Thank goodness your father isn’t here to see how your manners have developed.
Too bad for you your own “father” always is… Watching and waiting gleefully for you to fail, as he set you up to.
Oh, my father set me up to fail? That’s rich.
I have more Silmarils in my crown still than you have brothers left, boy.
Indeed yours did, with much glee. I guess the taste for punching in the direction one perceives down runs in your family.
Too bad for you your crown and our Silmarilli shall abandon you as soon as your luck runs out. My family stuck together to the end. Then again: for you brothers are a sour spot, I guess. Let’s not start with the wrong foot. You should know the dangers of it. Those of your brothers you do not wish to humiliate or bed end up humiliating and beating you… Ops.. That is all of them, even those you wish to humiliate and bed.
Pity.
Again, this is all so very rich coming from the kin-fucking king in a line of great kin-fuckers.
You may notice, blind to subtlety though you are, that I’ve made my own family, and we’ve held together splendidly since the Utumno days…
Whether or not my “luck” runs out, you’ve lost all capacity to take advantage of the opportunity. Your family is dead and will never see Valinor again, your mission to destroy me failed, and your oath will join Fëanor’s ashes in the wind.
You played all your cards at the Dagor Nírnaeth and you didn’t even make it past the foyer. You are toothless, kinless, handless; I have nothing to fear from you now.
..But yes, clever, that comment about my foot. I gained a limp while you lost an uncle, ~ooh~, what a smarting blow.
I lost an uncle, true enough, but gained a new hope in a cousin. You lost a foot, and part of your face, and your pride.. Or what is left of it. I guess it is pretty much like an overused rug, by now. You know, after all that bending and grovelling.
As for what I might have lost: my dignity is not among the losses, which puts me several steps ahead of you, which, I understand, you might not understand, given your… complex relationship with it. I shall keep my oath and I shall honour my father’s legacy. Unlike your own “family”, which is made of people who will and would turn your back on you and mindless thralls.
As for “opportunities” I fear you are thinking like a vulture. I am not. I shall see you defeated and know I fought against you, held you thrall for more than four hundred turns of Vàsa, and that is what keeps my head high.
I am under the impression that Throndor’s talons and that pathetic crown made with the work of one so much mightier than you to make you taste the wood of his door, might have impaired your ability to do the same.
I do not blame you, though. I think shame and charred flesh suits you.
Nice try, Lefty, but that cousin is also dead; my beloved Gothmog saw to that, just as he saw to your father.
You see, this is the difference between us, Fëanorian: you count your victories in “dignity”, while I count them in materialgains. You have your pride, and I have all of Beleriand, my Silmarils, my freedom, and the decimated line of Finwë and the Two Trees on the roster of my defeated foes.
I find that entirely acceptable.
A pity that you cannot wield shame against me, for without it, you have nothing else to strike with. Your arsenal and your threats are empty. Remember, I’ve seen you in chains too, my darling. I may have worn mine for four Ages, but you cannot say I didn’t make those who put me in them pay for every moment. And unlike your grandmother and the rest of your kin, I came out of Mandos.
And yes, I tasted the wood of Fëanor’s door. And other things of his as well. He too liked the sight of me on my knees.
Do you want to hear about it? I bet he never told you those stories, speaking of shame.
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