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All was silent in the Halls of Mandos, as souls from all the ages of Arda gathered around a round raised dais and watched, transfixed, as the soul of Fëanor Curufinwë was bound back to his flesh-and-bone body.
Námo stood overseeing the binding; like a tall monolith clothed in mist and smoke and shadows, his presence filling his halls with a stark and cold authority. Finally, Fëanor lay before him, reborn and rekindled into life, clothed in dark, flame-coloured raiment of amber and gold befitting his name.
Fëanor opened his eyes. He gazed upon the reawakened world, filled with despair.
"My sons," he said, in a hoarse whisper – "where are my sons?"
The crowd surrounding him suddenly parted. Nerdanel walked silently past them, her face soft and glowing with hope and sadness. She strode slowly to her husband, and he did not seem to see her at first; behind his eyes burned dark memories, and he searched the crowd of faces for the sons he called for.
"Fëanor," Nerdanel said in a hushed voice, kneeling by her husband. The last time she saw him, it had been in strife and anger. Harsh words had been exchanged. She had cried, she had threatened, she had begged for him to not take their sons away, but he turned away and did not look back as he left her behind, crossing far grey oceans, and taking their children with him.
There were no harsh words, now – there was only silence.
She drew her arms about him, and Fëanor started, as if he finally noticed she was there.
"Nerdanel," he said quietly, looking into her eyes, recognizing her. Tears rimmed his eyes and spilled forth freely. "Where are our sons?" But Nerdanel was silent, and merely cupped his face in her hands, and brushed the tears away from his cheeks. She did not say a word.
"Curufinwë Fëanáro," came Mandos' voice – it was not loud and imposing as the timbres of Ulmo, nor grand as the commands of Manwe – but Mandos' voice spoke echoed with the power of distant thunder, and everyone stopped to listen.
"You have been freed from the Halls of the Waiting by the grace of the Valar. Go now, to Yavanna, to attend to your purpose."
"Come with me," Nerdanel murmured quietly, rising and taking her husband's hand. Fëanor rose shakily to his feet - and as he stood, he regained a bit of the stature and pride he held in his first lifetime. He held onto Nerdanel's arms to keep balance. "There is something we need to do."
Fëanor stared at the jewels in his hands.
They sang and glimmered with a fine, fire-white light, hallowed and radiant and unsurpassed in sky or sea or earth.
The Silmarils were his finest creations. They had fueled his pride, his ambition and his vengeance. Their light had long burned into his heart, and they sang to him with their familiar sweet voices, filling him with a deep and terrible longing.
Their soft, tranquil glimmering drew him once again into unforgiving memories of the past. Behind his eyes, he saw, once again, a surf stained dark red with the blood of slain Teleri; the last light of Aman disappearing behind the horizon; and smoke filling a flaming sky as white ships burned bright and terrible. He thought of all that he lost and sacrificed in pursuit of these jewels.
He held onto them, and did not move.
A murmur passed through the crowd; all a manner of folk had been gathered, reawakened to their new life in Arda Remade; Elves and Dwarves and Men and Maiar, and other creatures and beasts of the earth, all assembled beneath the presence of the Valar. They all watched as Fëanor hesitated. Even now, at the end of all days, standing before Yavanna, they saw clearly how unyielding and conflicted he was to part with his creations. He lingered over them as anguish and pride flitted over his features in equal turn, like passing stormclouds.
Silently, Nerdanel came up to him.
Fëanor stared at her with blank and empty eyes, as if to ask: What am I to do?
Nerdanel held his gaze in infinite patience. It was she, among all, who understood the nature of her husband the most. She drew close and cupped Fëanor's hands in hers, and looked upon the Silmarils that he was reluctant to relinquish.
"My love," she whispered, so soft that only he could hear, "see what we have made." And she turned her gaze towards the crowd.
Fëanor followed her glance; and standing there, among their audience, were their sons.
Maedhros and Maglor, standing tall and proud but a shadow of weariness heavy on their shoulders; Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin, silent and watchful; Amrod and Amras, their eyes bright with sadness and hope.
And something shattered quietly in Fëanor's heart. He knew of the pain they had faced because of his Oath – how it sickened their hearts, and twisted what goodness that still lay within them into something dark and wretched. The relief and love he felt at seeing his children together mingled with guilt, falling heavily on his shoulders like a shroud.
Resigned and with not another moment's waiting, he knelt before Yavanna, and offered the Silmarils to her.
And when she took them from his hands they seemed to grow ever brighter and sing ever stronger; as if the light within knew of their freedom was now come and sang in gladness.
And in the light of the world remade, Fëanor took his wife's hand, and went to his sons. He drew them all close in a silent embrace, and knew now, in his heart, that there were things more precious than the bright glimmer of gems or the clever work of his hands.