The Staff Dancer by Calendille

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Times of Joy and Light

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For the first years of my life, my half-brother was nothing more than a remote, otherworldly being. He was much older than me, smarter in a way that meant all his conversations were out of my league and frankly uninteresting. I would spend my days with my sister, tutors or other little girls, most of them children of my mother’s maidens. Fëanaro and I lived in different worlds that met at the dinner table, where we were forced to sit together but did not truly interact.

They did not mingle until the Pink Robes incident.

I do not remember anything else from this peculiar day. Most days were a repetition of common bliss in these times, and it seems to me that they all merge into each other to become one huge mass of memories filled with pastel colors, gold and silver Light, songs and soft silk, broken only by the recurring quarrels between my older brothers. Nolvo would sulk for hours if not days afterwards, while Fëanaro would behave in a weirder, passive-aggressive and vicious fashion. Most of the puns, stunts and pranks I did not get, but apparently they made Nolvo look stupid most of the time.

This evening, Fëanaro came to our family diner dressed in girl’s clothes.

I was too young to be anything but amused. Girls and boys wore specific clothing: pants and shirts for boys, skirts and dresses for girls; then there were the kind of clothes worn by both, robes or knee-length tunics that varied in colors but not in shape. Fëanaro’s robes that night were baby-pink and white, embroidered with pale yellow flowers, and he wore his hair free upon his shoulders like those of a maiden too young to be courted. He walked with confidence, like a prince performing in front of the court, though his lips were pinched and he pointedly refused to look at Nolvo.

“Naro –“ my father started. He did not finish his sentence.

Fëanaro was not impolite unless something bothered him, and when he was bothered, Father tolerated much from him, which was why he did not reprimand him.

“According to Arakano,” Fëanaro began with a haughty tone that sounded weird because his voice was not steady these days. He used to call my brother by his mother-name, as if he could erase the fact the Nolvo was our father’s son. “Embroidery is a girly pursuit and a boy practicing this noble craft is laughable.”

“That is not what I said!” Nolvo shouted.

Fëanaro had a tendency to twist Nolofinwë words into worst versions of themselves, I later understood, and that always infuriated him. My father did not tolerate yelling at the table, though, and demanded that Nolvo calm himself. That, too, angered my brother: that he would often be reprimanded when Fëanaro was not.

“This is not what you said,” Fëanaro conceded. “But you did laugh and joke that embroidery is for girls. Your actions,” he explained pompously, “speak for themselves.”

“Is that why you decided to wear this for the evening?” Finwë kept his tone calm and curious. He was used to Fëanaro being weird from time to time.

“I do not see why I should not wear pink. I do not recall any law about which colors should be worn by whom.”

“That’s because everyone knows it is silly and you look ridiculous,” Nolofinwë said sullenly.

“These robes,” Fëanaro threw back before my parents could reprimand Nolofinwë, “were made by Queen Miriel Therindë herself. They are infinitely more beautiful than anything you will ever wear.”

My mother stepped in with all the terrifying authority my father never wielded. She could be cheerful and friendly and nice, but like Manwë, she could turn thunderous in a moment and deliver tongue lashings that stung like hail.

“Thank you for your input, boys.” She gave them the stare and they knew better than to keep squabbling. Mother was not above sending them to their beds without a meal. “Now, girls, what about your day?”

Her smile was golden as Laurelin. Findis talked first because she was older than me. I did not really listen to her because Findis always did the same boring things, so I watched Fëanaro instead. He wasn’t listening either, but Fëanaro never really listened to our stories. Father said that he had too much things in his head and couldn’t help thinking about his studies; Nolvo said he just hated us. It was true that Fëanaro’s robes were pretty. The light pink softened him a bit, as did his flowing hair.

Findis finished speaking about her last lesson, something about the theory of painting that was boring. Why would anyone want to speak for hours about painting when they could paint instead?

“What about you, Lalwendë?”

“When I am older, I will marry Fëanaro!”

