Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS (#2708)
Author: jenni
Chapters: 4
Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: Fëanor is betrayed by three women in his life. This short story is a study of how Fëanor's treatment by these women may have contributed to his character.
Published: 09 May 2006
Updated: 11 May 2006
Warnings:
Type: Drama
Characters: Fëanor, Galadriel, Finwë
Chapter 1 - The Song of the Father
In the glow of the evening lamp of his father’s study, the young Feanor sat cross-legged on the floor at Finwe’s feet, and listened to his favourite song-story as it flowed from the lips of the Elven-king of Tirion. He paid rapt attention to his father’s singing, as the elder Elf sang of Miriel, his former wife and Feanor’s mother, whose body and spirit had been ravaged by the birth of her son, and who had departed while he was still an infant.
Finwe sang also of Cuivenen in the Helcar Sea and the beauty he and the other Firstborn heard in the flowing water and saw in the stars upon their awakening.
He also sang of Melkor, the evil Vala who overthrew the great lamps of the Valar and who was now held as a prisoner in chains.
Feanor’s young, bright eyes gleamed with the fire and thirst for knowledge possessed by all of the Firstborn, yet it burned more fiercely in him. His flowing black hair gleamed in the lamp’s golden light, and his dark eyes pierced through the hazy light from the Mingling of the Trees as he listened to the notes and the words that Finwe sang. Feanor shifted his position a little in order to be more comfortable. He wore a singlet woven of soft yellow cloth, made from the threads spun by the caterpillar of a most beautiful moth cultivated in his father’s realm on Valinor.
This garment had been sewn by Miriel for Finwe before the birth of Feanor and was of singular beauty, as she had been skillful in embroidering and this shirt boasted her fine needlework. Feanor loved it and wore it often, though it was too big for him.
He wore this singlet over leggings of the brown colour of maple wood. These were his favourite daytime clothes and he had not yet changed into his nightwear, so loath was he to leave his father’s side. He shifted again, his mind wandering slightly from the familiar song. Soon he dreamed that his beloved mother Miriel would be coming to look for him, to bid him to come to her. Although he would never admit it, Feanor had been hurt deeply by the knowledge that his mother had all but discarded him after his birth. He did not understand why she could not love him, why she could not stay to look after him and nurture him as a mother should. He never understood what was in her mind, in her soul, that she would abandon her baby boy in the way that she did. In the mind of the young Feanor, not yet reached manhood, he could not fathom a woman's reasoning, or her desires. Feanor never would be a good judge of women. He had profoundly been hurt by his mother's abandonment, and his need to feel wanted, to be useful, would drive him in all his future pursuits. It would also drive others away from him.
Young Feanor came to his senses with a start, yawned, and then stood up. His dark eyes, gleaming like onyx caught in the candlelight, aimed their piercing gaze upon his father.
“That was wonderful, ‘Atto’,” he murmured dreamily. “I wish I could hear you sing it every night, as I wish for Amme’s presence. Why did she leave us really, Atto? Can you not tell me now? Am I not old enough to know?" Finwe was sorrowful in that moment for his beloved son and he knew he could never tell Feanor why his mother had done what she did in any way that would not hurt him.
He stretched his long arms and arched his slender back. Although he was still a young Elf, he had grown swiftly, and the power and strength of what he would grow to be could be seen clearly in his lithe young body. Finwe gave a sigh of satisfaction at seeing his beloved first son growing more handsome and remarkable as the years drew onward. Where Feanor's mother had left a gap in his life, his father sought to fill it, and he loved Feanor with all his heart, and showed it.
So all that Finwe could manage to say was, “Ah, then the song would not be as special to you as it is now, being infrequently sung, my boy". He said it lovingly, reaching out and drawing Feanor close to his side.
“Good night, my dear child. Go now to bed and in the morrow we shall walk together through the kingdom, and I shall show you where and how we make our finest things. We have begun to work with metals here, and precious gems from the earth and the rock. Aule the Smith, of the Valar, has come to show our people how to work with these things in an artful way. This may be of interest to you, Feanor".
