I know this is non-canon compliant because they met at a beach but guys. Guys. Just let me embarrass these poor kids

(Also I haven't found any good Quenya translators? If anybody could drop me some suggestions, that'd be great! I only used one word but I hope it's the right word)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or locations mentioned in this fic.

Fëanor scowled at the lump of stone in front of him. He supposed it could look like a duck, if he tilted his head and squinted.

Or closed his eyes.

With a groan, he slumped over, his face slamming into the table. He hated working with stone.

It'll be good for you, Mahtan had insisted of his apprentice, to try something new. There is nothing wrong with devotion to one's craft, but obsession is never to be praised. Scowling, Fëanor sat up and glared at his carving. His eyes flashed longingly to the door that led to the smithy. He could hear Mahtan working with one of his other students, and Fëanor wanted desperately to join them. He was Mahtan's apprentice in blacksmithing and silversmithing, not stone carving.

But no, he had to learn to be well-rounded.

Scowl deepening, Fëanor sat up straight and picked up his chisel and hammer again. He would prove to Mahtan that he could master this, that he could master anything he put his mind to.

Resolutely, he began to work, slowly but surely chiseling away pieces of stone, struggling to force it into something vaguely recognizable.

Time crawled by, and still Fëanor worked, dust settling over the table and his clothes. But each time the chisel sloughed off another piece, Fëanor felt more of his patience fall away.

From the smithy, he heard Mahtan's laugh and the sound of metal on metal.

Fëanor's hand slipped, and he watched with horror as his chisel drove far too quickly and far too powerfully into the stone. A solid three inches cracked off, beheading his poor duck.

Suddenly furious, Fëanor leaped to his feet and swept his arm across the table, sending stone and tools alike crashing to the floor. With immense satisfaction, he glared at the mess at his feet. Serves it right, he thought mulishly. He was so busy fuming at the ground that he didn't notice the door open.

A voice, touched lightly by irritation, asked, "Why're you making a mess in my workshop?"

Already furious, Fëanor's tongue was moving before he'd even looked up. "This is my master's workshop, not y—" The words died in his throat as he realized who was speaking.

She was short for an elf, her ruddy skin covered with freckles and her sensible apron covered with dust. She wasn't lithe and delicate like the other elf maidens; her stature was less like that of a willow reed and more like that of a sturdy young sapling.

But her hair. . . . Her hair was the color of spun copper, braided and bound at the nape of her neck. He knew instantly who she was, for he often heard Mahtan speak of his daughter's fiery temper and stunning talent.

She raised one fine brow and propped her hands on her hips. "I don't know what Atar's been feeding you, but this is my workshop." She scowled at him, and Fëanor found himself awestruck by the rising and falling of her voice. Even ridged with anger, it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard. "I also swept this morning, and I work very hard to make sure that all my tools are taken care of."

Fëanor, for once stricken silent, merely stared.

She stepped forwards, raising her chin and glaring. "Well? Haven't you anything to say for yourself?"

Fëanor opened his mouth, but no words came out. You're beautiful, he wanted to say. Sorry for the mess, he wanted to say. Instead, his mouth said, "Rocks are stupid."

Her left eyebrow shot upwards to join the other. "What?"

Cheeks flushing bright red, Fëanor said quickly, "It was being dumb and this is dumb and I'm leaving now. Goodbye." Before he could embarrass himself any more, he all but threw his apron at the hooks on the wall and fled.

The next day, he informed Mahtan, "If you make me carve another boulder, I'm going to leave."

Mahtan laughed and tossed his apprentice some gloves. "I wouldn't dream of it, my lad. Go and fetch the fuller."

Fëanor did so, partially relieved that he wouldn't have to spend hours carving a rock and partially because he wouldn't have to see Nerdanel again. He couldn't believe that he'd made such a fool of himself yesterday, or that he'd lost his temper so badly that he thrown a lump of stone. When he returned, Mahtan quirked his eyebrows and said, "I heard you had an interesting afternoon yesterday."

Fëanor scowled at him. "It wasn't my fault the stone was brittle."

Eyes bright with laughter, Mahtan took the tool from his apprentice. "Of course, Fëanor."

