On My Mind

Canon-compliant but probably part of the Mellow Soulmate AU.  In the House of Fëanor, things are not as well as they seem.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë).  This is just a theory about Fëanor and by no means should be taken completely seriously.  Besides, I've seen him depicted worse.  At least I didn't make him a manwhore or anything (thought let's be honest, Fëanor can pull it off).  Anyway, takes place in the Years of the Trees.  Some introspection in a very bizarre experimental format.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns them, I play with them

Pairings: Fëanor x Nerdanel (not really all that romantic though)

Characters: Fëanor, Nerdanel (mentions Finwë, Fingolfin, Indis, Maedhros, Maglor, the Valar, Eärwen (rather disrespectfully) and Finarfin's children)

Warning: canon-compliant, possible AU, unhealthy mental condition, relationship issues, light swearing, allusions to and mentions of sex (including semi-explicit fantasies and kissing)

Song: Praeludium and Allegro

Words: 1,846
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
on your mind (expression): occupying your thoughts; currently being thought/worried about
http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/on+mind

For as long as Fëanáro could remember, he had always been thinking. 

And not just about one thing, but dozens of things all at once.  As a child, his thirst for knowledge and his endless curiosity could not be sated by any amount of books or educated tutors; his attention could not be held by simple rhyming songs or games like other children. His father had learned this very quickly.  The prince devoured everything offered and more.  Until there was no more to devour, and then he created more so that it could be destroyed all over again and remade.

They called him a genius.  A prodigy.  A natural craftsman.

But, call him what they may, Fëanáro felt like none of these things.  In all honesty, he didn't often feel much, except that same need, that ambition for more and more and more.  More projects to complete.  More books to read.  All his energy was devoted towards fulfilling the fascination that burned and seared in his blood, singing in his ears without pause, driving him forward.

Keeping him occupied in mind and body.  Always.

Always.

Even in the dark.  Even with his wife's warm body curled up against his chest.  Even when they made love, always in the back of his mind a litany of mathematics, equations, ideas, visions...

And other things.  Things he would rather not be thinking about.

You know what he is up to.  He wants to convince the King to--

--and the integral of one over the square root of fourteen plus--

--extract of adamant did not work, not compatible with the--

--maybe a different pattern next time?  Maybe silver with red would--

Nerdanel was fussing about something earlier.  Had better clarify what it was she needed before she decides to--

--rid of you so that he can replace--

"Fëanáro, I need to talk to you.  Please, just for a moment." Nerdanel was looking at him, her green eyes bright in the darkness of the room.  Though she was beautiful, all cream, plush flesh and fiery spirit, tonight she seemed more transparent than ever, as though there were no substance to her being at all.  He looked into her stern gaze and drowned, his mind wandering even as her lips parted to begin speaking again.

Did Nelyafinwë need something?  He knocked on the door at three forty-three and--

--plot was probably thought up by that golden-haired wretch of a Vanyarin--

--be mad at me again.  Why can she not just leave me be?

--and then the angle must be one-hundred and fifty three point six degrees--

--how to get the Light of the Trees without being sniffed out by the Valar--

"--that they just need to spend a little more time with their father.  There is not much a woman has to offer to her sons once they grow out of the nursery and wish to take up their father's craftsmanship." She blinked, and the spell that held him immobile was broken. "Fëanáro, are you even listening to me?  Please, this is important!" Her lips formed a pout that never failed to heat a part of him that had nothing to do with rational thought.

"Hush, nárinya," he purred, leaning forward with a smirk that he knew turned his wife's knees to jelly.  A flush rose on her cheeks at the sight of his sultry expression, and triumph bubbled in his belly along with the rising tide of arousal that accompanied the sudden thoughts of--

--her body entwined with his, her soft thighs embracing, her heels digging into--

--must ban Nelyafinwë from fraternizing with those sons of a Telerin whore.  They shall give him the wrong sort of ideas about--

--subtract twelve thousand six hundred and thirteen from thirty three thousand four hundred and--

--and her hair would be like silk against his naked skin.  Oh, her lips on his body--

--green and blue would do well enough, but if he really wanted to make an impression, perhaps plated gold with some--

"Fëanáro," she groaned, and her hands rose to his shoulders, shoving half-heartedly. "Husband, please, we really need to... need to talk about this..."

He blocked her words with a deep kiss, sinking into her sweetness.

--and seeing that expression on his father's face when he looked at her smug visage, how it made him feel ill!

--if one of the boys would just properly take after him.  Nelyafinwë was hardly suited and Kanafinwë no more promising--

--and need to calculate the exact angles to get a finished product with one hundred and forty four perfectly symmetrical facets--

"Fëanáro, stop..."

Why was she speaking again?  She should be moaning--

"Stop!" Nerdanel forcibly pulled away, and for once Fëanáro felt his thought process roughly derail. "What is wrong with you?"

Frowning, Fëanáro stared into her eyes, wondering if he'd done something terribly wrong besides attempting to seduce his wife out of lecturing him on the importance of family and coddling his grown sons, who, he might add, were all quite capable of taking care of themselves. "What do you mean, what is wrong with me?  Nothing is wrong."

