Author's Notes:  Woo hoo!  The muse lives!  However, I fear this will be the last update until sometime in June, as the dread final exams are upon me at Georgetown.  After that, I'll be moving back to Florida for the summer, and then taking part in the write-on competition for a spot on one of the school law journals, so I'll be a bit busy for about the next six weeks.  I hope you all enjoy this chapter, fraught as it is with real Silmarillion history.  Thankee muchly as always for all the kind reviews, and much praise and worship as always to JastaElf, my esteemed beta reader.

Chapter Five:  Swan Out of Water

"Artanis!" The daughter of Finarfin had scarcely passed through the gates of Valmar when she was set upon by her cousin Aredhel.  "When did you get here?"

"Just now, as you see," said Artanis in bemusement, not desiring to speak of all that had passed in Alqualondë with Celeborn.  But something she could see was troubling her cousin.  "What ails you, Kinswoman?"

Aredhel gave a little jerk of her head, and Artanis followed her into Tirion.  The two maidens came within sight of the first dwellings, and it was not long before Artanis saw all too clearly what was troubling her uncle's daughter.  "What by the blessed Valar are they doing?"

It seemed to Artanis that more than half of the elves milling about the markets upon the street were armed with swords, axes, or spears.  Girded with great decoration, the weapons were upon the belts of many elves and shields marked with the tokens of Fëanor.  It looked as though a great battle were about to spring forth amid the golden streets of Valmar right then and there.  She looked again to Aredhel for an explanation.  "Melkor," her cousin whispered.

Anger and alarm burst forth in Artanis's belly like a cold heat, as though one of the newly-christened warriors before her had thrust his cold metal weapon into her flesh.  She had long thought Fëanor to be a troublemaker, but if Melkor was involved…she shivered.  "Have the Valar done nothing to stop this?"

Aredhel shook her head.  "My father says it is not certain, but there are those among us who think the whisperings must be due to him.  There is great unrest between my father and Fëanor—he blames Fëanor solely, I think, but my brothers and I wonder if even Fëanor could cause this much trouble on his own.  See?" she nodded toward the armed elves.  "The shields with the marks of the houses.  Until now, Fëanor has ranted only against the Valar and thralldom, but now it seems he wishes to drive the sons of Indis forth from Túna—aye, Cousin, your father too."

Watching the elves before her in the great square beneath the Mindon, where stood the house of Artanis and Aredhel's grandfather the King, Artanis felt a great desire to rent her hair and scream.  She had left Alqualondë and come back here to Tirion in search of peace, only to find this.  It was as Aredhel said.  The sons of Fingolfin and Fëanor and all their followers and family moved about the square like warriors for opposing armies, and what a wretched sight it was!  There was no longer peace to be had in Valinor.

She turned in disgust from the posturing display and asked, "What of my father?  What says he to all this?"

Aredhel shrugged.  "I know that he is the one who first suggested Melkor had something to do with it, for Melkor has spent a good deal of time mooning about Fëanor.  We thought it was merely the Silmarils, but Finarfin says if it is so, then he is stirring us up in the hopes of getting at them.  I do not know."

"My father is a perceptive elf," murmured Artanis as they moved further into the square, but then were forced to fall silent for fear that the followers of Fëanor or one of the others would hear and mistake their conversation for some conspiracy.

"Look, Brother, the White Lady has gone on a hunt and captured Laurelin herself!" cried a voice behind them.  The maidens turned and beheld the red-headed twins, Amrod and Amras, Fëanor's youngest and most affable, aside from Maglor.  So it did not disgruntle Artanis, nor Aredhel, to greet the two and be kissed and embraced.  Amrod, distinguishable from his younger twin only by half an inch of height, tweaked a lock of Artanis' hair.  "When did you arrive in Tirion, little Cousin?"

"Just now," said Artanis.  She looked around them.  "It…has changed a bit."

"Aye, well, my father says the change is long overdue," said Amrod, but before Artanis could ruffle or demand an explanation, a murmur went through the elves in the square.  "The King is to summon all his lords to council soon, it is said.  Know you anything of this, Artanis?"

"Nay, Cousin, recall that I have just arrived.  I have seen naught of…anyone save you and Aredhel," said Artanis, not wishing to mention her father or brothers amid this crowd of Fëanorians.  "And for that matter, I must go to greet them.  I bear them tidings from my mother and Lord Olwë."

"Ho, Artanis, how did you like the storm?  It came halfway to the mountain before dispersing!" One Fëanorian voice that unfailingly brought pleasure rather than perturbation reached her ears, and the others moved aside for Maglor. 

"When did you get here?" demanded Aredhel as Maglor moved from kissing Artanis and mussing her hair.

"That is all anyone ever asks these days," said Maglor with an air of great suffering.  "I left as soon as the storm ended—though I would have delayed had I been told that you and that Telerin prince of yours had managed to get yourself lost on the Bay, Cousin mine!" he added, causing all eyes to fall on Artanis.

