The summons arrives when Fëanor's hands are deep in molten silver, his mind lost in the liquescent play of light across its surface. A messenger—young, nervous, bearing his father's seal—stands at a careful distance from the heat of the forge. Fëanor does not look up immediately, allowing the moment to stretch until the messenger shifts his weight, uncomfortable. Only then does he lift his gaze, silver eyes reflecting the forge's glow, and nod once in acknowledgment.
"Lord Finwë requests your presence in his private chambers," the messenger announces, voice wavering slightly under Fëanor's unblinking stare. "At once, if it pleases you."
It does not please him. Fëanor's jaw tightens, a minute gesture that sends the messenger backing toward the door.
"My father knows where to find me," Fëanor says, returning his attention to the silver. It cools even as he watches, the moment of perfect malleability slipping away.
"He was most insistent, my lord."
Fëanor sets down his tools with deliberate care, each placement precise despite the frustration threading through his veins. The silver will be ruined now. Hours of work, the careful heating to just the right temperature, all wasted because his father cannot wait for a more convenient time.
"Very well."
He does not bother to clean his hands or change his clothes. If Finwë demands immediacy, he will receive his son as he is—smeared with soot, reeking of metal and fire, every inch the craftsman his father seems determined to forget he is.
The walk through the palace corridors is a study in contrasts. The smooth, polished stone beneath his feet feels dead compared to the living heat of his forge. Ornate carvings adorn walls and ceilings, beautiful but static, unchanging for centuries. Fëanor passes them without seeing, his mind still wrapped around the silver piece he's abandoned.
Court attendants scatter before him like leaves before wind. Some bow, others simply find urgent reason to be elsewhere. Fëanor notices but does not care. His reputation precedes him—the mercurial prince, the brilliant smith with the unpredictable temper. Let them whisper. Let them stare. Their opinions matter less than the dust on his boots.
The doors to his father's private chambers loom before him, carved of ancient oak inlaid with patterns of stars and leaves. Fëanor pauses, one soot-stained hand hovering over the intricate woodwork. He inhales deeply, centering himself. The heat of anger still smolders in his chest, but he banks it carefully. Not extinguished—never that—but controlled for now.
He does not knock.
Finwë sits behind a desk of polished mahogany, quill in hand, the very picture of regal composure. He looks up as Fëanor enters, and something flickers across his face—disappointment, perhaps, at his son's disheveled appearance—before settling into the neutral mask of kingship.
"You summoned me," Fëanor says, remaining standing near the door. Not quite defiance, but close.
"I did." Finwë sets his quill aside with careful precision. "Would you care to sit?"
"I was in the middle of working." Fëanor gestures to his stained clothes. "Silver doesn't wait, even for kings."
Finwë's smile is thin, practiced. "And yet here you are, so clearly it can wait when necessary." He motions again to the chair opposite his desk. "Please."
The word stretches between them, less request than command. Fëanor crosses the room, noting how his father's eyes track the smudges his fingers leave on the arm of the chair when he finally sits.
"You look well, my son," Finwë begins, the platitude falling flat between them.
"As do you, Father." Fëanor does not attempt to inject warmth into the words. "What matter of such urgency requires my immediate attention?"
Finwë steeples his fingers, studying Fëanor over their tips. "Must there be an emergency for a father to wish to speak with his son?"
"For a king to summon a subject, yes," Fëanor counters. "And you sent your summons as King, not as Father."
The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken history—the weight of a mother's absence, of a father's remarriage, of positions and expectations neither has ever been able to fully embrace or escape.
"Very well." Finwë straightens, abandoning the pretext of casual conversation. "I wished to speak with you about your future."
"My future is in my forge," Fëanor says immediately. "It always has been."
"That is precisely my concern." Finwë rises, moving to stand before a large window that overlooks the city below. "You are of age, Fëanor. Well past it, in truth. Yet you spend your days and nights sequestered with your metals and gemstones, to the exclusion of all else."
Fëanor's fingers tighten on the arms of his chair. "My work—"
"Is impressive," Finwë interrupts. "Your talent is undeniable. But it is not enough."
"Not enough?" The words escape as barely more than a whisper, though rage bubbles beneath them. "What I create will outlast empires. My works will be remembered when the very stones of this palace have crumbled to dust."
Finwë turns, his expression stern. "And who will remember them as yours if you leave no children to carry your name? What legacy can you claim without heirs to inherit it?"
