Five Times Nerdanel Said 'Yes' by oshun

The Begetting of the Heir Apparent to the House of Fëanáro

Thank you to IgnobleBard for Beta reading this story, as well as to the esteemed writers of the Lizard Council for reviewing the first four chapters of this story, especially Elfscribe, Erulisse, Kymahalei, Hallbera, and Rhapsody.

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The Begetting of the Heir Apparent to the House of Fëanáro

Nelyafinwë Maitimo [Maedhros]

The immensity of the ocean took Nerdanel's breath away. So far from the light of the trees the overcast sky had rendered the seascape in a palate of silvery slate, grey and white.

"Can you taste the salt in the air? Feel the wind? The freshness. There is something primal about all of it. Everyone should visit here. It’s magical." 

"Don't try to change the subject!" Fëanáro said. "I do completely understand why you might shy away from the idea, but I have thought about this a lot." He took her right hand and kissed the knuckles. A blush suffused his face, while he blinked at her with feigned modesty. She didn't buy his posture for a moment. This wasn't the first time they had discussed the question. It was the first time she had seen the sea. Instinctively tugging at her hand, she glanced away, but he only tightened his grip. 

"Look at me, Nerdanel!" 

She met his eyes unable to subdue her smirk. He was always so transparent. 

Fëanáro stuck out his lower lip in a pout. "Trust me. Please, trust me! No man is more aware than I am of how much the conception and nurturing of a child can take from a woman. I promise you that I will give more of myself than others do. Not just of the strength of my fëa, which is actually quite strong, but of my heart as well. And I'll change his nappies and get up at night too. I promise!" Nerdanel had no doubt that if he said he would do such things he would. 

"You're so sure it will be a 'he,'" she sniffed. 

"Don't attempt to turn this into a debate about linguistics or gender equality either, sweetheart," he crooned to her. 

Despite his placating tone, his eyes sparked with determination. But the unholy gleam also hid such endearing tenderness, need, and vulnerability. She wanted to cut the discussion short, to simply say, 'yes,' yet the desire to hear how he would argue his proposal this time held her back. And the thought of bearing a child to this matchless boy-man made her heart thump against her ribcage with pride and unseemly vanity. He is the first prince of the Noldor, the most brilliant of a generation, perhaps ever, and he wants me to bear his child! I should be thinking only that I will do it because I love him. 

He cupped her breast, covering her lips with his own and inserting an impudent tongue into her mouth.

"Stop it!" Nerdanel laughed, pulling away again. "Let me think for a moment." 

"I don't want you to think. I can hear your arguments already." He adopted a falsetto voice that made her giggle involuntarily: "'We're too young. We're still apprentices. What will people think?' I don't care about any of that." 

"If I cared what people think or say would I even be traveling unwed with you now?" 

"That's my girl!" He fumbled in his pocket. Look what I made for you before we left." He opened his hand. A golden ring rested on his palm, six stones flashed and winked at her cheekily. The ring, the settings, the stones themselves, white hot and glittering from within with a rainbow of colored lights, screamed of Fëanáro—outrageous, incomparable, and perfect. 

"I'll take that now, thank you," she said grinning, holding out her hand toward him, inviting him to slip it onto her finger. "We can talk about the baby question later." She laughed aloud at her own boldness. He grabbed her and wrestled her to the ground and straddled her, but not before securing the ring on the middle finger of her right hand. 

"Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart," he whispered, blowing into her ear and then sucking and biting on her ear lobe. 

"Yes," she said. "You mad, foolish boy! Yes!" 

The Mightiest Singer of the Noldor

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The Mightiest Singer of the Noldor

Canafinwë Macalaurë [Maglor] 

It wasn't hard for Nerdanel to decide to have a second child. Maitimo had been what is often described as a stereotypically easy baby. Perfect of face and form, born with a full head of that bright red hair, he cried little and walked and talked early. His charm and grace wooed everyone he met. The first three months had been difficult for Nerdanel, she despaired of her once flat abdomen turned spongy and her constantly leaking breasts. But Eldarin bodies are resilient and babies are eventually weaned. Fëanáro's face as he had watched her nursing Maitimo could have made up for a multitude of unpleasant changes and discomforts. Soon their life leveled out to the point that she returned to her work with a vigor and intensity of inspiration that rivaled that of her carefree youth. True to his word, Fëanor assumed a lion's share of the daily tasks involved in the care of the child. He had the advantage of requiring less sleep than her and being able to regain his concentration more quickly after interruptions. 

The nights were cool in Formenos. The stars hung low in the sky and shone brighter there than in Valinor. The summer had almost run its course. The evenings already had begun to smell of the approaching autumn. Fëanáro had tucked Maitimo in for the night and took his accustomed place next to Nerdanel on the rustic glider on the porch of their rented cottage. Before the middle of the next summer their own house would be finished.  

She had heard the elders say that nights at the end of summer press against the veil that separates the ordinary world of the senses and logic from the spirit world of possibilities. Nerdanel sometimes felt on nights such as that one that her ears were on the verge of opening to the strains of the mythical Music of the Ainur, the Music of Creation.  

Fëanáro pulled her into an embrace. "Sometimes I wish that I were a true musician so I could memorialize moments like this. You hear it also don't you?" 

The fine hairs stood up on Nerdanel's arms. "Hear what?" she asked startled.  

Fëanáro held her face between his hands studying her with concern before kissing her on the nose. "You look like you saw a ghost. I was speaking of the sounds of the insects, the hooting of the barn owl, the wind in the hawthorns, old Sartisyar's hound wailing. What did you think I meant?" 

"Never mind. I was remembering old ghost stories from across the sea that I heard told by Atar's iron workers when I was a child." 

"Mahtan allowed you to listen to far too much nonsense as a child without countering it." 

"Perhaps," she laughed. "My father is an excellent teacher in other areas, but he is not man of words. He pays no attention to speculative tales whether presented as history or simply entertaining nonsense. He assumes they are of as little interest to others as they are to him. But haven't you ever wondered if some folk tales may bear the seeds of forgotten truths?" 

"Come to bed with me now and I will make you forget all about those old superstitions. I think I need to be reminded what you can do with that lovely mouth of yours." 

Fëanáro was irresistible. The skin on his muscled arms felt velvety soft, his lips were generous, and the strength of his jaw line transformed his finely wrought features into an intoxicatingly masculine visage. 

"Yes. Let's go to bed," Nerdanel said. "I was also wondering if you had given much thought to having a second child yet." 

"I didn't think you would ever ask!" 

"Quite so. I'm sure," she teased. "You are well known for your reticence." 

"I know he'll be brilliant and beautiful," Fëanáro said smugly. 

"He will?" 

"Or she," Fëanáro quickly corrected. 

Macalaurë moved later than Maitimo had. Nerdanel's first sense of the child she carried came to her in her dreams, at first as a gentle bittersweet melody which hovered on the borders of perception. She would awaken in the morning straining but unable to recall the tune. As time passed and the baby grew, the song took on the character of lush wave after wave of molten gold, full of force and volume. 

One morning she told Fëanáro, "He is going to make magnificent music." 

Fëanáro raised a skeptical eyebrow at her and replied, "The Noldor are not noteworthy as musicians." 

"You play the harp beautifully," she huffed. 

"Come on, Nerdanel! Even you in the earliest days of your infatuation with me could hardly have insisted I played well." 

"You are so vain! You played well enough to woo me with your lovesick ballads." 

"That wasn't hard!" He laughed and tried to tickle her, but she clamped her arms tight against her body. "Excuse the cliché, sweetheart, but you were an overripe plum begging to be plucked." 

"Watch your tongue or there will be no plucking of any kind for you." 

"No fair! I'm getting little enough of that already." 

She punched him in his hard bicep. "It's not my fault that I fall asleep easily. He takes a lot out of me. I would not be that difficult to awaken when you finally deign to come to bed." 

"Fine then. Remember you said that. I'll wake you up and pass along some of my strength to you tonight." 

"Why wait for tonight?" she asked, opening her arms to him. 

Nerdanel had no morning sickness during her second pregnancy and did not gain as much weight. She did worry he might be too small if she delivered him early. When they returned to Formenos the next spring, the healer there reassured her there was no reason to fear the infant would be born early and, in any case, he did not appear to be particularly small. When Macalaurë was born, he looked tiny to Nerdanel in comparison to Maitimo, but again the healer told her that he was of average weight and length for a Noldorin newborn. Unlike Maitimo's thick bright locks, Macalaurë had only a cap of the finest dark brown hair, nearly black. His features, like Maitimo's, resembled Fëanáro's, except his mouth was softer and less sharply etched, while his eyes instead of silver grey had the bluish cast of Finwë's eyes. 

For the first three weeks, he slept folded in upon himself. She had to rouse him to nurse and constantly tap him on the bottom of his precious feet to keep him awake until she was sure he had ingested enough. When Macalaurë did wake up to the world around him, he demonstrated a lung capacity that would become legendary.

The Night They Begot The Fair Woodsman

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The Fair Woodsman

 

Turkafinwë Tyelkormo [Celegorm]  

The festivities for Nelyafinwë Maitimo's 30th begetting day could not be compared to any children's party before or after it. Finwë had demanded the privilege of hosting a celebration that year in the Great Hall of Tirion. After a pretense of reluctance, Fëanáro agreed, ostensibly to please his father. Nerdanel knew better. Fëanáro believed that Maitimo deserved an appropriately grand party for his special day. He had named him Nelyafinwë for a reason—a blatant announcement to his brothers and the rest of their people that he considered his first son to be the third Finwë, outranked by only his father and himself. Finwë's begetting day celebration for his oldest grandchild would be more than a simple show of affection. It would be interpreted as a political statement by all of the Noldor

Fëanáro's announcement to Nerdanel that he intended to tell Indis he wanted final approval of the guest list resulted in a minor ruckus. It took Nerdanel three painful days to convince him just how rude and ungrateful that would be. 

Early in their marriage, Nerdanel discovered the necessity of their attendance at significant courtly functions seemed to coincide with her own projects. This time was no exception. She struggled to finish a dozen sculpted columns for the front of the new library in the center of Tirion, not far from Finwë's palace. That same month, Fëanáro took to arriving late to dinner every night and returning to the forge in the evenings for a couple of hours. Although, as a matter of course, Fëanáro normally found ample time to spend with his family, and concerned himself equally with the daily affairs of their children. Still, it sometimes appeared to Nerdanel that any time she worked under extraordinary pressure, her husband's work suddenly overwhelmed him as well.

Neither Nerdanel nor Fëanáro had completely recovered from the stress of her last rush to finish the library portico when they found the great day upon them. They arrived with the boys, happy if tired, at Finwë's palace to discover the main hall had not been festooned with the streamers and the multi-colored globes filled with hot air considered a requirement for children's parties in Tirion in those days, but had been transformed into a forest wonderland of greenery, blossoms and soft winking lights. 

Maitimo and Macalaurë gasped when they entered the Hall. It resembled a magical woodland glade. A quartet of musicians played lively music of fifes and drums, harking back in style and cadence to an earlier less sophisticated period in the history of the Noldor. Findis had done an admirable job of conveying an ambience of gaiety and mimicking the early days of her adopted people. Nerdanel felt as though they had paused for a rustic festival amidst a fantastical grove in the middle of their elders' long march west to the sea.  

"This is amazing!" Macalaurë piped. Maitimo simply whistled softly under his breath. 

"It's beautiful," Fëanáro agreed. "We have to go express our gratitude to Indis immediately," he said with urgency to Nerdanel, as though it were she not he who might have trouble doing that. 

Finwë opened the celebrations with a short speech filled with pride in his first grandson's beauty and accomplishments in both scholarship and athletics.  

Maitimo accepted Finwë's congratulations with a charming combination of self-aware grace and modesty. "I wish to express my gratitude to everyone who came here to night to help me celebrate my begetting day. I am not so young as to fail to understand that the honor you have shown me is due to your abiding affection and fealty to my grandfather King Finwë, the tested and accepted leader of our great people, and to my own father Prince Fëanáro as his heir. I thank all of you from the bottom of heart for making me incidentally most happy. I have little to offer my people yet, but I vow to dedicate my life to serving you in every way that I can."

Blushing lightly, his clear grey eyes shining, his serious voice and his choice of words fit the occasion. Maitimo sounded and looked older than his years, a picture perfect image of a gallant young prince.

Fëanáro then introduced Macalaurë, explaining that his younger son would play a piece of music that he had composed in honor of his brother's begetting day. 

Women cooed and men smiled long-sufferingly as Finwë lifted tiny Macalaurë right up onto the main banquet table. Nerdanel could all but hear them thinking, 'Cursed nobles who make you pay for your dinner by listening to the results of their offspring's music lessons.' The young musician held a child-sized harp commissioned by his father from the most skilled craftsman of this type of instrument among the Vanyar. 

Macalaurë began to speak, taking his audience by surprise with the depth and fullness of his voice for one so young and small. "This is a song I wrote for Nelyo . . . ah, Nelyafinwë Maitimo, the best brother ever. I haven't written the words yet, so I will just sing 'la, la, la.' But the music is finished, but it doesn't work as well without the voice part. So, the 'la, la, la.' Sorry!" Good-natured laughter met his disarming grin, short of one front tooth.  

