Mahtan's Apprentice by WendWriter

First Impressions

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Daylight glinted off the circlet Mahtan was working on. His commission to make a tiara for Eärwen daughter of Olwë was a prestigious one, and he was very proud of what he had achieved so far. As he regarded the delicate silver filigree that graced the golden circlet, he considered the jewels he would add to it. Adamant, for certain, but would rubies or emeralds set off the metals better? Some copper had been added to redden the gold, which, Mahtan found, had complicated the issue: which would work best - contrast or complement? His gaze strayed to the box where the gemstones lay in small compartments, graded by colour, not type.

He scratched his rusty beard as he considered this, with a frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Father?"

The soft musical voice of his daughter roused him from his deliberation. "Yes?" he asked, without turning to her.

"Fëanáro is here."

Mahtan turned around. There beside his sturdy girl stood the son of Finwë, his grey eyes moving slowly as they took in the details of the room. Fëanáro appeared to be curious and interested what he saw, but showed no sign of wonderment.

"My lord," said Fëanáro, and bowed dutifully.

"Good morning, Fëanáro," replied Mahtan, his expression impassive.

He knew Fëanáro by sight, but had never been formally introduced to him. His reputation as a sullen churl who resented his father's second wife did little to recommend him. If this pale-faced fellow loved her as much as she believed he did, he would take an interest in those things she held dear. Assisting her father was one of them.

He gazed appraisingly at Fëanáro, then held up the tiara. "Come, both of you," he said, "and help me choose the right jewels to set in this diadem. Should they be red or green?"

"Is this the one you are making for the lady Eärwen?" asked Nerdanel.

"Indeed it is," replied Mahtan.

"Let me see the jewels," said Fëanáro.

"I think rubies would be best," suggested Nerdanel. "They would complement the colours of the metal. Besides, she favours red, for it is not a common colour to her."

With an attitude of utter familiarity, Fëanáro sauntered over to the bench and rooted in the box. He examined each of the gems therein by holding them up to view them in the light that shone through the window, selected seven small stones of different colours, and held them in one long-fingered hand. He turned to Mahtan, and proffered them. "Use these," he said, as though expecting his choice to be accepted at once.

Mahtan scowled at the insolent Noldor prince. None of the jewels was red. Nor were they green. They were all shades of blue. The biggest stone was also the palest, the colour of the sky at the time of the mingling of the lights. "Fëanáro, why have you chosen these?"

The lad's eyes widened in confusion. "Because they are the right ones," he replied. "Put the biggest in the middle, and you will see what I mean."

"Fëanáro..."

"You did ask," said Fëanáro, his lower lip twitching in apparent annoyance.

"If it should be red or green," said Mahtan firmly. Was this the one his daughter wanted to wed? This arrogant, callow youth?

"Yes," argued Fëanáro, "but you had other gems that you had not considered. Why did you not think of these?"

"The colours of the metal..." began Nerdanel, in a defensive tone.

"Are perfectly suited to the gems I have selected," argued Fëanáro. He took the tiara and pushed the largest gem into the setting Mahtan had intended for the adamant and folded down the tines to hold it in place with his thumbnail. "See? It fits perfectly!"

It did. Mahtan rubbed his chin. To his annoyance, the lad was right. It was the right choice. That gem sat in its place as if it belonged there. He watched as Fëanáro added the other stones he had chosen to the diadem, then put it on his own head - the impudent brat - but ah, how beautiful it looked!

"I shall show it to the lady later on today and see what she says," said Mahtan. The vindicated look on Fëanáro's face annoyed him. "I shall see you both in the house."

The Noldor prince lifted the tiara from his head and held it out.

Mahtan took it, his stern gaze boring into Fëanáro's cloud-grey eyes. He had heard of the precocity of the son of Finwë, and now that he could see it for himself, he did not like it. What was it Nerdanel saw in him? Fëanáro dipped his head, turned and followed her out of the forge.

