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"Because structural integrity is of the utmost importance, that's why!" Turgon exclaimed, stumbling slightly over his words, but still managing to sound very indignant for one so young.
Fëanor's lips twitched, in spite of himself.
Caranthir and Angrod on the other hand both groaned in response and started arguing with Turgon again, talking over each other in the process. The three of them were ostensibly building a hideout with rocks and branches between the Willow trees surrounding the pond, but from what Fëanor could see and hear, they had mostly descended into squabbling and scuffling by now.
He had somewhat dreaded Nerdanel's trip to Alqualondë with Anairë and Eärwen, especially once he had heard that his father had taken the opportunity to assure all of his daughters-in-law that they could just leave their children with him for the duration of their little holiday and that "he and the boys" would take care of them. (And it really was just Finwë, his sons and his grandchildren left at the Palace now, as Indis had gone to visit some Vanyar relatives with Findis and Lalwen.)
The prospect of spending an extended period of time with his half-brothers and their combined and rather large gaggle of children hadn't exactly excited Fëanor.
But he had to admit it hadn't been too bad so far. He was even enjoying himself a little as he leaned back in his chair with a glass of chilled wine in his hand and a sketchbook in the other, keeping one eye on the children scattered all over the grassy expanse of the Palace's gardens.
Besides, with his father and Fingolfin engaged in some kind of tedious but urgent court business, it was only himself and Finarfin on child-minding duty today, and his youngest brother's presence tended to be slightly less aggravating than Fingolfin's.
Fëanor stretched and idly considerd intervening when he saw Angrod throw a fistful of mud at Caranthir, but then decided that they could sort out their differences on their own.
He let his gaze wander to where Maedhros and Maglor sat in the grass. They seemed to be telling some story that apparently required a lot of gesticulating on Maglor's part. Fingon and Finrod, sprawled out on the ground in front of them, were listening with rapt attention, hanging onto every word their older cousins were saying.
As they should. His two oldest sons were pretty amazing, Fëanor thought to himself, feeling his heart swell with pride as he watched them laugh and joke around.
Fraught as his relationship with his siblings was, Fëanor couldn't deny that a part of him was pleased to see how adored his children were by their cousins. And although he wasn't likely to say it out loud, and for reasons he usually avoided examining too closely, he liked seeing them get along.
(Well, some of them got along, he amended, as an outraged shriek could be heard from the direction of the pond.)
But the four he was watching right now had grown close over the years and enjoyed spending time with each other.
Fingon hadn't left Maedhros' side all day, in fact.
Finrod had initially been involved in Turgon's little building project as well, but had grown tired of the disagreements after Angrod and Caranthir accused him of "always siding with Turgon, no matter how wrong he was" and opted to join his three older cousins.
He had been doing that more and more as of late. With his own love of music, he had naturally gravitated towards Maglor, always wanting to hear his opinion and asking him to teach him new things. Maglor was the most talented young musician in all of Aman, a prodigy in his chosen craft and all-around marvel, in Fëanor’s perfectly unbiased opinion; he couldn’t really fault Finrod for wanting to be around him. But with his own two oldest boys being as close as they were, being around Maglor also meant spending a lot of time with Maedhros, and from there, Finrod had quickly taken a liking to him as well, clearly admiring him and looking up to him.
But then again, everyone loved Maedhros (even Fingolfin seemed fond of him, which Fëanor felt equally annoyed by and smug about). His firstborn son was the most perfect child anyone could wish for, as far as Fëanor was concerned.
Another high-pitched shriek interrupted his fatherly musings, though a joyful one this time.
Fëanor turned his attention to the large oak tree nearby. There, under its shade, Celegorm sat with little Aredhel and Galadriel, as well as Aegnor, dutifully weaving flowers into crowns and chains for them. With flowers that they plucked straight from Indis' favourite flower beds, the ones only she herself tended to and no one else was allowed to touch. Fëanor pretended not to notice.
“Silly!” Aredhel stated and giggled-shrieked again in response to some of the antics Celegorm was pulling to keep Finwë’s three youngest grandchildren entertained.
Celegorm had originally asked for permission to go into the woods with some older boys he’d recently befriended, but then Aredhel had noticed him as he was about to leave. Running over as fast as her short little legs would carry her, she had practically commanded him to stay and play with her instead.
And Celegorm, to Fëanor's surprise, had agreed and was now patiently fulfilling her and the two other little ones' requests for flowery adornments. Or maybe it wasn't really surprising, Celegorm was pretty good at handling small children for the most part, and Aredhel in particular seemed to have taken a shine to him.
