Three months after their first meeting, Fëanor stands with Nerdanel before the ornate doors of his father's receiving chamber. Her hand rests lightly in the crook of his arm, steady while his own pulse races. The courtship has progressed with surprising ease—her mind challenges his own, her artistic vision complements his technical mastery, and her forthright nature cuts through his tendency toward isolation. What began as arrangement has developed into genuine respect, perhaps even friendship. But friendship is not what his father expects to see today, and it's not what awaits them beyond these doors—it's judgment, politics, and the weight of a kingdom's expectations.
"You're tense," Nerdanel observes quietly, her grey eyes studying his profile. She wears a gown of deep bronze that complements her copper hair, which for once is properly arranged in elegant braids interwoven with small golden beads. She looks beautiful, though in a way entirely her own—strong features emphasized rather than softened, her sculptor's hands ungloved despite court etiquette.
"My father can have that effect," Fëanor admits.
Her fingers squeeze his arm gently. "Remember, I'm not here for his approval. I'm here for yours."
The simple statement steadies him. In their months of courtship, he's come to admire her unflinching directness, her refusal to play the political games that dominate court life. She knows what she wants—freedom to create, respect for her work, a partnership rather than subjugation—and has made those terms clear.
What she doesn't know, what she can never know, is the complete truth of why he chose her.
The doors swing open before he can respond, revealing the gleaming expanse of Finwë's formal receiving chamber. The room stretches long and high, with columns of white marble and a floor inlaid with patterns of stars. At the far end sits Finwë on a carved chair of dark wood, dressed in robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver. No crown adorns his head, but authority radiates from him nonetheless.
They walk forward together, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. Protocol dictates they stop at a precise distance—close enough for conversation, far enough to acknowledge the king's elevation. Fëanor performs the formal bow expected of him, while Nerdanel executes a slight curtsy, the minimum required by etiquette.
"Father," Fëanor says, "may I present Lady Nerdanel, daughter of Master Mahtan Aulendur. Lady Nerdanel, King Finwë, my father."
Finwë's eyes move over Nerdanel with slow assessment, taking in her unusual appearance, her proud bearing, her unadorned hands. His expression remains neutral, but Fëanor knows his father well enough to read the subtle tightening around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. Disapproval, carefully masked but present nonetheless.
"Lady Nerdanel," Finwë says, his voice smooth as polished marble. "My son speaks highly of your artistic talents."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she replies evenly. "Your son has been most generous in his appreciation of my work."
"Indeed." Finwë's gaze shifts to Fëanor. "Your message indicated you wished to speak with me on a matter of importance."
Fëanor straightens, meeting his father's eyes directly. "Yes. I have chosen Lady Nerdanel as my bride, with her consent. We seek your blessing for our union."
A silence follows, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finwë's expression doesn't change, but the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
"I see," he finally says. "This is... unexpected."
"Is it?" Fëanor counters, a hint of challenge entering his voice. "You instructed me to find a wife. I have done so."
"I had assumed you would consider the daughters of noble houses with whom we have important alliances," Finwë says, each word precisely chosen. "The House of Olwë, perhaps, or Lord Ingwë's niece. Marriage is not merely personal, my son. It is statecraft."
Fëanor feels Nerdanel stiffen beside him, though her expression remains composed. "Lady Nerdanel's lineage is honorable," he says firmly. "Her father is a master craftsman respected throughout the realm."
"A craftsman, yes," Finwë agrees, the words carrying a subtle dismissal. "Talented, certainly. But there are considerations beyond artistic merit when choosing the future queen consort."
"Queen consort?" Nerdanel speaks for the first time since the formal introduction, her voice calm but carrying an edge. "A premature title, Your Majesty, and not one I particularly aspire to."
Finwë's eyebrows rise fractionally. "You would marry the crown prince without accepting the responsibilities that accompany such a position?"
"I would marry Fëanor," she corrects, "for who he is, not for his title. And I would continue my work as a sculptor, regardless of what titles may eventually come my way."
Fëanor can practically see his father's disapproval calcifying into something harder, colder. "A queen's primary duty is to the realm," Finwë says, "not to personal pursuits."
"My primary duty would be to my husband and any children we might have," Nerdanel counters. "As for the realm, I would serve it best by creating works that elevate and challenge it, not by abandoning my gifts to become merely decorative."
Fëanor watches the exchange with growing anger. He had expected resistance, perhaps even disappointment, but not this immediate dismissal of Nerdanel's worth based solely on her background and vocations.
"Lady Nerdanel's sculptures are being displayed in the palace gallery," he interjects. "They have received considerable acclaim."
"From artists and craftspeople, no doubt," Finwë says with a slight shrug. "But we must consider the political ramifications. The noble houses will see this as a slight, Fëanor. They have daughters they've been grooming for potential matches with you since their birth."
