II
They weaved through the silver bowls of tress down the sloping hill as Laurelin was reaching her height of luminosity. Every now and then, they would emerge from a copse and come to bare, mossy rock where they could see the crashing waves of the sea below, then the trees would thicken again. The dwellings in Tirion seemed to be built into the very hill of Tuná, and were of such stuff that they could have grown right up from the earth: houses of stone and leaves and wood blended so well into the landscape that to the unskilled eye, their presence could not be noticed until one was nearly upon them.
Fingolfin and Finarfin trotted merrily after him, sometimes darting off to observe a budding sapling or a butterfly, then running to catch up to Fëanor's longer strides, all the while making no sound or such sound that only an insect could hear. Though every now and again, the young ones' hushed voices would rise like a soft wave to discuss the significance of this or that flower. As they walked, the soft light of the Tree dimmed. The shadows of the trees grew longer. They were entering the eternal twilight at the east of the city.
As they emerged from some trees onto a small cliff, Finarfin stopped and turned to his brothers, tugging at his fair hair excitedly. "Ah, look! The ocean is singing! Fëanáro, won't you take us to Sea?" When Fëanor turned in a swift movement to look at him with furrowed eyebrows, he added, "But for a moment?"
Fëanor did not slow his pace. "Don't speak nonsense! I told the two of you that I was going to Mahtan's forge – and nowhere else – and yet you still insisted on coming. If you must go to the Sea, go on your own."
"Mamil says we aren't to go by ourselves," Finarfin objected.
They reentered the trees and the glint of starlight reflecting off of the waves was lost to them once more.
"It's no use trying to convince him," Fingolfin wisely advised his little brother. "He's always cross when he's to the forge."
"Why is that?"
Fingolfin smiled knowingly. "Because Mahtan's daughter is Fëanáro's rival, and she is just as skilled as he. They say she is as strong in spirit in her own quiet way, though never as forceful; nor does she fear him . It always puts him at ill."
Fëanor abruptly turned on his heel. The movement was so quick and unexpected that Fingolfin nearly ran into him, scattering light and fallen leaves on the ground. His elder brother bent slightly so their faces were level.
"Do not presume," came his low, threatening voice, "to know my mind, Fingolfin."
The middle child grew silent and turned his eyes downward, for all knew better than to irk the son of Míriel. And Fingolfin, especially, was wary of that voice – the one that was full of something dangerous, trembling always with something only just retained and threatening to escape.
Then Fëanor moved away, his mood changing as smoothly as the surface of a lake after a storm. Fingolfin stood watching after him for a while, and Finarfin glanced at him curiously as he passed him, hurrying his pace to catch up to Fëanor. Then he followed also.
"Ah, Curufinwë!" the mighty Noldo greeted him with his arms wide. "And my two young princes! Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo! You are welcome as always!" Mahtan motioned gracefully with his arms, a tall willow bowing to the breeze. Of all the Noldor in thier father's kingdom, Mahtan was the most jovial and good-humored.
Fëanor and Mahtan turned into the house, conversing among themselves, and the young ones hung back, taking in his dwelling with large, shining eyes. The forge opened up before them like a large stone cavern, and the ringing sound of fire and billows, and hammer and anvil echoed throughout. The heat from the forges would have been unbearable had there not been large vaulted openings that let the light and air flow in. Here, the light of Trees was faint, and the luminosity of Varda's stars cast an eerie silver-blue into the eastern rooms.
"Your stones are a marvel, Curufinwë," Mahtan spoke in confidential tones, weaving in and out among the tools and workers of his forge. Both he and Fëanor wore no robes, but light, well-fitting garments, fit for work over the anvil. "I have not shown them to anyone, as they are not finished. Yet already they mesmerize me with their rare beauty. Such work, it seems to me, is of the skill of the Valar! Aulë himself, when he taught me his skill, could not have done better. How come you by such ability? Not even my mentoring could have derived such treasures."
"I know not how I come by such skill," Fëanor answered, face emotionless. "I know only that I pour my soul into that which I make, and I find no content unless my mind is contriving always newer and better designs."
"Curufinwë," Mahtan stopped and faced him soberly. "You have a great gift, but you must not always be worrying and planning. Your creations are superb, and none can rival them. But rest is just as valuable."
Fëanor sighed and looked past the strong-jawed Noldo, refusing to meet his gaze. "You sound like my father." Slowly, he let his eyes wander back into Mantan's. "There is no rest for me."
The wise Mahtan put his arm around the son of Finwë, and they walked slowly, without purpose or drive. "I know you ever grieve for your lady mother, my friend. This fire in you – it is not dangerous in itself. But if you let it go unchecked, it will consume you as it did her."
For a moment, Fëanor felt like collapsing into him, like weeping for his mother and asking why he must be born with this restlessness in his soul – this fire always burning. He felt like cursing Idril and demanding that his two little brothers be disowned – that Finwë come to his senses and realize that he, the only son of Míriel, should be the sole beloved of his great father. He wanted to tell Mahtan all the things he had never had the courage or audacity to say to his father. But he withheld this childish outburst, and the feelings soon passed as they always did. No, he thought forebodingly, it would be a blessing to be consumed. Instead, he was cursed to burn and burn, always to burn and never find rest.
He smiled faintly, fakely, "You are right, Mahtan."