She moved as if to address them all and stepped deliberately on Maglor's foot.  "The water was rather rough, and we were forced to land on one of the beaches and wait until the storm cleared before returning home.  I would rather have watched it from indoors.  It was very wet.  I cannot think why you find it so exciting."

"Have you gone faint-hearted on me?" Maglor demanded, but a hush fell over the elves in the square that forestalled the kick Artanis had been about to bestow upon his shin.

It was Fëanor, with his wife's father Mahtan on his heels, coming out of one of the houses and arguing loudly.  They broke off before Artanis could make out what they were saying through the crowd's murmurs, and then the presence of a Vala brought a chill up her spine.  The additional twist of apprehension inside told her that it could only be Melkor.  Artanis had always disliked that Vala, and from what Aredhel had said about Finarfin…aye, her father was a perceptive elf.  More than most gave him credit for.  She glanced at her Cousin and saw an unspoken agreement, and so as the elf and Vala in all Valinor that Artanis wished to see the least came closer, she and Aredhel slipped away from Fëanor's sons and into Finwë's house.

They would have liked to slip away from the square dwellings altogether, and make for either Fingolin or Finarfin's dwelling, but the servants discovered them and insisted naturally that they make their duty to the King.  "Artanis!  Aredhel, my girls!  Come here at once and give a proper greeting to your grandfather.  Blessed Valar, it seems ages since I have seen you, Artanis.  I thought we had lost you to the Teleri for good, chasing them about in their boats."

It was said of Finwë that he had always wanted a daughter, but as fortune and his two wives had granted him three sons and a great collection of grandsons, he prized both of his granddaughters as if they were two of his very own trees of Valinor—and doted on them just the same as he had before they learnt to walk!  "Hail and well met, King and Grandfather," said Artanis properly as the noble elf kissed her smackingly on forehead and both cheeks.  "I bring also greetings from my mother and Lord Olwë—"

"And how are the swan elves of Alqualondë?" demanded Finwë.

"Er, well, my lord.  There was a strong storm early today, but none were harmed, though a few small boats were destroyed."

"Hmm.  I am sorry to hear that," said her grandfather, and let her off his lap.  She hastily returned to Aredhel, who was trying to stifle her giggles.  "But you enjoyed your time in their care, did you not, little one?"

"I did, my lord.  I learnt a great deal."

"Good, good."  The High King of the Noldor scowled abruptly, and both maidens were startled.  "I am glad at least a few of my children's children are contenting themselves.  The rest seemed determined to squabble."

Artanis frowned, "What is amiss, my lord?  I have seen the armor upon our kin since returning, but I know not what is the cause."

Finwë sighed and shook his head, looking weary.  "Boys, child.  I think this is the reason I longed for more girls among my children."  He eyed them and smiled.  "You two would have the sense not to make such unrest.  Your uncle Fëanor is ever ranting and raving of 'delivering us from thralldom,' your father, Aredhel, is convinced his elder brother is trying to drive him into exile, and your father, Artanis, insists that Melkor is making sport with all of us.  Madness, all of it."

"Madness, aye, my lord, but it will not vanish for ignoring it," said Artanis bluntly.  Aredhel gaped at her, but Finwë smiled.

"Still the forthright one, I see, Nerwen.  Fear not, child, I shall not bury my head in the sand.  I have summoned all my lords to council on the morrow.  And no Valar present—or at least not Melkor, for Finarfin's sake.  In any case, I shall sit all three of my sons down and demand that they play nicely together or be sent from the sandbox.  There, will that do?"

How she hated it when he patronized her!  But Aredhel merely laughed and bowed.  "Aye, my lord.  Come, Cousin, let us away!"

Slipping discreetly out the back door of the King's house to avoid lurking Fëanorians or unwanted Valar, they went toward the houses of the sons of Indis.  "How do you stand it when he does that?" demanded Artanis, still rankled.

"You shall accomplish nothing by confronting the King, Artanis.  Finwë views you and I and Idril as eternal toddlers.  Besides, he adores Fëanor too much to hear any ill word against him.  Nay, an end to this madness will not come from him.  We would do better to speak to our brothers and cousins and bid them calm their fathers.  Even the sons of Fëanor may be of use in that respect."

"Fah!  They're all like him."

"Do not speak so, you know it is not true!" scolded Aredhel.  "Amrod and Amras are dear boys, and fine friends to me.  I hunt with them often, and you have spent much of your time in Alqualondë in Maglor's company.  Even Maedhros is not so bad."

"Him!  That one takes directly after his father!"

"Not so!  He is merely—"

"And whose father are we insulting today, my dear nieces?"

Of all the elves neither maiden wished to encounter, it was the one who topped the list.  Fëanor seemed as a cat who had discovered two mice attempting to sneak from his sight.  "My lord," said Artanis sulkily, giving him a bare bow.

"Welcome home, Nerwen, if this pretty cage may be called that," said her uncle.  "Now then, whose father were you ranting about today?  Or was it the son?"

