The beginning by firstamazon

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The beginning

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When the baby came, Fëanáro wouldn’t stand to be in the same room as it. He knew it was a boy, and his heart still ached with the idea he would have to share his father with yet another person. It was already too much to share! That made him retreat even more from social contact. It was difficult enough to be alone with the king, and since the baby was born, it got worse. Finwë was always surrounded by his councilmen or his wife and the newborn.

He would spend most of his time avoiding the growing baby, even if it also meant avoiding his beloved father, as well. If he could have avoided the sight of his half-brother entirely, he would have. But that meant spending years without having meals in the same room, which Finwë was vehemently against.

“Stop this nonsense at once, young man!” his father had yelled when he brought the idea up.

Fëanáro had to resign himself to seeing the child every day, listening to his incomprehensible cooing. Fëanáro didn’t waste another look on him and didn’t care how dark his hair looked or how adorable his little fingers were.

The baby, however, used to spend all meals attempting to reach his big brother, whatever his curious fingers would touch first: his elbows, his hair, his fork, his slice of bread. When Fëanáro felt it was impossible to concentrate on anything with all that babbling going on, he would excuse himself and would go to his rooms.

But then things started taking a darker turn. The first alarming sign was that he, the talkative boy, became silent on meals. Indis was very pleased with his politeness, but his father knew better. He tried to encourage Fëanáro to share his thoughts as he once did but, as soon as he started talking, he was interrupted by the baby. Thus he spoke less and less until the point he would eat as fast as he could and would ask permission to leave with the same excuse: he needed to finish his studies. It was not a lie, after all. At that point, his father also seemed to have given up and would let him go.

It was true, though. Finwë tried dissuading him of all this whim, but it was of no use: Fëanáro was as stubborn as a mule. As he approached the critical years of youth, his personality was increasingly “dramatic” - as his father insisted on putting, even though in his heart Fëanáro knew he didn’t make any more drama than the Queen.

It was just how he felt, and he felt so intensely, so deeply it was, most of the time, scary. He and Finwë had epic fights about his tempers, and more often than not, it was these very discussions which made Fëanáro increasingly angry. It was like pouring fuel into an already overheated fire.

The only time Fëanáro and Finwë would reconcile were those not so rare moments where the brilliant young man would bring up something he had written or crafted. Finwë was ever overwhelmed by his son’s capability of improving his skills each day, before his very eyes. Then, and only then, they would talk like they did before, and Finwë was able to show his son the love he bore. Fëanáro would kiss him on the cheek, frustrations hashed, until the next storm broke out

Apart from those moments, however, constant arguments with his father about everything made him skittish, and, if he was already withdrawn from social interactions in his childhood, his youth was even worse. He would spend a significant part of his day in endless discussions with Rúmil about all things concerning Arda. He would go to his master’s house and spent hours helping him in anything he could until he was sent off sulking. But because of this approach, his studies advanced in a way no one, not even Rúmil, could have predicted.

He would come back from his master’s house and fly to his desk, writing down ideas, theories, mathematical formulas, chemical combinations… his pen wasn’t as fast as his thoughts, and his first drafts were messy notes that he would have to lose time to copy appropriately. He didn’t have that time.

One of these last meetings with the lambengolmor was so intense, so rich with speculations, he didn’t even remember returning to his chambers. He didn’t even make it into the chair before he started pouring out ideas, scratching mistakes, and scribbling across the paper with enough ferocity for the paper to catch fire. He hadn’t closed the door, and a small opening showed the glow of the torchlight on the corridor.

He felt, more than saw, the door being slightly pushed. With the corner of his eye, without raising his head from the paper, a thought brushed his mind: it was just the wind. When he finished writing, with a sense of triumph, he stood up quickly. If he was proud of this, so would his father be. But then his chair stumbled on something behind him. He looked down and froze for several seconds, something he hadn’t done all day.

Nolofinwë was looking up at him with a pair of enormous blue eyes. Fëanáro didn’t know what to do. He had knocked him to the floor, but the boy didn’t say anything, merely stood up to face him.

“What are you doing here?”. No answer. “This is my chamber, you cannot come uninvited,” he tried, a little more emphatically.

“Will you invite me?” the baby replied in his little voice.

