Chapter Text
It was hardly a secret that there was something missing. It was there in the way Maitimo’s first instinct was to always use his right hand despite his left hand being stronger; it was there in the overlong embraces Nerdanel gave their sons; it was there in the skipped beat of Feanaro’s heart whenever he saw Indis of the Vanyar. The Valar had openly told them that their memories of Arda Before were . . . muted. It should not be surprising that sometimes it seemed there was a name on the very tip of Feanaro’s tongue that he could not quite remember. If that was the greatest pain in paradise, then it was not such a burden to bear.
It was not.
And yet.
- the children - until Arda be remade - please - the children - the children -
“You look weary,” Aulë said, frowning, when Feanaro joined him in his workshop. He had dim memories of doing so even before, but it was different now, he thought; there were dwarves amongst the elves who were working, and there was a calm, a quietness, he didn’t think there’d been before.
There was no such quiet in his dreams. There was only the thin, distant voice that had haunted him for -
How long had it been now?
It seemed so familiar, and yet -
And yet.
“It is nothing,” he said firmly and sought the tools for his latest project. It was an instrument, of sorts, one that would play when the wind blew through it, though far more complicated than the wind chimes other artists had made. It was almost complete now; all it lacked was ornamentation.
His hands wanted to make faces today.
He almost recognized them.
He stared down at them.
Aulë, he realized after a moment, was staring at them too.
It was an insane thought, but -
“Do you think memories of Arda Before might ever seep up in our dreams?” he asked.
“Impossible,” Aulë said firmly. “Those memories have been cleansed from your very fëa.”
Feanaro thought of the songs Makalaure would play deep in the night. Wild, haunting things that seemed torn from his very heart and that he always refused to write lyrics for because they always sounded wrong.
He also considered what he thought, exactly, of the Valar treating their souls like laundry in need of a good wash.
“Impossible,” he echoed in a way that sounded like agreement.
He gave the completed project to his father and grimly noted the king’s flinch.
But the flinch vanished behind a smile, and he set aside painful questions for the comfort of his father’s praise.
Hate me as you will - but please - let them - only do not - please -
Three things had survived into Arda Remade: The Valar, fëar, and the Silmarils.
Feanaro had sole charge of those last. Occasionally, someone would suggest that he make a public gift of them, and he had sometimes considered it if only because the thought seemed to please Nerdanel, but every time it crossed his mind, he felt a flash of fire race through his blood.
Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer . . .
The words were bright links in a chain leading off to darkness. These, more than any, he felt he should know, but they felt wrapped in cotton wool, only blazing brightly enough to be felt when he was on the very verge of surrendering the gems.
“Who are the aftercomers?” he asked Aulë because he saw Aulë the most frequently.
“The dwarves,” Aulë said a little too quickly.
“Who are the aftercomers?” he asked Yavanna because he wanted to test a hypothesis.
“The ents,” she said a little too swiftly.
“Who are the aftercomers?” he asked Ulmo because Ulmo was unlikely to have exchanged gossip with either Aulë or Yavanna.
“The storm giants,” Ulmo said after an excessively long pause.
“Who are the aftercomers?” he asked Olorin because he happened to meet the Maia on the road.
Olorin, whose form would almost look elflike if it did not have such a long white beard more suitable for a dwarf, looked at him for a very long moment.
“Ask Melian,” he said at long last. “But ask gently.”
“Who are the aftercomers?” he asked Melian because Olorin had suggested it and because it was rumored that she grieved.
Grief was such a strange concept that he could hardly imagine it.
“Men,” said one of the nightingales she had become.
“My daughter,” wailed another.
“Gone forever,” one wept, and Feanaro thought that perhaps he had not been quite gentle enough.
They are no threat - there is room enough - please -
Please.
“There are dwarves here, and there are elves, and there are Maiar,” Feanaro said to Aulë when he had returned to his workshop. “Why are there no Men?”
Aulë froze for a moment before he laughed boisterously.
Guiltily.
“Are you not a man?” he chided.
“I am,” Feanaro said, not quite knowing what he asked, but determined nonetheless.
It would hurt, he thought. He could almost feel the sharp edge of pain beneath the cotton wool his memory was wrapped in.
But he had not stopped his work in the forge just because the sparks sometimes burned him, and he would not stop this now. He had the question between his teeth, and he would not let go of it. “But I am not an aftercomer.”
“Durin is both male and aftercomer, and he is here,” Aulë said, gesturing to another forge, but he did not sound as firm as he once had.
“So he is,” Feanaro agreed, “but he is not who Melian grieves for.”
Aulë sighed and deflated. “Ah, Melian. Even still.” He shrunk somewhat smaller than his usual size and clapped a hand on Feanaro’s back. “Walk with me.”
Aulë brought him a ways up the mountain they all worked under. The view was stunning from where they stopped on the path, but Feanaro cared little for that.
“We are not supposed to speak of it,” Aulë said at last. “No. We do not speak of it. Manwe never told us that we were not allowed to. We all knew it would be a bad idea.” He rubbed at his beard, brow pinched. “But you have the start of the tale now, and I have known you these long years. You have never yet stopped before you were satisfied with your answers, and I do not think there is any great danger to you to hear of Men, not now. You never knew any of them; you would not grieve like Melian.”