You see, that was the kind of things I did when I was little. I would drift in thoughts and when someone talked to me, I would say whatever I had been thinking about. I had just started to think that he did look really, really pretty and would perhaps lend me Miriel’s pretty robes if I were to be his wife.

“Of course not,” Nolofinwë said scornfully. “Brothers and sisters cannot marry.”

“But Fëanaro is my half-brother.”

My father winced, as always when someone mentioned the half factor in our family. That someone was usually Fëanaro, who came to my help with a small smile and helpful tone.

“Actually, there is nothing in the laws that stands in the way of Lalwendë’s request. The law stipulates that no parent may marry their child, no sister may marry with their brother; cousins shall not wed, and neither shall uncles with their niece or aunts with their nephew. You will all conclude that there is no legal obstacle to us getting married.”

I did not understand, then, that my innocent request picked the cords of a sinister instrument. I was too young to understand the emotional burden of Miriel’s death and how it weighted on my family, though I felt the effect.

“Does that mean you will marry me?” I asked. I looked hopeful and I smiled in a way that showed my missing baby tooth.

“I will think about that,” Fëanaro said, and for me that meant yes.

 

***

I did not marry Fëanaro.

Back in the old days, we celebrated weddings as if the world depended on it. They happen only once in our lives, after all, and they are a unique day to remember, like the birth of children. We wove the most beautiful robes, crafted new dazzling jewels; our parents, siblings and best friends attended to welcome the bride and groom into a new family; but Fëanaro did not have a mother to braid his hair and bring Nerdanel into her House, and that meant that the half part of our family was creeping into our happiness. So that duty fell to me, because Finwë wanted my half-brother to share the most important steps of his life with us and because Fëanaro and I got along reasonably well.

My half-brother had not been at home very often after Arafinwë’s birth. He had left us as a smart but sometimes awkward teenager; his voice had deepened during the long years of his apprenticeship and he’d grown into a sensual, self-confident creature. The way he talked about Nerdanel, too, made him sound a little too grown-up for my young self. I had never given serious thoughts to the matter of love, even less to lust.  So I did the first thing I thought of to dispel my embarrassment, and that thing was to slap his behind with the sash of his weddings robes.

“How dare you!” I complained playfully. “Torturing your abandoned betrothed with endless talks about the new love of your life!”

 “Are you jealous?” He asked me. He sounded serious. Now that I am older, I wonder if he was pretending to humor me, but I am not quite sure. Fëanaro could be oddly literal at times.

I laughed. I had outgrown the little girl who believed she could marry him. The honest answer was, really, that I was not. I had heard the rumors: that she was far less beautiful than he, with a too wide mouth and square shoulders; there were others who said he was marrying her because the craftsmen and devout were angry that Finwë had remarried after Miriel’s death. The House of Copper was beloved of Aulë and Yavanna, highly respected by the industrious and pious, and most masters of metalwork and jewelry were either members or friends of the House. 

All of this was true, but no one who had seen them together would claim that they were not deeply in love. I was happy for him.

He wore long robes that trailed on the ground: dark blue silk, black velvet speckled with constellations of diamonds, misty-grey mousseline so thin and fragile it probably wouldn’t last until the end of the day. It was the work of the Lady Capindë, a childhood friend of my half-brother. Like many of our women she was forgotten by lore, but she was talented and some of this talent went into her grandson Tyelperinquar.

“How do I even walk with these?” The train of his robes was thirty feet long, longer than that of any of our mother’s, and the longest in our history, because we all agreed that we had gone too far with this one. Not only was the train far too long and heavy, Capindë and the best embroideresses who still followed Miriel’s style had covered it with a stylized retelling of the March to Valinor. It was beautiful work but the miles of threads, pearls and jewels added to the stiffness and the weight. It had been carefully piled up behind his stool by the seamstresses who had fitted the robes on him and I had to be careful not to step on it as I worked on his hair.  “I think I will need someone to carry it or I will never reach the Gallery.”

