From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twenty Five

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
- “Hope is the thing with feathers” by Emily Dickinson 

 

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When Fëanor returned to Tirion, he found a package waiting for him. It was from Elrond, but there was no letter—only a book, bound in soft blue leather and embossed with niphredil blossoms. Fëanor flipped through it to find an illuminated manuscript full of flowers and stars, all the pages filled with passages from other works. At first he didn’t understand the connection between them—what did a broken statue in Ithilien have to do with the first rising of Gil-Estel in the evening? 

A closer reading of the first few pages revealed the obvious: hope. As though Elrond had known, somehow, what it was Fëanor had spoken to the flowers growing over his father’s grave.

When Fëanor mentioned it to Curufin, he said, “I think he’s sending copies everywhere—everyone in Imloth Ningloron must be busy with pen and ink. Maedhros got one yesterday.”

“But why?”

Curufin’s look was unimpressed. “Really, Atya? I thought you were supposed to be clever.”

“All evidence lately points to the contrary,” Fëanor muttered. A crumpled up piece of paper hit him in the side of the head a second later. “Curvo.”

“You’re as bad as Maglor. And Maedhros. Hey, Ambarussa,” Curufin added as they came into the workshop, “I think we need to add Atya to the no brooding rule.”

“What exactly does that entail?” Fëanor asked. 

“When you start brooding we make you stop,” Amras said cheerfully.

“By whatever means necessary,” added Amrod. 

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that,” Fëanor said, and all three of his sons laughed. 

“Why are you brooding, anyway?”

“Elrond sent him that book about hope,” said Curufin. “Have you read it, Atya?”

“A few pages, but—”

“You should,” said Amras. “He wouldn’t have sent it to you if he didn’t think you needed it.”

“I only just got it, Ambarussa. I’ll read it when I have time.”

“As for why Elrond is sending copies around,” Curufin said as he crossed out some calculations he had been making to start over, “it’s obvious, isn’t it? The secret is out now—everyone knows that Maglor went before the Valar, and even if no one is talking about it everyone can guess why.” 

“Did he send a copy to Maglor?” Amrod asked.

“No, but from what I could see over Nelyo’s shoulder most of the passages are from the Red Book, and Maglor was there when that was written.”

Amrod laughed. “I bet he helped write some of it. But—well, when it comes to the Valar, I really do think they’ll change their minds. Do you ever listen for the Music in the waters, Atya?”

“Not for a very long time,” Fëanor said. 

“I could hear it change every time we spoke of Grandfather Finwë this summer, in Imloth Ningloron. And when I pointed it out Maglor heard it too. That means something.”

When the twins left, Curufin glanced at Fëanor again. His hair was getting longer, and fell out of its rough braids into his eyes. “You don’t think they’ll overturn it, do you? Even though you told us all they were moved to tears, every one of them?”

“I don’t think anyone who hears that song can listen without being moved,” said Fëanor. “But that does not mean they will change their minds after they’ve had time to think about it. I still wish he hadn’t gone at all—”

“He’s going to be fine,” Curufin said. “Eönwë made it worse, but he’s already better than he was, and he knew he would need time to recover afterward.”

“Do you know what it was Eönwë did?”

“No. I am going to ask, because we can’t help if this happens again if we don’t know what the problem is, but not yet.” Curufin frowned at his paper and jotted down a note. They were contemplating the kind of crystal that Maeglin and Celebrimbor would need to catch lightning. It was exactly the kind of puzzle Curufin liked; Fëanor mostly just liked watching him think it through. “I think Maglor really does hope it will work,” he said finally. “He just can’t admit it even to himself, because it’s…he said once he’s not very good at hoping, anymore.”

Fëanor agreed, but asked, “Then how do you know?”

“I don’t think he would have been so insistent that he do it, if he didn’t think deep down there was a chance they would change their minds.”

Fëanor took the pen and added a few numbers to the paper. Curufin made a thoughtful noise as he took it back. “What do you think of it?” Fëanor asked him. 

“I think it’s very hard to let yourself hope for something you want more than anything,” Curufin said after a moment. “But I think it’s a little easier for me to just—not think about it, because the babies are going to be here so soon. I don’t have room to be worried or hopeful about anything else.”

“They’re going to be fine, Curvo,” Fëanor said, “all four of them.” To his eye, Curufin had been remarkably calm through Rundamírë’s pregnancy thus far—far calmer than Fëanor had been when expecting any of his sons, and especially the twins. Nerdanel’s last pregnancy, though, had been much more difficult than Rundamírë’s was proving to be. 

“I know,” Curufin said without looking up. “I’m told that every single day by my mother, and all my brothers, and my wife, and her mother, and—”

“Curvo.”

“Sorry.”

“Is there anything that will help?”

