Aftermath by Lyra

I.

Touching upon O4 (religious taboos) - naming the Name (implied in the Oath and sort of played straight later). Also possibly mild B4 (sexual deviance), since angry violent noisy break-up sex would probably be frowned upon among the Noldor.

Warning for, um, angry violent break-up sex (though not particularly graphic), possibly AU.

Read I.

Physically, it had been as rewarding as ever - possibly more so.

The length of his exile had reduced the painful longing that had kept Nerdanel awake for many a night to a mere memory, eventually convincing her that their passion had faded and died. But it had been rekindled the very moment she recognised Fëanáro in the torch-lit street, marching where he had been forbidden to tread. Her heart had clenched violently at his sight, and she would have thrown herself at his throat that very instant, if his face had not been so contorted with anger. Instead, she had shrunk back into the unlit side-road, and he had marched past, to fierce words and grand dreams and a fell oath. Only later did she seek him out, pleading with him to leave her one of her children as he marched north and east. Again, there were hot words: he had grown merciless in his need to enact his grief, and Nerdanel in her urgency had foregone all her usual thoughtfulness and diplomacy.

Still, they had not argued for long. Nerdanel couldn't even remember who of them had crossed the distance first, ending their vicious argument by sealing the other's lips with a bruising kiss. Maybe they had both thought of it at the same time. Either way, they had ended up on the floor of his make-shift tent, kissing furiously, then tearing at each other's clothing with deft fingers and undignified greed. She had been astride him almost before she knew what she was doing, and when he had entered her, she had given a triumphant cry because it had felt so good. And he must have felt the same, because he was hissing, „Yes, yes, yes - Eru, Eru, yes!" Nerdanel had reprimanded him, irritably, "Stop swearing!" It had made him laugh.
They had not been gentle with each other, and neither had cared, because even when her playful nibbles turned into bites hard enough to bruise, even when he dug his fingernails into her skin so deep that there was blood, it had been such a delight to feel the other so close, so strong.

They had made a great deal of noise – all of Fëanáro's followers, even the most innocent of their sons must have realised what was going on – but Nerdanel, usually so self-conscious, had not given a damn, and Fëanáro had never cared much for propriety. Even when their desperate love-making was followed by a gentler, more thoughtful bout, they had not bothered to keep quiet. Now, silence reigned – the unnatural silence of the Darkening, in which no crickets chirped and no nightingales sang. No footsteps nor conversation could be heard beyond the thin canvas walls; they must have scared everybody away. Fëanáro had fallen asleep, and Nerdanel lay awake, her head on his chest, the steady beating of his heart and the rushing of her blood the only sounds in her ears. In that moment, in the soft afterglow, she seriously considered coming with him. It was unthinkable to never have any of this again: the warm feeling of satisfaction in her underbelly, the glory of their union, the beauty of his features (now relaxed and entirely free of grief or fury).

But as the warmth drifted away on the frozen breath of the endless night, as reason once more found room in her mind, she knew that it was impossible. It hurt to think about it, but she could not possibly follow him. He had spoken against everything that she held dear; and she could not, in the end, understand his obsession. Though all the world seemed to have lost its mind – even Nolofinwë, even rational Findaráto seemed determined to depart from Aman! - Nerdanel could have no part in these deeds. She tried to find a way out, some justification that she had overlooked, something that would allow her to go with Fëanáro without feeling that she was betraying everything that was right and true. She could not find it. His road was wrong, and though she could not stop him, neither could she follow him.

After what might have been an hour or half the night, she rose. She found her discarded clothing, strewn all over the ground. She blushed to think of the spectacle they must have made. She got dressed quietly. Fëanáro slept on, the deep, undisturbed sleep of righteous conviction and satisfied lust. He would be furious when he woke and found her gone, Nerdanel knew, but for this brief night, he looked at peace. She took his cloak and pulled it up to cover his sleeping form, half-hoping that he would wake and stop her from leaving. She placed kisses on his forehead, his eyes, his lips. He stirred, mumbling something about love but did not wake. The mere thought that this was their final parting felt as though all the light in her life had been replaced by the inscrutable darkness. But it had to be done. Her place was here, and he would not stay. And neither would their sons. She knew it with brutal certainty. She did not even try to find and convince them otherwise as she quietly wove her way through the pell-mell arrangement of tents. One look back, blurred by tears, and she was gone.

That was how it had ended.

---

Chapter End Notes

The idea of Nerdanel coming to argue with Fëanor one last time before he leaves for good is from The Peoples of Middle-earth, specifically the "The Names of the Sons of Fëanor with the legend of the fate of Amrod" section of the Shibboleth of Fëanor. Of course, the only talk in HoME. They would, wouldn't they.

II.

This one covers N2 (unclean things) and G2 (weddings and funerals). Funerals, to be precise.

Violence warning for gory details about decomposition and the animal life related thereto. Tread with care!

Read II.

That was how it had begun.

There was the matter of dealing with the body of the King. Nobody knew what had happened with it – or rather, everybody who knew had fled from Tirion, so a search had to be conducted. Nobody wanted to do it. The idea that the King was dead in itself was outrageous; the idea of finding the body was more so. It was Indis who insisted on it: Her face as grey as her robes of mourning, she had spoken before those Noldor who had stayed behind.
„We need closure in order to move on,“ she declared in a voice devoid of all music, „and for that, we need to face the inevitable truth. We need to say goodbye.“ It was generally accepted that she spoke wise and true, but she did not have the power to stir the petrified people into action as her step-son had done. In the end, the search party consisted of only Indis, Nerdanel, Findis and a servant.