"It is Turgon," said Aredhel quickly.  "Artanis is out of sorts because he still refuses to spar with her."

"Indeed?  Shame on him," said Fëanor.  "Come then, niece, I shall claim the honor."

Artanis faltered, glancing at Aredhel for assistance.  "I…honor?"

"Aye, to spar with you.  Come, come, you shall find me a finer opponent than your silly cousin."  Seizing her playfully by the arm, Fëanor propelled Artanis back to the square with Aredhel trailing helplessly behind.  "Sparring daggers, my sons!  I am challenged by this fair warrioress to a match!"

For what it was worth, Artanis felt the atmosphere of the market squares lighten considerably as Fëanor and Fingolfin's sons alike came laughing to watch.  Perhaps then it was worth a bout with Fëanor.  "I have my own dagger, Uncle," she did tell him curtly when he would have handed her one of the pair produced by Maedhros.

"As you will, Nerwen.  Ready, then?"  They took their positions in the circle that had hastily been made as elves pressed in to watch.  "Defend yourself!"

Aredhel had the premiere reputation in Valinor as the best of the maidens at fighting and hunting, but Artanis was not unskilled herself.  She blotted out the excited voices of the watchers from her mind, keeping her eyes on Fëanor's chest as she moved in a slow curve, opposite to his steps, then dodged out of the way of his opening swipes.  Fëanor was quick, but naught that she could not handle, and the watchers cried their approval as she and her uncle darted about each other.  It soon became clear to her that he was failing to press his attack—ergo, he was holding back.  In a rush of indignation, when she ducked under his next swing, she launched an attack of her own, in a great salvo of blows combined with kicks of her feet, hoping to startle him.

Blood pulsed through her veins, throbbing in her ears, and her breath quickened.  At least her uncle rose to the occasion, and finally ceased his insufferable finesse—he came back so hard that she was hastily backing up to avoid his dagger.  But it only drove her to greater concentration, and so they whirled about the sand of the sparring ground in a wild dance, neither giving nor sustaining a hit.

"Artanis!"

Startled, Artanis jerked back, retreating from Fëanor's blade and pointing her dagger upwards to stop the match.  Fëanor too straightened, casually blotting the sweat from his face.  "Bless me, Finarfin, must you demand your daughter's attention right when our spar is getting interesting?"

"I would prefer such cavorting with daggers remain as uninteresting as possible, Brother," said Finarfin, striding toward them.  "It is unsafe."

"Father…" Artanis groaned in disgust.  For all he wanted her to dance attendance on Fëanor, Finarfin seemed not to approve of the scene before him, either out of disdain for the sport or her partner.  Both possibilities were irritating.

But Fëanor was laughing.  "Fear not, Brother mine, she'll come to no harm."  He tossed his dagger at Finarfin so that it landed in his brother's hand blade first.  Several elves yelped, and Artanis stifled a shout of protest as Finarfin flinched.  Fëanor's smile remained.  "See for yourself.  The blade is so dull I would be hard-pressed to cut a strand of Nerwen's hair with it, should I breach her formidable defenses."  Then his gaze returned to Artanis, with a sly look that made her bristle at once.  "And it is well, lest I be tempted to do so."

Finarfin grudgingly handed back the dagger, but even indignation at Fëanor's harping on her hair had not ended Artanis' desire to finish the match, if only to prove to her father that she was not made of fine porcelain.  Before Finarfin could address her, she asked briskly, "Shall we continue?"

"At your command, my fair niece!" Fëanor resumed his position.

Artanis returned to her fighting stance, deliberately ignoring her father.  "Fight!"

Fëanor lashed at her at once, but she was ready for him, and kept her footing while dipping her upper body neatly beneath his swing.  As she had hoped, he pressed forward, hoping to drive her off balance, and this time she dipped beneath his arm, with only two swift steps, she came up behind him.  For all his fighting skill, even Fëanor was not quick enough to compensate, and as he came back around to face her, she swiped her own dagger—not the least bit dull—at his arm, cutting cleanly through his sleeve.

"Ai!" Fëanor recoiled as the watching elves exclaimed in shock, but Artanis' gleeful pride in the hit was short-lived.  In fact, it fled altogether when her uncle raised his arm to reveal not only that his jerkin and tunic sleeve had been sliced through, as she'd intended, but blood beginning to drip from where her blade had struck his skin.

"She cut him!" exclaimed several voices at once, and elves closed in all around, peering at the wound.  Though Fëanor was a regular amongst the elves who sparred and wrestled in the square for amusement, he was seldom beaten or even struck.

Artanis hastily backed up, painfully aware of the presences of all seven of Fëanor's sons, her father, and other kin.  "I…I…"  she truly had not meant to wound him, merely his raiment.

Maedhros was inspecting Fëanor's arm.  "You shall need that dressed, Father."

Inevitably, eyes turned to Artanis, and she dared not look at her father.  "Forgive me," she murmured.