“Not until after they’re born. I just—I need to be doing things, but everything is already prepared for them and we’re almost done with what I need to do for next year and…” He set his pen down and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand why you’re so worried,” Fëanor said. Curufin had been very young still when the twins had been born—in the midst of his fears for Nerdanel immediately following the difficult birth, Fëanor had been keenly aware too of how frightened Curufin had been by the whole ordeal, had regretted giving him his own name, feeling as though he’d somehow cursed the child most like him into repeating his history. That hadn’t happened—the twins had been small but healthy and Nerdanel had recovered swiftly. Rundamírë was neither Míriel nor Nerdanel, and though three babies was unprecedented among the elves she was taking it in stride, aglow with excitement even when she complained of her back aching or feeling tired. But of course Curufin would mostly remember the fear—and remember Míriel. He had said himself, that spring, that worry was not always rational. “Are you still worried about your brothers?”

“Not so much about Maglor, especially since Daeron is here. Maedhros still isn’t really himself, but I don’t know if that’s just because he’s still worried about Maglor, or if it’s still—everything else. Probably a little of both. But he’s—he’s not himself but he’s better. Have you spoken?”

“Here and there.” Not about anything important, and Fëanor had been trying very hard to neither go out of his way to speak to Maedhros nor to avoid him. Maedhros seemed to be doing the same, and so when they did speak it was about the weather, or about whatever small project Fëanor had been working on, or about what Maedhros was sketching at the moment. Maedhros never offered anything of himself. If it was awkward, though, it wasn’t painful, and knowing that there was nothing more he could do to make things worse was a great burden lifted. Fëanor could wait until Maedhros figured out what it was he wanted to do. “And you’re all getting along?”

“Yes, we’re all fine. We were a little worried that Maglor would get into it with Celegorm over going to find Daeron before he was finished with his errands—but I think Maglor’s been too tired to be annoyed with anyone.”

“I imagine he’s also just glad that Daeron is back.”

“That too. Have you spoken to Tyelko at all…?”

“No, but it’s fine.”

“We were all a bit distracted at the time,” Curufin said after a moment, “but—Moryo was with you, when I came to find you at the old house. If I interrupted—”

“You didn’t. He said what he needed to say.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. We were talking of what I’m going to do after I knock the house down, when you arrived. I still don’t really know.”

“When are you going to knock it down?”

“I don’t know yet. Next spring, maybe, before we all leave for the feast. I’ll figure out what to do next when we come back.”

When he had time, a few days later, Fëanor took Elrond’s book out to the gardens. He read through a few passages, all of them speaking of terrible things—of growing darkness and the siren call of despair—and of the hope that had persisted through it all. It was a thing they had all held onto by their fingernails by the end, refusing to let go even though it hurt, even though not all of them lived to feel the change in the wind or see the return of the sun. 

He had chosen a seat beside a fountain, not really thinking about it. As he read of the eagles swooping over Minas Tirith, bringing news of Sauron’s defeat and the return of the king, he became aware that something had changed. When he raised his head he discovered that he could hear the Music—usually it was a thing he had to try to hear, and it had been a long time since he had tried. The water flowing through the fountain was much quieter than a river would be, let alone the Sea—but what he could hear of it did not sound like any of the echoes he had heard before. It sounded—

Triumphant.

The next morning he went to drop some modified silima off for Curufin and Celebrimbor to look at, and found Maglor in the workshop alone, humming quietly to himself as he mixed ingredients together. “Good morning, Atya,” he said, sounding very much like himself again. He didn’t look up, but only because he was concentrating on his task.

“Good morning. What are you doing?”

“Fixing the vase that the girls broke the other week.”

Fëanor had seen the results of this method of repair—vases and cups put back together with the cracks painted over with gold, highlighted rather than hidden. It seemed fitting that it was something Maglor had taken to; when Fëanor ventured to ask a few careful questions, he spoke that morning of finding his way, slowly and clumsily, back into making things after he had been brought out of Dol Guldur. He smiled when he spoke of his life in Rivendell, even those early and fear-filled days, in the same way he smiled when he spoke of the hobbits and other mortal friends he had known there.

That morning Finrod had caught Fëanor just after breakfast and asked him to find out when he could come see Maglor. When Fëanor relayed the question, as Maglor put the vase away so the lacquer could dry, Maglor said easily, “Whenever he likes.” And then he hesitated after closing the box. Fëanor couldn’t see his face when he added, “I just—it would be better if he came here. It still feels like there are too many eyes on me when I try to go outside.”

Fëanor remembered Amrod wishing he could deal just one more blow to Morgoth, though he was out of reach in the Void, and found himself just then wishing he could take whatever was left of Sauron, wherever it was, and destroy it even further. 

He couldn’t, and voicing such a desire would only distress Maglor, so he just pulled him into his arms instead. “I will tell him. Do you need anything from me, Cáno?”

