The Eight-Pointed Star by Tyelca

Day 7 - Fëanor & Nerdanel

This is for the final day of Fëanorian Week (written and posted a little bit later), with Fëanor and Nerdanel in the limelight. The prompts were Mahtan, Marriage, Reunion, Traveling, Creation, and Healing.

Summary: Fëanor intends to propose to Nerdanel.

Characters: Fëanor, Nerdanel, Mahtan

Warnings: None!

The light of Laurelin is bright and warm and Fëanáro feels the sweat on his forehead as he guides his horse to the city by Aulë’s Mansion. It had been a long time since he last came this way, and never before had he made the journey alone. But he did not care; the day was young and he knew the roads well. He entertains himself with thoughts of his teacher Mahtan and his daughter Nerdanel. Fëanáro hopes she still lived with her father; he had missed her and wanted to see her again. During his apprenticeship with Mahtan he had felt more free than in all his years in the palace of Tirion, which might have something to do with the fact that he was not in the palace of Tirion.

Mahtan had not treated him like a prince and Fëanáro had enjoyed not always being the exception to a rule; it was funny how he liked having to wait for others and receiving honest feedback instead of false praise. It made him feel normal, somehow. Mahtan also had no trouble telling him when his work was lacking, and Fëanáro appreciated this more than he could or would say. In time he had grown close to his teacher and in Mahtan he found the father Finwë never had time to be.

Nerdanel too had been everything no girl in Tirion was: independent, playful, headstrong, skilled; he did not care count the arguments he’d had with her over the stupidest of things, but in a way he liked it. She was unafraid to stand up to him or to smack his face at her convenience. She had made a sculpture of him, finished just a few days before he left; it was small and fit in his hand, but the likeliness was astounding. It was not unlike looking in a mirror and for a long time Fëanáro had simply stared at the exquisite work. She had become nervous, he remembered, when he didn’t say anything; but the smile on her face when he breathed, It’s wonderful, had made his heart flutter.

Fëanáro checks his pocket for the tenth time since leaving Tirion. It’s still there, he reassures himself, and he finds his hands shaking. What if she’s not interested, or has forgotten him, or has found someone else to share her life with? What if she’s moved and is not with Mahtan and his wife anymore?

Stop, he tells himself, for worrying gets nothing done. He shall first go to his old teacher and then he’ll see if she’s still there. Don’t look further into the future, for it is ever-changing. He slowly breathes in and out in an attempt to get rid of the nerves in his stomach, but it doesn’t work. Nerdanel’s red hair and her bright grey eyes keep dancing before his vision and he wishes he could be with her already.

Time wears on in this fashion, and finally he arrives at the Mansion of Aulë. He looks for Mahtan first, prolonging the sweet torture partly because he has no idea where Nerdanel is, partly because he is too stubborn to give in to his desire. He easily spots Mahtan working at one of the forges, red hair done up in a messy high ponytail. Fëanáro calls out to his former teacher, and Mahtan looks up with a broad smile on his face. He leaves his work for what it is and embraces Fëanáro heartily.

“You are earlier than I expected!” Mahtan exclaims. “I would have welcomed you at the gate!” Fëanáro shrugs; he knows his way around and Mahtan isn’t exactly hard to miss. “I am happy to be here,” he simply says, and it is true. Not only because of the company, though that is a large part of the reason, but also because he missed this place, the heat of the many burning fires, the sounds of metal hitting metal, the clouds of steam when a piece was cooled…

Mahtan is talking as he finishes the circlet he is working on. It is fashioned out of copper, almost the same color as Nerdanel’s hair, and is inlaid with a single ruby. Fëanáro watches and listens as his mentor works, always wanting to learn more.

“Who is it for?” Fëanáro asks as he indicated the circlet. Mahtan smiles cryptically.

“If you have come here for the reason I think you have come here, I shall soon tell you. If not, I will give it to my daughter.”

“Nerdanel still lives with you?” Fëanáro aims for casual but Mahtan doesn’t buy it. “I believe she’s returning to the house at this very moment,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. Fëanáro tries not to show his sudden desire to leave and continues the conversation in what he hopes is a normal manner. The twinkle does not leave Mahtan’s eyes, however, and after a short while he takes pity on his apprentice. “You go already,” he says, “I only need to clean up; I’ll come after you when I’m done.”

Fëanáro does not need to be told twice; followed by the sound of Mahtan’s amused laughter he runs towards Mahtan’s house and only stops when he’s standing on the porch, regaining his breath and generally trying to make himself presentable. The forges are dear to him, but they aren’t contributive to one’s appearance. When he decides he looks as good as it’s going to get without taking a bath he knocks on the door. Three times; not too hard and not too soft.

After a few moments he hears sounds in the hall and Fëanáro tries to control his shaking hands. But when the door opens it is not Nerdanel who greets him, but her mother. Fëanáro skillfully hides his disappointment and greets her politely. She is happy to see him and the feeling is mutual, for Fëanáro had lived in her house for some time when he was apprenticed to her husband. She invites him in and implores him to drink some tea with her.

He answers her questions about his family and life in Tirion, but grows impatient. The woman is not stupid; she nonchalantly slips Nerdanel’s location and then excuses herself, leaving Fëanáro free to find her daughter.

They obviously thinks he’s a good match for Nerdanel and Fëanáro is glad for their blessing. He would have asked Nerdanel for her hand in marriage with or without it, but it feels better this way. And, Fëanáro reminds himself as he goes outside to her studio in the garden, the chance that she’ll accept increases tremendously.

Again he knocks three times on the wooden door; this time it is Nerdanel who opens. He says, “Hey,” and for a moment she simply stares at him. Then she jumps forwards and puts her arms around him. “Fëanáro!” she cries happily. Her face is alight with the smile that makes his heart stop. He embraces her back and he basks in her scent. It is unlike anything he’s ever smelled and he does not think he’ll ever get enough of it.

“So,” says Fëanáro a little awkwardly after she’s let him go, “what are you working on?” The question is lame and he knows it, but Nerdanel enthusiastically pulls him inside and begins talking a mile an hour as she shows off all her projects. Fëanáro is strangely touched when he spies quite a few statues of himself. With a blush and a sweeping gesture Nerdanel turns his attention back to herself. When he has seen everything twice they go outside again and climb the branches of a high tree, where they remain talking until the golden light of Laurelin has completely faded and the stars can be seen in the sky. They grow silent then, both staring up, and Fëanáro intertwines their hands, just like they used to before he returned to Tirion.

Nerdanel shifts closer and Fëanáro can feel the heat radiating off her body. Her palms are clammy but her face is radiant as she glances at him. Their eyes meet and a few seconds later, so do their lips.

When they part for breath Fëanáro finds the courage he needs to take the small package from his pocket and present it to the girl sitting next to him. She looks puzzled, but accepts it and her attention shifts from him to the silken cloth between her fingers. She unfolds it slowly and every passing second makes Fëanáro more nervous. It feels like years until the content of the package lays revealed in her hands.

It is a ring he has made himself, intertwining gold and silver and a multitude of small diamonds are arranged artfully around the band. “Nerdanel,” Fëanáro begins and his throat chokes up. “Nerdanel,” he says again, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Her eyes widen almost comically and a few tears glisten in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers; then louder, “Yes!” Without delay she puts the ring around her finger and looks at it, but almost automatically her eyes go back to Fëanáro, who cannot help the broad smile that has made its way face. He does not think it will go away anytime soon.

He does not mind, for he is happy beyond measure. So this is what happiness feels like, he thinks to himself, and decides he can get used to it. Then all thoughts are lost when Nerdanel kisses him again.