The Noldo stood silent on the deck amidst the bustle as others saw to the operation of the ship, looking out across the Sea, barely noticing the gentle rocking of the waves. Perhaps the motion would be soothing any other time. After the rage of the seas at Alqualondë, and after the pronouncement from the figure on the rock afterword, this quiet sea with a favorable wind felt more like the Valar had washed their hands of the Noldor, and were just glad to be rid of them. Twice they were warned, twice was their king Fëanor chastised. There would not be a third time. He gripped his swordhilt tighter to steady his shaking hand. There was too much going through his mind now that the power of Fëanor's speech at Tirion had begun to wane and the urgency of battle was behind him.
He had done everything he had been commanded. "Lands to rule as we see fit" the Noldor were told. "Lords of the unsullied Light," Fëanor had said they would be. Yet he could feel the stains on his hands, though he had washed them in the Sea. They had taken the ships. They had slain longtime friends for trying to protect their own. They had lost many of their own in that struggle, and also in the aftermath as the Sea itself rose against them and wrecked many of the ships. What was left was not enough to bring the entire host to Endor. Yet after all this, he could not forsake his king.
They were getting closer to the eastern shore. His wife and children were below deck. He didn't want them to come, not after what happened at Alqualondë. After the figure stood above them and pronounced their fate, he tried to tell her to take the children back to Tirion, that only he need to face what was to come, but even as he formed the words, the smouldering embers he saw as he looked into her eyes told him that she was no more willing to face the wrath of the Valar than he. When the followers of Fëanor stole away with the ships, he made sure his family was aboard. This elf knew the mood of his king, and he would take no chances.
The ships came to land, and he quickly had his family disembark and stand away from the host. He wanted to be away from the Sea. The ships were emptied, and with less debate than at their departure, the order was given to burn them. After all they had already done, now they were abandoning their own kin.
He wandered past the host, barely looking at the others. He saw in some of them the same thing he felt; in many others he could still see the words of Fëanor at their mustering held great sway. He found his way to his family, but said nothing. He gripped the hilt of his sword, and his wife put her hand on his. They stared in silence at the burning ships. They would not surrender; they would fight. They would make a home in this new land. They would strive against Morgoth with everything in them, but as the flames lit the sky in red, they knew that the figure, who could be no other than Mandos himself, was right.
They were doomed.