Chapter Text
Later writings would claim one of two stories, neither of which contained a bit of truth.
The estranged Vala Melkor would claim to have been behind it all, as sore losers often do; the misunderstood god of the dark would claim Fëanor had always been his, that he stood beside the smith in the making of the jewels, that by right, the fire which lit the Noldo’s eyes belonged in his stomach as much as the star-gems to Fëanor’s golden crown, that both, shining bright against the void, were stolen. In the writings and histories of Sauron this was how it was told, though not even his loyal lieutenant could abide such a tale, though this tale, that light and all its descendents gave him naught but agony until the bitter end.
The crown prince of the Noldor espoused a different alibi, vehement and iron in insistence. To the one whose given name would soon be entirely eclipsed by only his title Enemy, Fëanor denied a single connection. Of all the blade-loving Noldor, he alone had never heeded Melkor’s words, he alone was charmed not in body nor spirit. The Eldar still lamented that blazing catalyst in their later days, their lays and ballads a sacred canon, knowing still it was he who brought about the end just as dearly as that great shadow of ancient despair.
Something of the fire within him, Melkor knew that he did not. Something within him Melkor could not reach, that could not be dug oozing from his blackened corpse nor divulged by any means of torture. Something was lost that shortly and terribly graced the earth, something was lost when the Valar cast the Dark Lord from the circles of the world forevermore, when the kinslayer bloomed flames amidst the cold and weeping night. When on Arda Eru spoke only in chasms and blindness, and forgave no one and nothing, nor especially the black haired and warlike sons of nothing and everything.
In which something of the truth is told, and the glimpse of the cursed light once again and always leads to madness.