Peculiar by Ada Kensington

Peculiar

When king Finwë’s summons first arrived in the form of a surly stable hand, he had no time to spare, and so begged to postpone the requested meeting. 

There had been so much do to. 

For the younger students of the School, there had been the diet of examinations. Questions in ancient history, in middle history, in various languages and literatures in which he was expert, had to be formulated to test the students’ knowledge – to provide them with an opportunity to show they could do more than merely regurgitate names and dates and events. 

Unfortunately, he had spent most of the prior academic year passing his teaching duties onto younger colleagues, and therefore did not know exactly what the students had been taught (since the disciplines were changing so very quickly these days.)  This meant he had been forced to skim screeds upon screeds of lecture notes, and, consequently, a trivial task lost its blessed, blessed triviality.

His work as Loremaster was important.  King Finwë, he knew, was sympathetic to his aims, and would – he hoped – grant him a period of grace.  The king’s surly messenger left with his polite reply, and all was well.

When king Finwë’s second summons arrived not long after in the form of a fidgety young man – whose neck creaked and groaned as he craned it round to gape in awe at the rows of beautifully bound books in the shelves of his study – time, if possible, was even more scarce. 

The older students of the School, those very few who had proven themselves worthy and wished to be named master in this or that, would take part in their Debates: a challenging exchange of indefinite length in front of an audience of their peers.  As if this alone was not terrifying enough, their Debate was against a Loremaster, already named and honoured in their chosen subject.

This year, he had three anxious, potential young Loremasters, and would therefore have to counsel and soothe varying degrees of frayed nerves, and would also have to perform in three lengthy, scholarly debates (not to mention watch twenty-four more from other disciplines.)  The carnival and the pomp and ceremony of the occasion would see him occupied at least until the turn of the month, and it really was a very busy time.

The Debates were important. 

He could not be expected to simply abandon his duty on the whim of the king.

Once again, he begged pardon and postponed, sending back with the fidgety young messenger Master Quennar’s own carefully copied book of verse from the Great Journey. It was his preferred method of avoiding the king’s attention, and it usually worked.  Hopefully, Quennar would not find out he had let it leave the School.  

When king Finwë’s third summons arrived on the first morning of the new month, he began to suspect something was amiss. 

The third messenger was of quite a different calibre to the first and second.  He was older, and stern, and taciturn, with dark-brown hair braided with a grim efficiency.  The messenger was also punctual, insisting on being shown into his study at precisely four hours to the zenith of Laurelin.  But more than anything, the messenger was unyielding, saying only, “The king commands your presence, Master Rúmil,” as he practically dragged him out of the building. 

There was no explanation, no word of reply, given to Rúmil’s increasingly urgent requests for information.  Only the repetition of that tiresome refrain:  “The king commands your presence.”

A few students were by then milling around in the square outside, and their eyes followed him curiously as he was marched down the white steps by the brusque messenger and bundled into the awaiting carriage.  No doubt within minutes of his departure, rumours would be flying around the school about how Master Rúmil was taken away in a carriage like a belligerent drunk by one of king Finwë’s guards.

Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him...

The carriage door shut behind him with a bang. There was a whip-crack, and the wheels began to turn.  Evidently, they had no time to spare.

In the back of the carriage, alone and unwatched as it pulled away from the building, he curled his hand into a fist and struck out, connecting with the thin walls and making a satisfying hollow sound. The humiliation stung him.  How dare the king treat him so?  How dare he abuse his authority?  And in such an outrageous manner!

(Though a hot and spiteful little corner of his mind reminded him that it was not the first time it had happened, and that, therefore, he should not be surprised that the king took such liberties with custom.

That same part also took pride that it had come to this.  He would not go bowing and scraping to a flawed monarch – a man just like any other, and inconstant as the roaring falls that plunged from the steep-walled valleys of the Calacirya.)

Frustrated, and a little nervous despite his spirit of defiance, the carriage made its ponderous journey along the streets of Tirion.

Dominating the landscape, in the distance, he could see clearly the steep, winding hill that led to the dizzying height of the Mindon Eldaliéva, the white tower, visible even at the farthest-flung corners of their great city.  At its foot, however – and a more imposing structure, at least to Rúmil in that hour – stood the House of Finwë, Noldóran.  The leader of his people.  His lord.  His king.

The king commands: his authority is absolute, Rúmil thought gloomily, as he wrung his hands and stared fixedly at the floor, trying to pretend the shuddering, irregular motion of the carriage was causing his sudden nausea. 

At least there was one consolation.  The meeting to discuss the formation of next year’s curriculum was scheduled for tomorrow, two hours after the zenith of Laurelin, and he was supposed to chair the discussion.  What was not scheduled, however, but taken as a given, were the inevitable histrionics and malicious back-biting as his colleagues fought for academic supremacy.

Last year, a chair had been thrown...

He grimaced at the recollection.

Alas, he would likely not be back in time. Too busy defying the king.  Again. Though, of course, they would understand, and he would send his apologies.  Via that wretched messenger, perhaps?  The one who elected to ride with the driver and deliberately ignored his inquiries as to the nature of this most irregular, royal kidnap.

Abduction and abuses of power aside, a rueful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Whatever designs the king had on him, it probably would not involve furniture.

For some reason, that thought did not console him.

***    ***    ***

He was given but a moment to prepare.  Enough time to dust himself down in an antechamber, straighten out the countless creases his robes had mysteriously acquired during the journey, and tease a few flyaway hairs back into place with trembling hands.  Then the stern, efficient messenger propelled him out of the room, along a corridor, and halted abruptly in front of a door halfway down.  Standing there, facing it, the king likely only feet away from him, Rúmil’s heart began to race in his chest and he fought to calm himself.

Breathe...

The messenger knocked briskly – once, twice, three times – and then in clipped tones announced his arrival.

“Master Rúmil, my lord.”

A familiar voice, the king’s voice, answered – deep, rich and sonorous.

“Wonderful!  Thank you, Erdacundo.  Please, show him in!”

The messenger, Erdacundo, opened the door, and a waft of frankincense assailed Rúmil, its spicy, woody aroma catching the back of his throat and making him cough. The shadows of a fire lit from somewhere within flickered and danced, which was strange, as it was only the middle of the day.

He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.

The king was waiting for him at the end of a short, narrow corridor - standing by a window obscured by heavy velvet curtains – his sharp features and long black hair caught momentarily in the bright day-light of Laurelin as he took a deep breath and enjoyed a no doubt welcome stream of fresh air.  The king must have opened the window a little, Rúmil thought.  And no wonder!  It smelled like a Vanyarin temple in here.  Probably the influence of his new wife.

Disgusting...

When the king spotted him lurking in the doorway, his eyes lit up.

“Rúmil!” the king exclaimed, his voice warm in welcome as he had always remembered.  The king’s voice was always warm in welcome, even if you were the last person in the world he wanted to see.

“At last you deign to grace me with your presence.  You have grown elusive.  I feared you would find excuses to avoid me until the end of Arda!”  The king laughed, but Rúmil did not find it funny in the least.

“They were not excuses, my lord,” he replied. “Truly, I was very busy.”

It was difficult to keep the hint of reproach from colouring his tone, but the king took it with equanimity. 

“True, but now you are no longer busy,” the king countered.  “I know. I have checked. Therefore, you are free to be here, a guest in my home, to speak with me.”

“You checked, my lord?”

“Quennar is an old friend,” the king replied casually. “As you know, he recorded many things that happened during the Great Journey, and we walked often together under starlight.”

Then the king turned again to face the sliver of light in the open window and added, “I saw him only last week, for he is not so possessive of his time.  Does not begrudge it to those who would seek him out.  Rather, he would share it freely with all, and since he had so kindly agreed to visit – as I cannot get out of the palace much these days with my lady Indis expecting our first child – I appreciated Quennar’s sacrifice, and therefore took the liberty of returning to him his beautiful book...”

The king trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.  The meaning was not lost on Rúmil – not at all – and he felt a twist of indignation at having been outwitted by the king.  He must’ve known Quennar was covetous as a magpie when it came to his books, and that he grudged lending them to anyone.  The old bastard must’ve had a fit when he called on the king and found one of his precious volumes in his possession, and once the king had casually dropped the name Rúmil into the conversation, the king would’ve played him like a fiddle for information.  And there was, too, the not-so-subtle reminder of his own failure.  The old resentment bubbled up inside him, and he fought to keep it at bay.

The king was observing him, his expression a perfect mask, save his eyes – his brilliant, sharp, grey-blue eyes that glittered with the tiniest hint of satisfaction and betrayed his cunning.

“I am duly chastised, my lord,” Rúmil replied dully.  “You go to great lengths in order to snare me in your web.  This must be a matter of grave importance.”

“It is.”

“And you could not have consulted master Quennar?”

“Quennar does not have the... temperament for the task I would bestow upon you.”

Temperament?  Task?  Rúmil felt his grip upon the situation slip further. The only thing keeping him steady was his enduring bitterness against the king and his mysteries. 

“My lord,” he begged, his voice high with agitation.  “Please, if you would but tell me why you have summoned me—”

He faltered into silence as the king raised his hand.  There was a moment’s pause in which the king sighed and appeared to collect himself.

“Forgive me and my secrets, Rúmil,” he said quietly, “but I’m afraid they are necessary. This is not a matter I would want broadcast.” 

Another pause, during which the king pinched the bridge of his nose, as though he were reluctant to broadcast those secrets even to Rúmil. A moment later, though, he was recovered and gestured towards the small door leading to the chamber proper.

“Please do come in,” he said, smiling, “and I shall explain all.”

Dumbfounded, thoroughly, thoroughly intrigued (and a little mystified at having been taken into the king’s confidence over old Quennar, over any of his more obedient colleagues, even), Rúmil followed, closing the door behind him.

The room into which he emerged was low-ceilinged, and unexpectedly compact, containing but a round table of dark wood and two chairs carved in a similar fashion. Upon the table sat a tray, holding two small glasses and a bottle of clear spirits.

In this room, there were no windows.  Instead, luxurious tapestries covered every inch of the walls, their designs swirling and abstract. As he had suspected, a fire had indeed been lit, and its warm, orange glow caught accent threads of bronze and gold, and the tapestries glittered like precious seams of metalliferous ore. In the corner, near the fire, hung a small, brass thurible, spewing out heavily scented smoke. So that’s where the frankincense was coming from.  It really was very strong...

“Please, Rúmil, do sit,” the king offered, indicating the chair nearest the fire.

Rúmil sat and stared warily at the king, who took the other chair, and before Rúmil could protest, the king reached for the tall glass bottle, and began to pour.

“My lord!” he exclaimed, angrily.  “You should not serve me!  Why do you serve me?”

A small, wry smile touched the corners of the king’s mouth.  “Do not worry, Rúmil,” he replied. “There are no others here to observe my transgression, or to sully your reputation as something of a dissident.  And besides, since I hope you will do me a service, it is only fitting I serve you in kind. 

He presented the small glass to Rúmil, who took it up grudgingly, unable to argue with the king’s logic. As custom dictated, Rúmil raised his glass and bowed slightly to pay respect to his sovereign.

“Almien,” he said, shortly.

“Almien!” the king exclaimed, reciprocating, as their glasses touched.

Rúmil took a sip of the clear liquid within.  It was much stronger than he expected, and had an overpowering flavour of aniseed.  Very potent, and, as far as he could tell, extremely alcoholic.

His head was already swimming from the copious fumes of frankincense.  This — he thought to himself as he peered suspiciously at his glass — would not help.  It did not escape his notice that the king took an extra sip from his.  Or, more accurately, a swig, as the contents went down in one.  Then, carefully, the king set down his glass.

With nothing to divert their attention from the matter at hand, a long silence fell, in which Rúmil began to feel increasingly awkward as the king of the Noldor sat before him, wringing his hands and staring at the table-top as though lost for words.  Never before had Finwë, Noldóran, been lost for words. Certainly not during that awful night in the Máhanaxar when he and the king had been at each others’ throats.  Something was clearly wrong.

“My lord...” Rúmil said eventually, putting the king out of his misery – a charitable act, he thought, considering the circumstances – “...whatever is troubling you, I will do my best to help you in any way I can.”

He was rewarded a flash of a brittle smile.  The king was now staring at the low ceiling, and Rúmil could hear his foot tapping under the desk. Was it possible the king was more nervous that he was?

“Forgive me, Rúmil,” he said.  “It is difficult to find the words.”

“No matter.  Take your time.”

Another silence.  His hands clasped tightly together, the king took a deep, galvanising breath and said, quietly but clearly, “It is my son, Curufinwë.”

Whatever, Rúmil had expected, it was not that.  His mind ground to a halt, already a little sluggish from the clouds of frankincense that swirled about the small room, and left him momentarily bereft of any eloquence he hitherto possessed.

“Your son, my lord?” he repeated, lamely.

“My son.”

“Is... something the matter?”

“Not as such...  I —”

“Has he injured himself doing something foolish?”

“No... nothing like that—”

“Has he become illicitly involved with a young woman?”

“No—”

“A young man?”

“No—!”

“Has he inadvertently slain another?”

“I should hope not!”

“Well then, my lord, it cannot be all that bad.  What is it that is worrying you so?”

The king – whose distress had visibly heightened with each flippant exchange, his patience stretched taut like a lute string wound too tight – finally snapped.

“My son is peculiar” he exploded, gesticulating wildly.  “My son – my Curufinwë –is peculiar, Rúmil!  Damned, damned peculiar – and I have not the faintest idea what to do about it!” 

“Peculiar?” Rúmil said cautiously, careful not to ire the king by letting his scepticism show on his face.  After all, he did work at the School, and therefore knew a fair few peculiar individuals.  “In what way?”

“Would you like an essay, Rúmil?” the king retorted, with a flash of hauteur.  “I know how you prefer them.  Since there are many reasons, I would wager they’d favour the format.  I do not relish this encounter, you know.”

There it was.  A flash of that less noble side of the king displayed with such spectacular abandon not so long ago at the debate in Valmar. Old habits died hard, apparently.

“I apologise, my lord,” Rúmil replied, careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “Please, do go on.”

The king did go on.  His words came out in an almost feverish rush, as though the effort to restrain them had become too much to bear, and the resulting relief he found in expressing them stirred his emotions into turmoil.

“I love my son,” he said.  “My firstborn, my wonderful, clever and able Curufinwë... but there is no getting away from the fact that he is... intensely peculiar, and I worry, Rúmil, truly I do.

“He has temper tantrums, vicious fits of pique, that are becoming ever harder to restrain now that he is twenty-one years of age and is early coming into his height and strength.  You are aware, Rúmil, that he did not attend my wedding?”

Vaguely recollecting the snatches of gossip that had circulated around the School in the days following the king’s wedding to Lady Indis, which he also did not attend, Rúmil nodded.

“He was supposed to – and I would have dearly loved to have had him present – but on the morning before the ceremony, he was hysterical. Insensible. None could restrain him.  So consumed was he by his temper, I could not run the risk of letting him loose upon the congregation, and I — Eru forgive me! — I had him locked in my chambers until the day was done.

“It broke my heart to do it.  When I returned home with my lady wife early the next morning, I unlocked the doors again to find him lying on the floor, weeping.  He would not accept my comfort, would not meet my eye, and did not speak a word to me for weeks afterwards.

“Ever since then, Curufinwë has grown more peculiar by the day.  He shuts himself in his rooms for weeks – the rooms he will let none clear of clutter – does not sleep for days on end, frequently misses meals, neglects his duties, will not sit in council with me, cares not for what I do, is impulsive, restless, downright insolent on occasion, lashes out frequently with his sharp tongue, and has had my staff – and my wife – in tears.

“I thought it may have been caused by boredom, so I arranged a few meetings with the sons of some of my lords.”

The king rolled his eyes and laughed wryly.  “That was a mistake I shall not repeat in a hurry.”

“What happened?”

“From what I could piece together from each of the boys’ stories, Curufinwë was engaged in a skirmish of wits with young Tulcaranco.  As Curufinwë is possessed of an acerbic wit, he can be unkind on occasions, and he apparently said something rather rude to Tulcaranco – something about the boy taking after his father in ignorance.  Stung and humiliated, Tulcaranco’s riposte was rather severe, as I was told that Curufinwë promptly launched himself at the boy, and that within seconds they were on the floor, rolling around and beating lumps out of one other.”

“What did they boy say?”

“None would tell me, not even Curufinwë, or young Luiniar, whose account of the incident was the most sensible, as he was a little older and not so prone to childish outbursts.  In the end, both Tulcaranco and Curufinwë were punished, and my foolish experiment came to an ignominious end, although Curufinwë still writes to Luiniar fairly often since the boy took his apprenticeship with Master Mahtan.  And that is well, for writing is probably safest for Curufinwë at the moment.

“He cannot socialise with others of his age, you see, because he does not think in the same way as they do – has not their concerns, and they have not his cares.  Therefore he spends much of his time in his rooms, alone, and the time he spends out of them, he spends out of our home, wandering the northern wilds outside Tirion, where he meets all sorts of strange folk and comes back with foul habits and worse language.  And he gives no notice to anyone of his intentions.  He simply ups and leaves without a word.  The first I know of it is usually when the note is pressed into my hands by a member of my household...”

With a sigh, the king sagged visibly, letting his head fall into his hands.

“I have tried my hardest to talk to him myself, Rúmil, to find out what he wants.  But inevitably, I am met with the same refrain—”  at which point the king sat up, placed his hands on his hips and adopted a slightly impatient tone Rúmil suspected was an approximation of his son’s, “— I am fine, Atar. Quite well.  Please hand me those cutters— no, not those ones!  Honestly, Atar, can’t you tell the difference?  Here, let be.  I will fetch them myself. And be careful of those saw blades behind you!”

“Cutters?”  Rúmil asked, intrigued by the mention of craft tools more commonly used by elves a little older than prince Curufinwë.  “He practises a craft?”

“Oh yes,” the king replied, smiling now.  “My son has a talent for gemcraft.  He made the ring I wear now.  The stone is cushion-cut, or so I am told by Curufinwë...”

The king paused to offer his hand to Rúmil, revealing a gold ring of intricate design, swirling knot-work engraved upon the shoulders – impossibly tiny, yet beautiful and clear.  It was set with a rather large, faceted ruby, fiery-red and flawless.

“It is beautiful,” Rúmil said, truthfully.  “From whom did he learn his craft?”

“I do not know,” the king answered.  “I remember once making arrangements to visit a few of the jewel mines near Formenos. Curufinwë pestered me ceaselessly, wanting to come along, and I was so cheered by his enthusiasm that I let him.  He came back to Tirion with all sorts of ideas, and for days afterward, I was bombarded with demands for this tool, and that tool, and books on the qualities of metals and gemstones, and scraps of metal for him to practise on.”

“He taught himself?” Rúmil said, not bothering to conceal his astonishment.

The king nodded.  “Curufinwë has had tutors, of course, but he has long since outgrown them.  Therefore, he has taught himself many things.  He loves to draw and paint, and his hand is beautiful, and he has copied a few books for me as gifts – and occasionally as punishment for misdeeds.  He also loves those arts which involve great skill of hand, and he has begun to carve wood and stone as well as crafting his metal and gems.  And lately, he has developed a keen interest in language and history, and he is often badgering me for books.”

“And I suspect that prince Curufinwë’s latest interest is why you have called me here?”

“Yes,” the king said, frankly. “You are one of the best in the School, Rúmil – and definitely most subtle in the finer points of language. You are also, blessedly, one of the more easy-going, and would hopefully not rise to my son’s bait – even though I know by unfortunate experience that you can be perfectly fiery on rare occasions.”

“You mean I would be the least likely to explode in the boy’s face when the inevitable back-chat rears its ugly head,” Rúmil retorted.

Sighing, Rúmil paused for a long moment, in which he took the time to massage his aching temples.  That wretched incense was causing quite the headache to build behind his eyes.  Or perhaps it was the glass of spirits he had not long drained of its last drop. Or it could have been the dull light of the fire.  Or equally this ridiculous situation the king had put him in.

Really, he wondered, irritated.  What exactly did the king expect of him?  He had been told all of this highly personal information – but to what end?  Was this a belated punishment for his opposition at the Máhanaxar?  Would he be doomed to baby-sit the errant prince Curufinwë until the his majority? Tutor a head-strong boy, fast becoming a young man, who obviously did not need his help?  Perish the thought...

“And what do you want me to do, my lord?” Rúmil asked, quite firmly, meeting the king’s eye. “I cannot contain him.  I cannot forbid him to do this or that.  If he will not listen to you, he will most certainly not listen to me.”

“I do not ask you to discipline him, Rúmil.  All I ask is that you speak with him.  Speak with him, and... perhaps... find out why he does this... why—”

“Why he is the way he is?”

“Yes!  That is exactly right. To perhaps find out why he is the way he is, so that... even if I cannot change him... I may at least come to understand him.”

“You would seek to change him?”

“No,” the king said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “However awful my account of him may seem, I would not change him.  Not for anything.  To me, he is the dearest, most precious thing in all of our world and beyond, and he brings me so much joy.  I just wish I could give him the same.  I simply want to know what I could do to make him happy.  He has suffered so much...”

The king’s voice grew faint then, and his eyes drifted upward slightly as though compelled by a force beyond his control, to stare at a distant point behind Rúmil’s shoulder.

Instinctively, Rúmil turned.  Then he wondered what on earth had captured the king’s attention so and held it, rapt, in almost-reverence. He could see only the fine tapestries, the shadows of the fire flickering and dancing across their surface, bringing them to life.  They were so beautiful, so very fine.

With a sickening jolt, he suddenly understood.

They could have been made by only one hand.

Lady Míriel...

His face flushing hot, he turned to the king, his mouth open and ready to plead his case.  But the king smiled sadly and shook his head, waving Rúmil into silence.

“You opposed my re-marriage,” the king said quietly. “That was your right, and it was a brave thing to do, when all around you argued the opposite.  I do not grudge you your opinion, Rúmil.  Far, far from it. I know you believe I committed a grave error in choosing to wed my lady Indis, named it unlawful, and perhaps there is a part of you that will remember forever the harsh words spoken between us and resent me for them.  But I have made my decision, and I must abide by it, no matter how much it pains me – and it pains me still, Rúmil, you may be assured of it. I did not make my decision lightly.”

A pause, and then...

“Rúmil, look at me.”

He looked, and what he saw written there as plain as day in the king’s eyes made him shudder.

Grief.  It was the pain of grief, of incomparable loss.

Overcome with sudden emotion and unable to look the king in the eye, he averted his gaze.

How could the king have endured it?  Lady Indis was obviously a balm – a warm, golden presence that soothed his injured soul – and the king loved her, he could see that written there too.  But greater than all, was his love for Curufinwë, son of Míriel Þerindë – a source of immeasurable joy, but also a reminder of terrible pain...

The words leaked out, even though it pained him greatly to say it.

“There is no ill-will on my part, my lord,” he said hoarsely.  “Not anymore.”

“Thank you, Rúmil.”

“And the exams, the Debates, they were not so important—”

“I know.  Do not concern yourself with that.  What’s done is done.”

“I am sorry, truly sorry, for my ignorance and my insolence.  I had no idea—  absolutely none— oh, the Darkness take me for being such a fool!  A young upstart filled with philosophical polemics and preaching and posturing on matters I did not, and hope never to understand—!”

“Then will you speak to my son, my Curufinwë?” he king asked, almost pleading.  The mingled hope and despair in the king’s voice tore at Rúmil’s heart.  “I think that in you, he will find much to relate to.”

And there, in that strange, windowless room, filled with the flicker of flames and the warm scent of frankincense that pervaded the temples of Lórien in Valmar – a shrine to the memory of Míriel Þerindë – Rúmil made a decision that would change his life.

“I shall, my king.”

Chapter End Notes

Names:

Curufinwë - Fëanor's father name.

Quennar - Quennar i Onotimo was an elf of Valinor and appears to have been of considerable age by the time he arrived in Aman. He composed two important works: Of the Beginning of Time and its Reckoning and Yenonotie (On the Reckoning of Years.) There is no head of the arts school in Tirion (which I made up to give Rúmil an occupation) but if there was, Quennar would be it.

Erdacundo - formed by the fantastic Quenya Name Generator. It means 'solitary guardian'.

Tulcaranco - also courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator. It means 'strong arm'.

Luiniar - another from the Quenya Name Generator. It means 'blue-blood'.

Peculiar

A week ago, if Rúmil had been told he would be lying in on absurdly comfortable four-poster bed in the house of his hated nemesis Finwë, Noldóran, he would have laughed heartily in the teller's face and named him mad.

But that was precisely where he was, and Rúmil could hardly believe it himself.

Not even in the servants' quarters - where he had, in all honesty, expected to have been placed - but in a state room! A state room in which, apparently, king Olwë of Alqualondë had stayed not so long ago.  And they were state rooms plural, in fact, if one wished to be pedantic.  For as well as the huge bedroom, Rúmil looked forward to enjoying the use of his own private bathroom, a study, a wardrobe the size of some of the first year students' rooms at the School, and a generous balcony with stunning views overlooking Tirion.  And he had a personal invitation to dine with the king later on in the evening!

Lying stretched out like a contented cat upon silk sheets stained a deep, berry red, Rúmil made a little sigh of pleasure and rolled lazily from one side of the bed, then to the other - just because he could - and then he laughed at himself for indulging in such childish behaviour.  He was acting like a young dog fox, marking its territory by rolling around and rubbing its musk onto fence-posts and tree stumps.  The comparison amused him, and he laughed louder this time, because his rooms were in a private area and there was no one around to hear him make a fool of himself.

For a while, he lay there on the bed and warmed himself as Laurelin's light streamed through the tall windows.  When he grew bored, he rose, padded across the very heavy, ornate rug that stretched almost to the four corners of his bedroom, and entered the study.  Riffling through the drawers of the desk, he retrieved a pot of green ink, a sheet of paper, a quill and a pen-knife before retreating to the balcony.  Outside, he found a comfortable-looking divan, and once he had installed himself upon it, he found himself staring up at the sky, contemplating the clouds passing overhead and the nature of the task the king had given him.

Out of that strange, stultifying windowless room, his mind felt much clearer - his heart less heavy.  Therefore, he could think more rationally about the situation.

He found that he still held fast to his opinion concerning the king's remarriage.  He still considered it unlawful: the rash act of a man whose grief had become embittered beyond hope.  But where once those opinions were formed from a cold logic - uncaring and unaware of just how much the king had suffered - now, there was at least a measure of empathy to inform his choice in the matter.  He understood why the king had made his decision, and it was odd, but it made holding his contrary opinion easier to bear.  It made him less bitter, at any rate.

And he didn't know why, but when the king had laid himself bare in that strange, little room, revealing to Rúmil a very fragile and vulnerable part of himself- it seemed like a victory, somehow.  As though what he had been fighting for all along was not the upholding of the laws and customs of the Eldar, but to see and to know that the king was in as much pain as Lady Míriel would surely have suffered being condemned to remain forever discarnate, wandering the cold halls of Mandos alone until the end of Arda.

Perhaps he possessed more capacity for altruism than he thought?  Even, dare he say it, a social-conscience?

Notions of personal discovery aside, what this newfound understanding meant was that he could now feel free to work for the king without running the risk of an old grudge clouding his judgement and could therefore more effectively turn his hand to solving the apparent mystery that was the king's son.  The boy whose rights, now that he came to think of it, he had unwittingly defended at the Máhanaxar.

Stretched out on the divan, listening to the muted sounds of industrious activity going on in the Great Square below, Rúmil closed his eyes and tried to remember what little he knew of Prince Curufinwë.

The first and only time he had ever seen the boy was at the feast of Nost-na-Lothion, a fair few years ago, when his father had not yet wed Lady Indis, but had publicly begun to court her. Rúmil had still been carefree in those days, and enjoyed attending most of the major feasts his people recognised. 

Nost-na-Lothion was always one of his favourites.  In celebration of the blooming of the flowers, the city was absolutely covered in them, and minstrels came from the furthest corners of Aman to sing in the Great Square in Tirion - because the Noldor knew how to throw a party, unlike the stuffy Vanyar who sat in vigil and sung in their temples.  There was drinking and dancing, and as long as they were wearing their white flower-garlands, the city's children were let loose to run riot.

The year he first set eyes on Curufinwë, he remembered sitting at the long table reserved for the School, drinking wine with his colleagues.  There had been a debate raging upon a matter he must've considered trivial at the time (for he could not recall what it was) and he gradually tuned out the sound of his colleagues'  bickering in favour of concentrating on the quite lovely wine and observing his surroundings.

The high table, at which the king and his family sat, was never placed far from the scholars' table.  Thanks to the Noldor's general predilection for valuing highly their Loremasters, he had therefore been able to get quite a good view of the goings-on at the royal table.

Larger than life, as always, king Finwë sat at the centre, decked out in formal and splendid regalia of blue and gold.  Lady Indis sat at his left, dressed alike in rich blue, her hair twined with flowers - a warm and laughing presence, bubbling over with joy and alight with the love of her lord.  The king and lady Indis had had eyes only for each other that night as they chatted gaily - the king reaching over at intervals, touching her hair, laying his hand upon hers - and the child sitting to the right of the king appeared momentarily forgotten...

Rúmil's eyes snapped open, and he sat up, snatching at his pen.  Dipping the nib in his little pot of ink, he put pen to paper and began to write.

At that feast of Nost-na-Lothion, prince Curufinwë had been sitting at his father's right hand, strange and silent and fiddling with something he held in his hands, which Rúmil supposed, with his newfound knowledge of the boy's interests, must have been a trinket of some sort. 

Prince Curufinwë did not speak to either his father, or the lady Indis.  Neither did he play with the other children, who were tearing around the square, causing havoc and dancing rings round the adults who shouted out warnings to be careful, lest they hurt themselves.  Instead, prince Curufinwë's attention was given solely, wholly, to the object he held in his hands, his brow furrowed with concentration - a countenance that had at first startled Rúmil, and then made him smile and look more closely, for it reminded him somewhat of Míriel Þerindë.

From his vantage point at the scholars' table, Rúmil had then spent an idle moment studying the boy's face and form, trying to work out which other features he had inherited from his parents.

The young prince's hair was black like his father's, but had the texture of his mother's, and was slightly wavy. He had the willowy build of his mother, but appeared also to possess the wiry, dextrous strength of his noble father - this made evident as he struggled under the tablecloth to alter his trinket in some way.  He had his mother's moon-pale complexion and her regular features, but there was a sharpness there that echoed those of his father. His posture was Finwë's, but the way he absorbed himself in his task, ignoring the many who flitted past the high table with a profound detachment, was unmistakably Miriel's.  From a distance, Rúmil could not get a look at his eyes, but they seemed pale, bearing more of a resemblance to his father than his lady mother.

By all accounts, it had seemed to Rúmil that prince Curufinwë was, in bodily form, a most harmonious amalgamation of the better aspects of his mother and father.  Most fortunate, Rúmil had thought cynically, taking another sip of his wine and ruing the unhappy circumstances that had landed him with his rather plain face and coarse brown hair - the worst features of his own parents.

At that moment, he recalled, a drunken colleague had tapped him on the shoulder, asking him to dance.  The worse for wear himself, Rúmil had laughed and complied, and all thoughts of the king's sullen son vanished from his mind.  For another hour or so, he had been caught up in a square dance that had snowballed into a tangled-legged free-for-all, and when he finally managed to navigate his way through the crowd and back to the table, the word going round was that the king's son had gone missing, and that if he was spotted, he had to let the king know.

Caring not a jot for the king's woes (if he had not been so busy salivating over the lady Indis, it would not have happened) Rúmil had slurred that he would keep an eye out, and then had glanced around for his wine glass, with intent on filling it to the brim.  It was not there. 

He had looked around for a replacement.  There were none, bar a few at the other end of the table, which - he noted, aghast - were being spirited away by a little girl in a green dress.

"What are you doing with those?" he had wailed, as he tripped over his own feet to reach her before she ran off with them.

"Sorry, Master Loremaster," she had said, her dark eyes solemn.  "We need these for the sculpture."

And then she had darted away, ducking into the crowd so he could not follow.

Snarling with defeat, Rúmil decided to cut his losses and had wandered round a few of the neighbouring tables in search of an empty glass he could borrow.  No such luck.  Upon questioning a few others, they had answered that theirs, too, had been stolen by bands of marauding children.

By happy chance, just as he had reached the point where he had seriously been considering swigging from the bottle, the little girl in the green dress breezed past him once again, carrying two more wine glasses in hand. 

Stealthily, he had followed her, weaving his way through the throng of merrymakers, thinking that he'd be damned if she'd keep him from his alcohol.

The girl had kept walking until she left the Great Square entirely and had emerged out onto the road, closed for the Festival and empty of traffic, bar a few folk wandering home and - Rúmil stopped short and stared in astonishment - a large gang of children, all bearing empty wine glasses, which were being sorted by other children according to size and shape, and then stacked into a great pyramid by prince Curufinwë, who had stripped down to his tunic and hose, had somehow managed to acquire a step-ladder and appeared to be giving orders and issuing demands for more wine glasses.

Thoroughly amused and impressed by their devious initiative, Rúmil had decided to abandon his quest for a drinking vessel, and instead decided to fall back on the bottle option.  He had not wanted to spoil the children's fun, and had planned on returning to the square and feigning ignorance as to the young prince's whereabouts, but just as he had turned on his heel to leave, a worried voice had shouted out behind him, accompanied by hurried steps.  It belonged to a harried-looking young man, wearing the king's livery, and who was obviously a servant of some capacity in the king's household.

"Prince Finwion!  There you are, thank Eru!  The king has been out of his mind with-  with- What in the name of the Everlasting Darkness is this?  So that's where all the glasses have gone!  And where are your robes?  What do you mean, ‘in a tree?'  PRINCE FINWION, COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!"

Rúmil had ended up doubled over laughing, watching as the boy took off like a shot, ducked under the unfortunate young man's legs (a dextrous and daring move which made the rest of the children shriek with laughter) and sprinted down the white stone stairs in what were essentially his undergarments, the sleeves of his tunic flapping in the breeze.

The young servant had made a sad, little moan, before he began to give chase, and the other children cheered and clapped, speeding prince Curufinwë on, whose small feet were pounding the pavements, sending up sparkling clouds of dust into the night air, as he made rather good progress down the road.  The boy had been far enough ahead that he felt he could stop long enough to turn round and call out, "I shall distract Minyandil!  Protect the sculpture!", at which point the rest of the under-aged rabble had begun to laugh and cry out to one another, "Protect the sculpture!  Protect the sculpture!" as they fell back into a loose, defensive formation around their glass pyramid.

It was really, really rather funny, but Rúmil, alas, had not been present at the end of their battle - had not witnessed how their heroic stand had played out - for he had been spotted by children and deemed an "adult and a Loremaster," and would have been likely to steal the glasses from their "work of art," and was therefore hurried away by a small, but determined group of suspicious children.

He had not known, either, what had become of prince Curufinwë, but he assumed someone had caught the boy eventually.  By all accounts, the young prince was still living under his father's roof and not up a tree with only a ragged pair of robes for company.

Smiling to himself, Rúmil put down his pen.  Then he rose and picked up the loose leaf of paper and began to peruse his notes as he paced, to-and-fro, along the balcony.  Sometimes he would stop, and stoop over the table to add another detail, before returning to his pacing, repeating this process until, having scratched down a final point with a concluding flourish, he nodded his head, satisfied with his work.

Matters pertaining to prince Curufinwë Fëanáro, Finwion.

By account of his father, the king, he is possessed of prodigious talent, is intelligent, has a quick wit and is driven to seek knowledge - all this beyond even the measure of our people. However, the prince is also allegedly possessed of a fierce temper, an impulsive recklessness, a disregard for authority, and is sharp-tongued and strange and self-willed.  The king, however, loves him dearly.

From what little I observed of his demeanour at the festival of Nost-na-Lothion, when he was still but a young child, I learned that the following characteristics corroborate with the king's account: his strange and at times sullen behaviour; an impulsive recklessness; an extreme disregard for authority; a quick wit; and a prodigious talent for feats of creative skill. I also observed that the boy, like his father, is a born leader - the other children of the festival sparing not a moment's thought in obeying his command - and that the boy, perhaps, also revels in rebellion, as I never saw him happier than when he took to his heels in flight from the king's servant.

I wonder now what I will observe of him?  I wonder what, if anything about him, has changed?  I also wonder how exactly I am to find out what is causing the boy's alleged peculiarity?  I make a tentative hypothesis that it is to do with his mother.  I also hypothesise that the king, in his heart, knows this but does not want to acknowledge the fact.  I wonder, then, how I am supposed to tell him? 

It seems that I am full of wonder and empty of answers.

Well, he thought, there was only one way to remedy that.

It was time to meet prince Curufinwë.

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

After wandering around the palace for a while, he had finally managed to snare one of lady Indis's maids, who, when told of his purpose, fetched one of the king's own servants to take him to prince Curufinwë's chambers.  The friendly young man who escorted him past the guards to the private family quarters had been none other than Minyandil, the unfortunate sod who had been obliged to chase after the king's disobedient son that night at the Nost-na-Lothion festival.

Rúmil mentioned the incident to Minyandil, and the younger man threw back his head and laughed heartily.

"Oh, Valar, what an embarrassment!" Minyandil chortled.  "If I'd have known you were watching me make an prize arse of myself that night, Master Rúmil, I'd have likely thrown myself over the falls!  What a bloody night that was!  Fëanáro ended up running all the way down to the banks of the Ascar, and he scampered up a tree and climbed to where I couldn't reach him. We exchanged insults, he threw fruit at me, and refused to come down. I ended up having to fetch the king.  He had to come away from the Festival and leave the queen at table on her own."

"Really?" Rúmil said, marvelling anew at the lengths the king would go to in order to attend to his beloved son, and also at the servant's referring to the young prince as ‘Fëanáro'.  Interesting...

"Yes, really.  It took him a good hour or so to coax Fëanáro down, and when we finally brought him back to the square, he had a fit of temper and tipped half a bottle of wine over the king."

Rúmil's eyebrows shot up.  Only in his dreams had he ever dared...

"The king was absolutely furious," Minyandil went on in his good-natured, chattering voice, "and he quite rightly wanted to punish Fëanáro, although I did defend Fëanáro a little because he was just a boy at the time, and I suggested to the king that he be sent to his rooms.  The king told me to get him out of his sight for the night, and I brought him back here.  Ended up feeling heart sorry for him because it was my fault for bringing the king over to the riverside, so I stayed with him in his rooms and we made clay models until the king and queen got back."

"That actually sounds like fun," Rúmil mused.

"It was!" Minyandil exclaimed. "I rolled out the best snake I had ever rolled in my life that night.  Not much of a punishment, eh?"

Minyandil halted suddenly in front of a door and Rúmil almost crashed into him - for but a second ago, he had not even known the door was there. It had been very skilfully painted to blend in with the rest of the corridor.  He knew instantly that it led to prince Curufinwë's rooms.

"Here we are!" Minyandil announced.  "Now, we'll see if we can get him to let me in."

Rúmil flinched when Minyandil took a deep breath and bellowed, "Fëanáro!  Fëanáro, are you in there?  You have a guest!"

"Fuck off!"

The prince's reply was muffled, but there was no way Rúmil could have mistaken his words.  Disbelief washed over him.  Had those foul words truly come from the young prince's mouth?  Thoroughly shocked, he glanced at Minyandil, who did not seem bothered in the least.

"Fëanáro, open up!" Minyandil shouted, hammering insistently on the door.  "I'm not having him standing out here waiting.  He's come over from the School-"

"FUCK OFF!"

An indignant, offended anger flared in Rúmil chest.  Never, never in his life had he been spoken to with such disrespect!  Even the king in all his ire at the Máhanaxar had never resorted to such low language.  Why of all the nerve! The horrible, nasty, little shit! 

Flustered and affronted, he pushed in front of Minyandil, ignoring the younger man's protests, and shoved at the door. Something was making it stick, so he began to force it open with his shoulder, his righteous anger giving him energy.

With a final shove, whatever was causing the resistance gave way, and Rúmil felt the door slip away from him. With a yelp, he stumbled into prince Curufinwë's rooms, tripping up over a dust-sheet and almost clattering into a workbench that was covered in paint-pots and brushes of varying sizes.  Laurelin's light streamed in from a long window, setting swirling specks of dust a-sparkle.  The smell of paint fumes assailed him, and the cream-coloured walls of the room were covered in an indecipherable, arcane graffiiti.

"What is going on in here?" he thought, irritated.

Then he turned slightly, and started, almost falling over again in fright. 

A few feet away, prince Curufinwë sat atop a stepladder, staring at him, perched like a gargoyle, his knees drawn up into his chest, still and silent.  The prince's eyes were fixed on him, staring straight at him, through him, and for the brief moment when their eyes met, Rúmil felt an unexpected twist of apprehension.

The prince's eyes possessed a depth and intensity unmatched by either of his forebears.  A pale grey, they shone with a fierce luminescence, as though lit from somewhere deep within.  Or somewhere immeasurably far away.  Alien.  A place not of Valinor.  A primal, ancient place. Older than Cuiviénen, than the Trees, than the Lamps, than the Valar, even.  Perhaps older than Arda itself.

No one should have eyes like that.  It is unnatural...

Then, like a blow to the chest that winded and incapacitated, the prince's presence hit him full force - and for a horrifying, unbearable moment that flashed as brilliant and hot and briefly as lightning, all he could feel was heat.  

All consuming heat.

Instinctively, his fëa recoiled, feeling its edges curling into cinders and ashes like a sheet of paper held over an open flame.

Stop it...

The prince said something.  His lips moved.  But Rúmil could not hear him.  The prince's head tilted, his brow furrowed in concern, and he said something again.

Stop it!

Rúmil shook himself.

ENOUGH!

The heat dissipated.

Normality rushed in again, filling its place like waves washing away footprints in the sand.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

For a few seconds, Rúmil stood there in the middle of the floor, blinking, trying to process what had just happened.  Then the prince's voice cut through his reverie, resonant, impatient and low, but not yet fully deepened into manhood.

"You are not Minyandil."

It was like a short, sharp shock to his system, and Rúmil felt a black anger begin to writhe in the centre of his chest.  He felt his lip curl, and he returned the prince's flinty, dispassionate stare with interest.

"No, I am not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet.   "My name is Rúmil, and if you ever do that again, I promise you, you will regret it."

At the mention of his name, the prince's eyes widened momentarily.  There was a flash of eagerness there, but quickly as he had dropped his haughty reserve, the young prince picked it up and drew it around himself once more.

"You are Master Rúmil?  The linguist and historian of the School and the inventor of the Sarati?"

"I am," Rúmil replied with a nonchalance carefully crafted to mask his pride.

"Why are you here?  You do not often leave the School."

"I am here at your father's behest."

"You hate my father."

"I do not hate your father.  I merely do not believe the sun shines out of his backside, like so many others of my acquaintance."

The prince's mouth quirked a little at that remark.  "Yet you are here," he remarked, folding his arms and sitting back a little atop his stepladder.

"He is my sovereign," Rúmil replied evasively, leaving the implication hanging in the air.  Of course, the young prince picked up on it immediately.

"You came because you were commanded?"

"Correct."

"Why did my father command you to come here?"

"To speak to you, apparently," Rúmil replied testily.  The boy was beginning to try his patience. He asked far too many questions. Well, perhaps it was not so much the number of questions as the attitude in which they were posed.  Prince Curufinwë asked questions, and he expected them to be answered.

"What about?"

"I am not entirely certain, but I believe mutual interests may play a part."

There followed a short silence, in which the young prince clasped his hands in his lap and looked to the ceiling.  Then he said, "Oh.  That was thoughtful of him."

He jumped down from his stepladder and approached Rúmil.  Inclining his head slightly, he offered his hand.  It was then Rúmil noticed that whatever the young prince was wearing - it looked like a dingy, grey tunic and dark trousers rolled up to the knee and held in place with string - it was all absolutely covered in paint.  Nothing had escaped the treacherous splatter, and there were tiny spots of the stuff ranging from the dark circles under the boy's eyes all the way down to his bare feet.

It was unexpected, and it made Rúmil smile.

He took the prince's outstretched hand and his smile faded, replaced by a wince, when he felt the wet squash of paint transferring from one hand to another.  Then there was another feeling.  A tingling feeling, not unpleasant - and a warmth that spread slowly from everywhere prince Curufinwë touched. 

"I thank you for coming to my father's home, Master Rúmil," the prince said, his tone sincere and less haughty,  "and I apologise for imposing my fëa upon you.  I have craved your conversation for a long time now, but never expected to have the pleasure, since my father does not exactly figure high in your estimations, nor you in his."

"I forgive you," Rúmil replied coolly, trying to pretend he was not flattered by the prince's admission.  "Just don't do it again, or expect to have the pleasure immediately and indefinitely withdrawn."

A small, vague smile caused the prince's lips to twitch slightly. "Your threat is duly noted and taken to heart, Master Rúmil.  This is an opportunity too good to be lightly cast aside.  Now if you'll excuse me for one moment, I will speak to Minyandil.  Then we can talk properly."

"Very well," Rúmil replied, as the young prince brushed past him and headed for the door.

Free from young Curufinwë's penetrating gaze for a blessed moment, Rúmil took the opportunity to pay a little more attention to something that had been bothering him the moment he entered the room: the strange symbols that the prince had evidently been in the middle of painting on his walls when he had so rudely forced open his door and stumbled inside.   

They were familiar, yet not, and were beautiful of form - all elegant, slanted ascenders and descenders and carefully curved bows.  There was a regularity that made him suspect a writing system, and, linguist to the core, Rúmil tried to make sense of them whilst in the background, only half-hearing their conversation, the prince dismissed Minyandil.

"Minyandil?" 

"Yes?" 

"Thank you for bringing Rúmil." 

"Not a problem, Fëanáro.  May milord Finwe expect you for dinner?"  

"No. I will be busy."

"Very good."

Lost in wonder, Rúmil hardly even noticed when the prince re-entered the room, so busy he was marvelling at the skill of the decoration. 

Curufinwë had painted his walls to look like the pages of a very fine book - from the column divisions, ruling and rubrics, up to the soaring heights of huge illuminated initials and generous borders filled with dense puzzles of animal interlace.  The king had mentioned he had his son occasionally copy books for him - and no wonder!  The boy was astonishing!  He had half a mind to tempt the prince into mischief so he could have a book made for himself.

The text itself, however, he could not make sense of. 

But he wanted to.  Oh, how he wanted to!

While he had been gawping, unabashed, at prince Curufinwë's work, the boy had once again retreated to his stepladder, sitting on its top step and regarding Rúmil with an expression unfathomable.

"This is stunning," Rúmil heard himself utter.  "Prince Curufinwë-"

"Do not call me that."

Rúmil was brought down to earth with a bump at the tone of the prince's voice.  His words were smooth, his voice quiet, but there was a steely note there that commanded and would not be gainsaid. 

"My name is Fëanáro. To you, and to all, I am Fëanáro."

"Your mother name," Rúmil stated flatly, before he could stop the words tumbling out. 

He hadn't meant to, but when the words passed his lips, they sounded like a judgement. 

A silence fell, in which prince Curufinwë - no, Fëanáro - looked at him for a prolonged moment, his unnatural eyes searching him, staring straight into Rúmil's own as though the prince could find what he sought written there as clear as day as a page from a very fine book.

And then he realised.

Fëanáro, too, was judging him.

Lowering his eyes, Rúmil smiled, for he knew exactly what to say in his defence.  His speculation on at least one cause of the young prince's rebelliousness had been vindicated.

"A fine name," he announced, "and a true and beautiful one.  Your lady mother chose well.  I shall abide by her decision - and yours."

When Fëanáro smiled, once again Rúmil felt the happy feeling of having won a small victory.  He had made a breakthrough, he knew it.  He had said the Right Thing, and now, the king's young son would, perhaps, deign to listen to him.  The boy held fast to the memory of his mother.  Anything attributed to her influence was special to him, and nothing more so than that most precious of things she gave him before she died.  His name.

Fëanáro broke contact then, and the moment was gone as he folded his legs underneath him and spun round on his backside, facing the wall he had recently been vandalising. 

The air in the room felt different now, Rúmil realised.  Bit by bit, the ice of reserve on both sides was beginning to melt away.

"I am redecorating," the prince announced, speaking to the wall. "Do you like it?"

"I am astonished," Rúmil said, truthfully.  "You have a great deal of talent.  But tell me, Fëanáro-" he almost hesitated calling him by that name, "-what do the words say?  I am champing at the bit to know!  There is regularity.  It must be a writing system of some sort."

From his stepladder, Fëanáro shot him a sly, sidelong glance. 

"It is a writing system, yes..." he said.

When it became apparent that he would offer no further information but was content to string him along, Rúmil summoned all of his considerable powers of sarcasm to the fore, and, throwing his hands in the air, exclaimed, "Well, now, that's just wonderful!  What an extraordinarily comprehensive explanation that was.  I shall be able to go back to the School now quite happy, having learned so many new things!"