A foul smell was filling the garden at the Formenos residence, carrying notes of rancid fat, rotting beans and a sickeningly sweet overtone. Even before they fully understood what it meant, it made them sick with foreboding. Altatulco, the servant, almost fell off his horse in his haste to regurgitate his breakfast. Nothing could move him to venture onwards, and it was up to the other three to find the source of the stench, which was emanating from a cairn that had been raised in the middle of a great water-basin. There was no sign on it, and the braziers that had at some point been set to burn around the erstwhile swimming pool were now filled only with dead embers and cold ashes.

The heap had been assembled with some care but little craftsmanship. Fëanáro would have cut a magnificent tomb from marble, Nerdanel thought. These heaped stones, collected from the surrounding forests and supplemented by chunks of debris from the workshop and the marl dug out of the stony soil, instead suggested Maitimo's work to her. In spite of the miserable stench, she almost smiled when she envisioned him, reading up ancient accounts about Cuiviénen in order to figure out what to do with the corpse while their father had been too locked in grief to think or act. Before her mind's eye, she saw him as he searched for a place where dogs or lynx or mountain lions could not easily reach the corpse, and heard his voice, edged with grief but firm with purpose, as he commanded his brothers to bring more stones. Now, the women slowly dissembled them, faces wrenched in misery from the stench and the fearful knowledge of what they would find.

The body that had once been Finwë's was lovingly decked out in robes of festival and surrounded by some of Finwë's possessions from life: A cup and plate and knife, an empty inkwell and a collection of quills, fine parchment, towels, bowls, even a hairbrush and chew stick and other menial objects had been laid out around the dead body, which rested on a pillow and soft blanket as if asleep. The careful arrangement was somewhat thwarted by the decay that had since set in. Underneath the beautiful brocades, the body was bloated, and stinking juices were bubbling from the mouth and ears and nostrils. Where skin was visible, it had taken on an unnatural marbled coloration as if ink had been injected into the veins. Some effort had clearly been made to close the gash in Finwë's head, but the seams had burst open to show the smashed skull underneath. Maggots writhed away from the light of their torches, revealing the frothy remains of a ruined brain.

„We cannot move him,“ Nerdanel said after they had all thoroughly emptied their stomachs in the rose-bushes.
„Even if we could,“ said Indis, „we cannot expose our people to such horrors.“
Findis spoke up, „Nor would it be just to the King's memory if he were remembered in such a state.“
The stood in silence for a while, each trying to erase the sight of the squirming maggots and scuttling beetles from her memory, wondering whether the inescapable stench would ever lift from her. They felt sullied, defiled, as if they had glimpsed a sordid secret that no-one should know, touched something untouchable.
„We should not have come,“ Findis said. „This death, this ruin – it is not for us to endure.“
„Somebody had to do it,“ Indis said tonelessly.
Again, they lapsed into silence. Mechanically, they began to put the stones back into place.
„I will make a sculpture of him,“ Nerdanel finally announced.

And she did. It was not one of Nerdanel's usual sculptures, so perfectly crafted that one thought it would begin to step from its pedestal at any given moment: She took great care to carve the back too unnaturally straight, the hands crossed upon the chest in a posture no living sleeper would assume. The face was a perfect mask of dignity; everybody who looked upon it would know that these eyes would never again open, these lips never again part to dispense wisdom or laugh at a joke. It was this sculpture that was put on public view before the Mindon Eldaliéva. People filed past the marble effigy to pay their respects, laying down flowers already dead from the lack of light and offering their condolences to Indis and Findis and Faniel. More often than not, the Queen instead had to console the heartbroken people who expressed their horror at the unnatural sight of the King so still, who broke into tears as they kissed Indis' hands which, for all the scrubbing she could do, still seemed to tingle with the memory of thousands of tiny writhing worms.

Nerdanel did not take part in the ceremony. For her, there was other work to do.

---

Chapter End Notes

Seriously, what do they do about Finwë's body?

III.

Introducing an interpretation of I5 (culture shock), and alluding to B3 (murder) in the shape of a kinslaying.

Warning for an allusion to alcohol abuse.

Read III.

There was a lot of work to do.

The overwhelming majority of craftsfolk had left Tirion. Those who had not been fond of Fëanáro had more likely than not followed one of his half-brothers. In the first weeks after the Flight, finding somebody to do perform even the simplest of tasks required an odyssey through the abandoned streets. Nobody knew who had gone and who had stayed; nobody knew for certain which houses were inhabited, which workshops still operated. Life went on, but it had withdrawn into secrecy. Where people had once closed their curtains to block out Telperion's gleam while they slept, now they pulled them close in order to shut out the terrifying darkness. Only rarely did they allow the precious light from their candles and stones to spill out into the streets. Only rarely did one encounter an island of sound within a sea of silence.

The House of Mahtan was one such island. Here, Mahtan's hammer rang upon the anvil almost without cease as he crafted tools to replace those that had been taken away by the followers of the three princes. Nerdanel's pestle was grinding mineral salts into a fine powder as she created new light-stones to fight the darkness in the streets. Parchment rustled as Istarnis* noted down the names of all those who still lived in Tirion and surroundings. The conclusion was bleak; at best, the tenth part of the Noldor had remained. So many of their visionary artists, their brilliant scholars, their diligent labourers were gone. Gone were the orators and carpenters, the weavers and jewel-smiths. Noldorin society as it had been no longer existed. Life would never be the same again.

