Golden Days by Lyra

Chapter 22

I really have no excuse for this. It's like the "Twilight" chapter. I'm so sorry. The Elves made me do it.

Chapter 22

We ate. Then, we sat in silence. Muffled crackling came from the covered pile as water and impurities were burnt from the wood. I cursed the slowness of the process, waiting for the night to be over. I was tired and wishing to be somewhere else. At the same time, I had to roll my eyes at myself. Always, always I had enjoyed the nights spent out in the woods by the charring pile. Being out in the dark – well, as dark as it got – and involved in a primeval art always sent pleasant shivers down my spine. Now, however, everything was overshadowed by my unlikely companion. Fëanáro's eyes were glinting in the darkness. Earlier, the firelight had painted harsh shadows on his face, making his high cheekbones and straight nose look even more sharpely chiselled than usual. It had given him a feral edge. Now, the diffuse light of Telperion that reached our clearing softened his features, giving him a youthful, sensual look. Either sight was frustratingly fascinating. But it wasn't just that he was handsome - I hadn't cared for him the least bit, as long as he had just been handsome. But unfortunately, there was more to him. A clever mind, for starters. And although I had avoided looking at his work so far, I had no reason to doubt father's judgement of his skill. And he appeared to share my fascination in lore from the ancient days, too. All of that made him extremely attractive to me. However much I told myself that he was not at all what I was looking for, much in him was exactly what I was looking for.

Well, and he did look unfairly handsome, too. I could hardly tear my eyes away – until his burning gaze met mine. My heart flared up in shock, and on instinct, I turned my face away. Surely he had seen the longing in my stare – from me, who had sworn not to be one of those ladies that doted on him! I fully expected him to point that out – he was never one to keep his thoughts to himself, after all. But no smart comment came. Had he, against all reason, not noticed? Had my adoration been less obvious than it had felt? Or maybe the gloom had shrouded it from his gaze; maybe his eyes were less sharp than they appeared. I told myself to act normal lest he did pick up on my awkward fascination after all.
„So,“ I said, making an effort to sound indifferent. „I noticed you didn't need instructions for handling a spade. How come? You didn't exactly leave the impression of being a competent gardener.“

Fëanáro sighed. „Thank you for pointing out my shortcomings,“ he said in a tone that expressed anything but gratitude. „I made spades while training with Aulë. I tested them, too. I always test my work. I feel that I can only do a good job if I understand how a tool is used. It seems to work well enough, on the whole.“
I made a non-committal noise. Damn him for such a reasonable attitude towards his work! Fortunately, another shortcoming of his came to my mind. „What about sickles, then? I saw the mess you made when you tried to cut the grass. Yet I am told that you're boasting of having invented a better sickle?“
„You, of course, have always been perfect at your first attempt,“ Fëanáro shot back, beginning to sound annoyed.
„I do not claim to be perfect now,“ I pointed out. „Nor do I claim to have improved a tool that our people have been making in the same manner for centuries.“
He snorted in disdain. „Things can be done badly for centuries. And even things that have been done reasonably well for centuries can still be improved. You know, of course, that sickles, as they are made now, have to be replaced every harvesting season?“
I shrugged. „Of course. The blade needs to be kept sharp, and every time you sharpen it, you wear off a bit of the material. After a while, there's not enough left to keep using a sickle. That's the nature of things. Then we make a new one. We make a lot of sickles every year. It's not hard.“
„It's not much of an effort, but it's a bit tedious, isn't it? So I've experimented a little, and come up with something better.“
„That's what I heard. Allow me to express my doubts.“
I made the mistake of glancing over to see how he was taking that. In good stride, actually – but the look he gave me in return again fanned the heat I felt in my chest and, as a result, on my face.

„Allow me to convince you,“ he said. „The problem with our current blades is that the steel is too soft, and therefore easily worn off.“
„You haven't replaced it with harder steel, have you? Because if you had more experience in working with sickles, you'd know that they mustn't be too brittle.“
„I realised that,“ he said impatiently. „So I asked myself: Why don't I combine the two? Hard steel to keep the edge, soft steel so it doesn't snap. I have, as I said, experimented a little, and I believe that I've found a way of making it work.“
„Really?“ I asked, curious against my own will.
„I think so,“ Fëanáro simply replied. He did not continue, clearly waiting for me to ask for elaboration. I didn't like to do him the favour, but I was too intrigued now.
„How? You can't just melt and mix the two...“
„You can't,“ he agreed, „but you can fold and beat them together so that they become welded into one, without loosing their separate qualities.“ He smiled proudly.
„Surely they will fall apart,“ I said, frowning.
„They won't. I assure you that I've tested it. They honestly become one.“
I looked away, pretending to be immensely interested by the charring pile. „Two things welded into one, and yet keeping their separate qualities,“ I said, trying not to sound impressed, although I was. „How very clever.“

