The King of Flames by Katie Tran

Prologue

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“Curufinwë Fëanáro. Step forth towards the Valar.”

The deep and resonating voice spoke so soft and yet, he felt as if all of Arda had heard and witnessed this very tremulous moment. The iron cuffs that weighed one-hundred stones magically had unlocked itself from his wrists and ankles. They fell to the stone floor making an echo thud of a noise. The heavy chains that both literally and figuratively bounded him to the lonely and cold prison cell in the Halls of Námo isolating his fëa from the rest of the other spirits had disappeared.

He looked down at his body. While he was just a fëa right now, he still had his old physical form. The wounds that Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, inflicted upon his death was still apparent. His prior bound wrists and ankles had scars and cuts all over. Lastly, he was naked. A full-length, mirror glass floated from the sky to appear in front of him. Perhaps this was another humiliation tactic from the Valar to drive the message home on how far Curufinwë Fëanáro, son of Finwë, had fallen from grace and honor.
He looked at himself through the glass. His once athletic and toned physique was marred by black injuries, bruises and dirt. His long, dark hair was a mass of snarls and tangles on his head. His face, which once was so admired by all inhabitants in Valinor and Ennor for its beauty, was now a shadow of its former glory. Fëanor ran a hand down a slit that crossed over his right eye and the blister that would not heal at the corner of his lower lip. He then moved on to his hands and fingers; they were long but broad – Full of calluses from wielding weaponry and performing countless forgery that were considered masterpieces.
He observed wryly that his more private parts were tragically limp and damaged as well.

Once, he was so full of pride and hubris. Now, feelings of vulnerability were both a constant friend and nemesis.

One of the servants of Námo came over and prudently draped a modest robe around his nude body. As he carefully felt the soft material of the fabric, he saw something so bright come from the sky, it would have blinded mortal eyes. As the bright light came closer gradually, Fëanor was able to make out a beautifully made ship carved out of wood. From that ship, a man of remarkable fairness and golden hair jumped down from the edge of the deck to march his way. On his brows was the source of light. Fëanor recognized what it was immediately for the sight of the light awakened feelings of possessiveness, adoration, rage and sorrow all at once within his breast. If one looked closely and could see beyond the gleam of white light, multiple facets of glimmering crystal glass glared back at one blindingly. Its stunning features was what made it a Silmaril jewel and the work only intricately crafted by Fëanáro’s hands and hammer.
And now, that Silmaril jewel Fëanor had fought tooth and nail to the death and caused so much tragedy to those around him had become the old and new Arda’s most brilliant star – Their sign of hope.

This half-elven man that stood before him now, Fëanor assumed was Eärendil; The one who became one with his precious crystal to become said star.

Eärendil’s stance was all regal robes, proud bearing and stoicism. He brought both hands to his head to take off the crown that held the Silmaril. Gently unscrewing the gem off its hold as the main pendant, the half-elven gave the Silmaril to Fëanor.
With the jewel back in his hands, Fëanor grasped it waiting for the relief he sought of having his dearly loved ornaments back. It never came. To his astonishment and disturbance, all he felt was a hollowness he could not describe.

His two other Silmarils floated down in front of his absorbing, grey eyes.

“Now,” Eärendil intoned. “You shall be led back to Valinor where the two trees had been destroyed. With the help of Lady Yavanna and the rest of the Valar, you will help use the Silmarils you have created with your own love and hands to give life back to the Two Trees. Laurelin and Telperion shall shine again but more radiantly this time.”

How easy it was for them - The Valar and all who carried their caprices to this day, still demand and dictate his existence with his own creations. Except this time, with everything that had occurred remarkably throughout history thanks to his aggressive pursuit of his Silmarils, Fëanor doubted any dispute he gave would be tolerated.

The prison walls around him disintegrated to reveal each of the Valar standing in a circle, staring down at him in their big and mighty forms. One figure slowly went up to him. It was a graceful, lush, female figure dressed in a green gown that had vines and all assortments of fruits and herbs woven to her dress. Her face was exquisite and her long, red hair framed around her like a glorious waterfall. For a second there, Fëanor thought his wife had returned to him.

But she was not Nerdanel. Nerdanel had not been the most beautiful of the Firstborns and her figure had been wide and sturdy; not tapered but curvaceous like this woman a few inches away from him.

“My lady Yavanna, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He swept a mocking bow, already knowing the answer.

The Vala maiden gave no sign of acknowledging his sardonic and blasphemous attitude. Instead, she reacted in the worst way possible; She smiled at him kindly. Surprisingly, Fëanor did not flinch when Yavanna crouched down to take both of his hands and deposited a gentle kiss on his freezing, white knuckles.

“My dear Fëanor, you have long suffered have you not? For all your past, evil actions against your own kind and kin, you were the one most in agony.”

He scowled. “With all due respect, my lady. I do not welcome your pity.”

The goddess of growth and fertility was not deterred.

“Dear Fëanor,” Her voice changed to a lower resonance. “Won’t thou help Laurelin and Telperion shine most brilliant and beautiful vast over not just Valinor but for all of Arda Reborn yet again?”

