Most things in this story will parallel The Silmarillion, only in the 'world' of Ender's Game (e.g. the Valar as high-ranking I.F. officials). However, everyone is human, and usually behave more like humans, for the sake of fitting into the world of Ender's Game. Ages have also been changed for that reason, and to fit the ages of the children in Battle School.
I'm using the names given in the text of Quenta Silmarillion, which are usually Sindarin, for clarity. In some occasions, I will use Quenya names, but it should be clear who they belong to. On that topic, I've made the Fleet Common of Ender's Game (which is essentially English) into a parallel of Sindarin. For example, Fëanor's name in Quenya would be Fëanáro, but it would be Fëanor in Fleet Common.
Like in the Ender's Game series, I'm using a dialogue-based chapter introduction.
Thanks to stick-at-nought shady for looking this over.
Chapter One:
The Favored Son
"Finwë's first son is our only chance. Yes, you've seen him through the monitor, but that could never do him justice. The fire in his eyes when he's angered, the flawless hiding of fear, the burning hate... so many emotions, and he's barely six years old. If we could redirect that hatred and apply it to the buggers, then they're as good as dead already."
"With all due respect, Admiral, if you'd ever watched the boy, you'd see why I'm hesitating. Some of the things that he says to his brothers are absolutely sickening. I'll show you the damn recordings if you're doubting this. No, no, it's not foul language or the like, it's just... how does someone that young hate so passionately? And he's from such a peaceful place. Are you sure you're not recruiting a maniac?"
"The boy has the highest test scores recorded in the history of Battle School, Colonel Graff. No one's seen anything like it. His mental state seems perhaps shaky, as you've so graciously implied, but he's still young, and time is running short for humanity. The buggers must be destroyed as quickly as possible, and-"
"And according to you, he's the one to do it. Look, if we make one mistake, his anger will be directed at us, and he'll end up killing off the human race instead of the buggers. If I may offer a suggestion, his two brothers are perfectly capable. If we wait a few more years, Fingolfin and Finarfin will be old enough."
"I think you've misunderstood, Colonel Graff. Not only is the boy fluent at adult levels in both his native language and Fleet Common, he changed his nation's writing system at age four. Don't tell me you haven't seen the Tengwar; they were all over the news two years ago. The only true insanity in this is perhaps that his skill is insane. He makes grown men look dimwitted. And as for his brothers - they've tested high enough to get into Battle School; that's usual for the people of Aman. But they show personalities that would only get them into the school in a time of need like this. The older boy, Fingolfin, is very sharp and reasonable, but seems lacking in the fire that his older brother has-"
"We all lack the boy's fire, Admiral; and to hell with it - Fingolfin's four years old and Finarfin's two-"
"... and the younger son, Finarfin, is all too weak. He'd probably pity the buggers and attempt to save them instead. Neither of them are like Curufinwë, and they're last resorts at best."
"Fëanor."
"Excuse me?"
"Or Fëanáro, in his native Quenya. He prefers his mother-name: 'spirit of fire'. Fitting, isn't it? Almost ironic, and certainly better than being just another place in his father's family line."
"Oh, the name given by his late mother, may she rest in peace. The poor woman was burnt out, like her son had stolen her life and used it for himself."
"You'd better think before you say that around him, Admiral, or you'll be spitting blood. Trust me, he's willing to injure his half-brothers that way, and he won't hesitate to do it to you. Or maybe not; you've seen how deeply he hates them. I think we'd all prefer if none of them were put at risk, but it's too late to avoid that."
"Ah. This is almost sweet - you certainly have the boy's best interests at heart."
"Anything but, Admiral. We're here to put him through hell, because it's him or the human race."
The light of Laurelin burned through Fëanor's eyelids, and he squinted across the water, almost imagining that he could see other lands. I'll never see them. They can't be touched, he thought cynically, raising one sweating hand to pick at the bandage on his neck. A stabbing pain shot through his spine as his fingernail pressed down on the wrong point, and he gave a quiet hiss of pain, causing his father to glance over at him in concern.
