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Light.
There is nothing else.
Not the Halls of Mandos; not the Everlasting Dark; no world; not even the Void.
Only light.
It is not the gentle, moving light of the Trees, nor the distant white light of stars; not the burning sunlight, nor the cool silver sheen of the Moon. It is tangible, audible, a light made of song and taste and smell, of existance itself. Even through his closed eye-lids, it seeps unfiltered; it seems to flow through his body as much as it encompasses him.
This must be the Flame Imperishable, he thinks, before his thoughts, too, turn to light and he is swept away. The End. The Beginning.
And then, suddenly, the light grows less.
It still lingers in his eyes, but it does no longer move through all of him. He feels hard ground under his back, earth, gravel. His hands grasp strands of grass and three lone stones.
For an idle second, a second that rushes through him like the light, he thinks he has found the Silmarils again.
Then he remembers.
This was it: The Final Battle. The End of the World. Good victorious, and the Fallen banished forever.
And in this new World, he may redeem himself. And if he does, he may receive his jewels again, after all.
If he does.
Blinded by the light, overwhelmed by the Music, in the presence of the unveiled Ainur and, maybe, of Eru Himself, he could do nothing but accept. Yes, he would redeem himself. Yes, he would accept this most gracious offer.
Remembering, he feels slightly embarassed. But that is as it is. Decidedly, he lets go of grass and stones. He sits up and opens his eyes. And the last lingering beams of that all-encompassing light flee and give way to shadowy meadows, hills, mountains; a city at dawn.
Fëanor did not look back when he left Tirion, all those millenia ago.
If he had, he might have seen a sight much like this.
But unlike on that fateful day, the sun is rising today; and the darkness, that darkness that had left even the Valar at a loss, that darkness that had robbed him of his dearest treasure, is fading rapidly. The sun touches the white walls and towers with golden light. Trees sway in the morning breeze, and suddenly, as though some unseen conductor had entered the stage and tapped his baton upon the pulpit, birds begin to sing, carefully at first, then more confidently.
With a smile that might be both content or regretful, Fëanor rises and makes his way towards the city gates.
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