Five Times Nerdanel Said 'Yes' by oshun

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Alqualondë under the Stars

Raise me a dais of silk and down,
Hang it with vair and purple dyes.
Carve it in doves and pomegranates
And peacocks with a hundred eyes.  — Christina Rossetti

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~oOo~

 “What kind of seafood do they serve?” Ñolofinwë asked, wrinkling his nose.

Nerdanel restrained herself with great difficulty from remarking that only Ñolofinwë could travel hours to spend two days at the seashore south of Alqualondë and worry that he might be compelled to eat seafood. She thought it was hilarious, but wasn’t sure Fëanáro would think so.

“Shrimp,” Anairë snapped, giving Ñolofinwë a sideways glance. Everyone laughed. “The best shrimp on the coast. All kinds—steamed, in a stew, sautéed in olive oil, pickled in lime with cilantro and onions. You can ask for them deep fried in batter if you like. They make rice cooked with shrimp, butter, and cheese. . . ”

“Anything else besides shrimp?” Ñolofinwë asked.

Fëanáro snorted. “Amazing garlic soup. But you’d really be missing something not to try the shrimp. Fresh caught every day. If you look out the window, you can see the lights of all the shrimp boats going out to sea right now!”

“I guess I might try the garlic soup. Does that have a chicken or fish base?”

“He’s hopeless,” said Fëanáro, throwing his hands up and looking to Anairë for support.

Anairë laughed and took hold of Ñolofinwë’s hand. “Stop teasing your brother, Ñolvo. That’s so unkind. You’re making Nerdanel anxious.” Looking around at them all and smiling, she said, “He’s pulling your leg again, Fëanáro. You make it too easy for him! He knows the menus for all of these places up and down the coast. We’ve been here often enough with Aró and Eärwen.”

Arafinwë laughed. “Hey! Let’s share one of the family-sized clay pots of garlic soup and order two of their platters of oysters, clams, mussels, shrimp, and scallops. That way we can try a little of everything and still get plenty of their amazing soup. Does everyone want a bowl?” Without waiting for them to answer, he smiled engagingly at the waiter. “The garlic soup and six bowls, please.” He grinned at Ñolofinwë who smiled back, too relaxed to rise to Arafinwë’s teasing, perhaps even a little tipsy.

“Ñolvo loves the scallops,” Eärwen said. “Don’t let him gobble them all up before you’ve tried any.”

Two hours later, with bellies full of the seafood and the truly masterful soup made with garlic roasted to a creamy sweetness and plenty of butter. Not to mention that it felt like the six of them had consumed enough wine to sink one of those lovely Telerin swan-hulled ships. The women, unable to move, listened to the harp music. Feeling dreamy and relaxed Nerdanel allowed herself to lean heaving on Fëanáro. She noted the silver-haired musician, expert though he was, could not compare to Macalaurë. Just then the harpist caught her eye and winked, as though he recognized her. She smiled back, wondering if he had studied with her boy at the conservatory in Alqualondë. Those classes had been filled with the prodigies of a musical people, but the sole Noldo in his group Macalaurë had made them proud.

She might have dozed off if the three brothers had not continued to verbally spar with more lazy affection than competitiveness, as subdued as Finwë’s sons ever could be. Having each eaten an impressive amount, while the innkeeper’s daughter kept their wine glasses full, they had worn out their earlier vehemence over court politics in Tirion.

Fëanáro still returned from time to time to the question of whether to sleep on the beach, seek a room in this inn, or look for other accommodations—perhaps someplace more sumptuous, maybe in one of the larger hostels closer to the village center. Raising five boys had given Nerdanel a high tolerance for assigning desultory arguing to ambient noise not worthy of her attention.

Caring little for propriety in their corner table tucked into the shadows of a back corner of the nearly empty dining room, she snuggled closer to Fëanáro. She closed her eyes, tucking her head under his chin, her ear against his chest, enjoying the rumble of his voice and the beat of his heart. He smelled of the warm sand and the sea. His body heat made her feel pleasantly drowsy and safe. Although nearly asleep, he knew would not take much to push her contentment onto a more urgently physical plane, but neither were in no hurry. She thought she could sleep anywhere, although a soft mattress did sound more appealing than bedrolls on the sand.

