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Title: The Fire Within (#3818)
Author: NeumeIndil
Chapters: 3

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: My take on the courtship, marriage, and life of Feanor and his 'mannish' wife known eventually as Nerdanel. *Nominated for the 2009 Middle-earth Fiction Awards* Thank you, Robinka!
Published: 06 Jul 2008
Updated: 23 Jun 2009
Warnings: Adult stuff.
Type: General
Characters: Feanor, Istarnie/Nerdanel, Mahtan


Chapter 1 - Author's Note

Before we begin, a couple of things:

Feanor's well-known wife is most often called Nerdanel in fan fiction: this is not so here. The English translation of Nerdanel is not entirely clear. Some claim it to mean "Man Maker" in reference to her 7 sons, others are intrigued by the more lyric translation "Sculptress" after her talent with carving statuary, though whether this is actually her father name or something else entirely is not in any research I've seen. In canon, a Mother name is given for Nerdanel, "Istarnie", which translates as something along the lines of "wise one" or "wise woman". It was after reading this in a wonderful essay* by Dawn Felagund, and being reminded of the 3 names of Artanis/Nerwen/Galadriel, that I fell upon a compromise.

For my purposes here, Nerdanel, too, has three names: Istarnie, which was given by her mother at birth, according to tradition; Ataralasse (Abigail in our tongue), a conceit of this story which was given by her father shortly after her birth and culled from the pages of the Quenya Lapseparma** meaning "Father's Joy", and Nerdanel or "Sculptress", given to her by Feanor after her skill with stone and metal and wood. Both Istarnie and Ataralasse are used here, and though 'Nerdanel' does not appear, already Feanor calls her "sculptress" as a sort of private nickname. This may change later in the tale.

In regards to certain choices of words: The only Quenya used here is for the naming of characters. But, as we're engrossed in the Time of the Trees and there are no humans in this part of creation, I see no need to differentiate between men and elves, or insist on calling every elf an elf every time a descriptor is needed. There are no men present, and the clarification is therefore unnecessary. So, when such adjectives as "man" and "girl" are used, they are used because it is the English equivalent of the elvish word describing an adult male or a juvenile female. This use of "man" to describe an adult male of the elvin kind is a discussion I've seen on other forums before, and while some feel it's a misnomer, in this case I don't see it as such. Were we, too, elves, Mahtan would be, to us a "man" as well as a father and a smith and all of those other descriptors we accumulate through the years. "Elf" is neither gender specific nor necessary for differentiation purposes here, as it would be in a scene involving both Turin and Beleg.

Other helpful tidbits:

Melde- Beloved (Amy in our tongue), again according to the Quenya Lapseparma. She is 10 or so of our years older than Istarnie and while physically lovely and talented at "women's things", is also rather vain.

Turotulco- Strong or Hard Ruler (Richard to us), via the Lapseparma (and a shameless nod to my favorite uncle.) A cousin to Earwen, making him therefore a cousin by marriage of Feanor's younger brothers, he is light of hair and eye, and skilled with the shaping and carving of wood. In this first chapter, Melde and Turotulco marry, the planning for which causes Istarnie quite a few headaches.

Beta: Viv
Title suggested by: Robinka.

How I broke type: Researching and Planning before hand, and writing about both an elf and a pre-first age one at that. It seems I couldn't get away from writing at least a little bit of sexual tension into things, though, if you'll read closely, all they actually share is a passionate kiss. No clothes come off (that weren't already off at least). This is because I think, based on my limited readings of LaCE, the elves didn't necessarily have to have intercourse to be intimate. I think humans have this capacity too, but we're a little 'hasty' in regards to such things, and it seems that falling into bed is a good enough substitute for falling in love to some people. Istarnie/Ataralasse/Nerdanel deserves better than that from her Feanaro, and it seems that in most cases, this more reserved behavior is what Tolkien expected (or at least hoped to see) among his elves. I have a feeling, though, Feanaro being the hasty sort he is, that it won't last through too many more chapters. ;)

* "A Woman in Few Words: The Character of Nerdanel and Her Treatment in Canon and Fandom", essay by: Dawn Felagund, archived at: http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/reference/references/nerdanel.php

** Quenya Lapseparma, "Old Elvish Name Book", available at: http://www.elvish.org/elm/names.html


Chapter 2 - A Cool Head

Mahtan watched the flames, and his apprentice, shrewdly. When the lad cocked his head, Mahtan gave the bellows two steady pulls, then waited. Fëanaro tilted his head again and Mahtan pulled again twice. His eye was growing keener by the day, Mahtan noted. Pity it was taking so long. This iron must be unusually dense, the master smith decided, or the fire not as hot as it seemed.

“This morning,” the older elf said, thinking aloud, “I overhead Ataralasse ask why she is thought unlovely.”

“And how did your wife reply?” Fëanaro asked, shuffling the ingot deeper into the coals.

“By asking why it matters,” Mahtan replied, and he shook his head.

“The wrong response,” Fëanaro agreed. “It played into her fears instead of calming them.”

“It did,” the older elf replied. “But my wife was right to wonder why my Ataralasse needed to ask.”

Fëanaro grew quiet for a moment, studying the iron in his tongs. He must have recognized that it was still not ready, for he thrust it back into the forge’s burning heart. “Much is said in these days, as the wedding is planned, of Melde’s grace and beauty. I think, in regards to her elder sister, Istarnie has come to see herself as an anvil next to a fountain.”

