but for the look in his eyes by awwyeah107

• Not even an hour after Fëanáro’s death, the messenger arrives.
  • The Fëanárian camp is already in an uproar, and the commotion outside the family tent only gets louder.
  • An elf comes to fetch Maitimo and is met with identical hard stares of all of Fëanáro’s descendants; impressively, he does not quail before them, but instead reports news of the messenger.
  • Maitimo immediately rises and takes his leave.
• The remaining sons of Fëanáro—and sole grandson—resume their mourning.
• Tyelperinquar sees tears in his father’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks, and sees his father’s shoulders shaking as he sobs, leaning into Uncle Tyelkormo, and something…breaks inside him.
  • He has never seen his father cry before.
  • He had never imagined his grandfather dying—before, it simply was something that could not happen.
  • But like so many other terrible things that had come to pass, it did happen.
  • Perhaps it is the sight of his father crying openly, or maybe it is grandfather Fëanáro’s death, but whatever it is, he feels…different. More adult, somehow.
  • He’s been thought of as “little” for so long, as the youngest of the family, but perhaps he’s not so little anymore.
• Before this, Tyelpë had not felt homesick for Aman, yet he feels it deeply now.
• He misses home, where nothing bad happens (except great-grandfather Finwë getting killed and the Trees being extinguished, he remembers, but then pushes the memories away).
  • It seems like ever since they arrived in Beleriand…no, it was before that: it was after his father and uncles swore the Oath.
  • They had changed, and his father was more distracted and impatient and so focused on getting the Silmarils back: grandfather Fëanáro’s beautifully crafted gemstones that shone with Treelight.
  • And despite the bloodshed that had preceded their departure, Tyelpë had been excited to go. He was excited to see new lands; excited to take back what was rightfully theirs; excited to triumph over the Enemy and for the world to become safe again.
  • Even with all of the upheaval, he knew his father still cared about him, of course he did.
  • But that didn’t change the fact that Curufinwë had not spent more than a few cursory moments looking over Tyelpë’s creations in the makeshift forges of Beleriand, when he used to spend hours examining and critiquing and praising and talking through Tyelpë’s techniques and works.
  • When was the last time he and his father had had a full conversation that didn’t involve travel logistics? Or any mention, direct or implied, of their goal to take back the Silmarils from the Enemy? Tyelpë isn’t sure he can recall, though he is certain it hasn’t been since they came across the sea.
• Tyelpë wants to fix things, to make them go back to the way they were, but he is helpless to do so.
  • He can’t bring grandfather Fëanáro back.
  • He can’t get the Silmarils back by himself.
  • Without those, nothing can go back to normal. And even then, it wouldn’t fully be the same.
• All he can do is remain frozen in his grief, the thought of “this wasn’t how it was supposed to be” repeating over and over in his head.
• A little while later, Maitimo returns to the tent, his face grim, and Tyelpë’s father and uncles adjourn to the strategy tent.
• Although he is not allowed in while they convene—he is deemed too young, despite having come of age within the last decade—Tyelperinquar sits behind the tent and listens closely enough to know Uncle Nelyo has made an agreement with the Enemy: Morgoth will give the Silmarils to him, and in return, the Noldor will leave Beleriand.
  • Hope begins to rise within Tyelpë, steady as the tide, even as the sounds of his uncles and father arguing over Uncle Nelyo going alone to meet the Enemy grow louder and louder.
  • Finally, Maitimo pounds his fist on the table and thunders, “Enough!” in a booming voice that makes Tyelpë flinch and put his hands over his ears.
  • The tent falls silent, and Uncle Nelyo says firmly, “None of the rest of you are going, and that’s final.”
  • Some grumbling and muttering can be heard, but it dies down rather quickly.
• Arrangements are made for Maitimo to take an army with him, double the size he had told the Enemy's messenger, and Tyelpë ponders the situation.
  • Uncle Nelyo never said he couldn’t go.
  • And he knows, he knows he knows he knows he knows he knows, that he would be forbidden from going if he said anything about it.
  • But….Uncle Nelyo didn’t say he couldn’t go.
  • So, technically, he’s allowed.
• He wants to go; he wants to do something that’s actually useful, and he wants to help return the Silmarils.
  • Getting the stones back would make sure that Fëanáro’s death was not in vain.
  • And although nothing could ever replace his grandfather, maybe this would help lessen his father’s sadness.
