From That Rubble by StarSpray  

'Cause from that rubble, what remains
Can only be what's true
If all was lost, there's more I gained
'Cause it led me back to you
- “From Now On” - The Greatest Showman

- - 

When Fëanor and Nerdanel had returned to Tirion after spending the first years of their marriage away from the city, they had immediately begun to plan and build a house of their own, one that could hold their growing family—though even they had not intended then to have quite as many children as they ended up with—and the students that Nerdanel was already beginning to take on, as well as their workshops and collections. It had been ambitious to start with, and as the years went on they had added rooms and wings and once an entire new floor. It was their voices in concert that had sung the songs for the laying of the foundation’s first stones, and Nerdanel’s sweet voice that sang the blessings over the last tile laid on the roof. 

Fëanor thought of that house often, but he did not get up the nerve to actually go to see what was left of it until years after his own return from Mandos, and to Tirion. He was busy with other things—feeling his way forward with Curufin, trying to regain something of what they’d lost. Trying to build something entirely from scratch with Fingolfin, and with Findis and Lalwen. Slowly getting to know his mother. Finding his own way back into the crafts that he’d once loved, teaching this new body that muscle memory that his old one had grown so used to, and acquiring some new scars along the way. Trying to figure out who he was now, when it so often felt as though everything that had made him him had been either burned away with his first body or left behind in Mandos.

Finally, though, he got up one morning and decided that continuing to avoid the house felt too much like cowardice, and whatever he had been and might still be, no one could ever have accused him of that. 

It was still standing, the old house. The walls were slowly crumbling, and many of the windows were broken; the gates into the property were entirely gone, and the gardens overrun with crab apples and thistles and anemones. Dandelions pushed up through cracks in the flagstones of the courtyard. Fëanor pushed the doors open with some difficulty, for both they and the tiles inside had warped. They were faded to browns now, no longer the brilliant and beautiful colors that Nerdanel had made them long ago. The walls were empty but for cobwebs and lichen and mildew, and the rooms devoid of furniture, the air stale and still. He made his way upstairs, though the stairs themselves were broken and unsteady, walking through the dusty rooms and seeing in his mind’s eye what they’d once been. Maglor’s had been messy and chaotic, with clothes strewn about while somehow he always still seemed to know where everything was that he wouldn’t let anyone touch even to do laundry—a striking contrast to how neat he kept his instruments and books in the music room downstairs. Maedhros’ room had been next door, neater at first glance but organized in such a way that only made sense to him, with bookshelves stuffed full and always a pile of letters waiting to be opened or replied to sitting on his desk. Celegorm’s had been neat enough, but there were always feathers or muddy paw prints to be found somewhere; and the twins’ room, when they had been old enough to venture out into the wilds with their brother, had been much the same—and they’d always kept prisms in the windows, so their walls were forever shining with rainbows. Caranthir and Curufin had fallen somewhere in between Maedhros and Maglor on the scale of tidiness, neither of them spending enough time in their rooms to make much mess to begin with. 

The room he had shared with Nerdanel had been cluttered and clean by turns, always bright, always warm—until it wasn’t. 

Fëanor closed the last bedroom door in that wing with a soft click. The house had never been this quiet. He heard scratching somewhere in the walls, and spotted evidence of other animals’ nests—squirrels or birds or other small creatures that made their homes in the city. Glancing around, he saw cracks in the walls, in the floor. The songs sung over the building had held for so many centuries, but even in Valinor buildings would crumble and fall if not continually maintained, and this house was no exception. 

Someone would have to tear it down before it fell down, Fëanor thought as he descended the stairs. Then he stepped out into the overgrown gardens to see the workshops in even worse shape than the house, to see the forge where he’d made the Silmarils with its roof already half fallen in, and realized that the only person he would trust with such a task was himself. He was the reason it had fallen into such disrepair, so he needed to take charge and…do something. There wasn’t any use in trying to repair it, as every part of the building would need to be rebuilt almost from scratch anyway. So the only thing was to sing the walls the rest of the way down and cart the rubble away somewhere, and then…

There would be no point in building a new house just to rattle around in by himself, but the thought of leaving this plot of land bare and empty was even worse. But he could figure that out later. 

