Peculiar

by Ada Kensington

King Finwë is worried about Fëanor, and enlists the aid of Rúmil, a scholar, to try and help him understand his son.

8. Patience

Peculiar

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– 8 –

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"Atar?"

His son's voice stirred him from sleep and the king woke with a start to find Curufinwë leaning over him. The ends of his son's dark hair tickled his forehead and his eyes sparkled with mirth.

"Atar..." he said again. "Wake up."

Aching and weary, the king groaned and pulled the duvet over his head as he mumbled an irritated, incoherent something that made his son laugh.

He hoped, perhaps, that his son would leave him be and let him rest. It had been a long day. One which, were it a book, would have been an interminable volume filled with a thousand tales of small disappointments, delay and compromise. Council had run long after Laurelin's waning and he had not even time to sit and read with Curufinwë as he had planned. Instead, he had taken a quick meal in his study while pouring over the minutes, before collapsing into bed, exhausted. It would all begin again on the morrow, he knew — if tomorrow had not in fact already arrived.

The thought made the king shudder and he wrapped the duvet tighter around his shoulders, as if to guard against the inexorable advance of morning.

But the weight that was Curufinwë did not shift. If anything, it moved closer.

"Atar..." his son insisted again, more quietly this time, his words accompanied by a few gentle nudges that shook the king's shoulder. "I know you are tired, so I will not keep you awake long. I promise."

"What is it?" the king heard himself mutter, his voice muffled by the layers of warm, comfortable sheets that shielded him from the world without.

"I want to ask you something," came Curufinwë's answer. "You don't even have to open your eyes. You just have to be honest."

"Very well," the king replied in a faint murmur, ready to surrender once again to the comforting oblivion of sleep. "Ask..."

"Do you like gold or silver?"

Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, the king frowned. Could such a bizarre question really not have waited until morning? He voiced this thought to his son, who brushed it away with a bright impatience that had no place at such an indecent hour.

"No, it cannot wait. Please answer my question. Gold, or silver?"

"Gold," the king muttered.

"Thank you. Now, what is your favourite shape, Atar? A circle or a square?"

"A square..." he answered, wondering whether or not he might have been asleep after all, such were the strange questions his son fired at him.

"Now give me your hand."

When Curufinwë threw back the covers, the king did not even have the strength to protest. All the warmth leeched from the bed, dissipating in the invading gust of chilly air. Screwing his eyes tight-shut, he moaned and buried his head deeper into the pillows to escape the prying light of Telperion. As he did, Curufinwë grasped his hand, coaxing it away from his face, and began to work, or so it seemed, on tying something around the middle finger of his right hand.

"Curufinwë, what are you doing?" he admonished, weakly. "It is far too early for this..."

"Shh, Atar. It's nearly done..."

Then he felt Curufinwë untie whatever he had strung around his finger, and once his son was finished, the duvets came crashing down upon the king's head, falling back into place with a whoosh of air. The weight that was Curufinwë made the mattress sink and judder as he spinned on his backside and bounced across to the other side, where the king heard a pair of bare feet hit the carpeted floor with a thump.

"Thank you, Atar," he heard Curufinwë say. "That is all I wanted to know. You may go back to sleep now."

The king did, drifting easily and peacefully into a welcome rest. When he woke the next morning to face the day, he did not recall his son's peculiar intrusion, and had not until exactly a month later.

That was why he had been surprised to find in his study a small, velvet box sat upon his desk. A note was attached to it. The note was a square of paper, folded neatly in half. It was addressed to him, "To Atar," and written in Curufinwë's hand. With a smile, the king sat down behind his desk, unfolded the paper and read:

"Gold.

Square.

String.

For you.

C."

Puzzled, trying to work out what in all the circles of Arda his son meant, the king laid aside the note and cracked open the black, velvet box.

Inside was a ring. A ring of gold, with broad shoulders engraved with dizzying, miniscule knot-work. Into the ring's broad shoulders was set a brilliant red ruby, cut and polished so that when the light caught it, it sparkled like a fire-spilling star.

The king's eyes widened. His hand flew to his mouth and he began to bite his nails in a distracted manner as he turned the ring over and over again in his other hand.

It was beautiful. So beautiful it made his heart clench in an odd way he could not quite explain. What a lovely gift! Had his son chosen this for him? How he hoped it would fit!

Smiling, the king tried the ring upon a finger – the middle finger of his right hand – and was astonished to find that it was a perfect fit. For a moment, the king sat in his chair behind his desk, dumbfounded and staring at the perfect, little marvel that adorned his hand, wondering who his son had commissioned and how they had managed to achieve such a close fit. Had Curufinwë managed to sneak away another of his rings without being spotted?

Then a memory stirred at the back of his mind. A memory of strange questions, cold air, weariness and string, and he began to laugh in realisation.

Of course Curufinwë had made it. He had measured him for it.

The king's heart swelled with sudden emotion, and he could not stop smiling as he beheld his son's beautiful, glittering handiwork – all the more beautiful now because Curufinwë, his wonderful, clever and able Curufinwë, had made it for him.

Having abandoned his study to wander the palace in search of his son, Minyandil had directed him to the glass house, where he found Curufinwë sat upon the ground, sketching an agapanthus. His son was so lost in thought, his expression taut with concentration, that he did not notice his father approach.

Feeling mischievous, the king crept up on his son, even managing to push aside a thicket of trailing vines with nary a rustle, and came to rest right behind him. Leaning forward slightly, the king peered over his son's shoulder and observed his drawing. It was in the early stages, a few light strokes of the pencil, a mere outline, but the king knew that with time and attention it would be as accomplished as anything else wrought by his son's skilled hand.

"Very good, Curufinwë," the king whispered in his son's ear. "To what purpose will you employ the agapanthus?"

To his delight, his son let out a strangled yell and flailed with fright, dropping his pencil. His son turned with wide, startled eyes, which quickly narrowed to impatient slits when he realised his father had made a fool of him. The king laughed and had to dance away, as Curufinwë made a playful swipe at him, only to miss. This only made the king laugh harder and caused Curufinwë to scramble to his feet. It ended with the king darting from the glasshouse and Curufinwë giving chase, his sketchbook and pencils abandoned.

The king managed to run all the way to the lake before Curufinwë finally caught up with him and made a great leap, landing upon his back with a triumphant roar. Feeling his legs buckle, the king let out a spluttered cry of surprise as he tumbled to the ground, where he came to rest and lay on his back, laughing, upon the grass.

Curufinwë pushed himself upright stood at the king's feet, a silhouette against the bright day-glare of Laurelin. His son's hair was a tangled mess and he was breathing hard. Then again, the king thought, that was not so surprising, as they had both made quite the run. He dared not think what he looked like at the moment, laughing like a lunatic, rolling around on the ground, probably covered in grass.

"Atar! You made me score pencil across my drawing!" his son complained.

"Ah, I am sorry, my son," the king replied. He still could not stop laughing, even as his eyes followed the erratic, bobbing progress of a white butterfly as it fluttered behind Curufinwë's head. "You were so lost in thought, temptation mastered me and I thought that startling you would provide me a moment's amusement. Forgive me. I only came to thank you."

"Came to thank me?" Curufinwë began, with a puzzled frown. "For what—?"

His son paused. His eyes flitted to his father's hand and noticed for the first time the new addition to the king's raiment.

To the king's surprise, Curufinwë's young face fell, shadowed with a sudden disquiet.

"Whatever is the matter, Curufinwë?" the king inquired, concernedly.

"Does it fit?" his son inquired, fixing the king with an anxious look.

"Of course it fits," he said, smiling, as he sat up and raised his hand in the air to prove to his son that it did. "You measured me for it."

But Curufinwë was not convinced.

"Really, Atar, you do not have to be kind to me," his son insisted. "If it does not fit, then I will take it away again and alter it until—"

"Curufinwë..." the king assured, interrupting his son, who looked at him with wide eyes full of trepidation. "Do not worry. It fits perfectly."

The tense anxiety that had clouded his son's features dissipated, leaving behind in its place the beginnings of a tentative smile. Curufinwë ran a hand through his hair and began to shuffle his feet.

"I am sorry, Atar," he laughed. "I know it is silly... but I wanted it to be perfect. I am not sure that it is, not at all, but I wanted it to be."

The king felt his heart squeeze painfully at his son's, frankly silly, admission.

Then Curufinwë paused for a moment, staring at the ring on the king's hand, before his gaze returned to rest upon his father. His eyes glinted with a furtive sort of longing, as though he were working up the courage to say something.

"Curufinwë...?" his father prompted gently. But before he could utter another word, his son blurted out his request in an anxious rush.

"Atar, I am going to ask you something, and please be honest," Curufinwë said, wringing his hands.

"That depends on what you are going to ask me," the king answered, which earned him a short, anxious laugh from Curufinwë.

Another silence fell.

Then his son asked tentatively, "... do you like it?"

In a heartbeat, the king was on his feet.

