-Ilarion-
The words of Mandos struck like lightning, shattering the fragile will of many who still resisted leaving Valinor. After the curse, many of them just gave up. I even had to stop Litia, a Noldor seamstress I'd visited many times.
"Don't be afraid," I told her, holding her hand just firmly enough so the knife wouldn't reach her throat. "There's always a better option than the one you're about to take."
To my dismay, my words had no effect. Litia kept struggling with me, her beautiful face streaked with tears. No matter how many times I saw one of my own cry, I could never get used to it. My heart ached at such a sight.
"Be strong, Litia... please," I whispered. My voice, though tempered, carried a tide of emotions I still hadn't found a way to release.
"I can't... I can't... I can't," Litia repeated, over and over. I couldn't find a single word to comfort her. For a moment, I considered knocking her out, fearing her despair would completely take over.
But, to my fortune, my uncle Finarfin's voice echoed like a saving grace:
"My brothers, my people! I plan to return to Tirion and ask the Valar for forgiveness."
I sighed with relief as Litia's struggle ceased. Her face, on the verge of despair, suddenly lit up, as if she'd glimpsed a last flicker of hope. She jumped up, almost breaking free of my grip with her sudden movement.
"I'll go! I'll go with you! I'll accompany you!"
Finally, her warm smile reappeared on her haggard face. She turned to me and, with a radiant laugh, hugged me.
"Thank you... thank you, Ilarion," she said, as I felt my shoulder dampen with her tears. This time they weren't tears of sadness, but of relief.
It was surprising to witness such a sudden change in mood, but I attributed it to a moment of weakness. Luckily, I was there to stop her from doing something foolish. However, my calm didn't last long. My vision spun, my body weakened, and I was about to fall, but Litia held me tight.
"Ilarion, what's wrong?! Help!" I could barely hear the elf's shouts; only a hollow sound resonated in my ears, as if my brain had suffered a sequence change. It was incredibly uncomfortable! Slowly, my calm was replaced by panic. I couldn't feel my limbs, a sinking feeling overwhelmed me, and I had no strength to speak... everything went black, or at least it felt like that for a few seconds that seemed eternal.
It was then that an ethereal light blinded me. The clang of metal, the screams of agony, and the roars of fury exploded in my ears. The sinking feeling vanished like dust carried by the breeze, revealing a horrifying scene before my eyes: the lifeless bodies of those I once called my people... my kin.
Multitudes of Noldor lay in pools of blood. Their bodies, marked by swords, arrows, and burns, spoke of a gruesome, violent death.
"W-what is this...?" I stammered in horror.
Such a sight was too much for me. I only knew the Third Age, the War of the Ring... but this was different, more terrible. The problems of the future seemed trivial compared to the massacre I was witnessing.
A terrifying roar shook the earth behind me. As I turned, ice filled my veins. There was my father... Fëanor! Surrounded. Besieged by a group of... Balrogs? Seven of them! And yet, he fought. He resisted.
Something inside me broke. A bubbling rage, unknown until then, surged from the depths of my being. I wanted to run to him. To save him. But I couldn't move.
I could only watch. Powerless.
Wounds accumulated on my father's body. Blood flowed ceaselessly. And finally, he fell. Not by the whips or fiery swords of those beasts... but by a colossal mace. One that belonged to someone who once taught me about politics and strategy.
"MORGOTH!!!"
The roar burst from the deepest part of my chest, filled with a hatred I had never felt in all my years in Valinor. For the first time, I broke. The powerlessness... the frustration... they devoured me.
"Move... move... move... MOVE!!!"
With a scream that ripped my vocal cords, I took a step... only to collide with the body of a Noldor, which made me fall. And then I saw him: the lifeless face of my brother Maedhros.
My hands trembled. My eyes, once burning with fury, clouded over with a mist of tears. Despair hit me hard. So many emotions in so little time would have broken anyone... and even more so seeing that, all around me, the rest of the people I loved lay scattered: Galadriel, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras.
I failed them. I failed to protect them. The promise to return them alive to our mother's arms... I couldn't keep it.
With my lips pressed tight, holding back the scream of pain that threatened to escape, I turned toward the one who caused me to lose everything I loved. For some reason, the heaviness that had been weighing me down vanished. Now I could move freely.
I took a deep breath and drew my sword. My face, devoid of all emotion, remained fixed on the swirling dark mass in front of me.
"Coward," I spat with venom in my voice. "You once said only the weak hide behind others... and now you do, cowering like a dog behind your beasts! Face me! Morgoth!!"
Then it happened... it was so fleeting I barely noticed... eight times I wounded him, eight times I made him scream in pain, and eight times I got back up after his blows. But it was also eight times that gave me a partial victory... Morgoth fled like a coward, his arm incapacitated by my cuts, but inflicting those wounds also caused me to fall with eight Balrogs surrounding me.
It was there, in utter hopelessness, that I returned to reality.
Galadriel held me gently. In her eyes, only concern was reflected. I couldn't hear what she was saying; my ears were ringing. I was trembling... but not from fear, as my father would have believed when he reached me. No. I trembled from the rage burning inside me.
My father, Fëanor, took me by the shoulders, trying to calm me... but I still couldn't hear them. Only a few words escaped my lips.
"Father... father," I stammered, my rage contained. "I've seen... I've seen our death. Everyone's death. The fire of Morgoth's beasts will consume your life, and with it, our people will perish..."
I didn't hear his response. Not because I didn't want to... but because, like me, he knew what that meant.
Over the years, elves developed special abilities... and one of the most feared was precognition: the vision of an uncertain future, which would only come to pass if one followed the same path.
It seemed my words struck a sensitive chord in my father, who, with a dignified expression, walked toward my uncle Fingolfin. I didn't know what they talked about, but judging by my uncle's extremely attentive and suspicious face, it was a brief discussion about what I had seen.
I stopped looking at my father and uncle, turned away, and made a promise.
"Morgoth will fall, whether by my hand or my brothers'!"