After the proclamation that Fëanor would be forced to leave Tirion for twelve years, he was given an allotment of time to pack up his household for the journey - not much, but a few days. During that time Nerdanel had informed Fëanor she was not coming along. Their passion had long since cooled, they had not shared a bed in years, they barely spoke. Yet, Fëanor still loved her and he had been hoping to reconcile with her, and he was fairly devastated by the news that she would not be joining him at their vacation home of Formenos. He wasn't surprised, but it was still a blow.
It was, however, not as much of a blow as when Fëanor got to the task of packing up his forge - his sanctuary - and found several of his tools destroyed. Glass shattered, gems smashed into tiny pebbles and ground to dust. A palantir was now in several pieces; Fëanor was glad he had hidden the others, as well as his Silmarils. The worst of all was finding manuscripts sabotaged, several with ink poured all over them... and several with new additions, random jibberish text.
It was not the work of a wild animal, or a child. Fëanor would have possibly suspected one of his household servants, except for the bitterness of Nerdanel... and it was her handwriting that marred his manuscripts.
Fëanor threw all but one of the ruined scrolls in the fire, and sat down, burying his face in his hands, weeping. One of the scrolls he kept as evidence - not because he intended to press charges against her, but in case she ever tried to come back to him. A part of him would always love her, but he knew now they were unsuited for each other and it should have ended a long time ago.
Fëanor wept for a long time, and tried to pull himself together when it was time to leave the forge with what he could salvage, and begin the trek northward. He didn't want anyone to see him cry, see him as broken as Nerdanel had left his things. Nonetheless, Maglor knew - it was hard to keep things from him - and when they had reached Formenos, Maglor took his father aside and tried to comfort him.
Fëanor did not want pity, even though he desperately needed comfort. He tried to be strong for his sons, but he was falling apart, eating less, sleeping more. Worst of all, he could not create, feeling like his fire had all but burned out.
It got bad enough that in secret, Maglor sent messages out to his uncles. And in secret Fingolfin and Finarfin rode forth to Formenos - they had indeed promised to come visit, after the doom of Manwë; Fëanor had done what he had to do, pretending to hate Fingolfin to disguise their affair.
Fëanor received his brothers, and the first few nights they simply held him, letting him cry it out, like a wound that needed to be lanced. Though Fëanor had servants, and he'd taught his sons their way around a kitchen as well, Fingolfin and Finarfin saw to cooking and baking things they knew Fëanor liked to eat, and feeding him from their hands. They took him for hikes through the forest, horseback rides, and swimming in the lakes and rivers.
At last, when Fëanor was ready, they took a bath together, and then Fingolfin and Finarfin lay him before the fire, poured oil over his body, and massaged him together, kneading away the tension and pain. Fëanor begged to be filled as they had filled him many times before - but they knew what he needed even more than that. With silk cords they bound his wrists to the bed, and lavished love over every inch of him, kissing, licking, nibbling, hands caressing, rubbing, fingers walking and brushing. Fëanor writhed against the restraints, whimpering, howling, begging even harder, even as he never wanted them to stop the delicious teasing. Fingolfin and Finarfin were determined to show Fëanor how much he was loved, how much he was wanted... that they would never reject him as his wife had.
They teased him for hours, until Fëanor was almost sobbing. Finally they looked at each other, nodded, and untied him. They got Fëanor down on his hands and knees, like a dog, and Finarfin hooked a jeweled leash through the collar necklace Fëanor wore. Then Fingolfin took him from behind as Finarfin thrust into Fëanor's hungry mouth. Fingolfin pulled Fëanor's hair with one hand, and smacked Fëanor's ass with the other.
"You belong to us," Fingolfin growled.
Finarfin pulled on Fëanor's leash, their eyes locked. "Not her."
Fëanor came quickly - he loved to be dominated by his brothers like this, and he had been so starved for touch all this time. Finarfin spilled into Fëanor's mouth and Fëanor swallowed eagerly, moaning again as he felt Fingolfin spend deep inside him.
They weren't through with him yet. Now that Fëanor was open and slick, it was time for another round. This time he lay between his brothers on the bed, Finarfin behind him, Fingolfin before him, both of them holding him tight as they took him together, their cocks rubbing together inside him. Knowing they were pleasuring each other as well as him drove Fëanor wild, and the sensation of two cocks moving within him was the most intense pleasure Fëanor had ever known. He loved looking into Fingolfin's blue eyes, and feeling Finarfin's kisses on the back of his neck and shoulder, feeling their strong arms around him, their bodies like a living shield wall. Fëanor's second climax was even stronger than the first, and his brothers came with him.
That second orgasm shattered him enough that Fëanor fell apart once again, weeping even harder than he had the last few nights. This time he was able to speak, instead of just cry. "She's gone," Fëanor choked out.
"We know, love," Fingolfin said. He took Fëanor's hand, kissed it, and pressed it to his heart.
"We're still here," Finarfin nuzzled Fëanor's neck, arms tightening around him.
"It's... not just that." Fëanor was reluctant to leave the safety of their arms but he did to retrieve his bag, which held his most prized possessions. He brought over the scroll he'd kept. "This is just one of the things she damaged. She wrecked other scrolls. She wrecked my entire forge."
Fingolfin gasped, and Finarfin looked ready to kill. Fëanor's hands shook as he looked at the ruined scroll again, and now his entire body was shaking. "It was one thing to lose interest in me, to stop talking to me, freeze me out, to not want to see my work anymore. For her to belittle me, telling me that I'm stupid, that I know nothing. But this?" Fëanor gestured to the scroll, before it dropped from his hands to the floor. "I don't understand why. It makes no sense that she would sabotage my work like that."
