EMBERS
"How dare he?" Fingolfin growled, stalking around the mahogany table. "How dare he threaten me like that, before the halls of our father, in front of our people?"
His brother Finarfin watched him carefully as he paced, seated at the head of the table beneath a woven tapestry mounted upon the wall; twin serpents with emerald eyes locked in a spiralling embrace upon a star of yellow and cream hovering over his head. His chin rested on his steepled fingers as Fingolfin spoke, his hair falling in long blonde braids about his face, artfully pinned with pearl clasps in the shapes of outstretched wings.
As he paused, Fingolfin looked over at him sharply, as if expecting a reply, but Finarfin was reluctant to be dragged into the turmoil of his elders, and merely shrugged, patiently waiting for the storm of his brother's anger to blow itself out.
"He drew his sword on me!" Fingolfin exclaimed, one hand reaching up to touch the wads of padded bandages wrapped around his upper chest, where the point of Fëanor's sword had cut. "He set it right against my chest. And he would have done it too, had I pushed him further. He would have slain me, his own brother, he would have run me through like a boar sent for slaughter!"
Fingolfin sighed at his brother's muteness, wriggling his shoulders as he paced, and wincing as the wound jostled unpleasantly with the movement. He carefully adjusted the fabric of his robes, the soft folds of indigo falling more easily over his shoulder, before continuing mournfully,
"Well, I thank the Valar that he had an audience. His crimes cannot pass unmarked, and in some part they may have helped to stay his hand."
At that Finarfin nodded sagely. He was all too aware of his eldest brother's temper, and what it took to restrain him.
"But what harm have I done him, Finarfin? Tell me truly, look at me, and if I have hurt him in any way speak it now."
Once more Finarfin shrugged, a small, sympathetic wince curving over his lips as he regarded his brother from across the room.
"Your silence speaks for you. I have done him no wrong. And I will not tolerate this behaviour, nor endure his scorn for these delusional slights."
"What is it that you imply, then?" Finarfin asked, his gentle voice scarcely more than a murmur, yet somehow carrying throughout the wide, airy room. "You cannot take up arms against him. He remains our brother, though you may wish it otherwise; and the laws of our father and the Valar forbid the shedding of blood within this city."
Suddenly Fingolfin whirled, his dark eyes flashing angrily.
"Do not bring Father into this!" he hissed, leaning heavily against the table, his knuckles showing white as his fingers dug into its wood. "For where was Father when Fëanor's sword was at my throat? His heir flouts his laws, openly speaks of rebellion and violence in the streets of Tirion, and yet our king is silent?"
He sighed, looking across at his brother beseechingly.
"I do not wish to speak ill of our father, Finarfin, but his lack of action saddens me. I know well that he loves Fëanor fiercely, and us none the less, but his behaviour cannot be allowed. The memory of his beloved Míriel clouds Father's mind; blinds him to the faults of their son, even though he sullies everything she stood for. Oh, it is impossible!"
He flung himself down into a chair, scraping its legs across the pale marble of the floor. The muscles in his jaw worked as he bit back further, nastier remarks, and he glared down at the dark whorls within the wooden table, as if he could incinerate them with the sheer force of his gaze.
Across from him, Finarfin stirred, brushing his plaits from his shoulders as he leaned forward.
"You act like a pair of squabbling swans," he said wryly, "trying to best one another for dominance, all flashed beaks and ruffled feathers."
"Finarfin," Fingolfin replied silkily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as he strove desperately for patience, "mention swans to me but once more…"
He trailed off, kneading his forehead as Finarfin pouted, crossing his arms in mock irritation across his chest in childlike imitation of a sulk.
"Would you not speak to Father of these things, then?" Finarfin asked gently, regarding the sullen slump of Fingolfin's shoulders, and resolving to use the patience so often required of him when dealing with his own children's squabbles. With some disappointment he bit back down no less than three further swan metaphors that leapt to mind, instead calmly continuing, "Take Father aside, in private, and air your grievances. Then lay the matter to rest."
"And have Fëanor throttle me when he finds out? For find out he would. Finarfin, you don't understand, you weren't there. He would have killed me. He would have shoved his sword through my chest and he would have smiled as he did it. Something burned in him, something I have not seen the like of before. I would not tempt his wrath further. Nor rely on Father's sense of justice when dealing with him."
"Then what is it that you wish to do?" Finarfin prompted.
