Work Text:
Fëanáro has loved helping his father with his hair since he was very small. In his earliest memories, his father’s hair was always slightly messy, confined hurriedly into a long braid that trailed behind him onto the floor. Later, Fëanáro learned that this untidiness was because his mother was the one to always help Father with his hair, and in her absence he wasn’t up to his usual standards. So, Fëanáro demanded to take over.
Father is named for his hair, and named well. It is so unbelievably thick that Fëanáro could lose his hands in it as a child, and so long that it drags on the floor if left untied. Fëanáro learned how to make braid after braid, and would practice on Father as he sat - there was always enough hair that Fëanáro could be kept content for hours on end.
As he grew older, and began to become more skilled in craft, Fëanáro made Father decorations and clasps for his hair. He tried pearls and diamonds, loving the way they looked against the darkness of his father’s hair, and silver for the settings. Each gift was received with the praise Father always gives everything he does, but no matter how much praise and adoration he gains from his father, Fëanáro will never grow tired of it.
Indis had attempted to supplant him, believing it to be her job as wife to help Father with his hair, but Fëanáro had made it clear that it was his time to spend with Father, and had seen her off. Now that Fëanáro is older and has children of his own to tend to, Indis has encroached, but Fëanáro knows that Father would rather have him braid his hair.
He has been working on something recently for Father’s hair that will hopefully surpass anything he has made previously for it. He has noticed that Father has problems with hairgrips, specifically, and attempted to address it with this newest project.
Fëanáro has enjoyed creating elaborate styles for him in the past using hairgrips, but the thickness of Father’s hair means that they tend to get lost. Father tends to be pulling them out for weeks or even months afterwards, and on more than one occasion a hairgrip has emerged much later to fall into Father’s meal. Fëanáro has tried decorating the ends with diamonds in the hopes that they will show up better, but to no avail.
However, his experiments with creating stones that glow with their own lights have yielded excellent results, that he believes to be the solution.
“What are these?” Father asks, reaching to pick up one of the hairgrips piled high in Fëanáro’s outstretched hands. The bended end of each one has a tiny, glowing stone affixed to it.
“Just something I’ve been working on,” Fëanáro says lightly, pooling the hairpins on the vanity. It is the same that Father has used since before Fëanáro was born, along with his brushes and combs, and as a child he would often run his fingers along the elaborately carved silver handles wondering if his mother had done the same when she brushed his father’s hair.
Father smiles at him in the mirror, and Fëanáro cannot help but smile back. He knows that Father loves to see him smile, that it is Mother’s smile with its dimples, so Fëanáro will always do his best to smile for him. It is easy to do so today, he is very pleased with himself.
Fëanáro busies himself with the soothing task of seeing to Father’s hair. As one gleaming tress joins another, they talk of Fëanáro’s sons, how little Curufinwë is just beginning to walk, and how Carnistir has been doing in his lessons.
Finally, Fëanáro looks upon his finished work in satisfaction. Tiny pinpricks of light glow amidst the inky blackness of Father’s hair, swept up into the clasp Fëanáro had made him a while ago. The effect is like-
“Like stars,” Father says, as though finishing Fëanáro’s own thoughts. “It’s incredible, Fëanáro. Thankyou.”
Fëanáro meets his eyes in the mirror. “You always said that that’s what Mother said. That she used to bring you pearls from the lake to twine into your hair because it would look like the sky above Cuivienen.”
Father’s eyes are sad at the mention of Mother as always, and he nods. “She did. She would have loved to have seen the things you’ve made for me.”
Fëanáro bites back the accusation that she never will now, because of Indis. He does not wish to ruin this moment with his father with the thought of her. Instead, he says, “I was tempted to make the actual constellations, but I feel that would take a very long time.”
“Perhaps next time,” Father says, smiling. Then, he adopts a deliberately innocent tone. “Could this not technically be seen as honouring Varda-“
“Don’t you spoil this,” Fëanáro says, and they laugh together, all hurts forgotten.
