The Beginning of the End by Urloth

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Part Two.

Warning: Character death and violence

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“Wake up dreamer,” his father called him from the depths of sleep. He was warm but the steady heartbeat beneath his ear was gone. He sat up sharply, looking around and saw his father at the foot of the bedding, the partition screen pushed back and Lilta’s bedding already packed away in a neatly folded pile.

It was the dim light of pre-dawn, but a Noldorin lamp-stone glowed softly and illuminated the tent perfectly.

His father’s armour was out, shining silver and glorious on its stand. Liltafinwë stared into the empty eye-sockets of the helm, with its brow ridges engraved with the leaves of Teleperion, and felt dread come over him.

“Don’t go,” he said before he could stop his mouth.

“I am right here little dancer,” his father chuckled, testing his gauntlets. “Ah I cannot wear my ring with these.”

His father shook off the gauntlet and went to his jewel casket, opening it and rummaging until he pulled out a chain.

His father wore many rings, he liked them, but the one that never left his hands was a brilliant signet ring where triangular pieces of ruby, diamond and yellow and blue sapphires made up a mosaic of a sixteen pointed star. It had been King Finwë’s, passed to Tyelkormo when he had come of age, as all his grandsons had been passed a ring that had been in the King’s possession and bore his device.

“You do not wear gauntlets, you shall wear this for me and keep it safe from any looters,” his father declared, and let the ring thump onto Liltafinwë’s chest, the chain dragging against Lilta’s neck with the weight.

Lilta picked up the ring with shaking fingers, turning the priceless piece over with his fingers and watching the mosaic flash as though the star within it were made of fire.

The tent's privacy curtain rustled as Hlusseré made her way from the outside world, pushing into the warm bubble of light inside the tent.

Hurriedly Liltafinwë tucked the ring into his night shirt and wriggled from the bedding.

“I knew food would get you out of bed,” his father laughed and joined him at the small table, taking the covers off the two bowls of porridge, and taking the other necessaries from Hlusserë so she could whisk back out of the tent and back to her duties.

Liltafinwë poured the thin milk over his bowl and then poked at it with his spoon. His stomach was aching, a low grind like there was a weight inside it pressing it into the other organs.

“What’s wrong?” His father paused in the middle of pouring honey over his bowl.

“Feel sick,” he muttered.

Tyelkormo watched him, eyes thoughtful then tugged over the small bowl of dried fruit brought in with their breakfast. “You have all the berries then,” he sprinkled them over Liltafinwë’s porridge.

Liltafinwë swallowed, unease back. His father’s temper was famous, but Liltafinwë had never experienced it directly. He viewed it usually at a distance, and Uncle Moryo had once commented that watching Tyelkormo not lose his temper around Liltafinwë was like watching a cat traverse over white hot metal.

But if there was one thing they did argue over, it was who got the most of the blueberries when they were in season. Or dried blueberries when they were not.

His father was eyeballing him, wondering what was wrong now.

“I don’t think having all the berries is going to help,” he managed gamely.

“You have to eat,” his father said firmly, “you can’t go into battle on an empty stomach.”

Liltafinwë sighed and dug in. After a few spoonfulls the tightness in his gut eased and he ate with greater speed and pleasure.

“I think the oats might be slightly off,” he said, halfway through his bowl, “they taste slightly bitter.”

His father wrinkled his nose and ate his next spoonful of porridge slower.

“It might be the type of oat,” Tyelkormo suggested after a moment, “we finished the last of the bags from Hithlum last week. I don’t know where these oats come from.”

“Maybe that,” Liltafinwë chased a berry across his bowl with his spoon, ran the poor thing down and devoured his victim. He finished his breakfast and stretched, yawning. He felt full and warm, the anxiety gone.

Hlusserë had reappeared, as was her efficient way, and was laying out his clothing. He washed his face and shoulders, let her help him comb and braid his hair back then dressed himself. The clothing was warm, winter ware that was good for long travel.

He hummed confusion, wondering where his padded jerkin was, then yawned again. He felt like crawling back into bed for another couple of hours. Just a couple.

“Still sleepy?” His father’s arms swooped around him and picked him up as though he was a babe again.

“Mmnf,” he managed and yawned.

His father sat down, Liltafinwë in his lap, and pressed his face against the crown of his head.

“I’m sorry,” his father said softly, “Liltafinwë one day I am sure you will be able to forgive me for this. But for now know I am so sorry of what I have done. I should not have let my temper and obsession for revenge get away on me. We could have waited fifteen years, twenty years, even thirty years. They could have kept the damn gemstone for that long. Forgive me for sundering us.”

