Stupid Stories for Irreverent Elves by darthfingon

Elemmírë, for all his efforts, still only succeeded in making a lukewarm impression on Fëanáro. At the request of his uncle, he had abandoned his daily lessons for the pleasure of steering Finwë's stubborn child through a tour of the gardens of Oiolossë. This resulted in nothing but the confirmation of Elemmírë's suspicions that Ingwë did not really like him.

"And this," he told Fëanáro, "is a special variety of rose that grows only here on Taniquetil. Do you like roses?"

"No."

"Oh. Hum. Well, in the pot down there is mint. Do you like mint?"

"No."

"Oh."

Fëanáro stared blankly into the distance and scuffed his feet on the stone pathway.

"What about vines with large gourds? Those are fun. Do you like those?"

"No."

"Do you like anything?"

For the first time, Fëanáro looked up at him. The boy had his father's same unnaturally piercing gaze. "I like making things."

"Making things!" Elemmírë said brightly. "I like that, too. When I was your age, I liked making sandcastles and piles of sticks, and singing songs while I made them. I still like doing that, if you want to make a sandcastle with me."

Fëanáro narrowed his eyes warily. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I am forty-one. How old are you?"

"Six. And sandcastles are for babies. You can't be very smart if you like baby things."

Taken aback, Elemmírë could only stare at the child. "That… that's a very mean thing to say, Fëanáro."

"It's true," Fëanáro insisted. "That's why I don't like Vanyar. You're all stupid and silly and never do anything useful."

"What a terrible thing to say!" Elemmírë gasped. "How can you even think something like that, when your own father is marrying my cousin Indis tomorrow? Tomorrow, you will have a new, Vanyarin mother!"

By the look of fury that darkened Fëanáro's face, Elemmírë quickly realised that he had said exactly the wrong thing. "She is not… my… mother!" Fëanáro hissed. "She will never be my mother, you will never be my cousin, and I will never have any Vanyarin family!"

He should have been insulted. On some basic level, he knew that the best course of action would be to haul the boy back inside to his father for a good spanking. But despite Fëanáro's small size, the passionate fanaticism in his words was terrifying. And Elemmírë was never one for confrontation.

"I am sure not all Vanyar are stupid and silly," he said carefully.

Fëanáro snorted. He reached into the pouch that hung at his side and pulled out what looked like a thin, metal stick with three closely spaced prongs at one end. Holding it up for Elemmírë to see, he asked, "Do you know what this is?"

"It looks like a stick. A stick made of metal." It also looked exactly like something a Noldo would have: only a Noldo would think to make a metal stick when real sticks could be found anywhere.

"No," said Fëanáro, and he rolled his eyes. "I invented it and Atto helped me make it. I call it a 'fork'. You use it for eating, to stab your food. Like this." Bending down, he used the fork to stab a clump of moss. "Pretend this moss is a piece of meat. Now you can eat it without touching it, and without getting your fingers oily."

"I don't eat any meat."

Fëanáro rolled his eyes again. "Then stab vegetables with it. You are stupid and silly, and have no imagination. I use mine all the time for everything I eat." He put the fork back into his pouch and glared defiantly at Elemmírë. "You can't have it."

"Fëanáro," Elemmírë sighed, "must you be so quarrelsome all the time?"

"I'm not quarrelsome! You're only saying that because the silly Vanyar never invented anything as good as forks."

"We have invented many useful things, which-"

"Like what?" Fëanáro interrupted.

"Such as… well… counting! The Vanyar made up counting, and mathematics."

"Anyone could do that," scoffed Fëanáro. "How hard is it to count?"

"And we invented coffee."

Fëanáro laughed. "Coffee is a plant. Even I know that. You can't invent a plant."

"We discovered how to make the drink from the plant," Elemmírë said stiffly.

"And I bet you invented singing too, right?"

"Well…"

"Nothing as good as forks," said Fëanáro, shaking his head.

It was a sure thing. Ingwë hated Elemmírë. His uncle never would have inflicted such an impossible child on somebody he liked.

Standing up as straight as he could, he stared down his nose at Fëanáro. "There is one more," he said in a cold voice. "One more Vanyarin invention. It is a new one, just perfected recently, but I am sure its usefulness will put all other inventions to shame. It is truly the greatest thing in the world."

Fëanáro gave him a look that was both appraising and skeptical. "What is it?" he asked.

~

The sight of Fëanáro's eyes widening in surprise and awe was enough to make the long trek down the mountain to Elemmírë's house worthwhile. "The wall!" Fëanáro whispered as they stepped into the front room. "It's covered in colours!"

"Indeed it is," Elemmírë said smugly.

"What is it?!"

Elemmírë showed him to the corner, where a bucket full of thick, blue liquid sat. "We call it 'paint'. You can put it on any surface, and the colour will stick! Walls, floors, furniture… Anywhere you want to be colourful, you can use paint. My mother is having all of our walls painted."

"I want it," Fëanáro said in a firm voice. "I want paint. I want colours on my walls at home!" He stepped up close to the nearest painted wall, delicately running his fingers over the bright lines and shapes.

"Then you will have to ask your father to have some paint made for you."

"I want it now, though," he said, and looked at the bucket of blue. "Can I have that?"

"No," said Elemmírë, "that paint is for our ceiling. We will be painting the ceiling to look like the sky."

"But I want to try! I want to see if paint really is a good invention. I have to try it to know."

Elemmírë sighed. "Very well. I think I can give you leftovers from this wall, in red and green. You can try it on some rocks outside. Only you must be very careful, Fëanáro. If this paint gets on your skin, it will take a very long time to rub off, and it does not wash out of clothes."

"I'll be careful," Fëanáro said.

~

According to Ingwë, Fëanáro ruined the wedding by showing up covered in paint. His nursemaids bathed and scrubbed him until he yelled, but still could not find a way to completely remove the persistent green spots that decorated his face and hair. Indis, horrified at the prospect of having such a ridiculous-looking child cause a sensation on her special day, ushered him off into a corner to stand out of the scrutiny of tongue-clucking relations. Only Finwë seemed not to mind his son's appearance. For the first time in over a year, Fëanáro was grinning brightly.

The gong was three links in diameter and made from hammered silver. It had been a gift from Feanáro to his wife, years ago, around the time Maitimo had grown old enough to wander and play outside by himself. Two reverberating bangs on the gong was soon understood to mean, "Come home right now or you'll go hungry." Any child foolish enough to test this warning quickly learned that dinner did not wait for dawdlers.

Dinner on that day was boiled sausage with carrots and leftover bread, prepared grudgingly by a cook whose arguments with Fëanáro were becoming more and more frequent. The cook had set the dinner platter down in the middle of the table and retreated back to his kitchen without a word, leaving Nerdanel to dish out five servings. Fëanáro offered neither to help with the food nor relieve her of the squirming baby tucked under one arm. He sat at the head of the table, picking at a stubborn bit of dirt under his fingernail and listening for the older boys to come inside.

The boys were, in this order: Maitimo, age forty-six, who spent most of his time outdoors; Macalaurë, age thirty-two, who had no personality to speak of and simply did whatever Maitimo was doing; and Tyelcormo, age twenty, who had discovered that the best way to get attention was to be as loud as possible as often as possible. The baby, Carnistir, was not yet a year old, but had already displayed a talent for throwing things and fussing whenever his mother carried him around for too long.

The three old enough to feed themselves filed through the door and sat, as they always did, in order of age down the left side of the table. Maitimo was closest to Fëanáro. Their mother sat across from them, where she patiently tried to coax Carnistir to open his mouth for a spoonful of mashed carrot. She had positioned herself so that her back was turned to her husband, making it impossible for her to see that he was trying to pass her an empty water jug. When she resiliently did not notice, even when he poked her in the shoulder with the spout, Fëanáro passed the jug to Maitimo instead and instructed the boy to fill it from the barrel in the kitchen. Then, with an unkind grumble about the lazy cook, he pushed one plate to Nerdanel, kept one for himself, and passed the other three down the left side of the table.

Three pairs of hands eagerly reached for their dinners. Distracted as he was by thoughts of something else to do with hammering and filing, Fëanáro found nothing odd about this until Maitimo returned from the kitchen with the water jug and said, "Where's my dinner?"

"Right here; I just gave it to you," Fëanáro replied.

"No you didn't. Look, I don't even have a plate!"

Nerdanel, immediately on the defensive, glanced up from the baby long enough to say, "I dished out five. There were five plates, and I filled them all."

At a loss, Fëanáro stared at his own plate, stared at the table, and stared at his sons. Tyelcormo and Macalaurë had started giggling behind their hands, laughing at some shared joke that Maitimo too would surely have found amusing, had he not just been slighted a dinner. Fëanáro's eyes darted from one younger son to the other, and in the course of this, fell upon something unexpected. Between them, a small head was resting its chin on the table. Maitimo's missing dinner plate sat within sniffing distance of a small nose.

