Mahtan's Apprentice by WendWriter

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Hopes and Fears

I'm not bashing Indis, Fëanáro is. Worry not - he won't get away with it...

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Apprehension mingled with worry in Fëanáro's heart. He knew he had not made a good impression on Mahtan, but what could he do? 'I was only trying to help,' he thought. Words and phrases he had often heard at home assailed him.

Your tone is so aggressive. Must you have an answer for everything?

Did he not have a right to defend himself? He had to prove himself in some way to become acceptable, did he not? But everything he said and did was either wrong, or done wrongly.

The way you present yourself to others bespeaks a deeply self-centred person.

But they took no interest in him! Nothing he cared about mattered to them.

Why must you contradict your elders?

Because the truth was there, no matter who said it. He intended but to help, not offend.

The feelings that bubbled inside Fëanáro were eased by the presence of the lady he loved. He intended to marry her, but he was afraid that he might have annoyed her father too much for him to consent. Son of a Noldor king or not, he would have to humble himself.

The home of Mahtan was actually a complex of buildings. The biggest, of course, was the house, a fine mansion built from red sandstone and roofed with slate. At the front, a paved path through a lush lawn led to a large pale polished wooden double door. The other buildings lay behind the house, past a screen of hedgerows. They were his workshops, storehouses, tool sheds and utility rooms where the laundry and other such necessities were attended to.

Along the path, past these buildings, Nerdanel led Fëanáro to the house.

"That is where we do the laundry," she explained, with an incline of her head towards a whitewashed shed in which wicker baskets slotted into each other in front of three large copper tubs. Crimped brass-fronted washboards hung from nails above the tubs.

"Indeed," he replied, aware of what it was, "but why have you got cloths spread out on the grass like that?"

"That is how we whiten them."

"Do you not use lant* for it?"

"Yes, and the light works with it to increase the effects of the bleach."

Nerdanel's thick eyebrows rose. She halted and turned to face him. "How do you know what lant is?"

With a shrug, Fëanáro replied, "Whenever Indis thought I was naughty, she made me go and help with the laundry."

"That was also a punishment for me," she told him, a spark of amusement shining in her verdigris eyes.

"Why did you ask me about it?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Her awkward grimace in response to this amused him. He had often been in a position in which he had made an assumption, only to be told he was wrong.

"I would have thought.." Her words ground to a halt.

"What?"

"You would have been given something less..."

"Demeaning, by giving me a task that the maidservants do?"

"Yes."

"Indis deems me too proud, and must needs clip my wings to stop me flying too high," he told her, in a matter-of-fact tone.

The gentle touch of Nerdanel's hand as it came to rest on his shoulder soothed Fëanáro's troubled mind. He raised his arms and drew her into his embrace, his chin tucked into the side of her neck. He needed this.

"She is cruel," she sighed.

Her soft body felt so warm and comfortable against his own slender muscular frame, he desired to remain thus forever.

"She dislikes me, and along with her brood, she has a strong grip on my father's heart," he confided. His lips brushed the delicate whorl of her ear as he spoke. "Therefore I roam the land, exploring where I will, to keep myself from getting underfoot."

A soft knock heralded the closing of the door of the forge. They broke apart and walked hand-in-hand past the hedgerows into the house through the back entrance.

The hallway was wide and airy, its short length extending from the back to the front of the house. It bisected a longer passage that ran the length of the house.

"These stairs on your left lead to the family quarters," said Nerdanel. "Further along are the pantry and the storage rooms; on the other side, the kitchen takes up a quarter of the building." She led him to the parlour, a small room on their left on the other side of the passage. "On your right is the main hall, where the household gathers for meals. Sometimes we have stories, music and dancing there."

"I like the pale sandy colours of the interior," remarked Fëanáro. "It is soothing on the eyes."

"Thank you," interjected Mahtan.

Fëanáro and Nerdanel turned to face him. He seemed a little pleased with the compliment.

"I see you have given him a little tour," said Mahtan.

"Somewhat," replied Nerdanel. "He has yet to see the main hall."

"He has yet to see the parlour," said Mahtan, his voice stern.

They entered a small, comfortable room where rust-coloured leather armchairs and a long couch, all with brass feet, were clustered around a low wooden table before an empty fireplace.Fëanáro and Nerdanel sat down on the after Mahtan had seated himself.

"Did you make these?" asked Fëanáro, his voice high and strained.

 

"I made the fire surround and the brass fittings," replied Mahtan, his tone cold and flat.

"They are beautiful," said Fëanáro. He forced a smile.

Apprehensive, Fëanáro regarded the older man in silence for a moment. He was going to marry this woman, and that was final. However, Mahtan was nothing like his father Finwë, whose half-buried guilt could be prodded to induce him to give his firstborn son whatever he wanted. Getting Mahtan's permission to wed Nerdanel would require the application of skills Fëanáro knew he lacked. He was unaccustomed to negotiation. The thought of having to do so with someone he had already offended made him nervous.

"So," said Mahtan, his fingers steepled, "you wish to wed with my daughter. Why Nerdanel, and not another?"

"Because she understands me," replied Fëanáro, who could think of nothing else to say. "She is wise in ways that I am not, and complements me as well as the jewels in that lovely tiara you made."

"You helped."

"A small drip to an ocean," demurred Fëanáro. Discomfort made him shuffle his feet. He found it hard to abide the piercing gaze focussed on him. He was painfully aware that he had offended Mahtan and was desperate to put things right if he could. With a more humble demeanour, he might be able to win the older man around. "You need not give me any credit."

"Indeed. Nerdanel, what is it that draws you to this swain of yours?"

The strength of her grip on his hand sustained his hopes of success, which he feared might melt away altogether if she said the wrong words.

"Fëanáro is my friend - but more than a friend," she replied. "He is kind-hearted, generous, gentle and considerate. In everything we do together, he puts my needs and desires ahead of his own. I love him, father."

"Hmm. We shall see what your mother has to say about this," said Mahtan, who appeared unconvinced. "Fëanáro, you are welcome to have dinner with us tonight. Afterwards, you may stay with us as our guest."

There it was - that thin string of opportunity that might just bring him within reach of attaining his heart's desire. "My lord," he said hesitantly, "may I aid you with your smithcraft?"

The older man's gaze sharpened. "Are you in love with my daughter?" he demanded.

"Yes!" cried Fëanáro. "I need her!"

"Then what do you want with me?"

That suspicious look clung to Mahtan's face like a limpet Fëanáro had seen on the rocks near the harbour wall at Alqualondë. He squeezed Nerdanel's hand as anguish tightened its grip on his heart. "Your approval," he replied.

"You sound as though you desire to become my apprentice," said Mahtan firmly.

"Perhaps," suggested Fëanáro, an edge of desperation in his voice. The thought of working with Mahtan had never occurred to him, but if it was a condition of marriage to Nerdanel, he would agree to it.

"Perhaps," said Mahtan, his eyes fixed on Fëanáro's. "All I want is what is best for my child. Can you make her happy?"

"That is all my desire," he replied. "If Nerdanel is happy, I will be so, too. If she is not, my heart will break, for I will have failed her."

"Very well," said Mahtan. "Fëanáro, when my wife Lhendî has returned from her father's house, we shall discuss this together. If she agrees, I shall give you permission to court Nerdanel. If you are still of the same mind a year after that, you may wed."

TBC...

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Chapter End Notes

*Ammonia derived from urine. Source: http://www.oldandinteresting.com/washing-with-lye.aspx