Captive by tinni

Chapter 5

Captive

Chapter 5

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He could not stand it. He could not stand being so unclean. His hroä felt so defiled that he doubted whether all the tears of Nienna could cleanse it. He wished to leave it; he wished to discard this soiled flesh as he would soiled garb. Yet, he could not. Morgoth may well take his base lust out on Nelyafinwë if he was no longer available, and he would not wish this defilement on another, especially his own flesh and blood.

“You are mistaken, my Fëanaro,” whispered Morgoth into his ears as he pressed his body close, “you are mistaken, for you do not understand why I do this. Why I longed to touch you, feel you, possess you.”

“Enlighten me,” whispered Fëanaro in a tone all but broken.

Morgoth chuckled. “I desired light, to possess it for myself and myself alone, for none did I deem worthy to share in its slender. Yet, till you wrought your Silmarils, none could hold light in the palm of their hands, touch it, caress it; not even Varda the lady of light. Oh, she could hold the sources of light, she is a source of light, but to trap light itself… that is beyond her skills. But it was not beyond your skills, my Spirit of Fire. I had to have them, for it seemed to me they were made for me, to fulfill my desire of possessing light.”

He turned Fëanaro to face him and gently began to stroke his cheeks. “I wished to possess the Imperishable Flame, to bring life to things of my own, as do you. Yet Eru denied me this. He wanted me to sing as he bade, and would only allow me to bring into being things he wished to create through me. I refused to play his game and so I was cast out. Then I met you and it seemed to me that Eru had, rather foolishly, put a bit of the Flame Imperishable in you, allowing you to bring into beings things of your own. I had to have you, for only through you could I fulfill my desire of possessing the Flame Imperishable,” declared the powerful Ainur.

Fëanaro began to laugh. “Thus I see my own fault and folly,” he said to himself. Morgoth narrowed his eyes, beckoning him to explain, “All things I have brought into being, I have brought into being with the blessing of Eru. Whether they lead to good or evil they exist for Eru allows them to exist. He is almighty and if he chose he could unmake all that I have made. Aye, he could unmake me. I may indeed have a bit of the Flame Imperishable, but it is only in that I am gifted with vision of thing wondrous and have been given the skills to bring them into being. The vision maybe mine, and the skills exercised by my hands, but they were given to me by Eru. Eru gave you many gifts as well. He did not mind your desire to bring things into existence that were of your own thought, different from those of your brethren. Is it not said in Ainulindalë that when Ilúvatar rose for the first time after you brought discord to the music he smiled? Why would he smile if you displeased him? You did not displease him by wishing to sing your own song but you displeased him when you sought to bend the will of others to your will. You displeased him when you wished to sing alone, with your brethren following you like subjugated thralls. You displeased him with your pride, envy and greed.”

Here the voice of Fëanaro changed from one of haughty disdain to quiet contemplation. “As have I,” he whispered to himself, “for I forgot that happy are those who enjoy what they make and unhappy are those who hoard. If we hoard, it means our hearts have become bound to these things and we invite upon ourselves cares that lead to suffering. Eru Ilúvatar!” cried out Fëanaro, son of Finwë, as the thoughts swirling through his head crystallised into wise insight. “What have I done? What have I done?”

Tears began to trickle freely down his cheeks as Morgoth reeled from the insight of Fëanaro, but then he began to laugh.

“You are a clever one, little Quendi, yet, yet you are wrong in thinking that Eru did not scorn my desire to sing my own song. For my own song was one of domination, of possession,” he declared. “Why should it not be?” he demanded. “After all, am I not the mightiest of all of Eru’s creations? Was I not given the most power, the most strength, the most wisdom?”

“Nay!” cried Fëanaro. “The most power and the most strength you were given indeed, but not wisdom. For if you were wise you would realise that only grief and suffering come from desires of domination and possession,” he sobbed. “Suffering will be the lot of my sons because of my desire, my lust for the creations of my own hand. What have I done! What have I done!” he exclaimed. Suddenly he began to laugh, a fey laugh. “I wonder if bedding you always leads to such wisdom,” he taunted. “Perhaps you should bed yourself once in a while,” suggested Fëanaro. “It could lead to some interesting insights.”

Morgoth sneered and struck Fëanaro so hard across the face that his cheek ripped open, gushing out blood. “You were right about one thing, son of Finwë; suffering will be the fate of your sons. Starting with Nelyafinwë Maitimo. He will hang from the face of a precipice upon Thangorodrim, caught to the rock by a band of steel on the wrist of his right hand,” decreed Morgoth, “and there he shall hang until you have come to understand that in the end I shall triumph!”

Fëanaro shook his head. “No, you shall not,” he whispered, “and my son will not remain long in your bounds. Love… love greater than your comprehension will win him from bondage and bear him upon the wings of wind,” predicted Fëanaro. “Beware Morgoth, beware of the singer that sings the song of Valinor.”

Morgoth, however, laughed. “Dream if you must, my Spirit of Fire, but it will not be. He will suffer forever upon the cliff. I shall lay a spell upon him that will keep his fëa and hroä bound together, feeding each other till the end of time.” With that he was gone, the Silmarils were gone and Fëanaro was left in the darkness to ponder the suffering that arose from desire.

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Translations:

Fëa – soul

Hroä – body

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Nelyafinwë Maitimo - Maedhros

Author's notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

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