A/N: This is my take on how Curufin met his canonical wife about whom we know very little, not even her name. I've called her Netyarë.
This is a slow burn of a love story, told mostly from Curufin's point of view. There are plenty of family scenes among the Fëanorians, as they turned out to be so fun to write. The choice of T rating applies to the last four chapters – most of this fic falls under K(+).
Note on canon: I'm going with the birth order of Fëanor's sons in the published Silmarillion, so Curufin is the fifth son, between Caranthir and the twins. He is young in this story, only recently come into adulthood. The twins are still children.
Note on names: I use Quenya names here as in all my fics that take place in Aman. I choose to consistently use c (instead of k or a mix of c and k) for the voiceless velar plosive. Here's a reminder of those Quenya names that are used in this fic, with the spellings in which they appear: Fëanor=Fëanáro, Maedhros=Nelyafinwë/Maitimo, Maglor=Cáno/Macalaurë, Celegorm=Turcafinwë/Tyelcormo/Tyelco, Caranthir=Carnistir, Curufin=Curufinwë/Atarincë, and finally the twins: Amrod=Pityafinwë/Pityo/Ambarussa, Amras=Telufinwë/Telvo/Ambarto (called Ambarussa by his twin; the twins are collectively called the Ambarussar). I stuck to the mother-names of Curufin's brothers for the most part in order to not overcomplicate things, using father-names only in more formal conversation where I believe they would be preferred, in my headcanon at least.
Chapter 1 summary: Curufinwë and Netyarë meet for the first time, and neither of them is very impressed with the other. We also get glimpses into life at Fëanáro and Nerdanel's home.
Chapter I / Unfavourable impressions
On a mild spring evening all the sons of Fëanáro and Nerdanel who still reside at the family home have gathered to another family dinner. It is a tradition very dear to Nerdanel: after each member of the family during the day engages in their own work and goes about their own business, alone or with others, at night they convene to dine and spend some time together. Macalaurë and Carnistir, one married several years ago and the other recently, join in often but not always, with or without their wives.
Over the meal Nerdanel tells her husband and sons of a young artist called Netyarë whose acquaintance she has made recently. This young painter's frescoes have made quite an impression on Nerdanel, and she has asked Netyarë to collaborate with her in redecorating a council hall in Finwë's palace: Nerdanel will sculpt several large statues and Netyarë will paint a scene that will complement them.
'She is young – just a little bit older than you, Atarincë, I think, younger than Carnistir – but she has already won a reputation as a talented and hard-working artist. I see great things in store for her.'
'Certainly with your help in getting in to the right circles', mutters Curufinwë under his breath as he tries to covertly read the book he has propped on his lap. Maitimo, who is sitting next to him, kicks him in the ankle – for his words or for the book, Curufinwë doesn't know which.
Nerdanel chatters more about this new project of hers and others speak of what they are working on as well. Curufinwë is usually happy enough to talk about his work, but on this particular night he doesn't participate much in the conversation: his current project requires that he finishes reading this book, so he keeps stealing glances at it while he eats.
'Curufinwë!' Nerdanel's sharp voice makes Curufinwë instantly lift his gaze. His mother almost always calls him Atarincë, the name she gave him that is rarely used by others; when she calls him by his father-name he knows he's in trouble. 'Are you reading a book under the table again?'
'No, mother, I wouldn't do that at a family dinner.' Curufinwë tries to shift his book into the lap of Tyelcormo who sitting on his other side, in case Nerdanel makes him stand up to prove he's not lying, but Tyelcormo, the idiot, shoves it back with really quite unnecessary force. Curufinwë tries not to grimace at the twinge of pain on the side of his thigh.
Nerdanel narrows her eyes. 'Yet you have done it in the past, repeatedly I might add. And if I catch you doing it again, well, you will find that you are not too old to made to muck out the stables for a week as punishment for you discourtesy.' It does not sound entirely like a joke.
Curufinwë is about to open his mouth to remonstrate, or to appeal to his father, but thinks better of it. Objecting to the threat of punishment will not make him look less guilty. So he gives no reply and then makes a point of being relatively attentive for the rest of the meal – not too little to be suspected of reading again, but not so much that his earlier quietness would seem remarkable by comparison.
