From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twenty Four

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Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.
- “The Red Poppy” by Louise Glück 

 

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When Fëanor reached the breakfast room the next morning he found Indis and Finrod there, and Fingon and Gilheneth arriving just as he did. “Good morning, Uncle,” Fingon said as they met in the hallway. “How is Maglor?”

“Exhausted, and likely still sleeping,” said Fëanor, “but I left him at Curvo’s with—”

“—really don’t think you do, Grandmother!” Finrod’s voice rose very suddenly and sharply. Fëanor and Fingon both looked through the door to find him standing near the window; Indis was seated at the table. Her expression was unreadable, but Finrod looked—well. He looked and sounded angry, which was very unlike him. Usually he was all smiles, all sunny cheerfulness and gentle teasing, ready to make jokes and laugh at and with other people. Fëanor didn’t think he had ever actually seen Finrod lose his temper.

“Well, here we go,” Fingon sighed, unsurprised.

“I’m impressed he held out this long,” Gilheneth said, slipping her arm through his as they stepped through the doorway. 

“Do not forget, Findaráto,” Indis was saying as Fëanor followed them, “that I was born beside the waters of Cuiviénen. I lost everyone in my family but my brother to the Dark Rider, and then I watched him ride away with Oromë, who seemed to me no less terrible, after I begged him not to go. Fear an old friend of mine. I know exactly what it was we asked of Macalaurë, and it was not done lightly.”

“But you did not have to ask it of him as soon as he came back from Lórien!” Finrod snapped. 

“We did not intend to—we only meant to ask him to write the song,” Indis said. “I wasn’t there, and cannot tell you how or why the subject was broached by Míriel. And I did not expect him to even start writing it as soon as he did, let alone finish so quickly. I thought it would be the work of years.”

“Everyone was surprised by how quickly he finished it,” said Fingon as he took his seat. “Sit down, Felagund. I don’t think Maglor would be very happy to hear about you yelling at Grandmother.”

Finrod shot Fingon a glare, but he sat. For her part, Indis seemed not to have taken any offense. “Good morning, Fëanáro,” she said. “Can you put Findaráto at ease, perhaps, and tell us of Macalaurë’s performance?”

“I’m not worried about his performance,” Finrod said. “I know he was amazing. I could hear that he was amazing—it was on the wind and in the rain.”

“I left him last night at Curvo’s,” Fëanor said after a moment’s pause, guessing that that was really what both Fingon and Finrod would want to know, “and both Maedhros and Daeron were there. He was weary and had strained his voice, but now that it’s over I think he’ll be all right, given time to rest.” The only question was how much time, and Fëanor had no answers for that—only his own worries.

“Daeron is here?” Finrod looked up. “I didn’t know that. I thought he wasn’t expected back for some weeks yet.”

“Celegorm went to fetch him back early, apparently,” said Fingon, as Fingolfin came in with Findis and Anairë. “Celebrimbor told me yesterday that no one told Maglor about it, though, which is why he didn’t think to wait until Daeron actually arrived.”

“Of course they didn’t. And here I thought they were all getting better at talking to each other,” Finrod said, rolling his eyes. 

“I think the fact that Celegorm told anyone at all is him getting better,” Fingon said. 

“Conspiring with each other doesn’t count,” Finrod retorted. 

“Fëanáro, please encourage your sons not to conspire with each other or anyone else,” Fingolfin said as he took his seat. “It does not, historically, end well.” Gilheneth covered her mouth, badly masking laughter.

“I’ll mention it next time I speak to Curvo,” said Fëanor.

Finrod was not the only one who had heard an echo of Maglor’s voice on the wind or in the rain, but everyone wanted to know more details of the singing—and especially of the Valar’s reaction to it. Fëanor answered their questions until Indis admonished them for not letting him eat his breakfast. He could tell that what Fingon and Finrod really wanted to know was why it had been Fëanor who accompanied Maglor and not one of his brothers, but they did not ask and even if they had, he did not intend to answer. 

After the meal, Indis caught Fëanor’s eye, though she did not speak again until they were alone in the breakfast room. Then she leaned forward a little and said, “Fëanáro, I’m sorry that this was kept secret from you—from all of you. I know why I chose not to speak of it to my own children, but I cannot say for certain why Míriel said nothing to you.”

“Why did you choose to remain silent?” Fëanor asked after a moment in which he struggled to find his voice. At the best of times he was never quite sure how to speak to Indis, and now—receiving an apology—he was even less certain. 