Fëanáro communicated to Nerdanel with mind touch, 'He'll show the wankers that he has no need of their indulgence.' She smiled, squeezing Fëanáro's hand.  

Macalaurë cleared his throat expectantly. "I need to tell you the story first. Nelyo said to run through it really fast so I don't bore you. It's about how Nelyafinwë, Atar and me went hunting. There is a lot of running through the forest and then I climb a tree. I fall and Nelyo catches me, but still I scrape my arm. It bleeds a lot and I am scared, but Nelyo holds me while Atar cleans it. That's all. The point is that I always feel safe with Nelyo. I hope you'll like the music as much as Nelyo did." 

Macalaurë played a stunning instrumental introduction on his miniature harp. Nerdanel could not hold back the tears which streamed down her face at the sound of his incomparable voice. She had heard Macalaurë sing countless times and knew his power well, but never before in any setting that equaled the acoustics of Finwë's Great Hall. When he finished, the crowd sat frozen in astonished silence. Maitimo rose to his feet first to applaud. Immediately, the entire crowd joined him. 

Macalaurë's song ended the official presentations and greetings. The surprised lad was hugged breathless by his older brother until both of his grandfathers and Indis had pried him from Maitimo's arms to squeeze him themselves. A smiling Arafinwë approached Nerdanel and Fëanáro with Eärwen, his pretty young Telerin betrothed, on his arm.

"The first of many great successes for our young warbler!" he said extending his hand to Macalaurë, who took it solemnly and shook it. 

"You truly are gifted. Perhaps you can study in the conservatory in Alqualondë some day," Eärwen said. "Maybe you will disprove the silly notion that only the Teleri or the Vanyar can produce great singers or musicians." 

"Thank you, Princess Eärwen," the boy said, suddenly shy. "Thank you, Uncle Arafinwë." 

"Splendid party, isn't it, Russandol," Arafinwë said ruffling Maitimo's curly hair, before turning to Fëanáro. "Listen up, before Nolofinwë comes over. I have some rich gossip. Apparently, he and Anairë are trying to have a child. Seeing your two marvelous sons tonight should cause them to re-double their efforts. You know how competitive he is." 

"If Nerdanel would only agree, we could conclusively best Nolofinwë by having another sooner." 

Arafinwë laughed and made a sweeping arm gesture encompassing the potted trees, some as tall as a man, the thick garlands of fresh ivy, the entire hall permeated with the smell of fir and the sweetish scent of wilting wild flowers. "I'd be cautious about conceiving one tonight after spending hours among all this. You might produce a fey, wild woodland creature rather than a Quendi." 

"How about it, love?" Fëanáro asked. "Want to make a little forester, a new friend for Oromë?"  

Maitimo cocked his head to one side, grinning at his mother, "I'd like another brother myself. But Arafinwë's prediction might mean that we end up with a squirrel instead." 

"Don't listen to Arafinwë." Nerdanel laughed. I do so love charming, fair-natured, feckless Arafinwë, she thought. 

"That sounds awfully like a 'yes' to me," Fëanáro insisted.  

"Hush!" Nerdanel said, while touching him mind-to-mind. You know it's 'yes.' 

--------------

I am compressing the ages of the brothers for storytelling purposes (the differences in age between the oldest of Finwë's grandchildren and the youngest ones is far greater than I imply within this story).

The Dark Finwë

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The Dark Finwë

Morifinwë Carnistir [Caranthir]

Nerdanel sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. Without her even asking him, generous Maitimo had taken Tyelkormo and walked to the creek behind the house to read. Since her youngest had been an infant, he liked to nap near the sounds of birdsong, water running over the rocks in the creek bed, and the breezes rustling the trees above.

For the first time that day, Nerdanel had a moment of peace. She ought to have tried earlier to work on the lovely golden marble they had found the previous summer. She loved to stroke it; its satiny texture along with its color reminded her of Fëanáro's skin after a week at the seaside. But again another day had passed without her finding the time to touch it and she needed to think of food.

Just then, Fëanáro came in from the forge through the backdoor, radiating warmth and his own unique scent, a mixture of otherworldly ozone and newly cut grass. He looked at her like a child eyeing the dessert table at a feast.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" he asked, a small crease forming between his eyebrows, mostly likely caused by him sensing her less than blissful mood.

"Wonderful," she snapped and then wished she could take it back. She tried to hide her bone-aching weariness from him. "I'm sorry. I am just so tired." She had never felt like this after Maitimo or Macalaurë, but then neither of those pregnancies nor deliveries had been anything to compare with that of Tyelkormo. The length and complications of her labor had frightened both her and Fëanáro. But, although Tyelkormo had been a louder, angrier baby than either of them, he grew quickly, ran and climbed prodigiously, and had the appealing face of a porcelain doll framed by a cloud of loosely curling blond hair.

Fëanaro dropped to one knee in front of her, reaching out to take the paring knife from her hand and placing it upon the table. "Leave those for now. Why don't you try to rest while Nelyo is entertaining the baby. Where's Macalaurë? Can't he finish the potatoes?"

"He's in his room practicing. Can't you hear him? Anyway, don't be silly. He'd probably cut one of his precious fingers and we would never hear the end of it!" She was already smiling and her voice held none of the reproaching tone of her words. The sight of this incomparably attractive, maddeningly difficult man always touched her heart and stirred her spirits.

"We'll give him another year," Fëanáro said. "And then he'll have to do his part around here, just like everyone else. Wouldn't want him to be raised the way you claim I was. How did you put it once? 'Like a cross between a feral cat and a spoiled princeling.'"

"I said that? That doesn't sound like me. Maybe I indicated that I thought you might have been left alone too much and too often permitted to do exactly as you pleased."

He gave her a winsome smile. "You cannot imagine how beautiful you look sitting there with the light from the window catching your hair like that, all shining red and cooper. Come upstairs and take a bath with me."

Nerdanel didn't even respond to the 'beautiful' remark. She had finally accepted that, true or not, he believed it. By most who knew her, she would have never been characterized as beautiful. A select few might have considered her attractive in a non-conventional way, but for some reason Fëanáro did consider her beautiful. When she wrinkled her nose at his forge-soiled clothing and blackened hands, he grinned and reached up to cup her chin, turning her face to his. Experience told her that in the usual sequence of events she would soon be as grubby as he was.

"I'll rinse off before I get into the tub with you," he protested, like a boy unjustly accused of making a mess that he couldn't make right. Nerdanel laughed, already questioning why she had been feeling so miserable earlier. How he could still smell fresh and appealing while grime-covered and dripping with sweat never ceased to intrigue her. It was probably nothing more unusual than youth, good health, and an impressive genetic makeup, yet it remained one of the mysteries she would be pleased to spend their marriage exploring.

She kissed the inside of his wrist, so strong yet pale with its nearly translucent skin. Opening her lips, she could feel his pulse against her tongue.

"Oh!" he whispered. "I swear I am going to fuck you senseless."

"Good," she challenged.

They barely made it down the hall and onto their bed. Kicking off his heavy boots, Fëanáro ripped at her blouse; the cloth thin from too many washings all but disintegrated under his attack. She laughed aloud in sheer joy at how easy it had been for her to cause him to lose control so quickly and completely. She managed to undo the fastenings to her relatively new skirt before he damaged those. Thank, Eru, the sheets need to be changed, she thought. He's still filthy from the forge.

How dare you think of laundry, he shot back at her, when you know I'm dying for you! He took her hand and placed it upon himself. She melted at the comfortable girth and the familiar long, elegant shape, granite hard yet heartwrenchingly smooth under her palm.

"Nerdanel. Sweetheart. Oh, Eru. Nerdanel! I didn't ask you this time."

"Ask me?" she inquired, shuddering with desire, truly puzzled. By then she was nearly blinded by his red heat.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked. Then she understood. He insisted upon a response because he sensed, as she did when she thought about it, that if they came together at that moment, with her utter openness to him and his desperate need, they would indeed conceive another child.

"Yes. Yes. Yes," she pled. It would seem wrong to even begin to think otherwise. Pure sensation turned into hazy images and light, and her head filled with a roar like the ocean. It might have been a minute or an hour before she heard him cry out.

When they came back to themselves a bit, the sheets felt damp, twisted and tangled beneath them. The breeze, cool against heated flesh, came in through the open door from their bedroom onto the courtyard.

"Well, that was different," he said, uncharacteristically quiet.

"Poor child. I fear he will be a strange, ungentle one conceived in such a fit of lust."

"Poor little dark one," Fëanáro responded, recovering enough to sound pleased with himself again.

"I can't bring myself to regret it," she sighed. "There are many sides to love."

He laughed. "You surprise me."

"How so? Don't you think that making a new life is always rather selfish and presumptuous? We made Maitimo out of pure youthful exuberance. Just because we could."

Fëanáro raised himself on one elbow and looked down upon her. His handsome face gleamed pale and luminescent in the mingling of the lights, a bright circle of color on the crest of each charmingly sculpted cheek bone.

"But we conceived your Macalaurë out of pure, sweet love for one another and our joy in the perfection of our firstborn."

"You see! Pride. Pride and self-satisfaction at our earlier creation."

"No, if that were true, it would apply accurately to our Turko, our wild nature boy. Remember how we were drunk with pride the night of that infamous begetting feast for Nelyo? After listening to so many compliments over the accomplishments of our first two."

"Perhaps that is where our little fair one gets his temper and impatience."

"Don't talk like that, Nerdanel. Reminds me of those old wives' tales. The ones where a woman trips on an old cat and her child is born with green, slanting, feline eyes! Such backwardness."

The seriousness of his tone in scolding her made her giggle. "At the risk of carrying these analogies too far, I will predict that this one, made in flaming red passion, will be ruddy of complexion like my father or me."

"I still say dark," Fëanáro insisted. "Perhaps I'll call him Morifinwë."

She could not control the impulse to contradict him. "Bright reddish cheeks. I'll call him Carnistir."

"Ah ha, Nerdanel! So you admit this one is a male child. What happened to your idealism?"

Before she could respond, they heard the kitchen door clatter shut across the courtyard—Maitimo returning with Tyelkormo. Reality slammed against Nerdanel as sharply as the door against its frame.

"I ought fix that door," Fëanáro said, stretching and yawning.

"Oh, no. What will we feed them for dinner? There is nothing but half a pot of raw potatoes. Probably turning black already."

"I covered them with water before we came upstairs." It was maddening how Fëanáro could do things like that without her even noticing. She thought not for the first time what a poor housewife she was.

Fëanáro grinned at her. "You're a wonderful artist though. Don't worry about dinner. We can eat cold ham with bread and butter. And we still have that hideously iced sticky cake that Indis sent home with me yesterday when I left the city. Turko will love that."

"He'll never go to sleep tonight after eating something that sweet. And what will we tell Maitimo?"

"We could tell him that we made another brother for him. He's old enough to understand such things."

"I hope not."

"You hope in vain. I caught him flirting with a girl, at least five years older than him, in Tirion yesterday. With a great deal of success I might add."

"I fear we have taken on too much," Nerdanel groaned.

---

Chapter End Notes

I was even more aware than I have been in previous chapters that I ought to give inspirational credit to Dawn Felagund's Another Man's Cage. My story would, however, be AU for reasons of significant differences in characterization and my propensity to abide by the rather fanciful fanon that elves conceive children at will. Thanks again to IgnobleBard for the Beta read and to the Lizard Council for ongoing encouragement.

Little Father

First, I want to thank Ignoble Bard for reading the first and roughest (his-eyes-only) copy. Thank you, Pandemonium, for doing a thorough copycheck and giving me such encouraging squees and, Elfscribe, for pointing out your favorite lines, catching nits and re-writing a particularly garbled sentence and making it work. Thank you also, Russandol, for catching still more of those illusive pesky nits and giving me support as well. You guys are wonderful.

Read Little Father

* * * *

Well beyond the midpoint between the waxing of Laurelin and the mingling of the lights, Nerdanel looked out the kitchen window facing the hillside and the creek. The light on the leaves of the old willow tree reflected the first faint hints of the silvering to come. A brief rain after lunch had given the air a fragrance more reminiscent of a dewy morning than late afternoon. She smelled not only wet grass and damp earth, but also the blooms on the three cherry trees. Along with the apple tree and two plum trees, the boys had always jokingly called that part of the garden The Orchard.

On the day after she finished a challenging assignment, Nerdanel always liked to make a savory one-pot dinner—the maximum gratification for the minimum expenditure of effort. She often so thoroughly neglected her domestic duties by the culmination of a project that she craved to cook, but something simple and nourishing, nothing complicated or fussy. Emerging from her latest big effort, she felt dazed and yet longing to latch onto the mundane concerns of daily life again. The first thing that popped into her head that afternoon was saffron rice with chicken, cooked in one of their big clay pots. Adding some sausage to the mixture would make it feel more celebratory.

Four children, all boys, would leave any woman with very little time to think of anything but how tired she was when she collapsed exhausted into bed each night. And, if there were a woman less naturally inclined to the household arts than she was, Nerdanel had not yet met her. On the other hand, she knew no other fathers who did as much to share in the everyday nurturing of their children as Fëanáro did.

Walking back from the center of Tirion earlier, she had purchased a good-sized hen, already dressed and cut into sections. All she needed to do was brown the pieces along with chopped onions, minced garlic, savory sausage, before adding the rice, additional broth and spices, along with fresh green peas. She reached above her head, stretching to wrestle her favorite red clay pot from a shelf in the pantry off the kitchen.

