Disclaimer: Not mine, it all belongs to MR Tolkien. Kind of anyway. *g*

Note: Some knowledge of the Silmarillion, especially having to do with Fëanor is required to understand most of the references made here.

Some quick explanations: Curufinwë is also one of Fëanor's names; Valmar is the city of the Valar; Máhanaxar is the Ring of Doom where the Valar held their Council; Tirion is the city of the Elves in Aman; Formenos is the fortress home of Feanor in the northern regions of Valinor; Dor Daedeloth was where Fëanor was mortally wounded; the Aratar are the eight greatest of the Valar (Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna, Aulë, Mandos, Nienna and Oromë); the Fëanturi, which means "the Masters of Spirits", is a title given to the brothers Mandos and Lórien.

Don't ask me where this came from, because I really do not know.

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Fascination

by Nemis

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They came, the Firstborn, I knew they would, like I could tell when they would not yet...

I, too, saw the woes that came from summoning the Quendi to Valinor, I saw them all, but I was silent, save for my warning that it would lead to doom.

But it was only when I welcomed Míriel into my Halls, that I wondered, perhaps, if during the bearing of her son, she had given her spirit and passion to him, for Curufinwë seemed to have those characteristics in abundance, even then.

It was during this time, more out of curiosity then anything else, that I took simple physical form and sought him out, while he was in his early apprenticeship.

He knew not whom I was, and we were a mere two among many, and did not exchange names.

I saw the secret fire that kindled within him, then. Tall and fair, he was, bright-eyed and darker than his father.

And while his passion drove him to do great things in his youth, but already I saw what it would bring him later.

None I informed of this, my council was not asked concerning him, and I was loathe to speak of it out of my own accord, for the feelings it stirred in me were not of a kind I wished to share.

Restlessness was something I saw within him, something I was amazed at, because it was a characteristic I had observed only in the Quendi at that time, not something to be found in the Valar.

The wedding of his father made it clearer to me what would bring his spirit to it's its destiny. The favourite son was pushed away, and at that moment, everything became clear; the path that had been looming from the moment Míriel exchanged the Gardens of Lórien for my Halls was now almost irreversible taken.

He wedded the daughter of one of those dear to Aulë, and for a time, I was content, for she seemed to temper his passion, and it did not lash at me so fiercely.

Perhaps I even dared to put my mind to rest, and not let it wander to him as much.

I was silent, when Melkor, the Betrayer, abased himself at the feet of Manwë, before the gates of Valmar. I listened to my sister aiding his prayer, speaking of things she did not truly understand. I watched them clear the path irrevocably.

And realised; what I had seen would come to pass.

But they did not ask me.

And I did not speak out.

Manwë was never able to comprehend the malevolence of which he himself was free, and, instead of being cured, evil was allowed to grow again within the very gates of Valmar.

Where I had seen the depths of passion in Curufinwë, I now saw the depths of Melkor's heart, and saw that it was void of the love that had been there at the starting-out.

I saw how he sought friendship and feigned love.

The passion was Fëanor's saving, though perhaps truly so for the last time.

For it alone, drove his heart, even if Melkor lied about it in his lust and envy.

Preoccupied with those that Melkor did seem to ensnare, I paid little heed to Fëanor, now in his full might; did not notice his secret labour.

If I had, perhaps it would have been my own unmaking.

The Silmarils where all that he was, he had poured every last flame into their making, and they became equally strong, and for a while even I believed he, like them, could not be broken by anything within the Kingdom of Arda.

Save perhaps by himself.

I watched, as Varda hallowed the Silmarils, and all I could bear to say, without anyone's decree, was that the fates of Arda, it's elements, lay locked within them.

And then I realised what more lay locked within...

I did not speak with him, did not try to see him, tried to ban his every image from my mind.

Then he was summoned to Máhanaxar, and we stood face to face. He saw and knew.

Where Fëanor's passion had saved him from Melkor's influence, malice being revealed there in its fullest, it had also fed the unrest of the Noldor, and had caused strife within the House of Finwë itself.

Pride and deeply hidden anxiety had caused one brother to take up a weapon against the other, only tending the seeds already sown in the hearts of many.

The Noldor looked to the sons of Finwë for guidance, and now was shown what could happen if such guidance was not given.

But I was lost that day. My voice was not truly my own, my actions meant, but somehow not intended.

I had somewhat deridingly observed Manwë's grief, and more than ever understood that even we are not fully capable of understanding Ilúvatar's intentions.

Tulkas left, and I remained standing, not allowed to abandon Manwë, to whom I owe my alliance beyond all else.

Perhaps he did not understand, but I understood the Fiery Spirit's reluctance to be under thrall.

Not the thrall itself seemed to trouble him, but more the idea of it.

I said to him, that he could not flee it, because Manwë was everywhere, and that leaving Aman would be a mere deception of his own mind.

And then I spoke his doom. Twelve years exile outside Tirion. A mere shard of time, and yet with so much hidden meaning.

Deep within, I hoped twelve years would be enough for him to look profoundly within himself, hoped the path was not as irrevocable as it seemed.

Then it was I who deluded myself, and I was full aware of it. Whether that makes it worse or better is for Ilúvatar to judge.

