Owl by curufinweatarinke

Chapter 3

Finwë attempts discipline

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!”