Macalaurë popped his head around the door jamb. He shrugged, while lifting his head and eyes upward, indicating that he was willing to place his small lap harp aside to free up his hands if she wanted his help.

“May I get that for you?” he asked, smiling widely. It was obvious that he could barely suppress his animation about something.

“No, thank you, sweetheart. Got it,” she huffed. “It’s cumbersome, not heavy.”

“Ooh, Amil,” he said, drawing out the words, while grinning conspiratorially. Ah, she thought, now I will hear why he came rooting around in the kitchen looking for me.

“Everyone--I mean everyone!--is talking about you in Tirion today, about Haru’s new sculpture garden. I even was asked to play at its dedication. Of course, I told them that I am much too busy and important!”

“Little liar!” she said, meeting him eye-to-eye. He was no longer small, but like all the others, no matter how tall or old, always her little boy. “One of your grandfather’s courtiers—the supercilious clerk with the horsey face—what is his name? Veryatan?—already told me that you had accepted and volunteered the names of a few of your colleagues as well. Thank you, darling. I do appreciate you agreeing to do it. I’d never take you for granted.”

“Don’t be silly.” He stepped closer and kissed his mother on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you. It has been so much fun listening to everyone gossiping about you today—declaring what a marvel you are, saying it’s your greatest work, and insisting that it’ll be known as one of the great prides of the Noldor.”

“Always happy to entertain you!” She laughed as she hauled the oversized pot into the kitchen with her, causing him to back up against the doorway leading into the dining room in order to allow her to pass. Placing the pot on the table, she held her arms out to him. He stepped into them, accepting her embrace with some degree of clumsiness since he had not let go of the harp.

“I have the beginnings of a song in my head already; it’s just starting to whirl around and around.”

“I think I can imagine how that must feel. At the moment I have a gaping hole in my head which has been filled for months with non-stop rumination about Finwë’s great trek. I think I know more about it now than anyone who wasn’t there, except maybe your Atar or Maitimo.”

Macalaurë struck a chord on the harp, with an endearingly boyish grin. “The inspiration for your new song first came to me looking at the sculpture of Nelyo as a little boy pulling the thorn out of his foot.”

“That’s not Maitimo,” she teased. “That is generic young Noldo number one, pausing on the Great Journey over the mountains to the sea.”

“Don’t tease me. I know how that works. It is similar if not identical to how I develop narrative themes in my music; one uses history or legend to tell about the heart’s truths as one understands them at any given moment.”

“Wise words. No wonder your work is so respected despite your tender age.”

“Thank you, Amil. I’ve learned from the best and I am not talking about my instructors in theory of music. Anyway, your nameless little Noldo is the mirror image of my favorite brother.”

She smacked him on the arm. “Don’t say things like that. Someone might hear you. You can’t have a favorite among your own brothers!”

“Ah, but he is everyone’s favorite, isn’t he?” Objecting would have been pointless; she could only shake her head and chuckle.

“I went by the Palace with Vingarië,” Macalaurë said, referring to his half-Telerin sweetheart. “We managed to talk our way in, past the architect and the groundsmen, to take a look. One really feels as though one is in a forest across the sea. The whole arrangement is brilliant--really it is. And your statues most of all.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to me that you think so. I trust you wouldn’t say that out of affection alone.” Macalaurë beamed at her praise. “Have you seen your father?”

“He came in right behind me, with the brat in tow.”

The sound of Carnistir’s voice reached her at that exact moment, along with a deep rumble in response to him from Fëanáro. She thought of the lines of a clichéd love poem recently set to music by a composer who did not have one quarter of the talent of her second son. It had been sung repeatedly at all of that season’s parties in Tirion. 'My heart leaps in ecstasy at the sound of your voice . . . '

She laughed quietly to herself at her predictable response to the father of her sons and her association of a surge of honest sentiment with silly words set to an inane bit of music. The fact was that she was as stupidly, foolishly in love with Fëanáro as she had ever been.

“You should laugh more, Amil,” Macalaurë said. “You work too hard. But they are right; there is no one else like you!”

Many men envied her artistic successes, fewer women. They tended instead to envy her the astonishingly handsome Fëanaro, First Prince of the Noldor, along with his reputed passion for her, and the solicitous attention he always showed her when they were observed together in public. Well, the passion was real and always new for her, and his abiding affection was unquestionable as well.

What they did not know about him was that his rumored shortness of temper was in no way exaggerated. No one considered what it was like to be wedded to his restless impatience, his bouts of inexplicable insecurity and neediness, alternating with his infamous arrogance, or how she felt when he locked himself without warning in the forge for half a week at a time. Then, of course, there were the exacting standards he placed upon the boys, which she often suspected had exactly the opposite effect from what he intended.

Time had proved that she worried needlessly that Fëanáro would weary of her lack of energy or genius comparable to his own. Yet, with their youngest approaching adolescence, nearly every sentence Fëanáro directed toward her was still peppered with his pet endearments; except, naturally, when he was bursting for a row.

Anyway, where could he possibly find another woman who could understand as well as she did both the technical and intuitive sides of the forces that drove him? Theirs was a marriage of heart and mind, and their physical needs were remarkably well-matched as well.

Although, she did wonder now and then if he might have appreciated a woman who was an easier breeder. She shook her head at the thought of that. The truth was that she lacked self-preservation instincts when faced with his insatiable desire for children. He seemed to require children in order to provide them with all of the attention and companionship that he felt he had lacked in his own earliest childhood.

Under his not-so-subtle pressure, her slow recovery time from the birth of each child was compounded at least partially by her inability to wait as long as her body required before conceiving again. His children were his life—another cliché perhaps, but so true in this case also—the divine side of his creative urge. Still none of them were the true heir to his brilliance. They had produced no son who could act as a proper partner in his work.

She had wondered for a while if Carnistir might be that one. Fëanáro was a hero to Carnistir; he worshipped and admired his Atar. He and Fëanáro had always shared a unique bond with one another. Strange as Carnistir was and fond of keeping his own counsel, she had thought perhaps he might blossom when his father introduced him to his craft. But it had not happened. Carnistir reluctantly tolerated the forge, in the manner of all of his brothers before him, except perhaps Maitimo, who might not have been obsessed with the work in the way his father would have wished, but who had excelled at everything.

Hearing the voices of Fëanáro and Carnistir, passing near to the kitchen window as they walked from the stable into the enclosed garden behind the house, caused Nerdanel to contemplate the idea of trying one last time.

“Atto, look.” Carnistir’s voice turned soft, suddenly shy. “I got my essay back. It’s marked ‘10.’ My first perfect ten.”

“Let me see how it came out. The concepts you discussed with me before you wrote it were solid.” Fëanáro sounded as serious as if he were considering the efforts of one of his young adult apprentices. “These tengwar are well done. They almost look as though Nelyo wrote them.”

“I penned every single one myself.”

“Ah,” Fëanáro said, still proud, but his voice lowered with gentle regret. “A misspelled word.” Years back, he might have snapped at Macalaurë for such an error. But then, Tyelkormo had long since worn the edge off his father’s reaction to those kinds of mistakes through obdurate repetition.

“Ach! Then it wasn’t perfect.” Carnistir groaned with disappointment.

“You know me, Morifinwë. I have the eye of one of Manwë’s eagles for spotting trivial errors. Apparently, a better one than your tutor. Your Amil claims it is one of my most annoying faults. But, there is a lesson for you in that. Even I, when I write anything that really matters to me, always have Nelyo read it before I send it to anyone.”

“He says he hates looking over your work for mistakes. He says you never make any.”

“Not never. Rarely, perhaps, but when I do, he finds them. You should be proud of this paper. It is easily as good as anything Nelyo produced at your age. And better by far than either Macalaurë or Turko. Put your books down and help me in the kitchen garden. Let’s surprise your Amil with vegetables for a salad.”

Fëanáro had dedicated himself to finding a way into the secret world of Carnistir, never allowing him to withdraw too far into himself. During his difficult infancy, Fëanáro had rocked him for hours. As Carnistir grew older, Fëanáro held him in his arms long past the time when he was far too big of a lad to sit in his father’s lap. She had no doubt whatsoever that Fëanáro’s patience had made a dramatic difference in the level of normality their eccentric youngest son had achieved. Not that ordinary had ever been especially prized among her husband’s family. It had been Finwë himself who had insisted that Carnistir was not slow, but gifted.

The back door slammed, clattering as though it might fall off its hinges. Fëanáro had grumbled so often that he wanted to replace it, that The Door had become the subject of a standing joke. Nelyo and Macalaurë had running bets on how long it would be before Fëanáro capitulated and ordered one of them to do it. Nerdanel thought she’d like to hang a new door herself and spoil all of their fun, except that she did not want to make Fëanáro feel negligent.

Fëanáro and Carnistir’s voices faded as they moved away from house, drowned out by the sounds of the insistent barking of one of Tyelkormo’s dogs, the rumble of a passing wagon on the road in front of the house, and Macalaurë playing his harp, probably by then settled back by the fountain in the courtyard.

‘One more child’ she had promised him many times over the past few years. Maitimo was the perfect heir to the kingship of the Noldor when both Finwë and then Fëanáro tired of the task. She had always felt that Finwë would concede to Fëanáro sooner rather than later, knowing that within a relatively short time his eldest would turn over those duties to Maitimo, if not the title itself. Fëanáro was not meant to be an administrator, capable as he was. But Maitimo had signs of being a perfect statesman, intelligent, diligent, wide-ranging in his interests, and most of all, diplomatic and affable.

One could never wish away the aptitudes of Macalaurë or even Tyelkormo, each so uniquely talented, but in areas their father could never entirely share. Finwë had always insisted that Carnistir’s gifts were less obvious, but no less significant, saying he would have been revered as a seer in Endor. He insisted that Carnistir would find his place some day in Valinor, saying that their task as parents was to allow the child to develop at his own pace.

Perhaps the one to fulfill Fëanáro’s heart’s desire would be a girl child. That would set the Noldor on their heels. For all of their talk of sexual equality, a female with Fëanáro’s gifts would shake their world. It had been hard enough for her to begin to win commissions for larger endeavors that were more than simply decorative work for the houses of the lords of Tirion. Once she had completed substantial work on the portico to the Great Library and taken on both design and stonework on the inner courtyard of the new administrative buildings, things had changed. No one was surprised, nor did anyone contest it, when she was asked to do the statuary for the much discussed sculpture garden at Finwë’s palace.

Fëanáro peeked at her around the corner of the door, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the garden. “Green peas, my love?”

She had to laugh. The sight of his face made her giddy—his pale grey eyes with their heavy dark lashes standing out against his skin lightly bronzed by the light of Laurelin. The expression ‘heart-wrenchingly beautiful,’ overused in romantic tales, was meant for the likes of him.

“Thank you! Fresh peas would be perfect. I’m making rice with chicken.”

“I knew that,” he said. “By the way, congratulations again! The entire collection in place is more glorious than I even imagined it would be. Atar is beyond pleased with himself for commissioning it. Bragging to everyone that it is your best work to date, as proud as though he had carved each stone himself.” His relaxed grin made him look forty-something, the age he had been when they had first made love. Her face colored at the memory; her response to him never faltered.

“It is certainly my most accessible,” she said, catching her breath. “Highly representational, nothing difficult or abstract.” She did not want to interrupt her dinner preparations because her spouse looked amazing with wind-ruffled hair.

“Perhaps not revolutionary in style, but uniquely filled with passion and your inimitable perspective.” He smirked at her as though he knew exactly how appealing she found him. “I like it when you do not bother to sound modest. False modesty is a cliché among many accomplished women and often does not lessen even when they are widely accepted for their accomplishments. Remember my former apprentice Calassë? She was constantly describing her work in self-denigrating terms.” They had numerous discussions over Nerdanel’s need to sharpen her ability to accept praise without attempting to deflect it.

“I love you,” she said.

“You had better! I’ll be back in just a moment. I’ll help you. If you don’t mind my company.” She laughed again, shaking her head at how he caused her to giggle like a silly girl.

“Go get my peas, you wicked man.”

“I need a kiss first, beautiful.”

“One only. Carnistir is waiting for you.”

“He’ll wait. He’s watching us from the side yard. He can see us through the window.” She canted her head to one side and saw the boy standing there glaring at the house, his hands clenched around the handle of the large basket they used for collecting produce from the kitchen garden.

If she did not relent and give Fëanáro his kiss, he would delay until she did. She stood on her toes, hands upon his strong shoulders and gave him a gentle peck. He wrapped his arms around her, giving her two brief, tender kisses before running his tongue wetly across her lower lip, causing her to open her mouth to him. She loved the way that Fëanáro approached each kiss with conscious deliberation, committed to enthralling her, before losing himself in the sensation, which, of course, became ten times as enchanting as any intent to seduce.

Just as she had melted into his embrace, he pulled away from her. “Hold onto that thought!” he teased. “I’ll be right back with the vegetables. Oh, and Nelyo is bringing Findekáno for dinner and to sleep over. I told him that you wouldn’t mind. He can never say no to that boy.”

She laughed. ”Isn’t everyone that way about someone who so obviously adores them? You know that I never mind Finno staying over. He’s a lovely boy and so well-mannered.”