Ah. So that is the purpose of this meeting. Fëanor's jaw clenches so tightly he can feel his teeth grinding together.
"You must marry, Fëanor." Finwë's voice takes on the formal cadence he uses for proclamations. "It is not merely tradition or preference—it is the Law. All of our kind must form the sacred bond. It ensures our continuity, our strength."
"I am aware of the Law," Fëanor says coldly.
"Are you? Because your behavior suggests otherwise." Finwë returns to his desk, retrieving a scroll which he unfurls with deliberate care. "Of all the elves of your generation, you alone remain unwed. Even those of lesser houses, those with a fraction of your gifts or status, have fulfilled this basic obligation."
Fëanor's hands feel suddenly numb, though his chest burns with an uncomfortable heat he recognizes as a mixture of rage and something dangerously close to shame.
"My work requires focus," he manages. "Distractions would—"
"A wife is not a distraction," Finwë cuts in sharply. "She is a partner, a support, a builder of your household and the vessel for your legacy. Your continued refusal to seek one out is becoming not merely eccentric but suspect."
The implication hangs in the air, unspoken but clear. Dangerous territory.
"Perhaps," Fëanor says carefully, "I have simply not encountered one worthy of sharing my life."
Finwë's laugh is short, humorless. "There are daughters of noble houses practically throwing themselves at your feet, and you've not spared them a glance. Your reputation for brilliance is matched only by your apparent disinterest."
"So what would you have me do?" Fëanor demands, rising from his chair in a sudden motion. "Choose at random? Take the first female who doesn't bore me to tears within five minutes of conversation?"
"I would have you make an effort," Finwë counters, remaining seated, his authority unwavering despite Fëanor's towering presence. "Attend the gatherings you're invited to instead of declining in favor of your forge. Speak with the families who seek introduction instead of dismissing them. Act, in short, like the prince you are rather than the hermit you seem determined to become."
"I decline those invitations because they are tedious exercises in social climbing," Fëanor retorts. "Hours of mindless chatter with people who want to use my name or my skill for their own advancement."
"And yet somehow, everyone else manages to endure such terrible trials in order to fulfill their duties." Finwë's voice drips with sarcasm. "How you must suffer, being sought after and admired."
Fëanor turns away, moving to the window where his father had stood moments before. Below, the city sprawls, beautiful and orderly, every citizen knowing their place, fulfilling their role. He presses his palm against the cool glass, leaving a sooty handprint—a small defiance.
"I have given you considerable leeway," Finwë continues, his tone softening slightly. "I've respected your need for space, for time in your craft. But I cannot ignore this matter any longer. You will find a suitable match, and you will do so within the year."
"Or?" Fëanor asks without turning.
"Or I will arrange a match for you." The words fall like hammer blows. "There are several highly suitable candidates from families that would strengthen our political alliances. If you cannot bring yourself to choose, I will choose for you."
Fëanor's reflection in the glass shows a face gone still, eyes like frozen silver. "You would not dare."
"I am your king as well as your father," Finwë reminds him. "And I have been patient long enough."
The silence between them stretches, taut as wire. Finally, Fëanor turns back to face his father.
"I understand," he says, each word precise and careful. "I will... consider the matter with appropriate seriousness."
Finwë studies him, searching for mockery or deception. Finding none obvious enough to challenge, he nods once. "See that you do. I expect progress, Fëanor, not merely consideration."
"May I return to my work now?" Fëanor asks, the formality in his voice a thin veneer over seething resentment.
"Yes." Finwë picks up his quill again, a clear dismissal. "But remember what I've said. A year passes quickly."
Fëanor bows—precisely the depth required by protocol, not a fraction deeper—and turns to leave. His hand is on the door when his father speaks again.
"Fëanor." The voice is gentler now, almost wistful. "Your mother would have wanted this for you. A family. Children."
The words strike like a physical blow, and Fëanor freezes, his back to his father, unable to mask the pain that flashes across his face. He does not respond, does not trust himself to speak. Instead, he pulls the door open with more force than necessary and strides out, leaving his father's words hanging in the air behind him.
His footsteps echo in the corridor, faster now, driven by the need to escape, to return to the one place where he feels truly himself. All thoughts of the ruined silver are gone. He needs his forge, needs its heat and honest simplicity—but more than that, he needs to see Mahtan. Needs to speak with the one person who might understand the impossible corner into which he's been forced.
