Morgoth-the Black Foe of the World
Year 1495 of the Trees | Year 14325 in the Years of the Sun
The halls of the Tower of Tirion were still. The light of the stars, now unchallenged by the Trees, slanted through the high-arched windows like silver spears, falling in broken shafts upon marble and gold. The air was heavy, as if the city itself held its breath in mourning. In that great place, built with the pride and glory of the Noldor, only the soft echo of measured footsteps stirred the silence.
Alcaron walked alone beneath the towering columns, his head bowed. The memory of Finwë, fair and mighty, still lingered in the stones of the palace. He had spoken the words of death to the people not long before, and already the grief lay across his heart like a mantle of lead. Yet his bearing was upright, his face solemn as carved stone, his mind bent toward the burden of kingship now passed from father to son.
But suddenly—he halted.
A shudder, sharp and burning, pierced through the very core of his being. It was no shadow of mourning nor the slow ache of sorrow. It came like a knife of fire through his fëa: swift, blinding, and strange. Alcaron staggered, placing one hand against the cold stone wall. His breath caught. His brow drew tight with pain, and for a moment he stood still, one hand to his chest, as though some unseen bond had been struck—twisted or torn.
Then, from opposite wings of the palace, two others came: Fingolfin and Finarfin, drawn by the same sudden pang.
"I felt it," Fingolfin said, breathless, his hand upon the hilt of his sword though no foe was near. His eyes searched the shadows as if he might spy the wound given form.
"And I," said Finarfin, who looked about him as one newly woken from dark dreams. "Not death—no—but something binding. Heavy and bright. Like flame coiled around the soul."
The three brothers stood together in the pale light, their forms tall and noble beneath the high arches. Alcaron looked from one to the other, and in his eyes there was a gleam of distant fear.
"It was not grief," he murmured, "not this time. This was a forging—not a breaking. Something has been sealed... or sworn."
Fingolfin's face grew grim. "Then we are changed, though we know not yet how. And something moves in the world—something we must learn swiftly, ere it overtakes us all."
They stood in silence then, listening, as if the marble itself might whisper of what had passed. But no word came from the stones, nor from the air beyond the walls. Only the stars looked down, cold and ancient, and the Tower Hall of Tirion held its silence.
Twilight had fallen across the highlands of Valinor, and the road to Formenos lay dim beneath the encroaching shadows. The stars were few as yet, shyly peering through the blue-grey veil that still hung over the heavens, and no light now came from the Trees. The world felt unnaturally still—its breath held, its voice hushed. There was no birdsong, no wind through the silver leaves of the hills. The silence was not peaceful; it was waiting.
Almirion rode at the head of the royal guard, a long cloak of sea-blue trailing behind him, the emblem of Eärondë upon his breast. At his side rode twenty of the King's Guard, handpicked and clad in dark silver mail, their helms crowned with slender wings. Their banners had been furled. They made no song as they rode. There was no horn-call. Only the steady beat of hooves and the soft rustle of leather and mail accompanied them.
He had said little since their departure, for his thoughts were heavy. He bore in his heart the burden of tidings few would wish to speak aloud: the King of the Noldor, slain in his own refuge. His grandfather—the father of his people—was gone.
They passed through the wide fields and over hills now grey and brooding. The road climbed steadily, winding toward the northern highlands, where the fortress of Formenos loomed in shadowed silence beneath the mountains. There, the House of Fëanor had dwelled in pride and exile, keeping apart from Tirion's towers and courts. But even from afar, Almirion felt unease. There was no firelight on the hills, no sign of life ahead.
Then one of the guards at the rear gave a soft whistle, and Almirion turned.
On the horizon, figures moved.
A line of riders, swift and dark against the twilight. They came down the road like shadows cast by fire, swift and silent. No horns. No heralds.
Almirion raised a hand, and the company halted. The wind shifted slightly, and with it came the first sounds—the ring of hooves, the low clink of bridles. As the two companies drew near, the forms resolved into familiar shapes: tall, proud Noldor, their armor polished, their cloaks bearing the blazing star of Fëanor.
And at their head rode the Lord himself.
Fëanor's face was pale in the dusk, but his eyes shone with a fire that did not flicker. There was no welcome in them. No warmth. The fierce light Almirion had known in his youth—the flame of creativity, the keen joy of craft and song—was gone. In its place there was a blaze, yes, but not of mirth or love. It was a burning of a different kind: the blaze of a forge in wrath, of coals stirred not for beauty, but for war.
Beside him rode his sons, silent and grim: Maedhros the tall and stern-eyed, Maglor with his harp slung at his back, Celegorm and Curufin like mirrors of their father's fire. Even Caranthir, ever withdrawn, watched the royal company with suspicion. Amrod and Amras, youngest of the seven, bore hard expressions beyond their years. And beside them, garbed in quiet grey, rode Nerdanel, Fëanor's wife, her face drawn with grief that had no tears.
Almirion dismounted, placing a hand over his heart in salute.
"My lord uncle," he said, his voice clear but low, "you ride swiftly."
