I own nothing.
"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-Earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we deal him ere Day's ending,
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember, Manwe and Varda!"
—Morgoth's Ring, 'The Annals of Aman', 112
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They swore it with him, those seven sons of Fëanáro, that great and terrible Oath, swearing upon the summit of Túna despite the fact that Fëanáro lived still under the Doom of banishment. They swore to a name that should have never been called upon, and promised for themselves a fate beyond the greatest terror that any Elf could conceive of. They drew their swords and swore it.
Curufinwë leapt up first, first in line as he always was to follow their father's will. He drew his sword and swore the Oath without hesitation, the lamps and torches of Tirion shining on the naked metal, shining on his face. Those who saw him swear would say that he was doing so out of blind obedience to Fëanáro. He was, after all, his father's favorite son, the one most like him in body and mind.
That was only half right.
It was true that Curufinwë was accustomed to obeying his father without question; this could not be argued. He saw no reason to disobey Fëanáro now, just as has he had not before. But that was not all he thought of when he swore his father's Oath. Alone out of all of Fëanáro's children, Curufinwë had a child of his own, a boy of six years who was with the rest of their kin, now held securely in Findaráto's arms when Curufinwë had passed him to his cousin, so he could draw his sword. He looked at Telperinquar, then at the black skies above. There would be no safety for his child unless Moringotto was vanquished, and so he swore.
Tyelkormo was next. He felt the blood rushing in his veins and roaring in his ears, that swift spark of adrenaline, so much like the first rush of the hunt that he almost expected a boar or a hart to leap out in front of him at any second. Tyelkormo understood the desire for the hunt in his father's heart. He felt it too, every day, and stronger now than ever. Moringotto is our prey, his heart told him, and the Silmarils our prize.
Full of wrath, Carnistir began to swear almost before his sword was even out of its sheath. He remembered the blood that had stained the steps of their house, Finwë's blood, as he laid dying there, crushed by Moringotto. He was rash and hot-headed, and did not think at all before he drew his sword. It was a matter of sheer impulse.
The Ambarussa shot looks at one another. Truly, they wished to avenge their grandfather's blood, and if it was really so important to their father, then they wanted to recover the Silmarils as well, but they could not honestly say that any plan that involved them all leaving Aman sounded like a good one. How could they be sure that they'd all come back, or that even if they were all alive when this was over, that they'd be able to find safe passage home? They stared at each other, until Ambarussa the younger shrugged, and they drew their swords and swore. Oh well. Surely this wouldn't take too long, and they'd be able to come back home soon. Besides, it wasn't like they would really ever have to slay other Elves, was it?
Makalaurë hesitated, and looked over at Maitimo, unsure of what to do. He was a musician, a harpist and a singer. His great passions were music and song (well, his wife counted too, but he didn't think that it would be appropriate to bring her up at a time like this), not swordplay or the smithy. He could understand well the power of being overtaken by some creative passion, but he did not understand Fëanáro's particular love of these jewels, nor did he understand why Fëanáro put so much emphasis on reclaiming them in his Oath. They were wondrous fair, oh yes, fair indeed, but why so much of an emphasis on reclaiming them?
Much more immediate to Makalaurë was the death of his paternal grandfather. He supposed that he could take the Oath, and say to himself in his heart that to him, it would always be first and foremost about Finwë's loss, rather than the retrieval of the Silmarils. The blood on the steps of the house, it cried out to him.
But what will you say? he wondered of Maitimo, still looking at him. Maitimo had not drawn his sword; his arms were crossed about his chest, and he was watching the proceedings with an almost troubled air. In the end, Makalaurë raised his sword. He had always been content to follow; he was the second son, and even further down the line in the succession—the chances of him ever becoming High King were so remote as to be laughably ridiculous, and thus he had never been trained the way his father, uncles, older brother, and Findekáno and Findaráto had been. He was a musician and a singer, not a great warrior or tactician. Maitimo's silence bothered him, for Makalaurë had always followed the example of his older brother, but he would just have to trust, in this everlasting night, that his father would not lead him wrong. So he drew his sword and swore.
Later he would say that he'd done so without thinking, but that was a lie. Makalaurë had simply followed as he'd always done, and realized too late that perhaps he shouldn't have.
Maitimo looked at Fëanáro and wondered what this fell, fey creature had done with his father.
To swear in the name of Eru was madness, and to say that neither Elf nor Vala would be spared their wrath if they kept them from their purpose was practically inviting disaster. Surely Fëanáro must know that, Maitimo thought, staring at his father as he swore this great and terrible Oath, but it seemed that he did not.
What has happened to you? I knew that you were becoming angry and perilous of mood, even before Grandfather was slain, but I did not think… I did not think that you had come to be like this, so wrathful and implacable.
Maitimo had no love in his heart for his father's jewels. They had changed Fëanáro, not for the better, and Maitimo had watched as those changes had driven his parents apart, to the point that when Fëanáro was banished to Formenos, Nerdanel would not accompany him, and had even committed the unforgivable (in Fëanáro's eyes) insult of choosing to dwell with Indis instead. Maitimo knew that his father was becoming strange, but he'd chosen to shut his eyes to it before now, instead focusing on taking care of and keeping the peace between his myriad brothers, on helping Curufinwë and Telpalma raise their son.
Perhaps it would have been better if he'd been paying closer attention to his father instead. Perhaps he could have stopped this.
But that was the past, and Maitimo could not rewrite the past as one would write over poor handwriting on a page. He had no love for the Silmarils, and ultimately, it was not even a desire for vengeance on the blood of Finwë that made him swear. It was instead a memory, a single memory—he had ran. He had ran when the Darkness fell. He, and his brothers, and all of Formenos save one had fled the Darkness. Finwë had not. And now Finwë was dead.
No one blamed his brothers, Maitimo least of all. But he, he was the oldest. He was the oldest son, the oldest grandson. It would have been acceptable to send his brothers to safety, especially the Ambarussa, who were the youngest, and Curufinwë, who had a child of his own to think about. But he should have stayed with Finwë. He should have saved his grandfather's life, or died with him. No one had breathed this opinion aloud. No one, not even Fëanáro, who, even fell and fey as he had become, would not have gone so far. No one had suggested that Maitimo should have stayed with Finwë, and died with him. But they didn't have to. He heard the words in his own heart, crying out, eating him up like a raging fire.
Last of the sons of Fëanáro, Maitimo, the eldest, drew his sword and swore his father's Oath. One thought rang through his head as he did so: This is going to end badly.
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Curufinwë—Curufin
Findaráto—Finrod
Telperinquar—Celebrimbor
Moringotto—Morgoth
Tyelkormo—Celegorm
Carnistir—Caranthir
Ambarussa—Amrod and Amras
Makalaurë—Maglor
Maitimo—Maedhros
Findekáno—Fingon