“No, I am busy. Go find Laríel or your mother”, he tried moving the child from his path, pushing his shoulder to the side, but it came back to stare at him again.

“Laríel is cooking. Mother is busy,” he said, standing his ground.

“And what do I have to do with it? My chamber is not a playground. Get out, now!” he said the last words in the same harsh manner that would make his father cringe and start yelling at him.

What happened, then, was entirely unexpected. Nolofinwë’s little face was frowning like he was angry, but he didn’t tremble or cry. Instead, without blinking, a single thick tear dropped and rolled down his soft cheeks. He kept staring at his big brother with defiant eyes, daring to be sent out.

Fëanáro stared back at the child at his feet. Only now, Fëanáro realized how beautiful his eyes were.

And his little face was set hard, something he had never seen in a child before. Well, it’s true he hasn’t been around many children, but still…

He looked at the door for one second, trying to think of what to do. He had never been alone with his half-brother before. When his sight came to the child again, he was no longer there. He had climbed to Fëanáro’s bed and was tucking himself in, making a mess of the blankets and pillows.

“What are you doing, Nolofinwë?” he said with a sigh, but, to his surprise, no longer irritated. The boldness of his half-brother stirred some deep emotion inside of him. He had no name for that yet. “Fine. But if you want to stay here, you must be quiet.”

His brother nodded vehemently, and Fëanáro helped him in, setting a pillow and covering him with soft blankets.

“Will you tell me a story?”

“No, I said I am busy,” he said, concentrated on the pillows. But when he dropped his eyes, and his gaze met Nolofinwë’s, he changed his mind again without knowing why. Gods, those eyes! It was like they were looking through him!

He quickly stood up and searched for one of his books about the fauna and flora of Aman, giving it to the child. His brother took it eagerly, a broad smile on his face.

“You can see the pictures in it,” he said, because it was evident that toddler didn’t know how to read.

Nolofinwë laughed softly and hugged the book against his little chest. Fëanáro couldn’t help himself, and a faint smile grew on the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, trying to come back to his senses. He was fraternizing with the enemy!

As if he had heard, the baby looked back at him, and those astonishing blue eyes turned his guts inside out. What is going on with me? He thought, without breaking the gaze from his brother. He had never felt like this before, this feeling of being… what was the word? Read? Like he was the only book Nolofinwë could completely understand. He blinked and, before he could think further on it, the connection was gone.

Well, the fact that the baby was so at ease with a book that size, hugging it with devotion, must be a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t that bad. After all, it wasn’t Nolofinwë’s fault he was born.

His brother’s eyes reminded him, strangely, of another topic of his previous conversation with Rúmil about the color of stars. His master had asked him if they, indeed, had any at all, and Fëanáro had begun theorizing about the spectrum of colors they could see with the naked eye and the fact that white wasn’t, in fact, a color, but a combination of them all.

He sat back in his desk, working with the soft sound of paper being turned behind him. He lost himself in his work, as usual, and it wasn’t until Telperion’s light was high in the sky he lifted his head with a satisfied sigh. He would show this to Rúmil the next day.

He stood up and saw that his half-brother was fast asleep, one little hand on the cover, holding the book as it was one of his favorite toys. Fëanáro tried to pick him up, but the boy opened his eyes as if he had been waiting for Fëanáro to come close. He startled and withdrew, afraid he would cry or, worst, call for his mother.

“Can I stay?” he asked in a soft sleepy voice, tousled black hair falling in his face.

Again, Fëanáro didn’t know what to say.

“Why?” he managed to ask with a frown. He didn’t know the first thing about babies and didn’t understand why this child would want to stay with someone he barely had relations with. No, correcting himself, they didn’t have any relationship – apart from those failed intents over meals.

“Because I love you.”

Fëanáro’s head jerked back as if he had been punched. He stared at those eyes and felt a new constriction in his throat. He nodded, not knowing exactly what he was doing. He was a proud prince, but he didn’t find it in his heart to ditch the child in the middle of the night – and certainly not after that… what was it, a child’s confession?

