Thirty Day Character Challenge: Feanor by eris_of_imladris

According to the texts, Fëanor is the greatest of the Eldar, and at the same time, among the most flawed (if not the most). With his backstory coming from a broken family, and his superhuman ability to hold a grudge, he seems to be his own greatest help and worst enemy, which has inspired one of my favorite headcanons for him. Some of my initial notes from the Silmarillion:

• Fëanor was the eldest and most beloved son of Finwë, and his only son with Míriel Þerinde (which he always spelled in that way). His father-name was Curufinwë and his mother-name was Fëanáró.
• His mother was exhausted after his birth, and her spirit went to the Halls of Mandos.
• He became the “most subtle in mind and the most skilled in hand,” and created the Tengwar alphabet and a variety of new gems including Fëanorian lamps and the palantiri.
• He married Nerdanel at a young age. She was the daughter of Mahtan, who taught him about smithing, and the pair had seven sons before their estrangement.
• His father remarried Indis of the Vanyar, and he had a great feud with her sons, Fingolfin and Finarfin.
• Fëanor created the Silmarils!
• And Melkor did not like this very much, and incited anger between Fëanor and Fingolfin, to try to spread them apart. This led to Fëanor threatening Fingolfin with a sword.
• Manwë and the other Valar banished Fëanor to Formenos for 12 years, and Finwë followed him.
• Melkor came to Fëanor in Formenos to try to speak to him but Fëanor told him to get off his lawn.
• Manwë invited Fëanor to his halls in Tanquetil, and he came and was reconciled with Fingolfin in word. But Melkor set a giant spider, Ungoliant, upon the Trees, and they were killed.
• Yavanna asked Fëanor for the Silmarils to revive the Trees, but he said no, and then learned that Melkor went to Formenos, slew his father, and stole the Silmarils. He named him Morgoth and flouted the decree of exile, returning to Tirion and inciting the Noldor to leave the shores of Valinor and return to Middle Earth for vengeance.
• He and his sons swore the Oath of Fëanor, which would turn out to be their undoing.
• Fëanor needed ships to reach Middle Earth, and when the Teleri refused him their ships, he incited the first Kinslaying.
• Fëanor departed with the ships in secret, and set the ships on fire when he reached his destination, his half-brother Fingolfin and his host to cross the Helcaraxë, a great icy land.
• Upon his arrival on Middle-Earth, Fëanor fought the host of Morgoth, but was slain by Gothmog, the lord of the balrogs, and his body turned to ash as he perished.

He sat in the grass, tempted to rip tufts of it out. He was just so frustrated with Indis, and with his father for allowing her to pretend she was part of his family, or something like a mother to him. She would never be his mother, no matter what, and no matter how many times she kept trying to talk to him with love, he would never respond.

He lay on his back, feeling the grass tickle his nape as he thought of the day’s events so far. He had been awoken by Indis on a rare morning off from his forge work, and she had tried to convince him to go to the market with her. Why would he want to go to the market? If she wanted to spend all of his father’s money, she could do that without him being involved, and then being a convenient scapegoat if anything went wrong. Of course, she didn’t see it that way, and she summoned his father, and the fight had escalated to the point where Finwë was accompanying Indis to the market, and he was in the field not too far away, biding his time until his shift began at the forge.

Mahtan took him early sometimes, but if he went every time he had a fight with or about Indis, he would live in the forge, and there was no point in angering his master when there was still so much he needed to learn from him. Instead, he tried to cool down, tried to appreciate Laurelin’s light and the fair meadow, but he was having trouble.

He swore as he felt something tugging on his hair, and he sat up indignantly only to find a small goat with a mouthful of inky black hair. The goat ruminated a few times, and looked at Fëanor with its oddly shaped eyes and made a strange noise, almost like it was making a small scream.

“I feel the same way,” Fëanor said. He was now talking to a goat. That was incredibly stupid, but it wasn’t the first stupid thing that had happened that morning. “My stupid stepmother never leaves me alone.”

Some part of him thought that it might be unfair to think like this, but she had done so many more things that he deemed unfair, and it was not his fault that she had tried to court an ellon already married, although his wife was in the gardens of Lorien. Fields like this made him think of his mother, and the relaxation she supposedly needed, but he couldn’t understand how this was any more relaxing than a life at home with loved ones. Yes, it was isolated, but how could she have left him? True, she would not have known that Finwë would be so unfaithful to her, but there was at least a chance, and for the sake of that chance, she should have stayed with their family, and raised her child properly.

Thinking of raising a child made him raise his voice again, speaking to the goat. It was stupid to speak to an animal, but the goat was theoretically not interested in Noldorin politics, and would not blab on him.

“I overheard them last night,” he confessed. “They must have thought I was asleep. I was walking past their chamber - well, I think of it as Atar’s chamber, but still - and I heard them talking about the baby. The one they have conceived. Together.” The thought was repulsive, and it definitely confirmed in his mind that his father had taken Indis to wife for nothing more than pure desire that his own mother could not indulge anymore.

“I do not understand,” he said. “Atar was so happy to have another child, you would think I did not exist at all, or that I was the bastard and her child was legitimate. With the Valar sanctifying both marriages, it is unclear now which child is legitimate, and it is a threat to me, whatever they say. And the fact that they speak of it in secret - I will be able to see her pregnancy soon enough, even if they do not speak to me of it - means that they might mean to disinherit me.”

The goat screamed.

“Very well said,” Fëanor nodded. He had no idea where he might go for a home if this happened, if he was forced to watch the baby take away every meager scrap of love he had managed to hoard for himself like a particularly grumpy magpie. He knew few elves who might want to take him in - Mahtan was kind, but distant, and he already had his daughter, although Fëanor had not yet met her, and she was his heir in name and deed. There were some nobles who might believe in his cause, but he knew that they were too meek to do anything, too scared of the political repercussions. He had thought of laying down his life in Lorien with his mother, but he could not dishonor her sacrifice any more than he could put up with being in a field with nothing to do for the rest of eternity.

But if it was a boy, he realized he might not have a choice. A son from his father’s second marriage might eclipse everything, might take all he had ever known and turn it around. He wished he could speak to his father about it, but he never knew which version he was getting, the one who was loyal to him or the one who let Indis walk all over him and ruin everything.

The goat in front of him was far simpler. Just two almond-shaped eyes, thin pupils, four hooves. The goat never had to worry about anything like he did. And some elves wondered why he took an apprenticeship with Mahtan - he was completely sure he would lose his mind if he was stuck in his father’s house all day every day, with Indis lurking in every corner, that fake friendly smile pasted on her face, her blonde hair a painful reminder of what he could have had with his mother if she had been stronger.

The goat dropped a small chunk of his hair as it continued to chew the rest. He flipped over onto his stomach and watched the animal living its peaceful life, not knowing the meaning of pain or sorrow, of grief or turmoil. It was simply at peace, like his mother was supposed to be in Lorien’s gardens. All he had learned from his father repeating that phrase was that she was at peace, while he was not, and that was utterly not fair.

He pushed himself up, determined to confront his father and ask for his plans regarding the baby. It was not a bad idea to try to get more time to figure out his next steps, and putting his father on the spot might even let him influence the outcome a little bit. He looked down at the hair that the goat had chewed, which looked just like his father’s.

“Thank you,” he told the goat, and he reached out and patted it on its head. Its fur was soft, and the two ears flopped down in front as it nuzzled into the touch.

He stood up, not one to stay in one place for long, and when he left, the goat lay down in the grass. Fëanor made it all the way back to town before he realized that the livestock merchant was not in the market that day, nor were there any goats in the entire rest of the meadow.

-------------

Finwë looked up when Indis pointed at Fëanor. “I did not know where you had gone, son - it is good to see you here,” he said, reaching out an arm to give his son a one-armed hug. “Where were you?”

“I was in the meadow,” he said. “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Finwë said.

“Alone,” he clarified, and Finwë sent an apologetic look at Indis before Fëanor drew him away to a small break in the merchant stalls.

“What is wrong?”

“I overheard you last night,” he said, having decided on his walk back to confront the issue head-on. “I know you and Indis are having a child together, and I was wondering what this will mean for me and my position going forward.”

Finwë looked taken aback. “I am sorry you found out about it in that way,” he said. “We were speaking of how to tell you.”

“I am not a child,” Fëanor said.

“But I would not want to hurt you, so I was trying to think of how to break the news gently,” Finwë said.

“I have more problem with the fact that you have this news to break at all,” Fëanor grumbled.

“I knew you would, but Indis is my wife now, and part of our family.”

“She is not my family.”

“But she is mine, and for the love you bear for me, I have asked you to respect her,” Finwë said. “I knew you would be displeased, but I will tell you right now, and this promise lasts until the ending of the world: you are and will always be my firstborn son, and the High Prince of Tirion, in my eyes.”

“But what about the eyes of others?”

“Since when are you concerned with the opinions of others?”

“Since it might take away my birthright in addition to the love I know I will lose,” Fëanor said boldly.

“You will lose no love, but you will have to share it,” Finwë said, and the words meant the same to Fëanor. He sighed. “Nearly every elf has siblings, and this will be no different. You will be an elder brother, and at least partially responsible for the children growing up happy.”

Ignoring the mention of more than one child for now, Fëanor retorted, “I will be responsible for nothing. I played no part in your decision to wed Indis, or to get her with child, and I will not be responsible for the child.”

“I hope you will at least be kind,” Finwë said. “Your younger sibling will look up to you a great deal. You do more in one day than some elves do in a year, and your work ethic and powerful mind are inspirational. Surely, he or she will look up to you.”

“Half-sibling,” was all Fëanor said.

Anyone could have found the silima, hidden deep within the earth, if they had looked hard enough, but it would take someone special to mold the silvery material into something incredible, and Fëanor was the Elda for the job.

His mind churned with inspiration at all hours of the day and night, and the silima lit something in his mind that he doubted would exist anywhere else, for anyone else. It was intimidating at first, the vision of the great crystal taking the light of the Trees and molding it into flesh, but he knew it was something he could do.

He had studied with Mahtan for many years, and spent many years working with Aulë at his forge, trying to figure out the best way to create and innovate. He was not there to copy what others had done, nor was he going to run straight to Aulë with this discovery, and risk having the Vala want to come up with the creative thing himself. In the material, Fëanor saw the greatest opportunity of his life to distinguish himself, to finally show the other Eldar exactly what he could do, and why being a smith was not a dishonorable profession, but something that a son of a king should be honored to do.

He pictured himself alone in front of them all, cheering and looking at him in awe, and allowed the vision to take over, realizing that if he did this successfully, there would be no Elda to surpass him, and he would be known as the light bringer, the one whose talent would be like Yavanna and Nienna’s magic and bring his own version of the Trees to life.

The vision encouraged him, and he came out alone for day after day, mining as much of the material as he could find. It appeared to be a small pocket only, on the height of a peak, and he left no instruction for his own apprentices, only to work on the orders that came in for him.

In his hands, he finally held the silima, which he called it because the silvery filaments of the material brought their own light, even without being crafted. They were like a heart of the world, and he held the heart in his hands, feeling it beat as his own. He alone could do it justice.

He found his way back to the workshop with the material under cloth, and immediately took to building a new wing of his smithy, somewhere where others could not even enter. When he pulled the cloth off in the workshop, it just looked right, shining in the light of Laurelin, and the finished product took form in his mind, almost as if the crystal itself was telling him how to create it, how to turn his ideas to the flesh of the rock.

This would require finesse. Any smith could hammer at a material, but as he soon discovered, it took only the slightest tap to disintegrate the silima. It was finer than glass in some parts, and harder than diamonds in others, and only his fingers could tell which part it would ve, and how to deconstruct the lump into workable parts that would be thin enough for the light to shine through, but still thick enough to hold their own form.

Any smith could have tried, but many would have given up. It was not a project of weeks or months but of years, and he felt the crystals taking time away from his family, from his young son, even from the second son he had created within his wife. Nerdanel understood all too well that his craft was calling him, but even she had taken to asking if he was still interested in his family with her, and a pang of guilt hit him whenever she even implied such a thing, as if he was like his father, to abandon his family.

He took to spending his days with Nerdanel and Nelyo and his nights with the silima, sleeping the minimal amount possible, seeing the finished products behind his eyelids even when he was determined to get sleep. His dreams were filled with shining crystals, and his vision clouded with them during the day, even when he managed to do his other responsibilities, turning in his work to Aulë, eating with Mahtan and his family.

Many smiths would have stopped when the new baby was born - a second son, a great honor for the house of Finwë - and the boy looked just like Fëanor, down to the little crinkle between his brows. He was shorter than his brother had been at birth, and had less of a strong cry, but he was an observant child, and perhaps other smiths might have taken advantage of that, but Fëanor still saw the crystals, wanted to dandle them before his son’s eyes rather than some toy made of prosaic wood.

He would ruffle Nelyo’s hair when he went to the forge each morning, and kiss his wife, and let his baby son squeeze his finger, and then he would head out again, off to do the minimum of other responsibilities before he could finally devote time to the crystals. His life, his love, his obsession, they burned bright in his mind and they were precious to him, as if they were members of his own family - for they were, in his eyes, the only way to truly reconcile himself with his father, to take his role as the elder son of Finwë. Lesser smiths might have been intimidated, but Fëanor had the strength to succeed, and succeed he would.

Fëanor spent most of his life in the city of Tirion, which is described canonically as:

• The city was kept inside steep walls, and it was in the only passable area between the mountains of Pelóri created to keep Melkor away, the Calacirya. (although it didn’t work all too well)
• The city is built on the hill of Túna, which is said to be a green hill placed so that the elves could see the stars they so loved.
• Within the city walls, Ingwe’s tower stood in the center, with a great silver lantern shining out as a beacon. After the resettlement of many of the Vanyar, Finwë ruled over Tirion.
• Finwë’s house (and the house where Fëanor would have grown up) was located just beneath.
• The Great Square was here as well, where Fëanor and his sons swore their fateful Oath.
• The city itself had white walls and terraces, and white crystal stairs rose from the fertile farmland beneath the city to the buildings and towers.

Some thought it was an oddity that he chose to eat in his own way, and others thought it disrespectful to his father and to the cooks who prepared the food he rejected time after time, and still others refused to respect his choices - simple rather than complex, to begin, and then a thousand rules that followed. It was painful for him to watch, painful for him to observe a menu where there was nothing he could eat and all he could do was look out coolly over the assembly of people eating and wonder why he was not important enough to eat as well. His father seemed to be the only one who understood, and who respected his choices, and realized it was more than just pickiness. Some textures were abhorrent to him, like the sliminess of the mushroom or the tang of too-sharp cheese, and others were simply not what he enjoyed, and he found no need to eat what other people enjoyed in order to make them feel important. There was no need to do that, he knew, because he was an important Elda all on his own, and yet when his food needs were disrespected, even though he always had a plan and packed food everywhere he went, he still felt disrespected, which was becoming a common theme in his life that he had not expected to encounter at all. It was a scandal to some that he refused to eat like a proper prince, or even a proper Elda, and had preferences that others considered strange. It was just one thing of many that set him apart from others, and while many of the things were a matter of pride, this was something to endure with deep shame, a shame that made him even more angry and volatile than usual. Whenever anyone pointed it out that he was not eating, whether it was a curious courtier or someone trying to curry favor by offering him a food he liked, he hated that this behavior made him a pawn in the hands of others, and wished that one day he might learn to eat like a normal Elda. He was not a normal Elda, though - and yet, he wondered, if he had had his mother, would he have eaten her food from her plate, learned to endure even the things he hated for her sake? Was it his loneliness and the way he felt set apart that made him eat differently, or was it purely a matter of preference? It confused many other Eldar, just as many things he did made them wonder. He was a prince who was a smith, and a warrior in a land of peace, and he was a strange eater.

Chapter End Notes

This piece follows a headcanon of mine of picky-eater-ness. :)

Some thought it was an oddity that he chose to eat this way, and others thought it disrespectful to his father and to the cooks who prepared the food he rejected time after time, and still others refused to respect his choices. It was painful for him to watch, painful for him to observe a menu where there was nothing he could eat and all he could do was look out coolly over the assembly of people eating and wonder why he was not important enough to eat as well. His father seemed to be the only one who understood, and who respected his choices, and realized it was more than just pickiness. Some textures were abhorrent to him, like the sliminess of the mushroom or the tang of too-sharp cheese, and others were simply not what he enjoyed, and he found no need to eat what other people enjoyed in order to make them feel important. There was no need to do that, he knew, because he was an important Elda all on his own, and yet when his food needs were disrespected, even though he always had a plan and packed food everywhere he went, he still felt disrespected, which was becoming a common theme in his life that he had not expected to encounter at all. It was a scandal to some that he refused to eat like a proper prince, or even a proper Elda, and had preferences that others considered strange. It was just one thing of many that set him apart from others, and while many of the things were a matter of pride, this was something to endure with deep shame, a shame that made him even more angry and volatile than usual. Whenever anyone pointed it out that he was not eating, whether it was a curious courtier or someone trying to curry favor by offering him a food he liked, he hated that this behavior made him a pawn in the hands of others, and wished that one day he might learn to eat like a normal Elda. He was not a normal Elda, though - and yet, he wondered, if he had had his mother, would he have eaten her food from her plate, learned to endure even the things he hated for her sake? Was it his loneliness and the way he felt set apart that made him eat differently, or was it purely a matter of preference? It confused many other Eldar, just as many things he did made them wonder. He was a prince who was a smith, and a warrior in a land of peace, 

** A/N: I responded to this prompt in two ways: by finding several favorite fan arts, and by writing a fic inspired by one of them.

1. This is my favorite thing ever: http://bit.ly/2zUOMnq (Credit: snartha) I can’t look at it without bursting into joyous laughter, and I think snartha is a genius for making it! The “get along tunic” is hilarious and I think it would be so funny to read a fic of this since it seems like something that would make sense in canon xD

2. This art shows a great angle of Fëanor and I love the look on his face, like he is powerful and he knows it, which is a great confident pose for him: http://bit.ly/2jlpGHK (Unsure of artist, let me know if you know who made it).

3. This three-part comic goes from serious to hilarious, and I’ve used this as inspiration for scenes of Maedhros’ birth as well as Fëanor as a father, in both the good and bad ways: http://bit.ly/2ivTAIQ (Again, I don’t know where this comes from, but I’d love to credit the artist if anyone knows who they are).

