People have been complaining to me that you do not make eye contact with them.
Since his father had uttered those words, it had taken Fëanor close to one hundred and eighty years to come up with the perfect design - taking many detours as new project ideas called to him, and he whittled down his seemingly-endless to-do list.
But now, just before a royal ball was set to begin, he held the crown of Silmarils in his hands, the dark glasses he wore in the forge helping to shield his eyes from the blinding glow. His brothers had been invited in to see... or not see, as it were.
"There are three, one for each of us," Fëanor explained; Fingolfin and Finarfin each put a hand on his shoulder. "You are my light."
Suddenly Finwë's voice called outside the forge. "FËANÁRO! ARE YOU IN THERE?" As if Fëanor would be anywhere else.
"Just a minute," Fëanor said. He took off his glasses and then, still wearing his leather apron and soot-stained work tunic and breeches - rather than dressing in court robes for the ball - he put the crown of Silmarils on his head. As he and his brothers walked out of the forge, Fëanor gave them each a shove, as Finwë thought Fëanor was "a bad influence" and even now, as grown men, Finwë didn't want them getting too close, so they pretended to be enemies. "Get thee gone," Fëanor teased.
Finarfin and Fingolfin ran along to stand on either side of their father, who winced as the burning bright light came closer. And at last, when Fëanor stood right in front of him, Finwë had to shield his eyes with his arm, scowling.
"Is my attire befitting my station as the firstborn prince of the Noldor now?" Fëanor held out his arms and did a twirl. "Look, Atar! I’m the princeliest prince who has ever princed! Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Finwë could not say that Fëanor wasn't dressed extravagantly enough - indeed, as the ball wore on that night, Fëanor's work clothing was the least thing anyone would notice, nor his fidgeting or rocking himself, for his extravagant, dazzling crown of Silmarils drew all the attention. And nobody could complain that Fëanor wasn't making eye contact... because nobody could make eye contact with Fëanor, while he was wearing the crown of Silmarils with the extremely bright, searing light glaring into their eyes, as if Fëanor were crowned with the light of the Trees.
Finwë never complained about Fëanor's lack of royal decorum again.
Fëanor's sons, on the other hand, sometimes got an earful from Finwë... but that is a tale for another time.
_
This title, and Fëanor's line of “Look, Dad! I’m the princeliest prince who has ever princed! Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” is SemperViridis's fault, though the “look on my works” etc is from Ozymandias [Percy Bysshe Shelley].
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