Mahtan watched them leave, put the tiara and his other tools away, then tidied up his forge before he went into the house.

TBC...

Hopes and Fears

I'm not bashing Indis, Fëanáro is. Worry not - he won't get away with it...

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Apprehension mingled with worry in Fëanáro's heart. He knew he had not made a good impression on Mahtan, but what could he do? 'I was only trying to help,' he thought. Words and phrases he had often heard at home assailed him.

Your tone is so aggressive. Must you have an answer for everything?

Did he not have a right to defend himself? He had to prove himself in some way to become acceptable, did he not? But everything he said and did was either wrong, or done wrongly.

The way you present yourself to others bespeaks a deeply self-centred person.

But they took no interest in him! Nothing he cared about mattered to them.

Why must you contradict your elders?

Because the truth was there, no matter who said it. He intended but to help, not offend.

The feelings that bubbled inside Fëanáro were eased by the presence of the lady he loved. He intended to marry her, but he was afraid that he might have annoyed her father too much for him to consent. Son of a Noldor king or not, he would have to humble himself.

The home of Mahtan was actually a complex of buildings. The biggest, of course, was the house, a fine mansion built from red sandstone and roofed with slate. At the front, a paved path through a lush lawn led to a large pale polished wooden double door. The other buildings lay behind the house, past a screen of hedgerows. They were his workshops, storehouses, tool sheds and utility rooms where the laundry and other such necessities were attended to.

Along the path, past these buildings, Nerdanel led Fëanáro to the house.

"That is where we do the laundry," she explained, with an incline of her head towards a whitewashed shed in which wicker baskets slotted into each other in front of three large copper tubs. Crimped brass-fronted washboards hung from nails above the tubs.

"Indeed," he replied, aware of what it was, "but why have you got cloths spread out on the grass like that?"

"That is how we whiten them."

"Do you not use lant* for it?"

"Yes, and the light works with it to increase the effects of the bleach."

Nerdanel's thick eyebrows rose. She halted and turned to face him. "How do you know what lant is?"

With a shrug, Fëanáro replied, "Whenever Indis thought I was naughty, she made me go and help with the laundry."

"That was also a punishment for me," she told him, a spark of amusement shining in her verdigris eyes.

"Why did you ask me about it?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Her awkward grimace in response to this amused him. He had often been in a position in which he had made an assumption, only to be told he was wrong.

"I would have thought.." Her words ground to a halt.

"What?"

"You would have been given something less..."

"Demeaning, by giving me a task that the maidservants do?"

"Yes."

"Indis deems me too proud, and must needs clip my wings to stop me flying too high," he told her, in a matter-of-fact tone.

The gentle touch of Nerdanel's hand as it came to rest on his shoulder soothed Fëanáro's troubled mind. He raised his arms and drew her into his embrace, his chin tucked into the side of her neck. He needed this.

"She is cruel," she sighed.

Her soft body felt so warm and comfortable against his own slender muscular frame, he desired to remain thus forever.

"She dislikes me, and along with her brood, she has a strong grip on my father's heart," he confided. His lips brushed the delicate whorl of her ear as he spoke. "Therefore I roam the land, exploring where I will, to keep myself from getting underfoot."

A soft knock heralded the closing of the door of the forge. They broke apart and walked hand-in-hand past the hedgerows into the house through the back entrance.

The hallway was wide and airy, its short length extending from the back to the front of the house. It bisected a longer passage that ran the length of the house.

"These stairs on your left lead to the family quarters," said Nerdanel. "Further along are the pantry and the storage rooms; on the other side, the kitchen takes up a quarter of the building." She led him to the parlour, a small room on their left on the other side of the passage. "On your right is the main hall, where the household gathers for meals. Sometimes we have stories, music and dancing there."

"I like the pale sandy colours of the interior," remarked Fëanáro. "It is soothing on the eyes."

"Thank you," interjected Mahtan.

Fëanáro and Nerdanel turned to face him. He seemed a little pleased with the compliment.

