Fëanor, The World's Worst Son-In-Law by Uvatha the Horseman

The Clan Arrives

There was a heavy knock on the door, and the sound of laughing outside. Mahtan got up to answer it, but his wife beat him to it. She flung open the door, and the sounds of shrieking and laughing filled the house. All at once, a great many people spilled into the front hall.

Mahtan knew that Nerdanel had seven boys, but seeing all of them for the first time was sort of overwhelming. "Most couples have one or two children. But seven? What are you, ranchers?" he asked.

Nerdanel entered with her husband. Her reddish-brown hair hung over her shoulder in a simple braid. Fëanor had jet black hair. He was slightly built compared to Mahtan, with the delicate hands of a craftsman. The boys seem to be evenly divided between red-haired and dark, and ranged in age from children to young men.

"Nerdanel, I've put the two of you in your old room. The younger ones will sleep on the floor in the front parlor, and I've made space for the three older boys in the hayloft," said Mahtan's wife.

"Where did the blond come from? Did you bring one of the neighbor's by accident?" Mahtan asked Fëanor, who'd knelt to unbuckled the straps of his saddlebags.

"Sometimes the people next door will slip one of their children in with ours. They think we won't notice. We do notice, but it might take a few days."

"Dear, that's Celegorm. He's one of ours," said Nerdanel.

"Right. I knew that," said Fëanor.

Admittedly, there were a lot of them. Mahtan wondered if their parents knew all of their names. He turned his attention to two small redheads who looked exactly alike. "And these?"

"Those are AmrodandAmras. You never see the one without the other," said Fëanor.

Mahtan embraced his daughter. "I'm so glad to see you. I thought you usually spent the Festival with your in-laws in the city."

"We haven't seen you in a while, we thought this would be a good occasion for a visit," said Fëanor.

"I thought it was because of the restraining order," said one of the dark-haired children. "After that incident with the knife, Father's not allowed within five hundred paces of Uncle Fingolfin. We can't go to Grandpa's if he's going to be there."

A flush crept up Fëanor's face from chin to hairline. "And this is why some animals eat their own young." He went outside, muttering something about bringing in the rest of the bags.

Mahtan invited his daughter into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Her mother set the mug on the table, and Nerdanel wrapped her hands around it. Nerdanel's eyes shone as she spoke. "You can't imagine how clever Fëanor is, Daddy. When I was growing up, you taught me to make useful things from metal. But Fëanor goes beyond that. He makes things you can barely even imagine, even if you're holding them in your hand."

Mahtan enjoyed seeing his daughter so much in love. And she was right about her husband's talent. The young couple had stayed here for a few years shortly after they were married before their first child was born. During that time, Mahtan taught both of them the basics of the craft he'd learned from Aulë.

One of the boys came in a moment later, a dark-haired youth who looked overly tall for his weight, as if he'd been stretched. "Is there anything to eat in here?" he asked, and began going through the pantry.

Fëanor rolled his eyes. "Pardon my son. Curufin eats like a bird, twice his own weight in a day."

Mahtan's wife set a roast chicken on the table, an unusually large one because there were so many of them. The skin was golden and crispy, and she'd rubbed it with rosemary and sage before putting it on the spit. The aroma filled the room.

"Mahtan, can you bring another pitcher of milk?" she asked, slicing bread for her grandsons.

"Now boys, what do you say?" she prompted.

"He who eats fast eats twice," said Maedhros, a tall redhead, as he grabbed a slice in each hand.

"Celegorm, aren't you having any chicken?" asked his mother.

"I understand the speech of all the animals. I won't eat one of them," said the blond.

"I'm guessing he likes a girl who doesn't eat animals," said an older boy, whose name was Maglor.

Mahtan got up from the table and stepped outside to the spring house, where they kept the butter and eggs. When he came back, the bones of the chicken had been picked clean as if by locusts. Two of the boys were fighting over the last scrap of meat. Their plates showed no sign of having been used at all.

"Did you lick them clean or did you skip the plates entirely and eat directly from the serving platter?" asked Mahtan.

One of the boys snagged something from his neighbor's plate. "He who eats slowly goes hungry," said the thief, licking grease from his fingertips.

"Caranthir, that wasn't yours. You took it right off my plate!" said Maglor.

"That's a fact. I'd have taken it out of your fingers if you weren't bigger than me," said Caranthir.

Mahtan sat down to an empty plate, feeling hungry and slightly annoyed. His wife got to her feet. "There's lots of bread and butter, and if you give me a minute, I can find some cheese. But I wouldn't let go of the milk jug until you've filled your glass."

"And after you've poured, you might hang on to your glass. They can get pretty aggressive at feeding time," said Fëanor.