In-Betweens by Elleth

Chapter 1

This particular chapter started out as a daily drabble ("Nonage" as found in "Many Journeys"), but quickly decided it wanted to be more. And since it fit well with the prompt for "Beginnings", I decided to take up that idea and work with it...

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She could feel those bright eyes again.

On her red hair, on the skin of her neck, steadily from her shoulders down the middle of her back, the one place a touch could make her shriek with laughter (a weakness her siblings exploited with delight), or shudder with a sensation she yet refused to name. That way it lacked what little reality he had not already bestowed.

She fled, no, moved outside into the yard. The forge-door closed, and she breathed more easily.

Then... a quick, tentative touch (bright like his eyes) on the edge of her mind.

Her breath hitched, and it was not the sound of the door that had her turn around. She simply did.

He stood there. Tall and all wiry strength, more adult than youth already, at forty-three – almost, her artist's eye perceived – if not for the gangly limbs that could deceive those who gave him no more than just a passing glance. ('Is that possible?' she wondered somewhere hidden, not-spoken-aloud in the back of her mind. 'To give him less than a long and careful look?') Yet – she had seen him wield her father's sledgehammer, and he could outrun all other apprentices with ease when they were sent outside after the lessons. She had watched from her window day after day, and once or twice she swore that he looked back at her.

With those bright eyes.

They swept over her again now, as he stood pressed against the door, a fist half-clenched against the sooty leather apron for protection in the forge.

“Istarnië,” he said. “I made a gift for you,” and stretched out that hand. From his palm, a star-shaped jewel shone at her. Clear, tiny and radiant, a what – a grey and copper fire? – caught within. “So you know what I see.”

Of course she took it, her fingers not-quite touching his. And of course, she thought, it was no surprise that it was so bright, for through those bright eyes all things must shine with special radiance, even her.

 

All the more surprised – and scared - she was to see, not much later, another of his works. A sceptre for King Manwë, in gold and white and blue, and beautiful, but nowhere near as blazing as her star.

Chapter 2

Warning: Chapter contains OCs.

A Talk among siblings, and a realization. Or is it?

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“It was not the sound of the door that had me turn around. I simply did,” Istarnië explained that evening, the jewel in her clenched hand like a little, sharp-edged lamp against her skin. “It had nothing whatsoever to do with him. Of course not,” she insisted, sitting cross-legged on her bed in her supposedly righteous annoyance.

Olosto, her brother and her confidante, newly betrothed and familiar with the matters of first love, listened and smiled kindly. “Of course not. You also turn around for mother, for father, or me, or your sisters, and have always done since you were young. Well, are young.”

She laughed and made to throw her pillow – and felt her cheeks heat in mid-movement when his suggestion was fully understood.

“Olosto!” Still a girl, she clutched the pillow to her now and buried her face in it, to stifle – what? giggles or sobs, or both? - in the feathers. “You are not serious!”

“Very serious, little sister. If you can still be careful - be, lest you end up burned.”

“Do you think that I am...” Her eyes, peeking up, were huge with half-guessed wonder and half-obvious truth.

“Yes.”

The jewel's edges dug painfully into her hand. In her surprise she dropped it; the stone bounced off the mattress to the floor where her little sister sat and played. Always-eager little fingers groped for the speck of light, lesser now in the half-dark of the room, but Istarnië snatched it first, and held it almost jealously.

“What's that, Istyë? What d'you have there?” Rainië clambered up onto the bed and into her sister's lap, to get a closer look. Istarnië pulled her hand away.

“A gift,” she said, and closed her fingers around it again, even though one tip did prick her skin.

“From him?” Olosto regarded her sternly, her father's very frown upon his face. “Show me the stone, Istarnië, please?” With a sigh she handed it over, drop of blood and all, and saw Olosto frown again. “His gifts are two-edged, Istyë, even meant in goodwill. He has had a strange fate already. Be careful of him and his affections.”

But she was still young and childish and sometimes stubborn, and merely scoffed at him, once more clinging to the pillow.

“He? Like me? Never!”

But secretly... she thought of his bright eyes – and wondered.

---

Chapter End Notes

While writing this at first I found it hard to believe how childish Nerdanel acted... Fëanor, as stated in the previous chapter, is forty-three - and my Nerdanel has always been younger than her husband by a few years - which might put her at thirty-nine or forty - at that age, I think, she is still allowed to act like she did.

A note on the names:

Olosto: An epessë, essentially meaning (or supposed to mean) "dreamer" - he says it refers to his habit to daydream when he was a child.

