Of Conflicts and Confessions by Calliopes Stylus

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

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Fëanáro has disappeared.

One of the grooms, I was informed, noticed this morning that Fëanáro's pony and tack were gone, but none of the guards saw him leave, nor are any locks unfastened. Beneath my anxiety, I am somehow not surprised. So Fëanáro is now an accomplished escape artist.

This in itself is nothing unusual; my son often goes off on unexplained errands, and punishments seem not to affect him. He has yet to return with even a scratch on his person, but still I worry every time—he is my son, after all, and all I have left of Míriel. And of course he has that knack for getting into trouble.

Also, today is his twenty-fourth begetting day, a relative milestone. Fëanáro's begetting day is not celebrated, exactly—at his own insistence—but I never let it go by unnoticed, and as much as he hates it, he knows that it is important to me. He would inform me—or so I would like to think.

In any case, I will not rest until he has returned safely.

Evening, and still no sign of him. Two days gone, doing heaven knows what…if he would only leave the slightest hint of his intentions on these trips, so that I could have some peace of mind.

A report to read, a stack of paper inches high, full of tiny writing. I can usually distract myself with work—there is definitely no dearth of it—but right now this treatise cannot hold my attention for more than a paragraph.

Why am I fretting so much more than usual? With a sigh, I push the papers aside and open the top drawer in my desk—the locked one.

As always, the first thing visible is the portrait. Míriel always managed to look beautiful, even in the more mediocre works. But the one I keep here is one of the best—monochromatic, in pencil, but medium pales beside quality. I prop it up against the lamp and compare each line with the real woman—the artist was slightly off in some places, but I was perfectly happy that he did not see my wife so close as to distinguish the exact shape of her eyes, that could only be distinguished when you were so close as to be kissing her.

The drawer is not empty—there is the needlepoint (incomplete, and I always prick myself on the needle still thrust through the fabric) that is especially important for no reason other than that she had been working on it the day we met. Farther back, in a dark corner, is the box with the rings. I pull it out and take off the cover. There are both betrothal rings, almost glowing in the silver light, and beside them the gold one, the one I took off nearly ten years ago. It never seems to shine as brightly as the other two. My marriage to Indis is legal in every respect, so why do I feel a twinge of guilt?

I have never once regretted marrying her—she has made me complete again; has given me Findis and Ingoldo. She is my wife, and for all her faults I love her as I love few others. Nevertheless, sometimes I cannot help but compare her to Míriel, and somehow she always comes up short.

A rap at the door interrupts my musings. "Finwë?"

Indis. Of all the times for her to come. I quickly replace the picture and the rings and close the drawer; the lock clicks with a grim finality. "Come in."

She sweeps inside, and her beetled brows and clenched jaw do not bespeak good news. "Indis. Come sit down."

"No. I only came here to tell you that your son is back. I don't know where he is now, but at some point I want you to find him and try to teach him some respect. I know he loathes me, but there are limits."

He is back! Unharmed, by the sound of it, but his return apparently has not been pleasant. "Why; what has he done this time?"

"'What has he done this time?'" I wince—she gets very shrill when in a temper. "Finwë, it is this very lax attitude you take that makes him think that he can do whatever he pleases with no consequence. What has that boy done this time? Well, when he returned home after this latest disappearance I saw fit to tell him that he had been wrong. He responded in a way that I would rather not repeat and then ran away."

Oh, no. "Ran away? You mean—"

"No, he is still here, someplace. Not in his rooms, though, because I stopped him outside the door and when he made his escape he was headed in the opposite direction."

"Do you have any idea where?"

"No. But I assume that you will find him, and teach him a lesson?"

"Yes. Yes, I will."

"Good." In the doorway she pauses, looks over her shoulder and says, "And wash out his mouth."

Oh, Fëanáro, why? Why must you always cause trouble—no, this is not fair. Whatever has happened, I doubt that Indis is entirely without fault. She has attempted to discipline Fëanáro before, but up until now he has only ignored her, never responded (they have few actual altercations: Fëanáro's preferred method of insulting her is to flamboyantly pretend that she does not exist). And Indis, for her part, has a definite tendency toward snobbery, a trait which being the Queen has not helped.

I get up—no matter what happened, I have to see my son. He is not one to run away from anyone or anything, so either he has done something that will make me furious, or Indis has upset him very much. Likely it was both.

But he cannot be found. I am not surprised to find his bedroom deserted, but I cannot find him anywhere else. Not in the library, not in the kitchen sampling food intended to be saved for tomorrow, not in any of the gardens. Nor is he standing at the door of my study, waiting to tell me what has transpired between him and Indis (perhaps I am being unfair—it is not unlikely that he would simply want to greet me). Nobody has seen him, and several of the staff have suggested that he has run off again.

