One's Own by Urloth

“Fëanáro,” his mother looked content and happy and his father’s eyes were glowing with excitement. It immediately made Fëanáro more inclined toward accepting whatever his mother was about to say without too much fuss or arguing, “you are going to become an older brother.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised at this. It wasn't what he was expecting. After a moment of ruminating on the relevation he looked at her stomach expectantly. It was as flat as it had been the day before. His eyebrows furrowed, women who had babies always seemed to be rounded at the front. But not his mother.

Perhaps because she was the Queen?

“In about a year,” his mother added with a small chuckle, and then putting aside the embroidery hoop that held her latest work, she made space for him and gestured for him come into her embrace. Obliging and always happy to be near her, Fëanáro crawled into her lap. Soon he would be too big to sit in her lap, he knew, for his father had mentioned that Fëanáro was growing swiftly. So he treasured the experience while it lasted, and did not pass up a opportunity to cuddle close to her, his head leaning against Míriel’s shoulder.

“Will it be a boy or a girl?”

“I do not know yet,” his mother confessed, “but I thought I would make it a surprise for  you both anyway.”

His father made a faint noise of amusement.

“How am I suppose to make a present for the baby then?” Fëanáro immediately asked, the thought of not knowing until the baby was born annoying. He knew that like an itch he could not scratch, or clothing slightly to large for him, that it would bother and niggle and nag at him. He had to know.

And of course he would have to make a present for his new sibling. When they were born would be their begetting day wouldn't it? You always gave people presents on their begetting day. How could he make a proper present if he didn't even know if he would be making a present for a brother or a sister?

“That is the reason why so many infant toys are gender neutral,” Míriel kissed him on the forehead, “and I doubt the baby will mind, so long as it is a gift from their older brother who made it with them in mind.”

-

The pregnancy was a very odd affair. Fëanáro wasn't sure of what to make of it. Life simply...went on save for a feeling of rising anticipation as the seasons slowly exchanged places. His mother's stomach did begin rounding, and it rounded, she became  a little slower. She also took to naping a lot, and wearing looser gowns, and whenever he came upon her dozing, she reminded Fëanáro of the owls he saw sometimes tucked up in the trees around Formenos. There were no owls in Tirion, but in Formenos where the Summer Palace lay in the shadows of the surrounding mountains, shielded from the invasive light of the Trees and the sweltering summer heat, the silver birds could often be found asleep with their feathers all fluffed up around them in the thick wooded groves, waiting for the stars that ruled Formenos' sky to dim for the night.

Despite her perchant for dozing through the middle if the day, Míriel's somnolent state did not stop her knitting and sewing. It certainly did not stop her from coming into his rooms to see what he was doing, ever curious as to what her 'Nárenya'. In fact her visits increased, she said that she found the noise of him writing or working out equations soothing. She would settle beside him at his desk, embroidering a wardrobes worth of miniature clothing, with occasionally one of his father's robes thrown in for variety, while he explained to her what he was studying.

Fëanáro tried to divine the gender of his little sibling in the embroidered little gowns and slippers his mother was making, but the motifs could be worn by both a male and female infant. The little cardigans she knitted (for babies apparently could get cold very, very easily) were always a soft cream or other light colours that do not suggest one gender or another either. (She made up for the bland background with the brilliance of the colours in the patterns she knitted into the hems; vivid scarlets, cobalts, emeralds, and marigolds flowing her needles into knotted patterns she made look easy to create.)

Fëanáro denied that he was growing more and more excited as the months progressed, but as they drew closer and closer there was a buzz in the air that seemed to affect everyone in the palace, and all he wanted to know was what it would be like to have a sibling, and whether he would have a brother or a sister.

-

When his mother went into labour, Fëanáro was finishing the rattle that he had made for the baby; carefully carved amber with smoothed silver jointing and nary a sharp edge anywhere. (Infants were very fragile, his mother and father had been impressing on him, along with many of the Lords and Ladies who had talked to him.) Rúmil, the bad influence of his mother (well that was what Finwë called him) came to get him, and stood patient and quiet just inside the door until he was sure Fëanáro was done.

