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that-angry-noldo · 2 years

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You Don't Know My Name - part two

[in which Fingolfin is questioning his life choices (again), Finarfin is still an amnesiac and none of them thinks, "hmm, our names sound kinda similar, wonder what that's about"]

[Part one]

Fingolfin looked at the place where a warrior stood just a moment ago. On a blood stain. On the corpse of an orc. On the flask thrown aside. Fingolfin concluded that he was not, in fact, dreaming. Fingolfin made several notes.

First, never believe Feanor when he boasts that the local roads are the safest in the kingdom and are impeccably guarded.

Second, don't believe idiots (Feanors) who assure you that their escort is top class and eats orcs for breakfast.

He turned, looked around the battlefield. A dozen dead elves. Four more were wounded, the severity of the injuries varying from elf to elf.

His father stood staring at the nearest body. His eyes were wide open.

Fingolfin turned once more to the spot where the boy had been wounded, and bit his tongue to keep from swearing. He cursed the day the heavens decided that Nolofinwe without magic was exactly what this world lacked.

And now a mage, a rather strong mage, is in their forest, which may or may not be infested with orcs. Together with his wounded son, whom - to be honest, Nolo would not have given him more than twelve years.

He cut the distance to his father, who still hadn't recovered from the shock, and took him by the shoulders.

"Are you injured?" he asked quietly. There was no answer.

Nolofinwe took him aside and sat him down on the grass. He threw off his cloak and wrapped it around Finwe's shoulders.

He lingered for a second, then stood up.

Nolofinwe appreciated his ability to set priorities. At the moment, the priority was to make sure that aid was already on its way and to organize a camp of some kind. He couldn't let himself be caught off guard again.

His people - no, Feanaro's people - had already sent a signal through the Osanwe; help was due in an hour or two, though knowing Fëanor and his love for Finwe, Fingolfin expected to see his half-brother much sooner.

Fingolfin was thinking about the orcs.

He ordered them to take the bodies of the fallen to the side, to close their eyes, and to cover them with cloaks.

(He tried not to think about how quickly he began to call the elves, who were riding next to him an hour ago, bodies).

Fingolfin was thinking about the orcs. It was alarming how they managed to make their way so deep into the country. The dull rage with which they growled, swinging their swords, was even more unsettling.

Fingolfin thought that ten of them had fallen. The fact that they were not ready for it. That nothing could have predicted it. That if it wasn't for -

If it wasn't for the gray-eyed stranger and his son-

He forbade himself to think about "if it wasn'ts".

Be that as it may, Fingolfin was thinking about the orcs. For the first time, he felt relief at the thought that Fëanor would soon be here.

He had only an hour to wait.

"Nolo."

He turned to his father, bowed his head as usual.

"Where is that man?" The king's voice sounded... quiet. Broken.

"He disappeared," the prince simply answered, looking impatiently at the road.

"Disappeared," Finwe said dully before falling silent.

Fingolfin tried not to think about the fact that his father had not even asked if his youngest son was all right.

Fëanor did arrive quickly, rushing to his father, clutching him in his arms, ignoring the orc corpses.

Nolofinwe closed his eyes, separating himself from everything for a second. He could still catch fragments of his older half-brother's worried babbling, though.

Something in his heart clenched, and Fingolfin pursed his lips. He once had a brother whom he should not have called a half-brother.

Arafinwe had golden hair and large gray eyes.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts. Arafinwe disappeared decades ago. It's not worth it - he can't start drowning in memories now.

He did not notice how the camp was made, how Fëanor and his father jumped on their horses.

"Find him," ordered Finwe quietly. "I want to thank him."

You can thank me, too, thought Fingolfin, but remained silent. He approached the healer, took a bag with medicine from her - he remembered that the boy was wounded.

And then Fingolfin was left alone.

Well. That's all there is to know about the value of a Noldor prince's life. He clenched his teeth, holding back a furious scream.

Fingolfin, Prince of the Noldor, son of Finwe - YES, FINWE, I AM STILL YOUR SON - was left alone on the forest road, surrounded by gloomy trees and the bodies of orcs.

He shouted. In despair. In powerlessness. The crows flew into the sky in fright, cawing anxiously.

He wanted to break down, to go away, run into the forest, forget the path, disappear, disappear, no.

It will kill your father.

You remember what happened when Arafinwe disappeared, right?

Fingolfin took a breath, tied his horse to a branch, and went into the forest.

