First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by oshun

Chapter 1

I dreamt Nerdanel crawled into bed with me and curled up against me. Reflexively, I pulled her closer, appreciating how the honeysuckle-scented night of Formenos sheltered us from the strife and politics of Tirion. Even in the early days of our relationship, the turmoil of living in Tirion had tormented me. Although I did not open my eyes, I sensed rather than saw the misty silver glitter of Telperion. In Formenos Telperion’s light was never bright enough that one could discern it through one’s eyelids, but neither did one feel the sucking obsidian darkness of the underground cave of a night that would later ensnare us after the destruction of the Trees. I refused to allow myself to consider why this darkness felt different, welcoming rather than intimidating. I was worn-out, exhausted from trying to dissect and interpret everything. I just wanted to rest. And with her here, warm in my arms, I finally truly could relax.

Her hair tickled my nose—wild, prickly, with her androgynous scent of wood, leather, and smoke. Despite that aroma, she always carried with her an insistent essence of the female that pervaded all else about her, but particularly the smell of her. She might work like a man, or curse like a man, but she was the epitome of a woman for me—elusive, seductive, warm and mysterious, yet nurturing and irresistibly attractive. She was the most intelligent person I had ever known and one of the few—or perhaps I should say one of two (her and Finwë) —with whom I could be completely honest. I unquestioningly accepted that Nerdanel was a better person than I could ever hope to be. Since our earliest days together, I would tell her everything. I may have spared her a few of my darkest fears, but I never lied to her. I worshiped and resented her in equal parts and she tolerated me with great tenderness despite my unforgivable arrogance and self-absorption.

There had been times when she almost completely alleviated the maddening itch of my tetchiness and insecurity. I never understood why she loved me, but never for a moment doubted that she did and always would. In that astonishing dream, she draped one arm across my chest purposeful and strong, pulling her body flush against my back. Her breasts and stomach were warm against me, but more so I was aware of a half-forgotten heat that was pooling somewhere in my chest. My love, my heart, my everything, I thought. Suddenly I remembered when that sensation had been reflexive and visceral. When had that state become so much harder to reach?

Then instantly—with a sense of horrifying devastation—I recognized that it was not eventide in Formenos; this was not our bed. I had no body and she was not here with me. Where I had imagined warmth there was nothingness. The emptiness of the Halls had never felt more absolute. Námo in one of his inexplicable and rare moments of generosity had perhaps allowed Lórien the master of visions and dreams to overwhelm my outlandishly perfervid fëa with a moment of peace and rest. I thought if I could allow myself to stop struggling to retain any slight memory or hint of consciousness of physical sensation, if I could stop myself from reaching for the comfort of sentience, Námo might allow me a few more such healing moments, however fleeting and false, before snatching them away from me again.

But their control of my need for sensation was not entirely fickle. It never had been. It always happened when I believed I felt a certain painful knotting in my chest or when I remembered what her kisses had been like—so slow and full of longing. We had always been well-matched physically. But the memory of our love-making brought to mind by conscious effort was horrible and painful, as painful as the dream which had seemed to be as real as it had been consoling.

If I could have laughed, I would have with great bitterness. I had come to think of Námo and Lórien as the Bad Brother and the Good Brother, although it could be difficult at times to discern which of them was most cruel. Námo wounded me with deprivation and denial. While Lórien delivered his hurt through phantoms that were tangible one instant and gone the next. Lórien’s dreams, a seductive form of magic, took vivid form bringing back memory, filled with grief but also holding promise of a future. Those were the good ones, the ones where one believed that they were living the dream or had something to gain from the experience.

For the moment, there was no attempt to stop me from replaying any memory I wanted. There was one reenactment in my memory that caused me terrible pain and exquisite pleasure, but they never interrupted it. Perhaps it embarrassed the old reprobate to acknowledge it. I liked the idea of causing Námo discomfort. You’ve probably guessed what memory I entertained of Nerdanel and her clever mouth that Námo chose to ignore. I no longer had any sense of shame or awareness of an invasion of privacy about my most intimate thoughts and feelings.