Their administrative apparatus was also all but gone. The formation of a new government was inevitable. Of the old council, only Queen Indis, who had been auditor under Regent Nolofinwë, and Nerdanel, representative of the House of Fëanáro, were left. Together, they reassembled a working council as best they could: from the few master craftsmen more loyal to the Valar than to any of the Noldorin princes, from parents left behind by their impetuous children, from wives who, like Nerdanel and Anairë and Eärwen, had chosen reason over passion. Although most of them had not previously occupied themselves with politics, many of them had governed a household or led a workshop. They adapted. The importance of their new task was a welcome counterweight to the sudden emptiness caused by the departure of neighbours, friends, family.

The new council of the Noldor distributed what provisions and materials there were left. Much of their stores had been depleted in the Flight, and these stores had never been meant to last for more than a few months in the first place. Now, the next harvest was endangered by the cold and the darkness and the ruinous blights that they brought with them. They sent out scouts to find out what fields and orchards were bearing fruit ripe enough to gather, assigned volunteers to bring in whatever food they could find. If the primary concern of the Noldor had once been the creation of things of beauty and the acquisition of lore, it now was the preservation of vegetables and fruits.

The new council of the Noldor petitioned the Valar to protect their crops and their lifestock. The new council of the Noldor tried to restore some vestige of a cultural life, of law and order. In spite of their decreased numbers, that proved to be a time-consuming endeavour. There were countless controversies about the redistribution of property, near-violent arguments breaking out about empty workshops in better quarters and the possessions left behind by their original owners. In the old days, one council week per month had generally been sufficient; now, whenever Indis and her councillors thought that they had finally come on top of things, some new drama presented itself.

Most shockingly, Alqualondë. Stunned and disbelieving, the new council of the Noldor composed a declaration in which they emphatically distanced themselves from the deeds of their former princes and their hosts, expressing their heartfelt sympathies for the victims and their families, offering whatever reparations the Telerin people were willing to accept. Nerdanel watched as her sister-in-law rode forth from the city gates to deliver the message, a tiny speck of light that swiftly disappeared in the black vastness beyond. For the first time in Nerdanel's life, she understood the attraction of drowning one's sorrows.

It was just as well that with all this strain upon her, she had lost all appetite for wine, or she might seriously have considered it.

---

Chapter End Notes

* Nerdanel's mother needed a name, so there we go: Istarnis, mother of Istarnië. The Noldor may be creative, but in the naming department they seem to be relatively straightforward.

IV.

Dealing with B2 (violate Laws and Customs among the Eldar) - not really, as it happens, but assumed by other characters. Also sort of covers G3 (curses). And kind of breaking a fandom taboo, I guess. Therefore, probably AU.

Warning for vague descriptions of the kinslaying. And also for unplanned pregnancy and for fleeting thoughts of suicide, I guess.

Read IV.

She had lost all appetite for wine.

She had lost her taste for most foods, or only desired that which she could not have: sweet, ripe berries so juicy that they would explode in her mouth, fatty tuna belly prepared in the Telerin way, cauliflower smothered in butter and roasted almonds. Instead, meals were bland, prepared without love and eaten in haste. If she gained in girth nonetheless, Nerdanel blamed it on the lack of exercise. With all her administrative duties, it had been a long time since she had swung a hammer or taken a chisel to marble. She rarely even travelled, living on site in the palace with the other women of the royal house to be on hand for council duties. It was no wonder that her waist, never quite as slender as was fashionable, and further weakened by repeated pregnancies, widened as the unmeasurable weeks passed. It was just another outward sign of the pressure under which she stood.

And that pressure was massive. Her husband, she knew, had instigated the Flight. Her husband, no doubt, had instigated brutal murder in Alqualondë. Two thriving cultures, and he had torn them both to pieces. So many lives lost, and so many more irrevocably altered. At night, she lay awake, asking herself the same questions over and over again: Could she have prevented it? Could she have stopped him? Would he have been perceptive to reason if she had delivered it? If yes, was she not as guilty as he was? If no, how could she ever have loved him at all? How could she have loved a man capable of such evil? How could she not have noticed? And how, now that she knew, could some small and secret part of her mind love him still? No doubt others asked themselves these same questions; people had already grown colder around her, and her voice on the council no longer had the weight it had once been given. Nobody accused her to her face, but there had been whispered conversations that faltered as she approached; there had been judgemental looks, and there had been people who turned away when she passed, who muttered invocations as if to ward off evil. It was enough to make anyone feel drained of all energy, enough to make anyone's innards clench in shame and dismay.

Nerdanel was not surprised when, after another gruelling day of settling minor disputes and major exigencies, Queen Indis came to see her in private. Setting aside her bowl of gruel – it was tasting like boiled sawdust anyway – Nerdanel invited Indis to sit in a window-seat that had once offered a spectacular view over the city's elaborate architecture, now shrouded in indifferent black broken only by the occasional streetlamp or torch.
„I truly regret having to trouble you with this conversation,“ Indis said, her eyes shining softly in the dimly lit room. „But there is too much talk now.“
„I can imagine,“ Nerdanel said, folding her hands in her lap. „The Kinslayer's Wife – is that what they call me, or is it something worse?“
For a second, Indis looked as though she was about to cry; the corners of her mouth twitched downwards, and she blinked rapidly before she regained her composure. „There is that matter,“ she conceded. „But foremost, I think we need to talk about your child.“
Nerdanel closed her eyes, exhausted. „Which one?“

Of course, she was also the Mother of Kinslayers, but this was not something she dwelt on often. In spite of the horror, it was easy enough to imagine Fëanáro in the role of ruthless murderer: She knew how impulsive he could be, how he could lash out in anger, and it had probably been only a small push from the man who had drawn a blade on his half-brother to a man who actually drove that sword into the chest of Telerin mariners. But her sons? She could not envision their part. Had they followed their father's example, as they so often strived to do? Had Maitimo's hands trembled as he had dislodged heads from shoulders, or had it been just another distasteful necessity like gutting a chicken for dinner or assembling a funeral cairn for his grandfather? Had Atarincë mirrored his father's remorseless fury, or had he fallen to his knees and added vomit to the blood in the sand? Had Macalaurë already composed a heart-rending song to process his feelings of guilt – or to exonerate himself and his brothers?

