Chapter Text
It always starts with Darkness.
Not merely the absence of the light that is a living part of them; a core corner of their being as much as their faer are. The light that lived in their eyes and their hearts and their bodies.
No. It was a material thing that lived and breathed and devoured.
No matter where he and them were. It always starts with Darkness. Formenos. Tirion. It doesn't matter. Darkness is all there is.
Then come the screams. The fear. The confusion, desperation, a gnawing horror: crippling, maddening.
Then the abandonment of their teachers. Their silence. Non-aid.
'Prince Fëanoro,' someone calls, 'the Valar are asking for audience.'
They mourn: the light. The soiling of their perfect haven. The death of the trees.
They want the Silmarilli. They want to break them. They want him to break them. Fëanoro is shocked. Confused. Helpless. They are the pinnacle of his craft. He cannot create their equal ever again. The trees are peerless, Lady Yavanna cannot create their like again. They want the Silmarilli.
For more reasons than one, that means his death. Breaking them means his death.
They don't understand. Exaggeration they call it. Hoarding. Unwillingness to aid. Avarice. Greed. Selfishness.
News comes.
The King is dead. The Silmarilli are stolen.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
'King Fëanoro,' someone calls. He is devastated. His father is dead. His mother, father, how many more of his loved ones will he lose?!
The Valar still don't understand. They want the Silmarilli. Fëanoro wants justice. Revenge.
They will leave this supposed paradise, where he was the only person who knew the loss and grief of death. Him and his sons. They will go back to the place of their awakening. It cannot be more dangerous than here. At least, there, he’s free.
The Oath is sworn.
Friendships are abandoned.
Blood is spilled on white shores.
The doom is spoken.
Many are drowned. Many die by the sword. Many die on ships sunk by those who are meant to be impartial.
There are variations of this theme.
The King lives sometimes. Then Fëanoro is convinced to break the Silmarilli. He dies. The trees revive. The Valar mourns. They call it worthy sacrifice.
King Finwë takes his people and leaves.
No aid comes from friends. The ice is their only road. They take it. Some still die.
Blood in Alqualonde. More times than not, there's blood in Alqualonde. Whether by their hands or not. Sometimes Melkor. Sometimes the hungering Ungoliant.
They always come back to the eastern shore.
The ships.
Another peerless object. Another thing lost.
At times burned in anger. At times sent back to bring the rest of their people. At times sent with messengers to not make the crossing. Admitting the mistake of drawing their people to more death. The price of naivety.
No matter the course of action, they never reach the shores of Aman.
Most of the time, more than half of their people take to the ice. Always many of them dies.
They always do battle.
It doesn't matter who is the king; Finwë or Fëanoro, the king always dies.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
'King Nelyafinwë,' a soldier calls. 'A missive from the enemy.'
The first time Makalaurë goes. They return him to his king in chains, half-way to Mandos already. He doesn't speak. The healers say he suffers no physical ailment. His body is hale. Their kin who never left these shores whisper of a darker evil than wounds of the body. Fading is its only consequence. Makalaurë is his first younger brother to die. He doesn't smile after that.
The second time Tyelkromo goes.
He never sees him again. A soldier of his brother reports that Huan killed him to save his friend from ever falling into the clutches of Morgoth. No one knows where Huan went. The enemy doesn't have him. He returns after days, still drenched in the blood of his brother, but he attaches himself to the Ambrussar sides, never leaving them. Nelyafinwë is relieved that they've such a guard, after all, they're his children, his and Makalaurë’s in all but name, in every way that counts.
The third time Carnistir. The fourth Curufinwë. The result is always the same. Torture. Rape. Death.
The Ambarussar are never sent. They will never be sent.
After that he always goes.
Sometimes a messenger comes bearing the news of his death.
More often than not, he wishes he was dead.
The King is captured. Go back across the sea and he'll be returned to you. He would do it. Makalaurë would do it in a heartbeat, change places with him even, if only it was possible to get him back: his King. His brother. His teacher. His friend. His Maitimo. His … everything.
His release is impossible. They want to crown him king.
No.
The answer is always no. No matter the variation.
Sometimes he dies on the torturer's table. Sometimes they manage to break him, making him a more dangerous and loyal enemy, often times he survives and does not break.
The rest of his people always follows.
Almost always his cousin comes for him. Sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied. He doesn't always know it though. Sometimes the Noldor lose another prince. Sometimes even by his hand.
Most times he returns. As King or Prince, he tries to gather, unite, the shattered remains and factions of his people.
Yet, the Doom and the Oath always play his family. Two great forces each pulling him and his into an abyss.
The Oath never truly disappears, only slumbers. His efforts for alliances, diplomacy, strategy, even pleading are always for naught. The Doom is too strong. All their efforts turns to evil.
The Oath starts warping his brothers, driving them, adding cruelty and madness to the fires of their fëar. He does his all to keep them from another tragedy, they respect him, they obey. Yet, he knows, one day he'll lose control over them. All except one. Makalaurë never leaves him. Never acts as if the Oath is any concern of him. He wonders but never asks. He is grateful for the unwavering support.
The defeats continue.
A set of twins ends in the forest to die in the cold.
It is always so.
Miraculously, the Oath and Doom and misfortune sleep with the next set of twins they encounter. They call him father. They call them fathers. And they’re their children in all but blood, in every way that counts.
Yet, the Ambarussar are lost.
Morgoth falls. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes the Valar are worse. Sometimes the elves and men and dwarves have enough of all of them. They fight. They die.
Oftentimes Morgoth is thrown into the void.
Oftentimes, their rightful property is denied them.
Oftentimes, they've to give up their children.
Oftentimes, they wield their swords one last time. A fool's errand. Makalaurë tries to dissuade him. He fails.
They regain their heirloom. They're burned.
Always, when he reaches this far, always the last thing he sees, is the anguish in soft grey eyes, dimmed by tears, begging not to be abandoned. The last he hears is the screams of a heart breaking, of eternal pain, not one caused by wounds of the flesh but the soul.
The last he smells is his own burning flesh.
Then Darkness again.