From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Thirty One

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Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
- “Sonnet 116” by William Shakespeare 

 

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The place Ingwë had chosen for this feast of his was beside a wide lake where, Fëanor was told by his sons, many birds would be gathered if a massive city of tents had not been erected beside it. The grand stage was complete, shining with gold and silver in the sun as they approached. The water glimmered under the cloudless sky, and as the crowds from Tirion and Alqualondë and Valmar approached from the east, Elu Thingol rode up at the head of his people from the south, Melian on one side and his grandson Dior Eluchíl on the other, and from the west came a bright and colorful crowd, led by kings and queens in splendor whose names Fëanor did not yet know. 

It was a bright and glorious meeting. Those who had come ahead to prepare burst into song as the crowds converged; Fëanor could hear Maglor and Daeron’s voices soaring up over the chorus occasionally, but it was some time before he could extricate himself from the formalities to find first Nerdanel and then their sons—all of their sons, for Caranthir had arrived sometime during the general commotion. Amrod turned to Nerdanel and Fëanor with a bright grin as they approached. “Hullo, Ammë, Atya! Did you know Carnistir’s married now?”

“Finally!” Nerdanel cried, laughing as she sprang forward to embrace first Caranthir and then Lisgalen. While they spoke Fëanor glanced at Maglor, who was clad in blue and silver, with silver ribbons in his hair, pink-cheeked and looking happier than Fëanor thought he had ever seen him as he stood with an arm around Daeron’s waist as they both spoke to Maedhros. 

Finally, Nerdanel stepped back, and Fëanor went to offer his own congratulations. Lisgalen beamed at him. Caranthir smiled too, a little uncertainly, but being newly married he was obviously prepared to be pleased with everyone and everything—even his father. 

The celebrations had begun the instant everyone arrived, and showed no signs of stopping through the afternoon and into the evening, with feasting and dancing and singing. Fëanor danced with Nerdanel once, before she spun away into her father’s arms. He was caught by Lalwen next, and then excused himself to go sit and watch. Throughout the day he had looked for his own mother, but had not seen her. He tried not to think too much about it, but it was hard.

It was only that this was the second event she had not appeared for—an event which she had definitely planned to attend. He hadn’t been worried before, but now he was, in spite of his words to Ambarussa when they finally tumbled out of the dancing throng to catch their breath, about the festivities lasting all summer—people would be coming and going at different times, but Míriel should have been there for the start. She and Indis, who was also still notably absent. 

“Are you all right, Atya?” Celegorm asked, dropping onto the grass beside him. Amrod and Amras had wandered off to bed; others were following, though not many and there would be dancing and music all through the night every night from then until the end of summer. 

“Have you seen your grandmother?”

“Míriel?” Celegorm shook his head. “I’ve been keeping an eye out, because Curvo’s anxious—but she’s not here.”

“And no one has heard from her?”

“No. I would’ve thought you’d hear from her before any of the rest of us.”

Starting the next day, however, there was hardly any time to think about Míriel or to worry about anything. There were introductions and meals and performances. There were meetings of craftsmen all eager to share their knowledge and to learn from one another. There were games and races, and competitions. The Valar appeared at different times, and Maiar came and went. In the evenings Elemmírë put on her series of performances, beginning the cycle with the oldest songs, sung by the oldest among them. Fëanor watched Elu Thingol and his brothers sing an ancient song in praise to the stars, first sung long before the Elves learned of Varda Elentári, and recognized the words. 

Beside him Finarfin murmured, “That was one of Atya’s favorites. He used to sing it to me as a lullaby when I was very small.”

“Me too,” Fëanor said. 

Midsummer Day dawned bright and clear and warm. It was even more of a whirlwind than the previous days had been. Daeron and Maglor sang for them all just before the fireworks commenced—put on by Gandalf, of course. It was a spectacular show, culminating in an enormous red dragon that shot up suddenly high into the air before swooping over the gathering. Findis shrieked and spilled her wine down the front of Fëanor’s robes. “Oh, Fëanáro, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” he said, laughing as he steadied her. Above their heads a flock of fiery birds collided with the dragon, and they all burst into sparkling flowers to rain down, vanishing in tiny puffs of smoke just before they landed on their heads. On Findis’ other side Finarfin, unusually pale, muttered a curse. He hadn’t spilled anything, but only because he wasn’t holding a cup. Fingolfin leaned over to speak to him, but Finarfin just shook his head sharply. Nearby, Náriel was also frightened by the dragon, though Calissë was delighted. There were similar mixed reactions all around them, though once the initial fright had passed everyone seemed to agree that the show was magnificent. 

