Mahtan's Apprentice by WendWriter

---

Different Strokes

---

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.