He noted that a bit of sarcasm went down well with young Fëanáro, as the boy cracked another smile.

"Truly, you are interested?" he asked.

"Believe me, Fëanáro, if I were not, I wouldn't have asked you."

"Then it is a code," Fëanáro said simply, making a sweeping gesture over his handiwork. "My own personal writing system that grew from a little code I invented so I could write in my ledgers and notebooks and not have anyone poke their noses in them and report back to my father.  I also use it to write to a few people on occasion, and have given them the transliteration aid.  Now they, in turn, have begun to use it in writing to me, and to others.  I know that my friend Luiniar uses it to write to his beloved in Tirion, whilst he serves out his apprenticeship in Formenos."

Fëanáro paused for a moment, stopping to hop down from his stepladder and approach a large something covered by a dustsheet.  It was a desk.  From somewhere on his person, a small key appeared, and he busied himself with unlocking a drawer before riffling around inside and coming away with a small, battered volume.  In fact, it hardly warranted the name ‘volume'.  It was more like a collection of single leaves of paper bound together within a thin, plain kidskin binding.

"I can write anything I want and not be censored," he added, handing the not-quite-volume to Rúmil, whose fingers tingled as prince Fëanáro's brushed his.

Rúmil opened it.  It was a transliteration aid.  He flipped through it and noted that each of Fëanáro's symbols was dedicated a page, accompanied by copious notes and assigned sets of Sarati equivalents.  At the back, blessedly, there was an index of sorts, containing tables of Sarati on one side and Fëanáro's letters on the other, so that one could transliterate at a glance.

"Now that you have the guide," Fëanáro ventured, with an enigmatic smile,  "I wonder if you can read what I've written?"

"With a paper and pen, I'm sure I could," Rúmil answered distantly, already absorbed in Fëanáro's short treatise on letter forms and sound values at the front of the guide.

A paper and pen was fetched; Fëanáro's writing desk uncovered, and Rúmil sat amid swirling clouds of dust and worked on deciphering the young prince's code, whilst Fëanáro climbed atop his stepladder once again and resumed his work - a paintbrush in one hand, another clenched between his teeth, and clutched in his free hand, his working exemplar.

It was completely unexpected, but before long, Rúmil found himself having an obscene amount of fun, especially when it came to dealing with those new, little conventions the prince had devised to divide utterances into sense units (there was a treatise on that too.)  Short pauses, long pauses, signs denoting additional information, signs indicating questions and exclamations (there were a lot of those in the wall-text) - those did not exist in his Sarati, so he had to borrow the symbols from Fëanáro.

He progressed slowly at first, but letter by letter, Rúmil began to gain in confidence and the secrets of the wall-text were the more swiftly revealed.  Unfortunately, the more of its secrets he uncovered, the quicker he began to realise that it was not a text - or at least none that had ever merited a place in any celebrated book of lore, though it had certainly been widely-read.  It was a transcription of an argument - a heated argument - and its cutting exchanges were uncomfortably familiar to Rúmil.

" ‘I denounce you!  I denounce you, Finwë, Noldóran, and name you inconstant! I name you flawed monarch - unfit to govern our people! How should we accept your rule and obey the law of the Valar of Aman when you blithely cast it aside to satisfy your own lusts?' 

So said Master Rúmil the scholar.

‘Master Rúmil, I do not make this decision lightly! Nothing like this has ever before occurred in the Blessed Lands, and there is no law yet that forbids me to marry Lady Indis.'

So said the king before Master Rúmil, the scholar, overrode him in anger.

‘There is, my king, there is!  It is the law of common decency!  This is a law as yet unwritten, but it beats within the hearts of all our people - Noldor, Vanyar, Teleri, and the Avar who yet linger overseas.  You chose your wife, Finwë, Noldóran, in love, and you made a vow under the witness of Manwë and Varda that you would forsake all others and honour her until the end of days.  By seeking this unnatural course, by seeking to wed Lady Indis, you dishonour your wife - your rightful wife, Lady Míriel - and break your vow!  Unless you did not choose your wife in love at all, which would explain why you are able to cast her aside like an old boot!' 

So said Master Rúmil, the scholar, in a great storm of rage, who then ceased to speak and was forced to relinquish his platform, as Finwë, the king, made to strike him and had to be restrained."

With a little moan of anguish, Rúmil's head fell into his hands as he finished reading over his transliteration.

"Bugger it," he muttered to himself, feeling his cheeks flush red. He cringed at the thought of the king finding out what his son had taken so much time and care to scrawl over his walls.

"Bugger it, bugger it, bugger it..."

"Is there something wrong, Master Rúmil?"

He looked up to find prince Fëanáro watching him closely.  There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and Rúmil knew that the boy was well-aware of what was wrong with him.

"I have wanted to talk to you for a long time now," Fëanáro added, an enigmatic form of explanation that now seemed to Rúmil to be one of the boy's more irritating characteristics.

"Does the king know about this?" Rúmil said sharply, waving Fëanáro's guide in the air.

"No."

"Good.  Will it stay that way?"

"My father has quite a few of my letters stashed away in his study, though he will not admit it.  I assume he is still trying to figure out the system.  If he had managed to, he would have come gloating, of that I have no doubt," Fëanáro replied, with a small smile.

"Excellent.  And you keep this thing well-hidden?"

Fëanáro snorted with mock effrontery.  "Of course!  I do not merely keep it locked in that drawer.  There is a false panel."

Rúmil, the eternal sceptic, opened the drawer and felt around for the tell-tale signs of a join where there shouldn't have been.  He found nothing.

"There is no panel!"

"Yes there is," Fëanáro replied, with such quiet certainty that Rúmil knew it to be fact.

"Then by the Valar, you are far too clever for your own good," he said, laughing and shaking his head.  Upon his step-ladder, Fëanáro laughed too, running a paint-spotted hand through his dark hair.

"I like to make things," he said, "and I like to make them well. So my secret - and your words - are safe within these walls. My father would have to have my desk broken to pieces before he could ever find it, and I know he would not do that to me."

"That is well," Rúmil said.  "I hate the thought of going back to the School, only to have the king drag me back here under the cover of night upon suspicion of planting dissident philosophies into his beloved son's head."

"I would deny it you know," Fëanáro said casually, though shooting him a sly, challenging look.  "I would deny all knowledge and tell him that you told me to write them."

"As if your father would believe that horrendous lie!" Rúmil snorted.  "You? Not knowing what you were writing?  Oh, please..."

"He would," Fëanáro countered, his voice muffled as he jammed the brush between his teeth again and resumed his painting. "He would believe it because I am, as you said, his beloved son."

"Well, I cannot believe you would sink so low as to use your family connections against me," Rúmil said, with a mock sigh, as he slapped the guide book down on the desk and opened it up to the tables at the back.  "You really are despicable, Fëanáro, and I suppose the only way for me to cover my own arse is to compose some sort of disclaimer to let the king know I had nothing to do with it."

"A what?" the young prince said, paintbrush still clenched between his teeth.

Rúmil picked up his pen and turned over the sheet of paper Fëanáro had provided.

"A disclaimer, Fëanáro," he replied.  "I'm sure you know the term.  And, in fact, I have decided!"

"Decided what?"

"That I shall need wall space," Rúmil announced.  "That very corner at the bottom right, where you have stopped ruling.  I shall compose my disclaimer and write it there - using your system, of course."

"As you wish," Fëanáro replied dismissively, though a wry smile betrayed his amusement.

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

It had not been his intent to stay so long. Outside, the light of Laurelin was waning, and the sky was set ablaze with the fiery hues of twilight. Indeed, he had not even noticed the time until he and the young prince Fëanáro, having finished their work, had retreated to the generously accommodating window seat in order to chat awhile. 

The room was saturated with the stink of paint, and Fëanáro had thrown the windows open wide, the panes banging against the white walls of the palace, startling a flock of doves into flight.  The prince had sat down, and invited Rúmil to do the same, and they had fallen into conversation.

Rúmil was glad for the fresh breeze blowing in from the open window, for it kept him alert - and if there was one thing he'd learned in the course of his encounter with young Fëanáro, it was that you always had to be on your toes when engaging with him on any sort of topic that sparked his interest.  The king had mentioned his son possessed a quick wit.  That, Rúmil had decided, was an understatement. 

The boy was preternaturally sharp, and while in debate would stare at those who would engage him with his brilliant grey eyes that seemed almost uncanny in their ability to burn away all the fripperies of rhetoric, leaving only your logic and facts exposed, ready to be picked apart by his merciless intellect.  Rúmil pitied the king ever having to chide a boy like Fëanáro.  He imagined that every explanation the king would put forward as reason for punishment, or performing an undesirable duty, Fëanáro would come back with a swift, contrary reply - relentless in its logic - that would force the wind out of the king's sails, leaving him unable to counter and his son with the liberty to do what he wished.

Therefore, although the setting for their conversation was very informal (Rúmil was himself now covered in paint and sitting less than a foot away from Fëanáro, their feet almost touching) he felt like he was on trial before a penetrating young judge. But he loved it.  Absolutely loved it.  It was the thrill of true, stream-of-conscious debate, with no tradition and format and rank and status to constrain and warp wild flights of fancy into mediocrity. 

Before him, Fëanáro sat cross-legged, orating on the disadvantages of his Sarati.

If so challenged by a colleague at the School, Rúmil would have launched into a blistering invective in his defence, as he had fought long and hard to get the Loremasters to accept his system over others. 

But when those criticisms came from Fëanáro - it was odd, but he did not mind so much.  Fëanáro was not a Loremaster and their conversation was private, therefore there was no danger of losing face. There was, however, a less selfish reason: he had never seen the prince so animated, so obviously happy as he was now.  Fëanáro spoke, his young face was suffused with a feverish glow, barely restrained, as he made quick, darting gestures with his hands. His strange and nebulous, but brilliant, thoughts came out rushing and disjointed, as though they would disappear into nothingness if he did not say them aloud. 

It was clear to Rúmil that Fëanáro had, indeed, been wanting to speak to him for a long time.  The boy's enthusiasm was infectious, and in spite of the subject matter, Rúmil was inspired - his own thoughts and imagination coming to life, as embers kindled to flame.

"So my system," Fëanáro explained, "is designed to accommodate any language you could care to think of.  It is a template for sounds to be mapped onto."

"Clever," Rúmil mused.  "You know your phonology.  I can see why it would be useful."

"And efficient.  There would be no more situations like what has transpired with your Sarati, Master Rúmil, where there are now hundreds and hundreds of locally specific Sarats. More and more groups of people are gravitating to these local Sarats, and it is becoming more difficult for those outside their locality to understand them. Our people as a whole are in danger of closing ourselves off from each another - communicatively, I mean."

"Yes," Rúmil said.  "I have noticed that myself.  I write to some of my old friends on Tol Eressëa fairly regularly, and if I had not grown up there and known the dialect from when I was an infant, I would certainly find their spelling eccentric."

"You were born on Tol Eressëa?" Fëanáro enquired, in a brief diversion.  "How interesting. There must be a lot of mixed languages there."

"Actually, I was born on a boat when our people were crossing the sea," Rúmil said, laughing a little. "I have no birthplace, but I consider Tol Eressëa my first true home. And yes, there certainly were a lot of languages floating around on that island.  A lot of crossed wires and misunderstandings. Quite amusing at times.  I have been around long enough to notice the changes taking place."

"And that is why a system such as mine would be useful," Fëanáro stated.  "For all our languages may grow apart, at least we would have a common way of writing!"

"Communication is important, yes.  It is the most basic purpose for writing.  I think that people forget that sometimes..."

"I agree," Fëanáro said earnestly, with another one of his rapid gestures.  "The purpose of writing is communication, and the purpose of communication is to convey meaning clearly. That is another way the Sarati fail to deliver-"

"Fëanáro!" Rúmil cried, half amusement and outrage.  "What now?"

"But Master Rúmil," the young prince pleaded, "please, I must tell you this!  It is no fault of your own, but rather that of those who have adopted your system-"

Rúmil was laughing now, still marvelling at his patience in taking such bare-faced criticism from one who had scarce left childhood.

"Very well, Fëanáro!" he said, holding his hands up in defeat.  "Go ahead.  Speak your mind."

The young prince squared his shoulders and Rúmil had to suppress his laughter as the boy launched into another happy moment of soaring conjecture and possibility.

"If the purpose of writing is communication," Fëanáro said, smacking his fist into his palm, "and the purpose of communication is to convey meaning clearly, then the Sarati fail in their obligation.  Why?  Because there are so many ways of writing.  You can write up and down from the right or left corner.  You can write from left to right, or from right to left.  I have even come across texts where the scribe has begun writing from left to right, got to the end of the line and switched from right to left, his words slithering from top to bottom like a sand snake's tracks in the desert. 

When I have to spend time trying to figure out which way a text is meant to be read, I can tell that the way in which it is written is inefficient - and certainly not clear enough.  You have not given enough guidance, Master Rúmil!  There are no restrictions in direction, so all the others have went mad putting their own spin on it.  Free choice is admirable, but not when it causes confusion."

"You touch upon a matter that has long plagued me," Rúmil replied, truthfully.  "Believe me, I would love nothing more than to see a standard develop, but you have obviously never encountered the twisted souls who inhabit the school.  They claim to value knowledge above all else, but they are jealous of every success that is not their own.  Certain colleagues fought bitterly against the acceptance of my Sarati, and I struggled for a long time to get them to see reason - that my alternative was the best out of all the others.  You may understand, then, when I say that I do not wield enough authority to impose a standard - and certainly not enough to stamp out variation, if that is even possible."

"Then they are fools," Fëanáro said, his eyes flashing.  "I am familiar with all of their other systems, and yours is by far the best.  That is why I based mine on yours."

"Why thank you for that faint note of praise, Fëanáro," Rúmil replied, with a rueful smile.  "Perhaps one day our dreams of a standard will come true-"

They both turned round at the sharp rapping on the door.  Minyandil's voice could be heard yelling from the other side.

"Fëanáro!  Fëanáro?  Is Master Rúmil still there?"

"I am here!" he called out.

"Did you forget you were dining with the king tonight?"

Launching himself from his seat, Rúmil let forth a stream of curses.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit!" he moaned, as he paced the floor, grabbing fistfuls of his hair - hair that was coming free of its braids and spotted in paint and in no fit state to present to the king.

How could he have forgotten?

At the window, Fëanáro sat and watched him impassively, his strange eyes following him about the room.

Of course... Fëanáro.

The door opened, and Minyandil hurried across.

"Do not fret, Master Rúmil!" he exclaimed, grabbing him by the arm and steering him out of the room.  "Lady Indis has arranged for your things to be collected from the School and delivered to your rooms, so your best robes will likely be there for you to choose from and I have had a bath run for you, just in case.  Moicallë has agreed to braid your hair if you would like," he added, casting a doubtful look at Rúmil's hair as though he didn't think it was exactly worth fixing.  "She is one of the queen's maids and she is very experienced."

"Fine, fine, fine!" Rúmil snapped, being dragged to see the king for the second time in less than a day.  "Just take me back to my rooms, because I have no idea how in the name of the Everlasting Darkness I got here-"

Just as he was about to leave the room, Fëanáro's voice called out.

"Have fun, Master Rúmil!"

He turned just in time to get a brief glimpse.  Fëanáro was still sitting at the window, legs crossed, arms folded.  A wry twitch of the mouth betrayed the boy's amusement, and the look he gave Rúmil seemed to say: You will not have fun.  You should be here with me. Then you would have fun.  I know it.  I understand you.

And he did.

Chapter End Notes

Names:

Nost-Na-Lothion - courtesy of Darth Fingon's article 'Elven Holidays and Festivals: What do we have to work with in the First Age?' from the Linguistic Foolery series.

Minyandil - courtesy of the Quenyan Name Generator. It means 'First Friend'.

Finwion - Fëanor's first father-name, before Finwë added the 'Curu-' prefix.

Moicallë - another one courtesy of the Quenyan Name Generator (though I'm not sure how accurately Vanyarized the name is. XD) It means 'Gentle' (the 'llë' is a diminutive suffix.)

Ascar - the river I made up that runs through Tirion. It means, 'rushing' and is courtesy of rialian dot com.

Why did you do that?

Possible canon picker's quibble: "Ummm... Fëanor didn't invent his Tengwar until 4750. WTF, Silm-fandom n00b?" To that I reply that writing systems do not come into being overnight. It takes hundreds of years for written standards to assert themselves - and that is in human societies, who do not possess the long memories of elves and their tendency towards preservation, rather than change. So I am inclined to interpret the 4750 date as when Fëanor unveiled his Tengwar, officially presenting it as a viable alternative to the Sarati, or even as the date when his standard was accepted by the Loremasters of Aman.

Possible general criticism: "Manuscripts, language, writing, yawn, boring, boring, boring!" Not to Fëanor, they weren't. He was deeply interested in writing and linguistics early in his career, and since I have a pretty weird background in medieval manuscript studies and historical linguistics, it seemed a shame not to dedicate a little bit of this story to some of Fëanor's great loves. :)

Peculiar

The next hour passed in a great rush of activity, in which Rúmil was forced to endure a sort of relentless pestering as, bit by bit, he was cleaned and polished and made fit to be seen by the king and queen.

A bath had indeed been run for him, and before he even had time to feel grateful, Minyandil had thrown him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, calling out in a voice that barely concealed his panic, "Now don't be too long in there, Master Rúmil!  The first course will be served in an hour's time, and you'll need that hair of yours sorted!"

"That hair of yours," he muttered mutinously to himself, as he struggled to pull his robes over his head.  "What a cheek!"

When he finally managed to divest himself of his clothing, the warm bath beckoned.  Whichever kind soul had run it for him had put something into it that turned the water a deep green colour and filled the room with the spicy, earthy scent of patchouli and pine. It was also very, very relaxing. As soon as he lowered himself into the bath, he felt all the knots in his tired muscles unwind. It was bliss. 

Unfortunately, he had absolutely no time to enjoy it, and had to fight to resist the urge to lie there and soak.  Instead, he concentrated extra hard on scrubbing himself to get rid of all the paint chips on his skin and hair, and was out and dry before the water had even considered going cold.

Minyandil must have heard him getting out of the bath, for just as he had wrapped the towelling robe around himself, the younger man again called out, "Are you naked, Master Rúmil?"  And when he replied in the negative, Minyandil burst through the door, looped his arm through his, and propelled him through to the bedroom where a young, Vanyarin woman with curly, blonde hair and golden-brown skin stood waiting next to a table full of bottles and tonics and hair-styling devices.  She smiled at him, all gleaming white teeth. Looking like a drowned rat with a plain face and coarse hair to boot, Rúmil did not smile back.

"Come now and sit down, Master Rúmil," Minyandil exclaimed, as he directed him into a chair.  "I shall bring you your robes, so that you may choose which ones you like, and Moicallë will sort your hair."

"What?" Rúmil called out frantically, as Minyandil sped through to the closet, leaving him to the tender mercies of Moicallë, who took up a strand of his long hair and observed it critically.

"Your hair is frizzy-frizzy, Master Rúmil," she announced, in a thick Vanyarin accent.  "Very difficult, yes?  You have difficulties with your hair?"

"I don't normally pay it that much attention," he said, gritting his teeth.  "My mind is often on higher matters."

"To me, that is very evident," Moicallë replied, in clipped tones.  "You put no oil in your hair to soften?"

"What?  No!" Rúmil exclaimed.  "Why should I?"

"This too is evident to me," Moicallë said, taking up a pair of trimming scissors in her hands.  "Your hair is like... oh, how you say... horse's tail?"

"Excuse me?"

Luckily, Minyandil chose that precise moment to emerge from the gargantuan wardrobe, with piles of Rúmil's robes slung over his shoulder.

"Okay, so I have picked out a few for you to choose from!" he chattered, smiling brightly now.  "I must say, you have excellent taste, Master Rúmil. I doubted you for a minute because of the hair and the boring, black scholar's robes, but these are quite striking and very well-made.  I'm actually jealous."

"And you should be," Rúmil retorted, still feeling wounded from the horse's tail comment.  "Some of those were made by Lady Míriel. She was one of my patrons, and supported the adoption of my Sarati. I did a little work for her, and sometimes I was paid in garments."

Both servants' jaws dropped, and they stopped what they were doing to stare at him before rushing to the bed to hover over his clothes.  Rúmil felt a petty twinge of satisfaction.  Not so plain and horse-haired now, was he?

"Serindë made these?" Moicallë whispered, her eyes alight with wonder.

"Not all of them.  Just some of them."

"Which ones?" Minyandil asked hurriedly.

"The black with the silver-white embroidery on the collar and cuffs; the greenish-grey with surcoat; the mahogany with the golden-brown surcoat; and the deep green ones, with the brown accents and gold detail on the collar and cuffs. Those are my favourite."

"Oh, those are beautiful," Minyandil said, with a wistful look.  "Truly.  You must wear them to dinner tonight!"

"Yes," Moicallë agreed, having since resumed trimming the ends of his hair.  "And I have great idea.  You wear the green ones, Master Rúmil and I weave this gold thread through your hair.  I put little oil in and braid tight so no hairs escape, yes?"

"That's fine by me," Rúmil said, sitting back and feeling much more in control of the situation.  "Just get me down there in time so I don't make a fool of myself by wandering in late."

***    ***    ***    ***

In the end, he only just made it. Having scuttled into the fantastically opulent informal dining room, his arse had barely touched his seat before he had to stand again as the king and queen were announced.  They entered together, a picture of domestic bliss: the lord gently clasping the hand of his lady, all smiles, as he helped her into her seat.  Of course, the queen, in her condition, would have needed a little extra help.  She was very obviously pregnant. 

Goodwives, lock up your daughters, for Finwë, Noldóran, is come, he thought rather unkindly, before he remembered that he was supposed to have at least an understanding and tucked the thought away.

As custom dictated, there was a toast in their honour and Rúmil's glass was hurriedly filled by a vigilant servant.  Apparently, arriving at the eleventh hour to such an auspicious occasion was something of a social faux-pas, for he was treated to a fair few dirty looks and turned up noses from several of the king's lords and their wives.  Not that he cared, of course.  He recognised some of them, lords Nárastar and Sornondo prominent among his most vocal opponents.  Further along the table, he could see their heads bent together in conference, shooting him furtive looks. 

Well they could stare all they liked.  He had never given a fig for their opinions and was not likely to start now.  He had also, blessedly, been assigned a seat next to lord Elveon, whom he still spoke to regularly and knew had never held his rebellion against him.  Elveon's expression was an absolute picture - a mix of surprise and delight - and lady Melmien, his quiet and clever wife, actually let out a little gasp of shock before turning round and shushing her husband.

It seemed his presence had caused quite a stir.

Biting back a smile, Rúmil raised his glass. The king said a few words of welcome and thanked his guests for attending, with an extra nod to Rúmil, before inviting all to sit.  This show of preferment caused a flurry of raised eyebrows and a susurration of curious whispers. Rúmil fought the urge to smirk by busying himself with his wine.  Oh, the gossip that would be flying around Tirion within hours of their departure!

But Rúmil's was not the only presence that would cause a stir.

Everyone looked up as the door opened and Fëanáro walked in.

Dressed in robes of a deep, blood-red colour, they made his pale skin and dark hair stand out in stark contrast.  Upon his head, he wore his silver circlet and on his chest, a many-faceted white diamond.  As he approached the table, Rúmil noted the boy's stiff posture, and knew already that he had assumed again a carefully crafted mask of hauteur.

The king, however, was beside himself with joy - and pleasantly surprised at his son's appearance at table.  Forgetting all propriety, he rose, arms outstretched, and practically ran towards Fëanáro.

"Oh, Curufinwë!  Truly, I am happy to see you!" he exclaimed, gathering his son (whom he still called Curufinwë) in a swift embrace, before catching his hands and stepping back a little to better observe him.  "And you are dressed appropriately!  What is going on? Do you have bad news to deliver?"

"Atar..." Fëanáro admonished, his reserve melting a little as the king planted a kiss on his forehead.

"Well, it matters not.  I am just glad to have you here, my son.  Now, come!" he said, guiding Fëanáro towards the top end of the table.  "I shall have a place set for you and then we can-"

"Actually, Atar," Fëanáro interrupted, "I would rather sit with Master Rúmil - that is, if you do not mind."

The king dithered for a moment, seeming wrong-footed, before breaking out into another wide smile.

"No, no, that is quite alright," he said.  "Not a problem at all.  All I ask is that you at least grant me but a portion of your attention in what remains of the day.  After dinner, I will be retiring to my study for a while.  Would you join me there?"

The king's suggestion was tentative, almost as though he was expecting a refusal, so when Fëanáro answered, "Yes.  I would like that, Atar," the acceptance was all the more special.  The king swelled with sudden emotion, but kept it in check, instead planting another kiss on his son's head.

"Then it is decided," he said happily.  "I shall wait a little longer and have your undivided attention as reward for my patience."

"Thank you, Atar."

As Fëanáro made his way round to Rúmil's side of the table, the king shot him a curious and calculating look.

How did you do that? it seemed to say.

If you only knew, Rúmil thought ruefully, picturing the painstakingly painted symbols on the walls of Fëanáro's rooms.

Beside him, he felt a flutter of fabric as Fëanáro's sleeve brushed his.  The young prince did not look at him, but there was a hint of a sly smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. 

"You look well, Master Rúmil," he said, as the servants flitted around them, arranging the food upon the table.  "I almost did not recognise you."

Well, well, it seemed the boy wanted a bit of banter. 

Rúmil was happy to oblige, for before him, a huge tureen of venison stew was set down.  A basket of fresh-baked rye bread followed, then a heavy plate piled high with potato dumplings.  It smelled delicious, and he realised then how hungry he was.  The thought of delving into the tray of delicious roast vegetables that appeared a little off to his right made him giddy, and if he could just get his hands on that cheese-board, then he would take a thousand ribbings from the young prince in good stead.

"Why, thank you, Fëanáro," Rúmil replied casually, filling up his plate with a few carved slices of roast pork and vegetables.  "I almost didn't recognise you either.  Without the bare feet and the string holding up your trousers, you don't look anything like a tramp anymore."

Rúmil was vaguely aware that Lord Elveon and Lady Melmien, sitting across from them, were listening into their flyting match.  This was because Elveon actually choked on his dinner when Rúmil's insult was fired right back at Fëanáro.

The young prince did not reply right away.  Instead, he called over a servant and whispered in his ear.  While Rúmil was in the middle of a conversation with lady Melmien speculating on the identities of those students who had been reported cavorting, naked, in the fountain as a festival prank - a slip of paper was placed at the side of his plate, along with a pen and a small pot of ink.

The slip of paper was folded in the middle, and bore his name written in Fëanáro's graceful, slanting hand.  He shot a puzzled look at Fëanáro, but the boy was picking at his stew with an air of studied concentration.

Excusing himself to Lady Melmien, he unfolded the paper, read the message written in Fëanáro's code, and had to choke back a very uncivilised snort of laughter.

"Master Rúmil,

You smell like that cabbage in the blue, porcelain tureen.

Fëanáro."

Delicious food and illustrious company aside, there was no way on earth that Rúmil would ever have let that one lie.  Grabbing the pen, he dipped it into the pot and scratched out a reply, again in Fëanáro's code.

"Only because I was with you all afternoon."

With a smirk, he folded the paper and slid it towards Fëanáro, who took it up with an expression of absolute innocence, perused its contents, and set about composing his reply.  It was not long in the coming.

"I'll have you know, I bathed before I came here.  Unlike you, unwashed scholar.  I can see paint chips underneath your nails."

Rúmil took a moment to inspect his hands.  There were, indeed, a few bits of black paint lodged deep.  Well, it wasn't his fault he'd been running late!  If it hadn't been for the blockhead sitting next to him distracting him and filling his head with nonsense, he wouldn't have forgotten about the dinner invitation!

Pursing his lips, Rúmil scrawled his retort and again slid it over to Fëanáro.

"Clearly, then, my mind is on higher matters.  You care too much for your appearance, son of Finwë."

As soon as his pen touched paper, Rúmil knew that had been a good one.  Satisfied, he sat back and waited for the inevitable riposte, as Fëanáro had already picked up his pen.  Seconds later, the slip of paper was returned.

"I dressed for you, Master Rúmil," the message read.

Shaking his head, trying not to laugh, he risked a glance at Fëanáro.  The boy was laughing now too, as he could see him hiding a smile behind his hands.  Again, Rúmil put pen to paper.

"Fëanáro..."  he wrote.

"Yes?"  came the reply.

"There is a hair in my stew."

He had not planned to elicit such a spectacular response, his only concern being his scholarly pride in winning the daft word-skirmish he had entered into. But everyone turned in surprise when the sullen, young prince exploded into a sudden fit of laughter.

"Fëanáro, hush!" he hissed frantically, noting that the king's eyebrows had shot up and that he was now likely to turn his interest towards them.

But Fëanáro could not stop laughing.  Tears were now streaming down his face, which he tried desperately to hide with one hand as the other pounded the table.  The evidence of their silly game lay, unfolded and exposed, next to the plate with the roast pork, and Rúmil was quite aware of the look of disdain thrown at him by Lord Sornondo, which he might have deserved.  He had, after all, been passing notes under the table like a naughty child.

"Curufinwë!" the king called out, gently scolding.  "What on earth are you laughing at?"

"I would wager it is something to do with this," Lord Elveon said, as he leaned across the table and deftly picked up the slip of paper.  The note was passed along and eventually reached the king and queen, who both made an attempt at reading the contents.  The king seemed to recognise his son's system, for his face fell.

"But of course," the lady Indis said sadly, placing a hand upon the king's arm as if to comfort him.  "It is in his code."

"And Master Rúmil knows its secrets," the king replied, staring at him levelly.

An uncomfortable moment passed, during which there was no doubt in Rúmil's mind that the king would have loved to have said much more to him, but Lady Melmien chose that timely moment to interrupt.

"My son knows them too, my lord," she announced.  "How curious. Luiniar must have learned it from Fëanáro, for I know they write to each other often."

"And we suspect he has a girl in the city to whom he also writes," Lord Elveon said, dryly. "But obviously, we can make neither head nor tale of any of the letters he brings with him when he comes home, so we cannot figure out who it is."

"And a good thing too!" Fëanáro exclaimed.  "Those are his private letters, after all. That is why I invented my system, so that concerned parents cannot meddle in the affairs of their children-"

Quickly, the conversation turned to good-natured teasing on the relationships between parents and children, with Fëanáro representing the rights of the child, and the large part of the rest of the guests, the interests of the parents.  And that was well, for Rúmil could not help but notice that the king's expression had darkened considerably.  Far from participating in the debate - which his son was now dominating, the rest of the guests listening and marvelling at this new side of him they had likely never seen - the king was sitting back in his chair, staring moodily out of the window.

"Master Rúmil knows its secrets..."

Damn it all!  How do I get myself into these stupid situations? Am I cursed to forever offend the king?

King Finwë loved his son dearly. This was obvious. All fathers loved their sons dearly and strove to make sure their children's lives were long and prosperous and happy.  They did not do this so that a relative stranger could enter the picture and steal away their child's love and esteem for them - and Rúmil had the awful feeling he was doing just that.  It had not been his intent, of course!  Intention was never an issue when things went badly in his life.  More often that not, it was when he did a job a little too well and things got out of hand. 

The king had called upon him to find out how he could make his son happy.  Short of bringing back the boy's mother and convincing the king to divorce lady Indis - an impossible scenario - he had made the best of the situation and managed to at least bring a smile to Fëanáro's face and make a crack in that mask of reserve.

It wasn't even as if he'd had a plan. It had all been an accident!  He had gone into the job completely blind, said the right thing at the right time, and so Fëanáro had taken to him.  He could've quite as easily said the wrong thing and Fëanáro would have been, at this very moment, sequestered in his rooms and working on some other mad project that might have caught his attention. He would have learned nothing about Fëanáro - would probably still be referring to him as Curufinwë - and the king would have remained at a loss.

Just because Fëanáro had followed him to the dining room and chose to sit with him did not mean that the boy loved his father any less.  He simply provided something that, perhaps, the young prince had been lacking.  Fëanáro was extraordinarily intelligent, and clever as Finwë undoubtedly was, he was not quite so book-learned. The king was also more than likely kept busy with his duties as sovereign, and so would not always be able to spend time with his talented son.

The boy was probably bored out of his mind and wanted someone to talk to.  It was only natural Fëanáro showed a bit of interest in him.  The king should've been happy that his son was at table and engaging in conversation with other adults - even though it was a sort of argument.

And it wasn't as though he was intending on keeping the information to himself!  He had been fully intent on telling the king everything he had learned.  He just hadn't had a spare moment in which to do it!  And whose fault was that?  So why was the king sitting there up at the end of the table, glaring at him in sullen silence in between his prolonged and childish, window-gazing sulks?

As time wore on, Rúmil could feel himself becoming more and more agitated.  A knot of tension was beginning to tighten in his chest, and he felt his fingers twitching underneath the table.  He knew that if he didn't excuse himself, he would most likely do or say something he would later regret, so he rose stiffly and offered his fellow diners a curt nod before walking out of the room.  It was rude, but at that moment, he didn't much care. 

Straight away, he asked a servant if there was anywhere he could go to take some air, thus saving himself the trouble of getting lost.  He was directed through a pair of glass doors to the private gardens, boasting a proliferation of Vanyarin flora alongside the typically Noldorin manicured lawns, well-kept paths, arched trellises and ornamental lake filled with fat, croaking frogs and the water lilies in which they made their homes.

It was a perfect size for storming round, and Rúmil headed straight for the lake, striding along the path at a fair pace, passing under the low branches of weeping willows that occasionally tickled his face.

It was not the king who caught up with him, as he marched round the ornamental lake in the private gardens for the second time.

"Master Rúmil!" a voice called out over the water, stopping him in his tracks. 

It was a Vanyarin voice, and one that he recognised.  Moicallë was hailing him from the other side of the lake - and sitting on a bench just behind her was the queen.  A sudden fit of terror made his insides perform a little flip-flop, and he deliberately slowed his pace.  The queen?  What was she doing here? What on earth did she want with him? 

If he were being honest, he did not really want to find out.  For although he had earned his rebel's mantle, he hadn't much enjoyed the experience, and he did not want tonight to be the night he offended the queen.  He had never before met Lady Indis, had never before spoken to her, but he knew that she was well aware of his opinions concerning her status.  Obviously, he would not be her favourite person in the world. 

Perhaps if he pretended not to hear Moicallë and walked slowly enough they would grow tired of waiting and go away?

No such luck.  The cursed girl kept hollering his name - "Master Rúmil!  Master Rúmil!"- and waving her arms like a lunatic. 

There was no getting out of it.

Sighing, he turned and gave them a sad, little wave.

"My lady Indis would like to speak with you, Master Rúmil!" Moicallë shouted.  "Please come round, if you please!"

"Very well!" Rúmil yelled in reply, in the process startling a frog which plopped off a lily pad and into the water.  "Tell the queen I shall be round momentarily."

Victorious, Moicallë retreated to the bench to give her lady the good news, whilst Rúmil trudged despondently around the last bend, ready to face whatever fate awaited him.  Before long, he was approaching the bench on which the queen sat, her maid standing to her right.  The queen had draped a cloak over her shoulders, which her rich, blue dress left bare, exposing her ample décolletage that was straining at the ties keeping it in place.  Her golden hair was piled high, gentle curls kissing the nape of her neck, and her blue eyes were warm and welcoming.

"Master Rúmil," she said, smiling.  "I would rise to greet you, but I'm afraid I am in a little pain today."  As if in explanation, she brought up a bejewelled hand to pat her round belly, heavy with the king's child.

"No matter, my lady," he said.  "I will not hold it against you."

The queen laughed at his quip, a light, musical sound that was positively infectious, for Rúmil suddenly found himself smiling and had to iron his face into a more neutral expression.

"I trust your rooms are to your liking?" she asked.

"They are, indeed," he replied effusively, and in truth.  "You are very generous in your accommodation.  I shall be ashamed to go back to my cupboard at the School."

The queen laughed again.  "Oh, Master Rúmil, you are very funny!" she exclaimed, offering him a dazzling smile.  "I have heard such stories about you, and they all tell of you as being stern and sharp and full of sarcasm.  They are obviously untrue."

"I don't know about that, my lady," he replied airily.  "I am also stern and sharp and full of sarcasm.  I have had two glasses of wine, though, and not much to eat.  Perhaps that's where my sudden humour has sprung from?"

"Yes," the queen mused, her sunny mood darkening a little.  "You did not stay long at table, Master Rúmil."

"And neither did you," came his smooth and swift retort.

With a nervous smile, the queen looked away. A short silence followed, which Rúmil broke by speaking frankly.

"My lady Indis, you came here to speak with me?"

As if startled into reality, the queen's eyes fluttered, and she resumed her customary cheerful demeanour.

"Of course!" she laughed (though there was again a hint of nervousness) before she turned to dismiss her maidservant. "Moicallë, please wait by the fountain," she said.  "I shall call if I have need of you."

Obediently, Moicallë nodded, curtseyed, and removed herself - but not before shooting Rúmil an inquisitive look over her shoulder. 

When she was gone, the queen seemed to sag a little, as though her straight-backed, graceful posture were a show put on to satisfy others. Unsurprising, Rúmil thought, for she was most likely tired and sore and would much rather have gone to bed than been obliged to truss herself up in a grand gown and attend a dinner.

Feeling an un-looked for stab of pity, he said, "I was very grateful to you, my lady, for arranging to have my things transported to the palace, and also for the aid of Moicallë.  If you hadn't been so thoughtful, I dare say I would've had to decline the invitation and offend the king, as I was with Fëanáro for quite a long time this afternoon and was covered in paint by the end of it all."

"I can state with absolute certainty that if you had been forced to decline, you would not have offended my husband," the queen replied, encouraging, yet with a hint of urgency, as though she wanted to appease him.  "Your presence here is something of a triumph; long-desired but viewed an impossible hope."

Rúmil could not help but raise an eyebrow at that. 

"Long-desired? When I was escorted so suddenly from the School this morning - forgive my impertinence, my lady - but it seemed rather more like a whim."

"Believe me, Master Rúmil," the queen replied, almost desperate, "it took my husband a long time to summon the courage to send for you.  After your second refusal, his courage hung by a thread, and he grew anxious, saying that he could not bear a third.  Forgive my husband his mystery and his haste.  When it comes to Curufinwë, he is not always rational."

"Then you know why I am here," he said frankly.

"I do."

"Then you could perhaps tell me why I being treated so ill by one who purportedly holds my service in such high esteem?"

The queen sighed and smiled sadly.  "I have already told you that when it comes to Curufinwë, my husband is not always rational.  He loves him very much, and would do anything to see him smile.  Lately, my husband's mind has often wandered to thoughts of his son: wondering how Curufinwë is, if he is well, if he is happy, if he needs anything, whether he would possibly join him for dinner, whether today would be the day he would stop avoiding him."

"Avoiding him?"

The king had not told him that.

"Yes.  It is all rather sad, Master Rúmil, but Curufinwë has been avoiding his father, and my husband is deeply hurt and puzzled by it. Of late, he has wanted nothing more than to win back his son's affection. I believe that when he saw you had so easily won so rare a prize in the space of less than a day... well, he was understandably a little jealous.  No doubt he wishes himself in your place, to have such free and easy conversation with Curufinwë."

"I understand," Rúmil said, exasperated, "but what do you want me to do about it?"

"Stay," the queen said firmly.  "Stay for the sake of my husband.  I shall speak to him tonight, will tell him that you are doing a wonderful job - and you are, for you have already accomplished the impossible and brought Curufinwë out of his rooms - and convince him that you mean him no harm."

Now he understood.  She had mistaken his sudden absence at table for a desire to slink out of the palace and return to the School.  Given his history with the king, it was a fairly logical connection to make.  It was, however, wrong. He felt obliged to put the queen's mind at ease.

"My lady, I would very much appreciate it," Rúmil said, bowing a little at the waist. "And I shall stay, but let it be known that I will only tolerate so much."

"Oh, thank you," the queen said fervently, her expression one of deep relief.  "You have no idea how much this will mean to him..." 

With a little difficulty, the queen made to stand, and without thinking Rúmil stepped forward and offered his arm.  Grateful, the queen took it.  By accident, their hands touched.  Her skin was soft and warm - and stood so close, he could not help but breathe in the scent of the queen's perfume. Jasmine.  Something like jasmine. Freshness and light. It was no wonder the king had taken such a liking to her, he thought, as they walked together across the lawn to where Moicallë waited.  There was something about Lady Indis that intoxicated...

"You know, for one who is so stern and sharp and full of sarcasm, you are actually very kind, Master Rúmil," the queen said, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"It's the wine, my lady.  Goes straight to my head."

When the queen's laughter died away, there followed a little moment of silence in which the only sounds that could be heard were the singing of the crickets and the faint trickling of the fountains. It was an expectant sort of silence, in which the queen again withdrew into her thoughts.  Her behaviour reminded him of the king's in the strange, windowless room earlier on in the day - reluctance warring with an overwhelming need to divulge.

"Master Rúmil?"

And there it was.

"Yes, my lady?"

"What are your impressions of Curufinwë?" the queen asked quietly, almost hesitantly, as though she were breaking some sort of rule.

"To one who is stern and sharp and full of sarcasm, it is a joy to find another alike," he replied truthfully.  "People like us, we love nothing more than to wield words as swords, delighting in giving free reign to the weapons of our wits as we spar - and Fëanáro is a worthy opponent, for he is astonishingly clever for a boy of his age, and disgustingly talented.

"And if you are looking for ways to make it a little easier in dealing with him-"  the queen's eyes lit up and he knew he'd hit the mark, "- I would start by calling him Fëanáro, not Curufinwë."

"Truly?" the queen said, pondering this new piece of information.  "He has chosen this name?"

"It seems to be the case.  I made the grave error of calling him by the name Curufinwë and was immediately rebuked.  And I can't say it isn't a wise choice on his part," he added, ruefully, remembering his brief encounter with the searing heat of the prince's namesake.

"A few of my husband's staff call him by that name," she said distantly, "but I always thought that it was... political somehow. A means on their part to belittle me and display their continued allegiance to Míriel Serindë.  But Fëanáro himself has chosen this name?  Should I call him by it?"

Rúmil nodded, a little surprised at the extent and depth of the queen's worries.  But of course she was a foreigner - a Vanya marrying into the Royal House of the Noldor - and as his own rebellion proved, her arrival in Tirion would not have been without its troubles.

"He has, and I think he would appreciate the courtesy."

"Then if it will make my life the slightest bit easier, I shall adopt it," the queen said with a sad smile.

"I take it Fëanáro does not make your life easy?" Rúmil asked, half-joking though he already guessed what the answer would be.

"He despises me," she said, with perfect candour.  "Absolutely despises me."

"You are certain of this?"

The queen let slip a rueful laugh, something that sounded incongruous from one who, by report, possessed a perpetually sunny disposition.  "I have never been so certain of anything in my life..."

At that point, they drew near to Moicallë, and the girl came rushing over to take her mistress's arm, her skirts fluttering about her feet. 

"Thank you for your time, Master Rúmil," the queen said, offering him a smile so warm and sunny, it was as though their entire conversation had never happened. "Will you be joining us again for dinner, or would you rather...?"

"If it is a viable option, then I feel I would rather remain here - at least for the moment," he replied, bowing slightly, respecting the queen's desire for discretion and also grateful that she had given him the choice.  "It has been a very long, strange day, and I would like a little time alone with my thoughts." 

"Then we must respect your wishes," the queen replied.  "I shall arrange to have supper sent out to you."

"That would be wonderful."

"And there is nothing else you would seek of me?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell Master Rúmil."

"Thank you for your kindness, my lady," Rúmil said, with another short bow.

His last thought as he watched them walk back towards the palace was that, far from solving his problems, the queen had only given him more to think about.

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

Lady Indis was as good as her word, for not long after, a young lad from the kitchens appeared with a wicker basket filled with fruits, cold meats, bread, cheese and a bottle of very fine wine.   A blanket had also been supplied, and he wandered round the garden until he found a remote spot, peeking out between a clutch of trees, that overlooked Tirion.  Spreading out the blanket, he sat for a long time and gazed out at the fine city he called home as the remnants of Laurelin crept away to make way for the silvery-dark of Telperion.

Below, he could make out the Great Square, the white tree Galathilion at its centre.  He could see the domed roof of the school beyond, the falls, and the spires of the temples - dedicated mostly to Aulë in this part of the world. There was the bridge over the river Ascar, and further off in the distance, the indistinct mass of the forests of the northern wilds beyond the valley of the Calacirya.

It was quite lovely, and for the first time in what seemed like an age, he felt he could relax.  Uncorking the bottle of wine, he poured himself a glass and enjoyed the view and his solitude until weariness overtook him and his eyes grew heavy.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he thought he heard a voice.

Master Rúmil...

Go away, he thought, irritated.  I'm tired.  I want to sleep!

Master Rúmil...

There it was again, more insistent this time.  Damnably insistent.  It was calling him, compelling him back to the waking world.

Master Rúmil?  Are you awake?

His eyes fluttered open.  He blinked a few times and then shrieked with terror at the sight of a pair of pale, silvery eyes staring down at him from the branches of the trees.  He shrieked again, and flailed this time, tangling himself in the blanket when he realised the eyes belonged to a shadowy figure who had scaled the tree and perched amongst the low branches. 

He felt incredibly, incredibly foolish when Fëanáro leapt to the ground.  So much so, that he picked up an apple from the basket and launched it at the boy, who caught it deftly in one hand and took a bite out of it.

"Curse you, Fëanáro, you nasty, little gargoyle!"

"Did I scare you?" the young prince asked, his eyes glittering with amusement.

"Oh no," Rúmil answered, each syllable dripping with sarcasm.  "This is how I normally greet people!"

Fëanáro skipped over and threw himself down on the grass next to Rúmil.  The young prince had changed out of his robes and was again wearing his dingy work-tunic and trousers.

"Yes, you fell over when we first met, and now you're screaming and trying to run away," Fëanáro mused, through a mouthful of apple.  "I hate to think what happened when you made your entrance at dinner-"

"Have you been to see your father then?" Rúmil inquired, quickly changing the subject as he picked bits of grass from his robes with a fastidious air.

"Hmm?"

"Your father, Fëanáro.  Have you been to see him?"

"No."

Rúmil's heart sank.  He felt his palm connect forcibly with his forehead and drag itself down his face.

Eru, give me strength...

"What time is it?" he asked, trying to remain calm.

"Should be around two hours to the zenith of Laurelin," Fëanáro replied, tugging at a bunch of grass.

"Won't he be looking for you?"

"Oh yes.  He sent Erdacundo to fetch me.  I said I was changing and would be along in a minute, but I climbed out the window."

The slow, creeping anxiety that had been building within him was now blossoming into full-fledged panic at the thought of the king's only heir scrambling out of a third-floor window and down a series of gutters and flimsy trellises.

"Y-you climbed out of the window?" he said slowly.

"Don't worry.  I do it all the time," Fëanáro replied casually.  "I'm getting good at it now.  I've only slipped once, and that was after a wet night."

"You... I- I mean... Fëanáro!" he spluttered, before making a credible attempt at pulling himself together.  Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself, eyed Fëanáro sternly and said, "Why aren't you with your father?"

The young prince stiffened slightly, and his mouth thinned.  Looking away, he replied, "I changed my mind."

Rúmil could not believe it.  Even he did not have the audacity to refuse a direct summons delivered personally from the king.  Fëanáro was his son, yes, but that did not matter.  The king was still the king.

"You changed your mind," he said hollowly.  "Wonderful.  And what brought this on?  I heard you clearly at dinner, Fëanáro.  You said to him you would go."

"And I did go," Fëanáro said, his tone hard and impatient.

"You just said you changed your mind-!"

"I went to his study," Fëanáro hissed, whirling round and startling Rúmil into silence with the ferocious intensity of his gaze. "I went to his study, Master Rúmil, fully intent on spending a few happy hours with my father, whom I love more than anyone in the world.  But she," he said, his lip curling as though he were spitting venom, "she was there. As I placed my hand upon the door, about to enter, I heard her foolish, twittering voice and the very thought of her being there with my father made me ill.

"I left," he concluded in a tone cold and intractable as stone, "and I do not intend to return."

"I see..." Rúmil said, after a pause.  For what else could be said?  The queen's earlier assertions had been proven beyond doubt, and judging Fëanáro's current mood, pressing him further would have been most unwise.

A long silence fell; one made heavy with words unspoken.  The very air caught between them seemed sluggish - saturated with a potent mixture of resentment, jealousy, and a quiet distress.  It weighed most heavily on young Fëanáro.  It pressed down on him, crushed him, like a rare and delicate flower trampled thoughtlessly underfoot.

