Fëanor watched his men in the dim light, aware that some still harbored doubts, their hearts burdened by uncertainty over whether leaving Tirion was the right decision. Beside him, the contrast between his own presence and Ilarion's was striking, while one radiated courage and rebellious spirit, the other exuded serenity and innocence.
"Are we truly doing the right thing by taking their ships in secret, Father?" Ilarion, who held deep affection for all elves, struggled with the weight of their decision. "Let me speak with Olwë, I can convince him to give us his ships."
Unmoved by his son's plea, Fëanor remained calm, his gaze fixed on the Noldor. A cold gust of wind, laden with the scent of salt, struck his face. "Think carefully, my son. Just as Morgoth stole our jewels, he will steal their ships as well, and then he will become even stronger." He paused, his piercing eyes settling on his youngest son. "If we take them now, we can stop him before it is too late."
Silence followed. The words echoed in the darkness, yet the mere mention of Morgoth visibly unsettled Fëanor, whose furrowed brow had already forced Ilarion to retreat into his thoughts.
His father was right. He could not foresee what was to come, and if this action prevented Morgoth from growing stronger, then so be it. With reluctance, Ilarion lowered his head, offering no further argument. His silence carried more weight than words.
Fëanor, understanding his son's innocence, did not rebuke him. His hand, hardened by years of smithing, gently rested on Ilarion's silky hair. "You are innocent, my son. One day, you will grow and understand me." He set aside his role as a leader and embraced that of a father. "Now, go and tell your brothers that we march."
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On the other side, Fingolfin and his children, Fingon, Turgon, Aredhel, and Argon, marched alongside his brother Finarfin and his own children, Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, Aegnor, and his daughter, Galadriel.
Each step of the march weighed heavily on Finarfin, whose heart hung with an unsettling feeling. Seeking solace, he turned to his brother.
"I fear what Fëanor will do in Alqualondë," he said in a heavy voice. "Olwë is my friend and father-in-law, I do not wish for conflict with him."
"Do not worry, brother," Fingolfin reassured him. "Fëanor is radical, but he will not harm Olwë's people."
"Do not fear, Father," a second voice, as melodious as the wind's song in spring, rang behind him. Galadriel, the most innocent and serene of his children, offered words to ease her father's anxious heart. "Ilarion is with them. I doubt he would allow his father to take such extreme actions."
Galadriel was innocent, her wisdom not yet deep, for she was still a child who did not yet understand what Fëanor was truly capable of.
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Under the darkened sky, Fëanor, his sons, and his followers moved stealthily toward the Swanship Havens. Alqualondë slept peacefully, its people exhausted from their songs. The light of torches cast flickering shadows upon the white marble, while the gentle waves rocked the ships beneath the cool night breeze.
With precise movements, the Noldor advanced. Their agile figures left no shadows in their wake. Soon, they reached the docks, climbing aboard the ships, unfastening the moorings, and preparing to set sail.
But not all the Teleri were asleep.
A young watchman, stationed on a high walkway, noticed the unusual movement among the docks. It was not normal to see shadows shifting between the ships at this hour. He frowned and leaned over the railing, trying to discern what lurked in the darkness.
Then… he saw them.
Hooded figures climbing aboard the vessels of his people. His heart pounded, sweat slicked his palms, and he swiftly descended from the walkway. With all the strength he could muster, he cried out:
"Awaken! Awaken! There are intruders on the ships!"
His words were enough to rouse the drowsy mariners sleeping near the docks. Some sprang to their feet immediately, running in confusion, trying to understand what was happening.
Within moments, dozens of them gathered on the shore, watching as the Noldor moved about the decks of their ships.
"Stop! Those vessels do not belong to you!" one of the mariners shouted.
They rushed toward the ships, trying to reason with the intruders, hands outstretched in supplication, reminding them of the friendship that had once bound them, the mutual aid they had shared in the past, begging them not to commit such an act.
But the Noldor ignored them, continuing their work. They cut the moorings of the ships, raised the sails, and prepared the oars. Seeing this, the Teleri could no longer endure it, their pleas turned into shouts of indignation and fury.
The Teleri began pushing the Noldor aggressively, trying to stop them from setting sail, struggling here and there, throwing Noldor into the sea, forcing them away from the ships.
Where Ilarion stood, the Teleri, recognizing him, pleaded for him to stop, for he was the kindest of the eight. But he paid no heed. Seeing that they could not persuade him, they attacked with force, yet their attempts were skillfully evaded, and with mastery, Ilarion cast them into the sea, unwilling to harm his kin.
Ilarion hoped this would end quickly. His father, Fëanor, stood on the same vessel, watching the Teleri with indifference. Ilarion followed him closely, fearful that his father would make a radical decision, a persistent dread that Fëanor's sword might be drawn, crossing the sacred threshold of Valinor.
He did not allow any Teleri to approach Fëanor, skillfully tossing each one who came near into the water. But everything was destined to take a bloody turn.
A Noldo was pushed, while another Noldo retaliated, shoving a Teleri overboard. The situation spiraled into chaos. Then, a Teleri sailor, seeing that mere pushing was futile and that their pleas fell on deaf ears, reached for his waist and unsheathed a dagger.
"Enough!" he said, brandishing the blade menacingly, aiming to cut.
Behind him, a Noldo who had been thrown from the ship, now consumed by rage, watched the scene unfold, his brother was being threatened by a blade. Instinct took over, and in his desire to protect his kin, he drew his sword.
In a reflexive act to defend his family, the Noldo stepped forward before the Teleri could react and then… he struck.
A choked cry shattered the commotion. Silence fell upon the harbor. Those who had been struggling stopped, their eyes locked in horror and disbelief as dark red blood, illuminated by the torchlight, spread across the white marble of the dock.
The Teleri sailor fell to his knees, his gaze fixed on his attacker, disbelief etched into his eyes. His trembling hands clutched at the wound, desperately trying to hold onto life. His breath came in short, erratic gasps.
Then, Ilarion, moving swiftly, leaped from the ship, pushing past those frozen in shock. He reached the dying Teleri, his arms and tunic stained with dark crimson.
"No, no, hold on!" he cried urgently, panic in his voice.
The Teleri looked at Ilarion, his lips trembling, yet no words came forth. His body slackened, the light in his eyes dimmed, life had left him.
A cry, filled with disbelief and sorrow, rang through the heavy silence.
"What have you done?!" a Teleri shouted.
"Murderer!" another accused.
"Draw your weapons!" someone commanded.
There were no more pleas. What had started as a struggle had become something irreversible. And as the ages passed, the world would remember what happened on that fateful day.
***
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