"This day is a bad jest," Fëanor said. "My wife is gone, my sons hate me, a dog the size of a cow ate my Silmarils, not to mention that Melkor is probably plundering my workshop as we speak." He buried his face in his hands.

Finarfin shrugged. "Well, we are still alive and Aman still exists which means Melkor hasn't done anything too bad yet. It could be worse."

"I guess everything counts as a victory if you set the bar low enough," Fingolfin said dryly.


General remarks: This work has footnotes. They will be indicated in the next by numbers in parentheses. You can find the respective footnote at the end of each logical paragraph.


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

o

Fëanor, an Elven lord of whom we are uncertain whether he can call more kids or bad life decisions his own

his sons

- Maedhros, (15) the eldest, a teenager

- Maglor, (12) not quite a teenager yet, but a composer in the making

- Celegorm, (11) the one son whose hair makes you think about taking a paternity test

- Caranthir, (11) the kid who kept stealing your lunch in the school yard

- Curufin, (10) that other kid who took not only your lunch, but your money and your self-respect

o

Fingolfin, another Elven lord who is kind and honourable at all times, except when he is not

his children

- Fingon, (15) the one boy that convinces you that starting firecrackers in a broom cabinet is a great idea

- Turgon, (12) a construction engineer in the making

- Aredhel, (11) the Romp Raider

o

Finarfin, a third Elven lord, the Far-Seeing, who would like to remind you that this is a title and not a medical condition

his children

- Finrod, (15) another teenager

- Galadriel, (11) a girl who can See

o

Nerdanel, an Elven lady

Melkor, a god of questionable intelligence, a Dark Lord, also a community service worker

Huan, a dog

Oromë, another god


I. The Dog Problem

In which there are letters, dogs, and unsurprisingly, problems


Another day in the Blessed Realm was coming to its end. The lights of the Two Trees was dimming and a gentle, violet dusk was blanketing the Blessed Realm, only lit up by a fireflies rising out of bushes and trees and dancing over meadows, in the forests and in the palace gardens.

Merely in the forge of Tirion the windows were still bright with the yellow sheen of candles. They had been shining brightly for almost a fortnight now, to be exact. If some tourist had happened to spend his holiday here and would have passed by the forge day by day, they would have come to the inevitable conclusion that whoever was holed up in there had either no consideration for fire safety or had died without someone noticing and left the lamps on.

As it was, the Blessed Realm had not yet discovered the perks of having a tourist industry (1) and every local knew enough about the owner of The Forge to give it a wide berth, even when the windows were dark.

It was a solitary building, squat and sturdy and quite at odds with the delicate Elven architecture all around it. From time to time, a red flicker of unholy light could be seen from within, followed mostly but not always by the sound of an arcane explosion followed in turn by a silence that was usually reserved for Outer Space, the Void or the aftermath of a laughing fit at a funeral ceremony.

It was therefore so unusual an occurrence that on this very evening, someone did knock on the door, that the occupant of the forge dismissed it as impossible and did not even pause in his works.

The knock repeated itself.

The forge was hot. Torches were burning low and sputtering, filling the room with more shadow than light under workbenches, between shelves, massive tools…

Merely from the middle of the room emanated a bright, silver light.

A dark, tall shape stood there, standing in the midst of an intricate nexus of silver threads and nodes that spun and webbed all around him, dividing themselves and reconnecting in other places, almost like a network of neurons that was floating mid-air. The threads themselves seemed to be made of flowing silvery water and every now and then when the dark smith touched his hands to a node, an impulsive of blazing light would shoot along the threads branching off from the node and snowball from there to every other node.

The nexus was taller than he was, and he could comfortably take three two steps in every direction before he would touch the threads and every time he did it, the threads would thicken and the link he had touched would be strengthened. The smith had been coaxing and braiding it into a steadily more elaborate shape for the last three weeks. He had started with the corner points of a cube and from there he had put one link here, one bifurcation there, another node there, adhering strictly to the thaumaturgic calculations which were presently covering the huge blackboard on one long wall of the forge. He did this until he had created something that looked like a brain would look if you took everything but the electric impulses away. It also worked like a brain. It was a cage of sorts, keeping thoughts and magic from escaping and instead reflecting it back to you, improved and crystal-clear, allowing you to concentrate better and add more improvements which the nexus would then reflect back, again freed of the cobwebs of distraction and stray thoughts and so on and so on. It was a positive reinforcement cycle, steadily improving its own efficiency.