"I see you have given him a little tour," said Mahtan.

"Somewhat," replied Nerdanel. "He has yet to see the main hall."

"He has yet to see the parlour," said Mahtan, his voice stern.

They entered a small, comfortable room where rust-coloured leather armchairs and a long couch, all with brass feet, were clustered around a low wooden table before an empty fireplace.Fëanáro and Nerdanel sat down on the after Mahtan had seated himself.

"Did you make these?" asked Fëanáro, his voice high and strained.

 

"I made the fire surround and the brass fittings," replied Mahtan, his tone cold and flat.

"They are beautiful," said Fëanáro. He forced a smile.

Apprehensive, Fëanáro regarded the older man in silence for a moment. He was going to marry this woman, and that was final. However, Mahtan was nothing like his father Finwë, whose half-buried guilt could be prodded to induce him to give his firstborn son whatever he wanted. Getting Mahtan's permission to wed Nerdanel would require the application of skills Fëanáro knew he lacked. He was unaccustomed to negotiation. The thought of having to do so with someone he had already offended made him nervous.

"So," said Mahtan, his fingers steepled, "you wish to wed with my daughter. Why Nerdanel, and not another?"

"Because she understands me," replied Fëanáro, who could think of nothing else to say. "She is wise in ways that I am not, and complements me as well as the jewels in that lovely tiara you made."

"You helped."

"A small drip to an ocean," demurred Fëanáro. Discomfort made him shuffle his feet. He found it hard to abide the piercing gaze focussed on him. He was painfully aware that he had offended Mahtan and was desperate to put things right if he could. With a more humble demeanour, he might be able to win the older man around. "You need not give me any credit."

"Indeed. Nerdanel, what is it that draws you to this swain of yours?"

The strength of her grip on his hand sustained his hopes of success, which he feared might melt away altogether if she said the wrong words.

"Fëanáro is my friend - but more than a friend," she replied. "He is kind-hearted, generous, gentle and considerate. In everything we do together, he puts my needs and desires ahead of his own. I love him, father."

"Hmm. We shall see what your mother has to say about this," said Mahtan, who appeared unconvinced. "Fëanáro, you are welcome to have dinner with us tonight. Afterwards, you may stay with us as our guest."

There it was - that thin string of opportunity that might just bring him within reach of attaining his heart's desire. "My lord," he said hesitantly, "may I aid you with your smithcraft?"

The older man's gaze sharpened. "Are you in love with my daughter?" he demanded.

"Yes!" cried Fëanáro. "I need her!"

"Then what do you want with me?"

That suspicious look clung to Mahtan's face like a limpet Fëanáro had seen on the rocks near the harbour wall at Alqualondë. He squeezed Nerdanel's hand as anguish tightened its grip on his heart. "Your approval," he replied.

"You sound as though you desire to become my apprentice," said Mahtan firmly.

"Perhaps," suggested Fëanáro, an edge of desperation in his voice. The thought of working with Mahtan had never occurred to him, but if it was a condition of marriage to Nerdanel, he would agree to it.

"Perhaps," said Mahtan, his eyes fixed on Fëanáro's. "All I want is what is best for my child. Can you make her happy?"

"That is all my desire," he replied. "If Nerdanel is happy, I will be so, too. If she is not, my heart will break, for I will have failed her."

"Very well," said Mahtan. "Fëanáro, when my wife Lhendî has returned from her father's house, we shall discuss this together. If she agrees, I shall give you permission to court Nerdanel. If you are still of the same mind a year after that, you may wed."

TBC...

---

Chapter End Notes

*Ammonia derived from urine. Source: http://www.oldandinteresting.com/washing-with-lye.aspx

Different Strokes

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The soft sounds of the parlour door opening distracted Nerdanel from her discomfort. She looked around and smiled as Beriadîr* came in with a tray of cool drinks and sweetmeats. It seemed like an age since she and Fëanáro had come in to ask for permission to wed. If only her father could see her beloved as she did! His narrowed eyes and short, clipped phrases did little to convince her that he might change his mind about her prince.

