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“Atar,” Curufinwë sighed, “I think that is enough for today. I'm going to see to some of Tyelpë's lessons.”“Hm? Oh fine, fine.” He didn't bother looking up from the forge.Nails. He's been making nails for hours.When his son left, he decided he should take a break as well. They had enough nails. They had enough of everything for a while. He left one of the other smiths in charge and walked out.Then he kept walking, hoping he could clear his head.It was cold but Fëanáro felt hot. Hot from the forge. Hot and damp and useless.Useless. He could make nails. He could make anything. It didn't matter. He still felt useless.It struck him as odd, because usually when they stayed at Formenos, he felt his best. He was creative here. He was free here. He was happy here.Of course, all of that had been BEFORE.Threaten one half-brother with one sword and suddenly everything about Formenos wasn't the same. He wasn't free here. He was banished. He wasn't happy here. He was here against his will. He wasn't creative here.He wasn't creative. He didn't FEEL creative.Nothing inspired him. To be sure, he still worked in his forge, but the work was just the usual building of weapons he'd been doing for a while now. The weapons, the armor, it was all of the highest quality but it was also a repeat of the things he'd done the day before and the day before that.Like now. Like making the nails. Everyone always needed nails so why not keep making them? It's a habit he had for years now. He would make nails when he wasn't inspired and Nerdanel would work in her garden.He paused.Was it Nerdanel? Had he lost his creative spark because she didn't come with them? He spent so many years with her steady, constant creativity that it became a beacon for him. Whenever he felt out of sorts he would just go watch her as she hammered stone or shaped clay.Now that was gone. She was gone.Though, to be sure he'd been creative before he met his wife. He created many things before they even began courting. In fact, his creativity was one of the many things that impressed her.So no. The loss of her stung. It hurt. It made him angry. Sometimes it clouded his thoughts to the point he couldn't think or speak or breathe. It didn't stop his creativity though.This was something else.He didn't think it was the confinement. Sure, that weighed on him, but his sons were still at the same levels of creativity. Káno still composed music. Turko was working on some kind of new bow and had the twins helping him. Moryo had just yesterday gifted him with a new hat.No, this was just him. It was just him and he didn't understand.Though, deep down, if he could be truly honest with himself, he suspected.If he would admit to it, and of course he would, the truth was that he'd not been all that creative in years. Yes, he made some amazing swords. Yes, he made beautiful armor. Neither of those things compared though. They were small. Nothing compared anymore, not to the Silmarils.He bit his lip.Ah yes. There it was. The Silmarils.They were his Great Work. They were an achievement no one else had made. No one else was even trying. They were beautiful and perfect. PERFECT. They were the peak of Noldor creation. Of Eldar creation. Just peak creation, really. And he did this. HE made them.“And now I can't make squat,” he muttered. “Now I can't make anything. Well, which is to say, I can MAKE things, but I'm not inspired to CREATE the way I was before. I've not created anything so. No, nothing. I have no inspiration anymore. It's all gone.”He walked more, knowing he should turn soon and walk back. It's just that, with no inspiration, it was easier to fall into patterns like anger and suspicion. It was easier to focus on all the wrongs and just get frustrated by them because he had no project to make things better.“Because I can't make things better,” he said. Growled, really. “I'm STUCK here. I'm bound to this place by the VALAR and not by the rule of my own King. And all the while rumors continue to fly and spread and my brother rules in my father's place. Everything is going against me. And normally I can think my way out of things. I can create my way out of the problems. But now, I just....now....”He sighed. He shook his head. “Without my creativity, who am I?”He wasn't sure he wanted to know this version of himself.