4. I love the way this comic shows the way Fëanor is an outsider in his own family, which is a theme I work with a lot: http://bit.ly/2k2GByv (Source: Niyochara).

5. So this last one is a meme instead of art but it makes me laugh so here you go: http://bit.ly/2k095sO (Credit: lady--of--greenwood).

The following fic was inspired by http://bit.ly/2ixG9Yx by dakkun39!

The boy trailed behind. He was too old to be picked up, too old to sit on laps, and yet the deepest desire of his heart was to do these exact things, if only to keep them away from his young half-brother.

They walked along a woodland path, lit by the Mingling. It was later than they would usually go out, but for some reason, Fëanor’s father had wanted to show them something, and “them” now meant Indis, Findis, Fingolfin, and Fëanor himself, as more of an afterthought than a desired son.

He certainly felt that way with Findis hanging off of his father’s left arm and the baby in his right. He held the baby so tightly, cooing over him, responding to every babble as if he had spoken a sentence. What was wrong with him? Fëanor couldn’t remember anything like that with him; all he could remember was grief, and sitting together in silence, not excursions and fun and actually talking, actually making him feel important.

He lingered beside Indis, the cause of all of this, not because he wanted to, but because she insisted on keeping an eye on him. There was no reason for her to want to do this. She had already proven that she cared not at all for Fëanor’s happiness, only that she and her children go to spend time with Finwë, and never once had she and Fëanor had a conversation lasting more than a few terse sentences.

Her hand dangled at her side, a silent invitation that both she and Fëanor knew would go unheeded. There was no point in taking her hand, for even if he tried to make a gesture of conciliation like this, his father would never know, and he would never appreciate the lengths to which Fëanor was willing to go for a little bit of his time and affection.

In its absence, he watched. He kept his eyes fixed on his half-siblings, the little giggling Vanya girl who reminded Fëanor so much of her mother and the small dark-haired baby boy whose mere existence felt like a stab to Fëanor’s heart. Every bit of love that was his, every demonstration of affection, Fëanor felt as though it had been stolen from him, and the feelings rotted in his heart without anyone even knowing.

Indis likely thought he was simply a surly child, and while he interacted with her to the bare minimum, he felt no need to make obeisance to the baby. There was no reason for him to want to hold the little one, to talk to him. He got enough love and attention already. The little girl was less of a threat to him, so he would occasionally speak with her and play with her, but it was moments like these when he wished she was not in his family, for the simple joy in her heart was so oppositional to the fire in his that he felt as though she cheapened all of his problems.

“Are you well, Fëanáró?” Indis asked, and it was strange to hear her speak his name.

“I am well, stepmother,” he replied, for he could still not convince himself to call her queen, no matter how much his father had implied (and point blank stated) it would mean a great deal to him.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, then took another few awkward steps, leaves crunching under her feet. “How is your smithing going?”

He wanted to tell his father that he had been promoted, that he was now a senior apprentice to one of the finest smiths in Valinor at such a young age, but he would hate to have the moment ruined by something like this, by his father swinging little Findis into piles of leaves and her little giggles making the baby laugh too, his chubby fists waving in the air.

“It is going well,” he answered truthfully, and wondered if he would ever tell his father that he had been promoted. Or would he simply wait, he wondered, for an occasion to present him with some grand project or another, perhaps even in a group? Would he wait long enough that it no longer mattered, that his age and skill were no longer exceptional? He had not even told his father that he had met Aulë, that he had encountered the greatest smith, and he had praised his work, which made the boy feel more than he had felt with his father in such a long time.

“Are you working on anything new?” Indis asked, and Fëanor internally groaned. He hated these forced conversations in which Indis tried to act like she knew him, like she was not the instigator of everything that had ruined his life. There were those now, he knew, who said that the Valar sanctifying Finwë’s second marriage made his first illegitimate, and that little Nolofinwë, whose name still hurt Fëanor every time he thought about it, was the proper heir to the High Kingship of the Noldor. The child was still a baby, but Fëanor knew that he would rather die than let him ever become king.

“Nothing in particular,” he lied, not wanting to extend the conversation any further. He wondered if his father heard anything he had said, was curious about anything. It seemed like Finwë almost never sought him out anymore, whether it was in his room or anywhere else. It was just another painful sign that Nolofinwë had stolen more than his potential birthright, but his father’s love as well.

“I hope you know that we care for you,” Indis said, her arms swinging gently as she watched Findis collecting late autumn flowers for her father. “You are a part of this family as much as my own children.”

Fëanor wondered why she was saying this. Had she been prompted by Finwë? Or was she trying to actually reach out to him? There was no way to tell, not without significant probing, and he had no great desire to get into a fight with her in the middle of what was supposed to be a nice family walk for Finwë’s second family. He wondered why he had even been invited; why he had not tagged off with some sort of excuse.

This day would be different from every other day in his life so far, for on this day, he would finally ask the elleth he loved to become his wife. It was not going to be a grand court production like his father’s proposal to Indis, which had involved a great many nobles and fancy outfits, but rather, this would involve a simple moment between himself and Nerdanel in the forge where they had met, adjacent to her sculpting studio.

He had it all planned out. He had mined the gem himself that he put in her betrothal ring, and he had spent a great deal of time crafting it. Even though he thought Mahtan must have known what he was up to, the elder smith had not stopped him, and had even encouraged him to keep going when he found a flaw in the metal. He kept trying, and finally, he had a ring that contained a reddish yellow gem that glowed with life, glowed the way he felt about her, and he couldn’t wait to give it to her.

He would give it to her in the middle of the day, when she usually came by and brought water for the apprentices. He was a senior apprentice now, and in fact almost done with his apprenticeship, and so he was closer to the door where she would enter. He was closer to the area where she would find him, and then they would speak of sweet nothings until he would ask what she thought of his latest work. He would show her the ring then, and drop to one knee for her, and he hoped with everything in him that she would say yes.

It was strange, he knew, to wed so early in his life, before his apprenticeship was done (although that seemed to be a matter of months rather than years, if he was reading Mahtan right). It was an oddity, but it would hardly be the first one in his life. He seemed to always be doing things weirdly, from the moment that he didn’t have a mother to bring him up, and he knew there was no hope of him ever living a normal life considering who was supposed to be part of his family. His only hope now was to try to figure out a way to live with Nerdanel, which would make him finally feel happy. He dreamed of her face at night and he woke with the feeling of her lips on his, even with their few experimentations, he knew what she felt like in his arms, and he wanted to feel a great deal more. And he couldn’t deny that it brought him satisfaction to have the others looking at him and whispering, seeing his happiness as some kind of flaw because Nerdanel was not a noblewoman, let alone a princess. But she was the princess of his heart, and that was all that mattered.

He loved the red in her hair, the copper strands she usually held in a leather thong while she worked. He loved the way she spoke to him, just one person to another, rather than trying to impress him because he was born to an impressive father. She spoke to him like she loved him, and she understood his side of their family conflict, and even though she occasionally told him to be patient with his half-siblings, she never pushed him too far in that way. She did push him in the smithy, but that was amazing, and he loved having an audience to work for, someone to show off his accomplishments and try to do something he had never done before. This ring alone had taken him months, and he worked hard to keep it hidden from her, to try to hide it even from his thoughts, for her wisdom often meant she could read what was going on in his mind.

There was no hope of ever finding anyone else to love him. If she professed her love for another, or declared that she had no interest in being his wife, even if it was for political reasons, his heart would be broken beyond repair. She was the one who had knitted his heart back together after all his family had done to break it, and the fact that even his father knew and approved of the potential betrothal meant that there would be little challenge from him.

He had asked his father on a rare occasion when he found him alone, and Finwë had asked him many questions about Nerdanel, enough that Fëanor had snapped and exclaimed that there was a reason he loved her above all others. This simple exertion had convinced his father, and now all he had to do was convince Nerdanel, and perhaps Mahtan.

He knew the smith knew of the ring, but did he know it was meant for his daughter? It could have been for a princess of the Vanyar like Indis wanted him to wed, but he would rather distance himself entirely from his father before he succumbed to following a wish of Indis’s like that. It was painful to even think of doing anything like that, especially since the mere thought of Nerdanel set his brain and heart on fire. He was in love with her in every way, fëa and hroa together, and his heart skipped a beat as she entered the forge with a copper jug in her hands.

She held it aloft as she looked around the room, seeking Fëanor, and when she found him, she smiled widely. He held onto the ring with clammy hands, rubbing the stone back and forth in his pocket. He hoped he had done it well, that she wouldn’t look at it and see the myriad of flaws he had seen at every step of the project. Nothing could be good enough for his Nerdanel, nor could he ever hope to surpass her level of craft, but he had made this for her, and he hoped that would be enough.

“Fëanor,” she said with a smile, putting the jug down and kissing him lightly on the cheek after looking around to make sure her father wasn’t there.

“I need to ask you about something,” he said. “Will you follow me?”

Nerdanel chuckled, but she followed Fëanor past the line of smiths still working and approached the edge of the room, away from the hammers pounding on anvils. Once they could hear each other properly, Fëanor said, “I was wondering if you would give me your opinion on a project I’ve been working on lately. Would you be willing to help me?”

“You’re a better smith than I,” Nerdanel said, “but I can try to help, if you wish.”

“I want to know what you think of this project. I’ve been working on it for a very long time, and I think it is almost done, and only needs one final step. I need input on that.”

“Design, I can help with, especially if it’s more of a sculpting perspective,” Nerdanel said. When he didn’t immediately bring anything out, she asked, “So, what is it?”

He slid his hand out of his pocket, and the ring glittered in the light of the forge that was stoked high. He had tried to make it perfect, and before she got here, he had even tested it in different areas of the forge, bringing the ring out to see where it would have the most visual impact. Nerdanel gasped and ran a finger over the gem.

“It looks alive,” she said. “It looks like you gave life to this gem.”

“Thank you,” he said, trying to wonder how to segue from this into the proposal.

“I don’t think this needs anything more,” she said, taking the ring out of his clammy hands and holding it up to a nearby lamp, trying to see if there was anything she could do to see it better. “I don’t think I see a single flaw; what are you trying to do with it? You said there was a final step?”

There was nothing else he could do in the middle. He took his left foot and slid it behind his right, sinking into a bow before her. “There is one final step,” he said. “I need to know if the intended recipient wants it, and if she would consent to be my bride for all the ages of this world.”

Nerdanel was silent for a long moment, a moment in which his heart pounded like the hammer of the nearest apprentice, who seemed to be working extra hard to try to impress him. Then, a great smile broke over her face, and she threw herself into his arms, toppling him over until they both lay on the dusty floor, him on his back, her on top of him, kissing him in a way that brought thoughts to mind that her father would most definitely not approve of.

“It’s a yes, you silly elda,” she said, nuzzling her nose against his. “I love you.” He took a deep, relieved breath. “Were you scared? Truly?” she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t want to know what life is like without you, now that I’ve had so many happy times with you. I don’t think I can make it alone.”

“Me neither,” she said. “And this ring is absolutely gorgeous! I’ve never seen a stone like this in the forge, wherever did you get it?”

“I found it on one of my mining excursions,” he said. “And here you thought they were silly, and others could do that,” he teased. He was gradually feeling more like himself, especially when Nerdanel slid the gold band on her hand, looking at the gem radiating off of her skin.

“I stand corrected,” she giggled, then got more serious. “It’s a very unique piece, and it’s so much like you that I would know it even without the maker’s mark.” Turning it around, she saw the little rune that marked his work on the underside. “I would be so proud to wear this – and I guarantee it’s finer than anything belonging to any of the noblewomen of Tirion.”

“You are finer than any of the noblewomen of Tirion,” Fëanor said, kissing her nose lightly, “for you have a mind and you are not afraid to speak it, my dear Istarnië.” The name came to him out of nowhere, but looking into her eyes, he saw a great deal of wisdom, and couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen it before. There was no appeal or lure to anything else or anyone else, not when her red hair and her green eyes existed, not when those eyes looked at him as if they were both analyzing him and making love to him in the same move.

“Wise woman? I like it,” she said with a smile.

“My Istarnië,” he said softly, taking a moment to rise to his feet before offering her his hand. She stood, and they continued to hold hands and look into each other’s eyes. “I love you more than anyone else in this entire world, and it would be a great privilege for me to have you as my wife.”

“I’m not exactly getting a bad bargain, either,” Nerdanel said, squeezing his hand. “I am getting the most talented smith in all of Valinor, and a prince – and the most caring, kind, affectionate ellon I have ever met, and ever plan to meet. You are absolutely extraordinary, and I will be proud to call you my husband.” She paused. “Have you spoken to our fathers?”

“My father approves of the match, although I took special care to not ask Indis,” he said, wishing he didn’t have to bring her into this moment. “And I have not yet spoken to your father, but he helped me take some of the flaws out of the ring, and I think he knows that I intended it for you.”

“We should tell him,” she said, and he nodded his agreement. “Do you have a few moments? We can try asking him now, I think he’s in my studio. I had asked him to look at one of the new statues I was working on; I’m having a little trouble with the nose.”

“Maybe I can come by on the pretense of helping,” he said.

“And maybe you can actually help,” she replied with another squeeze to his hand. “Now, let’s go, we can’t let the junior apprentices run things. They’ll explode Atar’s entire forge into bits, and us inside it.”

“That would not be good,” Fëanor said with a slight chuckle in his voice, and the pair left on their way to go to the back forge where Mahtan worked when his apprentices kept an eye on the front.

Mahtan looked like he was about to make his way from there to Nerdanel’s studio, and she carefully hid her left hand with the new and beautiful reddish-yellow ring on it from his eyes. Slowly, she walked forward, tapping on her father’s shoulder, and jolting him out of whatever thoughts had kept him in his mind.

“Nerdanel,” he said softly, and she blushed, remembering the new name Fëanor had given her only moments before. The blush was answered by a pinkness in his cheeks, and Mahtan looked between them. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, Atar. There’s just something I - we - want to tell you,” she said, nudging Fëanor with her elbow.

The young smith walked forward, keeping his eyes on Mahtan’s, a challenge to see if he was truly willing to stand between their love. “I know you have seen me working on a ring these several months past, and today I used it to ask Nerdanel to be my wife.” He kept talking rapidly, scared enough to hear a “no” that he kept filling the space. “I have loved Nerdanel for years, and although we are both young, I believe that your daughter and I have one fëa that was torn apart at birth, and we now wish to unite it and bring it back together. She is the most intelligent elleth I have ever met, beautiful beyond words, and we share a great passion in both our crafting and each other. I ask your blessing on our marriage.”

Mahtan’s face looked neutral at first. “Have you spoken to your father?”

“Atar told me he would be pleased to have Nerdanel in his family, and he would treat her as a daughter.” This was high praise from Fëanor, who usually pretended his father had no daughters, and Mahtan certainly knew this.

“And you have some means to support yourself?”

“I was hoping to continue working here with you until my apprenticeship is done, and then open a small forge adjacent to yours, becoming business partners, if you consent. I am prepared to live in my father’s house.”

“Even with the others who live there?” Mahtan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I would prefer my own dwelling for the two of us, it is true, but I will not let my family conflicts ctop me from marrying Nerdanel. She is my family of choice, and I hope to wed her after the traditional betrothal period of a year. The feast would be sponsored by my father and take place in his house, and we would figure things out from there.” He took a deep breath. “Mahtan, I know I am young, and I am perhaps not the son-in-law you would want, but I love your daughter, and I am prepared to share everything I am with her.”

Mahtan was silent for another long moment. “Show me the ring, Nerdanel,” he said, and she thrust her hand forward nearly immediately.

“It has a heartbeat,” she said. “I can feel him inside it. It’s a tremendous piece showing his love for me and his great skill. I do desire to spend the rest of my eternal life with him, even knowing the complications his family may bring. We may both be outcasts, but we would be outcasts together, and we would bring each other strength.”

“It may not be the life I wished for you,” Mahtan finally said, “but I wish you both the greatest happiness, and I gladly give my blessing to this union. Fëanor, I will be proud to call you a son, as I have felt towards you for years, and Nerdanel, I wish you all happiness. And Fëanor, the ring is perfect, you were right to use the smaller hammer.”

Fëanor rushed forward and impulsively hugged Mahtan, the elder elf’s beard scraping along the top of his head. “I am so proud to call you my father by law,” he said. “I will have two fathers, each in their own splendid way. And it will be incredible to have a mother as well. I will respect you both as my own.”

“And I will respect your parents - your father, and your mother in the gardens of Lorien, and I will show due obedience to your stepmother, but I will support you and your claim above that of your father’s other sons.”

Hearing this only made Fëanor love Nerdanel more, and, forgetting that he stood in front of Mahtan, he drew an arm around her body and pulled her close to him, kissing her nose. “I will love you forever,” he said. “Nothing will ever come between us.”

“So,” Mahtan said, clearing his throat to remind them that he was still there, “you will take the traditional betrothal period of a year, and wed next fall? In Tirion, I assume, but I will be proud to assist with the planning, and I am sure my wife would be happy to help Lady Indis plan the specifics.”

“I would be honored to have my mother by law plan my wedding,” Fëanor said, leaving out all mention of Indis, but at least doing it courteously.

“Go on, then,” Mahtan said. “Fëanor, you may take the day off if you wish; your tests are not far away, and you will need time to practice.”

“My tests?”

“I will not see my daughter wed to an apprentice, and it is about time you take your proper place as a smith,” Mahtan said, and Fëanor felt his heart soar. How could so many things go right all in one day?

“I will do my best,” he said solemnly, with a small bow. His hand found its way into Nerdanel’s.

“And I will as well,” Nerdanel said. “I will have that sculpture finished, even if it takes me a dozen more tries to get the nose right.”

“What are you sculpting? Perhaps I could help,” Fëanor offered.

“Come and pose, for I am sculpting you,” she replied, and left the room with a cheeky grin.

The tilted glass mirror allowed him to see exactly how he looked. His robes were a rich crimson, his favorite color, bright and bold and capable of drawing attention. He wondered if it would still be his favorite color if his mother lived, if he had not had to piece her together from the clothes she made for him while she lived, or if he was able to see her smile and pride in him on her face rather than on the tapestries she wove for him.

