Chapter Seven: Mahtan's Forge
Mahtan returned to the house after only a brief while, bringing the fresh scent of hay and the night with him. For many long hours Nerdanel and her family spoke to me, as the fire brightened and dimmed in a seemingly endless, immortal cycle. Falassë and her husband were eager to hear of my life in Tirion and my family, and I told them all I could, deftly hiding the resentment that simmered between son of Míriel and his new half-kin behind bright, animated talk of my father and other fair, guileless things.
Nerdanel alone knew enough of my life at home to perceive my negligence. A pensive frown twisted her gentle lips and she looked sharply at me as I spoke of Ingoldo in falsely affectionate tones, knowing something was wrong. But after a while her stiffly upright carriage softened, allayed by the fire's lapping heat and the lulling, carefree tone of my stories, and her eyes shone with a quieter glow.
When the forest's darkness grew deeper than even Telperion's light could pierce, Falassë rose during a respite in the conversation and declared she was weary from so much talk, no matter how fascinating. Gathering up Nerdanel with a motherly glance, she left the room with her daughter, going into another area of the house to sleep. Mahtan and I were left to talk further, if we would, and I felt like a grown traveler, able to talk late into the night with the lord of the house.
During one of the contented but nonetheless awkward silences that filled the red-lit room, I glanced admiringly at one of the pieces of metalwork and asked, "How long have you been practicing smithcraft?"
Mahtan's dark brow furrowed as he remembered. "Ever since I was old enough to lift a hammer or work the bellows. My father was a smith before me, in the earliest days of the World, and he has taught me much. There seems to be nothing he cannot make or contrive from metal or glass." A smile lifted the corners of his usually stern mouth. "He said often that his skill was reflected in me. But. . .despite my purported skill, Aulë has not yet sought to take me as an apprentice. He has not taken even one student in years of late. Long ago, he used to teach dozens of our kind at a time, and each of them would emerge as competent a smith or craftsman as one with years of intimate apprenticeship. Now, he seems to keep his secrets to himself, working alone in his forge." He glanced at me, face shadowed by the flickering firelight as a log crackled and crumbled into hot ashes.
I barely kept myself from letting my mouth fall open. Aulë was the Vala who loved the Noldor most, who had taught them all they knew of the world, the stars, smithcraft and other skills. He had taught us of wisdom that was almost dangerous in its profundity and truth.
"Why would he not take you?" I asked in surprise at last, gesturing to Mahtan's work, hand taking in the room with a gesture, "I see only skill in that!"
Mahtan's gaze rested upon me so heavily and for so long that I almost became uncomfortable. "I hear he waits," he replied simply, something like strange wonder in his quiet voice.
"For what? For whom, if not you?"
The older man shook his head, smiling at my curiosity, and turned his eyes towards the dull, feeble redness of the fire. "For one worthy of the secrets that Aulë has kept for so long." His words were vague and left me itching to ask more, but I pressed no further.
Mahtan sighed heavily into the silence, as if he wished to tell me something but found he could not. After a moment, he said in a lower, despairing voice, "My years grow many, Finwion, and I doubt now that Aulë shall send for me. So I turn myself to other things, as I must. I am now fit to be only a mentor, not a pupil. I have taught Istarnië much of what I know. She has learned quickly, even though it is not a woman's wont to learn the arts of the forge, and she brings me pride. It is enough to help me forget the disappointment."
He looked again at me, noticing my flush at the mention of Nerdanel.
"She loves you," he remarked, almost as if reassuring me, "More than you know."
This time I found I was unable to hold the weight of his wise eyes, and looked away, engrossing myself in the dazzling complexity of the firelight upon one of his artful brass designs.
"I love her too," I mumbled. My face grew hotter, and the fire seemed cool now in compare to the searing tenderness that filled me at the mention of Mahtan's daughter.
"I know," Mahtan replied, then turned back to watch the fire's many bright tongues consume the hapless wood. "I fear for her," he said softly, most likely thinking the words went unheard. Confused, I said nothing. The fire murmured and snapped to itself, and Mahtan turned back to me.
"Come, the hour grows late, even for me, and I will show you the room where you can sleep."
