#f!feanor

my female version of feanor, who I roleplay at @valar-critical

in addition to this amazing volwë (my OC, ëarwen's brother) art, i also got this fëanárë (f!feanor, tolkien's because feanor is canonically female* right? right? she totally is. it just makes sense**. people edit her to male, that's all. i'm so right, you guys) from @asinoeiv! once again, thank you so much asinoeiv for drawing her and letting me go wild with the pngs so I could play with colors and backdrops afterwards :)

*this is a joke please don't kill me **i support womens' wrongs. um i mean nissiva*** wrongs ***i think that's the possessive plural for female elves but i'm not confident tbh

But then, just like the original Fëanaro and Nerdanel.

This is a gender-swapped!AU. The names Fëanárë and Nertano, as well as my vision of Fëanárë (to some extent), were inspired by @valar-critical. This headcanon briefly touches upon gender norms in a patriarchal society.

Nertano comes upon her in his home entirely by chance.

Of course, he has seen Princess Fëanárë before — at the Harvest Festival, standing at King Finwë’s right hand, clad in crimson, her obsidian hair drawn back from her face and braided tight, her noble, sharpened profile cleaving the air; her pale shoulders, delicate collarbones, elegant, powerful arms, the proud swell of her breasts, the slender line of her waist —

He has always seen her from afar, as though upon a pedestal, somewhere near the divine.

Now Princess Fëanárë stands scarcely two paces away.

She is dressed in a simple tunic and fitted trousers, tailored in the manner of men’s attire, lovingly tracing the lines of her hips.

Nertano is suddenly dizzy. He bows — large, tall, awkward.

He thinks: “Don’t say anything foolish!” Naturally, he does.

Fëanárë asks after his father. Nertano cannot quite hide his surprise, and the Princess regards him keenly, her chin tilted upward.

“Do you believe a woman incapable of mastering the forge?” How beautiful the sharpness of her cheekbones, the severe arch of her slender brows, the merciless line of her lips.

“Not at all, my Princess.” He flushes, yet does not allow himself to lower his eyes. Perhaps he simply cannot tear them away from her.

Fëanárë becomes Mahtan’s apprentice.

It is torment — torment and delight — to exchange words with her here and there, to help her around the workshop. Nertano constantly catches himself wondering how to offer assistance without making her think he doubts her knowledge or her skill — that he underestimates her because she is a woman.

Little by little, he learns how to make her laugh. How to offer advice without presumption, and to ask for hers in return.

Before long, Fëanárë is perched carelessly upon the workbench in Nertano’s own workshop, simply because she wants to show him something she has fashioned.

Sometimes he witnesses her frustration with everything expected of a princess at court. He tries, cautiously, to comfort her — and more often than not only succeeds in provoking her.

Ah, how quick-tempered she is. Brilliant. Uncompromising. Spoiled, though she would sooner die than admit it. Demanding — of herself above all. Ah, how cruel she can be, how gloriously unrestrained.

How painfully, sweetly her teasing buries itself in his heart.

Sometimes Fëanárë catches sight of him dressed properly for a feast — for once not covered head to toe in clay and soot. She raises one elegant brow.

“You are well-built,” she says, looking him over with frank appraisal. Nertano wishes the earth would swallow him whole. “But far too tall. It looks ridiculous.”

And suddenly he feels ridiculous in every inch of himself: useless beyond the walls of his workshop, forever blushing, all absurdly long limbs and shoulders far too broad.

Later, Fëanárë cannot understand why he never once approached her that evening. She demands an explanation at once, the accusation already coloring her voice, as though he has once again managed to disappoint her.

He merely says that he remained among his own company, while the Princess remained among hers. Their paths simply did not cross. He is far too proud to approach her anywhere beyond his father’s workshop.

Only there can they meet as equals. And only as equals is he willing to be her friend.

Ah, yes. They are friends.

Nertano helps Fëanárë fix the braid loosened by a day’s work at the forge. He listens to her rare tirades about Indis’s children. He brings her tea and homemade pies. They eat supper cross-legged upon the workshop floor while he awkwardly insists that she truly ought not worry about gaining weight.

Whenever one of Finwë’s heralds arrives and Fëanárë catches his eye, signaling that she has no wish to return to the palace just yet, Nertano dutifully invents some urgent commission from his father.

Together they mock every noble lord who looks upon her and sees a woman rather than a creator, who thinks to flatter her with the same tired compliments she has heard a thousand times before.

Does Nertano blush? Perhaps.

Sometimes the Princess appears before him not in tunic and trousers, but still dressed from one of Finwë’s receptions. She breezily informs him that she has rejected only seven suitors that evening — not a particularly impressive tally, really — and then proceeds to dismantle each of them in exquisite detail.

He sees that she is disappointed — that for yet another evening she has been admired only for her breathtaking beauty, treated only as a noble lady. So Nertano asks instead about Fëanárë’s latest experiments with gemstones.

Her lips brighten with laughter. Her magnificent curls spill over her shoulders. Beneath the corset, the proud swell of her breasts rises and falls with every breath.

And there she sits upon the floor of his workshop — yet still too far from him, too close to the divine.