Fingolfin had no magic. He couldn't make the stones glow like Feanaro did. Couldn't calm people down with his sole voice like Findis did. He could not charm the crowd with his singing, as Makalaure could. However, as an un-gifted person, Fingolfin knew about magic. Uh.

A Lot.

It was the product of hours spent in the library trying desperately to figure out what was wrong with him, and the systematic cramming of theory years later. Yes, Fingolfin could confidently say that he knew more about magic than the average mage. Irony of fate, perhaps.

So, Fingolfin knew that targeted teleportation took a long time, while spontaneous teleportation could belong to the category of magical emissions provoked by severe stress and a desperate, uncontrolled desire to get to safety. Such an emission carried the mage a short distance to a place that was the least similar to the association of "danger" in his head.

Therefore, he had to get on the trail of the warrior soon.

He wanted to get on the trail soon.

He doubted that the warrior had the necessary medicine for his son.

Finarfin had experience working with wounds. He knew how to stop bleeding, clean cuts, find healing herbs, and apply bandages; he had done it many times on himself and others; sometimes, as Eärwen ran her fingers over his scars, he would smile, thanking the gods for their assistance.

He never thought that prayers for help would pour from his lips, not as thanks, but as a plea. He never thought that his head could hold so many voices at once. He never thought he would panic over a simple injury.

He had never thought that his Finrod might be wounded, that he might lie before him, with a red stain on his shirt, that from his lips would come this cry, this silent cry, that—

The hands worked mechanically, treating the wound, the lips whispered soothing words. Thoughts were begging, begging to do something, begging to hide; his eyes burned, but he could not cry while his son was in danger, while his wound-

He blessed Eru that the wound was not fatal, that it would not leave his son crippled. He cursed himself for not being ready, for relaxing too much, for leaving the health and regeneration potions at home, for not bringing bandages.

He couldn't even heat the water.

A branch cracked.

Finarfin shuddered, his hand twitching for the knife.

It was a dark-haired warrior.

"Back," growled Finarfin, leaning over his son, not taking his eyes off the stranger, putting an order in his voice.

The elf shuddered; for a second his eyes were clouded by the effect of magic, but he frowned, blinked, and bowed his head.

"No."

"Go away."

"I want to help."

Finarfin almost wanted to snarl, saying that he could manage it himself, but hesitated at the last moment. He couldn't even heat water.

He clenched his hands into fists and nodded.

The warrior sighed with relief and got to work.

Nolofinwe worked quickly, precisely, and carefully.

Remove any blood from the wound. Uncork the crimson-pink health potion, pour half a glass on the wound; unwind the bandage, bandage the wound with the help of a warrior; make him drink a few drops of regeneration, put a palm on his hot forehead.

The warrior seemed petrified. The only sign that he was alive were the eyes that looked at his son's face with a mixed expression: anxiety, fear, hope...

Nolofinwe put the bottles and the remains of the bandages into a bag.

Now, without Nolofinwe's movements, his low voice, and the goal of saving the boy - an awkward silence reigned between the two warriors.

Which wasn't ideal. Nolofinwe had an order, after all. Bring the warrior to his father.

"You saved my son."

The warrior's voice sounded tired.

"You saved me," Fingolfin shrugged, his gaze fixed on the boy.

"What is your name?"

"Nolofinwe."

"Nolo... finwe," the warrior exhaled. "Mine's Finarfin."

It was strange that the warrior - Finarfin - used the Sindarin version of his name, but Fingolfin said nothing.

He got up, turned to Finarfin.

He had golden hair and large, tired gray eyes. For a second he thought-

Nothing. Not now.

"Your son needs help," he said. "My father has the best healers in the kingdom. Tirion isn't very fat from here. The forest, on the other hand, will be dangerous for you."

Finarfin looked at him for a few seconds, then stood up and lifted his son in his arms. Fingolfin sighed with relief.

He turned and led them down the path to the road.

