Peculiar by Ada Kensington

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Vision

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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. ^_^