Waiting by feanorusrex

Nerdanel sighs in frustration, gazing at the sculpture she is attempting to create. Of course even if she had more that memories to base Telperion off of, the beautiful tree would be hard to bring out of stone.

But she keeps at it to distract herself from the anniversary of today. The Flight of the Noldor. Another year since she lost most of her kin and those seven most precious to her. Already one has perished but she did not count him amongst those seven. Mere months has passed since the Eagles of Manwë brought news for Fëanor's death. His spirit of fire by fire slain. Nerdanel did not mourn him much, for she had lost Fëanor long before he forsook Valinor.

There are moments though, in the cold ever present darkness that shrouds Aman, when she longs again for his fire, to hear his voice, to feel his bright gaze upon her once more.

When these thoughts come, she drives them away, it is only for memory's ghost that some shadow of love remains with in her.

A knock at her studio's door, pierces her dark thoughts. Her hand involuntarily shifts, the chisel it holds creating a gouge in her sculpture's roots.

Wonderful, now she will have to carve off quite a bit to even it out.

The sound comes again. Putting down her tool and crossing the room, she unlocks and opens the door. She beholds a tall personage, his hair white as marble, but the pupils of his eyes black as obsidian. Upon his breast is displayed the crest of Mandos. A messenger. Nerdanel greets him respectfully.

"You are the wife of Fëanor." It comes as a statement, not a question. The title stings, she has ceased to be called that and will only name herself Mahtan's daughter. In casting off Fëanor's name she hoped to rid herself of the past's memories also but they are not so easily banished.

"I was once." Several lifetimes ago.

"I bring a message from one that dwells in my lord's halls."

"Fëanor?"

"The same."

"It was not known to me that Mandos suffered the dead to contact to the living, nor that his emissaries would bear those tidings."

Why Fëanor? What have you to say to me? More scorn? Or news of my sons?

"'Tis suffered only when a fëa will never again be reborn."

Of course. If rebirth is withheld it is rightly so, but mayhap he remains of his own will. The same choice as Miriel, she reflects. Do mother and son meet in that place of waiting? Does Miriel see what her child has become? He whose birth cost her life, now a scorner of the Valar, stained with the blood of his kin.

Emerging for her dark musings, she says to the herald, "Speak on! What words does he bid you tell me?"

"He would see you again," the messenger's gaze is unwavering, "I believe his mood is changed and he seeks your forgiveness."

A flame of anger seems to light inside her. Forgiveness! Then let his penance be returning her sons! How can he think to atone for everything he did to her, and others in life, leading so many off, the Teleri's bloodied shores and burned ships?

Of course forgiveness is only the messenger's guess, she does not think his mood would ever change, not in an eternity.

But will she go? Will she see him one last time? Nay, she could not bear it, there is too much between them. In lonely moments her weak mind fained see him again but now, the choice at hand, she finds her decision different.

The unspoken question hangs in the air.

"If you will," her voice so deadly sharp is surprises her, "I shall not see Fëanor."

"I see. I shall pass on your message." The herald bows and departs. Nerdanel is alone.

Perhaps she will feel differently at the ending of the world but until then, "Let him wait," she whispers into the silence, turning back to her work.

Death is cold. It is ironic, for he died in fire, his spirt burning his body to ashes but here none of that warmth remains. Fëanor wishes for a strong fire, one inside a forge, for tools and metal, for anything to take to help pass eternity. But it is an idle dream, his physical body is gone and he is reduced to a mere spirit. The only distraction is memory- both welcome and not. On first arriving here he expected to face torment for his deeds but Mandos only bid him, "Go and find what peace you can."

Fëanor cannot tell how long he has been here, perhaps and eon, a day or only a fleeting moment.

These halls are different then he imagined. In life, when he deined to think of death at all, he imagined them as a drafty room filled with souls, and he grieved that his mother had chosen to spend all of eternity there. He imagined wrong. The halls are black and cold, yes, but they are many, a place of obsidian walls. On them hand Vairë's weavings, masterful pictures if the Music of the Ainur, the Chaining of Melkor.

There are other souls here, but he does not seek their company. Fëanor cares not for their words or their pity if they would offer it. There is one he sought to speak with, but she is far away, in the land of the Valor and the living, and scorns him.

I will not come. Her words, delivered through the herad seem to ring through the cold halls of the dead. Fëanor imagines her, her coppery brown hair falling over her face as she brings some figure out if stone, refusing his request. She was always proud, but 'tis his fault, their estrangement, he was fire and once burned one will not reach for flame again. And yet, despite all his actions he loves her still. He does not wholly regret what he did, not yet, perhaps eons of nothing but reflection in Mandos will change his mind. He did wish to see Nerdanel once more and to give her news of their sons. Valinor is closed and naught can come from Arda; he thought she would wish to know that, at least, they live, at present, though they may come to Mandos in their turns.

He missed her, during those ages spent in Arda; longed for her by his side. It was beautiful there, not the beauty of Aman, lit by the Trees' brilliant light, no its beauty was in its wild lands, it's untamed forests, wide rivers and the stars, their ever-burning light blazing over head, as beautiful as Laurelin and Telperion's radiance, in their own way.

Nerdanel had always loved journeying, wandering to the farthest ends of Valinor; she would have loved Middle-earth, a world hardly touched by elven civilization.

Fate is cruel. To send him on his far flung crusade and then to slay him so quickly before his goal was even nigh accomplished. To never allow him to make good on his promises of vengeance wrought upon Morgoth and the Noldor's treasures restored.

In his oath he spoke of forever and now he has it- eternity to wait and ponder the turning path of his life that has led him here, to these dark halls, to wait until the ending of the world.