With a brief kiss for his father and a wave of the hand, young Feanor was gone to his bed and to his dreams; and to anticipation of learning the new skills that his father spoke of.
Chapter 2 - The Spirit of the Son
2
The Spirit of the Son
When Feanor’s half-brothers were born, he said that he loathed them. He professed intense dislike for them and their mother, yet they tried to love him, but he could not reciprocate. His brothers always found it difficult to get along with Feanor. When his half-brothers had children of their own, Feanor openly stated that he disliked their offspring too, yet when he had dealings with his nieces and nephews personally, he always spoke kindly to them and treated them well. His father Finwe knew that while Feanor insisted that he did not care for his half-brothers’ children, that meant that he did not like the idea of them since he was still very sensitive about his mother’s death, an occurrence that no other Elf had ever experienced, and his father’s remarriage. His pain was too raw. He would rather have remained an only child and his father to remain true to his mother’s memory.
When Galadriel was just a little girl she would often enter Feanor’s forge, bringing him her dolls and toys that were broken and he would fix them for her. “Uncle Feanor”, she would say in her tiny voice, “Maressa is broken. Can you fix her?” And Feanor would stop his work, wipe his hands, bend down solicitously and look at her doll. Then he would take it tenderly from her, examine it carefully with his sensitive hands, and then put it back together again so that it was once more perfect. Galadriel always relied on his skill when she needed it, but she never grew interested in learning his craft, preferring her books and her quiet ways of learning lore and magic. She was always aloof and did not speak much to Feanor when she grew older, but he liked her regardless, and of all his brothers’ many children, he was most fond of Galadriel.
As she grew older; however, Galadriel developed a dislike of Feanor and stopped coming to the forge to ask for his help in fixing her things. He presumed that she had grown too old for toys then, but he retained a fondness for her and as the years drew closer to the year of her majority he admired her for her grace and beauty as well as her intelligence and air of mystery. He was disappointed, though, that she had not developed an interest in craft and metalwork. This disappointment had occurred many times before for Feanor, as none of his sons save for Curufin had been interested in following Feanor’s line of work.
Feanor’s brow glistened in the light of the fire as he bent over his handiwork. His dark, slender eyebrows knit themselves together in a frown as he was casually concentrating on the narrow silver letters that he was fashioning as an elaborate present for his father. His mind wandered as he worked, and his thoughts fell upon Nerdanel, the wife with whom he had shared such a passionate life, but who had left him.
Nerdanel had borne him seven sons and then could not bear to be with him any longer. His father had remarried, and Feanor cared not much for his father’s new wife and her two sons. He preferred his own company, and worked tirelessly at his forge, day and night, day after day, and the years wore away. The second most important woman in his life had left him now, and he threw himself into his art with all his passion.
When he had been young he devised a new alphabet, the letters of which were exquisitely formed, and he now wished to give Finwe a gift of each letter fashioned out of silver, studded with jewels and crystals, laid inside a gold casket that he had also made. He wished to present this alphabet to Finwe for his begetting day.
He was, at the same time, working on a method of melting crystals of various gems to mix together and possibly create a new type of jewel. The fire of the forge was growing extremely hot as he wished to get the temperature as high as possible. Feanor shrugged out of his heavy shirt as the heat was becoming far too uncomfortable for him to keep it on.
The musculature of his lean physique stood out as if etched in marble. Although he was slender, as the Elves were, Feanor also possessed great strength from his work in the smithy, which had given him strong arm and shoulder muscles. One could sense the physical power in him, the muscles in his smooth, sculpted chest tensing and relaxing alternately as he worked. Despite the ferocity of the heat, he did not sweat profusely, but rather his skin gleamed in the firelight as if spread with fine oil. He looked up for a moment as someone entered the forge, and his dark eyes glinted intensely as he regarded the newcomer. He put up an arm to release his black hair from the band holding it tied behind his head, and shook out the long, raven-black strands, which fell about his glistening shoulders and stuck there, as silk to the corn.
“Good day to you, Feanor”, Galadriel greeted him.
Feanor regarded her carefully. He was somewhat surprised to see her in his forge, as she always seemed to have a measure of disdain for him and his work. He wiped his hands on a cloth that he had tucked into the waistband of his breeches.
