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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.

Chapter Text

Three years passed and Finwë had begun to heal his aching heart in his marriage to Indis. Miriel was not forgotten, oh no. Finwë remembered her every time he looked at his son, and in every moment a draft of air brushed past his hand which she would always hold…. Always. Never had Miriel ever left him alone. Perhaps he’d become codependent in the years he spent with her. But now she was gone, and he attempted to have Indis as a replacement. He loved his new wife, terribly so. His dead grey gaze sparkled whenever he looked at her, and often at court he would be smitten by the presence of Indis by his side, all other things forgotten. All of Tirion saw him as lovesick, but he was happy and the Noldor could not begrudge him for it. Fëanor still had youth and purity in his heart to keep a smile upon his face, even though the sight of his stepmother made his blood boil. These feelings were not new by any means but the intensity in which they attacked him was a frightening thing. Whenever he saw Indis and Finwë together, he had to go and break them apart, eager for his father’s attention. Indis would smile, thinking him adorable. More often than not, Finwë would be annoyed.

One day Fëanor caught his father alone and sped over to him like a bee late for work.

“Ada!” he cried, jumping up into his father’s lap without a pause for breath. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

“I was hoping for a moment of peace…” Finwë spoke softly with a thin veil over the ire in his voice, not meeting his son’s eyes.

“Oh! Peace. Peace is good, yes.” Fëanor quelled his own excitement for his father’s sake, he would do anything for him, anything at all, and pressed his face into Finwë’s chest. He was only tall enough to reach the King’s legs when standing, so this position was absolutely perfect for a nice warm hug. Both his arms wrapped around Finwë’s chest and were loose enough to prevent suffocation. The scent of safety and aged sweetness blanketed Fëanor’s senses so that nothing else was present in his world. Then he caught lavender in his father’s robes, and knew Indis had been all over him. He narrowed his eyes.

“Why do you smell like her?” he grumbled, peering up at his father. Finwë actually glared at him.

“Whatever happened to peace?”

“I want to know.” Fëanor pressed on and with his stubborn childishness would not be beaten so soon. It struck him hard when that old weary shadow came back into Finwë’s eyes, causing his entire face to droop. “Do not look at me so! I only ask a simple thing-“

“Your mother would have done the same.” Finwë looked away from his son, into the tall flowers to his left. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me a second of silence until I answer…”

Fëanor wanted an answer so badly he wasn’t going to give up this chance for anything. “Tell me.”

“It is because I love her, and hold her in my arms as I hold you now.” Cold and distant, Finwë guarded himself against Fëanor’s probing mind. What his son asked next was not a thing he’d expected to hear in all his life.

“Who do you love more?” Fëanor squirmed in his father’s lap in an attempt to get Finwë to look into his eyes. He wanted honesty, the absolute truth. Finwë stared into the eyes of his wife in the face of his son and replied.

“You are my very own flesh, the blood and spirit of your mother incarnate. How can I love anyone more than you?”

Like the sun bursting out of thick rain clouds came Fëanor’s euphoria, bright and flaming with a glow to his face. Tighter he hugged his father, so tight that Finwë could feel his son’s joy radiating from his tiny body.

“My sweet, sweet child… Never doubt my love for you, ever.” Finwë held his son so that Fëanor might feel protected, in the way that could not be matched by anything else. The scent of lavender had faded entirely, nothing more of Indis clinging to Finwë that would cause Fëanor grief. Perhaps it had been a figment of his imagination, the spawn of dark suspicious thoughts. It was gone now. Nothing else mattered but his father, holding him, only him.

~

Five months passed and the ever-watchful Fëanor noticed something strange.

“What’s wrong with thee?” he asked, speaking to Indis with disgust instead of concern in his voice. She smiled with that damned condescension on her pretty face and cooed to him.

“Hast thy father not told thee? Oh, ‘tis a wondeful thing I have planned.” Then she bent down with some degree of effort and looked into his eyes. Fëanor’s gaze was locked to the swell of her stomach, which seemed to cause her great pain and intrigued him. “Thou shalt be gifted with three siblings come Spring, Fëanáro.” Her smile widened with glee, but to Fëanor it was more akin to malice.

“Do not call me that!” he snarled, recoiling in fast steps away from her. “Thou thinkest thyself greater than the Valar, with the ability to create life! Pah! Thou art more horrid than I thought!” He fled then down the sunlit hall and into his father’s chambers, where Finwë sat looking at a few circlets. All thoughts of what to wear today left the King’s mind at the sound of his son’s demanding voice.

“Ada! That elleth of yours who looks so awfully fat said she would give me siblings! I do not want siblings, Ada. What darkness twists her wretched mind?”

“Do not speak of her thus.” Finwë rose and in his face a black anger could be seen festering. “She is my beloved wife and a part of our family.”

“But Ada!!! She cannot make elves! She is blasphemous, and icky, and I hate her!”

“ENOUGH!” The circlets were cast aside and they clattered on Finwë’s bedside table. He’d turned his body towards Fëanor, openly hostile and ready to engage with his son. Fëanor had never seen him like this and breathed quicker in fright, but stood his ground.

“No! You must tell me!” His feet twisted in the carpet, eyes blazing with stubborn rage. Finwë had never fought with Miriel, thus the sight of her anger had never greeted him like this. What Fëanor showed him now was probably how his worst nightmares would have turned out all those years ago.

“Ellith can create little elves, and the Valar have given them this gift! Who are you to question and deny my wife these rights?”

“I don’t wantlittle elves! I’ve seen them, Ada! They’re noisy and stupid and can’t do anything right.”

“You are noisy too.” Finwë pointed out with a grand gesture towards his son, seeing Fëanor jerk in discomfort.

“I AM NOT!!” As if proving his father’s point Fëanor screamed even louder and balled his hands into fists, needing to break something, not knowing what. It was a good thing Indis was far away, for a tragedy would have befallen her had Fëanor been able to get close. Finwë could see his son literally steaming and it turned his anger into a kind of horrified curiosity. Curls of smoke rose from Fëanor’s hair and the distinct scent of bacon frying could be smelt. He was of the Eldar, his spirit flame itself. And now he was pissed enough to actually explode. Finwë did not know how to disarm his son without going over to pick him up, so he stayed right where he was and shook his head. Clear disappointment washed over his face and Fëanor saw it and despaired. There was a loud hiss as tears spilled down Fëanor’s heated cheeks, and the young elf felt like his eyeballs were melting. He cried from pain both physical and emotional, too hot for his own liking and unable to understand just what the hell was going on. Finwë took a step back, then three forward. He could not watch his son cry. He held Fëanor in an attempt to calm him, then saw Indis watching from the corner of the hall. She was shooed by his hand. This did not need to be seen.

~

Physical hurts were healed easily enough for the immortal, hardy Eldar but troubles of the mind rarely vanished. Heavily upon Fëanor’s heart lay the look of pity in the eyes of his stepmother when he saw her leave, and even worse was the motion of Finwë in communication to her. What had the world come to when Fëanor’s greatest theatrics could not wholly ensnare his father’s attention? Harder and harder he had cried until his chest hurt and there was nothing but smoke in his head. Finwë held him through it all. Light burns would heal in hours. It was nothing to the father who would die for his son.

Months passed, and one day Fëanor could not find his father no matter how hard he tried. The day after that he caught sight of Indis, weary and oddly slender. From a distance he sneered at her and watched her walk, inwardly hoping she would trip and fall on her face. She did not, and Fëanor cursed her under his breath. Still she walked, a gentle glow to her skin and rich curl in her hair. Fëanor then ran after her.

“Where is my Ada?” Tugging at her dress, the elfling could only use his voice to get further attention. “Hast thou done something to him?”

“Not at all, dear one.” Indis paused to bend and run her fingers through Fëanor’s hair, noticing how similar it was to her husband’s. Fëanor was loathe to be pet by anyone other than Finwë and stepped back, spitting his words of “Don’t touch me!” as he always did. Indis straightened up, running her hands down the aching sides of her body. She then folded her hands behind her back.

“Your Adar is in the parlour if you need him.”

Fëanor sped off down the hall and turned a corner so fast he almost lost his footing. He burst into the parlour, gasping for breath and then felt his heart stop. There on a creamy white sofa with feet planted in the thick red carpet sat Finwë, dressed in nothing more than a simple black tunic and pants. In his arms he held a ridiculously small elfling with a mess of hair on its head so dark it was almost colourless.

“What in the name of Eru is that?” Finwë looked up at the sound of his son’s voice, smiling. The expression was glued to his face, and he looked so relaxed it was like he’d been drugged. Tentatively Fëanor stepped closer then ran as Finwë beckoned to him.

“It is your háno, Curufinwë.” Whenever Finwë used that name, Fëanor knew he was getting sentimental and by the Valar, it was strange. A brother? That little thing, right there?

“What?!” Now standing before Finwë, Fëanor leaned forwards to get a closer look.

“His name is Ñolofinwë… or Fingolfin, as the common folk would say. I want you to show him kindness…” There was a tone of seriousness to Finwë’s words accompanied by the crystal grey in his eyes. “You will do this for me, won’t you?”

Fëanor did not reply. Fingolfin was looking at him, and he had Finwë’s cool gaze that almost looked a little judgemental.

“What kind of name is Ñolofinwë?” said Fëanor softly, brows furrowed and eyes unfocused. “He hasn’t done anything yet. How do you know he’s going to be all… high and mighty? Is that what it means?”

Finwë shook his head, that smile still plastered to his face. “He will live to do great things. I have foreseen it.”

A sudden, aberrant thought flicked through Fëanor’s mind. It licked at him like playful fire and scorched him whenever he tried to ignore it. Fingolfin could not live to do great things if he died right here and now, could he?

Fëanor placed his hand atop his brother’s head, and squeezed it a little. It was surprisingly soft, but he could tell nothing else for not a second had passed before Finwë batted his hand away.

“You must be gentle with him. He is very delicate.”

“What would happen if you dropped him?” asked Fëanor, an innocent grin tugging at his lips. His sharp little teeth poked from the corners of his mouth and he looked more like a devil than an elf. Finwë narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t even think about that.” Then Fingolfin squeaked in agreement and Fëanor almost jumped out of his skin. Silently he glared at his younger brother, hard enough to distress the elfling and make him squirm. Fingolfin wriggled about in Finwë’s arms and made several half-choked breaths, trying to do something but Fëanor had no idea what.

“Oh, you’ve upset him…” Finwë muttered as he took Fingolfin closer to his chest, holding him there while looking down. “Shh, it’s okay. He won’t hurt you.”

“How do you know that?” Snappy and sharp was Fëanor’s interruption and it made Fingolfin cringe even more.

“Quiet! You mustn’t say such things. He is not entirely stupid, you know.” Finwë didn’t even spare a glance to Fëanor and ushered him away with one hand.

Disbelieving, Fëanor stood still. “Excuse me?!”

“Go on. I must look after him now.” Still with the squirming child in his arms, Finwë gestured with his head for Fëanor to leave. Fëanor had never been told to leave before. Finwë had always accomodated for his needs, even at his own inconvenience. Now it was clear Finwë was going to ignore him, and focused entirely on his youngest son. Fëanor turned away, took a few steps then some more until he was at the door. Looked back. Finwë still held Fingolfin close and was whispering soft things to him in Quenya.

‘That should be me.’ thought Fëanor with vicious anger surging through his body and overtaking all reason. He grabbed a nearby lamp and threw it with all his strength right at his father, shrieked something incoherently then left. As he ran down the hall, the distinct sound of his little brother crying could be heard. Fëanor smirked. 

Chapter Text

Fëanor sat to the left of his father at mealtimes, as he always did. Now that Fingolfin was on the right, he was a prime target for being stared at. Indis was glad she didn’t have Fëanor death-glaring her every second they were within sight distance. She’d been looking after her son for five years now along with Finwë, and it pleased her to see how well he was growing. Now and then she would pay attention to Fëanor, whose behaviour had become strangely intense as of late, but in truth her heart went out to only her husband and son. She could not love Fëanor, not from the way he treated her.

Fëanor did not dare misbehave much when he was this close to his father, instead taking the time to eat what he could and beam hatred from his eyes towards his brother. From time to time Fingolfin looked up, otherwise eating in silence. Fëanor wondered what went through his mind.

‘Look at thou, thou smarmy little shit, up there on thy cushions with thy potatoes and gravy... What gives thee the right to be seated amongst the rulers of the Noldor? Why dost thou have my father’s hair? And his eyes? Valar, how I hate thee. I hope Mandos eats you alive.’ Those were Fëanor’s thoughts, and he grit his teeth hard enough to make a sound like crunching bones. Finwë shivered unconsciously and glanced towards his son, hoping he wasn’t choking on something. This pleased Fëanor, who relaxed his jaw and looked up at his father. Finwë had no expression on his face and boredly went back to his food. ‘Damn it.’

It was then that Fingolfin took an interest in what his father was doing, and looked at him. Specifically his hands, with their many rings and intricate patterns dancing about his pale skin. Fingolfin wondered about that. If Finwë was so white, why did Fëanor have a glowing tan to his skin? It wasn’t a bad look, he thought. Fëanor seemed healthy enough, and quite clean for one more earthy than porcelain. He caught his brother’s gaze and wiggled his eyebrows up and down, smiling with his fork between his lips. Fëanor scrunched up his face then saw Fingolfin pick up a potato, covered in rich brown gravy.

“It’s you” mouthed Fingolfin, clearly enough for Fëanor to see.

‘What?!’ He dared to compare the skillful and handsome prince of the Noldor to a potato? Fëanor wasn’t about to let that slide and slowly drew his knife across his own throat, without touching his skin. He bared his teeth and his pupils shrank, the red in his eyes burning bright. Then he realized Finwë was staring at him, and not in a nice way. His frown said ‘What the fuck are you doing, son’ and the tight pursing of his lips meant there was a harsh reprimand coming soon. Fëanor pointed with his knife to Fingolfin to explain what he was doing but Finwë shook his head and snatched the knife away. Fingolfin was busy looking scared of Fëanor’s threat, barely holding back a smile. Now weaponless and with only a fork to finish his dinner with, Fëanor sulked with his cheek in one hand and a look of grim defeat about him.

In the years that followed, it was always like this. Fëanor was the one in the wrong, for surely poor innocent Fingolfin couldn’t be at fault? Fëanor was the one to act out, his brother the one to be pitied and looked after by both mother and father who would shake their heads.

“You are so terribly unkind to your brother.” said Finwë, reaching down to pick up a sobbing pile of messy hair and askew clothes with Fingolfin somewhere amidst it all. Fëanor snarled at him and his brother cried harder, wailing “Save me Ada, save meeee!” His shrill voice echoed throughout the hallway.

“Shut up, gwador.” Fëanor always referred to Fingolfin as just that – his brother not-by-blood, a mere associate. He flexed his fingers, clenched fists ready for action.

