Copper and Flame by Araloth the Random

Fëanor's expression was one of patience wearing painfully thin, as it always was around his step-mother. There never was any love lost between them and today was simply…well, one of those days.

He did not want to attend whichever dry function this was, and wished with all his heart that the next year would come swiftly to its end so he could come-of-age and escape the Lady Indis' constant nagging. She knew not to disturb him whilst he was in the forge, the one place where he could be sure of never encountering her.

That is, until today.

"Your father will expect it, and so will the rest of society," came his stepmother's somewhat snappish, petulant answer to the annoyed look Fëanor shot her. Her gaze faltered a little before the intensity of his eyes but, Fëanor thought, she was standing her ground admirably.

Still, it did not dismiss his rising feelings of irritation. How dare she try to tell him what his father did and did not expect! "Why would the rest of society expect it? I am not even come to my majority yet," was his reply with its thinly-disguised disdain.

"Nevertheless, you are a prince of the Royal House of Finwë, and custom demands that royalty appear in public on this occasion."

"And our family always follows custom?" asked Fëanor sarcastically. Indis threw her hands up in the air disparagingly, and he allowed himself a smug grin.

"Sometimes," she huffed, "I do not know what to do with you."

How about you leave me in peace? He thought as she stormed off, obviously eager to be out of the forge. Gods, how he hated festival dances. The girls who were practically tripping over each other to steal a dance with him irked him to no end. Equally as tiresome were the lords of Tirion to whose families many of these young ladies belonged. The same insipid, mindless chatter and the political scheming that he spent much time avoiding was always sure to follow him, along with any nobles eager to get into King Finwë's good graces.

Of course Fëanor had known it was coming up, and had hoped perhaps to persuade his father to allow him to remain somewhere in the palace away from it all. But his father's affection for his second wife, and her affinity for social events, would most likely result in his being dragged into the Grand Hall dressed in all his finery with some clingy nobleman's daughter attached to his arm, and not enjoying one minute of it. All for the sake of social propriety. Damn social propriety to the pits of Utumno! What use had he for it?

With cheerful thoughts of this nature running through his head he muttered and cussed all the way to Mahtan's house for his lesson. Ordinarily, work would take his mind off his troubles, but today his mood was nearly implacable. He scowled at a random stranger who happened to walk past him at that moment just to relieve his feelings, not caring at all that it was very immature of him.

Ignoring the people jumping hurriedly out of his way as he hastened along he reached Mahtan's door and gave a few sharp raps. As per usual, there was no immediate answer, except for the sound of running footsteps. He wondered when his teacher started hurrying to get anywhere when the door flew open and the person who jovially bounced out to greet him was not Mahtan, but Mahtan's daughter Nerdanel.

She took one look at him and turning back to the hallway she shouted, "Atar! Fëanaro is here!"

A muffled voice shouted something back, and a crash not unlike the sound of someone tripping over metal pots resounded down the hall, followed by a few curses. The corners of Fëanor's lips twitched as he tried not to grin. Mahtan never ceased to amuse him. He was a good teacher, and one of the most sought-after craftsman in the entire city. That he was disorganised in everything that did not involve his artisanship was somewhat ironic.

Nerdanel turned around again and smiled brightly. Not for the first time, Fëanor's gaze was captured by the way Laurelin's light glinted from Nerdanel's fiery-red locks, which were bound with a strip of hide. What an unusual colour her hair was. He thought of the way a silver filigree hair clasp set with small green stones would look against her hair and was strangely pleased with the idea. He would have to make one for her now. Whenever he was hit with inspiration, he never let it go to waste.

Suddenly he had an idea. When Nerdanel was with him, he would laugh unrestrainedly, talk as he wished, in a way that he could only do with one other: his father, the King of the Noldor. If he had to spend an evening being thoroughly bored, he might as well spend it with Nerdanel.

He was jerked back into the present by her cheerful voice greeting him. "Good morning."

"Good? I should think not," he muttered irritably, once again plunged into the gloom that had been pursuing him all morning.

"Why ever not?" she asked, puzzled. The surprise on her face was so clear. Fëanor nearly snorted. For anyone not to be happy was something nearly unimaginable for his gentle, smiling Nerdanel.

His Nerdanel.

Mahtan's tall form and red-bearded face appeared just behind his daughter. "Ah, Fëanáro!" he boomed, removing his gloves and wiping his sweaty hands on his tunic. "How goes it?"

"He has just informed me that he has not had a pleasant morning," answered Nerdanel before he could even open his mouth. Mahtan's look mirrored that of his daughter's and Fëanor restrained a laugh at the obvious resemblance. Actually, Mahtan's face with its close-set green eyes and bushy red beard always made him want to laugh regardless.

"Oh? And why is that?"

Fëanor sighed. "I must attend a festival tonight. One which I was hoping very much to avoid," he added glumly.

"A pity indeed," sympathised Mahtan. "Let us hope that we can take your mind off things for a while. Please wait here a moment, Fëanáro," he said, stepping up onto the stair just outside the door. "Two of my apprentices have managed to make the forge unrecognisable with their mess. Now, where did I…" And so saying he ran a hand through his already ruffled red hair as he muttered his way back down the hall, leaving Fëanor and Nerdanel out on the doorstep.

