I

In a garden the lady lay sleeping. Silver willows bent over her still form, entwining a canopy of translucently shifting green and yellow above her. Both the Garden and the lady were beautiful beyond measure. Her hair was earth-dark, and her skin was ivory, but she was still . . . so still. Now it could be seen that the flowers and ivy grew up from the ground and entangled lovingly in her hair and garments. The heart-shaped leaves embraced her, as if bidding her to wake, but still she lay, perfect and un-stirring. The soft features of her face were touched with tranquility, but it seemed forced, and no breath of air from her lips troubled the glistening dew that settled new upon her each morning. She was flawless. She was immobile. She was as unreal as a marble statue. She was dead.

He awoke with a start, sweat scattering in a soft rain from his brow. The dream was always the same. Once, only once had he gone to see his mother in the garden and had never returned. Yet the image of her haunted him.

Warm light met his clammy skin, kissing the dream away with the morning. A light breeze stirred the warm air, and it surrounded him in a flowing blanket. He pushed away the silky blue covers, which spilled off the bed like cool water and pooled onto the marbled floor. The room was exquisitely furnished, with intricately carved wooden furniture, and yards of flowing fabrics hung from the high-vaulted ceiling. The breeze moved freely throughout, for two of the four walls of the room were nonexistent. Alabaster columns stood sentinel here like white guardians. Gemstones brought forth coaxingly out of the earth by skilled Noldor adorned the walls' trimming. Birdsong and the chanting of the wind met his ears. The light of Laurelin, the Younger Tree, was just beginning to wax. In the East, the stars hung, bright as gems, illuminating the distant Sea.

He moved to the white columns and leaned there for a moment, letting the breeze caress his bare skin and wash away all memory of nightmare. From a distance, down below (for the wide branches of trees outside his room betrayed his height) he viewed people already moving here and there in the hill-city of Tirion. They went as shadows among the white towers and crystal stairs of Túna, clad in pale, shining colors and making barely a sound but for the softness of their speech, and, here and there, one solitary song. He strained his ears, but the particular singer he had been listening to was now too far away, and he could not make out the words, though the hymn seemed familiar.

The subtlest of rustles behind him in the room betrayed his father's entrance.

"Fëanáro."

He turned slowly at the sound of the name. It was the name his mother gave him.

The lord was tall and regal, with robes of deep emerald and shimmering threads, yet nothing he wore could conceal his masculinity. His shoulders were broad for his kind, and his jaw was stern. The long, dark hair fell over his shoulders and was crowned by a simple halo of pale leaves. No circlet of silver and jewels could have flattered him more. He was fair and wise, and only the shining eyes revealed his long count of years within Arda, for he was among the first. Yet a shadow ever dwelt behind the light. His name was Finwë.

The two faced each other, and but for a slight difference in stature, they were nearly identical in face and feature, though the elder was by far the more grand.

The lord spoke softly. "Fëanáro, come and see your new brother who was born yester-eve."

Fëanor turned back and resumed his observance of the shifting morning light.

His father, moving as the air without a sound, stood suddenly next to him, and gazed out on the early hours of his fair city. "His mother was long in labor, but he came forth at last, and lo! he has golden hair as of the Vanyar!"

When his son's eyes did not shift and his limbs remained still, the king added, "I name him Finarfin . . . Fëanáro, come and see him."

Now, without glancing at him or changing his demeanor, the young one spoke: "I brought her death, did I not? It was I who killed her."

The king's face became troubled. "Don't, Fëanáro; not now."

"How is it that she can bear you two healthy sons, and yet my mother was dead with fatigue as soon as I was free from her?"

Finwë touched his eldest's shoulder lightly in sympathy. "Not even the Valar can know completely the mind of the One, my son."

"I would that I would have known her."

"As do I."

Fëanor turned clear, fierce eyes to his father. They shone intensely with a fire that was all his own; for neither parent had possessed it. "If she had lived to see my fruition, I could have saved her. Nay, Father, do not doubt me. All know that I possess the knowledge of many ways and am learning still, and once I bend my mind to a task there is no one that can rival me in Eldamar nor any work of Arda that can hinder me." Then his voice quieted, and the fire dimmed, and the sadness set in to balance the tempers. "I dream of her sometimes."

