@ga1adriel
there is no death in valinor. they have no word for it, not as it relates to their kin but instead it conjures the wilt of a flower or the rot of old fruit or a friendship withered under petty conflict; and if there is no death amongst their people there can be no grief, no great longing, one does not walk amongst eternal spring feeling bereft. what simple nonsense. the intention of the valar for the children of iluvatar to live in captivity such as it is and drift effortlessly from one pointless endeavour to the next.
it nags at him so, nipping at his heels, the odd catch of ambition beyond known reality or ability.
the party was some insipid attempt at connection: his little brothers united in some odd front as they sniffed out any hint of exceptionality amongst anyone who was not directly under their purview. it itched at his skin. at his pride. who are they to summon him? feckless, impudent - arrogant. and so fëanor stands at the corners of the grand palace and picks at his food and makes little conversation and watches his wife giggle, dance, celebrate another day just the same as the last. his sons wibble and scrape for affection in their cousin counterparts. his brothers lord over all in some grim attempt at puppetry and as he watches it all, fëanor seethes.
he has a grand design beginning to swirl in his minds eye, a desire to create and immortalise something for the elves and their kin alone, but what exactly that might be has not yet come to him. this party offers little inspiration. that is, of course, until the last batch of arrivals drift into the ballroom.
for but a moment, the palace holds its breath. she is the very image of the house of finwë; the same high tilt to her chin, the brilliant blue of her eyes, the soft slant of her jaw and cheek being both formidable and proud. she appears lit from within, the very wind and will of the world seeming to shift and bend around her as she walks. it is the same every time he finds himself in the company of the lady artanis.
the golden cascade of her hair catches his eyes - every eye, some so bold as to glance away should they be blinded in their greed for longer and closer - and fëanor looks, and looks, and looks. so very typical of finarfin, to horde the greater treasures for himself and share nothing of his fortune. has it always been the way? he cannot remember being boys together but he knows there is a selfishness in his younger brother that should’ve been beaten out early rather than left to whelp in the sun.
fëanor drains his glass and leaves it rocking, darting through the crowd to steal away to her side when there is a gap in welcoming attentions. (he pays no attention to the fetid sadness curling at his wife’s brow nor the concern that twitches the eye of his father. do they sense it already? do they detect even now the ruin which might curl amongst their people at the most delicate of suggestions? the indecent cut of his eyes and mouth, the dismissive blankness hiding beneath his skin? they care not for the suggestion of arrogance or greatness, but only the question of fear. they know what he may yet be capable of but with nothing to name and no word for the violence they can see brewing under the thin facade of polite piety, what can they do but watch? and wait.)
“you grace us, dear niece, with your presence tonight,” it is no gentle ribbing but sincere, and he plucks a goblet from a passing servant and hands it to her. “don’t tell your father. he’ll give me nothing but grief.”