Whatever he did, though, Fëanor couldn’t start without speaking to Nerdanel. On the one hand, he was always glad of an excuse to see her or even to write to her—but on the other hand, it never went as well as he always somehow hoped that it would. She held herself at arm’s length, always, with distrust in her eyes and the memory of all the things he had said and done in the dark hovering between them like smoke thick enough to choke on. 

She was also busy—currently in Avallónë teaching—and Fëanor wasn’t at all sure she would be pleased if he turned up there unannounced, or even announced; he also wasn’t sure that she would even open any letter that he sent. So he went to find Curufin, finding him in his workshop with his daughters, who squealed and threw themselves at Fëanor as soon as he stepped through the door. “Hello, Atya,” Curufin said, as Fëanor hoisted first Calissë and then Náriel into his arms. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“I have a favor to ask, but it can wait,” Fëanor said. It wasn’t a conversation to be had in front of small ears, but he did not want to send the girls away either. His granddaughters were the two brightest spots of this new life of his, the only two people in the world who could be truly happy to see him without it being complicated, and he wanted to take advantage of every second he got to spend with them. “What are you making today?”

Later that afternoon, after Celebrimbor came to take his sisters away to see a performance in the city’s main square, Curufin asked Fëanor, “What was the favor you wanted to ask?”

“If I write a note to your mother, will you see that she gets it?”

Curufin’s eyebrows rose just a fraction. “Of course. Has something happened?”

“No. I just—something should be done about the old house before it falls in on itself. I can do it, but I don’t want to if Nerdanel has other ideas or plans.”

“I don’t think she does,” said Curufin. “I think the last time she went there was before any of us were out of Mandos except maybe Maedhros—to fetch the old palantíri.”

“I thought they all got sent to Númenor.” 

“Probably not all,” said Curufin. “There’s the biggest one in Avallónë, and some others I’m sure rolling around in a storeroom somewhere—but I meant the nine smallest ones, the ones you made first, remember? They would have been useless in Númenor.”

“Oh.” Fëanor had almost forgotten those. He almost asked why Nerdanel would have gone looking for them if all her sons were in Mandos—but of course Maglor had never come there. He had never been easy to find, even for Fëanor, wrapping subtle enchantments around himself almost without thinking. It had been something of a joke and an annoyance in his youth. Fëanor supposed that during his exile it had been survival; still, even the briefest glimpse would have been a comfort to Nerdanel. “Well, regardless, the house is falling apart already, and I need something to do. I might as well tear it down myself.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know yet. It will take some time to clear out the gardens first—I’ll figure something out.”

“I don’t think Ammë will object,” Curufin said, “but I’ll send your letter with my next one.”

“Thank you.”

“Atya,” Curufin said as Fëanor turned to go. “Are you all right?”

Fëanor stepped back to kiss Curufin’s forehead. “I’m fine. I just need a project.” Something to fill up his days and take his mind off of all the things he wanted to be doing but couldn’t. “How are your brothers?”

“Fine,” said Curufin. “No word yet from Lórien, but that’s usually a good thing.”

“Of course. I’ll bring the letter tomorrow.”

Nerdanel’s answer came promptly: he should make sure to clear out the storerooms and basements first, but beyond that he was free to do whatever he liked with the house. It is probably a good idea to just tear it down and build something new, whatever it ends up being, she wrote. She did not offer help or any other opinions, but that was all right. This felt like something Fëanor needed to do alone, at least to start with. When it came to actually carting away the rubble he would need other hands, but for the time being he was able to uproot crab apple trees and weeds, and sort through the detritus of his old life by himself. 

He started the next morning, with a shovel and a hatchet, mentally splitting the gardens up into smaller plots that he could tackle one at a time. It felt good to be doing something—something with tangible results he could see immediately, something that left him with aching muscles and dirt under his fingernails. And if it also made his heart ache to see what had become of the home he’d built and had once thought would be where his heart would dwell forever—well. That was only to be expected, and no more than he deserved. 

