To Toraach ~ I was waiting for someone to ask those two questions, because I've been fighting with them both myself since I started this project. As to Fëanor's sons returning as children/young adults, it's meant to be a physical representation of the innocence and reconciliation they've regained through their rebirths, as well as to create the feeling that they've recaptured the happiness of the youth of their former lives. Of course, they're not completely healed yet, but they're well on their way. As to Celebrimbor, I also intend to have him reborn as a small child, which puts him in an awkward situation given that his father is quite young at this point. I suspect he's going to be raised by Finwë in the palace for the time being, but I'm open to suggestions (as long as they don't involve changing the Fëanorians' young ages; I definitely want that device to be there).

Warning for a non-graphic discussion of the First Kinslaying that may nevertheless raise some controversy.

Rekindling ~ Part II

A few weeks after my return, Tirion was swept up and scandalized by a dark, brilliant drama put on by members of the Vanguard. Each night, they withdrew to an abandoned barn on the edge of Túna which they called the Lantern Theatre, its roof rusting and its walls stained dark with countless rains, to perform another installment of the tale. Never before had a live production been serialized as such, but the tactic was effective. Each night, larger and larger crowds gathered at the old barn, and they left debating in louder and louder voices as to what would likely happen next. I was no exception. Violent though the story was, I loved it: each time I thought I had worked it out, it took an unexpected twist that shattered all of my theories. I could not resist the intellectual challenge it presented.

The purpose of the production, I guessed, was to satirize the political turmoil and scheming that had taken place after the Darkening of Valinor. The plot centered upon three Noldorin princesses, all of whom were suspected, by some faction or another, to have murdered their father in a bid for his throne. I myself did not believe that any of them were guilty, but certain members of the princesses' court did not agree; each young lady had already had to dodge attempts at poisoning, stabbing, and drowning.

Little had I suspected, sitting there upon the dew-damp grass before the barn doors, that the tale would soon take on especial relevance, nor that my life would figure at the center of a political drama played out in the halls of Tirion.

I wished dearly, in those weeks, that I had not been falling asleep just as Atar proposed I take part in a ceremony of reinstatement as High Prince of the Noldor, to be followed by a feast. I might not have been so shocked when he returned to my home a few days later to discuss the details with me. As it was, I fought the idea as fiercely as I could, but Atar would not be swayed. He was adamant that I formally and publicly take up my former station, arguing that it would give the people a a return to normalcy. He did not delve into the specifics, but he suggested that politics in Tirion had been unstable for a long while: Arafinwë, Nolofinwë, and Faniel had all ruled prior to Atar's rebirth, and that was not to mention the period Nerdanel had spoken of in which Fëarillë's voice greatly influenced the political climate. I could not disagree on this point, though privately, I had suspicions that my public re-installation as High Prince would only destabilize the city further. I knew well what a polarizing figure I was, and how easily the Noldor could become divided beyond hope of repair.

Still, in spite of my fears, I might have accepted Atar's plan with little argument had he not decided to invite the Princess Eärwen and the ambassador of her court. He was certain that the feast would be a perfect time for me to meet with the two ladies and broker a formal peace between Tirion and Alqualondë, once and for I had reconciled with many others by then, including several of Nolofinwë's closest supporters, I had avoided all contact with the Teleri. The First Kinslaying still haunted my dreams, and I knew of no way to make amends for the slaughter. The last thing I wanted was to meet with two Telerin nobles who likely believed that the only path to peace was to send me back to Mandos.

On this point, Atar was more insistent still. He left me with the impression that his only wish in the world was to see me reonciled with Alqualondë, and I felt that it would break his heart to deny him. King Olwë being dear to him, the long estrangement between the Noldor and the Teleri which followed the Kinslaying must have hurt him deeply. I knew how much it would delight him to see the last remnants of animosity between his people and Olwë's disappear, and I knew how proud he would be if I could be the instrument of that healing.

Atar seemed to have forgotten, however, that I was not a diplomat. Nolofinwë was the statesman, and always had been. I could win practically any argument, and I knew how to manipulate Tirion's politics in my favor, but Nolofinwë could do both without ever angering his opponents. That skill was beyond my knowledge. I could scarcely control my own emotions, much less those of Telerin nobles discussing the event which shattered their people.

The most upsetting thing about it was that Atar's faith in me never wavered - not once, not even slightly. I was certain that I would disappoint him, and when I did, it would hurt me all the more to know how fervently he had believed in me, right up until the moment when I banished his hopes. That was what troubled me most about my rebellion as well: there had been a great number of people who had truly believed that I was leading them to freedom and glory. I had seen it in their eyes as I spoke from the dais in the Court of the King. My words had laid a spell upon them, bringing them visions of wide lands where the waters ran sweet beneath unclouded skies.

