Feanor’s racist #01
They were late to the weekly dinner, again. Truly late this time. Partly because Maedhros couldn’t find the hairpins he wanted to use, and partly because Elros spilled a cup of water all down his front and Maglor insisted he had to change into a fresh robe. He spilt the water on accident but took advantage of being sent back up to his room to change as slowly as possible and delay them even more. He didn’t leave the room until he heard Maedhros’ heavy footsteps coming down the hall.
While the twins buckled themselves into the back seat of the car, Maglor leaned across to his brother and whispered, “I’m worried about that text Caranthir sent.”
“We can’t do anything about it now.” Maedhros kept an eye on the progress in the rearview mirror and shifted the vehicle into drive as soon as everyone was buckled.
“I don’t—”
“Not now,” He hissed back. He didn’t want to talk about it where little ears would easily overhear. Caranthir took a certain satisfaction in planting rumors among his brothers and seeing what happened. That text message was probably nothing more than another attempt to liven up the weekly family dinner with easy entertainment. More likely than not, as long as they didn’t respond, tonight would be no different from every other week.
Maglor fell silent but drummed his fingers on the dashboard. Maedhors wanted to snap at him, to tell him to stop fidgeting, but the boys tended to get nervous when he did stuff like that and he didn’t want to make them any more worked up than they already were. They just all needed to stay calm and the evening would pass without a problem.
When they finally arrived, Elrond started complaining that his socks didn’t feel right and slipped off his shoes so he could try to fix them.
“You were okay the whole way over here,” Maglor scolded, grabbing the shoes and putting them back on his feet. He pulled him out of the car. “You’ll be fine.”
The eight-year-old looked down and stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, but brightened a little when the black-haired elf offered him his hand to hold as they walked to the door. Elros came behind them, Maedhros hurrying him along, hoping to get them into the house before the meal officially started.
Inside, quiet voices filtered out from the dining room down the hall, accompanied by the tink of silverware against china. Maedhros took the lead as they walked down the hall. Maglor let go of Elrond’s hand, leaving him next to his brother as he fell back to walk beside Elros and remind him to take his hands out of the pockets in his robe and straighten his shoulders (he didn’t add that slouching and hiding his hands made him look like he was looking for trouble as he had with his little brothers over the last two decades).
The room went silent when they entered.
Dinner started some time before and everyone had food on their plates. Curufin had a glass halfway to his lips and slowly set it down as his older brothers came through the doorway. Fëanor rose from his chair at the head of the table. His mouth was set in a tight frown, his thin eyebrows drawn into a hard line over keen eyes.
Maedhros’ shoulders tense. He knew his father would be irritated by their tardiness, but the tension in the room, and the poorly concealed excitement on Celegorm’s face, made it clear that this was something bigger. Keeping his expression mild, he said, “My apologies for our late arrival, Atar.”
He pointed Elrond toward his seat, murmuring, “Go sit down.”
The child looked up at him for a moment, biting the inside of his bottom lip, a nervous habit.
“No, you do not have permission to sit at my table.” Fëanor snapped when Elrond reached for his chair. Maglor and Elros froze behind them. “Come here.”
He grabbed Elrond’s shoulder and pulled him closer before he could move. His other hand came up and clamped around the boy’s chin so he could tilt his face up and turn his head this way and that to inspect his features. The two rings he wore pressed uncomfortably against Elrond’s jaw.
“Father, really, this isn’t—” Maglor began, one hand on Elros’ shoulder to keep him by his side; the child’s hands clenched into fists when the old elf grabbed his brother. He cut himself off when angry eyes glared at him.
Tears welled up in the eight-year-old’s eyes as the elf tugged the fingers of his other hand through his hair, breaking several of the thin, dark brown strands. He glowered down at the child and released him, by no means satisfied with the inspection. He pushed him away, and Elrond stumbled against Maedhros, who’d watched the whole thing in stony silence.
“You brought orcs into my family,” Fëanor sneered in disgust.
“They are not orcs,” Maglor said hotly.
His father spoke over him as if he said nothing. “You’ve known about their bastard lineage from the beginning yet you insisted on keeping them, refused to send them back to the state as I counseled. And when you discovered this still darker part of them, you actively sought to conceal it!”
Amrod, or maybe Amras, still seated at the dining table, his meal mostly abandoned in favor of watching the spectacle, snickered.
“Be silent!” Fëanor raged, turning on the red-haired twins. His ire spread to everyone in the room. “Do you think it is amusing to sit next to one of those creatures, a descendant of the filth your foreparents waged war against? It is no game to let them sully one of the last true Noldor houses.”
The three other elves still seated at the table shot the young pair annoyed looks. Their father’s tirades were less entertaining when directed at them.
Maedhros wrapped an arm around Elrond’s trembling shoulders. “Atar,” He said, calm and steady. He’d had an iron control of his emotions since childhood. “Elrond and Elros are children. They cannot help what their parents and forebearers did. I cannot change their genetics anymore than you can change Celegorm’s.”
Fëanor’s mouth tightened further. Celegorm cocked his head, waiting to see what kind of game his elder brother was trying to play. Reminding their father of his third son’s less-than-honest begetting was always dangerous.
“But,” Maedhros continued, moving his hand to rest lightly on Elrond’s head, smoothing the tousled locks. He tucked the loose, nearly shoulder-length hair behind the boy’s ear again, exposing the slightly tapered point that clearly marked him as partly elven. “You proved through him that the rearing is far more important than the making. Celegorm is as much Noldor as any of us.”
The older elf said nothing for a minute, his lips twitching around words. That certainly wasn’t a statement he wanted to disagree with. He took great pride in his Noldor family. Finally, he said, “We shall have to see if you possess the strength of character to guide them in the light, Maedhros.”
He paused, weighing if he should say more while anger still surged behind his chest. “Of all my sons, you are most prepared.”
Maedhros lowered his head in deference to his father. Maglor quickly followed his lead.
From the table, Curufin glowered.
“I will be watching,” Fëanor cautioned, returning to his seat at the head of the table. With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he welcomed his eldest sons and adopted grandsons to the meal.
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