The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

The Court of Ardor: a tale of southern Middle Earth

1. The Death of Telperion and Laurelin.  Years of the Two Trees

Fëatur - Angband

Deep in the dark hold of Angband, the Noldo Fëatur wept bitter tears.  The hold was always full of activity in service to Melkor, the most powerful of the godlike Valar.  But now Fëatur felt utterly alone.  When he heard news of the death of the Two Trees in Valinor, the Undying Lands, there were cheers in Melkor’s throne room, but his heart sank, and his mouth went dry.

“The beacons of the corrupt Valar are no more,” a tall, slender woman cried out clearly, her voice full of joy.  She raised a glass of wine and turned to the crowd, her long black hair twirling about her head and her silver gown shimmering like starlight. Her black eyes looked like pools of night as she gazed at her people.  “We must prepare for the return of our lord Melkor!  Everything he said has come to pass.”  The crowd roared out in approval.

In his mind’s eye, Fëatur saw the lifeless husks of the two wonderous trees as they rained shriveled leaves and flowers upon the land and cries of horror rose from the cities of the elves.  Tears streamed down his hot cheeks.  As a follower of the Vala Irmo, the Master of Dreams and Visions, he had basked in the light of the trees for eons, learning in peace with his fellow Noldor.  But he was approached by a Vala whose power was beyond question, a being of unearthly beauty with a voice that resonated strength.  Soon, the Vala’s words were all he could hear, and he forsook all other teachers.

“I would have thrown myself into a chasm of fire for you, Melkor,” he said softly.  “My power grew under your tutelage and I worshipped you, but this…this is too much. I renounce everything that you are. I have…I have fallen into evil.” He wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his sleeve and he felt sick to his stomach.

Someone tugged his sleeve.  “This is a great moment, brother,” a woman said, a broad smile across her thin lips.  In appearance, their faces were almost identical with identical bob cuts of their straight golden hair.  Their clothing matched as well, a simple brown robe with a blue sash.  Even their names were the same.  Among the Noldor, they were very average in height and looks.  “Our lord Melkor and his pet spider drained the Two Trees,” she continued.  “It must have been a sight to behold.  Now only darkness shrouds all of Arda.  Our foolish cousins who refused the lord must be screaming in panic now.”  A malicious sneer replaced the joyous smile.

Fëatur sniffed.  “Yes, a joyous moment, sister,” he said woodenly, no expression on his face.

“Now, they are just dead wood,” the female Fëatur said as she broke into a chuckle.  Then she looked at him and her blue eyes narrowed.  “Tears?  Are you…crying?”

“Tears of joy, sister.  Tears of joy,” he said, tightening his belly.  It was all he could do to keep from vomiting.

“Ah, of course.  You were always the emotional one of us,” she said coldly, trying to dig under his skin.  “No matter.” Then, her face beamed a smile again. “We need to prepare for the arrival of the lord.  Let us play that game that we are so good at, who is who.  You’ll be the lady and I’ll be the man.  No one can tell us apart.”  She stroked his cheek down to his soft chin.  “With such delicate and feminine features and your high voice, you always make the better girl.”

The male Fëatur snorted in disgust.  This was also part of the game they would play where she would dig and dig until he fled.  There had been times he wanted to strike her, but her skill in unarmed combat was fearsome. “Yes, of course, sister,” he said in a monotone.  It was time to let her win.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”  He turned and walked away, bumping into another woman in the crowd.  She wore deep blue robes, trimmed in silver and wore her dark brown hair long and unbraided.

“Where are you going, Fëatur,” she asked, her voice one of genuine concern.

He started to answer, but his voice caught in his throat. “I…I must.  I’m sorry.  I can’t,” he said and then turned away from her, continuing out of the room and down the long hall.  It was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, and his heart ached.  But he couldn’t face her.  Not after realizing the evil that he supported.  He didn’t deserve her.  He didn’t deserve to live.  He came to a stop, far from prying eyes or listening ears and he slammed his fist into the bare stone wall.  There was a dull thud and a flash of pain shot into his fingers.  Fëatur winced, but he needed to do that to not feel numb.  He let out a guttural howl and then bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood.

His breath came in ragged gasps, and he imagined the ethereal beauty of the Trees from the blessed land, the gold and silver light bathing him in bliss and contentment.  “I renounce you, Melkor and all of your lies!  I lied to my brothers and sisters.  I told them of your goodness and your strength.  I told them that you were the chosen one!  I cannot live with this any longer!  I am soiled with my own guilt, having furthered the cause of evil and having spread deception amongst my people!”  He sank to the ground and wept pitifully.  “I spoke out against those who wanted you banished from Valinor.  I deceived Finwë, my own king.  I gave you time to commit this atrocity!”

If only he had seen the truth.  If only he had known.  How could he have been such a fool?  He put both of his hands around his own neck and started to squeeze, but it was a useless gesture.  “There is no going back.  My life should end here, encased in the foul pits of Angband,” he said weakly, coughing on his own spit.  His thoughts went briefly to a woman, the smell of her dark brown hair, the upturn of her nose, the melody of her voice.  “I will miss you,” he whispered.  “I will see you in the Halls of Mandos at the breaking of the world and we will be together.”  He left her one final message in their secret place, an invisible rune on the dark wall in a dark corner.  He knew that she would find it.  If only she would realize the truth about Melkor, she could be redeemed too.

Then, a flash of thought came to him.  There was another way.  On his knees, he raised his hands up in supplication.  “Mandos!” he cried to the Vala of Judgment, “My life is forfeit!”  He tore at his short golden hair, falling upon his face and thrashing on the ground like a worm.  His soft features twisted in a rictus of mental anguish, his cheeks burning bright with shame.  “Take my spirit and destroy it!  I have betrayed all.  I deserve…only…darkness,” he trailed off, his voice now only a whisper.  The taste of salty tears was thick in his mouth, and he collapsed on the ground, too weak with despair.  Slowly, Fëatur felt light, almost weightless and knew that his spirit was passing.  He knew that the hand of Eru was releasing his spirit and that his judgment was at hand. He would prostrate himself before Mandos and would be willingly cast into the void.  He would not see her after all and that was justice.  It saddened him, but he could accept it.  Then, all was darkness for the elf.

As with all Elves, Fëatur’s spirit returned to Valinor and passed into the Halls of Mandos, there to stand within the Mahanaxar; the Ring of Doom, and answer for his life.  He could smell ozone and gasped at the sheer enormity of the hall.  It was as if he were in the middle of eternity, no beginning and no end.  The weight of his impending fate was crushing as if a mountain had fallen on him. Then, he saw Mandos, a dark figure in a black robe, his visage shrouded in shadow.  The elf fell to his hands and knees and hid his face in shame. “Mandos!” he called out, his voice cracking, “I have committed crimes beyond measure.  I am the foulest of the dark enemy’s minions.  I have no face to show you, oh Mandos!  I ask that you crush my spirit and cast me into eternal darkness.”  Fëatur beat his fists weakly upon the marble floor while groaning in sorrow. “Please…please…destroy me.”

Fëatur waited for his inevitable doom, but only silence remained.  Slowly, he raised his head and looked upon the dark countenance of the Vala.  All he could see under the hood were bright, steel-colored eyes and the tip of the Vala’s nose.   Fëatur grit his teeth, expecting his agonizing final moment, but only silence filled the hall. Mandos extended his arm, clad in the sleeve of a black robe, his hand covered in a black glove.  His finger extended to point at the elf.  “Fëaturo,” the Vala called, using his Quenya name, “your doom lies not here,” Mandos stated in voice so powerful that it shook the cold stone halls.  “I have been given leave to return you and to task you.  You shall earn your mercy.  You shall show your words.  If you are truly penitent, you will return to Middle Earth and undo what you have done.”

Fëatur’s ears rang with the power of Mandos’ voice.  At first, he could not speak, but slowly, his words returned to him.  “It…it shall be done.  I live and die at the mercy of the Valar.  May you and Manwë, the Lord of Valinor, strike me down and cast me into darkness if I fail.  Send me where you will.  I freely and willingly renounce the dark lord and serve only the light of the Valar.” His heart was sincere, and he meant every word.

Mandos nodded to him with a stern expression.  “You will do great things before the darkness,” the Vala stated plainly, the halls reverberating with his voice.  Fëatur’s chest tightened, and he shook in both terror and relief.  His spirit wept tears as he clasped his hands together.  “Though I will never forgive myself, I thank you, oh lord, I thank you!” In a moment, his spirit was filled with light, and he passed into what seemed like an eternity, a timeless place, filled with warmth.  His spirit floated there for what felt like ten thousand years, but also the blink of an eye.  Then a sensation of weight took hold and breath filled his lungs.  With a start, he placed his hands upon his chest, feeling real flesh.  He looked upon his hands, turning them back and forth to see real skin.  He felt real grass upon his back as he looked up into the clear sky that was full of light.  Was he really alive again?  Then, he sensed a presence and gasped, turning to see a tall elf with shoulder length, golden hair.  The elf reached down to him, his piercing blue eyes boring into Fëatur’s soul.  The elf was clad in light, leather armor with deep red and golden accents.  His cloak was finely made with images of golden flames embroidered in the fabric and his cloak pins were wrought in gold leaf in the shape of fire.  Everything about this elf spoke of strength from his square jaw, pointed nose and prominent cheekbones.

“I am Chrys Menelrana.  We have much work to do,” the elf said in a friendly voice as Feätur grasped his hand.  Chrys held out a plain white robe with his other hand.  “Here, you’ll need this.  We can’t have you walking around naked, can we?”

Fëatur took a sharp breath in surprise and noticed that Chrys was a full head taller than him.  “Umm, no, of course not,” he said as he donned the robe, feeling the flush of embarrassment.  “How did you know…How do you know-?”

Chrys smiled at him and clasped him on the shoulder. “Come.  As I said, we have much work to do.  Welcome to the south of Middle Earth.”

Fëatur shielded his eyes from the blinding light in the sky. “What…what is that light?  The Two Trees?  All went dark.”

“That, my friend, is the Sun, Anar.”

Fëatur narrowed his eyes, completely lost.  “How long have I…?  I passed into the Halls of Mandos soon after the death of the Trees. How is this possible,” He asked, his mind racing, and he was more than a little bit frightened.

“The Valar raised Anar, the Sun and Isil, the Moon from the last fruit and flower of the Trees.  Aulë the Smith created vessels for them and now, they are our light. But come, there is much to do.  I can tell you more later,” Chrys said as he gestured ahead of them.

Fëatur looked past his host to see a manor house, not unlike those in Valinor, a subtle structure, woven into the trees of the land as if elf and nature were one.  It was colored in earthly hues, making it easy to mistake as part of the surrounding forest.  He inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of evergreens.  “What is this place?” he asked as they walked towards the manor.

“It is…it is a beginning,” Chrys said as if musing to himself. He gestured around, showing Fëatur the valley surrounding the manor.  “This is the Vale of Tumlindë.  This is where we will stand against Morgoth in the south.  I am told that you were deep within the enemy’s council. I am told that you have repented, but my trust must be earned.  I will keep an eye on you until then,” he added with a hint of a wink.

Fëatur nodded.  “Fair enough.  I wouldn’t trust myself either,” he said with a sigh.  “I have done much evil and I have a long way to go to earn the mercy of Mandos.”

Chrys tilted his head back as if thinking.  “It is good that you admit that.  My experience with the followers of Morgoth has been nothing but delusion and self deceit.”

Fëatur narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows.  “Wait, Morgoth, you said, not Melkor?  The Dark Foe of the World he is now named?”

“Yes, when Fëanor learned that his father was slain, he named Melkor as Morgoth.  I was there when the Valar pleaded with Fëanor for the Silmarils to rekindle the Trees. He refused and there we learned of High King Finwë’s death.  I followed Fëanor into exile as a kinsman of Finrod, but I would not fight the Teleri at the docks for their ships.  Seeing that was…was heartbreaking and I will not carry on this fight having slain our kin. It was soon after that Fëanor left us on the ice to pursue his vendetta.  He was slain by balrogs soon after while I followed Fingolfin over the Grinding Ice.”

“Fëanor slain?” Fëatur exclaimed in horror.  “The greatest of us?”

Chrys shook his head and pursed his lips in obvious disagreement.  “Maybe the most powerful, but not the greatest.  His vanity and his arrogance was his undoing.”  At the doorstep to the manor, Chrys opened and held the entrance for Feätur to enter.  “Come, let us dine.  I want you to meet the others.”

“The others?” Fëatur asked, his earlier fear beginning to dissipate. The manor held a warm ambiance and pleasant scent of jasmine filled his nostrils.  Chrys ushered him into a hall made of dark wood, interwoven with the trunks of trees and flowering plants.  Lamps of magical light filled the room with a wonderous glow and in the center of the hall sat a table of finely crafted wood with images of the Two Trees carved on its top.  He drank in the pleasant, earthy aroma that reminded him of forests of Lórien in Valinor. As he looked around, he saw four other elves sitting around the table, dining on fruits and vegetables.  His stomach rumbled at the sight of food.

Chrys nodded.  “Yes, the others.  May I introduce the lords of the south, Carnil Ravirë, Talan, Ralian, and Elerior…along with myself.  You have been sent to us to stand against the Dark Lord, whose minions spread across all corners of Middle Earth.  It is here where we will plan our war.”

Carnil and Elerior tilted their heads to Fëatur with wan smiles, while Talan and Ralian sat, stone faced.  Chrys pulled a cushioned chair out from the table and gestured to Fëatur.  “Thank you,” Feätur said and took his seat at the table.  “I know that I do not deserve your trust, but I give you my appreciation anyway.  I swear to you that I will earn Mandos’ mercy even if it costs me my life.”

Carnil, a Noldo with dark ruddy hair and sharp features, said, “We hope it doesn’t come to that.  We survived the Grinding Ice in the north years ago where we lost many of our brethren. I don’t intend to lose any more.” He tilted his head back, bringing his long, pointed chin forward.

Talan, who had barely moved since Fëatur entered the room, snorted.  “You are unrealistic as always, my friend.  While we are far removed from the fortress of the Dark Lord, death will come to the south.  Already, the forces of the enemy sweep towards us.  I, for one, would gladly sacrifice our newcomer for victory.” Talan shifted his long, jet-black hair, from his small face, revealing signs of a faint sneer on his thin lips. He shifted slightly in his chair, adjusting the high collar of his blue tunic.

“Enough,” Chrys interjected.  “There is not much time.  As Talan stated, our scouts have spotted orcs past the far reaches of our lands. We are few and they are many. Ralian has the gift of sight, and he says that greater evils than orcs will befall this land soon.  Ralian?”

Ralian stood and gestured to the images of the Two Trees beautifully carved onto the table.  “The death of Telperion and Laurelin is just the beginning,” he said as Feätur’s face burned red with the thought of the Trees.  “I see…brief images, patterns in nature, feelings, if you will.  I can tell you that Morgoth will be birthing an abomination and all I see thereafter is darkness.  And to you, my new friend Fëatur, I see a long, hard road, full of danger.”

Fëatur sighed.  “I would expect nothing less.  Such is my fate.”  He reached over and took an offered plate of brightly colored fruit and leafy greens, and he realized just how hungry he was.  He nodded his thanks and dug in like a man who had not eaten in months.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing:

Male Featur

Female Featur

Mandos

Chrys Menelrana

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2) The Jewels of Fëanor – After the Death of the Trees

Morgoth

Panic filled the Morgoth’s heart as he fled from the blessed land of Valinor.  With otherworldly sight, he could see through the shroud of darkness that he and his companion had created after killing the Two Trees.  Leagues away, he watched Tulkas and Oromë mounting a pursuit.  The rage on Tulkas’ face filled Morgoth with fear, a sight he would never forget when he was brought to heel in the War of Powers.  He envisioned Tulkas destroying his fortress of Utumno, battering down its walls with his fists, bellowing his name.  He should have won that battle.  He was stronger.  The Valar cheated and everyone knew it.  He should have showed them back then in the past.  He would never forget the insult from the past.  His mind shifted quickly to the present because now, he had another problem.

Morgoth had always intended to betray his companion, but his attempts to elude and deceive Ungoliant failed and now, payment was due. He recoiled at the sight of the massive, bloated spider that dwarfed him in her shadow.  While already monstrous, she had grown even more after drinking the life of the Two Trees.  But this only made her thirstier.  And to appease her, he had fed her many of the lesser treasures that he had stolen from Finwë’s manor in the city of Formenos in the Undying Lands.

“More,” she howled.  “More!”

The Vala shook in terror at the spider as she hissed and thrashed her mandibles in front of his face.  He hated feeling like this.  He was the personification of strength and might.  Weakness was not in his makeup.  He tossed more of the stolen jewels on the ground and as Ungoliant devoured them, the darkness around her grew, enveloping Morgoth.  He stepped back and sneered, cradling the greatest treasures, hoping to keep them from her sight.  As he pressed these jewels to his side, they began to burn with a fierce fire, and he grimaced in pain.

Ungoliant stopped and made a snuffling sound that reverberated around her bloated form.  Her multiple eyes focused on where Morgoth hid his great treasures.  “More!  Those! More!”

Morgoth shot his hand out and an arc of power emanated from his palm, pushing the spider back.  “No!  No more! These are mine.”

She hissed so loud that it nearly threw Morgoth to the ground.  “You promised.  More! All!”  Her mandibles and fangs thrashed violently and her many eyes glowed red with rage.  Then, she growled and pointed a long, sharp leg at the great jewels cradled at Morgoth’s side.  “Those! Those!  Now!”

The Vala spun his hand in a circle and the air glowed around him.  “Away with you!  You have had enough!”  He turned quickly to look towards Angband, his fortress in the north.  He cast his voice into the wind, to be carried the far leagues by his will.  “Aid me!” In his mind, he could see a smoldering flame rise into a blaze.

Ungoliant scuttled forward, her mandibles grabbing at Morgoth, snapping and pinching.  As she touched the glowing ring around her prey, sparks crackled around her, and she recoiled back.  With a howl of rage and pain she swung her abdomen under her and sprayed tendrils of webs over Morgoth.  With a wave of his hand, he sliced through nearly all of them.  A few strands of web found him though and he shrieked in pain as the webs sizzled on his skin.  He sliced through those with his hand and turned, fleeing with unnatural speed.

The spider roared, belching forth clouds of darkness and many of the gems that she had consumed and then raced forward, her massive legs tearing down trees and crushing boulders in her wake.  For leagues, she chased the Vala, casting webs in his way to slow him.  Against a sheer cliff, she threw another web in his way and now he was trapped. Dripping venom from her maw, Ungoliant crept forward as Morgoth cowered.

“No more!” he cried.  “No more!”

“Give me!” Ungoliant hissed.  “Now!”

Morgoth paused for a moment to feel the three great jewels burning into his side even through his armor.  It would almost be a relief to be rid of them, but greed drove him.  If he could just buy more time.  “Wait!  Wait!” he cried as the spider sprayed him with more webs.  “No, stop!  I’ll give you what you want.”  Ungoliant shuffled forward and her mandibles snapped in front of his face.  He turned his face in fear.  Would his gamble work?  He began to bring forth the great jewels and felt them burning in his hand.  He grimaced, still avoiding the glare of the spider.

Ungoliant pulled on the strands of web, bringing the Vala up to her maw full of razor teeth and then paused.  “Give!”

Morgoth’s hand trembled as he slowly brought the jewels forward.  “Very well! Here!” he said as he felt the heat of flames above him.

With a roar, two balrogs landed on the ground beside them, shaking the ground and casting the spider in the orange light of fire. One with a whip of flame and the other with a burning sword tore through the webs that had nearly encased their master. Ungoliant leapt back, her face smoldering.  A third balrog landed and ripped the remaining webs away with claws of fire, casting a red glow in the Dark Lord’s pale face.  “Flee master,” it said and then turned to face the spider.

His hands dug into the side of the cliff, and he scaled its heights in moments, never looking back.  He bounded forward towards Angband while a score of other flaming balrogs flew into the fray, hearing the angry hisses of Ungoliant all the way.  At the gates of his fortress, he gave a fist pump and cried out in relief, his voice echoing up the peaks of Thangorodrim.  He looked around, seeing the safety of his keep and the great iron gates.  The familiarity of his hold brought a smile to his face, and he could see the great jewels, the glittering Silmarils, in his hand.  Though they seared the skin of his palm, he delighted in their brilliance, jewels without equal.  There, his greatest lieutenant awaited him before the open gate.

His earlier terror gone, a pang of humiliation seeped into his mind.  He hated his fear and it gnawed at him.  With a grunt, he put it out of his mind.  He was never afraid.  He never fled.  That was just propaganda against him by those who were truly afraid and he would punish anyone who spoke about it.

After a moment, Morgoth stirred and then hid the jewels in his hand again.  He felt strong again.  He’d never take Middle Earth with weakness.  He had to show strength.  Only strength.  He brushed past his lieutenant and waved his hand dismissively.  “Come Sauron.  This is only the beginning.  Though I have eluded Tulkas and Oromë and escaped the webs of Ungoliant, the elves will come.  It was my strength and skill that won the day.  Now this I know, Sauron.  Fëanor will not abide by the theft of his jewels and death of his father.  The Noldor will come and we will destroy them here.”

Cloaked in black, Sauron followed his master, his silver hair framing a face of unearthly beauty.  “I have had the orcs fortify the hold and dig deeper pits.  Greater demons have been spawned there in the depths. They will grow and await your command.”

“Most excellent, Sauron,” Morgoth said, striding forward towards the great hall.  “I will make a crown that I will set these jewels upon, and it will signify my reign for I am King of Middle Earth and no other.  We will build a fortress so strong that not even the Vala can assail it and we will rule until the breaking of the world.”

“It shall be done, my lord.”

“And is my throne complete?”

“It is, my lord.”

“Good,” Morgoth said with a nod of his head.  “Have the materials brought to the throne room.  I will begin to craft the crown that will show my might as King of the Earth.  My reign has just begun.  The Valar will rue the day when they dared to challenge my power.”  Pride swelled his godlike heart and a grin lit up his face. He was strong again.  He was mighty.

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3)  The Guild of Elements – Year of the Sun, 50 Coirë (Stirring)

Chrys Menelrana – Southern Middle Earth

Clouds of dust wafted from the dirty pit where a score of elves were straining to raise a massive marble obelisk.  Tension ran along the strong elven ropes anchored on key points of the obelisk as the elves pulled with all of their might.  Foot by foot, the obelisk rose and then settled into the pit with a deep thud.  In unison, the elves cheered.  One, a brawny, bare-chested man with golden hair, pulled back into a ponytail, slapped the backs of his nearby companions.  Men up on scaffolds waved down at him.  The golden-haired elf waved back, his face and chest glistening.

Sweat poured down Chrys’ face, soaking his rough tunic.  He wiped his brow with a dirty forearm, blinking his blue eyes from the drops.  He looked up to see the tall obelisk, inlaid with gold, which spelled out their union in the script of the Tengwar.  “The Guild of Elements.  That’s our name,” he said with satisfaction as the ropes and pulleys were removed.  He pulled his golden hair free from the tie and dabbed his cheeks with a rag.

“Hard work,” Fëatur said with a grunt from a scaffold above as he hauled in the lines that had secured the obelisk.  His shirt was soaked, and he grimaced from the effort. He picked up a nearby cup and drank the water in a few gulps.  “We’ve come a long way in these hard years,” he added, gesturing to the walls and towers now surrounding the manor house.  “But there is still so much to be done.”

Elerior, a Noldo with short, dark brown hair and warm amber eyes, took the ropes from Fëatur.  “You worry too much.  Always so dark and sullen,” he said.  “These are times to celebrate.  Our defenses are almost complete, and we have a sizable force to secure our lands. Every orc attack has been thoroughly destroyed.”

Fëatur snorted.  “Elerior, your endless cheer will be your undoing.  This war has not even begun.  These were only bands of orcs, poorly led.  The Dark Lord has untold terrors breeding in the pits of Angband as we speak.  He promises power and wisdom and dominion over the land and many of our brethren have fallen for it.”

“Like you did,” Talan said, expressionless, his thin lips taut. “I read a dark path for you in the stars.  While I do not trust you, you are right.  This war has not yet begun.”

Chrys waved his hand over his head.  “Enough.  We will have time to plan and discuss.  We have put in many weeks of work to come this far.  I want to commemorate the raising of this obelisk and the founding of our Guild.  We honor the elements in our bond, and I name each of us to represent one of the elements. Talan, you are of water.  Elerior is of air.  Carnil is of earth.  Ralian is of light.  And I am of fire.”  He picked up the scabbard of his hand and a half sword and drew it, the blade bursting into flames.  “By my sword, Kirlhach, I consecrate this home in the name of the Valar and dedicate my life to fighting the Dark Enemy and bringing peace to our land.  We will keep our families and friends safe.”

“And what of Fëatur?” Elerior asked.  “Is he not one of us?”

Chrys was about to speak, but Talan cut him off.  “He is here, but he is not one of us.  Never forget, he was deep in the enemy’s council. This guild is for those of us who stood firm from the beginning.”

Fëatur nodded.  “The words sting, but I cannot deny their truth.  I have not forgiven myself and neither should you.  You would be wise to heed Talan’s words.”

“It has been decided,” Chrys added.  “Fëatur, we thank you for the work that you have done here and listen to your counsel about the enemy, but you are not one of us yet. That time may come.”

“That is enough for me,” Fëatur said.

As the sun moved lower in the sky, Chrys swung his hand above his head for all to see.  “We are done for the day, good friends.  Let us clean up and prepare for dinner.”  Workers began putting their tools away and climbing down from the scaffolding.  He was proud of the progress and of the team that he had built.  Silvan elves from neighboring tribes had joined them and filled their ranks.  With their help, every orc raid had been destroyed with ease.  No orc dared to enter the forest path to Tumlindë for fear of the swift bows of the elves.

As the sun began to set, members of the kitchen staff approached with drinks and platters of food.  Elerior waved them over.  “Aelrie! Here!  We’re over here,” he called to the woman in the lead.  The woman turned her head and tilted it down in recognition and began to walk that way, followed by the rest of the staff.

Chrys touched the tip of his sword to a pile of wood, and it burst into flames, lighting the area in a warm glow.  As Aelrie walked into the clearing, he set down his sword and took the flagons of drinks from her.  Aelrie stretched up to kiss him and then sat down as the workers took the platters and set them down.  He looked down at the myriad vegetables, the bountiful salad and the roasted chicken and his mouth watered.  And the large pot of crab bisque was always a favorite for him.  “Thank you, my wife,” he said.  “We are always treated to the finest care under your watchful eye.”

She brushed back her wavy red hair, revealing a sly smile on full red lips.  “Well, credit for this meal goes to our son,” she said as she gestured to the boy who was already devouring his food.  “He helped with the soup and salad.”

“Laurre!  Come here!” Chrys called out and the boy set down his food and came running, burying his face into his father’s chest.  He felt immense pride in raising a son who had grown strong and agile.  Laurre would be a warrior like his father, and he had learned much of the sword and bow and was now learning to ride.

The members of the Guild laughed heartily.  “He has the heart of his father, full and open,” Carnil shouted above the din, eliciting more laughter.  “I can see great things for the both of you.”

Chrys bowed to Carnil and then picked his son up in his arms and set him down on a stone seat.  “He looks so much like me,” he said, his voice full of warmth as he tousled Laurre’s thick golden hair.  “I’d say that we have the greatest feast since the Mereth Aderthad, the High King’s festival.”  The gathered group raised mugs of mead and wine and drank in unison.  “We pledged our friendship and support in the south and Fingolfin has proven true to his word of aid to our cause.  We have been receiving regular shipments of arms and armor from the north, all quality work from their finest smiths.”

“That is one weakness that will be our undoing, Chrys,” Talan said evenly.  “We have no quality smiths here and what if our supply line to the north is severed? What then?  The Silvan Elves are fine archers, but no weapon or armor smiths are they.”

Aelrie raised her hand to quiet the alchemist.  “The Silvan Elves will learn.  After all, I am half Silvan and I learned to put up with all of you.”

Talan bowed his head with a chuckle and spread his hands in defeat.  “Yes, you have.  I may seem morose, but I assure you that I am a realist.”

“That you are,” Aelrie added and then turned back to Chrys. “Love, wasn’t the Mereth Aderthad a wonderful display of elven unity?  It was thirty years of the sun ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday…a festival of lights that filled the entire vale.  And the song and voice of Maglor…sublime.”

“I was glad to see the eldest sons of Fëanor,” Chrys said, tilting his head back with this hand on his chin.  “The fact that Maedhros ceded the title of High King to Fingolfin will be a positive in the war on Morgoth.  Fëanor bred much division and Fingolfin will be a unifier.”

“Agreed!” the group called out and downed another mug.

“I long to see my kinsman, Finrod again,” Chrys added. “He is always the life of any festival. And we met with the Grey Elves and the Sindar of the Havens, great allies all.”

“As well as Mablung and Daeron of Doriath,” Aelrie said and then sipped from her glass of white wine.  “I daresay that Daeron is the equal, if not the greater of the two bards between he and Maglor.”