“I agree, and yet as she is my joy, so is Melde my beloved. I hate to see either one discontent. You know this. Their mother, though, does not see past her own similarity to Melde to my Ataralasse’s frustration at their difference; or rather, she sees but does not know how to release the strain.” Irritated by this line of thought and the lengthy wait for the metal, the master sighed and stretched his great arms up behind his head. “Do not marry, Fëanaro, or if you do, make certain that the girl does not seek beauty above all else.”

Fëanaro had long recognized the weaknesses in the ways both Mahtan and Mahtan’s wife treated Istarnie, but wisely he had chosen to say nothing where either of the girls might hear. This, however, seemed a good time to present Istarnie’s case before one of her chief judges.

“If I may speak bluntly, Master?” Fëanaro began, setting the iron aside. At Mahtan’s slight nod, he continued: “Much is said, both within your halls and without, of Melde’s appearance, while her significant gifts with music and weaving and embroidery are overlooked. In your kindness and pride, you praise Istarnie’s skill with stone and wood and metal above all other things, and her appearance is never mentioned. She believes this is because she is not as comely as her sister has grown to be. At the same time, your lady wife simply says nothing about Istarnie’s appearance at all. Istarnie feels that silence is a condemnation as keen as your quickness to praise her skill and those things that make others call her mannish.”

“She has spoken with you on this matter?” Mahtan said, seeing anew the young man he had taken as his student over twenty years before. “These are her words?”

“We speak on many things,” Fëanaro replied, “but she has not been so direct. I assure you, she is proud to be your double in so many ways, but she feels also unable to escape that likeness, and living in the shadow of one so great is a heavy burden.”

“And what cares of yours would my daughter speak so candidly about, should I put her to question?” the older elf asked.

“None,” Fëanaro said simply. “If I had any concern, and if I spoke of it with her, she would not even tell the passing wind on a breezy afternoon. She is a better friend than I,” the younger elf said, smirking at the jest, and picked up his tongs again.

“You know my daughter well,” Mahtan said, catching and holding Fëanaro’s gaze.

“We know each other well,” he replied before turning back to his work.

“See that it stays that way,” Mahtan said. “She will soon have even more need of friends.”

“I do not think her sister’s leaving will upset your Ataralasse as much as you fear, Master, but with your permission I will be glad to spend more time in her company,” Fëanaro replied, deeming the metal finally ready for the anvil and the hammer.

The closest thing to silence that can fall in a working forge settled in around them, now that there was work to be done. After a while, Istarnie entered the forge carrying something delicate and wooden that seemed to sprout leaves from random parts.

“There you are,” Mahtan said in greeting, turning Fëanaro’s iron. “I had expected to see you hours ago.”

“I was planning something,” Istarnie said, her voice barely audible over the ringing of Fëanaro’s hammer. Both men listened carefully as she continued. “I am to make Melde’s wedding circlet. Might I work on it now, Papa, or will I be too much underfoot?”

“You will not disturb me,” Mahtan said fondly. “Fëanaro? Will my shadow trouble your work?”

“She never has before,” Fëanaro said before sparing the quiet maid in the corner one of his rare smiles. “How came this task to you, Sculptress?” he asked, waving his hammer at the thing in her hands.

“I was given the choice of making her jewelry or helping make her dress.” Her father’s wince at the words would have gone unnoticed by any other woman, but Istarnie saw and smiled before speaking again. “My thoughts precisely, Papa.”

“And yet you seem intent to make your sister wear weeds,” her father joked, studying the little thing in her hands. “Were it me, I would likely prefer lopsided stitchwork, and I’m not even a maid.”

“I could not sketch it properly,” she explained, setting the little vine model on the work bench. “So I spent the morning at the willow grove twisting it.”

“Is it big enough?” Fëanaro asked, and then added quickly, “I mean, has she tried the model?”

“She has,” Istarnie replied, the smile Fëanaro’s joke inspired not quite visible. Setting aside his iron, then, he crossed to the table to study the circlet more closely.

“I see it in silver,” she explained, “with gems inlaid along these and these as leaves. I am as of yet undecided on what will comprise the flowers, though since Melde has yet to decide what colors we all will wear for her wedding, this does not concern me overmuch.”

Fëanaro knew this to be an inaccuracy, for Istarnie never did anything without a plan fully formed. Of the pair, he was the one who went head first into excitement— or trouble— and she the cool head that saw their way through it. But he had already said too much that day, he thought, and so held his tongue.

“What will be done for Turotulco, then?” Mahtan asked, his eye on the iron growing cool on the anvil.

“Shackles are the traditional gift, are they not?” Fëanaro joked. Mahtan saw the humor, but Istarnie only cast him a cool glance over her shoulder and went back to the wire she held.

“An arm torque, also in silver, in a matching design. And yes, it fits him as well,” Istarnie said before Fëanaro could ask again. “Though he does not look it, he has the arms of a smith.”

“So your sister tells us,” Mahtan sighed. “Fëanaro, your iron grows cold?”

