Fëanorians in 600 Words or Less by eris_of_imladris

Name

This Fëanorian Week, as someone new to the Silm fandom, I decided to explore a favorite headcanon of mine on each of the days, whether I invented the headcanon myself or found it from somewhere else. Each headcanon will then become the basis of a story that is 600 words or less, as a creative exercise.

Maedhros Headcanon: Nerdanel took a few years to decide on Maedhros’ mother-name, perhaps even a couple of years. When she did finally come up with “Maitimo,” people thought it was such an easy choice for him and didn’t realize why it took her so long. She had a good reason.

Read Name

“Maitimo,” she announces, and everyone stares back indulgently.

A new mother’s fancy, perhaps, to wait so long to name her child, but considering the child in question, this name is hardly a stretch. He is beautiful, his copper hair shines in the sun as he runs, his toes wiggling in the grass. He is tall, like her father, and has the eyes of his own father that can draw in any who meet them. The bright smile on his face ties his features together, creating a child no less wondrous to Nerdanel than any of the Valar themselves.

But “Maitimo” is not a name of bragging, like his father-name, nor a name meant to point out the obvious. It is a name of kindness.

She had waited for months, years, to feel the moment when she would know something of her son’s future. She imagined his life as wide as the world itself, as bright as his smile when his father scooped him up in his arms and he drew patterns in the soot on Fëanor’s arms.

But what she saw instead was a gasp for breath, his body crumbling even as it lay on the white linens, the sheets the same color as the scars. A limb she could not identify, a ragged edge that she can only tell is a hand when the other raises. The left hand cups the absence of the right, and she gasps and is back in her house in Tirion, and little Nelyo is small, unharmed, perfect as he stands before her.

The shiny scrap he brings her from his father’s forge is in his right hand, and she cups the little fingers and whispers “Maitimo.”

Many years and griefs later, his fingertips touch the ghost of his right hand the first time someone calls him Maitimo. He scoffs, but the name he has not heard in so long makes him recall his mother.

She was always beautiful to him, even when others thought she was not deserving of the High Prince’s attention. But what he misses in this moment is her kindness, and he somehow knows that she would see the child he was under the disgrace he has become.

His time in Angband destroyed his body, but there is something that remains, a small piece of the boy who looked into his mother’s unusually-colored hair and mannish body and saw beauty. Had she seen the same in him? Had she looked underneath and seen beauty even after grief, murder, torture? He does not need time to know the answer.

He feels the memory of the arms he yearns for, and he survives.

Brave

Maglor Headcanon: Maglor is a good father to Elrond and Elros, whether circumstances draw them together or apart.

Read Brave

Elros’s mind is far away these days, adrift in a great sea. Waves of pain wash in, soothed by warm blankets and a cool green paste applied by the expert hands of his brother. Elrond is a proper healer now, and he has been a king for many years, but it still feels like their first parting, many years ago. The primal fear of the unknown still remains; for all the joy he has known in Númenor, no one can tell him what happens next.

“Lord Elrond is here to see you, Your Majesty,” a voice says, and Elros squints at the speaker but he is gone before the king gets a good look, replaced by the solemn-faced, long-haired elven brother who has come to say goodbye.

“You received a letter,” Elrond says, his voice shaky but somehow strong, bringing back even older memories. “No one else could read it. It was written in a particular style of Quenya…”

The hand in Elros’s is warm, and the parchment swims in front of his eyes as he focuses on the letters. They are slanted, but strangely familiar. “Atar?” he rasps out, thinking of the slanted writing he once knew.

“No, it’s Atya… Atya has written to you,” Elrond says, and a brief memory of why Maglor writes rather than Maedhros is enough to make him shut his eyes, enough to bring back the yawning chasm of fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

“To my son, Elros, who has made the bravest choice…” Elrond reads and Elros is lost in Maglor’s words, enraptured as he once was by his childhood lullabies. The voice sounds the same as he did so many years ago, when Elros was small and confused and parentless, where Maglor’s words were often the only things that made sense.

A memory jumps, unbidden, to the front of his mind, and he is a small child again, standing between the two remaining Fëanorians as they looked up into the sky, beholding the bright new star. It had not looked so distant, like the other stars, for he knew what this was – and how it threatened him.

“But how are you going to go to the sky?” Elros had asked, suddenly more worried about losing his new parents than his old.

“We are not,” Maedhros had said solemnly, but Maglor had knelt beside him and smiled through the pain.

“We will stay with you,” Maglor had promised, and he sang a story of the bright new star that made it feel so close that Elros could almost reach out and touch it.