“You should ask Aro. He will be delighted.”

“Capindë would never forgive me. You know how she is.”

I knew. Capindë’s mother had been Miriel’s closest friend. She despised Indis and she despised us and Capindë had inherited her scorn like she had inherited her pointy shin and deft fingers.

“Just ask her then, she probably knows what to do with it.”

I finished the braids and reached for the ribbons. The fabric was dark as ink and embroidered with Star-Flowers. Miriel had made these ribbons during her pregnancy and Finwë had kept them for decades. I wonder if she had known that she would not live to make them after the birth of her child. They still felt soft and I suspected she had sung a spell into the fibers.

Fëanaro had crafted several stars with silver and diamonds to compliment his mother’s work. When I wove the ribbons and jewels into Fëanaro’s raven black locks, they looked like a piece of the lightless skies of Araman. It is strange that I should think of such details in my exile: that the sky, at the death of the Trees, looked like Fëanaro’s head on the day of his wedding; but I have few recollections of Fëanaro that are as bittersweet at that moment, and I treasure it as one of my most precious memories. I kissed the top of his head before we went out to join the others. He laughed nervously, breathed deep, and we were ready to go.

All the weddings in my family took part in the Gallery of Mirrors, a four hundred feet long hallway. No child born after the Darkening can picture the magnificence of the Gallery as it was then. The light of the Trees poured from the huge windows on its western wall; the eastern one was covered with mirrors that reflected the Light, so that the gallery looked like both sides were facing Laurelin and Telperion. Their mingling rays danced on crystal chandeliers and paneling gilded with leaves of gold; white marble statues of the Valar looked west; pillars soared until their top, carved in the shape of leaves, merged with the sky painted on the ceiling. 

A small altar of precious wood was set in the middle of the hallway for such occasions. My father and Mahtan waited on either side, my father in silver and gold and Mahtan in highly polished copper that shone like fire. I recognized Fëanaro’s best friend by their side, the silver smith Telperimpar, who would act as witness, though the young couple did not really need any: the Gallery was packed tight with the most important individuals in Tirion, as well as High King Ingwë and King Olwë and their own families. Fëanaro and I came in from the north door, while Nerdanel and her sister arrived from the south; we would walk slowly and meet in the middle, where they would exchange rings and vows.

I was overwhelmed. I knew these people, but there were many of them. I was Finwë’s fourth child and second daughter, and still very young; never before had I been the center of attention. Not that I was, but any who would look at Fëanaro would see me, and that was terrifying.

We walked into the Light and they gasped.

They gasped because Fëanaro was stunning. He was like a newly cut diamond; he drank the  Light, their love and admiration and reflected it tenfold, with eyes that shone like stars, skin that glowed with joy and hair that returned the silver rays of Telperion with the blueish hues only true raven can achieve. They gasped because he wore the pride of a dozen craftsmen and women and wore it well; he made it look like it was effortless despite the weight and stiffness. They gasped because he walked as if Arda was his; as if the ribbons and stars I wove were Varda’s crown.

They gasped because Nerdanel’s attire was no less incredible than his. She was a living flame of orange and red hues, of gold that called for Laurelin’s attention; she was the eldest maiden of the House of Copper and she was as good as her prince. Her train was shorter than Fëanaro’s, but it was covered in scales of gold, copper and bronze. A corset of cut-through gold on crimson velvet climbed up her bust to become a high collar, etched and inlaid with rubies; her sister had pulled her hair up with  elaborate combs. Her lips were painted with gold.

Of the ceremony, I remember vows of eternal love, warm velvet in my brother’s voice and smiles that inflamed my father’s eyes with pride; I also remember the awkward moment when Miriel should have stepped forward to welcome Nerdanel as a daughter. I was afraid to be inaudible and was too loud instead, and I named her my sister; then Nerdanel’s sister Sarnië did the same with Fëanaro, and I think that, prior the Darkening, there weren’t a lot of couples who deviated from the tradition of mothers welcoming their in-laws in their families.