The apprentice returned to his work, reheating the iron carefully, though his mind lay with the torque and circlet design Istarnie had placed on the workbench before her. She saw the beauty of her father’s orchards reflected in the metal that she loved, but did not see that her sister would deem it unworthy. Fëanaro suspected, though, that he would spend many more days working with Istarnie at his back while the jewelry was done and redone and redone again to Melde’s specifications.

~*~

A trickle of sweat roamed down behind her ear, just at the place where neck met shoulder. Fëanaro thought briefly of following it with his tongue, but now was not the time for such imaginings. Instead he moved behind her, so close that she must have felt his heat as steadily as the forge at which she waited, and smoothed her hair aside, blowing gently across her shoulder.

“Soon enough and it will be over,” he said quietly. It was not strictly proper, the two of them here alone, but it happened often enough and neither the girl nor her father had ever seemed to mind, and so Fëanaro thought no more on it.

Istarnie said nothing, concentrating on heating the fine silver wire again. A pile of glittering gems on the work table behind her reflected the last light of Laurelin onto the facing wall.

“She would not tell you that it was not to her liking?” he asked, knowing his friend needed to talk, but knowing also that she did not want to.

“She made our mother tell me. Three times. She does not want a mere circlet, as would befit her place. Now she wishes a crown!” Istarnie’s cheeks were flushed red and her hair stood out around her face in a frazzle, though most of it was still held back in a tumbledown twist behind her head. She wore one of Mahtan’s old tunics and a pair of remade leggings, her usual forge work attire, and yet to Feanaro’s eyes she had never seemed more female, or more vulnerable.

“And tonight she asked Mother to inform me that my dress is to be changed. I am to be the only female attendant wearing sleeves and a shawl, so that my build does not distract from the bride’s silhouette.” After a calming breath, Istarnie turned and looked up at the prince she called friend. “Why is nothing I do ever good enough?”

“Because you ask the wrong people,” he said simply. “I have never seen better work leave your hands at this forge than what is now melting in that fire. But I have a craftsman’s eye and a friend’s heart.” In reply her nostrils flared once, then again, and her lips tightened. She would not let herself cry, he knew, though he thought that tears after destroying months’ worth of work would be quite understandable.

“I merely wish to understand,” she said after taking a moment to regain her composure. “How can anyone be so hard to please?”

“I do not know,” Fëanaro said honestly.

“And family is always a different matter,” Istarnie said, nodding. Fëanaro snorted. Family was an entirely different matter indeed.

“May I work with you?” he asked after she seemed to regain her calm. “I, too, am making a wedding gift for your sister. Something small, but I think it is only right.”

“Of course. You will not disturb me,” Istarnie said, pushing flyaway hair behind her ears and lifting the crucible from the forge. The once finely wrought silver leaves and tendrils of vine it had been were now a shapeless lump once again.

It was well into the time of Telperion’s glow when Istarnie put away her tools and offered Feanaro a brief bow in farewell before adjourning to her quarters to rest. So it was not until well after her departure that Fëanaro brought from his storage area the little willow and vine model that had been Istarnie’s first design for her sister’s wedding jewels. The ring he had made for Melde was a simple silver band that, when moved, rang like tiny bells. It would amuse one who found her joy in music. Once jewels were decided on for the last incarnation of the wedding crown, he would inlay matching stones on the ring. But in the mean time he had another project, for while his days were spent beside Mahtan working on his masterpiece, his nights before the marriage of her sister were spent working on Istarnie’s.

~*~

With the ceremony done and exchanges of gifts complete, Istarnie had only the dancing to avoid, and she did so by remaining among her father’s friends and keeping a plate in her hand. She drank wine for once, not because she had any feelings about the day, but rather because it was much easier to hold a stemmed glass and a plate at the same time and still be able to eat. In this corner of her father’s great hall, the fine marzipan concoctions of three dozen cooks from twelve different estates graced their plates far less frequently than slices of roast meat and cheeses piled on toast or wrapped around slices of fresh fruits. Also, there was less need for practiced feminine manners: another blessing for Istarnie. After her mother’s suggestion that she perhaps eat lightly in the days before the wedding, Istarnie found that she’d had almost no appetite. That discomfort had fled once the food was served, but now she was for the most part sated, physically at least. Her heart, she had decided long ago, would likely never be completely satisfied.

A squeal of delight interrupted Mahtan mid-sentence while he spoke with Carnion about the best ways to temper glass for the application of color. Fëanaro had arrived, Istarnie saw, peering behind Herenyo’s head and had apparently given her sister the ring he had created. Its chimes could be heard faintly even where the smiths and craftsmen stood at the back of the hall. Obviously pleased, Melde whirled to show Turotulco how the moonstones set around the band matched her dress exactly. Though the conversation could not be heard, her sister’s thinking was somewhat clearer to Istarnie now than it had been a short year before. She had kept the hues of the dress in mind as she helped Feanaro choose the gems, though he had gone against her suggestion of opals in favor of a less expensive and hardier stone. He was still a student, king’s son or no; she could not fault him for the choice.

“Apparently your sister likes this new gift,” Herenyo said.

“I have rarely seen a gift made by the king’s son be received with anything but delight,” Istarnie replied, swallowing the last of her wine.

“That will change one day, I’m sure,” Carnion replied. “He is in his prime now, but someone will surpass him in time.”

“I would not be so sure of this, Carnion,” Mahtan replied. “He is, after all, my student.”

