The Doom of Flame, the Daybreak of the Dawn
Year 1495 of the Trees | Year 14325 in the Years of the Sun
The path that wound from the eastern towers of the Royal Palace of Tirion unto the western halls lay solemn and grey in that hour. Now, in the twilight that neither recalled day nor welcomed night, three walked there with quiet footsteps and heavy hearts. Alcaron, son of Finwë and steward of the sundered Noldor, went before, tall and grave, his cloak of deep green stirring faintly in the breathless air. Beside him walked Írime, his sister, her fair face drawn but unbowed, and close behind came Almirion, his son, with eyes dark and searching, in whose bearing both sorrow and hope contended.
They were not called to council by lords of Elvenkind, nor summoned by princes to speak of war or peace. No herald had come, no summons borne on wind or wing. And yet, at the western entrance hall of the Royal Palace of Tirion, beyond the gate of gold, the Powers awaited. Not all of the Valar—only three stood in solemn stillness: Námo, Doomsman of the Dead; Vairë, the Weaver of Time; and Nienna, Lady of Mercy and Mourning. They had not summoned Alcaron, but came to him and waited for him nonetheless, as though knowing he would come—drawn not by duty or command, but by the quiet pull of fate and grief, for the world had changed, and in Alcaron's heart was the weight of exile, of kin lost far away, and of choices that still echoed in the hidden chords of the Music.
The air grew still as they passed beneath the pillars of the Mindon Eldaliéva, whose high tower had once borne the silver lamp that guided mariners of the Eldar. But now its windows were dark, and the stars alone lit their way, distant and unblinking in the dome above.
And it was there, amidst the hush of memory and marble, that the world itself seemed to pause.
Alcaron halted mid-step.
A great cry, soundless yet vast, passed through him. He staggered, clutching at his chest as though pierced by a spear unseen. His breath came shallow, and with a strangled gasp he fell to one knee, trembling. His companions turned in alarm—Írime's voice broke the silence, soft and sharp with fear, and Almirion reached out, his hands catching his father as though to steady a tree whose roots had been torn.
But Alcaron heard them not.
Within him, something ancient and sacred was breaking. A bond forged long ago in the fire of kinship, the thread that once connected him to another fëa mighty and fierce, was severed. It was not like the grief he had felt when Finwë fell. Then the wound had been deep but distant—a mourning. This was different. This was rending.
And in that moment, as pain like fire flooded him, Alcaron saw.
He saw not with his eyes, but with the deep sight of the soul—the sight given to those bound by blood and doom.
He beheld Fëanor.
His brother—once radiant and fierce, now a storm of wrath loosed upon the shadowed lands of Middle-earth. Fëanor, spirit of flame, blade in hand, charged across the broken plain. Alcaron saw it all: the black earth of the Ered Wethrin, smoking and torn, strewn with the bodies of orcs and goblins felled by the King's fury. The stars glinted above, but their light was pale beside the fire in Fëanor's eyes.
None stood before him. His sword struck like lightning, cleaving foes as wind cuts through mist. In his wrath he moved faster than voice or thought, and even the host of the Noldor—his sons, brothers and captains—lagged far behind. His laughter rang over the din of battle, but it was not the laughter of joy. It was the voice of a flame that could not be quenched.
And upon his brow, though no gem rested there, the memory of the Silmarils seemed to burn, as though the light of his own making still crowned him.
But the smoke grew darker.
And out of it came the shadow.
From the ruins and fire, six great forms emerged—tall as towers, cloaked in flame, their shapes shuddering the very air. Their faces were hidden by helms of iron and shadow. In their hands they bore whips of flame, many-thonged, and black blades that glowed with heatless fire. The Balrogs had come—the dread spirits of fire, bound long ago to Melkor's will.
Fëanor turned to face them, and he did not falter.
He raised his blade in challenge, crying aloud in Quenya words lost to all but the wind. Alcaron felt them echo through him—defiance, wrath, and the pride of the House of Finwë.
Then he struck.
He charged into their midst like a meteor, and his sword sang in the air. One he hewed down, its form bursting into ash; another he wounded sorely. Flame lashed at him, but he burned brighter still, a being of fire fighting fire, dancing amidst the scourge of the Valaraukar.
But they came as a storm, fierce and unrelenting.
They circled him, six against one, wings of shadow and fire beating like drums of doom. They cried out in voices like the cracking of the earth. Fëanor staggered, bleeding from many wounds, but still he stood, his gaze terrible, his rage undimmed.
And then—
Light.
A change stirred in the sky above the battlefield, unseen by Fëanor's mortal foes but felt by Alcaron's spirit. Beyond the shroud of darkness that veiled the upper airs, a golden shimmer awoke. From the farthest reaches of the East, where the Valar had set their last hope upon the world, the Sun rose for the first time.
It climbed the heavens like a crown of fire, casting long shadows and stirring gold in the black clouds.
And Fëanor saw it.
Even as the whip lashed about his limbs, even as he fell to one knee, scorched and bound, he looked up.
And he smiled.
For in the rising of that light, he saw a sign—not of his triumph, but of endurance. His fire would not be the last. The world would burn anew in hope, not only wrath. Though his Silmarils were lost, the light that he once craved now lived beyond his making.
Then came the end.
One of the Balrogs, towering above the rest, brought down its blade of dark fire. Fëanor's sword fell. A whip caught his throat, dragging him to the earth. The laughter ceased. The blaze in his eyes dimmed.
And at last, in grim silence, the beast raised a blade blacker than void, and beheaded the mightiest of the Noldor.
Alcaron cried out.
The vision passed.
He gasped, and the world returned. The stone of the path beneath him was cold. His hands shook. His eyes were full of stars, and tears ran down his face.
