Author's Note:
I'm new to the Silmarillion fandom, though I have spent the past few months reading all of your wonderful stories. You might have received a review from me or even communicated with me through e-mail. I just wanted to say that everyone's stories are marvellous. They captured my attention and imagination in a way that the Professor never did. I hope I can return the favour.
Filit
The tip of Nelyafinwë's tongue peeked out ever so slightly from between his pursed lips. The elfling was bent over his work, his face a study of concentration. He heeded not the stubborn strand of hair that refused to be tucked behind his ears or the gentle breath ruffling the crown of his hair. The hand was steady for one so tender of age and traced the letters with intense care. The graceful curve of the ink marched in neat rows behind the stylus, filling a good portion of the page. Only when the page was completely filled with letters did the eldest son of Curufinwë Fëanáro look up from his work. The grin on his face was brilliant as he looked up to the elf hovering over him.
"I'm done, Atar." For his efforts, a large hand descended on Nelyo's small head and promptly tousled the bronze-coloured locks. The elfling tried with all his strength to lift his father's hair-tangling fingers from his head but to no avail. He settled for blowing the curls out of his face.
"Well done, Russandol." From across the polished surface of the wooden table, the flame-haired woman looked up from the task of feeding little Canafinwë and rewarded her eldest son with a smile. The toddler added his own approval with peels of musical laughter.
"But this figure can be done better. The curve needs to be smoother and there is an easier way to write this one." Disappointment flashed in Maitimo's grey eyes before he let them fall to the page. His father's strong hand guided his own in perfecting the flaws to his penmanship.
Istarnië watched both father and son absorbed in the simple task of learning letters for a moment, a slight frown resting on her features. Fëanáro's attention to detail was legendary in his trade but perhaps it was taking it too far with their son. She made a note to talk to her husband about it later as she turned her attention back to spooning porridge in the general vicinity of Makalaurë's mouth. One more glob of sticky paste ended up decorating the round cheeks as the toddler turned his head this way and that, large grey eyes wandering about the room. Istarnië raised an eyebrow at the messy child, who met the reproach with an innocent look.
"Ammë, would you like some help?"
Istarnië smiled. Matimo, ever the thoughtful one. "Yes I would, Nelyo. Are you finished your work?" The elfling nodded solemnly. "Good. Cano is being surprisingly difficult today." With the seriousness she had seen him apply to his studies, Nelyafinwë took up a cloth and began wiping the drying food from his brother's face. Makalaurë squirmed under the administrations and burbled nonsensically.
Fëanáro laughed, walking to the back of Istarnië's chair. He leaned over her shoulder to brush his youngest son's nose with a finger. "Little one, have you forgotten that food is for eating and not for wearing?" The toddler giggled melodiously and grabbed the proffered finger, waving it back and forth. Ingeniously, he used it to poke Maitimo's nose, earning him a glare as his brother finished cleaning his face.
"Thank you, Nelyo," Istarnië said. "It looks like Cano will not be finishing the meal anytime soon." She got up from her chair to clear the table, shaking her head slightly to the offer of help written on her husband's face. Fëanáro turned his attention back to his two sons, the younger of which of which was still using his finger as the elder looked on inquisitively.
"Table," Fëanáro said as his finger was directed to point at said object. "Can you say table, Cano? T-a-b-l-e." The toddler gurgled in his beautifully sweet voice but not even the most lenient of interpretations would have mistaken his utterance for the word. Fëanáro thought it somewhat odd that his youngest son had yet to speak his first word, despite constant encouragement but did not think it worrisome, as he knew that each child learned at a unique pace. Still, the child had a beautiful voice and it would bring joy to his heart to hear Quenya flow in the almost-musical tones.
"Chair."
"Jar."
"Atar."
"Cupboard."
"Flower."
"Matimo." The last object received another poke at the nose, which the elfling took good-humouredly aside from the look he shot his baby brother.
"Cup."
"Paper."
"Curtains."
"Window. That's a window, Cano."