Closing the distance between them in two long strides, he took his son's worried face in his hands and kissed him repeatedly upon the forehead before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

Ignoring his son's outraged, muffled protests, he held Curufinwë tight against his chest, and did not let him go, even when his son began to laugh and struggle in earnest.

Speaking over his son's shoulder, in a whisper so quiet that it was carried away upon the wind, he said,

"Curufinwë, it is perfect."

oOo

"As you commanded, my lady, a fire has been lit. The shivering trespassers have been installed in front of it and bundled with blankets. Some hot drinks, I was assured, were on their way," Olórin announced, having to raise his voice to contend with the whirling wind and rain that ran wild along the length of the Lightless Shore.

Storms were commonplace here. The kinds that rattled roof-tiles and window panes and howled so fiercely they sent stinging salt-winds to scour the black and lifeless sands. The kind that lit the distant horizon with white towers of forked lightening and rent the air with roars of thunder.

Still, the Lady Nienna would not close the windows.

She sat as she always did. At the window, looking out upon the Lightless Shore. The ragged remains of curtains flapped and snapped in the wind. The same breeze that attacked the curtains and made the storm shutters rattle on their hinges tugged at the grey veil that covered the Lady's face. Her veil was lifted in a flurry, and Olórin, for the briefest of moments, caught a glimpse of cracked, parched and bleeding lips and the hollows of sunken cheeks tracked with tears.

Without turning, she spoke in her soft, hoarse voice.

"Thank you, Olórin," she replied. "They were so very cold. I watched them shivering from my window."

From the shore came another ferocious howl of wind, and Olórin flinched as he felt yet another spray of salt catch him across the face. With an irritable jerk of his hands he wiped his face clean with his sleeve, then grimaced as he accidentally trailed water in his mouth. The tang of salt was so strong he felt it fizz upon his tongue.

Wrinkling his face in distaste, he grumbled, "Yes, Lady. Thanks to you, they just missed a lashing from one of our storms. What luck those two have had! No doubt it was luck that propelled them over the mountains. Or that is what they maintain, at least. No matter how much we press them, they will not tell. I am of the opinion they sailed. After all, they brought those strange, little creatures with them, if creatures they were indeed. And they certainly did not jump over the mountains. What is your opinion, Lady, on this most peculiar circumstance?"

"I am not sure, but I must confess it does concern me. Such an event has never before come to pass."

There was a pause, during which the wind roared and made the made the walls of the mansion creak and groan.

"My Lady?" Olórin prompted.

There was a rustle as the Lady Nienna stirred. Salt-stiffened fabric cracked as she shifted. She turned and Olórin realised she was looking at him.

"I think I have found the Noldóran's son," she said.

Olórin's bushy, white brows shot up in surprise. A flash of memory assailed him: of Lórien, of the gardens of Irmo, a grassy knoll upon which sat a bier bedecked in white flowers, the frail body of the silver-haired Noldorin queen and a small, dark-haired boy with wide, strange eyes, who held her cold, lifeless hand and whispered over and over again that he was sorry.

"The Noldóran's son?" he queried, recalling the laughing, stone-throwing young man he had encountered down on the beach, with raven dark hair and those same wide, strange, glittering grey eyes. "Ah, then I suppose the name Curvo I was given is short for Curufinwë. He has grown since last I set eyes upon him. I had not known he had left Tirion."

"He wanders often," the Lady Nienna replied.

"And who is this Rúmil with whom he travels?"

"A Loremaster of the School in Tirion."

"Would you like me to send word to king Finwë?" Olórin offered.

"It is already done."

"Then what would you have me do?" he ventured, wondering to what purpose he had been summoned.

"You will speak to them. Comfort them. Afford them the chance to find healing and happiness within these halls."

"My Lady...?" Olórin inquired, still at a loss.

A gust of wind battered through the windows and flung them open wide to the walls. The Lady Nienna's grey veil writhed and fluttered, and Olórin, with a jolt of surprise noticed what could have been a trembling smile, revealing rows of stained teeth set between desiccated, salt-stung lips.

She spoke directly into his mind, and said,

This is a chance for you to learn a little of pity...

Then she added, aloud,

"Bring them to me when they are ready."

oOo

The first question Rúmil asked of the Maiar, who busied and fussed about him and Fëanáro in an anxious, collective sort of fret, was, "What day is it?"

Immediately, they froze and whirled round to look at him where he sat cross-legged upon the floor with eyes round and wide. Almost fearful. Almost as if they did not know quite what to do with them.

To Rúmil's surprise, his innocent query bamboozled the servants of Nienna into conference.

After a short, muttered conversation, during which Rúmil spied one particular participant counting upon her fingers, their elected spokesperson – a drab looking man in grey – replied in a quiet and solemn tone that by their reckoning it must be the first day of the Sighing of the Lúsina.

"Ah," Rúmil said, offering the clutch of Maiar a kind smile, "then we have not been gone long."

"Gone long?" the woman who had been counting upon her fingers repeated, before asking in broken Quenya. "You gone how long? Whence came you?"

"We have told you before. That is none of your business," Fëanáro interjected icily, his eyes flashing.

The female servant stared impassively at Fëanáro (for a moment that seemed drawn a little too long for comfort) before she blinked and turned away.

With a weak, apologetic sort of relief, Rúmil smiled at no one in particular and pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders. He shivered.

He had been wondering how long they had been gone. Mainly out of consideration for Norno, Cullo and Calassë, who would no doubt be worried were they not to return from their excursion. But if the servants of Nienna were correct, it was still the same day as when they had said their goodbyes to Norno at the outpost of Mettanúmen. He recalled having seen the dying vestiges of the light of Laurelin bleeding into the darkness when he had woken upon the Lightless Shore, but had not known whether or not that light had belonged to the same day or an entirely different one.

Eternal darkness, it appeared, did rather funny things to one's concept of time.

He felt the nudge of an elbow and he turned to find Fëanáro offering him a grey mug filled to the brim with a steaming hot liquid.

"Here," Fëanáro said, shoving it into his hands. "They just gave me this. It's nice. Try it."

Grateful, Rúmil lifted the mug to his lips and was pleasantly surprised to breathe in the heady, mouth-watering tang of citrus. Upon taking a sip, he tasted hot sugared lemons and felt the cold begin to melt from his bones. Fëanáro was right. It was lovely. If only those useless Maiar would hurry up and get that fire going...

As he sat upon the cold, rotting floorboards with Fëanáro, sipping his hot lemon drink, Rúmil thought, too, about Norno and the mail caravan. He wondered whether it would be possible to be back before nightfall – or at least to get a message to them to let them know they were well.

This passing thought was the father of the second question Rúmil asked the Maiar, who had by then formed an anxious huddle around the damp, empty fire grate at the other end of the room, attempting coax their sad, little bundle of kindling into flame.

His question was,

"When might we leave?"

The grey, solemn Maiar looked askance at one another. His question hung rather too long in the air before they turned to him with smiles too bright and answered that they wanted to be certain they were recovered before casting them adrift.

"It is cold on the other side of the mountains," the elected spokesperson intoned. "We would not want you to freeze."

That was not what he had asked.

It was then that Rúmil began to suspect there was something amiss.

However, he elected to keep it to himself, at least for the moment. Now was not the time to discuss such matters. Not when the servants of Nienna were so close at hand, who whispered above their heads in swift, impenetrable Valarin, and who shot them curious looks over their shoulders when they thought they were not watching.

Instead, he shuffled away from Fëanáro, to a warmer, more welcoming spot by the small, sparking, protesting fire, which the Maiar had managed to bring to life (thanks to their having followed Fëanáro's terse instructions). He sipped his lemon drink in a thoughtful silence – ignoring the hovering servants of Nienna who loitered like shadows in corners and watched them with anxious eyes.

Time passed. And eventually, there came a sharp knock on the door. It opened to reveal Olórin the Maia: the long-haired, grey-clad, gimlet-eyed man who had found them and brought them inside.

Inclining his head respectfully, Olórin smiled and said, "The Lady Nienna requests your presence."

It was a wrench to leave the comfort of the fire behind him, but a direct summons could not be ignored – no matter how much Fëanáro grumbled and protested to the contrary. Rúmil was not sorry, however, to leave behind the stares that followed them out of the room until, mercifully, the door creaked shut behind them.

He breathed a sigh of relief and noticed that here, out in the corridor, his breath hung like smoke in front of his eyes. The damp clung to him like the close air of the Culumambor, though unlike the oppressive heat and insects that swarmed in the orange groves outside Valmar, here the air was freezing and lifeless.

"It's so cold," he heard Fëanáro mutter darkly. "How can you stand living here?"

"It does not bother me," Olórin answered with his customary frankness. "We Ainu do not feel it as you do, therefore we do not bother with such nonsense as fires."

"I suppose that is why your colleagues were in such a mess trying to start one."

"Ha, yes. I suppose you are right," Olórin mused. "It must have proven quite the challenge for them."

Then he turned to them and fixed them with an altogether graver countenance.

"I will now guide you to the room in which Lady Nienna awaits your presence. Stay close behind me," Olórin warned. "If you do not, it is highly likely you will get lost."

