Chapter Text
The room was dark, even though there was - finally - no rain this morning. The wind was quiet, and only the crackling of the fireplace and the soft sound of him writing could be heard - until the door creaked.
“My king?”
Finwë put away the quill and lifted his head to look at the visitor.
“Yes?”
“Lord Fëanaro refused his meal. Again.”
Finwë sighed, all of his grief concentrated in that one breath. “Let him be.”
The servant bowed and promptly left, not wishing to deal with the king’s pain.
Finwë rested his chin on his hands. What had he done wrong? How did it come to this? He could have addressed these questions in the letter he was writing to the Queen, but it felt like Indis would not the right person to talk to.
He thought of Fëanaro’s early days then, longing to return to those happier times, even but for a moment. But were they ever happy? He loved his firstborn dearly and took pride in all of Fëanaro’s achievements, first small steps of a child, then great achievements known to all the Noldor. Fëanaro brightened up his days, but it had always been obvious that an essential piece was missing from their lovely family picture. What did I do wrong? Finwë kept asking himself even then. He could not forgive himself for Miriel’s passing; he should have done something, should have been enough for her to stay, and he was not.
He was faintly aware that Fëanaro might have blamed himself too; but it could not have been Fëanaro’s fault, Fëanaro was great and brilliant and loved. Why would he ever consider ending his life?! Was he missing his mother? Did he think his father did not love him? Was he jealous of Finwë’s affection for the younger children?Was he tired of people’s suspicion towards him?
Finwë’s eyes filled with tears as he realized how many reasons his poor son had for killing himself, and he did nothing to prevent it from happening. If it was not for the maid who came to change the sheets, Fëanaro’s soul would have been in the Halls of Mandos already.
It was the people’s reaction that hurt Finwë the most. Of course, it shouldn’t have been surprising. After Miriel died, there was grief for sure, but there was also suspicion, and distrust, and fear. Death was unfamiliar; death was scary. When Finwë married Indis, the reaction was quite adverse. It took a while for the Noldor to get used to their new queen. And now - death again, even though that failed to happen. Tainted, they would call Fëanaro. Odd, just like his mother. Finwë would keep his stern facade, as belonged to a king, but the Valar’s reaction was what broke him. To send the poor boy into exile for “violating Eru’s gift of life” to a cold Northern fortress, as if he wasn’t already miserable enough!
Finwë was king, but that night, he felt like the most powerless elf in all of Valinor. He thought then of Elwë, his long-lost friend who lived and reigned freely in Middle Earth without bothering himself with the Valar’s opinion. Had he not have accepted there cruel, deceptive beings’ promises, he would have been there, among the brown fallen leaves and cold winds, free. Maybe Miriel would have been alive. Maybe Fëanaro would have been happy.
It was chilly here, just like in Middle Earth. Dark stormy clouds were a frequent sight, and the light of the Trees was not as concentrated here as in Tirion. It rained a lot. Finwë did not mind, but he was worried that the gloomy weather would upset Fëanaro and strengthen the unhealthy despair he was experiencing. Finwë was happy, however, that all of Fëanaro’s sons willingly followed him into exile. There was so much unity and love in their family; perhaps, after all, Fëanaro made a better father than Finwë himself.
Outside, his adorable grandchildren were playing ball. Makalaurë and Curufinwë desperately competed against Tyelkormo, which was sure not at all a fair match. Finwë could not suppress a smile despite his woes.
Carnistiro sat nearby on a log, writing something. “One day without rain, and these idiots have to be out here screaming,” he complained. Finwë approached to pet his hair, only to receive grumbling in response.
“Grandfather!” Tyelko yelled. “Look how far I’m throwing!” With that, he flew the ball. It landed somewhere far beyond the walls of Formenos, causing a disappointed sigh in the other two players.
“Good job, now you ruined it for everyone,” Curvo nodded at the horizon where the ball had disappeared and then quickly headed inside. It was growing windy, and he did not want to stay immobile while sweaty.
“I am not searching for it,” stated Makalaurë and followed his younger brother.
Tyelko groaned in disappointment.
“That was a fine throw, darling,” Finwë reassured, patting him on the shoulder. The boy’s face lit up. He is still so young, Finwë could not help but think. They all are. Even Fëanaro. This is too much for them.
Not to mention the smallest member of their family. “Where is your nephew, dear?” Finwë inquired softly.
Tyelko scratched the top of his head. “Curvo dropped him off at dad’s room when we went to play.”
The king took a deep breath. He had to visit Fëanaro - he knew he had to. But he also knew that the last time he tried to talk to his poor son, Fëanaro cried and asked him to leave. While they had certainly drifted apart since Finwë’s second marriage, it was now that they were the least close.
That was ridiculous and unacceptable. Fëanaro was vulnerable, needed him the most, and he had to be by Fëanaro’s side. Indis and their children would be fine. They could wait. Fëanaro was the most important now.
They had to see each other.