“Ha! You fall asleep at night so easily, leaving me to toss and turn, listening to his and Turko’s irritating giggling and talking until all hours. Nelyo might not be so eager to invite him so often if those rascals slept in one of the rooms on his end of hallway!”

“Stop complaining, Fëanáro! You know you like the fact that Finno prefers our house to his own. It tickles your vanity.”

“You have a wicked tongue, Lady Nerdanel. I’ll pick some lettuce, rocket, and a small red cabbage. We can toss those with chopped apple and walnuts and make a dressing of white wine, honey and garlic.”

“Just a little of the rocket. The boys don’t like a salad that is too tart.”

“They ought to develop more sophisticated tastes.”

“Certainly,” she said, laughing, making a shooing gesture with her hand. “Go on! And don’t forget to grab a few more onions.”

“And your sweet peas, of course.”

* * * *

Tyelkormo, Findekáno, and Maitimo had all tramped into the kitchen not long afterwards, laughing and crowding one another. For all their long legs and broad shoulders, each a model of masculine beauty, they reminded her of nothing so much a tumbling passel of puppies. Turko and Finno had lost the last traces of childhood over the past short period, leaving only Carnistir still a boy.

The tension in Maitimo’s jaw that often haunted her when he returned home from the city center had softened. Both Finwë and Fëanáro asked too much of him. They forced him to choose between Finwë’s desire to make him into an able administrator and Fëanáro’s wish for his eldest son to hold himself apart from courtly intrigue. Fëanáro saw Nolofinwë’s hand in all of the daily operations of Finwë’s court. What her husband did not see, and Nolofinwë clearly understood, was how Finwë honored both Fëanáro and Maitimo before all of Tirion. What Fëanáro viewed as wasting his brilliant firstborn on trivial tasks of clerk and courtier, Finwë intended as the schooling of the future leader of the Noldor.

But at that moment, Maitimo appeared relaxed, focusing with a gaze both warm and tender upon the roughhousing of Turko and Finno, who cracked unfunny jokes and laughed at them alone. It promised to be a bright, clear evening. Looking out the doorway into the rapidly transforming light, she could see a sliver of the heavens filled with stars so brilliant that they stood out even against a sky that never turned black like that of Formenos.

The three lads brought with them into her unlit kitchen the shimmer of the last iridescent glistening of the mingling of the lights. Maitimo’s bright cooper hair caught the last few shards of golden light, while Turko’s hair, usually as tawny as newly dried hay, reflected the silver rays of Telperion’s waxing. Finno’s dark locks reminded her of the velvet softness of the night sky of Formenos, so far from both the light of the Trees and the tedious concerns of Tirion.

“Amil,” Maitimo said, “What can we do to help you?” At the sound of Maitimo’s voice, Findekáno stopped laughing and stared adoringly at him; it was all Nerdanel could do not to giggle. Poor child had no idea how transparent was his infatuation to everyone except its object.

“Perhaps you could light some the lamps in here and in the dining room,” she responded. “Your Atar already made a salad and set the table. He is in the cellar now looking for a couple of bottles of wine. Why don’t you and the boys go wash up quickly. We will be ready to eat in just a few moments.”

“Umm!” said Finno. “Is that your chicken with rice I can smell? Is it the green or yellow one?”

“Yellow rice tonight, darling.” She adored Findekáno as though he were one of her own. His bright blue eyes lit up at her use of the endearment. Such an affectionate boy.

“Amme said to tell you the exhibition is magnificent. That she is so happy and pleased for you. Atar also said to offer you his felicitations.”

“Thank you, Finno. I hope I will be able to thank them personally the day after tomorrow. They will be there for the official opening of the garden, won’t they?” she asked.

“They wouldn’t think of missing it!” crowed Turko, before kissing her on the cheek. “It is going to be the event of the season. Our dear little Amil, the brightest star in the firmament of Haru’s court today! I loved the beasts and the birds, not to mention that incredibly handsome lad, wearing the rabbit-skin nappy, and his perfect stance with his bow at the ready.”

Laughing she ruffled his hair. “You would like that one. You’ve always been vain. Just like your father.”

“Admit it! You love me just the way I am.”

“I do.” She chuckled again. Turko could make a stone laugh.

* * * *

At the table, Fëanáro oozed charisma and appeal, all directed at her, his light grey eyes glowing almost golden in the candle light. With every opportunity he pressed his thigh against hers, reaching under the tablecloth to squeeze her knee or even worse to run his hand dangerously higher up her leg. He grinned at her every time he could catch her eye.

Teasing her at the dinner table surrounded by all the children was a special stunt of his. He was the far better actor and could perfectly play the part of disinterested head of the household having a simple dinner with his wife of many years, while mercilessly arousing her through mind speak and well-hidden touches.

When the meal finally ended, he instructed the boys to clear and wash the dishes and peremptorily hustled her up the stairs. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it, no longer taking any care to hide the predatory fire behind his intent.

“I’ve never sat through a longer meal. You were driving me mad during dinner.”

“Me driving you mad!” she sputtered.

“Don’t be coy. You want me as much as I want you. I am going to fuck you until you cannot think at all.”

“I already cannot think,” she rasped.

He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her against him. Kissing her until she felt faint. His strong hands cupped her breasts, pressing a thumb against each nipple, taking her breath away, while leaning over her to lick and bite at her lips.

“I need you so much, my sweet beautiful girl,” he said, his voice simultaneously low-pitched and clear and sharp as diamante. “Nerdanel. Nerdanel. Nerdanel,” he crooned. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

She impeded his progress by stroking his erection through his trousers. “Wait. Wait,” she said, desperate and panting. “If you rip another dress . . .” He cut her off with a wet demanding kiss.

“Enough!” he said, flinging her over his shoulder and tossing her onto the bed, winning himself the squeal that he had hoped for.

“Shh!” he teased, crawling on top of her. “Do you want the boys to hear every sound you make?” He turned her own habitual warning back upon her.

“You are such a silly fool, Fëanáro!” she scolded him, mesmerized, unable to look away from those wondrously pale eyes, aching for him, overcome with the sensation of opening up to him from the inside out, growing wetter inhaling his scent. The feel of him rubbing against her, satisfyingly hot and hard, made her dizzy with arousal.

He still had more control than she did, but that could not last long.

“Your fool,” he whispered, smiling slyly, nearly unbearably beautiful in aspect as always. “All and only yours. A wise fool, I think. Don’t you?”

“How is it possible that I ended up with you? That I have borne you children and we are here like this so carelessly choosing to make another? I’m ordinary, Fëanáro. Intelligent, but normal. You are the farthest thing from that.”

“Pfft! Now, who is sounding silly?” he asked in an arch tone, with the undercurrent of vulnerability that she knew so well and never could resist. “I knew the moment I came into the kitchen tonight that you had finally decided you wanted another. Are you changing your mind? Please don’t do that!”

She felt a sense of foreboding or it might have been presentiment. For one ridiculous moment, she almost wanted to consult with Finwë or even Carnistir. But Fëanáro was right she was being utterly silly. Bearing a child under any circumstances would never be an easy thing. There was nothing new about that. If he didn’t take her in his arms right now and make love to her—what had he said? Fuck her until she could not think—she might die!

The gentlest of mind touches reached her, Please. It was the softness of his request that convinced her. Yes. Yes. Yes, she responded.

* * * *

“Look at his cunning little fingers!” Nerdanel said, euphoria overriding her exhaustion and discomfort. “He has your hands in miniature and the beginning of your nose. The black hair is obviously all yours. I cannot wait for Finwë to see him and confirm my impression. He is so like you that it appears I had nothing at all to do with his conception.”

The baby snuffled against her chest, making a tiny mewling sound, until she opened her gown and guided his mouth to a nipple. He latched on with a desperate little snort, which caused her to laugh.

“You sound so happy,” Fëanáro said taking a perfect tiny foot in his hand, the ease of an experienced father masking his feverish elation.

“And you aren’t?”

“Of course I am. You make beautiful babies and this one is no exception. Perhaps he does resemble me more than the others did,” Fëanáro said carefully. “With any luck, he could still inherit more of your generous spirit and less of my insufferable temper.”

Despite all of his attempts to hide his extreme emotion, she could hear in the suddenly husky quality of Fëanáro’s voice the depths of his pleasure in the infant’s likeness to him. She had wanted to give him the child of his heart and it appeared that at last she had.

“I want to call him Atarinkë,” she said.

FIN
This chapter meets the following prompts for the SWG’s B2MeM challenges:
Sons of Fëanor: Curfin and Nerdanel;
Feanatics: Did you know... Fëanor hugged his kids (really, he did!); Geography: Formenos the stronghold of Fëanor in the north of Valinor; Women of the Silmarillion: women who survive
Economy: Agriculture;
Sons of Fëanor: Maedhros and Fingon;
Feanatics: Family Guy;
Women of the Silmarillion: Defying expectations;
Feanatics: Daddy Issues.

Notes:

I located the paragraph about Nerdanel that inspired my descriptions of her art in this chapter.

Of Mahtan Nerdanel learned much of crafts that women of the Noldor seldom used: the making of things of metal and stone. She made images, some of the Valar in their forms visible, and many others of men and women of the Eldar, and these were so like that their friends, if they knew not her art, would speak to them; but many things she wrought also of her own thought in shapes strong and strange but beautiful. –The Later Quenta Silmarillion, Morgoth's Ring

I referenced it fairly directly in the story when Nerdanel talks about the pieces that she made for the sculpture garden being well-liked because they are"[h]ighly representational, nothing difficult or abstract." In other words, she excelled in both the realistic and abstract. Like many artists, she may have a bias for her more difficult work.

The picture above is a photo of a 19th century marble copy of a famous Greco-Roman bronze. The bronze Spinario is in Capitoline Museum in Rome: "Probably conceived in the first century BC, formed from Hellenistic models of the third-second century B.C. for the body, with a head derived from Greek works of the fifth century B.C." (Official Guide, 83)

---

Chapter End Notes

Quenya Name Translations:
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Maitimo/Nelyo—Maedhros
Macalaurë—Maglor
Tyelkormo/Turko—Celegorm
Carnistir—Caranthir
Curufinwë/Atarinkë—Curufin

Atarinkë translates as “little father.” Vingarië is the name which Dawn Felagund gave to the unnamed wife of Maglor in her story!verse based upon her novel Another Man’s Cage. Thanks, Dawn.

Interlude: Sea Fever

And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
and the seagulls crying. –Sea Fever by John Masefield

Read Interlude: Sea Fever

The road ran along the edge of a cliff, gradually sloping to an almost level strip of sand dotted by clumps of hardy sea grass. Beyond stretched the endless sea, which shimmered during what passed for the morning mingling of the lights in Alqualondë. The silver of Telperion did not shine strongly here; nights could be quite dark. But the golden light of Laurelin did reach the shore and had already begun to burn off the last of the fog.

Nerdanel squirmed in her seat. She had been dying to shift her stiff muscles for some time. Fëanáro, asleep over two hours, leaned heavily against her shoulder. She had covered him in a light coach blanket and tried to cushion him against the jostling of the carriage on the bumpy coastal road as well as she could. But now she no longer cared if she awakened him.

He opened his eyes, blinking like an owl, instantly giving her the sweetest smile--one of those innocent and artless smiles of his, which never failed to wring her heart.

“Good morning, sweetheart . . . everyone,” he said looking around at their companions. “Will someone please remind me why we had to leave so early today?”

The question was rhetorical, but Ñolofinwë took everything literally. “Olwë says the mingling of the lights is uniquely beautiful along this stretch of coast,” he explained in a pedantic tone

Fëanáro yawned audibly without covering his mouth, possibly with the conscious intent of annoying Ñolvo, and then, ducking his head, grinned up into his brother’s uncompromising visage. “And was it beautiful, my dear?”

Ñolofinwë stared open-mouthed at Fëanáro as though doubting the endearment could have possibly been directed toward him.

Arafinwë, amused, leapt into the exchange. “Well, you could have seen it for yourself sleepy-head, if you had not stayed up half the night drinking and talking with my father-in-law.

“Ah, yes,” Fëanáro sighed. “I felt raw this morning, worse than if I had not slept at all. But I feel fine now.”

“The mingling was as stunning as ever,” said Eärwen. “One could say spectacular. Shame you missed it. Although, if I know you, you probably are already familiar with this area.”

Fëanáro smiled back at her, amiably. “So is Nerdanel.” He looked up into her eyes again, happy, affectionate, buoyed by his love for the sea. “Sweetheart, I think we might have spent a few days at this very cove. Is this the one?”

“I’ll tell you when we get down to the beach, and I can look back up at the cliffs,” she said. “Don’t you think we should walk the rest of way? I feel like this wagon has gone about as far as it can go.” The wagon she referenced was actually an open carriage drawn by two large horses with room for at least eight passengers. It carried only the six of them and a prodigious amount of food and accoutrements, chosen and supplied by Olwë’s seneschal. Olwë was convinced that the Finwion brothers’ differences could be largely mitigated if they only spent more leisure time alone together.

When he suggested the outing for them, they had all acquiesced readily enough, while smiling conspiratorially at one another in a rare flash of agreement. It seemed to Nerdanel, as though each of them believed their snarled web of political differences, personal ambitions, and jealousies could never be unraveled by such simplistic means, but that no one should turn down a beach holiday planned and provisioned by someone else.