"Fëanáro?" Finwë said, his brow furrowed. "Are you all right?" Fëanor smiled to himself upon hearing the musical Quenya, as opposed to the harsh, uncouth sounds of Fleet Common. With the pain of the absence of his monitor successfully hidden, he studied his father. The heat and humidity of the weather caused the man's hair to stick up at strange angles, and his eyes were dazzled by the Treelight. Shifting a sleepy-looking Finarfin to one arm, Finwë rested a hand on Fëanor's shoulder, firm and calming.
"I'm fine," Fëanor said, "just dizzy. Can we go back to Tirion? Alqualondë is so... bright, and it hurts my head." Most of his distress was made up on the spot to cajole Finwë into letting him return to their home in the city of the Noldor, but he truly was dizzy. The drugs that had been administered to him - the doctors had had to sedate him partially, after he had put up a fight when he was told that he would lose his monitor - made his head feel heavy, and he hated the feeling. Was this what stupidity felt like? It was terrible, worse than what he imagined death to feel like.
As if on cue, Finarfin began to sob into Finwë's shirt, his golden hair gleaming in the sun: a badge given to him by his Vanya mother. "I feel hot," the two-year-old blubbered pathetically, tugging at the collar of his father's shirt. "I want to be home." Yes, cry, Fëanor seethed to himself, giving a glare to Fingolfin, who was silently watching his brother's misery with wide, nervous eyes. Cry, you stupid sons of Indis. Cry, and pretend that you deserve pity. Cry, but it will never erase the fact that my father replaced my mother with a Vanya whore. Cry, because I will always hate you without doubt.
Cry, because you will never be anything at all, and I will change the world.
While Finwë soothed Finarfin, Fëanor spoke up again. "We aren't in Alqualondë to see the beaches and the city," he whispered. It was obvious that his father was pretending not to acknowledge him as he turned away, rocking Finarfin and letting Fingolfin cling to his leg like a toddler. "We're here because you got the call from the International Fleet: that I needed my monitor out, and you thought that I'd need cheering up afterward. I failed."
"They never said that you had failed," Finwë said gently. His eyes spoke different words: Please, Fëanor, don't speak of this around your brothers. Fingolfin doesn't need to hear that he could fail. Little Finarfin already has a monitor, and he's not even in preschool yet. They are still growing up. Someday, Fingolfin will be brave, and Finarfin will be respectable. They're your brothers; don't upset them.
Fëanor's eyes returned the unspoken words with a smirk that plainly said: They're my half-brothers.
Extracting Fingolfin from his leg, Finwë continued walking along the bustling street. The sidewalks were packed with vendors selling everything from fish to jewelry made from shells. The Teleri loved the sea, after all, and that had been part of their delay to come to Aman after their homelands had been evacuated after the First Invasion. The light of the Trees, slanting strangely over the mountains, spilled through the Calacirya, dazzling the bright hair of the Teleri and reminding Fëanor that he was an outsider here, with his dark hair and piercing eyes that were telltale features of the Noldor.
Suddenly, Fëanor felt a hand grasp his wrist. It was unfamiliar, with skin like old parchment left out in the sun, and his reflexes took over. Finwë's voice calmed him before he could deliver the slap, however; Finwë was as calming as a drug. "Hello," Finwë said politely to the strange man, smiling warmly. Finarfin hastily stifled his tears, sniffling into Finwë's sleeve; so perhaps the little bastard had learned a few things about concealing emotion from his half-brother. "What...?" Finwë's voice trailed off, but the ever-so-polite edge never faded.
"Ah, Finwë! All the way from Tirion, aren't you?" the man exclaimed, grinning. It seemed as if everyone recognized Finwë for his influential position in the country, and most respected him. The man was elderly, and obviously a Vanya, judging by his hair. He's probably one of those ass-kissing idiots who practically dream of sleeping with I.F. personnel, Fëanor thought scathingly, like the rest of the Vanyar. Probably here to write a paper on why the Teleri seem to do nothing but fish and sing.