"That green thing is a tree, little brother" Maitimo said in response to the fixed interest the toddler had in the window. Makalaurë pointed again as a beautiful laugh rolled off his tongue. When he received no answer, he laughed the same chuckle again, pointing to the window in enthusiasm. There was a flicker of movement among the glossy emerald leaves. A small brown bird flitted from branch to branch. The toddler followed its actions with excitement, laughing the same laugh.
The child laughed, dropping Fëanáro's finger and waving his own arms in the direction of the window. The little creature twittered a few notes and flew off. "That is a bird, little Cano. Can you say bird? B-i-r-d." The toddler laughed.
The same laugh echoed from behind and Fëanáro turned to see his wife approaching, her grey eyes dancing with a secret joke. She laughed again as Makalaurë laughed along with her, the pitches of their voices matching perfectly. Istarnië picked up her son from his chair, cradling him one arm as she looked at her husband. Her laughing eyes teased him with the riddle, but she knew he would not ask. Not outright at least. The stubborn pride demanded that he untangle the riddle on his own, for it was a challenge and Fëanáro could refuse no challenge. The handsome features of the Noldoran prince furrowed slightly as he sought to wipe Istarnië's grin off her face with a triumphant smile of his own..
Suddenly, Nelyafinwë laughed the same laugh as well and a huge smile broke out on his small face. All three laughed at once, their voices smooth and harmonic, almost like.singing.
And Fëanáro smiled and sang along with them.
"So, Makalaurë has learned to talk after all," he laughed. "Only that he has mistaken himself for a little bird and talks after their manner. Perhaps it is best suited for such as beautiful voice as his, do you not agree, Russandol?" Fëanáro asked as he lifted the elfling up to sit on his leg.
"Yes Atar. But I hope this filit will never fly away."
And the House of Fire was filled with laughter and music.
atar = father
ammë = mother
filit: little bird
Curufinwë Fëanáro = Fëanor
Istarnië = Nerdanel
Nelyafinwë = Maitimo = Maedhros (Russandol is a nickname)
Canafinwë = Makalaurë = Maglor
I'm new to the Silmarillion fandom, though I have spent the past few months reading all of your wonderful stories. You might have received a review from me or even communicated with me through e-mail. I just wanted to say that everyone's stories are marvellous. They captured my attention and imagination in a way that the Professor never did. I hope I can return the favour.
Filit
The tip of Nelyafinwë's tongue peeked out ever so slightly from between his pursed lips. The elfling was bent over his work, his face a study of concentration. He heeded not the stubborn strand of hair that refused to be tucked behind his ears or the gentle breath ruffling the crown of his hair. The hand was steady for one so tender of age and traced the letters with intense care. The graceful curve of the ink marched in neat rows behind the stylus, filling a good portion of the page. Only when the page was completely filled with letters did the eldest son of Curufinwë Fëanáro look up from his work. The grin on his face was brilliant as he looked up to the elf hovering over him.
"I'm done, Atar." For his efforts, a large hand descended on Nelyo's small head and promptly tousled the bronze-coloured locks. The elfling tried with all his strength to lift his father's hair-tangling fingers from his head but to no avail. He settled for blowing the curls out of his face.
"Well done, Russandol." From across the polished surface of the wooden table, the flame-haired woman looked up from the task of feeding little Canafinwë and rewarded her eldest son with a smile. The toddler added his own approval with peels of musical laughter.
"But this figure can be done better. The curve needs to be smoother and there is an easier way to write this one." Disappointment flashed in Maitimo's grey eyes before he let them fall to the page. His father's strong hand guided his own in perfecting the flaws to his penmanship.
Istarnië watched both father and son absorbed in the simple task of learning letters for a moment, a slight frown resting on her features. Fëanáro's attention to detail was legendary in his trade but perhaps it was taking it too far with their son. She made a note to talk to her husband about it later as she turned her attention back to spooning porridge in the general vicinity of Makalaurë's mouth. One more glob of sticky paste ended up decorating the round cheeks as the toddler turned his head this way and that, large grey eyes wandering about the room. Istarnië raised an eyebrow at the messy child, who met the reproach with an innocent look.