"I see you have been at your pottery again," Fëanor observed, noting the clay smeared across one side of his friend's face.

"Yes, I have been," she said proudly, tucking an unruly piece of hair behind her ear. "The statue of Vána I meant to finish last year is in the kiln as we speak."

Fëanor stared at her in disbelief. "You turned that forsaken lump of clay into one of the Valar? Ow! What was that for?" he laughed as Nerdanel whacked him in the arm.

"That 'forsaken lump of clay' is my presentation to Aulë for his examinations!" she exclaimed indignantly, punching him again on the last word. A look of frustration crossed her face when he did not flinch, which only made him laugh even harder. She bit her lip then, but Fëanor could see the mirth threatening to bubble over, as it ever was with Nerdanel. She grinned up at him. "You incorrigible ar—"

He held up a mocking hand. "Now, now, Nerdanel. There is no need for profanity."

"And I suppose you are a paragon of virtue?" She raised an eyebrow, leaning against the dark oaken doorframe with arms folded.

"Why, of course," he answered with feigned pompousness that he had learned from growing up at court.

"Including that time Atar dropped a hammer on your toe."

At the recollection of this (which certainly had not been funny at the time) their laughter rang out across the street, startling more than one Elf who looked up and smiled to see them.

But he fell into silence for a moment when he remembered what she said about Aulë's examinations in the city of Valmar. He had no doubt that she could do it, for she was a skilled young woman in her craft, and eager to learn. But so soon? His stomach tightened at the idea of one of his closest friends being gone, even if it were only for a season. His thoughts must have been plain to see, for Nerdanel standing beside him frowned.

"What is the matter?" She leaned forward and lightly touched his arm.

His lips quirked into a bitter half-smile. "So you are going to Valmar, then."

"Only for a while. I will return soon – sooner than my sisters would like, I think." Nerdanel tried to smile but Fëanor saw her face fall. She sighed. "I would like to have spent more time with my friends before I leave, but I have been so busy, helping Atar with his commissions, finishing my old projects…"

Then it dawned on him. "But we can spend some time together before you leave," he said, eagerly. "I was wondering if—" He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling ever so slightly nervous; a feeling he was not used to at all. "Seeing as tonight's occasion requires my presence, I was wondering if…if you would join me."

Her head snapped up.

"Please, Nerdanel," he implored, only half-joking. "I am begging you. The boredom will send me to Mandos."

She tilted her head. "You need me to alleviate your boredom," she said slowly. "Is this your reason for inviting me?" Her expression was unfathomable.

"And because you are a good friend of mine," he added, which brought a smile back to her face.

"So what exactly makes you dread the festivities tonight?" she inquired curiously.

"Well, to begin with, I do not much like dancing. Secondly, no one can find anything better to talk about than meaningless inanities about the weather." He was counting off on his fingers now, which made Nerdanel laugh. "Thirdly, there always seems to be an abundance of girls with far too much time at their disposal, who seem to have perfected the art of incessant flirting. True, that I seem to frighten them off after a while with my famed arrogance, but it is still irritating. And fourthly, the whole affair is tedious in the extreme."

"So you have much to look forward to."

"Indeed. So will you come with me or not?"

"I will ask Atar," came the answer. The man in question stuck his head out of a room down the hall.

"Ask me what, daughter?"

"Whether I may accompany Fëanáro tonight."

"Of course," said Mahtan simply, and disappeared again. Fëanor felt quite surprised that he had not questioned his intentions. It was a well-known fact that the escorts of princes were never craftsmen's daughters.

The High Prince of the Noldor smiled at Nerdanel with relief. "Thank you, Nerdanel. I will be grateful to you all my life."

"I doubt that!" she laughed, pulling the loose strap of hide out of the tangle of flame surrounding her head and trying to tie it back again. The way the light caught it turned it into liquid fire that fell across her shoulders and down her back.

Filled with a sudden longing Fëanor could barely restrain himself from reaching out and touching the silken curls. He could imagine his hands buried in that hair…

"Fëanáro!" Mahtan's voice came bellowing down the hall, accompanied by an echoing crash. Fëanor reached out and gently stayed Nerdanel's hands. She looked up through her eyelashes uncertainly, questioning him.

"Leave it down," he said softly, and then reluctantly released her, making his way to the forge. He turned back, once, and against the light flooding in the doorway he saw her slender shadow, with her slightly upturned face lit with gold.

And perhaps for the first time, he found her beautiful.

To be continued...

"Fëanáro!"

Mahtan's voice was floating into Fëanor's consciousness yet again. He could not concentrate. His gaze kept wandering as it never had before to the girl who was working on the other side of the long wooden table. In the light of the fires, Nerdanel's face was suffused with both gold and shadow as lifeless metal slowly began to take an elegant yet strange form beneath her swift hands.

Only once did she look up, but as soon as their eyes met her gaze darted away, leaving Fëanor feeling half-elated, half-disappointed.

At the sound of Mahtan's voice he jerked and quickly went back to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one bushy red eyebrow lift slightly, but the smith said not a word.

That was the disconcerting thing about Mahtan. His thoughts were many and wise, but they were his own to keep.

