Vital

Canon-compliant.  Because I don't think that Nerdanel immediately fell in love with that a dude like Fëanor.  I think he's an acquired taste.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro).  Totally got this idea from my sister; she felt more like fluff today.  This story could have ended up a vengeful tragedy.  But enough of that.  Years of the Trees.  Largely introspective.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns them.  He owns the ship, too.

Pairings: Fëanor x Nerdanel

Characters: Nerdanel, Fëanor (mentions of Mahtan and Ilúvatar)

Warning: canon-compliant, Fëanor is Fëanor, shirtlessness, hate-love relationship

Song: Lacrimosa

Words: 1,017
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vital (adjective): concerned with or necessary to the maintenance of life; full of life and vigor: animated
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/vital

Prince Fëanáro was a pompous bastard.

He was also completely, utterly vital to her survival.

And she hated it.

Now, Nerdanel had never been a woman who required a male presence to carry on with her day-to-day activities.  She was a craftswoman, an artist of the highest order, and she did not need a lover to order her around, to tell her what she could and could not do because she was a woman.  She did not need a husband to protect her or watch out for her or advocate on her behalf because she was a woman.

She did not need a man.

But it seemed that her heart was not interested in listening to sense or logic or reason.

Every time he walked into the room, her eyes would land on his lithe form, following him as he moved about with such arrogant confidence, but with such poised and deadly grace.  Every time he sent her that smirk--the smirk that made her redheaded temper rise to fever pitch and red blotches decorate her lily white skin--her traitorous heart would dare to skip a beat in admiration.  Every time he touched her arm or brushed against her back with intent, her breath would catch, and it would seem as though her veins filled with air rather than blood, lifting her right off the ground in delight.

She hated him.  Hated him so much.  Some days she wanted so badly to smack that smug look right off his (horribly, terribly attractive) face.

But she could not stop looking at him.

The days when he did not come to the forge to work with her father, she found herself anxiously anticipating the next day--and the next and the next--until he finally appeared again, the same as he had always been.  Those days, she would glare holes in his (muscular, amazingly sculpted and shockingly bare) back until she thought he might actually burst into flames from the sheer spite she radiated.

And it seemed to do naught but amuse him.  And that infuriated her even more.

"Has something attracted your attention, my lady?" he would ask, his voice smooth and honeyed, but taunting all the same, egging her on until her hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists.

"Nothing at all," she would reply.  Lying.  Blatantly.  To his face.  And to herself.

(Because she always noticed how perfect his backside looked whenever he bent over wearing only leather pants.  Nerdanel was beginning to think he did it on purpose.)

A knowing look would appear in his fiery eyes, and for a moment she would be star struck by the sheer beauty of the stallion before her, prancing and parading with white-hot pride and a temper that could rival her own red-headed vivaciousness.  Then she would realize how she must look, freckled and red and breathless, and she would huff and turn back to her sculpting and not dare turn around and look at him again until he walked out the door in the evening.  Whether out of embarrassment or something else, she did not know.

But, eventually, she (secretly) began to look forward to his visits to the forge.

(Though she would never admit it aloud.)

And, eventually, she felt bereft on the days when he was away.  She would enter her father's forge, and her heart would sink down into her belly when no tall, dark-haired prince stood straight and picturesque at her father's side, his rippling shoulders flexing as he hefted and wielded a hammer as though he were born to it.

Eventually, she even began to miss the touches, the brushes on her arms and back, the teasing little smirks that he sent her way.  On those days, when she pined, every face her fingers sculpted seemed to form itself into his face, until all she could think of was Fëanáro staring back at her, his lips curled up at the corners, catlike with satisfaction, his jaw square and set, held high like the prince he obviously knew he was.

By Ilúvatar, she despised him.

But she could not live without him.  That much she knew.

The realization was not as shocking as she had imagined it would be.  She hated him, yes.  But she loved him passionately.  Without him there, her days felt empty and listless.  When his heat settled at her back, she felt so safe, so comfortable, as if she could lean back against his strength but all the same not be a weak-willed woman, not be powerless, not be yielding.

And she found that she liked it.  Nerdanel did not even bother to hide it from herself, not anymore.  It was irrevocable, and something needed to be done.

The next time he appeared before her, that stupid smirk taunted her and those eyes bored into her, burning her skin, she knew that moment of action, that moment that would decide her fate, had arrived.  It was then or never, her heart said, though her mind screamed for propriety, for reservation, for forethought.  Visceral feelings boiled under her flesh as she stared into the endless depths of his eyes, falling deep into pools of molten silver until warmth swallowed her body whole, devoured her completely.  How red her face must have been!

"Has something attracted your attention, my lady?" he asked again.

This time, she looked at him.  Really looked.  Looked at his face, which had haunted her dreams and waking moments.  Looked at the set of his jaw.  Looked at his hands clutching tightly at the thick fabric of his apron.  Had that gentle desperation always been present?

"Yes."  No hesitation.  No forethought.  Truth.

And she kissed him.

How delightful it had been!  The heat and the spice on her tongue, the surprising softness of his parted lips, the tilt of their bodies as they pressed together.  She almost hadn't wanted to pull away for love of the sensation.

But the look on his face when she did had been truly divine.
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Because Nerdanel is not a fucking pushover.  She had to be pretty kickass if Fëanor listened to her even a little bit.  Not to mention, she'd have to be one hell of a woman to put up with that mess of a husband she procured for herself.  Sheesh, he can really be a jerkface when he wants to be (or at least that's how I imagine him).  However, I also imagine him really loving her a lot, and that maybe he's not always as secure and confident as he pretends to be.

Anyway, was listening to Lacrimosa by Kalafina, the end theme of Kuroshitsuji, which has nothing to do with the story except that it has the fire that seems to personify both Fëanor and Nerdanel.  I so love both of them, but Nerdanel totally does not get enough fandom love even though she's really awesome and it makes me so sad sometimes *pouts*.

Also, the picture that inspired the forge episode: Lumen Melma by ~tuuliky on dA.  I love the color and style, even though it's not her normal style at all.  The blurriness of the background and the vibrant oranges against blue and black make me really happy.

That is all.