But she was strong, and free of mind, and filled with the desire of knowledge. ~Later Quenta Silmarillion
"Good morning."
Fëanor looked down in surprise. A young Elf-woman was seated at a table to his right. Her head was bent down, coppery-red curls falling in a cascade of glory down her back. Her hair fascinated him, he had never seen ought like it. He put down the pack he was going to give to Mahtan and nodded in return. "Good morning."
She glanced up at him now, and he stared at her in wonder. There was no doubt he had seen fairer; the Vanyar maidens with their ethereal beauty, but she riveted his gaze from the start. Her face was delicate, though not clear-cut, her eyes were large and brilliant green, but slanted strangely. In truth, she was not so fair, but there was an inexplicable charm to her face that gripped him. He motioned towards the marble block in her hands. "You are the daughter of Mahtan, yes?"
"Nerdanel." she returned, bent back over the marble block. "You are Fëanáro, son of King Finwë."
Fëanor nodded his black head, still entranced by her. "What are you making then, Nerdanel?"
"A statue." she said, looking up again with an impish light in her green eyes.
Fëanor grinned, leaning on the table. "Really. A statue of what?"
"Nessa. It is for the upcoming dance that honors the Dancer."
Fëanor gazed at it. Already, even half-formed, it held something of the lithe grace and girlish joy of the Vailë. "By the gods," he breathed. "You truly are skilled."
She gazed at him, though a pale blush flowered on her cheeks. "Thank you."
Once outside Mahtan's home, Fëanor smiled to himself. Let the Vanyar keep their maidens made of golden light and frail beauty. Nerdanel's strength drew him. He had needs to come back to Mahtan's forge soon anyway, now that he was an apprentice.
In her youth she (Nerdanel) loved to wander far from the dwellings of the Noldor, either beside the long shores of the Sea or in the hills.~ Morgoth's Ring
Wandering away from home and half-brothers, he had found Nerdanel, sitting on an overhang and watching the sea sing below, the gulls wheeling their white wings. She turned to him with a bright smile. "Hail, Fëanáro. What brings you out here?"
"Chance." he returned. "May I sit with you?"
She motioned to the soft turf. "I do not believe there is a law against it."
Fëanor sat down beside her, watching the foam roll upon the white sands. "Do you love the sea?" he ventured at last.
Nerdanel had seemed rapt in a world of her own; she shook her head. "I love it for its strength, for its beauty, but I do not love what lies beyond it."
She sat still again, her face bathed in the faint silver glow, and then turned to him. "Do you?"
Fëanor paused. He had known her so briefly, and yet he felt he could tell her all. "If I could be a land I could rule, and not submit to the orders of the Válar, then yes."
Nerdanel turned to him, her face grave. "And what about the people you ruled, Fëanáro? Would they not find your laws as taxing? Or would you be a wise King, a humble one?" She asked, arching her eyebrows.
Fëanor did not pause. "I would strive to be."
"And the Válar do not do the same?"
He shrugged. "Perhaps they did, perhaps once. Not now."
Nerdanel sighed. "I would not like to be under your reign, Fëanáro."
"And do you think you would make a better Lady?" he said, repressing a sneer.
Nerdanel's gaze was serious. "I think I would, and I say this without vanity. I do not desire dominion, as others, I only desire the furthering of skill and knowledge, of peace and beauty. Do you wish those things?"
"I wish for skill and beauty." he said, a little too hastily, it seemed.
"Yes, and all things as you desire. And you would become a King given to vain wishes, whose grip is steel and whose delight is misery."
"You are wrong!" he exclaimed angrily. "I would not!"
"You are already proud." Nerdanel said firmly. "A proud Lord is ever an evil one to serve."
Few ever changed his (Fëanor's) courses by council, none by force. ~The Silmarillion
Fëanáro had not return to the cliff where he had found the copped-haired daughter of Mahtan. Her words angered him. He would never do that; he hated the oppression, and those under his domain would be free as long as they did not hurt each other.
That is what he thought, but he trusted Nerdanel innately, her childish face such a contrast with the wide, wise eyes. Perhaps she was right, but how could he master all the turmoil and wild strength that was his nature? Was she the way, the cool silver of Telperion in contrast to the fiery gold of Laurelin, countering, balancing each other into beauty.
He did not know, but he would learn in time.