Olwë’s grandchildren and their cousins were to stay in Alqualondë. The Telerin king had arranged for the three couples to spend the day and one night together swimming and picnicking on a secluded beach. Nerdanel knew it would strain the bounds of tolerance among Fëanáro and his two half-brothers. Or perhaps Olwë was right. Maybe some of the weight of resentment and envy could be lifted by removing them to a neutral location and away from the pressures of their rambunctious families. Finwë’s sons stood out only as peaks visible above a heavy cloud cover, among the many divisions within the fractious Noldor,.

"This is a good place to pull over and unload," Eärwen announced. As they exited the carriage, Nerdanel noticed that Fëanáro surreptitiously slipped something--coin or small jewels, she could not tell--to the coachman and his assistant, despite the fact that they were in the employ of Olwë and doubtless well-compensated.

Throughout their marriage, Nerdanel and Fëanáro had traveled a lot with their children, usually on horseback. Never one to delegate, he had always played both captain and quartermaster, allowing only Maitimo to act as his trusted lieutenant. But, that day, when they scrambled out of the carriage and prepared for their final trek from the road down to the beach, Fëanáro relinquished all responsibility to Eärwen with a courtly bow. “At your service, princess. Strong back, willing hands. Tell me what you want of me.”

“Ah, yes,” Eärwen gave him that languid, flirtatious smile of hers, unselfconscious to the point of offering exactly nothing. “I’ll have need of that strong back of yours.“ Eärwen liked Fëanáro and was not intimidated by him in the slightest. They had known one another growing up, long before anyone had thoughts of marrying her to his younger half-brother. “Nerdanel, Anairë, can you carry down the blankets and bathing sheets first? Nolo, will you please bring that crate of glasses? It’s not terribly heavy but a bit clumsy and fragile. I know I can trust you to handle it with care. And we brought an entire case of wine. You can carry that, Áro. But, please, watch your step.”

She turned to Fëanáro. “And you, burly one . . . ” All of the women laughed at her description. Fëanáro might have been broader of shoulder and stronger of arm than his brothers, but retained an enviably lithe and graceful form. “We brought two large crates of food. I trust you to know if you can carry both at once or need to make two trips. I’ll gather the umbrellas and straw mats for the beach. Then we can all climb back up and drag down our personal packs.”

In a matter of minutes, they had gathered all of their supplies and tumbled down the slope with the last of the boxes and bags. To the back of them towered the cliffs with their narrow path leading up to the road. In front of them stretched the beach of pale, gleaming sand. A jagged line of seaweed along the beach, separating wet from dry sand, demarcated the reach of the highest tide. Nerdanel and Eärwen proceeded to spread the woven mats upon the sand, while Eärwen expertly unfurled three large umbrellas and planted them along one side. The men left the women to build their nest and scrambled out of their clothing a few yards away, with boyish horseplay and affectionate insults.

Nerdanel wanted to shout out to Fëanáro that he should leave on his braies. Nude bathing was not done among the nobility of Tirion. But she restrained herself, knowing he would either laugh at her or become irritated. Either result would only encourage him to make even more of a demonstration of stripping as bare as the day he was born. She shook her head, thinking that was not a battle worth fighting and this was his family. When Arafinwë dropped his last scrap of underclothing first, she could only smile and sigh in relief.

Eärwen grinned at her, as though she had read her thoughts. "Aró's more Telerin than Noldorin in his habits."

Only Ñolofinwë hesitated, striding in the direction of the surf still wearing his braies. Fëanáro and Arafinwë smirked at one another behind his back before running into the surf whooping. Ñolofinwë glanced up and down the beach as though to check one last time that they were truly alone before discarding his pants. To the south of them were sheer cliffs with only the narrowest strip of sand between them and the ocean and at the other end, where beach broadened out and stretched up the coast, stood a half dozen open-sided, palm-roofed shacks which housed purveyors of seafood and drinks. This was the beach that Fëanáro had referred to earlier. They had stayed here a week once in their feckless youth. Beyond the curve to the north lay a small fishing village.

“Is he always so shy about uncovering himself?” Nerdanel asked, before she realized she had spoken aloud.

“Only around Fëanáro,” Anairë answered dryly.

“I’m sure I do not know why that would be!” Nerdanel was thinking of how unembarrassed Arafinwë had been by comparison. They laughed at her. “Of course, I realize how difficult Fëanáro can be with him, about nearly anything. I simply meant Ñolvo is so beautiful unclothed.” Her face turned redder and their laughs grew louder, until the men glanced back in their direction.

“Oh, Anairë! Look how pretty Nerdanel is when she blushes,” Eärwen said. “They are all lovely, aren’t they?”

Nerdanel agreed silently but wholeheartedly as she watched the three brothers, tall and lean, handsome and proud. Some men might rival, but none surpassed the sons of Finwë as examples of masculine beauty. Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro were equals in height and in the length of their well-shaped legs. Fëanáro’s shoulders were noticeably more developed, as were his biceps, and the hard muscles of his chest. Despite their different mothers, their resemblance was so strong that anyone could see at a glance that the two of them were brothers. Arafinwë looked like a slightly smaller model of them, except for his distinguishing crown of bright golden hair.

“No wonder we have produced such magnificent sons. Finwë produced good breeding stock,” Eärwen said. Anairë snorted at her audacity at speaking of the highest princes and the king of the Noldor as though she were a horse dealer and Finwë a favored stud. Nerdanel had always loved Eärwen’s cheek. And, the Telerin princess seemed to be the only person who was able to coax Anairë to entirely relax.

When she had stopped chuckling, Anairë said in a laconic drawl, “I’ll keep the one I chose. I have no serious complaints.”

Nerdanel laughed, again, happy and at ease for the moment with the two women who could probably understand better than anyone else in Arda the joys and sorrows inherent in her own choice. “I wish I could say I have nothing to complain of, but still I have much for which to be grateful. Despite all of our problems, I am as mad about him as I ever was.”

Eärwen smiled and stood up on tiptoes to kiss Nerdanel on the forehead, “And he adores you, darling. That can never be underestimated. I can honestly say that Aró has not brought me a day of grief.” She made a Telerin superstitious gesture of warding off evil spirits, which made her Noldorin sisters-in-law laugh fondly at her, so confident were they in their people’s strong Kurwë and less certain in those days of the softer forms of insight and knowledge into the heart’s secrets that Eärwen valued so highly.

“Shall we rest a while before bathing?” Anairë asked, stretching out on her stomach and propping her chin on her hands, as though readying herself to watch a show.

Arafinwë swam just beyond a breaking wave and dived, not resurfacing. Nerdanel had seen him execute this particular stunt before and knew what to expect. Anairë gasped.

“I think some cheese and glass of juice would be nice,” said Eärwen, plopping down beside her. “It’s a bit early to start with wine if we have any hope of keeping up with them later today. Look. It is cranberry juice from the far north coast sweetened with apples and pears.”

“It really does look like wine!” Nerdanel said.

“Clever me, right?” Eärwen asked. “The labels with the red mark in the corner are fruit juice. That way we have a ghost of chance of surviving the famous Finwëan high alcohol tolerance without waking up with a splitting head. We drink one glass of this for every glass of wine.”

“Oh, you are good!” Nerdanel laughed. The wind picked up the hair pulled loose from her braid that clung to her damp neck--time to re-braid her hair and slip out of her riding clothes.

“I am also short and do not weigh much,” Eärwen answered. “Don’t mean to discourage you from drinking as much as you want . . . only if you want to slow down when Arafinwë starts pushing drinks on you.”

“Where did Aró disappear to?” Anairë asked Eärwen, the forced control of her voice betraying her concern. “He dove into the sea and now I cannot see him.” Before Eärwen could respond, Arafinwë broke the surface of water well out into the ocean, beyond the cresting waves, a momentary silhouette of the head and shoulders of a man black against the distant sky, before he dropped onto the surface of water and began a lazy crawl toward the shore.

“He’s a showoff.” Eärwen laughed. “It apparently runs in the family.”

Anairë and Eärwen leaned back onto their elbows upon the mats, looking out toward the sea, skirts hiked up to mid-thigh. Tall for a woman, Anairë had raven black hair that shone in the sunlight, while Eärwen was a tiny silvery-haired blonde. A contrast in appearance, but true sisters in that they shared an empathy she could not help but envy.

Living with Fëanáro and their brood had left Nerdanel with little energy to cultivate other friendships. Indis lectured her about not allowing herself to become isolated and she appreciated the older woman’s concern, but she had her work also. That devoured any free time she might have had left for women friends, while Fëanáro consumed any extra spiritual energy.

Most of all, she never stopped feeling she didn't give enough to the children. Only the piercing stab of her incessant longing for them permitted her to find room for them at all. No. There had never been enough time. Year after year it only got worse as their need for her became less urgent. If she had married anyone but Fëanáro, her art might have left only room in her nest for one lonely little hatchling. Yet, somehow, he had forced these five tall young men upon her, broader shouldered every year, and each with a force of mind and will only overshadowed by their father. She wondered what girls might have been like.

“Are either of you ever sorry not to have any daughters?” she asked her companions.

They looked at one other and grinned. “Interesting you should bring that up today. We’re both trying,” Anairë said. “Don’t say anything. It makes Ñolvo anxious for anyone to know about it. He mentioned trying for another before Turno was born. Oh! The well-meaning questions—‘Any luck yet?’ or ‘Where is that little brother you promised Finno?”—drove him absolutely mad. And when you and Fëanáro had Carnistir years before we had our second, he was furious.”

“How about you?” asked Eärwen. “Didn’t you ever want a little girl? The boys would adore a sister. You don’t seem to have trouble making babies and are such a good mother.”

“How strange that you should say that. I always think I handle the whole childbearing and mothering thing poorly. I was just this instant thinking about how I have let Fëanáro and the boys overwhelm me. They could suck the life out of a person.” Anairë’s smile turned absolutely brilliant at Nerdanel’s confession, while Eärwen chuckled softly.

“Don’t you remember that I almost died giving birth to Tyelkormo? True, Carnistir was an easier delivery. But I was worn out for years afterwards anyway. Everyone knows how difficult he was as a baby and a young child. And, finally, Curvo; he was the easiest to carry and deliver, and the ideal infant, almost as good as Maitimo. But still, it seemed like the right time to stop. I am tired. I don’t want any more. Fëanáro does want a daughter badly. It’s hard to keep saying ‘no.’ He’s a wonderful father, in almost every way.”

“’Almost’ is a big word,” said Anairë, in a wry off-putting tone, lifting her eyebrows dangerously. Nerdanel was never certain when Anairë was teasing and when she actually was as haughty as she sounded. She had a way of unintentionally--at least Nerdanel hoped it was unintentional--making her feel like a grubby, commoner.

“Oh.” Nerdanel released a heavy sigh and looked from one to the other of them. “I don’t know what you think you know about Fëanáro, but I suspect you have it all wrong.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I cannot speak for Eärwen, but I hear a lot at court,” Anairë dragged out her words into a perfect parody of that superior drawl characteristic of the nobility of Tirion, canting her chin up, nose in the air. She was teasing. All of three of them giggled. “Seriously, Nerdanel, Finwë can’t stop talking about what a wonderful father Fëanáro is. No wonder Ñolvo and Arafinwë are jealous of him.”

“Aró started tutoring the boys,” Eärwen said, “largely because he was so envious of how impressed everyone is with how much Fëanáro does so with his sons himself—the riding lessons, the tutoring, the apprenticeships in the forge. People exaggerate, of course. Fëanáro even gets credit for Macalaurë, despite him spending so many years at the Academy here.”

Anairë hopped in again as soon as Eärwen closed her mouth. They had obviously bottled all of these thoughts up for a while and now that they had the opportunity to share it all with her, it was boiling over.

“You know how people are,” Eärwen said. “Everything a man does for a child is praised all the way to Taniquetil and back, especially those like Arafinwë and Fëanáro who put so much personal time into it. But who do they call in the middle of the night when they awaken with a nightmare? Who do they run to when they are hurt or sick? Or when a fair maiden breaks their heart? It’s always the mother.” Nerdanel let it pass that hers had always called out, ‘Atto! Atto!’ as soon as they had been weaned from the breast.

“Fëanáro has always done so much with the boys.” Nerdanel said, trying and failing, she thought, to communicate the fact that on a daily basis he was more attentive than she was. But then there were those times when he might as well be on the other side of the sea. “Except when he disappears and does not come in from the workshop for days. If Maitimo didn’t take him plates at dinner time, he’d starve. To be truthful he did that far less when they were little.”

Eärwen giggled. “If you didn’t feed him, perhaps he would crawl out of his lair looking for food.”

“Maybe,” Nerdanel said. “But maybe mean as a hungry bear.”

“We admire him,” Anairë said. ‘We?’ thought Nerdanel. So, the two of them talk about us often enough to have a joint opinion. “Everyone does,” she continued, with such obvious affection in her voice it surprised Nerdanel. She had never been close to her sisters-in-law the way they were with one another. “ Everyone thinks of him as a priceless treasure of our people. But we worry about you. You need to spend more time away from it all, just for yourself. Eärwen and I have one another. I know you see Indis from time to time, but so rarely. Let’s make an effort when we all go back to Tirion. Shall we? We’ll invite you when we do things, just the two of us, and you must promise you will come.”

