The two children somehow managed to grow, full of curiosity and full of life.

They came late, Ambarussa. All their brothers were full grown adults, and Moryo bethrothed; the two babies, each resting in the craddle of one of their father's arms, came into the world in the middle of Telperion. [1] Feanor nearly went mad with glee that day, and lavished more attention upon the two identical miniature redheads than he ever had for any living thing; never seeming, however, able to make the difference between the two.

And after a month, his mind wandered again.

The library was dark, a special room created by Feanor to escape the perpetual radiance of the Trees: heavy curtains of dark velvet hanging down from the windows that blocked all light seeking entrance to the room. Each wall disappeared behind shelves of dark wood, filled with leather-bound volumes that smelt of dampness and of dust. Comfortable armchairs stood here and there, seemingly placed at random, yet so perfectly disposed, Maglor thought, that if one of them were moved but for an inch in any direction, the whole structure of the room would fall apart and its warm harmony destroyed.

A great fire roared in the hearth, throwing humoungous shadows that seemed to move. One of the twins sat at a table, studiously bent upon a sheet of paper, in Russandol's lap; three cushions had been added because the child's nose would have been level with the table's surface. Their fiery hair shone in the fire's changing light, gleaming like metal, and Russandol regularly moved his left hand up to push the child's soft unbound locks away from his face as he peered over his shoulder. His right hand held his brother's smaller one, guiding him upon the paper in slow, smooth gestures: teaching him to form his letters so that they would seem pleasing to the beholder's eye.

The other Russo sat upon the soft, thick carpet of the room, and played with nothing as only young children could do.

After a while, Maglor turned back to watching the two others at the table.

There was something amiss in the little boy's movements, he found, doubting his eyes for a few minutes at first, maybe far more free-flowing and wide than handwriting would allow, and in Russandol's gaze: strangely bright and more focused than usual, staring at the paper as if the song of Iluvatar had just been revealed to him in black ink.

Curious, he moved closer to them, and peered over Russandol shoulder; only to have his breath nearly knocked out of him by what he saw.

On the paper, lines of letters at the beginning, irregular as if trembling and unperfect; and then suddenly, one of their stems elongated, continuing all over the sheet as free-flowing lines, enmeshed together in an inextricable and perfectly balanced knot; Russandol captivated by the image as the boy's hand now obviously directed his own, fixing upon the yellowed parchment in black ink a great big picture of nothingness.




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