Of what followed, I remember the little things that will never be in the books: Nerdanel’s hilarity when we discovered Fëanaro’s train was too voluminous to fit into the carriage they were supposed to ride in to tour the city and Capindë looked like she was going to die when Fëanaro had to fold her chef d’oeuvre on the bench so he could sit on it; Finwë, Olwë and Ingwë joking in their oldest elvish so that none of us could understand what was probably a very dirty joke, and then laughing so hard Ingwë knocked down a full glass of red wine on my father’s chest, where it stayed until the end of the evening like a great flower of blood. I danced with Fëanaro and Nerdanel danced with my father; at some point I think I danced with her and she stepped on my foot. I remember her arm wrestling down a silly courtier and then flexing the muscles of her thick arms. She was drunk enough to pick her husband from the ground and pretend she was carrying him bridal style to their chambers, only to protest after three steps that he ate too much and was too heavy to be carried anywhere.

I remember the morning after, when I brought them breakfast. Fëanaro hadn’t undone his hair before he went to bed, and his head was a mess of ribbons and jewelry; there was a star hanging down his neck, caught in a loose strand of hair; he ate with ravenous hunger while I untangled the sorry mess. At some point Nerdanel shouted from the bathroom that the green marks left by her collar wouldn’t go, so Fëanaro waved me off and went to help her scrub it away.

They spent one week in a secluded villa outside Tirion before we left for one great tour of Valinor with our father. The Eldar had spread north and south of Tirion, and there were many of us who now lived far away from the main cities. Fëanaro’s wedding was an excuse to renew their bonds with the royal family; his one-year trip was a showcase of Noldorin craftsmanship. We left Tirion with a huge amount of luggage: tokens and chef-d’oeuvre from every craftsmen in Tirion, each more magnificent than the other. It was everything Fëanaro hated: endless parades, endless ceremonies of him being displayed like a bejeweled peacock. My father and my brothers could do this well, even enjoyed it, but it was torture to my half-brother. He would make sketches and take notes between ceremonies, in the little free moments when someone would fix his hair or before he went to sleep, but he could neither work nor study. The lack of intellectual pursuits gnawed at him; he fidgeted and grew quick to anger, prone to anxiety and dark moods.

Nonetheless, Fëanaro was a prince; he was born to belong to our people and the death of his mother forbade him from escaping his rank. My father wanted to reaffirm that he was still his heir despite being the result of a flawed marriage. It was a torture Fëanaro inflicted willingly upon himself to prove that he was the High Prince he believed we all wanted.

My siblings and I would take turns accompanying them, mostly Findis and I because Nolofinwë grated on Fëanaro’s nerves and Arafinwë was too young. I was a cheerful girl but my cheeks ached from smiling at the end of the day; I loved to practice the Staff Dance of the Vanyar, but I came to loathe it because I performed the same choreography over and over and over again and I liked to dance for myself rather than for a public.

“I don’t want to be a princess anymore,” I complained once. We were visiting one of the southern settlement and I sneaked into Nerdanel and Fëanaro’s carbet, because the houses here were just roofs on carved, wooden pillars, so I could guess right away if I was intruding on something too wicked for my eyes. He never allowed us into his apartments in Tirion, but Nerdanel missed her two sisters and he wanted to indulge her. “Being a princess sucks butts.”

Fëanaro glared. I laughed because the only ones in my family who ever mastered this specific stare are my mother, Nolofinwë and Fëanaro. Furthermore, he was lying on his back, his head on Nerdanel’s belly, and it is hard to be scared when you are looking down on someone. He could glare all he wanted; I knew Nerdanel kept whispering vulgarities in his ears, especially in public but not loud enough to be heard. I wanted to be just like her.

“We were born with a duty to rule. If you dislike your rank so much, be thankful that you were born in fourth position. Less will be expected of you.”

