People often say that hatred and revenge were always the reasons why I did what I did. Maybe sometimes I could blame revenge for things I did, but these were pointless, little things long into my past that weren't very life-changing. And yet, as I'm lying here, feeling the life-blood flow from my veins and out onto the ground, I reflect that it was done in hatred, true, just not my own. My sons surround me, this I know even with my vision hazy as it is, and I blindly reach out to attempt to clasp one of their hands. A hand grabs mine and squeezes it tightly. I open my mouth to tell them to renounce the oath - to seek forgiveness for what they had been forced into - but the only words that come out are Morgoth's. I desperately try to take them back, but my spirit had almost overcome my body and I scream out my father's name before blackness overcomes me.
This is Feanor if you couldn't gather that.
