Be Careful What You Wish For

From the time he was an elfling, Fëanor Finwion hated formal events of the royal court. That distaste only intensified as he got older - he would much rather be alone in his forge working on projects, but his father insisted he had to make an appearance; it was not seemly for the eldest son of the King to not attend.

For Fëanor's hundredth birthday, he decided that since it was his birthday, he was going to play by his rules, and so he dragged himself out of the forge wearing his leather apron and gloves, over a workshirt and breeches. Finwë gave him a look that would wither an entire forest, but kept calm until the ceremony was over, and then he took his son aside.

"The next time we have an occasion, you will put on fancy dress. And a crown that befits your station." Finwë scowled fearsomely. "Or I will see to it that your workshop is closed for an entire year."

Fëanor knew to take that threat seriously, but as the time drew nigh for the next royal celebration - Fingolfin's birthday - Fëanor decided to play by his father's literal rules and crafted the most elaborate, ornate, ostentatious crown the realm had ever seen. And when he arrived at the feast, all eyes were upon him, marveling at the excessively decorative headpiece.

There were roses and wildflowers at the base of the crown, and then a huge scarlet wing on either side of a tall golden crown of leaves and tendrils, with a glass terrarium of roses in the center and two more large crimson wings behind it.

The enormous crown was heavy and by the end of the feast Fëanor's neck and shoulders were aching, but the look on Finwë's face was well worth it - and Finwë knowing he couldn't complain since Fëanor had in fact followed his instructions to the letter. To twist the knife even more, Fingolfin and Finarfin loved the crown and wanted Fëanor to make something special for them as well; Fëanor couldn't wait to do so and see what Finwë thought.

Even though Finwë knew better than to tell Fëanor not to wear such a thing - this was his fault - he still had a word with his son after the feast anyway. "People have been complaining to me that you do not make eye contact with them."

Fëanor looked down at the floor and sighed. Making eye contact was hard. Even harder than not rocking himself, or trying not to do something with his hands, when he was forced to interact with other people.

But as his father walked away, Fëanor began to think of a solution. Another elaborate crown, one that would rival this one for craftsmanship - one with excessively bright jewels, where nobody would be able to tell he wasn't making eye contact. Yes, that was a very good plan indeed.

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