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ao3feed-tolkien · 11 months

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of sand of pearls under the sun

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3pVsnjo

by bowl_of_borshch

"What are you doing?" Nityamaiwë asks, peering out of the water. Ingoldo frowns. "I'm searching for rocks," he says, and shifts protectively over his pile. "Nice rocks." Nityamaiwë scoffs. "You truly are a Noldo. You have more rocks than you will ever be able to carry." "I'm half-Vanya," Ingoldo looks back at his pile and frowns some more. "And besides, these are some really nice rocks". - or, a fic where the royal family of Alqualondë look at Finwë's youngest son, ask "is anyone going to adopt that" and don't wait for an answer

Words: 2812, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Multi

Characters: Finarfin | Arafinwë, Olwë (Tolkien), Olwë's Wife, Sons of Olwë (Tolkien), Eärwen (Tolkien), Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Írimë | Lalwen, Finwë (Tolkien)

Additional Tags: Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Friendship, "and afterwards he was a friend of the sons of olwe" alright jrrt if you won't elaborate i will, the important thing about this fic is finarfin is a baby and therefore should be cherished, he has a plushie and that plushie is important, alqualonde found family fic no one asked for but i delivered anyways, let's all ignore the looming dread of canon and observe these characters being blissfully happy

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3pVsnjo

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

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tolkien-feels · 2 years

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Double Silmblogging: Quenta 6: Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor || Quenta 7: Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

When I was a kid and Tolkien said in the Hobbit “Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway.” I was disappointed because I wanted to know more the Last Homely House. And now as an adult I want to scream every time I read “This was the Noontide of the Blessed Realm, the fullness of its glory and its bliss, long in tale of years, but in memory too brief.” TELL ME ABOUT THE NOONTIDE TOLKIEN!!!!!

Miriel being too tired to weep is very narratively interesting in the context of “tears unnumbered ye shall shed” isn’t it?

I don’t think I need to stress how much I wish we’d gotten more about Mahtan and Nerdanel in the published Silm, right? I bring up Nerdanel like once a week here. For the record, I’m also interested in Feanor’s relationship with Mahtan. Like. A lot.

This is also the chapter that introduces the eternal question of “What if Finwe had never remarried?” Together with “What if the elves had never been taken to Aman?” that’s probably a pointless question. It amounts to “What would this book be if it was a completely different book?” There are probably no right answers here. But god!!! Thinking about it drives me crazy!! I have many thoughts about it that I’ll probably share one day - I’ve been so busy lately that whenever I have enough free time to write meta I realize I have no brainpower left

Let me say the most arrogant sentence ever: I’m full of compassion for the Ainur. I know it’s not my place since Tolkien worked so hard to make them superior to us mere mortals but sorry, I’m packbonding with your godlike beings, Jirt. Anyway, I understand that they do their very best to do right by Arda and the Children, and it’s a pet peeve of mine when people are too harsh to them. They’re good, they’re just not perfect. But. I take so much issue with their view that they’re not hindering the elves if they want to depart. “You came here guided by several Ainur ensuring your safety. We have encouraged you when you were afraid and found ways to help you cross mountain and sea alike. When you arrived, we provided places for your dwelling according to each of your needs.” is WORLDS away from “You can go but you won’t get even boats from us.” I understand not wanting to encourage folly, but do you want to make an entire people resent the Valar? Because that’s how you do it!!!

Congratulations Melkor on daydreaming about taking over the world and not listening to the Third Theme. I am sure this will not impact your evil plans in any way! Men will not in any way challenge you, it’ll be alright!

Also. Melkor being like “O Firstborn of Iluvatar, the Aftercomers shall usurp your inheritance!” and “O Firstborn of Finwe, the sons of Indis shall usurp your inheritance!” is so funny. Projecting much, Melkor? Does it irk you to see Manwe King of Arda when you fancy yourself King of the World?

(But on a serious note, do note how Fingolfin comes to rule the Noldor through Feanor’s own mistakes, as Tolkien draws attention to. This is exactly what happens to Melkor. It’s only one of many, many ways Feanor and Melkor are alike and it breaks my heart. Or at least it does when I’m not laughing wondering which of them would hate this comparison more)

Hi, hello, has anyone got any headcanons about the swords Feanor made for himself and his sons?

It’s lowkey funny that the elves are all stockpiling weapons while pretending they just happen to suddenly have taken a fancy for shields

I have so many complicated feelings about Finwe. I won’t say much about him because if I begin I’ll never shut up. The next time my brain decides to be nice to me, I’ll make a whole Finwe post

Shout out to Tulkas for wasting no time in trying to get his hands on Melkor. He’s been trying since 1919. I believe you, Tulkas! One day you will get to beat up Melkor as much as you want!!

