Author's Note: Hullo readers! Please enjoy reading! But before that, this story will focus on Middle Earth from the Quenta's timeline, but some chapters will be set in LOTR or The Hobbit's timeline. Also, as the summary said, the rating may change, and as this is in the Tragedy genre, be ready for some sadness. Lastly, all credit for the characters and setting go to the Professor and his diligent son Christopher.
1. As If A Secret Fire Were Kindled Within Him
She had heard of him as a child, of course.
Who hadn't?
Curufinwë Fëanáro, the son of Finwë Noldóran and Míriel Serindë. A most skillful and talented child, was what they said. Just like his mother.
Yes, his mother. They always talked about his mother.
Father, why is Queen Serindë called Fíriel?
Well, Nerdanel, my daughter, that is not my tale to tell.
What happened to her, Father?
—
She died.
Once, she had seen him from afar in the streets, sitting by the fountain with something beautiful in his hands. It burned brightly in the light of Laurelin, and Nerdanel could not but look at it.
They said he was tainted.
But in that hour, Nerdanel had not thought so. He was young, about her age, and he had seemed so innocent and pure; so pure, that Nerdanel had approached him, slowly but surely, with hesitant steps. But he had not noticed her, for his attention was solely on the gleaming thing in his hands. It was a lovely thing, round, smooth, and clear—almost glass-like: a sphere that seemed to hold the secrets of the world. It was black like the ashes in her father's forge, but it gleamed with the flame of life. She had not known what it was, but it was beautiful.
Just like the boy in whose hands it rested.
And then, he had looked up.
Grey eyes, like gems set on a sculptured white crown, had gazed at her, and burned her. Clear and glass-like—just like the stone in his marble hands. But so alive, so bright.
Too bright.
He had been too alive, scorchingly alive, and she had turned away, and fled.
Tainted. Burning. Alive.
She died.
She didn't know what to think. They said that the fire of his spirit had been so great at birth that she had been burned alive, and died. The spirit of Míriel Serindë had fled far, far away—away from her heartbroken husband and deathly infant son.
But if he was fiery, he was talented. As a child, he had been discontent with the work of Rúmil, and he had invented his own letters. Those very letters that all in Eldamar used and loved.
And the stone, she learned, was a palantír—a seeing stone. He had wrought it with the sheer skill of his hands and the fire of his will.
They called her Wise, but she didn't know what to think.
Tainted. Burning. Alive. Skilled. Willful—
Beautiful.
—
They were married that spring.
As the shimmering lights of golden Laurelin and silver Telperion mingled and danced upon the hill, the prince, her beloved Fëanáro, gazed upon her lovingly, and smiled. And in that hour, Nerdanel knew what she thought of him.
Even if he was tainted, even if he was deathly—
—
He was, and she loved him.