Archive of Our Own ^beta

She felt his death. 

First the ripping away of threads of her fëa as her husband, in his foolishness and his pride, meets his doom. Then the soul-shaking grief consumes her until she can no longer remember who she is, what her name is, what she lives for. All she is aware of is that her one, to which she has willingly bound half her soul to, has departed for the Halls of Mandos. 

It takes far, far too little time for her sons to join him, one by one, in the afterlife. 

Nerdanel stares at her latest sculpture. Good sense has been telling her not to create it, not in the likeness of him, but her foolish heart has claimed victory over rationality, and she finds her husband staring back at her. Well, not truly. It is only a bust, a cheap imitation, of Curufinwë Fëanáro that gazes back. 

She swallows at the heated lump of emotions that rises in her chest as she glowers at the statue. Must she love him still? Hate him? Grieve for him? Her feelings toward Fëanáro will never be indifference, but there are times that she cannot but wish that she is able to be so. 

She has never forgotten him in all the millennia of their parting, and still she thinks of him every day, of the forever that he swore to give her which turned out to be short, too short, of a time. My greatest joy and my greatest sorrow are all irrevocably intertwined with that bastard, she thinks furiously. In her youth, Nerdanel might have grasped a hammer and smashed the face of the sculpture. Now, she is simply too tired and too knowledgable on the pointlessness of such things. Her anger towards Fëanáro might be abated for a second, or even two if she is fortunate, but the sorrow will remain, and even the anger will be back in place in no time at all. 

"Were you a true wife, as you had been till cozened by Aulë, you would keep all of them, for you would come with us. If you desert me, you desert also all of our children. For they are determined to go with their father."

Such had been his last words to her, for, during the departure, Nerdanel had gone only to see her boys off. All that passed between herself and the man she was wedded to was a cold, courteous nod. Their detachment had been mirrored by Tyelkormo and his former lover, Írimiel, Carnistir and his wife, Tyelca, Atarinkë and his wife, Morilindel, and Makalaurë and his wife, Ilvanya, clearly none willing to display any lingering attachment towards the other. Nerdanel had seen straight through their guise, as, she suspected, had Fëanáro, for they were all locked in the midst of the same predicament. 

Fëanáro was dead. Her sons were dead, all of them slain by their own unrelenting pursuit of those three damned gems. If only the Silmarils had not come into existence, Nerdanel thought, could the grief and heartache have been avoided? Not merely her own: the grief and heartache of Tyelca, Morilindel, Ilvanya, and Írimiel had all rivaled her own in their brilliant, searing intensity - and, she hoped, the grief and heartache of Fëanáro and her sons. She could never not love them, she knew, but she wished them sorrow for the sorrow they had inflicted upon those they left behind. 

"Nerdanel?" Her father's voice interrupts her resentful thoughts, and she turns her back on the sculpture - 'As Fëanáro turned his back on me,' a vindictive whisper croons in her mind - to face her father as he opens the door of her workshop. His eyes settle briefly on the sculpture and sympathy and pain crosses his visage, but he wipes them away. Nerdanel did not want pity, certainly not from her father. 

"A messenger from Lord Manwë is asking for your presence."

Nerdanel furrows her brows in confusion. From Lord Manwë; what indeed could the King of the Valar, Elder King of Arda, have to say to her?

She follows her father out of her workshop and to the front door of their home. In their living room, standing in front of the door, is what she sees to be a Maia. He is tall, with long silver hair, indigo-colored skin, and ears so long and sharp that their tips are visible, jutting sharply through the pale strands. Two dark purple horns protrude from higher half of the crown of his head. The messenger wears dark blue robes, complete with black boots. 

"Lady Nerdanel." He bows his head respectfully upon seeing her. "Forgive me for intruding on your time."

"It is quite alright," she replies. "What is the matter?" 

"I carry word from Lord Manwë," says he, as if she did not already have that information. Perhaps he does not think her father had told her, she muses, as she bids him to continue, and continue the Maia did. 

"He has commanded me to deliver to you a message from Curufinwë Fëanáro."

Nerdanel feels her mouth go dry. A strange ringing has permeated her hearing, and she finds that she can barely recognize the sound of her own voice as she stammers, "I...was not aware that the inhabitants of Mandos were able to communicate with the inhabitants of Aman."

"Not usually, no." The Maia's voice is sympathetic and soft, as if he is trying to lessen the sting of the shock. It is not working. "But my lord chose to make an exception, for the fondness he bears Curufinwë Fëanáro." 

Nerdanel has to sit down. She grasps the back of a chair, not caring what it is for, and takes the weight of her body off of her legs lest she collapse in a heap to the ground. Her father rubs her shoulders soothingly. From his unsurprised reaction, she suspects that he knew before he came to inform her about the messenger's presence. 

It takes her a few moments (thank Eru that it took no longer) for her to gather her scattered, fractured thoughts enough to form her next sentence. She is not sure she wants to know the answer, but at the same time, feels as if she cannot live without hearing it.

"What does this message from Fëanáro say?"

"He begs your forgiveness for his wrongdoings against you, Lady Nerdanel."

The world tilts on its axis, and Nerdanel is sure that she is not breathing, sure that she has swooned and fainted, or possibly even passed to Mandos from the force of the emotions crashing over her. "He...what?"

The messenger says nothing, for he knows the question is rhetorical and only a product of her racing, fevered mind. He begs your forgiveness...he begs...forgiveness. He begs my forgiveness.

Nerdanel wavers. What must she say? What must she do? Must she forgive him, for the love that she cannot deny still exists between the two of them? Must she forgive him, because of his sincere plea to be forgiven? Must she forgive him, for the sake of their seven sons that they created in each other's arms?  

Their sons. Her sons.

"Fëanáro, I beg you. I shall not try to stop your leaving, but you cannot take my sons from my arms as well."

"They are my sons as well, Nerdanel. And they have sworn to accompany me, to chase the Silmarils beyond the edges of Arda, beyond the edges of Eä itself, if they must."

Nerdanel's knees nearly buckled. "They swore?" she echoed. "They swore on the One?"

"They did, as have I, with Manwë and Varda as our witnesses."

"No," she whispered. "No. No." For an oath sworn in the name of Eru All-father was unbreakable, unshakable, undefiable. And now her sons, her precious boys, each of whom she was borne as part of herself for a year, each of whom she has labored for hours to bring into the world, each of whom she has raised and fed and loved with her own hands, were bound, hand and foot, to their foolish, thoughtless words. They could never rest, not until the Silmarils were reclaimed.

"Why?" she hissed, her despair swiftly spiraling to wrath as she glares at her husband. She has never hated anyone more in her lifetime. "Why did they swear such an oath? You, Fëanáro, you let them?"

He turned to her, stone-cold in the face of her simmering fury. "They chose to swear with me, Nerdanel. They chose to accompany me to avenge their grandsire and retrieve what is rightfully mine."

"And you allowed it to happen. You allowed them to speak their doom with their own tongues," she snarled back. "Damn you. Damn you, Fëanáro, you thoughtless, irrational, bullheaded half-wit!"

"I, the half-wit? How disloyal are you, Nerdanel, to refuse to accompany me to avenge your goodfather? To be by my side as I reclaim what belongs to me? Have you not considered, perhaps, that were you to accompany us, you would have no cause for such fear?"

"You are a fool!" Nerdanel shot back. "I grieve for King Finwë, for he treated me as his own daughter. But has it not occurred to you, Fëanáro, that what he desired of you and his grandchildren was not for you to sacrifice your own happiness to avenge him? He loved you dearly. How grieved would he be now, at your shortsightedness?"

"Stop right there," her husband snapped. "How can you possibly understand? Your father, your mother, are both alive and well, while my father fell to that accursed, thrice-damned, unholy creature Morgoth. You have never known loss. You have never experienced the pain of seeing the demise of your kin, least of all your father."

"I would grieve just as fiercely as you are now!" she spat. "Do not dare insinuate that I love my father any less than you do yours!"

"That is not what I am-"

"What you are saying, Fëanáro, is that you choose to live in the past and let our future rot away. Why can you not see that this path of vengeance will lead you and our sons to naught but ruin?"

"To try my hand at living peacefully with the knowledge that the filth Morgoth has slain my father and stolen my creations and that I am doing nothing to retaliate is what would bring me to ruin!"

'He will not see,' she realized with despair. 'He is too caught up in his grief.' And frankly, she had not the patience to be a good, proper wife and soothe his fury for him. For years Fëanáro treated her with increasing coldness, so much so that they lived apart now. He came to disregard her counsel, her opinions, and ran wild and amok, paying no heed and turning a blind eye to the distress it caused her. Still, she had tried to be patient. Still, for the love she thought she bore him, she had remained courteous. But she was finished. Done. Tired of picking up his pieces for him. And what crossed the line, what became unforgivable, was the peril he had allowed their sons to throw themselves headlong into. He had allowed his greed for the Silmarils and his blind rage to cloud his judgment concerning the safety of his children. Of her children. She could stand it no longer.

"Fine, do what you will!" she shouted. "I will not waste my time, or any longer of my life, to deal with your insufferable, irrational foolishness! Go! But why-" she seized Fëanáro by his tunic, no longer able to restrain herself in the inferno of her fury and her misery. "-why must you drag my sons down with you? Why did you not stop them? Answer me, you bastard!" 

Fëanáro pulled her off - not harshly, but she was too consumed with grief to realize. "You have no right to rage at me, Nerdanel. Your grief for our sons is of your own making," he snapped. "Were you a true wife, as you had been till cozened by Aulë, you would keep all of them, for you would come with us. If you desert me, you desert also all of our children. For they are determined to go with their father."

With those words he left her, staring after him, hollow and yawning with despair. And they shut their hearts to each other forever. 

Nerdanel's eyes narrow. Her fists clench as she recalls that day, that terrible day when she gave up on her husband. She had been right, she recalls. She had been right. Fëanáro's oath had brought naught but suffering and doom upon her sons. Had he only heeded her words then, Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Atarinkë, Ambarussa, and Ambarto, would be in Valinor, perhaps with children of their own, grandchildren that she knows she would have treasured. Fëanáro would be in Valinor, with grandchildren that would now never exist. 

She has felt and lasted through each one of her sons' demises; she has sensed the moment that every single one of them slipped into the Halls of Mandos, out of her reach for another stretch of cold, meaningless, torturous ages. She has waited and waited and waited, and still has nothing to show for it, not since the day that diabolic oath was sworn.

And he asks her forgiveness? After taking her boys from her? After leaving her to suffer and weep and agonize for so many millennia, he asks her forgiveness now? He can go kiss an Orc. He had dared lecture with the words "were she a true wife", but were he a true husband, he would have at least tried to heed her, listen to her attempt to make him see why his oath was foolhardy and perilous. Were he a true father, he would have placed the safety and happiness of his seven sons before his hatred and his need for revenge. Were he a true son, he would have understood that what King Finwë desired for him was not a lifetime wasted in pursuit of vengeance that would do nothing to return his father back to him. 

Nerdanel draws herself up, strength suddenly surging back into her limbs. She faces the Maiar, chin held high, eyes hard, mouth set in a grim, straight line. "This is my message back to Curufinwë Fëanáro," she announces. "Tell him that if he will kindly erase my countless hours of praying to Eru for the safety of my sons, my years of terror and misery, knowing not the fate of the seven boys that I bore into this world, then I will gladly forgive him and welcome him into my heart with open arms." Her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own years: cold and merciless. And yet, she has never been surer of anything she has spoken. 

She cannot forgive him, and not merely for what he has cost her alone, or her sons. The Kinslaying - how can she be made to forgive that? How can she ignore that in his blind hatred, he allowed himself to turn his sword against the Teleri? It was not wholly his fault, she understands, but she cannot, and will not, look past all the deaths he caused. He might beg forgiveness for what he did to me alone, but until he feels the weight of the deaths his actions prompted, until he realizes all of his wrongdoings, I cannot forgive him.

The messenger bows his head, his eyes sad. He looks ancient in that moment, as if he has witnessed all the suffering in the world and has accepted that pain is intricate to existence. "It shall be done," he promised. 

When the Maiar leaves her father strokes her back in soothing circles for but a few seconds and takes his leave, as if sensing her silent plea for solitude. 

"I, Curufinwë Fëanáro, son of High King Finwë, take you, Nerdanel, daughter of the smith Mahtan, as my wife. My commitment to you is one I give willingly, absolutely, and without hesitation. I am yours utterly and will be for all the ages of the world. From this moment on, our souls are one and the same. And I will never stop loving you."

Nerdanel sinks onto the cold wooden floor and buries her face in her hands. She barely does so in time to muffle the first sob that wracks her body. 

"Tell him that if he will kindly erase my countless hours of praying to Eru for the safety of my sons, my years of terror and misery, knowing not the fate of the seven boys that I bore into this world, then I will gladly forgive him and welcome him into my heart with open arms."

Nerdanel rarely minces words, but they have been wed long enough that he recognizes her reply back to him in her evasive statement. 

No, I will not forgive you.

Fëanáro cannot say he is surprised. He hoped...but of course. Because of him Nerdanel has spent thousands of years in fear and in worry, not knowing the fate of her seven sons. She has never been one to hold grudges, but the grudge she bears him is too great to earn him forgiveness with a simple plea. 

His heart aches. Perhaps he was a fool for trying, but Fëanáro cannot make himself regret the attempt if he tried. If nothing else, the fresh resentment and sorrow that has settled in equal measure inside him after their recent, indirect exchange serves as a link to his wife, something he has been unconsciously longing for since the Flight of the Noldor, so, so long ago.

Such an unfathomable time...

A part of him is bitter, has always been bitter. Was not his desire to avenge his father understandable to her? Was not his anger towards the Valar, who lifted not a single finger at the death of Finwë and the theft of his most treasured creations, those of which he had poured his spirit into the making of, justified? Was not his determination to recover the Silmarils that he had labored long and hard on expected? Was it not in his right as a father to take with him his seven sons?

Valinor holds nothing good for the Noldor; Fëanáro had never stopped believing that, even after his death. Beyond the sea his sons could have held kingdoms, become lords, reigned over peoples, been held in esteem and respect. Beyond the sea they could have defeated the Dark Foe since the Valar seemed not to bat an eyelash at the fiend running rampant in Arda. Valinor held naught but servitude, and Middle-Earth offered freedom, authority, autonomy. 

Then his sons had come to dwell with him in the halls of the departed. One by one, Fëanáro had seen them arrive, heads bowed, faces flushed with shame, or anger, or resentment, or eyes filled with burden, or sorrow, or remorse; all manner of unpleasant emotions. 

Upon seeing Turcafinwë, Curufinwë, and Morifinwë, the first among his sons dead, in the Halls of Mandos, Fëanáro had been irate. "Avenge me," he had bid them as he was dying, "avenge your grandsire. Recover the Silmarils." And all they had to show him was this? Three of them dead already, not a thousand years after him? He had not held back when making his displeasure apparent. 

"Pray for your brothers, and see that they do not fail me as you three have."

