"Really Nerdanel, you set your sights too high," Emeldir, a close friend was telling her as she daydreamed, "The Prince Curufinwë? Son of our High King? You? Impossible." Her friend was skeptical of the match.
Fool, thought Nerdanel. It was he that sought me at first; upon those high cliffs by the Sea he had sought me. What do you know of our love?
"It will come to no good. Trust me Nerdanel. I've seen that sort," she heard her friend advising, "He will cause you more pain than he's worth."
Nerdanel heard those words in her mind as she sat there, ages later, remembering her friend's consternation and realizing how true her words had become. No. He was worth the pain. There was no amount of pain and suffering that could outweigh him--her Fëanaro.
Why did she love him? That was what her friend had asked; that was what everyone asked, even her dear mother. True. He was greatest of all the Quendi, and would remain so. He had bettered Rumil's letters while in his early youth, he had created the epitome of perfection in his forge, and above all, he had captured the light of Telperion and Laurelin, the gifts of Varda Elentari and Yavanna Kementari combined.
He had caused, if indirectly, the first bloodshed in Aman, which was to precede horrific bloodshed. Kinslaying, murderer, the bleeding swans, the crimson sea, these words all appeared in her mind as those around her cursed him. He had destroyed the Noldor with his fiery words, taking his sons along with him to his doom. Her sons. Her beautiful sons; they were the most perfect thing Fëanaro had created, not the Silmarils.
She laughed bitterly inside when they cursed her husband, or even when they praised him for his work. They did not know him. They did not know that behind that grim façade and maniacal eyes he was just a little boy, as lost as any of them, though he never showed it. His words were chosen carefully, spoken in riddles that she always endeavored to solve, but never could completely. He was always so much of an enigma, a mystery, and he wanted it to stay that way. She had bitterly resented his ambiguity at times, confronting him about it many a time. As always, he smiled that mysterious, rare smile of his, and somehow at the end of the conversation, he ended up triumphant. She did not know how. She was always the one guessing, the one trying to solve the puzzle, and he, ever confident would sit and take pleasure at her effort. She always wondered what he found so amusing, but then again, he was her Fëanaro, and he would always be right in her mind. She was the only one he riddled for, for all others were not worthy of uncovering the mystery of him, or at least trying.
Closing her eyes, she remembers screaming at him once, exasperated, during one of these talks, "Why can't you just tell me?"
That enigmatic smile of his came on again, making her want to weep and kiss him at the same time, "If I told you, there would be no mystery, and we both know we would not want that."
What was so good about mystery? She had questioned him, and again, he answered, "You know we would not enjoy each other's company without the mystery that I am."
She had hated him for his mystery, if she could hate him, that is. But now, so many ages of Men later, she realized, that like he said, and Fëanaro was always right, that without the mystery, she would not have loved him. His enigma had drawn her to him, had led her to come back every time, to feel the gentle caress of the tender flame that had not yet grown too hot. She could not figure him out, that she realized, and it was because of that she returned. It was because of that she loved him so. After all, who could resist such enigmatic delight?
A/N: I promised that I would have something updated this weekend! I hope you like it, and I think I might take it down and revise it again. This is a rather personal story, as it reflects a certain relationship I hold in my own life, and Feanaro's words are all from that person's mouth. I'm sorry if I derived a bit from the true Nerdanel/Feanor, though I believe I stayed on! Please review!