From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twenty

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Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
- “Separation” by WS Merwin 

 

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A few weeks later, Celebrimbor appeared in Fëanor’s workshop just after lunch, looking a little harried. “You’re not working on any feast things, are you?” he asked.

“No.” Fëanor held up the wooden box he had started in Imloth Ningloron. It only needed a final sanding, and then polishing and lining. “A gift for Náriel,” he said as Celebrimbor took it to examine the design on the lid. “Calissë tells me she has no jewelry box of her own yet.”

“She hasn’t. I was going to ask Maglor to make one for her for Midwinter—but this is better.”

“You wouldn’t make one yourself?”

“I’ve never been any good with wood.” Celebrimbor shrugged as he handed the box back. “I always just end up with a hand full of splinters and an overabundance of frustration. Can’t be good at everything, I suppose. This is nice, though—Náriel will love it.”

“How many fights have you had to break up this morning?” Fëanor asked.

Celebrimbor made a face. “Three.”

“Oh, cheer up,” said Fëanor with a grin. “That must be some kind of record—I expected to hear of at least six.”

“Well the good news is that Gil-galad gets to take over that part of it now. He’s very happy to have something to do, and I’m happy to get to focus on all the important things. Speaking of which, Ingwion wrote back to say that he and Elemmírë and Ingwë would like the back of the stage to be less imposing, and would a forest of smaller trees work, rather than just two enormous ones?”

Fëanor thought about it, and then nodded. “Yes, I can make that work—but I’m still keeping the Two Trees. I’ll just shrink them down so they’re only a little bigger than the rest. And they’ll of course still be silver and gold. The rest can be plainer wood.” They would all be primarily be made of wood, of course—easier to transport and to put together, and also to take apart later—but Fëanor also wanted to paint them with ithildin as well as gild them with silver and gold, and all of the lamps could still be flowers and fruits; the gold- and silversmiths of Tirion had already begun work, and soon Fëanor would have to start creating the crystals and gems to go inside them. 

“We do want most of the focus to be on the performers,” Celebrimbor said, “but I like your plan. And I’m sure there must be some other place where some proper representation of the Two Trees would be appropriate. I wrote back to ask Ingwion.”

“Just as long as I’m not the one tasked with making it,” Fëanor said. “I’ll be quite busy with the stage and all the lights.”

“Gil-galad suggested asking Turgon—he made Glingal and Belthil in Gondolin, after all—but if someone does it’s not going to be me.”

“Would he object?”

“I don’t know, but Gondolin is…not often spoken of, and I’m not going to poke at old wounds, not when I know how they feel.” Celebrimbor shrugged when Fëanor glanced up at him. “It’s fine—I’m fine.”

“Did you want to do anything in the forge today?” Fëanor asked.

Celebrimbor looked past Fëanor at the forge and the anvil before it. He appeared calm, and only thoughtful rather than troubled. “Only if you were planning to do something already,” he said finally. “I’d like to watch, not do anything—I miss watching you at work. I so rarely get time for it, lately, not like when you first came back.”

They’d spent a lot of time together in the forges at Imloth Ningloron that first summer, while all Fëanor’s sons had been making their way out to Ekkaia and then back. Fëanor hadn’t known of Celebrimbor’s lingering troubles then, though he had noticed that Celebrimbor never took part, only watched, as Fëanor had started to teach himself how to do things again in a new body that had lacked all the muscle memory and callouses from years upon years of such work that he had once taken for granted. He hadn’t seemed bothered then by the heat or the tools or anything anyone was doing. Maybe it was just easier to ignore when there were so many other more pressing concerns.

“I have a lot of diamonds to make,” he said now, “for something I’m going to surprise Lalwen with.” He set the box aside. “Would that trouble you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t…” Celebrimbor gestured vaguely, brow furrowing as he tried to put his thoughts in order. “It’s different, watching you—I noticed it a long time ago, when you first came back. I can more easily forget what…else, everything can be used for. Elrond thinks it is because better memories are overtaking the painful ones—that my mind does not connect you to violence, in or out of the forge.” 