#silmblogging

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feanarotherindion · 4 years

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Why Fëanor is the Way He is

Fëanor's possessiveness over Silmarils brought his doom. He drew sword on his brother. He was brash. He opposed the transition from Therindë to Serindë so much that there are memes out there. But if you look at his childhood, then it is not that surprising. You'd realise that he's most human of all elves.

He lost his mother in childhood. Why? Because she had postpartum depression and his father could not even wait more for her to heal mentally. He could not keep it in his pants because he wanted more kids.

Finwë went to the Valar because he wanted more kids and he's sad because he couldn't get them, and the Valar condemn Miriel to spend eternity in the Halls of Mandos. Why? Just to prevent divorce and preserve monogamy. Seriously? Also they allow it because according to Namo, iirc, Indis's kids will be super awesome. Who cares about Miriel or Fëanáro.

In Feanáro's eyes, the Valar took his mother and his father replaced her easily. If his father can replace her so easily then maybe he is also replaceable. He already has abandonment issues. He loves Finwë and he wants to guard it at any cost. And that leads to excess possessiveness. At this points he needs some love and understanding. He doesn't need his mother's passing being called the result of Arda Marred or some shit like that.

He sees perfect families all around him. He sees little kids with both their mother and father and feels the absence of his mother. He has Indis but in his eyes she is part of the reason why Miriel will never come back and her children as potential replacement of him. His mother hadn't been enough for Finwë and he feels he would not be either.

And if nobody would fight for his mother then he will. That is why he preferred Feanáro over Curufinwë. That is why he opposes the transition from Therindë to Serindë. It is not him being petty. It is him fighting for his dead mother.

The names of his step-brothers don't help any. Finwë gave them such names to announce it to all that they are his children. To give them legitimacy. But in Fëanáro's eyes they are Nolofinwë and Arafinwë- the wise and the noble Finwë- while he is Curufinwë- the skilled one. Yes, it is a nod to his skills but their names are more royal. And that is why he names his children NelyaFINWË, CanaFINWË.... because he feels that he has to keep on asserting this.

His father loves him but that is not enough. The damage is done and it keeps piling up. Presence of Melkor doesn't help any. He is totally against Melkor who is pardoned by the Valar and everyone is totally chill but Feanáro can see a Trainwreck but nobody believes him because they are busy licking the boots of same Valar who took his mother.

He talks shit about the Valar and people give him stink eye (which honestly if a god did that shit to me I'd bash the hell outta them god or no god. So Fëanor has not done anything wrong so far.)

He also says Melkor=bad but nope Valar pardoned him and they must have had a reason. Things happen meanwhile and it gets so bad that they hold trial for this mess. Because Fëanáro had been talking shut about them majorly. Valar learn that indeed Melkor was indeed up to No Good. But it's all derailed and Feanáro draws sword on his brother who had been talking shit about him to their father Finwë. Valar usurp Finwë's authority. They exile him. They are more concerned about Feanáro than Melkor.

His exile must have been another offence to him by the Valar. He has his father at least. So that's alright. Right? Nerdanel goes to stay with Indis. In his mind, Indis stole another person dear to him. He feels attacked from all sides.

Again, shit happens and the Valar now want his Silmarils, the shiney jewels which sound like proto horcruxes... But yeah they want Silmarils. And Feanáro would not give the Valar his shit. The same people who took his mother, who exiled him, who usurped his father, who did nothing against Melkor. Who want him to break his greatest work so Yavanna can save her greatest work. In his mind, nope. Never gonna happen.

Then his father dies. Valar do nothing. As usual. Nothing new there. Also the guy who killed his father? Now named Morgoth, about whom Feanáro warned all and sundry was one of the Valar. So by now they have taken both of his parents. His mental condition is not good but who cares since he lived in literal paradise and they don't care about such inconvenient things when singing praises of Manwë will solve every problem.

Now onto Kinslaying. Well, that was really bad decision on his part. Not gonna defend that. But I will try to explain what he might have been thinking. He saw two options. One would save more of his followers. He took that option. I'm not excusing it. Just explaining.

Onto the ship burning, if you believe Shibboleth of Fëanor to be canon then "Fingolfin has put the prefix "Finwe" to his name Nolofinwe before the Exile reached Middle-earth. This was in pursuance of his claim to be the chieftain of all the Noldor after Finwe's death, and so enraged Feanor that it was no doubt one of the reasons for his treachery in abandoning Fingolfin and stealing away with all ships."

In his eyes Nolofinwë had done exactly what he was fearing. Maybe he also feared war on two fronts. So in a colossal fuck you, to Nolofinwë and probably Teleri as well, he burned those ships.

