In an earlier version of the Quenta Silmarillion found in the Book of Lost Tales Part 1 (The History of Middle-earth, Vol. I), Fëanor was tortured in Angband and sent back to the Noldor maimed when he would not tell Morgoth how they made their jewels. However, his fate after this point is not detailed.

That being said, I was inspired to write something that combines that scenario with the version given in The Silmarillion (i.e. Maedhros is hung from Thangorodrim, and Fingon severs his hand to release him). Prior knowledge of The History of Middle-earth isn't required, but would make the plot clearer.

I'm using the names given in The Silmarillion for the sake of clarity.

With Broken Hands

The winds of Morgoth's lands drew black smoke into Fëanor's lungs, and he coughed, his blindfolded eyes watering. It was a dim vision of the world: blurred and dark, gray and cold. Before him, Morgoth's smoothly taunting laugh echoed across the mountains; Fëanor imagined that he could feel the rocks tremble beneath his feet at the clamor. Dizzily, he tried to remain in a standing position, but the buffeting winds and the pain of his injuries brought him to his knees. There was a sharp crack as his knees struck the rock after his blind fall, and Morgoth's laughter mounted.

"Shall you surrender, spirit of fire?" the Black Foe hissed. "I bid you, surrender, and tell me of the making of your jewels..." His voice trailed off in a tantalizing pause, and Fëanor's eyes wrenched shut; he expected a flare of pain, a new injury added to the collection of hurts that adorned his body. "Most of all, I would have you tell me of the Silmarils. Fascinating, are they not? Shining with the blended light of Laurelin and Telperion, gold and silver mingling brightly - yes, I know that, within your soul, you have never truly loved but for your jewels."

"You lie," Fëanor rasped, his voice hoarse. Morgoth's words conjured up a new round of images, terrible and ghastly. His father, slain by Morgoth himself in the lands of the undying... blood spilled... his own lament in the pale light of Telperion... his speeches, urging the Noldor to leave and to seek far lands... Yes, his words at that time had been wholly true: his beloved father was dead, and by such was his heart also slain. "Do you not recall he who you slew before your taking of my Silmarils?"

A booming laugh rang out once again, a cold and pitiless thunder, but there was no answer, and Fëanor was pulled roughly to his feet. He staggered, his face held in an openly agonized grimace. Perhaps his own blood left a trail behind them, but he could not see. He felt a hard, metal object clamp firmly around his wrist, cold on his skin. I am chained, he thought, chained as a thrall. But naught has changed, for all of the Valar are truly the same! Ever have I been a thrall! Words longed to burst from his throat, but he found himself speechless.

"I will give you a last opportunity for mercy, spirit of fire," Morgoth sneered. Fëanor was shoved to the ground, lying on his stomach, helplessly pressing his injured body into the rock. Blood seeped from a gash on his leg, hot and sticky on his skin. "Tell me of the Noldor's secret arts. Tell me of your jewels." When Fëanor did not speak, Morgoth's voice raised to an enraged shout. If the situation had not been so dire, the Noldo would have smirked at his enemy's fury. "Tell me of the Silmarils, coward!" the Vala bellowed furiously. "Speak!"

Fëanor, silent, lay still against the stone. I shall not speak to this king of tyrants, he thought spitefully. Morgoth spoke again: "So you do not choose mercy, O most skilled of the Noldor," he mocked. "You choose slow torment, torture, and slavery. There will be one day, spirit of fire, when you shall beg me for forgiveness. You will plead to be a thrall. In agony, you will scream the secret of the Silmarils so loudly that all who listen may hear. I, however..." His voice was a snake's hiss, deadly and cunning. "I shall not show mercy. You shall betray Valinor..."

He paused as Fëanor inhaled sharply. "Is the thought truly so horrific to you, Lord of Kinslayers? Already have you betrayed Valinor, and you shall ever do so until I feel merciful enough to slay you. Now, open your eyes, but you shall see only darkness."

The blindfold was torn from Fëanor's eyes, and he squinted, expecting at least some far-off hint of light, but none was visible in the gloom ahead. The mountains, shrouded with black smoke, soared up to dizzying heights. The wind caused him to shiver, tearing at his skin. In these dreadful heights, the air was thin, and Fëanor found himself gasping for breath as he gazed at his surroundings.