Then Fëanor startled all of them with a great roar of laughter.  "Ai, my feisty little niece, it is I who was so sloppy as to suffer this hit.  But perhaps we should have seen to it that you too wielded a dull blade, eh?  Calm yourself, Finarfin, the fault is mine; I goaded the girl into this match."

"All the same, you have suffered a needless wound," came Finarfin's voice from behind Artanis, and she cringed involuntarily.  His wrath at this would daunt even her.

But to her astonishment, Fëanor came to her rescue.  "Then let me beg the remedy, as it is I who have been so grievously lacerated."  His humor at the whole thing seemed to lighten the air.  "Let Nerwen come and aid me in dressing this small cut, and I shall not bring the vengeance of my sons upon the house of Finarfin.  Will that suffice?"  Without waiting for Finarfin's approval, he laughingly linked his arm with Artanis' and led her through the crowd of elves.

To Artanis' immense relief, the mood among her peers was now one of merriment, and a good deal of laughter echoed after them as they left the square.  Fëanor's sons followed, and Maglor all at once sprang from the group and seized her.  "My father may be inclined to lenience, daughter of Finarfin, but I demand retribution for his wound!  You are now a prisoner!"  Then Artanis had little time to do more than shriek in protest as he hauled her up over his shoulder like a sack of meal. 

Elves laughed from all sides as Artanis was carried, shrieking and struggling and laughing, down the street.  "Put me down!" she screamed, but playfully, and Maglor only jostled her more as he bore her to his father's house and through the door.

Fëanor and the others caught up with them just within the threshold.  "Very well, very well, about your business, all of you—by the Valar, Maglor, kindly unhand your cousin so she may bathe this wound that she herself inflicted."

Grumbling loudly in protest, Maglor released Artanis.  "Fine, Cousin, my father has come to your rescue this time, but mark me, you shall face retribution ere you depart this house!"

"Hah!  I defy thee, son of Fëanor, thy threats hold no fear for me!" she sprang away from him, brandishing her fists.  "Get thee gone, and know that I shall give no quarter if you touch me again!"

"Ooooooh!" cried Maglor's brothers, as he shouted in mock-outrage and lunged at her, drawing his dagger.

Fëanor was laughing so hard he could barely stand straight.  "Have done, the both of you!  Put that knife away, Maglor, lest Finarfin's fears be realized.  I should not like to explain to him how after all my reassurances, his daughter suffered a wound in my house.  Now do as the lady bids and get thee gone!"

This time the group obeyed, and Fëanor laughingly led Artanis to the bathing rooms, where the healers' supplies were kept.  She sighed inwardly, wishing Maglor and the others had not gone, for she was far more at ease with them than she would ever be with their father.  Fëanor seemed to sense her disquiet and smiled winningly at her.  She murmured politely, "I do apologize for your injury, Uncle.  I let my zeal in the spar overcome my caution."

"Fah, you need not be uneasy, dear one, I have endured worse than this at the hands of your cousins."  Artanis moved to the rolls of bandages and ointment as Fëanor slipped out of his jerkin and tunic.  With impersonal hands, she bathed and dressed the slice in his arm.  "If anything, I may lament more the loss of my garments," said Fëanor cheerfully as she worked.

"I shall see them replaced," Artanis replied, securing the dressing.  "Does that satisfy, my lord?"

"So formal, Nerwen," he tutted, and flexed the muscles of his arm.  "Aye, you have done well indeed."  Artanis shifted, intending to make her escape, but he held out a hand to her.  "You have not visited our workshop in some years now, have you?  Would you care to see some of our more recent crafts?"

"Ah…I would be delighted," she said, for there was no other real courteous reply.  Not that she ever objected to the sight of beautiful gems, it was merely as always that Fëanor made her uneasy.

He led her down a flight of steps through the foundations of the house into a section of rooms with great, heavy doors that had no windows.  Surely to work so far beneath the earth must be oppressive!  As though sensing her discomfort, Fëanor smiled, "It is best when working with the things of the earth to use little natural light."

"Oh."

Fëanor stopped at a door of carved stone and rested his hand against it, murmuring a word too softly for Artanis to hear.  Instantly, there was a hollow click, and the door swung open.  That is a nice trick, she thought, impressed in spite of herself.  The door fully opened to reveal a great room, filled with an array of work benches laden with tools and implements, some of which Artanis could not begin to identify, though she was no stranger to stone craft herself.  Fëanor led her to one table covered with a great multitude of gems, many set in vises and clasps that held them in place for cutting and carving.  Artanis peered at them.

"These are the stones we work presently," he told her, lifting one in its brace for her to see.  It was an emerald, not very large but of a very fair green hue, and some facets were already carved into its size.  It would be a striking piece when finished.  She murmured compliments of his and his son's projects, and then he showed her the crafts they had recently completed. 