Feeling annoyed with himself for letting his thoughts wander like this, Fëanor managed to tear his eyes away from Nerdanel, and he lost himself in the delights of creation, enjoying the undisguised look of approval on his teacher's face. As he watched the silver it became a tiny but intricate piece of work, and he smiled as he did so.

It took him a while to notice that only he and Nerdanel were in the forge. Startled, he looked around for Mahtan and realised that the scuffling he had heard over the clang of hammer on metal meant that he had left. Only the soft sound of Nerdanel singing quietly as she went about her work came to his ears. As she twirled around to reach for a tool, her half-bound hair flew gracefully around her. She had left most of her hair down, just as he had asked her to.

Now her eyes were narrowed in concentration, the steam rushing up with a hiss as her latest creation plunged into a vat of water. She felt Fëanor's eyes on her and ignored the way her heart fluttered nervously beneath the intensity in their storm-grey depths. Clang. The hammer hit its mark swiftly, sending up a shower of sparks. Clang. Why could she not stop thinking about him? The Valar damn it!

"What exactly is that?" he asked, suddenly appearing at her elbow and looking over her shoulder. She jumped and whipped around, shocked out of her thoughts. To her relief—and disappointment—he was not looking at her but at the formed metal.

She studied her strange work of art for a moment and then laughed. "To be honest, I have no idea."

Fëanor chuckled and folded his arms, resting with his back against the old table. "Had it been anyone else who made that—that thing," he said, motioning towards the oddly-shaped metallic object sitting in the water, curls of steam rising from it "I would have said they had absolutely no clue what they were doing."

With a grin she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, knowing that he only spoke in jest. "And what do you say now, knowing that I made it?"

He paused for a moment. "I think that it's beautiful."

A blush heated her face and she looked down, hoping that her hair would hide her face. To distract herself she reached for the tongs, but Fëanor was reaching for it too, and their hands met.

It took a great deal of control not to gasp. His touch burned through her. And yet it pained her more to pull her hand away.

"Nerdanel?" He sounded confused.

Anxiously, she flicked an unruly curl away from her face but did not look at him. "Hmm?"

He smiled at her, but it was not quite the same easy smile that she was used to. "See you tonight." As he used to do when they were little, he playfully tugged on a lock of copper-coloured hair that fell over her shoulders in farewell. She could not quite summon the courage to say anything.

In an impressive whirl he swept up whatever he had been working on and headed out the door in one graceful movement. It was only impeded by her father, who was directly in Fëanor's path and who was sent jumping out of the way. Mahtan shook his head.

"He was unusually distracted today," he mused. "I can't imagine why."

"Neither," she muttered, glad of the fires that sent red flickering across her face to hide the colour that heated her cheeks.

Her sharp eyes did not miss the twitch that tugged at Mahtan's lips.

She was outside forge in an instant, with the full light of Laurelin on her face and the breeze pushing her hair back in a stream of copper. Without turning her head, she knew that Mahtan was there with her.

"What do you wish to say, Atar?" she sighed. His arms folded across his chest, he came to stand next to her, leaning against a carved pillar.

"He enjoys your company above that of many daughters of the lords of Tirion."

"But we are only friends…" Her voice faltered. Only friends… Inexplicably, her heart sank. She felt angry with herself. What was the matter with her? It was only Fëanor.

Mahtan's hand came to rest comfortingly on her shoulder. "I have no doubt of that. And he has shown you great generosity in inviting you to the festival dance tonight as his escort. But remember that he is the High Prince of the Noldor."

"Craftsman's daughters do not go dancing with princes," she said quietly. "I am not ignorant of these things, Atar."

"I know that you aren't. Fëanáro does as he pleases. We all know that. But I would not be at all surprised if a young lady of higher birth has already been chosen for him tonight, by either his father or his step-mother. These things happen. In the high society of Tirion, there are unspoken rules and restrictions about what he can and cannot do, and with whom he can associate."

"I know," she said again, attempting a smile.

Mahtan kissed her brow. "Do not be disappointed if this is the case. I am sure Fëanáro means well but such is the nature of the world we live in."

Indeed, she thought as Mahtan trooped back into the forge, his boot making a dull clanking sound as it smacked into something in the doorway. She heard his muttered curse at having stubbed his toe before the door closed.

Such is the nature of the world we live in. Tirion with its politics and class distinctions. Lords' daughters, with their expensive clothes, and slender white hands unmarred by work. With sinking heart, she realised just how much Fëanor's friendship meant to her…and just how hurt she would be if someone else took her place by his side.

And yet she knew that the nature of the world they lived in was against her.

-o-

Fëanor breathed a quiet sigh of relief once he left Mahtan's forge. Nerdanel did not seem to have noticed what he had been working on, and which was still even now a little warm against his closed palm. A little smile played about his face as he headed cheerfully down the crowded, winding streets, in a considerably better mood than he had been in but a few hours ago. He could just imagine her delight when he finished it and gave it to her tonight. The tiny jewels he wanted to set in it would match her eyes, green as the light when it fell through the leaves of Oromë's woods.

As he daydreamed he was surprised to find himself already back within sight of the great house of his family, magnificent and white, and towering over the main street.

