A/N A few moments when Fëanor is sane and content… pretty crazy, huh? If anybody knows the Quenya names of Amras and Amrod, other than Ambarussa, which is collective, please let me know!
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Fëanáro blew out candles as he made his way to the upper floors of his house. Telperion's gentle light cast ghostly shadows on the floor and walls, illuminating his way with a soft, silver glow. All was silent – both the world outside and his world inside. The latter was a strange thing; he could hardly recall any other time of day when his house was so silent. Perhaps that was why he liked these darkened hours better.
He reached the hall of their quarters on noiseless feet and padded softly to the first door and pushed it open. Two beds lay before him, each occupied by a long, lanky figure, though one had hair that seemed to be shadow on his pillow, the other, a spray of copper. He moved to Maitimo's bedside first and gazed down with a rarely expressed tenderness upon his firstborn.
He had often marveled lately at the speed at which his eldest seemed to be growing up. Gone was the round face, the little hands, the pattering feet of an elfling, to be replaced by gaunt, handsome features, strong, graceful hands, and long legs that carried him wherever he was wont to go. His smile was broad and genuine, and when he laughed, his hair seemed to flicker like fire. His lust for adventure drove his ammë to frantic worry, but his quick mind and quicker body repeatedly kept him out of any serious harm. Ai, he was growing so fast! Already was he a favorite among the females, attentive and spirited, relaxed and kind. It had seemed that overnight he had gained the mind, maturity, and body of an adult. He was respected among his elders, both for his hereditary spark of unique and clever intelligence and his feats of skill. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would be great and achieve many things, both in the work of his mind and the work of his hands.
And yet, Fëanáro thought to himself, brushing a strand of that famously fiery hair out of his son's peaceful face, always will you be little copper one to me, my Maitimo.
Next he turned to Makalaurë. His second son was quickly advancing on Maitimo in his maturity. Though perhaps not as adventurous as his elder brother, he had his own spirit, which was poured out with a loving and fierce passion upon the many pages that were scattered on his desk, covered in their master's flowing hand, depicting notes and lyrics. Also was it shown in the wear of the many instruments that lined Makalaurë's side of the room, their wood smoothed down by caressing hands and their strings limber and well-practiced by quick fingers. His quiet, observant intellect often impressed many, for he would sit and listen for hours on end, whether to a problem, an account, or a simple conversation, and then give thoughtful and penetrating insights that reflected a wisdom beyond his years. To Nerdanel he was particularly close, for to Makalaurë she had imparted much of her temperament, and they seemed to him the strong, unspoken, supportive stones of his family. He had also gained from Nerdanel his facial features, whereas Maitimo had taken Fëanáro's. Makalaurë's grey eyes and finer, less harsh features seemed grace and elegance incarnate at times, and he was considered beautiful of body, though his mind was even more respected and renowned. And his voice… ah, his voice! A voice which rose above and beyond all others, and it was said that even those abiding on the Lonely Isle would pause to listen when Makalaurë sang.
Fëanáro smiled and touched his son's cheek, gently removing the harp that was still hooked under its master's arm, even in sleep, and placing it beside its fellows.
Closing the door quietly behind him, he crossed the hallway in one stride and entered the room parallel to the one he had just exited.
Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë were all sprawled in their beds. Though Nerdanel had attempted to designate their sleeping places, they always seemed to manage some sort of change. Furniture was constantly being rearranged, beds exchanged, and arguments sparked. The lack of order resulted in no particular area for each of the brothers, so their various belongings were placed wherever they fit. Again, this was not terribly conducive to harmony in their bedroom, but they would have it no other way. Curufinwë once stated boldly that having order was too restrictive. Makalaurë, usually the most organized, protested vehemently, but his younger brother pointed out that organization meant that he could find all of Makalaurë's most interesting possessions, and hence spent the rest of the afternoon fleeing from his elder brother's wrath.
"Huan!" Fëanáro hissed as loudly as he could without waking the boys. "Off the bed!"
The dog lifted his great head and gazed innocently at Fëanáro, his warm, mellow eyes sending his faithful message, but refused to leave his master's side, instead laying his muzzle on Tyelkormo's shoulder. The boy raised his arm instinctively and put it around Huan's neck, nuzzling closer to the warm body. Normally Fëanáro would have insisted, but he would let it pass tonight.