The boy had retreated into himself, eyes staring at the ground, sightless and unfocused - his arms wrapped around his legs, drawing them into his chest.

Rúmil knew that, at that moment, he could not reach him.  Any attempt to force information would either be ignored or met with fierce hostility. 

So he reached for the bottle of wine, quietly and calmly poured himself another glass, and waited.

When Fëanáro was ready, he would speak.  He was sure of it.

He waited.

And waited.

Gradually, very gradually, something began to change.

Now, the light of Laurelin had retreated to make way for what passed as night in the Blessed Lands.  Under the strange, silvery-dark of Telperion, everything seemed suddenly fey and otherworldly.  Fireflies wheeled and danced in the trees above them. Crickets chirruped. Bats darted through the air, wings flapping loudly, hunting for moths.  In the distance, a tawny owl called to its mate. The air was cool, but heavy, as though a rainstorm threatened - but there were no clouds in the sky.  And though they basked Telperion's light, the trees cast deep shadows that transformed young Fëanáro into something that was not quite as it should have been: the dark circles under his eyes made more pronounced; his pale skin made paper-thin and almost translucent; and his black hair made darker even than the skies of the Hither Lands that Rúmil recalled only vaguely from infancy and seemed as a dream, staring up from his mother's arms with unfocussed eyes onto a canvas of perpetual night studded with milky-white stars.

Then, at last, Fëanáro turned to him, his eyes wide and eerily bright, his young face caught in an expression of great urgency - and for a moment, something seemed to flicker - and Rúmil felt - brief, but profound - Fëanáro's fea tentatively reaching out and touching the edges of his own. 

Desperation... pleading... urging...

"What is it?" Rúmil whispered, so quiet it could've been lost in the soughing of the branches of the trees above.

"You understand, don't you?" Fëanáro begged, his strange, glittering eyes staring deep into Rúmil's own.

Then he began to feel that odd, hot, tingling sensation he would come to ever associate with Fëanáro, and he closed his eyes, willing it to go away.

This seemed to further agitate the young prince.

"Please tell me you understand, Master Rúmil!"

"Rúmil," he heard himself mutter suddenly, bizarrely.

"What-?"

"Rúmil," he repeated more forcefully, opening his eyes and daring to look straight at Fëanáro.  "To you, Fëanáro, my name is Rúmil."  Then adding, after a pause, "And yes... I understand."

Almost instantly, the strange feeling dissipated, but not before Rúmil felt the faint, retreating vestiges of emotion; of the prince's relief and a warm, happy rush of euphoria.  He didn't know why, but he felt suddenly weak.  His heart was fluttering in his chest, and he was sure he was shaking.

"Thank you," he heard Fëanáro say.  "I knew you would understand.  You, more than anyone I have ever met, know what it means to appreciate something that is truly beautiful.  Something that is unique, with heart and soul and unmatched skill and teeming with possibility.  You know that something like that cannot be replaced.  Indis may be beautiful.  She may seduce my father with her looks and her chatter and her willingness to spread her legs when he clicks his fingers - but underneath, she is nothing compared to my mother..."

Fëanáro trailed off a moment, as he paused to rummage around in the pouch of a tool belt he wore strung around his waist, withdrawing a small object he held in his clenched fist. Smiling, he uncurled his fingers and presented the object to Rúmil. 

"You understand, Rúmil," he pressed, "and I have something for you.  Please, take it..."

Rúmil took it.  It was surprisingly heavy and cool and smooth to the touch, and  looked like a large locket, made of silver with a glass front.  Inside, was an intricate effigy of a water lily, its petals made of silver and glass, and its anthers and other inner-workings accented with tiny clusters of sapphire.  It was beautiful.

"Fëanáro, I..." he began, not quite knowing what to say.

"Open it," the young prince said eagerly.  "Hold it in the palm of your hand and release the catch."

Rúmil did as he was told, and almost dropped the thing in surprise when the catch clicked open and the flower popped out of its case and began to hover in mid-air, its petals slowly unfolding as it spun gently, bending and refracting Telperion's light so that the whole device was set a-glow, little spots of crystalline blue and white passing across his astonished face.

He had been mistaken. 

It was not beautiful.  It was much, much more than that.

His heart hurt to look upon it.

"Did you make this?" he said faintly.

"Do you like it?" Fëanáro asked.

"Yes..."

"Then I made it."

"How?"

"Magnets," Fëanáro said simply, as though it were the most logical thing in the world.

"Fëanáro... I..."

It was astounding. He could not take his eyes off it, and neither could he find the words to express just how wonderful he thought it was.

"You can have it."

"What?" he said, panicked into reality.  "You are not serious?  I cannot take this!"

Fëanáro was sitting looking at him with a mixture of pride and amusement.

"I am giving it to you," he said calmly, "because I know you will appreciate it."

"You have others, surely?"

"None.  I shall never again make its like, and I shall never divulge its secrets."

"But your father-!"

"I have made my father many things," Fëanáro said smoothly, "and I shall make him more, and grander things than this as my craft improves.  But this now I give to you, as a gift to one who shares my understanding."

Rúmil opened his mouth to protest, but Fëanáro had already risen to his feet and was dusting himself down.

"How do I get the flower back inside?" he asked, as Fëanáro turned to walk away.

"You'll figure it out," the young prince replied, mysteriously.

"But, Fëanáro!"

"You'll figure it out.  Enjoy it!" Fëanáro called out as he wandered down the path and disappeared into the night.

Alone, Rúmil sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He forgot it had been braided and ended up tugging out a few strands of the gold ribbon woven through it.  Not that he cared, though, for Fëanáro's gift was still clutched in his other hand, the flower turning slowly in the air.  Carefully, affectionately, he set it down on the grass, and then let his head fall into his hands. 

He spent a moment trying to collect his thoughts, but found it impossible.  Too many things had happened, too many thoughts and ideas and problems and solutions were racing through his mind, clamouring for his attention. One particular thought, however, stood out.

Fëanáro, I do not know whether to love you or fear you...

And another, only a little less strident.

I really, really need to go to bed.

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

In the early hours of the morning, Rúmil was jolted awake by an insistent hammering on his bedroom door.  The sound was unmistakable. Fists pounding. Repetitive. Unrelenting. Four at a time and then a pause. Repeat. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

In the first instant of his awakening, a vestigial fear clutched at his heart.  His blood ran cold.  Everything tensed, and he sat up in bed and stared at the door, eyes wide and wary.

Yet the pounding continued, and as the haze of sleep lifted from his mind, bit by bit, he came to himself - began to remember where here was, why he was here, and also that there would likely be no fell wraiths of Utumno or beasts of teeth and claws behind the door. 

Therefore, curiosity overcame him, and he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  Still a little sleep-dazed, he slipped on a bathrobe so as not to appear indecent and padded across the floor, wondering who would disturb him at this hour.  Fumbling at the lock on the door, he finally managed to release the catch. 

There was a click.  The door creaked open and a shaft of flickering light darted across the floor, revealing none other than the king, who stood outside in the corridor with a lantern in hand. The sight of him triggered a rush of adrenaline, and Rúmil felt his heart racing.  He was certainly awake now.

Or was he? 

For a moment, Rúmil thought he had strayed into a waking dream, for the man before him was far from the strong, confident and gregarious sovereign he had always known. 

The king was swaying slightly from side to side with a nervous, twitching air, as though he were impatient to be somewhere else.  Another thing that seemed wrong: no ornament adorned him. The king wore but a plain white nightshirt, and his long hair was unbound and tangled at the ends. Worst of all, though, was the king's expression. His eyes were wide and terrified, and Rúmil thought he noticed the beginnings of tears.  It was unsettling.

"Rúmil," the king entreated, his voice thick with emotion.  "Please help me.  I don't know what to do..."

"My lord, what is the matter?" Rúmil asked, concernedly, as he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

"It is Curufinwë.  H-He-"  the king's voice hitched with agitation, and Rúmil reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

"It is alright, my lord.  I am listening," he said softly.

It seemed to have the desired effect, for the king swallowed and took a deep breath before continuing. 

"Curufinwë is in distress," the king said, expending much obvious effort in allaying his own.  "He is trapped in his nightmares and is wandering around our home in the dark, muttering and swatting at phantoms.  I have tried so very hard to reach him, but he will not wake..."

"Is this the first time it has happened?"

The king shook his head.

"Has he ever hurt himself when on his wanderings?"

"He... he once managed to get into the kitchens and knocked over a tray of clean glasses.  One of my cooks found the trail of bloody footprints leading to his bedroom.  He was asleep, and could not feel them till he woke, but there were a few shards lodged deep, and we had to call a physician to extract them."

"I think we should go and find him," Rúmil said firmly.  "Where did you leave him, my lord?"

"At the bottom of the grand staircase-"

"Then let us waste no time."

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

They did not find Fëanáro at the bottom of the grand staircase.

After a frantic search, during which Rúmil had to stop regularly in order to reassure the king, they found the young prince wandering the gardens - barefoot and clad only in his nightshirt.  The king had wanted to wake Fëanáro immediately and lead him back to bed, and there had been a short, fiercely whispered argument, as Rúmil had wanted to observe him, in order to ascertain whether or not the prince's sleepwalking was generally safe and therefore no cause for the king to worry.

Eventually, Rúmil won the argument and they began to follow, keeping a safe distance - the king hovering behind him, worrying in silence and biting his nails.

For the last minute or so, Fëanáro had been wandering from fountain to fountain, exhibiting the same slightly eccentric behaviour Rúmil had come to expect from somnambulists (for he had dealt with a few at the School - mostly younger students.)  It was a strange sort of routine. Fëanáro would come to a fountain and kneel at the edge, so still one could have mistaken him for a sculpture.  He would stare at the surface of the water, motionless, concentrating very hard - and then, suddenly, his head would snap up, would look about him, and he would become momentarily distressed, crying out at whatever phantoms plagued him to leave him be.

This was the third time he had done it.  Fëanáro was but a few feet away from them, swatting the air and moaning - a low, eerie sound - staring at something only he could see.  It was a strange sight, and a very personal one.  Rúmil was beginning to regret his desire to observe.  Behind him, the king was pacing, fretting.

"Rúmil," he implored, "have mercy.  Please, wake him."

Rúmil nodded, on this occasion quite happy to capitulate.  "I apologise, my lord, for making you wait.  I shall wake him."

Cautiously, he approached the young prince, who was now crouched on the ground with his hands over his head.

"Fëanáro..." he ventured quietly.  "Fëanáro, you have to go back to bed.  Come now, your father is worried-"

He reached out, placed a hand on Fëanáro's shoulder.

That was a mistake.

With a cry of despair, the boy recoiled from his touch, slapping his hand away and twisting from Rúmil as though he were trying to hurt him.  Startled - and clutching his wrist in pain, as  Fëanáro had struck him hard - Rúmil looked on in horror as the boy leapt to his feet and began to run flat out towards the lake.

"Curufinwë, no!" the king cried, sprinting past Rúmil and following his son across the grass.

It was too late, though.  Fëanáro did not slow as he reached the water's edge, but ran crashing into it.

He did not know what possessed him in that moment - would never be able to tell you why he did it - but in an instant, Rúmil was running as hard as he could, following Fëanáro into the lake, wading in until the water reached his waist, while the boy's father stood at the shore and called frantically for his son. 

"Fëanáro, stop!" Rúmil cried, as the water seeped into his nightclothes, weighing him down.  "I am not going to harm you!"

Then, inexplicably, something within the young prince seemed to switch.

With an eerie calm, Fëanáro slowed to a halt in the water.  Then he looked down and began to stare at his reflection in the black, rippling surface of the lake.  Immediately, Rúmil recognised the routine, and struggled through the water, brushing aside lily pads, to get to Fëanáro before the boy hurt himself - and even though he was getting closer with every laboured, sloshing step, Fëanáro was so lost he did not even notice his approach.

When he was close enough, he laid both hands on Fëanáro's shoulders and spun him round.  The boy's eyes were glazed and he did not resist.

"Fëanáro!" he shouted, giving the young prince a shake.  "Fëanáro, wake up!   Fëanáro!"

For a moment, Fëanáro stood there and stared at him with a faint expression of puzzlement, but then the spark of sentience returned to his eyes, and his expression transformed from puzzlement to horror.  His eyes flickered left, then right, then back to Rúmil, and as awareness crept up on the boy, Rúmil could feel him starting to tremble.  The young prince's breathing was fast and sharp, and his hand shot up out of the water and gripped Rúmil's arm so tight it hurt.  Rúmil knew the boy was panicking.

"Fëanáro, it's alright," he said softly.  "You have been sleepwalking, and-"

"WHAT AM I DOING IN THE LAKE?" Fëanáro cried suddenly, his voice high with agitation.  "WHAT AM I DOING IN THE LAKE?"

"Fëanáro, it is nothing to worry about.  You-"

The young prince's face twisted, his hands flew to hide his face and he let out a keening wail of despair.  Upon hearing his son in distress, the king abandoned the bank and leapt straight into the water, sloshing towards them in his nightshirt, not caring if he were soaked to the skin. 

"Curufinwë!" he called, his voice taut with worry.  "Hold on! I am here! I am here!"

Closing the distance in a few strides, he held out his arms to receive his son.  Fëanáro instantly recognised his father, and he ran to him, weeping copiously, and collapsed in his arms.

"Atar..." he sobbed.  "Atar, I am sorry."

"Hush, my son.  Hush," his father soothed, waist deep in water and cradling Fëanáro in his arms as though he were much younger.  "I am here.  Do not worry.  Do not weep."

"Atar, I... I want to go back inside," Fëanáro managed to choke out.

"Of course, of course," his father said softly.  "Master Rúmil and I will take you back inside, I will see you warm and dry, and I will sit with you awhile.  Now take my arm."

Nodding miserably, Fëanáro did as he was told, and walked beside his father as he led him back into the palace.  Feeling horribly like a voyeur, a stranger and an interloper having witnessed a most private moment, Rúmil remained a few paces behind, awkward and unsure what to do next.  They walked in silence, squelching silt and green algae and water all over the polished floors, until they reached the grand staircase, at which point the king halted briefly and motioned Rúmil to come closer.

Rúmil obeyed, and the king leaned over and whispered in his ear,  "Please come to my son's rooms once you are dried.  I wish to find out what horrors trouble him."

"But my lord," he whispered back, "you could yourself ask him.  I- I do not wish to intrude."

"I have asked him before, but he will not tell me," the king replied sadly.  "You seem to be good at getting him to talk."

He gave his son an encouraging, little nudge, and father and son made their way upstairs.

"I will see you shortly, Rúmil," the king called, as they headed along the balcony towards the private quarters.

"Very well," he replied miserably, his voice echoing forlornly in the deserted hall, as he wondered what on earth he would be confronted with next.

***    ***    ***    ***    ***    ***

By the time Rúmil had towelled himself dry and slung on a loose tunic and trousers, Erdacundo was waiting at his door to escort him to Fëanáro.  The king's messenger, or herald, or personal guard - whatever he was - appeared exactly as Rúmil recalled him from yesterday morning.  Hair braided efficiently, upright, stern and alert.  He was also fully dressed, even at this time of night.  As they walked along to Fëanáro's rooms, Rúmil wondered vaguely if he ever slept.

Upon arriving at Fëanáro's rooms, Erdacundo knocked softly on the door.

"Come in," the king's voice answered.

Erdacundo stepped forward and opened the door, motioning Rúmil to enter.  He did, but the king's messenger did not follow, instead closing the door behind him. Inside, Fëanáro's beautifully decorated workshop was dark - the only light coming from a crack in an open doorway on the opposite wall.  He assumed it led to the young prince's bedchamber.  

Careful not to trip over any dustsheets or bump into work-benches and send tools tumbling upon his tender toes in the dark, he made his way across the room.  When he reached the door, an odd fit of hesitation came over him, and he opened it tentatively, peering round the frame as though expecting something awful to happen.

Inside, the king sat upon a chair drawn close to his son's bedside.  Tired and frail-looking and resembling much more his actual age, Fëanáro leaned upon his father's shoulder, eyes closed, letting his father comfort him by stroking his hair.  The king did not move or look up when he heard the door creak open, but he knew Rúmil was there, and spoke softly to Fëanáro.

"Master Rúmil is here," he said, tilting his head slightly to kiss Fëanáro's brow.  "Would you like to speak to him?"

With great effort, Fëanáro opened his eyes.  They were red-rimmed and glassy, and Rúmil knew instantly the boy had been crying.  Fëanáro stared at him in a way that wanted to convey resentment, but was just too, too tired.

"No," he replied, shortly.

"I would like you to speak to him," the king said, speaking directly into his son's hair and giving him an encouraging, little nudge with his nose.  "Something is obviously troubling you, and if you are reluctant to discuss it with me, perhaps you will feel better talking to Master Rúmil."

From the safety of his father's arms, Fëanáro shot Rúmil a wary look.

"Do I have to?" he asked.

"It would make me happy," the king replied, slinging an arm around Fëanáro's shoulders and giving him an affectionate squeeze.

"Okay then..."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"...no."

That answer made the king smile warmly, and he leaned over and wrapped his son in a tight embrace before releasing him and turning to Rúmil.

"Please take a seat, Rúmil," he said.  "There is a chair over there by the bookcase."

Nodding, Rúmil wandered over and then dragged the chair back to Fëanáro's bedside, taking care to keep enough distance between himself and the young prince, who was sitting up, cross-legged, watching his every move with suspicion.

Once settled, Rúmil decided on his course of action immediately. From what he knew of the boy, he would not respond well to any mollycoddling or attempts at tiptoeing round the issue, as he would see straight through it for what it was and scorn it.  There was no point beating round the bush.  Therefore, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

"How are you feeling, Fëanáro?" he asked briskly.

"I've felt better," the boy muttered in reply.

"Do you want to get this over with?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me, Fëanáro," he ventured. "Do you sleep well?"

"No."

"I'm glad you said that, for it's obvious to me and to everyone else that you don't.  The bags under your eyes are truly magnificent."

Fëanáro scowled at him.  In return, Rúmil smiled serenely and pressed on.

"When did you last sleep properly?" he asked.

Fëanáro paused to think a moment, then replied, "About two weeks ago. I slept a whole day.  Before that, I was so tired I couldn't keep my eyes open and I couldn't think properly.  I kept falling over."

"Are there any reasons you can think of as to why you cannot sleep?"

"Many," Fëanáro answered.  "Burning ideas that will not let me rest.  Questions that need answered.  A project I have undertaken that has excited me so much that sleep is but an afterthought.  And sometimes..." he added, after a flicker of  hesitation, "I have dreams."

"Did you dream about anything tonight?"

"Yes."

"Would you tell me about it?"

Fëanáro's eyes widened.  Nervous and reluctant, he looked to his father.  The king smiled and took his son's hand.  "You need not be afraid, Fëanáro," he said softly.  "I am here, Master Rúmil is here, and we will not tell anyone."

"Do you promise?" Fëanáro asked.

Both Rúmil and the king nodded.

"Very well..."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Fëanáro began to tell his tale.

"I have a dream that comes to me every so often," he said, in a monotone.  "In my dream, I am sailing across the Circling Sea to discover what lies beyond the western shores of Aman.  The water below me is flat and black and motionless - countless fathoms deep and icy cold - like a polished mirror, reflecting the stars above.  My ship, too, is black and has no sails, and it guides itself, cutting through the water as though it were naught but air.

"There is no sound.  I stand at the prow of my ship and peer at the horizon, always a faint silvery-grey haze in the distance.  More than anything, I want to get there.  To see what is beyond the veil of night.  I am excited.  I feel the thrill of discovery pulsing through my veins, spurring me on, compelling me to move ever onward."

"And then everything changes," Fëanáro said, frowning.  "I reach the horizon, and the water falls away beneath me.  The dark sky opens out.  The stars are extinguished.  My ship dissipates, blown away like dust in the wind, and I am left suspended, floating in the air. Going nowhere.  Only the cold remains, and it wraps itself around me, chilling my bones and clinging to me like a malevolent fog.

"I am in the Void.  I have never before seen it, have never even approached the Gates of Night - but I know I am in the Void.  I know it the same way the sightless creatures who hatch in the depths of the ocean alone know how to search for food, how to find a mate, how to survive.  I know it with every fibre of my being and I recognise it, and know that I can never go back.

"I am terrified.

"I begin to scream and thrash and fight my imprisonment.  I weep and call the names of everyone I have ever known. I rend myself with my teeth and nails, thinking that if I could end myself, I could end my suffering..."

"And then he comes," Fëanáro whispered, staring off into the distance, his eyes glazing over.

"Who?" Rúmil asked gently, so as not to break the spell.

"Eru," the boy replied, with a bleak smile.

Rúmil's eyebrows shot up in surprise. At the other end of the bed, the king gasped.

"Eru?" he asked carefully.  "Are you certain?"

"It is Eru," Fëanáro asserted, his eyes glinting fiercely even though he was exhausted.

"Very well," Rúmil said, ignoring the worried look the king shot him. "I believe you.  What happens next."

"He starts off very far away.  Almost too far away - beyond my perception, except that in the Void, all is laid bare, and I can see further than any creature that walks this earth.  I can see anything and everything... and nothing. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, he walks towards me - except it must be very fast because he is so far away.  When he draws near to me, I can see him clearly.

"Every time I dream, he is different, taking on a form familiar to my eyes.  But though he is different bodily, his eyes are always the same: completely black, like the Void itself, though he smiles at me.  Once, he looked like Varda, but with flaming red hair.  Another time, a small boy with curly hair white as the snow at the peaks of Taniquetil.  He has appeared to me as a mariner.  A craftsman.  A Vanyarin temple dancer.  He also appeared to me naked but for a loin cloth, his hair long and dark and wild, his skin nut-brown and covered in inked designs.

"He is also very cruel," Fëanáro added, his voice trembling slightly.

"Why?"

"He once took the form of my mother. Of all the dreams I have ever had, that was the worst." Fëanáro whispered, gripping fistfuls of his bed linen so tight his knuckles whitened.  Beside him, the king flinched and looked away. 

"Curufinwë, I do not want to hear anymore," the king said, faintly.

"Well I do," Rúmil said severely, fixing the king with a cold look.  "You wish to help your son conquer his fears.  How can you do that when you cannot bear to face them yourself?"

The king at least had the good grace to look discomfited.

"Go on, Fëanáro," he said kindly, turning his attention back to the young prince.

"Rúmil, I-"

"The quicker you tell me, the sooner it will be over with, remember?" he said, smiling.

Fëanáro nodded miserably.  Wringing his hands, he went on.

"When I am suspended there, motionless, in the Void, Eru comes to me.  And when he comes, terror grips me.  I want to run, but cannot move.  I can only watch as he moves towards me.  Always, he stops about a foot away and watches me suffer, smiling all the while - as though to him I am the dearest of his all his creations.  Then he raises his finger to his lips, shushing me, as though sharing a secret - and I can only look on in horror as he reaches out... and puts his hand into my chest... and in the same instant I feel an explosion of pain - unbearable pain... and all I can see is light.

"And then I wake," Fëanáro said, his voice trembling slightly.  "Except... I do not wake.  I am in my bedroom, but it is not my bedroom, for it is still in my dreams.  At the end of my bed, there are two of me.  They look exactly like me.  Resemble me in every respect, except that they are silent and do not respond to my attempts to converse with them. 

"I ask them who they are, why they are here, if they have come from the Void to torment me.  But they say nothing.  Always, they say nothing.  They just stare - tilting their heads at me in the dark, as though I am some sort of curiosity.

"I do not like them," Fëanáro said, running a hand through his damp, tangled hair.  "They make me nervous.  So I try to get away from them.  I leave my bed and wander the palace, trying to lose them.  But they always find me.  Every time I turn, they are right behind me. I want to know whether they are real or not.  So I look in mirrors, water, porcelain tiles or polished glass - anything with a reflective quality - because if they are not in the mirror, I tell myself, they must not be real.

"I must have been looking at my reflection when I ended up in the lake," he said, quietly.  "I remember it now.  I ran into the water thinking, ‘Surely they will not follow me here?'"  I checked my reflection in the water and could not see them.  But when you grabbed my shoulders, Rúmil, and turned me around - just before I woke, they were there behind you, staring and silent..."

Fëanáro trailed off for a moment, and fixed Rúmil with a such a desperate, hollow look that it made his heart squeeze in sudden symapthy.

Then the young prince whispered, "I think I am going mad..."

As soon as the words slipped out, tears gathered in Fëanáro's eyes.  Exhausted, the boy could no longer hold himself together, and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

"Oh, Curufinwë..." the king soothed, abandoning his chair in favour nudging his son further across the bed so he could sit beside him and wrap him in an embrace.  "Hush, now.  You are not going mad.  These are but dreams, nothing more.  They may be distressing, but perhaps something can be done about them."

Lost in thought, Rúmil only realised the king was speaking to him when the room fell silent.

"Ah..." he said, distantly.  "Well... yes.  We could take you to see Lórien.  Or if you really do not want anyone to know, there is a very useful concoction brewed by a talented Telerin lady that allays anxieties and aids sleep.  I used to use it when I was a student, and it was very effective, though only to be taken in small doses, as it is very potent."

Having buried his head in his father's shoulder, Fëanáro murmured, "I want the potion. I do not trust Irmo."

"Very well," the king said, shifting slightly so he could lie down on the bed and make himself more comfortable.  It seemed he was planning to stay.  "I will arrange to have it made, if Master Rúmil would be kind enough to forward the recipe?"

"I shall, my lord."

"Thank you," the king said, sincerely, content now that his son was in his arms and drifting off to sleep.  "You have been most, most helpful.  I feel I must apologise for my behaviour at dinner. I do not deserve your kindness..."

"It is no matter, my lord," Rúmil said, standing on limbs stiff and cold from his dash into the lake.  "You can repay me by letting me sleep for the rest of the night and not bothering me when it's time for breakfast."

The king laughed, and Fëanáro did not stir, which meant he had already succumbed to sleep.  The boy must have been absolutely exhausted.

"Then off to bed with you, scholar.  I shall let everyone know that Master Rúmil is to sleep as late as he likes," the king joked. "And woe betide any who disturb him and incur his wrath."

Gratefully, Rúmil took his leave.

The last thing he saw before he closed the door behind him was the sight of the king and his son, lying so close together their foreheads touched.  The king brought his hand up to smooth his son's hair, and regarded Fëanáro with a strange look in his eyes, as though he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He whispered to his son, "You do not know how much I love you."

In his sleep, Fëanáro smiled.

Chapter End Notes

Names:

Lord Nárastar - from the Quenyan Name Generator. The name elements are 'flame' and 'faith'.

Lord Sornondo - another from the Quenyan Name Generator. This time, the name elements are 'steadfast' and 'stone.'

Lord Elveon - again from the Quenyan Name Generator (such a useful site, seriously.) The name of this future supporter of Fëanáro means 'starlike.'

Lady Melmien - from the Quenyan Name Generator (really, you should just assume all OC names come from there.) Her name means 'love.'

Thank you:

Thank you to Lissas Elves for the review at chapter two.  It's much appreciated. ^_^

Peculiar

Rúmil did not sleep that night.  There had not been much point.  By the time he had trudged back to his rooms, shod his waterlogged nightclothes and changed into something less slimy, Telperion was well on the wane. The light peeking through the crack in the curtains was that strange, hazy, silvery-golden half-light that was cold and eerie and only occurred in those unsociable hours when, in Rúmil’s opinion, it was positively indecent to rise and sillier still to head to bed if one had been up all night. 

So he had found himself lying on bed atop the covers, staring at nothing.  Sometimes, he had ventured to close his eyes – just for a moment – but while lost even briefly in sleep, he was troubled by dark and rushing dreams; dreams that he could not remember when he jolted awake, but knew from the dread-knot they left behind in the pit of his stomach that perhaps he did not really want to remember them.

Sleep was a lost cause and an unwelcome prospect.  Therefore, Rúmil had decided to cut his losses, throw on some clothes, and go for a walk.  He wanted to – needed to – get out of the palace, even if just for half an hour.

He was not surprised to find a few of the king’s staff up and about.  It was the same at the School.  No matter the hour, someone was always up; pottering about, stoking fires, sweeping, studying, keeping watch.  The two of the king’s guards on the early shift looked bored to tears and barely managed to turn themselves away from their game of dice as he reached the front door.  After a few cursory questions, posed in a manner that suggested they did not give a rat’s arse about the answers (Rúmil’s name, business in the palace, when he would be expected to return) they sent him on his way with the caution that it was chilly outside and to mind how he went.

Not that he knew where he was going.  He felt sick he was so tired, and his head was spinning, but he kept on walking, down the steep coach road that wound itself around the hill connecting King Finwë’s lofty palace with the city of Tirion.  Then he walked across the Great Square. It was so early in the morning the whole place was deserted, and he had no trouble passing right under the branches of Galathilion and reaching up to touch one of its many low-hanging limbs.  He walked still further, into the heart of the city itself – oddly subdued when no one but the birds and the bakers were up – and kept going until he was on the other side of the Ascar and had somehow reached the gates of the School.

Morimir, the porter on duty, offered him a nod and a smile as he trudged up the stairs. 

“Welcome back, Master Rúmil.  I feared we were never going to see you again.”

A joke.  Haha.  He hoped he had remembered to laugh.  Or at least smile.

And then he had an idea.

“I want to look at a book, Morimir,” he heard himself saying distantly, as though his voice were coming from somewhere further than it should have been.

“Eh?  What?  Calimarwa’s not up.  Won’t be for hours yet.  I ain’t waking him.”

This was not how it was supposed to go. A faint note of irritation crept into Rúmil’s tone. 

“I’m not asking you to wake him. I know what I’m looking for and it’s nothing valuable, therefore Calimarwa need not be present to hover over me like a buzzard as I peruse his precious documents.  I simply want let into the library.  Please let me into the library.”

“Alright, alright...” the porter admonished, shooting him a curious look as he fumbled at his belt for his keys.  “I meant no offence, Master Rúmil.  Just that Calimarwa’s like a she-bear protecting its cubs when it comes to the old books in the library, you know how it is—  Varda’s stars, this shitting rusty old lock’s stuck again!”

“I would like a pot of tea,” Rúmil went on, now lost in thought as Morimir managed to turn the key in the lock and struggled to haul open the huge, groaning doors.  “A big pot of tea.  And maybe some porridge.”

“Fine, Master Rúmil,” the porter sighed.  “I’ll head along to the kitchens and see if anyone’s awake.  If not, I’ll fix it myself.  Where’ll I find you?”

“The Round Room.  Next to the bust of Varda.  And thank you,” he added after a pause.

Not long after, Rúmil had installed himself in the Library’s beautiful Round Room, so called because the ceiling was a vaulted dome, painted to look like the night sky. Busts of marble, fashioned in the images of the Valar, were set in alcoves in each of the shelves, and the books inhabiting those shelves were catalogued accordingly.  For example, the heavily-perused volume that contained copies of Rúmil’s correspondence with the Valar was catalogued as Varda.105, for the simple reason that it was the one-hundred and fifth book on the shelf bearing the bust of Varda.

It was the book he held in his hands now, his eyes hurriedly scanning the pages as he flipped through its contents, searching, searching for what he knew to be there, his tea and his porridge lying untouched on a tray, growing cold.  Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not having had the patience to have compiled an index.

“Where is it?” he hissed to himself.  “Curse it and damn it all, I know you’re here!”

It was a lie to have said to Morimir that what he intended to consult was not valuable.  For though his notes were by no means ancient, they were certainly valuable.  If anyone else other than Rúmil wished to consult them – Master or student – they had to be signed out by the ferocious archivist, Calimarwa.

The notes were, at present, unfinished – being part of an ongoing project of his.  Something positive at least had come out of the awful events at the Máhanaxar.  In his grief, in an attempt to understand the motives of the Valar, who in his mind had made such a terrible mistake, he had sought counsel with them.  To his surprise (and that of everyone else) they agreed.  Over the course of the years that followed, during sabbaticals he had travelled to the domains of several of the Valar, who had kindly agreed to give interviews.  Initially, his questions were barbed with accusation – very much tied to Lady Míriel’s fate.  But the more he spoke with the Valar, the more he began to realise that it was an opportunity to learn something more, something not just for himself...

“And then, Master Rúmil, Ilúvatar called together all the Ainur.  He declared to us a mighty theme, unfolding to us things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed to us.  Oh, for you to have been there.  The glory of its beginning.  The splendour of its end.   It amazed us all, stunned us into silence, and we bowed low before Ilúvatar, awaiting his word.”

During his time with the Valar, he had learned many things as well as stray fragments of their language and customs.  Irmo Lórien had been unexpectedly forthcoming. Rúmil remembered it well, being sat on a grassy knoll, pen and paper in hand – marvelling at his good fortune and rapt with attention as he scratched down the Vala’s words while Lórien tended to the flowers in his garden.

“Then Ilúvatar said to us, ‘Of the theme that I have declared to you, I wish you to make – in harmony and together – a great music.  And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, you shall each use your own powers in adorning this theme, each with their own thoughts and devices, if you will.  I will sit and listen to you, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song.’

“And then we began to sing, Master Rúmil. And Ilúvatar sat and he listened to us and he seemed glad, for at first all the Ainur did sing in harmony together.  But as the theme progressed... it came into the heart of Manwë’s brother, Melkor, to interweave melodies of his own imaginings that were discordant with the theme we sung.

“Melkor had always wanted to create things of his own.  He was impatient with the emptiness of the Void. He searched long for the Flame Imperishable – but he could not find it, for it is with Ilúvatar, or so we believe. Yet still he ventured out into the cold and empty expanse of the Void, and being alone with his own thoughts and desires, he began to think... thoughts.  Thoughts unlike to those we thought.

“When he sung, he began to sing aloud these thoughts. And the more he sung, the more his voice was allowed to be heard, he grew in confidence.  Some of us became disheartened, shrunk back and stuttered into silence. But his voice was strong and beautiful and masterful, and others attuned their music to his instead.

“It was a racket, Master Rúmil. Absolute chaos. But through it all, Ilúvatar smiled.  He rose, and he lifted his hand, and a new theme began.  But... the discord of Melkor rose again in uproar.  Melkor preferred his theme, wanted his voice to be heard above all others, and his theme grew more violent and more brash and fell until many of us were utterly dismayed and sang no longer. 

“It seemed to us then that Melkor’s theme had won. But Ilúvatar rose again.  This time his face was stern.  A third theme began, utterly unlike the others.  Melkor tried to contend with it, tried to drown it out, but even Melkor’s loudest and most triumphant and discordant brayings were somehow... embraced by the theme of Ilúvatar that we sung and were woven into its own melody.

“In the midst of this strife, Ilúvatar rose a third time, his face terrible to behold!  Then he raised up his hands, and in one chord – deeper than the Abyss, higher than the Firmament, piercing as the light of the eye of Ilúvatar –  the Music ceased.

“And the Void was void no longer.”

One of Rúmil’s emerging areas of expertise was the creation of the world.  Since having held conference with the Vala Irmo, he had read many ancient texts; had observed the earth, the sea, the sky; had spoken to the oldest elves who lived this side of the Sundering Seas. These notes he intended to become his labour of love; his Ainulindalë, as he named it privately in his own mind.  It was a field in which he believed himself expert (or at least more so than any of his colleagues), but – bit by bit – this preconception was being eaten away. 

There is not enough information.  Not nearly enough. Why?  Has no one ever thought to ask them?  Or will they say no more than what Irmo Lórien said to me?

Then a more troubling thought.

Or perhaps they themselves do not know all the answers?

Fëanáro’s dream. The cold Void, the pursuing apparitions – silent and watchful but not of this world – and the hand of Eru and an all-consuming flame.  He could not help but think upon it, and could not help but wonder...

Exhausted, he took up his pen in a hand trembling from lack of sleep and scratched out the following words in the middle of a clean sheet of paper.

Three themes.

Three themes and an all-consuming flame.

Rúmil managed to snatch a few paltry hours’ sleep, slumped over the desk in the Round Room, pages of his notes sticking to his face as he snored gently. Unfortunately, this was not to last, as he was rudely awoken by Calimarwa beating him about the head with a bundle of rolled-up parchment.

“Aie, aie! Let be, you mad son of an Orc! Let be!”  Rúmil shrieked, raising his hands to defend himself from the archivist’s onslaught.

“The king’s guard’s looking for you, Rúmil!” Calimarwa snapped, his curly, unkempt, iron-grey hair swirling about his face like a stormcloud.  “Erdacundo, or something I think he said his name was.  Same dour, insistent, thick-headed soldier who huckled you out of the grounds yesterday!”

“Oh, Eru...”

“Yes!  The very same!  And what are you doing here, anyway?  Aren’t you supposed to be at the palace?  Don’t tell me you’ve slunk away in the night like a fox in a—”

Calimarwa trailed off, his focus suddenly elsewhere.  His eyes were fixed on the notes Rúmil had left strewn about the desk. A small frown furrowed the archivist’s brow, only allowed for a fleeting moment before it transformed into an expression of horrified, righteous fury.

“Is that drool, Rúmil?  Is that drool?” Calimarwa demanded, thrusting an accusing finger under Rúmil’s nose and pointing at a small, suspicious-looking sticky patch that had pooled at the inner corner of a sheet of parchment belonging to the precious Varda.105.

Rúmil risked a quick and calculated look at the offending patch.

“It certainly looks like drool, yes,” he concluded.

“And does it belong to you?”

“Alas, it is highly likely, Calimarwa.  Unfortunately, I was rather tired and had fallen asleep on the book. When you stormed in and started beating me about the head – very rude, I might point out – I found it suddenly necessary to peel my face off the page with more than necessary haste and accidentally left behind that offending, little pool of my own clotted saliva.  I can fix it though.  I’ll just dab it with the corner of this other page and hopefully it’ll absorb some of it—”

Calimarwa did not appreciate his joke.

The archivist let out a shriek of rage and Rúmil had to break into a sprint in order to avoid the heavy wooden book-cradle that was slung at him as he bade a swift retreat.  Rúmil could hear Calimarwa’s cries ringing in his ears all the way downstairs.  He stopped at the bottom (safely out of firing range) and he clapped his hands over his face and laughed and laughed until tears were streaming down his cheeks.  It was always so much fun winding up Calimarwa.

“I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE A MASTER IN THIS OR A MASTER IN THAT!  YOU DO NOT TREAT THE BOOKS WITH SUCH DISRESPECT, DO YOU HEAR ME, RÚMIL?  LOOK!  LOOK AT THAT!  THE PAGE IS ABSOLUTELY SODDEN WITH YOUR VILE SPITTLE!  THE WHOLE PAGE WILL NEED TO BE COPIED AGAIN, AND WHOSE GOING TO HAVE TO DO THAT WHEN NOLMO IS GONE OFF TO VISIT HIS FAMILY? ME, THAT’S WHO, YOU TURGID LUMP OF ORC-SHITE!  WAIT…?  RÚMIL, ARE YOU LAUGHING?  CAN I HEAR YOU LAUGHING?  IF YOU ARE, THEN SO HELP ME ERU I SHALL RAM MY FOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ARSE YOU’LL BE SPITTING TEETH INTO THE FACE OF KING FINWË NEXT YOU SEE HIM – AND I HOPE HE’LL CHOKE YOU FOR IT—!”

Just as Rúmil was wiping the tears from his eyes, still chuckling (and garnering some funny looks from a few students in the main library who were up and studying) a familiar figure approached, his expression uncharacteristically quizzical.

“Is everyone at the School like this?” Erdacundo asked, peering up the stairs leading to the Round Room with an air of caution, for Calimarwa was still in full flow.

“Not everyone,” Rúmil answered honestly.  “There are a lot of irritable eccentrics here, but Calimarwa is particularly awful.” 

“You were not exactly co-operative when I arrived yesterday, Master Rúmil.”

“We are only irritable when we have cause to be!” Rúmil replied, sweetly.  “Yesterday, you were dragging me out of the building when I did not want to be dragged anywhere, and this morning, I committed the grave offence of drooling copiously on one of the books in Calimarwa’s care.”

“I see.”

“And I am guessing that you are here to escort me back to the palace?”

“Hmm?” Erdacundo answered, turning his back to the stairs only when he was sure no further missiles were going to come crashing down behind.  “Oh.  Yes.  Yes, I am.”

“The king thinks I’ve run away, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can tell him I haven’t.  I was here only to look at a book.  And to collect a recipe I promised him,” he added, thinking on his feet.

“That is good to hear.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“Then you will return to the palace?” Erdacundo said, unwavering.

“Let me go to my rooms first.  I still need that recipe,” he insisted – and thinking to himself, added, and on the way I shall pick something up for Fëanáro.  “After that, I am absolutely all yours.  Though no dragging, please. I will come quietly.”

Once again, when Rúmil left the School behind, a carriage stood waiting to take him to the palace.  A part of him began to consider it his carriage, and that perhaps he should write his name on it somewhere. 

This time, however, Rúmil did not mind being seen, and elected to ride at the back with the footman.  It was a lovely day; the sky a bright blue, with a pleasant breeze taking the edge off the heat.  The footman (a footwoman, actually) proved rather excellent company, since she carried a hipflask, felt inclined to share and the only payment she expected in return was banter.  As they wound their way up the hill and neared the palace grounds, Rúmil was already beginning to feel much better and more like his old self again.

He was regaling the footwoman with tales of Calimarwa’s spectacular tantrums when something – someone – familiar caught his eye.  The carriage was trundling past a grassy ledge, broken with sparse clumps of wildflowers with a single, meandering narrow path cut through it.  The softness of the rippling grass and wildflowers, however, disguised the precipitous drop that lay just beyond the gently sloping ledge.  Fëanáro was sitting right upon the edge, dangling his legs over the precipice of what was essentially a sheer cliff face and staring out at the view as though doing something that would’ve turned Rúmil’s legs to jelly was perfectly commonplace to the young prince.

“Excuse me,” he muttered to the footwoman, who was momentarily taken aback as he snatched up his satchel and hopped off the back of the moving carriage.

With his satchel under his arm, he jogged along the little pathway Fëanáro had cut, feeling the breeze stirring his unbraided hair, and he stopped about a foot away, at first thinking to avenge himself for the fright Fëanáro had given him the night before, then thinking better of it, as the boy was sitting at the edge of a cliff and he didn’t relish the thought of having to explain to the king that he’d startled his son off it.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Hello, Fëanáro.”

It had almost the same effect.  The boy whirled round instantly.  His eyes were wide, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, though there was a caution there too that Rúmil could not quite place.

“Rúmil...” he said.  “I thought you were gone.”

“I was, but I was not intending to remain gone,” Rúmil replied brightly, sitting himself down cross-legged on the grass, near enough to Fëanáro but also a safe distance away from the cliff-edge.  “I could not sleep last night.  I was thinking about things – you know how it is – and I needed to look at a particular book that I know for certain you do not keep in the palace.”

“Oh.”

“And while I was there,” he added, sliding the satchel across to Fëanáro, “I picked up a few things for you.  I wanted to repay you for that wonderful gift you gave me last night, and thought that since the work of your hands is so fine, you would appreciate something made of my own.”

Curious, Fëanáro took up the satchel and pulled out a black leather-bound volume.

“There’s no title,” he announced, while running his hands over the leather and inspecting the binding.  “What is it?”

“For the past twenty years or so, I have been permitted to play a prolonged game of question-and-answer with the Valar.  I question. They answer.  Well... usually they answer.  Sometimes they are frustratingly oblique and I want to rattle them over the head with my ledger, but that is neither here nor there. I have bundled together in this book information on a variety of topics – anything really that sprung to mind as I was conducting my interviews.  I learned bits and pieces of the language of the Valar during my time with them – there is a whole section on that in the green book, I made a fair copy of that.  There are also stories of Valarin customs, tales of Almaren and the lamps, of elven customs before our people came to Aman, and scattered through the volume at different intervals is the well-nigh incomprehensible puzzle of the history of Aman from its creation until the present day.  A social and cultural history, mind.  I am no scientist.”

“Rúmil...” Fëanáro murmured, wide-eyed and already half lost in the contents, “this is... I mean... may I please copy this?”

“Of course!  Though you do realise if you lose it, or lend it to anyone else without my permission I shall do terrible things to you?”

Fëanáro grinned and snapped the book closed.  “I’ll guard it with my life, Rúmil, you have my word.”

“Excellent stuff. Oh, and by the way, that recipe for the knock-out potion is there if you want a look at it.”

“In the black book?”

“No, it’s a loose leaf of paper.  I had to copy it down quickly from a book before Erdacundo brought me back.”

While Fëanáro rummaged through the satchel for the paper, Rúmil risked a quick glance behind him.  The carriage had halted at the side of the road and Erdacundo was standing there – at a discreet distance, but clearly watching them.

No wonder Fëanáro wants to climb out of windows if this is what it’s like all the time, he thought briefly before tucking it away as Fëanáro announced, “That’s rather a lot of Valerian.  And what are poppy tears?”

“A very potent narcotic.  Please do not attempt to make it yourself.  I am giving the recipe to you on the condition that the king convinces a physician to make it for you and control the dosage.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“And do not take it too often. I mean it.  It is addictive.  When I was a student, a friend of mine became dependent on it.  She ended up suffering terrible headaches and hallucinations and spent all the money her parents sent on it.”

“What happened to her?”

“She had to go home.  The school wouldn’t keep her, not in that condition.  Last I heard, though, she’d set up a school for local children in some frozen wilderness up north, so she must’ve recovered.  But all the same.  Don’t take it too often!”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Good.  And now that that’s over and done with, what are you doing loitering out here on your own?”

“I finished painting yesterday, and I finished your water-lily the week before.  I have no other projects and no inspiration.  I thought I might come out here to find some, and this is the only spot in the city where I can look out and not see that awful, fucking monstrosity of a tower.”

“I take it that in your own colourful way you are referring to the Mindon?”

“I am.  It is an eyesore.  It hurts my eyes to look at it.  It offends my eyes, and because wherever I go in this wretched city I can see the bloody thing, my eyes are perpetually offended unless I sit here and stare out east towards the Belegaer.”

“Forgive my ignorance, Fëanáro, but why such hatred for a column of bricks and mortar?  I think it’s rather lovely, and a lot of other people would agree with me.”

“Well, it was built by the Noldor. Of course it’s beautiful,” Fëanáro scoffed, in a tone that suggested that fact was self-evident.  “I don’t hate it because the thing is ugly, or because I find the craftsmanship somehow wanting. No. I hate it because of what it represents.”

“What, Ingwë?”

“Partly...”

Shuffling back from the cliff-edge, Fëanáro spun round on his backside and rose to his feet.  With a wry smile and a critical eye, he surveyed the tower, looking it up and down before dismissing it with a snort of derision.

“Ingwë’s tower,” he said ruefully, as he yanked a tall stem of hogweed from the ground and began swatting at the long grass.  “Ingwë’s tower, they call it.  Not just the Vanyar, but our people, the Noldor, too.  We may have lived together once, us and the Vanyar. They may say that the Mindon is a sign of our ancient friendship. But I do not see it that way.

“When Ingwë and his kin grew tired of Tirion, wishing to ram their lily-white noses further still up the arses of the Valar, they very kindly left the Noldor their cast-off settlement.  But not without leaving a reminder: this was once ours.”

“But the Mindon was supposed to be a farewell gift,” Rúmil interrupted suddenly, feeling strangely troubled, having never before thought of the Mindon in that way.  “All the sources say that Ingwë commissioned the Noldorin craftsmen to build the tower as a farewell gift to the Noldor, as a reminder of their continuing friendship...”

“Do you really believe that?” Fëanáro said quietly, turning his pale eyes on Rúmil, who looked away.

It was odd.  Now that he thought about it, he did not know if he believed it, and if he had done, he certainly wasn’t sure if he did any longer, or at least not entirely. The thought of it was horrible; the alternative scenario Fëanáro supplied… well, it was humiliating.  He did not really want to think on it anymore.

“I do not know,” he answered.

“It is a reminder of Ingwë’s majesty,” Fëanáro insisted, staring intently at Rúmil. “It is a reminder of Vanyarin authority over the Noldor, and by extension the authority of the Valar over all our people, for Ingwë rules from his seat on high – but only as high as the feet of Manwë.

“Why should any of them hold authority over our people?” Fëanáro added, with a note of agitation.  “They are not perfect.  They cannot see all ends.  They rule, they decree, they pass laws and make decisions – and based on what?  Their own assumptions, which are just as flawed as our own.  Yet our people tolerate Vanyarin superiority and build towers for their king? They worship the Valar and call them gods?”

The Noldor were a proud people, curious and intelligent.  There were a few Telerin students at the School, and they always joked about how their Noldorin classmates would argue if the sky was blue.  Rúmil had never considered himself particularly prone to any of those ‘typical’ traits, but he was proud to call himself Noldorin.  Every word Fëanáro uttered cut deep, and it surprised him how much it hurt. He did not want to believe it, but something inside him, a dark, wriggling, cynical little part of him said that it was not impossible.  That, in fact, it was probably true.