A short time later, Fëanaro joined their group and was greeted with bows and official mentions of his title followed by a healthy slap on the back from Mahtan, and Herenyo in his turn. But it was at Istarnie’s side that he joined the group, and piled a meat pastry and two pieces of cheese onto her now empty plate once their elders had resumed the discussion.

“I fear my eyes were over-large compared to my appetite. Help me with these,” he said quietly, looking suspiciously around the group. Noting his odd behavior, Istarnie took a bite from the pastry anyway. Then she saw what was under it.

“This did not come from the kitchens, I’m sure,” she said, piling the pastry on top of the cheeses to lift a delicate silver chain from her plate.

“Why where did that come from?” Fëanaro asked, and smiled. “It seems rather familiar, somehow. Perhaps you should wear it with this,” he suggested, and he removed from his pocket a circlet. Her circlet, the one she had designed months before for Melde, sat on his outstretched hand. The chain in her hand matched it exactly, down to the identical blood-red fire opals fashioned into shrub roses that peeked here and there from the weave.

“What was that about his gifts always being met with delight?” Herenyo asked when Istarnie simply stared.

“Child, are you well?” Mahtan asked with obvious concern.

“Surprised, is all,” Istarnie said, setting her plate and empty glass aside. “They were melted. How…?”

“I kept your cunning little model, Sculptress,” Fëanaro replied, handing his plate to Carnion long enough to lay the circlet over her hair and fasten the chain around her neck. “No one who has worked so hard for such a day as this should go unrewarded, and it was too fine a piece to be seen only by the maker and her family.”

Istarnie put a hand to the chain about her neck, but when she looked down she could not see it. Perturbed, she took Fëanaro’s glass from his hand to use the reflection in it as a mirror. It was… exactly as she had pictured it being, the gift she would have made for her sister’s first wedding anniversary, had the first circlet been accepted. And instead, now it was hers. She dared not even think of the circlet.

“Excuse me, Istarnie,” a quiet female voice said at her elbow. Her mother stood beside her, smiling. “I could not help but notice…” the older woman said, motioning for her daughter to sit. A few moments of fussing later, the circlet was pinned among the braids that had already started to slip from Istarnie’s hair, gleaming under Laurelin’s light.

“There,” her mother said, a gentle hand lifting Istarnie’s face to her own. “Lovely.”

“Why now?” Istarnie asked, surprised, and her equally startled mother looked at her and blinked before she answered.

“You’re smiling,” she said. “It is rare.”

“What are you on about now?” Mahtan asked his apprentice in the mean time, moving him away from the group by the elbow.

“You told me to continue being a friend to your daughter in these past trying weeks,” Fëanaro replied. “Her heart broke every time Melde rejected her work and she was forced to melt it down again. And yet, three times she threw away all that effort and never once wept or raged or refused. It took greater patience than I command, and I daresay more even than you. She deserves a reward.”

Looking first from his wife and youngest daughter to his eldest and back again, Mahtan sighed. “How is it that you know my own daughter better than I?” the older man growled.

“You are her father. I am her husband,” Fëanaro replied. “Because we will be wed one day.”

“You’re too young,” Mahtan snapped. “She is too young.”

“Now,” Fëanaro replied, calmly sipping his wine. “But it will be so one day, and none of us can deny it. I have tried, myself, to overlook it, for I would not anger you if it could be avoided. But there is simply no choosing; it will be so, one day.”

“You know this? Truly?” Mahtan asked, looking again at his youngest daughter.

“I do,” Fëanaro replied. “But perhaps you should ask her.”

“Not now,” Mahtan said, looking at his wife and youngest daughter again. “I’ve just given one of them away. I should like to keep the other for a time.”

“And I will not take her away from you, ever,” Fëanaro replied, biting into a piece of melon. “She is your daughter first, and will ever be so. I am content to be second in her affections, should it come to that.”

At that moment, a sharp clapping of hands drew eyes to the end of the hall again. “We are changing the dance,” Melde said in her clear soprano. “Come, everyone up! You have had your wine and your talk. I will now have your feet!”

“Melde does rather have a habit of becoming the center of attention, does she not?” Mahtan said still studying Istarnie. Fëanaro said nothing, and shortly made his way back to Istarnie, his plate now empty but a few sips of wine left in his glass.

“Here,” he said when he reached her, handing the glass to Istarnie. “You seem to need this more than I.” She took it gratefully and downed it all in one great draught, but she said nothing.

“You are pleased then?” he asked finally, only the slightest bit of nervousness showing in the fidgeting of his hands.

“I—I am.”

“Then so am I. We should join the dance,” he continued, handing their empty dishware to a passing server. “It will not be long, I’m sure, until your sister calls one of us by name to compel us to do so. It might be best to save ourselves the embarrassment.”

“Do not lie,” Istarnie said, standing finally. “You have no shame,” she teased. Fëanaro smiled, unable to lie to her, and reached for her hand.

~*~

Fëanaro found it difficult, after the wedding, to be in the presence of both his master and his friend at the forge. Tension fizzled through the air when father looked at daughter and future son by marriage, which made Fëanaro nervous. He almost came to regret his honesty on the subject of his love for Istarnie. Almost.

