Kinslaying

     The night sky's stars shone like silver dust in the sky. The torches blazed with fire, bringing some minor warmth the chilling midnight. Alasiel pulled her red hood over her head, shivering. She watched her brother, his eyes glazed with admiration. He was watching Lord Feanor as he led the heist. He and the Teleri spoke. Hushed, confused voices which were too far away for the girl to understand. Then, shouting.

Wind of remorse... Wind of horror, and memory.

A cold wind hit his face once he had reached a higher viewpoint upon the Andram.

He rushed to the stairs.

A statue, they had said.

No, statues were the smallest concern of Felegoth.

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Dimmed lights of the inn, flickering.
Many voices speaking, silently.
Anxiety, doubtfulness within the air, dulling the mind like an invisible mist.
Some are on duty. They make ready, prepare for the next day.
Some are just resting, recovering from perilous endeavours within a dangerous forest.

For a moment, memories arose…

More than six thousand years ago, in the age of the Noldor, they had dwelled in Beleriand, the mighty realm between the Ered Luin and the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë.

Clash of steel.

Sparks.

The young elf desperately parried.

The last strike disarmed him.

Dear diary,

King Finwë was slain, the Two Trees were destroyed and the Silmarils were stolen. Darkness can be felt on every side of Aman. I saw a kinslaying with my own eyes. I, my sisters and my mother and father fought against the kinslayers who desired to steal our ships. My father was slain in front of my eyes. Many of the Ñoldor left Valinor, following Lord Fingolfin and Fëanor. Lord Finarfin would start a march as well, though he returned to Valinor. But I and my sisters and mother went on and caught up with Fingolfin.

V.Y 1495

Dear diary,

The light of Laurelin is shining brightly, and Telperion is resting. I, my family and Calaerneth have returned to Alqualondë from the Gardens of Lórien, yet I sense something bad. While we were resting in the Gardens of Lórien, I saw a dream, a vision. I believe Lord Irmo is trying to give us a warning... 

He dreamt of a shining face of some ancient spirit, caged within a sullied blade.

And thus spoke the voice that was within the sword: