Golden Days by Lyra

Chapter 7

Thus the next day found me and my birds in Aulë’s Halls – if “halls” is the right expression. Halls, to me, imply a process of building common to our own houses: a wooden framework, walls of cut stone or brick or clay, a roof of tiles or reeds or wood. None of that applied to Aulë’s Halls, which rather gave the impression of magnificent caverns raised from rock. Their pillars did not look as though they had been hewn out of stone but as though they had grown out of the mosaic floor and the domed ceiling. The passages from hall to hall reminded me of the tunnels in which we delved for metals. “Caves”, I think, would have been a more appropriate term.
But then a cave sounds like an unsophisticated place, inhabited by animals or uncivilised folk like the Avari who stayed behind in Middle-earth. The caves here had jewelled mosaic floors, and their walls had been smoothed to perfection, and they were brightly lit. And one could hardly call Aulë and Yavanna and their court uncivilised. So perhaps “halls” was not too far off the mark after all.

Of course I had no thought to spare for semantics while I waited for my verdict. I suppose that I was showing poor trust in Father and in Master Carnildo by being so nervous – they would hardly have sent me here if they had thought that my sculpture would not pass muster – and I certainly was showing poor trust in my own skills, but I could not help it. I was not my father, who had learned the craft from Aulë and thus was used to having him examine and judge his art. I had always learned from Eldarin teachers, and even though Aulë had been ever friendly and cheerful when I had met him, I was intimidated. The grandeur of my surroundings did nothing to assuage my anxiety. The time I spent waiting felt much longer than it really was, I think – though I had no certain way of measuring it, without seeing the light of the Trees.

Finally Aulë emerged from his study (if, again, that was the right word). I sank into a curtsy, but even before he spoke, I felt my fears abate - for before I had bowed my head, I had seen his face, and he was smiling. Now I was fairly certain that my sculpture had passed.
But Aulë did not say so, not in so many words. Instead he observed, “You have waited long, young Nerdanel. Most apprentices apply to be examined before they are this close to the fullness of their skill…”
I blushed. I found all this talk of skill embarrassing. “I am not yet of age, my lord,” I pointed out cautiously.
Aulë gave me a long, probing look. “But I am not here to examine your age.”
“I know, my lord, but it is customary…”
To my relief, he smiled at that; but he also waved his hand dismissively. “These customs have been made at a time when your people did not foresee that there ever might be someone so young so skilled. I do not let their lack of foresight concern me; neither should you.”
What was I supposed to say to that? “Very well, my lord.”
With a smile, Aulë continued. “I had to think for a while about what to choose for your final project. The work I have seen shows me that I cannot, as I might usually do, ask for something small and complicated to test your skill and understanding of the delicate balance between precision and generalisation. You have proven both already. It seems more sensible, then, to have you do proper work – a commission, and something large at that. As it happens, a good opportunity has just arisen.”
He paused, and I dutifully asked, “What do you want of me, then?”
“Your king Finwë has recently come to desire a statue of his children.” Another indulgent smile: “I think he has realised how quickly you young people grow. At any rate he has commissioned a sculpture. To the best of my knowledge Alcaráco desires to work on it, but I think this is just the right project for you.”

I did not share his confidence. Not that I was afraid of making a sculpture of people, as such – I had made busts and sculptures of people as exercises before. It was, after all, the most common application of our craft. Parents wanted sculptures of their children, and children of their parents, and lovers of their beloved, and Valar of their Maiar, and everyone of the Valar. No, it was not the project as such. It was just that this wouldn’t be an exercise, but the sort of project normally taken on by experienced masters of the craft – like Master Alcaráco, or Master Carnildo, or my father. Nobody would ask an apprentice to carve their children’s likeness in stone. Least of all the king.
I could not keep a frown off my face. “That does not sound like something that should be done by an unexamined apprentice,” I said, trying to sound measured and reasonable.
“It would be part of the examination,” Aulë pointed out calmly. “We hardly need another demonstrative exercise from you. It is clear that you have skill enough to begin working; why waste that skill on a piece purely for examination?”
I was chewing my lips like a scolded child. “I just can’t help wondering whether it is at all appropriate. It isn’t customary…”