Elerior tossed a nearby lute to Carnil, who caught it deftly. “Speaking of bards, we have one right here.  He is easily the equal of the other two.”

Carnil examined the wooden instrument carefully and then cradled the lute under his arm and set it on his lap.  He plucked a couple of strings and then tuned it with deft fingers. “You flatter me, stargazer.  But I shall entertain you in my own weak way.” With that, he strummed a lively tune to which all of the gathering sang with joy.  Even Talan joined in with a smile.

Chrys tore off the chicken thigh and admired the herbs baked into the crispy skin.  Many elves preferred a diet of fruits and vegetables, but he was always a meat man. He took a hearty bite out of the juicy thigh and some sauce dripped down his chin.  He laughed as he wiped it off with the back of his sleeve.

Aelrie rolled her eyes.  “What a rustic barbarian.  Here, let a Silvan Elf show a Noldo some manners.”  She reached over with a napkin and wiped his mouth.

Chrys smiled broadly and waved to the group.  “We will defend this land as Manwë is my witness. We have built a home here and I am surrounded by friends and family.  This is all that I could ask for.” 

Chapter End Notes

Some commentary on what is happening in Beleriand.  I want to show Chrys as a family man, someone who fights for his home.  

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4)  The Astrologer – Year of the Sun, 60 Quellë (Fading)

Ardana

The full Moon shined over the far north of Middle Earth, a bright light in the clear night sky, illuminating a balcony where two elves stood, deep in conversation.  Ash, mixed with snow, fell on the stone floor and a distant orange glow cast eerie shadows.  One elf, a woman with long black hair, framing a pale face of unearthly beauty and the other, a man with deeply tanned skin and piercing silver eyes. The woman bent her face down into the palm of her hand as if thinking.  She shook her head over and over as the man spoke.

She looked up at the Moon and sneered, the silver orb blotting out the lights of her beloved stars. Then, she thought upon what the man had told her.  The plan was insane, likely impossible.  The sheer audacity of the idea made Ardana’s head spin.  But still, it could destroy the hated Sun and Moon and let her beloved stars shine as the brightest objects in the heavens once more.  How could Varda, the Vala of the stars, allow such a travesty to blot out her own creations?  How could her teacher betray her like this?  Tall, slender and elegant, Ardana turned gracefully, her gown glittering like the stars in the night sky.  Then, his words ran through her head as she curled a finger through her jet-black hair.  The Dark Lord had all of the answers.  Only he could make things right.  He was the chosen one to lead the world.  She could not disappoint him.  She pointed a finger at her companion.  “Morthaur, we cannot bring this to Morgoth unless we know it will work.  I don’t want to be made a fool of,” she said impatiently, her chin tilted up with a sense of arrogance often reserved for the most powerful of the Noldor.  Her black eyes glared at Morthaur, eyes that were like void.

Morthaur, a tall Noldo of average build, put his fingers over his lips.  “Well, I cannot guarantee anything, my lady.  But I will say that this is our best chance to return the stars to their proper place in the heavens.”  He shifted uncomfortably in his tan coveralls, which were covered in the soot of his experiments.  He was a bookish fellow, always obsessed with research and knowledge.

“Cannot guarantee? Cannot guarantee?  You told me that this would work,” Ardana practically spat. Her normally serene face twisted in sudden anger, her full lips curled and her large eyes narrowed.  “We cannot go to our lord without some faith that this will ensure his dominion over all things, seen and unseen.  Do you not see the sky?  Do you not see how this…this Sun and Moon mar Varda’s glorious creations? How can I, as an astrologer, bear such an insult,” she asked in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Morthaur stepped back as if stung.  He took a breath and wiped his sooty hands on his coveralls.  “Ardana, as you know, I scoured the wastes where our lord fought against the spider.  Come, let me show you the treasures that I found.  I have been working on them all night.  I assure you, Ardana, this is our best chance to return the stars to their rightful place in the heavens.”  He motioned for the lady to follow him and began walking to his laboratory.  As he strode past two women standing at the balcony entrance, he ushered them into the Fortress of Angband.  “Fëatur, Yavëkamba, you’re with us.  I will show you all the power of which I speak.”

The three women followed Morthaur deeper into Angband until they came to a large hall, filled with strange contraptions and odd bits of strange treasure.  Ardana walked in and crossed her arms, an expression of impatience written on her face.  “How long will this take, Morthaur?  The lord is waiting,” she said, looking down her delicate nose.

Morthaur put the palms of his hands out as if to placate her.  He motioned to Yavëkamba, a slender Noldo with long, dark brown hair, wearing deep blue robes.  “I want you nearby.  This will be dangerous, and I may need your healing powers.”  She nodded without expression and moved closer to him.  He pointed to the other woman.  “Fëatur, stand next to me.  I will need your power to harness the force of the gem.”  The woman snorted and pursed her lips, but she moved next to Morthaur.  He stared at her face for a moment and narrowed his brows, studying her.  “Your golden hair, soft features and thin lips remind me of a dead man.  Ahhh, that’s it.  You look exactly like your brother.  Your late twin brother.  I never noticed that before.  Remarkable,” he said and reached out to touch her face.  Fëatur slapped his hand away with a growl but said nothing.

Ardana made a chopping motion with her hands.  “Enough. The lord promised us dominion over the land and sky if we can deliver.  I long to see my beloved stars again and soon.”  Her black eyes blazed like smoldering coals.

“And we will have it, lady,” Morthaur answered.  He put his palm out towards a silver box and then nodded to Fëatur.  “Now,” he commanded, and she did the same.  Slowly, the box opened and lifted off of a glass cube. Inside, something pulsated with dark energy, seeming to devour the light around it.  “Behold!  One of Fëanor’s gems, consumed and belched out by the demon spider.  Instead of radiating light, it annihilates it.  It is as if the void were contained within.”

Intrigued, Ardana moved forward, but Yavëkamba held her back.  “No, my lady, it is too dangerous,” the healer said.

Ardana shrugged off the healer’s hand.  The astrologer’s face filled with wonder.  “Morthaur, I did not believe you when you said you had this.  I…I apologize.  Pray, continue.”

The sides of the glass cube fell away, and the gem was exposed to air.  The room grew cold and dark, and frost accumulated on the table beneath the gem.  Morthaur shivered.  “I need your power to contain this, Fëatur,” he said, his voice straining with effort.

“Do not worry,” Fëatur answered, her voice as cold as the table.  Still, her tanned face was twisted with effort, and she clenched her jaw.

Morthaur grunted and huffed a breath out.  “I…I scoured the wastes and found a dozen of these gems before the sons of Fëanor arrived to search for the Silmarils.  Two, I spent in my experiments before I found the answer.  This should be the proof of my concept.”  Raising their hands, he and Fëatur made the gem rise above the table. He extended his other hand, and a small light glowed, soon to grow into the semblance of the sun, blazing with fire. “This…this represents the hated sun, the vessel of the hated Maia Arien.”  Breathing heavily, the two floated the dark gem towards the light.  “Now, Yavëkamba.  Do it!”

The healer pulled a long dagger, known as a kynac in the south, that shimmered with a golden hue. She stepped forward and made a tiny slice on the palm of Morthaur’s hand.  Blood dripped onto the stone floor.  For a moment, the pool of blood sat there, but then flew into the dark gem, which pulsated and made sounds that chilled the hearts of all nearby.

With an unearthly howl that made Ardana’s skin crawl, black, oily tendrils snaked towards the small sun and enveloped it with a deathly embrace, pulling it into the void of the gem itself.  Then, the light was gone.  The gem shriveled up and fell back upon the table with a heavy thud, now a lifeless husk.  “This is but a demonstration,” Morthaur said as sweat flowed into his eyes and mouth. He wiped his brow with a sooty forearm. “But I bring you the destruction of the Sun and Moon and clear skies filled only with the light of the stars.”

Ardana gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.  “You…you were right.  But how…how will this destroy such great lights in the heavens?”  Though amazed, she was not entirely convinced.  “What you showed me is just a tiny lab experiment.”

Morthaur let out a long breath.  “I have divined a solution.  I used my blood, the blood of a mere elf.  We must use blood that is much more powerful, much more potent.  We must use the blood of a Vala…a sacrifice.  Only the life of one so powerful can be the catalyst for the gems to bring down the Sun and Moon.”

“What?” Ardana said in horror, her mouth falling open.  “What you propose is treason!  You cannot be serious.  We cannot sacrifice the Dark Lord!” she added menacingly.

A sly grin curled over Morthaur’s lips.  “Not the Dark Lord, but the Dark Lord’s child.”

Ardana recoiled, her mind racing.  Shock and fury filled her heart.  “Are you mad? There is no child of the Dark Lord.”

“Not yet.”

Yavëkamba took a sharp inhale, and she pushed her lips together in a sour way.  “This is madness.  We are playing with things that are not meant to be.”  She looked at the astrologer and shifted uncomfortably, her nostrils flared with disgust.

Ardana shook her head and waved her hand dismissively.  “And just who do you propose to bear the Dark Lord’s child?”

Morthaur splayed his sooty hands outward and gave a broad grin.  “Why, it should be you, my lady.”

Ardana’s first instinct was to throttle him and channel the power of the stars to smite him for such blasphemy.  But then, she turned away and put her hand on her chin to consider his words. “Why?  Why do we need such a child?”  The shimmer in her gown of stars flashed as if to signal her mood.

Morthaur’s grin became a full-fledged toothy smile.  “You know the power of blood.  The essence contained within can do many things to create and destroy.  Imagine now, the power of Vala blood.  We take the life essence of this child and infuse it into the gems of darkness and the power will be unimaginable.  I consulted with Morthrog, the Dark Lord’s seer, and he has seen the darkness come to pass.”

“If what you say is true…we could actually do this,” Ardana said, imagining the return to the eons before the Sun and Moon where only Varda’s stars existed in the heavens.  “Very well.  I believe in this course.  We should begin preparation right away.”  She mused for a moment how it would be to bear the Dark Lord’s child.  She imagined a warm, loving encounter with the godlike being that she had admired for so long.  His words to her in Valinor were always sweet and encouraging and had filled her soul.  Her first teacher, Varda, was now just a distant memory.  

“How could you sacrifice your own child?” Yavëkamba asked with a clear and powerful voice, full of concern.  Normally reserved, the healer seemed to find strength.  “Morgoth promised us a fair and just world under his strength.  He showed us the evil of Valinor, showed us the corruption of how all elves were held in their cages.  How we had no will of our own.  Having left Valinor, now we are free.  We are the masters of our own destiny in an open land.  If we do this, are we not as evil as the Valar we left behind?”

Ardana waved her hand dismissively.  “You always were a naïve one.  The road to victory is paved in blood and we have to show strength if we are to take this land for our own.  Sacrifices must be made if our hard-earned freedom is threatened.  We were cheated.  We were persecuted.  Valinor was rigged against us.  You pledged yourself to the king and I once before.  I hold you to that promise.”

Yavëkamba turned away for a moment and then bowed her head in surrender, her face becoming expressionless again.  “Yes, my lady.”  She seemed sad and shrunken now.

Ardana raised her chin, and her black eyes seemed to glow.  “Very well.  Let us go and present our plan to the Dark Lord.”  She felt a renewed sense of confidence.  The sky would only be full of stars once again.  Varda would thank her.  All would be forgiven and they would reign supreme in this new land.

The four marched quickly with a purpose to the grand throne room of Morgoth.  They entered the magnificent hall, filled with tall, granite pillars around a massive throne of iron.  Upon it sat the Dark Lord with a crown of enchanted, iridescent metal. Three shimmering jewels were mounted upon the crown, casting Morgoth in an unearthly light, giving his perfect face a sinister appearance even amid its perfect symmetry and proportion.  To his right stood a monstrous balrog, taller and more menacing than any of the Dark Lord’s demons.  This was Gothmog, the lord of the balrogs, the slayer of mighty Fëanor.  His eyes were flame, and his horns sharper than spears. To Morgoth’s left stood another balrog, smaller, but shrouded in darkness with a smoldering fire covering its body.  Even this lesser demon stood over twice as tall as Morthaur.

As the four approached, Morgoth seemed lost in thought, such was the godlike mind of a Vala.  They stood for a minute beneath Gothmog’s glare before the Dark Lord took notice of them.  Fear and pride intermingled in Ardana’s heart, and she trembled for a moment before she could speak.  A massive figure, his voice boomed like thunder when he spoke.

“Have you come before me with success or failure for the task that I gave you?  How are we to defeat the evil in our land, cleanse it and establish our dominion?  I told you that we could return the heavens to their state of beauty,” he said and then looked down his strong, straight nose at them.

Ardana closed her eyes for a second, but then looked up into Morgoth’s perfect, pale face of perfect symmetry and proportion.  “My lord. Morthaur recovered gems of great power that Ungoliant belched forth from her ravenous maw.  These gems hold the key.  All we need, my lord…all we need is the blood of your child to unleash their essence to bring down the hated vessels and return the sky to the magnificence of the stars.”

He shifted and put a closed fist to his lips.  “And how do we create this child…my child.  And your intention is to sacrifice my child?”

The astrologer nodded. “Yes, my lord.  I will bear your child and sacrifice it for your glory,” she said, her voice growing stronger.  Nearby, Yavëkamba closed her eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Morgoth extended his other hand and closed it into a fist, a slow smile forming over his mouth.  “Yes.  I like it. It is fitting that you bear and shed the blood of my child.  And together, we will see the end of the Valar’s folly.  Now away.  I am preparing my armies for the final battle.  Legions of orcs and demons will overrun the elves and cast them back into the sea.  Only I can fix this.  Then, we will complete our task.  Return to the balcony and witness my might.  Await my command.”

The four bowed and backed away and then turned to walk back to the balcony.  They were accompanied by the smaller balrog.  Continuing down the hallway, they noticed the balrog shrinking until it was only a head and half above Morthaur’s height.  It’s horns and wings were gone and its face, that was of a raging bull, had diminished to become the normal face of a bald man with shiny red skin and the darkest black eyes.  Before the group could speak, it said, “I am Morfuin, a demon of might.  The master has tasked me to join your cause.  I am aware of the job that you must do.  You would be wise to accept,” he continued in a voice without emotion.

“You are most welcome. The Dark Lord had the foresight to have you accompany us,” Ardana said with approval.  They walked out upon the balcony, which had been quiet only two hours before, but was now filled with the din of commands, boots marching on stone and the growls and howls of wargs.  Ardana looked down from the balcony, which sat hundreds of feet above the iron gates and saw a line of troops snaking ten miles ahead, uninterrupted.  The war machine of Morgoth had been released. Retribution was at hand.

“None dare stand before them,” Fëatur said with a rare tone of pleasure.  “I look forward to pillaging the bodies for treasures and mutilating the corpses before they rot in the sun.  This would please the Dark Lord,” she said, her delicate features now almost girlish in her glee.

Morfuin inhaled deeply and he began to grow again, nearly doubling in size.  His feet became cloven hooves, his back curved, growing sharp spines, horns erupted from his forehead, curling like those of a bull and his eyes flashed into fire.  His black body smoldered with sparks and dull flames and, in his right hand, a sword grew that was more like a cleaver.  The weapon burst into fire and with his left hand, a multithonged whip emerged and crackled with flame.  With a roar, Morfuin cracked his whip across the sky, sending sparks and burning cinders into the air.  “Tonight, we end the elves,” he said in a voice twisted in an inhuman throat and carried forth by fire.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing: Ardana, Morthaur, Morfuin and Yavekamba.  I'm writing Ardana as a fanatic, someone who would sacrifice anything or anyone for her cause.

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5)  The Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle – Year of the Sun 60 Yávië (Fall)

Chrys Menelrana

Fires dotted the lush green plains of Ard Galen, a beautiful but perilous land that sat just below the Dor Daedeloth, the area that encompassed Angband and the peaks of Thangorodrim.  The heat from the fires and the torrents of lava made the area feel like a furnace in the pits of hell.  A small army of a few hundred elves held their ground on a hill, surrounded by the bodies of orcs and wargs, intermingled with the corpses of elves. The gravely wounded crawled, hobbled and shrieked, creating a scene of horror on a field of grass that was covered in red and black blood.  “Rally! Rally to me!” Chrys called.  His silver plate armor was now coated in mud and the black blood of fallen orcs.  A few hundred warriors rushed to form a wall with Chrys, shields held high. Their golden armor and crested helmets stood in defiance of the enemy.  He held Kirlhach above his head, its long blade blazing with flame. As one, they let out a fierce battle cry.  Through the slits in his silver helmet Chrys saw movement ahead of them.  “Stand ready!  Here they come again!”

Not a hundred yards away, orc riders spurred their wargs and they leapt ahead of the orc infantry, baying and howling for blood.  All the elves could see were fangs, claws, and spears charging at them.  Seeing this wave of horror Chrys questioned answering the call of Fingolfin, the High King, to provide support for the coming battle. Scouts had reported the growing numbers of orcs and Fingolfin, knowing a major battle would come, sent dispatches to all allies who could respond.  Though a long distance from the south, Chrys knew that this would be important and that all elves stand together against the Dark Lord.  And so, they made the month-long journey by sea.  They could very well die here, far away from home and love.  He pictured his wife Aelrie and his son Laurre for a moment, playing in the garden of his manor house.  Then, he pushed the image from his mind and focused on the fangs and spears ahead of him.

“Archers!” Chrys ordered and gray shafts flew over his head from his Silvan allies.  Casualties among the his lightly armored Silvan archers were heavy and they had paid dearly for their friendship to the Guild.  These were his wife’s people, and he knew them all by name, but he had no time to mourn now.  Orcs in the first two ranks toppled over, looking like pincushions.  “Fire at will!  Here they come!  Spears up!”

The elven shields locked and spears lowered in unison as wargs crashed into their tips.  Fine weapons of enchanted steel, forged in the north by the High King’s smiths, they punched through the wargs like pins through paper. Howls and shrieks rose from the beasts as they toppled over, some on top of their orc riders.  The line of shields buckled but held.  Groans rose from the shield wall as they strained to hold back the charge.  Chrys braced a spearman from behind, his jaw clenched as he fought not to move back. “Hold the line!  Hold the line!”  He saw the tip of a weapon plunge through the back of the head of one spearman and the elf collapsed with a scream.  A warg ripped the arm off another right next to that man and a gap opened in the line. He could barely hear his own voice over the din of snarls and screams.  Chrys could see the danger as wargs rushed towards the hole in their defense. He drew his sword back, the weapon light and well balanced.  He easily sliced the head off the first warg to rush through and it fell in a heap of smoldering fur.

“Fill the gap!” he called as he waded in the blood and gore that covered the grass.  He shortened his strides to avoid slipping in the mess just as a dismounted orc rider screamed at him, raising its curved blade to cut. With a short stab, Chrys thrust the tip of Kirlhach into its mouth, abruptly ending the scream.  The orc toppled over, only to be replaced by three more.  Over the din, he could see the orc infantry closing.  They would soon be overwhelmed.  “Close ranks! Close ranks!  Fill the gaps!”

Chrys cut down two of the orcs with controlled slices at gaps in their armor and then drove Kirlhach through the throat of the third.  He then saw an orc leaping over his dying fellows and he tried to pull his sword free, but it was stuck fast, deep in the neck of the dead orc.  He released his grip just as the orc crashed down upon him, hurling both to the ground.  They fell into a puddle of black blood, splashing drops of it all around them. Chrys instinctively reached down for his dagger, but the orc already had its axe raised to strike.  He caught its arm with his free hand and the orc headbutted him, its black helmet crashing into him.  His helmet took most of the blow, but he was dazed by the impact. The orc wrestled the axe free just as a long kynac dagger shot through the beast’s neck.  It toppled over to the side and Chrys looked up to see a hand extended downward.

“So, it seems the tables are turned,” said Fëatur with a wry grin.  “At least you have clothes on.”  He turned on a charging orc and plunged his kynac into its eye. Fëatur wore light armor of enchanted leather that was plain and unadorned.  His hair was wild and unkempt and his face was smeared with mud and blood.

Chrys grabbed Fëatur’s hand and hauled himself up, thankful for the assist.  “If you have any tricks up your sleeves, now would be a good time. Things are growing desperate.”  He looked sharply around, trying to regain an awareness of the battlefield.

“I have just the thing. Cover me.”  Fëatur spun his hands in front of him as if stirring two pots. Shimmering lights formed on his palms and then spread outward from his hands.  In a moment, both warg and orc paused in their fighting and began to shake their heads as if confused.  In another moment, with cries of anger, orc attacked orc and warg attacked warg, the enemy ripping themselves apart in a savage frenzy.  “This won’t last long and we don’t have much time.  I suggest we retreat.”

Chrys and the spearmen cut down one last rank of orcs and then he aimed Kirlhach towards the rear. “The army will retire fifty paces and reform!”  The years of training had paid off and the troops moved as one, closing gaps and interlapping shields as they backed up the side of a hill.  Archers continued to rain arrows into the confused horde.  They dragged as many of their dead and wounded along with them as they could.  Still, Chrys saw butchered bodies of Aerlie’s Silvan kin and his heart ached.

Fëatur looked spent. He wiped his face of sweat and blood. His eyes rolled back for a moment, and he almost doubled over.  “That one…that one cost me.  I had to wait for the right moment to unleash so much of my power.”  He wobbled slightly on his feet before he caught himself.

Chrys grasped him by the shoulder to steady him.  “Thank you. You need to retire to the rear to recover.  We will need you later.”  After fifty paces back the troops took position and planted the points of their shields into the grassy earth as Fëatur moved back away from the line.  Chrys glanced from side to side, seeing Talan and Elerior leading their sections.  They looked exhausted as the fighting had raged all morning.

Talan looked over and shook his head.  “There are too many Chrys!  Another wave approaches.  We cannot hold!”  There was fear in his voice.

“Fëatur bought us time. Fingolfin will be here.  We must hold on.”  Chrys peered over the shield wall and saw a more massive force of orcs gathering, just out of bowshot.  His heart sank.  “Should I retreat now?  We are spent,” he whispered to himself.  “If we lose this high ground, Fingolfin will have to fight uphill all the way to join with Maedhros.”  He looked again but saw something else.  Something in the distance.  Could it be? “Talan!  Elerior!  There! What do you see!”

Talan and Elerior stood up high and put their hands over their eyes.  Elerior pointed off in the distance.  “I see…I see the banners of Fingolfin!  I see them!”

Talan shook his head. “They are too far, Chrys!  They are too far.  They will not reach us before we are overrun!”

Desperate inspiration took hold of Chrys.  “Then we close the distance!  They won’t expect this.”  He pointed his sword forward.  “Prepare to advance!”  As one, the spearmen raised their shields and lowered their spears.

Talan shook his head but buckled down and prepared to charge.  He let out a long sigh of resignation.  “Well, if we have to die, it might as well be today.”

“Forward!” called Chrys. He grit his teeth for what was to come. They would have to hold off for far too long before Fingolfin’s army could assist.  He thought about his son and Aelrie.  Would this be the Guild’s end?  Did he make the right decision?  Who would teach Laurre to ride and wield a sword if he fell?  Two ranks of spearmen moved forward at the double, keeping their lines straight and their shields locked.  Chrys could at least be proud of how he built a professional fighting force in just a few years.  He pointed to the flanks of his troops.  “Wedge!” he ordered, and the point of his line surged forwards, creating a steel tip in the center of the line that would drive through the enemy.

He could see confusion on the faces of the orcs as their line approached.  “Archers!  Fire at will!”  The Silvan elves, hungry for revenge, shouted as one.  Gray shafts with gull feathers flew overhead, finding targets all along the enemy’s front rank.  A smattering of arrows glanced off his shield wall in return, causing Chrys to blink.  Then, he grit his teeth.  “Charge!”

The pounding footfalls of the line drowned out any further shouting and the tip of the wedge crashed into the horde of orcs, driving their force apart.  Spears plunged into orc bodies, spilling black blood onto the grass. With a howl of panic, the enemy line buckled around the tip of the wedge.  “Push!  Push!” Chrys cried, his voice barely audible over the din.  He glanced over to see Talan crush the head of an orc with his staff. A spearman went down in front of him, and orcs poured through the gap.  Too tight for cuts, Chrys thrust his sword into an orc’s throat and flame burst around its face.  Another struck him in the shoulder with an axe, glancing off his armor, but the impact made him grunt.  He delivered another thrust through the orc’s armpit as it raised its weapon for another blow.  He stepped over the two corpses and then stabbed another in the eye.  “Keep moving forward!”  He needed to plug this gap, but perhaps it was an opportunity.  With a burst of energy, Chrys pushed the orcs back, creating some room to employ his sword to the fullest.  He cut twice in an X, slicing the necks of two enemies and stabbed a third.  He had created his own gap as the orcs fell, flames spouting from their wounds.  If only he could make it to the orc chief. Killing it just might cause them to flee.

He pushed through the gap only to face another line of orcs.  Was there no end to their numbers.  He cut down another orc, only to be confronted by more.  Three of them thrust wicked polearms at him and he tried to sidestep.  He sliced the head off one weapon and a second glanced off his helmet.  A third found a gap in his armor above his thigh and bit deep.  Chrys grunted in pain but sliced the orc across the face.  He yanked the tip of the weapon from his leg with grunt of pain. He had never been wounded this badly before, but he could not stop now.  He staggered forward, blood flowing down his thigh and brought Kirlhach down on another attacker, cleaving its helmet in two with a burst of fire. He knew the orc chief must be nearby. He could feel it.  He could end this with a sword stroke and return home to his family.

Before he could move ahead, several orcs piled on top of him, and they all fell over into the blood-stained grass.  Through the slits in his helmet, all Chrys could see were fangs and daggers.  Fists rained down on his chest, pounding his breastplate like a hammer on an anvil.  With a free hand, he drew his own dagger and slammed its point into the armpit of the orc on top of him.  It shrieked and collapsed, its dead weight on his chest.  With a shout, he shoved the body off of him and tried to rise, his wounded leg giving way beneath him.  Disoriented, he could hear screams and howls all around him.  Then, there was a low thrum as if the earth itself were moving and orcs began fleeing in all directions.  Confused, Chrys shook his head to orient himself.  He raised the dented visor of his helm and saw a spectral cavalry riding over the enemy army.  In sheer terror, orcs toppled over each other, throwing down weapons.  Talan and Elerior shouted commands to reform and hold.

“Looks like you need my help again,” Fëatur said as he helped Chrys to his feet.  “Here, lean on me.”  Fëatur looked utterly spent, sweat pouring down his face and soaking the tunic beneath his armor.  “Like you said.  I waited for the right moment.  It’s all I had left.”

Chrys coughed hard and his friend slapped him on the back.  He was ever so thankful for his friend’s help and the strain this had caused him.  When he had caught his breath, he wrapped his arm around Fëatur’s neck and hobbled to the rear.  “I take it you brought the cavalry?”

“Indeed.  It’s all an illusion, but I thought it was a nice touch. Fingon’s cavalry will be here soon. We just needed a little more time. Those orcs won’t be back.” Fëatur’s face was twisted with strain.

“We held…we held,” Chrys said weakly as Fëatur helped him to an open patch of ground where they both sat with a huff.  He could see the white horses of Fingon’s force charging into the panicked orcs.  He thought he saw Fingon the Valiant in his silver armor and sky-blue tabard riding at the front.  A single rider, clad in silver armor and carrying the silver and blue banner of the High King’s son, approached them.

“I am looking for Chrys…Chrys Menelrana, lord of the Southern Army,” the rider said as he dismounted and searched around.

Exhausted, Chrys raised his hand, barely over his head and then removed his dented silver helmet. “I am he.  What news?”

The rider planted his banner into the ground and then knelt before Chrys.  “My lord Fingon sends his compliments for your valiant defense and heroic sacrifice.  Without your effort, the High King and Maedhros would have had extreme difficulty linking up.  The banners of Maedhros are now approaching.  Today will be a great victory, a glorious battle as the High King is calling it.  Orcs are routed on all fronts and in full retreat.  Lord Fingon is sending his finest healers and medicines to assist. And we will help bury and honor your fallen.”

Chrys nodded slowly, his head feeling like a mountain sat on top of it.  “I thank you.  And my people thank you.  Please do not forget our sacrifice.”  He felt weak and his wound throbbed in pain.  He glanced down at his leg and his pants were completely soaked in his blood. He did not want to see what was underneath.

The rider rose, retrieved his banner and then mounted his white horse.  “I bid you a quick recovery Lord Menelrana.  When you are able, the High King wishes to honor you and discuss the future,” he said and then rode off to rejoin his force as a company of healers arrived and began tending to the wounded.

“Looks like I didn’t need to get the orc chief after all,” Chrys said with a chuckle to Fëatur. “You’re proving to be very useful around here.  I will not forget this my friend.”

“I only hope to repay Mandos’ mercy and earn the trust that I foolishly squandered among our people.” Fëatur summoned a healer over. “Rest now, Chrys.  I still have business to attend to.  I will rejoin you later.  I have no business meeting with High Kings.”  He grunted in exhaustion as he stood and then wiped his bloody face with a rag.