"What happens if we get lost?" Fëanáro demanded.

"I am not entirely certain I will be able to find you if you do. This particular corner of Eä is entirely subject to the will of the Lady Nienna. As she does not always pay close attention to her immediate surroundings, the halls of her domain are somewhat mutable. You can open any number of doors and find that the rooms behind them are not the same ones as when last you looked. Now, if you would..."

Without a further word, the grey-cloaked Maia turned and marched off with his staff in hand. As Olórin walked, his staff's tip flared white for a brief instant, bright and painful to behold, before dying down to glow with a cold, pale blue light.

With a snort, Fëanáro jammed his hands into his pockets and strode after Olórin, leaving Rúmil trailing at the back, hurrying to catch up and blowing frantically into his hands in attempt to coax some heat into his leaden fingers.

They walked.

And they walked.

They walked for what felt like an age along what appeared to be an interminable, winding corridor.

The corridor – the infernal, interminable corridor! – was dark and freezing. Nary a torch upon the walls to spark light and life into their sombre surroundings but ones which had long ago been set in rusty sconces to rot. The whole place reeked of the sea, but not in a pleasant way that reminded him of home. The boards they walked upon were sodden and warped, and at irregular, alarming intervals, the entire hallway would rattle and shudder as if, just beyond the walls, the wind howled and great roars of thunder rumbled with the intent of shaking the dwelling of Nienna to its very foundations.

It was a strange place too. There was no denying it. Olórin was right. This place was entirely subject to the will of Nienna. Like the ancient arch at the entrance to the domain of Mandos, the known rules of Arda did not seem to apply here. Perspective and reality warped and bended. Branching corridors disappeared and reappeared in a dizzying rush as they followed Olórin, who walked a few carefully spaced paces ahead, carrying his staff in his hand as a guiding light.

Occasionally, as if to test the limits of Nienna's power, Fëanáro would dart forward and open doors at random.

They always led to the same place. An empty room, with tall windows thrown open wide that looked upon the vast, black expanse of the Ekkaia.

It was now clear to Rúmil that there was not a chance they could escape these halls unaided.

A sliver of apprehension began to work its way into his mind and he began to wonder.

They walked for quite a long time until Olórin stopped in front of a door that looked, quite frankly, like all the other doors they had passed.

"And here we are," Olórin announced, with a small smile.

Rúmil felt his heart begin to race, though from anticipation or dread, he did not know.

"Where does it lead us?" he heard Fëanáro ask.

"To the Lady Nienna," Olórin replied, by way of answer.

"And what does she want?" Fëanáro demanded, dispensing of the Vala's title with calculated insolence.

If Olórin had marked Fëanáro's rudeness, he did not acknowledge it. Instead he smiled and answered, "To know how you got here and where you are going, I'd wager."

"And what if we refuse to tell her?"

"Oh, I'm sure she'd wring it out of you."

"Do you enjoy wringing secrets from your captives as much as your mistress?" Fëanáro shot back.

"Even more so," Olórin said. "For you see, you two have somehow – very mysteriously – managed to end up on the wrong side of the Pelóri. How you have come to be here is an utter mystery and I would love nothing more than to wring your secrets out of you. Fortunately for you, my Lady forbids it. The least I can do is ensure you are not lost on the way to and from your room. With your ill-luck, chances are you'll attempt the journey back and end at Cuivienen."

"With your help, you could always show us the way out, instead?" Rúmil chanced, with a hopeful, sidelong glance at the Maia.

He knew his request would be met with an outright refusal. When Olórin's reply came, therefore, it did not surprise him.

"Out of the question, Master Rúmil. Milady insists on keeping you safe here."

Safe?

He shot a look of trepidation at Fëanáro, which was returned. One glance was all he needed to know that they were agreed. Still, it was useful to know where matters stood. It confirmed his earlier suspicions and it seemed Fëanáro was working along similar lines.

Olórin the Maia may have been forbidden to wring their secrets from them, but the same did not necessarily apply to the Lady Nienna. They were being kept here, he knew. But why? Had they really done something unforgivably wrong by simply being here? Was this Melkor's true intent? To have them punished for trespassing upon a black and lifeless spit of sand?

Olórin placed the glowing tip of his staff upon the door and whispered a few guttural syllables of Valarin.

The door opened to reveal a windowless room.

Low-ceilinged, grey and miserable, paint peeled in curling strips like bark from crumbling walls. Candles sputtered in sconces, struggling to cast their meagre light. At the end of the room was a low dais. Above it, a faded canopy of thick velvet draped down to brush the dusty, unvarnished floor. Under the canopy, a woman sat upon a low bench. She was covered in piles of ragged, filthy veils that obscured her face, veils that were so long they trailed almost to the corners of the dais and pooled about her feet like the iron grey water of the seas of the north.

Olórin bowed low in greeting.

"Milady..."

"Thank you Olórin," she said. Her voice was distant and hoarse. "You may leave us."

Olórin inclined his head in obeisance.

"Of course, my Lady," he replied, before taking a gracious step back.

Rúmil heard the door close behind him. And he was left standing with Fëanáro in front of yet another Vala. His heart, that had begun to race even before Olórin had led them inside, was now hammering. The familiar feeling of light-headedness, of nausea and sweaty palms, that accompanied an attack of nerves was creeping up on him, and he was not sure why. He had held counsel with Valar before, had he not? Had the encounter with Melkor shaken him so very badly?

No. It was not that.

It was not fear. Or nerves.

Then what? What is this feeling?

The grey veils stirred and the Lady Nienna held up a hand in greeting, the stiff fabric falling away to reveal a hand that was red and cold and swollen with chilblains.

"Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro, Master Rúmil," she said. "I bid you welcome."

Both Rúmil and Fëanáro managed but a tight nod apiece.

There followed a long, excruciating pause during which the Lady Nienna remained forbiddingly silent, observing them through layers of torn veils that rendered her faceless, shapeless. Though he could not see her eyes, Rúmil knew she was looking at him. He could feel the weight of her presence. It pressed down upon him, but not in the way that Melkor's had. Where Melkor's was brash and oppressive and sought to crush and dominate, the Lady Nienna's was more like a low, heavy sky with falling tendrils of wispy raincloud.

Rúmil could feel it keenly as she reached out. It was inquisitive, desiring to pry into his heart and mind in order to know his secrets, coming close – so close Rúmil could sense her presence curling about him – but never touching. He knew she wanted to delve into their minds and read what was written there. She wanted to know how they – the impossible, wandering Noldor – had come to be here. But she would not, for she was not Melkor.

That thought, however, did not console him. For though it seemed she would not force them to confess, she was making it perfectly clear that she possessed the power to do so.

Stop it...

He felt his fists curl.

I beg you leave me be...

Then, with a sickening lurch, a memory surfaced. A memory of the words Lady Nienna had spoken during the Debate: the words the Valar had spoken, which had condemned Lady Míriel – his friend, his patron and his queen – to remain forever discarnate. A sharp, diamond-hard speck of indignation began to needle at him, refusing to be ignored.

"... the Children are not mighty: in life they are but little, and can effect little... They are young, and they know Time only. Their minds are as the hands of their babes, little in grasp, and even that grasp is yet unfilled..."

Stupid. Weak. Willful, grasping, blundering creatures. A conglomeration of heedless, ignorant infants who required a guiding hand or a slap on the wrist as occasion required.

That was what she thought of them. That was exactly what they all thought! Whether the Valar helped or hindered, it did not matter. It did not matter a jot. All of them looked down their noses at them.

And still she was there, curling about him like the abjuring fog that loitered about Mandos. The Lady Nienna. Rúmil felt a stab of hot, black anger and it shot out like a whip-crack.

GET GONE!

There was a rustle of fabric, and without warning, the Lady Nienna pulled away. The oppressive pall that hung about him dissipated instantly, leaving him light-headed and reeling.

How dare you...

Rúmil's heart drummed a jittering tattoo. His entire body trembled (though he hated that he trembled) and his mind now positively crackled with suppressed rage. Oh, how he wanted to say something, anything, to break this strange, stultifying silence. He risked a glance at Fëanáro. The young prince stood, his posture rigid, and stared fixedly at Lady Nienna, his eyes hard, bright and unblinking.

Then she spoke.

"I wish," she whispered, "to ask each of you a question. You are by no means obliged to answer."

His chest tightening with anxiety, Rúmil only managed a tense nod. Fëanáro, however, remained quite still. His eyes were narrowed; his countenance challenging.

"If we play your game, will you let us go?" he heard Fëanáro say, the boy's voice laced with impatience.

The veils cracked and shifted as the Vala nodded in assent.

"Then speak," Fëanáro commanded, with a dismissive curtness. "I do not wish to be detained in this cheerless hovel for a second longer."

There was a short pause, before the Lady Nienna asked Fëanáro,

"How did you come to wander the Lightless Shore?"

"That is none of your business," Fëanáro answered coldly.

"Very well. You have refused to answer my question, and that is your right. For the present, however, you shall remain here. Good day."

Rúmil opened his mouth to protest, but as soon as he did, he felt a horrible lurch.