Nolofinwë jumped to his feet, chuckling, and flung his little arms around Fëanáro’s neck. That was, also, completely unexpected. For a couple of heartbeats, the only thing he could feel was the baby’s body pressed against his. He was angry with himself that the boy had caught him so off-guard, but, at the same time, he realized he had lifted his arms and was hugging the child back.

After a few moments, it was Nolofinwë who disengaged and sank back in the pillows, an adorable smile on his mouth. Fëanáro undressed to his nightclothes and said: “Go on, give me room. Move to that side.” Nolofinwë shifted to the left and gave his half-brother space. Fëanáro turned his back to him. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if his brother’s huge eyes were staring at him like that, like they were stripping off his very soul.

“Good night, Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë said in a perfectly happy tone.

“Good night,” he whispered back.

***

Fëanáro woke up and saw that he was cuddling Nolofinwë against his chest. He didn’t know how they had come to that, but he didn’t try to disentangle. If felt oddly comforting. Drifting from sleep to awareness, struggling to keep his eyes open for more than one minute, he was wrapped by the smell of his half-brother’s little head. A sweet scent emanated from his hair, like honeyed apples.

The child was so small, so vulnerable it made his heart pound, again unexpectedly. He had a sudden urge to protect him, embracing the body with his own, tightening his grip. He looked so peaceful, messy strands of black hair falling on his face. They laid together until the mingling of the lights began to brighten, and Laurelin’s beams outstretched its golden fingers to Fëanáro’s front, making him open his eyes and blink drowsily.

This time, he took his brother in his arms, laid him carefully in his shoulder, and carried him to his own bed. Nolofinwë didn’t protest. He looked like a fragile little bird. Fëanáro pulled the blankets to Nolofinwë’s chin and returned to his chamber with a strange feeling on his chest as if a stone had been removed.

If it was his brother’s presence or the intensity of his gaze, he could not tell. It was something he must investigate later. For now, he had a lot of work to do. He bathed quickly, gathered his studying material and strode down to the library. It was yet early, and the place was dark and empty. He didn’t mind; it wasn’t the first time he would “open” the library. It was very likely Rúmil would come to meet him here, as he often did when Fëanáro didn’t go to his house.

He started by putting in place the books he had already read and picking up those that talked about the matter of stars. There were only a few of the scholars who still spoke of the Great Journey, and fortunately, Rúmil was one of those. But, wise as the lambengolmor was, he didn’t digress much about the components of the cosmos.

Rúmil had once said he was more interested in studying how their languages had evolved since the Awakening; others studied more practical matters like plants, craftsmanship of many types, embroidery – like his mother, Míriel, who was the most talented in that art – music and, later, blacksmith. No one asked the stars any questions, because there was nothing to ask they couldn’t discover themselves. At least, not until the Dark came.

Invariably when they reached that subject, his master grew silent and said no more. It was rare to hear Rúmil talk about the Unbegotten, although he knew the stories from books and others: his father, Finwë, had been there, with the other kings of Eldar: Ingwë of the Vanyar, Olwë from the Teleri and many who had not crossed the sea.

The subject attracted Fëanáro like a magnet. Whatever they started discussing, they would always return to the Great Journey, and what the world was like before. But as they relaxed into the discussion, Rúmil would suddenly stiffen, something like fog covering his eyes. He would stop speaking as if some higher power had placed its hand over his mouth and silenced him. Rúmil would not continue their lessons after that, no matter how Fëanáro pleaded, and sent him home.

But the youth wasn’t likely to give up, pressing a little more each day. He knew that, if he was patient, one day he would hear the whole tale. Not the simplistic, superficial stories written in words and compelled in the volumes he had in his hands. No, he would listen to the tale as it was, the parts the adults would say it wasn’t for his age yet to learn.

Until he could accomplish that, he would pour over what knowledge he could find in the books. He looked everywhere for the discussion of colors but found very little. Some of the tomes mentioned Mahtan’s craftsmanship, who was the best of the Noldor, but he himself hadn’t written anything. He was mentioned frequently when the subject was jewels, stone, glass, and other materials. Maybe he would need to talk to Mahtan personally about this…

Suddenly, with the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure approaching the table, now covered with books. He didn’t stop reading until his brother started climbing his legs from under the table.

“Nolofinwë, what are you doing? Have I not told you not to interrupt me while I’m studying?”