Chrys tried to rise. “My soldiers…I must help them,” he said, but could get no farther than on his knees.

“No, no,” Fëatur said sternly and guided his friend back down.  “You’ve done enough.  You’ve lost a lot of blood.  We need you. Let the healers do their work.” He stepped away as an elven woman knelt beside Chrys and lay him down in the grass.  She placed an herb beneath his nose and his vision darkened as a sense of peace and well-being took hold of him.  He watched Fëatur riding away as the world faded.

Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to be true to the soft magic of Middle Earth.

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6) Liaisons – Year of the Sun 60 Yávië (Fall)

Fëatur

Checking his surroundings, Fëatur moved cautiously into a cave.  He was truly afraid, being so close to the lands of the enemy.  Angband was less than a day’s ride away.  He glanced one last time at the orange glow and fumes rising from the peaks of Thangorodrim before he pressed forward.  A lump formed in his throat.  The Dark Lord was ever full of deceit and traps.  “Mandos, protect me,” he whispered as he rounded a corner into a wider chamber.  Though it was entirely dark, with his elven sight he saw a woman sitting on a wool blanket.

“Were you expecting someone else?” she said with a hint of sarcasm.  She lit a candle with the tip of her finger.  The glow illuminated the beauty of her face, heart shaped with large warm brown eyes along with her dark brown hair and reflected off the golden trim of her blue robe.  “I see you got my message.”

Fëatur gasped in relief. “Yavëkamba!” he exclaimed.  “I cannot express how worried I was.”  His fatigue fled and he felt elated.

She patted the blanket beside her, and he came and sat.  “I knew you were still with me,” she said with a tone of hope.  “I got your parting message in Angband, and I feared the worst, but I knew.  I am glad for the mercy of Mandos.  Your former comrades still believe you to be dead.  That has some advantage.”

“I will take what advantage I can, Yavë,” he said as he stroked her cheek with his fingers.  “I have missed you.  It has been too long.”  An almost forgotten feeling filled him with a rare joy.

“And time grows short.” She took his hand in hers and a grave look came over her, the earlier smile fading away.  Her soft brown eyes bore into his, letting him know how serious she was.  “The Dark Lord’s plans move forward, and he has tasked Ardana with orchestrating the destruction of the Sun and Moon.”

“What?”  Horror filled Fëatur’s face.  “How is that possible?  Such a thing cannot be possible.”  He hoped that she was joking.  He looked again into her eyes and knew that she wasn’t.

She squeezed his hand tightly.  “I have seen it, Fë.  Morthaur found many of Fëanor’s gems that were consumed by Ungoliant.  Now, they are things of darkness.  With the blood of a Vala in sacrifice, he can unleash the power of these gems to destroy any light.  The world will fall into darkness.”

“I always knew that Ardana was obsessed with the stars, but this is…is unbelievable.”  He put one hand to his lips.  This was a horror beyond imagination.  “She has become a monster, just like her master.  But how…how will they sacrifice a Vala?”

“It is happening as we speak, Fë,” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek.  “Ardana will bear a child of Morgoth.  Half Vala, half Noldo.  The child’s blood will be the catalyst.  I do not know how to stop it.”  Her voice trailed off and he knew that she felt helpless.

Fëatur tried to rise, he needed to fix this now, but she held him back.  “I have to…I have to stop it,” he said in a voice full of urgency. “We cannot let this happen, Yavë.”

“You’ll never make it back into Angband.  They would kill you for certain this time.”  She pulled him back to her.  “There is no way in.”

“There has to be,” he said emphatically.  “There has to be.”

She cradled his face in both hands and gazed into his eyes.  She stroked his golden hair with her fingers and then mused for a moment. “You really do look exactly like your sister.  Same eyes, same nose, same mouth.  Remember how you two would pretend to be each other for the amusement of Melkor?  I…I have an idea.”  A knowing look crept across her face.

“I see where you are going. I cannot believe I didn’t think of that before, but then, I have you.  Do you have a plan?”  He knew where she was going, and it gave him a sliver of hope.

She shook her head. “Not yet, but I will,” she said with a sigh.  “You know what I mean, but for now, I just want to enjoy the time that we have together.” She undid her robe and pulled it off and then laid down onto the blanket.  “We will think of something, Fë.”

Fëatur took a deep breath at the sight of her lithe body reclined upon the blanket and he drank in the beauty of her form.  As evil as he had been, he hoped that there would be some small measure of peace and joy in his redemption.  He closed his eyes and smiled for a moment before lying down beside her.  He traced his fingers along her chin, down to her neck and she smiled back at him.  Even a moment away from the impending horror would be a blessing.  “You must be careful,” he whispered in her ear.  “I cannot lose you.  You cannot give them even a hint that you are helping me.”

She undid the laces of his pants.  “I could not bear what I was hearing from the Dark Lord.  We were both deceived by honeyed words.  All he desires now are chaos and destruction.  I will embrace any doom that awaits me if I can be with you.”

He took her with a passion born of love, hope, guilt, shame and fear all at once, wishing he could stay in this moment forever and forget his oath to Mandos.  If only the world would fade around them, leaving just two interwoven souls in a cave without the weight of the world on them.

As he lay in her arms, stroking her hair and inhaling her scent, he whispered, “I don’t deserve you…deserve this.  I did so much wrong.  A hundred lifetimes won’t make up for my misdeeds.”

“Nonsense.  We both fell for the lies, but we realized who the Dark Lord really was.  I was just as swayed as you were.  He would make the world great.  He would make us great.  We would live in a pure land, one that we held dominion over.  All of it, lies,” she said with a hint of disgust, her lips pursed and her nostrils flared.  “The Dark Lord cares only for himself.  We are just tools for his dominion.”

Fëatur nodded reluctantly. “As always, you have some wisdom. I will think on this.  And, I understand what you were saying about my sister.  Is she too far gone to reach?”

“I believe so.  She is cruel and truly believes in the words of the Dark Lord.  I would not try.”

Fëatur turned his head down and sighed in resignation.  “I was afraid to hear the truth of that, but I knew it in my heart.  Maybe there is a way to prevent the birth of this child?”

She shook her head. “I fear not.  Ardana will be guarded day and night.  The Dark Lord has tasked one of his balrogs to watch over her. But there may be a way to remove the child so that Morthaur’s plan will fail.  I will not be party to the murder of a child, no matter who the father is.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m still thinking,” she said with a hint of playfulness a half smile returning to her lips.  “But you should know that you have other allies in the south.  They are called the Three of Ty-Ar-Rana and the Dark Lord names them as his enemies. If we can somehow take the child, they could hide and raise it in secret, far from the north and the power of the Dark Lord.  I will tell you how to contact them but remain in the north for now.  I will have a plan by the time Ardana shows.”

“If it means that I can remain near you, I would camp in the shadow of Angband.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said with a chuckle.  “I will contact you in the way that we had arranged.  We will need to change our methods after that though.”

“Wise as you are beautiful,” he whispered sleepily, and they both drifted off into a blissful meditation, immune to the horrors of the world.

Chapter End Notes

Yavekamba will remain inside the Court to undermine them.  It will be a dangerous task.

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7)  The Blood of a Vala - Year of the Sun 60 Quellë (Fading)

Ardana

Howls of rage filled the grand hall of Angband, causing Ardana and Morthaur to recoil in fear as they stood in the hallway.  Ardana turned, looking at the walls while Morthaur fidgeted, constantly adjusting his dirty coveralls.  Only Fëatur stood firm, her face impassive.  Ardana knew that the woman thrived on terror, almost to the point of obsession.  They waited for some time for the Dark Lord’s anger to subside.  They had lost a great battle, the battle that was supposed to establish their dominion over this new land.  They would make Middle Earth great under his power and iron fist.  But their armies were routed with ease by the forces of the elves under Fingolfin.  Only a fraction of the massive force had returned and Morgoth had put many of the leaders to death as a message to the others.

Morfuin, who stood still as a statue near the hall entrance, finally stirred.  “The King of the Earth will see you now,” he said, as if he had received a telepathic message.  Even in his human form he was still terrifying with skin as red as flame and red, catlike eyes.  His plain tunic and pants belied his status in Morgoth’s empire.  He led the way into the massive chamber that housed the Dark Lord’s iron throne.

Ardana’s heart raced upon seeing her lord upon his enormous throne.  Her starlight gown shimmered as if to reflect her trepidation.  The Dark Lord was the height of ten elves with fists the size of great boulders.  His foot could crush even the High King like a worm.  She noted the tension on his jaw and the deep furrow in his brow beneath his jet-black hair.  His great black robe of glittering jewels seemed disheveled and his iridescent crown of Silmarils sat askew on his head.  This was not the Vala of unearthly beauty and wisdom that she had known in Valinor: he was darker, more sinister.  The battle had changed him.  As one, the entourage knelt in front of the throne and waited for Morgoth to notice them.

After an uncomfortable length of time, Morgoth looked down upon them as one would look down upon ants. His eyes blazed red.  “Speak,” he said impatiently, his voice echoing through the hall, his face brooding.

Ardana rose and lifted her hand up.  “My lord, King of the Earth, we have a plan to bring down the Sun and Moon and return your world to its natural state, a state of beauty where we have the power of life and death, and your rule is absolute.”

This seemed to calm him and the tension along his jaw relaxed.  He took a deep breath and his stare bore into the group.  “Tell me of your plan.  I will decide if it is worthy.”

“Lord, Morthaur was able to recover some of the gems that were consumed by Ungoliant.  These gems hold the key to unleashing great power, the power to destroy these objects in the heavens.”  She pointed to Morthaur, who stepped forward and displayed one of the dark gems in the palm of his hand.

“Why haven’t you done this already?"

She shivered at the question and a cold sensation ran down her spine.  She had never been afraid of her lord before.  “We conducted an experiment.  While successful, we lack one key ingredient,” she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly.  A bead of sweat ran down her brow.

“And what ingredient is that?”

Ardana took a deep breath and held it for a moment before exhaling.  “The final ingredient is the blood of your child.”  She paused to see his reaction, half expecting an outburst of rage.  When it didn’t happen, she continued.  “I will bear your child and I will sacrifice it to your glory in destroying the Sun and Moon.”

Morgoth nodded slowly and then more emphatically.  “I see. You have thought this through,” he said and then he stepped off of his iron throne, causing the group to take a step back. Some held their hands up as if to ward of a blow.  He held up his hands and then he slowly shrunk down to the size of an elf.  “This should make it easier,” he said, now face to face with his audience.  He gave Ardana a leer that brought a pit to her stomach.

Ardana’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of this becoming a reality.  It was something that she had not thought the whole way through. She bowed her head and awaited his next word.  The Dark Lord took her hand and led her away from the group.  His grip was overpowering.  She could not get away even if she wanted to.  “Where are we going?” she blurted out nervously and then worried that she had spoken too loudly.

He looked around as if avoiding her gaze.  “What does it matter?  I am the Elder King.  I take what I want when I want it.  The other Valar have spouses.  Weak. I stand alone, he who arises in might. All bend to my will.”  He led her around the back of the great throne and then pinned her to the back of his throne with inhuman strength.

Suddenly, fear gripped her throat and the cold pit in her stomach grew.  “My lord,” she said before he tore the shimmering dress from her body and pressed her against the cold stone of his iron chair.  Her back felt the chill of the granite against her skin. “Wait…I,” she began until he put a cold hand over her mouth.

“Silence.  You bend to my will and my will alone.”  His voice was almost hoarse, raspy and holding the potential for violence.  “You serve at my pleasure and your life belongs to me.”  He opened his robe and lifted one of her legs.  Ardana just closed her eyes and dreamed of a clear night sky, full of her beloved stars.  She would sacrifice anything to make it so again.

Chapter End Notes

How far will Ardana go to fulfill her dream?

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8)  Kin - Year of the Sun 61 Lairë (Summer)

Chrys Menelrana

The sight of the High King was electrifying.  Chrys had only seen him up close a couple of times, one in Valinor and the other on the Grinding Ice as Fingolfin led his people through horror and loss almost through sheer force of will.  It was his leadership that brought them to Middle Earth.  Tall and regal, Fingolfin was what Chrys always imagined in a High King. This was a king for whom he could fight. The High King made the rounds through his army and loyal lords.  Clad in armor of silver and sky blue with a blue surcoat covered in the images of stars, he thanked each soldier by name for their great victory.  When the High King came to the members of the Guild of Elements, he stopped and extended a hand.  “Chrys, Carnil, Talan, Elerior and Ralian, you and your army held the hill that was the lynchpin of our counterattack.  Without you, I would have had to fight an entire army that would have been entrenched on the high ground.  I would not have been able to join with Maedhros for the final push to Angband.  Now, our combined forces have laid siege to his dark fortress.  We have Morgoth entirely contained.  We can now build our lands in peace.”

Chrys took his hand and then Fingolfin raised it up to cheers from the surrounding troops. “Thank you, High King.  It was an honor to serve.”  Chrys’ armor had been repaired by the elven smiths and the silver plates shone in the sunlight.

“You came when I called, all the way from the south.  I now release you from my service so that you may journey back home.  I hear the healers have attended to your wounded and are hale enough to travel.”

He still had a little bit of a limp, but this was not the place to talk about it.  “They are, High King.  We will be able to return soon.”

Fingolfin put a firm hand on Chrys’ shoulder and gave him a friendly tug.  “Our smiths have prepared arms and armor for your troops.  I would not have you go empty handed.  We will always be your friends.  Call on me if you have need.”  The High King shook the hands of the Guild and then continued into the crowd, thanking the troops for their sacrifice.

Chrys turned to be with the Guild members.  “We have fought and bled together, and I could not be prouder of all of you.  When we return to the vale we will have a feast.”

Talan chuckled wryly as he tugged on the high collar of his forest green tunic.  “Oh, I’m sure Aelrie will be pleased with you for having her prepare another feast.”

“But Laurre will chomping at the bit to help out,” Elerior quipped.  “He’s becoming quite the cook.”

Talan kept tugging on his collar.  “I hate formal events.  This tunic will be the death of me.  So itchy.”

Carnil spun Talan about to face him.  “Here, let me dress you again.  I’m going to make a song about this, you know,” he said as he straightened the green tunic.

“Ha ha,” Talan said, emphasizing each word.  Then, he rolled his eyes.  “I, for one, am ready to head for home.  I fear that, in our absence, the forces of darkness may have spread in the south.”

“By the Valar, enjoy the moment,” Elerior said with an edge of exasperation.  “The stars have shown that years of peace will ensue after this battle.  We have some time, Talan.”

Talan winced.  “Time, time, time.  That’s all we have when we’re immortal.  The eons that we spent in Valinor have made us complacent.  I’m telling you that time is running out.”

Chrys stepped between them. “That’s good.  You all are right.  While we’ve won a great victory and must celebrate, we have also seen the power of the Dark Lord and must prepare,” he said and then looked at Talan. “We will have a feast and then we will train and prepare.  Let’s leave one of our better smiths here to apprentice under the High King’s people. We want every edge that we can get in the coming years.  Talan, is this acceptable?”

“Of course.  You always find the middle ground Chrys. This is reasonable.”

Chrys smiled at the Guild members and then felt a familiar sensation.  He looked over to the crowd, searching.  His eyes locked onto an elf with golden hair, inherited from his mother’s side.  “Finrod! Over here!”

Finrod looked over and then a smile crossed over his lips.  “Chrys!  My kinsman!” he called back and then walked over.  He wore a tunic and breeches made from fine cloth in earthly hues of green and brown.  His cape was green and bore the sigil of the House of Finarfin, a yellow sun with orange rays spreading out from it.  On his finger was a ring of gold with a large green gem and the image of intertwined serpents with eyes of green gems.  His face was lean, but warm with piercing blue eyes.  They clasped each other warmly.  “I heard you had quite a battle.  Well done, cousin.  No orc can match our swords and spears.  There will be songs sung about this for eons.”

“I heard you fared well on the battlefield.  The House of Finarfin prevails,” Chrys said with a grin and then he turned serious. “What of the plan to besiege Morgoth? His fortress is mighty, and he has the power of a Vala?  Can we ever defeat that?”

“We have a ring around the south side of Angband.  We don’t have the numbers to encircle him, nor do we have power to bring down a Vala. But he is contained for now and his armies are decimated.  Morgoth has seen the might of the Noldor, and brilliance of the High King and he sits afraid in his halls.”

Finrod looked over the Carnil.  Well met, fellow bard,” he said, clapping Carnil on the shoulder.  “I would invite you to our contest of song this evening.  You easily rival my skills so it will be a battle for the ages.”

Carnil smiled and spread his hands out.  “I wouldn’t miss it.  But will Maglor be there?  I don’t stand a chance against him.”

Finrod laughed aloud and gave a broad smile that lit up the area.  “Neither do I, but it won’t stop me from trying.”  He tilted his head back and put his hand to his chin.  “Lyrics have been running through my mind.  What do you think of this?  Golden leaves fall thick on green grass in the land of peace and plenty,” he began to sing before shaking his head.  “Rubbish, pure rubbish.  “I’ll come up with something good before tonight.”

Chrys continued to look around, searching for more people.  “And where are my other cousins?”

“I couldn’t tear them away from Fingon’s fine cavalry.  They are busy admiring the great steeds of Dor Lómin,” Finrod said with an off handed wave.

“I must greet them,” Chrys countered.  “I haven’t seen them since the Mereth Aderthad.”

“Oh, come now cousin. It’s only been just over forty years,” Finrod said with a wide smile.  “Follow me.  “You should absolutely bid them greetings.”  He walked with a sense of purpose with the Guild keeping up and Chrys limping along.  “I must tell you all that about a decade ago, I had vision from the Vala Ulmo.  He showed me secret underground halls, abandoned by the petty dwarves.  Nulukkhizdîn, they called it.  Yes, quite a tongue twister.  Apparently, our Sindarin cousins hunted them out of the caverns, unaware that they were a civilized race.  It sits on the western banks of the River Narog, and we have decided to call it Nargothrond.”

Chrys nodded, listening to every word.  “I’m intrigued.  We should visit on our journey home.”

“Of course,” Finrod declared as they approached the tall steeds of Fingon’s cavalry, proud white horses known for their speed and stamina.  He pointed to a tall woman with golden hair, wearing a tunic and riding pants dyed in forest green with intricate gold and silver designs in geometric shapes.  “Galadriel! I’ve brought our cousin.”

She turned and recognition filled her radiant face and her bright eyes twinkled as a faint smile passed over her lips.  “Cousin Chrys, it has been too long,” she said in a voice full of melody and warmth. She moved to touch him on the shoulder, and it almost seemed as if she were floating over the earth in her grace.

Chrys bowed his head in respect.  “Hearing about Galadriel is one thing but seeing her in person is another experience entirely.”  It was as if the world were moving in slow motion just by being near her.

Galadriel chuckled quietly, never one to display too much overt emotion.  “You are too kind.  I heard of your valiant stand on the hills of Ladros.  The High King has you to thank for holding so firm so that he could link with Maedhros.  Now the containment of the Dark Lord is complete.  I, for one, wish to build on this new land.  You’ve no doubt heard of the construction of Nargothrond?”

“I have, my lady.  I cannot wait to see Nargothrond when it’s completed.  We do intend to visit on our way back to the south though to see the construction. I’m sure we have a lot to learn.”

Galadriel nodded.  “We wish to teach you all that we know.  And I’ve heard that your hold in Tumlindë is a sight to behold…that it looks like a little slice of Valinor here in Middle Earth. I would like to visit one day as well.”

“We would be honored,” Chrys said with deep respect.

She touched him by the hand and seemed to peer deep into his soul.  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “I see greatness and valor in you.  There will also be great sacrifice,” she said with all seriousness as she looked to the members of the Guild.  “You will stop an abomination,” she continued as she put her hand in front of her mouth in horror.  “I…that is all I see.”

Finrod stepped in.  “My younger sister is gifted with sight.  Still, that could mean anything.  Let’s not dwell on what may yet pass.  Come, please join us.  Our brothers are waiting.  Angrod would love to show off his new son, Orodreth.  Along with Aegnor, they still have the fire of youth.  They held the highlands of Dorthonion against Morgoth’s forces and none could withstand them.”  He swung up into the saddle of his brown horse and pointed off into the distance.  “Ah, I can see them there.  Here, take these horses,” he said to the Guild.  “It’s just a short ride for these fine steeds.”

Galadriel and the Guild members climbed into saddles, and they bolted off towards Finrod’s brothers.  Chrys marveled at the speed in which the elven steeds galloped at and inhaled deeply of the clean air as the wind swept through his hair.

Up ahead he could see Finrod’s camp and his bright banners, a harp and a torch on a field of gold, fluttering in the wind.  Angrod and Aegnor were already waving as was Eldalotë, Angrod’s wife.  Chrys felt an excitement at seeing so much of his kin again. It had been just over forty years since the festival of Mereth Aderthad.  He rose up in the stirrups and waved back, yelling a greeting.

The sun was just setting as they rode up to the camp and dismounted, tethering their horses.  Chrys had a big smile on his face as he ran up to Angrod and Aegnor, the two youngest siblings.  The children of Finarfin had gathered and it was a sight to see. There were roaring fires all around the camp and the aroma of cooking wafted in the air.  Chrys and the Guild swapped embraces with Angrod and Aegnor. Angrod’s wife, Eldalotë, bowed to the guests and held up their young son, Orodreth.  “Welcome,” she said.  “We thank you for helping to bring about a better world, one of peace in which we can raise our son.”

Angrod stepped in, his face full of pride.  “His father name is Artaresto in Quenya.  I could not be happier bringing a child into the world.  Just look at the beauty of the land,” he said, gesturing around at the plains, hills and forests.  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.  “I feel that great things are in store for our son.”

Chrys leaned forward and made a funny face at the baby and Orodreth laughed with glee.  He tickled the baby’s belly to even more laughter, eliciting smiles and chuckles from the group.  “Family is important.  I want a safe world where we can raise our children in peace and prosperity.”  He felt a pang of longing to return home to see his own wife and son.  Even a short year to the elf was too long to be away.

“A noble goal.  One we all seek to make into reality,” Aegnor said. Then, he beckoned to the campfires that were being lit.  “Come, let’s enjoy the fires.  The food should be done soon.  I, myself, am famished.”  He looked directly at Chrys.  “And we have chicken, just for you.  You must stay to hear the music too.  As you know, my older brother is quite the singer.”

Chrys gave a wry smile and looked around for the food.  The mere thought of roast chicken made his stomach growl.  “So I’ve heard.  We have quite the bard from the south too.”  He turned to Carnil Ravirë.  “Carnil, are you prepared to match Finrod?”

Carnil’s eyes widened with a bit of fear and surprise, and he put his palms out.  “Oh Chrys, I’m not even close.  I can play a lively tune for dinner in our halls, but I cannot hold a candle to Finrod.”

Galadriel stepped in, her golden hair fluttering in the evening breeze.  “Nonsense Carnil.  We’ve heard you play, and your skills are not to be underestimated.”  Then, she gestured to the open field of grass. “Come, let us sit together and enjoy the company.  I look forward to hearing you once again.”  They sat on the warm grass and Carnil pulled his lute from a leather case.

Finrod approached and sat with them, lute in hand.  “I say that we treat these fine folks to some quality entertainment,” he said with a wink to the group.  He cleared his throat and brushed back his golden hair.  “It’s good to be among friends and kin.  It will be a moment to cherish and remember.”  He took a moment to tune the instrument, tightening some of its strings.  “This was a gift from Irmo, the lord of dreams.  It was made from one branch of Laurelin,” he said, showing off the intricate carvings on the wooden surface.  “I studied under him in the gardens of Lórien, just outside the City of Valmar.  It was a time of bliss and peace.”  He strummed a chord which seemed to fill the entire camp with sound.

“I think that might be a good place to start,” said Chrys.  “The gardens of Lórien.”  He thought back to his time in Valinor and the beauty of the gardens and forests, the scent of evergreens and flowers with the light of the Two Trees peeking through the canopy onto the forest floor.  “I was a servant of Manwë and a student of Eönwë for sword and shield,” he said.  “I always regret never learning the musical arts from Irmo.”

“The prowess of your bladework is a boon for our people,” Finrod said, countering.  “We all have a part to play cousin.”  He looked to Carnil and nodded.  “Lórien it is then.  Well, shall we?”  Finrod began with a chord that rippled in the minds of the audience.  When he and Carnil began to sing it was as if a force of energy came from their mouths.  Soft tendrils of light played above them and began to form into shapes and then visions.  A spectral forest formed above them with trees swaying in the breeze.  A garden then formed that sprouted flowers and fruit. The audience lay back upon the grass and were amazed at the scene.  The power of the bards’ voices brought them to the garden as their words were full of enchantment.  

The world almost ceased to exist for Chrys.  He closed his eyes, and he was once again in Valinor as Laurelin waned to the waxing of Telperion.  There was no Morgoth, no orcs, no demons, only the love and the peace of the Valar. He could feel the pulse of energy from the music, and he was transported in his mind to the peak of Mount Oiolossë, the home of Manwë.  He could feel the chill and see the snowcap on top of the mountain where the Vala’s home was.  He exhaled a deep and contented sigh.  He was home.

Chapter End Notes

I wanted to show the prowess of Finrod as a bard.

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9)  The Birth of Darkness - Year of the Sun 61 Hrívë (Winter)

Yavëkamba

Yavëkamba stood motionless and without expression amid Ardana’s grunts and groans.  The healer watched a boiling cauldron filled with herbs that a pleasant aroma wafted from.  She held out the palm of her hand and a breeze emanated from it, pushing the mist towards the Astrologer.  “Keep breathing, Ardana,” she said.  “The birth of Morgoth’s child will come soon.  Inhale the scent of these herbs.  It will relax you.”  Her blue and silver robes felt especially heavy today.  Examining her patient, her eyes were drawn to a streak of kinky silver hair amid Ardana’s long, straight black mane.  She noticed it immediately after the Dark Lord impregnated her but seeing it up close was startling.  She had never seen an elf have such color.  Was it the trauma of her union with the Dark Lord?

Ardana cried out again and grasped Yavëkamba’s hand, squeezing hard enough to make the healer wince. “Make it happen!” the Astrologer said between gritted teeth.  “I cannot bear this much longer!”  Ardana’s face glistened with sweat and her enlarged belly pulsed as if some monster was trying to get out.  Only a sheet lay over her body and that too, was soaked.

Yavëkamba forced herself to be calm.  She placed her other hand on Ardana’s to comfort their leader.  “Breathe.  Breathe. Inhale the fumes.”  Though her voice was calm and cool, her mind and heart spun nearly out of control.  Surely this mad plan of hers would fail, and she would be found out.  Ardana was among the most perceptive of the Eldar.  She imagined the astrologer peering into her soul and she gulped hard to clear her mind.  She glanced around to see if the child’s father was anywhere to be found.  Not seeing him she surmised that he was busy planning his retribution on the elves.  Retribution, revenge, rage.  That was all the Dark Lord was consumed with now.  The defeat at the Dagor Aglareb sat heavily upon him.  He had been cheated.  He should have won.  What happened to the promises of eternal glory and bliss that he said would come to pass?  How could she have been so foolish as to believe the empty words?  Like her love, she would play her part to end the madness, only from the inside.

Her mind wandered to the Pools of Estë, called Lórellin in Quenya, which meant dream pool. She could see the white and silver marble structures of her patron’s home, covered in flowering vines.  She could smell the scent of flowers and the dark yew trees that surrounded the pools.  The myriad colors were nearly overwhelming.  From the shore of the lake, she would be able to see the island where Estë slept during the day and the silvery light of Telperion would reflect off of the calm waters at night.  For a moment, she imagined touching one of the green and silver leaves of the great tree and bathing in one of the many pools of water that formed at the its roots. She could taste the clear fresh water upon her tongue.  Her breathing caught in her throat, and she sniffed hard and bit her lip to stifle a tear.

“Breath Ardana, breath,” Yavëkamba repeated in a calm, cool voice.  “The child is coming.”  She applied a salve to Ardana’s enlarged belly and uttered a soft incantation.

Someone tugged at her should from behind.  She looked back to see Morthaur, his face impatient with pursed lips and furrowed brow. “How much longer?” he asked.  “This is taking far too long.  Fëatur is waiting to consecrate the infant into darkness and dedicate its life to the Dark Lord.”

“It will take as long as it will take,” Yavëkamba replied with an edge and a snort of breath from her nostrils.  She couldn’t stand the man.  “We are talking about the Dark Lord’s child.  I have very little experience in birthing a Vala so please stand back and be patient.”  She remained cordial if not particularly polite.

Morthaur huffed and took a step back.  “You would do well to keep me appraised,” he said with a hint of threat.  Instead of his coveralls he wore a formal black robe with a hood that was trimmed in crimson.  Around his neck was a black brooch shaped like an octagon.  The number eight had become almost sacred among this group.

