Archive of Our Own

It’s not often that the House of Fëanáro is all together in one house, these days. It was never often that they stayed in one house at all; Fëanáro’s feet are as flighty in interest as his hands, and the far reaches of Valinor became home after home to his sons, in their youths. Often, Fëanáro and Curvo stay for a time at the Halls of Aulë, or Nerdanel visits her father, or Tyelkormo hunts with Oromë, or Makalaurë is playing concerts in Tirion or Alqualondë.

And often, Maitimo is their father’s mouthpiece in the palace—willing, as Fëanáro rarely is, to represent his house’s interests in his grandfather’s court. Now that all his brothers are grown—except for the twins—he can stay in Tirion for longer, and more often, learning the ins and outs of politics at his grandfather’s knee (not quite literally, anymore, given that Maitimo is taller than Finwë now).

But this summer, they are staying in their house on the edge of Tirion—all nine of them.

In other news, Maitimo has a headache.

His father is in one of his moods again. This would not be particularly worrying—Fëanáro has always been prone to phases of deep, intense, obsessive creative fervor, and rarely bothers resisting it now that his children are old enough to cope alone—except that his mother also happens to be in a similar mood. She has left her workshop only a handful of times in the past few days—and Fëanáro has not left his at all.

He has a new project. He always has a new project, of course, but this one seems to excite him more than most; he won’t tell any of them, not even Curvo, exactly what it is. In fact, he cannot even seem to hold a conversation longer than thirty seconds without slipping back into his work.

When this sort of thing happens, Maitimo and Makalaurë, with the help of the household staff, handle the children—which, at this point, consists only of the twins—together.

Or they would handle them together, if Makalaurë had not chosen this exact moment to fall into one of his dreamy, unbreakable musical funks.

Court paperwork tucked under one arm, Maitimo strides down the hallway and raps sharply on Makalaurë’s door. “Káno! Dinner in half an hour!” he shouts.

The sound of Makalaurë’s harp pauses, and then begins again, somehow contriving to sound passive-aggressive.  

“You have to take a break eventually!” he tries.

The harp plays louder.

“Makalaurë Kanafinwë, you have not left your room since yesterday. If you do not take a break, you are going to pass out!”

“Fuck off!” Makalaurë’s voice sings back, in a perfectly pitched operatic high note.

“Then play the notes of your own doom!” Maitimo calls over his shoulder, throwing up his hands in defeat. 

He heads for his mother’s workshop, taking out his paperwork to flip through as he walks, and is abruptly slammed into by a mess of red curls and gangly limbs. “Whoops! Sorry, Nelyo!” calls the offending party, as Maitimo’s papers go flying through the air.

“Careful, Pityo,” he calls, as his brother dashes off again.

“I’m Telvo!” his voice yells from around the corner.

“Nice try, Pityo,” says Maitimo. “And just where are you going with . . . whatever that is?”

“Nowhere!” Pityo shouts.

Maitimo glances at the papers spilled all over the floor, sighs, and leaves them to their fate in favor of running after his second-youngest brother.

(As he passes a door, he spots Tyelkormo and Curvo shaking hands, wearing respective expressions of mischief and solemnity, but has barely the time to spare to think, that is a problem for later.)

Ten minutes later, Maitimo locks away the twins’ confiscated materials—several containers of suspicious powders labeled DO NOT EXPOSE TO FIRE!!, presumably one of their father’s prototypes—in one of his three secret storage areas still undiscovered by the twins. He gathers up his papers again, gives Makalaurë’s door a sharp knock in reminder as he passes by, and makes his way to Nerdanel’s workshop.

He knocks, and receives a vague hum by way of response. “Hello, Ammë,” he says, pushing open the door.

Nerdanel is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her waves of frizzy coppery hair tied back out of her face, surrounded by charcoal sketches. She’s smoothing a strip of wet plaster over a half-finished model, muttering indecipherably to herself.  

