#nerdanel

[ffigwit]

Update on my silmarillion presentation…can you tell who my favorite character is...

Art by the super cool and awesome @balrogballs which you can see here

[x-aipio]

Tears unnembered shall ye shed

I started with no sketch and absolutely no plan - I had no idea where this was going. In the end, Nerdanel just sort of emerged, in a rather symbolic composition.

"It [the rebellion] will in the end only lead Fëanor and all your children to death." - Morgoth's Ring, "Part Three. The Later Quenta Silmarillion"

[emyn-arnens]

Remade

Prompt: Work and craft for day 4 of @tolkiengenweek

Summary: In which Finrod remakes Nargothrond, and Nerdanel remembers her losses.

Sequel to Renewed.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1k

“Tell me of Nargothrond,” Nerdanel says in the morning cool of her workshop, warming clay between her hands.

“It was—” Finrod begins, falters. His hand seizes upon air, upon words, and closes empty. A silence stretches. 

“Not all that is remembered need be spoken,” says Nerdanel gently. He is not the first to return to her workshop without words with which to speak the memories that ache within.

Finrod’s brow furrows, and images half-shadowed slip through the doors of her mind, hesitant. A glimpse of a garden beneath stone starred with lanterns; the coronet of a pillar shaped like living leaves, ever unfurling; ceilings rising into darkness domed with stars; waters falling from shadows into rivers runnelled through rock; the emerald eyes of serpents gleaming above a throne—

He sighs, ragged, and sags against the table. 

Nerdanel presses the clay into his palms and cups his hands in hers. “Not all that is remembered,” she says again, “need be spoken.”

Read the rest on AO3.

[kieranagravane]

“So, the Valar allowed all our family to return,” Finarfin explained, as he led Nerdanel towards the fruit gardens. “And...did I mention before that they are fruits now?”

“Yes Finarfin,” Nerdanel said warily. “I have mentally prepared myself, to be reunited with my husband”.

(Nerdanel’s preparation had included drinking tea infused with whiskey, and practising her Look in front of the mirror. She still did not feel prepared).

“Erm, Finarfin? Exactly what kind of fruit is Feanor?”

“You are about to see,” Finarfin said; his cheeks turning pink. He waved his hand towards a large, healthy chill pepper plant. There, scattering pollen from a small basket, was a moving pepper!

Nerdanel gasped; her hands flying to her mouth! For the pepper was actually a teeny elf-fruit hybrid. And for all his small size, he was instantly recognisable as Feanor.

“Feanor!” Nerdanel cried, reaching out and scooping him into her hands. Finarfin discreetly slipped away. Feanor looked all around in surprise; trying to figure out what was happening. He was being held in hands which were soft and warm. And he was still a little confused from being returned as a pepper.

“Amme?” he queried, peering up at the large elf holding him.

“Not Amme,” Nerdanel said, with gentle amusement. “It is Nerdanel, your wife”. And she lifted Feanor up, so he could see her clearly.

Feanor gazed at Nerdanel; with her red curls and bright blue eyes. He blushed, then smiled in delight.

“Now look at you! You’re as red as your pepper body,” Nerdanel teased.

“Ahem, it was...Yavanna said it would help us to heal faster…” Feanor tried to explain but he lost focus quickly. He nestled close to Nerdanel’s cheek, and kissed her freckly nose.

“I am sure it will,” Nerdanel was half-laughing and half-crying. “You do make a very sweet pepper, my love”.

“Or maybe a spicy pepper?” Feanor teased. He carefully wiped away Nerdanel’s tears; each one vanishing with a teeny hiss.

_______________________________

A little later, Finarfin found Nerdanel relaxing on the patio, sketching a design for her latest craft idea. It appeared to be a swimming otter, for one of the garden fountains. Finarfin smiled and sat down next to Nerdanel.

“Here you are again. I say, what did you think of Feanor?” he asked.

Feanor popped his head out of Nerdanel’s apron pocket. Nerdanel laughed and gently petted his stem. “I find he is much easier to keep an eye on now,” she said.

“I can see,” Finarfin chuckled. “A pocket pepper!”

Feanor tried to glare at Finarfin. It did not work, because he was so happy to be with Nerdanel again.

“Brother, I prefer the term, emotional support pepper,” he quipped.

[noldclante]

Nerdan Mathanion (they/he) m!Nerdanel

. . . He probably decided to paint one of his sculptures ??

The quirky, eccentric artist 🩷 Some might even call him a weirdo. They care little about gender norms or what other Noldor think of them. Nerdan is perfectly content doing his own thing & fully aware that he doesn't quite fit the standard mold of the Eldar.

[ladysterndust]

When Fëanárë and Nertano first meet, they are insecure and inexperienced

But then, just like the original Fëanaro and Nerdanel.

