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She could not remember the first time she had heard the whispers. The rumours passed from lips to ear in an endlessly entrapping chain around her. Could not recall which emotion had hit her in a pang so violent she could not remain standing. Her husband had been dead for several years when news began to reach her. She had tucked herself away in a quiet corner of her family’s estate, converting some of her father’s lesser used and brighter workspaces into rooms for her own art. She was not hiding, she was not the kind to bother – but to walk in smaller and smaller circles for days without end in the house she had shared with Feanor and seven sons, now all gone far to the east, had felt too oppressive a weight to bare in that moment.
Have you heard? A girl had whispered in the market, unaware or uncaring of who stood nearby. They say Mandos will never release him. Nerdanel’s ear had twitched. I can understand why, can’t you? Far too dangerous to have someone like that back among us. Her heart had wedged into her throat, she had tilted her face purposefully away. I hear the Teleri are still recovering.
Her husband was gone. He had been, she supposed for years. Even before his flight from the blessed lands, he had long since pulled away. His mind had curled in knots around those glowing jewels, had turned from her, from many of his sons. Only his father, did he still have eyes for. She had wondered at the time if that had simply been covetous. Finwe was the only thing outside of his works and his mirror son that mattered by the end and Nerdanel had long presumed that that attention too, would fade if his brother’s had not been a factor.
Her slow steps back to her parent’s home were dragged down further by the news, and by the question she wasn’t sure she could bare to face.
Would she even want her husband returned to her?
----
She did not hear word of her sons for many more years after the news of Feanor’s demise. When it finally reached her, she was almost glad of that. Fingolfin’s host had reached the distant shores, to find her sons and their people under the rule of Maglor. At the news, her heart had all but stopped. Nerdanel had always considered herself a rather calm mother. She had never been one to fuss. A scraped knee or a scolding was a learning experience for her boys, and she had always refused to coddle them, much as she loved them. But that. That news that Maglor held the crown of the Noldor, could have only meant one thing. Her eldest son, brave and handsome and hers, must be gone. Fled to Mandos’ halls after his father. She conjured images of Feanor and burned him over and over in her minds eye for his recklessness with their sons’ lives. She wished in that moment she could see him once more, if only to throttle him for seeing them as so disposable in his quest for the silmarils. To take them from her and destroy them thoughtlessly with his foolish oath of vengeance.
But her son had lived. Had been saved.
The details came to her in a garbled collection of stories. Picked at over falsely cheery conversations in markets she could not avoid and uncomfortable visits to her father’s corner of the great forges.
Maedhros had been injured, but she could not decern how, or where, or how badly, for every telling was a little different. He had been saved by a cousin – probably one of Fingolfin’s they said, but beyond that there were no details but those she could conjure herself.
Beyond that, she knew nothing else for many, many long years.
----
It came at a time she had almost made peace with not knowing. She had forced herself to return to normal as much as she could. Still living on her parents’ estate, she had found it easier and easier over the long centuries to reconnect with friends, to find enjoyment in the world around her once more.
Busy streets had not brought her news in many years. Of course they would the moment she had let her guard down.
Her sons were dead. That was all she knew. A tearful rendition of the story from an acquaintance who had heard the details through a friend of a friend. She did not know what had happened at first. Could not discern which of her children had fallen. It had settled upon her in a strange cloak of grief. To mourn, but to not know for whom she was mourning was worse, the believed, than knowing for sure. In her mind she parsed over each boy, tormented herself with what may have become of them. Each time a face carved itself into her minds eye, she could think nothing but ‘Please Eru not him’, knowing she would be destroyed on several thrice over no matter which had fallen.
There was no time in her mind for Feanor. Reckless and bold who had shaped their children with her. Who had made them strong, fierce, proud. She had clung to such traits as a beacon of hope over the centuries. As her nephews and niece slowly filtered into, and occasionally out of, Mandos’ halls. She had felt each of their losses keenly. Had held each of them as babes when their ever-large extended family met. But she had hoped through all of it, that her sons would remain untouched. It had been as if Eru had heard her prayers, for her boys never fled west to join their kin. She and their father had made them stronger than the rest. In such moments as those, she loved her lost husband so fully again that it hurt.