I remembered the first time Nerdanel and I made love. I was a bundle of hormones, desire, and excruciating insecurity and self-consciousness. She was shy but somehow not lacking in confidence. After what seemed like hours of kissing, I asked her, “Tell me what you want?”

She laughed at me. “I want you, obviously. All of you. And I want it to be good for you.”

“No pressure,” I stammered, my cheeks burning furiously. “Like I have any idea I know what I am doing!” We were equal in our innocent lust and utter ignorance. But, even then, she was stronger and braver than me. She gave me wordless clues and suggestions comprised of subtle movements. Everything about it seemed right. And, as time passed, we only got better at it.

I always found it easy to write or talk about things, objects, but feelings, emotions were different. I could whisper, “I love you,” to Nerdanel, the boys, or my father. I could scream, “I hate you so much!” at Ñolofinwë even when I did not mean it and, at other times when I hated him so much it brought tears to my eyes. As much as I hated him, I also hated hating him. He was my brother after all, my beloved father’s son. I would go over in my head the moments when I was aware of how much I loved him.

But despite my emotional constipation and reluctance to process my own emotions, I could say, “I’m sorry,” usually to Nerdanel or one of the boys. Although at the end, as often as not, she would respond with, “I don’t want to hear it. I am sick to death of hearing ‘I’m sorry’ from you!” But to sit around and yammer about how one feels, was something I never could tolerate. It just seemed so useless and self-indulgent. I never hated Arafinwë. He was younger, blond like a Vanyar but without their pride, neither driven nor ambitious, and nothing like our father or Nolofinwë. Thinking of my sons here was unbearable torture--my babies, my clever little boys, the strong and brilliant young men who caused my heart throb with pride.

I was so tired of remembered touches, of the recollection of the experiences of darkness and light, and scents, not just the smell of Nerdanel, sleepy and warm in the morning or hot and passionate at night, but the tang of the ocean with the salt in the air and the cry of seagulls, the fragrance of wet earth after a rain, and the milky, clean smell of an infant.

My voiceless scream was, ‘Finished, done, over it!’ I decided in that moment that I would give it all up. Námo or Lórien or whoever was hoarding and dispensing these memories could keep them all. No more dreams, no more yearnings or desire, no more hunger for a taste or a sound—they could take them all and shove them. If I had learned anything in the Halls of Mandos was that I still had a will of my own. They could prohibit or allow, but they could not force me to do anything. Of course, I was wrong!

Not long after that, I could feel smooth, cool cotton cloth under my cheek, which presumably covered a pillow. This was no memory of the sensation of clean finely woven cloth against my skin; I could actually feel it. I opened my eyes to a dim light, soft and ever so slightly rose-tinted. I lay on a narrow, but comfortable mattress. A light blanket covered me and my head rested on small plump pillow. I thought I could hear distinct ambient noises—perhaps light footsteps faintly echoing in a nearby hallway. I distinctly felt air surrounding me and I realized I was breathing, as I gradually became aware of my body.

I started and released a small undignified wheeze as a door opened causing a gentle stirring of the air behind me. I tried to roll over away from the wall and onto my other side in order to face the entrance. For a brief moment, a wave of dizziness washed over me accompanied by a tinge of nausea. The reaction quickly passed and I found that my muscles were strong and not atrophied from lack of exercise. I was not sure what I had expected from an unused adult body! Mainly, I believe I had never thought to be rehoused, so I had wasted little to no time considering it. The first few breaths were difficult, but I struggled not to reveal the mild discomfort they caused me. I did not know whom to expect. I did not want to present myself as weak and vulnerable, although, of course, I was laughably so. I even smelled baby new and fresh. I released a rough mucous laden cough to clear my lungs and tried harder to roll over. It worked the second time.

