XXV.
The news rang far and wide.
What Kanafinwë had usurped, what he had retained and not returned, he had to surrender.
He is king no longer.
But of course; this elf who had traded family loyalty for comparative safety would readily sell the birthright of his House for relative peace
His birthright.
Play the ruler in my stead and step down the moment uncle glares in your direction, lest you overexert yourself in the attempt to reconcile the Noldor, how very convenient for you, little Kano.
If it was with satisfaction or anger he thought thus, he could not tell.
XXVI.
The sons of Fëanor (five, only five now) watched Fingolfin, the crown firmly on his temples, watched him address the crowd, tall and proud and victorious in his royal glory, triumphant, hopeful, adored.
They had knelt, they had sworn, and there was not one among them who had not thought, if only for the briefest moment, it was not meant to be this way.
Maglor had said it was necessary, and perhaps it had been.
He had said the alternatives were all worse, and perhaps they were.
He had not said how sorely wrong it would feel, but it did.
XXVII.
'We wish to make it known to all that we do not consider the erstwhile heir, Nelyafinwë son of Fëanáro, to be our kin after his most shocking betrayal, and indeed we ecognize no rights or claims regarding his former position-'
Maglor closed his eyes.
'What were you expecting?' Curufin hissed next to him. 'If he recognized Nelyo's rights, this entire affair would be invalid from the start, and if you had-'
'-and we oblige any and all to spare neither hesitation nor mercy-'
'Good luck,' muttered Celegorm.
It was obvious, yes.
Maglor simply did not want to hear it.
XXVIII.
It was a delicate subject, that of their eldest brother, and seldom touched upon, by an unspoken agreement born of shared sorrow and shame.
It was a wound wide open, still bleeding, despite the efforts to sear it close.
And even though the brothers were all too aware of the political implications, instinctively they felt the cut close to heart, most of all, deeply personal.
It was foolish, of course; and yet to hear it spoken of so openly, to hear their fallen brother publicly denounced – it was an intrusion. A humiliation.
Or, more accurately, yet another, even further humiliation.
XXIX.
'I have been watching you.'
He turned, alerted, but careful to keep his expression studiously indifferent; it was unwise to disclose anything in Angband (as he had learnt, amidst much pain-)
Mairon. Lord of Wolves.
'Our pet lflings. It is rather amusing, the way you think you are so clever. So important, too.'
Silence.
It was unwise to take the bait (he had learnt that, as well).
The Maia moved closer, regarding him lazily.
'Your show of abandoning that elf was pleasant to watch, I admit, and yet…'
He leaned in.
'You glance in their direction just slightly too often.'
XXX.
The jewels burnt.
Brightly. Painfully. Sweetly. Unbearably.
Blessed so no evil could lay hands on them without hurt, the Silmarilli were; Melkor himself they burnt, and their light pained creatures who chose to dwell in darkness.
And him.
They were his.
He did not need to see them to be aware of them, always, always blazing in his mind, so close, so close and yet unreachable (for now).
Upon Melkor's brow.
It was inseparable, it seemed: the one who wielded the Silmarilli, be they creator or thief, held the end of his leash, be it of love or of destruction.