Fëanor’s Mistake by Dawn Felagund

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Fëanor’s Mistake

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Fëanor son of Finwë, High Prince of the Noldor, greatest craftsman of the Eldar, doubted there could be anything more undignified than this: this moment he found himself in now, standing in the forest, up to his ankles in mud with cockleburs in his hair and a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

And lost. He was lost.

It had taken him two hours to admit it, for he preferred to think that they—“they” being his scatterbrained son Celegorm and his brobdingnagian companion Oromë—were in fact the ones who were lost. But as the forest got denser and darker and he neither heard nor saw sign of them, he was forced to admit that maybe, possibly he’d taken a wrong turn?

It was more likely that he’d see his half-brother in a pink silk gown dancing ballet in one of the fountains of Tirion, but it was a possibility. Really, wasn’t anything a possibility? Even that Fëanor son of Finwë, High Prince of the Noldor, greatest and genius craftsman of the Eldar, could possibly make a mistake?

Standing in mud up to his ankles, swatting a fly that landing on his neck, he sighed. Well, I’m not going to find my way by standing here, he thought. So he stepped forward in the mud, which sucked at his feet as though it did not want him to leave. Well, he didn’t blame it for that. It was mud with good sense, apparently. Only when he felt the mud squish up between his toes—and he thought that, nice mud or not, it was getting a bit too intimate for his comfort—did he realize that he’d stepped clear out of his boots and was now standing in naught but his socks, still ankle-deep in mud.

Fëanor son of Finwë, he concluded, was having a very bad day.

At last, he managed to fish his boots out of the mud and made his way to a drier place—a tree stump—to contemplate his mud-slathered feet. He tried to wipe his feet the best he could on a tree stump and got a splinter in his toe. “Ai!” Not a good idea. Wincing, cringing, at last, he sufficed to stuff them back into his boots, still slimy with mud, after extracting the splinter.

“Well,” he huffed. Mud was welling out of his boots and his clothes were smeared with it. He realized that the mosquito had stopped buzzing in his ear, but that the same ear was now throbbing and itchy because the mosquito had decided his blood suitable for afternoon tea. He swatted it and smeared blood on his face. “Well,” he said again, more angrily this time, but nothing happened.

Except: he heard voices.

He heard a splash and a shriek of laughter that sounded very familiar; it pealed in hysterical giggles until he realized that such a ridiculous laugh could belong to only one person: “Celegorm…” he seethed.

After all, it was Celegorm’s fault that he was here, with mud dripping out of his clean, polished boots and his big toe still throbbing from the splinter and a new mosquito—from the sound of things—lodged in his ear. Celegorm couldn’t ask for a shiny gemstone or a golden necklace or a new harp or a nice pair of shoes or a horse for his begetting day. No, he had to ask that Fëanor accompany him and Oromë on a hunting trip.

What he didn’t understand was the Fëanor did do nature. Elves had invented architecture and discovered steel for a reason. If they were meant to slog about in the woods after a week’s worth of rain, getting bugs lodged up their noses—Fëanor sneezed violently and toppled off of the tree stump—then they would not have been given exceptional intelligence—of which Fëanor’s was exceptionally exceptional—and opposable thumbs. They would be matted-hair hulking sots like Oromë, reeking perpetually of mud and swine and prone to digging in their ears when asked tough questions as though the answers grew there among the ear-potatoes. Fëanor sniffed with indignation.

Not that he, now, was much better. He looked at his palm, which was now coated with an unmentionable mess of bogies and bug parts. And the rest of him: he was up to his elbow in mud and it seemed he’d left his boots behind again on the tree stump when he fell.

The giggle came again, and another splash. Fëanor wiped his hand on the tree stump, yelping as a splinter lodged itself in his palm, and stood up in the mud, following the sound of his third son’s voice to a clearing bisected by a stream, accessed by a narrow trail that led down a slight hill.

Fëanor had opened his mouth to call for Celegorm when he heard something that froze him in his place on the trail:

“You have such impressive wood, Lord Oromë!” and a giggle.

“Please, call me ‘Oromë,’ my boy. None of this 'Lord' silliness. Two folks with a relationship of our nature need not bother with such formalities.”

Relationship? Of what nature??

Fëanor quickly ducked behind a tree to listen.

So far as he knew, Celegorm hadn’t yet discovered all the uses of having golden hair and wide blue eyes and the body of a Vala. He seemed to find maidens unpleasant and was often hiding frogs in their slippers and putting centipedes in their hair. (Fëanor, who harbored an inexplicable and shameful fear of centipedes, had punished Celegorm numerous times for this.)

“Sorry, Oromë,” said Celegorm. “Still, your wood is impressive. It is so wonderfully warm and large…and it even smells good!”

Fëanor sank to the ground before he fainted. He was thinking of all the times that Celegorm had wrestled with his brothers, always seeming to prefer Maedhros, the prettiest one, although he didn’t seem to mind if Maglor or Caranthir jumped in too. “The more the merrier!” he always said. Now, Fëanor took the opportunity to peek around his tree. It was midsummer and the underbrush was thick, but he did hear a splash and see his son’s strong, tanned body flit by. Naked.

He ducked back behind the tree, his face burning.

“And it feels so good on my skin!” There was a tinkling of water, and Celegorm said, “Oh, this is wetter than I expected!”

Fëanor did faint then, he suspected because when he came to, the conversation had taken a more nefarious turn. If that was even possible.

“You may blow it if you’d like,” said Oromë.

“Oh, my Lord…I mean, Oromë. I’ve never even blown a small one before!”

“Your lips are shaped perfectly for it. I know it is large, but you should not be afraid. It only hurts your lips for a moment, then you get used to it. Soon you’ll be wantonly blowing it all the time!”

Fëanor stood carefully, his face hot with horrified shame. He thought he might exile himself some place far away, where he might never have to see Celegorm or Oromë again. He wondered where such a place might be, as he crept carefully through the sodden underbrush. Oh dear, he would have to go back the way he came, through at least a league of mud, or cross in the path leading into the clearing. He might be seen—or worse, he might see.

“So what happens when it’s blown?” Celegorm was asking.

“Well, magical things happen, my boy, but you shall have to be surprised by this. Here—” a pause—“take it. In your hand.”

“It’s heavy!”

“Well, it is of Valarin proportions. I am a large man.”

“I’ve never seen one so big! So what do I do?” A giggle. “The wood is very smooth though…and tan.”

“I have only the finest wood, Celegorm.”

“Well, I’d imagine that your wood, as a Vala, would be better than anyone else’s. Even my brother Maedhros! And he has remarkable good taste in wood.”

That was the moment that Fëanor stepped into the path, meaning to dart across, but at Celegorm’s words—trying not to picture of what he spoke—Fëanor fainted again and rolled down the path into the clearing.

“Father?” said Celegorm, looking the muddy creature lying unconscious in the clearing, leaves and twigs sticking to his brown-smeared, clothes, briars tangled in his hair. “I think?” A small swarm of flies immediately settled upon his father’s filthy, prostrate body.

Oromë pondered him with one bushy eyebrow raised. “Oh, dear. He must have become overwhelmed by the heat in this clearing. Well, my dear boy, there is only one way to rouse him.”

And happily, for the first time ever, Celegorm raised Valaroma to his lips and blew.