Chapter Eighteen: Skilled One
"Father, can I have a flute?" Makalaurë, now fifteen, stood in the doorway of my study, dark eyes earnest and somber.
"A flute?" I echoed, surprised, as I set my quill down. I had been writing the alphabet of Rúmil's script over and over, thinking of letters I myself was devising. It was a project that had been a focus of mine for the past few weeks, and I had seized the idleness of the evening to begin the task. "Why would you want such a thing? Kana, you make enough song with your own voice for ten flutes."
"I want to write music, and play songs." He fingered the doorframe, watching my face carefully.
My mind drifted for a moment, and I wrote down a letter of my own imagination--malta--and began thinking upon another.
"Father?" Makalaurë inquired, seeing my distance from the topic at hand.
I shook myself and looked back at my son. "Who gave you this idea?"
"Russandol." Russandol was Makalaurë's nickname for his older brother.
"Has he been telling you stories again?" I almost smiled, but something kept me from it. Maitimo was fond of books and reading, and more often it was he, not Nerdanel or I, who told Makalaurë stories before they went to sleep.
"Yes. About the Teleri and their harps and flutes of silver."
I wrote down another letter--ando--and then said, "Well, I shall think upon it, my son. Now, I believe you have to go to your lessons with Maitimo and your mother." Nerdanel and I taught our children ourselves, and today it was Nerdanel's turn to teach.
"Yes, Father. Thank you." Makalaurë was gone almost at once, stealing like a shadow up the hall and I was left alone with my writing and my thoughts.
The reason I had not smiled at Makalaurë's mention of his older brother was because it seemed neither of them wished to take up the smithcraft that I loved so well. As Finwë was to pass the throne of the Noldor to me when he grew weary of the duty, I wished to pass my talent for the shaping of metals on to at least one of my sons. But as much and as dearly as I loved both my children, neither Maitimo nor Makalaurë showed any interest or desire in such a thing.
It hurt me when I saw the indifference in their eyes as I told them about the many things you could craft with a smith's talent, or the emancipation one felt when working in a dark forge in the bowels of the earth. They were polite about it, but they forgot the depth of my sight. Their thoughts told me their silently suppressed words of declination, even as they spoke aloud gracious promises designed to keep my persistence at bay until later.
"A booklover and a bard," I said ruefully to myself, glaring at the parchment before me, "Two sons already, but no smith."
I forced my mind away from the disheartening prospect and turned back to the letters--formen, ampa, tinco, parma--until evening fell.
An hour or so after the changing of the lights, Nerdanel, pregnant with our third child, came into the study, bearing a tray with a loaf of bread, mutton, and a goblet of mead.
"There you are," she exclaimed, "You missed dinner, you know."
"Dinner? What?" I looked up, mind bleary, and she smiled and shook her head.
"You would not turn from your work if the world was falling apart around you," she laughed, placing the tray on the table, then said in a more serious tone, "Eat. I will not have you starve. Besides, I need to get back to Nelya and Kana before they make a mess of the dining table with their games."
As I ate, she walked around the desk to my side, looking down at the strange letters I had written on the parchment sheets.
"Lambe, esse--What are you doing, Fëanáro?"
"Writing," I replied simply, shrugging. Nerdanel arched an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth again.
"If you insist it is so. I heard some things about Finwë's other children in the markets today," she continued, "Do you want to hear them?"
"Yes," I said immediately. While my interest in the children of Indis was one fueled by jealousy, I was also ever eager to hear anything about my father.
"Well, his fourth child, Arafinwë Ingalaurë, had his Essecilmë a few weeks ago, and Nolofinwë is betrothed to the lady Anairë. I do not know when the wedding is."
"It matters not. We will not go. I will not have the children in his presence."
Nerdanel pursed her lips in frustration, as she often did when we discussed my father's other children. "Why, Fëanáro? Someday, they will meet. It shall happen sooner or later."
"Not until they are older," I declared firmly, "It is too much for them now." And it will ever be too much for me, a corner of my mind added.
"Very well," Nerdanel murmured pensively, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Uncomfortable, I turned the conversation away from the subject of my half-brother. "Do you think it will be a daughter?"
Nerdanel knew what I was talking about, and laughed, her free hand resting protectively on her curved belly. "Perhaps. I am so familiar with raising sons now, though, I do not know what I would do." She straightened then, and moved to walk away. "I am going to sleep. Do not fall asleep at your work."
"Wait," I called after her, standing, as she turned to me, a smile on her face. "I am coming."
The next morning, I awoke to a familiar voice in my head.
Wake, Curufinwë. Wake.
Aulë? I asked feebly, trying to do as I was told, though the mires of sleep tugged at me. Nerdanel stirred in the circle of my arms, sensing my alertness.
Yes, child,Aulë responded, with his voice of boundless patience, I have returned. Come, there is much to be done before your apprenticeship can continue.
My father promised to have a forge built for me when you returned. . .
Let us go to him then, and see if that promise still stands.
Author's Note:
Another vexingly short chapter. Hope you're all managing to hang on!
Mizamour, you are welcome to put to the dialogue snippet from Chapter 17 in your favorite quotes. Thank you so much for your kindness and understanding.
Ellfine: You know, I don't know what to think about that issue either. Fëanor is the one who is subjected to all sorts of heartache and rage, but Finwë loves his son so much that he neither sees Fëanor's inevitable end coming nor does anything to prevent it. I'll leave it up to you, the readers, to decide who the most tragic figure is.
Unsung Heroine, I'm glad I've made Fëanor so sympathetic. He can be such an arrogant prick, even when portrayed in certain flattering lights. So your compliment is much, much appreciated.
Anglachel, good to hear from you again. I'm sure Nerdanel loves her children, yes, but seven is a few too many for me as well. I'd have trouble with all the names. :) I'm not even the boys' mother and I have trouble with their names, so I'd hate to see myself raising them. "Tyelkormo! Er, Carnistir! Or. . . oh, whatever your name is, get over here!"
Thanks to all of you for being so kind and patient.
Love,
Blodeuedd