“Father what do you mean?” he asked in confusion but it came out slurred. His tongue felt heavy and too big for his mouth.

His body had become an inconvenient weight, limbs dangling, and his breathing struggling to escape a slow, languid pattern.

His father pressed kisses over his forehead, his cheeks and just lightly against his mouth. There must be a hole in the tent, Liltafinwë thought, because there were raindrops hitting his face. Strange rain though.

It was warm.

“Take care of him,” his father said from a distance.

“He is the treasure of the House of Fëanor. We will guard him with our lives,” someone replied.

“I love you,” his father murmured against his ear, “Liltafinwë I love you. Don’t forget that,” and then Liltafinwë knew no more.

-

He managed to struggle awake, assisted by the great noise of people assembling.

He was held in someone’s arms, not his father’s, no. Hlusserë’s brother Hunaiwë was holding him as carefully as if he was made of glass.

He could see his father, if blurry, standing by his horse and speaking to someone. Tyelkormo's army was arrayed before him, a pathway through their ranks so he could move through to his position at the head.

Hlusserë’s anxious face swam into view as he made a faint noise of protest. His father was dressed in his armour, a fearsome and awe-inspiring sight indeed. The last drops of the morning downpour clung to silver hair, and dripped down his father’s face. It glinted brightly on the protective metal plating before dripping off the edges onto the ground.

Lilta wanted to sleep but fought it, grunting at the effort.

“Shhh Gildor,” it felt so strange to hear his Þindarin epessë when he had only recently heard his real name from his father. It felt jarring…and there was a finality to the name. His father always claimed there was a latent sense of foresight in the family that manifested as a bad feeling in the stomach. Liltafinwë got that feeling as Hlusserë called him Gildor.

His father mounted his horse. Liltafinwë struggled to dry out to him; to tell him to stop, but managed only a miserable bleat of noise.

That was enough though, his father turned and Liltafinwë saw the way his legs tensed, muscles bunching to turn the horse around and ride back to them. But then with a roaring in his ears, Liltafinwë’s eyes slid shut against his will, that bitter taste from the porridge thick upon his tongue.

Next he opened his father was riding down the line of waiting soldiers, back held straight and proud. He did not look back.

The drugs finally won and that was the last time Lilta saw his father.

-

There was a pattern to his non-life: Waking, being fed and tasting more of that bitterness. Being too weak to resist swallowing the bitterness. Sleeping.

“How long has it been? When will we hear news?” someone asked over him.

But he fell asleep before he could hear the answer to either of those questions.

-

A sword slammed through his chest.

Tyelkormo gasped, breath driven out of him.

Oh Dior was clever, leading him here into this water garden with its mirrored mosaics. The light saturating the air had blinded Turkafinwë’s light sensitive eyes, giving Dior the chance, as Celegorm stumbled blindly, to rip the armour from his chest with magic.

“My mother taught me well,” Dior laughed into his face.

“Too well,” Tyelkormo coughed blood into Dior’s triumphant face and tasted the ultimate victory in the sweet, futile resistance of wind-pipe and spine against Fëanárion steel.

Dior’s head tipped from his body into Tyelkormo’s waiting hand and the body against his slumped away.

Such a lovely face, Tyelkormo thought dizzily, just like the mother’s.

Why had he not recognised him earlier? If Tyelkormo had known the identity of the anonymous youth he’d trysted with on the banks of an unnamed river, he would have slit Dior’s throat right then and there.

Thoughts of Luthien, her dark hair and darker smile drifted forwards. Her laughter in the woods when she had confessed to him, still thinking they were scouts, that the idea of dooming the Fëanorions to the void was titillating, enough to sooth her anger at her father for setting Beren this task.

Tyelkormo wondered if Beren had ever figured out Elu had set him such an impossible task to try and save him.

History would be written by the victors. They’d talk of Tyelkormo’s consuming fear of Luthien as a consuming passion. They’d not talk of how he spent many hours wondering if he should take up his dagger, or draw a mithril chain around her pretty neck and rid Arda of her.

Had no one considered the side effects of mixing maiar blood with eldar? Perhaps that was why Elu and Melian had only had the one child.

The black haired wraith witch, who had come drifting through the forest, and whom Curufin had fucking invited into Nargothrond.

This room was beautiful, Tyelkormo thought with his last gasping breaths, even light sensitive him could see that. He would have loved to have brought Liltafinwë here; would have loved to have seen the gold glow bright amongst the silver in his son’s cream coloured hair.

Lilta was starting to look so much like his father…

I don’t want to die, thought Turkafinwë Tyelkormo Fëanárion.

-

Liltafinwë woke up screaming.