But the years of hoping had ended. Her sons, three unknown faces, were gone.
----
The people of Valinor were preparing for war.
The sight of them falling into line under Eonwe’s command stirred something in her. Something bitter and less joyous than in her peers who had gathered to watch them leave. The sight of Finarfin, somewhere near the front of the group – in a position of command – forced her to choke down fire in her throat. He had turned back before. Had been a coward where none of her own had ever been. Had been rewarded it seemed for holding so little conviction as to abandon his kin and turn back to the safety of the Valar’s lands. Had been given his son back, within only days of the boy’s death. She had avoided him at all costs, Finrod, who she had always loved dearly as a nephew for his kindness and generous spirit. She could not bear to look upon him when her own son’s, the lost three, were still withheld from her.
Her heart ached for them. They were no longer locked from her by the great sea, were not warriors in the lands of the east. They were held close by, in the gloom filled halls of Mandos. With their father. It did not feel fair, she thought, that he should get to see them again while she remained alone. Her heart ached for them. She missed each one so dearly, and above all, she missed family.
That, it seemed, she and her boys had in common. For as the war progressed, she caught snippets of stories. News was far easier to acquire from this conflict, one with the Valar’s explicit approval. The half-elven boy who had brought Manwe a silmaril had mentioned his sons. His wife had supposedly wept that they were likely dead. Nerdanel did not know quite what had happened, but she knew her sons were involved. She tried not to think of it too hard.
But new information circled the squares and streets of Tirion that the boys had not perished. That they had been taken in and raised by two wayward sons of Feanor. Her heart had risen higher than it had been in years. Her son’s, the eldest two it transpired – confirming to her which of her children had fallen – had taken the children for their own. She chewed on the description, the sons of Feanor. Her husband had been a good father in ways. He had loved his children with a ferocity no other could match. He had trained them and taught them and at one point, had valued them above all else. But she was not blind to his faults. He had shaped them into points, harsh and cruel when the time came. He had loved them yes, but she was not sure that was always enough. Nerdanel could not help but to hope that in this brief shining moment, they would not be their father’s sons. That they would be hers. Perhaps then the rescued twins may yet have a chance.
----
It was after the casting of Morgoth into the void, and the death of one more son, that she saw him. The nephew she had so desperately been avoiding.
Finrod appeared at her door one day in early spring, as she mourned her eldest, wondered after Maglor, and dreamt of a reunion she knew would never happen. Where her sons would emerge from the timeless halls and her husband with them, and she would once again feel the crush of bodies around her and the clatter of dropped plates and the irritation of one too many oversized children underfoot.
He appeared simply. In travelling clothes – alone bar his horse. He waited at her door patiently and smiled softly when she finally gathered the courage to throw it open.
“Aunt Nerdanel,” he said, stepping forwards to embrace her. Her head nestled against his shoulder, and she had to bite back tears which sprung to her eyes as she pictured one of her own in his place.
“Finrod, what can I do for you?” She had stepped aside to let him through into her workshop.
“I have not seen you since my return,” he focussed those brilliant blue eyes upon her. “I have missed you.”
“I cannot assume why.” She did not mean to be so blunt; he had always been a good boy. “As I have heard it since the war ended, it was two of my sons who sent you to your fate.” They had been their father’s sons through and through. Nerdanel did not want to know if it was that cursed oath, or simply their nature – to be all the worst of her husband. It was no harder to miss them for it. But it had become far less acceptable for her to mourn them aloud.
“My oath, and Gorthaur, are what led to my death,” his hand came to rest upon her shoulder, “your sons merely tried to take my city. And failed.” She could hear the smile in his voice, almost affectionate. She could not be sure what he said was truth. She imagined they had persuaded many from Finrod’s path. Numbers which may have saved him. She did not turn to look upon him.
A sigh.
“You sound as if you still care. Despite what you have suffered at their hands.” She managed.