"I am not a prize to be won," Fëanor says, heat rising in his voice. "Nor am I a tool for your political machinations."
"You are my heir," Finwë counters, his own tone hardening. "Your choices reflect upon our house and impact our standing among the other elven realms."
"My choices reflect my values," Fëanor insists. "I value talent and honesty above political advantage."
Finwë sighs, a sound of profound disappointment. "So it would seem." He turns his attention back to Nerdanel. "My lady, please understand that my concerns are not personal. You seem... accomplished in your field. But the position you seek to occupy requires different skills. Diplomacy. Tact. An understanding of court politics."
"Skills that can be learned," she replies, "if one deems them worth learning." The implication that she might not hangs in the air between them.
Fëanor feels something dangerous building within him—a rage both familiar and frightening in its intensity. His father's condescension, his thinly veiled rejection of Nerdanel, his assumption that political advantage should outweigh personal compatibility—it all coalesces into a burning need to defy, to rebel, to stake his claim.
"Father," he says, the word clipped, "I did not come here to debate my choice. I came to inform you of it. Lady Nerdanel has accepted my proposal. We will be wed before the summer solstice."
Finwë's expression hardens. "You would proceed without my blessing?"
"I would prefer to have it," Fëanor says with deceptive calmness. "But I do not require it."
The tension between them stretches taut as a wire. Nerdanel stands beside Fëanor, her presence steady but her eyes watchful, missing nothing of this power struggle between father and son.
"Perhaps," Finwë finally says, "you should reconsider the haste of your decision. Take more time to—"
"I have made my choice," Fëanor interrupts, a breach of protocol that causes several nearby courtiers to inhale sharply. In a single fluid motion, he turns to Nerdanel, cups her face between his hands, and kisses her.
The action is born of defiance, of anger—a statement more than an expression of affection. But as their lips meet, something unexpected happens. Nerdanel responds immediately, her mouth yielding to his with a softness that contrasts with her usual forthrightness. Her hands come up to rest against his chest, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer, simply accepting the contact.
The kiss deepens, transforming from political statement to something far more genuine. Fëanor's anger transmutes into a different kind of heat as Nerdanel's lips part beneath his. His hands slide from her face to her neck, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.
When they finally part, Fëanor is startled to find himself breathless, his body responding with unmistakable arousal. Nerdanel's eyes have darkened, her cheeks flushed with color that makes the constellation of freckles across her nose stand out in sharp relief.
Finwë has risen from his seat, his expression a mixture of shock and cold fury. "This display is inappropriate," he says, voice tight with controlled anger. "We will continue this discussion when cooler heads prevail."
"There is nothing more to discuss," Fëanor says, still looking at Nerdanel rather than his father. "Come," he adds softly to her. "We've made our position clear."
He takes her hand and leads her from the chamber without a formal dismissal—another breach of protocol that will be whispered about in court circles for weeks to come. They walk swiftly through corridors of increasing privacy, away from the public areas of the palace, until they reach the library wing.
The royal library is Fëanor's sanctuary within the palace—a vast collection of books and scrolls arranged in concentric circles around a central atrium. At this hour, it stands empty of scholars and attendants. Fëanor leads Nerdanel between towering shelves to a secluded alcove where cushioned benches sit beneath a window of colored glass.
"I apologize," he begins once they're alone. "I shouldn't have—"
She silences him with another kiss, this one initiated entirely by her. Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer with unexpected strength. When she breaks the kiss, her eyes are bright with something that might be anger or desire or both.
"Don't apologize," she says, her voice low and intense. "I'm not sorry."
The space between them crackles with energy, with possibility. Fëanor studies her face—the proud line of her jaw, the intelligence in her eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth—and finds himself genuinely wanting her. Not as a substitute, not as a political solution, but for herself.
"Nerdanel," he says, her name a question and an invitation.
She answers by pressing her body against his, her curves fitting against his angles with surprising compatibility. Her mouth finds his again, more demanding now, and Fëanor responds in kind. His hands trace the contours of her back, learning the shape of her through the fabric of her gown.
"Here?" he asks against her lips, aware of where they are despite the privacy of the alcove.
"Yes," she breathes. "Now."
The certainty in her voice ignites something primal in him. He guides her backward until she's seated on the cushioned bench, then kneels before her. Their eyes meet in silent communication—a question asked and answered without words. Fëanor's hands slide beneath the hem of her gown, pushing the fabric upward as he caresses her calves, her knees, her thighs.
Nerdanel watches him, her breathing quickening but her gaze steady. When his fingers reach the apex of her thighs, finding her already wet through thin undergarments, she inhales sharply but doesn't look away.
Fëanor maintains that eye contact as he pushes the undergarment aside and traces her with gentle fingers. Her reaction—a soft gasp, her head falling back slightly—emboldens him. He lowers his head, replacing fingers with mouth, tasting her with exploratory gentleness that quickly gives way to more purposeful attention.