“I did do violence,” Fëanor pointed out as he picked up his apron.

“Yes, but I never saw it. Elrond approves of this plan, by the way—after he got done reminding me there’s no shame in never taking up my old craft again if I didn’t really want to. He said I should take it slowly and that I’m probably going to take two steps forward and then three back, sometimes, but that’s only to be expected.”

And it might be even easier if they could encourage more good memories to overtake the bad. Fëanor got out the crucibles he would need, and all the materials for making diamonds. He could get diamonds elsewhere, and he had a good supply of them already there in his workshop—but he wanted to do something a little different in the cut of them later, and that was easiest if he could make them from scratch. And this was as good a chance as any for Celebrimbor to start taking steps toward his own gemcraft again. “I was making diamonds the very first time your father brought you into my forge, when you were very small,” he said as he got to work. “You were so excited that he could hardly keep a hold of you—you wanted to touch everything, especially all the things you shouldn’t.” 

He kept talking and reminiscing, making Celebrimbor laugh.

The discord in Tirion had begun sometime after the Silmarils were finished—when both Curufin and Ambarussa had been young—but it had only simmered quietly for many years afterward. By the time Celebrimbor had been born things were starting to heat up again, and Fëanor had been ever more occupied with his own projects—and with devising weapons and armor, though he hadn’t yet recruited Curufin or anyone else into their making. Still, there were spots of brightness and joy in that time—Celebrimbor himself not the least. They could all perhaps, do with a reminder of it. 

By the time Curufin arrived with Náriel and Calissë, Fëanor had enough raw diamond to cut into almost all the gems he’d need for the piece of jewelry he wanted to make Lalwen, and he had the gratification of seeing Curufin come in to find Celebrimbor laughing while Fëanor put out the fire in the forge. “What are you making?” Náriel asked, peering at the pile of uncut diamonds cooling on the workbench from her perch in Curufin’s arms. Calissë stood on her toes to try to see until Celebrimbor picked her up. 

“A gift for Lalwen,” said Fëanor. “Did we have plans this afternoon, Curvo?”

“No. I had to look for something in the library, and the girls wanted to come see you—and Uncle Nolofinwë asked me to make sure you ate lunch.”

“Nolofinwë has enough to do without worrying about whether I’m eating.”

“It’s your own fault everyone remembers all your old bad habits,” Curufin retorted. Celebrimbor laughed. “And I remembers yours, Tyelpë.”

“I lunched with Rúmil earlier,” said Fëanor.

“And I dined with Gil-galad and Gilheneth,” Celebrimbor added. “See? We’re all being very responsible and resting when we need to. I haven’t even been doing any work.”

As they left the workshops and walked back through the gardens toward the main part of the palace, they came upon Fingon. Calissë wiggled out of Celebrimbor’s arms to run over to greet him. “Hello, Cousin,” said Curufin, sounding a little surprised. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“I just arrived,” said Fingon, grinning as he hoisted Calissë onto his shoulders. “Is it still all as bustling and busy as when I left?”

“More,” said Celebrimbor, “and Gil-galad’s now in the thick of it.”

Fingon laughed. “Of course he is! Better him than me.”

“Did Uncle Nelyo come back with you?” asked Calissë hopefully.

“No, he didn’t—he’s gone to Alqualondë with Finrod, to laze about by the sea all summer.”

“I did tell you he’d be here this winter, Calissë,” said Celebrimbor. 

They chatted with Fingon for a few minutes longer before Curufin and Celebrimbor had to depart, taking the girls home and returning to work they had planned that afternoon. Once they were out of earshot, Fëanor looked at Fingon. “How is he?” he asked.

He half-expected Fingon to refuse to tell him anything. Instead he said, “He is still trying to find his footing—but as I wrote to Maglor, he can be certain now that he’ll be on solid ground, rather than finding it all to be shifting sands. It will be equally restful for him in Alqualondë as it was in the woods, I think, and he does plan to return to Tirion this winter.” 