"Ah," said Fëanáro. He leaned forward and spoke directly to the new head. "And what are you?"

"We found him!" Tyelcormo said, or rather, yelled. "We found him behind some trees!"

"A behind-tree child," said Fëanáro. "I see. And where do you belong?"

The head, which was attached to a small boy in a pink smock, said, "Here, sir."

"Why might you belong here?"

"Because I came to see you, sir."

"Me? Why should you come to see me?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Because my father said I shouldn't, sir."

Nerdanel laughed at this, smirking at Fëanáro and saying, "I can't imagine why."

"Well that narrows it down," Fëanáro said flatly. "Which fathers in this city would tell their small charges not to bother the greatest of Finwë's sons? All of them? If they are wise?"

"My father is wise, sir," said the boy. "That's his name. Though I think that he is not very clever even if he is wise, because he told me not to come here after he told me where here was. So I could find you easily on my own even if he did say, 'Do not go to your uncle Fëanáro's house unless I take you there.'"

Fëanáro's smile dropped. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Findekáno, sir."

"Findekáno son of Nolofinwë, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

Macalaurë and Tyelcormo had stopped laughing. They shrunk down in their seats, looking at their dinners rather than their father's cold face, and listened to the stony silence. "We found him," Tyelcormo muttered, in a tone that meant, "We should get to keep him."

Fëanáro spoke again only after a stifling pause. "I'm afraid you must go home, Findekáno son of Nolofinwë. Despite your efforts, you do not belong here."

"He's ours," Tyelcormo defiantly insisted.

"Be quiet."

"Please, sir," said Findekáno. "I don't want to stay forever. Just for today. Please let me stay for today. I'll be good."

With a long breath, Fëanáro leaned back in his chair, tucking his hands behind him. "You may stay," he said slowly, "if you can tell me how many fingers I am holding up behind my back."

Immediately, Findekáno answered, "None, sir."

"None? How can you be so certain if you've not even thought about it?"

"Because, sir," Findekáno said, "you're holding your knife in one hand and your spoon in the other. But not only that, I know you don't want me to stay. And if you don't want me to stay, you want me to give you a wrong answer, and the best way to get a wrong answer is to ask a trick question. You want me to guess that you are holding up three or six or seven fingers, when really you are holding up none just to trick me."

Fëanáro stared at the boy. Slowly, he pulled his hands out from behind his back. As Findekáno had said, the hands held Fëanáro's knife and spoon, and all fingers were snugly wrapped around each. "How old are you?" Fëanáro asked.

"Sixteen, sir."

"Then you may stay."

The game was called Orma-Corma, and this is how it worked.

Each team had seven players. Each player had a javelin. Two teams would square off on a field with a centre line but no boundaries, trying to throw a wooden ring over the opponent's goalpost. Maedhros fancied it to be a rather pleasing combination of rugby, frisbee, and lawn darts. In his opinion, it was the best game in the world. He had invented it.

He had also organised the Orma-Corma tournament that would be taking place over the coming weekend. His team, the Tigercats, was made up of him and his six brothers. There being seven of them was the main reason for Maedhros inventing a game in which each team had seven players. They were called the Tigercats because when they all stood in a line, the alternating reddish-orange and black of their hair looked vaguely like the stripes on a tiger. Celegorm had to stand on the end and be the tiger's blond bum. They all wore black uniforms with reddish-orange racing stripes. Because Maedhros had invented the game, they were the team favoured to win the tournament. Only they really knew all the rules.

Fingon's team consisted of himself, his brothers, his cousins Finrod, Angrod, and Aegnor, and either his sister or Artanis- he couldn't decide which. His sister was more athletic by far, but Artanis had the sort of presence that made people do what she said, and he was fairly certain that any opposing players would simply hand her the ring and get out of her way if she mustered a fierce enough look. The downside was that she could only throw a javelin twelve feet. They would lose for certain on her toss.

Of course this was all irrelevant, because they weren't even entered in the tournament yet.

In order to participate, each team was required to have a name. Fingon's team did not have a name. Not because they were unable to think of one, but because all the good names were taken. The Tigercats, of course, but also the Wildcats, the Bobcats, Lions, Cougars, Panthers, Jaguars, Leopards, Cheetahs, Pumas, and even Ocelots, who got their name after being informed by tournament officials that "Wildcats" was taken. The only cat not represented was the lynx. This was because nobody knew what its plural form was.

The following names and so far been put forward as possibilities for Fingon's team: the Winners, the Sevens, and the No-Names. Nobody particularly liked any of them. Turgon had been unreasonably attached to "The Sevens", because he had thought of it himself, but after Fingon hit him in the eye and told him to quit being stupid, he went off to the corner to sulk. He was convinced that Fingon had purposefully damaged his nicest eyelash. The thought of this made him furious. Fingon was always trying to sabotage his good looks! He briefly considered quitting the team out of spite, but then realised that this would only help Fingon, by solving the Aredhel-or-Artanis dilemma. If he was gone, they could both play. He decided to stay on the team out of spite.

"What about... The Sensible Descendants of Finwë?" asked Finrod.

Fingon rolled his eyes. "Does anybody here think that's a sensible suggestion?"

Nobody said anything.

"There you have it," he told Finrod. "With you on the team, our collective sensibility would suffer, and the name would be meaningless. No."

"And it's too long to put on our tunics," Aegnor added wisely. Everyone nodded at this, and said things like, "That's right," and "Mm-hmm."

Finrod bit his lip. "Then what about... just The Descendants of Finwë?"

"Good one," said Angrod. "That won't confuse anybody at all when we're playing Maedhros' team. The team called The Descendants of Finwë versus... another team made up of descendants of Finwë."

"Are you being sarcastic?" Finrod asked.

Angrod looked him directly in the eye for a good ten seconds. "No."

"If we can't be the Descendants of Finwë, then we should call ourselves the descendants of Indis," Aredhel said. "We're the only ones descended from her, you know."

The boys all looked equally uncomfortable at this suggestion, and Turgon shook his head. "No way. Nobody wants to be on a team named after a girl. We'll be laughed at. We might as well just call ourselves the Mermaid-Princess-Riding-A-Lavender-Unicorn team."

Both Aredhel and Artanis glared. "What's wrong with girls?" Artanis asked, sounding very menacing.

"Nothing," said Fingon, "except that nobody in the sports world takes girls seriously."

Aredhel was about to argue with him, but realised straight away that he was right. Nobody did take girls seriously. She and Artanis would just have to change that. Sneering at everyone, they went to sit far away by themselves and plot how best to get both of them on the team. Aredhel figured that people would have to take them seriously if they stuck a javelin up Turgon's-

"Anyhow," said Fingon, "the tournament entry deadline is just over an hour away. We need a name, and a good one, right now."

"I still want to be The Sevens," Turgon muttered. Fingon pretended not to hear him.

"What about The Mountaincats?" asked Angrod.

Fingon looked at him. "Are we from the mountains? Do you see any mountains around here?"

A dejected chorus of, "No, sir," came the reply.

"We need something different. Something snappy. Something so completely unexpected that all of our opponents quake with fear at the mere thought of us!"

For the first time all day, Argon tentatively raised his hand. "I... I have an idea..."

The others stared at him in awe. They had forgotten he even existed.

Nervously, Argon got to his feet and cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I was just thinking... if we wanted a name that's different from everybody else, we could call ourselves... we could call ourselves... erm... the... uh... Argonauts."

A full minute of silence followed his suggestion, before Fingon said, "What the hell is an Argonaut?"

"No idea," said Aegnor. "But it sounds cool!"

"I like it!" Finrod agreed.

Turgon nodded. "All in favour?"

Everyone shouted a loud, "AYE!"

Everyone but Fingon. "No!" he said. "This is ridiculous! That's not even a real word! And besides, I'm the team captain! If anything, the team should be named after me! Argon doesn't even have his own javelin! Why do you want us all to be named after him?!"

"Because 'Fingonauts' sounds retarded," said Turgon. "And I also think we should make Argon our new team captain, just so our name makes sense. All in favour?"

Everyone but Fingon yelled, "AYE!" again.

"Fine," said Fingon. And with that he turned and left, pausing only long enough to yell, "I quit!" over his shoulder.

"Does this mean both Aredhel and I are on the team?" asked Artanis.

Argon shrugged. "I guess so... yeah..." He handed her a spare javelin.

And with that, the newly-formed team marched off to the tournament grounds to register. A happy ending would be to say that they beat the odds and came in first place, but unfortunately, this is not the case. In fact, they came in third to last, managing only to defeat a team of Vanyarin farmers who were using pitchfork handles in place of javelins, and the Ocelots, who didn't even show up. Fingon lorded over them with a smug "I told you so" smile for the twelve days following. But Aredhel insisted that winning or losing didn't matter; at least they had their happy memories of the joy of playing organised sports.

