Clash of steel.
Sparks.
The young elf desperately parried.
The last strike disarmed him.
He fell to his knees, gasping for air.
"GET UP!" screamed his adversary, throwing his sword to the ground.
"Atarinya... I cannot..."
Macilwë grabbed the young elf's chin. His eyes were like glowing embers, and they were in constant, though hardly noticeable movement. It was as if they were digging into something.
The young elf frowned. His father's eyes had burned all the veils of his personality, entering his mind. He felt pain, fear and terror...
"You are my son" gnarled Macilwë.
"Do you know who's son you are?
Your father came to Endórë with the people of Fëanáro!
We burned the ships of the swan-herds! We smote the Orcs of Moringotto!
We fought the Valaraucar, and we continued to fight for the legacy of our people!"
Macilwë's eyes flashed.
"Fëanáro never knelt in his whole life! He did not kneel before the powers, he did not kneel before fate and doom, he did not kneel before Angamando! Even his Fëa did not kneel before the boundaries of Arda, it burned its body in the hour of parting!
Fire can never be broken or bent!"
"I'm not like you, Atarinya... and I'm not like Fëanáro..."
"You are my son, and you are one of the Nárendur. We have always been loyal warriors to Nos Fëanáro!
When Narwë had found the FLAME of Endórë, he did not kneel before Oromë! No, he raised the flame, and the Great Hunter stopped his horse in astonishment!
The Nárendur were not born to kneel. We came into this world to bring light, and fire, and passion, and freedom! We came into this world to shatter the old, and shape the new!
now GET UP!"
The young elf clenched his teeth, and rose to his feet.
Macilwë stepped back, watching him. He would never help his son.
He expected him to achieve it by himself.
Now, badly beaten up, bruised and exhausted, the young elf suddenly felt strangely powerful again.
"Attack! " screamed Macilwë, taking up his sword again.
The young elf charged.
"Attack me a thousand times!" Their blunt sparring blades were flashing.
After nine years of merciless training, the young elf had learned how to wield a sword.
But Macilwë was still parrying and dodging his attacks with ease.
"Angles, angles!" roared the father. "Do not swing it around like a fool! Threaten me!"
At dusk, they returned to Macilwë's tent.
It was full of weapons, maps and armour.
The Fëanorian used to sleep on the hard ground.
"Never forget, Macilvelco" he had told his son.
"Comfort is weakening the warrior. Wherever you take away your comfort, your mind will stay sharp and fierce."
Usually, after a long day of hard training, Macilwë would just take off his armour, and lay down on the ground, without saying anything.
But today was different.
He took a torch, set it ablaze and pushed it into the earth.
The young elf furrowed his eyebrows.
Macilwë turned around, and took a long, black cupboard.
He opened it.
A large, two-handed Greatsword in a black sheath.
Grabbing it, he said:
"Macilvelco, this is Váyasercë, the sword of our family."
Hesitating, the son asked:
"Why is it called... Váyasercë?"
Macilwë glanced at the young elf, and slowly a cruel, dangerous smile appeared on his face.
"When Fëanáro learned the secrets of smithcraft from Mahtan, he began to shape swords.
My father Húrwë, your grandfather, was one of the first to aid him in this task.
I was still young at that time, but I remember well.
This is the sword, the Falquan that your grandfather shaped for himself. It was meant to be the heritage of our family. I assisted him as good as I could. Much of our holy passion, purest intentions and greatest powers we poured into that blade!
And when the hour had come, and the forsaken realm failed, and our people rose and departed in freedom, we were stopped by the Teleri in Alqualondë.
That was the moment when we knew... we had to fight. Our beloved Endórë, our enemy Moringotto, the Silmarilli - they were waiting beyond the sea. We had to fight any obstacles crossing our way. That was when we drew our swords.
What a mess it was!
Your grandfather had fought his way up into one of the ships. He killed five shipwrights before he was hit in the eye by an arrow. They tossed him into the sea.
I jumped into the water, pulled him out... but he was gone. His Fëa was gone. In that moment, something cut my arm. I saw his sword, I saw the Falquan of our family... and I took it up. It was red, red by the blood that had mingled with the waves.
That was when I called it Váyasercë, and I vowed to let whole Alatairë become red as blood if needed.