He shifted in the chair, and the child hit its head hard on the desk. Now Fëanáro was sure he was going to cry, hoping desperately he would not. He pulled the chair back so Nolofinwë could emerge, hand massaging the bump, one eye closed flinching with the pain, but the other fixed on Fëanáro’s face.

“Can I stay?” he asked, halfway up his big brother’s lap.

“You are already here, are you not?” Fëanáro answered, secretly admiring Nolofinwë’s stubbornness. It was, he suddenly quirked his mouth in a displeased thought, very much like his own. He picked his brother up and tried moving him to the chair beside his own, but Nolofinwë clung to his neck and hair and managed to sit down on his lap. He sighed. Nolofinwë giggled and touched the parchment.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you…”, he answered, rolling his eyes. How many times would he ask?

“What’s that?”

“This? ‘Tis the alphabet. These are words.” he said, unsure if he could understand. Even though at his age he could already read, he didn’t know if his half-brother was made of the same material.

He was astonished to hear his brother’s voice spelling slowly: “Ssss-tar.”

“Yes, that’s what’s written!” he said, without noticing he was smiling. “I’m finishing my study about the aspect of stars and their paths on the sky, their shapes, and aspect of their brightness.”

His brother looked up, eyes huge, clinging to each word. His big brother was actually explaining things to him, and he couldn’t be more delighted. Fëanáro saw the eager look on his half-brother’s face and continued talking because Nolofinwë wouldn’t stop staring.

Telperion’s light was already intense when Laríel came into the library and saw the two brothers engaged in what seemed a one-way conversation: Fëanáro was talking, explaining things with his hands, drawing so his brother could see and Nolofinwë was eating up every word. She smiled at that scene and called for them.

“My princes,” to which Fëanáro looked up. “It’s past time both of you had something to eat, and it’s almost time for Prince Nolofinwë to go to bed.”

“Already? I completely lost track of time,” Fëanáro said, letting Nolofinwë slip to the floor and gathering his things in haste. He knew how his father disliked when he forgot about meals with the family. “Is father upset?” he asked the maid.

“I don’t know, dear, I came by my own account to find prince Nolofinwë,” she smiled, reaching a hand to the child, who hesitated.

“I want to go with Fëanáro,” he said, reaching for his brother’s hand.

“It’s all right, Laríel, I will bring him in.”

She smiled and left Fëanáro to finish packing his things. It took him a little longer since Nolofinwë wouldn’t let go of his hand, fingers holding tight on his. He walked out of the library, his brother trotting and humming a tune by his side. He took the child to Laríel, who was waiting in Nolofinwë’s chamber.

“Come on, dear, it’s time for a bath,” she smiled, taking his hand. Nolofinwë looked back at Fëanáro.

“Do as Laríel bids you,” and a faint smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. When his half-brother had gone in, he ran through the corridors dreading the scolding he would receive for being late.

His father didn’t look pleased when he entered the living room. They were already finished, and he purposely missed his stepmother’s sour look. He sat down and started talking to his father about his day as if nothing had happened, putting slices of bread and pieces of dried fruit on his plate.

“Sorry, father, I got delayed. I am almost finishing my study about the charting of stars in the sky, and I was fascinated-”

“Frankly!” Indis said in a low tone, but he heard it. Why did she always had to interrupt him? He continued as if she hadn’t.

“-to learn that they form shapes that repeat themselves like patterns, or as if they pointed to a road in the cosmos. Rúmil told me yesterday to look into the quality of how stars shone and why, and we discussed a lot about their colors, and how it would appear to our eyes. And as I was telling Nolofinwë-”

“You what?” Indis cut through him in a cold, dangerous tone.

“I was explaining exactly this to Nolofinwë. He was in the library with me and-”

“And what exactly was he doing in the library with you, instead of being outside playing like a normal child?” she demanded.

Fëanáro looked from her to his father, who had his eyes closed and sighed heavily. Normal child. So there it was. He wasn’t a normal child. This was a conversation he had heard before, behind doors, but he decided he wouldn’t care about what this woman thought of him.

“He came to me, and I couldn’t get rid of him.” He was half-lying on purpose. His brother wouldn’t go away, but he didn’t make any efforts to send him off, either. But he would never admit that to her. Anger started building up in his chest.

