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Fëanor lay on his back in a sunny glade, eyes on the fluffy white clouds above, his mind far away.
He was getting married.
On the day she left again with her family, Nerdanel kissed him and promised that next time they would get married. Next time, they wouldn't leave each other again.
He reached his fingers up and ghosted them over his lips, mind still rolling.
She was so confident when she said it. She didn't just want to marry him; it wasn't just a promise; this was an unstoppable truth of the world now, something that would happen no matter what or who got in the way, not even his doubts or shortcomings could stop this: They were going to be married.
Fëanor sat up, hand falling away from his mouth.
This wasn't something he could mess up or be unprepared for. He had to be prepared. He had to be ready. He'd never been married before so he wasn't sure what, exactly, needed to happen between now and then.
Surely, though, he'd need money. Yes, he’d need money for the celebration and for gifts for Nerdanel, for anything she needed as they built their home and family.
A house! He needed to build a house for them, too. Something basic to start with, just to keep them out from under his father’s roof, but close enough that he could still use the forge and work. They’d need a kitchen and somewhere to sleep, plus a cellar and space for Nerdanel’s herbs and plants.
Could he do that in a year?
If there was nothing else, certainly, but maybe not if he needed to get a job for money.
He wouldn’t find much work in town with a blacksmith shop already there. Even if he worked for cheaper, he knew the townsfolk wouldn’t be interested in anything other than the occasional metal and leather work needed to repair tack, which he was already doing. He’d need to look further.
He could go away to work, possibly on a ranch. He’d tried that before, gone to work for someone who bought horses from his father. It paid well, but being away hadn’t suited him. He thought he’d wanted to get away from Finwë and Indis, but he’d been on edge much of the time, anxiously counting down the days until he could get back to the familiar mountains and trees. Perhaps not then.
Fëanor chewed his bottom lip as he thought.
The mines?
The coal mine always had work, and the foreman wouldn’t care so much if the townsfolk called him mad so long as he worked hard. It wasn’t so far from home either. It was a bit far to walk every day, but with a horse, it’d be easy enough. Of course, he didn’t like how the air smelled around the mines, or how he could pick out townsfolk who worked there by the black grime under their nails or in their clothes even after washing.
Sacrifices had to be made, he reasoned to himself, pulling out his notebook to scratch out a few sums and try to get an idea of how much money he’d need.