Son of Fëanor

Within Alqualondë, Fëanor and his eight sons silently observed the melancholic landscape. The dense white-marble houses, once glowing with the warmth of Laurelin and Telperion, now stood cold and devoid of virtue, their radiance dulled by the loss of the two trees.

The sea breeze carried a salty air, and the melancholy and sadness echoed throughout Alqualondë with the songs of the Teleri, who sorrowfully dedicated their melodies to the now-extinct trees.

"Isn't that Fëanor with his sons?"

"What are they doing here? Have they come to join us in our sorrow?"

The murmurs quickly arose, the Teleri, in fine garments of pale silk, discreetly pointed out the arrival of Fëanor, prince of the Noldor, as they knew him.

Their questions were not unfounded, what was the prince of the Noldor doing here? They were unaware of what had occurred at the banquet, as Olwë, the prince of Alqualondë, had decided to lock away his people, for in his wisdom, he understood that Melkor was poisoning the Noldor elves with his words and lies.

Hence, he was never well received by the Teleri, where he had no place and his influence never corrupted the pure thoughts of Olwë's people.

Those murmurs were nothing more than specks of dust to Fëanor, who moved forward with the confidence that characterized him upon the white grounds of Alqualondë. The pale marble floor only heightened his presence and that of his sons.

"Look at them," murmured Amrod to Amras, his tone filled with arrogance. "Houses and towers erected by the craftsmanship of the Noldor."

Maedhros, the eldest of the eight, fixed his gaze on the elf approaching them, his silver-white tunic accentuated by his light stride, and on his chest, a shield shaped like a ship spoke of his status. "A sailor of Olwë," whispered Maedhros aside.

Fëanor did not stop, but his gaze burned with the same intensity as his spirit when the Teleri elf blocked his path. The voice of the sea elf, calm but uncertain, was heard.

"Fëanor, son of Finwë... We did not expect to see you here. What brings you to Alqualondë?" "I have come to speak with Olwë," said Fëanor, his tone serene, yet conveying the inherent power of the strongest elf among the Noldor.

The sailor of Olwë bowed his head in respect, but his gesture carried a trace of fear. Fëanor's aura was something he had never experienced in his countless years of life. Not even Ulmo, the lord of the seas, radiated such an overwhelming presence.

After all, Ulmo was a friend to his people; Fëanor, on the other hand, was the consuming fire. "In that case, allow me to guide you, prince of the Noldor," said the sailor, his voice firm but lacking the usual confidence of his people. He turned and began to walk, his steps slightly more rigid than usual.

Fëanor followed without replying, and behind him, his sons moved in silence, their expressions sculpted in stone. Even Ilarion, the most affable among them, did not speak.

He only nodded in a minimal gesture to the Teleri who greeted him warmly. Thus, the journey continued, wrapped in silence broken only by the melancholic melody of the Teleri. Their songs rose into the air, making the wind whistle with their voices, but they did not look at Fëanor or his sons. Not out of contempt, but because they were lost in their own sorrow.

Only a few, more curious, would glance aside for a moment before turning their gaze away, resuming their lament over the loss of the Trees.

Soon, they arrived at a vast and winding square, where the pillars still gleamed with the last remnants of the silver light from days long past. Years of receiving the blessing of the Trees had left a faint mark on the stone, a glow almost forgotten.

To Fëanor, it was insignificant, a mere shadow of what once was. But to the Teleri, every flicker in the stone was an invaluable treasure, a relic doomed to fade with the death of the light of the trees.

Upon a high podium, adorned with inlaid gems resembling a ship, stood Olwë, prince of the Teleri. The faint dying light reflected golden hues from his hair, accentuating his Vanyarin heritage.

His eyes closed, and the chant he offered accentuated his delicate features. He was not a warrior like Fëanor; he was merely a navigator guiding his people in peace.

His hands, untouched by the callouses that marked Fëanor and Fingolfin, were made only to hold the helm that steered his people. Nevertheless, one should never underestimate his skill with a sword.