I probably did sound impressed after all, because Fëanáro completely ignored the irony. „I know!“ he said emphatically. „Do you know what gave me the idea?“
„No,“ I said, and hoped that he wouldn't ask me to guess. I could well imagine a case in which two things – two people, to be precise – came together so very close that they were as one. This was not something I wanted to discuss with Fëanáro. It was bad enough that parts of me wanted to do just that with Fëanáro.
His own thoughts were fortunately going into a different direction altogether. „The Mingling of the Lights,“ he explained. „Did you notice that even when both Trees are alight, you can always tell which beams come from Laurelin, and which are Telperion's? I can, anyway. The two kinds of light have entirely different qualities. Yet they flow together into one.I thought that it might be possible to recreate that in steel, and I feel that I succeeded. A sickle made using my technique stays sharp for longer, and therefore should last longer. Personally, I think it also works better, but I realise that I lack the experience to truly judge this. I think it works better for an unskilled harvester like me, at any rate.“
I consciously had to keep from gaping. If what he said was true, he had – in the matter of just a few weeks – revolutionised our whole craft. If it was possible to combine the advantages of both hard and soft steel, that not only made the good old sickle better, but every bladed tool. And who knows what else! I decided that it wasn't fair not to say so out loud.
„That changes everything, doesn't it?“ I said. „Not only harvesting. Anything that has a blade would last longer and keep its edge longer.“ The possibilities just began to dawn on me. „Knives. Axes. Spades. A lot less time wasted sharpening and replacing tools.“
Fëanáro smiled, and I could hardly breathe with excitement. Not because of him, I told myself, but because of his clever idea. But of course, the two belonged together.
„I'm glad you approve,“ he said, and in my excitement I thought it sounded as though it really mattered.
„Who wouldn't?“ I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. „Well, like you, I am very young. So I am not certain that the established smiths will accept it. Even you doubted me at first, and you know very well that a young craftsman can still achieve something great.“
„Father never doubted you.“
A shrug. „Master Mahtan is great enough to encourage greatness in others. Lesser craftsmen may be less eager to admit that they have been doing something less than perfect for centuries. And what about the Valar?“
I frowned, not understanding what he meant. „What about them?“
„It was Aulë who taught us how to make blades of steel,“ Fëanáro said matter-of-factly. „We make sickles in the way in which Aulë instructed us. You, Nerdanel, have bested Alcaráco, an established craftsman. But I...“
Now my breath truly caught in my throat. „If what you told me is true, you have bested Aulë,“ I whispered. It was unthinkable. Aulë was skill, Aulë was craft; how could a mere Elda like Fëanáro come up with something that was beyond the teachings of Aulë? If my sculpture had threatened to shake the peace of the Noldor, then Fëanáro's discovery could shake the peace of the world. Half of me wanted to run away, hide, unhear what I had heard. The other half, unpleasantly, was beginning to burn with admiration. That half would have liked to kiss his skillful hands, and the lips that had shared this knowledge with me. Was not that an amazing sign of trust? Didn't that make us, in a way, kindred spirits? Maybe, in some ways, we were not so different after all? Maybe we belonged together? Embarrassed, I glanced over at him. Was I imagining things, or was he looking at me with a warmth that might almost be affection? I surely was delusional, but what if I wasn't?
I said nothing.