He was very close to finishing his work and his entire mind was set on the task, keeping the silver network in form. It was was hard. It needed the discipline of a mind whose dream-images did not slip away or become blurred when dragged into reality, but gained an edge in sharpness instead. The mental effort required was comparable to splitting a mountain just by staring at it.

Then the third knock came.

His concentration snapped and a part of the network collapsed in on itself, the fine structures merging, the complexity lost and diluted, the connexions and nodes ripping apart and with a soft splud, a part of the silver nexus landed on the floor in the form of a silver glob.

The smith stared at it.

For a brief moment the temperature in the room dropped below the freezing point, only to rise slowly and steadily up to the point that the air was shimmering with heat. The smith slowly turned and stalked over to the door with long strides, each of his footfalls spelling doom for whoever was standing outside.

If it is this thrice-damned Vala again, the smith thought, I will flay him, dismember him and strangle him with his own tongue, in this very order.

His hand was trembling and his eyes were sparking fire when he slid back the three bolts securing the heavy iron door and ripped it open. A gust of cool night air hit him in the face and for a moment he had to blink. When his eyes had adjusted to the normal brightness of dusk outside, he saw the wretch who had knocked standing before him.

It was not the Vala.


(1) And would not do so for another few millennia safe for one militant attempt by a mad king and his army to spend a week at the beach there, which sadly ended with them being buried under rocks by a god for all their trouble, but that is another story. The general attitude of Valinorians towards foreigners was that they were perfectly fine with them, as long as they stayed where they were and kept quiet about the misery of being born in the wrong country and without immortality. That's not to say that the Blessed Peoples were intolerant of strangers, it was just that their tolerance for foreigners grew exponentially with every thousand miles that lay between them.


Like every other one of his talents, Fëanor Curufinwë had honed his antisocial behaviour to perfection.

Contrary to his other talents, however, he had not worked towards this consciously. It was not that he prized his vague disregard of other people as a particularly great achievement, it was just that it was a side effect of being a lot smarter than everyone he knew. His everyday business was entirely comprised of matters so complex few others could ever hope to understand. They were taking up even his entire brain capacity at times, and that meant it was out of the question to make anybody else understand them. This again, was not arrogance, this was the truth. The place on the summit of creation was a lonely one. Thankfully, Fëanor wasn't bothered by loneliness. He had a passion and his passion was his work, and into it he poured his cleverness, his ingenuity and his will to push back the boundaries of the possible again and again.

And so, because he attributed little importance to anything else but his work and because his experiments and creations were taking up so much space in his head, other less important matters were inevitably pushed out of his brain and he forgot about them.

Most of the time he forgot to sleep or to eat. Other times he remembered too late that an experimental outcome was supposed to be impossible, but by that time he had already done it. Currently he was faintly surprised to remember that he had a wife and that she had written a letter to him.

Fëanor sat down with the roll of parchment the frightened elf had shoved into his hand before making a run for it and stared at it. It read:

To my beloved husband, the Flame of my Heart, the Fire of my Soul

You have been gone for a fortnight now and though I dare not presume what marvel you are working on, I think it might be in order to remind you that you have a home where you can eat, drink and rest. I cannot fathom your workbenches are comfortable enough to sleep on; I know for a fact that my own are not.

I am writing to you this letter, because I am in a hurry to leave and cannot pass by your forge before I go. Irindë will deliver it to you in my stead. Do try not to scare her like you did four years ago at your brother's birthday feast. I also need to ask you to return home tonight. You know that I do not interrupt your work lightly, but the palace will be empty due to every Elf being invited to the Festival of Light of Lord Manwë and no one will be there to look out for our children.

Fëanor, his mind still tangled up in the haze of his work-frenzy, filed away the information that he had obviously produced some offspring and read on.