The letter is just as close, and he can feel Maglor beside him. The magic of his words has not dulled over the centuries, but now it is different, for now Elros sees a kindred spirit, a letter from one lost soul to another. He tries to smile, hoping his death will not be alien like the stars but close like the songs. He tries to keep Maglor’s face in front of him, ever smiling, ever guiding, finding him a way forward past the fear, and he clings to the hope he finds in the words as he begins to fade.

He does not hear the final line, which speaks of “another, hidden in a crevice,” but Elrond remembers these words after his brother is laid to rest, and scours the area for something only he could find. His stoic façade finally breaks as he unfolds a piece of parchment:

“To my son, Elrond, who has made the bravest choice…”

Mistaken

Celegorm Headcanon: I like to think that Celegorm got Huan when he was young, perhaps even a child. Not sure how much sense this makes, but Celegorm needs more fluff and Huan is fluffy. (And of course it turns into angst at the end but I can’t help it so xD)

Read Mistaken

They were at it again.

Turko sat with his knees against his chest, close to the door frame, listening to the loudening voices a few rooms over. Well, there was one that was louder than the other, but he wasn’t surprised. His father had to be the best, and he had to win every fight, especially if his half-uncle Nolofinwë was involved.

“I left it right here, so unless you are calling me stupid,” Turko heard his father’s deep voice say, cold and measured and somehow scarier than if he was really screaming.

Turko felt a wet nose push at his side, and he reached out his arm, draping it over the oversized puppy as he tried to wiggle his way onto Turko’s knees. “Wait,” he told the pup, who sniffed eagerly at his hair as he stretched his legs out. Huan quickly settled himself down, letting out a sigh and stretching out his paws far past Turko’s feet.

“You are too heavy,” Turko admonished, but a quick scratch behind the ears let Huan know he was not being a bother at all.

The pair turned their heads when they heard a thud, then another exclamation: “So you are telling me my missive just sprouted legs and walked out of here?”

“I am telling you to be patient, and we will find it,” Turko recognized Nolofinwë’s voice, quickly followed by a retort from his father that he didn’t fully understand.

Footsteps echoed through the hallway, Fëanor stomping and Nolofinwë rushing behind, and the rustle of robes and two elves looking through the open doorway was the only attention given to Turko or the dog, who suddenly looked worried.

“Don’t be afraid,” Turko said. “No one will hurt you, not with me here.” He took out his wooden sword and thrust it into the air, at which Huan gave an enthusiastic bark. With his tongue flopped on the side of his mouth, Turko saw what looked eerily like a corner of parchment.

He pulled it off, looked at it, and read the single legible word before returning it to the dog. “You silly dog – but I promise, even with this,” he promised, with a toothy grin. “You are my best friend.”

Fëanor never found his missive, but Huan knew he had found his best friend, and contentedly fell asleep on Turko’s legs once more.

But many years later, when the sword was real and covered in blood, and the gulls shrieked as they flew over the bloodstained boats of the Teleri, the great hound saw Fëanor in the silver-haired elf.

“Huan?” he said, and kindness in his voice, but it sounded strange coming from a murderer, and Huan’s steps were fearful as he walked towards the boy he realized he had never truly known at all.

Talent

Caranthir Headcanon: I really like the headcanon of Caranthir inheriting his grandmother Míriel's sewing skills. I know I found this somewhere, but I’m not quite sure where I found it. If you know who started it, please let me know so I can credit them!

Read Talent

Moryo knew, even as he hid his burgeoning talent, that his father was proud of his older brothers.

Nelyo was tall, and strong, and he made works in the forge that might be worthy of Fëanor one day, or at least that was what everyone said. But it was not where his true passion lay, and he spent a great deal of time doing other things. “But he does some work at the forge,” Moryo told himself, even as he felt himself drawn to different pursuits.

And Kano… well, there was no comparison in subject matter, but his talent was strong. Different didn’t matter when he was as good as Fëanor himself in his chosen field. His songs, their father said with a beaming smile, could make birds forget how to sing. “And this was fine with him,” Moryo reassured himself when he thought, for just a moment, that his small samplers had been discovered from their expert hiding place.

Even Turko had a talent, and he had managed to impress one of the Valar, at that. “Which Vala would care for my efforts?” Moryo wondered as he watched Huan through the window, wishing he felt Turko’s brazen confidence to display his odd talent so openly.

