Owl by curufinweatarinke

Chapter 1

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Finwion lies next to Finwë, his soft baby snores and occasional movements the only thing breaking the silence of his bedchamber, lit by the silvery light of Telperion. Finwë knows he has a bassinet for his son to sleep in at the foot of the bed, but Finwion’s warm little body is such a comfort in his grief that he cannot bear to let him go, even as his tears soak into his soft, downy hair.

He cannot cry forever. His thoughts drift from his ever present sorrow to contemplate the pins and needles plaguing his arm. His son may be small but he is a healthy baby and his arm is in an awkward position beneath him. He shifts in an attempt to get more comfortable. Finwion stirs and emits a wail of discontent at being jostled, but Finwë is quick to stand and gather him up to gently bounce in an attempt to stave off any waterworks. He holds Finwion in one arm as he quietly attempts to get feeling back in the other.

In all honesty, he is glad for the distraction from his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Finwion,” he coos quietly, in the hopes that his voice might soothe him, “I did not mean to wake you!”

He takes Finwion over to the window, in the hopes that the silver light which usually fascinates his son will help to calm him. It is futile, and Finwion’s cries only grow louder.

Finwë then tries the mobile above the bassinet, the dangling shapes and mirrors usually able to bring absolute joy from his baby, who loves to try to grasp them with fat fists, but it is no use.

He casts his eyes around the room, and stops when he sees it, lying innocently in Finwion’s cot.

It is a soft, stuffed owl, about as large as his infant son. The owl is stitched from soft fabric, and is slightly worn from Finwion’s clumsy baby love. Finwë knows it very well by now. He watched Míriel stitch it early on in her pregnancy, before she was too tired to lift her needle. They were so happy then, their world filled with nothing but joy at the thought of the bright life they would be bringing into the world. Finwë remembers excitedly pressing his hands to her swollen belly, already able to feel the heat of the tiny spark of fëa within her. Before that tiny spark grew to a roaring flame that consumed her whole.

Finwë holds that flame in his arms now, and the heat of his soul still grows with every passing day. Sometimes Finwë wonders if his son’s fëa will ever stop increasing, or if it will one day reach an inferno that consumes everything it touches like it engulfed Míriel.

He attempts to shake off the morbid thoughts, and turns his attention to his wailing son once more. Picking up the owl, he shifts Finwion to a more comfortable position and presents him with the toy.

The reaction is almost magical. Finwion does not immediately silence, but he latches on to the owl and his sobs begin to quieten. Finwë lies him down on the bed again, and watches Finwion curl against the toy. He cannot help but chuckle as he watches a fluffy wing find its place in Finwion’s mouth for him to gently gum on.

“That’s going to need a wash soon,” he mutters quietly to himself, suddenly exhausted.

Finwë closes the heavy curtains to darken the room once more, then climbs back into bed as carefully as possible, slotting himself around Finwion’s warmth. He is still not yet used to the softness of his bed after the centuries of sleeping on rougher things, first in Cuivienen, then on the Great Journey. But he finds himself drifting off rather quickly, sped by the soft snuffling of his son.

Chapter 2

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Finwë hears the noise of the rattle breaking from across the room and sighs. He looks over to Finwion’s little mat in the corner of his office, to see that his son has somehow managed to twist open what he was assured was a strong, babyproof rattle and now all the ball bearings inside are scattered on the floor.

Fearing an accident, Finwë quickly moves to scoop up Finwion before any of the small objects can be put in his mouth.

“I should give you an epessë!” he exclaims to the happy baby, poking his noise. “How does ‘Two-Pieces’ sound? You break everything I give you!”

Finwion has begun to crawl, starting a few weeks ago, and now nothing is safe from his grasping hands and terrifyingly quick little legs. And his mouth. Everything goes in the mouth that can fit, from his little toes to most of his toys.

Finwion’s grin is fading now, and he’s started making noises that forebode tears. Finwë quickly forestalls this by grabbing the teething ring that had been the unfortunate rattle’s handle, and putting it in Finwion’s little hand and guiding it to his mouth to chew on.

Finwion has been especially fractious while his teeth come through in these last few weeks. Finwë can’t really do anything but sympathise, having never been through it himself. Babies are strange to an Unbegotten.

