Disclaimer: Tolkien owns characters and plot (including Fëanor's speech, mostly)
Pairings: none
Characters: Fingolfin, Fëanor, Finarfin, Fëanorions, Noldorin elves in general (Valar and Morgoth mentioned)
Warning: canon-compliant, actual textual dialogue, insanity, rebellion, mentions of war
Song: Shadows
Words: 1,170
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vehement (adjective): marked by forceful energy: powerful; intensely emotional: passionate, fervid; bitterly antagonistic
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/vehement
From his form, one could scarcely remove their helpless gaze.
From his words, one hadn't the faintest hope of freeing their attention.
From his eyes, one could not hope to glance away, imprisoned.
Certainly, Nolofinwë had always been peripherally aware of his brother's brilliance, but standing beneath the full force of it, even when directed towards another, directed upon the quivering people around them, was like standing beneath the Flame Imperishable itself!
In the newfound darkness, his face lit with flickering gold and red flame, and he seemed ten times as bright and fierce, twice as terrible and beautiful. No star above would dare outshine the eyes of the Spirit of Fire. And no decree of the Valar had even a hope of delving so deeply into the hearts of the people as the words of their revenge-crazed prince, whose hands were stained with the blood of his father and whose voice trembled with the throws of venomous passion.
"Why, Oh people of the Noldor, should we longer serve the jealous Valar, who cannot keep us nor even their own realm secure from their Enemy?" the prince shouted over the heads of the silent, white faces, his hands rising with force such that Nolofinwë almost expected to see the mountains shrink back from his gesture, fingers clawing at empty air, clenching tightly to a white-knuckled fist as though they reached for the throat of the Enemy himself. "And though he be now their foe, are not they and he of one kin? Vengeance calls me hence, but even were it otherwise, I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my father's slayer and of the thief of my treasure!"
Breathless, he stood before them, dark hair half-hiding his face as he panted and glistened with sweat. Beneath his assessing, calculating gaze, the people seemed to both shrink away and rise up at once, frightened of his power but all the same filled to the brim with his charisma. When his lips parted again, even Nolofinwë stood riveted, longing fiercely for the next syllable to be imparted upon his ears.
"Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people. And have ye not all lost your King?" Those eyes settled opon him and Arafinwë beside him. Have ye not also lost your atar, my brothers? And both of them shuddered; Nolofinwë's throat burned and tightened around his breath. His heart seemed to squeeze in upon itself beneath the cage of his ribs.
Part of him knew what was coming, knew this bitterness had been growing to a head for a very long time, that his brother carried within him some insane notion of rebellion against the Valar, but he had not believed...
And yet the thought faltered beneath the weight of his brother's following words. Words of vengeance and longing for bloodshed, hidden beneath clever taunts disguised as sympathy. Manipulation in its purest form. Have ye not also lost your atar? Helplessly, the thought carried and carried until it was all that Nolofinwë could think and hear. Leave Valinor. Avenge your father, your beloved King. Come away! Let cowards keep this city!
How could one resist? How could he pull away from that ensnaring grasp?
"Fair shall be the end," Fëanáro said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, though Nolofinwë could swear it carried all the way to the peaks of the mountains and across the endless expanse of the sea, "Though long and hard shall be the road. Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your treasures!" With each word his voice rose, until it was towering over them like a wave, bearing down upon them from a height greater even than Taniquetil, mighty and sure. Surrounding them, filling them with boundless strength instead of fear, with reckless determination instead of nervousness.
Another breath, and all breathed with him, their prince, their King. "More still shall we make. Journey light: but bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Oromë, endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying!"
Too much. Too bright. Too vehement. It was like looking upon a vala without raiment, burning their eyes, scorching their souls. Many fell to their knees, but Nolofinwë stood stock-still, taken and captured, chained as surely as though manacles encased his limbs and throat.
"But when we have conquered and regained the Silmarilli, then we and we alone shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and master of the bliss and beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us!"
And just like that, the spell was broken. Nolofinwë went cold, even as fervent voices rose up around him in a deafening roar, eyes lit with untamable fire, stoked to life by the silver tongue of their King, calling upon them for aid and for glory. For freedom. For rebellion. A shiver of foreboding shot down the younger elf's spine, so strong it made his knees weak.
Fëanáro turned to him again, close enough to touch, yet none would dare at this moment. Before him, the King looked like a feral creature, his eyes beyond insanity, gleaming with hunger--and for what Nolofinwë could only guess. Revenge? Or was it those stones, glowing so brightly, addling the brains of all who looked, driving them to greed and lust stronger than the bonds of kin unto kin?
They stared at one another, and then the Spirit of Fire lifted his sword--the very sword that he had once held to his brother's throat--and raised it overhead so it shone red, as if it were already stained in the blood of their foes and of their fallen comrades.
A vala in the flesh, a creature of another world. Self-confidence oozed from every pore, thick and sweet as honey, temptation more than any mortal could possibly resist. Calling with a voice so silent yet more magnetic than any word of the lips and tongue could possibly become.
And yet Nolofinwë feared. When those lips parted again, and spoke, the world unraveled around him.
They wove into an Oath more terrible than any spoken. But it was not the oath, nor the determined faces of his nephews as they joined their father in lifting their crimson blades in the light of only torches and the cold, silent stars, that left the younger brother helpless, left his own body burning with the same hot flow of vengeful blood, the same searing passion, the same violent vehemence that consumed all his brethren and people around him like wildfire unto dry wood.
It was naught but four words, spoken to him from the lips of an angel of fire and ash.
"What sayest thou, brother?"
What could he say to that voice, but "Yes"?
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I know that Fingolfin and Fëanor have a row even after this, but somehow I can't imagine Fingolfin being immune to his brother's charismatic charm just because he hates his guts. In any case, Fëanor is scary, very scary. Psychopaths and pathological liars are like this in real life. They can make themselves believe anything, and they learn how to manipulate people, how to convince others to do what they want. It's fascinating to read about and study.
Anyway, I was listening to Shadows by Lindsey Stirling. And before you say it's too nice a song to go with this scene or with Fëanor, I shall say to thee that it is about the spirit, not the music. Hundreds of violinists are more talented than Lindsey Stirling, but she's got the spark. She's lively and makes you want to dance around the room like an idiot. That's why people love her, not because she's like the best violinist in the world. Not to say she isn't good of course. That's how I connect them, though. Listening to her play is like bathing in elation, filling you up until you bubble over, and I can imagine that's how it would feel to listen to Fëanor orate.
But enough of that. I have one other gift for you, or two rather. The first is how I helplessly imagine Fëanor in my mind except with bangs in his eyes when not wearing his pretty little
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