At his words, the already angry and humiliated Turcafinwë's jaw had clenched. Curufinwë, bowing his head, had said nothing, and Morifinwë had stormed off, Fëanáro's disappointed gaze following him. And disappointed he had been for many years after that, for Turcafinwë was skilled and had good instincts and his failure was frustrating; Morifinwë was passionate and single-minded and his failure was displeasing, and Curufinwë, the most like him of his sons, had believed in leaving Valinor more than any of them save Fëanáro himself, and his failure was distasteful. 

Then came Pityafinwë and Telufinwë. 

This time, Fëanáro had been unable to find it in himself to be disappointed at their failing him. He could not but stare in mute shock. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë were his youngest; twins of similar temperament and appearance, always strangely cheerful despite any difficult circumstances. Yet when they came to him within the Halls of Mandos they had been quiet and melancholy, their blue eyes filled with guilt and silent horror that had taken Fëanáro by surprise. 

Unsure, he had said nothing to them, merely nodded his head. They'd nodded back, avoiding his eyes, and had not spoken to him. 

Then, Fëanáro had begun to have doubts. What befell his youngest sons that they had changed so? What could have befallen Turcafinwë, Morifinwë, and Curufinwë, that they would not let show? A part of him had urged Fëanáro to gather his sons to him, to listen to their words and offer them comfort. But he had not done so. Turcafinwë wandered to another part of the Halls and they seldom saw each other, Curufinwë went with him. Morifinwë was unresponsive when Fëanáro tried to speak to him, and Pityafinwë and Telufinwë avoided him outright.

It crossed Fëanáro's mind, during these years, to order his sons to gather to him anyway. If he commanded it with all his authority, he did not think his sons would disobey; however, he refrained, for the contrition he felt towards his sons for their deaths (indirectly caused by their Oath at his side, although he usually tried not to think about that) held him back. Still, his relationship with them grew no warmer and was cool and courteous the few times they did exchange words.

And then, his last sons, his oldest sons, Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë, had arrived before him.

Nelyafinwë came first, and Fëanáro had been shocked. His firstborn's beautiful russet-red locks were shorn off at the shoulders, cut mercilessly as if he could no longer be bothered to bear their weight. Scars had decorated Nelyafinwë's face and arms, and Fëanáro suspected, the rest of his body. His right hand was gone, and nothing but a stump, white and addled with scar lines, was left in its place, and the palm and fingers of his left hand were scorched and blackened. But what shook Fëanáro most was his oldest son's eyes. 

His eyes must have been trauma embodied. When Fëanáro gazed at his son, nothing but two haunted pits stared back at him, full of endless depths of muted horror, silent torment, and scorching shame. "Atar," Nelyafinwë had whispered, his voice wearier than Fëanáro thought possible. "I have failed."

Where was his Nelyafinwë Maitimo, his son, the elf that had stared into the future with such determination and spirit? Where was Russandol, "Copper-top", looked up to by elflings, the valiant, adored, mentor to many? Where was his firstborn that had enjoyed challenges, relished the thrill brought by danger, basked in the zeal with which he lived life? 

Turcafinwë's angered clench of the jaw, the empty, melancholy detachment of Curufinwë, the resentful glare of Morifinwë, all flashed in the eye of Fëanáro's mind. Where had his sons gone, the spirited sons that he had raised with Nerdanel? What had destroyed them so? 

He had wanted pride for his sons. He had wished them glory, victory, triumph. He had desired to see them rise and claim prestige and praise, greatness and recognition. What he wanted was for them to soar beyond the limits set by the Valar that bound them. 

But what he saw of his sons then...six of his seven boys, six of his children, children that he had longed for since his youth but had always feared having, children whose very births, each and every one, were miracles of the world-

This is not...this is not what I desired. This is not what I wished for my sons. What has happened? What has gone awry?

You were wrong, a voice whispered in his mind, and Fëanáro could not help but think it was Nerdanel that he heard then. Her face flashed before his eyes - her fiery red curls, her small, concave nose, her flushed, rose-tinted complexion, and her pale blue eyes, burning with resentment and despair; the last true glimpse of her he had seen during his lifetime. 

Was I? Truly?

He reflected, looked back, something he had refused to do for so long that he could scarcely remember what the words meant anymore. He thought of his coolness with Nolofinwë, his iciness with Arafinwë, his threats to the former, his disdain towards the latter. He thought of his harshness towards his sons, his pushing them to their limits, his urging them to go further. He remembered his forging of weapons, Nerdanel's obvious discomfort, the deterioration of their marriage. He recollected himself, convinced by Morgoth that Nolofinwë plotted to usurp his position as crown prince, threatening his half-brother, his exile to Formenos, his father's insistence that should his son be exiled, so, too, would he.

Then he remembered a glimpse of light, a moment that could have become a pivotal point in his life, diverging from the path he had truly chosen: Nolofinwë's words of reconciliation, of peace to him, and his grudging, yet cautiously hopeful, acceptance.

"As I promised, I do now. I release thee, and remember no grievance." An outstretched hand. An offer. Fëanáro accepted, took his half-brother's hand, and Nolofinwë continued: "Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. Thou shalt lead and I will follow. May no new grief divide us."

"I hear thee," Fëanáro had responded, "So be it." And 'Perhaps,' he had thought. Perhaps, it was true. Perhaps, he and his brother could reconcile their differences, truly and absolutely. For Fëanáro had grown weary, and, he was reluctant to admit, sorry for his division with his brothers, and his sisters, as well. Never had he been close to them, and never had he let himself see that a part of him longed to be, for they were his kin, of the same father, though their mothers might divide them.  Perhaps in time, he would be able to call Nolofinwë, Arafinwë, Findis, Lalwendë, his true siblings.

And then, Morgoth - the destruction of that hope. The theft of his Silmarils...and his father's battered, broken, bloody corpse, the life and spirit and fire departed from it. And in Fëanáro's fury, his all-consuming, world-shaking, shattering fury, and his despair and his grief, his yawning, abysmal grief, he had sworn the oath, and his sons with him. 

"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal him ere Day's ending,
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"

Perhaps it was then. He swore an oath in the name of their Allfather, too steeped in hopelessness and sorrow and loathing to care, to realize what it was, truly, that he was condemning himself, and his sons with him, to. 

Nerdanel had warned him, he recalled. "Why can you not see that this path of vengeance will lead you and our sons to naught but ruin?" 

Why, indeed? Fëanáro wondered, for as swamped as he had been in his desolation and his outrage, was he such a failure as a father that he had not seen the doom he had wrought upon his sons? His life he was sure he would have gladly placed at risk for vengeance, for the Silmarils, but his sons, his seven boys, they were another matter entirely. Were he a true father, would he have disregarded their safety so badly in the midst of his fervor?

Then - then. Alqualondë. The Kinslaying. Fëanáro recalled it all too clearly, but he shied away from the memories, for he found that they burned him as they never had before. An unfortunate accident, he told himself. The Teleri refused me, attempted to turn my people against me. I was displeased and commanded the ships to be seized, that is all. I did not intend for what happened to take place. Never had he felt any significant remorse when thinking of Alqualondë, for it need not have happened had Olwë but ceded the ships to him. 

His sons took part in the Kinslaying, Fëanáro remembered, something fierce and hot blossoming within his chest. Fëanáro had to pause, for he had trouble identifying the particular sentiment; what was this ferocious, overwhelming surge of feeling? It grew ever more searing as he imagined his seven children in the midst of the fires of Alqualondë, fighting, killing, wounding, wielding their weapons to fight by his side.

Ah. He realized, with much discomfort, that it was protectiveness. His sons had slaughtered and maimed, so why was it that he suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to defend them from the hardships of the world? He wondered if his own father felt this for him; was it why he had been insistent upon accompanying him into exile? Was this what Nolofinwë felt for his children, and Arafinwë for his? Even Curufinwë for his young Telperinquar?

Why is it that I did not feel this sooner? Had he been too fixated on his hatred, his lust for revenge, to consider what he should have as a father? The thought sent Nerdanel's words, again, springing unbidden into his mind. "Why must you drag my sons down with you?"

I did not drag them down, he wanted to say, but this time it was an image of Turcafinwë, just an elfling, staring down at a failed attempt at smithing while Fëanáro voiced his disappointment. Then his third son's face transformed to the Turcafinwë that Fëanáro had seen in the Halls of Mandos: cold, hard, pale blue eyes, a grim, joyless set of his face. Then Fëanáro saw Pityafinwë and Telufinwë, exhausted and vacuously mournful, not a thing like the free-spirited boys that he remembered before the Oath. After that it was Morifinwë, glaring at Fëanáro in frustration, almost as if silently accusing him of something. But the next moment Morifinwë became Curufinwë, meeting his eyes only briefly before hollowly averting his gaze. Avoiding it. 

And then he saw Nelyafinwë as he had when he first set eyes upon someone he would call his own child; but a newborn babe, cuddled in Nerdanel's embrace. Fëanáro had not thought of that memory in a very long time, but now he recalled the ferocious, choking emotions that overcame him as he all but ran to Nerdanel's bedside, stroking her matted, sweaty hair and kissing her all over her exhausted face. She had smiled wearily but with more joy than he had ever seen in her eyes, before turning her gaze down to their firstborn.

As had Fëanáro, and as soon as he beheld his son, eyes closed and skin pale, tufts of copper hair peeking out from under the blanket wrapped around his too-small, too-precious body, Fëanáro had known. He loved the child, hopelessly and unconditionally and irrevocably, and he loved Nerdanel more than ever before, if possible, for bearing the child. Their son - their son - was safely born, healthy, Nerdanel was depleted but very much alive, and Fëanáro did not believe he could be happier if he tried. He kissed Nerdanel's hair once more, and then leaned down to kiss his son's forehead. The newborn's flesh was smooth and soft and delicate, and Fëanáro failed, this time, to choke back his emotions. Tears welled up, but he cared not.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Then the warm, encompassing recollection vanished, and Fëanáro saw the Nelyafinwë of their time again, scars littering his fair face, his russet locks harshly slashed short, and his eyes. Oh, Valar. Fëanáro shuddered. His eyes.

He sat down hard on the cold black marble of the Halls. The searing love that a father had for his sons, the searing love that had possessed Fëanáro when he gazed upon the newborn faces of each and every one of his sons - where had it vanished to? Why was it that the flame of tenderness had reignited in him only now? Was not a father's feelings for his children eternal, ever-present, never to disappear? Was it not a father's instinct to place the wellbeing of his children above all else? 

What have I been doing for these past millennia? Vowing his eternal, ever-present, never-to-disappear hatred for Morgoth. Dreaming of the day that he reclaimed his Silmarils, his most prized creations. Occasionally had his thoughts turned to his sons, but seldom had they not been urging them to reclaim the three jewels, rather than a prayer for their safety or a wish for their happiness. And now...now, his sons were-

"Nelyafinwë." He summoned his eldest to him, and Nelyafinwë approached. Once more, Fëanáro was seized by silent horror at the desolation in his son's eyes. But as Nelyafinwë gazed at him, something else glittered in their light blue depths, only to recede back into pools of resigned agony, if such a thing even existed. To Fëanáro's sudden and sharp discomfort, his son did not speak, merely stared back at him.

He had never been one to mince words unless necessary, and he did not wish to waste time now. The air between himself and his eldest was abruptly and disconcertingly charged with tension, and Fëanáro disliked it immensely. "What has happened to you?"

Nelyafinwë's eyes flashed with a thousand different things at the inquiry, and Fëanáro was taken aback. Without warning, he was acutely aware that his son was much more than just his son now. Nelyafinwë had dwelt in Middle-Earth centuries after his own demise at the hands of Gothmog. As he watched his son shift between emotion and emotion, memory and memory, nightmare and nightmare, Fëanáro struggled to fathom just what Nelyafinwë could have experienced; what all of his sons could have experienced.

And then, like tranquility after a storm, his eldest son was calm, grounded, once again, and staring at him. That earlier emotion had returned, Fëanáro recognized, and now he could name it. 

It was resentment.

"Does it matter, atar?" Nelyafinwë asked tiredly as Fëanáro's mind reeled in horror and realization. He ought to have realized sooner, he truly should have, but it felt akin to a reality that he had not wished to touch upon. Perhaps that was why it dawned on him only now, he thought, as Nelyafinwë continued. 

"I am dead. You are dead. So too are Turcafinwë, Morifinwë, Curufinwë, Pityafinwë, and Telufinwë. And Kanafinwë..." his son faltered, and Fëanáro's hackles rose. Kanafinwë. What had his second son seen? How had he changed? Must he look upon the face of yet another one of his children that he had failed, to affirm his worth as a father in his mind? He did not think he could bear it.

"Of Káno, I know not," Nelyafinwë admitted lowly. "But nothing good has come to him, of that I am sure." The quiet certainty with which he uttered his statement made Fëanáro's skin prickle in terror as he thought of his last surviving son. Kanafinwë - if Kanafinwë, too, lost his life because of the Silmarils, because of the Oath-

"It is not just them, either," Nelyafinwë stated. "Findekáno. Uncle Nolofinwë. They are dead as well."

I know. Fëanáro had indeed known, but he had not bothered to search for them in Mandos, for he had seen no need to seek out his half-brother and his half-brother's son. But now, seeing the accusation in Nelyafinwë's stare, Fëanáro could not but feel the slight curdlings of guilt in his stomach. He said nothing. What could he say? Because of you, Nelyafinwë seemed to be accusing him. Because of your oath.

"So you see, atar." His son sounded exhausted, and Fëanáro battled the urge to sweep his eldest into an embrace. "It matters not what has happened to me. We threw away everything we knew, abandoned those who saw reason, and there is nothing we have gained to prove our actions worthwhile. It is over, and we have failed."

"Yes." The voice came from behind Fëanáro. He turned to see Curufinwë approaching him, composed and detached. "Nelyafinwë speaks truly. We have failed, and we are dead, and we can do naught about it by this point." He sounded bitter and full of longing. Fëanáro recognized his son's tone. It was identical to his own during the rare times he had allowed his mind to stray to Nerdanel, and Fëanáro knew Curufinwë was thinking of Morilendil, the wife he had left behind in Aman to follow his brothers and his father into Middle-Earth.

Perhaps - no, certainly, Curufinwë regretted his decision to choose his father over his wife, for there was naught that his father had ever done for him. Had he chosen differently, Curufinwë might be dwelling still in Valinor, respected and admired, Morilendil and his son Telperinquar at his side. 

I am sorry, Fëanáro wanted to say. I cannot give you back the future that might have awaited you in Aman. I cannot bring Morilendil to you, so that you might reunite with her. I can do nothing for you, Curufinwë, or for any of my sons. This is my extent as a father. 

"Nelyafinwë, Curufinwë." It was Morifinwë's voice this time, as his fifth son approached. "Bother not. It will make no difference." 

Fëanáro bristled. He thought he could hear Morifinwë's underlying message: He will not understand. There is no need to try to make him. But, he thought, what right had he to be angry, or offended, when it was true? He had not understood his sons. He still did not, not completely. 