"Oh, your sons are beautiful!" the man complimented in an attempt to break the awkward silence that had ensued after his greeting. Everyone always seemed to tell Finwë that he had beautiful sons, especially when Finarfin was present. The man appraised the puffy-eyed Finarfin and the skittish-looking Fingolfin with barely a glance at Fëanor; he had likely noticed the oldest boy's glare. "If you don't mind, I would like to paint them. May I?" He gave a nervous smile to Finwë, who, to Fëanor's dismay, seemed to be thinking the idea over. "It's a cultural thing; I'm doing a study on the ancient branches of the Vanyar and attempting a few of their less extravagant customs."
No, no, no, Fëanor thought. I can't stand the stupidity of this. It's just like the Vanyar to waste their money and time on worthless things. I will never sit here and let someone preserve my face for all to see. I'm sick of these idiots, fawning over me, praising me. I, the favored child of the International Fleet and of Finwë, am tired. I'm sick of seeing my Tengwar in the patterns of cracks on my ceiling. I see the light of the Trees blaze into my eyes, and my head aches. If one more person calls me skilled, beautiful, a genius, a miracle...
Finwë nodded, now the unknowing object of his eldest son's wrath. "Of course," he said. Oh, Father, Fëanor thought almost ruefully. I love you more than anything I will ever know, but your kindness is infuriating. As the painter set up his materials and a canvas, outlining Fingolfin's face in a few swift strokes, Fëanor felt a sudden restlessness. Not bothering to ask Finwë's permission - he was busy soothing Finarfin to sleep, anyway - he slipped away, racing down the hot sand to the very edge of Aman.
In the shadow of the mountains, the heat lessened, and Fëanor exhaled in relief, letting the cool water wash over his toes, washing away the sand. It was a blissful feeling, and he ran along the water's edge just for the free, adrenaline-filled sensation, sending up splashes. He could barely see the pier that Finwë and the others had retreated onto, and he barely cared until he remembered. They'll watch me, he thought. They'll be watching through Fingolfin's monitor as he poses for that brainless Vanya, or even Finarfin's, and they'll wonder where their prodigy went - but I suppose I've fallen out of their favor now.
On his way back to the pier, Fëanor walked at a purposefully lazy pace. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but the medicines and the absence of his monitor were taking a toll on him. He felt dizzy, and for the moment, he wanted nothing more than sleep. Ignoring the persistent voice in his head that repeatedly told him to lie down, just to take a short little rest, he collected a handful of seashells, admiring their bright shades against the pale skin of his palm.
It seemed all too soon, thought a long time had passed, when he returned to the pier, just as the artist made the finishing touches on Finarfin's portrait. The child, refusing to sit up straight and smile, was instead painted sleeping, snuggled into Finwë's chest with a placid, almost angelic look on his face. Suddenly, Fëanor felt a strange desire to protect this little child portrayed flawlessly in the painting, to shield him from the wondering eyes of passerby that silently asked his father, "Why do you have three sons? Is the youngest not yours, with his light hair, or is the oldest not yours, with his different features and wretched temper?" But the protective feeling faded as he remembered the exact reason for Finarfin's existence.
At that moment, one strand of bright hair trailed across Finarfin's cheek, moving with his breath, but he awoke suddenly, squirming until Finwë set him down on the ground. "Fëanáro, Fëanáro!" he chirped happily, throwing himself at his half-brother and burying his face in his legs. Fëanor stumbled, catching himself just before he toppled into the softly lapping waves below, barely managing to save his tiny cache of seashells. Fingolfin looked on with something akin to terror in his eyes. Oh, yes. You remember all too well when I broke that habit of yours - along with your nose, if I'm thinking of the right incident, Fëanor thought snidely.
"Quiet, Arafinwë," he hissed as the Vanya instructed him to stand straight and motionless. Finarfin's Quenya name cut across Fëanor's tongue like a sharp sliver of ice, and he relished the cold pain and transformed it into hate. "I don't feel well." I want to go home and scream without a sound that you are damned to being a useless life, along with me. This is the worst that I have felt in my life, and yet Father expects me to ignore it!