• Just think about how good it could turn out, Tyelpë reasons with himself. If he was part of the army, he could join Uncle Nelyo after the agreement was done, and Uncle Nelyo couldn’t be upset at him for tagging along, because at that point they would have the Silmarils. They would return to camp, and his father would be so happy that he had helped to retrieve the Silmarils, and they could all go back home and everything would be so much better.
• Maybe helping to get the stones back will make him proud of me. Maybe it will make him notice me again.
• A small part of Tyelpë’s mind whispers that this vision of a triumphant return with the Silmarils is a rather juvenile dream, and that maybe this isn’t such a good idea, but he shoves it down.
  • It would make his father happy again, and that was a good enough reason.
  • Everything should go smoothly: Uncle Nelyo was quite good at diplomacy, and they would have a big army which would intimidate the Enemy, and since they were going to leave Beleriand anyway, the Enemy would probably be glad to give them the Silmarils.
  • There was no reason to think that things would go wrong…right?
  • Right.
  • If he can help get the stones back, they can go back to Aman.
  • Yes. This could change things.
• Later, after everyone retires to their tents to sleep, Tyelperinquar sneaks out to the makeshift armor storage tent.
  • He’s never snuck out of anywhere before; not out of his family’s house in Aman, let alone a tent in the wilds of Beleriand.
  • He tries to move as quietly as possible in and out of the canvas structures, and he worries that he won’t be able to find all the proper armor pieces with how dark it is, but he collects all he can and hopes he has what he needs.
  • It’s hard for him to fall asleep once he returns to the tent he shares with his father, but eventually he does.
• A little before the time that Laurelin would normally be waxing, Tyelpë wakes and pulls on the armor while his father is still sleeping.
• He sneakily joins the rest of the army preparing to leave, terrified that if he even breathes wrong someone will notice he’s there and they’ll send him back to his tent.
  • Thankfully, it seems like everyone is too busy running around to pay much attention to anyone dressed like nearly every other elf in the oversized army.
  • He moves into position somewhere in the back half of the ranks, keeping his head down.
  • And the troop sets off, no one the wiser.
• After walking for quite some time, they crest a hill and begin to march down it to the field below, the agreed-upon meeting place.
• Tyelpë hears the other army first before he sees them, a low rumble through the trees.
• Then, they stomp onto the field.
• They are led by a golden-eyed Ainu, one of Morgoth’s servants, and there are far, far more orcs and unsavory creatures than Tyelpë had thought there would be.
  • He can hear the murmurs that roll through the Noldorin army like a shiver, whispering “Þauron” and “yrch.”
• Tyelpë refuses to be daunted, however, and keeps his shoulders back and up, facing the army head-on.

• Mairon is standing on the other side of the field at the head of the army his master had sent.
• He is not happy to see Fëanáro’s eldest son, his stupid red hair tied back under his helmet, and he is even less happy to see that the elf had brought twice the amount of soldiers that was agreed upon, despite the fact that he himself led the same.
• His gaze roves over the Noldorin army and—
  • Wait.
  • It can’t be.
  • Fëanáro died, Mairon had been sure of it, he had seen the elf’s blackened and burnt body, heard the balrogs chittering and laughing to themselves after they struck him down, the orc sent as ambassador reported that Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion was the king of the Noldor now—
  • But then the elf who so closely resembles Fëanáro stretches briefly, shifting his feet and twisting in place.
  • Ah, no.
  • It is not Fëanáro; Mairon doubts that it is even his son Curufinwë, for this elf is too young.
  • And then as the elf turns his head, Mairon catches the gleam of Treelight in his eyes, untainted by the blood of killing kin, and the question solidifies into an answer.
  • It’s the whelp.
  • Fëanáro’s grandson.
  • Tyelperinquar, is it? Well, no matter.
  • Whatever his name is, Melkor would be glad to have him in his dungeons.
• Mairon had been planning to take Nelyafinwë, the eldest of the long-hated Fëanárions, as a prize for his master, but now that there are two descendants of Fëanáro on the field, he must reevaluate.
• Mairon turns back to Nelyafinwë, congratulates him on his new title as the king of the Noldor, and earns himself a scathing glare.
• Oh, how he loves pushing elves’ buttons. They’re so much fun to play with.
• After a few minutes of back-and-forth stalling with Nelyafinwë and internal deliberation on which elf would be more valuable to Melkor, he decides to take Tyelperinquar.
