It did not take me long to find him. He was the only other person in the
gardens surrounding the Mindon that night. He sat, his legs crossed,
balancing precariously on the rim of a fountain. The water leapt high into
the air above him, and came down, rhythmically falling into the pool below.
He was bent intently over a slab of wood, a few scattered pieces of paper
lying around him. I watched him for a long while as he scribbled on the
page, but he was so focused on his work that he did not even notice me
standing right before him, even though I could be easily seen in this place
where Telperion shone so brightly.
"Fëanáro," I said finally, but he still did not look up.
"I have no interest in speaking at the moment, so you might as well leave." His rude dismissal hurt me, but I had no intention of moving from where I stood. In truth, his words rather challenged me to stay, giving me even more motivation to remain rather than to leave, as had been his purpose. "Did I not make myself clear?" he said after another moment, but cut himself short when he looked up from his tablet. "Nerdanel?"
"Who did you think I was?" I was a little disappointed that he had failed to recognise my voice.
"I did not know. But I knew there was little chance that it would be you, and unless it was I knew it could not be anyone worth speaking to. All anyone wants to speak of these days is In-" he stopped abruptly. "What is it that brought you here?"
"Large gatherings are not to my liking, at least not for a long time." I did not tell him the whole truth, for that would not have been something he would have liked to hear.
"Then perhaps we will find each other good company, since we both hate people." He smiled at me teasingly, but I could tell his comment was not entirely in jest.
"I did not say that."
"No, but you meant it." I did not bother you argue with him further. He did have some reason, although hate was certainly too strong a word.
"What were you doing before I came?" I inquired eager to change the topic.
"Letters. I think I shall call the Tengwar, or something along those lines. You see Rúmil's letters suffice, but there are many obvious problems. There is too much of a risk for making errors, causing the reader to misinterpret. They have bothered me ever since I first learned to write." I just stared in amazement. "I am re-making them, bettering Rúmil's work."
It was not possible! Not only was he a master smith, but already bettering the works of the greatest Noldorin scholars, and still in his early youth. Unfortunately, he too was quite aware of his genius, which I noted when he said 'bettering Rúmil's work,' rather than saying 'trying to better.' He obviously was confident of the fact that his letters would be better. Then again, they probably would be.
"You must indeed be dear to the One." I said, not meaning to speak aloud.
"I thought that once as well. But now I begin to think otherwise. If the One loves me, why is it that he takes away everything that I love?"
I looked into his eyes, and though he was trying desperately to disguise it, I saw sorrow there, tears gathering around the rims. Just as I had done with Finwë but a little while earlier, I wanted to desperately to be able to comfort him. But I knew that would only wound his pride, and his anger would be something far worse than his sorrow. So I just went and sat beside him, at a little distance, and waited. He only took a moment, and then he was himself again, without a trace of sadness left on his face.
"I am sure that any sorrow you have was not caused by Him." I said, and I believed my words, although I did not know then who it was if not the One.
"If not Him, than whom else? Who else would first cause my father to love, and then rob him of that love? Who else could be responsible for changing the ways of the Eldar, for causing my father to love again? Unless it is the Valar who meddle with the will of the One." Those last words were hardly audible, but I still I felt a chill run through me. Never before had I heard anyone doubt the Valar, and I knew no good could come of it.
"Do not say such things." But he still looked as though he might flare up at any moment, so I took his hand in mine, just as I had done before. Much to my surprise, I was nearly scorched by the hand. I had no idea flesh could become so warm. But I held on, and it was only a few moments before his features softened and his hand became cool again. "Do you not care for your father's happiness?" I asked, but he was no longer listening. He was looking deeply into my eyes, unmoving save for the steady movement of his chest as he breathed and the pulsing flow of blood coursing through his veins. Indeed, he stared for so long that I began to grow nervous under his gaze. Then, still without taking his eyes away, he took my other hand in his, and I slowly relaxed, my own eyes meeting with his.
They were deep grey with streaks of the darkest blue. Yet most fascinating was the golden light that flickered every so often in the black centers. I wondered if perhaps there was some light, some flame before him, which was being reflected in his eyes. But I knew that was not the case. The only flame reflected there was the flame of his spirit.
I do not know how long I looked into those eyes, but I know that our gaze was eventually broken, for suddenly I felt rather than saw heat. Feeling soft flames upon my lips, I welcomed the gentle fire. But it was brief, like a candle that dances then succumbs to the breeze. Then he pulled his hands from mine and looked back out at Varda's stars. For a long while neither of us said anything. Yet there was no need for words at that moment, no need for the letters scattered on the ground before us. Love requires no words.