She (Nerdanel) made images, some of the Vàlar in their forms visible, and many others of men and women of the Eldar, and these were so like that their friends, if they knew not her art, would speak to them; but many things she wrought also of her own thought in shapes strong and strange but beautiful.~ Morgoth's Ring
Fëanor gently placed the metal into barrel of icy water, and watched it turn from white-hot to the silver sheen that was so dear to him. It was beautiful, an intricate corona, a crown for a Vanya maiden, and he had labored long over it with tiny strokes, making details in the silver, etching out strange designs upon the surface. And it was complete now. But as he gingerly lifted it, dripping from the depths, he thought that he could make fairer things, than a circlet for some frivolous girl. Something more powerful. Something fairer, more radiant. He would.
Nerdanel burst through the door, Laurelin's light dancing in dappled glory across her face and hair. Clay was smeared across her cheek.
She stopped upon seeing Fëanor standing alone, but he tossed her the crown, sending it spinning across the room, and she caught it. "There, what do you think? A pretty plaything for a vain Elven-Lady."
Nerdanel examined it carefully. "It is beautiful." She looked up, nodding approvingly. "You truly are skilled, Fëanáro."
The words sent a little shockwave rippling through his body, and as he stepped forward to take back the crown he felt a jolt as their fingers met, but hid it quickly. "What were you making?" he asked, reaching forward to brush off the dried clay from her cheek. She stood quietly until he had done, then rubbed her face against the muslin of her dress. "I was making…" She laughed. "In truth, I do not know what I was making!"
Fëanor frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
Nerdanel paused. "I have made things from my own thoughts. They have no name in the tongue of the Eldalië."
He frowned. "Then you have greater skill than I." He gazed at the torus. "I only make things that others have already crafted aforetime. But that will change."
She drew close to him. "And what will you make?"
He leaned down to her. She seemed very small besides him, not so tall as others and slender, but an iron will was beneath that overrode her body. "Things that have not been seen. Things of beauty. Things of wonder, Nerdanel."
And thus she and Fëanor had met and were companions in many journeys. ~Morgoth's Ring
The sand was soft beneath their feet, and the sea's wind brought salt into their faces and blew their hair back. Nerdanel blinked away the spray from her eyes, and she had to raise her voice to be heard over the thunder of the surf. "Where then shall we go, Fëanáro?"
Fëanor looked at her, and then at upon the white-crested breakers. "Whither do you wish too?"
She crossed her arms to keep her cloak from billowing out. "Up to the yonder stone. We can climb it."
Fëanor grinned down at her. "Are you swift?"
Nerdanel smiled up at him. "Yes."
"Then I shall race you there. Now!"
The damp sand whirled under their feet, and the waves filled them with a wild strength, and thought the wind pushed them back, the vigorous blood of youth stood them in good stead.
Fëanor came first, Nerdanel slightly behind him, her hair in wind-flurried glory, her eyes shining. The rock was towering monolith, jutting out of some underground root. Sea birds nested in it's high peak, and few dared to climb it, for it was worn almost smooth with wind and wave. Nerdanel kicked off her shoes, and sprung for a crag, but fell short. Fëanor stopped. "Do you want me to lift you up?"
She cast him a playful glance. "No! I will manage!"
He shrugged, and then watched as she failed twice, but on the third swung on her legs up into a precarious footing.
"Your Atar will kill me if you are hurt!" he shouted up after her, ready to catch her should she fall. Nerdanel made no answer, as she clung to the crag and painstakingly pulled herself up to where another small ledge was to serve as a hand-hold. Fëanor shook his black head and bounded up.
They sat on the top now, swinging their legs over the ledge, and watching the seabirds wheel in a storm of white wings, swooping over the waves.
"If we had wings, we would not have been gifted these." said Nerdanel with a rueful smile, examining the bloody scratches on her arm.
Fëanor laughed. "Oh come. You get worse injuries with your chiseling tools, and I never hear you complain of those."
She smiled up at him. "You have not been with me very long then, have you?"
"Not as long as I wish." he answered truthfully, a sudden ache coming over his heart as he watched her. It was one of those brief hours of starlight, and her face was shadowed sweetly as she watched the silver light glint off points in the sea. He loved her with a passion that hurt him, and she sat here, quietly ignorant, rejoicing in their friendship but withdrawing from things that suggested something more.
Fëanor was the mightiest in skill of word and of hand…..The Silmarillion
"What do you think I am to you?" he asked suddenly.
She was sitting with her legs tucked under her, still watching the sea, and silence had reigned supreme for the last hour. "I think you are a friend. But, if you want to be something more, say so." She was watching him now, her eyes eager. "And I will….be glad." Her voice trailed into a murmur.
