Golden Days by Lyra

Chapter 8

My goodness! It's an update! And once again the story refuses to behave as planned. Oh well.

Compared to his sons, King Finwë was dressed downright poorly in a long, pleated robe of dark blue silk. I was surprised to see that his wife was present also, sitting in a soft chair with a book in her lap – I had not expected that there would be witnesses to this conversation. Worse, the smirking page also remained in the study, although he stood by the door next to some other servant while I walked towards the king's desk. I bit my lips, and clasped my hands in case they decided to tremble.
King Finwë and Queen Indis both smiled in a kindly manner, and answered my curtsy by inclining their heads towards me.
"Welcome, young Nerdanel," said the Queen. I found her voice very pleasant – I had not given much thought to her voice whenever I had heard her before, if I had ever consciously heard her before, but right there in the king's study my mind seemed intent on paying attention to the slightest detail. I remember thinking that I would have expected someone of Indis' slight stature and Vanyarin colouring to have a higher-pitched voice. Instead it was a soft alto that I found very reassuring. I could not help but return her smile.

"Welcome indeed," said King Finwë, nodding again and gesturing at another cushioned chair that stood, empty and expectant, before his desk. "Please make yourself comfortable."
For all the smiles and the queen's friendly voice, I could not imagine ever being comfortable in their company, but I sat down anyway and tried to keep smiling. I wondered what I could say, and finally decided for, "Thank you for agreeing to see me, your majesties."
They exchanged a glance, and smiled again.
"But of course," the king said. "Lord Aulë reccommended you very highly. I must admit that I am a little surprised at your youth, however..."
He is going to tell me no, I thought, and felt relieved – surely it was relief? I had not wanted this commission after all. I wanted to do some meaningless, showy piece as other apprentices did.
"… but I have been told that your talent is rather beyond your age, and that-" he glanced down at a letter that lay atop another surprisingly disorderly stack of papers on his desk- "'such talent is no longer to be wasted on mere practice pieces', as Lord Aulë put it."
I could not stifle a sigh. No doubt Aulë meant well, but I found it embarrassing to be advertised so – like an apple by a market-woman.
"Now unfortunately," the king went on, "his recommendation puts us into a bit of a conundrum, for as you may have heard, I technically already gave the commission to Master Alcaráco. Naturally I am now hesitant to insult him by taking this work away from him..."
And putting a mere girl in his place, I thought – but he did not say that. He was very polite, really. Talent or no, in his eyes I could hardly be more than a child – he could just have said "no", as simple as that, instead of explaining himself at length.
I felt I had to contribute something to the conversation. "I understand that perfectly well, my lord, and I assure you that I shall accept your decision with good will," I said.
Indis gave me a kindly smile. "You expect to be rejected, then?" she said.
"Well, yes," I admitted.
"I must admit that I considered that, initially," said King Finwë. "Which is not to say that I doubt your skill – but Master Alcaráco has already begun his work, and it would be unjust to send him off now, even at Aulë's request." His lips stretched in a grimace that looked almost apologetic.
"Of course," I hurried to say.
"But fortunately my beloved Indis had a splendid idea," the king said, smiling at his queen. "She suggested that you both create your own version of my commission. Only afterwards will we decide which sculpture to keep. Is not that a fine compromise?"
I stared at him – at both of them – in dismay. I knew that my thoughts must register clearly on my face, for I did not find the strength to smile or even just look blank. I could not help it.
"That... sounds rather like a contest," I managed, and heard my voice betray my feelings also.
"Well, in a way," Queen Indis said, and despite her mild voice I hated her, quite childishly, that moment. "But in a friendly way. Only you two will take part, and there will be no hard feelings. After all, even if you loose, you will still have done your part for the examination!"
She was smiling, and still I felt myself flooded with dislike. No hard feelings indeed. Making me compete with an accomplished master sculptor, even just in a friendly way, was a cruel thing to do!