Why did Ingwë rule over all the Eldar, when the Noldor and Teleri possessed perfectly good kings in Finwë and Olwë?  Who arranged this?  When was this agreed? And more importantly, why did the Noldor and the Teleri continue to put up with it?

“No one would ever let me tear it down,” he heard Fëanáro say, the young prince gazing up now at the Mindon, his pale eyes alight with longing. “But I have a plan.  When my craft improves, I will put something at the top.  Something beautiful.  Something no silly Vanyar could ever conceive of.  Something that will have people say, “Yes.  We are the Noldor.”’

“I think that is a very good idea,” Rúmil said faintly, finding himself astounded that he meant every word.

“Though I’m not sure what should go up yet,” Fëanáro said with an odd smile.  “Whatever it is, I would have it visible from a point much further than Tirion.”

“Something that the Vanyar can see from Taniquetil?” Rúmil offered, innocently.

This drew a short laugh from Fëanáro.  “An excellent idea.  Thank you, Rúmil.  That is now my benchmark, and I shall work tirelessly towards it.”

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be bloody big,” Rúmil stated, pushing himself up to his feet and dusting the grass seeds off his robes.  “Or bright. How on earth are you going to get it up there.”

“I figured ropes and pulleys and scaffolding,” Fëanáro answered, with a vague hand gesture.

“And a lot of people.”

“And a lot of people, yes.”

“Have you talked to your father about this? For such an ambitious project, now correct me if I’m wrong, I am pretty sure you would need some sort of permission from the king.”

“I haven’t yet,” Fëanáro replied matter-of-factly, “but I’m sure I will convince him when the time comes.”

“You seem very certain of that.”

“I am,” Fëanáro said, turning to Rúmil and flashing a wicked smile, which Rúmil could not help but return.

“Oh!  And speaking of Atar, I was supposed to say to you, if I saw you first, that Atar has dispensed with his afternoon duties and has invited you to lunch.”

“Unexpected, indeed!  What is the occasion?”

The corners of Fëanáro’s mouth turned up in a small smile.

“He wants to see me and speak with me awhile.  That is all.  Well, that and he said this morning that I have to make up for not having come to see him last night when I said I would.”

“Yes, that was rather rude, Fëanáro.”

“I did have a reason.”

“And will that reason be present at lunch?”

“It is likely,” Fëanáro replied a touch evasively.

“Will that be a problem?”

“I have already promised Atar that I will try my best to tolerate her.”

Rúmil searched Fëanáro’s face, but the young prince was giving nothing away.

“Hmmm...  Well, we will see what happens at lunch, at any rate.  Now come,” he said, smiling warmly. “We had better not keep Erdacundo waiting any longer.  I am seriously beginning to think that man enjoys standing still for unnaturally long periods of time.”

“Don’t be fooled. He can put on quite a burst of speed when he needs to,” Fëanáro said, casually.

“You know this from experience?”

Fëanáro smiled and said nothing.

“Then what would happen if we legged it down the hill, right this moment?”

“Would you like to find out?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do any great harm.  Would give the man something to do, at least.  Probably brighten up his day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

“You are not lying?”

“I am not.”

“On three then?”

Rúmil nodded.  “On three.”

“You’d better do this.”

“You’d think I’d back down? I have faced down a fell beast already this morning and won. I think I’ll be fine against a solitary guard.”

“Very well then.  Are you ready?”

“I am! Get on with it!”

“One...” Fëanáro counted.

“Two...”

With a grin, Rúmil crouched into a starting position.

“Three!”

Whenever he felt troubled, Rúmil walked.  As well as an exercise in a physical sense, it also did wonders for clearing his mind of unnecessary clutter, or dark thoughts, or frustration so tremendous it made him want to kick holes in doors.

When he ran with Fëanáro down the hill that morning, it felt like that.  Even though they did not get far (Rúmil having suffered a crippling stitch that forced him, wheezing, to his knees, which meant Erdacundo had the chance to catch up and grab Fëanáro by the collar) the simple act of running sent all the dark thoughts fleeing from his mind, leaving himself room to feel nothing but joy as the air breezed past his face, and laughter at the sound of Erdacundo’s irritated shouts for them to stop over their shoulders.

He had walked away from the palace that morning; had excused himself from dinner the night before to take a turn around the garden.  Now he could add running away from one of the king’s guards on a capricious whim to the list.

Or was it a whim? 

As he was escorted back to the palace with Fëanáro (Erdacundo keeping a watchful, wrathful eye on both of them) he’d felt an odd twinge of apprehension – different to the one he felt yesterday when first waiting to meet the king.  He wasn’t sure if it was to do with the ideas Fëanáro had inspired regarding Ingwë and the Valar, or if it were something else.  Perhaps it was something else, because he had felt the same gnawing anxiety at dinner the night before, which had grown only worse after Fëanáro’s sleepwalking episode.

There was something in the palace that was just... unsettling – an oppressive air that hung over the place like a pall – and though he could not figure out exactly what was wrong, still it made him uneasy and set his nerves on edge.

He felt it now as he sat at lunch with the king and queen and Fëanáro, as had been arranged.  Half the lords of the city would’ve given their eye-teeth to have been in his position, dining privately with the king and his family, but at that moment, Rúmil would rather have been anywhere else in Aman.  The only good thing about it at least, he consoled himself, was that here he would be able to witness Fëanáro’s behaviour as the king and queen experienced it from day to day (or whenever they managed to force the boy to endure their company for long enough.)

They dined in the Blue Room, a small, distinctly un-Noldorin-looking room with sky-blue painted, wooden-panelled walls, white curtains and large windows, open wide to catch Laurelin’s light. 

Everyone seemed to be happy enough, but Rúmil knew for certain that two of the members of their party were not at all happy, but were merely tolerating each other’s company. He had seen it often enough at School functions. Lady Indis, who sat next to the king, looked visibly nervous, her eyes downcast except in the infrequent intervals when they flickered apprehensively towards her stepson and away again.  Occasionally, her hand would instinctively come to rest upon her round belly, giving it a little pat as though to soothe herself and protect her unborn child from the near threat on the other side of the table in the form of another woman’s son – another woman’s son who despised her.  She did not speak, though sometimes she would smile at the odd remark, usually one that came from her husband.

Fëanáro was likewise ill at ease, though he dealt with his stepmother’s company in quite a different way.  He made himself conspicuously and deliberately present, speaking in a manner calculated to annoy his father and to make the queen uncomfortable, for occasionally, in between sentences, Fëanáro would allow himself a brief pause, during which he would direct a lingering, significant and level stare at Lady Indis – not long enough to break the flow of his conversation, but long enough to convey a very clear message.

The tension was palpable.  Excruciating.  There was nothing Rúmil could do but to sit and wait for something awful to happen.

At the moment, Fëanáro was in the middle of recounting to his father this morning’s events, telling him in a rush of the books Rúmil had brought him, how interesting they were, and about how he was going to spend months copying them, and how there were no good books in the palace library, and about how glad he was that Rúmil came back, and of the scheme he had hatched with Rúmil to run away from Erdacundo to see if he’d give chase, and about how Rúmil was terribly unfit and had got a stitch which meant Erdacundo caught up with them and that Erdacundo had dragged him up to the palace by his collar but let Rúmil walk – which he thought was really unfair!

Fëanáro was animated, talking at a mile a minute, his hands gesticulating wildly.  As he spoke, he held his father’s attention – the king somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“I cannot believe you two,” the king admonished when Fëanáro had finished his tale, pointing his forkful of salad at each of them in turn, as though to emphasise his point. “Running away from Erdacundo like that just to see if he’d chase after you, as if he doesn’t have anything better to do.”

“He was giving Master Rúmil the eyes, Atar,” Fëanáro answered smoothly. “I saw him.”  Then he added, with a wicked grin, “That’s why he ran after us. I think he fancies him.”

“Then you can tell him I’ll need at least two bottles of fine wine and a promise of marriage before I agree to hop into bed with him, and nothing less!” Rúmil interjected with feigned hauteur as he speared a few pickles and transferred them to his plate to sit next to the slices of cold meat, pretending that he felt like eating them.

“Hmm... I think that’s a bit steep for Erdacundo.  What about one bottle of good wine and a bunch of turnips for a fumble?”

“Curufinwë, do not be disgusting,” the king said, eyeing his son sternly as the queen, sitting at his left, blushed and seemed at a loss as to where she should look.

“Is that how much you’d charge then?” Rúmil asked Fëanáro, uncaring whether he was branded disgusting in hope he could diffuse the tension by throwing in a bit of humour.

“Right now, I’d have a fumble with anyone or anything for three bars of copper and a ripe orange,” Fëanáro answered frankly.

“Curufinwë, that is enough,” the king snapped, with a note of warning.  “If you want copper, you are lucky enough that all you need do is ask and I shall have some delivered.”

Fëanáro was silent for a moment, falling back in his seat.  His arms were folded, and the animated warmth that had brought colour and life to his pale face was gone, replaced by a cold reserve.  It was the look Rúmil recognised as the one Fëanáro reserved for strangers, or for those who had offended him in some way.  Fëanáro was withdrawing again, Rúmil knew it, and the calculated way in which the boy regarded his father, as though he were considering carefully his next move, did not bode well.

“But what if I want a fumble, Atar?” Fëanáro replied sweetly, shooting his father a challenging look, then adding, after a deliberate pause, “I might take after you in that respect. Unable to control myself.  I could take a turn in the hay with as many as I liked, and I could simply go to the Valar and ask them to absolve me.  I would have an excellent excuse, being the son of the King of the Noldor.  I could make quite a tidy, little sum out of it too.  Maybe even a flourishing business selling off the turnips I’d earned.  If I truly take after you, I’ll be swimming in them!”

Then Fëanáro turned to the queen. Rúmil cringed, as with a sickle-sharp smile devoid of humour, Fëanáro said, casually, “Is it turnips for you, Lady Indis? Please advise me. How much does my father charge you?”

“Oh!” Lady Indis exclaimed, her cheeks flaring red and her hands fluttering to her face to conceal her embarrassment.  Her eyes wide, not knowing quite what to do, seeming unwilling or unable to confront Fëanáro directly, she turned and appealed to the king.  “Oh, my lord! Oh, my lord, please!”

Finwë’s expression was thunderous.  His eyes wide with anger, fixing his son with an imperious, icy stare that would have had lesser men falling to their knees and begging forgiveness, he leaned forward and hissed, “There is no copper, but there are plenty of ripe oranges over there on that tray, Curufinwë.  Perhaps if you took one and engaged yourself with it, it would stop your mouth and halt your vicious tongue!”

It was as though the king had failed a test.  The light in Fëanáro’s eyes was no longer cold.  The mask of reserve was still present, but now there was a crack in it and Rúmil could sense the undercurrent of fury seething just below the surface. 

“Then I will speak plainly,” Fëanáro announced, eye-to-eye with his father and as imperious and unyielding.  “Know this. I regret coming here. I regret it deeply. For months you have been harassing me, pleading with me to leave my seclusion – and you are right, Atar.  It is seclusion. I lied to you when I said it was not. I seclude myself from you, and from your whore,” he said, with a sneer, “because whenever I see you with your so-called queen (and she is not my queen) I do and say things I cannot control. 

“You know this very well, Atar, but still you seek me out. You pester me.  You hound me.  You say things like, “Come to my study, Curufinwë, and I will speak to you awhile. I miss you, my son, why do you avoid me?  Perhaps I will be dispensed with my duties early today and we might go riding.” But I know that these are all lies.  You mean well, Atar, but I have resigned myself to knowing that whenever I come to your study, she will be there hovering around you like a gnat and simpering at you in her silly, twittering voice.  I know that you do not miss me at all.  How could you? For there are so many important things to occupy your attention that, really, I am not all that worth dwelling on.  I am old enough now to fend for myself and can go out riding perfectly well on my own thanks to Erdacundo. Soon, too, you will have a new brat to amuse you – just as you wanted – so really you won’t miss me at all.

“I have resigned myself to this, Atar.  I know that when you say these things you do not really mean them.  I can tolerate it if I do not have to be near you,” Fëanáro said, his pitch rising slightly in agitation, “but when you make me... when you make me do this because you do not realise that your lies are lies and then I disappoint you because you have forced me to do something I cannot do... I cannot abide it, Atar, I cannot!”  

At that moment Fëanáro seemed to recognise that he was losing his grip, and with visible effort, reigned himself in.  Swallowing once, he blinked and took a deep breath before concluding, “I have given in to your demands, Atar, and this is what happens.  This is what always happens when I am around you.  Already you are fed-up with me and want me gone. Fear not, I shall oblige.”

The moment Fëanáro pushed back his chair, the king – who had been momentarily struck dumb – exploded in a fit of anger.

“SIT DOWN!!” the king roared, so loudly and suddenly that Rúmil and the queen both flinched.  “YOU CALL ME A LIAR AND EXPECT ME TO LET YOU WALK OUT OF THAT DOOR UNPUNISHED?  WELL, IF MY COMPANY IS SO UNBEARABLE, Curufinwë, THEN THAT WILL BE YOUR PUNISHMENT! YOU WILL SIT HERE AND YOU WILL BEAR MY COMPANY AND YOU WILL BE SILENT UNTIL I SEE FIT TO RELEASE YOU!”

Mortified, looking as though he’d been slapped, Fëanáro sat down very slowly and carefully.  The king’s eyes remained fixed upon his son until Fëanáro sat again at table, stiff and upright, staring fixedly at the backs of his hands.

The meal continued under an oppressive silence. Rúmil felt horribly awkward, and when he reached the point where the sound of him breaking a loaf of bread seemed an intrusion, he wished desperately for the ordeal to end, for an ordeal it had become.  Fëanáro did not touch his food, but sat absolutely still and rigid, his hands bunching into fists around the crisp, white tablecloth, crushing it in a rictus grip.  The king did not look at anyone. Instead, he stabbed at his food in irregular, alarming intervals as he became increasingly and more obviously irritated with the silence. The queen, following her husband’s example, made a valiant attempt to rescue the event and picked up her fork with a fragile smile, but her shaking hands betrayed her shattered nerves.

The excruciating ordeal lasted until the king, unable to tolerate it any longer, rudely pushed his chair back, signalling that the sorry excuse for a family meal had come to a very definite end.

“My lady, I am finished here,” he announced abruptly, the commanding subtext unmistakeable as he thrust out his hand for her to take.

The queen nodded, seeming relieved.  Taking the king’s hand, she was propelled rather briskly towards the door, which the king rapped on.  It was opened by two servants, who had obviously heard the goings on within and feigned surprise to see their lord storming out.  Rúmil, however, did not have to feign that particular emotion, when at the threshold, the king whirled on his heel suddenly and addressed him directly.

“You see now, Rúmil?” he hissed between clenched teeth. “You see now what I must endure?” before he renewed his grip on his wife’s wrist and swept out of the room.

The servants hastily made to close the door, managing an awkward bow apiece to Fëanáro, who did not notice them, as he had picked up one of the ripe oranges from the tray in front of him, contemplating it with an odd, closed expression. 

The second the door clicked shut, Rúmil jumped, as in one fluid movement, Fëanáro leapt to his feet and threw the orange so hard against the door that the skin burst, sending dark red juice splattering across its white, varnished surface.  The orange hit the floor with a dull, wet slap.

“If I had thought of it but a moment earlier, I could have engaged myself and put that orange to much better use,” Fëanáro said coldly, before following his father out of the room, the door slamming behind him with a mighty bang.

“Master Rúmil.  How did it go?”

When he arrived back in his rooms, Erdacundo was waiting for him.  The man had evidently been pacing the bedroom floor, as he had stopped mid-stride when Rúmil closed the door behind him.  It was an intrusion, but Rúmil was too weary to reprimand anyone for anything at that moment.

Rolling his eyes, he walked straight over to the bed, and with a groan of frustration threw himself on it, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Not well?” he heard Erdacundo ask.

“It was fucking awful— excuse my Fëanorian language.”

Erdacundo sighed.  Wandering over to the bottom of the bed, he sat down on the floor, legs crossed and asked, “What happened?”

“Fëanáro insulted the queen, the king told him to stop it, Fëanáro did not like that, did not like being there at all, and told the king so in no uncertain terms. The king took offence, roared at him and stormed out, dragging the queen behind him, and Fëanáro ended up throwing an orange.”

“At the king?”

“No. The king had left by then, but he said if he’d thought of it earlier, he would’ve walloped him with it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Minyandil said Fëanáro tipped a whole bottle of wine over the king at Nost-na-Lothion a few years ago. I’m guessing he has covered the king in more food-filth since?”

“He has.  And that is true. I remember that well,” Erdacundo answered.  “That was the night Minyandil was sent chasing after Fëanáro in my place because I had to stay with Lady Indis.  Minyandil has always had a lot of affection for Fëanáro. Lets him away with everything. Treats him with such patience, even though Fëanáro is far too clever for him and he can’t understand half what the prince talks about.”

“And you do not have such affection for him?” Rúmil asked, removing his hands from his eyes and heaving himself upright so he could get a good look at the king’s guard when he replied.

A frown passed over Erdacundo’s face, and he looked sternly at Rúmil. 

“I never said that, Master Rúmil,” he replied curtly.  “I have great affection for the young prince Fëanáro. I grieve that he is so unhappy. We have spent much time together. Well, such time as Fëanáro allows.  I taught him woodcraft.  I taught him how to ride and hunt; how to pursue and avoid pursuit; how to pitch a tent in howling wind and rain; how to tell when a boar is about to charge you and how you get away with your life.”

“An interesting skill-set,” Rúmil said, genuinely intrigued. “Unless you are a follower of Oromë, you are unlikely to have learned that in Aman.”

“The tale of my life is quite odd.  I was born in the Hither Lands into an Avarin clan.  All the skills I learned, I learned there from my mother, father and older brothers.  One night, our camp was attacked by Orcs.  No one was killed that night, and we managed to slay them, but we were forced to move on.  We were not so lucky as we started moving,” Erdacundo added, his expression darkening. “The place was overrun. There were Orcs everywhere we turned. It was with a much smaller number that we managed to pass over the Ered Luin. 

“It happened one day that we stumbled across a settlement, larger than any we’d ever seen before. It was fortified and manned by people who looked a lot like us, only less tattered and bloodstained.”

Erdacundo smiled a small smile at the recollection and said, “They took us in. Called themselves Noldor and took us to Finwë. Turned out one of the old ones recognised one of our old ones, and that we were from the same clan at one time, before we all split up.  Finwë said they were going to Aman, that we were welcome to join his Noldor, if we liked. We thought about it long and hard, but in the end, we were tired of fighting. Figured going overseas was less of a hardship than not being able to sleep at night for fear of Orcs slitting your throat.  Never forgot our roots, though.  Me and my family and the rest who survived and became Noldor, we still think ourselves as different.”

“Avarin Noldor?” Rúmil offered with a smile, marvelling at Erdacundo’s decidedly odd but fascinating background.

Erdacundo nodded.  “Hmm. Something like that.”

“And I take it that is how you entered into the king’s service?”

“I am a good hunter and fighter.  Always have been.  We had to fight more Orcs before we reached the sea.  We were out scouting the way forward and were ambushed.  Finwë saved my life and I vowed to repay him.  I have fought at his side since.”

“Even now, when the only thing you’re fighting against is his unruly, adolescent son?”

“Fëanáro is not bad,” Erdacundo insisted.  “He is just unhappy.  The king did well to bring you here.  You have made Fëanáro happy.  It is good to see him happy. You make him laugh.  He told me. He was upset when he thought you were gone this morning. Told me he had been sleepwalking again last night and that he thought he had driven you away with his strangeness.”

Erdacundo’s words made Rúmil’s insides squeeze painfully. Guilt and an odd sense of empathy fought for dominance, both telling him that he was a horrible person, that he knew what it felt like to be considered rebellious and strange, and that he should’ve thought before wandering off like that.

“I am sorry,” he said, quietly.  “I did not think of that.  I mean... I did not leave because I thought Fëanáro was strange.”

“That is what I said,” Erdacundo replied.  “Told him it would be a cheek, since you’re plenty strange yourself.”

“Perhaps I should go find him and explain?” Rúmil continued, not noticing Erdacundo’s jest because he suddenly felt worried and did not know why.

“You could do that,” Erdacundo said.  “He won’t throw anything at you.  He likes you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It is.”

“Where will I find him?”

Erdacundo shrugged.  “He could be anywhere by now.  We can split up and I will help you look.  If we don’t find him in an hour, we meet back here. If you see Minyandil, tell him we’re looking for Fëanáro. Let us know if you find a note.”

“A note?”

“When Fëanáro goes off on wanderings, he always leaves a note, telling his father that he’s sorry, that he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh, Eru...”

“I know.”

“Well, I shall certainly let you know if I find one of those.  I think I’ll head to his rooms first to see if he’s there.”

Erdacundo nodded.

“I’ll meet you back here in a hour!” Rúmil called over his shoulder as he rushed out into the corridor.

He was walking past the closed doors of some grand guest rooms on the second floor when he heard the noise. At first he thought it might have been a mouse scratching at the inside of the walls somewhere. There was no one in or near the corridor but him, so it was very quiet, and it could well have been a mouse.

But there was too much force behind it to be a mouse, he thought suddenly, as out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a half-open door to his right. 

The noise belonged to one much stronger than a mouse, or a rat, or a squirrel, or any other sort of small animal that might have been rooting around inside the palace somewhere.  The sound was deliberate too – as though there were intent behind the scrape, scrape scrapings that came at regular intervals, then paused, before resuming once again with renewed vigour.

Cautiously, Rúmil stretched out a hand and pushed the door open.

As he crept into the room – an excuse and apology ready formed in his mind in case he needed it – the noise grew louder, and he suddenly realised that he recognised it.  It was the same sound the carpenters down at the west docks in Tol Eressea made – the scraping of wood, chiselling, carving, gouging, all mingled with swearing and laughter and the sounds of trade and bustle and the faint roar of the ocean going on around them.

Perhaps someone was redecorating, he thought briefly, and then stopped short at the sight of Fëanáro standing upon a bed, his back to Rúmil, with a gouge in hand, carving great chunks out of a beautifully-painted wooden panel depicting the meeting of the Quendi and the Vala Oromë that was fixed to the wall above the bed.  Piles of curly wood-shavings had fallen around Fëanáro’s feet, and the dry, dusty-sweet smell stung Rúmil’s nose.  Fëanáro was so intent on his task, he didn’t notice them, stepping over the shavings as they cracked and splintered beneath his bare feet.  He was carving a message into the panel in his code.  Rúmil quickly transliterated it from what he could recall and was horrified to discover it read: INDIS OF THE VANYAR. WHORE. WHORE. WH—

“Varda’s stars, Fëanáro! What are you doing?” he whispered viciously, striding over to the bed and having to fight the urge to grab the young prince and drag him out of the room for a scolding.  “Do you have any idea what your father would do if he... if he... Fëanáro, are you alright?”

Rúmil trailed off as Fëanáro abruptly stopped carving his letters.  Still with his back to Rúmil, the young prince swayed on his feet a moment, contemplating the panel – damaged far beyond repair – before he swung his arm upward, and in an oddly weary motion, drove the point of the tool half-heartedly into the wood. His head fell forward, pressing against the panel’s scratched surface, wood-chips settling in his dark hair.

“Listen,” Fëanáro said, so softly Rúmil almost missed it.

“Listen to what?” he snapped.

“Just listen.”

“This had better be worth it, Fëanáro,” he seethed impatiently, as he screwed his eyes shut and opened his ears.  “I will have a hard time defending you for this you know...”

Before, the room had been filled with the rasping scrapes of woodcarving. Now, in the silence, Rúmil could detect something else, just on the cusp of audibility.  A small, muted, thumping in the room above – slow, regular, repetitive – and then a moan...

“Aie, Indis...”

Rúmil’s cheeks flared red and his hand flew to his mouth as a thrill of cringing embarrassment rushed through him.  He couldn’t possibly have heard... no.  No, the thought was too much.  Too, too much! It was an astonishing intrusion to have overheard such a thing!  The very thought of it! Horrible, horrible, horrible...

And then he remembered with a start that Fëanáro had been listening for much, much longer.  How long?  Had he come in here, seeking respite and found... that?

Mortified, his heart twisting in sympathy for Fëanáro, his voice shaking, he said, “Come, Fëanáro.  Do not linger here.  It will do you no good.”

“No,” Fëanáro murmured, his head still pressed against the wooden panel, the gouge clutched in his hand.

“No?  Why not?  Surely you do not want to stay here and listen to that.  Please, Fëanáro—” Rúmil entreated, as much for himself as the young prince, for he certainly didn’t want to listen to it any longer.

“No,” Fëanáro said, more definitively.  “I must stay here.  I must listen.”

“Why?” Rúmil pleaded desperately, almost at his wits’ end.  “Why must you stay?”

“It sustains me,” Fëanáro murmured, almost in a trance. “It gives me the energy to hate her, to hate everything that will come from her, that woman, the woman who saw my mother condemned to be forever dead, who even now revels in her suffering and is moaning and writhing around atop my father even though she is with child.

“What would my mother think?  What would my mother think if she could hear him? Does she know of the things her husband says to his whore in her bed?  Does she know that his whore is with child?  Can she hear him now, saying that woman’s name over and over again as my father once said hers?

“Please... tell me, Rúmil,” he whispered in a broken voice.  “You know many things about the Valar.  Can she hear him?  Can she hear me?”

Unable to do aught else, his tongue thick and his heart heavy with the weight of an aching, unbearable sadness, Rúmil said, “I do not know.”

“I think about her,” Fëanáro went on.  “I think about her every day, at least once.  Is that strange?”

“It is not strange,” Rúmil insisted, as tears stung at the corners of his eyes.

“Do you think my father ever thinks about her?”

“I believe he does,” Rúmil answered, recalling the strange, dark little room in which he had met the king only yesterday.

“I want my father to be happy,” Fëanáro whispered.  “But I don’t want him to be married to her. I hate her, and I hate him for marrying her.”

Then Fëanáro’s grip on the carving tool renewed, his knuckles whitening.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said quietly. “I need to be alone.”

“Then I will leave you to your thoughts,” Rúmil said with a polite bow.

The screaming started early in the evening, when Laurelin’s light was on the wane and shadows stretched, long, across the floor of Rúmil’s study.  He could hear it only faintly through the closed doors, but it was loud enough to break his concentration and arouse his curiosity.  There were two voices: one high and shrill and agitated; the other lower, sharper, less easy to make out.  The high voice was the one doing all the screaming, the lower voice merely punctuating the first at intervals.  He could make out a few words here and there – none of them civil.

He sighed and let his head fall into his hands.

For a brief moment, he toyed with remaining in the safety of his study. But when the screaming grew louder – making it absolutely impossible to concentrate on anything – he decided to at least pop his head round the door with a view to making his displeasure quite clear, and if they did not wish to incur his wrath, they could keep the racket down and he would be much obliged.

Decision made, Rúmil snapped his ledger closed and marched out of the study and through the bedroom, throwing the door open that led into the hall with a righteous flourish.

“Excuse me—” he announced, haughtily, before stuttering to a halt, the rest of his words dying in his throat as he took in the astonishing sight of Queen Indis screaming full in the face of prince Fëanáro.

“How dare you speak to me like that?  How dare you?” the queen cried out, her voice shrill and wavering.  She was far from the laughing, golden, Vanyarin maiden who had once danced for king Finwe on the plains of Ezellohar.  Spots of red colour bloomed upon her cheeks and a few of her long ringlets were beginning to unwind.  She stood but a foot away from Fëanáro and had her eyes fixed on him – clearly furious, but her look was not steely like her husband’s.  Rather, it seemed as though she was plucking up a good deal of courage.

“I will speak to you however I like,” Fëanáro answered back coldly.  “You are not my mother, you are not my queen, I have sworn no allegiance to you.  You are nothing to me, therefore, I will speak to you however I like.”

“Then if that is the case, I will speak to you however I like!” the queen retorted, trembling all over with anger.  “I declare you a nasty, little cockroach!  A nasty, poisonous, little cockroach, and I wish,” she added, her voice rising in a shrill crescendo, “I dearly wish in the name of all the stars of our holy lady Varda that someone would step on you!”

As soon as the words escaped her mouth, the queen seemed shocked by them.  Her hands flew to her mouth, and she cried out in a flurry of agitation, “Oh! Oh!”

Fëanáro smiled a cold smile and said nothing.  The queen’s composure was crumbling.  Tears were beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.

“You make me say such horrible things!” she wailed, her voice wavering on the verge of a sob.

“It fits you,” Fëanáro said.  “Suits you very well.  You’d have to be horrible to do what you’ve done to my family.”

Then, without turning or moving a muscle, Fëanáro raised his voice and addressed Rúmil directly, who, with a start, suddenly realised that Fëanáro had known he was there all along.  There were footsteps coming along the corridor now too. He hoped fervently this altercation would not explode into a public scandal – to which his name would undoubtedly be linked were that to occur.

“You agree with me, Master Rúmil, don’t you?” Fëanáro asked, with a fey glint in his eye.  “You agree that she must be horrible to do what she has done to my mother?  That she is nothing but a usurper!  A filthy, disgusting, fat-bellied whore who has fucked my father soft in the head—!”

The approaching footsteps slowed.

Round the corner came the king, followed closely by Erdacundo.

The king had heard every word, and he was incandescent with rage.  Gathering the hems of his grand robes about him, he stormed towards his son, who did not flinch, but squared his shoulders defiantly, ready for the inevitable clash.  Fëanáro’s eyes blazed and the air around him was hot and heavy.  Rúmil did not know how the king could stand it.  He could feel Fëanáro’s anger.  It was dark and writhing and raw, like a rotten wound that festered and stunk and infected everything else around it.  It must have given him such pain.

“APOLOGISE!” the king roared, brandishing a finger at his son.  “APOLOGISE RIGHT NOW, CURUFINWË, OR SO HELP ME YOU WILL NEVER SEE PEN OR PAPER OR CRAFT EVER AGAIN!”

“What?  You would take everything I love away from me?”  Fëanáro laughed a short, hollow laugh and added, “There is no need, Atar.  You have already succeeded in doing that.  I am punished beyond all hope of release. My sentence is perpetual.  You and your Vanya have seen to that.”

“Do not twist my words, Curufinwë!”

“I do not twist your words. I merely find the truth in them.”

“nonsense! yOU ARE USING YOUR MOTHER AS AN EXCUSE FOR YOUR ODIOUS BEHAVIOUR! YOUR ILL-TREATMENT OF MY LADY INDIS IS INEXCUSABLE AND i WILL NOT TOLERATE SUCH LOW LANGUAGE IN MY HOUSE!  YOU WILL APOLOGISE!”

“I will not.”

“APOLOGISE!”

“I will not!”

“APOLOGISE!”

“I WILL NOT!” Fëanáro roared suddenly.  “I WILL NOT, I WILL NOT, I WILL NOT!  I WILL NEVER APOLOGISE TO HER, NOT EVER, AND I DON’T GIVE AN ORC’S FESTERING SHIT IF YOU CHAIN ME TO A DUNGEON WALL FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, I WILL NOT!”

“Curufinwë, WATCH YOUR MOUTH—!”

“DON’T CALL ME Curufinwë!” Fëanáro shrieked, his hands flailing wildly in the air, suddenly looking quite deranged.  “I AM SICK, SICK, SICK OF THAT NAME!  IT IS FËANÁRO!  FËANÁRO, YOU STUPID MAN!  I DO NOT WANT TO BE KNOWN BY YOUR AWFUL NAME ANY LONGER! THE NAME MY MOTHER GAVE ME IS MY TRUE NAME, AND YOU WILL CALL ME BY IT!”

There was a short silence.  The king, wrong-footed by his son’s outburst, seemed deflated - the self-righteous anger dissipated, replaced instead by an odd, hurt sort.

“Truly, that is what you want?” he asked quietly.

“It is what I want.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“You do not say this simply to hurt me?”

“Poor Atar,” Fëanáro sneered.  “Poor, poor, Atar.  So hard done by.  So miserable.  No,” he said frankly.  “I do not say this just to hurt you, self-absorbed creature that you are.  I take this name in honour of my mother, Míriel Þerindë, whose name is largely forgotten in this house as no one appears to be willing to say it, least of all you.  Is it wrong to say it?  Is it wrong to talk about my mother? I am beginning to think so.”

“Do not be ridiculous—”

“I am not being ridiculous!” Fëanáro hissed alarmingly, his eyes flashing. “You won’t say it. You won’t talk about her. You never talk about her. You pretend she never existed.  Mother’s tapestries.  You took them all down, save a few that you keep out of sight in that dark room.  You keep all the clothes she made you in a locked box that never sees the light of day.  Every work of her hands is gone from these halls. And I know why. You do not want to be reminded of her, of your guilt.  You don’t even want to call me by the name she gave me.  But what will you do with me, I wonder?  I am a reminder, am I not?  Perhaps you would prefer to lock me up in a box too?  Or should I make myself scarce?  Should I throw myself off the top of the Mindon?  Then you could take my body to Lórien and let my broken corpse feed the roots of one of Irmo’s saplings?”

“Fëanáro, be quiet…”

“Or I could be quiet?  Would that suit better?  I could sew my lips together.  Yes, that would be ideal, Atar!  Then I could not say anything to irritate your tender conscience and I would be out of your life within the week, not being able to take in any liquid at all.  And I could use all manners of coloured thread and stitch them so very carefully! A fitting memorial to my mother. What fun I will have! At least if I die that way, I will have made my own decision.”

“Your mother made her decision—”

“No you made it for her!” Fëanáro snarled suddenly, viciously.  “The Valar may have sanctioned it, but they did not force you.  You hide behind them. You believe in them.  You continue to let them run your sordid life for you, because you – like all the others – deny your responsibility.  You run to the Valar and hide behind them in a perverse attempt to deny your responsibility for your actions and flee from the inescapable truth of the choice that you made!” 

“We have been over this before—”

“Shut up!  It is your fault!  It is all your fault…”

Then, inside Fëanáro, something seemed to switch.

With a little moan, his fists jerked upward to bunch in his black hair, tearing at it, and he swayed for a moment on his feet, muttering darkly to himself.

“… all your fault. you let them take her. you let them take her. you let mother die, you did, you did, don’t deny it, do not, do not, do not—!”

The king began to plead with his son.

“Don’t do this,” he said quietly. “I beg you. Not here. Please…”

Instinctively, Finwë stepped forward, reaching out to comfort his son, resting a hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder.  Fëanáro screamed suddenly, as though he had been struck, and recoiled from his father’s touch.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!” he shrieked, batting wildly at his clothing as though it would remove the stain of his father’s touch.  “DO NOT TOUCH ME! I DO NOT WANT YOUR FILTHY HANDS ANYWHERE NEAR ME!”

“My son, please…” Finwë began to beg, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“NO!” Fëanáro howled, his young face twisted in a wrenching anguish.  His pale eyes were truly wild now and unseeing and blazed with fury as he hurled all of his hurt and his rage at his father.

“Your hands are unclean! Unclean! You wanted her to die! You couldn’t wait for the debate to be over, so you could climb atop your Vanya and spawn her vile children!  YOU WANTED HER TO DIE FOREVER! IT IS TRUE!  IT IS ALL TRUE! YOU CAST MY MOTHER ASIDE… LIKE AN OLD BOOT!”

Rúmil, who had shrunk back into the doorway, his hands clutched around the frame, looked on aghast as Fëanáro descended into a ferocious sort of fit – raving and screaming and kicking and shrieking nothing that made any sense whatsoever. The king stood a little away, pale and shaken and silent. A tear slid unnoticed down his cheek.

Eventually, Erdacundo stepped in to restrain the young prince, managing somehow to twist his flailing arms behind his back, despite taking a knock to the face in the process, and roughly hauled him off.

All the way down the corridor, Fëanáro twisted and writhed and bucked and kicked and spat, trying to free himself from Erdacundo’s grip, and when he realised he could not, he dropped to the ground – at which point Erdacundo began to drag him across the floor.

“I HATE YOU!” he shrieked over and over again, like a twisted mantra, “I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I—” until the doors at the end of the corridor slammed shut.

There was a long silence in which the king stood very still, biting his finger and staring, unseeing, at his feet. 

Rúmil watched as the queen nervously worked up the courage to approach him.

“My lord…?” she inquired tentatively, stepping forward with a look of genuine concern.

The king turned abruptly and left without a word.

The queen’s hands flew to her mouth in a flurry and her eyes filled with tears.  She shot a desperate look at Rúmil, as if to say, “I did not mean to…”

Offering the queen the courtesy of a strained nod, showing her that he had acknowledged her feelings on the matter, Rúmil quietly retreated into his rooms, closing the door gently behind him.

And outside, barely audible, a soft, contained and private little sound, he heard the queen begin to sob.

The queen went into labour later that night and no one could find the king to let him know his child was about to be born.  Rúmil joined the staff in their search, but kept his suspicions as to where the king might have been firmly to himself.  If they had searched a small, darkened room filled with beautiful tapestries, a strong smell of frankincense and bottles of heady spirits, however, Rúmil guessed they would not have gone far wrong.

After wandering around haplessly for a good twenty minutes, hoping in vain that the king would appear somewhere more public so that someone could find him and Rúmil could cease his ignorant charade, he threw his hands in the air and gave up, letting the staff carry on in their frantic, fruitless search for their sovereign.

With nothing much to do, he wandered upstairs in the general direction of the chaos, following the increasingly concentrated clusters of anxious men and women chattering in nervous whispers about the king, about how no one could find him, about queen Indis and her pain that sounded exactly like Lady Míriel’s before the prince was born, and what if what happened to Lady Míriel happened again?

Shaking his head at their shameless gossiping, he reached the guarded doors of the private wing belonging to the king and queen.  To his surprise, the guards nodded and let him pass along with a young Noldorin lady bearing a basin of hot water and clean towels slung over her shoulders. Rúmil didn’t really want to go in, but felt he had to since he had been shown favour.

He was just in time to see Erdacundo arriving from the opposite direction with the king in tow, who looked pale and drawn.  There was no excitement in his eyes.

Together, they stopped outside the queen’s chamber, and inside, the queen could be heard moaning in pain.  The king’s jaw tightened.  He took one look at the closed door in front of him and said, “I shall be in my chambers.  Please let me know when the child is born.”  And he was gone again.

Rúmil wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t much feel like returning to his rooms (he was certain he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate anyway, what with all the fuss going on outside) so he spent the rest of a long night sitting out in the private corridor with Erdacundo, Minyandil, a Vanyarin scribe called Laurelindo and a huge Noldorin guard who went by the name Rocco because no one knew his real name and the guard wouldn’t tell.  Minyandil had brought wine and playing cards, so the five of them spent the night exchanging banter and swigging alcohol, whilst Rúmil repeatedly trounced them all in several tense games of camlost. At some indeterminate point in the early hours of the morning, Rúmil fell asleep and woke mid-afternoon with Minyandil slumped on one side and Laurelindo on the other.  A little way down the corridor, inside her chambers, the queen was screaming.

Feeling a little ill (not only because of the wine), Rúmil rose carefully so as not to wake his two sleeping companions and he went back to his rooms for a bath and a change of clothes.  He got the alert later in the evening that the king’s daughter was born.

It was a strange feeling.

Nevertheless, courtesy dictated he should pay his respects.

The king was already inside as Rúmil was ushered into Lady Indis’s chamber. He hadn’t changed from the day before; was still dressed in the grand council robes he’d been wearing when he had fought with Fëanáro, and he sat slumped in a chair at the foot of the queen’s bed with his head in his hands.  The Noldorin midwife approached him with a smile and a small, stirring bundle wrapped in impossibly fine linens.

“Your daughter, my lord,” she announced, holding the child out to the king, who did not take her, but instead looked down at his daughter and burst into tears.

“A happy occasion, indeed,” Rúmil murmured, as he felt a firm hand land on his shoulder. He turned to find Erdacundo, looking very serious.

“Have you seen Fëanáro?” the guard whispered.

Rúmil’s stomach plummeted.  “No,” he answered, trying to keep the rising panic from colouring his tone.  “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.  Have you?”

Erdacundo shook his head.

“Shit…”

“Do not tell the king.  He does not need to know this.  Not right now.”

“Agreed,” Rúmil said.  There was a pause, and then he added, “I’m going to look for him. Not that I’ll do any better than you but many hands make light work and all that.”

“Yes. Rocco is also looking for him. And Minyandil too.  Remember also what I said about his notes. If you find one, please let me know right away.”

“I will. Thank you.”

In the end it was Rúmil who found the note.  After checking everywhere he could think of (which admittedly did not amount to very many places; he did not know the palace) he tried Fëanáro’s room in the vain hope he would find something.  In Fëanáro workshop, Varda.105 lay open on his writing desk alongside a loose leaf of parchment on which he had begun his copying and left to dry.  Ever the critic, Rúmil picked it up to inspect the workmanship and found a square of paper underneath, written in haste.

It read:

Atar,

The wind knows my name.

It is calling, and I must answer.

I love you.

I am sorry.

F.

Gone.  He was too late.

Feeling strangely numb, he wandered over to the window seat he had shared with Fëanáro only the day before (it felt much longer than that) and slumped down on it, utterly defeated.  With a sigh, he let his head fall into his hands and curled his legs up into his chest.

It was disappointing.  So disappointing.  Here, for a brief and foolish moment he’d felt like he could have done something for the boy, that he had made a connection somehow – if one that was yet new and perhaps tenuous. The odd thing was, that he hadn’t wanted to do it at all at first.  Had considered the job beneath him. Mere babysitting.  But since he had gotten to know the young prince, he had wanted to help him, had wanted to make his life that little bit brighter because he understood at least a part of how he felt.

There was no point now, though.  Fëanáro was gone.  Probably miles away by now.  The only thing left was to tell Erdacundo and deliver the unfortunate news to the king.

Rúmil sighed and turned his head slightly to stare out the window.  It was lucky he did, for at that moment, Laurelin’s odd silvery light glanced off a shadowy something scrambling down the crag at a fair but stealthy pace.  And it was nearly at the bottom.

Rúmil leapt to his feet, his heart fluttering excitedly in his chest.

There was no time to tell Erdacundo – no time at all, for he did not have a clue as to where the man was and by the time he found him, Fëanáro would be gone.  And he knew it was Fëanáro.  He knew it as surely as he knew that the grass grew beneath his feet.

He had to move.

Rúmil burst out of the room and along the corridor at a sprint – no one noticing him, as the palace was in an uproar over the birth of the princess and no one would have thought someone tearing through the place as though orcs snapped at his ankles in any way unusual.  Even the guards at the main gates were too busy gossiping, and by the time they noticed and called out to him, their cries were distant in the wind of his wake.

He ran and ran and ran, down the steep, winding coach-road, running until he thought his lungs were on fire and every breath he drew did nothing to shatter that illusion. He did not head for the Great Square, instead circled round the back of the hill, scrambling madly over jagged rocks and trembling boulders lying loose under his feet, hoping against hope that Fëanáro would still be there. 

He turned a corner and his heart leapt as he saw the boy climbing down from a low ledge.

“Fëanáro!” he cried out, his voice hoarse from exertion. “Stop!  Please!”

A few more footholds, and Fëanáro’s feet touched the ground.  He turned to Rúmil.  His expression was wrathful.

“Are you going to tell my father?” he snapped, his voice hot and sharp like firebrands. 

“No.  I cannot stay in that place any longer.” 

“Then why are you here?  Have you come to convince me to return because I will not!”

“I have not come here to convince you to return.” 

“Then what do you want?” 

“To know where you go.”

“Where my fancy takes me. Away from Tirion. So where is Erdacundo?  He must not be far behind?”

“He does not know I am here.”

“You lie!”

“I do not lie.  I thought about telling him when I noticed you scrambling like a spider down the cliff, but by the time I would have found him in that maze of a place you would’ve been long gone.”

“Then why are you here?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Really?  You don’t know?  You ran all the way down here and did not think about what you were going to do when you got here?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Sometimes people have to do stupid things. If I did not do that stupid thing, I wouldn’t be here and you would be miles away and I would be kicking myself for being smart when I could have been stupid.”

Fëanáro tilted his head and observed Rúmil askance.

“Then what are you going to do now that you are here as a result of your stupidity?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rúmil considered, smiling ruefully.  “I could head back up to the palace and let Erdacundo know you have gone missing, but I suspect he has not been able to track your movements successfully for quite a while now, since he was the one who taught you woodcraft…”

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow.

“Erdacundo told me, you need not fear I have been spying on you.  But as I said, there would not be much point in trudging back up to the palace.  Neither could I force you to return, as there is not a hope in all the circles of Arda that you would take heed – and, to be perfectly honest, I would not want you to, for it is as plain as the nose on my face that simply being there makes you terribly unhappy, and I do not particularly want you to be unhappy.  But I cannot return to your father and lie to him because he would know, or to Erdacundo because he could prove we’ve both been here by our tracks.  I cannot go back to the School, either, because your father would come find me there.”  Then Rúmil laughed a sorry, little laugh and said, “The only thing I can really do now is come with you.”

“What?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes there is a problem!” Fëanáro replied viciously, with a swipe of his hand.  “The instant my back is turned, you will turn tail and head for Tirion, bringing my father back with you!”

Rúmil’s jaw dropped at the accusation, and he took immediate, bristling, seething offence.

“Excuse me?  Who do you think I am, you nasty little troll?” he hissed.  “You seriously believe I will traipse back to Tirion, my tail between my legs, to kowtow to your mighty father?  Then I greatly overestimated your intelligence, prince Fëanáro, because you do not know me nearly as well as you think you do.  I have made a hasty and frankly stupid decision, one I will doubtless regret come morning, but now that you have questioned my integrity in such an arrogant manner, I have decided to come with you on your ridiculous wanderings – whether you like it or not!”

For a long moment, Fëanáro stood there and stared at him, considering him, as though testing him.  Then, at length, although he did not seem entirely satisfied, he said, “You will need provisions.” 

“Then we shall drop by the School,” Rúmil said, tightly, because his throat was closing up, the gravity of the situation only now beginning to settle in. 

“No. We will buy them.  There are settlements outside Tirion that will do well enough. If we walk quickly enough we will get there for the Mingling.”

“Very well.”

They walked together, swiftly and in silence.  Even though Rúmil was terribly unfit, he surprised himself at how easily he adapted to Fëanáro’s pace. The boy was as good as his word, too, for by the Mingling of the Lights they reached a small town called Orrostar where Fëanáro handed over an exquisite silver cloak-pin in exchange for sturdy, well-made travelling clothes, a cloak and boots for Rúmil, who changed into them in a tavern outhouse and was seriously beginning to think he had made a horrible, horrible mistake.

It was too late to back out, though.  Far, far too late.  In the distance, they could hear the sounds of celebration in the fair city upon the green hill of Túna. The people were waking up.  No doubt news of the birth of the princess had spread and a festival had been called for. He wondered if the king had noticed yet whether his son was gone.

He wondered, too, what he would do when he found out.

“We waste time lingering here,” Fëanáro said to him with a smile, his eyes alight in his eagerness to reach the wilderness of the plains.  “Come.  Let’s head off while the weather is fair and the streets are empty.”

But there was no point regretting it now.  He was here, and actually, now that he came to think about it, it was quite… exciting.

“Then lead the way, Fëanáro,” he said, astounding himself by meaning every word of it.

Chapter End Notes

Names:

All courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator (http : / / elffetish . com / names . html)

Morimir - black jewel

Calimarwa - having brilliance

Nolmo - wise person

Laurelindo - golden light song (yeah, I know the meaning is terrible. I just thought it sounded cool in Quenya, which is probably what matters to elves, anyway.)

Orrostar - a region of Numenor I thought I'd nick for Valinor. It means East-lands.

Notes:

It's been bugging me for a while now, but I'm pretty certain that Moicallë (Indis' Vanyarin maid) was inspired by a scene I read in a fic a while back. It was pretty funny and involved a Vanyarin barber with a heavy accent, but I cannot for the life of me remember who wrote it, or in which archive I found it. If anyone knows, please tell me so I can read it again. :)

Thanks:

Thanks to Silvertrails and Himring for the reviews. :)  And also... what is Smells Like Teen Spirit?  It's kinda cool.

Peculiar

"No.  Absolutely not."

"But Rúmil, this is the only way-"

"No.  It is not the only way.  There must be a hundred other ways through the Calacirya."

"It's quickest by far."

"I don't care."

"It's not that high."

"Do you think I'm blind?  There's snow on the peaks!"

"You're being obstinate."

"No, you're being obstinate by insisting on scaling the Pelóri as a means to avoid pursuit."

"And you're being obstinate by refusing to even consider the possibility."

