The Master-Smith's daughter
(Disclaimer: The characters and story from which they are taken all belong to Tolkien. Nothing is mine except the mistakes. All references are from The Silmarillion and HoME 10 and 12)
"You are like your father," my mother comments with a hint of amusement in her voice.
She has caught me out yet again, sitting in the forge, staring into the flames of the fire with apt concentration. Though I love to be out in the pine clad mountains or wandering the rocky coastline and cool golden sands, it is here, in the flames, my heart dwells.
On my lap rests the plans, the basic sketches of what has come to my mind regarding my latest undertaking – of making and engraving a horn for the youngest of my three brother's forthcoming anniversary. The sketches will not need further development, for already the gift has taken on actual dimensions in my thoughts that I know clearly how I will proceed. Once I can visualise something precisely in my mind, I can craft it.
My mother smiles broadly - warmly, knowing me all too well. "But you need to finish your training to perfect your skills, child. However much of your father's ability you have inherited, you need to practice, to hone your crafting, to learn the patience and foresight that fine work requires."
I understand! In that, perhaps I am more like her? But although I make nails, and gates, and household artefacts of rare beauty for those members of our small community, I yearn to give full expression to my art. I yearn to create something unique.
The forge can be a dangerous place if one does not take care. My mother does not like me being here alone. Not yet! Not until I am full grown. But the flames draw me; the coal dust is in my blood. And I am careful! My father and eldest brother have already taught me that much; my mother, though she works less with metal and more with stone than they do, keeps that balance between giving me my freedom and observant nurturing
I realise I have much to learn. I want to learn – so much do I want to live up to my heritage. My mother is a notable craftswoman in her own right. But it is with good reason my father is considered the master-smith of our people. His ideas, his designs and creations are far beyond the skill of any of the others. So I am told! So I have observed in my short life! My eldest brother has inherited some of that ability. He works sublimely well with copper - my mother says he always has done. In time I will excel even he in smith-craft. Not that I do not love him, or respect him. I do! I love all of my brothers, and he is my favourite! I should not speak of having favourites, my mother points out quietly. Favouritism gives fuel to jealousy, and that is a conflagration of the worst kind. Set torch to jealousy and it can lead to the direst consequences.
I understand. I know what she speaks of. Young I may be, but I am not foolish.
She makes gesture that I should tie back my hair if I intend to work, and makes to braid her own as she also will set about her art this day. Calling for Tuon, she makes for the adjacent workroom.
And I ponder the flames for a moment longer, braiding my own raven-black hair with absent-minded finesse. The prospect of making a gift for my brother delights me, that I will surprise him beyond even my parent's expectation.
My mother calls to me, "Come then Náranel! Let me see what you have in mind. And I will share with you my own plans for a gift to celebrate Ambarussa's return to us from the care of Námo Mandos.
So I rise to follow her. My father has always told me not to keep my mother waiting. I know why he speaks so. I also know that, though she has far more patience than he, it does not do to keep the Lady Nerdanel waiting too long.
Ambarussa – One of the twin sons of Fëanor and Nerdanel – in this case Amras.