Aulë sighed. “Ah yes, your customs. I told you that these customs have been made by people who knew only the ordinary. They are good for ordinary people and ordinary occasions. But you are not one of the ordinary, Nerdanel. Not even now, and even less in years to come. So remember the customs, but think beyond them.” He smiled again. “You are, after all, an artist.”
It seemed that my protest would avail nothing. I gave up. “Very well,” I said, trying to put at least a little enthusiasm into my voice. I failed dismally. Aulë laughed then, gently. “Ah, young Nerdanel, do not be afraid. I have no doubt that you will do well.”
“If I get to do it at all,” I couldn’t help saying. “After all, if Master Alcaráco has already applied, the king has doubtlessly given him the commission, and why then should he let me do the same?”
“Hm,” Aulë said thoughtfully. “If they do not want to see your work, I will find something else. But when I send word to Finwë that I think you should have your try, I do not think that he will refuse it.”
No, he probably won’t, I thought, and probably I shouldn't, either. I sighed and nodded. Aulë smiled.
“I will send a messenger forthwith,” he said. “So they will know to expect you.”

It was foolish to be downcast, I knew, when I had just passed the first part of my exam. It was foolish to be afraid of the second step, even if it was unheard of to ask a proper commission of an examinee. It was, after all, what I was working towards anyway. I would just start one step earlier than other people – but after decades of learning, why should one step matter so much?
The truth of the matter was that I simply didn't feel ready. I was too young. Whatever Aulë had said, there must be a reason for waiting until one had come of age! Perhaps in a few years’ time, neither the idea of exams nor the thought of doing a commission for King Finwë himself would be so daunting.
And another little truth, though it was an embarrassing truth that I did not like to admit to myself, was that I resented this commission because it would – rather sooner than necessary – throw me into Prince Fëanáro’s way again. I had successfully avoided him for weeks, and had begun to feel confident that I’d be able to avoid him for most of the time even if he came to live at our house; but I could hardly make a statue of him without seeing him for (I grimaced at the thought) extended periods of time. No doubt but he would assume something stupid, that I was there for his sake or somesuch. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. My load, my bowl of birds, seemed to grow heavier and heavier as I made my way outside, led by a cheerful Maia who politely pretended not to notice my bad mood.

I barely noticed when the artificial light of the Halls was replaced by the leaf-filtered daylight of Aulë’s woods; I barely noticed when the friendly Maia took his leave. I paid little heed to my surroundings, though I normally loved the many trees, each different (it was said that every sort of tree that could be found in the world grew in Aulë’s woods, exactly once – and Erenwen and I had often tried to count them while Father was discussing business with Aulë, when we had been younger). I did not look at them now. Lost in thought, I almost ran into Yavanna, who came along the same path from her gardens.
Fortunately she took no offense, instead smiling down at me. “I have gathered the first gooseberries,” she said. “Would you like some?”
I accepted her offer. The berries were hard and sour. I grimaced a little.
“Yes,” Yavanna said, laughing, “these are better for cooking than for eating fresh. I only picked the smallest berries, today, so that the others may grow bigger and sweeter.”
“Ah,” said I, a little embarrassed; I really should have known, for we did the same in our garden. But I did not feel too bad about it. It was hard to maintain a bad mood in Yavanna’s presence. She radiated a nurturing warmth, making me – even out here on the forest path – think of a kitchen hearth; and the subtle scent of honey, of apples and nuts, of rosemary and walnut leaves that ever seemed to surround her soothed my worried mind.
“You have been to see my husband, I see?” Yavanna continued, nodding at my wrapped sculpture.
“Yes, my lady,” said I. “I’ve shown him my first project for – for the exams.”
I had expected that she would ask how it had gone. Instead she observed, “How swiftly you’ve grown.” And then, “May I see it too?”