Finarfin, who could be moved to pity in a heartbeat, frowned and gazed up at Fëanor with innocent eyes. The older boy could see the monitor in his half-brother's neck, already marring the smooth, pale skin. "Fëanáro doesn't feel good," he piped up to Finwë, who nodded absently and went back to staring across the dark water, looking all the more discontent. Well, thought Fëanor, instinctively correcting his half-brother's lapse in grammar, but didn't voice his thoughts. Instead, he pondered.
Father, are you thinking of Míriel, of my mother? he wondered, seeing the pain in Finwë's gaze. Hidden beneath the unfailing kindness and the warm, paternal love was a throbbing anguish, a loss. The rumors of darkness had abounded at the time of Fëanor's mother's death; unnatural, premature death in Aman was very rare. Then there were the whispers about Fëanor himself. "The chosen one of the International Fleet, of the Valar... he killed his own mother! He was a parasite, sucking life from her and bending it to his own will..." And of course, there was the talk about Finwë's second marriage, not to mention his three I.F.-permitted children.
The silence went on for what seemed like an infinite amount of time. Finally, the artist set down his brush. "What do you think, Fëanor?" the Vanya asked, and the boy was jerked out of his peaceful reverie. Damn you, he thought. You call me by the name my mother gave me. How dare you speak the name that she spoke and apply it to me? Strangers have no right to call me by that name, even if I do prefer it. No one has the right.
He stared at the painting and was shocked. The artist certainly was skilled; he had captured Fëanor's dark hair in perfect brushstrokes, and his jaw was set in a stubborn expression. What was unnerving, however, were his eyes. They were bright with a sort of fire, a fire that penetrated every shield and saw through every facade. It belonged to him, and he treasured it.
And if the fire burns out... Fëanor dreaded to even think about something so horrible.
Dimly, he could hear Finwë's thanks, but he felt so weary that he could barely make the trek back to their car. Too sleepy to pester his father about being old enough to sit in the passenger seat, he found himself leaning up against the window, with Finarfin perched on his lap and Fingolfin to his left. Finwë was all too quick to remind Fëanor to hold tight to his youngest half-brother to keep him from slipping onto the floor, but Fëanor purposefully ignored him, glaring at the little child as he wriggled from side to side, trying to get a proper view out the front window. You little bastard, you damned child, Fëanor thought. I am the only reason that you're alive, and you're not worth it at all.
To his shame, he let himself slip into a deep slumber, and he woke to Fingolfin shaking his shoulder. "Fëanor?" Fingolfin said, biting his lip. "Father says that you need to rest before dinner, and that you're running a fever. And you have to get out of the car," he added, oblivious to his half-brother's mutinous expression. The boy paused, perhaps thinking over his actions in advance, then stopped hesitating and threw himself onto Fëanor's lap. The older boy grunted in pain at the sudden weight, rubbing his eyes. His vision was fuzzy, but he could make out Fingolfin's wide eyes only inches away from his own.
"I don't want you to feel hurt, Fëanor," he said, his lower lip trembling and stuck out in a pout. "I'm sorry that you got your monitor out - but please, please don't make Finarfin hurt, too. He's so little, and you know that he can't hide his pain like you can - or like I can." Don't hurt him like you used to hurt me, Fingolfin seemed to be saying. Don't shove him around and yell that you hate him. Don't make him cry. Please, Fëanor, don't hurt my brother.
"Shut your mouth," Fëanor grumbled, shoving Fingolfin away. The younger boy fell onto the hard concrete of the driveway, and he seemed dangerously close to crying, which would provoke an even worse headache. "If I wanted to, I could kill both of you, and if you don't shut up, I might have to. Finarfin would go first; I'd only need to hold him underwater in the bath or drop him the wrong way. And I'd make sure that you're watching. I'd take longer with you." He knew that the fever was making his tongue loose, but the reaction that he wanted to elicit would inevitably come.
But despite his expectations, Fingolfin did not burst into loud, gasping wails, tears streaming down his face. He only scowled at his half-brother. "Why do you hate us?" he said. "We don't hate you."
