The gifted one by Harnatano - Lithenna

Chapter 1

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“Come over here, Curvo”.

 

The young Ñoldo carefully put down the thongs, checked on the fire which was burning peacefully in the stove and obeyed silently.

 

Fëanáro wouldn’t usually disturb his son, or any of his disciples, while they were busy with their work, if only for the sake of their concentration. And when he did call them out, it could only mean something was going wrong.

 

Curufinwë shuddered.

 

He could read nothing on his father’s face : neither disapproval nor appreciation. A blank mask which he tried to mimic.

 

“Is it you, my son, who finished the crafting of this vessel?” Fëanáro asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

 

Curufinwë swallowed with much difficulty. In his father’s hands, the large bowl looked oddly misplaced with its wrought-iron frame and the reddish tints of its glass. As for the slivery incrustations, Curufinwë could now see how gross they look.

 

“I –“, he hesitated, but he wouldn’t lie. Not to his father. Never. “You seemed to have forgotten about it, father…. The frame had been barely outlined and the patterns of the incrustations just put on paper when you put it aside, never to touch it again. I believed you would not mind me carrying on with your work…”

 

Shame began to swirl in his stomach like an acid wave of bile.

 

It had not only been a question of practice, for Curufinwë had truly thought, at first, that his father would have appreciated the gesture : finishing a work for which he had lost interest, and making it as graceful as possible. He hadn’t expected to reach the quality his father would have reached, but he had thought himself capable of producing something good enough for his father to enjoy. A mistake obviously, for he was not good enough. His pride had deluded him. He had probably altered a project his father had planned to continue. How arrogant and foolish of him!

 

He looked down, waiting for the well-deserved sermon.

 

Fëanáro took his time, staring closely at the bowl in silence.

 

“I see…”, he said thoughtfully, still focusing on the object. “Well, it is still too heavy, the glass could have been made lighter but that is something I still have to teach you. This thickness, that is why we have those little imperfections around the incrustations… nothing you cannot fix with a little patience and some elbow grease. But overall, you did a fantastic work, Curvo.”

 

His heart was pounding so fast that he could hear it in his chest. He pinched his lips to keep a large grin from spreading on his face as he looked up at his father, eyes shining with pride and release. “Really?” was the only thing he managed to stammer.

 

Fëanáro gave a quiet laugh and put the bowl into his son’s hands. “Really.” He said. “I can see you have used techniques I have barely taught you yet, and you excelled in those you already master. You outdid yourself, my son.”

 

Curufinwë was holding onto the bowl, as if it would keep himself from falling down. His legs were indeed shaking.

 

“I had completely forgotten about this piece… which happens to be a chance”, Fëanáro asserted. “Or you would not have had the opportunity to accomplish such a feast. “Keep it, improve it or recycle it, I do not mind. It is yours now.”

 

The young Elda had finally caught his breath and calmed the pace of his heart. He was delighted, and so very grateful. Not only his work and skills were being rewarded, but his boldness too. He should have known his father would never blame him for practicing.

 

He stepped toward Fëanáro, holding the bowl closely against his chest. “I will make it better, so much better.” He promised with a smile. “And if it is good enough for you, I will make it yours. I can engrave your name here, you see?”

 

As he talked, Curufinwë placed his finger on the inside of the bowl, where the engraving could be done. He could already see the tengwar that would honour his father. “That is… if you allow me to do so, father.”

 

Another grin on Fëanáro’s lips, and something else in his eyes, a glimmer Curufinwë couldn’t decipher but which was, in fact, an echo of his father’s pride and gratitude.

 

“Nothing would make me happier, Curufinwë.”