Even though she did not at first say anything to me, there could be no doubt that she liked my little birds. She stroked them as she would have stroked real animals, and whispered to them in the chirping tongue of small birds. A gust of wind shook the branches above us, and the shadows of the leaves danced on the alabaster, making it – for a moment – look as if my sculpture was moving. I suppressed a gasp.
When Yavanna spoke, it was in a very quiet voice. “How beautiful,” she said. “I do not think I have ever seen my feathered friends so depicted. What will you do with them, now that you are moving on?”
“I’m not quite certain yet,” I admitted. “Find them a place in our garden, I suppose.”
She smiled. “They will like that,” she said. “Could I ask you to make something like that for me? Not now, of course, you will be busy with your exams; but maybe later?”
I blinked, surprised. Not that I wasn’t flattered by her request – of course I was – but it seemed a little absurd.
“But my lady, could not the lord Aulë make something like this for you, and better?”
Yavanna shook her head. “He would, of course, if I asked him to; but not like this. He cannot see the birds as I do—as we do. And I would have to ask; he would not think of it on his own.” She brushed a droplet of water off my little swallow’s feathers – or would have, had it been a real droplet on real feathers. Her smile was still bright, as though she did not mind at all. Nonetheless I felt a little sorry. It must be hard to have a husband so different from oneself, I thought. Unyielding rock can hardly understand the supple growth of trees. But Yavanna’s voice remained cheerful. “The fact alone that you thought of showing your skill with this – something many would think small and insignificant – makes you the right person to make it.”
Perhaps it did, though the thought of trying to reproduce my little water-bowl was enough to make me worry again. I was not at all certain that I should manage to find such a well-suited stone again; or if I found one, that I would manage to put all that painstaking work into it to make feathers and beaks and leathery little bird-feet grow from stone; or if that, that it would be as good as this was. Sculptors rarely craft the same thing twice if they succeeded with their first attempt. If you wanted to produce the same sculpture over and over, you used a cast and molten metals, but never stone. And for good reason. No two stones are the same, and no project is the same - perhaps rocks were more like trees than I had at first thought. I was honoured, but I did not wish to try the same thing again.
“Would you like to keep this one, my lady?” I suggested instead. “I am certain that you will find a good place for it.”
Yavanna had been smiling before, but now the smile grew broader and brighter; the honey-and-herbs scent intensified as though its source had moved from the shadows into the full light of Laurelin. Even the birdsong around us seemed to grow louder, happier.
“That is a generous gift,” Yavanna said happily. “Be assured that I will honour it.”

And so I returned home without my birds, carrying instead a basket of gooseberries – for Yavanna had insisted on giving them to me, regretting only that they were so small and sour.
Her regret was unjustified. When I tried the berries at home (intending to make jam from them), it turned out that though they had grown no bigger, their skin had softened and their pulp ripened in that brief moment of joy. Never in my life have I eaten sweeter gooseberries than these.

I rode to Tirion the next day, taking only my sketchbook along. If King Finwë gave me the commission, I would later on have to bring clay for models and – worst of all – have a sizeable chunk of marble delivered to the palace (or perhaps the king would take care of that? I had no experience in these matters). But for today, the sketchbook would do. I still wasn’t happy about the prospect. My father, of course, had been delighted, and one or two of the apprentices had just barely managed to hide their jealousy. Mother was bursting with pride. But then, they didn’t have to get up early and make for Tirion before Laurelin was fully alight.
Nor did they have to explain to the servant who opened the door – of course it was my particular friend, Prince Fëanáro’s groomsman – what they wanted. I am not truly shy, nor am I usually lost for words: But on that morning I stuttered and blushed like a child.
Finally I’d spoken my piece, angry with myself for being so awkward. The servant, no doubt, was terribly amused – at any rate he was smirking, and it was hard to meet his eyes for the scornful gleam in them. He kept his voice neutral, though, saying only “Very well, I shall inform my lord; if you’ll follow me, please?”, and led me to an antechamber, where he bowed, and knocked on a door, and disappeared. I was certain that he was inwardly laughing at me the whole time. My cheeks were still hot even when he had been gone for a good while.

I tried to distract myself by studying my surroundings. King Finwë’s palace was well worth a visit for the architecture alone. When it had been built, all the master craftsmen of our people had competed fiercely, each of them showing off their full skill and the full range of possibility offered by their craft. “At first I did not believe that we’d ever get it built,” Father said, laughing, whenever he told the tale. “Nor did I believe that we would ever get all the separate pieces to match.” For of course every craftsman had his own preferences, every craft its own style; and although everybody agreed that the king’s house should be splendid, it had apparently been hard to get everybody to agree on just what sort of splendour to strive for. Even now, I thought, there were bits and pieces that didn’t quite match: The patterns in the coloured glass of the windows didn’t suit the patterns of the ceiling mosaics, which in turn didn’t quite match the muted colours of the marble floor. Only the capitals of the high pillars brought them together, both patterns repeated in the same marble that adorned the floor. I smiled because I recognised my father’s handiwork in them, and I knew that he had sacrificed the display of his superior skill for the sake of bringing harmony into an otherwise chaotic mix of styles, as a good artist should. And a good artist should also consider the comfort of those who use his art, I thought, for while the chairs in the antechamber were beautifully crafted and marvellous to look at with their high carved armrests and their straight backs, they were also exceedingly uncomfortable.