Nerdanel opened her eyes again, and found that Indis was now giving her a reproachful look. The Queen's fingers were playing with the folds of her grey gown, a rare display of nerves.
„The eighth,“ Indis said pointedly.
For a moment, Nerdanel felt as though she was drowning, or buried inside a cave with walls that closed in on her ever further, threatening to crush her. She struggled for breath; she had to will her heart back into action. „I don't know what you mean.“
Indis sighed again, turning to look out of the window as if there was anything to see but her reflection. „I think you do.“ Her breath was clouding up the glass; she wiped the mist away with slender fingers. „Please believe me that I do not blame you, daughter dear*; we are all eager for distraction and use whatever comfort we can find in these dark days, and who needs and deserves comfort more than you do? But if such comfort yields fruit...“ She tilted her head, aiming a look at Nerdanel's rounded waist. „It cannot be ignored.“

Nerdanel found her hands clutching her belly – surprisingly taut if it was caused by overeating or too little exercise, she had to admit – and fought down the lump that was rising in her throat. „It is not what you think it is,“ she burst out.
Indis lips wrenched in a pained smile. „Whatever it is,“ she gently said, „it is causing dissent. It is quiet as yet; but it will grow louder. You Noldor have always been vocal and violent in your convictions.“ Her hands, small but firm, took Nerdanel's restless fingers. „I cannot advise you, Nerdanel; I have no solutions, and there is no course of action that I want to see you take. But I felt that we needed to address this matter – before others do.“
Despondently, Nerdanel nodded. There it was again, that little twitch in her guts that she had so far ascribed to dismal food or horrid news or heavy guilt. It was hardly a twitch anymore, more like – a kick? A whole series of kicks, in fact.
Her hands left Indis' comforting grasp, and she jumped to her feet, trembling.

There it was, she thought; the living proof that she had loved the monster – even when he had already shown that he was ruthless and ungovernable, when he had already sworn the oath that had divorced him from all rational counsel, all restraint. She was the Kinslayer's Wife, the Mother of Kinslayers, and now, apparently, bearing a brother of kinslayers too: Thrice-cursed, thrice-condemned, the final fruit of the cancerous growth that had sickened the Noldor and slain the Teleri. She wanted to scream, to tear down the walls, to wear her hands bloody and raw and then run to the coast, to drown herself in the grieving waters at Alqualondë. But she was Nerdanel the Wise, and she did none of these things; blood could not pay for blood, and death could not pay for death.

Instead, she merely paced in agitation until her churning mind returned to its usual steady flow. She breathed deeply, laid her hands on her belly again. Child of a Kinslayer, she thought wearily. Then again, he had not been that at the time. Not yet. Still, it was probably better not to say it; better, perhaps to be accused of sleeping with another man, than to burden the child with that legacy before it was even born.
Indis had also risen, watching her, her fair brow marred in a worried frown.
„I must ask you to accept my resignation, my lady,“ Nerdanel declared, her voice steady once more. „The House of Fëanáro should no longer have a voice in your council.“ She could not bear Indis' sympathetic gaze; her eyes slid away, catching her reflection in the window, the disarrayed state of her hair, the tell-tale bump underneath her sombre dress. She had not seen it, she realised, because she had not wanted to acknowledge it.

She took a deep breath. „I will leave Tirion. I will not be the cause of further unrest among the Noldor. I – beg you to forgive me, and to recall some pity for me, if you can.“ Tears were rising to her eyes now.
„I can,“ Indis said, pulling her into an embrace, „although I accept your resignation. It may be necessary. But your wisdom will be missed, Nerdanel, it will be sorely missed – as you will be.“ And she kissed her upon her forehead and her lips.
Nerdanel let herself be held, closing her eyes.
„What will you do?“ Indis gently asked. „Where will you go? Your parents' house?“
Nerdanel shook her head, hurling teardrops against Indis' robe. „It is too close. And my parents are needed here; they must not be burdened with the load of my trespasses.“
„Then where?“ Indis asked urgently, tipping Nerdanel's face up to study her eyes. „You will not...?“
Again, Nerdanel shook her head, forcing a reassuring smile onto her lips.

„I will go to Formenos,“ she said.

---

Chapter End Notes

* Technically, of course, Indis is Nerdanel's stepmother-in-law, and Nerdanel is Indis' in-law stepdaughter. In my interpretation, they care a lot less about the "step-"thing than Fëanor.

V.

This one ticks G4 (ostracisation and exile).

Taking some liberties with the timeline, probably. My brain actively refuses to handle Valian years.

Read V.

She had gone to Formenos.

