Hidden Gems by eris_of_imladris

“I do not know,” Nerdanel said, twining her fingers together.

“How can you not know?” Fabric rustled as Sidhel, an old friend of Nerdanel’s, combed through her closet. “He invited you to this ball, and you said yes, how can you not know if you like him?”

“Of course I like him, but I do not know if I love him,” Nerdanel replied. The very word made a shiver run down her spine for all the wrong reasons. She was Fëanáro’s friend – she even liked to think she was a close friend – but she knew that there was a great social divide between them. She was on par socially with the boy who served as her father’s apprentice, but when that boy put on royal robes and was called High Prince, certain things had to change.

It was for the best to protect herself. It was the wiser choice to not let herself think about reasons why he might have invited her on this of all occasions. The ball had been organized for a state visit of King Ingwë, who she had never met, but she had heard enough of his niece Indis, Fëanáro’s stepmother, to know that he was feeling
miserable about the occasion to welcome the Vanyar into his home. No doubt, he had only invited her to insult Indis by repudiating some Vanyarin girl chosen as a partner for him. She would be a fool to think anything more.

“Here it is,” Sidhel exclaimed, pulling the light blue fabric and shaping it. “It looks a bit darker than your crystals, but it should do.”

“It is still as beautiful as the last time I saw it,” Nerdanel said with a smile. “Thank you for lending it to me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Sidhel replied. “I am more excited that you are going out in it, and to the greeting ball, no less.”

“I had not expected to be invited,” she said honestly, hurrying to try it on. “Nor to have a reason to borrow something of yours.”

“This is a big occasion, Nerdanel, you never know who you may meet there,” Sidhel smiled. “Perhaps the prince will even be interested in dancing with you.”

“With all the fairest Vanyarin maidens present? I doubt he would even notice me,” she said honestly. Yes, Fëanáro hated Indis, but he was not immune to beauty, and surely the visiting delegation would include
all of Ingwë’s fairest cousins and nobles and acquaintances. What was her mop of unruly red hair against their perfect blonde waves? Even Fëanáro’s little half-sister had the gorgeous Vanyarin hair, and Nerdanel knew herself to be uglier than this girl who was little more than a baby.

“Well, you will have the mystery nér who invited you,” Sidhel said with a wink. “He must like you if he made you these gems, yes? No nér has ever made gems for me.”

“You have never had a smith and jeweler as a suitor,” Nerdanel laughed.

“Is he truly a suitor?” Sidhel leaned in as she pinned back a section of the skirt. “Has he made any overtures?”

“Not yet, and I do not think he will,” Nerdanel said. Sidhel’s mouth opened again, and Nerdanel cut her off. “I am sure he sees me as little more than a friend. He knows many nissi… many beautiful nissi. He would not wish to be more than a friend when they are around.”

She had, in fact, never seen him around other nissi. Most of the other apprentices were male, and on their travels together, they had always spent more time in remote locations than large cities. She knew he was
kind to her, but she also knew that his life at home was often more of a burden than a joy, and he was more than likely going to be concerned with the political implications of his every word all night. For all
their friendship at the forge, she knew there was a great chance she would be left alone on the sidelines at the royal court.

But Fëanáro had silenced any mentions of her insecurity, and he suddenly got so busy at the forge that she scarcely saw him. Until three days after he issued his invitation, when she had found a neatly wrapped box with no note atop it, tucked in with her tools at her studio.

Inside the box, nestled in velvet, lay a thin silver circlet with an uncut crystal in the center, the filaments picking up its color of the lightest blue, the sheen of palest ice. A necklace with more uncut, pale crystals dotting the silver lining rested inside. The crystals were unusual, like nothing she had ever seen before, and yet they
offered a certain beauty against the colors of her skin and hair.

Only when she had picked up the pieces, dainty and delicate but sturdier than they looked, did she notice a small piece of parchment underneath. Upon it rested only two words: Trust Me...

And so she had. She set aside the gown she had planned to wear, instead choosing to ask Sidhel for a plain yet lovely gown that brought out the blue in the crystals. And she had attended the ball heralding the rare appearance of the Vanyarin elves at court – not the official introductions, nor the fancy meal, but when she arrived, there was enough fanfare that she felt overwhelmed almost immediately.