"Then why won't you speak with me?" Just like that, her voice cracked, and she sat up in bed.  Any attention he would have given to her body--clad in only a thin shift that hid none of the secret, intimate curves of her familiar body--was diverted to her face.  She was near to tears, and that never boded well for him.

"Don't cry, nárinya," he crooned, sitting up to pull her into his arms, even as--

Perhaps if he kissed her and ran his hand down her back just so, the way she liked--

--so had Nelyafinwë needed something important?  Was that why--?

--and then there were two hundred and thirty invitations to be handwritten, and he would not give leave to any servant to mangle them by--

--maybe if he changed the angle to eighty seven point four--

--and then he would have to track down that two-faced son of a Vanyarin prostitute and--

Sharply, his wife tugged on a lock of his hair. "You aren't listening.  You aren't even looking at me, Fëanáro.  Please, what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"You lie.  To me.  Your wife?  Your One?"

"I am not lying to y--"

"Do you think me stupid, Fëanáro?" she burst out.

"No, of course not!  I--" he began, but she cut him off sharply, her temper flaring.

"Well, clearly your wife doesn't rank high enough on your list of 'objects of import' to even warrant a conversation in your own bed in the middle of the night, but never mind that, as long as you can seduce her into being silent--"

"It's not like that!" Fëanáro burst out, but his voice lacked conviction.  Because it was like that.  He had been ignoring her.  Again.

"Then what is it, husband?  Tell me so I can understand!"

Silence fell between them, and her fingers curled tightly in his nightshirt, clutching the soft fabric until he thought it might rip.  In the back of his mind, the voices continued going about their own business, but he almost didn't hear them.  For once, she had him firmly anchored in the moment, trapped and cornered like an animal with nowhere to run or hide.  And then she was pulling away.

His hand caught at her arm, but gently.  He didn't want her to think he was angry. "Please forgive me, I just..."

"You what?" she snapped.  But for all her anger, tears were finally escaping, wetting her cheeks, and seeing her upset was making him ache and causing his guts to twist unpleasantly into nausea.

"I just... I have a lot on my mind," he whispered. "Forgive me.  I don't mean to... There is just so much that needs to be done, and with my latest project... and Nolofinwë has been meeting privately with the King again, and..."

Just like that, she sighed deeply and looked away from his eyes where they burned brighter than the stars, half-hidden and glowing beneath his bangs. "I understand you are worried," she said softly, "but I wish you would realize that I am worried, too.  I have a lot on my mind as well.  Including you and the boys.  Our family.  I worry about all of you.  Things aren't as they should be, Fëanáro.  Something is wrong."

Swallowing almost audibly, he dared take her hand in his and press a dashing kiss against her knuckles.  Traitorously, his mind wondered if he could use a bit more traditional seduction technique to draw her away from this melancholic, guilt-inducing mood that she had worked herself into.  Perhaps...

But he knew that would just bring about trouble in the morning.  She would be angry, and then she would not speak to him all day, and she would deny him the warmth of their shared bedchambers tomorrow evening.  It simply wasn't worth the trouble, especially since neither of them were likely to actually enjoy a physical joining at the moment, what with her in tears and him scrambling to fix whatever it was that he had done wrong.

"Forgive me," he said again. "I do not mean to worry you."

The look she gave him was somewhere between sorrowful, hopeful and resigned, as if she dearly wished he was being truthful, that he really was sorry, but knew with all her soul that he would not change his ways.  In the morning, he would still venture out to his forge, perhaps head into the city, stop by the palace to see his father and visit a half-dozen clients, then return home to work out in the forge again.  He would not go into the house until dusk, perhaps later, and he would not spend time with their children.  Most likely, he would not even eat dinner at the same table.

Finally... "We can talk in the morning." Nerdanel lay her head down on her downy pillow and turned away from him, so that the fiery rivers of her curls streamed over his abandoned hands and brushed against his face.  It was all he could do to move up behind her, slotting their bodies together the way they had been created to fit, every groove and curve aligning.

But somehow the rest of them didn't seem to mesh.  For all that their bodies seemed in harmony, she was right.  Something was missing.  There was discord between them minds and souls.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

"Sleep well," he whispered against her ear.

Knowing that he wouldn't sleep at all.  The voices rose in amplitude, clamoring for his attention again already now that his mate's upset had been diverted and her anger mollified.

As long as he could remember, thoughts had consumed his life.

And, come the dawn, nothing will have changed.  Nothing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Because I simply cannot resist prodding at Fëanor's mental state.  He does go a little crazy and threaten to kill his younger brother well before all that other business got in the way.  Besides, I can't imagine that he is anything less than a genius, and that he might have some social problems just like many other geniuses we all know and love.  Anyway, this is just a theoretical character study for my own entertainment. It was partially inspired by the picture Brother you don't understand by ~eilian on dA.  I can imagine Fëanor just not working like other people, and that it might make him a bit odd.

Anyway, the song I listened to kind of has nothing to do with this fic, but it's pretty, so listen to it anyway.  Kreisler's Praeludium and Allegro played by Joshua Bell.  Better when you see someone playing it in person, though, trust me.

PS: nárinya = my fire (nárë + -nya suffix); note for all who are interested that the nár root appears quite often in names throughout the Silmarillion and even a bit in the Lord of the Rings (check out the names of the three rings for the Elven Kings under the sky)