This set of robes was his favorite. The sides were lined with gold, a fine pattern resembling the leaves of autumn falling down only to sweep up the other sleeve, a never-ending cycle and a beautiful wish from a mother to a son. He ran his fingers over the stitches, wishing he could thank her for the robes, for knowing that this day would come with her exceptional foresight and making sure he would be attired as a king when he was prepared to reveal his greatest invention to the world.

The three Silmarils glowed like fruits of the great Trees atop his brow, their shining white light magnificent and ever-changing, ever-so-often resolving into a many-pointed star that would be his sigil from now on. The gems glowed brightly against his ink-black hair, as silver and bright as he imagined his mother’s hair, dark and light come together in a beautiful image. It didn’t hurt that he was fair of face, and had a noble brow and piercing, keen blue eyes like his father’s, nor did it hurt that he was tall - an inch or two shorter than Fingolfin, which made him want to experiment with minor forms of stretching tortures - but he knew no one would notice his height, of all things, when he had created the greatest gems known to Valinor, gems that could capture the light of the Trees in their magnificent form.

Aside from the Silmarils, he wore no other jewels, letting the three speak for themselves. And speak they did - long had the idea to create them whispered in the recesses of his mind, and now he was free to share them with the rest of the Eldar, free to show that something that came from his mind could be beautiful like this, untainted, untaintable even.

He drew a brush through his hair, the black strands flowing through the silver tines, and grinned to himself. His reflection was everything he had ever wanted to be - a king - and now, with his Silmarils in hand, nothing would be able to stand between him and the respect and love he craved, and never again would it be a weakness.

He was deliberately late to dinner - well, perhaps not late, but late for him. He always showed up early, some part of him needing to check that he could still sit by his father’s right hand, that Fingolfin or Indis or anyone else had not wormed their way into the place that was his. But this time, he had no need to doubt, or to fear. He had no need to let the baser thoughts contaminate his mind, for he had proven now that he was the most pure, the most skilled, and the most suitable to follow in his father’s footsteps.

** A/N: This fic takes place in the AU where Amrod perishes on the boats burned at Losgar after the First Kinslaying.

“Where is Amrod?” Fëanor asked, and he began to gather his children together. There was Nelyo, yes, he was still warm even though the pat on his back felt forced and the look on his face was far more hardened than it should have been towards his own father. Kano looked shell-shocked, as if he was still trying to absorb all that had happened.

“Where is Amrod?” he asked him, and Kano replied that he did not know, that he had not seen him since the ending of the battle not long ago. But he had seen Amras – he was able to tell the twins apart easily – and he pointed and his father ran, his footsteps getting more desperate as he only saw a single redhead standing by the bay, watching the water.

“Where is Amrod?” he asked, and Amras’s mouth moved silently, not a word allowed to escape.

“Where is Amrod?” he asked again, and the boy, his sixth son, stayed silent still, simply looking out into the distance. He had seen him after the battle, he knew he had survived, it had not been his fate to die. He himself had helped Amrod onto the boats, his feet shaky, not feeling well at the churning of the waves. Had he embraced him then? He wondered, and his heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he saw another redhead approaching, only to be disappointed for the first time in his life to see his son Nelyo, his other brothers at his heels. One two three four five six, and Amras lifted his hand shakily.

“Where is Amrod?!” Fëanor screamed, and finally, he saw where Amras’s hand was pointing, out to the ships that he himself had given the command to set ablaze, to spite the Teleri and to prevent his half-brother Fingolfin and his followers from ruining his plans for Middle-Earth.

“He was going back to Amil,” Amras said, and Fëanor watched as the mast fell off the boat, shaking it and sinking into the dark sea. “He was just trying to help,” Amras said, and Fëanor watched the remnants of the boat bob violently in the waves.

His sons could swim. Why did he not see red hair in the water, moving towards him to scold or berate or never speak to him again, but at least to not die with his blood on his hands? The thought filled Fëanor’s heart with fear as he remembered the little boy he had been, and the premonition of Nerdanel, and the way she likely already knew her youngest son’s boat was taking water, being consumed by his father’s fire at last.

In a flash, he remembered Amrod as an infant, a shock of red hair in such a small baby, next to his twin. Even then, Nerdanel had held him tighter, even though she was more tired from this birth than she had ever been before, and he panicked just as he had when Nelyo was born. She had traced a finger over his face, as if she was trying to memorize his little features, and a deep panic had sunk into Fëanor’s heart when she named him Umbarto, fated. He pretended to misunderstand her, but both of them knew he had heard properly, and was simply trying to protect his little son from whatever the world would throw at him.

But this was not the world. This was Fëanor himself who had given the order when he had seen the boats in the distance, returning to bring Fingolfin and the rest of the Noldor over. He had set the flame and nocked the arrow, and although his blade had stolen the lives of many eldar that day, he felt a deep pang of sorrow, and he yearned to do a hundred things at once, chief among them diving into the freezing water and swimming faster than he ever had in his life, even if all he could do was hold his son’s frigid body as the fëa separated from the hroa in a painful way that he absolutely did not deserve.

He could not speak, did not dare to even try. He watched as the boat took more water, and he did not need any more confirmation as Amras fell to his knees like a puppet whose string had been cut. He knew if it was him, he would have been lashing out in fiery anger, but his now-youngest child of his now-six children just seemed to melt, deflating like nothing was left.

He knew Amras would not want a hand around his shoulder, or certainly, not his. Nelyo still looked over at the horizon, watching the remnants of the boat as the others started to fall into the water with great resounding crashes. He stood silently, even though the men looked to him for guidance, even though everything had been destroyed, for now his son was dead at his own hand, and all he could see was the little red head in his hands, the sweet smile on Nerdanel’s face, their joking and playing and hunting and everything he had ever done.

Steeling his heart, he knew he had to go forward. He tried to convince himself that Amrod had been in the wrong, that he had tried to run from battle, but in his deepest heart he knew there was no one who he could blame save for himself, and he knew he had lost two sons on this day, if not more, as Amras’s surviving brothers surrounded him, one hand on his shoulder, a few running through his long red hair, arms encircling him in hugs and pulling the group of brothers, one shorter, close together, in an unbreakable unit.

He did not recognize the look in Amras’s eyes. He did not try to apologize, nor to take the blame, although it was his. He simply knew they had to go on, for his son had not died for them to stop everything. His son had died as a sacrifice to the journey, to ensure that their way would go smoothly, that his half-brother would not be there to swoop in after the Kinslaying and demand a birthright that was not his. He tried to fuel the fire in his heart, he tried to think of his Silmarils, but he had just traded one son for the beginning of a chance at them, and the fire that burned bright in him at all times felt dampened by the feeling of his dead son’s arms around him, waterlogged like the Teleri floating in the bay, buried improperly, following him and quenching his fire for life with what should have been a tender embrace.

Now, with the death of his youngest son by his own hand, he was a kinslayer. Now, he believed all that they said about him, but there was nothing else to do but charge forward.

Although I headcanon that he would prefer to be known exclusively by his mother-name, I think his personality is an interesting combination of both names.

“Curufinwë,” or “skilled Finwë,” is his father-name, and one that I think would bring Fëanor a great deal of pride as well as insecurity. He is definitely proud of his skills, both with languages and in the forge, and he is also proud to carry his father’s name. But when his half-brothers are born, and given the names Nolofinwë and Arafinwë – wise Finwë and noble Finwë respectively – he realizes that his own name speaks less to the skills of a king than his half-brothers. I headcanon that he is worried about his place, especially considering the love his father shows to Indis and her children, and the fact that kings are more often praised as wise or noble rather than skilled becomes a point of contention for him. He confronts his father about this in part 24 of this challenge, after trying to do what he can to make himself seem wise, and thus, worthy.

Fëanáró is a name that brings him great pride, considering it is one of the few relicts from his mother, and he identifies strongly with the name and prefers to use it to keep his mother’s memory alive. The name means “spirit of fire,” and in addition to referring to the fact that he is hot-headed and impulsive, and has a tendency to destroy rather than build, there are several other meanings behind fire that I find fascinating to explore. Fëanor’s fire is what drives him to work so hard. It shines without remorse, consuming and giving back light. It represents the creativity, passion and power that rule him, and it is all too easy for fire to lose control and bring pain and death. One particularly fascinating meaning that ties to Fëanor’s creation of the Silmarils is the connection that fire provides between the mortal and the divine, as the only one of the four elements (fire, earth, air, water) that humans can create. The Silmarils dance upon the line between the Eldar and those who are higher, and Fëanor himself dances on the line as well.

I find it quite interesting that his mother-name is his greatest strength, and his father-name is the weakness that corrupts his inner fire – namely, his self-doubt.

** A/N: Anything following an arrow (à) is my own question/observation/thought after reading.

Some interesting observations about Fëanor from scholarship about him, his family, and his Oath:

• Fëanor, like fire, tends to consume those closest to him, and not just his mother – his father also loses a great deal in life for being close to him, and eventually dies for him. Six of his sons also die to keep up his Oath. (Consuming Sons: The Nihilism of Fëanor and Denethor by Jonathan McIntosh) à His fiery spirit even consumed himself, much like how Ungoliant is said to have devoured herself in her greed for food.
• Fëanor’s attitude towards the Silmarils is somewhat like Ungoliant’s, because he wants to keep the light to himself and devour it, albeit not literally. (Hoarding Silmarils by Jonathan McIntosh)
• Fëanor would have been noble or heroic to avenge his father alone, but the evil comes in when he brings in his family and the other elves whose lives are ended on his account. (Minas Tirith forum discussions)
• Fëanor’s fall came from a combination of pride and possessiveness. (Minas Tirith forum discussions)
• Fëanor and his sons represent a very interesting question of “What causes someone to fall?” (We Are Fëanor? Thoughts on Reading Moral Ambiguity into the Characterizations of the Fëanorians by The Heretic Loremaster) à If people agree Fëanor fell, at what point did he fall?
• It can be frightening to see Fëanor as anything but a pure villain because it makes us look inward and realize that we too have the potential for greatness or destruction. (We Are Fëanor? Thoughts on Reading Moral Ambiguity into the Characterizations of the Fëanorians by The Heretic Loremaster)
• Fëanor and Melkor being alike in many ways. (Fëanor and Melkor: so different, so alike by Middle Earth Reflections) à highest height, farthest fall)

** A/N: I responded to this prompt in two ways, with a series of drabbles about a variety of life events and a fic about one in particular.

Rites of Passage Drabbles:

• Birth: His birth was an occasion with a great deal of both happiness and sadness, for as soon as he was born, his mother, who had already suffered drained life force during her pregnancy, began to wane even more. These things were not supposed to happen in Aman, and although he could not remember his first moments, he knew of them later from how his father remembered them: the curtains drawn wide to let all the light of Laurelin in, but instead, all the light simply left.
• First death in the family: Death is not total silence, but silence of what matters. The leaves still crunch beneath his feet when he walks through the gardens, the birds still twitter as they leap from blossom to bloom, and the attendants keep up their soft humming, but the sound he wants to hear most is gone. The only sounds on his mother’s body are the breeze ruffling her gown, the slight scrape of the circlet in her hair against her stone bier, and the utter silence of her lips.
• Learning how to walk: Always a curious child, he desired to know what was beyond his reach. What was there when his father put him down, suddenly too heavy? What was there when his nursemaid left the room, heading for a greater destination? There was nothing stopping him but the wobbling of his legs, and he soon learned to master that, and began searching for something more interesting than his immediate surroundings. When he was found, his father’s smile was bittersweet, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. Later, he knew all that he had done wrong was reaching this milestone without his mother there.
• First day working with a tutor: The tutor, as things were explained to him, was there to help him become the prince he needed to be, and he took to his lessons with pride, although he was not content to be the student. The language he studied seemed to impractical, and he soon began to draw loopier letters on the side of his pages, on his own parchments at home, everywhere he could. And he learned to argue for his opinions, and that, in his mind, was the best way to be a prince, whatever his tutor said.
• First time meeting Indis: The blonde Vanya was trying to be his friend, but he made up his mind the moment his father told him that he was seeing someone that their relationship was anathema to everything he believed in, and there was nothing that she could do to help. She tried so much at first, making conversation through his awkwardness, trying to give him small gifts that most other children would have appreciated. She could not give him the one thing he needed – a mother – and because of that, he was determined to hate her for sitting in his mother’s garden, near her flowers, her hair so similar and yet so different, her chatter dishonoring the sacred space.
• Learning how to ride a horse: The movements were unnatural beneath his body, but there was so much more of the world to explore, and as he had no wish to be near his father during his courtship, he needed the refuge of the open fields. There was no war to wage, but he chose a strong stallion, charging as fast as it could go, relishing the wind in his face and his hair blowing back in a way that made Indis think he looked uncouth and wild. After these remarks, he only did it more, a smirk on his face daring her to say more.
• First day of apprenticeship: He was not guaranteed anything because of his circumstances of birth, he heard from Mahtan, and in some way, that was a relief. He earned his own spot by his own skill, and this satisfied him so much more than he could explain to his father. Many thought it was strange for a prince to want to take up smithing as a trade, but they had never felt the hammer in their hands, knocking against the anvil, using anger for positivity rather than scowling through every meal where she was invited.
• First date while your dad is going on a date: Nerdanel was beautiful, but so much more. He had been approached by just about every maiden on Tirion when he became of age, but he only had eyes for Mahtan’s red-haired daughter, her cheeky smile and the way they could discuss their mutual love of crafting that, at times, was meaning more to Fëanor than his family. It was his father’s first anniversary with the one who usurped his mother’s place, which only made him more determined to enjoy with Nerdanel. They are not in love, but he will not be alone on this night, and she understands, so perhaps, something may grow there.
• Coming of age ritual: He wears the robes of an adult, and the anger of his father telling him he acted like a child to his half-sister earlier that day. He walks into the room fueled by rage, and he is honored above all by so many, but he still feels emptiness as his father stoops to pick up the little girl, swinging her in the air. The only person in the room who he cares about is not even looking, and he decides then and there what kind of man he will be.
• First time trying to bake something: He smells the smoke mere moments before the explosion. He can smell the burning of the fire as he feels the squishiness of what was supposed to be pastry. These things didn’t work like the forge, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at himself. The noise of the banging draws Nerdanel, who smiles widely. And Nerdanel laughs, and scoops some of the batter out of his hair, and laughs again. And for the first time, he does not mind being laughed at.
• First half-brother born: He is convinced, when he hears the baby’s father-name, that he is finally being replaced. His insubordination has finally taken root, or Indis has poisoned his father’s mind, for who could call a baby wise next to his invention of the new script, of his discoveries in the forge every day? On this day, he is told he gains a brother, but in fact, he gains a new father, realizing how Mahtan does truly care for him, and he feels like he is part of a family at last.
• Marriage: He creates his own family when he marries Nerdanel. She is too young, too ugly, not a princess, people say, but there is a sparkle in her eyes like the center of a geode, unexpected perhaps but no less beautiful for not being conventional, and he feels joy like he has not in quite some time. He even ignores the way his half-siblings have to participate in the wedding, and his father smiles to them as well as him, for the one who matters today smiles only at him.
• First bonding: He feels their souls mingling together as their bodies do, and although his hroa feels delight, his fëa feels a depth like he has never known before. This is true love, he knows, and, even as he is entwined in his lover’s arms in the grass, he wonders how his father could have bonded with his mother and then bonded with another. For him, there is only Nerdanel, no matter what.
• First child born: It is too soon after the wedding, and he is terrified for Nerdanel’s well-being, but he is so thrilled to see the little red-haired bundle in her arms that he nearly forgets how to walk. He cradles the baby’s head in his hands, laying a kiss on his wife’s head, trying so hard to give her his strength. He smiles even more widely when her tiredness seems ordinary, when she is not following the curse of his line. And so he proudly names his son Nelyafinwë, not only to insult his elder half-brother, but to assert that his line is strong, and his happiness will only continue to grow.
• First discovery of silima: Few things are as beautiful as his sons who now number seven, but this gem is, the way it sparkles in the deep rock nearly bringing tears to his eyes. It is so fragile, a mere touch is enough to destroy any chance of holding it together, and he wonders what he can do with this. The Mingling comes soon after, and he decides to mine as much as he can, noticing that the light bounces spectacularly off of the white crystal. He dares to wonder if he can make his own light, as he has in the births of his children, and he dares to hope that this will make his father proud at last.
• First creation of silmarils: The crystals finally hold together after months, years, forever of experimentation. It takes an eternity to form them, and when he holds them in his hands, his touch feather-light, he feels as much pride as he had when any of his children were born. He thinks of his children and looks back at their house, all the lights out, and realizes it is nearly the middle of Telperion’s light. With his greatest craft achieved, he can rejoin his family now, and hopefully reconcile with his first, and he will finally, finally be happy.
• First time lifting a sword in anger: Just as he thought the gems bought him his father’s love, he sees him talking to Fingolfin, hears the scolding words and erupts in anger. The sword that had been so easy to forge feels so light in his hands, quivers no more than a hair’s breadth from Fingolfin’s throat. His half-brother had started the argument by scolding him before the court, but somehow it all turns to his fault in the eyes of the Valar, and the ones who are truly to blame – Fingolfin and Morgoth – walk off without a scratch as he is sent into exile.
• First night in Formenos: His half-brother is rewarded as he is punished, and he realizes how Morgoth’s prophecy came true. His bedsheets feel different here, his bed cold and empty without Nerdanel, who has returned to the house of her father. He wishes he could be there, with Mahtan clapping a hand on his shoulder and telling him everything will be okay, but he wonders if he instead comforts Nerdanel, helping her learn how to live life alone. He has never felt more abandoned, even with his father sleeping in the next room over, a final tangible sign of his love.
• First oath sworn: His marriage was like an oath, but Nerdanel broke it by returning to her father’s home. He would not break his new oath, not even when she begged for the lives of her youngest sons, the twins, or any of them, to stay behind.
• First time using his sword: His sword slides through the Teleri’s body so easily, it almost feels as though he is slicing butter in his kitchen, and he nearly expects to feel the tickle of Nerdanel’s breath on his nape before he remembers all that has happened. He is fatherless, homeless, wifeless, and his sword seeks anything between him and his Silmarils, the one love that he knew he could reclaim. His father and Nerdanel were beyond his reach, but this, he could keep; this, he could earn back. The words pounded through his veins like fire in his blood, driving him forward and into more and more enemies who had once been his allies, his friends.
• Last time he sees Fingolfin: He can practically feel his half-brother’s rage mingled with fear across the water as the ships go up in flames, and although the sight pains him, he looks, wishing it was instead his father looking at him. Fingolfin has always looked too much like his father, and the sight of the grief on his face nearly made him regret his actions, but he had gone this far, and he was not going to let Fingolfin usurp his place. With the Kinslaying, he knew there would be those who were against him, and he could not risk having another male heir of Finwë. He would keep his sons around him, and if his half-brother died in the cold, he would know at last that they did not have a true kinship, for his own fire could surely carry him across the Helcaraxë without a problem.
• First time dying: He could feel it in his blood before he felt the sword against his side. The pain took slightly longer to radiate through him, for his anger was so great. Who was this Gothmog to wound him, when he had not even been in Morgoth’s presence since the day he shut the gate on him? He feels the sword growing heavier in his hand, and wishes that he knew how to use a sword with both hands, and wonders why he did not study that more instead of reading more insipid books in his father’s library. Through the pain, which burns like a brand, he feels his sons around him, and the ground beneath him, and a gloved hand on his head and red hair matted with dirt and blood falling into his face. He wishes to clean his son’s hair, but he is unable to move his hand, and he hears the valarauko laugh, igniting his rage one final time. And he dies as he was born, in a great sheath of fire.