Fëanor gazed at her in disbelief. A hand grasped his, not soft, hardened with work, but beautiful. He clenched it gently, painfully aware of how strong she was and yet how fragile by his side. Though in body they were not the same, her spirit matched his and that was what drew him from the beginning. He leaned down to see her eyes. He could easily gain fairer maidens, and they would be beauties to grace his father's kingly halls, but she was what he loved. He did not worship her, she was not his Queen nor Princess, but she was his love.
While still in early youth Fëanor wedded Nerdanel, a maiden of the Noldor; at which many wondered, for she was not among the fairest of her people. ~Later Quenta Silmarillion
He was hers. Her heart pounded, the passion of his kiss left her breathless, staring into the grey eyes that seemed to constantly burn with an inner fire.
"Melmë?"
The name sounded very strange, and very sweet. "Yes, Fëanáro?"
"Do you think Mahtan will hurt me?" His laughing face was very near hers as they lay on the golden flowers, watching the silver skies.
She rolled over. "Shame, Fëanáro. Atar will do nothing of the kind."
"He did not look very….amiable."
"Maybe you should not have kissed me in front of everyone." retorted Nerdanel. "I think that would be enough to make any good father less than…..amiable." She sat up, plucking some of the laurotë blossoms. "If we have a daughter, let us see how you fare when she gets wed."
He caught her hand. "You know, there is something that must happen before we have children…"
For Fëanor was driven by the fire of his own heart only, working ever swiftly and alone ~The Silmarillion.
Nerdanel looked into the forge. Her husband stood there, clad in a sleeveless tunic, his arms glistening with firelight as he worked the bellows. The time of gold and silver had both passed away, leaving them with the two or three starlit hours, before Laurelin's dawn rose again.
She crossed her arms and waited till he noticed her. It took some time before he looked up in surprise. "Nerdanel, what are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing. It is past what night we have in Aman, Fëanáro. Come to bed."
The hammer sounded sharp and very loud to her ears as he worked frantically. "Melmë, I cannot leave now."
She sighed. "Fëanáro, please."
He shook his black head obstinately, so she sat herself down on a block of iron, and waited. Sweat gleamed on his muscles as his work grew apace, and she watched him with eager eyes, curious as to what he was making.
There was a hiss and a splash as his work sank into the cold water. She sat there, still curious, but waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. Finally he turned to her, his hands begrimed he kissed her. "I am terribly sorry, Nerdanel." he murmured, a playful light in his eyes, and her lips thinned as a smile threatened to break through.
"You are a-"
"I know." he said. "But still you love me."
But not until the End, when Fëanor shall return who perished ere the Sun was made, and sits now in the Halls of Awaiting and comes no more among his kin; not until the Sun passes and the Moon falls… ~The Silmarillion
Fëanor stood in horrible silence, watching once again the light of Laurelin play over Nerdanel's face. The End had come. The Dagor Dagorath was fought and won, and he stood, watching his wife, the wife whom he had loved less than stones.
Her face was like he remembered, though her eyes were worn with tears. Her lips trembled as she faced him, but her eyes were steely. "You've come back to me, husband." she said, her voice chilly.
Fëanor all but cringed, but he bent his head.
"Do you have anything to say to me, after sending my sons to the slaughter?" Nerdanel continued.
"Nothing, Nerdanel." he said and looked her in the eyes.
She drew a deep breath, and he heard a half-drawn sob in it. And then she slapped him in the face, a jerky movement of Ages of fury and pain. He winced as it stung him, but did nothing. "I wish I could say I hated you, you unutterable fool." she hissed. "But I cannot."
"I am glad." he muttered. "I-"
"Do not say a word." Nerdanel snapped. "Or I will-"
"I know this is a great liberty, but allow me this." Fëanor returned, and embraced her tightly. Tears were freely streaking her cheeks now, his chest was damp where her head had lain against it for a brief minute but she pulled upright. "You do not have the liberty, Fëanáro."
Fëanor nodded sadly. "I do not deserve this. Forgive me, Nerdanel, and go your own way. If you have waited for me this long, do so no longer. Join the second Song of the Ainur. Find a worthier husband. This is no attempt to sway you into the opposite. It is the truth."
Nerdanel's breast was heaving, her voice was choked with emotion. "You are right, Fëanáro. You do not deserve this, but you will not command me to find another husband. Whether worthy or not…" She paused, drawing to his side once more, green eyes stern but icy no longer. "I cannot help it. I still love you. Count yourself forgiven on my part, and look to a new life." She opened her arms, almost reluctantly.
Fëanor gently took her hands in his own and kissed them. "You are so right, Melmë. I am not worthy of you. You are stronger than I. I fell in my pride. You are still...Nerdanel."