Mist Haunting by polutropos

“My son.” His father took his hand and sought Fëanáro’s eyes. “Fëanáro, please, listen to me. She does not wish to return, not ever. Indis will be as mother to you–” 

Fëanáro wrenched himself away from his father’s touch. It was as if all love of his father had been sucked out and a canker rooted in the emptiness left behind. He hated him. But that was not possible. He could not hate his father. 

So he ran: ran, ran, ran from those searching eyes glazed with loathsome pity. 

A heavy mist had sunk into the streets of Tirion. It swallowed up the voice of Finwë calling after him. Up, up, up the marbled streets Fëanáro flew. But his hatred lodged so cold and hard around his heart it hurt, and he struggled. Struggled to breathe, struggled to keep his legs pumping over the stones. No, this was wrong! Fëanáro never struggled! 

At last he burst through the cloud, nearly tripping as the heaviness fell from him. He sped on to the very height of Túna. 

White shrouded the valley, the lower circles of the city, spread even to the shores of the Sea. Nothing but impenetrable white. So, thought Fëanáro, Manwë would seek to bleach out the rot that had crept into the realm of undying bliss.

Then he knew the hatred in his heart for a deception. A fog to blot out his love and subdue him as his mother had been subdued. 

“Swallow all the world in your mists!” Fëanáro cried. “But know this, you who let my mother wither, who emptied her of love: you will never put out the fire of the son of Míriel!” 

If ever I flee this form that contains my spirit, Fëanáro swore, it will be in a conflagration of love.  

Chapter End Notes

Title is from Fëanor's speech by torchlight in the square of Tirion. Doesn't really sum up the fic in any way but I like the phrase. 

I've been thinking about the intensity of the love between Finwë and Fëanor recently, so  attempted to poke at those thoughts a little here, despite rather a rather persistent creative block. 

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