Dawn breaks over the forge, Laurelin's early pale gold light filtering through high windows to find Fëanor already at work. Sleep had evaded him, chased away by thoughts of Finwë's ultimatum and Mahtan's enigmatic promise of a solution. His hands move with practiced precision, but his mind races ahead to the conversation to come. When the door swings open and Mahtan's solid frame fills the entrance, Fëanor's heart leaps traitorously in his chest. Today, they will speak of impossible things, of arrangements that blur boundaries he's never dared to cross.
"You're early," Mahtan observes, his voice carrying the rough edge of someone not fully awake. His auburn hair is tied back carelessly, a few strands escaping to frame his face. He wears simple working clothes, sturdy and practical, with a leather apron that bears the scars of countless projects.
"I couldn't sleep," Fëanor admits, setting aside the delicate wire he's been twisting into intricate patterns. "Your mysterious solution kept me awake."
Mahtan nods, unsurprised. He moves to stoke the main forge fire, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Fëanor watches him, impatience building with each passing moment.
"We've work to complete first," Mahtan says, reading Fëanor's expression. "The king's ceremonial pieces take precedence over personal matters."
Fëanor wants to protest but recognizes the wisdom in Mahtan's approach. Their conversation will require care, concentration; better to clear their obligations first. He nods once, returning to his work with renewed focus.
They labor side by side through the morning hours, speaking only of technical matters—the temperature of the metal, the angle of a hammer blow, the proportion of silver to copper in an alloy. The familiarity of the work soothes Fëanor's restless mind, though anticipation continues to simmer beneath his concentration.
When the sun reaches its zenith, Mahtan finally sets down his tools and removes his apron. "Come," he says. "We'll take our meal in the back room. What we have to discuss is not for other ears."
Fëanor follows him to a small chamber behind the main forge area—a private space where Mahtan sometimes sleeps when projects require overnight attention. It's sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a small table with two chairs, and shelves lined with books and small sculptures. Mahtan closes the door firmly behind them.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to one of the chairs while he retrieves bread, cheese, and dried fruit from a cabinet.
Fëanor sits, watching as Mahtan arranges the simple meal between them. The older elf's movements are measured, almost ceremonial in their precision. Whatever he plans to say, he's giving himself time to arrange the words properly.
"You spoke yesterday of finding a wife who might understand," Mahtan finally begins, taking his own seat. "Someone connected to me, who might suspect the nature of our... relationship."
"Yes." Fëanor leans forward slightly. "Have you thought of someone?"
Mahtan meets his gaze steadily. "My daughter, Nerdanel."
Fëanor stares at him, certain he's misheard. "Your... daughter?"
"Yes." Mahtan breaks a piece of bread, seemingly more interested in the texture of its crust than Fëanor's reaction. "She is of age, unwed, and possessed of both talent and intelligence."
"Mahtan." Fëanor's voice is barely above a whisper. "You cannot be serious."
"I am entirely serious." Mahtan looks up now, his grey eyes unwavering. "She would be a suitable match for you in many ways."
Fëanor stands abruptly, unable to remain seated under the weight of this suggestion. "You would offer your daughter to a man you know is in love with someone else? With you?"
"I would offer my daughter a marriage that could benefit her greatly," Mahtan corrects calmly. "Nerdanel is a gifted sculptor. Your patronage and protection would allow her art to flourish in ways it never could otherwise."
"This is madness," Fëanor says, pacing the small confines of the room. "Complete madness."
"Is it?" Mahtan remains seated, watching Fëanor move. "Consider the alternatives. A political match with someone who expects traditional devotion. A loveless arrangement with a stranger who might grow resentful of your absences. Or defiance of your father's will, with all the consequences that would bring."
Fëanor stops, staring at him. "And your solution is for me to marry your daughter? To what end? That we might continue our liaisons while I maintain a respectable facade with her?"
"That is crude, but not entirely inaccurate." Mahtan's voice hardens slightly. "Though I would add that I expect you to treat her with respect and kindness. She is not merely a shield for our secret."
