Title: Burning, Burning, Burning

Author: Sargent Snarky

Rating: T

Genre: Tragedy/ Angst

Summary: A snapshot time: The burning of the ships at Losgar and the Feanorian family response.

Disclaimer: The Silmarillion and all its characters, places and events belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, not me.

The Story:

Burning, burning, burning… The heat from the burning ships: That was at once readily apparent to those there encamped. It roiled out from the burning in great waves, driven by the sea breeze and causing their hair and their clothing to undulate in strange, whipping patterns. The wind stung their faces with embers and choked them with the thick, acrid smoke. And their noses, mouths, lungs were lined with ashes, leaving the dreadful taste behind, though they coughed and spluttered, all of them drinking from their canteens and splashing themselves with water in an attempt to quench and cleanse.

All of them, except for eight. The leaders in this mad quest, this fool's errand, this futile effort – not that any would yet admit it to be so, but in time they would rue this day and so many others.

Those eight – seven sons and their father – stood on the rocky shores, watching the ships burn with a feverish delight, or so one might have thought, since they'd set the flames.

But it wasn't really so, and one would've done an injustice to them to say so.

The youngest of the seven was among the ships, in the bowels of one, unconscious from a lack of oxygen, his body burning, burning, burning with a fire other than that of his own soul. The second youngest, his twin, knew something was wrong, could feel a part of him being torn, shredded, murdered. He sobbed his brother's name and fell to his knees, doubling over, his shoulders heaving as he wept.

The third youngest son had a hold of his father, along with the third oldest – the two of them restraining their father in order to prevent him from getting himself killed by rushing into the very blazes he had set to rescue his youngest, whom he unknowingly burned alive. They knew it was too late for the youngest, and they would not lose their father and king.

The fourth youngest and fourth oldest stood stone still, his expression dark and inscrutable, brooding in the face of the brilliant and bright glow from the crackling, deafening fire. He was impassive and stern, his arms crossed upon his chest, and his black eyes reflecting the scene before him, unblinking.

The second eldest knelt next to the second youngest, giving the remaining twin a shoulder to cry and a protective embrace. His expression was utterly lost, confused and unsure, his countenance, unhappy. His lip was caught between his teeth, and his eyes watered as much for the loss of the youngest as for the dryness of the air and the bitter ashes.

The oldest walked away. He had refused to take any part in this, unwilling to betray friends and cousins on the distant, icy western shores. And now, learning of his youngest brother's demise, his heart grew cold within him, and he could only stare disconsolately at the stones beneath his feet, trembling. No tears did he shed, but he had an overwhelming desire, suddenly, to scream. He didn't, though; he held it in, clenching his fists and breathing deep.

And the father gave up struggling against the hold of two of his sons. Earlier, upon setting the flames, he had been fey, gleefully mad with mingled desires – cutting off the last ties to the West, leaving behind his half brother and the half brother's followers, making a vicious statement to the Valar and to Morgoth. Yes, the father had been giddy at the sight of the burning ships, pleased by the crackle and snap of the last ties to Valinor, happy to keep his half brother from following.

Not so, now. Now, his mad laughter had ceased, and instead a stony silence settled in – a grim determination and a burning anger. Anguish was there, too, a heightened despair and grief – at the loss of his father, his jewels, his youngest born, his wife left behind, and so much more; the force with which he felt each was maddening. He felt too much! Each emotion tore through him, vying for the forefront, instead of tempering each other. Spirit of Fire was he, and like fire was his spirit indeed, for it thrashed and flailed, dancing from rage to misery, from elation to sorrow, without missing a beat or pausing in between.

And they wondered why he was so unstable or why he threw himself so vehemently into projects, deeds, words, actions. Concentration and movement directed his intensity, and thus he found relief, if only temporarily so. But now, as he fell limply to his knees between two sons, eyes fixed upon the inferno, he was empty and oh so full. No relief, for the searing of his soul was greater than before, but a moment of temporary numbness that was just as good.

But it didn't last…

Abruptly, he twisted to his feet, eyes cold and black as he turned from the conflagration, his mind determined. Focus, focus, focus, and don't allow for distractions from the goal. Distractions only kindled the fire in new directions, and he was sick – oh, so sick! – of burning, burning, burning…

End

A/N: Inspiration struck me like a semi hitting a deer. THUD. Lovely image, no? But I had a need to write this, so I did. Please let me know what you think of it!

I realize that it's rather rambling, probably in need of a lot of editing and probably makes very little sense in spots, but it was also a bit of an experiment, at least in terms of writing styles.

- Snarky