-General-
The appearance, as well as the name, brought memories flooding back to Fëanor.
There was a time—and it almost pained him to recall it—when his house was still filled with the warmth of love. A time when arguments were mundane, simple words that, despite their weight, always carried affection. None of it burned as it would later.
In those days, Ilarion spoke of the Valar with the same natural ease with which others spoke of the weather. His words, always charged with contagious joy, drew smiles from even the sternest. He spoke of Aulë as a patient craftsman, bent over stone, fashioning jewels... in the same way he had once fashioned life.
That life to which he gave a name: Dwarves.
Small, yes. But not fragile. No. Hewn from the stone itself. Firmer. Denser. As if the mountain had learned to walk.
Thick beards. Hands hardened by toil. Eyes that did not blink before the glow of molten metal.
Very different from them.
For the Noldor were tall and slender, fair as a song well sung. Their hair fell like black ink upon the silk of the world, and their bearing seemed made for elegance, not for heavy labor nor for the hardness of rock.
"Durin," whispered Fëanor, approaching the Dwarf with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "My son has spoken to me of your kin: children of Aulë, shaped beneath chisel and stone."
Those words surprised the Dwarves. Although caution still lingered in their gaze, the mention of their Father kindled something different within them: awe and longing.
Among them all, he who reacted with the greatest intensity was Durin, their King. He stepped forward almost with a leap, completely forgetting the prudence that had restrained him minutes before.
"Do you know Father?" he asked, and for an instant his voice was not that of a King, but that of a small child.
The Noldor King never expected such a stark change. In the Dwarf's crystalline eyes he saw a figure: specifically, himself as a child, anxiously awaiting the return of his father, Finwë. He also recognized in that gaze the same emotion his own sons had shown when they were but children.
For an instant, Fëanor allowed himself a relaxed smile.
"Yes, I come from the lands where your Father rules alongside his brethren."
The sharp cries of jubilation from the Dwarves were not long in rising like hammers upon an anvil, resonating across the vast expanse of the land. Many embraced tightly; others laughed with breaking voices, and there were those whose tears shone like gems freshly torn from the heart of the mountain.
It had been a long, long time since their Father left them in the vast expanse of Middle-earth, and his memory had become song, and song, legend.
In the tales handed down—from fathers to sons, and from them to their sons' sons—it was told that Aulë the Smith, after fashioning them in secret with love and patience, unwittingly provoked the wrath of Eru Ilúvatar. And great was the anger of the One, for He does not tolerate the Flame of Life being kindled save by His will.
Before Him, the first Dwarves knelt. They did not clamor for power nor for a kingdom, but for the simple gift of existence. And although their voices were yet clumsy and newborn, in them vibrated a sincere devotion toward the Vala who had forged them.
But Aulë, obedient even in pain, raised his great hammer. Burning tears furrowed his stony countenance, for he was prepared to destroy that which he loved most, if the supreme command so demanded.
But then, the blow never fell.
Eru Ilúvatar saw the humility of the Dwarves, the faithfulness of the Smith, and the purity of the act which, though reckless, had been born of love and not of defiance. And in His unfathomable mercy, He adopted them as the late-coming children of the world.
He granted them true life and free will, and allowed them to dwell beneath the earth destined for Men, where rock would be their shield and metal their heritage. And thus began the days of the Dwarven kind, born of the chisel, tested by obedience, and saved by compassion.
"Then come, Fëanor King of the Noldor, son of Finwë," said Durin, whose beard swayed in the wind. "Draw near the fire, celebrate with us, and tell us of the land where our Father dwells."
With a deep laugh, like thunder in a storm, Durin turned on his heel and began to shout orders.
"Broach the barrels! Bring out the cured meat!"
The Dwarves obeyed with jubilation; the bungs flew, golden foam flowed like a frothy river, and the scent of roasted meat was borne upon the wind. That moment was not for caution, but for remembrance and perhaps to forge an alliance, the first between two distinct races.
And why did Durin not fear the son of Finwë, whose spirit burned like an unleashed forge?
Because Durin was of the First. In his breast beat an ancient gift: he perceived deceit. And though in Fëanor he sensed rancor and a hatred that gleamed like steel beneath the sun, he understood that it was not directed toward his people.
No, that fire was turned elsewhere.
At this, Fëanor and the Noldor raised a brow in visible surprise. However, guided by their lord, they advanced toward the enthusiastic Dwarves. Among them were Maedhros, Maglor, and Celegorm, who, with caution still in their gaze, approached their father to ask why they should mingle with these strange beings.
"They are children of Aulë," replied Fëanor.
And that was all they needed to know.
That single phrase sufficed for the Sons of Fire to quell their doubts. If they hailed from the Smith's work, they could not be unworthy. Thus, albeit with a certain stiffness in their gestures and barely contained smiles, the Noldor joined the festivity, mingling their elegance with the Dwarves' ruggedness.
Thus began the first alliance of different races in the history of Arda.
---
"Slain!" exclaimed the Elf of Círdan.
His surprise was not to be wondered at: he knew Finwë, for he had been one of those Elves who awoke beneath the starry sky, before the First were sundered into their kindreds.
"By whom?" he asked, only to pause, mastering his agitated spirit. "Forgive me if my question is bold."
Fingolfin maintained a stoic countenance; but beneath his watchful gaze, the Elf's genuine reaction of concern and fury confirmed a silent thought: without a doubt, he knew my father.
Slowly shaking his head, the Noldor Prince's gaze turned cold and indifferent. Beneath that mask, hatred and the thirst for vengeance emerged like hidden embers, capable of sparking a devastating conflagration if left uncontained.
"By that Dark Lord who covered all Arda in shadows."
"Morgoth."