She could not deny that the beauty of the crafts of Fëanor made her exclaim aloud at times.  A tree of silver with leaves of jade, and blossoms of gold, was more than a fair likeness to Laurelin.  "Are you to build a Telperion to match it?" she asked when he placed the small work in her hands.

Fëanor nodded, pleased with her reaction.  "Even now my sons debate endlessly over whether opal or pearl shall be its fruit."

In spite of herself, she giggled, for the image instantly sprang into her mind of all seven of them, surrounding the work bench covered with jade leaves and a half-finished silver tree, waggling pearls and opals at each other as hagglers in a market.  Sheepishly, she suggested, "Perhaps you might use moonstone, my lord."

"Mm," said her uncle, his face thoughtful.  "That might well be the proper medium.  I shall broach it to them if they can cease their bickering long enough.  And here.  This you might find of interest."  From a case of silver and velvet he brought a gleaming white object.  "It is a gift for your mother." 

Artanis gasped.  It was a swan, a swan carved of opal, set in a brooch of onyx that was nearly as large as the palm of her hand, the detail extraordinary.  "She shall be honored with such a work of art," she murmured, feeling its smoothness with her fingers, the light of the lanterns making colors flash along its length.  All at once, she was struck with a wave of sorrow, so swift that it first she could not be certain from whence it came. 

To her disgust, Fëanor did.  "Ahh, niece, I've made you sad.  So is this dalliance with your Telerin prince turning out ill?"  At the sharp look she shot him, he laughed, raising his hands as if in surrender, before taking back the swan.  "Very well, Nerwen, peace; I'll not tease you.  I shall pass it on to your father tomorrow to deliver to her after the King's council.  Come, I have just the thing to cheer you."

They went from the work room to the deepest of all the rooms in Fëanor's house, which stood at the end of a narrow stone corridor that made Artanis feel most claustrophobic.  Fëanor opened the doors with a still longer password, then crossed the threshold and led her through by the hand.  "You use much protection upon this room, Uncle," she observed.

"Much magic is necessary to protect the greatest of all treasures in Valinor," he replied, and led her across the bare room to a silver, gilded box upon a stone pedestal.  He lifted away its top, and Artanis was struck by brilliant light.

"The Silmarils," she whispered.  For all she had belittled their craft to Celeborn, they ever took her breath away.  There was no lantern in this deepest chamber; the light of the three gems was enough to fill the whole room. 

Fëanor was watching her face.  "Aye, it has been long since you have beheld them, has it not?"  With gentle fingers, he lifted one of them from the velvet within the box and raised it before her eyes.  The light danced around the room, dazzling her, and she blinked.  "Take it."

Startled, Artanis looked at him.  It was no secret that Fëanor suffered few to look upon the Silmarils, and even his sons seldom handled them.  "I…"

"Do not be afraid," he said, and despite the thrall of the perfection before her, Artanis' pride was stung awake, and she held out her hand. 

When the stone landed in her palm, she nearly flinched.  Perhaps it was some deep-seated instinct that any object that cast such a great light must surely be hot.  But it was not.  Its smooth, perfect facets were cool in her fingers, but she was certain that it was not her fancy alone—there was a warmth radiating from within, from the light of the trees captured in it.  It almost seemed to pulse.  Words had long since deserted her, and Fëanor was silent at her side while she stared mutely into the gem's glow.  Cradling it in her hands, its light filtering through her fingers, she feared for a moment that she might weep.

At length, Fëanor took it back and placed it with its mates.  Artanis did not take her eyes off them until the silver panels of the top of the box were sealed again, and when the light was cut off, she feared she might truly cry.  She dared not look at Fëanor as he led her from the chamber.  "So my crown jewels please you still, Nerwen?"

Once the door was closed, she found her faculties restored.  "Of course they do," she said, scornful of him for asking so silly a question.

He sensed it and laughed, leading her back up the stairs.  "I should know better than to dissemble with you.  Aye, there are none who are not pleased by my Silmarils  I shall not make their like again."

"I cannot imagine why you would want to," she replied.  "Surely there are other crafts that might stand in their own right as great."

"I hope so, for I would not wish to think that I have reached my limits as a craftsman," said Fëanor, and she held back a snort at his conceit.  "In fact I have a new craft in mind to begin."

"Indeed?  What?  Shall you capture the radiance of the stars?" she suggested, only half-joking.

He laughed.  "The thought has occurred to me, and I may well attempt it in the future.  But now," there was an odd look in his eyes that instantly raised her guard, "I have thought to capture a more living radiance?"

"Of what sort?" she asked.

Fëanor raised a hand delicately toward her hair.  "Would it please my niece to see the very radiance of her hair caught up forever as a treasure of the Noldor?"

That again, for the love of… her mild mood in the memory of the Silmarils glow vanished, and she sidestepped him with what courtesy she could muster.  "Uncle, you speak as though my hair were some vein of treasure to be mined and carted away."

"Surely not, Nerwen, I merely offer create a craft as fair as the Silmarils that would properly display the beauty of your tresses.  For be not doubtful, there are few living things in Valinor save the trees themselves which hold me in such awe," Fëanor insisted.