During their lunch break, Fëanor found himself wandering. He disliked sitting and eating with the other apprentices, because they so rarely had anything intelligent to say, and he didn't have any projects to work on right now.

Somehow, he found himself creeping into the stone shop again. To his surprise, the curtains were drawn back and the space had clearly been recently cleaned.

Curious, Fëanor crept into the room. He could see his ill-fated carving on the table, and he was surprised that Nerdanel hadn't thrown it away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape. Whirling around, already tensed to snap defensively, Fëanor glared at the elf in the corner of the room. He sat silently with his head bowed, his dark hair falling loosely about his shoulders.

Shocked to see somebody dressed so finely in such a messy workplace, Fëanor demanded, "What are you doing here?"

The elf didn't answer.

Because he didn't recognize him, Fëanor asked, "Who are you?"

The elf didn't move.

Wondering if he was asleep, Fëanor took a step forwards. There was something odd about the way the stranger's clothes hugged his form, something off about the color of his hair. "Hello?" When there was still no response, Fëanor reached out to prod the elf. "Are you ignoring me?"

"Stop!"

Fëanor froze, fingers mere inches from the stranger's hair, and a small shape rushed at him, shoving him away from the sitting elf with angry movements. Shocked, he found himself face-to-face with Nerdanel for the second time in as many days.

She was just as angry as before. "What do you think you're doing?! The paint isn't dry yet, and if you mess him up then I will personally murder you."

Fëanor's brow furrowed and he shot a look at the elf that still sat, passively, upon his stool. "I'm sorry?"

She huffed and crossed her arms. "You should be."

"No, you misunderstand," he replied, growing slightly impatient, "I meant that I didn't understand. Why—" Suddenly he stopped, realization crashing over him. Paint splattered her dress, but the fresh patches — the wet ones — were the same color as the fine robes the sitting elf wore.

All irritation flying from him, Fëanor swiveled around to stare wide-eyed at the elf sitting in the corner. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could pick out the way that the elf seemed tilted too far against the wall, and the way its clothes didn't quite seem to follow the laws of gravity. Suddenly breathless, he demanded, "You carved this?!"

Nerdanel raised her chin, expression suddenly fiercely proud. "I most certainly did."

Fëanor turned to stare at her with new eyes, shocked. He hadn't known that it was possible to carve something so lifelike. He couldn't even imagine the skill and the patience that it must have taken. "From stone?"

She blinked at him, amused. "What, did you think it was metal?"

And he'd been driven to frustration in a matter of hours by a piece of stone hardly larger than a loaf of bread.

"That's amazing," he said, earnestly.

Startled, she squinted at him, clearly trying to see if he was mocking her. But whatever she saw in his eyes made her relax, and her shoulders dropped from their defensive position. "Thank you." Her lips quirked into a slight smile. "It's not just a stupid rock, is it?"

Fëanor's cheeks flushed. Reluctantly, he admitted, "No." Feeling suddenly bold, he added, "But it is certainly something spectacular in your hands."

Her eyebrows shot up, and her blue-green eyes flashed quickly over his form. "Good," she said, at length.

Fëanor shifted awkwardly, unsure what else to say. It was a foreign feeling for him; he'd always been a gifted orator, and words came easily to his tongue. He was a prince and a skilled artist, and he knew words dammit. But when faced with Nerdanel, the daughter of a smith and an elf with nothing to her name but her raw skill, his mind seemed to forget everything but the color of her hair and the shape of her wrists and the curve of her legs. "Yes."

Nerdanel stared at him. He stared back. After several long seconds, she cleared her throat and turned away, cheeks dusted lightly pink. "You should come see my other sculptures."

Heart in his throat, Fëanor said reluctantly, "I have to be back at the forge soon."

Nerdanel reached out and lightly brushed her hands over his shoulders, dusting a speck of dirt off. Fëanor felt as though he'd been electrocuted. Voice firm, she said, "Come later, then. Atar doesn't keep you all day. Are you free after dinner?"

Fëanor's expression lit up. "I am."

Her lips quirked into a bright smile. "Alright." She licked her lips and shifted, clearly wanting to say more. Evidently deciding not to, she simply said, "Don't be late." With a wink, she turned and left.

Fëanor just stared after her, suddenly and hopelessly in love.

atar: father

fuller: a type of hammer