“Fëanáro you shall stop that this instant!” Indis came out of nowhere to defend her child and Fëanor rolled his eyes, clearly pissed.

“Thou hast no right to call me by that name. Go away.” Bristling at his stepmother, Fëanor rounded on her as best he could when his head barely reached her waist.

“Ai, onya. What am I going to do with you?” Finwë’s hair swished from side to side as he shook his head, holding Fingolfin out of Fëanor’s reach. Fingolfin scrambled into his father’s robes and hid his face, entire body aching. Fëanor had given him a rather thorough beating for no apparent reason, as he usually did. This time, Fingolfin hadn’t been able to escape. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to fight and so after a bit of banter decided to run… only his arm was grabbed and twisted around before he could sprint away. Whimpering softly, he could hear Fëanor’s heavy breathing and cried in despair. Indis moved closer to her husband to peek down his robes at her son, and sighed.

“Come, I shall heal you…” She cooed to him and offered to take him from Finwë, who agreed and handed the elfling over. Finwë now had his hands free to make a grab for Fëanor, who unsurprisingly didn’t jerk away. Any touch from his father was welcome, even if in punishment. A depraved grin stretched Fëanor’s lips back until his sharp little teeth were showing, and he was still in Finwë’s grip. He could see his father thinking of a way to punish him, in some harsh manner that he would not enjoy. As long as Finwë was with him, Fëanor would be happy.

“Do not hurt your brother.” Finwë said, and smacked Fëanor across the face. Not too hard, and definitely not as hard as Fëanor slapped him back. Shocked, Finwë stared at his son while holding him above the air by the collar of his tunic. Fëanor giggled.

“Tye-meláne, Ada~” Of course he loved his father, even when they played these nasty little games. Finwë did not return the sentiment.

“How dare you?!” He shouted into his son’s face and Fëanor didn’t even care – his father was talking to him, actually engaging in some sort of communication. No matter what it was, he craved it. Until Finwë wised up and dropped his son on the floor.

“Oi! Ada! Ada, where are you going? Aren’t you going to punish me~?” Fëanor chased after his father who turned a corner and walked even faster.

“I am going to look after my son. You can go to your room.”

Fëanor paused. His room. His own room, the one he’d been assigned after the marriage of his father. He was ‘old enough to sleep on his own’, Finwë had said. He wasn’t allowed to sleep with his father any more after Indis had arrived, Finwë had said. Many other things came from his mouth, all making Fëanor feel terribly unwanted.

“Why can’t I go to yours?” Fëanor asked and the tone of his voice demanded an answer – one his father did not give. Finwë was gone, and Fëanor hadn’t the strength nor heart to follow him. Nothing good would come of it, anyway.

He didn’t want to go to his room. It was too lonely, and Fëanor loved to be in the company of another. Someone who loved him, in absolute truth, Finwë. Even just sitting on the throne would be fine, for he could imagine Finwë’s presence behind him and feel regal enough to smile. He wandered the palace for hours, hiding when he heard footsteps and sneaking glances around corners. Often, a familiar sight would be hiding at many turns.

Every time he saw Finwë carrying Fingolfin his breath hitched and a sharp tightness clamped down on his chest. Often there was a numb feeling in his arms and his legs went weak, unable to support the weight of his body. The longer he felt these things, the heavier his head became until it ached to hold up high on his shoulders. Fëanor knew how to present himself though, and was not about to slump from the pressures of his mind. He was fire, embers, hot and swirling in the great vortex of all his thoughts. Only when he lay down in acceptance to life would his flames die. But it was hard to kindle heat when he felt so very cold.

On a windowsill he sat, hidden behind thick silken curtains with his face pressed against the glass. He was small enough to easily sit on the ledge, his knees pulled to his chest and back against the thickness of the wall. It was raining outside as if Manwë cried for all the souls too stubborn or tired to do it themselves. Maybe Nienna had taught him sorrow. Fëanor made up stories about the Valar sometimes when he was bored, often pitting them against the evil imaginative figure Melkor in various adventures. He’d only seen the latter portrayed in the pictures some elves drew, and heard stories told of this great mythical figure who supposedly was trapped in a dark, dark place away from the world. Melkor intrigued Fëanor, and he often found solace in imagining he was the great Dark Lord with his massive hammer able to smite foes of all shapes and sizes. For him it was not mere child’s play, but a way to relieve stress. Unfortunately for him, Finwë did not approve of him smashing things up with whatever makeshift weapons he’d created. Fëanor thought of his last creation, a sharpened candle stuck into an empty sword-hilt. He’d glued some jewels stolen from Indis to it, and named it The Flame of Justice. It had been incredibly fun running around and stabbing people with it, calling out their blasphemy and ill deeds, obvious untruths devised by Fëanor himself. The quest for righteousness had ended with Fëanor stabbing Indis in the ass, and her husband reacting more violently than one would expect.

‘I wish I had a real weapon…’ thought Fëanor in quiet recollection of the past month. ‘Why does Ada take away everything I make? He named me skilled the moment I was born… Does he not know I’m good at creating things? None of this makes sense…” Wearily he sighed and watched his breath cloud the window. A little steam rose from where his face touched the cold glass, and he wondered where the tiny water droplets had come from. He felt more upon his cheek and clenched his jaw, the hot trickle agitating his skin until he smacked the tears away. If only he had his father here to do this for him. Not to smack him, but to hold him in his arms until his misery ebbed away. Fëanor looked out the window at nothing and did not fight his grief.

Chapter Text

Fëanor was only forty years old and tall enough to have his eyes reach Finwë’s lower chest when his half-sisters were brought into the world. After an entire year of watching Indis waddle around like an overfed princess, Fëanor’s dread peaked when she pooped out more siblings for him to argue with. Two little ellith with their mother’s hair and eyes now sat in Finwë’s lap, while he held council and his wife coddled Fingolfin. Findis and Írimë were gentle and calm for elflings, not whining for anything as their needs were always immediately met. Indis was fiercely protective of them and remained by their sides whenever she could, and would hold her girls by their hands until they were old enough to walk by themselves. Fëanor entered the throneroom expecting to be able to sit with his father and sneer at the common folk, greeted suddenly by the sight of a family that hardly seemed his own occupying the two seats. Finwë looked as kingly as ever, despite the light smile that curved his thin lips away from a droopy frown. Beside him Indis was proud of what she had made, the life she’d gotten for herself and all her beautiful children. Fëanor wondered where he fit in, and after long minutes of deliberation he realized he didn’t.

‘You should not be hiding in shame behind these plebians as those horrible children usurp your position.’ said a voice in his head but Fëanor was already quivering behind what he thought was a tapestry, knowing deep inside it was in fact the cloak of a noble Lord. He looked up and was immediately struck with fierce dislike for this elf, who had golden hair just like those wretched life-ruining Vanyar.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes blinked shut to avoid getting curls of hair inside, and smooth strands caressed his face as the Lord turned.

“Why, I’m admiring the Queen, wishing I had one so lovely at my side.” said the Lord, flashing a smile so white and charming it cast light upon Fëanor’s face. Opening his eyes, the young prince glared into the face of the golden-haired Lord.

“You’re not one of us, gold-hair. Take the Queen if you like, and- and leave.” The moment he stuttered, the Lord’s face changed to gaze upon him with concern. Clear blue eyes met cloudy red-grey, and a cascade of gold fell before Fëanor’s eyes as the Lord bent down before him. Nobody took much notice, for there was a sizable crowd in the throneroom on this day that the princesses decided to join their parents at court.

“Hey, art thou well?” The Lord reached with a swordsman’s hand towards Fëanor, the strength in his body able to be sensed from afar. Fëanor caught sight of carefully manicured nails and the callus of hard work on fingertips far too close and stepped back, shaking his head.

“C…Clearly not! Get away from me, gold-hair! I’m a prince, you daren’t touch me…”

“Ah…” The Lord paused and actually listened to Fëanor, withdrawing his hand. Fëanor felt a lot less intimidated as he looked into those kind eyes at his own level, neck glad to not have to be twisted up. Just a few more years and he would reach his full height. Then everyone would be looking up at him.

“Something troubles thee, little prince.” There was grace in the Lord’s motion as he slid locks of his fine hair behind his muscled shoulders, hoping the golden light would not bother Fëanor so much. “Thou art Curufinwë, the King’s firstborn son, yes? Why art thou not up there with thy family?”

Suddenly Fëanor’s breaths became shallow and his chest tightened with vice-like heat rising in his throat. What was he to say to this strange yet compassionate Lord with hair of gold and a gaze like the deep sea? The urge to shut his eyes rushed to the front of his mind and he resisted it, keeping his eyes wide open until their murky grey depths swirled, glistening. He could not speak, and the Lord knew it.

“Wouldst thou… join me on a short walk outside, ernilen?” The Lord offered his hand to Fëanor and it was tightly gripped, held onto even as he rose to his full height. Fëanor’s arm was raised to keep holding the Lord’s hand and he fought the need to hide his face in those thick, fancy robes. The Lord’s cloak had a massive golden flower with endless swirls on it, and it was clear what house he belonged to. Fëanor’s nickname for him was close to the truth – he walked with Lord Glorfindel, the great warrior of both Vanyarin and Noldorin descent. What he was doing in Tirion he would not say – he was far more concerned about Fëanor than explaining himself. They reached the gardens to the left of the throneroom, having slipped through the crowd and into the less-populated courtyard. Fine gravel paved grass-lined paths through the flowering garden, trees and tall plants as far as the eye could see. There were walls at the garden’s edge, but the space was large enough with many varied things in it, one could not simply get bored of wandering around. Lord Glorfindel took Fëanor near an extravagant fountain where the soothing sound of flowing water filled their ears. It was then that he spoke, his voice in harmony with the fountain.

“Tell me of your troubles, if thou wishest.”

Fëanor looked at him, still holding his hand. It was then that he realized he’d been clutching the elder elf with all his might, holding Lord Glorfindel’s hand as if his life depended on it. He released his grip and fidgeted, kicking the marble bench nearby. It was an hour before he spoke. Not much time to an immortal elf, but a considerable delay in conversation nonetheless.

“I hate the Queen and all her stupid children. I want them all to die! You’re strong. You can help me, can’t you?”

Lord Glorfindel blinked and thanked his Valar-given ease with children for the ability to withstand such an emotionally charged reply. “Why do you not like them?” he asked, voice and gaze equally soft. Fëanor headbutted him in the stomach, closing his eyes instead of looking up at him.

“I want my adar… They have taken him from me. He does not… doesn’t… he…” Fëanor’s words trailed into nothing and he tried to focus on breathing properly. His hands fisted in Lord Glorfindel’s rich blue robes, oh how they reminded him of his father’s… This elf’s scent was different, but the muscle and sturdiness of his body could be clearly felt as Fëanor nuzzled into him…

Tentative and silent, Lord Glorfindel touched the back of Fëanor’s head with his careful fingers. Fëanor shivered, a tiny whine escaping his lips.

“My adar… does not love me anymore.” It came at last from Fëanor’s own mouth, the words he did not want to believe, the declaration he loathed to make true. Yet as he spoke the words he found his heart aching deep inside so that a storm-cloud was upon the fire of his soul. He felt numb with every passing moment, the breaths in and out automatic and irregular. Lord Glorfindel absorbed the prince’s sorrow and was dismayed to know that one so young could feel so strongly.

“Thou deserveth not such pain…” he whispered, the dulcet tones of his voice stroking Fëanor’s hazy consciousness into place. “In time these hurts can be healed, young one.” Like cotton wool pulled apart were Fëanor’s thoughts, glued by the wise words of Lord Glorfindel. The tension in his eyes eased so they were merely shut and not squeezed tight as gentle fingers caressed his hair. Soft, soft hair of the same raven darkness as Finwë’s. Fëanor had his father’s cheekbones, and they pressed into Lord Glorfindel’s body as the prince held him tight. The familiar aching was back in his legs and like a mind-reader, Lord Glorfindel eased them both to the ground with his back to the fountain. Fëanor melted completely into the elder elf’s arms, incredibly receptive to being held as he’d not had comfort like this for years. No longer was he moved to cry, but rather to allow the weariness in his body to spread to every limb and be still. Lord Glorfindel stroked Fëanor’s hair whilst sitting with the prince in his lap, his own legs spread with Fëanor almost laying on him.

‘Never doubt my love for you, ever.’ The voice of Finwë whispered on the wind, and Fëanor knew his mind spoke the real truth. 

Chapter Text

Twenty years passed and Fëanor saw the last child Indis would ever have. Finarfin, a tiny and pitiful excuse for any son of Finwë now existed and Fëanor almost had a breakdown.

“No more” he said as he shook his head, pacing back and forth in his room. Where were his damned sewing supplies? This had to end, now. He knew how babies were made. If Indis couldn’t control herself, Fëanor would do it for her. In the darkness of night he crept, through shadowed hallways where not even the late light of Telperion could sneak through the curtains. His eyes gleamed blood-red and silver reflected from the needle in his hand. “I’m going to sew you up, you wanton harlot. Never again shall my father take you to bed.” He knew where the King’s bedchamber was - Finwë owned it more than Indis ever would. It was clear in the décor that her influence had not yet touched their private quarters. There were no guards at the door for the palace entrance was guarded well enough, and Fëanor easily slipped in with little more than a breath. Regulating his breathing to be silent was quite difficult, as his heart sped with adrenaline and a thick, malicious rage. He could feel it deep inside him like a sickening goop dripping into his body, but did not drag his feet or reconsider his task. He was here to prevent any further irreversible occurrences in his life.

Closer and closer he snuck until he reached the foot of the bed, where rich blue silk covered the thick mattress below. Here was his first problem – the bed was a little high up and he had to do a great deal of wriggling to get his whole body up there. Soon enough he was up and the quiet shff shff of his limbs against the bedcovers slowed to a crackling hiss. That was his hair, spilling down over his shoulders as he bent over Indis. Her peaceful, sleeping face was as wretchedly beautiful as always, all high cheekbones and snow-white flesh. Lips without colour pursed together and Fëanor paused. Checked her breathing. She was definitely asleep, young enough to be able to do so deeply. Finwë on the other hand was ancient and always tired, though Fëanor knew not why. Fire burned inside his heart for the sorrows of his father, that which he did not understand and could offer no assistance with. He glanced to Finwë. The King was staring at him. Silver-grey eyes wide open and unfocussed, Finwë’s gaze did not leave his son.

‘Ah, fuck.’ Fëanor thought to himself, squint-browed glare intensifying as their eye contact continued. He still held the needle in his hand and had the other ready to peel the covers away from Indis, leaving her cold and exposed. Still Finwë stared. He said nothing, and his mouth didn’t even move. It was then that Fëanor realized he was still sleeping.