Besides Morthaur stood another man, also cloaked in a black hooded robe.  Yavëkamba could only see the tip of his nose poking out of the shadow of his hood and the twinkle of his silver eyes.  The man raised his hands up above his head and began chanting.  The words were almost nonsensical, but the healer could discern Dark Lord and prophecy.  This was Morthrog, the seer of Morgoth.

Ardana cried out again and this time her nails drew Yavëkamba’s blood on her arm.  The Healer winced again and then leaned down towards Ardana’s face.  “The time is here.  Push. Push.  It will over soon.  You will have the honor of bearing the child of the King of the Earth.”  Yavëkamba tightened her stomach and took slow, deep breaths.  It was all she could do to keep from retching.

Ardana’s belly continued to pulse, and a green glow began to emanate from under her skin.  The Astrologer let out an inhuman howl that curdled the Healer’s blood.  It soon became a wail of pain and terror as Morthrog’s eyes glazed over and his chanting grew in volume and intensity.

“I can see it.  I can see the head,” Yavëkamba called out as she pulled her arm from Ardana’s grip and reached for the infant.  “More!  Push more!” Ardana’s wail became an unholy, guttural shriek.

Morthrog’s chants almost drowned out the Ardana’s cries and he reached a frenzied, fevered pitch.  “Night and Day!” he shouted out.  “Girl and boy!  Two children and a shadowed fate!  He shall die, short life to enjoy!  She will her mother slay ‘ere too late!  ‘Fore night falls again!”  Then, he collapsed to the ground.

“It’s here!” Yavëkamba shouted over the din.  “He’s here!” With another grunt from Ardana, a child emerged.  Yavëkamba held him up and he cried his first breath, a powerful wail of the son of a Vala. She turned and held the child out to Morthaur who took him and swaddled him in a warm cloth.  Ardana went silent and fell limp, her breath coming in rasps. “Wait, wait!” the healer called out in surprise.  This would change things.  “There is another child!  Ardana, I need you once more!  Courage now! Push!”  Her mind raced as to how she would fix this now.  She had only prepared to take one child.  Then, a desperate idea took hold.

Tears, snot and sweat rolled down Ardana’s face as she howled once more.  Another head emerged and Yavëkamba gently guided it out.  She had to think quickly.  There was no room for error.  “It’s a girl,” she said.  “No wait…she doesn’t breathe.”  The Healer laid the child on a nearby table and uttered an incantation.  She rubbed a salve on the face of the infant but then shook her head.  “She’s blue. There is no life in this one.  I am sorry.  She was dead before birth.”  She wrapped the girl in a blanket and cradled the body for a moment.  Ardana lay senseless on now soaked and bloody sheets and Yavëkamba covered her lower body.

She looked to Morthaur. “Have the handmaidens attend to Lady Ardana and please take the living boy to the Dark Lord.  A father should see his son.”

Morthaur scoffed and rolled his eyes.  “Very well. Not that the son will live very long. He has a sole purpose for his life and that is to bring darkness.”

“Fine,” she said plainly, straining to remain civil.  “I will take his daughter to Fëatur to dispose of the remains.  The child of a Vala should at least be honored.”

Morthaur chuckled darkly. “You don’t get it, do you? This…this flesh is just a means to an end.  These aren’t children, they are vessels of power.  I only care about their blood and their life essence.  The fact that one is dead concerns me not.”  He turned and walked out without another word.

Yavëkamba curled her lip. She had come to despise the man now known as The Lord of the group.  Life was meaningless to him, and everything was just a means to an end.  She rocked the lifeless baby for a moment and then walked swiftly to the other end of Ardana’s bedchamber where Fëatur was waiting.  They nodded in unison and then went to a nearby room.  Fëatur scanned around to make sure no one was near.

A faint smile broke across the Healer’s lips.  “You look good as a woman.  The disguise worked well,” she said as she leaned over to kiss Fëatur.  Then, she bit her lip and became worried again. “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have done that.  I just hate living like this, worrying every moment that I could be found out.  I would not…be treated well.”

“I’m so afraid for you, Yavë.  But I’m so proud.  I came back to undo the damage that I caused.”  He waved his hand in the air and there was a shimmering light for a moment before fading.  “There, it will appear as if this room is empty.  No one will notice us.”

Yavëkamba scanned around again, making sure that they were truly alone.  She wanted to believe him, but she was still afraid.  She brought the baby out from under her robe and removed the blanket from around the infant’s face.  She passed her hand over the girl’s forehead and the infant took a breath.  “Shhhh shhh, little one.  Here is an herb to keep you quiet,” she said as she placed some powder in the girl’s mouth. “You have a long journey ahead of you. I am sorry that I will not be able to see you grow, but I know that you will become a strong woman and that you will have a great father,” she added, looking Fëatur in the eyes.

His mouth fell open. Then, he took a deep breath and accepted the baby.  “I…I don’t know what to do.  I’ve never…”

She gave him another kiss and said, “I know you will figure it out.  I know you.  Here, take this.  It’s enough to feed you both for two weeks, maybe more if you ration.  There is also medication for an infant.  Go, find the Three of Ty-Ar-Rana.  I’ve already sent them a secret message so they will know to expect you.  Still, it will take some convincing for them to trust you.  You know how.  Now go. Leave this cursed land and go south. I will hold the two of you in my heart.”

Fëatur choked for a moment and his eyes glistened.  He took the bag of supplies and nodded.  “Thank you. I will come back for you, and we will escape this.  Be safe. I could not live with myself if anything happened to you.  It would be the worst of my sins.”

He turned to go but looked back one last time at her.  Their eyes met for a moment and then he was gone.

Chapter End Notes

In the RPG module, the boy is taken away and the girl remains, but I decided to change that.  Also, the birth does not occur for several more centuries, but I felt the story would benefit with that changed as well and I want to showcase the happenings in Beleriand more too.

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10)  The Three of Ty-Ar-Rana – Southern Middle Earth - Year of the Sun 62 Tuilë (Spring)

Lyaan

The leader of “The Three,” Lyaan, sat across from Fëatur, his arms crossed and a doubtful expression on his face, one eye narrowed.  Lyaan was a tall Noldo elf, heavily muscled with tanned skin and dark red hair.  His most striking feature was his emerald green eyes that seemed to sparkle with silver.  “We received word of your arrival,” he said plainly, gesturing to another man and woman of the group.  The other man looked remarkably like Lyaan in hair and features, and all were dressed in white robes that were trimmed in gold.  The woman embodied elegance, her reddish-brown hair neatly coiffed and braided. She held herself as a noble among the High Elves with a calm, but warm demeanor.  “We are understandably suspicious and cautious based on who you were and where the message came from,” he said bluntly.

Fëatur shifted in his padded chair, cradling a baby in his arm.  “Lyaan, you are right to be suspicious.  The enemy is full of deceit and guile.  I wish to prove to you that my cause is just and that I am purely on the side of light.  Should you not accept my word and the tale of my return, I ask you to send me away.  I will not protest.”  He adjusted the collar of his white tunic with his free hand.

The woman, Lysa, spoke, “We will hear your tale and then decide.  Still, we would be very reluctant to turn away a baby.  Whatever the outcome, should you wish to leave her in our care, I can promise you that we will raise her as our own.”

“I thank you,” Fëatur responded with a nod and a smile.  “I have traveled far from the north with word that The Three are friendly to the cause against Morgoth.  I cannot say more, but I have a…source if you will who directed me to you.  I will admit that I know nothing about you save what I was told so I am extending a lot of trust by being here…with so valuable of a person.”  He tilted his head down towards the baby.

“We acknowledge your trust,” the third member, Lyrin, said.  He seemed far more youthful than the others, looking little older than a boy, thin and gangly with a mop of unkempt curly red hair.  He glanced at Lyrin and Lysa, seeming to seek affirmation for his words.

Fëatur put his head down and put his hands to his mouth.  He would put as much as he could out there.  He needed these people’s help.  But he was terrified of the idea that they would learn the baby’s secret. “I wish you to know that, when I heard of the death of the Two Trees, I repented.  I offered my life to Eru in payment for my misdeeds and I was swept into the Halls of Mandos to answer.  I begged him to destroy me…to cast me into the eternal darkness of the void. I deserved nothing less.”  He sighed and then cleared his throat.  “But Mandos extended me mercy and tasked me to return to Middle Earth to fight the Dark Lord.  My whole existence…my entire being is now dedicated to fulfilling that oath even if it means my life.”

“I sense what you say is true,” Lysa said, her green eyes boring into Fëatur’s heart, making him shift uncomfortably.  She stroked her rounded chin and touched a finger to her full lips.  “We know that you have worked with the Guild of Elements and we trust that Chrys Menelrana is for the light.”

“Chrys is a good man and a great leader,” Fëatur said.  “He led our force to victory at the Dagor Aglareb.  It was a great triumph for the cause, but I fear that it is just the beginning.  But yes, I met Chrys when I first returned to Middle Earth.  He has built a formidable army here in the south.  After the battle, my source reached out to me and told me of the enemy’s plans, so we arranged a meet.”

Lyaan leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.  Trusting anyone in the Dark Lord’s camp was fraught with peril.  “And you trust this…source?”

“With my life.  Like me, my source has seen the evil of the Dark Lord.  Morgoth is a master of deceit and poisoned us with honeyed words of freedom and power and how it was the Valar, who were truly evil and wanted only domination over us. We know that was wrong.  Every accusation from Morgoth is a confession. We know him for who he is, truly weak and malicious.”  Fëatur’s lips curled in an expression of disgust.

Lyaan looked quickly to Lysa and then they both nodded.  If anyone could determine the truth, it was his wife.  He turned back to their guest.  “Very well.  Continue,” he said.

Fëatur inhaled deeply and pursed his lips.  Then, he nodded slowly as if resigned.  “I have to lay it all out on the line if I am to gain your support.  My every instinct tells me to hold back, but in order to receive trust, I must give it.”  He held out the baby girl and then added bluntly, “This is the daughter of Morgoth.”

The Three shot out of their seats and spoke in unison.  “What?” There was a universal look of horror on their faces, brows narrowed and mouths agape.  Lyaan glared at Fëatur.

Lyaan was stunned by this revelation.  How could Fëatur bring such a horror to them?  Was he mad?  Was he still in the council of the enemy?  His face twisted in anger and he pointed a finger at Fëatur.  “How dare you,” he began before Lysa stepped between them.

“Calm now, love,” she said in a voice full of melody, her green eyes soft and concerned.  “Fëatur would not have come to us with this child without great need.  He could have deceived us, and we would have eventually found out, but he offered us the truth right away.  Let us hear him out.”

Fëatur let out a long, tense sigh and his hand shook.  “Thank you. Morgoth and the Astrologer Ardana seek to destroy the Sun and Moon,” he continued to more gasps of horror.  “The High Lord Morthaur found many of the gems of Fëanor that were belched forth by the demon Ungoliant as they fled Valinor. These gems…and the blood of a Vala will bring about that destruction.  Once grown, this girl was to be sacrificed to achieve that end, but my source was able to sneak her out under the guise that she did not survive childbirth.  Still, another child, a boy, was born and will now serve that purpose.  I wish to raise the daughter here with you, in seclusion and safety.  There will come a time when I believe that she will be the one to stop this madness for she, too, has the blood of a Vala.”

Lyaan’s eyes widened, and he made an incredulous expression.  “This is a lot,” he said very slowly, emphasizing every word.  “We have established ourselves in the safety of the Vale of Geshaan and we are at peace and our people are prosperous.  I am reluctant to threaten that peace…but I see the wisdom in what you say,” he said, his posture and face relaxing. “Lysa corrected my earlier anger and I apologize.”  He looked at the other two.  “If we are in agreement, we will host you and…the girl.”  While his mind screamed at him, his heart knew that this was right.

Lysa and Lyrin nodded in unison.  Lysa beckoned to Fëatur.  “May I hold her?”  He handed the girl to Lysa, and she cradled the baby, rocking her back and forth. “She’s beautiful.  I sense a powerful spirit in her.  What’s her name?”

“Morelen,” Fëatur said. “My source gave her the name.  I think it fits.  She is truly the Dark Star.”

“And her brother? The one still in the hands of the Dark Lord?” Lyaan asked.

“Moran…the one who shall turn to darkness.”

Lysa held her hand up and shook her head.  “Alas, our Quenya is rusty.  But I think it would be more accurate to say, the one who shall bring the darkness.”

This sent a terrible chill down Lyaan’s spine and a drop of cold sweat rolled down his forehead. “Eru help us.  This is beyond our imagining.  I cannot fathom what would happen should the Sun and Moon be destroyed. The chaos would be…” he said and then trailed off, his face twisted in horror.  “Fëatur, you have our support.  We will raise and teach Morelen and if you wish to remain to be a part of that, we welcome you.”  He looked over to Lysa.  He was already proud of his wife, but her calm compassion was always something to behold. And Lyrin, his son.  The boy had a long way to go, but would grow into the role.

Fëatur nodded.  “I thank you.  From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.  And yes, I do accept.  I’ve come to…be attached to Morelen.  It was a learning experience for me.  I had no idea that caring for an infant would be so…trying.  My source taught me much before we left Angband.  Alas, it has been a long journey south.  I would appreciate it if you had some food for us. Morelen hasn’t eaten all day.”

Lysa smiled.  “Of course.  Where are our manners?” she said as she handed Morelen to Lyaan.  “Here love, hold her.  I’ll go and prepare something.”

Lyaan took the girl and looked down into her silvery gray eyes.  She already had a mop of raven black hair, and a big smile was on her lips. She jerked about and let out a giggle. Lyaan had to laugh back.  “She’s quite adorable.  I can see how you are attached to her.”  He tickled her tiny nose with his finger, and she laughed some more.  It was such an innocent laugh.  Lyaan mused how she could truly be the daughter of the Dark Lord, the avatar of evil in the world.

Lysa returned quickly with a tray of food for both of their guests.  She handed Lyaan a bottle of some milky liquid.  “Here, give the poor girl some food.”

He took the bottle and then began to feed the hungry baby.  It was something he had never done before, and it felt strange and uncomfortable. It gave him more admiration for his wife, who had done all of the work with Lyrin.  “Hmmmm, this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”  He looked up at Fëatur and gave him an awkward smile. He could empathize with how much the man had to learn and so quickly.

“You’re doing fine,” Lysa told him.  “It’ll take some practice.  “There, all done.  Here, I’ll take her and why don’t you give our guest a tour of the city…what’s left of it anyway.”

With an exhale of relief, Lyaan handed Morelen to his wife.  Lysa immediately began bouncing and patting the girl on the back.  Lyaan vaguely remembered them raising Lyrin, but that was at least a century ago in Valinor.  He felt a surge of shame in how he was always too busy, always attending to great matters of state, advising the great lords of the Noldor.  What did it mean to be a true father?  Maybe there was still time to learn.  He gestured to his son.  “Lyrin, please accompany us.  I think you would be someone good to give the tour.”

Lyrin’s face lit up and he nodded eagerly.  “Of course. I would be honored.”  He beckoned to their guest and then led the way from the meeting room to a lift.  “It is powered by an incantation,” he said proudly, “as is much of the lighting.”

Lyaan had always been concerned about his son.  Lyrin was often childish and irresponsible in many ways.  Sometimes, Lysa could be too compassionate and indulgent.  Still, he was happy any time the boy showed some initiative.  He could only blame himself though for being such a distant father.  They entered the lift and it whirred to life, carrying them upwards.  He watched Lyrin closely as the boy showed Fëatur the workings of the mechanism. The lift came to a stop, and they exited into a cozy lobby of white marble walls and floors with veins of silver. Comfortable furniture was well placed throughout, the work of Lysa and her eye for style.

“We’ve built quite a home for ourselves,” Lyrin said with a boyish grin.  “Many of the structures existed here before we arrived.  There was a thriving city of the Vanyar for a time before they continued their journey to the Undying Lands.  We crossed the ice with the host of Fingolfin and continued south to find this place.  Many Silvan elves came to inhabit it, and we joined their community.  It’s been a while since we spoke Quenya.”

They walked out of the lobby and down a stone staircase into the city.  “I didn’t really have time to look around on the way in,” Fëatur said as he marveled at the metal and stone structures.  “This is magnificent.”  He looked back at the building where they met, a tall pyramid, surrounded by three smaller pyramids.  “Yes, quite impressive.  You said that the Vanyar built these?”

Lyrin nodded.  “Yes, these were here when we arrived, along with the Silvan folk.  Most of the city is deserted, but we hope to fill it as we grow.”  He gestured to the almost empty streets and dark buildings. “There are a few hundred of us now, but we’re growing slowly.  We spent at least a decade cleaning out the structures.  The Vanyar left the city centuries ago.”

Lyaan nodded.  “And there are still more amazing things to be discovered here.  We only recently explored the main pyramid fully.  There is even a guardian…a golem of some sort that we haven’t figured out yet.”

Lyrin smiled broadly. “I’m working on that, father.  I think I’ll have a solution soon.”

Lyaan felt pride whenever Lyrin took the initiative and came through.  Still, the boy had a long way to go.  “I know you will.  And we will be better for it,” he said as he patted Lyrin on the back.  Yes, there was still time for him to undo his neglect.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing Lyaan, Lysa and Lyrin, called The Three and Morelen who will be a POV character.

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11)   The Assault on Hithlum – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

Moran

“You are the son of the chosen one.  You are the son of a god.  Never forget that,” his mother, Ardana, told him.  She tightened the straps of his polished black plate armor with loving hands.  It was light and well-fitting, giving him great freedom of movement.  “You will do great things, my son.  Glory is yours.  This armor, forged in the fires of Thangorodrim, will guard you and make you immune to fire.”

Moran inhaled deeply, drinking in his mother’s words.  He was nearly one hundred years of the sun, still young in the reckoning of elves, but he was ready to fulfil his destiny.  He was already a full head taller than his mother.  The forces of his father, the King of the Earth, had gathered in great numbers and were ready to assault the hated Noldor and break the Siege of Angband.  He gazed into a large mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling in his chamber.  He saw an inhumanly handsome man with raven-black hair, chiseled features, a square jaw and a strong chin, the product of his Vala blood.  He was heavily muscled from years of training under Suldȗn, one of Ardana’s masters of arms. At his mother’s urging, Morgoth had granted him a command.  “When our victory is complete, mother, will you take me to the south where I can rule my own kingdom?”

“Of course.  That land is there for our taking.  We will wipe the enemy from the face of the land and then bring fire and steel to the Guild.  All will bend the knee to us.  All will know our strength.”  She placed his crimson and gold tabard over his armor and then an octagonal brooch around his neck.  “Through this you can channel energy from your father.  You are a priest of his order.  That comes with great power.”

He held the brooch with one hand and made a fist with the other and it crackled with energy, sparks emanating from his hand.  “I feel his presence.  I feel his will.  I will rule our kingdom as my father does, with an iron hand.  He will be the one god upon this world and I shall be his instrument for good and unity.  Now, what is father’s plan?”

Ardana waved her hand through the air and a glowing map appeared, floating before them.  “See here.  This is Hithlum, part of the realm of the hated Fingon.  Never forget that we are the force for good and that they are the evil ones, who seek to control and destroy us.  We will strike here and wipe him from the face of the world.  Our lord deeply desires retribution against him and his father.  They humiliated us in the last battle, but we have gathered our forces, and I am scrying the stars for guidance.  Our lord has honored you with a command and you will go forth and lead part of the victory. Morfuin will be your personal guard.”

“I am ready,” Moran said with youthful confidence.  He had long studied the chants and incantations of power of a priest of Morgoth. He had excelled and learned faster than any of his cohort.  He was truly a son of the Elder King with talent and intelligence far beyond the norm.

Ardana held up his longsword, a thin weapon made from enchanted volcanic glass, a material called laen.  She examined the blade which was a translucent ice blue.  She placed it in a scabbard and buckled it to his hip. “This is Icime, an enchanted blade that will protect you and smite our foes.  It was forged by our lord’s greatest smiths and has been imbued with his might and radiates the cold of the frozen north.  I treasure the day that you will plunge it into Fingon’s heart.”

“I will bring you that treasure, mother.”  He took his black visored helmet under his arm and bowed to her.  “I go now to victory.  By our might, we will bring peace and prosperity to this land.”  He strode away to the entrance of his chamber, where Morfuin was waiting.  The demon was in his smaller form, bald with red skin and catlike eyes.

Ardana beckoned the demon to her and then pointed to Moran.  “Go now, my son.  Your lieutenants are waiting.  I wish to give Morfuin some private instructions.”

Moran looked back to see her hand the demon a scroll.  He paused for a moment and was amazed that he could hear her words from such a distance even though she spoke in a low whisper.  “You will keep my son from engaging in any personal combat.  His future is far too important.  We cannot risk him,” she said.

The demon nodded.  “I understand, Ardana.”

Moran snorted and gritted his teeth.  Why did his mother lack faith in him?  She told him straight to his face how powerful he was.  He then shook it off and turned to continue down the hall to where his lieutenants had gathered, orc chiefs and one elf.  Like his father, he knew that he had to approach them with strength and could not show any weakness.  “You have gathered at my command,” he said loudly.  “Good.  Let us begin.”  He looked around to see the orc tribal leaders that would command his force.  He had never worked with orcs before, but he knew that he had to establish dominance.  There was a map of Beleriand on a solid stone table in front of him and he pointed to the land of Hithlum.  “This is our target, the lands of the hated Fingon.  He resides in the west of Hithlum in the land of Dor Lómin.  We will be the scouting force that flanks around the west along the coast of Beleriand.  The main force will strike from the north through the passes.  Numbers will be on our side.  It will be a pincer attack that will overwhelm the enemy.”

The tribal leaders snuffed and grunted.  Moran would have preferred an army of elves.  These beings were clearly inferior and not worth his valuable time.  However, they were what he had to deal with so he would succeed with what he had.  He could not let his father down.  He had hoped that the King of the Earth would see him off, but the Vala was nowhere to be seen.  “He has much more important things to do,” he said to himself.

He looked back to the tribal leaders of his army, which would number five thousand strong, a conglomeration of different orc tribes.  Surely such a massive force could not be withstood.  For some reason, the leaders had not moved at all.  Moran snorted and then gestured off in the distance. “Well, what are you all waiting for? Gather your forces and begin the march.”

The orcs bowed while grunting and squealing.  “Yes, my lord,” they said and then shuffled off to their tribes.

Moran looked up at Morfuin. “My father needs better troops than this.  Still, our numbers are strong, and we will move at speed.”

The demon remained expressionless.  “I will drive them with fear and fire, my lord.”

“Very good.  Now, where is my horse?”

“This way, my lord.”

Morfuin led him to the stables where a Sindarin man stood, holding the reins of a large black horse. The man had sandy brown hair in a bowl cut.  His skin was fair, and he appeared to be in excellent condition, his muscles rippling under his tunic.  The man bowed and handed the reins to Moran.  “Your steed, sir.  I am Sȗlherok the Messenger.  I will serve as your herald in battle.”  Over his tunic he wore a shirt of silver chainmail under a surcoat of sky blue with symbols of fire, lightning and water embroidered on its fabric.  A broadsword was in a scabbard at his hip and a crossbow was slung behind his back.

Moran took the reins with a nod and Morfuin helped him into the saddle.  This is what he had expected.  As the son of the king, he was special.  Lesser beings would hold his warhorse and help him to mount it.  His steed was large and well trained, holding still while he swung his leg over.  His saddle was made from the finest leather and crafted just for him with images of mountains and lava carved into the surface.  It had a high cantle and metal stirrups designed for battle to help the rider keep his seat.  He looked up into the overcast sky with fumes from the peaks of Thangorodrim obscuring the hated sun.

He pointed to his herald. “Sȗlherok, issue the order to march.”

The Messenger raised one of the banners of Morgoth, a black flag with a grinning skull that wore a crown of three jewels.  He sounded his horn, loud and clear and the army began to shuffle out from the gates of Angband.  It would be a long march of many days, but orcs were nothing if not tough and resilient. They carried their food and supplies with them on the march.  The ground thrummed with the sound of boots striking the ground and the air filled with the beat of drums.  At the rear of the army marched a group of trolls, huge and deformed, their bodies and faces looking as if a blind man put them together with clay.  Moran looked upon them with both admiration for their power and contempt for their disgusting appearance.

“These trolls will prove decisive in the coming struggle, eh Sȗlherok,” Moran said, rising up in his stirrups to get a better view.

As the last of the army departed, Moran spurred his horse and he rode to the front of the line, Sȗlherok riding besides him.  The main force of nearly fifty thousand would march in a few days, allowing them to sneak around the flank of the Fingon’s forces.  The young elf felt confident and sure of himself.  He would prove himself to his father and his father would be proud of him.  It would be a battle to remember.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing Moran and Sulherok.  A battle is brewing.

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12)   The Assault on Hithlum Part 2 – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

Morelen

She had heard this a thousand times since she learned to ride.  It was at the point where she had lost patience for her father, Fëatur. “Enough, father!  If you say this one more time…” she said with a hint of a veiled threat, shaking her hands in exasperation.  She then put her hands on her hips over a rough linen tunic and leather pants, which were entirely too big for her thin frame.  The dark color of her clothes contrasted with her pale skin.

“I mean it, Morelen. You cannot risk yourself.  What do you think you’re doing?  Come back here,” Fëatur said, his voice rising and full of impatience.  He made a grunt of frustration as he walked quickly after her, their boots clacking on the stone floor of the keep where they were staying.  “Morelen, I’m talking to you.”

She turned sharply, her shoulder length raven-black hair swirling about her face.  She looked down into his eyes, practically glaring at him and pursed her full lips in irritation.  “Why did we come all the way north as guests of Fingon?  Wasn’t it to serve the cause of good?  Who would I be if I do not fight for our people?  You fought in the last battle.  You served our people.  Father, it was you who taught me about sacrifice, taught me about loyalty, about honor.  If I cannot live up to those principles, then why did you teach me that?”  She leaned against the wall of the keep and crossed her arms, her eyes daring him to answer.

It looked like Fëatur was about to launch into another tirade when he stopped, his mouth agape. Then he let out a long, frustrated sigh and shook his head.  “Morelen, you are too smart for your own good.  But you’re too young.  You’re barely older than a girl.  You can’t risk it yet.”

Morelen splayed her hands and then pointed to her sword at her hip and the bow on her back.  “I spent the last fifty years training under Lyaan and Lysa.  I’m already better than you with both.  Here, shall we test it?” she said with another veiled threat as she put her hand on her weapon.  “I’ve already won our last ten bouts.”

Fëatur put his hands up in mock surrender.  “No, that’s not necessary.  You are truly a better sword than I.  If anything, you learn too quickly.  It would be easy to become overconfident.  The enemy is powerful and there are things in his army that you cannot hope to defeat.”

“Every elf in the army of Fingolfin faces the same challenge and yet, they all serve.  Each one of them would die for the High King. What makes me so special?”  She knew that she was gaining the edge.  In spite of his great intellect, she found herself outpacing her father as of late.

Fëatur started to speak, but then stopped and shook his head again.  He took a moment to gather his thoughts.  “Fine.  Fine.  We will join the ranks of Fingon’s force, but you will not stray far from me.  Am I understood?  Do not test me on this, Morelen.”

A huge smile spread over her lips, and she nodded emphatically.  “Of course, father.  Thank you.” Then, in a near blur, she drew her blue recurve bow and put an arrow in the forehead of an armor manikin.  “I’m nearly a better archer than Lyrin already and I’ve learned the illusions that you taught me.  I’m ready to help and to serve.”

Fëatur bit his lip and then put his hand on her cheek.  “You have grown so much in such a short time.  I remember carrying you to Ty-Ar-Rana when you were an infant.  I feel like I’ve blinked twice, and you’ve grown so strong, fast, smart and beautiful.  I could not ask for a better daughter.  It’s as if you embody Vána and Nessa in one person.”

Morelen snorted, flaring the nostrils of her slightly upturned nose.  “Oh, don’t compare me to the Valar.  I have nothing in common with their greatness.”  Though she rejected the compliment it made her feel good.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said and then nodded, pointing towards the door.  “Best you put on your armor if we’re going to fight a battle.”

They walked a short distance to the armory and Fëatur went to the stand that held her armor.  He held up silver tassets and a fauld for the upper thighs and hips.  “Raise your arms,” he said, and she held her arms up as he wrapped the fauld around her narrow waist and fastened it.  He then strapped the tassets to her thighs.  “Fingon was kind to have this armor crafted for you.  They didn’t need a lot of metal for as skinny as you are,” he joked.  “But it’s made from the strongest metal by the best armorers.”

Morelen felt that the pieces were light and well crafted, fitting her perfectly.  She scrunched her face up.  “Then why all of the fuss?” she asked and banged her fist on the silver metal. “See, it’s tough.”

He poked his finger onto her forehead, causing her to wince.  “Because an orc arrow could wind up right here.  Or you could get stepped on by a troll.  This fine armor won’t stop that.  So, I worry.”

