A Swiftly Wagging Tail
Oromë hesitantly stepped into his wife’s gardens. It was a particularly warm day today, too warm for hunting, for in days of high heat, the animals liked to rest in the shades of his trees. And since his beloved animals were rather slothful today, Oromë found himself with nothing to do.
Which was why he was in his wife’s gardens.
The Gardens of Vána were lovely. Flowers of all sorts grew here, and shimmering lakes dotted the landscape. A common place for young lovers to frolic, it was also a place where young Elf children would play.
Elf children were his favorite quarries. Truly, nothing delighted him more than the tiny Elfings. Their wide, innocent eyes strangely reminded him of the time he had first come upon the Elves at Cuivienen. For in those old days, the Eldar had been innocent as well. Currently, Oromë was spying on a group of children sitting near one of the fountains. They were very young, perhaps not any older than ten years under the sun.
Distantly it occurred to Oromë that the recent heat wave could be blamed on Arien. Perhaps she was in a bad mood.
Unable to resist their sweet voices and bell-like laughter, Oromë quietly approached them – but not too quietly, or else they would be startled. Because Oromë himself was sweet looking, the group of children showed no hesitancy at accepting him in their group. There was a child-like aspect to the Vala that more skittish beings, such as children and many forest animals, were able to relate too.
Nimbly sitting among them, he somehow blended in. Had anyone walked by, nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary. “I see all of you are very busy being boring,” smiled Oromë.
A young girl, her golden hair marking her as a Vanya, protested. “No Oromë, we are not boring! We are telling each other stories.”
“Stories?” asked the Vala curiously.
Another child added, “Yes, stories. We are taking turns.” The boy paused, as he considered the new member of their group. “Since you are last one here, then you have to tell a story first!” The other children chimed in their agreement.
Oromë sighed with great exaggeration. “I always have to go first.” Sitting more comfortably, he rubbed his hands together. “I know the perfect story.” He leaned forward, and the children followed suit, their eyes widening in excitement. After all, Oromë told the best stories. “I will tell you how Fëanor met Huan for the first time.”
It was normal day in Fëanor’s house. Normal in the sense that Maedhros had not burned himself at the forge, that Maglor was actually at home and not pursuing his pretty lady friend on Taniquetil, that Celegorm was for once not covered in mud, that baby Caranthir was eating properly, and that Nerdanel was back in the forges with him.
All in all, it was a good day. Fëanor himself was in a happy mood, as he puttered around his garden, watering his plants and removing weeds – and, when no one was looking, he would whisper a few encouraging words to his flowers. After an hour or so of puttering, his stomach rumbled. Time to eat. Vaguely he wondered what would be served for the afternoon meal today. Maedhros had shown himself to be a marvelous cook, something that the rest of the family took advantage of. Many days Nerdanel and Fëanor would feign tiredness in order to get Maedhros to cook for them.
Fëanor absently wondered if Maedhros had seen through the ruse. Most likely he had, since Maedhros was the most sharp-witted of his sons. He patted his favorite fern. Later he would go to the forge, but for now, a content laziness had taken over his body. Last week had been hectic, for Celegorm had reached his fifteenth year, and as a present, Fëanor and Nerdanel had allowed their son, accompanied by Ingil, the son of Ingwë and Fëanor’s childhood friend, to the Halls of Oromë. Celegorm had been dreaming of going to the Vala’s Halls ever since he had met him a few years ago, and now having returned, Celegorm spoke nonstop about his time there.
And if I have to hear about prancing deer one more time…Fëanor sighed as he headed into his house. He accepted Celegorm’s love of the natural world, even if he did not understand it. He had hoped otherwise, of course, but it now seemed to him that Celegorm would not become a craftsman either. His three eldest sons…were odds always going to go against him? Maglor was more of a musician than anything else, although if circumstances were dire, he could craft some things. Maedhros, on the other hand…Fëanor pursed his lips in consideration. While Maedhros skillfully did everything that he was told to do, Fëanor had yet to see Maedhros do something on his own. What his eldest son needed was a hobby of some sort, or perhaps a lover. Thinking that he should introduce Maedhros to a few young maidens in Tirion, he had no doubt that his son would attract a fair amount of attention.
