Author's note: Ok. So Fëanor took control of my Muse, and blackmailed me to write a story 'bout him. Hm. No, the real credit goes to Cirdan, for having inspired this piece with her story Dagor Dagorath. Largely influenced by another author's style; can you tell whom? Beware, in this story, he is just a tad… bizarre, as much as you couldn't expect Fëanor to be normal anyway.
The madness of Fëanor… but who knows the real extent of that madness, beyond the burning, beyond the rage?
I also have to say that the characters are not omniscient, and that the point of view is *their* point of view, not mine. Or maybe so…
Atarinya = Father of Mine
Ada = Daddy
Maitimo = Maedhros
Turco = Celegorm
Pityo = Amros
Telvo = Amras
Umbarto = Amras' mother-name; meaning 'The Fated'
Disclaimer: I don't think I own anything in here… it all belongs to Tolkien, who's dead by the way, or to anyone to whom it belongs by now…
By Le Chat Noir
Manwë Sulimo was considered to be the wisest being on Arda, and the one of the Valar to have received the most accurate vision of the Music of the Ainur. The air and the wind were at his command, and all the birds of the sky. He was instituted the King of Aman and Endor, Lord over all beings, be they Valar or Maiar, Elves or Men.
However, even as he sat on his throne of the Taniquetil overlooking he world spread out at his feet, with Varda his spouse at his side, there was one problem which puzzled him still, and had always defied all his best efforts at resolution. This ambiguous problem went under the form of an Elf, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed, gifted with skills unthinkable and ambition to match, and wearing on his brow the silver circlet that designed him as a Prince among his kin.
Curufinwë Fëanàro, since the very day of his birth, had been the cause of much turmoil among the Noldor, joy and grief confounded, much havoc in the City, and much headache for his masters.
Being a youngster, he had grown so fast that age thirty-five, he could already have been mistaken for an adult elf. There had been no precedent to his skills, and even Aulë had had to admit that the young child was prodigiously talented. Soon, it showed that he was gifted not only in smithery, but in most the other arts as well, thanks in part to his sharp wits and quick tongue, which sufficed to earn him a reputation in his City; until the day he decided to rework the alphabet of Rùmil, thus creating the Fëanorian letters. The Valar had been worried at the time; it was a disrupt of the tranquillity of Valinor, of the normal course of events; the letters of Rùmil had contented the elves for long, and they did not need a new alphabet. However, the new letters proved to be so revolutionary, and in no way a regression from the ancient ones, that the switching seemed almost natural, flawless, and Rùmil himself turned up at the Tower of the High King some times later to congratulate the young prince on his achievements.
From that point on, Manwë Sulimo only decided to sit back, and watch, as wonders after wonders came out of the skilled hands of Finwë's son.
After all, maybe it was true, what the Noldor whispered to one another in the streets of Tirion; maybe it was true, that the flame that burnt within the young Fëanàro, was none other than that of the Fire of Ilùvatar.
The ceiling was extraordinarily high. The walls were made white, white marble, and no window was there to disrupt its uniformity. The only door was shut tightly, and locked, and the key was in his pocket.
There was no lamp in the room, no candle, no fireplace. There seemed to be no device at all to light the place whatsoever, and yet it was filled with a light, a unique kind of light; cold and warm, silver and golden, blessed, sacred, alive. The tall elf stood, leaning on one of the walls, feeling the white rays pour onto his face, his whole body, relaxing in their candour, their purity, allowing himself to smile when his light was the only one that could witness it. It brought an eerie look on his pale, delicate face, the smile, giving it an almost childish look, and his eyes shut; the light shone through him, as he walked towards the centre of the room, in a graceful manner, as if he slid soundlessly upon the polished floor rather than walked. The light pierced him, filled him, and in the blinding whiteness he seemed a ghost, a spirit in his transparency, a shadow of another being that took form with the light.
In the middle of the room, there was a casket on the ground, with its lid hanging open. Lying there inside it, resting on the soft dark velvet was a necklace, as certainly the like of was never seen before. The rich gold was intricately carved, with swirling designs that made the eyes dizzy, and it looked incredibly heavy and light at the same time. However, it were the three gems incrusted in its frame that caught the eyes; three gems whose edges almost came to disappear so great was the radiance that came from them.
Presently, the elf knelt beside the chest in a rustle of cloth, and reverently levelled the necklace from its bed, with apparently no effort at all. His eyes were opened again, the Light reflecting in them, and the smile on his face broadened a little more.