Morelen’s earlier irritation faded away and a smile spread across her face.  It felt good to know that he cared.  “I know father.  I know. I will be as safe as I can be with you and Fingon’s scouts.  There are reports of orcs coming down the coast and we will confirm this and shadow their army.  I know you worry about me, but I also have to follow my heart.”

He nodded.  “I know you do.  It’s what I taught you.  Come, let’s get you ready,” he said as he picked up the greaves for her shins.  Piece by piece he strapped on her armor ending in her gorget, the armor around her throat.  He handed her gauntlets and a silver helmet and then attached the blue and silver tabard to her breastplate that bore the sigil of Fingon’s house, the Sun with rays extending from it contained in a diamond.

Her heart swelled with pride at wearing the colors of the prince.  It was all that she ever wanted to do, serve her people and fight against Morgoth, the hated enemy.  Then, something gnawed at her thoughts, something that had been sitting with her for a while now.  “Father,” Morelen said with all seriousness.  “I’ve been meaning to ask you…who is my mother?”  She cocked her head as she awaited his answer.  “I know Lysa helped to raise me for which I am grateful, but I want to know who my real mother is?  Did she pass away?  Why is she not with us?”

“No dear,” he answered slowly as he bit his lip.  “Your mother…is in Angband.”

“What?  I…is she…is she a prisoner there?  Tell me about her.  What is her name?”

Fëatur winced as if struck and Morelen could tell he was going through some turmoil.  “No.  Her name is…Yavëkamba, and she remained in Angband to fight from the inside.”

“I see.  Why did you not tell me before?” she asked as a million questions formed in her mind.  Remained in Angband?  Why was she in Angband to begin with?  She thought to ask those questions, but something else gnawed at her.  “Does she have black hair?  Because I know I did not get my hair color through you.”

“Perceptive as always Morelen.  She has very dark brown hair.  And yes, you get that and your looks from her,” he said, gesturing to her face.  He seemed lost in thought for a moment.  “Yes, the same heart-shaped face, round eyes…gray, almost silver in color.  I see so much of you in her.”  His eyes misted up and he wiped them with the back of his sleeve.

She glanced at him sideways as she knew he was holding something back.  She could tell that he was worried about this Yavëkamba, her supposed mother.  Though wanting more answers, she decided against making an issue of it now. “Thank you for sharing that father. Shall we get back to the business of arming?”

She felt a surge of excitement as she examined her armor, the silver plates reflecting the sun through the window.  She had trained for decades to be part of something greater than herself.  To take her place to help the world.  Fëatur donned his lighter, leather armor along with a hard leather mask that covered his face and they walked to the courtyard where their mounts were waiting.  Grooms handed them the reins and they swung up into the saddles of their white horses. Morelen admired the tall, powerful horse, its muscles rippling and its posture confident.  She had named the mare, Lindarion, the son of song for his graceful and rhythmic gait.

Up ahead, the scouts were gathering and forming up in a column to ride out.  Morelen took her place in the formation among the horse archers and awaited the command.  One tall elf took the lead at the head of the column, and she could see his black hair glistening in the sunlight.

“Look father!  It’s Fingon!  He’s come to lead us.  How can we fail now?”  She practically squealed in glee.  Though on the cusp of adulthood, it was easy for her to fall back to being a child.  Her childhood had been nearly idyllic, with the love of her father and the care of The Three.  She cherished the days where her father told stories of Valinor to her and taught her simple spells, conjuring illusory pets for her to play with.  It was difficult for her to imagine any adversity that would be too much to overcome.  Her training with the sword and bow as well as magic had been long and hard, but she had never faced anything beyond a sparring partner and a paper target.

Another elf raised a spear and pointed forward.  She recognized him as Tintallo, captain of the lancers.  “Company!  Ride forth!” he called, and the beat of hoofs echoed in the courtyard.

One mounted elf next to her waved.  Like her, he was clad in the silver armor of the riders with a sky blue surcoat.  “We’ve been through this before,” he said warmly with a smile.  “Stay with the company and you’ll be fine.  We’re the Telepta Company, the Silvers.  I’m Notaldo and this is Líreno and that is Hurinon,” he continued, pointing to two other Noldor who waved to her.  

With the visor of her helmet up, she smiled at them and waved back.  “I’m Morelen and this is my father, Fëatur.”  She was glad that someone introduced themselves as she had not yet met anyone.  Technically, they were just guests of Fingon and not actually part of his force.

“Ah, brought your father, huh?” Notaldo asked and winked at her.  “Well, welcome to you both.”

The line of riders had moved up enough to where they could now follow.  She liked the leather saddle that she was given.  It was comfortable and stable with solid iron stirrups.  Her excitement peaking, Morelen touched the spurs on her boots to the horse’s flank and they rode forth to battle.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing the Riders of Fingon and their troop.

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13) The Assault on Hithlum Part 3 – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

Moran

The army had marched for more than a week at a breakneck pace to be in position when the main force would strike the Noldor from the front and they would attack from the rear. It was a sound plan, one based on speed and stealth. The orc tribes were fast and had incredible endurance, but their discipline was lacking, and the column was strung out all along the road. Moran huffed as he rode alongside Sȗlherok, the Messenger and Morfuin, the Lord Demon. Try as he might he could not instill the orcs with any real sense of discipline. Morfuin walked with the orcs, tireless and expressionless, almost golem like, occasionally snapping his flaming whip at them. The night sky was beginning to turn purple, and Moran got a cold, prickly feeling in his gut and began to look around.

Like his father, Moran was gifted with far sight, and he could see greater distances than anyone in his army. Such a gift would normally be considered a huge advantage, but it was to prove no more than a torment this day. As light slowly filtered into the predawn sky Moran rose in his saddle and scanned the tree line along the coastal road from Lammoth, the path that they would take to flank Fingon in Dor-Lómin. At a great distance he could see Noldor Elves shielded by the trees, setting up pavises or mobile shields. They were clad in silver armor and bore the sigil of Fingon, rays of light emanating from the Sun and surrounded by stars. This did not bode well. They were supposed to achieve complete surprise. "Don't you see them?" he shouted down to one of his orc chieftains. "They're right there in the forest."

The orc shook his misshapen head. "No, my lord. I do not have your sight."

Moran grunted in frustration and then slapped Sȗlherok in the chest with the back of his hand. "What about you? Don't you see them?"

The Messenger nodded. "I do my lord, but not as clearly as you."

"At least I have one competent person in this army," Moran said aloud and then pointed back to the orc chieftain. "Form ranks and prepare to charge. We will drive them from the woods." He stood tall in his saddle to give the order when two orcs in the front of the column shrieked and then fell with arrows in their chest. Moran stopped, his mouth agape. Nothing had prepared him for this. All of the training he had received in sword and sorcery fell short of actual battle. By the time he had recovered a full volley was overhead. An arrow glanced off of his breastplate with a loud ping. His armor had deflected it, but the force of the impact nearly threw him from the saddle. His horse bucked in fear, and he held onto the pommel just to keep from being flung to the ground. Through the eye slits in his helmet, he could see orcs falling all around him.

"Return fire!" he shouted over the din and orc archers loosed shafts that fell far short of their mark. He had regained control of his mount and he pointed at one orc chief. "Charge! I order you to charge!" He yelled, his voice an almost high-pitched squeal. At his word, a thousand orcs rushed forward, screaming and wailing, ready for battle. If there was one thing Moran had learned it was that orcs lived to fight.

He felt someone take hold of his arm and he started to break free, but it was Sȗlherok. "That is too far to charge over open ground! They don't stand a chance. We need to break contact and reassess our position!" the Messenger shouted over the din.

Moran growled. "Nonsense! There are only a few hundred. We outnumber them."

He saw another volley from the elves fall upon the charging horde and dozens fell, howling and shrieking. The horde wavered and then surged forward again. Moran pointed to another orc chief. "Second wave! Forward!" he called, more strongly this time and another thousand orcs charged. Arrows were now falling continuously upon the first tribe and their charge became a confused mess of orcs stumbling around and tripping over the fallen. Moran saw that they had lost nearly half their number, and the charge slowed to a walk. "They're faltering! I'll go and rally them."

Morfuin grabbed him forcefully by the arm. Even in his lesser form the Lord Demon stood as tall as Moran in the saddle. "No," he said plainly and without emotion. "You are not to engage in direct combat."

Moran tried to break free, but the demon's grip was far too strong. "Unhand me. Mother had no business controlling me!"

"The Astrologer's orders were specific. You are not going anywhere," Morfuin answered, only the slightest edge to his voice.

A lump formed in Moran's throat. His own mother didn't trust him to fight. He made a grunt of frustration just as he noticed the lead tribe breaking and survivors rushing back into the second tribe, creating more confusion as arrows rained down upon all of them.

Sȗlherok unholstered his crossbow. "My lord, we must fall back to cover. We are completely exposed out here," he said and then pointed a finger at Morfuin. "Get him to the rear and find shelter. I'm going to cover your retreat. Go!" he shouted with an uncharacteristic edge of panic in his voice.

Moran started to speak, but Sȗlherok spurred his horse and took off at a gallop. The Messenger rallied the third tribe, and they began to move forward as wounded orcs streamed back to the main force. Moran searched around and found some wooded hills. "Fall back! Fall back to the hills. We will shelter there! Fall back!" The two remaining tribes began to move in a ragged mass with Morfuin marching beside Moran, shielding him from any attack.

Sȗlherok had his orcs pepper the Noldor with arrows to allow the first two waves to withdraw. They didn't even make it close to the enemy before they were shattered with volleys. The Messenger fired several crossbow bolts, a few of them finding marks. As the main force neared the hills, Sȗlherok ordered the orcs to fall back and rejoin. Moran was filled with shame, but also relief. The bulk of his army would remain intact, and he could still complete his task and show his father that he was worthy. There was still time to turn this around.

Then, another sight appeared that chilled him to the bone and shattered his hope. Fingon's cavalry had emerged from the woods. They were mounted on white horses and clad in silver armor. One rider carried the banner of Fingon proudly. Moran pointed towards them. "There! Their cavalry is forming. I see maybe two-hundred riders, mounted archers and lancers." He shouted to one chief, "Prepare your archers! They will be coming!"

The Noldorin riders started off at gallop and soon, arrows were falling upon Sȗlherok's force from two sides and the orcs were starting to waver. Lancers picked off stragglers, finishing any group that dared stray from the larger force. Moran turned his horse about, ready to charge into the fray to save his troops and his pride, but Morfuin held him fast, just shaking his head. Shame and anger filled Moran's heart.

The three tribes that had moved forward were disintegrating now, individual orcs and small groups fleeing from the group, only to be cut down by swift riders. Moran lost sight of Sȗlherok, but he now had bigger problems to contend with. The Noldorin infantry had emerged from the woods, their glaives and spears glittering in the morning sun and the cavalry wheeled to ride towards him. As the riders picked up speed he called out, "Pick up the pace! Prepare to fire!" He could see the front rank of riders and noted a woman with straight black hair flowing from the back of her helmet, aiming her blue recurve bow directly at him.

With supernatural reflexes, he dodged to the side as the arrow flew by him. He grunted and his eyes opened wide in shock. This was no training exercise with his sword master. He could really be killed here. The woman fired two more arrows in quick succession, each one burying itself deep into orcs next to him. Moran righted himself in the saddle as orc archers loosed shafts, most of which glanced off of armor or overshot their targets. Panic was forming in the ranks. He could feel himself losing control of the force. Some of the orcs in the horde began to run and Noldorin lancers peeled off from the main line to chase them down. The mounted archers veered right to continue to pummel his army with arrows. A cold feeling slid down Moran's throat into his stomach. His breathing came in deep gulps as he fought to maintain control. Gone were the thoughts of victory and glory. He just wanted to survive now.

Morfuin drew his huge two-handed sword with one hand and crouched down, ready to receive an attack. Several arrows plunged deep into his chest, but he barely flinched. Another volley from the horse archers rained down upon them and orcs fell in droves. More orcs peeled away from the main force, panicking, throwing down their weapons as they ran. Lancers galloped into the fleeing orcs, spears thrusting and slicing, leaving the ground littered with bodies and black blood.

In pure frustration Moran cried out and spurred his steed, heedless of Morfuin's calls to return. He steered his horse towards the archers, the bane of his army thus far. He singled out the woman who had fired on him and the golden-haired man in leather armor riding besides her. He saw the man put out the palm of his hand and suddenly, he began to feel lightheaded and confused. Where was he? Where was his army? He grit his teeth and drove his spurs deeper into the horse's flanks, drawing blood. His head felt heavy, and he could barely see through the slits in his helmet. He saw the woman loose another arrow and he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder, and he was thrown backwards in the saddle from the impact. His mouth fell open when he saw the long gray shaft protruding from the gap in his pauldron. As he pulled himself up, two more arrows sank into his horse's neck and the animal collapsed sideways, pinning his leg.

The woman dismounted from her white horse and drew her sword, a curved, single-edged weapon and walked towards him. "Traitor!" she called out and drew the sword back to plunge into his face.

Lying on the ground, he put his hand out to stop her with a spell, but he couldn't recall the incantation as his mind was fuzzy. His chest froze and his throat closed and only a gasp escaped his lips. He could only force out, "No! Please!" She hesitated for a moment, and he found his voice. "Why are you fighting me? We are both elves. We bring peace and order to the world under the chosen one!"

The woman snarled. "That's ridiculous! You serve a monster! Yield and I will show you mercy!" she shouted and brandished her blade in front of his eyes.

He was about to scream when he remembered the brooch his mother gave him. He grasped it and cried out, "Father! I need your power!" In a moment he felt full of raw energy. He put his hand out and flung the woman backwards, knocking her silver helmet clean off. He closed his fist and woman cried out in pain as if being crushed. He would finish her now, she who dared to defy a god.

The golden-haired elf stepped between them and raised up his arms. "Begone, blackguard!" he shouted and the tendril of energy crushing the woman evaporated. The woman rose, seemingly dazed and the elf rushed to her side.

Moran began to shove his dead horse off of his leg and he received some help. Morfuin, now in full balrog form, lifted the horse with one hand and flung it at some of the elves, knocking them over. He roared, flames spouting from his mouth as he brandished his flaming sword. With his other clawed hand, he grasped Moran and leapt into the air, his batlike wings flapping hard.

"My army!" Moran cried. "We must go back!"

"Leave them. They're all dead. Sȗlherok escaped with a small force. We will rejoin him and make for Angband. Our part has been played."

"But…but how do I explain this? How will my father take it?"

"You are his son and the son of the Astrologer. Orcs are nothing. They breed like rats in the sewers. The Dark Lord will have another army soon and many more…horrible creatures. Greater things await us. We will head south and establish a bastion there in the name of the Elder King Morgoth."

Moran's mind raced, replaying all of the events of the day. What went wrong? How could he fix it? How would he never make the same mistakes again? Then, his mind went to the woman who almost killed him. It seemed that she genuinely believed that she was on the side of good. How could that be? His father was the true lord of light. Anyone who opposed him was evil. He tried to reconcile this, but fatigue was overtaking him, and his eyes closed in exhaustion as Morfuin flew on.

Chapter End Notes

Moran is still young and rash and lives in his mother's shadow.  I want to portray him as sort of a momma's boy.  His power will grow though.

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14)  The Assault on Hithlum Part 4 – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

Morelen

The waiting was the hardest part.  The darkness of the predawn kept the woods in a tense silence of anticipation.  The force of six hundred Noldor lay in wait, shielded by the forest along the coastal road to Lammoth.  Mounted scouts had been coming in all night with reports of five thousand orcs marching south.  Notaldo rode in and reined in his horse.  “The enemy is up the road and will appear within the hour!” he called to the group of elves gathered in front of a blue and silver tent, Fingon’s headquarters.

Morelen’s heart quickened at the news.  This would be her first battle.  What would she face?  Would she acquit herself with honor?  She fingered her sword, Melima, nervously, her mind racing about what she would face.  She watched as the scout, Notaldo, entered the tent to meet with Fingon and, to her amazement, she could hear every word that was being said.

“The enemy marches southward along the road,” Notaldo announced clearly.  “I count just over five thousand strung out in a loose column.  They are led by two elves and, I fear, a balrog. There are about fifty trolls among them. They should be in view within the hour.”

“Excellent work,” Fingon replied.  “Get yourself some refreshment and prepare for battle.”

Morelen felt a tinge of fear and leaned over to her father.  “Notaldo says that there are over five thousand orcs and fifty trolls. We are far fewer.  How will we…?” she asked, never taking her eyes off of the road, almost expecting the enemy to appear.

Fëatur furrowed his brows and then looked over to the distant command tent.  “How did you hear that?  Nevermind.  We are Noldor.  Our power lies not in numbers but in the strength of our character, our training and our magic.  I fought in the Dagor Aglareb where we were outnumbered many times over and we won a glorious victory.  No orc or troll is a match for Fingon.”

They saw Fingon emerge from the tent with his commanders.  “Captains!” he called out.  “To your posts.  You have your orders!”  The group leaders fanned out to their respective units and troops readied armor and weapons for battle, archers with their bows, infantry with their glaives and the cavalry with spears and bows.  She had been assigned to ride with the horse archers under Captain Ruscano.  She watched the seasoned veterans and then pulled out her recurve bow, Luinë, and tested its string and then counted the arrows in her quiver.  Satisfied, she placed it back in a saddle case.  Then, she drew Melima, her curved sword.  The single edge was finely honed and sharp with a mallorn wood handle wrapped in fine leather.  There were etchings of life in Valinor along the side of the blade and in the leather wrapping.  Forged in the Undying Lands, the weapon was a work of art as well as an instrument of death. She would be forever grateful for this gift from Fingon.

Then, she heard a whisper that sounded like a thunderclap.  “The enemy is in sight.  Archers, stand up and make ready,” Fingon said calmly, his soft voice clear to elven troops.  The sky had gone from a starlit night to a deep purple, heralding in the coming dawn. Her heart quickened with a desire to prove herself.  She led a sheltered life at Ty-Ar-Rana, one of study, reflection and training which was boring to her.  Even the singing and dancing that she learned seemed tedious and stale.  Her blood itched for adventure and excitement and that seemed to all be in Beleriand.  With the Siege of Angband it seemed that a long peace was at hand but raids were still frequent.

The foot archers interspersed themselves among the trees and set up large mobile shields, called pavises, for defense.  Then, as one they knocked arrows and aimed high.  The captain of foot archers raised his hand and then dropped it, and the sound of bowstrings filled the forest.  Morelen stood up to see over a bush and could make out the arrows falling like rain on the orcs where many fell.  One large group surged forward in a charge and the captain called out, “Fire at will!” The archers began to smoothly pour arrows into the orc tribe, and they fell by the score, falling over or sinking to their knees, grasping at feathered shafts protruding from their bodies. Morelen admired the discipline and training that was being displayed by the Noldor.  In just a few minutes, the tribe was stopped, and they broke down into chaos, some orcs running, others throwing down their weapons and more hiding behind dead or wounded orcs, trying not to get hit.

A second wave now surged forward, scrambling over the scraggly grass, howling for blood.  But orcs fleeing from the first wave slammed into the second, orcs falling over and tripping, throwing the whole attack into disarray.  Arrows continued to fall on both groups and the ground was littered with broken bodies and black blood.  Morelen knew that the call to the cavalry would come soon.  Still kneeling, she stroked Lindarion’s nose with a shaky hand.  “Good girl,” she cooed.

She then saw something that struck her.  A third wave of orcs shot forward, but this one was being led by an elf and a few trolls. “Father, why is an elf leading them? Is he a traitor?  Why is he doing that?”

Fëatur tightened his mask and hesitated before answering.  “Umm, yes…yes, he is a traitor.  But the Dark Lord swayed many elves with his deceit.  He knew what to say, what to do to convince good elves to go to him.  He could twist the truth to his advantage and made elves feel like he had their best interest at heart, but Morgoth has always been all about Morgoth.”

“I cannot think of a single thing that Morgoth would say that would sway me.  His evil is plain to see.”

Fëatur shifted uncomfortably.  “Do not think it so simple Morelen.  Morgoth painted a picture where the Valar were the evil ones and he, alone, could fix it. He presented himself as the savior against dark forces that were corrupting all of elvenkind.  The Valar could be strict, but Morgoth wove a tale of their oppression and control and we were deceived.”

Morelen looked at him and narrowed her eyes.  “We? What are you talking about, father?” There was something in his expression. Something that he was holding back.

He shook his head. “There will be a time for me to tell you, but that time is not now.”  He started to say something else, but an archer near him cried out and then fell, a crossbow bolt protruding from his neck.

Then, Fingon walked among them, shouting, “Cavalry, mount up!  Mount up!  Prepare to ride.”  He strode up to them, the picture of valor and confidence and extended a hand to Morelen. “Fight bravely today.  We defend our people.”

She took his hand and pulled herself up and then Fingon checked her armor, tightening straps.  His grip was electrifying and she stood, transfixed.  He gave her two taps on her shoulder and smiled at her.  “You’re ready.  Prepare to ride.”

Morelen tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.  It was a small gesture, but she was stunned that the prince, who was so great a commander would do something like this for her, a nobody in the ranks. She watched Fingon moving among the troops, checking their weapons and armor and giving words of encouragement. She took the reins of her white stallion and took a deep breath.  Then, she looked to her father and nodded, trying to steel her nerves.

Fëatur gave her a tense smile and nodded back.  “I am with you daughter.  Stay with me.”

Fingon’s herald blew a horn, and the prince raised his sword.  “Mount up!  Mount up!” he called and swung into his saddle followed by the cavalry.  A warrior handed him a long spear and he pointed to the horde of orcs that had been shattered by the volleys of the Noldor. “Forward!”

It was the moment Morelen had been waiting for.  A chance to prove herself as worthy.  To show her father and the prince her skill and bravery.  Her throat and stomach tightened, and she tapped her spurs on her horse to follow the prince.  Lindarion’s ears perked up and she started out in a trot.  The line of cavalry emerged from the woods as two groups, the spears and the horse archers.  Morelen drew her blue bow from a saddle holster and brought out an arrow from her quiver.  She could see orcs fleeing in all directions, but there was one group still holding firm, being led by the elf she saw earlier.  The elf’s helmet was off, and his sandy hair was blowing in the wind as he fired wildly with his crossbow.  One bolt found a rider and he tumbled from the saddle and was gone in the dust left by the passing of the horses.

Captain Ruscano stood up in his stirrups and signaled to the left.  As one, the archers veered left, and the spears drove ahead straight towards the orcs.  Arrows were nocked, and bowstrings pulled and released.  A cloud of shafts flew into the group of orcs and dozens fell.  Others fled, trying to find safety in the main force further back that had not yet been engaged.  Still on his mount, the elf with the crossbow fired again and another rider fell from the saddle.  Ruscano then pointed to the last group of orcs that appeared to be falling back and the horse archers accelerated into a gallop, the thundering of hooves drowning out screams and cries.  Morelen glanced back one last time to see Fingon leading the spears into the elf’s force of orcs.  Fingon’s spear drove through an orc chief and then he drew his glittering sword to cleave another two.  She thought she saw the sandy-haired elf riding away from the rout before she turned her attention back to charge.

As they neared the final group of orcs, Morelen saw another mounted elf, clad in black plate armor, leading the remains of the enemy army back, about two thousand orcs and a smattering of trolls.  Next to him was a tall man with red skin, drawing a massive two-handed sword and taking a fighting stance.  In complete sync with Lindarion, she drew the bowstring with her thumb and fired two quick arrows into orcs, who fell where they were shot.  It was the fusion of horse, rider and bow.   A constant stream of arrows now poured from the horse archers into the enemy ranks, thinning out the two thousand orcs.  Bodies lay twisted on the ground along with arrows sticking up out of the grass.

Standing tall in the stirrups, she searched for the elf and found him trying to issue orders to an increasingly disorganized mob.  Who could be such a traitor to his people?  With a sense of determination she took aim at the elf and fired.  With inhuman speed, he dodged the arrow, something she had not expected.  Without another thought she switched to nearby orcs and put arrows into their throats.

The elf wheeled his horse about and drew a sword that looked more like a spike of ice and Morelen saw an opportunity.  He looked right at her and spurred his horse to charge, pointing his sword straight at her face.  Her eyes widened and her breath came in a shaky gasp, but she drew the bowstring back with her thumb and released, sending an arrow deep into the horse’s neck and it reared up with a cry and then fell, landing on the elf’s leg.

Morelen pulled the reins, stopping her mount.  “Easy girl,” she said to Lindarion as she dismounted, putting her bow in the holster on her saddle.  She would take the head off of the snake and the battle would be over.  She drew Melima and strode confidently up to the elf, who was struggling to free himself from the weight of his dead horse.  “Traitor!” she called to him as she drew the sword back for a thrust into his face.  His visor was up, and she could see that he was panicking.  Good.

He extended his hand and started to say something and the palm of his hand glowed with power, but he hesitated and it faded away.  His mouth fell open, and he squeaked out a, “No!  Please!”  He closed his eyes and tried to look away, his black hair falling across his face.  His terrified expression gave her pause. Should she kill the helpless enemy? Should she show mercy?  Her mouth fell slack and she stopped herself from finishing him.  A moment passed and then he looked back at her, his eyes more intent.  “Why are you fighting me?  We are both elves.  We bring peace and order to the world under the chosen one!” he said more confidently.

Was this a trick?  What did he hope to gain with this deception? Her heart and her mind were now torn. “That’s ridiculous!  You serve a monster!  Yield and I will show you mercy!”  She shook the tip of her sword in his face.

It looked like he was about to speak again when he grasped an octagonal brooch around his neck and cried out, “Father!  I need your power!”  His whole being cracked with dark energy, pulsing outwards and his eyes glowed red. Morelen knew she had made a fatal mistake.  She barely had time to brace herself when he waved his hand and flung her backwards. She landed hard with a grunt, the impact knocking her senseless and she barely noticed that her helmet was gone.  She saw the elf close his fist and then it felt as if she were a bug in his grasp.  All of the air left her lungs and her cry was a hoarse whisper.  It felt like her eyes were being pushed in and her limbs were useless.  She would be dead in a few seconds.  Mindless fear gripped her heart.

With fading sight, she saw her father stepping between them.  “Begone, blackguard!” he shouted, and it was like the mountain that was crushing her was gone.  She struggled to her feet, gasping and coughing and Fëatur rushed to her side to steady her.  Why didn’t she listen to him?  Why did she charge in like that?  Stupid. So stupid.

She stood up and brought her sword back to guard and saw the elf still struggling under his dead horse and she thought to finish it.  She took a furtive step forward when Fëatur held her fast.  “No!” he shouted, “Let it be.”  She stopped and a moment later a pillar of flame erupted next to the elf, which faded into the form of a balrog.  It had the face of a bull with curved, pointed horns and a bull’s snout along with cloven hooves for feet.  It picked up the horse with one hand and flung it into a group of Noldor who were moving in.  The balrog roared, spitting flame from its mouth.  He brandished a massive flaming sword, causing the elves to freeze in fear. Morelen was struck with terror, and she clung to her father.  In another moment, the balrog took the elf under his arm and leapt into the air to fly away, his batlike wings beating downwards to leave a powerful blast of dust and heat.  There was a collective sigh of relief.

But the battle wasn’t over yet.  Orcs were fleeing in all directions, but a few trolls remained, and the fight wasn’t out of them yet.  Arrows flew into the shambling trolls, many of them falling over and collapsing on the grass, their black blood spilling on the ground.  Several broke through and charged the line of dismounted elves.  Notaldo pointed at Morelen.  “Keep firing!  Keep firing!” he yelled and then launched an arrow into a troll, staggering it.  She blinked hard and shook her head to clear it.

Another volley brought down all but three and these crashed into the elves, scattering them.  One turned to Fëatur and bellowed, blood and spit flying into the air.  It raised a huge spiked club to crush he and Morelen where they stood, but Fëatur waved his hand with a spell and the troll smashed an empty spot of grass instead.  He looked over to his daughter and said, “I’d tell you to run, but you won’t listen so flank him.”  He stabbed the troll in the leg with his kynac and the beast roared in pain.

Morelen’s mind cleared and she sprinted to the side, moving as swift as a deer.  It suddenly became like she was light as air and the world moved in slow motion.  She leapt over fallen orcs and sliced the back of the troll’s leg with Melima. It tried to turn and face her, but Fëatur stabbed it again from the front.  The troll howled in pain and confusion, not knowing which attacker was more of a threat.  Morelen thrust her sword into the same leg and the troll fell to its knees.   A blinding light shot from Fëatur’s palm right into the troll’s face and it recoiled, shielding its eyes.  Morelen scrambled up the troll’s back and thrust Melima into the back of its neck. It reared up and threw her back onto the ground, but then shrieked and fell forward, dead.

Morelen sat on her backside for a moment, stunned.  The world came sharply back in focus and time seemed normal again.  Then she looked around to see the field strewn with dead orcs and trolls and started laughing amid the sudden silence.  Not a joyous laugh, but one of nervousness and relief.  The battle was over.  She could see the balrog flying away with the elf, its back a pincushion of arrows.  Then, tears streamed down her face, soaking her collar.  She thought for a moment, unable to decide if she should be laughing or crying so she did both while rocking forward and back, holding her knees. The horror of the battle and the aftermath was overwhelming.  Then, strong arms grasped her from behind with a firm, but loving grip.

