Hide and Seek by Ithilwen

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Chapter 4

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The room was a marvel; the walls and floor were of finely polished semiprecious stones overlaid with delicate weavings, the cunningly crafted furnishings a testament to the supreme skills of the Noldoran artisans. Fëanáro had eyes for none of these things; his attention was given solely to the lone figure standing on the adjoining balcony, gazing out eastward at the distant sea. How long has it been since I was last here? he wondered. Surely it cannot be as long as that... But to his astonishment, he realized that it had indeed been many months since his last visit. For all his prodigious energies had slowly been sapped, first by the growing rift between himself and his wife, which he’d tried so hard to repair, and later by her loss. He’d not set foot outside his own household since Nerdanel’s departure, save to hunt for his missing sons. Shamefaced, he realized he’d become so wrapped up in his private sorrow that he’d forgotten his obligations; who knew how long it would have been before he would have again ventured here, had he not been summoned now?

His footsteps echoed softly as he walked across the stone floors, but the figure standing on the balcony did not turn to face him until Fëanáro was barely an arm’s length away. When he did, Fëanáro found himself staring as if into a mirror - for the brilliant grey eyes and raven-dark hair were nearly the same as his own. But the light in those eyes, though bright, was not so hot as Fëanáro’s own, but steadier and less foreboding, and the black hair was swept back by a silver circlet bearing glittering gemstones that almost rivaled the Silmarils in their beauty. Stones that had been cut by Fëanáro’s own hands, to adorn the brow of the one person he loved above all others living, the person whom he stood before now - his father Finwë, the King of their people. He dropped his head slightly, in respect. “Father, I have come as you requested. May I know the reason for your summons?”

“Do I need a reason to summon my favorite son to my side?” Finwë replied mildly. “But I have missed your company; you have been more than usually reclusive of late. Understandable, perhaps, but worrisome to me nonetheless. I grow concerned for you, Curufinwë Fëanáro.”

“You need not be, Father,” Fëanáro replied. “Do not distress yourself on my account, I beg you! I know I have been remiss in my duties towards you, for which I must apologize, but I am fine, truly.”

“Are you? I have heard stories that lead me to believe otherwise. I have heard of no new objects of craft fashioned by your hands for many weeks; you have never taken such a respite from your work since you were first old enough to begin to learn the art of forging metals! Though you were never over-social, neither were you ever one to neglect those friends you do have, and yet you have visited no one in Tirion for a long time - save only for the briefest of necessary business trips, and most of those you have delegated to your own sons. And rumor has it that your wife has recently journeyed to her parents’ household, with no intention of ever returning. Is this rumor true, Fëanáro?”

Fëanáro made no reply, turning away slightly to avoid his father’s gaze; after a moment, Finwë sighed and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I am sorry, son. Nerdanel was very dear to me, and she matched you well. I have never seen more joy in your eyes than on the day you two were wed. Is there truly no hope of salvaging your marriage?”

“Ask her, Father,” Fëanáro responded, his voice rough. “For she will say nothing more to me. As for my part - if she wishes to depart, than I will not hinder her in her going. If there is a breech between us, it is of her making, and not of mine, and I will waste no more of my time in fruitless attempts to mend it. For my part, I would ask the Valar to sever our bond, were such a thing possible; but as it is not, I will turn from her as she has done from me, and remove all traces of her existence from my life. I need her not!”

“Perhaps you do not,” Finwë replied softly, “although there is more pain in your voice than pride, I think. But you cannot banish Nerdanel so easily from your life, Fëanáro, regardless of whether you succeed in driving her shadow from your own heart. You are tied to her through your sons; do not make them your weapons in this battle with your wife, I beg you.”

“My sons,” Fëanaró said as he pulled away from his father’s touch, “need nothing of her! She was the one who chose to abandon them, as they can plainly see; only the youngest even notice her absence now, and soon she will fade from their hearts. Of that I am certain.” He turned to face his father again, his eyes filled with angry fire, only to be startled at the sadness present in his father’s expression.

