Nerdanel lay, knees held close to her chest to comfort herself. She was
alone, and the only person to ease her loneliness, her pain, and her sorrow
was herself. She could not speak of it with her friends. She had no close
friends, because she had given all her time and her love to her sons, and
to Fëanáro. She would not seek comfort from her sons, she did not wish to
lay her sorrow upon them. Pride kept her from telling her parents. When she
was young, and not yet as wise as she now had become, her parents had
warned her. They had told her that he would only dim her flame. She had not
heeded them. She was foolish. Now, she knew better. She had become Nerdanel
the Wise, but her wisdom was to no avail. She had followed the flame, and
now she could not live with out him.
Him. How she hated him. Once she had loved him, she had delighted in the warmth of his fire, always craving more. But the flame had blinded her. She did not see that warmth would become heat, and heat would burn, at last growing to a fire so large and powerful that it would feed off the fires of others. So many times she had tried to cool that fire, only to see it rise in wrath, even stronger than before. How she wished she could only turn her tears into to a river to drown that fire, and put it out. Put him out of her life forever.
But that she could not do. She loved him. She had been blind, and blind she was still. She still hungered for the fire, thinking that perhaps she might rekindle her fire with the heat of his. And for a while she would burn anew, delighting in the heat. But fire turns to ashes, and she would find that the fire had been only trickery, and had burned a part of her soul, which would blow away like dust, and a part of her would be lost forever. Each time he had tempted her with fire, and she had submitted, unable to resist what she had now become addicted to. The only way to keep herself alive.
Did she really want to live? Often she wished she could flee her body forever. But she knew now that even that would not cure her. For she had lost not only strength of body, but the strength of her spirit also. Every last ember, every memory of fire that there was had been drained from her, and she was turned to ice. She lived always on the brink of sleep. No. Not sleep. Something far more permanent: death. She could not go on. She could not go on.
Startled from her thought she felt suddenly the presence of someone else. She did not have to look to see who it was. She felt his presence, like a fire that burns all in its path, until at last they are cornered, with no way to escape but through fire. She wanted to leap up and run, run from him, to the ends of the world. But she was so weary that she could manage only;
"Leave." Her voice quavered, like a small child daunted by their father. Only then did she realize she was crying.
"Leave? Is this not my house?" He sounded confused, as he always did when she turned him away.
How could he be so blind! Couldn't he see what he was doing to her? She wanted to cry out. How she hated him! But she only began to cry uncontrollably. To shed tears hurt her wearied soul. He came up beside her to comfort her. She wanted to fall into his arms, to feel comfort, if only for a little while. But she would not. Not this time. She would not give in. She would cling to every last bit of life that was in her and she would go on. She would survive.
Tearing away from him with strength she thought she never had, she spoke distantly, words that surprised even herself, "Leave, Fëanáro. You cannot take more from me. When you are away, I only wish you were here. But when you are here I cannot bear it. You have taken all I had. Will your burning soul never be at rest? Must you devour my soul, as you did your mother'?" She knew at once she should not of said that. She could feel him tense as soon as she mentioned his mother.
"I did not kill my mother, Nerdanel" His voice was disturbingly toneless. But at the same time she could sense hurt, confusion, and wrath in it. Most clearly she could feel his anger. She could feel his eyes penetrating her and she longed to disappear. But her task was not complete. She had either to win this battle, or to die. She looked up, and faced him, eye to eye. Suddenly mad rage took him, and he lifted his hand and hit her to the ground. She fell, defeated, and did not rise.
Fëanáro looked down at the ground. He saw his wife lying there. What had happened? What had he done? Then the horrible realization of his madness came back to him. No. It could not be. What madness had made him do it? He knew. And he knew he had done it needlessly. He realized all at once how much he had drained her. How thoughtless he had been, thinking only of himself. Not realizing how much of her energy was drained, by him and into each of their sons. He stood motionless, unable to believe what he had just done. Unable to think what he would do now. Almost unwittingly, he ran out of their bedroom and into the courtyards.