In Silmarillion, he seemed a mad dog for this. In Shibboleth, that was hilarious.

~*~

In the end, if you look beneath the surface, Fëanor was a really interesting character and hate him or love him, you'll definitely remember him. He is one of the most compelling characters of Tolkien. And honestly, it's Miriel THERINDË. And he was entitled to desire that his mother's name is pronounced correctly. I'd hate it if someone messed up mine.

#fëanor #not for valar fans #Shibboleth of Fëanor #i don't want a debate #im just sharing my views #the Silmarillion #Fingolfin #noldor #finwe's a+ parenting #finwë is an ass #manwë is an ass #its miriel Þerindë #not Serindë #tolkien #the valar

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faustandfurious · 5 years

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Your post about GRRM and Tolkien was so so sooo true. Like, don't get me wrong, I love AS0IAF almost as much as I love Tolkien's legendarium, and this comes from someone who never found the feelings that L0TR/Silm had given me in other fantasy series. AS0IAF managed to do that, its characters became almost as familiar as Tolkien's. But sometimes it irks me how Martin is praised for grimdark fantasy (TM) like nothing that he wrote hadn't been done by Tolkien before. Kinslaying and kingslaying?(1)

Backstabbing? A character who starts off as a murderous kin(g)slayer but later loses a hand and he gets a redemption arc and becomes a fan favourite? A crazed king (Pharazon) and his cunning *Hand of the King* I mean advisor (Sauron)? The Targaryens are basically Isildur and his sons, the only royals who escape the Doom of Númenor/Valyria and later found a kingdom on the continent nearby. Jon Snow is written as a younger and more inexperienced Aragorn. He even looks like Aragorn in the books (Dark-brown hair, grey eyes). Melisandre, with her new cult and her influence over a king is Sauron’s female persona. And incest? Detailed scenes of torture and death?Tolkien already did that. There are more than 100 named characters that die in Silm and almost all the major characters in Children of Húrin die as well. I am sure that, had someone gotten the chance to do a Silm TV show but with good actors and who has managed to stay true to the feel of the book, that said show would have been far better than GoT. The only thing Tolkien didn’t include in his books were the detailed sex and rape scenes. Ugh, sorry for all these long asks and if I wasted your time. But they were just a response to your beautiful post.

I wholeheartedly agree with all of this! (and thank you for the great asks; discussing literature is absolutely never a waste of time)

GRRM is an excellent writer, and I thoroughly enjoyed his books - the worldbuilding is immaculate, the characters are compelling, the quips are funny, dragons are always good.

But ASOIAF is not inherently better than LotR simply for being darker and more “realistic”. Graphic descriptions of sexualised violence aren’t necessary to fully comprehend the horrors of war. Fingon’s broken body trampled in the mud after the Nirnaeth is just as devastating as [you know who]’s execution. Heroes die in Tolkien’s works. Fingolfin was brave and noble and honourable, and Fingolfin died. Finrod died, Gil-galad died, Celebrimbor was tortured to death, Hurin was forced to watch the utter destruction of his own family, and then he unwittingly helped Morgoth destroy Gondolin. We are left to imagine the exact details, but the images our minds conjure up are just as horrifying as any description written by GRRM.

ASOIAF is not as genre-defining as some fans like to think it is. The series certainly differs from the more traditional hero’s journey monomyth (apart from Jon Snow’s entire storyline (and to a certain extent Daenerys)), by addressing more complex issues, but so does Lord of the Rings! Aragorn is the “chosen one”, the long lost king, the badass ranger, and his role in the end is to be a flashy distraction to keep Sauron from discovering the real threat, WHICH IS A KIND, FUN-LOVING HOBBIT AND HIS GARDENER FRIEND.

(Alright this post is long enough, so I’ll stop here before I go on a rant about how the genre of fantasy inspired by Tolkien misses so much of what made his works great in the first place, and how ASOIAF is the antithesis of those books rather than LotR)

#grrm #asoiaf #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #lotr #tolkien

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Implausible Character Interpretations: Nerdanel

I didn’t have a fun animal reference for this one.

More than any of the others, I want to emphasize with this one that this is NOT how I see Nerdanel. I’m playing with possibilities, not trying to make a serious case.

