Feanor looked off the slopes of Ered Withrin. Dimly, he could hear the sounds of battle still at the doors of Angband. He sat with his back propped up against a tree, where he could see the peaks of Thangorodrim from afar. Feanor looked down to see blood pooling from his stomach, a red smile stretching across his hips. Feanor knew his time was limited. He turned his attention back to Angband, his gaze darkening.
Feanor loved his Silmarils. They were his pride, his joy. With every second spent poring over the perfectly cut and designed gems, burning from the radiant light of the Two Trees. Even Varda had hallowed them, sacred in their beauty and honor. He remembered Melkor, walking through the trees, his lies slowly seeping into the ground and diffusing in the air. It tainted everything. Including Feanor himself. As a result, he was shut away in the fortress of Formenos. It was all stone, grey stone. Drab. He was bored. Tired. Restless.
Then the Valar had come to him. His presence was requested in Valinor to reconcile the enmity between the Noldor and the Valar. And while Feanor sat, eating and drinking, Melkor the Defiler stole his beloved jewels. They were MINE, Feanor thought. My own! My… precious.
Feanor was enraged, calling the Noldorin to arms with his tongue of silver. And the Noldorin set off, along with many of their kin. Feanor remembered the Kinslaying of Aqualonde. He only knew three things: the Teleri had boats. They were unwilling to sacrifice them to the Noldor for a noble cause. Kill them. And that is what the Noldorin did. Feanor charged to the docks, slicing through the Teleri like a knife in hot butter. Fingolfin and Finarfin too. But when the battle finally ended, when the sea was colored red in Elvish blood, Finarfin looked up and saw the horror of what he had caused. Finarfin turned back. He was weak. Feanor turned aside and spat on the ground.
Feanor remembered abandoning his brother in the Grinding Ice of the Helcaraxe. He remembered burning his son Amras alive, not knowing that he was still in one of those ships that he ordered be set on fire. Those were the raw moments. The ones that reeked of fear. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the prey. Once in Middle Earth, Feanor made to march on the gates of Angband. Each day, his heart, his body, his mind yearned for the Silmarils. He constantly sought it, by day or by night, by storm or by sun. Always, always searching for it.
And all of it ended here. At the base of an apple tree, facing Thangorodrim, those accursed mountains belching ash and molten rock. Feanor gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes at Angband. He would not die a pathetic, whimpering creature. He would hold his head high. Feanor spat a curse at Morgoth once. For destroying his people. He spat another curse at Angband. For destroying all he had ever loved. A final curse at Morgoth. For tainting the light of the Silmarils. Feanor could feel his body giving out, but his spirit remained strong, even brighter than it ever was. It started to burn in his chest, giving way to such intensity that even Feanor was consumed his fiery soul.
In his final seconds, Feanor wondered if he regretted any of it. The Kinslaying. Fingolfin. Amras. The Silmarils. Feanor looked deep inside himself and saw nothing but the blackness of revenge. But deep in the center, at the very core of his being, he found a little seed of sadness. But he could not dwell on it further as the fire of his soul consumed his body and Curufinwe Feanaro passed into legend.