Son of Fëanor

"Never will she be separated from your side. In the shadows, she will grant the light of Varda that will guide you. Her blade will remain unyielding, like the roaring tides of Ulmo; her cuts will be as precious as the winds of Manwë, so powerful that the mace of the dark being will succumb to her hardness."

The resonance of Aulë's words stirred Ilarion's heart. The fresh breeze gently tousled his hair, "a soft embrace from the Valar," as his mother used to say. Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to admire the beauty of Valinor.

Despite the absence of Telperion and Laurelin, the beauty that burned in Valinor did not fade. The pines and cherry trees visible before him illuminated the darkness like tiny fireflies at dawn, clinging to the memory of what had once been such a beautiful radiance.

The fragrance of Yavanna's flowers floated in the air, enveloping him with the warmth of a hug.

"Why abandon such a beautiful land?" he said to the wind. "Am I right to follow my father?" Turning his head, he smiled wistfully and looked at his faithful companion.

"You, who have lived since the birth of the sacred trees, tell me, Huan… Am I doing the right thing abandoning these lands?"

The great dog lifted his gaze to him, his dark eyes reflecting the faint light of the sky. He didn't answer with words, his fate allowed him to speak only three times, but he moved closer with a slight motion, resting his large head against Ilarion's side. A silent gesture, but one full of great meaning.

Ilarion closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of Huan's coat. Perhaps there was no clear answer, but the meaning was clear—no matter what decision he made, he would not be alone.

"Let's go, it's getting late, and I doubt father will endure another hour in these lands."

---

Thus, Ilarion departed. From high above, Tirion shone with a twilight glow, its white towers bathed in the faint light of torches. Below, the movement of the elves formed a golden, undulating river, a current of living flames that moved forward with purpose. To claim the lands promised by Fëanor.

At the head, like an indomitable flame in the shadow, stood Fëanor. His silhouette stood out against the night, his hair as dark as the abyss itself, his eyes burning with a fierce light of revolution, hope, pride, and hatred. His mere presence seemed to defy the darkness that loomed after the loss of the two sacred lights.

"Advance, my people! Alqualondë awaits us by the ships of the Teleri!" Fëanor bellowed.

His voice, imposing and fiery, awakened passion in the hearts of the Noldor. His eagerness to depart was evident, and from high atop the tower of Tirion, Fingolfin watched in silence the winding lights of his people.

The echo of Fëanor's voice resonated to the hall where he stood. He could not deny that his half-brother was a natural leader; his conviction was unshakable, capable of driving his people to any end. However, his boundless hatred for Morgoth had blinded him.

"My lord, many in our people refuse to depart if you are not among them," said one of the elves, bowing to Fingolfin.

The Noldorin prince, with his serene face, turned to look at him. His deep eyes reflected not arrogance, but love and compassion.

"I have heard," he replied calmly. "We will depart when all are ready. If my half-brother moves ahead, so be it... We will go at our own pace."

The elf nodded and left, silently admiring the patience and composure of Fingolfin. To his eyes, he was the true king, the one who should lead the Noldor.

Once alone, Fingolfin turned his gaze back to the Noldor people. He understood his half-brother's urgency; Fëanor had known how to ignite the flames of hatred in their hearts, fueling their rage against Morgoth. If he allowed them time to calm, perhaps many would refuse to follow him.

"I do not agree with the way you play with the hearts of our people, Fëanor," he murmured, his gaze lost in the distance. "But in one thing, we agree... our father must be avenged."

Yet, deep in his heart, Fingolfin knew that the death of Finwë had not been the only reason their people rose in protest against the Valar. That tragedy had only been the spark for a resentment that had grown over centuries.

Since their arrival in Valinor, the Noldor had never truly been welcomed. Manwë had opened his arms to the Vanyar with love, allowing them to dwell beneath the shadow of Taniquetil, but what of them? What had been their fate? They were ignored, relegated to the background. Only Aulë, with his wisdom and understanding, had offered them love and attention. Under his guidance, they found a sense of belonging... otherwise, they would have long ago left Valinor.

His gaze, lost on the horizon, fixed on a figure riding toward Tirion. He rode a white wolf-dog, so pure in color that even in the dim light, it glowed like a rising star.

"Ilarion..." murmured Fingolfin, immediately recognizing the silhouette riding such a beautiful beast.

He was his most beloved nephew, his purity praised by all, making him the most adored elf among the elven peoples. Wherever he went, he was greeted with warmth and sincere smiles, a stark contrast to his father, Fëanor.

"Without a doubt, you are to be feared, Ilarion..." murmured Fingolfin to himself. "Wherever you step and show your gentle smile, you will gain allies who will follow you blindly."

He paused, watching as his nephew descended from his majestic mount with the same grace as the great ones of his lineage.

"Only you are the one to unite all the elven peoples, those who today are separated by their own ideals... And if I must give my life to see you guide our people as one, I am willing to do so."

----

On the outskirts of Tirion, Fëanor marched at the head of his people, leading the Noldor with determination. Some, naive, decided to stay behind, waiting to depart with their half-brother Fingolfin. His face remained impassive, serene, as if it didn't affect him in the least.

But for anyone paying attention, the subtle tremor in his clenched fists revealed the truth: it bothered him more than he was willing to admit.

But all of that was forgotten when his gaze caught a bright white spark approaching rapidly. He couldn't help but let a warm and genuine smile form on his lips, accentuating his chiselled jawline.

"Ilarion... my dear star is here," thought Fëanor, feeling a relief he didn't dare to express in words. "I feared he wouldn't follow me, but I see that my son has not disappointed me."

His eyes scanned him with pride, admiring the fine fabric he wore. His cloak, ethereal and shining, seemed to enclose in its fabric the very stars that burned high in the sky.

"I have come, father... and with it, my resolve to follow you. I will not rest until Morgoth falls and reclaim what was taken from you," proclaimed Ilarion.

His eyes, noble and pure, shone with an unwavering spark of determination.

He didn't know how this story would end. But he was sure that he would do whatever it took to bring his family back together. It was the least he could do for his beloved mother, who, immersed in sorrow, wept for the departure of all her children.

***

Advance chapter in "[email protected]/Mrnevercry"