He might never.

"You are right," Nelyafinwë murmured, and Curufinwë dipped his head once. Without a word, they sundered the conversation and drifted away, seeming aimless and lost. Fëanáro watched them go; he did not try to call them back, and his chest felt peculiarly tight. How did I fail so badly as a father?

After that, Kanafinwë came to the Halls. His second son's hands were scorched and blackened, just like Nelyafinwë's remaining left one. But that was the extent to which Fëanáro managed to glimpse, for Kanafinwë spoke not to him or to any other of his brothers. As Fëanáro watched, he simply sat, graceful and like an apparition, on the shores of the Encircling Sea.

"Káno," Nelyafinwë walked, eerily slow, to his brother, and knelt down beside him as Fëanáro looked on, wanting to say something, but not knowing what could possibly be said. "Káno, talk to me. What has happened?" There was a hint of protectiveness in Nelyafinwë's voice as he said that, and Fëanáro was glad, for it meant that if he had not been looking out for his sons, at least they had been for each other. 

Kanafinwë turned slowly to Nelyafinwë. Fëanáro managed to glimpse his second son's eyes and had to turn away. 

They were simply...mournful. Not the searing, gripping, ground-shaking mourning that burned hot and bright and powerful but with time faded away, but the quiet, resigned, hollow mourning that seemed to whisper that despair and misery were intrinsic and too intertwined with existence to escape. It was as if Kanafinwë was a vacant husk, lost in memories and caring nothing for the present. His grey eyes appeared to almost stare through Nelyafinwë, like he could not quite comprehend that his brother was there, speaking to him. 

"Brother," whispered Kanafinwë. He sounded ghostly, haunting. "You speak first. I have not seen you in years. Why are you here?"

Fëanáro heart pounded. He did not yet even know how his sons had perished. A part of him wanted to turn and flee before he could hear Nelyafinwë's answer. Could he bear the knowledge? Perhaps not - but he suspected not knowing would be even more unbearable. And he did not know if his sons would be willing to answer him if he questioned. No, this was his only opportunity, and he did not intend to - no, he could not - waste it. 

Nelyafinwë hesitated. Fëanáro thought his chest might burst apart from the trepidation. 

"After we parted," his eldest son murmured at last, "the pain...I could not withstand the pain." 

"Nor could I, brother. What did you do?" 

The pain? Fëanáro's mind spun wildly. What pain had they endured? The pain of regret? Of longing? Or were they, perhaps, mortally injured? A limb cut off, an eye gouged out? Nelyafinwë's hand was gone, but the stump was old and had long healed, and the brothers spoke of the pain as if it was a shared experience. Kanafinwë was missing no limbs, at least, not that Fëanáro could see. A brief suspicion dawned on him: Could it be that his eldest two sons had been gelded?

He would have fretted over the thought forever, he suspected, but then Nelyafinwë spoke again, and with a sickening lurch of clarity, Fëanáro knew.

"The pain was unbearable, but I could not surrender the Silmaril, not after what we have committed to reclaim it again. What would I have become if I let it go, after the lives I took? I would have killed for nothing. I would have slaughtered for nothing. I could not give it up."

The Silmaril. The Silmaril. The pain had been caused by a Silmaril? But how can that be? Fëanáro thought, desperate to understand. He had not created the Silmarils to be painful. Their light was soothing and sublime, but not painful. Not even harsh. How could one have given his sons such agony as they were describing? 

Kanafinwë said nothing in response, did not even move a muscle, but something let Fëanáro know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he understood his older brother's words. A Silmaril had harmed him too. The burns on their hands - could it be that the Silmarils had caused them? 

He was still puzzling over the words when Nelyafinwë continued:

"But I did not think I could live with the pain. And so, I..."

"You do not have to tell me if you do not wish to," Kanafinwë whispered. 

Nelyafinwë shook his head. "No, I must." He took a shuddering breath. "I threw myself into a fiery chasm."

Fëanáro's vision tilted, and he nearly hit the ground. Recovering his balance scarcely centimeters above the ground, he stumbled, Nelyafinwë's words echoing in his head. 

I threw myself into a fiery chasm.

I threw myself into a fiery chasm.

I threw myself into a fiery chasm.

I threw myself into a fiery chasm.

My son threw himself into a fiery chasm.  Because of a Silmaril. Because of a simple jewel.

"Then you are stronger than I," murmured Kanafinwë, drawing Fëanáro out of his dazed shock. "My story may disappoint you, Nelyo. I, like you, could not bear the pain. But I, unlike you, was not prepared for death. The Silmaril-" Another Silmaril, Fëanáro thought dully. Did a Silmaril cause your death as well, Kanafinwë? Tell me it is not so.

"-I cast the Silmaril into the sea."

"And then?" Nelyafinwë asked softly. 

Kanafinwë shrugged listlessly. "And then I wandered on the seashore for a time. I sang."

"About?"

Another shrug. "Menegroth. Our brothers... Amal. Ilvanya. Elrond and Elros. The Havens of Sirion." 

"And then?" the elder inquired once more.

"I drowned." 

Fëanáro blanched. 

"Drowned?" He could hear his own shock reflected in Nelyafinwë's voice, although his eldest son's voice was yet still calm and even, almost dull. But then his eldest seemed to understand, for there was little inquiry in his voice, and Fëanáro, bewildered, was sure that Nelyafinwë knew the answer even as he asked the question. "How is it possible that you simply drowned?" 

 A terrible thought dawned on Fëanáro. If Nelyafinwë had - had intentionally leaped into a pit of flames, could it be that Kanafinwë - he-

"I walked into the sea."

Fëanáro's world lurched wildly again, and he had to sit down, the strength in his legs gone. Kanafinwë drowned himself. He had intentionally cast himself into the sea and refused to swim... he had wanted death. My son willingly strode into the ocean and let himself die under the waves. The other willingly cast himself into a pit of flames. Because of jewels. Because of gems.

He found himself rising, walking towards the beach, where the waves lapped around his sons and pulled at their clothing before receding back into the sea. He felt unsteady, although his legs' steady gait told him that he was not. Hearing his footsteps, Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë turned, almost in tandem. It was an odd image, Fëanáro thought dully. 

Atar." Kanafinwë rose and stared dispassionately at him. No greeting. No smile. No grimace. Not even any emotion flashed in his second son's eyes. 

"Kanafinwë." Fëanáro was stricken by how unsure he sounded. Or perhaps he simply only sounded so in his own mind, for neither of the sons in front of him reacted as if they were hearing something unusual. "Tell me you are lying," he demanded. "Tell me that you did not walk into the sea in your right mind, to be swept away with the waves."

Kanafinwë as he knew him before might have flinched at the harshness in Fëanáro's voice, but this Kanafinwë did not. He did not even blink. Behind his younger brother, Nelyafinwë was looking on, sadness in his eyes. 

"I will not lie to you, atar," his second son calmly intoned. "I walked into the tide on my own two feet."

"Why?"

"Because there was no reason not to."

"Is your life not a reason?" Fëanáro hissed. 

"No." Such a simple word, but it made Fëanáro's heart tremble. "No longer was there any point in my existence."

Fëanáro wanted to argue, to rage at his son and beat any semblance of common sense into him, but his gaze fell on Nelyafinwë. His eldest did not look stunned as he felt, or even mildly surprised. It seemed Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë had been in each other's company before their respective deaths, and if that were true, they should understand each other well. Or at least better than Fëanáro did. And Nelyafinwë's resigned understanding told Fëanáro that Kanafinwë was beyond his words. 

Kanafinwë's face, his eyes, told Fëanáro that Kanafinwë was beyond his words.

And so he took his leave and walked away. And the one time he glanced back, Kanafinwë was again staring out into the sea. motionless and soundless, Nelyafinwë next to him. A sense of doom surrounded his two eldest children.

Somehow, he walked past all of his sons. Turcafinwë's gaze was wary, cautious. Ruin loomed over him. Morifinwë's movements were subdued, withdrawn, and destruction hovered over him. Curufinwë's stare was veiled, shadowed. A curse flitted about his body, invisible yet all too easy for Fëanáro to see. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë spared him but a glance, and their faces were detached, melancholy, with only a slight hint of curiosity that vanished within a second. And doom hung over them. Fëanáro knew that he was to blame for it. All of it.

"Pray for your brothers, and see that they do not fail me as you three have."

"Atar. I have failed."

"Why can you not see that this path of vengeance will lead you and our sons to naught but ruin?" 

"We have failed, and we are dead, and we can do naught about it by this point."

"Bother not. It will make no difference."

"Why can you not see that this path of vengeance will lead you and our sons to naught but ruin?" 

"The pain was unbearable, but I could not surrender the Silmaril."

"I threw myself into a fiery chasm."

"I was slain. I did not resist."

"Because there was no reason to."

"No. No longer was there any point in my existence."

"Why can you not see that this path of vengeance will lead you and our sons to naught but ruin?" 

You were right, Fëanáro thought. Forgive me, Nerdanel, you were right. I have lead my sons to ruin. You were right from the beginning. She was wiser than he, he had always known it. She would not have been so blinded by pain and rage and loathing, as he had.  If he had only heeded her words, his sons would not have suffered so. They might have had children of their own; Fëanáro's grandchildren, grandchildren whom he would never meet. Grandchildren that would never exist. 

And he and Nerdanel; could they have reconciled? They had grown apart long before his father's death, but could they have made amends? He had never stopped loving her, no matter what he might try to convince himself of. Did Nerdanel love him still, as well? Could the tenderness and affection that had existed between them in the early years of their marriage been rekindled, had he heeded her advice and remained in Valinor, if only for the sake of his sons? 

Just like the grandchildren he would never meet, Fëanáro would never know the answer.

When his thoughts had subsided and the vortex swirling in his mind's eye calmed, Fëanáro found himself sitting on a large, flat stone embedded into a riverbed, watching the clear, beautiful water stream by. The hem of his tunic was muddied and the water lapped at his trousers, but he cared not. His chest and throat were tight, and his eyes stung.

All too suddenly, his vision blurred and Fëanáro jerked, startled. He dabbed at his eyes with his fingers, and when he drew them away, his vision had cleared, but was quickly blurring again. And the tips of his fingers were wet. 

...Tears? Fëanáro thought numbly. He had not shed tears since his father's death, thousands and thousands of years ago. He had not allowed his mind to dwell on anything that might cause himself to cry. 

The tears pooled quickly, with frightening speed, and the tightness of his chest and throat increased with them. Fëanáro clenched his jaw. He might have been shedding tears, but he would not weep. 

Soon enough, he was trembling from the effort exerted to contain his sobs within himself, but Fëanáro remained as quiet as a feline stalking a mouse. The tears were coming even swifter now, and streamed down his cheeks, for he made no attempt to wipe them away. Regrets and remorse swamped him like a tidal wave; they were overwhelming in their power and intensity. Why had he not heeded Nerdanel? Why had he not considered the happiness of his sons, as any father should? Why had he not fought next to his own father when that filth Morgoth had come to steal the Silmarils? Perhaps, had he been there, his father would not have fallen. The Silmarils would not have been stolen. His sons could have avoided their loss and woe. Nerdanel could have avoided her loss and woe. What-ifs were useless and foolish; this, he had always known. But how could he not ask what-if now, faced with his recklessness and his lack of foresight? 

And Nerdanel; how much had she suffered because of him? 

I am sorry. Fëanáro thought. I am sorry. Nerdanel, forgive me. I was wrong, I always was, and you were right. Had I listened to you, everything would have been different. I am sorry.

After that, Fëanáro knew not how much time had passed, only that he spent quite a while there, for in the Halls there was no concept of time. It might have been hours or moons or years. Perhaps even centuries or millennia. But at the end of it, when his grief had lessened to a dull ache in his heart, he had given his message to Nerdanel, asking for her forgiveness; she had refused him.

And here he is now. 

Fëanáro gazes at the tapestry that hung from the cold stone wall. Vairë's skill is exceptional, supernatural, no one can deny it. The images of the weaving seem to move and ripple. Wind seems to stir the leaves and the grass, water seems to run down their banks, and clouds seem to be drifting across the sky. This particular image, however, looks not to be among her more beautiful works. Although it is just as lifelike as the rest of them, the sky is ashy grey and filled with fire, the air is choked with smoke, and some sort of leathery black winged creature is falling from the sky; nine of them, there appears to be, all of their mouths open in what he imagines is raucous shrieking. An immense, black tower is collapsing to dust, Fëanáro notes, running his fingers over the interwoven thread. He wonders what it is, but has no inkling. The inhabitants of the Halls received no word of the outside, let alone beyond the sea.

He moves on, walking further down the hall to behold the next scene: a splendid white city and its courtyard, filled with thousands of people. Two people stand on a dais in the center: two of the Secondborn, he assumes, for both of their faces bear the signs of age, one much more prominently than the other. The older Secondborn's hair is long and stark white, as are his robes, and even his face his pale, his eyes blue. He is lowering a silver crown on the head of the other, who is tall, pale-skinned, and lean, with dark hair and grey eyes, clad in ornate robes. A coronation. Fëanáro thinks. Who are these two Secondborn, I wonder?

The next scene is of the Secondborn that has been crowned, walking arm-in-arm with a woman dressed in a snowy-white gown. She is pale, willowy, and delicate, with long, raven-black hair, blood red lips, and grace in her bearing; surpassingly beautiful. Her tapering ears tell Fëanáro that she is an elf, and he almost laughs out loud. A Secondborn and one of the Eldar wedding, imagine! He muses on who this elf-maiden is to choose a mortal to bind herself to. 

The history of this world is quaint, indeed. A union between an elleth and one of the Secondborn, what would that produce? But then, I have also seen a man slaying his dearest friend by accident because he mistook him for an enemy, and the same man copulating with his own sister, unaware of their kinship. If Vairë must truly weave all of these events into her tapestries, then I may pity her more than before, for she must witness all manner of peculiar things. 

He wonders if he will remain in the Halls of Mandos forever. Perhaps he shall never leave while all others do. Nolofinwë has already gone, as has Arafinwë's eldest son Artafinde. As for his sons, he knows not, but he hopes that they have all departed by now. The Halls are quite tedious, the only entertainment being either the company of other fëar or the tapestries of Vairë. Perhaps Fëanáro will have to entertain himself with the latter for all eternity.

That is acceptable, he thought. If it came to such, he would spend all the ages of Arda searching for tapestries of his sons and his wife. Even if he could not be a part of their lives, it would content him well to watch their fates unfold. An image of one of his, so far, unmarried sons finding their One and being wed flashes behind his eyes. He wonders if he will cry, as fathers are apparently wont to do, upon seeing their marriages woven out into Vairë's handiwork. The thought makes him scoff. Imagine crying before a tapestry because he cannot attend the actual ceremony. It is not a pleasant notion.

Still. Still, he cares not. He needs not watch with his own eyes if his sons find happiness, with or without a spouse. The fact that they have will be more than enough for him. 

