To Build The Bonds That Tie by ThatFeanorian

In the Past

Fëanor sits quietly in the back of the bus, his arms clenched around his backpack as a cacophony of noise surrounds him. A little bubble of calm amidst the insanity, he sits glowing with pride even as words and objects are thrown over and around him, a small tornado existing between the four orangey-yellow walls of the bus.

Happiness, he thinks, comes so very easily to him. All it takes is  a sheet of paper, like the one inside of his bag, or the warm arms of his father, and suddenly the world explodes into colour around him. 

‘Fëanor Noldoran is an exemplary student, intelligent and engaged, he confronts each day with enthusiasm and spunk, amazing us with his diligence and single-mindedness towards expanding his horizons past the confines of what he knows.’ 

The words are much the same each year, gushing and pleased, yet Fëanor knows that no matter how many times his father hears it he will be proud. Finwë will scoop Fëanor into his arms and whisper,

“Your mother would be so proud of you,” and a shiver of pure lightning will run down Fëanor’s spine with the force of the love that his father gifts him with. Once, Finwë asked if he wanted a mother so that there could be twice as much love for him, but Fëanor thinks that is silly. There is no one out there who could give him more love than his father does.

He jumps off the bus, waving behind himself with a bright smile, and runs up the little path that leads to his house. The door is already open, and Fëanor rushes inside, already unzipping his backpack and unlacing his shoes, not willing to waste any time before that electric hug and the powerful force of his father’s love can envelop him.

Except when he enters the kitchen, where his father usually sits waiting for him, he is not alone. There is a blonde woman sitting beside Finwë with a cup of coffee and two boys sitting on the floor, playing with Fëanor’s toys. His father glances up, spotting him and sending him a broad grin,

“Fëanor! How was school?” He says happily, but there is something different in his tone, a slight hesitation that was never there before when Fëanor had something special to share with him. Fëanor glances down at his hands, and the report card clenched in them, and looks up again at his father hopefully,

“I got this.” He says, and Finwë reaches out his hand, allowing his father to pull it from his grip and give him a warm smile. Instead of reading it, however, he places it next to him, and says,

“Indis, I don’t think you have met my son yet?” The woman smiles widely --too widely-- and says in a high simpering voice,

“No, I have not had the pleasure, you must be Fëanor, yes?” It sounds like the type of voice people used to use with Fëanor when he was younger and not expected to be capable of any meaningful contributions to society. He nods reluctantly, and the woman reaches out, her thin flawless spider-like hand taking his,

“I am Isobel, it is wonderful to meet you.” The way she says wonderful leaves a sour taste in Fëanor’s mouth, and he scowls, pulling his hand away and taking a step back. Her hands are moist and smooth, lacking all of the dry calloused electricity that makes his father unique. 

For a moment, Fëanor is worried that she will find a way to steal it all away from him.