The morning that Netyarë is to meet Nerdanel at the older artist's studio, she is nervous almost to the point of feeling nauseous. She has met with Nerdanel many times now, and they have spent the last few days together at the palace council hall they will be redecorating: learning the space, taking measurements and making preliminary plans and sketches. Nerdanel has been wonderful, treating Netyarë as an equal, an artist in her own right, yet subtly teaching her many things at the same time.
But this is the first time Netyarë is going to Nerdanel's home, where her studio is located. And though Netyarë has been to many nobles' houses in the course of her work, she is still nervous in the opulent mansions of the high-born. Somehow King Finwë's palace is easier in spite of its splendour, as it feels like a place of office rather than anyone's home. But nobles' homes, however large and luxurious, are still homes, and she is always struck by the difference between them and her own home, her parents' comfortable but fairly modest house that has their shop in the front.
The daughter of merchants who specialise in high-quality paper, inks and paints, Netyarë sometimes feels like she was born with a paintbrush in hand, for she cannot remember a time when she did not yearn to reproduce the images that appear in her mind. All her life she has been striving to narrow the gap between what she sees in her mind's eye and what she can capture on a flat surface. After she discovered that her own medium – her passion, though it is often hard and even dirty work – is fresco painting, she has gained moderate success, doing several small assignments for the rich and powerful of Tirion.
Collaborating on a royal commission with Nerdanel, famous sculptor and wife of the king's influential eldest son, is the best thing that Netyarë could have hoped for at this stage of her career. Or rather it's more than she'd ever have dared to hope, and she is determined to make the most of it. She will work harder than ever and be on her best behaviour.
Netyarë checks her looks once more in the copper mirror above her dressing table, smooths her skirts and makes sure that she has in her satchel everything that she could possibly need, then sets out towards Fëanáro and Nerdanel's house.
As always when the twins' older brothers are recruited to teach them, studying soon turns to fraternal bickering. This time it is Curufinwë who has been enlisted to explain to the Ambarussar some finer points of mathematics that their tutor insists he is unable to make them understand.
'I'm not a professional teacher, I don't understand how I am expected to be any more successful in getting this through your thick skulls', complains Curufinwë to the little red-headed beasts who stare at him ever so innocently after making his life very unpleasant for the past few hours. 'You're not even trying, that's the problem. You can't be this bad with numbers. Even Cáno was able to learn this, and we all know he is hopeless at counting anything but music.'
'That's really not fair', protests Macalaurë from the armchair where he is absent-mindedly plucking at a lyre. He has sought refuge with his brothers after his wife drove him from their house so that he would not get in the way of their servants who are spring cleaning.
'It's very fair', says Maitimo who can't quite keep a grin off his face as he peruses a stack of documents at a side table. As usual, all the brothers in the house have gravitated to the same room. 'I had to tutor you, remember?'
'Well, at least I tried.' Macalaurë conjures a sad little song from his lyre while staring accusingly at his littlest brothers.
'We are trying!' protest the twins as one.
'And that is my cue to interrupt your study session', says Nerdanel smoothly as she sweeps into the room. 'Ambarussa, Ambarto, you promised me that you would behave with your brother who is spending his day helping you.'
'Not voluntarily', mutters Curufinwë as he tosses his quill aside.
Nerdanel chooses to not hear this. 'Time got away from me and I forgot to give orders for lunch, but I'm on my way to speak with the cook now. I would like the five of you to join me and Netyarë for lunch in the studio.' Nerdanel often takes her midday meal in her workroom. She has explained to her family that this helps her stay in the right state of mind for continuing her work.
Her sons agree to come, of course; they are used to being introduced to the various artists with whom their mother collaborates during her more sociable artistic periods, and besides, they are hungry.
'I'll ask for something simple, so it shouldn't take more than half an hour. Be good now, Pityo and Telvo.' A quick kiss on two red heads and a swish of skirts, and Nerdanel is gone.
'She's in a very good mood, planning must be going well', notes Maitimo who has laid aside his papers and given up the pretence of working.
'It'll be interesting to meet this young painter. I wonder if she is as highly artistic as some of the others', says Macalaurë thoughtfully, and they all know that by 'highly artistic' he means 'weird'. Their mother has worked together with some real eccentrics.