  • Nelyafinwë is just so…stuffy and diplomatic and difficult to intimidate.
  • The arrogant elf thinks he can hold some semblance of control over Mairon, and while that’s not true, it would be more of a chore to break him than anything.
• Now, Tyelperinquar may be more of a wild card in terms of his disposition—Mairon has no clue of the young elf’s personality—but he seems more easily intimidated. Yet if the blood in his veins is anything to go by, he’ll have a temper, and quite a fiery one, at that. Much more entertaining than Nelyafinwë’s stone-cold exterior.
• Another point of interest is that Tyelperinquar is a smith, from what Mairon has heard. He could be quite useful in ways that Nelyafinwë, who apparently had not inherited his father’s love of gems and crafting, would not be.
• And, of course, the physical resemblance to Fëanáro cannot be ignored.
  • Which Mairon knows will make Melkor quite happy.
  • That isn’t the only reason to take the elf, but it is a good one.
• Besides, several things tell Mairon it’s likely that Nelyafinwë does not know his nephew is in his army.
  • First, he’s not up front with his uncle, so Nelyafinwë is not trying to highlight Tyelperinquar’s status as a member of the royal family;
  • Second, he’s dressed the same as all the others, so it’s possible Nelyafinwë is trying to disguise him, except for the third thing;
  • Third, there are no soldiers in any kind of different or unique formation around the whelp, so there’s no plan to protect him.
  • And fourth—less objective, but still worth noting—there are no backward glances from Nelyafinwë at his army. Although Nelyafinwë is a beacon of self-control, Mairon has learned enough about elves and their tendencies when it comes to behavior around their loved ones to know this means something. They like to keep each other in their line of vision in dangerous situations and get twitchy when they cannot—as if they could protect them just with their very sight, Mairon scoffs internally. Not checking to ascertain his nephew is safe is another sign that Nelyafinwë doesn’t know Tyelperinquar is here.
• This makes the idea of taking the younger elf even more appealing.
• So, his mind made up, Mairon decides the reveal can take place.

• Tyelpë can’t really hear much of the conversation between Uncle Nelyo and the Ainu, but the rest of the army is getting shifty.
  • “What’s taking so long?” One of the elves in the row ahead of him says under his breath.
  • The elf beside him elbows him in the side.
  • More stifled mutterings can be heard.
• All Tyelpë can do is hope that it will be over soon.
• “Alright, enough talking. Hand over the Silmarils and we shall leave these lands,” Maitimo declares, loudly enough for his army to hear.
• The Ainu tilts his head as he looks down at the red-headed Fëanárion, who meets his gaze unflinchingly.
• “Did you really expect I would deliver you the jewels?” the Ainu sneers.
• Tyelpë gasps.
• Maitimo’s eyes flash with murder.
• Then all hell breaks loose.
  • The orcs lunge at them, and the elves leap forward, and Tyelperinquar is swept into a whirl of fighting.
  • It’s all he can do to stay on his feet and try to stab where he can with his sword as the wave of orcs barrels into the ranks of the elven army—slash there, no, there’s an elf, don’t—orc—here, there’s a gap—
  • It’s so loud and the orcs stink and there’s blood, so much blood—
  • Tyelpë saw the aftermath of Alqualondë (some of it, as he was hurried along by his mother, craning his neck in curiosity), but he’s never been in a battle like this, and it’s terrifying.
  • He’s trained with a sword, but one-on-one combat training with someone he trusts not to hurt him is very different than multiple enemies (and allies) fighting around him without holding back any of their swings.
  • He can almost hear his father in his head, commanding, “Eyes up, Tyelpë,” and that’s about all he can manage to think before there’s an orc grabbing his arm and his face and then he has no choice but to stare up, wide-eyed, at the ugly creature.
  • Nonononono—
  • Let goletgoLETGO
  • He wrenches away just enough to look around wildly and spot Uncle Nelyo far off through the shove of bodies.
  • He doesn’t have time to move towards him, though, because the orc grabs onto his wrist with a terrifyingly strong grip and he’s yanked away.
• The orc is filthy and his jagged dagger hurts as it pokes into Tyelpë’s side, driving him forward. He’s stumbling, trying to escape, but it’s all he can do to stay on his own feet.
  • He can barely see through the crush of orc and elf locked in battle, and the clash of weapons and screeches of pain echo in his ears.