The ever observant Sculptress, though, seemed to catch on to the change, and timed her forge visits so that she and her father were alone, leaving her wanderings of the countryside to be shared with Fëanaro, or simply by herself. However, their walks, even when shared, were often quiet, punctuated only by the rasping of their clothes against the bark of trees and leaves of plants they passed, or the occasional call of a bird. Then one day, on one of those walks, he took her hand. She walked there beside him for a time saying nothing, seeing nothing, and then she smiled.

~*~

For many, many shifts of the light, that simple gesture was all that was needed. Yet, as time passed, Istarnie felt herself growing restless, and she thought long and silently on her growing discomfort in the attempt to understand it fully. Her conclusion came finally, deep in the night, when even the narrowness of a bed made for one was too vast. But, she wondered, turning dark eyes toward Telperion’s light, how young was too young? They had but a year until she was of age, less than that for Fëanaro. Would a year be enough for the planning and the sewing and the infernal waiting? A year. It would be enough. And with this thought foremost in her mind, Istarnie rose and dressed in tunic and leggings, tied her hair in a knot behind her head, and went out to the forge, where always a red light glowed.

She was unsurprised to find him there, but was surprised to see him shirtless beneath his heavy smith’s apron. He had rolled his leggings above the knee, and his calves, which she had never before seen, were as trim and firm as the leg of a carved table. Had he been dressed regularly, perhaps it would have been enough to simply stand at the door and watch his cunning hands at work. But this was not so now. Frigid, shaking fingers reached out for the shadowed blade of a shoulder, but never touched it.

“You are restless, my Sculptress,” he said, unexpectedly plunging the heavy iron in his tongs into the water bucket and turning for her as she snatched her hand away. He caught that hand, his thumb nestled softly in the pit of her palm, and his smile grew slow and mischievous. “And cold.”

As he spoke, he settled her hand against his arm, above the elbow, where the firmness and heat of his muscle bulged against her, seeking her touch. It was not in her to refuse.

Istarnie struggled for something to say, to explain her sudden appearance at the forge, at his back, but no words came. There was no explanation save the obvious one that her raging pulse and trembling hands gave away, and she dropped her head, embarrassed, but could not raise her eyes from the sight before her now. Vaguely she realized she had no idea what she was doing as she untied the strings of the apron he wore, letting it fold down on itself around his waist. She heard him swallow and catch a shallow breath, and watched his flesh creep when her icy fingers trailed down his neck and shoulder to his arm again, then across his chest, whittled hard and lean by the strain of his work. The softest sound she had ever heard, a tiny ‘oof’, jarred the ear when she passed near a nipple, over his heart, and stopped there. The words came to her at last.

“I see it of oak,” she said, the other hand slipping just as softly, just as cool, up the ripples of his stomach. “Polished to a shine, gleaming, as though lit by fire.”

“See what?” he rasped, his breath coming shallow.

“The sculpture of you I will make for our wedding.” She looked up finally in time to see him blink, and she offered the merest hint of a smile. “We have a year, a little more, in which to plan and create. It will be enough.”

“And will I be needed to sit for this gift of yours?” he asked, a hand finding its way to her hip and resting there, heavy and hot.

“I should not think so,” she replied, fingers circling and dipping again. “This I shall never forget.” His answer was half growl, half groan, and it startled Istarnie to realize what something so simple, so animal, stirred in her. She felt him hesitate, but she wished he would not. His fire, the inner flame, was what drew her, the always cool one, the always steady and deliberate. To bathe in that heat, she knew, would calm her unnatural restlessness as perhaps nothing else could.

“You are certain?” he asked, one hand on her hip, the other against her thigh and creeping upward.

“Are you not?” and she felt herself swept airborne and turned, settled on the anvil, her knees parted by the hardness of his thighs. Reaching for his neck was as natural as breathing. Tightening her legs around his own, arching her back, dropping her head back as he curved down toward her: it all came as though preordained, as the flower bends toward the sun. Then again that groan and growl, matched by some guttural sound of her own, and the inner forges flared, finally joined at lips, at hearts, at loins.


Chapter 3 - Flaring Tempers

So soon, again, a wedding to plan, and the bride—the couple both!—so young. The talk caught up with them so quickly, Mahtan was tempted to put a stop to everything just to find some peace. But then, he thought about his children, and instead sent inquisitive, and vaguely threatening, looks at those who thought the right of questioning the match belonged to an outsider. Finwe, of course, had every right to track down whomever he cared to speak with on the matter and give it a good raking through the coals, but after one such session with the master smith and father of the bride, even he realized there was simply no point in argument. What would be would be, and the digging in of heels would leave only ruts in the dirt, so far as the prince was concerned at least.

“It is not, of course, that I think your daughter unworthy,” the king had assured him over tumblers of wine laced with the essence of peaches and raspberries and apples. “Only that they are so very young. Can they know, truly, at this time?”

“Your son seems to think, Highness, that he has known since first he laid eyes on her,” Mahtan had replied.

“And your Ataralasse?” the king asked, plunging Mahtan into thoughts he had hoped to have mastered for the mean time.

“It pains me to admit that I am unsure,” he said finally, softly. “I do not know her mind in all things, as some would claim. I hardly know her at all, save that she is like me in many ways. But as to our differences, or the depths of her thought, or her heart… they are dark to me now. Under my very hand, it seems she has shrunk from me.”

