Chapter Text
It was raining and there was no one waiting for him.
Fëanáro had known the second part would be true, but he had not expected his first steps out of the Halls to be met with cleansing water. A final insult, perhaps, that it was not even a dreadful thunderstorm that shook the world with a warning of the peril that now walked freely through these blessed lands, but rather a quiet lament. A light drizzle that would take long to so much as soak his white clothes.
He hated this, how clean he seemed clad in these soft robes. Gentle rain drops trickling down his arms, past his unfamiliar, uncalloused hands, and coming out clear. As if he had indeed washed away the blood that had long stained his skin, his soul.
He did not feel clean. He did not feel whole.
Still, he forced himself to breathe for the first time in ages. Such a simple thing, breathing. He had taken it for granted until the day his lungs had been filled with fire and smoke — his memory was not clear on whether those flames had been his or the enemy’s, if by the time he had perished there’d been any difference at all. There had been no need for air in the Halls. His mind got hazier with the details of that place with each passing second, trying desperately to grasp his thoughts as one tried to contain a whole ocean in the palm of their hands: only rare, disconnected details remained, but of this he was certain. Breathing was not something one could do inside those walls. Yet he knew that had been the least stifling aspect of the place.
Fëanáro looked over his shoulder at the gray door behind his back. Pain, he remembered pain, too. Far greater than any that could ever be inflicted upon one’s flesh; far greater to have been inflicted by anyone but himself. Guilt, he reasoned, was too powerful a tormentor.
He took a step forward. And then another.
(He remembered other things, too. Familiar warmth; kindred spirits burning in a different but complementing tune in a harmony his second eldest would have found endearing.
–but none of those flames had felt like Kanafinwë, had they?)
The gentle wind against his wet skin made him shiver, but even that was a sweet feeling. This was Valinor, after all, and he had never had to contend with harsh weather until he had forsaken his homeland. Everything was quieter here, more docile. And he could not, for this second life of him, understand why the Valar would choose to let him mar this existence once more with his presence. Certainly they could not think that the forest fire that burned within him had been reduced to a placid flame? Had they not felt him in those Halls? Or perhaps that had been the issue precisely. They had worried that if left there for much longer, he would have reduced the place to ashes and embers. Something must have happened. They had vowed never to let him go. And he had vowed himself to eternal darkness.
Fëanáro tried to think as his uncertain steps carried him aimlessly. He was not healed; he was not sure there was a cure for the ailments he had caused upon himself. Perhaps this had been deemed the crueler, more just punishment for him: to wander these lands forevermore with all that he could ever wish for to be within his reach and yet unattainable.
Pride flared within him at the thought, forcing him to square back his shoulders. Well, they would not see him beg.
He could go to Tirion. Even now, he knew the pathway like the back of his hand, but– But. The Valar had been ingenious in devising this sentence, of course. His pride could swell and command him to refuse to cower all it wanted. He had learned something in death and it had not been humility in the face of the divine.
He knew now that some things were worth more than his dignity.
That new source of light was aggravating.
It was, he was willing to admit, better than the hollow darkness they had endured. But as he walked underneath the blazing sun, he felt a knot forming in his throat. He missed Laurelin’s soft and golden hues, illuminating but not burning. Its light had not been hot as coal; it had not made sweat gather over his brows. And he wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he had just given Yavanna what she had asked of him.
Nothing would have changed, he reasoned. Atar’s blood would still stain the stones at Formenos, and the Valar would not have sought justice for that crime. Too content to sit on their thrones, to ask him to repair the damage they were too complacent to stop.
When Fëanáro set out to build himself a house, he had not meant to build a home. And he had not accomplished that, in all honesty. Home was not this. This lack of rooms and laughter and warmth. This absence of bickering and songs and the faint sounds of a forge outside.
But he had done something greater than creating just a roof over his head as he had intended. He could not stop himself. His body may be new, but there were still some deep-rooted memories driven into his muscles, into his restless hands. He poured himself into the new project, as he always had, and did little else but build. Soon enough, the skin of his hands was toughened once more and no one could say the clothes he still wore had once been pure white.
