A different perspective on a supposedly perfect character . . .
Also: Kinslaying violence. It's brief, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Much love,
Unicadia
I had never felt this way before. I could scarcely give a name to it. It raged through my body, burning and cold, insatiable, though I thought I knew what would ease it. I longed to grasp my sword, my fingers clenched around it, and drive it into the heart of my uncle, who left us in this forsaken land. I longed to throttle my cousins, feel their throats between my hands, especially Curufinwë, the bastard, whom I saw pin down my grandmother and slay her, and then leave her without another look. And Carnistir, heeding none, slaughtering a path before him as he went, his tunic drenched in blood, children screaming before him. Even Makalaurë, sweet Maka with the voice like the sea, cutting down elleth and child alike, my mother's people, my people. Did they not remember the days we hunted together? The meals we shared, the festivals, the songs?
I wished I could do something, anything but sit shivering beside my brothers and sisters and my other cousins whom I still loved, trying not to succumb to the seducing cold which whispered in our ears and clawed at our bodies.
Turukáno must have felt the same as I did. He would not speak the names of any of those who betrayed us, but rather said, "The murderers." I knew he spoke not of what passed at Alqualondë, for he too participated in that, though by accident, but of Elenwë, his wife, who a month ago, fell into a chasm in the ice, lost forever.
I did not like what I felt, and would often leave the others, going as far as I dared, and scream at the ceaseless winds which tore across the ice, my only release. How I longed to avenge my kin, but more than that, I longed to once more hold Amarië, my golden-haired love in the green land of Valinor. Would I ever see her again? I cursed Fëanaro, I cursed his oath, I cursed my cousins, I cursed the ice, and I cursed myself, for my folly.
Then one night, as I watched the stars, stroking Artanis' silver-golden hair as she slept in my lap, I knew the name of what I felt.
Hate.