“Welcome to my place of work, Niece”, he replied. He always encouraged Galadriel’s company, and treated her as an equal to himself. No one knew why he did this, but many thought, and spoke openly, of his wife's departure many years before, and not one of the people who knew Feanor was unaware of the depth of his hurt over her abandonment of him. People became curious when they saw Feanor seeking out Galadriel's companionship on a frequent basis. When Galadriel grew to her full majority and stature she was an imposing figure, possessed of wisdom and insight beyond even that of Feanor. She was taller than most other Elves, either male or female, and she was more beautiful than many. Her hair was of a previously unseen shade of gold mingled with silver as if she had captured the light of the two trees and had set it within the strands of her tresses. Perhaps Feanor felt a stronger kinship with her than with other members of his family because of her wisdom, her strength and her beauty, that his own all but matched. Many, including Galadriel's own immediate family thought that Feanor's interest was kindled because he felt himself to be in competition with her for people's admiration. For he had always been the best, the brightest and the most beautiful, but once Galadriel had reached her majority it was obvious that she was on her way to possibly overtaking Feanor’s position as the greatest of the Noldor.
If anyone had asked Feanor why he was obsessed with her; however, and if he had replied truthfully, seeking the true reason from within his soul, he would probably have replied that it was not that he was jealous of Galadriel for being the greatest, but it was that he wished to possess the best. Although no one else’s creative skills were comparable to his, Galadriel’s skills lay in certain aspects of magic and sorcery, two subjects that intensely interested her, and she possessed keen insight. But it was perhaps to put him on a more even footing with her. Although he was older than she, in the Elvish scheme of things, the age difference mattered little. “I shall not trouble you by staying long”, Galadriel said. She spoke in an aloof tone to Feanor as always, and if one did not know them, it would have been assumed that Galadriel was the elder of the two.
Feanor laughed, as her tone was of such haughty disdain that he wondered why she had come at all.
“Why do you laugh at me?” she asked. “I have not said anything to cause amusement”.
“And I suspect that you never will”, he replied.
She tossed her head haughtily then, her gaze traveling upward to the ceiling beams as if she wished to look at anything except Feanor, and then she looked back down to pierce Feanor with her cold blue gaze. Her silvery-golden hair fell down her back, cascading in curls, which glinted coldly against the blue of her raiment.
Feanor saw her hair and his eyes gleamed. He crossed to the doorway where she stood in three rapid strides of his long, powerful legs, and grasped her by both wrists. He drew her hands up toward his face, and looked deeply into her eyes.
“What have you come to tell me, Galadriel?” he asked her. “Do not tease me. Tell me simply what it is and then be gone with you, for I am busy”.
She met his arrogant gaze. Her blue eyes shone like the coldest depths of the sea, and the light from his dark ones burned into hers like the coals of his furnace. The two Elves were of almost the same height. She refused to flinch or to drop her gaze.
“I have come to ask something of you, Feanor”, she replied evenly, “not to tell, but to ask”.
He released her hands, and in so doing, one of his strong ones crept around her waist, and held her pressed against his side. She could feel the heat of his skin, and the ripple of the muscles in his thigh, next to her own. He could not force a smile from her, though he tried with his bold behaviour. Presently he released her altogether, and she gave no sign that he had in any way disturbed her composure.
“Father has sent me to ask if you would join us tonight for the evening meal”. She stepped back from him, feigning interest in a small silver bracelet with an intricate design. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had disturbed her in any way.
Feanor sighed. He did not much care for his relatives' long dinners and what he deemed to be inane, incessant and useless conversation. “Will my father be there?”
Galadriel nodded.
“Then, yes, I shall come, if I have finished this task I have set for myself to complete today. Come and look. It is a gift for father”.
Galadriel came again closer to the forge, and followed Feanor to where the silver letters lay. He stopped abruptly, stared toward the fire, and let out a sharp gasp.
“Feanor, what is it?” asked Galadriel, her composure shaken slightly by his sudden reaction. She looked to where he stared.
