Fëanor knew his wounds were fatal. The Balrogs have ravaged his body beyond healing and he fears his hröa will not last longer.

His sons are carrying him back to Mithrim, but he bade them halt. From this position, he could see the peaks of Thangorodrim far off in the distance. With the foreknowledge and clarity of death, he knew the Noldor would never overthrow Angband. He coughs and tastes iron in his mouth. A ruptured lung, likely. Nonetheless, with consuming hatred he curses Morgoth thrice. Then he addresses his sons. Curufin is the closest, so he puts his hand over his.

"Hold to your Oath, my children. Avenge me!" For even with foresight, his pride would not let him abandon the Silmarils so quickly.

Thus in a last moment of fiery passion he exits his hröa, causing it to burn up into ash. Fëanor's sons were startled for a moment, especially Curufin who stood by his father's side. The wind picks up, sweeping up Fëanor's smoke. A cold breeze comes from the North as if Morgoth was mocking their grief. But this is not the end.

"Atar," Curufin says in a wavering voice, "thou art the greatest among us. Spirit of Fire, thy fëa will prevail, thy will shall live on." For a while he just stares as though something of great worth was wrenched from him. His brothers mourn alongside him.

Fëanor's soul looks westward. If he returned to Valinor, Mandos would imprison him till the end of time. No, that will not do. Shall he risk it? He knew how draining it was for Míriel to bear him... His fëa infuses into Curufin, Atarincë, who is almost like a copy of him. He is sure Curufin would allow it.

A few days pass as he gets used to this new existence, telling Curufin of the situation. Curufin calls his brothers together so Fëanor may speak to them. "My sons," It is strange to hear Curufin address his brothers as such. Curufin's voice speaks, yet the intonations belong to his father. "Behold! I live again, my fate not yet sealed. Once again, I shall lead ye, and Morgoth will know no peace whilst I remain."