Fëanáro almost didn’t forgive him for that, even when his kinsman raised an eyebrow and told him to stop fuming, and that that a woman’s labour could take some hours and so there was no use rushing to simply wait outside the room.

However as in many, many things, Rúmil turned out to be wise and truth telling, for they sat for two hours outside of the rooms Míriel was in. Fëanáro jumped occasionally at the faint noises of pain he was sure he could hear, but the walls of the palace were so well insulated that mostly he sat in a unsettling quiet until Rúmil began to test his memory of serati.

Fëanáro was clumsily debating the draw backs of the script by the time the door opened. He looked up immediately, voice squeaking to an immediate silence at the yearned for click of the lock. He saw his father standing there, looking distinctily dishevelled and unkingly but smiling.

“Come Fëanáro,” his father took his hand after Fëanáro had almost tackled him over runing to embrace him. He lead Fëanáro into the room, Rúmil murmuring he would be back in an hour to give them time. They walked through the small solar where several maids were packing laundry bags of linens, and it was only his father's hand around his that stopped Fëanáro sprinting towards the bed where his mother was a pale wisp against the dark pillows at her back.

Her arms were full of the blanket she had spent the past few months embroidering lavishly. There was an awkward moment where he had to scramble onto the bed, the linens slipping under his hands. In the end his father had to push him up onto the matress proper, and then Finwë followed, forming a protective wall against his back.  Fëanáro leaned over to look at the bundle in his mother’s arms.

What lay within the blanket was very small, and very scrunched. He looked unsurely at his mother. This was what they had spent the past year excitedly waiting for?

“This is your sister,” Míriel straightened herself up as much as she could, wincing, and his father was suddenly arranging Fëanáro like a doll.  A pillow was shoved behind his back so he was sitting straight, and his arms were held out, and positioned in a manner that felt awkward. Into his arms the blanket bundle was put, with far more weight than he expected, though it still felt like it weighed barely anything.

His sister had a pink face, and her hair was puffy and curly, a perfect black like Finwë’s and Fëanáro’s.

“Her name is Finëamírë,” Míriel said, “for she will be as dexterous and as skilled in hand as the both of you, and bright as the jewels she wears.”

Fëanáro nodded unsurely. Finëamírë; dexterous jewel, he thought, was a fitting name for a Princess. Though his sister didn't look very much like how he'd imagined a princess might look, or a little sibling for that matter.

Then he felt the blanket bundle slip in his arms and hugged it closer in alarm because, heart immediately pounding at the thought of dropping the new baby they'd been waiting for so long for. There was a small squeak. He peeked down into kitten grey eyes that stared past him, unfocused (which worried him.)

The tiniest of hands unfurled from a crack in the blankets, fisting in the embroidery of bright blue birds nesting amongst green and gold leaves.

How tiny, Fëanáro thought, awed and smitten all at once. How tiny but so perfectly formed already.

Finëamírë did not cease to be fascinating despite how she should have been boring. She could not move much, but as her eyes cleared his interest in her only increased. Her eyes went from the grey of a young kitten, to a fine, dark blue that reminded Fëanáro of the sapphires in King Ingwë’s crown, with a threads of silver all throughout the iris. He made a clumsy pendant for her of a lesser quality sapphire; the best he was allowed to handle, trapped in a lattice of the thinnest silver he could make (it was not as good as what a Telerin boy his age could make, he felt, and so Fëanáro resolved to try harder.)

She was interested, Fëanáro noted, in much of went around her. She would heave herself up and sit, staring at the people looming above her, apparently delighted just to watch what they were doing.

“Another quiet thoughtful one,” his mother said at one point, “when will we have another noisy wee monster?” She asked this of his father, and for a moment they both looked sad but they changed the topic whenever Fëanáro would inquire about it, and so he gave up.

