Devious

Forgive me.  I thought I published this last night.

Canon compliant AU.  The rift between the House of Fëanor and the House of Fingolfin is widening, its destruction careening out of control.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro or Curufinwë, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë).  This piece is, of course, strongly related to yesterday's piece "Murmur" as well as "Precious", "Hold", "Dim" and "Muse" among many others (including most that involve Fëanor in any way shape or form).  Based off of canon events and takes place just before the palace confrontation of Fëanor and Fingolfin in the palace in Tirion during the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none (except b/g)

Characters: Fëanor, Fingolfin, Morgoth (mentions Finwë, Indis and Nerdanel)

Warning: canon compliant possible AU, mother and father complexes, obsessive behaviors, unhealthy mindsets, rivalry taken too far, possible willful blindness, death threats implied, royal politics

Song: Danse Macabre (not the one you're thinking of)

Words: 1,399
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devious (adjective): moving without a fixed course: errant; deviating from a right, accepted, or common course; not straightforward: cunning
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/devious

It was an intricate dance, the courtship of rivalry.  Not the sweet, childish rivalry or the dashing, romantic rivalry, but something more bloodthirsty and less forgiving.  Something animalistic and harsh.  Primal.  Something that oft made his mouth water in delightful anticipation of the fall.

The fall of his enemies.  For few could withstand the cunning of Fëanáro Curufinwë.

Perhaps it was in poor taste, the games he played with those who stood in his way.  Like a cat toying with a helpless mouse, plucking off its legs one by one so it might not successfully escape but taking no less satisfaction in watching the mutilated creature's attempts to flee, watching the poor rodent writhe in pain and squeal in fright.  Perhaps it was sadistic, the epitome of silent cruelty...

But it was the way of the world.

Obstacles moved themselves from his path of destruction, notorious for its unforgiving nature.  And yet the only obstacle that dared set itself within his trajectory willingly--eagerly--was the one he hated the most.  The one he most wished to tear apart with his bare hands.

Nolofinwë.

There had always been that little niggling strand of doubt, crawling and creeping across the floor of his thoughts, almost out of sight but ever within his peripheral vision.  A dark spot that would simply not cease to block out the light.  But long had he ignored its murmurs, its lies and schemes, the product of what he knew to be jealousy and envy.  What he knew to be the aftermath of his great love for his father and mother, and his great fear of losing his place...

And yet now that fear was redoubled tenfold and again, spurring on that ugly shadow.  The rumors and whispers were returned, louder than ever, and more dangerous.  No longer whispers merely of Nolofinwë replacing the eldest son as the heir and rightful owner of the birthright given through the blood of the crown.

No, these rumors were worse than just naive supposition.  So much worse.

His skin crawled at the thought of their meaning.  Truly, both he and his sibling were devious creatures, striving to surpass the other at every turn, if only because each had something that the other desired.

But to go so far... as to actually usurp Fëanáro's rightful place at his father's side...

It made the elder brother's blood boil.  Suddenly, that black little whisper that he recalled with startling sharp clarity--cutting a deep gasp across his memory--was returning to haunt his waking moments.  Like the sting and ache of an infected, pus-filled wound.

Before, it had been a mere dislike he shared with his brother, the sort of hatred that was gentle and tender, almost fragile.  The rivalry of siblings wrought in dark emotion, but not in true threat of life or limb.  He had pushed aside that sort of hatred for his younger sibling.  Had disallowed its progression into something truly worrying and undesirable.

But now there was no need for lack of desire.

There was no need to play the game sweetly in the shadows.  If Nolofinwë wanted to bend the rules, bent he would receive them.  In full.

Fëanáro touched the sword at his belt.  He was prepared.

---

And, across the city, Nolofinwë threw down the papers upon his desk and watched them scatter to and fro upon the wood, slipping and spilling onto the floor.  Feeling disgusted and disgruntled and concerned all wrapped into one large tangle of utter frustration.

Truth be told, he did not know what to think about the latest rumors circulated the court and the city.  The insidious whispers.

They made him incredibly nervous.  Certainly, he knew that his older half-brother was not fond of him or of his family, the lack of affection going back since before his conception and birth.  Certainly, they had had many differences of opinion in the past as any siblings, be they half or whole, were prone to come upon.  And, most definitely, they did not get along as two close siblings might, but treated one another almost as strangers when they stood beside one another in a room.  Two strangers who hated one another passionately and would gladly take the opportunity to tarnish the other's standings.

But there were rules, silent though they might be, to the feud that the brothers swept into conspicuous hiding beneath the rug of civility and mannerisms.  There was a certain amount of poise, a reputation to uphold and an image to cultivate.

