Fëanor sat in the chair dully as he watched his essentially comatose brother breathe, while absent-mindedly scratching at the chains about his wrists. The chains of his sins they were called, and they would only go away if he would relent in his stubbornness on holding onto those sins. He was not going to anytime soon, even if they made him angry beyond anything, he had secret delight in frustrating his keepers, although he never understood why they always seemed so sad when he resisted them to the point that they left.

"You should be proud of him for once," Námo said in the background. "For all the misery you caused the children of your father's second wife, he was still loyal to you even beyond death."

"Still does not mean what he did was smart," Fëanor answered with an arrogant bite. "He was an idiot to charge in alone."

"What does that say about you?" Námo questioned.

"I am not denying that what I did was stupid," Fëanor snapped and waved his chains about to make his point. "I am not repentant by the way." He added as an afterthought.

"I doubt you will for a long time yet," Námo answered softly; sadly, and it was another thing that baffled Fëanor. Why should the tyrants feel sad over his (self-proclaimed) justice?

The Vala must have left, for there was no sound save Fingolfin's breathing and Fëanor's chains. Fëanor started his silent consideration of this half-breed that his father called one of his own. Fëanor wanted to call Fingolfin a fool for being so stupidly loyal that he crossed one of the most dangerous parts of the world just to get to Middle-Earth, and Fëanor was dead at that point.

But when Fëanor thought about it, if he had been alive, he would have been impressed…and he would have been less harsh on his brother for that feat, although the spirit of fire was sure that Fingolfin would have wanted to kill him when they finally arrived, so no good would have come out of it even if he had been allowed to live.

Feanor then smirked, and much to the Maiar's concealed joy, his heart softened ever so slightly to one of the people he had hated all his life. "You may have been a fool to let yourself be condemned to a fate unknown…although, I give you credit that you kept your wits about you for so long." He sobered, "Longer than I ever hoped to maintain." The son of Míriel patted the comatose elf's cheek, and Fëanor felt unease grow when Fingolfin's eyes opened partially in response to the motion before they closed again.

Fëanor frowned and his brows pressed together. He was fine being here with Fingolfin unaware, but to be here when he woke up finally, that was a line he was not going to cross. Fëanor abandoned his seat and left the chamber in vain hope to find an escape that did not exist: one that would bend to his rules or his askew sense of morality.