Futile

Canon compliant AU.  Nerdanel and her husband are drifting apart.  And no matter how she tries, she cannot bridge the distance between them.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro).  This piece could easily be related to "Puzzle" and "Vital", as well as "Tactile" and "Superstition", but does not connect closely with either of them, merely sharing some elements.  It could be considered a companion of sorts to "On My Mind", which I suspect takes place before this one.  Anyway, the piece takes place in Valinor (Tirion most likely) in the Years of the Trees (ending about YT 1490).

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Fëanor x Nerdanel

Characters: Nerdanel, Fëanor (mentions Finwë, Indis, Amrod and Amras, all the Fëanorions, Mahtan and Fingolfin)

Warning: canon compliant, death threats, possible abuse, dysfunctional relationships, unhealthy obsessions

Song: My Immortal (Lindsey Stirling cover)

Words: 1,358
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futile (adjective): serving no useful purpose: completely ineffective; occupied with trifles: frivolous
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/futile

It had been many years since her husband had listened--truly listened--to her words.

Nerdanel was no fool.  She had known that Fëanáro was an uncontrollable and wild spirit from the moment she met him, white hot with passion and an indomitable urge to create great beauty through his innate ingenuity, slaving long hours beneath her father's tutelage until he surpassed his master and left even the greatest craftsmen in the dust.  She had known he was a stubborn creature, a man who would not give up at the first sign of imminent defeat, nor the second, third or fiftieth, until he accomplished whatever he set out to do.

Secretly, it was part of what she both loved and hated about her mate.  He could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her, neither dominant nor submissive, not overshadowing her but neither bending to her hot-tempered will.  He could take her shouting and lecturing and nagging without insult and without scorn.  And he could leave her to her own devices and artistry and did not expect her to cater to his needs day-in and day-out, for he was "quite capable of taking care of his own damn shoes and hair and clothing, thank you very much, my lady".

It had been refreshing.  Something she had never seen in a man before.  Something she greatly admired.  He did not treat her like a porcelain doll, did not try to control her and--most of all--did not consider her stupid because she was equipped to carry children rather than sire them.

Fëanáro had appreciated her wisdom.  Had listened.

But at the years passed--as their small stable of children had grown beyond any other family's ambitious expansion, nobility, commoner or otherwise--she felt something slipping.  The foundation of their lives somehow shifting into instability.

It was slow, but inexorable.  At first it was little things.  A suggestion here or there that he brushed aside without a moment's consideration, eyes distantly staring somewhere far away from her moving lips.  A glimmer in his eyes that sent chills down her spine, sometimes when he looked at his half-siblings or stepmother, sometimes when he watched his children playing carefree on the lawn.  A strange sort of quirky line around the corner of his mouth and a deep furrow between his brows, marks burnished with stress and lack of sleep.

Suddenly, after their sixth and seventh children were born, something changed.

His eyes darkened and gleamed with a fire not his own.  The days he spent out in the forge were longer and harsher.  He would no longer speak to her of his projects in pride or glee.  Would no longer tell her of his business at court.  Would no longer showed interest in lying beside her silently in bed and stroking her hair until they dropped into sleep.

There was still some lovemaking, at least at first.  But it dissipated swiftly.  Always, his mind seemed elsewhere, even when he moved deep inside her and his tongue twined with her own, swallowing up her moans and cries without a drop of hunger.  Always, his eyes remained open, too bright and too blank, off in thought, lost in something else.  Something not her.  In the depths of the forge.  At the High King's court.  Thinking about his creations.  Snarling silent curses at his half-brother.

Eventually, she could hardly bear to sleep in the same bed.  Because when they were not copulating, he turned his back to her and slept alone, leaving her in the cold.  Did not want to cuddle or caress or whisper in the dark.

Like she did not even exist.

And she knew that something was terribly wrong. Suspected that there was a secret that Fëanáro held close to his breast, so close even she--who shared with him her body, mind and soul--did not know.  Was not deemed worthy of the knowledge.

From there, downward had they spiraled, their love and marriage on a breakneck course toward utter disaster.

It was not that she did not love him.  Nerdanel did not think she could ever stop.