Then I chided myself for such childish thoughts. As Indis had said, I did not need to win. I could pretend that Aulë had asked me to present a sculpture of the King's children for my final exam, rather than seeing the project as a real commission. A group was unusual, as an examination piece, but I could bear the idea of an unusual project – much better than the idea of a contest. I breathed deeply, and found my smile again.
"Yes, that sounds like a wise solution," I said, and added, "Thank you for giving me a chance."
"Gladly," said King Finwë. "Will you stay for dinner? Master Alcaráco is still at work now, but I am certain that you will wish to discuss things with him later on– surely he can give you some useful advice, too! And I still have some guild requests to look into. We can settle the details this afternoon, however, when you have spoken with Master Alcaráco. What say you?"
I bit my lip. "To be honest, my lord, I think my family will wait for me back by afternoon – I had not expected to stay here for so long..."
"Oh, that should not be a problem; if you wish to stay, I can send a messenger to let them know. You will not have to ride home on your own at night – I shall give you reliable company, of course."
I was not worried about riding on my own – what should happen? - but of course King Finwë, like my father, had grown up in Endorë (1), where loneliness could well be deadly. Apparently it was still a matter of worry for him. I for my part merely did not want my family to wonder what was taking me so long.
"A message to my parents would solve the problem, thank you very much," I said.
"Then it is decided?"
I nodded and smiled, although the idea of discussing things with Alcaráco wasn't overly thrilling and the idea of dinner with the king's family was downright daunting. But he was right – there were still details that had to be settled, such as when to work so that Alcaráco's and my schedules would not overlap too badly, and how much marble to order, and where to put up my make-shift workshop – I would have to work here at the palace, I realised with dread, for such a large sculpture could not easily be transported from my father's house to Tirion later on. Yes, there was much to discuss. So I accepted his invitation.

"Very good!" he smiled. "Wintillo, you will see to it that Master Mahtan will be informed of his daughter's whereabouts?"
"Certainly, sir," Wintillo said.
"And be so good as to find some entertainment for our guest, until Master Alcaráco has time for her, please..."
Wintillo was looking somewhat doubtful. King Finwë did not seem to notice.
"We have a wonderful library," Indis said, perhaps more observant than her husband.
"I should like to see that very much," said I, deciding that I did not dislike her so much after all.
"Very good," the king repeated. "Until later, then."
I curtsied, they nodded, and Wintillo held the door open for me.

I was grateful for the cool solitude of the library. Although I could hear the scratching of quills and some whispered conversation from the adjacent scriptorium, there was a peaceful atmosphere to the high-ceilinged, shelf-lined hall. I did not mind the giggles of the young scribes, nor the occasional reprimands from the older scholars; they blended into a friendly background hum. After Wintillo excused himself, I sat down with a book in one of the cushioned window-seats, but I was not truly there for reading. I stared at the elegant lettering without seeing it. Instead I made plans so that, when Master Alcaráco and the king had time to discuss further specifics with me, I would be able to speak wisely.
Not long after Laurelin's brightest hour, one of the young scribes came in to ask whether I wished to share their lunch. In all my excitement I hardly felt hungry, but I agreed nonetheless, assumig that the talks of the afternoon might well prove taxing and the promised dinner yet far away. Apparently the royal household only gathered for dinner, while the other meals were taken at everyone's leisure or as their tasks allowed. But of course they had people who had nothing to do but prepare food, while at a house like my father's we shared these duties on top of our usual work, and thus needed fixed times lest anyone go hungry, or any meal be uneaten.

The scholars took their lunch in the courtyard outside the library. They sat down in the lush grass while I sat on the stone steps of the gateway: It would not do to appear to the dinner later on with grass stains on my dress, for although it was green, surely such stains would have a different hue. One of the older scholars was Quessincë, a good friend of my mother – they had been students under the same tutors once. She sat with me, and introduced me to her two apprentices, Yestaro and Parmandil the son of Tanárion, my sister's other tutor. Both were cheerful and very likeable young men.
Despite the informal circumstances, the meal itself was very nice, a light soup of vegetables and grilled and skewered trout with toasted bread. Quessincë asked about my family and my studies while her students did their best to get me out of my pensive mood, and eventually succeeded. I even dared to use them as a test audience for my ideas about my work – to see if they, familiar with the life and circumstances of the palace, caught any vital thought I had missed, or had further advice. They had some, mostly concerning questions of workspace and materials, so I could refine my plans in my head.