“As Míriel faded from your heart?” Finwë’s response, though gentle, quenched Fëanáro’s anger as suddenly as a gust of wind blows out a candle flame. “I once thought the same. Míriel had left me forever, and surely my young son, who after all had never known his mother, would warm to my new bride. His grief would eventually fade, and he would become content. But despite everything I could do, you steadfastly rejected every overture Indis made to you, clinging instead to the memory of the woman who’d abandoned you in favor of Mandos’ Halls. Even the name you’ve chosen to be called by is the one she gifted you with - and a constant reminder to me of my folly.”

“If you could cling so to Míriel,” Finwë continued, “who as a houseless fëa was indeed lost to you, than how much more desperately might your own sons cling to their mother Nerdanel, who is not dead but merely absent? I have heard about my young grandsons’ recent wanderings, and their reason for them. And I have also heard rumors that you are now keeping them confined rather than permit them to see their mother. Fëanáro, can you not understand their pain?”

“I will not lose my sons to her!” Fëanáro insisted, and Finwë winced inwardly at the anguish he heard now in his beloved son’s voice.

“If you lose their love, Fëanáro, it will only be because you allow your anger to drive them away. Nerdanel cannot steal away your sons’ affection for you, any more than you can force them to stop loving her. A child’s love for his father is far too deeply rooted to be torn out so easily. You will lose nothing by allowing them to go to her.”

“So is this why you have called me here today - to order me to give up my sons to Nerdanel?” Fëanáro’s voice nearly broke as he uttered the last few words. How can my own father betray me so? he thought in despair. Must I now lose everyone I love? To his horror, he felt tears welling up in his eyes - whether of sorrow or of rage, he was not certain - and he quickly turned and retreated from the balcony into the relative darkness of the room. He’d hoped he would be able to reach the door and escape before his father could utter the words which would rip out his heart, but Finwë caught him before he was halfway across the room. Escape denied, he was forced by his father’s strong grip, and his authority as King, to remain and hear him out.

“Fëanáro, how could you think I would do such a thing?” Finwë said. “I did not call you here to take sides in your quarrel with your wife. You are my son, and I love you; your marriage is not mine to interfere with, although I wish with all my heart that you could reconcile with Nerdanel, if only for your sake, for I know how much you loved her once. But I will not stand idly by while my grandsons’ hearts are shredded by their parents’ folly. And I believe you are too loving a father to wish upon your sons the same scars you bear yourself. All I ask of you is that you let them visit her, should they wish it. Will you do that?”

“Do I have a choice?” Fëanáro replied sadly.

“Of course you have a choice! And I know in the end you will make the right one. Fëanáro, there are already too many broken hearts in our family now; do you wish to see yet another generation suffer? It grieves me to cause you such pain, son, and I would not have done so but for my grandsons’ sake. And also yours, that you might not alienate them from you in your grief. Fëanáro, oh, Fëanáro, I am so sorry...”

As his father tried to soothe him, Fëanáro suddenly felt something give way inside him, and the control he’d been struggling to retain melted away. Unable at the last to stop his tears, he let himself be drawn into his father’s arms, and Finwë held him quietly while he finally wept.

* * * * * * *

It was nearly morning before Fëanáro finally returned from Tirion. The windows of the house, he saw, were tightly shuttered; no doubt his sons were still asleep. That was not important; there would be ample time to deal with them later. After stabling his horse, he proceeded directly to his workshop, as he had every morning since Nerdanel’s departure.

Everything appeared as it had previously. The benches and tools were covered with a thin layer of dust, cold ashes filled the furnace pits, and the windows remained firmly shuttered; only faint traces of Treelight strayed in where the tightly-fitted metal shutters met the stone walls. Fëanáro moved carefully through the gloom until he reached the hidden safe where he kept his most valuable works. Opening it, he carefully withdrew a small box, and throwing back the lid, watched as the radiance of the Silmarils drove back the darkness.

Fëanáro stood unmoving before his creations as he had done every day for weeks. You are indeed beautiful, so very beautiful. Even Varda herself could not create anything to surpass your radiance, he thought as he gently stroked his gems; at the soft touch of his hand, the Silmarils flared and shimmered, as if nourished by his own internal fire. But you are not the first beautiful creations I have produced, nor the finest. In my grief, I have allowed your loveliness to seduce me, to the neglect of my dearest treasures. It is time now for that to end. After a last, reverent caress, he firmly closed the lid, wincing as the brilliant light was suddenly cut off and the interior of the workshop was plunged again into darkness.