Arafinwë described in irritating detail the luxuries of the large hotel just up the road on the crest of the hill. While Fëanáro argued that although he had been pressing for somewhat more lavish accommodations he knew it to be unconscionably expensive for its value. Ñolofinwë insisted morosely that it didn’t matter anyway since it was almost certainly too late to find a room anywhere.

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” said Arafinwë. “It’s a great night to sleep on the beach.”

“Enough bickering!” Eärwen ordered at last. “Everyone is tired. We’re already here. I’m going to ask if they have enough a room large enough to sleep all of us. Unless someone wants to arm wrestle me over the task,” she planted her elbow on the table, offering her small hand to Fëanáro. The men chuckled.  Arafinwë wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck.

"I trust you, little princess,” Fëanáro said in an agreeable tone—he had been the one most stridently arguing a little earlier in the evening to stay where they were. “Or I’d be happy to go talk to proprietor if you like.”

“I want to. I've known these people since I was a child. I should go into the kitchen and say, ‘hello’ to our host’s wife anyway.” Eärwen nodded in the direction of the laughing innkeeper, who was teasing the harp player about his choice of music—not the usual traditional Telerin tunes found in an inn on the beach, but more moody, fashionable selections. The harpist probably had been a classmate of Macalaurë’s to have brought such skill and sophisticated taste to these humble environs. The proprietor was a whale of an elf—broad shouldered and thick-necked—who appeared to have been feasting on his own hearty fare for years. Eärwen untangled herself from her husband and wended her way through the unoccupied tables. The man nodded a smiling obeisance to Eärwen while bowing gracefully from the waist toward their table. The musician launched into a hackneyed Noldorin tune.

“In honor of visiting royalty from the West,” Arafinwë said, sticking his nose in the air pompously before deflating into a tipsy giggle. Unkempt and bedraggled as they all were from their day in the wind, surf, and sand, nothing could tarnish the golden beauty of Finwë’s youngest son.

~oOo~

The landlord showed them the last uninhabited room in the inn, freshly scrubbed and polished, smelling of lavender-scented linen and the highest quality beeswax candles, but containing only two over-sized beds.

“This is all we have unless someone would like to sleep under the stars. I have a double wooden bedstead under a canopy on the roof. We have an excellent down-filled mattress that fits it. Takes but a moment to make it up.”

Fëanáro gave Nerdanel’s arm a quick tug and hissed into her ear, “Don’t even think of offering to share the beds with them!” It was all she could do to hold back a laugh.

“It’s going to be a beautiful night. Not a chance of rain,” he insisted loud in his show of amiable enthusiasm. “We’ll take the roof.” His tone conveyed that he would accept no argument, from the innkeeper or his brothers. The three women exchanged smirks with one another. Under similar circumstances, Fëanáro had been known to pull advanced age and rank on them to get his way.

Arafinwë did not bother to hold back an inebriated snort and a teasingly malicious look, flopping himself onto his back, spread-eagle on the nearest bed.  “Have it your way! Enjoy the roof. This is a beautiful room.” And it indeed was a charming room—spacious, longer than it was wide, with white-washed walls and dark-stained wooden support beams. Windows open to the night air allowed the room to fill with the scent of the ocean as well and the sound of the waves.

Nerdanel knew that Fëanáro had no eye for the long chamber’s appealing details and an urgent desire to settle the two of them on the roof—alone—as soon as he heard of the possibility. He had always had a partiality for sleeping in the open-air and did not like to share sleeping quarters. Nerdanel accepted his idea without objection, for she had never been one to lightly squash his enthusiasm for any reasonable preference. That night she loved how young and carefree he looked. He insisted upon helping the landlord’s mumbling, clumsy, adolescent son carry their bed furnishings up to the roof. The innkeeper’s wife directed her to a shower at the end of the hall beyond the sleeping loft where she could ready herself for bed.

