Waste

Canon-compliant.  If only Fingolfin had not stood in the way, Fëanor might not have had to take such drastic action.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë).  This story could, I suppose, be roughly paired up with "Vehement" as it shares a similar time frame from opposite POVs, but not the same events exactly.  Besides, it's interesting to contemplate what this notoriously ill-matched pair of half-brothers really think about each other.  Takes place in the Years of the Trees immediately following Mandos' herald revealing the Curse of the Noldor (and Finarfin turning tail and running back to Aman).

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Fëanor, Fingolfin (mentions Finwë, Morgoth, the Fëanorions and other random elves)

Warning: canon-compliant, plotting, unhealthy obsessions, fantasizing about murder/war/bloodshed, possible insanity, conscienceless-ness

Song: Requiem of the Night

Words: 1,045
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waste (noun): gradual loss or decrease by use, wear, or decay; refuse from places of human or animal habitation: garbage, rubbish
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/waste?show=0&t=1368067457

The insidious whispers were running rampant.  Fëanáro would have to have been a stupid, thick-headed imbecile not to notice.

And if there was anything Fëanáro was not, it was stupid.

The eyes followed his form, little twinkling stars in the darkness beyond the mountains and bordered by the sea, left barren with the loss of the golden and silver lights of the Two Trees.  Fear reflected back at him, fear of what lay out there in the wondrous unknown, a world that none of these Valinor-born creatures of peace and prosperity cold possibly grasp with their feeble minds.  All around him, the scent of uncertainty buzzed with a sharp tang through the tense air.

But the unknown was not the only thing they feared.  He knew with the certainty of all his knowledge and creativity and ingenuity that they feared him.

And part of him both reveled and resented that fear, the fear that could only lead down a darker path and kindle anger and hatred in unwary hearts.  Oh, he had seen it before again and again, for men hated most what they found terrifying, wanted to destroy anything that might threaten their pitiful existence.  But it put a rigid and unpleasant obstacle in his path, one that Fëanáro would have preferred to avoid.

These people--the people of his brother who followed on the reluctant train of a vow spoken in haste and unthinking passion--they feared that of which he was capable and willing to do to win this dangerous game.  They, who had come upon his followers ruthlessly pillaging Alqualondë for daring to stand between the prince and his ultimate goal, knew that he would not hesitate should they put themselves between him and his goal, that they too might join the already-weighty list of sacrifices made in the name of avenging their dead king and his firstborn son's honor. 

Well he remembered the look upon his half-brother's face as he beheld Fëanáro at the docks, streaked in blood with a newly christened sword in his palm and eyes all aflame with the glory and battle-lust heavy in his breast.  Nolofinwë, too, felt his certainty wavering at the sight of carnage and destruction in the name of justice.

Fool that he was--fools that they all were--they did not realize that already they maneuvered themselves into the sacrificial lamb on the chessboard of fate.

It was a shame, a true waste, that his half-brother had not even a sliver of the righteous fury that consumed Fëanáro just thinking of what the Black Enemy had done to their family, to their ruler, to their people.  It sizzled and writhed in the back of his throat like a scream waiting to break free in the heat of battle, to ring out over the fortress of the enemy and let them hear the resonating tone of his cruel wrath and let them tremble knowing he approached to tear them asunder!

How he thirsted for blood!

But Nolofinwë was not the same.  Even now, as Fëanáro approached his brother's erect form, the younger elf seemed to shrink away from him like a child waiting to be struck, eyes narrowing as though the light of the eldest son's eyes were too bright to gaze upon with mere mortal vision.

"We will continue up the coast.  The breadth of the ocean will thin the farther north we travel," Fëanáro informed the silent, stony-faced younger prince in his mellifluous, velvet voice of persuasion. "It is then that we shall cross bearing as many as can be carried, and then return for those left behind.  But for now, let us take rest.  Your company grows weary, brother."

"You are right," Nolofinwë murmured, eyes downcast and mouth set in a thin line.  Displeasure was all too evident in the crease of his brow and the clench of his jaw. "At the wax-- In the morn we shall continue to travel north.  May you be blessed with a good night's rest, brother." And he dared to grasp Fëanáro's forearm and squeeze in feigned affection, a stilted and wooden gesture with the stiffness of taut muscles behind its force.

Fear, fear, fear, boiling over into resentment...

But Fëanáro did not overly concern himself with the false oath of his half-brother, nor with the shadowed gazes that followed his retreating form as he sidled through the heart of his brother's camp as though he owned its loyalty unquestionably.  Murmurs were inaudible to his ears, though his name was hissed as a demon's in the night behind slender hands.

The twinkling stars watched his back as he returned to the darkness of his own resting camp.

For he had said to his people and his sons, "Sleep early and sleep well, for in the early hours we wake and make for the opposite shore.  I will inform my half-brother and his company."

He did not tell them that he was not informing his half-brother of the plan, only initiating the sequence that would lead to their perfectly executed escape in the embrace of the newly created blackness of the world.  And Fëanáro smiled to himself, warm contentment bubbling in his belly now after accomplishing one more step forward.  This would be the last he saw of his faltering kinsman and those useless, cowardly souls following behind.

Sacrifices needed to be made.  And nothing--not even kinship through blood and mourning--would spare those who would hinder his path towards resolution and satisfaction of the horrible churning pain that lurched through his spirit, screaming for the soothing feel of hot blood over flesh and the fading light of fallen enemies' empty eyes.  He would rend them apart!

It was shame, a true waste, that Nolofinwë stood in his way.

For his brother would wake to betrayal, and Fëanáro knew that by leaving behind these treacherous, fearful souls on this far shore, unable to travel forward into the icy wasteland and unable to go back to the safety of golden sands, he was sentencing them to death. 

And Fëanáro did not feel guilty, for they had brought upon their selves this sad fate.
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No person who commits acts of great evil considers him or herself to be evil.  Fëanor believes himself justified, so cut him some slack for acting like a psycho.  It's in his nature.  Besides, I don't know about you, but I think all the events leading up to this point may have been a little traumatizing, just possibly.  On the other hand, poor Fingolfin, you should work on your poker face.

Truly, I find venturing into Fëanor's psyche to be fascinating and somewhat disturbing.  Then again, this is no more disturbing than, say, Celegorm's psyche.  One peek at "Tide" and you know that he's gone 'round the bend a few times too many.  Anyway, listening to Requiem of the Night by Audiomachine, classic trailer music with a conflict, plot, climax and resolution all culminating neatly into a few minutes of epic musical harmony.  Ah, how I enjoy this song!  Would that people would enjoy trailer music more.  It may not be pop or rock, but it's got its perks.

Spirit of Fire by ~kittykatkanie on dA, because it should be illegal to look so hot in an anime-style drawing.  And for fun.  And because I felt like it.