The Name of the Fire by Kios  

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Chapter 5

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The light. His thoughts are anchored on the light, on that one brief and crystal-clear image of the Silmarils as they should be amidst a flood of insanity. 

It had been an effective distraction—first the novelty of it, then the effort to keep it shining. Eventually however, the memory of the encounter faded into dullness; and he is now left with only the word and the desire to make the word real again.

Úvanimo, irritatingly and persistently there, grows into an increasingly enticing solution. It may be a horror beyond Ëa, but in the stillness Fëanor can only care about the Valar-damned light. Somehow, the thing had cleared his memory enough to allow light to shine through again; and he covets it, even though its brilliance had cut like glass.

If he could use it to his advantage, manipulate it to show him what he wants to see, then perhaps—perhaps rekindling a spark may not be so difficult. 

And where a spark flares, a fire is not far off. The accursed blur could then finally be driven out. Fëanor could be Lord of Lights anew. 

Furthermore, there would be a certain vicious satisfaction in deceiving something that seemed bent on ruining him. 

Encouraged by these coiling thoughts, he casts his attention outward again, allowing the bars encircling his mind to lower.

Úvanimo is there, close and intimate. 

He imparts what he wants whole: a hazy image of three gems upon a brow, crowned with the words light, beauty, purity and the concepts of colour and hue. 

Úvanimo takes the components and dissects them. Now that Fëanor is keen on observing what it does with the memory, he is able to watch the full process of its curious dismantling: how it turns the image this way and that before bending it, how it presses upon colour until the idea explodes into a thousand glimmering shades, how it takes down the words from the pedestal he placed them on and seems to just hold the words in its attention before they instantly dissolve…

Everything goes wrong from there. Too many things happen at once. In place of the words are a multitude of ideals, impressions, and conclusions—

 

The perfect and worst texture for a gem— 

The best and least angle for refraction—

Nerdanel laughed best when they were younger—

His mother used to call him Minyon—

Things would be better without Indis and her brood—

Silver shadows danced in the leaves when Laurelin waned—

Úvanimo pulls on the threads of each fragment to reveal yet other experiences and judgements and associations; until their link is overwhelmed by a storm of things belonging to Fëanor’s mind. 

Fëanor pushes back, trying to restore the original image of the Silmarils. But Úvanimo does not turn to the gems. It presses instead upon the brow beneath them, until the Oath rears its ugly head, until pride and possession are laid trembling in the open, until all are flayed apart into doubt, desire, and a cold, gnawing tension that he recognises but refuses to name—yet he cannot look away—

Fear.  

Fëanor makes the mistake of resisting. 

“Fear? I am not afraid! Show me light!”

But the harder he resists, the harder his own resistance returns to him. The shard of memory he had initially given to the soul is stripped beyond the minimum, beyond all semblance of form, beyond all deception; until at last it can dig no further and—

There is light at last. 

It brings none of the expected relief. 

Instead, there is agony. For the light only illuminates every illusion that Úvanimo has undone: every fallen denial, every blurred space, every scattered thought.

Fëanor cries out; and it is not in pain, or even in rage…but in grief. 

For suddenly grief is there, terrible and all-consuming, and he realises that it has been there all along, covered up by his anger until unravelled bare. 

Gone.

He cannot think. 

Gone.

He cannot act. 

Gone, gone, gone.

His fëa contracts around a single point, as though reducing itself to the smallest possible shape might spare it from breaking.

It is now, when Fëanor is erratic, desperate and overtaken by grief, that he is most dangerous.

He does not remember attacking. He does not remember aiming intent sharp enough to kill. 

There is only pressure, bursting free at last. 

It is not until agency fails that awareness returns to him. He finds himself frozen midway through the act of lashing out, his spiritual hands caught somewhere he cannot feel. 

He yanks them back, but they remain strangely rooted. 

Ripple. 

Prod. 

Ripple. 

The hands that had aimed to smite are now being held instead—

No, that description is not quite right. Úvanimo is not physically or even spiritually holding his hands; rather, it holds Fëanor’s very conception of them. 

He snarls. 

This again.  

It begins to trace the grooves of his hands, light and curious and deceptively innocuous. 

This time, Fëanor is prepared. He rips its boundaries away and attempts to tear it apart. He hones murderous intent right into the center of its field…

He should have known better. 