“Son, I have something to tell you.” Finwë approached his young son with no small measure of trepidation, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezing. His hands were clammy, and the air in the bedroom suddenly felt tense, heavy with anticipation.

“Yes, Atar?” Fëanor looked up from his book, wiping his ink-smudged fingers on a cloth on the nearby table. In front of him lay the results of hours of study that looked quite impressive to Finwë.

“I wish to introduce you to someone who has become important to me,” Finwë said, sitting down on Fëanor’s bed and slightly rumpling the covers with his long robes.

“Important to you?” Fëanor asked. “Do you mean like a new noble come to court?

“Someone who has come to court for a very specific reason, and who I hope you will treat with the kindness and dignity as befits the son of the High King of the Noldor.”

“Who is it?”

“Her name is Lady Indis, and she has come here to be my new wife,” Finwë said.

A look of shock passed over Fëanor’s face. “You are married,” he replied, his voice shaky.

“Your mother was my wife, yes, although she lives no longer. Her spirit has gone to the Halls of Mandos, and I appealed to the Valar and asked if I could take another wife.”

“Why? Did you never love my mother?” Fëanor’s voice began to rise as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

“Of course I loved her. Her soul was so beautiful, and I still love her, even after all this time.”

“It has almost been no time at all,” Fëanor replied. “And if she loved me, will you dishonor her sacrifice by replacing her?”

“No one can ever replace her,” Finwë said. “But a man needs a wife, and a king needs a queen, for a variety of reasons.”

“If you need a bed-mate, surely there are others in the kingdom who would oblige - ”

“Fëanor!”

“I meant it - is that all you desire?”

“The lady Indis has many virtues, and is a fine companion.”

Fëanor sighed. “And she has no desire for power whatsoever? She will not take the first opportunity to seize power for herself and for any children she may have?”

“I told her you are my son and heir, Curufinwë, and there is nothing in this world or any other that can change that.”

“There may come a day when it changes,” Fëanor said, his eyes downcast. “Must you, Atar?”

“I have given Lady Indis my word that I will wed her, and it would be dishonorable of an Elda and a king to forsake his word.”

“Did you not give my mother her word that you would take care of her child and love him beyond all else? And was not that vow made first?”

“There is more than enough love in my heart for one child,” Finwë replied. “Get ready, I wish to introduce you to Lady Indis.”

“She is here?” Fëanor asked, surprised.

“She is outside, in the gardens.”

Fëanor was quiet for a moment. “My mother’s gardens?”

“Yes,” Finwë said, and Fëanor tried to picture the body in Lorien’s garden that he knew was his mother up and about, walking through the garden.

“She planted it herself,” Fëanor said, recalling the stories of his mother that he heard from just about everyone in the palace, including his father.

“Should I let the plants die because she is no longer here?” Finwë said. “Your mother would want both of us to move on. She would not want us to live our lives in fear and grief forever.”

“A couple of decades would have been nice,” Fëanor muttered.

If his father heard his words, he ignored them. “Come, Lady Indis is waiting for us,” Finwë said, and reached his hand down. Fëanor took it hesitantly, noting the sweat on his father’s palm as the pair walked towards the garden.

Fëanor knew the path, he had taken it many times before, always encouraged to spend time in the area his mother had lovingly cultivated just as she had lovingly given her strength for his. He was used to the plants, but even after years of spending time in the garden, he continued to find new things to observe, to write about and show his father, who always seemed proud of him. When the two of them were in the gardens together, they almost felt like a complete family, as he could hear his mother in the breeze and smell her in the flowers.

Now, a blonde woman sat on the bench that Fëanor preferred, near the little purple flowers with yellow centers that he had loved most when he was a boy. She ran her fingers over the petals, giving Fëanor enough time to observe her before his father brought him over.

She was blonde, yes, which meant she was not one of his people. She was a Vanya, a lesser sort of Elda, and she looked as if a jewel factory had vomited all over her dress. He had to admit there was some prettiness in her face, a small nose and pert lips and kind blue eyes, but he had no idea why his father had to bring her here, for no other reason than to warm his bed. He could not stomach the thought of any other reason - if his father had stopped loving his mother, perhaps he would be next, and would that leave him in servitude to this Vanya and her children until the end of time?

“Indis,” his father called out, and the woman looked up, a small smile on her face. “This is my son Curufinwë, sometimes known as Fëanáró, my pride and joy,” he introduced, although Fëanor noticed that he had spoken to her first, rather than to him. Was the loss of love already beginning?

“Curufinwë,” she said, falling to her knees. She was tall, and even on her knees, she was close to his height. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I prefer my mother-name,” Fëanor replied.

“I apologize,” the woman said, and he felt his father’s fingers twitch in his hand, a silent rebuke. Already, he had erred in his father’s eyes. Already, he was losing that thin thread that tied their broken family together.

“I welcome you to court,” he said, the trite lines expected of him in just about every situation.

“Lady Indis, did you know Fëanáró is studying a new form of writing?” Finwë asked after several long moments of awkward silence.

“I did not know,” she said, her voice even and tempered. “What a noble pursuit.”

“It is easy,” Fëanor said, then hastily added, “I enjoy the work, and I hope to be a good prince and king like my father one day.”

“I am sure you will be,” Indis said. It looked like she was about to reach her hand up and touch Fëanor’s hair as a mother would have, but she changed her mind at the last moment, smoothing out her skirt. “I have no doubt you are as noble and valiant as your father, in word and in deed.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Fëanor replied, wondering if his father would make him go through this farce for much longer. There was no purpose to staying here, not when he had set his heart to never accept her. Fëanáró indeed had a spirit of fire, and when he made himself a promise, he would never break it.

Some headcanons about Fëanor’s home:

• His home is not too far from Tirion, but far enough that he does not need to see his father’s family without warning. I see him as living closer to Mahtan, but not directly there either, perhaps in a triangular arrangement, all things considered.
• He lives with Nerdanel (until their estrangement) and their children, each of whom has their own room, except the Ambarussa tend to be in each other’s rooms more often than not.
• His home is spacious, since he likes having his own space, and it can be hard to have some alone time with such a large family.
• His mother’s tapestries adorn his home; he would want to bring them from the palace as soon as possible after moving in.
• Nerdanel’s sculptures are also around the home, as are the works of his sons; he never says “no” to putting up anything that anyone in his family has made, which tends to give an “organized chaos” look to his house as a whole.
• There is a forge connected to his house; he tends to have far fewer apprentices than Mahtan, and he keeps the forge organized in a specific way that he does not like to be disturbed. There is also a secret forge where he created the Silmarils, in a wooded area on the property.
• In terms of feel, his home is a mixture of the nobility of his position and the comfort of home, and he tries to divide between areas where his family can relax and where they could present themselves for more formal situations. There are two dining rooms, for example; one for formal occasions and one for eating with the family when no one else is around.
• Generally, the family-oriented areas have unpretentious decoration. There are no golden faucets covered with gems in the bathroom. Everything is designed with function over form in areas where only he and his family would be looking.
• His bedroom is somewhat of a mess to the naked eye, but with closer observation, an onlooker would realize that the piles of papers are in fact quite organized, just in perhaps an atypical way.

For this prompt, I have written down a list of my current headcanons for Fëanor:

• He has a very scientific mind, and usually does not believe things unless he can see them. As such, he prefers to test intangible things like love by using physical evidence (for example, someone did XYZ, that means they do/don’t care). He sets up these tests in a very intelligent way, but he also often falls into the pitfalls of believing the results, even if they are due more to correlation than causation.
• Thanks to this, he never goes into an argument unprepared. He definitely has a temper, but he always has evidence from these “tests” to back up his points. He gets angry when people question this, as he sees it as more valuable than simply believing things at their word.
• Fëanor has OCD. It’s likely the more obsessional type, but I can see him doing compulsions as well, challenging people to get in his way. The main one I came up with for him is needing to make sure his chair is in the proper place when he is in his father’s house – which isn’t often, in his later life, but in his earlier life, I can imagine this as one of the ways he tests his father to see if he truly loves him. For me, this is a perfect explanation for his abilities to be both his greatest help and worst enemy, and the things that he seems to do are based on obsession, whether positive (creating the Silmarils) or negative (rivalry with Fingolfin).
• He is a picky eater. I saw an amazing fanfic where he would only eat red foods, and as a picky eater myself, it made me feel amazing to see him with atypical eating habits. I don’t think he would restrict himself to one color, but I see him restricting foods for reasons only he understands, and he definitely uses this to see if people care – if they can’t respect his food choices, how will he count on them to respect other things?
• Within his family, his primary rivalry is with Fingolfin (who he will only call by this name), for several reasons: he is the elder of Finwë’s sons from his second marriage, he looks a great deal like Finwë, and Fëanor sees his father-name and the ways he has lived up to it as a personal insult. He still definitely minds Finarfin’s father-name (which he will also not use), but by this time, he and Nerdanel were a couple, and she tempered his reaction to it, plus the fact that he had her in his life mellowed him out a bit in this regard.
• The birth order of Finwë and Indis’s children is Findis (f), Fingolfin (m), Irimë (f), and Finarfin (m). His half-sisters are not quite as low on his list as his half-brothers. He has large grievances with Indis, who he believes is sometimes quite vain and stupid, and other times politically conniving and trying to steal his birthright.
• He aggressively chews at people while eating if he’s angry, and trying to seem dignified in public. He does other things like this when he wants his feelings to be known in a situation that wouldn’t be very acceptable otherwise.
• Growing up, he was close to Mahtan, who he considers a second father. Things didn’t start this way, but over time, he has built a solid relationship where he tends to listen to Mahtan’s advice, and Mahtan is generally able to cool down his temper – at least in the early days. Nowadays, their relationship is strained.
• Fëanor does not go completely insane after his father’s death. His thought patterns definitely change after his father’s death, but I like to play around in the space between irrationality and complete insanity.

** A/N: This fic is inspired by my idea that Fëanor was still capable of rationality after his father’s death, albeit in a different capacity.

Fëanor looked down into the water, and he could have sworn he saw someone looking back up at him. Just his reflection, he thought, but then again, he did not have blonde hair, nor did he have a gash across his cheek that was bloated with water, just as the hair streamed behind the face of the corpse.

It was repulsive, and he longed to look away. It struck him then that his had been his doing; that it had been his orders that caused the Noldor to attack the Teleri, and that even though the Teleri started it by not lending him the use of their ships, he was still at fault, for they had not raised swords against him. Belatedly, he understood Manwë’s judgment, and he knew as much as he knew anything that he would not be able to return to Valinor.

He was High King of the Noldor. His judgments would make sense to his followers – or they would obey, whether it made sense or not, just as he had listened to Mahtan in the forges. He tried to ignore the image in his mind of the last time he had seen the smith he looked up to as a second father, when Mahtan had told him that he regretted teaching him how to bend steel to his will, for it had only caused destruction. The bloodstained sword in his hand only seconded that message. He rinsed it off in the water as the boat moved forward, past one corpse, only to find another, and another.

His men were efficient, and his tools were even more so, and he hoped that these elves had died without pain. It was odd to think so, when he had caused their deaths, but he had not even thought of it when they denied him, when they broke the alliance that had existed between his father and their king for hundreds of years. The mere thought of it filled him with rage, and he knew he had to take what was his, regardless of who stood in his way. The elves had been all too easy to kill, his steel too honed, his grip on the weapon too fierce.

He had lost some of them, he knew, some of his own men, and he felt even more guilt for that, for leading his own people into something that caused them harm. So few of the Noldor had died under his father’s rule, and yet it seemed like only one had mattered – his mother – and her death had caused so many things to happen so differently that he began to wonder how he had changed the world, what he might have done to the peace of Valinor by letting so many elves die. How many children would be orphans now, fatherless as he was motherless, thanks to him?

He tried to push the thought from his mind as the boats moved forward, and the corpses thinned out and eventually disappeared altogether. The deep blue waters somehow unsettled him even more, as if the ones who died had not mattered at all. They were gone now, in the past, just like his mother, his father, and his peaceful life.

He would never know peace again in Valinor. He could practically see Manwë’s angry face, looking the same as he did when he harmlessly drew a sword on Fingolfin in the square of Tirion. He could see the way Manwë would look at him, no forgiveness this time, sentencing him to something like what he had done with Morgoth long ago, three ages of darkness. He would not have a chance to ask for forgiveness, for those that he had killed were now out of his reach, and only in the Halls of Mandos did he expect to see them again.

His own mortality, now that he was leaving the waters of Valinor, struck him then. He was not going to live forever. He was going to make his best attempt to reclaim the Silmarils, and then he was going to die, whether tomorrow or in a hundred years from then. And he was going to leave everything to Nelyo, who looked agitated as he paced from one end of the boat to the other, his red hair a beacon for any stray arrows. But no, there were no elves left to fire those arrows, he and his followers had seen to that, and Nelyo was safe, if having a hard time processing what had happened.

He approached his son and looked at the pain in his eyes, pain he swore he would never inflict upon any child, let alone his own. He reached an arm around him, and they stood together, watching the world they knew disappearing into nothingness, and the one they did not know becoming brighter on the horizon.

Manwë was not in this new world, waiting to give him an ultimatum of judgment. And he knew, as clearly as he could see in this darkness, that Manwë would be standing there no matter when he got back. He could never return.

The flame felt bright in his hands, and knowing that his half-brother was on the other side only made it even more joyful to set the arrows loose. As the boats burned, knew that that was him burning there as well. He was in exile forever, king or not, and he could only look forward. There was no looking back anymore. His only redemption would be in the three crystals that he hoped would not burn in his hands as brightly as the ships in the night.

The last thing he unpacked in Formenos was the box of memories. He had thought the idea was stupid at first, when Nerdanel first brought up the idea, but she had been with child then, and she could have asked him for one of the Trees and he would have delivered. He had spent time with her carving this box, not too unlike the one he gave his father for his birthday many years before, and the first object to go in had been a small trinket Nerdanel carved that had fallen off the side of the box, that he had declared perfect anyway, and stored inside.

So many years later, the box looked battered and worn, but although he could likely recreate it in a day or two, there was no way he would get rid of it, for even the wood itself bore memories of the times he spent carving and joking with Nerdanel, her hands and lips on his, carefree.

Of course he had not seen it as carefree then, and many of the objects in his box were reminiscent of the times when he felt like his father had cared for him, or had acted kindly to him in some way. It was infantile perhaps, but it was comforting to run his fingers over the artifacts – a piece of the fabric his father gave him for a birthday once, elegant and embossed with their house’s seal; a page from a book his father suggested he use to write down ideas; a napkin from the great table where he sat at his father’s right side for all to see, no matter the day or occasion.

Other objects related to his family, the one of his making, with his wife and seven sons. There was a lock of Nelyo’s hair from when he was little, a shocking red that continued to this day; the first little flute Nerdanel had carved for Kano as a child, that bore a sharp and annoying sound but still made him want to sing; a feather from Celegorm’s first kill and the first flawed but still somehow perfect gem that Curvo had crafted.

He ran his fingers over the objects, realizing how much love was contained within. It was strange to think of love when so much hatred had passed so recently, and although Fingolfin had started their most recent conflict, it had been he who was banished to Formenos for twelve years. He and his children, and perhaps Nerdanel, if she would deign to come; she had been acting rather strangely towards him lately, but he was hoping that he would soon be able to open the door and let her in, and perhaps even use these sentimental objects to work his way towards reconciliation.

When the door knocked, he didn’t try to put anything back, feeling a surge of hope in his heart at the thought that Nerdanel had come and was finally ready to speak with him again rather than enduring their forced silence of some time. He went to answer it himself, and was quite surprised to see that the ellon before him had dark hair instead of red, and wore stately robes and a ring with his crest on it, a ring made for him many years ago.

“Atar,” Fëanor said, surprised. “I did not expect to see you here so quickly.” Or at all, he thought, but he kept that to himself.

“Where you go, I will go,” Finwë said, stepping through the threshold.

“But you are the king,” Fëanor said dumbly, unsure of whether he was pleased or alarmed by this new development.

“I am, but I am also a father,” Finwë said. “I do not agree with the decision of the Valar. It should have been for me to decide how to reprimand members of my own house, and in my mind, this forced separation is not the answer.”

“Will you act against them?” Fëanor asked, surprised.

“I would be a fool to try, but I will stay here with you during your time of exile, take time to spend with you and assure you of my love.”

“But if you are here, then who will rule in Tirion?” Fëanor asked, dreading his father’s next words, for he already knew the answer.

“It will be temporary only, and should assuage any problems. Giving Fingolfin a limited amount of time to rule rather than ruling it out entirely will pave the way for you, when you return.”

“And if the people like him?” Fëanor had earned the envy of many craftsmen, but there were few nobles who truly appreciated him, who supported his claim to the throne for more reason than their belief in the legitimacy or lack thereof of one of Finwë’s marriages. In his heart this fear dwelled – would he ever be able to earn the people’s love as his father had, or would the Silmarils be his only way to keep their loyalty to him?

