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‘A thought has been growing in my mind of which I shall not yet speak openly, not even behind closed doors,’ Fëanáro says, pulling Nerdanel off the edge of sea-facing cliffs, close to himself where she is happiest. ‘But on the untrodden lands of Aman where none but we dare go, I will whisper in thine ear a secret, and secret it shall remain, for this thought is locked in my heart, and that has ever been in thy keeping.’
In their youth, this would have burned Nerdanel’s face as much as her heart, but they are children no more; the woman that she is feels only the gentle warmth of tenderness. It makes her smile. ‘Dost thou seek with thy words to outdazzle the stars? But thou shalt not turn my head: it is winter and the speech of Curufinwë cannot match the song of the Elentári.’
Her smile he meets with laughter, so rare at court and so ready when the desire for creation is upon him. ‘Of light I do speak, Istarnië wisest of the Noldor – but not so mean a thing as starlight. For that light I loved in my youth and so caught it in gems. But I feel the fullness of my might is nigh upon me, and now greater lights fill my thoughts. These I would now catch in gems imperishable, that their bliss may be made without end – silver and gold and crystal all blended in one, the beauty of Valinor made into a jewel. What wouldst thou say if I could achieve my aim?’
These are words that outdim the blackness of the sky, and tender warmth turns into foreboding that makes her shudder.
‘It would be a beautiful thing,’ she says slowly, pondering the warning in her heart even as she speaks. ‘Beautiful – but perilous. You forget whose daughter I am and who was my father’s teacher. Sorrowful tales I have been told from childhood – tales of one who once sought to possess Light. Through darkness he fell, and the climb upwards has been through bitterness and woe. I would wish no such path for thee, not though it yielded a treasure dearer than all of Arda.’
Fëanáro laughs again, but this time it is a shrill thing, tinged with pain as rust tarnishes steel. ‘Why say these things, Nerdanel? Dost thou know me so little? I would not possess the Light, but keep it safe. And it is right that I should do so, it is my doom to do so. For of all who live in the Blessed Realm, who else would seek to preserve its beauty? Those who know no loss give no thought to losing.’
‘I say these things to warn thee, as it is my right and doom. A husband is a wife’s to defend as she sees fit – so has been long before Elves walked this earth. Thou canst not gainsay my worry. Thou speakest of loss, and this thou knowest more keenly than I ever shall. But have I not seen thy father’s grief for his beloved who has gone to Mandos? Why would I not fear the grief of my own beloved following a path that goes to places darker and more fearsome still, a smith caught in chains, and a maker forced to endure the torment of nothingness? But fear not my censure. Am I not thy wife? If thy heart bids thou makest gems of Treelight, I say and vow to thee that there is no power in the circles of this world that could keep me from aiding thee in their making. That, too, is a wife’s claim.’
Fëanáro does not laugh this time – the sound too pale, the curve of his lips too slight – but there’s no stain in the gladness in his eyes. ‘That only if she has the skill of hand to do such a thing.’
Nerdanel smiles once more. ‘She shall have it – if her husband has the wisdom to wed one who befits him.’
A matched set, they are, whatever else they may be – lovers and crafters and Eldar. To fear the fire starting to kindle Fëanáro’s thoughts would be akin to fearing herself.