To Persevere

Sometimes, Nerdanel wonders why she married him.

Fëanor is selfish. He is high strung and difficult to manage even on the best of days, and with her husband, everything is about me and mine and more. He is lovely, her prince-of-fire, brilliant and beautiful and so brightly burning, but he is not an easy person to love.

In hindsight, she is certain Fëanor loves only two things in return: his father, and the jewels. She sort of loathes him for it.

On the difficult days – the days where her husband seems to be a few bellows short of a forge – Nerdanel thinks that everything is pointless. That she was a fool for marrying so young. She thinks that she should have listened to her father; that she should have stayed away from Fëanor when he said no good would come of it. She mulls this choice over and over, like a restless stone turned repeatedly between her hands. Then she swallows it, weighed down by worry, and says no more. She has many stones like this, sitting inside her belly, worn smooth and mulled over and blackened with pitch until they're the color of coal.

Always, she thinks of the children, to make herself feel better. Her beautiful babies, each of them as talented and as lovely as the last, only they are not so little anymore. They are their father's sons first, she knows, but Nerdanel loves them dearly, and when it comes to her children she has no regrets. Not yet. They are the only good things Fëanor's given her.

They are smart, her sons, but they love their father to death, and will probably follow him to it, too. Talent is a poor substitute for stability, and while her sons have it in spades, Nerdanel knows they've inherited their father's temperament. She never thought she'd be bitter with the choices she's made, but the way her chest tightens and her eyes feel tired whenever she thinks of her husband says otherwise. She regrets it. She regrets him. She doesn't say so out loud – because think of the children, Indis pleads with her – but she knows her sons know the truth, and they are hurt by it.

Fëanor is aware of her discontent, but doesn't care. He cares about very little these days, as nothing shines quite as bright as his jewels. When she is alone at night in the marble halls that make up their home, Nerdanel will stare at her latest statue with dust coating her bloodless hands, and she will hear the echoes of the ghosts that fill her future.

It's all she can do to keep herself from screaming.

The first time she questioned her marital decision, she thinks, was when Fëanor named their first-born son. Maitimo had been a beautiful baby, with auburn curls just like hers and big gray eyes exactly like his father's. Fëanor had been impressed with his son, but not for the reasons he should have. Nelyafinwë, he'd promptly called him, holding up their son and inspecting him as he would a rough-cut jewel. The Third Finwë, as if the child hadn't had any uncles to speak of.

Nerdanel had been too tired to scream. Mostly, she'd been in shock.

"Do you want your brothers to hate you?" She'd asked. Fingolfin was distant with her, but she respected him greatly, and of her husband's youngest brother, she had no quarrel with. Finarfin was a darling. Fëanor had made a scoffing sound, bouncing their red-haired baby in his arms. Maitimo had begun to cry; a soft, sniffling sound that tugged at her heartstrings and made Nerdanel want to hold him.

"I have no brothers." He'd said, then proceeded to rant about how much he hated his stepmother; how he hoped his brother's first-born son was stillborn. Nerdanel had been horrified. This is not the one I married, she'd though. But yes, an insidious little voice at the back of her mind had crooned, it is.

She'd quickly taken her newborn baby back from her husband, disgusted and distraught. Only later, when she'd calmed down, Nerdanel had told herself that it was simply first time jitters; that Fëanor was new at being a father, and had always been temperamental. He would calm with age. That's what one does in the beginning, she thinks now. When you are young and still sort-of-in-love, you tell yourself maybe it's me, and believe you can make them better. She is furious with herself for being so foolish.

Nerdanel was older when Macalaurë was born. Still hopeful – she wanting to fix things – but less idealistic. She'd wanted another baby, because babies always fixed things, Indis had told her. Macalaurë had looked more like his father, which was good, as Fëanor was vain like that. Maitimo hadn't been enough of a mirror to please him.

Instead:

"I have two now!" Her husband had cackled madly, like he was collecting jewels instead of living, breathing sons. Cogs in the works, they were to him – little toy soldiers to put swords in the hands of and anger in their hearts and oaths on their lips. Hateful and bitter, just like their atar. See how the Valar have wronged us.

But her sons were princes, and they had been too young to be wronged, except by themselves.

Nerdanel still remembers the look on Maitimo's face that day; the day his brother Macalaurë was born. He'd been quiet and pale, and seemed far too old for his age, his expression almost resigned with transcendental weariness. Nerdanel had ached for her son. She'd cried for the loss of his childhood. The burden of being the eldest was a responsibility Maitimo didn't want, yet he never complained. He was her baby, her beautiful, bright-eyed son, and she loved him dearly for it. She loved all her children like that. Only her sons were monsters now; falling down the same glass-strewn path as their father, jagged and sharp-edged and angry. Nerdanel wants to hate Fëanor for it, but she can't. Not yet.

Shouldn't have married him, her father says. Think of the children, Indis pleads. But she did marry him, and she did think about the children, only she hadn't acted when she should have.

