Spirit of Fire by Lotrfan

Chapter 85

At first Fëanor was determined to deny the call of Mandos and stay put, houseless fëa though he was. He longed to watch over his sons, to somehow make them see he was misguided to put vengeance, even for a beloved father, above all else. He cursed his Oath now, visualizing his desperate words as a slowly tightening noose around his sons' necks.

But even in his defiance of the call he knew he could not reach his boys anymore-he was sundered from them, whether he lurked in the shadows here or in eternal isolation in Mandos' Halls. He had brought them to this Oath, let them swear their very souls away-the least he could do was accompany them to its bitter end.

Regret seared through his fëa. He would not be able to change the course of the Oath, not now, perhaps not ever. But he could intercede on his sons' behalf-he was still here, floating over the darkened plain, was he not? This was not the Everlasting Dark he thought he had condemned himself to, should he fail; perhaps, perhaps he could petition the Valar for leniency for his sons.

He felt the fire grow in him-he would succumb to the Everlasting Dark himself, if it would spare them. That was reason enough to heed the call, humble himself to Namo. For his sons.

But Fëanor could not deny that the possibility of seeing his parents again did not figure in his thoughts.

He took a last long look at those seven brilliant faces, bowed in unutterable grief now and then he turned West, to follow the fading call of Mandos. To make his way back. To put his own pride aside and make a case for his sons.