After a moment his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and he could see well enough to move safely. Fëanáro walked over to the shuttered windows and opened them, allowing the mingled Treelight to fill the room, then went to the furnace pits and began to clean out the ashes. Once that task was complete, he built a fire in one of the furnace pits, then began to clean the benches and set out the supplies he would need later. Finally, after washing the ash off his hands, he picked up the box containing the Silmarils and headed towards the house.

As soon as he entered, he discovered he’d been wrong about his sons; from the soft clatter emanating from the kitchen, it appeared that at least one of them had awakened. But Fëanáro ignored the sounds, and moved quietly through the house towards the locked storeroom where he’d previously kept the Silmarils before his recent descent into near-permanent residence within his workshop. After carefully securing the gems he then headed to his bedroom, where he changed from the finery appropriate for a visit with his father into the plain coveralls he was accustomed to wearing while crafting. Only then did he return to the kitchen.

The cause of the clamor, he saw, was Nelyafinwë Maitimo; his eldest son had apparently decided on something more ambitious than mere sliced fruit for the morning meal. There was a fire burning in the stove, and several pans sitting on the stovetop; a small mountain of produce of various sorts was piled onto a nearby tabletop. Nelyafinwë had his back to the doorway, and had not noticed his father’s quiet approach. He was intently searching through drawers, apparently seeking some implement; when he finally heard the sound of Fëanáro’s footsteps, he asked without looking up, “Makalaurë, is that you? I can’t find the vegetable peeler anywhere; do you know where Tyelkormo might have put it?”

“No, but I used to keep it in the second drawer on your left - have you looked there?” Fëanáro noted with sadness the way his son stiffened at the sound of his voice. Nelyafinwë turned around slowly, as if he was reluctant to face his father. And I cannot blame him if he is, Fëanáro thought remorsefully. Not after the way I’ve treated him, and his brothers, recently. Perhaps the Valar will gift me one day with wisdom enough to know when to hold my tongue. Nelyafinwë’s eyes widened slightly when he saw how his father was dressed, but he said nothing. After a brief, awkward silence, Fëanáro asked, “Will you allow me to help?”

“If you like,” his son replied quietly, and turned again to rummage through the nearest drawer, scarcely looking at the utensils. Fëanáro opened the drawer he’d indicated and withdrew the missing vegetable peeler.

“I believe you were looking for this,” he said as he handed the peeler to his son, who took it from his hand with an awkward nod of thanks. “What are you planning to make?”

“I haven’t decided yet; some sort of stir-fry, I suppose. It can’t be anything that needs eggs, because we’re out,” Nelyafinwë replied. “Do you have any preferences, Father?”

“No,” Fëanáro said. “Anything you are willing to cook will be fine.” Nelyafinwë handed him some vegetables; after a few moments of slicing them, Fëanáro spoke into the silence. “Nelyafinwë,” he said quietly, “I need to speak with you.”

There was now no disguising the tension in his son’s tall frame, and his face had gone expressionless; but his eyes gave away his nervousness. “What do you wish to talk about, Father?” Nelyafinwë asked carefully.

Fëanáro hesitated for a long moment before answering. “My treatment of you, Nelyafinwë, and of your brothers these past few weeks,” he finally replied. “I’m sorry for -”

“It’s all right, Father,” Nelyafinwë responded quickly, cutting him off as he looked away. “I understand what you’ve been going through, how much pain you must have felt when Mother left, there’s really no need to say anything more about it...” His discomfort was apparent, both from the way he’d so uncharacteristically interrupted his father, and from the way he now spoke, nearly stumbling over the words in his haste to get them out.

“No,” Fëanáro replied firmly, placing his hand on Nelyafinwë’s shoulder, forcing his son to face him. “It is decidedly not all right. I was wrong to treat you as I did. As your father, I am supposed to care for my sons. All of my sons - even the grown ones,” and with those words he smiled briefly. “You’re a fine young man, Nelyafinwë, and you’ve done nothing to warrant the abuse I inflicted on you. I promise you,” and he reached out with his other hand to carefully touch the fading bruise on his son’s cheek, “I will never hit you again.”