So Nerdanel sits in her empty halls, alone with the ghosts of her future. There is a chisel in her hands, and dust on her face. When the trees die, she smashes her statues. She curses the Valar and she curses her husband, because neither of them have done anything for her but bring her heartache. Her sons. Her sons. He won't even leave her one, and she tells Fëanor she hates him for it, but doesn't. She stays silent, because they'll be his monsters, now. Minions of Foolishness, Slaves to the Oath. Nerdanel can see it.

The night before they leave, her eldest son comes to say goodbye. The younger ones wont talk to her anymore; too much her husband's pawns, she thinks and how could you betray our atar? She is sitting in a pile of marble dust and broken dreams that have turned to nightmares, staring out into the gloom. Maitimo crouches beside her, and Nerdanel knows that if the light were better, she could see his face – beautiful, just like his father's. Only, it is dark now. She sees no light in their future.

When she doesn't acknowledge him, or even move, her eldest son pulls her into a hug. Slowly, Nerdanel returns the gesture, awkwardly wrapping her arms around his neck. He liked hugs as a child, her Maitimo, but he is not a child anymore, and he's grown so tall the position is awkward. He is dressed in armor and carrying a sword. She hates it.

"Come with us." He begs, and hearing her son beg is a sad sort of thing, because he's as strong willed and prideful as his father. Rarely does he beg for anything. Princes shouldn't beg, Fëanor told him as a toddler, and even though Maitimo is all soft inside, he'd taken his father's words to heart. Still, Nerdanel is unmoved.

"No."

"Please ammë." Maitimo says. "I don't… I don't want to leave you behind."

"I am not going." She says, and she means it. Nerdanel knows this is not what her baby wants to hear, but she tells him anyways, because she is tired. She has been lying for so many years, and she doesn't want to lie anymore. She leans back, out of his grasp, and cups her son's face in the gloom. Nerdanel wishes it were light out. She is not used to this new reality, this darker reality, of the days and weeks and months to follow. She knows if there were but a bit of light, she would see him staring at her, unflinching and full of desperate hope.

"Take care of your brothers." She tells him, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Never lead them astray, and when you're done playing war with your atar, bring them back to me."

"Please ammë." He begs again, more ragged this time. It is a painful thing to hear her son beg, but Nerdanel has begged for years now, and no one's ever listened to her.

"No." She says. Her voice is firm.

After Maitimo leaves, Nerdanel weeps for her baby.

Eons later, when her bones feel old and her soul feels older, her son returns. It's not the one she's expecting. It is her second child, her lovely Macalaurë, only he's not so lovely anymore.

Her dark-haired son looks like a wraith, skeletal and barefoot and dressed in tatters. When they drag him off the ship, he's shaking all over and half-mad with grief. Earlier, the others had told her elves were leaving Middle Earth in droves, and one of the last ships out had found him wandering along the shores. They're tried to bring him back in peace, but he'd fought so hard they'd had to knock him out and tie him up.

When they bring him to her, he is alone. The fact that his brothers are not with him is telling.

Nerdanel has heard rumors, of course; tapestries of horrors that have come down through the ages as her people return or are reborn. She's been warned about what her husband and sons-turned-monsters have done. She doesn't want to believe it. She has seven sons. Seven beautiful sons, and a husband she used to love more than anything. Surely there is a little bit of good left in them. She's prayed to the Valar for their return.

"Where is your father?" She asks her second-born son. Gently, though, because her baby is so very fragile.

"Dead." He croaks. Macalaurë is picking at self-inflicted scab wounds along his arms as he stares at the floor, rocking back and forth. His hair is unkempt, so long it drags past his feet. He is a pitiful sight, and inside Nerdanel weeps for him. The loss of talent and sheer waste of life is a tragedy.

"Where are your brothers?" She says instead. Although she dreads the answer, she can already guess.

"Dead." He repeats. Some of his wounds have reopened and begun to bleed.

"And Maitimo?" Nerdanel presses. She doesn't want to believe it. Can't believe it, because Maitimo was her baby, her beloved eldest son. She told him to take care of his brothers. Always, he's kept his promises.

"Dead." Macalaurë says, the words ragged and gasping, dragged past his lips with force. "He jumped in the pit. He jumped. He burned." Then her son is shaking, and sobbing. And even though he's a good ten thousand years old he's crying like a baby, breaking into pieces and begging her to make it better, because she's his mother and that's what mothers do.

"Ammë." He wails, scratching at his arms and so bowled over by grief he's bent nearly double. "Ammë, I couldn't stop him. Bring him back. It hurts."

Finally, Nerdanel hates her husband.

Author's Note

Ugh, I know. I said I wouldn't post more than one story at a time, but I had a sudden flash of inspiration and just had to get it down. I'm posting this late, so I'll have to fix all the errors in the morning (my apologies in advance). Also didn't include a glossary this time - but if anyone needs it, I'll make the adjustments.

For those of you waiting for The Hematic to update – have no fear, I will update soon. I haven't forgotten.