Looking around the room, she sought others her age, young but perhaps entrepreneurial, who she might share things in common with. She thought of approaching the musicians, but they were unpacking, preparing for a program. There were several sculptors in attendance – she was not important enough to be one, but the cultural exchange required all forms of art to be shown, and there were many elves showing off the finest examples of their crafts. In the coming days, she knew, this room would be a hub for creative expression, but for now, it was simply a time to gather together.

She did not recognize several of the foods in the room, nor did she know what to think about some of the outfits she saw. Decadent in varying degrees (although nicer than hers, of course), but coming from a variety of styles altogether uncommon in Tirion. When she looked up at the dais, she noticed that even Fëanáro was wearing a rather different style of robe, engaged in conversation with several nobles. He did not even look in her direction.

What had she expected? She had come here at his invitation, yes, but there were surely far more important people than herself to occupy his attention. She still stayed, however, so unused to this side of him that she failed to realize that there was someone next to her.

“He will not notice your sighing over him,” the nearby nís said, only to reach out and grab Nerdanel’s hand in a surprisingly firm handshake. “I am Lady Ornalaurië, daughter of Antarno,” she introduced herself.

“Nerdanel,” she replied shakily. “Welcome to Tirion.”

Ornalaurië’s eyes skimmed over Nerdanel’s hair and outfit, seemingly comparing it to her own finery before she spoke again. “What brings you here?”

“I was invited,” Nerdanel said shyly, looking over at the other nissi nearby, blonde and lovely and so different from her, wondering if they were all thinking the same thing.

“By whom?” Nerdanel tried her best to stay quiet. Her eyes must have betrayed her, however, as Ornalaurië soon let out a laugh. “By Fëanáro? The actual Prince Fëanáro? How do you even know him?”

“We work together.”

“You work with him?” Ornalaurië replied, astonishment plain in her tone.

“He works in my father’s forge, as an apprentice. He is quite accomplished,” Nerdanel replied. “I often visit him when I am not working on my sculptures.” Her usual matter of pride seemed like nothing in the face of Ornalaurië’s raw confidence.

“Oh, yes, I have heard how accomplished he is in the forge, getting all covered in disgusting soot – but you must know he will be stopping that nasty business soon, when he gets married. There are far better ways to honor the Valar with crafts more suitable for his station.”

“He would never stop,” Nerdanel said. “It is his passion, why would he ever stop?” Her mind filled with images of Fëanáro’s bright smile when he finished a new project, the furrow of his brow when he puzzled his way through a new invention, the ever-growing pile of failed attempts only encouraging him further.

“Because it is unattractive for someone with money and brains to waste his time like that,” Ornalaurië said slowly, accentuating each word. “You might not know about that, but it is something good to know.” She paused, considering her next words. “And yet, you might be able to help – why did he invite you? For a commission, or because you know him?”

“We are friends,” Nerdanel said, wishing nothing more than for Fëanáro to swoop down from the dais and rescue her. A desperate look in his direction told her that he was over by the musicians now, gesturing
for something.

Ornalaurië’s eyebrows raised, but she quickly lowered them. “Do you know much about him, then? Would you be able to help me befriend him, as you say?”

“What?” Nerdanel felt a sinking pit in her stomach as she considered Ornalaurië’s words. She had already said enough by thinking – or perhaps wanting – Fëanáro to stop his beloved work in the forge. What friend could have such intentions?

“I promise you this – if you help me marry Fëanáro, you can be the court sculptor. No matter what, all of our commissions will go to you.”

The witty responses she had tried to prepare flew out of her mind. “Pardon me?”

“It would be a good deal for you, better than you could get elsewhere,” Ornalaurië said. “I could be like a patron to you. It would be a splendid partnership, I am sure of it.”

Nerdanel felt her cheeks stinging as she struggled not to cry, thinking of how low she was, but she would not dignify Ornalaurië with tears, she would stay strong – and it was made easier as Ornalaurië quickly said “Think about it” before hurrying off in the direction of the musicians, and Fëanáro, as of yet oblivious to her schemes.

He spoke often of the women at court, and how some were nothing more than ambitious and power-hungry, but she had never encountered one herself, and she could feel her hands shaking at her sides. And yet Ornalaurië was absolutely gorgeous with her perfect ringlets of golden hair and a fine silky gown that made Sidhel’s gown look worn-out. She wished for a moment that Sidhel was there, because she surely would have said more, but the closeness of Ornalaurië’s words to the truth was almost more than she could handle.

“Please ignore my sister,” said a voice close to Nerdanel. Close to tears, she hated to turn around, but this did not seem mocking or rude in any way.