“I told Lalwen, in the end. I knew no one else would hear of it from her, and that she could offer Macalaurë whatever support he needed without adding to his burdens. But Findis dislikes secrets, and Nolofinwë has enough to worry about.”

“And Arafinwë?”

Indis’ smile was a little sad. “His feelings are complicated. I have also not seen him in several years, and do not expect to until next summer. But the secrecy was primarily for Macalaurë’s sake—indeed, as I said, it was not our intention to ask him to sing before the Valar until after the song was written, and we expected that to take far longer than it did. I thought he would have plenty of time to find his footing here after coming back from Lórien. But I’m told that Arafinwë guessed at the real purpose when Macalaurë spoke to him last year anyway, and I am only surprised that anyone was able to keep the secret from Artanis.”

Fëanor took a breath. “Thank you,” he said. “I—of course I wish my mother had told me, but at the start I was not on speaking terms with Macalaurë. And I know why he kept it from me, but I also—I wish you had not asked it of him at all. You or my mother, regardless of the timing. Findaráto was right. It has cost him much, this performance.” Almost Fëanor wanted to send him back to Lórien, except that returning to the domain of even the gentlest of the Valar would likely do more harm than good. 

“I do understand what it is to fear them,” Indis said quietly. “I was able to let go of that fear, eventually, but I still remember it well. And I know it doesn’t make it any better, but Macalaurë has Finwë’s courage.”

“He would disagree.”

“Would you?”

“No.”

“If there is anything I can do for him, please let me know. Regardless of the Valar’s decision, I will be forever grateful to Macalaurë for going before them, especially because it was so hard—and for the song itself. It is beautiful, even more than I ever hoped for—and my expectations were very high indeed.”

“I still think the cost was too great, even if he was willing to endure it.” Fëanor rose from his seat, inclined his head to Indis, and left the room, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was fleeing. He did not feel angry—though that would surely change when he spoke to his own mother—but he felt unsettled.

Fingolfin was waiting in the hallway. “Is it not unbecoming of a king to eavesdrop?” Fëanor asked him. 

“Perhaps, but it’s rather expected of a brother,” said Fingolfin. “I thought you said Maglor would be fine.”

“He will be,” Fëanor said, “but I don’t know when—and he isn’t fine now. The Valar sent Eönwë to carry their summons, and I don’t know what it was he said exactly, but he—he frightened Cáno. Badly—worse than his fears of the Valar—and he didn’t even give himself time to recover before insisting on going.”

“Would you have had him simply refuse this summons, even though he had asked for it?” Fingolfin asked.

“Yes,” Fëanor said. “So would you, if you had seen—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. He did go, and he was magnificent.”

“And now he is at home, surrounded by everyone who knows exactly what he needs.”

“I know.”

They fell into step beside one another, though Fëanor wasn’t really sure where he was going. Eventually Fingolfin asked, “Do you think they’ll listen—do you think our mothers’ hopes will bear fruit?”

“I don’t know.” Fëanor crossed his arms and kept his gaze on the floor just in front of him. “I have long been reluctant to put such faith in them. Not much has changed for me in that regard.” But he thought of the tears on Manwë’s face, and wondered.

“I don’t disagree,” Fingolfin said. “But surely Maglor thought…?”

“I don’t think so. He felt it was something he had to see through, but I don’t think he expects anything to come of it.”

“But why was it so important, then?”

Fëanor shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn't want to press him—and I won’t press him, not until this is well behind us.”

“Of course.” Fingolfin touched Fëanor’s arm lightly. “I’m glad you went with him, though it cannot have been easy for you either, after the last…well, the last several times you went before them all.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about that at all,” said Fëanor. He’d remembered, of course, but all of his focus had been on Maglor, and there hadn’t been room to worry about anything else. The Valar themselves had never really frightened him, though—none of them had never hurt him the way Maglor had been hurt. Or Finwë. Or Maedhros. Or even Fingolfin. “I’m fine.”

“Well, he needs time and space to recover—and if you need to take time, just tell me. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

“Thank you, but I think I’d like to just get back to work.” He’d done all he could for Maglor for the moment. If anything else was needed, someone would send for him, and there was plenty in his workshop to distract him in the meantime, including some decorations for the nursery that he and Celebrimbor had been collaborating on when Celebrimbor wasn’t occupied with his other responsibilities or his lightning project with Maeglin.

“All right, but tell me if you change your mind.”