She cleared her throat.  "You flatter me, Fëanor, but such a craft would not be to my liking.  I think an elf's hair should remain upon her head where it belongs, not be gawked at in some jewel."

Fëanor actually looked crestfallen.  "Would you not gift to me but one strand?  If it is your wish, I would display it to none of our kindred, but keep it as a memorial to you, with all the skills of my craft."

And gloat over thine own brilliance, my silver-tongued kinsman.  Such a craft would not serve as a memorial to me, but to you.  Feigning reluctance, Artanis stepped further away from him, lest his grasping fingers happen to free a strand from her head.  "I thank you for so fair a complement, kinsman, but I fear I cannot bring myself to such an act.  Pray forgive me, but the hour is late, and I must return home."

Fëanor had no cause to delay her further, so with some ill grace, he saw her to his door and bade her farewell.  It was with great relief that she returned to her father's house.

***

The next day, in the square…

"Do not blame me if your father has both our hides for sparring again after you managed to wound Fëanor," warned Aredhel as she and Artanis took their places on the ground.

"I merely need something to pass the time," said Artanis.  "Here comes Idril.  Let us have a slow match for practice."

"Was yesterday's bout not enough for you, Artanis?" was Idril's greeting as the two maidens slowly wove around the sand, making the fight seem even more as a dance.

"She's restless," said Aredhel, dipping below her cousin's dagger (dull, this time.)  "And cross because Lord Finwë would allow none but his lords in his council."

"I think it would be dull," said Idril, sitting down on the edge of the sparring ground.  She was still young enough to be disinterested in such matters.

"Oh, rest assured, little Cousin, today's council shall be anything but dull," said a voice nearby, and the maidens saw Maglor watching them.

"Why have you not joined them?" asked Aredhel, without breaking the slow rhythm of the fight.

Maglor shrugged.  "It is early yet.  The King speaks only with Mahtan and a few others on minor matters while awaiting the arrival of the rest."  He grimaced.  "Then things shall become interesting."

"I am not certain I like the idea," said Artanis.

"Do not point your toes so, Artanis," said Aredhel.  "Graceful as it looks, you would expose your leg to a swipe from an enemy.  And I agree, Maglor, I would rather Lord Finwë's councils remained dull and calm."

Maglor pulled Idril into the pit and began demonstrating dagger strokes to her.  "You speak for me, Cousin, be assured.  I like not this talk of trouble between our fathers."

Artanis raised her eyebrows at Aredhel, who winked, and they sparred on, but she said carefully, "Then perhaps we the younger may prevail in cooling heads where our fathers seem unable."

A low chuckle was heard in response.  "That shall be a quest worthy of a great ballad!  Cooling the head of my father, who is well-named the 'Fire Spirit.'  But you are right, Artanis, the mutterings of late trouble some among his sons as well as others."

Aredhel stopped the match with Artanis and turned to face Maglor, with a sporting grin to mask the seriousness of her words.  "Very well.  We have among us a child of each of the troublesome trio.  I shall treat with mine if you'll each deal with yours."

That got all three of them laughing, and Maglor drew them close, while Idril watched, grinning.  "We have a conspiracy afoot indeed!  And I shall enter willingly and pray not to be put to death for treason!"  The maidens giggled.  Then he said seriously, "Yet in all sincerity, your words are wise, Aredhel.  I know I am not alone amongst my brothers feeling troubled at the unrest, here in Tirion and in our very house.  I shall talk with them and urge them join me to speak up to our father, if you shall counsel calm with yours."

"Maglor, my father…" Artanis began, but Aredhel shot her a sharp look.  She broke off, but Maglor had seen the wordless exchange, and he frowned. 

"What say you about Finarfin?" he asked quietly.  Artanis considered.  Whatever secrecy Aredhel seemed to think necessary, it worried her that although the armaments and unrest disturbed Maglor, he might yet not be disabused as to the truth of the words being whispered.  Could this attempt at peacemaking between their houses be achieved without trust?

No, she decided, it could not.  Lifting her chin resolutely, but keeping her voice very low, she said, "My father fears that the origin of some…disturbing rumors on the doings of our fathers may be found with Melkor."

Maglor's face, which had at first shown an inkling of suspicion for the granddaughters of Indis, now betrayed alarm.  He pulled both maidens off the pit and they sat upon its edge, close so their whisperings were not overheard.  "What cause has he to think this?"

"I know not; I asked it of him as soon as I saw him yesterday, but he would tell me nothing.  He said only that he meant to reveal his concerns to Finwë today, and perhaps to Lord Manwë," she said helplessly.

Maglor sat back, greatly troubled.  "Melkor has spent much time close to my father of late."  He turned to Aredhel.  "What of Fingolfin?  Has he heard much from Melkor?"

Aredhel hesitantly shook her head.  "Not that I have seen.  He…"  she trailed off.

