Aug. 19 - Time Out
Title: Time Out
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Whedon & Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Dawn continues her visits to Mandos now that she's no longer grounded and stumbles across another relative.
Word Count: 2950
Note: Before anyone asks, I think we can take it as written that there will be more of this. It's too much fun not to continue.
Tindomiel paused. She hadn’t been in this section of the Halls before. It felt… old. And mostly empty.
This section wasn’t dark, or deep, unlike some parts she’s explored before. This being the Halls, there was no dust, but it felt like ‘dusty’ would otherwise have been an accurate adjective. ‘Unused’ was definitely applicable.
It being mostly empty made her curious to know who the single fëa she knew beyond a doubt to be within was. Namo steadily refused to be drawn on whether or not the rumors were true that Turin Hurinion truly was still within Mandos, refusing to go on as the spirits of the Edain were meant to do before witnessing the final defeat of Morgoth.
Maybe it was him?
It would explain a few things.
Like how he was off by himself. And apparently on lockdown. It would probably be asking for trouble to let the self-propelled disaster magnet go socialize with innocent elves. Sure, Morgoth might be gone, but that didn’t necessarily mean the curse he’d put on the children of Hurin was…
That was almost enough to make Tindomiel reconsider, but then she felt bad about potentially letting a kinsman down. If it was Turin, she should at least get close enough to find out, and then tell her sister later. Anariel would figure something out, and could probably deal with any lingering curse. She always did. Being the Slayer was useful like that.
But as she got closer, the fëa didn’t feel particularly mannish. She’d been around more than enough Men to know. And she didn’t expect that First Age Men would be all that different from Third (or Fourth) Age Men. Or from her great-grandfather, for that matter - Turin would be Tuor’s cousin. (Actual first cousin, not ‘let’s just go with cousin because it feels right’ the way she and Anairon were cousins.)
She should have brought Anairon. He could have hung out with Uncle Findekano. But now that they’re ungrounded - or at least, now that she’s ungrounded, she’s not entirely sure if he is or not - Anairon was on a good behavior kick. So her recent visits to the Halls have been solo.
It’s fun to visit, not to mention useful since she can work on cajoling various relatives to return as they probably should have by now. Her non-living kin were happy to see her. Well, mostly. After her last visit, she’s actively trying to avoid both Celegorm and her grandmother Nimloth- which is how she ended up down here in the first place.
She frowned as she finally reached the chamber where the lone fëa resided.
It was sealed - and not by its occupant.
She reached out a cautious hand, testing the ‘flavor’ of the seal. (Not ‘magic’, even if that was what they would have called it in Sunnydale. But elves got awfully touchy about calling things ‘magic’. They had a good many words for what would have been called magic in Sunnydale, none of which meant magic. The Valar cared somewhat less as long as ‘magic’ was a neutral term and not one that carried connotations of value judgement about good or evil. But she’d done her best to reframe her thinking all the same.)
Namo tolerated her intermittent presence in his Halls, not that he had much choice, since he had no effective way to bar her. (She’s never explained how it is she can do what she does, mostly because he’s never tried something as simple as just asking. If he ever does, she’ll fess up about the whole Key thing. But she doesn’t think he will.) He’d tried, when she first started visiting. He’d pretty much given up on that idea after Tindomiel had visited her Auntie Vairë.
It turned out the Valar weren’t used to having a Child around who was kin in any degree, and Valier liked being Auntie’d as much as any of her other relatives. Yavanna in particular took a special interest, seeing as she was the actual auntie, or possibly grandmother. (Tindomiel hadn’t been quite ballsy enough to ask for clarification from the Valië herself, and she hadn’t thought to ask Melian on her first visit to Thingol’s lands.)
Aulë, of course, was Uncle since Yavanna was Auntie, and he seemed rather tickled about it, even if he was probably more interested in Anariel and the boys. He generally sounded impatient for them to hurry up and get here- not to mention like he was a charter member of the ‘leaving them there was not a good idea, young Elrond’ chorus.
But the main point was that once Yavanna and Aulë got a familial title, it had set off the closest thing to a chain reaction of sulk Tindomiel had ever seen in her elders - but among the Valar. It had been a little bit funny, but also a little bit worrying, because Tindomiel really didn’t want to offend any of them.
