Finwë, High King of the Noldor sat upon his throne with feline grace, a crown of shimmering strands of wrought silver sat proudly upon his brow. Raised upon a tiered dais, he surveyed the great hall, coolly eyeing the white marble floors melting away into shallow alcoves carved into the pale walls. Intricate sculptures stood in each recess; figures locked in granite combat, delicate frescoes of Elves and the Valar, the two great trees depicted in exquisite silver and flowing gold. At the far end of the hall, before the doors stood two Maiar, servants of Manwë sent as a kingsguard, and as beacons for peace amongst the Noldor. They glimmered in plate and mail armour; their strange, silvery eyes scanning the hall for sign of trouble, but their stance was easy, their swords hung relaxed in their scabbards, seldom put to use in these halls. Before Finwë's feet cut an empty swathe of space, his courtiers gathered in quiet discussion in little clots about the corners of the room. Scholars and tradesmen mingled with the minor nobility, amicably discussing supplies and demand of metal ores, the newest writings from of the wordsmiths, opportunities for commerce with the Telerin cities by the sea, laughing idly over the minor gossips and intrigues of the court. But amid the groups of smiles and banter stood his second son, Fingolfin, alone and grave before him.
Finwë observed him for a moment, hesitating to formally bring the court to order. Fingolfin's manner was tense, his hands clenched around the wide cuffs of his cobalt robes, his fingers digging into their rabbit fur lining. His dark hair was braided in an unusually formal style, a sleek rope of midnight black hair falling to his waist, his eyes a deep, striking blue beneath a plain band of silver resting across his forehead. He stood calmly enough, waiting for his father to announce him, but the hard lines scored around his lips and the stony set of his jaw betrayed a brittleness that left Finwë uneasy. Swiftly, he glanced right, where his grandchildren stood aside from their father. Turgon, casually leaning against a statue with a worryingly roguish air was murmuring something in Aredhel's ear, his eldest granddaughter radiant in a dress of cream, studded with clear crystals like a spray of stars, paling in beauty only in comparison to the mischievous smile curving across her delicate features. But Fingon, the eldest, was mute to their gaiety, biting his thumbnail nervously, his tired eyes skittering about the hall as if he were looking for someone, with a mixture of jittery excitement and dread. But as Aredhel gently touched his arm, no doubt to include him in whatever ribald joke Turgon was so eloquently telling, he flinched visibly, pulling away from her, and staring hard at the floor in terse silence. Finwë's eyes flickered back over the hall, this time noticing with a thrill of surprise his grandson Curufin standing alone, opposite his cousins, leaning against the far wall and seemingly scanning the crowd disinterestedly.
Setting Curufin aside, in a flash Finwë had appraised Fingolfin and his children, and was troubled by what he saw. He noted with some worry the absence of Elenwë and Argon, Fingolfin's wife and youngest son, and inwardly despaired. His son was more like to rashness without her cooling presence, and Argon always was in possession of a level head in times of pressure. Finwë possessed one firebrand in the family already, and had little patience for two. With some apprehension then, Finwë rose, holding up one hand for silence, then pausing a moment for hush to fall, conversations snuffed out like candles as the courtiers awaited their king's word with an easy curiosity. Looking down upon his son, he entreated him come forward with one sweep of his arm, and in a clear, deep voice that reverberated around the room spoke:
"Well, Fingolfin, you have requested for us to meet and take counsel together. Now, my son, tell me, why do you seek audience with me, and in such a formal manner?"
And with that, Finwë sank back onto his throne, his elbows resting upon its arms as with some small twinge of trepidation he awaited his son's reply. Fingolfin's mouth twisted harshly, contorting his usually pleasant features into a scowl, and abruptly he stepped forward, sparks of anger flaring within him.
"Father," he began, his voice dripping with an icy bitterness, "will you not restrain the pride of my brother as it oversteps its bounds? For too truly he was named 'Spirit of Fire'! It burns like a withering flame within him, devouring all in its path!"
The silence in the hall would have proclaimed a dropped needle as deafening. The king and commoners alike stared at Fingolfin in blank shock, his stinging vitriol seemingly unprompted, even as the first mutters of consternations broke through the hall, snatches of dissent rising to Fëanor's defence.
"By what right does he speak for all our people, as if he were King?" Fingolfin continued, his powerful voice silencing the whispers from the audience. "His speeches of rebellion, of defiance of the Valar, this blasphemy echoes through our halls, and we hold him unchecked. You it was who long ago spoke before us, bidding us accept the Valar's invitation to these blessed lands. You it was who led our people along the road through the perils of the wild, to the bliss of our realms. You it was, father, who brought us here, and now Fëanor openly disgraces your actions. I ask of you only this: that if you do not now repent of your choices made so long ago, then you control him, forbid of him these wild and dangerous words. Two sons at least you shall have to honour your will, for Finarfin and I at least remain to you faithful."
This last proclamation rang about the hall, frozen in glassy shock at this torrent of emotion from their prince, usually so calm and thoughtful. Finwë felt the first stirrings of horror rise in his stomach, reaching up with cold tendrils to pluck at his heart, and slowly, amid the gradually rising susurrus of voices from his courtiers, he opened his mouth to reply…
But before a word passed his lips, the great doors swung open, crashing against the inner walls, sending the Maiar guards scrambling out of the way in surprise. And between them strode Fëanor, a mighty sword at his side and a war-helm upon his head, its blood-red plume carving through the silver metal. With a predatory gait he stalked the length of the hall, coldly appraising the assembled elves who melted away before him, clearing a path to where Fingolfin stood firm, regarding him icily as he approached. And a heartbeat later, four of Fëanor's sons sprinted through the doors, skidding to an abrupt halt as the silence of the hall crushed down on them like a tangible weight.