The great Noldo smiled, appeased, and dropped his arm. They quickened their pace. "Good. Come. We will retrieve these stones of yours. With your permission, I would like to set them out under the starlight and see again how they drink from the light of fair Varda."
Fëanor turned to account for his half-brothers. He saw that they halted a ways back, shyly watching the work of one of Aul's smiths, Fingolfin somberly answering Finarfin's eager questions, innocently feigning knowledge.
"Brothers!" Fëanor called irritably. But they could not hear him over the pounding of the worker's hammer. "If you would fetch my jewels, Mantan, while I fetch my brothers."
Mahtan agreed good-naturedly and nodded a slight bow, then departed.
Fëanor made his way to the two young Noldor. As he came closer, he heard Finarfin ask in a high, childish voice, "But what is it for, Fingolfin?"
When Fingolfin did not answer, Fëanor knew that he must be wearing that perplexed look, as he strained to find an answer to a question he did not know.
"It's a sword," Fëanor said, approaching from behind. Fingolfin and Finarfin gazed at him over their shoulders. "And it's used to protect oneself."
"Protection from what?" Finarfin asked with wide eyes. Fëanor surprised himself by the bitterness with which he noted Finarfin's locks: the red firelight caused them to glint like gold.
"From enemies."
"What's an enemy?"
"One who means you harm in some way."
Both boys pondered on this for half a minute, then Finarfin asked aloud what both were thinking, "I don't understand."
The smith paused a moment from his labor to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was red and heated from working over the fire, but the beauty inherent to his kin was unaffected. He picked up his hammer and resumed his work eagerly.
Fëanor gazed away east for some time, to the ocean and the unchanging starlight. Presently, he responded, "A long time ago, the Valar had an Enemy who marred the surface of Arda, way beyond the Sea. He wished harm upon the Quendi when we were yet young and knew not the Blessed Realm. He was not entirely unsuccessful in his endeavors. Though, now he serves penance in the halls of Mandos, and we seldom hear of him."
The youths were silent a while, contemplating their new-found knowledge, but still not quite understanding. For, in their world of perfect bliss unmarred, they could not fully comprehend the nature of such an evil.
"Why do you trouble them with such burdensome stories?" a gentle, refreshing voice questioned them. A lady drew near and placed a comforting hand on each boy's shoulder. She had a genuine smile. Her hair was warm and the color of copper alight with fire. She was dressed strangely, in clothes nearly masculine, and her hair was bound away, out of her face. Although this did not disguise her obvious femininity, there was yet a quality about her that was not inherently female. Perhaps it was the lack of care that she gave to her appearance, or maybe it was simply seeing her in a place where one would least expect to find a lady.
"I will take your advice, lady," Fëanor replied touchily, without hesitation, "on the day you lay down your hammer for a sewing needle."
Finarfin and Fingolfin observed the meeting eagerly with upturned faces.
The lady's smile did not visibly falter, but somehow, imperceptibly, it lessened in quality. "Not all are as skilled as your lady mother, may Eru keep her, and those of us who are not will be useful where we can," she answered solemnly.
Fëanor narrowed his eyes slightly, though his response was not cruel, "You ought to find yourself a husband, Nerdanel. This forge is no place for you."
She laughed, and the sound of it seemed to annoy him. "No place for me! Why, this is my father's forge! I would no sooner be at discomfort here than in my mother's womb. And anyway, Curufinwë, I cannot marry, for I am waiting for you to take me and will have no other!" This last part was obviously in jest. But why then, Fingolfin wondered, did it seem to sound sad?
Fëanor smirked unkindly.
The golden-haired child tugged timidly on Nerdanel's garment. The elf-maiden tilted her heart-shaped face to look benevolently down on him.
"I will marry you, Lady Nerdanel," he murmured, so softly as to be nearly inaudible.
She laughed kindly, the sound of minute bells tinkling. "Tancave, Finarfin; perhaps when you are older." And she swept her lips lightly over his brow in a maternal sort of affection.
Fëanor frowned ever so faintly. Though whether to Finarfin's or Nerdanel's words, he did not know.
"There you are, my lads!" the deep voice of Mahtan interrupted their conversation. He greeted the lady Nerdanel with a warm embrace. "My daughter, come and see. I have brought with me the unfinished work of Prince Curufinwë. Those skilled with their hands and eager in the pursuit of wisdom such as you can truly appreciate the beauty of these gems." He produced from a velvet pouch two colorless gemstones, exquisitely cut and finely crafted.
The party followed him as he left the heat of the forge and stepped into the cool starlight under the shadows of the trees. The leaves danced in the ocean wind, casting alternating patterns of light and shadow onto the soft blades of grass. Sweet scents rose to meet them where their feet crushed the slender blades. Here, Mahtan set the gems down on top of the pouch and stood back, letting the stones drink in the starlight and magnify them brilliantly. Fingolfin and Finarfin gaped in wonder. They had never before seen such handiwork made from the hands of the children of Illúvitar, and were awed that these marvels were the labor of their own brother. They fell into a respectful silence.
Only Nerdanel spoke, not taking her eyes from the radiant lights that had once been clear jewels. "Curufinwë," she breathed humbly, "you have outdone yourself yet again."
When he did not reply, she glanced at him, only to find him staring harshly at his heart's labor with that familiar discontent and trouble in his pale eyes.