"Father!" Almirion's voice broke through the stillness. Írime steadied him with one arm.
Alcaron's lips trembled. He looked westward, as though seeking something far beyond the horizon.
"He is gone," he said at last, his voice hoarse with wonder and sorrow. "Fëanor is slain. My twin… the flame of our house… is quenched."
Above them, unnoticed until that moment, the light of the newborn Sun spilled over the walls of Tirion. It kissed the towers and domes with gold, and cast long rays through the Mindon, where the lamp had long stood dark.
The light had come again to the world.
But the High King was a flame extinguished.
And so passed Fëanor, firstborn of Finwë, greatest of the Eldar—gone in fire and fury, beneath a sky born anew, killed by Gothmog Lord of the Valaraukar.
The great western entrance of the Royal Palace of Tirion, once bathed in the golden gleam of Laurelin's dew and ringing with the laughter of the Eldar, stood now in quiet reverence. The sun, newly risen over the shadowed rim of Aman, cast long shafts of light through the high archways, igniting the mosaics of the vaulted ceiling in hues not seen before by Elven eyes. Beneath that nascent dawn, three figures of dignity and sorrow awaited in silence.
Alcaron son of Finwë came forth, weariness hanging about him like a cloak. Beside him walked his sister Írime, her bearing graceful though her gaze was shadowed with care, and his son Almirion, who though young in the reckoning of the Eldar, bore the solemn eyes of one who had witnessed more than his years. Together they entered the great hall where no trumpets sounded, and no guards announced their coming—for none were needed. The Valar had awaited them.
There stood Námo, tall and dark as the void between stars, his eyes deep wells that beheld all endings. Beside him was Vairë, his spouse, clad in robes of silver-grey, her hands stilling the thread of her loom for this hour alone. And near them stood Nienna, veiled in twilight, her eyes red not from weeping alone, but from the compassion that underpinned the sorrow of the world.
The three elves halted and bowed, though no formal summons had called them hither. Alcaron lowered his gaze, for the burden upon his soul was raw and bleeding.
"Alcaron," said Nienna softly, her voice like rain falling on thirsty stone. "Son of Finwë. Brother of the fallen. Long have we known thee. In days of peace, thou didst sit at our feet and learn the measure of grief and hope. We grieve with thee now, for thy father is slain—and thy twin, Fëanor, though divided in path, is gone also. Two High Kings of the Noldor are fallen within a single turning of the stars."
At this, Írime wept openly, and Almirion lowered his head in silence. But Alcaron only stood as if carved in stone. His vision of Fëanor's last stand still burned within him: the fury, the fire, and the cruel end by flame and shadow. A tremor passed through him.
He found his voice at last.
"I thank you for your mourning," he said hoarsely. "But I would know why you are come. You stood not in the courts of the Noldor in many an age, nor have the Powers deigned to walk our halls since long before the Darkening. What has changed?"
It was Námo who stepped forward then, and the light seemed to darken where he walked. "We come not in judgment but in answer," said he, and his voice was as deep and cold as the roots of the world. "Long have we spoken among ourselves in the Ring of Doom. The departure of the Noldor and their oath-riven march into Middle-earth are not matters lightly weighed. The choice was grave, the cost great, and some among our number believed justice demanded a reckoning."
At this, Alcaron's eyes narrowed, and his hands curled into fists. Even Írime stiffened, and Almirion took a half-step forward, as if to place himself between his father and the Powers.
But before any of them could speak, Nienna lifted her hand.
"No," she said, and her voice carried the hush of the world before the first raindrop. "No crime has been done in that choice. Grief drove them, love drove them, vengeance and loss. But not rebellion. Free will is the gift of Eru to all his children, and we do not punish its exercise, even when the road it chooses is bitter. The Noldor shall not be punished."
The hall stilled. A long breath left Alcaron, as though a weight he had not known he carried was lifted from his chest.
"We are glad," said Írime quietly, "for there has been enough pain."
Then Vairë spoke, her voice like the rustling of endless scrolls. "You have seen what has come. The first dawn has broken. The sun now rises, made from the last golden fruit of Laurelin, and with it, the final lights of the Trees pass from the world. A new age has begun. And with it, your House must rise again."
She turned her gaze full upon Alcaron.
"Fëanor is gone. Fingolfin and Finarfin dwell in Middle-earth. Of the House of Finwë, none remains in Aman with greater age or authority than thou. Alcaron, steward no longer—you are now High King of the Noldor in Aman, by right of descent, by the will of the Valar, and by the voice of the world itself, which must be answered."
Alcaron's mouth opened, and for a moment, he was silent. The words had the sound of finality, and of a burden he had not sought. Yet in the eyes of Vairë, he saw no command—only recognition. He bowed his head, accepting what the world had wrought.
Then Námo turned to go, and the hall seemed colder.
But as he reached the archway, he paused, and over his shoulder he said:
"Know this, if your heart would look again upon Fëanor. He dwells in my halls, but he is not as others. The oath he swore with his sons burns within him still, an iron brand upon the spirit. So long as it endures unfulfilled, they cannot heal, nor fully wake, nor receive those who come in peace. They are bound, even in death, and sleep in a silence deeper than grief. Only when the oath is ended shall their fëar be loosed to heal, and only then shall any visit them in truth, only then they may have a chance of walking among the living again."
No more words were spoken. The three Powers departed without fanfare or light, and the great doors of the hall whispered shut behind them.
Alcaron remained still for a long time, the golden rays of the first sun falling across his brow. High King now, though no crown rested on his head. And in his heart stirred a fire—not of wrath, but of purpose.
A new age had come. And he must be its steward.