There was always work to be done and he was thankful for it. If his hands and mind were occupied, he had no reason to think of much else. To dwell on why it was always so easy to find the material he needed in quick strolls through the woods — he did not wish to think about Aulë’s kind, understanding eyes —, or on how Curvo would have loved the hydraulic system he had created, how Tyelpe’s eyes would have lit up as he started to think of improvements to be made.
No. That was before.
He had felt Tyelpe’s soul against his own in the Halls, had felt its pain and sorrow. He had led his grandson to his death. Tyelpe would never again be the carefree youth who shadowed his footsteps. Who looked at his work with inquisitive eyes and asked far too many questions that aggravated his atya but could only ever be endearing to his grandfather. And Curvo - Curvo would never forgive him.
But if he kept on working, if he worked hard enough sleep had no other option but to claim him swiftly each night, he was almost able to forget it.
He still carved himself a dinner table far too big for his house, and his hands would not stop moving until ten seats had been made to accompany it.
It was not that he did not hear the horse approaching, but rather that denial had become too comfortable a companion for him to abandon it.
Fëanáro knelt in the dirt, hands working expertly at tending the plants he was growing. It would have been easier, he knew, if he would sing some words of power, but he had not yet risked trying. He did not wish to try only to realize that he could not. That his voice had been distorted, that his soul was still so tarnished that he would cause only dissonance with his singing, like the enemy had so long ago. So he cared for his growing herbs and flowers with his hands and focus, like everything else.
So much focus, it would seem, that he had tricked himself into believing that he was not hearing what he was. Until it was too late to flee.
He kept his head bowed as he placed his hands on each knee to keep them from trembling as the horse came to a halt a few feet behind him. He did not have to look to know who it was for even now, after ages apart, she still pulsed inside of his veins and he could still recognize her by the sound of her footsteps behind him. But she did not come as close as he wished she would, and he was left there, waiting.
Standing up to look at her, talk to her was unbearable. But even more so was the silence she offered him.
Fëanáro did not sigh, though he felt the need. Of course she would not be the first to speak. He owed her this. He owed her a lot more than this. A lot more than he could ever repay her. And yet there was nothing he could give her, not even comfort. She must have known that, so why did she still come? Perhaps to add to his punishment. Perhaps to force himself to face his shortcomings once more.
Very well. He could not give her comfort, but he could give her his suffering, if she so wished.
So he stood up and forced his hands not to tremble when he turned around. And when he did- Fëanáro had not been prepared for the sight of her. Her flame coloured hair and her fierce brown eyes. She was thinner than the last time he had seen her — when she had begged him not to take away her sons and he had forsaken her —, but she did not look frail. Tired, yes, but not weak. Instead, she looked hardened. Her stiff shoulders and raised chin made her look commanding, regal. Something she had never aspired to be. Her eyes were guarded, not a hint of warmth could be found in them, but neither could you see any whispers of hatred. She stared at him as one would look at a stranger and that was, perhaps, more painful than he could bear.
But she was there. Beautiful as ever and so close he could pick up on the faint scent of lavender from her hair.
“Nerdanel,” he breathed. It was, he realized, the first thing he had said after leaving the Halls. His voice was raspy and raw, but her name still sounded lovely falling off his tongue. After all, how could it not?
“Fëanáro,” she greeted mildly. “So it is true. They let you out.”
He bowed his head. "Yes.”
She clicked her tongue. If disappointed in the Valar for freeing him or in him for his monosyllabic answers, he could not say. He had always had a way with words and she had always claimed he loved the sound of his own voice far more than it was reasonable. But he could not love it now, this broken sound or his empty words. There was much he wished to say, but how could he? Asking for forgiveness was pointless, he knew. And his apologies would ring hollow to her ears, more for his benefit than hers.
“For how long?” she inquired.
“I do not know for certain,” he admitted. “Months, perhaps a year.”
An ember sparked behind her eyes. “And you have been living here. On your own. You,” she said, curling her tongue around the word with distaste, as if addressing him left a sour taste in her mouth. “are selfish and a coward.”