Aside from the broken gate and the vandalised treasury, the house had been in usable state. Of course, birds had begun to nest on the bookshelves; a vixen and her young had moved into the parlour and a swarm of bees was living in the chimney. Never mind; she would cook her meals in the forge for the time being. The larder was still well-stocked with pickled vegetables and sugared fruit, dried legumes and grain. Apparently, Fëanáro had given his sons no time to pack provisions. Even the dried meats and sausages were still hanging from the ceiling: the wildlife had not yet managed to break the door or the netting on the window. Other rooms had been less fortunate. For weeks to come, Nerdanel would scare hedgehogs and toads, rabbits and weasels, squirrels and bats as she slowly repossessed the abandoned house. After a while, she no longer startled at sudden scrambling of little paws or the unexpected fluttering of wings. She gently but firmly banished the uninvited lodgers, scrubbed animal droppings from the floor and furniture, threw out pillows and curtains and pieces of clothing that had been gnawed on or scratched beyond repair.

It was good, she reflected, that there was so much work to do. It kept her mind off the more unpleasant thoughts that inevitably bubbled up as she got to know this house that she had refused to enter during Fëanáro's banishment. He had installed a full-size marital bed in the master bedroom, clearly expecting that she would at some point relent and join him; that impression was supported by the fact that the entire room had been decorated in (as far as could be discerned in the artificial light) her favourite shade of green. Nerdanel was slightly annoyed, but she nonetheless slept in the large bed without qualms. The camp bed that she had found in the forge (the pillow and blankets still carrying his scent underneath the dust that had settled on them) suggested that Fëanáro had only rarely, if ever, slept up in the bedroom. It was more difficult to look into the rooms that had clearly belonged to her sons. The were full of memories: books half-read and essays half-written, early drafts of letters, sheets upon sheets of music, abandoned jewellery projects, clothing washed and unwashed, collections of feathers and snail shells, pretty pebbles and seeds. Imagining these silent rooms full of life hurt almost as much as the news from Alqualondë had done.

Worst of all was a series of sketches, everyday activities frozen in time. Nerdanel suspected that her father-in-law was responsible for them. Here they were, the accursed Kinslayers, her precious boys: Tyelkormo on horseback, triumphantly holding up the carcass of a deer he had shot; Carnistir reading a book, curled up like a cat, so deeply absorbed that he had not objected to being drawn; Fëanáro in the forge, his face smeared with soot where he had wiped his brow or brushed back his hair, looking slightly irritated at having to pause in his work; Atarincë crafting a bracelet with Tyelperinquar; the twins in an apple tree, Ambarto pretending to throw a ripe fruit at the artist (or maybe he had actually thrown it? The charcoal lines gave nothing away); Macalaurë and Maitimo splashing around, no doubt after a hard day's work, in a water basin that Nerdanel recognised with a pang of horror. And yet, she had to smile through her tears. Yes; that had been them, when things had only just begun to go wrong. Now, they were oath-bound and condemned by their own deeds; but once, they had laughed and loved and created things that were good.

Nerdanel put the drawings into a box along with other keepsakes that she would not part with. More useful things – cooking pots, knives and spoons, surplus blankets, clothing for several men of varying sizes, even most of the lovingly copied books from the library – she packed into bags. After she finished sorting through the rooms, Nerdanel drew the curtains and firmly shut the doors. She did not expect that anybody would need them again. Maybe some of the furniture would be brought to Tirion eventually. She did not need so much, a woman living on her own, even though she received regular visits both from the family of her birth and the family of her choice. In secret, she wondered whether Indis and her daughters, Anairë and her mother had worked out a schedule for it, among their other duties: Knead bread dough. Settle dispute between Varyaro and Herendilmë. Make new candles. Finish census. Visit Nerdanel. Not that it mattered. She was grateful not to be forgotten, and whenever these visitors returned to Tirion, she gave them one or two of the bags she had packed, to distribute the contents as needed. Nerdanel assumed that they never mentioned where these things came from. Perhaps nobody asked.

This time, it was Indis who came to see her, and they were taking a walk in the withered garden. The death-stench no longer hung over it; in fact, the body had been gone by the time that Nerdanel had arrived in Formenos. At first, she had assumed that wild animals might have found their way across the water and past the stones, but at a closer look, she had seen that the stones had been put in an orderly pile on the dead grass, and the braziers had been neatly stacked by the back door. The surface of the pool was mirror-smooth once more, albeit covered in dead leaves. Unannounced, somebody had taken care of the corpse. The Maiar of Irmo? Námo himself? Whoever it had been, they had been discreet, and they had left no message. But they had been right, Nerdanel thought. Aman should be no place for cairns. Now, she and Indis could walk under the stars with impunity, although neither of them took any solace from it. Nerdanel mourned that her sons' efforts at gardening had come to ruin, and Indis also appeared distracted. They walked in silence for a while; then Nerdanel asked: „What troubles you?“

Indis studied her feet as they rustled the dried, grey grass. Then, suddenly, she stood still and lifted her head. „Arafinwë is back,“ she announced.
Nerdanel gasped, and the child kicked in protest. Like wildfire, thoughts rushed through her mind. If one had come back, so could others; if Arafinwë had returned, maybe her sons, her husband also would?
No; of course not. As if she had guessed her daughter-in-law's thoughts, Indis said, „He has brought a few others with him, but... none of our family. They have all ventured on, in spite of...“ She broke off. „I am sorry,“ she finally said.
Numbly, Nerdanel nodded. She should have known. It would have done no good, anyway; the stain of the kinslaying could hardly be erased. „What happens now?“ she asked.
Indis resumed her steady pace. „We do not yet know.“ She sounded weary now, weary and worried. „He will submit to the judgement of the Valar, of course. We must wait and see what happens then.“ She glanced at Nerdanel's face, sideways. „Should he be banished... I was wondering whether you might allow him to live here, with you.“
Nerdanel did not need to think long. She did not mind her solitude, broken as it was by the regular visits of her family. But neither would she mind the company of Arafinwë. He had always been a decent fellow, and perhaps they could share each other's burden of guilt.