Fingolfin sighed, his eyes flicking up to meet his brother's, seemingly struggling to find an answer.
"I…I do not know exactly. I had rather hoped that you would advise me on that. They say you are the wisest of us all."
"You flatter me," Finarfin laughed, before sobering quickly, "but to no avail. I do not know any more than you what course you should take."
Both brothers were quiet then, each caught up in his own thoughts, and the silence stretched long between them.
"Have you asked your children?" Finarfin queried at last. "This concerns them as much as you, and they may have insight that you do not."
"I have, but in the end their opinions prove fruitless. Turgon is furious, and wishes me to openly confront Fëanor about his accusations, to convene a court before the Valar and the King. This speaks of wisdom, through I am reluctant to do so. I would prefer that we handle this with delicacy, and not make any more of a spectacle than we already have.
Aredhel has little love for her uncle, but she is concerned less with politics, and is indeed quite fond of her cousins. She urges me to watch, and be careful, as does Argon, and I am inclined to listen. And Fingon…"
Fingolfin trailed off, little glimmers of sadness sparkling in his eyes.
"Ah, Fingon," Finarfin smiled knowingly, and not without pity. "This must be… conflicting for him."
"I know what you imply," Fingolfin rounded on him sharply, and Finarfin recoiled a little, the ease slipping from his face as he stared at his brother warily. "Long have I known about it, what he and his cousin get up to in the silver hours, but I thought it just a phase, a silly time of youth. But now I perceive that it may be more serious. Fingon will barely meet my eye, he scarcely sleeps…Fëanor has banned Maedhros from his company, and the threat of his retribution hangs over them. I see it take its toll, day by day. Nonetheless, I doubt Fingon would wish me to do serious harm to his uncle, if only for Maedhros' sake."
"Ah, conflicting opinions indeed."
"Yes. And I do not know the counsels of my own heart."
"Then let them become apparent," Finarfin urged, a startling intensity crept into his brilliant sky-blue eyes. "Take time. Do not be inactive, merely adopt passivity. If Fëanor should challenge you again then accept it, and may the Valar judge him justly. But do not provoke him. Give him no cause to seek you harm."
Fingolfin pondered his words, one slender finger tapping absently against his chin.
"Mmm, perhaps this would be a wise course. And I shall instruct my children in it also. They shall swallow their feelings where they threaten to be overwhelming, as I have done."
"And what of Fingon? He may not be so easily dissuaded."
"I am his father," Fingolfin said sternly, "and he will obey me in this. It would be best that he separate from Maedhros I am sure, but I know the follies of youth, and the recklessness that comes with desire. I will speak with him, and express my disapproval, but in the end his decisions must be his own. I shall only impress upon him the consequences of his actions, should any further be discovered. Not only for him, but for my nephew."
Finarfin smiled ruefully, before softly replying,
"Perhaps it is the kindest way. I do not envy you, brother. I, for one, intend to stay as aloof as possible from these mattes. I have no desire for confrontation with Fëanor, and in turn he has brought no quarrel to me. I would have it remain so. My family and I shall remain in the city, but we shall openly take no side, if indeed this argument comes to blows. However, I will speak with our father on your behalf, and ask him to take these matters into hand."
Finarfin rose, and Fingolfin also, grasping his brother's proffered hand tightly.
"I wish you good fortune, brother," Finarfin said, "and may we put these ill events behind us. And should you need my advice, I remain always your steadfast friend."
"Thank you," Fingolfin replied simply, yet sincerity ran where words failed him.
Quickly, Fingolfin turned, slipping through the door with a much calmer demeanour than the manner in which he had entered, Finarfin thankfully noted. Left alone in the room, he sighed wistfully, before rousing himself. For a while, at least, he hoped that Fingolfin's anger would subside, and Fëanor would hold himself in check, and that their children would follow their examples. Yet some dark sense of foreboding chimed in him, tendrils of unease twisting in his stomach, but determinedly he brushed them away, striding from the room to the pavilion just outside, and onwards down to his gardens. His shadow stretched long and warped across the soft grass in the wavering light that signalled the beginning of the Mingling, fiery gold rays tangled gently with pallid silver, and he ducked behind a large ornamental hedge, winding his way towards the swan-pond where his great birds dwelt and played. He wandered in ponderous thought down the sculpted pathways, slipping slowly from the iridescent light, and into shadow.