“Regardless, he is a second son, and when we return together, I will speak publicly, stating your claim as my firstborn son and heir, no matter what. Even this will not be an obstacle, if you stay here and serve the time.” Finwë looked over at his son slightly more severely, imploring him to listen.

“I have no intention of breaking the will of the Valar in this matter, although it grieves me,” Fëanor replied. “And you are welcome here, with my sons and I.”

“Is Nerdanel not coming?”

“I do not know,” Fëanor answered honestly, and he looked back over to the box they had made together. “I hope she will come.”

“Did something happen?” Finwë asked.

“Many things have happened, but I hope we can reconcile.”

“I hope so as well,” Finwë said. “It is sad for a family to not be together.”

Fëanor wondered if he was thinking of his other family then. Indis had likely stayed with Fingolfin rather than coming to live with Fëanor; her daughters were very close to her and likely to stay nearby, and her sons were unlikely to uproot their families for the sake of someone who they barely had a relationship with. At the same time, though, his heart blazed bright at the thought that his father had chosen him above his other family, that even the mistake he made was not enough to stop Finwë from choosing him.

“I thank you for coming here, and if there is anything I can do to help you, please let me know,” Fëanor said with a slight bow.

Nelyo appeared then, finally the third Finwë in more than name alone, and he took his grandfather’s arm and began to show him around the home that Fëanor was building with his sons’ help. Fëanor himself turned back to the box, letting the objects pass through his hands once more before he closed it. There were some things more poignant than holding onto old things, and that included the demonstration of love he had received from his father on this day. Nothing could top that, and with that in mind, he would try – perhaps – to reconcile with his father’s other family. He now knew he was the most loved, after all.

** A/N: I wrote two separate stories about his relationship with Mahtan.

“You’ll be treated just like everyone else,” the tall red-haired ellon said as he walked briskly around the forge. “None of this ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’ or ‘my prince’ business, just you and the forge, and if you make an error, you better know I’ll be telling you about it.”

“Yes, sir,” Fëanor replied, not used to hearing speech like this, but somehow it only made him feel more eager to begin. Perhaps now he had a chance to be looked at as himself, rather than the first prince, or the forgotten prince, depending on who was doing the looking.

“You will come here at seven like everyone else, unless it’s your turn to help stoke the fires, which is twice a week since you’re new. That means as soon as the morning Mingling begins, you are here, and you are ready to work, not first changing out of whatever clothes you ride here in. Just because the others will live here does not mean that you have the right to show up later than them and claim that as an excuse. A bed was offered to you, and you declined it; that isn’t my problem,” Mahtan continued, running two fingers through the beard that made him so unusual to most of the other Eldar.

“I understand,” Fëanor replied.

“And one last thing,” Mahtan said as he led the young ellon over to a station that had yet to be designed. “You’re taking a new name in here.”

“A new name? Why?”

“To ensure that everyone else follows the same rules as me,” Mahtan said. He motioned for Fëanor to stretch his arms out as he continued to speak. “There will be none of that ‘my prince’ nonsense from the others, nor will they have any reason to cover for you or to treat you any differently. To them, you’re an average ellon whose atar needs help with his work at night, so you return home, and that is all they will ever know. Do you understand me?”

It sounded so strange at first, but soon, it felt like a relief to Fëanor. He wouldn’t have to involve any of the other apprentices in his political life or responsibilities, and although he wouldn’t be able to express his feelings fully around them in words, he had the metal for that, the hammer and anvil. That was a far more reliable partner than any other, and this way, he could have a chance at getting known as himself, and seeing what sort of ellon he truly was when the cover was lifted, when no one knew that they had to respect him or treat him differently because of the circumstances of his birth.

“I agree,” he said, and Mahtan’s movements stilled for a moment before he picked them up again, this time measuring between Fëanor’s outstretched fingers.

“Well, then, what will I call you?”

This part felt strange, like a betrayal of the name his mother had given him. He couldn’t go to the usual alternative of Curvo, for that name was rare enough and tied directly back to his father-name. No, he would have to come up with something entirely different, like he had in the library, when he had challenged Rúmil endlessly on how he wrote his letters and why he should try to do things more efficiently.

A hundred names came to mind, those copied out of historical texts as he tried to learn of the Eldar of old and their deeds, under his tutor’s watchful eye. But none of those names matched him. He was not some boring figure who only lived in a book, he was alive now, and he burned bright like a flame, something his mother had seen when he was just an infant. And how could he discard her gift, spending a great portion of his day being called something else than what she had originally intended? It would be a betrayal almost as bad as his father marrying Indis, which still burned and rankled inside of him no matter how hard he tried to make himself reconcile to it.

“Narvo,” he finally said. It used some of the letters, and wouldn’t be too uncommon of a name. The construction meant that it would give pause to anyone who thought of him as Fëanor, and at the same time, he had the basic language, and he was still himself at the core.

“Very well,” Mahtan said, and Fëanor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “You start tomorrow, and you will arrive in proper clothes for the forge, not what you wore today.”

Fëanor looked down at his clothes, which were some of the more informal pieces he owned, and realized how out-of-place they looked next to Mahtan’s leather apron and cloth tunic and breeches. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes, Master Mahtan,” Mahtan replied. “No special names for you, either.”

“Yes, Master Mahtan,” he said, a thrill coursing through his veins. He was really and truly becoming Narvo now, and there was no going back to simply being a prince all day, every day. He was finally taking control of his own life, not leaving it to his father or Indis or anyone else to decide what he would do with his days. Let the nobles talk of his impropriety behind his back, but he was still his father’s firstborn son, and he still held the title of High Prince, whether he dressed in finery or not. It was time to find out who he was underneath the finery, and stoke the fires that his mother had seen when he was first born.

“You’re kindling tomorrow,” Mahtan said, and left Fëanor alone in the forge that felt like a whole new world to him, bright and full of possibility. He could hardly wait for the next day, but he supposed that he would need to get the clothes first, and off he went.

Later that night, at the second Mingling of the light of the Trees, he thought back on his interactions of the day. Mahtan had watched his audition work carefully, criticizing any movements that were incorrect, and had instructed him in a way in which he had never been taught before. The salespeople, when they noticed who was at their stall, had fallen all over themselves trying to please him, and had gotten caught up in the idea that there was a prince at their stall rather than concentrating on the work that they had to do. It felt so false to him after Mahtan’s words. They were not kind, in the usual way he had come to expect kindness, but whose words had helped more, when push came to shove? He knew he would appreciate Mahtan even more in the years to come, while he served as his apprentice.

-------------

“Are you injured?” Mahtan asked, reaching out for the heel of the boy’s left hand.

“I’m fine,” Fëanor said, pulling back, but the bit of cloth he had affixed to the area with cold water fell off at the slight jostling, and revealed a red, angry burn underneath.

“You’re burned,” Mahtan said. “You need to get this looked at.”

“Every smith burns himself,” Fëanor replied, but he winced as Mahtan grabbed his hand and pulled it closer.

“This is bad,” he said. “How did this happen?”

“I was angry,” Fëanor grumbled.

“Take it out on the metal, not on your hands, lad, or else you won’t be able to work with the metal much longer,” Mahtan replied. “Let’s go back to the house, I have some salves there.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You don’t need your left hand? I think you do, lad, and if you want to keep it, you can’t take burns like this lightly.” He practically dragged the boy to a table outside his home, near the apprentices’ quarters. “See here, I’m very sure I showed you this table when you first began working for me. You knew it was here, and you know my policy - I do not work with injured apprentices.”

“I need to be able to keep working, Mahtan,” Fëanor said, desperation in his voice.

“I know there’s something going on, it doesn’t take a mind reader to figure that out, but I need you to take care of that hand - and don’t think I’ll let you sneak off, either. You’re eating with my family tonight, and you are not sitting at my table without that hand properly bandaged.”

Fëanor looked like he was going to say something, but then reconsidered, picking up one of the rolls of bandages before running his hand under cold water, and wincing. By the time he entered the house, his hand was bandaged properly, and Mahtan realized exactly why he had given in so easily. It hadn’t been about the injury at all, but about the fact that someone had cared enough to butt heads with him and make him treat himself with kindness. Keeping that in mind, Mahtan knew exactly what questions to ask Fëanor when they sat down for dinner.

** A/N: Since I utterly lack artistic skill, I decided to make some art in Lord of the Rings Online, using a High Elf character, a rather Fëanorian shirt, and some convenient ships – the white birds in the background are a bonus xD I was inspired by this beautiful art: http://bit.ly/2AVkpB0 (Unsure who made this, but I would love to credit the artist, so please let me know if you know who made it!)

https://i.imgur.com/PVQISrv.jpg

** A/N: In this fic, it is Fëanor’s capacity to love that is corrupted.

Fëanor knew the moment he walked into the room that his father was dead. He lay so still, unnaturally so, and Fëanor could barely feel his feet as he walked over to the fallen body. He knew his mother had died, but this was Valinor, this was the perfect realm, and he never expected to see his father added to the list of dead. It struck him that he was High King of the Noldor, but that mattered far less than the spread of his father’s ink-black hair across the floor and the gaping wound in his torso, a bloody reminder that Fëanor had failed another parent.

He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around his father’s body, gently wiping his hair out of his eyes and closing them so they looked like his mother’s in Lorien’s garden. The expression on his face was shocked, not peaceful like Míriel’s, and Fëanor hugged the body close to him, hating the fact that even through all his years of developing a variety of talents, he did not have the skill to fix this.

The grief began to overwhelm him, and he shook as he held his father’s body. He was aware that they were not alone - just like in his father’s life, they had never just been together, save for those brief happy years when he was a child - but he paid it no mind. He was not Fëanor, master smith, creator of the Silmarils in that moment, but a son learning that losing a father was entirely different from losing a mother.

But he knew he could not stay on that floor forever. He had a responsibility, not just to his people, but to his father. His father had died for his own craft, protecting the Silmarils that he had poured his life energy into. His father had perished for him, he realized with a pang that felt like a sword through the gut. His father, who had joined him in Formenos out of love and loyalty, who had tried to show his devotion by keeping safe the crystals that Fëanor had poured his heart and soul into. And now his father was gone, and he could never bring him back. But there was something he could still retrieve.

Fëanor was not one who enjoyed inaction, who would be content to let the Valar fight his fights for him as he lounged about on his father’s throne. There would be a time and place for that, a way to honor his father’s legacy as a king by sitting on the throne, but he would not rest until the one who sat on the throne before him had been avenged.

Determination coursed through his veins, ice-cold at first, his feelings numbed by the sheer overwhelming nature of it all, his father dead at his feet, the leaderless Noldor behind him, the Silmarils gone, stolen by his father’s murderer. But his fires were not dampened for long, and he began to think of all he had learned at Mahtan’s forge, the way to work steel into not just objects of beauty but implements of revenge. He knew how to craft swords and spears that would shake even the foundation of Morgoth’s castle and would bring the Vala to his knees, lost and alone, just as he was. And it would leave Fëanor the victor, the undisputed king, and a part of his heart sang that this deed of valor would catapult him far beyond anything Fingolfin was capable of doing. Wisdom had no place here, in this world where only strength could keep loved ones safe.

The Silmarils burned bright in the back of his mind, taunting him. He had made them to show his father once and for all who was the greater son, and now they had taken his father’s life, and in their absence they whispered this in his heart, goading him on. He knew he would have no rest until they were in his hands again, until the bright glow could try to cleanse the pain he felt.

He could not kneel at his father’s body forever. He would see to it that the corpse was interred with all the respect due to a king, but for now, he would stand. He would wipe the tears from his face and let his people and the Valar and everyone else know that he would never suffer a loss like this again. This, he would swear.

He stood and walked through the throng of silent people, tear tracks on his face, defying anyone to question them. He reached for the sword by his side, the one they had all chastised him for when he pointed it at what they saw was the wrong target. But now, the steel gleamed in his hand, a poor and pale imitation of his lost Silmarils, the lost light of the Trees that would never bloom without him.

The first words came easily, as easily as he had ever spoken before. They flowed like the metal under his hammer at Mahtan’s forge, then at his own, where he had crafted his children of light. And his sons joined him, seven swords out of seven sheaths, and although a small part of him wanted to keep them safe, a greater part knew that they were his greatest works, and they alone could help him in the way he would need.

Their words were a chant, a vow, something to keep their purpose clear across the great journey. Never again would they know the peace of Valinor, the simple joys of hearth and home, until they had the Silmarils in their hands again. Only then would they avenge Finwë, King of the Noldor. Only then would Fëanor be able to face the body on the ground with honor, and show him that all was not lost.

He beheld the Noldor in front of him, some looking at him with the admiration and awe he had always sought, others seeking something else, someone else. Without the firm determination of favoritism in his father’s life, there would be this divide in the House of Finwë, and only he could set it right by taking his place as the eldest son, at the head of the avenging. Only then would he be able to face his parents, together in death at last, and be their favorite son.

A dread feeling washed over him when his last son finished speaking, and yet, there was nothing to do about it other than to prepare. He had weapons, he had the means to create more, and he was going to lead the charge on Middle-Earth and bring the Silmarils home. Then, and only then, his father’s death would not be in vain, and would perhaps not be his fault, and things would be right at last.

The bells of Túna rang as Fëanor and his sons ascended to their home, clanging a tone of war that had never before been heard. It was a dissonant tone, nothing like the nights he had spent listening to Maglor’s beautiful tunes flowing forth from his harp. Even he had a sword in hand, though he looked not altogether comfortable with it, yet he, like Fëanor, was a loyal son to the end.

In the forge lay eight sets of armor emblazoned with the star his Silmarils made when looked upon with the naked eye, his own set in his bright color of crimson, the others in the same shade, his own sons following in his path at last. The red was so different from Nerdanel’s hair as she stood and watched, sorrow in her eyes. Somehow the fire he had seen in her was gone, and he would not question it. The boys were his, they were sworn in name and deed, and they would all join him on his quest.

He nearly wavered when Nerdanel, who he had not even spoken to in over a decade, begged for even one son, the youngest, or perhaps both of the Ambarussa. She reminded him of her foresight at their birth, at the name of Umbarto, fated, that she had given to the twin now known as Amrod. But her words crashed as waves against the inferno of his heart, enough to quench his fury in the past, but now just as steam, dissolving into the air.

He had loved her, once, and he loved her still. But treason was not something he could forgive. The Ambarussa would join him.

How was he to know if it would be one of their arrows that would pierce Morgoth’s great hide? Any of them could cast the final blow, any of them could be the first to take the Silmarils from his charred hands, burnt beyond recognition. He was not a man to take chances, and he needed every one of his weapons with him, even if they had once been babes he had held to his chest, whispering words of endearment and protection. They were sons of Fëanor, and they would join the fire that consumed him from the inside.

Even on their own, the twins knew this, and neither they nor any of Fëanor’s other sons went back on their vow. He would release them - some part of him knew this, even though the last thing he wanted to appear was weak, and yet they were a weakness of his - and yet none of them asked, none of them heeded their mother’s words. They would return to her, they said, their hearts steeled for the road ahead. They would return, seven bright stars with their father at the head, the Silmarils in his crown instead of Morgoth’s. And then, they would dance, they would celebrate, they would settle down and begin their own lives. But for now, they had a father to obey, a grandfather to avenge.

When he looked his last upon Nerdanel, a flood of memories assaulted him, threatening to throw away everything he had done and making him want to fold himself into her arms, weep for the father he had lost. But he was no lovesick boy, no child in the springtime of his youth. He could not afford to waste time like this, even though a big part of him yearned for his other half. He was sundered from his parents, and now, from his wife. Part of him was glad she would stay behind, for fire consumed all that got in its path, and he wished to spare her. And fire must work alone, for she could not save him from himself.

According to my test, Fëanor is an INTP, the Logician, which is described as “innovative inventors with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.” Some highlights of this type are:

• Rare personality type and likes that; always wanting to be creative and innovative and entirely unique
• Skilled at finding patterns
• Enthusiastic to discover new things
• Unceasing thought process; brain bursting with ideas that may make little or no sense to others when explained in the random fashion in which they are imagined
• Fear of failure (I do headcanon this, if only because I feel like a great portion of his motivation comes from wanting to make his father proud, and prove himself as the “best” son/member of the family. This is not generally expressed as frightful behavior, but rather, as intensity in other behaviors, like trying too hard to be great at things.)
• Insensitive (He can be sensitive, but he definitely chooses when to ignore this skill)
• Condescending
• In romantic relationships, very dedicated and love sharing their world with others, but don’t always necessarily understand a partner’s emotions
• As a parent, incredibly devoted, and urging the child to follow their own interests to the best of their ability
• At work, solitary, eccentric, and independent

I’m also adding a few weaknesses from ISTP:

• Stubborn
• Easily bored
• Risky behavior

Choose, said the voice, at once familiar and strange. Two lights shone before him, at first glance the same.

Choose, the voice said again, and he blinked a few times. He was not in the palace or one of his forges or anywhere else he knew. He tried to look around, his curiosity piqued.

Choose.

The voice sounded angrier this time – well, perhaps not angry, simply determined to ensure he did, in fact, choose. He looked towards the lights again.

“They are the same,” he tried to say, but no words came out of his mouth. Nevertheless, he heard a response.

Look closer, the voice said. And then, choose.

He leaned over, squinting at the lights. The first, on the left, gleamed bright, like a fruit from Telperion, a silver beacon. He tried to reach out and touch it, but the voice returned.

You can only choose one.

He turned to look at the other, fairly determined he would make his choice without even seeing it. But then the light resolved, and the second light coalesced into a braid of hair, cut off from the source, but still tied at the bottom with a crimson ribbon. The hair was as silver as the light to its left.

The voice was silent, and he was struck by the possibility that, at last, he could choose.

He knows what he would have chosen for all of his early life – his mother in his life, supporting him and guiding him. His father not marrying elsewhere and disgracing him. The lack of tears cried in the night because he would have to reason to ever be upset, with an intact family and his honor unblemished. He would have gladly given up everything for a chance to meet her once, let alone to be the one to tie the ribbons in her hair, to walk beside her, to feel her hand warm in his.

