The Fire Within

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.
~*~