„Yes. Arafinwë is welcome here.“

VI.

There are Consequences (O3). Not necessarily the ones everybody expected.

Read VI.

Arafinwë did not need to come.

Arafinwë did spend a week in the Máhanaxar, recounting what he had done and seen since the Flight. The enormity of his tale drove him to his knees, and the proceedings had to be interrupted frequently because he, or his audience, were sobbing so badly that the account of events became unintelligible. Námo made Arafinwë go through every detail, accepting no vagueness and no circumlocution. Telerin survivors were questioned in witness. Nienna had wept. Manwë had wept. Everybody had wept, except for Námo, who had remained unimpassioned and detached the entire time. It must have been a proper sea of tears, Nerdanel thought when her mother told her all about the sensational hearing.

Still, it had transpired that Arafinwë and his followers had not actually taken part in the Kinslaying. They were not held guiltless – Arafinwë himself admitted that he would quite likely have been drawn into the ongoing battle, and had only escaped the stain of murder by arriving too late – and had to answer for never questioning how the Noldor had come to own the Telerin ships. But their repentance had been convincing, and in the end, the anguish of their hearing and their inescapable shame were judged punishment enough. Manwë had raised Arafinwë from his prostration and kissed his brow in demonstration of absolution. To many people's surprise, Arafinwë emerged from the trial not as an exile, accursed and dispossessed, but as King of the Noldorin Remnant (possibly, Nerdanel thought in a rare moment of bitterness, the worst punishment of them all).

„If he has been forgiven, so can you be,“ Indis said encouragingly.
„That may be,“ Nerdanel said after a moment's deliberation, „but I will not pretend that a little intercourse at an inappropriate time deserves the same level of scrutiny as actively ignoring a Kinslaying for well-nigh a year.“
Indis bit her lips, looking at her hands. „I hope that you will come back to Tirion, regardless. When the child is born and your transgression can no longer be seen, maybe? We would find somebody to raise the child. It need never be mentioned again. We need your insight. Arafinwë agrees. He would be glad to have you on his council. You could speak for the House of Mahtan.“ She gave a tense smile.
„We will see,“ said Nerdanel, putting a protective hand on her belly. In spite of the child's now-disreputable lineage, she did not like the thought of denying that it was there.

That lineage continued to be subject to speculation, she learned when her mother next visited. „I will come to live here when the time draws near,“ Istarnis announced. „This child should never have been conceived, of course, but I cannot leave you alone for the birth.“
Nerdanel raised an eyebrow, feeling half touched and half irritated. „You should have brought a change of clothing, then,“ she suggested.
Istarnis looked at her with a start. „I did not mean now,“ she said, and then, with a frown, added, „That seems somewhat early.“
„The usual term, I should think.“
The disapproval in Istarnis' voice was tangible. „You... saw another man before Fëanáro was even gone?“
„You shouldn't believe everything that's said in the streets,“ Nerdanel simply said.

In the event, the birth was uncomplicated. Her labour was brutal but brief, and within a few hours, Nerdanel and Istarnis got to admire the small, dark-haired girl who, in high indignant wails, declared her displeasure at being brought into so cold a world in so abrupt a manner.
„It is a marvel, every time,“ Istarnis said reverently, clearly forgetting her earlier reservations.
„It is that,“ Nerdanel agreed. „And a girl, at last. Who would have thought.“ She certainly had not. After so many boys, she had more or less assumed that this union could not yield anything else.
The little girl managed to latch onto Nerdanel's breast, and instead of wailing, began to suck greedily. They sat in silence for a while.
„I reckon that it has been a year since... that Oath,“ Istarnis finally said.
„Yes,“ Nerdanel agreed, „I expect it would be.“

Her mother looked at the infant, fallen asleep after her earlier exertions. She carressed the soft black tufts of hair. „She looks like her father, I suppose.“

VII.

Nerdanel's secret is Found Out (O5). Also dealing with N4 (stigma). Also revisiting a lot of the earlier prompts.

Warning for canonic character death.

Read VII.

She looked like her father.

She had the raven-dark locks, the steel-grey eyes, the symmetrical features. From the way in which she reacted to her surroundings, even at her tender age, it could be guessed that she also had the nimble wit – and the stubbornness. Anybody would have been able to guess. Anybody who had seen Atarincë as a child, or who was old enough to have met the young Fëanáro, would not even have needed to guess. There was simply no denying it. There was no point in leaving her to be raised in Nerdanel's parents' bustling household, or with a couple whose children had left in the Flight, or among the pages and maidservants at the palace as Indis had briefly suggested. People would immediately recognise the Kinslayer's daughter. At any rate, there were no more servants. Arafinwë had decided that at their reduced numbers, the Noldor could not afford to waste valuable hands on simple household tasks, and erstwhile servants had been apprenticed (not always wholly willingly) to whatever craftspeople there still were.