Thankfully, Finëamírë  learnt to walk in swift enough time. But she was clumsy. So clumsy.

Fëanáro held her hand, watching as she put one ponderous foot in front of the other, and wondered if there might be something wrong with his sister.

“No all babes are like that as they grow,” Míriel chuckled, cupping his face and peppering it with kisses till he was squirming and squeaking as badly as Finëamírë did when she was being bathed.

“I wasn’t like that,” he protested, escaping her and hiding behind a chair, staring at her warily in case she did that again.

“yes you were,” Míriel laughed and reached into the chest of little clothes she was sorting. “Here look, these were yours.”

She pulled out several little babe’s smocks, the skirts of which were stained despite clearly being washed well, and worn quite badly.

“You were very stubborn,” Míriel said, and her smile was fond and lovely, making Fëanáro inch out of his hiding spot, “and you kept falling over. But you would never stop until you had reached whatever your intended target was.”

Fëanáro looked at the infant smocks. They were very tiny.

“I was that small?” he asked doubtfully.

“Of course,” his mother reached into the chest again and pulled out a red-brown tunic and little leggings that had leather sewn over the knees, “What do you think?”

He looked at them. He vaguely remembered wearing that tunic once, and he remembered unpicking the yellow clouds sewn into one of the short sleeves. When he slyly looked, he saw that yes, part of the embroidery on the left sleeve was newer then the rest.

“They don’t fit me,” he declared.

“Not for you!” his mother’s laughter peeled, “for Finëamírë. I made these for you when you started invading our workshops where things were a little more dangerous for one so young. She is almost at that age, and Finwë has already caught her crawling towards his wood-working room twice now.”

Crawling? Fëanáro wrinkled his nose.

“I think you shouldn’t let her into the workshops till she can walk to them,” he said, tilting his head up, “she CAN walk.”

“Yes but only a few steps. She needs practice yet,” his mother leant back, folding the clothing again in neat, quick gestures. She piled it on the table next to her and returned to rummaging in the chest.

“Do you hear that?” Fëanáro asked his sleeping sister who was napping on the chair next to her mother, curled up like a small cat, “you need to practice.”

Finëamírë responded with a soft snort and rolled over, nearly slipping off the chair before Míriel’s knowing hands caught her and picked her up. “Put your sister to bed Fëanáro, she shouldn’t sleep on chairs.”

He took Finëamírë’s dead weight, an arm beneath her bottom and an arm around her back, and obediently walked to his sister’s room. She wouldn’t let go of his tunic when he laid her in her cot.

He scowled, untangling her fingers which were very strong for a person so little.

Then he kissed her on the forehead and raised the bar of her cot so she wouldn’t fall out.

-

 “Ro!”

Fëanáro looked up from making a small wheeled cart. Axles were simple things in theory.

“Ro! Ro! Ro! RO! RO!!!” Finëamírë came marching up to him in clumsy steps.

“Yes?” he peered at her.

“Look!”

“What is it” he frowned and she patted her chest, grinning widely. She was wearing a short sleeved red tunic with yellow clouds on the sleeves an-

“OH!” he said, beaming at her, “those were mine once. Does this mean Father is taking you into his workshop?”

“Yes!” she beamed back at him and patted the tunic, “mine now.”

“Yes it’s yours now,” Fëanáro agreed. He couldn’t fit into it, so what was the point of keeping it? Anyway his mother had made it, and she was entitled to distribute the works of her hands as she wished.

Or that was what Rúmil’s treatise on intellectual property said.

“You look very nice in it,” he added because she did, and complimenting her made her happy.

Finëamírë chortled in delight and then turned in a circle, trying to imitate the little twirl their mother did sometimes when their father commented on Míriel’s dress. Finëamírë completed three-quarters of it, wobbled, and fell on her backside. She looked up at him, scowled, pulled herself upright by the leg of his desk and completed the turn.

