Mending by Himring

Chapter 1

Note on names: Curufinwe=Curufin, Feanaro=Feanor, Findekano=Fingon, Irisse=Aredhel, Itarille=Idril, Nolofinwe=Fingolfin, Russandol=Maedhros, Turukano=Turgon.

Too many people. There are not really that many of them, he thinks, just more than he is equipped to handle right now, after a series of very difficult conversations, and they seem to swirl around him in a dizzying pattern. Suddenly, there is a gap in the pattern and he sees her standing there, within arm’s length, about half as tall as the adults: Itarille, Turukano’s daughter that Turukano and Irisse have been keeping away from him as best they could, as if he was no sight for a child’s eyes, even the eyes of a child that has seen her mother founder in the Ice. 

They were probably right about that, too. Silence falls, and the temperature seems to drop. Turukano and Nolofinwe, tense around him even at the best of times, freeze.

Itarille has grown, of course, since he last talked to her, as children do. Her fair hair, so much like Elenwe’s, falls in waves about her small, serious face. He tries to think of something to say, something that might be just a little comforting to Itarille without provoking Turukano into trying to knock him down—impossible, he thinks, for Turukano has conveyed to him clearly enough that Feanorian sympathy, in his eyes, is a contradiction in terms and merely the ultimate in hypocrisy. What he really feels is that Elenwe—for all the horror of her death—is perhaps well out of it but, oh Father, this child is not. If he said that aloud, Turukano would definitely attempt to strangle him.

Idril stands on one leg to think better. It is an undignified habit that she is trying to shed, but she still resorts to it at moments of crisis. Cousin Russandol has done terrible things but Uncle Findekano says they all ought to try to be friends again now. Cousin Russandol is looking white and tired, so perhaps this is not the best moment to choose, but he has never looked anything other than white and tired, over here, and perhaps from now on he always will. She decides to give him his chance. She whips her right hand out from behind her back and extends the thing she is clutching in it towards Maedhros.

‘Cousin,’ she demands, ‘mend Poppet for me.’ And after a tiny pause, she adds in her most queenly voice: ‘Please.’

Nobody smiles. Maedhros, arms hidden under his blood-red cloak, looks down at Itarille’s ancient, much-loved doll. The colour on her cheeks has faded; her white dress is stained and yellow with age. That is not what Itarille is asking him to fix, though. Her left arm has come loose from its socket, and there seems to be something wrong with the joint of her right leg as well: it is stuck at an awkward backward angle.

Growing up in Tirion as a Prince of the Noldor who excel in making things, son of the most creative Noldo of all, Maedhros was a disappointment. His research might be of the highest quality, his father might not hesitate to make use of his theoretical knowledge and listen to his suggestions, but when he tried to create any physical object, even his very best efforts were no more than mediocre by Noldorin standards. And yet he was not entirely without practical skills—as the mainstay of the Feanorian household, especially in times of crisis, he had become an expert at the temporary fix and the makeshift repair.

Once Feanaro or Nerdanel or Curufinwe got around to dealing with things, they would work again perfectly, as good as new or better, but until that time the various bits and pieces in the kitchen, the work-shed and the nursery  would at least keep going, held together by Maedhros’s improvisations, sometimes literally running on a shoe-string. Toys, of necessity, had become a speciality. No time to wait for the perfect solution—his brothers’ and cousins’ howls  of anguish and floods of tears had to be stemmed immediately, preferably before any of the older generation even noticed that anything was wrong and so, in Tirion, Maedhros routinely used to perform emergency surgery on stuffed animals and toy carts and, occasionally, dolls.

Only now—he looks at Poppet, he can see what needs doing but…

‘I am sorry, Itarille. I cannot mend Poppet. I can ask Curufinwe to mend her for you, if you want me to.’

Idril stares at him in astonishment and disgust. He has not only failed the test, he has failed it badly, so much worse than she had expected. She had feared he might say that he had no time just now and then forget all about it. But this! Suggesting Curufinwe as the one to mend Poppet! Doesn’t he know that if Curufinwe gets his hands on Poppet, by the time Idril gets her back, she will be shiny and new and will practically walk and talk, but she will not be Poppet anymore?

She gives Cousin Russandol a withering look of contempt and turns her back on him. She starts to walk away, but after a couple of steps she halts, for she has noticed there is something very odd about the expression on Aunt Irisse’s face.  As she looks up at her questioningly, Idril hears her cousin’s voice behind her, saying:

‘Itarille. I’d need two hands to mend Poppet. But I can teach you how, if you like.’