He had always been afraid of thunderstorms. Some of his earliest memories were crawling into his father’s bed, whimpering in fear, to spend the night cuddled in his father’s arms. It was the only place he had felt safe when he heard thunder rolling outside, snuggled against his father’s chest. However, soon he had grown too old for such babyish behavior, instead spending those nights tossing and turning alone in his bed as his father soothed Indis’s sons. And soon after that, he had wedded Istarnië and moved out, away from the painful sight of Indis lying in his father’s bed, her sons in his arms. But although Istarnië loved him and he loved her, she could not make the fear go away.
Fëanáro sat up in bed. It was utterly irrational, he told himself. Thunderstorms were a part of nature. They were not going to hurt him in any way. Yet he still flinched and wiped the cold sweat from his face as another lightning flash lit up the room, closely followed by a resounding thunderclap.
He was not going to get any sleep tonight, he knew from experience. In fact, if he kept shivering beneath the covers, he might wake up Istarnië, and he wanted at least one of them to be rested tomorrow morning. He began to heave himself out of bed, idly thinking of perhaps re-reading his favorite book or sketching out the design for the bracelet he wanted to give Istarnië for her begetting day. Turning to the doorway, he froze. There was someone standing there.
For a moment, it was no longer Curufinwë Fëanáro, famed craftsman and husband of Istarnië, looking towards the figure. Instead, it was little Curvo who had heard too many tales of the Hunter waiting to snatch little elflings who did not do what they were told, little Curvo who was afraid of the dark because he knew that there was someone hiding in it and waiting for him, little Curvo frozen in fear as his childhood nightmares took form.
Fëanáro had never been so glad for lightning, for when the next flash came, it illuminated a small figure with tousled red hair, clutching a stuffed toy tightly.
"Nelyafinwë," Fëanáro whispered, voice filled with relief. "Should you not be in bed?"
His son answered him in a soft voice. "I am frightened, Ata. The thunder is so loud."
So he had passed his irrational fears onto his son! Fëanáro winced as he saw himself reflected in those wide black eyes.
"Could you… can you…" the child had trouble phrasing his request and Fëanáro took pity on him.
"Come here, little one." He scooped the small elfling up into his arms. Nelyafinwë buried his face in his father’s shirt, shivering violently as Fëanáro stroked his back. "There, there."
After a while the shudders ceased, but Nelyafinwë did not relax his death grip on Fëanáro, who was again reminded of himself as a child. And he remembered what had helped him overcome his fear when he had been a child…
"If you wish, you may stay with me tonight. I promise I will not let the thunder hurt you," Fëanáro said, somewhat awkwardly as he could not rightly remember what his father had said to frightened Curvo. He was rewarded by Nelyafinwë looking up at him with a brilliant smile and saying "Thank you, Ata!" before snuggling into his father’s arms again.
Fëanáro carefully slipped back into bed, drawing the covers about himself and his son. As he lay awake, feeling the warmth of the small body nestled against him and listening to his son’s steady breath, he realized that, for the first time since he had been too old to go to his own father for comfort, he was not afraid of the thunder.
Istarnië – Nerdanel (This is not canon as Tolkien considered and rejected the name Istarnië for Fëanor’s wife. However, I needed a Quenya name for Nerdanel)
Curufinwë Fëanáro – Fëanor
Curvo – short form of Curufinwë, a nickname. I have been looking *everywhere* but haven’t been able to find who this originated from. It’s not my idea, at any rate.
Nelyafinwë – Maedhros (I’m using his father-name since this is written from his father’s pov)
Ata – short form of "Atar" which means "Father". I assume (hope…) it means "Dad"
I must attribute Fëanor and his descendants having black eyes to Le Chat Noir. The idea hasn’t left me along since I read it in "Jeux de Miroirs".
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.