Engage

Almost canon compliant.  Fëanor discovers his calling.  Quenya name used for Fëanor, so he's called Fëanáro throughout.  This is after the marriage of Finwë and Indis, as well as the birth of at least Fingolfin, so if Fëanor seems unnaturally petulant (which he kind of is), it's because he's still pissed off.  If anyone can hold a grudge, it's him.  Obviously, though, he isn't married as of yet.  This story bends Tolkien's timeline a bit.  Fëanor in this story has created Tengwar, but it's earlier in the timeline than he's supposed to, just to let you know it case you're a canon-freak like me.  Takes place in Tirion and the Mansions of Aulë in the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Fëanor, Finwë, Mahtan, random servants (mentions Yavanna, Ulmo, the Valar in general and Eru)

Warning: almost canon-compliant, dysfunctional family, family issues, geniuses being too smart for their own bloody good, foreshadowing

Song: Welcome to the Show

Words: 1,722
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engage (verb): to entangle or entrap in or as if in a snare or bog; to interlock with: mesh; to bind (as oneself) to do something (e.g. marriage); to enter into contest or battle with
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/engage

Boredom.  Pure, mind-numbing boredom.

That was what occupied the days of the Crown Prince of the Noldor.

There was only so much he could do within the confines of his father's spacious, unchanging palace.  Long since had the library and its not-so-endless supply of literature lost its appeal.  There were, of course, courtiers to speak with, but their minds were consumed with political hum-drum and gossip and naught else of interest.  And, of course, there was artistic and scholarly work left half-completed and scattered about.  Mathematical timetables and calculations, architectural schematics, the bare-bone structure of written linguistics and a truly endless supply of white canvasses in need of watercolor decoration.

After the first hundred times, few of those things interested him.  Painting was his least favorite exercise, as it took no concentration or thought and did not release any of the intuitive jitters of creative inspiration writhing like parasites beneath his flesh.  Following that was the mathematics at which he was extremely talented but about which he found himself unenthusiastic in the application towards building projects or clothing measurements.

As for written language, he had created it and left the fine-tuning to those who had reason to use it.  For what did the Crown Prince have to write but anecdotes outlining the true horror of being born into the single-parent family of the sole ruler of his people.  And, he had been reliably told, others liked to imagine his life was glamorous and wonderful and did not wish to have their thoughts tainted by the slanderous pondering of a petulant, spoiled young prince with too much time on his hands.

Fëanáro was rather inclined to believe this.  Thus, if no one wanted to listen, what was the point in sharing?

But today, at least, his father was not keeping him cooped up like a pet parakeet in a gilded cage.

A knock on the door drew the dreary young prince from his morose thoughts.  Rousing himself from the recesses of his hideously soft down mattress, Fëanáro paused only to throw on a coat over his simple and unadorned clothing before heading out.

Of course, the servants looked scandalized at his manner of under-dressing.  His father, dressed in finery and standing patiently before him, looked only exhausted and resigned.  At least he knew better than to demand his son return to his quarters to change--knew that Fëanáro had no intention of listening to orders given by anyone short of Eru himself unless it sat well with his temperament that day.

"Are you ready, yondonya?" A hand was laid upon his shoulder, a supposedly friendly and reassuring gesture.  Fëanáro just wished his father felt not the need to touch him in such a familiar manner.

"Quite," he spat out, bordering on pure malicious disrespect. "Where is it that we are going precisely, Atar?"

"The Mansions of Aulë," the King replied, as if they went there every day. "I have some business that I would like to take care of personally, and I thought since you expressed your desire to leave the palace grounds last night at dinner..."

Well, at least he was trying to help.  More than could be said for the majority of the servants and scholars frolicking about with those patronizing eyes and oversimplified words of empty praise.  By the grace of the Valar! he was no longer a fifty-year-old stripling!

"Very well." He turned and walked away, hearing the trailing layers of heavy fabric sifting across the floor from behind.  Beneath even that faint sound of the King sweeping elegantly through his home, Fëanáro could hear the whispers of the servants--could feel their hot, disapproving eyes between his shoulder-blades--and it was only the very basic good breeding and etiquette of his childhood that kept him from throwing the nearest vase in their direction.  It would serve the two-faced ninnies right!

But he did nothing.  Nothing more than move through his life with distant eyes, wondering when next something would grab his attention away from idleness and emptiness.  And wondering how long that next something would last.

---

From a distance, the Mansions of Aulë looked not like much more than a dull hillside in which had been delved and tunneled.  The Crown Prince pursed his lips as he beheld the simply-colored buildings without ornate decoration, carrying no sign of that aura of urbanity that so defined the marvels of court life.  No, from a distance, they did not look very impressive.

Up close was another matter altogether.

For, when he stepped out of the carriage at his father's back, Fëanáro froze in shock and stared, wondering why no one had said anything in warning.

Overhead, intricate lace of silvered gold spun about them as they walked through the courtyard into the depths of secrecy, its glow casting vibrant patterns down over the marble clicking beneath the elven heels.  The urge to reach out and touch the vibrating strands near overcame the young prince as he passed through their gentle touch, for they pulsed and sang as a soft rising whisper rushing over his mind, something ancient beyond even his innate understanding, outlining the stars with their own mesh blanket of light.