The tart taste of the berry juice barely registered as she turned her mind to what her mother might say. For months at a time, Nerdanel would go out and explore the wilderness beyond the Elven settlement, roaming the woodlands and heaths. Her mother disapproved of this, and sometimes complained that Nerdanel had no interest in the arts and culture of her people. The truth was, she was curious about the world beyond her home and simply wanted to explore. Arts and culture could wait while she discovered the colours, shapes and textures created by the Valar in Valinor.

The soft thud of her father's glass being put down on the table caught her attention. If she could persuade him to see Fëanáro in a different light, her mother might agree to the wedding.

"He is so skillful, father," she assured him, with all the surety she could get into her expression. "The first day we met, he carved this for me."

She reached into her bag and produced a little wooden bird. "See, it is just like the ones you used to make."

Mahtan reached out a hand, and Nerdanel passed over the bird. She watched his ruddy face crease in concentration, hoping that the beauty of the work would impress him.

"Hmm..." He turned it over in his hands, and held it up to the light at different angles. "You have carved it with the grain of the wood in mind," he remarked, his gaze still on the bird.

"I like to whittle," replied Fëanáro, with a tighter squeeze on her hand. "Sometimes the shapes come to me of their own accord, as if I am bringing forth the will of the wood."

"This is very fine work," said Mahtan. "You made this for my daughter?"

Fëanáro grinned, and a dreamy look came over his face. "I had lit a campfire and was about to cook a rabbit I had caught when I saw this lovely lady emerge from between the trees. She asked if she could exchange some of her herbs and berries for some of my rabbit. I could not say no to such a fair exchange. We talked for hours, then she showed me a piece of wood she had intended to carve herself. She is very good at sculpture, I deem, for she demonstrated some work of her own, which I have here."

Nerdanel could not suppress a grin of her own as Fëanáro pushed up the sleeve of his pale fawn-coloured tunic to reveal the wristband she had made for him. Two thin slices of grained oak the span of his palms, sanded to exploit the beauty of the knot patterns, were held together with slender black leather drawstrings on either side of his right forearm. This had been intended for her father, but, moved by the gift of the little bird, she had felt compelled to give Fëanáro a gift of equal value.

The raised eyebrows on her father's face showed how impressed he was. He reached out and took Fëanáro's hand in his, and began to examine the wristband. "My daughter," he told her, pride in his voice, "you have excelled yourself."

"Thank you, father," she replied.

Mahtan held the little bird up beside the wristband. "It seems you share an interest in form and colour," he said, in a fascinated tone. He gave the little bird back to Nerdanel, and released Fëanáro's hand.

Shuffling sounds in the hallway filtered through the parlour door. What was that? She turned to the door; soon enough it opened and her mother came in, followed by Beriadîr. Everyone stood up as she entered the room.

"Beloved," said Mahtan, a smile of familiarity on his rust-bearded face.

"Mother," said Nerdanel, and embraced her.

"My lady Lhendî," said Fëanáro, with a courtly bow, when Nerdanel had stepped back.

When Beriadîr had pulled over a chair and seated her, the others sat down. The servant bowed and left.

Nerdanel watched anxiously as her mother regarded her intended with an icy glare.

"Fëanáro," she said curtly. "Nerdanel, is this the man you wish to wed?"

"Yes, mother," she replied, with passion in her voice. For all of that time, Fëanáro had not let go of her hand, and a foolish superstitious notion briefly occurred to her that if she did, disaster would strike.

"Indis, your father's wife, is a good friend of mine," said Lhendî, her tone even as she turned to Fëanáro.

Dumbstruck, Nerdanel floundered mentally. What could possibly have induced her mother to keep company with a cruel temptress who had seduced a king and was working to disinherit his son? Fëanáro's grip on her hand faltered. Slippery with sweat, it began to slide. She turned to him, afraid of what might happen next. He was skilled in many ways. Could he convince her mother of the truth?