The world turned inside out.

For the briefest instant, nothing was where it should have been. It felt like he was falling, except that when you fell, you tended to feel like you were heading downwards, not in all directions at once. Then there was a flash and his feet found something solid beneath them. Disorientated and knocked thoroughly off-balance, he staggered, almost falling to the floor. He heard the sound of dry boots skidding across a warped floor and the sharp hiss of Fëanáro cursing. Yes. The solid matter beneath his feet was a floor. It was wooden. There were knots in the grain and his hands were braced against it. Then he looked up and blinked in astonishment.

They had been transported back to their room.

There was the tiny, sorry excuse for a fire, now burning merrily. There were the mouldy blankets, the half-empty mugs of that mysterious lemon drink.

Rúmil felt a seething, boiling rage begin to bubble up inside him.

Never in his life had he felt so small.

How dare she? Throwing her weight around. Abusing her power. Dismissing them peremptorily as though they were nothing more than disobedient children...

There was a shuffling sound from somewhere to his right. He looked round as Fëanáro pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself down. With a smirk, Fëanáro said, "Well that was pointless. Impressive, but pointless. She can try that all she wants, but she'll get nothing from me. Was she sniffing about you, too, Rúmil? I can tell when it's happening to me, but not when it's happening to other people—"

Fëanáro trailed off, pausing a moment to survey Rúmil with concern. Then he asked, "Rúmil, are you alright?"

The anger, the indignation – all of it – had been festering, hot and wild, in a dark corner of his mind. It was consuming. Like a sour, forgotten something that had been left to ferment in the bottom of a jar, it fizzed and bubbled and expanded until there was no more room left to contain it.

With a snarl, Rúmil whipped round and stormed towards the door. He threw it open and strode out into the frozen corridor in an ire, not thinking, heedless of where he was going, only knowing that he had to go somewhere. Striding down the corridor, his boots thumping loudly, he wrenched open the nearest door...

...only to find the same room they always found when a door was opened. An empty room, with tall windows thrown open wide that looked upon the vast, black expanse of the Ekkaia.

For a moment, Rúmil stood and stared in a dazed sort of outrage. Quick footsteps drew up behind him and he heard Fëanáro's voice.

"Rúmil, what are you—?"

Fëanáro's eyebrows shot up in surprise when Rúmil's fist shot out and connected with the thick, wooden door, making it rattle on its hinges. The sound could be heard even over the howling wind and rain. It was satisfying, so he did it again, ignoring the throbbing pain that scored across his knuckles. Then he turned and kicked at the door. It battered open wide to the wall and left a dent in the mouldering plaster. Without even considering whether or not it was safe, Rúmil then ran for the balcony, not stopping until he skidded upon slick, wet stone and the rain began to lash at him like needles, soaking him to the skin in seconds. He stopped only when he collided hard with the balustrade and folded over it like a wet rag.

Breathing hard, he clung to it, and felt the frozen rain bleed into his hair, his clothes, his skin.

All the old, bitter feelings were coming back. He had thought them faded. Perhaps, dare he say it, almost gone. But it was painfully clear now that the sting of them had merely dulled. Coming here had reopened the wound.

With neither right nor precedent, they had condemned the Queen to death. Now, without right, without precedent, he was being held unjustly by one of the very beings who claimed to offer freedom but who were more than happy of snatching it away at will.

His nails dug into the crumbling stonework and he felt his teeth grind.

Unfair. It was so horribly, horribly unfair...

Above the lashing rain, he heard the splashing of footsteps, then felt a pair of heavy hands grab him by the shoulders, dragging him off the exposed balcony, back into the wan and cheerless old room.

Dripping wet, he was gently but firmly shoved over the threshold, which was lucky, as at that moment a terrific flash of lightning tore the sky overhead, followed immediately by a long, rumbling roar of thunder.

"I would not go outside, if I were you," a gruff familiar voice admonished.

It was Olórin.

Dripping wet, Rúmil threw the Maia a baleful glare as Fëanáro crossed the floor and worked to close the windows, which the wind insisted on hauling out of his grasp. It was not long before Fëanáro won the battle and managed to slip the catch closed. The rain rattled against the glass, almost in protest.

Then Rúmil rounded on Olórin.

"What are you, my shadow?" he snapped. "Get out of my sight, you pernicious crow!"

Olórin frowned and replied, "I am neither shadow nor crow, Master Rúmil. What have I done to warrant such harsh words used against me?"

"You? Nothing in particular," Rúmil retorted, with a sharp smile. "I am simply sick fed up of your mistress and her kind, and as you seem to be her lapdog and I cannot scream at her, I am taking out my frustrations on you."

"Why?" came Fëanáro's sudden query.

Both Rúmil and Olórin turned. Fëanáro stood by the rattling window, his arms folded, listening intently. His eyes were bright and the line of his mouth was thin and hard.

"Why are you sick of Nienna and her kind?"

Blinking stupidly, the realisation began to dawn on Rúmil that he had been fuming and snorting and charging about like a lunatic without once mentioning why.

He snorted, managed a short bark of a laugh, and ran a hand through his wet hair. "I am sorry, Fëanáro," he replied. "I should have explained."

Taking a deep breath, Rúmil attempted to form a coherent explanation that would not involve the mention of the boy's mother.

"Fëanáro, do you recall how the Lady Nienna described us during the Debate?" he inquired. His tone was level and calm, though a slight tremor betrayed the acute sense of indignation that seethed just below the surface.

"Described who?"

"Me, you, your father, my mother, our families, our people. Everyone," Rúmil elaborated with an agitated wave of a hand.

"I do not recall exactly to which passage you refer."

"Then I will tell you," Rúmil said. "She said, and I quote, that we, the Children (and I despise that diminutive term) are not mighty. That in life we are but little and can effect little. That we are young and know only time. That our minds are as the hands of infants, little in grasp, and even our attempts to understand the world and its secrets are futile, for our grasp is unfilled, as though we swat with unfocussed eyes at naught but air."

Fëanáro snorted and his expression darkened into a frown. Olórin looked abashed.

Turning to Rúmil, the Maia immediately leapt to his mistress' defence, crying out, "The Lady Nienna not mean—"

"Yes she did," Rúmil seethed. He leaned forward and fixed Olórin with a steely look. "To her, we are nothing but stupid, grasping, ignorant creatures. Imprisoning us here. Flaunting her power—"

"The Lady Nienna would not behave in such a manner—!"

"Then tell us why she won't let us go?"

"She merely wishes to know how you got here!" Olórin snapped. "If you would but tell her, I am certain she would release you."

"Oh, we know that," Rúmil shot back. "We are simply wondering why we are obligated to tell her anything at all!"

For the first time, Olórin wavered. The Maia opened his mouth in retort, but no explanation was forthcoming. Discomfited, Olórin frowned and stared stonily at Rúmil.

"You don't know do you?" Rúmil pressed, smiling widely now that he had won his little victory. "You don't know why we have to tell her. Well, do you know what? During that rather important exchange with her fellows, she also described us as obdurate. I can tell you right now, that she was not wrong about that. Right at this moment, Olórin, I am feeling particularly obdurate. Therefore, I will state this clearly and unequivocally and I will lean right into your ear thus so you can hear me: I will tell her nothing! And do you know why? Because I do not need to. The lightless shore is forbidden. By whose authority?"

"I do not know."

Rúmil let out a scornful laugh.

"Of course you don't!" he exclaimed, with an agitated jerk of his hands. "Your masters and mistresses brought us here and offered us freedom. Except we cannot go there. There is forbidden. Or there. And especially there. Oh, and we cannot do this. Or that. Except if you're royal and it suits you. Then we'll make an exception. And as you do not know by whose authority your mistress detains us, I will assume that she has no authority to detain us and is therefore abusing her power. How typical of the Valar! In one hand they present us with the much-vaunted freedom and riches of the undying paradise of Aman, but when it suits them, they crush their hand into a fist and raise the bars of the cage about us!"

"Now see here," Olórin began darkly.

But Rúmil in his mastering anger overrode him.

"Do not see here me," he hissed alarmingly. "You do not get to see here me. Right at this moment, there is nothing you could say to me that would make me take back anything I have said. The hypocrisy, the lies and half-truths that your kind peddle in, quite frankly, disgust me and I will have nothing more to do with you. Go trot at your mistress' heels, lapdog!"

Swirling round in a storm of anger, Rúmil stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him with a mighty bang.

Outside in the freezing, interminable corridor, the sound of it echoed into the distance – a loud, brash, and thrillingly alive intrusion.

As he wrenched open the door to the room with the lonely, little fire, he threw himself down in a rage upon the blankets and hoped Nienna had heard every bit of it.

oOo

"Ingrates..." Olórin could be heard muttering under his breath, as he wandered the halls of Nienna in a foul temper. "I rescue them from an uncertain fate on the shores and this is the thanks I get?"

This far into the halls, the walls of the corridor warped and distorted about him. Entire passageways winked in and out of being in an endless, dizzying cycle. Only the walls and floors within range of the light of his staff remained substantial, though this too was impermanent. For as soon as they were no longer touched by the light, they began to dissolve, only to reform, like smoke, into somewhere else entirely.