“No.” Maglor sighed and leaned into the embrace. “I’ll be all right, Atya. And—thank you. For going with me. I hope you haven’t fought with anyone about it.”

He hadn’t, but only because Míriel hadn’t yet come to Tirion. Aloud he said, “I am trying very hard not to fight with anyone about anything, these days, but in this case Findaráto beat me to it anyway. I still think it was too much to ask of you.”

“If Eönwë hadn’t caught me by surprise it wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“But he did, and it was.”

“Well, yes—but that isn’t Indis’ fault, or Grandmother Míriel’s. I knew what I was agreeing to when I said I would do it. I still don’t think I will be the one to move them to change their minds, when no one else has, but it was just—I had to see it through. It was important.”

The Music in the fountain came back to him. He thought of the way the sky had wept when Maglor sang, how everyone said that his voice was like the Sea—it was, but not in the way it sounded. It was in the way he had somehow seemed to catch the Valar’s own Music in his and echo it back to them, taking the very notes that had shaped the world and turning them into something all his own. 

He thought of Nienna smiling at him through the mist and the tears on Manwë’s face, and of Findis and Ambarussa each insisting that someday Finwë would come back to them. The words escaped almost of their own accord: “I think you’re wrong, Canafinwë.” Fëanor kissed him as he drew back. “You did not see their faces as you sang, but I did. You moved them all, even the lord of Mandos.”

Maglor looked pained. “Atya—”

“I told you before that Findis believes he’ll return to us one day—I wasn’t able to share that hope, then.” He still wasn’t sure that he could keep holding onto it—it still hurt, like grasping at something jagged and sharp, already half-broken, but— “I think that might be changing, now.”

The change was that he wanted to. He wanted desperately to believe that impossible things could still happen, that lightning could be caught in a gemstone, that even Manwë might look back and see that he had made mistakes. 

When Fëanor returned home he found Finrod pretending that he wasn’t waiting impatiently. “You can see him whenever you wish,” Fëanor told him, “but it’s best if you go to him.”

Finrod’s face lit up. “Excellent! Thank you, Uncle. Please excuse me, I need to go find Fingon.”

Fëanor next ran into Fingolfin, coming in from the stables. “So much for that nice long visit my mother spoke of,” he said, making a face. “She’s been called away—I suppose even in Valmar all hands are needed.”

“Is something wrong?” Fëanor asked. 

“I don’t think so—she didn’t seem upset—but she also did not say anything except that something had come up. Only Ingwë could make her change her plans like that, though—Ingwë or one of us, and we’re all here.” Fingolfin shrugged. “Oh, well. I suppose we’ll see her next summer at the latest. How’s Maglor?”

“Much more cheerful than he has been, as long as he remains out of general sight.”

“Is there anything we can do for him?”

“Fingon and Finrod are going to find out, I think—but I asked the same question and he said no.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to perform next summer, as planned?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he isn’t, he’ll have the whole of our house to stand between him and anyone who wants to make trouble over it—though I don’t think Elemmírë will insist if he tells her that he can’t, even if she won’t understand why.”

“He wants to,” Fëanor said. “I think it’s more likely that his brothers will have to stop him from getting up before he’s ready.” 

Fingolfin’s mouth twitched. “Like you tried to stop him going to the Máhanaxar? I’m sure that will go well.”

“That was only me,” said Fëanor. “If all his brothers band together against it, I don’t think he’ll stand a chance. But hopefully he will be ready, and none of this speculation will matter anyway.”

As autumn went on, Fëanor kept expecting his mother to arrive—but she didn’t. When he asked if any of his sons had heard from her, Maglor said that he had received a short letter, but that was all. It was disappointing but not wholly surprising—she had promised only to try to come to Tirion earlier than her original winter plans. He still wrote to her, asking after her work. But weeks passed and she did not reply. 

As the weather got colder, Fëanor started seeing Maedhros and Daeron whispering together whenever he went to visit. This resulted in them somehow getting Maglor not only out of Curufin’s house but out of Tirion entirely, heading off to Tol Eressëa for a time. “Nelyo wants to use the big palantír there,” Amrod told Fëanor.

“For what reason?” Fëanor asked. 

“He’s being very mysterious about it—but in a way that’s obviously just meant to tease us for being curious, so it can’t be anything bad. It might also just be an excuse—to get Cáno to feel like he’s just going along instead of being the whole reason they’re going, you know? He’s feeling well enough now to be annoyed at everyone for coddling him.”