„I do not understand you, Sister,“ Arafinwë exclaimed after his first look at the child. „Why are you hiding here, letting people slander your name and reputation, when it is painfully obvious that your daughter is the fruit not of an illicit tryst, but of your lawful union?“
„You know – better than most – what my lawfully wedded husband is,“ Nerdanel said. „He refused to lend his aid in the healing of the Trees. He has vilified the Valar and blasphemed in the name of Eru Himself. He has torn one people apart and murdered another. An ugly inheritance for such a small child, don't you think? Better to be thought the illicit offspring of a more innocent man, perhaps?“
Arafinwë had not met her eyes. „I don't know.“
His voice was always soft these days, even when he addressed his subjects, it was said. Nerdanel wondered whether he was really so thoroughly defeated, or rather consciously projecting harmlessness.
She said, „But you know what our people are like; you will know better than I what they call her father, your brother.“
„My half-brother,“ Arafinwë corrected mechanically.
Nerdanel snorted. „Yes, cling to that,“ she said.

„But you cannot hide here forever, I hope,“ Indis pleaded on another occasion. „You will have to rejoin our people eventually. And when people set eyes on the child, they will know at once that she is Fëanáro's child. Then all this secrecy, all your self-imposed exile will have been in vain.“
Nerdanel sighed. „Maybe. But maybe I can protect her until she is old enough to understand.“ She looked up at the stars, as if they knew an answer. „Or until things have changed.“
„What things?“ Indis could not help asking.
„I do not know,“ Nerdanel admitted. But then, something like foresight came upon her, and she said, „One day, her parentage may be a cause for pity, rather than condemnation.“
Indis heaved a heavy sigh. „And meanwhile, your talents are going to waste...“
Nerdanel smiled. „I would not say that. I have my crops.“
She had taken to experimenting with the seeds she had found in Ambarto's collection, presumably taken from the hardy plants of Formenos. These had always received less light than the coddled crops of Tirion, and Nerdanel now tried to coax them into growing under the artificial light of lamp-stones. It was not, perhaps, a fitting occupation for the greatest sculptress of the Noldor, but it was certainly meaningful, for the Trees remained dead, and starlight alone was not sufficient, and something had to be done about food.

The change, when it came, happened in the middle of the night, or at any rate, while Nerdanel was sleeping. One moment she had dreamt of days long-gone, of a childhood project that she had never been wholly satisfied with although others had given it much praise. The next moment, she was wide awake and sick with pain. Her first thought was of giving birth again; it was the same intensity, the same wrenching, twisting agony that left no room for other thoughts. It flared up furiously, and for a moment she thought that it would consume her; then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Only now did Nerdanel realise that its center had been higher than that of the familiar pain of labour: It was not her womb, but her heart that had violently thrust something out, something that had not always been there but that had come to be a part of it, neglected but deep-rooted. In spite of the warming-pan and the thick blankets, she was shivering with cold. The infant, lying next to her, was bawling. Nerdanel didn't know whether she had woken her daughter by thrashing about, or whether the child had also sensed something in her heart.

What she did know, with absolute certainty, was that Fëanáro was dead.

---

Chapter End Notes

But wouldn't she have felt the death of Ambarto/Umbarto first, since we're following the Peoples of Middle-earth version? Well, since Nerdanel's prophecy that one of Fëanor's children would never set foot on Middle-earth has come to pass in a different way, I figure I could let the youngest twin live.

VIII.

Finally, some sort of closure, heralding I3 (acceptance and change). Which means - Bingo?

Read VIII.

Fëanáro was dead.

Nerdanel did not know what the protocol was in such a case. She did not know whether any such protocol existed in the first place. She had already been wont to wear grey, the colour traditionally worn by workers of metal and stone as well as a symbol of mourning. She continued to wear her wedding band, on a slender chain around her neck as usual, since rings and tools had never gone well together. She had expected that there would be a messenger from Mandos, to make official what she had already felt.
But years passed before she received word from the Valar. In the event, it was Námo himself who stood by the gate (still broken; she had seen no need to repair it). Nerdanel washed her hands, muddied from her unsatisfying gardening efforts, and asked him inside. He did not immediately speak, only watching impassively as she prepared tea that he would not drink. His dark glance passed over the child, sitting by the fireplace with her back to him, stringing beads cut from semi-precious stones onto a silk cord, back to her.
Nerdanel sat down, silent, waiting.

„A great work is at hand,“ Námo finally announced, „to preserve the memory of the Trees and restore light to the earth.“
This was not what Nerdanel had expected, and she did not know how to react. „I am glad to hear it,“ she said neutrally.
Again, Námo studied her, only speaking on when the silence had become uncomfortable. „Aulë feels that your help would be of use. Will you give it?“
She felt her eyes widen. She was almost surprised how much pleasure the request gave her: the thought of bringing a memory of light into the world was exciting, the thought of being specifically sent for was gratifying. Her fingers flexed eagerly, anticipating the work they would be allowed to do. „Yes! Of course. I will help in any way that I can.“
Námo nodded gravely. „That is good.“ A long pause. „There is another matter.“
Nerdanel's elation was replaced by a dark sense of foreboding. She did not trust herself to speak, only tilting her head attentively.
„Your late husband is in my keeping,“ Námo said. „He will not be released.“
She let out a long breath. „No. I did not expect it.“
„I mean, ever – until the end of the world.“
Unsurprised, Nerdanel nodded. „I understand.“
Námo rose. „That means,“ he said, „that you are free to marry-“ there was no mistaking the strong disapproval in his voice- „the father of that child, and become a respectable woman again.“

