Rating: PG Pairing: Fëanor/Nerdanel The characters and situations do not belong to me. They're the Professor's. No harm intended.
Measure of Feeling
by Beth
"You mean he-"
"Yes, I spoke to a man who saw the armoury. I don't blame him, with that maniac for a brother..."
"For a brother and heir to the king, don't forget. Yes, prince Fingolfin is right. And wise. He runs most of Tirion as it is..."
I put away the scroll I was examining. My hands are as steady as ever; I even brush my fingers down the length of the shelf in a familiar gesture of appreciation for another craftsman's work.
I briefly entertain the thought of knocking the shelf down, jumping over it to throttle the speakers. Of ripping their throats open with my bare fingers, watching their blood run over the bones and sinews of my own wrists.
But I do nothing. An appearance by the "maniac" would only strengthen the rumours.
I leave the marketplace calmly, regally. It's not the best acting performance of my life, but it's close.
The best acting performance of my life was when I stood next to Father and Indis at their wedding.
Then, love moved me. Now it is pride that puts me through these motions. Pride, a casing of hard ice around the flame of my anger. But it's still ice facing fire, and it will crack.
My only hope is that I manage to get home before it does.
As soon as the doors of my house close behind me, I drop to my knees. Every muscle in my body is suddenly pulled taut with a force that makes my very bones hurt.
For a time, I am not aware of the cold stone floor. I do not even know that the low, keening sound I'm hearing is my own cry, coming through clenched teeth.
I do not hear the footsteps, but I do hear their gasps. Maglor leaves immediately, and Caranthir leans down to help me stand.
Good choice, my son. You are the one more intimately acquainted with rage, are you not?
He pulls me up, and I lean on him as we walk into a side room. I move stiffly, as a mariner who has run out of food long before he sighted shore. Caranthir helps me into a chair, then kneels down to light a fire in the dusty fireplace.
As the first flames flicker to life, he looks up at me. His eyes are brown, like his mother's. Sad, determined, understanding.
The door to the room opens and closes. I do not have to look to know who the newcomer is: I would know those steps in the Darkness Everlasting.
Mother of seven, and still she moves like a summer storm. I do not doubt that if she picked up a sword, she would defeat me in combat. My wife, my love.
Caranthir rises hastily to greet her. She kisses his forehead and sends him out of the room.
She kneels at my feet, leans her head on my knees. We watch the fire together.
"Will you talk about it?" she asks.
My fingers draw a circle on her brow. Our old shorthand for "no".
She leans back to look at me. "Make armour," she says.
I frown.
She rises to her feet. My fingers have loosened the braids of her hair, and now it falls about her like a halo.
"I still do not believe those words of malice," she states. "I still think it is someone else, someone who would gladly see the princes of the Noldor quarreling instead of united."
I open my mouth to continue the familiar argument of last night and too many nights before that, but her hands bids me to be silent.
"I do believe there is danger, and I fear that with your fire, you will go too far when bound on attack, unable to defend yourself when things go ill. If you make swords, make also armour, Fëanor."
I rise as well, facing the woman. My foil, my folly, my wisest choice.
"What made us what we are today?" I hardly recognize my own voice. It's raspy, tired, faint.
She links her fingers through mine. "Love."
She touches our hands to my chest. "Hate."
And to her own. "Despair."