Master Swordsmith by oshun

Weapons

Nerdanel loved for Finwë to visit their home on the outskirts of Tirion, even more if he slept over. Fëanáro’s father seemed to fill the hole inside of him that, no matter how much of her love and herself she poured into it, could never otherwise be filled.  Every indication of tension in Fëanáro’s face seemed to soften and relax in Finwë’s company.

She walked down the hallway with an armload of clean sheets to put in the linen cupboard, still warm and smelling of Laurelin in full bloom. There had been no rushing to the forge that morning to work for Fëanáro. She had left him and his father nearly an hour before on the terrace off their bedroom, with a large pot of tea and a platter of breakfast pastries filled with fruit and cheese. The crusty treats were considered holiday fare in their household, but any weekend Finwë chose to spend with them was treated as an occasion.

She heard Finwë’s voice, resonant with compassion, “Ah, but, Fëanáro,” he said, “the Noldor were ever makers, experimenters, and explorers. We never sought to be fighters; we were not even renowned as being among the best hunters. But when called upon to be defenders and warriors, we did excel. But the task had to be pushed upon us in the outer lands. We never took it up by choice.”

“You think I work on perfecting swords and lances because I want to fight? That is not ...“

“Illegal weapons,” Finwë interjected. “Forbidden weapons.”

“The swords arguably might be. Lances are perfectly legal.” Finwë chuckled softly at the response. Fëanáro continued with renewed passion. “Anyway, who are they to dictate what is proscribed to us and who are they to presume to sanction what we do?” Fëanáro’s voice rose in a crescendo of indignation and anger.

“Hush. We would be fools not to take instruction from them, benefit from their wisdom. It is small payment to indulge some of their preferences. We need no weapons here. That is the beauty of this land. Weapons have become an anachronism. More tea?” Finwë asked.

“Yes, please,” Fëanáro answered, his voice that of a polite and always respectful son. The thought made Nerdanel smile. He was hardly that. “I hope you are right,” he grumbled.

“Of course, onya, it is no one’s business what you do on your own property, in privacy of your own home.”

“There is only one left with strawberry filling.” Fëanáro said hopefully.

“You have it. I’m stuffed. I would not advise raising the subject with Mahtan, however.”

Fëanáro chuckled like one of the boys. “So my lovely wife tells me.”