From the radiance of stars to mundane flames by Calendille

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The Alabaster Prince

"From the radiance of stars to mundane flames" can be read as a sequel to "Little Father" or as a separate work! It takes a lot from "The Staff Dancer", but they can be read in any order. I hope you will enjoy this story!

Enormous thanks to Idrils_scribe, who stepped in as a emergency beta!

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 Curufin

The walls of the Hall of the Great Guild of Weavers swayed gently at Manwë’s touch; for they were not of stones, like those of the buildings of the great city of Tirion upon the hill, but majestic tapestries hanging from golden roofs and soaring columns of marble. They were the work of the best and most respected craftspeople of the Guild; silk and golden and silver threads woven into wondrous pictures of Vana, Nessa and Yavanna, the three mistresses of Spring, along with Vairë, the heavenly patron of the Guild’s craft.

The Hall never ceased to amaze me, because it was ever-changing. With each season all the walls would be replaced, the old mixing with the new; but always, some treasures remained unmoving.  I felt the usual rise of bittersweet excitement as I entered the lobby with Aicahendë, our fingers woven as closely as the threads of the vibrant tapestries. In front of us was a great staircase above which hung a stately painting of Queen Miriel Therindë, and under the portrait stood tall and proud a statue of alabaster, its eyes of diamonds seeking those of the deceased queen. The statue was that of my father, High prince Fëanaro Curufinwë Therindion, who had designed the lobby and staircase, carved with such lifelike delicacy by my mother that one would have expected him to move.

The effigy was adorned with the dark robes of silk, cloud-like mousseline and constellations of diamonds on velvet my father had worn at his wedding. ; yet even more impressive was the first masterpiece of Aicahendë’s mother, the Great Mistress Capindë Indyamien: a thirty feet long embroidered train retelling the Great March in silver threads. It cascaded from my father’s shoulders down the stairs, splitting them in two so that any guest may walk around it, look and wonder.

The Great Guild was a Fëanorian stronghold, and they were not afraid to show their colors.

We climbed the stairs in religious silence; I in devotion for my father, my betrothed Aicahendë for the work of her mother, and both of us for our One True Queen.

We stopped at the top.

I knew this statue almost as intimately as if it were my own face. It had always been a great favorite of mine: my father in his youth, not yet fully grown, with Miriel’s ribbons woven into hair of stone. He looked heavenly, and as a child I had often begged my mother and grandfather to walk with me in the recollections my father’s wedding. For what greater fairytale could move my heart better than my father’s? Fëanaro Curufinwë was the most radiant part of my soul, and I longed to relieve his happiest memories.

“Do you think I could wear them?” I mused aloud. “I would look just like him.”

I turned to face Aicahendë. She didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic as I had hoped, and a slight frown shadowed her grey eyes with the promise of storm.

“My father will agree,” I started. For my father never refused me anything that was dear to my heart.

“Whereas my mother would throw a fit at not being able to design a new set for you! You will tell her you want to wear your father’s impracticable train that doesn’t fit in any carriage and that you shall sit on it like your father did. I am warning you, I will not go to Estë’s gardens to pick up what will remain of you once she is done with you!”

“I will make a special carriage.”

“Then there is your father, who will be odiously frustrated at not being able to make a dozen new pieces of groundbreaking jewelry for you …”

“He could make yours.”

“My father will make mine, and they will both spend the whole feast comparing every single piece to know who bested who.”

“My father will win.”

“Not if it’s silver,” she countered proudly, and I smiled, because that was true; my father was talented in so many fields two hands were not enough to count them all, and unmatched in several, but Telperimpar was the most renowned silversmith of Aman, his obsessive loyalty toward this metal unwavering in a way that allowed him to compete with Fëanaro. Which was good, because my father needed some competition.

She smiled. Her mouth was too big and thin lipped to be ideal, but when she smiled it gave her a look of ironical joy I loved; that, along with her untamable dark mane, gave her a feral quality.

“Let us start by telling everyone we are getting married,” she says. Demands. Orders. With her, one does not always know. “Then ? We start quarreling about who wears what.”

 

***

 

“… and this is why,” my half-uncle Nolofinwë concluded with his usual aloofness, “I firmly believe Prince Curufinwë’s wedding wardrobe should showcase all Noldorin trends and not confine themselves to the Fëanorian style.

— I care not for what you believe,” my father commented sourly. I felt his irritation close to my heart, as always when Nolofinwë expressed an interest in anything that was not the weather. That his half-brother dared have opinions of what I should do only made it worse.  “What my son wears at his own wedding is no concern of yours.

