A/N: You read so much from Nerdanel's pov, so I finally decided to do something from Feanor's perspective. I started this with much purpose and knew exactly what I was doing, but then left for China, and now I forgot what I originally intended and just made up the ending. If the epiphany occurs and my memory returns, I shall take it down and write what I intended, though I believe this is along the same lines. Enjoy! Please review.
"To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead."
There were times where I thought I would die without her, without looking into the eyes blending the gifts of Kementari and Ulmo, or breathing in the copper hair. Yet when I was with her, I feared her. It was not because those skilled yet smooth hands could create sculptures of pure perfection and delight, strange as their shapes were, nor the wise words she always spoke that soothed my aching heart though I would not wish to admit it.
I had always been a stubborn child, and the years did not rob me of that trait. I was not ashamed of it, though my father and others, including Nerdanel often chided me for it. They called me obstinate, willful, stubborn, and proud. I did not understand this last word—pride. They all spoke of it with a furrowed brow, warning me not to sink into the mire, yet they all indulged in it; I could see it in their eyes. What was so wrong with it? Was it not right to take pride in that which you have accomplished, especially if it is greater than any has ever done? Was it not right to love what you made? If you, and every Elda knew that you were the greatest to ever live, would you not be proud?
I have heard their talk of me, though never before me; no, they fear me too much. Yet I can always find a way to learn of these things; I could always do what I really wanted to. They spoke of my father, but of course, since he was the High King that was natural. Sometimes my mother was mentioned, always in reverence, and how she had given up her life for me. Then there was her; she who came and tried to take my mother's place, with her golden hair and tall stature that was in every way unlike my mother. They discussed Nerdanel, my love, and how a simple, plain-looking daughter of a smith could capture the haughty Prince's eye. Fools. They do not see the gems in her eyes. And of course, they always spoke of me.
"The Prince Curufinwë can never be rivaled," I once heard a crone boast in the streets.
"Yes, and he knows it too," another replied.
"That boy will come to no good end," a man joined the discussion.
"The boy has no weakness," the first woman retorted. Gratitude for her came to me, though it was dismissed quickly. What do I care what these peasants said of me?
"His pride will drive him too far."
"He will listen to no one."
"Save that lass of his, the smith's daughter."
"It won't last long, trust me. He's too arrogant to fancy her long. He can love no one but himself." Insolent knave. It is not your daughter I fancy.
Yet in a way, they were right, though the conversation passed to the depths of my mind, to be recalled when I needed it.
I loved her; that, no one can deny, not even she when she doubted our relationship. Yet her doubts will not ill founded, for often I drew away, especially when there seemed to be a change. It did not matter that I had initiated the shift, but merely that things were not the same, and I did not have them in complete control. She did not say anything, but turned away from me, evidently displeased.
Why did I turn away? Why did I let her leave me? Why was it that when she reached out I pushed her away? Sometimes even I did not know. Well, I did know, but we often persuade ourselves into believing only what we want to believe, pushing all else away.
She held power over me, I realized and feared. The sight of her copper hair flying with the winds of Sulimo, her green eyes boring into mine made me fluid, knees weak.
It frightened me, this power she held over me, for it is easy not to believe something if you can dismiss it from your mind. But what she told me would not pass from my mind, those wise words of truth that I did not want to hear. None of them meant anything to me. None of them. Not Indis, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Mahtan, not even my father at times. But her, her words would echo in my ears, circulating through my mind, even when I was in the forge. I would see her face in the metal, hear her voice with every smite, and feel her touch in the fire.
Sometimes I tested myself, to see if I could pull away when I chose. I could always do it with everyone else, even the Valar. If I didn't want to hear what they were saying, I didn't. But always, I would be drawn in more and more by her, until it was too far for my liking; when my weaknesses that I try so hard to hide made themselves evident and I would do anything if it were her will.
So in the end, I pulled away completely, retreated from the field, for I knew I had lost the battle, but my pride could not allow it. I hurt her, I could see, but even that was better than hurting myself. I could not let that fear overwhelm me, for it was not a fear of Nerdanel, it was a fear of life.