Fëanáro did not expect to find Eressë awake in the parlor when he emerged from the larger of the two bedrooms. When the cabin was built, one smaller bedchamber was constructed for Amarië, and the other three occupants shared the second bedroom. It was larger, and contained two beds on the ground level, and a third loft area. It was more of a crawlspace, really, but Eressë had liked the idea of sleeping well off the floor where snakes and rodents were less inclined to go. It did mean hearing the rain beating down loudly just inches away from him when there was a storm, but he claimed to like the rain. Thus, with his hidden sleeping arrangements, there was no way for Fëanáro to know whether or not he had still been awake. The younger elf joined his companion on the sofa, his back against the elder’s shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”
Eressë turned his head just slightly, nose tickled by the wild strands of black hair. “What makes you think I was thinking?” He could see that Fëanáro had been crying, and he did not need ask why. They had known each other for many years, and it had been Eressë, not Finwë, that the young prince had run to the day he realized his mother would never return. Instead, Eressë placed a comforting arm around him with his hand resting over Fëanáro’s heart.
“I suppose you could be not-thinking,” he conceded, “but every moment I am awake, I am always thinking. I just assumed you were thinking.” Fëanáro wiped at the corners of his eyes. “You want me to go away?”
“No.” Eressë, who was still dressed from the previous evening, produced the envelope he had hidden in his vest. “Here. This is yours.”
Fëanáro sat up straight, stretching with his chest forward until something made a cracking noise. He moved his neck one way, then the other, and when he was satisfied that he was limber enough for it, took the letter and studied it. “So why did you—oh,” he said, noticing the version of his name on the envelope. “Well, fuck that,” he said, drawing back his arm to fling it into the fireplace.
His wrist was caught by Eressë, and the invitation tumbled to the floor. “You should at least open it,” he suggested.
“You open it.” Fëanáro picked it up from the ground and handed it to Eressë. “Come on,” he insisted, shaking the envelope.
“They sent it to you,” argued Eressë, though he kept his voice down so that they would not awaken the others. “Are you not the least bit curious?”
“Me? No.” Fëanáro looked at the envelope for a moment, then made a growly sort of noise and tore it open. This envelope was thicker than the others, and contained several sheets of paper, including a private audition time, information on lodgings, and a detailed list of what was expected. “Should have burned it,” decided Fëanáro after he finished reading and passed the information on to Eressë.
“Amarië was thinking that she might audition,” said Eressë as he skimmed through the documents. “Mahtan told her if she did, he would try, too.”
“Figures. We finally get this place all set up, and now they get bored of it.” Fëanáro picked up the envelope, smashed it into a ball, and threw it into the fire, where it never fully ignited, but instead popped and twisted until it was little more than a bit of soot.
Eressë handed the pages back to Fëanáro. “Just because they audition does not mean they will be offered a spot at the school.”
Fëanáro read over the papers again. “I suppose... we could go with them. For support.”
“Aye.”
“Of course, it only makes sense for us to audition then as well,” he added.
Eressë nodded slowly. “If you think so. Maybe we should see about some long-term lodgings. Your audition would be a full six weeks prior to the open auditions.”
“Oh, no,” corrected Fëanáro. “If I do this, it is not Curufinwë who is coming to audition. It is Fëanáro, and he will ignore special opportunities. If I get into this school, it will be on my merit, not my name.”
“In that case, would you like me to see if I can gather any information about the school so that we know what we are getting into? I would suspect there is something about it at the library where my mother works,” offered Eressë.
“Good idea,” answered Fëanáro, though he now seemed lost in some private thoughts of his own.
---
It had been a few years since Eressë had been a regular patron of the library in Alqualondë. He once knew the aisles well, but now some things looked out of place. He wandered the maze of shelves, then finally approached one of the reference librarians. “Excuse me, would you be able to help me find something?” he asked timidly, not wanting to interrupt her work.
The elleth glanced up from her work for a moment with a smile. “Well, good morning, Tatannin. How have you been?”
“Oh... fine, thank you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he recognized the lady as a neighbor of his parents, but could not recall her name. “How are you?”
“I am well, thank you. What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if you had any information on the Sarati School.” He felt the envelope in his pocket, and withdrew it. Fëanáro had given him the plain envelope and contents to bring with him on his fact finding mission, and Erestor unfolded the letter for the librarian to look at.
She took hold of the documents and looked them over. “You should talk to my son about this. He tried to get into the school a few years ago.”
“Oh?” Eressë tried to remember the name of the unknown elleth’s son, but that, too, was escaping him. “Where might I find him?”
“Eneuron is working on the second floor,” said the lady, handing back the pages she had looked at. “For the most part, he gives lectures, but I do not think he had any today. You should be able to find him on the balcony, writing poetry.”