But on the left, there sat his silima, finished the way he knew only he would be able to – and that was only for all the years of study, for all the rage poured into his work, for the fires of his spirit stoked at Mahtan’s forge. His gift had been nurtured from his despair, and without it, he was sure he would be positively… ordinary. There would be no reason for him to study at the forge. He would work with languages only, and he would grow into his role as a wise diplomat, all other potential lost in the wind.

Choose, the voice implored, and both of his hands reached out. How could he choose one over the other? For all that he wished to be a son of his mother, how could he forsake being the sun of his people?

Choose, the voice boomed, and he jolted, one hand inadvertently reaching forward over the other. When he woke up in a puddle of sweat, with Telperion’s light still gleaming, he was relieved that he did not have to make a choice. It had been made for him – and he had work to do.

Chapter End Notes

This story is posted independently on Archive of our Own: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12957024

** A/N: As an addition to the prompt, I wrote a scenario in which the friendly character would see Fëanor in a negative situation, tinged by positive recollections. This fic takes place in an AU where Nerdanel continues to support Fëanor later in life.

The ellith raced through the halls of the palace, trying to get to her destination before anyone else could reach it. She ran through the decadent rooms that had once amazed her, and completely ignored the elegant tapestries and tall vases that spoke of the two women in King Finwë’s life. For now, she had to reach her destination, and Sidhel knew better than to give up.

She checked the gardens first, and luckily, she saw a flash of red hair by the pillar, and heaved a sigh of relief. It struck her then that she knew what she needed to say to Nerdanel, but how could she ambush her oldest friend with this kind of news, especially considering she had seven (!) children to look after, and now she could be losing everything?

Sidhel kept moving forward only because she knew, if it was her husband who had committed such a crime, that she would want to hear the news from one of her friends, rather than some courtier looking to ambush her or take advantage of her first reaction. Nerdanel was kind, but rash, and she might give too much away, or not act in the correct way for the crown prince’s wife. The Nerdanel she knew was brash, often swore… she couldn’t leave Nerdanel to the mercy of these Eldar.

“Nerdanel?” she called out tentatively, and the red-headed woman turned, a worried look on her face as she held a chisel in her hand, working on one of her newer projects.

“Sidhel? What are you doing here?” She took a deep breath as Nerdanel continued, “Did something happen? I felt a sharp pang in my bond earlier, and I have not seen anyone since.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Sidhel said. “I thought… I thought you would want to hear from a friend.”

“It’s that bad?” Nerdanel said.

“You might want to sit down,” Sidhel replied, taking her old friend by the elbow, not minding the dried bits of clay. She led her to a bench and sat down opposite her, wondering how exactly to tell her what had happened.

“I know my husband is alive, for I feel his fëa strongly,” Nerdanel said, “but I must admit I am afraid.”

Sidhel hesitated. She knew that Nerdanel would only reveal a fear to such an old friend, but there was no way around it. “There was an… incident, earlier, with your husband, at the palace,” Sidhel said, as politely as possible.

“An ‘incident?’ Sidhel, you know I hate that kind of talk, just tell me,” Nerdanel snapped, but when Sidhel hesitated, she added, “Is it that bad?”

“I don’t know,” Sidhel said honestly. “I left shortly after the Valar arrived, because I was scared.”

“My husband is in trouble with the Valar?” Nerdanel yelped, and Sidhel placed a hand on her shoulder. “Go on,” she said after a few moments.

“I’m not sure exactly how much trouble he’ll be in, but apparently there’s going to be some kind of trial, that’s when I left. I don’t know what happened after,” Sidhel explained.

“But what happened before, to anger the Valar?” Nerdanel asked, and Sidhel gulped. “Just tell me – I need to know, in order to figure out my next steps.”

“I don’t know the context, but I saw your husband walking towards the palace, and Nolo – erm – Fingolfin was walking out the door towards the courtyard,” she said, hoping Nerdanel hadn’t noticed the slip of her tongue about Finwë’s second-born son. “He – Fingolfin – was accompanied by the king, and I’m not entirely sure what had happened, but some words had been exchanged.”

“My husband fights with his half-brother every day. None of these spats have taken him before the Valar,” Nerdanel said.

“Well, this time was different,” Sidhel said, preparing for the moment of truth. “I saw – everyone saw – as Fëanor pulled out his sword and held it to Fingolfin’s throat. He told him to… I think he said for him to leave and take his due place?”

Nerdanel gasped. “He threatened him with a sword? In front of his father?”

“And most of the court,” Sidhel said. “I had been there because I heard there was going to be some sort of announcement, and I thought you might be there, and we haven’t seen each other in some time. But when this happened and the next thing I knew I saw Manwë, I had to tell you. I don’t know what some of the more politically savvy Eldar could do with this, and I wanted to give you a chance to prepare.”

“Thank you,” Nerdanel said softly. “I must say, I felt a great burst of anger from our bond, but I was not at all expecting that. Usually his father’s presence is what stops their arguments from turning to blows.”

“They fight that often?”

“I still remember the day Fingolfin was born, and Fëanor was completely convinced he was going to be disowned by his father, and he spent many hours working in my father’s forge to try to convince my father that he was useful and should be given a home.”

“I wouldn’t think Fëanor would lack confidence like that,” Sidhel said, then quickly retracted. “I mean, I know I don’t know him like you do, but I have heard that he has no shortage of confidence – not that it’s a bad thing, of course, he uses it to do great things.”

Nerdanel nodded. “That is true, but he does have his weaknesses, and that is one of them,” she said. “Perhaps the sight of his half-brother and his father together set him off, but he’s seen them together so many times, I can’t imagine what could have made this time different.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Sidhel said. “I just know what happened after.”

“Do you think he’s still there?”

“I’m not sure,” Sidhel said. “I left when Manwë…”

“Right,” Nerdanel interrupted. “I’ll need to go find him and see if there’s anything I can do to help rectify the situation.” She kicked the chisel into a convenient hole at the base of the statue where she kept her supplies. “Will you… would you be willing to come with me?”

“To Fëanor’s rooms?”

“It’s not nearly as intimidating as it looks,” Nerdanel said. “Fancy, but I’ve seen every one of his pieces from the time it was just an idea.”

“He won’t mind?” Sidhel asked.

“I don’t think so, he knows who you are… perhaps don’t say much of what you saw, but I think I may need backup.”

“Backup? He doesn’t… he doesn’t hurt you, does he?”

“Never,” Nerdanel said emphatically. “He has never hurt me a day in his life, nor would he ever – but then again, I thought his fight with Fingolfin would never turn physical in that way, and it has. I suppose I’m nervous,” she admitted.

Nerdanel’s admission reached her friend’s heart in a way that nothing else had, and Sidhel nodded. “I can come with you, but I don’t think I can actually do much to help the situation.”

“I’m not expecting you to,” Nerdanel replied as she slung a bag over her shoulder. “I just need a friend in all of this.”

“I’m here,” Sidhel said, and together with Nerdanel, she made her way to the crown prince’s personal chambers. Along the way, she heard the tittering of gossip that only got louder as they kept going, and she kept a continuous stream of commentary to Nerdanel on what she had truly seen and what was exaggerated.

When they got to their chambers in the palace, Nerdanel pushed the door open slowly and called out, “Fëanor?” When she got no response, she looked through the rooms, only to walk out and shake her head at Sidhel. “He’s not here.”

“Not here? Where could he have gone?”

“His forge, or – ” Nerdanel stopped mid-sentence. “He might be in his mother’s gardens. That’s a place he calls a refuge, and not many Eldar know about it.” She looked over at Sidhel. “And I hope that information will stay between us.”

“Of course,” Sidhel reassured her, and they set off for the gardens, passing several of Míriel’s impressive tapestries along the way. “This way,” Nerdanel said, going through a seemingly unused corridor before finding her way over to an open-air garden with a small gazebo in the center, and on the lone bench beside the gazebo, her husband’s sword rested. The ellon himself was pacing back and forth through the gazebo, taking quick steps and having to turn around nearly immediately.

Nerdanel crept closer before she raised her voice. “Fëanor?”

He opened his eyes wide, like a startled deer, then relaxed slightly when he noticed who it was. “Come to yell at me, too?” His voice sounded angry, but there was definitely something else Nerdanel could detect through their bond: grief, sorrow, and perhaps even a bit of shame, masked behind the anger. She didn’t fail to notice Sidhel stiffening by her side.

“Not at all,” Nerdanel said, and she gave Sidhel’s hand a quick squeeze as she walked forward. “I came to see if you were well.”

“I don’t know,” Fëanor said, his slip into the vernacular showing Nerdanel that he truly was out of sorts.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“What is there to talk about? The way Fingolfin reproached me before the whole court, begging my father to scold me like a small child, or the way I responded, and somehow turned everything into my fault?”

Nerdanel hissed through her teeth. “What do you mean, he reprimanded you before the court?”

“He told Atar that I was too far gone, that I was deplorable and needed to be treated as who I truly was, rather than favored for no reason at all – and in front of everyone, not even treating the situation with honor, as I have told Atar about him in the past,” Fëanor ranted. “Then he turned to me and challenged me, and…”

“I understand,” Nerdanel said. “There is fault on both ends.”

Fëanor held up his hand, and Nerdanel fell silent. “Who is that behind you?”

“My friend Sidhel,” Nerdanel said. “I have known her since I was a girl. Surely, I have introduced you two before.”

“My lord prince,” Sidhel said, unsure of how to proceed.

Fëanor moved his hand again, a looser motion. “And why is she here?”

“She’s the one who told me what happened, and told me to find you.”

“Does the whole city know already?” Fëanor grunted.

“No, my lord,” Sidhel said. “I had come to visit Nerdanel, and I happened to see the king and Nolo – er – Fingolfin leaving the palace.”

“Nolofinwë,” Fëanor muttered. It was a name he so rarely spoke that a look of plain shock crossed Nerdanel’s face. “Atar’s little wise one, and no doubt the people are already saying he was wise to speak rather than use blades, but they do not know he used blades of a different kind. He’s a viper, and he sought to poison my own father against me, and will now take this incident in which no blood was shed and turn it into his great tragedy and use it for whatever pitiful cause he pretends he has.”

** A/N: I responded to this prompt in two ways, with a series of observations from favorite fanfics and a fic inspired by one of them.

1. I’m not usually a fan of poetry, but this sestina’s beautiful language inspired me to delve into Fëanor’s mental process as he works on the Silmarils, and I’ve had a lot of fun with that: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12175533?view_adult=true (Credit: amyfortuna).

2. This hilarious piece, “Green Eggs and Silmarils,” is written in perfect Seuss-ian rhyme and I think it’s nice to see some humor in a fandom that tends to be focused more on angst: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394323 (Credit: Zdenka).

3. This fic directly deals with one of my favorite headcanons for Fëanor – that he suffers from mental illness – while also making a point of the fact that mental and physical illnesses are treated/observed differently. I’ve been inspired by this piece a lot: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653241 (Credit: consumptive_sphinx).

4. The Fëanor pieces in the Bunniverse series, as well as the ones about his sons and other family members, offer a nice look into their everyday lives: https://archiveofourown.org/series/751047 (Credit: Zhie).

The fic below is inspired by the premise of this story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690364/chapters/26318286 (Credit: silvertrails) combined with one of my favorite literary tropes, King Incognito.

The boy arrived at midday, when Nerdanel and her mother were putting away the dishes from their afternoon meal. He rode over the horizon with fire in his eyes, and when he arrived, he looked all around.

“Is Mahtan here?” he asked curtly.

“No, he’s out for the day,” Nerdanel’s mother replied.

“May I go to his forge?” he asked, more politely this time.

“Why?”

“I am one of his apprentices, and I know he has an order for a great number of horseshoes to go out soon. I thought I would help.”

Nerdanel looked at her mother, whose gaze told her to not be concerned, but perhaps to follow. Maybe the boy looked familiar enough to her, but all of her father’s apprentices looked the same to Nerdanel. “All right,” she said, and the boy took off, heading in a known direction, making for the forge.

Nerdanel followed for a short while, but the boy did exactly what he said - he took up one of the stations and began attacking the metal with anything but finesse, his hammer clanging and ringing out, and then when the shoes began to emerge, he took a lighter approach, his fingers moving nimbly over the metal until each piece was done.

Content that he was who he said, Nerdanel did not watch him for long, but when her father rode up several hours later, as Nerdanel was helping her mother set the plates for dinner, his eyebrows rose in alarm when he heard a methodical clanging noise. “Who is in my forge?”

“One of your apprentices,” Nerdanel said.

“None of my apprentices were supposed to come in today,” Mahtan said, and he swung his leg over the horse and raced towards the forge. About to scream and disrupt the intruder, he was instead surprised that he recognized the young man, and the horseshoes by his side were piled so high he could barely see the boy’s black hair or sweaty leather apron.

“Lad,” he called out, and the boy turned to face him, leaving his project on the table.

“I apologize for coming without your knowledge, but I thought I would help with the horseshoes,” the boy replied, sweeping his hand out to show his progress. It was remarkable to Mahtan, but this apprentice was capable of that, he knew.

“It looks like fine work,” he praised the boy. “Any idea how many?”

“One hundred,” the boy replied, “well, this is the hundredth.”

Mahtan picked up the shoe that rested on the table and passed it between his hands. “Sturdy, perfect shape, even all around… if the others are like this, there’s no reason to think that they’re anything less than perfect.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, something strange in his eyes, and Mahtan thought he had an idea of what it might be. He didn’t know for sure, but he knew enough of the day’s significance and the productivity the boy had displayed in his forge to know that something had to have gone wrong.

“I was just heading inside to eat,” Mahtan said. “Have you eaten today?”

“No,” the boy said, as if it was a surprise to him.

“Anything to drink?”

“No,” the boy said sheepishly.

“That’s just dangerous, lad - you’ve got folks who care about you, you can’t just work a day like that without drinking at all. You could have a heat stroke,” Mahtan scolded lightly, but he could tell from the boy’s face that there was already something going on, and he didn’t want to be too harsh.

The boy shook his head lightly. “With all due respect, master, I disagree,” he said.

“About what? You can’t question the heat stroke,” Mahtan said, “and…” He paused, taking in the look on the boy’s face, the way he wore a shirt that was too nice beneath the leather apron, and fine breeches rather than his smithing clothes. He had never shown up like this before, unannounced, nor had he ever been so productive in so little time. “You do have folks who care about you,” Mahtan said.

“You are very kind, master,” he said.

“I do not only speak for myself. It may be hard to believe, but you are loved,” he said.

“Not today,” the boy said ominously as he stepped through the door, making polite courtesies to Nerdanel and her mother before stepping over to the washing basin, cleaning the worst of the soot off his hands.

Mahtan remembered when, several years back, the boy’s stepmother had given birth to a baby girl, a golden-haired baby who his father fussed over incredibly. Then, the boy had been distracted during the day, and he had worked hard, but not like this, nothing like this. That was all he could think of, although perhaps he had quarreled with his father in addition to his stepmother, but something was clearly bothering him.

“Wife, set the table for one more, we have a guest for dinner,” Mahtan called out, taking off his traveling cloak and setting it over his chair.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she brought out the napkin and silverware.

“I do not know yet,” he replied, “but the lad is dear to me, and I will not have him feeling like this for naught.”

The boy returned, surprised to find a place at the table for him next to his master. “You did not need to do this,” he said softly.

“You are welcome in my home, I told you this, and I told your father this,” Mahtan announced after the family prayed together.

“Perhaps he will take you up on it,” the boy said sarcastically. “Although I am sure you do not need a son, with your daughter’s skills.”

Mahtan looked over at his wife before turning to the boy, who hesitantly took some of the food in front of him, a small amount. “Take more, lad, you must be hungry from all that work,” he said.

“I did not realize how hungry I was until just now,” he replied, but he took an extra spoonful before passing it over to Nerdanel.

“Would you care to explain what you meant earlier?” he asked after the boy had taken a few bites of food.

“I… I would not bother you with my family matters, master. You are responsible for my craft.”

“And in order to do that craft, you must be well - anger can only carry you so far. It works well for tasks like horseshoes, but I don’t intend to keep you there forever,” Mahtan said.

The boy sighed, scratched the back of his neck, and then spoke a simple sentence: “He has my name.”

The four words told Mahtan all he needed to know, but he had no idea how to actually solve the situation. He tried to think like his wife, who now stared at him confusedly - what would she do? She would try to make him feel understood, and heard, and like he had a voice, when he was feeling like one had been taken away.

“It was wrong to do that,” Mahtan said, and the boy’s head lifted up. “It was disrespectful to you and who you are, and it only builds the case against him.”

“I knew you would see it,” the boy said eagerly. “I knew it. And I knew - this is not stupid of me, is it?”

“For your father to take your name? Not stupid at all. It is callous and I think he might have gotten ahead of himself without thinking of you.”

“He certainly did not think of me, seeing as I have been gone all day without leaving word,” the boy said, taking some bread and scooping some of the sauce onto it, taking a large bite.

“You did not tell him where you were going?”

“I did not tell him that I was going,” he clarified. “But my apron is missing, and I have only one smithing master, so I should not be very hard to find.”

It was another test, Mahtan could see - the boy was fond of tests, of trying to figure out what was going on in people’s minds, and he took the evidence as facts. Contrary to his reputation, he was more than capable of being patient, but he needed there to be some sort of reason for the patience, something he was waiting for. The longer he waited, the more he thought he was uncared for, the more his anger must have grown.

“Today is a busy day for him, perhaps he has not yet left the room,” Mahtan said softly.

“I do not doubt that, but…” He sighed, taking his fork and poking at some of the vegetables. “Do you think I am stupid?”

“Stupid? Where in the world did you get that idea?”

“From… I do not wish to say, but someone I care about has called me stupid by association.”

“You are one of the brightest Eldar I have ever met, lad,” Mahtan said. “Smart does not even begin to describe it. You have a keen mind like I have seen in few cases before.” He paused, taking in the look on the boy’s face, before he added, “Who called you stupid?”

“No one called me stupid, but when you point at me and you point at something with the intelligence of a rock, and then you call the rock wise, what does that make me?” He speared a green bean angrily.

“Some may have wished to praise the other, but it is inconsiderate, and rude, especially that you did not know beforehand or have any time to react.”