“Not now, Fëanáro,” she says absently, as he hovers in the threshold. She looks up. “Oh, hello, Maitimo, my love,” she says, blinking, and wipes her forehead with her arm; a bit of plaster smears across her cheek. “What is it?”

“We’re having dinner soon,” he says. “Are you coming tonight?”

“Hm?”

“Dinner.”

“Oh! Yes, I’ll be there in a minute, darling,” she says, already turning back to her art.

Surreptitiously, Maitimo scoops up the tray of half-eaten, mold-covered food that teeters precariously on the table on his way out; Fëanáro, it seems, has adequately frightened their servants out of disturbing any of the family while they are immersed in crafting.

Two down, one to go.

Maitimo deposits the dishes in the kitchen with an apolegetic smile to the cook, pours a glass of water for Fëanáro, walks out the back door, glares Telvo off his precarious perch on the open fourth-floor window, and crosses the courtyard to Fëanáro’s smithy.

He knocks: once, twice, three times. No answer.

“Atar?”

No response.

“Atya, I’m coming in,” he says, and pushes open the door.

The workshop itself is in utter disarray, even worse than usual; while Fëanáro never works with what might be called neatness, he does so with order, and knows where everything is and ought to be. At the moment, Maitimo—who is well-accustomed to his father’s system of organization—can discern nothing but chaos.

Vials filled with glowing liquid of mysterious origins; petals, twigs, and leaves that glow softly, as though snipped straight from Telperion and Laurelin; shards of glass or crystal, scattered hazardously over both the table and floor; several Fëanorian lamps, some carefully dissected, and two smashed with what must have been a hammer; tens, if not hundreds, of small gems, all cut and polished to perfection, and all discarded on the floor. It stinks of sulfur, coal, sweat, and other things that Maitimo doesn’t want to think about.

In the center of it all is Fëanáro, who doesn’t seem to hear Maitimo enter; he is leaning on his work table, so far he is half-sprawled over it with one leg propped up on its edge, scribbling down notes with swift ferocity. His gray eyes burn intensely, and his foot is tapping so fast against the floor, Maitimo is surprised he hasn’t worn a hole into the stone.

“Atya,” Maitimo tries.

No response.

“Atto.”

Nothing.

Maitimo crosses the workshop swiftly and enters his father’s field of view. He waves a hand, but Fëanáro’s eyes are flickering back and forth across his notes so quickly that Maitimo doubts they are registering any peripheral movement at all.

“Atya,” says Maitimo, with force.

Fëanáro hums. His hands are twitching.

Maitimo taps his father on the shoulder, earning him a grunt of acknowledgement that could be either genuine or instinctual. “Dinner, Atar,” he says. “Are you coming, or shall I bring you something?”

“Hmm?” says Fëanáro distractedly.

“Dinner.”

“Dinner,” Fëanáro repeats, tapping his pen against his lips. He turns suddenly, and pins Maitimo with a startled, thoughtful gaze. “Ah, Nelyo! Nelyo, listen to this. Refraction is one thing, of course, reflection—emission is another—you don’t suppose if I . . . one minute, Nelyo.”

“Are you coming to dinner?” says Maitimo, with infinite patience.

“Yes, yes, I’ll do it in a minute, Nelyo.”

“Atar.”

“Later,” Fëanáro insists.

“Did you hear me, Atya?”

“Later!” he says, waving his pen in dismissal. “Yes, I’ll do it later.”

“You want to come to dinner?” Maitimo tests, and Fëanáro waves his pen again:

“Mmm-hmm, yes, yes.”

Suspicious, Maitimo folds his arms and says flatly, “Atya, Findekáno sneaks through my window every week.”

“Mmm-hmm,” his father says. “That’s good. I’ll look at it later.”

“I am having sex with Finno,” he lies.

Fëanáro waves him off, making a noise of vaguely pleasant dismissal.