“I’ll try.” She decided that she would try. “So, you don’t think I am selfish for refusing to have another?”

At that moment, perhaps distracted by a sound, all three of them turned to see Arafinwë striding toward them, looking like a Maia of the sea, svelte and dripping. Such handsome men, the Finwëans. His golden hair was already drying in the bright warmth of the apex of Laurelin and the wind off the sea. She had always thought of Indis when she looked at Arafinwë’s magnificent hair. But as Tyelkormo grew older, she could see a lot of Arafinwë in him. Human hair color and other physical traits were not as easy to predict as the pea plants Maitimo had worked with as a boy or even those infernal roses which had given him such grief. Nerdanel wondered if she did have a daughter how beautiful might she be or alternatively, not at all pretty after all of those gorgeous brothers. That might be hard to bear. She could look like her mother instead of Fëanáro or the boys.

“Look at the trio of you,” Arafinwë said, his smile relaxed and flirtatious. “What a lovely picture you make together—garnet, gold, and onyx. Aren’t you going to try the water?”

“Absolutely!” said Eärwen. “Later. But we have been having so much fun just sitting here and gossiping.”

“Good. As long as you enjoyed your morning, I am happy. I need a rest. I didn’t sleep as much as Fëanáro did this morning. The tide was pulling against me as I swam back. I wonder if we are going to get a storm later? Look,” he said pointing at Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë still gamboling in the surf like a couple of school boys on holiday. “I think Ñolvo finally has mastered it.” He spoke of the wave-riding that Fëanáro had been coaching his brother at for the better part of the morning. “They are such a pair. Aren't they ridiculous?” Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro were laughing and tugging and shoving one another, slapping each other on the rear end in that way that only smug males involved in athletics ever do. “One moment they are all hard words and the next they are like that.” Arafinwë gestured over his shoulder in the direction of his brothers, before grinning at the ladies. “It’s always been that way. Maybe they are too much alike. Under different circumstances, I think they could have been really close.”

Anairë laughed. “You mean circumstances where Fëanáro is not being an insufferable know-it-all.”

“Anairë, Anairë! It takes two to carry on the way they do. Fëanáro and I never fight. Ñolvo is perfectly capable of being his own special type of jack ass.”

“Where are your britches, Aró?” asked Eärwen. “It’s not respectful to lounge around in front of your sisters-in-law without a stitch of clothing.”

He frowned and sighed. “Somewhere back there on the sand.”

“Don’t worry,” Nerdanel said. “Look. Fëanáro is gathering up everyone’s garments.” She laughed. “He is such a mother hen. That’s how I have survived five children.”

Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro reached them and Fëanáro flopped down onto the mat next to Nerdanel, laying his soaking head of heavy tangled hair upon her lap and looking up into her eyes with such a smile. “Talking about me were you?”

“What else?” asked Anairë, tart as vinegar, but with a warm undertone. "Who else could we possible want to talk about when we share a world with you, Fëanáro?"

“I love you too,” Fëanáro said, crinkling his nose at her. “I loved you before any of these people even heard of you. I just did not love you that way!” he rolled his eyes and she smiled at him with affection.

“I know your secrets, Anairë,” he said, turning his head away from her to address himself to the rest of them. “She’s much nicer than she pretends to be.”

“Did you know that Indis wanted Fëanáro to marry me when we were children?” asked Anairë. Nerdanel had heard all about that, dozens of times. Fëanáro enjoyed the story, but Ñolofinwë hated it.

“Oh!” Eärwen interjected. “And then just a few years little later, Finwë and my father had set their hearts on him and me. I was as interested as any gullible girl would be.” She wrinkled her nose at Fëanáro in imitation of the moue he had just given Anairë and squeezed his naked thigh. Only Eärwen could get away with something like that with him. “I was intrigued that he was considered the most desirable match in Aman--such a brilliant, handsome lad and the first prince among the Noldor, with all of their famous virtues. No one told me he had all of the infamous flaws also! Ada welcomed the chance to strengthen the bond between the Noldor and the Teleri. Then along came Nerdanel and stole the prize away from all of us.”

Everyone laughed, even Ñolofinwë, if ever so slightly grudgingly.

“I did nothing,” Nerdanel protested. “He somehow found me. I wasn’t even pretty--quite the opposite. Atar’s apprentices had never noticed me. Well, I guess they noticed me, but certainly not as a potential sweetheart.”

“Ignorant asses. Some of them were decent smiths, but fortunately for me they had lousy taste in potential conquests. That was part of it—their idea of conquests. Nerdanel never presented herself as the kind of a girl one would try to ensnare. You should have seen the maids they did chase,” Fëanáro said, passionate in remembered outrage. He brought her hand up to his face and turned it over, capturing her eyes, he kissed her open palm, with just a touch of tongue. The promise of the teasing gesture warmed her between her legs.

“You were not conventionally pretty back then,” said Anairë. “But you were a genius, a prodigy like him.”

“Hardly like him!” Nerdanel interjected.

Anairë pursed her lips at her disapprovingly before continuing. “And Fëanáro could see only that about you. Now when I look at you, I wonder how we could ever have thought you were plain. You’re stunning. You must have been then also.”

“Fëanáro is right. The common man likes a bland pretty face. Nerdanel was always striking, transcendentally intelligent, more likely to appeal to a man than a boy. Everyone expected an explosion when they came back to Tirion together wed,” Ñolofinwë said. “But Amil seemed happy enough when you brought her home with you.” Fëanáro shrugged in dismissal at the mention of Indis. “I think she actually admired Fëanáro for knowing what was best for him and being right to have ignored her prodding. And Atar, of course, can find no fault with anything that Fëanáro does once it is done.”

“By the Valar!” said Arafinwë. “What a day that was when they came home with little Russo! I still remember how excited I was. Russandol was such a smart and handsome little creature. I thought I had a playmate.”

“And you did,” Fëanáro said. “Stop complaining! We stayed at the palace nearly a year. An interminable year!”

“Seriously, who could have thought Nerdanel was plain?” Fëanáro asked in honest puzzlement. “I suppose she didn’t tart herself up in a lot of frilly dresses or paint her lips.”

Nerdanel could not help but love that about him. He had never seen that homely girl, with none of the winsome grace of Eärwen or classic Noldorin beauty of Anairë. He saw something else and it was perfectly transparent that he loved what he saw.

“But you have never regretted me pursuing and winning you, have you? Not seriously, I mean!” He touched her face holding her gaze, so open and vulnerable to her. When he allowed her to see all of himself like that it took her breath away. He was far from ordinary, but still familiar and beloved. Her Fëanáro. A little dangerous, always appealing, and he did need her.

“No. I never seriously regretted it. Despite the times I locked you out of the bedroom. Or handed you your travel pack and told you to leave and never come back.”

“Don’t say things like that in front of these people, sweetheart! Ñolofinwë can’t be trusted any further than you can throw him. He loves to tell tales.”

“You always think you are so interesting,” grumbled Ñolofinwë.

Fëanáro laughed and Arafinwë said, “Oh, but he is. Maybe not to you, but to the rest of Aman. They think he is a lot more complicated that he is. Tragic and romantic.”

“Stop before you get yourself in trouble again,” said Eärwen. “This is supposed to a pleasure trip.”

“It’s really all right. He hasn’t the wit to annoy in any serious way,” said Fëanáro.

Nerdanel couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. She did not find their constant needling of one another as amusing as they apparently did. “So,” she said. “Who’s hungry?”

“We have cheese, wine, bread, fruit and cakes in those baskets over there,” said Eärwen. “The tradition is to cart picnic food to eat during the day and then buy seafood at one of the places further down the beach in the evening.”

“I think I need a glass of wine,” said Arafinwë, pushing himself to his feet with a groan. “Can I get you one, Fëanáro?”

“Thank you. You know you can.”

“No!” snapped Eärwen, and then more amiably, “Let me open the wine, dear.”

“Why?” Arafinwë said, clutching a bottle to his chest.

“Give it to me, Aró! You always get cork in it.” She tried to wrestle the bottle away from him, with no success. Her reach was too short.

“She’s afraid I will open the wrong bottle. I cannot believe after all these years she still thinks we do not notice she waters half the wine!” Arafinwë crowed, totally delighted with himself. Eärwen took advantage of his momentary distraction to push him onto his back and straddle him.

Arafinwë howled in protest. “Are the four of you going to sit there and watch me take this kind of abuse!”

Fëanor took the wine bottle from Arafinwë. “I’ll just open this if you don’t mind.” He wrinkled his nose and stuck the bottle under Anairë’s nose. “So, do you think it is one of the right bottles?”

Squinting at the label, she said, “That one’s good.” The non-combatants laughed. Meanwhile, Arafinwë had rolled Eärwen onto her back and appeared to be kissing her breathless.

Nerdanel would never forget that day on the beach--warm enough, but not too warm, the sky and sea a magical blue. But best of all, Fëanáro seemed utterly relaxed and at ease with his brothers, who grew ever more ebullient under his affectionate attention. And she, after all those years and children, and countless Finwëan family gatherings, had never felt so included in the comfortable friendship between Anairë and Eärwen.

--to be continued

Alqualondë under the Stars

Raise me a dais of silk and down,
Hang it with vair and purple dyes.
Carve it in doves and pomegranates
And peacocks with a hundred eyes.  — Christina Rossetti

Read Alqualondë under the Stars

~oOo~

 “What kind of seafood do they serve?” Ñolofinwë asked, wrinkling his nose.

Nerdanel restrained herself with great difficulty from remarking that only Ñolofinwë could travel hours to spend two days at the seashore south of Alqualondë and worry that he might be compelled to eat seafood. She thought it was hilarious, but wasn’t sure Fëanáro would think so.

“Shrimp,” Anairë snapped, giving Ñolofinwë a sideways glance. Everyone laughed. “The best shrimp on the coast. All kinds—steamed, in a stew, sautéed in olive oil, pickled in lime with cilantro and onions. You can ask for them deep fried in batter if you like. They make rice cooked with shrimp, butter, and cheese. . . ”

“Anything else besides shrimp?” Ñolofinwë asked.

Fëanáro snorted. “Amazing garlic soup. But you’d really be missing something not to try the shrimp. Fresh caught every day. If you look out the window, you can see the lights of all the shrimp boats going out to sea right now!”

“I guess I might try the garlic soup. Does that have a chicken or fish base?”

“He’s hopeless,” said Fëanáro, throwing his hands up and looking to Anairë for support.

Anairë laughed and took hold of Ñolofinwë’s hand. “Stop teasing your brother, Ñolvo. That’s so unkind. You’re making Nerdanel anxious.” Looking around at them all and smiling, she said, “He’s pulling your leg again, Fëanáro. You make it too easy for him! He knows the menus for all of these places up and down the coast. We’ve been here often enough with Aró and Eärwen.”

Arafinwë laughed. “Hey! Let’s share one of the family-sized clay pots of garlic soup and order two of their platters of oysters, clams, mussels, shrimp, and scallops. That way we can try a little of everything and still get plenty of their amazing soup. Does everyone want a bowl?” Without waiting for them to answer, he smiled engagingly at the waiter. “The garlic soup and six bowls, please.” He grinned at Ñolofinwë who smiled back, too relaxed to rise to Arafinwë’s teasing, perhaps even a little tipsy.

“Ñolvo loves the scallops,” Eärwen said. “Don’t let him gobble them all up before you’ve tried any.”

Two hours later, with bellies full of the seafood and the truly masterful soup made with garlic roasted to a creamy sweetness and plenty of butter. Not to mention that it felt like the six of them had consumed enough wine to sink one of those lovely Telerin swan-hulled ships. The women, unable to move, listened to the harp music. Feeling dreamy and relaxed Nerdanel allowed herself to lean heaving on Fëanáro. She noted the silver-haired musician, expert though he was, could not compare to Macalaurë. Just then the harpist caught her eye and winked, as though he recognized her. She smiled back, wondering if he had studied with her boy at the conservatory in Alqualondë. Those classes had been filled with the prodigies of a musical people, but the sole Noldo in his group Macalaurë had made them proud.

She might have dozed off if the three brothers had not continued to verbally spar with more lazy affection than competitiveness, as subdued as Finwë’s sons ever could be. Having each eaten an impressive amount, while the innkeeper’s daughter kept their wine glasses full, they had worn out their earlier vehemence over court politics in Tirion.

Fëanáro still returned from time to time to the question of whether to sleep on the beach, seek a room in this inn, or look for other accommodations—perhaps someplace more sumptuous, maybe in one of the larger hostels closer to the village center. Raising five boys had given Nerdanel a high tolerance for assigning desultory arguing to ambient noise not worthy of her attention.

Caring little for propriety in their corner table tucked into the shadows of a back corner of the nearly empty dining room, she snuggled closer to Fëanáro. She closed her eyes, tucking her head under his chin, her ear against his chest, enjoying the rumble of his voice and the beat of his heart. He smelled of the warm sand and the sea. His body heat made her feel pleasantly drowsy and safe. Although nearly asleep, he knew would not take much to push her contentment onto a more urgently physical plane, but neither were in no hurry. She thought she could sleep anywhere, although a soft mattress did sound more appealing than bedrolls on the sand.

Arafinwë described in irritating detail the luxuries of the large hotel just up the road on the crest of the hill. While Fëanáro argued that although he had been pressing for somewhat more lavish accommodations he knew it to be unconscionably expensive for its value. Ñolofinwë insisted morosely that it didn’t matter anyway since it was almost certainly too late to find a room anywhere.