Artanis leaned toward her.  "If we are to counsel patience to our fathers together, Cousin, we must preserve faith with each other."

Reluctantly, Aredhel said, "My father believes the whisperings are due to Fëanor alone.  But where he first heard them, I know not."

"What has he heard?"

"That Fëanor has the King in his hand and seeks to drive the sons of Indis forth from Túna."

"That's a lie!" hissed Maglor, his eyes flashing, and both maidens jumped.  Then he calmed himself and growled, "Aye, and my father believes that Fingolfin and his sons conspire with the Valar and seek to usurp leadership of the Noldor by their leave because Fëanor will not place the Silmarils in the Valar's keeping."

Aredhel exclaimed in outrage, whispering her own furious denials of the suggestion, and Aredhel muttered, "The Silmarils again.  See, Maglor?"

"You too think all this Melkor's doing, Cousin?"

Artanis lifted a hand and made a show of ticking her thoughts off on her fingers.  "Someone tells Fingolfin and Finarfin that Fëanor means to drive them from Túna and bids them be on their guard.  Someone tells Fëanor that Fingolfin means to supplant him and bids him be on his guard.  That same someone tells Fëanor that the Valar covet the Silmarils and are not to be trusted—yet still Melkor hovers close.  What say you?"  She stirred the sand with her toes idly, troubled and frustrated.  "Perhaps we should bypass our fathers and go directly to Manwë with these tidings.  At least the Valar might lay bare the parties behind it."

"My father will not take kindly to the Valar's interference," said Maglor.

"Fruit of the poisonous tree," spat Artanis.  "If it is Melkor who covets the Silmarils, he would bid Fëanor distrust the Valar, lest they discover his machinations."

"He—"  Maglor broke off his response as whispers rippled through the square.  Artanis hissed:  Fingolfin had come early.  He strode into Finwë's halls, his bearing grim and determined.  Maglor looked at Aredhel. "What's he doing?"

"I do not know," she murmured.

"I can make a fair guess," Artanis replied. 

"More poisoned fruit, you think, Cousin?"

"Aye.  Think you Fëanor knows he is come now?"

"Nay, and he'll not be pleased to learn of it."

Idril came closer to them.  "Maglor, perhaps you might speak to Fëanor ere he joins them, so that—"

A collective gasp went up from the milling elves.  Aredhel grabbed Maglor's arm.  "Too late!"

They all scrambled to their feet.  Artanis saw a plume of red before Fëanor himself, but when he did come into view, she gasped as well.  He was fully armed, his helm high upon his head, and at his side a mighty sword.  His bearing was even harder than Fingolfin's, and worse still, his anger was such that she fancied she saw sparks upon the ground beneath his boots.  She took a hesitant step forward, and saw Maglor doing the same, but Fëanor had vanished into Finwë's halls before either of them could waylay him. 

"Now what?" she murmured to Maglor.

"I begin to like your suggestion of going to the Valar," he replied.  "I fear our fathers will not be prevailed upon now."

"If you wish it, we shall all go, on behalf of our fathers," said Aredhel grimly.  "Thus if we are condemned by our kin for acting without their behest, at least it may not fall upon one or two houses alone."

The three of them looked at each other, feeling as a trio of ships trying to stay afloat in a raging sea.  Slowly, they all nodded in silent accord.  "We had better go," said Artanis.

"Shall I accompany you?" offered Idril.

"Nay, little Cousin, the last thing we need is my father hearing that two of this little conspiracy were from the house of Fingolfin," said Maglor dryly.  He gave her an apologetic kiss upon the cheek.  "Better, wait here until they come out so that you may tell us what transpires—and try to keep your grandfather and great-uncle from killing each other until we return."

Idril chuckled.  "I shall do my best—"

Finwë's door burst open.  Before any of them had time to speak or act, Fingolfin was striding out the door, his face quite perturbed.  But he had scarcely stepped from the King's threshold when Fëanor appeared behind him, and stayed him against the open door with a shove.  Then Finwë's eldest son pointed the tip of his bright sword at his brother's breast, as the watching elves cried aloud.

Idril screamed.  Maglor and Artanis had to restrain Aredhel, for she rushed forward as if to fling herself upon the sword in place of her father.  All the elves in the square beneath the Mindon watched in horror and heard the words of Fëanor.

"See, half-brother!  This is sharper than thy tongue.  Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be master of thralls."

Her arm restraining her cousin, Artanis could feel Aredhel's heart pounding, and she too was breathing fast and hard with alarm and dismay.  Fingolfin made no answer, but glared back at Fëanor until the elder elf released him, then he passed through the throng in silence.  A great sigh seemed to rise from them all as Fëanor went off in the opposite direction.  "Now he's done it," Artanis muttered.  "The Valar will not sit still for such a thing."

"Nor should they," said Aredhel tightly.

