Copper and Flame by Araloth the Random

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Chapter 3

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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...