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” said Arafinwë. “It’s a great night to sleep on the beach.”

“Enough bickering!” Eärwen ordered at last. “Everyone is tired. We’re already here. I’m going to ask if they have enough a room large enough to sleep all of us. Unless someone wants to arm wrestle me over the task,” she planted her elbow on the table, offering her small hand to Fëanáro. The men chuckled.  Arafinwë wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck.

"I trust you, little princess,” Fëanáro said in an agreeable tone—he had been the one most stridently arguing a little earlier in the evening to stay where they were. “Or I’d be happy to go talk to proprietor if you like.”

“I want to. I've known these people since I was a child. I should go into the kitchen and say, ‘hello’ to our host’s wife anyway.” Eärwen nodded in the direction of the laughing innkeeper, who was teasing the harp player about his choice of music—not the usual traditional Telerin tunes found in an inn on the beach, but more moody, fashionable selections. The harpist probably had been a classmate of Macalaurë’s to have brought such skill and sophisticated taste to these humble environs. The proprietor was a whale of an elf—broad shouldered and thick-necked—who appeared to have been feasting on his own hearty fare for years. Eärwen untangled herself from her husband and wended her way through the unoccupied tables. The man nodded a smiling obeisance to Eärwen while bowing gracefully from the waist toward their table. The musician launched into a hackneyed Noldorin tune.

“In honor of visiting royalty from the West,” Arafinwë said, sticking his nose in the air pompously before deflating into a tipsy giggle. Unkempt and bedraggled as they all were from their day in the wind, surf, and sand, nothing could tarnish the golden beauty of Finwë’s youngest son.

~oOo~

The landlord showed them the last uninhabited room in the inn, freshly scrubbed and polished, smelling of lavender-scented linen and the highest quality beeswax candles, but containing only two over-sized beds.

“This is all we have unless someone would like to sleep under the stars. I have a double wooden bedstead under a canopy on the roof. We have an excellent down-filled mattress that fits it. Takes but a moment to make it up.”

Fëanáro gave Nerdanel’s arm a quick tug and hissed into her ear, “Don’t even think of offering to share the beds with them!” It was all she could do to hold back a laugh.

“It’s going to be a beautiful night. Not a chance of rain,” he insisted loud in his show of amiable enthusiasm. “We’ll take the roof.” His tone conveyed that he would accept no argument, from the innkeeper or his brothers. The three women exchanged smirks with one another. Under similar circumstances, Fëanáro had been known to pull advanced age and rank on them to get his way.

Arafinwë did not bother to hold back an inebriated snort and a teasingly malicious look, flopping himself onto his back, spread-eagle on the nearest bed.  “Have it your way! Enjoy the roof. This is a beautiful room.” And it indeed was a charming room—spacious, longer than it was wide, with white-washed walls and dark-stained wooden support beams. Windows open to the night air allowed the room to fill with the scent of the ocean as well and the sound of the waves.

Nerdanel knew that Fëanáro had no eye for the long chamber’s appealing details and an urgent desire to settle the two of them on the roof—alone—as soon as he heard of the possibility. He had always had a partiality for sleeping in the open-air and did not like to share sleeping quarters. Nerdanel accepted his idea without objection, for she had never been one to lightly squash his enthusiasm for any reasonable preference. That night she loved how young and carefree he looked. He insisted upon helping the landlord’s mumbling, clumsy, adolescent son carry their bed furnishings up to the roof. The innkeeper’s wife directed her to a shower at the end of the hall beyond the sleeping loft where she could ready herself for bed.

When Nerdanel, at last, climbed the staircase onto the roof, she was totally unprepared for what she found. Gauzy lengths of cloths, hanging from a simple wooden frame surrounding the promised feather bed, billowed and rippled in a gentle sea breeze. The bed with its opulent furnishings looked as though it belonged in a fantasy tale of an exotic world of ancient magic and high romance.

Her husband clasped the innkeeper’s brawny shoulder while pumping his hand in good-natured camaraderie, grinning in a way that accentuated his deep dimples and showed his even white teeth. He knew how to use his splendid looks and his magnetism when he desired.

The landlord beamed, nodding back at him entranced by the first prince of the Noldor. The nobles and bureaucrats of Tirion might be surprised, she thought, to see how differently the people of the north and the coast perceived Fëanáro. Many courtiers and officials on the hill viewed the king’s designated heir as arrogant or even cold. Finwë knew and appreciated how much Fëanáro was loved amongst the common people, particularly the miners and craftsmen outside of Valinor. And the folk of Alqualondë still remembered him as the boy genius who had enthusiastically jumped at the chance to help his father’s craftsmen design and build their shipyards, markets, and the remarkable city wall. The king believed a ruler needed to look beyond the elite families around the court for approval and support. Perhaps he had taught his eldest son that lesson far too well.

~oOo~

The faint shimmering rays of Telperion that reached the coast allowed one to see the blue of the sea and yet still allowed the stars to shine sharp and bright against the dark sky. Nerdanel was almost sober again by the time she crawled under the light coverlet their host had left for them.

Fëanáro reached out to her and pulled her into his arms and down onto his chest. “Precious,” he whispered into her ear, his voice achingly soft with an indolent sensuality she had not heard for a while. They had desperately needed to get away from Tirion, from his work, from hers, and even from the boys. People who have never had children might not recognize that the constant worry does not end even when the youngest reaches maturity. One shares their joys and takes a perhaps unearned pride in their accomplishments, but one also shoulders their doubts, mistakes, and their growing pains.

And then there had been the initially unwelcome announcement from her first-born that he was in love with his cousin—and not a kissing cousin from one of her mother’s more distant kin in the north, a close cousin from Tirion and a male one at that. She did not for a moment questioned what Maitimo found irresistible about Ñolofinwë and Anairë’s eldest. Darling Finno was an especially captivating boy—even among Finwë’s remarkable grandchildren—passionate and clever, good-natured and generous, rivaling even Maitimo in beauty, everything that Ñolofinwë himself might have been had he not been nurtured in the shadow of his older half-brother.

No one who loved those two young men and knew them well had any doubt they were more than willing to endure any hardship to be together. But as a mother, she could not but worry that lack of general acceptance of their unusual pairing would make their lives harder than those of most of their peers.

But that night on the seashore under the stars, they were far away from the quotidian dramas that consumed so much their energy. Now there was only Fëanáro smiling down at her and calling her ‘my dear love’ and ‘sweetheart,’ happy and relaxed after a day on the beach, and a few too many glasses of wine. Thank the Valar that he had not imbibed nearly enough to affect performance, but a sufficient amount to tightly lock away the worst of his own closely-guarded demons.

“Doesn’t this outdo the most comfortable bed in a room shared with my half-brothers and their wives?” he crowed, holding both arms open in the air as though to embrace the sky. “This is perfect! Admit it!”

“Stop!” she giggled, tickling his ribs. “You know it’s magical. Like something out of a storybook. A maiden’s dream.”

He snorted, “Some maiden.” She smacked him on the bicep, unable to hold back a laugh. “Ah, only the best for you, my love. Now, put your hand back where you had it before you started slapping me around.”

“Ah, Feanaro, I know why you wanted to be alone on the roof. You have big plans.”

“I always have plans. But I did hope that I might convince you to consider the little girl I was speaking of.” He blew out a big puff of air and pulled her nearly up onto his chest. “How can you insist that you do not particularly care for children? You are a wonderful mother.” That was an old refrain!

“I love my own. The feeling doesn’t generalize for me,” she sighed and tried to honestly answer. “I have learned to love Findekáno almost as though he were my own. And who could not love Arafinwë’s eldest Findaráto? What a charming little boy he was and now is such a pleasant young man. Reminds me of Maitimo when he was younger.”

“He’s sharp enough. He has more sense than his father.”

“You always underestimate Aró. But my point is not that I don’t adore our children, or even the ones belonging to your brothers, but we have a lot now and most of them will marry girls. That will give us some daughters! Look at Findekáno. He is practically a like a son.”

She knew Fëanáro delighted in babies and children. When he looked at his own, his entire face softened and his eyes lit up with a look of amazement. That was to be expected, ordinary even, for doesn’t every father take joy in his sons?

Fëanáro’s fascination did not end with his own issue. He approached strangers carrying babies in markets or the city center and admired their less than perfect examples of the Eldarin race, not above tickling them under their drool-wet chins and even cooing until they gurgled and laughed. He would reach out his arms to hold and comfort a squalling infant—anybody’s baby—without a second thought. Despite his reputation as a solitary genius, he did, in fact, collaborate with not only his apprentices but other craftsmen and scholars as well. But, beyond all that, his reputation as teacher and mentor for young smiths rivaled that of her father.

“I like kids,” he’d said, reading her thoughts. “They are exhilarating . . . unpredictable, challenging, open, receptive . . . they observe the world without prejudices or preconceptions.”

“If you say, so dear.” She tried and failed to keep the indulgence out of her voice.

“We have so much. Why shouldn’t we want to share it—material wealth and special gifts.” He leaned over her, his face haloed in the silver light of Telperion, heartbreaking in its beauty. As though giving her a better look, might help him make his case. “Don’t patronize me, Nerdanel!”

“I would not dream of it,” she protested laughing, lacing her fingers in his heavy hair and pulling his head down, unable to take her eyes away from his full lips. He was a phenomenon at kissing, although that was something they had perfected together.

“So are you willing to consider making a sixth?” He slid his hand down her stomach and slid two fingers inside of her causing her to gasp. “There are too many males in our house. Imagine a tiny girl as beautiful and brilliant as her mother.”

She released a desperate moan, before murmuring, “You’d spoil her rotten!”

“Like I do you?” He whispered. No one could claim he spoiled her, except for moments like these.

“Mmm,” she moaned, responding to his touches.

“So maybe you wouldn’t mind? Is that a ‘yes’?”

“I guess it’s not a ‘no.’”

After they had made love he cuddled against her, happy but not ecstatic. He always claimed to be able to sense the moment of begetting. She had never been sure if she thought she might have because he convinced her he had felt the new life take hold and their rapport at the climactic moment was always so strong. He had never been wrong, however.

“Well,” she said drawing out the word, still breathless from their lovemaking. “I guess we did not succeed in making the girl-baby you were hoping for.”

“If you’d have wanted it badly enough, you might have offered a prayer or two to one of your favorites among the Ainur,” he complained, with a languid relaxed smile, but not unwilling to make a little jab at her attitude toward the Valar.

She laughed and stretched, happy and satisfied. He was a generous and intuitive lover. She’d probably endured a lot of grief and irritating nonsense in their marriage because of that capacity. “If you really want another one then you will simply have to try again, won’t you?” she teased.

“Already?” he asked, trying to sound shocked. “You’re an insatiable little beast!” His attempt at surprise or horror only succeeded in him making him sound affectionate and amused but, most of all, extremely pleased with himself.

A little later he initiated another slower and gentler bout of lovemaking than the first, but with the unique intensity of purpose that Fëanáro brought to any creative act, irresistibly drawing her with him into what felt like another dimension of consciousness. There was no part of her body or spirit that wanted to resist. Male or female, she told herself. This one will definitely be the last.

---

Chapter End Notes

Not the last chapter yet. Still another one to go, but it is already finished. Just needs a little more work!

Epilogue: A Last Farewell

The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity. --Emily Dickinson

Read Epilogue: A Last Farewell

 With many thank to IgnobleBard for reading this last chapter and offering suggestions and corrections.

0o0o0o0

The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity. --Emily Dickinson

0o0o0o0

The nights in Alqualondë had always seemed dark to her, but nothing approaching the dark of this night. Without the expected glow, barely perceptible in the distance, of the light of Telperion, the darkness felt endless now. The soft darkness of the seashore had always felt romantic to her with so many stars reflected in the water. That fateful night the streets and houses of the walled city behind her were dimly lit by the ubiquitous blue lamps. Fëanorian lights the Teleri called them. At least they had streetlights, unlike Tirion, which had never before needed them. Crippled by the darkness and an insecure future, Tirion felt as dangerous as a wounded, frightened beast.

“Your Highness,” said an armed guard, greeting her with a deep, courteous bow from the waist. Yet his hand still rested on the hilt of his impressive sword—possibly one made by Curufinwë. The trim of his dark tunic worked in silver thread, caught the light of the street lamps. The eight-pronged star that Fëanáro had taken as the emblem of his house glittered on his breast. She ought to be surprised that such livery existed, but she wasn’t. There was little in life that caught Fëanáro completely unawares and he was nothing if not attentive to detail.

What did surprise her was that the young man addressed her with an honorific due the consort of a king. She had been considered a wise and courageous woman in Tirion for finally seeing clearly and distancing herself from Fëanáro when he had been ordered into exile eleven years earlier. But here in his camp, she had assumed that she would be faulted as a fickle, unworthy wife by his loyal supporters, if not a turncoat.

The one thing that gave her pause at leaving him as she had, when she did, was the intervention of the Valar. Partisans on both sides of the fissure that rent their people probably thought it had been the opposite. Uncanny how so many things over the years which people had dismissed as paranoid delusions on his part had had a way of coming to pass.