Except Argon, who was beaned in the head ten minutes into the first game, suffered a severe concussion, and consequently didn’t remember much.

"It would be the right thing to do. I mean, we are dispossessed, after all, and have probably lost most of our credibility..."

Maedhros sighed. Maglor was right. "I know. And why do I need to be king anyway? Kings have too much responsibility. People would expect me to do stuff. I don't need that kind of stress."

"That's very true," Maglor agreed. "It's up to you to keep order, make the laws, govern the people... All important decisions would fall on your shoulders."

"Too much work."

"Way too much work."

"Less time for getting drunk."

"Kings can't be drunk all the time. They just can't."

Nodding, Maedhros stood, and ran his thumbs over the crown in his hand before putting it on his head. "Also, the crown is heavy. I'm sure it would give me a headache after wearing it all day."

"Very true, very true," Maglor sighed. "Only..."

"Only what?"

"It's just... " And Maglor stood up, staring thoughtfully at his brother's forehead. "It's just that the silver of the crown looks so nice against your hair, and compliments your outfit beautifully. It really brings the whole look together."

Maedhros blinked. "Really?" He turned and walked over to the mirror, posing one way and the other to get a good look at himself. Maglor was right. The crown really did add a certain something extra.

"You're right," he said. "And nuts to those other jerks. I'm keeping it."

"We demand action!" said the Sindarin man. He stood in Fingolfin's reception hall with six of his fellows, all farmers from the plains to the north of Eithel Sirion, and all six of them grumbled and nodded in agreement. "This has gone on too long. Our lives and families are in danger, and even the land itself. Something must be done."

Under their collective angry stare, Fingolfin shifted uncomfortably. "Yes," he said. "Well. Hmm. I thank you, sirs, for bringing this trouble to my attention. I will order the assembly of a task force, and they will ride north to investigate your claim. If it proves valid-"

"Not good enough!" shouted one of the farmers.

"The orcs plague us now!" said another.

The first one nodded and gestured to his companions. "Every day, my kinsmen and I lose more livestock and more cropland to the greedy hands and flames of the orcs. Unless something is done now, we will have nothing left to see us through the winter! There is no time for a task force. The orcs must be stopped immediately. Killed. If you are the true king of this land, you will protect us!"

"Of course I am the true king of this land," Fingolfin said, bristling. "Do not question my authority, farmer! Of course I have the power to wipe out some pitiful band of marauding orcs! I will send a company of soldiers north at once to eliminate your problem. Will that be acceptable, you ungrateful peons?"

Frowning, the farmers gathered into a tight huddle. Their whispering voices hissed through the hall. "No," said the leader when he turned back to the King.

"No?!" Fingolfin shouted.

Another man stepped forward from the farmer's group. He looked fearful, and clutched his arms nervously across his chest. "My King, these are no average orcs. They are demon-orcs, with evil powers!"

Fingolfin blinked. "Excuse me?"

"It's true!" said one of the others. "They come like cursed shadows in the night, like foul smoke, without bodies! Only glowing eyes. We have tried to trap and kill them, but like shadows and smoke, they cannot be caught. You will need to send more than soldiers."

"How can I possibly send more than soldiers?" Fingolfin asked. "There is nothing more to send. Soldiers kill orcs. That's how it's done."

"You must send a hero!" said the leader, and an approving murmur rose from the circle of Sindar. "Only a hero can defeat great evils!"

"A… hero?"

The Sindar nodded, and their leader smiled in understanding. "Yes. A hero. To avenge the wrongs done us and vanquish the threat. Just like in the stories of olden times!"

"I'm sorry," said Fingolfin. "I don't exactly have any designated 'hero'…"

"We have heard of one," the nervous farmer replied. "A man of great courage and bravery. His heroic deeds are known across the land. The mightiest warrior of the Golodhrim!"

Fingolfin stared at them in confusion. "Who?"

"Fingon the Valiant!" cried the Sindar.

From his place in the corner of the room, where he had been sitting inconspicuously as he worked to polish the buckle on his cloak, Fingon looked up. "… Wait, what?"

~

"This is ridiculous!" he spat as he mounted his horse. "It's a beautiful day, the first rain-free morning we've had all fall, and now I have to go kill glowing-eyed smoke-demon orcs! No-one ever asks me if I had other plans…"

"Did you have other plans, my Lord?" asked his groom.

Fingon scowled. "If you must know, I wanted to go swimming today. And perhaps fishing. Risking my life was not on the agenda."

But despite his complaints, Fingon still rode out from the city's north gate with four of his best horsemen, cheered on by citizens who threw flowers in the path of their hero. Their noise of adoration clashed in his ears and gave him the beginnings of a headache. He was in a foul mood. And then in an even fouler mood yet when he and his party returned just after sundown, dragging seventeen orc heads in a sack.

"Evil powers and glowing eyes my heinie!" he complained to his father. "Those farmers have overactive imaginations. The orcs we found were of the commonest sort. In fact, they were less than that. Stupid little buggers grown fat and lazy on stolen sheep. They were all asleep under some junipers when we came upon them, and we beheaded half of the lot before the others even woke up to see what was happening. It was over in minutes."

"Mere minutes to eradicate the orcish menace!" said a breathless poet. "How heroic!"

By the next evening, a rather soppy and embarrassing song about Fingon the Valiant's great deed had started to circulate with alarming popularity. It slightly exaggerated the situation. Fingon the Valiant, however, was unable to make any corrections, as he was busy hiding in his room.

~

The Sindarin farmers were overjoyed with Fingon's work, and they spread the tale of his bravery up and down the land to anyone who would listen. Continuously. By the onset of winter, seventeen orcs had grown into seventy, and they no longer slept lazily under the junipers, but rather put up a resistance that involved fearsome weapons, black sorcery, and, for some odd reason, a unicorn. As a result, Fingon's orc-killing skills were in demand across his father's kingdom. Countrymen who before would have assembled their own raiding party or dug a pit trap now needed Fingon's expertise to handle a single wayward orc.

On top of that, the soppy and embarrassing songs had become an hourly feature of life in Eithel Sirion.

"Fingon the Valiant!" townspeople cried in admiration.

"Fingon the Valiant…" snickered his men.

"The next person who calls me Fingon the Valiant gets a fist in the eye," said Fingon the Valiant.

"But why?" asked one of the soldiers. "It's an honourable title. Better than Maedhros the Imperfect."

"What? Who calls him that?"

The soldiers looked at each other. "Sindar," they answered quickly.

"Oh, he's not going to be happy when he finds out…" said Fingon.

"But how did you earn the title in the first place?" asked another of Fingon's men. "It must have been a kingly deed you did."

Fingon scowled. "It was nothing important."

"You just say that to be modest!" said a third man. "I, for one, would like to hear the tale."

His words were greeted with a chorus of, "Yes, so would I!" and "Tell us! We want to know!"

"Believe me, it was nothing-"

"False modesty! What did you do?"

Trapped, Fingon could only slouch as far as he could until his face was partially obscured by his collar. He looked at the ground as he mumbled. "Savdmrrfrmsprr."

"What?" said the soldiers.

Fingon growled. "I saved my mother from… Oh, this is stupid…"

~

The summer that Fingon was thirty-nine, his family had decided to retreat to the lazy luxury of his uncle Finarfin's beach house just south of Alqualondë. Fingon, who would have preferred to stay behind in Tirion in the company of his cousin Celegorm, moped the entire way there. His and Celegorm's ingenious plan of building a catapult to fling themselves into Fëanor's pond would now have to wait until fall. His parents clearly had no sense of what was important in life.

Thus Fingon resolved to have no fun whatsoever while he was stuck at the beach in the humiliating presence of his parents and younger brother. He lay on his back on the bed in the room he had been assigned, and glared at the ceiling. His mother accused him of being moody and difficult, but the truth was that he was being no more difficult than they, who had refused to let him spend the summer with Celegorm. And logically, if he remained on his worst behaviour the entire time, next year they would rethink their stance of forcing him to come along if his presence only made everyone involved miserable.

He was halfway through his third day of sulking in bed when a terrified scream ripped through the air and caused him to jump up in alarm. "Ammë!" he said. He assumed it was his mother who screamed, and then screamed again; no other women were nearby. He flung open his bedroom door and raced down the stairs with two thoughts on his mind. One, that he had to save his mother, whom he secretly adored despite having to act like a surly youth all the time, and two, that if she were upset enough about whatever caused her to scream, there was a chance the family might return to Tirion as soon as possible. He prayed for this to be true.

Bursting into the sitting room, he found his mother backing slowly into a corner and screaming like her life depended on it. He followed her terrified gaze to the floor… where his eyes fell upon the largest spider he had ever seen. Not counting the one Celegorm had brought back from the forest in a jar.

He had to shout to be heard above his mother's shrieks. "Ammë! What should I-"

"Get your father!" she yelled back. "Get your father! Now!"

