How little you know, Quendi child, Manwë thought sadly, looking down at Fëanor's stubborn face. How little you know the truth of your words. Even I know not why my brother chose the path of evil, but his path is not mine.
"He has spoken," Mandos proclaimed, though it was mere formality and to reassure Fëanor of the Valar's intent.
Poor Nienna, Manwë thought to himself as he watched the fair Vala begin to weep and sing over the lost trees. But his attention was soon turned by the arrival of two Noldor messengers.
"My lord!" the first one gasped, pressing past Fëanor to look up at Manwë with a face as white as ashes. "A great Darkness has come, bringing death to us! Most of us fled, but King Finwë alone stood against the Darkness and the - the nameless evil that it concealed."
Manwë shot a quick glance at Mandos, who gave him a quick, solemn nod.
"Speak," Manwë commanded the messenger, though his voice was kind. "Tell us what has happened."
"King Finwë," the elf wailed, wringing his hands in distress as the second messenger wept bitterly, at a loss for words entirely. "He has been slain by the nameless dark!"
Anger and guilt burned simultaneously in Manwë's heart. Melkor! he thought furiously, for he knew that his brother must indeed be the nameless evil in the dark. Why must you bring your misery and destruction to the children of Eru, even here in the blessed land of Valinor where we brought them to live in safety and comfort? As his wrath dulled, his thoughts continued, turning his condemnation inwards, And why were we not powerful enough to prevent him? Manwë finally lifted his gaze from the messengers, and his eyes locked with Fëanor's. The master artisan had obviously reached the same conclusion.
How much more painful for him, Manwë wondered, when it is his own father slain?
Before any of the assembled Valar could speak, however, the messenger spoke up again. "My lord," he said quietly. "The Silmarils have been taken, also."
"Father..." Fëanor spoke, for the first time since the arrival of the messengers, in a choking whisper. He seemed almost not to have heard the message of the theft of his precious jewels.
"Fëanor," Aulë said, his voice fraught with sympathy. "Did you not hear? The Silmarils, the great works of your life, are gone as well."
Fëanor then turned with an angry shout to the Vala smith. "What are the Silmarils to me, now that my father is dead?" he demanded. Then, turning back to Manwë and raising his fist above his head, Fëanor cursed, "O Morgoth, you Black Foe of all of Arda! Not enough for your thirst for evil to take from me what I thought most dear, you must also slay my beloved father! Would that I had not been summoned here to Taniquetil by your brethren just now. I might have slain thee and saved my father and king!" Without another word, the Quendi smith turned and fled, weeping, from the Ring of Doom, chased by the fury of his own madness and grief.
Oh, my poor, poor Quendi child, Manwë thought bitterly, feeling as if his own heart might break. How well you know our kinship with Melkor, after all, who stole the very Silmarils we tried to persuade you to hand over to us.