“Do you sometimes wish you weren’t the eldest?”

He sighed and looked away, focusing on an enormous bee buzzing in the pink laurel bush outside the carbet. For a long time he said nothing and I thought he would never answer me.

“Do you want to hear a secret?”

“If you tell her a secret, Narya, I fear it won’t stay a secret for much longer,” Nerdanel said fondly. I denied indignantly. It was true I was a blabbermouth, but I could keep secrets if they were important enough and said so with much conviction. “Alright, alright. I think Lalwendë wants to know the big secret.”

Fëanaro’s silver eyes focused back on me. I felt like an onion being peeled from its layers until he could feel confident enough that I wouldn’t betray him.

“When I was Ingoldo’s age,” he said, using Arafinwë’s mother-name, “I had an imaginary friend who was also my older brother. His name was Mirfinwë. He looked a lot like father, he loved being High Prince. He was very smart, reliable and steadfast. He was born in Cuivienen and he could tell a lot of amazing stories about the March.” Finwë talked very little about the March. Stereotyped tales were available but it was like every single person who came from Cuivienen was unwilling to expand on them. I was not surprised that Fëanaro had been frustrated as a child. “He did all the tedious work and I dreamt of spending all my time studying and making things.”

It is funny when I think about it now. Fëanaro’s imaginary older brother was everything Nolofinwë became, everything he hated in his little brother. But Mirfinwë was not a son of Indis, and Miriel was not dead in his childhood fantasies.

 

***

“I am going to teach the art of Lembas cooking to Lalwendë. I could teach you with her, if you want.”

My mother’s offer to Nerdanel had been born out of kindness, but it awakened the dread half factor all over again. We had returned from the Grand Tour a week ago. Nolofinwë and Fëanaro were already at each other’s throats, because Nolvo, who was in his late teen, had liked to be the resident Prince and resented his elder’s return, while Fëanaro was too worn to be anything but nerves and exasperation.

The art of Lembas cooking was taught to the Three Queens by Yavanna herself when my people arrived in Valinor. Queen Alcarië, my aunt, had passed her knowledge to her nieces because Ingwë had no daughters, and then to Findis during one of my mother’s visit to Valmar. What was left unsaid is that Fëanaro’s wife should have learnt from Miriel and, as always, he was not pleased to picture my mother in her stead.

“My deepest thanks for your kindness, Indis,” Nerdanel said. Her hand found her husband’s and squeezed it slightly. “But I fear that would be lost on me. I cook very good coal, but I fear edible food is not my strong suit!”

Nolofinwë was watching Fëanaro, waiting for our eldest to say something rude so he could go for the throat. Nerdanel and Indis chuckled. It sounded very forced. I thought that I would have liked to learn with Nerdanel, who I liked more than Findis, but Nerdanel’s polite refusal on Fëanaro’s behalf silenced me.

Learning with my mother was pleasant. I had not seen her in a year and hadn’t told everything I could of our trip; since I am (as Nerdanel said) a blabbermouth, I had plenty to say, though I kept for myself the most personal tidbits. I filled her lessons with tales of the Grand Tour. I liked that I had these intimates moments with her, and I discovered I liked cooking, the physical strength it took to work the dough into a cohesive bump that could feed dozens.

And I kept thinking about Fëanaro.

A week after the beginning of my lessons, I rose from my bed in the middle of the night. I expected to find him asleep with his wife, but a faint ray of light framing the door of his chambers betrayed that he was not. He was wearing nightclothes but seemed very much awake. He had been sorting his notes on the development of Noldorin quenya in the mixed-communities of the South, which was apparently as fascinating to him as it was boring to me.

“Do you want to learn how to cook Lembas?”

“What I want is irrelevant. Only women bake Lembas.”

“Says who?” I asked playfully. “Is there a law that forbids me to teach you?”

There is none, and soon we were sneaking into the kitchens like thieves to burry our hands in flour.