RP 🎲 O Fëanoriel Runyaril ar i Vérë o i Silmarilli (Of Fëanoriel and the Oath of the 💎Silmarils)

Maitimo nods in quiet agreement with Ancalirë, feeling that she understands his side of things better than Nerdanel. And of course she would; they suffered together through these tragic events, whereas Nerdanel did not experience the betrayal firsthand.

"Of course I trust you, Mother, and Father and Fëanoriel," he says, attempting to smile once more. Well, he still doesn't entirely trust Fëanaro, but he says it anyway to avoid causing offense. "But surely you must agree, not everyone is to be trusted."

Fëanor finishes his adjustment to Maitimo's sword, and places it in his hand. "Here, now, give it a swing."

Maitimo does so, and finds that the sword feels lighter, somehow, even though surely it doesn't actually weigh any less. Pleased, he gives it another swing, one slightly broader and more aggressive, but he winces slightly. Even though his wound is mostly healed, it still isn't completely and there are certain movements that trigger it.

He gives a deep sigh. It will likely be a painfully long time before he can truly use a sword normally again, and this puts him on edge, since he fears at any moment the brothers could escape, or some other enemy could come along, and he won't be prepared to defend himself.

Nerdanel comes towards Maitimo, grasping his other hand to steady him. "Are you alright, my love?" She asks, a twang in her voice. "Perhaps you had better let your fighting skills rest. It's safer this way."

She loves her son, and wants him to stay safe. How much she would blame herself if anything were to happen to him again. "Please. Take careful steps, my son..." She whispers. "I don't want you injured."

"I'm all right, thank you, Mother. I guess I was just a little overly ambitious with that sword stroke," Maitimo says, trying to smile and look cheerful. They've all done more than enough worrying about him lately; he hates to burden them any more than he has to.

At his sister's words, he pauses and gazes at her thoughtfully. "You know... that's not a bad idea. Perhaps I shouldn't be relying solely on my right arm for fighting..."

He takes the sword in his left hand, getting a feel for the balance of it.

Nerdanel grabs the sword, near to the hilt, being careful not to cut herself on the edge. "Perhaps not." She says, checking him. "You have done enough fighting for now. Please, just rest in the peace, will you? Where have these desires come from? For long you were a tranquil child, loving more the fields than battles."

Though Maitimo wishes his sister weren't being so harsh in her words, he entirely agrees with her sentiment.

"Look where being tranquil and peaceful took me, Mother," he says with an eerie numbness and stoicism to his voice. "And I fear these things will continue to happen if I do not learn to defend myself."

Fëanor nods grimly and says, "Our children speak the truth, my love."

If there is anything he is glad that came out of all this, it is that Maitimo has become wiser to the evil ways of others. The world is not as beautiful and wonderful a place as he once believed it was.

Nerdanel stares down at the floor, saddened by her daughter's words. Once, such words would never have been aimed at her so, and she would have had peace within her own family. But now it felt as though all her own were against her. She turns away, her lips quivering with the birth of tears.

"Do what you will."

Maitimo's heart aches with guilt at seeing Nerdanel's sorrowful expression. She must feel like everyone is cornering her, siding against her.

Putting his sword aside, he puts his left arm around her. "I'm sorry, Mother... we don't mean to make you feel cornered or guilty. And don't think that you have lost me; I'm still your son, just... a little wiser now, I suppose."

To speak with compassion and try to resolve a conflict reinvigorates a faint glimmer of feeling back into his heart, and makes him feel just slightly more like his old self.

Nerdanel smiles, wiping a tear from her eye. It seems she has not fully left her lovely son. He still loves her, he still cares. He still notices emotion and hasn't become numb to feeling.

"Thank you, my love." She whispers, casting an arm around him gently. "What would I do without you?"

"And you and Father will not be there to protect me from everything," Maitimo adds, gently. "The best way for me to be protected is if I can do it myself."


Some time slowly passes in the House of Fëanaro. Everyone has difficulty adjusting to the silence caused by the absence of Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Atarincë and Ambarussa, especially since they were once the greatest contributors of noise and bustling activity. They had once brought life and vigor to the halls of this House with their antics, but now that they have sought after violence and death, the Halls are still and quiet.