Fingon spun around just in time to collide with his father, who had come running in from the garden to investigate the din.

"Anairë? What-"

The spider moved sideways, and Anairë's voice failed. "Get rid of it!" she whispered hoarsely. Her hand shook as she pointed.

Warily, Fingolfin got down on the floor on his hands and knees, directly between his wife and the spider, and gently blew on it in a feeble attempt to make it go away. The spider retaliated by running directly toward him. Swearing loudly, he leapt out of the way. Anairë turned white as the spider continued its march forward.

"Get it..." she said in a faint whisper. "Oh please oh please get it, just get it, oh please get it..." She had backed herself in to a corner, where there was only a short stool for protection. Her eyes never left the spider as she stepped up onto the stool.

The spider was large and lumpy, mottled grey and white and black, and it walked proudly up off the floor on its long, crooked legs in a bouncing gait. Fingon could see his father shudder and clench his teeth as he looked at it. "Don't worry, love..." Fingolfin said in a shaky voice. "I'll... I'll get it for you... I'll remove it..."

He bent over again, reaching his hand toward the spider with a look of terrified determination on his face, and the tip of his finger brushed its leg.

Anairë screamed again, having rediscovered her voice. "Don't touch it don't touch it don't touch it oh Valar don't touch it!" she shrieked. "If you touch that horrible thing with your bare skin I'm never letting you touch me again!"

Fingolfin looked both relieved and confused. "But if I don't pick it up, what am I supposed to-"

"I don't care just get rid of it and for the love of Varda don't touch it!"

The spider paused in its journey, stopping a moment to do something that looked suspiciously like picking its fangs with its front legs. Then it was back on the move toward Anairë's stool. She made a sound partway between a whimper and a screech.

"Ammë," said Fingon. "Don't move. Just stay right there. I can handle this."

He pushed past his father, who stood still gaping at the spider and nervously twisting his hands, and ran for the kitchen. He grabbed the nearest container he could find, a silver water jug, and sprinted back to his mother's rescue. He came just in time. The spider had started to crawl up the leg of the stool, and Anairë stood petrified, unable to move out of its path.

"Ammë!" Fingon called to her. "Jump!"

But Anairë, stricken through with terror, stood stiff as marble. The spider reached the top of the stool and began feeling about at the hem of her skirt with its crooked legs.

Fingon had to act. He ran forward to grab his mother about the waist and lift her down to safety. Once she was out of harm's way, he scooped the spider into the silver jug. And there it stayed, scrambling uselessly to find a foothold on the smooth metal.

"My darling boy!" Anairë sighed as she gathered Fingon in an embarrassing hug, squeezing him close and kissing his forehead. "So clever and brave!

Fingon groaned. "Ammë... don't... You're being weird..." He squirmed and tried to push her away. But not too hard.

"...MUCH more reliable than your father..."

"Hey!" said Fingolfin.

"Valiant Findekáno! Always able to help his poor mother in need! You do live up to your name. Your father chose wisely for you. He is good for some things, after all."

"Hey!" Fingolfin repeated. "I almost picked up that spider for you! With my bare hands!"

Anairë ignored him and pulled Fingon closer, forcing more kisses upon him. "So brave! My son! Findekáno the Valiant!"

Cringing, Fingon rolled his eyes. "Ammë... Quit it..." He wriggled out of her grasp as she tried to pinch his cheeks, and picked up the spider jug. "I have to get rid of this."

"Far away!" said Anairë. "Take it as far away as you can, perhaps out to some trees, and make sure it won't come back!"

"I'll put it in the neighbour's garden. That family you don't like, with the loud wind chimes."

Anairë beamed. "Good boy."

Fingon carried the spider, still flailing and slipping inside its jug, outside and down the path toward the garden next door. Turgon, who was about waist-high at the time and utterly pointless as a person, ran after him.

"Finno! Finno! Whad'you got?"

"A spider."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" Fingon asked with a scowl. "I'm taking it out of the house. It was on the floor. I had to save Ammë from it."

Turgon's eyes widened in obvious admiration of his brother's bravery. "Is it big?"

"Yes," sighed Fingon. Children could be so exasperating. "You think Ammë would need saving from a small spider?"

"Can I see it?"

Fingon shrugged. "Sure. I'll put it on your bed. Then you can see it up close."

Momentarily stunned, Turgon's mouth dropped open in horror. "No!" he yelled. And then he turned to flee to the safety of the house, wailing the themes of "Atar!" and "Findekáno's being mean!"

Fingon did not care.

He did care, however, when his mother told the spider story at their next extended family supper upon returning to Tirion. And then again when they were invited for breakfast at Fëanor's house. Also at the party in Olwë's honour. Each time, Fingon tried his best to disappear into his chair, but it never quite worked. All eyes always turned to him.

"O, Findekáno the Valiant!" sang Celegorm. "Do save us from the terror of spiders! I will polish your mighty silver urn!"

"Shut your ugly cake hole," said Fingon, and he kicked his cousin's shin beneath the table. Celegorm only laughed harder and kicked him back.

Maedhros gave them both a patronising sort of smile from his chair opposite. "You know, boys, you could try to behave for the duration of even one meal."

"You know, Russandolt, you could try to mind your own business," Fingon said.

"Good one," said Celegorm. He gave Fingon a high-five.

Maedhros continued smoothly, as if he had heard nothing. "Findekáno, there's nothing wrong in having such a title, and nothing to be ashamed of. Why, you should be proud that your bravery will henceforth be known to all. I will gladly support you. My cousin, Findekáno the Valiant!"

In thanks for his vote of confidence, Maedhros got a fist in the eye, resulting in an impressive shiner. He was thereafter known among his brothers and cousins as Maitimo Laquacarna. The Imperfect. Fingon later considered this name to be satisfyingly prophetic.

~

"That's it?" the soldiers asked when Fingon finished the story. "You earned your title by saving your mother from a spider?"

"I told you it was stupid," said Fingon. "Now let's never speak of it again."

The soldiers shuffled, coughed, and looked uncertain. "Well," said one, "I suppose that's not bad. You did it for your mother, after all. But still…"

"Still what?" Fingon asked.

"We just thought it would be… well…"

"More amazing," said another.

"Exactly," said a third. "Amazing. Something worthy of heroic songs."

"No wonder we never heard of this before…" grumbled somebody at the back. Disillusioned, they all started to drift away

Thereafter, once the true story of Fingon's valour was known, the calls to exterminate orcs came less frequently. Farmers reasoned that if someone who earned his fame by putting a spider into a jug could be a hero, so could they. An unusual number of self-professed orc-killing experts emerged that winter. Fingon the Valiant was out of a job.

As he sat idly in a well-stuffed chair by the fire with a cup of mulled wine and no orcs to kill, he began for the first time in his life to appreciate his own legend.

Glorfindel's list of discouraging activities grew at a steady pace. He was beginning to suspect that he had no talents whatsoever.

"The purpose of high learning," Fingon told him, "is to gain experience in all aspects of courtly life. Not only reading and writing, which are common, but composition, rhetoric and discourse, music and dance, archery and swordsmanship, mathematics, history, and, above all, etiquette. These things must be learned. And don't give me that look. I'm trying to condense sixty years of royal education into a few lessons. Do you think this is easy?"

No, it was not easy. Archery was not easy. Music was not easy. Composition, worst of all, was not easy. Glorfindel was terrible at all of them. His shooting skills were on the poor side of novice, allowing him the distinction of being able to hit the outer edges of the target every time without fail. His swordsmanship was marginally better, though he still consistently mistakes that could get him killed in a proper fight. His singing voice would be more appropriate for cheeky drinking songs than courtly airs, and his tunes at the harp and mandolin always managed to come out as a long string of wrong notes. His compositions were fit to be burnt.

"Now I want you to try again," said Fingon. "This time, I want you to write me a letter of thanks. Pretend I've just sent you a present: let's say a lovely new silk shirt. Write a letter and thank me for it." He pushed an accusingly blank piece of paper across the table to Glorfindel, and sat back with an expectant look on his face.

Glorfindel rubbed his hands over his eyes. He found it difficult enough to say words of thanks to Fingon in response to a gift that had actually been given; to write such words about something make-believe was ridiculous. Foolishness. He grudgingly dipped his pen and set it to the paper. It made a petulant blotch, as if it somehow knew that Glorfindel had neither the skill nor the status required to write a formal letter.

Narrowing his eyes, Glorfindel began.

'Dear Findekáno. Thank you for the shirt.'

And that was all he could think of to write. Was there any more? No, those few words said exactly what he needed to say. They seemed, however, far too small and few on the vast expanse of empty page. He stared down, willing them to do something, perhaps multiply before his eyes and rearrange themselves into a grand and poetic missive, but nothing of the sort happened. The words clearly held him in contempt. It was hardly his fault that he was a terrible writer, when his subjects were so uncooperative.

