Fëanorians in 600 Words or Less by eris_of_imladris

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!

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.