Gather torches, gather our people from Formenos, we march toward Túna, we shall walk through the gates of Tirion, reclaim sovereignty, reclaim what to us belongs.
So few words and they had already made his voice raucous. But his thoughts had passed from him to them with the easiness and intensity of the hammer that strikes upon white-hot metal. An order, a plea — it hardly mattered, as the impulse to leave the dark wastes where the Enemy and his foul ally had walked grew within him.
Fëanáro turned and faced his firstborn; he knew not what his countenance betrayed in its wrinkles and frown that Nelyafinwë would look at him with such eyes. He struggled, even in his impatience, to remember that the world was not forlorn, though it tore his spirit apart to know it so barren of light and deprived of his father and of beauty.
He stiffened, but did not refuse his Nelyo’s embrace. A twisted thing that it should be his son to hold him, and not the other way around. Sharp breaths, a silent sob, a tremor in his chest were barely suffucated by his will. Soon Fëanáro raised his arms and tightly clutched Nelyafinwë around his shoulders, his eyes dry, but his heart weeping still. With a hand on his nape, he moved his son’s head to the side toward his temple, so that he could stare at the sky above.
Dark, dark as it only had been in their journeys to the distant shores of the Outer Sea. A few tears touched his cheeks yet again at the memory of days in which his spirit had only yearned for freedom, a soft and bright freedom like was the breeze.
He swallowed the ache in his throat, he swallowed it whole. And his breath slowly became deeper, found its rhythm once again, returned to the strength of bellows blowing air on fire.
Placing both his hands on his firstborn’s shoulders, he stepped back. « Take your sword with you, Nelyo », he murmured. « It is time. »
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