Finwë has never teethed, or learnt to walk or talk. He was never so fragile, so soft and delicate. He doesn’t even have a navel. Finwion is a frightening thing to him sometimes, having no frame of reference for how a baby should be. He has, of course, met other young children, but it is one thing occasionally cooing over a friend or courtier’s baby, and quite another to have one himself.

But Finwion fascinates him. He can see the bright intellect even at such a young age, in his sheer curiosity. He catches his son imitating him sometimes, pretending to feed his favourite owl like Finwë feeds him. He can almost pick words out of his excited baby babble now, and he knows it won’t be long before Finwion can make his wishes known properly without tears and imperious gestures.

Or, Finwë could be a proud father getting ahead of himself. He wouldn’t be the first, he thinks.

He hoists Finwion into a more comfortable position on his hip as he looks at the mess of ball bearings on the floor.

“Look what you’ve done!” he says. “Someone will have to sweep this up!” He pauses. “But, I suppose I should have got you a rattle with only one or two balls inside so this is partly my fault.”

He looks to Finwion’s little face again to find he is being watched by serious grey eyes. The teething ring is being chewed still in one pudgy fist, but the other is free to come gently towards Finwë’s cheek. Only to smack him at the last minute.

Finwë can’t help it, and he bursts into laughter. “You still need some work on your fine control, don’t you! Assuming, of course, that you did not mean to hit me, which I am certain you did not!”

Finwion’s hand moves to grasp at Finwë’s beard stubble. Finwë cannot grow a full beard but he has some hair on his chin if he doesn’t shave. He has to admit that he’s been slacking on his personal grooming lately, partly because of this. He moves to rub a whiskery cheek against Finwion’s smooth one, and grins at the shriek of delight it elicits.

“Come on, Prince Two-Pieces, I think it’s time for something to eat,” Finwë says, hearing his stomach rumble. “How does that sound?”

He pokes Finwion’s nose again to see him smile, then picks up Owl before leaving the room. He can find someone to help clean the mess up later. For now, he’ll just enjoy his lunch with his son.

---

Chapter End Notes

Baby Fëanor here is actually based off my little sister, who could open childproof caps as a baby.

Chapter 3

Finwë attempts discipline

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Finwë inspects the defaced wall seriously. The culprit appears to be small and armed with a charcoal stick and a clear artistic vision, if a shaky hand.

Finwë turns to look at the guilty party, who appears to be the opposite of contrite. Finwion is sat with his ever-present owl companion and his implement of destruction, doodling furiously on what appears to be the latest in an incredibly large stack of paper. Finwë says a short prayer for his childcare budget if this trend continues. He may be king, but even he cannot finance an endless amount of art supplies without some strain.

“Finwion,” he says, and his son looks up. Finwë steels himself mentally. He has such trouble with discipline. “Finwion, can you come over here? Atar needs to talk to you about why this is bad.”

Finwion stands on sturdy little legs and toddles over, and Finwë almost feels himself burst with pride before he stops himself from congratulating his son. That can come later, he needs to be firm. This isn’t the first time Finwion has done this, and Finwë is awful at preventing repeat occurrences.

Finwë kneels to his son’s level. He’s heard from courtiers and friends that his son is too young still to comprehend complex instructions and concepts, but he knows Finwion and knows that he does understand.

“Finwion, we don’t draw on walls! You ask Atar or someone else for more paper instead of making a mess,” Finwë instructs gently.

Finwion’s little face creases, then he grins, and Finwë instantly melts. He cannot help it, the smile is so familiar and elicits such bittersweet feelings in him. The little dimples, the shining eyes: it is so reminiscent of Míriel that he can’t bear to see it falter.

It is very unfortunate for Finwion to have discovered this weak spot so young. As he grows, his resemblance to his father has become more pronounced, but he has certain features that are all his mother. He has her hands, that are already beginning to lose some of their baby fat and are showing the promise of long, clever fingers. Even though his hair has Finwë’s colouring, it is soft and holds just like hers did. And he has her smile.

Finwë cannot help himself and immediately gathers Finwion into a hug.

“Ta!” his son announces, “Kiss!”

Finwë draws back enough to press his lips to Finwion’s forehead, then resumes the cuddle, standing up to carry him against his shoulder. He sighs, looking back down at the wall.

“At least you did it in charcoal this time, it should brush off eventually I suppose.”

Finwë pauses for a moment, then sighs again. He may as well quit while he’s ahead. “It’s a really lovely drawing too, you’re doing so well! And you walked over to Atar so easily, I’m so proud!”