The basis for this one is the fact that given the choice (Nerdanel and Feanor’s separation, deciding whether to stay in Aman or go to fight Morgoth), Nerdanel and Feanor’s sons consistently choose their father over their mother. There’s any number of possible reasons for this - they might have seen Nerdanel leaving as a betrayal, they might have just though that their father needed them more than their mother did, they might have been making choices based on what was going on in their own lives and not really been choosing between their parents at all. The decision to cross the Sea in particular has a multitude of possible explanations - revenge, wanting to make sure Feanor didn’t get killed because of his grief, the desire to just follow someone who has a plan after their equivalent of the Sun goes out - parental bias doesn’t have to come into it at all.

But it could. And I’ve seen Feanor portrayed as everything from “great Dad who made one really unfortunate mistake” to “who on earth thought it was a good idea to let this mad parent?” so it seemed only fair to let Nerdanel be the bad parent for once.

Sculpting a child was the most fascinating project she’d ever done. Blending her spirit with Feanaro’s was the breathtaking height of collaboration.

The tools were different, of course. She had no chisels here, no stone to chip away. Trying to encourage certain attributes was far more complicated than that.

She reminded herself of that frequently during the pregnancy. This was the first time she had done this, the prototype; she could not expect perfection from this any more than she had from her very first sculpture.

So it was vanity and she knew it that led her to lay claim to a name meaning well-formed on this very first try, but surely the result would live up to the expectation. She and Feanor both were well known for learning fast.

Then the baby came.

“Maitimo,” she said stubbornly, though looking at the result, she suddenly wasn’t so sure. His appearance was fair enough and far from finished in any case, but the small spirit that was already trying to shape itself now that it was separate from her . . . she already had doubts about that.

She slumped against the pillows on the bed in disappointment, premature as she knew it was. This was only the first, and there was still so much time for his spirit to change. It was ridiculous to give up now.

Feanaro was beaming at the child like this was all he had hoped for, and Feanaro never settled in his work. If this was good enough for him, it ought to be good enough for her.

She couldn’t quite convince herself.

Feanaro looked up to share his joy and took in her expression. In an instant, the joy was overtaken by terror.

“Are you alright? I’ll call for the healer to come back in - “

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just tired.”

Feanaro’s eyes remained dark with worry. Miriel’s decline, she remembered, had started with much the same complaint.

“Everyone’s tired after this,” she said firmly. “All the healers said so. Go on and show your father his first grandson.”

She felt a frisson of nerves at that. She had never liked showing off any work that was less than her best.

But it made Feanaro stop worrying, and Finwe had always been very kind; she was sure he would not be overly harsh.

Maitimo grew into a lovely child, but her vague concern proved true. He was well spoken, he did well in his lessons, he was polite and obedient . . . but he would not choose a craft.

He worked happily under his father’s watchful eye in the forge and happily with her in her workshop. He would try anything someone was willing to teach, and he was competent enough in most of it, but there were none he chose as his own and none chosen for him by special genius.

“Look, Mama!” he said, holding up the figure he’d just finished molding from clay.

It was recognizable, at least. Unfortunately, it was recognizable as a smaller, rougher version of her own project. She sighed. “Don’t you think it’s time you started using your own ideas?”

“Oh.” He drooped. HIs lip started to wobble dangerously.

Fortunately, Feanaro chose that moment to walk in. “Lunch is ready,” he announced cheerfully. “What’ve you got there, Maitimo?”

Their son held his work up hesitantly.

Feanaro picked it up carefully and examined it closely. “Wonderful!” he declared. “Your precision is coming along beautifully. It was inspired by your mother’s work, yes? You can’t go wrong with that. She’s the best in her field, you know.”

“It’s not very original,” Maitimo said cautiously.

Feanaro waved this off. “And what of it? Copy the masters until you’re ready to branch out on your own.” He studied it a little further. “It really is quite good. May I keep this? Once it’s dried, of course.”

Maitimo brightened, all threat of tears gone. He nodded vigorously.

Feanaro beamed at him. “Excellent. Now for lunch!”

He was good with the child, she had to admit. He always knew just what to say to head any unpleasant moments off at the pass. Still, the larger issue could not be ignored.

“He still hasn’t shown any aptitude towards a particular craft,” she said as they climbed into bed.

“He’s young yet,” Feanaro dismissed. He never had liked anyone pointing out flaws in his work.

“We were younger,” she pointed out.

“Maybe a physical craft isn’t where his talents lie,” he suggested. “Have you seen him with his friends? He’s quite the little diplomat.” He smiled ruefully. “Far more than I ever was at any rate.”