“It would seem, then,” the king said after a moment of pondering, “that all that can be done is trust in them, and their knowledge of each other, for in truth I can no more read the depths of my son’s thinking than I can the bottom of the deepest sea.”

Indeed, the whole kingdom was surprised when, as quickly as that, the engagement was made known. And nowhere was that surprise less welcome than within Mahtan’s own walls, where his Melde and new son by law were still living until a house could be made ready for them near the homes of Turotulco’s people.

“She’s doing it to be like me,” Melde insisted over the top of her standing loom. “She must. Why else would <i>she</i> marry? And so soon!”

“She loves him, beloved,” Turotulco said after the fifth or sixth repetition of his new wife’s protest. “Yes, perhaps seeing our joy made her own desire for such surface, but certainly you cannot think your sister has never known happiness by her own volition?”

“You really think that?” Melde spat, laying aside her shuttle. “That I wish her no joy of her own? That I do not expect her to <i>love</i>?”

Irritated now, Turotulco stood, though he remained as always calm and composed. “No, rather you seem to think that she cannot do a woman’s thing unless you have gone before and made a very public job of doing it at her head. Just because one is quiet or retiring of demeanor, Melde, does not mean you deserve everyone’s regard in their stead, and there are times, my dear one, when you sound so very selfish it repels me.”

When Turotulco turned on his heel, braid swaying between the ridges of his shoulder blades, and left the room, Melde’s eyes grew round and her mouth small. It did not open again before dinner that night, or on the next day, and the new couple did not speak from that time on for the best part of two months.

In that time of tension, Mahtan sought refuge in his forge, and Istarnie in her workroom at a man sized piece of a fallen oak dragged to the house by a team of horses. Discontent with his lot now that his new wife would not suffer to be in the same room with him, Turotulco eventually joined Istarnie there where the light spilled in through louvered glass panes in the ceiling of the great, enclosed veranda on the south side of the house. In one corner Istarnie stood chipping away at this great block of wood, speaking to no one of what it would be. In another, a painting stood under a canvass, untouched since before Melde’s wedding. The third was occupied by a mountainous cabinet of brushes and tiny needles and awls and chisels and nails and every bit of stuff that might possibly be needed for the making of canvasses or the carving of stone or the changing of harp strings and pins. Bits of gut poked out of half open drawers and while some cubicles lay empty and coated in dust, others were jammed shut with their volume of mismatched bits of wire and paint brush handles and empty ink bottles bereft of their stoppers.

This Turotulco addressed one day shortly after the argument, and by the time his wife was speaking to him again, the entire cabinet had been emptied, cleaned, repaired, rearranged, labeled and restocked according to material type and most common use. Then, the young man simply sat and watched his sister-in-law at her work for several days, until she could stand the audience no more.

“I know why it is you said those things,” Istarnie said quietly one day, her chisel suddenly still. “And I thank you for it. But I ask you, am I worth the happiness you have only just sworn to share with my sister?”

Turotulco thought on this for some time as the vaguest shape of a head emerged from the block of oak.

“It is not for you, entirely, that I spoke,” he said, taking a broom in hand and attacking the piles of chips and shavings around his sister-in-law’s work area. “We are alike, you and I, in that we speak little but think much. I do not like the way she treats you, in part because soon, I fear, she will treat me in the same way. I do not wish to also be taken for granted simply because I, like you, love her in spite of her flaws.”

Finally the sculptress turned to look down into the steely grey eyes of her brother by marriage, her hammer dangling loosely in one hand. “You should tell her this, not me.” Turotulco nodded, then fell to sweeping again, sending dust and shavings straight out of the garden door and letting a fresh breeze in. That job done, he stood for a moment looking toward the lands his family had given him, his head resting against the handle of the broom.

Very quietly over the ‘thock-thunk-thunk’ of her carving, Istarnie said “You should also take a gift.”

“Of what sort?” Turotulco mused, ignorant of the wayward wood chip clinging to his hair. “A flute would be simple enough if embellished well.”

“She plays the harp,” Istarnie said absently.

“A cradle?”

“Traditionally the grandfather’s gift is it not?”

“Then what have you settled on?” he asked, growing impatient.

“A part of me would suggest a carved vanity set with mirror and brush and fine comb, but that would play to the habit of perfection of appearance that worries you so much. So, what of a writing desk?”

“To encourage those habits which do not revolve around masses of people looking upon her and offering praise?” Turotulco said with a nod.

“Indeed,” Istarnie offered as she chipped delicately at an ear. “We are alike in mind.”
~*~

If carving her betrothed— fully clothed, of course— was to be such a distraction, the sanding of the statue would be pure torture. And yet, it was the only way for Istarnie to touch her beloved at all; they were not often left alone for any period of time without someone looking on, a relative, a friend, total strangers intruding upon their rambles to offer congratulations or veiled criticism of the timing of their decision. On those first few occasions when someone saw fit to voice even the mildest protests, Istarnie felt a feeling like shame and rage well up from her gut, but tamped it down. Feanaro, on the other hand, was quick to remind the farmer or merchant or wife that the match was sanctioned by both of their parents, “and isn’t the approval of a king only secondary to the approval of a heart?” he added for one man’s benefit, putting his great arm around his Sculptress’ shoulders for the first time publicly. Only the slight stress placed on the word ‘king’ indicated his irritation, but it was enough to send the merchant away with a deferential bow, suitably chastened.