All he needed to do now was perfect the little silver ornament. This he knew could easily be done, once he was back in his own forge. Maybe when Nerdanel returned from Valmar in the summer, they could work on something together, in the place where he felt most at home. There was always something to do; something to carve, or chisel, or heat in the fires. He had all the materials he needed for just about anything and if he didn't, he ordered it in. And there was no one else with whom he would rather share it all than Mahtan's daughter. His wise, beautiful Nerdanel.

There it was again! The strange thoughts. They made his heart start thudding and his stomach flip. But these whisperings only spoke the truth, and made him slowly begin to understand how close he held Nerdanel to his heart. It had all been there for years. It was only now that he really knew.

The sudden realisation made his smile widen, and to all he passed he looked positively radiant.

Alas that this was not to last for long. As he jogged up the steps and passed through the heavy wooden doors, he caught sight of his stepmother, who was standing there as if waiting for him. Instantly his cheerful mood disappeared. His grin gave way to a scowl of annoyance. And for good reason; she had that look on her face which usually meant he was in for a rude shock.

"Ah, there you are, Fëanáro!" she nearly cooed. Fëanor cringed to hear his mother-name spoken in such saccharine tones. He nodded slightly by way of response. Was it just him, or did her voice sound even more annoying than usual today?

Not waiting for him to speak, she exclaimed excitedly, "I have found you an escort to tonight's festivities! I know that you did not wish to go, but I thought this might persuade you."

Fëanor blinked. He nearly felt sorry for her. The poor woman thought that she was doing him a favour. So he inclined his head again and decided to put an end to her delusions right there and then.

"I have already chosen my companion," he said flatly.

"Nonsense, Fëanáro. You will be escorting Tasarië, the daughter of Lord Autendil."

Lord Autendil? What, that grovelling fool? Oh, Eru preserve me! he thought, the hope that she was jesting now slipping painfully away. How typical that Indis choose the daughter of a man engrossed in his wealth and climbing the ranks of the social ladder. And that said daughter was one of the most persistent flirts he had ever had the misfortune of meeting.

Anger and annoyance flared up inside him as he reiterated tightly, "My thanks, but might I say again that I have already chosen my company for the night? I am escorting Nerdanel, the daughter of Mahtan."

Obviously exasperated, Indis rolled her eyes. She probably bewails my distressing lack of intelligence, he thought dryly.

"This has already been arranged. We cannot simply turn down the offer from a well-respected lord. And you are far above the daughter of a craftsman. You are a Prince of the House of Finwë, and must start behaving like one."

Rage filled Fëanor at her words. As if Nerdanel's rank meant anything next to her intelligence and skill! He stormed off in a fury. Who was she to dictate to him with whom he would associate? And how dare she make arrangements behind his back? He certainly would be awaiting his coming of age with even more anticipation from now on, if it meant that he would not have to be subjected to the mandates of the Lady Indis.

Cursing he slammed the door to his chambers so hard that the family portrait came crashing down from the wall. Did Indis, or Autendil and that infuriating daughter of his not care all? Nerdanel's feelings would be hurt. There would be no one to guide her through the formalities. And, even worse…he would not be able to say farewell in the way that he wanted to.

He buried his head in his hands and groaned. How would he even be able to face her tonight?

To be continued...

Chapter End Notes

"Autendil" means "Lover of Wealth", if I have the Quenya right! I do need to brush up on my Elvish...

That afternoon, the entire house of Mahtan was in an uproar. Nerdanel's older sisters made her try on about ten different dresses for the occasion, but none of them went well with the fiery red of her hair. Eventually their mother Istarnië brought out one of her own dresses, one that she had worn at Nerdanel's age. It was a forest-green colour, with intricately woven silver spreading over it like rambling ivy.

Just before leaving the house, Mahtan finally returned from the day's work to look upon his youngest daughter, who it seemed had nearly grown up overnight.

"You look beautiful, Nerdanel," he said, smiling through the tears of joy that sprung to his eyes.

With love and good wishes from her family she found herself in at the Royal House of Tirion in a blur, and her face was flushed with both nervousness and excitement. Her earlier doubts were almost forgotten.

But they returned with all the more force once she was escorted by a page into the grand hall – for nothing could have prepared her for this. Even as the daughter of a gifted craftsman, never had she seen any structure so skilfully built and elaborately designed as this room. The high arched ceiling, upheld by pillars with ancient designs on them, flew over her head in a display of colour. So many people milled around beneath it, seemingly unconcerned and unaffected by it all. The sheer magnificence was overwhelming.

And as proud as she had been of the dress her mother had lent her, the other girls wore dresses of the finest and most costly material, and they were all so thin! She felt too tall, and very awkward. Glancing down at her hands, she found that they were quivering uncontrollably.

Nerdanel stepped away from the doors where she had been hovering nervously for the past half an hour and attempted to blend in with the crowd. But she did not go unnoticed for long, and people were nearly parting before her. A large and lavishly-dressed lord stared at her as if she were some odd object at a market. She could hear their quiet whispers behind delicately shaped fingers.

"Who is she?"

"One of the Vanyar, I deem."

"But no Vanya has hair like that."

"Then she must be of the family of that smith who befriended the King."

"What is she doing here?"

