Authors Note:

This story is perhaps the first one I wrote based on Tolkiens works and is still one dear to my heart. The main reason for it's writing, I must confess, is that in the original tale I found it hard to accept that for all their mutual animosity Fëanor, son of Finwë and Melkor the Morgoth never met on the field of battle. Moreover I found it odd - for in those earliest days Melkor had no real reason to fear direct battle with elves - for he had not yet been wounded by any and felt himself far beyond their ability to harm. Further; it seemed out of Melkor's character to hide himself away when he could with his own eyes observe - what to him must have seemed - an easy victory and the long awaited demise of one who had scorned him.

( And on a personal note, it made me kind of sad to find that Fëanor's death is covered solely by one very short paragraph in the Silmarillion - though this is not at all unusual in the text.)

So here is in my own mind a possible interpretation of what may have happened that day but which was not recorded.

The Death of Fëanor Curufinwë: High King of the Noldor.

The host was far behind, the enemy close ahead and still he raced on. The High King had crossed the unforgiving sea. He had watched helpless as Osse's rage swept countless hosts of his people to Ulmo's depths. He had drawn his own sword against kin. He had been the first of the Elves to kill another.

He was deposed, exiled, abandoned by those who had come to Arda solely for the protection of the Elves - and watched as the Powers who hailed themselves the champions of the Children of Ilúvater failed them time and time again. For had the Valar not failed them when the Elves first woke? In the dark groping days in Cuiviénen was it not the dark enemy that had found them first and twisted them into horrors unrecognizable and enslaved and killed the rest as pleased him? And he had now slain elves even in the very home of the Valar who were many in number and power; yet they could do so little against only one. And yet even with this act of war upon their doorstep still they lingered in the dark and pined for what was lost - without seeking to avenge it.

Fëanor blazed with anger. For how could the Valar - these 'great powers' be so weak as to allow evil to escape them? Or so blind as to set it loose once captured? Their status meant nothing if they were little better than the incarnate children who followed them - nay worse. For they were part of Ilúvater himself and ageless and undying. They who claimed to be wise had thus far shown little foresight.

Fëanor knew in his heart that Vala would never truly defeat Vala.

The hooves of his great horse pounded in the dust of an unfamiliar land far from the place of his birth, the strength of it's stride carrying it far ahead of the valiant host who called out in vain for their King to halt. The pale stars winked up above - the only illumination in a twilight world filled with darkness and steeped in decay. Shadows loomed on every side, their forms shifting with the speed of his ride and though his horse snorted and dodged every imaginary beast Fëanor would not let it shy away from the road ahead.

King he was now, though he had no crown, no throne. And a strange bitter pain stung at his chest and wrenched his very spirit - for he was the first in Valinor to have felt the terrible loss of ones parent, just as his father had been the first to feel the terrible loss of ones love and his mother to feel the loss of her own life. Death ever stalked the house of Finwë - even from it's founding and in that land of immortality his house alone had been stricken - the Ñoldor's happiness alone had been tarnished. And for what reason had this happened? Mandos had declared that the Ñoldor would be cursed by his rebellion - but was he not already cursed? Had he not been born into a curse in paradise?

Thoughts raged in his head as he rode. The guard that followed him was few in number as they approached the great plains before Angband; the newly reclaimed stronghold of his greatest and most hated foe. The foe that should have been defeated if not for the folly of the Valar.

And darkness grew deeper even as he rode, and crowded unrelenting around him. Then out of the darkness grew orange flame and terrible fumes and towering dread forms - winged and bearing lashes, roaring with the bellowing of volcanic cries. Fëanor for all his strong will felt a moment of true fear, for he had never before seen such horrible creatures. The Valarauko - maiar of dark flame who had sworn allegiance to Morgoth in days of old and had taken unto themselves dread forms. Yet despite himself Fëanor would not yield and flew headlong into the fray.

History tells of this. He darted to and fro, quick as light, sword flashing in the dark like a peal of lightning from within a thundercloud so that even Balrogs fell slain before him. For he was furious and in his wrath his eyes burned and his sword hewed whatever it touched - the first edged sword forged in Valinor and one wrought by his hand alone. It is told of how Gothmog, Chief of Balrogs and a masterful captain in Morgoths service came forward to do battle with Fëanor, son of Finwë - and taker of the Oath of Doom.

Legend tells of his death. Yet, legend falls short.

