Chapter Text
When Fëanor first opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the smile of his father, pure joy cast over his handsome face. Fëanor smiled back, reaching for Finwë despite being half blinded by light and not having full control over his hands. He touched his father’s face, patted at those glowing cheeks and tried to say something. All that came out was a little squeak, and Finwë held him close. It was nice, being surrounded by such warmth and oh, Finwë’s robes were dark blue, not so painful to look at… Fëanor caught a glimpse of the light grey marble tiles on the floor, then saw something rather strange. A drop of water, alone and small. Whatever was it doing there? Suddenly there was movement, wind in his hair and Fëanor almost fell out of his father’s grasp. He heard words, but did not understand them. Far too loud for his liking, they repeated over and over with increasing pitch. And then they died in Finwë’s throat to little more than sobs.
Miriel’s body lay weary and peaceful without a soul to move it. No light shone in her eyes, and the joy of Finwë had vanished too. Fëanor was set upon the bed with its pure white sheets and many wrinkles, where he fisted the covers in his tiny hands and wondered what to do with them. Finwë wished to say at least one word to his beloved wife, but could not at this precise moment. He ran his fingers along the tip of her delicate ear, wishing it could hear the pain of his heart. But it would do them both no good. Her life belonged to Fëanor now, and he did not even know it.
~
Fëanor wondered why his father did not smile. Still young and with very clear memory, he missed the lovely warmth he’d once seen in Finwë’s face.
“Ada.” He raised his arms, waving them to get his father’s attention. There on the table he sat, surrounded by books and scrolls with mostly pictures on them. Finwë was painting in gentle, fluid strokes and looked up the moment his son called to him.
“What is it?” The brush twirled between his fingers, catching Fëanor’s attention with the red tip moving around. Fëanor forgot what he was going to say, and shuffled forth to catch the end of the brush. He was less than a year old, and Finwë feared his son would try to eat what he held in his hands so he quickly moved the brush away. Fëanor fell flat on his face right before his father. When he looked up, he saw Finwë looking at him with concern. Not sadness, nor a blank, distant gaze. Something wholly fixed upon him and rather welcome, as Fëanor had been sitting mostly ignored for the past hour or so.
“Adaaa….” He whined, wanting to be held. Finwë set his brush aside and scooped up Fëanor into his arms, running his fingers through his son’s soft dark hair. It had always calmed them both, Fëanor’s hair feeling like the feathers of a newborn chick to Finwë’s touch and pleasing him whenever it was pet. But only by his father. Nobody else could even come near him without causing a fuss. Finwë always glared the other elves away if they dared to bother his son. Fëanor, though young and not yet gifted with perfect speech, felt proud and looked as pompous as a little elfling could. Which was very pompous indeed – now a young prince, Fëanor could ask for anything and did so whenever he could. He reached up to grab at Finwë’s long locks of hair, and managed to get some. It didn’t taste like anything, but had the faintest floral scent from what Finwë used to look after his hair. Fëanor chewed on it in peace, gazing with wide eyes up at his father. Finwë looked into his son’s eyes, seeing the mingling of silver clouds and a dark red sunset there. Miriel’s eyes. Now to be seen only in Fëanor, Finwë could not help but stare. His breath hitched as he remembered the first time he’d seen these eyes. Beneath a vine-covered archway, his hands in hers and their faces so close their body heat blended into one. Shameless desire overcame him that day, and it was a true love he’d shared with Miriel until the day of her death and even after. He still loved her, yearning for the moment he could ask Mandos to give her back. At present, raising Fëanor was his first priority. Waking the dead was neither his task nor privilege yet.
Fëanor tugged on his father’s hair, trying to get him to breathe. He hated when Finwë went all misty-eyed, his mind in the distance and actions beyond Fëanor’s understanding. But now Finwë walked in the lands of memory, and nothing much would bring him from there. Still, Fëanor could try. He pulled at his father’s clothes, tried to grip his face, then stood and closely inspected him. Peering into Finwë’s clouded grey eyes, he saw they were unfocussed.
“Are you sleeping?” he asked, knowing elves slept with their eyes open, having done it himself once or twice. “Ada. Look?” He slapped Finwë’s cheeks, hard enough to jerk his father into alertness. Finwë gasped and leaned back, falling out of his chair with Fëanor atop him. The dreamy red locks of his wife’s hair slipped through his fingers as the vivid memory of sensation faded… and he then found his son sitting on his chest.
“Don’t do that.” Fëanor pouted and beat upon Finwë’s chest for emphasis. It barely hurt, Finwë rising in a slow arc with his arms coming to cradle his son.
“Forgive me…” he whispered, clutching Fëanor so close he could feel hot breathing against his chest. “My… mind wanders sometimes.”
“No wandering!” Fëanor’s voice was muffled through layers of clothing and he squirmed a bit, forcing Finwë to loosen his hold. “Stay with me. No wandering for you.”