It would have appeared, at first glance, that Olórin was lost. But the truth of the matter was that he knew exactly where he was going. He was looking for the room where the books were kept: one of the few mercifully immutable constants of the dwelling of Nienna. Unfortunately, to get there, one was forced to wade through an ocean of swirling inconstants.

Olórin was looking for the room where the books were kept because he was troubled. He was troubled because the words of that upstart, Noldorin loremaster had got under his skin. Having been likened to a lapdog had irritated him. In fact, he could not stop thinking about it. It annoyed him particularly because he was not, in fact, a servant of Nienna. He was a servant of no one, and therefore trotted at the heels of no master. In reality, he was merely a pupil, and had come here to learn, not to be abused by a smart-mouthed elf.

Up ahead, a tall, lurking shape drifted into existence. In the midst of the swirling chaos surrounding it, it stood solid and unaffected. Olórin smiled grimly. Altering his course a little as he had wandered a bit too far to the left, the chaos parted to let him pass, and in one, two, three paces that took him further than could be travelled anywhere within the circles of Arda, he stood before the door of the room where the books were kept.

There was no lock upon the door. Neither were there hinges, nor a handle, nor anything else that might have marked it as a door. There was only a symbol carved into its surface in an ancient language, depicting the name of the One.

At his touch, it dispersed with a hiss like falling sand, and as he entered, it began to reform again behind him, trickling upward until all the million tiny grains were once again in place, as though it had never moved.

Olórin liked the room where the books were kept. It was a warm, dry, tumbled mess of ramshackle wooden shelves and tables. Among all the benches and chairs that were strewn around, not one of them had a full set of even legs. Gem lamps were set in sconces upon the walls and burned with a soft, yellow light that mimicked the flickering of candles; a gift from Noldorin craftsmen that had somehow found its way here. The place smelled of dust and old, sour paper. Stacks of stone tablets were piled high in corners upon which were carved words of power and the memories of Almaren. Rolls of parchment and books, more recent acquisitions, were scattered indiscriminately across the shelves.

When Olórin had first arrived, he had wanted to organise the collection, but the others had refused his request, for they knew exactly where everything was. He had respected their wishes, had left well enough alone, and had, at length, come to learn himself how to find what he sought. As he riffled through the books, however, cursing and sneezing through dust clouds, searching for what he knew to be here somewhere, he thought that at least a measure of order would be no bad thing at all and that perhaps he would try again once again to broach the subject with the others.

Then his hands happened upon it. A slim volume, which, like all the more recent acquisitions, was bound in plain kidskin. Stamped in silver across the front, the title read: "The Statute of Finwë and Míriel and a collection of relevant matters pertaining to the Debate."

Flipping it open, Olórin wandered across to the nearest table, pulled up a rickety chair and began to read. He read about the circumstances of the birth of prince Curufinwë, the fading sickness which had taken the queen, leaving the king distraught and their son motherless. He read how the queen had refused to return, about king Finwë's grief which had become embittered beyond hope, and about how he had met the fair Lady Indis upon the slopes of Oiolossë and had requested to marry her. He read with particular interest the reasons of the Valar for allowing the marriage.

As Olórin read, all the while, he thought about Master Rúmil's words and the intensity and honesty with which he had uttered them. When he reached the transcript of the fiery exchange between Master Rúmil of the School in Tirion and the Noldóran, the loremaster's words and his contempt all became rather distressingly clear.

With a sigh, Olórin put down the book.

What a mess it all was. What a wretched, difficult mess...

He could not pick it apart – did not know what to think of it – and this troubled him. He had never had to think of it before. Had never had to form an opinion on the matter. In fact, he had never been asked his opinion on the matter. Having been a pupil of Irmo at the time, he had never needed to form one. But now, he felt it was important.

So he sat and he thought. But no matter how hard he thought, he could not come to any definite conclusion. He envied not the Valar in having been forced to make their decision, for whichever way the hammer of judgement might have fallen, it would not have heralded a happy outcome for all. Nonetheless, there was a niggling, troubling suspicion that lurked in the back of his mind that told him if the Noldóran had merely been content to wait and trust to hope.

But then what if the king had waited a hundred thousand years and still the queen refused?

Should he have waited?

He recalled a memory then; an accidental glimpse he had snatched through a trellis in the Gardens of Lórien, of king Finwë and his son. Queen Míriel, laid upon a bier, white flowers surrounding the vacant shell of her body. The king, distraught, sat upon a chair at his wife's feet, staring with red-rimmed, unfocused eyes at a distant point Olórin hoped he would never see. As the king sang to himself in a low, broken voice, his young, dark-haired son sat upon the grass and clung to his leg, looking up at him, afraid, not knowing what to say or do.

And what of Curufinwë? No, not Curufinwë. Fëanáro Rúmil had called him. And what, indeed, of Rúmil? The mystery of how they had arrived here was yet unsolved, but the reason why they had been found wandering together so far from Tirion was, perhaps, becoming clearer.

"Except if you're royal and it suits you. Then we'll make an exception..."

"He wanders often..."

Master Rúmil, it was clear, resented king Finwë for having made the decision to marry queen Indis. And the king's son wandered often. Were those two facts somehow connected?

He thought about how king Finwë's decision to remarry would have affected his son. He wondered what it would feel like to be discussed in such dispassionate terms as used by the Valar in their judgements. To be named an instrument of Eru in one breath, then a grievous fault of Arda Marred in another. He wondered how prince Fëanáro felt about having been the cause of his mother's fading? How he felt about his father having given up hope on her ever returning and taking such great steps to firmly bring that grief-stricken chapter of his life to a very definite close.

Olórin thought about this. And the more he did, the more he began to find that Master Rúmil's words, though they were harsh and embittered, made sense.

The realisation troubled him.

Though he knew it was far beyond him, he wished he could set it all right.

But hope was not lost.

Not yet.

"You will speak to them. Comfort them. Afford them the chance to find healing and happiness within these halls."

Perhaps... he could at least do something.

oOo

For a while (he did not know how long and had no way of measuring), Rúmil had sat in front of the fire, his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, unable to feel aught else but anger and unable to think about anything else than the reason why. Being so very angry, however, was tiring. He had forgotten how much energy it took to sustain such vehement opposition. Therefore, having taken the rest of his lemon drink (which to his surprise had still been warm) he had curled up in front of the fire and had watched the red, dying embers wink out one by one, there being nothing much else to do.

He had not heard Fëanáro approach, therefore when Rúmil felt the prince's hand land heavily upon his shoulder, he flinched.

"Rúmil, wake up."

"I wasn't sleeping!" he protested.

"Yes you were."

With a groan, Rúmil swatted away Fëanáro's hand and sat up with a great deal of loud yawning and a creaking of stiff bones. Blinking sleepily, he rubbed his bleary eyes and looked around.

"Oh, the fire's still going," he said vaguely, which was the first thing he noticed. The sad, little pile of tinder now blazed merrily in the grate.

"Olórin came in while you were sleeping and tended to it," Fëanáro explained. "He's much better with fire than the others. He said it will burn for as long as it needs to and will not die out unless he commands it."

"Ah," Rúmil replied, eloquently. "I suppose that is useful."

"It is."

"Fëanáro, how long have I been asleep?"

The prince shrugged. "Who knows?" he answered, frankly. "It is difficult to tell here, though not impossible. Observing the tides going in and out should give us a rough idea of time passing."

"And how are we supposed to do that when every time we step foot out of doors we are at risk of being fried by an errant bolt of lightning?"

Fëanáro smiled and said, "It doesn't rain all the time. I asked Olórin and he told me so when he came to tend the fire. It was not stormy when we arrived and, by lucky chance, there is a break in the weather right now."

Rúmil fixed Fëanáro with an exasperated look.

"Have you been wandering?"

"I was bored. And don't look at me like that! I didn't manage to get very far."

"Why not?"

Fëanáro let out a snort of laughter and said, "There was a strange Maia sitting out in the corridor. He was naked, covered head-to-toe in dirt, and crying loudly. I asked him the way out and he started hitting and scratching himself, so I just picked the door across the hall and left him to it."

"It wasn't Olórin?"

"Definitely not Olórin," Fëanáro stressed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "The Maia looked nothing like him and Olórin doesn't seem the type to make such exaggerated gestures."

"So you spoke to him?"

"To who? Olórin or the naked one?"

"Olórin."

"Not really. I only inquired about the weather in an awkward sort of manner because the last time we had seen one another you shouted in his face and called him a lapdog."

Rúmil bristled. Folding his arms and snorting with indignation, he said, "If it acts like a dog and barks like a dog then it is, in all likelihood, a dog."

"I know, I know! Rein in your temper, scholar. I do not dispute that," Fëanáro laughed, making a conciliatory gesture. "I did not wake you to talk about Olórin."

"Then why did you wake me?" Rúmil said thinly.

"What I was trying to say before you forced me off on a tangent was that I have figured out how to get outside."