I know that it would be unbearable for you to leave your sons alone and thus I thank you already for making haste to return home as soon as you have finished this letter as you will no doubt do. I know that it would pain your heart too much to dawdle a second longer than necessary and therefore remain assured I need not fear for my beloved little ones after I am gone, for a father as caring and kind as you would not waste one second to spend with his family.

Yours eternally,

Your Faithful Wife

Fëanor's eyes dropped to the postscript:

PS: Just kidding. Since I know you would rather watch a crystal grow in a cave over a million years than actually take responsibility as a father, I felt I had to add some incentive for you to return home. To cut a long story short, I have given the twins your Silmarils to play with and told Maglor to bring them to Melkor's den if you do not show up before the Dimming of the Trees.

Love,

Nerdanel

Fëanor chose to react in accordance with the gravity of the revelation, and fell out of his chair.

Moments later he was on his feet again. His first instinct was to grab his sword and cut something down, but then he halted himself.

He looked at the letter again.

He wondered if he could get a divorce. Then the stunted emotional part in his brain caught up with his temper and reminded him that he loved his wife and that he would never do that.

He read the letter again, briefly thinking, She did not say when she is coming back, then read the postscript and decided that there were more pressing matters he had to think about.

Fëanor had spent a lot of time developing an Anti-Melkor-theft-and-burglary-system. (2) He usually spent half an hour to make sure everything was activated correctly, that the baits were laid out and the traps hidden well enough. Today, he did it in five minutes. As an afterthought, he patched up the nexus as fast as he could, angry at the makeshift, overhastened and clumsy nature of his repair, but if he left it alone with a gap it might become unstable and break down entirely in his absence.

He was caught in an exceptional quandary. His most prized jewels were currently probably in the hands (or mouths) of his youngest sons and there was a not-so-unreal possibility that Nerdanel had really told Maglor to bring them to Melkor in case he should not come. On the other hand, he hardly left his works unattended, especially not at a critical stage like now, where every disruption or theft could set him back months or years. And that Melkor would not let an opportunity like an abandoned workshop go to waste was virtually certain.

He looked out of a soot-stained window. It was nearly dark.

It was not as if he had a choice.

Fëanor bolted the door, turned the key in thirteen locks and then ran and leapt up white stairs, roads and terraces hat led him up the hill where the palace of Tirion lay. The white city and the mountains of the Pelóri were burning in orange flame, set alight by the intermingled light of Telperion and Laurelin.


(2) This might require some explanation. To all inhabitants of Tirion, it was common knowledge that the Prince of the Noldor and Melkor entertained what can best be described as the most fruitful mutual exploit loop any rich man and his burglar had had up to this date. Every week Melkor tried to break into Fëanor's workshop at least once, which made Fëanor rack up an impressive number of defences to guard his unfinished treasures, which in turn led Melkor to devise even slyer schemes to steal Fëanor's stuff, which made Fëanor come up with more and more advanced methods to fend him off. In the end, just by thwarting each other time and time again, both had become the greatest masters their respective trades had ever seen. Those events became so popular that a group of writers decided to make a weekly comic strip of it. To evade both Fëanor's and Melkor's wrath, they turned the protagonists into animals, renamed them Scrooge McDuck and Blackheart Beagle and sold them under false pen names. Still, the allusion was clear to anyone with half a brain and those "duck tales" were all the rage for centuries afterwards.


Nerdanel had not been wrong when she had said that the palace would be empty. He encountered no one while he hasted through the gardens. As always, Fëanor avoided the main complex of the castle where his stepmother and his half-siblings lived and instead headed for the slightly isolated side wing where Nerdanel and he had set up their camps. There was no one in the entrance hall when he flung open the doors and burst inside.

"Maglor!" he shouted into the candle-lit white hall and his echo called back at him.

A young elf rounded the corner behind the winged double staircase, obviously lost in a flimsy little book that showed more pictures than text which, in Fëanor's opinion, already disqualified it for any other purpose than serving as kindling. He was lanky and tall, with the awkward gait of an adolescent who did not quite know how to deal with limbs that were about a foot longer than they used to be a year ago, and his head was covered in a wild mess of auburn hair.

"You're not Maglor." Fëanor stared down at the boy—his son.