Fëanor wept even more bitterly now. Fingolfin and Finarfin pulled him close, rocked him, pet him, made soothing noises. "I'm so sorry, Fëanáro," Fingolfin husked.
"You're well rid of her," Finarfin said, with a sneer. "That was petty and cruel. You don't deserve that."
Fëanor sobbed, and Fingolfin and Finarfin continued to hold him and rock him. Fëanor wept all through the night, like never before.
_
Years later, after Fëanor had made Finarfin leave the exile and return to Valinor, taking Anairë and Eärwen with him, it happened that Finarfin received a guest at Alqualondë. He had not seen his former sister-in-law in quite some time. He was reluctant to deal with her, but Anairë said, "She has no one left. Let her stay here for awhile."
Finarfin retreated to his study for a few hours to think, to meditate upon the situation, and when he came out he agreed that Nerdanel could stay at Alqualondë for a time.
"It would be nice if you could be friends," Anairë encouraged. "You both have little enough family left that you cannot afford the bitterness." Anairë did not know what Nerdanel had done to Fëanor; Finarfin had promised Fëanor he would keep it a secret.
"I will make a peace offering," Finarfin said, steepling his hands.
It was known in the kingdom that Finwë's youngest son had a great love of cake, and now Finarfin baked a cake himself. It was not a large cake for a banquet, but a small cake - enough for four people to each have one piece. And after the evening meal was over, Finarfin served the cake itself, cutting it into fourths.
"The cake looks lovely, Arafinwë," Nerdanel said.
Finarfin smiled. "I hope you enjoy it. It is a gesture of goodwill."
There was wine to go with the cake - after one of the servants taste-tested the wine, Finarfin poured a glass for himself first as was customary, then one for Anairë and one for Eärwen. But then Eärwen dropped her napkin and Finarfin slipped, and the bottle fell out of his hands and crashed onto the floor, wine spilling everywhere.
"Oh no," Eärwen said. "I'm dreadfully sorry..."
"It's not your fault," Finarfin said. He got up as two servants came over to clean the mess. He gestured to one. "Please bring another bottle of wine? Hopefully I won't be so clumsy this time."
"Yes, my lord." The servant nodded and walked off, and they waited - a few moments later the servant came back with a fresh bottle of wine and Finarfin poured Nerdanel's glass before he sat back in his own seat.
"Enjoy," Finarfin said. He took a bite of cake, and then a sip of wine, and nodded, satisfied. "Ah, yes, the cake is good. I do so love cake." He took another bite of cake and watched with a smile as Nerdanel began to work on her piece of cake.
_
The next day Nerdanel had a headache, which was to be expected, as she'd indulged in a bit of wine more than usual last night. But as the days wore on she felt worse and worse. The headache wouldn't go away, as hangover headaches were wont to do; her body ached all over, and she had nausea that turned into episodes of violent heaves. After four days Nerdanel could not leave her room to join her in-laws for a meal, and Finarfin came in to see her himself.
"I hear you are unwell," Finarfin said.
Nerdanel nodded weakly. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Well, I have something for you," Finarfin said.
Nerdanel sat up - groaning again at the effort - and she watched as Finarfin opened an ornate box he'd brought on the meal tray. Her eyes widened as if she were expecting a costly gift of jewels, or a trinket of some kind... and in the box was a scroll.
Finarfin unrolled the scroll and then threw it at Nerdanel as if he were discarding something foul. When Nerdanel looked at the scroll on her chest, Finarfin couldn't help smiling at the look of panic... she recognized her own handiwork, the sabotage of one of Fëanor's manuscripts.
Nerdanel looked up, blinked, and stammered, "I... I don't understand -"
"Oh, I think you do. You see, dear sister..." Finarfin leaned back and folded his arms. "The cake I served to welcome you? I baked myself. It was poisoned. The glasses of wine I poured for myself, my wife, and Anairë had the antidote. Yours did not. There is no more antidote available, another would need a month to prepare and you don't have that long. You're already dying - you'll be dead within the next two days, and if you think you feel horrible now, that is nothing compared to what's coming for you." Finarfin smiled and patted her. "The way you made Fëanor suffer when you destroyed his work... when you broke his spirit like it was so much glass... now you can suffer too." Finarfin rose, and gave a polite little wave before he left her room. "I hope that petty little act of vandalism was worth it, Nerdanel."
"Go to the Hells!" Nerdanel screamed, throwing the food tray across the room with the last amount of strength she had. Then she couldn't even lift a spoon.
"You first." Finarfin laughed as he made his way down the hall.
_
Nerdanel was laid to rest three days later, at a tree where she and Fëanor had taken their wedding vows. A migraine episode was ruled the official cause of death.
For nine days her grave was undisturbed, her spirit in the Halls of Mandos, looking upon the tapestries that her own mother Vairë had woven. And then one moment she was in the Halls, and the next she was cold. So cold.
"Rise, my daughter," commanded a deep, powerful voice, echoing as many voices in one.
Nerdanel felt her decaying hand lift up, and up and up. She was pulled up into a sitting position, and then to her feet, feeling light and stiff all at once. Standing before her now was Mahtan... who waved a hand over himself and dropped his glamour. No mere Elf was he, but Mairon himself, Aulendil, glorious and terrible.
"We have work to do," Mairon said, and took her cold hands in his, warming them.