Fëanor's hammer falls against the glowing metal, each strike precise despite the tremor in his wrist. The forge's heat caresses his face like a lover's touch, but he barely notices it now, the familiar comfort twisted into something hollow. Another hammer blow, another breath caught in his throat. He doesn't recognize the sound that escapes him until the tear splashes onto the anvil, sizzling into steam before his eyes.
He stops mid-swing, silver eyes widening at the betrayal of his body. The piece before him—a delicate filigree pendant—blurs through a film of unwanted moisture. He blinks hard and resumes his work, each strike more forceful than necessary, as if violence against metal might drive back the weakness threatening to consume him.
"It's nothing," he whispers to the empty forge, his voice echoing against stone walls that have witnessed all his triumphs but few of his failures. The words hang in the air, unconvincing even to his own ears.
The red-orange glow of the coals paints his pale skin in warm hues that belie the cold knot in his chest. Fëanor sets down the hammer, fingers lingering on the worn handle as if reluctant to release this connection to something solid, something real. His hands are strong, calloused from centuries of work—hands that create beauty from raw elements, hands that others admire for their skill. Yet they tremble now like autumn leaves clinging to their branches before the inevitable fall.
Another tear escapes, tracking a hot path down his cheek, following the sharp angle of his jaw before disappearing into the collar of his tunic. Fëanor swipes at it angrily, leaving a smudge of soot across his face.
"Control yourself," he hisses, but the command rings hollow in the vast space of the forge.
His father's words from earlier that day resurface unbidden, cutting through his concentration like a blade through silk.
"You waste your talents on these trivial pursuits," Finwë had said, barely glancing at the intricate bracelet Fëanor had spent weeks perfecting. "A prince of the Noldor should focus on matters of state, not hide away with smiths and craftsmen."
The dismissal had been casual, thoughtless—all the more painful for its lack of malice. Not cruelty but indifference, as if Fëanor's passion was a child's passing fancy rather than the core of his being. As if the hours spent perfecting his technique under Mahtan's watchful eye were meaningless. As if the joy he found in creation was somehow beneath him.
Fëanor's reflection wavers in the polished surface of a nearby shield—his own creation, naturally. Long black hair pulled back in a simple tie, several strands now escaped and clinging to damp cheeks. Clear silver eyes now red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears. He hardly recognizes himself, this creature of naked emotion staring back at him.
He turns away sharply, unable to bear the sight of his own vulnerability. The pendant lies unfinished on the anvil, an accusation of his weakness. He should complete it—has promised it as a gift—but his hands refuse to cooperate, fingers curling into fists at his sides instead.
A single sob breaks free, the sound so unexpected that Fëanor nearly looks around for its source before realizing it came from his own throat. The admission breaks something within him, a dam long maintained by pride and stubborn will. The next sob comes easier, and the next, until his shoulders shake with the force of his grief.
It isn't just his father's words, though they cut deep enough. It's everything they represent—the constant pressure to be someone he isn't, to value what others value rather than follow his heart's desire. To turn away from the forge, from creation, from Mahtan's patient teachings.
From Mahtan himself.
The thought of his mentor sends another wave of emotion crashing through him. Shame mingles with longing, creating a storm he can no longer contain. Fëanor grabs a nearby rag and presses it against his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds now pouring from him unbidden. His knees weaken, and he finds himself sinking to the floor, back against the solid stone of the forge, face buried in hands that can create nearly anything except the acceptance he craves.
The heat of the forge intensifies his tears, sweat mingling with them until his face is slick with moisture. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, lungs straining as if he's run for miles rather than simply succumbed to emotion. Something primal has taken hold, grief so deep it feels as though it might tear him apart from within.
Through streaming eyes, Fëanor stares at the dancing flames of the forge. Fire has always been his element—unpredictable, powerful, beautiful in its destructive potential. He watches a spark leap from the coals and die in the air, a brief, brilliant life extinguished in moments. He feels a kinship with that spark, burning too bright and too brief, destined to fade before others truly see his light.