Once into the trees that touched the merchant’s wood lot, Feanaro attempted to release his hold, but Istarnie stopped him.

“I would have you close,” she said softly, “if you’ll allow it.”

“I will do as best I can,” he replied, just as quietly. “Though, to be truthful, I find myself hard pressed to stop with simply one arm about you.”

“Then don’t,” she said. “Stop, I mean. Don’t stop.”

“You do not know what you ask of me,” he said lightly moving away.

“And you do not know what you ask of me to stand here before you, beneath your arm, and yet remain still clothed and still chaste,” she replied with fire kindled in her eyes.

“One kiss did all that?” Feanaro said, the lightness of his tone betrayed by a quaver of the voice.

“I had never seen you shirtless,” she answered. “And now I find myself hard pressed not to carve you in just that state, to leave clothing over the frame that begs me to strip it from its oaken armor… and it’s earthen armor as well. But I would see you again that way before I attempt it.” Imagination whirling faster than the fastest mill, Istarnie somehow found a way to turn away.

“Perhaps we should not walk together,” she said when her breathing caught up with her heartbeat. “Perhaps I cannot be trusted with you alone.”

“You are not the one that cannot be trusted,” Feanaro said, his touch on her arm light, but even that mere brush was enough to fan spark to flame and Istarnie whirled once again into his arms, fusing them as the layers of a sword in the forge. This time it was she who groaned first, and sounded craven even to her own ears. But the sound, the response, made him growl again in reply and a most disconcerting warm glow sprouted up just beneath her navel as they kissed, and kissed again, and yet again. That glow too, she realized, could be enticed to flame, and for the second time in her life, she was unable to say no.

A thought sprang to mind of the pair of them there tangled like vines on the floor of the wood, and while some part of her knew she should be ashamed, the rest— the majority, in honesty— laughed at the very idea of shame. Why was there shame in this, a love and a desire and a pairing so consuming it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended? Because formalities had not yet been exchanged? What were formalities to the heart, to the souls that matched? Freeing her hands, she took hold at his shoulders and drew him down to kneel with her, then to lean above her while she hiked her skirts up and aside, and her bare and wanton thighs locked around his.

Feanaro broke away suddenly, shock in his eyes and a hand trailed gentle but hot up her leg from the knee. He shook his head. She nodded in reply, then pulled him by the hair atop her again to stop his protest.

“I can’t,” he murmured against her lips.

“How can you not?” she asked, laying his wayward hand against her stomach where the glow had become a watchfire.

“You are the one who is always supposed to be in control,” he joked, his voice husky and hands trembling.

“And I would be even now, did you not insist upon resisting,” she replied, and moved his hand down between her thighs. “So stop.”

Then came that growl again that curled her toes and set her head swimming, and with it a sudden thrust of the hips that pressed every inch of his still mysterious flesh against her own… through the impediment of clothes. But, oh, the pressure and the heat and the inexplicable burning! Body all atremble, she wormed a curious hand between them, searching for ties or laces or buckles, anything to remove that last infernal hurdle. There! And he was free, shoving shirt and belt aside, forcing hot, smooth firmness into her hand so fiercely she was sure he’d felt pain.

Shyness and modesty told her to close her eyes; curiosity pricked her to look.

She looked, and smiled. So, there was the mystery, then. One question answered, and another soon to be addressed.

“You… oh, gods… no,” Feanaro hissed, lost to something as strong as what Istarnie had decided not to fight.

“Yes. I got us into this,” she swore, shifting her hips up, tilting him down, breaking off in a whimper when smooth, hot flesh touched flesh and drew away. “I’ll get us out of it.”

“I hope you at least wish my help,” he jested still, so tense with waiting Istarnie almost regretted her decision. Almost.

“I greatly desire it,” she said honestly. “May I have it?.”

And he leant it, in one masterful stroke, plunged hilt deep in the furnace meant only for him.

“You sear me,” he hissed, holding hard on her arm, and burned, thrilling, from the belly outward. But oddly, when the shock wore away, he found a measure of control that Istarnie did not, and ever curious, set out to experiment with this new tool, to develop a method, a plan to work two such willing pieces of ore into a gleaming masterpiece. Nothing that Feanaro had set his hand to had ever come out anything less than brilliant; there in the stolen solace of a borrowed wood, he vowed that his marriage would be no exception, and Istarnie’s first scream rent the air.

~*~

For a wife as intelligent as she is beautiful. I am sorry.

Turotulco

Melde read the words again, propping the paper against the gleaming cherry wood writing desk that had appeared outside her chamber door during the night. He was trying to win her back with a gift, which was generally the proper way of things. But… a writing desk?

“Mirrors you have in abundance,” a voice said at the doorway. “And combs and instruments and tools for your weaving and your painting and your embroidery. But you will, when our home is ready, have other duties besides, and I thought this would be at least as useful as another gilt mirror or bejeweled harp.”

“You expect me to change everything that I am simply because I am now your wife,” Melde accused, whirling toward the window with her chin held high.

“Of course,” Turotulco said, joining her. “That is the sacrifice and gift of marriage; we are to change and grow together as is needed. That is why I spoke, admittedly too harshly, about something that concerns me.”

