Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

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Nimloth

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She sat in the great hall of Menegroth, her feet resting upon the smooth, multihued stones of the floor, the throne rising behind her upon its dais. Intricate lanterns adorned the pillars, which were carved in the likeness of towering beeches, their gentle golden glow casting soft halos in the dimness. Along the walls and columns, lifelike carvings of birds and beasts seemed almost to stir and breathe beneath the flickering candlelight. Her gaze, steady and unyielding, lingered on these illusions of life, and she thought to herself, They appear to hold more life than I do.

The hall was deathly quiet, so quiet that her keen Elven ears caught the faint howling of the cold wind threading through the trees outside. Days earlier, the heaviest snowstorm in her memory had blanketed Doriath, silencing the voice of the Esgalduin as its rushing waters froze under the harsh grip of winter. O Valar, let this quiet endure. She prayed fervently, desperately, though she knew all too well how impossible her plea was.

They had come.

It was just before dawn—at the darkest hour of the night—when her husband received the report. The world seemed shrouded in an eerie haze, teetering between dream and waking. She had seen him standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint sliver of light spilling through the slightly ajar door. Though their conversation was hushed, every word, every syllable reached her ears with perfect clarity. The sons of Fëanor, long denied a response from Doriath, had finally lost patience. Instead of waiting further, they had taken up arms. Their preparation had been meticulous, their timing chosen with care, and they had crossed the borders of Doriath with little resistance. The Sindar, caught unprepared, had hastened to assemble a defense around Menegroth. Even now, the two sides were likely locked in battle.

When he turned back and closed the door, she was already seated upright. In the darkness, his face lay concealed, but his voice betrayed his emotions. Beneath the anger and alarm, there lingered an undercurrent of something else—an excitement she could not comprehend.

“I must go to the front,” he declared.

He kissed her cheek quickly, and before she could respond, he pressed something into her palm.

“Keep this for me.”

Time seemed to stand still, and she lost all sense of its passage. The wind’s mournful wailing persisted, yet gradually, her ears began to discern other sounds: the whistling of arrows, the clash of metal, distant shouts and nearby cries, and the crunch of snow beneath hurried steps. Their meaning was terrifyingly clear. Rising slowly, she went down the steps and crossed the hall. The lifelike carvings of birds and beasts, so vivid in their stillness, hushed in her passing, as if even they sensed what loomed beyond. She pushed open the great doors just a crack, feeling the icy wind sting her face. With it came the cacophony of battle—angry shouts and the clash of steel, all of it sharp and immediate, as if she had stepped from a dream into stark reality.

Slipping through the gap, she melted into the shadows. From a narrow corridor, she gazed toward the gates of Menegroth, where the warriors of Doriath in their grey cloaks moved swiftly to and fro. Unnoticed, she lingered there, watching the swift movements of the defenders. Bloodstains bloomed on some of their garments like dark flowers.

Her heart tightened. Once again, Doriath was bathed in blood. She had not been present during the sack of Doriath, having already wed Dior and taken up residence by the falls of Lanthir Lamath in the far reaches of the Seven Rivers. Yet the scars of that tragedy had not faded. When she returned with Dior to Menegroth, faint bloodstains still clung to the stones of the halls, too stubborn to be entirely erased.

“Lady Nimloth, you should not be here.”

A concerned voice came from behind her. She turned to find a young guard, his face etched with anxiety. Ignoring his unspoken plea, she asked softly, “How fares the battle?”

He hesitated, but her calm and resolute gaze compelled honesty. “The situation is grim. We are retreating toward Menegroth. Lord Dior plans to make his final stand here.”

She inclined her head slightly and said nothing.

“Please, my lady, retreat to safety—” he began, but at her gentle shake of her head, he faltered. “Then, what do you—”

“Take me somewhere I can see the battle.”

The guard’s eyes darted towards the sounds of fighting, then back to her. The pale light of the grey day caught her hair, transforming her silver tresses into flowing light.

 

This battle, she thought, would not last long.

From the narrow vantage of a lookout chamber, she observed the front lines of Menegroth, where the great bridge spanned the frozen river of Esgalduin. The grey-cloaked defenders retreated step by step, while brightly colored banners of the enemy relentlessly pressed forward. Beside her, the young guard stood rigid and alert, his hand clenched tighly around the hilt of his sword. Observing his tense vigilance, she felt a curious, almost whimsical amusement at her own calmness. Was it quiet dignity of acceptance, or merely the recklessness of one who had made peace with the inevitable?

But there was no time for reflection. As the defenders fell back to the bridge, her eyes found him—her love, her husband, her Aranel. Clad in the armor of his forefather, he stood resplendent, shining with the light of the Eldar. Amid the chaos of the fray, he fought with a fierce valor unmatched, yet his foe was no less mighty. Upon the breastplate of his adversary blazed, proud and defiant, the Star of Fëanor.

It was a son of Fëanor.

Blades clashed, and for a moment, they were locked in a deadly stalemate. In that fleeting instant, she saw his face. He was strikingly handsome, his lips curving into a faint smile even amidst the bloodshed. Arrogance and deliberate elegance mingled in his bearing, creating an impression of chilling cruelty.

But it could not be Maedhros. All knew the eldest son of Fëanor could not wield a sword in his right hand.

Sensing her confusion, the guard beside her whispered, “That is Celegorm, the third son of Fëanor.”