Fëanor did not dismount. His eyes burned in silence.
Almirion hesitated, then bowed his head.
But Fëanor raised a hand, and the questions died on their lips.
He turned his gaze to the royal guards behind Almirion, and spoke at last.
"Four of your company will return to Formenos," he said, his voice like iron drawn from a scabbard. "There they will find him—fallen, yet still a king. They shall bear his body back to Tirion. No wail. No dirge. No fanfare. Let him be carried in silence... for that is what he died in."
His words rang with bitterness.
Almirion nodded solemnly and gestured to four of the guard, who saluted and turned their steeds without a word, beginning the ascent toward Formenos.
Then Fëanor looked again to his nephew. "We ride to Tirion. Now."
And with that, he turned his steed, and the company wheeled as one. No farewell was spoken. No sign of mourning passed between them. Only the steady sound of hooves followed in their wake, louder than before.
Almirion remounted, his thoughts heavy. The warmth he had once known in his uncle—the laughter in the forge, the songs shared at dusk—was gone. What rode beside him now was a fire unshaped, wrathful, and wild.
The company rode fast under the stars, and not once did Fëanor look back.
Night had fallen deep and full upon Tirion, yet no rest came to the city. The light of the Trees was gone, and in their place only the high stars watched from the firmament, pale and cold above the towers of the Noldor. The streets were lined with shadows, and lanterns flickered in trembling hands. Soft murmurs passed through the gathering crowds—like wind moving through dry leaves—scattered, breathless, full of fear.
"The king is dead..."
"Fëanor rides from Formenos..."
"They say he carries fire in his eyes..."
"Will he sit the throne...?"
They waited in silence behind the silver gates, behind marble columns and gilded windows that no longer gleamed. All things stood still, even the fountains, which seemed to murmur more softly, as if mourning.
And then, from the road that wound down from the northern highlands, there came the echo of hooves.
The riders emerged like a vision from a forgotten tale—high-helmed, swift and silent. The standard of Fëanor flew unfurled before them now, a burning star of red and silver, gleaming in the starlight like a brand freshly drawn from a forge.
Alcaron stood on the marble steps of the palace, the Court of Tirion behind him veiled in mourning drapery. He was clad in mourning robes, deep blue lined with silver, his brow heavy with both grief and foreboding. Behind him stood Fingolfin and Finarfin, their faces pale with weariness, the pain of unspoken fears etched upon their noble visages.
The gates swung open without herald or trumpet.
Fëanor entered the city not as a returning hero, nor as a penitent. He came as a flame—silent but searing. His eyes were unyielding, and behind him rode his sons, proud and grim, like warriors returning from war before war had even begun.
No voice was raised in welcome. No cheer nor chant broke the silence. The people watched in awe and unease.
The company halted before the palace steps, and for a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Alcaron descended, and though his heart was heavy with dread, he bowed low before his elder brother.
"Your people await you," he said. "High King of the Noldor."
The words rang in the air like a bell tolling over still water.
But Fëanor did not smile. He did not lift his hand to accept the greeting, nor ascend the stairs. He stood with head high and voice clear, and his words pierced the hushed air like a blade.
"Tirion remains yours to govern, Alcaron," he said. "I am King... but I will not stay."
A silence followed, tense and tight.
"My hands are not for rule," he went on, "but for vengeance. Melkor, the betrayer, the foe of light, has stolen that which is most precious. He has taken my father from me... and more. He has taken the Silmarils. My works. My flame. And for that, there shall be reckoning."
He did not weep. His eyes were dry, burning. Not the sorrow of loss, but the fire of wrath filled him, and his sons behind him stood like stone, unmoving and resolved.
Alcaron's heart stirred with fear, though he did not show it. This was not the brother he had known. This was the fire that had wrought the Silmarils—and it now hungered for blood.
Within the high council chamber of the palace—where once Finwë had held court beneath lamps wrought with silver and blossoms of light—the flame of torches flickered in gloom. The windows were open to the night, and the stars looked down without warmth. No Tree-light entered there now. Only the voices of the Noldor echoed in the hall.
Fëanor stood at the head of the chamber, his sons behind him like the seven peaks of a range—each distinct, yet unyielding. Before him sat the lords and nobles of Tirion, Alcaron among them, his face somber and still.
"The time of peace is ended," Fëanor proclaimed. "The murderer walks free. The greatest light in Arda lies broken, and our treasures—my treasures—are stolen and defiled. Melkor has fled. But he shall not escape."
He lifted his hand, and in the firelight, a strange shadow passed over his face.
"We go east. Beyond the sea. To the lands our fathers never trod, but from which we once came. There we shall find him. There we shall make him pay."
Then Maedhros stepped forward, his voice clear: "We have sworn an oath, my father and we his sons. A binding of our fëar, that none shall hinder us. We shall pursue Melkor unto the end of the world, and beyond, if need be. The Silmarils shall be returned—or we shall die."
A low murmur stirred the chamber.
Alcaron rose slowly to his feet. There was weariness in him, but also strength—a solemn dignity, like the sea's stillness before the storm.