He looks down to see Finwion’s head resting on his shoulder, grey eyes looking up at his face. He’s smiling again, and Finwë never wants to see that grin leave his face.

“Let’s have a look at your other drawings, hmm? You’ve done so many!”

Chapter 4

Owl requires washing

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 Finwë stares at the beleaguered Owl, which looks solemnly back. It is certainly worse for wear now, its wings tattered and its soft body stained, the fine embroidery uprooted in places.

“It needs washing,” Finwë declares, looking down at Finwion, who is clinging to his leg, “and mending.”

“No!” he says, mutinously, “Owl is fine! Give me!”

“Owl is not fine, Finwion! It’s all sticky, look at it! What did you even do to it?”

“Owl needs juice too!”

Ah. Finwë loves juice, he does. Never could they have imagined in Cuivienen the sheer wealth of foods in Valinor. Their hunter-gatherer lifestyle was completely different to their current stable one, which allows for cultivation of all the fruits and crops that Yavanna has created, and more seem to come about every day as inventive farmers experiment with crossbreeds. There is just so much variety of food now, and Finwë loves it. Finwion particularly likes the sweet, sweet pomegranate juice from Alqualondë, and Finwë ensures that any trade agreements include those pomegranates.

He knows he’s probably too indulgent but he can never quite bring himself to care. All it takes is one look at Finwion’s redstained happy grin to know that anything is worth it. But this...

Finwion has been copying Finwë for a while now, since before he could walk and talk, and he seems to have latched onto Owl in a way that none of his other toys quite match. Finwë has noticed it before, that Finwion would pretend to feed Owl, or tell it stories as Finwë does for him, but recently Finwë has noticed his son putting Owl to sleep, and insisting that ‘Ta’ kiss Owl too. And now this. It’s adorable, Finwë just wishes it wasn’t so messy.

Having been presented with Owl once more to kiss, Finwë had blanched at the battered and sticky status of the toy, leading to their current situation.

Holding Owl gingerly in one hand, he picks up Finwion in his other arm, who squeals at the sudden change in altitude.

“Come on, will you let Owl be cleaned if you can ensure the good character of the elf doing it?” he says, allowing Finwion’s grasping hands to take hold of one of Owl’s ears.

Finwion stares back at him, then smiles. “Owl needs a bath! I bath, so Owl does too!”

Finwë is so proud of him for understanding that he hugs him to his chest, ignoring the indignant squawk of “Ta!!”

“Alright then, we’ll take it to the laundry,” he says. Usually their washing is taken from their rooms, but Finwë feels that this needs a more personal touch.

-

Later, after Owl has been washed and dried, and a nervous Finwion has presided over a seamstress mending it, Finwë hands back the beloved toy.

“Ta! Kiss!” Finwion demands, as is his custom, and Finwe lifts him to press his lips to his forehead. Then, “And Owl too!”

Finwë laughs and obligingly kisses Owl too.

---

Chapter End Notes

Art by the incredible alackofghosts, original can be seen here: http://curufins-smile.tumblr.com/post/172761136871/alackofghosts-tiny-fëanor-for-curufins-smile

Chapter 5

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“My friend! It has been far too long!” Ingwë cries, rising from his seat to enfold Finwë in a strong hug.

“Technically, you saw me at the feasting last night,” Finwë says, smiling, “but we were barely able to speak so I’ll allow it.”

“Pedantic as always,” Ingwë replies, but there is no bite to his words. Finwë lets Ingwë usher him to a chair where a glass of the sharp white wine the Vanyar favour is waiting. They are in Ingwë’s solar, which has spectacular views of Taniquetil from the large windows.

“What would you prefer, Finwë?” Ingwë asks, motioning to the wines laid out on a nearby table. “I had these prepared for us so that we would not be interrupted.”

Finwë is grateful for his forethought. It is so rare that they spend time together these days, unburdened by ceremony or duty. He’s been very much looking forward to catching up with one of his oldest friends.

“I would enjoy that red, I believe,” Finwë says, and Ingwë pours him a glass.

“So!” Ingwë says brightly, when he finally sits down, “it feels like an age since I’ve seen you!”

“It was the celebration of the birth of Olwë’s daughter, I believe,” Finwë replies.

“That long? It’s a wonder I didn’t forget what you looked like!” Ingwë laughs, and Finwë finds his joy infectious.