There stood kindly (ha!) father Námo in the doorway. He looked no more comfortable than I felt. Clad in grey and unnaturally tall, he could almost have passed for an Elf were it not for his elongated, near expressionless face and pale grey silken robes, which incongruously perfectly matched his waist-length hair and silvery moonstone eyes. If he was going for an Elven look, he missed by a mile. If he wanted to look ethereal but attractive, his brother Lórien had him there. The corporeal form he had assumed for my coming-out party was next to perfect from my perspective, but not, I thought, at all what he had intended. He looked like a caricature of the dreaded Lord of Mandos.

I discerned the shadow of a figure behind him before I heard a husky alto, beloved and as stirring to me as ever. “Lord Námo,” she said, her tone polite without being reverential, insistent without being shrill. “May I enter?” She slid by his angular stretched-out frame, revealing a face and form as familiar to me as if as I had seen it yesterday. Her hair was as unruly and bright as ever, struggling to come loose from a knot on top of her head. She was dressed in a more graceful style than I remembered, a bit more womanly perhaps. The gown was shorter, revealing a great deal more of ankle and calf than I remembered. Not a bad look on her.

In my other life, she had worn full-length skirts or trousers covered by long tunics. This version of my one true love, so like the other, hadn’t been staying inside painting ladylike miniatures. She had a suntan and her freckles had exploded! I was struck by her muscular arms, working outside on something too big and heavy to house in a studio. She had startled me speechless. I took my time taking her in visually.

Then I struggled to swing my legs off the bed and pull myself upright in one fluid movement. Well, I fumbled that badly! She rushed to my side and sat down on the bed next to me, putting an arm around my waist to steady me. I was still taller than she was and still had the build of a somewhat slender smith. I had lost none of the muscles in my chest and biceps that I had been proud of since adolescence.

“Still vain, Fëanáro,” she whispered into my ear. She had read my thoughts. I gave her a mind full of how attractive I found her--up to my old tricks after barely taking three breaths.

“You’re beautiful,” I rasped, my voice would need some conditioning.

“You always said that and I never was. Except to you.” I let her talk. Too soon to start an argument. I grinned at her instead. This was not a dream, but it certainly felt like one.

“You smell like a girl.” I sounded like a boy flirting with his first love. She had bathed and used some feminine floral scent. So she might be hopeful too. I was out of practice at the game of seduction and, anyway, Námo still stood in the doorway looking half-awed and half-disapproving.

“Ahem,” he said. I almost laughed aloud—how could ‘Ahem’ manage to sound both menacing and insecure at the same time. “Well, then. I will leave you. We wish you good fortune in your new life. The Lady Nerdanel understands your limitations. . .” Truly sounding uncomfortable, he abruptly stopped. “Not restrictions! Nothing of that sort! Your body, I meant. Your new body will need some time to adjust. Some balance problems, I’m told. Sore muscles if you overdo it. Bland diet at first . . . Never mind, she knows better than I do what you will be dealing with. She’s done it for two others already.”

He turned and left without a farewell. The Valar have never been adept at every day, ordinary courtesies. Not that those were always necessarily my strongest point either, but I could observe them when I chose to. He gave the impression of having no idea what those would even be.

I sighed with relief when he closed the door behind him. She smiled, a world of shared understanding in her smile.

“Our sons?” I asked her.

“Only Maitimo and Carnistir have returned, so far.”

It was a somber moment. I felt my heart breaking again with a painful intensity that had once been constant but that I had not felt in a long while. I had led them to their deaths. My custodians had made sure that I was aware of that. I did not want to cry in front of her without having uttered even the most minimal of apologies.

“It’s all right,” she said. “We have a long, long time ahead of us to cover all of that and more. I’ve learned things also. I have carriage waiting outside.”

“Afraid I would fall off a horse?” I asked, teasing her and making a joke at my own expense, while letting her feel the depth and breadth of my regret and my intent to win her back.

“More like certain you would fall off a horse!” She smiled and the world was new. Anything was possible. I was not going to ruin things this time.