Maitimo pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales through his nostrils, and exhales through his mouth.

“. . . I’ll come back later,” he sighs. He sets the glass of water on a sliver of empty space on the desk, takes the half-empty, slightly gross-looking glass next to it away, and closes the door behind him.

Maitimo re-enters the main house through the side door, drops off the cup in the kitchen, and downs a surreptitious goblet of wine. On his way out of the kitchen, he pauses, frowning, struck by the very familiar tugging sensation in his gut that can only mean one thing: some of his brothers are up to no good.

His intuition is confirmed immediately.

“Hello, Nelyo,” says Curufinwë the younger, who has somehow manage to appear behind him in absolute silence.

Maitimo does not jump. “Ah, hello, Curvo,” he says, and flicks his eyes sideways as Tyelkormo appears on his other side, flanking him. A sense of dread begins to drip down his gut. “Turko. Can I help you?”

“We have noticed,” Curvo says, with utter gravity, “that you seem to be having trouble.”

“Trouble with what, exactly?”

“Why, with Amil, Atar, and Makalaurë, of course. They’re all very . . . tied up at the moment.” Curvo has not even reached his majority yet, and he has somehow mastered the art of making every sentence that comes out of his mouth sound incredibly ominous and mildly threatening. “Tyelkormo and I have a proposition for you."

Maitimo waits.

"You see,” Curvo says, “at this very moment, Írissë is waiting outside Tyelko’s window with two horses, fifty feet of rope, and enough supplies for a week-long impromptu hunting trip. It is my job to ensure that Atar doesn’t notice. Luckily, that should prove fairly easy, but I also need to ensure one, that Amil and Káno either do not notice or agree not to tell Atar; two, that Ambarussa do not tell Atar; and three, that Atar remains in his state of distraction until Tyelko returns.”

“So we’re enlisting your help,” Tyelkormo jumps in. 

“It should be simple,” says Curvo. “Encourage Atar—”

“—just make sure that he eats and such—”

“—and, if asked about Tyelkormo’s whereabouts, make sure your lie is convincing. The cover story is that he is on a hunting trip alone—”

“—not with Oromë; you know how Atya’s been weird about him lately—”

“—and certainly not with Írissë or any of our half-cousins, because you saw him leave alone.”

“Very well,” says Maitimo gravely, humoring them. “And what do you and I gain from this arrangement?”

“I,” says Curvo, “gain a week’s worth of sleep without Tyelko’s hound slobbering on me in the middle of the night, and the promise of a favor owed. You?” And Curvo smiles. “Gain the promise of our silence.”

“Your silence regarding?” 

“You really ought to oil your window, Nelyo,” says Curvo, with a false innocence worthy of Melkor himself. “It creaks. And you should tell Findekáno to lower his voice.”

Maitimo blinks. 

“Are you . . . . blackmailing me, Curvo?” he says.

“No,” Curvo lies.

“Yes,” Tyelkormo says cheerfully. 

Maitimo shakes his head, and fights the grin that tugs on his lips. This is a familiar scene—Tyelko, eager to sneak out and spend time with their cousin; Curvo, always willing to egg him on from the shadows. He could swear no time has passed at all; that Curvo is still a child, and Tyelko an adolescent, sneaking around behind their father’s indulgent back.

But they are not. And meeting Írissë is no longer a matter of Fëanáro merely disapproving of their half-cousins: no, of late, a shadow hangs over Fëanáro’s eyes, a shadow of creeping suspicion. Even Maitimo’s old friendships—dear Findekáno; his Aunt Lalwendë, who is in fact about of an age with him—are shadowed by the unease of his father’s gaze.

Watch yourself, Nelyo, Fëanáro told him recently, for trust should not be cheaply given. 

