Owl by curufinweatarinke

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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.