IGNITION

"Brother, stay! I would have words with you!"

Fëanor's voice rang out from beneath the arches of the royal palace, cracking like a whip through the quiet courtyard lain before him. He was flanked by a row of thick pearlescent pillars, a wide flight of marble stairs descending before his feet, upon which Fingolfin was poised, halted in torn mood between leaving and confrontation. Behind Fëanor, through the great doors left flung open by his passage, the courtiers began to trickle out in a wary stream, fanning into a broad semi-circle, every eye fixed upon the two princes. Their children mingled amongst the throng, the company of Fëanorions passing to the right, and Fingolfin's children to the left, elbowing their ways to the forefront of the crowd on opposite sides of the circlet, and looking on in silent horror.

Fëanor's sword was still drawn and it glimmered in Laurelin's golden light, every facet of the brilliant metal set ablaze as he stared down at Fingolfin's back, his dark eyes piercing. His unbound hair rippled out behind him as it was caught in a sudden gust of wind, jet-black tendrils snapping like restless serpents about his shoulders. And below him, Fingolfin was still paused, wrestling between reason and anger until with a sudden jerk he twisted around to face Fëanor. His jaw was set proudly; anger bristled in his stride as he climbed the stairs towards his brother, in a loud, fell voice crying:

"And I would not have words with you! Let me be, Fëanor. Your delusions have damaged us enough, and I would not have us come to blows because you cannot distinguish fact from wild fantasy!"

Fëanor coloured, his neck and cheeks mottled in an unpleasant crimson as he regarded his brother with disgust, his lip curling as Fingolfin advanced towards him. And how insufferable his brother's demeanour; his arms crossed defiantly over his chest in his insolence, an arrogant smirk seeming twisted across his face, as Fëanor shrieked:

"Enough! Ever you seek to undermine me! To usurp my favour with our father, you and Finarfin both, like venomous snakes in the nest!"

"Brother this is untrue," Fingolfin cried, halting scant steps away. A whining, desperate note echoed in his voice as he stared in dismay at Fëanor, imploring him to see reason. "Has hate made you so blind? What actions have I ever taken against you? What hurts have I caused? None!"

And at that, Fëanor scoffed, hatred burning in his eyes as he clenched his fist harder around the grip of his sword, still held outstretched before him. But Fingolfin stepped forward to challenge him, a vicious fury twisted across his usually placid face as crush of emotions rushed up through him, every little sparks of resentment ignited to wildfire by Fëanor's treacherous words. His breath hissed through his teeth as he lunged forward, grabbing the flat of Fëanor's blade and pushing it aside as he leaned in towards his brother, spitting,

"No. It is you who causes hate, causes hurt, sowing this strife within our family. Your words breed poison, twisting your own truths until you come to hate them, and their blackness spills over me and mine. If you seek blame for my so-called betrayal, look within yourself first!"

And for a moment all was still, all was quiet, waiting in awful, tremulous anticipation of what was to come. Then something inside Fëanor seemed to snap with a force that was almost tangible, the air seemed to ruck and shimmer about him for one horrifying second, then in a blur of motion he grabbed Fingolfin with his free hand, a great handful of fur and velvet robes clenched in his fist. With a snarl of rage he whirled, dragging Fingolfin around before slamming him up against a pillar, the back of his head hitting the marble with a percussive 'thunk' that sent a ripple of consternation through the stunned onlookers. Livid, Fëanor wheeled his sword around, its point pressing hard just below Fingolfin's collarbone, gathering the material of his tunic in a rumpled dent beneath its tip. Slowly, a dark stain pooled under the blade, spreading like a gore-streaked rose across the breast of Fingolfin's robes. Fëanor sneered, and he seemed fey, peering at Fingolfin's suddenly pallid face with an alien intensity, his sword-hand shaking even as it pressed the blade harder against Fingolfin's chest.

"See, half-brother," he said, his voice eerily calm, yet each syllable was brittle with strangled restraint, taught and jarring. "This is sharper than your tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid us of one who seeks to be the master of thralls!"

A ripple of dissent spread through the crowd of onlookers at Fëanor's proclamation, angry mutters bursting out amid his supporters and enemies alike. A few elves began to step forward, to intervene, to pull the princes apart, but before they could reach them Fingolfin snorted, all of his derision and hatred thrown into one telling noise. He reached up, smacking Fëanor's sword aside, unflinching even as its tip scored a bloody line across his chest.

He stepped forward a fraction, forcing Fëanor back a step to avoid them colliding, and in that moment the static seemed to snap, Fëanor's sword dropped back to his side, hanging limply in his hand. Fingolfin carefully extricated himself, all the while staring hard at his brother, an indeterminate emotion between fear and hatred and disgust caught across his face. He slipped around Fëanor's unmoving form, glancing at the circle of astonished elves before stalking away, the ring of onlookers melting away before him as he strode towards the staircase, descending without so much as a look backwards, his back held straight and proud.

A moment later his children followed, Turgon storming angrily away as Aredhel frantically whispered something in his ear, her slender fingers clasped tightly around his arm, while Fingon seemed to waver. He fidgeted nervously with the braided ends of his hair, staring hard at the ground, before slowly he followed his brother and sister down the steps, not daring to look back at the crowd, not daring to look back at his cousins, cold waves of nausea spreading from the pit of his stomach.

His brother fled, Fëanor suddenly stirred, like a sleepwalker jolted back to consciousness. Calmly he turned around, sheathing his sword, the tip of his blade shining crimson before it slid into the scabbard with a wet hiss. And even as he moved, the crowd dissipated, the courtiers slipping off in every direction, unwilling to look him in the eye. But his sons remained, warily awaiting their father, staring at him with expressions ranging from horror to mild disappointment. Fëanor looked around at the swiftly retreating backs of the courtiers, his lip curling in disdain, before moving over to join his sons, proudly commanding:

"Come. We must retire. Let those who have heard ponder my words, and may the gods give them the wits to find the truth in them."