Time loses meaning as he surrenders to the release of weeping. The careful layers of pride he wraps around himself like armor lie in pieces around him, revealing the raw, wounded core beneath. Here, alone in the forge, he doesn't have to be Fëanor the brilliant, Fëanor the proud, Fëanor the unyielding. Here, he can simply be Fëanor the broken.
The tools of his craft surround him, silent witnesses to his collapse. The hammer that moments ago extended his will now lies abandoned. The tongs rest beside the cooling metal. The fire continues its dance, indifferent to his suffering. There is comfort in that indifference, a reminder that the world continues regardless of his pain.
Fëanor draws his knees to his chest, making himself small in a way he never would if another soul were present. His hair falls forward, a curtain of darkness shielding his face from observers that don't exist. The tears come without resistance now, each one a confession, an admission of needs he barely acknowledges even to himself.
Need for approval. Need for understanding. Need for touch.
His fingers dig into his arms, nails leaving crescent marks in pale skin. Physical pain as distraction from emotional agony, an old trick that fails him now. The tears don't stop, don't even slow. They pour from some well deep inside him, a reservoir of hurt he's denied for too long.
A log shifts in the fire, sending a shower of sparks upward. Fëanor watches them through tear-blurred eyes, seeing in their chaotic dance a reflection of his own scattered thoughts. The ember's glow casts shadows that stretch and warp across the walls, making the familiar space suddenly alien and strange.
A choked laugh escapes him at the thought. He has always been the strange one, hasn't he? Too intense, too passionate, too much for most to handle comfortably. Except Mahtan. Mahtan, who never flinches from Fëanor's fire but meets it with his own steady flame.
The thought of his mentor brings fresh tears. What would Mahtan think if he could see him now, crumpled on the floor like a discarded sketch, undone by a few careless words? Would those grey eyes that so often sparkle with approval darken with disappointment instead? Would the strong hands that guide his own withdraw in disgust at such weakness?
The possibility makes Fëanor's stomach clench, adding physical discomfort to his emotional distress. He presses the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears through sheer physical pressure. It doesn't work. Nothing works. The sobs continue to wrack his body, each one torn from his throat against his will.
Fëanor doesn't hear the approaching footsteps over the sounds of his own grief, doesn't notice the shift in the forge's atmosphere that would normally alert him to another's presence. He remains curled in on himself, lost in the storm of his emotions, unaware that his solitude has ended until it's too late to rebuild his walls.
"Fëanor?" The voice cuts through his grief like a blade through heated metal, precise and unexpected. Mahtan stands in the doorway, auburn hair pulled back in a practical knot, his beard—that unusual feature among their kind—catching the forge's light like copper wire. His expression shifts from curiosity to concern in the space between heartbeats, those grey eyes widening at the scene before him. He wears a simple leather apron over a tunic that bears the marks of a day's work, sleeves rolled to expose strong forearms dusted with fine reddish hair.
Fëanor freezes, tear-streaked face lifting in horror. Time seems to suspend, the moment stretching like heated glass. He cannot move, cannot speak, cannot even breathe as mortification crashes over him in a scalding wave. To be discovered like this—by him of all people—is beyond bearing.
"I—" Mahtan takes a step forward, hand slightly extended, palm up in a gesture that might be used to approach a wounded animal. The movement breaks the spell of stillness.
Fëanor scrambles to his feet, nearly overturning a nearby tray of tools in his haste. Metal clatters against stone, the sound sharp and jarring in the thick silence. He turns away, desperate to hide his face, to reclaim some fragment of dignity from this catastrophe.
"Forgive me," Mahtan says softly, his voice lacking the pity Fëanor dreads. "I didn't mean to intrude. I thought you might want—" He stops, apparently reconsidering his words. "I can go."