Eressë tucked away the letter again and bowed. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Say hello to your mother for me,” said the elleth as Eressë bowed again, and then walked to the stairway that wound upwards to the second floor.
---
Meanwhile, Fëanáro had his own personal mission. He, too, was in a library, but this library was full of personal memoirs, scrolls containing family genealogical charts, and legal documents of various types. There were also maps, and bundled stacks of leaves with pictures drawn on them, and stones kept in boxes with the same. During the journey, no scrolls existed, nor was there a formal written language, and so these mementos were the documentation of the path taken by the Noldor, and were guarded carefully by Finwë.
All of it was meticulously organized, a project that had been jointly undertaken by Finwë, Tatië, and Rúmil. Few ever came into the room, though it was known that all were welcome in the home of he whom the Noldor called King.
At present, the King’s primary duty was listening to his son. Fëanáro waited patiently as his father tidied the oaken desk so that the only items upon it were three separate quills, one made for him by each of his children, and a covered ornate container that was shaped like a duck and contained ink.
“It is always a delight to have you visit,” said Finwë fondly. Though he would never say so publicly, it was Fëanáro who was his favorite. He may have loved Indis, but the match to his soul was Míriel, whom his thoughts still lingered upon. Fëanáro always brought back memories of a life that might have been, of a time of innocence lost, but not all of these memories saddened Finwë.
Fëanáro, however, was not very fond of Indis. Whether he tried to like her or not was a question unasked, although those closest to him would assume that any positive feelings he had towards her turned to hate upon hearing that his nanny was to become his father’s new wife. Even now, as she passed the doorway and waved to him, he glared past her and ignored the gesture. “Father, I wish to seek your opinion.”
Finwë nodded. “As always, I shall advise you in whatever ways I can.” He leaned across the desk a little, hands folded. “What troubles you?”
“Not a trouble, per se. I have been approached by Lord Rúmil, of the Sarati School.” Fëanáro produced the invitation he had been especially given. “I wish to know whether you believe this is a good use of my time.”
Finwë smiled and opened a drawer of his desk. “It is interesting that Lord Rúmil should approach you. He made a stop here just a few days ago.”
Fëanáro raised a brow as Finwë brought out an envelope very similar to the one that had been delivered to him. This one, however, had a different name embossed upon it, and Fëanáro narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “No.” He shook his head again, and then snatched back his own invitation. “How? Nolofinwë is too young!”
“He will turn thirty-four during the auditions. Rúmil has even given him special consideration,” said Finwë.
Fëanáro continued to shake his head as he stood up. “Then he can go and audition and you can be proud of him instead!” As Fëanáro made his way hastily to the door, Finwë moved abruptly around the desk and stopped him at the door.
“Now, now… I have not yet given him permission to do so,” soothed Finwë. “Perhaps he should wait until he is a little older; I have not decided about him yet.” He placed his hands on Fëanáro’s shoulders and steered him back to the overstuffed chairs near the windows. “Your sister received an invitation as well, but we have already decided that she should wait.”
Fëanáro sat, but did not look very relaxed. “I do not care if Findis is there,” he mumbled, and while he might have cared a little, he was much more concerned with the brother who would displace him. “Nolofinwë and I fight all the time,” he reminded his father. “If I am there, I would need to concentrate on my studies.”
“I do respect that,” assured Finwë, “but I must think of the entire situation before I make my judgements.”
“You could let Findis go this year and you could let Nolofinwë go next time,” suggested Fëanáro.
Finwë nodded. “I have considered that, but we must think of the whole of it. Just because you decide to try out will not guarantee you a position,” Finwë warned. “There are many factors involved.” He paused. “What of your companions?”
“If I audition, they will do the same,” said Fëanáro.
“How will you feel if one of them is accepted, and you are not? What if all three are?” Finwë rubbed the back of Fëanáro’s neck as the youth bowed his head. “I know how much those friendships mean to you. I assume that you all wish to be there together. The question is – how confident are you about it?”
“I hardly know what goes on there,” admitted Fëanáro. “At the same time.. I hate stupid people. I know for a fact my friends are not stupid. We should all easily be able to get into the school.”
Finwë sighed. “There is more to it than intelligence. If you really want to be accepted, I think I can help with that, and with getting your friends in. Realize, however, you are making a long commitment.”
“Twelve years,” said Fëanáro, holding up his special invitation.
A nod came from Finwë as he took the papers and looked them over. “You will be required to work hard, to study, to be inventive, to.. deal with stupid people at times, and to listen to your elders.” He stressed this last point.
Fëanáro shrugged.
“Would you like me to speak with Lord Rúmil? I am sure he could arrange special audition for all of you,” offered Finwë.
“No.” Fëanáro tugged the invitation away again. “I do not want any special consideration at all. In fact, I need a general invitation.”
