Title: House of Ashes

Author: Lyra the Bard

Summary: Snippets and small stories about Fëanor and anyone else I feel like writing about, though it most likely will focus on Fëanor and his sons. Please read and review!

Rating: T I suppose.

Authoress' Note: I just felt like writing a few stories involving Fëanor and his sons. I seem to love to pick on these poor fellows. Just a bit of randomness on my part actually when I should have most likely been getting work for college done, but oh well. Not the best I guess but I'll leave that all up to you on that decision. Enjoy!

Vengeance

Vengeance. That was what he wanted more than anything in the world as he looked out across the sea, knowing that Nolofinwë's forces would see what he had done. He did not doubt that they could make out the horrid flames of the Teleri ships flickering over the horizon and he frowned, a single tear rushing past his defenses and sliding down his cheek. He had burnt one of his own sons to death on one of those very ships and once more his mind soon became muddled with thoughts of violent vengeance…for the death of his father, son, and all the betrayals that the Black Enemy had laid upon him. And most of all for the theft of the Silmarils. He would have his vengeance. He would make sure that Morgoth never forgot him or his sons. He would be sure of it. With a heavy heart and a burning soul, Fëanor turned and left the shores, walking back to the small camp that he and the rest of his sons had made, not wanting to look back across the rolling waves.

Sorrow

Sorrow…it was all he could feel as he gingerly reached up and brushed a stray dark lock from his father's face. It was all he could do. Perhaps he was too stunned to do anything else but sit there and gently run his fingers, his hands, across that aquiline nose and brow that could be both stern and soft at any given moment. Not anymore. Never again would those brows raise in question or silent amusement. No longer would they frown whenever their owner found something displeasing or even in anger. Now they were held in a perpetual state of peace, despite the horrible way that their owner had passed. It made Fëanáro's heart break to look upon the lifeless form of what was once his father now stained in blood, looking like a slab of marble that had been stained red. He wanted to weep. Wanted to cry to his heart's content but no tears came. Just silence. Silence and sorrow...

Loving

Maedhros watched as Maglor played with the young Elrond and Elros, his bright grey eyes literally shining like stars as he lifted Elrond from the ground and spun him, Elros son latching onto a leg before giggling in absolute delight. A pang entered his chest as he stood in the doorway, his disfigured arm held stiffly at his side while he leaned against the other, his cheek in the hollow of his elbow. It oddly enough reminded him of the days in Aman, when he himself had been just to the cusp of adulthood as he watched his father play with his youngest siblings, the twins Ambarussa. He watched as Maglor plummeted to the grassy earth beneath him as Elros tugged on his trousers, making the older elf lose balance and tumble head over heels into a patch of glossy yellow flowers. Elrond squealed in return as Elros pounced upon them both, his dark hair shimmering in the sunlight. Laughter soon followed and it made Maedhros hurt even more on the inside. If only he was able to feel what they were feeling, see what they saw in all of this. His thoughts were broken as he looked back up and watched as Maglor laughed, his teeth shining brilliantly in the sparkling light, his voice sounding like a sweet song as he held both boys against his chest. He looked upon them both lovingly as his laughter rent the cool spring air. Maedhros' chest burned...

Loathing

Burning; everything was burning right before Telufinwë's dark grey eyes as he dodged another blow that had been meant for him. His sword swung, cut…massacred. Tears of anguish, hatred, and great sadness ran from his eyes with each swing of his blade. It was all he could see. That accursed mix of red, oranges, yellows, and even blue, as if someone had taken a torch and set everything ablaze before his very eyes. As he blocked another oncoming blow, hearing a Teleri call out a battle cry before he swiftly ended the other's life at the end of his sword, his brother's back every now and then touching his as they fought in unison with one another. It did little to help the revulsion he felt as he fought onward, trying to forget the smell of smoke and the sight of fire. As he spun in numerous directions, dodging arrows and locking his weapon with others, he finally realized. He realized that it wasn't just the fire, the blood, the anguish that was painting the picture of his world red. It was his own hair…and how he loathed it more than ever at that moment.

Jealousy

His eyes, the color of dark metal, landed upon her. His lips sneered in disgust as he watched his father hug her close, whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she giggled. How it made him sick inside to know that his father had cast away the love he had before for this…this woman. Her bright golden hair was nearly glowing in the light of Laurelin and it made his stomach churn. How his father could just put aside the love of his first wife for Indis escaped the young Fëanáro as he watched them both hold one another and stare off into the distance, seemingly heedless of his presence. He was not jealous of Indis, he knew that much. What galled him more than anything was the fact that the woman was always so happy. So damned happy, with not a care in the world and perhaps it was her ability to remain so, that made him hate her most of all. That was the source of his jealousy and with a huff he turned, leaving the two newlyweds to themselves as they stared into the afterglow of the evening.

Sympathy

He could see it. Every time Maglor, Curufin, the twins, looked at him, he could see it. Sympathy; it was as if it had been ingrained in their very eyes as they looked upon him in bed, his useless and mangled arm, now missing a hand, laying limp at his side. He didn't want that. While Maedhros knew that they cared, he didn't want them to sympathize over his condition or the treatment he had suffered at the hands of Morgoth. It made him feel guilty, weak, and useless even at the fact that he had allowed himself to fall into the hands of the fallen Vala. It made his stomach flip inside as he watched Celegorm, the best hunter perhaps among them, look down at the swollen purple stump that had once been a hand, his lip ever so curling in disgust before turning into the thin line that Maedhros was used to seeing on his younger sibling's face. Still, that did little to hurt him. Their sympathy hurt far worse than their disgust ever had.