Sullenly, he added, 'Sincerely, Lauron' below what he had written, and shoved the paper back to Fingon.

Fingon glanced at it with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, he was silent. Then, "Once, years ago, one of my cousins made me a thank-you note for a toy I'd sent him. He was three at the time, and hadn't yet learned to write. He only had a primary grasp of what the tengwar looked like. However, despite all odds, he somehow managed to print the word 'oil' in childish script in the middle of the page, followed by a drawing of a disembodied head with eight arms that I think was supposed to be me. It was, if not functional, at least amusing. Which is more than I can say for your effort. Now what does that tell you, if you can't even outperform an illiterate three-year-old?"

Glorfindel scowled. "You wanted me to thank you, and I did. It says right there, 'Thank you for the shirt.' What else am I supposed to say?"

"Dear Findekáno," Fingon said in a high and frilly, singsong way; "please allow me to thank you for the splendid gift you most recently sent me: the beautiful red silk shirt. Of course it fits wonderfully, as all the other clothes you've ever given me. What a talent you have, to know my exact size! The embroidery around the collar is simply stunning. Did you know, it is almost a perfect match to the colours on new sash I just had made? The two will look delightful together. Then," he continued in his normal voice, "you enquire after the person's family, say a thing or two about your own experiences of late, mention any recent marriages, births or scandals, make a comment about the current political atmosphere, and say one last thank you for the gift received. Your faithful friend until the final ending of the world, Lauron."

Staring at him, Glorfindel said, "I don't see why I have to learn this when you're here and can just do it for me, and do it better."

"You have to learn because there must be something in this world for which you have a talent. A man of the court must have a strength to show off in front of others, be it singing or dancing or shooting an arrow through an acorn."

"But I'm no good at any of those things!"

"And that is why you must have lessons," said Fingon.

It was enough to make Glorfindel's head ache. He was perfectly ready to give up altogether and admit that he would never belong to the world of lords and nobles, with his stubborn lack of required talents. He saw nothing wrong with resigning himself to a life of standing silently, unnoticed, behind Fingon, who was irritatingly good at everything. Fingon could write letters, of thanks or praise or concern or condolence, and he could compose sonnets and prose with words flowing like wine from his thoughts to the page. He spoke just as perfectly, besting everyone in debate. His swordsmanship was unmatched. His skills with a bow were excellent. He rarely sang, but when he did, his voice rang clear and silvery-smooth. And he knew things. Whether the topic was history or current politics, Fingon always seemed to be better informed than anyone. From Glorfindel's point of view, there was simply no sense in competing.

"Perhaps... we should try something else," Fingon said slowly. "How do you think the dance lessons went?"

"Laughable."

"I see. And the mandolin?"

"Worse."

"Singing?"

"Please don't make me."

Sighing, Fingon folded his hands in front of him and leaned into the table. "Have you considered at all that it might be your poor attitude that keeps you from success?" When Glorfindel gave no answer, apart from a roll of the eyes, he continued, "How about you tell me what lessons you hate the least."

Glorfindel shrugged. "I don't know... I suppose arithmetic isn't too bad. I mean, that's either right or wrong, isn't it? No room for judgement and no talent needed."

"True," said Fingon. "Though I doubt you'll ever dazzle noblemen and win respect with your astounding powers of subtraction. Arithmetic is a necessary life skill, not a courtly pastime. Choose something else."

Glorfindel was silent for a moment, considering. "I guess... I don't mind talking to people. Conversation. I could work on that."

Fingon shook his head. "I'm sorry. No. You still speak like a Vanyarin peasant. No matter what eloquent words you learn, I suspect any conversation partner will have trouble hearing anything past your harsh pronunciation of the letter H, the touchy TH issue, and your stubborn insistence on saying Z instead of R."

"I do not have a harsh pronunciation of the letter H!" Glorfindel snapped.

"Yes. You do. It's reminiscent of a drunken Sindarin blacksmith. In fact, until you learn that words should come from behind your teeth and not from the back of your throat, I'm forbidding you to speak in public."

With a growl that sounded far more like an un-Noldorin hard H than he intended, Glorfindel leaned over and put his head down on the table. "Then I'm not good at anything," he said, words muffled. "You might as well dress me in pale blue right now and let me live as your uneducated servant forever."

"That's a bit extreme," laughed Fingon. "Come on. Sit up. We'll find something you can do."

But Glorfindel remained bent over, face hidden by his arms. "No. There's nothing. I have no business trying to live in your refined and royal world."

Fingon picked up the failed thank-you letter, turning it over in his hand and holding it up against the window's light. "You know..." he said slowly. "Your words may be ridiculous, but your actual writing, the penmanship, isn't bad at all. We're going to try one more thing."

He stood up from the table and crossed to the bookshelf on the far wall, returning with a large, red-bound volume, which he set open at Glorfindel's elbow. "I want you to copy this page. Text and illumination both. We have no coloured ink, so just do the black lines for now. In the meanwhile, I'm going to have a bath." And with no further instruction, he left.

In Fingon's absence, Glorfindel briefly considered two things. First, that the page was bordered with winding pictures of animals, and he had always been taught that that drawing any living creature was an insult to its likeness, and therefore an insult to the Vala who created it. Second, that he and Manwë were no longer on friendly terms, so this did not particularly concern him. In fact, it was a satisfactory sort of defiance, to dare to draw an animal now. There was nobody to stop him. He took up the pen, and copied one careful black line after another.

It was mostly finished by the time Fingon returned. He had done all but the bottom right corner. Fingon came to stand behind him, watching for a moment in silence while he worked.

"Have you had much practice in drawing or painting?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No." Apart from pretending to paint lucky patterns on the walls of Amma's house with water, he had done nothing.

Fingon picked up the paper and set it down directly beside the original to compare. It was neither as exact nor as flawless, but the result overall was good. The proportions were correct. The lines flowed evenly.

"If I didn't know that this was your first attempt," Fingon said at last, "if I hadn't just set you this trial, I wouldn't believe you if you told me you had never before worked as a artist."

"I haven't."

"I know." Again, Fingon took the paper in his hands, turning it over to examine the back and see if any ink had been applied too heavily and bled through. Few spots showed, and those only faintly. "How did you find this?" he asked. "Easy? Dull? Frustrating?"

"Easy, I suppose," Glorfindel said. "Well, not easy, but... not straining. It took some concentration. But I liked doing it."

Fingon smiled at him in a curious, appraising way. "Good. That's good. I think we've found your talent."

In the morning, Fingolfin told Oropher that he could have a present. Not an expensive present (like an emerald or a horse), and not something intangible (like freedom or status), but a reasonable present that could easily be given. New shoes, perhaps, or a hairbrush with all the bristles intact.

Oropher considered this carefully; he had never before been asked what he wanted. Fingolfin had always simply given him candy. For the first time, he was able to choose, and choice was as pleasing as any present. He would be an idiot to waste it on something foolish.

So, after an entire morning and afternoon of thorough deliberation, he informed Fingolfin that he wanted a roast chicken. Not a terribly big one, and it did not have to be all garnished and fancy. He just wanted a whole chicken to eat entirely by himself, without having to share.

Fingolfin thought this was somewhat ridiculous, but he agreed to the request nonetheless. He arranged for Oropher to be given his chicken for next day's dinner. With a jar of vinegar and a slow-fried onion, because was in a generous mood.

Oropher proudly carried the chicken and the onion outside, the vinegar jar and a knife tucked under his arm. Glorfindel followed. Not because he wanted to share, but because he had nothing better to do. He knew full well that eating chicken was an affront to the Valar. Birds were holy creatures of Manwë. Killing, cooking, and eating a bird was one of the worst things a person could do, and was certainly almost as evil as killing, cooking, and eating a fellow Elf.

So Glorfindel watched in disgust as Oropher slowly cut the chicken apart, dipped the pieces in vinegar, and ate them. He would have said something, had Oropher not given him the fried onion. It was a sin to speak ill of one from whom you had received hospitality. This was not as great a sin as disrespecting a chicken, but Glorfindel did not want to be rude. He ate the onion and otherwise kept his mouth shut.

It took Oropher four hours to eat his meal. He had been pacing himself, not rushing hungrily at the beginning, for fear of not being able to finish. The chicken was, after all, nearly as big as his head. He was a bit sick afterward. But satisfied on the whole.

Fingolfin had been born with the advantage of beauty; he was largely regarded as the fairest of the lords of Eithel Sirion. "But if you look at him long enough," said Oropher, "really have a good long stare, he's sort of funny-looking."

"Everything's funny-looking if you stare at it long enough," Glorfindel replied.

Oropher paused where he stood to have a critical look at a nearby goat. After a moment, he grinned. "You're right. See that goat's eyes? And the way its legs bend opposite ways? And one horn's longer than the other."