Moryo was the youngest, and although he tried in the forge, the dancing sparks made him nervous, and nothing he made had the precision of even Nelyo’s work, let alone his father’s. And he could sing fairly well, but music did not burst from his brain like Kano, and Huan liked him well enough but preferred Turko himself.

In a sea of talented brothers, how was he supposed to only be the one who sewed?

It had begun as an admiration of the works that adorned the rooms of his home, and a childish curiosity that soon passed his self-imposed limits. Embroidery was for girls, everyone knew that, and even his own mother was too skilled in sculpting to even consider such a feminine pursuit. His cheeks burned with shame when he thought about it, but his heart danced when he held a needle and thread in hand, when patterns seemed to erupt under his fingers, simple at first but soon growing greater. He told himself that the insults could rush past him without a second thought, and he believes it until the door opens.

“What are you doing?” Fëanor asks, and he freezes as his father plucks the sampler out of his hand, scrutinizing the half-finished work. The outline vaguely resembled Huan at play, but the paws were off-center, and the grass underneath looked squished from the time he had to redo a patch. It was unworthy of the house of Fëanor and his incredibly talented sons. For a long and horrible moment of silence, he wondered if he was about to be cast out altogether.

But the words coming out of his father’s mouth are not “You are banished” but “You are incredible,” and he melts into the warm embrace of his father’s strong arms and he feels that the arms are quaking, just a bit, and his eyes are shining with a mixture of pride and tears.

Moryo learns the story of his grandmother, and from then on he knows whatever anyone else says, his embroidery makes his father prouder than all of his brothers combined.

Oath

Curufin Headcanon: Curufin finds the Oath a way to earn his father’s favor, even after his death.

Read Oath

The Oath, to Curufin, is a comfort, something to base his actions on, something concrete to focus on. As a child, he shared his father’s name, and often his favor, but Maitimo was his heir, and his older brothers were so talented, and the twins were so fragile, that Curufin scarcely knew where he fit in outside of the forge. And so he made it his home, working just like his father, straining past his endurance every day, paid in a clap on the back and a word of praise. He studied the reactions, trying to get the highest honor, to earn the most he possibly could. The work of his hands became the work of his heart, and when his mother caught him at it, she would nudge his father with a knowing smile.

The Oath is Fëanor’s warm hands atop his, showing him how to hold the hammer, giving him control over a small project that he slaves over, tempted to sneak out at night like his father does so he can finish it faster, better, worthier of Fëanor. It comes out lopsided and he is disappointed until he sees that great big smile, and feels so much pride that he could parade his meager project through Tirion and not feel ashamed.

The Oath is his pride at every “you look like your father,” even when he moves to Formenos and it is no longer meant as a compliment, even when Finwë is dead and the ships are burning and no one looks to Fëanor with respect anymore even though he is the High King. He persists in his pride, and he hopes his father notices before that first big battle where Curufin never doubts that Morgoth will fall to the raw determination that he so admires.

The Oath is the great hole left behind by Fëanor’s unexpected death, nothing to even bury, and a secret relief that Maedhros will take the kingship because he is so empty inside, he wonders if he is ashes inside too. The last words he spoke to his father was the Oath, and Fëanor had tried to smile, that little twitch of the lips and a brief meeting of eyes making his vow more solemn than any promise of everlasting darkness.

The Oath is his relief. He understands the words, every line a directive, a blueprint to making his father proud even in the Halls of Mandos. He knows what he must do, and he does not hesitate to bind himself to the words again. It is something tangible, a set of rules that will win him what he has desired all of his life. He will find a way to be the greatest son, the most like his father, refusing to play by any rules other than what Fëanor himself had set.

In his Oath, Curufin finds the answers to questions he asked for so long, and he clings to it. It is never a burden to him, he says, and most of the time he means it. How could this map, so carefully constructed by his father who had glowed like the new sun, ever lead him astray?

Kinslayer

Ambarussa Headcanon: Borrowing the headcanon from “The People of Middle-Earth” that Amrod died on the ships. It’s a devastating headcanon, but I feel like it opens so many storytelling doors that it’s worth exploring.

Read Kinslayer

The first of the twins was born so small that there was a question of whether he could survive. He was Pityo the second Fëanor saw him, so frail that it seemed like even his father’s fire would not be enough to keep him alive.

“He will live,” Fëanor said enough times that others began to believe him.

Even Nerdanel’s name for the child had not dissuaded him. Unlike the cheerful name of his brother, Pityo was called Umbarto, fated – and he had changed it, something not many would dare to do. But his son, little but growing by the day, would not be harmed.