"How could I possibly look her in the eye?" Fëanor demands. "Knowing what I know? Feeling what I feel for her father?"
"The same way I would continue to look you in the eye," Mahtan says quietly. "By remembering that we are all doing what we must to survive in a world that offers few choices."
Fëanor runs a hand through his hair, disturbing its careful braiding. "You haven't told her. About us."
"No." Mahtan's expression doesn't change. "And she must never know."
The words hang in the air between them, heavy with implication. Fëanor sits again, slowly, as if his legs can no longer support him.
"That is the condition," Mahtan continues. "The only condition that matters. She must never know about us. Never suspect that her husband and her father..." He trails off, unable to complete the thought aloud.
"It would destroy her," Fëanor finishes for him.
"Yes." Mahtan's hands rest on the table, broad and strong, the hands that have taught Fëanor everything he knows about metalwork—and much that cannot be spoken of outside this room. "It would. And I will not allow that to happen."
"So instead you would give her to a man who cannot love her completely," Fëanor says bitterly. "How is that protecting her?"
"I never said you couldn't grow to love her," Mahtan replies. "Nerdanel is easy to love, in her way. She is fierce and clever and sees the world differently than most. You might find more in common with her than you expect."
Fëanor stares at the untouched food between them. "Tell me about her," he says finally. "I've seen her, but we've never spoken at length."
Something like relief crosses Mahtan's features. "She's stubborn," he begins, a hint of fondness warming his voice. "Questions everything, challenges conventional wisdom. She wears her hair pulled back when she works, tied with whatever is at hand—twine, ribbon, a strip of leather. Sometimes she forgets to change it when she goes out."
The image forms in Fëanor's mind—a young woman, hair carelessly bound, focused on her work to the exclusion of social niceties. Not unlike himself.
"Her hands are strong," Mahtan continues. "Sculptor's hands, built for shaping stone rather than metal. She has little interest in politics or court intrigue, preferring the honest conversation of artists. Last week at the artisans' gathering, she wore a green cap, cocked to one side, and a loose-knit smock that looked like it had been mauled by a pack of fashion-conscious wolves," Mahtan adds with a slight smile. "She cares nothing for appearances when she's absorbed in her work."
"She sounds..." Fëanor searches for the right word. "Independent."
"Fiercely so," Mahtan agrees. "Which is why this arrangement might suit her. She values her freedom, her ability to pursue her art without constraints. A traditional husband would expect her to set aside her sculpture for household management and childrearing."
"And you think I wouldn't?" Fëanor asks, genuinely curious.
"I think you would understand the drive to create above all else," Mahtan says simply. "I think you would respect her work because you know what it means to be consumed by making."
Fëanor considers this, turning the idea over in his mind. "She would expect... affection," he says carefully. "Physical intimacy."
"Eventually, yes." Mahtan's expression remains neutral, though something flickers in his eyes. "If the marriage is to be legitimate in the eyes of the Law, it must be consummated."
A heavy silence falls between them. Fëanor breaks it first. "And you would be... comfortable with that?"
"Comfortable is not the word I would choose," Mahtan admits. "But I would accept it as necessary."
Fëanor studies him, trying to read beneath the composed exterior. "This isn't just about protecting me from my father's machinations, is it? You're protecting her too. From what?"
Mahtan sighs, the first crack in his careful composure. "From isolation. From the whispers that follow her for being unmarried, for being too focused on her art. From the limitations placed on women who remain unwed."
"The same pressures I face," Fëanor murmurs.
"Similar, though different in their particulars," Mahtan agrees. "She needs the freedom your position would provide her. The resources, the protection of your name."
"And what does she want?" Fëanor asks pointedly. "Have you asked her?"
"I have not suggested this to her yet," Mahtan admits. "I wanted to speak with you first. To ensure you understood the terms."
"The terms," Fëanor repeats flatly. "That I marry your daughter while continuing to love you in secret. That I never reveal the truth to her. That I somehow balance these impossible contradictions without destroying all three of us."
