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curufins-smile · 5 years

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In the Shadow of Þerindë

Young Feanor discovers the cause of his mother’s condition

Fëanáro was content. His father gave him free rein of the palace, and Fëanáro was allowed to go wherever he liked so long as there was no danger of him hurting himself. He had mapped out all the little nooks and crannies from the kitchens to the highest rooms, and found many excellent hiding spots for a young elf to conceal himself in should he wish.

There was a set of rooms, however, that he loved most, and those were his mother’s personal chambers. She was gone, now. Fëanáro had visited her body many times in the gardens of Lórien with his father, but her hröa was cold and still no matter how he attempted to rouse her. He always brought a drawing or something he made to show her, but her eyes would never open to see it. When he was too young to understand that she would not wake, he would pepper her face with kisses, and pat at her with his tiny hands in an attempt to get her to look at him. But she never would.

Fëanáro loved her rooms the most, for they were filled with her works. He would run his fingers over the bright embroidery, that shone with such colours and was in such fine detail. Even at a younger age, he knew it to be special.

He had much of her work himself. His father could not usually bear to speak of his mother, but from what he had said when he could, Fëanáro knew that in the year before his birth his mother had spent all her time obsessively embroidering and sewing clothes for him. Most of her work had been in stitching on rich and beautiful fabrics that he could have outfits made in by other seamstresses as he grew older. There was enough to last until he was beyond fully grown.

It was as though she had known her time was short.

Of course, Fëanáro still had Owl too, beloved and battered, though he felt he was a little old to carry it around now. He still found comfort in it when necessary though.

Fëanáro was currently sat in his favourite spot in the gardens. He had his bound sketchbook for him, and was practicing busily. His father had arranged for the great loremaster Rúmil to tutor him in sarati, and the letters had captured Fëanáro like nothing before.

He was putting the finishing touches to a slightly wobbly line of sarati when he heard the voices. It wasn’t unusual for courtiers to wander this part of the gardens, but his alcove was secluded, and his curious ears pricked up to listen to something children might not be meant to hear.

“Honestly,” a lady’s voice was saying, “King Finwë was looking absolutely delicious this morning.”

Her companions emitted various levels of agreeing noises.

“All that lovely hair,” sighed a second female voice. “His fëa must be so strong.”

Fëanáro screwed up his face in disgust. Of course his father was the strongest and most handsome, but he was not for the likes of these people. He was for Ammë.

“Of course,” said a slightly nasal male voice, “that’s part of the problem, isn’t it.”

The two ladies hushed him, sounding suddenly fearful. “Quiet!” said the first, “There’s a ban on speaking of it!”

The male voice laughed. “Please, this part of the gardens is always empty. And anyway, everyone knows what happened. Such a shame, I’d do anything to get my hands on a Serindë original.” Fëanáro scowled at the mispronunciation of her title, but his interest was piqued.

“Except the prince,” said the second lady. “Poor mite.”

Fëanáro did not even dare to breathe. What was it that he did not know that all others did?

The first voice snorted. ”Poor mite?” she said incredulously. “The Valar called his birth a product of Arda Marred. If you ask me he’s no better than the fallen Vala, Melkor.”

The second lady gasped. “How could you say such a thing?” she exclaimed. Fëanáro agreed with her. His head was spinning. The Valar had said that about him?

The male voice spoke up again, nasal tones smug. “Please, Rielle, don’t act like you don’t think the same. Everyone knows the prince is the reason that Queen Míriel is dead. He consumed her very fëa, so that all that she is is lifeless and grey. That ill omen stole her energy for his own.”

Fëanáro dropped his charcoal. He could barely hear the first lady agreeing with the male. “Yes, it’s true,” she said. “Have you never touched him? His fëa is so bright that the very heat of it means his skin is hot like a stove.” She sniffed. “I suppose that’s what having two souls does to a person.”

Fëanáro slid off the bench with a thump.

“What was that?” cried one of the ladies, startled.

“I knew we should not have spoken of it,” said the first. “Come, let us leave before whoever is spying sees our faces.”

The trio bustled off noisily, leaving Fëanáro finally alone to sob.

It was getting towards Telperion waxing, and it was time for Finwë to find Fëanáro. It was a daily game the pair played. Fëanáro would be off in some hidden nook, and Finwë would track him down for dinner. Today, however, Fëanáro was in none of his usual spots and Finwë was becoming a little anxious. He had found Fëanáro’s art tools abandoned in his favourite garden alcove, so he flagged down a passing servant, who told him that the prince had been seen going into his mother’s rooms.