“Easy.  Easy now Morelen.  It’s over.  Easy now,” Fëatur said as he sat down beside her.  “My first battle was much the same.  Even in victory the horror of the death and destruction is so powerful.”

She looked at him but was unable to speak so she just bit her lower lip and nodded.  She scanned the battlefield and saw dead orcs and a few dead elves as far as the eye could see.  Spears and arrows poked upwards along with swords, axes and maces that were scattered on the ground.  The smell of blood and death wafted up from the battlefield and Morelen covered her nostrils with the back of her hand.

Fëatur continued, “My first battle was the Dagor Aglareb.  It was a great victory but hard fought.  I stood with Chrys Menelrana on the heights, repelling wave after wave. We were the lynchpin between Fingolfin and Maedhros for the final push.  Had we failed, the counterattack would have been much harder with far more casualties.  When you meet Chrys, he will tell you more about the horror of battle.  It never goes away, but it does get less.”

Morelen found the presence of mind to speak now.  She choked down some bile rising in her throat.  “This was nothing like I imagined.  The blood, the screams, bodies everywhere.  I…I don’t know.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

“We will…we will cross that bridge when we get to it daughter.  You fought well and bravely.  I just wish that, in this world, you didn’t have to.  You sing and dance as well as any Vala and I wish that would be your fate in this world.”

Notaldo came up to her and bowed.  She looked up and saw that he was a tall Noldo with a warm smile, chisled features and dark brown hair.  His breastplate was covered in black blood.  “You two fought well.  Taking down that troll…I was impressed.  I crossed the grinding ice and fought before the Sun and the Moon and I am glad to have you among us.  At your service,” he said, a mischievous grin crossing his lips.

Morelen smiled back and tilted her head down, feeling a flush in her cheeks.  “Thank you, sir.  Morelen, at yours.”

Notaldo pointed over to some of the horse archers.  “As I mentioned before, that is our company, the Telepta, the Silvers.  Ruscano is our captain and that,” he said, pointing to another elf who waved back, “is my good for nothing friend, Líreno in case you didn’t remember.”

Morelen was about to answer when Fingon and his herald approached.  Once again, he extended his hand to the two and to Notaldo.  They pulled themselves up and stood upright, facing the prince.  He patted them all on the shoulder and straightened Morelen’s armor.  “You have a few dents,” he said with a warm smile.  “My smiths will fix that up right away.  You all both fought bravely and are assets to our cause.” He gestured to Morelen and her father. “You are both welcome to ride in my company.”

Morelen bowed her head low. “I am honored, my prince.”  Her eyes misted up and she wiped her face with a cloth.

Fingon tapped her on the cheek and lifted her head.  “Return to camp and rest now.  I have people gathering our wounded and burying our dead.  The orcs we leave to the crows,” he said as he turned to walk away.

“Are orcs truly corrupted elves?” she asked boldly, her earlier nervousness evaporating.  She always had a tendency to blurt out questions to her father and the three.  But then, she realized that this was Fingon that she was talking to.

Fingon turned back and looked at her.  He sighed deeply.  “It is true. The Dark Lord Morgoth cannot create new life.  That is the province of Eru, the One.  Morgoth can only warp and debase.  He imprisoned many elves who hid from Oromë and perverted them in the dungeons of Utumno. The trolls are perversions of ents. Giant spiders, balrogs, wargs, vampires and other nameless things that he breeds in his pits,” he said and then scrunched up his face in disgust.  “If Morgoth were ever to have…issue, I would fear for the world.  Such a vile perversion of life would be a horror indeed.”

Morelen furrowed her brows. “A Vala can have…offspring?”

“Their powers are beyond our imagining, but they can assume physical form and flesh is flesh,” he added with a nod.  “The evil of his spirit would corrupt any child.”

Fëatur stepped forward and took Morelen by the shoulders.  He seemed to be in a great hurry suddenly.  “Come daughter.  We have taken enough of the prince’s time.  We have much to attend to.  Excuse us, my prince.”

She was guided away by her father’s hands, and he spun her to face him.  She pursed her lips in thought.  “I can see Fingon’s wisdom,” she said, nodding in agreement with the prince. “The creations of Morgoth are corrupt and evil.  I do pity them though.”

Her father’s face became serious.  “He is not…entirely correct.  Orcs are naturally aggressive and combative but, with the right learning, they can be…friendly.  And know this.  Any child of Morgoth is an empty vessel.  Evil can be inherent, but it is mostly learned.  That child, raised in Angband, would likely be evil.  Another child, raised in love and nurturing would likely be good.  Few things are absolutely set in stone.”

Morelen took a deep breath at the words.  “I will…I will remember that.”  Lindarion came up beside her and gave her a push.  Morelen turned and then chuckled, a smile returning to her lips. She pulled out an apple and let the horse take a big bite, its teeth chomping down on the fruit.  She felt another presence besides them and looked to see Notaldo approach.

“She loves those apples,” he said with a knowing grin.  Then, a far off look came over his face and he seemed sad.  “I knew her previous rider.  He was…a good man and a good friend.  You gave her an excellent name, Lindarion.  I like that. She will serve you well.”  He extended his hand to her and she took it. “I heard the prince offer you a spot in the company.  Congratulations and I hope you decide to remain with us.”

Morelen’s heart filled with pride at being accepted.  She had lived up to her training and her father’s teaching.  She looked to Fëatur and give her most innocent smile. “Father, I would like to stay.  I think this is where I belong.”

Chapter End Notes

Thought Moran and Morelen are half Vala and will have significant powers, I don't want to write them as Mary Sues so they will have significant flaws and weaknesses.

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15)  The Hands of a Healer – Year of the Sun 155 Hrívë (Winter)

Yavëkamba

Word of the defeat of the army ran through Morgoth’s forces like a shockwave, causing morale to plummet throughout Angband.  Another army destroyed within a century made whispers of the weakness of the Dark Lord reverberate through his halls.  The howls of anger from the throne room kept most of the weaker servants away.  The Healer could tell that the Dark Lord was not the same godlike being that swayed them with honeyed word back in Valinor.  He had become darker, more sinister and angrier. Talk of revenge and destruction ruled his words whenever he spoke, and fear became the primary emotion of the day.

Hearing of the near annihilation of the army brought orders for healers to meet the wounded and bring their remnants home.  Ardana led the contingent through secret tunnels under Angband.  She walked at a brisk pace, almost a run, worry written on her face.  The Healer was forced to take long strides to keep pace while carrying her heavy bag of potions and salves.  “What have you heard, Ardana,” she asked, her breath strained.

“We’ve been defeated again. There are many wounded, including my son.”

“How bad?  Any information would be helpful.  I could be better prepared when we arrive.”  Yavëkamba was secretly pleased at the defeat of the army, but she had grown to care for Moran and her worry over his wounds was nearly overwhelming.  Hers was a precarious position, caught between her duty to care and her disgust of the Dark Lord.

“I have nothing beyond that Morfuin allowed my son to escape and they are now at a secret location. The Siege of Angband makes it very difficult to travel in the open,” The Astrologer said as the sound of their boots striking stone echoed down the tunnels.  While there was no light, the eyes of the elves allowed them to see as if in daylight.

“I see.  I will prepare for any contingency,” Yavëkamba said and began digging into her bag as she walked at a near jog.  She could see the tension on Ardana’s jaw, which was clenched tight.

Ardana slowed for a moment and looked at the Healer.  “And you should be prepared.  There is more talk of our group relocating to the south of Middle Earth.  It will be a reality soon.  We have several secret routes to escape the siege.  Our group has grown lately, and we need to start another front against the enemy.”

“I see.  What secret routes do we have and who has joined our group?”  She tried to ask this calmly, but her heart was racing.

Ardana pursed her lips. “I can’t share that just yet. This comes straight from the king. I’m only telling you this part because I trust you.  Our scouts have already returned from the south, and it looks promising.”

“Thank you for your trust,” Yavëkamba said, feeling both guilt and disappointment.  She had hoped to learn more.  Fëatur would need more.

Then they came upon a stairway up and Ardana waved her hand to open the door into a cavern.  There was some torchlight to illuminate a scene of horror, orcs and a few elves lay writhing on the ground, many with arrows sticking out of them and others with terrible sword wounds.  The weapons of the Noldor were, indeed, deadly.  Yavëkamba took a deep breath before stepping in. The smell of open wounds and death filled the cavern.  While it was something she had experienced before, it was never on this scale.  The last stunning defeat left few wounded as the entire army was annihilated and orcs often left their injured, such was their culture.  She had tried to implement some reform with mixed results.  At least this time, some care was given and more of the defeated force returned.

The Healer knelt down as the first orc she came across, one with two now broken arrows protruding from its gut.  The stench from the festering wound caused her to recoil at first.  Elves did not suffer from infections.  He laid her bag down and brought out a scalpel and a pair of silver pliers.  “Lie still,” she told the orc.  “I’m going to remove the arrows.”

It growled and snarled but lay still and she applied a poultice to the wound site.  “For the pain,” she added and then began to cut.

The orc whimpered and grasped her arm, leaving a stain of black blood on the sleeve of her robe. “Please,” it whispered.  “Please help.”

The orc’s demeanor surprised her.  She always thought of them as savage beasts without reason.  She stroked its stringy and greasy hair and said in a soothing voice, “I’m here to help.  What is your name?”  With a pluck, she pulled the first arrow out and put it aside.

The orc grunted and winced. “I am…I am Gorka.  Our tribe…we were wiped out.  The elves.  With their bright eyes and bright weapons.  We were no match.”

“I am…sorry Gorka.  I cannot imagine,” she said in genuine sympathy as she pulled the second arrow out.  With skilled hands she applied medication and bandages and voiced a quiet incantation of healing.  “Rest and sleep now Gorka.  All will be well.”  How could this misshapen creature been an elf once?  Or a descendant of an elf?

His eyes grew glassy, and he began to breathe easier.  He reached up towards her face.  “Bright eyes. Elves’ eyes,” he whispered and then fell asleep, his arm dropping back to his side.

He was filthy and bloody, but she felt a certain sympathy for the orc.  It crossed her mind that he may recover and go on to kill an elf, but her duty was to heal, and she would do that.  She then took a look at the cavern and started to analyze who would need treatment immediately.  “There are so many,” she said quietly.  “I’m just one person.  We need more.”  She took several steps and knelt down by another orc, who had deep sword wounds. She reached into her bag, but someone grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Leave him,” Ardana said. “My son needs you.  Moran is wounded.”  Her grip on The Healer’s shoulder was almost painful.

Yavëkamba pursed her lips. “This one needs immediate attention.”

Ardana pulled her up to face her, The Astrologer’s expression now impatient, nostrils flared and black eyes narrowed.  “Did you not hear me?  The son of the king needs your attention.  Leave this one.  He’s dying anyway.”

Yavëkamba nodded without expression and stood up.  Then, an orc grabbed her by the arm and spun her around violently.  “Attend to my people now elf,” he said angrily, drawing his dagger.  He brandished it and gestured to the other wounded orcs.  He snarled, his teeth like the fangs of a wolf.

Yavëkamba inhaled quickly, shocked by this sudden move.  Indeed, many orcs were savage and brutal, encouraged and trained to violence by the Dark Lord.  Who were the orcs anyway?  Where did they come from?  This was not life that Eru envisioned.

Ardana stepped forward and her eyes lit up like stars.  She held her hand out towards the orc and her entire body flashed and shimmered like starlight.  In an instant, the orc glowed orange and screamed and then disintegrated into ash. Orcs in the cavern gasped and cowered. The Astrologer sneered. “Enough!  My son needs attention now.”

The Healer had rarely seen Ardana’s raw power, and it was something she never got used to.  She bowed her head.  “Yes, my lady,” she said, and they walked over many of the dead and dying to get to Moran.  The young man had the nub of an arrow shaft protruding from his shoulder.  He also had many bruises on his face and body.  He lay there in just his breeches and a bloody shirt, groaning and writhing in pain.  Morfuin stood nearby, in his smaller form, standing still as a statue, unblinking.  The Sindarin elf, Sȗlherok, sat leaning up against a wall, his head in a bloody bandage and his typical smirk on his lips. Yavëkamba knelt beside Moran and opened her bag, taking out the scalpel and tongs and placing them on a clean towel. She took out a vial of green liquid and opened the stopper.  She moved it around underneath Moran’s nose and then rubbed some of the liquid into the wound around the arrow.  “Relax now. This will ease the pain.”  She then poured the remaining liquid into his mouth.  “Swallow this.  It will help.”

Moran gulped thirstily and his breathing eased.  His eyes still showed pain and panic and his tunic was soaked in blood near the wound. Yavëkamba took her kynac dagger and cut his shirt away, revealing blood glistening on his chest.  She gasped.  The wound was deep.  “This will hurt a bit,” she said as she spread a salve around the arrow shaft. She took the scalpel and made an incision.  Moran winced and gritted his teeth, tears leaking from his closed eyes.  “I know,” she said tenderly, “I know.  It’ll be over soon.”  The arrow was barbed and had been well placed between his armor.  This would be more difficult than she thought.  The weapons of this war were horribly cruel.  She made a deeper incision around the arrowhead until it began to move freely.  “Almost there, dear.”  She said a quiet incantation and the wound began to glow.  “Now, on three.  One, two,” she began and then yanked the arrow out.

Moran groaned.  “You said on three.”

“I lied.  See, it’s out,” she said with a chuckle.  “You’ll be on the mend soon, my dear.  Here, let me finish up.”  She held the wound together and uttered a spell.  The wound began to knit together on its own and she rubbed more of the salve on it.  She then took a towel and wiped the blood off of his chest.  “You rest now, Moran.  Your mother will take you home.”  Yavëkamba looked up at Ardana and nodded.  “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he will recover.  I’ll give him one potion now and give you a satchel for the trip home. Give him one tonight and one tomorrow morning.”

Ardana looked relieved and her eyes softened.  “Thank you. Thank you for my son.  But…you’re not coming with us?”

The Healer shook her head. “Morfuin can carry him.  I will stay here and attend to our lord’s soldiers. She looked over to Sȗlherok and nodded. “He’s well enough to travel.  I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Ardana pursed her lips and sighed.  “I guess it can’t be helped.  Heal as many as you can.  The Dark Lord will appreciate it.  Return as soon as you are able.  Your services will still be needed by my son.”

Yavëkamba smiled. “I’m glad to see you embrace Moran as your son.  He is a good young man.  I will be pleased to see him grow to maturity,” she said, her tone hopeful.  Maybe she could change the fate of this young man.

Ardana said nothing and gave a blank expression in return.  Then, she looked over to Morfuin and her nostrils flared.  “You were supposed to watch him and keep him from harm. Do not fail me again.  Now, pick up my son and bring him home.”

The normally expressionless balrog’s eyes twitched and his lip curled ever so slightly.  “Yes mistress,” he said and then picked Moran up gently.

Ardana pointed at Sȗlherok next.  “You, come along.  The Dark Lord is enraged over the destruction of the army.  I suggest you remain scarce when we arrive at Angband.

The Sindarin elf snorted and narrowed one eye.  “The Dark Lord is always enraged these days.  I’m seeing a lot of defeat and not a lot of the promised paradise.”

“Enough!” Ardana shouted and she shimmered like a star for a moment.  “Silence!  I will have no criticism of the king from the likes of you.”

Sȗlherok grunted and put his head down.  A moment later, he stood up with a deep, painful grunt.

Yavëkamba gave him a quick smile before packing up her bag and moving onto another wounded orc.  Not everyone was a fanatical follower of the Dark Lord’s vision of Middle Earth.  It pained her that so many were blind to the evil, the corruption and the violence.  Many of the elves who had left the following of other Valar had formed a cult around Morgoth, worshipping and praising everything that he did.  They would even compete to see who could be the most sycophantic and fawning.  It was disgusting how proud elves had devolved into kissing the feet of one who was only concerned about himself and his power.  Many times, she had planned to flee, disappear to the south to be with Fë. Watching once close friends warp into mindless religious zealots was too much to bear.  Or the grasping climbers like Morthaur, who gave the praise and said the words all for power.  But Fë needed information, and she would stay to provide that.

As she knelt down besides another orc, she heard the trap door open and shut and she took a quick glance to see that Ardana and the others of the inner circle had gone.  At that, she set her mind to work and hoped that her message had gotten through.  By the time she had attended to her tenth orc a soft breeze flowed through the cavern.  It was a familiar scent with a whisper of a voice.  A smile spread across her face, and she brought out a pot and removed the lid. She held her hand over the oily substance in the pot and a flame spouted, igniting the oil.  Tendrils of smoke wafted from the pot, and she blew into it. Her breath became a steady breeze, spreading the fumes throughout cavern.  In a minute, all of the orcs were asleep.

She stood and walked towards the cavern entrance and saw what she had hoped for.  “Fë!” she said, her voice full of joy.  She rushed into his arms and then pushed back to look at him. “I think I like you better as a woman,” she said playfully.

Fëatur smirked.  “I’m sorry I’m not more accommodating.”

“Well, no one’s perfect. I guess you’ll have to do.”

Fëatur stifled more laughter.  “I could always call my sister.  I’m sure she’d be more than accommodating for you.”

Yavëkamba shook her head emphatically.  “Oh no. No no no.  I like my lovers to have some sense of humor.  That one…your sister, I can’t recall her ever smiling. She’s always, Dark Lord this and Dark Lord that, smash this, burn that.  It’s very tedious.  You know it’s becoming a cult now,” she said as she looked for a place to sit.  She pulled out a towel and laid it on the ground and then sat down, patting the spot next to her.

Fëatur took the hint and sat down.  “A cult, you say?  Our group was always devoted, but what do you mean, a cult?”

“Morthaur will always be Morthaur, a grasping climber, always demonstrating his power for some recognition from Morgoth.  But the others hang on his every word and justify his every evil act, twisting it into some righteous plan for the benefit of all elves.”

“Ever are the minds of our kind, turning our misdeeds into some greater good.  I did it for eons,” Fëatur said, putting his head down in shame.  “Melkor was the only purveyor of truth.  The Valar were trying to control us.  Melkor offered freedom and wisdom.  He was the chosen one,” he continued in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

She put her hand on his face and nodded.  “Don’t hold yourself too harshly Fë.  I was the same.  You need to know this though,” she said, her face becoming serious.  “The Dark Lord has plans in the south.  Our group may be moving there soon.”

Fëatur froze for a moment and then asked with haste.  “Are you certain Yavë?  How will they move?  What are their plans?  I must let Chrys and the Three know as soon as I can.”

Yavëkamba shook her head. “Ardana did not tell me more.  She is worried about leaks of information.  She is, however, coalescing a larger group around her task to destroy the Sun and Moon and other fanatics have joined the cause. Rilia, a sorceress and Gorthaur, a priest of the dark arts are now part of the inner circle.  They have had secret meetings with Morgoth to plan their next move.  I don’t know when this is to take place though.  Just be prepared and be safe.”

“This is grave news. It would be best if I could alert Fingon and Finrod so we could intercept them when they move,” Fëatur said thoughtfully.  “If this could be done, I will signal you and make sure they know that you are an ally.”

“I will do my best, but they are ramping up secrecy for this move.  And know that Moran has grown.  He would make a fine young man if not for the influence of the Dark Lord.  I have done my best to make Ardana care about him and not think of him as just a sacrifice.  Maybe this horrific plan can be averted.”

Fëatur nodded.  “Yes, that is good.  It would be best if Ardana decided on her own not to do it.  But Ardana is ever a fanatic for the cause, and she will always justify what she does as being for the greater good.”

Yavëkamba sighed.  “We know her too well.  I still have hope.  I have pondered killing Ardana if it came to that, but they would surely kill me too.”

“No, no.  Please don’t.  I can’t lose you,” he said, holding her tightly.  “We will find another way.  And, by the way, Morelen has grown as well.  She is a strong and proud young woman.  She is the one who wounded Moran.”

“This is fortuitous. I sense the hand of fate involved, but I cannot see the outcome yet.”  Then her face softened.  “Tell me that you are teaching her.”

“Of course.  Well, not archery or swordsmanship.  That I leave to the Three.  But she is wise for her age and always seeks knowledge.  Her learning of magical and musical arts is impressive too.  The blood of a Vala grants her incredible skills.  You should hear her sing and see her dance.  She also wants justice and seeks what is good.  And, I have to tell you something too.”

Her eyes opened wide, and her face became expectant.  She wasn’t sure if this would be good or bad.  “Yes?”

“I…uhhh…told her that you are her mother.  Uhhh, that we are her parents.”

“Oh?”  She thought for a moment and then she smiled. “Actually, I like that.  I think that was wise for now.  But know that she may one day find the truth.  What then?”

“I will deal with that if it happens.”

“I know you will,” Yavëkamba said softly, and her lips curled into a smile.  “For now, let us enjoy the moment.”  She lay back on the towel and beckoned him with her hand.  “I have waited too long for this.”

Chapter End Notes

This chapter showcases Yavekamba's healing abilities and compassion and her fear of working against the Court from the inside.  We'll look at her relationship with Featur and some of Ardana's powers, always trying to use soft magic.  Featur speaks to his regret for supporting Morgoth.

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16) Return to the South – Year of the Sun 156 Tuilë (Spring)

Fëatur

The journey back to the south was harder on Fëatur emotionally than physically.  Cirdan the Shipwright provided him with a vessel to sail to the Ȗsakan Bay where he would ride the rest of the way to Ty-Ar-Rana. The transport over the ocean gave him time to think and contemplate.  Yavëkamba was not able to provide him with any more information on the plans of Ardana’s group and he was constantly worried about her safety.  He already missed her dearly.  Then, there was Morelen to worry about.  She had accepted an offer to become one of Fingon’s riders, patrolling out from Hithlum to Ard Galen.  He knew that Morgoth was always planning something and that horrid creatures were being bred in the foul pits of Angband.  Morelen was determined to do her duty, and he could not help but be proud of her devotion.  Still, his time on Cirdan’s ship was an uneasy one.

There was a knock on his cabin door.  “Come in,” he said loudly as he closed his journal and put his pen away.

The door opened and a sailor poked his head in.  He was a Sindarin elf with sandy blonde hair under a red head scarf.  “Fëatur, we are about to drop anchor,” he said.  “This is your destination.  The captain wants to see you on deck.  Grab your things and meet us topside.”

Fëatur rose and grabbed his bag.  “I’m already packed.  Lead the way.”  The sailor led him up the stairs to the main deck where he could see land.  The sound of gulls and waves lapping at the hull filled his ears and he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of the sea.  The jungles of the south were very different than the forests of the north.  The south boasted a wide and thick canopy of trees and a high humidity from the near constant rain.  He could see sailors preparing a launch to take him to shore.

“Everything is ready sir,” the captain said to him.  “There is a small trading post called Gensatra at the mouth of the river.  “I’ve arranged for them to provide you with a good horse.  I hope you’ve enjoyed your time on my ship, the Bregolaph.”  He was a tall Sindarin with sharp, angular features and a floppy yellow sea cap to keep the sunlight and sea spray from his eyes.

“I am in your debt, Captain Ferui.  I appreciate you putting up with me for the past month.”

“It was our pleasure. Our lord Cirdan is most generous with his allies.  The launch will take you to shore when you’re ready.”

Fëatur extended his hand, which the captain accepted.  “You do a great service for our people.  I fear that the darkness will spread south, and we must be prepared.  I wish you safe travels back home.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the south,” the captain said.  “I hear that there are giant animals with huge tusks and a trunk.”

“Ah, the Mûmakil.  I have yet to see one.  I suspect that they may just be legend.”

“Well, send word if you do see one.  I would appreciate a sketch too.”

Fëatur nodded as he moved to the ladder.  “I would be delighted to do so.”  He climbed down into the launch where rowers held up oars.  One took his bag and helped him into the launch.

“Have a seat sir. We’ll have you ashore shortly.”

He took a seat on the wooden bench and braced for the rocking of the launch in the waves.  The sound of the sea gave him some comfort against the worry for his loved ones.  Did he make the right decision to tell Morelen that he and Yavë were her parents? What if she found out?  She was exceptionally intelligent given her Vala blood. What of Moran, her brother?  His skill and intellect would be her equal and he fought for the Dark Lord.  Could it even be true that his blood would be the catalyst to destroy the Sun and Moon? The very idea challenged the imagination.  He made a grunting noise as the sailors lowered their oars into the water and began to stroke.

“I’m sorry?” the lead sailor asked.

Fëatur shook his head. “It’s nothing.  I was just thinking out loud.”

The launch made swift progress and soon, the trading post was in sight.  He saw a few small fishing vessels and a sizable group of Silvan Elves engaged in commerce, selling fish and repairing sails.  There were small posts like this set up all along the peninsula known as Taaliraan.  Elves had even begun to populate the nearby atoll known as Ardinaak, which looked like a giant “C”.  The launch pulled into a berth and Silvan dockworkers tossed out lines which the sailors used to tie down.  Ropes went around cleats, and they secured the launch to the dock.

“Safe travels sir,” the lead sailor said as he handed Fëatur his bag.  The sailor looked around and nodded.  “It looks amazingly peaceful here.  Next trip, I’m planning on staying a while.”

Fëatur smiled broadly. “Yes, it’s been a very peaceful land. And I will see to it that you are welcomed here when you return.  I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

The sailor helped him up onto the plank.  “Gadnor, Gadnor Nedion.  I’ve been sailing with Cirdan since before the Two Trees went dark.”

Mention of the Two Trees stung Fëatur, but he continued to smile.  “Well, travel safe Gadnor.  I look forward to our next meeting.”

Fëatur climbed onto the dock and one of the workers pointed him towards the nearby stable.  “Lyaan sent word of your arrival.  A horse is waiting for you there.”  The elf was dressed in a rough wool shirt with baggy pants that were sporting more than a few tears in the fabric.  His face was dirty and he smelled of fish.

“Much appreciated, my good man.”  He walked the short distance to the stable, gazing at the Silvan Elves of the trading post. They were somewhat shorter in stature than the mighty Noldor and far more rustic.  Though he was used to the regal character of his High Elven brethren he found that he enjoyed the easy nature of his Silvan cousins.  No one here cared about houses or kings.  Their concerns were for the catch and the seaworthiness of their boats and the strength of their rope.  It was a community of equals, all sharing in the work and rewards. He had a moment where he imagined he, Yavë and Morelen living in quiet solitude here, catching and cleaning fish and joining in loud singing in the tavern at night.  They could be a true family.  Maybe. Maybe one day.

A stable boy handed him the reins of a horse, and he gave it a once over.  It was healthy with a fine brown coat and a well-made saddle. He smiled down at the boy and gave him a small blue gem in thanks.  He wasn’t sure if that was part of the custom of the Silvan Elves, but the boy thanked him and ran off.

He mounted the horse and noted the high humidity of the south, far different from the temperate clime of the north.  He fanned himself and wiped some sweat from his brow.  I would be just over a day’s ride to Ty-Ar-Rana.  The path was far too well known, something he would have to change in the coming days if word of Ardana’s coming was true.  Yavë’s information was always good so caution would be the norm from now on.  He waved to the Silvan Elves and then touched his heels to his horse’s flanks, and it walked at an easy pace out of the village.

It was a very pleasant ride along the jungle path, full of the call of colorful birds.  At random points he dismounted and drew a rune on a tree or a rock that would leave a confusing illusion should someone less than friendly take the path.  It was certain to leave them utterly lost.  As night was falling he heard what sounded like a massive trumpet, followed by others.  Were those the fabled mȗmakil?  He was tempted to ride and take a look, but he would not be distracted from his task. Still, he would love to write Captain Ferui one day and tell him that he had, indeed, seen one of the giants.

Early the following morning, Fëatur saw the great pyramid of the main structure of Ty-Ar-Rana.  He rode into the town and was greeted by the elves who had made the place home.  It had grown considerably since he left.  The streets were now clean and well paved and new houses lined the roads leading to the pyramids.  Young Lyrin ran up to him with two Sindarin Elves and bowed.

“Welcome back, Master Fëatur,” he said with a boyish smile.  “As you can see, we have made much progress here.”  He and the others were dressed in loose-fitting outfits, tailored for hand-to-hand fighting.  They had been training as well.

He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly.  “Impressive. It’s good to know that you were not idle here.  I bring news from the north.  Where are your parents?  We must meet.”

“Come, follow us,” the youth said happily, beckoning Fëatur towards the pyramid.  “Where is Morelen?  Is she well?” Lyrin asked, some concern on his face.

“We fought a great battle,” Fëatur said with some pride.  “And it was a great victory.  Morelen is well and in the service of Fingon.  She will remain in the north for now.”

A look of disappointment crossed Lyrin’s face as he scrunched up his features.  “I’m…I’m sorry to hear that.  I…I miss her.”

