Thirty Day Character Challenge: Feanor by eris_of_imladris

Prompt 17

Prompt 17: Affiliations, Part Two. Think about a group your character belongs to--perhaps a cultural group, a profession, a family or clan, or any other group of affiliated characters. Spend at least a half-hour exploring that affiliation in any way you choose, whether reading and researching the group, writing or drawing about the character's relationship to the group, collecting links and resources, writing meta or head canons, or anything else you can dream.

** A/N: I wrote two separate stories about his relationship with Mahtan.

“You’ll be treated just like everyone else,” the tall red-haired ellon said as he walked briskly around the forge. “None of this ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’ or ‘my prince’ business, just you and the forge, and if you make an error, you better know I’ll be telling you about it.”

“Yes, sir,” Fëanor replied, not used to hearing speech like this, but somehow it only made him feel more eager to begin. Perhaps now he had a chance to be looked at as himself, rather than the first prince, or the forgotten prince, depending on who was doing the looking.

“You will come here at seven like everyone else, unless it’s your turn to help stoke the fires, which is twice a week since you’re new. That means as soon as the morning Mingling begins, you are here, and you are ready to work, not first changing out of whatever clothes you ride here in. Just because the others will live here does not mean that you have the right to show up later than them and claim that as an excuse. A bed was offered to you, and you declined it; that isn’t my problem,” Mahtan continued, running two fingers through the beard that made him so unusual to most of the other Eldar.

“I understand,” Fëanor replied.

“And one last thing,” Mahtan said as he led the young ellon over to a station that had yet to be designed. “You’re taking a new name in here.”

“A new name? Why?”

“To ensure that everyone else follows the same rules as me,” Mahtan said. He motioned for Fëanor to stretch his arms out as he continued to speak. “There will be none of that ‘my prince’ nonsense from the others, nor will they have any reason to cover for you or to treat you any differently. To them, you’re an average ellon whose atar needs help with his work at night, so you return home, and that is all they will ever know. Do you understand me?”

It sounded so strange at first, but soon, it felt like a relief to Fëanor. He wouldn’t have to involve any of the other apprentices in his political life or responsibilities, and although he wouldn’t be able to express his feelings fully around them in words, he had the metal for that, the hammer and anvil. That was a far more reliable partner than any other, and this way, he could have a chance at getting known as himself, and seeing what sort of ellon he truly was when the cover was lifted, when no one knew that they had to respect him or treat him differently because of the circumstances of his birth.

“I agree,” he said, and Mahtan’s movements stilled for a moment before he picked them up again, this time measuring between Fëanor’s outstretched fingers.

“Well, then, what will I call you?”

This part felt strange, like a betrayal of the name his mother had given him. He couldn’t go to the usual alternative of Curvo, for that name was rare enough and tied directly back to his father-name. No, he would have to come up with something entirely different, like he had in the library, when he had challenged Rúmil endlessly on how he wrote his letters and why he should try to do things more efficiently.

A hundred names came to mind, those copied out of historical texts as he tried to learn of the Eldar of old and their deeds, under his tutor’s watchful eye. But none of those names matched him. He was not some boring figure who only lived in a book, he was alive now, and he burned bright like a flame, something his mother had seen when he was just an infant. And how could he discard her gift, spending a great portion of his day being called something else than what she had originally intended? It would be a betrayal almost as bad as his father marrying Indis, which still burned and rankled inside of him no matter how hard he tried to make himself reconcile to it.

“Narvo,” he finally said. It used some of the letters, and wouldn’t be too uncommon of a name. The construction meant that it would give pause to anyone who thought of him as Fëanor, and at the same time, he had the basic language, and he was still himself at the core.

“Very well,” Mahtan said, and Fëanor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “You start tomorrow, and you will arrive in proper clothes for the forge, not what you wore today.”

Fëanor looked down at his clothes, which were some of the more informal pieces he owned, and realized how out-of-place they looked next to Mahtan’s leather apron and cloth tunic and breeches. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes, Master Mahtan,” Mahtan replied. “No special names for you, either.”

“Yes, Master Mahtan,” he said, a thrill coursing through his veins. He was really and truly becoming Narvo now, and there was no going back to simply being a prince all day, every day. He was finally taking control of his own life, not leaving it to his father or Indis or anyone else to decide what he would do with his days. Let the nobles talk of his impropriety behind his back, but he was still his father’s firstborn son, and he still held the title of High Prince, whether he dressed in finery or not. It was time to find out who he was underneath the finery, and stoke the fires that his mother had seen when he was first born.

“You’re kindling tomorrow,” Mahtan said, and left Fëanor alone in the forge that felt like a whole new world to him, bright and full of possibility. He could hardly wait for the next day, but he supposed that he would need to get the clothes first, and off he went.

Later that night, at the second Mingling of the light of the Trees, he thought back on his interactions of the day. Mahtan had watched his audition work carefully, criticizing any movements that were incorrect, and had instructed him in a way in which he had never been taught before. The salespeople, when they noticed who was at their stall, had fallen all over themselves trying to please him, and had gotten caught up in the idea that there was a prince at their stall rather than concentrating on the work that they had to do. It felt so false to him after Mahtan’s words. They were not kind, in the usual way he had come to expect kindness, but whose words had helped more, when push came to shove? He knew he would appreciate Mahtan even more in the years to come, while he served as his apprentice.

-------------

“Are you injured?” Mahtan asked, reaching out for the heel of the boy’s left hand.

“I’m fine,” Fëanor said, pulling back, but the bit of cloth he had affixed to the area with cold water fell off at the slight jostling, and revealed a red, angry burn underneath.

“You’re burned,” Mahtan said. “You need to get this looked at.”

“Every smith burns himself,” Fëanor replied, but he winced as Mahtan grabbed his hand and pulled it closer.

“This is bad,” he said. “How did this happen?”

“I was angry,” Fëanor grumbled.

“Take it out on the metal, not on your hands, lad, or else you won’t be able to work with the metal much longer,” Mahtan replied. “Let’s go back to the house, I have some salves there.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You don’t need your left hand? I think you do, lad, and if you want to keep it, you can’t take burns like this lightly.” He practically dragged the boy to a table outside his home, near the apprentices’ quarters. “See here, I’m very sure I showed you this table when you first began working for me. You knew it was here, and you know my policy - I do not work with injured apprentices.”

“I need to be able to keep working, Mahtan,” Fëanor said, desperation in his voice.

“I know there’s something going on, it doesn’t take a mind reader to figure that out, but I need you to take care of that hand - and don’t think I’ll let you sneak off, either. You’re eating with my family tonight, and you are not sitting at my table without that hand properly bandaged.”

Fëanor looked like he was going to say something, but then reconsidered, picking up one of the rolls of bandages before running his hand under cold water, and wincing. By the time he entered the house, his hand was bandaged properly, and Mahtan realized exactly why he had given in so easily. It hadn’t been about the injury at all, but about the fact that someone had cared enough to butt heads with him and make him treat himself with kindness. Keeping that in mind, Mahtan knew exactly what questions to ask Fëanor when they sat down for dinner.