Rúmil felt a sudden thrill of excitement. "Outside?" he demanded, urgently. "Outside where? To the shore or to the correct side of the Pelóri?"

"To the shore," Fëanáro confirmed, then laughed as Rúmil's face fell. "Don't look so disappointed. It's better than being cooped up in this room. If I sit here any longer I am certain I will permanently absorb the stench of these mouldy blankets drying out by Olórin's fire."

"How did you get outside?"

"When I dodged the strange Maia, I went into the room across the corridor. Naturally, when I opened the door, I found the same place as always: the room with the open windows and the balcony. The storm was still raging, so I sat by the window and watched the lightning. Then, when the storm cleared and the clouds dissipated, I sat out upon the balustrade and watched the stars instead. They're so much clearer out here than behind the mountains. It was beautiful. But when I got bored of that, I looked down and realised that the balcony is carved into the same black rocks that litter the shore and which eventually coalesce to form the Pelóri. I figured it would possible to jump down from them and onto the shore, and also that it would not be too difficult to climb back up if we had to."

"You see, I want to talk to you about something," Fëanáro went on, with a significant look. "But I do not want to talk about it here, where there is a chance we might be overheard..."

The next thing he knew, Rúmil was clambering over the slippery wet stone balustrade and whimpering as he felt his feet slithering around upon the slick stone beneath him. It was easy enough for Fëanáro to scramble down the rocks, and even though the drop was not very long at all, it was enough to merit at least a broken ankle or wrist or a nasty landing upon the stray boulders strewn below. Rúmil, therefore, made a more cautious descent.

By the time his feet finally sunk into the soft, black sand, Fëanáro was some distance away. He stood at the very edge of the ocean, letting the creeping surf bubble and froth about his boots. He had thrown back his hood and the wind stirred his hair. The air was fresh and smelled electric, carrying upon it the memory of lightning.

Wrapping his cloak tight about him to stave off the brisk breeze, Rúmil shivered and trudged across the sand until he came to a halt next to Fëanáro.

They remained silent for awhile, staring out across the ocean, which rippled and undulated under the black, star-strewn sky.

Then Fëanáro said, "I've never heard anyone talk like that before."

"Hmm?" Rúmil said in an inquiring tone. He had been too distracted by tracing the contours of Menelmacar to catch what Fëanáro had said.

"I said I have never heard anyone talk like that before."

"Like what?" Rúmil asked, puzzled.

"Truthfully. Like I am not the only one who feels that way about the Valar."

"You are not the only one. And neither am I, to be frank. There are a few others who question as we do."

His heart felt heavy. He paused for a moment, then sighed and added, "I do not hate them, you know. I just think that they made a terrible mistake."

"Yes. They could forgive Melkor but could not give my mother time," Fëanáro said tonelessly.

"Then make that two terrible mistakes," a familiar voice called out.

They both turned at the sound of footsteps labouring across the sand. Olórin approached, smiling, with his staff in hand. He came to rest at Fëanáro's side and leaned on his staff as he gazed out fondly at the ocean.

"You do not agree with the judgement of your masters?" Fëanáro enquired, coolly.

"To be perfectly frank, I do not quite know what to make of it. However, I am very definitely of the opinion that even the very wise cannot see all ends," Olórin answered. "And as I have before told you, I serve no master but the One. Therefore I am at liberty to speak as I find on the matter."

Fëanáro's head tilted slightly as he looked at the Maia askance and said nothing. Rúmil, however, felt intrigued enough by this unexpected show of independent thought.

"You said you were a pupil of Nienna?" Rúmil asked while retaining a polite sort of distance, as the embarrassment of having roared at Olórin, quite possibly unjustly, was beginning to creep up on him.

"I am," Olórin confirmed.

"Why?" Fëanáro asked. "What could you hope to learn from her?"

Olórin shrugged and replied, "A little peace. A little humility. Perhaps patience."

"Or how to be a wailing, naked lunatic writhing in the dust?" Fëanáro offered with a jagged smile.

Olórin's brow rumpled in puzzlement.

"I found one of your fellow pupils weeping outside our room."

"Each pupil of Nienna follows her teachings in their own way," Olórin replied, meeting Fëanáro's eyes without flinching.

Fëanáro looked away and with a snort, said, "And how exactly do you follow her teachings?"

"Some of the servants of Nienna are keen to follow her example. She weeps for all the evil in the world, and so too do they. I, however, favour a more direct approach."

"And what has been the result of this direct approach?" Fëanáro demanded. "Have you found a way to correct the marring of Melkor?"

"Absolutely not," came Olórin's frank confession, "but I know that sitting around crying about it is not the best use of my time."

"Then how do you use your time, Olórin? It seems there is very little to do here."

"On the contrary," Olórin insisted, "there is always much to be done in the Halls of Nienna, though admittedly nothing that would concern or interest either of you. If ever I find myself at a loose end, however, which is rare, I always find the room where the books are kept a pleasant distraction."

"I wouldn't imagine you could keep books in good condition anywhere in that place," Rúmil observed drily.

They turned for a moment at a gentle scraping sound to find that Fëanáro had picked up a long, sea-weed strung branch of driftwood and had begun drawing circles in the sand.

"Luckily," Olórin said, turning back to Rúmil with a smile, "it is the one room that is kept quite free of damp."

"Do you have any texts on Valarin?" Fëanáro called out, as he stopped for a moment to observe his work and plot the next stroke.

"You wish to learn it?"

"I do," Fëanáro stated, as his eyes meticulously scanned his dark, expansive canvas of sand. "The Maia whisper about us, but I do not know what they are saying. I hate it. If they are insulting me, I would at least like the chance to insult them back."

"For what it's worth, I find them difficult to understand most of the time," Rúmil confessed. "They speak very quickly. And they are inveterate mutterers."

"I can tell you right here and now that they do not offer you insult, but I suppose I could have a look for you," Olórin mused, scratching his chin. "If I cannot find anything of substance, I could always teach you a bit myself."

"You have time to do that? I thought there was always much to do in the Halls of Nienna?"

"Indeed there is!" Olórin retorted in his gruff voice. "But the Lady Nienna insists I look after you, and look after you I shall!"

"Then bring us some more of that lemon drink."

"Do not push your luck, princeling. I am not your servant," Olórin warned.

Ignoring Olórin, observed his black sand canvas closely, then made a curved stroke in the sand with a swift and decisive movement, and said, "Rúmil, you should request a book. If we're going to be prisoners here, we might as well take after Olórin's example and learn something while we're here." He paused a moment, and shot Rúmil a sly smile and added, "Though I think perhaps that patience and humility might be a little beyond your reach..."

Affronted, Rúmil knelt to pick up a great handful of wet sand, which he promptly launched at Fëanáro. It scattered in the wind, completely missing its mark. Laughing, Fëanáro danced out of the way.

"Maybe you should ask Olórin for books on how to throw things properly!" Fëanáro called out, from a safe distance, cupping his hands around his mouth so he could be heard over the wind. "That was pathetic!"

Ignoring Fëanáro, Rúmil turned to Olórin and muttered, "If you have any accounts of the singing of the themes, that would be wonderful."

"I shall do my best," Olórin replied, shaking his head at Fëanáro as he turned walked back across the sand.

When Olórin had finally wandered into the halls and out of sight, Fëanáro began to creep towards Rúmil, holding his driftwood branch aloft.

"Peace?" he said, with a hopeful smile. "I want to carry on drawing."

Rúmil made a spiteful face at him and gave him an irritated wave by way of permission. Fëanáro grinned and began the arduous task of heaving out driftwood from where it had settled in the sand and smoothing its surface to make a flat canvas.

"He is persistent, isn't he?" he heard Fëanáro venture quietly.

"To an irritating degree, yes."

"Do you trust him?"

"No."

"Neither do I." There followed a pause before Fëanáro added, "What should we do?"

"We pretend we trust him. We wring anything we can from him to find out why we are being kept here. If that doesn't work, we tell the Lady Nienna the truth."

"And you think she would believe us? She is in league with Melkor! When he was chained, the Valar could have destroyed him. Instead, they pardoned and imprisoned him, thereby delaying the inevitable. Lords Ulmo and Tulkas were the only ones who dissented. She is in league with him, Rúmil!"

"Then we stick with the tall tale that we were shipwrecked."

"She would merely send Ulmo to search for our boat, only to discover it never existed!"

"Not with storms like the ones that rage here," Rúmil reasoned. "A boat would be broken to pieces in a trice."

Fëanáro lapsed into silence as he mulled over Rúmil's proposal. Then he breathed a short sigh of exasperation and said, "Fine. We can always justify being washed to shore by having clung for dear life to driftwood."

"Then we are agreed on our story?"

"We are."

The silence that followed was broken only by the rush of waves breaking against the shore and by a series of erratic gravelly scratchings, from which Rúmil deduced Fëanáro had turned his attention again to his canvas. As Rúmil watched the stars, Fëanáro worked and ventured to strike up a conversation.

"So why are you wanting material on the singing of the themes?" Fëanáro inquired.