Notes:
The Tengwar: Tolkien does actually say that Fëanor invented these "in his youth." Although they bear two names, the Fëanorian Script and the Tengwar, I think for now Fëanor is going to call them Tengwar. He isn't, believe it or not, as arrogant as he will yet become.
"Fëanáro," I said finally, but he still did not look up.
"I have no interest in speaking at the moment, so you might as well leave." His rude dismissal hurt me, but I had no intention of moving from where I stood. In truth, his words rather challenged me to stay, giving me even more motivation to remain rather than to leave, as had been his purpose. "Did I not make myself clear?" he said after another moment, but cut himself short when he looked up from his tablet. "Nerdanel?"
"Who did you think I was?" I was a little disappointed that he had failed to recognise my voice.
"I did not know. But I knew there was little chance that it would be you, and unless it was I knew it could not be anyone worth speaking to. All anyone wants to speak of these days is In-" he stopped abruptly. "What is it that brought you here?"
"Large gatherings are not to my liking, at least not for a long time." I did not tell him the whole truth, for that would not have been something he would have liked to hear.
"Then perhaps we will find each other good company, since we both hate people." He smiled at me teasingly, but I could tell his comment was not entirely in jest.
"I did not say that."
"No, but you meant it." I did not bother you argue with him further. He did have some reason, although hate was certainly too strong a word.
"What were you doing before I came?" I inquired eager to change the topic.
"Letters. I think I shall call the Tengwar, or something along those lines. You see Rúmil's letters suffice, but there are many obvious problems. There is too much of a risk for making errors, causing the reader to misinterpret. They have bothered me ever since I first learned to write." I just stared in amazement. "I am re-making them, bettering Rúmil's work."
It was not possible! Not only was he a master smith, but already bettering the works of the greatest Noldorin scholars, and still in his early youth. Unfortunately, he too was quite aware of his genius, which I noted when he said 'bettering Rúmil's work,' rather than saying 'trying to better.' He obviously was confident of the fact that his letters would be better. Then again, they probably would be.
"You must indeed be dear to the One." I said, not meaning to speak aloud.
"I thought that once as well. But now I begin to think otherwise. If the One loves me, why is it that he takes away everything that I love?"
I looked into his eyes, and though he was trying desperately to disguise it, I saw sorrow there, tears gathering around the rims. Just as I had done with Finwë but a little while earlier, I wanted to desperately to be able to comfort him. But I knew that would only wound his pride, and his anger would be something far worse than his sorrow. So I just went and sat beside him, at a little distance, and waited. He only took a moment, and then he was himself again, without a trace of sadness left on his face.
"I am sure that any sorrow you have was not caused by Him." I said, and I believed my words, although I did not know then who it was if not the One.
"If not Him, than whom else? Who else would first cause my father to love, and then rob him of that love? Who else could be responsible for changing the ways of the Eldar, for causing my father to love again? Unless it is the Valar who meddle with the will of the One." Those last words were hardly audible, but I still I felt a chill run through me. Never before had I heard anyone doubt the Valar, and I knew no good could come of it.
"Do not say such things." But he still looked as though he might flare up at any moment, so I took his hand in mine, just as I had done before. Much to my surprise, I was nearly scorched by the hand. I had no idea flesh could become so warm. But I held on, and it was only a few moments before his features softened and his hand became cool again. "Do you not care for your father's happiness?" I asked, but he was no longer listening. He was looking deeply into my eyes, unmoving save for the steady movement of his chest as he breathed and the pulsing flow of blood coursing through his veins. Indeed, he stared for so long that I began to grow nervous under his gaze. Then, still without taking his eyes away, he took my other hand in his, and I slowly relaxed, my own eyes meeting with his.
They were deep grey with streaks of the darkest blue. Yet most fascinating was the golden light that flickered every so often in the black centers. I wondered if perhaps there was some light, some flame before him, which was being reflected in his eyes. But I knew that was not the case. The only flame reflected there was the flame of his spirit.
I do not know how long I looked into those eyes, but I know that our gaze was eventually broken, for suddenly I felt rather than saw heat. Feeling soft flames upon my lips, I welcomed the gentle fire. But it was brief, like a candle that dances then succumbs to the breeze. Then he pulled his hands from mine and looked back out at Varda's stars. For a long while neither of us said anything. Yet there was no need for words at that moment, no need for the letters scattered on the ground before us. Love requires no words.
Notes:
The Tengwar: Tolkien does actually say that Fëanor invented these "in his youth." Although they bear two names, the Fëanorian Script and the Tengwar, I think for now Fëanor is going to call them Tengwar. He isn't, believe it or not, as arrogant as he will yet become.