Author's Note:
Well, since I've already written my strange spin on the often-written Thangorodrim oneshot, I'll tackle the ever-popular angst. :P
The sections in italics indicate flashbacks.
Also, in case you were confused, Valaraukar are Balrogs, and Fëanáro is Fëanor. At this point, it would be more canon to use Quenya.
Big thanks to stick-at-nought shady for Beta-ing, even if she insists I'd be fine without her.
Hope you enjoy!
If Fire Was Burned
Arrogance. Pride. Rebelliousness. Perhaps these would be his true killers, all tangible enemies aside. Arrogance, to be so confident that the Enemy could be defeated; too much pride in his Silmarils; and rebelliousness against the Valar. No, he was anything but repentant, and he never would be. Never.
He could not give up his Silmarils. They were his lovers, seducing him into devotion. They were his allies, telling him to leave Aman. They were the force behind the sword that slew many at Alqualondë. They were the flames the devoured the white ships of the Teleri. And they were his children, his beautiful children that shone with a light that now seemed unreachable. They called for him desperately. 'Help us,' they cried. 'We are here, here in Arda, but it is dark. Help us.' The thought sickened him, as if he could hear their voices, but he instead focused on parting an Orc's head from its body with a laugh at its strangled scream.
It was dying and being defeated. He was living and fighting on. He turned, heart pounding with adrenaline, to face the next foul creature. But instead of Orcs, he now faced the Valaraukar, the horrible demons of fire.
Now, he thought, it comes to this. I have few allies with me, and I am surrounded. But I shall not fall. I cannot fall.
"So," he called loudly, glaring at the closest servant of the Enemy. "It shall be many fell spirits of fire against one!" And Fëanáro son of Finwë raised his sword. I cannot fall. I cannot fall, his thoughts repeated, and then he was burning.
"Spirit of fire," they would whisper. "He was truly a spirit of fire, for he burned out his mother's very soul."
"Is it death... death, in Aman?" someone would say fearfully to a companion. "Finwë must be distraught."
"Yes. He at least has his son. Fëanáro will be his only child," their companion would answer, hoping to raise the mood of the conversation and failing with a sad shake of their head.
It took a while for the rumors to fade away, that Finwë's son had killed his poor mother. They would return occasionally, and as Fëanáro grew older, he heard them. At first, they brought only fury and denial, but as he grew older and they disappeared once again, they became a bitter memory. Perhaps he had sapped his mother's strength, taken her soul from her body and combined it with his own. Perhaps he had been born a murderer.
But perhaps he had stolen the strength of many for his own. After all, through the years, he became skilled, clever, and fair. He had no mother outside of memory, only a father that dearly cherished him. And that was why, one day, he would think himself equal to the Valar.
The first blow sent him reeling to the ground with a sharp cry. He was vaguely aware of blood trickling down his face, but he stood again, undeterred. I cannot fall. I cannot. He drew his sword and swung it wildly, attempting to pierce the Valarauko with it and finding himself engulfed in flame again. His helm danced with fire, and he faltered for barely a moment when he saw his scorched hands.
They were the hands that wrought the Silmarils and wielded a blade to so much destruction. His skilled hands were charred and blistering, searing with pain. Tears of pain welled in his eyes, and he forced himself to fight with renewed vigor. His sword flashed, but it seemed useless. But it is anything but useless! his mind screamed. It is for my Silmarils. It is for the things that I love most, above everything.
Fëanáro fought on, not yielding. Even when he could see nothing but flames, even when he was internally howling in pain at the fire, he fought without cease. Above, the stars shone with a cold, pitiless glare. They were not as bright as his radiant Silmarils, but it was all that he held on to as he battled on.
Was there some sort of limit, to how much one could love? Maybe that was why he had felt as if his heart was bursting, in those days at Formenos. He had his sons and wife to love, and his father most of all. But deep down, there was a throbbing, greedy love for his best creation: the Silmarils. They were bright as the Two Trees, bright as the fire of his spirit. And with the love that crowded his soul, there came also a burning fear, that someday he would make a mistake beyond reversing, and his own hallowed jewels would burn him.
Even in the Blessed Realm, nightmares plagued his sleep. He often dreamed of his Silmarils- horrible things happening to them, and he would wake up in terror. Perhaps they would call him mad someday, but no one could know about his nightmares.
Now, deep in sleep, he was in darkness. It was Formenos, surely, but there was no longer any light: a cold, black fortress, like a maze. He wandered through the halls silently, not knowing what to think. Then there was a light, a bright but faltering light. He heard the crack of hammer on stone and cried out in surprise, feeling as if he had been hit. Without knowing why, he followed the light, blind in the darkness but for its brilliance.
At last, he reached a room that was lit completely. "Here," he whispered, and the word echoed back. Then he looked closer, and fell to his knees. "No..." For the room was filled with a now spreading light, but something was wrong. Upon the floor lay his Silmarils, but the light was gone. They were worthless shards that made his fingers bleed. It was shock, pure agony, that made him stand and fling the remnants of his Silmarils across the room with a scream.
"They cannot break!" he yelled into the emptiness, his hands dripping blood onto the ground. "Curse you! Curse you!" He did not know who he was cursing, but someone deserved it. He would kill the destroyer of his Silmarils without hesitation. "How could anyone... my poor Silmarils..."
In the distance, someone screamed in pain, and Fëanáro awoke to the blissful light of the Two Trees. From then on, he did not let the Valar look upon the Silmarils.