‘With your eyes open? Manwë’s tits, that’s spooky.’ Once sure (after waving his hand in front of Finwë’s face) that his father was indeed asleep, Fëanor went back to his task. Then he had another thought. ‘But wait… Ada is looking at me. His eyes hold such beauty…’ Turning his head was slow with deliberation as he considered his father. The needle went under the pillow along with its thread, out of sight. Fëanor picked his way through the many layers of blankets, finding himself a nice warm spot upon his father’s chest. The connection he felt thus brought tears to his eyes, so strong and glorious it was. Ai, Fëanor wished his father were awake! But perhaps it was truly luck and fate that brought Finwë to be in such deep slumber before his son. Fëanor stared into the King’s unseeing eyes, awed at the sudden privilege of being able to get this close to him. Here he could scrutinize… maybe even dare to touch. It felt as if Finwë’s elusive attention was focussed wholly on him, and it sent a rush through Fëanor’s lithe, tense body. One finger hesitated by Finwë’s cheek, then traced a soft line down to his lips. Fëanor’s gaze not once wavered from its lock on those silver eyes.

“Ada…” he whispered, wetting his lips to prevent the dry click of his mouth from disturbing the peace “Oh…” Lost for words, he could only utter soft sounds of pure joy. Both hands cupped Finwë’s sleeping face and many fingers stroked away careworn lines. Only when Fëanor pulled would they straighten out, and it worried him to see such a proud and elegant face looking so troubled. Finwë actually frowned in his sleep. Fëanor could not bear it.

Leaning down so that the tips of his hair brushed Finwë’s cheeks, Fëanor gazed even deeper into his father’s eyes. His little nose touched Finwë’s, slightly upturned but growing into something strong, angular and mature.

‘I want to look just like you when I grow up…’ Fëanor thought as he paid attention to every tiny detail in his father’s face. He had an excellent mind for memorizing visual information and thought to make a sculpture of his father. It seemed something only he should have the right to do, as surely no-one else in Aman had the love or skill to truly honour Finwë’s beauty. Fëanor blinked, careful to not disturb Finwë’s open eyes with his long, dark lashes. Soft and demure, his lips pressed a single kiss to the King’s thin lips.

“I love you, Ada.”

‘More than you could ever know.’

~

When morning’s light peeped through Finwë’s wispy royal curtains, the King was the first to wake. On his chest there was a heavy weight, warm and breathing with the scent of adolescent youth. Something gentle, easy and fresh. A little wet. Fëanor’s parted lips allowed just a little drool to seep onto Finwë’s bare chest and oh, Finwë realized, he had company. His eyes were still a little unfocussed and somewhat dry after a long sleep but after blinking several times, he managed to pat his hand around to feel at his newfound lump.

“Fëanor…? Onya, what are you doing here…?” His large hand came to rest upon Fëanor’s head, absently scratching there as if petting a dog. Fëanor shifted and nibbled his bottom lip, hand fisted in a section of his father’s hair. He’d grabbed it for comfort during the night, and its flowery scent was the first thing he inhaled when he gasped awake. Soon enough he closed his eyes again, groaning very quietly at the dear sensation of a hand upon his head. He knew at once that it was his father and it pleased him, the attention and gentleness of it all.

Confused, Finwë cleared his throat in hope of an answer. He only got a murmured sentiment from his son and a sloppy kiss on the neck.

“S… stop that, ai Fëanor you are not supposed to be in here! You are too old to sleep with me now…”

Fëanor shook his head. “I want you, Ada. I don’t want to be alone.”

“What is he saying?” Indis grumbled, her normally clear voice now clouded with unrest. She’d gone through terrible nightmares last night and now it was clear whose presence was at fault. “Fëanor?”

A natural hiss escaped the elfling’s teeth as he scrambled further up to hide his face in his father’s hair. Finwë’s hand inadvertently dropped to Fëanor’s butt, and he removed it with due haste. That same hand went to tug at his son’s hair just a bit.

“Come now… you must grow up and forget sneaking into people’s bedrooms as a habit. What will you do in the years to come, when you are a majestic prince known for hiding in his father’s bed?”

“I’m already majestic.” Fëanor pouted, nibbling at his father’s earlobe. It always incited a nice, sharp reaction and Fëanor willed their conversation towards a nicer chat. “I cannot sleep without you. Please, Ada. Let me stay with you…”

Those wide, pleading eyes of red and silver held a dark desire that Finwë could not quite place, only that he knew it was the look Miriel used to give him when she wanted something. The memory hit, and he could not deny his son, not now.

“I will speak to you alone…” he murmured, nudging Indis to move her out of bed. He turned to her, eyes fixed on Fëanor. “Go on. I’ll be down for breakfast shortly, I must attend to this… slight disturbance.”

Aghast at being kicked out of bed in favour for her husband’s son, Indis scoffed and shook her head. Soon enough she was gone, wearing little more than a thick outer robe over her nude form.

Once alone with his son, Finwë sighed. “What is the meaning of this, onya?”

“I want to be with you like how we used to, Ada. Why do you push me away? What… What have I done to wrong you?” Sitting in his father’s lap as Finwë now propped himself up with some pillows, Fëanor shuffled around. He cared not for his father’s nudity as it was a normal elven thing, though his own robes suddenly felt a little too stuffy for his liking.

Finwë did not realise what he was doing to his son with what he believed was reasonable behaviour. He missed his wife, loved his sons and daughters, tired of the competition for his thinly spread love and battled every day the secret sins that circled his mind when he looked at Fëanor. This was the natural progression of life that he tried to enforce: that Fëanor should grow to be strong and independent and stop his damned clingingbefore Finwë had an aneurysm. It wasn’t that Finwë disliked his son’s company, oh no. Fëanor was always very quiet when he wasn’t demanding the sun and stars and could be quite amicable when Finwë asked. It was the amount of time that Fëanor spent beside him that reminded Finwë far too much of his beloved, dead wife – the hand holding, the arm hugs, the gentle kisses and general things sons did not do to their fathers. Not at this age, anyway.

As cliché as it sounded, Finwë felt he had no choice but to push Fëanor into the path of a proper princely son. As Fëanor’s body and mind matured, it was becoming more difficult for Finwë to control where his thoughts went… along with his eyes, and other heated parts of his body. By the Valar, he felt sick. To think of his own son, young and barely past his majority in such indecent ways while the boy himself sat here… No. Finwë could not let his mind stray, not while he was nude and when Fëanor was in his lap. ‘Eru smite me and cleave my heart, I do not intend to do this.’

“Ada…” Fëanor’s voice was quiet, distant. “Answer me.” Still he demanded but there was sadness in every word, hanging heavy like a water-soaked cloth. “Do you…” Do you not love me? Those were the words on Fëanor’s lips. The words he could not say. There was fact for and against it, and Fëanor knew that one wrong move would lead to his father becoming very, very suspicious.

Finwë interrupted him then. “You do not understand what it means to be growing up, do you? Oh, my sweet son… You must learn to cope with being in your own room at night, and take charge of your life without worrying about me. I will always be here for you, will I not? Enjoy yourself today and forever, Fëanáro. Make things, meet people, breathe the fresh air outside instead of inhaling stuffy old me. And smile a little, for you look far too serious for someone so young.”

Only silence met Finwë’s little speech. Not motivated in the slightest, Fëanor dipped his head and continued to relish the closeness he had in this exact moment with his poor confused father. There was that familiar, comforting scent. The warmth. The steady heartbeat.

‘I don’t want any of those other things… I want you. Why can’t you see?’

Chapter Text

Ten years passed, but it did not feel so as time dragged on in the Blessed Realm. Things went by so slowly that the Valar actually changed the cycles of night and day to accommodate, and what would have been a single year was drawn out into ten. Fëanor thus aged one hundred years and outgrew his childish face, though not much could be said for his mentality maturing.

“Ada! Ada!” he cried, running to find Finwë and finding him far sooner than he’d imagined. Luckily, the King was alone. “Look what I made!” In one hand he carried a golden circlet with bright blue gems set into it, swirling patterns aglow in the metal. Finwë looked up from the book he was reading and sighed.

“How many times have I told you to call me Atar, hm? You-” Then he stopped. What Fëanor held in his hands was quite easily the most beautiful craft Finwë had ever seen, far greater than his own work. “…Is that for me?”

“Yes!” Overjoyed at his father’s acceptance (while completely ignoring his previous words) Fëanor skipped over to Finwë and went down on one knee in a dramatic flourish. He held the circlet up like a servant offering a sword. “’Tis a gift.”

“A fine one too…” Finwë murmured as he took the circlet and examined it. Polished smooth with a glorious luster and not a single scratch to be seen, it was clear Fëanor had worked very hard on this. When Finwë went to place it on his head, he was surprised to find that it fit perfectly. Fëanor wasn’t going to say anything about the night he’d come to take secret measurements of Finwë’s head, and merely smiled.

“I think I shall wear this a lot from now on. It suits many of my robes… Have you made anything else like this?”

Fëanor shook his head, still too pleased to speak. He lied only so that Finwë would not have to know about the hundreds of various circlets in copper, silver and steel made with the slightest of imperfections – as practice, sometimes lengthy projects.

“This is the only one.” he managed, after gathering his wits. “Just for you.”

“Thank you…” Finwë reached to pat his son on the head and Fëanor let him do so, humming softly. When Finwë made to remove his hand, Fëanor rose and gave his father a tight squeezy hug.

“If there’s anything else I can make for you… just ask.” Not wanting to linger, Fëanor pressed a chaste kiss to Finwë’s lips and darted out of the room, savouring the sweet taste. His giddy excitement was enough to prompt a punch into the air, triumph and glory giving him speed.

Finwë was left in his room too shocked to move, and a slow blush coloured his cheeks.

~

All that was good could not last for long, and ere Fëanor could savour his victory he came across a rather unpleasant sight. Well, less a sight and more a conversation but worrisome nonetheless. He was walking from the hallway to the right of the throneroom (knowing that at this time there were no audiences being held and his home was free of public interference) when he heard it. Indis’s damned voice along with the slow, droning whine of Fingolfin. A storm in his blood roiled hot and fierce at the sound of those two conspiring for whatever ill reasons – and Fëanor was about to discover their plot. He stayed his quivering hands behind his back and flattened himself against the wall, hiding as best he could beside an enormous tapestry.

“It is not my fault, you know…”

“But why, my wise little one? Why didst thou not tell me of this sooner?”

Fingolfin sniffed in an attempt to force himself into propriety. It didn’t work, and Fëanor laughed inwardly at his weakness.

“Because it is folly, to think that a father would not love his own son! Why is he always with… him? I did not ask to be brought into this world only to be cast aside in favour of what is already here… What is my purpose here, mother? Why is it like this?” Fingolfin’s desperate grasps at Indis were batted away, and the Queen held her son’s hands by his sides.

“Be still, my son. Thou mustn’t think like that, not now and not ever. Thy father loves you very much, as do I. Has he not treated thee adequately in the past years of thy life?”

Fingolfin could not deny the fact that Finwë had always tried, and never once made a point of neglecting him. He lowered his head, ashamed. “I… suppose…”

“Thou art growing stronger every day, in body and spirit. Pray, find solace in life outside of thy father. He is so terribly busy as the King… and his heart is heavy with burdens beyond us all.”

“Like Fëanor. He is a blight on all existence, and I wish him gone. Is there nothing we can do?”

“Hush!” Indis pressed a finger to her son’s lips, fright widening her clear blue eyes. “Thou must never speak ill of him in this house! Dost thou know what he would have done to thee, if all was fell and free?”

Fingolfin didn’t want to know. His mother told him anyway.

“He would have thee dead, my precious little one.” The hold of Indis ever tightened around her now frightened son, and she did not let him go. “I will see blood spilt and not that of my own before I let you come to harm.”

In silence Fingofin quivered, head bowing to rest against his mother’s chest. Fëanor stepped away from the throneroom, out of his hiding place and made his escape back to his room. He needed to be alone for the thoughts that circled his mind would not let him sleep beside his father this night. Especially not if Indis was there... Three adult-bodied elves in one bed wasn’t exactly Fëanor’s idea of a relaxing environment. There could only be him and his father – nothing more.

‘She’s evil, I knew it. And that slimy little worm, Fingolfin. ‘Wise Finwë’ my ass, he’s just as clueless as a newborn slug. I shall crush him before he even thinks to seek my father’s attention again. No doubt he will go to the King himself to speak of his worries… Hm. It seems I have work to do.’ He began to think of all the ways he could drive Fingolfin out of his life, and upon realizing that his half-brother was here to stay he considered warping his mind. Not with arcane magic for he was not well-versed in that yet, and not some form of execution, nay. He wanted to play games, innocent little things befitting an elf of his age. He didn’t need to act mature for another three hundred years. This was fine. He had time.

~

The Quest for Fingolfin’s Torment began with the seduction of Finarfin, when Fëanor strode into the gardens one day and found his youngest half-sibling in peace. Childlike and bright was the laughter of Finarfin as he squeaked with joy, standing to greet his brother.

“Ah, háno!” In his arms he held a black cat almost too big for him to carry, and Fëanor had never seen anyone smiling so widely before. “Look!”

Fëanor’s face softened a little as he stepped closer and pet the creature, observing how closely it watched him. Those slitted orange and black eyes were far more perceptive than most elven gazes Fëanor had met. He glanced at Finarfin, remembering his purpose.

“What art thou doing out here?” An innocent question came before the real talk, just to avoid direct suspicion. Finarfin gave an honest answer, looking genuinely pleased to see his brother.

“I came to play with Mëoi~ He’s my friend, you know. Much smarter than the folk in the castle.” Finarfin’s gaze drifted away from Fëanor and took on the gleam of fixation, something Fëanor recognized all too well in his own reflection whilst working.

“Ah? Have the peasants been bothering thee?”

“Mmn, there’s an elleth who always tries to give me things… but Atar says I shouldn’t eat them.”

“Thou hast gotten free food? Is it any good?” The banter was beginning to annoy Fëanor but he was a little curious about what had been going on in Finarfin’s life. He tended not to talk to the blonde-haired pacifist as Finarfin gave him the impression of a careless airhead with no ambition at all. Not Fëanor’s first choice in conversational partners. He did not hate him per se, but rather had a complete lack of concern for his affairs.

Nuzzling into Mëoi’s thick fur, Finarfin closed his eyes. “I haven’t eaten any of it. I want to know what it is, but I’m not going to disobey.”

“What a good boy thou art, eh? There’s a way out of this, understand?” Fëanor’s voice held the equivalent of rubbing one’s hands together with an evil smirk going on. “Just get Fingolfin to eat it. Then thou shalt see.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea!” Finarfin mumbled, “But if it’s not good to eat, then what will happen to him? I don’t want him to get hurt…”

“Come now, nobody in the kingdom would try to hurt thee in the first place. A…tar is probably just being suspicious. Put some of thy treats in Fingolfin’s pockets and follow him around! It’s an adventure of sorts.”

“Ehehe, sounds like fun. I’ll consider it, háno. What will you do?”

Fëanor folded his hands behind his back and looked away. “Oh, thou knowest. Adult stuff. Princely duties and all.”