Fëanor did not work at the old house every day—he did not even want to. He had other things to do—he was still a Prince of the Noldor, though he’d laid down his claim to the crown itself, and Fingolfin wanted Fëanor’s involvement even beyond what it took to keep up appearances. He wanted to hear Fëanor’s opinions and ideas, and if they often disagreed it was no longer fraught in the same way it had been long ago. 

It was still strange. It was good, but strange.

He had other projects too, smaller ones—toys for his granddaughters, tools or component parts that Curufin or Celebrimbor needed for their own work, ideas that he sketched out and then made just for the sake of making. He saw his other sons sometimes, mostly at a distance—Amrod or Amras would speak to him if they happened to meet on the street or at a party, briefly and of nothing more significant than the weather, but Caranthir and Celegorm continued to avoid him, and Fëanor wasn’t sure which one he felt worse about. 

Then, nearly a year after he started his house project, all of his sons vanished. He went to see Curufin and found Rundamírë at home alone. “They’ve all gone off on a journey south and west,” was all she could tell him, or all she would tell him. “Tyelkormo was very insistent.”

Fëanor and Curufin had fought just a few days before—it had been about something very stupid on the surface that Fëanor couldn’t even remember anymore, but underneath it had been about all the things they avoided because neither of them wanted to think very much about the past, much less talk about it. And now Curufin was gone—and the last time Fëanor had had an unpleasant encounter with one of his sons that drove all of them to leave, they’d ended up spending an entire summer getting as far away as it was possible to go. He tried to think of what lay south and west of Tirion. Imloth Ningloron lay to the south but farther east, near to the Pelóri. Thingol’s realm was also in the south, but Fëanor couldn’t imagine all of his sons going there—no matter how friendly they were with Daeron.

Then he noticed how quiet the house was. “Where are the girls?”

“With their father. This will not be a long journey, and I’m sure they’ll be very eager to tell you all about their first adventure when they return.”

Well, that was something. If Rundamírë was talking about adventures, and about the girls being eager to see him when they came home—and that they had been taken along in the first place—then perhaps it was not their argument that had driven Curufin out of Tirion. 

The abruptness of it still made Fëanor uneasy. He hated not knowing, and that drove him ultimately to Imloth Ningloron, where Elrond just blinked at him in surprise and denied knowing anything about it.

“It’s true they visit here more often than you do, and I am very fond of them all, but that doesn’t mean they make a habit of consulting me when they make such plans. And if this was as sudden and unplanned as you describe, I’m really not sure why you think I would know anything about it anyway.”

That was fair, but still frustrating. 

Usually when Fëanor visited Elrond they ended up debating something—about history, or language, or sometimes something philosophical. Fëanor wasn’t blind—he knew Elrond did not always enjoy those arguments—but Elrond was one of a very small number of people even now who would argue with him, and if Fëanor didn’t spend a few hours sometimes fighting someone about some stupid issue of grammar in an obscure dialect of Sindarin he thought he would either go mad or get into a much bigger argument about something much worse with someone with whom he couldn’t afford to argue. 

He wasn’t in the mood to argue on this occasion, so he just browsed through the library for an afternoon to keep up the fiction under which he’d said he’d come, and then left Elrond and Celebrían in peace—only to run into all seven of his sons on the road. That solved the mystery, at least: everyone had gone to escort Maglor and Maedhros home, though how they knew it was time was beyond Fëanor’s ability to guess. Maglor came riding ahead, with Daeron at his side, but reined in abruptly when he spotted Fëanor, jerking his hand to his chest as though it pained him suddenly, expression transforming from a smile to a look of unhappy shock. The rest of his brothers came up behind him, Maedhros moving to his other side, as Calissë came racing ahead on her pony, entirely unaware of the sudden tension in the air. 

Calissë’s uncomplicated joy at the sight of him did not entirely erase the ache under Fëanor’s ribs at the sight of Maglor’s distress and at Maedhros’ stony silence, but it was enough to allow him to smile as he dropped out of his own saddle to lift her up and kiss her.