It started with Vana pointing out that if Yavanna was Auntie, she surely should be too, since they were sisters. That made Oromë Uncle, which pleased him immensely. Then Nessa pleaded that it wasn’t fair if her brother got to be Uncle and she had no part, she so became Auntie as well - which meant that Tulkas was also Uncle. Then Estë felt hurt that she should not be part of the family as well when Melian was so dear to her…
The upshot was that Tindomiel now called every Vala ‘Uncle’ except Manwë (mostly because she’s never met him, seeing as she’s got no reason to meddle with anything on Taniquetil, plus he might actually be the one being short of Eru himself who can actually send her to her room whether she wants to go or not) and every Valië ‘Auntie’. Just to be on the safe side.
Mandos was pretty curmudgeonly about the whole thing, so she tried not to call him Uncle in front of other elves. It would probably be bad for his image.
But this seal was definitely her grumpy Uncle Namo’s work.
She paused, but not for long. Whoever was inside was dead, which meant no matter how bad they’d been in life, no matter how hostile they might be even now to be confined in this out of the way spot, they couldn’t actually touch her unless she allowed it. (Lesson learned!) That meant they couldn’t hurt her.
Actually, she’s not too sure they can hurt anyone. The dead don’t have physical bodies, so it’s not like they can get in fistfights or wrestling matches, even with each other. Generally, those among the dead that are carrying grudges just go their separate ways and avoid one another. Kind of like the hardcore Sindar and the hardcore Noldorin Exiles do with each other. (Kind of like she’s doing with Nimloth. Again, lesson learned… although she’s going to have to face up to Celegorm at some point. After she decides how she feels about the whole incident. And she’s in no hurry on that.)
So what harm could it be to take a peek, really?
---Fëanaro was so bored he could scream. Scream, sing, shriek - anything to break the monotony. But with no way to make actual sound, the best he could do is think and remember.
But if Mandos believed that he could be forced to forswear himself by means of sheer tedium, he’s got another think coming. Fëanaro could keep this up as long as he needed.
Not that he has any idea how long he’s been here, much less how much longer he could potentially remain. (Presumably any time span up to and including ‘until the end of Arda’.) He doesn’t even properly know where ‘here’ is, aside from the patently obvious ‘somewhere in the Halls’.
At least it’s not the Dark.
Bored bored bored.
There’s nothing new here. There hasn’t been since he came.
He’s examined the walls of the chamber more enough times to have given up counting. He’s catalogued every detail. He’s also tried every method he can think of to escape. None have worked. He tries again every so often, but more to keep his mind working and give himself something to do than with any real expectation of success.
There’s no possibility of making anything, either, not when he can’t actually interact with anything in his environment. Even thinking is of limited value, since he can’t record his thoughts - otherwise he’d have written several books by now.
So it was a very welcome novelty when he heard something. Or maybe just sensed it in his fëa? It’s been long enough since Mandos bothered to look in on him that he’s not sure anymore. Not that it much mattered, since accurate descriptions were only important if one could pass them on, which he couldn’t.
The noise was not his imagination. It was coming closer. It was the most interesting thing to happen since… ever?
He expected a door, but to his surprise, someone simply walked through the apparently solid wall. Someone who was not Mandos or one of his blasted ainur.
Fëanaro frowned, and immediately tried to do the same.
It didn’t work.
“Damn it!” he growled.
Well, if he’d been able to speak, he’d have growled.
To his immense surprise, his visitor seemed to hear it all the same.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, in a tone of profound disappointment.
“You needn’t sound so thrilled about it, Anairë,” he snapped.
She blinked.
So did he.
She could hear him.
Conversation was possible! Praise the One!
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to talk me,” she said, ice in her voice, folding her arms truculently across her chest.
“Really? When did that happen? I’d like to think I’d remember if I made such an agreement. Also, when did you die? And how? Given that you would never leave the safety of Aman…”
She rolled her eyes and started to leave, before stopping completely and turning to look closer at him.
“You’re not Curufin,” she said slowly, sounding puzzled.
“Of course I am,” Fëanaro sniffed. “Though I prefer you keep my name in the tongue it was given in, not... whatever that was.”
He paused, examining his visitor more carefully.
“But you’re not dead. How are you here?” he demanded.
