Burning my Bridges
Tap. Tap. Tap. Finger tips drummed against the polished table top.
Curufinwë Fëanáro jerked his head away from the sound, annoyance coloring the corners of his mouth. Dark hair streamed down the red of his garments, the gold stitching flashing as it caught the light. One hand gripped tight to the arm of the chair as he reclined, the other tracing a glyph upon one of the many papers scattered upon the table.
The noise ceased and the Valar looked up. Golden irises crackled, dispelling for a split-second the shadows that seemed to linger in that proud face.
"Tell me Lord Melkor, what news has come from the sons of Indis?"
Melkor smiled, leaning forward. Though Fëanáro was tall, compared to that of the valar his figure appeared diminutive. "You would be troubled to hear my news of them."
"Already I know of their insubordination, yet what new devilry would you lay upon them?"
"Ever they speak against you, for I have come to believe it is their dearest wish to replace you in the heart of the king, your father." His voice was rich, winding its way through the air in deep reverberations. It fell down upon the ears like silver. "They will stop at nothing to seize your inheritance."
Fëanáro laughed, filling the room with cold mirth and like that the spell was broken. "They must know that my father shall never turn his back from my cause."
The valar signed, spreading his hands before him on the table's surface. "Perhaps this is so. But you think that will dissuade them? Indeed, I have heard rumors now that they are commanding their smiths to build a great store in weapons. There are whisper that if you do not step aside they shall take your place by force."
"And who has dared to furnish them with weapons?" The words left Fëanáro's lips in a hiss.
Melkor shook his head and the beads of silver braided into his dark hair clinked in hollow music. "This I do not know. But the elder, Nolofinwe has taken up a great sword and named it Ringil. Perhaps you ought to do the same, for what blades would be sharper than those forged by Fëanáro Curufinwë?" He lend forward as if to whisper in Fëanáro's but the elf lent back. "I know some of the forging of weapons, and I am great in the spells of warfare. If you allowed then I might aid you in the creation of such things. With my help your foes would tremble before you."
"Perhaps." The elf's eyebrows had drawn together creating a sharp v where they met. "But I think that the Valar upon _ would intervene in my case. How it look if they allowed the younger to supplant the elder?"
"Ah but you mistake them." The Valar's teeth flashed white silver and his voice was practically a purr, "of all the council I am alone in taking up your cause. Why else would I have traveled here? Nay. The other Valar have greedy in their inactivity. They would turn their gaze to you and your own. Your greatest creations they would covet."
Fëanáro barred his teeth. "The silmarills are the work of my heart and I shall bear none to lay a hand upon them."
"Yet they are not safe here."
His eyes narrowed as he beheld the Valar, dark lashes framing an icy gaze. "And what would you have me do My Lord?"
Melkor's tone was all placation, "If you were to but put them in a safe vault, or give them unto the keeping of one whom you could trust—"
Fëanáro stoop sharply, his chair screeching backwards upon stone of the floor. "You offer me good council Lord Melkor, for hidden deep and dark behind iron bars the silmarills shall remain. But how can I know that what you tell me is true? Ever you seek to learn my secrets, to appraise the work of my hands. And though you bring tidings of the sons of Indis how can I know they are not the ones who have you favor. Did Nolofinwë send you hence?!"
The valar stood as well, his height casting long shadows across the table and floor beyond. "If you seek spies of Nolofinwë then I would look to those under your own roof, and not to those who offer only advice and help." Dark power crackled in his voice, though his expression remained impassive.
Fëanáro pressed the tips of his fingers together, the edge of his robes trailing along the floor as he paced. Crossing the distance in a handful of great strides Melkor laid a hand upon the shoulder of the elf.
"Have I not been a faithful friend to you and your house?"
"Yet is friendship not most often a mask with which to conceal one's own ambitions. Tell me oh Lord of Darkness what do you expect to gain from me?" His gaze was piercing a challenge to the gold rimmed gaze of the valar who towered above him.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
Fëanáro twisted, shaking the valar's hand from him. "Enter."
Silently the door swung inward, Curufinwë Atarinke stepped forward. In red like his father, his dark lay in a plat down his back, and the smudge of ash upon his hands bespoke of his toils in forge. He bowed slightly to the valar, then turned away.
"Father, if I might I have matters I wish to discuss with you."
Fëanáro jerked his chin in assent, then turned to his guest. His voice was cool, collected, and spoke nothing of his emotions. "You have brought me valuable tidings my lord, and for that I thank you. But now I must speak with my son and it would please me that you leave this house."
Melkor tilted his head, "As you wish Feanaro Curufinwë. But do not forget my council, for the sons of Indis will give you no reprieve."
In the doorway Feanaro watched the valar retreat. His dark cloak followed his footfalls down the corridor, as if he drew the shadows along behind him. Slipping the ring from his finger—the valar's gift from so many moons ago—he cast it down upon the floor. There it fell, tinkling.
