The marble pillars of the king's entrance hall loomed up around them, stretching like the trunks of colossal trees to a high-vaulted ceiling, its opalescent dome narrowing to a single white spire poking from the building's exterior like a needle puncturing the sky. Standing in the midst of the circular room, craning his head back, Amrod stared up at the ceiling, marvelling at the intricate sculpting of the arches, the brilliant hues of the stained glass studded into the roof casting colourful, abstract shapes against the white marble columns. Beside him, Amras also gazed at the ceiling, twisting his neck in annoyance as it was rubbed raw by his starched, itchy collar, the formal court attire ill at ease on him. As he moved his head, the slight shift in perspective sent the room spinning, some trick of depth melting the pillars into one another the further up he looked in a swirl of dizzying vertigo. He shook his head to clear it, a fiery torrent of curls spilling around his face as he glanced around the hall, looking for his father whom he was supposed to meet. At the thought, a faint wave of nausea coiled in his stomach that was not entirely to do with the vertiginous hall.
The outer doors of the room were swung open, the guards shimmering in pale livery, and between them strode his father, a leather-wrapped bundle tucked under one arm, and the look in his eyes was grim. Behind him trailed Maedhros and Maglor, their faces grave, and to his surprise Amras noticed the sheathed longswords buckled over their formal robes, their gold-capped scabbards and jewel-studded pommels shining bright and keen. The doors were swung shut behind them, but Amras caught the glint of concern in the guards' eyes, noted one slipping surreptitiously out of a hidden side-door. For an instant he considered telling someone, but the moment passed, and his father was stalking towards him, with his two elder brothers close behind. He nudged Amrod with his elbow, the fool still staring incredulously up at the ceiling, oblivious to the happenings around him. Amrod swung around, then glimpsed his father, his eyes also lingering in confusion upon the sword clasped at this waist, the bright war-helm upon his head, and the reinforced leather pauldrons buckled over his shoulders.
The two parties met in the centre of the courtroom, with an odd sort of apprehension. Wordlessly, Fëanor appraised his two youngest sons dressed in their finery; blood-red velvet jackets and cream breeches apiece, with heavy chains of gold hung about their shoulders. Truly they were mirrors of each other, from the riotous tumble of their auburn hair, to the expressions of mild bewilderment currently occupying their faces. Swiftly, Fëanor drew two sheathed swords from within the leather-wrapped package, handing one each to his sons, who accepted them in astonishment, their eyes wide. Pale emeralds glittered in their pommels, ephemeral against their dark maroon scabbards and belts. Both twins stood, caught between surprise and awe, drinking in their father's gifts. Amrod grasped the hilt of his sword, with a hiss sliding it a small length from the scabbard, admiring the silver gleam of the steel, the exquisite workmanship of the metal that could only have come from the hand of his father himself. Yet while Amrod fawned over his gift, Amras held it warily. After a moment of deliberation, he looked innocently up at Fëanor, tentatively asking,
"Why are you giving these to us, Father? Do not mistake me, indeed I am grateful. This is a mighty sword…but I do not understand the need…"
Some note of worry in his brother's voice pierced through Amrod's excitement, and slowly reason returned to him; some awareness of what he held, and where he was. He stared hard at the sword in his hands, and frowned, confusion swimming in his azure eyes.
"But father, it is forbidden to go armed before the king," he said, looking sharply at his father. "This is your father's law…"
"Quiet! Both of you!" Fëanor rounded on them swiftly, the vehemence in his voice causing Amras to flinch, little sparks of worry flaring in the pit of his stomach. "Do not contest me in this. I have forged for you these swords, they are…gifts, nothing more. You will bear them, or you will leave my company."
Fëanor glared at them expectantly, and reluctantly both twins fastened the scabbards around their waists, each slide and hitch of the buckle passing over the holes punched through the leather like a noose slipped tighter and tighter around their necks. From beneath the fall of his hair, Amras shot a despairing look at Maglor, standing over his father's shoulder. But almost imperceptibly Maglor shook his head, the tightness of his lips betraying the angry, futile words that had already poured between them, to no avail. Wincing inwardly, Amras chanced a glance at Maedhros, and almost instantly regretted it. Maedhros looked terrible,he thought, his hazel eyes bloodshot, flickering distractedly around the hall, never quite focusing on anything. His cheeks were pale, and there was an unhealthy pallor to him that made Amras nervous; his fist clenched all too tightly around the grip of his sword, a weird jerkiness in his breath; dark smudges like bruises blossoming beneath his eyes. It felt so alien to see his elder brother, usually so vivacious now left so hollow, for reasons unknown to him. But he could hazard a guess, and hit near the mark, watching Maedhros standing there so miserably, as if he wished the ground would swallow him up, that he could just disappear. Amras pushed his suspicions aside, now would not be the place nor time to bring them up, and with a twinge of pity he settled the belt around his waist, the sword snugly balanced across his left hip. He looked up at his father cautiously, not knowing what to expect, but Fëanor smiled at him, and Amrod in turn; a dazzling, wide grin that did not quite touch his eyes, all of its warmth bled into the icy depths of his dark irises.