Mirrored violence strikes him like lightning. Fëanor’s hands take the brunt of the blow, shuddering under the force, their innate structure unspooling layer by layer—

 

A small but elegant lead rose is twined around his fingers, his first creation—‘Look, ammë!’—

Over and under and over and under the needle went, his mother’s slender fingers swift and sure as she wove— ‘Ammë, can I try?’—

Intricately woven Silima was cupped in his palm, glittering brighter than the stars and so surpassingly beautiful, the greatest thing he has ever made—

Aulë smiles patiently as Fëanor dissects his large hand: bone and tissue, muscle and nerve, vein and artery—

His hands are braiding Curvo’s sleek hair when Tyelko asks dreamily, ‘What if fingers had fingers had fingers?’—

The scent of parchment fills his nose as he writes, ink-stained fingers tirelessly crafting characters—

He stands in his forge, fanning fire, bending metal, using deft and unyielding fingers to shape items of destruction—

He clasps Nerdanel’s hand in both of his and murmurs, ‘Wed with me, melda.’—

The hands which so many times had held his children and grandchild; taught them, guided them—

 

Úvanimo pulls. 

 

Silima in his palm—

Palm. The shape of a hand,

Colour red, colour white. 

To be bended and extended,

Weight firm, weight heavy.

To touch and to feel,

Skin smooth, skin fair.

Until lines of stress 

Make it rough, make it firm—

 

“Stop!” cries Fëanor—

Tug. 

 

His hands braiding—

 

The hand. Flexes. Grasps:

The second joint on every third finger cracks.

Opens. Closes:

The right pinky is bent from the hammer.

Parts air. Parts water:

Silk brush, wet sooth—

Presses wall. Presses stone:

Hard impact, solid surface—

 

Twist.

His deft ink-stained unyielding fingers—

 

His. Ever-faithful, ever-obedient.

Never failing to send what they see;

Growing as he grew,

Learning as he learnt. 

Ceaselessly making his dreams a reality—

 

“No!”—

Shift.

So many times his hands have held—

 

They hold…

They carry. They touch;

They craft his legacy,

Write his thought.

They bless his followers 

And destroy his enemies—

 

Pull, pull.

Her hand in his hand—

 

Nerdanel. Rosy cheeks. Russet hair.

Passion coursing, blood through artery…

Pain grating, ash through blood.

Anger broiling, hot air through ash—

Þerindë. Sparkling eyes. Silver hair. 

Love wreathing, strings around his heart.

Joy bounding, music around strings…

Grief aching, strain around music—

 

Snap!

 

Joy. Pain.

 

Ink stains. Curvo’s hair. Hammer. 

Vein. Love. Anger. 

 

Fingers—

 

Why are there five of them?

“Because—because it has always been this way—”

But why? 

 

He finds he does not really know why— 

 

Five. Line. Skin and bone—

Palm. Grip. Warmth and weight—

Hand. Craft. Cause and effect—

 

Why—

 

He does not know—he does not know—everything is suddenly so heavy—there seems to be no end to this movement—

The web of relationships that are his hands begin to dissolve.

“No!” 

Fëanor attempts to put things back together. He starts from what he thinks is easiest and most obvious to himself:

“Bone first, because it supports. Then touch—no. Weight. Skin over fingers: thumb, index, ring and pinky attach to—no, something is not right—Fingers attach—”

To what? 

Úvanimo examines the concept of attachment and presents to him a myriad of similar things: 

To a bud, like a stem?

To a cloth, like a seam?

To a picture, like a frame?

To a light, like a gem?

To a person, like a sentiment?

“To a palm!”

What is a palm?

The question stuns him.

“The center of a hand, obviously! Made to open and close—to close—”

Close an opening. Obscure, cover—

Like clothes. Cloth. Door closing— 

Too close…To close…

Lose…

“No! I am not losing this. I cannot lose this. I cannot—”

Fire and light.

First one, then three. 

Seven. Now five.

 

Fëanor flinches, curling his precious hands into fists to prevent them from being taken. 

Only…

How does one make a fist?

Fëanor tries again. 

Nothing.

Hands have lost all meaning. 

“No…No…No!”

He redoubles his attention upon them, striving to reassemble what no longer has significance because he cannot fathom existing without them. 

But every attempt to rebuild merely offers more to dismantle. 

His wrists unfold. 

Then his forearms. 

And Fëanor is faced with the impossible choice to either pull back and admit defeat, or lose the form of his spirit entirely. 

…He pulls back.