He spent the next few days singing sunlight into gems as big as his head for the stage, and carefully cutting crystals into the shapes of stars and snowflakes for the nursery. On the night he intended to sing starlight into some of the snowflakes, clouds moved in, and so he retreated to his rooms to look for a book to read instead. 

Nerdanel was already there. 

“What happened?” Fëanor asked, halting as he stepped through the door. “Is Cáno—”

“He’s all right,” Nerdanel said. She had been standing by the window, looking out over the city. When she turned around he saw that she’d been crying. “Or—at least he doesn’t need anything, from you or from me.”

“What happened?” Fëanor repeated. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, wondering why Nerdanel had come there, clearly distressed. It wasn’t as though he was her first choice of comfort, these days.

“He told me why he got so—upset—in the hedge maze. When I upset him, I mean.” Nerdanel turned away. “Moringotto used you against Maitimo, and Sauron, it seems, used me against Macalaurë.”

“What?”

“He wouldn’t tell me exactly, but—I think he tried to use a memory of me to—to lull him, somehow? So he might let his guard down? And when he—I was watching as he did it, that was when I had taken up the palantír to look for him, because I had been having such terrible dreams, and—”

“Nerdanel, that isn’t your fault. Then or the other night in the maze. You didn’t know.”

“I should have,” she said bitterly. 

“How, if he wouldn’t tell you?”

“I’m his mother, and—there was—when he first came to me after he returned there was something strange in his face, in the way he looked at me, but I didn’t pay enough attention because I was just so happy to see him…”

“Nerdanel.” Fëanor waited until she turned to face him again. “The Enemy tried to turn your love into a weapon he could use—and he failed. That speaks both to how important you are and to Macalaurë’s strength of will.”

“And Moringotto turned your anger into a weapon—and succeeded,” Nerdanel said. “What does that say of you or of Maitimo?”

“It says more of me than of Maedhros,” Fëanor said quietly. “And both he and Macalaurë survived their ordeals. They’re stronger than they believe themselves to be.”

“They should never have had to be so strong.”

“I don’t disagree.”

They stood in silence for a short time. Nerdanel had her arms wrapped around herself. In another lifetime Fëanor would have closed the distance in an instant, but he didn’t know now if that would be welcomed. Nerdanel was still angry at him for myriad reasons. They were united again in this one thing, but it was the worst thing, and he didn’t know what to do with it. There wasn’t any real comfort to be found. That Maglor had known from the start that he was being deceived was something—but all that had done was lead to the hedge maze where he had been unable to believe reality instead. And Fëanor still didn’t know what had caused the panic to begin with. There had been no good time to ask, and Maglor had been so quick to dismiss it that Fëanor wasn’t sure he would have answered any other questions anyway. 

Finally, Nerdanel said, “You know far better than I what befell them all. How can you bear it?”

“Mostly by reminding myself that they are here, now, and whole and happy.”

Her frown deepened. “And that works?” Fëanor could only shrug. “Or do you really just ignore it, in favor of whatever new project has all your attention?”

“I’m not ignoring anything. Why ask if you won’t accept my answers?”

“I don’t accept them because you will never say what you really feel anymore!” she snapped. “You just tell me what you think I want to hear!”

“How can I do that when I don’t know what you want?” Fëanor demanded. 

“I want the truth! You seem to be so determined to do the opposite of what you did before that you are no longer yourself—”

“I was not myself at the end of—”

“And now you have gone so far the other way that the effect is the same! You are a stranger, Fëanáro! How can I want anything from you when I no longer know you?”

“All I am doing is what you asked of me before! Listening before I speak, seeking understanding rather than spite—I am still myself, I’m just trying to be better! I know that it’s too little and too late, but you don’t know what I’ve been doing because you won’t talk to me!” He heard his voice come dangerously close to breaking, and turned away, going to his desk. 

“What are you doing?”

He opened the drawer with the false bottom and took out the small bundle of letters. Not all of them were to Nerdanel, but it didn’t really matter. She was the only person in the world he could stand to see all of his heart laid bare, and at least he knew that whatever she did afterward, she would not share the letters’ contents with anyone else. “If you want to know the truth, but won’t listen to what I say—then here. I wrote these with no expectation of any eyes seeing them but my own.” What he couldn’t bear was whatever she might say next, or to watch her read them, so he just left before she could say or do anything else. 

The library was mostly empty. He spotted Pengolodh in a corner bent over a manuscript, and went to the opposite end of the room where he could lose himself in some of Rúmil’s latest writings. It took up the rest of the night, and he didn’t even notice when morning came until Celebrimbor appeared with Náriel, who ran to climb onto Fëanor’s lap, not quite her usual self. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked. 