The end. The end is near. Nerdanel feels it. It is not just her, for as of late many of her acquaintances and friends have strolled about, faces tense and growing grimmer and grimmer. It seems to be an unspoken truth; there is nothing to prove that the end is coming, but they feel that it is. Perhaps it is a gift given by the Valar. But whatever this unspoken sense is, it reminds all of the Eldar that the moment is swiftly approaching. Soon, either all of Arda will fall to Morgoth, or Morgoth shall be slain and Arda washed and purified, like a babe born anew. 

Nerdanel thinks of the Secondborn. She has seldom had dealings with them; the closest she has come was when she encountered two halflings brought over the seas; the first, Frodo Baggins, along with Artanis (bless her young niece, she had grown into a truly great woman) and Elrond Peredhel. The second, Samwise Gamgee, had come some six decades later, from what Nerdanel had heard. 

Such frailty in the Secondborn! If men are anything like hobbits, then Nerdanel marvels at their strength of spirit, for surely it must be great to compensate for their not-so-great strength of body. Seldom does she think of mankind, but in this moment, she may envy them. For their souls go beyond the circles of Arda after death, and they are free of the perils and hardships of the world. They need not worry if Morgoth will overtake the sphere. 

A knock at the door draws her out of her musings. She has guests today, and despite the doom that is hanging above Tirion, Nerdanel smiles at the thought. Rising, she opens the door to her father's house (Mahtan is not here at the moment) to feast her eyes upon the sight of her third son and his newly wedded wife. 

"Tyelkormo," she greets warmly, hugging her son. He has grown so tall, she thinks with a pang of both pain and love. 

"Amal." There is a hint of a smile in Tyelkormo's voice, and though his face is calm, it is no longer quite so harsh and hard as it was when he was re-embodied. It is the work of Írimiel, Nerdanel thinks affectionately, turning to greet her good-daughter.

"Nerdanel." Írimiel smiles, relaxed, for she and Nerdanel have grown close over the millennia since the Flight of the Noldor. Her good-daughter is a friend to her as well as the wife of her third son. Nerdanel embraces her, as well, fondness pooling in her stomach.

"Traditionally I would inquire how wedded life is treating both of you," she begins, "but given our circumstances, I believe the question is pointless."

"You judged correctly, amal," Tyelkormo replies as Nerdanel ushers her son and good-daughter to the living room and to the couch. His eyes are bright and lively and full of life. Content, moreso than she has ever seen him, despite the foreboding of the Black Enemy. "I am happier than I have ever been." He subconsciously reaches for his wife's hand, and she takes it and cradles it in her own, slender fingers, intertwining their digits together. Nerdanel fights the urge to coo in delight. Newlywed bliss is always a joy to look upon, especially if the newlyweds are your son and your young companion. 

She can only pray that they will not fracture and shatter as she and Fëanáro did. But then, she and Fëanáro were young, motivated by passion as much as love. Tyelkormo and Írimiel are not, no longer. She has seen her good-daughter's growth from a feisty young girl to a composed and free-spirited woman. And her son - from his re-embodiment she has known that he is older, wearier, but wiser. They are not the youthful elves that she and Fëanáro were. 

And Tyelkormo and Írimiel have spent much time together after the former's re-embodiment, nearly five years, re-acquainting themselves with each other. They know each other, every flaw and every imperfection and every crack. Nerdanel does not doubt that her son and good-daughter both glimpsed the vitriolic, hateful side of the other, for she was watching, thousands and thousands of years ago before the Flight of the Noldor, when their relationship deteriorated and fell apart at the seams.

And still, they have chosen to wed, after Tyelkormo's rebirth. Nerdanel happily (yet painfully, remembering Fëanáro) doubts that they will allow themselves to follow her path a second time. Besides, the pain of their separation had been agonizing for the both of them. Not a day after the departure of Fëanáro and their sons had the pain in Írimiel's blue-green eyes faded. She had concealed it well, smiling and elegant and every bit the princess she was, but Nerdanel saw her pain nonetheless. And Tyelkormo; he had longed for his beloved dearly, as well. For upon his rebirth, after their tearful reunion thousands of years in the stars, he had asked, "Where is Írimiel?"

She does not believe that either of them are willing to endure such torment again. 

She and, now, members of her family, exchange conversations and stories and laughs. It seems Tyelkormo is an attentive and tender husband, according to Írimiel. Most would have a difficult time imagining such a thing, but not Nerdanel, for Tyelkormo is her son. He has ever been eager for her comfort and her happiness, she remembers, and it seems now that his pampering has extended to his new wife. 

Then he has learned. She wonders if Fëanáro can say the same. Stubborn as Tyelkormo is, her husband (she both curses and caresses the title internally), is even more obstinate. 

Nerdanel realizes her face has become wistful, and now her son and good-daughter are gazing at her with sympathy and sadness in their eyes. She does not bother trying to be cheerful again, for they understand her pain; Fëanáro is Tyelkormo's own father, whom he loves and respects despite what he has done, and Írimiel is more understanding than most. Despite her now good-father's curt and later outright mocking treatment of her, Írimiel (astoundingly, in Nerdanel's opinion) holds no ill will towards Fëanáro. 

"He was a difficult man," Írimiel had said when Nerdanel had asked her about it once. "And perhaps an unpleasant one, at times. But he was torn, and I sympathize, though I do not agree." 

"Do you feel it, Amal?" Tyelkormo asks, this time bringing his wife's hand to his lap and idly playing with it with his own long fingers. "Írimiel and I first believed it was merely our senses toying with us, but the other Eldar of Tirion seem to have our concerns reflected on their faces. Do you?"

"Do you speak of the Doom?" Nerdanel lowers her voice towards the end of the sentence. The end of the world is seldom a topic that anyone would want to discuss. But Tyelkormo nods and Írimiel gaze flashes. Affirmative. 

"I feel it as well." Nerdanel is loathe to admit it, loathe to think about what is imminent, but she feels that there is no denying that Dagor-Dagorath is approaching. The end of the world is here, and my husband yet still dwells in the Halls of Mandos, unwilling or unable to regret his sins. She is half spiteful and half heartbroken. Such obstinacy in him; their sons had all been reborn, Makalaurë being the last. Oh yes, they dwell together in isolation and perhaps self-imposed exile - which her heart hurts to think about - in the far forests. Of her sons with significant others, only Tyelkormo has managed to reconnect with his beloved. Carnistir, she suspects, refuses to out of pride and sorrow, Atarinkë, out of resentment and fear, and Makalaurë out of remorse. 

It is rather odd that Tyelkormo of all her sons has taken the opportunity the swiftest to reclaim his beloved. And yet, he was ever rather wild like a feline, she muses. If he wants something he will get it, whether he must resort to flattery or charm or even genuine, sincere pleading. And Írimiel inspires such devotion in him. After all, she is willing to leave the comforts of her home in Valmar and live with Nerdanel's wild seven sons, for Tyelkormo is not yet ready to allow himself to be accepted back into the community. He has offered, for his beloved's sake, but both Nerdanel and Írimiel saw plainly that he had no wish to dwell with civilization. So Írimiel had taken residence with the seven brothers. When she has the time, Nerdanel will travel there herself and see to it that her sons are treating their good-sister properly. 

And Fëanáro. As much as her sons' reticence and reluctance to reacquaint themselves with society gnaw at her (it is not that she does not understand, but rather she longs for days since past), at the very least they have repented and been granted a second chance by the Valar's discretion. Fëanáro - he had not even managed to do that!

How long has it been since he asked for her forgiveness? Time is a difficult concept for the Eldar, but Nerdanel thinks it must be some fifty years, perhaps a century. Or perhaps two or three. Nay, she does not know, but it seems a long time ago. If his plea was sincere, it pains her knowing that he repents for his actions against her and only his actions against her. If he remains unremorseful for all else that he has done, for her moral compass and her self-respect, she cannot bring herself to dream of forgiving him. 

Tyelkormo seems to sense her thoughts, for his gaze tinges over with melancholy. "Amal," he begins, "Do you believe that Atar shall ever find redemption?" There is sadness and love in his voice, but a drop of resentment that Tyelkormo is not yet able to hide. From Írimiel's expression as she turns to her husband and caresses his silver-blonde hair, full of worry but not surprise, Nerdanel guesses that they have spoken of Fëanáro before.

"I cannot say," she replies honestly to her son. "There was a time when I convinced myself that he would not. That he would never." 'No, never,' she would tell herself, 'That bastard knows nothing of penance'. "After that came a time that I held hope. But that, too, is over. Now... I am simply unsure."

Tyelkormo closes his eyes. He has mellowed, Nerdanel realizes with a start, for the old Tyelkormo would have scowled or frowned or scoffed to conceal his pain, but Tyelkormo as he was now let his pain flicker freely across his fair visage. His hand, laying still on his lap with Írimiel's smaller one still in it, begins to toy with his wife's fingers again. 

After that, they move to more lighthearted topics for the rest of the visit, and then Nerdanel realizes it is time that Tyelkormo and Írimiel return to the seven brothers' dwelling in the distant forests. It is late. They say their farewells, and as her third son and his wife are leaving, Tyelkormo turns to Írimiel suddenly. His pale blue eyes, quite abruptly, Nerdanel might add, hold the mirth and playful shine of a young child. 

"My sweetest Írimiel," he sings out, "I have an idea."

"What would that be?" Írimiel's voice is none too playful, as if she is tired of his mischief, but as she turns to her husband, Nerdanel sees her sea-green eyes gleaming with amusement. Her face may be arranged and poised and contain a hint of annoyance, but it is merely a game, a childish, merry game that her good-daughter and her son have invented between them, Nerdanel realizes. 

Without a word, Tyelkormo literally sweeps Írimiel off of her feet and into his arms, her head tucked against the crook of his neck and shoulder, her knees bent over one of his arms, the other arm supporting her back. Bridal style, they call it. Írimiel gasps in surprise, apparently having not expected this latest trick, but she is delighted, Nerdanel thinks with a smile. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Írimiel tries to sound harsh, but her voice is punctuated with little, breathy giggles and her face is almost beaming. 

"I mean to test my strength and endurance," came Tyelkormo's airy reply. "And I have deemed that no other method surpasses this one, for it enables me to spare you the woe of walking on your beautiful, delicate two feet."

"My beautiful, delicate two feet shall be planted on your face the instant we return home," threatens Írimiel, but she is still grinning like a youth, as is Tyelkormo.

"I very much doubt that."

"Good. Continue doubting it so that the surprise may be twice as harsh when it does happen."

"We will see. Perhaps you will learn to appreciate your poor husband's lowly efforts to please you, my sweetest."

Írimiel gives him an odd, but mirthful, look. "...Very well then, my husband. I shall judge these 'lowly efforts' to the best of my ability. My verdict will be delivered when we arrive home. If you disappoint me after building such grand expectations, you may find that certain consequences follow...I am yet undecided, but a few nights with a bed wholly to myself sound quite appealing."

Tyelkormo's speed is already picking up as he coos, "I will not have that, dear wife. You know well how it pains my soul to be apart from you for any amount of time." 

Nerdanel just barely sees Írimiel wrap her pale arms around her third son's neck before Tyelkormo is off, streaking away from her father's dwelling at blinding speed, his wife's breathless laughter fading rapidly. He was always the swiftest runner among their family, and she guesses that he has built rather impressive strength in his upper body from hauling all of his prey to and fro without assistance. She smiles.

Although the end is near, Tyelkormo seems to have found his happiness. She prays that he will not be the sole one amongst her seven sons to realize the wisdom of taking an opportunity. 

How long has it been since that message came? Half a millennium, perhaps a whole, or even two? 

That foreboding has never vanished, and has gotten heavier and heavier as of late. No longer can Nerdanel even summon a smile when she spots her acquaintances along the road. They nod to each other, grim and serious, and part ways, and it infuriates her to think that The Black Enemy of the World has the power to make them all feel so miserable for so long a time. And the damn creature has not even begun his attack yet!

Nerdanel scowls as she nearly trips over a fountain, so preoccupied was she in her thoughts. You must keep your wits about you, Nerdanel, she scolds herself. Nothing is certain, but at the very least you know the Black Foe cannot be defeated if we do not keep our senses keen. 

She arrives home and is in her workshop, setting down her newly-bought items, when she hears the front door open and close. Nerdanel frowns. She is not expecting visitors, she thinks, as she hurries out and is greeted by the sight of her brothers by marriage. 

Arafinwë wears simple, pale blue robes, as he is wont to do outside of the public eye. His golden hair is brushed but unarranged save for two small, simple braids at his temples. He does not even bother with a circlet, for the grace and poise of his presence alone is enough to let others around him know who is king. And yet his demeanor is not in the least harsh or demanding. He is both authoritative and gentle, in a regal manner. Though, Nerdanel knows, her good-brother is terrifying when truly angered. All one must do is think back to the second capturing of Morgoth to be reminded that under Arafinwë's tranquil, pleasant demeanor, a summer storm brews, flashing with lightning, howling with wind, pouring with rain. But he keeps it well under control.

Nolofinwë is clad in similar robes, but they are of a darker hue. His ebony locks are hastily tied back in a half-ponytail, dark strands falling into his face. On his forehead rests a simple circlet of silver. The eldest son of Finwë and Indis cuts a powerful figure. Much like Fëanáro his presence alone rather loudly demands attention and respect, though his actual personality is hardly loud or demanding. Nolofinwë is formal and curt in his manner, but gentler than the harshness of her husband. Sense stayed his hand, moreso than it had Fëanáro's. But Nolofinwë has always shone like a star, both hot and cold at the same time, brilliant and noticeable. 

"Nésa," Arafinwë greets with a genuine smile. He and Nolofinwë have called her "sister" since she was wedded to their brother, and although her marriage is a joke in shambles now, they continue to do so, for they are close. Nerdanel views them fondly, her king and a lord. They are like her little brothers, truly.

Nolofinwë is solemn by nature and inclines his head respectfully, the princely upbringing showing, but his silvery-blue eyes are light and almost excited. Nerdanel is intrigued, but she holds her tongue, for she has learned patience over the long years. Indeed, it seems that rather than she, it is Arafinwë and Nolofinwë who are having difficulty controlling whatever excites them. Their pale blue eyes, so similar in color, are practically glowing. 

She offers them a seat, but they decline. Arafinwë is practically bouncing on his heels - he might project the image of kingliness and valor at court, but they were like family, and the third son of Finwë had never bothered placing effort into appearing dignified, not with those he was close with. Nolofinwë is more subdued, but his anticipation is quite transparent. Nerdanel is dumbfounded. What in the name of the Valar...

Then the front door opens again. Nerdanel's gaze moves from the faces of her good-brothers to the figure stepping through the doorframe and into her dwelling, taller than Nolofinwë and Arafinwë but leaner than the former. He is wearing a simple red tunic, black trousers, and brown boots. His ebony hair is unbound, flowing down his back in inky strands. His pale, almost silver eyes are intent on her face, his demeanor relaxed but his presence itself insistent upon attention.

