Son of Fëanor

Before the sun and moon were created, Arda shone with glimpses of two sacred trees of Valinor, Telperion and Laurelin, the most beautiful creation Yavanna had ever made.

The first Elves witnessed the exquisite beauty and peace offered by the light of the Trees. Alongside the Valar, they lived in harmony, a united people whose songs of joy spread through the whispering winds of Manwë.

But not all shared in this happiness. Melkor, the first Dark Lord, had served his years of punishment and torment, yet this had only strengthened his will. In secret, he plotted to eradicate those sacred lights and shroud the world in deep darkness.

...

Melkor's plan began with his audience before the Valar.

Atop Taniquetil, the Valar and the leaders of the Elves had gathered. The walls gleamed as if stars were trapped within them, illuminating the grand hall. Fine wooden windows allowed the warm light of the Trees to filter through, casting golden and silver glimmers upon the marble floor.

At the center of this splendor, on a pristine white platform, stood Manwë's throne, majestic and imposing. Beside him, the thrones of his brethren symbolized their unity.

"You have requested an audience, Melkor. What do you seek?" Manwë asked.

"Redemption and freedom," Melkor replied, his chains clinking, bearing the weight of his past defeat. His gaze swept over the High Elves present, lingering for just a moment longer on the youthful figure standing beside Finwë.

"I desire a place among you, no matter how humble. I wish to serve the world." His once-mighty voice, which had once made the weak-willed recoil in fear, was now but a whisper of its former self.

Manwë, the High King, granted him forgiveness, believing that his brother could be reformed and that together, they could fulfill Eru's will in guiding and shaping Arda.

Freed at last, Melkor changed his form. Before the gathered assembly, his vast dark figure twisted with an almost divine power. With each heartbeat, he diminished, until he bore the appearance of an Elf, one who could walk among them as an equal.

Time passed, and Melkor showed himself to be kind, humble, and merciful. He visited Elven cities, praised their works, and whispered promises of greatness, planting seeds of doubt wherever he went.

He waited. And waited.

The perfect moment to poison the hearts of the Elves was drawing near. He planned to destroy them from within, to divide them and sow discord among their people.

It was then that he saw him.

A soul so pure and radiant that it outshone even the sacred Trees. So beautiful and majestic that even Varda's light would pale before that Elven child.

"Ilarion," he murmured. His dark, piercing eyes never left him. That child was loved by all, even by his own brothers. Melkor knew this. And for that, he despised him.

He had sworn to extinguish everything that threatened his darkness, and that child, with his light, was an obstacle. But he could not kill him. Not in Valinor.

So, he devised a plan. He would not destroy him, he would corrupt him. Slowly, he would plant shadows in his heart with seductive promises, until his light faded completely.

And so, his work began.

He drew close to the boy, guiding him in the arts of war and strategy, and more than that, in the secrets of governance. He spent time with him, weaving his words around him like a serpent coiling around its prey.

The whispers began. One day, he would rule the Elves. Melkor did not hold back. He taught him all that he himself had mastered. After all, he had seen in him a valuable apprentice… just as he had once seen in Sauron.

But Melkor failed. Ilarion remained unmoved by his venomous whispers. His light did not dim, for Eru had willed it so. His soul had been purified of all sin upon crossing the boundaries of the multiverse. Because Ilarion's soul was not originally from Arda.

But Melkor did not know this, and that was his greatest mistake. Instead of corrupting him, he only made him wiser, feeding the mind of his future enemy.

"If I cannot take the child… then I shall take the father." Melkor whispered these words as he watched Ilarion depart. "Fëanor will take him from Valinor through my deceptions… and that is when I shall kill him."

With that dark determination, he turned his attention away from Ilarion, for now, and focused on Fëanor instead.

He became his shadow. His voice in the darkness. Day after day, he whispered that the Valar coveted his Silmarils, that his half-brother Fingolfin sought the throne of the Noldor. Like a serpent coiling around its prey, Melkor slowly poisoned the hearts of the Noldor, sowing distrust and fear.

Time passed, and his poison bore fruit.

The Noldor, once a joyful people who proudly shared their achievements, now only whispered in the shadows. In secret, they forged weapons, fearing that one day what was theirs would be taken away.

When Fëanor, blinded by deception, confronted Fingolfin with steel in hand, accusing him of wanting to usurp his birthright, the wrath of the Valar was unleashed. As punishment, he was exiled to Formenos for twelve years, in the hope that solitude would bring him peace and lead him to reflect on his actions.

But Fëanor's heart was already poisoned. His fall became inevitable when Nerdanel, the wife who had once loved him, refused to follow him.

"I cannot do this anymore, Fëanor. I have followed you, listened to your shadows, and celebrated your achievements, but this… this, I cannot do," she said. Her voice trembled, but her gaze remained firm.

Fëanor looked at her, stunned. Those words hurt more than a blow from his own forge hammer.

"You… abandon me?" he asked, his voice breaking with sorrow.

"I do not abandon you! But I cannot follow you this time. My duty is to my father… Your hatred and fury have clouded your judgment, and I cannot walk that path," she pleaded.

Her sobs were drowned by the weight of eight pairs of eyes upon her, some filled with sorrow, others with something far worse… betrayal.

"I know our sons will follow you… But please, Fëanor… please, do not fill their hearts with hatred," she implored.

Fëanor remained motionless. Only his clenched fists betrayed the pain hidden behind his cold mask. But above all… he felt pity for his wife, the same pity he had felt when his mother died. He offered no words, his mind was silent, and with his head lowered, he walked away, leaving his wife sobbing.