This is a gender-swapped!AU. The names Fëanárë and Nertano, as well as my vision of Fëanárë (to some extent), were inspired by @valar-critical. This headcanon briefly touches upon gender norms in a patriarchal society.

Nertano comes upon her in his home entirely by chance.

Of course, he has seen Princess Fëanárë before — at the Harvest Festival, standing at King Finwë’s right hand, clad in crimson, her obsidian hair drawn back from her face and braided tight, her noble, sharpened profile cleaving the air; her pale shoulders, delicate collarbones, elegant, powerful arms, the proud swell of her breasts, the slender line of her waist —

He has always seen her from afar, as though upon a pedestal, somewhere near the divine.

Now Princess Fëanárë stands scarcely two paces away.

She is dressed in a simple tunic and fitted trousers, tailored in the manner of men’s attire, lovingly tracing the lines of her hips.

Nertano is suddenly dizzy. He bows — large, tall, awkward.

He thinks: “Don’t say anything foolish!” Naturally, he does.

Fëanárë asks after his father. Nertano cannot quite hide his surprise, and the Princess regards him keenly, her chin tilted upward.

“Do you believe a woman incapable of mastering the forge?” How beautiful the sharpness of her cheekbones, the severe arch of her slender brows, the merciless line of her lips.

“Not at all, my Princess.” He flushes, yet does not allow himself to lower his eyes. Perhaps he simply cannot tear them away from her.

Fëanárë becomes Mahtan’s apprentice.

It is torment — torment and delight — to exchange words with her here and there, to help her around the workshop. Nertano constantly catches himself wondering how to offer assistance without making her think he doubts her knowledge or her skill — that he underestimates her because she is a woman.

Little by little, he learns how to make her laugh. How to offer advice without presumption, and to ask for hers in return.

Before long, Fëanárë is perched carelessly upon the workbench in Nertano’s own workshop, simply because she wants to show him something she has fashioned.

Sometimes he witnesses her frustration with everything expected of a princess at court. He tries, cautiously, to comfort her — and more often than not only succeeds in provoking her.

Ah, how quick-tempered she is. Brilliant. Uncompromising. Spoiled, though she would sooner die than admit it. Demanding — of herself above all. Ah, how cruel she can be, how gloriously unrestrained.

How painfully, sweetly her teasing buries itself in his heart.

Sometimes Fëanárë catches sight of him dressed properly for a feast — for once not covered head to toe in clay and soot. She raises one elegant brow.

“You are well-built,” she says, looking him over with frank appraisal. Nertano wishes the earth would swallow him whole. “But far too tall. It looks ridiculous.”

And suddenly he feels ridiculous in every inch of himself: useless beyond the walls of his workshop, forever blushing, all absurdly long limbs and shoulders far too broad.

Later, Fëanárë cannot understand why he never once approached her that evening. She demands an explanation at once, the accusation already coloring her voice, as though he has once again managed to disappoint her.

He merely says that he remained among his own company, while the Princess remained among hers. Their paths simply did not cross. He is far too proud to approach her anywhere beyond his father’s workshop.

Only there can they meet as equals. And only as equals is he willing to be her friend.

Ah, yes. They are friends.

Nertano helps Fëanárë fix the braid loosened by a day’s work at the forge. He listens to her rare tirades about Indis’s children. He brings her tea and homemade pies. They eat supper cross-legged upon the workshop floor while he awkwardly insists that she truly ought not worry about gaining weight.

Whenever one of Finwë’s heralds arrives and Fëanárë catches his eye, signaling that she has no wish to return to the palace just yet, Nertano dutifully invents some urgent commission from his father.

Together they mock every noble lord who looks upon her and sees a woman rather than a creator, who thinks to flatter her with the same tired compliments she has heard a thousand times before.

Does Nertano blush? Perhaps.

Sometimes the Princess appears before him not in tunic and trousers, but still dressed from one of Finwë’s receptions. She breezily informs him that she has rejected only seven suitors that evening — not a particularly impressive tally, really — and then proceeds to dismantle each of them in exquisite detail.

He sees that she is disappointed — that for yet another evening she has been admired only for her breathtaking beauty, treated only as a noble lady. So Nertano asks instead about Fëanárë’s latest experiments with gemstones.

Her lips brighten with laughter. Her magnificent curls spill over her shoulders. Beneath the corset, the proud swell of her breasts rises and falls with every breath.

And there she sits upon the floor of his workshop — yet still too far from him, too close to the divine.

You’d better believe that Nertano is exactly like Maitimo — just very shy and a little bit clumsy.

[k0rilam]

Feanor/Nerdanel

[oppiedrwz]

wip prob not going to finish