Whatever variant of his name she’d used seemed identifiably elvish, but it wasn’t Quenya, at least not Noldorin Quenya. Unless the language had shifted still further? Who knew what other Vanya or Telerin inflected mischief had been wrought on the Noldorin tongue in his absence?
“No, I mean-”
She sighed in exasperation.
“I mean you’re Uncle Butthead, not Butthead Junior,” she clarified. There was a pause, during which she looked like she was going to say something more on the subject, but thought better of it. “Also, for the record, I’m not Anairë. I’m her great-great-grandson’s daughter. Genetics is weird.”
Fëanaro needed a moment to process that. ‘Butt’ he understood, and ‘butthead’ he inferred to be a juvenile insult. And if he was ‘butthead’, that meant Curufinwë would be ‘butthead junior’… who for some reason was not to speak to Anairë’s lookalike descendant. Genetics he didn’t recognize at all. It didn’t sound Noldorin. Actually, it didn’t sound like any elven tongue he knew of.
Better and better- lots of new things!
He wanted to know more.
“You’re a rude one, aren’t you?” he asked, more curious than insulted.
He’d raised seven sons, after all. If the child thought he hadn’t heard worse insults when Turkafinwë and Morifinwë were fighting, elflings had changed greatly since his sons’ childhoods. (If that were the case, it would be rather disappointing, because he quite enjoyed the idea that Anairë’s young granddaughter used words that would drive her to distraction.)
“You’re the expert,” she shrugged.
“You know who I am, it would be only fair to give me your name,” he pointed out, in his very best parent voice.
“Seriously?” she demanded in skepticism and what sounded a bit like reluctant admiration. “You’re going to try the whole ‘I’m your elder’ thing? Mr. ‘I took a sword to my little brother’?”
Fëanaro wasn’t about to admit that she had a point.
“I did not actually use the sword on him, so I sincerely hope Nolo isn’t still whining about it. Besides, my actions have nothing to do with your manners,” he retorted. “Which I’m sure your grandmother has drilled into you. Unless she’s mellowed considerably since I knew her.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“My manners, or lack thereof, were pretty much set by the time I met Gramma Anairë,” she replied. “And whenever she deplores them too much, I remind her how much she’s gonna love my sister.”
Fëanaro waited. She showed no signs of leaving, which was more than enough to inspire patience on his part. It’s not as if he had any other entertainment. Actually, it’s not as if he had any other anything.
“How long have you been here?” she asked curiously. “And what did you do to get locked up by yourself? Mouth off to Namo?”
Fëanaro waved a hand.
“You’d know better than I would how long it’s been since I died. It’s not as if there’s Treelight to mark the days. Though I do appreciate that the Valar contrived some form of light for their own halls. The darkness was rather grating to the spirit.”
She gave him a strange look, as if he’d just said something odd.
“Wait…” she said slowly. “Are you saying you’ve been in here by yourself the entire time?”
He nodded.
Her jaw dropped.
“Which is how long?” he prompted.
“Um, give me a sec,” she mumbled.
“It’s a simple question,” he pointed out impatiently.
“Yeah, well, I’m not used to trying to figure the conversion from Tree Years to sun years and adding all the sun years together,” she shot back in irritation.
He’d worry about what sun years were later. First he wanted to know how long he’d been here.
“Step through the problem aloud,” he told her, falling easily into the role of instructor.
He hadn’t realized how much he’s missed having apprentices or younger kin around until that very moment.
“You died during the Year of the Trees 1497, and Tree years ran until 1500,” she began.
Fëanor was pleased that she wasn’t arguing the instruction.
“One Tree year is equivalent to roughly nine and a half sun years, so from your death to the rising of the Sun was about 30 sun years. The First Age was five hundred and ninety sun years, the Second Age was 3,441, the Third Age was 3,021, and it’s the forty-third year of the Fourth Age. So that’s 7,125 sun years, or forty-nine and a half yeni.”
She looked pleased with herself for finishing the calculation. Fëanaro was mentally checking it when the length of time hit him.
“I’ve been in here…” he quickly reversed the conversion she’d used, “750 Years?”
“Yes?” she offered cautiously, her facial expression indicating she rather expected him to come apart as spectacularly as some of Yúlon’s early windup creations used to do.
At least she wasn’t backing away, even if she looked like she was considering it.
