Disclaimer: The characters, places and things within this story belong to
Tolkien. I use them only for my enjoyment and make no profit.
Author's Note: This is just a short (and odd) fic that I wrote, inspired by a discussion I had with my friend. Please read and review!
Broken
Feanor stormed into his house and slammed the door behind him as loudly and heavily as he could. The loud crash that echoed through the halls satisfied him, even as it had done when he was a child. And yet it did not abate his anger and frustration. He had just been in Tirion at a meeting of the royal princes of the Noldor, and of their king, his father, Finwe. Of course, Fingolfin had used the opportunity to openly attack Feanor and his ideas of rebellion. It was true that it was Feanor who brought the topic up, but it was not Fingolfin's place to jump upon him like that. As far as Feanor was concerned, it wasn't even his place to be at the gathering at all. But none of this aggravated Feanor as much as Finwe's behavior. He had simply sat and listened to it all take place before him. He did not take sides. He did not support his eldest son. He simply watched it and then, after some time, he rose and did nothing more than put a stop to it. He did not even comment.
So Feanor had left the discussion as soon as was possible and gone in haste back to his home. And now he stood in his wide empty hall and his anger still burned within him. He kicked the hard floor in frustration just like his youngest son Curufin would do when he was asked to go to bed. He looked around the room and longed for something, or someone, to vent his wrath on. But there was no one there. The house was empty since everyone had gone out on this fine day. At least, it was a fine day to all but Feanor.
Suddenly, without considering or thinking, he swung his fist at a sculpture that lined the hallway. The blow contained within it all his festering hate, and was so strong that it broke the sculpture right through the center. It landed on the hard floor with a satisfying crash and broke into still more pieces. Feanor allowed a small smile of delight to cross his face. It soon changed to pain though, as he felt a stinging sensation in his hand and scorned himself for being so childlike and foolish.
He looked down at the broken sculpture, intending to hide it and fix it at a later time, but when he looked at it he realized what it was he had destroyed. There lay on the floor a sculpture of Manwe, now broken in five but still clearly distinguishable. Distinguishable for it was created by the artist who was praised for her skill in creating life-like forms of the Valar in her sculpture: Nerdanel, his wife. Terrified by his own sudden act of rash violence, Feanor felt his own hands begin to tremble. It did not matter that it could be fixed, it would never be the same for he had destroyed more than just a statue. He could feel the strange tinge of tears forming in his eyes and had to turn away. He would not let himself cry.
He turned his back on the statue and walked up the stairs. He did not look back. He could not face his own faults.
Author's Note: This is just a short (and odd) fic that I wrote, inspired by a discussion I had with my friend. Please read and review!
Broken
Feanor stormed into his house and slammed the door behind him as loudly and heavily as he could. The loud crash that echoed through the halls satisfied him, even as it had done when he was a child. And yet it did not abate his anger and frustration. He had just been in Tirion at a meeting of the royal princes of the Noldor, and of their king, his father, Finwe. Of course, Fingolfin had used the opportunity to openly attack Feanor and his ideas of rebellion. It was true that it was Feanor who brought the topic up, but it was not Fingolfin's place to jump upon him like that. As far as Feanor was concerned, it wasn't even his place to be at the gathering at all. But none of this aggravated Feanor as much as Finwe's behavior. He had simply sat and listened to it all take place before him. He did not take sides. He did not support his eldest son. He simply watched it and then, after some time, he rose and did nothing more than put a stop to it. He did not even comment.
So Feanor had left the discussion as soon as was possible and gone in haste back to his home. And now he stood in his wide empty hall and his anger still burned within him. He kicked the hard floor in frustration just like his youngest son Curufin would do when he was asked to go to bed. He looked around the room and longed for something, or someone, to vent his wrath on. But there was no one there. The house was empty since everyone had gone out on this fine day. At least, it was a fine day to all but Feanor.
Suddenly, without considering or thinking, he swung his fist at a sculpture that lined the hallway. The blow contained within it all his festering hate, and was so strong that it broke the sculpture right through the center. It landed on the hard floor with a satisfying crash and broke into still more pieces. Feanor allowed a small smile of delight to cross his face. It soon changed to pain though, as he felt a stinging sensation in his hand and scorned himself for being so childlike and foolish.
He looked down at the broken sculpture, intending to hide it and fix it at a later time, but when he looked at it he realized what it was he had destroyed. There lay on the floor a sculpture of Manwe, now broken in five but still clearly distinguishable. Distinguishable for it was created by the artist who was praised for her skill in creating life-like forms of the Valar in her sculpture: Nerdanel, his wife. Terrified by his own sudden act of rash violence, Feanor felt his own hands begin to tremble. It did not matter that it could be fixed, it would never be the same for he had destroyed more than just a statue. He could feel the strange tinge of tears forming in his eyes and had to turn away. He would not let himself cry.
He turned his back on the statue and walked up the stairs. He did not look back. He could not face his own faults.