“Or any place - how was I supposed to react in front of my father? I do still love him, even after all he has said and done, even after every fight we have had. But now I cannot help but wonder…” He speared another green bean. “If you are looking for someone in his position, do you look for someone skilled in a forge, or do you seek someone wise?”

It took Mahtan no time to understand what the boy was saying, although the rest of his family looked confused. “You cannot possibly think he means to disown you,” Mahtan said.

“I cannot help but wonder,” the boy repeated. “Why else would he do this?”

“For the love of others, and he seems to have forgotten…”

“Yes, he has forgotten that he has a firstborn son who he made promises to, who he swore he would love and care for no matter what.”

“You do not know this will happen,” Mahtan said.

“It has been happening slowly over the years, and this is… a heavy blow,” he admitted.

Mahtan placed his hand over the boy’s. “I will tell you this - you always have a spot at my forge, and a home in my home, but I believe your father will come around. Did you quarrel?”

“I did not stay long enough to begin one,” the boy said. “I left when I felt the anger getting too heavy, and I rode out here and made the shoes.”

“That is the mark of a wise man, whatever anyone may say,” Mahtan said, squeezing the boy’s hand. “A lesser man would have stayed and let his anger take advantage of him, but you turned yours into something productive.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, and a few tears began falling from his eyes. He hastily stood up, only to find himself in Mahtan’s large, strong arms. He allowed himself to cry for a brief moment, then whispered a word into Mahtan’s ear.

The master smith looked surprised and saddened when he sat back down. “I can understand your anger, and your pain,” he said.

“It is not fair,” the boy replied. “Simply by virtue of who he is, he has so much more than what I can ever hope to have, plus the looks.”

“You are not ugly,” Mahtan said, looking over at the women to support his claim.

“I never said I was ugly, but I do have some of my mother’s features, and…”

“Which is something to be proud of,” Mahtan said.

“Not if it makes me look less like my father,” he replied. “How am I supposed to compete?”

“This is not a matter where you should need to compete,” Mahtan said.

“But I would be a fool to trust that I do not need to,” the boy replied solemnly as he ate his last forkful. “Thank you for dinner, it was excellent,” he said to Mahtan’s wife.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Will you be staying for tea?”

“He will stay as long as he needs,” Mahtan said, and when his wife took the dishes to the kitchen, he followed her.

“This might be a problem, if he needs to stay for a long period of time,” she said.

“Trust me, if he has no home to go back to tomorrow, we have much bigger problems than a boy sleeping in our house.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm working on continuing this fic as a larger project; I've got it posted at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12957348

** A/N: In this fic, Fëanor’s insecurity turns to a strength as he begins a deeper form of study and realizes the weaknesses in language, leading to one of his greatest designs.

The light was coming from his son’s room, and concern led Finwë forward until he pushed open the door.

It was hours after the household had gone to bed, but Fëanor was still awake, sitting at his desk with a quill perched between his fingers and his teeth. He had several manuscripts in front of him, and he studied them with what seemed like the most intense focus Finwë had seen in quite some time from anyone.

“Son,” he said slowly, and Fëanor’s body jerked in surprise, and when he turned around, there was a large ink spot on his cheek.

“Atar,” Fëanor said stiffly, standing up and offering a small bow. “You are up late.”

“As are you,” Finwë said, walking over and peering at the book his son had been reading. “You are reading of the history of the lesser Maiar? Would you mind if I ask why?”

“Is it not the duty of a prince to be well-educated in all matters?” Fëanor replied, an edge in his voice that his father was unused to hearing.

“Is everything all right?”

“I simply wish to become more knowledgeable,” Fëanor replied, then handed his father the book. “Will you test me? Call out any of the names, and I will tell you what I know about them.”

Finwë rifled through the book confusedly. His son had shown a normal aptitude for scholarship, but far less than some of his passions in other areas. Why, then, was he staying up hours after everyone else went to bed, doing something that he didn’t care for much, taking away energy from other things he could be doing on the morrow?

“Are you well, my son?”

The two words seemed to evoke something in Fëanor, who replied, “I wish to show you I am worthy of being your son.”

“Whoever told you that you are not worthy?”

Fëanor wished to answer honestly, but facing his father directly was more than he had been expecting, and he had no plans for this conversation. “I can tell you about Curumo,” he said, a non-answer. “He is a great smith who serves under Aulë. Perhaps I shall meet him one day,” he mused, before offering more facts. “He has red hair, and is said to be very dedicated to his work.”

“As are you, my son,” Finwë replied, “but scholarship is not usually your preferred area of excellence.”

“It needs to be,” Fëanor replied solemnly. “Shall I tell you about more Maiar?”

“No, I trust you know it, you have always been a keen study,” Finwë said, and when he looked at his son’s face, he noticed a lone tear straying away from his left eye. “You are crying.”

“No, I am not,” Fëanor said, quickly brushing away the tear, but his eyes remained red and puffy as he took several steadying breaths.

“Who has upset you?” Finwë asked again, and when the tears began to flow again even when Fëanor angrily swatted them away, he said, softly, “Was it something I said?”

“I wish to prove myself worthy of you, Father,” Fëanor said, his words coming out in a rush. “If I can be a great scholar and catch up where I am behind, then…”

“I was unaware you were behind in your studies. Your tutor, in fact, just came to see me yesterday, and told me you are doing quite well, as you do in just about everything.” He put a hand on Fëanor’s shoulder. “Why would you think yourself unworthy to be my son?”

“I must prove myself worthy,” he said. “I have started a society of scholars, a small group so far, but working with the Tengwar letters I have been working on - we are going to rewrite some of the histories, and discuss what we find.”

“A valiant pursuit,” Finwë said, “although I must admit, it does not sound like something you would be most interested in doing.”

“I am more than a smith, Atar,” Fëanor said, determination creeping into his voice.

“Of course you are,” Finwë reassured him. “And I know there is much you excel in, but it was always my impression that you preferred working with your hands.”

“A prince must be wise,” Fëanor said extremely solemnly, and then spoke no more.

Finwë was confused at first until he realized that his son had chosen his words very carefully, emphasizing that he was wise rather than any of the other things he might ordinarily call himself.

“You cannot think…”

“Of course I can,” Fëanor said. “My thoughts are my right, Atar.”

“I meant you no insult, my son - you are my beloved child, and I would never harm you.” When Finwë looked at his son, however, he realized there had already been harm done, and given the fact that his normally strong son was crying, and pushing himself beyond the normal limits, it was no insignificant amount of harm.

“I wish… I wish to be sure you did not make other plans,” Fëanor said, coming as close as he could to speaking his deepest fears...

For the map, I drew Mahtan’s forge, where Fëanor would have spent a great deal of time learning about different types of smithing. Some highlights include:

• The first aid table outside, which features in a few of my short stories. Mahtan seems gruff and uncaring at first, but he will not allow anyone to work injured, nor will he tolerate anyone making fun of anyone else for injuring themself on the job. The table is stocked with bandages, cold water, salves, and a variety of healing herbs.
• Fëanor’s station was fourth from the right as you walk into the forge, when he was an apprentice. The apprentices’ stations circled the perimeter, and each was responsible for managing their own work area and forge. Mahtan took both male and female apprentices. The senior apprentices, of which there could never be more than four at a time, worked around a central forge in the center of the room. There were often only one or two of these, and never more than three. Mahtan tended to work at one when he had his own work to do.
• Mahtan had his own workstation in the back for when he had a more complex project or wanted to leave the others alone for a bit (he believed that only by running a forge was someone able to understand how one was run, and so he sometimes left the forge to his senior apprentices).
• There is a room in the front that serves as Nerdanel’s studio, and some of her sculptures as well as those from other artists are arrayed in the front lawn, near the path to the forge.
• The forge is in the back of the house.

Link to drawing: https://imgur.com/MhgCCXA

** A/N: It's Finwë's birthday!

Fëanor slammed the hammer down on the metal again, shaping the plowshare as he grumbled under his breath.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Mahtan said gently, but Fëanor simply continued to hammer. He watched the boy’s movements, watched as he – even with his injured hand, but now was not the time to scold him – pounded down on the metal, again and again and again. The rage seemed mindless at first, but he knew Fëanor better than that, and watched even closer. He was truly enraged, yes, but he was being careful with the steel even so, shaping it perfectly. There was no room for mistakes, or even anything else this could be: he was showing off his skill, trying to prove to himself that he could do great work. Mahtan knew exactly what to say to get him talking.

“I thought it was a marvelous piece, myself,” he said. “The wood – even though it’s not your usual thing, you carved it extremely well, and then the puzzle mechanism was extraordinarily sophisticated, and the ring replicated your father’s sigil perfectly.”

Fëanor let his hammer fall two more times, finishing what he was working on for the moment, and then hung his head. “He didn’t even look at it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t even try to open the box – he just said the wood looked pretty, and then put it aside, and one of the palace workers carried it out of the room with everything else at the end of the night. He paid it no mind, didn’t even give it a second glance,” Fëanor said, and before Mahtan could reply, he held up his sooty hand. “But when Findis placed two or three glass beads on a rope, he picked it out of her hands and called it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and wore it out of the room, and when Indis handed him something supposedly from the baby, he gave him a large hug and thanked him for it. Apparently, you have to be part of the family for him to look at or care about the gift.”

“That was extremely wrong of him,” Mahtan said, wondering how he was supposed to justify Finwë’s behavior this time. “Yes, it’s important to show young children that their gifts are important, but you are his son, his firstborn no less, and he should have figured out there was something more to your gift.”

“He didn’t even let me explain,” Fëanor said. “He just put it away without a second thought, and I… I worked so hard on it, I came in early and stayed late for months to make it perfect, and he didn’t even try to see it. He didn’t even care.”

“I’m sure he cares,” Mahtan said, but Fëanor scoffed.

“If he cares, why does he show me again and again that he couldn’t care less about me? He has his new family, that’s all he needs, but I still go back to him again and again like a desperate child. It’s pitiful on my part.”

“There is nothing pitiful in trying to honor your father,” Mahtan said. “There was no fault on your end, I promise you,” he added, trying to think of some choice words for Finwë later.

“I tried so hard,” Fëanor said, his voice raising slightly, and he sounded like a young child whose dreams had been crushed. Mahtan realized exactly how friable their bond was, how close Fëanor was to breaking ties with his father completely, and how that would destroy him.

“I will accompany you home. I have some words for your father,” Mahtan said gruffly.

“You can’t fight all my battles for me,” Fëanor said. “I have to do some things on my own.”

“But your father may not even realize he’s doing this.”

“My father isn’t dumb,” Fëanor replied. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“But he may not be thinking about it.”

“He should be thinking about me,” Fëanor said.

“That he should,” Mahtan replied, “but it seems like he’s not doing a good enough job of it. And from one adult to another, and from someone slightly removed from the source of the conflict, I think things may work better if I help.”

Fëanor grudgingly nodded. “Do we have to do it now?”

“You can work for a while if you wish, but I would like to go sooner rather than later, if only to give Telvo the opportunity to lead the apprentices.”

“It was his day,” Fëanor remembered. “I’m sorry, master.”

“It’s fine, Fëanor. I told you you could do whatever you wanted in this forge, and I meant it – but I do want to make sure the other senior apprentices get a try at leading the forge’s operations.”

-------------

“Ah, Fëanor, I wondered where you were,” Finwë said. “We just finished dinner, but I can have the cooks send something to your rooms if you like.” Fëanor nodded silently, and shuffled away. Finwë then turned to Mahtan, adding, “I had not expected to see you today, my friend.”

Mahtan bowed stiffly. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, and to talk with you, if you have a moment to spare.”

Finwë peeked inside the room to see Indis walking with the children to the nursery. “I have some time,” he said curiously, motioning for Mahtan to follow him.

The two made their way to the king’s study in relative silence, and Finwë motioned for Mahtan to sit in a wicker chair. “What can I do for you, Mahtan?”

Mahtan looked around the room, realizing that the object he wished to ask about was on top of a disorganized-looking pile of presents in the corner. “I spoke to Fëanor this morning about your birthday.”

“You did?”

“Yes, he and I are getting close,” Mahtan said, treading carefully. Not only could he not tell another father how to parent his son, but he also couldn’t order his king around.

“That’s good,” Finwë said.

“I wanted to ask you about a celebration you had last night, for your birthday.”

“It’s mostly about sorting the gifts and figuring out diplomatic responses to each,” Finwë said. “Trust me, you’re better off not being there.”

Mahtan shook his head. “No, I meant when your family was giving you gifts.”

“We do something small every year,” Finwë said. “For each of us.”

“Yes,” Mahtan said.

“Come to think of it, I was a little curious about Fëanor’s gift – where was it, now?” He looked over at the presents and rifled through them until he found the box. “I didn’t think wood carving was his specialty.”

“It’s not,” Mahtan said, hoping he was about to deal with this correctly. “That’s not what the gift is. It’s a puzzle-box, and one with a rather sophisticated mechanism. Traditionally used for presenting gifts in a rather splendid fashion, although some people use them as gifts. The true gift in this one, however, is on the inside, and I know for a fact that he has been working on both the mechanism for the box and the gift inside for many months.”

“I didn’t know that,” Finwë said, rotating the box between his hands and finally noticing a small switch on the left side by one of the carvings.

“He did the carvings, too; he insisted that my daughter Nerdanel help him with it. He wanted to present you with something truly splendid.”

Mahtan stayed silent as Finwë pressed the latch, and the clinking of several gears became audible as different latches appeared, only to form a particularly unique pattern resembling the house’s seal. Finwë pressed each button in the order that the seal was typically drawn, only for the box to unfold into several smaller compartments. In the largest, which was lined with deep blue velvet, there sat a ring with the house’s signet replicated perfectly, in a sturdy setting studded with small gems. Powerful and stately, the ring looked like something that Mahtan himself would have made, and it was something that Fëanor had poured many, many hours of time into.

“It’s beautiful,” Finwë said. “And I didn’t even know it was in there. I was with Indis, and Findis was so excited to show me what she made that I barely looked at it at all. I was going to look at it another time,” he said with a glance at the pile of gifts, many of which would likely be processed by servants or other palace staff.

“You are losing your son,” Mahtan said solemnly. “Every time he comes to the forge, or seeks refuge in my home, after seeing that he is not part of his own family, you are losing him, and one day, it will be final – it might not be until he is old enough to move out on his own, but you might lose him forever if you’re not careful, my old friend,” he said, trying to soften the blow.

Finwë nodded. “I understand,” he said, “and I wish I could be exactly what he needs and also give of myself to Indis and our children. It’s not an easy place to be.”

“I understand that,” Mahtan said, “but Fëanor is hurting. He hides it well, he has developed an excellent shell of silence and dedication to work, but when he’s at the forge, I can tell whenever something has gone wrong at home, and each time, he is less and less willing to try to work things out.”

“I had no idea it was that bad,” Finwë said.

“It has been for some time, but he wanted to try to make things up to you with this gift. He wanted to show you how much he loved you, and what he thought of you, and he worked so hard for so long only to show up off-shift this morning, telling me that you hadn’t even cared to look at it, let alone try to open it.”

“Is there a way to fix this?” Finwë asked.

“Not easily, but it can be done,” Mahtan replied. “I try to speak for you when he comes to me with these conflicts, but I think true reconciliation needs to begin with you, if I may be so bold.”

“Of course you can,” Finwë said, the ring resting in his palm. “But you know so much better than I, because I must admit, you likely know my son better… what can I do?”

-------------

His father sat on his bed, and he stayed still, wondering what was going to happen next. It was so unusual for him to seek him there with no specific purpose, but there wasn’t anything Fëanor could do for his father at the moment, no place he could go, nowhere he could be of use. His curiosity nearly made him ask, but he was even more curious as to why his father sought him out now, rather than when he would be able to do anything for him.

“My son gave me a most wonderful gift,” Finwë said softly, stroking Fëanor’s hair. “There was a switch in the carving, and it led to a “My son gave me a most wonderful gift,” Finwë said softly, stroking Fëanor’s hair. “There was a switch in the carving, and it led to a gear that spun like it had been placed there by magic; I could scarcely believe this was to be mine. And it created a pattern of my seal, and tapping it in order revealed the rest of the box, and inside was an incredible ring matching Mahtan’s level of skill with a band that fits my finger perfectly.” Fëanor felt the ring on his father’s hand, felt him twirling it around. If he could twirl but it was not too loose, his measurement ideas had been correct.

Finwë stopped talking for several moments, and Fëanor wondered if Finwë had perhaps noticed he was awake, but then he started again, softer than before. “I hope he knows that I am trying… that I try to find a way to show my love for him and for other members of my family in a way that hurts no one, and apparently I have not been doing a particularly good job, but I hope he knows that I love him dearly, and no matter who else comes into my life, whether family or not, he will always be first in my heart.”

Fëanor nearly scoffed, nearly wanted to jolt up into a seated position and challenge his father on everything he had said, but there was something comforting in feeling his father’s presence there, feeling the way he kept stroking his hair, knowing that he was here in his chamber rather than spending time with his other family, the family he was trying to replace Fëanor with. It was nice to feel like he still had a place, even if his father had not known how to approach him openly. He had tried. It felt like forever since Fëanor even felt like his father had tried, and now, he had not only tried, but succeeded, as Fëanor felt a smile creeping across his face. Perhaps not all was lost, after all.

Because I basically have no idea how smithing and gem crafting work, this is what I’ll focus on for my resources:

1. https://www.interweave.com/article/jewelry/about-jewelry-metalsmithing/ - Basic explanation of the jewelry making process.
2. https://www.gemsociety.org/article/getting-started-in-metalsmithing-choosing-tools/ - Reference for tools used in metalsmithing.
3. http://www.popularmechanics.com/home/how-to-plans/how-to/a4087/how-to-make-a-forge/ - Step by step process of how a forge is built and used.
4. https://www.gemsociety.org/article/gem-cutting-terms/ - A guide to gem cutting terms and standard shapes.
5. https://nature.berkeley.edu/classes/eps2/wisc/teleport/howcut.html - Techniques and terms for gem cutting and polishing.
6. https://www.artofmanliness.com/2011/07/14/blacksmithing-primer/ - Blacksmithing for beginners.
7. https://adventure.howstuffworks.com/outdoor-activities/hiking/gem-hunting.htm - How gem hunting works.
8. https://abana.org/ - Homepage for the Artist-Blacksmith’s Association of North America.

