Waiting by feanorusrex

Waiting

Death is cold. It is ironic, for he died in fire, his spirt burning his body to ashes but here none of that warmth remains. Fëanor wishes for a strong fire, one inside a forge, for tools and metal, for anything to take to help pass eternity. But it is an idle dream, his physical body is gone and he is reduced to a mere spirit. The only distraction is memory- both welcome and not. On first arriving here he expected to face torment for his deeds but Mandos only bid him, "Go and find what peace you can."

Fëanor cannot tell how long he has been here, perhaps and eon, a day or only a fleeting moment.

These halls are different then he imagined. In life, when he deined to think of death at all, he imagined them as a drafty room filled with souls, and he grieved that his mother had chosen to spend all of eternity there. He imagined wrong. The halls are black and cold, yes, but they are many, a place of obsidian walls. On them hand Vairë's weavings, masterful pictures if the Music of the Ainur, the Chaining of Melkor.

There are other souls here, but he does not seek their company. Fëanor cares not for their words or their pity if they would offer it. There is one he sought to speak with, but she is far away, in the land of the Valor and the living, and scorns him.

I will not come. Her words, delivered through the herad seem to ring through the cold halls of the dead. Fëanor imagines her, her coppery brown hair falling over her face as she brings some figure out if stone, refusing his request. She was always proud, but 'tis his fault, their estrangement, he was fire and once burned one will not reach for flame again. And yet, despite all his actions he loves her still. He does not wholly regret what he did, not yet, perhaps eons of nothing but reflection in Mandos will change his mind. He did wish to see Nerdanel once more and to give her news of their sons. Valinor is closed and naught can come from Arda; he thought she would wish to know that, at least, they live, at present, though they may come to Mandos in their turns.

He missed her, during those ages spent in Arda; longed for her by his side. It was beautiful there, not the beauty of Aman, lit by the Trees' brilliant light, no its beauty was in its wild lands, it's untamed forests, wide rivers and the stars, their ever-burning light blazing over head, as beautiful as Laurelin and Telperion's radiance, in their own way.

Nerdanel had always loved journeying, wandering to the farthest ends of Valinor; she would have loved Middle-earth, a world hardly touched by elven civilization.

Fate is cruel. To send him on his far flung crusade and then to slay him so quickly before his goal was even nigh accomplished. To never allow him to make good on his promises of vengeance wrought upon Morgoth and the Noldor's treasures restored.

In his oath he spoke of forever and now he has it- eternity to wait and ponder the turning path of his life that has led him here, to these dark halls, to wait until the ending of the world.