The skills Celegorm used to deal with skittish or aggressive animals obviously came in handy when watching his brothers’ youngest offspring.
He probably shouldn't be comparing his little nieces and nephew to feral animals, but really, Aredhel and Galadriel were the most stubborn and difficult toddlers Fëanor had ever come across (and strangely mistrustful for some reason, in Galadriel's case). Aegnor too could be incredibly obstinate when he wanted to and was prone to rather spectacular temper tantrums when he didn’t get his way.
Fëanor genuinely loved children, young ones and older ones alike, but after actually having to deal with Fingolfin’s and Finarfin’s youngest three for the last couple of days, he was glad for the reprieve Celegorm provided him with.
His third-born son truly was such a marvelous child as well.
Contemplating the many fine qualities Celegorm possessed inevitably led him to think of Curufin though, his gaze snapping to his youngest son.
Curufin sat on a stone bench, a fair distance from the rest of his cousins and brothers. He had a stack of books next to him and his head was buried in a treatise on linguistics, one written by Fëanor himself. Not exactly child-friendly reading material by most people’s standards. And though Fëanor himself had been no different, the sight of Curufin being all on his own again while his brothers and cousins kept each other company still made his heart clench.
None of his older sons struggled as much with relating to other children as Curufin did.
Even Caranthir had recently started to come out of his shell a little. Fëanor and Nerdanel had felt similarly concerned about Caranthir’s lack of friends and Nerdanel had made it her mission to find a couple of other children who shared his interests and invited them over. And it had worked— their moodiest and most reticent son had blossomed as he began to form friendships and joined a children’s group run by the mathematics department of Tirion’s university. He was even becoming quite argumentative nowadays, which Fëanor chose to interpret as a good sign. But either way, Fëanor was very proud of him and had a feeling that Caranthir too had the potential to be very successful at whatever he set his mind to.
They had tried to use the same tactics with Curufin, rather less effectively. Mainly due to Curufin not finding any common ground with the children in question, which usually lead to him growing frustrated and declaring his playmates boring or worse, insulting them. The other children in turn found Curufin equally boring and strange, often becoming upset by his words.
Most days, Celegorm made an effort to spend time with his youngest brother and tried to include him in various activities, which Fëanor was very grateful for. But with their proclivities and interests lying far apart, Curufin often refused even his attempts, despite the strong bond that had formed between them. The rest of his sons tried as well, but none were as good at handling Curufin as Celegorm. Then there were Nerdanel and Fëanor himself of course, as well as his father and Nerdanel’s parents, but that was pretty much the extent of the people Curufin shared any kind of meaningful connection with.
Curufin had never expressed any unhappiness about the situation, but Fëanor couldn’t help but be worried. He knew only too well what it was like to be a lonely child. To feel like you had nothing in common with other children, set apart from everyone else by your abilities and interests (as well as the extraordinary circumstances of his life, in Fëanor’s case).
A frown on his face and his fingers tapping against his thigh, Fëanor stared off into the distance, once again considering what to do about this matter.
"Everything alright? And all of the children still in one piece?" Finarfin asked somewhat hesitantly as he returned with a drink of his own, misunderstanding Fëanor’s facial expression.
Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Fëanor turned towards his brother. "Yes, yes. Some heated architectural debates over by the pond, but nothing worth intervening in."
Finarfin smiled at that and sat down next to him.
“You know, I received a rather long letter from Eärwen today,” Finarfin began and then proceeded to fill him in on their wives’ recent exploits in Alqualondë.
It felt strange, to simply sit here with his youngest brother, making casual conversation and not really doing much of anything. Maybe the heat was getting to him, but it was almost… pleasant.
Finarfin was just telling him about Anairë apparently having had a little too much wine during a night out when Finrod bounded up to them.
“Atya, look what I found!” he said excitedly, picking up a hedgehog from the ground and holding it out to them. “Or it found me, rather! It just walked up to me all of a sudden and now it’s following me around. Can I keep it please?”
Finarfin looked at his son with fond exasperation. “It belongs in the wild. You know that. And don’t you have more than enough animals? I have lost count over all the various animals we already have at home.”
“Haru’s gardens can hardly be considered the wild,” Finrod argued. “It would be just as happy in our garden.”
“He has a point,” Fëanor said, amused to see his little brother having a conversation he himself was all too familiar with.
“See? Uncle Fëanáro agrees with me.”