In public, the two brothers smiled and acted toward one another as two civil creatures.  Only giving away their utter disdain for the other with razor-blazed smirks and eyes of adamant.  But their words were always fenced in with propriety, always straying just short of utter insult.  Always within the boundaries.  Always controlled and acceptable, the sarcastic barbs they tossed back and forth, hoping the sharp and rusty thorn would pierce the other's flesh where it hurt most.

An underhanded game they played indeed, and Nolofinwë would have been lying had he stated that he did not enjoy its intricacy and challenge.  Did not enjoy facing off against his older sibling in a battle of minds and wits.  But this... this was taking it too far!

After all, for all that they disliked one another, Nolofinwë had never believed the Crown Prince would fall so low as to...

As to banish his own family!  To render them powerless!

Half-brothers though they might be, they shared kin and blood and home with one another, did they not?  They shared the blood of a father!  Dislike in any quantity should not have been enough to goad either side into taking such drastic measures against the other.

But then, as of late Curufinwë had been growing restless and obnoxious.  Rebellious.  With each passing year he became more and more treacherous, an ocean dissolving into the chaos of a violent storm that would sweep away all in its path.

No matter whom they might be--those victims.

It made the nagging, itching feeling of revulsion shudder through Nolofinwë's body.

As well as the fear.

Because he knew that Curufinwë had the power to do this awful deed.  But a murmur into their father's ear and Finwë would give his eldest son whatever the spoiled prince of a man might desire.  Each day the tangled, strangling vines of the eldest son's influence grew and grew, branching up until they had wrapped around the father's throat.  Until Finwë would never speak out against his favored and firstborn child, voice choked out by the brilliance of that Spirit of Fire.

Should Curufinwë present but even a single persuasive argument... Should he come up, in his deep and strangely-working mind of genius, with even one reason...

Nolofinwë clutched at the strands of his hair and tugged.  Even should Curufinwë not go through the King in order to procure his treachery, there were other ways.  Other methods.  Each worse than that which came before it.

If the Crown Prince wanted his half-siblings gone, that was exactly what he would get.

Unless...

Unless Finwë was on the side of the younger brother.

After all, Nolofinwë knew no soul--not even Nerdanel--who could change the mind and whims of Fëanáro Curufinwë as could the High King.  For Curufinwë adored his father above all others, perhaps even his own wife and children.  And if Finwë stood up and demanded obedience, then the eldest son would give himself unto his father's hands and allow this farce of a game to fade back into the background where it belonged.

Nolofinwë knew what he had to do.  Clenching his jaw, he stood from his desk and made for his chambers.  It would not do to be seen by the High King in his simplistic and unadorned evening robes, no matter their relation.

---

And, in the shadows, a red-eyed face smiled broadly at the culmination of devious plans long set in motion.  Now all the pieces were falling into place so easily, manipulated so precisely.  The perfect pawns stationed for sacrifice in favor of the ultimate result:

The win.

Neither of those tiny pieces--the black and the white--could see the truth of their tragedy.

They were already in checkmate.
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Okay, so I kind of have some stuff to say about this one.

First off, Fingolfin argues, when he confronts the King, that Finwë should be controlling Fëanor because Fëanor is making collective decisions for their people without consulting the King and Finwë is just letting him stomp all over his authority.  However, earlier in the chapter (on the same page) it is mentioned that Fingolfin is aware of Fëanor's supposed plot to toss his "half" of the family out of Tirion.  Thus, my interpretation is that Fingolfin is using the current politics as justification for Finwë reining in his oldest son--not out of spite for Fëanor's authority over their people--but out of worry for his family.  And, because of all the whispers that Morgoth has been planting, both of them misinterpret the actions of the other and it escalates.

That is the image I have in my head of these two.  I can't see Fëanor honestly hating Fingolfin up until this point, when he thinks that Fingolfin is trying to take away what could be considered his "connection" with his father as the King's heir.  I just don't see Fëanor as being such a bastard--a bit of a sociopath at times, but not one to go after someone with a sword unless he really feels threatened.

Maybe my interpretation is wrong, but since Tolkien's dead I can do as I please.

The song influenced some of the sadistic qualities of their "rivalry", however.  Danse Macabre is composed, I would assume, by Taku Iwasaki with heavy influences from some very, very popular musical compositions, though the actual Danse Macabre is not amongst them from what I can hear.  It actually reminds me more of some Bach and Vivaldi stuff than Saint-Saens.  In any case, it's a really amazingly fun piece to listen to, and the picture just is personification of rivalry.  I mean, look at them!  Sebastian and Claude... *drools*

*cough* Yeah... Ignore that please.