"Why would I not?"

"Because it's boring," Fëanáro replied, as he scratched another line into the black sand. "And ridiculous. I have always found the assertion that the Ainu sang the world into being rather hard to swallow. It is my opinion that the singing of the themes is yet another of the stories they have conjured to keep the truth of the matter from us. I can never quite believe that there are scholars who dedicate their lives' work to searching for echoes of the Music. What a waste of time!"

Rúmil smiled. It was clear that this was one area in which Fëanáro was not yet widely read.

"Oh, I don't know," he mused. "I rather think it depends on who is conducting the research."

"What do you mean?"

"Though it is true there are some who ascribe to the view that the world was literally sung into being – this viewpoint being most common among the general populace and most rigorously researched by the religious scholars of Valmar – there are others, such as myself and a few colleagues at the School, who possess views not dissimilar to yours. Have you read the work of Thelmë Mairacambiel?"

"I have not. Never heard of her."

"In all honesty, I would have been surprised if you had," Rúmil admitted. "Her work is regarded as rather... radical by the wider community of scholars. Actually, rather radical is something of an understatement. Completely and utterly off-the-wall bonkers would be much closer to the mark. Most of the time, I don't pay her ramblings much heed, but she wrote one particular essay upon the singing of the themes that, quite frankly, astonished me.

"For in it, she posits a rather wonderful theory. When I first read it, I was so excited I could scarce sleep for weeks thinking about the possibilities it laid out before us. I was bloody annoyed too for not having thought of it myself, as it was such an obvious question to ask, but that is neither here nor there."

Rúmil allowed himself a brief pause, then he smiled and asked Fëanáro, "Have you ever wondered what became of the first and second themes?"

Fëanáro stopped drawing and frowned in an expression of genuine puzzlement. Rúmil almost laughed out loud, for it was the first time since he had met the boy that he had seen him wear such a look.

"No, I never have. Should I have wondered?"

"During the singing of the themes, if we believe what we are told, the Ainur had three stabs at creation. The first theme was attempted and discarded due to Melkor's interference. The second was likewise interfered with and promptly discarded. The third," Rúmil said, holding up a finger, "was the one Eru decided was the one he liked best, despite the level of interference present. But what happened to the first and second themes? Did they disappear into oblivion? Did they weave themselves into the third theme? Or do separate echoes of the first and second themes resonate still within the boundaries of Ea, existing as ghost of realities that never were?"

Fëanáro's eyes widened and he looked at Rúmil, open-mouthed and astonished.

"Yes! That is exactly the look I wore when I first read Thelmë's paper..."

"You mean to say that there is a possibility that, in the first and second themes, our destines, our lives may have been completely different to the ones we have now within the reality of the third theme?"

"Yes."

"And that somewhere or somewhen, in some far-flung place or time we cannot reach, our lives are being lived according to the designs of a different theme?"

"That is but one possibility. The first and second themes could also be fragmented. It is possible that only certain parts of the first and second themes were woven into our third theme, and that the undesirable notes from the first and second themes that were not woven into the third were instead discarded. They could exist still."

For a moment, Fëanáro lapsed into thought. Then he cracked a wry smile and shook his head.

"That is a difficult idea to bend my brain around," he confessed. "But I love it. If the three themes are still whole and separate, do you think that at any point the themes had moments in common? Or if not, do you think it might be possible to force them somehow to converge?"

"Fëanáro, I cannot even begin to speculate."

Fëanáro fell silent a moment. A shadow passed over his young face, and he bit his finger in a pensive manner. Then he said, quietly, "I wonder if in another theme my mother is still alive?"

Rúmil managed a smile as he reached out and patted Fëanáro distractedly on the shoulder.

"Who can say how the first and second themes were designed?"

Chancing to look down at the sand, Rúmil recoiled as he noticed that Fëanáro had been in the process of drawing yet another Painted Man. Well, not exactly another. It was, rather, a variation on the theme. Hunched like an animal, it crawled on all fours over seaweed and driftwood. It was unfinished, therefore Fëanáro had only time to sketch the outline, but Rúmil recognised the long hair and the terrible dissonant smile.

"Stars, Fëanáro, that is awful!"

"Of course it's awful. I'm not finished yet."

"I don't mean that. I mean that it is terrifying!" Rúmil chided. "I swear I will never understand your compulsion to dream up and draw such hideous creatures..."

"Fine. If it bothers you that much, I'll rub it out," Fëanáro said with a shrug, as he erased every trace of the drawing with the soles of his boots. "The tide's coming in, anyway. It wouldn't have lasted long." He paused for a moment, shot a sly glance at Rúmil and said, "Unless in another theme it manages to crawl away, out of reach of the waves, to throttle you in your sleep—Argh!"

Rúmil smiled.

The second fistful of sand had hit right on the mark.

It seemed he would not be needing that book on throwing after all.

oOo

Resisting the chill of the Valmarian night that nipped at his fingers and the tip of his nose, the king drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders and shivered. The walled balcony that adjoined the suite Queen Nenu had prepared for their use held the worst of the breeze at bay, but could not shut out the air itself, which carried upon it the memory of the fierce, biting snow storms that harried the frozen peak of Taniquetil. The wind stirred; the lúsina vines that crawled across the white walls rustled, and with puffs of silvery light cast clouds of their star-like seed-pods upon the wind.

It was stubborn and stupid, he knew, but he had to stay out. Just a little longer. For what if they daubed over Fëanáro's work while he was gone? He would never see it again. The very thought of it hurt so much that every time he contemplated it, he felt the shadow of a nameless dread fall upon his heart. Foolish as it seemed, the king felt as though, piece by brilliant piece, his son was being slowly erased from his life. Soon, it would happen again. And he would be left with nothing.

For he had overheard a conversation between Ingwë and a tight clutch of his guards. A conversation he was not supposed to have overheard. The Painted Man, Ingwë had said, was a blot that marred the otherwise harmonious conformation of the Plaza. Were it not for the people's affection for it, he would have seen it whitewashed the very morn it had appeared. It was a sign of disobedience – of outright insubordination even – and he would not suffer its continued existence in Valmar. At the first opportunity, Ingwë had ordered, the blot upon the Chancery tower would be erased.

The king knew Ingwë was right. Had such a matter occurred in Tirion, he would have done exactly the same thing.

But as always, what was right and what was wrong, what was up and what was down, what was night and what was day did not matter when it came to Fëanáro.

His son's name in red letters blazed defiantly down the length of the Painted Man, whom the Vanyar loved, he had learned by Sindemir's report. They loved his hollow eyes, his severe, black, Noldorin hair, his smiling mouth and, most of all, the impossible churning ball of fish he held in his delicate hands.

The king, however, could not stop looking at his son's name.

He had chosen red, the king noted. Of course he had chosen red. He would have chosen no other colour, for red was his son's favourite colour. He knew this because he was Fëanáro's father and maintained – still maintained – that he knew him better than anyone. He wondered with a stab of spite whether Rúmil knew that red was Fëanáro's favourite colour.

The king felt a sudden hot rush of jealousy. Instinctively, his fingers searched for and found the ring he wore upon the middle finger of his right hand and began to turn it in agitation. The king had taken it off briefly upon the day he arrived in Valmar, but after being dealt the crushing blow of having his son slip past him yet again – despite Fëanáro having been here under his nose the entire time – he had worn it ever since.

He was not sure what had possessed him to take it off in the first place.

His son had made him the ring, back in a time long since gone when his son yet smiled and reached out to him in love. With a sad smile, he gazed at it, twisting the ring so the light caught its facets, and recalled how his son had barged into his chambers at night and had asked him his favourite metal and shape. So eager was he to begin his work, he had not been able to wait until morning.

The one question Fëanáro had not asked him, however, was his favourite colour. Fëanáro knew well that the king's favourite colour was blue, yet he had chosen a red stone to sit at the centre of his gift. At the time, the king had pondered upon this, and had asked his son why he had chosen a ruby and not a sapphire. Fëanáro had cast him an impatient sort of look and had explained wearily that rubies and sapphires were really the same stone and that only the colour differentiated them. The king had laughed and rephrased his question, inquiring as to why his son had chosen a red stone and not a blue.

"Because red is my favourite colour," Fëanáro had answered simply. "If you are busy, or if you are far away, you might look upon it and think of me."

An odd rush of emotion made the king's chest feel tight. He shut his eyes and let his head fall into his hands with a heavy sigh, trying to block out the memory that made him ache with longing.

"All I can do is think of you," he heard himself mutter. "I am fit for nothing—"

Behind him, there was a click. The tentative sound of the balcony door being opened. His head snapped up. He whirled around to face the noise and found his wife standing upon the threshold, half in, half out. She had gone to bed hours ago, the king knew. After supper, he had retreated to the balcony, as had become his custom, and she had entreated him to come inside, into the warm, where he might be with Findis, where he might speak to her, hold her, smile at her and play with her awhile.