The stars were shining brightly above him, but he did not see them. His head swam with emotions. Hate, love, confusion, helplessness. He felt helpless, and he realized how selfish he was to feel that way. She was the one who was helpless, and he was too afraid of what he had done to even tend to the matter.
He sat down on a bench, and tried in vain to calm his spinning head, which had only moments ago been clear. He put his head into his hands, and felt an unfamiliar sting come to his eyes. He felt water flow out from his fiery soul, and tears long unshed flowed down his cheeks.
Makalaurë lay uneasily in his bed. He had not fallen asleep that night. He had dreaded something awful was going to happen, and had been unable to rest. In the night he had heard a strange noise. It was as if someone was weeping, and then he had heard the thud of something hitting the ground. Now it was completely silent. Too silent. Not a single noise went through the house. He decided he would go and tell his mother of his discomfort. She would understand. He was glad his Father was in Tirion, and he would not have to face him. Fëanáro had been very short-tempered lately, and had snapped harsh words back at him every time he tried to speak. He had even tried to hit Maitimo, but Maitimo had quickly backed away. Father had realized at once what he had done, and had apologized many times. Makelaurë had never seen him in such discomfort.
He went quietly down the stairs and opened the door to his parent's room. He saw the unmade bed, and it was empty. He lifted up a candle that stood right outside the door. He nearly fell back in horror at what he saw. He was too mortified to even scream. He just stood by the door, unable to believe his eyes. His mother lay by the wall as though dead, bruised along her face. He ran up to her side.
"Mother?" he said, stroking her bruised face. She didn't answer. Surely she could not be dead. "Nerdanel, wake up" he said. She still lay lifeless in his arms. He felt tears unbidden roll down his cheeks. He leaned closer to her. She was alive. He could feel her breath, faint and cold, against his cheek. He did not know what to do. He knew that the Quendi could not die, but mother seemed close to it. He remembered his Father telling him about Míriel. He must find help. He must find Fëanáro.
He looked through all the house and could find him no where. He had woken Ambarussa when he stumbled noisily over something that lay in the hall. They had taken his precious time with curious questions. When he would not answer, they went back to bed at last, and Makalaurë made sure to lock their door. He could not let them see their Mother. He went out into the garden, but he could see no sign of Fëanáro. Perhaps he was in Tirion, and he had not heard about it. Nevertheless, he must find help so he hopped onto his horse and rode away into the night. He would go to Nolofinwë's house. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were certainly not good friends, but surely Makalaurë's uncle would help if he could.
Him. How she hated him. Once she had loved him, she had delighted in the warmth of his fire, always craving more. But the flame had blinded her. She did not see that warmth would become heat, and heat would burn, at last growing to a fire so large and powerful that it would feed off the fires of others. So many times she had tried to cool that fire, only to see it rise in wrath, even stronger than before. How she wished she could only turn her tears into to a river to drown that fire, and put it out. Put him out of her life forever.
But that she could not do. She loved him. She had been blind, and blind she was still. She still hungered for the fire, thinking that perhaps she might rekindle her fire with the heat of his. And for a while she would burn anew, delighting in the heat. But fire turns to ashes, and she would find that the fire had been only trickery, and had burned a part of her soul, which would blow away like dust, and a part of her would be lost forever. Each time he had tempted her with fire, and she had submitted, unable to resist what she had now become addicted to. The only way to keep herself alive.
Did she really want to live? Often she wished she could flee her body forever. But she knew now that even that would not cure her. For she had lost not only strength of body, but the strength of her spirit also. Every last ember, every memory of fire that there was had been drained from her, and she was turned to ice. She lived always on the brink of sleep. No. Not sleep. Something far more permanent: death. She could not go on. She could not go on.
Startled from her thought she felt suddenly the presence of someone else. She did not have to look to see who it was. She felt his presence, like a fire that burns all in its path, until at last they are cornered, with no way to escape but through fire. She wanted to leap up and run, run from him, to the ends of the world. But she was so weary that she could manage only;
"Leave." Her voice quavered, like a small child daunted by their father. Only then did she realize she was crying.
"Leave? Is this not my house?" He sounded confused, as he always did when she turned him away.