Together with my fellow warriors we stormed that ship, and we killed every single shipwright. And I laughed, and Váyasercë laughed as she drank their blood!
And we smote and tossed them into the sea, and the more I killed the more I laughed, and the feast of blood and flesh, bones and screams did not want to end!
This is Váyasercë, the ocean of blood, sacred by the bloody waves of Alatairë, the drinker of telerin life, pride of your grandfather and your father, approved by Fëanáro, feared by the orcs of Moringotto. Defender of Endórë, avenger of oaths, bringer of doom. Behold a sword of the Nárendur!"
And Macilwë unsheathed the Falquan.
Indeed, something like a dark, slowly moving red depth of an ocean seemed to linger behind the surface of the long blade.
The young elf sat there, eyes wide open, and terror took him.
"Come here. Come here, my son" whispered Macilwë.
He suddenly lowered the sword. Its sharp tip stang the young elf's chest softly, where the heart was. The father's long fingers caught a drop of blood.
"Now you are ONE" whispered Macilwë, and there was madness in his eyes. "There is a bond between you and this weapon now, and it will endure as long as one of you wanders Arda in earthly form. You are hers...and she is yours. And when I'm gone, you will take her up and wield her in battle."
The young elf gazed at the Falquan, and he felt utter disgust and despair, and as he was watching the weird surface of the blade he felt as if he was drawn in, and suddenly a terrible vision flooded his mind, and he saw waves, high as towers, waves of blood, full of dead bodies, and he heard screams, and accusations, and lamentations, and he saw telerin women shedding tears of blood, and beautiful ships sullied with intestines and brains, and he watched them burn, he watched hundreds of the ships burn, and he saw the craftsmen and sages and warriors and artists of the Noldor, and he saw the Nárendur, carrying the sacred fire of Middle-Earth, and then the huge waves of blood extinguished everything, leaving destruction and emptiness.
He felt the glory, he felt the passion, he felt the heights of pure dedication, and he felt the terror, the failure, and the cruelty of what he had done - for he was standing there, and an ocean of blood was pouring out of Váyasercë, and he held the blade firmly in his hands.
"No,no, no..." he said, again and again, and he screamed as loud as he could, and swinging the sword with all his might he tossed the weapon into the ocean.
He wanted these images to end.
The weight of the Falquan made him fall, and the waves were all over him, and he fell into deep, smothering profoundness.
Some say: we are inheriting the mistakes of our ancestors.
However much Macilvelco Ráolor, son of Macilwë tried, he could not escape the Doom of the Noldor, nor could he avoid the bloodshed and the woe that befell Beleriand after the years of the Long Peace.
---
[Translations and notes:
Atarinya - my father (Quenya)
Endórë - Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Fëanáro - Fëanor (Quenya)
Moringotto - Morgoth (Quenya)
Valaraucar - the Balrogs (Quenya)
Nos Fëanáro - House of Fëanor (Quenya)
About the Nárendur, Narwë and the Flame of Endórë:
The Nárendur were a proud group of the Noldor. After their ancestor and leader, Narwë had brought the "flame of Cuiviénen" or "flame of Endórë" to Valinor, they became known for their love and devotion to fire as a physical and spiritual element. They showed loyal to Fëanor and the rebellion of the Noldor. All of them came to Beleriand, with one exception - Narwë, who had been killed alongside his liege Finwë in Formenost by Morgoth
(note: this story isn't canon. I suppose the elves knew about fire and fire-making shortly after their awakening, since they couldn't have come very far without it during their long journey through Middle-Earth. I suppose, either Oromë showed them how to do it, or they found it by themselves. I favour the latter version. In either way, I made one of the characters tell this story, so it has rather the flair of a legend since I don't intend to make it sound too definite)
Váyasercë - Ocean (of) blood (Quenya)
Mahtan - a skilled smith of Valinor, one of the Aulendur. He learned the arts of metal and stone work under the Vala Aulë. His daughter Nerdanel was the wife of Fëanor. Mahtan, alongside Círdan was one of few elves known to have a beard
Falquan - large (two-handed) sword (Quenya)
Alqualondë - the Swanhaven, chief city of the Falmari in Valinor (Quenya). This is the place where the First Kinslaying took place
Alatairë - the great sea west of Middle-Earth (Quenya), also called Belegaer]
