From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Eighteen

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Life isn’t always what you think it’d be
Turn your head for one second and the tables turn
And I know, I know that I did you wrong
But will you trust me when I say that I’ll make it up to you?
Somehow, somehow?
- “I’m So Sorry” - Imagine Dragons

 

- - 

 

The journey back to Tirion was swift and uneventful. Náriel rode with Fëanor most of the way. Everyone was in high spirits, eager to be at home and excited for what the next year held—feasts and babies and who knew what else. When they finally arrived, Fëanor remained with Curufin and his family for dinner, and then made his way back through the city to his own rooms, finding them freshly aired, familiar and welcoming. He dropped his bags near the bed and went to take a bath, indulging in a long soak, only realizing how much tension he still held within him as it started to unwind in the hot water. He got out when it started to cool, and by the time he fell into bed he was so tired and relieved to be in a bed that was his that he was asleep almost before he could pull up the blankets.

In the morning, he was woken far too early by Lalwen, who came sailing into his rooms without knocking and flung open the curtains. “Good morning, brother!”

“Is it?” Fëanor tried to cover his head with a pillow, but Lalwen snatched it out of his hands. “Irimë Lalwendë—”

“This is not the morning for you to linger in bed, Fëanáro!”

Fëanor raised his head to glare at her. “I didn’t get back until late—”

“And sooner or later Nerdanel will hear of it—sooner, I would wager—and she will not be pleased to find you still abed. Come on!”

“What are you talking about? Nerdanel doesn’t want to see—”

“If Curufinwë doesn’t tell her what’s going on with Maitimo, she’s going to come to you,” Lalwen said. Fëanor groaned and dropped his face back down into the bedding. “What in the world is going on, Fëanáro?”

“It’s not mine to tell,” Fëanor said into the blankets. 

“You must know that makes it sound terrible.”

Fëanor sighed, and sat up. “It’s private. Personal. But the explanation isn’t mine to share. It’s Maedhros’.”

“Nerdanel isn't going to like that,” Lalwen pointed out. Fëanor grimaced, but didn’t know what to say in response. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that Curufinwë will be any more forthcoming.”

With any luck, Curufin would be able to distract Nerdanel from her worries with the news about the triplets—but that would only delay things, and Lalwen was right. Sooner or later she would come to Fëanor for an explanation that he couldn’t give. 

“Is Maitimo all right?” Lalwen asked as Fëanor got out of bed. 

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t gotten a chance to ask Celebrimbor the night before; they had plans to meet either that afternoon or the next, and Fëanor had intended to ask then. With any luck that would still happen—before Nerdanel came to find him. “If he isn’t, he will be,” he added when Lalwen frowned.

“Is there anything Nolofinwë needs to be worried about—as king, I mean? He’s already worried.”

“No, it’s—no, nothing like that. I can’t say more, Lalwen.”

“Is the trouble between you and he? Or has he quarreled with his brothers?”

“He hasn’t quarreled with anyone.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, keep your secrets then. And get dressed! Nolofinwë would like you to join us for breakfast so he can ask the same questions all over again, and you should be awake and fortified by the time Nerdanel finds you.” Lalwen bestowed one of her brightest smiles on him as she swept out of the room. Fëanor looked longingly back at his pillows, and then went to get dressed. He chose robes of dark green, with lighter green leaves embroidered down the front and along the hems of the sleeves—springtime leaves, though what he found himself wishing for was to return to the previous autumn, and the quiet of the mountain woods with their brilliant colors.

At breakfast Fëanor was not subjected to another interrogation by virtue of being introduced to Gil-galad instead—Gil-galad who looked so like Finwë that Fëanor nearly turned and left the room as soon as he stepped into it, feeling like he’d stumbled upon a ghost. He caught himself and put on a smile, and was relieved that at least Gil-galad did not sound like Finwë, and the longer Fëanor spent in his company the more differences he could find, and the shock of that initial introduction started to fade by the end of the meal. He had a very similar presence, however—the air of one accustomed to being listened to when he spoke, a confidence and well-earned self-assurance that was not overbearing or prideful—it just was.

“You could have warned me,” he hissed to Lalwen afterward, when Gil-galad and his mother Gilheneth had departed with Anairë, leaving Fëanor with Fingolfin and Lalwen.

“You already knew that Findekáno takes after Atya,” Lalwen protested. “Is it so surprising that his son would as well?”

