Blood

Canon compliant.  Fëanor does not react well to the discovery of his father's mangled corpse.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro).  This story is not directly related to any others, but could easily be clumped in with "Engage", "Muse", "Waste" and "Remorseful" amongst others.  Basically this is the actual Oath of Fëanor, the one that lead to the other one and caused everything to go to hell in a hand-basket.  Takes place on the steps of Formenos in the Years of the Trees (technically, though the Trees at this point are already dead).

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Fëanor, Finwë (mentions Morgoth, Manwë, Varda, Eru, Fingolfin and the Valar in general)

Warning: canon compliant, major character death, descriptions of a dead body, lots and lots of blood, self-harm and oath-swearing, possible magic, poor coping mechanisms, father complex, fantasies about murder/violence

Song: S3r3n1ty

Words: 1,414
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blood (noun): the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body; relationship by descent from a common ancestor: kinship
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/blood?show=0&t=1376342449

Fëanáro had seen blood many times before.  One did not work in the Mansions of Aulë without witnessing the occasional accident at work.  Lacerations and puncture wounds were common for those working with any type of sharp tool or crafting any sort of sharp or pointed weaponry, both of which arts that the Crown Prince had dabbled in on the occasion.

He had seen smiths lose fingers, blood spilling out from the veins attempting to pump the life-giving liquid into the unintentionally amputated digits.  He had seen skin cut and accidently peeled back over muscle, watched the crimson pour down like a layer of thick paint over pale skin.  He had even once seen a hand punctured all the way through, splattering red droplets all over the forge and the floor and the clothing of anyone nearby.

It was simply there.  The hot liquid lowing through all bodies.  There had never been a reason to despise the coppery tang that came from injury, only to feel cautious and remember the danger posed by the delicacy of mortal flesh in the presence of metal and inattention.

But in all his years as a craftsman, he had never seen anything like this.

Anything so utterly intentional.

So utterly sickening.

All over the steps and all over the porch and splattered across the door like grotesque artwork was spread the deep burgundy of drying blood and gore.  Fëanáro felt his stomach turn, for though he had seen injury before, nothing had ever bled this much.  Was there even this much blood to extract within a single body?

And at the center, layered thickly in the pungent metallic odor that brought the sensation of gagging to the back of the Crown Prince's throat, laid an unmoving and familiar form.  Layers of heavy robes, soaked all the way through, could not hide the waves of inky-dark hair that spread and tangled with the thick liquid, flowing downwards over the steps.

Heart in his throat, pounding harshly until he struggled to breathe, he darted forward and, without thought, Fëanáro knelt in the mess to lift the body upwards from where it sprawled haphazardly.  The blood was still warm to his flesh, so recent had been the attack, such that he a small tendril of hope hanging on by the skin of its teeth in the back of his mind as he turned over the body and peered into the slack, stained face.

But Finwë was not breathing.  A wave of dizziness and nausea bombarded the Crown Prince as he beheld the wound which had bled out an ocean and dyed the front of his home with the death of close kindred.  Gray eyes were half-open and lifeless, the glimmer that marked the presence of the soul and spirit long-departed.  Lackluster skin was gray and cold beneath his touch as his minutely shaking fingers--on his hands which never quaked and were always steady as the stone foundation of a mountain--pressed to the unmarred cheek.

The other half of his father's face might as well have been torn off.  He did not have to--did not think he could stand to--move back the soggy mass of dark curls to see the concave fracture of the skull.  The temple and the cheek were cracked and misshapen, brown and scarlet with blood that had spilled and spilled and spilled when the heart still pumped frantically to give life to a dead body.

But he knew that Finwë had died instantly from this blow.  No one could survive such an attack.

And he also knew the culprit.

Even as the world spun around him--his father, the only parent he had ever known, who had loved him all his life was dead, dead, dead--his eyes trailed upwards, focused on the bloody footprints that were splattered across the floors of his home.  He was too late to confront the murderer, for an identical set of prints was departing, marked in brilliant red.

Without even checking, Fëanáro knew the Silmarilli were taken from their vault.  Within his veins his blood--the same blood which had been spilled this day in cold-blooded murder!--turned to ice and flame.

His father was dead.  And he could not let the king's murderer run free.  Could not bear to see this travesty allowed uncontested.

Could not...