"Very amusing," said Glorfindel. "Come on." He tugged on Oropher's arm, and the two continued walking toward the gate.

"Everyone says the King's so great. But I don't know. He has funny eyes... Not like goat funny, but still funny, you know? Far apart and two different colours. I mean, not that his eyes are different colours. But each eye is two colours, a sort of light grey and charcoal grey. I don't like when he stares at me with his weird eyes."

Glorfindel shrugged. "His eyes don't bother me much. They’re just eyes. Everyone has them."

"Fingon has normal eyes, lucky for you. No larky stare from him. But he's a bit nip, so I don't know..." They rounded the gate to the other side of the wall, and Oropher stopped again. "Who would you rather, overall?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, if you had to choose. Between the two of them. For any reason, who would you rather?"

"You mean if I were to choose between my position and yours," said Glorfindel, to which Oropher nodded.

It was a question that Glorfindel had considered many times before. Would he rather have his lot, with Fingon, or Oropher's? He had argued it back and forth in his mind when he particularly hated Fingon, or when he tried to convince himself that being with Fingon was not as terrible as it could be, or when he was simply bored with ample time for his thoughts to wander into the realm of 'what if'. In the end, no matter what excuses he made for either side, he never chose Fingolfin.

"I think it would be a more advantageous choice to be with the King, wouldn't it?" he said slowly. "For most people."

"But?"

"But..." Glorfindel sighed. He took a long breath before speaking again, this time much more quickly than before. "Oropher, I think he is one of the most revolting people I know. Not in obvious ways," he added when Oropher frowned, "but in little ways that I only notice when he is around too much. Just like you think he's funny-looking after staring at him too long. Consider this."

He glanced to the side to make certain nobody was near enough to overhear, and ducked behind a tree. "Have you noticed," he continued quietly, "that he smells of blood and dead animals? I know almost all Golodhrim do, because they eat all that meat and the smell comes out through their skin, but I think it bothers me more on him because he looks like the sort of person who should smell better."

"I never noticed," said Oropher.

"You must be used to it. You smell of animals a bit, too."

Scowling, Oropher lifted his arm to his nose to check. "I can't tell. But I think you smell like celery."

"Anyhow," Glorfindel said, "Fingon only eats bread and vegetables. So he has no dead animal kind of smell. But he also has a bath every day. If he smells of anything, it's soap and bath oil. I know the King can't be having a bath every day, because most of the time when I see him, he's wearing unwashed clothes and his hair is dirty. He's the king of the whole north. I think he should at least have clean hair, instead of leaving it long and stringy. His hair is thin, and he needs to wash it more often. You should tell him that."

Oropher shook his head. "I'm not telling him anything like that, he'd hit me!"

"And you should tell him to cut his fingernails. Those long claws are frightening. And worse when he uses them to pick things out of his teeth or scratch his oily hair. Those are appalling habits."

"So you like Fingon better, I guess."

"Yes," said Glorfindel. "I still wish he would fall off a turret and die, but at least he's clean and has good manners. And nice hair. His breath doesn't smell of old wine, he knows how to clean his teeth properly, and he has his clothes washed after he wears them."

"Huh."

Oropher started down the path again, and Glorfindel followed, toward the river.

"Who would you say, then?" Glorfindel asked. "If you were to choose?"

"I'd say neither," Oropher said with a silly grin.

Glorfindel punched him in the arm.

Fingon slept facing the wall, his back turned to Glorfindel, who was awake even as the sun started to climb over the edge of the horizon. Fingon had learned a considerable time earlier that the sun's presence did not necessarily indicate that it was time to get out of bed. Especially not so far into the north of the world, where summer's day began again after only five short hours of night. Glorfindel had not yet learned this. So he woke too early, and spent the first part of morning watching Fingon sleep. Or rather, he watched Fingon's hair.

Fingon always lay facing toward the wall, which Glorfindel thought odd for someone who fancied himself a warrior. In Glorfindel's opinion, a warrior should sleep facing the room, in order to better align himself against potential attackers. But Fingon explained away his preference through the story of a childhood nightmare. At age six, he had dreamed that the wall by his bed had melted away to reveal a gaping, mouth-like hole full of tentacles, ready to pull him in and swallow him. This was a far greater concern than monsters creeping through the open room. He would hear those creaking on the floor before they reached him, of course. So thereafter, he always slept in a wallward position to better align himself against potential tentacle attacks from that side.

This was naturally ridiculous, as Glorfindel well knew. There was no chance of a tentacle-filled mouth hole opening in the bedroom wall. Walls simply did not do that. Young Fingon must have had a runaway imagination to have dreamed such a thing. Glorfindel never would have. His dreams were, for the most part, purely functional. Except for the one he had just experienced. By all accounts, it was strange, and it worried him. He needed reassurance.

"Findekáno?"

"Mm?" answered Fingon. Either he was only pretending to be asleep, or he had fantastic wall-honed reflexes that allowed him to wake in a second at the slightest sound.

"I had a strange dream," said Glorfindel.

Fingon yawned, rolled over, and looked at him. "Oh really?"

"Yes. Just now."

"That is curious," Fingon said. "I too had a strange dream. It must be the air this past night. What was yours?"

Glorfindel took a steadying breath, and began. "It started normally enough. In my dream, you were teaching me a new card game. We were sitting in your father's salon. But then he came in and said he'd purchased a new ornamental bird. It was dreadfully expensive. And worse, he charged me to look after it. I had to feed this bird, and wash its feathers, because it was very dusty from having been sent up from the south. Then as I was washing it, its tail fell off. No matter what I tried, I couldn't put the tail back on, and I knew your father would be furious with me for ruining his new bird."

"And then?"

"And then nothing. I woke up. So I never learned what happened to the bird's tail. Isn't that strange?"

Fingon blinked once, and twice. "I suppose," he said slowly.

"What was your dream?" asked Glorfindel.

Yawning again, Fingon shifted to prop himself up on one elbow. "Well, first I dreamed that I was part of a band of thieves trying to steal the secret to long-term food preservation from the town crier's wife. She happened to be a powerful sorceress, but we didn't know this, and so crept foolishly into her cellar. The others were captured, but I managed to climb a ladder that led to a garden shed, and thus escaped. I ran away and quickly found myself in the marketplace at Alqualondë. I met the captain of the palace guard there. He was wearing peasant clothes to disguise himself from enemies, and escorted me to the covered stalls to purchase a basket of a new variety of fruit. He kept fondling my bottom along the way, which was both infuriating and arousing. I rather wished we were someplace alone. But we had come upon a Vanyarin wedding ceremony, all full of people and decorations. The bride and groom were about to speak their vows when on a sudden the bride burst into flames and toppled backward in convulsions, landing on a partially collapsed pavilion. She was dead immediately and there was nothing anyone could do about it. However, the wedding had to go on, because of all the people and decorations. I had to marry the captain of the guard. Only in my thief's clothes, because the bride's outfit was ruined in the fire. What a disappointment."

For lack of any better comment, Glorfindel muttered, "Oh." If the child Fingon had a problem with imagination, the adult was no better.

"I think that's quite strange, don't you?"

"Very," said Glorfindel, and he nodded. He was, on the whole, quite sorry he'd raised the topic of dreams in the first place, and made a note to himself never to speak of it again.

Oropher was naked. Glorfindel was envious.

He was not envious of Oropher's nudity, on account of how he was uncomfortable being naked except while bathing in a secluded room by himself. He was envious of Oropher's physiognomy. Oropher was nearly a head shorter than Glorfindel, but heavier. Whatever he had done to make himself grow more quickly had worked. Clothes a mere three years old were already too tight on his wide shoulders and strong arms. At forty-four, he simply looked more grown up, even though Glorfindel was forty-nine and very nearly a legal adult. Everything of Glorfindel's, including what he had worn in Valinor nine years earlier, still fit.

The reason for Oropher being naked was that he was about to become a legal adult, at least according to Sindarin tradition. He explained to Glorfindel as they stood at the edge of the forest that crept up the hills of the Ered Wethrin.

"Everyone has to do it, boys and girls the same, if you want to be an adult. Until you pass the trial, you're still a child, no matter how big or how old you get. So I have to do it."

"But the whole thing sounds a bit... extreme," said Glorfindel. "What if you fall into a crevasse, or are attacked by wolves? You could be hurt and nobody would know."

Oropher shrugged. "It happens sometimes. My uncle burnt all his hair off trying to start a fire when it was his turn. But nobody I've heard of's ever died."

"So you're just going to walk out into the forest, completely naked, with no food or shelter or weapons or anything, and stay there for twelve nights."

"Yes," said Oropher.

"Why?"

Oropher rolled his eyes, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "How else are you supposed to prove that you can take care of yourself and be an adult?"

"Wouldn't it make more sense to prove how wise you are by not being stupid enough to spend twelve days naked in a forest when it's not going to do you any good?"

