Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Tolkien Estate. This is purely a work of fanfiction. All the characters, excepting the OC's, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Christopher Tolkien.

Many thanks to my fantastic Beta, Eryniel Alasse, she is a huge help. Go check out her stories, they're really good!

Dinner was awkward, to say the least. Fëanáro had walked in late, smiling he nodded to the elves who stood in respect at his entrance. Taking his glass, he raised it as he took on the role of a respectable prince. The elfling nodded his head as the elves took their seats and returned to their conversations.

Finwë noted the expression that crossed his young son's face; it was not the usual mischievous look that was at best worrisome. There was a new flame that burned behind Fëanáro's eyes. Leaning down, he spoke. "Curufinwë, I would speak with you after we have finished."

Fëanáro bit back an insult and dutifully smiled. "Yes, Atar, that would be best."

Finwë sighed in relief, as he had expected his son to talk back in a much harsher tone. Looking to Indis, he saw the concern in her eyes. She grasped his hand in support.

"All will be well," she whispered in a calming tone. The king smiled and resumed the conversation that halted when Fëanáro had entered.

The young elfling clenched his fist as he heard the conversation to his left, gritting his teeth he tasted the soup that was customary of the spring. The seafood on his plate seemed to mock him, reminding him of when Indis had first entered their lives – taking his father's heart, stealing it from him.

He took a sip from his wine glass, trying to ignore that Indis was wearing his ring, the ring that he had so carefully crafted. I will never craft a ring again. His stomach lurched as Finwë kissed Indis on the hand.

"Atar, please excuse me." Not waiting for an answer, Fëanáro bowed in respect before leaving the feast. Nearly knocking a server over, he stormed out of the hall, muttering to himself. He entered his rooms and slammed the door behind him.

Taking his circlet off his head, he threw it at the wall. Seeing no dent in the smooth stone only angered him more. Clenching his fist, he punched the wall in anger. "She's coming back, I know it!"

Fëanáro stiffened as he heard steps behind him. Spinning around, he was surprised to that instead of his father it was Niquessë, his nursemaid. It was almost a relief that it was her, but at the same time, he felt resentment bubble in his chest that it was not his father who had come to check on him.

"What are you doing here?" He grit his teeth in an attempt to assuage his anger. "The feast is not yet over."

Niquessë studied the elfling before her. "Do not let the fire consume you," she cautioned. "You will only regret the outcome."

Fëanáro scoffed at her reply. How could she know what he was feeling? He was a prince; he was strong. I am Curufinwë Fëanáro, not some sniveling elfling who needs a mother. "I suppose you are right," he muttered, "as usual."

"Tomorrow, your father will formally announce his betrothal to the Lady Indis." She raised a hand to stop his protestation. "You are not required to approve of his decision, although it would be wise for you to attend."

"Do not tell me what wisdom is," he snapped. "I am old enough to know that it is not taught; it is learned."

Niquessë furrowed her brow. "You are right." Turning to leave, she paused and said, "I hope that you will allow someone into your world." She quietly closed the door behind her and turned to see Rúmil waiting.

Her fiancé smiled at her sadly. "We cannot hold onto him forever." He rubbed her arm in comfort. "He must make his path."

"I know that I only worry about the pain he will cause to himself." She took a breath. "Míriel was right to worry."

Fëanáro's ears twitched as he stood by the door, listening to their conversation. Clenching his fists, he turned to his desk, where he pulled out paper and a quill. Dipping the pen into some ink, he wrote a letter, explaining that they need not worry. He would return in time for the ceremony. Another lie.

Sealing the letter with wax, he grabbed his knapsack and took the makeshift rope to the window. Ensuring it was secured to the bedpost, he tossed it outside, looking one last time at his chambers he descended the great height to the ground.

He dropped to his knees and checked for signs of activity, seeing none. His horse was waiting by the nearby oak. It had been easy to bribe the stable boy to do so.

Fëanáro placed his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself onto the horse. He turned his head quickly to see his father walking towards him with palms up in a gesture of peace.

"I will not be gone long." He started adjusting his saddle bag. "Please do not stop me."

"I would do no such thing." Finwë measured his son's temper before continuing, "The ring is exquisite. I was unaware that Mahtan had taken on an apprentice."

"It seems that he did," Fëanáro said, choosing his words carefully, "though I highly doubt the apprentice in question will ever craft a ring again."

"That is indeed a shame, for he is indeed blessed with skill." Finwë had not moved from his place. "I would advise that young smith to continue his studies with Mahtan. It would be a shame for such a talent to go to waste."

"Stop that!" Fëanáro turned his horse towards the king. "You know very well that it was I who crafted the ring! Tell me, how long did you know I was under his apprenticeship?" He scoffed. "You thought it would be fun to use my ring as the betrothal band for that Vanyarin hussy. Did you think that it would cause me to soften towards her as a stepmother?"

Finwë shook his head. "That was not my–"

"I do not care for your excuses," Fëanáro interrupted. "You have failed my mother and me. You could have waited, but you were too impatient."

"You misunderstand. Your mother does not wish to return." Finwë closed his eyes. "For years I implored Namo to release her, but she did not want her release. She was content."

Fëanáro shook his head at his father's words. "You lie! She loves me; she is going to come back. I know she will, and when she does she will find that you have married another!"

Finwë stood silently as his son tore into him with such hurtful, angry words. He was seeing a side of his son that he had never before witnessed. It grieved him deeply to see a young elf hold such resentment within his heart.

"Go." Finwë motioned to the gate. "Know that I love you, and this gate will always be open for you. It is your home."

The young prince was tempted to bite back with a snide remark about how his father was fond of the dramatics. His mouth was stopped by the look in his father's gray eyes. It was sadness. There was a part of him that wished to run to his father's arms and apologize for the hurt that he had caused.

But Fëanáro did not look back.

This is better for everyone.

So this chapter was a little more dramatic, but Fëanor really is the king of drama queens. It also doesn't help that I've been watching overly dramatic tv shows lately... Please let me know what you think, I'm always appreciative of feedback. Thank you to all those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed. Y'all are great!