They stood in a ragged group at the far end of the hall, its marble floor sweeping away before them, empty but for the bands of courtiers staring at them in shock. Gathering themselves, they stepped forward, Maglor leading the way, trailed by an exhausted-looking Maedhros, and Amrod and Amras bringing up the rear, sticking tightly to their elder brothers. Their footsteps rang eerily loud amid the silence, the haughty eyes of the court piercing through them, lingering on the bright swords buckled around their waists; a fickle tension crackling in the air. The scant twenty metres they had to cross felt like an eternity, each footstep like moving through treacle, the air made viscous. They approached behind their father, fanning out behind him to appraise their uncle and their cousins warily. And as Maedhros laid eyes upon Fingon, half-hiding behind a statue, he blanched, what little colour was left in his cheeks fleeing, his breath catching in his throat as he swayed unsteadily. Seeing Curufin standing to his right, and with Maedhros on the verge of an embarrassing collapse, Maglor locked one hand about his elder brother's elbow, calmly steering him to the side of the hall behind Curufin, propping him up against a marble sculpture, half-turned towards the wall. Amrod and Amras slid in beside Curufin, creating the slightest of walls between them and the eyes of the court, and quickly Maglor lifted Maedhros' chin, staring him straight in the eye from where he slumped downcast against the statue. And in that instant he knew, all of those secrets and whispers and hints coalesced into cold fact, the pain in Maedhros' hazel eyes, the tremble of his jaw beneath his fingers saying more than words ever could. Maglor winced, now was not the time for his brother to fall apart, and pulling together what resolve he could, Maglor looked at Maedhros sternly, the warning read unspoken across his face.
And faintly Maedhros nodded back, straightening up, and then taking one huge gulp of air walked out to stand behind Curufin, his face haggard but impassive. Maglor followed swiftly after him, his attentions now mostly focused upon his father, who glared darkly at Fingolfin.
"So it is," Fëanor spat, "even as I guessed! My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters!"
And in two vicious, explosive strides he closed the gap between them, pulling his sword free of its scabbard with a hiss, holding it before him in a fighter's stance, his eyes burning as he stared at Fingolfin, a snarl twisted across his face.
"Get thee gone, and take thy due place!"
Suddenly the hall burst into noise, the courtiers crying out in dismay. The two Maiar started forward, pushing through the crowd, even as Turgon lunged forward, unarmed as he was, in some attempt at aiding his father. But he was brought up short, Aredhel grabbing his arm and yanking him back, yelling at him to consider his actions. Opposite, Fëanor's sons looked on in mingled horror, Amrod and Amras' hands creeping uncertainly to the grips of their swords, Curufin reaching slowly backwards for the hilt of a dagger concealed at the small of his back. But amid the general outcry, its perpetrators stood quite still, the point of Fëanor's bright sword hovering inches from Fingolfin's chin, as the brothers stared at each other in mutual loathing. Abruptly Finwë stood, his face hard, and above the noise roared:
"Fëanor! What is the meaning of this?! Restrain yourself! You do not know the consequences your actions wreak!"
A brittle silence fell once more, each pair of eyes in the hall fixed intently on the princes. But Fëanor stood as if frozen, glaring at Fingolfin with such malice that it seemed to pierce right through him, the tip of his sword quivering. Time seemed to congeal, each second stretched into hours, until finally Fingolfin snorted, looking disdainfully at Fëanor. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel, and before the throne bowed stiffly, before hastening from the hall, a deep frown sunk between his brows. And at that Fëanor started, yelling after Fingolfin's retreating back:
"No! Not this time, brother! This slight shall not pass so easily!"
And with a snarl of rage, Fëanor turned, hurrying out of the hall in pursuit of his brother, his sword flashing with each step, the crowd parting before him like a hot knife run through butter. Fëanor's sons glanced at each other, then with an unspoken agreement strode out of the hall to follow their father, Curufin eagerly leading, the dagger now firmly gripped within his fist, while Maedhros and Maglor lingered in the rear. To his concern, Maglor noticed his cousins doing likewise, unobtrusively slipping past the marble statues at the sides of the hall, following their father outside, Turgon and Aredhel leading, while Fingon trailed behind them, desperately trying not to make eye contact with his cousins. Worried, Maglor glanced at Maedhros, but he seemed collected, focusing on their father's retreating form with an inscrutable expression, instead of other, more distracting factors. Internally sighing with some measure of relief, Maglor hurried them from the hall, chasing after their father and uncle through the entrance hall and outside.
As the great hall quickly emptied, the assembly filing out to follow the two princes, Finwë was left alone, and sank slowly back onto his throne, his hand passing over his face in weariness and dismay. He looked upwards to the ceiling as if for supplication, his crown slightly askew on his head where his hand had brushed it.
"Fëanor. Fingolfin," he whispered softly, his brow wrinkled in a confused frown. "My sons…what dark whispers conspire to inflame you so? A stain has been shed on the House of Finwë this evil day, when brother draws sword against brother. Would that I knew aright the cause, then we should settle this foolish feud, stamp out the flames before they kindle to wildfire."
He sighed heavily, sadness welling in his dark eyes.
"My own sons…How have you fallen so low?"
Well done, and thanks to anyone who's gotten this far. Consider this story on a mini-hiatus at the moment, as life and sudden inspiration for another project have steered the wheel away from this one. But fear not, the day shall come again when once more I update this story. And it shall be a day to remember. xx