A/N Listened to 'S Fagaim mo Bhaile by Enya while writing this. When I looked at the lyrics again, that made me go: that's Feanor.

There are some important things in this that I hope will put something in your mind as you read: maybe give a clearer picture to some things. I ask that you would think on these topics. You don't have to, I won't force you, and that's fine. I hope you will appreciate this piece regardless. :)

Námo quietly regarded the spirit of fire within his realm. He could hear the poor soul's despairing song, this hopelessness that ever ate at his soul. That seed Morgoth implanted when they encountered each other for the last time in Valinor. That dark, eating force…it confused his mind, his heart.

But Námo could hear the wailing, even if Fëanor would never ever admit it or show it in the wide open. Nothing could be hidden from his hearing and sight, not while those who dwelled here were present. Not even the most reclusive, the most cunning of spirits.

The Vala drifted, out of sight, to the chamber the fallen elf resided. Unlike many, Fëanor had nothing, that was his own doing, by refusing every offer for comfort: for hope. But like many: he had the physical chains wrapped and strapped to him. Those also were his own doing: not accepting the key that they had offered him. Insisting on holding onto those sins, as if that way was the only path he could take. As if holding onto his selfish, arrogant pride would save him.

He had nothing left, except his new offered life, and his pride.

Fëanor had been choosing the pride of rebellion, instead of gratefully accepting the gift of forgiveness, of reconciliation.

That is life: to be reconciled with the One who gives life.

Death…No elf, nor man, has ever endured true death.

The One will not suffer his beloved children to live on in torment if they do not choose life. It was a mercy, like putting a loved pet out of its misery when life became a torment itself.

They gave the children what they sought. They gave them what they sought…

And whenever one, single, precious soul, made the wrong choice…

…All that were in the celestial courts wailed: wailed for each lost child that they can never connect with, never teach to. The Valar and Maiar, were a part of this.

Námo knows that dreadful cry all too well. It sent chills into the elves who wandered in reflection; in intense spiritual battle.

But they chose that fate. They could blame none but themselves for that choice.

'You choose your fate, little one.' Námo thought sadly, 'We only wish what is best for you…But we cannot force it, lest you find a true reason to become upset with us.'

Fëanor whimpered in the corner, and wept as silently as he could, knowing well that there were eyes watching, though not assuming it was the Doomsman himself doing the watching.

"Forgive me…Please, take this away from me...It's destroying me."

Námo scowled at the whispering tendril: that small bit of Morgoth's influence creeping up into Fëanor's mind. The Doomsman made himself present; he knelt and gathered the plagued elf into his embrace, shooing the tendril away.

Fëanor held onto him as the temporary life given to him depended on it, "Make it stop…"

Námo sighed, as he still saw that small bit of rebellion flicker through the elf's thought, "You have to let go, Fëanáro: let go of that hate and festering anger. Let us cleanse you from this."

Fëanor did not fully give in.

"We can only do so much without your consent. You have to let us in completely, not just partially or occasionally."

Fëanor fell into his apathy, and he pulled away from the Vala.

Stern they would call Námo, but the best word to describe him was truthful. Honest. Truth hurts, but better for there to be pain for a small time, instead of living in lies, or being told a lie, and be pained when one realizes it was all a lie.

Tears streamed down the Vala's face, "We cannot keep doing this forever, child…you will have to make your choice soon."

Feanor said naught.

Námo could do nothing but let that evil tendril cling to the elf's spirit again. He did not want his help; he wanted it only for a moment, so the Vala did not force himself. Just for a moment's relief Fëanor sought it. Why not forever have that relief, that confidence of deliverance?

But that was his choice, and Námo, as much as it pained him to do so, would respect that.

Yet there was hope…they just had to convince and persuade him, let him know they would comfort him.

But time…time was running out.

And the Doomsman mourned.

As did the One who had gifted the spirit of fire with so much. He mourned more than his servant did.

A/N Flame me, hate me...But there's important things going on: misconceptions being spread, people need to see what is really happening behind the scenes, from a Christian viewpoint. Even if it's just something small like this in allegoric form to give that little nudge in passerby readers, God willing He enlighten all of us, so we can make an educated choice for our future.

Amazing Discoveries is a great place to learn what goes on behind the scenes. Questions concerning the Text itself? Amazing Facts is your go-to. (add the org at the end of each)

I am not forcing you to do anything, keep in mind: view this as someone suggesting you to check it out, even for a moment. Try out a new food. :)

I wish you the best in all things, and hope to see you around.