Yet—there is another place.

Nobody had bothered to do anything with Míriel's possessions after her death, and every day I would find her absence thrust in my face. I would open a wardrobe and find one of her garments accidentally placed with mine, and then I would remember a time when she had worn it. I was forever opening drawers and boxes and finding pieces of needlework that would remain forever unfinished. Míriel had enjoyed sitting by my side when I held court, listening and occasionally giving her own opinion (and what arguments those opinions had sometimes caused!). But then her voice was silenced, and my gaze was continually drawn to the empty chair beside me. Eventually I had ordered that all of her possessions be taken away, and at the end of that day I had walked with Fëanáro through halls that suddenly seemed to echo, and realized just how empty a house can become.

The intention had been that, with everything she had owned stored away in the deepest sub-basements of the palace, they would be far from my though. But this did not work—instead the room became a memorial to her, and often now I find myself sitting on some box, turning the wedding ring she had given me over and over in my hand and wondering how I have ever come to this point.

Fëanáro also knows of this place: he discovered it years ago, likely by chance, and it seems to have become a sort of refuge for him, a place to hide when there is nowhere else. Now I wonder why I did not think of that in the first place.

I take a lamp and make my way through the service passages through which I have traveled so often, down several flights of stairs and down again to the bottom of the stairs, to the end of the corridor and through the heavy door that opens and shuts with only the slightest scrape of wood against stone. The room is dark as pitch, but someplace near the back there is an intake of breath as I hold up my lamp to light my way.

I push aside three boxes holding embroidery hoops of every size; step over a stack of books; slip between two racks of garment bags (if her clothes have any scent now it is likely of mothballs); pass the dismantled loom thrust into a far corner and eventually reach the other side of the room.

In the lamplight, Míriel stares at me in the form of our son.

"Fëanáro." It is not the first time I have found him like this, curled in his mother's chair, his eyes distant.

"Atar."

I pull over a nearby chest, carving a path through more than twenty years' worth of dust, and a pile of books brings raises my seat to his level. Sitting beside Fëanáro, I notice a strange scent about him that I cannot place, a faint aroma that wakes in me the desire to simply slip into a dream, leaving all my troubles behind. A familiar scent somehow, and a disturbing one.

I set the lamp down beside me. "You had me worried."

"I am sorry." His voice is wooden.

"Why did you tell nobody that you were leaving?"

"I did not want any questions asked. It would only have caused an inconvenience."

"Will you tell me where you went?"

He fidgets, toying with something between his fingers.

"Fëanáro?"

"I went out."

"For two days?"

"Some things take time." He opens his hand and lets something crumpled and red drift to the floor. A poppy blossom…

"You have been to Lórien." That would explain the smell, then. To me, it is synonymous with long vigils beside Míriel's still body.

"It was my begetting day." Fëanáro looks at me for the first time. "Until now it has been spent with you. I thought that it was time Amil had a chance."

The world rocks a little, or perhaps it is only utter shock as I stare at Fëanáro. I have had many theories about him, but never considered anything like this.

"It has been years since you last went to see her." His voice is his mother's, and in the darkness it is as if she herself is reprimanding me.

"I could not bear it." A pathetic defense. "Besides, now it would seem…inappropriate."

"With Indis. Indis. Yes. I suppose she went weeping to you earlier?"

Fëanáro's words had made me forget why I even came down here. Now I remember. "She was not weeping; on the contrary, she was furious. She told me that she had disciplined you, and that you had responded in a way she did not care to repeat."

"It was far less than she deserved."

"Do you care to tell me what happened?"

"When I came home, I wanted to have some time to myself. Instead, that woman you married was there outside my door, as if just waiting to shout at me: 'Who gave you permission to leave without telling anybody?' To which I replied, 'I do not see why I should need permission to conduct my own affairs; nor do I see why you should have the rights to permission.' And she said…" His voice wavers slightly.

"Yes?"

"She said, 'Because as your father's wife I am as good as your mother, and I—' and there she stopped because I informed her that she was no mother, but only a husband-stealing bitch with no right to compare herself to Míriel Þerindë, and while she was winding up to slap me I left and came down here."

"Fëanáro—"

"And do not tell me that I was wrong, Atar, for having some loyalty to my mother. Did you never think that she might have returned someday, maybe a hundred yéni from now, maybe a hundred thousand, but she might have returned; I might have known her, but you couldn't wait even wait until I came of age and left this house and didn't have to see you with that woman every day of my life, could you?" His voice is strong, but there are tears running down his cheeks. "No, you had to run out and twist the will of Ilúvatar to marry that woman.