He did not flinch under her reproachful gaze or at the venom in her words. She spoke the truth, he knew, and he did not believe he had the right to feel hurt by her accusations. He wished he could explain to her, tell her it had been mercy and not selfishness that had led him not to seek out his family. That he had not wanted to impose his presence upon those he had hurt the most. But it would not be the whole truth — he had been scared to face them. To see the disgust in their eyes, deserving though he was of it.
Fëanáro did not open his mouth to protest and something much alike disappointment could be seen in the way she pressed her lips together. She had expected a fight. Of course she had. The last time they had seen each other, all they had done was fight. Perhaps she scarcely remembered a time when their interactions had gone differently. When love had flown freely between them, when their shared smiles could light up a room.
He remembered it all. Her auburn hair glowing orange in the light of her father’s forge. Her laughter ringing loud and carefree as she made fun of him, the young prince who had not yet mastered his gifts. Her hands trembling with excitement on their wedding day. The proud tears in her eyes as she watched him hold Nelyo for the first time.
That had been so many ages ago. It was no wonder the memories had turned to ashes in her mind. That all she could recall was bitterness and pain and regret. He bowed his head. Perhaps it would only disappoint her further, but he could not help but offer her compliance. For all that within him still flared a forest fire, his flames would never burn her again. He needed no oath to keep that promise.
When his eyes met hers again, her gaze was guarded. Enough so that he could not decipher her. And he could only watch as she turned on her heels and began putting some distance between them. But, to his surprise, she did not march towards her horse and left him standing there like the ghost he was, but instead walked directly into the house he had built.
Fëanáro gave her some time before he followed her. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he had given himself some time.
This still felt too much like a dream. He had those often enough — when the thoughts of meeting his family again permeated his subconscious and gripped his mind with iron, unrelenting claws. Those dreams always turned into nightmares, and he knew this one was well on its way to doing so, too. Still, he could not turn away now. Could not leave her all alone in an empty house yet again.
When he finally joined her, he was not surprised to see her busy in the kitchen. She had never been much of a cook, but she had also never been one to sit idly by when she was anxious. Or perhaps she simply desperately felt the need to use sharp knives to cut into something and, for one, he was glad the potatoes were taking the blunt of her anger, even if he was more deserving of it. She did not look up at him, but let out a small, irritated huff as he walked inside. It almost made him smile. She would do the same thing back when their fights were small and petty and he would seek her out to try and make amends. When there were still amends that could be made.
So he watched her work for a moment or two. Pretended their disagreement was over him not letting Ñolofinwë’s children spend the night at their house, pretended he could win his way back into her good graces with sweet words and loving kisses and that soon all would be forgotten.
But there were no words or kisses or touches that could take back what he had done. No way to lighten the darkness he had inflicted upon their love. And so he sighed.
“Why are you here?” he blurted out. Nelyo would have flinched at his lack of politeness, but Nerdanel had always known him to be blunt. She did not look taken aback by his question, simply looking up at him with a raised brow.
“Because you were once my husband.”
Her words were vicious, but her tone was not unkind. He wondered if the remark had been meant to sting him, or if she were simply trying to establish the boundaries she desired them to work upon. It still made his heart ache. Caught up in linguistics as he was, he could not help but reflect upon all the meaning a simple change in tenses could entail. She was not here because of who he was, but because of who he had once been to her.
He had not known he had allowed hope to be kindled at the hearth of his heart until it had been snuffed out so swiftly.
He cleared his throat. “You are under no obligations, Nerdanel. The Valar know I would never hold you accountable for-”
“For the oath I took?” She cut him off. “Strange. I thought you would be one to understand the importance of oaths. Perhaps not.”
Her words were as ice shards, cutting into his skin. He had known Nerdanel to be ruthless and stern when needed be, but she had never been one for cruelty. Not until he had made her capable of so. Not until he had perverted this world so thoroughly, in ways that even the enemy had not been able to accomplish. He could only bow his head, if out of respect or out of defeat he could not say and he was not certain that it mattered. All that mattered was this — this complete disruption of all that had been good. All of his failings laid before him so clearly.
