-General-
Fëanor's command fell on deaf ears for Fingolfin, who trudged forward with heavy steps, carefully avoiding broken planks, bloodstained weapons, and tattered clothes, but above all, the lifeless bodies of the fallen Elves. It was a harrowing sight. His eyes searched for the source of his half-brother's voice.
A wave of anguish coursed through Fingolfin's body, and then he saw him, his half-brother Fëanor, standing atop the ship, his sword still dripping with blood. His breath was steady, his stance unwavering.
A few Teleri corpses lay at his feet, but that was not what froze Fingolfin in place. It was the look on Fëanor's face, indifferent, as if the massacre that had just unfolded was nothing more than a jest.
Realization struck him like lightning. Beneath the weak moans of the dying and the blood soaking the docks, the truth became undeniable: the Noldor had not been attacked. They were not the victims. They were the invaders. They were the murderers.
"Those strong enough, take the oars! We are leaving!" Fëanor commanded.
The Noldor who could still move obeyed without hesitation, stepping over the lifeless bodies of the Teleri without a second glance. It was a cruel display, the first, undeniable sign of their fall from grace. They leaped onto the ships, untying the last of the moorings and preparing for the journey ahead.
Maedhros, the eldest of Fëanor's sons, approached his father, his expression grim. "There is no sign of Olwë, Father. We saw him fight, but he is neither among the dead nor the captured."
"It does not matter," Fëanor replied with scorn in his voice. "We have what we came for. Do not concern yourself with a coward who abandons his own people."
To Fëanor, Olwë's escape was an act of cowardice. What kind of leader fled a battle and left his people behind?
But before he could turn away, a voice interrupted him, Fingolfin, his very being consumed by sorrow.
"Fëanor… what have you done? Why? Why…"
"There is no time for explanations, Fingolfin," Fëanor cut him off, turning away as if the conversation no longer concerned him.
That final dismissal sent Fingolfin's fury over the edge. He took a step forward, intent on grabbing his half-brother, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was Finarfin, who knew it was futile to argue with Fëanor. Another conflict would only spill more blood, and there had already been too much.
With his brother's restraint bringing a moment of clarity, Fingolfin could do nothing but clench his fists, his teeth grinding in silent frustration. A deep disappointment weighed on him, not just in Fëanor, but in himself. He had taken part in the battle. He had not killed anyone, but he had still fought without knowing the truth.
"This is not your fault, brother. Do not bear this burden alone," Finarfin said, his voice calm yet firm. "We did not know the full truth. No one will blame you. You only sought to protect our people."
Finarfin's words, though well-intended, did little to ease Fingolfin's anguish. It was not something mere words could heal. They had slaughtered their own kin. The poor Teleri had been mere boatmen, how could they have stood against the might of the Noldor? No wonder the casualties had been so terribly one-sided.
As Fingolfin was consumed by his thoughts, Ilarion and Galadriel approached him. They did not speak, there was no need. The weight of what had happened still hung thick in the air.
"I will go with my father and my brothers, Galadriel," Ilarion murmured softly.
The she-elf did not respond immediately; her gaze was lost in the crimson waves, in the blood that stained the shores as a grim reminder of the night's horrors.
With a light tap on her shoulder, Ilarion bid her farewell and left her standing beside her uncles. Finarfin was the only one who acknowledged him with a nod of gratitude. Though he knew his children were strong, worry still gnawed at him. Yet, as he looked at Galadriel—spotless, untouched by blood, he realized something he had not noticed before: Ilarion had ensured that his sister remained untainted by the massacre.
A small act, seemingly insignificant. But one whose repercussions would ripple through the ages, forever altering the fate of Finarfin's children.
As Ilarion approached, Fëanor cast him a quick glance, confirming that all his sons were accounted for. Then, in a voice both quiet and commanding, he gave his final order:
"Everyone aboard! We set sail now!"
...
Not far from the harbor, where the waves roared and crashed against the jagged coastline, the white foam of the ocean seeped into a sea cave. Beneath the shimmering water, where only the wind's song and the melody of the sea could be heard, Olwë swam.
Each stroke was heavy, his limbs weighed down by exhaustion. His clothes were torn, his skin coated with the salt of the ocean, and his wounds burned faintly from the mixture of sweat and seawater.
He had run. He had escaped. But not out of fear.
Before him, at the end of a slippery, water-worn stone path, stood a towering column of water. It turned in slow, deliberate spirals, but within its depths lay the force of a hurricane.
There, amidst the sea mists, stood the Vala Ulmo, Lord of the Oceans, accompanied by the two Maiar who always followed him, Ossë, the Maia of the raging waters, and Uinen, Ossë's wife and the Maia of the calm seas.
Ulmo, as majestic as a hurricane, seemed to embody the very tides themselves. His voice could shake the foundations of the ocean or whisper like the currents, majestic yet lethal.
Beside him, Ossë loomed like the wild waves, his presence unsettling, the waters around him rippling with barely contained fury. Uinen, by contrast, remained still, her flowing hair merging with the waves, her gaze as deep as the ocean's abyss.
Such a sight stopped Olwë in his tracks, and he felt the weight of their threefold gaze upon him. Yet the discomfort melted away in the face of his resolve. The tragedy that had befallen his people had brought him here, he would not falter now.
"What brings you to my domain, Olwë?" Ulmo whispered. Though spoken softly, his words carried overwhelming power. Instinctively, Olwë fell to his knees. This was not the Ulmo he remembered, not the calming Vala, steady as the tide. No, this Ulmo was in no mood for serenity. The loss of the Trees had enraged him.
Summoning his courage, Olwë spoke, his voice trembling. "Great Ulmo, my people have known tragedy." His sobs softened the storm within Ulmo, and even the turbulent waters around Ossë began to still.
"The Noldor have attacked us, my lord! My people have been slaughtered by Fëanor's recklessness!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Blood, blood and death drown the harbor of Alqualondë!"
Olwë recounted everything, the arrival of the Noldor, the massacre of his people, each word a chilling reminder of those he had lived alongside for so long, now lost.
With every word Olwë spoke, the sea rippled in response. Ulmo and the spirits of the waters stirred as the tale unfolded, disbelief gradually forming on their faces.
As Olwë reached the end of his account, tears streamed down his cheeks. Hesitantly, he raised his gaze, only to be stunned by what he saw. The great lord he worshipped bore no trace of calm upon his face, only fury and incredulity. It struck fear into Olwë's heart, yet he pressed on.
"Now our ships depart from our shores, I can feel it. Our ships mourn the loss of my people," Olwë finished, and at that moment, he felt it, his breath caught in his throat.
The sea cried out for vengeance against the Noldor.
***
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