Golden Days by Lyra

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Chapter 1

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It was a splendid day when I first met him.

 

Of course in that time every day was splendid, one only preferable to another by what we did to fill it. The days were golden and the nights silver; there were no storms, no cold weather, even the rain fell only in small measure, as a pleasant diversion from the day's heat.

There was no rain on that day.

 

I was young then, although I did not feel young: On the brink of adulthood, we are all convinced of our age, our maturity. Our store of experience feels so rich and full that the pleasures of everyday life lose their flavour – have we not seen it all before?

At least I felt that way. I longed for adventure, the kind that my ordinary life could not provide. Not even the wonders of Tirion, its balls and amusements, could excite me, and my craft, which had so far never failed to satisfy me, was suddenly bereft of joys. My parents noticed; when I said that I might like to go for an extended hike into the empty wilds of Aman, they understood. A few days later, laden with provisions, blankets, a water-skin, a small frying pan, knife, spoon and bowl, tinderbox and a dozen other useful things – and my unavoidable sketchbook and drawing utensils – I set off.

 

My journey was uneventful, but I enjoyed the time spent by myself. My eyes, tired of the ordered life in our cities, were delighted by the wild, untamed lands; often I would spend an entire day sitting on some smooth rock, drawing the landscape or some particularly scenic tree or rock formation; when I sat still long enough, I could sketch small birds and hares and foxes without them noticing me. I slept when I felt tired, and ate when I felt hungry. The light of the trees was not as brilliant here as it was in the heart of Aman, but still it shone, and still it was warm. Sometimes I walked briskly for the sheer joy of moving, of feeling my heart pump faster, my muscles tensing and easing. Sometimes I walked slowly; I did, after all, not need to rush. I did not count the days, and so I did not know how many days I had been walking when I found the rabbit.

 

It had been shot. A long shaft stuck from his upper back, fletched with feathers of dark red and freckled light brown. The rabbit was dead, and must have been for a few hours: the blood on its fur had already congealed and turned black, and flies were crawling over it. This surprised me; no hunter would shoot a rabbit and then leave it to rot, nor would anybody abandon a perfectly good arrow. Of course it occasionally happened during a hunt that an arrow did not kill the prey, and it would run off and away until it finally died of the wound and could be found by the archer. But the arrow was embedded deep between the rabbit's shoulders: Impossible that it had run far away after the shot. The hunter could not have been far off when the animal had died. It was not hidden by shrubbery, nor was there a precipice it might have fallen down from; it lay at the foot of a grassy hill, perfectly in the open. Now it threatened to spoil in the heat of the day. It made no sense.

"A mystery," I thought to myself, feeling the tingle in my stomach that had accompanied me through childhood games when we had played at the Great March, or snuck up on our parents to spy on their (usually boring) business. I looked around; there were some bushes ahead where a hunter might have hidden, and I walked towards them, determined to find out what had happened. Maybe the archer had fallen asleep? I laughed at the absurdity of the thought, but I had no better idea.

 

But I did indeed find the hunter when I walked around the bush. He was on one knee, the other leg having disappeared in a hole in the ground, and his back was bent with exhaustion; but he looked up when he heard my footsteps, and cursed viciously. I winced. "Good gracious," he said then, in a strained voice, "but I am glad to meet a sentient creature here. Come, help me get my leg out of this damned hole; it's quite firmly stuck. Be careful; the whole hill is tunnelled under. That accursed rabbit is certainly having its revenge." His face was dirty, smeared with sweat and earth and blood; his fingers, too, were smeared brown and red. "I tried to dig myself out of here," he explained, seeing my terrified look, "but the earth is too hard, it hasn't rained in a while; I only tore my skin."

"Is there a river or lake nearby?" I asked, my terror turning into pity. "I could fetch water, to soften the ground and make the digging easier."

"There is a pond about a hundred paces over there," he pointed towards a copse of trees, "and a nice clear lake another two hundred paces from there to the south, but the pond water should suffice for this. Have you a water-skin?"

"I do."

