Beloved Face
I look at his face. That beloved face...
I remember when I first saw him.
"Look Nerdanel, it is young Curufinwe Fëanáro," my father exclaimed when he introduced him to me. "He is a most talented student. I wouldn't be surprised if he one day would surpass me in skill."
Fëanáro pretended to be a bit modest, but I knew from the gleam in his eyes that he was very proud.
I liked him very much, and we became best friends. Already in our childhood it seemed obvious we would marry each other. Father was pleased.
I look at his face. He stands before me tall and proud - and smiling. Why does he smile, I do not know, but briefly I smile too. In his right hand are the Silmarils and his left arm hangs loosely at his side. His intelligent eyes seem to pierce me. When young I was a bit afraid of that flame inside him trying to escape through his eyes, but now I am used to it and it has become a sign of warmth, security, and love. He looks at me.
That beloved face I can't stop staring at. But I probably should.
Slowly I take a step towards him.
Now I stand beside him. I touch his hair. He doesn't look at me. Gently I reach to take his slender but strong hand as I've done so many times before. I feel his cold fingers as I press them in my own. He doesn't move.
That beloved face.
"Do you have to be so stubborn?" I whisper in his ear and kiss it. And still he doesn't move.
Marble never moves. It stands still and cold and even the most celebrated sculptors can't truly bring life to its hollowness. But with the original Fëanáro gone, what else do I have left than the silent sculpted versions of him and our sons I am surrounded by.
Tears run down my cheek. But it is long since he was there to wipe them away.