“Why must she grieve?” Feanaro demanded. “Why did Namo not yield them up into Arda Remade? Were they like beasts to have no fëar?”
“No,” Aulë said at once, but he hesitated to give the answer.
“You yielded up the souls of your dead,” Feanaro pointed out. “And Yavanna hers.”
“Aye,” Aulë said, yielding at last. “But Men went to Eru Illuvatar himself, and he has not seen fit to return them.”
“He remade Arda but chose not to return - “ Feanaro stopped himself. “Aulë,” he asked slowly, with growing suspicion. “Who remade Arda?”
Aulë just looked at him.
“It had to be done,” he said at last. “The others convinced me of that. It was the only way, by then.”
“You reshaped the world,” he breathed. “And told us it was the will of Eru.”
“It was not against his will,” Aulë defended. “We were told to protect this world, and we have tried. Sometimes we have no choice but to salvage what we can. Sometimes - sometimes that means we can’t save everything. Do we keep the great coasts of Middle Earth or bring back Beleriand? Do we restore the river’s first path or preserve the new one it carved? Do we celebrate the mountain’s grandeur at its height or its newfound possibility after it has begun to be eroded?” He threw his hands into the air. “We tried,” he insisted. “We had to choose. We chose the first, usually, because the replacements almost always came after the first had been Marred, and we wanted nothing of the Marring here. You understand?”
“It is good craftsmanship,” Feanaro said. “I understand.”
And he thinks he could leave it there because he does understand. Sometimes the only thing to do with a project, no matter how beloved, is to throw it out and start over; sometimes there is not room for every jewel the crafter would grace it with, and a decision must be made.
It was sensible. He had his answer, a forbidden answer granted just to him, a sign of Aulë’s favor to him above all others, and that -
That warm, proud, almost guilty sensation felt familiar.
Why should it be familiar?
And if he had not met any Men, whose name was forever on the tip of his tongue?
There is room enough for them, at least, please, the children, the children, please -
There was a space in his mind that ached with its emptiness. He could forget it, mostly, but it was always there when he went to check. It did not hurt to prod the emptiness in any conventional way, but it ached nonetheless.
Always a name at the tip of his tongue.
He must have loved them greatly for their absence to mean so much, even now.
He could let it be. He should let it be.
But Maitimo’s eyes would not settle, always searching for a face he could never find, and Makalaure’s songs yearned, and Tyelkormo could not find a hunting partner he liked, and Atar, always Atar, always an ache behind his father’s eyes that he swore Feanaro filled, and yet, and yet -
And the dreams.
Always the dreams and always the questions.
He was not good at leaving aside questions.
The Valar had cleansed painful memories from their fëar; very well. There was nothing to be done about it now.
But there were three things that had survived the destruction of Arda Before: the Valar, fëar, and the Silmarils.
And there was a very simple reason that the Silmarils had survived.
He laid the jewels before him in the grass far from any people’s habitation. He did not know what this would do.
But anything that could be made could be unmade by him who created it.
And he did not think the Valar would have thought to purge the bits of his fëa he had put into these gems.
It was a grief almost unthinkable to break even one of them, but he had no choice now.
People were not mountains. Surely there was space enough for them all, at least in memory.
“Come back,” he sang ever so softly to the very last of the gems he had made.
For just a moment, the jewel blazed brighter than it ever had.
Then the light of jewel dimmed within it, and Feanaro cried out in remembered pain so sharp that he fell to the ground and for long minutes did not move.
There was a tent, even in which the air was foul, and he thought if he could see the sky it would be a blood-soaked red.
There was a tent, and there was foul air, but there was also a tension in the air, an excitement both poisonous and strong.
Something had happened. Something terrible.
Something terrible that was a very great relief.
There was a face, he saw for the first time. A face that looked a little like his father’s, and a little like a princess of the Vanyar.
A face that looked a little like his own.
It was lower than his, and for a moment that seemed right, for he was the elder, and had not this face always been smaller, softer, forever tugging at his sleeve, and asking, Why, why, why -
But those were not the words being shaped now. And it was not for the sake of height that this face was lower to the ground, but for the sake of his bended knees.
Hate me as you will, Feanaro, I know you have ever wished for this, but please, I beg of you, convince them to spare my children - feed them memories of false parents, false lives, let them think they are the parentless first, only do not leave them to this until Arda be remade in truth, they are no threat, there is room enough for them at least - please, my prince, please - I will say whatever you wish, do whatever you wish, but you have the light of the Trees now, you are the only one who has something they want, the only one they might listen to, please -
There was no time, he thought. He could feel it already beginning. There was no time for anything but to reach for his brow where the Silmarils rested and to send out one last tendril of his fëa -
Feanaro awoke and threw up into the grass.
“Nolofinwe,” he breathed as he gasped for breath afterward. “Nolofinwe, Arafinwe, Findekano, Arakano, Turukano, Itarille, Iresse, Artanis, Findarato, Artanaro, Abarato, Angarato - “
Names, names, so many names.
And all gone, save for the echo of a memory that had sunk into Feanaro’s heart so deeply that its shadow had crept into his dreams even here, even now.
The memory brought no satisfaction with it.
I broke a Silmaril for Nolofinwe, he realized. I do not think I will mention that to him when we get him back.
Nerdanel would have pointed out that he was rather making an assumption there, but stubbornness had gotten him this far.
Surely it would get him a little further yet.