For a moment, a temptation to look back seized him, but he quickly regained his common sense. Do not look back at Morgoth, he chided himself. He would surely strike at your face, blinding you permanently. Instead, he studied his own body. Gone were the days of feasting in Valinor under a sky dazzled by the light of the Two Trees; his body was so emaciated that his ribs stood out from his chest. Something cold brushed against his torso as he lowered his hands, and he saw a thick band of metal, well-forged, encircling his right wrist in a tight fit. His fingers had grown thin and were marred with terrible burns, red blisters oozing pus over calluses formed during Valinor's tense days.

These are the hands that made the Silmarils, he thought, begging himself not to become overly agitated, and now they are maimed, but not as sullied by darkness as my jewels. Alas for the Silmarils! I would do anything, anything possible in Arda, to retrieve them... He stood there for a moment, wringing his hands, but Morgoth's voice disturbed his reverie.

"You appear distressed," the Ainu said, his voice jeering. Fëanor resisted the urge to whirl around upon hearing him. There was a slight movement behind him, but he refused to let himself panic. "You may come to rue your choice of torment, spirit of fire." Footsteps drew nearer, and Fëanor stood tall as he was able, his back held upright. Angband has weakened me, wearied me - but I shall not give in. I shall not-

Then came a silent strike, and Fëanor's head smashed into the rock as he toppled over. But for a moment, one agonized moment as the gem-smith's eyes glassed over, time held no meaning.

The first thing that Fëanor noticed upon regaining consciousness was the darkness. It was deep, penetrating his very soul, and he longed for the blissful days of old, the peaceful times of Valinor. Then, there was an awful ache - my Silmarils; my Silmarils, he thought, and the darkness wavered as he blinked. He began to notice the throb of pain in his right arm and shoulder, and when he looked up, he was shocked.

The band of metal was now attached firmly to the dark rock of the mountain, and Fëanor hung limply, his body swinging gently, a broken branch in a storm. No, he was a dead leaf, attached by a particularly stubborn twig as the winds raged. In fury, in a bout of insanity, he scraped his wrist on the sharply angled edge of the thick cuff. "No, no, no, please, no, no, let me be freed, let me find the Silmarils, my Silmarils," he breathed, his voice woven with a wretched lisp as air hissed between the gaps where teeth had once been. He was bent on his knees, cowering, his skin mauled, spitting broken teeth onto the cruelly hard floor, coughing up mouthfuls of hot, crimson blood-

No, I shall not return to that place, he thought, persistently sawing away at his wrist. A trickle of blood, vibrant in the stark landscape, trickled down his arm, leaving a scarlet trail on his pale skin that had not felt the heat of true light for uncountable days. The wind cut into the broken flesh, and Fëanor's head spun terribly, making it difficult for him to think too deeply.

I must plan, he thought desperately. Soon, my wrist will be thin enough that the cuff shall fit more loosely - but not enough. He pondered this for a few minutes. Must I find a way to rid my hand and wrist of flesh? He remembered those horrific hours in the dungeons: knives, scraping along his fingers as he bled copiously, his hands cradled against his stomach as he hunched over, wanting so badly to scream for mercy when there would be none, when it would brand him a coward...

Perhaps the hazy realms of sleep would bring comfort, but rest eluded Fëanor, and through the dark day and the even blacker night, he thought of only three jewels: three perfect lights, burning as bright as his spirit, but inescapably purer.

And when sleep was finally ensnared in his weakened hands, he dreamed of fire and the light's blazing death.

As the days, those cursed miserable days, trudged by, Fëanor knew that the end was inevitable. Even the Eldar could be slain, as he knew too well - Kinslayer, Kinslayer, voices whispered in his mind. He had grown so thin that violent gusts of wind would send him swinging mercilessly until he felt nauseated, and he had taken up the habit of talking to the black nothingness, almost deliriously raving. The voices were cold and callous, mocking him as he pleaded for his Silmarils. Anything, anything to hold them again, to see their light and weep in joy.

His wrist was like a stick about to snap, covered in torn bark. The cuff was looser, and he could shift his wrist slightly, but to no avail. He had attempted desperately to free himself: clawing away at his skin with long, yellowed fingernails; hoisting himself to a height that put his face level to the cuff as he gnawed away at his own fingers like a maddened dog, letting his blood soothe his cracked lips; simply tugging away... It was all fruitless, and he was paid only in hideously infected wounds and further misery as his skin oozed pus and turned sickly shades of pale red, yellow, and purple-gray.

The nights seemed to grow colder, and Fëanor felt irreversibly ill. It was becoming more difficult to think without the silent voices intervening, without his thoughts turning to his Silmarils. His poor jewels, left like lost lovers who had been suddenly stolen away by a jealous man, locked in the darkness of his abode and ravished again and again. It was a violence that he had never known, and he loathed it. "I love you," he would call out in his torment; "I love you, please come back, do not leave me to be slain," but no answer came, and he told himself repeatedly that the wetness in his eyes was brought by the biting wind.

