-General-
Huan, like the most faithful of friends, approached with his tail low and, with a gentle gesture, rested his muzzle against Ilarion's leg, pulling him from his reverie. The Noldo took a deep breath and allowed those contained emotions to finally surface; he leaned against the great wolf-hound, letting its thick fur envelop him in a warm, silent embrace.
It wasn't long before he felt warm hands surrounding him. The scent of cherry blossoms softened the salty taste of the sea breeze, and a deep peace washed over him. Upon opening his eyes, he glimpsed fine golden strands glowing softly out of the corner of his eye; his own dark hair, streaked with delicate threads of silver, danced in perfect harmony with the luminous gold of his cousin Galadriel, who held him with both firmness and tenderness.
Had anyone beheld that scene, they would have noticed that the residual light of the Trees still lingered in both Noldor: the silver reflections of Telperion in Ilarion, and the golden flames of Laurelin in Galadriel. And only by that tiny detail—so subtle that only the eyes of the most skilled hunters could notice it—was the eighth son of Fëanor distinguished.
"Rest," Galadriel whispered in his ear; her warm breath brushed against his sensitive ears. "I am here. Lean back into my arms and let that which torments you dissolve within them."
Ilarion felt his heart lurch. He had sworn not to fall in love with his cousin due to their kinship, and yet Galadriel had always been close to him: affectionate, attentive, and above all, deeply protective. More than once he had wondered if what he felt was romantic love or purely familial affection. On one occasion, he had even consulted the Lady Varda, who had merely answered him with an enigmatic smile. What did that mean?
In ancient times, before coming to this world, he would have sworn that Galadriel was in love. But Elves were different, and romantic love between relatives was considered a taboo, even though, strictly speaking, Galadriel was only his half-cousin.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Ilarion opened his eyes. His gaze met Galadriel's, so close that a single movement would be enough for their lips to brush, like waves breaking gently on the seashore.
For an instant, Galadriel hesitated. Her eyes remained half-closed, and her breath mingled with Ilarion's. A single gesture would suffice to seal what she yearned for in the depths of her heart. Perhaps recent events—chained one after another—had made her understand how fragile time was, how easy it was for everything to be lost, whether by his death or her own. She did not wish to carry regrets.
Thus, slowly and almost imperceptibly, she leaned toward Ilarion.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop.
But then, a deep growl broke the silence. Huan, who until recently had remained motionless, had alerted them. In a swift and perfectly synchronized movement, they separated and adopted a defensive stance, ready to face whatever had alerted Oromë's faithful wolf-hound.
And true to their instincts, a dozen dark figures were advancing toward the edge of the beach, where most of the Noldor were resting, save for a few standing watch.
From the cliff, Aldril watched alongside several others. They still had time to prepare, so they did not waste it.
"Warn the others," he said to Galadriel as he went to light the makeshift distress signal.
The descendant of the Vanyar and Noldor nodded. The interruption of that moment caused a pang of annoyance, but now she could only channel her frustration against those figures moving in the distance.
Both she and Aldril shared eyesight that surpassed even that of the most expert hunters; an innate quality that would have made them formidable archers. However, both had chosen a different path: that of hand-to-hand combat.
...
On the seashore stood makeshift houses built from the wood of the ships—now useless after the long crossing—forming a rudimentary camp. A simple yet effective wall surrounded the settlement, barring the way to any danger; at least, nothing could approach without alerting the others.
among those structures rested Fingolfin and his nephews. The journey and recent events had left them exhausted, both in body and spirit. However, that peace was suddenly shattered by the alarmed shouts of the sentries.
"The scouts' fire has been lit!"
"Wake up! We have unwanted visitors!"
Fingolfin, one of the strongest among the Noldor, awoke at once. With swift, agile movements, he seized the sword at his side; by the time his nephews were barely beginning to stir, he had already left his resting place.
A sentry, spotting him, ran to his side.
"What is happening?" asked the son of Finwë.
The Noldo pointed toward the distant cliff.
"The warning fire has been lit by the scouts, my lord. There is danger."
Advancing with hurried strides, Fingolfin reached the top of the makeshift wall. Brow furrowed, he fixed his gaze on the dark distance, where the moon's soft silver light could not reach.
He did not doubt his nephew or niece. They had agreed that once the camp was established, a signal would mark their location, and fire would serve as the warning for any danger.
Then he saw it.
Two dozen figures were moving with clumsy, hurried steps. Even from that distance, he could almost sense the grotesque panting of those things approaching.
"Ready your weapons!" ordered Fingolfin.
He snatched a bow from the hands of a nearby Noldo, lit an arrow, and loosed it into the dark. The shaft struck a pile of wood, which ignited instantly, tearing light from the night.
The shadows were laid bare.
Grotesque faces emerged amidst the flames, saliva dripping from their maws like mindless beasts.
And yet, the son of Finwë felt an unknown pressure settle in his chest. His eyes hardened, tinged with caution.
That which approached... was dangerous.
...
Meanwhile, days turned to weeks, and weeks to a month; and though to many it might seem a short time, for the Noldor—since their departure from Valinor—the passage of days had acquired a different weight.
And in that span, Morgoth had already begun his work.
He gathered the servants who remained faithful to him, and alongside the Balrogs, he marched toward Angband. There, with steady hands and implacable will, he delved into the hardened rock, hewing new caverns and dungeons—labyrinths of doom that stretched deep beneath the earth, spreading like an open wound in the world.
And above the worn gates of Angband, Morgoth began the rearing of three great peaks. In the years to come, they would be known to all the peoples of Beleriand as the Peaks of Thangorodrim, a symbol of the Dark Lord's power and an ever-present shadow over the lands of the North.
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