“That’s longer than Morgoth was imprisoned!” he sputtered, getting more outraged as he thought about it.
“I guess. Maybe?”
The girl looked uncertain.
“I’m not sure,” she elaborated, slightly defensively. “In my lessons, they said Melkor was imprisoned for three ages, but I don’t know how long an age was in the time of the Trees. And I never really thought about it before.”
Now the child sounded genuinely puzzled.
As well she might be, he realized. Given what she had just said about the tale of years, Morgoth’s imprisonment would be history more remote to her than the Journey had been to his sons.
Fëanor managed with some effort to rein in his temper. If he frightened the child, she’d leave and he might molder here another seven hundred and fifty years with no idea of what was passing in the wider world. Not to mention, he rather liked her style. She might look like Anairë, but she behaved more like Nolo or Irimë.
“It is,” he told her calmly. “Morgoth was imprisoned for three hundred years. Tree years.”
She looked troubled by that.
“I answered your question,” she pointed out. “Your turn - why are you locked up by yourself?”
Fëanaro frowned.
“I don’t know. Is there some other option?”
Yes, definitely more like Nolo. That look of ‘for someone so smart you say some really dumb things’ was one of his little brother’s favorites. Or it had been the last Fëanor had seen of him, anyway.
“Nevermind. I believe Namo is hoping that I will agree to forswear myself and relinquish my claim to my Silmarils,” he replied.
“You’re still on about that? Seven hundred and however many tree years later?” she scoffed. “I’m starting to see why haru kept comparing Anariel to you whenever she wasn’t in earshot. You’re both stubborn to the point of lunacy.”
Fëanaro deduced that Anariel had to be an older sibling - she had mentioned a sister. As to haru…
“Nolo has no room to talk when it comes to stubbornness,” he informed the girl loftily. “He’s more than capable of it himself. I could tell you a story or two!”
“I didn’t mean Grandpa Nolo,” she retorted. “I have lots of grandfathers. When I said haru, I meant Makalaurë.”
“Wel- Wait!” Fëanaro protested with some heat, the path of his thought turning remarkably sharply at her last word. “If Kanafinwë is your grandfather, so am I!”
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Whedon & Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Dawn continues her visits to Mandos now that she's no longer grounded and stumbles across another relative.
Word Count: 2950
Note: Before anyone asks, I think we can take it as written that there will be more of this. It's too much fun not to continue.
Tindomiel paused. She hadn’t been in this section of the Halls before. It felt… old. And mostly empty.
This section wasn’t dark, or deep, unlike some parts she’s explored before. This being the Halls, there was no dust, but it felt like ‘dusty’ would otherwise have been an accurate adjective. ‘Unused’ was definitely applicable.
It being mostly empty made her curious to know who the single fëa she knew beyond a doubt to be within was. Namo steadily refused to be drawn on whether or not the rumors were true that Turin Hurinion truly was still within Mandos, refusing to go on as the spirits of the Edain were meant to do before witnessing the final defeat of Morgoth.
Maybe it was him?
It would explain a few things.
Like how he was off by himself. And apparently on lockdown. It would probably be asking for trouble to let the self-propelled disaster magnet go socialize with innocent elves. Sure, Morgoth might be gone, but that didn’t necessarily mean the curse he’d put on the children of Hurin was…
That was almost enough to make Tindomiel reconsider, but then she felt bad about potentially letting a kinsman down. If it was Turin, she should at least get close enough to find out, and then tell her sister later. Anariel would figure something out, and could probably deal with any lingering curse. She always did. Being the Slayer was useful like that.
But as she got closer, the fëa didn’t feel particularly mannish. She’d been around more than enough Men to know. And she didn’t expect that First Age Men would be all that different from Third (or Fourth) Age Men. Or from her great-grandfather, for that matter - Turin would be Tuor’s cousin. (Actual first cousin, not ‘let’s just go with cousin because it feels right’ the way she and Anairon were cousins.)
She should have brought Anairon. He could have hung out with Uncle Findekano. But now that they’re ungrounded - or at least, now that she’s ungrounded, she’s not entirely sure if he is or not - Anairon was on a good behavior kick. So her recent visits to the Halls have been solo.
