From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Nineteen

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It is told that even as Varda ended her labors, and they were long, when first Menelmacar strode up the sky and the blue fire of Helluin flickered in the mists above the borders of the world, in that hour the Children of the Earth awoke, the Firstborn of Ilúvatar. By the starlit mere of Cuiviénen, Water of Awakening, they rose from the asleep of Ilúvatar; and while they dwelt yet silent by Cuiviénen their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven. Therefore they have ever loved the starlight, and have revered Varda Elentári above all the Valar.
- The Silmarillion, “Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor” 

 

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The lands immediately surrounding Tirion were primarily farmland and pastures—some of which, changing by the year, were always left fallow, free for anyone to use for picnicking or horse racing or, as that night, bringing several large baskets full of tiny gems no bigger than Calissë’s thumbnail to attempt to sing starlight into as many of them at once as they could. The stars were very bright that night. Fëanor could have just lain in the grass and stared up at them for hours, counting the individual stars and making up new constellations—it had been a game his father had played with him when he’d been a child and they had gone through the Calacirya to where the Trees did not drown out the stars, just the two of them. Fëanor had traced the constellations; Finwë had made up the stories to go with them. 

Calissë would like that game, he thought as he passed out of the city. Maglor would be the best one to play it with her, though—he was better at making up stories on the spot. 

He was joined by Celebrimbor and Curufin, the former with a notebook as promised—and by Maeglin, who looked much more like Fingolfin than Fëanor had expected, and who seemed curious and perhaps a little apprehensive. Most people were when they met him, so Fëanor didn’t pay much heed, and simply greeted him as he had greeted Gil-galad that morning. “How many do you want to start with?” Curufin asked as he opened the first basket. 

“How many have you sung light into at once before?” Celebrimbor added. 

“Half a dozen,” said Fëanor. “I’ve never needed more than that at one time. What did you do in Ost-in-Edhil, Tyelpë?”

“Fire, mostly,” Celebrimbor said with a grin. “We had lanterns aplenty—eventually we replaced most of them with proper Fëanorian lamps, but there wasn’t much of a rush, and I don’t think anyone made more than one or two at a time.”

“All right,” Fëanor said, “then lets start with a dozen, and work our way up from there. The stars are very bright tonight—I’m confident that we can adjust the songs to encompass many gems, especially since they’re small.”

He and Curufin took turns chanting the songs over the gems, working up from a dozen to fifty to more than a hundred with little trouble. After that Fëanor could feel the strain in his throat, and by the time he attempted two hundred, the light that got caught in them was very dim and flickering. Curufin regarded them for a moment and then spoke a few words to let the useless light fade away. “A hundred and fifty at once, then, for a single person,” he said, voice slightly scratchy. Maeglin handed him a flask. “Thank you. We might get two hundred and fifty at once if we sing together.”

“A hundred and fifty for you,” said Celebrimbor, who had been scribbling notes, writing down all the adjustments they had made to the song—in its words and its pitch and volume. “Others do not have your power. Too bad Maglor is too busy. I bet he could do a whole basket full in one go.”

“No, he couldn’t,” said Curufin.

“Why not?” asked Maeglin, tilting his head curiously. “I thought he was the greatest singer of all the Elves.”

“That’s Daeron, if you believe the loremasters,” said Celebrimbor. 

“I doubt Daeron could do it either, unless he has some hidden talents I don’t know about. It’s not merely a matter of song, or even mostly a matter of song,” said Curufin. “It’s gemcraft, which Maglor learned along with the rest of us but was never really interested in. He doesn’t understand the structure of the gems or the way they hold the light—just chanting the words isn’t enough, without an understanding of what exactly they’re meant to do. That’s why I can do this, even though I have all the musical talent of a blade of grass, and that’s why Maglor can’t, even though he can sing a river down from a flood with just a handful of verses made up on the spot.”

“Can he really?” Maeglin asked, now sounding fascinated.

“Oh yes. He’s only done it once, but it was as impressive as it sounds,” said Curufin. He started to gather up the gems, putting the lit ones in one basket and the rest into the other. Fëanor helped, listening to Celebrimbor and Curufin talk of who might be best assigned to singing light into gems. Fëanor would spend many nights out under the stars singing these songs himself, he thought, but there would be other things he was wanted for as well. And if Curufin was right and multiple voices would be even more effective, it might all go much faster than they had anticipated.