“Well, I will make sure that doesn’t happen again. My son needs to be outside, not stuck inside a library!”

Finwë was still silent.

“I don’t know what’s the problem for him to be in the library. He doesn’t even know how to read, and it’s past time he learned.”

Indis nostrils flared, a clear indication he had crossed a line.

“You won’t tell me what to do inside my own house, young man. Go to your room, right now!” she said imperatively.

Fëanáro opened his mouth to answer, outraged, but his father raised his hand and said wearily. “Fëanáro, go.”

He pulled the chair so hard it fell behind him. He left the room stomping, anger caught in a knot in his throat. But he didn’t go immediately to his room. He stood outside the door. He heard them speaking in low voices, and then his father said loud:

“This is not the way! It’s healthy for them to be friends!”

“I don’t want my child, our child, to grow up to be such a strange person, Finwë! You know he is! He doesn’t have any friends! He only talks with adults, and is getting more arrogant by the day!” she said, trying to hush down her tone.

“My son is not strange, Indis. He is the most intelligent young man of his age, and I’m sure he will be the most brilliant man in Valinor. I know it. It will do Nolofinwë no harm to be near him.”

Fëanáro’s heart swelled with pride. His father finally was standing up for him! He thought he wouldn’t do, but guessed that he wanted to have this conversation far from Fëanáro’s ears. Why he couldn’t say this to Fëanáro’s face, like he sometimes did, escaped his comprehension. Well, here he was, listening with a smile on his face.

“I don’t like the way he looks at me as if he was better than everyone else,” she argued.

“I will talk to him about it. But you cannot stop Fëanáro and Nolofinwë from being close. They are brothers, for Manwë’s sake!”

It was enough. Fëanáro ran to his chambers, knowing his father defended him, but with a nauseating sensation. He disliked Indis each day more, and he would not let her ruin Nolofinwë with that talk. He would bring his brother to his side, making him look up to him, and to him alone.

He was on his bed, still wallowing on the subject when he heard a soft thump on the door and someone touching the handle. He thought he was going to see his father entering the chamber, but nothing happened. It seemed as if someone was trying to reach for it.

He stood up and opened the door and saw Nolofinwë’s blue-diamond eyes staring up at him. His brother didn’t wait to be invited, he pushed Fëanáro’s legs and ran to his bed, laughing.

“Shh Nolofinwë! Nobody can hear you!” he thought nervously. If his stepmother found out, she would undoubtedly rebuke Fëanáro and, perhaps, forbid them to see each other. His brother put up a small finger is his lips and laughed again, playing with Fëanáro’s sheets, throwing himself on the pillows.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked as if the answer couldn’t be any other than yes. When Fëanáro didn’t answer, he let out a little scream of joy.

“All right, all right, be quiet!” Fëanáro smiled. He went inside the sheets, and his brother cuddled around him, the warm body touching his.

“Tell me a story?” he asked softly.

Fëanáro didn’t know any stories to tell children, only the things he had learned and read about Endor before the Great Journey. And he started narrating to Nolofinwë the same things Rúmil had taught him, about the stars and their people. Fëanáro recounted about their father and the other great lords, but he didn’t say anything about the Dark God. It wasn’t a lie – something he despised – but a necessary omission. Not that Nolofinwë didn’t deserve the truth, simply because he also didn’t know anything valuable to share.

After a long while, when Telperion’s light was shining bright outside the curtains, Fëanáro looked at him and saw no trace of sleep on the little face. He was impressed his brother had managed to stay up for that long.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked finally, looking inside the blue eyes and searching for the lie. The child shook his head in denial, also looking deep inside his big brother’s eyes.

“Well, it’s past time for you to sleep. Come on.” He adjusted his brother’s pillow, but the child cuddled back up against him and laid his little head on his shoulder. Fëanáro let him embrace his neck. His brother’s hair smelled of lavender soap. He felt strangely at peace under the touch of those tiny hands, the restless fingers playing with his clothes.

It felt good to be close to him. Even if he was her son. Something in Nolofinwë made him feel loved in a new, strange way, and he just let himself drowse into sleep with a satisfied smile on his face.