"No need." Fëanor's voice emerges rough, scraped raw by tears. He keeps his back to Mahtan, furiously wiping at his face with soot-stained hands, likely making a greater mess than before. "I was just finishing." The lie sounds hollow even to his own ears.
Silence stretches between them, broken only by the persistent crackle of the forge fire and Fëanor's still-uneven breathing. He can feel Mahtan's presence behind him, a warm gravity that seems to pull at something deep in his chest. The urge to turn around wars with the need to flee, neither impulse winning momentary dominance.
"Everyone needs release sometimes," Mahtan offers, his tone neutral, free of judgment. "Even the strongest metals must bend before they can be shaped into something greater."
The kindness in those words is somehow worse than mockery would have been. Fëanor's shoulders tense, the muscles in his back forming a rigid line of resistance against comfort he doesn't deserve. He risks a glance over his shoulder, immediately regretting it when he sees the genuine concern in Mahtan's expression.
The older elf's face holds none of the disgust Fëanor expects, none of the disappointment he fears. Instead, there's something alarmingly like tenderness in those grey eyes, something that makes Fëanor's chest constrict painfully.
"I don't need your wisdom right now," Fëanor snaps, the words emerging harsher than intended, a defense mechanism against vulnerability. He finally turns, but keeps his gaze fixed on the ground, unable to meet Mahtan's eyes directly. "Nor your pity."
"Good, for I offer neither." Mahtan takes another step forward, his movement deliberate enough to give Fëanor time to retreat if desired. "Only company, if you wish it."
A tremor runs through Fëanor's body, fresh tears threatening despite his desperate attempts to contain them. The shame of being discovered in such a state mingles with an inexplicable yearning for the very comfort he rejects. His emotions war within him like opposing currents, leaving him paralyzed between contradictory impulses.
Mahtan's proximity makes matters worse. The scent of him—leather and metal and something distinctly his own—fills Fëanor's senses, unnervingly pleasant despite his distress. He can feel the heat radiating from the other elf, different from the forge's impersonal warmth. More immediate. More dangerous.
"Would you tell me what troubles you?" Mahtan asks, voice gentle but not patronizing. His hand hovers near Fëanor's shoulder, not quite touching but offering connection if desired.
The question breaks something in Fëanor's carefully reconstructed composure. A strangled sound escapes him, neither laugh nor sob but something of both. What troubles him? Everything. Nothing. Things he can hardly name, let alone explain to another. The persistent feeling of inadequacy in his father's eyes. The fear that his passion for creation marks him as somehow lesser. The confusion of emotions that surge within him whenever Mahtan is near—admiration tangled with something more complex, more frightening.
"It doesn't matter," Fëanor manages, taking a step back, creating distance between them. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, wincing as his fingers catch in tangled strands. "A momentary weakness. Nothing more."
Mahtan's expression shifts subtly, a shadow of something like hurt passing across his features before settling back into patient concern. "Your feelings are not weaknesses, Fëanor. They're part of what makes your work so extraordinary—your capacity to feel deeply, to channel passion into creation."
The words strike too close to truths Fëanor isn't ready to examine. He shakes his head sharply, as if he might physically dislodge Mahtan's insight. "I should go." The words emerge stiff, formal, at odds with the chaos still evident in his tear-stained face and trembling hands.
"You don't have to." Mahtan's voice drops lower, a gentle rumble that Fëanor feels almost as much as hears. "Stay. Talk to me. Or don't talk—just don't run from this."
But running is exactly what Fëanor's instincts demand. The forge—his sanctuary—has become a trap, the walls seeming to close in around him. The air feels too thick to breathe, heavy with unspoken words and emotions he cannot control. Mahtan's presence, usually a comfort, now threatens to unravel him completely.
"I can't." The words emerge as barely more than a whisper. Before Mahtan can respond, before those steady hands can reach for him, Fëanor turns and bolts toward the door.
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