Nelyafinwë’s eyes glittered in the soft light filling the kitchen, and Fëanáro felt his son’s shoulder slowly relax under his hand, but he remained silent. It was many moments later before his oldest child finally spoke. “You’re dressed in your work clothes; are you planning to start the forge today?”

“No; the glass furnace. I’ve already lit the fire; it should be hot enough to begin work after breakfast is over. Why don’t you add some more pepper? It will improve the flavor.”

Nelyafinwë nodded as he reached for the spice rack. “I’d like to help you, Father,” he replied as he sprinkled more pepper over the vegetables they’d chopped. “It’s been a long time since I’ve fired glass.”

“No,” Fëanáro replied. “It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy your company, Russandol,” he said quickly as he saw the hurt flicker quickly through his son’s eyes. “But I have another task I’ll need you to perform today. I’ll tell you about it at breakfast, along with your brothers. Who, if my ears can be trusted, are coming down the hallway now.”

The quarrelling voices made the newcomers’ identities clear long before they set foot in the kitchen: Turkafinwë Tyelkormo and Morifinwë Carnistir. “All you ever make is fruit! I’m tired of it! Why can’t you cook something else for a change? ” “Whine, whine, whine - that’s all you do! Listen, you little pest, I haven’t seen you making anything at all. If you want something else for breakfast, cook it yourse - oh, hello, Father, Maitimo.”

“Hello, sons,” Fëanáro replied. Morifinwë and Turkafinwë had halted abruptly as they caught sight of their father standing in the kitchen, knife in hand and obviously dressed for work. “Go set the table - we are all eating breakfast together today. Where are your other brothers?”

“Makalaurë’s helping Ambarussa get dressed, Father,” Turkafinwë replied. “I think Curufinwë’s still asleep.”

“Then go wake him, or he’ll miss the meal. Morifinwë, you can set the table while your brother’s fetching Curufinwë.” Perhaps they are not as beautiful to look upon as a Silmaril, Fëanáro mused as he watched his sons set about their tasks, but nothing could ever be more precious to me - not even my pride. Not even that.

* * * * * * *

“Put your hands in his mane, and hang on tight. And don’t worry, I’ll be holding on to you. You won’t fall.”

Ambarussa nodded. Maitimo always said things like that. It was silly - of course Ambarussa wouldn’t fall, not with their biggest and strongest brothers holding on to them! And they had been on horses before, after all, most recently when that nice shining man and their brother Tyelkormo had brought them home after they had gotten lost. They knew what to expect. This was going to be fun! It was too bad they couldn’t both ride on the same horse, though - it was always more fun when Ambarussa did things together. But Maitimo had said no - he told them he couldn’t hold them both, and besides, Makalaurë would be lonely riding all by himself. They didn’t want Makalaurë to be lonely, so they had agreed to be separated. And now one Ambarussa sat in front of Makalaurë, and the other Ambarussa sat in front of Maitimo.

Ambarussa wished Father and their other brothers were coming, too. But Makalaurë said that someone needed to stay at home, and besides, they didn’t want to come today. He sounded sad when he said that. Ambarussa didn’t understand - why didn’t they want to come? they asked. But Makalaurë had only said they’d understand when they grew older. He and Maitimo said that a lot. Ambarussa hoped they’d grow older fast, because they didn’t like not understanding so many important things, but when they told their big brothers that, their brothers had laughed. “Don’t be in such a hurry, little brothers,” Maitimo had said. “Growing up isn’t always as fun as it looks.” Big brothers were very strange sometimes.

The horses galloped and galloped, and Ambarussa thrilled at the feel of the animals swaying under them. Their brothers’ arms were securely wrapped around their waists, holding them tight. Maitimo had said they would be riding all day, although they would have to stop several times to let the horses rest, and also to eat. They would have to sleep outside tonight, too. It would be nearly five days before they got there, Maitimo had warned them; it was very far away. But of course, Ambarussa already knew that. After all, they had tried to walk there themselves! They remembered how long they had walked - it must be very far away indeed, because they had never found it. But their big brothers knew where to go, and even had horses to ride on, so their feet wouldn’t get sore. This time, Ambarussa knew, they would finally succeed.

This time they would reach the mountains’ roots...