No smile crossed Finwë’s lips but there was kindness in his eyes, an appreciation for everything his son tried to do. So young, barely able to walk on his own, and already he was full of fiery passion to see his father well. Just like Miriel.
~
Five years passed, and Fëanor still demanded to be held whenever his father was around. Finwë had grown used to it, although as the King he received many strange looks when holding court or council. Sitting in Finwë’s lap, Fëanor sneered at everyone from what he believed to be his position upon the throne. Now and then, he looked around. Blue and golden tiles in the shape of stars covered the floor, while thick drapery hung from the walls to keep out the sunlight. Here atop Túna in the city of Tirion, the midday light was more of an annoyance as it beamed through the throneroom windows. There were no linen curtains to dim it, oh no. Rich dark blue folds of hand-embroidered brocade fabric spilled from golden rods atop the arched windows, creating a rather gloomy and menacing ambience. Soft light came from candles in finely crafted holders of gold, many patterns racing through the detailed metalwork. Most of the throneroom was cast in shadow. Only Finwë and his son sat in the light; the only other option was to stand beneath the diamond chandelier in the center of the room which cast a sparkling glow all the way to the door. Fëanor often gazed up at it and marveled at the beautiful white lights so far from his reach. They reminded him of the Trees, and he was definitely not allowed to touch those. Bright, pretty things always pleased him and when he could, he shared them with his father. Finwë tried to look excited, but in his heart there was little interest for the world. He loved his son’s smile however, and did his very best to maintain it when possible.
Sitting on his throne, he could not see Fëanor’s face. He did not need to, for the subtle shifts in Fëanor’s position told more than his expression ever could. Slight fidgeting signaled general discomfort, staying still was him in a low mood, and bristling with anger to the point that he tensed his whole body… well, that needed no explanation. At present, Fëanor leaned back looking smug and satisfied as he sat in his father’s lap. Finwë absently glanced about the throneroom at the various elves going about their business. Most of the Noldor were engaged in conversation, snippets of gossip passing about the wellbeing of their kingdom and the most recent news from the other elven kins. Sometimes an elf of high status (not from blood, but from their knowledge in smithy or lore) would seek the King’s advice, and Finwë would reply in his cold, dead voice. He was terribly bored, and struggled to keep his thoughts from turning to his wife. He knew it wasn’t healthy to obsess over her so. It was just… Well, he could not help but feel lonely. His son deserved a more devoted father, not one who wallowed in misery because he had nobody to kiss and cuddle at night.
‘Pathetic.’ Finwë shook his head. Fëanor noticed. He turned, glancing up at his father. Finwë looked at him pointedly as if to say “Nothing to see here” and blinked. Narrowing his eyes, the slightest flicker of red shone in Fëanor’s glare. He could feel the sorrow in his father’s body, see how his shoulders slumped and his neck wasn’t entirely straight. He repositioned himself to face Finwë and pressed his face into the near motionless chest.
“Breathe, ada.” Fëanor murmured so softly only his father could hear. “You are stressed.”
Finwë did not wish to argue and sighed, patting his son gently on the back. It took him a few minutes to regulate his shallow, irregular breaths, but soon enough there was an even rhythm in the rise and fall of his chest. Pleased, Fëanor leaned up to give his father a light kiss at the nape of his neck. Finwë always wore his robes open just so Fëanor could do that. He didn’t do it consciously – rather, he’d developed the habit from seeing just how often Fëanor liked to go out of his way for affection.
~
In the sixteenth year of Fëanor’s life, he discovered a new emotion. It was on a fine day when the sun peeped around fluffy clouds and birds sang to the sky. Fëanor was watching his father in the gardens from his hiding place in a bush, leaves in his hair and hands planted on the ground. Finwë strode with his back straight and hair unbound, a circlet of gold at his brow and a fluid grace in his step.
“A fortuitous day it is that I gaze upon thy beauty so fair and pure.” said he to the maiden in white, her long dress fluttering in the breeze. Atop her blonde head rested a crown of flowers with light blue petals the same shade as her eyes. Her laughter was like birdsong, face smoother than river pebbles.
“Oh Finwë, you flatter me so.” She spoke with formality yet no titles, and Fëanor was aghast to hear it. Who could be so close to his father to not refer to him as ‘Your Majesty’? This elleth was neither stupid nor disrespectful though, for it seemed she had the King enraptured. Her every word delighted his ears, and he leaned close to her for just a moment. Then another. Suddenly it seemed as if they’d been attached to each other for hours, Finwë’s nose buried in her long, slender neck.
“Mm… lavender suits you, meleth-nín.” His voice took a deeper, husky tone and caused the maiden to blush. “Indis… long have I waited for thee.”
“I should not have kept my King waiting…” Indis didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest, and the little smirk twitching at her lips made Fëanor’s blood boil. And then she leaned in to press her lips to Finwë’s cheek, but Finwë was quick in turning his head and capturing her in an open kiss. He was sure nobody was watching. He was wrong.
It was on that day that Fëanor first felt hatred.