“And Arafinwë doesn’t mind? With Aikanáro so newly returned—”

“It’s a large house,” Fingon said, smiling a little. “Everyone can avoid each other if they wish, Finrod says, and if Aegnor is slower to readjust to life than Gil-galad, he doesn’t need to be wrapped in cotton wool. But I’m not worried—not about Russandol. You might not expect it, but now that the shock and the horror are starting to wear off, I think he is finding it much easier than before to look at the future with hope, rather than mere ambivalence. I have not seen that in him since—well, not since just before the Nirnaeth, and it was a new thing again then, too. And when it comes to hope, he is in good company—Finrod won’t let him fall back into old habits, and I’ll be visiting once in a while as well.”

“Is there anything I should be doing?” Fëanor asked.

Fingon shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s nothing to do with you, really—oh I know what it was that was put into his head, but the real horror is the fact that it was put there to begin with. Just know that if he continues to avoid you upon his return to Tirion, it because he is uncertain of himself—he has no doubts about you, not anymore.”

“Thank you,” Fëanor said after a moment. He didn’t know if he quite dared to believe all of that, but it eased something in him, to know that he had done something right—that he was no longer a source of pain for his son.

Fingon smiled at him. He did not look as much like Finwë as Gil-galad did, but he had his smile, and his eyes. The bright sunshine caught on the golden threads wound through his hair and gleamed. “I should also warn you,” he said, “that Finrod and I are planning our own small Mereth Aderthad, to take place next summer during Ingwë’s grander party. All the House of Finwë will be there, and so we’re going to bring everyone together for a proper family gathering. We have not had one of those since before the Darkening—and our family was much smaller then.”

Fëanor thought of all the various and disparate branches of the family, and asked, “Are you really sure that’s a good idea?”

“If it’s not, we can blame Finrod, for it was his! But I’m sure it will be fine. We know who’s most likely to punch who, and can thus work to prevent it. Also, our grandmothers will be there, and no one wants to disappoint them by fighting.”

There was that. Fëanor smiled in spite of himself. “You seem to have things well in hand. I’ll look forward to this smaller party, then. If you need anything, please let me know.”

Fëanor had not touched the palantír since returning to Tirion. He had been busy, and by now he had seen nearly all there was that he thought his sons wanted him to see in it. He had not, however, looked for the first Mereth Aderthad. So that evening he took out the stone and turned his thoughts to the past, to the Pools of Ivrin that he had never seen in life, and the great gathering of Noldor that Fingolfin had arranged in an effort to establish real peace between all three of their houses.

It was, of course, not nearly as large as the gathering currently being planned, but Fëanor could see why Fingolfin did not want to do it again—a small city of tents and pavilions had sprung up beside the Pools of Ivrin and the banks of the Narog, bright banners flying in the wind, bustling with people, filled with color and light and, though he couldn’t hear through the stone, song and laughter. He found Maedhros and Maglor arriving with a small company out of the east, banners flying with the eight-pointed star of their house. 

The gathering was a cheerful one. If there was tension between Maedhros and Maglor and their cousins in attendance, it did not show in the palantír. There was music and dancing, and feasting every night. The Pools of Ivrin were lovely, gleaming under the bright newly risen sun and sparkling under the stars. He saw Maedhros, still not inclined to smile easily even years after his rescue from the cliff side, soften and even laugh when in the company of Finrod and Fingon. There were more serious conversations in private tents, but most of the Mereth Aderthad had been devoted to making merry and rekindling friendships—and forging new ones. 

Daeron and Mablung arrived in the company of Finarfin’s children, and without meaning to Fëanor found himself watching the first meeting between Maglor and Daeron—one of instant connection and easy friendship. He had known they’d met then, but he hadn’t known that Angrod had introduced them. He hadn’t realized either that there had been anything more in either of their hearts than mere friendship, but it was clear from the way Daeron’s eyes followed Maglor whenever they were near one another that he had been smitten from the very beginning—also a sign of how he had changed in the intervening centuries, growing more guarded and difficult to read. Fëanor couldn’t tell if he was really seeing something similar in Maglor’s gaze or if he only thought so because he knew what was to come. 

