Chapter 2
While it vexed that she had to re-immerse herself in water when she'd just come from the lake, the warmth of her bath was a welcome change to Altáriel. Now she sat in front of her vanity, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, and she smiled softly at what her likeness revealed as she set about drying her hair. Her eyes, blue as the ocean, came from her mother. But the rest of her features – from her arched eyebrows to the noble shape of her profile – she'd gotten from her father, Finarfin. Indeed, as she grew up, Altáriel found it quite perplexing that she resembled the house of Finwë more than she did the house of Olwë. It was the former whom she and her family were visiting now. Such reunions occurred nearly annually – at least, when she was not visiting her mother's kin – and were certainly not lacking in either numbers or reputation.
Finwë's wife, Indis, and their two daughters, Findis and Írimë, were among the fairest of Eldar women. Their elder son, Fingolfin, was renowned for his gallantry and skill with a sword. It was no surprise that he and his wife, Anairë, passed this valor on to their three sons – Fingon, Turgon, and Argon – and their only daughter, Aredhel. By contrast – though no less revered – Finarfin, the youngest son of Finwë and Indis, was often sought after for his wisdom and counsel. And it was his friendship with the Teleri of Alqualondë that led to his marriage to Eärwen. Their union also brought forth three sons – Finrod, Angrod, and Aegnor – and their youngest child and only daughter, trailing along at the end, was Altáriel herself.
But Finwë's gatherings in the most recent centuries had welcomed an additional relative – his firstborn, Fëanor. Whereas Fingolfin was valiant and Finarfin wise, Fëanor was a living legend among not only the Noldor but the Eldar in general. Long before Altáriel was born, he was famed for his invention of the Elvish writing system, his unsurpassed skill in craftsmanship, and the dignified authority with which he carried himself that left an impression on all whom he graced with his presence. Yet it wasn't until a few centuries ago that he'd been convinced to join in his father's reunions. The reason for which was seldom spoken of – and never in front of Fëanor – but Altáriel knew the tale of Míriel, Fëanor's mother and Finwë's wife before Indis.
It was a tale unlike any other. Fëanor was born to Finwë and Míriel after the Noldor arrived in Tirion. But his birth had left his mother alarmingly weak – so much so that her spirit eventually and willingly departed from her body for the Halls of Mandos – a previously unheard-of occurrence among the Children of Ilúvatar. In his grief, Finwë petitioned the Valar, but his late wife had no desire to be reembodied. Therefore, the King of the Noldor was permitted to remarry – and his new bride was Indis of the Vanyar. But not all were glad for them. For what he considered a slight against his mother's memory, Fëanor estranged himself from his father, stepmother, and half-siblings that followed. In the meantime, he started his own family with his wife, Nerdanel, and the two bore seven sons – Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras.
And yet, Finwë's love for his eldest son never diminished. Indeed, Altáriel never failed to notice the subtleties that indicated her forefather's favor for him. It was this love, however, along with Nerdanel's counsel perhaps, that later convinced Fëanor to reconcile with Finwë, if no one else. This in and of itself was no small feat, as Fëanor was also known to be unwavering in his will. Even more surprisingly, his sons not only grew close to but truly bonded with their cousins. Yet despite all this good will, Altáriel herself even now knew not what to think of her father's half-brother…
"My lady?" A sudden knock on the door to her main chamber abruptly snatched Altáriel from her thoughts. Yet despite her initial resentment, she had no desire to be rude.
"Come in," she called over her shoulder, then turned her attention back to her hair. Behind her, the door opened, and in walked her maid, Sarta.
Altáriel watched in the mirror as the woman approached, a folded garment in her arms. "My lady, your mother suggested this gown." She held it out toward her mistress. "But I preferred to ask your opinion."
Pleased as she was at her consideration, Altáriel recognized the gown she was holding, and wondered why Eärwen would choose something so elaborate. It was not a feast that she was attending. "Thank you, Sarta. But I think the occasion calls for something more simple. Please tell my mother I will soon emerge."