And now Tyelkormo—a man grown—is still sneaking out of the house to go hunting with his cousin. Much like Maitimo—considerably more grown—is still sneaking their other cousin in through his window every week. He feels, suddenly, as though they are grasping desparately backwards to their untroubled youths; the thought shakes him, and he shakes it off in return.

“You don’t have to blackmail me for me to help you, you know,” he says, not bothering to hide his amusement anymore.

“Ah,” says Curvo, because Curvo is terrible, “but that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it? Help us sneak Tyelko out, and Atya learns nothing about your little fling with our half-cousin.”

Tyelkormo winks. “Nothing from us, that is.”

“It is not a fling,” says Maitimo patiently, used to such speculations. “Finno is my friend.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Curvo, raising a skeptic brow.

“I am not having a fling with anyone—which, if you are paying such close attention, you should know,” says Maitimo, slightly less patiently. “The day I have a fling, Atarinkë, is the day Tyelkormo learns subtlety.”

“Hey,” says Tyelkormo. “I’m subtle.”

“All right, then,” says Maitimo, tactfully ignoring him. “And now that you have incriminating information on me, and I have incriminating information on you, what is to stop me from simply spilling to Atar as soon as you do the same?”

“It appears we are at an impasse, then,” declares Curvo, who is clearly enjoying himself tremendously. (Maitimo truly cannot say why everyone thinks Curvo is an exact copy of their father: Fëanáro is crafty, but not in this sense of the term.)

Maitimo nods seriously. “It appears so.”

“Look, will you help me or not?” demands Tyelkormo.

Maitimo pretends to mull it over. “Very well,” he says at last, “I will help you. But I’m going to raise the price.”

“Name your cost,” says Curvo.

“For the next week,” he says, tapping his lips thoughtfully, “while Tyelko is gone . . . you will help me check in on Ammë, Atya, and Káno.” Curvo’s face betrays a hint of surprise, before he snaps his mask of cool teenage indifference back into place. “You will help me make sure they eat, sleep, and go outside at least once a day. You will help me with the paperwork Atya has left for me to do. And you will not complain about it, not even a little bit.”

“All right,” says Tyelkormo cheerfully, but Curvo narrows his eyes:

“That strikes me as unfair,” he says. “This is for Tyelko’s sake, after all; why should I do all the work?”

“Tyelko,” says Maitimo, with a pause that channels Makalaurë’s flair for the dramatic, “. . . is going to bring the twins with him.”

Tyelkormo sputters. “What? On the trip? But Írissë didn’t bring enough supplies for four people!”

He shrugs. “Then pick them up on your way out.”

“They are more likely to notice if three of us are gone,” Curvo warns.

“It’s more believable that you are hunting with the twins than hunting without anyone at all,” Maitimo points out. “Besides, I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to help you.”

“That’s true,” says Tyelkormo, nodding slowly. “That’s true.” He pushes off the wall grandiosely and bumps his shoulder into Maitimo’s by way of acknowledgement. “All right, I’ll go get them,” he declares. “Curvo?”

“Fine by me,” Curvo says, and holds out his ringed hand expectantly. “Pleasure doing business with you, Nelyo.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” says Maitimo, honestly, shaking his brother’s hand—he has, after all, just bought himself a week with an assistant, and three less brothers to keep track of. “Now, let’s go over this cover story of yours.”

When Maitimo has finished dealing with Curvo, banged ineffectively on Makalaurë’s door again, and gotten the twins to stop wrestling in the foyer, he goes to his father’s forge for another try.

“Atya, we are having dinner.”

Fëanáro, scribbling something down with singular concentration, does not hear him, and Maitimo steps forward.

“Atar,” he says, in his best emulation of his mother’s infamous tone of iron stubbornness, “by today’s Mingling, it will have been seven days since you last left your workshop, and you have barely spoken to any of us. We are beginning to worry.”

Fëanáro doesn't seem to hear. “Ah!” he exclaims abruptly; he springs to his feet and flings his pen away to smack into the wall and clatter to the floor. “Curvo, find the polishing compounds!” He squints. “Ah, wait—Nelyo, is that you? Nelyo, have you seen the polishing compounds?”

