-General-
Ilarion remained silent for a few seconds. He found it ironic how rarely his grandfather's death had been mentioned; he even weighed whether to start future conversations with the mention of Finwë's murderer. Perhaps that way he would save himself the introductory dialogues and get straight to the point.
But those thoughts were fleeting. He fixed his gaze on Círdan and, with the calm that precedes the storm, he said it:
"Melkor.. or as some of us call him, Morgoth"
At the mention of the Vala's true name, thunder rumbled on the horizon. Dark clouds condensed in the sky, the calm on the ocean was replaced by wild swells, and the wind brought with it the putrid stench of dark magic.
Such a phenomenon startled everyone, but the one who took the hardest blow was Ilarion. His purity, so refined, was highly susceptible to such abrupt changes; he had never experienced such a feeling. He felt the bitter taste of bile burning his throat. The stench of corruption suffocated him, forcing him to double over. He clenched his teeth, fighting back a retch, while a cold sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of not collapsing.
Círdan tore his gaze away from the phenomenon and hurried to Ilarion's aid. His shouts attracted the Elves from outside. Seeing Finwë's grandson in such a state, they sprang into action to bring soothing oils. They passed them under his nose while laying him on a makeshift cot.
But despite their efforts, nothing worked. Ilarion was beginning to lose consciousness. It was then that the mantle of Varda and the flower of Yavanna shone brightly. Those radiances enveloped the son of Fëanor in a warm embrace. For a moment, Ilarion thought he saw the faces of both Valier, looking down at him with concern.
The glow rose like the morning sun, dispelling the occurring phenomena. Little by little, the stillness returned; one could even see birds flying in the now-clear sky.
"He even tainted his own name," whispered Ilarion, rising from the cot despite the protests of the Elves.
He learned the hard way that Morgoth's true name was not to be spoken. He never imagined that the Dark Lord would dare cast a curse upon his own name; it was as if he wanted anyone who uttered it to suffer a punishment.
It was as if he decreed that no being beneath him was permitted to call him by the name with which he came into the world.
Círdan, with the calm of a sage of countless winters, turned toward Ilarion.
"Now I see why the people of my friend have returned." With a sigh, he lost himself in memory. "Long ago, he whom you now call Morgoth seduced many of our kind in the early days... We never heard from them again. I have even come to think that the horrendous creatures wandering out there are those who were lost."
Ilarion nodded. Calm manifested once more, as the scent of pure mint filled his nostrils. It was a refreshing atmosphere, like taking a drink of cold water in a scorching desert.
"That is why I have come to ask for your aid," said Ilarion. "As we speak, Morgoth gathers his ancient servants. If we wish to survive, we must unite to face him; remaining divided will only give him the advantage."
Círdan nodded in agreement. He was wise, and thus, he was aware of the danger Morgoth represented. Although they had dealings with the Elves of Thingol, it wasn't as if they were closely united. Furthermore, on occasion, his scouts had reported small beings. He did not know their name, but what he was sure of was that they too despised the creatures called Orcs. Why? Because many times those small ones had clashed with them.
So it would not be a bad idea to unite all the races that inhabited these lands. After all, they would have the same long-term goal: to protect their freedom.
Círdan turned his gaze back to the horizon, where the waves swayed like a lullaby. He closed his eyes and let himself be enveloped: the laughter of children resonated with joy, and the melodies, accompanied by chants, enlivened the atmosphere. They had to protect that happiness.
Finally, with resolve, he opened his eyes and looked at Ilarion.
"Very well, grandson of Finwë, we will help you."
At this, Ilarion sighed inwardly. The objective had been achieved. Now it was only a matter of his uncle Fingolfin convincing the Elves of Doriath and thus, finally, reuniting with his father with all the reinforcements to attack Morgoth, while the latter had not yet gathered all his servants.
Although this last thought made him doubt... his former master was swift and wasted no time. It was certain he had already gathered the vast majority of his hosts.
...
-With Fëanor-
"Rough, uncivilized, filthy... but I must admit their heart is an anvil. No matter how much you hammer it with culture and grace, it will not change. To others it is a flawed trait, but to me it is a great virtue. It proves they are true to themselves," Fëanor declared.
Around him, his sons gathered in a circle. Although they were at a banquet with the Dwarves, there was a certain caution on the part of the Noldor. They were facing a race unknown to most.
They had to be alert. However, boldness ran in their blood, and even more so in that of Fëanor's followers. Thus, it was no surprise that one or two Noldor dared to chat with the Dwarves, absorbing the new language clumsily at first.
The Dwarves, though cautious, relaxed their vigilance when Fëanor mentioned their father and creator. Once the banquet was ready, they felt it strange that not many Elves approached them.
But they attributed it to the strangeness of the moment. Besides, the Elves they had crossed paths with in the past were similar. Only those had been excessively reserved, whereas these black-haired Elves, at least, were a bit more sociable. Pleasant was their surprise when they noticed them trying to speak their tongue.
Fëanor, for his part, looked at each of his sons.
"Learn from them, gather information. I shall do the same. If they prove useful to us, we can ally with them. The more swords raised alongside ours, the more of Morgoth's creatures will fall."
After those words, he straightened up, smoothed his dark tunic, and, with the grace of a swan but the presence of a lion, walked toward where the leader of the Dwarves stood. Durin, unlike his men, seemed wiser and more calculating.
"An interesting Dwarf," he said to himself, as a half-smile formed on his face.
Meanwhile, Durin, just like Fëanor, had held a brief meeting with two of his sons. Just as the Noldor did, the Dwarf planned to forge a temporary alliance. It was not that he detested Elves, but he could not entrust the lives of his men to those lanky, big-eared fellows helping them in the heat of battle.
"But that Elf has something the others do not," he said to himself, as a sly smile appeared on his lips. "An interesting Elf."