"Yes." Mahtan meets his gaze unflinchingly. "Those are the terms. Can you abide by them?"
Fëanor stands again, moving to the small window that overlooks a private courtyard. Outside, spring flowers bloom in careful arrangements, tended by invisible hands. Beauty arising from careful planning and hidden labor.
"What if she refuses?" he asks without turning. "What if she has no interest in marrying a prince with a reputation for arrogance and obsession?"
"Then we find another solution," Mahtan says simply. "Though I doubt she would refuse. She respects your work, even if she's never admitted it aloud."
Fëanor turns back to face him. "And us? What becomes of us if I marry her?"
Mahtan's expression softens slightly. "We continue, with caution. Less frequently, perhaps. More carefully. But we continue."
"It seems wrong," Fëanor says quietly. "To build a marriage on such a foundation."
"Many marriages are built on less," Mahtan counters. "Political advantage, financial gain, family alliance. At least in this, there would be mutual respect and understanding of each other's passions."
"If not of all circumstances," Fëanor adds wryly.
"Some truths serve no purpose in being spoken," Mahtan says, his voice gentle but firm. "This would be one of them."
Fëanor returns to the table, sitting heavily. "When would you speak to her?"
"Soon," Mahtan says. "Though it would be best if you met formally first. An arranged introduction that seems coincidental. Let her form her own impressions of you before any proposal is suggested."
"A charade, then," Fëanor says bitterly. "The first of many."
"A courtesy," Mahtan corrects. "She deserves to know the man she might marry, not merely his reputation."
Fëanor nods slowly, acknowledging the wisdom in this. "And if she agrees? What then?"
"Then you court her, briefly but properly," Mahtan says. "Finwë will be pleased you've chosen someone of respectable lineage, if perhaps surprised at her lack of political connections. The wedding would follow within a few months—enough time to satisfy propriety without allowing your father to question your commitment."
The methodical planning reveals how much thought Mahtan has already given this arrangement. Fëanor wonders how long he's been considering it—days, weeks, perhaps longer.
"You've thought this through completely," he observes.
"I've had to," Mahtan says simply. "The alternatives are too dangerous to contemplate."
Fëanor takes a piece of bread, breaking it between his fingers without eating it. "I would never hurt her," he says quietly. "Whatever else happens, I want you to know that. I would treat her with respect."
"I know." Mahtan reaches across the table, his fingers briefly brushing Fëanor's. "That's why I can even consider this arrangement."
Their eyes meet, and for a moment, all the complexity of their situation hangs suspended between them—love and duty, desire and responsibility, truth and necessary falsehood.
"We would have to be careful," Fëanor says finally. "So careful."
"Yes." Mahtan withdraws his hand. "That is the price we pay."
Fëanor nods slowly, decision settling over him like a mantle—heavy but necessary. "Arrange the meeting," he says. "Let me meet her properly, as you suggest."
Relief and something like sorrow pass across Mahtan's face. "I will."
The simplicity of the agreement belies the complexity of what they've just arranged—a structure of relationships built on partial truths and calculated omissions. Fëanor wonders if such a foundation can truly support the weight they intend to place upon it.
"This changes everything," he says softly.
"No," Mahtan counters, rising from his chair. "It merely gives shape to what was always there—the constraints of our world, the choices available to us within those constraints."
He moves to stand beside Fëanor, placing a hand on his shoulder. The touch is careful, restrained—already adapting to their new reality.
"We should return to work," Mahtan says. "The king's pieces won't forge themselves."
Fëanor nods, standing. Before they reach the door, he catches Mahtan's arm, stopping him. "Are you certain?" he asks one final time. "Truly certain this is what you want?"
Mahtan studies him, grey eyes searching Fëanor's silver ones. "Want has little to do with it," he says finally. "This is what I believe is best for all concerned."
It's not quite an answer, but Fëanor accepts it with a nod. Together, they return to the forge, where metal can be shaped according to their will, unlike the circumstances of their lives.
