Fëanor and Nerdanel
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Spirit of Fire: 1. Prologue
"I feel him stir within me."
Finwë gazed fondly at his wife as he placed his hand on her protruding stomach. "Is he always this active?" he asked with a smile.
Míriel nodded and leaned in to rest her head on her husband's shoulder. "I shall call him 'Fëanáro.'
"Spirit of fire?" Finwë asked, pulling away from his wife and raising an eyebrow. "What do you foresee for him?"
Míriel held his gaze for a moment before answering. "Great shall be his deeds."
Finwë beamed proudly and hugged her to him, not noticing the briefest shadow pass across her face.
What is evil?
The great scholars of any time could lay hours, years, centuries to waste discussing the nuances of behaviour and thought that constitute evil. But I know evil. I have seen its vile influence first hand. Some might even say I married evil, but they are wrong.
No, he was not evil. Fell were his deeds at the end, and there is naught I can say to defend them, but his heart was not black. No, not black, but fiery and passionate, the very qualities that brought about his downfall; for passion leads to obsession and obsession to madness, at least in this case. That is my only explanation, what I hold onto as the lonely silent years of my life pass away.
Yes, he was passionate. Above all else, he was passionate; about everything. There was naught he approached with minimal or mediocre effort. You either got all of him or none and when you got all, it was overwhelming. He overpowered most, myself included in the end. I am convinced he did not feel emotions the way we all do; it was always so much more for him. It would pain me to feel things to the degree I now believe he did. I don't think the rest of us could handle it.
I got caught in his whirlwind; I got burned by his fire; that is true. But I was also for a while the object of his love, the focus of his passions. Is that worth the devastating loss I suffered, the pain I had to bear? I know what the others here think, but they did not know him as I did. They only ever saw his wrath, or at least that is what they choose to remember.
Nobody ever felt passively about him. Everyone who knew him either loved him or hated him. And they ask me, if I had it to do over, would I have acted differently? That is always a difficult question to answer, for how are we to know what outcome our actions will have? Would it have turned out for the better had I walked away from him? Or would I not have been there to temper any of his actions, increasing the magnitude of evils done by him and in his name?
These are the questions that haunt my nights as I lay awake in a bed that will forever remain empty, in a house that will never see my sons return, in a land that is supposed to be free of pain, but holds naught else for me. They still lament the loss of the Trees, but who laments the loss of my family? Had it not been for his endeavours, nothing of the trees would remain. Then again, had it not been for his endeavours, he may still be with me today, as well as my sons, and I would be able to walk the streets without having to endure the stares and pitying looks that still follow me all these millennia later.
I curse him these nights, and yet I still cry for him with a burning ardour that would rival his, were he still here. The nights are the worst as the light of his jewel, now placed out of reach beyond the confines of the World, looks down on me with a mocking eye. I wonder if he sees it too, in the halls of Námo, and if it pains him to look upon it as it does me. Does he resent it, as I do, for the ills it has caused and the havoc it has wreaked on all of Arda, or would he still choose it over all else? Oh cursed jewel, why is it that I might look upon you nightly when my husband, your creator, is lost to me forever?
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