And what had I brought them? Ruin. Stigma. Death. No matter how often I was told that the fault was not entirely mine, and no matter how often I heard that the Eldar learned invaluable lessons from that first war - no matter how true these things were - my guilt would never be erased. They had trusted me, and I had led them astray.

Such were my thoughts on the night of the feast (known affectionately to the organizers as "Mereth Aderthad, Act II"). Until then, I had managed to put it largely out of mind and focused my energies on rebuilding my life. I had had a great deal of success as well, in small, satisfying ways: I had reinstated meetings of the Lambengolmor, I had taken on several commissions for ceremonial weaponry, I had rekindled long-lost relationships with my sons, I had reconciled with old friends who had been crusading relentlessly for my honor (some had gone so far as to accept exile when their voices grew too loud and insistent for Tirion's sensibilities). I had been confronted with very little negativity along the way, which had heartened me to no end.

That night, however, I had fallen to such a low place that I doubted anything could cheer me - it was nowhere near the despair I had experienced in the Void, of course, but bad enough. My family and I were lodged in the palace for the evening, and I had locked myself in my bedroom in an effort to quell my nerves and feelings of inadequacy. This was unsuccessful. Despite being surrounded by the objects which had comforted me in my youth - a stuffed bear with his fur fraying in patches, a wooden mockingbird carved by my clumsy childhood hand, a quilt sewn by my mother as final gift to me - I could find no peace. I wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers of my four-poster bed and disappear, and forget that the events of Alqualondë had ever happened.

I realized quickly that this was not likely, and resigned myself to face whatever well-deserved vitriol the Telerin ambassador and the princess might have for me. Eärwen and I had been friends in our youth, but I doubted that any remnant of that had survived the First Kinslaying. If it had, it would not be enough to save me.

I was restless and could not settle to a thing. The only decision I had made by the time the sun began to set was to dress myself in midnight-blue robes with a silver garment beneath, thinking that such colors would be less likely to put the Teleri in mind of blood and fire than my usual scarlet and gold.

Atar found me in the end, as I had privately hoped he would. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands limp in my lap, feeling sick and trying not to tremble. He took in all these things in silence, eyeing me in such a way that I knew he was looking right through me, then crossed to my dresser and withdrew a silver chain strung with little sapphires. Sitting down beside me, he began to fix it to my loosely plaited hair. I closed my eyes, willing myself to be soothed by the gesture and not to feel as though I was being prepared for slaughter.

"'Tis past time for you to make your appearance," he said gently when he had finished, drawing back a foot and smoothing my robes. "The feast began an hour ago. You must look every bit a prince."

"I am not fit to be a prince," I said miserably, "much less a king."

"I am not asking you to be king - not yet, at any rate. I am asking you to confront a demon which you yourself know you cannot avoid forever. Better sooner than late, I should think."

"Nolofinwë is the diplomat, Atar, not I!" I cried, shrugging away from him.

"Nolofinwë does not bear the brunt of the blame for the First Kinslaying, in the eye of the public. Rightly or wrongly, you do," said Atar, firm and grave. "None but you can make this right, little one. You shall feel so very much better when you do."

"Do you truly believe I can make it right?" I knew the answer; I was simply stalling for time.

Atar smiled knowingly, retrieving my prince's coronet from where I had carelessly left it atop my dresser and setting it at my brow.

"Fëanáro, my love, I would never have put you in this position if I believed it would bring you to harm. I know the ambassador, and I know Eärwen. You will be quite pleasantly surprised by what they have to say to you, I think. Trust me as you once did."

I laid my head against his shoulder, wanting to melt into him somehow, into his warmth and his love.

"Can you assure me that I will not fail tonight?"

Atar kissed my brow and drew me gently upright.

"Only you can do that."

The crowd gathered in Tirion for the festival of Midsummer's Eve had not made me uncomfortable. The throng that filled the great hall certainly did. Deceit and malice seemed to lurk beneath the brocaded robes and jeweled fingers and elegant waltzes and finely-honed courtesies. My hands began to tremble; one of them compulsively clasped Atar's wrist as he led me to my seat at the high table. A vague feeling of dread that had nothing to do with the prospect of the meeting the Telerin princess and her ambassador settled cold in the pit of my stomach.

"Atar, I..." I began, but he held a slender finger to my lips.

"You will be all right," he whispered, squeezing my shoulder and taking up his own seat.

Left to my own devices, I glanced down the table and found Eärwen seated beside Arafinwë, her silver hair gleaming softly in the torchlight, a gown of sea-green adorned with pearls accentuating her slender frame. She caught my gaze and glanced at the maiden sitting on her other side, quite as silver-haired and wearing a gown of cornflower-blue, and then both smiled warmly. I allowed myself to relax a few degrees. For now, at least, it seemed that they had not come here to show me hatred.