Mahtan, with his patient hands and quiet wisdom. Mahtan, whose copper beard always smells of woodsmoke and metal. Mahtan, who is everything Fëanor cannot afford to want, yet wants nonetheless.
The forge embraces Fëanor like a lover as he storms back through its iron doors, the heat enfolding him in welcome contrast to the cold formality of his father's chambers. He doesn't speak, doesn't need to—Mahtan looks up from his anvil, copper beard gleaming in the firelight, and immediately sets aside his hammer. The silence between them has texture, has weight; it speaks volumes that words would only diminish. Fëanor's rage radiates from him in waves that Mahtan reads as clearly as script on parchment.
"He sent for you," Mahtan says. Not a question.
Fëanor nods once, sharply, moving to the abandoned silver piece. It has hardened now, imperfect, flawed. Ruined. He lifts it, studies it briefly, then hurls it against the far wall with a snarl. The metal strikes stone with a discordant clang before falling to the floor.
Mahtan doesn't flinch, doesn't chide him for the waste, doesn't speak at all. He simply wipes his hands on a rag tucked into his belt and waits, patient as mountains.
Fëanor paces, five steps one way, five steps back, like a caged predator. His hands clench and unclench, still stained black with forge-work. He reaches for a tool, then another, setting each down with increasing force until he slams a hammer down hard enough to crack its wooden handle.
"Damn him," he finally hisses. "Damn him and his laws and his expectations."
Mahtan moves then, crossing the space between them with deliberate steps. He's a large man, broad through the shoulders, solid as an oak. His presence fills the space around Fëanor, not crowding but somehow containing, creating boundaries for the younger elf's fury.
"Tell me," he says simply.
Their eyes meet. Mahtan's are grey, steady as stone. Fëanor's silver ones are storm-tossed, volatile. For a moment, it seems Fëanor might refuse, might rage and storm and break more tools. Then his shoulders slump slightly, the first crack in his armor.
"He wants me to marry," Fëanor says, the words bitter on his tongue. "No—he demands it. As if it were a simple matter of selecting a suitable broodmare."
Mahtan's expression doesn't change, though something flickers in the depths of his eyes. "I'm not surprised," he says, voice low. "You knew this day would come."
"Did I?" Fëanor turns away, reaching for a bellows to stoke the forge's fire higher. The flames leap, matching his mood. "I thought perhaps he would be content with my work, with what I create. I thought that might be enough."
"For you, perhaps," Mahtan says. "Not for a king who needs alliances and heirs."
Fëanor whirls back to face him. "Don't you dare defend him."
"I'm not." Mahtan holds his ground, unmovable. "I'm stating what is, not what should be."
They stand facing each other, tension crackling between them like heat shimmer over coals. Then Mahtan sighs, reaches out slowly, and places one large hand on Fëanor's shoulder. The touch breaks something in Fëanor; he steps forward and presses his forehead against Mahtan's chest, allowing himself this moment of weakness that no one else would ever be permitted to witness.
"He gave me a year," Fëanor mutters against the rough fabric of Mahtan's tunic. "Find someone suitable or he'll arrange a match himself."
Mahtan's arms come up to encircle him, strong and steady. His beard brushes the top of Fëanor's head as he speaks. "That's more time than most are given."
"It's not enough," Fëanor says. His hands fist in Mahtan's tunic. "Not when what I want is impossible."
The forge crackles around them, the only witness to this embrace. Mahtan's hand moves to the nape of Fëanor's neck, fingers threading through the black hair there, a touch both possessive and gentle.
"Nothing is impossible for you," he says, the rumble of his voice resonating through Fëanor's body. "That's what you've always claimed."
Fëanor pulls back far enough to look up at him, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "Even I cannot rewrite the Laws, Aulendur. Even I cannot make the world accept what lies between us."
"Aulendur," Mahtan repeats, shaking his head slightly. "You use my title when you're angry with me."
"I'm angry at the world," Fëanor corrects him. "You're simply the nearest target."
Mahtan's laugh is a soft thing, unexpected and warm. "A position I've grown accustomed to." He releases Fëanor and moves to a workbench, retrieving a flask he keeps tucked beneath it. "Here. This will help more than breaking my tools."