"You fear I have forgotten her?" When there was no response, Finwë said, "Nay, I have not forgotten her, nor ever will – least of all with you here always to remind me! Ah," here he touched the smooth ebony strands, tousled from sleep, "you are so like her in many ways – and so strong in spirit." His eyes misted. He was no longer looking at his son but away into the distant past, some time long, long ago. "She said that in bearing you, the very fire of your spirit consumed her in body and soul. I have often wondered if she did not bequeath a part of herself to you then . . . that her very life left her for you when you two were separated."

Fëanor knew full well that the strength which could have nourished many went into his sole making. "So it was I who killed her."

"Lau, Fëanáro! Her sacrifice was one of love. She would have had it no other way, and you are her spirit-child, in more than a manner of speaking."

Fëanor wondered in his mind, if he were so great a treasure, how his father would come to need any more sons. But he did not speak this aloud.

Finwë embraced his son and kissed his brow vigorously. "Come. The gentle Indis awaits you. She would that you would pay honor to your littlest brother."

So Fëanor dressed and passed through gilded halls to his father's wife as she was resting. He greeted her formally and kissed her in respect as she deserved. The cradle, in the corner where the light could envelope it, was of the things which live in the earth, for Quendi love from the beginning all things that grow. On the bow was carved a prayer of thanksgiving and protection to Yavanna, the wife of Aulë whom the Noldor love. The child slept soundly in the gold, milky Tree-light, wisps of golden curls resting on his tiny head.

Fëanor knelt and looked in at him, as the breeze moved his hair in currents about his finely-featured face. His bright gray-blue eyes gazed scrutinizingly at the fair infant. Fëanor felt a subtle movement at his side, and a dark-haired child, with large, wide eyes nudged against him, shyly curling his small fingers about his elder brother's forearm. For their kind, both little ones were round and childish looking, though in the eyes of another race, they would have appeared too tall and slim to be healthy. Fingolfin fingered the fabric of Fëanor's linen garment. The eldest prince stiffened but allowed the boy this sign of affection.

Fëanor listened to the murmured voices of his father and his brothers' mother for some time, bent quietly over the baby's cradle. When the two were together, he would rather they forget him. Fingolfin reached a timid hand into the cradle and lightly stroked the baby's cheek, then abruptly pulled back.

"He's soft," he remarked bewilderedly to his half-brother.

"They come that way," Fëanor replied curtly.

The child was un-perplexed. "I'll be a good elder brother," he confided. "I'll show him the trees and the birds and the flowers – all Olvar and Kelvar. And Mamil said I could hold him a bit when he is presented to Manwë." The boy nodded slightly, as was the custom, in reverence to the High Ruler. Then, as if noticing for the first time, "Finarfin, findesselya vanya! Fëanáro, his hair shimmers as Laurelin, just like Mamil's does. I think it's lovely, don't you?"

"It is not so wonderful." The response sounded harsh, and Fëanor flinched imperceptibly as it echoed maddeningly in his ears.

Fingolfin's large eyes grew even wider. He knew from the tone of his brother's voice that he had done something wrong, but he did not know what. Presently, the child's hesitation faded, and he resumed his light hold on Fëanor's arm and leaned into him, resting his left thumb and forefinger absently on his mouth, dreaming innocently of the things he would show his younger brother.

The voices continued to murmur a gentle lullaby to compliment the hum of the early morning. Fëanor touched the dark head hesitantly, as one overcoming his initial repulsion. Fingolfin did not appear troubled by Fëanor's uncommon action, so his brother went on silently, tenderly stroking the raven hair.

A/N: "This is a story of long ago . . . ." It is a tale of the Eldar in Valinor, taking place centuries and centuries before The Lord of the Rings. I welcome help from those more learned in Middle-earth lore than I am.

Also, please excuse my bad Elvish. It is very hard to get your hands on decent Quenya. Therefore, Mamilis Quenya for "mother" (or thereabouts). I also welcome help from linguists. ;)