“Findekáno could not be mistaken for Atya!”

“I’m sorry, Fëanáro,” said Fingolfin, cutting in before Lalwen could reply. “I had expected someone to tell you at Imloth Ningloron, but it seems you were all rather distracted.”

“Rather,” Fëanor muttered, reaching for his tea.

“Don’t bother, Nolofinwë,” said Lalwen. “He’s very tight-lipped about it.”

“Well, so is Findekáno,” said Fingolfin. “As long as no riots are going to break out over whatever it is, I can wait for an explanation—but I would like one someday, Fëanáro.”

“That depends on Maedhros. It’s—it’s an old wound that’s been reopened, but Elrond isn’t worried, and it was his idea that Maedhros should stay with Findekáno for a while.” He kept his gaze on his teacup. 

“How old is the wound?” Fingolfin asked quietly.

“Very old.”

“And you will not say how it was reopened?”

“No.” It would be more truthful to say that it had never closed in the first place, but even that was more than Fëanor thought he could share. Not if he wished to ever regain even a fraction of his son’s trust. 

“Then we won’t ask you any more,” said Fingolfin, with a glance at Lalwen, who nodded. 

Nerdanel would. Fëanor was not looking forward to that. They had managed to avoid an all-out fight since his return—but that was mostly by only meeting sometimes, in public, and never talking about anything really important. She might understand Curufin’s desire to protect Maedhros, to keep his secrets, but she would not appreciate Fëanor keeping something like this from her. Not after all that Maedhros had already suffered, not after he had only just started to truly find himself again.

After breakfast he changed into work clothes and went to the old house, finding it more or less as he had left it. Some animals had made dens inside over the winter, and birds were nesting in the eaves. All of the storerooms were emptied by now, and there wasn’t really that much Fëanor had left to do before he could tear the walls down. The songs he and Nerdanel had sung over the foundations still held strong, and it would take both time and effort to break them, which would make singing the rest of the house down much easier—that was all, really. But he found he didn’t have the heart to do it just yet.

He walked through the gardens and pulled up one or two seedlings that were trying to come back, and turned his thoughts to the future—to what he might do with this space after the house was gone. Ideas remained elusive. 

When he returned to the courtyard in front of the house, he found Nerdanel just stepping through the gateway. She glanced around, and when her gaze fell on him she frowned. Fëanor steeled himself and approached. “Nerdanel,” he said.

“Fëanáro. Did you have a nice time with Ambarussa this winter?”

“I did, yes. I hear it was a very busy winter in Tirion.”

“Yes, it was. And this spring is proving to be just as eventful—only no one will tell me what happened at Imloth Ningloron. Even Elrond’s letters are evasive. What did you do?”

It was a fair question, but it still grated. “Not every bad thing has its source in me, Nerdanel,” he said, and tried to resist the urge to cross his arms. He was still worried about Maedhros himself, and he didn’t know how not to turn this into a fight, even though that was the last thing he wanted.

Nerdanel did cross her arms, and her expression was thunderous. “Are you going to try to tell me that you did not have words with Maitimo this spring? What else would take him so suddenly away—what else would have Atarinkë refusing to tell me what happened?”

“What took Maedhros away to his cousins is his own to tell, not mine,” said Fëanor.

“I am his mother!”

And that was why, Fëanor thought, Curufin was refusing to speak of it. All of their sons loved Nerdanel too well to ever want her to know the very worst of what had befallen them in Beleriand, and Maedhros least of all. And if he hadn’t been a part of both its making and its discovery, Fëanor suspected Maedhros would have kept this false memory from his knowledge, too—though for different reasons. 

“Then what did you speak to him of? What did you do—you must have done something—”

“I didn’t,” Fëanor said. 

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“Out of all the things I have said and done, Nerdanel, when did I ever lie to you?”

“Things change,” Nerdanel said flatly. “People change—you changed. The man I married, who I built this house with,” she gestured toward the doors of the house, stained and cracked, “was not the one who left me alone in the dark. It’s worse that you never spoke a lie, because it means you meant every word you said to me!”

“Yes, I did,” Fëanor said, “and I was wrong. I was—I was not myself. I can’t even tell you what I was thinking, then, because I barely remember it. I’m not trying to make excuses,” he went on when Nerdanel scowled and opened her mouth. “There are no excuses, there is no reason you should ever forgive me. I wronged you and I wronged our children and I can’t change any of that, but I can be better now. If I told you what passed between myself and Maedhros in Imloth Ningloron it would be a betrayal of his trust, and I won’t do that.”