The boy looked up, looked like he was about to suppress a sigh or shake his head, said, "No, I am not" and then lowered his eyes back to the book and wanted to walk past him, but Fëanor stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Where is he, then?"

Maedhros shrugged. "Dunno, probably still upstairs in the music room, composing his requiem."

"Composing his—what now?" Fëanor usually hated to ask questions—it made other people think he had not understood something—but this question exited his mouth before he had the chance to roll it over for a second time. "Is he ill?"

"No. He's just morbid like that sometimes." He paused and looked at his father through narrowed eyes. "Which of course, my Lord Father would know if he deigned to come home more often than once a month."

Fëanor threw him a disgruntled glare, then hurried up the winged staircase, turned left and down a carpeted corridor until he heard the soft sound of a harp playing which was abruptly cut off with a horrible wrong note. Fëanor burst into the room with a speed that made the door hit the wall with a crack.

Inside was a younger elf, dark-haired and with a serious face and a harp in his hands—a harp which he abruptly dropped. Fëanor thought he was shocked, but suddenly the young elf slammed into him with a joyful cry of "Dad, you're home!" and hugged his waist.

Fëanor made a grimace and plucked him off his legs by the scruff of his neck. "Maglor, where are the Silmarils?"

The boy's face fell. "Aren't you gonna ask me how I am?"

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, I was just composing the—"

"Good. Where are the Silmarils?"

Maglor's brilliant smile faltered and he looked up at Fëanor with an unreadable expression. "I don't have them."

"Your mother told me she had tasked you with … keeping them after sundown."

Maglor looked away. "Yeah," he said dully. "Probably. I forgot. I think Curufin wanted to have them, for whatever reason."

Fëanor turned on his heel and strode out again.

Maglor ran after him. "Dad, are you going to stay at home with us? Mum said we were on our own for the evening and she said you'd stay, maybe a bit longer this time!" He was breathless when he had caught up to him.

Fëanor did not answer. He stopped at the landing of the stairs. "Where is Curufin?" he asked, without looking at his son.

"Downstairs, in the living room, where—"

Fëanor took off before he could finish.


The fireplace room was by far one of the most comfortable rooms in the palace, if you valued cosy furniture, a calm atmosphere and were content to watch the flames crackle in winter, all of which did not apply to Fëanor.

Still, the room was pretty popular with the rest of the family. When Fëanor entered the first person he saw was Maedhros, slouched in a squashy armchair with a vaguely amused smirk. Perched on the armrest of another armchair was another black-haired boy with a sour expression, while another dark one and a blond were rolling over the carpet in a fist fight, lazily watched by their siblings and a … dog?

"You're gonna pay for this! If he gets sick because of you I will—I will," the blond boy yelled and tried in vain to land a punch on his brother who in turn avenged it by biting straight into the blond's other hand.

Maedhros cleared his throat and when the younger boys did not react, he stood, walked over to them and tried to pluck his dark-haired brother off the blond boy. "Curvo, Turko, kip up. Father is here."

The dark-haired boy stopped trying to chew his brother's fingers off and looked up. "Dad!"

Fëanor did not heed him and instead let his eyes sweep the room. No jewels. No silver sheen. "Where are the Silmarils?"

Maglor appeared at his side again. "Curvo had then, I told you."

Fëanor wondered what he had done to deserve having his wife turning on him and handing his most valuable possessions to their children as toys. Also, why was there a dog in his house?

"Yeah," the black-haired boy said with a wicked glint in his eye, despite the fact that he was still dangling in Maedhros' arms. "Had them." His expression was more than slightly devilish and reminded Fëanor uncomfortably of himself when he had been younger.

"What does that mean?" Fëanor asked. "Who has them now?"

The look the five boys shared did not bode well.

"Who?" Fëanor repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

Maedhros was still trying to fight the barely controlled grin that was threatening to split his face from ear to ear and losing. Finally, the blond boy got to his feet and faced his darker brother.

"You go on and tell him, Curufin, it was your idea after all."

Curufin threw his brother a glare which, again, reminded Fëanor a lot of himself whenever someone crossed him. "Celegorm, you are—"

"Tell him. And Dad, just so you know, if Huan dies, it's Curufin's fault too," Celegorm added.