"Nerdanel," Fëanáro whispers. 

She does not respond. She cannot. Her mouth is frozen in a foolish little "o", her eyes wide but not bulging, her body still relaxed, for she thought this would be naught more than a talk with her little brothers. 

Why is he here? How? Surely the news would have been all over Aman, that Curufinwë Fëanáro has been twice-born at last? That the Valar have seen fit to release him into the world once more? How is it that she could not have heard word of this? 

Nerdanel realizes she is gaping. Like a fool. She snaps her mouth shut, though that single movement sends her vision tilting and threatens to make her lose her balance and end up sprawled across the floor in a heap. Her head is spinning, but she, by the Valar's grace, manages to draw herself up to her full height. 

Emotions run rampant in her chest. Anger. Longing. Love. Sorrow. Resentment. Hatred. Joy. She cannot decide which one to act on - her head is now pounding as well as spinning, and she feels too hot and too cold at the same time. What to do? What to do? When confronted with one's husband whom one has not seen in so many millennia, with whom one's last direct conversation was a fight full of bitterness and betrayal, what to do?

For better or worse, she decides to act on none of these emotions.

“Fëanáro.” Her voice, by some sorcery, is cool and calm, and her face she has managed to arrange into an expression of false blankness, though beneath the skin she feels anything but blank.

 He blinks at her serenity. So too might have his brothers, but Nerdanel is too intensely focused on Fëanáro to give Nolofinwë or Arafinwë a proper glance, however much she might love them as her brothers.

Uncertaintly flashes across Fëanáro’s visage, and Nerdanel’s breath shallows. For a moment, she is reminded of a much younger version of her husband, not ten seconds after he had dared press her first kiss - and his as well, he later told her - softly to her mouth. He wore the same expression of hesitation and slightly fear that he does now. Back then, she had found it nothing but terribly endearing. Now-

-oh, the endearing remains. Undoubtedly. But something else joins it: something unpleasant and unnamable. It lodges in Nerdanel’s throat, and no matter how much she dislikes it, wills it to vanish, it stays.

At her staring, Fëanáro swallows. “I have returned,” he offers lamely, and Nerdanel might have laughed in fond amusement otherwise. Her husband has always been an eloquent speaker, and hearing him reduced to such a state that he can say nothing but stammer the obvious would be, under other circumstances, adorable.

Under the current circumstances, it is quite decidedly not .

“Thank you,” she almost hisses, “for that statement of unparalleled wisdom. Now may I ask why  you are in my house?”

He gazes at her, and intense fondness ripples in his silvery-blue hues. It simultaneously makes Nerdanel’s knees weak and her spine stiffer and stronger. She must be rational about this. She is a grown woman, an old woman, she often teased herself (though she is most certainly not teasing herself now), and is more than capable of handling the situation with tact rather than melting into putty at the sight of her husband’s affection.

“To see you,” Fëanáro replies, and Nerdanel’s heart trembles. She is not sure if she wants to call him too presumptuous or too insightful. Has he come here on account of satisfying his longing or hers? Or both? Likely both.

But Nerdanel is not sure that she wants him here. She is not sure she can stomach the sight of him without remembering the ugly words left between them. She is not sure she can tolerate his presence in her house without wanting to pull him close, or wanting him to pull her close and hold her. It has been too long since she has felt his warmth. She is not sure she can bear being near him without wanting to deal him a hard, harsh blow to the face.

Eru, was this how Írimiel felt when Tyelkormo appeared before her after so long? Or how Tyelca felt when Carnistir landed himself in the midst of a brawl and she had the misfortune to be the one to bring matters under control? Or how Morilindel felt when Atarinkë traveled to her dwelling with the sole thought of apologizing? Or how Ilvanya felt when Makalaurë came face-to-face with her and immediately began to flee? She has always known they were all strong, but she was not aware of how difficult it was, and respects them all the more for it.

But! She cannot, and will not, allow herself to act on such thoughtless impulses! She must get Fëanáro out of her house. Use prudence. Calm. Rationality. Eru gifted her with a head on her shoulders and she intends to use it.

“That is kind of you,” she bites out. “Now that you have accomplished your goal, I have a schedule, and a client I must meet with soon. If you will please…” She trails off, the implication obvious.

“Of course, Nésa,” Arafinwë says calmly. “Forgive us for the intrusion upon your time. Curufinwë, Nolofinwë, let us go.” He ushers his brothers out, pausing only to smile in farewell at Nerdanel, and then leaves, closing the door in his wake. She is left staring, still not sure whether she must be angry, or sad, or ecstatic. Or something else.

Part of Nerdanel cannot help but wish her little brothers-by-marriage had not pulled their stint and brought Fëanáro to see her (for it was clear as day that it was their idea). How must she cope now, knowing he has been released from the Halls? What will this mean for herself, her seven sons? She is already concerned enough with the foreboding surrounding the thought of Morgoth; must she wear herself out with concerns about familial matters as well?

At the same time, she cannot blame them. Fëanáro might have always tried to alienate his siblings, he might have always tried to dismiss them as merely his half -kin, but Nerdanel knows the truth. He loves them; how can he not? She knows that when Findis was a moon old, Fëanáro crafted for her a music box that played sweet melodies next to her cradle as she slept. She knows that on Nolofinwë’s fourth name-day, Fëanáro, with her help, sculpted for him a set of toy soldiers clad in ornate armor decorated with minuscule gems that he made himself. She knows that the first seven hours into Lalwendë’s life, Fëanáro sat next to her crib to watch her for any signs of danger, for she had possessed a delicate constitution at birth and there had been none available to do the job. She knows that when Arafinwë was just born, Fëanáro swaddled and rocked the babe (at that point they had already been wed and he had been practicing on the chance that she conceived) because the youngest son of Finwë’s powerful spirit had exhausted Indis when birthing him. He might call them his half-siblings, but Nerdanel knows that in his heart, they are nothing less than his true brothers and sisters.

And why would his siblings not want Fëanáro to reconnect with his wife? With her?

Still…

Nerdanel sighs. She was not lying earlier - she does have a schedule, and in an hour’s time she must be down to her shop, for she will have a visiting client. Some part of her wants to weep with all manner of wild emotions, but she does not have the time. And she is not a helpless little girl whose only reaction is tears. She is grown now, has been grown for a very long time.

And she will act her age.

 “I told you she would not like it,” Fëanáro says gruffly as his half-brothers and he walk away from Mahtan’s estate.

“Yes, that was our expectation,” Nolofinwë dryly replies. “Nevertheless, we insisted that you go greet her anyway. It is the first step.”

“The first step?” Fëanáro snorts at the ridiculousness of his half-brother’s words. “Eru be damned, Nolofinwë, this is not some paltry romance game that you and Arafinwë wish to play matchmaker in. The rift between Nerdanel and I is serious and perhaps unbridgeable.” This is, he thinks, the first time he has been so open with his half-brothers, but it is not difficult. They all know that he and Nerdanel are far from happily married (are they still married?), and though the topic is, perhaps, slightly touchy, it is no longer one that makes him growl and froth at the mouth (figuratively) to discuss. Though he admits that it very much was during the earlier half of his stay in Mandos.

“We are not intending to treat it as such,” Arafinwë reassures him, although Fëanáro must say that he has his doubts about that. “But Nolofinwë and I believe wholeheartedly that it is not impossible that you and Nésa rekindle at least affection for each other, if not love.”

I love her, Fëanáro hotly corrects his half-brother in his head, though not aloud. I love her and I can never feel mere affection for her. But he knows not whether he can say the same for Nerdanel, after their final conversation. “Any potential reconciliation between us is not your concern,” he tells Arafinwë curtly. You would not understand the ugliness with which we parted.

“I think you forget that Arvo and I, too, are married,” Nolofinwë puts in. “We may have never experienced issues so serious as you and Nésa have, but we are both very well aware of the struggles that come with being wed. Nevertheless, worry yourself not over our meddling, Hanno. This is as far as Arvo and I intend to go.”

Fëanáro gives him a look of blatant skepticism. He cannot quite bring himself to believe his half-brother’s words. “You will forgive me if I am unsure if the truth behind your claim.”

“Oh, but it is naught but truth,” Arafinwë declares. “You will see, Hanno, that Nolo and I shall pay mind to our own business and leave yours be. But, do promise me something, Curufinwë?”

His youngest half-sibling’s voice is not harsh, but it is stern, and Fëanáro realizes that he is surprised. When he last saw Arafinwë after the First Kinslaying, he had been shaken and horrified, nearly snapping to Fëanáro that he had no intention of taking part of his crusade, not if it meant such malevolence and madness, not if it meant the lives of innocents and the lives of his people. Fëanáro had snarled that his “little half-brother” was at last revealing himself to be the spineless coward that he was, and that mice-hearted fools like Arafinwë had no place here anyway.

“Go, then,” he sneered. “Scamper back to the Valar who lifted not a finger at the death of our sire. Go lick their feet and beg their forgiveness, half-brother, for you have never had the courage nor the strength to truly adapt to such radical change.”

Arafinwë stared at him, shaking his head with what was almost pity, and it infuriated Fëanáro. “You are mad,” the brat said quietly, as if he knew or understood anything. “You have gone mad, Curufinwë, and Eru help those that follow you into this.”

“Is madness so far from greatness?” retorted Fëanáro. Arafinwë’s only reply was a look that mixed sorrow, anger, and farewell. Then he turned his back on Fëanáro and walked away, and did not look back once.

Arafinwë had been frightened then; it was not hard for any to discern. And his half-brother was right to be afraid, for Fëanáro knows that he of the past was indeed a madman, crazed with grief and hatred and longing. But Arafinwë is a king now, ever bit of him; he may even be considered Fëanáro’s king, for he is of the Noldor and he is in Valinor, loathe as he is to admit it (and he will not). Fëanáro cannot help but think, gazing at the golden-haired half-brother that is half a stranger to his eyes, that Arafinwë has perhaps faced worse than the likes of a Curufinwë Fëanáro near the edge of bursting into flames from the force of his anger.

“A promise. You were there to see the price of a vow sworn by a Fëanorian, Arafinwë. Are you so sure you wish to risk a second happening?”

“Such a second happening will not occur, and you know it,” retorts Arafinwë. “But enough of this senseless bantering, Hanno. What I wish for you…” The king - the king, Fëanáro thinks, and he could have almost smiled at the memory of Arafinwë as a child, joyful and bright and patient beyond his years, set in juxtaposition with this king who stands in front of him - closes his eyes for a moment and then reopens them.

“Lose not your faith in Nerdanel. She is angry, and understandably so, but she loves you yet. And lose not your faith in yourself, Curufinwë. The Valar have seen fit to release you from Mandos. They have reason for doing so, I believe. Your sons are all well on their ways to re-establishing their lives in Aman. It is not impossible for you either, Hanno.”

Fëanáro flinches inside to imagine that his half-brothers are aware of the reason he is allowed to walk in Valinor once again, with a physical body. One is not permitted to be twice-born unless he or she repents past sins or forgives past transgressions. Which, he knows that his half-brothers know, means that he has felt remorse for his actions. He dislikes Nolofinwë and Arafinwë’s awareness of this, though it is an inevitability that comes with being re-embodied. And inside he must admit that he is impressed with Arafinwë’s words. There is a reason, he realizes once again, that the youngest is called the wisest of the three sons of Finwë. To accompany this realization is a pang of pain in his chest. My sons. If he encounters them again, he will know not what to do.

So he scoffs to conceal his tumult. “Big words. I think it is that self-righteousness of yours that makes you most insufferable, Arafinwë.”

“Ah, but we could all do well with a modicum of self-righteousness,” Nolofinwë replies to his earlier comment, pulling Fëanáro away from his thoughts. He snorts again. “Arafinwë has not just a modicum. ”

Arafinwë says nothing in his defense, but his expression is amused as he lets his half-brother and brother banter, apparently content to be an observer. Fëanáro has never understood his youngest half-sibling’s willingness to simply be a witness and not a participant. But then, he supposes it is one of the fundamental differences between himself and Arafinwë.

“But very well.” Fëanáro changes the topic. “I will heed your request, Arafinwë, although I must say that it sounds quite pointless to my ears.”

“As long as you heed it, as you have said you will, it matters not,” Arafinwë calmly replies.

There it is again. That damned calm. Now that he thinks about it, Fëanáro can think of few instances when Arafinwë has genuinely lost his cool. He has seen his half-brother’s facade crackle and waver, but he has never seen it fall away.

“Nolo and I must be going now,” the king proclaims. Fëanáro is sure Arafinwë has court and politics to attend to. That is one part of being king that he is glad to have no part of. Fëanáro is a skilled politician, but it is full of tedious affairs, dripping with flattery and false smiles and deceit. He has no issue that Arafinwë, and probably Nolofinwë as well, are the only ones who must deal with such matters.

“Very well.” Fëanáro inclines his head slightly as a show of acknowledgment. They nod back before taking their leave, him watching them go. It seems strange to imagine that he once crafted Nolofinwë a set of toy soldiers and his half-brother, he was told (by his father, to which he scoffed and brushed away), played with them every day and took great delight it them. It seems strange that he once rocked a newborn baby Arafinwë in his arms, fighting back a smile as he watched the tiny thing slumber, resisting the compulsion to gently rub the wispy mop of Vanyarin-golden hair on the crown of the babe’s head.

Now they are both warriors and politicians, a king and a prince. His father would smile to look upon them now. Fëanáro doubts he’d be quite so pleased with his own path. It is almost funny. Estranged from his wife, estranged from his sons, his position uncertain - not exactly what his father would have desired for his eldest son.

Fëanáro is not even certain how he feels. He has always cared little for politics of being king; let Nolofinwë and Arafinwë handle the swimming and fishing amongst nobles. When he was younger, what he desired was to lead, not to rule, and his desire, coupled with his fear that Nolofinwë would usurp his place in his father’s heart, led him to raise his sword towards his half-brother.

Now, though… Finwë is dead, slain, and Fëanáro has no pointless ambition to lead. There is nothing to be led; the Noldor are stable under Arafinwë’s rule, and Nolofinwë has regalled him with the decayed opinions concerning the House of Fëanáro. It is unlikely, if not impossible, to find any willing to follow him, even his own sons. And even if he does find followers, what will he lead them to do? There is naught to be done.

Well, not at the moment. Like the other elves, Fëanáro feels the end. Morgoth will return soon, and either the corruption or purification of Arda is imminent. When that day arrives, he will throw himself into battle with all the fury he can summon, if only for his hatred towards the Black Foe. But others need not follow him. He guided his sons to their destruction once, and he has no wish to do so to anyone else again.

For now, though, Fëanáro will settle in the dwelling that Arafinwë prepared for him. It is in the forests, isolated from civilization, but he takes no issue to that. It will be tedious to live near any city anyway, and he knows that he will, for the most part, very much enjoy the privacy offered by a secluded house in the trees. He is no stranger to living alone, but never has he lived in complete separation from others.