But still, Fëanor was sure that whatever would ultimately grip Maedhros’s fancy, it would not be craftsmanship. Perhaps Caranthir…His thoughts broke off as he heard a slight tapping at the front door. Puzzled, for he was not expecting any visitors, he hurriedly smoothed his hair before going to the door.
Opening the door, Fëanor was greeted by the sight of a very large hound sitting on his doorstep. Blinking in surprise, Fëanor stared at the hound, thinking perhaps that one of the Valar had come to play a joke on him. But when the hound still remained a hound, Fëanor realized that he was hallucinating. Shutting the door, he berated himself. “I should have eaten some breakfast before I began to garden today.” But just as he was about to turn away, the tapping on the door started again.
Seriously perturbed, Fëanor opened it again – to find the hound still sitting on the doorstep, his eyes and form one of patience. It has to be one of those Valar – maybe Oromë or Tulkas. Holding the door wide open, Fëanor gestured to the hound. “Please do come in and partake of our hospitality.” The hound stepped in and carefully wiped his paws on the door rug before entering. Then, with as much dignity as Finwë displayed during official court functions, the hound entered the spacious sitting area and sat near the fireplace. “Give me a moment, and my wife and I shall bring some refreshments,” said Fëanor gravely.
The hound nodded.
Fëanor slowly made his way toward Nerdanel’s workroom. She was busily crafting some sort of vase. “Nerdanel, we have a guest.” Fëanor’s normally smooth and firm voice was strangled, and she turned her face towards him.
“Has the High King come?” Ingwë was the only person who could ever unnerve Fëanor.
He shook his head. “No, and I do not know what to make of the guest.” Fëanor’s voice now acquired an underlying tone of hysteria. “Nerdanel, the largest hound I have ever seen in my life is in our sitting room!”
Her eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “A hound?”
“Yes,” he said, his head nodding vigorously. “A very big hound.”
Nerdanel smiled. Ever since he was young, Fëanor had shown a strange aversion to dogs. This will be interesting. She rose and wiped her hands on her apron. “By no means should we keep our guest waiting.” Taking her husband’s hand, she led him to the sitting room.
The hound was still where Fëanor had left him. “Good day to you,” said Nerdanel politely.
The hound barked. Fëanor tapped his wife on the shoulder. “What do you think he is saying?”
“Most likely he is greeting me as well,” said Nerdanel dryly. “And will you please stop hovering behind my shoulder? The hound will not bite you!”
The noise had apparently attracted the rest of the household, for Maedhros and Maglor both burst into the room. After staring at their unlikely visitor for a few moments, Maglor reached down to pet the hound. “How delightful!”
“Where did he come from?” asked Maedhros curiously.
“I do not know! He was at the door!” The hysteria was back in Fëanor’s voice. His sons exchanged looks.
Suddenly Celegorm entered. “Huan!” he shouted as he launched his little body at the hound. The hound allowed the boy to embrace him, and then he licked Celegorm’s face. “You came to see me!”
“Son, is this your friend?” asked Nerdanel.
He nodded. “Yes. He lives with Oromë.”
Fëanor placed a hand to his forehead. “If he lives with Oromë, why is he here?” And my day had started out so well.
“To visit me, of course,” replied Celegorm.
“Celegorm, he is too big to have as a pet.”
His son looked up at him. “Huan is not my pet. He is my friend. Besides, Caranthir is my pet.” Nerdanel, Maedhros, and Maglor smiled at that while Fëanor cast the hound another uneasy glance. Patting Huan’s head, Celegorm gazed at his parents pleadingly. “Can he stay? Just for a little while?” Seeing the uncertainty on his mother’s face, he hurried to add, “I promise that we will not get into any mischief. I promise,” he repeated.
Nerdanel raised her brows at her husband. “Well?”
“I do not think - ” Fëanor broke off at the dejected look on Celegorm’s face. “Of course Huan is welcome to stay. Any friend of my sons is my friend as well.” But the queasy look was back on Fëanor’s face. Beside him, Nerdanel tittered while Maedhros and Maglor exchanged strange looks again. “Celegorm, take one of your brothers and find a place for Huan to sleep tonight. I will be in the forges.” With that, the Spirit of Fire quickly strode out of the room.
