"Stop this! They will die! Are you all mad now? Father, stop this! For the love of Eru, please Eru, stop this!"
The frantic pleas coming from the red-haired elf were lost in the roars of shouting and the crackle of flames. None of it stopped. The pleas, they continued, if only accompanied by screams of frustration and an angry stream of tears. The shouting also continued, as did the flames, as they grew higher.
Nothing stopped. They used the flimsy and laughable bows of the Telerinthey had stolento feed the fire. The red light reflected off of their swords.
But as soon as it was assured that the ships would burn on their own accord now, and would certainly be destroyed, the High King turned around, eyes wide like a gleeful child. "Let them betray us now, Fëanorians! Let them skulk back to the Valar." Cries of yea! echoed even off the waters.
Fëanáro called for his sons, and they came, even the one with a burning hatred in his eyes.
"Why are there only six?"
They did not know. They pinned their eyes on the lonesome twin.
"He was on the ship." His voice rose up to a high, panicked pitch. "I told you he was on the ship!"
Finally a silence settled amidst the ruin. Yes, he had told him. Curufinwë had known. He had dismissed it as an attempt to stop the burning. "Why?"
Ambarussa cursed, tearing at his hair. "He slept. Dear Elbereth, he is dead."
"He did not sleep."
"No, no, no! No, he did not sleep. He repented and longed for Valinor. You killed him, my lord. You burned him, and he is dead."
The twin wept, and so did Kánafinwë. Maitimo was silent, but gripped the hilt of his sword. The three remaining drew their mouths into tight lines. Father seemed fazed, and sanity dawned on his face.
"Yes, I burned him," he said. "My son is dead." Tears looked like they might fall, but they stayed unshed. The fey shadow fell again. "My son betrayed me, and all of you. He betrayed Finwë."
The High King was strong, strong like he was beautiful. Strong and beautiful as he was mad. Once, also, he was skilled; that had been drowned.
Yet strong like he was also Pityafinwë, whose grief was great. Fëanáro was nearly knocked back, hardly knowing how to react when fists began to beat on his chest. He thought that it must be painful, impacting only with chain mail. The red-haired son cursed his father, giving him a mighty push. The elder lost his footing, landing roughly on the sand, the tiny grains filling his mouth.
Turkafinwë stopped his brother before he could do further harm to their sire, striking him hard in the jaw.
"You fool." He did not bother to see if the twin was well, instead leaning down to help Fëanáro. "Are you well?" But even his voice quavered with pain, and the inquiry seemed half-hearted at best.
"I burned my son. He is dead, my son."
The little twin's wails rose above again.
"The fated, aye, aye, the fated indeed! Mother named him well. Umbarto! You could not change it, father! Dead! Burned! Umbarto!" And off into the perpetual night he ran, seemingly mad, and Kánafinwë went after. Still the king sat still upon the ground, the flames flickering off of his ash-white face. Ambarto, he had thought to name him instead. Still he failed. Still, his boy was dead. Burned.
But all knew of Fëanáro's madness, and no one was surprised when he insisted that they continue on. No one was surprised when he never spoke of his dead son again. No one was surprised when he whispered 'murderer' over and over when he was alone.
But no one knew that he spoke of himself, and the freckled face of a little boy haunted him until the very moment he fell to shadow and death. The babe he had once held, newborn and helpless, was dead; he was murdered, and that never strayed from his mind.
Fëanáro knew true hate, now, for it came from within his own soul, and burned brighter than the hatred that he reserved for Morgoth.
Fëanáro, Curufinwë - Fëanor.
Ambarussa, Pityafinwë- Amrod
Kánafinwë - Maglor
Maitimo - Maedhros
Turkafinwë - Celegorm
Umbarto, Ambarto - Amras. Feanor changed Umbarto to Ambarto, as he was disturbed by the meaning.