"I felt it," he said softly. "When the oath was made. A stabbing pain. Not like grief... but like iron driven through the soul."
He looked to Fëanor, and his voice grew colder.
"You bind your sons with fire, brother. You stake your spirit on vengeance. But I tell you—oaths made in wrath are the forge of doom. They twist what was noble into shadow. Do not drag our people into ruin with your grief."
Fëanor's eyes flashed. "Do you deny your King?" he demanded, his voice rising like a storm wind.
Alcaron did not flinch. "No. I do not. But I will not see the streets of Tirion run red with the blood of kin."
He turned to the gathered lords. "If ships must be taken to the east, then let them be ours. The fleet of Eärondë is swift and strong. Let us not bring war upon the Teleri in their havens. Better the sails of Eärondë bear this flame than the white ships of Alqualondë burn in vengeance."
A long silence fell.
Fëanor's jaw clenched, but at last he gave a short nod.
"So be it," he said. "For now."
And with that, the council ended. But as the lords filed out into the shadowed corridors, Alcaron remained on the terrace of the palace, looking up into the endless sky.
The stars still shone—distant and cold—but he knew something had been loosed upon the world that not even their eternal light could withstand.
The oath had been spoken.
And doom had begun.
Dawn did not come, but the stars dimmed above the towers of Tirion, casting a pale grey veil over the white city. Where once the mingling light of the Trees would have bathed the marble streets in gold and silver, now only the cold breath of night lingered. Yet the square before the high steps of the palace was thronged with Noldor—nobles, craftsmen, students, smiths, and singers alike. They had gathered not for song, nor celebration, but for something deeper—drawn by grief, anger, and a fire they could not yet name.
Fëanor stood before them.
No crown rested upon his brow, though the stars themselves seemed to glint in his black hair like sparks caught in a wind. His cloak of crimson was unfastened and swept behind him like a banner. Around him, his seven sons stood—each silent, grim, a reflection of his will. He raised no scepter, bore no jewel. Yet all eyes were upon him, and the very air seemed to lean in, breathless.
"My people," he began, and his voice rang across the stone like the peal of a bell, fierce and clear.
"My kin. Sons and daughters of the Noldor. You know what has passed—though even now the tongue balks to speak it."
He paused, and a hush fell, as if the stones themselves waited.
"The Trees are dead," he said. "The light that gave life to this world—extinguished. Our father, Finwë the King, slain in cold blood. Our halls ransacked, our sacred treasures defiled. The Silmarils... my Silmarils... stolen."
His voice caught, but not in sorrow—in fury.
"By whose hand?" he cried. "By whom was this wrought? Melkor! That was his name. Melkor, the mighty. Melkor, the blessed. Melkor, who was taught by the Valar, raised to the high councils, given honor and voice beside the Powers of the world."
He stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"But no more shall he bear that name. Melkor is dead. He is no kin of light, no brother of the wise. I name him now and forever—Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World!"
A roar rippled through the crowd. Some cried aloud in horror. Others clenched their fists. Mothers drew their children close, but none turned away.
"Remember that name," Fëanor thundered. "Speak it with the ashes of your grief. With the fire of your wrath."
He turned slowly, sweeping his gaze over the city—his voice now a song of flame.
"Shall we remain here, like stones in a broken circle, waiting for the Powers who failed to guard us? Shall we beg pardon from those who could not save our king, nor preserve the light, nor protect the labors of our hands? No."
His hand rose, and the stars seemed to gleam brighter upon his brow.
"The time has come to reclaim our destiny. The time has come to depart this land of fading light, to cross the sea, and take back what is ours. To rend the darkness. To humble the thief. To retrieve the Silmarils—or to die in the attempt."
A murmur of assent began to grow. It rose with each word, as if a wind were kindling flame in every heart.
"We were not born for chains," he cried, "but for craft, for courage, and for glory. Let the Valar sit in silence behind their walls, if they will. We go forward. Free and proud. The sons of Finwë. The flame of our people."
He turned to his sons, each now with a hand upon sword or helm, and nodded. Then, to the crowd again:
"Who will follow me?"
The square broke into a storm of sound. Cries rose like waves—some in triumph, some in grief. Some fell to their knees, shaken to the core. Others raised their hands and shouted aloud. Songs, half-formed and sorrowful, rose among the people.
Finarfin, standing at the edge of the steps, said nothing—but his face was carved with pain. Fingolfin stood near, his eyes dark with doubt, yet he did not turn away. At last, both stepped forward, side by side, and bowed their heads. Their households stirred in answer. Riders were seen preparing, messengers dispatched, armor drawn from storerooms long untouched.
Above them all, high in the palace, Alcaron stood upon a terrace cloaked in shadow. His hands rested on the cold marble. He looked down in silence, unmoving.
He heard the call.
He saw the flame catch in the hearts of many.
But he did not cheer.
He did not weep.
He only watched—like one who sees a ship settingsail in a storm, and knows in his heart that the sea ahead is cursed.