Sometimes, Fëanor forgot exactly how young they all were, and how sensitive little children could be - but he had also forgotten the strange knack they had for being perceptive. Whenever something like this evaded his memory, he would take care to devote a moment to self-loathing. "You should hate me," he muttered darkly, smirking as he stepped out of the car, pulling Fingolfin to his feet and walking inside of the house. He took care to slam the screen door with a vengeance.
After Fingolfin left to nurse his bruises, undoubtedly holding back tears for the sake of appearing brave, Fëanor found Finwë in the kitchen, speaking softly with Indis. When he saw his stepmother, Fëanor hastily retreated to the threshold. The boy's mind was screaming at she laughed at some whispered jest, and as Finwë's hands wove through her Vanya-bright hair. The waning yellow light flooded the room; Indis had likely thrown back the curtains. Judging by the seemingly infinite mountain of unwashed dishes by the sink and the soap bubbles on her hands, she had abandoned her task to greet her husband. You stupid whore, lusting after man who had already married before you, Fëanor thought. You probably rejoiced when Mother died. You probably had Father in your bed on the night of the funeral. I hate you, hate you, hate you, and I will never be your son.
Indis giggled like a young woman - it was easy to forget how young she was still, not even thirty-five yet - as Finwë caressed her face, his eyes warm but sad at the same time. Indis was likely too dim-witted to notice the second emotion. Fëanor watched in horror as his father kissed her passionately, holding her close, and she went so weak at the knees that she stumbled into the refrigerator. "Not now, Finwë," she gasped out, but submitted to another ardent kiss. "The children... Fëanor will be furious," she protested half-heartedly, barely moving her lips away from her husband's.
"He does not have to know," Finwë insisted earnestly, worry crinkling his eyebrows. "Please. Fingolfin and Finarfin are asleep, and Fëanor has other things on his mind." Indis nodded reluctantly, smiling. Fëanor felt bile rise in his throat, and he gagged quietly, holding a hand over his mouth. This was doing nothing to help his sickness. Ignorant of his son's plight, Finwë swept through the threshold, not noticing Fëanor. His eyes were alight with lust, and he was quickly followed by Indis. The last things that Fëanor heard were the gentle creak of an old bed and a gasped-out 'I love you' from his father.
Fëanor raced up the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him to the bathroom, now feeling horribly like he was going to vomit. The door slammed behind him, and he sank down to his knees, curling up on the floor and squeezing his eyes shut. I hate them, he thought, clenching his hand around his newly collected seashells. Indis and her lust make me sick, and... oh, Father, how are you so deceived by her pretty looks that you don't notice her empty head?
The rug felt strangely soft beneath him, and against his will, Fëanor fell into another fitful sleep. He came out of the blurring darkness to hear the voice of his stepmother screeching away outside, and he winced at the noise. "Fëanor? Are you in there?" she asked, barely able to be heard over Finarfin's crying, knocking on the door sharply. So Father has finished bedding you, and at this hour, too, thought Fëanor. It's barely nightfall. "You've been in there for two hours. If you've so much as touched the medicine cabinet..." Fëanor was silent, but he stood quietly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Was she under the impression that he was as young and stupid as Finarfin? "Are you feeling all right?"
No, Fëanor thought, and I will never need you to help me. I know what you were just doing with my father. I'd bet that you woke Finarfin as you writhed and made the floor creak, and I'd bet that Father called your name so loudly that Fingolfin came to see what was wrong. He grinned to himself at his own thoughts, but the twisted smile rapidly vanished as Indis continued. "Fëanor, your youngest brother has been out here crying for over ten minutes, and-"
"Half-brother," Fëanor corrected, a reckless laugh bursting from his chest. The liberty of the rebellious words on his tongue made him feel almost drunken, almost powerful. "They'll never be my brothers - or did you miss me telling you because you were too busy satisfying your own lust? It's sickening, what you've done to my father."
For a moment, there was a scandalized silence from outside. Then: "Fëanor!" Indis squawked angrily. "Who on Earth taught you to talk that way? If you don't open that door, I'll come in. I don't care what you're doing in there."