"Then give me to drink before you go." He did not ask, neither in word nor in tone of voice; he commanded. But I did not blame him for it; it must be very unpleasant to be stuck with your foot in a rabbit-hole, the more so when you were stuck for hours in the heat of mid-day. I let him drink, and then emptied the remaining water onto the hard earth. Then I left for the pond. I must admit that I did not hurry as much as I should have; I had much to think about. I had come to enjoy being alone in the past days; the hunter was unwelcome company. I hoped that he was not too gravely injured, so I did not have to look after him or, worse, carry him back home. Yes, such selfish thoughts went through my head while I slowly made my way to the pond, and filled the water-skin, taking care not to let any waterweed slip inside.

 

"You took your time," the hunter observed, sounding somewhat testy. I shrugged, pouring the water on the ground around his leg. "Perhaps you walk faster than I do," I quipped; he snorted in reply.

When the ground was thoroughly soaked, I tried to help him dig; but the earth was still baked hard, and refused to give way. "If you unstring my bow, you could try digging with it," he suggested, and I complied, although I felt sorry to misuse the bow so: It was beautifully crafted from some light wood, probably hazel, with inlays of gold and dark wood. I commented on it, but he only snorted again. "Still, it is only a tool," he said. "If it cannot help to get me out of here, what good is in the beauty? And if it breaks, I can make a new one. Just dig."

It did help – at any rate, I managed to move some earth without working my hands as raw as his. He soon gave up trying to help me, instead holding his hands out of the way. I glanced at him sideways. With the smeared dirt on his face, and his black hair tied back by a simple lace, lanky streaks hanging down his shoulders, he looked like an illustration of the Avari in our history books, but his clothing did not fit the picture; it was fairly simple, but the materials, cuts and colours were typical of our people. The face, what little of it could be seen underneath the dirt, did not feature the typical soft roundness I – an avid reader – had come to associate with Avarin faces. In fact, the line of his jaw, set in stubborn determination, was oddly familiar, although I could not place it. And he was young, I realised, as young as I (though doubtlessly more childish, as boys usually are).

At some point he became aware that I was studying him, and he returned my gaze with a somewhat scornful look in his eyes, which were grey and piercing. "Yes, tiring work, is it not?" he said with a slight sneer. "Damned be that foolish rabbit."

"You killed it," I said sternly, "one should think that there is no need to curse it on top of that."

He looked at me in surprise, and then laughed: A somewhat high-pitched laugh, betraying his exhaustion, although he was holding up well. "It's not going to harm the beast now," he said.

"In that case your cursing is entirely pointless, and you can as well save your breath."

 

He gave me an amused stare, but did not reply; and for a while I kept digging in silence. Finally the hole was widened enough for him to pull his leg out. He groaned then, his composure slipping for a moment; but the leg carried his weight, although he walked with a limp. From beneath the bush, he pulled out his luggage and a dark cloak. "Well, I am filthy," he said. "I think I'll make for the lake, and take a bath. Is that rabbit" - his eyes gleamed as he looked at me, as if curious whether I would notice that he did not curse this time – "still good for something?" He walked to where the animal had fallen without waiting for my reply and grimaced at the buzzing flies. "See and remember, Nerdanel; there is decay even in the Undying Lands," he said. I blinked. Admittedly it was not too hard to guess my name - while my hair did not have the glaring red colour of my father's hair, it did have a distinctive reddish hue; that, and my famous plainness, must have been a giveaway. "I am afraid that you have the advantage, stranger," I said. "Will you tell me who you are?"

The eyebrows went up. "You do not know me?" he asked in an incredulous tone of voice. I had to stifle a laugh. Boys! I thought. They always think they are the centre of everybody's attention, that everybody knows who they are. It is as though they do not know how many young men there are in the world. Of course I also knew that there were women enough who supported this stupid notion; every young man who was not stricken with features even less attractive than mine was certain to have a throng of admiring young ladies, ready to blush and giggle when he passed them, to sigh dramatically, to compete for the right to begin a dance with him. Well, if he thought I was one of those girls, he was sadly mistaken. I told him so. "No, I don't. I don't have time to remember the face of every young man I ever passed on the street; there are so many of them, and so much I have to keep in my mind."