Fëanor accepts the flask, removing the stopper to inhale the potent aroma of distilled spirits before taking a long swallow. The liquid burns down his throat, a pleasant counterpoint to the forge's heat. He offers it back to Mahtan, who drinks in turn, their fingers brushing during the exchange. A spark passes between them – static from the dry air, but it jolts them nonetheless.
"Tell me everything," Mahtan says, setting the flask aside. "What exactly did Finwë say?"
Fëanor leans against the workbench, shoulders still tense but marginally more controlled. "That I'm an embarrassment. The only one of my generation still unwed. That I neglect my duties by spending all my time here." His gaze flicks to Mahtan. "With you."
"Did he say that directly?" Mahtan asks, one eyebrow raised.
"No." Fëanor's fingers drum against the wooden surface. "But the implication was clear enough. He said my behavior was becoming 'suspect.'"
Mahtan's expression darkens. "That's dangerous talk."
"It is." Fëanor takes another pull from the flask. "He has no proof, of course. How could he? We've been careful."
"Careful, yes." Mahtan strokes his beard, a habit Fëanor has come to associate with deep thought. "But not everyone has your father's political concerns. There are whispers, perhaps. Apprentices notice things."
"Let them whisper," Fëanor says, chin lifting in defiance. "What proof do they have beyond speculation?"
"Speculation is enough to ruin lives, cub." The endearment slips out, softening the warning. "You more than most should understand the power of perception."
Fëanor pushes away from the bench, resuming his pacing. "So I should just accept it? Find some female who doesn't repulse me, wed her, bed her, and pretend at happiness?"
"No one said anything about pretending," Mahtan says quietly.
Fëanor stops, staring at him. "What?"
"Marriage needn't be a prison," Mahtan continues, his tone carefully neutral. "Many find joy in it, even those whose hearts are... complicated."
"You speak from experience?" Fëanor asks, an edge to his voice.
"I was married," Mahtan reminds him. "Before she passed to the Halls."
"And were you happy?" The question bursts from Fëanor, raw and honest. "Truly?"
Mahtan is silent for a long moment, considering. "Yes," he finally says. "In my way, I was. We had respect between us, friendship. She gave me my daughter, and for that alone I would have counted myself blessed."
"But did you love her?" Fëanor presses. "As you—" He stops, unable to complete the thought.
Mahtan closes the distance between them again, taking Fëanor's face between his hands. His palms are rough with calluses, warm from the forge. "Different loves can exist in one heart," he says softly. "It doesn't diminish what we share."
Fëanor's hands come up to grip Mahtan's wrists, not pulling away, just holding on. "I don't want different loves," he says fiercely. "I want you. Only you. Why must we pretend otherwise? Why must we hide?"
"You know why." Mahtan's thumbs stroke along Fëanor's cheekbones. "You are a prince, the heir. Your father's only child from his first marriage. The continuation of that bloodline isn't optional."
"Bloodlines," Fëanor scoffs. "As if we were horses to be bred for desired traits."
"In some ways, we are exactly that," Mahtan says with a wry smile. "At least in the eyes of those who rule."
"I hate it." Fëanor's voice drops to a whisper. "I hate living this lie."
"It's not all a lie," Mahtan counters. "What we have here, in this forge—this is truth. This is real." His hands slip from Fëanor's face to his shoulders, then down his arms until they grasp his hands. "Feel this. This is real."
Their fingers intertwine, soot-stained and scarred from years of metalwork. Fëanor looks down at their joined hands, then back up to Mahtan's face. The anger is still there, but beneath it now is a profound sadness.
"For how long?" he asks. "If I marry, if I start a family, how much time will be left for this? How often will I be able to slip away without raising suspicion?"
"We will find a way," Mahtan says, certainty in his voice. "We always have."
Fëanor pulls his hands free, turning away to stare into the forge's flames. "I thought of refusing him," he admits. "Of declaring myself outside his authority in this matter."
Mahtan's sharp intake of breath is the only indication of his shock. "That would be... unwise."
"Unwise," Fëanor repeats with a bitter laugh. "A diplomatic way of saying it would be disaster."
"It would mean exile, at minimum," Mahtan says quietly. "Your father might love you, but he is king first. He cannot allow such defiance, especially in matters of the Laws."
"And you?" Fëanor asks without turning. "What would it mean for you?"
Mahtan's silence speaks volumes. Fëanor finally turns to face him, finding pain etched across the older elf's features.