“Yes, because he likes to be contrary,” Finarfin muttered, before adding, “If it keeps following you around for the rest of the day, I’ll consider it. But don’t stop it from leaving if it wants to go back to wherever it came from.”
Finrod’s face lit up with joy, clearly knowing he had won. “Of course not, Atya. Only if it wants to stay with me.”
That said, he sprinted back towards Maedhros, Maglor and Fingon, no doubt to tell them of the good news.
“Pushover,” Fëanor said.
Finarfin raised an eyebrow at him. “As if you don’t have half a forest’s worth of animals at home. Nerdanel has been complaining to Eärwen about it.”
Fëanor smirked, not bothering to deny the accusation. It was true, he did have a hard time saying no to his children.
“Atya said I can keep it! Which is perfect, I didn’t have a hedgehog yet,” Finrod’s voice drifted over to them.
Too used to Celegorm bringing all kinds of wildlife home, Maedhros and Maglor smiled at him, but didn’t look particularly impressed. Fingon on the other hand rather looked like he wanted a hedgehog of his own and Fëanor was tempted to help him find one, just to annoy Fingolfin.
“It’s nice to watch them interact and play with each other,” Finarfin commented.
Fëanor gave a hum of agreement and continued to observe the children, an idea starting to form in his mind.
If there was one child that wouldn’t be easily put off by Curufin’s prickly nature or his unusually advanced interests for a child his age, it would be Finrod.
The boy possessed an inquisitive mind and a curiosity about the world around him that Fëanor could relate to and appreciate. And, Fëanor had to admit, he was an unusually patient and good-natured child. Friendly and easy to get along with.
Plus, Finrod was older than Curufin, which meant he’d be more easily able to follow what Curufin was talking about and also mature enough not to get into fights with a younger child.
At the same time, the age difference between them wasn’t so great that spending time with Curufin would be utterly boring to Finrod, they would still be able to play together.
Was it worth a try?
Fëanor glanced sideways at his brother and came to a decision.
For his youngest son, Fëanor could swallow his pride.
"Arvo."
"Yes?" Finarfin asked, eyebrows slightly raised in surprise at the nickname Fëanor hadn't really used for him since he had been a child.
Fëanor hesitated.
"Findaráto. He's... a good boy," he finally said, grimacing at himself for his sudden and uncharacteristic ineloquence. "Do you think he'd like to come visit us some time? Maybe stay with us for a while?"
A brief flash of pleasure crossed Finarfin's face at the unexpected praise for his son, but then his brows furrowed. "Of course. You know as well as I do how much he looks up to Maitimo and Makalaurë. Just this morning he was telling me about some new song of Makalaurë's. I’m sure he’d enjoy spending some more time with them."
"I was thinking about him and Curvo spending some time together, actually."
Frowning, Finarfin followed his older brother's gaze to where Curufin was sitting, and understanding dawned on him, followed by what looked like pity.
Fëanor wanted to wipe that expression from his brother’s face, hating it with every fiber of his being, but he bit his tongue.
"Oh," Finarfin said. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind spending time with Curvo either. I'll talk to him about it."
Something about the way Finarfin said I'll talk to him about it also rankled Fëanor, it sounded too much like "I'll tell my perfectly lovely child to play nice with the weird, difficult child, even if he is unpleasant to be around."
Many years ago, Fëanor had overheard words along these lines spoken by a mother to her child. A child Finwë had invited to play with him. Fëanor had refused to interact with any other children his father tried to invite from then on, never being able to shake the feeling that they were only here because their parents had ordered them to do so, or else because he was the King’s son, and they wanted to get in his family’s good graces. Or both.
Fëanor knew he was probably projecting too many of his own childhood memories and feelings onto Curufin, but it was hard not to see himself in him.
And he wanted to give Curufin a better childhood than the one he himself had had, wanted that for all of his sons. Once again, he swallowed his irritation.
"What about my younger boys? Wouldn't they be more suitable as playmates?" Finarfin interrupted his thoughts. "Closer in age."
Fëanor briefly considered it, but then remembered Angrod throwing mud at Caranthir over a minor disagreement earlier, and Curufin calling Aegnor "a stupid baby” and telling him that he had "more important things to do" when Aegnor had asked him to join them in their flower braiding. ("No, you're stupid! And your dumb books are too!" Aegnor had angrily replied.)
He dismissed the idea. Angrod and Aegnor might be closer in age to Curufin, but they had fiery temperaments and both they and Curufin were a little too immature still to get along without conflict for any reasonable amount of time.
