United, Divided: The War of Telerin Aggression by eris_of_imladris

I’m A Good Old Rebel

Oh, I'm a good old rebel
Now that’s just what I am
For this fair land of freedom
I do not give a damn

Fëanáro’s father and the Trees were dead, and there was only one person to blame.

Morgoth loomed incomparably large, but the Teleri would not even surrender the boats. It was preposterous - why will they not band together to defeat the one foe who has stolen everything that has ever mattered?

Olwë taunted him with the silmarils, but even their shine cannot bring back what he has lost. No one understood. No one could ever understand the way he knelt in the dirt by his father’s body, everything forgotten but the dead weight in his hands and the treacherous thump of his heart. The constant drum that reminded him that his life had taken the lives of the people who he loved the most, both of them now, when such a thing had never happened before.

But it could not be his fault. It simply couldn’t be, or he would lose everything of himself kneeling on the ground with his breath and his thoughts coming too fast. Everything he ever fought for and yearned for would bleed out of him and soak into the already-wet ground. It would all have been for nothing. His mother’s death, his father’s sacrifice, everything would be destroyed.

It was Morgoth. He who changed the song of the Valar, which might not have even included death. He who destroyed the Trees and Fëanáro’s lights, the silmarils and his father, cruelly stealing away any chance of hearing the words he’d wanted to hear his whole life. He who craved the light of others so much that he had to ruin it only to take it from them.

Why could no one else see that he was the enemy?

I'm glad I fought against her
I only wish we'd won
I ain't asked any pardon
For anything I've done

Alqualondë is on his mind as he tries to keep his eyes open, leaning into the open arms of his eldest son. The fires are so much more dire here, tainted by the ashy landscape and the way his feet slide on rocks no matter where he tries to step. His breaths are too hot, his fingers tremble. Where is the victory he deserves for fighting for what was right?

Everything was so clear in the beginning, back when there was a simple obstacle between him and the boats he needed. Back when a stubborn Olwë was the worst of his troubles, when it was easy to see what the right course of action was. When everyone knew Morgoth was the great foe of their people, when everyone stood together.

He does not want to admit his faults. Not here, not now. It’s hard enough to put two thoughts together with the way he chokes on his breath. He knows enough of death to know it comes for him, and he will soon be stuck in Námo’s Halls while his sons do his job for him.

Some might call his assault reckless. It was how he always works - bold, confident, unafraid. Every fear he ever had is buried so deep under the surface that it takes this to bring them bubbling out, one by one. All of this was to emerge as the conquering hero, to avenge his father by slaying his murderer and his mother by taking his undeniable place at the head of the Noldor, to create a land where elves would reign sovereign over their own fates and not fall beholden to others’ false sense of justice, to build a place where his sons and grandson could have the beautiful lives he envisioned on each of their faces when they were born.

Instead, he has found a land of a deeper darkness than he could ever imagine, beings of fire that put his spirit to shame, and he is no closer to the silmarils than he was when it was his father covered in blood thanks to his own - No. He cannot think that way. He did not take a sword to his father.

He did to his half-brother, his mind reminds him in a flash of memory. The same half-brother whose forces could have saved the day here like they did in Alqualondë. The same half-brother who now rules over the Noldor who he cast away...

Molten tears run through the ash on his face. When he looks at Nelyo, his bright eyes blur until they’re her eyes. He can’t tell if they’re Nerdanel’s or his mother’s, but they love him when they look down on him as his body is placed atop a small hill of rubble.

I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em down no more
But I ain't a-goin' to love them
Now that is certain sure

His sons kneel in the dirt around him, their faces an incomprehensible wheel around him. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that one face is missing. His fingers, sticky and red, shake in the hands of whichever son is holding them. Some wear gauntlets; others, he gets to feel the warm flesh of their hands. How many have they killed to get here? His innocent sons who he held as babes, warm and tender and completely innocent, how have they turned to this?

His thoughts are manic, but his words can barely form. He begs for something, anything, and hears his sons speak the Oath again. Now that it is his body on the ground, he sees the loopholes, the way the very words he loved all his life are working against him and will drive his sons to doom. He sees that if he, the greatest of the Noldor with the greatest wrong done against him, cannot even get near the silmarils, what will these words do to his sons?

They are so precious to him, so much more than anything else, how could he not see that until he has no time left? He years to blame something, anything, anyone but himself as his thoughts flit between Nolofinwë, who he might have sent the boats back for if he could trust him at all; the Valar, so mighty and powerful, who could destroy these Valaraukar with a flick of their fingers but chose to let him fight their battles; the judgment that had Finwë not attend the reconciliation feast and stuck him in Formenos to begin with -

As he coughs up a bubbly froth of his own house’s color, he knows exactly where he places the blame.

Oh Eru, he has failed, he has failed and charged his sons with everything plus a father to avenge, he has shown his sons the same cruelty the world showed to him and the same lack of kindness in favoring the gems above them, and that can be no one’s fault but -

Morgoth. It must be Morgoth. He thinks of his foe as a fireball burns through him and he chokes on it, gasping for air as he erupts into a column of flame, the pain rising to a crescendo and finally bursting as his part in the war is done.

His last thought is of Morgoth, his enemy. The enemy of all the Noldor, of all the elves and all the world alike. It has to be that way. He knows who is hated next.

And I don't want no pardon
For what I was and am