Finwë himself had not been in Míriel’s chambers since shutting up almost all her work inside. He could not bear to see most of it. It was the ultimate expression of the sheer life force she had had, the fire of her colours and the intensity of her designs.

Fëanor was in there, surrounded by tapestries. He had clearly been tearing through the bags in a fit of almost madness, trying to find something. He was sat with his back to Finwë, and laid in front of him was Míriel’s last project.

It had been intended to be a family portrait. Both Finwë and Míriel were stitched in minute detail, so real that Finwë could not stand to look at her embroidered face. But she had left a large space in her arms where she would have put Fëanáro.

“I don’t know what he will look like!” she had laughed, when he had questioned her about it. “Some days I think I should simply stitch myself holding a flame, for I feel that more strongly than anything.”

Soon after she had not the strength to even lift her needle, and it remained unfinished.

Fëanáro was running his small hand over the design again and again, feeling the difference in texture between the embroidery and the gaping hole.

“Fëanáro?” Finwë asked softly. The place felt almost sacred, and he did not laugh loudly at discovering his son as he might usually. The lack of cheerful greeting was highly disconcerting too.

Fëanáro turned to look up at him, and Finwë immediately knelt to gather him into a hug on seeing his red rimmed eyes. He had clearly been crying for some time.

His son’s voice was hoarse from weeping when he finally spoke, face muffled against Finwë’s chest.

“Did I kill Ammë?” he asked. Finwë felt his heart drop.

“What?” he asked, hoping he had misheard. He loosened the embrace to allow Fëanáro to pull back slightly and look him in the eyes.

“Did. I. Kill. Ammë?” Fëanáro enunciated clearly and deliberately, staring Finwë down.

Finwë was suddenly incandescently angry. He had worked so hard to try to ensure that Fëanáro was shielded from this. Who had told him? Finwë had endeavoured for these last years to keep his son forever smiling her smile. His rage was interrupted by Fëanáro squirming to get free.

“I knew it!” he cried, tears running freshly down his face. “I killed her and you hate me!”

Finwë realised it was the first time Fëanáro had ever seen him angry and immediately scrambled to fix it, pulling Fëanáro back to his chest despite his protestations.

“No, no, no,” Finwë said, burying his face in Fëanáro’s dark hair. It wasn’t the same colour as Míriel’s, but the texture was almost identical. He felt Fëanáro’s sobs more than heard them. “I’m not angry at you, my son. I’m angry for you.”

Slowly, tentatively, Fëanáro’s arms encircled him, returning the embrace.

“Did I kill her, Atya?” Fëanáro asked him, still pressed close.

Finwë still wasn’t ready to deal with this. “No,” he said emphatically. “I don’t care what whoever it was said, you did not kill her.”

“Then what did?” asked Fëanáro.

“Your mother was-“ Finwë stopped to swallow down a lump in his own throat. “She was exhausted.”

“Because of me,” countered Fëanáro.

”No!” cried Finwë. He let Fëanáro go again to look at him properly. “Listen to me,” he said. “They don’t understand. No one understands. It was no one’s fault but He who marred the world’s.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fëanáro broke into fresh tears.

“So they were right? My birth is the product of Arda Marred?” he sobbed.

Finwe cradled Fëanáro’s chin in his hands, looking into his eyes.

“Hear me this, Finwion,” he said, and watched Fëanáro’s eyes widen at the name that he had not used since deciding to go by his mother-name. “You are my son, and I would have no other. Even if it would bring your mother back, I would cast you aside for nothing. Nothing I say can change the thoughts you have already decided on about the circumstances of your birth, but know you that you could kill a thousand people of our blood and I would love you all the same.”

Fëanáro sniffled slightly, and Finwë decided to press his luck with a joke. “But please don’t, because I don’t know what I’d do if you killed a thousand people.”

That made Fëanáro at least crack a wobbly smile. “Now then,” Finwë continued, forcing down his own pain to paste on a smile of his own. “I believe that dinner tonight is your favourite,” he said. “Something so spicy that the rest of us want to weep!”

Fëanáro’s smile became a true one, and Finwë stood and lifted his son onto his hip. “Oof!” he said. “You’re getting too big for this now. Soon you’ll be carrying me!”

They left the room of beautiful things behind them, and Finwë did not let himself look back.

#feanor #finwe #miriel #tolkien #the silmarillion #mine #my fic #fanfic #feanor is about 6ish here #of course this isn't resolved #thanks to alackofghosts and amethysttribble for helping me hash out the hcs on this :)#-tiny voice from the bushes- it's THerinde

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