He led me to an unpretentious but pleasant room, small and empty save for a bed and a ewer and vessel for water. Then he left me alone in the dark of the silent chamber, and I crawled sleepily into the clean bed, a sigh of contentment escaping me, and I forgot Mahtan's strange, prophetic words without even wondering what they meant.
I woke happier and freer than I had ever felt in Tirion since Indis' arrival. Laurelin's light was still a faint wash of cool winter gold in the sky, but the birds were already stirring in the snow-wreathed trees.
The minute I awoke I heard it, so faint in my ears I thought it was but a deception of my drowsy mindthe hammering of Mahtan in his forge. Hearing the sound, I was again tugged at by a fierce, nameless desire that permeated what felt like my very core, and for a long while I remained sitting up in the bed, motionless and bewitched. Finally, I was released, with only the bleak knowledge that all I could do for now was listen to the heartbeat of the hammer and wait.
Shaking my mind free of the strange feeling, I dressed and left my room. The sweetly neutral smell of baking bread combined with the bitter scent of herbs met me the instant I set foot outside my door; Falassë must have been readying the morning's meal. Nerdanel stood at the open door, gazing at the trees that lay beyond, her face pale and thoughtful in the morning light. Every detail of her seemed beautifulher hand's loose, rapturous grasp upon the doorframe, the pensive sweep of her gray gaze, the parting of her lips to draw breath. But her dreaming was not deep, for when I came near she turned about and smiled.
"Is this hour not too early for a prince of the Noldor?" She asked teasingly, laughing as she looked up into my eyes. "Perhaps you are truly one of us at heart."
"Perhaps," I murmured, brushing a kiss on her forehead. Nerdanel's smile was silenced as she remembered something, and her eyes darkened. My mirth also faded, and I looked down at her curiously, ready to hear what she would say.
"Why did you lie to Mother and Father last night?" She asked, tone deceptively light.
"I would not trouble them with the burden of my worries," I replied.
"I bear your worries well enough," she replied stubbornly.
"But did I ask for you to bear them for me?" I pointed out.
Her brows arched as she mulled over this. "You are too cunning for your own good, clever son of Finwë," she replied finally, giving me a tender glance before turning her eyes back to the trees, "I love you too much and too well for my own good. But promise me you will tell them your secrets later."
"I will," I agreed, and for a moment her gaze cut into me like a scythe upon wheat, asking for the truth. At last, she found what she sought, and her eyes softened. Suppressing a sigh of relief, I turned back to look out with her upon the trees that encircled the house, sheltering it from the world beyond.
Mahtan returned from the forge to eat breakfast with us and begin the day's chores. When afternoon came, he made ready to leave again.
Before he left, I found him and asked, "Please, may I go with you? I have never seen a true forge."
"Very well, friend Finwion," Mahtan agreed, "Follow me."
He led from the house to a thicket nearby. Smoke rose from a chimney that seemed to jut out of the earth itself, while nearby a stairwell delved into the grassy earth, the golden light dancing along the solemn gray stone. Mahtan descended down the stairs easily, clearly accustomed to the notion of an underground forge, while I followed at a slower pace.
As I descended down the first few steps, a furious reluctance rose in me, refusing to let me leave the sky and light. Like all Noldor, I loved the freedom of the plains and the wide skies stretching forever overhead. But as we went deeper, into the dark, hidden heart of the earth, I felt safe and welcome. I even began to feel loath to return to the world above.
The stairwell was dim and cool, and the rare torch, set in sconces along the stairs, cast long, shuddering shadows upon the unadorned walls. The only sounds were those of Mahtan's steady tread and my own steady breathing. As we went deeper, it grew warmer; the fires of the forge were nearing. Mahtan at last halted and turned to me, his face starkly silhouetted by the merry firelight.
"We are here, Finwion. Welcome to my forge."
I walked down the last few stairs, almost stumbling in my rising excitement, and looked about myself in wonder. The heat from the room swept over me like an angry wave, but I paid it no mind. The forge was a small, simple room, arrayed about with strange, numerous tools of the blacksmithing craft. A great fire, the source of the nearly unbearable warmth, blazed in the kiln set in a corner of the room, while an anvil sat squarely in the midst of it all. I felt my sight blur with bitter tears; it was like coming home after a very long time.