"She and I have our differences," replied Fëanáro, his voice calm. He threaded his fingers between Nerdanel's.

"So I am told," persisted Lhendî. Her gaze bored into Fëanáro's eyes.

"By whom?" asked Fëanáro. He tilted his head, his eyebrows raised in question.

Nervously, Nerdanel clung to his hand, but said nothing.

"A number of people have relayed your complaints about her to me," asserted Lhendî. "It seems you have spread your discontent the length and breadth of this land. You simply cannot bring yourself to accept the will of the Valar, can you?"

Steady as a rock, Fëanáro looked into her eyes, his face impassive. His grip on Nerdanel's hand tightened and he declared in a calm but firm voice, "No, my lady, I cannot accept it. Míriel Serindë is Finwë's true wife. If Indis had not wormed her way into my father's heart, there is a chance that my mother could return one day, be it ever so far in the future. That alone stands between us; had she chosen someone else as her spouse, I would bear her no ill will."

Nerdanel flinched. Words she never wanted to hear again had been spoken, and could not be taken back. Silence settled on the room like a pall of noxious smoke from a burning midden. It filled every corner, making everyone nervous.

"But Míriel told Lord Námo that she never wanted to return," argued Lhendî, distress on her fair face.

"But why? Has she no love for the son she bore?" asked Fëanáro. "Why would she wish to be parted from me forevermore? I know her fëa was all but consumed by her efforts to give me life, but I believe that, given time enough, my mother could come back to dwell among the living. Twenty seven years was not enough time for her to recover well enough to reconsider her decision. Our people are immortal, are they not? We can live for many thousands of years until Eä is no more. Surely my father could have waited!"

What could she say? As Nerdanel looked from her lover to her parents, she found she could contribute nothing to the discussion that would present Fëanáro to them in a better light. She knew there was much more to him than the sullen resentment he presented to the world. Deep beneath that was a hurting soul who appreciated her. He needed her. Nerdanel was painfully aware that her athletic build, high forehead, and brown hair the colour of old copper coins made her less fair to look upon compared to the ladies of her kin, but Fëanáro made her feel beautiful. No one else had ever done so, not the way he did. She matched his tight grip on her hand. Nothing would make her let go.

"I will not argue with your perceptions, Fëanáro," Lhendî said at last, "but I will not have you dismiss her efforts to win your affections as mere cozening. Can you not at least be civil to her - and your brothers?"

With a heavy sigh, Fëanáro replied, "For the sake of peace, I will temper my intransigence, my lady, but I will never be able to accept the position she has assumed."

"Will you stop saying unkind things about Indis, and presenting a warped view of her to others?" persisted Lhendî. "It is meet to punish a churl, and that you have been towards her."

In the hand that held hers, Nerdanel could feel the muscles tense. The taut tendons beneath her fingers bespoke a rising fury. Unnamed fears took hold of her heart.

His voice thick with suppressed rage, Fëanáro replied, "I no longer dwell there, so she need not concern herself about my conduct from now on."

Aha! Now she could speak. "It seems there is more than one side to this tale," said Nerdanel.

"Perhaps there is," answered her father, "but in this house we honour the Valar, whether we understand their ways or not. When you can raise mountains and sink valleys by the force of your will, you may speak against them; but neither of you is their equal."

"Indeed," said Fëanáro, his tone flat and cold.

The look on her father's face caused Nerdanel to quail where she sat. The warmth of Fëanáro's hand assured her of his love for her, but she did not want to have to choose between her father and her lover.

"Fëanáro," she said, "please do not let grief or anger keep you from the love we wish to give you. My heart forebodes that this fell mood of yours may be the cause of great sorrow here in Aman if you persist in it."