“No, Atya.”

“Must find the polish,” Fëanáro grumbles, stalking over to the open storage cabinets and rifling through them. He dashes a series of metal tools to the ground in irratation, then pushes aside a row of glass bottles. “Who labeled these? Did I? Ha! Foolish . . . gone, I think,” he muses, squinting at the label of an empty bottle. “Yes, gone. Used all the bottles already, most likely . . .”

Then his tone changes to one equally familiar, and Maitimo’s stomach swoops with dread.

“You see, Nelyafinwë, how these things come to pass?” says Fëanáro, in the soft, airy tone of voice indicating the start of what Carnistir refers to as Half-Baked Philosophy with Sleep-Deprived Atar Time. “How nothing lasts? How everything runs out, eventually . . . compounds, tools.” He tosses the jar aside, and Maitimo winces as it shatters against the wall, dodging the shards flying across the workshop. “Life, even,” says Fëanáro, staring at a spot on the ceiling. “Light. Fire. It all must die, in time—or at least, it all must fade . . .”

“Yes, Atya,” says Maitimo, “as you say.”

“Yes, it is,” says Fëanáro, suddenly brisk again. He picks up a tool in each hand, seemingly at random, and holds both them up to the lamplight. “It is as I say, after all. For who else among us would ever think to attempt—to improve upon perfection—to preserve what is already preserved; but the Tengwar, Nelyo, after all—the Tengwar! It is not so different. Oh, and speaking of words—the masses and their sá-sí—the memories of the Eldar are long, and yet they seem to forget so easily—I remember the sounds we once spoke, you see—I remember—and our house preserves them—keeps them alive, you see.” He breathes in, and it rasps strangely, like he has smoke in his lungs. “Keeps them . . . burning.”

“. . . You are not making much sense, Atya.”

“Nothing dies in Aman, they say,” Fëanáro murmurs. “Nothing dies. Ha!” he barks. “Withered flowers and ashes, I say!”

This, Maitimo thinks wryly, is precisely why he is the only one to consistently attempt to bring Fëanáro to reality—because it is so impossible a task. It is all he can do to summon his mother’s temper and keep from shouting, as Káno or Carnistir would—it is impossible to have a conversation with you!

You do not listen!

Curufinwë Fëanáro, after all, is not renowned for listening—save, perhaps, to his wife, and Nerdanel is at the moment, in her own way, nearly as unreachable as him.

But Maitimo says none of this. Maitimo merely steels his voice to gentle firmness and says, “Atya, perhaps you should sleep.”

“But you can see it happen, Atar,” murmurs Fëanáro, turning his face up to the ceiling, and Maitimo raises his brows at the reference to Finwë. “You can see it happen before our very eyes.” Fëanáro whirls, apparently aimlessly. “Stagnation,” he spits out. “Complacence. Conformity. Why create when one can copy; why innovate when one can labor mindlessly? We have everything—why bother with anything? What is anything to everything? Do you see what I am saying?”

“Not really, but—”

“Eternity, Nelyafinwë!” his father shouts, and Maitimo jumps. “Not constancy! Not homogeneity! And as if any difference is discord—or Discord, that is to say—but no.” He takes a step back, breathing hard. “No, if we are meant to stay blinded in the Valar’s light, let me blind them in turn! Let my light blaze bright as the secret flame!”

“Atar,” Maitimo says warningly.

His father abandons the tools in his hand, which clatter to the floor, and grabs Maitimo harshly by the shoulders. “I can do it, Nelyafinwë,” he insists, and his eyes gleam so brightly that their silver-gray is nearly the white of a star. “I can do it, and I shall—and they will covet it, Nelyo, they who doubted it at all—will they not?”

When Maitimo does not immediately answer, Fëanáro shakes him. “Will they not, Nelyafinwë?”