"You prove your wisdom by choosing when to do it," said Oropher. "Only a halfwit would try before he's ready, or in the winter. You don't prove anything by being naked in a forest in winter, except that you're rock-headed enough to be naked in a forest in winter. But it's summer now. So here I am."

"Yes, you know your seasons," Glorfindel said flatly. "Your intellectual prowess is astounding. It makes you seem very grown up. Now let's go back to the tower and find something to eat."

Oropher gave him a dirty look. "Quit being an arse. This is important."

"No," said Glorfindel, "not getting yourself thrown in prison is important. Did you even tell the King where you're going or what you're doing? I don't want him pestering me about you. Actually I don't want him pestering me at all. Or Fingon. Do you realise that without you around, I won't have anyone to help me avoid them? And Fingon always wants me to learn things whenever I have to spend time with him."

"The traditions of my people are more important than the King or his prison or you not learning," Oropher answered firmly. "I thought you'd understand that. You're the one always pressing on about how you have to do things for Manwë or because that's the way it's been done forever."

"That's different. I'm not trying to live naked in a forest like a savage."

"So what do your people do to become adults, if your ways are so much better?"

Glorfindel stood up straighter under Oropher's glare, and smoothed his hair back. "At the age of thirty-four, they go to the mountain sanctuaries to spend forty days studying history and devotion and the responsibility of adult life, and then-"

Oropher interrupted with derisive snort. "I think that sounds boring and useless. You won't learn how to live on your own by studying."

"There was more, but you didn't let me finish."

"What, then?"

"Well I'm not going to tell you now," said Glorfindel, "if you think it all boring and useless. But there are more people involved, and everyone has great feast of celebration afterward, with gifts, and then sometimes they might decide to get married-"

"At thirty-four?!"

"It happens sometimes, but not usually. Anyhow, that's just the boys."

"What about the girls?"

"How should I know that?" Glorfindel asked. "They go to a different place at a different time to do girl things."

"Huh," said Oropher. "Well. I like my way better. More fun."

"How can spending twelve days naked in a forest possibly be fun?"

Oropher grinned in a sly sort of way. "Because if you do it at the right time, there's always the chance of running into a girl who's also naked in the forest."

"That's the worst excuse I've ever-" Glorfindel began, but abruptly cut his words short. Oropher, perhaps, had a point. "Is this the right time?" he asked.

"Don't know. I haven't heard of anyone else going out just now. But you never know, right? Worth a look."

"Hm," said Glorfindel.

"You want to come along?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. With my luck, I'd only see you naked. Which I'm seeing right now. And I'm sorry, but you're not worth the discomfort of twelve days in the forest."

"If you say so," said Oropher. He took a deep breath, put his hands on his hips, and flashed Glorfindel one final smile. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck. Please don't die. If you kill yourself, I'll never forgive you for leaving me here alone with nobody to talk to."

"I'm not going to die. Don't worry. I have a good plan."

"Which is?"

"Spend the whole twelve days sleeping so it goes by faster. I'll I collect a whole lot of berries and mushrooms to eat and then find a comfortable moss bed to sleep on under a pile of leaves."

"Right," said Glorfindel. "You're going to die. Meanwhile, I am going back to the tower to collect a whole lot of fruits and candies, which I will eat in my own bed under a covering of nice, warm quilts."

"Hardly challenging," Oropher replied. He took a step toward the forest, squared his shoulders importantly, and began a slow march in controlled steps. "I will see you in twelve days!" he called back.

Glorfindel said nothing, but watched until Oropher disappeared in to the maze of trunks and branches. Then, with a sigh, he turned to face the long walk back to the city gates. An unpleasant feeling had started to sink into his stomach, as if his stomach knew how dull the next twelve days were about to be. Without Oropher, things would be dangerously quiet. Without Oropher, there was only Fingon for company.

He sighed again. Perhaps Fingon would be up to searching the kitchen storerooms for obscenely shaped vegetables.

Oropher stood in the bedroom doorway in a grand sort of pose to make his announcement, with his hands on his hips and his chin haughtily raised. "I am getting married," he stated.

Not even bothering to look up from his book, Glorfindel made a sound along the lines of, "Huh."

"I said, I'm getting married."

"I heard you. Who this time?"

"Erethif," said Oropher. A stupid sort of grin passed over his face. "I asked her this morning out on the parapets and she said yes."

Glorfindel looked up with a frown. "Is she the really short one who always wears her hair in two plaits? The one you've been seeing recently?"

"Yes, that's her!"

"Oh," said Glorfindel. He went back to studying his book.

"You don't sound very excited for me. This is important news and you're just sitting there reading... something."

"It's a book about court functions in Tirion. I'm supposed to learn all the rules and etiquette. Did you know that it's forbidden to look anywhere but at the King when he is speaking? And sneezing in his presence can have you banned from court for up to a year."

"Amazing," Oropher said as he crossed the room to sit beside Glorfindel on the bed. "Now let's talk about my wedding. I know Erethif isn't the most beautiful, but she's pretty and thinks everything I say is very important. I like her enough. And she wants lots of babies, which is good because I do too."

"And you'll be marrying her when?"

"Next year probably, once my service is up."

Carefully, Glorfindel closed his book and set it aside. "Oropher... Do you honestly think that by this time next year, you'll still want to marry her?"

"I don't see why not," he answered.

"I do," said Glorfindel. "First, you're forty-three."

"So?"

"So, you're probably thinking with something that isn't your head. Second, you have no money."

"Erethif doesn't care about money."

Glorfindel shook his head. "She might say that. But all girls care about money. That's why it's easier for them to get married, you know. Girls only have to be pretty, while we have to prove we have money. You've seen it happen. Remember last time you proposed, to Amlind or whatever her name was? She agreed, and then it was nine days before she left you for a Golodhren man with a bigger pocket."

"Well, she was stupid anyhow," said Oropher. "And had bad fingernails, and-"

"And there's the third point," Glorfindel interrupted. "Even if your love of the day doesn't leave you for somebody richer, you always get bored of her soon enough and say she has fat feet or a low hairline, or what did you say was wrong with Mainib?"

"Her brothers threatened to tear my arms off."

"You see?" Glorfindel said, clapping his hands against his thighs. "There's something wrong with every girl."

"Not every girl."

"The last five you've been about to marry, then."

Raising his nose, Oropher gave a derisive sniff. "A whole five out of hundreds in Eithel Sirion. That's nothing. And Erethif is different. I really am going to marry her this time."

"I'll believe it when I see it," said Glorfindel. "Remind me the day before your wedding. Then I'll get you a gift."

Oropher narrowed his eyes, staring at Glorfindel and scowling. For several moments, he said nothing, while Glorfindel returned to the book of courtly manners.

"I know what it is," he finally muttered. "You're envious."

"Of course I'm not envious. Don't let's be silly."

"You are envious," Oropher repeated. "It's obvious. You wish you were the one getting married."

"Not to Erethif. Nor any of your other choices."

"Because they'd laugh in your face if you asked."

"No," said Glorfindel: "because I have standards. I do not want your seconds. And besides, I have to marry a virgin. Otherwise the marriage is invalid by the laws of Valmar."

Oropher snorted. "Oh right. Your fancy Valmar laws. Nobody here's good enough for you. Well just so's you know, my people have standards, too. And Erethif is a virgin, elsewise I couldn't marry her either."

Carefully, Glorfindel closed his book, and looked up to meet Oropher's gaze. "Erethif?"

"Of course she's a virgin."

"No, she's not."

"Yes, she is!" Oropher replied. "And how would you know, anyway?!"

"Oropher, you told me two days ago that you and your newest lady- I'm assuming this was Erethif- enthusiastically proclaimed your undying love under a willow tree in the King's garden."

"And?"

"Therefore, she is not a virgin."

Oropher only blinked. "I don't understand what one of those things has to do with the other," he said after a pause.

"Oh, you stupid twit!" Glorfindel hissed. "She lay with you! She's not a virgin any more!"

Again, Oropher blinked, and raised his eyebrows. "But she hasn't had a baby yet."

This time, it was Glorfindel who looked confused. "What?"

"I said, she hasn't had a baby."

"I heard what you said. But why should that have anything to do with it? Of course if somebody has a baby she's not a virgin."

Oropher nodded. "Exactly."

Sighing again, Glorfindel raised his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. "I think we might have a ... Hm. I don't think you understand. Listen. When a girl lies with somebody, as Erethif did with you, then she ceases to be a virgin."

"No," Oropher said slowly, "when she has a baby, then she's not a virgin."

Glorfindel dropped his hands and stared. "But... No, that's stupid. If that were true, it would mean that every girl is a virgin when she gets married, regardless of what she's done."

"That's right."

"No, it's not right!" Glorfindel shouted. "The whole point of getting married is to be faithful to your spouse alone! It's completely meaningless if you go about bedding others beforehand. You have to be a virgin on your wedding day, and being a virgin means not having lain with anyone."