Fëanor gritted his teeth. He was coming to the end of his patience and he was coming there quickly. "Stop. Silence. Answer my question. Where are the Silmarils?"

Curufin did not answer immediately and at last the Celegorm snarled, "Huan has them."

"Who is Huan?"

There was an awkward silence when five boys pointed five fingers simultaneously at the dog who was sitting on the carpet and wagging its tail.

Fëanor drew in a breath. He let it out again. He breathed in again. Then he said, in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible, "What do you mean by the dog has them?"

Celegorm rose to his feet and stood as dignified as he could. "Well, I was in the kennels to clean out Huan's shed and Huan was waiting inside and he was hungry and Curufin thought it would be funny to feed him stupid things, because Huan eats everything, last time he even ate the old shoe Curufin gave him, and I was playing in here with Huan and Curufin must've seen the Silmarils and I bet he thought he was being so funny and he took the jewels and he gave it to Huan und Huan ate them and now he might die because of it and if he does I'm gonna kill you, Curufin—stop laughing!" He said all this without stopping to take a breath even once.

Fëanor just stood there, his hands at his sides, Maglor still peering around his legs, and stared at nothing in particular, while Curufin's snickers were the only sound in the room.

"You fed my Silmarils to the dog," he said into the silence, his voice flat. "Well. Then there is only one possibility of retrieving them. Curufin, go into the kitchens and bring me the knife. The big one."

It took the children about two seconds to process what had been said and then Celegorm turned as pale as a sheet. "Dad! No! You can't!" He threw himself between Huan and Fëanor as if that would have been enough to stop his father.

"Maybe a serious enough consequence will teach you not to do something like that in the future," Fëanor said. "Curufin—"

He was interrupted by a shout that seemed to be not of this world. It was so loud, so high and brutal, it was the acoustic equivalent of a jagged knife shredding his eardrums.

"HUAN RUN!", yelled Celegorm.

The other boys cringed and covered their ears, but the dog jumped to his feet. Although Fëanor had guessed it was a pup, he had not guessed it would be the size of a small cow when standing—a small cow which was currently charging right at him.

Still, this dog – whatever his size was – still had his Silmarils and Fëanor would be dead before he allowed it to get past him and through that doorway. Years of trying to keep Melkor out of his hair had left him with an almost unnatural set of reflexes and a fearsome possessiveness where his own belongings were concerned.

Huan leapt and Fëanor moved to meet him. Unfortunately though, Huan was not only as big as a small cow, but also about the same weight.

Fëanor might have been a genius who was rumoured to be able to coax the hidden elements of the world into unforeseen shapes, but not even he could temporarily suspend the basic laws of conservation of momentum. The dog slammed into him with the force of a hammer. He felt himself loose his footing, then a hit to the head and then nothing more.


When he came to he was seeing colours that were not of this world and which only slowly reformed themselves to blotches that were intermittently brightened by flaring white dots. He also had a splitting headache.

"You know I always knew that you were the most bullheaded elf to ever live," someone said, "but I thought that not even you would try to get through a wall literally head-first."

"Wha—who are you?" Fëanor blinked and slowly the picture came back into focus. He was staring at a wooden ceiling and a face he vaguely felt he should know. It was regal, handsome and framed by dark hair, with a wry smirk on his lips. Fëanor blinked again, then his face resettled into his usual scowl when he recognised the elf leaning over him.

"What are you doing here?" Fëanor asked and shot upright into a sitting position which would have resulted in butting his head against Fingolfin's if his half-brother had not drawn back fast enough. He was still sitting on the floor under the door frame. His head was pounding, but still he managed to add, "This is my home! Why are you here? Who let you in?"

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. "I am here because I was asked to come and don't flatter yourself by thinking I would have done so without a good reason. As for who let me in, it was Maglor who also came running to me and asked me for help, because his father had just threatened to slaughter the family dog, tried to tackle it and subsequently face-planted into a wall and blacked out. The boy was a tad bit worried to say the least."

Fëanor grimaced. "I did not jump into a wall, the dog just ran me over—"

"Fëanáro, I think you are missing the point here. Did you really threaten to kill the dog?"