I don't know what I had expected – confusion, perhaps, or perhaps a dramatic huff – but instead he laughed, loudly. He had a nice enough voice, now that he was not cursing rabbits, I noticed. "I am afraid I will keep the advantage, then" he said, smirking; and I was feeling foolish again – a fate that I had intended for him. "I must insist to know your name," I said, sounding petulant to my own ears. "Otherwise I shall have to call you Stranger."

"Well, call me Stranger then," he grinned. "Very well then," I said, pursing my lips to show my disapproval. "Stranger you shall be."

 

He had meanwhile taken up the corpse and removed his arrow, wiping it on his tunic before returning it to his quiver, then sniffed at the rabbit. "Not exactly fresh," he said with another grimace, "but if I cook it well, it should do. May I invite you for supper, in return for the rescue?"

I raised my eyebrows and tried to ignore the foolish tingle in my stomach, replying more scornfully than necessary. "And what an invitation that will be, to a feast on almost-spoiled rabbit." He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. "As you wish. Although I know where to find wild onions on the way to the lake, and I have apples in my bag; I could turn it into a feast yet."

My traitorous stomach chose this moment to rumble loudly, and he laughed. "Maybe you will think about it. I am off to the lake." He picked up his bow, the once-polished wood scratched and muddied; and leaning on it as onto a walking-stick, he marched off without another word. I blinked, and found myself hurrying after him almost before I knew what I was doing. "Are you certain that you will be all right?" I asked, feeling a little silly. He glanced at me with an expression of amusement. "I suspect so," he said drily. "I seem to be, so far." I felt my cheeks grow warm with embarassment. "I'll stay with you for the time being, just to make sure," I said, lamely, and then fell silent, not knowing what else to say. He walked fast despite the limp, which gradually grew better as he marched, so at least I could pretend to focus on keeping up with him. He only stopped twice, to dig out some onions and to gather some beechnuts; then he walked on relentlessly. I noticed one or two scenic views I would have liked to stop and draw, but I admit that I was fascinated by the stranger at that point; and so I kept walking beside him until we reached the lake, and he dropped rabbit, pack and bow. He washed his hands meticulously; I winced more than he while he scrubbed the sore tips of his fingers. Next he built a small fire, and prepared a spit to roast the rabbit. I watched awkwardly, torn between the feeling that I should help him, and my still-persistent resentment against this intruder upon my loneliness. I told myself that I was being unfair; I could simply have left, for he obviously managed quite well for himself, and in truth I did not know why I was staying at all. It was not, at any rate, his fault. "Can I help somehow?" I said in an attempt to make up for my grim silence.

He looked up from the rabbit which he had begun to skin and gut and grinned, flashing teeth that were surprisingly white in his still dirt-smeared face. "I invited you, so it would be highly improper if I made you do the work." He rose and gave a courtly bow, very elegantly; in these unsophisticated surroundings it looked absurd. I was certain he was mocking me, and glared. "Keeping your name secret from me is improper as well, and yet you do," I said. He simply laughed and proceeded to cut apples and onions, and the rabbit's heart and liver, into small pieces, stuffing the skinned animal with the mixture. I pursed my lips.

 

When the rabbit was roasting over the fire, he cleaned his hands again, less meticulously this time. "I'll finally take that bath," he said, already divesting himself of his clothing. "The rabbit should be fine for the next moments, but perhaps you can turn it, should it start burning."

"I certainly can, Stranger," I said. He grinned again, getting rid of the last hindering garments, and marched down to the lake. I fixed my attention on the rabbit, but I couldn't help sneaking a glance at his naked body, my eyes drawn automatically to the moving shape, rather more attractive than the skewered rabbit on the spit. The hunter was very nicely proportioned, and underneath his dirty skin there were strong, firm muscles that spoke of regular physical exercise; I remember thinking that I would not mind making a statue in his image. Where his skin wasn't smeared with dirt, it was fair and smooth, except for the left leg, which sported a pattern of ugly dark bruises. But he did not limp anymore; instead, he strode to the water's edge gracefully, waded in until the water reached his hips, and jumped forward. He swam and dived for a good while. The rabbit was beginning to give off an appetizing smell, and I turned the spit so both sides would get cooked well. I thought about getting my sketchbook, but he was moving too much and too fast, flinging himself forward in one spot, resurfacing in a different spot altogether. I shook my head, angry and amused by myself at the same time.