“I am not sure of what you are speaking, Atar,” says Maitimo, gently removing his father’s shaking hands from his shoulders.

Féanáro shakes his head, and his eyes come into focus; for a moment, he seems to see him. “Of course,” says Fëanáro, stepping back. “Of course—what am I saying? It is to be a surprise—and years in the making—yéni even, I should think—ai, Nelyo, what are you even doing in here?” he suddenly snaps, with a half-hearted glare. “Did I not lock the door? I am certain I told you I was not to be disturbed.”

“. . . Sorry, Atya,” says Maitimo, very, very calmly. “I came to check on you.”

Féanaro flaps his hands impatiently. “It is going well; I am well—go now, child, I must think. I must look for . . . what was I looking for?”

He looks so lost, all of a sudden, that Maitimo takes pity on him and says, “Polishing compounds.”

“Ah, yes!” says Fëanáro spiritedly, and Maitimo hurriedly intervenes:

“But Atya, you ought to take a break,” he says, again channeling his mother’s wisdom as best as he can. “You are rambling incohesively; you know that means your mind is not functioning at its best. You will work better once you have eaten and slept.”

But his father only scoffs. “Not functioning at its best! Ha! And what would you know of it! Out, Nelyo! I am working. Let your father work. I must . . . I must finish this.”

“It shall be here tomorrow, Atar,” says Maitimo softly.

“Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. All will remain the same tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that, and after that, and after that! Nay, that is precisely why I must continue—ai, where did I put my pen?”

Wordlessly, Maitimo picks Fëanáro’s discarded pen off the floor and hands it to him. Fëanáro takes it with a hum of thanks, snatches up the closest notebook, and begins to jot down notes in the margins of its already-crowded pages. 

As Fëanáro writes, Maitimo reaches out with ósanwë, brushing the edge of his father’s mind, and is met with a wall of black stone that rises beyond perception; at the touch of his son’s mind, Fëanáro’s mental shields offer an instinctive crack.

Beyond them—inferno.

Leaping, blazing, so fast and flickering Maitimo cannot tell one tongue of flame from another. His father’s mind rages like a roomful of people all shouting at once, rages with some impossible combination of scattered trains of thought and singular focus. Maitimo barely manages to yank himself out of the fortress of chaos, the crack slamming shut behind him, before his own fëa is swallowed by the flames.

“. . . Good night, Atya,” he says softly, retreating through the door. “I’ll keep something warm for you.”

Inside the house, Tyelkormo is waiting for him, leaning against the wall with his packed satchel and hunting bow slung across his back. Curvo stands at his side, like a slight shadow. They have the unmistakable air of younger brothers who have just been blatantly eavesdropping on a loud conversation—because that it, of course, exactly what they are.

“Any luck?” says Curvo, with wry resignation.

“You,” says Maitimo, fixing him with a stern glower, “had better keep your promise.”

“Why even bother?” says Tyelkormo without preamble, jerking his chin toward the courtyard “It’s not like he fucking hears you. It’s not like he gives enough of a shit to try.”

“He does try,” says Maitimo, without bite. “It’s hard for him.”

Tyelkormo snorts. “Yes, so we’ve been told. He just gets—”

“Stuck on things,” Maitimo finishes.

“And that’s exactly why he lets Káno get away with acting like a teenager,” Tyelkormo says. “Because he gets stuck on things, too.” He snorts again, pushes off the wall. “Don’t you ever find yourself thinking that it sounds an awful lot like an excuse?”

“He tries,” Maitimo says again.

Tyelkormo ignores him. “Ambarussa and I are going now,” he says stiffly, and pulls Curvo into a brief, crushing embrace. “Say goodbye to Ammë and Atya for us—if they notice we’re gone.”

“Ammë will,” says Curvo, and doesn’t bother to voice the attached implication: that Fëanáro will not.

