The Final Battle, part 18: Rebellion
Title: The Final Battle, part 18: Rebellion
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Characters: Feanor, Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir, Ambarussa, Mandos.
Fanfic 100 Prompt: 081. How?
Word Count: 1551
Rating: General
Summary: Mandos has an offer for Feanor and Sons. It doesn't go down very easy.
Author's Notes: Part of a Work in Progress based on the Dagor Dagorath prophecy. I own nothing.
“Darkness is at hand,” the voice said. Feanor blinked and his mouth set to a stubborn frown. Caranthir himself eyed the Vala warily - was it not as Father had said? Had they not betrayed the Elda, in some way?
“Darkness has been at hand since the Years of the Trees,” Feanor replies with fire. “What difference does it make today, that it has not made before?”
It took only a moment for the six sons of Feanor to gather behind their father, as they had once did in the days of old - in the face of his voice, even Maitimo who had been critical at times stood by him. It felt incomplete, though - to not see him. Makalaure. The brother whose heart was soft and whose song was magic. The thought was fleeting in Caranthir's mind as he gathered with his brother, between Pityo and Curufin.
Alone, again. It crossed Caranthir's mind that Maitimo must have felt the same way.
“Perhaps,” the Vala replied neutrally to Feanor's arrogance. “And yet you are here, and no longer confined to your own minds. The Valar offer you - all of you - a chance to redeem your actions. Will you take it?”
In succinct and efficient words, Mandos explained the happenings - how the lights of the world had gone out, and how the Eldar had set forth once more, to reunite an army of the people of earth. Details were left out, but he told them that ambassadors had gone, that there was hope, but very little, and that the fate of the world was in the balance, as Morgoth had arisen once more.
He wanted Feanor's craft and his sons' strength. The Valar looked to him, to reveal the essence of the Silmarils, to bring light to the world once more. It was foolish, perhaps - but the Vala seemed earnest in his request.
There was a moment of stupor. Eons of madness do not go erased in one flash of light.
The answer came with virulent anger.
“No,” Feanor said, and he may not have thought it through, Caranthir thought. Though he did not move, he felt the urge to rub his face. “And neither will my sons,” the smith added.
Silence again befell the Halls of Mandos. This time, it lasted longer than expected. It was Maitimo who broke it.
“I will speak for myself, father,” he said quietly. “As I have for longer than you have for me.” And stepping forward, he said, quietly, “I would take this offer, Lord, and graciously.”
Feanor's eyes widened and he stepped forward, looking as if he might slap his first born, but Mandos raised his own hand and the fiery elf held his peace begrudgingly - though he was shaking.
Caranthir could feel Celegorm's gaze on him over Curufin's head. He returned it. The expression on his brother's face was as transparent as it had ever been - for all his madness, there was no duplicity in this one (any betrayal of his was unplanned, or planned by others, Caranthir had realized). Celegorm's face was twitching - his lips were twisted in an unhappy expression.
He is torn, Caranthir realized. But he wants to stand with Maitimo. Of course he does.
And it hit him.
So do I.
So Caranthir stepped up - as he felt he should have so long ago, and said, after one long breath, “We were robbed of our lives once, by sheer madness,” he told his father - his tone was not as respectful as Maitimo's, but Caranthir was never one to be considered well-mannered. “I will not be robbed of this chance this time, Father.”
Mostly, he was doing this for others. For Telvo whom he'd missed so. For Maitimo who had spoken first. For Pytio whom he wanted to protect. For Turco whose secrets he knew. Even for Kurvo, whom he hoped might soften some.
Most of all, he wanted to find Makalaure again.
It was Telvo who stepped up next, Pityo clinging to him still, and they said with one voice that they would no longer be separated, and would follow their brothers' way.
Only Celegorm and Curufin were left, and Feanor who stared at his rebelling sons with simmering, burning eyes.
Mandos' voice echoed his halls once more.
“Will that be all of those of the House of Feanor who will join me, then?”
Celegorm looked at his father. At Curufin. Their disapproval was making him wilt visibly, and it was more than Caranthir could bear. He had faulted once - would he do so again?
No. Not this time.
“Brothers, father,” he said, and his voice was full of shaking anger. “Will you let pride bereave you of your lives? Father, Mother certainly awaits you in Valinor - will you not find her again? Curufin, will you not find your wife, who bore you a son? Will you not find Tyelpe again?” But he spoke and looked at Celegorm, and the words were for him, will you not go and seek Aredhel once more, and find her, perhaps? Would you not have her bear you a son?
He looked at them three. Feanor's pride welled up some more, “Your arrogance and disobedience disappoint me, Moryofinwe,” he uttered with a voice so full of shaking dismissal, that Caranthir thougth with satisfaction that he had hit a nerve.
Celegorm, however, had not been dim to his brother's secret injunctions. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was Maitimo who took over.