"Maybe at some point, once all of the children are a little older. But for now, I think Findaráto would be the best choice," Fëanor said, unwilling to explain himself any further to Finarfin and feeling like he had already revealed too much about both Curufin and himself.
Finarfin studied him with these unnervingly observant, knowing eyes and then nodded to himself. “So, how are we going to do this?”
Only a few days later, Fëanor opened the door to find Finrod on his doorstep, smiling brightly up at him.
The timing was perfect. With all of his older sons out of the house for the day, Fëanor would be able to focus on his youngest son and nephew, hopefully ensuring a positive outcome for his little experiment.
“Hello, uncle! Atya told me that Curvo wanted to show me some of his creations.”
It was what he and Finarfin had agreed to tell the children. To his relief, Curufin hadn’t asked any questions; he’d mostly just seemed excited about an opportunity to show off his work and his knowledge to a willing audience (Fëanor could relate).
“You’re here!” Curufin exclaimed instead of a proper greeting, having suddenly appeared behind Fëanor. But he was actually smiling at Finrod, which was unusual and probably bode well.
“Well, I am curious to see what you and uncle Fëanáro are working on,” Finrod replied and Curufin wasted no time in dragging him towards the forge.
Fëanor sprinted after them, not wanting them in there unsupervised even for a moment.
He saw Curufin heading straight for the little workbench Fëanor had cleared off for him, ready to explain every single thing on it in as much detail as Finrod would endure.
They were the most basic, simple forging projects, things he would help Curufin with, so that he could then claim them as his own. (Fëanor wasn’t yet comfortable with actually letting him do any work without himself there to assist, it simply was too dangerous, no matter how gifted Curufin was.)
"Look! I just finished this yesterday! I used the new technique Atya taught me for this one, but for that one I didn’t. Do you see the difference? Oh, no wait, here’s a better one…” Curufin babbled, barely pausing for breath.
To his credit, Finrod appeared genuinely interested as he listened to Curufin's rambling explanations and even asked him some questions, which Curufin delighted in answering.
Then, once he had run out of things to say about his projects, Curufin simply moved on to explaining Fëanor’s own projects as best as he could, with Fëanor helpfully interjecting when necessary.
It was a joy to see his youngest son so animated and talkative, and Fëanor simply followed Curufin and Finrod around the forge and his adjacent workspaces at a leisurely pace, observing their interactions and answering questions.
Fëanor never minded answering children’s questions. Indeed, he rather loved talking to them and teaching them.
“What are these?” Finrod asked, pointing to a number of shiny glass orbs scattered over one of Fëanor’s workbenches. “They look like tiny Palantíri!”
“That’s exactly what they are. I’m trying to create a smaller, more compact version of the Palantíri you’re familiar with. They are rather unwieldy, after all,” Fëanor explained.
Both Finrod and Curufin looked suitably impressed (Curufin hadn’t seen them before either).
“Do they work, uncle Fëanáro? I mean, can they already be used or are they not finished yet?”
“They do. Not as well as the larger versions, and there are quite a few things that I still need to improve, but yes, they work.”
Curufin turned to Fëanor and looked up at him with big, round eyes. “Can we have two of them, Atya? One for each of us? Please?”
Finrod too was looking at him now, less obviously pleading, but clearly also very excited by the thought of having a little Palantír of his own.
Fëanor sighed. How was he supposed to refuse them when they looked at him like that? He couldn’t really see any harm or potential dangers in agreeing to their request either…
“Go ahead, pick out whichever ones you want.”
Curufin and Finrod cheered, quickly thanking him and then went about the important task of selecting the “perfect” Palantír. There was no real difference between any of the Palantíri on his workbench, but Fëanor wasn’t going to ruin their fun.
Once they had both chosen one, the forge tour was over. They were simply too excited to try them out, curious to see what exactly could be done with them.
“I haven’t had an opportunity to actually test this yet, but in theory, they should support communication between Tirion and Alqualondë at the very least,” Fëanor told them.
“Oh! Curvo, when I’m in Alqualondë again, we have to try talking to each other! It will be great!” Finrod cried out.
Curufin nodded his head quickly. “Yes! And it will be our secret! No one else has a Palantír like this!”
Fëanor chuckled, smiling at their enthusiasm and then watched as they ran off.
They went all over the place. Inside of the house, outside of the house, climbing trees and columns, all the places they could think of to use the Palantíri.
Fëanor actually had to stop them from climbing the roof at one point.
The Palantíri kept them occupied for a good while and when they finally did grow a little tired from all the running and climbing, Fëanor ushered them back into the house for some water and snacks.