And then the murmur of craftsman's daughter followed her every movement, though she tried hard to ignore it.

She sighed. Would Fëanor still want her as his companion here? In the forge, things were different. There was no need for formalities, no need for finery. She felt awkward, like a plain dress hung in a wardrobe of silken gowns. He would see her here, and regret ever having known her.

Don't be silly! A voice inside her head told her. If he ever felt that he might regret your company, he would not have invited you in the first place.

She had nothing to say to that, and in any case it was strange to talk to oneself.

For the first time in her life, Nerdanel felt small and lost, and utterly alone.

Until another arched doorway passed over her head, she did not even realise that she had been wandering around and stopped in shock. Where in the name of the Aratar was she now? The room she found herself standing in was certainly smaller than the hall, but it was richly furnished with dark oaken chairs and heavy scarlet curtains woven with gold. The desk was piled up with parchment and various oddly-shaped inkwells.

I am not supposed to be here. She hastily backed towards the door and turned around just as a young man slammed into her.

"Oh! I apologise," he exclaimed as she held onto him and tried to steady herself in her high heels. Having managed not to fall over she quickly extricated her fingers from his robes, feeling her face heat up ever so slightly.

"No, I should apologise," she answered, annoyed with the way her embarrassment made itself so plain to see. "I was not watching where I was going."

The young man tilted his head to one side as if trying to get a better look at her. Nerdanel nearly mirrored his expression, for she recognised someone in his handsome features and tried to remember who it was.

"You," he said slowly, holding up a finger, "must be Nerdanel."

She was taken aback. "How do you know?" she demanded, a little too defensively. He grinned at her.

"Did you not know that you and the works of your hands are famed throughout Tirion? At the markets but one year ago my father bought some of them."

"And just who is your father?"

"Finwë, High King of the Noldor."

Biting back the rude monosyllable that arose to her lips, she said politely, "So, you must be Nolofinwë."

"Indeed I am, fair lady," he said, bowing graciously and kissing the back of her hand with such exaggeration that she laughed. Despite her humiliation and all her best efforts at being cool and aloof she could not help but like him. She wondered why Fëanor couldn't stand him.

"So," he said cheerfully, "how did you manage to get in here? The festivities, I believe, are somewhere in that direction." His eyes twinkling mischievously, he waved a hand vaguely somewhere in front of them, where presumably the hall was.

"I got lost," she admitted. "I did not realise I was wandering and found myself here."

"Nerdanel! There you are!" Fëanor's melodious voice echoed down the hallway to the counterpoint of swift footsteps. Like a boy half his age, he came skidding out of one of the rooms and rushed to her side, with hardly a sign that he had been running apart from slightly messy hair. Fingolfin raised an eyebrow at his brother's dishevelled state and obvious eagerness to see her but Fëanor ignored him.

Bedecked in ceremonial attire and without soot blackening his face he certainly looked different from his usual leather-apron-clad self. But not less handsome, thought Nerdanel. And her spirits suddenly lifted when she remembered that out of all the pretty daughters of the nobility this most beautiful and talented High Prince had chosen her.

"Come. I must speak with you," he said, and without letting her give a reply or say a hasty farewell to his younger brother he seized her wrist. Together they practically swerved around corridors and rushed past doors that all blurred together. Fëanor threw a door open and they walked hurriedly across it, not giving Nerdanel any time to admire the craftsmanship that she saw in glimpses around her.

Faded golden light flooded her sight and she found herself standing outside on a balcony. Behind her, she heard the faint strains of music and laughter, which told her that they were not far from the festivities.

Fëanor grinned happily at her, slightly out of breath. "How on Arda Enduring did you end up in Atar's office?"

Nerdanel felt her mouth form an 'o' of shock. How many humiliating things could she experience in one night? "That—that was your father's office?" she stammered.

"Aye."

This time she did not hold back any crude words and Fëanor threw his head back and roared with laughter. Nerdanel almost shivered in delight. Fëanor's laugh was a wonderful sound to listen to, almost musical. It was infectious, too, and despite her annoyance she found herself giggling uncontrollably.

Anyone who walked outside at that moment would have been wondering why the two young Elves were laughing like lunatics.

"Ah, Nerdanel," Fëanor sighed, wiping at his eyes, "we must both be mad." Then his look turned a little more serious. "Close your eyes."

Contrary to his sudden commandment, Nerdanel's eyes remained quite open. "What?"

"Close your eyes. Please."

Feeling a little apprehensive despite the gentleness in his tone, Nerdanel did so. Her hand was being held up, and something placed into her palm.

"Alright. You can open them now."

She gasped. The fading light of Laurelin sparkled from the tiny piece of metalwork, as if she were holding a star in the palm of her hand. Caught up within intricate folds and patterns were three small green stones. It was the most beautiful hair ornament she had ever seen.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's…it's beautiful."

Fëanor looked pleased. "I am glad you think so."

In awe, Nerdanel ran her fingers over the pretty curling characters beneath the jewels. "What are these? They are not the Sarati."

"Indeed, no," answered Fëanor.

She grinned mischievously. "Have you no respect for Rúmil's letters?"

"To the contrary, my lady. I have the highest respect for them." With that he folded his arms and put on a look of mock offence that made her laugh. Then, more seriously, "These are my own letters, which I have named the Tengwar."