After the fireworks came the dances—nothing organized, just people grabbing instruments and others leaping up to spin around the many bonfires, to songs old and new. Fëanor excused himself to change out of his wine stained robes, and headed off to the sleeping quarters. It was quieter there; he’d had just enough wine to feel pleasantly loose, a little like the world had softened at the edges, and hummed as he passed through the rows of empty tents. Just as he reached his own he ran into Nerdanel, coming from the direction of Curufin and Rundamírë’s. “Are the babies all right?” he asked.

“Alassië particularly hated the fireworks, but they’ve settled down now that it’s over,” Nerdanel said. “Their other grandparents are staying with them.” She had a slight flush to her cheeks, and her hair was coming loose of its braids, gleaming gently in the light of the crystal lamps around them. She raised an eyebrow at the state of his robes. “What happened to you?”

“Findis also didn’t like the fireworks,” Fëanor said. It had been getting easier—speaking to Nerdanel, even when they found themselves alone, especially here where everyone was more than willing to forget about their differences and conflicts for the summer. They still hadn’t had the kind of fight that all of his siblings seemed to expect, but all the most hurtful things had been aired out—both when he first returned and more recently—and it seemed to him that some sort of burden had been lifted from Nerdanel’s spirit as a result. Now, emboldened by the wine and general good cheer he said, “Nerdanel—”

“Fëanáro—” she began at the same time, and they both stopped. Her cheeks grew a little pinker, and when he stepped closer she didn’t pull away. He wasn’t sure which one of them leaned in first, but when their lips met it was like someone had punched all the air out of his lungs. He pulled her in even closer, hands her waist, as her hands slid up and over his shoulders to tangle in his hair. Somehow between them they recovered enough presence of mind to stumble into the privacy of his tent, where Nerdanel wasted no time in yanking at the ties of his robes, while his fingers found the laces of her gown behind her back. 

Falling at last into bed felt like coming home, like finding a piece of himself he’d been missing for more than six thousand years.

It was easy to lose track of time, and it was late when he was roused out of a doze by Nerdanel shifting beside him. He mumbled a faint protest and buried his face in her hair. “Won’t you be missed?” she asked.

Probably. He didn’t really care. “It’s a festival, not a council—neither of us are required to be anywhere.”

She sounded faintly amused, and didn’t attempt to get up even as she said, “But surely the Prince of the Noldor will be expected to be seen making merry.”

“I was quite merry all day, in full view of everyone.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and tightened his arms around her waist. The bed was soft and warm, and the tent was quiet, and he felt he could have lingered there not only the rest of the night but the entire summer. He wasn’t foolish enough to expect everything to have changed with one evening, but he wanted to pretend it had, just for a little while. 

He had to loosen his grip when Nerdanel moved, but she only shifted around so they were facing each other. The tent was lit by strings of tiny crystals that flared gently to life at the movement, no brighter than distant stars. He slid his hand up her side and leaned in to kiss her, soft and slow. Then he asked, “Am I to take this to mean you aren’t angry anymore?”

“I miss you more than I am angry at you,” she said, half-whispering. “Though—I told you once I would not have you under my roof when our children were still so hurt. They aren’t, anymore, but I still do not think I am ready.”

“That’s fine.” He trailed kisses over the freckles on her cheeks and down the line of her jaw. “I’m sorry, Nerdanel. For all of it—and especially the things I said to you in the dark. They weren’t true. I was faithless, not you.”

“I forgive you,” she whispered, and the words were so unexpected that Fëanor found his eyes stinging with sudden tears. A shudder passed through him as he hid his face in her hair again. Outside of the tent a group of people passed by, laughing. In the distance there was still music—mostly drums now, pounding out rapid beats for the dancers to try to keep up with. 

“Stay?” he asked when he could catch his breath. “Just—just tonight?”

“Yes, all right—but you’d better make it worth my while.” As she spoke, Nerdanel pushed at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, so she could in turn roll on top of him and kiss him soundly. 

The next morning they parted before breakfast, for Fëanor was expected to join his brothers and Ingwë and Thingol, and Nerdanel had promised to spend the morning with her brother’s family. “Did you get lost last night?” Fingolfin asked Fëanor. 

“No, I just found something better to do.”

“Better than Midsummer dancing?”