He wonders if he will end up living the rest of his life in that seclusion. Even if Nerdanel forgives him, even if his sons forgive him - and he would not blame them if they never did - his name is evidently still a scourge on the Noldor and the Eldar as a whole, and he cannot imagine that it would be unusual for things to remain as such until the end of days.

As Fëanáro strides through Tirion, he hears those around him murmuring. Already elves are parting before him as if he is a spreading wildfire that they wish to put as much distance as possible between themselves and him. He catches looks of contempt, of fear, of horror, of disgust, and many others. Insults are whispered. “Kinslayer.” “Murderer.” “Madman.” He ignores them all with derisive ease, for it is not their hatred that he fears.

He has been prepared for it. Let them sneer. Let them whisper. Let them scorn. He is deserving of all their derision and accepts it, but it means not that he will bend over backwards trying to make apologies or abase himself before them. He has no intention of allowing himself to be humiliated so those around him, who were not even the victims of his actions, can satisfy their disdain. If he does encounter those he wronged, he shall apologize, and it will be sincere. But to no one else, for he has done nothing to these people who glare at him with such vitriol.

As he approaches the edges of the city, the crowd finally near dispersed, he catches another pair of eyes, strikingly similar to his own. It holds not disgust, nor fear, like the others, but shock. Pure shock.

Then the rest of the face sinks in, and Fëanáro freezes.

“Atar?” gasps Kanafinwë.

He looks far less melancholy, Fëanáro thinks dully as he stares at his second son. Kanafinwë’s eyes are not quite so shadowed with grief and despair, and he looks not so thin and wan and simply tired of existing.

His gaze slips to his son’s shoulder, and he sees silvery locks hanging about a slender white neck, unusually close to Kanafinwë. Following the curve of the pale throat, Fëanáro’s eyes fall on the face of a she-elf. He recognizes her: Kanafinwë’s estranged wife, Ilvanya. He faintly wonders why she and her husband are together, if they have made amends, but then his thoughts turn back to his son.

“Kanafinwë,” he murmurs. He cannot express the emotions that bursts and blooms and flowers in his chest; they are like a mixture of hot and cold, of joy and sorrow, of delight and contrition. His son has left the Halls of Mandos; his son is with his wife, perhaps they are trying to stitch their relationship together again; his son has a chance of obtaining the life that was stolen from him.

Kanafinwë hesitated. His eyes are searching, almost calculating, as they roll over Fëanáro, unsure and wary. Neither does Fëanáro know what to say or what to do. The last time he saw his second son, Kanafinwë was gazing out to the sea, melancholy, sorrow, permeating the very air around him, eyes distant and haunted like he was only half of this world, and his other half was beyond the spheres of Arda and floating in the Timeless Halls of Eru All-Father. Now, Kanafinwë’s demeanor is yet still distant, but more grounded, as if he is consumed with thoughts but not quite so lost in times long past.

Fëanáro at last settles on a curt, “You have left the Halls. Good.”

“I believe that statement pertains more to you than I, Atar,” his son replies, still uncertain, but clearly recovering from his shock. Next to him, Ilvanya’s face is stony as she gazes at the father of her husband, her blue-violet gaze devoid of emotion. Kanafinwë casts her a concerned glance.

“Arafinwë tells me that all of your brothers have been twice-born,” Fëanáro says sternly, with all the authority of a patriarch.

“Yes, that is true.”

“Good.”

“Have you nothing else to say, Atar?” Fëanáro hears the frustration and resentment in Kanafinwë’s voice, and knows why. He sounds cold and not at all fatherly, simply saying that the rebirth of his sons is “good” and not weeping with joy as any proper father should be. And truthfully, Fëanáro is glad.

But he is not yet ready to face his sons, and they are not yet ready to face him. Based on only Kanafinwë’s indecision, he knows that appearing before his seven boys will not do them any good, nor will they help him. There are wounds too fresh that require time to heal.

“No, nothing,” Fëanáro replies steadily. “Tell your brothers that I have been reembodied, Kanafinwë. There is no use in hiding what they will inevitably know. Better to lessen the later shock.” His eyes fall in Ilvanya again, who has not moved. Her gaze is calm. A calm woman, his good-daughter has always been, he remembers.

“Ilvanya.” Out of curiosity for her reaction, he greets her, his tone brusque.

“Alatar.” Ilvanya’s voice is equally crisp, her doe-like, larkspur eyes firm and unyielding. “Seeing you walk again on the slopes of Tirion was not something I imagined I would see in my lifetime.”

“I suspect the general populace shares your sentiment,” returns Fëanáro.

“That is my belief as well. And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” he agrees before turning back to Kanafinwë who watches the exchange between his wife and his father with no small amount of trepidation. “I shall not steal your time much longer, Kanafinwë. Go on.”

His second son’s expression is a confused medley of bitterness, sadness, and disappointment. Fëanáro would be lying if he says it does not make his heart ache. He longs to reach out, to touch his son’s cheek and stroke his hair as he did when Kanafinwë was a child; as he has not done enough since his sons each reached early adolescence. But if he does so, he will only discombobulate himself, and his son besides. Had I been a proper father from the beginning, this would be so much easier. I could have comforted you. I am sorry, Kanafinwë.

It is Ilvanya who takes charge, grasping her husband’s hand in her own, much smaller one. “Come, Kanafinwë,” she murmurs, leading him gently away. Fëanáro watches them go, feeling oddly hollow at the sight. He wonders if they have truly reconciled; it certainly looks it, from their companionship, but Fëanáro was there to witness the severing of their marriage. It had been an ugly affair, almost as ugly as his own parting with Nerdanel. His ever-composed good-daughter had screamed, he remembered, cursing Kanafinwë’s name and damning him for his actions. Kanafinwë in turn had pleaded with her, then threatened her, then attempted to use a guilt trip to keep her by his side. Despite the conspicuity of the situation, none of Fëanáro’s other sons had intervened, probably not wishing to try their hand at handling their enraged good-sister.

He cannot imagine such vitriol went over easily, even after so many years.

Still, he will be glad if it has. It appears that they are at least trying to mend their fractured marriage, and it makes Fëanáro smile - albeit only on the inside - to see that Kanafinwë is making an effort to rebuild his life, rather than wallowing in sorrow forevermore. He hopes that is other sons are doing the same. Turcafinwë had a lover, he remembers, the Vanyarin princess Írimiel. Morifinwë and Curufinwë are both married as well, to Tyelca and Morilindel respectively. They were all ill-fated relationships, it seems, but perhaps there was still hope.

Ah, if he can only see his sons happy, it will be enough for him.

 A stroke of coincidence, really.

Fëanáro knows not what Raumolíro Olwion, the youngest son of King Olwë, is doing in Tirion. Ever since the Kinslaying there has been a history of tension between the Noldor and the Teleri, and the grudge between them has not fully abated. It is a wonder Raumolíro is in the capital city of the Noldor in the first place - and even more of a wonder that Fëanáro is there at the same time as him, for he rarely ventures into the cities either. The dwelling that Arafinwë gave him in the forests is agreeable and contents him.

On this particular day, however, he is in need of supplies. Arafinwë did not offer to provide for him as well, and Fëanáro is not complaining. His youngest half-sibling knows that he would not accept such coddling. Welcomed into Tirion or not, the citizens of the city do not intimidate him, for all their derision and mocking and disgust. It is not they whom he has wronged.

But Raumolíro Olwion is.

Fëanáro is striding through the streets of Tirion. It is late evening, the sky is darkening and the temperature is cooling considerably, and there are fewer people about. He has already purchased what he is in need of and is on the path to the forest when a surprised, and familiar, voice stops him.

“Curufinwë Fëanáro?”

Fëanáro turns to see the silver-haired, silver-eyed prince of the Teleri. Raumolíro is clad in silvery-blue, shifting robes, on his pale brow is a circlet of silver set with a cyan stone. His pearly locks are arranged in a simple braid, dangling behind his back. The prince’s face is arranged in an expression of mild surprise.

Fëanáro remembers few things about Raumolíro. Considerably younger than himself, the fourth son of the king of the Teleri is an earnest, hot-blooded, determined lad. Raumolíro is always eager to spring into action, fierce in his loyalty to his father and his people. At least, he was, before Fëanáro stabbed him through the heart in the midst of the First Kinslaying.

Now he is face-to-face with one of the true victims of his rash actions, one, so young, whom he struck down.

Behind Raumolíro Olwion, Fëanáro can see that a considerable number of people have seen the spectacle and are unabashedly staring. He briefly wonders what is going through their heads - do they expect him to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness? Given the disdain that they directed his way, he does not think it is unlikely.

But that has never been Fëanáro’s way. Wrong though he may have been, he has his basic pride and he has his basic dignity, and those two things he will preserve.

“I see you have been reembodied, Prince Raumolíro,” he says quietly. The Telerin elf inclines his head. “Yes. And you as well, Prince Curufinwë. Come,” Raumolíro remarks, “I am sure you do not appreciate the publicity of our conversation.”

The prince is calmer than he expected, Fëanáro thinks, as he nods his consent and follows Raumolíro further down the path until they are shielded from the city’s view by a thin row of trees.

“I heard about your rebirth when it occurred six moons ago,” Raumolíro tells him, “but I expected not to encounter you in Tirion. Word says you live in a dwelling in the distant forests.”

“I do,” confirms Fëanáro. “But I, at times, come for supplies.”

“I see.”

Silence falls over them. Fëanáro cannot deny that he feels quite uncomfortable in the situation. It is obvious what one must say to someone killed by their own hand, but it is no easy task, especially for one such as Fëanáro. Though, it is clearly what is right and decent.

He speaks despite the difficulty. Raumolíro has truly suffered because of his actions, and he owes him an apology. It will be understandable if the Telerin prince chooses not to forgive him, for how difficult is it to forgive the one who murdered you in cold blood? Pardoning those that wronged you (on a certain level) is a requirement to leave Mandos, but there are exceptions. Fëanáro did not have to surrendur his burning hatred for Morgoth, and he heavily doubts that the Valar deemed it necessary for Raumolíro to pardon the man who slew him with his own hands.

“I am sorry,” Fëanáro begins (quite lamely, in his opinion, although it is hardly his fault as there is nothing else, really, that can be said), “for my actions against you and your kin. I did not mean for the disagreement to become a slaughter of such proportions, but I must take responsibility, nevertheless. And it is not as if I made an attempt to diffuse the situation when it occurred. Extending forgiveness when so badly wronged is difficult, and I will not think it strange if you hate me for the entirety of Arda, but I must communicate to you that I am sincerely regretful.”

Raumolíro eyes him consideringly. For a while, the Telerin prince says nothing, and his gaze seems to shift through Fëanáro’s corporeal body and phase into the past; not unlike Kanafinwë’s stare when he first arrived in Mandos, but thankfully less sorrowful and less utterly lost, or Fëanáro would have shuddered involuntarily.

“Your apology,” Raumolíro says at last, “is as presumptuous as I imagined it would be, Curufinwë, son of Finwë.”

Fëanáro is not sure what to make of the Telerin prince’s response. His words appear angry, rejecting, but his expression is mild, his voice calm. An anomalous combination; is he forgiven or is he not? Frankly, the latter would surprise him more. “Speaking plainly would be appreciated,” Fëanáro comments.

To his muted surprise, the Telerin prince smiles slightly at his cheekiness. “I feared that you would fall in your knees and begin to plead for forgiveness. I am glad to see that your pride has not been abandoned.”

“Though I admit a considerable amount of pride has left me over the last several millennia, I still retain much of it,” replies Fëanáro honestly. “And it is not, nor will ever be, in me to prostrate myself before anyone and beg.”

Raumolíro’s calm and lack of yay or nay makes him wonder if he is forgiven, but at the same time, he knows there are those who are passive-aggressive and turn to underhanded insults and jibes. Or perhaps the Telerin prince is so furious that he is having trouble expressing it, in which case, Fëanáro can expect to be met with a rather unpleasant barrage of insults and curses.

Raumolíro’s gaze becomes distant again. “Forgiveness. Yes,” the prince murmurs. “Did you know, Curufinwë, that I was released from Mandos mere years before yourself?”

Fëanáro did not know that. He cannot help the curiosity that flares in his chest; Raumolíro released so late? It means one of two things: that the Telerin prince is not forgiving, only barely forgave the House of Fëanáro for what transpired in Alqualondë, and has not forgiven Fëanáro for killing him. Or -

“I have always been one to hold grudges. It was extraordinarily difficult to let go of my hatred for your sons, and especially you, and harder still to forgive. But I have learned. Had you not killed me, perhaps I never would have,” Raumolíro pauses. “I shall never forget your transgressions against my kin, Curufinwë, but I do forgive them. I forgive your sons… and I forgive you.”

Fëanáro is not quite prepared for the rise of emotions in his diaphragm. They are not overwhelming, nor do they swamp him; rather, they seep over his heart like water trickling through a small crack. He says nothing; cannot find the words to respond to Raumolíro. Should he thank the Telerin prince? He does not think thanks will be enough. To hear someone say that they have forgiven him - and more than him, his sons as well - is startlingly moving.

“Lose not your faith, son of Finwë,” continues Raumolíro. “If I can forgive you, and your sons, perhaps others can, as well.” He gives a small smile. “You have changed. It is plain for all to see, if they but look.”

Perhaps understanding that Fëanáro cannot think of an adequate response, Olwë’s son inclines his head. “Fare thee well, Curufinwë Fëanáro,” the Telerin prince bids and walks away, back down the path towards Tirion, his silver-clad form vanishing through the trunks of the trees. Fëanáro watches him go, sifting his way through the clump of emotion in his chest.

He is forgiven - at least by one; something he did not expect, but a welcome surprise. Fëanáro is under no illusion that all will be as forgiving, but he intends to express his regret to each and every victim of his. Likely that he will, at some point, be met with fury and threats, but it is his obligation. He cannot right his wrongs, but he will do what he is capable of doing, and he is capable of apologizing.

Uncharacteristically lost in his thoughts, Fëanáro does not realize that Nerdanel unintentionally overheard his conversation with Raumolíro on her way back to her father’s house.

Dagor-Dagorath is upon them.

Morgoth has escaped the Void. The knowledge sends chills radiating up and down and around and again through Nerdanel’s body. He has been unleashed: the Black Foe of the World, the Corrupter, the Marrer. The creature who was, at least in part, to blame for her husband’s swift descent to madness, her sons’ misfortune. He is free, and he is gathering his strength.

There will be one final battle. Only one, and it will determine the fate of Arda. The gargantuan nature of the whole affair makes Nerdanel sweat. It will be a battle spread across the entirety of the earth’s surface, and it is approaching swiftly. Already the sun and moon are gone; the former melting into liquid fire, the latter erupting into hauntingly pristine fragmentations of light, and now the stars are the only light shining down on the face of Arda.