"Of course, my lady." Smiling softly, Sarta half-bowed to her mistress, and promptly departed the side-chamber with the rejected gown. Altáriel sighed. As helpful as the woman was, she preferred to tend to certain personal matters herself rather than have a maid do them for her. Still, she liked Sarta, and she always endeavored to be kind to her. As for clothes, Altáriel considered her surcoats, but ultimately decided against it. She usually wore those only for exercise – shocking "lady" that she was – and she thought she might as well entertain her already anxious mother.
Thus, when she'd finally dried and brushed her hair into a simple style, and emerged from her chamber in a plain white gown and girdle, she was relieved when Eärwen appeared mostly satisfied at her efforts. "Well chosen, daughter. Come now; Fëanor awaits."
Although appreciative of the older woman's concern, Altáriel felt the need to assert herself. "I can go alone, Mother. I can look after myself."
Eärwen halted and turned to face her, eyebrows raised in alarm. Yet she didn't appear as if she would argue. "You are quite certain, Nerwen?"
Ignoring the temptation to make a noise of disapproval, Altáriel instead nodded. "Yes, of course. He is my uncle, not a suitor. I shall see you later at supper."
Eärwen briefly pressed her lips together and let out a weary sigh. "Very well; good day." Trying to smile, Altáriel leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and then proceeded once again through her forefather's manor.
She almost hoped she would encounter Amrod and Amras again, if only to further entertain her earlier notion. If she looked at all regal before despite her unkempt appearance, she might look to them now like a queen even if clad in simple garments. To her disappointment, she did not spot their gazes a second time. But when she was passing by a balcony, her ears picked up the sound of charging horses, and she hastened toward the balustrade to see if she heard rightly.
She had, and the sight that accompanied it filled her with longing. Six figures on horseback were racing toward the wood beyond Tirion, evidently on a great hunt. Altáriel could not see their faces, but she could tell who the riders were by their hair, their mannerisms, and their steeds. She recognized the banner held aloft by the one in front, and concluded it was her Uncle Fingolfin leading the charge. Behind him were his eldest son – Fingon – and his youngest – Argon – with Fëanor's firstborn – Maedhros – and his third son – Celegorm – at their flanks. But it wasn't until she spotted Aredhel among them that Altáriel became truly envious. Then again, whereas she surpassed her cousin in swimming, Altáriel had already seen for herself how Aredhel's skill in archery eclipsed hers just as much. Even so, Altáriel forced herself to turn away.
It wasn't long, however, before she came upon yet another sight that made her yearn. While perhaps not as physical as hunting, it appealed to another desire in her. The two great doors that led to Finwë's library had been left open, and past the doorway, she saw Fingolfin's second son – Turgon – and two of her own brothers – Finrod and Angrod. Angrod, who spoke little but thought much, was sitting in an alcove lit by a glass window, a book in his hands and his gaze revealing his investment in its contents. Meanwhile, Turgon sat at a desk, a writing-quill in hand and apparently showing Finrod something he'd written on the piece of parchment in front of him. Finrod pointed at the parchment, and though Altáriel could not hear what her brother spoke, Turgon must have liked it, as he appeared to chuckle and then nodded.
Again, Altáriel had to turn away. Her mind told her she was keeping her uncle waiting longer than she should. Yet her heart pined to join in what was taking place either outside or inside. Not that she had no interest in what Fëanor had to show her, but the hunt and the library both challenged her in ways she liked to be challenged. She wished her uncle shared in those same passions. As far as she knew, he only cared to be in his forge, where he was surrounded by the dark, alone, and fully in control at all times. Did the man have no desire to engage in the thrill of pursuing prey, or to deepen his mind with knowledge other than that which suited him…?
"Ah, Artanis," a masculine voice suddenly intruded on her thoughts. "At last, you have come to me." Altáriel gave a light gasp, only to be relieved – mostly – when she realized she was standing before Fëanor. Just like her, he was clad in simple clothing. And yet, finery or no, his demeanor was as impressive as ever.