The artisans' quarter hums with activity as Fëanor makes his way through narrow streets lined with workshops and small galleries. Musicians perform in small courtyards, their melodies weaving through conversations as craftspeople display their recent works. He has attended such gatherings before, though rarely with such purpose as today. Somewhere in this creative whirlwind, Nerdanel waits—unknown to her, being considered as his future wife. The thought sits uneasily in his stomach, a strange admixture of guilt and curiosity that quickens his steps even as it makes him want to turn back.
He finds Mahtan easily enough, his copper beard like a beacon among the crowd gathered before a glassblower's demonstration. Their eyes meet briefly across the space, and Mahtan inclines his head subtly—a gesture that carries the weight of their agreement without drawing attention. Fëanor approaches as casually as he can manage, though his heart thuds with uncharacteristic nervousness.
"Prince Fëanor," Mahtan greets him formally, loudly enough for those nearby to hear. "A pleasant surprise to see you at such a gathering."
Fëanor accepts the charade, clasping Mahtan's forearm in the traditional greeting between craftsmen of equal standing—a deliberate choice that raises eyebrows among the observers. "Master Mahtan. Your recent work at the Eastern Gate has drawn much praise. I wished to offer my personal commendation."
It's stiff, artificial, nothing like their usual interactions, but it serves its purpose. Heads turn back to the demonstration, interest in their meeting fading now that it appears to be merely professional courtesy.
"You've not met my daughter, I believe," Mahtan continues, gesturing to his side where a woman stands observing the glassblower with intense concentration. "Nerdanel, may I present Prince Fëanor, son of King Finwë."
She turns, and Fëanor's prepared greeting dies on his lips.
Her hair is not auburn like her father's but a deeper red, like copper left in fire until it darkens to burnished bronze. It's pulled back in a haphazard knot, with several strands escaping to frame a face more striking than beautiful. Her eyes are grey like Mahtan's, but lighter, almost silver in the afternoon sun, and they regard Fëanor with direct curiosity rather than the customary deference his title usually commands.
"My lord," she says, inclining her head slightly. No curtsy, no elaborate formalities. Just acknowledgment, one artist to another.
"Lady Nerdanel," he replies, finding his voice. "I've heard of your work in stone."
"Have you?" Her eyebrows lift slightly, genuine surprise crossing her features. "I wouldn't have thought my modest sculptures would reach princely attention."
There's no sarcasm in her tone, only forthright honesty that catches Fëanor off guard. She wears a simple dress of deep green, practical rather than fashionable, with sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing forearms corded with muscle from her work.
"I make it my business to know all significant artists in our realm," Fëanor says, which is true enough, though he has paid little specific attention to her work before now.
"Significant." Her lips quirk in a half-smile. "That's generous. Or perhaps uninformed."
"Nerdanel," Mahtan chides gently, though there's a hint of pride in his voice.
"It's quite alright," Fëanor assures him, finding himself unexpectedly intrigued by her candor. "I prefer honesty to flattery. Perhaps you might show me your work, and I can judge its significance for myself?"
She studies him for a moment, as if assessing whether his interest is genuine or merely polite. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, for she nods once, decisively.
"My current pieces are in my workshop," she says. "It's not far."
Mahtan clears his throat. "I've business with the bronzeworkers' guild," he says. "Perhaps you might escort my daughter, my lord, and I shall join you later?"
The arrangement is so transparent that Fëanor nearly laughs, but Nerdanel seems to accept it without suspicion. "I can find my own way, Father," she says, that half-smile returning. "I've managed it these many years."
"Nonetheless," Mahtan insists, "it would be proper."
Fëanor sees the subtle eye-roll Nerdanel tries to hide and finds himself charmed despite everything. "It would be my honor," he says, offering his arm in formal fashion.
She places her hand lightly on his forearm, the touch impersonal yet somehow startling. Her fingers are strong, calloused from working stone—artist's hands, like his own, like her father's.