Fëanor stared up at him. "And what if I did?"

"Then you would have a lot of explaining to do, brother," another voice said and a tall blond elf appeared behind Fingolfin, his usually kind eyes stern when he looked down at Fëanor.

"Finarfin," Fëanor growled. "I don't recall inviting you. How did you get in here?"

"Through the front door. But, again, that is not the point. The point is—"

Fëanor suddenly remembered why he needed to get the mongrel in the first place. He jumped to his feet although the ground seemed to tilt left and right under his feet. "The dog! The damned dog has my Silmarils!" He wanted to shoulder past his half-brothers, but they moved as one and each of them threw one shoulder against one of his and shoved him back into the living room.

Stumbling he came to a halt, regaining his balance. Both of his half-brothers were blocking the door. For a moment, Fëanor was too outraged to even speak. That those … those … half-bred sons of a fake queen would dare to lay their hands on him, in his own house!

"Careful," he warned. "You are overstepping your boundaries."

Both brothers stepped into the room, moving outward in a half-circle and Fëanor tried to keep them both in his line of sight. Uncomfortably, he noticed it was not working.

They stopped when both had completed the half circle, one standing to his left, the other to his right.

"Brother—"

"Don't call me that," he snarled, his head turned to Fingolfin.

"Brother," Fingolfin repeated with deliberate emphasis. "We know you do not like us and frankly, I think I can speak for both of us when I say the sentiment is mutual. We were content to leave you be and be left alone in return. But we wanted to talk to you for a long time now and today unfortunately provided a more than suited cause to do it immediately."

"We have been watching for years now," Finarfin said.

"Watching what? Who?" Fëanor turned his head, his voice low and dangerous.

"You, brother," Finarfin said quietly. "And I think we might have watched and done nothing for too long."

"What are you talking about?" Fëanor said.

"The Silmarils," Finarfin said, avoiding his glance.

Fëanor bristled and if he had been a dog, he would have raised his hackles. "What do you want with them? They are mine, I made them—"

"Save your breath," Fingolfin snarled. "We don't want your trinkets. We told you that when you first made them and this hasn't changed. But we have been observing you and noticed some changes in you. In the beginning we dismissed them as your usual foul moods and obnoxious behaviour, but there was a point where we realised we could not explain it all away by you being a pompous, impolite and self-centred bastard."

"So?" Fëanor raised an eyebrow, refusing to be impressed by this childish listing of his supposed shortcomings.

"We hadn't thought it possible," Fingolfin continued, "but you became even more impolite and self-centred. Also your disagreeable temper worsened even more. But that was when Finarfin noticed there was a pattern to it."

Fëanor turned to look from Fingolfin to Finarfin. He'd always held his quiet half-brother in higher regard than the rest of his siblings, but he was not surprised to find that they'd both use the first opportunity to gang up on him and stab him in the back. They were of one kind, after all, and he was not.

"You should expand your nicknames from Far-Seer, to Pattern-Spotter," Fëanor scoffed. "I'm sure the house of Indis will be happy to add another useless epessë to the long bland strings of unimpressive titles it sports whenever it is introduced at formal meetings."

Fingolfin made a growling sound, but Finarfin's face did not change.

"You are your own evidence, Fëanor. Just look at you, listen to yourself," he said quietly. "It wasn't us who frightened Irindë out of her mind and threatened her with a knife when she entered your workshop without knocking, it was not us who wanted to kill Huan, it was not us who scared your children into getting their uncles for help. And did you notice? It always happens when the Silmarils are involved."

"Leave the Silmarils out of this," Fëanor snarled, his fists clenching and unclenching.

"See?" Finarfin asked sadly. "Would that I could, but I cannot leave them out. They are the crux of the matter. You have allowed them to get to you, brother, they occupy your mind day and night and more so than your family does, I dare say. You have been getting distrustful, petty and ill-tempered. Whenever someone mentions the jewels, your first reaction is always accusing them of wanting to take away what is yours. They are powerful, Fëanáro. Beautiful, but powerful and dangerous."