Out of gratitude for their help, but also out of curiosity I let them show me what they were working on after the meal was finished. Yestaro's project was particularly fascinating: He was copying Rúmil's early accounts of Noldorin history. The difference between the sober original and Yestaro's ongoing work - much more elegant, each page adorned with an illuminated frame of intertwined branches – was striking. We hold Rúmil's words in such high respect, but seeing the undecorated pages and the unpracticed letters of his chronicle, I understood well why a better copy was needed for the king's library. Even Yestaro, a mere apprentice, could produce something more impressive than the uneven writing of these first accounts.
I praised Yestaro's hand accordingly. "Although the words themselves, of course, we owe to Rúmil's genius alone," I added before Quessincë might think me disrespectful.
"A cumbersome genius, for all that," said a scornful voice behind me, and I turned around to see the face of Prince Fëanáro. I barely suppressed a groan.
The prince had by now changed into more comfortable clothing, although in a chamber filled with dark-robed scholars the bright red of his tunic nonetheless made him stand out. Yestaro frowned while Quessincë merely gave him a good-natured smile, perhaps used to such antics. "Why cumbersome, Fëanáro? Have you been quarrelling with Rúmil?"
"Not in person," Fëanáro said with a shrug. After a glance at Yestaro's writing he added, "You left out a paragraph there."
Yestaro's frown deepened as he stared down at the page. "Where?" Quessincë and Parmandil also bent over the dark letters.
"Right here, after Heceldamarello. See?" Fëanáro pointed at Rúmil's original. "This line and that one both end on Heceldamarello, and you just jumped to the second incidence and left out everything in between."

That sort of thing was a reasonably common mistake that could happen even to experienced scribes, but Yestaro was mortified nonetheless; his face darkened, and his teeth worried his lower lip. Now that the error had been noticed, he would have to copy the entire passage anew, either using a new sheet altogether – which meant copying the back of the page, and spending long hours reproducing the elaborate frame and initials – or by trying to scrape the ink of the erroneous paragraph off the parchment, which was also tedious and might ruin the page; at the very least, it would leave traces. I felt sorry for him, and could not help giving Fëanáro a disapproving glare.
He raised his eyebrows. "Better to catch the mistake now than later on, with the book finished and bound, is it not?" he said in an innocent tone.
"Yes, of course," Yestaro said, his voice calm despite the colour in his face.
"After all," Fëanáro added, with a look in my direction, "we strive to work to the best of our abilities."
He was right, but I still felt sorry for Yestaro. His mistake might never have been noticed, for likely no one would read his copy next to the original, and the three lines he had left out – I checked – were not so vital that any potential reader would be confused by their absence. The sentence was a little unwieldy as Yestaro had written it, but not so badly that future readers would think less of him, or of Rúmil, if they even noticed the slight obliquity. It was a mere coincidence that someone had looked at the two versions side by side, and caught the tiny omission at a glance. How Fëanáro had been able to compare the two pages so quickly I could not tell, anyway.
"So we do," Quessincë said. "Thank you for paying such attention, Fëanáro – it might well have slipped mine." Yestaro sat down rather heavily, pushing the erroneous page away.
A small smile appeared on Fëanáro's face. "Surely not, Mistress Quessincë," he said pleasantly, though I thought that his smile rather agreed with her. "My eyes are no sharper than yours."
But you think your mind is, I thought angrily, and felt resentment like a cold weight in my chest. "Why, Prince Fëanáro, I thought that you were a smith, not a scholar. Are you certain that my father's house would be the right place for you?"