Fëanáro bowed his head. As quickly as it had kindled, his rage dissipated and his grip on her hand relaxed. He turned to her and said, "I love you, Nerdanel, and if I must forget the troubles of my own heart to keep you, I will."

A teardrop trickled down his cheek, and he shook his head. Nerdanel rummaged in her bag for a cloth and passed it to him.

"Forgive me, my lord, and my lady," he said with a sob. "I find this subject very upsetting." He wiped his face and turned back to them, his eyes moist. "I shall go now. I am sorry for this foolish display."

"No," said Mahtan, his voice gentle. "Though I do not understand the way you feel, I cannot condemn it, either."

"I am unmanned," said Fëanáro, his gaze directed at the floor. "I cannot remain here."

"My regard for Indis is great," said Lhendî in a softer tone, "but there is room in my heart for you also, Fëanáro."

"I thank you, my lady," he replied sombrely. "You are most gracious. However, I feel too embarrassed to stay now. In a few days, I shall return, and try to do this properly."

Fëanáro's hold on her hand loosened, and she let it go. "I shall see you very soon, Nerdanel," he promised, and with a quick flash of a smile, he got up and left the room.

When he was gone, Nerdanel's mother turned to her and said, "He seems deeply troubled."

"His opinions are strong," added Mahtan, "and he is rather presumptuous, but he means no harm by it, I deem."

"The sorrows caused by Finwë's choice have made him thus," said Nerdanel. "Please do not hold his faults against him. They were created by forces far beyond his control."

"I do not think he is ready to wed with you, daughter," said Mahtan. "Not yet. He is not long come of age, I deem."

"He is but forty nine," conceded Nerdanel. "But later on..."

"Perhaps," said her mother, "but his conduct cannot be excused with the shedding of tears. If he ceases his complaining about my friend, I may consider him worthy of you in due course."

"It would do him no harm to learn to accept those things he cannot change," added her father.

"And if he does...?"

"I will permit you to wed with him."

Hope rose in Nerdanel's heart. All she had to do was convince Fëanáro to accept that the will of the Valar was not to be questioned, and they would have their hearts' desire. It would not be easy, though.

TBC...

---

Chapter End Notes

*Beriadîr appears in The House That Fëanor Built.

The Art of Persuasion

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The following day, Nerdanel went out, and saw a lone figure walk along the sandy shore of a lake near the woods of Oromë. He bent down to pick up a pebble, then skimmed it off the waves of the gently rippling water, which sparkled in the bright golden light of Laurelin.

Nerdanel guessed at once who it was, and ran towards him. "Fëanáro!" she called.

He looked around, pebble in hand, and straightened up. The pebble slipped from his grasp and he opened his arms as she approached.

"Beloved!" she cried, and leapt into his arms.

He picked her up and swung her around. "Ai, Nerdanel," he said with a laugh, "it is hard to remain in a bad mood when you are near!"

"What troubles you, my love?" she asked, noting his furrowed brow and tangled hair.

"Your parents disapprove of me," he answered in a low voice, his head turned downwards. "I know what they said, but how can they accept one such as I? They speak of having room in their hearts for me, but what does that mean?"

"Fëanáro, they told me they would let us wed if you cease complaining against your father's marriage, and say nothing more against Indis," she told him.

Fëanáro cupped her face in both hands. "The thought of being asked to accept a decision I believe to be unfair galls me to the core of my being, but no one will know how I feel if I say nothing about it. Nobody ever paid attention to my complaints, anyway. I will stop speaking out, but my mind will never change, Nerdanel."

"I have given the matter some thought, Fëanáro," she replied. "I know you have spent some time in the garden of Estë, but have you ever spoken to any of the Ainur about this? Perhaps if you did, you would understand it better."

With a snort, Fëanáro pulled away, turned his back on her and walked a few paces away.

Noting how his muscles bunched up beneath his tunic, Nerdanel kept quiet for a moment and waited for him to respond. She had heard about his temper, and had no desire to experience it. The gentle swash and backwash of the waves that lapped the lakeshore soothed her a little, but she could not take her eyes off the dun monolithic shape before her. There was a way to resolve this problem, but that meant getting Fëanáro to accept this. At the moment, he seemed unable to accept anything.