"You understand, don't you?" At the sound of his voice, a mere whisper, the Light changed, as if in answer to his query, but ever so slightly that afterwards, one could not tell if indeed it had or not. The elf's hands tightened a wee bit on the necklace.
"Yes, you would understand. However wise they are, the Valar don't seem to have quite acquired the notion of risk. It is all for the sake of the Light, isn't it? But they won't understand. No, of course they won't." The Light altered again… or had it? "Because their world is about giving. There was a time when I gave, too. Freely, I have given. But the world is cruel, isn't it? They will give, and give, and allow the Light to spill out from Lorien, from Valinor, and dim and be lost forever… You can't catch a ray of Light back when it's gone, can you? And what do you reckon they'll do when the Light will die?" With loving hands, he fastened it round his neck, and the three Gems rested effortlessly on his breast. "Weep? Why do I not think so?" A clear sound of laughter escaped the elf's throat, and his voice grew, louder, more precise, but more distant, as he was beaming to the Light.
"You know the Valar, they can not weep. They are Gods, they are Perfection, how can you expect them to feel? Oh no! They'll just sit in silence in their Circle of Doom –reckon they've wrought their own doom?- and promptly think of another way to enlighten the world… another light. However there can be no other light. No other light as you, can there be? No. You are perfect, aren't you? Perfect as you are, and in their good humour the Valar themselves have blessed you… Yes, maybe when that day will come the darkness falls, will also come the day to depart from this dusk, and seek out the remnants of the Light that was wasted…" The smile had departed from his face, and left there only the childish look, the eyes of the scared child that found himself alone in the darkness.
"But you will not leave me, will you? You will stay by my side. They all have left me. My mother was never there, and my father loves another, another woman, another son. My wife has returned to her father, and all my sons with her… oh no, they still live with me, my sons, but do I no see the longing in their hearts, and the curse on their lips?"
This time there was no mistaking it. The Jewels flashed, a shade brighter, then tarnished themselves, in rapid succession, and their light diminished, withering, gradually allowing the room to darken…
"Shh, do not unquiet yourselves without reason." The elf's voice was almost pressing, but hushing, as a mother would to her crying child when she knows there is no more escape. "I'm sorry I bothered you for such trivial matters. Now, rest well, and you will be there, won't you? Always?"
Slowly, the Jewels were kindled once more, regaining their constant flow of perfect, untarnished light. Smiling again, a timid smile, the elf replaced the necklace in the casket, and closed the lid once more, careful not to make a sound. The room was left in utter darkness, except for the ray of light that formed a rectangle, which escaped from the tiny space between the box and the lid, and the pair of dark stars that were the elf's eyes.
Feeling his way out of the room like a blind man, he pulled the key out of his pocket, and fumbled with the lock for some seconds, before at last stepping out into the light of Telperion waning.
Still silent, he locked the door again behind him, and there was no one near to hear him whisper "Thank you." to an invisible entity before he strode down the corridor.
Outside, the gardens were beautiful, as always, unchanging, for the flowers did not whither in the Land of the Blessed, nor did the grass falter or the leaves turn brown. There was an ethereal quality to the whole landscape, the flash of vivid colours blindly thrown together, the song of birds that were mere songbirds after all, the gentle splashing of the silver fountains, all merging into one perfection, that could not be altered, could never be destroyed, would it remain only as a memory, an ideal place that was only one spot of ideal in the ideal land, and could not be real after all…
Fëanàro stepped on the soft grass, blinking, once, twice, marvelling at the fresh contact between his feet and the turf as if it was the first time he'd felt it.
The little child turned to him, with a quivering lower lip, and wide, watering eyes, seeming oddly present among the dreamlike surroundings. He had thick, silky auburn curls, cut shoulder-length, with the occasional glint of copper. Fëanàro observed him intently. He knew that hair. Wasn't it Nerdanel's?
The boy stood still, staring at him, and slowly reached towards him with both hands. He was clothed in bright colours, as was the custom for children in that land, which seemed hazy somehow and merging with the flashes of green from the grass and yellow from the flowers and blue from the sky.
Probably one of his sons… but which one? Maitimo? No, Maitimo had grown now, he was a fine lad just past his first century. Maybe one of the youngest, the twins. He frowned, in an attempt at concentration, trying to snatch at the little bits of his conscientiousness that were steadily escaping his grasp.
The two little hands were red, with crimson blood, not yet dried, still warm. A smell he felt he knew reached his nostrils, and he saw an arrow in the young boy's palms. Impaled on the arrow, was the tiniest little wren one could imagine, an exquisite bird with glossy dark feathers, its beady black eyes open and fixated, its plumage fast losing its original fluff with the sticky liquid flowing through it.