He applauded then picked her up when she demanded it.

“I want a little sibling to,” Finëamírë said one day. She was sitting next to him in the library, listening to a story about the birth of The Trees.

“Why? You have an older one,” Fëanáro tried not to feel aggrieved.

“But you’re older,” Finëamírë said with great wisdom in her voice, “and I would like a younger sibling too; just like you have.”

“I don’t have an older sibling,” Fëanáro said, ignoring his unease at the proclamation and all his memories of the things his parents had said and left unanswered, “so we’re equal.”

Finëamírë narrowed her eyes at him.

“I think I’m going to get a little sibling anyway,” she said with a note of triumph, “because I think Father wants me to have one.”

“What makes you say that?” Fëanáro bristled.

“Because Father was saying we were growing so fast, and then he said he missed us being little ones. I think he wants another little one.”

That hurt.

“Aren’t we enough?” he asked her, “aren’t you upset he said that?”

“No,” Rúmil interrupted, having overheard them and come over from his desk. The great braid of his silver hair slithered about with his every movement, especially as he knelt to be at eye level with them, “no little cousin, because your sister knows wisely that your parents’ love for the both of you will be undiminished no matter how old you grow or how many siblings you have.”

Fëanáro looked at Finëamírë.

“What Rúmil said,” she said solemnly, “with all the long words as well.”

“Also,” Rúmil, the great fount of wisdom he was, said calmly, “any new child your parents might have would be the younger sibling of both of you.”

Wisdom dispensed he picked up the book Fëanáro had been reading to Finëamírë. “Ah this is a good story. Budge over and I shall read the next part.”

-

It therefore was not a surprise when their parents called them to them one evening, and Fëanáro recognised the content and happy look in their mother, and the excitement in their father.

“A big sister,” Finëamírë was bouncing on her feet, “A big sister! Am I going to have a little brother or a little sister?”

“The both of you,” their father said, “will have to wait, as your mother has decided she would like to keep it a secret.”

“Again?!” Fëanáro wailed. Finëamírë had been hard enough to wait to find out!! He had to wait again?!

“Yes again,” their mother’s smile was … just a little gleeful.

-

“She’s like a little puffy bird,” Finëamírë said contemplatively. The light of the trees was thick in the air, though not in the shadowed corner where their mother with her fragile skin was.

Their mother was napping. They had come to Mount Taniquetil for a festival, but today was a long rest day, and so they were sitting around, doing things to occupy their hands. Princess Indis of the Vanyar was sitting with them, humming to herself as she finished writing something on a large slate that she had balanced on her knees.

Fëanáro eyed her suspiciously.

He didn’t trust Indis’ hair.

It was puffy and gold and unlike the hair of any Noldor.

He was sure it ate things.

Their mother slept on in her large wicker chair, the back of it fanning out like the strange nuisance birds that liked to occupy the front lawn of Ingwë’s mountainous palace. They were, according to the High King himself, nice to eat, nice to look at, but an annoyance in all other things.

“Having a child is a taxing matter, especially the fourth child,” Indis said quietly in her sweet way, and then she put down her slate, picked up her lute and asked them if they wanted to hear a song before either of them could correct her.

-

“It’s going to be a girl,” Finëamírë said, “I can feel it in my bones.”

“You are far too young to feel anything in your bones except growth spurts,” Rúmil replied without batting an eyelash or breaking tone from his lecture about the coastal erosion being experienced by some Telerin settlements.

-

It seemed to Fëanáro that this pregnancy had passed far quicker, but far slower at the same time.

Which made no sense, frustrated him, and made him kick a wall as he glared at the improved design of his amber rattle, though to his mind he could still do better. He lifted it with care and turned it over in his hands.

“Have you come to tell me Mother is in labour,” he asked Rúmil sourly, “having stood at my door for at least the past hour?”

