Five Times Nerdanel Said 'Yes' by oshun

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Epilogue: A Last Farewell

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

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

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

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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!