A/N Thanks so much to Viv, Sulriel, and Rhyselle for their help in editing this piece!

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Wirilomë – Quenya for Ungoliant
Maitimo – Quenya for Maedhros [/i]

Finwë could taste death in his throat, but he swallowed it viciously and clawed his way across the blood-slick stone. His mortal wounds drained his essence, fea aching to flee his ravished hroa. He had to stop Melkor from taking the Silmarils. His sword lay nearby and he reached for it, then grasping the hilt of it. On his hands and knees, he crawled to a chair and pulled himself up, ignoring the agony that racked his body.

Stumbling toward the hall, Finwë listened to the sounds in the house and knew that Melkor and Wirilomë were approaching. He pressed himself against the wall to stablize himself. Melkor would think him dead so he had little time to press his advantage of a surprise attack. Glancing down, he saw the blood flowing freely from his wounds, leaving a trail of blood back to where he had fallen.

‘I will not last the night.’ He had no time to say farewell to those he loved.

Finwë did not have time to dwell on this fact before he felt the darkness of the fallen Vala, suffocatingly cold and heavy, surround him long before he saw Melkor and Wirilomë. Throwing himself in their path, he swung his sword at the neck of his foe. Melkor barely blinked before he grabbed the sword and flung it away, knocking Finwë off center. Grasping the elf lord by the throat, Melkor held him off his feet and laughed. Finwe grasped at his fingers desperately trying to breathe as he felt his windpipe crushing and darkness bordered the edges of his vision. Melkor, no doubt a master at tempered violence, seemed to know exactly how tightly he could squeeze without the elf passing out from lack of air so he could torture the elf further.

“You think you can defeat me? I am more powerful than you could even dream.” Melkor’s voice boomed over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

“Feanáro will stop you. He will rip you to shreds for what you have done. The full wrath of the Valar will aid him in this…” Finwë gasped as Melkor’s fingers tightened on his throat.

Melkor flung the elf across the room as if he were weightless. Finwë crashed into a table before he hit the wall. Sliding into a heap of broken bones and gaping wounds, he bit his lip to avoid crying out. He would not allow Melkor see any weakness. Looking up, he saw the Vala’s face twisted in cruel victory. Despite his best effort, he now shook in fear as he saw the true face of evil incarnate.

“You are now broken, elf, and soon you will draw your last breath. Realize that as you do, I have now claimed the greatest creations of the Noldor as my own. You are nothing, unable to defend your home nor your honor – less than a buzzing insect in my way. I fear not Feanáro, nor the Valar for I alone improved the song of Ilúvatar. And now we destroyed the Two Trees that the Valar hold most beloved, they will be licking their wounds, not attempting to stop me. Feanáro is nothing but a brilliant craftsman. I am He Who Has Arisen in Might! I would strike him down as easily as I have you.” Melkor laughed again before adding. “Go now, Finwë. Join your wife who chose to fade rather than look upon the son she had brought into the world. She knew even then that he would prove the ruin of the Noldor, dividing them forever to serve his own means.”

Melkor turned and followed Wirilomë from the keep into the darkness. Finwë's breath rattled in his lungs, agony filling every inch of his body. He could no longer move and all the fight left in him crept away in the darkness. He watched in detached calm the puddle of blood growing below him.

The Trees were destroyed, the Silmarils stolen into the night. What was left of peace in these lands? Hope was lost. Tears of regret stained his cheeks as he tried to will himself to let go. He knew his son would fight to his dying breath to regain the Silmarils. He had failed by letting Melkor take them from this house. He had failed as the King of the Noldor. He had failed his family. His blood so carelessly flowing from his body was not strong enough to substain his life anymore.

‘Miriel, I come to you now as I have often wanted to do before. Please forgive me for my weakness and misdeeds.’

Even as his fëa left him, called to the Halls of Mandos, Finwë’s death was just being discovered. His oldest grandson, Maitimo, held his lifeless body as he cried out and cursed the one who brought this death upon their house. He died ignorant of what madness his death and the loss of the Silmarils would lead the Noldor to commit. Soon he would be joined by the many Teleri slaughtered upon the swords of the House of Finwë.