“I think the two of you should stay inside now and rest a little,” Fëanor said as he watched them munch on some fruit and honey cakes. “I’d also appreciate it if you played something that involves a little less running around.”
Truth be told, Fëanor was growing a little tired himself of chasing after two young children with a seemingly endless supply of energy.
But thankfully, they actually did listen to him and retreated to the parlour after they had finished eating, which mostly served as a play area for their younger sons these days.
Fëanor followed them and gratefully sank down on the sofa, intending to catch up on some of his reading, and only occasionally glanced in their direction.
With five children, they had amassed tons of toys over the years; Curufin and Finrod were sure to find something to entertain themselves with. And with how well things had been going so far, Fëanor felt reasonably confident that they’d manage to play peacefully, without need for constant supervision or intervention.
He reached for the most recent letter he had brought with him and started to read.
The children were so well-behaved that Fëanor actually managed to make it through his entire correspondence, all the while only hearing quiet talking and giggling from them.
It wasn’t until he had actually read half-way through a recently published paper on fluid dynamics that his attention was drawn towards them again.
Both of them had put on some pretty garish old clothes and draped themselves with beads and shawls. Fëanor couldn’t tell who or what they had dressed up as, but Curufin was trying to grab the crown on Finrod’s head, presumably to complete his own get-up.
The “crown” they were fighting over was a lumpy, misshapen thing — one of Maglor's more abysmal attempts at forge work. It had become a bit of a joke in their family and had only ever been used by the younger children to play dress-up.
“Give it to me!” Curufin demanded, jumping up and down in attempt to reach it.
Finrod grinned at him and easily evaded him. “No, it’s mine! You can’t have it!”
Their little squabble didn’t seem particularly mean-spirited or heated to Fëanor, more like an older brother playfully teasing his younger sibling, but he was about to tell them to stop anyway when Finrod ripped the crown from his head and threw it away into the other corner of the room, as far away from Curufin as possible.
Fëanor followed its flight path with his eyes and watched as the crown clattered on the floor, feeling strangely mesmerized by the sight.
Suddenly he wasn’t sitting at home in his parlour anymore, but instead found himself in a strange cavernous hall, at once eerie and startlingly beautiful with its intricate stone carvings and vine-covered walls and columns. Hundreds of tiny lights illuminated the air around him, but he could see no windows.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen in Aman.
Fëanor turned around and only now realized that he wasn’t alone. A large crowd of people was gathered behind him and right in front of him, three figures stood tall and proud.
But no one appeared to notice him.
Curious, Fëanor walked up to the elf closest to him and nearly stumbled in surprise.
He looked almost exactly like Fëanor himself! But still, the other elf showed no reaction, remaining frozen and still as a statue.
Next to him stood a silver-haired elf, equally immobile. And then, opposite of them was a golden-haired elf, his face the spitting image of Finarfin’s.
Fëanor wanted to reach out and touch the strange, motionless elves, but instead he felt someone else’s hand clutching his own, shaking it slightly.
His gaze travelled down and he saw that it was a very small hand, one that seemed very familiar to him for some reason.
He kept staring at the small hand on his and as if nothing had happened, his surroundings changed again and he was back in the parlour, still sitting on the sofa.
Fëanor blinked. The vision was gone.
"Atya, Atya! What's wrong? Talk to me, Atya!" Curufin's voice finally reached his ears, shrill with anxiety and distress. Fëanor’s mind immediately cleared and he made himself look at the two children in front of him.
Curufin was trembling all over and Finrod stood next to him, looking very concerned as well.
"Are you alright, uncle Fëanáro?" he asked hesitantly.
Fëanor took a deep breath and then nodded, pulling both of them into his arms. “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Everything is alright.”
While comforting his shaken son and nephew, he couldn’t help but analyze the brief moment of foresight that had just come upon him in his mind.
Unlike other members of his family, Fëanor had no particular gift for foresight, and he had no real knowledge regarding its causes or the ways such visions should be interpreted, but he was almost certain that he had not seen himself and Finarfin, but fully-grown versions of Curufin and Finrod instead. And the silver-haired elf he had seen with them had probably been Celegorm then.
He felt equally certain that what he had seen had not taken place (would not take place?) in Aman.
It seemed his children and his sibling’s children were destined for great things. Maybe this next generation of Finwëans would actually manage to get along and work together to achieve them instead of hurting each other the way he and his siblings couldn't seem to stop doing.
Fëanor smiled.