A Gift of the Heart

Feanaro sat on the edge of the fountain, idly swishing his hand in the cool water. The light of Laurelin was waxing and the golden light danced around him. His ebony hair cascaded down his shoulders, and was kept back by two thin braids. He wore upon his brow a mithril circlet. His cold, silver eyes were distant as he wandered the twisted paths of his mind. The innocence of youth still lingered on his face, but there also was a trace of the unescapable truth which was adulthood.

A timid tap on his shoulder made Feanaro look up. The cerulean eyes of his little brother Fingolfin looked at him curiously. The little noldo's midnight hair was tousled and he had a smudge of dirt on his nose. The older of the two smiled at his youthful artlessness.

"Fayfay," Feanaro put on his exasperated but patient and willing face. "I —." he smiled and held up a clumsily wrapped package. "I made something for you."

Feanaro grinned and took the bundle. He gave it a considering look and a mischievous shake that made Fingolfin vibrate with anticipation of his opening it. Feanaro carefully pulled off the ribbon and unfolded the paper. To his well-trained eye it was terribly awkward, but he pulled his little brother into a tight hug.

"Thank you, Fingolfin." He looked again at the portrait of Elnar, his horse, and laughed. "It looks just like him." Fingolfin beamed.

"I am glad you like it." He snuggled into Feanaro's cloak, and sniffed. "Fayfay, you smell like lembas."

Feanaro looked down at him, unsure of how to respond to the comment. He sighed, "I do?" Fingolfin nodded and hid a yawn. "Atar will be angry if you stay up much later."

"I shall go to —," another huge yawn, "Sleep." Within seconds he was snoring softly on Feanaro's shoulder. The oldest son of Finwe shook his head and picked up his little brother. Staggering under his weight, Feanaro carried Fingolfin back to his room and tucked him into bed.

"A lore marave." He blew out the candles and just as he was leaving, Fingolfin murmured in his sleep.

"U-linen imbe wilwarini."

Feanaro laughed and closed the door. "Fingolfin, you did not sing with butterflies?" He asked himself. "Loony little Elf."

The click of nails on the stone alerted him of Huan's presence before he turned the corner. The energetic ball of fur and legs rammed into his knees and sent them both flailing through the air. The pup was huge, and was still growing. His paws were tremendous and he still had a lot of loose skin. Feanaro took the dog's head in his hands and growled at him, Huan growled back, but his whip-tail never stopped wagging. Feanaro stood up and continued down the hall, with the hound prancing at his feet.

He knocked softly on the door to his father's study. "Come in." Feanaro entered. The enormity of the room and the intoxicating smell of ancient texts and tapestries always left him breathless. Perhaps, one day, he could have a study like this too. Finwe sat his desk with a haphazard mound of scrolls in front of him.

"Aiya, ion nin!" He looked up and smiled. Feanaro sat in the chair across from his father and crossed his arms on the desk.

"Atar, I must know something." Finwe stopped writing and gazed at him.

"Aye?"

"Do you love my naneth?"

Finwe sighed, so many times had he been asked the same question. "Curufinwe, your mother is in the Halls of Mandos."

"You avoid the answer." He said bitterly. "Then, answer me this. Did you sleep with Indis before she died?"

"Curufinwe!"

"Did you?"

"No!" he steadied his voice. "No, I did not."

"You lie."

"Feanaro, my son, I would never lie to you."

Tears burned his eyes. "Then why, when you look at me, do you recoil? I am no thief, but your son. Why must you see me as a failure? I love you atar."

"Feanaro, you are being childish." The King said softly.

The elfling shook his head and left the room. The sanctuary of his own chambers did little to stem the flow of his tears. "Atar cannot understand." He told himself. "He does not walk in both worlds, he has not seen Iluvatar." He wept silently.

I am a lonely thing,

Not the son of a King.

We dance a vicious game,

Of love and lies and blame.

A paper masquerade,

With the sharpness of a blade.

I cannot hear them calling,

For into the dark I am falling.

My fate will not delay.

I am Feanaro Curufinwe.