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 Posted: Wed Jan 31, 2007 1:40 am
“And that is how I met your mother, Míriel, the most…loving…” Finwë trailed off and let the quiet tale end at that. But the child still watched Finwë, intent and expectant, utterly unable to comprehend the depth of his ada’s sadness.
Finwë chuckled softly; that and the fond stroking of Fëanor’s hair did much to ease young Fëanor’s worry. “That is the end of the story, my son. Would you like another?”
Fëanor relaxed back against the solid comfort of Finwë, affectionately rubbing his cheek against Finwë’s chest. His hand, not half the size of his father’s, grasped and held the soft material of Finwë’s shirt as he settled in. Finwë felt the nod rather than saw it, and began.
“Long, long before you were born, by the Bay of Eldamar—which, as you know, is the most beautiful Bay, filled with glistening white sand and-”
“Not that one.”
Finwë paused. “How do you know I am not telling you a new one?”
The answer came promptly. Fëanor hadn’t moved. “Because that’s the story of Eldaer, the ship that was never beaten by wave or wind, and you always start it the same way.”
Slightly mystified, and with a mental note to vary his introductions, Finwë asked, “What story do you want, then?”
“The Waste of the Halls.”
“That is not a bedtime story, my Fëanor.” Finwë sighed, and for a long time there was silence in the small, candlelit stone room. Then, “You were born in the great Tirion upon the crown of Túna, and though you do not remember this place, the Noldor lived there for many years, and so first I will describe it to you as it was while the Trust of Valinor yet lasted…”
Finwë King of the Noldor was in the gardens of Lórien, visiting his beloved wife Míriel the only way he could now—in thought—when news of the attack came. And though Melpomaen his faithful servant told him of the destruction of the trees and the Evil that was loosed in Valmar, Finwë was stricken with terror only for his precious son.
“Wait, my king! Fëanor is here. I did not dare leave him even in your House; how much evil has befallen since I set out to fetch you, I do not know, but I feared it would not be little.”
And then Finwë was relieved, and he praised Melpomaen until the messenger flushed. Finwë arranged for Fëanor to stay with the maidens of the garden until some-elf returned for him, and then Finwë and Melpomaen set out to Tirion with all haste. Rumors flew fast and thick throughout the city.
“Would I had stayed!” cried Melpomaen.
Finwë rounded on him. “Has your pride so swelled?” the king demanded. “Think you would have made a difference in Melkor’s designs? Is my son not now assured safety through your thoughtfulness?”
Melpomaen was ashamed and said nothing thereafter. But he was grateful. He followed Finwë dutifully through streets that were congested with frightened elves, and the true events of that fateful eve came out.
Fëanor rested against Finwë; as he slipped deeper into sleep his grip on his ada’s shirt went lax. Finwë would finish the story tomorrow, if his willful son insisted. But for now, Finwë carefully stood, the elf-child cradled in his arms. Fëanor’s response was to cuddle closer, and the corners of his delicate lips turned downward at being removed from his Finwë-pillow. However, he did not wake, not even when Finwë tucked him in to the small bed that was next to Finwë’s own. Finwë tenderly brushed the stray strands of silky dark hair away from Fëanor’s brow and kissed it, and then he put out the candle.
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Posted: Wed Jan 31, 2007 6:42 am
15 years old and still a child, already the young elf’s talent was gracefully turning into skill. He stood at a long work table polishing a piece of black jade inlay to a fine sheen. Occasionally he would pick up one tool or another to shape it. “Tell me again how we got here, father.”
Finwë was uneasy, and worried. Again and again he told the story, but always Fëanor would ask for once more. He felt it was not something he should encourage his son to dwell on. Their way of life seemed safe and stable, but Finwë knew that could change at any moment. He did not want Fëanor to be the cause of that change.
But Fëanor’s dark eyes were focused intently on his work, and Finwë wondered if he was even aware of the silence stretching between them.
“You were born in the great Tirion upon the crown of Túna, and though you do not remember this place, the Noldor lived there for many years…”
“What do you mean, a trick? The Trees are not dead?” Red torchlight lit the streets. The faces of strange elves came and went, stark, and many afraid. An elf that Finwë did not recognize heard him and paused.
“They are dying, but the Halls also are in ruin. Námo is gone. Disappeared. They say Melkor has fled west and north.”
“West and north—past Lorien?” cried Finwë. But the other elf had already gone.
