Least

Canon-compliant.  Pure character developement for all the Fëanorions, but mostly for Caranthir.  He's so neglected.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë/Nelyo, Maglor = Kanafinwë/Káno, Celegorm = Turkafinwë/Turko, Caranthir = Carnistir/Moryo, Curufin = Curufinwë/Curvo, Amrod = Ambarussa/Pityo, Amras = Ambarussa/Telvo).  Most addressing is by father-name or brother-name; I feel like mother-names are personal, but maybe that's just me.  Takes place in Valinor in the Years of the Trees while all the brothers are still fairly young.

Note: way serious change in Maedhros' character from previous fics.  I haven't decided whether I like this version or the other better.  I blame the story Heart of the Mountain--the Hobbit cross-over--for Nelyo's ability to duel with words.  Maybe he just lost it after Beleriand?  Who the heck knows?

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters, but dude, would a little more characterization have killed you?

Pairings: Fëanor x Nerdanel, but it's complete background

Characters: Caranthir, Maedhros (mentions Fëanor, Nerdanel, Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, Amrod and Amras)

Warning: canon-compliant, character developement subject to change, teenage? angst, mildly dysfunctional familial relationships

Song: All I Need

Words: 2,312
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least (adjective): lowest in importance or position; being a member of a kind distinguished by diminutive size
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/least

It was hard to be overshadowed.

This was a lesson that Carnistir had learned young and learned hard.  With three older brothers and soon after three younger brothers, he was sandwiched in the middle of a huge family of prodigies, his poor status trumped by the attention-hogging youngest children always demanding their mother's comfort and love and the oldest and most prized sons coveted by their father.

Quickly, he discovered that his talent did not lie in the darkness and heat of the forge for which Fëanáro seemed to be born and created.  With large, clumsy hands that trembled fitfully, he made a poor craftsman and smith.  It was embarrassing to even be seen by his siblings, but when his father watched, Carnistir just wanted to curl up in a tight ball--microscopic and unassuming--and allow the earth to swallow him whole so that none could ever look upon his shame. For those eyes, so bright and full of icy calculation and endless ideas, gained such a disappointed luster with his every failure that the fourth child could not bear it.

Seeing Curufinwë, the fifth son, surpass him without even trying--full of the blood of his namesake through and through--was like having his insides twisted into agonizing knots.  With their father's face and form and smile, Curufinwë seemed to fit within a forge like fingers within a glove, with frightening ease and comfort.  When he was old enough to escape lessons with his younger brother, Carnistir avoided the forge at all costs and steadfastly closed his ears to any and all comments that left his father's incisive lips in regards to his lack of dexterity in hands and creativity of mind.

Speaking was not Carnistir's area of skill either.  He was not like Nelyafinwë, aesthetic to a fault and a charmer to the bone, who--while not the most talented craftsman--could put to shame even the most brilliant of the king's scholars in battles of negotiation, social pleasantries and rhetoric.  Words flowed from those lips like honey, sweet and deceiving, and just as easily like molten glass, burning fiercely and wickedly before the opponent even had a chance to retreat and live to fight another day.

Carnistir could barely utter a single sentence without stuttering and flushing dark to match his horrible mother-name.

He did not even want to compare himself to Kanafinwë, who had inherited all their mother's gentle wisdom and hidden temper mixed to perfection with their father's terrifying intellect, rolled up into a beautiful face that had maidens swooning and a glorious voice that would make a vala weep for envy.  Carnistir could swear that the second oldest composed breathtaking arias in his sleep and wove intricate tapestries of sound and color without second thought, capturing his audience in a net of pure emotion and wonder, the images captivating before their eyes.

And he was smart.  Smart enough to hold banter with Nelyafinwë's silver tongue.  Smart enough to play chess with their father and win.  Smart enough to be the perfect child in every way that mattered, even if his delicate, soft hands were not made to beat upon metal with a hammer or pour molten gold into opulent creations of splendor.

And then there was Turkafinwë.  Wild, independent and free of all obligations, even their sire could not hope to tie down the creature beneath the pale exterior.  If Kanafinwë had their father's intelligence, Turkafinwë had the fire in his spirit, untamable and unbreakable, unyielding to any reason or will but his own, stubborn to a fault.  Once Turkafinwë set his mind to something, he did not cease until it was done, and no one dared get in his way.

There was no work in the forge for the third brother.  Always, he was off in the wilderness, hunting or riding, smeared with dirt, clothes worn and torn, silver locks braided back simply without the lavish decoration of a prince.  Even when Fëanáro himself ordered Turkafinwë to "Stay", the third eldest would hold his arrogant head high and lock his jaw, smirking back into enraged eyes, and reply "No" without a droplet of hesitation.  And under the volcanic pressure of that heart-stopping gaze, the silver-haired prince would not even twitch.