Fëatur gave a bittersweet smile.  “I do as well.  Come, there is little time to waste.”  He sensed that Lyrin did not miss her in the same way though.

Lyrin pointed to his two companions.  “These are my friends and fellow trainees, Edenor and Anuven.  We are learning the ways of unarmed combat from my father,” he said and then turned on them and began throwing fake punches and kicks, which they blocked and returned, the three laughing the entire time.

“Ah, the joys of youth,” Fëatur said wryly.  He looked the boy up and down and noticed that, from his deep reddish hair and piercing eyes that he had the blood of the House of Fëanor in him.  Then, he shook his head and snorted.  “Now focus, young men.  We need to meet and discuss things.”

“Of course,” Lyrin said with a slight smirk.  Then he turned and ran off towards the great pyramid with his friends in tow.  “Come and catch up!” he called.

Fëatur let out an exasperated sigh and smirked.  “Kids.” He then tapped his horse’s flanks and cantered after them.  He never stopped marveling at the structures of Ty-Ar-Rana, a great, three-sided pyramid, surrounded by three lesser ones, all made of smooth gray granite.  But the true marvel was below ground, an intricate set of tunnels connecting all of the pyramids.  He dismounted his horse at the base of the great pyramid and followed Lyrin and the other two up the granite steps to the entrance.  An elf in full silver plate armor, carrying a gleaming two-handed sword, stood in front of the entrance.

Lyrin pointed at the elf. “This is Taran.  He’s…not real.  He’s an automaton that my father discovered in the storeroom.  This whole complex was created by the Vanyar while they lingered before their final journey west.  When they left, the Nandor came and took over, but they mostly inhabited the town.  In fact, they were here when we arrived and have been great hosts to our cause.”

Fëatur leaned in and looked closely at Taran.  “Remarkable. He looks so lifelike, right down to the golden Vanyar hair,” he said and then turned to Lyrin.  “Do you have any idea how he was made?  I’m just thinking out loud, but a few of these would be quite handy in the days to come.”

Lyrin shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.  Whatever art or magic went into Taran was lost when the Vanyar went west.  I was born here so I know nothing of this or our Vanyar cousins.  I’m sure my parents will have some insight.  Come, let’s head down and meet them.  Your news seems urgent.”

Fëatur took a deep breath and nodded.  “It is.” The four then went through the door into the great pyramid and they boarded a lift that descended deep into the earth.  Lyaan and Lysa were there to greet them, dressed in white robes.

Lysa extended a hand to Fëatur’s chest.  “I felt your presence and know that something troubles you.  You may speak freely here,” she said slowly in her melodic voice.

Fëatur paused for a moment, thinking about his next words.  Then, he realized that this could not be sugar coated.  “We need to prepare.  The enemy has plans to come south.”

Chapter End Notes

This chapter looks at the dynamic between Featur and The Three as well as the family dynamic.

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17)  The Court of Ardor – Year of the Sun 156 Lairë (Summer)

Ardana

“The King of the Earth commands your presence,” Morfuin said flatly, now in his lesser form, skin as red as hot coals.  He then stood still as a statue, awaiting the Astrologer’s reply.  The demon’s complete lack of emotion was still unsettling even after all of these years.

Ardana’s voice caught in her throat at first, but then she coughed and looked up from reading a tome at her desk.  “What…what is it?”

Morfuin pursed his lips, the nearest thing he showed to impatience.  “The lord has a gift for you.”

Her heart skipped a beat and then quickened.  “I…I…I am honored,” she said as she jumped up, nearly knocking her tome from the desk. She didn’t even look back as she rushed beside the demon.  “Do you know what it is?

“I do not,” he said without even looking at her.  They walked quickly, Ardana at a near jog to keep up with the demon.  At Morthaur’s laboratory, Morfuin gestured into the room and then resumed his statue-like pose, neither blinking nor moving.

Ardana entered to see much of her inner circle gathered around Morgoth, her king, who was now at normal size.  The three precious jewels blazed in his iron crown, giving him a godlike appearance.  She noticed though that his skin was grayer, almost blue, giving him an almost sickly pallor.  Tension and anger ran along the muscles of his face, something very different that the serene wisdom he had shown her in Valinor.  Most of what he spoke about now was revenge and destruction, a far cry from the guidance and unity that he gave her before.

She saw that Morthaur was there along with many of the newer members, whom she knew of but had never met before.  There was a pale woman with sharp features and with fiery red hair, wearing a gown with a pattern of fire that danced like true flame.  This was Rilia, a sorceress of great power and charisma who wielded fire as easily as a balrog.  There was a tall man with rippling muscles and golden hair that was meticulously styled. Ardana could tell immediately that he was full of himself.  This was Valmorgȗl.  Finally, another tall man with dark hair in an unflattering bowl cut, wearing deep blue robes.  He stood with his head tilted up and his fingers on his chin, his expression haughty and impatient.  This was Gorthaur, a priest of the dark arts.  These elves would be her inner circle for what was to come.

Morthaur stepped towards her with a smile and began to speak.  “My lady, I-” he started when he was cut off by Valmorgȗl.

“What my…esteemed colleague was about to say was that our lord has created a great surprise for you. One, we are tasked with travelling to the south to complete our mission and two, please my lady, take a look at this,” he said with a broad smile, gesturing to a metal table.  Ardana glanced over to see a sour look come over Morthaur.  Perhaps this could be used to her ultimate advantage.

Ardana walked over to see a deck of cards arranged on the table.  One caught her eye, titled The Lady, which depicted an intricate painting of her on its face down to her gown which shimmered with starlight.  A sense of wonder filled her heart and she smiled. “What is this?  It’s magnificent.”

Valmorgȗl bowed and then gestured to Morgoth.  “The Lord of the Earth should explain his gift.”

Morgoth spoke in a voice that reverberated throughout the room.  “I have channeled my power into this deck of cards for you, Ardana.  It carries the strength of my will and the authority of my command.  Pick one up.”

Ardana picked up her card and found it to be light despite its size.  She immediately felt a surge of energy in the card.  Her breath caught in her throat at the feeling, and she turned the card in her hand.  “What can it do, my king?”

Morgoth smiled and his eyes flashed red.  “It will allow you to channel my might, much as the broach does for our son.  When in need, it will grant you untold energy to crush our enemies.  I long to see the villainous vermin who oppose us ground under our heel.  Only our will shall prevail.”

Gorthaur bowed his head. “It shall be done, my lord.”

Morgoth brushed Gorthaur’s face with his hand and nodded.  “And furthermore, it grants the users the ability to communicate with one another.  Here,” he said, handing her the card for The Illusionist.  “Speak to Fëatur.”

Ardana took the card and felt a warmth spread over it.  “Fëatur? Are you there?”

A voice could be heard emanating from the card.  “Yes, my lady.”

Ardana smiled broadly. “Astounding!  Much like the Palantiri.”

Morgoth nodded.  “We can only speak through the cards now, but I hope to infuse greater powers later.”

“I was just testing the lord’s gift, Fëatur,” Ardana said into the card.  “You may resume what you were doing.”

“Yes, my lady,” the Illusionist said and then the card grew cold.

Ardana scanned the other cards in the deck.  Valmorgȗl, the Magician.  Morthaur, the Lord.  Gorthaur, the High Priest.  Rilia, the Sorceress.  Sȗlherok, the Messenger.  Morfuin, the Lord Demon.  She picked up one that showed a man hanging upside down, titled The Fool.  “I take it this is for the male Fëatur, who foolishly gave up his life and the great power promised by our king?”

“Indeed,” said Morgoth. “Indeed, he was a fool to reject my gifts.  The world could have been his to enjoy along with us.  But now, he is no more, rotting in the Halls of Mandos like a worm.  More cards will be added as we grow and assume our rightful place as rulers of the world.”

Ardana bowed low.  “A magnificent gift, my king.  I am honored.”  The king seemed his old self, guiding them to a better future of power and independence.  Maybe a corner had been turned.  Maybe they could go back to the way it was.

Morgoth grinned, a familiar leering grin to her now.  He looked to the others.  “You are all dismissed.  I require your presence no longer.  Ardana will remain.”

The other elves bowed and retreated from the room.  Ardana’s heart caught in her throat and a cold feeling spread over her.  Morgoth waved his hand and, in an instant, they were in her bedchamber.  “I require a proper show of gratitude,” he said in a voice full of expectation.

Ardana gulped hard, feeling both desire and terror.  It felt as if every encounter had aged her, leaving her spread thin like too little butter on too much bread.  She pulled the straps of her gown from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She suddenly felt exposed and afraid. Her king was not as before, where he was wise and powerful.  He seemed consumed by anger and revenge now and she was the recipient of his feelings. She wanted to love him as before, but all she could think about was the journey south.  He grasped her body, his hands cold and rough and she let her mind wander to the stars.

Flashes of memory brought her back to Ilmarin, the domed halls of Manwë and Varda atop the highest peak of the world, Taniquetil.  She looked out from behind a great white pillar, seeing stars and constellations, woven in such intricate patterns, the designs of Varda, who crafted the stars with her power and wisdom.  Ardana laughed with glee, seeing the shimmering lights of her beloved stars, unmarred by any other celestial object.  She heard a melodious tone and turned to see a gathering.  Golden haired elves in white robes moved to the center of a vast courtyard, full of trees and flowers.

“The Vanyar,” she said and rushed towards them.  She saw one Vanya, taller than the rest with a crown of gold and jewels.  “Ingwë?  It must be.” Her mouth fell open.  How was she back in the beloved halls?  “The High Festival?  This was before…” she said and her voice trailed off.

A woman who seemed more spirit than physical form led the Vanyar to one tree that seemed to stretch to the heavens.  Ardana’s nostrils were filled with the scent of evergreens and flowers.  The woman seemed to float over the grass and then bowed before another woman who seemed to be starlight made flesh.  “Ilmarë…and and Varda,” she whispered, and shame filled her heart.  She rushed forward, trying to move through the crowd of elves, but she became lost. A song rose from the gathered throng, and it seemed as if the entire courtyard had become music.  The elves lifted their faces, and their voices joined the music.  The melodies were beautiful and Ardana wept.  She fell to her knees and pounded her fists on the soft grass.  “No!  Please Varda, let me stay.  Let me return to your teaching.”  The music became like the twinkling of stars, heavenly and beyond the comprehension of those below.  Time stood still.

Ardana buried her face in the ground, crying out.  She had never heard anything so beautiful and never would again.  If only she could go back.  What led her to the horror that was now her life?  Slowly, the music faded away and she looked up to see the Vanyar glow and vanish into light.  Ilmarë followed, leaving only Varda.  Ardana tried to look into the Vala’s face, but Varda’s eyes blazed like stars.  “I can’t.  I can’t.  Please Varda.”  She reached out, but the Vala vanished in a flash like an exploding sun.  Then, all was cold and dark.

Ardana’s mind came back to her as her king arose from the bed.  Without a glance back, he vanished, shifting himself into another room.  Her body cold, she gagged for a moment and then wiped a tear from her cheek.  She leapt up and put on her gown, wanting to hide and cover herself.  She looked into her mirror and saw that the white streak in her hair had grown, and the hair was coarse and crinkly.  She knew that another child was forming, but like all elves, she could will it gone and she did so.  She was already regretting the idea of sacrificing Moran.  She had lost her daughter too and could not bear to lose another.

She looked out a window from her room and gazed at the Ard Galen south of Morgoth’s fortress.  She imagined a wild, untamed land that they could call their own.  She decided to name it Ardor.  There, she would plan and carry out the destruction of the Sun and Moon and return Varda’s dream of a sky that contained only the beloved starts.  And when she left Angband, she vowed never to return.

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase Ardana's personality and motivations and how deluded she is under Morgoth.  

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18)  The Fire of the Dragon – Year of the Sun 260 Yávië (Autumn)

Morelen

It had been over a hundred years since Morgoth’s forces raided Hithlum and were utterly defeated by Fingon, Fingolfin and the forces of the Noldor.  Morelen grew swift and strong in the service of Fingon, and she always made sure to polish her silver armor and hone Melima, her sword. Fencing, riding and archery were her passions, but she also learned the songs that Lysa sang with her and the illusions that her father had taught her.  She missed him dearly, but the joy and thrill of patrolling Ard Galen with the company of riders kept her focused.  She often thought about Ty-Ar-Rana and The Three who had mentored her so well.  In the armory of Fingon’s riders, she turned back to her armor and noticed a small splotch between the intricate designs of stars and moonlight on her breastplate.  She dipped a rag into a tin of polish and began buffing again.  The strong smell of solvent was like an old friend, comfortable and well-known.

“Are you going to polish your kit all day?” Notaldo asked, a smirk on his face.  He stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head in disgust.  They had been riding together for decades now, and he always tried to get under her skin. It always seemed to work these days.

Morelen snorted in irritation and blew her black hair from her face.  “I, for one, want to make a good impression, Notaldo.  Fingon says we are riding out again later today.  The prince’s force can’t look shabby.”  The design on her breastplate was ever so finely crafted by master armorers.  If she could just get that splotch out, it would be perfect.  She was starting to find Notaldo annoying.  He was always looking for some distraction.

Notaldo sighed audibly. “Valar be praised,” he said in resignation.  “I was hoping that you’d come to the game in the courtyard.  I was told that it would be enjoyable.  You know what that word means, right?”

“I am enjoying making sure that I don’t look shabby.  I find looking sharp enjoyable.”

“We’re also planning to travel to Nargothrond soon.  I hear that the caverns are a marvel.  Lord Finrod has made it a wonder to behold.  I think you should go.”  He turned to another warrior.  “Líreno, help me to convince Morelen to travel with us to Nargothrond.  It would do her good.”

Líreno waved his hand dismissively.  “Trust me friend, I’ve tried.  I think she’s in love with her armor.”

Morelen felt stung by the words.  She was the only woman in the company, and she had to do it three times as well to not feel inadequate.  Everything she did, she did by the book and then some.  But then she recalled a time where she sang and danced in the gardens of Ty-Ar-Rana and imagined Lysa’s warm smile at her performance.  It was a time of peace, and she felt safe in the arms of her father.  She closed her eyes and thought for a moment.  What would it hurt?  Then, she let out a grunt and put the rag down.  “Fine.  Fine. Where is this game and when do we leave for Nargothrond?”

The two men looked at each other in shock, eyes wide open.  Notaldo looked back at her, his mouth slack.  “What? Ummm…that’s…that’s great.  Let’s go.  The company is playing coron mittarion in the field.”

Morelen furrowed her brows. She had not been one for pastimes lately.  “What is that?”

Líreno rolled his eyes. “It’s only the sport for the company.  Look, there are three teams.  One team has a ball and tries to put it in a basket on a mound.  Fairly simple, but there are rules as to who can carry the ball and move it.  The defense teams try to take the ball and then do the same.  It’s a lot of fun and we always bet on the winners.  And there are…consequences for the losers.”

Notaldo slung his blue cloak around his shoulders.  “Morelen, you’re really fast.  You should play some time.  And we leave for Nargothrond in a fortnight.  I, for one, look forward to the hot springs.  I hear they are magnificent.  You will absolutely enjoy it there.”

She put her finger to her lips and imagined the caverns, beautifully carved stone with lush gardens and brilliant lights.  Songs and music would fill the halls as her father had shared.  “Maybe…  You know, that actually sounds nice.  My father visited Nargothrond after the attack on Hithlum.  He couldn’t stop raving about it and he’s not one for leisure time.”

Líreno rolled his eyes again.  “I see it runs in the family.  Come along. We’re going to introduce you to a whole new world,” he announced proudly, hands on hips.

Notaldo smiled broadly and gestured to the door.  “After all, nothing, I mean nothing has happened in over a century.  We fought off that attack in Hithlum and it’s been quiet ever since.  Now we train. We patrol.  We clean.  We train some more.  We whipped him so good I think Morgoth fell asleep or maybe he just fled back east. Either way it’s going to be a boring week again,” he said as they descended the stairs from the armory. His words made a lot of sense.   

The courtyard was alive with activity, shouting and drinking.  Members of the company were dressed down, wearing only wrappings around their waists and chasing an elf carrying a white ball.  At first, Morelen couldn’t tell who was on what side or even what the goal of the game was, but the elf carrying the ball dodged all attackers and slammed the ball into a basket on a green mound.  The players were all dirty and covered in sweat, but they were all smiles and laughter.  She found that she liked the energy.

Notaldo pointed at one team.  “See them? That’s the Mísë, the Grays.  They are the reigning champions.  This is all for fun, but the losing teams have to serve them at dinner after.  Plus, some gems change hands.”

“Oh, I see,” Morelen said, watching the action more intently.  “I think I’m starting to understand.”

Líreno pointed to another team.  “That’s great because our company team, the Telepta, the Silvers, need some replacements. That means us,” he said as he wrapped his arms around their necks and pushed them forward.  The Telepta looked beaten.  They were out of breath with slumped shoulders and long faces.  “Hey Ruscano, we’ll swap in,” he told the company captain, an elf with broad shoulders and ruddy hair pulled back in a braid.

Ruscano looked them up and down and narrowed his eyes.  “You lot,” he said skeptically in a deep, gravelly voice.  With a sour frown, he pointed at Morelen.  “This one I don’t know.  And you are?”

“Morelen, daughter of Fëatur,” she said proudly.  “I’ve been riding with this company for more than a hundred years.  I fought in Hithlum.”

“Why have I never seen you? Do you hide?”

She started to speak when Notaldo stepped in.  “She’s very diligent.  I think her sword is the sharpest and most polished in the company.  She rarely comes out of the armory.”

Ruscano snorted.  “I don’t think I have a choice here.  Our team is tapped out.  Fine.  You’re in, Polisher.”

Morelen felt stung. “My name is-”

“I don’t care what your name is girl.  Just stand over there and try not to let the Mísë put the ball in the basket.  And don’t let the Morna, the Blacks, take it either.”

Notaldo tossed his cloak to the ground and then pulled his shirt and pants off, leaving him in only a simple loincloth around his midsection.  “You don’t want to get your stuff dirty, do you?” he said and Líreno did the same.  Morelen’s mouth fell open, but she followed suit, bare chested as the rest.  She covered her upper body with her hand at first and then rolled her eyes and joined the team.  Being in a company of all men, modesty wasn’t always a priority. Standing in the group, she felt small, being so thin among hardened warriors.

The Telepta took the field, and Morelen looked around to try and determine who was who and what was what.  In an instant, the field was a blur of motion and shouting as the ball carrier dodged and weaved around blockers.  She moved towards the Mísë and tried to take the ball from him but slammed into someone and they both fell to the ground in a heap.

Morelen winced on impact and found Notaldo on top of her.  “I didn’t see you,” she said as she caught her breath.  “I’m sorry.”

“No time for sorry!” he said.  “Let’s get back in the game.”  He pulled her up and they came face to face.

She stared into his blue eyes for a moment and froze.  “I…I…” she started when the call of ‘goal’ rang out and the Mísë cheered.

Ruscano grunted loudly in frustration.  “This is what I get for letting you lot on my team!” he yelled as he shook his fists in the air.

The captain of the Mísë strutted by them, the look of victory written on the strong features of his face, a straight nose and a prominent forehead above chiseled cheekbones.  He flexed his powerful muscles and gave the Telepta a toothy grin.  “I want our table spotless tonight.  Not one crumb.  Not one stain.”

Líreno grabbed himself by the crotch.  “I have your stain right here, Tintallo.”  Then he got between his two friends.  “And you two.  Break it up or get a room.  We need to focus.  I don’t want to be scrubbing pots tonight.”  He pointed at Morelen with a smirk.  “You, however, would make a great scrubber.”

Ruscano gathered the Telepta.  “Except for these three…replacements, we’re tired.  We’re behind, but not by much.  The Morna are just a bunch of losers, so we don’t have to worry about them.  We need to buckle down and focus.  The ball is ours for this play, so I’ll handle Tintallo. Hurinon, you’ll be the carrier. Everyone, protect him. Understood?”

Everyone nodded and the huddle broke up.  Hurinon, a thin Noldo with a long face, sharp features and brown hair took the ball and knelt.  On the signal, he began to dash in a zig zag to elude the defense.  Notaldo blocked one Morna and then flipped a Mísë on his back, letting Hurinon exploit a gap.  Ruscano tried to block Tintallo, but the Mísë captain was too fast, and he slammed into Hurinon, knocking the ball into the air.  A Mísë reached up and grabbed the ball, but Morelen leapt and took it from his grasp.  She landed, surprised that she had the ball.  Then, she saw Tintallo rushing at her, a look of satisfaction all over his face.  Then, everything began to move in slow motion.

Morelen sidestepped, letting Tintallo crash into his own teammate.  As they fell over, she dodged a weak attack by a Morna and ran towards the mound.  Three Mísës moved to surround her and drove in as one.  Seeing no way out, she flicked the ball to Notaldo who slammed it into the basket.  In another moment the three knocked her over and her breath left her.  She closed her eyes as they crashed to the ground.

Underneath the pile of bodies, Morelen winced and blinked her eyes.  It felt almost as bad as when that elf nearly crushed the life out of her. “Off please,” she said painfully. Everyone moved slowly until she saw Notaldo’s hand reaching down to her, which she gratefully accepted.  She felt a tingle in his grip.

“You were magnificent,” he said with a giant smile, his lips practically ear to ear.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast. That was better than Hithlum.”

Ruscano rushed up with a face full of wonder.  “That was…that was incredible.  Watching Tintallo crumple over like that when you dodged him…  You…are…fast.  It’s like you have the blood of Nessa in your veins.”  He had a big, toothy grin and his hands gesticulated wildly with his words.

Notaldo laughed out loud and then nodded.  “All I saw was a blur as Tintallo piled into his teammate.  He’ll never live that down.  I think we make a great team,” he said as he grasped Morelen on the shoulder.

Ruscano patted them both on the back.  “I was wrong about you lot… I mean you riders.  You can play for the Telepta anytime,” he said to Morelen.  “Now, we’re only one behind and have the momentum. Morna has the ball now.  Come, let us-”

A loud horn blew, interrupting the game.  A sentry leaned over the wall of a nearby tower and blew the horn again.  “To arms!  To arms!  There is an attack on Ard Galen!  Angrod and Aegnor are hard pressed and falling back with losses.  A great beast of fire and terror leads the attack!  To arms!”

Morelen’s throat tightened, and her heart skipped a beat.  “What new horror is this?” she said to Notaldo and his eyes flashed fear for a moment.  She had never seen him afraid before as he was always full of sarcasm.

Then he seemed to force a smile to cover his earlier expression.  He had noticed her look of concern at him.  “It’ll be nothing again.  Just like Hithlum.  No force can stand against the might of the Noldor.”

Morelen nodded stiffly. Her first battle was horrific enough. She could still envision the field of mutilated bodies with arrows and spears sticking out of them.  She reached out and grasped Notaldo’s hand briefly. “I trust you.  We’ll be alright.”

Ruscano was already yelling at the top of his lungs.  “You heard the herald!  To arms! To Arms!  Get your lazy asses moving!  To Arms!”  His iron gray eyes bored in on them.  “This means you two!” he yelled in his gravelly voice.  “Ten minutes!  Back in the courtyard in ten minutes!”  He waved his arms at the stable grooms.  “Mounts ready to ride in fifteen!  Move it!”

Morelen released Notaldo’s hand.  She found that she liked the feeling and wanted to do it again.  But for now, they had to ride and ride quickly.

Chapter End Notes

I made up the game, it being like basketball/soccer with three teams.  Guess who the dragon is.  I want to showcase the relationships in the company and move Morelen's character arc along.

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19)  The Cult of the Dark Lord – Year of the Sun 260 Yávië (Autumn)

Moran

It took some time to get used to the south of Middle Earth.  The heat and humidity were always something to wrestle with.  The jungles were always full of strange creatures and sounds, so different than the temperate forests of the north.  And mold and rust got into everything.  It was a constant battle.  Only the fervor of his mother and the court kept him focused.  Several camps had already sprung up in their new home and scouting was ongoing for the location of a citadel and other holds.

Moran pulled his shirt collar loose and fanned himself.  He tried to focus on the scent of incense over the smell of sweat.  “Even in this tent, the heat is unbearable.  I cannot wait until we have permanent holds, and we can employ some magic to help.”

“Patience, my son,” Ardana said as she sipped a drink full of ice.  “Secrecy is of the utmost importance now.  We cannot let the Guild or the Three know of our location.  Somehow, they learned of our arrival, and we have lost the element of surprise.  All of our raids have failed, and we must fall back, consolidate and build.”

Moran furrowed his brows. “How?  How did they know?”

Ardana turned, her gown shimmering like silver stars with an edge of menace.  “I do not know yet.  I suspect a traitor in our midst, but I am unable to determine who or how. I am having Gorthaur lead the effort to ensure the loyalty of our people.  He will get to the bottom of this.  He has…means.”  She walked over to him and handed him her drink.  She blew on the glass and frost formed on it.  “There, cool yourself down.”

He took the glass and drank.  It was cool and refreshing with a sweet flavor that he found delicious.  “Thank you mother.  What’s in this?  It’s very tasty.”

“It’s a fruit drink. Yavëkamba has a way with recipes. She’s done wonders with the native plants here.”

Moran nodded.  “I owe her my life after the last battle.  We could not do without her, I can say that.” He tried to sound confident with his mother, but it was always hard for him.  She was a difficult person to impress.

She smiled in that condescending way that an adult does to humor a child.  “Indeed, my son.  Now you best prepare.  We will be receiving emissaries from one of the…human tribes.  They are the second born…primitive, savage.  You are to treat them as such, but we will recruit them to the cause of the king.”

“Human?”

Ardana straightened his collar.  “Yes, I’ve known about them for some time.  Our scouts discovered their tribe moving west.  They have agreed to parley with us with the hope of an alliance.  We have many powers and artifacts that they wish to have access to.  Our numbers are few so far and our armies are in need of soldiers.  We could not survive a direct assault from the Guild.”

Moran’s scrunched his face up in surprise and worry.  “What do I need to do?”

Ardana sat down in front of him and fussed over his clothing, a red and black shirt and pants, woven from the finest of cloth.  She then took a cloth and rubbed out a spot on the gold embellishment of his octagonal brooch.  “I need you to be a diplomat today.  But these…humans are very superstitious.  They seem to worship stick figures and dolls, but we will show them the true way and the true religion.  The way of Morgoth.  The way of light.  If that means some magic and some fear, so be it.  Everything needs to be perfect.  We cannot have them going to the Guild and having them hear of nonsense like freedom and self-determination or other such drivel.  These people need to be controlled and guided by strength.”

“Yes, strength.  My father is all about strength.”

His mother smiled and nodded.  “You understand, my son.  Raw power is what he is.  We want to make sure everyone comprehends that no one can stand against him.  Even Sauron doesn’t understand this.  He is all about guile and control and order. The way of your father is simple: those who are with us prosper; those who are against us are destroyed.”

There was a knock on the tent flap.  The Messenger, Sȗlherok, poked his head in.  “Apologies for the interruption.  The human delegation is here.  May I show them in?”

Moran was always glad to see the Messenger.  Sȗlherok was always smiling and had an edgy humor.  The Sindarin elf was always getting into some mischief or other and he always tried to bring Moran into it.  “We need to find you a girl,” he’d always say.  Moran liked the idea, but always turned him down for fear of his mother.

“Give us a minute,” Ardana said with a dismissive wave and Sȗlherok bowed out, but not before a wink to Moran.  The Astrologer pulled Moran out of his chair and then inspected him up and down, straightening his silk shirt and rebuttoning his collar.  She picked up his velvet cloak and silver pin and moved to put it on him, but he held his hand out.

“Mother, it’s too hot for that.  This will be fine.  You fuss too much.”

Ardana snorted. “Nonsense…  Fine.  Very well. I’ll let it go this once.”  She turned and called outside, “Messenger. We are ready.  Bring them in and have guards nearby.  Just in case.”

Sȗlherok poked his head back in and gave what appeared to be a forced smile and nodded.  “Of course, my lady.  Hyardo and Cambregol will be near and Sȗldun’s guards will be ready. I’ll send Elendur in with you.”

Moran felt some guilt over how his mother treated the other members of the court.  “Thank you Sȗlherok,” he said with sincerity.  “We are ready to receive the delegation.”

Sȗlherok motioned to a group just outside of the tent.  “This way. You’ll meet with the emissaries of the King of the Earth.”

A group of a half dozen humans entered the tent along with one of the guards and Moran was taken aback by their appearance.  Their clothing was rough and made entirely of animal skins simply colored in earthen hues. The most striking thing about them, however, was that they had hair on their faces.  And their leader’s hair was mostly white and he had wrinkles on his face. Moran felt the need to touch that, but thought the better of it and remained seated.  He forced a nervous smile and nodded.  “Welcome friends.  Thank you for coming.  I am Moran and this is Ardana, the leader of our group,” he said in Sindarin, a language that he knew they understood.

The man with white hair pursed his lips.  “You called us here.  Now what is this about,” he said gruffly in heavily accented Sindarin.