  • The screams are all around him, but the loudest feel like they’re piercing his eardrums.
  • A second later, he realizes his throat is raw and aching, and he’s the one screaming so loudly it’s hurting his own ears.
• The orc smacks Tyelpë strongly upside the head, and abruptly his screams are cut off; his head snaps back and lolls from the force of the blow. There are stars, little pinpricks of light, in his eyes and he blinks several times before they disappear.
• Dazed, he barely registers the world around him as the orc pushes him forth once more, and they emerge on the edge of the battlefield.
  • He does notice, however, that his hands are empty; he must have lost his sword somewhere along the way.
• The orc continues to force him to walk, now towards an isolated area of fighting where Tyelpë last saw Uncle Nelyo, and suddenly Tyelpë wonders, why hasn’t it killed me yet?
• And why is it bringing me towards Uncle Nelyo instead of away from him?
• As he and the orc move closer, Tyelpë notices the golden-eyed Ainu standing nearby with a stern expression, and dread begins to rise in him. Whatever he wants…whatever reason he is over here…it can’t be good.
• Once they stop moving, he notices that the sounds of the battle have died down, finally, and he risks a glance backward.
  • Dead.
  • They’re all dead.
  • Every one of them.
  • All of the elves that made up that army, all of those extra reinforcements, all of them—
  • Dead.
  • And there are many, many orcs amongst them too, but the sea of bodies is more elf than orc.
  • Every vivid, piercing emotion Tyelpë has felt up to this point feels like nothing compared to the sickened horror that washes over him now.
  • Their eyes are dead, unseeing; bodies twisted, broken limbs in unnatural positions; blood and gore all over them; and the breeze blowing over the field in his direction carries an awful stench that makes him gag and brings tears to his eyes.
• He thinks he might be sick, but before anything else happens, the orc holding him yanks his head back and his gaze is torn away from that terrible scene.
  • It hardly matters that he can’t see it anymore; the image of the field of dead bodies feels like it is seared into his eyeballs, and he knows it will be burned into his memory for the rest of time.
• Mercifully, he sees that Uncle Nelyo is still fighting, along with two other elves. But the overwhelming relief he feels is washed away, replaced by terror, once he sees how bloodied and broken his uncle is.
  • One of Maitimo’s arms is hanging limply by his side at an awkward angle, and Tyelpë can see him wince in pain every so often when it twists.
  • His armor is streaked with the black of orcish blood and red of elvish, mixed together.
  • And he is clearly beginning to tire.
• Tyelpë watches with his heart in his throat.
• He sees one of the elves cut down and bites back a scream, feeling guilty in his relief that it isn’t Uncle Nelyo on the ground.
• A minute or two later, the other elf is viciously beheaded from behind and the body falls sideways into Maitimo, making him stumble.
  • This time, Tyelpë does scream.
  • Maitimo regains his footing, but not quickly enough: the attacking orcs are already on him, and they grab his arms and kick at his legs, destabilizing him.
• Before Maitimo can struggle further, the golden-eyed Ainu strides up to the fight and coughs politely, as if to insert himself into a conversation. “Well, well. Has it really come to this, king of the Noldor? I believe there is someone you neglected to introduce to me at the beginning of our meeting.”
• He beckons to the orc holding Tyelpë, and it forces him forward a few steps closer before it carelessly rips off his helmet, pulling at his hair. Tyelpë lets out a yelp of pain as several strands are ripped away with the helmet.
• Then he looks up and sees the moment Uncle Nelyo realizes it’s him.
  • Maitimo’s eyes widen and his face goes gray.
  • He chokes out in a strained voice, “Tyelpë?”
  • Tyelpë bows his head in mingled shame and fear. Tears fill his eyes.
  • It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
• “What a lovely family reunion,” the Ainu purrs. “How unfortunate it will have to end so soon.”
  • Then he gives a flick of his hand, almost too quickly for Tyelpë to see, and the orcs tear at Uncle Nelyo.
  • Tyelpë can feel the tears spilling from his eyes and running down his cheeks as he watches the struggle in front of him. Maitimo fights valiantly, but the orcs are bigger and stronger, and they manage to disarm him and wrestle him to the ground.
  • After another minute or two, they are finally able to hold him, and one of the orcs takes up Maitimo’s sword while the other has the elf pinned down. A sob catches in Tyelpë’s throat.
