The swords were drawn. The Noldor, upon witnessing the situation, unsheathed their own. There was no longer a way to resolve this with mere shoving, an acrid battle erupted. The clash of blades and the sickening sound of flesh being pierced reverberated through the docks, the ships, and the watchtowers.
The echoes of battle resounded throughout Alqualondë. Those who had been asleep awoke in haste, grabbing their weapons and attacking anyone dressed differently. They did not question, for they had already seen their own kin lying dead.
The once-melancholic refuge of song had transformed into a hell of screams, steel, and blood. The anguished cries of the Teleri mingled with the sharp commands of the Noldor, who swiftly formed ranks to guard each other's backs.
Ilarion, his face twisted with disbelief, staggered backward, his eyes reflecting the confusion and horror of the unfolding massacre. He could not comprehend how it had come to this. He did not fear battle, yet witnessing his people, the elves he had laughed and sung with, slaughtering one another left him utterly shaken.
An arrow whistled past him. His body reacted instinctively, tilting his head just in time to evade the fleeting attack. But it was not a single arrow, Teleri archers, positioned on the ships and nearby piers, fired with deadly precision, wounding and slaying distracted Noldor warriors engaged in combat.
"Stop! Stop!" Ilarion pleaded, his heart aching at the sight of his kin killing one another. As he begged, a Teleri warrior rushed at him, sword raised high. But Ilarion's instincts, honed by Tulkas and Oromë, guided him. With fluid grace, he dodged the strike.
With unparalleled skill, he disarmed the Teleri, striking him down with a blow that rendered him unconscious. His reflection shimmered in the water below, pain and sorrow intertwining in a melancholic dance.
Some Teleri archers, witnessing his movements, mistook him for Fëanor, the very instigator of the assault on their ships. Consumed by fury, they turned their arrows toward him. Yet, not a single one found its mark. Ilarion moved with an untouchable grace, evading every projectile with precision. His cloak, woven with Varda's light, billowed with each motion, scattering starlight across its surface.
The Teleri, momentarily spellbound by the vision before them, fell silent. Then, the truth struck them, this was not Fëanor, but his son, Ilarion.
And yet, they were at war. Ilarion, the child with whom they had once shared songs, was now their enemy. So they continued to fire upon him, though their shots had lost their deadly accuracy.
…
The Noldor, facing the relentless rain of arrows, raised their shields. Some were improvised, yet even so, the harbor became a graveyard. Teleri and Noldorin blood tainted the once-calming sea, turning its waters crimson.
But the advantage did not last. The Noldor quickly adapted to the assault, moving with precision. Many fell into formation alongside Fëanor's sons, whose hands were already stained with the blood of the Teleri.
The Teleri, less skilled in combat than the Noldor, began to falter. The sheer martial prowess of their adversaries overwhelmed them.
Teleri archers stationed aboard the ships clung to their vessels as if they were lifeblood itself. Even as Noldorin swords cut them down, they grasped the wood with their final, desperate breaths.
Ilarion now stood amidst the unconscious bodies of many Teleri, his movements a seamless dance of survival. He narrowly dodged a wooden oar swung at him by a desperate Teleri, countering with a precise strike to the jaw that sent his assailant collapsing atop the others.
Yet, not once did Ilarion draw Silmacil. His sword was meant only for the dark creatures of Morgoth. To wield it against his own kin would be to betray his principles, to taint the precious gift of the Valar with shame.
…
Far beyond, on the outskirts of Alqualondë, Fingolfin and the remaining Noldor watched with growing unease as dense torchlight flickered across the city. As they approached, the distant clash of steel and the agonized cries of battle reached their ears, and a terrible premonition settled over him.
"Hurry! Something is wrong!" he urged, quickening his pace.
It did not take long for them to reach the city. And as they entered, they saw, in the distance, a Noldorin warrior impaled by a hail of arrows.
For a moment, he believed he was trapped in a nightmare, witnessing such a horrifying scene, but the roar of screams and clashing steel dispelled any doubt. His chest heaved, his breath quickened, and those who accompanied him also awakened to a barely contained fury.
"To arms! Protect our own!" Fingolfin ordered without hesitation.
Quickly, his group overwhelmed the Teleri on the outskirts, rescuing those Noldor who had been outmatched. One of the Noldor, in his final moments, pointed toward the docks.
"My brothers… my brothers are dying…"
Fingolfin, his heart tightening, urged them to hurry toward the harbor. Their hearts pounded, a dreadful shadow looming over the air. When they reached the edge of the docks, their steps halted abruptly. Before them unfolded a vision of utter chaos. The fire from the torches cast flickering shadows upon the piers, shadows of Teleri firing arrows at the Noldor, who desperately sought cover; Noldor locked in brutal melee combat against the Teleri.
The clash of weapons and war cries weighed heavily in the air, a thunderous din that made the ground tremble beneath their feet. Some Noldor, lacking proper weapons, wielded oars and hooks to fend off the Teleri.
Fingolfin felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. He did not understand. Why were they fighting? Why was there so much death? How had this begun? Then, amid the fury of battle, a voice rang out, reverberating in the hearts of the arriving Noldor.
"They attack us! The Teleri have ambushed us! They serve the Valar, they refuse to let us leave!"
And that ember of resentment toward the Valar ignited into a voracious fire. Confusion, rage, and fear filled their souls. He did not know who had shouted, but in that moment, it ceased to matter. Fingolfin saw his people fall, overwhelmed and outnumbered by the Teleri. His kin were trapped in a brutal struggle. He did not stop to think, he could not afford to.
However, he was not the first to react.
"Ilarion!"
Galadriel, his niece, drew her sword with ferocity and, with a roar, charged to aid Ilarion.. He stood alone, surrounded by Teleri, facing dozens of them without aid. The sight stirred Galadriel's protective instincts to their core.
Then, the others followed. Fingolfin, sword drawn, rushed to aid his people, along with all the Noldor who accompanied him.
***
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