-General-
Inside Alqualondë, Fëanor and his eight sons silently observed the melancholic landscape. The dense white marble houses, which once shone with the warmth of Laurelin and Telperion, were now cold and devoid of virtue; their radiance dulled by the loss of the Two Trees.
The sea breeze carried a salty air, and melancholy and sadness resonated throughout Alqualondë with the songs of the Teleri, who sadly 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 grief?"
Murmurs quickly arose. The Teleri, in pale, fine silk robes, discreetly pointed to 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 feast, as Olwë, the Prince of Alqualondë, had chosen to lock up his people. In his wisdom, he understood that Melkor was poisoning the Noldor Elves with his words and lies.
Therefore, Fëanor was never well-received by the Teleri; he had no place among them, and his influence never corrupted the pure thoughts of Olwë's folk.
These murmurs were nothing more than specks of dust to Fëanor, who advanced with his characteristic confidence over the white grounds of Alqualondë. The pale marble floor only amplified his presence and that of his sons.
"Look at them," Amrod muttered to Amras, his tone filled with arrogance. "Houses and towers erected by Noldor craftsmanship."
Maedhros, the eldest of the eight, fixed his gaze on the Elf approaching them, his silvery-white robe accentuated by his swift pace, and on his chest, a ship-shaped shield spoke of his status.
"A sailor of Olwë," Maedhros whispered 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 was heard, calm but uncertain.
"Fëanor, son of Finwë... We did not expect to see you here. What brings you to Alqualondë?"
"I have come to speak with Olwë," Fëanor said, with a serene tone that nonetheless conveyed the inherent power of the strongest Elf of the Noldor.
Olwë's sailor bowed his head respectfully, but his gesture held 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 consuming fire.
"In that case, allow me to guide you, Prince of the Noldor," the sailor said, his voice firm but lacking his people's usual confidence. He turned and began to walk, his steps a little stiffer than usual.
Fëanor followed without replying, and behind him, his sons moved in silence, their expressions carved in stone. Not even Ilarion, the most affable of them, spoke.
He only nodded minimally to the Teleri who warmly greeted him. Thus, the journey continued, enveloped in a silence broken only by the melancholic melody of the Teleri. Their songs soared into the air, causing the wind to whistle with their voices, but they did not look at Fëanor or his sons. Not out of scorn, but because they were lost in their own grief.
Only a few, more curious, would glance aside for a moment before looking away, resuming their lament for the loss of the Trees.
Soon, they reached a vast and winding square, where the pillars still shone with the last remnants of the silvery light of days past. Years of receiving the blessing of the Trees had left a faint mark on the stone, an almost forgotten glow.
To Fëanor, it was insignificant, a mere shadow of what once was. But for the Teleri, every flicker in the stone was an invaluable treasure, a relic doomed to vanish with the death of the Trees' light.
Upon a high podium, adorned with gem inlays resembling a ship, stood Olwë, Prince of the Teleri. The dim, dying light reflected golden tones in his hair, accentuating his Vanyarin heritage.
His eyes were closed, and the song he offered highlighted his delicate features. He was not a warrior like Fëanor; he was merely a mariner who guided his people in peace.
His hands, untouched by the calluses that marked Fëanor and Fingolfin, were meant only to hold the tiller that steered his people. However, his skill with the sword should never be underestimated.
Olwë stopped his song. Fëanor's presence weighed upon the square like a dense shadow, disturbing the serenity of the Teleri. Their looks, full of sadness and confusion, turned cautiously toward the Noldor Prince. The harmony of the harbor slowly faded.
"Fëanor, son of Finwë, what brings you to the dwelling of the Teleri?" Olwë asked with the calm of a leader.
"There is something important to say, Olwë, and your people must know it."
Fëanor advanced with a firm stride, effortlessly pushing aside the Teleri crowd. He met no resistance; after all, Elves trusted their brethren. 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 mounted the podium without anyone attempting to stop him.
Next to Olwë, Fëanor raised his voice and declared his purpose, one that would forever change the Teleri folk. His words were like a dark echo foreshadowing the imminent tragedy.
"Oh, Teleri folk, 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, laden 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 brethren has been allowed to murder one of our kin. Today, I come to ask for your aid; the Noldor have risen in arms. We go in search of him who has stolen our light, who has taken what we hold most dear!"
The air tensed. Some Teleri exchanged glances, filled with fear and sorrow.
"Therefore, Teleri folk, I come to ask you to join us! Give us your ships! For the Dark One has fled northward, over the sea of Ulmo."
Every word from Fëanor struck deep into the Teleri hearts, and his voice, charged with fury, planted a seed of fear among them. The square, previously filled with the melancholy of the Teleri songs, was now enveloped in an ominous silence. Gradually, the shadow of despair descended upon them.
Many of the Elves, despite the turmoil Fëanor's words stirred deep within their hearts, stood firm. No movement, no whisper, disturbed the stillness of the crowd. Uncertainty and fear were reflected in their faces. They looked to Olwë, their Prince and guide, hoping that he, with his calm, would speak what they could not decide.
It was not long before Olwë, with his deep wisdom, raised his voice. He had fully understood Fëanor's intentions, and although his words had touched his people's hearts, his conscience guided him down another path.
"Fëanor, son of Finwë!" His voice resonated in the square with a leader's certainty. "Your words have touched the heart of my people, but I cannot agree to follow you in your search for him whom you call Morgoth the Dark."
Fëanor's face darkened, rage manifested in his clenched fists, as did 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 folk. They are our most beautiful treasure. Just as the Silmarils are most precious to you, the ships are to us."
Following Olwë's words, the Teleri began to plead, their sincere voices rising in a murmur through the crowd. Many, their faces etched with grief, begged Fëanor and his sons to stay, not to abandon Valinor, the Blessed Realm.
Fëanor could bear it no longer and, in fury, rose up as the Noldor Prince he was.
"Teleri folk! You will not give your ships? You abandon a friend in need? Remember that if not for the Noldor, you would still be living in grass huts! Now you have shown me your true faces! Ungrateful ones!"
And with those words, Fëanor said no more. He ignored the pleas of Olwë and his people to stay and continue talking. His sons, like their father, were in a frenzy of rage, their cold stares piercing the Teleri, except for Ilarion, who, disappointed, lowered his head, not daring to look at those he had once delighted with his voice.
Outside Alqualondë, Fëanor, having returned, gazed toward the harbor, his eyes fixed on the countless docked Teleri ships. At 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 slay those who try to prevent us from reaching them."
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