-Fingolfin-
I sighed in bitter defeat. Watching the bodies of the fallen being carried back to Tirion weighed heavily on my heart. They were brothers who had followed me, even with hesitation in their souls, and now many rested in the arms of Mandos. I knew it wasn't my fault, and yet the unease gnawed at me from within.
"I shouldn't have urged them to follow me," I repeated to myself, staring at the waves that, just hours ago, had roared like beasts eager to devour us. "Are we doing the right thing? Would Father have wanted us to avenge him?"
"Yes. Father wouldn't have stood idly by if the dead one had been one of us."
The voice startled me—calm, serene… yet carrying a weight that dissolved all my doubts. Of all the people I would have expected to see approach, my half-brother was the last. And yet, there he was beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of silent understanding.
"To be honest, Fëanor," I said quietly, my tone tinged with irony that barely masked my confusion, "I never thought you'd be the one to read my thoughts."
But instead of taking offense or walking away, Fëanor let out a short laugh. Yes—my half-brother, the stoic one, the one with the burning gaze whose words toward me and my brother had always dripped with venom. I heard him sigh, and when I glanced at him, I saw something new: a nostalgic man whose gaze was lost in the horizon.
"The poisoned words of Morgoth clouded my judgment," he said wearily. "I stood against you too many times, Fingolfin. You know, I hated you and your mother… I believed that my father had tried to replace my beloved, departed mother."
"But now we are the only sons of Finwë who, despite the punishment Aulë imposed upon us, still stand firm. Even if it means marching alone into distant lands, we must remain united—at least in our path of vengeance."
Fëanor was right. Though in my heart I had always considered him a brother, I never hated or envied him; quite the opposite.
"To tell the truth, I admire you, Fëanor," I said, gazing into the distance. The cold air lashed against our faces. "But you're right—one cause binds us, and as such, we must remain united. Division is what Morgoth would have wanted, to weaken us."
With a sigh, I rose from the rock where I sat. My eyes met Fëanor's—indifferent and cold as the Helcaraxë—but deep within them, hidden well, was warmth… a spark of recognition.
"But what made you tell me all this?" I asked.
Fëanor sighed and shook his head.
"Do you remember the light Ilarion gave us amidst the wild and reckless waves? Well… I felt something inside me break free."
I frowned. It was true that his indifference and venomous words had subsided since we reunited on the coast; I had attributed it to his grief over the death of the Noldor, but now it seemed something else lay beneath.
"Free yourself from a burden?" I asked, my mind beginning to turn. "You don't think… Morgoth might have done something to you?"
It wasn't an absurd thought. In the early days, Fëanor treated me with indifference, almost as if I were invisible. But once Morgoth began traveling with him, like his shadow, our discord grew. It escalated to the point that he threatened me with his sword—an act that, in the eyes of others, was nothing short of blasphemy.
"I don't doubt that he did," he replied, glancing back—specifically at my nephew Ilarion, who, with a serious and determined expression, was helping our people. "Ilarion had a vision a few moments ago."
Those words left me petrified. Very few were blessed with that gift; still, it wasn't surprising—my nephew was, by far, different from all of us. His talent went beyond anything Fëanor or I could achieve, yet that only deepened my concern.
"What did he see?" I asked hesitantly.
"Probably our death," he said with cold indifference.
How could he remain so unmoved? Visions were to be taken with utmost seriousness, and yet my half-brother dismissed them as if they were nothing more than illusions.
"This is serious, Fëanor," I said, frowning.
Nodding, my half-brother looked me directly in the eyes. For an instant, I felt small; it was no wonder that so many of our people, despite exile, followed Fëanor and proclaimed him their true king.
"It is. That's precisely why I'm planning for us to split up" he paused as he looked off at his sons—. I will proceed as planned.
"Madness!" I sprang to my feet, seized by an outburst. "If we split up, our forces will be weakened, and both you and I know that Morgoth will be waiting to ambush us. He knows we will leave Valinor seeking vengeance."
Fëanor sighed and turned his gaze back to me.
"That is exactly why I say we should separate. Now, with my mind cleared of unbridled fire, I know my Silmarils are not his only objective," he said, urging me to look at Ilarion.
"Are you saying that…?" My words stuck in my throat.
"Exactly," he replied in a grave voice. "He wants to kill Ilarion. He knows my son is an obstacle that must be removed before he grows strong; otherwise the plans he has been weaving for years are likely to be interrupted."
"But… what good will splitting up do?" I asked, though different answers were already forming in my mind.
Fëanor, with the same calm that had characterized him before the creation of the Silmarils, sighed.
"I am aware that our people will not be enough to face Morgoth. Do you remember Father's stories? Those about those who chose to remain in those lands."
"I remember. So you plan that they join us," I nodded, agreeing with his point; I was aware that we alone could not stand against the Dark Vala.
"Yes. I plan for us to encamp in a high, hard-to-invade place. If we encounter servants of Morgoth, we will eliminate them. I will be waiting for your arrival with reinforcements; for that you must take Ilarion with you: the blessing Yavanna granted him will help him locate those elves with ease."
I sighed and let my shoulders relax.
"Then it is decided," I said, watching Fëanor turn and head toward his followers.
But he stopped for a moment, as if a thought had just crossed his mind.
"In addition to Ilarion, take Amrod and Amras with you."