It is an easy camaraderie that the pair share, and Finwë really has missed it. They fall back quickly to their old friendship of light banter and warm conversation. Even small talk is not a chore with Ingwë.

Ingwë is just finishing a very amusing anecdote about Ingwion’s first attempts at the harp (“Honestly, Finwë, I thought his tutor was going to rupture something!”) when there is a noise at the door.

“Atya!!” cries a voice.

They both turn to look as the handle rattles a little, then turns, and the door opens to reveal Finwion, who has clearly jumped to reach the handle. He wanders into the room clutching Owl by one ear, its plush body trailing on the floor behind him. He is followed by a harried aide.

“I’m so sorry, your majesties! I tried to keep him from leaving the nursery, but he’s like a wraith at vanishing and escaping!”

Finwë waves off the apologies and stands to scoop up a smug Finwion. “It is fine, you can leave him with me.”

As the aide departs, Finwë sits back down and deposits Finwion in his lap. “Sorry about this, Ingwë,” he says, “he’s got terrible separation anxiety at present. He keeps interrupting me in court and council meetings so much that I’ve just started to bring him with me.”

Ingwë laughs. “It’s fine, I recall that Ingwion was similar with his mother at this sort of age. And it’s lovely to see Finwion anyway!”

Another child might have hid their face shyly against Finwë at this point, but Finwion meets Ingwë’s gaze head-on. “Your son is dumb.”

Finwë stares at his rude, rude son. “Finwion! You cannot say that- Ingwë I am so sorry-“ but Ingwë is choking on peals of laughter.

“And what,” Ingwë asks, once he has calmed himself, “has Ingwion done to cause such offence?”

“All he wants to do is play a dumb board game and he says Owl is a little kid’s toy and also he says that his atya is better than mine which is wrong so he’s dumb,” states Finwion.

“A grave list of offences,” Ingwë agrees. “Finwë, I don’t mind him staying of course! We may talk over his head a little though.”

Finwë sighs. “Thankyou for being understanding. I’ll flag down someone to get his drawing supplies, that should keep him entertained.”

In short order, Finwion is drawing busily, still sat in Finwë’s lap, and Ingwë and Finwë are free to speak once more.

“An owl?” asks Ingwë.

“Yes, Míriel made it for him,” says Finwë. They both know what Ingwë isn’t mentioning, the inherent symbol Finwion carries with him.

Owls were special in Cuivienen. Not worshipped, but revered as powerful and wily night hunters. They were celebrated along with many other creatures as animals to be imitated to bring home a successful hunt in the blackness of the treeless East. When Oromë arrived, many of the elves had immediately stopped anything to do with these practices, but a lot had still held on. Míriel especially had been one of them.

“He looks a lot like her, doesn’t he?” Ingwë says abruptly. “He has her smile.”

Finwë feels Finwion stiffen in his lap, and moves his hand to stroke his son’s hair comfortingly. “He shares both her features and mine, and I am most grateful for it.” If there is any wavering in his voice, Ingwë is kind enough not to comment.

“No, more than that,” Ingwë continues. “He has her fëa.”

Finwë swallows down the lump in his throat. Ingwë always has been perceptive. They have never spoken of this before, but perhaps they should have. Míriel was Ingwë’s friend too, after all. “She named him for it.”

Finwë can sense the incredible curiosity emanating from both Finwion and Ingwë. Finwion’s hand is still as he listens closely.

“You didn’t mention his mother-name before,” Ingwë presses gently. Finwë cannot be angry at him for this, it has been bottled up inside him for far too long. But he wishes Finwion were not here. He does not want to cry in front of him.

“Fëanáro,” Finwë finally says, hoarsely. “The spirit of fire.”

Ingwë seems to remember himself, and sees he has crossed a line. “Finwë, I am sorry-“

“No need!” Finwë says, as firmly as he can. “I needed to speak of it at some point.” He stands suddenly, arms moving to hold a silent Finwion to his chest. “If you will excuse me-“

“Go, Finwë, I will see you later,” Ingwë says, standing too. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s fine!” Finwë says, as brightly as he is able, juggling Finwion to one arm so he can pick up Owl with the other. “I’m fine!” Then, he leaves as quickly as he can.

The walk back to their quarters is a blur, but Finwë mercifully makes it to privacy without losing it. He sets Finwion on the bed before sitting heavily next to him. Then, the dam bursts and he is crying into his hands with big, ugly sobs.