Resentment

He resented them. All of them; down to the last elf in the realm for all he cared. Ever since he and Celgorm had been exiled from Nagothrond, it was all he could feel. Even in their most dire time of need they had been turned away with a blind eye and a heart unwilling to listen. No realm would accept them now, not after what they had done. It had been a mistake, his part as much as Celegorm though his older brother had gone along with the plan full heartedly. Still, it did little to assuage the feeling of pity for either of them. He had once been one of the finest princes in the land as had Celegorm and now they were being driven like dogs from a hearth everywhere they happened to turn. Could none see that they had made a mistake? A simple mistake, a simple plan that could've bloomed to fruition had it been not for that she-elf and her mortal lover. His hatred grew with each passing moment as his mind wandered, his dark clothed form keeping closely behind that of Celegorm as they traversed the cold barren landscape. His resentment however, soon turned to anger, both at himself and at those who had caused his downfall.

Longing

He longed to have his twin at his side. He wanted that more than anything as he traversed through the woods of his realm. The realm that he and his brother should have shared as he strung his bow, feeling the pull of the string, the stirring of the woodlands at his approach, the bend of the wood as his dark grey eyes peered over the snowy horizon. As he thought about it, his brother wouldn't ever to get to see snow either. Pityafinwë felt a frozen tear escape and trail down his cold pale cheek. He quickly reached up with a sleeve and wiped it away, cursing himself for growing lax. He had allowed his emotions to get the better of him and even though he wanted to go further out into the wood, to hunt, he found that he could not shake the longing of wanting his twin by his side. But he knew that it could never be. Ambarussa would never return. Not now. Not ever. He turned, attempting to find his horse and head back when his knees went from under him, grief overtaking him in a white flash of pain as tears erupted from his eyes. "Ambarussa,'' he whispered as his hands raced towards his face, attempting to stop the torrential flood that threatened to flow down his cheeks. He was too late. A tear had already fallen and was now plummeting helplessly towards the snow before landing, creating a pin print in white. Other soon followed.

Remorse

He tried to tell himself that he felt no regret. No remorse for his actions. But it dogged him every step of the way as he made his way behind Curufin, his younger brother's black clad form moving swiftly through the halls that belonged to Dior, son of Beren and Luthien. He cursed every name he knew in all of Arda, even the Valar themselves as each step brought him closer to the true prize that he and all the rest of his brothers cherished most. Their father's beloved Silmaril. One of them at least, but that was enough to give him hope that the others would also eventually return into the rightful hands that they belonged as he swerved around a corner to keep up with Curufin's quick pace, his boots sending a tell tale clip clap throughout the blood drenched halls and among the dying. But their faces never left him. Never gave him peace. The faces of the two terrified boys kept forming in his memory, pricking him in just the right places, in the clinks of the armor he had built up around himself through the years. It shattered. Every step he took only reminded him that he was leading himself farther away from them, away from his servants who he had ordered. He had ordered them to take the young twins out of his sight and dump them in the woods nearby; perhaps so that they would see their home burn and know just what the sons of Fëanor were capable of. Part of him wanted to rush back into the rooms, through the long corridors, across the courtyards even as he made another turn, hot on his brother's heels. He tried. He tried to tell himself as their visage haunted him that he didn't care, didn't shed a tear at what he had done. That he had no remorse for his actions. The shaking of his hands, however, belied how he truly felt.

Destiny

Destiny. How he scoffed at the idea as he held the holy jewel in his hand, feeling the flesh of his palm burn with each passing second. Was this his destiny? To be condemned to wander the shores of Middle Earth until the end of Arda? Until the Second Music? A tear trickled down his cheek and splashed against the bracer enclosing his wrist, which was connected to the hand that held the last of his father's sacred jewels. The final Silmaril. All of this had been done…for what…this stone? Maglor gulped, feeling the lump rise before falling, sliding back down his throat and leaving him empty inside as he gazed across the sea, its dark blue waters tempting him to cross their shore. Mocking him. Still his hand held fast, gripping the gem for dear life despite the pain it brought him as he looked out towards the sea, longing to be relieved of his sins. All of his rage, his anger, his heartbreak, began to build within him until he finally could not take it any longer, raising his hand high within the air and cocking his arm back, the bright shining jewel glittering in the dim sunlight of the early morning sun. He then flung, his outstretched hand letting the jewel fly through the air, his fingers slipping past the clear cut stone. It was too late to go back now, too late to stop himself, as he watched the Silmaril fly through the air, glittering like a drop of dew as it plunged towards the sea in a headlong spin. With a splash it landed into the calm sea, small waves lapping against the shore as Maglor stared out across the blue expanse, his hand still sore and burning from where the Silmaril had rubbed against his flesh. Curse it all! There was no sense in any of it and with that in mind he let his eyes linger on the sea as a song escaped his lips, a lament of ages past and of those to come as memoires, some old, some new, overwhelmed him. Was this his destiny? To forever be condemned to wander the shores of Middle Earth and lament his loss? He shook his head and continued to sing, his voice scattering like ash across the ocean as the Silmaril sank ever deeper into the water below. Soon to be forgotten, he mused, as his lament grew ever deeper until it lingered on the horizon, mingling with the crash of waves and the cry of gulls.