Rainië: Short for her father-name Rainissë, "peace-woman". The elder of Nerdanel's younger sisters.

Istyë: Both based on Quenya "istya", meaning "knowledge", and used as an abbreviation of "Istarnië".

Many thanks to the Ardalambion Quenya wordlist.

Chapter 3

The arrival of a certain prince in the house of Mahtan. (We're deviating from the chronological order now. Sorry.)

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Among the tittering and the giggling of the women of the household, she stood beside her mother silent and unimpressed. The son of the King Finwë was due to arrive to be apprenticed to her father. So? Here, his rank would count little, and his hands would be as dirty as everyone's. She said so.

"They say he is incredibly handsome!" one of the servants' girls laughed in reply. She was of an age with Istarnië and far more beautiful, and convinced that prince Fëanáro would notice her. Istarnië merely rolled her eyes and looked along the road across the plain. A single horse was approaching, the rider tall and straight in the saddle, and with eyes bright like stars should be.

 

It was him.

She knew him.

They had met before.

Inwardly, she smiled as she remembered that first journey she had been allowed to take alone. She had wandered far and had rested beside a lake, with Telperion waning far behind her when he appeared... whence, she did not know, but she had turned around to see him standing on the shore. There had been much talk and laughter that night, and when Laurelin was coming to full bloom they considered each other friends, even though he did not say his name.

 

The clatter of hooves on cobblestones had her raise her head, heart treacherously going thump thump thump and quicker than it should - and there he was and dismounted even as her father walked forward to greet him. The servant girl uttered a tiny squeak, loud enough for him to hear and raise an eyebrow and glance over.

When his bright eyes lit upon her, his gaze lingered far longer than it should.

Or did it?

After all, they were friends.

Chapter 4

Another episode from the lives of Fëanor and Nerdanel. For the prompt "Insides" at fanfic100 - a discussion of ósanwë-kenta.

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"Of course you can do it," she had coaxed despite the strange look he gave her. On their backs in the meadow behind the house, Istarnië and Fëanáro stared at each other. The grass was long and golden, Yavanna had ordained that harvest should start soon.

"I could if I wanted to," he stated almost gruffly. "Words are sufficient for most of what I have to say. I do not need to do it. What use do you have for this secrecy, Istarnië?"

"There may be things that you will not wish others to know, perhaps," she replied evenly and without a flutter of her voice. It was her heart that was treacherous and fluttery. "And there are other uses that you will discover on your own."

"I know them already. What use are they to you?"

"Must all things have a use and reason? Although to ask you that question, I might as well answer it myself..." She surprised herself with a long-suffering sigh and laughter. Made bold by his mock-outraged look (she knew him that well already; although a scowl was on his face, his eyes did not show anger), she continued in a teasing tone. "Where is your fabled curiosity, Fëanáro? Have you left it in the workshop to continue work without you?"

"Indeed it is busy elsewhere." As he spoke, there was a touch, no, what - a caress? - on her mind, abruptly withdrawn as she looked to him. His eyes were on the star-jewel she now wore as a pendant.

"With me?" 

A heartbeat, a pause. An age.

"Yes."

"Why the secrecy?" There was wonder in her voice now. "Can you not say it?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but from across the field the bell called the students back to work. He rose and walked away, but his reply came with another brush to her mind, and a glance of bright eyes back at her. No words this time, but a feeling, an idea, a message:

Some things are obvious.

She was left baffled – he had given her the stone, and watched her even as she had watched him. More, perhaps. Touched her mind in those unguarded, open moments. Their talks revolved around their work, and left a space in the middle, like the eye of a storm, that by unspoken agreement they did not touch. Today she had tried, but the conclusion was no different from the one she had reached before... surely he was not in love with her?

Istarnië dared not hope.

---

Chapter End Notes

Ósanwë-kenta - in his essay on the subject, Tolkien uses the term "communication of thought". In theory, minds have to be "open" to be able to receive another's "transmission" as Nerdanel did in this story (and previously) - make of that what you will; I think the idea speaks for itself.

Once again, many thanks to Lyra for reading over those two new chapters.

Chapter 5

For Rhapsody, who asked for 'my Nerdanel', and for the prompt 'Outsides' at the Fanfic 100 challenge. The line 'I am never wise around you' originated during Furius' and my LF/N chat sessions long ago, and is used with permission.

This chapter takes place not so long after 'Insides'. 