His autobiography, along with most of his troubles, would begin before he was born, with the love story between his father, High King Finwë of the Noldor, and his mother, Míriel Þerinde, one whose skill was as widely appreciated as her beauty. The pair would have a single child only, with Míriel’s exhaustion after her son’s birth leading to her relinquishing her soul in the gardens of Lorien, never to see her son after he was a baby. This would shape the rest of his life, and although he would inherit her craftiness (albeit in smithing, rather than weaving), he would always feel an emptiness that he would try to use his craft to fill, with disastrous results.

He wouldn’t sugarcoat things, but he wouldn’t talk about the disasters as if they were entirely his fault – there is some blame for him in there, but he will assign a great deal of blame to many other Eldar, including his father, Finwë, for remarrying; his stepmother, Indis, for existing and having children; his half-siblings, Findis, Fingolfin, Irimë, and Finarfin (and he would most certainly refer to the boys with their mother-names rather than the father-names that he hates), taking the righteous for existing and thereby threatening his position; and Melkor, for taking the hatred in his heart and twisting it to suit his nefarious purposes.

Rather than having some of his more hate-filled acts like the burning of the Teleri ships and the Teleri kinslaying take center stage, he would seek to write his autobiography in a manner that explains these actions in the context of what happened before, mostly his relationships with his family, to show how one thing led to another rather than coming out of nowhere from a deranged mind or an absent heart.

He would start with his childhood, with his father being sad for most of the time until he met Indis, and how he hated the fact that Indis was the one who could make his father happy instead of it being him. Even though Indis was always polite to him, their ideas of how to live life clashed greatly, and he hated that Indis was coming between him and his father rather than helping them get closer to each other. His portrayal of her would not be as pure evil, but as flighty perhaps, and definitely selfish, focused on her own joy rather than on building a family the way he thought it should have been built.

And then the children would arrive – three who were not threats, and one who was. Findis and Irimë were not threats because they were girls, and could thus not take away his inheritance, and Arafinwë (although his name was an abject insult to Fëanor, which he only ignored on Nerdanel’s advice) was too mild personality-wise to actually try to do anything like stealing the throne. It was Nolofinwë, the “wise” one, who was a threat to Fëanor from the moment he was born. Even though he would feel pushed aside by Findis, the giggling golden-haired girl was like a carbon copy of Indis in his mind, and not suitable for a Noldor throne, but Fingolfin (who he always referred to by his mother-name, as soon as the name was given) was a dark-haired boy, taller than him, who looked more like Finwë than he did because he bore a few of Míriel’s features. These proud features of his mother made him feel inadequate around his father, because Míriel was out of fashion in the household, and Fingolfin seemed to be a carbon copy of Finwë.

Fëanor would include feeling threatened by his half-brother nearly immediately after his conception, and especially after his birth, where there was a great viewing party and an announcement of his name. He snuck out of this occasion and found himself at the home of Mahtan, who he apprenticed himself to several years earlier, and where he had just been promoted to a senior apprentice, although he hadn’t yet told his father because he was afraid that his accomplishment would be overshadowed by Indis’s pregnancy and the ensuing birth.

Mahtan was like a true father to Fëanor, encouraging his interests and understanding him in many ways that his father didn’t. He was a favorite of the Vala Aulë, and apprenticeships with him were sought for many throughout the land. Fëanor would earn his not by virtue of who he was but by what he could do, and although his birth didn’t mean that he would get special treatment in Mahtan’s home, he would learn so much from the ellon, and he would experience a great deal of compassion, as well as someone to run interference between him and his father.

Mahtan would offer Fëanor a great deal of guidance, but his soon-favorite reason to visit his master’s home was to encounter his daughter, Nerdanel. As the crown prince, ellith would practically throw themselves at him, but many of them were like Indis in his mind – flighty, concerned more with appearance than substance, and far too concerned about their own beauty. When he got to know Nerdanel, however, he found that she was an elleth of substance over anything else, and her craft took first place in her heart just as his did. The two would find a great deal of room in their hearts for each other, and even at a young age, they would find a desire to bond.

It was unusual for them to want to bond so young, but Fëanor and Nerdanel were in love, and desired for nothing to stand in their way. Mahtan tested their love in a variety of ways, and they came out on top of it. This part of the autobiography would be full of adventures, the pair’s shared travels and experiments in and out of the forge, and the way he felt when he looked at her and saw a true kindred spirit. Though they were later estranged, he would remember her fondly in the pages, and he would report his love for her honestly, with the same blazing fire that it started with before the sands of time (and other things that he might not want to admit to himself) snuffed it out.

The wedding would be described in a good amount of detail, although a great deal more would be about his early life with Nerdanel and designing and building their first home together. Not long after the home’s completion, the couple would celebrate the birth of their first child, who Fëanor would call Nelyafinwë as both a joy to continue his father’s line and an insult to Fingolfin, trying to make him feel as he himself had felt when his father had named his half-brother.

Nelyafinwë, a gregarious redheaded child, would soon be followed by six brothers, whose Sindarin names were Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin (a favorite, for looking and acting like him), and the twins Amrod and Amras. The children were bright points in Fëanor’s life, and although some might have said that he wanted seven sons to ensure that his half-brothers’ claims to the throne of the Noldor would be tenuous at best, he loved them dearly.

In addition to creating a family with Nerdanel, this time in Fëanor’s life would be devoted to a variety of projects. Now managing his own forge and smithy, he would devote some time to teaching apprentices, but most of his time to working with metal and gems in unusual ways, trying to figure out new and innovative things to help the Noldor.

His first major innovation would not be in the forge – rather, he would come up with the Tengwar runes, and work on improving the writing process. He would include the fancy “S” symbol that his mother chose for her name, and write that as a way of respecting his mother even though she was beyond his reach. Although he would never write this in his autobiography, his desire to rework the alphabet would stem from a desire to be seen as wise and thus a good successor for his father, worried that Nolofinwë’s father-name meant that his father saw his younger half-brother as wiser (and potentially a better king) than himself.

Inside the forge, he would study for many years, working hands-on with a variety of materials. He would write a great deal about his processes, especially the work he did to find the substances within the earth itself, and how he mined specific things. This would be another way to show off his intelligence and talent, something that he would want to come across. He would stop delving into specifics when he started working on the Silmarils, the greatest works of his life, and the material they came from. In fact, he never told anyone how they were made or what from, on the off chance that someone else would be able to replicate them and thus take away his crowning glory.

He would discuss the gems in detail, but not in a technical way – he would discuss their light, the way they shone in his hands, and the hundreds of failed attempts before they came to light would be more or less overlooked in the interest of the finished product. There would be a great deal of talk about presenting the Silmarils to his father and his people, and setting them in a great crown.

Not long after this, however, he would begin talking about the turmoil that started when Morgoth (as he named the Vala Melkor) was released from his prison, and came to Tirion. Melkor would manipulate him by using his fears against him, specifically his fears about being eclipsed by Fingolfin, and this would lead to both sides making weapons and eventually, a great conflict in which Fëanor would corner his half-brother with a sword when he was trying to scold him in front of his father and the court. It would be presented in that angle – yes, he used force first, but he was technically attacked first, so the blame is not all with him.

He would detail the trial with the Valar, although it might not be in the fairest light, as he was exiled to Formenos and his father followed him, leaving Fingolfin to rule in Tirion for twelve years, making Fëanor’s worst fears come to life. The time in Formenos would be mostly overlooked, but he would write about his reconciliation (albeit half-intentional) with Fingolfin, followed by the terrible report coming from Formenos of a great attack.

There, he would find his father’s corpse and three missing Silmarils, which would give him both the power and the motive to seek out Morgoth once and for all, and try to rid him from Arda. He would speak of the oath he swore, but by this point, his narrative would be disjointed, with rage and temper fueling his words rather than logic. With his power unchecked, and all his failures set out for everyone to see, he would speak of his journey to Middle-Earth, his first kinslaying of the Teleri and burning of their ships, and leaving Fingolfin behind.

If he could narrate his final battle, he would speak bravely about what he endured in the sight of Angband, Morgoth’s great fortress, and his valor against the king of the balrogs, Gothmog. The fight would be portrayed as one king against another, and he would not like to write of his loss, but he would perish of his wounds in this fight, ascending in a fiery column that would destroy his body. Here, his story ends, although the story of his sons was just beginning, and an addendum at the end of the book would explain their quest to fulfill their father’s oath and bring the Silmarils back. In the end, one would end up in the hands of Earendil and Elwing, one would end up in a fiery chasm after burning Maedhros’ remaining hand, and the final one would be thrown into the sea by Maglor, who still walks Middle-Earth in despair for his lost family.

** A/N: I added the challenge that the rival, in this case Fingolfin, would see Fëanor in a positive situation.

His heart lurched in his chest when he saw his brother - his half-brother, as he was constantly reminded - walking down the hallway with his firstborn son on his shoulders, showing the boy the paintings in the hallway to their father’s council chamber.

It was nearly time for dinner, and Fingolfin knew that he was coming. It was an uncomfortable situation whenever he came, considering his half-brother’s complete and utter lack of respect for his entire family, but he had learned long ago that it would be better for him to simply wait and observe rather than try to get involved.

But the way he held his little son aloft, the redheaded boy pointing eagerly at everything and receiving explanations in a tone of voice Fingolfin did not know Fëanor possessed, for it utterly lacked rudeness, was almost too much of a blow to take. It was a harsh reminder that Fingolfin himself had once been young like this, and he had desired his brother’s affection more than anything else, only to get rebuffed time and time again.

Fëanor had always been too busy for him, at first. He hadn’t understood why he was so dedicated to his crafts, to his language work and smithing, when he was a prince and could let others do that work for him. Whenever he tried to interrupt, whether to ask a simple question or to try to engage him in a child’s game, Fëanor had scoffed, telling him he was busy, and often had not even turned around to look at him.

For a while, Fingolfin had thought it was because of the work itself, that it had been too taxing for Fëanor to concentrate on the work and talk to him at the same time, but he soon discovered that even when his half-brother appeared to be doing nothing, like when he walked in the hallway or got ready for dinner, he was still unavailable.

It had hurt, as a child, and it still hurt to this day, although he had gotten much better at hiding it. He no longer solicited his attention, and when Fëanor spoke to him in his usual rude manner, he tried his best to ignore it. He counted in his head, sometimes challenging himself to see how high he could count before Fëanor would give up and go away.

Fëanor had told him far too many times that he was not his true brother, that they shared a father but nothing else, even though they looked so similar. When he asked his mother (who Fëanor was all too eager to tell him was just his mother, for his own was far superior), she told him that their family had been split many years before, and was likely to never come together.

Even so, he wished for the relationship. He wanted to be able to tell his older brother of his successes and failures, to rely on him for advice and to ask him questions. He was so smart, so accomplished, even at such a young age, and yet, every time he was around Fingolfin, he seemed to completely shut down, leaving only hatred behind. He turned into a vengeful creature, avenging the wrongs done to his mother, although now that both brothers were grown, he had hoped that they would be able to put this conflict aside. As usual, in Fëanor’s eyes, Fingolfin was wrong.

It was, thus, very odd to see Fëanor being so affectionate with a child. Yes, Nelyo was his own son rather than a hated half-brother, but it still pained him to see how kind he was with the boy. His name itself was an affront to Fingolfin, implying that he was not the third male of Finwë’s line, and in fact, that he did not exist at all - and, of course, the name had been chosen with purpose, and he still recalled how Fëanor had smiled at him when he had announced the name for the first time. It was how he had always felt around Fëanor, like he was so much lesser in every way. He did not have Fëanor’s bright mind or his brilliant ideas, nor his father’s favoritism, nor his birthright as High Prince of the Noldor.

But he wanted none of that. All he had wanted, as a child, was to be lifted on his brother’s shoulders like he lifted Nelyo now, and shown the world, as though they both knew they could reach higher heights together.

** A/N: This fic is a culmination of my exploration this month because it delves into Fëanor’s mind and weaves together Tolkien’s canon, my headcanons, family dynamics, and strengths and weaknesses.

The Chair

It had started as a habit, but now, it was something he could not stop doing.

The thoughts would enter his mind before a dinner with his father and his father’s second family, whether it was a large court dinner or simply a private function. He would think of the slights against him, and even if nothing had occurred since the previous occasion, he would recall what had happened before, even back to the times when his father held Fingolfin in his lap endlessly and did not offer anything similar to his elder son.

It would then occur to him that he had cause to doubt his father, and to doubt his own place by his father’s side. The meeting in his bedroom when Finwë first told him that Indis would be joining their family would burn bright in his mind, and he would recall every detail, the stones under his feet, the blanket on his bed with the fraying corner, the window leading out to the garden where there was a blonde Vanya waiting to try to replace his mother.

Of course, she had claimed otherwise, as had Finwë, but the truth remained that Finwë treated his children from his second marriage with a certain joy that Fëanor never knew in his childhood, and over the years, the jealousy had only festered more and more, deeper and deeper, into the core of him. Which made him worry about his chair.

He knew what time the servants would begin to set up chairs for the members of the household, and he knew that there was only one place where he belonged: the immediate right of his father’s seat. Indis could take the left, and with Fingolfin to her left, there was at least somewhat of a division between Finwë and his second son, or as Fëanor preferred to think of it, his bastard.

The servants knew of Fëanor’s preference - he could not be shy about something like this even if he wished to retain some measure of courtly politeness - but he never knew whose pocket they were in. Indis dealt with a great deal of the household matters, and perhaps she spoke to them when he was gone at the forge, convinced them to “just this once” let Fingolfin sit by his father, and seat Fëanor farther away.

If he was not there to check that his chair was in the correct spot, this could happen and he would have no idea. And of course, his father would relish the chance to spend time with Fingolfin (as if he didn’t spend enough time already), and then he would tell Fëanor with an exasperated grin that it was just this once, and surely he could accommodate.

Except, then, it wouldn’t be once. It would be a pattern, perhaps even something following his father’s insipid rule of “sharing” and he would have to give up his seat to Fingolfin half the time - and then he would have even less, even though Findis would likely be content to sit near her mother and the other maidens, because Finarfin would soon be of an age to sit at table with them, and then he would get one in three, and then less, and less. The chair would be the way he lost his father if he was not careful, and so, he insisted that the chair be the way that he kept his father.

He started arriving early to dinner. Just a bit, at first, to make sure no one was sitting in his chair, and the thoughts would cease when his backside hit the wood. They would stop at least until the next occasion, when it occurred to him that he had to start arriving earlier, because Indis could have noticed the pattern and had the servants switch things earlier, or perhaps Fingolfin would take one of his books and spend half of the day sitting in his chair, just so that when he arrived, no matter how early he was, he would be unable to claim his place.

The thoughts pervaded his mind the day of an event, and sometimes before, as he tried to think of ways to make sure the chair would remain his. He could speak of it to no one - not his father, for that would risk putting the idea of “sharing” in his head to begin with, and not Nerdanel, who would surely think him silly - but the thoughts stayed in his mind, as had many of his tests.

His tests were made to give him evidence that his father loved him, or did not. There was no alternative, and if he was ever feeling insecure (which had happened more since he declared an intention to wed Nerdanel - he would soon leave his home and start a home of his own, and how would he know if his father loved him then?), it helped him to set up these sorts of tests.

When he was younger, he had set up tests to show his father how misinformed he had been about his son’s life, or he had set up situations where his father would have to exert some (but not much) effort to chase after him, only to find the results mixed. The worst case had been, of course, the day Fingolfin was born, when he had convinced himself that he would need to foster with Mahtan’s family and live permanently in the apprentice quarters until he could work up to making his own forge and his own profits. Then, his father had not sought him after he fled, had not even noticed his absence, and when he had, sent someone who had never even met him. The stranger had carried valuable information, but not nearly as valuable as his mere presence. Finwë had not cared enough about his son’s whereabouts to seek him out.

In his interactions since, his father had tried, but a great deal of the time, he ended up taking a more passive role. Rather than actively trying to figure out what was going on in Fëanor’s life, he preferred to wait to be told, which (to be honest) suited the son’s leadership style perfectly. And yet, without that exceptional effort (added to the ease with which he picked up his babies, the children from his second marriage, and smiled at them and tickled their little bellies), Fëanor had no way of knowing whether his father truly loved him.

His brain whispered this to him in the dead of night at first, in the form of nightmares where he was forced out of his father’s house, or perhaps even forced to applaud for his half-brother as he succeeded his father to the throne. The kingship mattered less than the love his father needed to pass down to him, the acknowledgment of his rights when so much else had been ignored.

Slowly, over time, but starting rather firmly after the birth of Fingolfin, these thoughts had started to infiltrate his days. His work was of such a nature that he could zone out, and if his mind began to wander from the task at hand, he would begin to imagine one of these scenarios, wondering what might happen if everything truly came to pass. Some part of it almost made him want to quit smithing and sit in his father’s home all day, but he also realized that would make him even less remarkable, and would subject him to these anxiety-producing situations each and every moment of the day. He knew himself well enough to know that this would not work at all.

So he stayed at the forge, and as his hammer hit the metal, the thoughts battered at his mind, at the strongest defenses he erected. He worked as hard as he could to push them down, to throw them away, knowing their significance was nothing less than the products of something trying to scare him, but they felt so real that he felt sometimes as if he had no hope for a life without them.

His focus was legendary, and his intelligence superb, but these too combined against him, tried to force him to believe these thoughts even when he had not set a test, even when he knew his chair would be sitting in the same place as it always was, and Fingolfin would always sit either next to his mother or, if she vacated her chair to sit with Findis, then at his father’s left. A position for an advisor at best, but nothing close to the right-hand chair. That showed he was the most important person in his father’s life. A visual symbol to the rest of the court, to anyone who doubted him, and even to Fëanor himself, that there was no denying its power.

For this feeling, for the sheer rush of exhilaration when he knew he had won the day yet again, and each victory augmented the way others saw him at his father’s right side, he had no chance of stopping the behavior. It harmed no one, and although it could be inconvenient to his work at the forge, he would continue to do it until he had proof otherwise - incontrovertible proof that he never needed to doubt his father’s love. Until that day came, he would seek the chair, and he would lean back and shift from side to side, enjoying the feeling of the well-crafted wood, smiling over an empty hall and ruling from a position of lonely love.