What are they all still doing here, Maitimo wonders, as Curvo, too, slinks away. None of them have married, but even Carnistir is old enough that it would not be so strange for him, with his accounting work and his weaving apprenticeship, to move away. Then again, why would they? The Noldor pack as many generations as possible into the biggest homes they can. And the house is hardly getting smaller as they grow. If anything, it feels larger—as though Fëanáro has packed himself away into his forge, and where his vast, looming spirit once warmed the halls, there is nothing but empty space.

“I am the only sane person in this house,” he mutters to himself.

“I’m inclined to agree,” says Carnistir’s voice. 

Maitimo looks around himself, then up, to where Carnistir is—Eru Allfather help him—hanging upside-down from the chandelier, apparently perfectly comfortable, reading a book.

“Manwë and Varda!” Maitimo swears. “Have you been there all this time?”

“You’ve made an error,” says Carnistir gravely, licking the tip of his finger and turning the page. “There is no way Tyelko will keep the Ambarussar out of trouble. If anything, he’ll lead them headfirst into it.”

“At least it won’t be my problem,” Maitimo grumbles, heading toward the dining room. “Dinner. Ten minutes.”

Carnistir unhooks his legs from the chandelier and hops neatly to the floor. “I will bet you fifty gold pieces that Ammë, Atya, and Káno all forget to come to dinner,” he says, straightening his robes and hair.

“I,” says Maitimo tiredly, “am not foolish enough to take that bet.”

Later, Maitimo sets a plate of food on Makalaurë’s cluttered desk. Nerdanel had come to dinner; Makalaurë and Fëanáro had not.

“It never used to be this bad,” he says, softly, because he does not think Makalaurë will hear. 

Makalaurë hums in response, although he does not look up from the compositions in his lap. The sapphires wound through his hair glimmer bright.

“He barely saw me, Laurë,” Maitimo murmurs. “He barely heard a word I said.”

“You know how Atya is,” says Makalaurë.

“He spoke of light, and impermanence, and the Valar.” Maitimo winces, recalling the feverish rush of Fëanáro’s words, half-strung together, pushed out of his mouth as though by staccato bursts. “There was a madness in his eyes.”

“You know how Atya is,” Makalaurë says again, “with his ranting and raving, and his ideas . . . we are all a bit mad, I think, in this family.”

“Moryo and I were just agreeing that I am the only sane one.”

“You?” Makalaurë scoffs, rolling his eyes. With his signature dramatic flair, he reaches out to his harp and strums a high, haunting, shivering note. “You are the maddest of us all—you are trying to keep us sane. Now get out; I am trying to finish this motif.”

Fëanáro hears Maitimo leave as if through a pane of dividing glass—he is fairly sure it was Maitimo, anyway—and pauses, frowning, trying to recall if something important passed between them. Oh, well; it is too late to call back the boy now.

The light of Telperion begins to shimmer through the workshop windows, and its Mingling with that of Laurelin casts the locks of onyx hair falling around his face into hues of gold and silver, like yellow diamonds. He breathes in the light-touched air and thinks of darkness. When the silver of his mother’s hair had fallen around him, he had thought it as promised and forever as the Trees; now that it is mere memory, he cannot hope to create it again.

Well—Tyelkormo’s hair is so very much like Míriel’s, he considers—yes, yes, perhaps something of her lives in him still, passed on to his son? And Carnistir, though he prefers weaving, does sometimes sew—

Yes. Yes. Fëanáro leaps to his feet again, pacing back and forth, and the crunch of broken glass sounds mysteriously beneath his boots; he ignores it. 

What is lost cannot be re-made—but in shadows, in images, like the oil paintings that emerge beneath Maitimo’s brush—

But what is not yet lost—

—Why does Nerdanel always sculpt their sons? Does she fear to lose them, and so capture their memories in stone?—

—Art reveals priorities. Fëanáro thinks of his mother’s tapestries, and the many trinkets and inventions his hands have wrought. 

