Sons of Fire and Blood by Ar-Feiniel

Well Formed

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol - Maedhros 

One word: Thangorodrim.

Read Well Formed

There is a strench like rotten fish
Abandoned in crimson pools
Charred and lumpy stringy flesh
Once proud in majesty, now
Twisted and defiled death.
The last remnants of his men.

The High King of the Noldor
Dragged in chains across cold stone
Beaten, battered, bruised, broken
Damp red hair sticking like creeks of blood
Crashed to the ground before the throne.

"Welcome to Angband, your majesty."

That cold and mocking laughter
Echoes amid desolation.
You are mine, it taunts,
You will never go home. 

He is the son of the Spirit of Fire
So first they try water.
A sightless liquid vacuum and
His lungs will burst and
His heart will fail and
His mind is screaming,
Frozen and dark and screaming.
When at last he gasps for sweet reprieve
The foulest smog chokes him,
But his grey eyes gleam like
Hardened steel, as one who has seen
The Light of the West.

Then they fight fire with fire,
Iron branch and whips of flame,
Poisoned spears and cold steel,
Agony like white fire
Piercing into his soul.
Darkness and silence were bliss without reckoning
A chance, a hope he would never wake
But his throat bled from screaming
Echoing into the barren night,
And he burned even in the bitterest cold.

They set him upon a cliff face
A cuff of iron around his wrist,
His arm cracking from the strain,
His eyes darkened from despair.
Every waking moment he would wish
For his wrist to come loose,
For his broken body to plunge
A thousand miles to a merciful death
Upon the razor-sharp stones
And in delirium he prayed
To the gods he had abandoned.
He once turned his back,
Now they turn their eyes.

In reverie he hears a song
Sung to him a child
Of flowered meadows and open plains
Of waterfalls and golden forests.
His mouth is parched
And throat is hoarse
But he sings his life away
For what else does he live for?

A gleam in the dark,
A shining gem,
A figure from a dream appears
That bright helm, that jewelled harp,
An angel of his blood
To end it all.
The angel leaps upon white wings
And tears glisten in stormy eyes
He whispers words of ages past
Caresses scars and hollow cheeks,
Then wish a blinding flash of pain
Maitimo is free. 

Forging Gold

Kanafinwë Macalaurë - Maglor

The forgotten minstrel, written in the style of epic Greek/Latin poetry. 

Read Forging Gold

Sing, O Nienna,
Lady of Woe
Of the cursed fate that drove
A valiant people across
So wide a sundering sea.
They, who fought unceasing wars,
Won deeds of fruitless renown,
At least returned for aid
In rags, deep despair.

Weep, O Valie,
Lady of Sorrow,
For the forgotten prince,
The cursed kinslayer,
Once a gentle minstrel
Spurred on by the wrathful Oath
Of his dread father
Until from high majesty
He fell to dark and horrid deeds
And now wanders as a shadow,
Mist-haunting, dropping vain tears
Into the thankless sea.

The lone survivor,
The forger of gold,
The proud commander
Fading into the fog of time.
Dead, yet walking eternally,
Living, yet wilting
Like a plant drowned by blood
Alone on a desolate plain. 

They say his voice was fairer
Than threads of molten gold,
Than streams of laughing waters.
They say his fingers caressed the harp
As morning dew clings to spider webs.
They way his words wove spells
Like silk across bare skin.
And when he sang,
That fair unblemished face 
Lit up like a bright flame
And basked all listening creatures
Into that warm halo.

He is Macalaurë,
The Mighty Singer,
Greatest minstrel of the Noldor.
And he is lost. 

Hasty Riser

Turkafinwë Tyelkormo - Celegorm

Tolkien's clearest subversion of Prince Charming

Read Hasty Riser

In Elder Days there was a prince
His hair was freely-flowing gold
His face was fair as mountain springs
His gaze was neither young nor old.

He rode afar, he travelled wide
And learned the tongues of birds and beasts
Beneath the cloudless summer skie
His steps quickened, never ceased

A hunter he was in days of yore
Mighty with both blade and bow
And famed he was in ancient lore
Fair-haired and face aglow

He took an Oath with brothers six
To find the treasured Silmaril
The tragic doom he swore to fix
To win the war, to die or kill

 He ruled as lord in eastern lands
And vicious were his brazen blows
Yet the ground shifted like quicksand
In cruel defeats, away he rode

To seek refuge in the hidden caves
Yet proud ambition reared its head
He drove the king out like a slave
And sought to take the throne instead.

But cruel deeds yield bitter ends
And he, in turn, was forced to flee,
A coward deemed, deprived of friends
He won not power and caused much grief.

