I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul
William Earnest Henley / Invictus
Was it already morning? Already?
He really could not tell. there was no light left in the world at all. Nothing. Not the Trees, not the stars, it was gone, all gone, blood and darkness.
But no, it was morning. It had to be, time to wake, to rise, to live. Feanor felt it as he opened tightly shut eyes; he had been sleeping like a child.
Grunting as he did for yet remaining pain and heavy weariness nothing seemed to banish, he slowly lifted himself up to a sitting position with the care pain taught him. In Aman, he remembered, in Aman, pain was nothing, physical at least. Now he hurt without as he did within.
None of his sons was in the tent, though he could feel their presence nearby. As always. They had not left his sight once since he woke, and they did not tell him why.
Faint reddish light was penetrating the tent. Strange, not light of fire.
Feanor shrugged at it. No light mattered.
He stood slowly and began the laboring, painful task of dressing, cursing fluently at it all. Vast realms! Glorious war! The Spirit of Fire barely able to lace his own damn leggings.
Nerdanel would have laughed. Nerdanel. . .
Asking for help obviously would have been too humilliating, and he took humilliation enough, so it hurt, but he managed to pull on his clothes and even tie up his long tangled hair. Then he grimly wrapped and immobilized the the right arm that the Balrogs - intentionally, he knew - severed five inches above the wrist.
Now at least in a semblance of order, he drew back the flank of the tent and gazed outside, and his eyes grew wide with shock. The sky was in a dozen shades of red and blue and purple, white light shining from the west. As if someone torched the sky, the stars burning away, and the surface of the lake Mithrim alight with dancing sparkles on the water. It made him want to sing, it made him want to capture it, treasure it, make it eternal.
And he could not, never again.
A voice startled him. "You should not have risen, Atarinya."
His eyes narrowed as he gazed to the voice's origin, and he snapped sharply. "I would walk as I please. Don't patronize me."
Curufin lowered his eyes, and his father at once regretted speaking so harshly. But they had to know, they all had to know, that he was no less a Quendi, a Noldo or himself, even like this.
He looked back to the shimmering sky until Curufin regained his courage and spoke again.
"Father, we've recevied news. the Gray Elves say a great host of Eldar appeared of West, and march now toward the gates of Angamando; blue and silver are their standards."
It took a few long minutes for the words to register - and once they did, Feanor nearly stumbled, struck by shock as if by a physical force. Long he stood rooted to the ground, then spun and stared at the distance, at the west.
"Blue and silver." he whispered, and his voice slowly descended into bitterness. "Blue and silver. could he? Could my useless brother have crossed the Helcaraxe.?"
Curufin visibly blinked. "Nolofinwe? Surely not!"
"Oh, surely yes!" Louder he spoke now, and stood straighter, and a semblance of the old fire seemed returned to him, the fire that reaped through the hordes of the Orcs. "Even here he must hunt me! I will not stand for it. Ready now our men, do it! If Nolofinwe comes to Beleriand, he would find me before the gates of the Black Foe!"
By Joan Milligan
I am the captain of my soul
William Earnest Henley / Invictus
Was it already morning? Already?
He really could not tell. there was no light left in the world at all. Nothing. Not the Trees, not the stars, it was gone, all gone, blood and darkness.
But no, it was morning. It had to be, time to wake, to rise, to live. Feanor felt it as he opened tightly shut eyes; he had been sleeping like a child.
Grunting as he did for yet remaining pain and heavy weariness nothing seemed to banish, he slowly lifted himself up to a sitting position with the care pain taught him. In Aman, he remembered, in Aman, pain was nothing, physical at least. Now he hurt without as he did within.
None of his sons was in the tent, though he could feel their presence nearby. As always. They had not left his sight once since he woke, and they did not tell him why.
Faint reddish light was penetrating the tent. Strange, not light of fire.
Feanor shrugged at it. No light mattered.
He stood slowly and began the laboring, painful task of dressing, cursing fluently at it all. Vast realms! Glorious war! The Spirit of Fire barely able to lace his own damn leggings.
Nerdanel would have laughed. Nerdanel. . .
Asking for help obviously would have been too humilliating, and he took humilliation enough, so it hurt, but he managed to pull on his clothes and even tie up his long tangled hair. Then he grimly wrapped and immobilized the the right arm that the Balrogs - intentionally, he knew - severed five inches above the wrist.
Now at least in a semblance of order, he drew back the flank of the tent and gazed outside, and his eyes grew wide with shock. The sky was in a dozen shades of red and blue and purple, white light shining from the west. As if someone torched the sky, the stars burning away, and the surface of the lake Mithrim alight with dancing sparkles on the water. It made him want to sing, it made him want to capture it, treasure it, make it eternal.
And he could not, never again.
A voice startled him. "You should not have risen, Atarinya."
His eyes narrowed as he gazed to the voice's origin, and he snapped sharply. "I would walk as I please. Don't patronize me."
Curufin lowered his eyes, and his father at once regretted speaking so harshly. But they had to know, they all had to know, that he was no less a Quendi, a Noldo or himself, even like this.
He looked back to the shimmering sky until Curufin regained his courage and spoke again.
"Father, we've recevied news. the Gray Elves say a great host of Eldar appeared of West, and march now toward the gates of Angamando; blue and silver are their standards."
It took a few long minutes for the words to register - and once they did, Feanor nearly stumbled, struck by shock as if by a physical force. Long he stood rooted to the ground, then spun and stared at the distance, at the west.
"Blue and silver." he whispered, and his voice slowly descended into bitterness. "Blue and silver. could he? Could my useless brother have crossed the Helcaraxe.?"
Curufin visibly blinked. "Nolofinwe? Surely not!"
"Oh, surely yes!" Louder he spoke now, and stood straighter, and a semblance of the old fire seemed returned to him, the fire that reaped through the hordes of the Orcs. "Even here he must hunt me! I will not stand for it. Ready now our men, do it! If Nolofinwe comes to Beleriand, he would find me before the gates of the Black Foe!"
By Joan Milligan