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The howls of the Noldor fill the cavernous hall, feral eyes glinting in the firelight. They are hungry for the flames of his wrath, a light to pierce the void of Ungoliant, but Fëanáro is a wild thing, too intoxicating to be trusted. He drives the Valar from their hearts with war cries spun from half-truths, and replaces them with an unquenchable, unreachable desire. Face half in shadow, he tears down everything they have ever known.
Nerdanel watches her people transform into creatures she does not recognise. Anarchy reigns and they revel in it, crying out for vengeance as if sheer ferocity could lend them the power to slay a god. It is a time of chaos and monsters, a time in which Fëanáro could declare war on Eru himself and it would not seem like hubris. He will demand everything of them and they will offer it without a second thought.
She understands. His brilliance is captivating, a fever she had succumbed to voluntarily until her will and his could no longer co-exist. There were only so many times he could be told no. He is too glorious; he scorches all who dare come close, and now he consumes his people in his own destruction, finishing what Morgoth began.
She cannot entirely separate this snarling fearsome creature from her lover; the same relentless energy boils within, but it has been tempered by a darker purpose. Her Fëanáro lived to create, this one to destroy – for all his words of freedom, he has bound himself to war everlasting.
(She is afraid he has lost his mind.)
(She is afraid he knows exactly what he is doing.)