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“Remember who and what thou art, my little Fëanáro,” his mother whispered last. Someone else might not have heeded these words, but not him.
They became his compass.
The curiosity of a child morphed into spite, out of jealousy. He grew to defy customs, laws, gods. The very threads of reality that bound their society together.
“Thou dost not have to be this way!” Finwë tried, but not very hard, and so Fëanor ignored him.
Argument after argument, fingers on an ever-bleeding wound.
“Thou dost not have to do this!” His half-brother pleaded, but Fëanor scorned those words and the one who uttered them.
Chaos and destruction. Darkness and death.
“I know not who thou art any longer,” were Nerdanel’s last words before she left him.
Blood, betrayal, fire.
“Father, this is not who thou art!” His tear-streaked eldest begged.
But Fëanor was too far-gone.
Fire and ashes, all-consuming pain.
Fëanor didn’t know who and what he was when he entered the Halls of Mandos, a lost soul among the desperation he had wreaked.
He knelt before Vairë’s tapestries and wept.
“Fëanáro,” Míriel’s cool voice called. “Remember who and what thou art.”
“I can’t. My purposes are vain. My life is forfeit, my sons’ lives…”
A warm finger tipped his chin up, and Fëanor saw, through a haze of tears, the face of his beloved mother, a sad smile on her lips.
“Thou art the Flame, my son.”
Fëanor frowned, for those words were dark, ominous. To him and his fire, it had been attributed his mother’s fate.
Míriel’s smile deepened, and she beckoned him up. “Thou art the Flame, and the Flame is within thee.” She cupped his face and kissed his brow.
“Learn to forgive so thou can be forgiven, and thy Flame will come back to life.”