#worldflower

FËANOR and his SONS are in a secret chamber underneath the fortress of Formenos, gathered round a casket that holds the Silmarils.

FËANOR

My sons, I called upon you all today

To hear the telling of a secret great

Of which no alien ears may e’er hear

Only yours. So listen well, and guard your

tongues if e’er speak of in shallow

Vain they would. Do you swear, my sons?

THE SONS OF FËANOR in unison

                                                      We do.

FËANOR

Very well. The secret I now to you

Divulge is of these jewels bright, as they

were called, for a better comprehension

Of their nature could not be found. Alas,

I tell you, if jewels they be, which may

Still be claimed; for what is a jewel, if

Not a term we like to use for that which

Shines, pleasing the eye? Aye, if jewels they

Be, no other jewels are quite like them.

CURUFIN excitedly

O Father, do I hear you well? Will you

In truth before our eyes and eager ears

Lay out the mystery of your greatest

Work, the Silmarilli?

CARANTHIR mockingly

                               Whate’er else

Might be referred to, my brother dearest?

Pray tell; I would love to learn.

MAEDHROS authoritatively

                             Silence, both!

Curufinwë, your avidity does you

Credit; Morifinwë, your mockery

Does not. Speak on, Father.

FËANOR

                      Thank you, my son.

Indeed I will, and this I say to you

From the start: the Silmarilli are not

What they appear to be or what is said

They are; I did not make them—

MAGLOR shocked

                                     You did not?!

O Father, mighty craftsman, why-e'er

Would you let people believe you did what

You did not do, when there are so many

Wonders your hands did bring into being?

MAEDHROS sternly

Brother, wait ere you speak, and listen well

Ere you judge unfairly! Speak on, Father.

FËANOR

Thank you, my son. As I was saying, I

Did not make the Silmarilli, not as

I made other jewels, lamps, or trinkets;

Not from my hands they hail, and yet they are

My creations.

AMROD

                     How so?

AMRAS

                                 How can this be?

MAEDHROS opens his mouth to silence them, but FËANOR raises a hand to stop him.

FËANOR

How indeed; fair is the question you ask,

My sons, for I am a craftsman first, my

Hands are my craft’s primary tools. Hear me

Well though, and mind: you are my creations

Too, and not my hands made you—

CELEGORM coughing violently

                                               Excuse me?!

FËANOR unperturbed

—not my hands, but spirit with your mother’s

Spirit combined, by the One’s will did spark

The flame of life in you.

CELEGORM

                                       Ah. Of course. Yes.

CURUFIN shoots him a LOOK.

CARANTHIR

Father, do I take your meaning well? Are

the Silmarilli of your spirit, as

We, your children, are? Is that the secret?

FËANOR

Yes and no; yes, for the Silmarilli

Are my spirit’s creations as you say;

And no, for if that were the secret, then

No secret would it be. Each work of mine

Derives from my soul’s fire, as you would

Know, if you cared to learn what I taught you.

CARANTHIR

Must we be at it again?

CURUFIN

                                        Truly you

Spoke, Father. Every craftsman knows as much.

CARANTHIR rolls his eyes. AMROD sighs quietly, exchanging a glance with AMRAS.

MAGLOR

What is the secret, then?

FËANOR

                                         I was getting

To that. See, each work of my craft’s design

Becomes infused with my spirit, and yet

Remains the work of my hands and mind’s thought.

Not so the Silmarilli. They came from

The spirit alone, my hands did not form

Them, nor the mind conceived. My ignorance

As to the nature of their substance, much

as it pains me, is genuine. So is

My insistence that I could not make more

If I tried; for I did not try for them

The first time.

CURUFIN reverently

          How did they form and appear

In a material form, these spirit’s pure

Creations, if not by your able hands?

FËANOR

How and where do appear the pure creations

Of the spirit? Kanafinwë, how does

Your music appear?

MAGLOR surprised

                       It appears within

Me, and I enact it best as I can

With my voice and hands; and so it lingers

Suspended in the air. Though music is

A mind’s creation, too, and I do try

For it. I fail to see the connection.

FËANOR

It appears within you – your undertaking is

To ensure it reaches the outside world.

So it was with my Silmarilli.

CARANTHIR suddenly looking green

                                          They

Appeared within you?

CURUFIN

                                 Cease this ridicule,

Brother! Of course they did not appear in —

FËANOR

But they did.

CURUFIN

                      What?!

MAEDHROS

                                    Valar have mercy…

FËANOR

My son, we need not the Valar’s mercy.

MAEDHROS partly distracted, partly exasperated

Yes, yes.

CELEGORM with horrified fascination

                If the Silmarilli appeared,

As you say, within you—

MAGLOR, AMROD and AMRAS wince in anticipation.

CURUFIN clearly in pain

                                         Tell me this is

Merely a jest.

CELEGORM

                   —how did you get them out?

FËANOR

I laid them.

MAEDHROS weakly

                  Laid them?

FËANOR unfazed

                                     In the likeness of

A bird that lays its eggs.

MAGLOR faints. His body hits the floor, for everyone is too shocked to pay attention.

FËANOR still unfazed

                                    Such is the tale

True of the Silmarilli, the greatest

Creation of mighty Fëanáro.

And if his greatness be reduced by its

Telling, so be it; for it is e’er

Truth he pursued before his glory,

Though glory is his by right. Hear and heed,

you who would conspire to seize and take

A Silmaril: jewel from own spirit

And body is treasured beyond any

That mere hands crafted. Beware of the wrath

Of Fëanáro and Fëanáro’s

Sons, who will chase you until world’s ending—

THE SONS OF FËANOR are still standing shell-shocked, staring at him.

FËANOR

—at least, once they pull themselves together.