A/N: My latest take on my beloved Fëanáro. It's a bit of an adventure away from my regular style; a bit coarse in my opinion, but hope you guys like it. The idea has been with me since I saw the sun setting behind a grey wall when I went to visit relatives in China. Enjoy, and then make MY life happy by REVIEWING. :)

I know Miriel did not live long enough to see Fëanáro walking and talking, but I'm taking liberties, okay?

His One Memory

He did not remember much of his childhood. What he remembered, or at least desperately told himself he remembered, were things that others, intruders into his mind, had told him so many times that imagination had traversed into memory. He had often said: his life had not begun until he entered the forge; Mahtan's forge, at first, and as he quickly excelled his master, his own forge.

Yet his childhood had ended, when she had gone.

His one memory, a secret memory no one else could ever have told him, no one else could ever have known, for the one that shared it had long passed from his world, seared through him. It shone like Laurelin amidst the fading grays of his childhood, driving him on, mocking him when he failed time and time again.

He was standing in a garden, a garden he now knew to be the Garden of Lorien. He was trying not to fall, for he had not yet accustomed himself to two legs instead of four. His mother, weaving flowers together as she went, had brought him there, to instill in him the love of nature that seemed natural to the Eldar; the majesty of the trees, the softness of every blade of grass, the fragrance of the flowers, the caress of the wind.

"See Fëanáro," Miriel beckoned, "See the gifts of Yavanna Kementari."

Yet even then, her son did not see the beauty of nature, only its uses. He loved not Yavanna, but her spouse, Aule, though at that time he knew it not. Miriel watched as he quickly arranged several twigs, pebbles, and a few flowers into a curious design.

"Look," he pointed proudly at his creation.

"It's beautiful Fëanáro," Miriel breathed in her deep, velvety voice that resembled a mother cat purring to her young, "What is it?"

"You do not see?" He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then veered his eyes onto his design, his eyebrows furrowed, as he seemed to see something imperfect. Quickly rearranging it, he asked, an air of confidence in his voice, "Now do you see?"

His mother shook her head, but offered tenderly, "Every being sees things differently, Fëanáro. That is the beauty of Arda; that there is beauty in it for all, no matter what we see. Do not try to make everyone see as you do, my son."

Miriel did not know if her son heard her, for his eyes had suddenly fixed upon something behind her, towards Tirion. Casting aside his momentary creation, Fëanáro got up and raced towards the light, his small hands outstretched. It was right before him, yet when he reached out to take it for his own, it eluded him. Why wasn't he getting any closer? Why couldn't he hold it in his hands like Nana's hair, or like the grass and flowers? He came to a wall. If he could only get over the wall, he would be able to have it. As he tried futilely to climb over, a pair of hands lifted him gently off, and set him to his feet.

When Miriel followed his dark eyes, still fixated, she found that her son, like so many Eldar before him, had become fascinated with the mixing of Telperion and Laurelin, when the light of Varda Elentari is more beautiful than anything the Children of Iluvatar, or even any of the Valar could ever create ever again.

"Nana, I want that," those cherubic hands were still reaching.

She smiled, an odd smile, as if she saw something he could not at these words, "I knew you would," she murmured faintly. "Yet there is something you do not know, my love. It is yours. It is a part of you. It was a gift to all, a divine gift that is enjoyed by all; shared," she put particular stress on that last word, "by all."

"Then why can I not touch it? Why can't I hold it?"

"It touches you, Fëanáro," she caressed his cheek, "Can you feel the warmth? Can you see the light?" He nodded, still captivated, "No one can hold it in their hands, not even Manwë. It is not solid, not like a gem that your father has in his halls."

Miriel knew her son, who would not be denied, even at this age, would not rest contently with this answer. She added gently, yet in a voice that commanded his attention, "Do not try to rival the gifts of the Valar. The Light of the Trees was a gift given in love. It cannot be captured or reflected into any craft we Eldar can create. It cannot be. It should not be. It is not right to imprison such beauty in cold, unfeeling stone. It will come to no good end."

Ages later, Fëanáro, Miriel's son, heard her words as he sweated in his forge. His hands were red and raw, and there were pits underneath his eyes that glowed with an unnatural light. He could not sleep. He could not stop. How could anyone rest when they were so close?

Cannot be, Nana? Folly? No one can? Unnatural?

You might have been right. No one could do it. No one will ever do it again. No one--but me. I can do it. I will do it. I will achieve the impossible, but I will not be alone, dear mother.

The Firstborn cannot die, it was said. No Eldar has ever perished. It is against the Music of Iluvatar. None, but Miriel Serindë.

Well, you can die Mother, so I can create the most beautiful gems that ever will be. They will not only capture Telperion and Laurelin, but beautify them. My gems will be greater than anything any one, even Eru himself, could ever create. And all will love them; desire them. They will shine brighter than the Light of the Trees; so brightly that even you, Nana, you will see them where you rest.