Fëanor
Fëanor isn’t a character you tidy up. He doesn’t fit neatly into villain boxes or tragic-hero templates. He’s more like fire itself: breathtaking, dangerous, mesmerizing, and likely to burn down the house if you turn your back for two seconds. Most fanfiction authors, I’ve noticed, treat him like a walking cautionary tale—“look, kids, this is what happens if you’re arrogant.” But I can’t leave it there. He’s awful, yes. He’s also fascinating, magnetic, and painfully flawed and relatable in the way only the brightest disasters are.
As an autistic person, I read him as autistic, and that’s part of why he makes sense to me. His crafts weren’t hobbies. They were obsessions that consumed him, the way a special interest can consume your days, nights, and sanity. His attention to detail, his relentless perfectionism, his bluntness, his inability to let things go—they all line up. He wasn’t just “prideful,” he was wired differently, unable to dilute himself for a world that wanted him to be palatable. He burned too bright, and when the Valar couldn’t handle it, they blamed him for not dimming down.
And let’s talk about the Silmarils. People say, “Why didn’t he just hand them over after the Trees were destroyed? Selfish bastard.” No. No, no, no. This is where I plant my flag: he wasn’t hoarding them for himself. He knew exactly what kind of power was locked inside those jewels, because he made them. He knew they weren’t trinkets, they were reality-altering artifacts. And he didn’t trust the Valar with them—because why would he? These are the same Powers who let Melkor run loose in the first place, who chained him and then unchained him like it was a cosmic trust fall. And surprise: the guy who burned the world once burned it again. Fëanor saying “absolutely not” was less about selfishness and more about clear-eyed distrust. He saw what they’d already broken and wasn’t about to let them break the last light he’d preserved.
I shamelessly pair him with Fingolfin and Finarfin, because hatred that fierce always looks a little like desire if you tilt your head. Their loathing is either a smokescreen—“nothing to see here, definitely not trying to make out in a closet”—or it’s sexual tension so sharp you could cut diamonds on it. And no, I don’t condone incest in real life. Let’s keep that line clear. But inside the heightened, myth-soaked stage of the Silmarillion? Rivalry that crackles into attraction feels almost inevitable.
With Mahtan, though, I lean into tenderness. Earth steadies fire; mentor grounds student. He’s the one person I imagine Fëanor might actually listen to without starting a shouting match (well, not every time). Their connection feels like the rare space where Fëanor could be vulnerable without combusting.
And then there’s Nerdanel. Let’s be real: that marriage reads less like a sweeping romance and more like a mutually beneficial contract. I see her as aroace—practical, grounded, uninterested in passion—and Fëanor, who was never going to fit into polite society anyway, found in her a safe arrangement. They built something useful: children, stability, cover. But it was never the fire in his chest, and it's why she didn't follow him into exile.
To me, Fëanor’s tragedy is not only the destruction he caused, but also the loneliness of being too much—too bright, too rigid, too alive—for the world around him. He was adored and feared, but rarely understood. And in the end, he immolated himself on the very brilliance that made him unforgettable.
You want to call him selfish? Fine. I’ll call him uncompromising, uncontainable, and unwilling to hand the last light of creation to a council that had already proven they couldn’t keep their house in order. He is not excusable. But he is not disposable either. He is the hymn and the scream, the spark and the wildfire, the genius and the wreckage. He is a beautiful mess, and I will always see him that way—half because I can’t help it, and half because someone needs to.
As an autistic person, I read him as autistic, and that’s part of why he makes sense to me. His crafts weren’t hobbies. They were obsessions that consumed him, the way a special interest can consume your days, nights, and sanity. His attention to detail, his relentless perfectionism, his bluntness, his inability to let things go—they all line up. He wasn’t just “prideful,” he was wired differently, unable to dilute himself for a world that wanted him to be palatable. He burned too bright, and when the Valar couldn’t handle it, they blamed him for not dimming down.
And let’s talk about the Silmarils. People say, “Why didn’t he just hand them over after the Trees were destroyed? Selfish bastard.” No. No, no, no. This is where I plant my flag: he wasn’t hoarding them for himself. He knew exactly what kind of power was locked inside those jewels, because he made them. He knew they weren’t trinkets, they were reality-altering artifacts. And he didn’t trust the Valar with them—because why would he? These are the same Powers who let Melkor run loose in the first place, who chained him and then unchained him like it was a cosmic trust fall. And surprise: the guy who burned the world once burned it again. Fëanor saying “absolutely not” was less about selfishness and more about clear-eyed distrust. He saw what they’d already broken and wasn’t about to let them break the last light he’d preserved.
I shamelessly pair him with Fingolfin and Finarfin, because hatred that fierce always looks a little like desire if you tilt your head. Their loathing is either a smokescreen—“nothing to see here, definitely not trying to make out in a closet”—or it’s sexual tension so sharp you could cut diamonds on it. And no, I don’t condone incest in real life. Let’s keep that line clear. But inside the heightened, myth-soaked stage of the Silmarillion? Rivalry that crackles into attraction feels almost inevitable.
With Mahtan, though, I lean into tenderness. Earth steadies fire; mentor grounds student. He’s the one person I imagine Fëanor might actually listen to without starting a shouting match (well, not every time). Their connection feels like the rare space where Fëanor could be vulnerable without combusting.
And then there’s Nerdanel. Let’s be real: that marriage reads less like a sweeping romance and more like a mutually beneficial contract. I see her as aroace—practical, grounded, uninterested in passion—and Fëanor, who was never going to fit into polite society anyway, found in her a safe arrangement. They built something useful: children, stability, cover. But it was never the fire in his chest, and it's why she didn't follow him into exile.
To me, Fëanor’s tragedy is not only the destruction he caused, but also the loneliness of being too much—too bright, too rigid, too alive—for the world around him. He was adored and feared, but rarely understood. And in the end, he immolated himself on the very brilliance that made him unforgettable.
You want to call him selfish? Fine. I’ll call him uncompromising, uncontainable, and unwilling to hand the last light of creation to a council that had already proven they couldn’t keep their house in order. He is not excusable. But he is not disposable either. He is the hymn and the scream, the spark and the wildfire, the genius and the wreckage. He is a beautiful mess, and I will always see him that way—half because I can’t help it, and half because someone needs to.
Spotlight: Feanor Creates the Silmarils [June 2025]
My first Daily Deviation, and one of the pieces I continue to be the proudest of.