He glared for a moment at the dog, but his gaze was drawn to Tyelkormo. He, like his brothers, was quickly growing up, though the sweet days of adolescence were still his to cherish. Fëanáro could see the fresh excitement of life blooming in his son's young eyes as the new sight of an adult was given to him. He remembered his own youth, when the world seemed suddenly brighter, more interesting, more complex, promising all its treasures if only he were clever enough to find them. And when he realized his own cleverness, as Tyelkormo was now, the universe unfolded to his touch like a book waiting to be read and deciphered, ready to answer his deepest questions, satisfy his heart's desire. It brought him endless joy to see his son discovering life in such a way, even if the newfound mentality brought shortcomings as well. Tyelkormo was often dark and moody, seeking out no one's company, and wandering far and wide, attempting to determine himself and the fresh complexities of an adult. The four youngest had noticed this as well, as they were often at the receiving end of their brother's temper, and increasingly avoided Tyelkormo.
Fëanáro sighed. Maitimo and Makalaurë experienced the same, he thought wearily. All will turn out aright. Though after Tyelkormo, four more must go through adolescence! And two at once. That will be an adventure.
Carnistir was entangled hopelessly in his blankets, his face dark even in sleep, and his brow furrowed in some dream. With a gentle smile, Fëanáro moved forward to untangle him. Carnistir murmured and tossed, his temper released on those in his mind rather than on those around him, for once. For of his brothers he had the greatest temper and had no great love for calm, rational discussions. As a baby he had been difficult and problematic, and though he had matured a little, many an argument was of his provocation.
Pressing a kiss to his cheek in an attempt to soothe the little one's troubled dreams, Fëanáro moved to the last bed where the smallest form was huddled in a tight ball. Curufinwë was, though still hardly more than a child, clearly the most skilled with his hands. Never still, he was constantly doing something, preferably with his hands, whether it was drawing, forming shapes out of the clay his mother gave him, or examining the many tools and metals in his father's forge. He learned quickly and was very clever for his age, which he used to his advantage. A great actor, he could have made Varda believe the stars were falling, and often escaped with trickeries his brothers could not have managed, however hard they tried. His size did more than a little to help this; still small and slight, he was quick and crafty, discovering and commandeering the minutest and most invisible hiding places, whether for himself or his many treasures.
What are we to do with you when you are grown and even more clever, my little cunning one? Fëanáro thought, pulling Curufinwë's braid away from his face.
Managing to leave the room without falling and breaking his neck on someone's misplaced possession, he slipped silently to the twins' bedroom. Their hair, like Maitimo's, was clearly visible against their pillows in the pale silver light. Ambarussa were tightly curled next to each other, their foreheads touching, identical thumbs in identical mouths. Never apart were they, the little mischief-makers of his house. To Nerdanel and him they were both joy and exasperation. There was no limit to their energy, and one would have been challenge enough, but as there were two, silence never befell their abode until after the two youngest had gone to bed, and a great, universal sigh of relief escaped the rest of the family. Like Curufinwë, they seemed constantly busy, though not with learning and making. Impish deeds seemed to be their purpose in life, and not a day passed without someone finding all their clothing and towel stolen after a bath, or the salt exchanged for the sugar, or a toad placed in one's boot. When he was not the one targeted, Fëanáro managed to laugh and say that Ambarussa was the Eru's way of training them all to constant vigilance, but would only earn himself furious glares from those who did not find as much humor in the situation. Now, however, the little terrors seemed almost innocent, their dreams untroubled, thumbs slipping occasionally from slack mouths, only to be caught up again by a searching tongue.
Kissing them each and smiling to himself when they grinned in their sleep, he left them to their undoubted scheming, despite unconsciousness, and finally made his way to his own bed chambers.
Nerdanel was already in bed, and he slid in beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer. She turned her head slightly to kiss him before settling against his warmth and sighing contentedly.
"You took your time tonight," she said quietly.
"They are all so innocent in sleep," he whispered back, kissing her ear. "I could not help myself."
"Should we expect any visitors tonight?"
"I think not. Carnistir was restless, but he is getting too old to come in."
"Perhaps, but Maitimo and Makalaurë were telling him stories today, so I would not be so sure."
Fëanáro sighed. "You spoke to them?"
"Yes, but this means Carnistir will come to us rather than to Maitimo if he has nightmares."
Sometimes the little ones would go to Maitimo or Makalaurë when they were frightened, their brothers' bedroom being closer than their parents', but such luck did not always befall Fëanáro and Nerdanel.
There was a long silence as they breathed in unison, contented to be together alone, even if it was only for a while.
"I love you," Fëanáro whispered tenderly, knowing that he did not tell her this enough.
"And I love you," she replied, nestling her head against his shoulder.
With a smile, he buried his face in her hair and let his dreams take him, feeling that all was right with the world, with his world, with the small piece of perfect happiness Eru had granted him in the form of his wife and seven sons.