"In retrospect, I think, I was indeed wrong to call Indis a bitch, for I know of no dog that will call itself queen and pretend that it has been so all along. And there are no whelps like those children whose very names drive in your betrayal: . And doubtless there's going to be another one in a few years and then people are going to think that I should be happy about it, and call it a sibling, as if my mother never lived—and now she never will live again, thanks to you; you say you love me, then why did you as good as kill my mother? And why have you corrupted her name? She hated Serindë, I have been told, and now you pronounce it thus on the rare occasions you see fit to mention her! Do not think that I have never heard you speak the name Serindë! And your Vanya, who at least could speak correctly, chooses to belittle Þerindë by joining in all your hissing. Am I the only Noldo with any loyalty to the queen?"

Now there is a definite quaver as his speech becomes faster, the words tumbling over each other.

"It is your fault that this has happened, Atar, your fault that I spent my begetting day in Lórien with my mother's empty hröa instead of being able to celebrate it; my fault that I have to live with the knowledge that she died because I took her spirit; your fault…my…Atar, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

I hardly have to think about it—it is instinct that makes me move to sit beside him and pull him into my arms. He shrugs away, and I fold my hands in my lap as he quickly dries his face with his sleeve—he seems ashamed to have been seen crying.

"You have been waiting to say all of that for a long time, haven't you?"

"Atar, I said—I shouldn't have—"

"Shh. I know."Everything he has said against me, I have heard from a hundred times as many mouths, repeated to myself a thousand times more, and mostly come to terms with.

It is a long time before he looks up. "Which do you believe is of more value in a leader, wisdom or intelligence?"

Again, I cannot answer for shock. Míriel asked me that exact question soon after we met; it formed the greater part of our first true conversation. For some reason I want to laugh, but I might cry if I do. Fëanáro is watching me, waiting for an answer. "Ah, Fëanáro, you are your mother's son."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that as such and as yourself you are dearer to me than anything in Arda."

Finally, a hint of a smile appears on his face but it vanishes quickly and he says, "Do you consider yourself to be a good leader?"

Truly, Míriel has given him her fëa! "I do not believe that Oromë would have chosen me to lead the Noldor if he had not believed that I could do it. I have always done the best I can, and I do not think it hubris to call myself a good leader."

"I disagree."

Míriel didn't say that. "Why is that so?"

"Because of Indis. Many people think that neither intelligent nor wise. You knew that. And to go on and marry her when you knew that and when you knew also that it was wrong—that as well shows neither trait."

But how can I explain such things to him?

"Fëanáro—had there been a chance that your mother might have been re-embodied, I would have waited until the world's end. But you were not present when she stated that she would never return. When she spoke like that, nothing could move her."

"But how could you want to marry again? Amil was still your wife."

"But she had left, and I was lonely. Nobody could—" Only I will ever know that, until I married Indis, I slept in a chair or on the floor—one sleepless night of feeling Míriel's absence was enough. "I cannot explain to you now. Wait until you are married, and then you will understand."

Fëanáro looks unhappy with this answer, but he presses on. "But you also wanted more children, didn't you? I was not enough?"

"If you mean, do you cause enough aggravation amongst everybody here, then yes, you are more than enough. But if you were given something of great value, would you turn away the opportunity for more?"

"But if those objects were of inferior quality to the first, and even illicitly acquired, would you still want them?"

"Fëanáro, if I knew that the second accusation was false, then it would not matter to me. And if I knew the same about the first, then that would not matter to me either. But if I thought that one was superior to the rest, then I would keep it separate and let it stand on its own, preferably in a fashion that would not demean the others."

"Would you continue to acquire new ones?"

"Yes. And punish anyone that tries to damage them."

"I see." He brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear and looks at me calmly. "Speaking of punishment, what are you going to do to me?"

"What?"

"For leaving again without telling anyone where I was going. For insulting Indis. For insulting you." He hardly sounds guilty now—if guilt and regret truly lasted with him, I think he would be spending much less time on the receiving end of people's reprimands.

I must admit it—I am too lax with him. But what can I do? He has gone through so much already, especially tonight. The incident with Indis has surely been punishment enough. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Are you asking for greater punishment? Because—"

"No! No." He cants his head. "But what will you tell Indis when she asks you?"

What will I tell her? Oh, I will tell her several things. "That, Fëanáro, is between Indis and myself."

"And of this conversation?"

"Nothing, if you wish it so. May I tell her that you went to Lórien?"

"You may."

My lamp is burning low; I should go upstairs before I am left to pick my way through this room in the dark. I take up my lamp, and Fëanáro's, which has already burnt out. "Fëanáro, come. I'm going back up."

"I'd rather stay."

"Fëanáro, it's pitch-black in here."

"I can find my way in the dark."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure. Good night."

"Good night."

-Finis-