Lover Boy by Cirth

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Chapter 1

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A/n: Written for B2MeM 2015. Un-Beta'd. I used the Sindarin names for simplicity.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.

Lover Boy

The markets of Tirion give Fëanor comfort in a way that his family does not. It lies in the bright colours that almost burn his eyes, in the cloying smells of fried food that hang in the air. At a stall piled with a motley collection of clothes, he holds up a long, sage-green skirt and inspects it for holes. Behind the stall, the pedlar, a woman with a nose-ring, tells him how flattering it would look on his pretty daughter.

"I do not have children," he says, without looking at her. The pedlar stutters an apology, but Fëanor offers the money for the skirt. He turns back to the street lined with makeshift stalls and shades his eyes with his hand. Perhaps he should buy some bangles, as well. The thick wooden sort would be a good choice; the delicate clack, clack sound they make is soothing.

Just as he spots an adequate stall, someone catches his upper arm. "I found you," says Nerdanel with a grin. "You just disappeared." She has slung her satchel across her torso. Laurelin's Light catches in her braided hair, and her face is damp with sweat. Fëanor blinks twice and tries to remember how to smile. She is the most wonderful woman in the world. She is driven, and clever, and artistic, and...

"I forgot to tell you earlier today," she says, eyes glittering. "I am taking part in an art festival organised by Lady Indis next month. And a scholar from one of the Vanyarin schools will give a talk on my sculptures! You will come with me, won't you?"

...and she ruins everything. Fëanor stares at her, jaw slack. "What?"

She tilts her head to one side. "I said – "

"I know what you said. Nerdanel, you cannot go to that festival."

"Why ever not?" she says with surprise. "It is open to all artists, reputed and new. It will be a wonderful way for more people to know about my work."

"I never took you as someone who cared about mere reputation," Fëanor returns, scowling. He knows he is not being rational, but he cannot bring himself to care. "I thought your mind was on higher matters."

"I need to eat, Fëanor," she says, raising an eyebrow. "Do you think that happens by magic? I am an artist by profession. I sell my work, and will starve if I don't." She crosses her arms over her chest and looks him square in the eye. "But this is about Lady Indis, is it not?"

Fëanor glares at her. "I don't see why you should not respect my wishes. Can you not see this hurts me?"

"I can. But you have the diplomacy of a sack of stones, and it would do you good to show your face at one of Lady Indis' events. Or any events, for that matter. Do you plan on becoming a hermit?"

He scoffs and averts his gaze. Why is she making this so difficult for him?

After a long, tense silence Nerdanel sighs and says, "What is that in your hand?"

Fëanor feels his face grow hot. "I bought it for you." He thrusts it at her, still avoiding her eyes. Nerdanel blinks, clears her throat, and takes it, muttering a thanks. She turns it over in her hands. "It's so charming." She rolls it up and tucks it into her satchel. Then she fiddles with her hair and says that it is getting late and that she needs to leave. It is barely afternoon.

Fëanor watches her figure disappear into the crowd, and then trudges back to his father's house.

***

When Finwë gave him the painting of his mother, Fëanor made a wooden frame for it and put on his desk. But soon he found he could not concentrate on his work with her gaze on him, so he locked the portrait in a coffer by his bed.

He takes it out now, and sits on the edge of his mattress, looking at it. He strokes her cheek. She is like a study in silver. Her hair is tied in a knot behind her head, and clear gems are strung about her slender neck. Finwë had painted the portrait himself, using bold hues and a sure hand.

"You will always be the queen of the Noldor," Fëanor whispers. "No other woman deserves the title." He lies on his back and searches his mother's dark eyes, which seem so far away. Laurelin's fading Light eases through the window and warms his belly.

There is a knock on his door, and he jolts up, turning the painting face down on the covers. "Yes?" he calls.

The door opens and Indis steps in, shoulders hunched and lips pursed. Fëanor clenches his jaw. "What is it?"

Indis tucks a curl behind her ear and says, "Your father wishes to know if you will be present at dinner today. I told him you might be with Nerdanel, but – "

"I will be present." He gets up and goes to his desk, and begins to shift his books from one side to the other. After a moment he hears the door close softly, and plumps down in his chair. A headache throbs behind his eyes, and he groans.

If he lives in this house any longer, he will go mad.

***

Fëanor does not see Nerdanel till the festival, which takes place in a wide city square. Soon after he arrives, he gets lost among the stalls and the crowd, and shuffles towards a large wooden platform that is probably a stage. A whiff of incense from a nearby counter stings his nose, and he coughs and rubs his watering eyes.

When he looks up he catches sight of Nerdanel some distance away, chatting with a couple of other artists. He draws a sharp breath when he realises she is wearing the skirt he bought her. It suits her, complements her hair, he thinks with satisfaction. He had been right.

Suddenly she looks in his direction and raises her eyebrows, looking surprised. Then she mutters something to the others and strides to him. "Fëanor," she says, "I am so glad you are here. What made you change your mind?"

He massages his forehead with a hand. "I did not come here because I have made peace with Indis. I will not make peace with her."

Nerdanel releases a deep sigh. "You never change," she says, and begins to turn away.

"I came because you are more important than my disputes."

Nerdanel blinks, and her jaw goes slack. She clears her throat, fiddles with the hem of her tunic, and says, "Thank you?"

Fëanor laughs, and she stares at him. Then she takes his hand in hers and smiles and smiles, eyes shining.

Yes, Fëanor thinks, as a man steps up on the stage and begins to speak about Nerdanel's contributions to sculpture. Yes, they can make this work.

- finis -