I was torn from my thoughts by a child, a young boy in his early twenties, who ran and slid along the polished marble in silk stockings until he noticed my presence and, with a guilty look, changed to a more dignified gait. He was terribly overdressed, wearing the long silk shirt and layered brocade robes of a grown man on a high holiday, complete with precious jewellery, and his dark hair was combed back and braided and adorned in a manner more befitting a bridegroom on his wedding day than a mere child. He would be a handsome man one day, no doubt, and then all this finery would suit him well: But just now it looked absurd, unnatural, though the robes had been tailored to fit the boy perfectly and the colours were tastefully matched, various shades of blue and grey and silver that were mirrored in his jewellery.
At least I could recognise him as one of the King’s sons at once, in that attire, and so I rose and curtsied as he reached me.

He looked up at me curiously. “You are Nerdanel, Master Mahtan’s daughter, aren’t you?”
I smiled. “So I am, my Prince.”
He nodded, satisfied, and climbed onto one of the dreadful chairs. I winced, thinking of the strain he was putting on the delicate silver thread of his robes.
“Yes, I knew you by your hair,” he said, oblivious to my worries about his garb. “Fëanáro has been talking about you.”
That was unpleasant news. “Has he, now,” I said somewhat lamely.
“Yes!” The prince was grinning and stood up, and I winced again, for though the chairs were uncomfortable, they were cushioned with very fine fabric, pearly white with gold and light blue woven in. But when I glanced at the boy’s feet, I saw that my concerns were unjustified; his stockings were impeccably clean. Of course. This was not, after all, my father’s house, where for all the cleaning we could do there always was a certain layer of stone dust and soot.
He really had a handsome face, I could see that now that he almost reached my size: Already the childish roundness was mirroring the noble features of his father, and I had no doubt that in another twenty years he would be as popular with the fashionable ladies as his older brother was now.
“Fëanáro says you saved him from a killer rabbit,” the prince continued cheerfully, tugging at the uncomfortable collar of his shirt. “He said that was the best day of his journey.”

“Shut up, Nolofinwë, before you make a fool of yourself and your betters,” a sharp voice interrupted. “Where have you been all this time? Master Alcaráco is waiting for you.”
For while I had been distracted by the little prince, Fëanáro himself had joined us. Like his brother he was dressed up in full regalia, brocades and jewels and coronet and all; but unlike his brother he was old enough to look good in them. In truth, good was too weak a word: He looked splendid, beautiful as a newly-cut gem and radiant as a Vala, and I had sunk into a low curtsy, my cheeks burning, before I even realised what I was doing – quite as though I were one of his vapid admirers! At least I was not giggling, I thought, angry at myself. I rose as quickly as I could.
“We were just talking!” Prince Nolofinwë protested. “And Master Alcaráco hasn’t called for me yet.”
“He asked me to send you to him just now,” Fëanáro said, still sharply, “so off with you, and stop pestering our guests!” Nolofinwë looked as though he were about to cry, but he jumped down from the chair and ran off instead of further arguing. His brother turned to me, and his angry frown turned into a smile. “Mistress Nerdanel,” he said, perfectly amiable now. “Well met.”
“I am no mistress yet,” was the first thing I could think of saying, trying to compensate for the absurd, overpowering awe I had felt at his appearance. “I am no mistress, and you needn’t have been so brusque with your brother. He wasn’t pestering me at all.”
“My half-brother,” Fëanáro said, “has a regrettable tendency to speak of things quite beyond his experience and understanding, and he can become extremely annoying. I am glad if he hadn’t reached that point yet.”
I pursed my lips. “Not at all.” I didn’t quite dare to add that I was finding the older brother far more annoying.