.0.
In the half-light the iron glowed cherry red, flickering flames dancing down its length. With a flick of the wrist Fëanáro plunged the blade into a barrel of brine water. Steam hissed, curling off the water's surface in great billowing plumes. Shadows danced along the walls, springing out from the many nooks and crannies of the workshop.
"An interesting blade."
Deftly he hefted the blade, pressing the now cool metal against the palm of his hand. "It is my new design."
Nerdanel stepped forward. Her copper hair—so like in tone to that of their oldest and youngest sons—lay in a heavy plat over her shoulder. In the light of the forge it shone as if it were the brightest fire. There was stone dust upon the front of her leather smock. She had yet to change from the rough cotton garb she wore when she worked the vast blocks of marble and alabaster.
"So this is what you have been crafting these last few months? All those hours of secrecy." The corners of her mouth pinched downwards.
"Secret, yes." He pulled the leather thong from his hair so that it fell in shadows about his shoulders. Deftly he lifted it, tying it up once more. "You think the Valar would permit me to forge such things? Nay, they are fools. Nor can I permit the dark one to see my craft." Light crackled in his eyes. "Ever he comes round, sniffing for my secrets. It is so that I almost wonder if he has been sent by Nolofinwe."
Nerdanel pressed her lips together but said nothing. The set of her husband's shoulders, the maniac gleam in his face, they told her now was not the time to intervene. It was no use to point out that the Lord Melkor was no better received at the court of his brother's than in their own home. Later, much later she would lay these things upon his mind. Then he might grow quiet and some of her own wisdom could be imparted carefully, and the quarrel with his half-brothers would be forgotten. At least for a time.
"But come," He beckoned, "come look upon it."
She stepped forward and allowed him to lay it in her hands. Light from the forge flickered greedily in the metal. "What are you going to call it?" Her father had once told her that all good weapons had names, be they sword, spear or bow.
"Alcaril." A smile tugged the corners of his mouth upwards. "Fitting isn't it? For the blade of the spirit of fire?"
"Alcaril." Shivers raced the length of her spine as she tasted the word upon her lips. Bright Blade. It was indeed fitting. Something in Fëanáro's gaze was mirrored in his blade, a hunger, a desire perhaps. She had no words for it.
He took it back, cradling it in his arms as gently as he had ever cradled their sons. Carefully he lay it upon the low table where lay his wet stones, and set to shaping the edge of the blade. His dark brows drew together in concentration
"Yet all this, for one blade?" It seemed inconceivable that so much secrecy, so much watchfulness would go into the crafting of such a thing.
He glanced up. "Nay, not just one blade. For Alcaril shall be the first of eight. And there is more besides." He waved a hand to a rack that lay half hidden at the rear of the workshop. It was a grandiose gesture, drawing her gaze and fixing it upon the object of his intentions.
Nerdanel's hazel eyes glinted, gold flecks emerging in the firelight. Gingerly she picked her way about the racks and shelves of his most secretive inventions. She stopped before a rack of embossed silver plates. A finger reached out, tracing the swirls and eddies in the metal. Upon the top of the rack lay seven helms, four of which were affixed with great scarlet plums, and three more that were wholly unadorned—not yet complete.
Feanaro watched the tremble of his wife's hands as she lifted one. He watched the set of the shoulders as she examined the craftsmanship, the silver star set into the metal so that no one would forget the loyalty of he who bore it. The metal was light, yet strong enough to deflect a blow, be it from blade or body. The tip of one finger tapped against its surface. He waited, Alcaril still hefted in hand, so see the merest flicker of reaction cross her face. None came. Her face remained emotionless, eyes blank.
"Are you pleased?"
She turned and the helm fell from numb fingers, wringing hollow against the floor. "What have you done?"
His brows knit together"Of what do you speak? I have only don't what any father would, protected my sons."
"Protecting them? No my love this has gone beyond reason." The hazel of her eyes burned as if light with an inner fire and all around the forge the shadows seemed to flee back from her form.
"When war comes you shall be glad I took these precautions." Hard veins stood out like chords in his neck.
"You speak of war but it is a war of your own making. What lies have you heard that you think it will come to war between you and your brothers?" At the word brother his gaze sharpened, hands balling into fists, though he made no move otherwise. "And now you would drag your sons into it? Put swords in their hands despite the fact they are little more than children?" She reached out to him, resting one hand upon the tenseness of his shoulder, but Fëanáro shook it off.
"They are not children anymore Nerdanel! It is time they picked a side!"
"Are they not? What of Atarinke?! Ambarussa?! They are too young to have your fanaticism forced upon them!"
"Fantaticism?! You dare call it that when Nolofinwë seeks to steal my birthright and that of our sons as well?" Light burned in his eyes with such an intensity that Nerdanel found it hard to meet his gaze. "Our sons are old enough to understand that! They are children no longer. Even Pityafinwë and Telufinwë will reach their majority soon enough. And as for Curufinwë, already he asked my permission to wed and begin a family of his own. You can hardly think of him as a child!"