"They would never prove my involvement," Mahtan finally says. "But they wouldn't need to. Suspicion would be enough to ruin my standing, my livelihood. My daughter's prospects."
The last part hits Fëanor hardest. He hadn't considered Mahtan's daughter—a quiet, serious girl he's glimpsed occasionally but never truly noticed.
"I'm sorry," he says, the words feeling wholly inadequate. "I wouldn't bring that upon you. Upon either of you."
Mahtan approaches him again, this time keeping a careful distance. "I know you wouldn't," he says. "Just as I know the fury that drives you to even consider such things." His expression softens. "You are fire incarnate, Fëanor. I've never expected you to burn tamely."
"But you expect me to burn hidden," Fëanor counters, though there's less bite to his words now.
"I expect you to survive," Mahtan corrects. "To thrive, even within constraints. To find your happiness where you can." He gestures around the forge. "Here, with your work. With me, when possible."
"And with a wife I do not love," Fëanor adds flatly.
"Perhaps," Mahtan says, "you might find someone who understands. Someone who seeks a marriage of convenience as much as you do."
Fëanor stares at him. "You think such women exist? Those willing to wed in name only?"
"I think," Mahtan says carefully, "that you are not the only one constrained by the Laws and customs. That there are women with their own reasons for seeking unconventional arrangements."
The idea is so unexpected that it momentarily silences Fëanor's protests. He considers it, turning the concept over in his mind as he would examine a new material or technique.
"It would still be a lie," he finally says, but with less certainty.
"A shared understanding," Mahtan counters. "A mutual agreement."
Fëanor's brow furrows. "Even if such a woman existed, how would I find her? I can hardly announce my intentions openly."
"No," Mahtan agrees. "But you might begin by looking in places where independent minds gather. Among the artisans, perhaps. Those who value creation over convention."
A log shifts in the forge, sending up a cascade of sparks. Fëanor watches them rise and fade, his mind working rapidly. "It would need to be someone Father would accept," he muses. "Someone of suitable standing, yet unconventional enough to agree to such terms."
"Someone strong enough to withstand the pressures of your position," Mahtan adds. "And discreet enough to keep confidences."
Fëanor turns to him suddenly, eyes widening with a new thought. "Someone connected to you," he says. "Someone who might understand because they know you, because they might have suspected—"
He stops as Mahtan's expression shifts, becoming unreadable. "What is it?" Fëanor asks. "Have I said something wrong?"
Mahtan shakes his head slowly. "No," he says. "Not wrong. Just... perhaps not as impossible as you believe."
"What do you mean?" Fëanor steps closer, searching Mahtan's face for clues.
Mahtan hesitates, seemingly weighing his words with unusual care. "There might be... an option," he finally says. "But it's not a matter to be discussed in haste or anger."
"Tell me," Fëanor insists, hope and suspicion warring in his voice.
Mahtan places his hands on Fëanor's shoulders, his grip firm. "Not now," he says. "You're still too raw from your father's words. Let the idea rest until tomorrow, when cooler heads might prevail."
Fëanor wants to protest, wants to demand answers immediately, but something in Mahtan's expression stops him. There's caution there, yes, but also something like protective concern.
"Very well," he concedes reluctantly. "Tomorrow."
Mahtan's smile is a subtle thing, mostly hidden in his beard, but Fëanor catches it nonetheless. "Tomorrow," he agrees. "For now, let us salvage what we can of the day." He glances at the cracked hammer handle. "Starting with my tools, which seem to have borne the brunt of your meeting with Finwë."
The tension breaks slightly, allowing Fëanor a small, grudging smile in return. "I'll craft you better ones," he promises.
"You always do," Mahtan says, his hand lingering on Fëanor's shoulder a moment longer than necessary. "That's why I keep you around."
Their eyes meet, and in that moment, the forge seems to fade away. There is only this—the connection between them, deeper than words, stronger than the laws that would keep them apart.
"Is that the only reason?" Fëanor asks, his voice low.
Mahtan's hand slides from Fëanor's shoulder to the side of his neck, thumb resting against his pulse point. "You know it isn't," he says softly. "You know."
And Fëanor does know—feels it in the gentle pressure of Mahtan's fingers, sees it in the warmth of his grey eyes. Tomorrow there will be decisions to make, paths to consider. But for now, there is only this moment, this touch, this truth between them.
"I know," Fëanor says.
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