Then came that horrifying day
The Battle of Unnumbered Tears
When hope died at light of day
When reality mirrored his fears

But even then not all was lost
A jewel of hope amidst the night
They could reclaim, but at what cost?
One last bloody vicious fight.

 He spurred his brothers into war
The last act of a desperate prince
A hunter he was in days of yore
But he has lost his conscience since

He met death with open arms
A sword in hand, face proud and fair
Blood-splattered and eerily calm
In dark caves beneath the air

In Elder Days there was a prince,
From majesty he fell to woe
Driven mad by Oaths and sins
In dark Mandos he abodes. 

Red Faced

Morifinwë Carnistir - Caranthir

In which Caranthir raises his hopes and watches them crash down.

Read Red Faced

 

He beheld them as they stood
In chaotic rows, nervously,
Muddy tunics, holes in boots
Eyes darting like rabbits.
The Secondborn look like second place
Compared with his fiery cloak
His carved and gilded armour,
Dark hair tossing in the wind,
Mouth stretched in a line
Like a blade's edge
Paper thin and deadly sharp,
Grey eyes like a stormy day
Looking down in...
What?
Disapproval?
Disappointment?

These are the mortal men
Gifted by Ilúvatar with a chance
To flee to an undiscovered country
While he walks the earth eternally.
These are the promised usupers
Of the Eldar's peerless majesty
Yet they are good for nothing
But plowing the fields.
He turns away without a word,
Waves a careless hand.
They are beneath the notice
Of a son of Fëanor.

--

His generals stutter when
They break the news -
Orcs are running across his lands
Unchecked, unchallenged.
His generals shift nervously,
Waiting for his face to
Flush red with anger,
For his voice to rise with fury,
For him to unfurl his crimson banner
With a white eight-pointed star
And lead them to defend his realm.
They are not disappointed.

The trumpets sound
In the crisp morning air
Like the roar of a bear
Awakened in anger.
But yonder returns an answering call
Shrill as a nightingale.
It is the Secondborn, the remnants
Holding the gates,
Tall and proud against
The vile breath of
Monstrous death.
In disbelief he sees
The glint of their swords,
The resolve in their war cries,
The fury of their blows,
And he thinks perhaps
He has misjudged.

--

He brings his men into that battle
That holds all their desperate wildest hopes
On a tenuous string
And beside his noble brothers
He boasts of the strength of
His men,
Of how they fight until the end
Impervious to despair.
But even as he said those words
A cry of pain rises in the din
Horror spills before his eyes
Of their ranks being mowed down
With a savage triumph
By his very own men whom
He had once called brothers.

His face flushes red
As pools of blood,
His kunckles whiten around his hilt,
Hands shaking with fury.
And Carnistir curses the day he ever met
The abhorred Secondborn,
The usurpers of his hope.

 

Little Father

Curufinwë Atarinke - Curufin

Even a son of fire is not immune to tears.

Read Little Father

As a child he never cried
Never sobbed and never screamed,
Those storm-cloud eyes
Never filled with tears,
That fair light face
So reminiscent of his father
Was a mask of dignity
That never cracked in sadness.
In this, they said, he took after
Fëanáro, peerless prince,
Steadfast and stoic
Even in childhood.

But he was also unlike Fëanáro.
As a youth he never showed anger.
His fiery eyes might blaze,
His knuckles might tighten,
His fingernails might dig
Into his palms,
But never did he raise his voice
Or strike vicious blows at objects,
Cause carnage in deadly fury
As did many of his brothers.
No.
Curufinwë smiled.

When Tyelkormo accidentally
Smashed his prized pottery vase,
Curufinwë smiled.
When Carnistic took a pair of scissors
To his sleek and shining hair,
Curufinwë smiled.
When Macalaurë almost deafened him
With his loud obnoxious voice,
Curufinwë smiled.

When Tyelkormo found his mallorn bow
Snapped neatly in half,
When Carnistir woke up to find
His hair sheered off,
When Macalaurë lost his voice
And came down with some illness,
Curufinwë smiled.

But when his father died,
Crumbled to dust before his eyes,
Blew away into the wind,
His mask shattered like
An axe through wood,
He pulled at his hair,
He could not speak,
And the tears came
Thick and heavy
Like the rain from the heavens.

Top Russet

Pityafinwë and Telufinwë Ambarussa  - Amrod and Amras

Losgar.

Read Top Russet

 

They lounged beneath the ancient trees
Listened to the buzzing bees
Watched the cloudless summer sky
As they lay, side by side

Crept through the forest like skilled thieves
Shrouded by the emerald leaves
Drew two bows and closed two eyes
Sighted, aimed, let arrows fly.