Fëanor contemplated her closely. She did not seem to mind his impertinent scrutiny. Next, he looked at all the Valar and Maiar surrounding him. His environment was now not the cold, grey halls of Námo, but the blindingly big and white rooms that could only belong to the abode of Manwë and Varda. Those two sat on their crystal thrones gazing down at him with opaque expressions. Varda’s hair encompassed the entire sky with little beads of stars twinkling everywhere above him.

So, it came to this. The end of the World and Arda was to be remade. Where all of the Eldar, Naugrim, men and creatures alike were free from their prior fates after death to be rejoined again in the new World.
He stared at the burning Silmarils in his palms. All his years of dedication and hard work in creating them; His long rage and vengeance just to get them back from the dark forces and then eventually, became the evil himself in the name of material possession.

But by giving the Silmarils to Yavanna, not only would Fëanor be free from this curse, he would be helping create the ultimate masterpiece in history – Reforming the two sacred trees to light up the Arda that it should have been before Melkor’s undoing.

The final decision was not that difficult. Finally, Fëanor said:

“For Arda and all of Eru Ilúvatar’s children’s sake, I shall use the Silmarils I have lovingly and meticulously forged and return its light to relive Laurelin and Telperion.”

oOo

Where were his sons?

Where was Nerdanel?

Ugly emotions Fëanor tried to bottle down for thousands of years he came to realize as guilt and misery.

“Atar!” A familiar voice called, jogging in his direction. Fëanor was walking around the massive land of Arda Remade where the elves were all beginning to arrive from the West and the afterlife.
It was Turcafinwë. His third son’s light head of hair could be seen anywhere amongst his brothers. Once the obnoxious and hasty riser of the siblings, Turcafinwë now had a leaner and more seasoned look about him. On his handsome face was relief and joy.

“We are glad to have you returned then?” He inquired.

Without saying anything, Fëanor took hold of his third son and pulled him into a crushing embrace. Shocked and embarrassed, he hugged him back cumbersomely. Awkward as the reunion was, it was clear he loved his father. Any pain of the past mattered not in the end.

“Tis a long story,” Fëanor began quietly although he had other matters to discuss first and foremost.
“Where are your brothers? Your mother?”

Turcafinwë nodded, letting go of him. “Let us go. There is much we need to talk about, atar.”

As father and son walked down the hillside, Fëanor noticed the tremendous and miraculous changes of the new Earth they now resided in. The trees, grass and leaves were richer in color whether it be green, red, orange or yellow. Flowers and fruits bloomed generously wherever they went. The skies were crisp and clear; any clouds present were sheer, white and seemed to exist for ornamental purposes rather than to create any kind of precipitation. Most of all, however, was the pure beauty of the ocean and large lakes. The blue and depth of the waters had no limits. Fëanor wondered if winter or autumn still existed depending on the region. He made note to research and explore this at a later date. His hunger for knowledge that led him to adventure in the sketchiest and repulsive places had not waned with time one bit.

Eru had granted the Edain human rights for settlements before the elves. Already, cities and villages had been built. The architecture and craftmanship level left much to be desired by Eldar standards, but it was much improvement from the old Arda.

As Fëanor soaked in his new surroundings and environment, Turcafinwë relayed to him where each of the Noldor, Vanyar and the large Teleri (consisting of Silvan and Avari) settlements and cities were. He informed what happened to each of his sons, their quests thanks to his terrible oath and how they have slowly but surely healed and starting over their lives in Arda Reborn. They all resided in this world’s version of Formenos and that Fëanor would live with them. The brothers had joined hands to build a big mansion together for all of them to live in.

Fëanor, however, did not plan to live with them in the same building. With his current state, he did not feel he deserved to stay under the same roof with any of his family just yet and did not want to disrupt the peace. He had his own penance to do and will worry about his own lodging later.

“What of your Amil?” Fëanor asked after a while. “How is she?”

At that, Turcafinwë grew silent.

“She is still staying with grandfather Mahtan, atar,” He finally said; his face angry. “Amil insisted that while she will stay with us for her children’s sakes, she has no intentions of reconciling with you. Even so, she refuses to officially sever the marriage because it is against Eldar customs.”

Fëanor felt bleak at the information, but he was not surprised. Nerdanel had always worshipped and revered the Valar while he, just the complete contrary. Their marriage was always one laced with both love and severe friction. After the final straw of Fëanor and his continuous blasphemy against the Valar as well as the swore of his oath, the two had been irreparably estranged. Nerdanel’s finality had been a huge blow to his spirit. Still, he noted drolly that his wife’s adherence to traditional Elven values had not changed one ounce. He still loved her, of course. For all his defiance against the conventional, he was still an elf born in the old Valinor so his love and bond for Nerdanel would forever be eternal.

He deliberately ignored how the so-called love he just thought of had begun to dwindle in his heart after years of separation and differences in personality and values.

oOo

Translation and Names

Fëanáro = Fëanor

Turcafinwë = Celegorm

Eldar = Elves

Naugrim = Dwarves

Edain = Mortals

Atar = Father

Amil = Mother