At this Nerdanel nearly dropped the little comb. "You have created your own system of letters?"

There was a little pride in his smile then—pride which made many think that the High Prince of the Noldor was arrogant and spoilt. "I have, and the letters you see there are those that form your name in my script. I wanted you to be the first to see them," he added.

"Oh," she said again, rather breathlessly, for that was all she could say.

It took her a moment to notice that she was crying. Fëanor's expression changed to one of concern.

"Nerdanel? Have I offended you?" He captured her hands in his own. She wanted to wipe at her eyes but couldn't find the heart to withdraw her hands from him…except to reach up and tightly embrace him.

If Fëanor was surprised to suddenly find her arms around his neck and her head buried against his shoulder, he didn't say a word. In fact, Nerdanel felt his own arms gently encircle her and pull her close. Her heart was hammering at her own boldness but she felt inexplicably happy there, even though Fëanor's gift dug rather painfully into her closed hand.

"I will miss you greatly when you go to Valmar," he murmured against her hair.

"As I will miss you," she said quietly, pulling away.

"You promise to send letters to me?" The pleading in his voice was evident, and so unlike him. Nerdanel had no idea that the parting would be this difficult for either of them.

"Of course." She lightly touched his arm and smiled. "We will not be parted for long. Aulë does get quite distracted when he immerses himself in preparing his pupils for the examinations, but if I whine for long enough he will be sure to hasten."

That got a grin from him. He held out his hand. "May I?"

She turned around and let him lift part of her hair, carefully pinning it up with the little comb. When he was done he stood back, surveying her for a moment with the same look he had when appraising one of his latest creations. Only the look in his eyes was softer, and a light shone in them that Nerdanel had never seen there before.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?" he asked, brushing some of her hair back from her face, only to have it fall again over her eyes.

That nervous feeling began to flutter about in her gut, as if butterflies were chasing each other there. She tried to wave his comment off, turning around in the direction of the two Lights. "Well, almost my whole family was fussing over me to make sure that I looked right. I was worrying that I would never set foot outside the door."

He chuckled softly. "You are fortunate to have a family that cares so much about you then," he said.

"You have a father and younger brothers who care about you too."

He replied nothing to this, and Nerdanel bit her lip, thinking that she had said the wrong thing. Quickly, she changed the subject. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I saw you arrive from my window," he answered, coming to stand behind her. Nerdanel thought of his arms around her again but dismissed the thought. "And I happened to be quite close when I heard you speaking with Nolofinwë. You did enter through the large double-doors to your left, did you not?"

"They were hard to miss," she said, which evidently made his mood soften because she heard his soft laughter behind her. "I was probably hard to miss also, because the stares I got from those lords of yours—"

"My lords? Mine they certainly are not!" exclaimed Fëanor. "I cannot stand most of them."

"I cannot say that I blame you," muttered Nerdanel, forgetting herself. "There was a lord who I thought rather large in the stomach who—oh, I am sorry." She stopped herself from going any further, inwardly berating herself.

"Do not be." He waved his hand dismissively, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Who was he?"

"Let me think. I am guessing that as well as being rather rotund, he had dark hair and was clad in so much finery it was a wonder he hadn't fallen flat upon his face with the weight of it yet."

Nerdanel giggled. "The very one."

"Ah. That," he said, with the sarcasm that was uniquely Fëanor, "is Lord Autendil. I – and Atar too, but you mustn't tell anyone – tend to give him and his entourage a wide girth. I mean berth."

This time Nerdanel laughed so hard that she nearly snorted. With him at her side, maybe she would be able to make it through the night.

Especially when he was standing so close, and his hand was coming up to brush against the side of her face. "Nerdanel," he began, with a slightly nervous quiver that Nerdanel had never heard in his voice before. What had he to be nervous about? Unless...

She tilted her face upwards, and he stooped slightly lower, so that they were barely inches apart—

"Fëanáro!"

The both of them jerked apart. Nerdanel was the first to see the owner of the voice already drifting towards them, clad in expensive-looking material for which half of the craftsmen's daughters she knew would have done anything to wear. Fëanor turned then, and the look of utter dismay that fell upon his features was almost comical in its proportions.

She was undeniably lovely. Her dark hair was as long as Nerdanel's, down to her waist, but the curls were silky and soft, swaying in the slight breeze as she approached. Nerdanel felt plainer than ever in her presence. Fëanor looked, perhaps for the first time in all her acquaintance, absolutely terrified.

"Your Highness," exclaimed the girl, giving a delicate but brief curtsey and completely ignoring Nerdanel. "I have been searching everywhere for you!"

Had Nerdanel not been so shocked, she might have heard Fëanor mutter, "And I have been hiding everywhere from you."

As it was, Nerdanel could only look up into her friend's eyes with confusion, and a sensation that slowly welled up in her heart and took the form of hurt. "Fëanáro?"

But before he could reply, the dark-haired vision giggled and took his hand, leading him away from her. He turned and shot her a look of mingled helplessness, apology and sheer terror before being dragged through the arch that served as a doorway and disappearing into the crowds.