For Maitimo, this is not necessarily a good thing, since the activity of his brothers used to bring comfort and happiness to his heart. Now, the silence only provides him with a greater opportunity to brood over everything that has happened. Ever since the first attack of his brothers, he has not had this much time to ruminate over everything, and despair and bitterness grow within him. The only thing he seems to be able to focus on is training; he spends much time isolated in the woods, practicing with his sword, starting with his left hand, and later incorporating his right hand once his arm is strong enough. In hroa he may be healed, but not so in fëa, and the shadow of his pain lingers in his heart.

Not all is hopeless in the family, however. Fëanaro spends much time with his daughter in the forges, as he teaches her techniques of smithery. Even Amrod is productive, seeking the tutelage of the healers, who have taken him on as an apprentice of sorts. Maglor dreads the day when he will have to endure his humiliating apology before the House of Nolofinwë, but he distracts himself with his music. Nerdanel eagerly awaits the day of peacekeeping, and works busily at her sculpting in the meantime. Fëanor, too, is eager to see his father and receive his advice.

Finally, the day arrives, and the House of Fëanaro (with the exception of the four traitorous brothers) journeys out to the House of Finwë, and arrives without incident.


Despite there being so much to look forward to about this visit, Maitimo hasn't been looking forward to it much.

Of course he longs to see Findekano again, and knows he ought to feel a greater joy in his heart, but somehow he has only looked on the whole trip with numbness and apathy, his mind turning over the number of things that could go wrong. They could get attacked on the road, or perhaps the brothers will take advantage of this opportunity to escape from the dungeons, or a massive conflict will break out between their two Houses... who knows?

He makes sure to show up prepared, concealing his fine new mithril mail under his clothing so that no one will see it. Perhaps someone will feel the hardness of it, but hopefully they'll be too polite to say anything. His new sword is sheathed at his hip, plainly visible, and he has several daggers hidden in various pockets.

Upon arriving, they are escorted to the Great Hall in the House of Finwë, where the Nolofinwians are there, but Finwë has not yet arrived.

His gloomy mood dissipates somewhat at the sight of Findekano, and he rushes towards him, smiling. "Findekano, brother... I've missed you so much. Are you well?"

Findekano sees him, feeling no bitterness to Maitimo. Feanor, however, holds a different sort of place in his heart. He has not forgotten the many ruthless and unkind words and deeds of his uncle, and is wary of their entire family save for Maitimo.

"Maitimo!" He exclaims, rushing to meet him also, no remnant of the past events save for a scar on his forehead. "I am well, and you?" He embraces him, but quickly feels bad, remembering his friend's shoulder wound. "I'm sorry, brother. I didn't mean it to hurt, if it did."

Meanwhile, Nerdanel takes Feanor's hand, the diplomatic approach enshrouding her every move. She steers clear of Fingon, for now. The apology had ought to be public, and she only wants to bring herself to do it once. Better to avoid him for now, and focus on those things later.

Maglor and Amrod stand aside, talking quietly amongst each other, the latter beginning.

"I wonder how Finwe shall be..."

"Fine, I would guess." Maglor has always been brief in his words.

"And yet it's been so long since we've seen him."

Maglor nods. "Long indeed, and yet, I have heard... absence draws hearts closer."

Amrod shrugs. "Little sense does that make. Distance does not draw near. That sounds like nonsense."

"You would not understand..."

"No, it's all right," Maitimo reassures Findekano, embracing him tightly in return. "I'm fully healed now, I think. I've been practicing a great deal at swordplay lately. Perhaps if we get a chance at some point, we could have a sparring match?"

Noticing the scar on his head, and remembering with sorrow all the disasters that took place, Maitimo asks, "Are you also healed from your wound? Again, I'm so sorry that happened to you..."

Meanwhile, Turgon approaches Maglor and Amrod, and greets them cheerfully. "Alatulië to ye both! I'm glad to see you again. We were so worried about all of you. How's your music these days, Maglor?"

And Aredhel approaches Ancalirë and embraces her with fondness. "I'm so glad to see you well and safe after all that had happened... I worried for what had become of you after your departure. How are you?"

Fëanor spots Fingolfin nearby, but like Nerdanel, isn't particularly eager to talk with the Nolofinwians. Not until after Finwë arrives.

Fingon feels a little discomforted by the tight hug, as it seems Maitimo is wearing some sort of armor underneath. But alas, he has not the heart to dispute and instead he only returns it. "Good." He's relieved to see strength in Maitimo once more. He had suffered for so long. "I-uh.. I don't know about sparring... My father might not trust me for that... And, after what had happened since our last fight, forgive me if I am only a twinge wary."