Fëanáro eventually spoke, calmly, as if the world hadn't been shaken at all. „Maybe I have discovered something that Aulë does not know. Or maybe I have merely discovered something that Aulë did not choose to share with us. I have been wondering, Nerdanel – maybe the Valar want our blades to be soft, and to require constant replacing? Maybe we are not meant to have perpetually sharp sickles, or axes, or knives? Maybe they do not trust us? Maybe they think that it would make us... dangerous?“
„To the Valar?“ I asked, confused. „Whyever that? Why should better tools make us dangerous? Even if we get better at harvesting, or at chopping wood, or whatever... they are still Valar.“
„Yes, but what if they don't think of blades as tools? What if they are weapons?“
Now he was being silly. That was a relief. I had a chance of fighting my infatuation if he said things that were silly. “That makes no sense. This is not the darkness of Endorë. We have no battles to fight. We have no need for weapons.“ The idea was wholly absurd. „Besides, the Vanyar keep on practicing their spear dances, and are praised for it. I don't think the Valar are worrying about us and weapons.“
Fëanáro raised his eyebrows as if doubting my words, but then he shrugged. „Maybe you are right. Maybe I am overthinking things. All I need to worry about are resentful craftsmen, then...“
„Father will not resent you the glory – if what you told me is true. He's proud of your achievements, you know.“ I would not normally have told him, but just now, I felt it was the right thing to do.
And indeed, his eyes glowed with happiness at my words. „I am glad. And Aulë will take it in good humour, I assume. But the others?“
I had no real answer to that. „At least you aren't involved in a contest,“ was all I could think of.

He gave a short laugh. „That is true! I've made a few prototypes, so far. Maybe they'll catch on before anyone realises they were made by a mere apprentice.“ He rolled his eyes. Even when he looked so goofy, I wanted to kiss him. Good grief.
„Besides, you're the son of the king,“ I pointed out. „You can't be snubbed as easily as some random girl with big ideas.“
„I don't know,“ Fëanáro replied, more serious now. „Maybe. I suppose it'll be interesting to see how Father decides when it's either me, or the peace of the Noldor.“ He glanced at me sideways. In spite of the late hour and his almost grim tone, his eyes were sparkling as much as ever. „Aren't we two revolutionaries.“
It was harmlessly meant, no doubt – a throwaway joke, two revolutionary apprentices out in the woods – but it hit me to my core. If I had imagined the silly bird of infatuation safely behind bars, that cage was shattered now. The little bird was dancing on my heartstrings, happily singing. If I listened closely, I could hear it over the rushing of blood in my ears.
I tried to laugh it off. „Yes. Who knows what we could achieve together.“ It was meant to be a joke, too, but as soon as I had spoken, I knew that it didn't sound like one. It sounded like a desperate plea for attention.

Fëanáro reacted more kindly than I would have expected. Maybe he was tired after all – too tired for scorn. He didn't mask his surprise, of course. His eyebrows went up, and the corners of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
I said all the more. „I mean, as Father's apprentices. Or maybe sharing a workshop. Or... I mean, we don't need to do that. Or work together at all. I thought, since we've both managed to offend our betters... or if we wanted to train apprentices...“ I shut up. Babbling didn't make it better, but rather worse.
He didn't reply at once; maybe he was trying to think of a diplomatic way to tell me that there was no way in which we would ever work, or achieve anything, together. He found one. He said, „Yes. Who knows.“
His voice wasn't unkind, and he smiled as he said it, the gentle smile you give to a little sister. In a way, that made it worse. It kept the embers in my heart aglow, and the little bird alive, while the voice of reason pointed out that he was just indulging me. I did not want indulgence. I wanted what I could not have. No, I didn't. Some silly part of me just thought I wanted what I could not have. But I did not want him! Except that I did. How frustrating, to be at odds with oneself!

I lapsed into furious silence, and he did not break it.
It felt as if Laurelin would never awaken. Time seemed to stretch out infinitely as we both kept our thoughts to ourselves. At least there was no risk of falling asleep. Although I felt drained, in mind as well as in body, there were too many conflicting thoughts battling with each other. Nodding off would have been impossible. I stared at our charring pile and told myself that my eyes were just burning because they were so tired, dry like the mud covering on the dying embers of our pile. In my mind's eye, my aching heart, too, looked like that; but whereas here, the fire under the mud covering had already gone down, the heat in my heart continued to burn, painfully, as if feeding on my very spirit.
When at last the first golden beams began to join the silver light of the night, they brought no solace, either. Acutely, they reminded me of what Fëanáro had told me about how the mingled light still kept its distinct quality. If you looked closely, it did. Not that you could actually see separate sparks of golden or silver light in the gentle morning glow - It wasn't like a salad, where you could clearly see what was lettuce and what was radish and what was herb. But neither was it like milk, where you could no longer tell fat and water apart. It was two utterly different entities, flowing into one.
Involuntarily, I glanced over at Fëanáro – only to realise that he had been watching me. Something was strange about his smile. My foolish heart insisted on claiming that it could be affection. But that was just wishful thinking. More likely, it was triumph, because he knew that I had joined the ranks of his admirers after all. Maybe it even was disdain.
I got to my feet, shrugged my shoulders, shook my tired limbs. „Time to get to work,“ I said, and picked up the axe. It was a relief to vent my frustration on the logs of wood. After a while, Fëanáro joined me. To my relief, he had put on his damp clothing again; and he asked no questions, but began to stack the cut logs and branches of his own accord.

