III

When the colorless jewels were completed, Fëanor hid them away, for he could not stand the sight of his imperfection, though no flaw in them could be found to others' eyes. Once, when Mahtan questioned him about them, Fëanor's eyes filled with such restless, piercing flame that he dismissed his inquiry and thought not of them again; for he guessed the prince's ailment.

For a long while after his labor, the prince's hands were still, and the people around him were at peace. But his mind was never still, and it turned with devices and plans, ever-changing and evolving. Another project was conceived. And Fëanor's hands were idle no more.

He perceived his plans in his sleep, and in waking, his thought was ever bent on them. It started as an aloofness. He spent less time in the company of others, and stayed often in his room, or else wandered in solitude through the un-populated places of Túna. When he could find no solitary place to satisfy him, he might even go to the shore and wander as far as he could in the sand, heedless of the chanting waves, before Telperion waxed. At last, when his thought was full-formed, he took to the forge and began his labor.

From tree-dawn he rose and made to the forge where he spent long hours, returning only when Telperion bloomed his fullest. Then he would make home to eat and sleep a bit before rising the new day and beginning again his toil.

This happened for many months, and though Finwë could see his son's feverish possession, even he was not free of the solemn respect and mild trepidation of his fiery spirit. He made mention to him twice or thrice, beseeching his dark-haired heir to rest a while from his project and spend time at ease with his family. And Fëanor did not deny him: each time he would lay down his tools for a day or so and linger in the presence of his father. But all could see that his mind was not there but away into the forge with his work and his fire. He took no joy in the mirth of the court nor the beauty of the gardens but was dull and listless, and his speech was vacant. In the end, Finwë released him from his service, and Fëanor at once would make to the forge.

At last, a time came when Fëanor rested not but haunted Mahtan's forge, an elvish wraith. For a time, he neither slept nor ate but poured his life flame into his creation.

Silently throughout, Nerdanel watched and took notice. In the days of his life-giving, she brought him nourishment, though he seemed not to notice, and she wearied not of keeping him ever under watchful eye. For she alone, when he was fierce with bent mind and will, had the courage to approach him, and she feared not his wild eyes or else refused to be intimidated by their living fire.

One evening, when all was quiet and dim in the great chambers of Mahtan's forge, she came to him, bringing a silver, jeweled cup filled with wine. It was late, and she had woken from troubled sleep. It was becoming common, these midnight excursions to monitor Curufinwë's welfare. She hung back behind a column and watched him for some minutes, working over intricate details: smoothing, sanding, pouring, and then, dissatisfied, throwing the glowing thing back into the forge-fire to begin forming it again. He bent over the object like a thing possessed, and he might have been beautiful, with his inky locks, shinning eyes, flushed cheeks, and subtle muscles undulating smoothly underneath pale skin, but for the intensity of his movements. If he marked her presence, he did not acknowledge it. Sucking in her breath through moist, parted lips, she approached him, cautiously but steadily.

"Curufinwë . . ."

He glanced only momentarily before returning his concentration to the task before him.

Gingerly, she set the silvery cup on a spruce stool next him. Then gathering her silver-blue cloak about her, she moved into his field of vision so that he must look at her.

"You should go home and rest."

There was no answer.

She sighed and turned her head, craning her neck gracefully as a swan's. The stars held her attention. She could not say the time that passed as they stood there, together but apart.

The small, large-eyed child drank in the sight. Apparently, he had not much seen maiden's things, and Nerdanel's chamber must have been a wonder and a mystery. It was decorated, like most bedchambers, with silk drapes, and intricate tapestries, and finely carved furniture. But she also had the tools of skill to which elf-lads seldom were exposed. Having all brothers, it was no surprise that this one found it fascinating.

"My Lord Finarfin," she curtsied thoughtfully, benignly amused. "To what do I pay the honor of this visit?"

The boy snapped his eyes away from the neglected spinning wheel and thought for a moment, seemingly reevaluating his reasons for coming. Her warm smile put him at ease, and he quickly regained his train of thought. "It's Feanáro," he said, expressive blue eyes and gentle earnestness betraying his worry.

Nerdanel's smile immediately faltered, but she courageously salvaged what she could from it, nodding supportively for Finarfin to continue.

But instead of speaking right away, the small prince's eyes swam and trembled, and his little, pointed face twisted sorrowfully. Before she knew what was happening, Finarfin had thrown himself into her skirts, burying his face and weeping.

"He's become so cruel to me, Nerdanel, crueler than usual, and I know it's because he goes to the forge every day now and never has any time for us at home! There's something keeping him there, I just know it! Something like, like – an emeny! Only he doesn't know any better, and he can't protect himself from it, so I –" he paused to draw in a long, shaky breath.

Nerdanel rested her hand comfortingly on the child's back, and her face was smitten with concern and understanding. "Ssssshhhh . . . there, there, my brave one." She knelt and held him back from her so she could look at him as she spoke. She lifted her eyebrows at him and smiled faintly. "You believe Curufinwë has an enemy?" she finished, deliberately correcting him.

Nodding, "At the forge." Finarfin took another deep breath. He began again, slowly. "I don't have a sword, or else I'd get rid of it myself, but Mamil won't let me have one. So I," he looked at her with eyes so filled with hope and trust, "I would that you would go to him, my lady, and speak with him." And before she could respond, "He would listen to you, for I think his wrath for you is weaker than it is for me, and you are so strong that he can never hurt you."

Nerdanel felt a tightening in her chest. Never hurt her? Couldn't he, though? "Oh, Finarfin! He has not wrath for you!"