“Father, will you not come with us, and ride with your sons once more? Have you not dedicated your life to fighting darkness, and is this not what we are sought out for once more?”
Or was it for your own pride, Father? The accusation was heavy in Maitimo's voice. Feanor's eyes looked like they might pop out of his head. Caranthir was quietly cheering his eldest brother on and secretly enjoying every moment of it.
“Your insolence,” Feanor begun... and stopped. “Tyelkormo, come back here,” he ordered Celegorm, who had discreetly left Curufin's side and stepped in line with his brothers during the argument.
“No.” It wasn't a very convincing no, but there it was, in Celegorm's mouth, for the first time.
“--- Stop your shenanigans, Turco,” Curufinwe called out harshly.
Again, the same answer. “No.”
Caranthir came closer to Celegorm and slipped a hand between his shoulder blades - as if to infuse him with courage he didn't know he had himself. Facing off with their father, even collectively, was terrifying.
“Is that all you can say? Come back here, all of you, traitors! I will curse you thrice and disown you.”
“No,” again, this time coming from Telvo. “I won't die by fire again, Father.” He paused, eyes wide and a bit wet. “Don't you love your sons?”
That cut short Feanor's anger. For a moment, his jaw sagged open before he closed it by sheer strength of will. “Of course I love my sons. I died for my sons,” he replied with hurt pride.
“You died for your Silmarils,” Caranthir yelled out harshly, angry, with all the resentment and hatred of all passed millenia. “You never loved us, you used us!”
The slap came too fast. Perhaps Mandos allowed it this time. Caranthir's head snapped to the side with a painful crack and his face bore a stinging imprint for a few minutes. “Never. Say that. Again,” Feanor said, or rather, hissed, in his son's face. “I love you. Your ingratitude irritates me.”
“Funny way you have of showing it, Father,” Caranthir went on, not caring anymore. What's a slap when you've been run through by a Sindarin blade, over and over, in your dreams? He laughed, low in his throat, darkly, derisively. Some fatherly love indeed.
That finally shut up Feanor. He frowned, looked at Mandos, and without looking at his rebelling sons, turned to the only one that had always stood by him.
“Come, Curufinwe. Let's show these Valar what the House of Feanor can do.”
Thus Feanaro Curufinwe, son of Finwe, creator of the Silmarils and of the Tengwar script, and his sons, Maitimo One-Handed, Celegorm the Fair, the Crafty Curufin, Caranthir the Dark and the hunters known as Ambarussa escaped Mandos and returned to the world of the living.
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Characters: Feanor, Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir, Ambarussa, Mandos.
Fanfic 100 Prompt: 081. How?
Word Count: 1551
Rating: General
Summary: Mandos has an offer for Feanor and Sons. It doesn't go down very easy.
Author's Notes: Part of a Work in Progress based on the Dagor Dagorath prophecy. I own nothing.
“Darkness is at hand,” the voice said. Feanor blinked and his mouth set to a stubborn frown. Caranthir himself eyed the Vala warily - was it not as Father had said? Had they not betrayed the Elda, in some way?
“Darkness has been at hand since the Years of the Trees,” Feanor replies with fire. “What difference does it make today, that it has not made before?”
It took only a moment for the six sons of Feanor to gather behind their father, as they had once did in the days of old - in the face of his voice, even Maitimo who had been critical at times stood by him. It felt incomplete, though - to not see him. Makalaure. The brother whose heart was soft and whose song was magic. The thought was fleeting in Caranthir's mind as he gathered with his brother, between Pityo and Curufin.
Alone, again. It crossed Caranthir's mind that Maitimo must have felt the same way.
“Perhaps,” the Vala replied neutrally to Feanor's arrogance. “And yet you are here, and no longer confined to your own minds. The Valar offer you - all of you - a chance to redeem your actions. Will you take it?”
In succinct and efficient words, Mandos explained the happenings - how the lights of the world had gone out, and how the Eldar had set forth once more, to reunite an army of the people of earth. Details were left out, but he told them that ambassadors had gone, that there was hope, but very little, and that the fate of the world was in the balance, as Morgoth had arisen once more.
He wanted Feanor's craft and his sons' strength. The Valar looked to him, to reveal the essence of the Silmarils, to bring light to the world once more. It was foolish, perhaps - but the Vala seemed earnest in his request.
There was a moment of stupor. Eons of madness do not go erased in one flash of light.
The answer came with virulent anger.
“No,” Feanor said, and he may not have thought it through, Caranthir thought. Though he did not move, he felt the urge to rub his face. “And neither will my sons,” the smith added.
Silence again befell the Halls of Mandos. This time, it lasted longer than expected. It was Maitimo who broke it.
“I will speak for myself, father,” he said quietly. “As I have for longer than you have for me.” And stepping forward, he said, quietly, “I would take this offer, Lord, and graciously.”