'I hope she's not as loud as that big man who did pictures out of wood', says Ambarussa – the one actually named Ambarussa.
At the mention of the woodcarver Macalaurë turns pale. He had suffered more than anyone else from the loud off-pitch singing that particular artist had engaged in while working.
'You don't live here anymore', Maitimo points out, and Macalaurë is visibly relieved by this reminder.
'So if she makes a terrible racket while working, you can just not visit here for a while', says Ambarto sulkily. 'But we have no choice, we have to tolerate whoever mother drags here.'
'But this lady artist is nice to look at, at least', says his twin comfortingly.
Curufinwë lets out a little snort. 'You're too young to know which women are nice to look at.'
'No we're not!' say the twins indignantly.
'We saw her when she came and she smiled at us. She has pretty eyes and a very nice smile', explains Ambarto.
'She's short, though. But that's not too bad', adds Ambarussa.
'Experts on ideals of female beauty, are you, at your tender age?' asks Macalaurë with his brows raised. The twins glower at him.
'If you two can be conquered with one smile from a woman, well, I can only pity you. And our parents', says Curufinwë. His little brothers are so wonderfully easy to rile up. 'Or is there something especially potent about this painter's smile?'
Maitimo is smiling at the twins too, but says, 'It is best not to gossip about someone while they are in the same house.'
So they return to their various pursuits, or at least pretend to, until the call for lunch comes.
During the battle of wills with his little brothers that their mother had referred to as a 'study session', Curufinwë had almost forgotten that the painter was coming to their house on this day. As he walks up the stairs to Nerdanel's studio with his brothers he avoids the instinct to place himself between Macalaurë and the twins; Maitimo is in the lead, and in Curufinwë's opinion nothing is more ridiculous than their band of brothers lining up in order of age as their parents like them to do.
Curufinwë reflects that he is not in a mood to socialise with a stranger and decides that he shall eat quickly and then try to make an early escape and retreat to the smithy before Nerdanel remembers that his tutoring of the twins is not finished.
Stepping into the studio behind his brothers, he breathes in the familiar smell that is a mix of clay and stone dust and home and brings back many memories, some of them earliest that he has, about this large room full of light and intriguing shapes. He sees Nerdanel's newest collaborator standing next to one such shape, admiring the near-finished sculpture.
His first impression of Netyarë is that she certainly doesn't look 'highly artistic'. Engaged in only planning work with Nerdanel on this day, she is not wearing any extraordinary artist's clothes but a fairly well-made if simple sky-blue dress, and her hair, of a slightly lighter brown than is common among the Noldor, is plaited into one wide braid that is tucked into a bun at her nape.
She looks respectable if not distinguished, and Curufinwë supposes he agrees with the Ambarussar's opinion that she is pretty. (He won't admit this to the little monsters, of course.) In fact, she looks so pretty and young and ordinary that in his current unfavourable mood he finds it hard to believe that she is an accomplished artist.
Nerdanel introduces her five present sons to the young woman, and Curufinwë watches Netyarë charm his two eldest brothers with a shy smile – nothing special there – and a few soft-spoken words. Then Nerdanel beckons Curufinwë forward – she is proceeding in order of age, why are their parents so obsessed with that? – and he resolves not to be won over as easily. He nods at Netyarë haughtily and does not return her smile.
Netyarë is a little taken aback at the cold greeting of the third son that Nerdanel introduces to her, after the first two were so amiable, but she tries to keep from appearing rattled. It is does not make her feel better to have to look up at him, for he is tall in addition to being dark, handsome and rude, but she refuses to look down as his mother tells her about him.
'This is my fifth son, Curufinwë Atarincë. He's not much here at the house – he spends so much time at the smithy that sometimes I think he's moved to live there.' Nerdanel smiles gently at Curufinwë. 'He's only here today because he agreed to teach these little rascals', and as she speaks Nerdanel pulls her youngest two to her side and squeezes them, to their great embarrassment. 'Who are called Pityafinwë Ambarussa and Telufinwë Ambarto, and they are very nice boys even if they cannot learn more advanced mathematics.'
'Don't worry if you can't tell them apart, very few people can', says the eldest son, red-headed like the twins, and very tall and smiling and relaxed as he leans against the doorframe.
'I have darker hair, and he is shorter', says one of the twins. Netyarë can't see the differences.