When Helyanwë and Lindo came to help us carry back the coal, they arrived singing and making more noise than strictly necessary. It was a well-established custom, to warn those who had watched the pile that company was approaching. If they weren't quite decent, they had a chance to cover up. Sometimes, one of the apprentices was visited at night by their sweetheart – or, as in the case of Aimíriel and Palatáro, two apprentices became sweethearts, spending the night by the fire to exchange affections. It made my face burn again to think that Helyanwë thought it necessary to give me a timely warning while I was out in the woods with Fëanáro. As if, I said under breath. In my mind, the little bird chirped, if only.
At least the coal had turned out well. The wood had charred all the way through, but still retained its firm structure. It had cooled down enough to be touched and packed up, and it made a pleasant, metallic sound as we shoved it into sacks. I was taciturn while we were working. Fëanáro took care of the talking, telling the others how much he had enjoyed learning this secret skill, and how thrilling it was to think that our clever forebears had discovered this art all by themselves.
„Poor Nerdanel,“ Helyanwë said quietly, when he could get a word in. „Was he like that all night?“
I shrugged, unable to think of a clever answer.
Lindo took that as a yes. He laughed. „No wonder you look as if you haven't slept in a week.“
„That is true,“ Fëanáro said earnestly, giving me an innocent stare. „You look terrible.“

Whoosh! Like a bucket full of icy water, his words finally doused the glow in my heart. Terrified, the little bird flew away as the steam of resentment rose from where the fire had been. I felt betrayed, and angry. Of course I was looking terrible. My complexion betrayed exhaustion as easily as it showed embarrassment, and even without a mirror I knew that I would be sporting purple botches under my eyes, that my skin would have the sickly hue of cream cheese, and that my hair was either sticking up frizzily where it had escaped my braid, or plastered onto my skull by sweat and dirt. I was smeared with mud and coal dust. What else should I look like, after a sleepless night working with charcoal? Fëanáro, of course, somehow managed to look pretty even after a night's wake and work; his hair was as sleek and silky as ever, and the dark circles around his eyes only seemed to underline their elegant almond shape. The contrast brutally showed how different, how ill-matched we were: the popular, fashionable prince, beautiful even now, and me, plain and unseemly and utterly unfashionable. It was true, but still it was unkind to blame me for it, I thought angrily. Even if I had brought it upon myself by babbling about shared futures.
Well, now I was well and truly cured of such illusions. Never again would I admire anything Fëanáro said or did! I shouldered my bag of coal with renewed strength. As I took to the path, I fervently hoped that Fëanáro's grand new technique would prove to be ineffective, or if it really worked, that nobody would want it. Or better yet, that someone else would get the credit! Childish, yes, unworthy of an almost grown woman, most certainly – but these vengeful thoughts were all that kept me from crying.
I marched ahead furiously, not caring for the comments that the others were calling behind me.

I had just washed and dressed in a clean tunic when the farmers came knocking. Father had already opened the door as I rushed down the stairs. I stopped in my tracks, hiding around the corner in the hallway.
„Good day, Master Mahtan,“ I heard from outside.
„And a good day to you, Umbas, Elwendo,“ Father replied cheerfully. „Come on in, if you have the time. How is the harvest going so far?“
„Quite well, quite well,“ Elwendo replied. „Keeping us busy. We'll be needing all hands soon. But we could be doing better yet. We've come to ask for new sickles...“
My stomach gave a violent lurch.
Meanwhile, Father showed no sign of surprise. „Yes, certainly. Just for the two of you? Or more? We are prepared to deliver a dozen by tomorrow night...“
I could hear embarrassment in Umbas' voice as he answered, „Um. Actually... no offense, Master Mahtan... but would it be possible to have them made by your apprentice, the one who made Sirillë's new sickle?“
Even from behind, I could see that Father was taken aback now; his shoulders literally twitched in surprise.
There was an awkward pause. Then Father laughed, loudly and happily.
„Fëanáro!“ he hollered, half-turning towards the stairwell. „You've got customers!“

I fled into the studio.