Carnistir could not even look his father in the eyes without wincing.  Secretly, he envied the third brother's unshakeable confidence.

Even the Ambarussa, young and troublesome though they were, had a spark that Carnistir lacked.  They had the natural ingenuity of their sire, and they used it to terrifying effect in their mischief and schemes.  Planning and execution were flawlessly carried out, and the middle brother had been on the receiving end of the result often enough to know the devastating consequences of underestimating the redheaded pair.

In every aspect, Carnistir was the one lacking, the child who had none of his father's brilliance, the disappointing son of Fëanáro, not even worth mentioning.  Not even worth noticing.

And they never did.  Not a single one of them.  Not his father consumed in business of the forge or his mother working in her studio.  Not Nelyo, absorbed with political intrigue at court, or Káno, endlessly creating and learning and devouring knowledge, or Turko, who was never even home to see any of them to begin with.

Carnistir could not help but feel that he must be cursed.  Because to be the least of seven sons was a shame that ate away at his happiness and spirit and liveliness until he felt like naught but a shadow hiding beneath the great and towering figures of his family.  Forgotten somewhere along the way, the wilting plant choked off from the light of the sun by the thick canopies of the trees above.

And no one seemed to care.

---

"You frown too much, little brother."

It was Nelyo, the smooth voice and breathtaking height.  His flame-headed eldest brother moved into his line of vision, dropping to sit with loose elegance on the bench at Carnistir's side, every inch the perfect heir and third in line to the throne even with his hair undone and his tunic hanging open in the front like a commoner on the streets.

"Why should one smile when they've naught to smile about?"

He looked up into Nelyo's silver eyes and almost shuddered.  That calculation, so like their father's, was lurking just behind a shield of geniality, picking apart Carnistir's exterior and searching for the motives beneath as though he were some enemy on the battlefield of court rather than the simple, broody younger brother.

"Now, why would you say something like that?" Nelyo grinned, and the strange specter beneath his handsome face vanished like the morning mist. "Come now, give us a smile."

Carnistir rolled his eyes and wished that simple sentence didn't send a pang of pure pain roiling through his chest. "Just leave me alone, Nelyo."

An arm looped around his shoulders, and the younger brother had to stifle the urge to shrug it off rudely.  Instead, he ground his teeth and stared resolutely ahead as he was pulled into a half-embrace against his brother's side.  Nelyo was warm and solid beneath his silken clothing, supportive; what Carnistir wouldn't have given for his father to be this stable, to be a foundation upon which he could lean!  But Nelyo was not his father, and Fëanáro was more like a snake awaiting the moment to strike than a warm embrace and comforting words.

"Tell me what has you so upset, Moryo."

"Just drop it," he snarled, wriggling free of the hold around his neck and rising to his feet. "I do not wish to talk about it."

A hand gripped his wrist, and just like that, the fourth child of Fëanáro snapped, his fist swinging around and aiming straight for those terrifying, threatening silver eyes set in that horridly perfect face.  It would have been stained black-and-blue had Nelyo not dodged at the last moment.

"Moryo!  What on earth has gotten into you!" He almost sounded scandalized, and Carnistir wondered if it was a facade; he'd seen the twins and Turko do worse.

"Just leave me alone!"

"Not until you tell me what is wrong."

Traitorously, tears pricked sharp at the corners of Carnistir's eyes.  Oh! how he would love to tell Nelyo everything, to spill out all of the doubts and fears and loathing and seek comfort in the strength of his eldest brother's arms, but fear sat heavy in his belly.  Nelyo could lie as easily as he could draw breath, and he could twist words into misshapen, convoluted meanings without even trying.  A manipulator.  A dangerous keeper of weaknesses and secrets of the soul.

And Carnistir wondered when he had lost his naive faith in the man who had once tucked him in at night in their father's absence.  Somewhere along the way between the end of parental embraces and the cold distance of speech, they had lost something important, the bridge of closeness collapsing in disrepair.

"It's stupid," he muttered before his tongue could curb itself. "Just leave me be.  I will figure it out myself, Nelyo.  No need to waste your time."

The hand on his wrist would not release, instead pulling him back towards the bench, back towards the threat of discovery and the hopeful light of revelation. "I am not wasting my time, Moryo.  Come and sit with me."

I am not wasting my time.  But he was, was he not?

"But I..."

"Please, Moryo, sit with me." He was pulled down, and the arm draped itself over his shoulder once more, too familiar and too comforting and too stable, too like a cherished memory. "Tell me."

