-General-
The sea, now calm with tranquil currents, seemed to watch them with indifference, its rage sated after the demise of those who lay at the bottom of the sea. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks echoed on that beach, where hundreds upon hundreds of Noldor gathered.
Some mourned the dead, for among them lay their kin, now inert at the bottom of the sea. Others remained silent; they had no words. But those closest to the miracle of Ilarion sang softly of the feat of Fëanor's son.
The vessels anchored on the shore, their damaged hulls rasping after colliding with the sea foam. It was a miracle they had been sufficient to transport everyone.
Those untouched by the sea's wrath wrapped the rescued Noldor in blankets. The women bandaged the wounded. Some may have preferred to follow Fingolfin and others Fëanor, but now that didn't matter. Their people, their brethren, needed each other: differences had been cast aside.
They were Noldor, the most powerful elves, the most ambitious, but also the most loving of their people. Ilarion's presence brought about a change: the distrust that had separated them began to dissipate. The consequences of their actions, far from dividing them, united them, for all had sinned in Valinor, and now all helped each other without resistance.
Fingolfin ran, aiding whoever needed it; his sons followed closely. Only his brother Finarfin remained seated on the sand, his gaze lost on the sea's horizon. Only he would know what he was thinking.
On the other side, Fëanor, his heart softened a little by the tragedy of his people—helped transport blankets and bandages. His eight sons followed him, tending to the wounded.
"Thank you, thank you..." a Noldor repeated to Ilarion.
It was he who saved him from drowning in the sea. Ilarion, with his kind and helpful demeanor, nodded, patting the elf's shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
"Ilarion, help me on this side," Maedhros said.
Ilarion nodded and bid farewell to the elf, who had calmed down a bit.
"If you have no wounds, try to help those who do," he told him serenely. Leaving those words behind, he followed his elder brother, helping him with the transport of bandages.
They continued like this for a long time. Most of the wounded had already been attended to; however, among them were some who remained silent, with a lost gaze. Their wounds were not physical: they were mental.
Some had descended into madness. They desperately screamed that they wanted to return, and others were like walking corpses, wanting to return to the sea and have it claim their lives; fortunately, they were stopped by their Noldor brethren, who held and comforted them.
....
High on a stone, Fëanor and Fingolfin lay together, silently observing the surviving Noldor. Both half-brothers remained quiet until Fëanor broke the silence.
"Once we recover, we must depart," he said softly, just loud enough for Fingolfin to hear.
"Fëanor... I don't think..." Fingolfin began but didn't finish the sentence.
A shift in the wind made their skin tingle.
At that moment, a shadow, radiant like a torch, appeared in the sky, colossal, followed by a dark mist that seemed to crawl like an obedient pet.
Its presence was overwhelming. Almost all the Noldor fell to their knees before that manifestation, which slowly took shape. No one knew who—or what—it was... until the shadow spoke.
Then everything became clear. There was no doubt as to whom that figure belonged.
"Countless tears shall you weep. The Valar will close Valinor forever because of you. You have defiled this pure land with the blood of your brethren... and by blood shall you pay. Though you were made not to die, death will find you, and claim you."
The air became heavy and dense. The world, hearing such a proclamation, bowed in fear; the winds roared and the thunders responded with lightning in the black clouds.
Those words were not just a judgment: they were a sentence, etched into their souls for all eternity.
"Only the Eighth shall save you. But to do so, she must pay the price of her innocent radiance, accepting to bear the death and salvation of those who follow her. Only that star will be your hope in the hour of paying for what you have done."
Mandos had spoken on behalf of the Creator himself, Eru Ilúvatar.
Upon seeing the shadow of Mandos, Fëanor stepped forward, asserting himself before the colossal figure.
"We did not swear the oath in vain. We will not turn back. What we do will be remembered until the end of time... The only thing I fear from your prophecy," he added, his voice firm, "is... that we will be portrayed as damned cowards."
Fëanor's determination spread like a wild fire among those present. Fingolfin, with the same burning eyes, stood beside him in a gesture that spoke more than a thousand words.
But those words from Mandos were exactly what those who still wished to return needed to hear. Among them was Finarfin, Fingolfin's brother and Fëanor's half-brother.
He had been weighing his decision since the massacre of Alqualondë, and finally, his heart found an answer.
He turned to Fingolfin and Fëanor.
"My path ends here... Brothers, I cannot continue. I will gather those who wish to return, and we will go back to Tirion. We will implore the Valar's forgiveness... even if we do not deserve it."
Fingolfin took a deep breath, the storm still lashing his face. His gaze fell upon Finarfin's children, Finrod and Galadriel, who remained beside Ilarion, like two bodyguards ensuring the pure flame of that young one was not contaminated.
The answer to the question in his heart had already been given. Finarfin finally nodded sadly, reading his brother's thoughts.
"Yes... they will stay, they will not abandon their people at this moment, and even more... they will not abandon Ilarion." Finarfin placed a hand on Fingolfin's shoulder. "I know you will care for them as if they were your own children, so I will not worry about them."
Fingolfin nodded, saying no more words, for they were unnecessary. But unlike him, Fëanor looked at Finarfin with disgust; it was known that Fëanor detested cowardice, and his half-brother was now openly expressing it.
But to the surprise of both brothers, Fëanor shook his head in disappointment, and words of disgust did not come.
"Such an act is cowardly, yet I cannot force those who do not want to leave to follow us, so go with them, Finarfin, and await the news of our victory."