There Fëanor stood alone in the darkness. His sword shone in the dark clouds of dust and ash and smoke that issued forth from the infernal beasts of the dark flames. Yet he showed no fear and his eyes burned brighter still with righteous anger. And Gothmog issued forth to avenge the deaths of his subordinates - for Fëanor had hewn many already and would continue to fell them as if they were trees if left unchallenged. And that beast was clad all in iron that blazed with the heat of his fire, and from him dripped tar and oil that set all it seeped onto aflame. His feet were as the talons of a great bird yet he was horned on his head and had teeth like a wolf - but all this was made of fire and stone so that he had a most dreadful countenance.

With whip and sword and flame Gothmog assailed him, but to no end for he could not sway his foe or quail him. Fëanor swung mightily, beating the beast back towards the black gates - his golden cloak was torn and fluttered like a banner in the hot wind. His unadorned silken clothes which he had once worn not so long ago in the pristine sanctuary of Tirion were now ripped and scorched.

Fëanor felt the weight of his wounds. His arms, legs, back and chest which had never suffered more than a shallow scratch in life were now marred with deeply weeping red scars that ran like rivers upon him. His dark hair was unbound and flew wildly about him as he dodged whip and sword. Dirt and ash and black smoke covered the King of the Ñoldor in a dusky film. Yet his spirit blazed brighter in the darkness that was ever growing.

Yet now hearken! For there is more to the tale that was first told and was known to none save Fëanor and the Balrogs with their Dark Master. For the light of Fëanor blazed so brightly in his wrath that it became a beacon across the land that even the dark clouds of the Balrogs could not conceal.

Now Morgoth had known of Fëanors arrival and a deep, dark curiosity overwhelmed him. He had expected pursuit - but from Vala, not Eldar. Yet the Valar he could still feel on the reaches of his mind across the wide sea, now hidden behind a veil of crushing storm. The Ñoldorin host was now at his door instead and this intrigued him greatly. From his black throne he heard news from Gothmogs men - that he had reached the invading elves and destroyed them utterly, yet even now was doing battle with one of Finwë's sons. And hearing this Morgoth rose from his iron throne and by secret ways left his dark halls. He would observe the death of Fëanor, so that his spirit may be gladdened by the sight.

On the plains before the dread prison of Angband Fëanor fought with all his might. He called on every spell of force he knew, every enchantment. Yet still he was locked in duel with Gothmog. So with what little remained of his failing strength he made a last, desperate charge. And though Fëanor was greatly wounded he found his enemy to be as well. Then he laughed out in rage and madness so great and with a bright power so blinding that his body seemed ablaze with light and his eyes glowed as hallowed stars. Fëanor seemed transformed into something more than a King of Elves. Upon seeing this Gothmog was deeply dismayed and to the astonishment and great horror of those twisted maiar assembled the greatest Balrog ever to live took one step - though only one - back in fear.

It was in that very moment that Darkness overtook the field of battle. None who were without could pierce the black clouds that now encircled those famous combatants and no longer hidden by the infernal darkness the eyes of Morgoth blazed with anger at his generals weakness. It was the malice in those fiery eyes that betrayed him, for Fëanor perceived his foe and cried out-

"Fiend in the night! Murderer and defiler! How long do you intend to slink like a thin wolf in the shadows, afraid to come into the light! Many of your beasts have I slain already - many more will I slay until you step forward! Will you keep me waiting long, coward?"

Then the Morgoth rose up in a fury never before seen and raced into the field of battle with the wild fury of a storm cloud shooting lightning and fire with footsteps cracking like thunder. He arrived clad in a form more great and terrible than any Morgoth had yet shown and one so dreadful that the maiar of flame around him fell back in terrible awe of their dark lord. Yet Fëanor set his blazing eyes on his chief foe and gripped his sword all the tighter.

"You who do not know honor, nor loyalty, nor friendship! Step forward that you may at the least know fear!"

Morgoth thundered with heavy steps, and he towered over the elf. With a growling as deep as the great roiling pits of the earth he spoke;

"Your folly is fatal to you - or have you forgotten the truth of my greatness; for I am a Valar - and I will suffer no mere plaything to challenge me!"

