-General-
Such words left Fingolfin—and especially Finarfin—stunned. His relationship with his half-brother was not good, so those words from none other than Fëanor himself lightened, even if only a little, the great weight pressing on his heart.
Nodding toward Fëanor, Finarfin turned around and, in a clear and resonant voice, cried out to the winds, declaring his decision:
"My brothers, my people! I plan to return to Tirion and ask the Valar for forgiveness. You may call me a coward if you wish. I do not possess the wisdom of my brother Fingolfin, nor the bravery of my brother Fëanor. My heart is heavy and bleeding. If I go with you, I will only be a burden."
He paused and took a deep breath.
"If there is anyone who wishes to follow me, come to my side!"
The Noldor, still bowing their heads after the prophetic words of Mandos, then heard Finarfin's broken voice. Some looked up with dim eyes… eyes that would soon regain a glimmer of light at the final words of Finwë's son.
"I will go with you!" shouted one, standing up and stepping forward toward Finarfin. It took just one brave soul for others to begin expressing their desire to return.
"Me too!" added another, whose leg was bandaged up to his thigh.
"My family will go with you!" exclaimed a third, blood still dripping from the wound on his head.
Little by little, dozens of Noldor began to stand. Some shared Finarfin's lack of spirit or courage to abandon Valinor… but now, like broken stems basking in the warm sunlight, they clung with all their strength to this new path.
It took only minutes for hundreds of Noldor to gather around him. Finarfin closed his eyes in sorrow, for his cowardice and lack of will had kept him from following his brother and half-brother. Now, all he could do was crawl on his knees before the Valar, begging for forgiveness… and hope that his brothers would succeed in avenging their father.
Lifting his gaze, he took a deep breath and searched for his two brothers. Fingolfin looked back at him with a calm smile, one that barely concealed the sadness consuming him from within. Since childhood, they had been together through everything. This would be the first time their paths would part… and perhaps they would never cross again.
"Go in peace, brother," said Fingolfin as he approached and embraced him. "My duty as the eldest is to bear the burden you cannot."
Finarfin couldn't speak a word. He feared that, if he did, his voice would break and he would burst into tears. He could only nod sorrowfully, his eyes clouded with unshed tears. He clenched his teeth and turned his gaze toward his half-brother: the first to rebel, the one who led the Noldor's flight.
He held no grudge against him, for he knew well what Fëanor was like: a voracious fire that struck against anything daring to harm those he loved. He had seen it at that banquet… Fëanor would have agreed to surrender his beloved Silmarils if his dearest son had asked him to. But his wrath blinded him when he heard of Finwë's death.
"I'm sorry…" Finarfin whispered, bowing his head. His voice barely reached the ears of Finwë's firstborn.
"Raise your head," said Fëanor coldly and indifferently. "A Noldo must never look down… and if he does, let it be only to offer a hand to someone who needs help standing."
Those words were enough for Finarfin to look up in surprise and disbelief. Fëanor had not criticized him for wanting to return. On the contrary, he encouraged him, assuring that the news of their victory over Morgoth would reach Valinor.
And now this…What had happened for Fëanor to react this way? Normally, his half-brother would have despised him for his decision, calling him a coward without hesitation.
"Your face is like an open book, and I know what you think of me, Finarfin," Fëanor continued, stepping forward. His body, sculpted by years of work at the forge, was more robust than the slender and refined Finarfin's. "I hated that my father loved another woman who was not my mother. I hated you—and Fingolfin. But now… my anger toward you is but a drop in the ocean of hatred I feel for Morgoth."
He fell silent for a moment, the fire in his eyes burning with restrained intensity.
"Now we must stand united, even if it means I must put aside the fact that I detest you both. We are sons of Finwë, and by right, we must avenge his death."
His gaze turned to the Noldor who wanted to return; they lowered their heads under Fëanor's stare.
"This journey we undertake is not meant for everyone," proclaimed Fëanor, his voice firm and aflame. "So, my people, I will not let hatred blind me. Not all are made for the death that awaits.
Live!
And if we fail in our attempt, then let our names at least echo in songs… as those who stepped forward to face the evil that the Valar, in their cowardice, refused to confront."
After those words, Fëanor turned away. He gave only a brief nod to the stunned Finarfin, who, once he recovered, watched his half-brother's back with mixed emotions. He shook his head, trying to shake off the shame that flooded him, and turned toward the others who had chosen to follow him.
They, like him, kept their heads low. Some wept silently, for that single word from Fëanor had struck through their hearts like an arrow.
"Live."
A simple word, but one filled with profound meaning. Without a doubt, in the years and centuries to come, it would be passed down to their children… and their children's children.
But Fëanor did not see the melancholic and admiring faces of those who would return. Though many of them had once preferred Fingolfin as their ruler, that belief now wavered.
Fëanor, son of Finwë, had earned their deep respect.
"We must move as quickly as we can, Fingolfin," said Fëanor as he passed his half-brother, not slowing his pace.
"Most of the wounded are those who wish to return with Finarfin," Fingolfin replied, walking at his side, "so we can set sail whenever you wish."
Like his brother, Fingolfin sensed something different in Fëanor—something as if Mandos's decree had awakened him from his blind rage. Without doubt, the Fëanor now beside him was a true leader. He even glimpsed the faint image of their father Finwë in Fëanor's bearing.
"Then we sail in one hour."
With that final order, Fëanor walked toward his eight sons. Why? Because he had seen the fear on their faces—especially in the face of his dear Star, whose hands were trembling.
Galadriel, his niece, made a futile attempt to calm him. 'Had Mandos's words shaken him?' Fëanor wondered. But as he reached his son to try and comfort him, Ilarion's words left him speechless.
"Father, father," he stammered, "I've seen… I've seen our death. The death of us all. The fire of Morgoth's beasts will consume your life, and with it, our people will perish."