“Mm, you mean sitting around and begging Atar to look after you. Oh, well. If that makes you happy.” Finarfin turned then and sat back down, legs crossed and Mëoi in his lap. His soft words could barely be heard and even then Fëanor could not understand what he was saying to the cat. Unnerved and slightly agitated, Fëanor left.

‘Well, that was not entirely a failure… but I do wonder what is up with him. I do not like having an enigma in my house… Rrgh. I suppose not everyone can be as readable as Fingolfin.’

All he had to do was wait.

~

Later that day when it was time for dinner, Fingolfin had given in to the pleasure of random sweets. In the pockets of his silver silk robes he’d found finely crafted chocolates filled with delicious caramel, along with some twisted pastries that had honey coiled in the centers. Whatever these were, they were his and he would be damned if Fëanor got to them first. He knew the dastardly elf loved to snoop and steal, or at least he suspected that was what Fëanor got up to in his spare time. Now as he went to sit at the table, he was glad he’d only eaten a few and hid the rest. The usual feast was laid out and he didn’t want to appear weak by not eating. Finwë had always said that a good appetite built little elves into strong warriors. That was what Fingolfin wanted to be. Someone who could fight, and no longer live a life in fear of being beaten. He glared at Fëanor as was traditional for their shared meals and to his surprise, Fëanor didn’t seem to be paying attention to him. The prince’s head was far away and his eyes lacked their telltale flicker that often revealed malice. Fëanor plotted nothing for tonight. He wondered about Finarfin’s treats.

Dinner progressed rather uneventfully and no conflicts arose, leading to blessed peace for one very tired Finwë. He’d spent the whole day looking after the usual dramas at court, and had only just handed his work to his advisors for a little family time. Said family time without insults and tears was rarer than finding a mithril elephant in a desert. Gazing at Indis, he saw her watching Fingolfin with some concern. When he followed her eyes he noticed that his son’s face was flushed with such a bright shade of red it looked as if his blood tried to burst free. Indeed he looked strained, both upset and constipated at once.

“Are you alright?” Finwë asked, his voice gentle and probing. Fingolfin twitched and made an odd face at the question as if his father’s deep tone had some sort of effect on him. He barely managed to squeak out, “I’ve been poisoned!” before all hell broke loose. Fëanor’s sudden mad cackling was drowned out by Indis and Finwë shrieking at once, along with the immediate thud of a nearby waiter fainting to the ground. Findis and Írimë covered their mouths with shock and Finarfin put a hand to his own, uttering a quiet “huh.”

“YOU THERE! GET HIM TO THE HEALERS!” Finwë pointed at a nearby guard who ran to pick up Fingolfin, lifting the elf from his chair. Fingolfin had gone limp and wailed “Ai, I’m dyyyyyyyying~~” as he was carried away. By now Fëanor was in tears, nearly pissing himself with laughter at all the wonderful commotion. This was the chaos he loved, the heightened tension and fear that he lived for.

‘Yes, let him die. Poison! Ai, Finarfin sure has some clever enemies…’

Indis watched Fëanor, somewhat hysterical at the thought of her first child dying. “It was you…” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You did this! YOU MONSTER!”

All of a sudden Finwë flipped around and forced a stop to the accusations with a flat palm.

“No, leave him be. Follow Daedor and see to it that Fingolfin is healed well. I will deal with… whatever this is.”

Once Indis had scowled her way into fifty new wrinkles and left, Finwë went to pick up his eldest son. Giggling and gleeful was Fëanor as he smiled at his father.

“Did you do it?” Finwë’s flat demand for the truth left no room for lies this time.

“Nope! It was him~” Fëanor pointed straight at Finarfin who nearly keeled over from shock.

“EEH? But you told me to, háno!!”

“And you’re the one who did it~ You stupid baby~ heehHEUAHUEHUEHUEH”

Finwë held Fëanor away as the prince began to spasm.

“Oh, Eru help me. What is wrong with you two?”

‘I can’t have one peaceful evening can I? Just when a horrid day winds down to calm, my son gets poisoned and the rest go insane. Urgh…’

It was a whole hour before Finwë learned what had really happened, and by then he was so shocked he needed several glasses of wine to keep from cutting his own head off. Finarfin’s free sweets had apparently contained not a lethal poison but rather something more intense that provided a burn through the whole body, akin to being set alight from the inside. It was something poor Fingolfin had never felt before, thus he thought he was going to die. Finwë, however recognized the effects at once… when he walked into the healing chambers and saw his son.

Fingolfin stood panting with his back against the wall, attempting to claw his own flesh off. Nude and unable to sweat, he wailed.

“Atar!!! What is this?!”

Finwë’s eyes narrowed to the sight between his son’s legs.

“Why are you…”

He stopped himself then. Thought for a very, very long time. Walked out of the room, and came back in to the sound of his son’s dry sobs.

“How long has it been like that?”

“I don’t know! Too long! It hurts, Atar… make it stop.”

“D-Do it yourself!” cried Finwë, so embarrassed he had to look away. “I’m your father, damn it! Don’t you know how to take care of such a problem?”

Fingolfin shook his head and sprinted over to Finwë, hair and eyes the same colour mingling in proof of their imminent taboo.

“Please…” Fingolfin groaned, pressing his body into Finwë. “Atar…”

“There’s another way!” Now Fëanor’s voice joined the shouting and in one hand he wielded a generic kitchen knife, the kind used to cut meat. “Chop it off and it won’t be a problem anymore~~”

“NYAAAAAAAGHH!!” The whole palace heard how desperately Fingolfin screamed and Fëanor’s laughter followed soon after as he chased his brother around. Finwë sat on a free bed then and beckoned a healer over to soothe his most terrible headache.

‘This… is a dream, right?Irmo, let me wake up. PLEASE.’

Chapter Text

After that day, Finarfin did not receive any more free sweets. After having told Finwë about the shady elleth who always smiled and tried to touch his hair, Finarfin was put under close watch whenever he went outside. Finwë was more shaken from the whole experience than anyone, even Fingolfin who was just left feeling embarrassed and unsatisfied. He had his body in one piece at least, and had managed to evade an excited knife-wielding Fëanor. Fingolfin avoided his older brother a lot more, now that he’d begun to recognize some of the feelings he had towards him. He did not want to hate Fëanor, nor did he wish to be afraid. So he decided to feel nothing at all, and spent more time alone.

It was during this time that Fëanor began to socialize a bit, mature enough to attempt some mingling. He quite enjoyed being a prince (or the prince as he did not consider his half-siblings heirs to Finwë’s throne) and loved how all the common folk bowed down to him. It sent a rush of power through his body, always bringing a smirk to his lips. There was one elf who did not bow however, and Fëanor considered him his closest friend. Lord Glorfindel.

Today Glorfindel watched Fëanor hard at work in the forges, wearing less clothes than usual in the presence of extreme heat. Fëanor’s appreciation for fine craft extended to his comments on Glorfindel’s body, which caused the Lord to blush.

“If what thou see’st to thy liking, thou art free to take it.” Glorfindel drawled as he stretched, orange light dancing on the curves of his muscles.

“Mm, today is a fine day for a little harlotry. But nay, I shall not indulge thee so. What would my father think?” From beneath his eyebrows, Fëanor watched Glorfindel even as his hands worked to sort gems by their glint alone. Glorfindel stuck out his tongue.

“Bah, he doesn’t have to know.” It was common knowledge that Glorfindel quite enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, and not even royalty was off-limits for him. He just happened to be the singular enigma with mysterious ancestry that wanted to love everyone. Finwë often warned his sons to stay wary near him.

Fëanor shook his head, then flicked a few strands of hair out of his face. They fell back down due to the lack of anything to keep them in place, and Fëanor snarled. At once Glorfindel rose and slipped behind the prince to sweep those hairs into the tight ponytail behind Fëanor’s head. His fingers stroked a little, brushing past a slender pointed ear.

“Come now… surely thou shalt tire of pounding hammers and stencils soon? I know a much harder substance thou might work…”

“Oh, piss off. I almost made a mistake here, see?” Fëanor gestured with his pliers at where he’d been curling some thin spikes into a bracket to set one massive jewel. “I’ll nip the fruit from thy loins with those hot tongs if it would please thee.”

Glorfindel spared a glance for the glowing tongs resting by the forge and shuddered. “Nay, thanks.”

The banter continued with a few light quips here and there. By the time Fëanor had finished his task he’d made a ring of several golden snakes twirled together with a sparkling diamond atop, and was in a fantastic mood.

“Good?” he asked, showing his creation to Glorfindel. Inspecting it as carefully as he could with untrained eyes, Glorfindel raised his eyebrows.

“As always, I can’t see a single thing wrong. Is that answer to thy expectations?”

“Mhm.” Beaming with pride, Fëanor nodded. He always enjoyed a bit of extra validation, even though his confidence in his own work was absolute. “Now all I must do is find a box for this…”

“It’s a gift? Whatever for? It rarely falls upon thee to take up fondness for anyone these days…”

“I had a dream.” Fëanor slipped the ring into his pocket for safekeeping after having dried it from its short douse in water. “A dream of one with hands like mine, hair like the fires of legend and a mind sharper than this honed steel.” He drew a little dagger from the workbench nearby, flipping it in the air. “My bride to be.”

“HOOOOOOH!” Glorfindel let out a hoot of laughter at that, smacking a hand to his face. His broad shoulders seemed to quiver like jelly with newfound delight. “Th-Thou wishest for marriage?! WHAT? What is this?! Who is she? Or he! Tell me!”

Fëanor narrowed his eyes and pointed his dagger at Glorfindel’s face. “’Tis not a thing, not yet. I have only seen pieces… the full picture shall soon be laid before me. Until then, thou shalt keep thy blathering mouth shut about this, alright? S… Stop laughing at me, damn it!”

Glorfindel didn’t even bother controlling his reaction and put his hands up in defence, still tittering away. “Aaahhahaha~ The little prince is in looooooove!”

“I haven’t even met them yet! Shut up!” With every passing second Fëanor’s face only grew redder until his dagger hand trembled something fierce. “I-I’ll cut thy lips off!”

“They’ll grow back anyway. Try it, go on. Heheh.” Smiling to the degree of nearly splitting his face in half, Glorfindel then puckered his lips. “Or maybe a kiss? Let’s see that fiery spirit put to better use.”

Fëanor was having none of it and growled in frustration, throwing the dagger aside. He had no further words to assuage his embarrassment for Glorfindel’s apparent mockery brought feelings to the surface of his heart that were better left unfelt. With speed he strode to the door and shoved it open, only to see quick movement along with a flash of red. His first thought was blood, someone’s been killed by my door skills and the second died in his mind. There stood a maiden in dirty brown overalls with a greyish tunic barely tucked in, feet bare and red hair an absolute mess. In thick waves it spilled, wildly thrashing about in the wind.

“Ah? Don’t mind me.” she said, and inclined her head with slight respect. “Just going to do a little work.”

“….” Fëanor could find nothing to say as he gazed at the maiden of his dreams. Not in a cliché sense but rather the very one he’d dreamt about, with the exact same hair and curious hands. He stared at her squared fingers which bore the smudge of hard work rather than the curve of refinement, and at once knew what to say.

“What kind of work?”

Glorfindel facepalmed for the second time in five minutes. ‘Real smooth, your highnness.’

“A pen, and it’s urgent. I won’t leave my father waiting, so if you don’t mind I must get started…” The elleth cared not for the questions of her prince and slipped past, hurrying into the room. Her loose clothes fluttered a little and Fëanor heard her sigh as heat hit her right in the face. It was less a thing of irritation and more like… she felt relaxed. Glorfindel raised his eyebrows and went to Fëanor’s side, jabbing his friend in the side.

“Oi, thy lingering puts me ill at ease. What’s wrong?”

Fëanor backed away from the door and sprinted off without saying a single word. Glorfindel could only close the door, shake his head and sigh.

‘Nobody even pretends to listen these days. Tis a busy world we live in…’

Up the white marble steps winding to the palace Fëanor ran, bolting to the room he knew was adjacent to the forges. There he stuck his face out the window and peeped, shrouded in the dark curtains for extra stealth. From here he could see down into the forges, a little beyond the bench where Glorfindel had been sitting. A little of the worktable and anvil was visible too, and depending on which angle Fëanor tilted his head at, he could see it all. With his keen eyes he witnessed the elleth’s hands roll and pinch, grab and hold, beat and tinker. She was making a fine pen used for calligraphy, with a sharp chiseled tip to make efficient straight lines. Of course, Fëanor thought. It’s hard to write proper Sarati without that sort of pen. For many years Fëanor had been doing his best to become the best at writing, as he knew Finwë appreciated the craft of writing and painting well. In recent times however Fëanor had an idea that would impress his father even more – he would reinvent the whole writing system or at least improve upon it so that things looked much more beautiful. Aesthetic, his mind whispered. That was also what he saw as he spied on the elleth working hard at her task. The techniques she used were unique and curious, with little tricks incorporated into everything that Fëanor had never thought of himself.

‘Where did she learn to do such things? My own craft shall benefit if I were to speak with her… to sample some of that sweet knowledge. Ai, and if my dreams were true then it means she is to be my wife!’

That day, Fëanor began his quest for skills both at hand and in heart.

Many long hours in the coming months would he spend with Nerdanel and her father Mahtan, who smithied under Aulë and had expertise beyond Fëanor’s own. He grew close with the two redheaded elves, the only ones he’d seen in all of Aman. Not that he’d travelled much, but it was said that such hair colour was rare. Fëanor knew he just had to have a son or seven with that kind of prized attribute.

It took him many months (that felt like years) of long, hard work before he could acquire Nerdanel’s trust, and in the year 1260 they were wed. Nerdanel with her gentle heart and passionate spirit complimented Fëanor’s inner fire, and she often calmed her husband when he saw fit to explode. Finwë was glad for their marriage as he figured Fëanor would no longer attach himself to the side of a father long tired of parenthood. Indis on the other hand saw this as the perfect time to push Fëanor out of the palace and demand he seek his own house with his wife. Fëanor only laughed in her face, grabbed a few servants and set up a place for his future family… on the highest floor in the palace. There he made his ‘house’ and nobody save Finwë and the royal staff were allowed there. Nerdanel of course remained with her husband (though she found his behaviour strange at the best of times) and weeks after their marriage, she decided to ask a question.

“Meldanya, do you remember how eagerly you wished for children between us last month?”

Fëanor nearly spat out the wine he was drinking and coughed, eyes darting to one side. “Ahm… I do, yes. Why, do you feel like… making some?”

‘Ai, you sound so terribly awkward! Say something more fierce! Do it!’ Only last month had Fëanor decided to express his desires to his wife, his tongue loosened by one too many drinks after dinner. He couldn’t remember what Nerdanel had said, but if this conversation was happening now…

“I shall give you several, if you so desire.” His voice dropped a tone lower to arouse further interest, his eyes gleaming as he returned his gaze to his wife. Nerdanel suppressed a shiver and put both hands up, pushing at Fëanor’s chest.