At that moment, a warmth touched him, his father, Finwë, had risen and stood against the Valar.

"If my son is exiled, then I shall follow him! I will support my son and share his exile!" Finwë declared. And so, Fëanor understood, his father had always favored his firstborn.

Thus, Fëanor departed for Formenos. His father and his eight sons followed him. Most of all, the departure of Ilarion chilled the hearts of the Valar. However, the boy was not exiled, so they could still visit him and continue guiding him in their arts. That thought eased their troubled hearts.

With Finwë's absence and Fëanor's exile, the duty of leading the Noldor fell upon Fingolfin. And thus, the seeds of Melkor's deception took root, making his words seem true.

Meanwhile, Tulkas the Unyielding roamed Valinor in fury, hunting for Melkor like a predator on the trail of its prey. The Valar, upon reflection, understood that distrust and discord had been sown by their fallen brother. Yet, no matter how they searched, they could not find him.

----

Years passed, and Melkor's disappearance only strengthened the Valar's resolve: if they ever captured him, they would imprison him in the darkness of the Abyss for all eternity.

In time, Manwë, believing that the wounds of the Noldor could heal, arranged a great feast. His hope was that those whose minds had been poisoned by Melkor's words would let go of their doubts and find trust once more.

But fate was cruel, for on the very day of the feast, Melkor and his dreadful ally crept beneath the shadow of the sacred trees. A chilling laugh escaped his lips, and at his side, the monstrous creature that followed him let out guttural sounds, its mandibles clicking in anticipation.

"Thanks to you, these lights will soon be but a memory… Ungoliant," Melkor whispered.

----

At the feast, Fëanor and his eight sons arrived. His heart had begun to heal, and he came humbly, without fine garments or ornaments of gold and silver. Even his Silmarils had been left behind.

Fëanor approached his half-brother Fingolfin, and knowing he had wronged him, he extended his hand in a gesture of peace. Manwë watched, smiling in satisfaction.

But that smile did not last. For at that moment, the golden and silver light… vanished.

The Trees were dead.

Darkness was thick, the air heavy as if tainted by something vile and clinging. The sound of the sacred Trees collapsing before turning to motes of dust was deafening.

From the summit of Taniquetil, Yavanna let out a heart-wrenching cry. A lament of sorrow escaped her lips as she clutched Ilarion tighter in her arms, seeking warmth to hold onto. Her most precious work, the jewel of her creation, had been destroyed.

Oromë and Tulkas burst forth like a storm, rushing toward the place where the Trees once stood, but their path was blocked by a dense darkness. A living shadow, thick and suffocating, enveloped them, preventing their advance.

On Taniquetil, the Elves lamented, the Maiar wept, and the Valar remained silent. Grief shrouded the world like a funeral veil.

Then, the light of Ilarion shone. His warm soul dispelled Yavanna's sorrow, and in gratitude, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. The young Elf was still dazed by the events, for he only had knowledge of what would happen in the Third Age and was unaware of all that had occurred in the previous two.

Following Yavanna's counsel, Manwë asked Fëanor to surrender his Silmarils. If the sacred gems were sacrificed, the Trees could be reborn.

Fëanor planned to refuse immediately, but then his gaze met that of his youngest son. In him, he saw a reflection of himself, the same passion and pure love he had once felt when his mother was still alive. For a brief moment, he hesitated. Perhaps he would heed his son's plea…

But then, a messenger burst into the hall, interrupting everything. He had come from Formenos. His trembling voice brought the worst of news: Finwë had been slain. And not only that, Melkor had stolen the Silmarils.

The revelation shook all present, but none suffered more than Fëanor. His face contorted in a grimace of pure rage, his eyes burned like embers, and his voice roared with fury:

"From this day forward and forevermore, the monster they call brother shall be known as Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World!"

He spoke no further words. Turning on his heel, he departed, followed by his sons and his half-brother. In Tirion, they found Finwë's body, brought there by the survivors of Formenos. The city mourned its king.

Sobs weighed heavy in the air, but in Fëanor's heart, only wrath burned. With his people gathered, he raised his voice in a furious speech. He accused the Valar, who, in their judgment, had done nothing to stop Morgoth.

His words only stoked the flames of anger in the hearts of the Noldor. Against all expectations, Fëanor proclaimed that they must pursue Morgoth, leave Valinor, and forge a kingdom in Middle-earth, lands without rulers, lands his father Finwë had spoken of.

It was then that Fëanor lifted his gaze and, with a voice laden with conviction, declared a terrible oath, one his sons joined him in taking who drew their swords and pointed them high: 

"I solemnly swear before the Valar, let our doom be everlasting should we fail to pursue, without rest, with hatred and vengeance until the world's end, any Vala, demon, Elf, Man, or creature, good or evil, who dares to keep, take, or steal one of the Silmarils I have forged!"

But not all of his sons raised their swords in oath. Only one remained silent, his brow furrowed, doubt reflected in his eyes…

Ilarion, with his head bowed, debated what to do.

In the heat of the moment, his father and brothers had overlooked him, unaware that he alone had not sworn the oath. And so, gazing upon the faces of those who had once smiled at him with warmth, he came to a resolution.

He would follow his father, Fëanor, and protect his brothers from the oath they had taken. He had to leave, but his heart would not let him depart just yet. He had to bid farewell to those who had guided and cared for him.

And so, he turned back and returned to Taniquetil.

**

Here we are Noldor!

advanced chapter in "p@treon,com/Mrnevercry".