“Much better. Is your mother still not here?”

The distraction worked, though Fingolfin frowned. “No. Neither is yours—but Finrod told me this morning that he is certain they’ll be here for the family gathering.”

“He and Findekáno both seem awfully confident that it will go well.”

“I think if anyone can ensure that it does, it’s the two of them.”

When they sat down to breakfast, Fëanor found himself beside Elu Thingol. It was a little easier now to speak to him than it had been when they’d first met, but of course one of the first things Thingol asked him that morning was what had taken Maglor to the Máhanaxar the year before. “The song he wrote,” Fëanor replied, “for my father.”

Thingol’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “I had thought he was writing it for this summer—not to take before Manwë.”

“Very few knew the latter. I certainly didn’t, until the summons actually came.”

“Have you heard the song, then? Daeron tells me it is to be sung here next week, and that it is perhaps the greatest song Maglor has ever written.”

“I think it is, though he has said he will write no more laments, and I am very glad of it.”

After a slight pause, Thingol said, “It was a great pleasure to us all in Taur-en-Gellam to have your son stay with us the winter before last, and to sing for us. I did not tell him, because I thought it would only add to his grief, but he sounds at times very much like Finwë.”

“Yes he does. My father was his first teacher.” 

“It has been an even greater pleasure to hear him this year. Daeron said to me once that he wished Lúthien and Maglor could have met—that he thought they would have liked one another.”

“I’m sorry it wasn’t possible,” Fëanor said.

“As am I.”

“I am glad that they met when they did—Maglor and Daeron, I mean.” Fëanor glanced around, though he didn’t see them anywhere nearby. That wasn’t so surprising; lots of people were coming and going. He did see dozens of Noldor and Vanyar and Sindar mingling together, with Teleri from Alqualondë and Avari from the west. Down their own table, Ingwion was laughing at something one of the Avarin princesses was saying. So far this festival was turning out exactly how Ingwë had intended. 

“I’m glad too that they reunited upon sailing here,” Thingol said. “He hid it well, but Daeron struggled upon first coming west, and your son was a great comfort to him. All of your sons, really.”

“I’m still surprised those friendships did not cause trouble for him.”

“There were some raised eyebrows—I was a little surprised myself—but he came back to us changed enough that I don’t think anyone was truly surprised, and as I told you at the time, he cares little for what others think of him, save a select few. I’m sure it helped too,” Thingol added with a smile, “that he has always been a favorite of mine, and so no one would dare speak openly against him.”

“Is he your kinsman?” Fëanor had been introduced to all of Daeron’s family by now, including his parents from Alqualondë, but he was still unsure whether there was a connection to Thingol that he had missed.

“No—though for a time I half-expected to gain him as a son by marriage, only Lúthien did not return his feelings—but those lines were not often firmly drawn during the Journey, and even afterward among our people family was often as much a matter of choice as of blood. I was not his guardian but I had a hand in raising him—and I am very, very glad now to see him so happy. I think Finwë would be equally pleased, if he were also here to see.”

“I think so too.” Fëanor glanced down the table again. There were no seats left empty, but it felt as though there was an empty space there among them, a spot of silence where Finwë’s laughter should have been. Maybe someday, he caught himself thinking, wanting it so badly that it hurt.

A few days passed, full of contests and parties and songs. Fëanor managed to get Caranthir alone one morning just after breakfast, after Lisgalen disappeared to join Celebrimbor and a group of other smiths who were gathering to share knowledge; Fëanor also intended to join them, but he wanted to speak to his son first. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—about the old house,” Fëanor told him. 

“What about it?” Caranthir asked. He seemed torn between wariness and curiosity. 

“Turning it into a garden,” Fëanor said. “I like the idea—but I also have no idea where to start. Would you be willing to help?”

Caranthir blinked at him. “You want…my help?”

“I told you, I’m no gardener.”

“Yes, but…well, all right.”

“I thought of turning the house’s foundation into a pond,” Fëanor said, and could almost see ideas start forming in Caranthir’s mind. “I would like also to plant peonies.”

A faint flush colored Caranthir’s cheeks; he remembered the peonies of his childhood, too. “I—yes. I like that idea. The pond. I suppose…we can talk more this winter? When we’re at home?”

Fëanor offered him a smile. “I’d like that.” 