I was speaking too loud, for a scriptorium. The other scribes, who had so far paid little attention to our corner of the room, now all looked at us, some with disapproval in their eyes, some – particularly the apprentices – with curiosity. Fëanáro replied in a softer voice, his eyebrows raised in feigned innocence.
"Whyever not? I do not have to follow both ways at the same time, after all. Although I daresay I could – Mistress Istarnië (2) is, I believe, of the scholarly profession?"
"Of course she is. But are you not the one who insists on learning only from the best? Or does that apply only to smithcraft?"
Fëanáro shrugged. "I have not studied your mother's work yet, but since she and your father appear to be happily married, I take it that she cannot be wholly incompetent."
"That makes no sense at all."
Quessincë interrupted our argument. She was smiling, as yet – amused by our youthful silliness, I assume. "You give your mother too little credit, dear Nerdanel. Your father's reputation may shadow hers, but that makes her no less capable. But may I suggest that you continue your discussion outside? This is a workplace, after all..."
I bit my lip, embarrassed. "Yes, of course. I do beg your pardon."

"It makes perfect sense, of course," Fëanáro stated when we were out in the courtyard. "I do not believe that any marriage – any relationship, really – can be fortuitious if the partners are not on equal terms as concerns their skills, temperament and intellectual capacity. Roughly, at least. Any great difference, though initially overlooked, will sooner or later breed resentment – unless maybe one partner is too foolish to notice her, or maybe his, inferiority. I find it unlikely that your mother is so foolish, and I find it unlikely that someone like Master Mahtan could love a merely mediocre craftswoman. Thus Mistress Istarnië must at the very least be good, if not excellent at her work."
I could not help but laugh. "You speak with such conviction, Prince Fëanáro, but I must point out that you cannot have any experience concerning marriage. You speak beyond your age and knowledge."
He pursed his lips, clearly dissatisfied. "I can observe, and draw my conclusions, no matter what my age." His eyebrows went up, and his bright eyes stared into mine directly. "You should know that age is not essential. A greater than common mind may reach greater wisdom, much younger."
I tried not to laugh again. "Since you speak from observation, I take it your stepmother is as wise, and indeed as great a leader as is your father? After all, they appear to be happily married..." It was a foolish thing to do, provoking him like that. But it was, I thought, a simple way to prove him wrong.
His brow contracted in scorn, and he waved his hand dismissively. "She is of the Vanyar, and they love to worship those greater than themselves. I was speaking of purely Noldorin marriages, of course."
"Of course."
"You may not wish to believe me, Nerdanel, but I am quite confident that I am right." Again that disconcerting stare. I think he was challenging me to look away first. I did not do him the favour, but stared right back.
"I must pity you then, my lord," I said, "for if you are so very great and will not marry beneath your own... capacity, I must fear that you shall remain a bachelor forever."
I was not certain whether that gleam in his eyes was surprise or scorn or something else entirely. I certainly tried to put scorn into my own stare. His lip quirked, briefly, and at last he turned away. "How did your business with my father go?" he asked as though the argument had never happened.
"As well as I could hope, I suppose," I said, accepting the change of subject. "The queen has made a very sensible suggestion that will permit both Master Alcaráco and me to create a sculpture, rather than disappointing one of us."
"A contest? Between you and Alcaráco?"
"In a way. A friendly contest."
"That does not sound sensible at all."
I shrugged. "You only say that because you dislike Queen Indis." I began to walk, slowly.

Fëanáro fell into pace next to me.
"I do dislike Queen Indis," he agreed, "but I would say what I said even if I loved her. You must realise that her suggestion makes rivals of you and Alcaráco, and in the end, one of you will be disappointed."
I shrugged again. "I can bear the disappointment, I am sure."
"You could, maybe," Fëanáro stated in a flat voice. "But what about Alcaráco?"

