I own nothing.
He stands aside.
Seeing that there is no way to dissuade his father, Maitimo stands aside, and lets Fëanáro give the order, throw the first torch.
He stands aside, and says nothing, letting his silence speak for his disapproval. Speak it does, so loudly that his brothers, all six of them, even Curufinwë, do not follow their father when he rushes down to the shore to set the ships alight. They hang back nervously on the slopes, watching as Fëanáro sets fire to their ill-gotten ships. They shift their weight uncomfortably, unwilling, unable to speak up as the eldest of their number did. Curufinwë holds a crying Telperinquar in his arms, stroking his hair abstractedly.
Maitimo stands aside, but he can not help but watch. Every time he tries to tear his gaze away, the flames draw it back.
They shed blood for those ships, you know, shed it all over the white-washed quays of Alqualondë. Ripped screams from the throats of the Swan-Elves, before their throats came out too. Maitimo did this personally and wiped the blood from his sword afterwards, but the blood just got on his hands, and even now, he is not sure that it's gone. They did a lot to get those ships, and the idea of just burning them now that they've landed on Endóre leaves a bitter taste in Maitimo's mouth.
We may yet have more need of them, he wants to say. If we wish to journey further south, or if we need to do so to pursue the Enemy, the ships could shorten the length of our journey considerably. And once the Silmarils are in our possession once more, how are we to return home without the ships?
Maitimo does not voice his ever-mounting suspicion that they won't be allowed to return home at all. He says nothing at all. The ships are burning, and it's too late to try to argue with Fëanáro about what they should or shouldn't do with their ill-gotten ships. He had remembered too late how his father likes to settle arguments—decisively, with no way for anyone to change their minds later.
He really means to abandon them in Araman. He already has.
And I let him.
They had left Nolofinwë and the rest of the host of the Noldor shivering in Araman, promising to come back for them. "We'll see each other again soon enough," he had said to Findekáno, and his cousin had laughed and said "Don't wait too long. You may find a bunch of frozen Quendi waiting for you instead of us."
Findekáno is waiting on the other side of the sea for him to come back and bring him over to Endóre. But now, Fëanáro has resolved to ensure that his kin never follows him to these lands, and when Maitimo had tried to stop him, he had taken one look at his father's face, and been so terrified of what he saw there that he stood aside, and let him.
For one moment, Maitimo imagines his cousin learning of this betrayal, of seeing a column of flame and smoke in the sky, or perhaps of waiting for weeks on end, shivering in the ice and snow, before he realizes that his cousin, his friend, isn't coming for him. For one moment, Findekáno's laughing face rises to the forefront of his mind, glistening behind his eyes.
The image goes down in flames, the sick gorge of shame and regret rising in his stomach like bile. Their ill-gotten ships are ablaze, falling to ash; it's too late. It's always too late, by the time Maitimo decides to do something.
He won't be seeing Findekáno again.
Maitimo—Maedhros
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Curufinwë—Curufin
Telperinquar—Celebrimbor
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Findekáno—Fingon
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)