How could he be so blind! Couldn't he see what he was doing to her? She wanted to cry out. How she hated him! But she only began to cry uncontrollably. To shed tears hurt her wearied soul. He came up beside her to comfort her. She wanted to fall into his arms, to feel comfort, if only for a little while. But she would not. Not this time. She would not give in. She would cling to every last bit of life that was in her and she would go on. She would survive.
Tearing away from him with strength she thought she never had, she spoke distantly, words that surprised even herself, "Leave, Fëanáro. You cannot take more from me. When you are away, I only wish you were here. But when you are here I cannot bear it. You have taken all I had. Will your burning soul never be at rest? Must you devour my soul, as you did your mother'?" She knew at once she should not of said that. She could feel him tense as soon as she mentioned his mother.
"I did not kill my mother, Nerdanel" His voice was disturbingly toneless. But at the same time she could sense hurt, confusion, and wrath in it. Most clearly she could feel his anger. She could feel his eyes penetrating her and she longed to disappear. But her task was not complete. She had either to win this battle, or to die. She looked up, and faced him, eye to eye. Suddenly mad rage took him, and he lifted his hand and hit her to the ground. She fell, defeated, and did not rise.
Fëanáro looked down at the ground. He saw his wife lying there. What had happened? What had he done? Then the horrible realization of his madness came back to him. No. It could not be. What madness had made him do it? He knew. And he knew he had done it needlessly. He realized all at once how much he had drained her. How thoughtless he had been, thinking only of himself. Not realizing how much of her energy was drained, by him and into each of their sons. He stood motionless, unable to believe what he had just done. Unable to think what he would do now. Almost unwittingly, he ran out of their bedroom and into the courtyards.
The stars were shining brightly above him, but he did not see them. His head swam with emotions. Hate, love, confusion, helplessness. He felt helpless, and he realized how selfish he was to feel that way. She was the one who was helpless, and he was too afraid of what he had done to even tend to the matter.
He sat down on a bench, and tried in vain to calm his spinning head, which had only moments ago been clear. He put his head into his hands, and felt an unfamiliar sting come to his eyes. He felt water flow out from his fiery soul, and tears long unshed flowed down his cheeks.
Makalaurë lay uneasily in his bed. He had not fallen asleep that night. He had dreaded something awful was going to happen, and had been unable to rest. In the night he had heard a strange noise. It was as if someone was weeping, and then he had heard the thud of something hitting the ground. Now it was completely silent. Too silent. Not a single noise went through the house. He decided he would go and tell his mother of his discomfort. She would understand. He was glad his Father was in Tirion, and he would not have to face him. Fëanáro had been very short-tempered lately, and had snapped harsh words back at him every time he tried to speak. He had even tried to hit Maitimo, but Maitimo had quickly backed away. Father had realized at once what he had done, and had apologized many times. Makelaurë had never seen him in such discomfort.
He went quietly down the stairs and opened the door to his parent's room. He saw the unmade bed, and it was empty. He lifted up a candle that stood right outside the door. He nearly fell back in horror at what he saw. He was too mortified to even scream. He just stood by the door, unable to believe his eyes. His mother lay by the wall as though dead, bruised along her face. He ran up to her side.
"Mother?" he said, stroking her bruised face. She didn't answer. Surely she could not be dead. "Nerdanel, wake up" he said. She still lay lifeless in his arms. He felt tears unbidden roll down his cheeks. He leaned closer to her. She was alive. He could feel her breath, faint and cold, against his cheek. He did not know what to do. He knew that the Quendi could not die, but mother seemed close to it. He remembered his Father telling him about Míriel. He must find help. He must find Fëanáro.
He looked through all the house and could find him no where. He had woken Ambarussa when he stumbled noisily over something that lay in the hall. They had taken his precious time with curious questions. When he would not answer, they went back to bed at last, and Makalaurë made sure to lock their door. He could not let them see their Mother. He went out into the garden, but he could see no sign of Fëanáro. Perhaps he was in Tirion, and he had not heard about it. Nevertheless, he must find help so he hopped onto his horse and rode away into the night. He would go to Nolofinwë's house. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were certainly not good friends, but surely Makalaurë's uncle would help if he could.