It’s fun to visit, not to mention useful since she can work on cajoling various relatives to return as they probably should have by now. Her non-living kin were happy to see her. Well, mostly. After her last visit, she’s actively trying to avoid both Celegorm and her grandmother Nimloth- which is how she ended up down here in the first place.
She frowned as she finally reached the chamber where the lone fëa resided.
It was sealed - and not by its occupant.
She reached out a cautious hand, testing the ‘flavor’ of the seal. (Not ‘magic’, even if that was what they would have called it in Sunnydale. But elves got awfully touchy about calling things ‘magic’. They had a good many words for what would have been called magic in Sunnydale, none of which meant magic. The Valar cared somewhat less as long as ‘magic’ was a neutral term and not one that carried connotations of value judgement about good or evil. But she’d done her best to reframe her thinking all the same.)
Namo tolerated her intermittent presence in his Halls, not that he had much choice, since he had no effective way to bar her. (She’s never explained how it is she can do what she does, mostly because he’s never tried something as simple as just asking. If he ever does, she’ll fess up about the whole Key thing. But she doesn’t think he will.) He’d tried, when she first started visiting. He’d pretty much given up on that idea after Tindomiel had visited her Auntie Vairë.
It turned out the Valar weren’t used to having a Child around who was kin in any degree, and Valier liked being Auntie’d as much as any of her other relatives. Yavanna in particular took a special interest, seeing as she was the actual auntie, or possibly grandmother. (Tindomiel hadn’t been quite ballsy enough to ask for clarification from the Valië herself, and she hadn’t thought to ask Melian on her first visit to Thingol’s lands.)
Aulë, of course, was Uncle since Yavanna was Auntie, and he seemed rather tickled about it, even if he was probably more interested in Anariel and the boys. He generally sounded impatient for them to hurry up and get here- not to mention like he was a charter member of the ‘leaving them there was not a good idea, young Elrond’ chorus.
But the main point was that once Yavanna and Aulë got a familial title, it had set off the closest thing to a chain reaction of sulk Tindomiel had ever seen in her elders - but among the Valar. It had been a little bit funny, but also a little bit worrying, because Tindomiel really didn’t want to offend any of them.
It started with Vana pointing out that if Yavanna was Auntie, she surely should be too, since they were sisters. That made Oromë Uncle, which pleased him immensely. Then Nessa pleaded that it wasn’t fair if her brother got to be Uncle and she had no part, she so became Auntie as well - which meant that Tulkas was also Uncle. Then Estë felt hurt that she should not be part of the family as well when Melian was so dear to her…
The upshot was that Tindomiel now called every Vala ‘Uncle’ except Manwë (mostly because she’s never met him, seeing as she’s got no reason to meddle with anything on Taniquetil, plus he might actually be the one being short of Eru himself who can actually send her to her room whether she wants to go or not) and every Valië ‘Auntie’. Just to be on the safe side.
Mandos was pretty curmudgeonly about the whole thing, so she tried not to call him Uncle in front of other elves. It would probably be bad for his image.
But this seal was definitely her grumpy Uncle Namo’s work.
She paused, but not for long. Whoever was inside was dead, which meant no matter how bad they’d been in life, no matter how hostile they might be even now to be confined in this out of the way spot, they couldn’t actually touch her unless she allowed it. (Lesson learned!) That meant they couldn’t hurt her.
Actually, she’s not too sure they can hurt anyone. The dead don’t have physical bodies, so it’s not like they can get in fistfights or wrestling matches, even with each other. Generally, those among the dead that are carrying grudges just go their separate ways and avoid one another. Kind of like the hardcore Sindar and the hardcore Noldorin Exiles do with each other. (Kind of like she’s doing with Nimloth. Again, lesson learned… although she’s going to have to face up to Celegorm at some point. After she decides how she feels about the whole incident. And she’s in no hurry on that.)
So what harm could it be to take a peek, really?
---Fëanaro was so bored he could scream. Scream, sing, shriek - anything to break the monotony. But with no way to make actual sound, the best he could do is think and remember.
But if Mandos believed that he could be forced to forswear himself by means of sheer tedium, he’s got another think coming. Fëanaro could keep this up as long as he needed.
Not that he has any idea how long he’s been here, much less how much longer he could potentially remain. (Presumably any time span up to and including ‘until the end of Arda’.) He doesn’t even properly know where ‘here’ is, aside from the patently obvious ‘somewhere in the Halls’.