"Then we have reached an impasse," Rúmil snapped, folding his arms petulantly and sitting himself down on the grassy embankment at the side of the road.  "We will not agree on our course. You would climb those ridiculous mountains, and I would do a million things other than climb those ridiculous mountains."

"They're not as ridiculous as you, oh great scholar, who is clearly all too used to tea and books," Fëanáro retorted, tossing his pack to the ground with a snort.

"And that is exactly why I'm not going clambering over the Pelóri," Rúmil answered acidly. "I am used to tea and books, not mountaineering. Even if I manage to haul myself up there, knowing my clumsy-footed luck I'll trip over my own feet at the top and go tumbling down a ravine. Then, when you finally get to wherever you eventually decide to go, you'll have to write a letter to the School telling them they're short one Loremaster."

Fëanáro's  impatient frown melted into a smirk. "Ha. I can see it now," he said. "My letter arriving. Dear Master Quennar, I am sorry to inform you that Rúmil has fallen into a ravine. We were climbing the Pelóri. I peered over the edge of the precipice, but it was a long way down and I couldn't see anything. My guess is that he is dead, but you'll have to check with Námo to be sure. If he is not dead, I'm sure he will find his way back. My condolences if he is dead - if not, my apologies. Fëanáro."

"Oh, I will be dead. Most definitely. And each and every day my fëa languishes in the Halls of Mandos you can bet I will be dwelling on your stubborn insistence on carrying out the ridiculous decision which led to my horrific and untimely demise. And when I get out," Rúmil whispered, narrowing his eyes, "when I get out, Fëanáro, the first thing I will do will be to find you and say, "I told you so."  And I will follow you forever and ever and ever, wide-eyed and haunted - spectral, like a wraith - until the end of time, repeating the same miserable refrain, over and over again-"

"I told you so?"

"Yes."

Fëanáro rolled his eyes.  "You are exaggerating, but very well.  If you're so against it, we won't go over the Pelóri."

"Brilliant. Astounding. I am overcome with joy. Thank you, Fëanáro, for seeing sense."

"There's no sense involved at all," Fëanáro replied, with a wry smile. "I'm just sick of listening to you moaning about it.  The very minute we set foot on the ascent, you'd be whining, and I have no doubt I'd have to endure it in my ear the whole way up and over."

"That was my back-up plan," Rúmil said with a note of sanctimony, lifting his chin in the air.

"And that's all very well and good," Fëanáro said pointedly, "but what are we going to do now? We can't stay on the road forever. We will be caught, you may depend on it. At this very moment Erdacundo will be-"

Both turned at the sound of a distant rumbling they had not yet heard over the clamour of their bickering. In the distance, approaching in a cloud of dust, was the mail caravan that journeyed twice a month between Alqualondë, Tirion and Valmar. Pulled by dozens of huge, long-horned, long-haired cart cattle, the caravan made its laborious way along the narrow coach road that wound through the Calacirya. Its destination, no doubt, was Valmar, having come that morning from Tirion, and before that, Alqualondë. Each cart would be filled with letters and parcels from all over Aman - though not so full they couldn't spare room for the odd wandering passenger or two.

Fëanáro turned to Rúmil and flashed a sly grin.

"There's a coaching inn at the banks of the Lindon," he ventured.  "The drivers and the footmen always stop there to feed and water themselves and their pack-beasts. I say we let the caravan take the strain until we reach the Lindon Inn. Rúmil, how well can you swim?"

"Lest you forget, I was born on Tol Eressëa," Rúmil replied, by way of affirmation. "But, Fëanáro, are you suggesting we swim down the Lindon? Forgive me for pointing it out, but that seems only marginally less insane than the alternative."

"It's that or scale the Pelóri," Fëanáro asserted, his eyes eagerly following the caravan as it drew nearer. "Though, the more I think about it, the more I like the thought of using the Lindon. The banks are strewn with boulders, the river is deep enough to float in, the water flows quickly and there are no perilous downward plunges or rapids for miles in either direction..."  He trailed off for a moment, lost in thought, but only for a moment. 

"Rúmil," Fëanáro said slowly, deliberately. "I have an idea."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"I think we will head for the Lindon. Make sure your boots are clean. We'll need to do a little bit of climbing," he said, then adding in response to Rúmil's cries of outrage, "only a little bit of climbing. Just high enough so we can jump onto the roof of one of the carts.  Look over there, see how close the road passes to that ledge?"

"Oh yes..."

"You could jump off that, couldn't you?"

"I'm sure I could."

"Excellent.  Then it's decided," Fëanáro said, with a glint in his eye. "Start cleaning your boots - make sure they're as clean as possible. If Erdacundo is running after us, he might bring dogs.  I will take care of that possibility and then we can head up, lie in wait and catch the caravan."

"Dig another one out, will you?  And try and get a good one this time," Rúmil called out to Fëanáro as he lay on his back on the cart roof, staring up at the clouds passing overhead in the blue sky.

Fëanáro's plan had worked wonderfully well. All it had taken was a hop, skip and a jump in clean boots over a few boulders for them to reach the ledge. Then Rúmil waited while Fëanáro dropped down to lay a false trail and spread pepper powder liberally across the road. The caravan was right underneath the ledge when Fëanáro came scrambling back up, swift and silent. They chose a cart near the middle of the train (towed by other carts with no driver or footman to spot them) and made the jump onto the roof, where they set aside their heavy packs, lay down and basked comfortably in the warm light of Laurel in.

To their delight, not long after they had made the jump, Rúmil had chanced to look behind and saw that the caravan had split at a fork in the road. He nudged Fëanáro and both watched the other half of the cart train heading south. They both knew what it meant. If the king had sent a search party, it would be difficult now to trail them - difficult, but not impossible. Reaching the Lindon was still all-important, but now it would be easier to get there without incident.

It was still a good six hours away, though. So Rúmil, feeling a little bored, decided to take advantage of the ready source of reading material trundling along beneath them.

"This one has potential," Fëanáro called out, letting the loading hatch clatter closed behind him. "It stinks of jasmine oil."

"Excellent. Crack it open, then, and let's hear it!"

Sliding his finger under the seal, the wax cracked and Fëanáro unfolded the slip of paper. As he scanned the contents, a smirk formed on his face.

"Wait till you hear this..."

"What?  Is it good?"

"Priceless."

"If it's a love letter, you have to read it in a voice," Rúmil insisted.

Holding the letter out in front of him, placing one hand on his heart, Fëanáro cleared his throat and began, in a desperate keening wail, "My heart, my love, my Lírillë, greetings to you, oh dear one, from your beloved, your Sindemir. Only two days it has been since we parted in great sorrow beneath the white boughs of Galathilion. Already I miss you more than I could ever say. My heart hurts. I cannot eat.  I cannot sleep. I think of you always. Though Valmar calls you home, the streets of Tirion recall your light, laughing presence and mourn its loss. As I do. I wish you were not there.  I wish with all my heart that you were here with me, in my arms, my Lírillë. My heart, though it is sore, takes comfort in the solace of a glimmering hope. I may yet be lucky enough to see you again soon. For it is rumoured the king and queen plan to visit lord Ingwë in Valmar-" Fëanáro's voice faltered for a moment, then lowered to its natural pitch, "-so the queen might let the young princess Findis meet her kin there."

Fëanáro stared oddly at the paper for a long moment. Then he set it down without reading another word.

It was strange.  They had been so busy trying to leave Tirion behind them that Rúmil had not had a chance to discuss the queen or the birth of the king's daughter with Fëanáro, and the boy for his part hadn't asked. Rúmil's insides squirmed guiltily. He wished Fëanáro had not found out this way.

"My father has an attendant called Sindemir," Fëanáro said quietly. "I hope that letter was not from him. I'll never be able to look him in the eye again."

There was a moment of silence. Rúmil knew exactly what Fëanáro wanted to ask.  It was not long in the coming.

"Is that her name, Rúmil?" Fëanáro inquired, turning away to stare out across the plains, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the cart. "Findis?"

"Couldn't say for certain," Rúmil replied. "I didn't stay long enough to find out. I don't think your father's attendant would have any reason to lie, though."

"It's a terrible name. Findis," Fëanáro said, his lip curling as though the very act of uttering it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Finwë plus Indis makes Findis."

"Quite literally," Rúmil quipped before he could stop himself. Fëanáro threw him a withering look over his shoulder.

"Thank you for reminding me, Rúmil," he said caustically. "As if I could forget..."

Rúmil sighed and gave himself a good, hard, mental thrashing.  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was rather insensitive."

"Hmn."

Rúmil supposed that was the closest he could get to having an apology accepted by Fëanáro. With a sad smile, Rúmil slid across the roof of the cart to sit cross-legged beside him.

"I did get a look at her, though," he ventured.  "At Findis."

"Oh. What did she look like?"

"A squalling child," Rúmil said, truthfully.  "All pudgy little fists beating the air. Red-faced. Small. Bundle-like. Easily lost in fabric."

Fëanáro allowed himself a wry smile but did not answer.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not that fond of children," Rúmil confessed. "Don't know what your father sees in them. My sister has children. Too many children. Two boys and a girl.  I remember when her eldest was born - he must be about your age now, actually - and I went back home to visit."

"And?"

"I chapped on their door, was welcomed inside, and as soon as my arse touched the seat in the parlour, my brother-in-law - grinning all over his face - shoved his first-born in front of me and hollered: "Here is your uncle Rúmil! Go!  Go and see your uncle Rúmil!"

"Since my eldest nephew at that point did not possess the necessary motor skills to be able to reply, "Why, thank you father, I'll do just that," and pick himself up and walk over to me, I realised, with mounting horror, that I would have to hold him."

"So what happened?"

"I took him under the arms, held him out in front of me and sort of winced at him. Then he started crying."

"Of course he started crying! You don't hold babies like that."

"Well I didn't know that at the time, did I?" Rúmil complained. "I know it now, though, and do you know what, Fëanáro? Children still don't like me. I think your father's mad to have wanted any - including you!"

It was a joke of course, but still, Rúmil was relieved to see the flash of a smile on Fëanáro's face.

"I think he's mad too," Fëanáro replied. He drew his legs up into his chest and rested his chin upon his knees, contemplating the miles and miles of grassland that stretched out around them in all directions, dotted here and there with distant settlements. 

"He does love you, you know," Rúmil offered, a gentle reminder.

"I know. And that's why I have to be here," Fëanáro murmured. "I have to go away. It's better for him."

"And how is that?"

"Because I hurt him."

Fëanáro's head slid lower and lower until his forehead touched his knees and Rúmil could no longer see his face.

"I do not want to hurt him," he went on, quietly. "But I do.  Because I am strange and unhappy."

"You are not strange."

"I am. I know I am. I remember once, after I had an argument with Atar, he said to me, shouted at me, "Curufinwë, for all the stars in the sky, why can't you be normal?"

"He apologised to me afterward, but I knew from the way he said it that he really, truly meant it. I lay awake wondering that night if in fact I was not normal, and came to the conclusion it must be true because I don't really have any friends. The next day I made a promise to myself that I would be normal from then on. I tried my hardest. I packed all my tools away, tidied my workshop, combed my hair, dressed in my finest robes and joined Atar at counsel. I remember the look on his face when I walked in.  He was so happy. So I sat through it and listened quietly to the lords' idle prattle. Then I went to dinner and sat through it too, enduring in silence yet more idle prattle. I went hunting, I visited the provinces, I held my tongue, kept silent and nodded at intervals. I was normal."

"I kept it up for quite a long time," Fëanáro went on. "But even though it made Atar happy... it made me miserable. While I was trapped in one of those interminable, fucking dinners listening to a stupid woman droning on about something equally stupid while having no clue what she was talking about, I had one of those horrible sinking moments I sometimes have when a black mood steals over me and wraps despair around my heart. I realised then and there that I would never be normal, no matter how hard I tried. I could never be like Atar, who is so free and easy with his conversation, who seems to enjoy the company of these people and who cares about what they say. I could not be like him. I could not make him happy.

"The thought was awful. I just could not take anymore. I ran from the room, up to my own rooms, shut the door behind me and I lay there on my bed and wept because I felt so hopeless. Atar came knocking on my door later. I told him to go away at first because I didn't know it was him, but he came in anyway - Atar always does - and he sat down next to me. Do you know what he said?"

"What did he say?"

"‘You do not have to do this, Curufinwë,' is what he said. And then he gave me a kiss on the ear because I would not let him see my face and said, ‘Come, let's unpack your things. Your workshop looks awfully bare.'"

"So he knew all along?"

Fëanáro nodded. "By nature I am so strange, the act I had put on was obvious. He could see that I was trying and that meant a lot to him, but he did not want me to make myself miserable. I told him that I was trying because I wanted him to be happy, but he told me not to be silly, said that didn't matter, and that he loved his odd Curufinwë best of all."

Fëanáro's faced twisted and his hands moved to cover his face for a moment. "But I don't see how, when the odd Curufinwë that he loves hurts him so much."

"We cannot both be happy," Fëanáro said finally. "And I think this is a good time for me to go away. He will want to be with Findis and I will only make things worse because I cannot be normal and pretend to be happy. Do you see now?"

"Yes.  I think I understand."

"Please don't tell anyone I told you this," Fëanáro urged, turning suddenly to Rúmil. "I haven't told this to anyone before and I only told you because I thought you'd understand."

"I do understand, after a fashion," Rúmil said slowly. "I know what it feels like to be considered strange."

"You do?"

"I was not always so smart-mouthed and confident, Fëanáro.  In fact you may not believe it, but I was a very shy child, and did not speak much. I'm afraid to say I was a something of a target; a little too kind and gentle. I was bullied mercilessly at the local school by other children who were not as strange and not as clever, but much more popular and likable than awkward, silent Rúmil who shuffled his feet and clutched his books under his arms as though they were his only friends (which they were, by the way.)

"Every day at that bloody school was a trial. They would call me names, which I will not repeat here because even though I claim to have put it behind me, the sting of humiliation still pains me when I recall them. They tripped me up, emptied my satchel in the playground, hit me over the back of the head with rulers, pulled my hair, stole my shoes and made me walk home in the rain without them, caught me down by the docks one day and pinned me to the floor and rubbed rotten fish guts in my face."

Fëanáro frowned and said, "That's horrible."

"It was. I went home crying most nights, wondering why people hated me so much, since my sister did not suffer at all. My mother and father were understanding, though, because they were odd and clever too, and they told me that if I worked hard, they would see about getting the money together to send me for interview to the new School in Tirion."

"You got a scholarship in the end, though, didn't you?" Fëanáro said, smiling. "My mother paid for it."

"How do you know about that?"

"I had to help the scribes make spare copies of the old accounts as punishment one day. I saw the entry in there."

"Well you are quite right.  My parents didn't need to scrape together the money because Quennar was so impressed with me, he sent a letter to your mother singing my praises and informing her of my less than affluent position. She set up a fund for me and I was the first to receive a scholarship."

"Did you like it better there?"

"Oh Fëanáro, it was a world away from my torment at the local school.  I was so much happier there. Classes were more interesting, the teachers knew what they were talking about, and most importantly, the children there were all like me. Finding out that there were people like me out there, people who weren't necessarily like everyone else, well it was wonderful. I found my voice and my personality and a measure of confidence as I discovered how it felt to be happy and appreciated. I missed my mother and father and my sister terribly, of course, but I had found my place and was content to stay there.

"I think that's what you'll have to do, Fëanáro. You'll have to find people who, even if they're not exactly like you, at least love what you love and are willing and able to understand you and keep up with you."

"And how I am going to do that?" Fëanáro asked, looking uncertain.

"Well, you've found one already, haven't you?" Rúmil answered with a magnanimous grin, pointing to himself with both thumbs in what he was sure was a very silly gesture. "That's the hardest part over. And you can thank your father for it."

He felt an odd, warm feeling he could not quite describe when Fëanáro ventured a cautious smile in return.

"Not sure if I want old fish-gut face," Fëanáro said wryly.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Rúmil retorted smoothly.

"I suppose you're right," Fëanáro replied. "One's better than none, after all."

"That's right! Now all you have to do is not fall out with me."

"Aie, all these conditions!" Fëanáro exclaimed with mock exasperation, tossing his hands in the air. "I never realised I would have to work to keep you!"

"It's not that hard," Rúmil chided. "I'm actually quite easy-going. Unlike you.  It's me who's going to have to do all the hard work here, I feel.  And even if you do fall out with me, as long as it's nothing serious all you need do is send me some wine and all will be forgiven."

"I think I might occasionally be swayed back into friendship with jewels, paper and books. And metals," Fëanáro said thoughtfully. "Those are things Atar gets me when he's trying to win me over, and most of the time it works."

"Apart from the paper, those are all quite expensive. And add books to my list, too, by the way."

"Wine can be expensive, you know. Unless you prefer the cheap cat's piss they sell in-"

Fëanáro's eyes narrowed and he broke off suddenly. He held a hand to shield his eyes and scanned the horizon. Puzzled, Rúmil turned his gaze and saw what had caught Fëanáro's eye.  Someone was riding hard across the plain, kicking up dust in their wake. They were heading for the caravan.

"Shit!" Fëanáro hissed, grabbing Rúmil by the arm.  "It's Erdacundo!  We have to hide!"

"What?" Rúmil exclaimed, shrill with panic. "Are you serious? Where? Where can we hide?"

"In the hatch! Quickly! You go first!"

"What? You're joking, I won't fit in there!"

"Yes you will," Fëanáro asserted.  "Bend yourself round like a U. I'll hold the hatch so it doesn't force itself shut.  Go, go!"

Crawling across the roof of the cart as fast as he could, Rúmil reached the edge and hauled the hatch open. Taking a deep breath, he let himself fall forward, throwing his arms out so he could catch the inside of the cart and pull himself in. He felt Fëanáro giving him an extra push before he tumbled inside, landing on sacks full of letters that slid and spilled everywhere under his weight. The hatch closed and the light went with it. It returned only briefly when Fëanáro came crashing in behind with the packs. In the pitch black, he felt and heard Fëanáro move around, then come to rest with a rustling of letters.

"Rúmil, where are you?" he whispered.

"Here," Rúmil said, reaching out blindly and happening upon Fëanáro's foot.

"Just checking I hadn't landed on your head."

"Where is he now?"

"He was making for the head of the caravan, so I don't think he spotted us. He's alone. No dogs. If he had any, the pepper must've sorted them out."

"Thank goodness for that..."

With an anxious jolt in the pit of his stomach, Rúmil felt the cart shudder to a halt.

"Erdacundo has hailed them," he heard Fëanáro say in the darkness. "We'll need to be silent. Try and stay as close to the hatch as possible. Then, if he peers in, with any luck he won't be able to see us. Cover your legs with letters, and try not to breathe."

His heart hammering, Rúmil pressed himself tight against the back wall, buried himself in between the sacks of letters and waited.

It seemed like an age.  But then came the footsteps and the voices.

"Well, we haven't seen anyone of that description, sir..."

There was a dull clank of metal. The loading hatch of a cart further down. Fëanáro  was right. Erdacundo was looking inside and checking every cart in the caravan. Rúmil began to feel a little nauseous.

"I mean we get them all the time.  There's a bunch of young apprentices who hopped on just outside Orrostar and a couple more lots that have hopped on and off but haven't come over to chat. Most of the time we don't pay any attention, sir, unless they cause trouble."

"Have you seen two people? Two travelling together?"

Rúmil stomach churned. Two people. Two travelling together. Erdacundo was looking for him too. He knew. He knew...

"Yep. A few of them like that, sir. A couple of lots hopped off at the fork. Took the wrong end of the caravan, I bet, haha."

"What did they look like?" Erdacundo asked brusquely. Another hollow clank of metal followed.

"Can't say. They're all in their travelling gear, and besides, it's too far away to tell. They often climb on at the back or near the middle and we can't always see them from there - and as I said, sir, if they're not causing trouble it's no concern to us."

There was a pause and another clank of metal.

"Is it two young lovers you're after? Running away to get married? We get that a lot, sir, and sometimes the fathers and brothers show up. We can keep an eye out, if you like, but I'm not promising anything-"

There was a heart-stopping moment as above them, the hatch creaked open and light flooded in-

Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please...

-only to vanish as Erdacundo slammed the hatch closed.

Beside him, in the dark, he heard Fëanáro let out a sigh of relief. They sat a long time in silence, listening to the clanks of metal grow more distant, until they heard not too far from their cart, the voice of the coach man and Erdacundo mounting his horse with the familiar jingle of metal and spurs.

"You can always ride with us if you like, sir. But if you're determined to catch the southern train, then I wish you luck. We'll keep an eye out, but as I said, we can't promise anything."

"Thank you for your help. I apologise for causing a delay. If you see anyone matching the descriptions I gave you, send word to Erdacundo at the palace in Tirion."

"I will, you may be assured of that. Safe journey, sir!"

And with a clatter and a drumming of hooves, he was gone.

They did not speak until the caravan began moving again.

A long, juddering six hours later, the caravan made its final stop at the Lindon Inn. At some indeterminate point in their journey, Rúmil had dozed off. The loud thump on the side of the cart startled him awake with a snort.

"The Lindon Inn!" a harsh voice bellowed outside. "Everybody out, come on! I don't care if you're going on to Valmar, you'll get a room here like everyone else! Come on, out!"

He felt awful.  The inside of the mail cart was dark and the walls were slick with condensation. A sour film coated his tongue and he was fairly certain the potholes in the coach  road had juddered each and every one of his neck muscles into an aching knot.

"I'm paying for a bed," he announced croakily.  "I don't care what you say."

"Oh, you're awake. Good timing," Fëanáro replied, from somewhere in the opposite corner. There was a rustling of letters as he stood and a groaning creak as he opened the hatch and silvery light spilled in, along with a welcome gust of fresh air.

"And yes, we'll have to pay for a bed," he went on.  "It's a little too late to be swimming down the Lindon. The water will be cold."

Fëanáro's breath hitched as he reached out of the hatch and grabbed hold of the edge of the roof, pulling himself up in one fluid movement.

"Give me your hand and I'll pull you out," Rúmil heard him call.

With a groan, Rúmil managed to push himself to his feet and crawl over the sacks of spilled letters.  He stood on shaking legs and raised his hands out of the hatch.  Fëanáro caught them in a tight grip, and in three, two, one, hauled Rúmil out of the cart.

"You're heavier than you look," Fëanáro groaned, as he flopped down, flat out, on the roof, exhausted.

"What can I say? I must be big-boned," Rúmil replied, happily, ignoring Fëanáro's jibe. He never thought he would have been so glad to feel the wind on his face.

"Please tell me the food is edible in this place," he went on.  "I could do with a good square meal."

"They do a good pottage, with generous portions, and their apricot pastries are nice when they have them."

"How's the wine?"

"Good.  They have merchants from all corners of Aman staying here, and some of them pay in bottles for a bed for the night."

"And the rooms?"

"Basic, clean, comfortable. There are no cockroaches or lice, if that's what you're getting at.  The mattresses don't crawl around at night."

"Sounds wonderful."

"It is one of the better coaching inns."

"Then let me pay for this one, Fëanáro.  I owe you for the travelling gear."

"Don't be stupid, it was not all that much."

"Yes it was," Rúmil insisted.  "The boots are good - worth as much or much more than a room for the night alone, never mind the cloak and the pack and the oilskins.  I will pay for the inn, and I will brook no argument."

With a sigh couched somewhere between amusement and exasperation, Fëanáro sat up, swung his legs over the side and jumped off.

"Fine!" he called out.  "Then it is a perfect opportunity to order a bottle of the finest red in the house! I could even be generous and supply the whole inn."

"Oh yes," Rúmil retorted.  "If you're wanting to remain inconspicuous, that's a fine way of going about it..."

Primly, Rúmil shuffled closer to the edge of the cart. Clinging tightly to the ledge, he lowered himself down inch by inch, until his arms were stretched far as they could, before he dropped, his feet hitting the gravelly road in a cloud of dust.  Already a small crowd of people was gravitating to the front of the Inn: dribs and drabs, made up of stowaway passengers and drivers and footmen.  Rúmil and Fëanáro followed, adding to the growing number, falling in behind two young women who were gabbling away in Vanyarin.

Inside, the place was warm and dimly-lit. Fat, wax candles hanging on brackets lined the wooden-panelled walls.  At the end of the queue was a counter attended by a tall, gangly young man with a loud voice and a good-natured grin. A ledger sat open in front of him, and he pointed down the corridor to a group of three who set off with their packs and disappeared up a flight of stairs.  Above the young man's head was a notice board, written untidily in white chalk. It read:

"Welcome to the Lindon Inn! The best board and bed you'll find on the road!

Three silver pieces a night or equivalent per room (to be discussed with Neldor or Hwindë.) Meals are included if buying a bed. Wine is not included.

Tonight's menu: meat pie and gravy with herb mashed potatoes; beef bone pottage with stacks of rice, barley and chunky vegetables; fresh-baked bread and rolls with mixed grain; apple pie; the Lindon Inn's famous apricot tarts.

We bake lembas! Stock up here!

Privy is three doors down on the left."

Three silver pieces a night.  There were plenty coaching inns that charged more than that - and more still for food.  The Lindon Inn, it appeared, was a very reasonable establishment. Not for the first time, Rúmil counted himself lucky they had spotted the mail caravan. Instead of rummaging around his coin purse for silver and looking forward to a warm bed and apricot tarts, he would've been shivering somewhere up the peaks of the Pelóri.

With the silver pieces jingling in his hand, he rocked back and forth on his heels, peering distractedly about him.  Another group were pointed down the corridor by the attendant and disappeared up the stairs. Rúmil and Fëanáro were now next in line.

"They have those apricot tarts you were talking about," Rúmil mused.  "I think I might have to try one, if they're included in the room rate."

"You should. Last time, I was lucky, and they gave me some custard too."

"I would kill for custard right now."

"I would for a bowl of that pottage," Fëanáro replied. Then he lowered his voice and added, "And to be frank, Rúmil, I'm fucking starving.  The dawdlers in front are in serious danger. If they don't hurry themselves up, I'm going to have to knock their heads together and give them a thrashing with that ledger..."

Rúmil was still chortling as the young Vanyarin ladies swept off up the stairs, mercifully unaware of Fëanáro's low opinion of them. He had to apologise twice to the attendant for not being able to give his name properly, who was, it turned out, one of the proprietors and was the very Neldor mentioned on the board.

"So your name is Rúmil?  Not Ruhahahaha?" Neldor the proprietor inquired, with a mischievous grin.

"It is Rúmil, yes.  Sorry. I cannot stop laughing. It is entirely his fault," he added, pointing at Fëanáro, who looked the other way.

"You know, you're the third Rúmil we've had this week!" Neldor exclaimed, as he scribbled in his ledger. "What is it about this place that attracts Rúmils?"

"The wine, probably," Fëanáro muttered, which elicited a bright peal of laughter from the proprietor.

"Funny you should mention that, sir," Neldor said gleefully.  "For the last two Rúmils were also big into the wine. The one before that preferred ale, though. And what is the name of your companion, Rúmil?"

"Curvo," Fëanáro announced, before Rúmil had time to assume him an alternative identity.

"We've had a few Curvos too in our time," Neldor said brightly, scribbling again.  "Hey, you don't happen to be a craftsman, do you? I know names do not always represent their bearers, but most of our other Curvos have been crafty in some form or other, and I have a little job that needs doing."

Fëanáro hesitated, and Rúmil stepped forward and answered for him.

"He is, actually," he said, revelling in the look of shock passing briefly over the young prince's face.  "What is it that needs done?"

"Well, about a week ago, Manwë sent us a little gift in the form of a unexpectedly breezy day. I was out in the patch, digging potatoes for Hwindë because he'd run out, and a necklace of mine was caught up in a tangle with the spade and came out the worst for it. I wouldn't normally bother, but the thing belonged to my father and I'm rather attached to it. I would send to Tirion for a smith, but it's such a small job, it's almost not worth the bother. I'd waive the bed and board if you could fix it, sir."

"Well you're in luck," Rúmil, the consummate salesman, said, "for fine metalwork of all kinds is his speciality - and I know for a fact that he has a few tools hidden away in his pack."

"Rúmil, I'm not sure-"

"I'll throw in a bottle of wine and two squares of lembas for your trouble," Neldor urged. "I know it is but a broken trinket, of not much value to a lord or lady or even to you, sir, but it means much to me."

Rúmil nudged Fëanáro hard in the ribs.

"He'll do it! Won't you?" Rúmil said, fixing Fëanáro with a significant look that said: ‘There is a bottle of wine riding on this.  A free bottle.  Why can't you see how much this means to me?'

With a sigh, Fëanáro turned to the proprietor and said, "Very well. If it means much to you, I'll do it.  Bring it in when I've finished eating and I'll have a look at it."

"Thank you, sir.  I will be forever grateful to you!" the young man exclaimed.  "I'll give you the best room in the place - that's the top floor, third door down.  It has a writing desk and paper and pen and there are two beds, so you won't have to snore in each other's faces, haha!"

"Thank you to you too, sir, for your generous offer," Rúmil replied graciously, grabbing Fëanáro by the shoulder and propelling him along the corridor. "We shall return shortly."

As they trudged up the short flight of stairs, out of sight and earshot of the proprietor and the other guests, Fëanáro muttered, "What was that you were saying about remaining inconspicuous?"

"Oh, be quiet," Rúmil said with a dismissive wave of a hand. "A travelling craftsman with a common name exchanging a favour for bed and board is not exactly an uncommon occurrence.  This is exactly what I was talking about earlier. Your uncanny affinity with metal and jewels does not have to be confined within the walls of the palace in Tirion. If you offer your services to those who are in need, they will repay you in kind and think kindly of you.  If your service is good, you might even be called back.  If it is outstanding, you might even be able to make a decent living out of it."

They reached the third floor and tramped along the short corridor.  In the first room, someone was snoring so loudly Rúmil could hear it through the walls.

"I would like to be able to make a decent living out of it," Fëanáro replied with a vague smile, after consideration. "I know I don't have to, but I want to."

"Then this is the first step," Rúmil said smartly, dumping his pack at the door while he fumbled at the latch.  "How fortunate you are to have snared yourself a talkative innkeeper.  If you pull this off, he'll tell everyone he meets how the young craftsman, Curvo, from..." Rúmil trailed off, letting the latch drop.

"Shit..." he said. "Where are we saying you're from?  Your accent places you squarely in Tirion, so not much further from there."

"You have a nephew my age, don't you? I could be your nephew, Curvo, from Tirion. Since you've already told everyone your real name, you can still be Rúmil, who was born on Tol Eressëa but who has lived a long time in Tirion.  What are you going to say you do there?  You can't tell them you're a Loremaster at the School."

"I'm a scribe who indulges in a bit of private tutoring on the side," Rúmil offered. "Really, It's the only thing I can convincingly get away with."

"Very well.  Where are we headed?"

"Valmar?"

"Why would we want to go to Valmar?"

"I have no idea..."

"Wait," Fëanáro said with a snap of his fingers. "Atar is headed for Valmar, yes?"

"According to his poor attendant's correspondence, yes."

"Then we can say we missed the festival for Findis in Tirion, but we are intending to catch the tail end in Valmar."

"Except that at the first sign of Laurelin tomorrow, we will be forsaking the caravan entirely and plunging into the river Lindon?"

"Exactly."

Rúmil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Very well. That sounds perfectly plausible."

He turned his attention to the latch again.  It was a bit stiff, so he had to give it an extra tug before it gave way with a squeal of metal and a grinding crunch. It was a rather ominous sound.  Rúmil cringed and Fëanáro immediately leaned forward to survey the damage.

"Well, you can fix that too, if I've broken it!" he said cheerfully, which earned him a withering look from Fëanáro. "Come on, don't worry about that! Let's dump our packs in here and head downstairs. That bottle of wine is calling."

"I didn't know you spoke wine."

"One of the lesser-known tongues of Aman.  If you come down with me right now, I'll make up for not paying for the room by buying another bottle of their best and I'll teach you how to speak it properly.  How about that?"

"I think that just about makes up for selling me into slavery," Fëanáro said wryly.

"Excellent!" Rúmil exclaimed, clapping his hands.  "Then get in there, leave your pack, bring your tools and follow me!"

In the end, the bargain was more than worth it. It took Fëanáro only a few minutes' work with a pair of tiny pliers to bend the broken links back into place.  He even gave it a clean - which it needed, apparently - with a cloth soaked in white spirit that made the small cluster of sapphires set in its centre sparkle. Neldor was delighted with the result, and disappeared into the kitchen and emerged again with a jug of hot custard, which Rúmil and Fëanáro poured liberally over the apricot tarts when they arrived.

Neldor, in fact, was so pleased with Fëanáro's work that he decided Fëanáro was very interesting indeed, being so young and so skilled, and he decided, after the rush of patrons abated, to sit at their table for a chat.

"So you are from Tirion, then?" Neldor inquired of Fëanáro.  "Your accent is familiar."

"I am from Tirion," Fëanáro replied.  "Is it so painfully obvious?"

"Hey, everyone from Tirion is painfully obvious," Neldor quipped, once again topping up Fëanáro's glass.  Rúmil wasn't certain if the proprietor realised that Fëanáro was still a little young to be taking so much unwatered wine. Not that Fëanáro protested. He seemed quite content to sustain the illusion. Far be it from him to comment, Rúmil thought.  If Fëanáro woke up feeling like the underside of an Orc's arse, then that was his prerogative.  It would be a salutary lesson in how to speak the language of wine.

"We get a lot of merchants from Tirion," Neldor went on.  "Norno the head driver on the Tirion to Valmar route - he's sitting over there by the door - he stops here all the time and you sound more or less like him.  Everyone from Tirion has that slightly obnoxious twang."

"I take it you do not hail from Tirion?" Rúmil asked casually.

"Certainly not!" Neldor scoffed.  "Hwindë and I were born and bred in Mánamar."

"Then what are you doing way out here?"

"We like it out here," Neldor said, simply. "Atar took us here to teach us how to fish when we were little - Hwindë is my older brother, by the way, apologies for not explaining earlier. I take it for granted everyone knows that now, haha.  But yes, we fell in love with the place. When we heard the old owners were looking to move on and buy a farmhouse, we jumped at the chance. Hwindë is an excellent cook and I am an excellent host and book-balancer. It was fate!" Neldor said, laughing. "We're young yet, but we had not been careless with our money. Hwindë and I, we pooled all our savings together and bought the place outright. Best thing we've ever done!"

"You're doing a good job of it too," Rúmil said, truthfully. "It's a fine place."

"Why thank you," Neldor said graciously, raising his glass. "Everyone loves it.  Never a complaint."

"Except from certain young men from Tirion who feel unduly slighted by their excellent host's remarks about their accents," Fëanáro retorted with a wry smile.

"Aie, no, Curvo!" Neldor exclaimed with a conciliatory wave of a hand. "I mean no harm.  I love all of those who hail from Tirion!"

"Even our obnoxious accents?"

"Especially your obnoxious accents!"

"OI, OI?  IS THAT YOU GIVING THAT YOUNG MAN A HARD TIME?" a loud voice boomed, carrying through the air.  Rúmil's head turned in time to see another tall figure approaching, dressed in soiled cook's whites and so like Neldor in appearance it could only have been his brother.

"He's from Tirion, Hwindë!" Neldor laughed, as the cook pulled up a chair with a loud squawk and straddled it, folding his arms over the top rail.  "That's all you need to know."

"Pfah, don't listen to a word my brother says," Hwindë scoffed.  "He's winding you up. Atar's from Tirion. Used to work for the king and everything- pour us some of that red, Neldor, I'm gasping."

"Really?" Fëanáro said, suddenly interested, ignoring the look Rúmil shot him across the table.

"Really."

"What did he do?"

"He was a scribe," Neldor answered.  "Quite high up, actually. He used to sit in the Councils and take the minutes. Knows all the lords' names and their business."

"So he's not there anymore?"

Neldor hesitated, an awkward look passing over his face.  "It's a rather touchy subject, to be honest..."  He trailed off for a moment, eyes flickering from left to right. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "Atar didn't approve of the king's remarriage-"

"Really didn't approve," Hwindë muttered.

"-and it wasn't a matter for discussion with him. He was - is still - rather keen on the Old Laws and he didn't think that they should have been changed for any man. When he heard that the king wished to remarry, he... wasn't very happy.  He didn't even tell the king he was leaving, which was rather rude. No way back after that."

"But everything worked out in the end!" Hwindë said cheerfully.  "Atar ended up in Mánamar, doing bits and pieces of scribe grunt work - and he met Amil!"

"They still own the Tavern there.  The Flying Pig, in case you ever travel out that way," Neldor added, with a knowing wink.

"Ah, you have experience in running hostelries," Fëanáro mused.  "It's all beginning to make sense now."

"Well it would be a right fucking circus if we came into it blind," Hwindë snorted. "Can you imagine two greenhorns trying to run a busy place like this on their own?  No chance!"

"Like I said. It was fate," Neldor said lightly, swirling his wine in his glass. "Some people are just meant to do certain things. Look at you," he added, pointing at Fëanáro, "fixing the tiny links in that chain as though you were doing nothing more difficult than scratching your arse! You should find an apprenticeship somewhere.  I'm not joking.  There are loads of places crying out for someone like you.  All the smiths go to Tirion nowadays.  There's none left in the provinces."

"The smart ones know where the money is," said Hwindë.  "And where the work is, to be fair.  Though there is that man up in Formenos. The mad jeweller. Can't stand heat for some reason, so he lives up there in the north. And the one who does the metal and made that weird copper fountain in Valmar.  The guy with the red hair."

"Mahtan," Fëanáro supplied.

"That's him!" Hwindë exclaimed, snapping his fingers.  "Well remembered."

"Of course he'd remember," Neldor said pointedly. "You can't be a craftsman and not know the Masters!"

"I know someone who has managed to win an apprenticeship with Master Mahtan," Fëanáro explained. "I'm afraid I do not know the jeweller from Formenos."

"His name is Enerdhil, and he is mad," Neldor said frankly, taking a swig of his wine. "You don't want to be going up there. Your fingers will freeze fast to your tools before you've done five minutes of your time."

"Better off seeing if your friend can get in a good word for you with Mahtan," Hwindë said, nodding sagely.

All further conversation was cut short, as a great crash from the table by the fire, occupied by the Noldorin apprentices from the mail cart, made them all jump.  There were shouts and laughter and curses and a great flurry of hands as each of them sought for rags to soak up the jug of ale they had upended.

"Élehto, you ham-handed troll!  Look at the mess you've made!"

"You're buying another jug!"

"Argh!  Look at the state of my trousers!  They're soaked through!  I'm going to have to sit all the way to Valmar in these tomorrow!"

"Good. They're already wet. That'll save you pissing yourself from the drink!"

With a sigh, Neldor stood and bowed to Rúmil and Fëanáro.  Hwindë pushed back his chair and grabbed his washcloth, tossing it over his shoulder in a businesslike manner.

"Time to herd the apprentices," Hwindë said.  "Nice meeting you both, by the way."

"Thank you again for fixing my necklace," Neldor added graciously.  "And if you ever do take that apprenticeship, please don't end up like that lot."

Fëanáro smiled a mysterious smile and said nothing.

For a moment after the proprietor brothers left to clear up the apprentices' mess, Rúmil and Fëanáro sat in silence, contemplating their half empty wine glasses. 

Then, after long consideration, Fëanáro spoke.

"Do you think I should take an apprenticeship?" he asked.

"You'll have to if you want to make a living from it," Rúmil said frankly. "You won't gain any recognition without having served some time with someone or other."

Another pause, during which Fëanáro began to chew on his fingers in a manner oddly reminiscent of his father.  Then he said, slowly, "I think I have a place in mind. Somewhere I want to go."

"Mahtan?"

"No," Fëanáro said, shaking his head.  "I want to find the jewel smith."

"The mad one?"

"Yes."

"From Formenos?"

"Yes."

"That's hundreds of miles from here!" Rúmil squeaked, feeling a touch faint.

"If you could see your face right now..."

"It is no wonder!" Rúmil exclaimed, outraged. "I have never walked that far in my life!"

"You'll get the hang of it, I'm sure," Fëanáro said dismissively. "We can reach Formenos in ten days.  Fifteen if the weather turns foul."

"Which it often does, up there."

"Have you been?"

"I have not been to that frosty, warmth-forsaken wilderness, no."

"Then how do you know?" Fëanáro said sensibly. "You might even like it.  I have only ever seen snow at Taniquetil, and I'm keen on the idea of skiing."

"Hurling yourself down a mountain with two planks of greased wood strapped to your feet?  You would..." Rúmil snorted, taking a generous swig of his wine.  "And you think you'll have time for that when you win your apprenticeship? You'll be chained to your bench all hours of the day."

"Sounds fine to me," Fëanáro replied.  "I'll be in the warm."

Rúmil rolled his eyes.

"Plus, if we're heading for Formenos, it won't make sense to jump into the Lindon tomorrow morning," Fëanáro went on, regarding Rúmil closely with a calculating look that reminded him again of the boy's father.  "We'd be going the wrong way. In fact, it would make more sense to take the caravan further on to Valmar.  From there, we have a good chance of catching another, heading north."

"Oh, you do know what you're doing, don't you?" Rúmil said with a wry smile. "Playing on my predilection for the warm and the dry and the comfortable."

"I am going to go to Formenos," Fëanáro said, his eyes glittering strangely.  "I could walk there on my own - would be quite happy to walk there on my own - but you could say I am looking out for you, since I know you feel obliged to accompany me."

"Well, thank you. How awfully generous of you," Rúmil replied thinly, shooting Fëanáro a knowing look, which the young prince accepted with an odd half-smile. "The mail caravans are a fine method of transportation. I would be glad to join you - as long as I can find some sort of occupation up there.  Sitting in a frozen hut, twiddling my thumbs in front of a dying fire, is not an option."

"You could teach," Fëanáro offered.  "Or you could do bit work as a scribe, like Neldor and Hwindë's father.  Or you could even consider this a sabbatical and conduct a little research.  There is comparatively little treating the dialects of the north, I have noticed."

"Enough, enough!" Rúmil insisted, somewhere between amusement and outrage at such open and shameless manipulation. "You have convinced me."

"Then we head for Valmar tomorrow?"

"It seems to have turned out that way, yes."

"Then how about you fulfil your promise and teach me a little on the language of wine?  There is still half a bottle left of that red," Fëanáro said.

"Very well, I'll teach you," Rúmil answered, refilling both their glasses until the last drop drained from the bottle.  Then he leaned forward and said with a sly smile, "This is where I get my revenge, Fëanáro. When I am through with you, you will wake in the morning feeling like the Tulkas has been drumming on the inside of your eyeballs, I guarantee it."

"We'll see," Fëanáro replied.

He raised his glass and Rúmil followed suit.

"To Formenos and the north and to whatever it brings," Fëanáro said.

"Almien," Rúmil replied, as their glasses met over the table with a quiet clink.

"Come in! Come in, Erdacundo! How nice to see you!" the king exclaimed, throwing his arms out in welcome as Erdacundo stepped smartly into the drawing room.  "Please, do sit down and take a glass of wine. Or two! Or three!  As many as you like! This is a time of festival, after all, and a very special occasion."

"My lord, I do not think-"

"Nonsense," the king interrupted.  "Sindemir, please attend to Erdacundo.  Fill up a glass for him, and be generous."

With a wry smile, Sindemir set about his task, directing a sly, little wink at Erdacundo. Both knew each other well and had been long in the king's service, and Sindemir knew he never took wine on duty. Behind the king's back, Sindemir mouthed: "Lots of water in it, yes?"

Erdacundo nodded, relieved and sorry in equal measure, as a large glass of wine would've made what he had to tell the king a whole lot easier.

"I have a daughter now, Erdacundo," the king went on, merrily.  "It is odd to say, but it makes me so very happy."

"I am glad, my lord."

"Her name is Findis.  She looks very much like her mother and her kindred.  Beautiful golden hair."

"Yes, my lord."

"A strong grip, though, which is plainly Noldorin.  She wrapped her little fist around my finger and almost tore the damned thing off, haha!"

"That must have been a surprise, my lord."

"It was, indeed!  A very nice surprise! And speaking of nice surprises, I received an invitation from Ingwë only this morning, expressing his desire for us to come to Valmar so he may congratulate his niece and meet our beautiful, little daughter for the first time.  Isn't that wonderful?"

"It is, my lord.  Quite wonderful."

"Though..." the king began hesitantly, his expression darkening a little, "I am not sure how Curufi- no, excuse me, Fëanáro (Valar take it, will I ever get used to calling him by that name?) - I am not sure how he will behave, as he was not exactly wonderful last we went to Taniquetil. I am not looking forward to telling him at all."

"I don't think that will be much of a problem, my lord."

The king's eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

"And why is that?" he asked cautiously, then pausing, before adding, "Where is he, Erdacundo?"

With a small sigh, Erdacundo reached into his satchel and produced the note Fëanáro had written.  The king took it, and with an anguished expression, perused its contents.

"How long has he been gone?" the king asked quietly.

"I have not seen him since the day I had to escort him back to his workshop. That is now almost two days ago. I am certain, though, that he has not been gone that long, my lord.  Minyandil said he looked in on him yesterday morning and he was in his workshop, copying a book. His tracks also tell me this.  He climbed out of the window above the gardens early last night. Then he jumped onto the hothouse roof and cut through the copse of trees before scrambling down the eastern face of the crag."

"Aie, I have told him before not to do that!" the king exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"The tracks also tell me, my lord, that he was not alone."

The king's head snapped up.

"Who?" he demanded, his gaze steely and penetrating.

"Master Rúmil is gone, my lord.  There is no sign of him anywhere. Not even at the School.  It is likely he is with him.  And that they left quickly.  But not together.  They met at the foot of the east face. Rúmil had been running."

"Hmm..."

"My guess, lord, is that Rúmil spotted him and caught up with him."

"Then, pray, why didn't he tell me?"

"I do not know, my lord."

"And where are they now?"

"I tracked them to a few miles outside Orrostar.  There is no trace of them after that.  They likely jumped on the mail caravan. I rode hard and managed to catch up with both trains-"

The king's face fell.

"- but I could not find them. They could be anywhere by now. The trail is cold, my lord.  I am sorry."

The king managed a small, rueful smile.  "Do not be sorry, Erdacundo. You have done all you can. All we can hope for now is that my son will return sooner rather than later. I will send word out that he has gone wandering.  Hopefully, someone will spot him. Thank you for letting me know."

Erdacundo nodded and rose to his feet. Bowing his head respectfully to the king, he turned to leave, striding towards the door, when the king's voice caught up with him. He halted upon the threshold and turned on his heel.

"Erdacundo?" the king asked quietly, turning his son's note over in his hands and regarding it with an odd, closed expression.  "I will ask you a question, and please answer truthfully."

"My lord?"

"Do you trust him?"

"Trust who, my lord?"

"Rúmil."

Erdacundo considered the idea for a moment, then replied, "I believe so. Yes. There is little artifice in him. Not very good at lying at all. You might have had a quarrel with him in the past, but I am sure he is not considering that. He has your son's best interests at heart and I think the young prince Fëanáro likes him. In fact, I know he does because he has told me. They are similar."

"Hmm..."

"My lord?"

"Thank you, Erdacundo.  That will be all."

In hindsight - Rúmil considered, as he half dragged a dangerously swaying Fëanáro up the stairs - demanding Neldor supply him with that third bottle of their finest was not the brightest idea he'd ever had.

"Rúmil," Fëanáro murmured in his ear.  "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Then hold it in until we get to the room. I don't want you fouling the hallway," he said in a tone that was kind, yet firm. It was a tone he used regularly on the first year intake whenever he found himself obliged to attend to any of the poor sods who had gone a little mad with the freedom of the place and overindulged.

"Once you get in, you can be sick in peace," he went on, "and no one else will know but me, alright?"

If he was being perfectly honest, the drink had gone to his head too, but he was nowhere near as bad as the young prince, who did not possess his many years' experience. Fëanáro's cheeks blushed red and he slurred his words as he spoke.

 "I don't think I like the language of wine," Fëanáro said, as they reached the top floor and staggered down the corridor, stopping in front of the door to their room.  "It's... it's not very clear."

"What do you mean?" Rúmil said, trying with difficulty to undo the wretched latch under the influence with Fëanáro's arm hooked around his shoulders.

"It doesn't let you know when you should stop... Oh, here, let me," he said, lurching forward and undoing the latch in the blink of an eye.  "I mean, I felt quite well not half an hour ago... but then I felt this odd feeling... that my mind was effervescing and that my eyes weren't moving as fast as my head."

"The language of wine is a subtle one, indeed," Rúmil explained, kicking the door open and heaving the young prince across the threshold and dumping him unceremoniously on the single bed nearest the window. "Next time, perhaps, you will know when to stop once you feel your brain beginning to effervesce."

"Rúmil, I'm still going to be sick..."

"Be sick all you like now. There's a piss pot under your bed," Rúmil offered helpfully, as he kicked his boots off and set about searching for his nightshirt.