“And what about my younger sister concerned you so?” she intoned.

“That, as you overlook her for her quiet nature, which is a trait we share, your sister and I, you would also come to overlook me. That you saw me at all was enough to make me admit my love for you; I am afraid that, were you to find me equally beneath you, and dismiss me out of thought in the same way, I would not survive the grief. I love you too well, in truth, or I would not have spoken at all. It was the fear of loss that drove my tongue.”

“Am I so enraptured by myself to those who are not me?” she asked, tears dripping unchecked.

“I am afraid so, my love. Some of us, those who love you but are not blinded by that love, are sometimes hurt by it, though that is not your intent.”

“I… know not what to say,” she whispered finally, shrugging in a surprisingly insecure way.

“When you are ready, an apology is all I ask in return. And, perhaps a kiss, when the time comes,” Turotulco said, backing away from the window. Somewhat reluctantly, he left her to her thoughts, and went into his father in law’s wood lot, examining the trees carefully, wondering if one would one day become a cradle, or if he would live alone in the wedding gift house.

In the mean time, Melde gathered herself together as best she could and went to the veranda where, as she had for weeks, Istarnie chipped and shaved at a block of oak. Without preamble, Melde entered and walked a half circle around the carving, recognizing finally the subject.

“Will you paint it, or stain it?” she asked.

“I have not yet decided,” Istarnie said, squinting her eyes shut to blow away some wood chips.

“His jaw is excellent,” Melde continued. “Matches him exactly.”

“Thank you,” her sister said, and waited, expecting more.

“I did not know he has a scar on his chin. How came he by it?”

“I have not yet found out,” Istarnie replied, and drew a deep breath before continuing. “What have you really come to talk about?”

“Am I not welcome to admire your skill?” Melde snapped, eyes flashing as she threw her head up to look at her sister. But now, Istarnie too was irritated, and for once felt no need to bite her tongue.

“You are welcome, and always have been, though you’ve never seen fit to do so, and have never done so without criticism or complaint, even when forced. Forgive me for wondering if you are perhaps not feeling well.”

Instead of her usual sudden flushing and doubled fists, Melde grew silent and dropped limply into a canvas chair near the door. Startled, Istarnie came down from her stool and set her chisels and hammer aside, beating dust and shavings from her apron.

“Are you well, sister?” Kneeling beside the sister she loved but did not generally like, she took a corner of her sleeve and dabbed at Melde’s cheeks.

“Turo was right. You do think I’m selfish.”

“Sometimes,” Istarnie said, patting her hand. “Though I realize as well that you have many reasons to be proud.”

“He yelled at me because he says I ignore you; that I don’t think enough of you. You know that isn’t true, don’t you? That I do love you, though I may not always say it?”

Her sister’s sudden candor caught Istarnie off guard. “I… have always hoped, though for a time I was not sure it was so. Though, I’ve been so distracted now that Feanaro and I are to be wed that… I simply assumed.”

“And what of mother and father? Do they feel this way too?” Melde asked with a quivering voice.

“I do not think Father does; he talks as cheerfully and proudly of me as he does of you, but I know very little of Mother; more of you, in truth, than her. We are too different, I think.”

“She often does not know what to make of you,” Melde said by way of explanation. “Once I heard her say that she feared she was not present for you enough when you were small; that letting you run after Father every day was a mistake.”

“I would not expect to hear anything different,” Istarnie said, rising. “She cannot understand; it is not her nature.”

“And Feanaro? He understands?” Melde asked, watching her sister’s eyes closely.

“More than anyone.”

“But you are so young,” Melde said, idly stroking the handle of a rasp.

“Did you not once say that you knew upon meeting Turotulco that he was going to be present for a very long time to come?”

“Yes,” Melde said, confused, “but we were—”

“The same age as Feanaro and I,” Istarnie finished, rearranging her hair in its knot behind her head.

“Was it so long ago?” Melde smiled. “It seems, or seemed before, to have been almost no time at all.”

“How much more time do you plan to lose with him by having this fight?” Istarnie asked past a lopsided smile of her own.

“Not much more,” Melde said. “He’s brought me a writing desk, carved of cherry with inlaid blossoms. It is… lovely.”

“He would be glad to know you approve,” Istarnie said from the top of her stepping stool. “Perhaps you should tell him so.”

“I will,” Melde said, “but first, I have something more to ask you.”

“What is that?”

“Will you let me make your dress? For your wedding?”

Istarnie paused, surprised to feel her throat tighten as the offer sank in.

“I can think of no one better to do so,” she said, smiling. “Please, make it green.”

“That’s all? Just ‘green’?” Melde asked. “You don’t care how it is cut or if there are sleeves? Beading? Embroidery? A train?”

“No,” Istarnie said, chipping carefully at the line of the statue’s neck. “He simply likes me in green.”

As she left the workroom, her sister oblivious to her departure, Melde smiled, planning already the best way to make Istarnie look, not as Melde herself would wish to dress, but like a woman worthy of a prince of the realm. One day, Istarnie would be queen, Melde told herself. And living in a realm ruled by Feanaro with Istarnie at his side, she thought, could be quite pleasurable indeed. Her baby sister, Melde mused, a queen. They would wear roses.
~*~
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