Fëanor gazed upon the still-steaming jewel, fresh from the flames of its birth. The joy it filled him with was near-maddening and, as he took the Silmaril in hand, Fëanor could almost feel the light creeping into his mind. But as it singed and sang in his grasp, perhaps he should have realised that it was not light but a shadow that filled the elven prince, and one that was already warping his heart.
Opening his eyes, Fëanor allowed another moment to simply stare at the single jewel before drifting towards the nearby basin. Gently, he set the jewel down and rested his arms on the edge of the basin. The candles that had lit the small chamber had long since extinguished and now only the stolen light of Ilúvatar allowed Fëanor to see what he had created. As if pleased to be completed, the three Silmarils glowed in unison.
Closing his eyes and allowing the holy light of Ilúvatar to coarse through him before, as if on impulse, moving towards a nearby basin. Fëanor gently set the Silmaril down with the care of a mother to a child and stepped back. The three Silmarils glowed in unison.
They had said that it was folly; that it was forbidden to meddle in the arts of the Valar. He had been called mad, a heretic. Yet they could not see; not see the sheer magnificence, the beauty, that lay before him. Fëanor laughed silently – they were fools. Ignorant, mindless fools.
There was an air of wicked delight that filled his brother's chamber – one that Fingolfin knew what it meant. Cautiously, he stepped into the chamber, masking his light footsteps to near silence. Although they shared a father, there had always been animosity between Fingolfin and Fëanor, mostly due to the latter's resentment of the former's mother. As such, Fingolfin was always weary of disturbing his older half-brother, and certainly this matter was no exception.
It was supposed to just be an experiment, another petty innovation of Fëanor to once more defy the Valar. Indeed, Fingolfin had silently shaken his head when his brother had announced his plans. Fëanor seemed to take a spiteful dislike to their immortal overseers, going out his way to challenge the Valar in any way he could.
Fingolfin had not expected him to succeed.
Yet he had.
Clocked in shadow, Fingolfin craned his neck to watch as Fëanor sat down the final of the three Silmarils besides its siblings and then stare as them, seemingly content to bask in their light. The sight disturbed Fingolfin. Daring another step in, Fingolfin found himself holding his breath as the light, harvested from the Two Trees of Valinor, slunk into every crack and space it could find.
Fëanor knew Fingolfin was there. Although his attention was very much upon the spectacle before him, Fëanor had been vigilant enough to hear the slight-creek of his half-brother sneaking in. The self-righteous bastard was always doing his best to creep into his forgeries, usually armed with some lecture or another. That was the way Fingolfin had always been – content to lick the shows of his betters whilst Fëanor would reach for the heavens.
Not letting his eyes leave the Silmarils, Fëanor called, "Care to come closer, brother?". He spat out the last word, the meer reminder of it being like an unwelcome jab.
Fingolfin did not reply, but Fëanor smirked as he heard the echo of his footsteps approaching him. Fëanor still didn't turn around, for Fingolfin did not deserve his attention.
Feeling his foul breath on his neck, Fëanor said, "Is it not impressive?" The Silmarils were now pulsing with his light, illuminating the room better than any lamp could. The forging had seemed to take ages, yet now the finished gems lay before him, Fëanor knew he would have done it all over again.
"Dreadfully divine," came Fingolfin's answer and Fëanor snorted at the feebleness of the answer. He allowed the unspoken words to float between them, and Fëanor was content to hear the sound of Fingolfin marching away. They had always been good at talking-without-talking, rarely directly saying what the other thought of each other. They would never be close and Fëanor much preferred it that way.
Dreadfully divine.
Fingolfin had meant every word of it, for his brother's jewels were indeed beautiful – incredibly illustrious. He could see, could feel, the raw appeal of them, even now as Fingolfin quickened his pace away from Fëanor's chamber. But as his eyes had soaked in the light of the Silmarils, Fingolfin had seen a raging fire at the heart of the jewels, a shadow that wore the skin of light.
It was that sight that had forced him to turn his back, not Fëanor's low laugh. Pride and arrogance laced that laugh, and Fingolfin recognized the shadow that had fallen upon his brother. Despite their appearance, Fingolfin highly doubted that the Silmarils would bring peace or unity.
No, the shadow upon them would guarantee the opposite, and Fingolfin shuddered as he exited the passageway and came out into the mountainside that hid Fëanor's secret workshop. He took a deep breath and rubbed his brows. Fingolfin knew not what darkness the Silmarils would bring, but he prayed it would not consume his brother.
Or else Ilúvatar save them all.