Thirty Day Character Challenge: Feanor by eris_of_imladris

Prompt 24

Prompt 24: Weak Points, Part Two. Revisit the list of shortcomings you’ve come up with for Prompt 9. This time, write a scene in which your character turns a weakness into a strength.

** 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...