It was nice to look into the stone and see something happy—it was nice to see Fingolfin doing all the things Fëanor should have but had failed to do, in bringing their people together. It was not only feasting and song that had been accomplished at that feast, Fëanor knew. He’d glimpsed Maedhros and Maglor both leaned over maps and discussing lists and numbers and stratagems with their cousins and their uncle. There had been heated debates but no outright arguments, and that was no small feat among either the Noldor or their own family.

As he put the palantír away a knock heralded Findis’ entry into his sitting room. “You’re still looking at the past?” she asked, glimpsing the stone before he shut the cabinet.

“The Mereth Aderthad, this time,” he said. “Nolofinwë keeps complaining and I wanted to see whether his feast was as impressive as he makes it sound.”

Findis grinned. “And was it?”

“Yes, it was. I can see why he doesn’t want to do it again, though.”

“Lucky that Gil-galad is so eager. Were you planning to join the rest of us for dinner, or are you singing starlight into more diamonds tonight?”

“No, no singing tonight—even if I wouldn’t run the risk of straining my voice, there are clouds coming in and it’s likely to rain.”

As they left Fëanor’s rooms, Findis slipped her arm through his and said more seriously, “I know I’m not to ask what it was that happened this spring—but do you know if Maitimo is all right?”

“Findekáno says he is, and he would know far better than I.”

“Maitimo has not written to any of his brothers?”

“I think he has written to Macalaurë,” said Fëanor, “and they have all been writing to him. No one is angry with anyone else, if that’s what you are worried about.”

“That seems a minor miracle, honestly,” said Findis. “Not even with you?”

“Well, not angrier than before,” Fëanor said. “Cáno shared a draft of his song with me.”

“He did?” Findis looked at him in astonishment. “Is that normal? I mean, does he share drafts?”

“He seems to be sharing this one with a fair number of people, but I was surprised when he offered to let me read it.”

“Oh, Fëanáro—I’m so glad. And the song?”

“It will break your heart, when you hear it—it is incredible, but I hope it is the last of its kind that he ever writes.” Fëanor hesitated for moment. “Findis…”

“Yes?”

“You still think he’ll return someday?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is it foresight, or just hope?”

“Both, I suppose,” she said after a moment’s thought. “When I spoke of it at Formenos—you remember?—it felt like more than simple hope. But how or when or even why—I cannot say. Do you not also hope for it?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Well,” Findis said, leaning against him a little as they approached the hall where faint strains of music could be heard under the murmur of conversation. “You did not know how to hope for your sons to speak to you again.”

“That’s different,” Fëanor said. “They’re already here—what they do depends only upon them. Atya—that depends upon the Valar overturning their own judgment.”

“They’ve done it before,” Findis said softly. “They once said that not even an echo of our people’s lamentation would pass over the mountains—and yet Eärendil came, bearing the jewel that you made. Thus did Moringotto’s end begin, and thus did we receive an everlasting sign of estel to be seen in the gloaming.”

Fëanor was saved from having to answer by their arrival in the hall, ending all chance of private conversation that evening. Both Fingolfin and Findis had praised the Silmarils in recent days, but he still felt very little other than regret whenever he glimpsed Eärendil’s star through the Calacirya. The Silmaril no longer felt like his, and he was glad of it—and glad, in turn, that he could feel glad of it, that he could find it so easy now to let it go, and that he could appreciate what it meant to others, even if the sight of it was still nothing more than a reminder to him of all the worst things he had ever done.

That night he wrote to his mother. He did not write of Maedhros, but he wrote of Maglor and his song. Missing Atya has never been easy, he wrote after pausing to think long enough that his pen left a small blot on the paper, but it feels as though it is getting harder by the day. I don’t know why—you would think hearing or reading a song like this would make it easier, knowing that it is a burden widely shared, but it doesn’t. Can you come to Tirion sooner than this winter? I would like to speak to you in person, and to show you some of the things I have been making. I miss you.