“One at a time, love. You said it yourself that we must take this slowly…”

“I remember naught of this but if you say so, then I shall listen.” Fëanor watched Nerdanel carefully whilst feeling her hands against him, wondering just how he would do this. He’d only put off this conversation for so long due to his own inexperience – this was something he couldn’t ask the sex professor Glorfindel about, nor his father. He wished to appear knowledgeable and in control to everyone, at all times. Not having a clue about how to please his wife strained his nerves more than he would ever admit. He only knew how to satisfy himself… and quite frankly, that was all he’d cared about for the past century. That and keeping Finwë in high spirits, the most difficult task of his early life.

Nerdanel stood on her toes to nudge her lips against Fëanor’s, whispering to him.

“Let us join together tonight, then… and see where that takes us. Living up here on our own will be much more pleasant with a few elflings about…”

Little did she know just how wrong she was.

In the year that passed, it became obvious that Nerdanel was pregnant and no matter who asked her, she would not say a thing about her husband’s bedroom skills. Fëanor spoke little of it too, and busied himself with attending to his wife’s emotional needs along with socializing downstairs. It was around this time that Fingolfin sought a wife of his own, and Finarfin disappeared to Alqualondë for fear of imminent conflict. Fingolfin strutted about proudly with his own wife Anairë, whom he treated like a goddess. Fëanor’s first thought was that his half-brother sought to draw attention to himself and cement his position as Finwë’s heir, and every time these thoughts came about, Fëanor found himself gritting his teeth. On the ground floor it seemed that Finwë slept peacefully while Fingolfin and his wife bickered late into the night. Fingolfin loved her in public and in private demanded of her a child that would far surpass anything of Fëanor’s creation. Anairë was having none of it and thus disagreed with all the power she had against her valiant husband. Fëanor watched sometimes in the hallways, and laughed. His voice rang hollow in the dark.

 ~

It was the year 1261 during the Years of the Trees when one fine Spring day, Fëanor’s first child saw light. Nerdanel felt no pain for her task as the Valar had not cursed elven reproduction with agony, and merely lay with her husband’s hand in her own. With a few healers and high excitement for the first grandson of Finwë, warm praise filled the room and not a single cry could be heard. The baby with his sparse red hair and wide dark eyes squirmed about, given soon to Fëanor and Nerdanel to hold.

“Nelyafinwë…” Fëanor murmured, and looked to his wife for approval. Nerdanel rolled her eyes, and smiled.

“Mhm.” It was Nerdanel’s first thought to give her own name to her son, something better than “Third Finwë, aka ‘fuck you Fingolfin’”. She gazed at the small, pretty face by her breast and decided on Maitimo, for the sheer beauty she saw. So it came to pass that with several names and less than an hour of consciousness, Maedhros (in the common tongue) would be Fëanor’s first and greatest treasure yet.

Fingolfin had still not managed anything of the sort, and looked upon his half-brother with jealousy. That was only a month later, and Fëanor didn’t even care.

Fëanor was seen more often around the palace as he both showed off his son and taught Maedhros about the world, doing his part in the duty of parenting. He looked after all his son’s needs himself, not wanting to entrust Maedhros to the servants for one reason in particular: He wanted to be a part of his son’s life. He let Maedhros sleep between himself and Nerdanel at night, and fed him when they had family meals together. There was nothing he occupied himself with more in the coming years than the care of his son – and Finwë was silently proud of him.

Chapter Text

One day, Fëanor was walking around in the gardens with Maedhros in his arms. His son loved to be carried, seeing as he could barely walk and still wanted to look at everything he possibly could. With eyes wide and an awed smile on his face, he turned his head this way and that to peer at all the colourful flowers. Now and then he reached for one, and Fëanor allowed him to take as many as he wished. The sun’s golden light warmed the two elves as it faced their backs at this time in the morning. It was only a little after breakfast, and Fëanor had nothing much to do. No new designs for intricate craft had come to him in his sleep lately, so he figured it would be a fine time to spend these peaceful days with his son. He’d not seen Fingolfin all day, not even downstairs where he usually prowled.

“It’s such a perfect day isn’t it, Nelyo?” Fëanor spoke softly to his son, the usual brashness of his voice dampened to a smooth purr. Maedhros squeaked in reply, throwing many little blossoms up into the air. They settled atop his head, twitching like butterflies in his hair. It brought a smile to Fëanor’s thin lips to see his son so carefree, and he wondered if his future children would be this easy to handle. He quite enjoyed the prospect of having many sons each skilled and sensible, like small parts of himself working towards a better world. Fëanor’s idea of a better world was filled with his own creations and rules, where Indis and her children did not exist and the palace was home to the true house of Finwë only.

While Fëanor fantasized, he found himself humming a random tune as he walked. Maedhros found it quite relaxing and calmed in his father’s arms, gazing out at the walled world he knew to be his home. He’d never been outside the palace gates before. Fëanor had no intention of taking him there either – not until he was older, and could defend himself. After what had happened with Finarfin, Fëanor was loathe to leave his son or wife out of his own care. Still, Nerdanel’s adventurous spirit could not be stopped and Fëanor at some point decided to let her run free. Their relationship lightened quite a bit after that, and the air in the palace seemed a lot fresher once the doors were left open.

As Fëanor made his way through the gardens, he came across a body lying in the grass. Not a dead one mind you, but one so languidly sprawled and dressed in such finery that it could only be one elf – Finwë. The King turned his head at the sound of grass crunching, and raised a hand in greeting.

Fëanor sat beside him and took a quick reading of his body. “Atar… I’d hoped to find you here.”

“As always.” said Finwë, winking at his son. “What do you seek of me today?”

“Nothing in particular, though a short rest would do me well.” Shifting around to get comfortable, Fëanor placed Maedhros in his lap and nudged a few flowers away so they would not be squished beneath his legs. Maedhros caught sight of Finwë and peered at him, noticing how Finwë stared at him back.

“Tired so early? Has fatherhood worn your body down as well as your mind?”

Fëanor laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. I merely have a lot on my mind… but that does not matter, not now.” He ran his fingers through Finwë’s hair, admiring the dark spread of long locks across the lush grass. “Mm… your hair has grown longer since I last took notice.”

“So has yours, onya. Truly, you have grown to be quite beautiful…” Finwë smiled at his son while wiggling his finger back and forth, having captivated Maedhros with the sudden movement. Fëanor’s face became flushed at the unexpected compliment and he looked away, somewhat bashful.

“Only because I am yours… our hair is the same. See?” With a glorious swish, Fëanor tossed his head to one side and his hair followed along.

“Hmm, indeed.” Finwë quite liked this sort of banter, where there was nothing much expected of him and he could just relax with his mature son. Maedhros was also the most friendly child he’d ever encountered and Finwë was surprised to see things going so well. “I must say, this little one takes after your wife quite a bit. I remember when you were young, and would always yell at me…”

“Da.” said Maedhros, and captured Finwë’s finger in both hands.

“Oh, I don’t think he likes you speaking ill of me…” Fëanor couldn’t help but smirk and pet his father on the head, taking care to not mess up his hair. “He’ll expect nothing but praise for his father, you know.”

“Is that so…?” Finwë looked down at Maedhros who was nibbling on his finger, trying to eat it. “Mm, but then again you used to do this too.”

“Only because you were tasty.” Fëanor murmured, and lay beside his father. He dared to press a quick kiss to Finwë’s cheek, lingering just long enough to whisper “…and you still are.”

Finwë chuckled at what he recognized to be minimal flirting. Nowadays it didn’t bother him as much when Fëanor made some bold moves, due to the fact that the prince had a wife and had undoubtedly bonded with her on their wedding night. He didn’t know for sure, but as it was tradition he expected it. Now, no matter how much Fëanor fooled around, his relationship with Finwë could never be anything more than father and son. Just the way I like it, thought Finwë. Safe, distant yet still loving. It was the right thing to do.

Fëanor however had other plans. He would not put them into action today though, and was content to lie beside his father with Maedhros on Finwë’s chest.

~

In the years to come, Maedhros soon began to develop a personality that Fëanor found more endearing than anything else. Whenever the elfling wanted something, he would ask once and if denied, never speak of it again. It made the task of limits and discipline simple for Fëanor, who was glad to not have to yell at his son. Maedhros also had a rather perceptive eye when it came to reading people, just like his father. Often Fëanor would walk into his room only to see Maedhros curled up with Nerdanel, who read to him in the evenings to pass the time. Nerdanel did not often get the opportunity to spend time with her son and Maedhros actually made an effort to communicate with her. Fëanor recognized Maedhros as the most adorable little thing in the universe, and loved him dearly.

After Maedhros had reached his majority at fifty years of age, he did not suddenly mature or seek separation from his parents. That same night he clung to his mother and peered into her eyes, a mere adolescent but reaching Nerdanel’s full adult height.

“Ammë, I want a brother.”

Nerdanel considered it, tilting her head to the side. “Whatever for?”

“I want someone to play with… someone like me, you know? I heard about some of the folk who come to court speak of their relatives… I want someone like that.”

“Ahh, I see. You must be getting tired of your Atar following you around all day, hm?”

“No…” Maedhros shook his head, his chin-length hair swaying from side to side. “It’s just, sometimes it seems he has better things to do, and I do not want to bother him…”

“Oh, my sweet Maitimo… you mustn’t worry so. Your Atar loves you more than the light of day, and will do anything to please you.”

“Mm.” Maedhros had seen in his father’s eyes sometimes a distant look, that he interpreted as the wish to be somewhere else. Fëanor never spoke on the matter, whatever it was. “If you say so.”

“Come now…” Nerdanel sighed and wrapped her arms around her son, feeling Maedhros hug her gently in return. “You will get a brother when you’re a little older… we still want to see you grow and look after you as best we can.”

That night Maedhros slept with sweet sentiments in his heart and peace of mind. He would get a brother, someday.

~

In the year 1277 there was a new elfling in the palace, but not one of Fëanor’s own. Fingolfin had finally persuaded his wife to give him a son, and had named the child partially after himself. Fingon seemed to be a tiny version of his father, with a loud mouth and thin dark hair. Maedhros had never seen another elfling before and made various attempts to sneak downstairs for a peek once the news was broken… but Fëanor kept him away.

“No, onya. You mustn’t involve yourself with Fingolfin’s affairs.” Fëanor on that day wore thick robes of red and gold, the season being a little cold. Maedhros in his woolen tunic and tight breeches scrunched up his face, confused.

“Why? I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s just a little thing that cries a lot and annoys the folk downstairs, nothing for you to be concerned about.”

Maedhros could find no satisfaction with his father’s answers but waited for a few years, knowing his patience would reward him at some point. Long had he learnt to wait for what he wanted, as his whims usually were decided depending on Fëanor’s finicky mood. Two years later, Fingon at the age of twenty came across Maedhros for the very first time and was surprised by what he saw.

At a hundred and eighty years of age, Maedhros stood as tall as a tree, towering over every single elf in Tirion. He was a special sort of tree, the kind with red leaves and lanky limbs, along with a height of seven feet tall.

Fingon neared the older elf in quiet creeping steps. The wind rustled the overhanging leaves that swept the balcony’s rails, green against marbled white with a few shades of gold. A slight tinkle could be heard from the pendant Fingon wore at his neck, a dark blue gem at the center of a golden ring. Maedhros’s sharp ears picked up the sound and he turned to see the mysterious elfling who’d been on his mind right before him. Frozen in place, Fingon’s face showed nothing but fear. Then Maedhros bent down.

“Hello, little one. Did you need something?”  

Staring with wide grey eyes up at Maedhros, Fingon pursed his lips together and shook his head.

“Why are you so tall?” he asked eventually, reaching up to grab at the long locks of bright red hair.

“It’s just how I am.” Maedhros laughed a little and knelt properly, allowing Fingon to play with his hair. “Maybe you will grow to be tall too, since we’re related.”

“Eeh? You and me?”

“Yes, I’m your cousin. Has your Atya told you anything about me?”

Fingon thought for a moment, then it seemed as if his eyes were about to fall out of his head. He took a step back.

“He… said that I shouldn’t talk to you… and… some bad stuff…”

“What sort of stuff?” Maedhros probed as far as he dared, ensuring his voice and manner carried a gentle placidity.

“That… he said my uncle Fëanor is evil, and if I go upstairs I’ll get eaten! You live upstairs, don’t you? What happens up there? Tell me!” Uncaring of the consequences, Fingon tugged at Maedhros’s hair with a great, curious energy. Maedhros winced and closed his eyes. “My Atar is nothing like that, believe me. Who eats elves, anyway? We have stuff like honey cakes and roast chicken…”

“But but, does that mean my Atya was lying to me? He’s scary when he talks about uncle Fëanor…”

Quiet sadness descended over Maedhros’s fair face. “I don’t think they like each other very much… I’m not allowed anywhere near your family either, you know. Something’s not right.”

“Aaah…!” Fingon shook his head suddenly and rushed in to hug Maedhros, pressing his face into his cousin’s chest. “Don’t be sad, it’s not your fault they’re not friends.”

Shocked, Maedhros glanced around then placed his hand at Fingon’s back.

“But they are brothers… aren’t they supposed to be friends?”

Fingon shrugged, curling his arms back into himself. He gazed up at Maedhros with a look of complete innocence and said, “You’re not my brother, but we can be friends… Right? We can, right??”

“Of course.” Maedhros had never had a friend other than his father before, and smiled. “Just don’t tell your Atya.”

“You too! Ehehe, we’re secret friends. We should hide~!” Sharp ears picked up the sound of footsteps down the hall and indeed, both elves decided it was time to run. So they spent the afternoon sneaking and hiding from imagined family members hunting them down, and it was the first time Maedhros had ever played a proper game.The same went for Fingon, who stuck fast by his cousin’s side until it became known the palace guards were looking for him.

“You better get back to your Atya if you don’t want him to worry…” Maedhros whispered, hiding in a bush with Fingon beside him.

“But it’s getting so much more fun now! All the guards are out looking, do you think we can evade them all?”

“We can… but if your parents get too worried, they might get angry with you when you go back! It’s best to not let them get suspicious.”

“What does sus..suspicious mean?”

Maedhros made a concerned face and explained, “It’s when someone is worried, and they don’t trust you, so they start to keep you really close… and they look at you as if you’ve done something wrong…”

“Eek! I don’t want that! I’ll escape the suspicious now! Bye~” And with that, Fingon sprinted off and into the palace. Maedhros rose out of the bushes, picked some leaves from his hair and smiled.
There was always tomorrow for further games.