When Nerdanel, at last, climbed the staircase onto the roof, she was totally unprepared for what she found. Gauzy lengths of cloths, hanging from a simple wooden frame surrounding the promised feather bed, billowed and rippled in a gentle sea breeze. The bed with its opulent furnishings looked as though it belonged in a fantasy tale of an exotic world of ancient magic and high romance.

Her husband clasped the innkeeper’s brawny shoulder while pumping his hand in good-natured camaraderie, grinning in a way that accentuated his deep dimples and showed his even white teeth. He knew how to use his splendid looks and his magnetism when he desired.

The landlord beamed, nodding back at him entranced by the first prince of the Noldor. The nobles and bureaucrats of Tirion might be surprised, she thought, to see how differently the people of the north and the coast perceived Fëanáro. Many courtiers and officials on the hill viewed the king’s designated heir as arrogant or even cold. Finwë knew and appreciated how much Fëanáro was loved amongst the common people, particularly the miners and craftsmen outside of Valinor. And the folk of Alqualondë still remembered him as the boy genius who had enthusiastically jumped at the chance to help his father’s craftsmen design and build their shipyards, markets, and the remarkable city wall. The king believed a ruler needed to look beyond the elite families around the court for approval and support. Perhaps he had taught his eldest son that lesson far too well.

~oOo~

The faint shimmering rays of Telperion that reached the coast allowed one to see the blue of the sea and yet still allowed the stars to shine sharp and bright against the dark sky. Nerdanel was almost sober again by the time she crawled under the light coverlet their host had left for them.

Fëanáro reached out to her and pulled her into his arms and down onto his chest. “Precious,” he whispered into her ear, his voice achingly soft with an indolent sensuality she had not heard for a while. They had desperately needed to get away from Tirion, from his work, from hers, and even from the boys. People who have never had children might not recognize that the constant worry does not end even when the youngest reaches maturity. One shares their joys and takes a perhaps unearned pride in their accomplishments, but one also shoulders their doubts, mistakes, and their growing pains.

And then there had been the initially unwelcome announcement from her first-born that he was in love with his cousin—and not a kissing cousin from one of her mother’s more distant kin in the north, a close cousin from Tirion and a male one at that. She did not for a moment questioned what Maitimo found irresistible about Ñolofinwë and Anairë’s eldest. Darling Finno was an especially captivating boy—even among Finwë’s remarkable grandchildren—passionate and clever, good-natured and generous, rivaling even Maitimo in beauty, everything that Ñolofinwë himself might have been had he not been nurtured in the shadow of his older half-brother.

No one who loved those two young men and knew them well had any doubt they were more than willing to endure any hardship to be together. But as a mother, she could not but worry that lack of general acceptance of their unusual pairing would make their lives harder than those of most of their peers.

But that night on the seashore under the stars, they were far away from the quotidian dramas that consumed so much their energy. Now there was only Fëanáro smiling down at her and calling her ‘my dear love’ and ‘sweetheart,’ happy and relaxed after a day on the beach, and a few too many glasses of wine. Thank the Valar that he had not imbibed nearly enough to affect performance, but a sufficient amount to tightly lock away the worst of his own closely-guarded demons.

“Doesn’t this outdo the most comfortable bed in a room shared with my half-brothers and their wives?” he crowed, holding both arms open in the air as though to embrace the sky. “This is perfect! Admit it!”

“Stop!” she giggled, tickling his ribs. “You know it’s magical. Like something out of a storybook. A maiden’s dream.”

He snorted, “Some maiden.” She smacked him on the bicep, unable to hold back a laugh. “Ah, only the best for you, my love. Now, put your hand back where you had it before you started slapping me around.”

“Ah, Feanaro, I know why you wanted to be alone on the roof. You have big plans.”

“I always have plans. But I did hope that I might convince you to consider the little girl I was speaking of.” He blew out a big puff of air and pulled her nearly up onto his chest. “How can you insist that you do not particularly care for children? You are a wonderful mother.” That was an old refrain!