Fëanáro had known that she would hate him, be disgusted by him. But he had never considered that she would see the oath she had made to him– that she would look upon the vows that had spilled so lovingly from her lips all those ages ago with the same despair and regret he regarded the oath he recklessly took that fateful night. That she would feel trapped in this marriage, pulled by an invisible thread she could not get rid off. It grieved him to know that their bond, that golden, beautiful thing crafted by the union of their hearts, had been reduced to this. Rust had grown all over it, weakening, defiling it, but not destroying it. What was once love had become but an obligation.
He wished she wouldn’t have come, because, deserving though he was of the agony she was inflicting on him, she suffered, too, he could tell. And he could not help but think that she came here with at least a few expectations. Couldn’t she see it? There was nothing he could offer her. He would yet again disappoint her.
Fëanáro stayed silent, words failing him once more in a way they never had before. Nerdanel clicked her tongue with impatience and simply continued working on dinner. His heart ached, as he could see she had no plans to leave. Not yet. She had always been stubborn, relentless. It was one of the things he loved about her.
Not knowing what else to do, Fëanáro slowly approached her. She ignored him, which he decided to take as a good sign as he quietly began to work alongside her. And it was not right, the way they fell into synchrony so easily. How working side by side, even on something as simple as cooking, still felt natural. It was most horrifying. He did not belong anywhere near her, and yet anyone looking at them would beg to differ. It made her shoulders stiffen and his jaw clench, the familiarity of the scene.
Still, she did not step away so neither did he. They finished preparing their meal and ate it at the too big a table he had crafted. She made no comments, though the ghosts of their seven children loomed in the corner of the room.
They spent the rest of that first night in silence, which he did not mind. He had grown rather accustomed to quietness in the past few months and he found himself enjoying it. There was nothing he could say to express his sorrow or to beg for her forgiveness, and so it was better to say nothing at all. And, though he had always been concerned with what was said and how it was being said, there was something comforting about silences. It felt not like a lack, but rather as a multitude of things happening all at once. Every fight they could be having, every apology he could be uttering, every failed attempt at explaining how things had come to this.
Days went by silently. They did chores side by side without uttering a word, and it was a special kind of torment that, in truth, no word was needed. He still knew her cues and tells, still knew what to do to help her before she had to ask him for it. And she still knew him. Knew the works he would have neglected around the house, knew what he needed before he knew it himself.
But it was more than that underlying synchrony.
Sometimes her eyes would fix on him, seething. All the hatred piled up in the past ages coming to the forefront of her mind and heart. And he would lower his eyes, acquiescing, in shame, in regret. And other times she would stare at him with more sorrow than Nienna could hold, with almost as much sorrow as he was filled with… And it took everything in him not to hold her in his arms again.
There were even moments, fleeting though they were, where her eyes would soften and be filled with the kind warmth that reminded him of Mahtan's forge.
"Do they know that I am here?"
It was how he chose to break their silence. The weight of that unanswered question had been pressing down on him for too long. He did not have to specify who he was referring to.
Nerdanel looked at him, unsurprised. But it was as though heavy iron gates had closed behind her eyes. Not in anger, he realized, but she was being guarded. As though he was someone from whom their children needed protection. It made a knot form in his throat, because perhaps she was right. He had led all of his children and his only grandchild to ruin, to their deaths. They might have atoned in the Halls, but healing did not always have to mean forgiveness. Maybe, in this instance, it could not mean forgiveness. Fëanáro would gladly take the burden if the path his children took to rid themselves off of their demons was placing them upon him. He could only hope they reserved their hatred for him and not for themselves.
And he would stay away. For the rest of eternity, until the world was remade, if that was what they needed. But he needed to know- He needed to hear about them, imagine their lives, their happiness.
Nerdanel squared back her shoulders, preparing herself for battle. “They suspect. We all did. We felt you. About a year ago. But it was strange, faint. I was not sure it meant something until… Until a couple of weeks ago, when the Valar announced that all doomed Ñoldor had been released from the Halls.” She took a deep breath. “They did not say your name, and, in truth, we had always thought you would be sundered forever, so many did not consider that you could have been returned.”
“Our children would have considered it,” he reasoned.
