Canon-compliant AU. The different perspectives of characters as they look upon the infamous House of Fëanor. And for those of you who have never seen Fëanor's heraldic device, you may want to do a little visual research. Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro Curufinwë, Turgon = Turukáno). The names are a little screwy, but I have about twenty things to finish in the next four hours so I'm leaving them. Takes place throughout the late Years of the Trees and the First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or Fëanor's heraldic device
Pairings: Fëanor x Nerdanel (others mentioned)
Characters: Nerdanel, Turgon, Dior, Elros, Elrond, Maedhros, Maglor (mentions the Valar, Fëanor, Idril, Elenwë, Melian, Beren, Lúthien and Dior's family)
Warning: canon-compliant possible AU, canon character death, a bit of blood and gore, mentions of mass-murder and war and other icky things, betrayal, etc...
Song: Grief and Sorrow
Words: 1,786
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emblem (noun): a picture with a motto or set of verses intended as a moral lesson; an object or the figure of an object symbolizing and suggesting another object or an idea; a device, symbol, or figure adopted and used as an identifying mark
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/emblem?show=0&t=1384130537
The emblem of Fëanáro Curufinwë.
Colorful to match his diverse
ingenuity. Vibrant to match his
hot-blooded personality. Elegant to
emphasize his face and form. And unique,
because no creature created before or after that man had the same charismatic
spark.
Undeniably, that was what Nerdanel
thought when she saw the heraldic device woven into a tapestry upon the wall in
their home.
But more so, it was a garish sort of
artwork.
The angles fit perfectly the sharpness
of her mate’s tongue. The points were as
the heads of spears, congruous with his unpleasant and vicious
temperament. And the splashes of reds,
oranges and yellows—leaving out all the dark color and soft colors that
mellowed such a work—seemed only to showcase the pure inferno that writhed in
the pits of his indomitable spirit.
Beautiful and wild. Charming but unforgiving. So tempting but all the same dangerous to
touch.
It fit him perfectly. And, sometimes, she hated it.
---
But her hatred paled in comparison to his.
Turukáno despised the
House of Fëanáro. Everything about
it. From the family to the servants to
the bloody emblem.
Every time he saw it—that star not unlike that of his father but
also radically different—flying proudly over erected tents, his blood boiled.
Those tents housed men who were little more than Kinslayers and
blood-traitors, sinful men of the worst sort.
Reminded him…
Of that awful feeling of awakening to see
the lights of the ships glimmering far-off in the distance. The vague hope that they would be returning,
so naïve and optimistic, trying desperately to drown out the knowledge that
they were not coming back. The betrayal
growing as a black infection in his heart, a scourge that would never cease its
ravages…
Clutching his wife and daughter close,
shivering with cold and terror as they walked farther and farther north toward
the wastes and the ice. Because they
dared not turn back and face the wrath of the Valar, but could not stay upon
the shores of Aman. They could only keep
moving…
Watching the splash of blood below and
trying not to be sick as he collapsed into the snow and almost lay down to
die. To let the frigid winds and the snarling
snow ravage him unto his end. Only to be
drawn back…
Drawn back by hatred. Hatred so overwhelming and dark that it
burned away the cold. Gave him reason to
struggle back to his feet. To drag
himself across the Helcaraxë to the wilderness of the East.
And then, upon the shores and in the
hills, he saw those
colors…
Those reds and oranges and yellows. That multicolored pinwheel that so defied the
shadows and sickening evil that ran rampant through that House.
No longer could he look upon it without feeling the urge to take
to it a torch and watch it light up in flames.
Flames to match its violent and blistering colors. Flames to match the hues of their betrayal
reflecting over the dark indigo waters.
---
Flames to match the curling smoke and echoing light of a burning
city.
In their eyes, it was not a symbol of betrayal or tragedy. It was nothing more than an emblem of terror.
Certainly, the people of Doriath would not bow down and submit to
a single house of warrior-like Golodhrim Kinslayers. No king with a spine or worth his weight in
treasure would kneel down before such filth and give them whatever they
desired. But even so, the people knew in
their guts the consequences.
Dior, their king, knew the consequences.
And any subject who claimed their king held no fear for those
northern warriors—tall and wild men who roamed the planes hunting and who held
at bay the forces of the Northern Shadow for centuries whilst the Sindar hid
behind the Girdle of Melian—was a fool.
A fool who obviously held no respect for the enemy, no matter their degenerate
nature and tendency toward the slaughter of their kith and kin.
Respect, after all, was not always paved in kindness and
benevolence. This sort of respect was
paved in terror.
Terror when he looked upon his family and imagined them
slaughtered in punishment for his defiance.
Terror when he looked upon his subjects and pictured their blood and
gore splattered upon the walls of his ornate cavern-city. Terror when he imagined their fires taking to
the forest and burning his home down to the foundations of its massive trees
and dense thickets.