But there was no reason in lying to himself.

Unnumbered days later, Fëanor's once-bony fingers were bloated and inflamed with infection, and a disgustingly sweet odor permeated the air. A yellow substance coated his wrist, and his blood was flowing more freely than it had in those first days. On the same day that he noticed how weak he had become, he gave up. No, no, it was not giving up. It was the fire of a mad determination, of a panic that sent his mind reeling.

The puffy fingers of his blood-slick left hand were almost too weak to grasp his right index finger. Fëanor, staring up at the band of metal, wondered how much force it would take to snap the bones, and how much pain it would bring. "My Silmarils; my Silmarils," he whispered as encouragement, but nothing could erase his nervous sweat. Taking an alarmingly shaky breath, he closed his eyes, and-

Snap! The terrible cracking noise, accompanied by a hot flare of pain, caused Fëanor to cry out. The tip of his finger, now bent at an unnatural angle, swelled with misplaced blood. Before he could regret his decision, he yanked the same finger back once more, breaking it again, this time closer to his hand. A jagged fragment of bone protruded from his flesh, and blood flowed sluggishly from the injury.

Gritting his teeth in pain, Fëanor whispered to himself again. "It is for the Silmarils," he managed, hissing in agony as the wind probed the new wound. "I am freeing myself to regain my Silmarils..." But selfish thoughts overcame him as he stared up at his mangled, once-skilled hands. I will never create marvels again. I will never write in precise Tengwar again. I will never wield a blade again. I, the pride and enemy of the Noldor, will be a useless cripple.

One by one, he pulverized the bones of each finger, taking short breaks to gather his courage and wipe the blood from his free hand onto his ragged hair. By the end of the process, he was shaking and fighting with all of his effort to remain conscious. His misshapen hand was painted in macabre shades of red, and he trembled. "Through this pain, I love you still," he said to the Silmarils - his Silmarils. His voice was almost unintelligible. "Please, let me release you. I wish..." He coughed, and tears stung his eyes. "I wish to see you again before I perish."

Fëanor kept his eyes tightly shut as he smashed his hand against the rock of the mountain, staining the stone with erratically flowing designs of blood. Think of the light, think of the light; but the light was dying: a slowly fading memory. Bracing his hand against the cuff, he snapped the fragile bones, blood dripping out of his mouth as he bit his tongue. Anything for the Silmarils, he wanted to say, but the garbled syllables that poured from his throat were nowhere near akin to the soft melodies of Quenya.

Slowly, in agony, Fëanor lowered his hand. To his relief, the cuff was loose enough that he could pull the splintered remains of his right hand through it; it was barely holding him anymore. A thrill ran through his body, and he shivered in almost lustful joy. "Finally, I shall have revenge," he said, the words jumbled and strange to his own ears. Then, the words that were as familiar as breathing came, a comforted exhale: "My Silmarils." Blood and saliva bubbled over his chapped lips as he laughed. The sound was fey, crazed, and he loved it.

Pull. His shattered bones complained at being pulled into the tight space of the band of metal, and a pained noise issued from the back of his throat. "Silmarils," he gasped, swaying in the air and feeling his stomach turn. It was simultaneously furious and unspeakably intimate, something laid bare for all of Arda to see; it was his burning spirit that was revealed upon the speaking of his name. He pulled down again, and bones snapped. Fëanor groaned, sweat dripping from his body. "Silmarils." The Silmarils: three knives sliding smoothly between his ribs, a lover's seductive touch, passion declared in bold whispers...

As his hand slipped through and indescribable pain became release, Fëanor laughed, even though his vision faded a darkness so profound that it was beyond any simple absence of light.

Thralldom could never truly become revenge. Only love could, only a mad devotion to a faraway light. Yet Fëanor woke to see only darkness, and chains once again bound his hands.

Morgoth's voice gave Fëanor a strange delight; how long had it been since he had heard a voice besides his own? The words, however, brought only horror. "You are clever, spirit of fire," Morgoth said. Fëanor clutched his hand to his chest, collapsing onto the floor, the cool stone soothing on his wind-burned face. His legs, thin and bearing scar-distorted skin, were too weak to hold him. The sensation of walking was completely foreign now. "It was reckless, but also cunning, to release yourself. You are fortunate to live."