“You know me well,” Rúmil grinned, “hurry along little prince, I’ve been keeping half a mind on the proceedings with osanwë, and you’ve not a new sibling yet so no need to be waspish.”

Fëanáro carefully placed the rattle in the box he had made for it, more pleased, to be honest, with the parquetry of the box that Finëamírë had made for it, then the rattle itself though Rúmil, coming over to look at it, complimented both equally enough that he could not detect a bias either way.

He was old enough to be able to walk on his own just fine but his hand snuck into Rúmil’s as they walked towards those familiar rooms. There were scars on Rúmil’s palms, in amongst all of the callouses there from writing and reading. The red tattooing on his arms and legs (a tradition from the East that had not been continued in the West) was slashed all over. Fëanáro glanced at their joined hands, and at the red inking of Rúmil’s finger tips. His parents had markings like this, subtly different. Fëanáro was sure there were stories in them, but the most he knew was that the palm was the clan mark, and the back of the hand was Tata’s mark.

The Eighteen Pointed Star on the back of Rúmil’s hand taunted him, promising stories that no one was willing to tell him.

Finëamírë was sitting with a maid but she jumped up and went running towards him, nearly knocking him over with her hug. She was wide eyed, even frantic looking.

“I heart Mother scream,” she whispered, shivering all over.

“Giving birth is, like most strenuous physical activities, uncomfortable,” Rúmil’s bland voice shattered Fëanáro’s own panicked reaction to the thought of their mother in pain enough that she had screamed.

“How would you know,” he cast Rúmil a frown, stroking Finëamírë’s hair which was a mess of curls that no one had bothered to brush. He reached into his belt pouch and rummaged around till he found the one he kept for when he had to run to dinner straight from his workshop. He sat down and began to laboriously unpick the knots and tangles.

“I could have given birth,” Rúmil said, and Fëanáro glared at him.

“You are a man,” he said, “men do not give birth.”

“Oh precious innocent summer child,” Rúmil smiled and the smile sent horrific chills down Fëanáro’s spine, “the things you do not know… yet.”

“Rúmil stop frightening my son,” Finwë ordered from the doorway.

“Father,” Fëanáro gave him a wide eyed glance, “men can’t give birth can they?!”

“No,” Finwë cast Rúmil a glance that was unreadable to Fëanáro despite his large vocabulary of his father’s various looks, glances, gazes, and glares. Rúmil made a coughing noise that sounded a lot like ‘coward.’

“Is the baby born yet?” Finëamírë asked tremulously. Their father opened his mouth but sudden shrill crying interrupted him. He gave them a tired smile, “yes.”

“But I only just arrived here,” Fëanáro said, shocked, “Finëamírë took much longer.”

“Sometimes later births are easier and take less time,” Finwë suddenly glared at Rúmil whose mouth had opened but shut when the glare was received with a tiny click of teeth, “Finëamírë’s birth took less than yours.”

“How long did Fëanáro’s birth take?” Finëamírë squirmed until Fëanáro let go of her hair, racing across to wrap their father’s legs in an hug. Finwë simply lifted her off his legs and onto his hip so he could walk, a hand reaching for Fëanáro’s which Fëanáro happy grabbed onto.

“Two days.”

Fëanáro spared a moment of envy at his father’s height and strength.

Finëamírë had a strong grip. It was hard to break sometimes when she really didn’t want to let go of you.

“Fëanáro did you ever apologise to Mother?” Finëamírë asked him solemnly.

“Why should I apologise for being born?” Fëanáro glared back but he did wonder if he should.

Their mother was sitting up against bright blue pillows, gently shushing and rocking the bundle in her arms with an amused and weary grin upon her face. There was something slightly off about her appearance; something different about her face but Fëanáro couldn’t quite put his finger on the change.

“There, quiet again. And hello my children, I hope you were not outside long.”

Fëanáro was unbearably happy to see her all of a sudden. He wasn’t sure why, but it was as though a fear that he’d not known was there went away all at once when he heard her speak, and met her eyes.