"Look, it is dead, Ada. I have killed it. Turco taught me to shoot an arrow and it is dead now."
The boy continued to stare at him, with an almost pleading gaze. The eyes of innocence that had seen only the game, only the delight of posing with the bow, aiming the shot, that had seen only the laughter when the target was hit, and had forgotten about the glassy stare of the dead.
He had killed the song. Killed the song.
Fëanàro knelt down, took the little bird from the child's hands, and extracted the arrow from its heart. It did nothing more than increase the flow of blood, and stain his own hands with the same scarlet. The young boy stood, and watched, fascinated, as the older elf bent down, with an ever-serious face, and placed the still bird on the grass, with movements unbelievably gentle.
"Shush! Can't you hear it sing?" The dark-haired elf turned his face slightly to look the child in the eye, and placed a finger in front of his lips. "Do not speak so loud. You will frighten it. Wait for its wings to unfold by themselves…"
The boy wore a doubtful expression.
"It is dead, Ada…"
"Look!" Fëanàro looked up, with a grin on his face, and the child could not help but think it just might be sincere. He pointed a finger to the skies. "There it goes! See? It's flying away… You didn't know such a small bird could fly so fast, did you?"
"Ada!" The red-headed child stared at his face with frightened eyes, and started taking one step to cringe from him. Fëanàro suddenly looked at his son, and the triumphant smile on his began to melt into an expression of guilt. Hastily, he scrambled to his feet, and nearly snapped.
"You are right. It is dead."
The child stood still, trembling, and Fëanàro reached forwards to gently grab one of his forearms. But there was a change in the air. He sensed it, and looked up expectantly, only to meet the same blaze of colours of nature, as uncomprehending as it was incomprehensible.
"We Eldar do not die."
There had been this woman, so little and fragile, it had seemed to the dark-eyed child, and yet so beautiful and the breezes swayed the willows above her head in silent mourning. She was lying on the bare grass, her white dress stained with small spots of green and brown from the earth. Her silver hair spread around her head like a holy halo. Her translucent eyelids shut, forever…
He had refused to say 'Mother' at the time.
"We simply shed this mortal envelope, binding and full of limits," His grip tightened on the child's arm, causing him to fidget a little. "but the spirit goes on. Our spirit never dies. It is our gift, it is our curse."
The young boy bit his lower lip to prevent a small cry of pain from escaping him. But the long, deceptively slender hand only squeezed his arm tighter, and his face was brought closer to his father's.
"The pain you feel is nothing; it shall never be accounted for. Pain is linked to our bodies, to our flesh. After centuries of living and suffering, the only thing that remains is grief. Joy is lofty, and pleasure passing; happiness only too easily destroyed." His voice grew steadily stronger. "But grief, oh, grief stays, because it is indeed the strongest feeling of all, the most lingering; grief is the source of hatred, and bitterness, grief leads to revenge; though tell me, what is…"
"Ada!" The young boy jerked his arm away with unexpected force, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"…pain?" The interrupted sentence ended in a whisper.
The world seemed to blur. The already unclear colours abruptly started to swirl in front of his eyes, the birds' sweet notes heavily distorted by the clear chant of the fountains, and he felt himself falling forwards, only barely preventing his face from hitting the ground.
"I'm sorry, Pityo. You wouldn't know all that anyway."
The boy looked at him with wide eyes, and expression unreadable.
"Maybe one day. And my name's Telvo."
And then the boy had run away, as fast as he could.
Telvo, the last one… his son… he had realised too late, he was also his son…
And slowly, the days drifted into months…
We Eldar do not die. We simply shed this mortal envelope…
The months, inexorably, turned into years…
Happiness too easily destroyed…
And then the years were decades, and centuries…
The centuries brought the rise of Darkness…
Umbarto… curse you, Nerdanel… you named him right…
The young elf sprung up from the bed, where he had been sprawled unconscious, head still spinning with the drowsiness and the strange smell of the blood on his hands. Immediately, another odour attacked him, tackled him, made him choke as though his lungs would burst, and his eyes were watering so much he couldn't see… the air in front of him was an opaque wall of smoke.
I should not have called, I should not have called… He shut his eyes tightly to stop the unbearable itch in them, as an enormous wave of heat caught him square in the face.
He had no need of his eyes to see it. The fire, the fire, the swirling fire and the crackling of the wood…
Author's note: Ok, so I chose to follow the HoME version, where it says that Amras died in the fire of Losgar, since he slept aboard his ship, which was unfortunately the first one Fëanor put fire to. Poor guy…