Fëanor did not respond, every thought of a cutting reply drained out of him with his blood. "You may be an impetuous man, Fëanor of the Noldor," Morgoth continued, and the gem-smith's heart raced, "but yet you possess great subtlety and cunning. You sought to escape, regain your jewels, and return to your followers. Therefore..." The pause, combined with the knowing undertones in Morgoth's voice, amplified Fëanor's pain. "Therefore, you shall be sent back."

Back? At first, the Noldo was baffled. Was this mercy? No, it was the very opposite: torture. Aside from that, the only place that Fëanor desired to be was Valinor under the radiance of the Two Trees, with the Silmarils newly made and his father filled with pride at his son's skill that was now lost. "Ever do you seek to torment me," he whispered, not looking up as he rose to his knees.

"Yes," Morgoth answered with a sneer, "yes. Torment shall follow you until you are slain, and only death..." He laughed cruelly, and the harsh, strident chuckle echoed back. "... only death shall bring release, spirit of fire."

Fëanor would have rather returned to Morgoth's dark fortress; such was his suffering. Days passed in weary hours, useless and worth even less than the painful days he had spent shackled to the mountain. At least he still had recognized himself in those lonely days. Now, he was so drastically changed that most did not associate him with Fëanor, leader of their rebellion, maker of the Silmarils, spirit of fire. On the bitter day of his return, the sentries who had guarded the dwellings of the Noldor had almost mistaken him for some dark creature. No, it could not have been Fëanor to their eyes. To them, Fëanor had never been a broken wreck of a man, clothed only in bleeding wounds, stumbling blindly, crying out in agony with every step.

His wounds would never truly heal. Granted, the superfluous hurts had long since faded into ugly scars, but some things would never disappeared. He loathed mirrors, hating their cruelly bright reflections. His eyes, once bright and filled with a brave vigor, were nothing but dull, gray marbles, and his face, which had long ago revealed anger so quickly, was almost emotionless save for pain. He spoke rarely, ashamed of the uncouth hiss of his mangled voice. No longer was he lithe and strong; his body was dangerously thin and fragile.

Worst was his right hand. The healers had all said the same things: that his bones had re-knit themselves incorrectly, and that the hand was as good as useless. It certainly looked so: the lumps of bone bulging beneath skin that was like dry paper, the puckered scars, the misshapen fingers. It was a disgusting badge of shame. The healers had also said that infection had almost taken his hand, that he was unspeakably fortunate, but Fëanor thought it lies, all but begging for them to sever his hand. Better for him to have no right hand than to be constantly reminded of the torture that he had put himself through.

Even his sons could hardly bear to look at him, and he would have wept in a sadistic catharsis, but his eyes were still focused only on his Silmarils.

There came a day, a day when the new sun was shrouded in dark clouds, when Fëanor truly gave up.

No one saw as he slipped out into the forest, and no one heard as he darted into the trees on clumsy feet. The forest was desolate, grim and gray, and no birds sang that day. It is fitting, he thought, wincing as his right hand brushed up against a tree. Skirting around the edge of a little ravine, he almost lost his footing. I was once skilled, once proud, and now...

A stack of firewood awaited when he reached the meadow; someone had already left it blazing. Thoughtless fool, to let such a strong fire burn. Smoke rose into the sky, weaving into intricate patterns and disappearing, and little flakes of pale ash blew, spattering Fëanor's dark hair. Behind him, the forest rose like a wild beast, crouching, soon to attack. Above, a vulture circled, its black wings silhouetted against the sky: a sign of death and a sign of doom.

The light had been slain, and love had been twisted into insane obsession. Still, it remained light, though it was lost, and it remained love, though it was hopeless. However, lost love had no use, and it became death. For this reason, Fëanor stepped into the flames without a trace of remorse.

"I shall die the death of a coward," he said softly, and the touch of the fire was the most gentle thing that he had felt since the stealing of his Silmarils. It was a strange, exotic lover: dancing for him in bright clothes and unfamiliar patterns, coaxing his garments away until he stood naked, all of his scars illuminated in the orange light. Pain was something of long-ago, bitter days, and he had abandoned it.

"Torment shall follow you until you are slain, and only death shall bring relief, spirit of fire." Yes, Morgoth's words had been true. Torment, torment for the loss of his Silmarils. He wanted to hold them once more with broken hands, to see their light blaze into his eyes, to kiss their cool surface. No, it would never happen. It was a lost vision, and reality was sending Fëanor staggering. A loss of light, a bright knife, a cold and sharp finality...

And as flames consumed him, the brighter fire of his spirit still burning, Fëanor wept.