🤡 for Finnu story please, if you don’t mind sharing!
no problemo — a Fëanor-POV snip from Nobody’s Son, rated for homophobia, and transphobia that isn’t named as such… inshallah, new chapter this week as I think I’ve finally ironed out this part of the story… 🙏🏽
It had all seemed so harmless, had it not? He’d thought Finnu was simply a chaandupottu, an effeminate boy, somewhat societally undesirable but nothing to turn the head, unusual but not uncommon. Something-something inevitable in a boy who grew up craving a mother’s love, yes. Fëanor did not really understand what it was that made boys like Finnu enjoy painting their nails and wearing flowers in their hair, but then again, he’d never understood why cats enjoyed sitting on roofs and licking their behinds. A lack of understanding, he had thought then, should not be grounds for cruelty. And frankly, he had always been of the opinion that Fingolfin spent far too much time worrying about his son’s limp-wristedness when he should rightly be worrying about the boy’s educational status as a complete and unabashed duffer, so cheerfully airheaded that he’d spent three years of biology classes firmly believing that the kidneys, liver and stomach were all a singular, united organ with the singular function of “digestion”, and refused to believe any different because it might mean he’d need to remember the functions of three different organs instead of one.
Half his schoolbooks say ‘Property of Fransis’, Fingolfin, he’d laughed once, years ago, when the boys were eight years old. You’re sitting here whining about his bangles when he regularly misspells his own bloody name? Brother, please—find a sense of perspective!
But now, with Finnu dressed as a new bride sprawling across his son’s bed, the exact same mannerisms, the tossed head, the swaying gait, the simpering voice, all these things he’d once waved away seemed to take on a waxy, uncanny air—a claustrophobically threatening presence in his household. Maedhros, who looked like a young Sultan, and Finnu beside him, bejewelled to the hilt as befitting a Sultan’s first and most beloved wife. Perspective, thought Fëanor. All these years beside a boy who ran around with flowers in his hair, it was only natural that Maedhros had gotten confused, only natural that he subconsciously began treating him like his bride the minute he put on women’s clothes, wasn’t it? And so it wasn’t truly Maedhros’ fault, but Finnu’s. But neither was it truly Finnu’s fault, but Fingolfin’s. It had been Fingolfin who made the mistakes, made his son into whatever the fuck he had turned into, it had been Fingolfin’s errors in parenting that pushed the boy into sequinned scarves and diamanté hairclips. Because Fingolfin did not listen to Fëanor’s advice when he told him that he shouldn’t try to control his son so much at such a young age, that he should let him just grow out of it naturally.
Whatever. Whatever it was, it was not Maedhros. All Maedhros needed was a little push in the right direction. A little reminder that he was not only Mohammad Razul, but Mohammad Razul bin Faraz—not a boy pawing around a boy in a dress, but the son of Fëanor, who carried Fëanor’s name in his own, and was responsible for passing it on. Mohammad Razul could take Francis and jump into a well if that was his desire, but Mohammad Razul bin Faraz would be taking a wife.