“I’m looking for my husband,” she said. She couldn’t say the king. It was too soon and too painful for her to acknowledge that Finwë was no more. He had been a beloved father to her, a friend, a confidante, and the only king she had ever considered. And, anyway, although she did recognize Fëanáro as his father’s rightful heir, she could not actually say it pleased her. If only Maitimo had stayed in Tirion when the rest of their sons had followed Fëanáro to Formenos, he might have provided a welcome pole of compromise. But the order of banishment from Valinor seemed a world away at that moment and, to her at least, of negligible import in light of the most recent events.

The scene—despite the military setting—held none of the menace of Valinor without the Trees. While the mood on the streets seemed wary and tense, the waterfront and its environs still felt familiar to her. At first glance, one could almost think it was a usual night at the harbor of Alqualondë, nothing like the horrific darkness she had left behind in Valinor.  Blue streetlights lined a sweeping boulevard to one side. In the other direction, the vast open market had been turned into an armed camp, dotted with cooking fires, and stretching all the way to the city wall and following the shoreline to the south.

“Let me take you to him, my lady,” the lad answered, his voice carrying the faint lilt of the North Country. He was not even as old as the twins, yet armed and armored from his red plumed helmet down to his heavy boots. Wearier and feeling older than she ever had before, she followed him to the center of the campsite.  “He has given standing orders to every watch to bring you immediately to him as soon as you arrive.”

Her heart broke at the thought. She had never intended to come here. It was a sudden decision arrived at impulsively and acted upon before she could change her mind. She decided to come because she could not stop believing that she might be able to convince him to recognize his own obstinacy, to understand how he punished no one so much as himself and those closest to him.

“I’ll never stop loving you, Nerdanel,” he had said in Tirion. “More than anyone or anything.”

“Liar!” she had spat at him. Not saying aloud, but thinking, not more than your sons, not more than you loved Finwë, and not even more than your work. Of course, he read her thoughts. After so many years apart she no longer fell immediately into rapport with him. But she did catch soon enough, first faintly and then strongly, the depth of his impatience. How could it be that they could find those old grooves of intimacy again after so much time and so many bitter differences had separated them?

He had not asked her to accompany him into exile in Formenos but assumed that she would. Nor had anything she had said to him in the preceding period about the danger inherent in his estrangement from his brothers and his increasing hostility towards them made any difference. Due to his complete disregard for her warnings, she less and less offered advice. Between Nerdanel and Fëanáro, silence had replaced heated arguments over differences. Always opinionated and sure of himself, he no longer accorded anyone—not Nerdanel or even Finwë—the right to express any perspective that differed from his own. He had not detected a whiff of the bridges burning behind him until it was too late.

“Those are all different kinds of love, Nerdanel,” he had once said, his voice husky with emotion. “It is silly to compare them. I love you as the other half of myself. Without you I am half a person. Can you truly wish to condemn me to a half-life? One of always stumbling in the dark, cold and alone?”

She could not help shaking her head at the thought of Fëanáro ever being cold. She could remember the heat radiating from his fiery core as he bent over as though to kiss her the last time she had seen him, his lips so close to hers that she could taste them. Truth be told, when he was so close she still longed for his touch. If she were not ever watchful, the strength of his fëa could subsume hers entirely. Although she loved him every bit as much as she ever had, she could not let that happen. Even with the blinders removed from her eyes, she could all too easily imagine herself falling with him into his delusion.

But earlier the previous night or had it been day—who could tell day from night anymore? —she had decided to follow the road to the coast, crowded with refugees, and plead with him one last time. She’d never forgive herself if she left anything undone which might have changed his course.

The young man escorted her to the largest tent within the encampment. Fëanáro emerged as though he already knew she had arrived. He probably did.

He squared his shoulders and raised his chin, in an apparent effort to collect himself and shore-up his confidence.

“Why are you here?” he asked archly, as though he had not been waiting. He looked weighed down, and exhausted as well, perspiring copiously in the close humidity. He needed a bath and at least a week of uninterrupted sleep. His wild eyes gave him an aspect of one overwhelmed, actually closer to unhinged. She noticed for the first time the paucity of sea breezes around, unusual so close to the shore. The sky glowed a purplish charcoal, eerily beautiful and menacing but still and sweltering. This was not the Alqualondë they had once loved.

“I came to appeal to you,” she said. Keeping her voice firm, she clenched her fists in an attempt to stop the uncontrollable trembling of her hands. He cocked his head to one side, his face softening with curiosity and hope. It infuriated her that he might still believe she came to join him.

“Oh, Fëanáro! This is so wrong. It is not too late to make it stop and turn back. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Two wrongs?” he sputtered, outraged. “A world of wrongs!” The outburst was so completely classic Fëanáro that she could not hold back a chuckle before stifling it.

“Come home with me,” she ordered, putting every remaining ounce of will into the command. “I have a carriage. I spent a fortune hiring one and a driver, although I am afraid he may have deserted me by now. I will take you to Manwë. I have spoken to him and he is willing . . . “
           
“Manwë! How did you manage to finagle an audience with him in the midst of all this? Word is that they are not talking to anyone. Clever you. But that is traitorous you must know, sweetheart.” He accused her with a belligerent vehemence, sounding like nothing so much as little Curufinwë on one of those days in his childhood when he had decided all of Arda had joined in a plot against him.

Despite the breaking of her heart she almost grinned. Fëanáro’s casual blasphemies never ceased to both shock and amuse her. May Eru forgive me for showing so little respect for his emissaries, she thought. She was a very wicked person herself to have tolerated his belligerence for so many years.

“Don’t smirk at me, Nerdanel. I am your king now.” His eyes grew darker as he moved closer. He stank of sweat and nerves, but she could feel him reaching through the fog of his self-absorption to touch her mind. I need you. You are my wife. We are one.

He had always been her king, from the first time she saw him, until the day she left their family home. For his good and her own self-respect, she had struggled to maintain her independence over the past several years. Although he would be loath to admit it to himself he had done everything he could to mold and shape his sons and wife to his will. It might have worked with his offspring—she remembered the alacrity with which they had sworn his oath in Tirion—and she might be a fool for love of him, but she was not ensorcelled by his power.

Despite his apparent respect for and deference to her, in every imaginable tiny, unimportant way, their shared domicile had always been his kingdom. He could usually be a benevolent despot or more rarely a cruel one, but he had ruled their home, mayhap by mutual agreement, but ruled it nonetheless—both of their homes actually, the one outside of Tirion and the one in Formenos where they had retreated together every summer before he was sent into exile. She had offered that concession to him in love insofar as it did not violate her principles or do him or the boys harm.

As always, he read her thoughts. He never had respected boundaries. No reason for him to start now. He did not even think of them as two separate people. Sticking out his lower lip, which had annoyingly, began to tremble, he felt wholly present to her again. She had never seen him so worn out and badly in need of a bath. But, by all the Valar, he was still handsome, more than handsome, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, and still the consummate manipulator.

Her kneejerk response to him renewed his courage, a slight smile tilting his lips. He closed his fingers around her upper arm and moved closer as though to bend over to kiss her. If he kissed her she’d be lost.

“How dare you think of kissing me now.” She jerked her arm free from his grasp. “Come back to Tirion.”

“I can’t. I have to meet with Olwë again shortly. He’s being difficult.” He looked around him at the vast encampment marring the landscape. “It is a lot I ask of him! But I can’t go with you. Everyone you see is here for me. They expect me to lead and protect them, to give them a new life.”

“Oh, but you can leave. They followed you here and they would follow you back.” They both snorted at the resemblance to the no-you-can’t and oh-yes-I-can game that each of the boys, in turn, had played as toddlers. For the briefest moment, he had looked almost sane again.

“You know nothing of leadership, sweetheart. People only follow a king when he takes them where they want to go. Even Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë will be here soon. Your own sons have confirmed their cousins’ desire to follow and my brothers will follow their children.” Ñolofinwë, perhaps, she thought, but never Arafinwë. He will never leave Eärwen.

He touched her mind. I know them better than you do. Aró would follow his offspring into the bowels of Utumno.

His glance wandered around the camp, as though he had already finished with their argument. “Our sons are not expecting you. They are occupied. A camp like this requires a lot of labor . . . unpacking essentials, digging pits to build fires for cooking, and setting up tents. Pityo and Telvo are fishing. It takes a lot to feed this multitude. Tyelko’s building an enclosure for the horses. And someone has to organize the details . . .”

“And who better than my Maitimo,” she said with grim certainty that his father was working him to the bone. “Look at me, Fëanáro.” She had almost reflexively said, ‘Fëanáro, my love,’ but her resentment had stopped her just in time. She could hold a grudge with the best of them herself.

“Listen to me, Fëanáro; if this is in any way even partially my fault, I am sorry. But there was nothing I could do. You would not talk to me before. You would not listen. I did not even know you anymore.”

He looked at her puzzled, as though she spoke a language he did not understand. She fought the tears welling up and struggled to draw a deep breath. He responded instinctively, with the old, familiar heat that she had not felt since years before Formenos.

He pulled her into his arms and rested her head against his chest. He cupped her cheek, the fingers of his other hand, rough with calluses, catching in her tangled curls. He wore metal armor that, hard and unforgiving, pinched against her cheek. But still, to be held like this was a small comfort although she wished she could have pushed him away. Even through the armor she could feel the warmth of his body, smell him, and hear his heartbeat, or imagined that she could.

Amused in spite of herself, she managed to wriggle free of his embrace. He glared at her with an injured pout.

“We’ve reached the end, Nerdanel. Formenos was only a trial and you failed it. This time is the last time I will ask for your loyalty. If I cannot persuade you to stay, then it ends here . . .”

“It could very well be your end, you arrogant, self-destructive man.”

“So, that means you are not staying?” For being so brilliant he could be incredibly slow.

She backed away from him, holding her hands and arms straight out in front of her. “Stand back. Do not come any closer. How dare you. You contradict yourself. How blind and foolish do you think I am?”

“You sound exactly like my stepmother! Never mind. I should know better to expect anything more from you. The fool here is me that I should expect constancy from my wife . . . the maid I swore myself to when I was still a youth. . . and never looked at anyone else . . . the woman who bore me seven sons! My lover, my dearest friend, my colleague. . . To think I thought I might expect at least a farewell kiss, one last embrace.”

He’s ranting now, she thought. Fëanáro unable to form a coherent sentence was a heartbreaking reversal to witness. She wished she could jolt him out of this madness by scolding or pleading.

 “By Eru and all of the Ainur, you sound like Carnistir or Curufinwë having a temper fit. You cannot argue your way out of taking responsibility for your deeds this time.”

She wanted to lash out at him for taking her sons away from her. But she could not allow herself to accuse him of that. If he had bound them unfairly unto himself, then she bore some responsibility for that as well. She had allowed it to happen. They were men fully-grown and had each made their own decision. It was difficult to breathe thinking of never seeing her beautiful boys again throughout all the Ages of Arda until the Final Battle.  

“Remember me, wife, and how I have always loved you. And remember that the Valar make cold, uncertain allies at best and cruel and punitive ones at worst.” He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. She thought she might crumple where she stood, but instead, she raised her chin and met his stubborn glare without flinching.

“You have worn me out! I have forgiven you more times than I can remember already, Fëanáro.”

She took a deep breath, turned away from him, and walked in the direction of where she had last left the horse and cart, careful not to stumble, fighting the urge to turn back.

So, is this how it ends? In darkness and cold? She was not surprised by the wretchedness that swept over her, only shocked by the depth of the hole it left within her heart.

Then she heard him whisper behind her. “Turn around.” He stood holding his arms out to her. “I cannot give you what you want. For all I know, you may be right. But I have sworn do this and I will honor the oath I made.”

Of course, he thought of the oath. Turning, she dropped her shoulders and shook her head at him. “Men swear oaths to force themselves to keep promises that they know they will live to regret.”

She crossed the few feet of rugged, sandy ground and allowed him to take her into his arms one last time. He squeezed her so tightly at first that it nearly forced all the air from her lungs. Then his grip softened into a tender embrace.
 
Stroking her hair, he released a ragged, painful-sounding breath. “My heart bleeds, Nerdanel, for all the joy we have lost and yet I will always hold some small hope based upon the memory of everything that still binds us.”

The End

Postscript:

My story of this encounter ends here, which some readers might find problematic. To each their own. That is what fanfiction is all about—write the version you want to read. I never believed the rough draft (semi-incomprehensible) version contained in The Shibboleth about Fëanor deliberately or by accident burning a ship with one of his sons still aboard.

'Did you not then rouse Ambarussa my brother (whom you called Ambarto)?' he said. 'He would not come ashore to sleep (he said) in discomfort.' But it is thought (and no doubt Fëanor guessed this also) that it was in the mind of Ambarto to sail his ship back and rejoin Nerdanel; for he had been much [shocked] by the deed of his father. 'That ship I destroyed first,' said Fëanor (hiding his own dismay).

That is an entirely different version than the way I have written Fëanor and Nerdanel’s final parting above. It especially doesn’t fit with my vision of Fëanor’s order to burn the ships resulting in a stand-off between Fëanor and Maedhros wherein “Maedhros alone stood aside.” 

I am certain that I have not told all of this story I have to tell and must re-visit it in other related fics. I want to write the story of the birth of the twins. I might write one or more stories of Nerdanel parting with her sons, etc., etc. The story goes on and on. But I had to finish this one now!