Fëanor opened his mouth to say something, but Finarfin held up his hand. "I am not telling you this to spite you, brother. I am worried for you. I do not know what has happened to you, but there is something going on with you and it is not good. It is almost as if those Silmarils have taken a hold of you. Those jewels are getting to your head. It is almost as if they are possessing a part of you that is growing bigger with every day that passes."

"Oh so you are saying they are bad for me?" Fëanor mocked. "I guess I should let go of them then? And who would you propose I give them to for keeping? Let me guess: To you?"

Finarfin shook his head and Fingolfin circled them until he was standing next to his brother. "Tell me, Fëanáro, are you just pretending or are you actually blind to what is happening around us?"

"You are losing them," Finarfin said sadly.

"I have lost them," Fëanor cut it. "They are currently somewhere in the stomach of a mongrel I don't recall allowing into my house.

"I am not talking about the Silmarils," Finarfin said sharply. "Although it was clear that you would think so. All of your thoughts are about them and circle back to them! I was right."

"Then what are you talking about?" Fëanor snapped. He was getting tired of speaking in riddles and the conversation was going in circles as far as he was concerned.

Finarfin regarded him with a long, weighty look that somehow dampened Fëanor's anger and made him feel genuinely uncomfortable and self-conscious, as if he'd been caught doing something and it was only just beginning to dawn on him that it might have been a bad thing to do.

"Not 'what'. Who." Finarfin stepped closer. "Did you really not see it? Have you become so blind?"

"What should I have seen?" Fëanor asked, but he could not hinder the rising dread curling in his stomach when he met Finarfin's eyes that were grey like his own, but with infinitely less fire and yet somehow still warmer than Fëanor's own would ever be.

"You are losing them. Your family. Your sons."

A pause.

A long pause.

Fëanor reeled back. "Nonsense. I would not – they are the most important thing to me."

"Are they now?" Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever wondered why you stopped hearing complaints from your children about how you are never home and why they are clinging to you every time you come home instead?"

"Because I love them and they love me," Fëanor growled.

Fingolfin laughed humourlessly. "Grand illusions! You should have taken Olórin as your guardian! His realms are, I believe, dreams and mirages. But you were always fond of facts, so I will give you facts, Fëanáro. I will tell you why: They have given it up as a lost cause and they don't want to spent what precious little time they have with their father nagging at him which will only drive him back to his workshop faster."

Fingolfin started to circle him. "You claim you love them, but then do explain to me: Why do you spent weeks on end cooped up in your workshop while your eldest son takes care of his brothers? Maedhros has not visited my home for three months now and whenever Fingon asked him why he said he was too busy helping his mother taking care of his siblings. He is a child, yet he has taken on all the responsibilities you have abandoned. Maglor's only company are his instruments for most days. Curufin and Celegorm are stumbling over their own feet trying to imitate you, but why that idolatry? Because they love your or because it is their way of replacing you? I know what I believe to be true and Finarfin agrees with me." Fingolfin stepped forward. "Did you honestly think you were a good father all this time? Did you honestly not see how lonely your sons were, growing up without you at their side, to encourage them and teach them the things a father should teach them instead of a mother, or leaving them entirely to their own devices?"

Fëanor opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to say something, but truly, there was nothing to say. Dreadful truth rang through Fingolfin's words and he knew he could not refute them. For the first time he could remember, he was at a loss for words. All those years passed in fast-forward motion before his inner eye. Memories resurfaced which he did not know he even had and all of them were painted in a different, cold light after what Fingolfin had said.

Maglor asking him to listen to a music piece he'd composed and falling silent, falling out of step and stopping in a long hallway when Fëanor told him he did not have the time.

Some other time, he had said.

No complaints, never.

Celegorm begging him for a pet time and time again and being refused.

Maybe later, he had said.

Curufin's eagerness to learn the work in the forge and Fëanor's own impatience because although he loved giving his knowledge to his son, Curufin's incessant questions were too much for him now that he was working on a refined version of a candelabrum, trying to catch the light in the diamonds like he'd done with the Silmarils long ago…

Stop the blabbering, I need to concentrate. Sit back there and do not touch anything, I will come to you after I am done.

It had taken him all night to finish his work and when he looked up afterwards the barrel his son had been sitting on had been abandoned.

