-General-
"Kill them all!"
Fëanor's serene and indifferent countenance had been consumed by the fire of fury. His teeth were clenched in a twisted grimace. The Noldor who followed Fingolfin were not the only ones to be attacked: so too were Fëanor's people; but unlike his half-brother's kin, upon them fell an army of at least five hundred Orcs.
Leading the charge, the son of Finwë attacked like a bloodthirsty beast. It was well known that, among all the Elves of Valinor, Fëanor was by far the mightiest; his skill in combat was peerless.
"Filthy servants of a craven lord!" he roared, sword held high.
A fierce impulse sprang from his feet, and he vaulted into the air, nearly four meters from the ground. With a single hand, he seized a spear that loomed over him, seeking to impale him. With mastery he descended, and his fall, charged with devastating force, nearly clove in two the Orc that had dared to attack him.
Such violence left the Orcs stunned. The bloodlust radiating from Fëanor froze them in their tracks; their movements halted. It was a fatal error, for as the son of Finwë withdrew his sword from the Orc's body with utmost ease, his sons, alongside the other Noldor, launched their attack, cutting down numerous beasts still paralyzed by terror.
It was not until they realized their ranks were dwindling that the Orcs charged once more. This time the combat was fierce against the other Elves. As was well known, those Orcs were skilled and lethal; they could face an Elf in single combat without wavering.
Blood flowed in torrents. Lifeless bodies covered the wasteland, and the clash of metal, joined by the tearing sound of flesh being severed and savage roars, wove together into a dark melody.
There, standing still amidst the fallen bodies of the Orcs, Fëanor remained with cold indifference. His raven hair, stained with the thick blood of Morgoth's servants, accentuated his cruel features; yet, ironically, it bestowed upon him a savage beauty.
"Father!"
At his son's exclamation, Fëanor merely tilted his head, dodging an arrow. His gaze followed the path of the shot until it met the terrified eyes of an Orc.
With an agile and precise movement, he crouched and wrenched an axe embedded in the skull of another beast. With a single impulse, he hurled it. The Orc barely managed to moan before the weapon lodged in its chest; immediately after, it fell lifeless.
With his fury largely sated, clarity returned to his mind. He would not lie by saying that the sight of his fallen kin stung his conscience. While the majority had survived, there were still casualties; among them, that of one of his good friends from those years when he was barely beginning his path toward excellence.
With calm steps, he approached his friend's corpse.
"At least many of them went with you, Maetiron," he whispered, gazing at the various Orc bodies scattered about.
With a tug, he pulled aside the body that lay upon the corpse. It was clear that Maetiron had taken his killer with him. Once freed, Fëanor observed how the Elf's face still bore a faint smile.
"If one day I am to die, it shall be with a smile," his good friend used to proclaim when they were young.
"We shall not die, you idiot. We are in the Undying Lands; there is no danger here," Fëanor had answered then, with a dismissive gesture.
The mere memory drew a smile laden with irony from him. When Morgoth whispered the poison that consumed him to this day, his good friend Maetiron was always at his side, warning him to be careful, for he had already seen how those whispers were changing him little by little. It was not until his banishment that he distanced himself completely from him.
And yet, despite the distance, Maetiron was among the first to proclaim that he would follow him.
"I am sorry, my good friend. We did not speak during the entire journey, but rest assured that I felt your care even from afar. Now, rest."
Stooping, he took Maetiron's body and lifted it to give it proper burial. The battle had ended. Some Orcs had escaped, but he did not care; he would have occasion to settle scores with those beasts.
"Gather the fallen!" he ordered with a firm voice. "We must give them a proper burial!"
As he walked toward the rear, Maedhros, his eldest son, ran toward him with urgency reflected on his face.
"Father, if they attacked us, it is certain that they also attacked my uncle Fingolfin's group. Should we send scouts to seek them out? I worry for my brothers."
However, Fëanor dismissed the concern with a simple wave of his hand.
"Though I bear no love for my half-brother, I must say that his skill with the blade is surpassed only by my own; thus, do not doubt that they shall be safe. As for your concern regarding your brothers..."
With a mocking smile, he fixed his gaze upon his son's eyes.
"Do you not remember that Ilarion was trained by the Valar? Furthermore, they are together: Amrod and Amras are a lethal duo, and their danger only grows with your brother's support. There is no need to worry on their account."
...
And just as Fëanor had predicted, the Orcs that attacked Fingolfin's company and the scouts where Ilarion was stationed were massacred.
The eighth son, alongside Galadriel, became a lethal pair: they danced amidst death, and death received the unwary with open arms. Amrod and Amras, for their part, proved to be a dangerous twin duo. Though many Orcs fell by the brothers' hands, the majority succumbed to the Silver and Golden Couple—as those who witnessed them fight had dubbed them, dancing between steel and light.
"Were there any casualties?" asked Ilarion, turning toward the group.
Those present shook their heads in silence.
One of the Noldor stepped forward; he seemed mostly unharmed, save for the blood trickling slightly down his arm.
"There were no casualties, my lord. Only some wounded."
Ilarion nodded and then met Galadriel's gaze; she sighed with visible relief. She was not accustomed to combat; it had been fortunate that her dear half-cousin had taught her the sword, for otherwise, she would have been a burden that day.
"I will tend to the wounded, dear Ilarion," she said with a smile.
Gently, she released herself from his hold and walked with elegance toward the Noldor, who were already beginning to gather around the wounded.
With a sigh, Ilarion finally relaxed his tense muscles. Though he had been trained by the Valar, that had been his first real experience fighting for his life.
"Well... I suppose you have seen enough, have you not?" he said, turning toward the forest.
The serenity of his face gave way to an alert and cautious expression. Through his perception, he sensed how the Orcs that had managed to flee were being hunted among the trees by shadows slipping between the branches.
His words, however, were met only with silence.
He shook his head and spoke again:
"I know you are there, so why hide? It is useless... once you are discovered."
**
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