Fëanor looked out upon the water, so triumphant before, so terrified now. He thought little of Fingolfin, who could not use the ships unless he could extinguish the great blazes, but rather, he thought of the younger twin, his youngest child, trembling by his side.

Telvo’s babbled words meant nothing. All Fëanor knew was the ship, the beautiful white swan that had borne his Pityo hither, was adrift in a sea of flames, timber breaking and sinking into the sea, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He was the High King of the Noldor, which was everything he had wanted for so long, but he could not help but feel like he yearned to throw away all responsibility, and dive into the water, even if his own fire was quenched, for the sight of a small head of red hair bobbing above the overwhelming waves.

“Which one?” a heartless voice asks, later, and Telvo breaks at last, after he had grown into his height and his talent, so long after Fëanor thought all the danger around the twins had passed. How would he know that the life would leave the boy’s eyes, all the joy he had seen through centuries of life, bright blue fading to an icy gray no different than the waters that took his other half even as he stared on, as helpless as his father?

In dreams, Fëanor watched the ship sink again and again in a great flash, the fire at last consumed by the calm of the sea. The waves roll in, lapping gently at the shore as if they had not just held the most precious cargo.

His twins – one sinking to the depths of the sea, the other breathing but missing half of his soul –were dead by his hand. He was a kinslayer at last.

Midwife

Fëanor & Nerdanel Headcanon: Fëanor and Indis have a contentious relationship, to put it mildly, but he is willing to look past anything for Nerdanel’s sake. (In the beginning…)

A/N: Maybe it's a bit over 600 words, but who's counting xD

Read Midwife

“Who is there?” Indis asked when she heard a knock at the door.

“Fëanáro,” the voice on the other side of the door said, but the tone did not match the one who held that name. She opened the door slowly only to find her husband’s son on the other side, a look of desperation on his face. Well, that part wasn’t unusual. He would have to be desperate to come to her.

She couldn’t remember the last time he had sought her out for any reason, and he made it no secret that her presence was a large part of why he had married young and moved out early. And yet, here he stood. “Is everything all right?” she asked. The sheer anxiousness he exuded was enough to get her nervous, enough to make her usher him towards a chair, and she worried even more when he sank into it without argument.

“I need your help,” he said, and she was caught between the satisfaction of her stepson finally acknowledging her after all these years, and concern about the problem that made him acquiesce. What was more powerful than Finwë begging, when all he seemed to care about was his father’s approval?

“What can I do?”

“You delivered four children successfully,” Fëanáro said, and her eyebrows rose. “You were healthy after each birth, and the child was healthy as well.”

“Yes,” Indis replied, unsure of what to say when it had always seemed like Fëanáro had wished ill on her and on her children, especially the boys. Especially Nolo, who spent half his childhood trailing after Fëanáro like a puppy begging for a treat it would never receive.

“I assume you employed the services of a midwife?”

“I did,” Indis replied, somewhat confused.

“I find myself in need of your midwife,” he said as his face flushed. “For Nerdanel. She – she needs – do you remember her name?”

The news was surprising considering their age, but then again, the pair had known each other for quite some time, most of that time spent at the forge where Fëanáro escaped from his own family. The first time Indis had met Nerdanel, she had been astonished at how close they seemed, but she had also wondered if he truly loved her, or if she was simply a way to get out of his life the way it was.

“There are several midwives in Tirion,” Indis said, not quite asking the question that blared clearest in her mind. Why would he ask her, of all people? Surely, there were others he could ask, others who he did not harbor such a tempestuous feeling towards.

“You had four children,” Fëanáro said more insistently. “You had four, a number nearly unheard of, and you sit before me as well today as the day we met. And Nerdanel… I need to ensure that she will be well…”

A reassurance almost popped out of Indis’ mouth before she remembered. Of course. Of course Fëanáro was asking about her midwife, looking for one thing he could control to ensure that his wife would not meet his mother’s fate.

“Nerdanel is strong,” Indis said softly. “Young and strong. She will be well.”

“The name,” Fëanáro said, more adamantly this time, a wild look in his eyes – not quite anger, but distress, a weakness he would never have shown in front of Indis, for it would mean humbling himself in front of one who he saw as an enemy.

“I can introduce you,” Indis said.

“Thank you,” Fëanáro let out a relieved sigh. “I would greatly appreciate it.”

Indis considers asking for more, or even dropping a hint that she appreciates his tone, but something stops her. He had never seen her as a mother, and she knew he never would, even for his efforts today. But if Nerdanel meant enough to him to justify coming to her for the matter, there was no reason to worry about his love for her at all.