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Her bare feet made odd sounds on the kitchen tiles. Drawing comfort from the familiar game she had played as a child, Istarnië stepped over the sand-coloured tiles carefully, setting her feet only on the brown and red ones, and so walked up to the water basin. Her cheeks still burned, and her heart was thumping loudly in her chest. The pump screeched, metal upon metal, as she worked it with more force than necessary, and she sucked in a sharp breath – surely she had woken all the house, surely - she was worrying needlessly.

She splashed two handfuls of water on her skin and hoped the blush would recede. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the corridor mirror, her skin was reddened from the tips of her ears across her cheeks and neck, and even down beneath the high neckline of her nightgown. She threw another handful of water into her face. Tendrils of hair stuck to her skin, and cold droplets ran into the fabric of her shift. Some dripped from her hands and splattered on the floor. She was drawing a fourth handful when arms snaked around her waist, pulling her close – closer than she would have liked - and a hand dropped over her mouth to stifle a shriek that did not come. He knew she was easily startled, but must have forgotten that it never happened with him anymore, as little as her family could startle her. She could always tell they were there. There was nothing to fear from either them or him.

"It is I." She could hear the trepidation in his voice as his breath ghosted over the wet skin of her cheek, and nodded mutely. Of course it was him, who else would sneak into the kitchen after her so late into Telperion's hours? The hand slipped from her mouth, but not without a caress of fingers across her lips – or perhaps she was imagining that. Istarnië shivered and pushed away, but not without reach of his arms. The water kept dripping from her cupped hands. There was a puddle on the floor.

"Fëanáro. What are you doing here?"
"I thought you stood by my door. Is it not my right to ask that question first?"
"I was going to bed and heard my name, and thought you called me. I waited until you were asking me to enter... but when I looked in, you seemed asleep." She twisted around to look at him, and saw that his eyes were wide and very bright in the darkness.
"I dreamt of you, and woke in time to see you. I thought I had dreamt you up, at first."
"You are speaking nonsense, why should you dream of me?" Of course, the only reason that seemed logical was the one that had driven her into the kitchen in the first place. She felt the blush deepen. Surely she must look like a beetroot by now.
"Can you not guess, Istarnië? Where is the wisdom you were named for?"
"I am not so wise. It was my father's wish that I should be called so, it is not my essë tercenyë, and you know that, Fëanáro. Do not mock me!" The words came out sharper than intended.

Water ran from her cupped hands to the floor and swelled the puddle. She would have to clean up.

Fëanáro said nothing, but he stared at her without blinking. Istarnië stared at the floor. Eventually he twisted away and stalked off, his steps near-noiseless on the tiled floor. He paused just out of the kitchen door.
"I depart come morning. My father summoned me," he said, and halted again after a few steps, before the flight of stairs leading to the upstairs rooms." Clothes must be made for his wedding, preparations must be made. If this is your farewell, I was deceived in you."
"You never said what you expected of me, and now you blame me for not knowing your mind? I am never wise around you, Fëanáro, and if you cannot guess that reason, then you are a sad fool indeed. Why did you not say all this at dinner last night?"

Her hands were empty now, the water had completely pooled on the floor, but Istarnië still held them cupped, until his eyes lit on them. She reached for a kitchen towel and passed it over her face, then turned back to him, sleep-tousled and bright-eyed still. He bit his lips.

"It is only for the preparations of the wedding, and the festivities, and then you will return, will you not? And I will be there – at the ball. My family, we were invited." She was unsure if he had even heard, soft as her words had been. He barely shrugged of his shoulders. "If she who they would have me call her mother permits my return – or our meeting."

Then he was gone, stomping up to his room. Istarnië remained in the dark kitchen, the towel in her hand, and stared at the door and spot where he had stood. Through the western window, a soft glow of gold rose, not yet as as strong as the silver that washed over the landscape.

With a sigh she tossed the towel down to dry the puddle, and decided to try again for sleep, walking across sandy-coloured and red and brown tiles to the stairs and up. His chamber was empty when she passed it, instead she found Fëanáro sitting on her bed in the dark. Her jewel was in his hands so that the light illumined his face and little else. She sat down beside him, and closed his left hand around it. Her anger evaporated. "Take it as a reminder."

His right strayed to her neck where the pendant usually lay, and she allowed the touch. "I have worn it for a long while now," she said. "Perhaps it is time to give it back."
When he opened his hand again, one tip of the jewel was stained red, and a smear of blood was on his palm.

"Very well," he said eventually, and leaned close to bury his nose in her hair and press his lips to her temple. A sliver of golden light slipped through a crack in the curtains from outside. Istarnië closed her eyes.