And just like that, everything tumbled out in a cascade of fragile words and tears.

Everything.  About not being good enough.  About Fëanáro and his disappointed eyes and his cold voice.  About how he was jealous of Turko and intimidated by Káno and overshadowed by Curvo.  About how he couldn't speak without stuttering, couldn't talk to a lady without freezing like an imbecile.  About how his hands shook terribly and he couldn't make them stop.

About how it was too much to bear.  He just wasn't made perfect.  Not like Fëanáro and Nelyo and Káno and Turko and Curvo and the twins.  He was just him, Moryo the shadow, useless and lacking in talent.  The least of seven.  The least of his father.

And that voice crooned in his ear, all soft touches and lullabies in the dark.  It should have been degrading, to be soothed like a child, but some secret part of Carnistir knew it was exactly what he wanted, what he needed, and what his father could never give him.

And when all tears were spent and exhaustion had him leaning on a warm shoulder, a steady heartbeat beneath his ear, there was only soft, cool touches combing through his hair and the sound of Nelyo's breathing against his ear.  For the longest time, they just sat, and Carnistir felt the fight and the tension draining out of his body, fleeing in the wake of the hole drilled in the self-imposed cage of doubt.

"You should have said something sooner, Moryo, hánya." Large hands moved to cup his face, tilting the reddened visage upwards.  What a sight he must have looked, red-rimmed, puffy eyes and glowing, leaking nose revealed to the daylight, but the gravitas of his brother's expression did not waver. "I would not have you think as such."

"But it is true, is it not?" Carnistir said bitterly, clutching his hands tightly, nails biting at his palms. "I could not compare to any one of you.  Atar looks and sees nothing but a failure."

"Well, Atar is neither perfect nor infallible," Nelyo replied with a surprisingly dark scowl and hot burst of frustration. "Do not let him convince you otherwise.  He is quick to judge and slow to change his mind, unwilling to use his skills of perception to find anything unexpected or undesired beneath the exterior.  He sees what he wants to see, and not the reality."

What is that even supposed to mean?  Carnistir bit his lip and glanced away, unsure how to respond.

Nelyo just sighed. "Listen to me, Moryo.  None of us is perfect.  Not me, and not Káno or Turko or Curvo or Pityo or Telvo.  We all lack something somewhere.  We are all the least in something.  Try not to think so poorly of yourself.  You will find your place in time."

"It sounds so easy when you say it, Nelyo," the fourth brother hiccupped, scrubbing at the salty stains on his cheeks. "Too easy."

"I have faith that you can figure it out." His brother's grin was cheeky. "Believe me when I tell you, Moryo, that you have Atar's vehement passion, and without that--Spirit of Fire or no--he would never have gotten to where he is today.  Try to remember that, hánya, the next time he decides to sneer down his nose and make himself into a nuisance."

His fists tightened until his knuckles blanched white and his nails drew faint crescents of blood, but Carnistir nodded still, unsure what to think or what to feel.  He was caught somewhere between relief and elation and confusion. "I will try."

"That is all I can ask." Gently, Nelyo kissed his temple and rose from the bench, stroking a long-fingered hand once more through his red-faced brother's dark curtain of hair--their father's proud mane framing their mother's ruddy cheeks.  But before he left, the older brother turned the full-force of his charm upon his younger sibling and smiled that crooked, infectious grin. "Now, give us a smile."

And how was Carnistir to resist?  Waterworks, freckles and all.
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Holy crap, that was way longer than I had intended for it to be!  I think this is the longest one I've written yet.  Definitely crossed the 80,000 word mark on this blog now, I think.  In any case, perhaps it's sappy, but I did it anyway.  And sorry to die-hard Fëanor fans, but I can't picture him as being the perfect father.  It's not that I think he doesn't care, I just think he doesn't understand kids or normal people very well.  Genius he might be, but he can't be good at everything.  That's why Maedhros was born first.

I blame the brotherly interaction on a picture I once saw, the name of which I don't know because it was in Russian.  And that one obscure reference to Maedhros rebuking Caranthir in the Silmarillion.

Was listening to All I Need by Within Temptation on a whim.  It was the first thing I selected on my iPod as I was walking back from the science building after a particularly boring bout of discussion over a series of alkene reactions that we're going to talk about in class tomorrow anyway. *sighs* In any case, I partially blame the lyrics of this song, but the idea was already there, this just created a more cliche brother-interaction atmosphere, I think.

Vocabulary!
háno = brother (one of several possible translations; my other favorite is "toron")
-nya = my
hánya = my brother
Atar = Father
Carnistir = red-faced (for the sake of irony)