Chapter Text
“Come, Fëanáro. You are a master of jewels and metals in your own right, now let me teach you in the art of stone,” Nerdanel said, and pulled the young prince of the Noldor into her studio.
For long days Fëanor sat in Nerdanel’s lap before a pottery wheel, hands on hands on clay, shifting and moving and tangling, and creating wonders together. He stood by slabs of stone and let his lady guide hammer and chisel in his grasp. Dust and debris fell around them and got caught in red and black hair like snow.
Fëanor learned much in that time; of Nerdanel and her passions, of the skill of his hands. Sculpting will never be one of his crafts, but now he knew how to do it and do it competently.
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“Come, Nerdanel. You may be the mistress of freeing beauty trapped inside stone, now let me teach you the art of shining lamps,” Fëanor said, and lead the lady of his heart into his workshop.
For long days Nerdanel allowed Fëanor to lean close over her shoulder as he instructed her on glass blowing, quick touches brushed here and there as they spun melting glass in the kiln, heat against body heat, reflected firelight dancing in their eyes. She stood in a beam of Laurelin, feeling his chest warm against her back, as they held sparkling glass bubbles and domes in their intertwined hands. They sang together, reminding their lamps of inner fire and light, like elflings catching fireflies in a jar, ‘till a bright blue flame ignited within.
Nerdanel learned much in that time; of Fëanor and the fire in his eyes, of the song inside her soul. Lamp making may never be one of her passions, but she knew how it was made, and she could make them sufficiently.
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Fëanor’s sons had barely seen their father ever since they moved to Formenos in exile. He had locked himself in his forge, only making an appearance outside perhaps twice a week.
He worked tirelessly on making swords and armour for himself and his sons. They needed all his skill and ingenuity in order to protect themselves and the Silmarils.
Lining one side of his worktable were seven busts sculpted from simple salt dough, each and every one an exact copy of his sons. They seemed young but grim to his eyes, those features lovingly formed by his firm hands, looking back at him with determination.
He had not thought he’d use his wife’s craft in such a way, or even at all. Yet he was grateful for the skill, and for the one who taught him.
Soon, one by one, plumed helms adorned those busts, seven soldiers lined up in his forge. It won’t be long before those helms would sit on the heads of his seven sons.
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Nerdanel was left alone in the wake of Darkness, all his children, his husband were gone to wage their war.
Candles and torches were in short supply, and burning wood not for warmth but light would slowly prove to be unsustainable. Yavanna would not permit the felling of more trees in the throes of her grief in losing The Trees.
Nerdanel dried her own tears, though not shed for any tree, and lit one of her last candles. The little flame sparked one in her fëa, and a sudden burst of resolve washed over her as she entered her father’s workshop. There she grabbed blowpipe and sheers, then went to work.
She blew and formed perfect spheres to best reflect and catch light, she blew perhaps hundreds of them, both big and small. She stood in the halo of hearth fire, of flickering candles, of the distant pale gleam of the stars and she sang, just as she once sang with Fëanor long ago, yet lacking his harmony. Hundreds of tiny flames flickered to life one by one, just enough to light her way in the dark.
Nerdanel carefully bundled the lamps in a basket and began her long journey through Aulë’s lands. Eventually she will reach Tirion, then continue on to ransacked Alqualondë, and Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan, estranged wife of Fëanor, will offer her lamps to neighbours, kin, and any elf who will accept.