They move through the crowded streets together, an odd pair drawing curious glances. The prince, renowned for his aloofness, escorting the sculptor known more for her uncompromising work than her social graces.
"You needn't feign interest in my sculptures," she says once they're beyond Mahtan's hearing. "I'm well aware this is some scheme of my father's."
Fëanor nearly stumbles. "Scheme?"
"He's been hinting for weeks that I should 'broaden my acquaintances' among the nobility," she explains, navigating them around a group of musicians. "And suddenly here you are, conveniently interested in my modest works. I'm not a fool, my lord."
Her directness is disarming. Fëanor finds himself responding in kind. "I assure you, any interest I express is genuine. Though I won't deny your father may have ulterior motives for our introduction."
She laughs then, a short, bright sound. "At least you're honest about it. Most would continue the pretense." She glances at him sidelong. "He admires you greatly, you know. Speaks of your skills with reverence unusual for him."
"He has taught me much," Fëanor says carefully. "I hold him in the highest esteem."
"Yes, I've gathered that from the many hours you spend at our forge." There's no accusation in her tone, merely observation. "Here we are."
They've arrived at a modest workshop with large windows to capture the northern light. She pushes open the door, releasing his arm to enter her domain. Inside, the space is organized chaos—tools laid out in careful arrangements, blocks of stone in various stages of completion, sketches pinned to every available surface.
Her sculptures occupy plinths and tables throughout the room. They're not what Fëanor expected. Where most elven sculpture tends toward idealized beauty, Nerdanel's work captures raw emotion—figures caught in moments of passion, grief, ecstasy, doubt. The craftsmanship is exceptional, but it's the emotional truth in each piece that arrests his attention.
"These are..." He stops, genuinely at a loss for words.
"Unconventional," she supplies, watching his reaction closely. "Uncomfortable, some say."
"Extraordinary," he corrects, moving to study a sculpture of an elven woman with her head thrown back in what might be laughter or anguish. "You've captured something most artists never attempt—the moment between moments, when we are most authentically ourselves."
Surprise flickers across her face, quickly replaced by careful neutrality. "Most collectors prefer more decorative works," she says, though he can hear the pleasure his understanding has given her.
"Most collectors are fools," Fëanor replies, circling a piece that depicts two hands almost touching. "They want art that reassures rather than challenges."
"And what do you want, my lord?" she asks, the question ostensibly about art but somehow carrying greater weight.
He considers his answer carefully. "Truth," he finally says. "Even when it's difficult. Perhaps especially then."
She nods slowly, as if he's confirmed something she suspected. "That's rare."
"So is this." He gestures to the sculptures surrounding them. "You have a gift for seeing beyond surfaces."
"Necessity," she says with a shrug. "When one grows up watching people say one thing while meaning another, one develops an eye for what lies beneath."
The statement resonates uncomfortably with his current situation. He moves to another sculpture, this one depicting a face half-emerged from rough stone, as if in the process of becoming.
"Tell me about this one," he says, genuinely curious.
Her hair slides further from its knot as she moves to stand beside him, a tangle of dark red strands framing her face. Her lips, neither full nor thin, rest in what seems their natural position—a slightly crooked line that suggests perpetual skepticism rather than disinterest.
"It's about potential," she explains, one finger tracing the air just above the sculpture's surface. "The moment of decision—to remain partially formed and safe within the stone, or to emerge completely into the world with all its dangers and possibilities."
"And which would you choose?" Fëanor asks.
"I already have," she says simply. "Every day I choose to create what I see rather than what others wish to see. Every piece I make is a step further from safety."
The parallels to his own struggles are not lost on him. Despite the circumstances of their meeting, despite the arrangement being contemplated, he finds himself genuinely drawn to her mind.
"Your father mentioned you've refused several suitors," he says, the words emerging before he can consider their wisdom.
Her eyebrows rise again. "Did he? How interesting that you've discussed me."
Fëanor realizes his mistake immediately. "Only in passing," he amends. "He mentioned you value your independence."