Curufin also smiled to see him, coming ahead with Náriel, but all of his brothers were frostily polite. For his part, Daeron was all smiles that warned of danger should Fëanor make any misstep, which was only to be expected, but the flash of irritation at it faded away when Fëanor saw just how tightly Maglor was holding onto Daeron’s hand. The warning was not Daeron being insufferable, it was Daeron being protective—and Fëanor suddenly liked him much better than he had a few minutes before. He looked away quickly, though, still distrusting what Daeron might have to say, and turned his gaze to Maedhros and Maglor’s faces instead. If they were not happy to see him they looked healthier than they had before, without any signs of sleeplessness or the kind of pain that lingered. That was something.

The conversation was painful and awkward, and Fëanor knew he shouldn’t, but he had to ask, “Did you find what you sought in Estë’s gardens?” Please say yes, please say yes, please be all right— 

“We did,” said Maedhros. He met Fëanor’s gaze evenly, but his face was a mask of almost emotionless calm; his horse shifted beneath him, betraying the tension he was otherwise hiding so very well. The Maedhros Fëanor had once known had never held himself thus, had never even tried to hide his thoughts or his feelings—he had never had to. This was Maedhros of Beleriand, Lord of Himring. Both Maedhros and Maglor were not nearly as fragile as they had both appeared when Fëanor had last seen them, but there remained shadows behind their eyes that would never fully retreat. Similar shadows hovered behind Curufin’s eyes too, and Celebrimbor’s—in all who had gone to Middle-earth and lived and fought there. They were shadows whose shapes Fëanor did not and could not know, and as he made his excuses to Calissë before preparing to depart, he had the sinking feeling that those shadows, and all of the things his children had experienced that he could never understand, were what made up the gulf that lay between them. He did not know how to cross it, or if such a crossing was even possible. Once, Fëanor had scoffed at the idea of anything being impossible. He knew better now—and now far too many things seemed so. 

None of his other sons spoke. Celegorm remained in the very back of the group, keeping his gaze lowered as though he couldn’t stand even the sight of Fëanor. Caranthir beside Maedhros did meet Fëanor’s gaze, but aside from the flush on his cheeks he too was so terribly hard to read. Ambarussa each offered a brief smile, which was something, but the whole scene was one Fëanor would have liked to avoid. He had wanted to know where they had all gone and whether they were all right, but he hadn’t wanted to intrude on it, or force his presence upon them. He had promised he wouldn’t, and it was a promise he intended to keep, however hard it got. 

Fëanor bid them farewell, summoning another smile for the sake of Curufin’s daughters. “Atya,” Curufin said quietly when Fëanor turned to him. “Before I left Tirion—”

“It’s no matter. I’ll see you when you return—enjoy your summer, Curvo. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

As Fëanor rode away he heard Maglor calling out behind him, voice sudden and bright—a burst of happiness that had Fëanor slowing and turning before he could think better of it. He was just in time to see Maglor canter away down the road, his dark hair flying out behind him as he leaned forward in the saddle, every line of his body speaking to his eagerness to be at home again. Good, Fëanor thought as he turned away again himself. They were all happy, and that was far more important than anything he might want for himself. 

Back in Tirion, Fëanor threw himself into his house project—for three days, before he managed to pull a muscle in his shoulder badly enough that the healers scolded him while putting it into a sling, and he was forbidden from so much as setting foot in his workshop, let alone going back to pulling up plants and digging out roots. He didn’t need the lectures and had to bite his tongue bloody to keep from snapping back, and then had to endure Lalwen laughing at him over it. “Oh, but isn’t it nice to know they aren’t still afraid of you?” she teased after sweeping into his rooms upon hearing about it. “Even twenty years ago no one would have dared to point out what you were doing wrong—well, except for me!”

“There were plenty willing to point out all I did and was doing wrong the moment I stepped out of Mandos,” Fëanor tried to growl, but he found it very difficult lately to stay annoyed with Lalwen. She twisted his hair into an elaborate set of braids for him, since there was a banquet that evening he needed to attend, sling and all—his mother was in Tirion, alongside Indis. It was rare enough that Indis returned to Tirion from Valmar that it usually heralded all of Fëanor’s siblings gathering in the city, even Finarfin. “Is Arafinwë going to come tonight?” he asked Lalwen as she hunted through his box of jeweled hair clips. 