A little hand taps him on the arm and he looks up to Finwion’s concerned face. “Do you want Owl? Owl makes me feel better.”

Finwë tries to compose himself a little, but he can still hear his traitorous voice wavering. “Thankyou, Finwion, that’s very kind of you. But if it’s alright, I’d rather hug you than Owl.”

Finwion obligingly climbs back into Finwë’s lap and allows Finwë to bury his face in his hair. They sit like this for a while. The warmth Finwion gives off is a comfort as always.

After some time, and Finwë’s tears have begun to dry, Finwion speaks.

“You never talk about Ammë,” he says, “but I know it makes you sad. We go see her in Lórien but it just makes you sadder so I don’t ask.” His words are measured, with a maturity beyond his years.

Finwë starts. “I’m sorry Finwion, I-“

“Fëanáro,” Finwion interrupts. He pushes back from Finwë’s chest to look at him. “I want to be called Fëanáro. That’s the name Ammë gave me, right?”

Finwë stares at him. “You... want to be called Fëanáro?”

Finwion nods. “It feels right.”

Finwë cannot help himself, and taps Finwion on the nose to dispel his serious expression. “If that’s what you wish, I’d be happy to. But you’ll have to allow me some slip-ups while I grow used to it, Fëanáro.”

Saying the name is less painful the more he does it. And Fin- no, Fëanáro is correct. It feels right, somehow, as though he is honouring a piece of Míriel.

“I will allow some mistakes,” says Fëanáro magnanimously.

“Oh, thankyou, my liege,” Finwë says, reaching for spot in which he knows Fëanáro is most ticklish. The resulting shrieks are enough to completely dispel any lingering bad mood.

Chapter 6

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There is a small child wandering through Finwë’s palace, shouting for “Ta!” He is holding an owl plush by one ear, the soft body trailing on the ground.

Finwë is transported back in time, looking at him. He isn’t his son, the features are similar but they aren’t identical, but Finwë still half expects the ghost of his past self to come and scoop up this phantom.

Instead, Curufinwë appears, jolting Finwë from his reverie.

“There you are, Tyelpë,” Curufinwë exclaims, “I told you not to go wandering off!” He takes Tyelperinquar into his arms easily.

Tyelperinquar ignores his gentle chiding, opting instead to demand, “Ta! Kiss!”

Finwë stares as Curufinwë smiles and presses his lips to his son’s forehead, then almost does a double take as Tyelperinquar continues, “Owl too!”

“Ugh! What have you been doing with this?” Curufinwë replies in disgust. “No kisses for that until it’s washed, thankyou! And you too! You’re absolutely filthy, what have you been doing? Bath time, I think.” There is no real annoyance in his words, just a warm fondness.

Finwë watches as Curufinwë wrestles with his armful of suddenly squirming and protesting toddler, and approaches them.

“It is good to see you as always, Curufinwë,” Finwë says, “and of course little Tyelperinquar!”

Father and son stop their struggle to look at him. Curufinwë has the owl under one arm, and Tyelperinquar safely in the other. For his part, Tyelperinquar is now chewing on his father’s necklace in anti-bath protest, but quickly lets it go to wave both arms excitedly at the sight of his great-grandfather.

“It is good to see you too, Grandfather,” Curufinwë replies, shifting his weight a little to get an easier hold on his son. “I had hoped to find you, Atar asked me to bring you his regular letter.”

Finwë smiles. He sees Fëanáro at least once a week if his son is not travelling, but Fëanáro still writes almost religiously too.

He and Curufinwë exchange pleasantries for a short while more, before his grandson is ready to take his leave.

“I need to get Tyelpë cleaned up, I’m sorry that I cannot stay longer,” Curufinwë says.

As he turns to leave, Finwë calls him back. “Curufinwë, that owl...” He trails off, unsure of what to ask.

“Oh, this?” Curufinwë says, lifting the toy. “Atar gave it to Tyelpë as a gift when he was a newborn. It’s his favourite toy. Why?”

“Oh no particular reason, I was just curious as he seems rather attached to it,” Finwë replies. Curufinwë nods, and they say their farewells, little Tyelperinquar waving over his father’s shoulder as Curufinwë turns to leave.

Finwë cannot help but feel a surge of warmth in his chest knowing that Fëanáro has not forgotten the owl his mother made for him, and loves it enough to gift something similar to his grandson. He spends the rest of the day smiling.