Author's Notes: I am going to re-read this and I will edit it again but for tonight I am posting this so that I can fill up my Team Feanorian Bingo Card on tumblr. I hope it is okay though...
The Oath
There isn't really strength in words when you utter them, Feanor thought silently. No, words do not really have much strength in them unless you mean what you say. Unfortunately, most Noldorin mean what they say and Feanor was indeed an elf who spoke his mind. Always, always, he spoke his mind. He would not keep still and be silent if he felt that his voice could make an impact on something. Much like the iron that bends to his will when he is doing his crafting, words can also bend and shape his thoughts. Honesty was the best policy or so he was told and Feanor always spoke honestly.
He certainly meant it when he had pointed the tip of his sharpened sword to the breast of his half-brother, Fingolfin that day when Melkor's lies had been told too many a time and had somehow taken root in his heart. He meant it when he said such terrible words to one who also had his father's blood coursing through his veins. He meant it when he chased after Fingolfin who had looked so utterly devastated yet had held his head high when he turned from that pointed blade and walked away from such a challenge. Fingolfin had turned away! Fingolfin his cowardly half-brother! But then the chase began and once he caught up to Fingolfin, again, Feanor had threatened him. Harsh words they were, for such a harsh elf. Feanor knew he could be cruel and threatening when he needed to and he felt that in that time he had desperately needed to be. Perhaps it was the look in Fingolfin's eyes. Sad they were yet burning with a light that had struck something in Feanor's heart.
Feanor had meant those words when he said them. He had said horrible things, insulted Fingolfin, called him names that would have taken a rise out of Feanor himself if any other person had dared said such words to him. And yet, his half-brother, tall and straight, did not quake with fear nor anger. He did not look insulted nor offended. He did not look hurt by Feanor's words. He was supposed to, damned half-brother! Those words were meant to hurt him! He was supposed to have an injured heart when those words were thrown at him. Fingolfin had looked sad. He was saddened by those words and it made Feanor all the more hateful to him.
Feanor's mind wandered on.
He remembered what Fingolfin had done for him when he had return from his exile. He remembered his half-brother's words.
"Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart".
It was much too much for the hot headed Feanor. Much too much of a tidal wave of emotions that had washed over his smouldering heart. Just how dare Fingolfin act so kindly towards him? Just how dare he? Smile kindly and gently. Words spoken in all honesty. Sweet tender words. Honeyed and glazed but not untrue.
Feanor remembered that day all too well. He remembered the expression on Fingolfin's face, he remembered his half-brother's eyes. Gentle they were and misted as if he were about to spill fresh pearly drops from seeing his beloved older brother return. It was cruel, Feanor thought. Fingolfin loved him and accepted him yet in his heart, Feanor could do nothing but feel resentful of his younger half-siblings. What was even more cruel was the fact that he knew immediately and without question that Fingolfin loved him and his words, those he uttered with such love and tenderness, the ones where he declared outright to everyone present that he acknowledge Feanor as a his full brother in heart…Those very words…He knew Fingolfin meant them. Meant them with all his heart and soul.
Yes, words are just mere words. Spoken or written, they do not have a physical power. Unlike a sword that you wield, you can cut a person down with it and truly hurt the other if you want. Words can't hurt you in that way. But they can create wounds in the heart and in the soul and in the mind.
The lies Melkor told had spread far and wide indeed and had crawled and burrowed its way into many a heart in Valinor. Those were evil words spoken in hate and jealousy, spoken in order to create chaos. Those words were false yet they held such power.
Words can truly destroy. Again not physically but it can destroy.
The words you speak can take a root in your heart, can slash the flesh in your soul, it can corrupt you and consume you. Yet again, you don't feel it physically.
Words can hurt you but it doesn't leave physical evidence behind. No one else can feel it or see it. No one else but you.
This is at least what everyone thinks of them.
It is not so.
Words can harm someone if they are spoken viciously and with malicious intent, yes, however, no one had ever known how physical the pulls could be for one who had uttered an oath.
And physical they were…
"How can anyone say such terrible things?" some had whispered.
"How could he say that about the Valar? What a horrid person…to be so ungrateful like that!" others had cried.
"He is a terrible fellow, indeed! Look at him! Look at his sons! They are mad I tell you! Mad!"
People had not ceased their worthless tongues in condemning him and his sons. Feanor had not taken a care nor a whit when this happened.
But oh, how he had seen and felt the words of the Oath then! How they drive him and drove him to madness. To his obsession. His sons felt them too, the words of the Oath, guiding them, forcing them, literally making them lift up their swords and strike.