  • “I suppose this is the end, son of Fëanáro,” the Ainu says smugly.
  • No, no, no, he can’t die, I can’t watch him die!
  • “STOP!”
• The Ainu lifts up a hand sharply, and the orcs freeze in place.
• “Please, please don’t kill him, let him go, please, I’ll do anything, just please don’t hurt him anymore,” Tyelpë gasps out, now crying so hard it’s difficult to get the words out, but he absolutely must, it is vital that they hear him.
• The golden-eyed Ainu smiles at him.
• “Then we shall simply have to take you instead.”
• He whimpers and struggles in alarm—no I don’t want to go don’t take me no no NO—
• But then he sees the orc raise the sword and sees Uncle Nelyo, his proud, brave uncle, involuntarily flinch—
• And he hears himself screaming once again, pleading for them to stop.
• The Ainu lifts a hand, and the orc lowers its weapon.
• The golden eyes turn and stare at Tyelpë, and he shivers as the Ainu draws nearer and comes to a stop a few paces in front of him.
• “If you come with me willingly, then my orcs will not hurt him any further. But if you resist, they will tear out his heart and eat him alive,” he says calmly.
• Tyelpë stares back, and he can feel the beat of his own heart racing, racing, racing against the thin shirt and thin armor pressed to his chest.
• There is only one option, and it is not a pleasant one, but he must take it.
• He cannot let Uncle Nelyo die.
• He nods.
• He forces the words out of his mouth, “I will go with you.”
• A sudden burst of sound makes him immediately turn to look at Uncle Nelyo, who is thrashing in the orc’s arms like a wild animal. “No—Tyelpë—don’t listen to him! Don’t—”
  • And that’s all he can get out before the orc manages to clamp its hand over his mouth and the other one drops the sword to help hold down the struggling elf.
• It means Uncle Nelyo will stay alive, it means Uncle Nelyo will stay alive, it means Uncle Nelyo will stay alive, Tyelpë repeats over and over to himself in his head.
• As if in a dream, he watches the Ainu stride over to Maitimo, who is still straining against the orcs with all the might in his body, place his fingertips on Maitimo’s forehead, and sharply utter a short string of words in a language Tyelpë has never heard before.
  • Maitimo’s eyes roll back in his head and he collapses against the primary orc holding him.
• Did he…did he just…
• “NO!” Tyelpë shouts, voice cracking, and attempts to twist out of the grip of his orc.
• The Ainu sighs irritably. “I didn’t kill him. See for yourself, he is breathing.”
• Tyelpë stills in his captor’s grasp and stares at Maitimo; after a moment, he can see his uncle’s chest moving up and down, ever so faintly, and he sees his hand twitch.
• Relief crashes over Tyelpë. He’s still alive.
• The relief quickly morphs into fear as the orc holding Tyelpë leads him over to another taller, bigger orc standing nearby, who immediately removes Tyelpë’s armor and strips him of his weapons.
  • His sword was already gone, but he feels a pang of dismay and sorrow in his chest as he sees the orc pocket the knife his father made for him, as well as the small bag of miniature throwing stars Uncle Tyelkormo had taught him how to use.
• Then, the orc pulls off a chain that hangs loosely from the belt around its waist and begins to wrap the chain around Tyelpë’s wrists.
  • Somehow, this is what makes reality finally set in: he is being taken captive.
• Dazed and in shock, Tyelpë barely pays any attention to what is going on around him; he vaguely hears the Ainu directing his army in that unknown language, and they move around in a flurry of action as the orc—who seems to be some kind of commander—finishes securing Tyelpë.
• Then, the commander orc pulls on the chain and Tyelpë stumbles forward.
• He catches himself and walks, following the tugging on his wrists, and the army makes their way into and through the forest towards Angband, the fortress of Morgoth.
• I’m a prisoner of the Enemy.
• Tyelperinquar is still so numb to the world around him that he does not catch Mairon’s piercing stare on two of the orcs and the sign the Ainu makes with his hand.
• Nor does he see those two orcs split off from the pack to slip into the trees, heading back the way they had come.

Chapter End Notes

All aboard the angst train! It has officially left the station.

All editing done by me. If there are any typos or grammatical errors, feel free to let me know!
If you’d like to leave a comment, but you aren’t sure what to say, these posts might help you put some of your thoughts into words: Appreciation without Anxiety: Commenting 101 and 101 Comment Starters.
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