Proserpine
The true genesis of Nerdanel and Fëanor's relationship. Drabble. PG13.
He came up to me as I sat by myself on that fair green hill. I remember because it was a day of violently white clouds, and there were flowers between my toes, but he had fruit in his hand.
"Would you like some of my pomegranate?" he asked bluntly.
I did not even look at him. "Aren't you strange!" I said. He came down next to me, that eight-point metal cufflink against my bare leg.
"You know," he pontificated, drawing his index finger to the bridge of my nose, "that you have lovely child-bearing hips."
And that was Fëanáro.