Finwë looked confused. “You want to make it harder on yourself and your companions?”
“We want to excel. We want them to want us. We do not merely wish to be ‘good enough’.”
“Very well.” Finwë held out his hand, and Fëanáro handed him the papers. “I will obtain what you wish.”
“Thank you, father.” Fëanáro frowned. “And Nolofinwë?”
Finwë studied Fëanáro a little while before he went to the desk to retrieve the invitation which had been sent for his younger son. “When have I ever been able to deny you anything?” asked Finwë, kissing Fëanáro’s brow as he held the invitation out to him.
Fëanáro took the envelope, concealing a smug look as he stood to embrace his father. “Thank you, father. I promise, I shall not disappoint you.”
“I would never expect you to,” confirmed Finwë. “I am already very proud of you.”
Fëanáro stepped back. “I do not mean to leave so quickly, but I would like to return to the others. We will need to ready ourselves for the auditions.”
“Of course. Perhaps you might all come over for dinner in the near future. Once you are engaged in the auditions, and with the school, you will not have the ability to do simple things as easily.”
Usually, Fëanáro would have declined the offer. His distaste of his step-mother and his half-brother kept him away from the house of his father more often than not. However, he did miss his father, even if he would never admit to such a thing. “We could come over tomorrow.”
Finwë’s expression brightened. “I would like that very much.”
---
Erestor waited until Eneuron was alone before he approached him. “So, your mother told me that you once tried to get into the Sarati school.”
Eneuron nodded. “That is correct. Twelve years ago, I believe.” He nodded again. “They have very high standards.” He paused, then said, “You might be able to make it. I was too old at the time.”
“You still fit into the age range, even now,” said Erestor. “Or did those change.”
“No, they are still the same, I believe. They still prefer to have younger students there. It helps the creative flow of ideas, and it keeps them from having those who have too many experiences from being there.”
Erestor mulled this for a moment, then said, “I suppose I do not understand what that would have to do with anything.”
“Someone who is young is still adventurous. They will be more inclined to try things that are unusual. Someone who is older, well, they are older. Set in their ways. Even at our age. But then, you just seem old,” he added. Eneuron shrugged. “I am sorry; I mean that as a compliment.
“I think I understand.” Erestor sighed. “Well, I best explain it all. Three friends and I will be trying to gain entry, but we have decided that we will either all be accepted, or none.”
“That seems like a very high bar you have set. I wish you luck.” Eneuron paused. “You came to me to find out what you need to do to get in.”
Eressë nodded.
“I fear I can only tell you what to do to not get in,” he said as he chuckled and rerolled a scroll. As he was carefully tying the strings to keep it from unfurling, he added, “I know some things, just not everything. If I knew everything, I would be in Tirion right now.”
“I hate to be a bother, but do you think you would have time to stop by the cottage? Just to give us some idea of what to expect?” Eressë bit his lip and gave a pleading look. While he knew that Fëanáro would not use his position to his advantage, Eressë used what little clout he had as the son of Alqualondë’s chief librarian and the first awakened Noldo turned abstract philosopher to gain whatever favor he could.
Eneuron’s parents had been supporters of Tata and Tatië since the Awakening. “I suppose I could. As far as I know there is nothing against the rules about that. When do you want me to stop by?”
Eressë smiled. “I was just about to head back there now. If you would like, I can show you how to get there,” he offered.
“Is that the cottage on the road to Tirion?” asked Eneuron. “Because I think I know where it is.”
“Yes. I came by carriage, and I would be more than happy to take you.” Eressë stopped himself from cringing at how overly eager he sounded.
Eneuron smiled the sort of smile an adult gives to an overly excited child. “I think I can find my way there. I will ride over as soon as I am done here,” he promised.
Eressë nodded. “Thank you. Thank you so much – this really means a lot to us.”
“You are welcome. It will make my mother happy to see me do something other than read or write for the evening,” he explained. “I will see you soon.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Eressë repeated again, and then he left the library, strolling leisurely through the aisles. He took note of his mother down one of them, deep in thought, and almost approached her. He thought better of it; she was always scolding him for interrupting her, and he certainly did not want Eneuron in earshot if she released her wrath.
---
Fëanáro was leaving as well, with hopes to return to the cottage before supper. He was in the courtyard of his father’s estate checking over his horse to be sure the stallion had been properly rested when he was approached by his half-brother. “Good day, Fëanáro!”
With a scowl, Fëanáro turned to look at the youth. “It had been a good day,” he snapped back.
—olofinwë’s shoulders slumped. He stood quietly as Fëanáro tightened the saddle and mounted the dapple grey horse. “Why do you hate me?” he finally asked.
“I do not hate you,” replied Fëanáro. “I just wish you had never been born.” With that, he rode away.
