Feanor and Nerdanel at the Forge
"It is too much Nerdanel," he called out, pulling the iron from the forge.
She did not turn but continued to pull at the bellows forcing the air through the tuyere, breathing fierce life into the fire
"Nerdanel," he called again. His voice was a buzz in the back ground lost in the hiss of air and steam; she ignored him and increased the intensity and shape of the flames before her.
He came up behind her, his hand covering hers on the handle of the bellows, stopping her mid turn. He stood so close that her back bumped up against his chest.
"It is too much Nerdanel," he said again, his voice low and close to her ear and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck even as she held hers. He felt her tense as he spoke and he slowly pulled his hand from hers but did not move away. The heat from his person alone seemed to overpower the heat from the forge and she could feel his gaze burning behind her. She dropped her arms to her side but did not turn around. She was acutely aware of how close he stood behind her; she could feel the steady drum of his heart against her back and fought the rush of heat that surged through her own body.
"Nedanel," his voice came out a hoarse whisper and she squeezed her eyes shut, "please, it is too much." His hand came up and his fingers lightly touched the side of her face, causing her to shudder involuntarily as he gently pulled her head around towards his. His forehead pressed against hers, their lips barely touching as the air between them threatened to ignite. His lips brushed against hers as he spoke.
"Please look at me," he implored. She opened her eyes and slowly looked up directly into his and her breath escaped her in a gasp for the light she saw there seared through her very being. His fire will consume me, she thought, and there is nothing I can do.
A noise from the corridor broke rang through the room, the sound of tools being dropped, a curse called out over carelessness, and her head snapped around towards the door. The moment she pulled her eyes from his and pulled her face from his hand, the room slammed back into focus and she lurched away from his gaze for the door, air filling her lungs again as she remembered to breathe. She leaned against the doorway as one of other apprentices entered the room holding random pieces of Manwë's face in his hands, muttering about having to spend the rest of the afternoon repairing the damage done.
She pressed a hand to her head and smoothed her hair back as she straightened up and made for the corridor. Before she left she stole one last look over her shoulder to see him still standing there, silhouetted by the fire, his back to her. His arms hung down at his sides and his hands were balled into tight fists. His head turned slightly to the side towards where she stood at the door but he did not turn around.
This cannot happen. This cannot be real. But as she stood there staring at his silhouette against the fires of the forge she knew.
He is a High Prince and she a craftsman's daughter. He is perfection and she was being a fool.