The speaker was one of the girls who had stood near Ornalaurië, holding a drink in her hands and staying out of the conversation. Now, however, she had no qualms with speaking her mind: “I am Nasarië, and I hope you understand we are not all like my sister.”

“I understand,” she replied.

“Ornalaurië has always been very good at speaking her mind, and not so good at knowing when to stay silent,” Nasarië said. “I hope she did not ruin your evening.”

“She did not,” Nerdanel lied politely.

“I wish she understood that not everyone is a stepping stone on her way to power. It is rather annoying for those of us who like to be considered as people.”

Nerdanel had to chuckle at this. “I cannot imagine living with her,” she said quietly. “Fëanáro often cites a similar reason for spending as much time as possible away from home.” She paused for a moment, taking in the surprised look on Nasarië’s face, and quickly apologized. “I did not mean… I simply know what he has told me, I have not had the pleasure of meeting her myself,” she said lamely.

“It is no secret that he spends time away from home, but… it is reassuring to hear that he can be kind, and have friends who are kind, like you.”

“He is very kind,” Nerdanel said, “which is an extremely well-kept secret. Few care to look beyond his title, or his skill, or the inherent drama in the choices he makes, but there is a person under there, like you said.”

Nasarië smiled. “I hope he finds someone who will see that person,” she said cryptically, her eyes drifting over to seek her sister.

With Ornalaurië engaged in conversation elsewhere, Nerdanel was beginning to feel slightly more at ease, but there was still the thought nagging at the back of her mind that this was going to be Fëanáro’s future, that no matter how much time they spent in the forge or out on one of their adventures, no matter how close they became and how much that both scared and delighted her, there was no future for them. He would wind up with a girl like Ornalaurië if she was wealthy enough, or Nasarië if he got lucky, but there was simply too much
between them.

A melancholy feeling sank over her. Would she have to watch as he made pleasantries with someone who he barely cared about, only to watch him fall in love with her? She scarcely knew which would be worse, watching him be miserable in marriage or watching him be happy with someone like that. She sighed, running her fingers through her hair as she heard the first few notes of music wafting through the air.

She was just about to turn away, determined to head out for the night, when a sudden gasp from Nasarië made her turn around. Nerdanel was moments away from snapping at her from a mixture of embarrassment and shame when she caught a glimpse outside the arched windows. The single glance told her that the Mingling was beginning, and Laurelin’s light was indeed fading – although something was burning bright, something strange and unexpected and at once so comforting and filling up her eyes with warmth.

“How did you do that?” Nasarië asked, approaching her side.

“Do what?” Nerdanel replied hesitantly.

“How did you make those gems glow like that?” Ornalaurië said, approaching far too quickly to look dignified, and only then did Nerdanel come face to face with the most magnificent light she had ever seen in her life.

The crystals, raw and unfinished, shone from every side, the lack of polish only leaving more room for the light to pour out. The dull color was transformed into sheer beauty, pure light, and although a part of her stubbornly insisted that this must be a ploy to insult the light-loving Vanyar in attendance, she could not help it when her
breath caught in her throat.

She was beautiful. She, Nerdanel the plain, Nerdanel the ugly with freckles on her face and calluses on her hands and too-large muscles in her arms was shining a light brighter than any other maiden in attendance. She looked like one of the nissi lauded by the poets, a feeling she had yearned for but thought she could never have, especially not here in the company of the fairest elves. The light even played on her hair, her frizzy, unruly hair, and somehow turned it to a shining cloud, a halo of reddish gold light. She could finally compare – no, she could outshine – even just for a moment, and she basked in the eyes upon her as she looked for the only one who mattered.

She barely noticed the musicians starting to play as she raised her hand to the circlet, feeling a radiant warmth from the crystal in the center. She almost didn’t see the light reflecting off a callused hand that she knew all too well, outstretched, palm up, in front of her.

“For the record,” Fëanáro said as she lowered her hand into his, “you were the most beautiful nís here the whole time.”

“I love him” popped into her head with a sudden intensity. “It will be an uphill battle in every way, it may be the death of me, but I love him.” She repeated the words in her head like a mantra, determined to make the most of this night. She had the rest of her eternal life to worry, but only one night to be lost in his secret kindness at last shown, watching him smile as if nothing else mattered in the world. For tonight, no matter what schemes were laid or how tightly lips were pursed, he was hers, and that was all that mattered.