“The King is dead!”
“The King is dead! King Finwë has been slain!”
This cannot be… Slain?
This cannot be. This is ridiculous! How dare
those riders speak of my father that way? Slain?
Nobody in Aman is ever slain, let alone the king of the Noldor! How dare they? I shall have them punished for spreading these lies! Finwë will have them punished! I-
The elves all around me are starting to stir. There is a look on their faces. I know that look. Blank at first, rapidly changing to horror. I know
that look. It is the look of one who has realized some terrible truth. From the way others are staring at me, I know that look is on my face too. I can feel it spreading slowly. The cold, painful stab of reality. I am frozen. I cannot move. I will not move. I will stand here like a dead stone carving, forever.
I am dead. I cannot answer.
“Lord Fëanáro! The Darkness has taken the Silmarils!”
The Silmarils. Darkness. Silmarils.
“Lord Fëanor? Will you do nothing?”
Silmarils. I can feel the life seeping back into my frozen body. I can feel my blood slowly warming again, I am suddenly aware of my rapid heartbeat. My lungs are filling with thick, choking air coming in short, ragged breaths. Silmarils. Yes, I heard correctly. I need air. The fire of my spirit begins to burn. I can feel it growing steadily hotter, turning into a white flame. I am scarcely aware of my actions as I turn to face the messenger. I am only half registering his terrified expression. The flame burns white-hot…
I am back. I have full mastery of my body once more. I know. I KNOW
who killed my father. I KNOW
who stole my treasures. I saw through his evil, murderous soul. Melkor.
I turn to face his brother, Manwë, Lord of all Arda. His kin. His blood. His same cruel intent, no doubt. I lift up my hand before this King
, this false, enslaving King
upon his holy throne, and I utter against Melkor the most horrible curse of my people. I can sense the shock coursing through the gathered elves upon hearing it. I can almost feel the hairs rising on the backs of their necks. I am delighted.
“Morgoth!” I cry at the end. It is only fitting that the evil Vala be stripped of his holy name and be cursed the Black Foe of Arda. The Black Foe of Fëanor. But I am not finished, oh no. I curse before all gathered the very reason why they are here. I curse the summons of the Valar and the celebrations which had so abruptly stopped moments before. I curse
the reason why I was not able to protect my father. My father
The air has suddenly become so thick, so tense, so unbreathable. I need air. I must have air. I don’t know what is happening, all of a sudden I’m running. Fleeing the Ring of Doom like a weakling. I need space, it is all I can think of. I don’t know where I’m going but I know that I must keep going. The woods will be perfect. I need time to think, to compose myself.
I blindly feel my way around the trees in this darkness. So unfamiliar, darkness. I have never experienced it. The whole of Aman has gone silent and at the same time, deafeningly loud. Loud with the tears of the Eldar and the Valar, who weep for their Trees. Silent because the woods have stopped whispering, the rivers gone mute. The only light in the whole world now comes from the cold, distant stars. It is not nearly enough. The last light of the Two Trees is now taken. Stolen. Swallowed by a despicable Darkness. The same Darkness who has murdered-
I stumble in the dark and fall down a slope, hitting various hard objects on the way. I stop and make no attempt to get up. Tears are streaming down my face. My whole body is shaking. An unearthly howl rises into the darkness and it is long before I realize it is coming from me. The deep down wells of my sorrow and grief are overflowing with raw emotion. A single word escapes my lips.
I may never say that word again. I will never see my atar again. The one whom I loved the most, loved more than anything, anyone. The only one who could ever make me listen, learn, respect. I loved him more than my wife, more than my sons even, and I am shaken to be admitting this to myself. He was the most important thing in my life.
And how dare Morgoth take him away?
How dare that spineless, cowardly murderer take my king’s life in cold blood? What have any of the Noldor ever done to deserve such an act of cruelty? He robbed me of my father, he robbed me of my Silmarils! My Silmarils! My work, my creation, my treasures…
My work, my creation, my treasures. I realize I am saying this out loud, in between choking gasps and ragged sobs. I have been torn. The beloved light of the Silmarils has been ripped from my life. My parents have been the first two Eldar to die in Aman, this so called ‘Blessed Realm’. What has this blessed place done to protect my parents? In fact, what have the Valar done? Even the Garden of Lórien failed to save my mother.
It is all the fault of the Valar. Especially their ‘High King’ Manwë. He is completely useless, seeking to hold us here as thralls and slaves! I have known it all along, tried to warn my people, tried to warn my… my father. But they would not listen. They would not hear the truth and now they pay for it. I paid for it. But they will repay me tenfold.
I pick myself up from the ground and look back the way I came.
Now things will be different. Now I, Curufinwë Fëanáro, am High King of the Noldor. Now I make the orders. I will have my vengeance. I will avenge thee, Atar. Yea, in the end they shall follow me.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.