Burnt Apart
Summary*
All know the tale of the Quenta Silmarillion. All know the tale of the Feänorians. Of their oath, their crimes, and their ultimate downfall. One version of the legendarium speaks of the burning of the ships at Losgar, where it is said that the youngest of the eight died. What were his thoughts as he watched it all go up in flames?
Hot. That is the first word that comes to his mind as he wakes from Elven dreams. The next thing that registers in his mind is the shouts of the people around him- of whose host, he does not know. He supposes that it would be either his father's if not his uncle Ñolofinwë's. For as long has he has lived, the two of them have always been at loggerheads, something that has caused a deep rift in his family. It seems unbelievable that their fathers would quarrel so while their eldest sons are as close as can be. In fact, the entirety of it all is unbelievable in itself.
Blood. His hands are stained with the blood of his kin, and try as he might, images of that horror refuse to leave him in peace. He wonders if his brothers,apart from his twin, feel the same way that he does. If they do, he does not know. Nelyafinwë, or Maitimo, he had always thought the more reasonable of them all. Kánafinwë, he had thought the most gentle in spirit. Turkafinwë, the one he had admired and learnt from, or even Morifinwë and Curufinwë. He had not thought any of them capable of those deeds. He had not thought Pityafinwë capable of it. Worst of all, he did not think he was capable of it, but it had all happened.
No one knew what had happened that day, but one thing was clear to him. He would find no peace yet. Not on the deck of the swan ship that he had killed for, not in Aman, from where he has now been banished. His heart goes out to his mother, whom he knows he has betrayed in the worst way possible. He remembers how pitiful she had looked as she pleaded with his father to leave at least the two of them. He remembers his mother's words at their parting, and wonders if she was right after all. When he had come aboard the ship the thought to go back had occurred to him, hadn't it? Uncle Arafinwë did, and it still wasn't too late. All he had to do was tell his twin, and they could escape the horrors together.
Perhaps he would no longer be allowed to set foot on Aman, but at least, he would be free of the bloodshed. Or would he? He had sworn the dreadful oath, and it would never let him go. It would consume him in madness like it would his father and his brothers, and madness it was. He can see it now. He thinks back to their times together at Tirion. It had still been happy then. Kánafinwë, Morifinwë and Curufinwë had still been happy with their wives. Findaráto had still had Amarië, and he had lived a carefree life with his twin, with no cares in the world, and enjoying the bliss of Valinor. Now, it has all come down to nothing but woe. The doom of Mandos lay upon them. Their grandfather has been murdered in cold blood by Morgoth and the silmarils have been stolen. Their family has been broken apart, and he does not know if anything will bring them back together ever again.
His father had burnt as bright as fire that day, his words instilling passion within all those that listened to him. A passion to explore Arda, and a passion for vengeance. That fierce spirit had been the reason his grandmother had called him Fëanáro. It had very nearly killed her then, but now, he can't help but wonder if it will kill the rest of his family too. If it does, he is glad that his mother would be safe from it all, sad and alone though she be back at the place he had called home. She at least will be spared the pain of seeing it all fall apart.
He can almost feel the flames licking at him, he muses. Suddenly, it feels like he is within a furnace, burning harsher than it does even in the forges. This time, he feels the tongues of fire on his skin, and the fogginess in his mind clears away. No longer does he dream. He sees the horror of it all once more. He sees red all around him. He has seen red before. The last time, it had been anger and blood. This time it is different. This time, it is fire. The ships are burning. They are turning to dust before his eyes,and he knows that soon, he too will be amongst those ashes. The fire had not been a figment of his imagination. He had fallen asleep on a swan ship. It is burning now, and soon, he will burn with it.
It is too late to try and escape now. He knows he will not make it. It will only be more painful if he tries. He has no doubts that his father had ordered them to be burnt, but why? Was it to spite his brothers? Was it to stop them from fleeing like he would have? He does not know the answers to his questions, and he knows he will never get them. He wonders if his father knows that he is on the ship. He wonders if it will still matter to him once he knows that he tried to take the ship back home. He wonders if any of his brothers noticed his absence, or if they had tried to stop their father. If any had known and tried, it would have been Maitimo or his twin.
Pityafinwë. His other half. If there is one regret that he has above all else, it is his brother. Ever since birth, they have shared everything. Even their name. Ambarussa. He regrets having to leave his brother alone in such a manner, without even a single word of farewell. He regrets having to cause so much pain. He knows what his twin would try to do. There would be no reasoning with him if he so decided to try and rescue him. His heart cried for his loss, feeling every bit of anguish that he knows his brother would be feeling.
The flames are but a dull ache. It is this parting that shatters him. He had known that death could await them in Middle-Earth, but the two of them have always wanted it to come for them together. They had come into the world together, and would have wanted to leave it that way, but it seems now to him that he has been denied even that small mercy. This is by far the worst fate that he can imagine. His mother's words would come true after all. He would never set foot on Middle-Earth. The last thing that comes to his mind before he leaves for the Halls is the face of his twin. A face so like to his own, the only difference being the slightly darker shade of his hair. He would never see that face again. Ever would he remain Umbarto, the fated, torn apart from his twin by his own father's hand- burnt apart.