There was an urgent clatter from the other side of the room followed swiftly by the  delightful sound of Fëanáro enthusiastically spewing into a chamber pot. 

With a sigh, Rúmil ceased his fumbling search for his nightclothes and looked over.  Fëanáro was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, doubled over the iron pot and was making an awful noise. Strands of his black hair were stuck to his face and some of the ends had dipped into the vomit, which appeared to be mostly wine.  Rúmil shook his head.  He couldn't have that.  Not when the state the boy was in was, technically, his fault.  He had been the one who had bought all the wine, after all. He had achieved his revenge, but at the cost of staying the night in a room that would now smell of sour wine sick.

"I'm... never doing this again," Fëanáro moaned, as Rúmil sat down on the edge of his bed and gathered his hair away from his face.

"You're going to be an apprentice.  Of course you're going to do this again."

"If Atar could see me now, he would throttle me..."

"I don't doubt that.  Aren't you lucky he isn't here?"

"I feel fucking awful. Why didn't you tell me I would feel this awful?"

"Significant omission? A quest for vengeance for seeking to drag me to the north? A certain misanthropic desire to see the irritating heir to the throne of Tirion chucking his guts up into a piss pot?  There are many reasons."

Fëanáro laughed, which was a mistake, as it set off another spectacular wave of nausea that lasted for a few minutes until he was able to pause and collect himself long enough to murmur, "Rúmil, have mercy. Do not make me laugh, please..."

"Very well.  I concede," he said kindly, giving the stricken prince a quick pat on the back.  "I'll shut up and let you concentrate.  Stick your fingers down your throat and get it all out.  Shout if you're overflowing and I'll grab the other pot from under my bed.  Then it's a glass of water and straight to sleep, alright?"

His head practically jammed into the piss pot, Fëanáro nodded miserably.

Rúmil hoped it wasn't going to be a long night.

The long echoing corridors in the palace in Tirion were empty, for Telperion was waxing full, its slow silvery light drifting lazily through the tall windows.  A lone figure wandered along them, clutching tight to his chest a small bundle wrapped in the finest silks.  The bundle stirred briefly, letting out a tiny cry, and Finwë, the high king, smiled at his newborn daughter.

"Hush, little one," he soothed.  "We will let your mother rest a while. Come, and I will show you something wonderful."

The child, placated by his warm tone and the nearness of her father, felt safe and drifted into sleep as the king slowed and came to a stop outside a door halfway down, which was painted carefully to blend in with its surroundings.

"This is your brother's workshop," he whispered.  "You will not know it at first, for I did not.  When Curu- Fëanáro painted it this way, I walked past it twice, only realising my error when on the third time I strode past in an ire and he was standing in the open door, arms folded, laughing at me."

The king paused, a sad smile on his face, and carefully nudged open the door.

"Shall we go in? I think we shall, for there are lots of interesting things to see inside. You will marvel at his talent. Your brother is very clever..."

Quietly, the king entered, closing the door behind him. Carefully, he set Findis down upon a bench and set about lighting the oil lamps.  The flames flickered into life, illuminating the painted walls, crammed with delicate, complicated interlaced borders and a uniformly beautiful text he could not read. An ache of longing seized his heart, and he sought comfort in his tiny daughter.

"You will not run away from me, will you?" he said sadly, as he picked her up and carried her over to his son's writing desk, where he sat down and stared at the wall, as if he felt looking at it long enough would untangle the riddle and see it all suddenly make sense. "You are so young, you cannot even begin to know grief. I dearly hope that you will never know it. I wish your brother did not know it. He is so very unhappy. That is why you cannot meet him. He is gone away. Gone away with that bastard Rúmil, who was here for a but a day and has stolen all your brother's affection for me."

The king paused for a moment to take a breath, as he could feel the horrible sense of impotent anger tightening his chest.  

"I am so jealous of him, I cannot stand it," he whispered fiercely. "It makes my heart ache to think that my son prefers him, to think that he would seek out his counsel over mine, to think that your brother believes himself so unloved he would run off with a stranger rather than endure another second of my company-"

The king's voice hitched and he felt again that all-too familiar ache that often accompanied thoughts of his eldest.

"Aie... I miss him, little one.  I miss him terribly, though he has only been gone a day. Why can't your brother see how much he is loved? Why does he wish to hurt me so? Why does he write these... these things upon his walls, which I cannot read?  Why is Rúmil allowed to know what they say and I am not? I am at a loss. I do not know what to do. I do not know what to say. I do not even know where to begin with your brother, for there have been so many false starts I fear he has lost patience and will never let me try again. His heart is hidden from me.  He will not let me near it, and I cannot see how I might try and fix it..."

A thought occurred then to the king, and he sat, cradling his daughter and biting at the tips of his fingers as he turned that thought over and over again in his mind.  At length, he appeared to have come to a decision, and very gently, he walked over to the window ledge and laid his daughter down.

"A moment, little one," he said.  "I will not be long."

The king began to walk around Fëanáro's workshop, systematically going through every drawer and shelf and ledge and nook and cranny he could find, searching, searching for anything that could ease the awful, jealous ire that was consuming him from within. 

It took him quite a while, for he was thorough, and by the time he turned his desperate attention to his son's writing desk, Findis was beginning to stir again.

"Hush, little one," he said, absently, as he ran his hands over the underside of the desk for what felt like the hundredth time.  "Give me a moment. But a moment longer..."

A frantic and fruitless search followed until only the locked desk remained.  He knew his son would have hidden the key elsewhere, so he retrieved a thin pick from one of the many small drawers near Fëanáro's workbench and began to work at the lock. It was not long before his single-minded determination paid off.  He felt a rush of triumph as the lock clicked and the drawer slid open.  Inside were pieces of paper with half-finished sketches, bits of clay models, an old mould for something the king didn't recognise and likely had never been cast, a thin stack of unbound quires kept together with a loop of string and a slew of broken and half-finished trinkets.  But that was fine.  He was not expecting to find anything in the drawer itself.

Slowly, carefully, methodically, he checked the desk drawer as he had done all the others, searching desperately for what he knew in his heart should be there, sliding his fingers into every corner, poking, prodding, testing.

There cannot be nothing, he thought desperately.  There must be something here.  There must be something Rúmil learned from. Please let there be something here.  There must be, else I will go mad...

He did not quite know how he had done it, but there was a muted click and something under his fingers gave way. His silent pleas were answered.

Nervous, for a reason he could not divine, he reached up behind the false panel and happened upon something soft and book-shaped.  Grabbing it eagerly, he saw that it was indeed a book, and upon opening it to the first page, he felt a thrill of excitement as he recognised not only his son's hand, but that he had written in a language he could understand.

And there they were. Laid out on each page, beautifully illustrated, were the strange symbols Fëanáro had devised, whose meaning he had kept from him for so long.

From the window ledge, Findis had begun to cry softly.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he should not have felt frustrated with her, but he did. Guilt fought with impatience and lost as he strode into his son's bed chamber and rang the bell for service. After a short wait, Minyandil appeared in a flurry - his hair a-tangle and his eyes puffy from lack of sleep. The king did not know whether to laugh or cry at the young man's expression when he saw him standing alone in his son's bedroom in the wee hours of the morning. Poor Minyandil. He must have been expecting Fëanáro.

"Minyandil, I apologise for waking you at this hour, but would you please take Findis to her mother?" he said as kindly as he was able.  "I have something I must do."

"Yes, milord. Of course..."

The king waited until Minyandil's voice and footsteps faded away entirely before he turned his attention to his son's book of symbols. Reaching for pen and paper and ink -items always near to hand in Fëanáro's workshop - he sat down at the desk and began, slowly but surely, to translate the text painted upon the wall.

He knew as soon as he had finished the first line what Fëanáro had copied, and the realisation of what it meant hit him like a punch to the gut, making his heart hurt horribly.  Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, he continued, wanting for some reason to see it out to the end, however bitter than end might prove.

There was something at the foot of the wall, though, that was not a feature of the original.  Something that was painted in a dark green ink, by a hand that was tall and narrow and slanted and unlike Fëanáro's.

It was a message, and it read: "It was like that when I got here. Honest. Rúmil."

The fragile feather quill pen cracked in his grip as the king's fists curled with rage.

For a long while, he sat at his son's writing desk, his head in his hands and thought very hard.

At length, he rose, picking up the small volume, intending to take to back to his study to memorise every last word of it, to read it from cover to cover and back again until he could recite Fëanáro's letters in his sleep.

When he arrived, he sent immediately for Erdacundo.  When he arrived, Erdacundo found it strange when the king informed him that he wished all the day's councils and meetings to be cancelled.  He found it stranger still when the king requested two buckets of white paint - an odd request at an odd hour - but he did not query that request, for his sovereign had a steely look in his eye that would not be gainsaid.

When the paint was delivered, the king calmly made his back way to his son's workshop.  Closing the door behind him and locking it so he would not be disturbed, he laid out dustsheets very carefully so as not to mar Fëanáro's tools and surfaces.  Then he retrieved from a battered bucket the largest, widest-bristled brush he could find and began to paint over every inch of Fëanáro's immaculate work.

By the first stirring of Laurelin, all trace of it was gone, and the king sat alone on the floor, weeping for what he had done, and because he loved his son so much that it hurt.

No one would ever understand.

Not really.

Chapter End Notes

Names:

All except Enerdhil courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator (http : / / elffetish . com / names . html)

Sindemir, the butler - grey jewel

Lírillë, his secret girlfriend - little song

Neldor of the Lindon Inn - beech

Hwindë of the Lindon Inn - birch

Norno, the head mail cart driver - oak

Master Enerdhil of Formenos - now this one is a different case. I was hunting around for Tolkien craftsmen and came across this name. He is a possible creator of the Elessar and a possibly mythical smith of Gondolin. As far as I'm aware, the dh cluster doesn't appear in Quenya, but since I don't have a clue how to turn Enerdhil from a Sindarin form(?) into Quenyan, his name will remain Enerdhil until anyone can give me an accurate alternative. (Unless the Quenya form sounds rubbish, in which case it will remain Enerdhil.) No one even knows what his name means, which makes everything so much more difficult. The Sindarin form of the name doesn't presuppose that he was born in Beleriand, though, because many Noldorin words and names underwent Sindarization while they were languishing in exile. Therefore, in this story, because I need someone to teach Fëanor who is not Mahtan or Aulë, I've used some dubious canon to my advantage and dragged this guy into the limelight. He's interesting. You'll love him. Honest.

Élehto, the clumsy apprentice - star spear

Mánamar - blessed dwelling

Notes:

About that fic which inspired Moicallë, Indis's Vanyarin maid. I got a kind message from Annawen Ereiniel, who informed me that the story in question is Anadûnai, by darth fingon. The character is a dentist, not a barber, but meets Elrond in a barbershop setting. I did not remember this because I am a dumbass. You should read the fic, though. It's good. :)

Thanks:

Thank you to Erulisse for the review on chapter four. ^_^

Peculiar

"Don't you dare!" Rúmil snapped, as for the fourth time since they had reached the groves of the Culumambor, he smacked Fëanáro's outstretched hand away from the orange fruits which grew in abundance on the trees lining in neat, cultivated rows, the winding road that cut a path up the foothills of Taniquetil towards Valmar.  

"Rúmil, there are hundreds of thousands of them. No one will miss one orange," Fëanáro insisted.

In flagrant defiance of Rúmil's warning, Fëanáro reached up again and, wrenching and twisting the fruit away from its branch, he won his prize, covering them both with a shower of rain droplets, fragrant falling leaves and a scattering of insects.

"Pfft!" Rúmil spat, batting angrily at his cloak and hair. "Ugh, curse you, Fëanáro, I am covered in pests!"

Fëanáro ignored him, placing the waxy skin of the fruit to the tip of his nose and breathed in deeply. "Ahh, the smell alone is intoxicating.  Here," he said, offering the orange to Rúmil. "Smell it. It's beautiful."

"I am sure it is," Rúmil answered sniffily, turning away, having shooed the majority of the crawling bugs from the mail cart roof, the only thing left to attend to now, the flying ones, which buzzed angrily around his head.

"No, really," Fëanáro insisted. "You have not experienced the true quality of an orange fruit until you have picked one fresh from the tree. Feel it! The peel is still sticky."

"I do not want to."

"What? Are you in a mood now?  Is it because I stole the orange or because I covered you in bugs?"

"Both!" Rúmil snapped. "And more than that, it is because it is stiflingly hot and sticky and there are awful, biting insects everywhere and the sooner we leave these wretched groves, the better!"

"It should not be long now," Fëanáro considered, glancing up at the encroaching settlements which clung to the hillsides like lichen. "Give it another hour or so. You could take off your travelling cloak, you know. It would make you less hot and bothered."

"I know that," Rúmil seethed, drawing his legs tight into his chest. "But then the bugs will bite me! They are feasting on my pale, sun-shy, Noldorin flesh! It is awful. I feel hot and itchy and utterly wretched and I am coming out in nasty purple welts where they have stabbed their filthy probing tongues. The sooner this is over, the better!"

Rúmil felt and heard Fëanáro come to rest beside him with a thump and a sigh.

There was a moment's silence, as Fëanáro sat, pondering, turning the pilfered orange over in his hands.  Then he said quietly, "I wasn't going to do this in front of you because I wasn't sure whether you would approve or not, but as your whining has become nigh insufferable."

"What, you have tobacco?"

There was a rustling as Fëanáro hunted in his pack and, at length, retrieved a small brown-wrapped packet tied together with a rough bit of twine. He sat it flat on the cart roof and carefully unknotted the twine, pulling back the folded edges of the paper.

Rúmil's eyes widened.

Inside, there was a long, thin pipe and three tight-wrapped bundles of dried lempë leaf.

"I use it mainly to keep insects at bay," Fëanáro said, evasively.

It was, of course, a lie, but one Rúmil was familiar with, as he had used it himself often when young. His mouth turned up in a wry smile. So that is what the king had meant when he alluded to his son having picked up foul habits and worse language on his travels. He wondered vaguely as to where Fëanáro had learned. A book, most likely. Nothing you would ever find in the palace, but he knew loosely-bound quires circulated amongst healers. The leaf was also used in Lórien.

"You need not lie to me Fëanáro," he replied frankly, "and I would be a hypocrite if I told you I disapproved, for I  used it myself when young, and still use it now from time to time. It's a pity I didn't know. I would have bought a pipe back at Orrostar."

Curious, Rúmil gently picked up the narrow pipe. It was beautifully made: cast from a dark metal, with interlacing vines carved and set in sea-stone which crept around the small bowl and along the thin stem towards the mouthpiece. Such was the quality, he fancied one himself.  Then, with a start, he noticed the small maker's mark.  Turning the pipe over, he discerned the letter F, formed by the subtle twisting vines, in Fëanáro's code. Of course, he should have known.

"Did you make this?" he asked, smiling.

"I did."

"It's lovely," Rúmil said, truthfully. "To be perfectly honest, I covet the thing. I'd like one myself, and I would pay through the nose for one similar. Strangely practical for you, too, Fëanáro. I thought you were intent on cornering the jewellery and trinkets market."

"Most things practical things can be made beautifully, if the maker has the time and the inclination," Fëanáro answered.

"And the ability, do not forget," Rúmil added, throwing Fëanáro a significant look.

Fëanáro smiled thinly. "It was difficult to make the pipe, actually. A lot goes into the design of the things. There were a few failed attempts."

"Doesn't matter," Rúmil replied, bluntly. "You can make them now, can't you?"

"I suppose..." was Fëanáro's cagey reply.

"Hmm... well I can understand your reticence to venture any further into the art," Rúmil conceded. "It is not exactly something your father would approve of."

"I'd be sent packing over the Belegaer, if he ever found out I had been making and selling smoking pipes," Fëanáro said, with a ghost of a smile.

"I do not doubt that, Fëanáro, but tell me," Rúmil ventured, seeking to satiate his curiosity, "from whom  or where did you learn? It is not exactly common knowledge..."

"A man named Taurendil," Fëanáro said simply. "He wanders Aman. Sometimes I meet him when I travel, sometimes I don't, and it's never in the same place. The first time I met him was on my first journey, the week after my father married. I was upset and he gave me lempë to fog my mind. It helped."

"It does help," Rúmil mused, thinking of all the times he had himself reached for his pipe whenever dark and clamouring, riotous thoughts became too much to bear. "Though this time, we do have insects as a perfect excuse. You are alright if I share, yes?"

Fëanáro nodded and took the pipe from Rúmil's outstretched hand. It was obvious the young prince had prepared the stuff before, for his deft fingers crumbled the leaf into the bowl with practiced precision. His method of heating the bowl, however, was entirely new to Rúmil. Closing his eyes, with the touch of a single finger resting against the bottom of the bowl, Fëanáro concentrated, and within seconds a spark flared, the leaf curled and glowed a deep, fiery  red and a thin, wisp of smoke began to rise.

Astonished, Rúmil let out a shocked laugh.

"By the Valar, that I have never seen before!" he exclaimed.  "How did you do  that?"

Fëanáro shrugged. "I don't know. I've always been able to."

"Is... is it hot?" Rúmil asked, gesturing at the bowl, filled now with burning leaf embers.

"It is."

"It cannot be, you hardly touched it!"

"Touch it then, and see for yourself."

Slowly, hesitantly, Rúmil extended a cautious hand and, with the lightest of touches, brushed the very tip of his finger against the metal and met with a blistering, white-hot pain.

Yelping angrily, he snatched his hand away and stuffed his sore finger in his mouth, fixing a laughing Fëanáro with an accusing glare.

"Now you see why I had so many failures," Fëanáro explained. "The wood kept splitting when I tried to light them. Wood and I were not meant to be friends. Metal has always been more tolerant of me."

"I hope the king finds out and packs you off in a boat!" Rúmil hissed through a mouth full of burning fingers, which only made Fëanáro's grin wider.

"I am sorry, Rúmil," he said, not looking sorry at all.  "I will let you have first go, if that will cheer you up?"

"Are you out of your mind? I'm not touching that thing again!"

"Only the bowl is hot," Fëanáro insisted. "The stem is quite cool. Honestly.  Look, here..." he said, removing Rúmil's hand from his mouth and - before Rúmil could protest - pressed his bare skin upon the metal, which was, as Fëanáro had said, quite cool.

Rúmil turned to regard Fëanáro with narrowed eyes.

"For a moment, I contemplated calling you a slug," he said, "but then I realised that was far too good for you and is an insult to slugs-"

"First puff?" the young prince reminded, offering Rúmil the pipe, his eyes glittering with mischief.

"Give it here," he snapped, snatching the pipe and jamming the mouth-piece between his teeth, the rest of his words muffled somewhat. "If I didn't need it before, I certainly do now, after your antics."

He took a deep breath and filled his mind and his lungs with the odd sour-sweetness of the lempë leaf. It was astonishing the affect it had on the buzzing, biting insects, for when he exhaled, blowing the smoke high into the air, they took flight almost at once, wheeling off amongst the trees to search for other soft-skinned victims to feast upon.

"Serves you right, you nasty, little creatures," he muttered. Valar take it, this leaf was strong. Already he could feel his mind beginning to fog...

"Feel better?" Fëanáro asked.

"One more," Rúmil said, lying back on the cart roof, facing the wide strip of blue sky framed at the edges by the deep green leaves and bright fruits of the orange trees. Fëanáro had been quite right.  The smell of the oranges really was intoxicating...

"One more. Then it's all yours."

Two trundling hours later, they had left the closeness of the groves of the Culumambor behind them and emerged into fresh, open air. The cart was now approaching the first cluster of Vanyarin settlements, which perched precariously upon the steep foothills of Taniquetil. The lines of small, white houses rose in undulating rows, following the oscillating incline of the land: now steep, now flat, now steep, now flat, until they crowded to a point at the narrow pass which led to Valmar proper and the snow-covered slopes of Taniquetil. Though the foothills were similar in height to those upon which the city of Tirion stood, Valmar's proximity to the Trees meant that the Vanyarin settlers here enjoyed a more temperate climate. Lush greenery and garish, heady-scented flowers crowded pots and beds in every little garden, and trailing vines with bell-shaped blooms grew wild, attracting large, buzzing insects and tiny, darting birds.

This far up, the land opened out in a commanding view across the Plains. And there, in the distance, cloaked in a shimmering mist, was the white tower of Tirion.

It was beautiful.

Tirion's influence, however, was here in the streets too, for strings of lamps had been hung and lit with coloured flames all along the road, in honour of the Noldorin princess's festival. Rúmil supposed, in an odd way, that since princess Findis was also half-Vanyarin and close kin to lord Ingwë, that she was also counted a Vanyarin princess, and he wondered vaguely if half as much bother had been made for Fëanáro when he was born.

He didn't really know what to make of that, and so did not dwell upon those thoughts. Instead, he contented himself in being sat on the cart roof with Fëanáro, enjoying the view in a companionable silence.

The pipe had long since been stashed away but it seemed its effects lingered still. While  lying on his back stretched out like a cat, listening to a clutch of Vanyarin girls singing to the tune of tinkling bells, Fëanáro muttered a rather personal and difficult question at him which dizzied his fogged mind.

"Rúmil," he said, suddenly, out of the blue, "I have been thinking, and I would like to know the answer to this. Tell me truthfully. Why did you come with me?"

His first thought:

A flash of writing upon a sheet of paper...

No.

He shook his head and tucked the treacherous thought away, searching, instead, for all the other reasons.

"Well," he began, "in a completely professional way, I suppose I am intrigued by you. You have great talent and potential. It'll be interesting to see how you turn out. Then I can claim any success as my own and bask in the resultant reflective glory."

Beside him, Fëanáro snorted with laugher.

"Also, on a less professional and completely irrational level, I felt, even though I had only met you for all of two days, that I was a friend to you, that I had made some sort of investment in you and, perhaps, you in me, and for some reason that rendered me incapable of leaving you to wander on your own."

"An investment?" he heard Fëanáro exclaim in surprise. "Really? I wonder what sort of return we will get from each other?"

"Turnips?" Rúmil offered, innocently, which sent them both into fits of laughter.

"Aie, Rúmil," Fëanáro eventually managed to choke out, wiping tears from his eyes, "you are the funniest of all the people I have yet met. If nothing else, I am glad you came along and brought your wits with you. Rocco, one of my father's guards, is also quite funny, but his material is very much limited to tits and farts. Sometimes it's funny, but I'm not always in the mood for it."

"Well, I am glad I have at least one purpose on this hare-brained adventure: to provide you with vegetable-based jokes."

"As long as you don't do the pumpkins as breasts routine," Fëanáro added as a condition. "Rocco has already covered that."

"I can imagine him doing that, actually," Rúmil said. "He could easily lift a pumpkin up in each hand. His fingers are like ham hocks!"

"He used to lift me by the legs when I was small and would spin me around," Fëanáro said, smiling at the memory. "Atar was at Council, and I would run around the garden, playing chase with Erdacundo, Minyandil and Rocco, and if Rocco caught me, he would always grab me by the feet and spin me in the air. Erdacundo always shouted at him to stop, lest he dropped me, but I loved it, so he kept going. One day, though, I was so determined to keep going for as long as I could, that I ended up being sick all over his shoes. He stopped after that."

"I am so glad I did not know you then. I hate running, wretched, screeching children - knocking into things, disturbing my peace."

"Did you never play with your nephews and niece?"

"Every so often they appear in Tirion, and when they were young, I had to traipse round the city with my sister and her husband, and because I was something of a novelty, they insisted on clinging to my arms and legs, drowning me in ridiculous questions and clambering all over me and treating me like a pack-beast. Once, I foolishly agreed to keep an eye on them while my sister and Falmar went out for a wander on their own. They were in my study, they ran riot and ended up knocking ink over a draft I had been working on. I roared at them, and now we know where we stand with one another."

Fëanáro smirked.

"I am so glad you are not really my uncle. I would have roared back at you."

"And I am so glad you are not really my nephew," Rúmil retorted, mimicking Fëanáro's tone. "Stars, you'd be a perfect nightmare. Your mother used to ask awkward questions at lectures, so I have no doubt if I'd had been commissioned to baby-sit you a few years ago, you'd have been in my theatre, heckling me incessantly about the Valar-"

"My mother used to go to lectures?" Fëanáro interrupted, sitting up. He fixed Rúmil with a sudden stare, and his eyes were keen and curious... and a little sad. Rúmil's heart wrenched, and he wondered if it would always be like this whenever he mentioned the queen's name.

"She did," he said, with a fond sigh. "And I suppose that is another reason why I stupidly agreed to come along with you. That you are Lady Míriel's only son and I was a friend to her, and that, perhaps, if I came to know you, look out for you, and be a friend to you, I would be honouring her memory."

"Tell me what you remember about her," Fëanáro said quietly. "What was she like when she came to lectures?  I did not know she had done that. Atar never said."

"Well, she didn't do it often, so your father is not to be blamed for keeping that information to himself," Rúmil admitted, "and even when she did, she never made a fuss over it. If there was a lecture that caught her attention, she simply appeared in plain carriage, with no crest to mark it, and made her own way to the lecture theatre, her workbag slung over her shoulder.

"She was clever and quiet, but a very aggressive listener. At questions, she would be silent, unless there was a point of contention, then she would speak up in her quick, clear voice, nail the matter, and get back to whatever it was she was doing - which was usually making a commission, dresses, shirts, skirts, tunics - anything and everything - draped over her knees with needles and bits of thread pressed between her lips. She was always working.

"Apart from being my patron, and my owing everything I am to her, she was a very good friend to me. I felt her loss keenly. After the Debate, cynics whispered that I was out of sorts because I had lost my patron. Traditionalists hailed me because I stood for the Old Laws. My reasons were less subjective. I felt she had been betrayed and I had lost my clever, talented friend.  That was it.  Nothing more, nothing less. I lost much less than you, or your father, but still... I am selfish."

"You are not selfish," Fëanáro said curtly. "I am grateful. Grateful to you for giving my thoughts voice before I knew how to express them. I am glad you decided to be stupid and come along with me."

"Do not forget, either, that your father hired me to baby-sit you," Rúmil added slyly, using some humour to stave off the awful sadness the memories of Lady Míriel had shaken to the surface.  "I always take my work very seriously."

"You run away from your home and your job in Tirion to follow your charge to the north," Fëanáro mused. "Yes, I would say you are the most dedicated baby-sitter in all of Arda."

At Fëanáro's remark, Rúmil felt a brief squeeze of worry.

"I don't know what I'm going to say to Quennar when I get back. Or your father. I'm going to have to apologise to quite a lot of people."

"Just say you were babysitting."

"A catch-all excuse?"

"Absolutely."

"So what will you be up to while I am busy babysitting?" Rúmil said, changing the subject, for he did not want to think about what the inevitable punishment would be, if and when he returned to Tirion.

"Reading. Wandering. Learning the language of wine," Fëanáro answered. "Serving the apprenticeship I intend to secure. Improving my craft. Making things of beauty, so that when I return to Tirion I will be more than my father's son, that I will be worthy of his love for me, and of everything my mother gave me."

"Cramming a lot in, then?"

Once again, the conversation ground to an unceremonious halt as Fëanáro collapsed into a fit of laughter.

This time, however, they did not have the opportunity to resume it, as two of the apprentices from the Lindon Inn appeared beside them, having leapt across the mail cart roofs. Rúmil recognised one as Elehto, the one who had spilled the wine, and another wiry youth with raven black, tight-braided hair, whose name he did not know.  With a clomp, Elehto the apprentice lolloped over and thumped down beside them on their cart roof. The other followed at a more measured pace and nodded politely at them before sitting.

"Hello there, two Noldor I do not yet know!" Elehto said, brightly. "I am Elehto and this is my friend, Mísemir. We are both apprentice stone-masons and we have journeyed up and down the whole mail cart looking for an answer to our question. If you can solve it, these sweet rolls are yours!"

From his pack, the silent Mísemir produced two battered-looking honey-cakes and held them out for inspection.

"Hmm... a fair enough bargain," Rúmil answered, suddenly keen on the idea of a sweet roll. "Fine. What is your question?"

"We were debating which is further from here: the Ekkaia or the Belegaer.  As I said, if you can solve it, the sweet rolls are- Hey! No, I don't think so!  You lot can piss off!"  he shouted suddenly, as another four apprentices approached at speed. "I don't want you influencing them!"

"Yeah?  Well we don't want you two influencing them! Hello. Are you Noldor?"

And so, after introductions and civilities were exchanged, Rúmil and Fëanáro were diverted by the chatter and banter of the apprentices until the shadows grew longer, the houses grew grander and the streets busier. They spent a long time huddled together in their travelling cloaks, arguing fiercely and trying to work out the distance based on landmarks, but it appeared quickly to Rúmil that none of the apprentices had travelled extensively and that their knowledge of the land was flawed. They had come across the right pair of Noldor, as Rúmil's and Fëanáro's knowledge was much better, Rúmil recalling the distances from memory and Fëanáro able to make the necessary calculations, the young prince having grown so frustrated with circular arguments, that he rummaged in his pack for a stick of charcoal, scratched a few calculations on the cart roof, presented proof and pronounced that the Belegaer was marginally closer.

The findings were received positively by Elehto and Mísemir, the former particularly pleased, expressing his delight with a great deal of whooping and cheering and calling the others, who had doubted him, a variety of colourful names, which caused the others to retaliate in turn. Their banter was becoming boisterous, therefore, it was probably fortunate that the mail cart ground to a halt when it did.

Mísemir, the quiet one, looked up first.  Spotting something, he said, "Hoods," and the apprentices pulled their hoods up, one by one, and sat up, cross-legged, with their heads bowed.

Suddenly unnerved, Rúmil shot a wary glance at Fëanáro, who returned it in earnest.

He nudged Mísemir and whispered, "What is going on?"

"You've travelled a lot, but you've never taken the mail-cart before, have you?" he said quietly. "Someone high-and-mighty needs to get by.  Happens a lot when you get near Valmar because the roads are so narrow. Sometimes it's court people, sometimes it's couriers, and sometimes it's royals, but it doesn't matter, because we're technically not supposed to be here. As long as you stay quiet and don't bother them, they won't haul you off.  Pull your hoods up so they don't clock your faces and stay quiet."

"Understood," Rúmil said, and both he and Fëanáro drew their hoods over their heads and sat still, shoulders hunched.

It was lucky, for not a minute later, the carriage carrying the Noldorin royal family appeared, the star of Finwë blazing in burnished gold and bronze upon its side. It rumbled past them at a fair pace, stirring up clouds of dust, and the king's retinue circled it closely on horseback. The Vanyar crowding the streets let out shouts of delight and waved and cheered and danced alongside it as it passed, so the guards did not have time to spare a passing glance at the stowaways huddled on the mail cart roofs - except for one.

Like an apparition, Erdacundo appeared, riding a tall, strong bay horse, his face set grimly and his dark hair oiled and braided so tightly it remained untouched by the long miles of travel from Tirion to Valmar. As he reached the mail caravan, he slowed his horse to a walk, taking extra care in noting the stowaways, as though trying to remember faces, postures, distinguishing weaves on cloaks, how many he had seen before and searching, searching for any discrepancies.

Rúmil's heart was in his mouth, but the carriage was rattling ahead at speed, and to keep up, Erdacundo was forced to gently dig in his heels and his huge horse clopped after the king's carriage at a brisk trot. They rounded the corner and were gone.

"Why did you think it was a good idea to come to Valmar?" he muttered to Fëanáro.

"Because a mail cart heads from Valmar to Formenos," Fëanáro hissed, clearly shaken by the encounter. "What would be the point in trudging back to Tirion to wait for the one which leaves from there in another two weeks?"

"Well there is no way we can stay at an Inn now," Rúmil grumbled. "The king has likely put out the word that you have gone wandering, and now he has arrived in Valmar without you, the gossip of it will have reached every single chattering Vanyar by nightfall, you may depend upon it! Do you know when the caravan leaves for Formenos?"

"Off the back of this one, I'd think. Tomorrow, or the day after to rest the longhorns and sort the mail. That would make the most sense, but I'll ask one of the drivers."

"Good," Rúmil said.  "You do that, and I'll find us somewhere to stay till then."

Erdacundo did not like Valmar very much. He found it too pretty and its people dull. Dull, not in the sense that they were stupid. The Vanyar had brains, certainly, but only a rare few had opinions, which annoyed Erdacundo, because he most definitely had them, even if he did not often express them. The Vanyar, he had come to learn, favoured harmony over opinions, and so cultivated former, letting the latter wither away, until conversation with strangers was often nothing more than a delicate dance of etiquette. Erdacundo was a soldier. He did not care for etiquette.

The bells, too, annoyed him. They were everywhere and ubiquitous to a point that they drove him to distraction. Bells rang what felt like every hour of the day. Children would run around with toy bells on strings. Shopkeepers would ring bells to let patrons know they were open and had goods to sell. Bells were rung at the temples to call the people to celebration. There were bells everywhere. As he was always housed in the servants' quarters when the king visited Valmar (not in the guard house, as he was used to in Tirion - not that he was precious, he had slept in worse places) the ground floor servants' bunks were closer to the clamour of the constant bell-ringing, and he could never get a wink of sleep.

The city was bright, as well.  Too bright, for though the Vanyar loved paint and colour, they possessed neither the Noldorin eye, nor their taste, nor their restraint, and as a result, the houses of their high-and-mighty were a riot of blazing reds and greens and pinks and blues and all manner of garish hues. Erdacundo did not care for it.

He wished, too, that the king had not come.  The king was unhappy, very obviously unhappy, and that was not the best thing when a festival thrown specially by king Ingwë to celebrate him, his wife, and their newborn daughter was about to begin. There had been discussion yesterday, very briefly, about whether it was wise for him to leave in case Fëanáro returned, which the king dismissed abruptly, saying that they were leaving in the morning no matter what, and if Fëanáro deigned to appear during his absence and discovered his father was in Valmar, then that was his tough luck.

Upon the morning of the journey, the king was stiff and distant, sparing the occasional thin smile for his wife and daughter, though only when reminded: when the infant was accidentally bounced close to him, or laughed or cried. Erdacundo did not know what had gone on in the confines of the carriage, but the king's mood seemed lifted as he stepped out with his wife and daughter to meet the crowds of cheering Vanyar who had gathered to greet them.

It lasted until they were received by Lord Ingwë and Lady Nénu: tall, blonde, smiling and arrayed in all their finery (their jewellery Noldorin, Erdacundo noted). Their children followed behind at a respectful distance: the eldest, Ingwë's son and heir, Ingwion, was the very image of his golden-haired, blue-eyed father; the next, their eldest daughter Ingwen, stiff and delicate and thin as a reed, like in appearance to Lady Nénu, but without her strength or ambition; and holding her sister's hand was the youngest, a little girl in a fussy dress with a cloud-like head of blonde curls, who held a doll in her hand and stomped across the beautiful, mosaic floor, complaining about being interrupted at play.

"Well-met, Finwë!" Ingwë announced, throwing his arms out in greeting. "It has been too long."

With a broad smile, Finwë, the king - his king - stepped forward and caught Ingwë in a firm embrace.

"It has, my friend," Finwë replied, stepping aside and turning to his wife, reaching for her with a broad smile. The queen hurried forward, her child in her arms, and the king wrapped his arm around her waist. "This little one, though, is a perfect excuse for a visit, is she not?"

"She looks beautiful," Queen Nénu said, twitching aside the jewel-coloured fabric with a well-manicured hand to catch a glimpse at the princess's face as she nestled in her mother's arms. "She has your face, Indis."

"My lord Finwë says so too," the queen said, her eyes locked upon her daughter, alight with love.

"May I see her?" the youngest daughter demanded suddenly, her blue eyes hard and curious as she tugged at her mother's gown.

Queen Nénu blinked and then turned to her daughter, patted her on the head and laughed an odd, short laugh that was no doubt meant to sound indulgent but which Erdacundo read as thinly disguised impatience.

"I do apologise for Anna," queen Nénu began, shooting her daughter a warning look, "she has proven a little difficult of late and insists on speaking out of turn."

"Oh, do not apologise," the lady Indis replied in her soft voice, laughing graciously. "That is absolutely nothing!  Here, Anna. Come and see your cousin!"

Permission granted, the curly-haired Anna wrenched her hand free of her pale sister and strode across the floor, the heels of her shiny shoes clicking decidedly against the floor. Erdacundo thought that, though the eldest daughter got her mother's looks, this younger one seemed to have inherited the lion's share of her personality. She was still young, however, and had not yet learned that, as a princess, she was not supposed to have opinions.

"Hmm..." the child said, pursing her lips and regarding princess Findis with a critical expression. "I suppose she is pretty, in a babyish sort of way. All babies are. But they do not really interest me because I cannot play or talk with them. Do you not have a son, Lord Finwë? Perhaps I could play with him, though I do not know his age."

The king smiled a thin smile and replied, "My son is a little old for you, child.  He does not play games."

"Then where is he?" the girl went on, thrusting her hands on her hips. "I count only one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, visitors, and that man standing by the column is certainly not your son, for he wears your livery.  Neither are the men by the door, nor aunt Indis' lady. I see only you, my lord, my aunt Indis and my cousin Findis, and there should most definitely be four of you.  Yes, I am sure you have a son, king Finwë, I know so, for I have talked about him sometimes with my sister, who has met him once and says that he is clever and handsome but full of poison-" at Anna's words, Erdacundo saw her sister shrink in horror, a blush blazing across her pale cheeks, "-and that he looks a bit like you, my lord. So why is he not here? I have often heard that he is bad and insolent. Is that why? Has he been confined to his rooms as punishment?"

Her childish voice rang innocent and clear to the rafters, so clear that the interruption could not be politely ignored.

There was an awful silence.

Erdacundo watched with a sinking heart as a sudden reserve clouded the king's normally cheerful demeanour.

"Hush, Anna," Queen Nélu whispered fiercely, bending down to scold her daughter. "How rude and forward you are becoming! I think we should send you to serve with Lady Varda, just as your sister did, for it would teach you to mind your manners!"

"But Amil, I was only-!"

"Enough!" her mother hissed, grabbing her hand and propelling her daughter across the room, Anna trotting to keep up with her mother's long strides. Depositing her at the feet of a plainly-dressed handmaiden, queen Nénu said, "Take her up to her rooms and impress upon her most strongly that the reason for her punishment is her abominable rudeness. See that she remains there for the rest of the night!"

"But, Amil, nooooo," Anna began to wail, her lip trembling, as the handmaiden nodded, curtsied and scooped her up, carrying her through a door and out of sight.

"My lord Finwë, I am so very sorry-" queen Nénu began agitatedly, but the king held up a hand and her jaw clicked shut.

"My son is not here because he has gone wandering," the king said quietly.

There was a brief moment as the Vanyarin king and queen looked at each other askance. "Again?" Ingwë said, raising an eyebrow in mild astonishment.

"Yes, again," the king reiterated, in a slightly stronger tone. "He has grown clever and has proven extremely adept at avoiding pursuit. I do not know where he is and I do not know how long he will be gone."

"Oh," Ingwë said, at a loss for words. "That is a shame."

Another awkward silence followed, broken only by queen Indis' polite cough and her warm voice which suggested they might be shown to their rooms? Lady Nénu laughed, visibly relieved, and with a wide, inviting gesture, bade the king and queen follow her to the rooms she had had prepared, which she hoped most fervently would be to their liking.

The lady Indis, having handed the young princess Findis into the care of Moicallë, threaded her arm through the king's and, giving him an encouraging nudge, tried to coax him to follow.  His mouth set, the king snorted and, in the interest of upholding the Vanyarin custom of harmony, grudgingly gave way.

As he silently followed after, Erdacundo spared a brief thought for the little princess Anna, and wondered what her punishment would be. He wondered if her sister, Ingwen, had been like her in the beginning, before she went to Varda. He wondered, too, what went on in the Halls of Varda, that a personality could be so painfully crushed. Though, on the other hand, maybe Ingwen had always been like that and the place had suited her. He would have liked to think so. He did not think it would suit princess Anna. She seemed clever and curious - and determined to offend. It must be difficult for a lord and lady to deal with such a child, he thought, when their occupation hung upon their smiles and diplomacy and best pleasing everyone who could be best pleased.

He thought of Fëanáro, and of his king, and smiled. The king would not send his son to serve in the Halls of Manwë. Would never do it. Never. No matter how much Fëanáro raged, no matter how strange the boy became, the king loved him still, including his rages and strangeness. It would have been funny to see anyone try, though, as Fëanáro would have escaped and been back in his rooms within the month...

He understood the Vanyar and their customs of harmony - a few misplaced words from a heedless child, after all, could risk offending a king. But still...

He stooped to retrieve the object which had caught at his foot: a doll, curly-haired and fussily dressed, like her mistress. Its hair and the white frills stitched upon the hems of its skirts were soiled with smudges of dirt and its shining porcelain face was a little sticky. Clearly, the doll was well-loved. Princess Anna must have dropped it. Something told Erdacundo that it would be missed. Perhaps, when the king dismissed him, he would find her and return it to her.

"This is definitely the place?"

"Yes.  This is definitely the place."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"That's what you said the last three times.  Are you sure you know this person?"

"Yes, I am sure I know him, Fëanáro. He went to the School round about the same time as me and his room was across the hall and two doors down from mine in my final year."

"A Vanya at the School? Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised.  It's not unheard of. He was clever - just not as clever as me, ha- Yes, this is definitely it. A yellow house with a dark blue door painted with stars and a red-tiled roof. This has got to be his house.  The last couple of times we got the wrong Elemmírë.  This time, we have him."

"How do you know?"

"Because there is a bundle of letters left sitting on the doorstep. They must be out. The one on the top is addressed - in what I must say is an absolutely awful hand, gosh, that is shocking - to Elemmírë and Annaziel. Annaziel is his wife."

Fëanáro leaned forward and snatched the letter from the top of the pile.  "You're right, that is an awful hand," was his verdict. "It looks like spiders are marching. So, what do we do now that they're out?"

"We could always let ourselves in," Rúmil suggested. "Get the place ready and nice and welcome for them coming home?"

"Breaking and entering?" Fëanáro said, raising his eyebrows. "Rúmil, I am surprised at you. Not a few hours ago, you were chiding me for stealing an orange."

"I was not chiding you for stealing, I was chiding you for moving and breathing and continuing to exist because I was so irritated by the heat and those wretched insects," Rúmil corrected. "And I would like to remind you that what I propose is not breaking and entering. We are merely letting ourselves in."

"Breaking and entering." Fëanáro reiterated.

"He should be thankful," Rúmil replied airily, giving the latch a tug. The door creaked open. "We're supposed to be his guests and we'll be the ones making the tea.  Well, are you coming in or aren't you?"

Shaking his head amusedly, Fëanáro stepped over the threshold and Rúmil closed the door behind him.

"Stars..." he heard Fëanáro whisper, as the boy let slip an involuntary gasp of wonder.

Rúmil allowed himself a small, secret smile. He had the funniest feeling Fëanáro would approve of Elemmírë's home. He had not visited in a long time, but the place was as odd and as beautiful as he remembered. Across the walls, painted in a wash of blue fading from sky to dark, swam a shoal of hundreds of darting, shimmering fish, their slick scales picked out in bold strokes of bright, glitter-thick oil paint and were impossibly detailed. In chaotic harmony, the fish wheeled and spun, dodging doorways and lantern sconces, looping higher and higher, growing smaller and more distant, until they reached a square, black trap-door painted in a corner of the ceiling, through which they disappeared into shadow in a flurrying cloud of bubbles.

"I like this. It's beautiful." Fëanáro said, leaning forward to inspect the fish and unable to resist touching the thick, textured, dried paint. "Is Elemmírë a painter?"

"His wife, Annaziel, is."

"She is excellent. She has caught the flurry of their movement well, and their lithe musculature, and the points of light upon their scales."

"Annaziel has always had an odd fascination with fish," Rúmil admitted. "I remember inviting them to Tol Eressëa once, and we ended up spending most of our time on boats, because Annaziel had never been on one before. Elemmírë was terribly sea-sick, but Annaziel and I had a wonderful time watching the blue jewel fish darting around just under the surface. When we got back, Annaziel insisted on going to the market, and bought a pearl-scaled snapper so she could study it.  There aren't many fish in Valmar. She said she found them beautiful."

"You know a lot of interesting people," Fëanáro said absently, still studying Annaziel's work.

"I've never really thought about it before, but I suppose I do," Rúmil conceded. "To me, they are just people I know."

"Hmm..."

"Fëanáro, are you listening to me?"

"Just people you know..." the young prince parroted absently, his long fingers caressing the outline of a gaping fish-mouth. Rúmil sighed.

"You can stare at the fish later. I need you to help me in the kitchen."

"What?"

"Kitchen, Fëanáro. Now," Rúmil repeated, thrusting a finger towards the door to his right. "We need to boil water and make tea, and possibly clean up if Elemmírë has left the place in a mess."

Sighing in a put-upon manner (and Rúmil didn't know why, since it was the only thing he had outright asked him to do the whole trip) Fëanáro tore his eyes from the glittering fish and followed Rúmil into the kitchen. Rúmil almost had to scold him again while they lit the fire, for the pattern on the kitchen floor mosaic was formed in abstract, knotting swirls, and he kept catching Fëanáro trying to follow it.

"Hang this over the fire," he ordered, shoving the small iron kettle into Fëanáro's hands, "and keep an eye on it. We want the water hot but not boiling."

"I know how to make tea," Fëanáro said, mullishly.

"Brilliant. You can get going then," Rúmil replied. Pulling up a chair, he kicked off his boots with a sigh - oh, the relief! - and rested his aching feet on the table. It was rude, he knew, but Elemmírë and Annaziel weren't in. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He could feel Fëanáro's glare burning the back of his head and tried his hardest not to laugh.

"You are a lazy shit."

"Don't leave the leaves in for too long, I don't like mine strong," he replied, innocently.

Fëanáro snorted and began stuffing the tea leaves into a square of muslin, tying it closed with more force, and a few more knots, than were strictly necessary. Tossing the thing into the hot water with a plop, he retrieved two mugs from a cupboard and stood waiting by the fire, his arms folded.

"So, tell me again, Rúmil, why is it better for us to break into this couple's home than to stay at an inn?"

"Because the word will be out now, I guarantee it."

"And this Elemmírë will not tell?"

"It is very, very unlikely. I would suspect that he is one of the very few in Valmar who would not go crying foul to the authorities."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he is not exactly on best terms with the high-and-mighty of Valmar."

"Oh?" Fëanáro said, suddenly interested. "Why would that be?"

"It is... a rather delicate matter," Rúmil began, hesitantly. "I was not going to mention it, but you might as well know, in case you inadvertently offend our host. Well, I say that. What I meant was our potential host. Our only option."

"Rúmil, I will not say a thing unless this Elemmírë or Annaziel bring it up of their own volition."

"Very well," Rúmil said, with a sigh. "Elemmírë is a lawyer, which, as it turns out, is just as well, because Annaziel... she likes to... paint things."

Fëanáro's impatient gaze was level and unyielding. "How strange, I would not have guessed," he replied.

"Shut your face."

"Liking to paint things is not so odd. Especially when one is an artist."

"She likes to paint... odd things. In odd places."

"Again, not at all shocking, her being an artist-"

"When those odd things are forty-foot naked men daubed upon the wall of the chancery tower, people, and the palace guards, tend to take notice."

Fëanáro's eyes briefly widened, then he grinned.

"That is fantastic."

"You think so?"

"I do. Absolutely do," he replied, forsaking the fire entirely to pull up a chair at Rúmil's side. His elbows on the table, he fixed him with an eager and unblinking gaze and inquired, "Tell me, how did she get up there? Did she climb?"

"You know, I'm not quite sure..." Rúmil admitted. "She can climb, I know, because she went shooting up the cliffs on our trip round Tol Erresëa to sketch a gull, but I am fairly certain I recall talk of ropes and harnesses. I am sure she plans quite far ahead..."

He trailed off at the odd, faraway look in Fëanáro's eyes.

"If you dare-" he began, but his warning was cut short as the water bubbled out of the spout with a loud hiss as it spilled onto the flames below. With a loud squawk, Fëanáro shoved his chair back and dived for the pot.

"Apologies!" he shouted, pre-empting the reprimand.

To no avail, for Rúmil was intent upon it, "Idiot, you were supposed be looking out for it! Now my tea will be disgustingly bitter."

"Shut up, it has not been over that long. It will be fine," Fëanáro countered, grabbing the rag-wrapped handle and pouring some of the hot, amber liquid into a bright blue teapot.

"It will be bitter, I know it!" Rúmil asserted. "I thought you said you knew how to make tea?"

"I do! I was distracted by your chatter!"