“I love my own. The feeling doesn’t generalize for me,” she sighed and tried to honestly answer. “I have learned to love Findekáno almost as though he were my own. And who could not love Arafinwë’s eldest Findaráto? What a charming little boy he was and now is such a pleasant young man. Reminds me of Maitimo when he was younger.”

“He’s sharp enough. He has more sense than his father.”

“You always underestimate Aró. But my point is not that I don’t adore our children, or even the ones belonging to your brothers, but we have a lot now and most of them will marry girls. That will give us some daughters! Look at Findekáno. He is practically a like a son.”

She knew Fëanáro delighted in babies and children. When he looked at his own, his entire face softened and his eyes lit up with a look of amazement. That was to be expected, ordinary even, for doesn’t every father take joy in his sons?

Fëanáro’s fascination did not end with his own issue. He approached strangers carrying babies in markets or the city center and admired their less than perfect examples of the Eldarin race, not above tickling them under their drool-wet chins and even cooing until they gurgled and laughed. He would reach out his arms to hold and comfort a squalling infant—anybody’s baby—without a second thought. Despite his reputation as a solitary genius, he did, in fact, collaborate with not only his apprentices but other craftsmen and scholars as well. But, beyond all that, his reputation as teacher and mentor for young smiths rivaled that of her father.

“I like kids,” he’d said, reading her thoughts. “They are exhilarating . . . unpredictable, challenging, open, receptive . . . they observe the world without prejudices or preconceptions.”

“If you say, so dear.” She tried and failed to keep the indulgence out of her voice.

“We have so much. Why shouldn’t we want to share it—material wealth and special gifts.” He leaned over her, his face haloed in the silver light of Telperion, heartbreaking in its beauty. As though giving her a better look, might help him make his case. “Don’t patronize me, Nerdanel!”

“I would not dream of it,” she protested laughing, lacing her fingers in his heavy hair and pulling his head down, unable to take her eyes away from his full lips. He was a phenomenon at kissing, although that was something they had perfected together.

“So are you willing to consider making a sixth?” He slid his hand down her stomach and slid two fingers inside of her causing her to gasp. “There are too many males in our house. Imagine a tiny girl as beautiful and brilliant as her mother.”

She released a desperate moan, before murmuring, “You’d spoil her rotten!”

“Like I do you?” He whispered. No one could claim he spoiled her, except for moments like these.

“Mmm,” she moaned, responding to his touches.

“So maybe you wouldn’t mind? Is that a ‘yes’?”

“I guess it’s not a ‘no.’”

After they had made love he cuddled against her, happy but not ecstatic. He always claimed to be able to sense the moment of begetting. She had never been sure if she thought she might have because he convinced her he had felt the new life take hold and their rapport at the climactic moment was always so strong. He had never been wrong, however.

“Well,” she said drawing out the word, still breathless from their lovemaking. “I guess we did not succeed in making the girl-baby you were hoping for.”

“If you’d have wanted it badly enough, you might have offered a prayer or two to one of your favorites among the Ainur,” he complained, with a languid relaxed smile, but not unwilling to make a little jab at her attitude toward the Valar.

She laughed and stretched, happy and satisfied. He was a generous and intuitive lover. She’d probably endured a lot of grief and irritating nonsense in their marriage because of that capacity. “If you really want another one then you will simply have to try again, won’t you?” she teased.

“Already?” he asked, trying to sound shocked. “You’re an insatiable little beast!” His attempt at surprise or horror only succeeded in him making him sound affectionate and amused but, most of all, extremely pleased with himself.

A little later he initiated another slower and gentler bout of lovemaking than the first, but with the unique intensity of purpose that Fëanáro brought to any creative act, irresistibly drawing her with him into what felt like another dimension of consciousness. There was no part of her body or spirit that wanted to resist. Male or female, she told herself. This one will definitely be the last.

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Chapter End Notes

Not the last chapter yet. Still another one to go, but it is already finished. Just needs a little more work!