The letter sat innocuously upon his desk.
Surrender the Silmaril. Or
accept the consequences of defying the House of Fëanáro.
And upon its sealed wax lay that diamond filled with the curls and
angles of their House. The seal upon the
threat—the promise.
When the day came that that promise was kept, Dior looked out upon
their approach and felt a shudder run down his spine. Saw high above them heraldic flags perched
upon sharpened, glittering spears soon to be skewering his warriors and
murdering his minstrels and slaughtering his women and children.
They were of the colors of the fire that so personified the deep
elves. All passion and madness and
everything that they held important. The
power of creation and destruction. The
ability to burn away their enemies in the face of overwhelming odds. And the tendency to never cease until every
last droplet of their inner fires had been smothered and doused into naught but
ash.
And they promised death.
The punishment for defiance of their iron will.
---
But to the grandsons of the king, they promised neither punishment
nor death.
Rather, Elrond and Elros looked upon them and felt warm.
The rich colors were the first thing they really remembered. Watching those pretty jewel-like flags flying
above the tents in which they slept, lulled to sleep by Lord Maglor’s lullabies
or soothed to restfulness as they cuddled up to Lord Maedhros. The place where they hid from all those strange
elves with the bright eyes, safely wrapped up in their new family.
To them, it spoke of the velvet of Maglor’s baritone, softly
resonating with warmth to drive away the chill even from the marrow of the
bones. Of the welcome-home hugs of their
surrogate father, whose smile was painfully sad and yet always conjured up joy
at their sight. Of the crooked
half-smile that lightened slightly the constant shadow that lingered over
Maedhros. Of the occasional one-armed
hugs or pats upon the head that they received from their other “parent”, whose
affection was little and far-between but all the more precious for it.
To them, seeing that emblem flying across the sky was seeing home.
The golden weave was as Maglor’s voice and the scarlet curves were as
Maedhros’ hair. Welcoming and embracing
and enfolding.
Seeing it upon the horizon brought forth anticipation. The need to spur their horses and race down
into the valley.
Seeing it disappearing into the distance brought forth
homesickness. The near-overwhelming
desire to turn back.
And watching it disappear forever, the twins thought, might as
well have been the same as losing their home all over again. For the only time they could ever remember
feeling such hollowness as the moment that device—towering upon the camp
already blocked from their sight by the trees, fire-colors lit up by the dying
light of Anor as she sank beneath the land to the West—disappeared into a
mirage-like splash of oranges and gold painted across the sky.
Until even its black spot disappeared. As if it had never existed. Along with those hugs and pats upon the
head. The lullabies and the nights
curled into a warm side.
Along with their second set of parents. The parents who had raised them.
Gone.
---
And to the brothers, it served as little more than a reminder.
As it had after Fëanáro had passed, left his legacy to his eldest
son who felt he had no choice but to attempt revenge in the memory of that man
burned into the fabric so perfectly and vividly. And then as a warning against hasty action,
for the second brother watched the first leave and never return, and knew that
further vengeance was futile. And those
colors then only mocked like the eyes of the sire, scorching and wicked in the
fading daylight.
As it had when first had come word of the gem recovered by Beren
and Lúthien. When the firstborn was
struggling to find any reason to ignore the rumors and focus his attention to
the North. Until that path toward
fulfillment of the Oath was spent and there was no choice but to embrace those
colors and turn to the South. Take up,
wholly and completely, the bloodthirsty legacy stained into that emblem.
As it did now, when the pair—the last two of seven—watched their
fosterlings ride away into the distance, knowing they would never meet again.
And yet, still there was duty to be had. An Oath to be fulfilled.
Maedhros sighed and looked upon the waving emblem in the fading
light, felt his heart constrict. For so
long they had managed to stay distracted.
Pretend at foreswearing.
They had given in to false hope and foolishness.
But he knew, with horrible certainty, that the moment there came
rumors of those glowing stones again—be they held but friend or foe, the Dark
Lord or the High King of the Noldor—the emblem of Fëanáro Curufinwë would rise
into the sky, posted proudly upon the shafts of wicked war-spears for all to
see. A threat and a promise, a symbol to
strike fear into the hearts of those who dared keep from them their birthright.
Would that he could forget all about that Oath. Would that he could tear down that weave of
red and orange and yellow, of the rainbow of jewels that flashed in the depths
of his father’s silvery star-eyed in their fey glory. Would that he could throw all of this tragic
fate away and live a life anew.
But he could not. Neither
of them could.
Maedhros knew, with certainty, that as soon as they heard rumor—whisper
upon the wind or slip of the tongue or chance word in a tavern—they would come
running.
They would never give up.
That memory would not allow it.
For they were of the House of Fëanáro. And his
blood ran through their veins.
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