A few days after Maglor, Maedhros, and Daeron left, Fëanor returned to his rooms to find the letters he had given Nerdanel sitting on his desk, neatly tied together with a piece of twine. There was no other note, and nothing had been written on the letters themselves. The next day he went to lunch with his sisters and found Nerdanel there, alongside Anairë and Fingolfin, and found himself feeling awkward and tongue-tied as he hadn’t since the first days of their courtship. If Nerdanel noticed she gave no sign; she did not speak much to him directly, but the meal was overall very pleasant, with everyone pretending that all was entirely well. 

As cold weather settled for good over Tirion, bringing cloudy skies and snow flurries, Fëanor still hadn’t heard from Míriel. He wrote again, but didn’t really expect an answer since she would be coming to Tirion for the triplets—who would be arriving any day now, if everyone who knew anything about such things was to be believed. Wagers were being made throughout the neighborhood, which Fëanor heard about first from Amras and then from Curufin himself, who was caught somewhere between dismay and amusement at the whole idea. 

While Celebrimbor, Caranthir, and Lisgalen all laughed at Curufin, the door to the workshop blew open to reveal Maglor and Maedhros, newly returned from Tol Eressëa. They both laughed when told about the betting. Maglor seemed entirely recovered from his ordeal that summer, eager to tease and be teased. Maedhros was still quieter, and he didn’t quite meet Fëanor’s gaze, but he seemed better for the seaside holiday as well. 

“Hello, Atya, are you betting on Curvo’s babies too?” Maglor stepped over to embrace Fëanor as Maedhros wrapped an arm around Curufin, who was making a face at Caranthir. 

“I’m not,” Fëanor said. “How was Avallónë?”

“It was lovely. Have you visited?”

“No, not yet.”

“Perhaps you can join me next time I go.”

“I’d like that very much.”

The twins arrived after a short while, with Celegorm and Daeron in tow. By now most of the tension between Fëanor and his sons had faded; it was not gone, and he could not say that he was exactly on speaking terms with either Celegorm or Caranthir—or Maedhros for that matter—but Celegorm would meet his gaze now and he even smiled sometimes, and Fëanor’s mere presence didn’t stop any of them from feeling comfortable enough to bicker or tease each other. 

Even being in the same room with Nerdanel was easier, when she came for dinner that same evening. It was the first real family dinner they’d had since—when? Long before the exile to Formenos, Fëanor thought. It was crowded and loud and chaotic, in the way he remembered from his sons’ youth—only now there were extra faces, in Rundamírë, Lisgalen, and Daeron, and in Curufin’s children. 

Only two years before, Fëanor had come upon his sons on the road, and hardly any of them would so much as look at him. Now he sat between Calissë and Amras, listening to Maglor argue with Amrod over something meaningless while Daeron shared a joke with Rundamírë, and down the table Nerdanel described the commission she had just completed to Maedhros and Caranthir, and he almost couldn’t believe any of it was real.

Fëanor left when it was time for the girls to go to bed, and found himself stepping outside just ahead of Nerdanel. They were going in the same direction, at least most of the way home, and so there wasn’t really any reason not to fall into step with one another. Fëanor pulled his cloak around himself and put his hands into his pockets, the warmth and cheer of the evening fading a little as uncertainty took over. 

Finally he broke the silence and asked, “Are you working on anything new?”

“No. I have some ideas, but nothing more than sketches at the moment. What are you working on?”

They talked of jewels and sculpture, and then of Nerdanel’s niece Isilmiel who had taken to stone carving with the same enthusiasm Nerdanel herself had upon first starting. It was nice—and at the same time it was awful, because if they were not arguing they were conversing like acquaintances at best, and it just made Fëanor think about how big the bed waiting for him was—how big and how empty.

When they came to the road where they would part, Nerdanel stopped and looked up at him. It was a cloudy night, but there were lights aplenty in the city, casting a soft glow over her cold-pinked cheeks. “Are you well, Fëanáro?” she asked. 

He blinked at her. “Yes,” he said, because how could he not be? That evening had been the happiest he’d spent in—he couldn’t recall when. 

“You do not look well.”

His mouth opened before his mind could catch up. “Only because I must part now from you.” 

Nerdanel sighed, and looked away, drawing her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “We are long overdue for—well, for many difficult conversations, I think. We cannot continue on as we have.”

“We have time,” Fëanor said. 

“Maybe. I think we have all learned that it is not always wise to act as though that is true.”

“Neither is it wise to act as though we have no time at all. I’m not going anywhere. We can go on as we have until after the triplets are born.” If whatever difficult conversations Nerdanel wanted to have did not go well, Fëanor didn’t want that to overshadow what should be a happy time for Curufin and his family.

“This new patience of yours is very strange to see.”

“I hate it,” Fëanor said, which startled her into laughter. “But it’s serving me better than impatience ever did.”

Nerdanel did not laugh again, but her eyebrow arched and she said, pointedly, “I told you so, Fëanáro.”

“Yes, you did. I should have listened.”