A week later he got a rare bit of time with his granddaughters. They had had a busy morning of games and races, and Náriel was sleepy and a little out of sorts because of it. Fëanor took them down to the lake to sit near the water with Náriel on his lap, while Calissë collected interesting stones to show them, and chased butterflies. After a while the hedgehogs appeared, and as Calissë ran after them into the grass Fëanor asked Náriel, “Are you having fun so far, my love?”

“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “But it’s really loud. Even at night.”

“It’s quiet in my tent,” Fëanor said. “If it’s all right with your parents, maybe you can sleep there sometimes. Would you like that?”

Náriel thought about it, and then nodded. “Yes, please.” Fëanor kissed the top of her head. “When can we go home?”

“Not for some weeks yet, love.” Fëanor smiled when she sighed dramatically. “You did say you’re having fun. And tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day in the wood over there, far away from all the noise with just our family.”

Calissë ran back over to join them, carrying one of the hedgehogs as the other two followed at her heels. As she sat down in the grass, Maglor and Maedhros appeared, walking around from the other end of the lake. Until then they had been hidden by the tall reeds. “Grandfather, how far is it from here to Ekkaia?” Calissë asked as they drew closer. 

Maglor laughed as Fëanor replied, “What do you want to know about Ekkaia for?”

“I want to see it! And if it isn’t too far maybe after—”

“It’s much too far,” Maedhros said as he sat down on Fëanor’s other side. Pídhres jumped off of Maglor’s shoulders as he flopped onto the grass, and came to sniff at Náriel and accept some pets and scratches. “And your atya has said many times that you aren’t old enough for that journey yet, Calissë.”

“Someday I’ll take you out to Ekkaia,” Maglor said, “but not until your parents say so.”

Calissë’s lip stuck out in a pout. “Promise?”

“Yes, I promise—again. But the more you pester everyone about it the longer it will be until your atya agrees.”

“Fine,” Calissë sighed, even more dramatically than Náriel had just a minute before. Then she asked, “Are there really sea monsters there like you and Daeron were talking about?”

Maglor laughed again, startling the hedgehogs that had crawled up onto his stomach, but Maedhros looked confused. “There isn’t anything that lives in Ekkaia,” he said.

“The sea monster is just an old joke,” Maglor said. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

“Yes,” said Calissë, entirely unrepentant, “but you wrote a whole song about a sea monster. I heard you telling Daeron you were going to perform it tonight—”

“I was only teasing him,” Maglor said. “It’s a very bad song, you see.”

“You don’t write bad songs!” Náriel protested.

“Atya says you have a very bad habit of saying you aren’t good at things when you are,” Calissë added.

Fëanor laughed before he could stop himself, and Maedhros grinned down at Maglor, who was rolling his eyes. “She has a point, Cáno,” he said. 

“The sea monster song is bad on purpose,” Maglor said. “Because it is a joke.”

“So you’ll have no trouble saying you’re quite good at songwriting, actually, and even better at singing—”

“Of course not, but I’m not going to because you’re being a—”

“Cáno,” Fëanor said. 

“He started it!” Maglor rolled onto his stomach, and his face brightened as he looked back toward the tent city. Fëanor followed his gaze to see Daeron coming toward them through the wildflowers. “Daeron, please tell them the sea monster song isn’t good, they don’t believe me.”

“It’s the sort of song that calls the authorship of all your others into question,” Daeron said. “It’s absolutely terrible.”

“Told you,” Maglor said, laughing as he got to his feet to greet Daeron with a kiss. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Maedhros said. 

“Yes, he is,” Daeron agreed, laughing fondly as he picked a bit of grass out of Maglor’s hair.

Calissë was still thinking about sea monsters. “Are there monsters in the Great Sea?” she asked. 

“Yes definitely,” Maglor said at the same time Maedhros said, “Of course not.”

When everyone looked at him Fëanor said before remembering he should probably be reassuring instead, “I think that depends on your definition of monster.” Now it was Maedhros’ turn to roll his eyes as Maglor laughed out loud. 

“The important thing,” Daeron said, “is that if you ever go down to the sea you don’t have to worry about seeing any monsters, even if they are out there, because Uinen guards Eldamar and will let in nothing more dangerous than a pod of dolphins, that have ever been the friends of fishermen and sailors.” At this Calissë looked disappointed and Náriel relieved. “And if you want tales of sea monsters, Tuor or Eärendil would be the best ones to ask.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Fëanor said before Calissë could get any other ideas. “We should be getting back soon. I think there is a play being put on this afternoon—and I’m sure there will be monsters in it, even if not sea monsters.”