Fëanor was the most powerful and the most gifted of all the Children of Ilúvatar, but also the most proud and the most reckless.

Fëanor is your husband, but sometimes… you forget him.

The pages of those hours the real ones, the ones that burned with you in his breath and fury, the ones that tasted like freshly forged jewels and eternal desire have been erased. You don’t know how or when. You only know that memory has become a haze, as if the Valar themselves had punished what once shone too brightly for the world.

He notices. He always does. Your eyes, without meaning to, drift toward Fingolfin. Sometimes by mistake. Sometimes because he looks at you with gentleness, with something Fëanor does not understand: pause, forgiveness, patience. And when that happens, the world stops.

—Do you see him? he asks you one night. —Your gaze does not lie. he interrupts.

He draws you close, with hands that crave attention. Fëanor does not know balance. He loves the way he forges: with strikes, with heat, with creation and destruction all at once. He kisses you as if trying to carve himself into you again, as if that could erase Fingolfin from your mind, the world, the void.

—Tell me you remember. he murmurs against your skin. Tell me you remember the hours with me.