Fëanor, The World's Worst Son-In-Law by Uvatha the Horseman

A Letter from Nerdanel

Mahtan held the iron in the coals, careful not to look directly into the flames. He enjoyed watching the fire as the metal heated but knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to see its color when he pulled it out, and color was the only way to judge whether the glowing metal was soft enough to work.

Aulë always said, "Don't look into the fire. When you most need to tell red from orange, all you'll see is a dark blob." This was an old conversation between them. After all these years in Aulë's service, it was more of a ritual than actual advice.

Mahtan was the first of the Noldor elves to apprentice under Aulë the Smith. With Mahtan's age and seniority, he was a friend to Aulë, as well as being a student.

At some point, Aulë came over to see what Mahtan was working on and nodded with approval. "That's your best work so far, almost like something Mairon would have done."

"Mairon?" Mahtan asked Aulë's retreating back, but Aulë didn't hear.

Curumo, the most gifted member of Aulë's household and chief among his servants, waited until Aulë was out of earshot. "It's Quenya for 'Requires excessive admiration.'"

"Why would they name someone that?" asked Mahtan.

"Probably because 'Inflated sense of his own importance' doesn't roll off the tongue as easily," said Curumo.

Mahtan turned back to his own work. Curumo had astonishing skill, but he wasn't pleasant to be around. And besides, Mahtan had come here to work with Aulë, not to get involved in the endless feuding among Aulë's servants.

Mahtan worked through the afternoon until his arm would no longer lift the hammer from the anvil. He didn't feel tired, and he still wanted to work. He rested a few minutes and tried again. Aulë must have noticed him picking up a smaller hammer, because he said kindly, "Go home. It will still be here tomorrow."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Mahtan made the short walk to his cottage outside the gates of the Mansions of Aulë. Mahtan had a house in the village, or rather, hamlet. Actually, it would need about two more houses to qualify as a hamlet.

Inside, he took a moment to appreciate the peace and tranquility of their lives, the flowers in the garden, the beeswax polish on the wide cedar boards of the table, the fact that every day was the same, filled with a day's labor making useful and sometimes beautiful things.

The war raged in a distant land. It didn't affect them here, and for that, Mahtan was profoundly grateful.

In the kitchen, his wife was arranging wildflowers in a pottery vase she'd made herself. Both of them were skilled craftspeople. The textured fabric of her dress, twisted strands of copper and red, was made from yarn she'd spun and woven herself, he noted with admiration.

They were well-suited to each other. They'd both awoken, fully grown, on the shores of Lake Cuiviénen, the first of their kind. Hers was the first face he remembered seeing, ever. Like most people with no parents or siblings, they created a family of their own by marrying and having a daughter together, Nerdanel, their beloved only child.

Mahtan's wife looked up from the bunches of delphiniums and foxglove. Her hair was the color of cedar, and it hung in a braid over her shoulder. She held up a square of parchment with the seal broken. "I've had a letter from Nerdanel. She'd like to visit during the week of the Festival, and she asks if she could bring the family." She smiled, and her cheeks were pink.

It would be wonderful to have her and her family visit during the Homecoming festival, which was held just before the spring planting. While every other festival involved public feasting and music and parades, the Homecoming festival was celebrated privately with extended family, household, or tribe. For most, it was a time to gather and catch up. But after Nerdanel moved away, Mahtan and his wife had celebrated it quietly with just the two of them. It was the best possible news. Mahtan missed her terribly.

Mahtan walked over to a shelf where they kept small treasures and picked up a small glass globe Nerdanel had made when she was young, right around the time they were becoming aware of her great talent as a sculptor. It was the work of a child, a little uneven, not quite finished. That didn't matter. He treasured it for its childish imperfections.

Inside the globe, the green forests hugged a deep lake, the shores of Lake Cuiviénen. The colors were the dark blues and greens they would've been at the time of the Awakening. Back then, the only light came from stars. The globe was filled with liquid, and when you shook it, it looked like it was snowing inside.

When Nerdanel married, everyone said she'd made an excellent match in marrying Fëanor. It wasn't just that he was the greatest craftsman living. He was gifted in both physical beauty and talent. Mahtan hoped the boys would inherit their father's good looks and intelligence. If they also inherited their mother's good nature, so much the better.

Mahtan had welcomed her new husband into the family, and taken him on as his own apprentice, teaching the budding craftsman everything he knew. Their first child, Maedhros was born. Maglor soon followed. A proud grandfather, Mahtan felt blessed.

Nerdanel and Fëanor now had seven sons, the oldest ones already grown to manhood. Mahtan didn't see them nearly as often as he would have liked. He couldn't wait.