 

Eventually he had enough. I was hard put to pretend that my focus was fixed firmly on the meal as he left the water, rather than admiring the ease and grace of his movements. He was entirely unashamed of parading his naked shape in front of a stranger; and indeed, what should he have been ashamed of, close to the beauty ideals of our people as he was? I snuck a glance at him, my gaze magically drawn to his midsection. Very well-shaped also, I couldn't help thinking, and then turned my head away. My cheeks grew warm again; I hoped that the blush wasn't as obvious as it felt. I busied myself with the fire, shifting embers and adding fresh wood. I had hoped that he would get dressed quickly so I could look at him without danger of blushing again; but he did not do me the favour, instead picking up his worn, muddied clothing and washing it. Really it was a sensible thing to do; this way his skin and hair had time to dry before he dressed again, and the clothing would be able to dry while we ate and rested; but it was a challenge not to stare. When he knelt by the lakeside, bending over to rub the dirt from his breeches, he allowed me a very nice view of his firm backside. My hands moved involuntarily as if to memorise the shape; I had to ball them into fists to control them. I hoped that he would not feel my stare or turn around; just in case I composed my face in an expression of bored disdain. If only his pack contained a set of spare clothing; I knew I would make a fool of myself if he remained like that, naked and... and... pretty until his breeches and tunic were dry.

 

He did have spare clothing with him, thankfully; but I made a fool of myself anyway. When he came to sit beside the fire again, I looked at his face, and my heart missed a beat. It was impossible not to recognise him now; he must think me an idiot. I certainly felt like an idiot. Some part of my mind kept protesting that it was not my fault; with dirt on his face, and wearing simple workman's clothing, how should I have recognised the King's son? I only knew him with impeccably braided hair, adorned with jewels, robed in silk brocades. It was his own fault, really! But that half could not win against the part of me that told me to feel guilty.

I am sure my eyes widened in shock, and my face went white for a change; but he did not seem to notice. "Now this is better," he just said, leaning back against the grassy slope. "And I see our meal is almost ready as well. I brought only one bowl, I'm afraid, but I assure you I cleaned it well after breakfast, so you can use it without fear." I set my jaw, calling myself to order. "I have my own," I said, "so you can keep yours." My voice sounded inappropriately snippy, I realised in dismay. He noticed it too, and frowned. "Fine by me," he said, his own voice cooler now as well. I groaned inwardly. Now he must be convinced that I was intent on insulting him. I looked away yet again and rummaged through my bag for the dishes. My hands fell upon the bread my mother had packed for me, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and I thought of trying for a reconciliation. "Don't you think some bread would go well with the rabbit?" I asked. He did not react favourably. "I do not eat our bread," he said gruffly, lips pursed and brow contracted. I winced. Of course not. "I brought some," I said shily. "The lady Yavanna made it; you can share it if you want."

He studied me for a moment, then, and finally smiled. "Thank you; I will gladly do that."

 

The rabbit was good after all, the juicy stuffing having taken the dryness out of the meat, and the earthy taste of rabbit softened by the apples' sweetness. We ate in silence until I remembered my manners; but when I praised the meal, he merely shrugged. "I would have added pepper, and rosemary," he said, "but I didn't find any around here."

"Well, if you want such additional luxuries, I suppose you should have stayed in Tirion," I said before I could stop myself; then I bit my tongue. He stared at me again – how strange it was to see his face so close to mine, to have him look at me for so long! For although we had doubtlessly encountered each other before, at the balls or market-fairs of Tirion, I must admit that I had never paid more attention than necessary to him; and certainly he had never paid attention to me. It was hard not to turn my face from his bright-eyed stare, but I did not want him to notice my embarrassment. "On second thought, it isn't that bad," he said with  a slight sneer, and finally took his eyes off my face, leaving me confused again. I returned my attention to the food, and again silence fell between us. When the rabbit had all but disappeared, he broke it. "You mentioned bread, earlier."

