The Curse of Fëanor
I could wash my sword from now until the eternity of torment that is my natural life, but I will never be able to wash the blood off its deceptively aesthetic length. It is an ironic morbidity of my race to create beauty, even when it comes to our killing tools.
The spray of the sea rebounds off the bow of the ship and showers my damp cloak. I'm cold. I compulsively scrub the blade with the soggy hem of my cloak. It is free of any visible grime; the stars are reflected on its pristine surface. I regard it with disgust, however. To my eyes, it is forever besmirched, and forever is a long time for an Elf. Even as I watch, my conscience replays those memories that I would trade anything to forget. Blood drips off the deadly point, fair blood that was never meant to be spilt, not in a thousand Ages. I can still smell the distinctive tang…
I shake my head sharply, and the vision is erased. But I know it will return. When I am conscious, I can somewhat control the flashbacks. My dreams are not so easily deterred.
I used to be so happy, so content, so…naïve. Back…before…my heart was a lake of crystal beauty, a spring of joy for Arda's amusement. Now, though, it is nothing but a swamp of filth deep within me, a worthless cesspool of hatred and obsession.
He stands at the front of the ship, radiant in the starlight, the leader I am literally following to the ends of the earth. Fëanor stares beyond the horizon, seeing, perhaps, the things crafted of his hands in the clutches of Arda's vilest being. His jaw is of stone, and pure fury radiates from his ramrod posture. Insanity and cunning war and collaborate in his eyes, both setting their considerable power against that of the newly christened Morgoth. For the smallest speck of an instant I consider deserting him, aborting this mad quest before it's too late.
But it is too late. I have made my choice. There is no turning back. I chuckle quietly to myself, if only to keep from weeping. I chose to ignore the warning. I don't regret my decision, only the consequences of it. Do you hear me? No regrets. Curse my name if you will, but I'll keep on laughing.
For what other option have I?
There are whisperings about the ship. Already there is a name for our sin, a title that will last forever in infamy: The Kinslaying at Alqualondë. The worst sin committed by Elves in the history of Arda was performed by us, enraged Noldor on a mad crusade against a rogue god.
I will always remember their cries. Like a shadow, they'll cover my life. I try to reconstruct the incident, attempting to see through the haze of the massacre that followed. We were (are) maddened beyond words at the theft of the Silmarils and the rape of the Trees. Roused to frenzy by Fëanor's impassioned speech, we set out on a vendetta against the cursed Morgoth. But the cowardly fallen Ainu and his spider-creature companion had fled across the sea, and we had neither ships nor the time to construct them.
The Teleri had ships, though…lots of ships. So we trekked to their fabled harbor of Alqualondë, the Swanhaven, the pounding of our mailed feet throwing up dust into the air in a vast cloud.
Full of righteous wrath and confident of the validity of our quest, we haughtily demanded the Teleri give their ships to us so we may pursue the elusive fiend and recover the jewels.
They refused.
Thunderous arguments ensued. Fëanor tried ordering, pleading, and threatening. The Teleri refused to budge, unwilling to go against the will of the Valar in the slightest. The tension grew, as did the frustration in the army. Every moment wasted lengthened the distance Morgoth put between us and him.
Finally, fed up with pointless negotiations, we simply stole the ships, just as Morgoth had robbed us of our precious Silmarils.
The Teleri went ballistic.
They shouted and howled at us, throwing sticks and rocks at us to get us to desist. Some even fitted arrows into their bows pointed them threateningly. Ha, as if an Elf would actually kill another Elf.
Scuffles broke out on several ships as the Teleri scaled the boats and began physically throwing Noldor off. Fists flew. Violence escalated.
I don't know who drew first blood, and at this point I hardly think it matters. Before I knew it, everyone had drawn their swords, and we were fighting the Teleri, our fellow Elves, our kin. We fought them…we butchered them, especially after Fingon arrived with reinforcements and led a full-out charge against the Teleri.
And so we murdered our kin. We killed them like one would kill animals. No, we are more humane when we put down animals for meat. In our bloodlust and pent-up rage at the wrongs done to us, we slaughtered our brethren in a manner that would have inspired Morgoth to applause. We lowered ourselves to levels we didn't know existed. We are the Kinslayers, and we will be judged for our sins.
My deeds were wrong. I've stained the land and slain my kin. There's no release from my sins.
It hurts.
Was it the right decision? Was the death of our brothers worth bringing Morgoth to justice, a task we have hardly just begun? Time and only time will tell us if the end justifies the means.
I'm still alive, though, and I will follow Fëanor on his crusade for the Silmarils and the apprehension of Morgoth. I will always remember their cries, but I will also remember mine. I am still alive, and Morgoth will pay the price for making us do what we did.
All hope is gone, but I swear revenge.
"Morgoth," I cried in my mind, "hear my oath. When anger breaks through, I'll leave mercy behind. I will take part in your damned fate."
And so we sail through darkness and starlight to confront the rogue god who has destroyed our home and stolen our pride.
We will succeed, or fail everlastingly.