And then the noise mixed, the soft, angelic tones overcome with the harsh clang and bustle of feet on stone floors.  The doors were pushed wide for the King, voices ringing down into the rocky depths of the Mansions.  And Fëanáro hardly dared to blink as he left behind the world of soft, celestial elven beauty.

Inside was even more entrancing beneath that ethereal sheen weaving in the eaves above.

It was not lavishly decorated in the same way as the palace, with all the airy finery and sleek grace.  This place was carved of agate and mineral, pure and towering grandeur, and from all directions Fëanáro could hear movement and action.  No silence met his wide-eyed surveillance, but rather the ring of metal and hiss of fire came from all directions, surrounding and blending into a unique melody all its own.

A song of creation.  And beneath his skin, the parasitic need clawed and screamed, vibrating with each hammer-strike echoing into the prince's ears.

His attention was captured.  His genius was engaged.

There was the sight as they walked of jewels being carved and shaped in all manner of translucent perfection, of measurements draw and edited and redrawn, the schematics of creations far more beautiful and meaningful than the mere foundation of a building or the shape of an archway.  Color met his gaze from every direction, as well as the iridescent burn of molten metal and the showers of sparks raining as fire within earthy darkness.

In his mind's eye, he could see.  Could picture.

And it was something whole and tangible that his hands sought to mold, rather than some two-dimensional, impersonal splash of color splattered across a canvass, a work of copied brilliance after the greater works of the Valar.  Within his gut curled a want to make something of his own.  Something resplendent.

Something that no other had created before.  Be it through metal, stone or jewel, it would be something he could touch and hold, something no eyes yet had laid their scorn or judgment upon, because it was not a flower to be plucked from a meadow planted and nurtured by Yavanna's soothing voice or a curl of ocean foam sung into being by Ulmo's deep baritone.

These men in their leather and gloves with sweat upon their brows and smudges upon their cheeks, they were creators.  And this was true artwork.

Artwork just barely within brushing distance of Fëanáro's outstretched fingers.

But before he could so much as part his lips, they were approached by an unfamiliar man.

The stranger was clearly an elf, but his cheeks and chin were filled out with a russet beard.  Evergreen eyes shadowed by thick red brows beheld the King and his heir.  Huge hands, covered in taut gloves of thick black leather, rose in greeting.  There was a bow, rather shallow and inelegant but all the more sincere.  And then those eyes bored into Fëanáro expectantly, delving and measuring.

"I see you have arrived with my newest pupil."

Newest pupil?

With shocked eyes, he turned to face his father, but Finwë looked not the least chagrined at his son's somewhat accusatory gaze.  If anything, he looked nothing short of far too pleased with himself if one judged by the satisfied smirk devilishly curling the monarch's usually down-turned lips. "Ah, yes, my son, I believe, would flourish in a new atmosphere.  The palace can only entertain a young man of such overwhelming intellect for so long..."

They are speaking about me...

"I do hope you asked the boy before bringing him here.  I will not tolerate anything short of complete devotion to my teachings, even from a prince."

"And thus you shall receive!"

All eyes were upon him, but Fëanáro did not flinch or blush at the attentive eyes and raised brows. "Doubt not my devotion to this undertaking," he continued. "I want to learn... Master."

The lips half-hidden beneath the beard twitched upwards at the corners.  And within those eyes, he could see the first sparks of approval.  Such signs boded well for apprenticeship, and the Crown Prince eagerly stoked those good graces with a low bow, waiting to be told to rise.

In the pit of his belly, anticipation boiled.  In his mind's eye, the future was unfolding itself.  For the first time in a very long time, boredom was not eating away at the corners of his mind, but pure excitement.  His body practically vibrated with it, that little melody harmonized with the sounds of heavy labor, panting breaths and steam beating its way into his blood.

Fëanáro knew that this was what he had been waiting for.  This was where he was meant to be.

"Very well, boy, let us get started."

And the Crown Prince smiled a smile that in years to come would become the cornerstone of his charismatic fire.  Calculation and frightening foresight singed the corners of star-eyes.

"Yes, let us."
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I've always wondered how a prince got all caught up in craftsmanship.  If you really think about it, it doesn't seem a very likely job for royalty to be engaged in, does it?  Usually craftsmen are considered somewhere around working middle-class and, as far as I know, royalty tend towards politics and running their countries rather than spending their time creating things that someone else could make for them.  Possibly stereotypical, I know, but still.  Thus, Fëanor had to be introduced somehow to metallurgy and jewelry-crafting, yeah?

I never intended for Finwë to be so underhanded.  Originally, he actually was going there for business, but he threw me a curve-ball at the last moment.  Characters, always doing things behind my back like that!  But it got Fëanor where he needed to be and everyone's happy.  I, at least, am pleased.  Until about two hours ago, I was looking at this prompt going "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" if you know what I mean.

And the song today is completely irrelevant to the actual subject matter of the story, but I used it anyway because I'm currently addicted and haven't been able to listen to anything else.  My sister showed me an AMV to the song Welcome to the Show by Britt Nicole and it got stuck.  I guess it has the energy to go with the story, or at least to go with Fëanor and his very fiery spirit (no pun on his name intended LOL).

One last thing before I go.  I used yondonya instead of yonya as a way of marking out "class" and the development of language over time.  I can't imagine "old school" Quenya had the contraction-like little changes of later Quenya, and since Finwë is Old, I decided he wouldn't like using linguistic shortcuts.  That's why it's different than the times I've used the same phrase in previous stories.  However, as always, atar means father.