Stone-spun by Arveldis

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Stone-spun

Written for Tolkien Gen Week Day 1: Family.

“Every block of stone has a story hidden within it,” Mahtan said, balancing Nerdanel upon his knee. His hands, warm and large, calloused and grey with stone dust, cradled hers as she pressed the point of the awl against the smooth slab and held the hammer behind it.

His hand drew hers back, then swung forward. The awl chipped into the stone, and Nerdanel’s hand wobbled with the force of the hammer’s impact.

“Some stories appear quickly, emerging head and shoulders from the rough shapes of your first cuts,” her father said, his head so close to hers that his breath stirred her hair, “and you know then that you can tell no story but theirs, for it must be told, or else forever be left untold—for it cannot be told only in part. Others emerge slowly, and they do not permit their discovery to be hurried, for the process of the discovery is itself a part of their story.” 

“What is this stone’s story?” she asked, glancing up at him. Mahtan’s red beard was speckled with the grey dust of the stone, looking as if he had turned from stone to flesh and bits of his former state still clung to him.

His eyes twinkled as he looked down at her. “That is for you to discover, winime.”

Nerdanel peered hard at the stone, searching for something that might aid in her discovery, but she saw nothing but smooth, impassive stone. “Do you already know it?”

“No,” he said. “And even if I did, I cannot draw from the stone the same story that your hands can coax from it. An artist may work with the same material as another, and may discover the same essence of a story, but they can never tell the same story, for the skill of their hands and the memory of their own story leaves its mark on their work. No storyteller tells the same story as another, though the pieces of the story remain the same.”

Nerdanel pondered this, furrowing her brow. “Then how do you know that you have told the story correctly?”

Her father’s voice rumbled against her back, pressed to the pillar of his chest. “It will tell you.”

His hand curved over hers again, and she steadied the awl against the stone block. Together, their hands withdrew and surged with the fluidity of the tide chasing the shoreline, chipping, chipping, chipping, until the story rose from the dust.

Shapes strange and wonderful bloomed from her hands—the hearts of the trees, captured in living form and the thoughts of the sea, pinned in stone; the wings of the wind and the speech of the flowers, made visible; the manifest forms of the Ainur, viewed in glimpses and preserved in marble unyielding. Her father’s workshop was become a bestiary of things marvelous and terrible in their beauty, and she thrilled in the works of her hands. 

The workshop teemed with Nerdanel’s sculptures. Still more stood in watchful silence in the halls of their family’s house and beneath the shadows of the trees in their garden; others stood proud upon the terraces and pavilions of neighbors’ and customers’ houses.

Nerdanel spent more time in the workshop than she did outside of it, coaxing the veins of marble to bend to her will, until the curves of the sculptures were silk beneath her hands. She left the workshop only to gather inspiration—standing upon the sea cliffs with the wind tugging at her hair, walking in the golden fields of the Valar as the breeze whispered through the stalks, studying the silver light of evening as it fell upon the lakes and pools, considering the iridescent gleam of the pearls and jewels strewn upon the shores of the Teleri, placing her hands upon the roots of Taniquetil from which its might and majesty grew to towering heights. 

Nothing was too great or too small to escape her study of it, to seek the very heart of it and understand its pieces and workings—for storytelling, she had come to learn, required knowledge of the world and one’s place in it.

Mahtan worked alongside her, sometimes accompanying her on her wanderings among the hills and cliffs, but more often he was a steady presence in the workshop, shaping his own pieces as she shaped hers. He spoke no words of advice unless she asked for his thoughts, and even then he spoke little of his own mind, counseling her to sit with her piece and let the thought of it take shape in her mind.

His glance strayed often to her as she worked, and Nerdanel caught glimpses of the pride that shone bright and fierce upon his face. It was through his praise of her work that word of her craftsmanship had spread throughout Tirion, for the word of Mahtan was trusted in all matters of craft, and his praise was held in high esteem.

Nerdanel looked up from her piece to watch her father, sitting before the workshop’s large bay of windows, the golden light of high noon glancing off his copper circlet and gleaming upon his hair as he wove several lengths of wire together, and she smiled, content.

Nerdanel wiped her brow and sighed, leaning her forearm against the stubborn block of stone and resting her head upon her arm. For a year she had worked upon this piece, tracing the shape of the stone and feeling the veins of the story, chipping away at its casing and seeking its heart, but to no avail. 

No story answered the pleas of her awl; no shape called to her from beneath her fingertips, seeking to be released.

She was at a loss. Never had a piece brought her such trouble as this. Her successful pieces lined the walls of the workshop in a mocking display, watching her defeat.

She felt her father’s gaze upon her and lifted her head.

Mahtan’s gaze as he watched her was kind. “The stories of stone cannot be hurried, Nerdanel. You know this.”

“I have waited for a year for this one to emerge,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“Perhaps it is not yet time for it to emerge,” he said gently. “Just as the crops of the field grow in their time, so do stories. They cannot be told before they are grown to fullness.”

“Is the fault then in the craftsman or the stone that the story cannot yet be told?” she returned, exasperated.

Her father merely smiled. “There is no fault in either. Have patience, Nerdanel. It will be ready in time.”

