A/N: This is an unabashed AU, and I make no apologies for some of the ideal turnouts – let's face it, in this fandom we need all the happy bits we can get.
Silmarillion, of course, belongs to the Tolkien Estate, but we all knew that. (Does anyone even do disclaimers anymore?)

Bright Banners Raised

The Ñoldor were a proud people, yet their king lay upon the earth, battered and bleeding. There in the darkness, Melkor stepped over him, disregarding him as easily as one would a crumpled pile of rags.

Finwë's ribs were afire with pain, and his body lay where the blow had cast him, yet the strength of his people was his also, and he lived yet; he lived, though he could not rise to prevent the despoiling of his home and the theft of his son's great treasures.

Through the aching haze, he knew that Fëanáro's fury would be fierce indeed, but if there was one comfort, it was that Fëanáro's sons were safe, far from here, having ridden forth before this darkness covered all. Would he survive? He did not know, yet strangely the thought brought little fear, save only the dread of his children suffering in grief.

He heard Melkor's heavy tread returning, and those footsteps shook the ground, jarring his body, igniting new agonies in him. The dark around him crept into Finwë's senses, and all conscious thought slipped away.

When he woke, it was to the sight of Carnistir bending over him. His ruddy-faced grandson saw his eyes opening, and gave a cry of relief, alerting the others clustered around.

It was Telufinwë who told him that they had sent for Fëanáro to tell him what had passed here, and Tyelcormo who gave him what explanations could be gleaned from the signs left over of Melkor's departure. Finwë would have spoken, but even drawing too deep a breath nearly sent him back into unconsciousness, and so he could only wait, silently, as his wounds were treated and his grandsons discussed their situation.

It was fortunate, surely, that he had regained some manner of speech by the time Fëanáro reached what remained of Formenos; his son looked half-dead himself of anguished horror, and only Finwë's whispered words of reassurance seemed to hold him back from total collapse. He fell to his knees beside Finwë, reaching out to take his hand, and Finwë felt in turn that his son's hands, steady in every craft they tried, could not stop shaking.

They bore Finwë back to Tirion in a litter, travelling through the endless darkness; it was perhaps the case that Fëanáro's exile had not yet ended, but all members of their party held that it had been cut short by Manwë's own decree, and Fëanáro was not inclined to let technicalities come between him and taking his father safely home.

(Fëanáro had been heard to darkly wonder if any place could be safe when the Valar had failed to keep in check the one he in his anger had renamed Morgoth, yet even he seemed reassured at the thought of reaching Tirion, if only for his father's sake.)

Still reeling from the death of the Two Trees, the Ñoldor embraced with relief the news that their king had come home; in this land that had seemed so safe and now did not, to find that they had been spared this one loss at least was heartening for them.

Finwë still could not speak loudly, but the strength in his gaze remained, and it granted undeniable legitimacy to his eldest son's speech before the people. Vengeance Fëanáro vowed for the attack upon his father and the loss of the Silmarils, but most of all he spoke of light, the light stolen from this land, now found only in his gems. He offered hope of reclaiming that light, of finding a new life… and the people listened.

Not all, however, longed to depart. To govern those who remained, Findis and Arafinwë were left as joint rulers, for Indis had professed no desire to stay amongst the Ñoldor as their queen. She longed only to rejoin her people, and Finwë made no objection.

What passed between them in private only they knew, but when they parted, it was melancholy but without bitterness, and some suspected that many apologies had come from their king to his Vanya bride behind closed doors.

Fëanáro, of course, was determined to go, and Ñolofinwë had vowed already to stand united with him, to follow where he went and be a full-brother in heart to him; he did not shrink from this course, and his children likewise sought to go, longing for new lands. Where he went, Lalwen was eager to go also, with the brother who was her dearest friend. Though Arafinwë had chosen not to depart, his sons and daughter, bold of heart, made their farewells to their father, choosing rather to go with the great host.

The Valar were heard to express their misgivings, and some indeed listened, but the greater part of the Ñoldor did not. Where the fervour of Fëanáro's blazing speeches might have cooled, Finwë, growing steadily in strength as he recovered, spoke with less anger, and his words kept his people fixed upon their path.