So there was someone who had been chosen to take her place at his side. Someone with more grace, more loveliness and trained in the ways of the court from the earliest age. She should have seen it coming! And she had, until it became unbearable to her and she allowed herself the tiniest bit of hope.

The world indeed was against her.

But she felt too empty even to cry.

To be continued...

Fëanor could not shake the image of Nerdanel from his head, no matter how hard he tried. And he wasn't too sure if he wanted to—though it would be better if the image he had was of a happier Nerdanel. He couldn't bear the thought of her being upset.

Casting a quick glance down the banquet table, he finally caught sight of her, sitting in between Fingolfin and a red-faced lord. He sighed. For once in his life, he was jealous of Fingolfin. His younger brother was allowed to sit wherever he wanted at feasts, whilst he was stuck here amid all the social climbers and, even worse, their daughters.

Right now, he was bored almost to tears and contemplating throwing himself from Taniquetil if only just to make his life more interesting. Fëanor always found himself affected by bizarre and irrational thoughts when he was this bored and annoyed.

Occasionally he would force a smile, simply because social propriety could not at this time be damned to the pits of Utumno as he desired, but looking as if he were actually enjoying himself was swiftly proving to be a task beyond accomplishment, even with his skills. He barely had the patience to restrain himself when Tasarië kept up that vapid chatter of hers or started touching him. She just did not seem to get the message! She kept placing a hand on his arm, or, once, even on top of his hand.

He stifled a sigh, with the gloomy thought that this ordeal would last for many more hours before he could finally collapse into bed and forget that this whole thing had happened. The worse thing was, he knew that he probably would not get the chance to speak to Nerdanel for the rest of the night.

Tasarië placed her delicate fingers upon his arm again, and Fëanor shot her a look. Seeing that she hadn't noticed his revulsion, he then proceeded to take his arm away and exaggeratedly wipe his nose against the length of his sleeve. The girl looked positively horrified but he ignored her, as well as some shocked onlookers, instead picking up his bowl of soup and draining its contents loudly.

Further down the table, Nerdanel had not noticed Fëanor's antics, only staring in horror at the number of gold cutlery pieces before her. Should she use the small spoon for the soup, or the big one? No, the big one was for dessert – or was that the fork?

Fingolfin seated next to her noticed the look of confusion on her face and leaning over he whispered, "Just work your way inwards." He gave her an encouraging smile.

She found herself smiling back, but it slipped when she noticed just how much his smile looked like Fëanor's. Surreptitiously she glanced in Fëanor's direction, seeing him looking rather uncomfortable while his pretty companion chattered away and sent him suggestive looks. It was somewhat cheering to see that he obviously did not appreciate her putting her hands all over him, but she wished she were the one sitting next to Fëanor instead.

"Nerdanel?" She quickly whipped around at the sound of Fingolfin's soft voice next to her, and felt a little embarrassed that she had not been paying attention. "Are you alright?"

"I am," she said, trying to sound as convincing as possible, but obviously not able to fool Fëanor's younger brother. With a quiet sigh she looked down at her hands, trying to hide the jealous tears that were threatening to well up in her eyes.

Fingolfin's hand slowly reached out and held both of hers. "I know how you feel about Fëanáro," he began before she interrupted him. Somehow she did not feel surprised.

"Am I really so transparent?" she sighed, wiping at her eyes.

He only smiled at her. "And I happen to also know how Fëanáro feels about you."

Nerdanel's head jerked up. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because," said Fingolfin gently, "all he ever thinks about is you. Maybe it took him a while to realise it, but it is the truth."

Disbelief and joy warred in her heart as his words sank in. She pushed away her plate, feeling as if her appetite had melted away. She couldn't remember Fëanor's ever having shown feelings more than friendship up till now…it was only now that the strange looks he sometimes gave her that made her shiver, or the way his hand brushed against hers seemingly by accident, came to mind so vividly.

And yet there were so many things that would prevent their ever being together. She looked away. "Even if that were true, Nolofinwë, princes do not belong with the daughters of craftsmen, however much I would like to think otherwise."

Fingolfin chuckled then. "Knowing Fëanáro, if he believes that the daughter of a craftsman is the only one worthy enough to belong at the side of a prince, he will make sure it happens. He does as he damned well pleases."

Nerdanel's lips lifted into a smile. Fingolfin exerted such a calming influence on her hurt spirit.

But it wasn't long before her stomach started to twist itself into knots again, because the musicians had arisen to tune their instruments, speaking to one another in that strange language that only musicians can comprehend. She had no hope that Fëanor would ask her to dance with him, and the very idea of having to watch him holding another young woman close made her blood boil. Her temper nigh matched Fëanor's when it wanted to.

It was custom for the Royal Family to sit and watch for the first few dances, and it was now that a lively tune had begun, involving intricate footwork and much passing of partners from one to the other. Nerdanel and Fingolfin both sat down for this one, laughing when Lord Autendil stumbled his way through the dance and still managed to maintain his pompous glare which he fixed on anyone who hesitantly attempted to correct his steps.

Had not Fëanor been sitting with his family on the dais, she might have almost forgotten him.