"They will always be my children." The words rushed out of her like the air being crushed out of a set of bellows. She stood, limp and deflated, all the blood rushing from her face. The air went in and out of her lungs in little huffs. How long had it been since she's spoken to all seven of her sons? How was it that little Atarinke, so alike to his father, was already set to start a family without her even knowing?
In her mind she still remembered each of them as they had laid squalling against her breast, in the noontime of her life when all was fair and bright. The memories were as sharp as if they had occurred in yesteryear: Ambarussa's identical set of identical smiles, Carnistir's scrunched red face as he howled at the world, Makalaure's lusty squall, and even Maitimo's inquisitive eyes.
The thought of it made her heart ache, "And what of Maitimo, husband? For he and Findekano are close as if they were brothers. And Tyelko who hunts so often with Irissë? You would sunder those friendships?"
Fëanáro jerked his head, sharp and dismissive. "If need be. We cannot have traitors and usurpers under our roof. I will not, cannot allow it."
She shook her head, and to Feanaro it was as if her face became stone. As if she had become one of her own statues. "Husband I fear you have gone mad." The soles of her feet slapped against the stones.
He turned away, honing the blade of Alacril upon the wet stone. Greedily did the steal devour his attentions so that when he was done it might cut through armor, mail and bone. The light of the unattended forge grew dim. Fëanáro cast a glance over his shoulder to the place where his wife had stood, as if maybe she stood there still.
.0.
The hallways were quiet, Telperion's light casting odd shadows across the walls and tapestries. Findekano drew the soft folds of his cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was still summer, yet there was a definitive chill in the air, a breeze born up from the sea that signaled cooler nights to come.
Click. Click. His footfalls echoed on the marble floors. He winced as the silence magnified them a hundred fold.
I might as well have donned my feet in iron. I should wear my hunting boots next time. They had soft padded soles that dampened footfalls, better to sneak up on prey. And better to sneak about the house of one's uncle and cousins.
Quietly as he might, he pried open the door that led to the entry hall, and to the gardens beyond. He slipped through, drawing up the hood of his cloak.
"Findekano." A voice hissed through the darkness and a candle sputtered to life. Every nerve in his body tensed, head swiveling to find the location of the speaker.
"Uncle." Findekano dipped his head.
Fëanáro's eyes gleamed like steal out of the shadows, the candle light making them glow hard and angry. "Findekano," He repeated, "I had not thought to see you here, at this hour."
"My apologies uncle." In the beam of Fëanáro's gaze he felt himself frozen, like a bird that is being stalked by a cat. "I came to visit Maitimo."
"Indeed, you have been visiting my son a great deal lately."
Findekano tried to smile but something about the motion seemed wrong, as if his face had forgotten how. "Of course uncle, Maitimo and I…we are the very best of friends."
Fëanáro's eyes narrowed. "And I wonder, what it is you two speak of, cloistered in his rooms at all hours of the night and day."
He knows… Findekano tried to hide the panic from his face. "We only—"
"What secrets has Nelyo told you?!" His voice rang harsh and cold, sending echoes around the chamber.
"Secrets, uncle?"
"Do not lie to me Findekano son of Nolofinwe, I know why your father has sent you here. You come to spy on me and my own. Do you deny it?"
Relief flooded him, despite the severity of the accusation. Fëanáro knew nothing.
He bowed his head. "No uncle I swear, Maitimo and I speak only of the comings and goings of court, of hunting, things of little importance."
"Just as I would expect your father to say. All the Nolofinwions are liars."
"That is not so Uncle."
Fëanáro shook his head in one swift movement and spoke with a voice cut from ice. "I will not see you in my house again son of Nolofinwe, nor will I see you speaking to my son. Are we clear?"
A lump rose in Findekano's throat. "Yes Uncle."
"Half Uncle."
"Yes Feanaro."
His grey eyes glittered, the candle light painting them with chips of gold. "Now get out of my house."
Findekano had no choice but to draw up his cloak and flee, the eyes of Fëanáro burning into his back like coals. Only once he had reached the shelter of the garden did he dare stop, leaning up against the trunk of an aged willow. His heart thudded in his chest. Through the gaps in the branches he watched as Varda's stars paled, faint streams of golden light beginning to intersperse themselves through the air. They seemed to swim before him as salt stung his eyes.
Why did everything have to end up so damned complicated?
Feanor really should take a chill pill...anyways I hope this chapter was enjoyable. I delayed posting it because I wasn't quite satisfied with it (I'm still not, but slightly more so than I was). In any case the next chapter will probably revert to being more Maedhros/fingon-centric but I felt the need to explore what else was going on with some of the other members of the family. Until next time!