He turns and smiles. "Yes. I'm fine. And of all of your family, you hold no blame. You are not guilty, my friend and brother. For had it not been for you, I would have surely perished. I owe you a debt of undivided gratitude and unwavering devotion."

Maglor turns his shoulder slightly, closed away. "It's the same." His voice is stoic and unfeeling. It feels so weird to speak to Turgon, knowing what he will have to repent for and anticipating what Turgon's response will be. Likely one of anger and contempt.

Amrod, on the other hand, is pleased to see Turgon. "We are glad to see you too, or one, I suppose. Also, might fit better." He eyes the hilt of Turgon's dagger inquisitively. "What is that made of?" He points. "I've never seen anything like it."

Fingolfin comes forward, greeting Feanor. "Peace, brother!" He exclaims. "I did not see you. How are you? How have your travels been? I am so gladdened to see you again!" With that, he casts an arm around Feanor. "I should very much like to know how you are, and how everything of yours fares."

Nerdanel stays silent, her eyes drifting towards the boys.

I smile back at Aredhel, though it is a sorrowful smile, one tinged with slight bitterness towards all that has happened.

"I fare well, Aredhel. 'Tis nice to see you again after so long, and there is no need to apologise. How have you been? How have you fared?"

Maitimo is initially distressed by what seems to him like a distanced, uncomfortable look from Findekano. Were the recent events enough to make his closest friend lose trust in him?

He realizes after a minute that part of the reason could be that Maitimo completely forgot he was wearing armor. "Forgive me, brother... I'm still getting used to this, but--" he glances around uneasily and lowers his voice, not wanting to expose his secret to everyone in the room. "I'm wearing mithril mail. I do so constantly now."

He adds in concern, "You look troubled... what is the matter? Is all well for you with your father?"

Turgon looks at Maglor with a shadow of hurt and sorrow in his eyes. He had thought his favorite cousin had warmed up to him, just before his last departure, but now he seems to have retreated back into his strange coldness. Turgon doesn't entirely wish to enter the whole struggle of prying words out of Maglor again, so he responds instead to Amrod. "Thank you, it is finely crafted, is it not? It is made of mithril, though I'm sure it pales in comparison to the things of your father's workshop."

Aredhel smiles, relieved, at Ancalirë. "I am glad; I've been thinking of you often ever since your departure. I am well, thank you. Things have been a little tense among us lately, but I'm sure it will all get resolved."

Fëanor is somewhat surprised that his half-brother has greeted him so warmly. After all that had happened, he had somehow expected to be met with coldness. He responds politely, but carefully. "I'm fine, Nolofinwë, and our travels were without incident, thank you. Maitimo is well again, which is a relief to all of us."

All of us except the four traitors, he thinks bitterly to himself.

A messenger arrives in the room and silences everyone with an announcement: "Presenting His Majesty, High King Finwë, and his Queen, Indis the Fair."

Fëanor's blood boils at that second name, but he turns in eager anticipation of his father's arrival.

Sensing Fëanor's hostility, I place a gentle hand upon his arm.

"Don't worry, Ada. It'll be fine."

I glance up at him, beaming widely as I exclaim happily:

"You have us to keep you company too!"

Fingon smiles and tries to laugh a little, in order to lighten things. "Avaro naeth, my brother. I understand why. I understand it completely." To the second question, he pales a little. "He is my father. Nothing could truly drive us apart." But he does not mention anything further than this, not wanting to burden Maitimo with it. As they have been friends for many years, he knows how quickly Maitimo commits himself to blame and holds himself convicted. He wishes a finer fate for his brother and friend.

Amrod nods. "Interesting..! And the plants you have here, that is pilinehtar, is it not?" He points to a nearby narrow stemmed sapling. "They can be crushed to make fine medicines, you know."

Maglor stays cold and distant, turning his form even further away from Turgon. He's already decided. If he doesn't have to speak, he won't.

Fingolfin is just about to respond, when the messenger disrupts them all, and Finwe comes forward, his hand clasped around that of his wife, his great robes shrouding as a figure of mystery and power.

"Nolofinwe, Curufinwe, you have arrived I see..." He says softly, looking out over his sons. "Blessings to you both."