Chapter Text

Maedhros and Fingon’s friendship went mostly unnoticed for a year, and then some more after the year 1280. Fëanor, unwilling to see his half-brother produce more sons than him had gotten busy with Nerdanel and together, they’d produced another child. Maglor was his name among the common folk, Kánafinwë to his father and Macalaurë to his mother. Maedhros found himself with more spare time now that Fëanor had someone to look after, but was still kept away from anything to do with Fingolfin. That included Fingon, who’d begun to spend less time with Maedhros due to Fingolfin’s interference. Tensions were high around the time of Maglor’s birth, and the little elfling couldn’t care less. He went around in Fëanor’s arms, often shrieking with delight at the slightest things. Free food? He loved it. Warm hugs? Even better. Both at once? Pure joy. Fëanor eventually got used to his noisy son and relished the time they spent together in peace, when the silver light of a calm evening brought the long day to a close. Fëanor would sing to his son at night and only then would Maglor sleep, cuddled up against his father’s chest while his mother stroked his hair. Often Nerdanel would drift off to her husband’s voice, for Fëanor had a certain deep, husky tone late at night that she loved to listen to. In fact, most of their conversations occurred at night rather than during the day, when Fëanor had the energy to pose crazy schemes and gossip. Regardless, they were both less than a thousand years old and thus young enough to sleep, so they couldn’t chat all throughout the night.

Life went on with such ease that Fëanor grew bored, and took up his hobby of handicraft while still caring for his sons. On cold days he allowed Maglor and Maedhros to join him in the forges for warmth, and worked under their watchful eyes. Maedhros always felt sleepy when in a hot environment and dozed off from time to time, but Maglor always wandered around, touching things and attempting to lift various objects. He especially loved to play with Fëanor’s crafted necklaces and leftover piles of gems, enjoying the soft tinkling of shiny things in a glorious cascade. Usually Nerdanel would be there to watch her sons, sometimes to make things of her own or help her husband. Their family life in her opinion was close to perfection, and she absolutely loved it. Her own father had serious work to do with Aulë, and her husband was the son of the King. There was nothing she found she wanted… other than more sons.

More sons indeed came, two hundred years later when a little curiosity was born. Curious for his blond hair, where neither Nerdanel nor Fëanor knew its source. For his eyes, bright blue quite unlike Fëanor’s fiery silver-red and Nerdanel’s dark grey. For the fact that whenever he was picked up despite being unable to look after himself, he cried as if the world was about to end. And his strength. Definitely something to worry for.

Fëanor allowed his precious Turcafinwë to hold his finger, as newborn elflings liked to do once they could see. His son squeezed so hard it surprised him, and he was unable to retract his finger at all.

“Nyeeehhhh!” Turcafinwë wailed at his father, face so scrunched it looked close to folding in on itself. Nerdanel watched with interest, giggling at Fëanor’s apparent panic.

“This one is going to be Tyelkormo to me… quick to anger, it seems.”

So the world knew Celegorm, he who was the worst choice to piss off in any situation, ever. He was not all shouts and punches, however likely it seemed as he grew. When allowed and able to walk on his own, he would run straight for the stairs and descend until he could go outside, and found himself comfortable there. Unlike his brothers he had no interest in sticking near his father or mother – instead, he enjoyed the company of all what nature had to offer. Fëanor watched him one day making bird noises and nudged Nerdanel, who leaned on him a bit.

“Have we made an elf or a bird, I wonder? Look at him, he can barely speak a word of Quenya and here he is conversing with the wild.”

“It’s adorable.” Nerdanel cooed, snuggling into Fëanor’s side. “Just look at how happy he is!”

Celegorm, dressed in wisps of dark green and with a flower crown on his head, chittering at the little birds perched in a tree. They sat on the lowest branches, listening to him and often chirping back. He made several odd faces when he whistled, and Fëanor struggled to keep from laughing as he caught his son’s expression from the side.

“One of these days you should take him into the forest.” said Nerdanel, running her fingers along Fëanor’s chest. “He does seem to enjoy what the world has to offer.”

“’Tis dangerous, though. What if he remembers the way and sneaks out one day?”

“The guards will stop him before he gets far.You worry too much.”

Fëanor’s fears were not exactly unfounded and less than a year after Celegorm was taken into the forests of Aman, he ventured there himself. He took Maedhros with him so he had someone to carry his favourite snacks, and directed their three-day expedition away from home. During this time Fëanor tore his hair out from stress and held Maglor close, listening to a few improvised laments to help ease his grief-ready heart.

Celegorm and Maedhros had no idea what was going on back home, and continued to walk.

“How are your legs feeling?” asked Maedhros, gazing at his little brother who was so small he needed three steps to catch up to a single bigger one. Celegorm pointed ahead and made a sound Maedhros knew to mean “Leave me alone”, and went silent.

“Mhm.” Maedhros adjusted the pack he had to better carry the weight and looked into the distance. The forest thrived with tall trees of various species, along with heaps and heaps of plants. Everything from flowers to berries and even mushrooms could be found here, and Celegorm inspected everything as if he had some scientific purpose behind it. He held no fear in his heart for the unknown, just like Maglor. There was nothing in Aman that could hurt Fëanor’s children, so they thought and believed. Maedhros however held suspicions regarding Fingolfin’s secrecy, and questioned his father’s motives on keeping everyone away from him. He had little naïveté compared to his brothers.

Lost in his own thoughts, Maedhros did not notice he was being called for until Celegorm punched him in the leg.

“GYEH!” he shrieked, startling a few creatures with the high pitch of his cry. Celegorm sighed and held up something for his brother, looking away. It was a wreath of flowers, the stems expertly twined to form a pattern akin to Fëanor’s royal circlet. He seemed almost embarrassed to be offering it, but looked up for approval when Maedhros took the wreath out of his hands.

“Oh, thank you…” Maedhros smiled and crowned himself the prince of the forest, bending to ruffle Celegorm’s hair. “Shall I make one for you?”

Celegorm nodded, and soon enough his wavy blonde hair was home to braids with flowers sticking out and a crown of his own. Together they walked, Celegorm with a light hold on his brother’s loose pant leg and Maedhros’s lanky arms swaying in the breeze. They came across various animals neither had seen before, and knew not what to call them. Maedhros found what he thought was a giant cat and stared, only to be stared back at with just as much interest. It was then that he realised another set of eyes was watching. Bright green and swirlingly deep, they blinked several times.

“Hello, young one.”

A face moved out from behind the bushes and there beside the huge cat was a boy, standing from a hidden crouch. He wore little more than leaves about his body and a few leather belts, each holding shiny implements that looked like the things Fëanor made.

“Who are you?” asked Maedhros, stepping back to protect Celegorm if need be.

“Do not be afraid.” The boy spoke with such a deep voice it was like the creaking of trees magnified through an empty cave. “I am Oromë, he who hunts all manner of beasts.”

“What are you hunting for today?” asked Celegorm in the most complete sentence Maedhros had ever heard him speak. Oromë smiled brightly and saw Celegorm mirror his joy, at once understanding the intent in those clear blue eyes.

“I heard that some elves were walking around, and I wished to meet them. Ye art the sons of Fëanor, correct?”

Maedhros nodded. “How… did you know?”

“I know all there is to know, as do the rest of my kin. If ye wishest for knowledge of the natural world, this is the place to acquire it.”

“Ooooh, yes please! I want to know things!” Celegorm squealed with excitement and left his brother’s side, drawn to Oromë. Maedhros also held some degree of interest and followed along, spending the rest of the day in a quiet glade with gentle light and a cool stream to ease his travel-weary body. There amongst the pink bell-shaped flowers Celegorm and Oromë became good friends, enthusing together about the wonders of the world. When the sky began to darken, it was several hours into their adventure and Maedhros had nearly fallen asleep. Celegorm was content to listen to Oromë speak of the stars and what they meant, while glancing around at the few nocturnal animals nearby. He had never felt so peaceful in all his life, and by morning he was convinced it was just a dream… especially as he awakened in his brother’s room, not a breath of fresh air to be tasted. A soothing scent still came from his hair as he realised his flower crown was still there, resting on his pillow just beside Maedhros.

“Háno, wake up.” He bit his brother’s ear to awaken him quickly, and Maedhros gasped with flushed cheeks as he jolted into consciousness. Maedhros turned to the side, slowly and with eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“Last night. What happen?”

Looking around and noticing his own wreath on the pillow, Maedhros could come to one conclusion.

“That guy… Oromë… he did some magic, and now we’re here. That’s okay, right?”

Celegorm nodded quickly, face lighting up with hope. “He’s magic! Can we go see him again?”

Maedhros barely stuttered out an answer before the door burst open and there was Fëanor, agile and burning like a flame racing down a piece of string. That string ran out soon enough, and he exploded. But not with anger.

“You two!!” He dove onto the bed dressed in little more than a thin robe and pulled his sons into a tight hug, holding Celegorm to his chest and Maedhros everywhere else.

“Ghk! Atar!” Maedhros could barely breathe and squirmed until Fëanor released him, which admittedly took some time.

“You’ve no idea how terribly I have worried! I thought you were stolen, or hurt, or…”

“Atya, we’re fine.” said Celegorm, and plopped his tiny crown onto Fëanor’s head. “We went on an adventure.”

“An adventure? You missed two days’ worth of breakfast, lunch and dinner… and sleep! Where have you been?”

Celegorm and Maedhros both told their tale and at the end of it all, Fëanor came to the conclusion that they’d met one of the Valar and had their minds altered. Celegorm wanted nothing more than to go back into the forest, and Maedhros seemed oddly spaced out…

“The next time you want to go, let me take you. Don’t go running off with your brother like that again, is that clear?”
“Yeeees, Atya….” Celegorm tilted his head from side to side, his hair flopping about with as much exasperation as possible. Along with rolling his eyes, he made it clear that he didn’t appreciate Fëanor bossing him about. Fëanor didn’t even care – he just wanted his sons to be safe. He gave Celegorm one last hug, and shifted over to Maedhros.

“Are you well, yonyo?”

Maedhros grimaced at his father’s nickname for him, aptly called big boy in Quenya due to his immense height.

“Just tired. I should be asking you… you look exhausted!”

“Pah, that’s nothing. Rest for the day, food shall be brought up should you need it.” Fëanor knew how difficult it must’ve been for his eldest son to look after feisty little Celegorm and rested his head against Maedhros’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “I… I’m glad you’re safe.”

Chapter Text

Fifty years later in the year 1350, the House of Finwë saw yet another addition to compliment Fëanor’s other offerings. While Fingolfin had managed two kids (One distant Fingon and his similar-looking brother Turgon), Fëanor’s three became four with Nerdanel’s latest trial: Caranthir. Named Morifinwë for his dark hair and Carnistir for his reddened face, this particular elfling could be heard trying to scream his way out of his mother. Celegorm watched with a raised eyebrow as Fëanor attempted to calm his son (once clean and bundled in soft white), doing his best not to grimace at the sight. Caranthir had what could be described as his mother’s healthy tan highlighted with blended patches of soft white, marking shadow around his eyes and a glow at his cheeks.With Nerdanel’s silver eyes and Fëanor’s dark hair, he seemed to have inherited the same fury that most in the palace tried to avoid. For what he cried about, Fëanor wasn’t sure. But he did his best to hold Caranthir to his chest and shush him before his ears fell off.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Celegorm, speaking to his brothers more than his parents.

“Perhaps he is scared of you,” Maglor replied evenly. “After all, you have the most terrifying face out of all of us.”

“Eh? What did you say about my face?” Celegorm leaned into his brother and pushed his face for Maglor to further inspect, confident that there were no faults to be found at all. At five hundred years of age, he appeared androgynous and smooth with his high cheekbones softened by a gentle face, though his eyes burned with bright light.

Maglor recoiled, smiling to placate his brother. “There you go, making that frightening snarl. I daresay I might wet myself at the sight of you.”

“Would you two shut up?” Fëanor barked at his sons with eyes wide, pupils tiny. “You’re both going to pee yourselves once I get my hands on you.”

“Eep, he’s mad. Wasn’t me!” Maglor made a quick exit followed by his brother, chased outside. Maedhros was the only one left and even he could not bear to hear Caranthir’s wailing, and swiftly stepped away. Fëanor was left to hand Caranthir to Nerdanel and look hopelessly lost. Caranthir went face first into his mother’s breasts and his cries were muffled for a moment, then began to die down.

“Ahh, he stopped…” Nerdanel whispered, eager to not disturb her son. Fëanor rolled his eyes.

“Of course… he’s got the best pillow in the world now, all to himself. Meldanya, I have a feeling this one is going to be trouble…” Just as he said that, he noticed Caranthir peeping at him from the corner of his eyes. He almost looked… judgemental.

‘Ah, shit.’

~

A few months later (equivalent to three or four years), Caranthir had managed to walk based on how often he felt the need to escape. Far too many people looked at him for his own liking, and the sight of eyes peering at him struck a great fear in his heart, the need to hide. Quite often he felt scorned, especially by Fingolfin and most of the elves downstairs. As the latest heir, he was required to make a few appearances at court and oh, how he hated it. Everyone talked too much and he couldn’t focus on anything at all, let alone understand things. So he felt stupid, and he cried. It became his known hobby to hide from people and sulk, affirmed by Fëanor’s own words.

“He has problems.” the Prince admitted, and his temper flared at the accusing glances “But only for the troubles of the world! He is far too adept at reading people’s sorrows, thus he mourns in grief. Leave him be, or face my wrath.” In truth, Fëanor had no idea what was wrong with his son. Caranthir couldn’t talk to him (let alone pronounce many words) and most of the time he spent near his father was spying on him, afraid.

One day, Fëanor was sat with Maglor in his lap, braiding his hair. Maglor remained perfectly still with his eyes closed, enjoying his father’s attention whilst humming a sweet song. From the door Caranthir watched and listened. Usually he followed Fëanor or Maglor, the latter because of his attractive voice and gentle nature. Fëanor was the other object of Caranthir’s interest, merely due to his various attempts at interacting with him. Maglor’s face twitched for a moment and Caranthir hid himself, daring to peek only after a few seconds had passed.

‘Eeeeegh! That’s scary… why are his eyes all white like that? W-wait, they came back down. And OH NO he’s looking at me! Why is he smiling?? AHahghh’

“What are you doing over there?” came Fëanor’s voice, over the top of Maglor’s quiet humming. “Come here.”

“Nh!” Caranthir shook his head and sprinted off, tripping over his feet in the process but managing to right himself before Fëanor gave chase. Several meters later, it became clear that nobody was coming after him.

Fëanor sighed and went back to doing Maglor’s hair in intricate regal braids.

“Atar, perhaps you should go to him.” said Maglor, his lilting voice darkened with concern.

“Later.” Fëanor muttered, and pressed a soft kiss to his son’s neck. “Let me finish.”

So they spent the rest of the afternoon together, until the chirping crickets outside announced the evening’s approach.

“It’s almost time for dinner…” Maglor reminded his father once his hair was done, many fine strands drawn into a majestic rose at the back of his head. “Shall we go?”

“Mm, I’ll go and find Moryo. Feel free to start without me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Fëanor gave his son a reassuring pat on the back before turning to leave, senses alert for any creeping elflings about.