With him, when he departed, went his sons, and Finwë too; Fingolfin left to rule the Noldor in Tirion.

He locked the Silmarils away. He locked himself away.

In a last try to persuade the mightiest of the Noldor, Melkor dared to come to Fëanor's doors.

And even then, he did not let the bitterness, mainly towards me, I knew then and now, blind him so much as to give in to cunning argument.

Or perhaps truly Melkor overreached his aim, I cannot know for certain.

The fire was awoken and roared up, and pierced fair semblance and cloaks of mind.

Get thee gone from my gate, thou jail-crow of Mandos!

And so, perhaps, the bitterest path was not taken. And my name was spoken righteously, which somewhat gladdened my heart.

Pride was put aside when he was called and came, after Valinor was Darkened, and the House was reconciled, if only for a short while.

And yet pride took the last he possessed.

I watched him cry bitterly, and utter a realisation of not being able to surpass that work, rather breaking himself along with them, imagining himself to be the first slain of all the Eldar in Aman.

The Silmarils undid him the moment he lay the last hand upon their completion.

For how could those ever be surpassed? Where would passion go, if it could go no higher?

Channelled into paths that should not, but were predicted would be taken.

They did not understand my words that followed.

Should I have warned them more clearly?

It was not my place. It was not asked from me, and I had already spoken without ordain.

And then he placed us with Melkor, thinking his lust, or perhaps even Fëanor's own, for possession, to be ours also. He spoke of not giving up his precious Silmarils, lest he be constrained, placing us again and still, in league with Melkor.

Thou hast spoken. I replied. There was no more I wished to say, even if it had been possible.

The path was chosen, the blame lain.

And in Darkness, Melkor slew Finwë at Formenos, and the Silmarils were gone.

Should I have warned them?

But did I not?

He rose, and aptly renamed the one who had slain his father Morgoth, for the Dark Foe Melkor had indeed turned.

Fëanor ran from us then.

We did not understand fully. Doom drew near. In darkness we sat.

I left when I felt his return to Tirion, and though part of me condemned it, since the banishment had not been lifted yet, I heard him, passion finding their way in words, translated into anger and pride.

But he was distraught. Was it truly vengeance, for that was what he called upon, that made them all follow?

I know better now.

There, the words were spoken. The first step taken. The darkness truly descended then.

When I returned to Manwë, he was silent.

From my silence had come this new silence. But I did not understand, or perhaps understood too much.

Perhaps Manwë did finally as well.

I pleaded with him, and only then was a messenger issued.

To no avail.

I saw Manwë weep and bow his head, and all the time I wanted to scream, wanted to tell him; Did I not tell you? Why did you not listen?

And yet, methinks, even then, he did not truly understand.

But that moment brought me something. It brought me knowledge.

To me shall Fëanor come soon...

As I had foreseen, kin slew kin.

I found myself away from Manwë, not content to sit and wallow in fear, or sadness.

I moved swiftly, knowing all too well where they would be heading, in those ships they had purchased with the blood of their kin.

I was no lesser herald. They tell of my voice being loud, solemn and terrible, but at the time, I did not feel it so.

I felt anger. Anger towards him, for allowing this to possess his actions; anger towards Manwë for not acting at all; anger towards myself, for not speaking more clearly.

My voice was found then. Perhaps it was therefore not believed it was I.

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed...

Seen it, had I, and I knew it could not be undone.

On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East...

The Dispossessed shall they be for ever.

Not thee alone, though... Many lost something, be it innocence or naïveté...

It was called the Doom of Mandos ever after. Yet I did not speak those words as such, did not intend them to be more than a warning... Yet passion, perhaps some of his, had seeped within me and guided me, causing me to doom and understand.

Too well, too well...

What would I have thought indeed, had he repented then?

I did not wish it, for now I understood, that this path would return him to me in the end.

To me will Fëanor come soon...

And I knew when the moment arrived, for I set forth to see it, when under laughter, and the wielding of a sword; the light of Aman not yet dimmed in his eyes, he rejoiced in daring our wrath, all in the name of vengeance.

But I am no stranger to self-delusion. Though with me it seems a sin more so, for it does not come from naïveté or pride.

I knew it as soon as he entered the confines of Dor Daedeloth.

The path would come to an end soon.

As I knew, I wonder if he did too...

Fire was wrapped in fire, and even then I doubted that truly something within the bounds of even Arda Marred could touch him.

For a moment longer, he was kept from my Halls. But not even he could waver too long.

And as his fëa left his body, responding to my summons, it was decreed that no likeness should remain, or ever appear again in Arda, and it became as his spirit was, fiery, falling to ash.

And now the passion seems gone… If I were not able to see deep within, I would have allowed him to depart long ago. That passion is for him a knife with two sides, now as it was then, for it will cause him to remain here, too dangerous to venture among his people again, but it, also, stirs in me the desire to keep him, allows me to observe the flame and nurture it, so he will never leave.

It was I, one of the Aratar, eldest of the Fëanturi, spouse of Vairë the Weaver; he that knows all fates within the Great Music, who is called inflexible and dispassionate, fell for their mightiest, he that was most skilled of mind and hands.

And he came to me.

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