Yes, come in, Fëanor thought to himself, pulling his hands into fists and standing in the center of the little room. When the door burst open, revealing Indis holding a red-faced, sobbing Finarfin, he rushed out, toppling his shocked stepmother. He heard his name called out in surprise, but he paid no heed, pummeling Indis with his fists. She clutched onto Finarfin, cradling him to her chest, but she was finally forced to drop him as Fëanor kicked her in the torso, dropping to his knees and wrapping his fingers around her throat.
"I hate you," Fëanor whispered as her eyes bulged out. Finarfin, discarded and struggling to stand, bawled for his mother. "You may think that I will give up someday, but I will never love you. You and your bastard sons - I hate all of you." Indis's face was now a sickly shade of purple, contrasting his her hair, but Fëanor only squeezed harder, relishing every bit of her pain. "But I won't kill you." The fire was unstoppable, burning in Fëanor's heart. Spirit of fire. Burning was a passion of his. "I think you should watch Finarfin die first, just so you die knowing that you've killed your son."
He released his hands, letting his stepmother gasp for a much-needed gulp of oxygen, but he continued. "Finarfin was doomed from the start," he hissed, roughly scooping up the toddler and rocking him with a mocking grin. Finarfin wailed and kicked, his normally serene face scrunched into a pained expression. Fëanor placed the tip of his finger on the child's lips, ignoring his attempts at biting. "Hush, Finarfin, little damned son," he said. Indis, now on her feet, cried out wordless, attempting to snatch Finarfin away, but Fëanor turned quickly.
"Yes, Arafinwë, how does it feel to know that you were only born because of me?" he sneered, setting down the screaming child, who watched with wide eyes; this accentuated his resemblance to Fingolfin, who commonly wore the same expression. "You were only born because I was not enough for the lust of my father and of the International Fleet. Fingolfin was a disappointment, and the I.F. wanted another Fëanáro. No, they wanted another Curufinwë, because they hated my spirit of fire but admired my skill." He spat off to the side, heedless of the wooden floor.
"Do you finally see it through your sex-blinded eyes, or can the thought not be processed by your pathetic mind?" he asked. Indis cringed, looking oddly young and scared, even compared with six-year-old Fëanor. "I have failed. They took out my monitor. The reason for Finarfin's life is as good as gone. Finarfin may as well be dead, for all that it's worth. Finarfin, Finwë's little Third, is a worthless life."
At the very moment, Finwë hurried up the stairs, hearing the clamor. With bright eyes and thoroughly mussed hair, he stepped into the hallway. His all-too-satisfied smile melted away into a look of confusion. Finarfin, who had never been the subtle one in the family, latched himself to his father's legs, shrieking away in his shrill little voice. "Fëanor's going to kill me!" he sobbed. "He said I was damned and worthless, and he called Mother pathetic, and-"
Finwë quickly looked to his eldest, as if he was waiting for a casual denial, but Fëanor only gave a smug grin. "I only told the truth, Father," he said, fighting to erase the tremors in his voice, which was quickly rising in volume. "The International Fleet doesn't want me anymore, and if I'm not enough for them, then your little bastard children certainly aren't."
Fëanor had never seen his father become so angry; his hands were shaking as he picked up Finarfin, who was now wailing with earsplitting vigor. "Shh, shh," he whispered frantically, attempting to soothe his youngest son. Then he looked up at Fëanor, and for a moment, he appeared almost wounded. You took my wife away from me, you stole her life and took it for yourself, and I still love you, he seemed to be saying. I have loved you, despite every bit of temper you show and despite the times when you've hurt your brothers. Please, my son, don't say such horrible things around them. They deserve so much better from you...
"Stay in your room," the man muttered, breaking Fëanor's gaze and rocking Finarfin gently. "You're ill - the doctors told me that the drugs might have side effects. Get some more sleep. I find that it clears the mind, and you could use that." He paused, looking up with the expression of wide-eyed worry that Fingolfin mirrored. "I love you, Fëanáro."
Yes, listen, Fëanáro, the boy told himself. You know that Father is telling the truth. But his less rational thoughts were taking over: And what is the purpose of your life? Now that the I.F. has rejected you, you've fallen further than your half-brothers ever could.
You're the one who is truly damned, Fëanáro.