“Well, Master Alcaráco was requiring his presence either way,” the annoying older brother said dryly, “so I still had to send him over. We have to sit for that foolish statue Father commissioned, you see – that’s why we’re spiffed up like that.”
He sat down in one of the horrible straight-backed chairs, which I took as a signal to seat myself as well. While I sat perfectly upright (as the chair forced me to, and as was proper anyway), however, he slid half-way down into a relaxed posture, resting one foot on his opposite knee, as though he weren’t in his father’s palace but leaning against a tree in the woods, wearing not fine robes but simple stuff that didn’t mind being rumpled. Like little Nolofinwë’s, his stockings were of silk, and immaculately white. I glanced down at my own stockings, which had never been properly bleached in the first place (to what purpose?), and taken on a decidedly greyish tint since then. I wished Fëanáro would leave me alone.
“Doesn’t Master Alcaráco require your presence as well?” I asked, hoping to get rid of him that way.
But I had no such luck. “No, he’s done with me for today, praised be Aulë,” Fëanáro said. “I was going to get out of these torturous robes just now, but then I saw that you were here and thought I’d keep you company. These chairs are a horror, aren’t they? Shall we not go for a walk? I could show you our gardens.”

Despite my dislike I couldn’t help beginning to feel a little flattered. Fëanáro, firstborn son of King Finwë, wet dream of most of Tirion’s ladies (and some of the gentlemen, too), was delaying his release from his ‘torturous robes’ in order to keep me company! And offering to show me the royal gardens! Ah, if Lanyalossë and Carnissiel and the others could be here!
“No, thank you,” I said, however. “I am not here for my pleasure.” His lip quirked at that, and I felt angry again – I certainly hadn’t meant him! “I am waiting for his Majesty, for I have business to discuss with him.”
Now he tilted his head, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “Business?” And then his face lit up, and he jumped up from the chair. “Oh!” he cried. “Have you come to let us know your father’s decision? Does he accept me as his apprentice?” He was biting his lip in his eagerness.
And I was torn between a variety of impulses. There was amusement, for now he looked as absurd in his fine robes as his brother had – a child dressed up to look like an adult. There was puzzlement, for after my conversation with his page, I had gained the impression that Father’s decision was considered practically foregone, Fëanáro’s application a mere act of courtesy – as the page had said, he might as well command it. But Fëanáro himself appeared a lot less certain, standing before me with his teeth worrying his lips.
There was, foolishly enough, titillation, for like him or not, he was disgustingly handsome, and paying me a lot of attention, and my mind very inappropriately imagined him in the privacy of his room, getting rid of the heavy robes, stretching, perhaps washing himself - and I remembered that day by the lake and his fair skin and fine build, the firm muscles, the — my cheeks reddened most embarrassingly. There was something intoxicating about him, I decided, and I vowed to judge the fawning ladies a little more kindly in the future.
Finally, however, there was resentment – as though Father would send me of all people, not a simple letter or a messenger or someone more expendable than me! It won out, in the end.
“I am not my father’s errand-runner,” I said stiffly.
“Of course not,” he said. “But since you said you had business to discuss with Father, I’d hoped… well, perhaps you still know how Master Mahtan decided? Yes? Will he take me?”
He really was worried, I realised. I liked that – yes, I know, a cruel thought, but somehow I found it delightful that someone so mighty and so arrogant longed so much for my father’s approval.
“I cannot say,” I told him – not as kindly as I could have, I suppose. “My father’s council is his own to keep, and he will let you know in good time.”