“He has no trust in you to betray,” Nerdanel said.

“Then at least I won’t make it worse,” said Fëanor. He hoped that she was wrong—that something had changed for the better before Maedhros had left. Maedhros had not replied to the letter Fëanor had written, and he hadn’t really expected him to, but the change in Maglor’s demeanor was no small thing. “Nerdanel, I’m—”

“Oh, don’t.” Nerdanel turned away, vanishing out of the gates. Fëanor told himself it could have gone much worse, and once he was sure he would not meet her accidentally on the street he left too, and went back to his own workshop. 

Celebrimbor arrived a few minutes after Fëanor did, with arms full of papers—plans and notes for next year’s feast. “What’s wrong?” he asked as the door swung shut behind him.

“I think your grandmother is rather frustrated with everyone.”

“Oh, because of Maedhros.” Celebrimbor grimaced when Fëanor nodded. “I did tell her that he’s all right, but I don’t think she believed me, because I wouldn’t share any details—it’s not really the sort of thing that one should learn about second-hand. I told her that, too, which I think might have just made it worse.”

“Is he really all right?”

“Well…he will be. I didn't see him before he left Elrond’s house, of course, but he was calm when we spoke, and…mostly just seemed tired. I had feared it would be like trying to speak to him before he went to Lórien, but it wasn’t. When I got there he was most worried about what was going on back at Imloth Ningloron, and then he promised that he would be in Tirion this winter, when the babies come.” Celebrimbor paused, and then smiled a little. “Well, I didn’t know it was babies, then, so I think he still believes we’re only expecting one. That will be a surprise for him, I suppose—a good one, I mean.”

Fëanor breathed a sigh. “That’s good.”

“I didn’t stay very long, but Finrod and Fingon were both there, and Finrod wrote to me after I returned here to say that he and Maedhros will be spending the rest of the summer in Alqualondë. I’ll speak to Grandmother again later today, perhaps—if I have time. Someone’s bound to come looking for me before too long.” Celebrimbor set the papers down on the workbench. “What do you think of these lights for the sleeping quarters at the feast?”

They managed two hours together before someone came looking for Celebrimbor, as predicted. Fëanor went with him back out into the city, both curious about what was happening and eager for a distraction from his own private woes. When he saw the plans being laid for the layout of the enormous encampment, and all the decorations and amenities that would go with it, he felt real excitement for the feast spark for the first time. For such a long time it had been only something on Ingwë’s mind, without any concrete plans or a time or a place. Now the place had been chosen and a time set, and it all felt real. Such a gathering had never happened before—even the largest festivals held during the Years of the Trees had often been missing the Teleri of Alqualondë, who so rarely chose to leave the seaside. Now even they would travel through the Calacirya and beyond Valmar; even Tol Eressëa would empty. 

“Do you really think they’ll come—the Avari in the west?” Fëanor asked Celebrimbor during a lull in the chatter. There had been no Avari at all in Valinor during the years of the Trees—those who came from Mandos in that time had been those who had died before Oromë ever found them, and even if they had wished to go find somewhere else to dwell, there had not been enough of them for make a city of their own. Now there were several of them out in the western lands—along with towns and hamlets and wandering companies besides, all separate from the Eldar in the east and, Fëanor had heard, some even separate from each other.

“What, and miss the biggest party Valinor has ever seen? They’ll come. Why do you think Daeron was sent to take personal invitations from Elemmírë?”

“Because he’s familiar with their ways?”

“Well, yes—but there are many who could have been chosen for that reason,” said Celebrimbor. “Elemmírë also asked him to go because it’s no small thing to receive a personal summons from Daeron of Doriath, the mightiest singer of the Eldalië, on behalf of Elemmírë of the Vanyar and Ingwë the High King.”

“Ah, of course.”

“It’s very hard to say no to Daeron anyway,” someone else remarked. “Even if he weren’t such a great singer—he’s just got to smile at you—” Laughter erupted, and several others warned against saying such things where Maglor could hear.

“All right, that’s enough,” laughed Celebrimbor. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on the tents instead of daydreaming about Daeron’s smile, Ethuilien? Or have you already been to the weavers in Alqualondë?”

“I’m just waiting for all the numbers to be added up, so I’m not forever coming and going. It’s not my fault someone thinks of something new every day that will need even more canvas!”

