Thanks to Araloth the Random for the awesome beta-reading.
Minyaqualmë
"Minya" (first) + "Qualmë" (death.) I'm aware that the murder of Finwë wasn't really the first death, but it was the first bloody death by weapon. I'm sorry, too: I made Finwë seem so weak and untrained. But that's what you call impression, I guess. Somewhere, sometime ago, I must've read a story where he seemed as feeble as horseradish.
Did Fëanor make Finwë's sword for him? Ah well. I suddenly got obsessed with colons! And sentences in italics! (And giving my stories Quenya titles.) If my Quenya is all muddled, please tell me. Please? Think of it as critique. ^~^ please correct me about anything that needs it. Thanks. (Because I'm terrible at making sentences with the Quenya words.) You will also forgive the details of the fight, because I have never handled a sword before! *grins sheepishly*
Also: If anything was written in an official essay (by JRRT, Christopher, or some qualified person) about the murder of Finwë, I have not read it. For all I know, Melkor might have been the silent-killer type, Finwë might not have fought back for whatever reason, or there might have been a lengthy, classical, pre-battle one-on-one talk/speech. Now I'll stop the Author's Note that is as long as the fic itself! *wide eyes*
ΩΩΩΩΩ
The shadow darts around. He can sense it; he can feel it. Gray eyes scan the surroundings wildly: looking, searching. Outside the walls of Formenos, everything turns cold and gray. The shadow nears. He knows. Hands fly to the beautiful, jewel-crested sword. Fingers grasp the cold hilt, and the spirit throbs: my son made this for me.
The environment grows colder with every heartbeat: the shadow is moving. He pulls out the Elven blade. It glitters. His eyes focus on the silhouette standing in the darkness; its own blade seems to be made of evil itself, twisted into a bright metal. It advances in quick steps, and he knows who it must be. The mouth opens, and out comes a cry:
"Fëanáro! Yonya, massë nalyë?" The Spirit of Fire, my son, where are you? Your presence will mean everything to me.
No reply. He must still be out, teaching them swordplay—when their skills are needed here. His heart burns with anger for his ill fortune. So hand in sword, he makes brave steps towards the shadow—and the fight begins.
In this battle, skills are tested to the extreme. Metal clashes against metal, and the full spirit of battle falls into this one fight. He runs to take a decorative shield hanging on the wall, and raises it in time to block a strong cut. Melkor snarls, pulling his blade back for a thrust.
Heart thudding, he takes a chance -- and a bright Elven blade is swung.
Melkor acts like lightning. He deflected my attack! Now breath is coming in ragged gasps; how long has this been going? Why can't anyone hear? He turns around in an awkward angle, and Melkor throws the ornamental shield from his arm.
Melkor towers over him and he recoils: since when have I grown so weak? He desperately thrusts the sword at the dark Vala. Melkor escapes easily. Finwë scrambles to a better position and Melkor seizes his chance. The sword approaches… has my time come already? Surely not—I must stay alive for as long as I can. And as he rushes out of the deadly range of the swing, his lips part in another desperate cry:
"Heru nyéron, heru ulcon!" Lord of sorrow, lord of evil. At the end of it all, you too will know defeat.
He grips his sword and slashes: again! Again, for all I am worth! His attempts are futile. Melkor brings his sword down, and it misses by a hair. Finwë lunges with his own blade, and it hits, but he does not know—Melkor is wearing armour? Silently cursing himself for his carelessness, he strikes again. But Melkor is fully aware this time. The twisted blade flashes. Blood spills onto the grass, and after a yell of pain, a cry rings out:
"Ani nesta!" Heal me! And mar the victory of the darkness.
Lying on the ground, gazing in the direction of his treasury, he struggles to sit up. His desperate yell is cut off by the sound of gurgling blood. More of the scarlet liquid spatters the grass in front of him, and he falls on his back, breathing hard: I have failed my family. Melkor raises his sword, and…
Telpecálë, carnecálë, ar oirahuinë. Flash of silver, flash of red and eternal shadows.