Diplomacy was a good gift for a prince of the Eldar to have, she had to concede, but - “He still needs a physical craft.”

“Not everyone has to make things.”

Now she knew it was just his pride getting in the way. They were two of the greatest Noldor craftsmen in Aman. Of course their children had to be able to make things.

“Speaking of making things,” she said, “have you given any thought to us making another one?”

Feanaro brightened at the idea. “A brother for Maitimo! Or were you thinking a girl at this time?”

“No, a boy,” she agreed. Best to stick to that until they’d perfected it. Then they could move on to a girl.

Feanaro had been entirely correct in his choice of name for their second child, she decided almost immediately. Strong-voiced did not begin to cover it.

The third time he woke them in a night with that strong voice, she had to fight the urge to cover her ears. “I think we might have made a mistake.”

She wasn’t joking, but Feanaro still laughed.

Makalaure had a craft, at least. He was a peerless singer already, and his skill would only grow.

Unfortunately, part of the process of that growth involved rather a lot of very loud practice with a wide variety of instruments.

“One hour,” she finally told him, temper not holding quite as well as she’d wished. “Just give us one hour of quiet.”

It was improvement, she told herself. And it was. Just still not quite perfection.

Tyelkormo was definitely quieter.

Except for the shouting, of course. He had the temper of Feanaro after having been locked in a room with Indis and Fingolfin all day and none of the brilliance to make up for it. He squirmed all through lessons and took off at the first opportunity for the outdoors.

Like Maitimo, he refused to pick a proper craft.

“I’m going to be a hunter!” he said over supper. He demonstrated by bending back his fork to fling mashed potatoes directly at Maitimo’s head.

It was a dead hit. At least he hadn’t aimed at Makalaure; if it had escalated to a fight, the shouting would have shook the house. Maitimo just made a face and wiped his forehead clean.

“You’ve got the aim for it,” he said wryly.

“Though we still need to work on your timing,” Feanaro said. “Not to mention your choice of prey. Still, it’s an excellent ambition.”

“It’s not exactly a craft,” Nerdanel protested, but she didn’t put up much of a fight. Honestly, hunting was probably the best that Tyelkormo could do.

Carnistir was as studious as she could wish.

He also had an even quicker temper than Tyelkormo and a blotchy red face that was an embarrassment to her skill as an artist.

She went back to work as soon as she could after he was born. Feanaro was helping her with this project, a beautiful blend of steel and stone. It was coming along perfectly.

“This, we can do,” she said in frustration. “Why can’t the rest of it be as easy?”

Feanaro laid a hesitant hand on her arm. She leaned into him gratefully.

“Children are more improvisational,” he said. “You never know quite how they’re going to turn out. We’ve been fortunate with ours. Don’t you think?”

He sounded uncertain with that question in a way he never had before. She was surprised. He’d seemed as delighted with Carnistir as with the others.

Maybe that was the problem, she realized. They’d never talked over what they wanted in any more detail than boy or girl. They never entered into any other collaboration so haphazardly. They came in to this with conflicting ideas, and the blend didn’t always quite work.

Next time, she would fix that.

Feanaro was frustratingly difficult to pin down on what he wanted, so she decided the solution was to back off. She’d provide the minimum of input and allow Feanaro to craft what he would. Once she’d seen the result, she could make modifications to the next one from there.

The result was so like Feanaro that she called him Little Father. She was tentatively pleased with this one. A copy was not as good as an original, but it was another step towards progress at last. Atarinke was beautiful, brilliant, skilled in the forge, everything she’d wanted.

Or almost. Where Feanaro’s scope was endlessly broad, Atarinke’s was narrow. He preferred the forge above all else.

And he was . . . cold towards her sometimes, in a way she didn’t like. Her other children had embraced their mother-names with a strange eager hopefulness, but Atarinke barely responded to his.

There was nothing wrong with him preferring Curufinwe. It certainly pleased Feanaro.

She just wished her son didn’t make it seem quite so much like it was a rejection of her.

They said Miriel had poured herself so much into her son that it had killed her. Maybe that was the only way to get someone that shone as bright as Feanaro.

“One more try,” she told Feanaro.

Things were . . . strange between them now. Feanaro was involved with those gems of his and wanted her to spend more time with the children since he was so busy. It wasn’t unreasonable, but he was never happy with her after she did as he asked; he frowned at her often afterward and seemed as if he would say something, but he never did.