Olwë stopped his song. Fëanor's presence weighed on the square like a dense shadow, disturbing the serenity of the Teleri. Their gazes, filled with sadness and confusion, turned warily toward the Noldor prince. The harmony of the port slowly faded away.

"Fëanor, son of Finwë, what brings you to the dwelling of the Teleri?" asked Olwë with the calmness of a leader.

"There is something important to say, Olwë, and your people must know it."

Fëanor stepped forward with a firm stride, effortlessly parting the crowd of Teleri. He encountered no resistance; after all, the elves trusted their brothers. No one conceived the idea that one elf could raise a hand against another. In the silence, barely broken by the murmur of the waves, he climbed the podium without anyone attempting to stop him.

Standing next to Olwë, Fëanor raised his voice and declared his purpose, one that would forever change the Teleri people. His words were like a dark echo foretelling the omen of an imminent tragedy.

"Oh Teleri people, today I come with news that has shaken Aman. My father, Finwë, has been slain by Morgoth the Dark after his abominable act of extinguishing the light of the trees, that traitor who has defiled our land and killed one of our own blood."

His voice, heavy with the pain of loss and the rage of betrayal, resonated throughout the square. Fëanor, with eyes full of fire, exclaimed: "The Valar have failed us. Under their rule, one of their own brothers has been allowed to murder one of our kin. Today, I come to ask for your help; the Noldor have risen in arms. We go in search of the one who has stolen our light, the one who has taken from us what we love most."

The air grew tense. Some Teleri exchanged looks, filled with fear and sorrow.

"That is why, Teleri people, I come seeking that you join us! Give us your ships! For the Dark One has fled north, over the sea of Ulmo."

Every word of Fëanor struck deeply into the hearts of the Teleri, and his voice, laden with fury, planted a seed of fear among them. The square, once filled with the melancholy of Teleri songs, was now enveloped in an ominous silence. Gradually, the shadow of despair descended upon them.

Many of the elves, despite the stir Fëanor's words caused deep within their hearts, stood firm. No movement, no whisper, disturbed the stillness of the crowd. On their faces, uncertainty and fear reflected. They looked to Olwë, their prince and guide, for a sign, hoping that he, with his calm, would speak and say what they could not decide.

It wasn't long before Olwë, with his deep wisdom, raised his voice. He had fully understood Fëanor's intentions, and though his words had touched the hearts of his people, his conscience led him down another path.

"Fëanor, son of Finwë!" His voice rang through the square with the certainty of a leader. "Your words have touched the heart of my people, but I cannot accept following you in your search for the one you call Morgoth the Dark."

Fëanor's face darkened, rage showing in his clenched fists, as well as the fire in his eyes.

"We cannot give you our ships," Olwë continued. "For they are more than mere vessels, Fëanor. They were made by us, their sails woven with love by the mothers and daughters of our people. They are our most beautiful treasure. Just as the Silmarils are to you the most precious, the ships are to us."

After Olwë's words, the Teleri began to plead, their voices full of sincerity rising in a murmur throughout the crowd. Many, their faces wrinkled with sorrow, begged Fëanor and his sons to stay, not to abandon Valinor, the blessed land.

Fëanor could bear it no longer and, in fury, rose as the Noldor prince he was.

"Teleri people! You don't want to give your ships? Will you abandon a friend in need? Remember that if it weren't for the Noldor, you'd still be living in straw huts! Now you have shown me your true face! Ungrateful!"

And with those words, Fëanor said no more. He ignored the pleas of Olwë and his people to stay and speak further. His sons, like their father, were in a frenzied rage, their cold glares piercing the Teleri, except for Ilarion, who, in disappointment, lowered his head, not daring to look at those he had once delighted with his voice.

Outside of Alqualondë, Fëanor, having returned, gazed at the port, his eyes fixed on the countless Teleri ships docked. By his side, Maedhros, his eldest son, awaited his father's orders.

"We will take the ships by force," he proclaimed. "And if necessary, we will kill those who try to stop us from reaching them."

**

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