She stands on the field with countless others of the Eldar, the Secondborn, and Casari. Above their heads, brilliant in the darkened sky, is the approaching, star-white light of Eärendil, son of Idril Celebrindal and Tuor Eladar. Marching to meet the figure of legend is the hulking figure of Tulkas, his golden hair and beard rippling in the wind and down his shoulders, his stature greater than that of any man or elf. Descending from Taniquetil is the brilliant form of Manwë himself, Elder King of Arda, his robes blue and cascading, his hair white and flowing, his eyes blazing pure blue. And in the distance, Nerdanel hears murmuring, can see glimpses of the army parting to allow someone through, someone who walks purposefully in the same direction as the previous three.

“Túrin, son of Húrin.”

“Túrin Turambar!”

“The Wronged. Bloodstained. Son of Ill-fate.”

Nerdanel is both quaking in her boots and in awe of these beings; Eärendil is an elf, a young one in comparison to many she knows, at that, but he has done such fabled deeds for the sake of Arda. Tulkas is of the Valar, the strongest physically among them, the one who pummeled Morgoth himself into submission. Manwë is the viceregent of the All-Father Himself, most beloved by Ilúvatar, King of the Valar. And Túrin Turambar… she has heard the tale of his life. And alas, what a life of woe it has been. For all her troubles, she can only imagine the intensity of the pain he has endured.

Normally she would be nothing but glad to have the privilege of laying eyes on them, but in this situation, given these circumstances, she cannot help but wish she is not seeing them, for it would mean that things were not so dire.

My sons. Her heart beats wildly at the thought of her seven boys. They have not even had the opportunity to re-acquaint themselves with society, for Eru’s sake - still living in the far forests, still ostracized, still whispered about. Fëanáro is much the same. Like their sons, his dwelling is within the seclusion of the depths of the trees; still avoided and still the subject of much talk. Can they not even find the bare beginnings of acceptance before the world may potentially come to an end?

Fear for them all overtakes her, drowning out her fear for herself. What will she do? What is she to do if she hears that the battle is over, and they - any one of them - are slain? There is so much, too much , at stake here, and the burden is almost painful in its intensity. Nerdanel sees the same desperation, the same terror, in the eyes of those around her. They all have loved ones here, loved ones they cannot possibly dream of losing, loved ones who bring agony at the mere thought of their deaths.

Where will she possibly be if any of them slip from her grasp?

From her peripheral vision, Nerdanel spots Makalaurë and Ilvanya. They are standing together, speaking in hushed tones, brows and noses nearly touching. Ilvanya’s hands are at work, straightening the straps of Makalaurë’s armor as they converse. Makalaurë is also busy, fastening his wife’s silver hair into a tight braid, although a few strands brush free to frame her face, which he tucks behind her ears.

Then all at once, as if the urgency and peril of the situation have abruptly dawned on him, Makalaurë pulls his wife fully against him and kisses her, his body language speaking of passion and desperation. Ilvanya echoes his zeal with matching fervor, barely finishing with the straps before she curls her delicate hands in his long, midnight-black locks. Neither Nerdanel’s second son nor his wife is particularly keen to display such amorous affections publicly, but she cannot blame them, not when they are all in such peril.

She hopes that the rest of her married sons are bidding their wives a similar message as Makalaurë is to Ilvanya.

Someone’s finger lands on her shoulder, and Nerdanel turns to see Fëanáro gazing down at her. His bluish-silver eyes are fierce and fiery and determined, so close to the way he looked as he spiraled into insanity borne of rage… but more controlled, more focused, more sharpened. It makes Nerdanel shiver a little, with both a little fear and much admiration. He looks dangerous .

But then his stare softens. “Hello, Nerdanel,” he greets her cordially, as if they are mere acquaintances, and yet she thinks she can see something smoldering just underneath his collected demeanor.

“Hello.” Her response is just as cool. “What is the matter, Fëanáro?”

There is a trace of hesitation in his eyes, reminding her of the look on his face when he came into her dwelling after first being re-embodied, which in turn reminds her of the look on his face when he kissed her first. Unsure and a tiny bit fearful of how she will react.

“I would ask your forgiveness one more time, Nerdanel,” he admits. “If I have overstepped my boundaries then you need only tell me, but I could not bear to face what is coming without trying one last time.”

Oh, Fëanáro. Nerdanel studies his face; the arch of his dark eyebrows, the slight curve of his nose, the strongness of his chin and the thickness of his lips. Her mind wheels. She must give him an answer. Now .

What can she say? Has she the heartlessness to truly refuse his request for forgiveness? She doubts it, but thinking of her boys, can she find it in herself to truly excuse him? The suffering that her children went through because of the Oath that he swore?

But they swore it just the same as he, a voice in her head reminds her. Or is that herself? Fëanáro should have attempted to stop them, but it was, nevertheless, their choice to make.

She continues to stare at her husband, wordless. She has refused to think about him since watching his exchange with Raumolíro, deliberately steering her thoughts away if her mind began to approach the topic, but now, she has no choice. What does she feel towards this man? What is this hard lump of emotion lodged in her throat and chest? Can she forgive him for all the deaths, all the horror, that he has caused, directly or indirectly? The Kinslaying…

But he is out of Mandos, is he not? He has repented, has he not? He has repented for what he has done to her, to their sons, to the Teleri at Alqualandë. She does not expect him to right all the wrongs he has caused, for everyone makes mistakes and such a thing is impossible. He apologized, and that is all anyone can ask of him. So why does her heart still throb painfully when she looks at him?

For the first time, Nerdanel lets herself tentatively feel the clump of emotions trapped in her chest. What is it? She thought it might have been resentment, but it does not feel like any sort of bitterness - that part is gone, melted away, dissolved, and she has not even realized it until now.  Because he has felt remorse. Because he has repented for everything, because he has asked forgiveness to not just her, but to another who was a victim of his actions, she can find no cause for any more rancor towards him.

No, not resentment, not bitterness, not rancor… with those no longer being an option, Nerdanel felt as if the chunk of sentiment was more like dull, aching pain - like longing. She blanches.

Eru, that is it.

She forgave him since she saw him apologize to Raumolíro. If he is twice-born, he is remorseful, and if he has apologized, he is ready to acknowledge his mistakes. She just wants to know that the man she marries has remorse, has a conscience, has nobility, has the willingness to accept and feel shame for his mistakes, the willingness to make amends.

And he does. By the Valar, he does.

 Despite the peril of the situation they are in - about to face the Battle of All Battles - Nerdanel cannot hold back the joyous smile that breaks over her face. She sees now; she has already forgiven him, and she longs for him. She loves him.

“Fëanáro,” she murmurs. “Fëanáro, vennonya , I have already forgiven you. I am sorry that I did not see it sooner. I forgave you the moment you apologized to Prince Raumolíro.”

Surprise and confusion is what first dawns on her husband’s face. “You heard me apologize to Raumolíro?” he inquires quietly.

She nods. “I am sorry, I did not intend to stick my nose where it does not belong. I passed by you and he standing together on my way back to Atar’s house. You were apologizing… and I could not help myself. I stood at a distance in the trees and listened.”

“And that is all it took? For me to earn your forgiveness?”

Nerdanel nods again. “Yes. I realized it only now: all I wanted was to know that you felt true remorse for your actions. All I wanted was to see that you were willing to place yourself at another’s mercy to try and begin righting your wrongs. And you are.” She tentatively reaches out and takes his hand, and he stares at their joined palms, their intertwined fingers, like it is the most wondrous thing he has ever seen.

“Melda ,” Fëanáro murmurs, raising her hand to his mouth and kissing her fingers, each slim digit, one by one. Nerdanel’s heart flutters as it has not fluttered since she was but a youthful maiden. “Nerdanel, words cannot express how deeply I thank you right now.”

“I do not need words,” she whispers, cupping his face with her free hand, stroking his cheek, savoring the feel of his smooth, warm skin beneath her touch after so many, so many long years.

He lets go of her hand in favor of cradling her face in his hands gently, as she is to him. Hesitantly, he brings their faces closer together until their brows bump and their noses brush. Nerdanel can feel the sweet, soft puffs of his breaths against her skin. He tilts his head, closing his eyes, and she involuntarily does the same.

And then they are kissing. Not fast and hard and passionate as their fervor burned so bright and hot long ago, but lovingly, slowly, caressingly. Their lips move over each other’s in a sensual yet tender dance, and Fëanáro’s hands leave her face to settle on her waist, and hers leave his to tangle gently in his hair. For the first time in countless thousands of years, they allow their fëa to merge into one brilliant spirit, existing for each other and solely for each other. The union is sublime, indescribable as if she has reached complete and total bliss.

Paradise.

Nerdanel cannot say how long their joining lasted, but when they at last break apart, they are two beings again. Their breathing is soft but slightly strained - panting - their cheeks are flushed, and their eyelids are half-shut from the heat of the moment. Fëanáro’s gaze is now pained as he looks down at her.

“How am I to fight this battle, knowing you are in danger?” he asks softly. “I would rather diminish and fade into nothingness than lose you now.”

“I have no answer for you,” Nerdanel says, sadly, but she is being truthful, for there is naught that can be done. She thumbs the soft flesh under his and traces the strong line of his jaw, avoiding his gaze, for she cannot bear to look at the distress in it.

But Fëanáro gently lifts her chin so they are eye-to-eye. In his pupils she can see her own reflection, and the same torment as his is in her gaze. How can she lose them now? How can they lose each other now?

“Melinyel, ” Fëanáro murmurs. “I have never stopped loving you, through all the ages of the world.”

“Nor I you,” whispers Nerdanel. “And I am so sorry that we lost so much time.” If only we could repair it before it happened, she thinks, but she knows such sentiments are useless. Now, they must believe.

“We must have faith,” she tells him, “Faith that we will endure. Faith in each other.”

“It is so difficult,” Fëanáro replies. “To rely only on faith that you will survive.”

“I know,” she utters. “I know.”

Fëanáro embraces her. She leans into him, her head buried in the crook of his neck, her arms looped under his and her hands resting on his shoulder blades; his arms wrapped tenderly over upper back, hand placed on her shoulder, and other hand nearly at the base of her neck. Nerdanel takes comfort in his warmth, his strength, the beating of his heart against hers. She will live, she vows fiercely. She will live, if only for his sake. She loves him, he loves her, and no force in Eä shall ever again part them. Most certainly not some paltry Dark Lord.

They remain like that until the battle begins.

It is over.

It is all over.

Fëanáro stares at the slumped, lifeless body of Morgoth Bauglir, the sword of Túrin Turambar thrust through its chest and its heart. Next to the filthy corpse is a non-corporeal, humanoid figure, a mass of black, roiling, seething darkness, uttering curses and threats, growls and snarls, bound with chains of brilliant white light. The corrupted, decayed ëala of Melkor, brought to heel. Captured. At last.

Next to Fëanáro looms the brilliant, sapphire-clad form of Manwë Súlimo. His unearthly face is set in conflict as he gazes at the thrashing form of Melkor - his brother, Fëanáro remembers. Despite his difficult history with the King of the Valar, he cannot help but understand Manwë’s obvious pain, for convoluted relationships with siblings are something he is intimately familiar with.

At last Manwë steps forward. “Belekôrôz,” he murmurs, and despite the softness of his voice, Fëanáro and others around him, flinch. Fëanáro recognizes the harsh intonation as being of Valarin etymology, though he must fish for its meaning; his study of Valarin is sparse. Bel - “mighty”, he believes - órë - “rising”, if he is correct. “Mighty rising”, then the king of the Valar must mean Melkor, Fëanáro concludes. Had the greatest battle in the history of Arda not just come to an end, had Manwë not looked so sorrowful , he might have felt triumphant, even smug, at his realization.

Melkor ceases his fighting and glares up at his brother with eyes blacker than black, twisted with hatred - and love , Fëanáro thinks he sees, with a scorching shock. All this time he has believed that if there is any fondness left between the brothers, it is from Manwë only, for how can one so foul as Morgoth ever hold any love in his heart?

And yet, looking at the defeated Vala now, Fëanáro is not so sure. Morgoth could be feigning, as he is a master of deceit and manipulation, but does he truly think the Valar will be fooled a second time? After his great betrayal that prompted Fëanáro’s oath, so long ago?

“ Mānawenūz,” the Black Enemy of the World hisses. Fëanáro’s jaw clenches, involuntarily and beyond his control.

Damn any possible sentiments of brotherly love between Manwë and Melkor. Just hearing Morgoth speak makes him shake with rage. Memories, all too fresh and the wounds all too deep, come spiraling back to him. His father’s broken body, lifeless and cold on the floor, beaten into the dust, blood splattered about him. The sudden and terrifyingly powerful grief and his hatred and his fury, bearing down on his body and his soul with the force of a thousand suns-

He wants to shout. To curse Morgoth. To demand that the Valar erase the scourge, the stain, the blight upon Eä. Kill him. Destroy him. Annihilate him. Obliterate him.

He does not doubt that hundreds of millennia ago, he might have indeed done so. For he despises, loathes, abhors Morgoth Bauglir with such intensity that he can never express, an intensity that makes him feel as if his body will burst into flames once again, an intensity that makes him feel as if he could ascend into one of the Ainur and utterly eradicate the worm.

But he controls it. He forces himself to master it, to restrain it, and although in the beginning it is so difficult that he thinks his being, his fëa as well, might explode, it slowly, painfully slowly, becomes gradually easier. Then all at once his hatred has become trivial, for another thought is rising to dominate his mind, washing away any care he might have for Morgoth or the quenching of his loathing.

Nerdanel. His sons. Are they safe? Are they well? Are they alive?

He takes off from the scene, startling Nessa, who is also near him and observing the brothers’ reunion. But Fëanáro no longer cares about Morgoth. Let the Valar handle his fate, his punishment. If he can just see that his sons, his wife, are safe, he will not, and cannot, ask for anything more.

“Nerdanel!” he shouts, sudden desperation gripping him. “Nelyafinwë! Kanafinwë! Turcafinwë! Morifinwë! Curufinwë! Pityafinwë! Telufinwë!”

“Atar!”

Fëanáro’s head snaps in the direction of the voice, relief filling him like water spilling into a hollow space. Waving in his direction is Nelyafinwë, bloodied and battered but very much alive and strong. At his shoulder is Findekáno, just as splattered in filth and dirt but just as lively. Fëanáro’s heart warms to see them together; they were close before the Darkening, and he hopes dearly that their bond has been rekindled. Without thinking, he rushes to his eldest son and embraces him.

Under his grip, Nelyafinwë stiffens, and Fëanáro worries that he has erred. But then Nelyafinwë’s arms rise to answer his, and father and son are clasping each other with relief.

After a moment of assuring himself that his child is truly there and not a figment of his frantic imagination, Fëanáro releases Nelyafinwë and studies him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, more harshly than intended, for he is concerned. “Are you not injured?”

“I am fine,” replies his son. “What of the others? Of Amal?”

“I know not,” Fëanáro admits, fear, cold and vicious, seizing him once more. Concern and thinly restrained terror floods Nelyafinwë’s gaze.