What I ate that night, I did not remember afterwards, though I suppose it was excellent, as was everything that came from the palace kitchens. In spite of Nerdanel's comforting presence on my right, I was quite distracted by the prospect of meeting with Eärwen and her ambassador, as well as by the dark looks that Lord Turindo, my father's Minister of Finance, kept shooting at me from a lower table. He had strongly disliked me in my formal life, but there was something more than dislike in his gaze now, and it was not reserved only for me: it seemed to encompass my half-siblings as well, particularly Findis and Faniel. So preoccupied was I by these things that I took but a sip of wine and tasted none of my food; neither did I see Eärwen and her companion as they approached me from behind.

"Good evening and welcome home, Fëanáro," said the princess, dipping me a graceful curtsy.

I stood and made her a bow, trying with all my might not to be awkward. "Good evening, Princess."

"You look very well," she went on. "Life suits you. I never could imagine you a houseless fëa, locked away helpless in Mandos. You were always such a lively one, full of light and spirit. Do you remember the evening when we raced each other down the docks at Alqualondë and dove into the sea just as the Mingling set the water ablaze?"

I knew not what I had expected, but it was not that!

I abandoned all propriety. "For Eru's sake, Eärwen, how can you speak as though we are still the two children who ran off together to avoid our minders? I am no longer one of those children! I am a kinslayer!"

"As am I," said Eärwen, smooth and calm as the sea at midnight.

I felt myself take an involuntary step backward.

"You do not mean to say you fought!" I gasped.

"I do indeed. I cannot say that I did very much; I took an arrow in the shoulder early in the fighting, but I do believe that I shot down at least one of your men before then." She gestured to the maiden on her left before I could protest. "Permit me to introduce Her Excellency Helyanwë, Telerin Ambassador to the Noldor. She will explain everything far more eloquently than I can, I am sure. When she has calmed you a bit - I know you, Fëanáro; I can see how nervous you are - the three of us can discuss a formal peace treaty, yes?"

Delicate, innocent Eärwen, a kinslayer? It was almost too incredible to believe. Should I blame myself for it? Had there been no kinslaying, she would never have been forced to defend herself and her people...

Shaking myself viciously from the guilt I was threatening to plunge into, I remembered the courtesies I was expected to observe and made Helyanwë a bow.

"Do you care to dance, Your Excellency?" I asked.

The ambassador smiled brightly and took my arm. "I do indeed."

I led her to a spot in the hall that was more or less unoccupied, and she placed her slender hand on my shoulder. I was almost afraid to take her waist; her skin was like porcelain and she was so delicately built that I feared she might break.

Helyanwë gave a gentle laugh, like the ringing of chimes.

"Do not look so frightened, Prince," she said. "The Princess and I are not here to hurt you, but to tell you that we believe the reconciliation of our peoples is long past due."

"And what brought you to this extraordinary state of grace?" I asked, trying and failing to keep bitter self-loathing from my voice.

"Oh, 'tis quite simple, for those with the open hearts to understand it," said she. "First, know that to this day, no one is certain who or what touched off the First Kinslaying. It was dark, we were frightened, we were grieving, no leader knew what orders to give, the tension in the air was so thick as to be tangible. Perhaps on one side or another, there was a soldier, terrified but eager to do his captain's will, whose hand slipped from his bowstring and loosed an arrow ere he could stop it, and perhaps that arrow buried itself in the chest of a soldier from the other side. Word of his death spread quickly, his compatriots rallied to avenge him, and from there, the fighting spiraled out of anyone's control. Rumors burned back and forth like wildfire: the Teleri drowned King Fëanáro, the Noldor slew King Olwë in his halls; the Teleri shot down a group of Noldorin mothers in the presence of their sons, the Noldor beheaded several Telerin children while their mothers looked on. Confusion, chaos, vengeance. You see? The reality cannot be as simple as, 'Telerin archers fired to defend the ships; Noldorin swordsmen slew them wickedly on the decks.'"

She was right. I had never given orders to kill at Alqualondë, and I very much doubted that Olwë had, either. It was also true that I did not know who had started the fighting, my people or his. I certainly had not come to the city with the intention to slaughter the Teleri. The thought had crossed my mind, especially after Olwë asserted that my father's death had no effect upon his people, and thus he was not obliged to honor his memory by aiding me...but I had not chosen to act upon it. I was forced to it by the sight of my soldiers, heavily armored as they were, being thrown over the docks to drown by Telerin mariners. What had happened in between that sight and my argument with Olwë, I knew not.

"You make a fair point, Excellency," I said, nodding. "Do continue."