"My lord," Altáriel greeted him with a lightness in her tone, then gave a customary – if slightly clumsy – curtsey. "Do forgive me. I did not intend to make you wait for so long."
"Why such formality?" he asked, even as he himself customarily took her hand and lightly kissed her knuckles. "Are we not kin?"
He had a point, even if they were related only through her father and forefather. "Well said, uncle." Yet even as she conceded, Altáriel had to wonder how she shared any blood at all with this man. Not that she was repulsed; he simply seemed too different from her. She'd known him for at least half her life, and yet even if she'd met him only once, she would not have been able to forget him.
He was tall and fine of build with broad shoulders. His fine, dark hair flowed behind him like a waterfall of ink. He'd inherited his father's cheekbones, and – presumably – his mother's brown eyes, which – while there was profound knowledge and even warmth in their depths – seemed capable of scalding a person with their gaze at a moment's notice. A tribute to the inner fire for which he was named.
Such a thought led to a related issue that concerned her. "As for me, must you call me Artanis?" True, it was the name her father had given her. "Noble maiden," it meant. And yet, it sounded bland and as though it derived too much from the names of her father and foremother. "Or Nerwen?" That was what her mother called her. "Man maiden," attributing to her unusual height and build even among Noldor women. Certainly, her mother meant it all in good humor, and she did often feel as though she had more in common with men than women. Even so, a man she was not.
"Very well then," Fëanor agreed. "What shall I call you?" For his niece, it seemed obvious. In the time since the last reunion of the house of Finwë, she'd adopted the Quenya rendering of what the Teleri had taken to calling her, which referred to her habit of tying up her hair in order to exercise.
"You may call me Altáriel," she replied. "Glittering garland" – different, striking, and memorable, as she herself wanted to be. Fëanor's eyebrows lifted. As a loremaster, the meaning was clearly not lost on him.
"Altáriel," he repeated. "It does flow nicely off of the tongue." And she could not deny how much lovelier it sounded when he said it. Yet, to her mild disappointment, he returned to the previous subject. "As for making me wait, you underestimate my willingness to do so, child. Good art takes time as well as effort – I should know. It's the persistence and determination that reap the greatest rewards. Speaking of which…" He stood next to her and offered his arm. "Shall we?"
Having expected to simply follow him down to his forge beneath the manor, Altáriel couldn't help but be surprised. It seemed too familiar. Then again, as Fëanor said, they were kin. And in a way, it was a privilege to be related to such an accomplished man… "Thank you, uncle," she nodded and slipped her arm through his. "You are a gentleman."
"As all men should strive to be," Fëanor replied. "Come." He then led them toward the door nearest them. Unlike the other doors in the manor, which were constructed of marble like the rest of the building, this one was made of finely polished wood – obviously to distinguish it as the entrance to the very special place it was, meant only for Fëanor and those he permitted into it.
Only then did Altáriel notice the ring of keys he kept on his belt – even these appeared to have been his handiwork – for he lifted them and searched for the one he needed until he found it. "Confounded things keys are," he remarked. "But they are necessary." He then proceeded to unlock the door, and together they stepped onto a staircase that went only down. The ceiling above strongly resembled a dark, cave-like tunnel. And once Fëanor closed the door, the only sources of light to guide them came from exquisitely crafted lanterns. Altáriel quickly recognized them as Fëanorian lamps, one of her uncle's finest creations. Some sat at the sides of the steps while others hung from the ceiling.
Realizing then that Fëanor was gently tugging at her arm, Altáriel quickly joined him in his descent down the stairs. For the moment, she was lost for words. Fortunately, her uncle resumed the conversation. "Tell me, Altáriel. Was it truly you – that walking sea-creature Amrod and Amras claimed to have seen in the hallway earlier?"