With a sympathetic smile, of the manner used to humour children, Oropher slowly shook his head and patted Glorfindel on the shoulder. "Somebody told you wrong."

"No, I think somebody told you wrong."

"You're just angry now because you're ignorant."

"I am not angry because... oh, you're impossible."

"Look," said Oropher. "This is going nowhere. I have a better idea."

"What?"

Oropher stood and took a step toward the door, motioning for Glorfindel to follow. "You think I'm wrong, but I know you're wrong. So, I think we'd better find somebody else, who will know for sure."

"Yes," Glorfindel agreed, though his voice still kept its superior edge. "I think we'd better."

~

Armion was not in his work room. Henael, however, was. Sitting at the table as she stitched one of the King's stockings, she did her best to ignore Oropher until he was so close she had no choice but to put down her mending and shove him away.

"I have a question," he said as he dodged a slap aimed at his ear. "We were going to ask Armion, but since he's not here, I reckon you'll do."

"Go away," said Henael. "And quit bothering me. I have important work."

"When is a girl no longer a virgin?"

Henael dropped her hands to her lap and stared at Oropher as if he had two heads. "Are you really stupider than you look?"

"He wants to know," Oropher said quickly, pointing his thumb at Glorfindel.

Growling in her throat, Henael looked from one to the other. "Are you serious? At your age?"

"Well, I know," said Glorfindel, "but he thinks a girl loses her virginity when her first baby is born."

Henael nodded. "Well, yes. When else would it happen?"

"When she first lies... and... you know what, with somebody!" Glorfindel half shouted.

"That makes no sense," said Henael. "Everybody knows that 'virgin' is a word for a woman who has no children. You're no longer a virgin when the first baby comes."

"See, that's what I told him," Oropher said. "But he has these funny ideas about things sometimes. That's why we had to ask you. Now it's two against one. We must be right."

"Girls are always right about these things. We would know, right?"

"Right."

Glorfindel smacked his hand down on the tabletop. "No! You're both wrong and stupid! A virgin is a girl who is pure and her body unknown!"

"By babies," said Henael.

"Exactly! By-" Glorfindel caught himself just in time. "No! I mean, no, not by babies!" Growling, he grabbed his hair in frustration. "By a man! As soon as you've lain with somebody, you're not a virgin! That's how it works! It has nothing to do with babies! It's only about saving your body for your future husband!" He let out a strangled shout of rage and kicked a nearby stool.

Henael raised an eyebrow as she looked to Oropher. "Is he always like this?" she whispered.

"Yes," said Oropher. "Usually worse. You should hear him when he gets on about the Belein."

~

Still, though, Glorfindel refused to admit that Oropher was right. He also refused to ask the opinions of any more Sindar, who would undoubtedly share Oropher's incorrect knowledge. He needed a trustworthy source.

"Finno?" he asked once Fingon had settled in front of the fire.

"What?"

"When is a girl no longer a virgin?"

For what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, Fingon only sat there, perfectly still. Then he slowly turned to fix Glorfindel with a withering stare. "What did you do?" he asked darkly.

"Nothing!" Glorfindel assured him. "Nothing. Oro- ... somebody brought up the topic today and I think the Sindar believe that virginity is lost when the first baby is born."

Fingon snorted. "Ludicrous."

"Yes!" said Glorfindel, and he sighed in relief. "I know! I was trying to say that all day, but nobody would listen to me."

"Sindar have some funny ideas sometimes. You should know better than to listen to them or try to teach them anything."

"I know. I don't know why they would think that. It makes no sense." With a smug grin, Glorfindel looked toward the door. Fingon's word bettered anything said by Henael or any other of the tower servants. He would tell Oropher first thing in the morning.

From his seat by the fire, Fingon stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Besides," he told Glorfindel, "everyone knows virginity can only be lost on one's wedding night."

Treatise on the Nature of Science and Elemental Creation: A study of worldly matter
So discerned by His Majesty King Finwë Nolofinwë of Hisilómë and thus passed into law.

On Elements

Of strict elements in the discipline of science of this world there number nine, which do exist in many states. For the elements of matter come together in composition by strange powers to create all aspects of the world and all pieces within. Beast and bird and plant alike have so been constructed by a harmony of elements in distinct measure with an addition of quadressence by the blessing of Eru Ilúvatar, where quadressence itself is not of elemental standing but akin more to magic beyond the scope of this world. It is of a fourth designation outside of the elemental triads.

The elemental triads are these. There stands first the triad of pure elements, those named: air, water, fire. Pure elements may be arranged on the vertical in that order from highest to lowest. Then follows the triad of level elements, those named: wood, metal, stone. Level elements may be arranged in a triangle, with wood at the peak and metal and stone in either low corner. Finally is named the triad of perfect elements: aether, light, dark. These cannot be arranged in any shape but do float freely about the other triads as they will. The perfect triad has been named thusly because its elements must always be in a condition of perfection. They are never faulted by mixture.

On Composition

All that exists within the circle of Arda shall be composed of certain measures of the pure and level elements. Such measures may never be known but by the Valar, with whom Eru shared his great wisdom. For though it is known now to us that a tree is composed of the elements wood and water, who may say in what amounts, and who may create a new tree from a lifeless bough and a stream? It is the same to say then that none but the Valar may have the power to combine metal with fire to make gold or water to make silver, and foolishness is the only prize for those who strive against the will of nature. The hands of the Eldar will make only semiprecious alloy and crystal.

The simplest compositions exist in states of near purity. Stone is always stone, but different sorts may be observed through a combination with small amounts of metal to make a stone that glitters or fire to make a stone that is dark and brittle. Exact combinations of stone and other elements in good measure will yield precious gems. Metal in the same manner may be mixed with stone to form iron or air to form tin. Metal with some fire will be copper, but more fire will give gold. The proportions do naturally count very firmly in the study of creation.

The greater is the creation, the more complex is the measure of elements. Many living creatures will possess all six pure and level elements in their making. Most complex of all is the being of the Elda, which shows to have wood and stone and air in his bones, and water and metal and fire in his blood alone. Every part of the Eldarin being is of most serious composition.

On the Perfect Triad

The perfect elements of aether, light and dark may never take part in composition, but will influence at times the mood or spirit of any thing, living or not, within the world. Any item or living being may be altered by reaction to light or dark, and aether will affect both knowledge and activity. Exact effects and mysteries thereof are unknown, and remain secrets of the Valar alone.

On States

There exist two states for the pure and level element triads: these are free and solid. First the pure elements are found most commonly in their free state, while level elements are commonly in their solid state. It is however possible for pure elements to be solid and level elements to be free. When solid, air will become frost, water ice, and fire ash. When free, wood turns to smoke, metal to melt, and stone to magma.

Ereinion's half-birthday came at the beginning of summer. On the day that he was four-and-a-half years old, Fingon promised him he could stay up until the sun set. "It is a very special thing," Fingon said, "for a little boy to stay up until the bedtime of the summer Sun herself." The promise made Ereinion's eyes widen, and coaxed an excited nod from his small head.

He strained to look over the windowsill at the bright sky and wondered aloud if summer sunsets looked like the sunsets he had seen in winter, until Glorfindel gave him an old sash as a half-birthday present. He tied it around his head so the ends dangled down like lop rabbit ears, and begged Glorfindel to watch him hop. And Glorfindel showed him how to scrunch his nose like a rabbit, until Ereinion tied the sash around his waist to become a dog. If he wiggled as he ran, the sash wagged.

Fingon told them when it was time to watch the sunset. By then, Ereinion was a rabbit again, and he hopped up the stairs. The balcony ran in a wide circle around the tower's summit, but Ereinion knew to look west to see the sunset. Already the sky was streaked in brilliant orange and red. He fell quiet at the sight. He was no longer a rabbit, but a grown-up prince, allowed to stay awake past his bedtime to watch the sun disappear behind the dark ridge of mountains. He tip-toed across the balcony to rest his chin on the rail.

"Fini..." Ereinion said. He clasped the ends of Glorfindel's hair in his hand. "You're the Sun."

Glorfindel smiled. "That's a lovely thing to say, Ereinion."

Ereinion stared at the sunset a second longer, then tilted his head back to look at the darkening sky above. After a thoughtful breath, he said, "And I am a star."

"You are," said Fingon. He reached down to stroke his son's head.

"And ada..." Ereinion began.

"What is Ada, Ereinion?" Glorfindel asked.

Consideration crossed Ereinion's face, and then a smile. "Ada is a black lobster."

Glorfindel started laughing, so hard he had to lean against the railing to support himself, but Fingon only stood straighter. "Thank you, Ereinion," he said stiffly, to which Ereinion smiled brightly. "I think it's time for bed now."

Ereinion turned into a rabbit again, and hopped away down the stairs.