The hammer fell in a cadence, ringing about the forge—a silver blade took shape beneath the firm hand. The smith's face was resolved, constant, certain as the stones of Taniquetil; a fire danced in the keen silver eyes, betraying the true spirit within. He was breaking the unwritten law. He was forging a sword.
Fëanor knew full well his deeds. He knew creating such a weapon, useless for hunting, was a thing he could never return from. Once this blade, this master blade, danced in the light of the Trees, no deed or word could allay the sword's power. This was the moment.
Out of nowhere, a voice sprung like a crystal brook babbling its way over smooth grey stones: "Uncle, uncle! Uncle Fenor, Auntie told me to tell you that dinners on the board, uncle Fenor. She said t'come get you, and tell that dinner's ready!"
A small hand tugged at his pant leg, undaunted by the hammer, anvil, and blazen metal. Looking down, Fëanor the Mighty saw innocence, a treasure lost to him long ago by his own bidding. It was Turgon, his brother's son not five years old. He scowled, "I am not yet finished."
"But dinner's ready, uncle Fenor!" The boy seemed undaunted; his raven hair hung risqué about his small head. "And Auntie Nerdnul says to tell you that dinner's ready an-and its your favorite and she wants you to come to dinner oh please come to dinner daddy says he'll tell me an old story if I come and don't you want to hear it too Uncle Fenor?"
The boy was overwhelming. "I'm working. I will eat later."
"Later, Turgon. Your uncle is working right now."
"Whatcha working on? Daddy says your working naught but ill. What does that mean?"
"Your father knows little, if he speaks of me so," Fëanor growled dangerously.
"Are you my uncle or my daddy's brother?"
The hammer rang again, ignoring the boy.
"Cuz you can't be both, you know. Either you're a brother or an uncle and I think you're my uncle but Fingon says I'm his brother and mommy's son but I can't be a son and a brother, can I Uncle Fenor."
He was slowly cracking. "Go away, boy, you bother me."
"I said leave me!"
The sudden burst of anger silenced the lad, who stepped back in fear. Weakly he questioned, deeply hurt, "Don't you love me?"
Feanor hated children—they had the uncanny ability to hit an elf dead in the heart. Did he love Turgon? Could he love any spawn of his brothers? Finarfin, perhaps. He was too passive to cause any true disruption. But Fingolfin?
The boy had his father's eyes, his grandmother's eyes.
Not the eyes of Míriel.
"Go away. Tell Nerdanel I will not come."
He was a slave to his sword and his hate. Standing at the anvil, hearing the soft patter of disheartened feet, Fëanor dearly wished he could change; but the hate ran too deep.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.