Their duel seemed endless—attacks, parries, thrusts. The dance of swords wove a deadly pattern, each moment hanging precariously on the edge of fate. She had not known Dior was such a skilled warrior, capable of holding his ground against a son of Fëanor. He is the son of his father, she reminded herself. The son of Beren Erchamion. If his father could prevail against impossible odds, so too could he.

On the battlefield, it seemed that Celegorm had not grasped this truth. Frustration began to seep into his movements, his composure slipping as his impatience grew. It was then that Dior found his opening. His blade flashed, plunging deep into Celegorm’s chest.

Yet there was no time to celebrate. Before Dior could withdraw his blade, another figure emerged silently from the shadows, striking a mortal blow from behind.

She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped. In that moment, the pain of the sword piercing flesh became hers, as if it were her own. His anger and helplessness surged through her like an overwhelming tide, flooding her senses. In a daze, her fëa seemed to merge with his hröa, her consciousness blending with his. Though her own eyes were tightly closed, she now saw through his eyes and heard through his ears.

He struggled to turn his head. A pair of grey eyes, burning with icy fury, met his gaze. The cold, hard metal embedded in his ribcage twisted violently, forcing a groan from his lips. Then he tasted the flavor of blood: salty and warm, suffocating, a terrifyingly alien sensation within his own body.

“Curufin,” he said—only that one word, as the blood flooding his throat prevented him from speaking further. Is this how low you have fallen, Curufin? An assassin striking from behind, too cowardly to meet my eyes—just as you did to my mother.

But he knew these words would be in vain, and so did she.

He died for the kingdom cherished by his forebears. His last sight was of the gates of Menegroth, both majestic and weathered, as life dissipated like smoke rising into the frigid air.

She swallowed her tears silently. Before the guard could react, she pushed open the window. He gasped and reached for her, grasping her arm, but she had no intention of jumping. Facing the sunlight, she raised her hand high. In that instant, the entire battlefield below seemed to freeze—time itself holding its breath. A brilliant white light, dazzling and otherworldly, flared in her palm and vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. The attackers faltered, their gazes irresistibly drawn upward, eyes filled with nothing but the radiance they had just beheld.

 

She raced through the winding halls of the Thousand Caves, the endless corridors of Menegroth stretching before her in a seemingly eternal course. The young guard followed closely behind. Neither spoke; their silence was laden with unspoken understanding. They chose to let their steps guide them, entrusting their fate to whatever end awaited them.

A sharp turn brought them to the end of their flight. A solid stone wall blocked their path, abruptly ending the passage. They halted, turning as one to face their pursuers. The guard stepped forward, shielding her with his body, placing himself between her and the oncoming foe.

The enemy, bearing the emblem of the House of Fëanor, soon appeared. Their steps slowed as they surveyed the scene; the situation was clear. She stood in silence, her gaze steady upon these once-kin, now enemies, enduring them—a vast ocean of enmity—as a lone, humble rock battered by a tempestuous sea.

Then, the line of their pursuers parted, and one stepped forward. He removed his helm and loosened his heavy armor, revealing the thick dark hair typical of the Noldor, cascading over his shoulders. His grey eyes, once touched by the light of the Two Trees, gleamed with an unearthly brightness. But she did not linger on his face; her gaze fell to his hands.

There, smeared across his gauntlet, was her husband’s blood.

“Step aside,” Curufin said with casual disdain, addressing the guard. 

The guard said nothing, drawing his sword and stepping forward resolutely.  

In the blink of an eye, the young guard fell before her. Blood pooled at her feet, spreading in a crimson tide, warm droplets flecking her face. She raised her head, her pale features a mask of composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear as they met those of the fifth son of Fëanor.

“Give it to me.”

This time, his words were addressed to her alone. His tone was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes were cold as winter steel, betraying his true intent. She took a step back, her shoulders pressing against the stone wall.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, tilting his head slightly before offering a faint smile. “We are not here for slaughter. Give me what you hold, and this will all be over.”

Her eyes never left his as she kept her hands hidden behind her back. He advanced slowly, studying her with the keen gaze of a hunter observing a snared prey.

“Do not be afraid,” he repeated, his voice softening. “What is your name?”

He extended his hands toward her, palms open in a mockery of peace. In that moment, she moved with startling swiftness. His mocking smile froze and then vanished as his eyes widened in disbelief. He looked down. A dagger, its slender and deadly blade, had pierced his mail with the precision of a needle through cloth, sinking deep into his chest.

He recognized it—the craftsmanship was unmistakable. It was the work of his father.

Gasps filled the air as swords were drawn in unison. In the next moment, she was hurled violently against the wall, winded and stunned. Strangely, she felt no pain. As blood swiftly pooled at her feet—her own, this time—she lifted her head. Her expression, serene and unwavering, was that of one who had embraced her fate.

“I am Nimloth, wife of Dior, Lady of Doriath.”

With a faint clink, a silver chain slipped from her hand, the jewel it bore falling to the ground. It was undeniably beautiful, a gem of exquisite brilliance. Yet anyone who looked upon it could see—it was not the Jewel that had overturned a world.

 

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Chapter End Notes

According to Unfinished Tales and The Children of Húrin, Menegroth had weapons fashioned by Fëanor himself, presumably gifts from the House of Finarfin.