Thus began their duel. In the first Morgoth rose so large that Fëanor darted like a mouse before a giant. With all his rage Morgoth swung the mighty Grond, and where it tore the earth asunder geysers of fire and stone erupted towards the darkened heavens. Yet no matter how many great fissures into the earth were rent all his strokes missed. Yet; Fëanor himself struck true at the Vala's legs. Then Morgoth changed size again and came to just twice of his opponents stature. Now the battle was close and fierce. Fëanor's skill was unmatched in all Arda, for he had the best of all things. The tip of his blade found it's way many times between the plates of Iron armor that Morgoth wore. Yet in the end no blade made by men or elves could harm the Vala and Fëanors strikes were little more than scratches.

And Fëanor, already suffering dearly from his duel with Gothmog began to swoon and as such was caught in the Dark Lords iron fist. Fëanor's sword clattered to the cold stones before the dark fortress as he was lifted aloft by his throat. And with mocking words Morgoth bade all his servants bear witness to the death of Fëanor, son of Finwë - the fool who had challenged his dominion and majesty, for he meant to crush Fëanor's neck with his own hand - that he might better see his enemies death.

However; he had not such a strong grip yet - and Fëanor with his last strength offered yet more challenge. For he told a lie to the dark lord. Fëanor said to him-

"Foolish you are, master of lies. Arrogant fiend! For even now my faithful skirt around us to your fortress to take back the Silmarils you have stolen from us!"

Morgoth laughed with malice. Fearing not, he lay down his great mace and lifted his Iron helm. All beheld the true face of the abyssal Vala, for in those days he was terrible but not twisted as he later became - his hair was dark as the starless night, his eyes burned like the fires of the Thangorodrim. And set with honor upon his high brow was there a crown of Iron, and in it set three luminous stones that blazed with a holy light in the darkness. All of Morgoths foul servants turned away from their brilliance - yet Morgoth himself smiled, for now he could see more clearly the woe wrought on his foes face at the sight of his enemy tending his most prized creations.

"They are not in some hall but here Fëanor, son of Finwë if you have strength to take them! Yet you do not. Ever and always they shall rest upon my brow in my crown of domination long after the Ñoldor have been ground into dust; yea even unto the ending of the world! Think of this and perish in despair!"

Fëanor held his tongue a moment, but rallied his anger once more and replied with all the venom of his will. "You know not the future, nor can see it with your poor sight! If I must join my father in the halls of Mandos then so be it! Yet I will do so unyieldingly for my spirit and those of my kin shall ever rage against your dark designs, lord of thralls!"

Now, here was the first that Morgoth had ever heard that Mandos received the souls the elves who departed - for he had cared little to discover what became of their broken spirits once unhoused. Anger stirred more potent then in his heart; for he would rather see his enemy to oblivion, not return to the undying lands - as a mere spirit or no.

Morgoth turned all the cunning of his mind towards Fëanor now - for like all the Valar he had the power to speak without words into the depths of another mind. Long had he mastered such art to terrible effect among the thralls of Utumno and Angband and now he brought his will to bear against the King of the Ñoldor. Greatly did Fëanor struggle under the strength of his enemies magic - for Morgoth had no intention of allowing his spirit to return to the abode of the Valar whether dead or living, now he contrived to keep that fiery spirit locked forever out of their reach if only because he knew that Fëanor, though rebellious, was precious to them. Then Fëanor looked into Morgoths eyes and there saw all his dark plans laid bare through visions of his intent. So horrified by the sight he was that using the last of his strength Fëanor produced the last work of his hands.

For in the dark days after his father's murder Fëanor had become consumed with grief and vengeance that he took to his forge one final time. With the effort that had wrought the Silmarils did Fëanor turn to the forging of a sword. This he named Orenáro - Heartflame; for it was forged in the heat of his own spirit and locked deep within the chamber of his own heart.

This sword now he called forth - the blade he might use only once, ere he die. And with one final strike he drew a great cleft across Morgoths face from one ear to the other. The dark lord wailed with pain and agony that shook the mountains and a rage that caused the Thangorodrim to belch forth rivers of fire. And Morgoth - shamed and wounded before his host drew his sword which this time only he used and ran it through the King of the Ñoldor, slaying the son as he had his father. And releasing his grip he threw Fëanor to the ground in rage and retreated to Angband with the cry-

"Burn all - all to ash that you may find of the house of Finwë!"

And Gothmog rose up again to fulfill this dread order, yet as the flames leapt a cry of battle rose among them. For into the flames leapt seven sons - the sons of Fëanor, for when Morgoth had fled the field the deep black clouds had cleared and once again they could see their father before the Balrog host.

Fearful, the fire-demons retreated back into the black stronghold. For if such terror could be wrought by one elf, what more could seven alike do?

