What It Takes To Survive by
Fanwork Notes
She runs her hands down his face. It is smooth, not a single tear, not a splinter, not a drop of paint out of place. Even in the darkness, she can see him standing before her, his eyes staring deep into hers, a kindness preserved in them that she will never see again.
No one will ever see it again. She has heard of what happened at Alqualondë, of the terror wrought by the mind behind these eyes. She left that inside hollow, for how could she come to understand everything inside of him? Even after all this time together, and their time apart, she is still pondering at mysteries.
But this statue will not change. She can see him as he was, the unsure youth behind the grand gestures, the confident smile with which he promised her the world, his lips now frozen in stone. That is good, for they can speak no more with their oaths of hatred.
(Or his vows of love, equally as deadly.)
He stands frozen in time as he was on their wedding day, resplendent in the light of the Trees that have since gone out, and she cannot help but see the parallels as she looks into his eyes as she did on that day. These eyes are like the last time she saw him. Empty, devoid of all but revenge. She wonders if something inside of him shattered when he beheld Finwë’s body, when he stepped into the role he both yearned for and feared above all else.
She has dressed him in the purple of a king. The king he always wanted to be, that turned his motives from the good of his people to the exile of Nolofinwë. He is majestic, but it is fear, not love, that drives the Noldor to his side. Fear, and the loyalty of a brother who never gave up. None of that is in this work she spent so long on as she considered every moment with his body, his mind.
She runs her arms over the statue’s arms. His garment is truly radiant, the sleeves almost billowing in the wind as if he is about to rush in, filthy but exhilarated, after a long day at the forge, about to clasp her hands in his and exclaim about a new invention. His hands are free of soot. It is good that they remain at his sides, empty of anything at all, and she is thankful that he has nothing sharp to hold against his brother in anger or shiny to cherish above their children.
His legs are still too. He doesn’t run away from her to Formenos, or toward her to beg her to come with him on his doomed journey. He has to stay, safe even in this time of destruction, where she can see him and hold him and let him know that she can never understand. She thought she knew what lurked under his confidence, what bubbled under his ego, but the statue before her is now a stranger.
He stands tall and proud, no wildness in his movements, no curve of his back from when he was bowed into a ball, Finwë’s head in his lap, the blood already cooled even as Fëanor’s horse heaves for breath and he does the same, even the greatest among his people is unable to battle grief -
She knows there are hundreds of families in Alqualondë who grieve the same way, who never would have known a pain like his without him spreading the disease of loss. It is all his fault, and here she has crafted him before her, looking as she saw him when they first met. The loving person who she held in her heart and still feels in her very soul, not the maniacal murderer who cut through the Teleri like animals.
(She has seen him work, knows the power of his hands, and has no trouble believing.)
She holds his hammer by his heart. It does not beat. It feels the death he has always feared, the death he has now inflicted on so many. The worst news has not even reached most of the people, they are still hypnotized by the distant flames on the churning sea, but she feels a gaping emptiness as hollow as the statue’s insides deep inside her and she knows there is no going back. He has taught even her, who he claimed to love, how to mourn for someone beloved.
She does not cry until his hammer falls, as finally, his heart breaks for her.
- Fanwork Information
-
Summary:
Summary: Nerdanel, after receiving disastrous news from Alqualondë. Inspired by “Burn” from Hamilton.
Written for B2MEM 2019 with the prompts: Nerdanel, “let it burn” (Fëanorians), nobility (purple).
Major Characters: Nerdanel
Major Relationships:
Genre:
Challenges: B2MeM 2019
Rating: General
Warnings:
Chapters: 1 Word Count: 765 Posted on 19 March 2019 Updated on 19 March 2019 This fanwork is complete.
Chapter 1
- Read Chapter 1
-
She runs her hands down his face. It is smooth, not a single tear, not a splinter, not a drop of paint out of place. Even in the darkness, she can see him standing before her, his eyes staring deep into hers, a kindness preserved in them that she will never see again.
No one will ever see it again. She has heard of what happened at Alqualondë, of the terror wrought by the mind behind these eyes. She left that inside hollow, for how could she come to understand everything inside of him? Even after all this time together, and their time apart, she is still pondering at mysteries.
But this statue will not change. She can see him as he was, the unsure youth behind the grand gestures, the confident smile with which he promised her the world, his lips now frozen in stone. That is good, for they can speak no more with their oaths of hatred.
(Or his vows of love, equally as deadly.)
He stands frozen in time as he was on their wedding day, resplendent in the light of the Trees that have since gone out, and she cannot help but see the parallels as she looks into his eyes as she did on that day. These eyes are like the last time she saw him. Empty, devoid of all but revenge. She wonders if something inside of him shattered when he beheld Finwë’s body, when he stepped into the role he both yearned for and feared above all else.
She has dressed him in the purple of a king. The king he always wanted to be, that turned his motives from the good of his people to the exile of Nolofinwë. He is majestic, but it is fear, not love, that drives the Noldor to his side. Fear, and the loyalty of a brother who never gave up. None of that is in this work she spent so long on as she considered every moment with his body, his mind.
She runs her arms over the statue’s arms. His garment is truly radiant, the sleeves almost billowing in the wind as if he is about to rush in, filthy but exhilarated, after a long day at the forge, about to clasp her hands in his and exclaim about a new invention. His hands are free of soot. It is good that they remain at his sides, empty of anything at all, and she is thankful that he has nothing sharp to hold against his brother in anger or shiny to cherish above their children.
His legs are still too. He doesn’t run away from her to Formenos, or toward her to beg her to come with him on his doomed journey. He has to stay, safe even in this time of destruction, where she can see him and hold him and let him know that she can never understand. She thought she knew what lurked under his confidence, what bubbled under his ego, but the statue before her is now a stranger.
He stands tall and proud, no wildness in his movements, no curve of his back from when he was bowed into a ball, Finwë’s head in his lap, the blood already cooled even as Fëanor’s horse heaves for breath and he does the same, even the greatest among his people is unable to battle grief -
She knows there are hundreds of families in Alqualondë who grieve the same way, who never would have known a pain like his without him spreading the disease of loss. It is all his fault, and here she has crafted him before her, looking as she saw him when they first met. The loving person who she held in her heart and still feels in her very soul, not the maniacal murderer who cut through the Teleri like animals.
(She has seen him work, knows the power of his hands, and has no trouble believing.)
She holds his hammer by his heart. It does not beat. It feels the death he has always feared, the death he has now inflicted on so many. The worst news has not even reached most of the people, they are still hypnotized by the distant flames on the churning sea, but she feels a gaping emptiness as hollow as the statue’s insides deep inside her and she knows there is no going back. He has taught even her, who he claimed to love, how to mourn for someone beloved.
She does not cry until his hammer falls, as finally, his heart breaks for her.
Comments
The Silmarillion Writers' Guild is more than just an archive--we are a community! If you enjoy a fanwork or enjoy a creator's work, please consider letting them know in a comment.