At last, he turned back to her and said, "Have you ever asked yourself how I became like this? My thoughts are so consumed with the nonsense that the Ainur and their servants have tried to drill into me, I just cannot think or act like other people. The bliss of Aman does not reach my heart, Nerdanel! This is what you do not understand - the force of irrational belief has ruined me. That, and the attempts of everyone, including my own father, to impose it upon me."

The strength of the rage in his voice frightened Nerdanel, but she knew that, if she failed to persuade Fëanáro to change his mind about the Valar, she would not be permitted to wed with him. She winced as she considered the implications of allowing Fëanáro's fury to fester. If she continued her relationship with him, his wrath might draw her onto a path that would lead to her doom. While she could not imagine her love for him coming to an end, she could see herself being parted from him, either through her choice - or his.

The glint in his steel-grey eyes did little to comfort her, but Nerdanel was determined to win him over, for his sake as much as her own. "You have not answered my question," she said, her voice calm and firm.

Fëanáro sighed. "What good would it do if I did go to Taniquetil?" he demanded. "They would either bludgeon or cozen me by other means into accepting the unacceptable."

"How can you be sure?" she persisted, her voice gentle.

"They persuaded everyone else," he snapped, his gaze turned away from hers.

"But you said you cannot think or act like other people," she argued, keeping her tone light and low. "Cozening would not work on you."

"I..." his words ground to a halt as he lifted his head to look into her eyes.

"Do you believe I am convinced?" she asked.

"I am not..."

She moved closer to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed her on his lips.

"I will go," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Will you come with me?"

"First I will get leave from my parents," she replied. "I think they will approve."

"I shall meet you at your door at the mingling of the lights," he affirmed.

A happy smile stretched her lips, and after one more kiss, Nerdanel returned home feeling happy and excited at the prospect of being able to help the one she loved.

---

At the appointed hour, Fëanáro was ready to meet his lady outside her house.

Mahtan stood behind her as she opened the door, and watched Fëanáro intently. "Take care of her," he said sternly, "and do everything you can to ensure her comfort."

"I will," replied Fëanáro, with a slight incline of his head. He grasped the strap of his travelling bag, which was slung across his shoulder, and turned slightly to show it to Mahtan.

Nearby was a pair of horses saddled and ready to ride.

"Are those yours?" asked Mahtan.

"I have been staying with Glirel, who lives a few miles hence," answered Fëanáro. "When I told him where I was going, he was delighted to lend me the horses for myself and Nerdanel."

"She does not know how to ride," said Mahtan, his wary expression increasing in intensity.

"I will teach her," Fëanáro assured him.

Mahtan scratched his rusty beard and watched as Nerdanel made her way over to the horses.

Fëanáro looked away from him and helped his lady to mount the chestnut mare. When he had climbed onto the saddle of the black gelding, he turned back to Mahtan. "I will take care of her, my lord," he declared. "Farewell!"

"I will be back soon, father!" promised Nerdanel.

Fëanáro turned to her and said, "Hold on tightly to the reins as I am doing. Goredhorn* has never let a rider fall. Môrroch, make haste!"

The clatter of the horses' hooves on the stone-paved road echoed in his ears as he led his lady southwards.

"Fëanáro, where are we going?" asked Nerdanel, confusion in her voice.

"To meet my mother," declared Fëanáro. "Our first stop is the Isle of Estë."

He did not turn to look at Nerdanel, but he could sense her unease in the silence that grew between them. People kept demanding that he understand them. It was high time someone made an effort to understand him.

TBC...

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Chapter End Notes

*Goer = red, eredh = seed (nut), orn =tree: Chestnut

I took some letters away, as has been done before by Tolkien. E.g. Thranduil = thar-an-duil, across the river.