'I am not shorter than you', protests the other little redhead.
'You are very tall for your age, dear', says his mother soothingly, and beckons them all to sit down. 'Macalaurë, I hope your wife is well?' And skillfully Nerdanel guides the conversation, asking thoughtful questions and drawing attention to common interests while they eat the light repast Nerdanel's cook produced in a hurry.
Curufinwë observes that the young artist, who is indeed not 'highly artistic' but polite and sweet and appears interested even in the Ambarussar's childish stories, is quite a hit with his brothers, but this does nothing to endear her to him. He has always known, and indeed benefited from knowing, that these four brothers of his in particular have a good-natured side that is easily manipulated, and he can see that Netyarë is doing whatever she can to win them over. She does it differently than he would, and skillfully enough that they are fooled but inelegantly enough for Curufinwë to see through it.
He remains as haughty as he dares in the presence of his mother, and sticks to his plan to try to slip away quickly and inconspicuously. Let Maitimo, Macalaurë and the Ambarussar stay here and be twisted around the girl painter's little finger. He finds her irritating rather than charming, and also a little familiar-looking – has he seen her somewhere before?
Netyarë notices Curufinwë's quietness and his cold looks at her, but she is determined to not let one son's disapproval extinguish the exhilaration she feels because her work with Nerdanel has started very promisingly. She is relieved, though, when the haughty son is the first to leave.
Curufinwë returns from the smithy late at night, late enough to have a hope of getting to his room without encountering any family members. He does indeed manage to do just that, but as he is drying off after washing away the soot and sweat of a good day's work there is a knock on his door.
'Just a moment', he calls and scrambles into his night clothes, then goes to open the door.
'Hello, mother', he says sheepishly when he sees who it is. During the afternoon, as his bad mood and irritations had dissolved away while he hammered stubborn steel into the right shape, he had began to feel uneasy about the childish way he had sneaked away from lunch.
'Atarincë dear', she sighs and kisses him on the cheek as if to signal her forgiveness though he has not spoken words of apology. She sits on the edge of his bed, and he sits next to her. 'I hope you had a good day.'
'I did, I had some good progress. Mother, I am sorry for leaving your lunch so abruptly. And for not coming to dinner.' In general, apologies do not roll easily off his tongue, but it is easy to apologise to his mother when he knows he will be forgiven.
'I understand that you did not want to go back to teaching the Ambarussar, I know it is vexing work. But you were discourteous towards my guest by sneaking away.'
'I know. I will conduct myself more maturely in the future. I will try to, at least.'
His mother smiles at him fondly. 'That's all I can ask for, isn't it?'
'And I will take up the twins' lesson again. I've had an idea for a new approach.' He does not tell Nerdanel that the idea he had in the dim heat of the forge includes what could be called bribery, or possibly blackmail.
'I'm glad to hear it. What did you think of my new associate, then?' She watches his face closely.
'She's very charming.' It is not a lie, even if Netyarë's charm had not worked on him. 'And she looks vaguely familiar. I feel like I've seen her before.' Frowning, Curufinwë tries to figure out where.
'Her parents own a shop that sells inks, parchment and such, the one north of the marketplace. Have you bought something from there?'
'I think so. Does she work there, then, in addition to doing her frescoes?'
'Not anymore, now that her painting career has taken off, but I understand that she used to.'
Nerdanel does not seem to care that her new protégé comes from a very different class of people than their family, but Curufinwë thinks of how it is quite a step up for Netyarë to go from selling her parents' wares to decorating King Finwë's council hall with the king's daughter-in-law.
Nerdanel bids Curufinwë a fond good-night, and he goes to bed and tries to go to sleep but finds his mind restless in spite of his body's tiredness after a long day. Very annoyingly his errant thoughts keep circling back to the young painter and her smile that, Curufinwë had discovered during the lunch, indeed had something especially potent about it, a radiant warmth that even he could feel though he did not want to.
He tosses his covers aside and concentrates on pondering a thorny crafting problem that has been plaguing him for weeks, and somehow that is an easier thought to fall asleep on.
A/N: I promise that Curufinwë won't be as much of a snob in later chapters. Well, not in all of them. It takes him a while to get over himself, but luckily Netyarë will eventually help him along with a few sharp words.