This story starts just before Fëanor dies in the Silmarilion (although it will probably be obvious). This is my first fanfiction ever! So if you like it, or have any opinion on it whatsoever, please review!:)
Disclaimer- I don't own The Silmarillion, Harry Potter, or any aspect of them e.g characters, concepts etc. etc.
Prologue- In The Name Of Rage
The forest of thundering flames swept around him. His volcanic mind drenched in blinding pride. He held the blade. The flame licked the air that was steaming with vengeance, despite the cold fate that would soon await him, Fëanor fought with the entire wrath that he could conjure.
He was dancing in the Balrog's breath, their glowing metal searing his skin. Although his breath was harsh with rage, and his body was being ripped apart, he wouldn't hesitate to run right into the battle with his ram's heart driving his actions.
Fëanor stood, proud and hardened in the face of Gothmog, the lord of the Balrogs. He twisted his wrist; the glinting sword relishing the conflict was akin to his fiery soul. The great monstrosity before him growled, sending flittering sparks towards him, creating swollen gashes all over his body. Fëanor mocked the creature's fury, lost in a moment of sadistic comedy he blinded himself to his surroundings and Gothmog struck him to the ground.
Fëanor collapsed, his will fighting his fate. His sight was weary, and his focus flew over the ocean to Valimar, where the Valar sat in silence while Melkor unleashed chaos upon the earth. An insatiable fury crept through his soul, just as the Balrog prepared for his final blow. But he did not feel sharp weapons piercing his heart; he felt soft hands clutch his limbs, bearing him away from the heat.
He remembered little of after that time and his death, but his thoughts were so livid that they thundered out of his throat, his rage at Melkor and the rest of the Valar conscribing his sons to continue the war.
As his soul left his body and it crumpled into ashes, he felt his consciousness fly toward the halls of Mandos. Nienna stood there in her dreary robes, a scowl painted across her pained face. Fëanor felt her grief, her continual tears drowning his fire, suffocating his spirit. She shook her head. That is all he could remember.
Suddenly, he felt himself being dragged through an iridescent light-lined tunnel, the atmosphere around his spirit thick and alive with the remnants of his anger.
"Phew! It's over darling" Fëanor felt that his eyes were closed, but he used his mind's eye to perceive the situation. He was facing an ecstatic emotion, molding the physical features of a delicate face. The face belonged to a woman; she was one of the race of men.
"He's beautiful isn't he Emmanuel." The woman stroked the side of his face.
What was happening?
"As beautiful as you."
"Oh, stop it I hate false flattery."
"From me?"
The woman began to laugh; the situation was becoming increasingly more confounding by the second.
"What do you think we should call him?" The man she was talking to was resting against the side of a plane of white.
"I have an idea, although you may not like it." The woman appeared to be chewing the side of her mouth in an anticipative gesture. "I think Aiden is a nice name."
"Why would I think that to be odd?" The man spread out his forearms, stretching his palms flat. What is that supposed to symbolize?
"It means fire, I know it's a bit of a strange thing to name your child after." The woman shrugged her shoulders.
"Whatever you want darling, I don't mind." Fëanor felt vibrational warmth emanate from the man's chest.
The man drew a stick-like instrument from his pocket and flicked it graciously, the blanket upon the woman stretched up to cover her chest.
The woman lent back, "Thank you."
Fëanor directed his attention back toward his physical eyes, where was he? Did Nienna do this? He felt that same fury creep up once more, while his sons and all that knew of him believed that he dwelt in the halls of Mandos, he had been transported to this very strange place, where he couldn't even open his eyes.