I
Breaking Character
Amidst the grand ruin of his war, Fëanáro's small acts of kindness went unnoticed by most. I noticed, however, and I was taught, to my surprise, that my half-brother's heart is not black in the least.
~ from the memoirs of Nolofinwë Arakáno
My youngest son is no orator and no linguist. He spends inordinate amounts of time studying and preparing, huddling in his desk chair at all hours of the night until his eyes are red and swollen and I am forced to carry him to bed. Yet still, each time he gives a recitation for the Lambengolmor, his voice fails him. Even in his native Quenya, his vowels are misplaced, his articulation sloppy, and his tone displeasing; in any other tongue, he can scarcely stumble through a verse of poetry. On this day, we are gathered in the opulent meeting-hall of the Lambengolmor to hear Arakáno recite a passage from Valarin scripture. Valarin is a naturally harsh and difficult language, and this makes my son's errors a thousand times worse.
Duplicates of this scenario played out on multiple prior occasions have taught me to go numb to pity and rage. Had they not, I would be on my feet by now and at the throats of those who are beginning to snicker behind their hands. Instead, I keep my head bowed and try to avoid the gaze of Fëanáro, who is seated at the adjudicators' table. He hates Valarin as it is, and this recitation will hardly improve things. No doubt his criticisms of Arakáno - and, by extension, of me - will be more terrible than ever.
Then, in spite of all my expectations, a strange thing happens.
I glance up momentarily and meet Fëanáro's brilliant grey eyes, yet there is neither amusement nor disdain in them. For a moment, impossible though it surely is, I almost believe I see a flicker of sympathy. Then my half-brother looks down again, and it is gone. I shake my head, telling myself firmly that it could not have been. Fëanáro delights in the mistakes of others; they make him seem brilliant by compare and inflate his ridiculously high opinion of himself further still.
Arakáno stumbles over a particularly difficult phrase, distracted by Fëanáro's stony gaze and the black countenance of his tutor, who looks ready to spit venom. He casts a terrified glance over his audience and then closes his mouth, bowing his head in resignation to his fate. He has failed again, and he knows it. His cheeks are aflame and his slumped shoulders are trembling with repressed tears; nothing he can say will aid him. The snickers grow louder, and I realize suddenly how very vulnerable he is, my littlest one. He may have royal status, and he may be presented in finely-brocaded robes and jeweled braids, but these things cannot guarantee him talent, or grace, or respect. They cannot protect him from public humiliation, or least of all, his own flaws.
Fëanáro raises a hand for silence, and I grow cold with dread at the thought of what he will say.
"I think we have heard quite enough," he intones gravely. "You are dismissed."
There is no mockery in his voice, I realize belatedly, scarcely daring to believe it. Arakáno had left himself open to the worst of criticisms, and Fëanáro had passed up the opportunity not only to humiliate my son, but to humiliate me for siring, to his eyes, a talentless fool.
Arakáno does not move, but stands in frozen silence. This is damning. His tutor, who cannot contain himself any longer, leaps to his feet and shouts to the entire hall exactly what he thinks of my son. His voice is high, bordering on hysterical, and the words are scalding: Pathetic, worthless, bitter disappointment. Rage burns past my internal defenses with the swiftness of a forest fire ignited amongst dry timber, setting me to violent trembling. A red haze sweeps my mind clear of all but one furious thought: How dare this worm speak to my son in such a manner! Suddenly, I find myself longing for a fight.
"The proud blood of Finwë is wasted on you!" the man screeches.
Fëanáro stands abruptly, striking the table with both hands. A ringing silence falls.
"The only disgrace to my father's noble lineage, sir, is you and your poisonous tongue," he says, in a voice of deadly calm. I have heard such a tone before, and nothing good ever follows. Fëanáro will shout and swear enough when something upsets him, but only when he is truly outraged will he turn cold, as he does now. "You are dismissed as well - from service to the royal family of the Noldor."
Arakáno's tutor goes stark white with a combination of fury and fear.
"I hardly think this fair!" he spits. Confronted with my half-brother's calm, cool anger, he is rapidly losing his nerve. "Prince Nolofinwë engaged me, and only he has the right to dismiss me!"
"I see that you have courage enough to shriek obscenities at a child, but not enough to accept the consequences of your own wrongs," says Fëanáro. His face is so smooth and cold that it could have been sculpted from ice. "You have publicly shamed your student, and I have publicly shamed you in return. It is perfectly fair. If you question my decision or my authority, you may take your case to the King, but I hardly think you will find favor with him, not with so many witnesses to testify as to the despicable things you said to Prince Arakáno. I promise you that if it comes to that, I shall give a statement also. I say to you again, sir, that you are dismissed. Your choice is to leave now with some shred of dignity intact, or to face the King's justice and lose all respect. Arakáno, come with me. You are not yet beyond hope."
My son does not move, but falls to his knees on the dais and buries his face in his hands. He looks very small indeed; his fine robes seem but a feeble attempt to hide how young and frail he is. Fëanáro goes and kneels beside him, offering him a hand. Arakáno flinches away, but with a few soft words from my half-brother, he is sobbing inconsolably on his savior's shoulder.
Fëanáro stands in silence, and carries him from the hall.
Whatever he tells my son is lost to me, for I do not follow them. Having failed to protect Arakáno from public humiliation, as any proper parent would have done, I do not have any right to comfort him now. I must leave that to Fëanáro, who proved himself in the space of a few moments a far better father than I will ever be, and had the uncharacteristic grace to say nothing about it.
After what has just happened, I trust his kindness towards my littlest one more than I trust my own.
Quenya things:
Arakáno - Argon, fifth and youngest child of Fingolfin
Nolofinwë - Fingolfin
Fëanáro - Fëanor
Lambengolmor - the school of linguists and loremasters founded by Fëanor in Tirion