At least it’s not the Dark.
Bored bored bored.
There’s nothing new here. There hasn’t been since he came.
He’s examined the walls of the chamber more enough times to have given up counting. He’s catalogued every detail. He’s also tried every method he can think of to escape. None have worked. He tries again every so often, but more to keep his mind working and give himself something to do than with any real expectation of success.
There’s no possibility of making anything, either, not when he can’t actually interact with anything in his environment. Even thinking is of limited value, since he can’t record his thoughts - otherwise he’d have written several books by now.
So it was a very welcome novelty when he heard something. Or maybe just sensed it in his fëa? It’s been long enough since Mandos bothered to look in on him that he’s not sure anymore. Not that it much mattered, since accurate descriptions were only important if one could pass them on, which he couldn’t.
The noise was not his imagination. It was coming closer. It was the most interesting thing to happen since… ever?
He expected a door, but to his surprise, someone simply walked through the apparently solid wall. Someone who was not Mandos or one of his blasted ainur.
Fëanaro frowned, and immediately tried to do the same.
It didn’t work.
“Damn it!” he growled.
Well, if he’d been able to speak, he’d have growled.
To his immense surprise, his visitor seemed to hear it all the same.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, in a tone of profound disappointment.
“You needn’t sound so thrilled about it, Anairë,” he snapped.
She blinked.
So did he.
She could hear him.
Conversation was possible! Praise the One!
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to talk me,” she said, ice in her voice, folding her arms truculently across her chest.
“Really? When did that happen? I’d like to think I’d remember if I made such an agreement. Also, when did you die? And how? Given that you would never leave the safety of Aman…”
She rolled her eyes and started to leave, before stopping completely and turning to look closer at him.
“You’re not Curufin,” she said slowly, sounding puzzled.
“Of course I am,” Fëanaro sniffed. “Though I prefer you keep my name in the tongue it was given in, not... whatever that was.”
He paused, examining his visitor more carefully.
“But you’re not dead. How are you here?” he demanded.
Whatever variant of his name she’d used seemed identifiably elvish, but it wasn’t Quenya, at least not Noldorin Quenya. Unless the language had shifted still further? Who knew what other Vanya or Telerin inflected mischief had been wrought on the Noldorin tongue in his absence?
“No, I mean-”
She sighed in exasperation.
“I mean you’re Uncle Butthead, not Butthead Junior,” she clarified. There was a pause, during which she looked like she was going to say something more on the subject, but thought better of it. “Also, for the record, I’m not Anairë. I’m her great-great-grandson’s daughter. Genetics is weird.”
Fëanaro needed a moment to process that. ‘Butt’ he understood, and ‘butthead’ he inferred to be a juvenile insult. And if he was ‘butthead’, that meant Curufinwë would be ‘butthead junior’… who for some reason was not to speak to Anairë’s lookalike descendant. Genetics he didn’t recognize at all. It didn’t sound Noldorin. Actually, it didn’t sound like any elven tongue he knew of.
Better and better- lots of new things!
He wanted to know more.
“You’re a rude one, aren’t you?” he asked, more curious than insulted.
He’d raised seven sons, after all. If the child thought he hadn’t heard worse insults when Turkafinwë and Morifinwë were fighting, elflings had changed greatly since his sons’ childhoods. (If that were the case, it would be rather disappointing, because he quite enjoyed the idea that Anairë’s young granddaughter used words that would drive her to distraction.)
“You’re the expert,” she shrugged.
“You know who I am, it would be only fair to give me your name,” he pointed out, in his very best parent voice.
“Seriously?” she demanded in skepticism and what sounded a bit like reluctant admiration. “You’re going to try the whole ‘I’m your elder’ thing? Mr. ‘I took a sword to my little brother’?”
Fëanaro wasn’t about to admit that she had a point.
“I did not actually use the sword on him, so I sincerely hope Nolo isn’t still whining about it. Besides, my actions have nothing to do with your manners,” he retorted. “Which I’m sure your grandmother has drilled into you. Unless she’s mellowed considerably since I knew her.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“My manners, or lack thereof, were pretty much set by the time I met Gramma Anairë,” she replied. “And whenever she deplores them too much, I remind her how much she’s gonna love my sister.”
