Copper and Flame by Araloth the Random

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Chapter 2

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"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...

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Chapter End Notes

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