Nerdanel felt her father’s gaze upon her as Fëanáro left the workshop, having finished his work for the day, and she glanced at him.

Mahtan sat in his customary position before the windows, the late-afternoon light of Laurelin spilling through the windows and falling upon him in a golden wash. He was smiling at her. “Fëanáro is very fond of you, Nerdanel.”

“I introduced him to you and secured his training here; he has good reason to think kindly of me,” she said with a sliver of a smile, even as her heart stirred at her father’s words. 

“You know that is not what I speak of.” Mahtan’s voice was warm and knowing. “Fëanáro loves you; it is evident in his manner and how often he asks you to accompany him into the hills—and that he still trains here, though his skill in craftsmanship has far surpassed mine.”

Nerdanel began to protest, but her father held up his hand. “It is true. He has long grown past what I can teach him, and that he still remains here would be a mystery, but for how his gaze lingers upon you, seldë.”

Nerdanel set her awl upon the work-table next to her and laid her hands in her lap. “Perhaps your words are true,” she said, “but how would one such as I catch the eye of the crown prince of the Noldor, much less earn his affection?” She was no great beauty, she knew, and she was at peace with the fact, for the beauty of her works she could craft with her hands mattered more to her than any beauty she might claim for herself. 

The women of the court of Tirion were far more likely to draw his gaze—and were much better suited to be the wife of the crown prince. Nerdanel cared little for court politics, and indeed, living on the outskirts of Tirion where the slopes of the city ran down to the sea, had little need to pay attention to them. She rarely ventured into court and hardly knew how to conduct herself when there.

Mahtan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “No one knows to whom their heart will bend, and the ways and courses of love cannot be predicted.” He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Do you love him, Nerdanel?”

“Yes,” Nerdanel said, thinking of the many moments they had spent together upon the hills and in the workshop, her heart thrilling at his nearness, her mind marvelling at his skill, and her soul longing for his. “Yes, I do,” she said again, and she pressed her lips together to curb the smile that stole across her face.

Mahtan’s smile grew, and his eyes crinkled with fondness. “That is well,” he said, “for I would have my daughter marry no lesser craftsman.”

Nerdanel laughed, bright and clear.

Nerdanel bent and checked the cloth that encased one of her statues, feeling over the fabric to ensure that any jutting points had been adequately covered and protected. Seeing that it had been wrapped satisfactorily, she turned and directed one the Elves who had been enlisted to transport her statues from her father’s workshop to the palace.

Wiping her brow, she surveyed the workshop. It seemed empty now, with so many of her works already gone, loaded into the wains that waited outside the workshop. Very few of her statues remained, all wrapped in thick cloth and waiting to be carried outside. 

Only one of her works stood untouched: the piece that she had never been able to finish. It would stay in her father’s workshop, for something in her heart told her that its time was still far off.

A wave of emotion rose within her, looking at the emptied workshop that held so many of her most cherished memories. Tears gathered in her eyes against her will, and she brushed them away before they could fall. Today was a day of happiness, not of sorrow, for she was to move to the palace and finish the preparations for her wedding.

Behind her came the sound of stone dust being trod underfoot, and she turned.

Mahtan stood in the doorway of the workshop, and his gaze travelled the empty room, then fell upon her. He wore a sad, wistful expression that made Nerdanel’s heart ache.

Nerdanel offered him a watery smile, and he drew near to her at once, folding her into his arms and stroking her hair with his stone-roughened hands. He pressed his cheek to the crown of her head, and she clung to him, letting the moment linger.

“You have made me proud beyond words, arimelda,” he whispered, and she smiled against his chest and held him tighter.

The silver light of evening washed over the streets of Tirion, and the crushed diamonds beneath Nerdanel’s feet glittered in answer as she hurried down the sloping streets. A gentle breeze wafted through the streets, carrying with it the faint tang of the sea and the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine. Overhead, the stars glinted, the only witnesses to her passage, and the silver beacon of Mindon Eldaliéva pierced the depths of the sky and shone far out to the sea. She followed the beam of its light to the outskirts of the city, where her father’s house stood a little apart from the others, gleaming faintly in Telperion’s light.

She raised her hand and knocked, and the doors swung open. Her father stood before her, grief and love etched in his face. She stood silent for a moment, unable to speak as a multitude of emotions welled within her, and then her father’s arms were around her, tucking her in his embrace.

And Nerdanel at last lay her grief bare and wept bitterly onto his shoulder for the husband and sons she had lost.

Mahtan led her through the halls of the house, past the inner courtyard where birds roosted in the interlaced arms of the trees, and to the workshop that abutted the house. Inside, he lit the copper-wire lanterns one by one until the workshop was lit with warm light, and then he settled at his work-table before the wide windows, giving Nerdanel space to gather her thoughts.

In the corner of the workshop stood a solitary stone slab, covered with a sheet—the piece she had never finished. Nerdanel crossed the room and withdrew the sheet, baring the stone, and she traced the contours of her earlier marks upon it, marks made before she could understand the grief of the story that hid within it.

And as the distant torches of the Noldor seared the night in their flight, she sat before the stone slab, and she drew from it the story that had long waited for her—one of pain, anger, grief, and love.

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