Fëanaro waited. She showed no signs of leaving, which was more than enough to inspire patience on his part. It’s not as if he had any other entertainment. Actually, it’s not as if he had any other anything.
“How long have you been here?” she asked curiously. “And what did you do to get locked up by yourself? Mouth off to Namo?”
Fëanaro waved a hand.
“You’d know better than I would how long it’s been since I died. It’s not as if there’s Treelight to mark the days. Though I do appreciate that the Valar contrived some form of light for their own halls. The darkness was rather grating to the spirit.”
She gave him a strange look, as if he’d just said something odd.
“Wait…” she said slowly. “Are you saying you’ve been in here by yourself the entire time?”
He nodded.
Her jaw dropped.
“Which is how long?” he prompted.
“Um, give me a sec,” she mumbled.
“It’s a simple question,” he pointed out impatiently.
“Yeah, well, I’m not used to trying to figure the conversion from Tree Years to sun years and adding all the sun years together,” she shot back in irritation.
He’d worry about what sun years were later. First he wanted to know how long he’d been here.
“Step through the problem aloud,” he told her, falling easily into the role of instructor.
He hadn’t realized how much he’s missed having apprentices or younger kin around until that very moment.
“You died during the Year of the Trees 1497, and Tree years ran until 1500,” she began.
Fëanor was pleased that she wasn’t arguing the instruction.
“One Tree year is equivalent to roughly nine and a half sun years, so from your death to the rising of the Sun was about 30 sun years. The First Age was five hundred and ninety sun years, the Second Age was 3,441, the Third Age was 3,021, and it’s the forty-third year of the Fourth Age. So that’s 7,125 sun years, or forty-nine and a half yeni.”
She looked pleased with herself for finishing the calculation. Fëanaro was mentally checking it when the length of time hit him.
“I’ve been in here…” he quickly reversed the conversion she’d used, “750 Years?”
“Yes?” she offered cautiously, her facial expression indicating she rather expected him to come apart as spectacularly as some of Yúlon’s early windup creations used to do.
At least she wasn’t backing away, even if she looked like she was considering it.
“That’s longer than Morgoth was imprisoned!” he sputtered, getting more outraged as he thought about it.
“I guess. Maybe?”
The girl looked uncertain.
“I’m not sure,” she elaborated, slightly defensively. “In my lessons, they said Melkor was imprisoned for three ages, but I don’t know how long an age was in the time of the Trees. And I never really thought about it before.”
Now the child sounded genuinely puzzled.
As well she might be, he realized. Given what she had just said about the tale of years, Morgoth’s imprisonment would be history more remote to her than the Journey had been to his sons.
Fëanor managed with some effort to rein in his temper. If he frightened the child, she’d leave and he might molder here another seven hundred and fifty years with no idea of what was passing in the wider world. Not to mention, he rather liked her style. She might look like Anairë, but she behaved more like Nolo or Irimë.
“It is,” he told her calmly. “Morgoth was imprisoned for three hundred years. Tree years.”
She looked troubled by that.
“I answered your question,” she pointed out. “Your turn - why are you locked up by yourself?”
Fëanaro frowned.
“I don’t know. Is there some other option?”
Yes, definitely more like Nolo. That look of ‘for someone so smart you say some really dumb things’ was one of his little brother’s favorites. Or it had been the last Fëanor had seen of him, anyway.
“Nevermind. I believe Namo is hoping that I will agree to forswear myself and relinquish my claim to my Silmarils,” he replied.
“You’re still on about that? Seven hundred and however many tree years later?” she scoffed. “I’m starting to see why haru kept comparing Anariel to you whenever she wasn’t in earshot. You’re both stubborn to the point of lunacy.”
Fëanaro deduced that Anariel had to be an older sibling - she had mentioned a sister. As to haru…
“Nolo has no room to talk when it comes to stubbornness,” he informed the girl loftily. “He’s more than capable of it himself. I could tell you a story or two!”
“I didn’t mean Grandpa Nolo,” she retorted. “I have lots of grandfathers. When I said haru, I meant Makalaurë.”
“Wel- Wait!” Fëanaro protested with some heat, the path of his thought turning remarkably sharply at her last word. “If Kanafinwë is your grandfather, so am I!”