"And who was the one who asked for the chatter? You, I think, unless I'm-"

Out in the hall, there was a jingle and a slam as the front door closed. In the kitchen, Rúmil's words died in his throat.  From the hall, there came the sound of footsteps. Then came the wet smack of a sloppy kiss and two muffled Vanyarin voices, followed by the inevitable, awful pause of someone who has just realised something is not quite right in their home. The fire crackled in the hearth and sent flickering shadows dancing in a sliver of light that shone through the kitchen door and out into the hall. The fire had not been burning before.

"Who's there?" a man's voice called out.

Then a blonde, frowning head popped round the kitchen door. Rúmil instantly recognised Elemmírë's thin frame, his ever-present worried frown and his lawyer's robes.  He was also carrying a poker. Rúmil knew he had to take action.

Grinning hugely, throwing his arms out wide, he stood up and cried, "Elemmírë! Welcome home!"

The lawyer's jaw dropped and the poker fell with it, hitting the tiled floor with a ringing clang. He was utterly dumbfounded.

"Rúmil -what? Why? Nrgh..." he managed to choke out, before clutching at his chest alarmingly.

"Come, sit, and calm your nerves," Rúmil said hastily. "We have made you tea. Would you have a cup?"

From the hall, there came a pattering of light, swift feet and Rúmil smiled as Annaziel peeked over her husband's shoulder, having to tiptoe because she was so small. She was exactly as he remembered. Tiny, fragile, with a round face and pale blue eyes with short, messily braided hair held together with rag-strips.

"Oh. Hello, Rúmil. Yes, I would have a cup," she said, as though two Noldor appearing in her kitchen unannounced was perfectly commomplace.

"What are you doing in my kitchen!" Elemmírë shouted, two spots of red flaring across his cheeks.

"Making tea?" Rúmil suggested.

Wrong-footed by Rúmil's innocuous logic, Elemmírë spluttered and floundered, before firing out, "Yes, I know that! I mean, why are you in my kitchen? And who is that?" he wailed, brandishing a finger at Fëanáro

"I will explain everything if you calm down," Rúmil said quietly, thrusting one of the empty mugs at Fëanáro, who took the hint, poured the tea, and offered it to the fretting Elemmírë, holding the cup at arm's length.

Ducking under her husband's arm, Annaziel skipped forward and took it. Sitting herself  down at the table, she sipped her tea and sighed. "Ahh, I missed this. They don't give you tea when you're scrubbing floors in the palace. It's water, bread and a hunk of cheese if you're lucky."

"Out painting again, were you?"

Elemmírë's shoulders dropped and he sank, his head falling into his hands with a sad, little moan.

"Got caught decorating the Varda shrine near the copper fountain. Spent two weeks locked up in the mando, then another two scrubbing floors in the palace. Just got out today."

"Yes," Elemmírë seethed, seeming unwilling to let it go, "and I come home to find two Noldor brewing tea in my kitchen, completely out-of-the-blue, no warning whatsoever- Rúmil, who is this?"

Skipping forward, Rúmil took the distressed lawyer by the shoulders, steered him into a chair and shoved a hot mug of tea in his hands. Then, motioning Fëanáro to sit, he  took a seat beside him. With his most winning smile, he explained.

"Elemmírë, Annaziel, this is my nephew, Curvo. Curvo, Elemmírë and Annaziel."

Fëanáro inclined his head in greeting. "It is a pleasure."

Annaziel looked up from her tea, fixed her pale, round eyes on Fëanáro and said nothing.

Elemmírë, however, was more talkative.

"Rúmil's nephew? Well, pleased to meet you too," he said. "I'd like to say he has mentioned you before, but he hasn't. Not to my knowledge."

"He never had anything to do with me until my thirtieth year. By taking me with him, he is making up for years of neglect."

"I must say that sounds entirely like him," Elemmírë said, sniffily. "He is thoroughly self-absorbed."

Outraged, Rúmil's jaw dropped and he prepared a scathing retort, but it withered upon the tip of his tongue, as Annaziel chose that moment to interrupt and uttered a few choice words that drove Elemmírë's insult from his mind and almost made his heart stop.

"He does not look like you, Rúmil," she said, staring intently at Fëanáro, who turned away to look out of the window.

Suppressing a jolt of anxiety, he laughed nervously and said, "Annaziel, is that a kind way of telling me I'm plain?"

"Oh no, Rúmil. You misunderstand me. I like you and I like your hair. Your hair is always interesting. I like interesting."

The conversation was blessedly veering away from dangerous waters, but was now headed the unfortunate way of horse-hair - neither of which Rúmil particularly desired. Determined to steer it in another direction, he announced, "We're here for the festival, Elemmírë. Missed it by a cat's whisker in Tirion, so we thought we might as well catch it before we head north."

"Oh? What are you doing up north?"

"Researching northern dialects," he answered, ignoring Fëanáro's look of triumph. "Curvo badgered me ceaselessly, wanting to come along. I gave in to put a stop to his incessant whining," he added, Fëanáro's look of triumph turning to one of outrage, "and let him act as my assistant."

"So why aren't you at an inn?"

"Quennar refused to subsidise both of us. Doesn't think I need an assistant, and would have had me travelling hundreds of miles north on my own with bags full of gear. We spent most of the money we had on a room at the Lindon Inn..."

"Wait, you took the mail cart?"

Rúmil and Fëanáro both nodded.

"What a tight-fist he is! I cannot believe Quennar!"

Finally, he had him...

Rúmil sighed his best put-upon sigh.  "He is an abominable miser."

"I am shocked, but I cannot say I am surprised. I just thought it would be easier for you, now that you're a Master. It was awful trying to squeeze coin out him when I had to consult the books in king Olwë's collection all the way out in Alqualondë. Maybe I thought he had changed some in the meantime. Oh well, I suppose you'll be wanting to stay then, and that is why you're here, loitering in our kitchen?

"That would be very kind. It is only until tomorrow, when the next caravan heads north. I mean, I know we haven't spoken in rather a long time, but..."

"It is no matter, Rúmil. We have room to spare, though you will have to share. I am afraid between my study and Annaziel's work, we have taken up almost all the room we once had in this house."

"We don't mind at all," Rúmil said, triumphant and sincerely grateful. "Thank you, Elemmírë - and you, too, Annaziel. You have kind hearts, indeed, willing as you are to take in two, weary, travelling Noldor."

"That's fair," Annaziel said, draining the last of her cup and following it with a yawn and a stretch. "But my kind heart appreciates tea more. It was nice. I would like more. You two make the tea and we will provide you with a roof and a bed. Sound good?"

"A most excellent arrangement, Annaziel. Thank you."

"It's no problem. Your room's in the attic. It might be a little dusty."

"Annaziel, right now I am so weary, I would sleep on a dung heap!"

In the Hall of Painted Birds, in the palace of Ingwë, a concert was underway. The lords and ladies of the Vanyar were in attendance, draped in jewels and sporting elaborate headdresses, whispering behind pale hands and painted nails to one another as princess Ingwen negotiated a difficult cadenza upon the harp.  

Erdacundo stood to attention and unobtrusively made his way over to the side of his king, who had signalled him with a pained look and an agitated wave of a hand. Kneeling, so the king could whisper and not be overheard, he said, "My lord?"

"Take me away from here, Erdacundo," the king said urgently. "Invent a matter which requires my immediate attention."

"But, my lord..."

"Just do it. Please."

"Then I'll pretend I've been speaking of it now."

Erdacundo coughed, and then said a little louder, "Please, follow me, my lord."

"Thank you."

Erdacundo's first thought was to lead the king down to the stables, where an invented problem might most easily be found, but something told him that the king did not necessarily want to deal with an invented problem, and that the twitching ears and wagging tongues of gossipy Noldorin and Vanyarin stable-hands would be afire were the king to venture there. Instead, he escorted the king to his quarters. He knew no one would be in, for Sindemír was off into town to meet his lady and Minyandil was at the concert.

As expected of Finwë, Noldóran, the king retained his benevolent demeanour, smiling and nodding in greeting at all he passed, giving all the same attention, no matter their status. This lasted until Erdacundo clicked shut the bedroom door, and the king snarled and stalked across the floor, wrenching his circlet from his head and tugging at the many rings he wore on each finger until they were tossed in an ungainly pile on the bed.

"My son is not full of poison!" the king announced, pacing back and forth across the room in agitation.

"I know, my lord," Erdacundo answered, obediently.

"How dare they!"

"Ingwen is still a young girl-"

"Pfah!" the king spat. "That girl has no mind of her own. Never has and never will. She has heard those lies fall from another's lips, I have no doubt, and has parroted them to her sister!"

Erdacundo said nothing.  The king went on.

"How dare they use such awful words of my son!" he exclaimed, with an angry jerk of a hand. "Fëanáro, though he may be difficult and quarrelsome, is worth a hundred of Ingwë's insipid, stupid children-!"

The king's voice hitched, as though his throat had closed, sensing his bitter words. His face fell, and he slumped upon the bed.

"For shame," he murmured.  "For shame, I am doing exactly the same thing..."

"It's only me, my lord," Erdacundo replied. "Doesn't count as gossip."

The king managed a weary laugh and fell silent.

"My lord?"

"Yes?"

"I am sorry I couldn't find him."

"Oh, Erdacundo, for the last time, I do not blame you," the king sighed. "Well, that is not entirely true. You did teach him woodcraft. Taught him a little too well, in fact, but even with the gift of foresight, none of us can see all ends."

"Doubt he'll need woodcraft this time, my lord. Master Rúmil is with him. Likely as not, they'll have found some place with bed and board and paper for him to write on. Don't think he's the type to rough it."

At the mention of Master Rúmil, a dark frown passed over the king's face and he snorted.

"Rúmil..." the king muttered. "Curse his name. I hate him, Erdacundo. I never thought it would be possible for me to truly hate another, but I do."

"I cannot stand him!" the king seethed. "He thinks he's so clever. He even fooled me into thinking that he understood my sorrow! Then he worms his way into my son's affection... within a day learns his secrets... ‘It was like that when I got here'? My foot!"

"My lord?" Erdacundo said, genuinely puzzled.

"And now he has run off with my son - filling his head with spiteful rhetoric, likely poisoning him against me..."

The king trailed off with a sad sigh.

"And he is doing all the things that I have always wanted to do with my son, and my heart aches with envy. I envied you when my son, still a child, came running up to me as I left Council one bright morning, his heart open and eager, and he begged me to let you take him out to the wilds to learn woodcraft. I envied Minyandil when I spied him from a balcony, hauling Fëanáro off to be scrubbed clean down in the stables because they had been playing with paint and clay and there had been an accident and they were covered in the stuff - laughing and shushing each other lest I find out and chide them."

Erdacundo felt a lurch of guilt at having unknowingly wounded his king. Fëanáro had been a quick pupil and had shown ability early on, and Fëanáro had pressed and pressed, always wanting to know more. For his part, Erdacundo had been willing to teach. Perhaps he should have waited until the king had time? But when did he ever have time?

"I am sorry, my lord," he said quietly. "I did not know."

The king waved a hand, dismissing his apologies, and managed a tight smile. "Do not apologise," he said. "It is my fault. Even if I were to extricate myself from the ensnaring, constant tangle of my affairs, he would not want to see me. Right at this very moment, I am at leisure. Do you think he would want to be here?"

"No," Erdacundo replied, without a second thought. "He doesn't like it here."

The king let out a scornful laugh. "Stars, Erdacundo, in an odd, horrible way, perhaps it is for the best. It would have been ten times worse had he accompanied us. I have been unconscionably rude by leaving the concert. Perhaps I am unwittingly attempting to redress the imbalance of insolence my son's absence has wrought?"

Erdacundo allowed himself a small smile.

"Ah, no matter," the king went on, clasping his hands. "I have done the deed now, and there is no going back."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Return," the king replied, rising to smooth the creases from his robes. "I will sit through the concert, enjoy every last moment of it, apologise for my rudeness, and spend the rest of the night in the company of my wife. If my daughter is present, I shall perhaps watch her sleeping. I enjoyed very much watching Fëanáro sleep, and I expect my dear Findis will be no different."

"Very good, my lord."

"Yes, I think that is an excellent plan," the king affirmed, as he fixed his circlet upon his head and slipped his rings upon his fingers. When he came to a particular one, however, a fine, gold ring with a large, fiery ruby set in its heavy, filigreed shoulders, the king paused. Regarding it for a long moment, with an odd, closed expression, his fingers twitched in brief indecision, as though he wondered whether or not he should put it on, before his hand jerked sharply and tossed it upon the bed, leaving it sitting - bright, beautiful, conspicuous and alone - on the satin sheets.

"Come, Erdacundo," the king said quietly.  "I shall fret no more about Fëanáro tonight. Let us rejoin the party."

It felt wonderful to be finally getting ready for bed. It had been a long, long day of travel, and after having sat for hours on a pile of cushions in Annaziel's work room, chatting to Elemmírë while watching Fëanáro eagerly putting Annaziel's latest inventions through their paces, the prospect of a good night's sleep before another long day of travel was welcome.

Their attic room was crammed full of bits and pieces of Annaziel's work, canvases stacked in teetering piles and labelled with paper and string: "rainbow trout leaping in Lindon river", "Elemmírë sleeping", "neighbour's dog stealing a pie", "spray from the Ascar falls in Tirion", "king Finwë's palace at the Mingling of the Lights". At first, they were curious and had looked through the pieces, but when it turned out that "Elemmírë sleeping" should have read "Elemmírë naked and sleeping" Rúmil and Fëanáro cast a furtive glance at one another and agreed to put them away and never speak of it again.

Not long after that, Fëanáro was out for the count, having washed his face, cleaned his teeth and thrown on a loose night-shirt. At present, he was sleeping soundly, stretched out across the rickety, wooden bed, one hand dangling over the edge. Rúmil, however, was still up, attempting to comb the knots out of his hair and having more difficulty than usual because patches of his hair now had a powdery blue tint to it, from all the pigment that had been flying around in Annaziel's work-room.

He could see now why Ingwë's guards were so hard on her.  Over and above the harnesses, pulleys, rollers, brushes and grapnels, she had also invented two instruments in particular that would have made their lives that little bit harder.  The first was a thin, metal pipe attached to an underarm pump, which sprayed a continuous, thin jet of paint smoothly upon any surface.  The second was a slingshot and a series of small, crumbling balls of pressed powder pigment, which, when fired, exploded in a riot of colour when they came into contact with something solid. As soon as Fëanáro heard that secret slip from Annaziel's lips, he grabbed the slingshot, shouted, "Duck, Rúmil!" and fired a blue one inches above his head.  Hence the blue hair. At least his hair wasn't as bad as Fëanáro's, which was now covered in the stuff, after Annaziel informed him that the colour of hair could be deliberately altered with powder pigment. Fëanáro's black hair now had large, vivid chunks of red and orange streaking through it. Rúmil hoped it would fade before the boy tried for an apprenticeship.

The cart was leaving tomorrow at two hours before the zenith of Laurelin. From Valmar, it would take around ten days to reach Formenos, counting in all the necessary stops made for deliveries, to change and rest the longhorns, and for drivers' rest stops at various coaching inns along the way. It would be a long, hard, probably cold and miserable journey.

Rúmil sighed and stared at himself in the round mirror. His hair was a powdery riot of snarls and tugs, that no amount of brushing could untangle tonight. He'd need a ton of hot oil and a good half an hour to accomplish that, and he didn't have the strength to even contemplate it tonight.

"Stupid horse-hair," he muttered, tossing the comb into his pack before he climbed wearily into bed.

Carefully snuffing out the flame that flickered in the little lantern by his bedside, he wrapped the thick, patchwork quilt around his shoulders and fell into a deep and blissful sleep.

Hours later, Rumil's heart was gripped by a sudden and inexplicable spasm of fear. His eyes snapped open and he awoke with a jerk to strange, leering shadows and unfamiliar surroundings.

As he fought to calm his racing heart, repeating over and over again, like a mantra, that there was nothing to fear, nothing to fear, he risked a quick glance around.

Then he remembered. He was in Valmar with the king's son in Elemmírë and Annaziel's beautiful jewel-box of a home.

There was the dressing table, with the wash-bowl and the little mirror. Over in the corner sat the battered chest of drawers and the old wardrobe in which he had flung his muddy boots. By the window stood a pile of blank canvases, their off-white surfaces glowing eerily in Telperion's ghostly light. If he looked over, Fëanáro would be asleep in the next bed.

And he was.  Except that...

What in the name of-?

A stranger was lying at the end of Fëanáro's bed, curled up at his feet, sleeping soundly. A man, tall and thin with sharp, broad shoulders, was silhouetted in the semi-dark. The stranger's back was turned to him, but he could just make out the man's long, black hair spilling over the edge of the mattress and onto the floor.

Rúmil felt a stab of indignation and was suddenly very aware and very awake as he swung his legs out of bed and strode across the room to give the intruder a piece of his mind.

Reaching out a rough hand, about to grab the lout by the shoulder to turf him out, he let out a small cry of shock... because the stranger was no longer there.

In the blink of an eye, faster even than that, the stranger was perched at the head of the bed, like a gargoyle - toes curled tightly around the wooden frame - like Fëanáro had been on his step-ladder when they'd first met. There was no stepladder to sit on, though.  There was no room at all, for the bed was pressed tightly against the wall.  Yet it sat there in perfect, untroubled balance.

Blinking, he rubbed his sleep-bleared eyes and peered through the silvery dark to get a better look, and took a step back, his hand flying to his mouth in shock.

He could see the stranger clearly now. It was the king. Or at least, that is what he had thought at first. It tried to be the king. It tried its hardest. The long, trailing, black hair and sharp features were Finwë's, and the intricate, draping clothes it wore were a splendid imitation of those the king wore in Tirion.

But it was imitation. Everything about it was an imitation. Everything about it that it could have changed, it had - or at least had tried to.  The only thing that seemed truly real were the eyes.  They were not the king's eyes. It did not have eyes. Only endless dark spaces where eyes should have been. They were hideous.

And it did not see Rúmil. Did not notice him at all. Instead it stared at Fëanáro as he slept. It smiled with the king's face and reached out, tentatively, nervously, to touch the very ends of the prince's hair, and Rúmil felt a sudden surge of emotion that hit him like a punch to the gut, and he doubled over on the cold floor, terrified, because those feelings were not his own: loneliness, pride, fascination and a love that was so strong that it caused him physical pain.

And then it looked up.

Terror seized Rúmil, and he was frozen in place as he stared in horror at those awful black eyes.

It tilted its head slowly to one side, wearing an expression of complete and utter indifference.

And it spoke directly into his mind. A soft voice. Almost a child's.

It whispered,

Go away...

And as though he were dismissed, he woke instantly, kneeling, in the middle of the floor.

Everything was as it should have been: the cupboard, the drawers, the stacks of canvases - Fëanáro. There was no phantom. He had been dreaming.

Still, he felt sick.  A nightmare.  Horrible, horrible...

Shaken, he rose on trembling legs and wandered back to bed. It was cold, so he pulled the quilt up around his chin in a vain attempt to allay his shattered nerves and provide a measure of comfort. It did not work, for every time he closed his eyes, a vision of the black-eyed phantom formed like smoke in his dreams and whispered of fire in a language he would never understand.

For what seemed like hours, he tossed and turned, and drifted in and out and in and out of consciousness, until he could take it no more and sat up, condemning sleep as a lost cause, thinking it would be better if he lit the lamps in the kitchen, borrowed a book, and spent the rest of the night reading.

But Fëanáro was not there.

For a moment, he panicked, fearing Fëanáro had slept-walked out of the house and into the unfamiliar streets of Valmar, but then a square of folded paper caught his eye. His name had been written on it in Fëanáro's code.

His brow furrowed in puzzlement, he unfolded the paper. It was a note.

It read:

"Rúmil,

Couldn't sleep.  Gone painting.

Will be back before Telperion wanes.

F."

The note, perhaps, was meant to be reassuring. Unfortunately for Rúmil, it had the opposite effect, as the thought of Fëanáro being arrested by Ingwë's guards for defacement while the king was here for a festival was almost too much.  His heart racing, and his mind awhirl with panic, he threw on a pair of trousers, stuffed his feet into his boots, tossed his cloak around his shoulders and flew out of the house. Running through the narrow, winding streets of Valmar, Rúmil searched frantically for any sign of untoward activity; for the tell-tale hiss of the paint-spraying pipe, or the sharp, hollow smack of powdery pigment balls bouncing off brightly-coloured walls.  He found nothing, until the streets opened up and he came to the Plaza of White Wings where crowds would gather at the coming of Laurelin below the Window of Appearances to celebrate the birth of princess Findis.

The Plaza had been decorated with flowers and strung with unlit lanterns, in preparation for the coming celebration, but it was deserted, except for the lone figure who had scaled the chancery tower and was in the process of spraying a long line of black paint down its white walls, lowering themselves from a pulley.

He wanted to roar at him.  He wanted to scream and tear at his hair and march straight over there and beat Fëanáro about the head with one of the paint buckets the boy had lined up along the ground for being so reckless and stupid - but the image that Fëanáro was in the process of daubing upon the white walls of the squat chancery tower made him freeze in open-mouthed horror.

It was the phantom from his dreams; a study of light and shadow and furtive haste, standing there, straight and tall, with two black curtains of hair draping over its shoulders, between which two empty eyes stared. A thin slash of a mouth smiled and a pair of bone-white hands were cupped, waiting expectantly to hold something that had not yet been painted.

Rúmil felt his knees buckle and he sank to the ground, wondering if he had gone mad.

"This is all a dream," he muttered to himself. "All a dream. I will wake up in a moment and we will have slept in for the mail cart, and we will have to run to catch up, and... where are the guards?  Why are there no guards? Someone should have caught him by now..."

It was then that he realised that this was not a dream, and somehow that made things so much worse.

Picking himself up and wrapping his cloak tight about him against the chilly mountain air, he walked across the plaza, until he came to a stop at the bottom of the tower. Fëanáro hadn't even noticed him, he was concentrating so hard on creating a fold of fabric with a few bold, rapid brush-strokes.

"Do you need a hand?" he called out, and Fëanáro let out a startled cry, knocking over his container of black paint that spun through the air and landed on the paved flagstones with a clatter.

"Shit!" he hissed, speeding down the pulley line so quickly it made the Loremaster feel a little queasy.  He bounced as he hit the ground, unclipped the harness and strode over, brush in hand, looking startled. "Rúmil, you scared me!"

For a moment, Rúmil stared cautiously at Fëanáro, before saying, "That thing. How did you think of it? What is it?  What does it mean?"

Fëanáro looked puzzled, and snatched a glance at it. Shrugging his shoulders, he replied, "I don't know. I don't think it means anything much. It came into my head while I was sleeping and I woke up and knew I had to paint it."

"It came into your head?"

"Yes."

"While you were sleeping?"

"Rúmil, is there something wrong?"

He opened his mouth, contemplated telling him everything, but his eyes flickered to the huge, dark, painted figure and his words died in his throat.  He couldn't tell him. He couldn't. Even in his head, it sounded stupid.

Instead, he forced a smile, and said, "No.  Nothing's wrong. How much do you have left to do?"

"I only have to paint the fish and my name. The name won't take long, but the fish might, so I'll have to hurry. There are no guards just now, but they'll be out soon. I wonder where they are?"

"You're painting fish?" Rúmil asked, with a genuine smile, wondering what Annaziel would think when she inevitably found out in the morning.

"I'm going to paint them swimming around in his hands," Fëanáro said as he appraised his work with a vague smile.

"His hands?  So you know who it is, then?"

"Oh yes," Fëanáro said, his eyes glittering strangely.

"It's Eru..."

In the silent, empty square of the Plaza of White Wings, Rúmil and Fëanáro sat, legs stretched out in front of them, contemplating the finished piece towering over them. Fëanáro had been right: the name - his name, in his letters - which blazed down the side in a bold, blood-red, did not take long.  The fish, however, which swum in a gently glowing sphere of water, had taken so long that Rúmil had seriously begun to wonder whether or not he was stuck in a dream, after all.

In all that time he had been handing up buckets and brushes to Fëanáro, not a soul had passed by. It was as though time itself had slowed to a crawl to accommodate Fëanáro's meticulous attention to detail. It was strange, and unnerving.

"The guards have still not arrived," Fëanáro ventured suddenly. "We have been sitting here for I don't even know how long and still no one has noticed."

"I know," Rúmil replied. "I don't know what's going on."

"It is strange... I wasn't even going to paint here, but my feet led me to the foot of the tower, and I looked up and saw that Annaziel - or someone else - had left the handholds in, and I thought that at least I could climb it. The next thing I knew, I had a brush in my hand and no one was stopping me."

"I wonder where they are?"

Fëanáro shrugged. "Maybe they're all inside, being drilled as to what's to happen later?"

Rúmil made a vague noise of agreement, but inside, he doubted it.

"Either way, I wouldn't complain," Fëanáro went on. "Them not being here gave me time to do it justice."  He paused to take in once again the sight of the black-eyed phantom of Eru looming over them and said, "I'm quite pleased with it, actually, and I am not often pleased. Turned out better than I thought it would. I can paint on large canvases, but this is the definitely the largest I've tackled so far. "

"I like the fish, but I'm not so sure about Eru..."

"What do you mean?"

"The eyes," Rúmil said, suppressing a shudder. "I do not like them."

"Neither do I," Fëanáro replied. "But that's what they look like in my dreams. They are frightening. You're not supposed to like them."

"At least he is smiling, I suppose..."

"He always smiles in my dreams. He scares me, but he smiles."

"You know that they will blame Annaziel for this, don't you?"

Fëanáro shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

"What do you propose to do about it?" he pressed. "I will not have my friend locked up, taking the blame for the sake of a dream and a whim."

"Then we wait until at least someone sees us."

They waited a few minutes in silence, and when still no guards appeared, Fëanáro decided to pack up.  Moving the paint-pots and shouldering the harness and ropes seemed to break the delicate spell, and the light began, slowly, to change. By the time they reached the edge of the Plaza, the smell of baking bread was rising from a nearby shop, and a  young man stood outside, dusting flour from his apron. He looked up as they walked past, raising an eyebrow and he stared at them, his wary eyes following them all the way down the narrow street until they rounded a corner and began to run.

A soft knock on the door startled king Finwë from his reading, a light thing that Indis had commissioned before they had married and had evidently left here in the palace. A rather girlish choice of text, a romance from the Hither Lands. She must have thought it not solemn enough for a Noldorin library. It made him smile.

"Come in."

The door opened a crack.  There came a hesitant cough and a rustling of skirts and, to his surprise, the princess Ingwen appeared. Alone, without any form of escort, she curtsied hurriedly, bowing her head, and said, her words coming out in a rush, "Permission to speak with you, lord Finwë. My apologies for the intrusion and the irregularity of my coming alone, but I feel I simply must apologise for my words. My mother, the Queen, forbade it, saying I had already created enough offence without my clumsy, foolish tongue adding to it, but I had to come, I simply had to..."

The princess Ingwen trailed off, the blush blooming on her cheeks betraying her embarrassment.

The king nodded and motioned for her to enter. The princess hurriedly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

"It is brave of you to defy your mother and come here alone," the king said.

"Please do not tell her," the girl urged, her eyes wide with terror. "She would be so very cross."  

"I promise I will not tell her," the king said quietly, and he wondered to see the princess Ingwen so visibly relieved. He didn't think he would ever be able to fathom Ingwë's children. They were far too obedient.

"Thank you," she breathed, with a wide smile. "I have heard the stories of your kindness, my lord Finwë, but I never thought to experience it myself."

"Yes, you have heard many stories, haven't you?" Finwë retorted, cooly.

The princess Ingwen blushed furiously and her hands flew to her mouth, reminding the king strongly of Indis.

"My lord, please do not think that my family and our court speak ill of your son," she insisted.  "They do not. Those words were my words, and you may place the blame solely upon me."

"You said those awful things about my son?"

"I did, but only because when we first met, he called me a horrible name and I have never forgotten it."

The king raised an eyebrow. He hadn't known about that.

"I see," he said, quietly. "What did my son call you?"

"He called me a... a..." she stuttered, her politeness suddenly rendering the word she tried to utter an obstacle to be overcome.

"You can say it, child. I will not scold you for repeating it here. I have likely heard much worse from Fëanáro before, so nothing you say will shock me."

The princess Ingwen nodded gratefully.  Then she cringed and whispered, "He called me a stupid, useless bitch."

Putting the book down, the king sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"When was this?"

"When we first met, lord Finwë. It was when you came to stay and you left betrothed to my aunt Indis. I remember standing behind my mother and I saw your son, Curufinwë. He was dark-haired and his eyes were so startling and he stood so stiffly I thought sometimes he had turned to stone. Then, later, when I was at my lessons, one of my mother's ladies brought him to give him something to do. I did not think it then, but my reading was slow and my letters were poor - I had only just begun forming them - and my tutor set him to copying a page from a book. 

"Within ten minutes he had done what I would have taken a whole afternoon to do - and his letters were beautiful and as nice as my tutor's. My tutor was astonished and asked what age he was. He said that he was the same age as me, and then he leaned over and looked at my ungainly letters and said that he could see why my tutor wouldn't think we were the same age. Then he asked for a book, and said that once he had the book, he would be on his way. Before he left, he turned to my tutor and said he felt sorry him having to teach such a stupid, useless bitch as me.

"I have never felt so small and stupid as I did then. I ran from the classroom and I cried and cried and would not come from my room. My mother asked me what was wrong, and I told her what Curufinwë had said. She replied that, yes, although he was rude, Curufinwë far surpassed me in accomplishments, and that perhaps I should put more effort into my studies, so that next time, he would not be able to say that of me.

"The next month, I was sent to serve the Lady Varda," she finished, smiling proudly, "I was very scared at first, and lonely because I was so young, but now my letters are beautiful too."

"I am sure they are," the king answered, with a warm smile, remembering her performance on the harp the night before and thinking she had learned more than just her letters in Varda's service. He marvelled at her determination and was sorry that he had underestimated her.

"And I accept your apology, my princess, and with your leave will add to it one of my own on behalf of my son, Fëanáro. He is very clever, but I do acknowledge that, upon occasion, he can be difficult. I regret you had to suffer his sharp tongue. That visit, I am afraid, was not a happy one for him."

"I understand, my lord," the princess Ingwen replied. "Perhaps, if he returns from his wanderings, I might meet him again one day and play for him."

"That is a wonderful idea," the king said diplomatically, admiring the girl's courage.

"I am so glad I came here to speak with you," she went on. "All the way through my performance, I was so nervous because I could see you quite clearly and I thought you were angry at me. Your guard, Erdacundo, came to our room to return Anna's doll, and I asked him if you were angry, and he smiled and said nothing, which I took to mean yes, and I could not sleep for nerves. Even thoughts of the dancing at my cousin's festival could not allay them! At first, I thought that maybe I could dance with Curufinwë, to show him that I am perfectly capable of dancing, but now that he is not here, I suppose I will have to dance with Ingwion."

"You like to dance?"

"Oh, I love to dance!" the princess said, suddenly animated. "Aunt Indis taught me when I was little and I improved my grace and my movement in service. I was going to sneak outside to the Plaza to practice, but there is a big commotion because someone has painted a long-haired man holding fish on the Chancery tower."

The king blinked twice, and made certain that he had heard the girl correctly before he said, "Someone has painted what?"

"A long-haired man holding fish," she repeated. "There is a woman who does that sort of thing sometimes - I saw her scrubbing floors as punishment not long ago, but I am not allowed to talk to her.  It is not her, though, for the guards burst into her home and found her sleeping, and a baker said he saw two men walking through the streets just before the waxing of Laurelin, carrying paint-pots. My mother said the woman's madness is catching. I am sure you could see it from your balcony, my lord. It is quite visible."

The king had to try very hard not to laugh. Ingwë had not mentioned that in his letters.  It cheered his heart a little to know that Valmar also harboured occasionally difficult and dissident citizens.

"That does sound rather interesting," he said, standing and inclining his head politely to the young princess. "I think I shall take a look."

"Thank you, my lord," princess Ingwen replied, adding, with a little curtsey, "By your leave?"

The king nodded and the girl backed out of the room, closing the door behind her so quietly he barely heard it click shut. Then he walked across the room and tapped gently on the bedroom door so as not to wake his wife, if she were sleeping.  Upon hearing no answer, he carefully stole inside, pausing a moment to take in the beautiful sight of his tiny daughter asleep in the arms of her mother, before he crept towards the balcony and opened the doors.

The difference between night and day here never ceased to catch him off guard. Outside, the heat and humidity were stifling, and he had to shield his eyes against the bright day-glare of Laurelin.  But there it was.  Just where the princess Ingwen said it would be.  A great throng of people had crowded below the tower, pointing and calling to their companions, and a row of guards stood in attendance, making sure none got too close.

The girl had described the fundamentals accurately, but had not done it true justice. It was, indeed, a long-haired man holding fish, but it was so much more than that.  Executed with a few spare bold strokes of black, the thin man towered above the assembled crowd, smiling down at the object he held in his hand: a glowing sphere of colourful, glittering fish. The only odd thing about it was the eyes.  They were black and hollow-looking, and the king thought that perhaps the artist spotted someone coming and had not the time to fill them in. How the artist even had time to paint the rest, though, was a mystery to him. It would never have happened in Tirion. But there was something else, too.  Something at the left-hand side of the...

With a gasp, the king took an involuntary step back, clutching at his heart, which hammered loudly in his chest.

He had learned them off by heart.  How could he not recognise his son's letters?

In bold, red strokes, running from top-to-bottom down the left hand side of the painted man read a name.  The name of the artist.

Fëanáro Curufinwë.

The city of Valmar was awhirl with talk of the Painted Man. That is what it was called now. Elemmírë could hardly believe it already had a name: a clandestine scrawl of a Noldorin prince. Not that the people were privy to the name of the artist. His identity was a closely-guarded secret, known to only himself and the occupants of the cold, underground room in which he sat, on the floor, staring up at a guard.

"You mean to say that you had no idea you harboured the errant Master Rúmil and prince Fëanáro?" the guard questioned, doubt etched in every line of his face. "You attended the School in Tirion, Elemmírë, at the same time as Master Rúmil. We know you have visited him in Tirion and at Tol Eressëa. Do you expect us to believe that you did not know that they stayed with you? We have witnesses who have all claimed they directed two Noldor to your home, and that they asked for you specifically."

"Of course I knew it was Rúmil," Elemmírë answered calmly, his arms folded as he stared coolly at the guard. It was not the first time he had been formally cross-examined, but having the hard eyes of the imposing Noldóran glaring at him from the back of the room brought a novel edge to proceedings. Rúmil had always fiercely maintained that king Finwë was a man, ‘a man like any other'. Over wine, and safe in the School, he had laughed and agreed, but only now did Elemmírë truly understand Rúmil's courage in defying him. Elemmírë was not his subject, but still... It was nerve-wracking.

"And you did not recognise his majesty's son?"

"Would you?" Elemmírë retorted. "I do not regularly frequent the palace at Tirion. I would not recognise him from any other Noldo. I have never laid eyes on prince Fëanáro."

"Until yesterday."

Elemmírë smiled.

"Yes, until yesterday."

"And you found nothing strange in the fact they looked nothing alike?"

"No, I did not," Elemmírë answered, marvelling at the stupidity of the man's question. "They fed me some cock-and-bull story. Rúmil introduced the boy as Curvo - strange to learn that he is still a boy, I honestly thought he was older - and their story was that the prince was his nephew.  I know Rúmil has a sister and that she is married, so I didn't question it.  My wife did, but Rúmil, as ever, managed to wriggle out of it."

"Where are they now?" came king Finwë's voice, cutting through the guard's ineffectual questioning and getting straight to the heart of the matter. Considering his son was a runaway and now wanted for defacement by the Vanyarin authorities (ha, as if a prince would ever be arrested!) his son's whereabouts was undoubtedly what the Noldóran wanted to know most.

Elemmírë closed his eyes and took a deep breath, considering the matter.

He cast his mind back to last night, when he and Annaziel were woken by Rúmil banging on their bedroom door. When he opened it, drowsy and irritated, he was confronted by a fully-dressed Rúmil, his face covered in paint and his pack shouldered, as though he were ready to leave.

"Elemmírë, I am sorry," Rúmil had said urgently, grasping him by the forearm in a familiar friend's embrace, "I am so, so sorry..."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" he had queried, rubbing his eyes, his mind still sleep-fogged. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes. We have to. Immediately. Fëanáro took a great measure of inspiration from Annaziel and has painted something on an inappropriate canvas-"

His heart sinking, Elemmírë remembered heaving a sigh. Curse them, he had thought. Curse Rúmil and his idiot nephew. They'll come for her. They'll come for her again and they'll take her away.

"They will be round here in moments. She's only just got out!"

"I know. But we have been seen. They will not be able to blame Annaziel. I wanted to warn you so you are not caught unawares when they come battering your door down."

Rúmil trailed off a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He looked tired. Then he looked up and fixed Elemmírë with a desperate, pleading look he had never before seen his friend wear.

"Please, Elemmírë, don't tell them anything," Rúmil had begged. "I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't. I just can't. If they ask where we are going, don't say a thing."

"As if I would say a word to them," Elemmírë had replied scornfully, then adding, "I promise you they will not get anything from me."

"Thank you..." Rúmil had said, with a relieved smile. "You have no idea what this means to me. I promise you, one day, I will repay your kindness. I must go now, but please, please remember that I am sorry..."

Elemmírë had thought that Rúmil was merely trying to protect the boy, whom he thought at the time to be his nephew, that perhaps he had pressed Quennar to take him as his assistant, and that now the boy was wanted for defacement, the discovery would reflect badly upon Rúmil, his sister and the School, and that they were trying to steal away in the night without being caught.

He never imagined the reality would have been so shocking.

Rúmil, having abandoned his post at the School, without so much as a word, to flee across Aman with the son of the high king of the Noldor! The revelation, when the guard had let it slip only moments ago, had boggled his mind. Why, he had thought? Why? It beggared belief! Why would Rúmil go through all that trouble? The boy  had gone wandering before, he had been told, so what was the purpose in accompanying him? It seemed  that the young prince Fëanáro was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

Elemmírë's mind furnished him with many theories: each more bizarre and ridiculous than the last. But something told him that, even though to him it was utterly mad, Rúmil must have had a reason. Elemmírë had known him long enough to know that Rúmil did nothing without reason. The wretched, pleading look on his face when Rúmil barged into his bedroom, interrupting his sleep, was not merely a plea not to tell. It was almost as though Rúmil desperately wanted him to understand.

Rúmil, you imbecile, what in the name of the stars are you up to?

Smiling, he shook his head and looked up to meet the piercing gaze of the Noldorin king, and said, without a flicker of hesitation, "I don't know where they are going, your majesty. They told me nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Three hours later, he was released without charge.

Annaziel was waiting for him by the bottom of the palace steps.  Upon spotting him, she flew towards him and crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering him with kisses, which he returned in earnest. For a long, moment, they stayed like that, locked in a firm embrace, before Elemmírë pulled back a little, observing his wife's round, smiling face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She said, "I knew they looked nothing alike."

"You did say that," Elemmírë conceded.  "I wish I had listened."

"Are you angry at Rúmil?"

"I should be, but I'm not.  Not really..."

"I heard Rúmil say last night that he swore to make it up to us. You can tell him I want a boat and that we will keep it in Tol Eressëa. I will sail it in the shallows and watch the fish swim and the birds dive, and I will paint it blue and call it The Painted Man."

"Yes, I heard that is the unofficial name for it," Elemmírë mused. "Have you seen it?"

"I have. I have been sitting looking at it, waiting for you to come out. I love it. It's beautiful and impossible and frightening and odd and I want it to stay there forever."

"It's on the chancery tower, isn't it?"

"You can see it from here. Turn around."

Elemmírë turned. His eyes widened and his heart gave a little lurch. He didn't know why, but he hadn't been expecting very much. A crude sketch, maybe, an outline, that would have befitted a work done in secret and in haste. Not this...

"How did he do it?" Elemmírë wondered aloud, scratching his head, genuinely perplexed.

"I don't know," Annaziel replied, wrapping a comforting arm around his waist. "Best not to think about it. Just appreciate it while it's still here. They'll be painting over it - as soon as they can get anywhere near it, that is. Everyone seems to like it..."

"Did you tell them anything?"

"I never said a thing. King Finwë looked very sad, though. I felt bad. I saw him staring out the window as I left. It seemed like he wanted to cry. I wonder why prince Fëanáro wants to run away all the time?"

"Perhaps Rúmil knows, and that is the reason why he is with him?"

 "I hope so," Annaziel said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "It's all very strange, though, don't you think?"

Looking out across the plaza at the impossible Painted Man, who held in his thin hands a bright ball teeming with light and life and colour, he thought of Rúmil and his secrets and of prince Fëanáro and his unnatural talent, and privately agreed with Annaziel, wagering that they did not know the half of it.

Probably never would.

Chapter End Notes

Names:

All except Elemmírë and Ingwion courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator (http : / / elffetish . com / names . html)

Culumambor, the orange-growing region - orange trees.

Lempë leaf - five leaf (in reference to the familiar five-pronged leaf.)

Mísemir, the quiet apprentice stone-mason with the honey-cakes - grey jewel.

Elemmírë, the Vanyarin writer who wrote a lament for the Two Trees.

Annaziel, the artist - gift-garlanded

Nénu, the Vanyarin queen - waterlily

Ingwen, Ingwë's eldest daughter - first + female suffix

Anna, Ingwë's youngest daughter - gift

Notes:

Strictly speaking Annaziel's name should read Annariel, but I had a go at Vanyarizing it by changing the r to a z. If it's totally wrong, I'll change it. I didn't Vanyarize Elemmírë because, since he is a Vanya and his name is recorded in that form, I didn't want to mess with it. Also, the Tolkien-verse totally had lawyers. Darth Fingon found the Sindarin word for it, and you can find it too, in the article 'Twenty-Two Words You Never Thought Tolkien Would Provide'. Since a Quenya word for 'legal action' exists, I'm just assuming there were also a few laywers in Aman. Even in paradise, sometimes elves did bad stuff and pissed each other off.

Also, I'm not sure yet whether Rúmil is a bad influence or an enabler. Maybe a bit of both?

Thanks:

Thanks go out to Blossom for the review of chapter five.  You are too cool. :)

Peculiar

The Lightless Shore

“My son, perhaps you could try to cheer Finwë by engaging him in a little game of chess?”

Those were his father’s words, uttered in a furtive whisper over his shoulder. Right away, Ingwion nodded and obeyed, excusing himself from conversation with his mother and aunt, because his father’s words were troubled. Ingwion knew this because his father had forgotten himself and had called the Noldóran by his name and not his title.

Crossing the drawing room, he approached king Finwë, who sat by the fire on a chaise longue, his back turned to him. He coughed politely, and the king turned, fixing him with an inquiring look.

“Yes?”

Suddenly nervous, Ingwion thrust his hands behind his back and wrung them tight together so that king Finwë could not see them shake, and ventured, “I wondered if your Majesty would like to play a game with me?”

And so he found himself staring across a chequered board at king Finwë, the Noldóran’s cool grey eyes meticulously scanning his formation, searching for a weakness in his defence. Occasionally, king Finwë would pause, as though considering something, and then would look up with a satisfied smile, his eyes alight with secret knowledge which seemed to say, “I know something you do not.” Ingwion was certain in that moment that king Finwë knew many things he did not and that his eyes could see right through him if they wanted to.

King Finwë’s eyes were odd to Ingwion. Very odd. They were not a colour he saw often, and he wondered what his aunt Indis saw in them. They were not the warm blue colour of that belonging to his family, or even the warm, dark amber-browns of that of most of his people, but the grey of an angry sky before a storm, like when he went to Alqualondë on a visit and first saw lightning.

He did not know why, but sometimes he was a little afraid of the Noldorin king. Ingwion knew that it was silly, knew that king Finwë was very well-mannered and courteous, taking care to speak to and show extra kindness and patience to those of lower status who would perhaps be awed by him. He knew that king Finwë was funny, because he often made his father laugh and his father was quite serious and did not laugh that much. He knew also that king Finwë was forgiving because his sister had told him all about what had happened when she went secretly to see the king in his chambers (and Ingwion was not sure he would have forgiven his sister for saying something about him like she had said of Curufinwë, even though Curufinwë deserved it.)

Despite all those positive qualities, however, there was one king Finwë possessed which always unnerved Ingwion. It was the Noldóran’s ability to speak and smile oh-so-very calmly, while behind his eyes it was clear he was thinking about something else entirely; that he was calculating, considering very carefully his next move. To Ingwion, it seemed that king Finwë was always playing chess. 

He had mentioned this to his father one day, not long after the king had left betrothed to his aunt Indis, and his father had replied, “King Finwë is cleverer than most. Sometimes he forgets to hide it.”  Then Ingwion had wondered aloud, firstly, why anyone would want to hide cleverness, and secondly, why anyone would want to marry someone who was forever engaged in a perpetual game of chess, for it would always feel like you were ten steps behind them. His father had to think about that one for a moment, then said, “Sometimes it’s easier to hide your cleverness than to deal with it. And some people like chess.” 

“Aunt Indis doesn’t,” was his immediate reply, to which his father countered with, “Some people, though they cannot play themselves, admire those with skill enough to play as well as king Finwë.”

King Finwë was clever.  Far cleverer than his father, he knew that. If there were a point of discussion in which knowledge of an esoteric fact escaped them, with recourse to king Finwë, the fact would trip easily and cheerfully from his tongue and the matter would be settled and a new topic would rise to take its place. The Noldor were clever, generally, at least about something in their lives, whether it was building or farming or crafting  or kinging. Kinging? Was that even the right word for it?  King Finwë would have known, but Ingwion did not want to ask and look foolish doing so.

There was a movement at the end of the board, and Ingwion flinched as king Finwë’s hand darted out and shifted his knight into position alongside one of Ingwion’s few remaining pawns. Then the king sat back in his chair and smiled a sly, enigmatic smile that startled him because it reminded him so much of Curufinwë.

“Your move, Ingwion.”

He had played Curufinwë at chess only once. It was during the same long, confusing week that had seen his aunt promised to the Noldorin king and the same week that the Noldorin king’s son had called his kind and gentle sister a useless bitch (the revelation of which had made him furious – he was angry Ingwen had not told him before.)

In order to amuse Curufinwë, who had been found curled up in a ball on the ground in a distant corner of the gardens, the chess board was brought out and Ingwion had been forced into a chair and told to play. Curufinwë’s face hadn’t even been washed. Smudges of dirt had marred his pale skin and blades of grass had caught in his hair and had stained his plain clothes with ugly, green smears. Ingwion remembered thinking that if his mother had seen the state Curufinwë was in, she’d have had a fit! But as he had been busy considering Curufinwë’s appearance, the other boy had swiftly and silently set up the board and was watching him, waiting for him to realise he wished to begin. With a start, he had gathered up his pieces, his haste rendering his hands clumsy as they clattered his players into place.

“You will not win,” Curufinwë had said, tonelessly, as he made his first move, not giving Ingwion a second to think.

And he had not.  Not once.

They had played ten brutally quick games, and each time Curufinwë had ruthlessly and systematically destroyed Ingwion’s every attempt to oppose him. At the end of the tenth game, by which point Ingwion had begun to feel embarrassed and frustrated (which only worsened his strategy) Curufinwë had sighed, pushed back his chair and said, “I think we’re done here...”

Ingwion stared at the board, contemplating the game in front of him, racking his brain trying to find out what was making king Finwë smile like that. Was it the pawn? Was king Finwë going to take it with a view to sacrificing the knight to let his priest take the tower? Or was it a feint disguising how close his priest was to his own—?

And he saw it. His stomach gave a disappointed lurch. King Finwë’s knight and the priest were in range of his king. Checkmate. He sighed, hoping he didn’t look as despondent as he felt while inside his heart crushed under the weight of frustration. Then king Finwë said something that made his insides wrench with embarrassment.

“I think we’re done here. Thank you, Ingwion, for a most entertaining diversion. I cannot tell you how nice it is to win for a change.”

“Do you play your son often?” he asked hollowly, knowing to whom king Finwë referred.

“Of late, less often,” the king answered, choosing his words carefully, “but before I married your aunt, we would play at least twice a week.”

“Did you ever win?”

“On occasion, yes,” the king replied, with the ghost of a smile. “Our games are always hard-fought and hard-won. I find it is the one thing in which I can push him to the very edge of his talent, and you may be assured I will cling to it until the very hour Arda is broken and remade.”

Ingwion let slip a short laugh at the king’s remark. The king was good enough even to butt horns with Curufinwë. It was stupid of him, really, to have expected to beat someone who was always playing chess. But still...

“I propose we set aside the board for now, at least in the context of competition,” king Finwë ventured. “You have the beginnings of a fine game within you, but it will need to be drawn out. How about I teach you what little I know, so that when next you face my son across the board you will not lose ten games to none?”

He knew.  The king knew. He hadn’t told anyone, yet somehow he knew. Ingwion’s face burned with shame.

