation, and a thing occurred to Elemmírë then: so many times these last few years Maglor had excused himself from their music sessions to spend time with his brothers. It had not bothered Elemmírë, for he was glad to see Maglor and his younger siblings getting along so well. He had asked but once what they did with their father on these family afternoons. Maglor had never given him a straight answer. "Is that what you have been doing with your brothers all those long hours – learning to use this, this…?"

"Sword," Maglor cut him off angrily. He had not really expected Elemmírë to understand, but the lecture was too much for his conflicted soul to bear. "And yes, I have learned to use it. And I am skilled, Elemmírë, more talented with this blade than the harp." There was pride in Maglor's voice when he said this – and with good reason. He had never been the best at anything where is brothers were concerned. Not with anything that mattered.

Elemmírë understood what his friend had left unspoken – Fëanor would rather have a warrior than a musician for a son. "A harp is not meant to kill, but this…" Elemmírë tossed the sword back on the bed before turning on Maglor, cutting right to the heart of the matter. "Do you desire Curufin's place so desperately, that you would change who you are to please your father?"

Elemmírë's accusation cut deep. It angered Maglor to have another ellon expose his weaknesses so easily. In that moment something broke within Maglor and a deep pool of rage, long withheld, overflowed. "What would you have me do," he shouted, "betray him, stay in Tirion and compose ballads while my brothers join him at Formenos? I am a Prince of the House of Fëanor. My place is with my family!"

Elemmírë shook his head vehemently. "Is it me you seek to convince with this tirade, or yourself?" He took Maglor by the arm, forcing his friend to face him. "Your father's reason has turned to madness. He drew a blade against his brother, Makalaurë, his brother!"

Maglor wrenched his arm from the other's grasp. "Fingolfin seeks to usurp my father's place," he said, as if this reason justified Fëanor's actions.

Elemmírë stared at Malgor as if he did not know the ellon at all. He could not believe his friend had used that rumor as a defense. "Why do you repeat Melkor's lies? You cannot believe them!"

Maglor, ignoring Elemmírë's words, moved to continue packing, but the other ellon blocked his path.

Frustrated, Maglor growled: "You understand nothing, Elemmírë, now step aside."

Elemmírë refused. He did understand, very well in fact. He knew the truth that drove Maglor to spout such lies and spat it back in his face. "You think you will earn your father's respect, his love with this blind loyalty?" Elemmírë dared his friend to deny it.

"I have his love," Maglor barked back with a conviction he would never feel.

"And if you cast his gift aside," Elemmírë challenged, "would you have it still?"

There was only one answer, and Maglor could not bring himself to utter it. Instead, he took the blade up from where it lay, and knocking Elemmírë out of his path, fled his rooms.

He never said goodbye.


A/N: Thanks go to Wendy for her helpful betaing.