Canon compliant AU. And you just thought he liked the Silmarilli because they were sparkly. Quenya name used for Fëanor (i.e. Fëanáro). I don't know if this could be directly connected to any of the other stories, but I would say "Engage" is probably the closest. I'm ashamed to say I haven't written much of young Fëanor's life as of yet, but it could be a fascinating arc. In any case, this is an experimental thing inspired by my muse of a prompt (ugh... forgive the awful humor). Takes place in Valinor in the Years of the Trees (obviously).
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Fëanor (mentions Míriel, Finwë, Indis, the Valar and Fëanor's four half-siblings)
Warning: canon compliant AU, alternate motivations, obsessive behaviors, possible delusions, childhood trauma issues, canon character death
Song: Gift of Life
Words: 950
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muse (noun): a state of deep thought or dreamy abstraction; a source of inspiration; especially a guiding genius
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/muse
Little was there to be found in the world more enchanting and mysterious than the Two Trees. They were the greatest of known creations other than the very world itself, and for any craftsman their beauty and perfection were worthy of both admiration and envy.
Thousands of poems had been written in hundreds of styles about their glory. Architecture was modeled and sculpted after their graceful images. Histories were written surrounding their brilliant glow. Paintings and drawings could be found on every corner of Aman. Even jewelry was riddled with their theme--of twined silver and golden light burning away the darkness.
They were the muse that supposedly set those people of Aman apart from those who dwelled behind in the twilight shadow-world of stars across Belegaer. The spark that set fire to the spirits of the Eldar.
Fëanáro did not know if that was truth or fallacy. All he knew was that he was no more immune to the enrapturing power of the Valar's greatest creation than the rest of his elven brethren. The eternal resplendence of the Two Trees captured his vivid imagination like nothing else, brought forth the longing to shape and forge until his entire body shuddered with the resonating power.
But it was not their light alone that held him in an invisible net stronger than mithril and more impenetrable than iron.
Every time he looked at them--at their heavenly light raining down upon the Undying Lands and reflecting off the dew-speckled earth below--it reminded him...
Reminded him of her...
He barely remembered her at all, so young had he been when she perished of faded spirit. Certainly, he had seen her remaining body, with its dull, empty flesh and limp gray hair, left to lie endlessly in the Gardens of Lórien as though resting. But in the back of his mind, her locks were molten with brilliance and her eyes outshone the stars a thousand times over again. Like the Trees, they were beacons of divine presence, radiating life that defied her deathly state.
And their light now rested within him. Fëanáro. It was because of him that he had blinked and flickered out, leaving behind her small family to weep at her passing.
Often, he wondered if the Valar--who had created these Trees with their life-filled light--could have somehow saved her, had they the merciful compassion to care about the death of a mere mortal soul. Wondered if that rumor about the Trees giving the spark to the living soul were true. Wondered if, perhaps, a slight dimming--so infinitesimal it could not be divined with the naked gaze--of these golden and silver beauties could have sustained a mere elf woman. Could have brought back the glow under her skin and the glimmer in her eyes and the liveliness that embodied her spirit before...
Maybe it was irrational to feel resentment in the pit of his belly at the thought that they might have had the power to do something and had not out of supposed fairness or fatalistic judgment. Maybe it was pitiful that he often looked upon the Two Trees and was captivated by the idea of taking their light away instead of keeping it immortal and imperishable, of holding it in his hand and under his power.
Maybe it was a little pathetic that, even after all these centuries, he had not quite given up hope that she would be coming back. That all the fire sucked from her spirit could somehow be returned.
Even after her last breath had faded into willing silence. Even after his father had wept and mourned and moved on. Even after the king had remarried and spawned an army of half-siblings. There was always that nagging little voice in the back of his mind that whispered. That maybe something could be done.
That maybe, he now had the power to do something to change fate. To transcend supposed mortal boundaries and give back the spark that he had taken away.
Looking at those Trees, he heard his muse in the back of his mind with her voice of the purest chords and felt her lips so soft against his cheeks and brow. Saw her beautiful silver locks twined within his fingers and her bright eyes smiling down upon him with pride and affection. Felt chills break over his skin as he imagined catching rays of this light that warmed his bare skin and suffused his scorching spirit and holding it tightly in his palms.
Of giving it away.
No, it was not the Two Trees that brought his most terrifying and daring vision into being--the creations that he knew would be his most extravagant and amazing--but something lost as moonbeams between grasping fingers. In his mind's eye, the solution shimmered beneath his gaze--three stars of his own make and design--welcoming and warm with that energy that he so desired and so valued.
Fëanáro was ready to begin his final project. Finally. For this mortal cage of a body no longer could limit his spirit to the realm of possibility. He could go beyond.
And not even the intervention of the Valar themselves would be allowed to stop him. For this was one daydream that the lonely, brokenhearted boy forever trapped at the core of his volcanic, writhing genius mind would never be able to forget or release. A thought that forever tugged the strings of his consciousness into tangles of fascination and desperation.
A little silver butterfly kept forever prisoner in a little glass jar of hope.
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As mentioned above, this is a bit of an experimental thing. See, the Silmarillion never really says why Fëanor creates these three random shiny objects out of nowhere and becomes so obsessed with them that he gets killed over them (along with a large amount of his followers and children). Thus, I explored a possible reason that he might have had, no matter how delusional it might be. Because, you know, Míriel died willingly, so he can't really force her to come back but thinks that if she is restored to how she was before they she might choose to come back (there are, of course, complications with this plan--like Indis. Guess why he hates her guts so much LOL).
Anyway, don't know about you, but if my mother dropped dead when I was a child, I wouldn't want to think that she willingly abandoned me. Maybe he's trying to convince himself that it's a lie or something? Who knows with him. I just thought it was an interesting angle on the Silmarilli. I haven't decided if I want them to be purely made of the Trees or not yet, but I suppose I'll go where the prompts take me.
On the other hand, the song for today is gorgeous and you should listen to it. Gift of Life by Thomas Bergersen (the guy who composes for TSFH) is an amazing piece that I have loved ever since I heard it for the very first time. I still get shivers whenever I listen to it. And I thought the title and the feel of the piece overall fit with the prompt and the ideas surrounding it. Gave it that otherworldly feeling, if you get my meaning. Well, anyway, just enjoy, ne~
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