Ira
He stood there, stood there under a darkened sky and never before had he been more beautiful and never before had he been more terrible. The flame blazing in his eyes, how had they failed to see it before, had perhaps the light of the trees masked it? Had that shining light hidden more lies and deceit? The light of torches, how stunning it was on that night, how bright it shone. Like the flaming campfires back in the land they once had left behind. He promised to avenge their loss, he promised to pursue their enemy, and they listened. The wrath flaming in his gaze, how real it seemed, how raw and primordial and just right. The peaceful life had made them all dull, had lulled them into a state of passive acceptance. They emotions and their every deed had been just like that too, empty, shallow, impotent. Not any more.
He stood there, listening to his father's words and knew it was their doom, he knew to what end this would lead but also in him the rage was burning. That flame that was a part of their family, a part of their legacy. He felt it burning, a hatred so strong he thought it would strangle him. The enemy had slain his grandfather, had killed the trees, had stolen the Silmarilli. What else could a good son do but follow his father. His tongue was speaking the words, repeating his father and he knew he had sealed his fate. That his life never would be the same, that he now was pledged to that oath forever, like the pledges of a marriage.
His father was shining, his sword raised against the darkness, so strong, so adamant. He felt his eyes filling with tears, they all swore the oath, all of them, even the twins who still were so young. He was so proud, and he was so afraid and then again, so terribly angry. The anger was tearing him apart, Morgoth had stolen his grandfather, and through his father's anger fueled words also the future of them all. Why did this happen? Why this hatred, this rage, this wroth?
He raised his sword to the skies, the flames of the torches made it look red, as if it was drenched in blood and a cold feeling filled his gut. Their doom was surely upon them from this moment on, the one thing left was to follow the path of destiny, to follow the lead of their father, of Fëanaro son of Finwë