“How could I not, they are my family for it all. Besides, righteous vengeance is far more my sister’s domain than mine.” At this she did turn. Laughed. Galadriel had been a wilful child and had grown into a fierce woman. It had not surprised Nerdanel to know that she alone had prospered beyond the end of the first age. “I miss her very dearly,” she watched Finrod’s face crumple a little, but his eyes did not leave hers. “To have felt that sundering all this time,” she met his eyes cautiously, “I cannot imagine it.”
Nerdanel smiled a little at that. Her hand reached out to him, gripped the top of his arm. “You will see her again one day. Her exile will not last forever. I am sure of it.”
“I believe the same of you. This loneliness will not last forever.” And for the first time in centuries, Nerdanel truly allowed herself to hope.
----
As the second age drew on, she found herself beginning to enjoy tales of the lands to the east. Word travelled slowly, usually through those returning from the halls who had not abode with Mandos for long. They spoke of the flourishing of the lands and the building of a great city of craftsmen.
Eregion.
The home of her grandson who had been its architect and creator. He was his father’s son. His grandfather’s boy. Her heart had swelled with pride to know of how he had prospered. With the tales, came ones of Elrond too. One of the twins her boys had taken in. As much her grandson in her mind as if he were her own blood.
They were beloved to her, and stories of their exploits always brought a smile to a face which had been drawn with sorrow for far too long. Her mind followed the threads of their lives back to Curufin, to Maedhros, to Maglor who was more lost to her than any other. They in turn had drawn her back to Feanor, whom it had begun to feel she loved more strongly in his long absence than in the last years they had been together.
She could never settle on if she hoped the Valar would show mercy and return her husband to her whenever they saw fit that her sons should be released – or if the memory of him was far sweeter than any reunion could ever hope to be.
There had been a new elf in her father’s workshop the last several weeks, when she finally encountered the girl out of chance. She had lived amongst her grandson’s people it had seemed. Had lost her life in an accident in the forge involving some surprisingly reactive metals, a forge oven, and a craft based misadventure. Nerdanel had offered her greatest sympathies, but the girl had laughed, seemingly unconcerned with her death and rebirth. She offered Nerdanel long stories of Celebrimbor, of his lands and deeds. Her heart swelled with pride to hear them.
He had been there too - had been experimenting with the same volatile materials. Had been saved, so the girl told her, by his new shining friend. A gift seemingly sent to them. Nerdanel had grinned ear to ear. She missed her grandson. Missed his father and grandfather of who he so reminded her in turn. But she found herself sending a silent prayer of thanks to the friend who had pulled him from danger. No reunion was worth any amount of pain caused to one she loved so dearly.
She would see him again one day, she was sure of it.
----
Several hundred years later, the workshops of her father found themselves with a greater number of new smiths than had been seen since the bloodshed of the first age. She saw them one day on a visit to her father. Saw them watch her with thinly veiled pain. She found herself approached by the same elf she had spoken to years prior, then on and off as she visited this place, about her grandson.
“They are from Eregion,” the girl told her. Sombre. “That is why they avoid you.” Nerdanel felt her heart stop.
“They did not perish in accidents.”
“The fall of the city of Ost-in-Edhil, my lady.” The girl chewed nervously at her lip and the grief swallowed Nerdanel before the news even left the other’s lips. “Many of its people were killed. Lord Celebrimbor was among them.”
----
Their old home. The doors which had slammed into walls as bodies hurtled through them on childish quests. The floor with pathways worn by too many feet. The window seat where one son had liked to read in the quiet, the stairs taken two at a time by the nonsensically large hound her husband had absolutely refused to allow into his house, the patios and kitchen. The bedrooms. They were all of them untouched. They had been left long ages empty in Nerdanel’s self-imposed exile.
They had sat unchanged. Had gathered dust and held their memories. The front door creaked with disuse on the morning she finally allowed herself to walk down the path to the door. When she stepped inside and saw through hazy eyes the life she had known. The scents of the place were unchanged. They comforted her in the same moments they forced agony through her aching bones. Her knees hit the floor in the foyer, and she wept.