She scoffed. “Of course they have considered it. Of course they have wondered. But you must understand,Fëanáro, for them… It is not easy. Even to me, they have not discussed it. I do not think they know what to feel or what to hope for.”
Fëanáro studied her for a moment. The tiredness in her voice. The frustration at the fact that her children might have come back, but there were still parts of them that remained unreachable. One more thing to add to his endless list of crimes. It did not surprise him to know that they had not been clamoring for their father’s return, and he had enough decency left in him not to let the hollow ache in his chest to grow. He had no right to feel sad over his own predicament, he knew.
“I see,” he said at last.
Nerdanel offered no words of comfort, but she kept her eyes on him. Attentive. As if searching for clues of his pain, as she had done many times in the past. But he shook his head, dismissing her concern. It was more of a habit than an indication of care at this point, but, regardless, he was undeserving of it.
They allowed silence to stretch on again, a sweet companion anchoring his thoughts. It brought him pain, but endless relief to talk about them. It was as if they had been living inside of him, expanding and pushing his insides as he did his best to ignore it. And simply mentioning them for the first time had relieved some of the pressure. It made breathing a little easier, even if his heart ached with each beat.
“Will you tell me about them?”
So she did.
The sweet and the bitter. A harrowing account of how his wrongdoings brought endless pain to his children, to his brothers and their families. He had retained flashes of memories from the Halls, but it all became clearer, more focused as she spoke. Ñolo had followed him, in the end, had led his people. Had died. Bravely, stupidly. More alike him than he had ever understood him to be before. He remembered Tyelko, Moryo and Curvo all at once. An avalanche of grief burying him. I am so sorry, he remembered saying again and again.
The Ambarussa came next. His youngests. Nerdanel had begged him to leave them with her. He had called her a traitor. They had burned brightly and in tune, as always; no longer children, but still his children. Then came Nelyo. He remembered the words ‘I am so sorry’ once more, but this time spilling from his eldest. It did not matter how many times he told him it was not his fault, the words kept coming.
Tyelpe. Broken and battered. The tatters of his spirits were scattered and scared and nothing like the young boy who had shadowed his footsteps so many ages ago.
Nerdanel filled in the gaps of what he did not know. Laurë had never passed to the Halls, and he was not sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He had wandered the seaside, singing of the woes the Oath had brought them over and over until even his golden voice went hoarse.
Despite what the Oath had claimed, it was not all eternal shadows.
Makalaurë had not been truly alone, it seemed, for they had new grandchildren. It was complicated, Nerdanel had claimed, but Nelyo and him had fostered twins who had become as sons to them and, though they would never meet Elros, Elrond now resided in Aman. He was sweet-tempered and kind, a healer born in war time. An elf lord in his own right. He had a way with words, like Nelyo, and had learned to play and sing from Laurë. He had managed to drag one of his fathers onto a boat when he had sailed West.
One by one, their children had been returned from the Halls. Perhaps not fully healed, but whole and with the characteristic stubbornness of their household. They persevered, and thrived, and tried.
Nerdanel smiled widely as she spoke of them. Of the endless squabbles, the family dinners, the love and loyalty that endured despite all they had been through. Fëanáro found himself smiling, too.
“I shall leave soon,” she informed him one day.
Despite the obviousness of such a predicament, it still caught him by surprise. The past days had been quiet and simple, flowing by effortlessly with the casual sharing of new stories and details about their children's lives. They talked of little else, but they had found such sense of ease that it seemed unkind to disturb their tranquility. Until now, at least. For she was leaving and it was as though the ground had disappeared from underneath his feet.
“Oh.”
The once unfamiliar lack of eloquence struck him again. He knew not what to say. He did not wish her to leave; he scarcely remembered what it was like being so utterly alone or how he had borne it for all those months. Even now, despite the insurmountable distance that stood between them, Nerdanel’s presence was like a sweet summer morning. Radiant and warm. If she went away, not even the sun could fight off the darkness and cold she would leave in her stead. Still, he knew he could not ask her to stay —- or worse, ask to leave with her. To meet his new grandchild. To see all of his children. Tyelpe. His brothers.