Despite his attempts to elude the grip of the insatiable girl, she was still persisting in a conversation, rather forced on the prince's part. Fëanor felt an overwhelming and rather savage desire to take the wine bottle sitting on the table and bring it down upon the unsuspecting Tasarië's head. Where was Nerdanel? He had not seen her for a long while, and the hurt look on her face the last time he saw her was haunting him.

Straining his eyes he searched among the whirl of dancers, as well as those lurking around the tables in the hopes of more food being served. He found her easily—for no one could miss that bright red hair—sitting next to his half-brother.

Tasarië's last attempt at making conversation, accompanied by a few flirtatious comments, was the last straw. He stood up and was about to make his way down from the dais when he was yanked back by the fact that his tunic seemed to be attached to someone's hand. Annoyed, he turned around and looked into the face of an irate Indis.

"What do you think you are doing?" she gasped. Evidently she was horrified. But at this point, Fëanor did not care.

He jerked away from her grasp, ignoring the disturbing sound of expensive material tearing. "I am doing what I please, as I always have," he answered, in a surprisingly level tone given his rising irritation.

Indis spluttered. "But—but you—you cannot simply—you—"

"I assure you, I can, and I will, stepmother," he hissed, the famed fire of his spirit now leaping within him as he fixed a cold glare upon her. "The time has come for you to stop meddling in my affairs and stop trying to take the place of my mother, for you never can," he added angrily, perhaps a little too loudly, for a few people standing nearby backed away. "If I wish to dance with someone else, then I will, with or without your consent."

His younger brother Finarfin, only a boy, was grinning widely at all this and coughed to stifle a laugh. He found everything amusing.

"But she is only—" began Indis weakly, but Fëanor stopped her.

"Nerdanel? Aye, of an artisan's kin she is, but she is wise, clever, and the only one I will dance with. Ever."

She nearly arose to her feet then, her pretty features beginning to turn red with anger and bewilderment, but Finwë stopped her. "Leave him be," Fëanor heard him murmur quietly as he turned away to find Nerdanel. The only thing that stopped him this time was the rustling of skirts. He halted abruptly.

"You," he said coldly, whipping around to face Tasarië, "will remain here."

Her brown eyes flew open in horror. "But—"

"Good evening."

And with that he dashed off, leaving Tasarië speechless.

Where has she got to now? he thought as he searched for Nerdanel, surveying the throng once more before almost jogging around the hall. He slammed into a lord, who managed to look down his nose at the prince, despite the latter's being quite tall. A chair with a small girl seated upon it happened to be directly in his path; this he picked up and moved aside, the surprised child squealing atop of it.

He just arrived in time to hear Fingolfin saying, "I was wondering, Nerdanel, whether I may have the pleasure of—oof!"

Nerdanel jumped in surprise as Fëanor suddenly appeared out of nowhere, rudely shoving his brother aside in the process. Fingolfin was fortunately quick and saved himself from sprawling onto the floor by taking hold of the table next to him.

The Elf-maiden held her breath. With his raven hair flowing about him and his bright eyes flashing, Fëanor seemed to eclipse her and everything around her. No structure, however beautiful, could compare to the High Prince, the son of the King, at that moment.

With alacrity he took her hand, raced towards the doors and shoved both of them outside into the mingling gold and silver light.

"Fëanáro? What on earth are you—"

His lips covered hers as she found herself nearly pinned against the wall. It was brief, all too fleeting, and when he released her she could barely hold herself up, gripping tightly onto his tunic to prevent herself from falling. The fire in his eyes made her face heat up and her heart pounded madly against her ribcage.

"What are you doing?" she gasped breathlessly, finishing the question she had begun before being interrupted.

He grinned roguishly.

"Doing what I should have done a long time ago. Dreadful, isn't it?"

A half-hysterical giggle escaped her. "I should say so." His hands reached out and captured hers. Nerdanel looked away, both embarrassed and overjoyed. "Will the court not wish to—"

"The court," he said, "can go to Utumno. I am nearly of age and it will be I and no other who will decide what I will do with my life. I do not fancy a single one of those lords' daughters. Why don't you marry me instead?"

Now she really was shocked. Her eyes widening, she stepped backwards and realised that the wall of cold stone behind her was preventing her from moving anywhere. She felt dizzy and light-headed. Did Fëanor really just say what she thought he said? I am either dreaming or going mad, she thought in a panic. "I beg your pardon?" she finally managed to choke out.

"Answer the question."

"Fëanáro, you are drunk."

"Maybe I am. My question will remain the same. I want to know your answer."

She burst out laughing. Only minutes ago she was despairing that he would ever notice her feelings and now he was proposing. How typically Fëanor.

"What kind of proposal is this?" she giggled, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"An unusual one. Just say yes, will you?"

The sounds of whispering and stifled laughter came drifting from above, and Fëanor waved cordially at the crowd gathering at the windows of the servants' quarters.

Nerdanel smacked him in the arm. "You rogue! If it means that you will stop pestering me."

"Is that a yes, then?"

"Of course it is a yes. And what are you—" He placed a finger against her lips to silence her.

"Hush, Nerdanel. Can you not stop talking just once?"

And with that he tipped her face upwards and kissed her again, both of them paying no heed to the applause and cheering that came from the servants who leaned out of the windows above them.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Reviews are much appreciated, if you have the time to write me one. :)