He had loved this land, once, but he above all knew that it had never been as deathless as it seemed, and memories had begun to move him more deeply than ever, of all that had been left behind. There were those he had thought he might never meet again unless death should claim them both, yet now there was hope for a meeting in life.

That hope led him to the Teleri, and his people behind him, where they made entreaties for ships to bear them forth.

The Teleri refused.

Great was Fëanáro's anger, but his father's anger was quieter yet no less potent in its way. As one king to another, Finwë demanded an audience with Olwë, and what passed between them not all understood.

Finwë did not use the Quenya that had developed in this land; he used the old speech, the speech of the Outer Lands, and in it he spoke fiercely indeed.

Two brothers had Olwë left in those lands, he declared, and now Morgoth had gone thence to wreak harm once more as he had done in the ancient days. Would Olwë truly deny his brothers such allies, if they yet lived? Would he condemn them to death at the hands of Morgoth's creatures? The bond of kin to kin he invoked, again and again, that Olwë might not refuse him without being faithless to the folk who had been left behind. Of friendship he spoke, his friendship with Elwë, long thought lost yet never confirmed to have fallen, and how determinedly he longed to seek news, to discover who among the lingerers yet lived.

They might live still, but that would change, surely, if Morgoth had his way.

Those listeners who knew the older tongue were those born before Valinor, and some amongst them also had kin who had been left behind. With shame and love aroused in their hearts, they urged upon their king a change in his decree; greatly they loved the Ainur of the waters, but so too did they love their kin, more precious than pearls no matter the years and distance dividing them.

When Olwë at last relented, the cheers that rang forth were mighty, and some indeed of the Teleri vowed to crew those ships, and join the Ñoldor in seeking those who had remained in the Outer Lands. Others longed to seek that news, but loved their home in Alqualondë too dearly too leave it forever, and they it was who were chosen to bring the ships of the Teleri safely home, when all had been conveyed forth.

With skilled hands to guide them, the ships were swift, and sailed back and forth, conveying the mighty hosts that had assembled. In his dark fortress Morgoth heard news of their arrival, and bitter fear assailed him. He sent forth his forces, but the Ñoldor were so great in number by this time that they held back the first strikes of their foe, and bloodied their shining swords slaying orcs whose weapons shattered and armour broke when faced with Ñoldorin steel. Each ship that arrived only increased their numbers, and amid the fighting there was rejoicing as their Teleri comrades met kin long-sundered in the Falmari, and learned the truth of the rest of their kin.

Great too was Finwë's joy to learn that Elwë indeed yet lived, and he hastened to meet with him, and pledge once more his friendship as they had in years gone by. The one now dubbed Thingol was troubled, perhaps, at so many newcomers, but appeased by the sight of his dear friend, and wise enough, surely, with Melian beside him, to see that the Ñoldor were his greatest hope of protecting all of his people from the wrath of Morgoth returned.

The waves of Morgoth's forces broke time and again against the strength of the Eldar, and so he withdrew to build his strength. Great was his dismay, truly, when the Sun and Moon rose in the sky, and the lands were touched by their light.

The Black Foe's dismay was deep, but deep also was the joy of the Ñoldor, for the folk they called Casari, the dwarven-folk, children of Mahal, offered much knowledge and accepted much knowledge in return. Fëanáro not least among the Ñoldor rejoiced at this new learning, and traded language and skill alike with this people. When, in time, the Men made themselves known, already there was such a mixture of people that they were but one more rich gem in a great treasury of cultures.

Their languages, their customs, and their lore were embraced, mingling with the ways of all the other free peoples in that land, so that many there were who might begin a sentence in one language, and for jest or word-joy's sake pursue it through three others until its ending.

The Sun and Moon had lifted the sole burden of light from the Silmarils, but Fëanáro would never forget his jewels. His father's blessing he sought and gained to lead a mighty army against the foe that still sought, fruitlessly, to destroy them all.

Against the united peoples of Beleriand, against the wisdom and might and great devices of so many people, even the gates of Angband might tremble…