I had forgotten about that, and felt embarrassed yet again as I found the parcel in my bag and unwrapped it, breaking a loaf in two. "Here, my lord," I said meekly. He snorted, but grinned. "But are not rather you my lady?"*

I winced. He still seemed to believe that I did not know who he was. I felt even guiltier and was tempted to look away again, but forced myself to meet his eyes. "No," I said, "I am not. But if you do not wish to be called lord, should I perhaps say—Prince Fëanáro?"

 

He scowled. "I liked it better when you called me Stranger," he replied, and turned away; and I was confused yet again.

"But that is who you are," I said, "is it not?"

"It certainly is."

I frowned. "Then why would you rather be called Stranger? Yours is an honourable name, and you are much admired."

"Yes," he said flatly. "And now you will doubtlessly turn to admiration as well, and I shall have to bear fawning and flattery for the rest of the evening, and all joy shall be gone from this journey."

 

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. "If that is what you're afraid of, my lord, you need not worry. I have no intention of fawning on you or flattering you. I do not doubt that there are ladies enough who are impressed by your title or your looks; let them do the fawning. To me you are merely a clumsy huntsman who kindly shared his meal with me. I know now that you are not injured badly and can get by on your own; tomorrow we shall part ways, and both of us shall enjoy our journey as much as before." I had spoken hotly again; I could not help but feel angry at his assumption that I was as silly as the girls in Tirion. I was not, after all. I was a girl silly enough to insist on insulting the firstborn son of my people's King.

But the King's son smiled instead of being insulted. "All is well then," he said. "And the clumsy huntsman thanks you again for helping him. And for the bread, of course," and he wiped up the remains of fat and juice in his bowl with it. I returned the smile, but I still felt uneasy, and could not shake off that feeling for the rest of the time we spent on the shore of that lake; but I can safely say that I neither fawned nor flattered. We spoke a little more – or rather he spoke, heaping disdain on the councillors and scholars, the craftsmen and dancers of Tirion, while I listened and nodded or tried to defend his victims, ignorant of his attacks. For all I know he slept through most of Telperion's silver hours, although I know that I lay awake for a long time after we had gone to rest.

 

I said that it did not rain on the day that we met, and that is the truth; but we were both woken by rain early the next day. We packed our things hastily and took shelter in the woods, cursing (on his part) and laughing (on mine). "Look," I said, out of breath, when we had reached a huge oak tree whose towering branches kept the rain off, "the Lord Manwë would have taken mercy on the clumsy huntsman, even if I had not come along."

He gave me an odd look while he brushed the wet hair from his face. "But you did come along; why should Manwë still bother to bring the rain?"

I shrugged. "You may not be the only creature in need of water," I said. "He will have his reasons."

He snorted again. He was rather too scornful for my taste. But then I already knew that he was proud, and quick to pass judgement, and I simply ignored it. Soon I would be free to go my own way again, as would he be; the rain, too, would end. I smiled to myself, and glanced at him. He was no longer cursing, but smiling as well, or at least smirk.

We broke our fast on bread and apples; and when the rain ended, we parted.

Our encounter had been friendly, yet I was relieved to take my leave. I walked out of the forest and into the dripping world cheerfully, delighted by the glitter of Treelight on the raindrops on grass and leaves. The land was wide, and mine to discover; and if I at last should grow tired of it, I would have at least one amazing story to tell at home.

 

 

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

*The Quenya word for lady, massanië, literaly means "bread-giver". This is consistent with the etymology of the English words lord and lady, which are derived from "bread(loaf)-keeper" (hlafeard) and "bread-kneader" (hlafdige)/ bread-giver (hlafgifu) respectively. In Quenya, "lord" (heru) is not actually related to "bread" in any way (the making, keeping and giving of bread are all the lady's part), but I couldn't resist the pun. I hope that Fëanor, being a mad little linguist, would have felt compelled to make it as well – even without the Old English history.

In the House of Finwë, the bread-making lady would be Indis. It therefore comes as no surprise to Nerdanel that young Fëanor would not habitually eat bread...