His face fell, and he actually sank to his knees, his hands gripping the armrests of my chair. This was most unsettling! My face was hot again. He stared up at me much like Nolofinwë had, but where Nolofinwë had been curious, his eyes were now filled with mingled anger and pleading. I could see the elaborate braids on his head, held with clasps of gold and ruby (none of them my father’s work, I noticed, but of excellent make: perhaps the lord Aulë himself had made them?). His robes, gold and copper and dark red, contrasted absurdly against the simple green linen of my dress.
“So he will not have me,” Fëanáro said. “He rejects me. For otherwise you would tell me, would you not?”
“My lord,” I said in an attempt to remind him of his station, leaning away from him as far as the chair would let me, “I honestly cannot say. Father has not yet made his decision known.” And he hadn’t. Oh, true, he’d said that he was tempted to accept Fëanáro although he already had more apprentices than was common – but being tempted didn’t mean you were actually going to do it, after all!
Fëanáro stared at my face intently; I found it hard to return his keen gaze, rather than turn my head away. For a while he did not move, and I was terrified that his brother or his page or someone else – worst of all, the king! – might come upon us like that. “You will tell your father how important this is to me, won’t you?” he said, jutting his chin as if to give his words more force.
“Yes, yes,” said I, embarrassed out of my wits. “I will tell him.”
“Good,” he said, sighing, and finally let go of the chair, although he did not get up. With a sigh of my own, I abandoned my seat to sit on the floor next to him – it was really too embarrassing to have him at my feet, what would people think of me?! The marble was cold, but no more uncomfortable than the chairs.
Fëanáro was tracing the swirls in the polished stone with his fingers. I still couldn’t understand why he was so upset, but I felt slightly ashamed of having enjoyed his anxiety earlier, so I spoke gently now. “Why does it matter so much, my lord?”
He stared at me, his bright eyes boring into mine. “What a question, Nerdanel. I thought you were a craftswoman – do you not know, then, how much the approval of other craftsmen means? How I suffer, waiting for your father’s answer?”
Quite melodramatic, the poor boy, I thought, but at least he was showing more respect to my father than his servant had done. “But surely the lord Aulë would continue to teach you, and you do not need my father’s approval at all – or have you angered him?” I shivered at the thought – but he laughed, at last. “Not that I know of!” he said. “But you see, Nerdanel, Aulë is a Vala, which I am not—“
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I couldn’t help quipping.
He only snorted. “Which I am not. Oh, he is a wonderful teacher, no question about that. But he has possibilities that we Eldar are, by nature, lacking - and in turn he has limitations that are alien to us.”
I frowned. I knew nothing about such limitations. But Fëanáro went on at once; he had recovered from his bout of self-doubt quickly, it seemed.
“So it is only reasonable that I should finish my apprenticeship by a master of my own kind – and no, before you can say that I should apply with someone else, that will not do. I have studied all their work, and discussed it with Aulë, and I have come to the conclusion that it must be Master Mahtan.”
“Such praise,” I said, since I could not think of anything else – but father would like to hear that. Fëanáro shrugged. “Yes, well. But you still haven’t told me what you are here for.”
I took a deep breath. “The lord Aulë wants me to make a sculpture for the king for my exams. Of you.” I blushed yet again. “I mean, plural you. You and your siblings.”*
He raised his eyebrows. “The sculpture that Master Alcaráco is preparing to make?”
“Yes, that,” I said, grimacing. I did not mean to doubt the lord Aulë’s wisdom, perish the thought, but I couldn't help feeling unhappy about it.
Fëanáro studied me again. “You must be very good, then,” he stated flatly, in a way that seemed to sound rather doubtful to me. My pride stirred.
“Well, maybe I am!” I said.
He laughed with a small snort. “No doubt. You are, after all, Master Mahtan’s daughter.”

I did not know what to reply. Fortunately I didn’t have to, for the door finally opened, and the page appeared – I wouldn’t have thought that I might ever be so glad to see his face, even though he raised an eyebrow to see me sitting on the floor with his lord!
“King Finwë has time for you now,” he said to me, with a look of mild scorn on his face. “Please come in.”
“Thank you, Wintillo,” Fëanáro said, rising and offering his hand to help me up with a gallant bow, playing the perfect gentleman. He appeared entirely unembarrassed. I would have liked to ignore his offer, but that would have been too impolite. His hand was stronger than it looked at first, and it had not (as I had heard tell) the texture of velvet, but felt just like a normal hand – calluses included. His skin was very warm, though. I let go as quickly as I could in order to wipe imaginary dust off my dress.
“Very well,” I said, composing myself. “My thanks for the company, Prince Fëanáro. I am certain my father will inform you of his decision very soon.” I curtsied, and then turned to the page, who was now smirking openly. “Please lead the way.”

Chapter End Notes

* This problem would not actually occur in Quenya, where the second person singular and the second person plural are clearly distinguishable, but I could not resist the opportunity for further embarrassment...