Time did not pass in the Halls of Mandos, yet he had felt it nonetheless. Wrapped in his wrath, he had believed it would endure until the end of time itself — but it did not. It had slowly faded, so slowly, the more answers he found the less rage would storm in his spirit. Answers meant clarity, but not forgiveness.
As the Halls grew empty, Fëanáro had walked through time, not only his family’s, but all the histories that the tapestries could possibly tell. Had he been alive, his hands would have been clasped behind his back, as he stared to the story of Ossë and Moringotho unfolding itself before his eyes.
« You had enough hatred for him that you could have understood my own. »
The Halls were so conveniently located near the sea-cliffs that Ossë sometimes visited when he found himself needing safety and quiet. It was also an interesting experience to see Elves taking forms more akin to his brethren. In that place, the Ainu was a strange cacophony of contradictions — a glowing light that felt chill, a soothing white noise over a ceaseless ringing, a calm before a storm.
He usually tried to avoid the tapestries of himself, but when he sensed someone viewing them he couldn’t resist the vain curiosity that urged him to watch their reactions. Would people find him wondrous or woeful? Would they stare in awe or recoil in disgust?
It was quite unexpected to find that Fëanáro watched his story. He certainly didn’t owe the Noldo any explanation, but he felt compelled to reply in defense of his actions. I did understand, his voice thrummed into the vision. I understand the heady thrill of vengeance. I understand getting swept into that rage until it is the only thing that matters, and destroying everything in your path to victory.