Chapter Text
Finwë is not ready for Fëanáro’s first.
He knew of his son’s infatuation with Mahtan’s daughter — but marriage! And a son! So when the dove bursts through Finwë’s window, drops the little roll of paper at his feet, Finwë’s reaction, pulling away the ribbon and smoothing it flat on his desk, is disbelief.
He is stricken. Fëanáro is still a child. He cannot be a father! Fëanáro is young, malleable; receptive to change, and healing. His son’s hurts could still be mended; Finwë could make amends. He drops the message and clutches the collar of his robes. No. Fëanáro cannot be a father. It cannot be too late.
Finwë takes the fastest horse he owns from the stables and sets out at a full gallop for the estate of his firstborn — a father! Far too infrequent have been Finwë’s visits, preoccupied as he has been with matters of state and his own young family. Far too infrequent.
Young Nolvo’s voice pierces the rush of wind past his ears. “I want to come, Father! I want to meet the baby!”
Finwë does not heed him, does not see Indis run to catch her son’s arm to keep him from racing after his father.
All the way there, Finwë’s heart pounds harder and swifter than the beat of hooves beneath him. At the gate, Fëanáro is there to greet him. His face is flush, wet with tears, his countenance confused.
“Oh, Father,” he gasps, and collapses into Finwë’s embrace, “Oh, Father! She lives, she lives.”
At first Finwë thinks he means the baby — but did the message not say he was a son? But of course — he means Nerdanel. He means the child’s mother.
“The baby,” Fëanáro continues, pulling back. He looks so young. “I named him for you, Father. He is Nelyafinwë. I am glad you have come. You must meet him.”
Fëanáro rushes Finwë into the house. Nelyafinwë has been several days out of his mother’s womb already, and his clear grey eyes are alive with wonder. He has his mother’s colouring, but the spirit behind his eyes, that is Fëanáro’s.
“Here, hold him.” Fëanáro picks up the bundle of his son and holds him out for Finwë to take.
Finwë enfolds his first grandson in his arms; his regal robes, which he did not bother to change in his haste to be here, fall over and around the baby like a blanket.
“Sweet Nelyafinwë,” Finwë whispers. Sweet child of my child, he thinks to himself. Sweet scion of Míriel. I will protect you as I could not protect my own son.
But when he looks up at Fëanáro, whose face is aglow with unguarded joy, but vulnerable, also, fraught with uncertainty, pleading for guidance, Finwë wonders— he wonders if, perhaps, it is not too late to mend and make amends.