There, in the fire, glowing in a metal tray which lay on top of the flames was a molten mass of light. It burst into a sudden flame-like brilliance, never before seen in the confines of the world.
“What is that?” Galadriel gasped.
“I know not. Wait here”, said Feanor, and carefully lifted out the tray with a pair of tongs. “Galadriel, would you please hand me that mould and funnel?” he asked, and she did so. He carefully poured the brilliant contents of the tray into the mould. It was difficult for the two of them to look at the shimmering liquid directly.
“Let us go outside for awhile”, Feanor suggested. “When this cools, we can go back in and see what it might be that I have wrought”.
“Is that the gift for your father that you spoke of?” Galadriel asked.
“No, no”, he replied. “For him I have made some silver letters and a golden casket. This is something new that I have been experimenting with – a new type of jewel that I was trying to develop. I knew not if my labours would come to aught. I desired to make a jewel more brilliant than adamant, and thus I tried by mixing other jewels together with adamant, and in a fit of wild abandon and lack of reason, I added a drop of nectar from the Trees of Light to the mixture”.
Galadriel dropped her cloak of composure and gasped. “Did the Valar give you approval to do so?” she questioned him with her slender fingers covering her mouth, surprised by his effrontery.
He looked at her and laughed. “Would you tell them I went against their will if I did not have this approval?” he asked.
She could only stare back at him wordlessly. Gifted with foresight, she could see, although at this time, not clearly, that by this deed, Feanor had set in motion a series of events that would end by changing the world. She was shaken by what she saw, although it was but a brief glimpse. Her feelings for Feanor changed in that moment. Rather than the repulsion she had earlier felt, she now had a measure of sympathy for him.
Throughout Finarfin’s dinner, Feanor made polite talk with the others present, and did not in any way behave in an unusual manner, but his mind wandered back to his forge, and he could barely wait to go back there in order to see what his new jewel would be like in form and brightness. His eyes gleamed with pleasure as he reflected upon the beauty and uniqueness that he had glimpsed.
Galadriel sought his gaze and when his eyes met hers, he could see an expression that had not been there for him in the past. This was the one and only time that she showed any hint of friendship toward him, cloaked, as it were, in sympathy. However, her stubbornness combined with her prescience would not let her like her uncle, this powerful man whom she found to be strangely compelling, yet one of whom to be wary at the same time.
Chapter 3 - Passion
3
Passion
After dinner, during which Galadriel had excused herself early and departed out of doors, Feanor also made his excuses to leave early. He was anxious to get back to his forge and found the inane small talk of his relatives to be unbearable. As he ran down the stairs of Finarfin’s house to the street, he spied Galadriel walking about in a small garden across the road. Feanor was intrigued by the sight of her as she appeared to be disturbed by something and was pacing back and forth. He crossed the street and walked up to her.
“Galadriel”, he said, softly calling her name. He had startled her and she jumped, but recovered herself quickly and then regarded him with her serene blue gaze.
“I am sorry. I have disturbed you”, he said kindly. “Something is troubling you. Can you tell me what it is?” He took her by the elbow and led her to a bench and then motioned for her to sit.
“No, Feanor”, she replied, and her tone was not as haughty as it usually was when she spoke to him. “It is not something that you can help me to solve”.
“Are you sure?” he asked, smiling at her. “If not me, then who?” She smiled at this but said nothing. But her eyes held a look of sadness mingled with fear. On impulse, Feanor leaned his face toward hers and kissed her lips lightly. She stiffened but then softened, and she put her arms around his back and returned the kiss with a passion that Feanor had never before detected in her. The kiss aroused him and he returned it fervently, a heat rising in him as she pressed her upper body against his. He clutched the back of her head, letting the hair that fascinated him spill through his fingers like cool spring rain.
Gasping for air, she moved her hands to press against his chest, and releasing his lips, she pushed him away. “I’m sorry”, she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me”.
“But why-“, he began to ask, his voice husky with desire.
“Because I do not love you, Feanor. I do not even like you. But I – I pity you”.