“Moryo!” He called Caranthir by his nickname, seeking through every hallway of the third floor. “Where are you?”

A sudden shuffle came from the right. Fëanor turned just in time to see his son slide out of an empty room, attempting to sneak behind him.

“There you are!” Fëanor’s exclamation caused his son to jump a foot in the air, only to land on his ass a moment later. “What bothers you today, hm?” He bent to scoop the sniffling elf up into his arms, expecting Caranthir to struggle. To his surprise, Caranthir made no moves and remained still, eyes glistening and bottom lip bit.

“Acha.” He reached for Fëanor’s face, planting his hands on two fine cheeks. “F…Fin..”

“Fin what?” Fëanor wiggled his eyebrows, hoping to please his son. Caranthir then grabbed a bit of Fëanor’s hair and waved it around, poking his father’s face with the end. “Ah, finde? You want my hair?”

“No!” Shaking his head, Caranthir’s feeble whimper tugged at Fëanor’s heart. What little compassion the prince had went to his son, and he asked him, “What do you want?”

Caranthir held his own hair which was little more than messy black fuzz and pulled it, pointing at the back.

‘If he doesn’t understand this… I have failed at the most basic of communication.’

Fëanor smiled for a moment, then his face fell. “Ah… you want me to braid your hair too, right?”

Caranthir nodded, understanding the words he could not form himself.

“But Moryo, you barely have any. It’s so short~” Fëanor bent his head and nuzzled his son’s soft hair, not realizing just how embarrassed Caranthir was. That night at dinner, the elfling spent his time with his face hidden in Nerdanel’s chest, while everyone else went about their usual conversation. Only Fëanor seemed slightly apologetic. Still, he remained silent.

~

A few days later, Celegorm returned from a trip to the forest with a new friend in his arms. He’d spoken of his worries about being cast aside now that Caranthir was here, and for companionship Oromë had given him a dog. Huan he’d called it, the exact translation of the word dog in Quenya.  Huan didn’t seem to mind, being a carefree puppy with a coat of pure white. He held the intelligence of any elf and Celegorm knew it, often speaking to his friend late into the night where once he’d slept alone. Huan could not talk, but their conversations went well enough. So Celegorm and his companion became inseperable (and if anyone insisted Huan was a mere pet, they would receive one of Celegorm’s infamous beatings) and the second youngest son of Fëanor had nothing to worry about at all.

That was until he saw it.

He was walking the corridors one night with a glass of milk in hand and eyes peeled for objects in the darkness when a sliver of light caught his eye. Here in the hallway where all of Fëanor’s sons had their rooms, everyone was usually asleep by this time. Celegorm knew everyone’s sleep and wake schedules because he always slept late and woke at the crack of dawn. Then he could watch and wait, much like Caranthir during the day.

Glancing around at the surrounding ornaments (a painting of Fëanor to the left and a fancy border around the door), Celegorm concluded that this was Maedhros’s room… occupied by more than one person. He pressed his eye to the crack at the side of the door, looking through the tiny hinge-gaps rather than the bottom of the door. Nothing much could be seen from beneath doors, and he didn’t want his shadow to be noticed.

Visibility was limited through the slit in which he peeped. The room appeared to be lit by candles, a dim glow illuminating the room. There was also a slight smoky scent, and something sweet. That was familiar, but Celegorm knew not exactly what it was. Then he heard a sound. A low, musical chuckle.

“Hmhm, don’t worry about a thing. It’s late… we’re fine. Please, may I continue?”

“Yes…” That was Maedhros’s soft whisper, the other voice instantly recognizable as Maglor. They were both being very quiet even though the thick walls would not betray their secrets, whatever they were. Intrigued, Celegorm pressed his ear to the crack. A wet, soft click. Something like a kiss. Then a sigh, drawn from deep within.

“Káno…”

‘Holy shit. They… OHHH VALAR. THEY ARE REALLY-’ Celegorm clasped a hand to his mouth to keep from exclaiming with shock. He’d only dreamed of doing what he suspected they were doing now, having had the past five hundred or so years to learn about the pleasures of the flesh. The sounds they were making were definitely proof of some serious enjoyment, with a gentle allure to every voiceless whisper. But… it was said that those of the same blood were forbidden to do such things. Perhaps it was why they did this at night, in secret? It set Celegorm’s heart racing to bear witness to such indecent things. He pressed his ear to the door a little more, tingling warmth heating his blood.

“Shhh… let me…” Maglor murmured in a much lower tone than what he usually spoke with, and was silent for a moment. Then, a quiet lapping sound as if he drank from a bowl of noodles while making attempts to slurp some up filled the room. Celegorm only caught the edge of the sound and it was the most wicked thing he’d ever heard. Well, coupled with the images in his mind at least. Maedhros groaned loudly and the sheets rustled around his supposedly moving form. Celegorm twisted his neck to take a quick peep, but could not see anything much. He contemplated shoving the door open and engraving the first visual flash he saw into his mind, at the expense of his elder brothers’ privacy. There was no privacy in this house, anyway. It was well known that Fëanor had the right to go anywhere he pleased, and Celegorm had learned that the hard (with a pun!) way. Embarrassing memories aside, Celegorm’s hand slid down from his covered mouth to rest at his neck. Without thinking he squeezed a little there, in perhaps some subconscious effort to restrict his voice. It only became noticeable once he realized he couldn’t breathe, and he gasped for breath just as one of his brothers moaned.

“Urghhh… Ohh, there… mmnn….” The noodle-bowl slurping sound only grew more like a vortex of wind in the ocean, so wet and intense it was. Celegorm thought he ought to feel disgusted even for a second, but was having too much fun learning about how these encounters typically went down to care.

‘For how long have they been doing this? How come I haven’t known about them before? I should’ve seen, they’ve always been so close… and now they’re lovers! This is great!’

Maglor and Maedhros were just as enthusiastic, and enjoyed each other’s company until an hour had passed and nothing could be heard save for their panting. When Celegorm returned to his own room, he finished off his milk (for his mouth had gone suddenly dry) and crawled into bed. Huan was fast asleep, undisturbed. He knew nothing of Celegorm taking care of himself, satisfying a few needs that witnessing Maedhros and Maglor had brought up.

The next day at breakfast, Celegorm eyed the two who acted as if nothing had ever happened. Maedhros however sat a little straighter, and Maglor’s usual gentle smile had something of a smirk to it. Caranthir, Fëanor and Nerdanel were none the wiser.

Chapter Text

Nineteen years passed, and Fëanor spent all of them dealing with Caranthir. Those were the longest two Valian years of his life, and one night when his youngest son was being looked after by his eldest, Fëanor confessed to his wife.

“I… think we screwed up somehow with Moryo. He does nothing but cry and hide from us… what more can I do?”

“It’s not your fault…” Nerdanel sighed, turning over in bed to face her husband. “It’s just how he is, I suppose. Valar knows how he turned out like this, but look at the light side – he still has many years to go. He will grow out of this phase, I’m sure.”

“Really? It seems like a firm behaviour if you ask me… set in stone to spend the rest of his life in tears.” Fëanor spoke with genuine concern for his son, along with some apathy for the entire situation. He didn’t believe there was any fixing the pattern Caranthir had locked himself into, and despaired every time he saw his son. Whatever would Finwë think if he made contact with him? In a few days, Caranthir was actually due to meet the King due to Finwë’s curiosity about his latest grandson. There was no doubt that once downstairs, Fingolfin would creep around and berate Fëanor on his parenting skills. There was no way Caranthir would listen if Fëanor told him to act normal, for there was no set definition that Fëanor could explain that he thought his son would understand.

‘Ai, I’m fucked. Wait, that’s it…!’ Fëanor’s eyes lit up with an idea, instantly noticed by Nerdanel who was gazing at him.

“How about… we make another one? C’mon.” As if he hadn’t just asked his wife for a do-over or replacement son, Fëanor slipped his hand over his wife’s waist and brought their bodies closer together. Nerdanel enjoyed the touch but not so much the words, and narrowed her eyes.

“Fëanáro just what are you suggesting?” There was a biting suspicion to her words and Fëanor thought to silence them, pressing his lips against Nerdanel’s in a passionate kiss.

“Mmnh, don’t worry…” he breathed between licks and sucks, venturing to his wife’s neck where he knew she was sensitive. Just beneath her ear, where her jawbone ended and a soft bit of skin lay… there. He nipped, and Nerdanel sighed.

“Nn… ahh, don’t think I can’t see what you… you’re doing-- hyEEh!” She’d not expected Fëanor to take her earlobe between his lips and as he flicked his tongue about, she found shameless desire coiling in her belly.

‘Oh, no…’ She absolutely hated when her body gave in to her husband’s charms, though this wouldn’t be the first time they’d bantered about having a child and went in for the act unprepared. Fëanor liked to think he was ready for just about anything, and Nerdanel had no choice but to deal with his ridiculous self-confidence.

“Meldanya…” she sighed, “Please, wait…” Her protests she knew were futile but still she tried, not entirely unwilling to have her husband pay such close attention to her. After nine hundred and one years, he knew how to satisfy her needs and she wasn’t exactly one to beg when she wanted it. So, she made the most of what Fëanor offered tonight and kept her pride in one piece as he ravished her, actually asking for permission at one point before they continued.

“Come,” she whispered. “Take me.”

~

In the morning, Fëanor thought to get his task over and done with so he went to find Caranthir in Maedhros’s room. Maedhros was helping Caranthir get dressed and when the door opened, they both yelped.

“Oh calm down, it’s just me. What are you two doing?”

“Just getting ready for the day.” said Maedhros, nudging his brother’s arm into the sleeve of a light blue tunic. Caranthir stared at his father, feeling his heart race.

‘What’s he doing in here now…? Why is he looking at me like that? Ah! Is there something weird on me??’

Fëanor made a cutting gesture with his hand. “Hurry up, then. My Atar wants to see Moryo for himself.”

“Oh, that will be fun.” Maedhros muttered under his breath, much to Fëanor’s annoyance. Once Caranthir was dressed in baby blue befitting his age, he was taken downstairs by a rather tense Fëanor.

“Now, don’t start crying for no reason, okay? You have to be good today. Just for today.” Fëanor held his son like he always did, supporting Caranthir’s head at his own chest while his arms kept a quivering body in place. “Are you cold?”

“N..No…” Caranthir shook his head, doing his very best to keep himself together. He could sense some negativity coming from his father and at once thought it was his own doing – then some other concerns came to the front of his mind.

“Acha… where… where are we… going…?”

“To see your grandfather, of course. He wants to see you.”

“Ahh…” Caranthir had no idea what sort of person he was meeting, but if they were anything like Fëanor then they probably had high standards for how he was supposed to act. Today, he had to be good. And that involved keeping his face dry. The little embroidered handkerchief in his pocket stayed tucked away and Caranthir continued to fight his imminent emotional spillage. Then, there was light. In the throneroom Finwë sat, enjoying the sun from his most comfortable seat.

“Atar, I brought you this.” Fëanor mumbled, presenting his son who he set on the floor just feet away from Finwë.

“Ooh?” Finwë leaned forth and peered, his silvery eyes shining with curiosity. At his age, he still had tiny pieces of it left. “This one is Carnistir, right?”

When Fëanor nodded, he took a look at his son and nearly fainted. Caranthir dropped to one knee much like the Noldorin knights in Finwë’s service, head bowed and fist to the ground. Finwë at first was too shocked to laugh, and then softened his scrutinous expression.

“There’s no need for that, little one. Why don’t you come here, hm?” He beckoned with one hand and Caranthir got to his feet, a little unsteady and hesitant. With every encouraging gesture, Finwë managed to coax Caranthir a little closer until he was within arm’s reach. Then, Finwë reached out and picked up the elfling by his waist, bringing Caranthir to rest in his lap.

“My, thou art a serious one.” said Finwë as he pressed a supportive hand to Caranthir’s upper back, gazing down at him. “What dost thou think about?”

Caranthir had a face that suggested high and holy constipation, his mouth drawn into a firm line with dimples at his cheeks and a furrow in his brow.

“Good.” He spoke with a resolute nod, looking at his grandfather. “I must be good.”

Finwë threw a glare over at Fëanor, who cringed so hard he almost broke his back. “You shouldn’t pressure him so much, onya. Do you intend to raise a mindless lawmaker out of this little one?”

“Eh, first impressions. You know how they go.” Fëanor tried lamely to excuse his apparent blunder but Finwë soon ignored him, much to the prince’s horror.

“Don’t thee worry about a thing, alright? Thou shalt be whatever you like. Fear naught, is what I’ll say.”

“Ooh…” Caranthir nodded, wiggling closer to Finwë. He was drawn in by the understanding in Finwë’s face and had a feeling that if he ever lacked knowledge, this elf would have the answers. “Okay.”

While the two became acquainted with each other, Fëanor lost himself in the memories of last night. He’d wanted a new son, and had no idea if his wife had one growing inside her yet.

Exactly one year later in the year 1352, Nerdanel gave Fëanor just what he’d asked for. This particular child came out with a full head of hair and the exact same eyes as his father, though the light of wisdom and age did not shine so bright within. He was a fighter once held and kicked just as he’d done for the past twelve months. Nerdanel was glad to have the pain in her belly subside… but once she took a good look at her son, she was shocked.

“Meldanya…. Take a look at this. He looks exactly like you.”

Fëanor jumped over into the chair beside Nerdanel’s bed to have a peep and at once reached to hold his son in his arms.

“You are me, my son, my own. Curufinwë .”

‘Ohhhhh shit!’ thought Nerdanel, her eyebrows shooting into orbit. ‘He named him after himself? Wow. Better come up with something good…’

Before Fëanor asked his wife what her name was for their new son, he peered into Curufin’s eyes. Curufin beamed at his father, mouth open without any sign of teeth.

“Gyaahh~”

Fëanor nuzzled Curufin’s tiny little nose and smiled, watching as his son tried to imitate the expression. Nerdanel laughed wearily and shook her head.

“He is indeed you, in flesh and blood. Atarinkë, I think he shall be.”

So Curufin became mini-Fëanor, the little father to all the sons who were also shocked at his resemblance to Fëanor. Even without a bridge to his nose or visible cheekbones, Curufin looked exactly like Fëanor did as a child. Finwë confirmed this and received some rather painful flashbacks, eased only by Fëanor’s presence beside him.

Fëanor had thought Curufin would be the end to any recent child-raising problems, and nearly forgot about Caranthir in the process.

Still, Caranthir watched. Waiting.

~

Fëanor relaxed with Nerdanel a few days after Curufin’s birth, congratulating her with many soft kisses all over. She turned her face towards him and leaned in to touch her lips to his own.

“Mm, what sort of elf do you think he will grow into?” she asked, glancing at Curufin who rested in Fëanor’s lap.

“A casted copy of me, most like.” Fëanor observed his son’s sweet sleeping face then turned back to his wife. “I hope you’re prepared.”

