Peculiar by Ada Kensington

---

The Tower

---

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.