Fëanor opened his mouth, unsure of what would come out when he did. "I did not … I never wanted to hurt them. I did not realise."

Finarfin looked sad, but Fingolfin was not so even-tempered.

"What a pity," he said and there was a cruel edge to his tone. "I thought you of all people must know how it is to grow up with one parent only."

Fëanor took a step backwards as if he had been punched. His knees hit the edge of an armchair and he collapsed into it, his mouth open, but no words were coming out. For a moment he didn't say anything, he just looked at his hands and wondered why he suddenly for all his successes felt like an utter failure.

"What have I done?"

Finarfin approached quietly and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It was not you, it was the Silmarils. You poured too much of yourself into them and—"

Fëanor stiffened under his touch.

"That's where we differ," Fingolfin drawled. "I think it was to a great part due to you being yourself, but I can't deny it has been getting worse since you made those damned jewels."

Fëanor resisted the urge to defend them that arose within him almost automatically and the notion gave him pause. What if his half-brothers were indeed right on this account, no matter how ridiculous it might seem?

"But being the good brothers we are and you never deserved," Fingolfin continued, his tone suddenly much lighter, "we have already taken appropriate measures to right this wrong. You can thank us later."

Fëanor lifted his gaze and all at once the resentment and the suspicion was back. "What kind of measures?" he asked slowly.

"Simple," Fingolfin said extending his arms in a sweeping gesture. "We both agree that you should have a chance to prove that you are capable of being the father your children deserve. Therefore we thought to make good use of the evening today and spend it together."

"Together?" Fëanor said and made a face as if he was reminded of something particularly disgusting, like biting Melkor's foot three years ago during the Yule Tide Festival. (3) (4)

"Yes. You, us, our children." Fingolfin smirked and in that moment Fëanor wondered why he was considered to be the evil one of the family. "You can try your hand at being a father, we can keep an eye on you so you don't accidentally murder someone in the process and for our own amusement of course, and the children get to see each other again. Everyone is happy."

Fëanor did not say anything.

"And afterwards, after you have proven that you do indeed care for your children we will give you back your Silmarils, and the problem of them being eaten by the Huan should have solved itself in the meantime."

"What? You have them?" Fëanor jumped up. "And you are hiding them from me? Thiefs!"

"No, we don't," Finarfin said. "Huan has them and even we do not know where he is right now. But he has assured us he has every intention of giving them back to you. Before he comes back and does so, however, he wants you to make good on your word that you love your children. It should be a small sacrifice to forgo your Silmarils for one night and spend it with your sons instead."

"Wait, are you saying the dog told you this?"

"More or less," Finarfin said.

"Now you're just messing with me."

"It seems the Silmarils had a weird side-effect. He seems sentient now. And he talks."

"The dog talks." Fëanor couldn't even be bothered to change the inclination of his voice anymore. "It ate my Silmarils and now it talks. And it is blackmailing me."

"These things happen." Fingolfin shrugged.

"You have been working long and hard on making this sound as inane as possible, right?"

"Well, we would have had to if it weren't true, since we don't have your natural talent for spouting nonsense," Fingolfin said.

"What he means to say and what's important," Finarfin cut in, throwing his brother a quick look, "is that it is true as we told you. Huan refuses to come back before your sons himself can honestly tell him that they are happy."

Fëanor ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. The indignation about being robbed of his greatest creation by a dog was warring with the horror of the realisation that he might be indeed losing his sons – and having been oblivious about it until today.

"Fine," he ground out at last. "Under one condition."

"Yes?" Both half-brothers were looking at him, vaguely amused.

"No board games."

"Fine."

There was a brief silence.

"So, where are the kids?" That was Fëanor, mentally rolling up his sleeves in preparation to tackle the task of being a good father.

More silence.

"I could have sworn they were out in the hall a moment ago." That was Fingolfin. "Finarfin?"

"I can't see them."

"Whatever for do they call you the Far-Sighted?" A sigh.

"Far-Seeing!" Finarfin said.

"Whatever. Let's go find them."


(3) It makes sense in context.

(4) On a second thought, no, it doesn't.


Next chapter: In which the kids and a secret hideout are introduced, there are quarrels (of course) and Galadriel makes a scary discovery.