As they made their way back to the city, Celebrimbor said, “There are other lamps needed for the great stage—for Elemmírë’s performances. Will you make those gems, Grandfather? Maybe the lamps to hold them too?”

“Yes, of course—are there designs for the stage already drawn up?”

“No, but I have a few notes that Ingwion sent. I can bring them to you tomorrow, perhaps?”

“All right.”

Celebrimbor and Maeglin ventured ahead, and Curufin fell into step beside Fëanor. “Tyelpë told me of your plans,” he said. “To try to help him return to forge work.”

“There are no real plans, yet,” said Fëanor. 

“I’m glad he’s not just—I don’t know, trying to force himself to do something that hurts. But—it will hurt, however careful we all try to be.”

“I know, and he knows,” said Fëanor. Ahead of them Maeglin said something that made Celebrimbor laugh, full and carefree with his head thrown back. “To start with I doubt he’ll do more than watch me work—and that only sometimes, for we’ll both be very busy these coming months. There’s no hurry.”

“Are you still going to work on the old house?”

“There’s not much left to do, really,” said Fëanor. “Unraveling the last spells laid on the foundation is best done a little at a time, I think—which is fortunate, since that’s all I’ll be able to spare. I might knock down some interior walls too—again, a little at a time.”

“And when it all comes down?”

“I don’t know yet, but Elessúrë has offered to help me cart away all the rubble.”

The following days were taken up with sketching and note-taking and letter-writing. Ingwion had sent a few ideas for what might be needed for the stage; Fëanor sent him a letter with a list of questions. After a week he received a long letter that seemed to have been written by both Ingwion and Elemmírë together, with much more detail that still left a great deal of room for Fëanor to design whatever he wanted. It was exactly the kind of project he liked—enough to occupy his mind and keep him from thinking too much about all the things he couldn’t do, while at the same time posing no danger of becoming so absorbing that he forgot himself. 

He also found time to finish the necklace he had been working on the autumn before, and to give it to Lalwen. “Oh, it’s beautiful! Thank you, Fëanáro.” She kissed his cheek and slipped it over her head, laughing as she turned and the opals caught the light. Then she told him all about the dancing that was being planned—grand performances to go with the songs to be sung, and as he watched her spin, arms flung out and skirts and sleeves flaring out like wings as she showed off a few steps, he had an idea for another, much more elaborate piece of jewelry. He said nothing, though—it would be a pleasure to surprise her. 

Fingolfin came to watch him draft designs and to offer occasional commentary. “There are baskets upon baskets of very small gems being piled up all over the place,” he remarked, turning a sapphire over in his hands, as Fëanor tried to decide whether the lanterns set around the stage should look like anything or if he should attempt something more abstract—and tried not to miss Nerdanel. “I’m told they’re all going to be filled with starlight. That’s what you were experimenting with the other day—I take it you were successful?”

“Yes. They’ll be strung together and hung in the sleeping quarters,” said Fëanor. 

“All of them?”

“And more to be made—and probably other places too, but there are going to be a lot of tents. If you want actual numbers you can ask Gil-galad.”

“I have the actual numbers on my desk,” Fingolfin said. “This whole undertaking is absurd.”

“It’s got everyone working together remarkably well,” Fëanor pointed out. 

“I have had to arbitrate dozens of disputes related to supplies for all this,” Fingolfin retorted.

“Ah, but has anyone actually punched anyone else?”

“No, but it’s come close.”

Fëanor snorted, and then erased the lines he had just drawn. “I did mean the Noldor and the Teleri and the Vanyar, in general—and it even speaks well of the Noldor that you’ve only had to deal with dozens of disputes. How many do you think Ingwë has had to deal with in Valmar?”

“None, probably—he’s been in Taur-en-Gellam—but I take your point. What are Thingol's people doing?”

“Food primarily, I think,” said Fëanor. He hadn’t been paying that much attention, because he wasn’t going to be involved in that part of things. 

Sometimes he wondered why he had ever thought he wanted the crown at all—he would have been terrible at it, unwilling to delegate as Fingolfin seemed to do so easily but also unwilling to actually do all of the boring and mundane parts. “I’m sure that’s somewhere on your desk too.”

“Oh, probably. Have you met Dior, yet?”

Fëanor paused his sketching and thought. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Has he ever come to Tirion?”

“No, but he goes to visit Elwing often, and also often to Imloth Ningloron.”

“Not when I’ve been there. I have not met Elwing, either.”

“Why not?”