“If you wait for that,” Curufin said, coming up to join them, “you’ll never make it to Alqualondë at all.” 

As Ethuilien went off to talk to whoever was making the current calculations, Curufin grinned at Fëanor. “What do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the plans laid out over the wide table before them.

“I think it’s marvelous,” said Fëanor.

“If you have any way to put quite a lot of light into quite a lot of gems at once, I hope you’ll share it,” said Celebrimbor. “Ingwion wants the whole place to sparkle by day and night.”

“I don’t,” said Fëanor, “but it can’t be that hard. Curvo, do you want to help me experiment on the next clear night?”

“Yes, of course,” said Curufin. “Tyelpë?”

“I’ll come take notes for you,” said Celebrimbor. “Perhaps Lómion will also be interested.”

“I haven’t yet met Lómion,” said Fëanor. “Is he here?”

“Not at the moment,” said Celebrimbor after looking around. 

“Irissë is showing him around the city today,” said Curufin. “It’s a new moon tonight, I think. Are you going to experiment with starlight?”

“It’s easiest to capture,” said Fëanor. “And I think it would be the best for those lights going in the sleeping quarters—we can brighten or dim them as we wish once the light is caught.”

“Lostir has some ideas about that,” said Celebrimbor. “We already have quite a lot of gems made—especially the small ones for the sleeping quarters.”

“Good,” said Fëanor. “We can take them outside of the city tonight, then—late, when the stars are brightest, and when I can get away after dinner.”

Late that afternoon, as he was leaving to prepare for dinner that evening, Fëanor nearly collided with Mahtan who was just coming into the meeting hall. “Fëanáro,” he said, looking him up and down.

“Mahtan,” Fëanor said, with a sort of sinking feeling in his chest. 

“I hear your winter was a pleasant one—I’m glad.”

“Thank you. I hear yours was busy.”

Mahtan smiled; it didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was warmer than any look he had given Fëanor in years. “Very busy—and the summer will be even busier.”

“So I hear. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Are you well, Fëanáro?” Mahtan asked as Fëanor started to turn away.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You do not seem well.”

“Only a little tired—I did not reach my bed until late last night.”

“Nerdanel is worried for Maitimo—but should someone be worried for you?”

“No, of course not.” This earned him a skeptical look, which was equal parts frustrating—it would be nice if someone believed him once in a while when he said he was fine—and encouraging—for he missed Mahtan almost as much as he missed Nerdanel, and it was nice to know that there might be something there to recover, someday.

At home he dressed for dinner, and when he joined Fingolfin he was met with a frown. “Why did I receive a note from Mahtan asking after you?” he asked. 

“Because no one ever believes me when I say I’m fine,” Fëanor said, managing not to roll his eyes. 

“Goodness, I wonder why that could be,” remarked Findis on Fëanor’s other side.

“Oh don’t you start.”

“Did you see Nerdanel today?” Findis asked. Fëanor did not answer, and reached for his wine as soon as the glass had been filled. “Ah, so it did not go well.”

“That’s enough, Findis,” said Fingolfin. “He hasn’t come home with any injuries, so it could have gone worse.”

“And Nerdanel can throw a much stronger punch than Findis,” Anairë added on Fingolfin’s other side.

“Must we be forever making jokes about blacking my eyes?” Fëanor asked plaintively.

“Who said anything about your eyes?” Anairë replied. “Nerdanel would have aimed for your jaw.”

“Enough,” Fingolfin said, attempting to sound firm but failing. “Fëanáro has only just gotten home—surely we can give him a day or so of peace. What else were you doing all day?”

“Doing more than you to contribute to next year’s feast,” Fëanor said. Fingolfin made a face, and Anairë laughed. “I don’t know why you’re so reluctant—everyone else is excited.”

“That’s because they don’t have to manage the logistics,” Fingolfin said. “It’ll be as bad as outfitting armies—”

On Anairë’s other side, Gil-galad said, “It sounds much better than outfitting armies, to me—at least we can be assured there are no orcs awaiting us next summer.”

“Then perhaps you would like to take charge?” Fingolfin asked. 

Gil-galad grinned—Finwë’s exact expression when he encountered something that both pleased and excited him. “I hope you aren’t joking, Grandfather, because I would like nothing more—especially as it sounds as though Ingwion is to be again my counterpart.”

“You know Ingwion?” Fëanor asked, surprised.