Altáriel felt heat flood into her face like a raging river, and prayed Fëanor couldn't see it – unlikely though that was. The troublemakers! They did tell him! While it was a notion she found amusing at the time, now that she was faced with the reality of it, it was utterly embarrassing. Even so, she asked back, "They told you that…? How did you know it was me…?"
"Oh, I merely overheard their report in passing," Fëanor assured her. "And I knew it was you when they described your gold and silver hair…" He trailed off then, as if contemplating something terribly serious, until he seemed to recover himself. "In any event, what were the odds, really?"
Feeling remarkably relieved herself, Altáriel replied, "You sound as if you would rather I have come to you as I was in that moment."
Her uncle chuckled, and the musical sound of it resonated deeply within her. "You are a wonder, Altáriel! Truly, for all the love I bestow upon my sons, I do sometimes muse on what it would've been like to have sired a daughter, as my brothers did." His gaze seemed to drift, as if he were envisioning the idea right before his eyes. "But, as it is, I am content to show that sort of love to my beloved, Nerdanel." And Altáriel did not doubt him. At first glance, one would've wondered why the finely formed Fëanor took an otherwise plain woman – aside from her uncommonly red hair – to be his wife. Yet whenever she found herself in the company of her aunt, Altáriel greatly admired not only her lifelike sculptures but also her wisdom. Would it have made much of a difference had Fëanor had more than one female in his life?
"And here we are," Fëanor suddenly declared, and Altáriel realized they'd reached the bottom of the staircase, and were standing in front of door much like the one before. Once Fëanor unlocked and opened this one, Altáriel's eyes went wide with awe. She had come here many times before, and yet never did her uncle's forge cease to amaze her.
The workplace itself was utterly immaculate, with no signs of waste. All sorts of tools hung from the walls and rested on the various tables and shelves. Toward the back lay a large anvil – behind which was a hearth, already alight with glowing orange embers, with an adjoining chimney through which the smoke could exit. But what really captured Altáriel's wonder were all the gems, jewels, stained and blown glass, and other such pieces of art that'd resulted from the years – perhaps even centuries-long – refinement at Fëanor's hands. The only source of light in the cavernous room other than the hearth was a small glass window at the ceiling, framed with the eight-pointed star that symbolized the house of Fëanor. And under it, the products of his workmanship appeared to shine with a light all their own.
"Truly, uncle," Altáriel finally breathed, "your forge never does lack for marvels. Neither do I ever lack the honor that you would be willing to teach me your skill."
Fëanor now stood before the largest table in the very center of the chamber, and he appeared rightly proud at her reaction. "I have had millennia to perfect my craft. And why should I not share it? One of the greatest legacies of an artist is his willingness to teach his abilities to others."
She could not agree more. After all, it was for this reason that he'd been taking her down here in recent years. True, she was not nearly the natural he was when it came to smithcraft. And it was his idea in the beginning, not hers. But who in their right mind would refuse a chance to learn under such a master of many talents? If only he were just as willing to share his creations themselves with others, rather than keep them all locked away here. Yet just as the thought entered her mind, another question rose to Altáriel's lips. "I must ask though…"
She hesitated, wondering if it would be impertinent of her. But Fëanor did not appear offended in the slightest. Indeed, he encouraged her. "Oh, please do."
Immediately heartened, Altáriel went on. "You have brought me here on many an occasion before but, what exactly is the occasion this time?"
It happened so fast as to be missed had she not been looking, but his eyes flashed like a candle being lit. "Oh, have I been meaning to tell you that."
Whereas before, she found his enthusiasm charming, Altáriel now felt slightly alarmed by it. "You sound as if you are eager to share a great secret with me."
"Perhaps I am," Fëanor shrugged his shoulders, "though it will not remain so for very much longer." His gaze briefly drifted away, until it flew back to her again. "Truly, I have told no one what I am about to tell you."
Despite her misgivings, Altáriel could not deny how curious she was to know what'd suddenly made her uncle so passionate. "Very well then. What is your secret?"