And strike they did. The many Teleri they had slaughtered that day on the ships could not stand against such a driving force as an Oath like the one made by the Feanorians.
The Teleri and their precious ships…Such white large ships they were. Beautifully crafted and even for a superior Noldorin craftsman such as he, Feanor, had to admit that the glimmering white ships of the Teleri were utterly breath-taking. Fair and great they were and yet so very delicate looking. Like a swan glass teetering on a jagged edge rock.
When the blood of their fallen kin had spilled all over the decks of those gloriously white ships, how the colour had been so stark in contrast. Red against white. Nothing could stop him now that he had slain his very own kin! Nothing at all.
He felt the Oath taking its course around his fingers, his hands. The wrist moved on its own. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword without his mind telling it to, his arm moved swiftly again without command. It was the Oath that did this to the Teleri. The Oath that bound him, moved his body the way it should in order to eliminate those who stood against him. The Oath that struck flesh and hewed off arms and legs. The Oath that cut deep and slashed into bellies that gushed open and spilled blood and innards. The Oath that gouged eyes and tore tongues from lips and teeth. The Oath that guided his body and the bodies of his sons and Noldorin kin.
He saw the red flaming hair of his firstborn, Maedhros. A beautiful boy he was, strong and agile, he moved with such speed and grace. Stabbing and slicing the fearful Teleri who now saw what powerless beings they were next to the superior weaponry of their Noldorin kin; ran about like bilge rats on a doomed ship.
Maglor, his second born, always so gentle and kind. Eyes shimmering, his laughter a sing-song thing of beauty. His dark hair billowing about him as he whipped and whirled around him, cutting, stabbing, slashing, hacking his foes. No, they weren't really foes, mere fodder that stood as a means to get onto the main event. Maglor didn't even look like himself anymore. He didn't even look anything like the insanely talented yet humble and sweet Maglor who had his mother's gentle temperament. Feanor didn't know whether to be proud of horrified.
His third son, Celegorm, the only one of his sons with fair hair had been drenched in blood. His once glowing head of gold was dripped in dark red, straggling locks of hair stuck to his face and breast plate. Armour red, sword red, body red. It was the colour of blood. Blood of their own kind. And his son had killed them with his own hands.
It was the Oath, do you see? The Oath draws them, makes them hate, makes them hurt. The Oath physically pulls them. A tug on the hand, a stroke on the face, the wind in the air.
Then there was Caranthir. The fiery one. The Dark One or so everyone called him. Dark like his hair and his eyes. Dark like the night's shadow that looms over his form and cloaks it like galvorn. He is bathed in it much like Celegorm was bathed in blood. Caranthir, whose temper could rival the wrath of the seas. Caranthir who was fierce and harsh in demeanour and spoke fiercely, whose words were harsher even than that of Feanor. When Caranthir hit, he hit with the full force of that fire. He killed and hacked. No one stood before him without getting cut, getting stabbed, getting stuck. It was glorious watching this dark brooding son of his viciously kill those that stood against them. Faenor saw his son's motivation though. So that it really wasn't his own motivation. It was the Oath's.
It was beyond their control! The Oath! It made them say things, do things! See things in a different light! It was no longer a thing that only could be felt in the heart! It was physical. They felt its touch! Felt it on their skin! Felt the Oath seep through and cloud their hearts. Felt the powerful tugs on their heart strings. It would be their doom.
Curufin, his favourite, the one who had all his love. Even his favourite did not disappoint when it came to slaying their Teleri kin. Curufin did not show mercy, did not pardon the younglings nor the women who stood against them. It wasn't in the Oath to be compassionate, to be forgiving. He saw his son slice through a lady elf who was screaming and begging for mercy.
You would think that if it were in a different situation, one could stop themselves from performing such actions. One could have control. One could tell their body to stop and repent their thoughts of killing and bloodshed.
The Oath makes no room for control. The Oath is ruthless, impatient; it is not wise. It cares not for women nor children. The Oath commands the will. The will is left bereft once the Oath is at work.
Amrod and Amras, his last born sons. He could not see them. Feanor knew not where they were. Feanor couldn't bring himself to care at that moment. The Oath did that to him as it surely had brought the twins to wherever they were. The Oath…There is no escaping it. When people warn you about being careful with words…About threading softly on them…They are very wise. Because words, especially oaths and swears were a curse that binds you. It robs you of your will, of your freedom, of your heart and of your body. The mind can no longer control your body for the Oath has taken over it. The Oath is a curse. The Oath rules you, The Oath finds you and The Oath drives you to your doom. There is nothing you can do to stop it.