Middle Earth, Southern Rhûn; 2980th year of the third age of Middle Earth
Fëanor had known darkness, and not just that second-hand, hand me down darkness that creatures of today went on about, no Fëanor had known true darkness. The darkness that orcs and Balrogs bowed to, he had known it and he had tamed it. He was the fire of his people, the greatest smith among any race and he had forged the mightiest of creations; the Silmarils. So why was he being subjected to this humiliation?
It had been bad enough being trapped in those wretched halls of waiting, cowed under the boot of that infernal buffoon Mandos; but at the very least there he could walk around and make his voice heard. It was generally ignored, even by those who shared his blood, but at least he had that option – not so this place.
Pressing his face to the wizard's barrier, Fëanor let the energy wash over him. It still burned him but that was good in its way; pain was something real, something that could make him feel like he was not still in the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps the only silver lining to this terrible nightmare. And yet, it would appear he had simply traded one jailer for another, and this one was much further down the sliding scale of insanity.
It had been many an hour now since the old man had re-joined his prisoner, and as of yet he'd said not but a quick hello to the captive Fëa. All the old fool did was sit, sit and stare into the cage, for cage is all it could be called. Yet Fëanor had not been idle in his forced captivity, for every second that he was observed, he observed right back; taking in every aspect of his captor's appearance and demeanour, which did not paint a pleasant picture. The wizened old man's beard reached down past his belt, which sagged on his body like there had once been a sizable belly there, and the belt had not yet been adjusted to composite for the loss of it. The man's sizeable nose hooked over his chin, or at least where Fëanor assumed his chin to be, so thick and bushy was the man's beard. Most unnerving of all though, beneath heavy brows stared at him sightless sockets where once might have been eyes. The windows to the man's own Fëa were gone.
'Fëanor, son of Finwë do you know where you are?' Fëanor remained silent, no force in this world could make him speak to this sightless spectre. However, this did not seem to deter his jailer in the least.
'You are here in my land, my realm, the elves call it Rhûn; how very original don't you think? The eastern lands of Middle Earth all counted together and called east, what a work of true inspiration on the part of your kind.' The old man made a humphing sound into the thickest part of his beard.
'Well I shouldn't be surprised you gave this land so little thought, after all you had much to occupy yourself with.'
The beard clad face pressed its self to Fëanor's bars and the great smith found himself recoiling in repulsion. There were small wriggling things residing within the folds of that mighty beard. 'After all what are the lives of Mortal men, and not even Numenorean men, next to the Silmarils.' A smile stretched across the retched old face as Fëanor's head snapped up.
Silmarils, Silmarils, Silmarils…his creations were all he had ever wanted since first his hands had forged them. They were why he'd come back; they were how he had come back…he was certain of it…they were in danger…and as their creator, he had to put a stop to it.
'Yes, I've got your attention now, haven't I? Even now those marvellous gems still call to you, I understand. For I too have felt their pull, I too have held them...well one of them anyway.'
Fëanor blinked slowly, either the man was mad, which was entirely likely, or he was speaking the truth. Of course, there was no reason he could not be both mad and honest at the same time. Undisturbed by the utter lack of response from his audience, the old man continued on with his rant.
'I found it, it was all mine and he took it from me. Said I was mad, that I'd end up killing every mortal that walked this earth if I did not watch myself. Ha!' The sharp word was punctuated by the following cackle that nearly snatched Fëanor out of his own contemplations, but not quite.
'As if that would truly be the worst of fates for this world, look what mortals have done, the wretched ones anyway. Yes, I'll be truthful, there's no point in denying it, if I had my way every creature not of Elven or Numenorean blood would be wiped from the face of Middle-Earth! Then ah yes, yes, we would have peace then; only the worthy of lineage would remain, and light would return to this dark and desolate place.'
The man shook his bushy head, smiling as if he could see the haven he described before him. Then his smile faltered, and he spoke once more, his voice heavy and graver then it had been before.
'And I was so very close to achieving my goal, if it weren't for Pallando I would have succeeded where none other in my order have. Not even the great Gandalf and Saruman would have surpassed me in my greatness. To think, I had the Silmaril in my hands...with my power it would have destroyed them all... consuming them in its glorious light!'
He raised his hands to the sky as if trying to re-enact the light of the Silmaril blazing with mortal flesh in tow. What he ended up doing was lowering the barrier which separated Fëanor's Fëa from the mortal plain, and by extension himself. Alatar the blue noticed too late what was happening, and thus was undefended when the ghost of Fëanor surged into him.
The wizard hunched over and shook, he could feel the Kinslayer's spirit within him and he struggled with all his might that it might not take control fully. He was too weak from not only his toils in the east, but his fight with Pallando, he did not have the strength to expel the wicked spirit entirely. Not without suitable aid, and alas there were none to be found where he had hidden the captured Fëa. In his chest, the wizard of the East could feel the two spirits, Fëanor's and his own, rip in to each other. If he survived this at all he would be little more than a walking shell, hardly able to lift his head; but such a fate could not be worse then what awaited them both if Fëanor succeeded. He must stand strong in this battle; he must be firm and unyielding in his assaults upon the wretched Elf.
But it was too much, and finally that once great wizard, crumpled to the floor, twitching as the last remains of his shattered Fëa entangled with the greater spirit. I could tell you all that went through that pitiful mind as it faded into nothingness… but it is far too horrible to even contemplate, and I have not the stomach to write it. So, all I will say is this: the creature that pulled its self from that floor a few hours later, was certainly not the wizard.