Fëanor shrugged and went back to studying his sketch. It still didn’t look right, but he’d erased so much that all the old lines still showed, and the paper would tear if he did it again. He crumpled it up and tossed it into the corner to join the growing pile, and started over. “I had plenty of awkward-at-best meetings and reunions when I returned, and that one in particular has been one I’m glad to leave until later.”

“Later is going to come eventually,” Fingolfin pointed out. 

“She and Eärendil don’t feel as though they cannot come to Tirion, do they? Not on my account—”

“No, they only rarely came even before you returned. They are rather like Elrond—or he is like them, I’m not quite sure. They like living quietly, and don’t do much traveling—I suppose Eärendil does enough of that for both of them in his voyaging. But they will both be coming to the feast next summer. Elwing takes a great deal after Thingol, I think—though Finrod will tell you that she resembles Emeldir even more.”

“Emeldir?” 

“Beren’s mother,” said Fingolfin. “I never knew her, but Finrod did, and I think his brothers too. Your sons might have met her, at least Maedhros or Maglor, sometime before the Bragollach. Himring was not so very far from Ladros. I visited a few times during the Long Peace, but I knew the people of Hador better than those of Bëor.”

“I thought she would take after Lúthien, as Elrond is said to.”

“In looks, maybe,” said Fingolfin. “I never met Lúthien…often I wish that I had. Our fathers were such great friends—I can’t imagine that if things had been different they would not have hoped for us to be friends too. Finwë’s children and Elwë’s.”

“There is great friendship between our houses, even if it skipped our generation,” said Fëanor as he thought of Elrond resting his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “I think…well, I think Atya would greatly approve at least of Elwing and Eärendil.”

“I like to think he would approve of all of us—where we are now, anyway,” said Fingolfin. “For the most part. I can almost hear his sigh at how you and I get along so well and now it’s Arafinwë keeping his distance.”

“Arafinwë has more reasons than I ever did, and better ones,” said Fëanor. He scowled at the blank page. “I cannot think of what to do with these lamps.”

“Stars and trees?” Fingolfin suggested. 

“Everyone always does stars and trees.”

“Well, yes—and for good reason. And if there was ever an occasion to pay homage to such motifs…?”

He had a point. Fëanor stared at the page without seeing it as his mind turned the thought over, and then all of a sudden an idea coalesced. “…Laurelin and Telperion along the back of the stage—and the lights are their flowers and fruits, hung from the branches, but caught with starlight rather than the Sun or Moon?” He sketched as he spoke, broad strokes to capture the general shape of what he knew the stage would look like, and then a suggestion of the trees with their spreading branches. Other things could be hung from them too, and the lights could be changed or brightened or dimmed at will. He would make dozens of gems of different colors and sizes, too…

“I like that,” Fingolfin said, watching the sketch come together, something soft and sad in his voice. “Did I ever tell you what the last thing I saw in my first life was?”

Fëanor shook his head, pencil falling still again.

“The Silmarils. He would not leave them behind even to come out into battle—and the last thing I saw was that light. I died in despair, but…if I had also died in the dark I think I might still be lingering in Mandos even now.” He looked up at Fëanor. “The Oath was a mistake, as anyone will tell you,” he said.

“I know,” Fëanor said quietly.

“But I understand why you swore it.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with them, I think, not in themselves,” Fëanor said. It was as he had said to Celegorm: “I could not have my father back, so I would have them, because I made them and Morgoth stole them. It was selfish.”

“I do not believe that you made them with selfishness in your heart,” Fingolfin said quietly. “If you had, I don’t think you could have made them at all. That came later—when we were all being lied to, learning what it meant to be afraid. It is not a terrible thing, Fëanáro, to want back what you made and what was stolen from you. I’m still glad that you made them.”

“What I did—”

“You went about it terribly, of course,” said Fingolfin, a small and wry smile tugging at his lips. “No one will argue that. But the desire was not wrong. Even your desire to protect your own from me, before—that wasn’t wrong, even if it was needless, even though you went about that all wrong too. But then, so did I.”

“And Findis would remind us that it was Morgoth behind it all, anyway.”

“It’s always him, if you look far enough,” said Fingolfin. “But we were not mere puppets on a string—we made our own choices. I had other voices in my ears then, not only his—another reason Arafinwë is angry with me, because I would not listen to him when I should have.”

“As I should have listened to Nerdanel.”

“And we both should have listened to our father.”