It was that she could speak to him and he would not even glance at her twice, staring through her until her voice stopped assaulting his eardrums and then turning away as if all he had perceived in her enquiries and worries and soft pleas was incoherent noise.  It was that she could no longer trust him to put the interests of his family first and his prideful arrogance and jealousy for his half-brother second.

It was that he looked sharper and crueler than had the youth of her vivid, beloved memories.  It was that he plotted and schemed, listening to toxic whispers in the dark until he perceived everywhere naught but danger and threat.

And she tried to grasp him and pull him back.  Tried to rein him in and fight back those shadows, that ill fortune looming upon their horizon.

Tried to speak in soft, intimate words.  Tried shouting and screaming and sobbing until her throat ached and her eyes were sore.  Tried catching him alone and cornering him in the forge.  Tried forcing him to listen at the dinner table when he could not simply stand and walk away, dismissing her voice as nothing more than a nuisance.

Always, she had known he was uncontrollable and stubborn.  A man whose will could not be bend and whose mind could not be changed.  But she had hoped that he could be tempered with reason and soothed with affection.

Nerdanel knew it was not so.  She knew now that it was futile to fight against the Spirit of Fire.

To try and make him see that she only wanted to help when he saw only foolish simpering.  That her words were not meant as derision or threat and chastisement, but mere enquiry and comfort.  That she just wanted to see him genuinely smile, erasing away those deep scars from frowning and glowering.  That she wanted to know what thoughts buzzed through his mind as once she had, back when he had shared all that he was with her as he curled in her embrace, head cushioned upon her breast in the dark of the chambers.

That she missed him and worried for him.  That she needed him to listen.

But he had gone down a narrow and twisted path in a never-ending maze, leaving her to trail at his frantic heels.  And when she turned around to look, she could not remember the way back through all those convoluted turns.  Could only follow and hope to catch him, knowing in her heart he would forever slip through her fingers.

When the day finally came that he unveiled his Silmarilli before his family, the betrayal in her chest threatened to tear her in two.  But she smiled and complimented and sat back in the dark, daring not brush those three stars in the flesh, watching her husband and lover touch cold stones as once he might have touched her cheek or stroked her hair.  It was all too obvious what had been slowly tearing him away.  The obsession fanatically eclipsing his eyes.

And when, soon after, he threatened his half-brother with death for the slight of attempted usurpation, she knew that the Fëanáro she knew and loved was lost.  Utterly lost.  And deafened and blinded to all but the straight path set before him.  To all but his growing hatred and the fear she knew must somewhere deep be bubbling in his breast.

She knew, as he held the tip of his sword against the pale throat of his father's second-born that she was too late.  Had missed her chance to speak words into attentive ears.  Had missed the opportunity to reach out and recapture his gaze and combat his deafness.  Could now only follow him forward towards ruin and uncertainty, praying for her family.

For she had lost him.  Had not reached him in time.  Fëanáro had slipped away long ago.

No longer did he take to heart the wisdom of his wife.
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Basically this is based off the one line in the Silmarillion that states that Fëanor did not even listen to his wife, Nerdanel the Wise, anymore.  In my head I just picture him getting way out of control.  Anyway, this piece is a sort of plot-point development type thing, helping me focus my energy on possible pieces for the future featuring smaller moments in time.  But it makes its point and helps me focus.

I may or may not end with Nerdanel and Fëanor completely drifting apart.  I could definitely see it happening.  Maybe not a divorce or anything (because she does love him), but probably them drifting so far apart they barely see each other except at the dinner table.  And it would explain the sudden end of the propagation of an army of Fëanorions.  Because I don't believe that elven couples suddenly become asexual at a certain age.  It's more likely (to me) that Nerdanel takes steps to avoid pregnancy if she fears that her mate is becoming unstable.

Anyway, the song is the Lindsey Stirling (thus violin-only, no lyrics) version of My Immortal, originally by Evanescence.  I don't remember if the lyrics are applicable to the pairing or the story, but the melody is so sad and perfect for it that I just had to use it.  Lindsey does an awesome job conveying emotion even without using the original words.