Maglor released Aredhel and moved to stand in front of the maidens before they could walk away.  "Cousins, I beg you, let not this event destroy our aim in bringing peace to our people.  We all feel another hand at work here; that unhappy exchange changes not the likeliness of its root.  I will go to my father on all our behalf, if you would but counsel yours for patience and forgiveness."  He lowered his voice and stepped close, one hand upon each of their shoulders.  "If Melkor be behind all this, he must be exposed before he drives our kindred to worse than threats against one another.  The Valar shall call for answers, let us counsel our fathers to speak in truth of what has passed, that they may learn of Melkor's treachery."

Glancing at Aredhel, Artanis nodded.  "Fingolfin will have gone to my father.  Perhaps if Aredhel, Idril, and I tell them both of what you have told us, they will see more than Fëanor's doings.  And you will do the same with your father?"

"Aye.  Aredhel?  Idril?"

Idril nodded at once, but Aredhel did not meet their eyes.  Slowly, she said, "I will do so, but know this, Maglor, your father's insult to mine cannot go unanswered."

Grimly, Maglor stepped back.  "I acknowledge it, though I rue it.  But that is for the Valar to decree, not us, and if we are to bring an end to this strife, we must have accord."

Then Aredhel did look at him.  "Go, then, and so shall we.  Take care."

***             

Conveniently enough, they found Fingolfin and Finarfin together, surrounded by all six of their respective sons, with everyone talking in loud voices.  Artanis and Aredhel tried in vain to push through the arguers and reach their fathers, but at last it was Idril who came to Fingolfin's side and forced him to turn from his kinsmen to deal with her.  "I was unharmed, Granddaughter, but I cannot speak with you now.  We—"

"As it happens, Father, we must speak with you," said Aredhel, bodily shoving an indignant Turgon and Fingon out of the way.  "We have just come from talking with Maglor."

As suspected, all six of the grandsons of Indis began talking at once, and Artanis turned her back on them.  "Father, pray, listen!" she cried over their indignant voices.

"Quiet!" Finarfin snapped, but it was at her kinsmen, not her.  They silenced, frowning, but attended Finarfin and his daughter.  "What did Maglor say?"

Artanis took a deep breath.  "He confirms a suspicion I believe you have already voiced, Father."  Finarfin lifted his face from her to look at Fingolfin, and Artanis turned to face him.  "Peace in Valinor may depend on your honesty, Uncle.  We know what your house has feared from Fëanor.  But from whence did this news come?"

Fingolfin narrowed his eyes at her.  "What do you mean, Niece?"

"Was it merely your observations of Fëanor that led you to believe he sought to drive us all from Tirion?" Artanis asked carefully, stepping closer and searching his face.  "Or was there one perhaps who observed his usual pride with you and offered what seemed a fair explanation for his behavior?"

The chamber was deathly silent.  Aredhel and Idril now flanked Artanis, watching Fingolfin's reaction.  Turgon had a hand on Idril's shoulder, but his frown was directed at Artanis.  At length, Fingolfin's weary sigh drew their attention back to him.  "Melkor did speak to me."

There were intakes of breath, and several muttered oaths.  "What did he tell you?" asked Finarfin.

"What I have told you, what I have been telling you all along.  That Fëanor meant to drive us all from Túna."

"And Maglor says Fëanor was told by Morgoth that you meant to turn his father against him with the aid of the Valar," said Aredhel.

"He is my father too!" snapped Fingolfin angrily.  He began to pace.  "What would you have us do, ladies?  Ignore this insult?"

"And what will you do, Grandfather?" said Idril suddenly, in a quiet voice. "He raised his naked sword to you but struck you not.  What manner of retaliation would you have that could outstrip him?  Raise your sword and strike?  He made the threat but held back; shall you now make good the threat?"

"Idril!" snapped Turgon, but Fingolfin raised a hand.

Her uncle looked tired.  "The Valar will undoubtedly demand an accounting from him in this."  He looked from Idril to Aredhel to Artanis.  "Think you three for certain that Maglor spoke truly?"  They all nodded.  He shook his head.  "Then for all he has acted foully, not every shred of blame shall fall of him.  If Melkor is found to be the one responsible for all this, I will forgive Fëanor."  With a sigh, he mused, "Melkor is a Vala, after all."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" asked Fingon.  Aredhel swatted him.

Sensing the immediate crisis was ended, Artanis wandered away from them.  Finarfin followed her.  "These are strange times when you are the one counseling patience."

Looking at him, she could not help smiling.  "Then you ought to be pleased."

"I am."

There was pride in her father's smile, but she looked away from his searching eyes.  The morning's events had tired her as well, she found, and now with the excitement empty, she felt merely weary, and more than a little heartsick.

I ought not to have left Alqualondë.

Now where had that thought come from?

To be continued…

Next time:  Don't worry, Celeborn fans, our favorite Teleri mariner is back next chapter!  As Artanis watches the peace of Valinor deteriorate still further, will her desire for peace and freedom hold her in Tirion among Noldor and Valar, or will her heart call her back to Alqualondë?

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