“Well, yes—that goes without saying. We’re both too much like one another—and too much like him, in some ways. Hardly anyone remembers his pride, these days. But he was Finwë Noldóran, who led our people across all the world, and pride was only to be expected.” It was at least in part what had made him give the crown to Fingolfin and follow Fëanor to Formenos, furious in his belief that the Valar had overstepped. If he hadn’t done that— 

Fëanor set his pencil down. The outline of the idea was on the page, and he had no heart just then to continue. “Do you ever…”

“Miss him so much I can’t breathe?” Fingolfin finished when Fëanor couldn’t—because they really were so much alike. “Yes. All the time. Sometimes I catch myself almost expecting him to walk through the door, and then I feel foolish for being disappointed when he doesn’t. He would be so excited for next year.”

“And for the triplets,” Fëanor said without raising his head.

“Especially for the triplets.”

“Have you…have you asked your mother about his siblings? Our uncles? Aunts?”

“No. I wasn’t quite sure how. Aracáno has asked her for stories from Cuiviénen, but she shies away from speaking much about those who were lost. Do you remember what I told you of the Edain, and speaking the names of the dead…?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Those who remember Cuiviénen seem to believe the opposite—that one should not speak aloud the names of the dead. It makes me wonder what happened there when they did.”

“Rúmil told me that no one who came here had not lost someone—that it was easier to try to put that part of history behind them, and to start over. I suppose that is especially true for those whose lost ones have never come back.”

When he looked up he found Fingolfin’s expression thoughtful and solemn. “I do not think I agree with Rúmil,” he said finally. “I think Hador had the right of it.”

“I don’t think I agree or disagree with anyone. I think it’s all terrible.”

Fingolfin smiled at him. “It is all terrible,” he said, “but it’s…less terrible, speaking of the Edain. Have you met Tuor yet?”

“No.”

“Have you met Gimli? He’s in Imloth Ningloron now.”

“Briefly.” Fëanor would have been far more interested in the acquaintance if there hadn’t been so much else happening. Gimli had been courteous and well spoken, and someday Fëanor hoped to speak with him again, to ask all the questions he hadn’t been able to recall when they had met in Elrond’s house that spring. It would have to be someday soon—Gimli was very old. “I know he is a friend of Cáno’s.”

“I think Maglor was friends with all of the Fellowship,” said Fingolfin. “I know you are on better terms with him now than you were—and of course you are on quite good terms with Ambarussa and Curufin. What of your other sons? I do not ask about Maedhros—I know you won’t answer that.”

“I don’t know what kind of terms I am on with Maedhros,” Fëanor admitted. “We did not part badly, but it was not good either.”

“Well, not bad is still better than it was before. Did you not speak to Caranthir or Celegorm?”

“I spoke to Celegorm. Once. I said what I needed to say to him, and I think he heard me—but he left soon afterward, and wouldn’t tell anyone where he was going.”

“Not even Curufin?”

“Well, he told Curufin—but he’s keeping secrets too.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Fingolfin. “He’s always come and gone like that. And Caranthir?”

“He wants to be the one to come to me, Curvo says—whenever that might be. All I can do is wait, and take care to be courteous to Lisgalen.”

Fingolfin’s lips twitched. “Don’t want a repeat of what happened with Daeron?”

“I don’t think there’s really any danger of that—and I did speak to Daeron last summer.”

Fingolfin smiled more fully. “As I suggested?”

“Well, he came to me. But yes. And I do like Lisgalen.” They were quieter than he would have expected, but they were clever and practical and quick to laugh—Caranthir needed someone who could make him laugh. 

“Do you expect to be thrown together much, with all the work to be done?”

“It’s likely. They are a skilled silversmith and gem maker, and I’ll need a lot of silver for this at least.” Fëanor gestured at the drawing on the table. He wasn’t terribly worried about making any missteps with Lisgalen; it was unlikely they would meet much outside of the work for the feast, and at least there would be plenty of safe things to talk about in the meantime. 

Fëanor went out again that night to call more light into more gems, this time joined by several others who Celebrimbor had recruited for the task. They worked most of the night; when the rest packed up and returned to the city, Fëanor lingered. He sat and gazed up at the stars and listened to the wind whisper through the grass around him. It was very quiet. 

He did not return to the city until dawn began to peer through the Calacirya. Instead of going home he found himself at the old house. He circled the walls, humming a quiet song to counter the songs that still held strong to the foundations. Then he went inside and upstairs to sing similar songs to the walls and to the floors, carefully weakening them so that when the house came down it would all fall inward as he wished it to. 

Then he went to sit for a while under his father’s cherry trees.