He could not inflict his presence upon them, upon all of the people he had wronged. But having now had a taste of his past… It was a challenge not to grip tight onto it and not let go.
“They will be waiting for me,” she said by means of explanation. As though she needed an explanation to leave him.
Fëanáro nodded. “I understand.”
And he did, but that did not mean he liked it. His mind was bursting with questions he was not brave enough to ask — will you come back? Will they ever come? —, and his hands were starting to tremble. Stop that, the regal, proudful corner of his mind seemed to yell. That voice had been the loudest for the longest time, but it seemed distant now. An echo of the person he could no longer be.
Still, he forced himself to listen to it. To square back his shoulder and breathe evenly until his heart did not feel as though it would beat out of his chest. Nerdanel would leave, and he would bear it as she did when he had been the one to leave her all alone.
If the Valar were watching, they were likely rather amused by now.
They fell back into silence, which did not help with his racing thoughts.
Still, he tried his best to appear calm. He cooked her a meal she liked for dinner and took her whispered ‘thank you’ and the sparkle in her eyes as a prize more precious than any of his jewels.
Far too soon, he found himself standing by her as she saddled her horse.
He watched attentively, trying to memorize all the details about her, as if there was anything about her he didn’t already know by heart. Her auburn hair in a tight braid, as she had always favored when riding. Her pursued lips as she focused on securing the straps. Her soft voice whispering soothing words to her mare.
Before long, she turned to look at him. A knot formed in his throat. He had spent the last couple of days wondering how this goodbye would go, planning for what he would say, but- He found himself falling short yet again. He feared that if he were to say anything at all, he would beg her to stay and that wouldn’t do.
But Nerdanel… She looked at him, waiting. Still looking for something he had not offered her. The crease between her brows told him that she was frustrated with him and the Valar knew she had reason to be, but he did not know how to fix it.
“Well,” she said expectantly, her brown eyes staring at him, unimpressed.
He raised his eyebrows. “Well?”
Nerdanel crossed her arms, impatient. “You have yet to say that you are sorry.”
Fëanáro almost laughed. There was nothing humorous about it, of course, but he could scarcely hold himself back. Instead, he blurted out. “Why would I?”
Any warmth in her eyes ebbed away as a piercing coldness befell her. She looked as she had the day she arrived — regal and gelid. Distant and so unlike his wife it almost made him cower.
“Why would you?” she repeated, disbelief and anger coloring her voice.
Fëanáro swallowed. Of course- Of course that was what she wanted. She wanted him to apologize. She deserved as many apologies from him as she would deem fit. However, he could only stare at her, trying to find the words that would not come.
Nerdanel scoffed, moving to turn away from him. He grabbed her elbow before she could.
“Would it make anything better?” He asked, something akin to desperation in his voice. She did not answer. She did not have to. “Do you wish to hear how sorry I am? How all of it tore apart something so fundamental in me that the Valar could not piece me back together even after ages in the Halls? Do you wish me to apologize for murdering our kind, for turning our children into kinslayers? For causing the death of our sons and our grandchild? For abandoning you?” The laugh that escaped his throat was hoarse and hollow. “I am not sorry. There has yet to be invented a word that can describe what I feel and I find that even I cannot place letters together to create one that might suit me. I felt their pain in the Halls, and I feel it even now. I will carry it with me, always.
“You do not wish to hear it,” he assured her. “You do not wish me to start speaking of my grief, because, if I do, I shall never stop.”
He burned. His soul burned, his body burned with incandescent anger and sorrow. But Nerdanel- her eyes softened and her hand was gentle and cold when she reached out to touch his cheek. He shivered, and softened, too, turned pliant underneath her touch as the clay she used for her sculptures. Her lips curved into a small smile that was warmer and so much kinder than the scorching heat of the sun.
“There,” she said. “Was that so hard?”
Before he could tell her that yes, it had been, Nerdanel let her fingers trail down his cheek, following a path south until she was gripping his shoulder. He went willingly when she pulled him to her, wrapping her thin arms around his body in too tight an embrace. But it mattered not how strongly she held him, it was not enough to keep him from falling apart, and, for the first time, Fëanáro allowed himself to weep.