“There was a bit of excitement at home yesterday—one of Ammë’s favorite vases got broken, and Calissë cut her foot,” Celebrimbor said. “We came to ask if you have any gold dust, since I can’t find any what with the shortages of everything these days, and Maglor’s going to need it for the repairs.”

“I’m sure I do,” said Fëanor. He set the papers aside and rose, shifting Náriel to his hip. “It sounds like there’s no harm done, Náriel. The vase can be put back together.”

“I know,” she said into his shirt.

“Broken vases aside, how is everyone?” Fëanor asked.

“Everyone’s fine,” Celebrimbor said, though he glanced at Náriel as he spoke—some details were better not discussed in front of her. 

In his workshop Fëanor dug around for a jar of gold that Maglor could use. “Is this enough? I don’t have as much as I thought.”

“It should be—I don’t really know much about what he does, but I’m sure he’ll tell me if not.”

“How are your experiments with Lómion going?”

“Atya’s helping, but it’s a little hard to test what we’ve got when it’s not actually storming. Your notes on silima have been very helpful.”

“I’m still not sure it’s going to work for your purposes.”

“Probably not,” said Celebrimbor cheerfully, “but figuring out why is going to be fun.”

“I wanna watch but Ammë said I’m not allowed to do impossible things until I’m older,” Náriel said from her perch on Fëanor’s workbench, swinging her legs. “But by then all the impossible things are gonna be done already!”

“There’s always going to be something impossible left to try,” Fëanor said, and tweaked her nose.

“Maybe Lómion and I won’t figure out the lightning problem at all,” Celebrimbor said, “and someday you’ll be the one to do it.”

“But you can figure out anything!” Náriel protested, with all the unbreakable confidence of a younger sister in her older brother. Celebrimbor lifted her up in his arms to kiss her cheeks, laughing and making her giggle. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Grandfather, Atya said to tell you that you have to come to dinner tonight!”

“I have to, do I?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he said.”

“It is,” Celebrimbor agreed. “But if you’re expected elsewhere—”

“I’m not. Of course I’ll be there.”

He was not expected anywhere that evening, but he had promised to visit Rúmil for lunch. “I’m surprised you haven’t fled to Valmar to escape all the chaos,” Fëanor remarked as they sat in the shade of a slender honey locust tree, long out of flower but providing ample shade, in Rúmil’s garden. Rúmil lived not far from Fëanor’s old house, so it was relatively quiet, but distant hammers could be heard ringing, and there was a hum of activity that permeated the whole city, reminding Fëanor a little of a beehive. Around them flowers bloomed, daisies and dahlias swaying in the breeze. A hummingbird hovered over the nasturtiums before zooming away past Fëanor’s head to seek nectar elsewhere.

“Oh, it’s no better there,” Rúmil laughed. “Just a different flavor of chaos. And it isn’t so bad as long as I avoid the city center.”

“Where all the libraries are, and the university,” Fëanor pointed out.

“All my students are very happy to come to me,” Rúmil replied. “They hate the noise, too. But it should be calming very soon, shouldn’t it? From what I have heard everything is nearly done, and it all just needs to be taken out west next spring.”

“Nearly done, yes,” Fëanor said. He had finalized the blueprints for the stage and handed them over to Celebrimbor, who would in turn hand them to the carpenters and the painters. Now he could turn most of his attention to smaller, personal projects—mostly the baubles he had promised Curufin for the nursery, but also one or two other things he’d been thinking about off and on.

Rúmil leaned back in his seat and regarded Fëanor with more serious eyes. “I heard you went with Macalaurë to the Máhanaxar last week,” he said. 

“I did.”

“Did you know he intended to take his song before the Valar?”

“No, not until the summons came.”

“It makes a little more sense to me now why he wished to hear so many stories of Finwë as he prepared to write it,” said Rúmil. 

“I think he would have done that regardless. He told me it was easier, having the words of so many others to use rather than only his own.”

“I’m glad to hear you are on speaking terms—it wasn’t so when last we spoke of this.”

“A lot has changed, and rather quickly,” Fëanor admitted. 

“But for the better?”

“Yes. For the most part. It was—it was very hard for him to go before the Valar. He…”

“I know the story,” Rúmil said after a moment, when Fëanor hesitated. “It’s quite widely known, actually—Findaráto told me of it, and said that it would be easier on Macalaurë if he would not have to answer any questions himself. I confess I am a little surprised that he returned here to Tirion afterward. Would he not prefer to be at home in Imloth Ningloron?”