Many said him to be eccentric and ruthless.  He had threatened his half-brother's life for less than this mighty slight and did not regret or recall his actions.  Now, upon the steps of his own home his kin had been slain mercilessly and his family's riches pillaged.  And he could feel in the most visceral core of his being the twining of horror and fury, the scalding mixture boiling uncontrollably beneath his flesh.  The brand of hatred.

No more could he have halted him violent and impulsive actions than he could have stopped the Valar in their tracks and bidden Eru Ilúvatar down from the Timeless Halls.

Ignoring the lurch of the suddenly blurry world and the stickiness of the ocean of red and the salty taste of his own lips, Fëanáro pulled free the knife tucked within his boot, held the silvery blade upwards until it reflected the firelight that kept their eternal night ablaze.  Until it burned red to match the spilled blood of close kin--of his father and sovereign.  Until he saw his own star-eyes reflected back, wide on his tear-stained and blanched face.

And then he slit open his own palm.  Bled to match his sire, the fiery liquid mixing with the puddle already soaking slowly into his leggings and robes.

"Morgoth," he snarled, with every ounce of fury and pain and grief curdled into a rage that left him shuddering. "Black Enemy of the Noldor--of all of the Eldar--I swear it by the on my blood and the blood of my kin, slain and living alike, Manwë and Varda be my witnesses..."

He barely noticed that his voice shook and hitched.  Instead, he looked down on the beloved face and imagined doing the same to the skull of he whom had violated the sanctity of Fëanáro's home and family.  Imagined the justice.  Imagined gallons of blood to match spilling down his front and splattering across his face as he watched his foe collapse and bleed out like a skewered pig at his feet.

"I swear I will have revenge for this savage act of bloodshed thou hast committed."

He pressed his hand to that unsullied cheek and stared at the vivid print left behind.  Closed those dulled eyes and ignored the rubies caught between thick, dark lashes resting on pale cheeks.  Pressed his lips to his father's brow and hugged the limp body close, cheek drenched.  Ignored the painted scarlet across his own skin and the nauseating tang worming its way across his palate and coiling in the back of his throat.

"I swear it, Atar.  I will see you avenged."

The Crown Prince knew what had to be done.

"I swear it on my blood and honor."

And no one was going to stand in his way.  Manwë and Varda as his witnesses.  Whatever he needed to steal or take by force, he would take.  Whoever must be sacrificed for the sake of success, he would sacrifice.  Whatever trials and tribulations might come, he would face them all.  Whatever obstacles might put themselves in his path, he would raise them to the ground.

The Crown Prince cradled the body of his father close and breathed in the dying scent of comfort and love.  Ignored the burning sting in his eyes as he clenched them tightly shut.  Thought only of the blood he would spill in order to assuage this horror and crushing despair.

Whatever the self-righteous Lords and Queens of the Valar might say against such hasty and vindictive action, he would scoff upon in disdain and disgust and hatred.  He would take this road and he would not cease or relent even unto death.

He swore that he would see Morgoth brought low as a starving dog and bled dry.  And revel in the dark pleasure of the vengeance.  And taste the sweet flavor of his personal brand of justice.
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This story can, in part, be blamed on the latest artwork of =Gold-Seven on dA.  The Darkening of Valinor is another gorgeous piece, though it's not as violent as the story counterpart.  Nevertheless, the look on Fëanor's face just makes me shiver, because it's just so perfect.  The moment is embodied very well and done by a talented artist, which is worth appreciating nowadays when you can put any shitty old half-assed drawing on dA and call it artwork.

I have inspiration now for tomorrow's prompt, as the word for it showed up in today's story LOL.  Until I wrote that sentence, I honestly had no idea what I was going to write about tomorrow, but now I do.  Expect more bloodshed.  Fëanor is just beginning to go 'round the bend, if you catch my drift.  Poor baby, having both his father and mother complexes stoked by Morgoth's treachery.

And then there's the song.  This is a really old one, but I've always rather enjoyed it.  S3r3n1ty by Michael Cielecki has a certain amount of drama to it, but also enough variance that I thought it fit well enough into this prompt slot.  In any case, I thought it reflected Fëanor's steadfast determination to have his revenge if nothing else.  That, and I really like the picture that goes with this video, even though it took me a couple of glances to notice the creepy second face.  It's almost ironic how well it coincides with Fëanor's craziness.