Taking hold of their father the sons fled away to the south.

Yet, as they passed under the trees of Middle Earth with only the stars as witness Fëanor knew his time was spent. Even the wounds from Gothmog would have slain him, and if not for that the sword of Morgoth would have done the same. But more, the sword Orenáro which hailed from his own bosom was never meant to be re-sheathed. It had withered and failed even as his life, for it was part of his own fiery spirit made hard as steel.

So he bade his children to halt at the edge of a dark wood and though they were loathe to halt they lay him in the soft sweetgrass. From this resting place Fëanor could see the glowing fires of Angband to the forbidding north and bitterness filled him. For there was no defeating that dark fortress with the strength of elves alone. Only Valar could truly defeat Valar. Yet those in Valinor had abandoned the war with Morgoth and left Middle Earth to his uncontested dominion.

Then he cursed Morgoth for the first time. "Craven! Master of slaves! Do not come forth from that worms hole you have carved for yourself! May you forever be tormented by the pain of elvish blades wherever they strike you - and may you suffer their agony ever-long in both body and spirit!"

So looking upon his seven sons he spoke, "Do not mourn for my passing, for I have done unto the enemy which the Valar themselves had not the heart to. I go now to my father, so weep not. Instead, you must hold true to the oath - for then even if you fall we may yet meet again across the sea. Yet if you forsake it there will be no reunion for us ever again. Do not fear death - but go boldly against the dark enemy and route him wherever he lurks."

Raising his clenched fist to the north he cried. "Blackheart! Pit-fiend and Traitorous! May all your plans be undone in the end and all your harvests barren! May you find no mercy among any living thing upon Arda, nor before the Valar if they come for you!"

Here he lie still a moment and spoke again to his sons.

"My body is broken, but I need it no longer."

For the last time he cursed Morgoth - with all his strength and will saying:

"May beauty and joy ever flee you, may you take the countenance of your black malice upon your face so that you are hideous to behold. May you know never again pleasure, or contentment, or satisfaction; be cursed! Cursed with everlasting pain, everlasting hunger, everlasting thirst, everlasting desire, everlasting fear until the breaking of the world!"

It is with this final curse that Fëanor's life ended. Quickly it was that his sons leapt back, for at the moment of death his spirit rose up in a great whirlpool of bright flame that consumed all his flesh even to the bone - no mound was raised for Fëanor, for not even ash was left behind. But a stave was raised on that spot though it now be lost below the waves of the cold sea.

Then his spirit felt the summons of Mandos and this time he obeyed. Fëanor's spirit took flight as a bird of flame over the sea.

Yet deep in the dark fortress Morgoth howled with rage and pain - for the curses laid upon him by Fëanor in his moments before death were potent and unrelenting. Thus knowing now the source of his agony Morgoth rose up again as a black cloud and faster than even the flight of the great eagles he raced across the sea in pursuit, a dread black beast so dark that not even the light from the Silmarils on his brow could escape, but was instead bent back into unending blackness.

Now he knew full that he had cheated himself in his greatest revenge, for in his rage he had slain Fëanor before his spirit could be bound and subdued. Morgoth would not now suffer the Noldo to return to the undying lands. His will against Fëanor's, now both un-housed Morgoth could destroy the elven Fëa and send him to oblivion. Such was his intent.

Yet from his high seat Manwë saw first a flash of winged flame, and then a shadow of black scales following. For a long moment he was in confusion, but then Mandos who was beside him spoke:

"And thus does the King return!"

Then Manwë knew that the spirit of Fëanor was come and in grave danger; for he guessed at Morgoths intent. With ancient words Manwë raised the winds into a great gale and he rose up the wall of Valinor with all his might, and into it Morgoth flew headlong and was thrown back by howling wind and storm - yet Fëanor passed through like a ray of light.

But as he passed the sea and spread his wings over the blessed land the tendrils of fate caught him at last and he was bound in heavy chains. So it was that Fëanor was pulled with iron strength into the halls of Mandos and the doors drew forever shut behind him. It is by the doom of Mandos that alone of the elves not Fëanor, nor his sons after shall leave those dark, gloomy halls so long as Arda remains. Only the righteous of the Eldar are gifted with a second life in Valinor. Though it is whispered amongst the Ñoldor in Valinor that when all the house of Fëanor are again gathered beneath the roof of Mandos that a trial shall be made of their crimes and the house's ultimate fate decided upon by Ilúvater himself.

And that may be, but it is a long wait yet.