“I only know because Fëanáro came breezing into my chambers and recounted the entire sorry ordeal, move by move,” the king said, gently. “To be honest, it struck me as rather unfair, like a guard clanking around with mail and plates and armed with a club engaging a baker in a duel.”

“I am a baker to his trained soldier,” Ingwion said morosely, “and all I can do is throw buns at him and watch them bounce off his helm while he cuts me to pieces.”

It was a silly thing to have said, and the king’s mouth twitched a little, as though he wanted to laugh, but to his credit, he did not.

“Well, with my help, maybe you can stuff a little fluxweed in the buns, and distract him long enough to work towards something profitable,” the king said, slyly. “What say you, Ingwion?”

Staring into the clever, grey eyes of the Noldorin king, Ingwion didn’t think for one moment that he’d ever be able to beat Curufinwë, or even king Finwë himself, but that the king offered at all caused a tiny, furtive ray of hope to pierce his despondent heart.

But why would he offer?  Why would he want his son at a disadvantage? Had he meant it when he said he thought match unfair, or was he angry with Curufinwë?

He wasn’t supposed to know, but Ingwen had overheard a conversation between his mother and aunt Indis and told him that it was Curufinwë who was responsible for the Painted Man, and not only that, but he had also run away in the company of a Loremaster of the School in Tirion, who was loyal to Queen Míriel, and who hated king Finwë and his aunt.

Apparently, Curufinwë often ran away. If that was the case, he imagined king Finwë would have been angry.  If it had been him, his mother and father would have been furious! He wondered why, and also how he could do it, for he was certain the guards would catch him within the hour if he ever dared attempt an escape.

He wondered where Curufinwë was now and what he was doing.  He wondered if he even knew about his sister.

He wondered, too, about king Finwë and how he felt.  Surely he must have been sad that Curufinwë kept running away and would want to try and help him?

Or maybe that was the problem.

Maybe king Finwë wasn’t angry at all.  Maybe he wanted to help him because he could no longer help his son.

Perhaps, even though the king could play very good chess, like him, he was still always running ten steps behind.

The thought made him sad.

oOo

Eight days up front in the mail cart, helping haul sacks of parcels and supplies to various backwaters along the foothills of the western Pelóri and anyone would have been glad for the bed and board at Mettanúmen. Rúmil hadn’t been expecting pay for the work, so he had been pleasantly surprised when Norno, the head coachman, knocked on his door in the morning while he was working and handed him twenty pieces of silver, ten each for him and Fëanáro.

Not that there was anything to do with the money around here. Mettanúmen was the last stop on the western edge of Aman; the furthest outpost. Any further and you would have had to mount an expedition over the Pelóri. He did not know how Cullo and Calassë could stand living here. Aside from their rather impressive herd of longhorns, who grazed freely upon the miles and miles of frozen grass, they relied entirely on the mail cart and other supply trains to survive.

Not to mention the cold. Stars, it was cold here. He’d opened the sash window and the shutters to let a bit of air in this morning and had immediately regretted it, the icy blast of wind that had rushed in chilling his bones with a tang of frost on it that stung his nose.

It seemed that warmth did not belong this far north. It was so cold and grey that Laurelin looked out of place, the sky like a bruise with angry grey clouds broken here and there with sparse patches of sickly yellow where the clouds parted. The outpost of Mettanúmen looked far better when they had arrived last night when Telperion’s cold sheen had complemented the frost-dusted grass and bare trees.

It seemed sometimes to Rúmil that even light struggled to gain a foothold as well. Jammed up close to the western edge of the Pelóri, as they were, Mettanúmen was so far west it seemed to stretch the boundaries of Ezellohar. At the right time of day, Cullo had said, you could see hints of the true darkness that lay beyond the mountains.

They were also very close to the sea, but Rúmil wouldn’t have thought it unless he’d been told. He thought it odd to be so close to the sea but not be able to see it. He could hear it and smell it, distant on the wind, but the mountains stood in the way, impassive and unyielding. Here, more than anywhere else in Aman, the Pelóri felt like a cage. There were no passes through like the Calacirya anywhere on the western coast, and it was impossible to sail round because Ulmo forbade it. Few had managed to scale the western peaks – reaching the top and no further – and what they reported was a long expanse of nothingness: true darkness, countless stars, and a lightless shore upon which no life could be found.

The thought of scaling the western Pelóri was horrifying, but still... he desperately wanted to see beyond them. Perhaps it would be similar to what their ancestors would have seen when they awoke upon the banks of Cuiviénen...

Bang!

Rúmil started as the door clattered open and Fëanáro backed through it, a mug of hot tea in each hand. “Tea, Rúmil!” he said urgently. “Take it out my hands, quick! I spilled some coming up the stairs.”

“Thank you very much,” he said, gratefully, relieving Fëanáro of his burden and feeling the warmth spread through his chilled fingers. “How did the shoeing go?”

“Not as bad as I thought,” Fëanáro said, as he wiped his hands on his trousers. “Getting them into the frame was the hardest part – especially the older ones because they knew what was coming. I think I’m getting the hang of it now. Norno said if I can shoe a longhorn, then I can shoe a horse no bother, though I don’t know about that. You don’t have the frame to protect you from a horse kick. But then I suppose if a longhorn wanted to kick you, then the frame wouldn’t matter all that much. They only let me do the docile ones, anyway. How’s the tea?”

“Pleasant, thank you. What’s in it? It tastes a little different today.”

“You can thank me for it,” Norno’s voice called out as he clomped into the room, boots dripping. “I nicked a bit of spice from the delivery to Valmar. Perks of the job. You got those letters, by the way? I’ll load them into the cart while I remember.”

“They’re stacked on the desk,” Rúmil said, stretching across the bed to grab the neatly tied pile of letters he had written out for Cullo and Calassë in thanks for generously permitting two unannounced, extra bodies into their home.

“Is there anything else we can do?” Fëanáro asked, as Norno made to head outside again.

“Don’t think so, Curvo. Not Unless Cullo and Calassë have something that wants doing.”

“Then is there anything else we can do that is not a domestic chore of some kind?” Fëanáro pressed. “Anything of interest round here that would be worth a walk? I don’t mean to sound like I have ants up my arse, but if I have to stay in and play another game of chess, I think I might go mad.”

“You could always try finding a way over the mountains? That’s always a favourite of the folks who come to stay here.”

“We don’t have any climbing gear, Norno. It’s not going to happen,” Rúmil said waspishly, wanting to nip that particular idea in the bud before Fëanáro had the chance to latch onto it.

“Well, I suppose there’re a couple of things some strange folk might call interesting,” Norno mused, scratching his chin in contemplation. “Mandos ain’t far from here. You could always go poking about, if you had a mind.”

Rúmil felt a sudden frisson of excitement. “Mandos?” he asked eagerly.  “Where?”

“Due west,” Norno replied. “Just keep walking and you’ll get there eventually.”

“Could the trip be made in a day?” Fëanáro asked.

“Should think so.”

“What I really meant was, could someone in Rúmil’s condition make it in a day?”

“Course! It’s really not that far,” Norno said, as Fëanáro laughed and ducked the pillow Rúmil sent flying at his head. “Why do you want to go there, though? Awful place. Gives me the shivers.” 

“Have you been?”

“Yep. Ómandil – that’s the man who trained me to drive, by the way – dragged me there when I first started out. Bastard. Still gives me chills thinking about it.”

“What’s it like?”

“You’ll know when you get there. Of course you can’t see Mandos proper, none of the living can, but there’s a stone circle – that’s to mark it so’s folk don’t go tramping in by accident, not that you could, though, I’d wager.

“Anyway, Ómandil thought it’d be a good idea to trip me up and shove me in the circle. Thought it was pretty damned funny ‘til I said I saw something moving in the arch in the centre and he near shat himself.”

“You saw something? Really?” Fëanáro asked, arms folded, looking sceptical.

“I bloody well did, no matter how much Ómandil keeps telling me I’m talking out my arse! When he shoved me, I stumbled for a bit, fell flat on my face, got a mouthful of dirt for my trouble, looked up and I was right in front of it. There was a flicker and then it was like... like a dark, lump turned in the air. More than seeing anything, though, I felt like there was something there. It wasn’t angry, or frightened, or happy or anything. It was just there. Watching me.”

“Of course...”

“You can doubt me, Curvo, but that’s what I saw,” Norno said with a snort, then adding, “Well, if you’re both intent on it, then good luck to you, but I ain’t coming with you. Make sure you get back in one piece. I wouldn’t mind the company on the way to way back to Tirion, though not if you’re going to bring back any of the disembodied with you, haha! Now, I’m going to load these letters before I forget. If you’re heading off, make sure you wrap up warm and I’ll see you when you get back.”

And with a wave, the driver turned and clomped out the room and down the stairs, leaving a trail of watery boot-prints in his wake.

Rúmil knew Norno was joking about the last part, but still... he felt an odd flutter of nerves. He looked over at Fëanáro, whose eyes were glittering strangely, and he knew that Fëanáro was intent upon going.

“Are you coming?” Fëanáro asked.

Rúmil felt a brief moment’s hesitation, as though it felt like something he shouldn’t be doing, before his rational mind told him to stop being so foolish. Rúmil? Missing out on Mandos, the prize that had eluded him for so long because of a mail-cart driver’s tall tales? The thought was abhorrent and ridiculous.

Therefore, with a wide smile full of bravado, he leaned forward and said to Fëanáro, “I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

oOo

It was getting more and more difficult to tell whether they were heading due west, as a chilly fog had risen, rolling down from the peaks of the Pelóri to impede their swift march across the bare foothills.  Rúmil was glad he had brought a scarf and a hood, as the frosty air was merciless, seizing and gnawing upon any vulnerable patch of exposed skin. Giving it a tug, he pulled the scarf further up and over his nose, so only his eyes peeked out.

As ever, Fëanáro walked ahead, a ghostly shadow in the fog, pressing ever onward.

It really was getting difficult to see, more difficult by the second.  If they didn’t find it soon, they would have to turn back.

“Fëanáro!” he called out, his voice strangely muffled. “If we do not come across it in the next five minutes, we are turning back.  I’m not getting stranded out here. Not on a day like this.”

“It should be here,” Fëanáro insisted, without turning round. “We have walked due west and are on the foothills. We are nearly on the Pelóri! It won’t be far...”

“I mean it,” Rúmil pressed.  “Five minutes and no more!  I can already feel my scarf freezing fast to my face. If we get stranded here, it’s probably a mercy we’re not far from Mandos, as our fëa won’t have far to go once the frost ousts them for our bodies—Argh!”

Fëanáro had stopped dead in front on him, and Rúmil collided with his pack and bounced off it.

“Watch where you’re going!” he snapped. “If you’re going to stop like that—!”

“It’s there,” Fëanáro said, cutting him off. “Right there, off to the left. Can you see it?”

Fëanáro pointed and Rúmil followed the direction of his gesture.  At first he couldn’t see anything for the wretched fog. Then, gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he began to pick out the tops of a few dark, brooding, monolithic shapes.

His heart raced with excitement.

Mandos... at last!

“Come on, let’s go,” Fëanáro said, his eager eyes alight, before taking off at a run.

Huffing and puffing, Rúmil followed after, angrily calling out at him to wait, but to no avail.

“Rúmil, this is it! This is it!” he heard Fëanáro call out.  “Come quickly!”

There was a short but steep incline to negotiate before the land dipped suddenly and revealed exactly what Norno had described to him. Stopping at the top to catch his breath, he took in the sight of it. Two large stone circles, one enclosing the other, were wreathed in an abjuring mist that looked almost alive as it curled around the feet of the ancient standing stones. At their centre stood a circular dias upon which a black arch rested, thin and crabbed and looking old. Very old. As though it were rough-hewn from a single massive piece of rock long before their people were even a thought of the Valar. No, it was probably much older than that, he told himself. Older than starlight. As old as Mandos. Even Eru himself.

He took a step back, suddenly afraid but not knowing why.

I don’t want to go...

Then Fëanáro’s voice cut though the air. “Aren’t you coming? There are carvings on these rocks. If we’d thought, we could’ve brought paper and wax and made rubbings of them. I think I might have a roll and some charcoal somewhere—” He trailed off, his keen eyes searching Rúmil’s face.  Then he smiled and said, “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“I am not...”

“You are. You don’t even need to pull your scarf down for me to tell.  I can tell by your eyes. Norno’s tall tales have got to you—”

“I am not,” he hissed, pride overcoming his fear as he picked himself up and swept past Fëanáro, down the banking and towards the outer ring.

But for all his bravado, when he passed between the first set of stones, he thought he heard a sound like that of a whisper – a clutch of voices muttering together – and his heart began to race.

“Go away...” he mumbled, under his breath, as Fëanáro rummaged in his pack a few paces away,  hauling out a roll of paper and a broken shard of charcoal.

“This’ll have to do,” he said briskly.  “Can you hold the top half of this while I take a rubbing of these carvings? The symbols are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.  I’d like to paint them into my notebook later, if I have the time.”

“Fine,” Rúmil huffed, reluctantly slapping the paper onto the rock and pinning it there with one hand as Fëanáro set to work.

“You should see your face right now,” Fëanáro said with a grin, his hands already covered in charcoal dust. “You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp.”

“You should see yours,” Rúmil retorted. “Your cheeks are so red with cold it looks like someone’s given them a good, hard slap.”

“I thought you wanted to come?”

“I did!”

“But now that you’re here, you’re scared of the dead?”

“I am not scared of the dead, alright?” Rúmil hissed, his eyes flashing. “There is nothing here.  Nothing! All we are doing is hanging around a bunch of old rocks in the freezing cold.  I do confess I thought I heard a whisper when I first passed through the stones, but it was probably the wind – even though I have felt not a trace of it – and I have heard nothing since that initial panic over what I presumed was a whisper.  It was all in my mind, Fëanáro!  All in my mind, and I know you were going to say it! For why would the dead even whisper?  They have nothing to whisper with—”

It was in that moment Rúmil chose to glance around and saw something that almost made his heart stop in terror.

Letting out a piercing shriek that shattered the eerie quiet of the circle, he almost ripped Fëanáro’s paper in two in his frantic scrabble to dive behind the stone.

“W-WHAT IS THAT?  WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY IS THAT?”

Fëanáro, who had dropped his charcoal and paper to the ground in surprise, fixed him with a steely glare.

“I swear, Rúmil, if you are trying to scare me—”

“F- Fëanáro, come away... turn round...” Rúmil begged, reaching out and grabbing Fëanáro’s cloak with shaking hands.

“What the—?” Fëanáro exclaimed, batting away Rúmil’s hand with a indignant snort.  “Honestly, Rúmil I don’t know what you’re thinking but I expected better—”

“There is someone in the arch, Fëanáro!” he choked out. “There, right there!”

With a put-upon sigh, Fëanáro whipped round. The impatient expression he wore vanished instantly, replaced by one of open-mouthed shock.

In the middle of the ancient archway, someone was watching them.

It was a man, tall and thin with long, trailing black hair. He leant casually against one of the rough supporting piers of the arch, and Rúmil was sure he was smiling.

“Rúmil... how long has he been there?” he heard Fëanáro whisper.

“I don’t know!” Rúmil hissed, frantically. “I just looked up and he was there!”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“He has a body...”

“He might be undead?”

“Why would an undead be here in Mandos?”

Then a voice crept into Rúmil’s mind, a soft, low voice that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It said, “I am not dead.  And don’t you know it’s rude to talk about others, especially when they are in earshot?”

Rúmil flinched, looking around, terrified, trying to figure out where the voice had come from. Was that the strange man’s voice? His nails dug into the cold stone, clutching at it like a lifeline.

“...then are you a Maia?” he heard Fëanáro venture carefully, which meant that he had heard the voice too.

“Perhaps...” it replied, evasively.  “Come closer, so I might know to whom I speak.”

Fëanáro stepped forward and Rúmil grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back.

“Don’t!” he pleaded, his eyes wide and desperate. “You don’t know what it is! It could be a foul wraith of Utumno, for all you know.”

“Now you are being rude,” the voice remonstrated, in a much colder tone. “And needlessly. You need not fear.  The residents of the Halls of Námo Mandos cannot move beyond these stones. This is the entrance, you see,” the voice said, as the man in the archway patted the rough black arch stones that marked the limits of his power.

“Who are you?” Fëanáro demanded, his voice ringing out bright and clear through the fog.  “Are you Mandos?”

There was a pause before it answered.  Then the voice said,

“I am a resident.”

“You claim to be resident, yet you are not dead?”

“Correct.”

“You lie.”

“I do not.”

“Then you are Maia.”

“I am not.”

“Then who are you?”

“If you come closer and speak to me properly, I might tell you. I despise rudeness and being spoken to as though I am some sort of disgusting worm to be kept at arm’s length.”

Another more considered pause, then it added,

“And I also despise cowardice.”

With a snort, Fëanáro squared his shoulders and Rúmil watched in agitation as he marched determinedly through the stones towards the stranger.  In desperation, he tried to call him back, but found to his horror that his throat had closed.

Panicking, he tried speak, but something was stopping him.

Then the voice came again.

This time, it sounded much nastier.

“Your young friend is braver than you. If you will not walk, then I will make you.”

Then he felt a horrible sensation, as though something lithe and muscular were coiling around his chest, and before he knew it, he was jerked forward so rapidly he was lifted clean off his feet and passed Fëanáro in seconds, the tips of his toes scraping along the frozen ground as was compelled by an unseen force towards the centre of the circle...

“RÚMIL! RÚMIL, HOLD ON!” he heard Fëanáro shout, and the crunch, crunch, crunching of the boy’s pace quickening as he sprinted to his aid.

... and before he knew it, he had drawn level with the dais, and the force that had supported him gave way. His trailing feet caught the edge of the platform and threw him hard on his knees to the ground.

Suppressing the awful jags of pain that shot through his knees, he gritted his teeth and looked up through watery eyes.

He had fallen upon the dais, and he could see the man clearly now. He was no longer leaning casually upon the pillar, but stood back a little on the other side of the arch. It was bizarre, because although Rúmil could see right through the arch to the other side, it was equally clear that had he walked round the other side to meet the man, right at that moment, he would have seen nothing but the grass and the empty grey sky and the stones stood still like sentinels.

It was as though within the arch, the laws of Arda did not apply. Perspective warped: the man, standing at the other side of the archway, but also obvious that he was somewhere else completely, in some cold, colourless and grey place far beyond their perception, trying his hardest to push into their world of colour and life.

Then Rúmil noticed something that made his blood run cold and left him in no doubt as to whom he spoke.

There were chains. Chains everywhere. Around the thin man’s wrists, around his neck, around his chest and ankles. Chains that trailed out behind the tattered remnants of once splendid purple robes that stretched and faded into a far off place he could not see.

He flinched as he felt Fëanáro’s hand land heavily on his shoulder.

“Rúmil, are you alright?”

“Stay back,” he croaked. “Get away from here!” Then, clearing his throat, he addressed the stranger, trying hard to keep panic from colouring his tone.

“I know who you are,” he said, in a small voice. “You are Melkor.”

The man in the arch’s smile was sickle sharp.

“Correct,” he replied.

For the first time in his life, Rúmil looked, aghast, upon the Lord of Utumno.

He was tall – far too tall – with thin, jet black hair rippling down his back like a slick of oil. And thin – so thin Rúmil could see spidery traces of blue veins underneath his bone-white skin, and his eyes were like ice.  It seemed everything about him was designed to set one on edge. Too tall. Too thin. His features too sharp, his fingers too long and brittle and tapered at the ends in perfectly manicured points. And he was calm. So very calm. But his calm was not that of Manwë Súlimo, who loved all life on Arda, but that born of serene indifference. Melkor did not care for life. Rúmil knew that as soon as he saw the way the Vala watched him, looking down his nose at him, regarding Rúmil as one would a curious insect.

“Then what do you want with us, Vala?” Fëanáro demanded, with a hard and insolent edge to his tone. “We do not consort with criminals.”

The edges of Melkor’s bloodless lips twitched.

“To talk, young one,” came his reply, with a casual wave of a hand, “there was no need to have wielded such distasteful words.  I find the company in our brother Námo’s home increasingly unbearable, you see, and I felt you drawing near. I do not often sense the living within Mandos, therefore you piqued my curiosity.

“So tell me, young one,” the Vala went on, casting a sidelong glance at Fëanáro, who coolly returned his gaze, “why is your fëa so disgustingly loud? It screams and screams and screams without ceasing. It is worse than the dead.”

At that remark, Fëanáro’s hard resolve faltered.

“What do you mean, it is worse than the dead?” he retorted, uncertainly. “What are you talking about?”

“Why, can’t you hear them?” Melkor said, turning round and peering over his shoulder at something perhaps that stirred in the Halls. Rúmil shivered. The dead were so close...

“I cannot.”

“I am surprised,” the Vala went on. “Our brother’s Halls are growing by the hour as more and more suffer and die overseas. They weep. Some are deranged. Twisted. They make lots of noise; mindless, snarling, ugly beasts—”

“The dead cannot scream,” Fëanáro said curtly, his earlier bravado all but dissipated, replaced by a defensive sort of anger. It was clear the Vala had gotten under his skin, and Rúmil knew why, though he hoped against hope that Melkor did not.

“You think so, young one?”

“How do you know?” Fëanáro demanded, his eyes flashing. “Tell me how you know!”

“I am a Vala. I am Melkor, and I know many things,” the Vala replied smoothly.

Then Melkor turned his flinty gaze again upon Fëanáro and said, “but then, you know who I am. I would like to know who you are. I find you incredibly rude, not only in your intrusion upon my solitude, but in the foul words you have spoken against me and in your insolent demands of my knowledge...”

With a clinking of chains, Melkor stepped forward.

And to his horror, Rúmil suddenly found he could not move. Every part of him was rigid, weighed down as though he himself were loaded with chains. His jaw locked so tightly he felt his teeth cracking, and he began to shake uncontrollably as he watched Melkor approach Fëanáro, whose feet were also rooted fast to the ground.

“You demand my name, young one,” Melkor whispered, the face he wore a mask stretched in a rictus grin as he dragged his impossibly heavy chains across the stone dais, “but you have not offered me the courtesy of yours, and your silence will not protect you.  I know for a fact that your pathetic, shuddering friend is Rúmil, a Loremaster of the School in Tirion. Mooching like a dog around the entrance to our brother’s domain, waiting to devour the scraps he hopes he will cast you. Pathetic. And you, you with the shrieking, clamouring fëa—”

Melkor stopped short. His cold eyes widened.  Then...

“Wait... I know you,” the Vala muttered, almost absently, as he began again to approach the young prince, though this time with an odd expression, one almost curious.

“Yes... it is you,” Melkor said, coming to rest with a heavy clank of metal right in front of Fëanáro, who looked up at him, rooted to the spot but his eyes burning with anger. “You are Curufinwë Fëanáro.”

“Why does your fëa call to me?” Melkor said faintly, almost to himself, as he reached out and took between his spider-like fingers a lock of Fëanáro’s hair, which he inspected closely. “Why?”

Melkor’s hand then slipped and drifted down to rest upon Fëanáro’s chest.

The Vala’s eyes grew wide and he flinched, as though stung by something, and his face he wore twisted for the briefest of moments into an ugly sneer.

Then, slowly, Melkor leaned into Fëanáro’s ear and said, without tone, “I will tell you this, and you will listen. You are like me, Curufinwë Fëanáro. The others, they do not understand your mind. They cannot and never will. You, an oddity, your mere presence in their perfectly ordered world, stagnant and unchanging, is an unhappiness. To them, to your father, your step-mother, your sister and all their unborn children who will ever come to be, you are a product of Arda Marred. And perhaps you are. Perhaps they are right. After all, your mother died giving birth to you. You created suffering and unhappiness. You create them still. Such a thing should not be in Arda Unmarred.”

Fëanáro was shaking now, and Melkor smiled a sickle-sharp smile, knowing his words had found their mark. Slowly, he raised a hand and wound his unnaturally long fingers though Fëanáro’s hair, and when he had gathered enough, he crushed his fingers  into a tight and merciless fist. Fëanáro hissed in pain and Melkor smiled as he gave a tug and forced Fëanáro’s head upwards, forcing the young prince to stare right into his eyes.

“Your mother screams, too, in his Halls,” Melkor said quietly. “I have heard her, and it is constant. Every day, she curses your name and rues the day she conceived you, you disgusting, murdering parasite—”

Rúmil watched as a tear slid down Fëanáro’s cheek. The boy now trembled from head to foot, his eyes wide and staring, not at Melkor, but behind him, as though searching for the sight of his mother and the dreaded confirmation of Melkor’s poisonous lies.

A hot and unlooked for anger twisted Rúmil’s guts and in that moment he did not care whether Melkor was a Vala or a lake-worm, he would tolerate no more.

“Enough!” he shouted, though the effort almost tore his throat in two. “Enough, you poisonous snake!”

With a start, Melkor turned, clearly not anticipating an interruption. His concentration broken, the spell that held them vanished, and Fëanáro, who had been held in place only by Melkor’s foul magic, let out a cry of despair and ran from stone circle and into the thick, encircling fog.

“There!” Rúmil croaked, triumphantly. “Your plaything is beyond your reach.  What will you do now?”

Urgently, desperately, Rúmil tried to will movement back into his legs as Melkor’s cold eyes followed Fëanáro until he disappeared out of sight.  Then, with an ugly scowl he raised a hand and incanted, “Crawl into the darkness, you vile, Noldorin worm, and may you rot there in despair...”

Dread crept into Rúmil’s heart and he asked, his voice wavering, “W-What have you done? What have you done to him?”

“You will find out soon enough, for you will be joining him,” Melkor said, his wolfish smile wide and rigid.

The Vala raised his hand again and with a clanking of chains began to advance.

Rúmil’s heart clenched in terror as Melkor stopped in front of him, towering over his prostrate, powerless form. Melkor’s lips moved, but the words seemed to come from somewhere else.

I am going to die here, he thought suddenly.

I am going to die...

“Earth, I beg you open. Open the old road under the mountain and guide this wretched worm to the lightless shore.”

I am going to—

oOo

He awoke to true darkness and to the sound of waves drifting lazily to shore.

Overhead, countless stars sparkled. He thought of trying to count them, but gave up when he realised that everything ached, including his eyes and his head, and that maybe getting up would be a good idea.

With a groan, he sat up, and his head spun dangerously. He closed his eyes and willed the nausea to go away and leave him alone.

When the world stopped turning, he opened his eyes and realised that everything was back-to-front.

The Pelóri were behind him, and above the impassable, sheer face of the mountains, Rúmil could see just above their jagged summits the dying light of Laurelin as it bled into the dark and was extinguished.

He swallowed and tried desperately to calm the rising panic.

It was clear. He was on the other side of the mountains, a feat none of their people had ever before accomplished. The reason for their becoming stuck on the summits were now clear.  There was no way down.  Therefore, it followed logically that there was also no way back up.

There was also absolutely nothing and no one as far as he could see in any direction.

Before him was the vast expanse of the Ekkaia, its black water sucking at the shore like a blind, toothless creature from the depths, sentient but mindless. On either side, a narrow coastline stretched for thousands of miles, with gnarled, twisted sodden driftwood crowding the black gravel sand, looking like bones with spare seaweed flesh clinging to them.

It was completely different to the shores of Tol Eressëa. They were busy. Noisy. Full of life, gulls and activity. This was a private place. An untouched place. A dead place.  No gulls cried here. No sailors swore. No women sang. It was as though the years that had passed since Eru Illúvatar created the world had not touched this place.

And no one would ever likely touch it again, he thought, with a pang of despair.

Melkor knew that. He had sent them here to die.

Curling his knees up into his chest, Rúmil tucked his head in tight and thought very, very hard for a long time. Chief in his thoughts was the puzzle of how far away the dwelling of Nienna lay. He thought and thought, and the more he did, the more his heart began, tentatively, to hope. It was a gamble, but even so, it was a much better prospect than lying down and accepting the horrible fate Melkor had designed him.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Rúmil hauled himself upright, not even bothering to shake off the sand that clung to his hair and face. His mouth grimly set, he knew the first thing that had to be done. He had to find Fëanáro.

He took one determined step and yelled in surprise, as his foot sank alarmingly into the soft sand. Shrinking back, pulling his foot away, he watched as the sand began to shift back into place as soon as his intruding foot had left. It almost looked as though the ground were breathing, like the land was alive and erasing his boot-prints as he walked because he had trespassed, was an intruder and should not be here. Rúmil shuddered.

“I hate this place,” he said, in a broken, wavering voice. “I hate it. I know no one is listening, but, still... I feel it has to be said. If this is the first and last thing ever said on these shores, then I think, by all accounts (which is mine and mine only at the moment) that my sentiments would be universally shared.”

Then he shouldered his pack that had fallen a few feet away, folded his arms to keep the chill at bay, and began to walk.

He walked for quite a long time before he saw Fëanáro. 

Rúmil had never walked under true darkness before, and he found it made things you wanted to find quite difficult to pick out. You never knew what was coming up until you were right on top of it, which he learned rather quickly after he kept slipping on seaweed and tripping over rib-like protrusions of driftwood. He was a few mere feet away when he spied a motionless body-shaped something lying on the sand, the tide rushing back and forth about it.

His heart soared.

“Fëanáro!” he shouted as he ran towards the young prince, his feet sinking deeply into the sand. “Fëanáro, are you alright?  Thank goodness I found you. I have a plan as to how to get out of here, and I want to know what you—”

He slowed to a halt, tossing his pack to the ground, suddenly concerned.

“Fëanáro?”

Fëanáro lay on the sand on his back, the freezing water rushing about him, dragging seaweed through his hair. He lay still, motionless, though his eyes were open and he stared up at the stars.

“Rúmil...” he murmured, with a faint smile. “I didn’t really want you to find me, but I knew you would. ”

“What are you talking about? Did Melkor dump you in the water?  Have you swallowed some?”

With an oddly serene smile, Fëanáro closed his eyes and shook his head.

“No. I walked here and lay down.”

“Why? Were your clothes marred with dirt? I’m sure there is a better way to remove sand from a tunic you know.”

“There is no better means than water to remove a foul stain. That’s why I’m waiting for the tide to come in.”

At first, Rúmil was puzzled, not sure what Fëanáro was getting at.  Then came the slow, sinking realisation and an odd sense of hurt anger that he couldn’t quite place.

He threw himself down into the wet sand beside Fëanáro with a little more force than was strictly necessary and said, “Well that’s a fucking stupid thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Rúmil asserted, shooting Fëanáro a stern glare. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but honestly, I expected better. Melkor’s tall tales have got to you.”

The echo of his own harsh words coming back to haunt him made Fëanáro laugh just a little. Then he turned and looked at Rúmil with an utterly desolate expression and said, “But they are not tall tales. They are not. Every word he said was true.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“They are,” Fëanáro insisted. “I am sure others think the same. I have often thought the same. Sometimes. Especially when I’m caught in a dark mood, when I’m lying in bed at night and cannot sleep for fear of awful dreams in which she curses my name and wishes me in her place. I would trade places with her, Rúmil. I would do it if she wanted to.  It is not her fault I am a murdering parasite—”

“That is enough!” Rúmil said forcefully. “I do not want to hear another word. You are not a murdering parasite, no one thinks the same, and your mother would never wish you in her place. I know for a fact that she loved you because she told me so before she died. And she—” he said, his voice hitching suddenly at the memory, “—she said was very tired and that I had to make sure your father gave you a good education and sent you to the School at the earliest opportunity because she was sure you would be clever, and that if you weren’t sent to the School you’d be bored to tears in the palace and your father should have listened to your mother because look what’s fucking happened because you have nothing to do and no one to talk to...”

Trailing off, Rúmil angrily wiped a tear from his eye.

“She would not have said that if she did not love you and want the best for you,” he muttered, perching his chin on his knees and staring out across the dark ocean.

“I have caused so much unhappiness...”

“And none of it your fault!” Rúmil snapped. “You did not ask to be born. You did not mean for your mother to die, and you certainly did not ask for your father’s remarriage. I do not know why you are the only one in Aman to have suffered so cruelly, but let me tell you, none of it is your fault! Do you understand me, Fëanáro?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Fëanáro shook his head.

“Alright!” Rúmil cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Let us say that it is your fault. Every single miserable bloody thing that has ever happened to anyone you care about is all your fault. Even if that were the case, there is at least one person in the world that I guarantee would not give a rat’s arse about it and would defend you to until his very last breath.”

“Don’t...”

“How do you think your father would feel if he knew that you had died here?” Rúmil went on, mercilessly. “How do you think he would feel? Answer me.”

“...he would get over it.”

Rúmil snorted in derision. “Utter shit. You think it’s that easy? Well, I’ll tell you what, Fëanáro, it isn’t. You know how hard it is because your mother’s death affects you still. Do you want your father to feel that way about you? Do you want to hurt your father?”

Fëanáro shook his head.

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I cannot live with myself.”

“You’ve been doing fine since we left Tirion,” Rúmil answered. “Why the sudden change of heart? Is it because a Vala has held up a mirror and shown you your reflection?”

Fëanáro snorted and turned his head.

“Well, let me tell you right now, Fëanáro, that Melkor’s mirror is warped.  It is dark and twisted, and his poisonous words could make anything fair seem foul. Since your situation is already unhappy, getting under your skin was probably the easiest thing he’s ever had to do, for he didn’t even need a warped glass.  All he had to do was lay all your insecurities out in front of you like a spread at feast and show them to you.”

Fëanáro lay very still and quiet, which meant he was listening.

Then Rúmil added, “I’m disappointed in you. You let him win so easily. You never normally let people win and you certainly fight much harder at chess.”

“This is not chess, Rúmil.”

“Melkor probably thinks it is. Everything is a fucking game to that vermin, and you’d bst never forget it. Now, are you going to get up, or are you going to be like everyone else and let a Vala tell you what to think?”

“What’s the point,” Fëanáro muttered. “We cannot get out.”

“Well, what I was about to tell you earlier, before you frightened the life out me, was that I had actually come up with a plan to get out of here.”

“And what is that?”

“We walk to the dwelling of Nienna and throw stones at her window,” Rúmil answered a little defensively, folding his arms turning his nose up.

There was a moment’s puzzled silence. Then, to his relief, Fëanáro began to laugh an exhausted but genuine laugh. He laughed so much that his shoulders began to shake and he covered his face with his hands. Then with a bit of effort he sat up, and fixed Rúmil with a very odd look, his clothes soaked through and his dark hair wet and sticking to his face.

He said, “Why did you have to make me laugh, Rúmil?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You did. I know you did,” came his accusing reply. “So why?”

Rúmil sighed and sloshed through the surf on his knees towards Fëanáro. When he came to rest beside him, he placed a hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder and, looking him straight in the eye, said, “Because you can throw harder and your aim is better than mine.”

He let out a shout of laughter as Fëanáro snorted and shoved him into the water.

“You are prick, Rúmil. You know that?”

“That’s me!” Rúmil said, with a grin. “Guilty. Unrepentant.”

Fëanáro sighed in a put-upon manner and Rúmil was relieved to see a hint of a smile on the boy’s face.

“So how far is it to the dwelling of Nienna?”

“You’re coming with me then?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then I have no idea how far it is,” Rúmil confessed. “I just figured it would be roughly in this direction. I could have turned south and would never have found you. I know it’s slightly north of Mandos – and yes, before you say anything, I know that rat-bastard Melkor could have dumped us anywhere, but since the temperature is pretty much the same as it was on the other side of the mountains, I figured north was a good bet.”

“So you had no idea where you were heading?”

“Not a single clue!” Rúmil said happily. “The thought of lying down and taking what Melkor had dished out to me was a horrible prospect. And you know what I’m like with authority, so I decided to walk. Even if I died in the end, at least I would have died doing something.”

“Hmm...” came Fëanáro’s sparse and enigmatic reply, which Rúmil took to mean that he was listening.

“So, are you going to get up, or are you going to continue to sit there and absorb sea-water?”

With a derisive snort, Fëanáro held out his hand and Rúmil did a lot of theatrical huffing and puffing as he pulled the boy to his feet.

“Do you have any spare clothes in your pack?” Rúmil asked.

Fëanáro nodded.

“Then change and dry yourself off with this,” he said, unwinding his scarf from his neck and tossing it at Fëanáro. “Then when you’re done, give it back to me and I’ll rid myself of these wet trousers. With any luck, we’ll find Nienna and will be back at Mettanúmen by tomorrow morning - just in time to tell Norno he was right.”

“Except that we’re never going to talk about what happened here,” Fëanáro said quietly.

Rúmil nodded. “Yes. Exactly that.”

oOo

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

The footfalls of his heavy boots echoed hollowly on the warped driftwood boards, as Olórin the Maia hastened to answer the call of Lady Nienna.  He hastened because there was something very strange about her request. Something about two Noldorin elves throwing stones at her windows – which was, of course, impossible. The Ainur had deliberately closed the passes and raised the peaks of the western Pelóri so as to be impassable. He wondered if he had misheard her. After all, he had been working very hard when her voice had arrived in his mind like a whispering breeze and uttered its very strange request.

At the door to Lady Nienna’s chamber, the Maia Olórin stopped and rapped upon its salt-crusted surface with his staff.

“Enter...”

Stepping smartly through the door, Olórin bowed in greeting.

Lady Nienna’s viewing room was like every other room in her house that had windows which opened onto the Ekkaia: grey and weather-beaten, with tall windows, all thrown wide open, the brisk sea breeze battering through them, torn curtains flapping. The Lady Nienna always wanted the windows open so she could see out wherever she happened to be. As a result, sea-spray often travelled in on the wind and brought salt with it, the stuff caking in corners and crusting over what little furniture the room held. The whole place stank of the sea and seaweed and wet, crumbling wood – and Olórin would not have had it any other way.

At the far end of the room, right at the window (which of course was thrown wide open) sat Lady Nienna. Alone, and draped in grey veils, she stared out over the endless dark ocean and wept for all the evil in the world.

Without turning round, she said in her soft, broken voice, “Olórin. Have you found them?”

“I have not been down to the shore yet, my Lady,” Olórin answered. “I must confess to having thought I’d misheard you—”

Olórin bushy eyebrows shot upward when the small pebble went whizzing past his face and cracked a glass pane in a battered cabinet behind him.

There followed a distant, triumphant cheer from down below, and Olórin could hardly believe it. Silly, bloody Noldor. How in all the circles did they get down here?  Had they finally forged a chain long enough?

“I will see to them, my Lady,” Olórin muttered, as he stamped out of the room in an ire.

oOo

“HAHA! I GOT IT!” Fëanáro shouted, punching the air. “Did you hear that crack?”

“I did,” Rúmil said, laughing. “And I saw a shadow moving inside. I think someone will be down shortly to tell us off.”

“You were right,” Fëanáro replied with a wide smile, his eyes alight with a mischievous glee.  “This is fun.  I wonder if I could hit that woman sitting there at the window...?”

Rúmil darted forward and grabbed the pebble out of Fëanáro’s hand.

“That is enough,” Rúmil said silkily. “The stone-throwing part has done its work. Lest you forget, the Vanyarin authorities would love to get their hands on you for defacement, if they could. If you were arrested for it here, too, you’d probably end up waiting on Nienna for two years, then scrubbing the floors at Ingwë’s palace for another two once you get out.”

Fëanáro sighed.

“It’s not like you to be sensible, Rúmil.”

“I just don’t want to be dragged down with you.  Fëanáro, no! That is enough—!”

Crack!

With a blistering over arm throw, Fëanáro spun on the ball of one foot and hurled another pebble through the window. Inside, Rúmil heard something shatter.

“Oops,” Fëanáro said, with a wicked grin. “I hope that was fixable.”

Muttering darkly, Rúmil turned around and walked over to a clutch of granite boulders and sat, glaring out across the ocean. He heard the crunching of Fëanáro following him and the boy leapt atop the rock and sat down beside him.

“You know, Rúmil, now that I’ve had time to take a proper look at this place, I’ve realised that I’ve been here before.”

“Utter shit,” Rúmil snapped, still in a bad mood with him for throwing the extra rock.

“No, I have,” Fëanáro insisted. “I really have.”

“When, in your dreams?” Rúmil retorted acidly.

“Exactly.”

Wrong-footed, Rúmil opened his mouth in surprise.

“Oh...” was his eloquent reply.

“Now that I think about it, this place looks exactly the same,” Fëanáro went on. “All I need is my boat.”

“Ah, but if the boat was there, would you take it?”

Fëanáro thought about it for a long moment. Then he turned to Rúmil and said, his eyes glittering strangely, “I always take the boat. No matter what. And I wonder if I did take it whether Eru would be waiting for me at the other side?”

Rúmil shrugged.

“Probably,” he said. “He got all his creating done at the beginning of time. Not much else to do after that. Sitting around waiting for you would likely be the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in millions of years.”

Fëanáro snorted with laughter, and Rúmil joined in, feeling a little less rancorous.

After that, they fell for a while into a companionable silence as they waited for help (and a reprimand) to arrive. Rúmil watched as Fëanáro skimmed stones, the boy having just picked up another one and sliced it through the air. It skimmed across the surface of the water and bounced, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times before it sank into the sea.

“That is now my new record,” Fëanáro announced, as he bent down to retrieve another suitable stone.  “I shall now attempt to go for eight.”

But Fëanáro did not attempt to go for eight. He stopped just as he was about to throw and peered into the horizon.

“What is that?” he said, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Rúmil, come see this. It’s like... What the—?”

In the distance, very gradually, pin-pricks of starlight began to appear in the mirror-dark surface of the ocean. First only one or two, then followed by clusters, and more and more, until the entire surface of the water was aglow with a ghostly, eerie blue light that very slowly floated towards them.

Dumbfounded, they watched in open-mouthed silence until the tiny glowing stars reached the surf and began to break in rolling waves against the shore.  At that point, Fëanáro broke the silence with a loud whoop of joy, and he kicked off his boots, rolled up his trousers and ran crashing into the surf.  Laughing, he splashed around, his delighted eyes alight with wonder, and Rúmil was exactly the same, laughing and pointing and calling out like a child.

“Ahh, Fëanáro, your legs! Look at your legs!” he cried.

Fëanáro looked down. His bare legs and feet were illuminated by the strong, ghostly blue glow of the tiny sea-stars. It was so bright, even his face was cast in it. With a smile, he cupped his hands in the water and picked up a handful of starlight.

“What are they? Where did they come from?” Fëanáro said quietly, almost to himself, trying to touch the tiny pinpricks of light as they slid from his hands and back into the ocean.

“From the sea?” Rúmil suggested, peering over Fëanáro’s shoulder. “But I have no idea what they are. They look like little sea-stars.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I agree,” Rúmil said, stooping to let his fingertips brush the surface of the glowing waves. The sea-stars swirled about them, his hand glowed blue, and he felt a warm burst of happiness.

“I would stay here forever if this is what happens every day,” Fëanáro said sincerely.

“But it does not happen every day,” a gruff, unfamiliar voice replied. “And it is not every day that two Noldorin elves appear on the lightless shore bouncing rocks off the windows of Lady Nienna’s dwelling!”

Startled, Rúmil and Fëanáro whirled around.

Before them stood a man. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and grey travelling gear, and carried a staff and a lantern. Long white hair trailed down his back and his face was ageless and stern-looking, with a pair of white eyebrows that were so bushy, they trailed into the man’s dark eyes that were set deep in their sockets and glittered like gimlets.

“Well?” the stranger demanded.

Rúmil stepped forward with a winning smile, throwing his arms out wide.

“Hurrah, Curvo!” he exclaimed. “Help at last! We were beginning to think no one would ever come.”

“You are unlucky to have strayed so far from Tirion,” the stranger said, eyeing them suspiciously. “How did you come to be here? Speak quickly!”

“We jumped over the Pelóri,” Fëanáro said bluntly.

Rúmil couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing. He didn’t know why, but he was sure the intense feeling of relief that accompanied the realisation that he was probably not going to die anymore had something to do with it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Fëanáro said to the stranger, with mock outrage. “It wasn’t from a standing start. That would be impossible. We took a run at it.”

“Run all the way from Tirion, did you?” the stranger said sceptically, raising a bushy brow at them.

“We ran very, very fast,” Rúmil said, trying to stifle a snigger and failing.

“Indeed,” the stranger said, not believing a word of it. Then he pointed at the glowing water full of sea-stars and said, “And did you bring these with you?”

Rúmil and Fëanáro shook their heads.

“They appeared in the water when I was skimming stones,” Fëanáro said, honestly. “They’re beautiful. Do you know what they are?”

“Not the faintest clue,” the stranger said, bending down to peer at the ghostly blue, starlit waves which crashed about his big, black boots. “I shall ask Lady Nienna. Perhaps she’ll know something.”

“You are a Maia?” Rúmil inquired. “Do you live in her house?”

“I have lived in many places,” the stranger answered. “But at this precise moment, yes. I do. I am a Maia, I serve in the house of the Lady Nienna and you may call me Olórin.”

“Then I am pleased to meet you, Olórin,” Rúmil said, smiling. “More pleased than you could ever know. I thought we’d never get out of this place alive. Oh, and I am Rúmil and this is Curvo.”

Beside him, Fëanáro nodded in greeting.

“Pleased to meet you too,” the Maia Olórin replied, “and forgive my rough manner, but never have any of your kind set foot on the Lightless Shore. Your appearance has caused something of a stir.”

Then Olórin leaned in, his eyes glinting with amusement, and muttered, “Don’t do it now, but if you look up right this instance, you’ll see them all gawking out the windows at you.”

Carefully, Rúmil raised his eyes above Olórin’s broad shoulders and immediately had to choke back an undignified snort of laughter.  From each of the windows of Nienna’s mansion peered several clusters of curious Maiar, whispering to each other and pointing, fascinated, some at the two intruding, stone-throwing Noldor and others at the beautiful sea-stars that had congregated upon the surf.

“Rúmil, the Maiar are looking at us,” Fëanáro whispered.

“And more than just Maiar,” Olórin said, pointing with his staff to a large window which gave way to an expansive carved balcony. The same window that had earlier proven such a successful target.

Rúmil’s eyes widened as he made out the outline of a veiled figure, who raised a hand and beckoned.

Lady Nienna...

“Yes,” Olórin said, correctly deducing the cause of Rúmil’s apprehensive expression. “You broke the glass in one of her cabinets and put a mighty crack in a window pane.”

“Ah...”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry overly much about it. The Lady Nienna is famously forgiving, after all.”

Rúmil nodded weakly.

“Come,” Olórin said, turning and trudging back the way he had come. “The Lady Nienna awaits. She’s very keen to speak with both of you.”

Rúmil shot Fëanáro a look of trepidation. Fëanáro did not return it, however, and instead shrugged his shoulders before he strode after Olórin with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Rúmil rolled his eyes and followed behind. He could not shake the feeling he was about to be told off and he didn’t much like it.

Above him, he could still see the groups of Maiar crowing the windows that faced the sea. It was surprising that even they, who had likely lived here a long time, had never seen such a display before.

Strange, really, that it had occurred the very hour they had arrived.

Smiling, he glanced behind to have one last look at the sea-stars.  They were beginning to fade a little now, floating away, back into the depths whence they came, but Rúmil followed their progress, following them to the very edge of the horizon where... where the Painted Man stood, watching them, smiling.

Rúmil’s heart gave a jolt of fear, but as soon as it did, he was gone.

He shook his head and blinked owlishly for a moment.

Must’ve hit my head when I landed, he thought, dismissing the apparition as a waking daydream. It’s the stress, he told himself. The stress of meeting two Valar in one day, almost being killed by one and waking up on the other side of the western Pelóri. Yes... that’s it. And he was tired, too. He needed some sleep, that’s all. It had been yet another very long, very strange day and he was beginning to wonder if Fëanáro’s nightmares were contagious.

The sea-stars had been worth it, though, he thought with a small smile. He knew that Fëanáro probably would have thought so too. They had certainly cleared all the dark thoughts from the boy’s mind – at least for the moment – and for that he was glad.

“Thank you,” he whispered, hoping his words would carry over the horizon to the Painted Man, who he knew waited at the very edge of the darkness and smiled.

And up in her viewing room, the Lady Nienna watched them too. She watched one figure in particular very carefully and she remained silent a long time, seeming deep in thought as she considered what to do.

Then she raised a hand and called for an attendant.

“My Lady?” the attendant inquired, with a curtsey.

“Send word to Finwë Noldóran,” she instructed, in her soft, broken voice, “and tell him that I have found his son.”

Chapter End Notes

Names:

All courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator.

Mettanúmen - end of the west (the outpost Rumil and Feanor visit.)

Cullo - golden red (the man who owns the outpost with his wife. Named because of his hair.)

Calassë - clarity (the woman who owns the outpost with her husband.)

Ómandil - abundant voice (Norno's ex-boss.)

Thanks to all those who are stilll reading. ^_^