“Pity me?” He rose to his feet, the thunderous look on his face betraying his anger. “Do not pity me, Galadriel! I know what I want. It is you who should be pitied, for denying yourself that which would make you happy!”
“I am sorry”, she said again, and her look for him was indeed one of pity. Too angry to say more, he stormed away to go to retrieve his horse from Finarfin’s stables and soon he was galloping towards home.
When he arrived back at his own house, he stabled his horse and then went immediately to the forge. Upon entering, he could see that the lamps inside were burning and he looked to see who was there at this late hour. The door to the privy opened then and one of Feanor’s female apprentices stepped out. It was a girl named Nostalaini, a talented student who had been learning the art of metal engraving. Startled to see her master in the forge so late and unexpectedly, she stood still, unable to put a faltering foot forward.
While Feanor was rarely bereft of company from a series of several Elf-maidens in Tirion, there was no one in particular who interested him for any longer than a few weeks at most. Galadriel remained the only woman that he admired. When his forge-work became too busy for him to handle alone, he took on several apprentices, some of whom were females.
“What are you doing here?” Feanor growled.
“I – I’m sorry”, she stuttered. “I had not finished my work earlier today and I did not wish for you to chastise me for that failure tomorrow”.
Impressed by her honesty and lack of fear in speaking to him so forthrightly, he softened and said to her, “Let me see what you have done so far”.
“Really, my Lord?” she asked, surprised by his softer tone.
He looked at her and the light in his eyes flickered with a hint of annoyance. He shifted his feet impatiently. Seeing this, she hurried to her work-table and lifted a sword-blade to show him. She had engraved a line of script down one side of the blade near the edge, using the letters that he had devised. He had followed her to the table and took the blade from her hands and scrutinized it keenly. Then he read the words that she had put there:
“My eyes look at you: my ears hear you: my heart sings for you: my life is yours to lose”.
He then looked at her closely. “What does this mean?” he asked.
She swallowed and looked very uneasy. Then she looked him boldly in the eyes and said, “The words refer to the sword, my Lord. Whether I live or die is in its power”.
He stared at her more closely. She had pretty blonde hair, straight as straw and like-coloured. Her eyes were soft brown and looked steadily at him without flickering. She was tall but not as tall as Galadriel, but she was just as slim, with a similar build. Her movements were fluid like Galadriel’s and she was of the same age. In fact, this girl caused him to think of Galadriel.
“You are not a very good liar”, he said. “You are no swordswoman”.
She blushed profusely and moved to take the sword out of his hands. As she did so, one of her hands clasped one of his accidentally, and a feeling as of a wave of fire rushed through her body, causing the skin on her arms to tingle as if singed. She gasped as they both let go of the sword at the same time. It would have clattered to the floor if Feanor had not caught it before it did so. He placed the blade back on her table and asked softly, “Who is the lucky young lad to whom you refer in that engraving?”
She turned and stared at him boldly. She knew that he felt the same fiery passion as she. “Can you not guess, my Lord?” She stepped forward and placed her arms around his waist, and rested her head against his shoulder. “It is you”, she murmured softly.
“Nostalaini”, he said. “You cannot love me. I am your teacher, your---“ His voice trailed off in a whisper.
“You are everything to me”, she said. “I have no one else I care about”.
“What of your parents? Your family?” he asked.
She looked at him and laughed. “It is not the same thing, my Lord”, she said. “Would you do something for me?”
“What is that?” he asked, looking down into her warm brown eyes.
“Please say my name again. I love how it sounds coming from your lips”, and she placed her fingers upon his mouth, and traced the curve of his provocative upper lip with her finger. She felt a thrill course through her stomach and belly as his lips parted, and she let her finger drop down to feel the moist flesh of his lower lip, and traced a line down his strong chin to his neck and then his chest. He grasped it when it lay on his breast, just as she was about to squeeze the muscle there right over top of his nipple, although she could not feel it through the heavy velvet of his cloak and the formal clothing beneath.
“Nostalaini”, he whispered and lowered his lips to her forehead. “Now say mine”.
“Feanaro”, she drawled, dragging out the name, letting it languish upon her lips, relishing the sound of it.
