Nerdanel is appalled when she meets Fëanaro for the first time after his father's death; appalled by the sickness in his eyes, his body tensed as a bow, the harshness of his speech. She is appalled by his plans and his Oath. She considers begging him to leave the twins, but the moment she approaches him is the moment she knows he will refuse anything but the clearest vows of support.
She does not tell him that she approves, because she does not.
She does not tell him that she will help with revenge, because she does not know yet if she should.
But she tells him that she will follow him anywhere.
For one moment the anger recedes, and all she can read into his eyes is pain, loss and the uncertainty of one who knows the destination but not the way, and fear, so much fear he would drown; she knows she made the right choice.
She is there when Fëanaro understands the walk north will kill them if they keep going without boats. For the first time since his exile, she takes his hand and holds him until the council ends. She feels him trembling with rage when Nolofinwë accuses him of lack of foresight.
She knows he hurts because he agrees with his half-brother, even if he will never admit his fault, even when she tells him he couldn't have known.
She goes with her husband and her sons to talk with Olwë and despairs. She is unable to keep Fëanaro from insulting the king, unable to convince the Teleri to help. Her disquiet grows when her husband storms out, because she knows Nolofinwë will be on his back again and Fëanaro has no patience left for his reproaches.
Fëanaro decides to reenter the city in arms. He reassures her that the Teleri will not dare to oppose his fully armored guards. She does not believe him.
She does not say "I told you so" when they hear the first fight break out. She does not follow Fëanaro when he rushes forward, because he knows Curufinwë with his young wife and Carnistir are supposed to be where the clamor started. She calls for those around her to still their weapons, but there are people shouting everywhere and no one knows where the King is anymore, and soon blood is running down the streets.
She does not unsheathe her sword, but she does raise her shield above their wounded, the arrows of the Teleri raining on the wood and bronze with loud "thuds". They are pushed back and back and back until they can go no further, lest they fall into the water, when the trumpets of Findekano's host blow their song of anger.
She finds her husband right after Nolofinwë does. Fëanaro is standing on the deck of Olwë's royal ship, standing proud and expressionless and acting like he is unmoved by the floating corpses around his prize, and Nerdanel wonders how long he will stand Nolofinwë's accusations before he takes his sword out and tests its sharpness against his brother's neck. She steps between the two of them and convinces Nolofinwë to go care for Findekano.
She has to unclench Fëanaro's fingers from the hilt of his sword, finger by finger, as gentle as a lover. He watches her in silence when she washes the blood off his hands, knowing they will never really erase any of it, and breaks into her arms once the last drop is gone, asking how anyone can believe he would do something like this on purpose.
She almost turns back when Mandos states their Doom. She could take the twins and Carnistir with her, bring them back home with Arafinwë.
Then she looks at Fëanaro, at the children she will never persuade to turn back and decides she cannot let them go.
She goes to Nolofinwë in secret to ask if the rumors are true, if he allows those closest to him to call him Finwë Nolofinwë. She warns him, because he does not contradict her, that he is going too far.
Once again her diplomacy fails. She wonders why everyone calls her Nerdanel the Wise if they do not intend to listen.
She does not tell Fëanaro right away. She waits for a good, for the best moment, but he flies into a rage anyway and throws his brother's followers off his boats, stating that if Nolofinwë has nothing to do with Alqualondë, then he has no business on their stolen ships either.
There are moments, when they are alone together, when he looks like his old self. On the good nights he works fast and well, solving problems with great speed and efficiency, pushing everyone forward with restless determination, smiles and words that carry their sons and their people toward Middle Earth.
Then there are the bad nights.
Nights when he sees enemies everywhere. Nights when he cannot sleep. Nights when he scratches his arms when he thinks no one sees and digs his nails into his skin. Nights filled with nightmares and whispers. Nights when he clings to her like a drowning man, weeping and shaking, assailed by memories of his father and so many doubts she wonders how he can still rise from his bed.
But he does. Every night he stands, sometimes barely able to hide the madness creeping at the edge of his mind, sometimes blazing bright.
She manages to convince him, during a good night, to greet the children of Arafinwë on the ships .
She does not succeed in convincing him to send back the ship.
They decided to teach Nolofinwë a lesson and wait before they sent back the ship. Wait for a good night, wait for Fëanaro to find the strength to be more forgiving.
He never does.
Carnistir unwillingly plants the idea. He throws one of those angry jokes of his, yelling in the middle of a tensed council with the children of Arafinwë that if those damned boats went in flames, everyone's problems would be solved.
Carnistir does not know Fëanaro did not have any good night this week. He forgets his outburst as quickly as it came; his father does not, and Nerdanel sees the suggestion creeping into him.
If those damned boats went in flames, Nolofinwë would leave him alone. If those damned boats went in flames, Fëanaro would not have to choose anyone for the perilous travel back to Araman. He would not have to worry about the state of his bridgehead while some of his fighters are away.
For the first time since his exile, Nerdanel coaxes her husband back into her bed, not to sleep but to reignite the old passion; to reignite his old self, his old bravery, to slow his desperate flight forward long enough for him to send the boats. She does not admit to herself that she is tired, impossibly tired; that she needs the strength he used to give her, the light of his worship, the music of his soul. Their strong bodies melt, his long hands clinging to her wide shoulders, hair of mahogany mixing with his raven black. They fall asleep entwined together and she believes she may bring the good nights back.
She is awakened by the roar of flames and the cracking of wood, coming out of their tent covered in a single blanket that hardly hides anything. She does not have to see his eyes to know how mistaken she was; she can hear the wrongness in his voice, feel the agony of his spirit, the raving anger and the suffocating fear. The brush of dark whispers makes her skin crawl.
His words are harsh and full of confidence; he boasts about the mindless destruction to any who will hear him, his face inflamed by the wild glow. She watches him from afar, unmoving as one of her marble statues, the wind twisting the fabric around her hips and legs.
When he finally joins her, what hurts her the most is not that he did not listen: it is the sheer relief she can read in his eyes.