Youngest sons of Fëanor,
Unbridled youth and passion raw
Alike in both mood and face
Inseparable they spent their days.

 Listened keenly to bird calls
Swam beneath clear waterfalls
Bounded forth in a tireless race
To first find their mother's embrace.

Years passed in hazy content
They never thought it'd ever end
That they'd forsake this blessed shore
For poisonous and vengeful war.

Father's honour they must defend
And fight until the bitter end
Answering revenge's call
Against Morgoth, the Dark Lord.

But then the fated evening comes
When oars splash like a thousand drums
In dead of night they sail away
And leave their people lost, astray.

But Umbarto the fated one
To compassion and regret succumbs
Within the ship's cabin he stays
To sail back at light of day.

Spirit of Fire has different concerns,
He cries, "Let the ships burn!"
The firelight flickers in his eyes
Fell and fey even as his son dies.

Only after did he learn
That Umbarto also did burn
Now his ashes scatted lie
On the seabed in eternally night.

Ambarussa is alone.
A cold and chilling loneliness
Mixed with silent grief
For half his soul has been
Torn away
And he must live like a shadow
Enduring endless, crippling pain.
He is, perhaps, the only one
Who sheds no tears
When his father meets the same fate
As his other half.

 

Spirit of Fire and the Wise

Curufinwë Fëanáro - Fëanor
Nerdanel the Wise

The passage of time can change everything.

Bonus poem and belated end to Fëanorian Week 2017.

Read Spirit of Fire and the Wise

He would come often
To her father's house,
A gift in hand,
An imploring look.
"Teach me," he would plead,
Flickers of hope
Like flames in his stormy eyes.
Back then he was not too proud
To beg or bribe,
To follow her father
Like a lost puppy,
Shadowing his footsteps.
"Teach me your secrets
Learned from Aulë himself,
O Urundil."

He was young, back then,
His talents not full-wrought,
Yet already he brought worthy gifts
Of copper sculptures or
A hundred-sided gems,
Cupped in his outstretched hand.
He brought gifts for her as well:
Jewel-encruted goblets,
Copper necklaces,
Gold-embroided dresses
All made with his own hand.
"It was not hard,"
He would modestly boast.
"It did not take me long."

Though his pleas
Trickled smoothly off his tongue
Like molten silver,
At first she, like her father,
Refused his gifts.
"Too young," her father would say
Again and again,
Over and over,
But Fëanor was not deterred.
Fëanor could never be deterred.

With time he grew
In strength and stature,
A burning light was in his eyes.
His face was fair as summer's day,
His eloquence like dripping honey,
His dark hair smooth as velvet.
His creations waxed in majesty:
Glistening gems like
Sunlight rippled on ocean waves,
Seven Seeing Stones
Of perfect spheres,
Crowns and circlets that Finwë himself
Wore upon his head.
"Teach me," he begged again
And Mahtan said yes.

She too changed
With the caress of time.
Her copper hair fell in gentle waves,
Her body grew into a womanly form,
A queenly gaze was in her eyes
And her hands were rough
From years of endless sculpting,
Fruitless searching
For that elusive perfection.

They worked together
In her father's forge
Side by side, as equals.
He watched her careful fingers
Shape clay faces with a touch.
She watched his skillful hands
Hammer at blazing metal.
And then they both had completed
Their arduous projects,
They would wander in the hills
Or to the sea,
Or look up at the stars
In a tranquil forest clearing,
Companions of many journeys
In those Elder Days.

Then one day
He came to her father's house
A gift in hand,
An imploring look.
"Marry me," he pleaded,
A ring cupped in his outstretched hand
Blazing like white flames
Beneath the morning sun.
And Nerdanel said yes.

She bore him seven sons,
Each as perfect as the dawn,
Hasty-rising, ruddy-faced,
Well formed like their father,
Hair of russet like blazing flames
Or dark as midnight secrets,
Ready to face the day,
To forge gold.

With time they grew
In strength and stature,
In wisdom and maturity,
Learnt pride and loyalty,
Wandered far and saw much
And gained too,
Reputations of their own.

But Fëanor too changed
With the pass of time.
He was charmed by flattery,
Vain and arrogant he became,
And still perversed
By Morgoth's lies,
His insiduous arts
Slipping deep within the psyche.
Fell and fey he was become,
No longer would he heed her words,
Her desperate pleas of restraint.
But Fëanor was not restrained.
Fëanor could not be restrained.

He took their sons to exile
And then to war and death.
And she, alone, wept bitterly
Remembering those Elder Days
When they had been
Side by side, as equals,
Companions of many journeys.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thus ends my contribution to Fëanorian Week 2017. If you've made it this far, I'd like to thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the poems!