The sounds she makes guide him—soft moans when he finds a sensitive spot, a sharp intake of breath when he increases pressure. Her hands find his hair again, not directing but encouraging, fingers tightening when he does something particularly pleasing.
Fëanor loses himself in the act, in her responses, in the heady intimacy of giving pleasure. This is nothing like the perfunctory coupling he had expected their marriage might require. This is discovery, connection, a different kind of crafting—shaping pleasure rather than metal or stone.
When her thighs begin to tremble, he increases his focus, his tongue moving in deliberate patterns against that hard nub of flesh, her most sensitive point. Her breathing fragments, her grip on his hair almost painful as she arches against him. The moment of her release is beautiful—her body tensing then shuddering, a soft cry escaping her lips before she bites down on her lower lip to silence herself.
As she returns to herself, Fëanor rises, his own arousal pressing insistently against his formal attire. Nerdanel meets his eyes, her expression soft with recent pleasure but quickly sharpening with renewed desire.
"Come here," she says, reaching for him.
He joins her on the bench, their bodies pressed together in the narrow space. Her hand finds him through his clothing, stroking with confident pressure that makes him groan softly against her neck.
"I want you," she whispers, the words simple but profound in their honesty.
Fëanor helps her rearrange her position until she's straddling his lap, her gown gathered around her waist. His own clothing is opened just enough to free himself, the exposure limited but sufficient. Their eyes meet again as she positions herself above him.
"Are you certain?" he asks, giving her one final opportunity to reconsider.
Her answer is to lower herself onto him, taking him inside with agonizing slowness. The sensation is exquisite—her heat surrounding him, her weight pressing him deeper into the cushions, her eyes never leaving his as she adjusts to the fullness.
When she begins to move, it's with the same confidence she brings to everything—deliberate, focused, unashamed in her pursuit of pleasure. Fëanor matches her rhythm, his hands on her hips guiding but not controlling. The colored light from the window above casts patterns across her skin, transforming her into a living sculpture of shadow and radiance.
Fëanor feels his control slipping as her movements become more insistent. His hands slide up from her hips to her breasts, caressing through the fabric of her gown. When he finds the sensitive peaks and rolls them gently between his fingers, she gasps and tightens around him.
"There," she breathes, "just like that."
He continues the dual stimulation, watching with fascination as she climbs toward another peak. Her eyes have closed now, her head tilted back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Fëanor leans forward to press his lips against her pulse point, feeling it race beneath his mouth.
The combination of sensations proves overwhelming for her. She comes again, her inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic waves that draw his own release inevitably closer. He holds back as long as possible, wanting to prolong this unexpected connection, but when she opens her eyes and meets his gaze with sated intensity, his restraint shatters.
His release washes through him with unexpected force, pleasure spiraling outward from where they're joined. For a moment, all thought ceases—no politics, no arrangements, no complications—just pure physical sensation and the intimate connection of bodies united in pleasure.
As awareness returns, they remain joined, foreheads pressed together, breathing gradually slowing. Nerdanel's fingers trace the contours of his face with the same attention she would give to sculpting, learning him by touch.
"Well," she says finally, a hint of wry humor in her voice, "that wasn't quite how I expected our audience with your father to end."
Fëanor laughs softly, surprising himself. "Nor I," he admits. "Though I can't say I regret it."
She shifts slightly, allowing him to slip from her body, then arranges herself beside him on the bench. Her head rests against his shoulder, her hand finding his and intertwining their fingers.
"He'll come around," she says after a comfortable silence. "Or he won't. Either way, we'll proceed as we've planned."
Fëanor marvels at her certainty, her uncomplicated acceptance of their situation. If only she knew the full complexity, the web of emotions and arrangements that had led to this moment.
As they sit together in the quiet of the library, his arm around her shoulders, his body still humming with the aftereffects of their encounter, Fëanor's thoughts inevitably turn to Mahtan. What would he think of this development? His daughter and his lover, finding unexpected pleasure in each other's arms.
Guilt stirs within him, an uncomfortable heat in his chest that contrasts with the pleasant lassitude in his limbs. Not guilt for what he's done with Nerdanel—that felt right, genuine in a way he hadn't anticipated—but guilt for the secrets that remain unspoken between them.
Nerdanel deserves better than half-truths, better than a husband whose heart is divided. Yet telling her the complete truth is impossible, would hurt her in ways he's already promised Mahtan he would never do.
So he holds her closer, presses a kiss to her temple, and accepts the contradiction of finding genuine connection within an arrangement built on necessary deception. Perhaps, he thinks as Nerdanel's breathing grows deep and regular against him, this is the best compromise possible in an imperfect world—moments of authentic joy and pleasure, stolen from the jaws of impossible circumstances.
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