“No,” she said, retrieving a few he had made while experimenting with moonstone. They weren’t his favorite—he didn’t quite like the cut of the gems—but she fastened them to his braids anyway. “I went to invite him, but his knee is giving him trouble and he did not want to make the journey.”

Fëanor had seen Finarfin twice since his return from Mandos. Both times Finarfin had been decidedly cool—almost cold—and had made it clear that whatever his brother and sisters’ feelings on the matter, he had no desire for Fëanor’s friendship. That had not been particularly surprising, but he had seemed distant even from Fingolfin, when in their youth the two had been as close as Maglor and Maedhros had been. And that rift, too, could be laid at Fëanor’s feet. His deeds and his words had fractured their entire family from top to bottom and the worst part now was that there wasn’t anything he could do to mend it. It was up to Finarfin and Fingolfin to find common ground again, and anything Fëanor might attempt to do now would just make it worse. 

“Does his knee often give him trouble?” he asked now. Finarfin had not been limping either time Fëanor had seen him, but he’d heard the tales—of how he had been wounded during the War of Wrath and yet still led the final charge against the gates of Angband. That was what had worsened the damage to the point that even now it still sometimes pained him. 

“No, not terribly often,” said Lalwen, her smiles and laughter fading away. “The mild climate and the sea air help, he says. Still, it makes for an unpleasant journey even as short as the ride is through the Calacirya, and he is not yet weary of seclusion and retirement.”

“He deserves it—the peace and quiet I mean,” Fëanor said after a moment, as Lalwen finally finished whatever she was doing to his hair. He rose, but not quickly enough to beat her to the wardrobe. “Lalwen, I can pick out my own clothes.”

“Not when you aren’t supposed to move your arm too much! Don’t worry, I won’t try to dress you—there are other people waiting to do that. Here, wear these robes. They go well with the moonstones.” She pulled out a set of dark blue robes with pearlescent embroidery down the front in intricate and twisting designs. His mother had made them, of course—all of his fine and formal clothes these days were made for him by Míriel. He still found himself sometimes reluctant even to touch them, because all his life before the things made by Míriel had been so precious, kept preserved and hardly ever taken out of their chests. Finwë had only worn robes she had made on high holidays or for solemn ceremonies. Now, Fëanor could wear clothes made by Míriel’s hands every single day if he wanted to, and not worry about damaging them because she would just come to sew them up again, or make him new ones. He still hadn’t gotten used to it. 

When he greeted Míriel that evening she smiled to see the robes he wore, and then frowned at the sling. “What in the world did you do to yourself, Fëanáro?”

“It’s just a pulled muscle trying to uproot a stubborn tree,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “It will be fine in a few days.”

“What are you doing uprooting trees? Or is this part of your project at your old house?”

Fëanor did not ask how she knew. His mother knew more about what went on among all the Elves of Aman than anyone ever expected from one who came so seldom among them. “Yes,” he said. And then, because he did not want to talk about that, he added, “My sons have returned from Lórien.”

Míriel smiled up at him. It always surprised him when he saw her how small she was, because she loomed so large in his small child’s memories. “Yes, I know,” she said. “Indis and I are going to Imloth Ningloron when we leave here. I have had so little opportunity to get to know any of my grandsons, and now they are gathered all in one place at last and I intend to take full advantage.”

“Good,” Fëanor said, though that place under his ribs ached a little, knowing he would not be there too. “But why is Indis going?”

“Elrond and Celebrían are her grandchildren too—and she is also very fond of your children, and she is my own dear friend. Is that not enough?”

Of course it was, but the fact that Fëanor had managed to let go of most of his resentment did not mean he knew how to talk to Indis or even what to think about her. There was a small part of him now that had caught and clung to the fact that, as she had once been the reason his mother could not return, she was now the reason his father could not—though he knew that was neither fair nor true. There were many reasons his father could not return, and the biggest one was that the Valar had decreed it. Indis and Míriel both had gone many times to plead before them, that they might reverse their ruling, but to no avail. That they both loved Finwë was clear. Fëanor knew his problems with Indis were in his own mind only, and even just for Míriel’s sake he wished he could let them go. He just couldn’t manage it yet.