“Miriel should have named him the Spirit of Haste.” Nerdanel reached down and scratched between Huan’s ears. “Now, Huan, where shall we put you?”
Fëanor sat in his forges silently as he thought about the situation inside his house. He could not deny the fact that Huan made him nervous. For many years now, dogs had always made him wary. When Fëanor had been very young, he had pleaded with his father to ride a horse. But Finwë had not allowed his six-year old son to ride, and Fëanor, in a typical show of defiance, decided to ride one of the huge hounds in Tirion instead. But he had fallen off, and the dog, in his panic, had almost stepped on him. Since then, he always avoided dogs.
And now one was in his house. Groaning, he mentally cursed himself. It is only a silly childhood fear. Now I am far bigger than the hound. What can Huan do to me? Feeling slightly better, Fëanor picked up an unfinished piece of work and began to tend to it. After all, I am the master here. Not the hound. Smiling, he began to reshape the metal sculpture. He was making this as a gift to Eärwen, for she had conceived. It was to be the image of an Elf-child playing with toys.
Picking up his tools, he allowed habit to overtake his senses, and he fell into his pattern of metal shaping. There was nothing in his perception except his tools, the metal under his hands, the fire nearby…and a thumping noise at the door. Frustrated, he glared at the direction of noise as if whoever was on other side was able to see it. Thinking to avoid the noise, he tried to concentrate again. “I am working,” he said with irritation. Yet the thumping continued.
But it was to no avail – the noise would simply not cease, and Fëanor, master-smith that he may be, also needed peace and quiet. Grumbling to himself, he took off his apron and opened the door…again to be greeted by the hound. “What do you want with me?” howled Fëanor. Huan again calmly entered, and Fëanor was convinced that the hound was smirking. Sniffing delicately, Huan shook his head. “I suppose the smell of the forges are not to your liking?” asked Fëanor nastily.
Huan stretched out comfortably on the floor.
“Do not tell me that Nerdanel said you could sleep here.”
Huan’s muzzle stretched in the approximation of a grin.
“She is a cruel woman, my wife.” Fëanor rubbed his temples. “I do not know why my house attracts strays. First Fingon and now you.” Huan barked, and Fëanor nodded grudgingly. “Oh right, you do have a home.” He glanced at the unfinished sculpture. “I need to finish my work, so…” he trailed off, giving the door a meaningful look, which was completely lost on the hound. Sighing in defeat, Fëanor went back to his worktable. “Just be quiet.”
Trying to regain some of his earlier concentration, he began to shape the metal again. He worked swiftly, and time ceased to have any meaning. His hands simply shaped of their own volition. It was during shaping that Fëanor would allow his control to slip. Here, his passion flowed fully. If the truth were to be told, he had no conscious control over his creations.
So when he was finally done with his sculpture, he howled again in outrage.
“Celegorm decided to have Huan sleep in his room,” remarked Nerdanel later that night.
“What if Huan eats Celegorm?”
Nerdanel began to brush her hair. “Why ever would he eat Celegorm? After all, you would be so much tastier.” Her eyes sparking mischievously at her husband’s dumbfounded expression, she patted her Fëanor’s head. “Are you finished with Eärwen’s gift?”
Fëanor shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, I did.” Giving his wife a defensive look, he added, “But it is all Huan’s fault!” At Nerdanel’s puzzled look, he grudgingly pulled out a small metal statue from a leather satchel.
It was a hound with a ridiculous grin.
“And that,” finished Oromë, “is the tale of how Huan and Fëanor met.” Glancing up to see his wife standing nearby, he rose regretfully amidst protests. “If I do not listen to Lady Vána, then she will not let me ride Nahar for a week!” Nodding in solemn understanding, the children waved goodbye to him.
“I will not let you ride Nahar?” she asked, her brows upraised.
Oromë wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “If I recall correctly, that is what happened the last time I did not listen to you. You bribed Nahar, and he would not let me ride him for a week!”
She smiled. “It was a kind thing you did, telling such a wonderful story about Fëanor.”
“It is important that they learn both the good and the bad about him. It would be unfair to only tell them of his later deeds.” Oromë sighed. “They will have to learn that later.”
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