In spite of herself, she had to laugh: a shocked, mirthless sound. „I will do no such thing.“
His face showed no emotion, but she could physically feel his alienation. „You must be aware that your reputation has suffered from your... lapse. You would gain much if you re-entered into lawful marriage.“
She could not stop laughing, but at the same time, her eyes welled over, and she half-chuckled and half-sobbed, „But my lord, you have just told me that it will be impossible.“
Alarmed by her mother's strange mode of speaking, the child had jumped up and run over to her. In a flash of almost delightful spite, Nerdanel saw the Lord of Mandos visibly startled. But her amusement was gone as swiftly as it had come, replaced by the bitter sting of grief. The girl embraced her, and Nerdanel pulled her into her lap, trying to fight back the sobs that punctuated her speech. „Her father, Lord Námo, is not a respectable person; moreover, he is in your keeping, and as I have been told, he will not return. I really cannot ask him to make me, as you say, respectable.“
Námo did not reply, only watching her and her daughter with his dark, probing eyes. Nerdanel tried to pull herself together – for the sake of her daughter, if not for her own dignity – but now that her emotions had begun to well over, she could not contain them anymore. The tears continued to fall.

„I saw him after the Oath, for one last time,“ she cried, „I begged him to leave me at least one of my children.“ She clutched the girl close, burying her face in the silky black hair. „He did. Oh, he did, just not in the way I had thought. So you see, Lord Námo, my lapse is other than you thought. I saw him, but I could not stop him. I had his ear, and all I thought about was...“ She interrupted herself, wiping her eyes. No less upset, she continued, „There has been no other man. I never stopped loving my husband. Even when I could see what he had become, I could not stop loving him.“ She raised her head and met the Vala's inscrutable eyes, admitting what she had not, so far, admitted to herself. „Even now, I love him. That is my crime.“
Námo looked down at her, his shoulders slumped as if tired, and she thought that she could sense some pity radiating off him, although it might just as well have been a reflection of her self-pity.
„Oh, child,“ Námo said quietly. „That is not a crime. You did what you could.“ He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head. He closed his eyes, as if deep in thought. When he opened them again, he announced, impassive once more, „Aulë will be glad to welcome you. He will explain your task to you. I trust it will give you some sense of redemption.“ He half-bowed, ready to see himself out. „Yavanna is offering to look after the child.“
„Her name,“ Nerdanel said, „is Náriel.“

Náriel was with the royal family when the Moon first rose, watching the spectacle from a balcony high on the Mindon. Nerdanel, too, had joined them for the joyous occasion. She would return to Aulë's halls the next day to continue working on the second lamp, but today had been declared a holiday so that everybody could observe and celebrate the return of light unto the world. Slowly, Tilion's vessel rose on the horizon. From this distance, only the brilliant orb of the lamp was visible, outshining the crystal and metal structure that surrounded it. As the silvery sheen flooded across the land, Nerdanel couldn't help feeling a warm glow of pride. Isil might not have the dazzling splendour of a Silmaril, but on the whole, it was rather more useful, and not likely to be claimed as anyone's private property.
There were admiring sounds and cheers from all around, and Nerdanel turned just in time to see Arafinwë let Náriel have a sip of his sparkling wine. Although the little girl grimaced, clearly not going to ask for more, Nerdanel gave her brother-in-law a reproachful stare. He unsuccesfully tried to hide his glass behind his back. „On a day like this, surely a little treat is in order,“ he mumbled in self-defense. „You're always so strict.“

Nerdanel sighed, the weariness of months of back-breaking work washing over her now that she had a moment to pause. „I would tell you that I know how to properly raise children,“ she said, „but I suppose I have not done all that well with the others.“
Arafinwë's eyes widened in alarm. „It's not your fault,“ he said in his soft voice, and even more softly, he added, „but it isn't hers, either.“
„I know,“ Nerdanel said. She turned back to the soothing sight of Tirion and the surrounding plains painted in silver, hoping that the light would at last bring healing.
Náriel ran towards her mother, putting a sticky little paw into a broad, forge-worn hand. With her other hand, she shielded her eyes against the brilliant gleam in the sky. She had never seen so bright a light, Nerdanel belatedly realised; it must be as strange and marvellous to her as the first sight of the Trees had been to the leaders of the Eldar. Now, the remainder of that light would finally shine upon Middle-earth. Even upon her lost sons.

Nerdanel squatted down next to her daughter.
„Is it true that you made the big lamp, Amil?“ Náriel asked, squeezing her hand in excitement. „It is wonderful.“
„I made,“ Nerdanel answered carefully, „some minuscule part of the vessel. The lamp is the work of many hands, and could only be achieved because we all worked together as Lord Aulë instructed us.“
She was not certain whether Náriel grasped the full meaning behind her words, but she could hope that her daughter would remember them later.
„We are making a second lamp, too,“ she went on. „But that will take a little while yet.“
„Will it be just as beautiful?“ Náriel asked, her bright grey eyes intent on her mother's face.
Nerdanel smiled and winked. „It's going to be a surprise,“ she said.
„When I am older,“ Náriel pondered, „will I be able to make such things?“
Nerdanel's heart constricted painfully for a moment, but she continued to smile. „We will see. Perhaps you will. I am looking forward to teaching you, at any rate.“
And she was. She had always liked to share her knowledge, and to see her children grow in their abilities. No matter whether Náriel's talents lay in the forge or elsewhere, discovering them would be an adventure for both of them.

No doubt it would be as rewarding as ever.

---

Chapter End Notes

Yeah, Námo isn't mentioning the fate of Maedhros. I would assume that he knows, but he either feels that nobody else should, or actively wants to protect Nerdanel from further bad news. Your choice, I guess.