“He promised his brothers he would return here, and all of them want to be here come wintertime. As long as he is left in peace I think he will be fine. Daeron has also returned.”

“Has he? I hadn’t heard that, but I’m glad. I’m curious about the Avari in the west, and he promised to come tell me all about them. But of course that can wait—he has other concerns just now.”

“Doesn’t Ingwë hope to open the roads between east and west? You could satisfy your curiosity after the feast, if it all goes well.”

“Perhaps—perhaps I should travel more widely than I have.” Rúmil’s smile was a little rueful. “Routine is just so comfortable, in spite of all there is I wish to see and learn. It is so easy to say, ‘maybe next year,’ and then next year comes and goes and nothing changes, and you are always vaguely planning to do something in that next year that never comes.”

And when change did come, it seemed to come all at once. Two years ago Fëanor had been estranged from all but one of his children with no hope of ever so much as seeing most of them, let alone speaking to them. And that evening, he made his way to Curufin’s house to find all seven of his sons there. It was not easy, but none of them simply turned and left the room when he entered. Caranthir was polite, as promised, though stiff and awkward. Celegorm kept his distance, though he seemed uncertain now rather than angry. Maedhros was quiet, but Fëanor didn’t know if that was because of him or not. He sat on one side of Maglor with Daeron on the other; Maglor seemed tired still, leaning against Daeron as they spoke together quietly. When they sat down to eat he did not join the wider conversation except when directly addressed, but when Fëanor glanced at Curufin he shook his head minutely—it wasn’t something to worry about. 

As word spread about Maglor’s performance before the Valar, Fëanor found himself inundated with questions. He’d expected it and was mostly happy to talk about how incredible his son was, but he had not expected to feel like he himself was being scraped raw by it. Escaping to his workshop didn’t help, and he couldn’t go anywhere else without being stopped at least once—so he left a note for Fingolfin and fled the city, going north to Formenos, finally taking the time away that Fingolfin had suggested in the first place.

The grave by the lake seemed lonelier than ever. The late summer flowers were blooming, Queen Míriel’s Lace and asters, and pale daisies bobbing in the breeze. Dandelions covered Finwë’s grave, sweetly yellow or gone to delicate seed, among the ever-blooming Evermind. One or two pale green niphredil flowers had sprung up in the grass nearby. Fëanor stood in front of it and tried to decide if he wanted to convince himself that the Valar would listen or that they wouldn’t. He was afraid that he was starting to hope, and that was such a dangerous thing. It was a hope that would either be dashed in an instant, if the Valar chose to say outright that they still refused to change their minds, or it would only slowly fade away as time went on and the Valar just did nothing. Either one would hurt. Fëanor thought he could survive it, but he didn’t know what it would do to Maglor, who might claim to expect nothing else but whose heart would break all over again when it became clear that the best song he had ever written and the greatest and most difficult performance he had ever given hadn’t been enough.

“You would tell me it is never wrong to hope,” Fëanor said to the silent flowers. “But what…what good did it ever do you in the end, Atya? No one you hoped to see again has ever returned. All the trust you placed in the Valar—and all it got you—” His voice broke. He wanted to be angry—it was so much easier to be angry—but all the rage of his grief had burned away with his first body, and now all that was left was something cold and sharp lodged somewhere under his ribs, now joined by a growing sense of guilt for having tried to talk Maglor out of it in the first place. 

Hearts were such fragile things, as Celebrían had said, and Maglor’s even more so than others’. But if he had succeeded in convincing him not to go, it would have just dashed all the hopes that Maglor himself wouldn’t admit to harboring then and there, and he didn’t know if that would have been worse. It would have erased all uncertainty and assured that Finwë would remain in Mandos forever—and it would have been Fëanor’s words that did it, just like it was his actions that had taken Finwë to Formenos in the first place, and then left him there alone, where—

The firmest truth in Fëanor’s life was that when his parents died, it was because of him. His spirit had burned too brightly for Míriel to bear, and she had spent herself in his making. His anger had burned even brighter, and had led to Finwë’s abdication and to the circumstances that brought him there, to Formenos, to the fortress Fëanor had made by the lake that was meant to be a place of simple happiness—and there he had been slain. 

How could he let himself hope for something he wanted more than anything else, and did not deserve, when all it would do was hurt, again and again?