Laurelin fades. See—even a permanent fixture, for half the time, sleeps. An omen? Silver has died, now so too can gold, and in the morning another silver will die again. Fire dies, when the flame is blown out.

Light in his hair, gems beneath his fingers.

Fëanáro thinks of a mirror, which reflects—a star, which shines—a mirror beneath starlight—

Careful. He has to be so, so careful. The Valar are watching, after all—

The nape of Fëanáro’s neck prickles. He spins around, and the light of the Trees on his skin feels like eyes. 

Stalking to the windows, Fëanáro whips the blinds shut.

There.

But of course, perhaps they can still see—though he has wrought enchantment into the stone, blocking out the prying eyes of that prowling dark Vala and his too-forgiving kin—and he cannot forget that the Valar are not the only prying eyes on Aman, of course, not when his scheming half-brother sends his well-trained little spies to worm into the hearts of his sons—

Poor Maitimo; he trusts too easily. Fëanáro really must keep a better eye on him.

He really must watch his words around him.

Not that Maitimo would ever lift a finger in betrayal of him—no, no, his sons are loyal, his sons love him well, this he has never doubted. But they are young yet, even the eldest of them, and do not know as he does the insidious whispers that echo behind the white facades of Tirion and its sister settlements. Ever its people are watching him, their beloved and charismatic crown prince, whom they have embraced in his eccentricities and lauded in his achievements—though of course, his half-brother has his supporters; narrow-eyed lurkers who eye him like swooping hawks—ever he must hold his head up, guard his face, shield his mind.

Careful.

Eternity.

Nothing ever dies in Aman—

What dies will always return.

It shall be here tomorrow.

Pointless, pointless, madness—

—but no. Not pointless—sighted. Fëanáro will forge a light against the dark, and grasp tight in his hands a preservation of the paradise that has, for as long as he can remember, ever been slipping away.

Fëanáro can fix it.

Who else, when no one can see the cracks—when they think he is at the center of the fracturing—

He can fix it.

It is the time of the Elves.

There is always more to do; there is always more to create—always work to do. 

(Several hours later, as Maitimo goes over paperwork with his father’s steward, a small explosion shakes the house.

“Ambarussa!” Maitimo shouts on instinct—but the twins have left with Tyelkormo and Írissë, and are surely long gone by now.

He recalls the mysterious boxes of powder he confiscated from the twins . . . and where he, his judgment blurred by exhaustion, had hidden them. Beneath the floorboards of Curvo’s workshop.

“. . . Oh, no,” Maitimo whispers.

Their mother’s workshop door slams open. “CURUFINWE ATARINKE FEANARION,” her voice thunders.

“. . . oh, no.”)

Next week, Fëanáro will emerge from his workshop. He will greet Makalaurë, who is playing his lute in the courtyard, with a voice bright and raspy from lack of water and use, and he will come to breakfast. Nerdanel, whom Maitimo and Curvo have coaxed into getting a good night’s sleep, will convince him to do the same, for in these days she still has his ear when she tries. 

He will not apologize, exactly, because he never really does.

But he will ask where Tyelko and the twins are and express sorrow at their absence, and he will propose an outing into the city together to take a walk in the crafting district, and when he catches Findekáno lurking on the street corner he will only raise a hand in absent greeting.

And all will be well, for a little while. Seeking inspiration and adventure, Fëanáro and his family will explore the wilds of Valinorë come autumn, leaving the summer-house on the edge of Tirion behind. Makalaurë will rehearse his new song, and Tyelko will take the twins out to hunt deer, and Curvo and Nerdanel will search for mineral deposits, and Maitimo and Carnistir will fret over supplies. And though Fëanáro’s hands will still twitch and his eyes will still gleam with creative fire, he will not be held fast to his forge like a man unhinged.

Next summer, he will do it all over again.