Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Fëanor, Amras, Amrod (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Nerdanel, Fingolfin and the Valar)
Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, filicide, treachery, implied mass murder, mildly psychotic behavior
Song: Melody of Resolution
Words: 1,821
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
remorseful (adjective): motivated or marked by a gnawing distress arising from a sense of guilt for past
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/remorse?show=0&t=1371999050
He would have expected actions such as this from Kanafinwë or Nelyafinwë—perhaps even from Turkafinwë—but never would he have predicted this sight before his gaze.
Little Telufinwë with wide, infuriated jadeite eyes.
So like to his mother, with the same fiery hair and the same blazing cheeks. Never had Fëanáro seen any one of his son’s look more like to her, in fact, for he could see her stubbornness burning brightly beneath this child’s boyish façade. Potential, pure and untapped. Wisdom, yet to be tempered with experience.
But also compassion and righteousness, neither of which lacked cultivation.
Oh yes, he had expected argument, but he had not been prepared for this field of battle. For the ghost of Nerdanel to come down upon his head like a vision from the past. Or for his youngest child to have inherited such admirable daring as to question his orders when even Turkafinwë had not rebelled or dissented.
“Why, Atar?” the little one hissed between clenched teeth. “They are our cousins. Our allies. To leave them behind over some petty feud that no longer matters is sheer madness!”
The boy did not know of what he spoke.
“It is not out of choice that I have done my brother this disservice. I—”
“I do not believe you!”
And to cut him off—even Nerdanel never dared.
“Be quiet and know your place,” he snarled, brows furrowing downwards into a frightening expression, one which he saw reflected in those beautiful eyes. Eyes filled with horrified fury. And with underlying fear. “Return to your tent at once and sleep, child. We will not speak of this again. Do you understand?”
“Do I understand?” Panting breaths huffed between parted lips. “No, I do not understand. You told us you were going to tell Uncle Nolofinwë and our cousins. You told us not to worry. You lied to us. And now we sit on these far shores same and secure, and our family and friends upon the other banks waiting to die by starvation or by the elements!”
Fëanáro could not help but find the childish argument somehow both endearing and treacherous. Too much pity churned through this boy, a naivety that made the seasoned, ruthless politician deep within the prince cringe.
And he remembered his wife’s words before departing. “They are boys, husband. Just boys—just children. They know not what you are undertaking, do not understand. But they will, and when they do…”
“Are you not remorseful at all for what you have done? To your brother? To your nephews?”
“They will fear you. And they will hate you.”
“I did what had to be done. Traitors and liabilities cannot be allowed to flourish.”
There was a pause, and their gazes held, red-rimmed verdant to wild starlight, and Fëanáro could see it, the resentment bubbling hot and thick under the surface. He had created this child, turned him into a murderer and a warrior too young, before the mind had grown to match the mature, wiry body.
Telufinwë would not be able to understand. Could not be made to. Perhaps none of them could.
“What kind of monster are you?” the little one whispered, voice but a breath in the dark, filled with fright and disgust. “What kind of a man feels no guilt for slaughtering his own people—and his own kin?”
And Fëanáro hated that it stung sharply in his chest. Hated that a handful of words could ignite a throbbing ache that painfully resembled the very remorse the boy accused him of lacking.
The prince knew he was not much of a father—too busy with creation, too politically involved and too focused on career and endeavors—but despite all of that he did love his children. And he knew that they must have loved him back, for they would crawl through mud and filth pleading and begging if it would win them his affection and approval, not knowing that they already had exactly that for which they yearned.
He did not know how to show them, or how to tell them. That he loved them all.
And Telufinwë—his last son, so tiny with darkened bronze hair and a mischievous heart—hated him. Over a single dark decision in a long list of difficult decisions that would come as they settled upon these shores, as they marched into war with the enemy.
Over a decision he would have made the same given the chance to face its two wrong answers once more.
It was not that decision he regretted. All he regretted was that it had come to this.
He loved Telufinwë. Truly, he did.
But as he watched the boy spin around and run from his tent, he knew the child was going to do something foolish and drastic. Something that Fëanáro absolutely could not allow—treason. And it did not take him long to ascertain the reality of his suspicions. To face the next frightening, difficult choice in a long list of difficult choices that rested on the High King’s mind and conscience as he strove to keep his people alive and his revenge within sight.
Truly, Telufinwë had no idea. He was just a boy. A boy who was frightened of his father and yearned for his mother. A chick that had left the nest too soon and taken to the hostile skies without preparation and forethought.
And such chicks were the first to fall prey to circling predators with sharp eyes and insatiable hunger.
---
There was no hesitation in his voice when he ordered the ships burned in their makeshift harbor.