It was too much. He was set on fire, as if he had cast aside his body to show only his spirit. They all said that it burned, after all. But now his body was burning away. His skin was blackened like coal in places, and in other places bubbling and red. He fought; he fought on because he had to. There was no other option. He could not let the Enemy keep his Silmarils. It was as if one of his sons had been taken away from him, and he could not bear it.
He had to take back his sons -no, his Silmarils- and keep them close forever, because he had forever to live.
Yes, his mother's spirit had departed to the Halls of Mandos. Yes, his father had been slain by the Enemy. But he, Fëanáro, was immortal. There was nothing now that could injure him more than the loss of his Silmarils. And they were his Silmarils; he had made them, and the last light of the Two Trees was his now. The memory of the jewels beat in his chest in place of a heart, and it was as if the Silmarils had been pried straight from his breast. Now the Spirit of Fire was burning and bleeding, and it was a hopeless hope that drove him on.
"Fire cannot be burned," he hissed through clenched teeth. Then he bellowed the phrase, like a battle cry: "Fire cannot be burned! Fire cannot bleed!"
But he was still burning. His blood still could not put out the fire that licked at his flesh. He turned, raising his sword with desperate hands. No, he would never cease this battle. Nothing could stop him. He would not falter. He could not fail.
It was fortunate that he was facing the other way. It would have been unbearable to see the blade sinking into his stomach. As it was, he was pushed with a horrible blow to the ground, and he watched with horror as the blade was pulled roughly from his body. His head was spinning from the loss of blood. And as his hand involuntarily released his sword, he saw that his fingers were burned down to the bone.
The dream that night was the worst yet.
Fëanáro was lost in darkness again, like many of the nightmares before. But there was no light to follow, no hope left. There was no silence; it was a constant whisper of voices that he knew. His half-brothers, his father, his wife, his sons, the sons of his half-brothers... they all called out for mercy. "Fëanáro," they cried, "save us. Save us. Fëanáro, what have you done?"
He could not answer. He only knew that something was lost, something that he loved more than anything else. Everything that he loved had left, and he was alone. But there was a light; there had to be a light somewhere in this blackness. His Silmarils had to be there. So he spoke, and his voice was quiet amid the whispers. "The Silmarils," he said. "Where are my Silmarils?"
There was a cruel laugh. "They have never truly been yours," a voice said. He frowned- he knew that voice, but could not place it. "You may take them, however, and see what your precious jewels now think of you."
Suddenly, they were in front of him, as if they had remained there the entire time. He sighed in relief, letting out a breath that he did not know he had been holding, and bent to pick them up. They shone so brightly, so innocently, and it took him several moments to realize that his hands were burning. They were burning, because the Silmarils thought him unclean in his soul. Burning, because perhaps even fire could be burned.
He clung stubbornly to the jewels, pressing them to his chest even though it made the pain worse. With shame, he realized that his face was wet with tears. "Why?" he asked shakily, whimpering at the pain in his hands. "Why am I burning? Why do they burn me?"
He was slammed to the floor by some unknown force, but did not let the Silmarils go. "You have killed," the voice said. "You have slain them with your own sword: your sons, your father-"
And then, all of a sudden, he knew what he was missing. He knew why the Silmarils burned him. He had killed his father. Finwë was dead, and at his hand. Fëanáro clutched the jewels desperately and saw his hands: burned irreparably, stained with the blood of his father...
As soon as he woke, he ran to the iron chamber in which he kept the Silmarils. He had to make sure that they would not burn him, that he had not killed Finwë. When he reached the room, he was almost dizzy with terror. He reached out tentatively for the jewels, and he flinched when his fingers brushed up against the smooth surface. But there was no burning now, and he could have sobbed with relief. He picked up his creations and held them close, whispering softly. "You are safe," he said quietly. "You are safe." He repeated the phrase over and over, until he looked up to see his father.
"Fëanáro," Finwë said. Almost ashamed, Fëanáro set aside the Silmarils and stared wordless at his father. "Fëanáro, Fëanáro," Finwë soothed, embracing his son. "You are troubled. Tell me what has distressed you."
Fëanáro sighed. "I am not distressed, Father," he said, lying. "I must leave for the celebrations at Tirion soon, and I am merely worried for my Silmarils. They are not safe here." They would never truly be safe. Not from the Valar, who could steal as easily as Melkor could. They would not even be safe from himself.
It was over now. He knew that his wounds were sure to kill him swiftly, and he closed his eyes. I am defeated, he thought brokenly. He was pouring out his blood, and his body was beyond conceivable repair. There was no hope. There never had been hope, only a foolish desperation and a love like fire. He still could not give up. He would never give up, even when his soul was trapped within the Halls of Mandos. But he could not go on as he was.
As the sword lifted menacingly over his sprawled body, he laughed weakly. It would no longer be a killing; it would be mercy to end the life of Curufinwë Fëanáro at this point. It would be desirable to him, if not for his Silmarils. They were his lost children, crying to him, begging for their father to save them.
"Fëanáro, what have you done?" the voices in his dream had whispered. "What have you done?"
What had he done, to lose all that he loved the most? What had he done that left the Silmarils beyond reach?
I cannot save my Silmarils now.
The thought was a dreadful blow, but there was still a chance. Not for him- there were no more chances for him. No, the opportunity was in his sons. Even at that moment, he heard their voices as they lifted his body away from the carnage. His sons could retrieve the Silmarils. They could love them in his stead.
For Fëanáro now knew that his beloved Silmarils would burn him.