But the Painted Man was one of the only things he had left of Fëanáro. He could not leave in case the guards came to wash it away, leaving him alone with but a single golden and beautiful reminder of the love his son once felt for him. How could he explain that to Indis? He could not. He did not even know where to begin. So he had waved away his wife's pleas, saying he would only be a moment. She had fallen asleep with Findis beside her and he had maintained his solitary watch upon the Chancery tower.

Yet here she was, awake, her long hair unbound, wearing an expression of taut worry that clouded her normally warm and cheerful demeanour.

"My love...?" the king inquired, with a puzzled frown of concern.

"A messenger from the Lady Nienna has arrived," his wife replied, her voice still husky, having been disturbed from sleep. She coughed, clearing her throat, and added, "He bears news of Fëanáro."

The king's voice and his eyes were hard and insistent as he demanded, "What news?"

His wife's eyes fluttered and she looked away. "I-I do not know," she answered, biting her lip. "Erdacundo has informed me only this moment. The messenger awaits you in the study—"

In a flash, the king was on his feet, striding past the queen, a chilly gust of air following on the wind of his wake.

He entered the study without ceremony, wrenching the door open with impatience to find Erdacundo and the messenger already inside. Erdacundo stood silently by the window; the messenger, as grey and wan as his mistress, fidgeted near the wall hanging. Both inclined their heads respectfully, a gesture the king acknowledged with an irritated wave of a hand, wishing for once to dispense with formality.

The king shot Erdacundo an enquiring look. 'What news?' was his wordless request to his retainer.

Correctly interpreting his gesture, Erdacundo replied, "We were waiting for you, my lord."

"Well, I am here now," he declared, before he turned to address the messenger.

The king knew it was rude. Knew he should have greeted the poor man and at least inquired after his health, and that of the Lady Nienna, and perhaps offered him refreshment. But as always, little things, even such trifles as common courtesy, fell by the wayside when it came to Fëanáro.

"Where is my son?" he demanded, imperious and unyielding.

The messenger turned his sombre, tired eyes upon the king and replied, "He is in the care of the Lady Nienna, my lord."

The king's eyes widened and he blinked owlishly. Surely he must have misheard. His son could not be in Nienna's care. The only occasion upon which the Lady Nienna was ever known to have left her domain was when she...

... was when she travelled to the domain of Mandos to comfort the houseless fëar of the dead.

The shock of the revelation was overwhelming, hitting the king like the crashing waves of an angry, roiling ocean. He felt the colour drain from his face and he began to tremble.

No. No, I do not believe you...

Unseeing, unthinking, he began to pace the floor of the study and wrung his hands in frantic desperation.

Not my Fëanáro, not my clever, wonderful Fëanáro. This is unfair... My wife and now my son? It cannot be, it cannot...

Nausea bloomed in the pit of his stomach and surged upwards with a hot, acrid lurch, making him clamp a clammy hand over his mouth.

Ilúvatar, please protect my son...

And as he did so, the king felt a tiny shock of cold metal touch his lips and he tasted the tang of metal. He looked down, and when he caught sight of his son's ruby ring the world spun and his legs gave way.

When the king came to, he awoke with a start and a strangled, frightened cry. There was a smell – a disgusting smell. With a convulsive flail, he batted his hands about his face and snorted, attempting to dislodge the ammoniacal fumes that made him choke and splutter.

When his eyes stopped watering, he coughed and shook his head to clear his vision. Three anxious faces swam into focus. Erdacundo's, that of Lady Nienna's sombre messenger, and at the front and centre, his wife's. Indis' blue eyes were wide and terrified as she clutched, white-knuckled, at a small brown bottle labelled 'Salt of Hartshorn'.

He looked down and found he had been sat upright in a chair. He felt groggy and useless. His head felt thick, as though it were filled with the fetid sorts of sludge that congealed and gurgled in midge-ridden bogs.

Ah, the king thought wearily.

He had fainted.

"My love... Are you well?" came his wife's trembling voice, followed by a warm hand upon his cheek.

Instinctively, he reached for her. Taking her hand, he pressed it to his cheek. Then he brought her hand down to his lips to kiss it.

He felt numb.

"What happened to him?" he whispered.

There was a cough and Erdacundo stepped forward.

"Milady Nienna's messenger feels you have misunderstood, my lord," he heard his retainer say, in as gentle a tone as his low, clipped voice could effect.

"What?"

"Fëanáro is not dead," Erdacundo explained. "He is in Lady Nienna's care, but she has not gone to comfort him in Mandos."

"Your retainer is correct. Your son is not dead. In fact, he is quite well, my lord Finwë," the messenger elaborated in his wan, colourless drone. "I saw him with my own eyes. He was found with Master Rúmil of the School in Tirion, wandering the sands of the lightless shore beyond the boundaries of the western Pelóri."

Thunderstruck, the king fixed the messenger with a long, incredulous stare.

This did not make any sense. Absolutely no sense at all. In fact, it was nonsense. Utter nonsense. Far from making him feel better, the king only felt as though his grip upon the world and its secrets was falling further and faster away from him.

"Am I dreaming?" he muttered suddenly, bizarrely.

Again, he felt the comforting hand of his wife – his lovely, golden Indis – stroking his hair.

"You do not dream, my love," she whispered in reply.

"Then how?" he demanded, the strength and the imperious edge returning to his voice. "How is it possible? Not one of our kind has ever walked upon the lightless shore. It is forbidden and impossible."

"We do not know," the messenger intoned. "They will not speak."

A long silence fell, during which the king stared at his hands.

It was strange what the mere mention of that bastard's name in conjunction with his son could now do to him. He had hardly noticed that his hands had bunched into fists that crushed the fabric of his splendid robes. Erdacundo appeared to have noticed, for his retainer had tactfully diverted his gaze. A cold, calm sort of fury descended upon him, clearing his mind, granting him purpose, clarity.

He knew what he had to do.

"They will speak to me," he said, at length. He looked up and fixed the messenger with a imperious stare and demanded, "How long is the journey?"

"Five days straight across the plains by a hardy horse that may cover great distance," the messenger answered, inclining his head.

"I am fortunate enough to command the service of no less than three steeds of Oromë," the king replied. "It will be done in four."

"You want I should ready Morimirill, my lord?" he heard Erdacundo inquire, having already shrewdly guessed his intentions.

"Yes," the king asserted, his voice level and unwavering. Then he stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and met the gaze of his retainer, who this time did not look away.

"Ready my horse. We leave tonight."

---

- end of chapter eight -

---

Names:

All courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator.

Thelmë Mairacambiel - Willow plus daughter of some guy called Admirable Hand. Her name should probably be Selmë, but I had a go at Shibbolething it by changing the s to a th. Mad skillz.

Notes:

Sorry this took so long. I basically wrote myself into a corner and was having a hard time writing myself back out of it. It had become an unruly clusterfuck of mess, so I ran away from it and started planning some original stuff. xD Trying to juggle this with original stuff is hard, but I was taken by some art of Finwë on tumblr the other day (it's by Thalia Took. She's on DA. Go and look!) and I got the urge to return to this and sort out the mess it had become. Dividing it into two (yet again) should hopefully solve some of the problems I thought were insurmoutable. (Hopefully. Hnnnnnngh. I am full of angst.)

Also, there's a new, long scene in chapter seven. It's about bog bodies and is gross and creepy. You'll love it, honest.

Thanks:

Thanks to everyone who refused to believe this monster was dead. You are too cool.

Maglor's harp: Yeah, I know what you mean by more detail in chapter seven. That was the one where I wrote myself into a corner because I was desperate to write Melkor. It seems Melkor has a meta ability to cause trouble outside his universe. xD

HCO: I added a new scene. I didn't think there was enough creepy tension build up, so I used bog bodies as an excuse for some character development. If you thought seven was weird, I wonder what you thought of this one. xD

fantasychica37: Thanks for the reviews! Very interesting they were too. You're quite close on some of the points you made in them, haha. I wonder if what was discussed in eight regarding the three themes will make you more sure of your theories? Also, re. Nienna breaking his trust. Right on the money.

Tindomerel: Thank you! I have been trying to make this story good, but it's been a hard slog recently. My own fault, though. Afraid there will be no Nerdanel. This story is just about Feanor finding his feet, some confidence and some friends. : )

Angharad23: I think I remember replying to your review through PM, but there's no harm in letting other people know what I'm thinking re. Finwe's inability to figure out why Feanor is unhappy. In this story, anyway, in the back of his mind, Finwe knows exactly why Feanor is unhappy, but he's not yet at the stage of being able to acknowledge that he's done something that has irreparably damaged his son. He likes to pretend that everything still could be perfect. That it will all work out. Not gonna happen, Finwe, haha.

Salome Maranya: Thanks so much for all the kind review you left. When I see that people are still interested in this story, it really does make me want to push on through the mess and deliver something. Oh, and there is another reason Rumil is sticking around that isn't merely to do with Feanor being Miriel's son. He touches on it in this chapter.

belegur: I blush furiously and hope that my style hasn't changed too much (since it's been ages since I've updated, hnnnngh.) I would quite like to be a pro writer. Working on it and this at the moment. : D

Thanks again, guys. Sorry for the wait.