“Hello,” he whispered, climbing up onto the bed with no help, whilst his father settled Finëamírë on Míriel’s other side.

“Hello Nárenya, what was that I heard from the corridor? Was Rúmil being mean to you?”

“No,” he denied, as Rúmil, who had settled at a chair a respectful distance from the end of the bed said, “character building.”

“Liar,” Míriel returned to her cousin.

“Mother I want to see the baby,” Finëamírë piped up, impatient and straining to have a look at what the blanket of brilliant blue and silver stars, each one a different design, and each one as intricate as the last, held within.

Míriel lowered her arms obligingly.

Fëanáro leaned in. He knew the baby would be scrunched and pink, and this time he knew not to hold that against the baby.

“….they don’t have hair…they don’t even have eyebrows,” Fëanáro was horrified.

“Yes he does,” Míriel protested, stroking her finger along the ridge where the baby’s eyebrows should have been.

A boy then.

Fëanáro stuck his tongue out at Finëamírë only to have it caught and tugged by their mother immediately.

He mumbled an apology, and watched her stroke the baby’s brow ridge again. Very fine, fair hairs caught the light and revealed themselves when she disturbed them.

Oh, he frowned and then the light of understanding dawned abruptly. He reached out, hesitantly, and stroked the baby’s head with his fingertips. There was downy hair there, but too light to be seen.

“Oh he has Mother’s hair,” Finëamírë squirmed.

Fëanáro nodded, speechless. He stroke the baby’s head again, and his newest brother stirred restlessly, pursing his lips and flexing hands as tiny and well-formed at Finëamírë’s had been.

Fëanáro wasn’t sure how he felt. Awed, perhaps, and just a little bit jealous.

“Here, straighten up love,” Fëanáro immediately wriggled back, arms ready. Now it was Finëamírë’s turn to be arranged like a doll, showing her how to hold the baby when it was her turn. Fëanáro spared a moment to feel smug that he already knew, even though he knew that wasn’t fair to Finëamírë.

His new brother’s weight seemed even less than his sister’s had been.

Again the baby stirred, restless and then opened his eyes.

Fëanáro knew, academically, that infants could not see very well, his father had explained that to him when Finëamírë had been born. That did not stop the feeling the baby was looking straight at him.

“Is he Finwion as well?” he asked, aware of Finëamírë fussing for her turn to hold the baby.

“Yes but of course once day he will be a Finwë just like you,” his mother kissed his hair, leaning in to wrap her arm around his body and adjust his hold on his brother.

He tried to imagine what sort of name his brother would bear one day. He had no idea. His brother was just born and had, really, no personality at all.

“My turn,” Finëamírë interrupted, “Fëanáro I want to hold him too. Father I want to-”

Finwë placed a finger over her lips.

Fëanáro hugged the new Finwion a little tighter for a few more moments out of defiance then handed the baby to his father, who made sure Finëamírë was holding her arms properly.

Fëanáro leaned into Míriel, and her hand stroked through his hair almost immediately.

“Mother,” he murmured and turned into her, wrapping his arms around her even though it was so awkward so he could hug her tight. She was soft around the middle still, and smelled of the herbal rinses that healers liked to put in the water they cleaned patients with to keep bad auguries away. Beside them Finëamírë commented immediately that ‘Finwion looks like a prune,’ to their father’s choked laugh and Rúmil’s outright joy at her proclamation.

“Your and Rúmil’s eyebrows are dark,” he looked at Rúmil who was leaning over towards Finëamírë, trying to see the child as well. Rúmil’s eyebrows were as black as his, or Finëamírë’s, or his father’s. He glanced at his mother’s eyebrows…and startled. Usually Míriel’s well-shaped brows were as black as Rúmil’s, but now they were a light grey only a few shades darker than the silver of her hair.

When had that happened?!

“The wonders of coal dust,” she chuckled, “a little piece of wisdom which I’m sure your brother will learn in time.”