The banquet was pleasant. Fëanor was teased a little for having managed to injure himself, and it was nice to be able to laugh at something. There was dancing after the meal, and he contented himself with a glass of wine and a seat near a window to watch. Míriel was a lively dancer, but she did not remain on the floor for long before coming to join Fëanor, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling from the exertion. Every time he saw her, Fëanor found more traces of his sons in her face or her movements or her voice. The silver hair she shared with Celegorm was the most obvious, but Maglor had inherited her grey-green eyes, and Curufin her stature; Ambarussa danced like she did and with the same boundless energy and bright joy. Both Maedhros and Caranthir had her smile. It was harder to say what he himself had most clearly inherited. His looks came from Finwë, and as for the rest, it was hard to hold up such a mirror and see clearly when he only felt like himself, and the only one who would ever volunteer such observations was Finwë, and—well, Finwë was not there. When Fëanor had been younger Finwë had told him he had Míriel’s cleverness and curiosity. Fëanor liked to think that was true, but he did not feel very clever or very curious, these days. 

Míriel and Indis stayed for several weeks before they departed for Imloth Ningloron. Before she left, Míriel brought two tapestries to show Fëanor. “Macalaurë wrote to me before he and Maitimo left for Lórien,” she said, “and asked me to weave a gift for Maitimo. I thought you might like to see it.” She unfurled the first. It was a fortress set upon a high hill, dark grey stone against a clear blue sky, and the hill itself overlooking a plain of green and gold grass. As the fabric settled it almost seemed that the grass was rippling in a summer breeze. “It is Himring,” Míriel said. 

“It’s beautiful,” said Fëanor, running his fingertips over the ramparts. “Maedhros asked for this?”

“He has no idea,” Míriel said. “Macalaurë wanted it to be a surprise. This is the scene he asked for, but I have made another as well.” The second tapestry was of an island, surrounded by blue-grey waves with gulls circling over the worn and wind-rounded walls, where dark and stubborn trees grew. In the distant background was the shoreline of the mainland. “Perhaps Maitimo will not like this one as much—but I have a feeling he will be glad to know that the walls still stand, even now.”

“I am glad to know it,” said Fëanor. He hoped Maedhros would like the tapestries—both of them—and was even gladder that it had been Maglor to ask for them. “And I’m—I did not get a chance to tell you before, but I’m glad that you went to Avallónë to welcome Macalaurë when he came home.”

“It did not feel like a homecoming for him, though he was very happy to be reunited with Elrond,” said Míriel as Fëanor helped her roll up the tapestries. “I think returning to Imloth Ningloron this spring is his real homecoming.” She lifted a hand to cup Fëanor’s cheek. “Take care of yourself, Fëanáro. I do not want to return to Tirion to find you injured again.”

“It was only a pulled muscle,” Fëanor said. He leaned down to kiss her. “I’ll be fine, Ammë.” 

Later, Fëanor joined Fingolfin in his study for a glass of wine. They met like this with increasing frequency of late, talking of everything from politics to the weather to Fëanor’s granddaughters. They were evenings that Fëanor looked forward to—a thing he would never have believed possible before his return from Mandos. 

That evening they sat by the window, looking out over the gardens with the cherry grove just in view, as the stars came out. “What have you been doing at your old house?” Fingolfin asked. “Clearing out the gardens, I know, but why?”

Fëanor shrugged, studying the contents of his wine glass. “Something must be done about that house. It will fall down eventually.”

“It does not follow that it must be you that tears it down single-handedly. Are you sure you do not want help?”

“It’s not as though I have much else to do.” He had gotten to the point where he was no longer focused on the weeds and the vines but on clearing out the boxes and chests from the storage rooms. More had been preserved than he’d expected, and that was it’s own kind of pain, opening up each box to see a little bit of his old life tucked inside, cushioned by cotton or by straw. There was a certain relief, though, that made itself known whenever he could look at it and see progress made. He felt like he could breathe a little easier. Maybe from the outside it looked like some kind of self-imposed punishment and maybe sometimes it felt like it, but that wasn’t what Fëanor was trying to do. “I need to build something new there,” he said after a few moments. “To do that, I must first clear away the old and broken things.”

Fingolfin did not try to argue. “Is there anything you need for it?”

“No. Not yet.”

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