Disclaimer: Not mine. Tolkiens.
----------------
Thus at last the Teleri were overcome, and a great part of their mariners that dwelt in Alqualondë were wickedly slain. For the Noldor were fierce and desperate, and the Teleri had less strength, and were armed for the most part but with slender bows.
The Silmarillion: Quenta Silmarillion (The History of the Silmarils);
Chapter 8—Of the Flight of the Noldor
I have a strange fear in my heart that something dreadful will come to pass. And I think that it may be about to happen.
I sit, threading the needle through the clean white cloth, and try to will away this feeling of dread that creeps into my heart. I am startled out of my reverie by an acute pain in my finger, in my lapse of concentration; I have pricked myself with the needle. Grabbing a nearby scrap of cloth, I hastily bind my finger, lest the blood stain the pristine white canvas. Wherefore should such an unfounded fear arise? We are happy here, my kinsmen and I, making our music and crafting our ships. Sighing, I look up from my sewing and stare out at the vast, shimmering, blue of the Sea, listening to the gentle music its waters make, and I hum a tune to it, trying to relieve myself of the anxiety I feel. But I do worry. Maybe stems from the conflict between the Lord Olwë and the Lord Fëanor of the Noldor, though many days have passed since the day Lord Fëanor stormed away in a black rage. Even so, none of this is my concern, 'tis between the Lords Olwë and Fëanor. Lord Olwë will never let the Noldor lead our Great Ships to destruction and war, the Noldor have already gained the disapproval of the Valar for their rash vows and foolish actions, I think it a strange sort of madness on the part of Fëanor and his sons, their desire for to reclaim the Silmarils has led to this. I pick up my needle once more and continue my work, I am proud of the craft that my kind have managed to accomplish, it may be the same way Fëanor feels about his Silmarils, these fruits of our toil are indeed a sight to behold, with the tall masts and billowy sails.
Finally, my work is complete, I hold up the great sail, inspecting it for any flaws, before carefully folding it and placing it on the pile, for use when more Ships have been wrought, and are in need of sails. I stand and run to the shoreline, taking care not to trip over the hem of my dress, laughing, joining my kin as they sing and dance to the melodies of the ocean. Truly, we are blessed, and I can think of no other way I can live and still be content, the longing to enter the City of Valmar resides not in my heart, nor in my mind. As long as I am near the Sea, I am satisfied, how could anybody not love the Waters, sometimes languid and hypnotizing, sometimes roaring and crashing, churning and turbulent, sometimes serene and peaceful, with its still, cool waters.
I have a strange fear in my heart that something dreadful will come to pass. And I think that it may be about to happen.
"Nénheri?" comes the voice of one, as she peers intently at me, the wind in her hair. "Why, does something trouble you, kinswoman? Your face bears the expression of one so solemn."
"Nay, I am fine, worry not!" I laugh, taking her hand and twirling her round, and we are once again drawn back into the circle of dancing elf-maidens.
But we stop in shock when a terrible cry sounds, loud and harsh, and glance at each other, bewildered, before gasping in horror at the sight that greets us. A great host charging at us, their weapons gleaming menacingly in the light of the sun. They are…surely…it cannot be…no!
They are Elves. And they mean to kill us.
"They are our kin!" gasps an elf-woman. "They would not dare!"
Would they?
They advance rapidly, and we scatter, desperately looking for some means of refuge. Even so, I cannot believe that the Noldor would dare slay us, how can they? We are the Firstborn, all of us, of common race, of the same blood, would an Elf dare to murder his brother?
In the midst of panic, a voice rings out, bold and strong.
"To arms, brothers! To arms!"
Tis the Lord Olwë clad in battle garb, stringing a bow, the standard of the Teleri flying solemnly in the wind.
"Fëanor!" he cries his voice anguished. "Fëanor! Have you been driven to such madness that thou would strike a kin?"
But there is no reply, only the thundering of feet, as those who brandish swords continue marching swiftly toward us.
"So be it," sighing, Lord Olwë bends his head for a moment and then raises his head, and let fly an arrow.
And they fought.
We scatter, all my Kin, many of whom snatch up their bows and fire, some of those who hesitate are slain by the flying arrows and the flashing swords of the Enemy.
The Enemy. Kin no more, but Enemy. The realization of this sends a ripple of shock through me, so much that I stop short in the midst of fleeing to safer ground. I can feel the colour draining from my face as I slowly turn my head, barely comprehending what I am doing, but turn my head toward the Battlefield and watch in horror as my friends- nay - my family, my Kin crumple to the ground, lifeless and bloodied, while others fight on valiantly, notching arrows and releasing them frantically, I see that some of them have streaks of tears on their face, I feel that my heart will break.
There is a shout, some of the Noldor have managed to break through our lines. A frantic scramble is made by some who rush to stop the tide of charging Elves from advancing any further. They fight, desperately, a great many Elves fall, I do not know whether they are Teleri or Noldor, all I see is the blood, spilling, gushing out, seeping into the ground, every where.
Then I see him. One bleeding, but not felled, who grips his sword and rushes toward me with deliberate intent, I see the glint of steely death, the madness in his eyes, as he brings his sword down decisively. Kin slaying Kin. The Kinslaying.
I have a strange fear in my heart that something dreadful will come to pass. And I think that it may be about to happen.