One's Own by Urloth

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In Which There Is Finëamírë

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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.