Why by Aprilertuile

Fëanáro was sitting on the floor, his back against the grave marker his father had had made for his mother when her spirit fully settled into Mandos’ Halls.

He was alone on Estë’s island, deep within Lórien’s gardens. Of course he was. When was he not?

Even his father didn’t bother coming anymore.

He crossed his arms tighter against his body.

No. His father had decided to remarry. To replace his mother. Because he wanted other children… To replace him.

Because he hadn’t been enough for his mother to remain alive or to want to come back to life…

And he wasn’t enough for his father either.

Fëanáro looked toward the sky with tears in his eyes.

The sky was perfect, as it always was, the gold of Laurelin already mixing with the cooler silver of Telperion.

He wondered if his father even worried that he had left home without a word and had been gone for days now. Probably not: he was with Indis.

Finwë probably hadn’t even noticed his disappearance yet.

What did Indis have that Miriel didn’t have?

What did Indis have that Finwë’s first family didn’t have? What were they lacking? What did they need, his mother and him, for Finwë to look at them with happiness instead of with the feeling something was missing in his life?

Why did Finwë always wanted more? More than his wife, more than his son, more than either of them could ever give him?

Why?

           Why?

                      Why?

In the distance, he could hear noise. Probably some maiar playing around. Not like there was much use for a place like Estë’s isle.

Not like the place proved it was actually useful to the one person who needed it.

The Valar with their pretty promises. A garden of healing.

For whom? People who didn’t need healing? What a joke!

The whole of Valinor was.

The Valar and their petty laws that they waved when it suited them.

The Valar and their promises that just didn’t hold up to real life.

Safety, protection, perfect laws…

Much good the promises did to Miriel.

All she got out of it was a healing garden that let her die, a Vala of healing unable to heal her, a husband unable to remain faithful to his oath and Valar who wanted to enforce the fact that one elf could only ever have one spouse but were waving that rule for his father just because…

Lies.

Broken promises.

They just didn’t care.

Finwë, Indis, the Valar… No one cared.

His mother would never come back to him.

He’d never see her again.

Because of all of them.

“May I help you, Child? You have been here for a long time?” Estë offered gently, appearing at his side from nowhere, like a strange out-worldly creature she was.

“Like you helped my mother you mean? No, thank you. I actually want to live!” Fëanáro said sharply, rising to his feet, ready to leave.

He hoped the shocked look on her face was true shock and not just an appearance she affected. But with those beings, who knew?

And he could feel her eyes on him.

He could feel her eyes on him like he could feel the weight of the eyes of the people in Tirion. Those who said that Miriel’s death was the fault of his birth and he was marred. Cursed. Carried remnants of the darkness of the Outer Land within him from Miriel’s death.

He gripped the unpractical court fashionable too long sleeves of his garment to hide the shaking of his hands.

Thoughts kept circling in his mind.

In recent years, his father had always taken the side of the people and the courtiers over his own son’s. Yes, Fëanor was too wild. Too loud. Too… Too much. Always too much. He was forbidden to react to the rumors about his responsibility in Miriel’s fate.

And now his father also wanted him to smile and be happy for the fact he effectively condemned Miriel to never come back to life and forever remain a prisoner of Mandos’ halls.

How could any child be happy to envision that fate for their mother?

How could any father ask that of his child?

How could his father even ask that of him?

Why was everything so hard in a land that everyone else called perfect?

Why?

Fëanáro walked for a while. Long enough to get to the little boat that’d bring him off of Estë’s island, and back to Lórien’s gardens. He wanted to be as far from Estë, the so called healer, as he could.

He couldn’t remain there. Beside, remaining there to do what?

Fade too?

No.

Indis and Finwë were already too happy to pretending that Miriel was never there in the first place. They wouldn’t get to do the same to him. He wouldn’t allow it.

But he couldn’t remain.

Not in Lórien, and not at the palace.

Well, his mother was a craftswoman in the first place, a weaver. Perhaps he should try his hand at crafts too, not just court appropriate statecrafts but real down to earth, useful craft. Perhaps he could…

Perhaps he could become someone, instead of being just a prince in a land where princes were replaceable, were actually a burden on the people more than useful to them.

And perhaps, just perhaps… If he became someone… His father would actually see him for once? 

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