Superstition

Canon compliant (but not Silmarillion compliant).  Fëanor says he is not superstitious.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Amras = Telufinwë, Umbarto and Ambarto).  Basically a companion piece to "Tactile", "Remorseful" and "Heavy" as well as connected to the "Run" arc.  This piece basically is about Fëanor's ideas in regards to elven naming traditions and the naming of his youngest (obviously).  Takes place in Valinor in the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or any associated works

Pairings: background Fëanor x Nerdanel

Characters: Fëanor, Amras, Nerdanel

Warning: canon compliant, superstition (obviously), precognition and/or visions, fluffiness, naming traditions

Song: If Everyone Cared

Words: 954
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superstition (noun): a belief or practice resulting from ignorance, fear of the unknown, trust in magic or chance, or a false conception of causation; a notion maintained despite evidence to the contrary
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/superstition

The first time Fëanáro saw his youngest son's full name written in wobbly handwriting, he felt his blood run cold.

He had been peering over the boy's shoulder, perusing the simple practice worksheet designed to initiate and improve handwriting in tengwar, and had initially watched with a little bit of pride as the little one struggled through his own name--a bit advanced for a child who had only started the day before yesterday.  There had only been one or two miswritten (and clumsily corrected) tengwar and tehtar.

But once the father-name--Telufinwë--had been sounded out and scribbled down in very nearly illegible handwriting--the boy had started on his mother name.

Started it using a "u".

One tehta that made all the difference.

To see a child writing something like that down in ink that couldn't be erased, it left a strange pulling feeling in the father's gut.  Somehow, writing it down this way--in the child's hand with the boy's seemingly innocuous, trusting acceptance--left it looking all too real.  All too tactile.  If he stepped just a bit closer, he could have reached out and touched it, smeared the black across his hand and rubbed the wetness between his fingertips, confirmed its reality.

The reality of a fantasy.

The urge to wipe away the clumsily written name was powerful, but Fëanáro blinked and pushed away the urge.  Only fools let themselves be controlled but supposed mystical urges and nudges, and he was no fool.  It was a simple mistake to be corrected gently and easily, nothing to be hasty or concerned about.

It meant nothing.  Of course not.

"Your mother-name is Ambarto."

The child paused in his concentration, head tilting to one side in confusion as he beheld his own messy script. "But Atto, Emya always says it with a 'u'.  Umbarto, not Ambarto."

Umbarto.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  Left droplets of ice water dripping down his spine.

"His name is Umbarto."

He remembered when she first spoke those damning words.  Remembered the look on her face, so very certain and still in statuesque assurance, her eyes wide open and gleaming with perfect clarity and breathable terror, peeling back his layers with ease and boring him wide open.  And in her arms had lain their youngest child, green-eyed and red-haired in her image, cooing innocently without a care in the world.  Unaware.

The boy hadn't changed much with his few years of age.  He was still so very young, not old enough to know or understand the meaning of that name.  Not old enough to understand how very wrong it was to see a child condemning himself to--

But the prince shook away that thought, too. Fëanáro did not subscribe to such ridiculous superstition, of course.  He merely disliked the connotation of such naming.  Disliked the wrongness of calling his child by a name that foreshadowed death and doomed fate.  But he did not believe it was, in fact, true condemnation.  Fates were not written down as such--like this ink before his eyes.  And a simple tradition would not change his mind.

"I saw it.  I saw him."

Not even when she sounded so very certain.  As though she had lived it herself.  In her nightmares.

"You must have heard her wrong, little one," he finally said, voice soft and distant with memory. "I was there when she named you.  Do you not think I remember the day you were born?"

Squinted green eyes gazed up at his face, weighing his words for truth.  And he wondered when the child's eyes had become so incisive.  So piercing.  So very like to hers.  The child would otherwise have been cute with his comically wrinkled brow and nibbled lower lip as he internally debated the soundness and logic of his sire's argument.

"Maybe you just did not remember right, Atto.  Surely Emya would not forget?"

Neither of them would forget.

"You saw something."  Well he remembered his own sarcasm and doubt. "You had a wild daydream resulting from fatigue..." And condescension and disdain.

"It was not a daydream."

But how could be anything else?

And even though, in the pit of his stomach, Fëanáro felt a hot bubble of unease rising, pooling in the back of his throat as bile, he merely shook his head and smiled.  Leaning down, stricken with visceral instinct, he pressed a kiss to the boy's brow and stroked back the messy rat's nest of curls, catching his fingers in the tangles.

"Of course, you must be right, little one.  Forgive Atto for being forgetful."

He shoved away the sickness and the unpleasant coldness that raked its spiny fingernails across his heart.  Because, really, what harm could it do?  It was merely one tehta, and it meant nothing in the end.

It had all been a daydream resulting from exhaustion and stress.

The child giggled and squirmed out from beneath his long fingers, sticky hands rearranging the messy locks back into their organized chaos as those too-familiar emerald eyes looked straight through his own. "Silly Atto!  Did you not know that Emya is always right?  She says so!"

All a daydream.

"Whatever you say, little one.  Keep practicing."

He didn't bother to correct the error of spelling.  Instead, he observed and pushed far away all thoughts of naming, traditions and feminine ridiculousness.  Let Nerdanel subscribe to her strange and whimsical fancies and dreams.  Fëanáro subscribed only to logic. 

Fate was not set as the stars in their heavens.
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Today, you got your first glimpse of Fëanor actually being sort of fatherly and sweet around his children.  I have a feeling he'd be more easy-going and less strict with the really little ones until he considers them to be old enough to actually learn some common sense and become the next generation of genius prodigies.  That, and  just didn't feel like being really mean to him today.

In any case, I think that arc is sort of the "beginning of the end" arc.  I've been thinking rather hard about Fëanor and Nerdanel and how their relationship is going to pan out in such a way that Nerdanel refuses to go with and stays behind like Anairë--maybe Anarië will have something to do with it?  Anyway, interesting as that is, it's still very much on the drawing board.

Today's song really isn't all that related to the piece itself, but served well enough at atmosphere.  If Everyone Cared by Nickelback is an old favorite.  Yes, they are rather "old" as far as the ever-changing world of popularity is concerned, but this was what was on the radio when I was a little kid, and it's what I like and remember.  In any case, some of the lyrics could be applicable, but the general message is a bit lost LOL.

I also have a picture that I wanted to link.  Feanor and the Silmarils by*breathing2004 on dA really fit the story "Muse" much better than it does this piece, but I'm too lazy to go back and edit.  It's just really awesome, and you should check out some of the other Silmarillion-related stained-glass art in this account.