And Fëanor turned from his sons, pacing before the great carven doors of the throne room, the iron plate of his helmet flashing erratically as he strode between two pillars.
"He'll be here," he muttered to himself, the words like barbs stuck through his throat, "the usurper, Fingolfin. And my pandering fool of a little brother. Oh he's so quiet, so passive, but ever they conspire together. I know it. I can see it in their eyes. It shines there like sin. Under the light of the Valar they plot to overthrow me, and the Valar in their arrogance will do nothing…"
Fëanor's sons clotted together in the middle of the room, flashes of consternation passing between them as they watched their father pace, listened to his voice growing in strength and passion, until suddenly Maedhros lurched forward unsteadily, as if he was drunk, with Maglor stepping worriedly after him, one hand tightly gripping around his arm.
"Father! Do not speak of such things here!"
Maedhros' voice burned, each syllable taught and strained as Fëanor whirled to stare at him. And Maglor could feel his brother's pulse through the fabric of his shirt, beating unnaturally hard beneath his skin, could feel his bicep shaking, although whether from anger or fatigue or genuine illness he did not know. Regardless, he slipped in front of Maedhros, standing between him and their father, one hand still reached behind him to hold Maedhros' arm in whatever pathetic attempt at shielding him he could muster. And with the most level, reasonable voice he could manage, he looked his father in the eye, and said:
"Maedhros is right. This is blasphemy. Father, you cannot presume to know the will of the Valar, not their extent of their influence in these matters. They…"
"Silence!" Fëanor shrieked, stepping menacingly towards his eldest sons, as Maglor in turn tightened his grip upon Maedhros' arm, his knuckles showing white beneath his skin. "Now even my sons take turn to speak against me?!"
Fëanor stalked up to Maglor, a pulsing vein split down the middle of his forehead. His eyes were caustic, sweeping over his sons with a palpable force, and to his horror Maglor felt Maedhros sway behind him, already unwell and now faced with his father's wrath. Praying that he would not faint, Maglor clenched his hand harder around Maedhros' arm, awkwardly helping to hold him steady. A small distance behind them, even the twins were cowed. They stared sullenly at the floor, unwilling to meet their father's eye. Fëanor stopped just short of Maglor, and with a look of disgust and exasperation spoke:
"Can you not see the bars of the cage even when they are pointed out to you, plain before your eyes? Here we are trapped, prisoners in a cell that we chose for ourselves, all of those years ago. Oh, are jailers are kind, they feed us, they pet us; but their food is rotten, their caresses leave blisters. We have served our sentence here; freely we came, and free we should be to depart. But everywhere I turn I am blocked, struggling like a fly caught in a web, trying to break free but only entangling itself further…"
"Father, please!" Maglor's voice echoed around the hall, the pillars refracting the sound into a warped susurrus of pleading half-syllables, sending shivers up his brothers' spines. Fëanor's lip curled, his head cocked dangerously to one side, and with a predatory fluidity he grabbed the lapels of Maglor's tunic, pulling him close, with Maedhros awkwardly dragged forward a step as well, Maglor's hand clamped around his arm, unable now to let go even if he wanted to. Fëanor's blazing eyes bored into Maglor's own, and he tugged Maglor closer, their noses almost touching, a snarl of fury twisted across Fëanor's face only an inch from his son's.
"Well, the webs must be severed!" Fëanor whispered, spitting it into Maglor's face, and with a look of contempt releasing him. After a short pause, he reached up once more, roughly rearranging Maglor's ruffled lapels, smoothing his tunic back down. With some difficulty he bit down his fury, as an attempt at an amicable smile forced its way across his face, and he sighed, before continuing bitterly, "if rebellion is what it takes, then that is what the Valar shall have. I would be free to wander the world without, the world of my birth, taking whomever and whatever I like to be my company. Damn them, if they think to lay claim on me, or anything I have made! For I know that they lust for the Silmarils, I can see it glimmering in their eyes, in every greedy twitch of their fingers. They would take them; they would hoard them for themselves, denying their creator his right. No, I say! I will suffer them no longer! How willingly I would lead our people to freedom, deliver our mighty race from thraldom, if the Noldor would but open their eyes, if they would follow me!"
And with that, Fëanor strode to the throne-room doors, with one shove pushing them open, sending them squealing on their hinges. He paused for an instant on the threshold, a shocked silence blaring from the filled hall before him, before drawing himself up like a lion readying itself to pounce, and marching into the throne room.
In the sudden emptiness of the outer hall, with a start Maglor released Maedhros' arm, his stiff fingers unlocking, guilt flooding through him as he saw Maedhros absently rubbing his arm where his fingertips had bitten. With a quick, despairing look at the twins, he ran towards the throne room, determined to stand witness to his father's actions, whatever they might be. And after one horrible moment of silence he heard three sets of footsteps take off after him, relief rushing through him as together, four sons of Fëanor ran into the throne room of their king.