“Mhm. I can handle anything, you know that.”

One year later, Nerdanel regretted her confident words.

At first she thought her son’s fondness for his father meant that she could focus on her other children, namely little Caranthir who she worried for a lot. It soon dawned on her that Curufin literally would not leave his father’s side, not unless Fëanor pushed him away. And then he would cry, on those rare occasions that Fëanor wanted time to himself. It lasted for hours.

Nerdanel lay on her stomach receiving a nice back massage from a handsome servant when she heard the first sound. Then screaming. Lots of it.

“What dost thou want?” Curufin screeched, standing firm in the hallway to face down his brother. Caranthir raised his hands in defense, unwilling to have another ceramic bowl thrown at his head.

“Hyeeeeh! Nothing, nothing!”

“Lies!” Had Curufin the ability to bellow like a dragon, he would’ve shouted his brother’s face into the next dimension. But Caranthir did not back down, eyes slit and lips pursed. “Thou creepest and weepest all day long! My Atya wants nothing to do with thee!”

“That’s not true! Thy words… falsity, all of iiiiiit!!” Shaking his head until he felt dizzy, Caranthir denied his brother with increasing vehemence. He could hardly breathe for the tighness in his throat, and his hands shook in their clenched fists. “A-Atya… he..”

“He’s mine, and if I see thy face near again I will bite thy nose off! RARGH!” Curufin’s brash voice gave way to a fearsome, throaty growl that was clearly practiced with some skill. Caranthir nearly peed himself and sprinted off down the hall, heading straight for the couch with a hole in the side so he could hide there.

‘I hate him,’ he thought to himself. ‘He always chases me away… and he’s so close with Atya… Now Atya will never love me, after all… he has Curvo now…’

Curufin grinned at his brother’s retreating form. He was glad for his advanced ability to speak, taught by the master of words himself Fëanor the All-Knowing. That was how Curufin saw him, anyway. Like a beacon of light and wisdom, Fëanor held everything Curufin wanted and embodied the elfling’s own desire. The need to be loved, and to remain close to one like himself. Curufin felt he could connect to his father, and that was all that mattered to him. He turned around just as he heard footsteps, but saw his mother’s angry face instead of his beloved Atya.

‘O shit,’ he thought. ‘Gotta go fast.’ He ran then from Nerdanel who actually gave chase, wearing only a bathrobe for decency’s sake.

“Get back here!” Nerdanel ordered, her voice with heavy authority rather than the usual sweet tone she used with her sons. “Stop running!”

Curufin gave no fucks at all for his mother’s whims and continued to bolt away through hallways and rooms to confuse her. Nerdanel however knew the upper floor of the palace far better and managed to corner her son… moments before he slipped between her legs, running once again.

“Damn it!” She cursed under her breath, tightened her robe and went off after him. She’d just heard his pattering footsteps begin to fade and the sting of frustration had started settling in her limbs when her sharp eyes caught sight of someone else.

“Hm? What are you running from, my precious?” Fëanor held Curufin in his arms, and in shock Nerdanel realized the elfling was pretending to cry.

“Uwaaah…” Curufin snuggled into his father’s neck, sobbing expertly. “Ammë is gonna do something… ‘m scaaared…”

Fëanor at once raised his head and glared with the power of death itself into his wife’s eyes. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“Don’t use that tone with me!! He was threatening his brother! Would you expect me to just leave them to fight??” Nerdanel threw her hands out by her sides, imploring her husband to see the truth. Fëanor snarled at her, baring his sharp white teeth.

“It’s only natural for my little champion to wish dominance over lesser folk. Let me guess, Caranthir was bothering him again?”

“L-LESSER FOLK? You… did you just-”

“As I thought. I’ll punish him later.” Uncaring for Nerdanel’s protests, Fëanor turned his head and squished his neck to peep at his son. Curufin looked up with wide, teary eyes and sniffled, whimpering .

“There, there… do not cry. You’re fine now, hm? Atya will look after you.” Fëanor’s anger dissipated the instant he gazed upon his son, and he trailed a single finger along Curufin’s wet cheek. “Shhhh…”

“I can’t believe this.” Nerdanel spat, agony sinking its acidic claws into her heart for what injustice had befallen Caranthir. “How can you be so blind?!”

“Begone.” said Fëanor, glaring at his wife from the corner of his eye. “You’ve upset him.”

Fëanor waited for his wife to leave then and made his way into a large, open sitting room with a few floral candles burning. The light scent in the room was one that invited relaxation, and it was just warm enough to entice deep sleep.

“Here… calm down.” Seating himself in a huge red armchair, Fëanor cradled his son to his chest. Within minutes, Curufin saw fit to rub his tears away and close his eyes. Fëanor always made him feel safe, even though there was nothing in the house that could truly hurt him. He knew his father’s word was law and that Fëanor would protect him above all else, even prizing him over his other sons. Today’s experiment had been proof of that. There were only more to come.

~

A few months later, Nerdanel’s suspicions burned slowly in the pit of her mind as black thoughts took root. She’d never seen anyone so devoted to their father before, aside from Fëanor’s clear adoration of Finwë.

‘Is this what he meant when he said a casted copy?Atarinkë is like an insight into Fëanor’s childhood mind. This… is not what I expected.’

There at the table they sat for dinner, Nerdanel at one end and Fëanor at the other. Maedhros and Maglor sat at either side of their father while Celegorm remained beside Nerdanel, with Caranthir opposite. In Fëanor’s lap sat Curufin with the most smug, pleased look on his face any child could possibly make. He absolutely refused to eat unless his father fed him, and it was clear Fëanor had no qualms about complying. He did not want Curufin to starve, and saw nothing wrong with assisting his young son with food. The other sons had gotten used to it well enough, aside from Caranthir who seemed even more depressed than usual, picking at his food in deep thought. Curufin meanwhile was utterly complacent with the eternal reward his stubbornness had wrought. He reclined in the soft richness of his father’s robes, Fëanor’s warmth near in both hand and heart. Fëanor didn’t use cutlery when feeding his son as he did not wish to harm Curufin by accident, so he’d gotten into the habit of eating with his fingers. What he had, he shared with his son and Curufin felt like the most special being in existence. He clung to that feeling, and ate everything his father offered.

Nerdanel watched with narrowed eyes. Her son had been eating mashed potatoes from Fëanor’s hand even before he could speak, as if he was making an effort to stay away from her.

‘Now what have I done to deserve this?’ she wondered, frowning down at her carefully arranged dish. As usual, Caranthir was staring at her with a mixture of concern and fascination. His eyes darted away when she looked at him.

‘At least this one considers me. But only because he has little else to look forward to… Ai, why must things be this way? I can’t handle this at all. Not that Fëanor has to know.’

If there was tension that night, everyone pretended they couldn’t feel it. Conversation continued as usual.

“Oh, have you heard the news? Uncle Finarfin returns next week.”

“Hm, I’ve never met him. Is he nice?” Maedhros gave his brother a quizzical look, wondering about Maglor’s information-gathering skills.

“Apparently so. He got married to one of the Teleri, would you believe it?”

“Always a traitor to our folk, him.” Fëanor swirled his wine around and took a sip, looking off into the distance. Granted, there was only a wall for him to wistfully gaze at but it still had the desired effect.

“Eeh? What, has he been exiled?” Celegorm leaned in with interest, his hair trailing into his plate. Nerdanel observed that and sighed, tucking it back behind her son’s ear. Celegorm nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I wish. No, he’s not been exiled. Many years ago he left for Alqualondë and I thought he’d never return…”

“More like you hoped, heh. You really hate your brothers eh Atar?”

“Oh shush, Tyelko. They’re not my brothers. They’re… my father’s mistakes.” Fëanor nodded as if satisfied with his own conclusion, and Curufin nodded along too. Smiling a little, Fëanor gave his son a sip of wine and patted him on the head. Nerdanel did her best not to explode.

Maedhros twirled his fork around, picking up a stack of pasta. “Atar, what would you do if we said things like that about each other?”

“Why, you’d have no reason to!” Fëanor laughed and shook his head. “You’re all my beautiful, legitimate children. Even Caranthir, who doesn’t appear to be listening.”

Caranthir got a few glances in his direction and cringed, shying away. Celegorm looked upon him with pity.

“Do you think we’ll ever get more brothers?” Maglor asked, directing his question to everyone who seemed interested. Maedhros nodded, and Celegorm rolled his eyes.

“We don’t need any more. I’m pretty sure we’ll have to fight to the death when it’s time to choose an heir, and the less blood spilled, the better.”

“Don’t talk like that over food!” Nerdanel chastised her son’s violent speech and made a motion to stab the air with her fork. Celegorm disregarded her immediately and turned back to Fëanor.

“None of that will be necessary, I can assure you. Curufin is my chosen heir~ It’ll be like I never even left.”

“Yaaaay~” Curufin squealed and gave the biggest smile to Fëanor, who grinned down at him in return. As Fëanor offered his son a piece of meat, the table was silent. Minutes passed until Maedhros spoke.

“Atar… seriously? I’m your firstborn son, does that mean nothing to you?”

“Don’t start with me Nelyo - you would make a better father than a ruler, we all know that.”

“Shame it’s the opposite for someone around here…” Caranthir muttered, directing one sharp glare at his father. Celegorm spat out his mouthful of rice and coughed, holding a hand to his mouth in shock.

“Valar, Atar you need some ice for that burn?” He struggled to hold in his laughter and displayed genuine concern for his father, whose fine face was quickly becoming livid. In one smooth gesture Fëanor pushed a morsel of food into Curufin, swept his finger high in the air and fanned the negative air away.

“I’m the best father in the world for those who do not flee from my affections.”

“FËANOR!!” Nerdanel cried in disbelief, “What are you doing, destroying him like that?”

“It’s not my fault he can’t stand to get rekt.” Fëanor shrugged and picked a slice of beef for himself, dipping it in dark red sauce. He completely ignored Caranthir as usual, wanting nothing to do with his rude little lost cause. Caranthir stared down at his plate, silent tears trickling down his cheeks. Nerdanel couldn’t bear it.

“He’s your son, you know. Why are you so horrible to him?”

“I don’t tolerate anyone in this house trying to insult me, no matter how minor it may be. In any battle of words I shall be the victor, and it would do you both well to understand that.”

Caranthir took that as his second cue to shut up and Nerdanel struggled to understand what all this strife was about.

“Pah. Maybe Carnistir was right.”

~

A few years passed and Nerdanel tried to love her youngest son, truly. While she felt the bond all mothers did to their children, there was no communication nor respect between them. Curufin had an intelligence behind his fiery eyes that betrayed his innocent face – and with every manipulative prank he only grew more confident in his own abilities. With his father in the palm of his hand and his brothers wary of him, Curufin began to secure Fëanor all to himself. In his late sixties he still was at a childish height but mature enough to marry, and needless to say a lot of people still treated him like an elfling. Even Fëanor, much to Curufin’s delight.

“Are you going to go looking for an elleth now that you’re of age?” Fëanor asked, his son sitting in his lap as usual. He thought it a bit strange that Curufin still wanted to be fed and carried at this age, but did not try to deter his son with any force. In time, Curufin would learn. Fëanor hoped.

“Nay! I have no interest in ellith or even ellyn, not at all.” Curufin shook his head and wiggled forth in his father’s lap. “I’ll marry you, Atya. I love you!”

“Hngh!” A fierce blush consumed Fëanor’s shocked face. “M-me?! But I’m already married!”

“Don’t care. I want you.” Curufin’s bright, innocent smile set Fëanor at relative ease, for the prince knew his son was still young and knew little of the world. But he astutely took notice of how close they were, and how naturally Curufin seemed to straddle him…

“Oh, my silly little darling. You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?”  Fëanor booped his son on the nose, a patronizing tone in his voice.

“I do, I do! Atyaaaa… I know what married people do!” Curufin went cross-eyed and tried to nip at Fëanor’s finger, but it was snatched away quickly. “I want to hug you, and kiss you, and sleep with you…”

“You already sleep with me.” Fëanor said matter-of-factly, his eyes beginning to narrow. “Your Ammë doesn’t like it one bit, I must say.”

“Not like that.” Curufin shook his head, his shoulder-length hair spilling over his shoulders. “Different.”

One eyebrow of Fëanor’s went up into his hairline and the other furrowed down, scrunching his eye to a close. “Wat.”

“Come on!” Now Curufin squawked in frustration and grabbed his father’s cheeks, much like a baby would do out of curiosity. “I’m old enough, right?”

“Nnnooooooonononononono. No. We are not having this conversation, Curufinwë. Get off me.”

“A-Atya…?” Curufin’s legs trembled a little, his father’s commanding tone having struck fear deep in his heart. ‘What is he going to do if I refuse?’

“NOW.” Fëanor pointed straight out the door and Curufin twitched, jumping to his feet. He took a step back, and stared at his father, lost.

‘What… do I do now?!’

Fëanor needed several moments to collect himself and think of a punishment. He rarely had to do this sort of thing with his favourite son, and it burned him inside with a deep discomfort now.

“…Go to your room. The one next to Tyelko’s.”

“Atya…..!” Curufin’s pleading whine came with fresh tears, entirely real and not just brought up for show. Fëanor grit his teeth, a harsh edge grating his voice against his son’s ears.

“GO ON.”

Curufin fled and for the first time, Fëanor was left truly alone. He looked into his hands, conflicted.

‘If I undestand this right… Curvo wants to fuck me? That can’t be right. He’s my son, and looks just like me… so he wants to do himself? Is this narcissism or some shit? By the Valar, he is me. I’ve always wanted to do things to myself… and my Ada. Agh, Atar. Finwë. Yes, him. …………… Oh, crap. Curvo really wants this, eh…?’ It took hours for Fëanor to conclude what Curufin wanted, without actually asking him. He looked deep inside himself for answers but could not find the need to seek anything sexual from any of his sons, having the much more socially-acceptable Nerdanel for that. But… he began to remember his long-suppressed desires, namely those that involved him being tied up and fucked mercilessly by his own father. He’d never been so bold as to ask that of Finwë… yet here was Curufin, daring to beg. Fëanor had to admit he quite liked being the object of such intense affection, but wasn’t sure what to think of this being his son. Every day of his life he’d thought of the taboo surrounding these sorts of relations with one’s own kin, and had shamefully tucked his need away whenever he sought his father. Now, it rose again… and it was much more difficult to ignore.

That afternoon, he went to see Glorfindel for advice. It was then that he learnt of how ellyn coupled, and a particular secret he’d never before discovered for himself.

‘If it’s for my son, then I suppose I can try to please him. There’s no need for me to worry about any of this. ‘Tis little more than a gift to one who needs it… Curufin.’

So Fëanor did not think any further and returned home, where he slept beside his wife without the presence of his son for the first time in sixty years. He could cuddle her now without feeling another set of arms around him, and once more reconsidered.

The only question that remained was when.