I stopped in my tracks. I laughed, half nervous and half surprised. That thought had briefly crossed my mind, and I had banished it quickly, for wasn't it sheer arrogance to even think that I might surpass Master Alcaráco, even if I was not to be an apprentice much longer? Of course it was, and so I had not dared to think of it. Hearing it voiced by someone else – moreover by Prince Fëanáro, who could not be interested in flattering me – was a relief.
"That is highly unlikely," I said airily.
"Unlikely is not impossible."
"We do not need to discuss semantics."
Fëanáro clasped my hands. My first impulse was to tear free at once. I managed to resist it, but he must have guessed that his touch made me uncomfortable, for he let go of my hands and took a step back. The memory of his warm hands lingered on my skin.
Meanwhile, he began to pace again. "You do realise that I am right, however?"
I shook my head. "It will not happen."
"It might."
"I do not want to consider it now. I will think of something, if only I get some time for myself."
He had noticed that I was not walking along, and so stood and turned to face me again.
"So you mean to say that I keep you from thinking?"
"From sorting my thoughts, yes."
He snorted. "You were not sorting your thoughts in the library either."
I folded my arms across my chest. "I was before lunch."
"Did it help?"
"Quite."
"That is good to hear." A slight smirk crept over his face. "If you are done thinking, my offer to show you the gardens is still good, by the way."
I shook my head, more violently than I had intended. "I do not wish to go too far away. I am just waiting for Master Alcaráco to finish his work for today, for I need to discuss some things with him."
"Are you going to ask him not to be angry if you do better than he?"
"Assuredly not."
"I don't think it would help, anyway. But it's hopeless to wait for him, I think. He's been keeping me all of yesterday, and several hours this morning. Obsessed with details. I believe he counted my every hair when he sketched me." I rolled my eyes at such an absurd story.
"And now he's started on Nolofinwë, the little pest, so I doubt he's going to be available before dinner."
"Prince Nolofinwë is smaller than you are. And possibly less loquacious."
"Now that is not only unlikely, but, in fact, impossible. He may talk less sense, however."
If Master Alcaráco asked little Nolofinwë to sit in silence, the child would very likely obey as best he could, I thought. If he asked the same of Fëanáro, he would probably find himself in a lengthy discussion of the term silence. Or of rank. But I did not voice these thoughts, instead asking, "So how long has Master Alcaráco been working on this commission?"
"I told you. Since yesterday."
"So he took care of the composition and sketched you and your siblings(3), and then he worked with you alone?" That made much more sense than the hair-counting story. But Fëanáro shook his head.
"No. I had to pose for him, all by myself, all day." He mimicked a traditional modelling pose, hands raised as if to underline some unspoken point, hip slightly tilted, left foot forward, a rather vacant look on his face. Then he returned to his usual posture and shrugged. "As Nolofinwë now poses alone."
"So Master Alcaráco grouped you at some other time?"
A frown. "There was no other time. He started yesterday, with me." He spoke slowly, stressing each word, as if annoyed to repeat himself.

Now this made no sense at all. If Master Alcaráco was taking such detailed sketches already, he must have decided which posture and position each of the children would take in the finished sculpture. This in turn suggested that he had taken preliminary sketches of them together, or at any rate let them pose together in order to plan the next steps. Of course he could skip any such composition sketches if he simply lined them up in the sculpture, one next to the other. That was perfectly possible. But it was an uninspired thing to do – not something you'd expect on an important commission for the king himself. Unless perhaps Master Alcaráco could visualise the composition so perfectly before his mind's eye that he already knew exactly how each child should stand or sit, without seeing them perform his ideas.
That must be it, I decided. He was, after all, an accomplished sculptor.
But even then, even before I had rightly decided on what exactly I would do, I knew that I would not follow his example.

Chapter End Notes

(1) Dark, dangerous Middle-earth.

(2) Istarnië is, strictly speaking, a name for Nerdanel in some of the earlier drafts. As the published Silmarillion goes with Nerdanel, however, "Istarnië" was sort of in the open. Naturally it might just be Nerdanel's father-name or somesuch, but why waste a perfectly good name for something that is never used? So I decided to kidnap the name and use it for Nerdanel's mother. I think I'm not the first fanficcer to do that. :)

(3) Assuming that Nerdanel has not yet reached the magic age of 50, that Fëanor is younger than she, and that Fingolfin is in his early twenties, "the others" must be Findis and Írimë (or Finvain, but that doesn't seem to fit linguistically with the rest of the bunch). Finarfin, according to the Annals of Aman, wasn't born until Fëanor was 61 and Fingolfin 40. Pity, I would've liked to include toddler Finarfin in this. But I figured I should try and stick to the timeline for once. As for Faniel, I'm so confused by the different versions (is she Finwë's third child or the youngest or is Faniel just yet another name for Írimë?) that personally I'm going to assume that she would be even younger than as-yet-unborn Finarfin. Your mileage may vary.