From behind me, I heard Mahtan saying, "My father built it for me, long ago. It is not the equal of the forge of Aulë, in Valinor, nor is it even like those forges belonging to the nimble smiths of Tirion, but I take pride in it."
"It is beautiful," I stammered, looking around the room in one last hungry glance before turning to Mahtan, "More beautiful than anything."
Mahtan smiled, slight creases forming about his eyes. "Then my forge shall always be open to you, son of Finwë. I trust you."
"Thank you," I offered feebly, not knowing what else to say.
"There is no need for thanks. Come, let us begin. You may work the bellows, if you wish." Without another word, Mahtan set about his work, and I watched him carefully as I worked the bellows for him, taking in everything he did. Many hours must have passed, but I did not grow bored or impatient. Indeed, it almost seemed too soon when Mahtan looked up, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and declared it was time to leave.
Long after Nerdanel's family had gone to bed, I remained awake. The thought of the waiting forge kept returning to my head, imploring me to return.
To go to the forge alone! The very peril of the thought exhilarated me, and over and over I remembered Mahtan's words: My forge shall always be open to you, son of Finwë. I trust you. At last, I gave in, and rose. I would go to the forge.
I felt like a thief, stealing out of the house and through the dark woods to the stairs that led into the deep, but in my heart rose an irrepressible need that blinded me to the scolding watch of the stars and deafened me to the caviling whispers of the leaves. I readily descended the stairs, returning to the womb of the earth. My pulse quickened with the sensation of safety from the prying hands and eyes of the world above. I was alone; save for a voice in my mind that I knew was not my own, a voice that spoke to me gently and encouraged me onward.
The forge was silent and dark. Only a few torches still burned at this late hour, and even their light guttered occasionally. I knew my time was short. If I was to do anything, I would have to do it now. My eyes slid over to the mighty hammer that rested on the anvil where Mahtan had left it. As if spellbound, I took the haft of the hammer in my hand and raised it.
It was like attempting to lift the sky, at first. I nearly collapsed under the tool's weight, but the voice chided me softly for my weakness and advised me to endeavor again. Taking a deep breath, I tightened my one-handed grip on the haft and lifted with all my might. It was unmistakably easier this time, and I even managed to hold the thing aloft for a moment. When my muscles screamed for release, I set down the hammer again, hand trembling with the effort.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember all that I had seen Mahtan do. It was impossible. I could not recall every miniscule detail! I called out in my mind for the voice to come again and aid me in my despair. It was silent for a moment, as if considering, then it whispered all the missing, forgotten pieces to me, again and again until they seemed branded into my being.
"Thank you," I whispered to no one, then set about to work.
The forge, which had at first been so silent, grew alive with noise. I worked until the last torch guttered and died, blindly making things and melting them back down so Mahtan would never notice the loss. Just before the changing of the lights, I made my way back to the house in near-darkness.
Author's Note
I'm delighted to see that my "fan base" (just let me call you that because it is so delectable a term) hasn't diminished with time. Thank you for your patience, kindness, and advice.
In special response to an issue raised in concerned reviews from Unsung Heroine and RavenLady: Yes, Ingoldo/Fingolfin does officially have dark hair, and Tolkien has made several blatant references to this. I was aware of this fact as I both researched and drafted Fire. However, in a willful (and, in retrospect, a little 'Fëanorish') act of defiance in the face of truth, I decided to turn Ingoldo's hair blond. But not without a typically convoluted reason did I do this. I believe (and you are welcome to laugh at my oddness) that the contrast of dark and light hair draws a more literal dividing line between the two elder sons of Finwë, further pronouncing their fundamental disparity. Golden hair attaches Ingoldo to his mother, while Fëanor's dark locks link him to his father. This way, both sons physically favor the parent that they admire or inwardly resemble. Furthermore, I believe that this visual connotation would only push Fëanor further off the edge in later years, when Melkor filled his head with suspicions about his younger brother (the golden-haired son of the equally fair-haired Indis) usurping the throne of the Noldor. And finally, my favorite reason for my artistic license is because it allows me to spew sappy similes and metaphors about light and Laurelin and gold whenever Ingoldo is around. Had he been dark-haired, I would not have found such a vent. :-)
But enough of my ranting. Until Chapter 8.
Blodeuedd