And he hoped that the pitch of his deep, rolling tones had not wavered tremulously, and that the look in his eyes remained bright and hard as steel to match the vicious, incisive smile cutting its way across his handsome face. If not, at least they might have been shadowed by the thick, loose hair blowing in silken waves over white skin.
And he watched, walking out to stand above the harbor, looking down upon the graceful white ships that had ferried his family and followers across Belegaer. It truly was a shame that they were to be destroyed--at least, that's what he would have said had anyone bothered to ask. In reality, he was not seeing those arched necks, white against black, but seeing something far in the distance. Someone, with her disappointed, beloved eyes and suffocating sadness as her fingers slipped through his grasp. As she watched her youngest sons walk away.
Fëanáro gulped.
After this, there would be no going back. But at least Telufinwë would no longer need to suffer the destruction of his innocence and his ideals. Bad enough that his idealistic image of his proud father had been sullied beyond recognition or salvation.
The first sparks were startling--blinding enough to seep through his fluttering eyelids. Red streaks haloed in gold flashing in a display of grotesque artwork. As they spread over white feathers, eating away that beauty molded by loving hands, his mind drew an image of blood. Of the pools of sticky, drying liquid that soaked into his boots as he slaughtered the craftsmen who had poured their hearts and souls into these ships.
Now, the last of their soul's work was dying as they had died--beneath his hand.
And then the screams began. Fëanáro was eternally grateful that, as he stood upon the rocky shore and watched the devastation spreading, he was as alone as a soul could be, surrounded by a curtain of blackness. For he did not think he could have stood the shame had his sons seen him waver so pathetically, seen his knees weaken and his hands tremble.
Had anyone been watching in that moment, they would have seen his body shudder as shrieks broke the night and the campsite came to life in shock and panic below. They would have seen how his head bowed, how his eyes locked on the toes of his boots and his bangs blocked out all sight of the glowing death in the night. They might even have seen how he held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to block out the light.
But it could not be extinguished. And he daren't cover his ears.
His sons, watching him shake in distress, would have known that he was tormented. That he felt pain at the sound and sight, jerking him helplessly almost to his knees.
Many things he had done for which he would never feel sorry. Held a blade to his back-stabbing half-brother's throat. Created the Silmarilli and flaunted their glory in Aman before jealous eyes. Turned his back on the Valar and the cowards who could not bear to remove themselves from under falsely divine thumbs. Even what he had done to Nolofinwë and his nephews and nieces did not inspire the form of guilt that watching the fires below incited.
Because he regretted taking his youngest sons away from their home and their mother--regretted ignoring his wife's wisdom in that matter when she had never been wrong before. Because he regretted that there was no way to correct this error--to protect his sons--and no way to turn back now that the world was ablaze. He could only move forward.
In the distance, the wailing sound of his son burning to death cut off, and Fëanáro felt his throat close in the horror of it.
He was remorseful. But difficult decisions had to be made.
Foolish Telufinwë had put himself between Fëanáro and his sworn vengeance. And that was unacceptable.
Now, the situation had been rectified. But at a terribly high cost.
And Fëanáro would not ask forgiveness. And he did not desire it. He hid himself away in the dark, and no one was there to see him weep. Let them believe he was heartless. Let them believe he was remorseless. The truth need never be unveiled.
---
There was a knowing look in Pityafinwë's eyes--eyes that shocked him with the ghost of their twins. Hatred, fear and dread swirled, staring up at him, and Fëanáro felt himself sickened to the core by the knowledge that it had been no accident that took away the youngest of their family. He was lying to them.
And the redheaded child knew.
Accusation burned brighter than even had the ships in the purest night.
But Pityafinwë never spoke. He never questioned. He never accused. Unlike his twin, he was less his mother's son and more his father's. Subtle, silent and cold. Watching. Torturing. Blaming.
"I know you murdered him," hateful eyes spoke. "And you do not feel remorseful in the least--monster."
Let none of them ever realize how wrong they were.
Let them think he was remorseless.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poor Fëanor, I neglect you so. I know I haven't touched much on Fëanor as a parent and not as a commander or a lover. And I stick to my head-canon in which he is a rather sucky parent who really has no idea how to bond with his children whilst, at the same time, balancing his life as the Crown Prince and as a prized and extremely talented artisan. It's not that he doesn't care about his children, but he's stuck between two "people" who are not compatible, especially in a situation like this.
He has no trouble choosing his place as High King and commander out for revenge over his half-brother, because they never got along or even liked one another in the first place. Choosing his revenge over his children, however, I imagine is a decision that is a bit more difficult.
Tolkien decided how that ended.
The song I wrote this to was Melody of Resolution from the Crisis Core OST (by Takeharu Ishimoto). This song, as many others in the 2-disc soundtrack, is absolutely gorgeous and has so much character. It's got the pain and the beauty and the grace and it just gives me shivers like nothing else. Thus, I used it today.
Cheers.
No comments:
Post a Comment