Thirty Day Character Challenge: Feanor by eris_of_imladris

Prompt 6

Prompt 6: Artistic Licenses. Take at least ten minutes to peruse fan art about your character. If you are working on a rare character about whom little has been drawn, you may substitute looking at fan art about a group of characters to whom your character belongs (e.g., Dwarves, female characters, commonfolk, craftspeople, etc.) Think about which fan artists best capture how you imagine your character and why. Think about how your character's appearance does (or does not) support other aspects of their traits and history.

** 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.