— Given the deleterious atmosphere at court, I believe we of the royal family must send the message that…

— I do not recall your son Turukano or his bride Elenwë wearing proper miriellian clothes at their wedding, and as such see no reasons why the inferior craftsmen of your clientele should be welcomed at Curufinwë’s.

— Enough!”

Finwë’s displeasure cut through the dispute. There was Power in his voice, and I was startled that he would use it so soon; but then I had been startled as well that things had degenerated so quickly between my father and Nolofinwë, who usually circled around each other in passive-aggressive displays of pride rather than throw themselves at each other’s throat. I did not know yet that the most violent arguments exploded in the secrecy of the king’s office, and how tired Finwë was of them.

“Your petition has been heard. You may leave,” Finwë told my half-uncle. Nolofinwë nodded and stood to go. Ever docile, though only as long as my grandfather's eyes could see him; behind closed doors I knew he was a poisonous snake, hissing lies against us.

Silence echoed around Nolofinwë’s steps; it lasted after the door closed, until, Finwë turned to me. “I would have words with your father. Alone.”

Father declined: I was of age, old enough to give my own opinion about my wedding. We stayed. Finwë’s eyes hardened.

 “As your father I can understand and forgive, in part, your enmity for Indis and Nolofinwë,” my grandfather started, his voice brimming with barely restrained frustration. “As king however, I cannot but condemn your behavior. Your role is to promote harmony and inspiration rather than sow dissent and exclude those whose tastes are not your own!

— I give due respect where I find true greatness is!” My father exclaimed in outrage. “Nolofinwë can sponsor talentless amateurs if he fancies himself the patron of the mediocre, but I shall not lower myself thus, nor Curufinwë!

— Some opinions are better left to the privacy of your own thoughts! Do you not see how fractured the Noldor are? The results of your scorn?

— I see the results of Nolofinwë’s deceitful maneuvers!” Father shouted. He sprang from his chair and I caught myself at the last moment, for I was furious as well but dared not oppose Finwë as he did. “Put an end to them and the deleterious atmosphere shall disperse!

— Nothing shall disperse unless you understand you too are part of the problem!” Having risen as well, Finwë straightened to his full height; the King and the High Prince were staring daggers at each other. “Until then I shall not let you divide our people any longer, and though it pains me to do so, I shall order you if you cannot see reason!

— Order us then. For of our own free will, we shall not let Nolofinwë force tasteless rags upon us,” Father hissed, furious and betrayed and defiant in a way he never was in front of us, his children.

 That day I discovered the ugly reality they kept behind the star-emblazoned doors of Finwë’s office and the spells that kept any sounds from slipping out: that the unnerving tensions we had felt for years often broke into storms of razor-sharp words and judgements heavier than a hammer hitting the anvil, and it took all of Finwë’s and Fëanaro’s shared affection and self-control to hide the wounds under veils of pretense once those doors swung open again.

 

***

 

In the end, my grandfather did order us, and his secret decree started to pluck the blossoms of my childish fantasies like one would idly undress a flower. I could do nothing but press my newly forged seal at the bottom of the document, my youthful illusions melting with the red wax over the flame of the candle; the fairytales of my father’s wedding smashed and broken under the cold silver of my ring.

My father and I went to the Hall of the Great Guild in gloomy silence. No words were needed. His fury was mine, my sorrow his; our shared heart held no secrets. We walked up the stairs with the embroidered train of the Great March between us, and we looked as if a single prince climbed in front of a mirror. For in those days we would often dress the same but for my father’s more elaborate circlet, and we sported the same doublet of angry blood-red.

I stopped at the top of the stairs. My fingers brushed the sleeves of my father’s wedding robes with feather-like delicacy. Despite Aicahendë’s cool reaction, I knew I would have chosen to wear them. I did not care that overly impracticable clothes had gone out of fashion, that people did not fancy black at weddings anymore or that someone had worn it before (because this someone was me); walking past them felt like farewells. Then father took my hand and I turned to face him; behind his shoulder, my grandmother looked down on us with flat dead eyes.

“We have not yet lost. My father would not dare to force Nolofinwë’s base tastes upon me, and we have the best craftsmen in Aman to support us.”

I embraced him, pulling his warm presence against my heart. My disappointment melted in his fire; in the crucible of our shared consciousness, it became rage, and the drive to arm ourselves for a bitter battle. Were we not the children of the Embroideress?

I stared at the painting looming over us. Miriel had lived during a time when excruciatingly small and precise details were favored by artists. As a result her painting was so realistic I had no doubts the Great Mistress Capindë, my mother-in-law, would be able to recreate perfectly the texture and patterns of her genderless clothes.

I disengaged from my father’s embrace.

“If I cannot wear yours,” I said, gesturing toward his bejeweled robes, “then you must wear hers.”