“Yes, of course. He led the Vanyar in the War of Wrath, and we worked very closely together for many years. And my Uncle Finarfin, of course—but it seems he is likely to be as unwilling as my grandfather to get involved with this.”

“I was not joking,” Fingolfin said, smiling at Gil-galad. “Please, take the reins with my blessing and my thanks. The less I have to think about supply lines and what to do about all the horses, the happier I shall be.”

“Oh, but you’ve only just returned, Gil-galad!” Anairë protested. “You do not need to take on such a project—”

Gil-galad laughed. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t truly want to, Grandmother, I promise! I’d much rather be doing something instead of sitting by and watching everyone else have all the fun.”

After the meal concluded and there was little to do but mingle until he could excuse himself to go join Celebrimbor and Curufin outside of Tirion, Fëanor waited for a moment when he was more or less alone with Fingolfin to ask, “Have you heard anything from Arafinwë of late?”

“No.”

They hadn’t spoken much of Finarfin, since Fëanor had come back—only slightly more than they spoke of Finwë, though Finarfin was alive and by all accounts quite well just through the Calacirya. “Is it me that keeps him from Tirion?” he asked now.

“No—no, he stays away because he does not want to give even the smallest impression that he is getting involved in governing again. But we were not on good terms before you returned, and it has neither improved nor worsened since—that is why he does not write.”

“I’m sorry,” Fëanor said quietly. “But since Aikanáro is returned…you think things will change?”

“I hope they will,” said Fingolfin. “Not right away—but maybe next year will do as much to reunite our family as much as it will the Eldalië.”

“Lucky for you Gil-galad has returned in time for it,” said Fëanor. Fingolfin snorted. “You think Arafinwë will attend?”

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t, unless his knee pains him—which it shouldn’t, not in the summer.” Fingolfin paused, lowering his gaze to examine a smudge of ink on one of his fingers, rubbing at it absently with his thumb. “He has had every right to be very angry with all of us.”

“With me, certainly,” said Fëanor, “but you two were always…”

“That is why he is angrier at me than at you,” Fingolfin said, and sighed. “But I’ve heard that he welcomed Maglor warmly, when he went to see him last summer. If nothing else, I think it is—I don’t know. Helpful? Cathartic? To speak of Atya, I mean. I have no idea what Arafinwë told Maglor, but I know it feels as though I have shed some kind of burden. Maybe it is so for Arafinwë too, and maybe that, too, will make it easier to mend things between us. I hope it is not too heavy for Maglor, though, collecting such burdens from all of us as he has been.”

“I think it has been heavy, but he is pouring it all in his turn into the song itself,” said Fëanor. “I have read a draft of it—it is more than fitting for our father.”

“I never doubted it would be,” said Fingolfin. “If anyone can find the words for all our grief, it is Maglor. But he let you read a draft?”

“He offered.”

Fingolfin smiled at him. “I’m glad, Fëanáro. Didn’t I tell you hope was not lost?”

Fëanor shrugged. “You did. I don’t know what I did, though. The change in him seemed to happen very suddenly.” He glanced toward the windows. “It’s getting late—I should go.”

“What exactly are you doing tonight?”

“Seeing how many gems I can sing starlight into at one time. I’ve never done more than half a dozen at once, and there will be many, many more than that needed for next year.”

“What’s the difference between starlight and Treelight?” Fingolfin asked. “I always wondered—why you were the only one that could capture it, I mean, when putting light into gems in general seems so simple.”

“Treelight was…” Fëanor paused and tried to think of how best to describe it. He had never tried to explain before, since no one had ever asked. “It was so much more. Even the purest diamond could not hold it for more than a few seconds without cracking, and that is why I had to create something entirely new. I have not yet experimented as much as I would like, but I think there are some gems that will not hold sunlight very well, either; moonlight is easier—in this they are very like Laurelin and Telperion, for Laurelin at its waxing was always so much fiercer—and starlight has always been the easiest. Even the most fragile of crystals will hold starlight if the songs are sung right. I think it is because the Trees were—well, they were right there, and everything else is so far away. It’s like trying to gather water from a stream rather than a cataract.”

“Oh, I think I see.” Fingolfin smiled at him. “Well, good luck tonight. Tell me how it goes tomorrow.”

Fëanor grinned back. “Even though you don’t want to know anything about the feast?”

“I never said that, I just don’t want to do anything about it!”