"Ammë, would you like some help?"
Istarnië smiled. Matimo, ever the thoughtful one. "Yes I would, Nelyo. Are you finished your work?" The elfling nodded solemnly. "Good. Cano is being surprisingly difficult today." With the seriousness she had seen him apply to his studies, Nelyafinwë took up a cloth and began wiping the drying food from his brother's face. Makalaurë squirmed under the administrations and burbled nonsensically.
Fëanáro laughed, walking to the back of Istarnië's chair. He leaned over her shoulder to brush his youngest son's nose with a finger. "Little one, have you forgotten that food is for eating and not for wearing?" The toddler giggled melodiously and grabbed the proffered finger, waving it back and forth. Ingeniously, he used it to poke Maitimo's nose, earning him a glare as his brother finished cleaning his face.
"Thank you, Nelyo," Istarnië said. "It looks like Cano will not be finishing the meal anytime soon." She got up from her chair to clear the table, shaking her head slightly to the offer of help written on her husband's face. Fëanáro turned his attention back to his two sons, the younger of which of which was still using his finger as the elder looked on inquisitively.
"Table," Fëanáro said as his finger was directed to point at said object. "Can you say table, Cano? T-a-b-l-e." The toddler gurgled in his beautifully sweet voice but not even the most lenient of interpretations would have mistaken his utterance for the word. Fëanáro thought it somewhat odd that his youngest son had yet to speak his first word, despite constant encouragement but did not think it worrisome, as he knew that each child learned at a unique pace. Still, the child had a beautiful voice and it would bring joy to his heart to hear Quenya flow in the almost-musical tones.
"Chair."
"Jar."
"Atar."
"Cupboard."
"Flower."
"Matimo." The last object received another poke at the nose, which the elfling took good-humouredly aside from the look he shot his baby brother.
"Cup."
"Paper."
"Curtains."
"Window. That's a window, Cano."
"That green thing is a tree, little brother" Maitimo said in response to the fixed interest the toddler had in the window. Makalaurë pointed again as a beautiful laugh rolled off his tongue. When he received no answer, he laughed the same chuckle again, pointing to the window in enthusiasm. There was a flicker of movement among the glossy emerald leaves. A small brown bird flitted from branch to branch. The toddler followed its actions with excitement, laughing the same laugh.
The child laughed, dropping Fëanáro's finger and waving his own arms in the direction of the window. The little creature twittered a few notes and flew off. "That is a bird, little Cano. Can you say bird? B-i-r-d." The toddler laughed.
The same laugh echoed from behind and Fëanáro turned to see his wife approaching, her grey eyes dancing with a secret joke. She laughed again as Makalaurë laughed along with her, the pitches of their voices matching perfectly. Istarnië picked up her son from his chair, cradling him one arm as she looked at her husband. Her laughing eyes teased him with the riddle, but she knew he would not ask. Not outright at least. The stubborn pride demanded that he untangle the riddle on his own, for it was a challenge and Fëanáro could refuse no challenge. The handsome features of the Noldoran prince furrowed slightly as he sought to wipe Istarnië's grin off her face with a triumphant smile of his own..
Suddenly, Nelyafinwë laughed the same laugh as well and a huge smile broke out on his small face. All three laughed at once, their voices smooth and harmonic, almost like.singing.
And Fëanáro smiled and sang along with them.
"So, Makalaurë has learned to talk after all," he laughed. "Only that he has mistaken himself for a little bird and talks after their manner. Perhaps it is best suited for such as beautiful voice as his, do you not agree, Russandol?" Fëanáro asked as he lifted the elfling up to sit on his leg.
"Yes Atar. But I hope this filit will never fly away."
And the House of Fire was filled with laughter and music.
atar = father
ammë = mother
filit: little bird
Curufinwë Fëanáro = Fëanor
Istarnië = Nerdanel
Nelyafinwë = Maitimo = Maedhros (Russandol is a nickname)
Canafinwë = Makalaurë = Maglor