“That’s better”, he whispered. “Never let me hear you call me ‘my Lord’ again”. Then he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her with forceful passion. Her lips were hard with desire and this surprised and excited him. He broke free from her grasp with reluctance, but choked out the words, “Not here!” before she could protest.
“Where?” she hissed, panting, her face flushed.
“Back room”, he croaked, his voice husky with pent-up desire. “There is a bed”.
She moaned and threw her head back and he kissed her throat, leaving tantalizing kisses down the length of her neck while unbuttoning the top of her tunic. Then he stooped to life her and carried her to the small bedroom that he kept at the back of the forge.
Feanor was seen as an oddity among the Elves. No other member of the Noldor acted with rebellion as he did, or desired the same level of occupation as he, although they enjoyed the jewellery that he produced for them, and made use of his alphabet and all of his ideas. He had many followers. Many people agreed with the concepts put forth in his speeches and pledged to follow him anywhere. He began to talk of emigrating to the Hither Lands of Middle-earth to establish his own realm.
He did not like living under the control and watch of the Valar and did not worship them as other Elves did, particularly the Vanyar who lived practically under the Valar’s feet. Feanor would have none of that, and many an idea was planted in some of the other Noldor’s minds about leaving Valinor.
But mostly Feanor loved to work in his forge and the more he threw himself into his work, the less he thought about his mother, his wife, or about Galadriel.
Chapter 4 - The Power and the Pity
The Power and the Pity
Feanor was in great trouble with the Valar. Many years had passed since his younger days, and he had been speaking openly to others of rebelling against the Gods and announcing to all that he intended to leave Valinor for Middle-earth. His niece Galadriel had grown to dislike him intensely. Where once there had been a glimmer of hope regarding her feelings for him, a softening of their relationship, there was now nothing of any tenderness left for him. She had seen the fire within the jewel, and she saw it in her uncle also, and, seeing it, she knew it forewarned of great trouble.
On his way out of his father’s house in Tirion, Feanor espied Galadriel walking alone, and he caught up with her.
“Niece, I would have a word with you”, he said, reaching for her arm.
She withdrew from him and turned to look into his face.
“Do not touch me in that manner again”, she spoke coldly. “What is it that you want of me?”
“Why, Galadriel”, he cajoled her, “you seem particularly brittle this day. Would you not give your uncle some of your time?” he asked. He was somewhat surprised by her words. "Touch her in that manner?" he ruminated in his mind. "Have I made an overt, inappropriate gesture toward her? I do not think that my feelings for her are of that sort, but what is it that makes me so passionate when I am dealing this infuriating woman? Has she seen something within me that I have not seen in myself?" Inwardly shaken, he looked deeply into her eyes as if trying to read her mind.
She did not reply, but stared into his eyes deeply, trying to understand his motive in seeking her out.
He sighed. “I would ask nothing of you save that lock of your hair, as I have asked before”, he said finally.
“You have asked for this twice before now. Why do you ask it of me again when you have been twice refused?” she enquired.
“I need something of coldness”, he said with sarcasm, “to quench a fire. If the fire continues to burn unchecked, fell events may occur that I will not be able to stop if they are permitted to burn for too long. A bit of your iciness to balance my fire – that is all I ask of you”. He bowed, with a sweeping gesture of his hand toward her.
Galadriel was not amused by his perceived mockery of her.
“No, Sir”, she replied, twisting her hair into a thick braid and tucking it out of sight beneath her cloak.
“No? It is but hair!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“You shall have nothing of mine”, she replied, and turned to leave. “Let the fire burn, and what is to come shall come forth of its own accord. I care not”. Then she walked away.
Feanor followed her with his gaze, the fire in his eyes smouldering ever hotter. “So it shall be”, he murmured, “It is the third and last time I shall ask it of thee”.
From there, Feanor departed to his secret forge and made terrible new swords and armour. Red was the colour of his fire, and red was the colour of the armour he used to signify the House of Feanor.
Burning with hatred now for all except his father and his own sons, and possessed by the desire to leave Valinor for good, he burst into Manwe’s halls a short time later, interrupting his half-brother Fingolfin’s meeting with the King of the Valar, and threatened his brother with his new sword. He had told Fingolfin, "Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls".