Maitimo and Maglor helped, frequently volunteering to look after the younger ones, but there was something about the way they did it, the way they looked at her . . .

It was the gems, she thought in frustration. Things had only gotten so bad when Feanaro had gotten wrapped up in them.

But he would back away from the project for a new child, and she’d finally figured it out now.

She poured her spirit into making the new child, and Feanaro matched her drop for drop.

She was exhausted afterwards, on the very edge of having given too much, but it would work this time. It had to.

She did not have the overwhelming flame she’d intended. She had twins.

For the first time in her creative history, she gave up.

“Ambarussa,” she said tiredly when asked for a name.

“For which one?” Feanaro asked.

“Either. Both. I don’t care.”

“They need their own names,” Feanaro insisted.

“Then call one of them Umbarto. I don’t care.” Surely at least one of her children must be fated for something.

“Ambarto it is,” Feanaro said quietly.

She doubted that either of them deserved to be called upwards-exalted, but she didn’t care enough to tell him he’d misheard.

Wood. Clay. Every kind of stone imaginable. With those, she could create.

But with spirit?

The taste of failure was bitter on her lips.

(“He’s perfect,” Curufinwe told his wife as soon as the baby was born. “Absolutely perfect. He’s beautiful.”

She smiled up at him. “Of course he is.”

She wasn’t sure why he slumped in what looked like relief.

She assumed at first that his efforts to look after little Tyelpe himself and with his brothers were an attempt to let her rest, for fear of recreating his grandmother’s tragedy. But -

“I’m well now,” she told him. “Really.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he told her in all sincerity. “If the healers have no objection to you taking up your weaving again, I certainly won’t argue.”

“Good,” she said. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I can help look after Tyelpe now.”

He actually looked startled.

“He’s my son too, you know,” she said in frustration.

“Of course he is,” he said.

She wasn’t sure why he was so surprised that she wanted to look after her own son.

The surprise slowly faded, but some things never did.

It wasn’t that he spoiled Tyelpe, not at all, he’d scold him when he had to, but he wouldn’t do it in front of her. She’d caught him switch gears mid-lecture to a gentle caution and a generous helping of praise when she walked in.

“I know you know that I’ve scolded him before,” she told him in bemusement. “I’m not going to suddenly turn into one of those horrible mothers who won’t admit their child’s done wrong and jump down the throats of anyone who tries to say otherwise.”

“He’s never done anything seriously wrong,” Curufinwe said instantly. “And he never makes the same mistakes twice.”

A slow realization dawned. “Curufinwe,” she said slowly. “You know I love Tyelpe, right?”

“Of course you love him.”

“And I won’t stop loving him just because he makes a mistake? I don’t need him to be perfect. I’m not sure I’d want him to be. You’re not going to talk me out of loving him if you say he should be more careful in the forge or that he didn’t learn a lesson as quickly as you’d hoped.”

“He’s always care- “ He caught himself. She had never seen him so uncertain.

She linked her fingers through his gently. “I love him,” she repeated. “Like I love you. Unconditionally. Genius, ordinary, or absolute fool. I love you both.” She hesitated. “I know your father must have had high expectations - “

He laughed. The sound was - not his usual laugh. “My father,” he said, “loved each one of us like we were his whole world.”)

(Maglor did his best to look after the twins, but he knew it could never be enough.

“I’m sure your father will come back for you soon,” he assured them. “We won’t keep you from him. You just have to stay with us until he comes.”

“Not Mama?” Elros asked, blinking away tears. They’d cried less and less as the weeks passed, but the nightmares still sometimes came.

Maglor bit back all the things that he and Maedhros had said to each other after that terrible scene, when Elwing had seen her sons in their bloodstained hands and thrown herself out the window with the work of their father’s hands rather than give in to save her sons.

She had been far too frightened to be thinking clearly, possibly even flashing back to Doriath. She had known their reputation and likely thought they would all die no matter what she did. She was not their mother; even if there had not been so many sins on their heads, it would not have been their place to judge.

“Of course your mother might come too,” he said.

He thought of the seagull flying away who had never once glanced back.

It was only his own biases, he knew, that made him so sure that Elros would never see her again.)

#nerdanel #feanor #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #curufin's wife #celebrimbor #ambarussa #elros #alternate character interpretation #silmarillion #tolkien #bad parenting

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