"I value my work," she corrects. "The two happen to be connected in our society, where marriage often means the end of a woman's artistic pursuits."
"It needn't be so," Fëanor says, thinking of Mahtan's words about their potential compatibility.
"Perhaps not in theory," she agrees, "but reality rarely aligns with ideal circumstances. Few husbands truly support their wives' continued devotion to craft."
"I would," Fëanor says, then immediately regrets the presumption.
Nerdanel studies him, head tilted slightly. "Would you? An interesting claim from someone who's shown no previous interest in marriage."
Her perception startles him again. "You seem well-informed about me."
"As I said, my father speaks of you often." She moves away, adjusting a cloth covering a work in progress. "And court gossip reaches even my isolated workshop. The prince who loves his forge more than society—it makes for interesting speculation."
A movement at the door draws their attention. Mahtan stands there, watching them with an expression Fëanor cannot quite decipher—something between hope and apprehension.
"I see you've been admiring my daughter's work," he says, entering the workshop.
"With good reason," Fëanor replies honestly. "Her talent is exceptional."
Nerdanel's eyes narrow slightly, moving between them as if sensing undercurrents she cannot quite identify. "You needn't sound so surprised," she tells Fëanor, though there's a hint of amusement in her voice.
"Not surprised," he corrects. "Impressed. There's a difference."
Mahtan approaches one of the sculptures—the hands almost touching—and examines it with professional assessment. "Your technique has improved," he tells his daughter. "The tension in the tendons is perfectly captured."
She accepts the critique with a nod, comfortable with her father's evaluation in a way Fëanor has never been with Finwë's. There's respect between them, artist to artist, that transcends their family bond.
Watching them, Fëanor sees reflections of Mahtan in her posture, her hands, the tilt of her head when considering a technical point. Yet she is entirely her own person, with a vision and voice distinct from her father's. The realization shifts something in his understanding of the arrangement being contemplated.
She is not merely an extension of Mahtan, a convenient solution to his dilemma. She is Nerdanel, artist and individual, with her own desires and ambitions. If he marries her, it cannot be only because of who her father is, but because of who she is herself.
"Perhaps," Fëanor says carefully, "you might consider displaying some of your work at the palace gallery. I could arrange it, if you're interested."
Surprise crosses her face again. "The palace gallery typically features more... conventional work."
"Which is precisely why it needs your perspective," Fëanor counters. "Art should challenge as well as please."
Mahtan watches this exchange with guarded approval. "An excellent suggestion," he says. "Your work deserves a wider audience, Nerdanel."
She looks between them again, suspicion returning. "Why the sudden interest in promoting my career, from both of you?"
"Is appreciation not reason enough?" Fëanor asks.
"In my experience, few things are so simple," she replies.
Mahtan clears his throat. "My lord, perhaps we should allow Nerdanel to return to her work. She guards her creative time jealously."
Fëanor recognizes the strategic retreat. They've made contact, established a foundation. Pushing further today might raise more questions than they're prepared to answer.
"Of course," he agrees. "Thank you for showing me your work, Lady Nerdanel. I hope we might continue our discussion another time."
She inclines her head, that skeptical expression never leaving her face. "As you wish, my lord."
As they leave her workshop, Fëanor feels her eyes on his back—analytical, assessing, missing little. She will not be easily deceived, this copper-haired sculptor with her father's perceptive gaze and her own unflinching honesty.
And strangely, he finds he doesn't want to deceive her—at least, not completely. If this arrangement is to work, there must be something real between them, some foundation of mutual respect and understanding that goes beyond convenience.
He glances at Mahtan walking beside him, and sees in the older elf's expression that he understands exactly what Fëanor is thinking.
"She is herself," Mahtan says quietly. "Not me. Remember that."
"I'm beginning to understand that very clearly," Fëanor replies. And he is—along with the uncomfortable realization that marrying Nerdanel might be both more complicated and more rewarding than he had initially imagined.
next | return to Just Fëanor Things | return to Fic | return to index