Fëanor began slowly taking the long route around the table. His hand slid across the smooth, wooden surface as the steps made by his boots on the stone floor echoed throughout the room. "Altáriel," he sighed, "I have created and crafted a great many things throughout my life, as you certainly know." He looked around at his vault of self-made treasures, his gaze and tone filled with longing. "All of my ventures have brought me great joy. But recently, I have been feeling strongly inspired to forge what I do believe will be my true masterpiece." The controlled intensity from before then returned to his eyes and voice. "Lately have I been thinking – what greater achievement could I have to my name than if I discovered a way to capture the light of the Two Trees within a series of gems?"
Altáriel lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Was such a feat even possible? True, Fëanor had crafted many things that only he could – such as the seeing stones. But Laurelin and Telperion had both been planted and tended to by Yavanna – Queen of the Earth, and one of the Valar. Nonetheless, Altáriel did have to compliment her uncle. "That is very ambitious, I must say. Although, why explain all of this to me first? What could I possibly contribute to such an endeavor?"
There it was again – that spark in his gaze. "I am glad that you ask, for your part has been on my mind for nearly as long. Or rather, your hair has."
If she'd been surprised before, Altáriel was now utterly perplexed at his answer. "My hair?" Her hand flew to it as if by instinct. "What has my hair to do with this?"
Fëanor had now traveled a full circle around the table, and stood only feet away from her. "Pardon me but, is it not obvious?" he chuckled. "Have you not heard how the Eldar speak of it – that it shines in a uniquely beautiful combination of gold and silver – just like the Two Trees? Imagine if I were able to capture their light in my gems, just as you have captured it in your hair."
Aredhel had said as much earlier, yet Altáriel had then considered it an exaggerated, if genuine compliment. But now that Fëanor was speaking in the same manner, not only was there also sincerity in it. It was as if she'd stumbled upon a truth about her that he had known, but she had always overlooked until now. And yet, Altáriel still could not grasp just what he was asking of her – until a startling notion caused her to protectively run her hands through her hair. "You mean, you want me to…?"
"Oh no!" Fëanor replied emphatically. "I am not asking you to shave your head. Nothing of the sort." He then grew quiet for a moment, his eyes now staring at her tresses as if they were priceless riches. "I merely require at least one strand of your hair." He held up one finger for emphasis. "You would be helping me immensely if you were to grant me this request." He held out his other hand toward her, ready to receive what he'd asked.
Altáriel, however, did not know what to say. For all his flattery earlier, this time felt different. She had always felt a level of cautious reverence whenever she was in the company of her illustrious uncle. But now, she seemed almost to sense a veiled threat behind Fëanor's words. It was as if a dark shadow had fallen over his likeness – one she could not recall seeing in him before, and one she certainly did not like. And yet, she could answer neither yea nor nay. Then again, in such situations, diplomacy always seemed the best option.
"If I must be honest, then…" Altáriel paused, knowing she must choose her words carefully. "Truly, I am not so sure I should. Hair is not merely a tool, you know, or even a decoration." She brushed her hand down the whole length of her hair to illustrate her point. "It's a rather intimate part of one's identity." Though it was probably against her better judgment, she made an attempt to remain in his good graces. "At the very least, may I consider this offer? Only for a time?"
To her relief, her efforts appeared to have worked. Fëanor dropped his hands, and indeed, she almost felt pity for the look of dejection on his face. "Very well. One request for another, I suppose." The aforementioned shadow across his features appeared to lift, until it briefly came back down again. "But I do not make offers like this every day, Altáriel," he spoke more sternly. "It is not often that I am willing to share the creative process with anyone in such important matters – never mind one so grand as this. Do at least consider my generosity. Understood?"
"Understood, uncle," Altáriel nodded. Despite the heat in his tone and the answer she'd given him – or lack thereof – Fëanor did appear mostly satisfied. But even as he returned to the subject of teaching her, and led her to one of the shelves to take up the appropriate tools, Altáriel had to wonder whether he would truly drop the previous issue – or simply bide his time, awaiting an opportunity to present his outlandish request to her again.
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