If anything had happened to his son… then Finwë would stop at nothing to get him back. Nothing…
“What do you think, father?”
Finwë turned the finished jade and gold pin over and over in his hands, marveling at how his son’s work proclaimed experience beyond his few years. Finwë held it up, admiring how the simple design caught the light from each and every direction. “Where did you learn to vary the faces like this?”
Fëanor was looking up at him. The younger elf shrugged. “It made it better, didn’t it?”
“Well, yes,” Finwë began. “Infinitely. But how did you know—”
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. “You don’t happen to have anything laying around in here, do you?” asked the new elf before he was even through the door. His expression was strained; his brow creased. “We only need a few more pieces to fill the quota, and if it’s late this time, again…Oh! Very interesting, Finwë.” The elf took Fëanor’s pin and inspected it, and meanwhile, Feanor touched his father’s wrist.
“I want to keep it!” Feanor whispered urgently. “This time, just this once. No one will even notice. It will be ours!”
Finwë was deeply dismayed that his son even occupied the idea. He ignored the continued tugging on his sleeve. “If that is suitable, take it,” he told the elf. “And best go quickly; after all, we do not want to be late.” The elf disappeared without saying anything more, and Finwë turned around to find himself the object of Feanor’s hurt and angry glare.
“You didn’t have to do that!” Feanor exclaimed. “Any time I ever do anything good, you give it away! You don’t even care about me!” The young elf fled the room.
Finwë, left staring at the empty work table, leaned against the wall with an arm over his eyes.
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Posted: Thu Feb 01, 2007 3:19 pm
-30 years later-
“Bet you didn’t.”
“Bet I did!”
“Bet you didn’t!”
“Did! Did!”
“You told an orc that it smelled funny and had disgusting teeth?”
Fëanor laughed. “It was a big, stupid brute. It probably did not even understand what I was saying.”
Arminas shook his head. “Orcs are no joke. My brother got in a fight with one once. It broke his arm.”
“The orc had a club,” Fëanor pointed out. “Your older brother didn’t.” Both elves were silent for a while.
“We won’t be here forever, you know,” said Fëanor at length. He deliberately felt his way along the stone wall of his dimly lit bedroom. The roughness abraded the soft pads of his fingers, but he did not stop. “I’m going to get us out. I’m going to get all of us out. We’ll be free. We’ll see…the sun. It is probably glorious.”
“Probably,” Arminas agreed. He had never seen the sun, either.
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Posted: Thu Feb 01, 2007 6:45 pm
The gleaming gold strands curled and twined to form the delicate frame. The shape was perfect in likeness to an open book. Inside, bright gems of every color were cut curiously flat, and seamlessly fitted side by side. Hanging from it’s liquid-soft gold chain, the necklace cast a checkerboard rainbow across the floor: cyan, magenta, violet, emerald. The reflected patterns wavered slightly as Finwë let out his held breath. “Beauty within knowledge,” he murmured. Fëanor beamed. His father had gotten it right away.
Finwë returned the necklace to his son. “You spent hours on this that were not required. Why?”
Fëanor was surprised, and a little hurt. He had expected praise. Finwë always praised him. He valued Finwë’s opinion more than that of anyone he’d ever known. “I had to get it just right,” Fëanor said in a small voice. “I did not mind the extra work. I wanted to.”
Finwë’s gaze was filled with love and fear. “This cannot go on. How many times must I explain it to you? Our Dark Enemy sees each and every product of the crafts we work for him. He was a craftsman himself once, it is said. If he sees this? This, my son, my Fëanáro? Then—”
“Then what?” Fëanor interrupted. “Then, I would get credit for once? Then, everyone would see what I can really do? Then, I would not be used—”
“No!” insisted Finwë. His face was heated and his voice, quick and severe. “I do not know what would happen to you! Can’t you see that is the very reason I am terrified He will learn of your brilliance?”
Silence.
Fëanor could not look away from his father’s shoes. Why must he always be a disappointment to Finwë?
“I am sorry,” muttered Fëanor. “I did not mean…” And then he was pulled into his father’s embrace. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his face buried in Finwë’s collar.
“Do not be sorry,” Finwë said gently.
“I won’t make anything too good from now on. Only simple things.”
“Good.”
“But did you like this one, after all?”
A soft laugh. “Fëanáro… it is radiant.”
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