Feanor's eyes widened and he stepped forward, looking as if he might slap his first born, but Mandos raised his own hand and the fiery elf held his peace begrudgingly - though he was shaking.
Caranthir could feel Celegorm's gaze on him over Curufin's head. He returned it. The expression on his brother's face was as transparent as it had ever been - for all his madness, there was no duplicity in this one (any betrayal of his was unplanned, or planned by others, Caranthir had realized). Celegorm's face was twitching - his lips were twisted in an unhappy expression.
He is torn, Caranthir realized. But he wants to stand with Maitimo. Of course he does.
And it hit him.
So do I.
So Caranthir stepped up - as he felt he should have so long ago, and said, after one long breath, “We were robbed of our lives once, by sheer madness,” he told his father - his tone was not as respectful as Maitimo's, but Caranthir was never one to be considered well-mannered. “I will not be robbed of this chance this time, Father.”
Mostly, he was doing this for others. For Telvo whom he'd missed so. For Maitimo who had spoken first. For Pytio whom he wanted to protect. For Turco whose secrets he knew. Even for Kurvo, whom he hoped might soften some.
Most of all, he wanted to find Makalaure again.
It was Telvo who stepped up next, Pityo clinging to him still, and they said with one voice that they would no longer be separated, and would follow their brothers' way.
Only Celegorm and Curufin were left, and Feanor who stared at his rebelling sons with simmering, burning eyes.
Mandos' voice echoed his halls once more.
“Will that be all of those of the House of Feanor who will join me, then?”
Celegorm looked at his father. At Curufin. Their disapproval was making him wilt visibly, and it was more than Caranthir could bear. He had faulted once - would he do so again?
No. Not this time.
“Brothers, father,” he said, and his voice was full of shaking anger. “Will you let pride bereave you of your lives? Father, Mother certainly awaits you in Valinor - will you not find her again? Curufin, will you not find your wife, who bore you a son? Will you not find Tyelpe again?” But he spoke and looked at Celegorm, and the words were for him, will you not go and seek Aredhel once more, and find her, perhaps? Would you not have her bear you a son?
He looked at them three. Feanor's pride welled up some more, “Your arrogance and disobedience disappoint me, Moryofinwe,” he uttered with a voice so full of shaking dismissal, that Caranthir thougth with satisfaction that he had hit a nerve.
Celegorm, however, had not been dim to his brother's secret injunctions. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was Maitimo who took over.
“Father, will you not come with us, and ride with your sons once more? Have you not dedicated your life to fighting darkness, and is this not what we are sought out for once more?”
Or was it for your own pride, Father? The accusation was heavy in Maitimo's voice. Feanor's eyes looked like they might pop out of his head. Caranthir was quietly cheering his eldest brother on and secretly enjoying every moment of it.
“Your insolence,” Feanor begun... and stopped. “Tyelkormo, come back here,” he ordered Celegorm, who had discreetly left Curufin's side and stepped in line with his brothers during the argument.
“No.” It wasn't a very convincing no, but there it was, in Celegorm's mouth, for the first time.
“--- Stop your shenanigans, Turco,” Curufinwe called out harshly.
Again, the same answer. “No.”
Caranthir came closer to Celegorm and slipped a hand between his shoulder blades - as if to infuse him with courage he didn't know he had himself. Facing off with their father, even collectively, was terrifying.
“Is that all you can say? Come back here, all of you, traitors! I will curse you thrice and disown you.”
“No,” again, this time coming from Telvo. “I won't die by fire again, Father.” He paused, eyes wide and a bit wet. “Don't you love your sons?”
That cut short Feanor's anger. For a moment, his jaw sagged open before he closed it by sheer strength of will. “Of course I love my sons. I died for my sons,” he replied with hurt pride.
“You died for your Silmarils,” Caranthir yelled out harshly, angry, with all the resentment and hatred of all passed millenia. “You never loved us, you used us!”
The slap came too fast. Perhaps Mandos allowed it this time. Caranthir's head snapped to the side with a painful crack and his face bore a stinging imprint for a few minutes. “Never. Say that. Again,” Feanor said, or rather, hissed, in his son's face. “I love you. Your ingratitude irritates me.”
“Funny way you have of showing it, Father,” Caranthir went on, not caring anymore. What's a slap when you've been run through by a Sindarin blade, over and over, in your dreams? He laughed, low in his throat, darkly, derisively. Some fatherly love indeed.
That finally shut up Feanor. He frowned, looked at Mandos, and without looking at his rebelling sons, turned to the only one that had always stood by him.
“Come, Curufinwe. Let's show these Valar what the House of Feanor can do.”
Thus Feanaro Curufinwe, son of Finwe, creator of the Silmarils and of the Tengwar script, and his sons, Maitimo One-Handed, Celegorm the Fair, the Crafty Curufin, Caranthir the Dark and the hunters known as Ambarussa escaped Mandos and returned to the world of the living.