For this act, and for what the Valar deemed “breaking the peace of Valinor”, Feanor was sentenced to twelve years in exile from Tirion.
Accompanied by his sons, he left willingly, and made a fortress in the Northern lands which he called Formenos. He placed the Silmarils there in an iron chamber. Finwe, who had been the King of the Noldor in Tirion, came to Formenos as well, to be in support of Feanor, whom he still loved the most of his sons, leaving Fingolfin now as King in Tirion.
Then Melkor came to Formenos and sought Feanor’s friendship, only to have the door shut in his face, for Feanor wanted nothing to do with him. He was able to see Melkor’s true motives where others before him could not.
Relations between Feanor and the Valar grew worse, when finally, Melkor, with the help of the great spider Ungoliant, came down from the mountains, killed Feanor's beloved father, Finwe, stole the Silmarils and some of Feanor’s other jewels, and destroyed the Trees of Light.
Could that have been the final straw that broke Feanor's grip upon reason and drove him to commit the rash acts that ever after defined him?
After that, Feanor convinced the Noldor to follow him to Middle-earth. They formed two separate groups, one consisting of Feanor and his sons, and the other of those who despised Feanor and did not join him, yet they chose to follow him. Fingon, Finrod, Turgon, Galadriel et al, came behind Feanor, and Fingolfin who followed more slowly than the others, made his way with Finarfin and their party of Elves into the North.
As the two parties stood on the edge of the Helcar Sea, staring out over the frigid, impassable-looking ice and water with not a little trepidation, Galadriel broke away from the others of her group and approached Feanor.
“Uncle”, she spoke to him gravely, putting her hand on his arm. He turned around to face her. His appearance was grim, his mind in great turmoil. His penetrating eyes searched her face.
She looked within him as much as it was possible, but she could not fathom any clear thought from the swirling maelstrom that surrounded him. The future, through his soul, appeared as turbid as the sky over the icy waters, and was blocked to her vision.
“Uncle”, she said again, shouting over the clamour of the sea. “It is not too late to turn back”.
“What is your meaning, Galadriel?” he asked her. “Turn back to what? A life in thraldom to the Valar, whom I despise? A life without my father, or my Silmarils? Are you offering me something now that I may look forward to that was refused three times in the past? Do you think that your hair and the light that it holds are of any use to me now?” He turned away, only to feel her hand on his arm once more.
“I will follow you, Feanor”, she said quietly. “You were the mightiest of the Noldor. You devised letters, and jewels of great beauty. Let not your talents die with you”.
“Follow me? Follow me how? There is nowhere in Valinor that I may now go. Will you follow me to the New World and we shall set up a great kingdom together?” he asked, hope alive in his voice, “where I can resume making great works with you by my side?”
“Perhaps”, she replied, “but it all depends on what transpires next”.
“You have given me new hope”, said Feanor. “I go now to Alqualonde to speak with Olwe of the Teleri, to ask his loan of some ships”. He turned to her and smiled radiantly. “A new world lies before us, my Galadriel. Come and let us conquer it together”.
Galadriel would become the third, and last, of the women in Feanor's life, to abandon him.
Epilogue
After the kinslaying, of which much is remembered in songs of lament, Galadriel became sickened by Feanor’s acts of murder and mayhem. She saw his anger grow to its full extent, and thus she finally turned away from him.
In his rage, and not only because of her final rejection, he burned the ships of the Teleri, and stranded her and the rest of Fingolfin’s party on the west side of the Helcar.
The rest is part of lore. It tells of Feanor’s arrival at the Firth of Drengist with his seven sons, and his subsequent slaying by a Balrog before he had seen much of anything of Middle-earth.
But Galadriel, who had fought a battle within herself, which was won by the power-seeking side of her personality, who had overcome the difficulty of the crossing of the Helcaraxe, surviving where many Elven warriors had succumbed, came to Middle-earth, and there founded and governed her own realm of Lothlorien.
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Printed from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sat Nov 14, 2026 7:34 pm