"The second thing you must understand, Fëanáro, is that we were all kinslayers that night. Perhaps our cause for killing your people was more noble than your cause for killing ours. I doubt that the Noldor saw it that way. I doubt that the thought of our valiant defense of our property gave any comfort to those who lost loved ones to our arrows. The grief of the Noldor must have been just as raw, just as agonizing as ours. None of us thought of that, of course, but it was true. We all grieved the same way that night. You see? Death has a curious way of making things equal. No doubt each side saw their cause as noble, and in the name of that cause, we were all guilty of taking lives. We were all wrong. The Noldor were not sinless, and neither were the Teleri. Both our peoples need to understand that, and once we do, we can cease waiting for each other to take the first step towards healing and take it together."

Never had I met a maiden with such a transcendent spirit as Helyanwë, and never have I met one since. She had done what I had thought to be impossible, and shifted half of the blame from my people to hers, just as Nolofinwë had done when I reconciled with him my treachery on the Helcaraxë. She saw what most were too blinded by anger and grief to see. Within herself, she had made peace in the truest sense. Would that all peace treaties were so sincere!

"Do you mean to say, Excellency, that one can blame neither the Noldor the Teleri alone for the First Kinslaying?"

"That is exactly what I mean to say. And in your defense, Fëanáro, Olwë was completely tactless when he told you that your father's death had no impact upon the Teleri. Perhaps it was true, but it was utterly wrong to say it to you, knowing how deeply you were grieving. That does not justify your people's actions, of course - nothing can justify them, nor the actions of mine. Nothing justifies murder, not even the defense of our precious ships. Still, when all the pieces of the truth are considered, it does paint a far different picture."

"Why do I feel distinctly that yours was one of the witness accounts published in the Treatise of Truth, regarding the First Kinslaying?"

"It was. I have been speaking the message I have just given to you for several ages now, and I have never ceased to believe in it, not even when I was shot by a dissenter for proclaiming it at a peace conference."

"You were shot at a peace conference? That seems to defeat the purpose of such an event!"

Helyanwë laughed her musical laugh. "Yes, t'was rather ironic. I do not blame the man who did it. Telling my people that they are quite as guilty as the Noldor is bound to raise some anger."

I shook my head in amazement. "Excellency, I do believe you are a saint."

"No, Prince, just a humble servant of Eru."

At that moment, Atar stood from his place at the high table, tapping his fork against his wine glass for silence.

"As you are all aware by now," he said, his voice ringing effortlessly through the hall, "my beloved firstborn, Curufinwë Fëanáro, has at last returned from Mandos and rejoined his people. I believe that it is only proper, on this night of unity, that he take anew the vows he made upon his coming-of-age, when he first became your High Prince, and rejoin you in full by assuming that title once more and pledging his duty to you."

A general murmur of assent ran through the hall, mingled with some shouts of approval. Helyanwë drew back from me and curtsied elegantly.

"We can finish this afterwards," she said, smiling warmly. "Welcome home, Prince."

I never reached the high table. I never managed more than a step.

Several things happened in quick succession. I glanced up at my father, saw the boundless love in his eyes, and then my gaze was drawn to Lord Turindo at the lower table, whose face was contorted with an expression of hate so vicious that he hardly seemed an Elda. Dear Eru, I knew the man had always disliked me, even called me mad, but never had I suspected he bore me such loathing!

Then quite suddenly, something icy flooded my veins, ripping the strength from my body. My heart skipped several uncomfortable beats, and I glanced frantically at Helyanwë, whose eyes widened at the terror in my face.

Poison, I thought, drawing on some long-forgotten scrap of information I had read ages ago. Certain poisons seem to fill the blood with ice when they are stimulated... But how? When? There was no chance for anyone to...

Oh, Eru. I did take a bit of wine, did I not? But...surely not! It was so little!

Dimly, I registered the sensation of falling. I never felt myself strike the marble floor.

Author's Notes

Faniel is one Fëanor's half-sisters in an early draft of the Silmarillion. In this story, she and Findis will figure as his half-sisters.

Mereth Aderthad is Sindarin for "Feast of Reuniting," a celebration held by Fingolfin in Beleriand twenty years after the rising of the sun. It was a successful attempt to unite under one cause all the Elves of Beleriand, as well as to reconcile the Fëanorian and Fingolfinian factions of the Noldor.

The Lambengolmor was a guild of loremasters founded and headed by Fëanor in his first life.

The Ambassador's view on the First Kinslaying should not be read as a Noldor-apologist maneuver. She simply believes that those who say her people were sinless are wrong, and that both the Noldor and the Teleri were guilty. Perhaps the Teleri had a better reason for it, but when you get right down to it, they both took lives.