-General-
In the days of the light of the Two Trees, a soft laugh, like the murmur of a newborn spring, rang out in the chamber lit by the gold of Laurelin and the silver of Telperion. There, upon fine fabrics woven by the hands of the Vanyar, lay an Elf, exhausted by the recent birth; yet on her countenance pain and joy mingled, for she held her firstborn in her arms.
And the heat of labor still floated in the air, and sweat beaded her forehead like dew under the dawn. But the mother gazed at the child with tenderness, and spoke in a quiet, though firm, voice:
"I know the name you shall be given."
And lifting the newborn toward the intertwined light of the Trees, she said:
"Fëanor you shall be called."
....
Fëanor and his people had arrived at Losgar, not far from the place where Fingolfin, still unaware of his location, waited in silence. The sound of the waves breaking against the coast seemed to Fëanor a melancholic song, and his gaze, wistful, lost itself in the distance; he remembered his wife, his father, and above all, his beloved mother.
As if it were an omen of death, the voice of that woman who bore him echoed in his ears—her melodious laugh and the chant with which she pronounced his name. For a moment, he had the illusion of seeing her with open arms, waiting for him.
"Father, we have already unloaded the supplies," announced Maedhros, his firstborn, approaching with a firm step and breaking the Noldor's brief solitude.
"And what about the ships?" asked Fëanor, without looking away from the horizon, slightly lost in that illusion.
"Unusable, Father," Maedhros replied gravely. "The wood can no longer withstand the strain of the sea. It is almost a miracle we made it here alive."
After those words, a silence fell between them.
At last, Fëanor spoke, his voice firm like newly tempered iron: "Then dismantle the ships. Use part of the wood to build wagons… and whatever is left, burn it."
Maedhros furrowed his brow.
"But that could attract unwanted attention, Father."
"I know," replied Fëanor. "That is our purpose. Let a great fire proclaim our arrival. We do not know if those Elves who long ago refused to follow the Valar still dwell on these shores, or if Morgoth's servants lurk in the shadows. If it is the latter, we will ambush them and take some prisoners. Perhaps their dark tongues will reveal the lair where their dark lord rests."
The firstborn of Finwë's son said no more. He understood, if only in part, the trap his father sought to set; but deep in his spirit, he wondered if it was not reckless to announce themselves with such clamor in inhospitable and as yet unexplored lands.
With a slight nod, Maedhros turned and walked away. With every step, he raised his voice, shouting orders to the Noldor who continued to disembark. Many were bewildered to learn they had to burn part of the ship's wood; but, being the command of the son of Finwë whom they had chosen to follow, they obeyed without murmuring, though doubt shadowed their faces.
During this time, Fëanor did not turn his gaze. He remained motionless, standing tall like a statue, contemplating the dawn rising over the northern seas. No one could discern the tumult raging in his mind, and he would never reveal it, for he was proud among the proud. However, long ago there was a single person capable of penetrating that closed fortress guarding his spirit since his mother's death: Nerdanel, his beloved wife.
A sigh, almost inaudible, broke the tension in his chest. Then Fëanor headed toward a solitary rock, away from the bustle of the camp; he wished to be alone, for inside he recognized these were moments of weakness, and he would not allow anyone to witness them.
....
Thus the hours passed. The new light that raised its forehead in the east began to decline toward the west; but a second radiance, silvery and soft, then descended upon the earth. Its beauty did not go unnoticed by Fëanor: raising his gaze to the firmament, he contemplated for an instant that newborn source, before tiny sparks and the acrid smell of smoke reached his retreat.
Turning back, he saw a scorching fire spreading along the coast.
Under the glare of the flames devouring the white wood of the Teleri ships, Fëanor stood upon the rock and descended to the shores of Losgar. The fire roared with untamed fury, casting columns of smoke that blackened the sky now deep into the night.
The warm, orange light bathed his face: a cold and impenetrable face... but in his eyes, behind the veil of pride, melancholy reigned unchallenged.
That orange glow reminded him of the torches that lit the room where, long ago, a warm embrace enveloped him and love overflowed like an inexhaustible spring. Then, in his memory, the first words he heard at birth echoed like distant thunder—words spoken by his mother:
"Do you like your name, Fëanor? It means Spirit of Fire."
Lately, Finwë's son found himself sighing frequently, though he did not wish to. For now, as he watched the flames devour the ships, the questions he had asked himself countless times returned to him:
"That Spirit of Fire I bore as a name... was it what consumed the embers of her life shortly after bringing me into the world?"
He never had the chance to ask her why she named him so; and yet, fire had always accompanied him, like a burning shadow.
Behind him, hesitant footsteps sounded. Maedhros approached with reluctance—not out of fear, but because of what he saw: small drops sliding down his father's cheeks. It took but an instant, a single glance, for the image of the Fëanor he knew—imposing, cold, distant as a steel blade—to shatter like glass.
There, under the trembling light of the flames, Maedhros understood a truth few could imagine: his father, Fëanor, was a living being; someone capable of love, and someone who could also—though he hid it from the entire world—weep.
...
Several miles away, on a high cliff overlooking the plains, Ilarion watched the flames rising in the distance like a scorching colossus. For some reason, a pang of pain pierced his chest, and the glint of unshed tears shone in his eyes. The fire and smoke carried an undeniable sadness, an ancient sorrow that touched not only him but also his brothers Amrod and Amras, who arrived silently at his side.
"Ilarion..." Amrod murmured with a broken sob. "Do you feel this pain too? It... it feels like that time when Mother left us."
"It is even more painful than back then," added Amras, placing a hand over his chest as tears began to run down his cheeks.
With his gaze fixed to the northwest, Ilarion remembered that grim moment: his mother, overwhelmed by sorrow and discord, had left them to live with her father, Mahtan. That filled her seven sons with pain and resentment, for they all felt the blow of abandonment in their hearts. Ilarion, unable to bear the affliction, took refuge for a time in the arms of Nienna, the Valier of weeping and compassion, who received him with infinite love and tenderness.
On one of those days, still grieving, he asked her a question that burned in his soul:
"Lady Nienna... why did my brothers and I feel the same pain in our chests when we saw our mother leave, even without being near her?"
The Valier, holding him in her arms like a comforting mother, replied with a voice soft as night rain:
"It is because of your connection, little Ilarion. All of you are special. The bond between you and your parents is so deep that you share the pain and suffering of both. What you felt was not only your own sorrow, but Nerdanel's as she departed with a torn heart, and Fëanor's as he found himself abandoned... joined to the wound you yourselves bore in your souls."
Taking a deep breath, Ilarion turned his gaze back to his brothers. In his eyes there was understanding, but also a touch of pain.
"What we are feeling..." he said in a low voice, "is because, for the first time, our father has unleashed the emotions he guarded in his heart for long years."
Amrod looked at him with awe and fear.
"You mean...?" he began to ask, but Ilarion interrupted him gently, like one revealing a secret that was always there but never spoken.
"Yes," he affirmed. "That fire in the distance can be seen as the living image of the flames our father has carried inside himself since times beyond our memory. And now... those flames have finally found a way out."
He shifted his gaze toward Losgar, where the burning column dyed the dark skies.
"He has surely... wept. For the first time in all the years of our lives."
Hearing this, Amras clutched his chest even tighter, and Amrod, his face bathed in silvery light, let out a faint sob. For understanding that was almost more painful than the fire itself: discovering that the Spirit of Fire who begot them, the one they viewed as unbreakable, had let tears fall.