Like Moth to a Flame
Summary: Then Melkor lusted for the Silmarils, but evermore did his thoughts turn to their ardent creator: the indomitable spirit of fire.
AN: First time posting in Sil fandom! Scary xD
Disclaimer: I do not own these lovely characters, situations, the Silmarillion, the seven sins, or anything else you recognise.
Melkor beholds the eldest son of Finwë in the white city of Tirion. He sees him approach—head held high, intricate robes billowing, hair braided with weaving gold and red. He sees him pass and feels the resonating power, the elegance and the confidence, and the wrath. He sees him leave, and hides a vicious smile seen by none.
Melkor beholds the greatest creations of Curufinwë Fëanáro at a great feast before the Valar. He sees their dazzling, shining light of the Two Trees, and their perfect, rounded shape. He sees the dreams of the Valar and the hopes of the Elves, and the accursed Music of Eru resounds in his ears. But more than that, his eyes are drawn to that fair face with its fiery eyes and that zealous, prideful soul.
Melkor beholds the burning spirit of Fëanor as he watches him work in his forge. He sees the unquenchable pride and voracious determination, and the will and ability to succeed magnificently. He sees the burning wrath and the cold cruelty, and the will and ability to singlehandedly shape history. And always, he sees the indomitable fire of his spirit.
And Fëanor burns like the proud, raging fire he is, and Melkor is but a moth, attracted to the flame.
Fëanor fascinates him. Mostly, Melkor wonders how a simple Elf could bear such fair a form. Often, he wonders whether it was Eru himself who had given Fëanor this body. Sometimes, he wonders whether Eru was capable of designing such perfection. And always, he wonders why such a pure form of beauty does not disgust him.
Fëanor fascinates him. Melkor watches him work. He watches the skilful hands glide over the metal, and the sharp eyes that see perfection only in the Silmarils. He sees the confidence and grace in which he works, and the patience and dedication in his every stroke.
Melkor sees the smug grin Fëanor and his stormy grey eyes alight with passion; feels the frantic beating of his heart and the excited panting of breath; smells the anticipation in the air and the sweat-soaked body; hears metal clash with metal; and tastes the mixture of sweat and copper.
And Melkor knows that Fëanor is his, and his for the keeping, and no Vala, Demon, Elf or Man will stand in his way.
Fëanor has a routine. Melkor comes to watch it.
He comes at sunrise, and sees the forge is already lit, and the hammer strokes already falling. He leaves at noon, a minute before Fëanor leaves the forge for a well-earned meal. He comes back in the afternoon, and watches as Fëanor bests all his sons in single combat, one after the other.
Maedhros lasts the longest, but even he cannot match the skill of his father. Maglor's moves are elegant, but they lack power and brutality needed in battle. Celegorm's swings are powerful, but they are wild and press on without strategy. Caranthir can see through Fëanor's tactics, but he cannot anticipate the strength of the blows. Amrod's skill is flawless, but he lacks the blinding speed his father possesses. Amras's attacks are fierce, but his defence is easy to break through.
Melkor loves watching Curufin the most, because that is what Fëanor will look like when he falls.
Fëanor detests Melkor.
Every glare of hatred, every sneer of disdain, every smirk of disgust, Melkor captures it in his eternal memory.
He imagines the day Fëanor will fall. He imagines the light going out in those cold, grey eyes, and the fair body lying broken before him. The eyes wide in terror, the open mouth unmoving, the desperate tears sliding desperately down that pale, lifeless face. He imagines his spirit—once blazing with fiery determination—and now nothing but ashes of a fire long smothered.
And Fëanor is naught but a broken doll, at the command of his master.
No matter how much Melkor wishes it, it will not become reality. He has yet to see that cold shell devoid of life.
But he knows.
It takes but one person for the mighty elves of the Noldor to fall.
The Silmarils sit on his iron crown. The gate of Angband is shut. Yet Melkor does not rest, but watches as the flame is roused in its wrath.
And the High King marches with curses behind him, and Melkor laughs, because Fëanor is really not so different from he.
He laughs, because his heart is gladdened that the son of Finwë has taken his words to heart. He laughs, because that terrible fire alight in those eyes far surpasses those of his cruel dreams. He laughs, because that fiery rage is directed at him, and him alone, and Fëanáro shall curse none with a more wrathful passion.
"Send the Balrogs," Melkor tells his servant. How fitting it is, to pit fire against fire, wrath against wrath, and the greatest of the Noldor against the mightiest captain of Morgoth.
His only regret is that Fëanor will not fall by his hand.
But he is much too entranced by this deity to dare challenge him.
The smoke clears and there is no body. Even in death, the son of Finwë continues to defy him.
And Melkor curses the heavens and begs for Fëanor back, but Fate is not so kind.