She was met only by his despairing, disbelieving face. Then she hugged him to her fiercely as he wrapped his little arms about her neck.

"Where – are – they?" His voice was eerily calm. "I know you have taken them."

He had her cornered in her father's forge, and already, heads were turning in their direction to see whence the disturbance came.

But Nerdanel was brave and remained composed in the face of his fury. "I know not of what you speak, my lord."

He slammed his hand down onto a wooden table, cracking its surface and sending a shudder all the way down into the legs. All around them, the smiths and workers immediately fell silent and gaped uncomfortably, shifting their feet. But the forge-maiden barely flinched.

"Do not play games with me, Nerdanel!"

"My lord, forgive me; I do not think – "

He did not wait for her to finish before he reached out toward the oaken chest. Somehow, he had guessed it. But Nerdanel nimbly kicked the trunk away and snatched out its contents, holding them against her. To the observers, it looked simply like a lumpy ball of green velvet, but Nerdanel felt the weight of the two heavy, glass globes in her arms. She suddenly felt very foolish. What had she been thinking, stealing them from him like that?

"Give them to me," he said again, in a low, threatening tone.

"No, Curufinwë. Not until you have gone home and rested."

"I will not be dictated to by you, forge-maiden!"

"Then do it for yourself! Or if not for yourself, for your brothers!" she cried.

"My brothers?" he asked, visibly confused but still angered.

"Your brother Finarfin!" Though her mind told her not to yell, her voice rose against her will. "He came to me today, and he begged me to help you! He thinks you are in danger, and he's too afraid of you to say so!"

Curufinwë looked less angry and more exasperated. "What can he understand? He's never felt the desire to create or perhaps he could identify. You should know that, at least, Nerdanel. He's only a child and not even a full Noldo, at that."

If her hands had been free, she would have reached out and struck him. "Listen to yourself! Listen to how you speak of your own brother!"

He was wrathful again. "That is none of your concern! Now give me back my possessions!"

"Why, Feanáro, why? Why are you so cruel to them? Can't you see that they love you? Why are you so cruel to those who love you most? They are children, they are your little brothers, and they only want to love you!" She stopped abruptly, furrowing her eyebrows painfully.

Her words did not have the desired effect. His face, which once had been twisted in rage, smoothed out and he bent over her, now seeming perilous and tall beyond measure. His dark tresses fell into his face and brushed her shoulders. His clear eyes prodded her soul like daggers, searching for a weak spot. All within sight of the argument held their breath and dared not move.

Only she could hear him whisper, "Never – do not ever – call me by mother's name."

Tears stung her eyes, but she did not allow them access. She swallowed and breathed; closed her eyes momentarily, hardened her resolve. With all the courage and defiance she had left in her, she bored right back into him, rising slightly on toes to meet his challenge.

Though she could not keep the emotional tremor from her voice when she spoke, "Go – home - Curufinwë."

For a long minute they were the only people in Arda as their two, stubborn and willful souls came to conflict.

Then something extraordinary happened.

Fëanor stepped back, haltingly, and his face seemed to melt from stone back into flesh. He looked conflictingly at her, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He took a few more steps back and stood, looking at her thoughtfully. He looked suddenly tired, as if all the weight of the past months were finally catching up to him. He seemed to hesitate, perplexed. She puffed out, like a proud bird, trying to look strong for him and intimidating. Then, without a word, he turned abruptly and strode away.

He slept straight for two days. Then for nearly a month, he took rest with his royal family in Mindon Eldaliéva. Finwë was most pleased, and of course word got back to him that Nerdanel was instrumental in his son's healing, though he knew not exactly how. During this time, Fëanor did not leave his house.

One evening, a maidservant delivered a letter to the king's eldest. Fëanor set his book aside and handed his quill to Fingolfin. He took the small scroll and turned it over and over in his hand.

"Open it," Fingolfin urged.

Finarfin, standing out among his brothers like a sunflower in a field of dark wildflowers, looked at Fëanor eagerly. He peered from behind Fingolfin, where he had been attentively observing the youth's writing lesson.

Fëanor walked the length of the room and held the letter out into the tree-light. Telperion made the ink shimmer a silvery blue. He unrolled the scroll, and a square piece of white cloth fell out. Retrieving it from the marble floor, he gazed at it scrutinizingly. Large, clumsy stitches painted a woodland scene of trees, flowers, and forest creatures. He read the letter intently:

My dear Lord Curufinwë,

I hope you are doing well and would have you know that your round stones are in the safekeeping of my excellent father. You shall receive them back as soon as you ask for them.

As for myself, I have respectfully noted your advice and taken to my sewing needle, though I'm afraid I have no skill for it. Even so, I would that you would have my first good attempt. Please accept my humble gift. When you look on it, think kindly of me.

By the Valar and the One,

Lady Nerdanel

Shortly after, Mahtan the Smith's daughter received a letter and an object wrapped in silver silk and tied with a red ribbon. They were born by the King's messenger. The message read:

My Lady,

Enclosed is a silver and royal blue-woven belt, the work of my own mother. As you can see, she loved as I do beyond all else the works of her hands: only her dexterity was in sewing, and weaving, and things of the cloth, and not the forge. This I have treasured for a long time. I give it to you. Wear it and keep it well.

As for you, my dear forge-maiden, I advise you to leave off from spinning and sewing. You are really much better with the hammer and anvil.

Nerdanel cradled the letter like an infant, and fingered the fine belt round her waste. She reread the message several times, almost feeling she was mistaken. But it was the same with each reading. And each time, at the end, the message was signed: Feanáro.