Each of her son’s rooms was untouched. Her heart felt as if it would gnaw itself free from her chest as she perused the items left behind.
A half finished letter with no recipient’s name attached on Maedhros’s desk. Lines started and scrawled out with a penmanship which belied his frustration. A flute in Maglor’s room which she remembered him receiving when he turned fifty. A gift from his uncle Fingolfin. In Celegorm’s perpetually untidy space she saw the small line of hand-carved animal figures which lined his windowsill. Saw the spot where one, a curved and sloping carving of Huan was missing. It had been Celebrimbor’s favourite as a boy – she smiled to know where it had likely gone. Caranthir’s room showed few signs of life. But then, it hadn’t even when he lived here. The bed was neatly made, the books aligned perfectly on shelves. The dip in the cushion of the armchair by the fireplace had slowly risen back into shape. Had erased the only true sign anyone ever lived here. A scrap of paper lay haphazardly on the floor of Curufin’s room, dropped in a hurry and accidentally forgotten. Her fingers trembled to disturb anything, but her curiosity was too great to leave it. It showed a crude drawing, a child’s artwork. Celebrimbor’s hand. She traced the lines and saw herself there. Her husband, her sons. Celebrimbor with his parents, all with comically large smiles upon their faces. She smiled though tears she could not stop and tucked the folded drawing to her chest. There was nothing of note in the twins’ rooms, though she saw in the downstairs hall that one of them had left behind their favourite hunting cloak.
At the end of the upstairs hallways, her eyes finally rested upon the door which had been her own. As she stepped closer and closer, she could feel Feanor’s old presence. Could hear his laughter, feel his hands as they caressed her cheeks. She pressed her forehead to the old door with a hiccupped sob but did not open it.
----
The house had changed a little in the last centuries. The downstairs had become her home once more. Her old workshops had been opened up. The dust removed and light allowed to once more stream through the windows. The kitchen was in use, smelling of old home cooking again. She saw company regularly by her own standards. Anaire was a frequent guest, laughing and eating and drinking together as they had done in their youth. Finrod came, initially alone, but later with his beloved Amarie with whom he had been blissfully reunited.
Her parents stopped by on occasion, one or two nephews had appeared at her door as well. Slowly re-embodied over the years. Initially they had given her hope. But as the years pulled on, she had had to accept it. Her sons were not with them. She lived out of her old sitting room, curled upon cushions before the fire. She would not go upstairs.
A knock sounded at the door on a frost touched morning when she could not have wanted guests less. Her tired feet had carried her to it, her hand had caught the lock slowly. As the wooden panels swung back, her entire body froze.
For half a second, she saw her husband. But the name fell from her lips with weighted certainty.
“Celebrimbor.”
His face was alight at the sight of her, and he surged forwards to scoop her from her feet. It did not feel fair. The last time she had seen him, he had barely reached her chest. Who did he think he was that he could now lift her fully from the floor. But her heart felt a light giddiness she had not let in for years and she whooped in shock and delight as he swung her into his embrace.
She was surprised to see him. Had heard through gritted teeth, what had happened. If she were him, she would likely have curled herself in a darkened corner of Mandos’ halls and not returned. But then, the boy had always been the best of them.
He entered the home with nostalgia tinged features and Nerdanel felt, for the first time in so, so long, the comforting press of her own family in the kitchen.
----
Nerdanel stood in the hallway outside the room she had once shared with Feanor. She had loved him once, with all her heart. Perhaps she still did. She would never see him again, not once before the breaking of the world. For many years, the thought of him brought her agony. The memory of his foolish quest, of the loss of their sons. She had been furious. Glad he was gone. Bitingly glad she would not see him again. The best of him he had left behind in the world. Their boys. His grandson.
When that too had been lost, so it seemed, there had been nothing of him in the world anymore. Her mind had drifted from him, the grief of her son’s deaths a much more bitter blow.
But Celebrimbor had given her hope. He had come back. So must the others. They would all of them be reunited. All but Feanor.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the ancient wood of the bedroom door.