“Calm down, yonya,” Fëanáro orders his son with feigned calm. He cannot have his son so worried, not when there are still wounds to be tended to and pain to be relieved. “I will find them. Try to ease any who are in pain.” Too impatient, too troubled, to await a response, he springs away from his eldest and resumes his search for his family. He dimly realizes that he must resemble a man possessed, but he simply does not care.

To his great relief, to his eternal gratitude towards Eru All-Father, all of his sons are safe and alive. Kanafinwë is with Nolofinwë, doing what they can to ease the suffering of the wounded. Turcafinwë appears to have been fighting alongside Eärendil Peredhel, and although he has taken an arrow to the leg, he is otherwise unhurt. Morifinwë is by the side of his wife, Tyelca, both unscathed, as are Atarinkë and his wife, Morilindel, also together. Pityafinwë has been struck in the side, and, though alive, is being tended to by the Peredhel Elwing, a descendant of Nolofinwë, and his twin Telufinwë is in the company of Írimiel.

Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, Turcafinwë, Morifinwë, Curufinwë, Pityafinwë, Telufinwë, all accounted for. Which leaves but one.

Nerdanel.

I have not seen her, Fëanáro thinks, panic rising to choke him, to wrap about his waist and his lungs and his throat to squeeze cruelly. She must be alright, alive. She must be. If she is not…

“Arafinwë!” he very nearly bellows, grabbing his half-brother harshly by the shoulder. Arafinwë turns. His golden locks and his fair skin are matted with blood and grime and ash, his armor and sword splattered with blood. “What is the matter?”

“Where is Nerdanel?” demands Fëanáro.

Arafinwë pauses, presumably to think, and Fëanáro restrains himself from shaking his half-brother by the collar and snapping at him to hurry up.

“I spotted her during the battle,” the king says at least. “She was fighting… Dear Valar. She was fighting a troll alongside Celebrian.”

Fëanáro knows not who ‘Celebrian’ is, but he prays that she is powerful, if only so Nerdanel had a strong ally to fight alongside against a troll. “Who is ‘Celebrian’?” he hisses, too impatient to be civil.

“Artanis’ daughter.”

Was he not so possessed with worry for Nerdanel, Fëanáro’s reaction might have been starker. Artanis? That wild, wayward girl, has a daughter? Who could have captured Artanis’ capricious heart? he wonders in the back of his mind, but in that moment he does not care enough to ask. He is about to sprint off, trying to find any other accounts of his wife, when a silvery, chiming voice stops him.

“Haru!”

Arafinwë’s eyes light up as they fix on someone over Fëanáro’s shoulder. “Celebrian!” he calls warmly, relief in his voice. Fëanáro turns to see a slight, slender maiden practically bouncing towards them on light, lithe feet. Though she is matted with grime and dirt, he can make out her pale skin and her pure silver locks, falling out of their arrangement in large amounts, settling about her face and neck. Her eyes are a clear, pure blue, a color that reminds him of Arafinwë’s only daughter.

So, this is Artanis’ child. But more importantly to him, Artanis’ child may have seen Nerdanel.

Before Celebrian can reach her grandfather, Fëanáro grabs her arm to stop her, refraining from being too harsh. Her eyes snap to him, slightly startled.

“Where is Nerdanel?” he asks roughly. “I hear you were fighting a troll with her some time ago.”

“Ah, yes,” replies the girl. “I was. When I last saw her she was joined by Lady Indis.”

That, at least, is a relief. Despite Fëanáro’s complicated history with Indis, she is one of the most ancient of elves, and she is intensely powerful. Nerdanel has much security with the Vanyarin princess at her side.

“Where are they now?” he asks Celebrian. “Do you know?”

“I do not.”

Cursing under his breath, Fëanáro releases her and resumes his hunt.

He has been searching for a long time, yet there is still no sign of his wife. Logically he knows that the scale of the battle is immense, but logic seems to fail utterly in the face of the possibility that Nerdanel is hurt. Dead, even.

Eru All-Father! He would sooner surrender his own fëa, his own consciousness and being, than accept that his wife is anything less than safe.

Where is she? “Nerdanel!” he calls, even knowing it is most likely futile. If she is anywhere on the colossal battlefield that is not in his vicinity, she will not hear him.

If she is injured, she may not be able to answer him - if she is dead, she will not hear him.

I will not believe that. I will not.

He tries to shove past another person that is blocking his way, not caring for courtesies, but the person resists his push and grabs his arm. Fëanáro would have yanked his limb out of their grasp, but a voice stops him.

“Look, son of Finwë,” the owner of the voice says, majestic and regal. Fëanáro, for the first time since he has begun searching for Nerdanel, looks at who he pushed (or attempted to push), and is met with the blue eyes of Ingwë, the High King of All Elves.

Though he has met the king before, it is the first time they have encountered each other since Fëanáro’s re-embodiment. Ingwë’s presence has never failed to make Fëanáro feel small and young and quite insignificant (which is no mean feat), but now, the natural unease of being pinned under such an ancient gaze is muted because of his worry for his wife.

“King Ingwë-” he begins, impatient and stressed to his limit and trying to explain that he has not the time for this, but at that moment a gasp of awe echoes, seemingly around the entirety of the battlefield, and Ingwë turns his head. Confused, Fëanáro follows the high king’s gaze towards the ocean shore, where all are staring.

Something is rising out of the sea.

The object is round and brilliant - obviously a gemstone - its gleam visible even through the murkiness of the ocean water. It emerges from the rippling surface, throwing off dazziling, silvery-white light in all directions. Slowly gaining altitude, the jewel becomes clearer to see as it dries and droplets of water trickle off its sides.

Fëanáro recognizes it. He is intimately familiar with its every curve, every contour, every inch. He is even familiar with the process in which it was created; the long hours spent trying to conceive the correct steps necessary. He was young then, and too prideful, and thoughts come flooding back to him.

“No, this is all wrong.”

“Perhaps a different arrangement. Pyrite and diamond and sapphire - no, that will not do it.”

“The sloping of the angle of the curve is integral - forty-three point two-nine-seven-one degrees-”

“How to make it so that the surface is strong and hard enough to do this-”

“Yet it must be pleasant to the touch-”

“Mayhaps I must make a new material-”

“If potassium and rubidium and actinium could be combined at a molar volume of fifty-seven point one-nine-seven-one-six-four grams per mole-”

“Failure. Again.”

It is a Silmaril; likely the one that Kanafinwë cast into the ocean. Fëanáro finds himself staring, for how long has it been since he has beheld one of his three prized creations? It looks as sublime, as magnificent, as ever, and he recalls the wave of pride that flooded his heart when he first gazed upon them, triumphant and full of glory. “It is done,” he thought, “The most beautiful gems in the history of Eä, and it is I that have created them.”

Then the greed and the desire to keep the Silmarils as his forevermore. “I created them. I did. They are mine, and no one else’s. None shall have them, or their beauty, but I.”

Then the rage and possessiveness and hatred when he learns that Morgoth, that accursed, filthy, treacherous fiend, has taken them. Stolen them. What is his. “Damn you. Damn you, Morgoth. It is not enough that you kill my father, but now you must snatch what I slaved away creating with your abhorrent hands. I shall find you, and I shall destroy you, foul creature.”

Before Fëanáro can reminisce further on the past, the Silmaril begins to move. It floats airily, almost tauntingly, over the heads of the crowd. In his shock, Fëanáro fails to realize that it is, in fact, approaching him, until it reaches his stunned form and descends, hovering in front of him . He tentatively reaches out to grasp it, almost expecting to feel the sharp, searing burn that his two eldest sons experienced. But there is nothing, only the sensation of cool, smooth silima under his fingers.

Fëanáro stares.

This is-

“Curufinwë Fëanáro.” The voice is male, and quite youthful. Fëanáro turns and realizes there is another Silmaril held in the hands of Eärendil Half-Elven, who is approaching him. In the Peredhel’s circlet there is but an empty clamp where the Silmaril originally sat. Behind Eärendil, Secondborn, Eldar, and Casari are all staring, some with their mouths hanging open and eyes bulging wide, no doubt awed at the close proximity of such a famed figure.

Eärendil is quite short for an elf, the crown of his head reaching roughly to Fëanáro’s forehead. His skin is mildly tanned and contrasts sharply with his sun-gold hair, dirtied and clotted and tangled with dirt. The half-elf is clad in leather armor, also splattered with dried blood and soil and cinders. His eyes are ocean blue and wary as he holds out the Silmaril to Fëanáro.

Fëanáro stares at him. “What is your meaning?” he asks, although it is a pointless question as he already knows. So too does Eärendil, for the younger elf makes no attempt to answer and continues to offer him the gem. Fëanáro takes it, again half-expecting to recoil his hand in pain. He does not.

“The Silmarilli are your creation, Curufinwë Fëanáro.” Ingwë, whom Fëanáro has all but forgotten about in his daze, speaks again. “It appears that at the end of the world, they were meant to return to their maker.”

As the High King speaks, behind him, the crowd surrounding and carefully watching Fëanáro, Ingwë, and Eärendil part to allow someone through. Fëanáro peers through heads to see a creamy-skinned young woman with doe-like, viridescent eyes, rose-red lips, and hair of spun gold. Not even the Vanyar’s fair strands can compare to the sunlight that seems interwoven into her locks. She wears a forest-green dress.

It is not difficult to recognize Vána the Every-Young on sight.

In the Vala’s hands is another gemstone that gleams with awing brilliance. It is the third Silmaril, the one that Nelyafinwë threw himself into the roaring maw of a fiery chasm rather than let it go after all that has transpired. As she draws closer, Vána lets the Silmaril go, and it floats to Fëanáro, coming to levitate before his very eyes. He opens his hand and it drops, but before it hits his palm all three of the Silmarilli rise into the air to hover a few centimetres above his outstretched hands. Their brilliance seems to grow (or is that just Fëanáro?) at their close proximity to each other, as if singing in joy of their reunion, with each other and with their creator.

Fëanáro can feel that all eyes are glued to him. He is suddenly too aware of the fact that he stands on the apex of a rather tall hill (what a coincidence), and is visible, even noticeable, to all in the area thanks to the brilliance of the Silmarilli. He sees his sons, staring up at him in wonder and… was that fear? Manwë is glancing his way every so often, although it appears that his primary focus is on his brother, still chained, still spitting soft curses. Fëanáro also glimpses Findis and Lalwendë, side-by-side and observing him.

The sound of footsteps behind him draws his attention away from his sudden, colossal audience, and Fëanáro turns to see the figure of a woman with long, autumn-leaf-red hair arranged in a half-ponytail. A circlet of flowers and leaves sits lightly upon her brow, her skin is pale, her eyes the pastel shade of green grapes. The woman’s dress is green, not unlike but more elaborate when compared to Vána’s outfit. Her facial features, too, resemble a slightly older version of the Ever-Young, and Fëanáro knows who she is, though he would have guessed the same anyway.

Yavanna Kementári, Giver of Fruits.

“Curufinwë Fëanáro.” Her voice is more sonorous and rich than he would have expected, but it is fitting. The Queen of the Earth’s pale green eyes are grave and yet hopeful as she gazes at him, extending her hands. “You know what must be done.”  

Yes. He does.

He can feel the uneasy gazes on him again. What are their expectations, Fëanáro wonders? He perceives open dismay and fear in some, carefully guarded emotions that he cannot be bothered to decipher in others, and hope and concern in yet more. He knows why. Oh, he knows why. They are afraid he will lash out again. They are afraid he will refuse for his coveting of the Silmarilli, his avarice and his greed for their brilliance and their light and their pricelessness, as he did all those years ago.

But as Fëanáro stares at the Silmarilli floating in his hands, nothing stirs. They are beautiful, indeed, and breathtaking beyond any jewel he has seen in the long, long years of his existence. Past that, they are nothing.

The Silmarilli are jewels . Gemstones. Trinkets for which he once willingly abandoned his beloved Nerdanel, baubles that he once prioritized over the lives and the happiness of his seven sons, whom he ought to have treasured and cherished and protected above all. Their worth, compared to his family, is almost laughable.

He cares not for them. Nerdanel still has not been found, and Fëanáro does not have time to waste in this pointless spectacle.

“Take them,” he thrusts them easily at Yavanna and drops them into her hands, and feels not a thing. No anger. No lust. No possessiveness. “They are yours. Do with them what you will.”

Shocked silence. Then, gradually, a murmur rises in the onlooking crowd.

“He gave them to her.”

“Aiya! He surrendured his prized possessions to Yavanna!”

“I cannot believe he actually did it.”

“He handed them over like they were nothing.”

“Do you suppose he might have something else in mind?”

Let them whisper. Let them theorize. Let them level him with their judgment. He does not care.

Fëanáro turns, gripped again with the force of desperation. “Nerdanel!” He shouts. “Nerdanel!”

“Fëanáro!”

Oh. Oh, thank Eru. Following her voice and seeing her, a few meters from the base of the hill, Fëanáro could have collapsed from the force of his relief, and the only thing that keeps him upright is the burning desire to crush his beloved to his body, to embrace her, and never release her for the rest of eternity. She is bloodied, dirtied, and battered, but lively and mobile, and she has never looked more beautiful or more divine.

Oh, Nerdanel. Vessenya, anarinya, ammelda, you are safe.

He descends the incline of the mount on legs shaky with relief, as she fights her way through the throng towards him. They meet at the base of the slope and their hug is a crush of bodies and a tangle of limbs, ferocious and hot from the force of their joy at seeing each other safe and well. Fëanáro buries his face in the crook of her neck and inhales her scent. Though it is tinted with pungency and coppery from the blood and the grime, her natural fragrance fills his nose nevertheless, and his heart gives a little contented leap.

Thank the Maiar. Thank the Valar. Thank Eru. Thank you , Nerdanel.

“I was so worried.” He is very nearly sobbing and does not mind at all. “I found all our sons, but I could not find you, and I thought perhaps…” He trails off, unable to finish the thought.

“I am here,” whispers Nerdanel in return, and he can hear the tears in her voice. “I am safe, I am well, Fëanáro. It is over.” She draws in a shuddering breath. “It is over, and nothing shall separate us again. Ever.”

Yes, he thinks. Yes , my love.

Fëanáro has traveled a long and weary path. Resentment and bitterness were ingrained in him since he was but a child, seeing his father smile with Indis on his arm, not Míriel, not his mother whom, he thought, should rightfully have been there. Fear and insecurity had ever plagued him since the birth of Findis, for he could not have borne the pain of losing his father to his half-siblings. Longing and loneliness hounded him as well, watching his half-siblings laughing and running through the light together, while he was alone. He has experienced hatred, greed, fury, grief, pain, regret, mourning, and remorse. He, and those dear to him, have fallen prey to his uglier emotions, his dangerous impulses. It has not been easy. Never has it been easy - for any of them.

But now, in his wife’s arms, knowing their children are safe, knowing she is safe, and that everything has come to a close, all that Fëanáro has endured is insignificant in the face of his joy.

I am happy.