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Story Notes:
All names used here are in Quenya.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I intended this to be a one-shot, but someone in another site asked me to continue it. Besides, I felt that the story was somehow not completed yet only by one chapter. This will be a rather short story, though.

A child stood on the doorway, afraid to enter, to disturb the peaceful sleep of the room’s occupant. A man stood behind him with the same hesitation, but then he mustered some courage and nudged the child inside with a soft hand and equally soft words. “Come in, Fëanáro. Your mother has been asking for you.”


Father and son padded into the spacious chamber together in a timid manner not befitting a king and his heir at all. Finwë closed the door behind him with barely a sound and watched as his one-year-old son approached the large bed; there a tired-looking woman was tucked in a deep sleep.


Fëanáro said nothing. He merely scrambled up the bed and tucked himself beside his mother, clinging to her like a limpet did to a rock. Instinctively, an arm snaked around his small frame, bringing him closer to the woman who had carried him for one year, who had given her life to him – despite what his father persisted to say. He was young, yes, and there were yet many things he must learn about, but he was not so ignorant or stupid as most people would think. He could barely sense his bond with his mother whereas his bond with his father was strong and dominant; that could only mean one thing.


Pouting with some dark thoughts, the dark-haired Elfling crept onto her mother’s lithe form and rested his head on one side so that he could hear her heartbeats.


They were regular but weak, unlike his father’s lively ones.


“Ammë?” An involuntary whimper escaped his lips. Discovering about that last one fact about his mother had frozen his own heart with dread. He did not want to lose his mother… not without a fight. But what could a one-year-old Elfling do? Where to turn for help if his own father had given up hope?


“Hush, son,” Finwë, coming to the bedside, whispered. Yet the damage had been done. Míriel stirred. Her unfocused eyes blinked and attained some semblance of awareness out of the hazy fogs of slumber.


`Little one?` she greeted her son through their mind link, bestowing a mental smile to him at once. Fëanáro glowed with childish pride and loving warmth.


`You should rest, Ammë,` the little boy said, trying to imitate his father’s proud demeanour. She chuckled.

 `I love you with all my life, Fëanáro, never forget that… And never regret my love for you also. Would you promise me that?` `But Ammë—` 

`My time is limited, my Spirit of Fire. It is such a wonder to me that you would spare your time to lie here with me. It is a joy and pride beyond words for a mother to hold her child in her arms.`


Fëanáro’s young mind was overwhelmed. The grave words upset him, but he kept his strong outlook just to please his mother.


`I love you with all my life, Ammë,` he said sincerely, with all seriousness he could muster. He poked his head out of the covers and gazed at her mother with the gravity alien for such a young child. `Always. I will never forget you.`


But he never said he would never regret the situation. It was a promise he feared he would never be able to fulfill. It was the only request of his mother that he could not meet, and it pained him.


Gently, he spread his small hands on either sides of his mother’s cheeks and smiled down at her. He whispered “I love you, Ammë” in her ears then kissed her cheeks, brow and the tip of her nose.


A small smile played on Míriel’s pale lips. Her eyes brimmed with joyous tears.


It was the first and last time mother and son interacted with words ever since the birth of Curufinwë Fëanáro.


Míriel journeyed to Lórien in the next morning. She reasoned to her spouse that she needed to rest there for a time.


But little Fëanáro knew that it was not her true purpose. There was something in his mother’s eyes that day when he was cuddling to her in his parents’ bed. She had bidden her son farewell there through her gaze, and thus he did not expect anything good to come out of the jurney. His father might have blinded himself to the bitter truth, but the little Elfling did not know how to do so. All he knew and held on to was the naked, cold, bitter reality.


He did not know how to vent his emotions in a proper way either. The Gardens of Healing in Lórien became the dumb witness of the first – and probably last – instance of a Firstborn, albeit fairly young, striking a Vala. Irmo announced Míriel’s decision to stay forever in the Halls of Mandos some time after she had taken abode in the Vala’s realm.


Finwë threw himself to the ground and wept inconsolably. He lay there, prostrated on the Vala’s feet, unmoving.


But Fëanáro screamed as loudly as he could, hoping that the dreadful words would be erased from his ears and mind if he did so. And he struck the Vala wildly with his miniscule but strong limbs in hope that Irmo would take back the pronouncement, in case the Elfling’s former action failed, and amended his words.


None of the two happened.


Starting from there and then, Fëanáro swore to himself to learn how to bear and manage himself, as though the Valar would return his mother to him if he acted polite and princely. But he did not gain his mother back and instead lost his childhood.


His father married again twelve years later, and the child deemed that he had also lost his father alongside the event.


He had nothing left of his past.

Chapter End Notes:
As usual, review, please... This story is the hardest I am writing now, so encouragement and helpful criticisms are sorely needed. Fëanor is one of my favourite characters, but his life is hard to picture with all the complications and his... unique... personality and abilities.
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