Moran took a breath and then motioned to Elendur, one of the guards.  She was a slender Noldo with dark brown hair and a pretty face, soft and oval shaped.  She was dressed as a servant, but he could see a dagger hidden under her robe.  As a student of Sȗldun he knew that she was a formidable fighter.  Elendur brought a tray of drinks and food and placed it on the table between them.  “Some sweet wines and some bitter ales for you, lord,” she said, slowly waving her hand over the flagons.  “Cured meats and cheese as well,” she added, pointing to the cut sausages and pungent cheeses.

The man poured himself a cup of ale and took some sausage.  He gave it a sniff and took a bite.  “You’ve learned something of our culture,” he said with a nod.  “I am Almar.  This is my brother Almor and my sons, Alann and Alman.  We expected…more elven food.  This is a good surprise.”

“We have met other men before and have learned from them.  We wished to make you feel welcome.”  Moran took a cup of sweet wine, admiring the intricate etching in the gold.  He swirled the wine and then took a sip.

Almar made a gesture with his head towards the others, and they took drinks and food.  He finished his piece of sausage, smacking loudly.  With meat still in his mouth, he said, “So Moran, why are we here?  What do you need from us?”

“Need?  I prefer to think of this meeting as what we can give to you.  I bring you the true faith.  I bring you the word of the King of the Earth and Lord of the North.  He is the chosen one and he, alone, can fix the world.”

Almar shifted in his seat and pursed his lips, seemingly unconvinced.  “We have met Silvan elves, but you are the first of your kind that we have encountered.  We are a simple, but proud folk and we do not like the idea of being under anyone.  Our faith is in nature, spirits of wood, air and earth.  Who is this King of the Earth?  Why should we believe him?”

Moran was caught by the questions.  Why should they believe him?  Why should they worship his father?  He felt a pit in his stomach, and he took a long drink from his cup to buy time.  He swallowed slowly and forced a smile. “The king, my father, holds the key to power.  His strength is unmatched in all of the world.  He remakes the land with his strength,” Moran said, moving his hand in front of him.  He tried to sound strong, but his voice wavered, sounding thin.  “Mountains fall at his command and oceans appear.  There was a great war eons ago in which the king crushed his enemies.  Continents sank and the sea rushed in.  His enemies fled in fear, and we had peace for a long time.  Unfortunately, new enemies arose, and we fight a new war.”

Almar’s expression soured. “Prove it.  Show me this power.”

Moran grew impatient and wanted to blurt out something sharp, but he felt Ardana’s hand on his shoulder.  He bit his lip, holding in his feelings.

“The son of the king will now demonstrate that power,” she said with supreme confidence.  She briefly touched the octagonal brooch around Moran’s neck.

He bristled at the interruption for a brief moment, but then took the clue.  His mother had to save him again.  He stood up stiffly, grasping the brooch in his hand.  “Behold, the power of the king,” he said, more confidently, anger tinged in his words.  The jewel grew cold to the touch and then a sickly green light poked out between his fingers.  A low moan like the howling of wind in a storm emanated from inside his grip, causing the men to sit back in their seats, dropping their food to the floor, their jaws going slack.  Moran felt power surge up his arm and into his chest and a wild grin twisted his mouth. “I am the king’s herald.  I speak with his authority,” he called in a now unnatural voice that reverberated in the tent.  Slimy tentacles grew from the brooch and Moran was forced to release it. Fear and exhilaration alike mixed in his mind as the tendrils snapped out at the men.

One tendril lashed out and wrapped around Almar’s neck.  The man’s mouth fell open and he fell to his knees, his earlier arrogance gone. “Please!  Mercy!”

Moran immediately released the brooch from his grasp and the sickly green tendrils vanished in an instant.  Still infused with the power of his father he called out, “Do you believe now?  Are you convinced?” he asked, his voice still warped with power.

The men cowered and knelt before him, Almar holding his throat and coughing.  “We are, lord,” he said in a raspy voice.  “We acknowledge the power of the king!”

The power of the Dark Lord was fading now, and Moran again felt uncomfortable and inexperienced.  “Thank you.  This is all we have wanted.”  His voice had returned to normal.  He felt a strong grip on his shoulder and looked up at his mother.

“That is not enough,” she said in a clear voice.  She stepped in front of Moran and pointed down to Almar.  The King of the Earth requires sacrifice.”  She pointed back and forth between Almar’s sons.

Moran’s blood ran cold. What was his mother doing?  Almar had bent the knee.  Wasn’t that what they sought?  “Mother?”

“Quiet son,” she said without looking back and with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “Almar, your king gives you a choice.  You must choose.  The king promises you great power.  A kingdom can be yours here.”

Tears began to stream down Almar’s face.  “Take me, take me.  Not my sons.”

Ardana shook her head. “No.  Not you.  You must make a sacrifice.  This shows the King of the Earth your commitment.”

Moran sat quietly, feeling impotent and small.  What was happening?  He had completely lost control.  He saw Almar’s sons stirring.  It looked like they might fight.  Elendur stepped forward from the shadows in the tent and put her dagger to Alman’s throat. This took all of the resistance from the humans.

Almar pounded his fist on the ground and nodded.  “Take him. Take Alman,” he said, choking through tears and then buried his face in the ground.

Elendur pulled Alman up and pushed him forward.  “I await your command,” she said.

Then Ardana turned to Moran.  “Son, you must perform the sacrifice.  It is for your father.  He will drink of the man’s essence, and it will be added to his power.”  She handed him a kynac made of black metal that had a silver handle and hilt.  At first, Moran refused to take it and pursed his lips.  Ardana seized his hand and put the weapon in his grasp.  “You have no choice, son.  It is your destiny.”   

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase how this cult forms and the evil behind it.  We also look at the dynamic between Ardana and Moran, her, an overprotective mother and he, a momma's boy.

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20)  The Fire of the Dragon – Year of the Sun 260 Yávië (Autumn)

Morelen

Notaldo grabbed his linen shirt and tossed Morelen hers.  “I kind of like you like this,” he said with a half-smile and then grabbed her hand. Then, he turned serious, his smile fading and his eyes focused.  “Stay with us and don’t get separated.  We’re stronger together.”

Líreno picked up and put on his shirt.  “I guess I don’t get any help here,” he said with a wry chuckle.  “Notaldo is right though.  We crossed the grinding ice together, fought through the Dagor Aglareb and we routed them at Hithlum.  We’ll come through this, just stick with us.  Hurry, let us arm and ride out.  Hopefully Morelen’s armor won’t get too scuffed up.”

They ran back to the armory along with a hundred other riders.  The room was din of shouting and the clang of metal as the warriors strapped on armor and weapons.  Morelen was quite practiced at this now and quickly put her harness and buckled on her sword.  Notaldo helped her with some of the hard-to-reach straps and then she returned the favor.  She wiped the sweat from her face with a cloth and took some deep gulps of water, as thirsty as she was.  She grabbed Luinë, her recurve bow and two quivers of long, gull-feathered arrows.  She tested the string and found the balance to be excellent.   With the others, she rushed back out into the courtyard and fell into line.  Several companies were gathering, all standing tall at attention as grooms brought mounts from the stables to their riders. There were enough supplies for a week on their saddles.  It was all an extremely organized muster, the result of years of training with rows of troops in silver and blue, still as statues.

“Here comes the prince,” Notaldo said.  “Remember, stay close to us,” he reminded Morelen, and she nodded.  This would be her second battle, and she was just as anxious as the first.

On his magnificent white horse that was barded in silver plates with a sky-blue caparison, Fingon rode by at a walk, his herald mounted behind him, bearing the prince’s banner, a golden sun with rays on a field of blue.  Morelen felt her heart stir with pride as he passed.  He stopped at the head of the force and turned his horse back. She watched his every move and awaited his words with anticipation.

“Riders of my company, we head forth into danger to defend our lands, our homes and our people!  Our kinsmen Angrod and Aegnor need our aid. They are hard pressed against the forces of the dark enemy and his foul beast.  We will never shirk our duty.  We will never leave our friends.  We will triumph on this day!  Ride forth!”

Morelen’s hair stood on end and her skin prickled at the words of her prince.  As one, the riders mounted and gave a cry of approval.  She was towards the back of the line and waited for some time before she tapped her horse’s flanks and fell into formation.  She could feel the life and energy in Lindarion, her faithful steed for years.  The Telepta and Morna were horse archers and would cover the Mísë, who were lancers.  It was a steady ride of several hours until they could see columns of smoke and the orange glow of flame rising from Ard Galen.  Word came that the High King, Fingolfin was moving his heavy infantry with haste to join the battle and that Finrod was marching from Nargothrond to aid his brothers.  Rumors that Maedhros was moving from the east to assist also circulated among the company.

Fingon’s herald blew a horn to bring the company to a halt by a river and they dismounted to rest and water their horses before battle.  Morelen removed her silver, crested helmet and let her horse drink. “That’s a lot of smoke,” she said. “Have we ever faced anything like this?” she asked, her voice wavering.  Fear of the unknown was something that always gnawed at her.

Líreno shook his head. “A beast of fire and flame?  Not a balrog?  I’m not sure.  Balrogs are bad enough.”

Another horn blew and she saw a dozen riders approaching at a full gallop.  They reined in their horses just in front of the company, the mounts braying loudly as they stopped.

“Angrod, Aegnor!” Fingon called.  “What news?” Morelen could see that the they were covered in soot and blood and a lump formed in her throat.    For so great warriors to be fleeing at full speed did not bode well.

“We’ve been overrun!” Angrod shouted back as he ran up to the prince, his blond hair flowing from beneath his helmet.  “A great lizard of fire leads the orcs and trolls.  His scales are as shields and his claws are as spears.  We could not stand.”

Aegnor chimed in. “Our losses are high, and we’ve been cut off from the main group.  Many fled east to join with Maedhros.  Thank the Valar you’ve come.  Can you ride now?”

Fingon nodded.  “We will move with haste.  Company!  I give you one minute then mount up!”  The tension in his voice was palpable.

Notaldo took Morelen’s hand.  “No, we’ve never seen this before,” he said, his face showing worry, his brows furrowed and his jaw tense.  “I…I’ve been wanting to do this for some time and now seems like a good time,” he added and then leaned in and kissed her, just a peck on the lips.

She stood, stunned for a moment.  Thoughts raced through her head.  What was this?  Did she see this coming?  She blinked and gulped hard, thinking about her next move.  What would be the harm?  She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her.  It was almost pure instinct.  In the midst of war and danger, she felt safe.  All of the polishing and sharpening and fire lizards meant nothing while she held this embrace.

“Break it up!  Break it up you two,” called Ruscano in his gravelly voice.  He separated them strongly, but gently with his hands.  “There’ll be time for that later.  I don’t care what you do on your off time, but out here, you belong to me. Now mount up!  Everyone, mount up!” he yelled, waving his arms above him. “This is what I get for having you lot in my company,” he said with a grunt, but then turned and gave them a wink.

“Yes, captain!” they shouted and then looked at each other and laughed.  Notaldo grabbed her hand one more time and then swung into his saddle, followed by Morelen in hers.

Líreno rolled his eyes and sighed.  “I knew this was coming.  I just knew it.  By the Valar, don’t get distracted now.  I need you both in the hot springs of Nargothrond.  I will chase you two into the Halls of Mandos if you don’t heed me.”

Notaldo snorted while Morelen blushed furiously.  She steadied herself in the saddle quietly and then drew her bow to test the string to alleviate her embarrassment.  “I’m…I’m ready,” she said, her words more to fill the uncomfortable silence as her feet kicked the stirrups.

Notaldo leaned over in his saddle.  “Remember what I said, Morelen.”

She nodded just as the horn blew.  As tired and battered as they were, Angrod and Aegnor and their riders fell in with them. “We don’t leave our brethren,” Aegnor said.  “We ride with you!”  The strength in his voice was clear for all who heard.

A trot became a canter and the riders accelerated onto the plains.  The acrid smell of smoke soon became heavy, and they rode past dozens of survivors fleeing past them.  Many of them were yelling and waving.  “You can’t stop them!  The beast is too powerful!”

Morelen’s mouth fell open. How horrible was this?  What kind of beast did they face?  She tightened her stomach and swallowed hard.  She would not fail.  Like the last battle, she would prove her worth.  So many things passed through her head.  Her mind passed to the kiss just for a moment before it came into view and then her blood ran cold.  “By the Valar,” she said and gulped hard, her gray eyes huge.

The beast was massive with dark scales running the length of its body.  It looked like an overgrown common lizard but for the horns about its head and face and its red eyes.  It lashed with its tail, smashing boulders and then it roared, shaking the very ground where the Noldor rode.  She looked to Notaldo and Líreno and their faces said it all, mouths and eyes wide open in horror.

Ruscano rode by and slapped them on their helmeted heads.  “Wake up!  Wake up you lot!  I don’t care if it was Morgoth himself.  We ride!”

The bang of Ruscano’s gauntlet on her helmet brought Morelen back to reality.  For a moment, she wished she were back in her father’s arms, singing and dancing in the gardens of Ty-Ar-Rana.  It was a place of serenity, full of tall trees and fragrant flowers.  She snapped back to the present and her gut roiled, and her hands shook.  “No…I have to,” she whispered.  “Courage.”

Angrod rode among them, his hair blowing in the strong wind and his eyes focused and determined.  “Steady brothers, steady!  Its mouth and eyes are weak!  We shot away some of its scales!  We can beat it!”

Fingon rode with him, standing up in his stirrups, waving his sword.  He stopped next to Morelen and grasped her arm.  “Sister…Morelen,” he said, getting her attention.  “Thank you for aiding our people again.  You are brave to ride with us.”  It was just what she needed.

She blinked hard and focused on the prince.  “T…thank you, my prince.  I am ready.”

He spurred his horse and galloped back to the head of the line.  “Ride now my friends!  Ride now to save our people!”  How could she let him down?  How could she shirk her duty?

They closed on the beast with such rapidity, the elven horses pounding their hooves on the hard dirt and grass of Ard Galen.  Notaldo leaned over from the saddle.  “They’re calling it a dragon.”  It had now grown in their sight to huge proportions and unleashed a torrent of flame from its maw onto a small village.  Elves ran from the burning buildings in all directions, some engulfed in fire.  The screams could be heard even over the sound of the galloping horses.

Fingon turned back to his riders.  “Archers! Engage at a distance.  Keep moving and stay out of its reach!  Draw it away from the village.  Lancers, we attack when it’s worn down.  Protect the archers!”

Ruscano drew his bow and waved it over his head.  “Telepta, on me!  Ride!” The horse archers surged forward, hooves throwing up dirt and grass in their wake.  Morelen knocked an arrow, holding her bow and reins in one hand and guiding Lindarion with her knees and feet.  Ruscano pointed his bow and the company veered right, keeping the dragon at an angle.  “Fire!” he shouted and two hundred arrows filled the sky.  Shafts pelted the dragon, but most bounced off of its scales harmlessly.  The few that found a mark made the dragon roar, the sound shaking the earth beneath the pounding of hooves.  It was a sound that chilled heart and soul, reverberating deep into the earth.  The dragon shook its scaly, horned head and looked directly at them now, fully aware of the attack, its eyes like the molten lava of Thangorodrim.  “Fire at will!  Fire at will!” Ruscano ordered as he unleashed an arrow that sank deep into the beast’s nostril.

The dragon roared again and swatted the shaft from its nose with a claw that was as long as a sword. The edges of its mouth curled into a sneer and it reared its head back.  It opened its jaw, and its throat and chest glowed red and a ball of fire formed in its maw. 

“Loose formation! Now!” Ruscano ordered and in perfect symmetry the riders spaced themselves.  But it would not stop the devastation.  A stream of liquid flame burst from the dragon’s maw and five riders and horses turned to ash in an instant.  Morelen turned to see this and her breath froze in her throat.  She fired an arrow, a weak shot that fell short of its mark.  It was then that she noticed that she had veered away from the company.

“Keep it together Morelen! Draw deep!” Ruscano shouted as he rode to stay with her.  He pulled his own bowstring back to full draw with his thumb.  On instinct and training, she mindlessly followed his example and nocked an arrow, pulling the string back to her cheek with her thumb. “Fire!”  Their arrows flew true and sank deep into the dragon’s mouth, causing it to recoil.  It turned its head and looked directly at them, it’s slitted eyes blazing red with hate. Together, they knocked another arrow and drew, but the beast leapt with such speed and ferocity that it seemed impossible for something of its size.  Morelen’s arrow glanced harmlessly off of one of its scales and she cried out in terror. Its open maw was filled with teeth almost as long as she was tall, and the stench of sulfur poured forth.  The dragon’s head came down and, in an instant, Ruscano was gone in a shower of blood.  An arm flew by her face and Lindarion tore away from the scene.  Morelen’s mind was broken and all she could hear was the sound of her own scream.

She only came to when Notaldo seized her arm and they came to a stop.  His mouth was moving, but she heard nothing for a few seconds more. “Morelen!  Can you hear me?” he shouted, but it sounded like he was calling from down a long tunnel.  He shook her arm, but it was stiff like a thick branch, her hand clutching Luinë with a death grip.

“He’s.  He’s…he’s,” was all she could utter until Notaldo grabbed her helmet with both hands.  She looked at him, but her eyes were unfocused.  “He’s gone.  Ruscano. I didn’t stay with…  He died for me.  I couldn’t…  I’m a coward!” she shrieked as she pounded one fist on the pommel of her saddle over and over.

“No!  Listen to me.  We must fight!  Stay with me! Draw an arrow and ride!”  He took off at a gallop and she followed closely, more on instinct than anything else.  Líreno and Hurinon fell in with them along with a dozen others and they began raining arrows into the dragon.  The multitude of shafts were having an effect, and the dragon thrashed about, trying to claw arrows from its thick hide.  “Keep up your fire!  Don’t slack off!” Notaldo shouted.  “This is for Ruscano!”  He launched an arrow right into the dragon’s eye and it bellowed in pain.  It slammed a claw down towards them, but they guided their horses away and it crashed into the ground, rending the earth like a thunderclap.

Now focused, Morelen snarled, a sound full of hate and fury and she launched an arrow that sank deep into the dragon’s nose, only the gull feathers showing.  Notaldo shot another one into its open mouth and the beast had had enough.  It turned and slammed its massive, spiked tail into the ground in front of the riders, throwing up a wall of dirt and smoldering grass, forcing them to turn away. It flew north at a run of astonishing speed, bellowing all the way back to Angband, orcs in tow as the lancers rode them down like wheat.

Lindarion came to a stop and Morelen felt weak, her stomach in knots. She became faint and began to fall from the saddle until she felt arms around her, holding her up.  “Easy.  Easy Morelen. I’m going to help you down.  Are you hurt?”  It was Notaldo.  He dismounted and eased her down into the grass.  “Are you hurt?”

“No.  No.  I got him killed Notaldo!”  Tears filled her eyes and she bit down on the back of her gloved hand through her open visor. “He tried to…I didn’t…”  Her breath came in choking gasps.

“You couldn’t have known. It’s who Ruscano was.  He was gruff, but he loved the company.  He loved its people.  He would give his life for any of us.  You came back and fought bravely.  And you’re alive.  That is what I care about.”

Líreno and Hurinon rode up and dismounted.  They knelt beside Morelen.  “What can we do?” Líreno asked.  “We’re here for you.  The Telepta stick together.”  He brought out his water flask and poured some into Morelen’s mouth, which she drank greedily.

Hurinon took out an herb mixture and crushed it under her nose, releasing a refreshing fragrance.  “My mother’s concoction.  She has a way with healing.”  Morelen felt life returning to her limbs and she started to stand, assisted by the others.

Notaldo steadied her. “We will honor the memory and the bravery of Ruscano and the other riders.  I will make sure of it.”  He waved over to the rest of the Telepta, who trotted towards them.  “Please, help me recover the fallen.  We will camp here for the night.  Set pickets and be ready.  We don’t know if they’re coming back.  We will help the villagers on the morrow.”

In a few minutes, the victorious lancers began to ride back from a field of slaughtered orcs.  The thunder of hooves got the Telepta’s attention and they looked over.  Fingon rode at the head with his herald along with Angrod, Aegnor and Tintallo, leading the Misë.  Fingon and Tintallo dismounted and strode towards the tired Telepta.  Notaldo stood strait and announced, “Company, attend the prince,” and all came to attention, either on horse or foot.

Fingon removed his silver helmet and then raised his hand and shook his head.  “No, no need, Notaldo.  You have all fought hard against a horrific foe.  Be at ease.  We are friends here.”  He put his hand on Notaldo’s shoulder.  “I saw you rally the company and lead the attack home.  You drove the dragon off.  I ache at the loss of Ruscano and his riders, but I name you Captain of the Telepta.  Bear the title with honor, ride swiftly and fight with courage.”

Notaldo pushed his chest out and stood with pride, nodded slowly.  “My prince.  I thank you,” he said with a low bow.  “We will remember Ruscano and the fallen.  Our company will recover our dead and wounded and we will camp here for the night to rest.  We will help the village at first light.”

“Well spoken Captain. Let us set camp and provide food and shelter for the village.  Our whole company will render aid,” Fingon said as he moved to others in the army, touching Líreno and Hurinon on the shoulders.  Even the arrogant Tintallo took the new captain’s hand and nodded solemnly to him.  No words needed to be said.

Fingon then took Morelen’s hand.  “I empathize with how you feel.  You think you’re responsible.  I see it in your eyes,” he said in a clear voice as he raised her chin.  “You’re not.  You fought a powerful beast, created in the evil mind of the Dark Lord. It is responsible for the deaths of our friends.”

Morelen bit down hard on her lower lip, letting the pain overcome her grief.  Her whole body shook.  “I ran.  I ran from him.  I was terrified.  Please…” Her eyes looked down.

“No one has faced a dragon before.  Morgoth’s creatures are more terrible at every battle.  You are an elf, not a Vala.  You would have died too if you had stayed.  What you feel is normal.  You came back and fought with courage.  You have every right to be in my company.”

She shook even harder with shame and guilt.  “I don’t…I…” she began before her voice froze in her throat.

Fingon removed her helmet and handed it to Notaldo.  He put his right hand behind her neck and pulled her forward, touching his forehead on hers.  “I release you from your guilt.  You are forgiven.  Be with your company and then rest and be healed.  My house is open to you.”  He let her go and then told Notaldo, “Take command of your company Captain.  I will see to it that the villagers are safe tonight. Your people need you.  We will camp with you tonight and take watch. Tomorrow we will mourn and heal our people.”

Notaldo wrapped Morelen up in his arms and cradled her head.  “We will survive.  You will survive,” he said softly into her pointed ear.

She wiped her nose with the back of her gloved hand.  She looked back to see Fingon walking away.  She took a deep breath.  She needed to know something.  “My prince, do we know what that dragon was?”

He turned back to face her. “Another horror of Morgoth’s.  Anything born of the Dark Lord is vile beyond measure. I do think that we learned a lot today and I can only imagine that there will be others in the future.  Beyond that, I don’t know, but I did hear the orcs call it Glaurung.”

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase how Morelen is powerful, but young and inexperienced and plagued with doubt.  I also want to show how and why Fingon was such a great leader.

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21) Sacrifice – Year of the Sun 260 Yávië (Autumn)

Moran

Elendur dragged Alman by knife point out of the tent, followed by Ardana and Moran along with the humans.  The guards stepped aside to let Gorthaur step forward.  The dark priest was already in his stately black robes, trimmed in crimson and gold with his black hair in his unflattering bowl cut above his pale face. Behind him was a rack of wood and metal with grooves dug into the frame.  Moran held the black kynac, forged of meteoric metal known as Eog, and followed Elendur.  The humans fell to their knees, begging for mercy for their kin.  Moran looked back to see them beating helplessly on the ground. Alman was barely more than an adolescent.  Moran was the son of the king, but what was he doing?  Why did this need to happen?  He made eye contact with Sȗlherok, who shook his head and looked away, spitting on the ground.

Ardana pushed her son forward and pointed to the rack.  “There. Gorthaur will guide you.  Do what must be done, and you and your father will reap the rewards of power.  And your power will be their power,” she said, gesturing to the humans.

Moran’s feet felt as lead and each step was harder than the last.  Even the heat and humidity of the jungle couldn’t stop the icy feeling in his heart.  He gestured to Yavëkamba to join him.  She always gave him strength ever since she healed him after Hithlum.  She flared her nostrils and frowned.  “I will not,” she declared in a forced monotone.

Ardana seemed to sense his thoughts about his friends.  “Forget them,” she declared with a knifelike cut of her hand.  “They are squeamish.  The son of the king must stand strong.  You can only show strength.  Go now and complete your destiny!”  She gave him a hard shove.

He staggered forward as Elendur brought Alman to the rack.  He took a look back at his mother, hoping for something, anything, but got nothing.  Elendur released the human to Gorthaur and then turned away.  Moran thought she looked green, her pretty face taut as if she were nauseous.  Gorthaur held the octagonal brooch at his neck, and it glowed a sickly shade of yellow. Alman fell limp into his arms and the priest guided the young man onto the rack, securing his arms and legs in thick leather straps.  It was then that Moran realized that the grooves were cut where someone’s neck, wrists and heart would be.  Almar let out a groan that struck right at Moran’s chest.  How old was this boy?  Alman couldn’t be more than a hundred in the lifespan of an elf.  But did humans age the same?  He tried to put any thought but what was happening into his head.

Moran turned back again to his mother.  “Why?” He wanted to run, to flee into the jungle and never return.  Without a word, she pointed back to the boy tied to the rack.  His breath came in gulps and his right hand shook, making the kynac tremble.  With his left hand, he grasped his brooch and dark power surged into his body, feeling like his father had put worms into his brain, crawling and digging.

Gorthaur lifted up his arms and his features twisted with unholy glee.  He called to the sky, “Morgoth!  Master! King of the Earth, we call upon you to consecrate this gift of blood!  This gift of life!  We call upon your power to give us strength to cleanse this land in your name!”  The yellow glow from his brooch expanded and touched Moran and their energies linked to become as one.  The wind began howling like the sound of a pack of hungry wolves.

Moran basked in the sickly yellow and green light and the energy seized control of his hands, his feet, his mind.  The worms were digging fast, crawling deeper and deeper into his psyche.  It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.  He could not tell if it was his will or his father’s but he took almost robotic steps forward to Alman.  He fought to stand still, but an unseen force pushed him forward.  The boy seemed aware, but could not move.  His eyes showed it all: terror and fear, begging for mercy.  Moran raised the kynac, wishing he could drop it, trying to unlock his fingers, but he plunged it into Alman’s belly.  There was a shriek, the smell of blood and a thick liquid coated his hand.  Then Moran blacked out.

When his mind returned, he realized that he was holding up a bloody heart.  Gorthaur took it from him and let it float before them.  It came apart into hundreds of pieces and was then absorbed into Moran’s brooch.  It felt like the surge of power would rip Moran limb from limb it was so overwhelming.  The worms were in a frenzy now, ripping his whole being apart.

Gorthaur cried out, “It is done!  The Master has accepted the sacrifice!  We are consecrated in his glory through blood magic!”

In an instant, the glow faded around them and the power in Moran vanished.  Only a whisp of mist floated away from the brooch and dissipated in the wind.  Moran staggered back, bracing himself on the rack with his hand.  He looked down at the utterly mutilated body of Alman.  Blood was flowing down the grooves into a container. Did he do this?  Did he do this horror?  Moran felt sick.  He dropped the kynac and ran around to the rear of the rack.  He made grunting noises before the contents of his stomach shot onto the ground.  Then, his knees sagged and he collapsed onto the ground, his vomit soaking his pants. His breath came in raspy gulps. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked, sobbing like an infant.  “What have I done?  What have I done?”

Yavëkamba ran to him, but Ardana waved her off.  “Stop!” she commanded the Healer.  “He is my son and it is time for him to be a man, not a child.”  She reached down and grasped Moran by the ear, dragging him to his feet.  Her black eyes flashed and her gown shimmered in her distaste.  She took his face in both hands and forced him to look at Alman. The boy could no longer be recognized.

“No.  No,” Moran said weakly, trying to shake his head, but his mother’s grip was firm.

She pushed his head closer. “Look at your work son.  Revel in your father’s power.  His blood flows through your veins.  You will always follow in his footsteps.  Now grow up and face your destiny,” she said coldly.  She released his head and turned to the humans. “Rise now, allies of the king! Rise now and accept his power!” she called and dark clouds gathered directly overhead in seconds.  The feeling of humidity grew like a wave of pressure.  She raised her hand and a single bolt of lightning shot from the sky onto her fingertip, which crackled with energy.  There were gasps and then the humans rose and stood before Ardana.  “Accept the power of Morgoth!”  They fell to their knees and kissed her gown, energy flowing from her body to theirs.

Moran sagged back onto the rack.  He tried to wipe the blood from his hands, but it was futile.  He scrubbed harder in an almost frenzy, turning his skin red as well. He felt gentle hands guide him back and he turned to see Yavëkamba.  She took a wet towel and removed the blood, dipping it in a large golden bowl and then wringing it out to wipe again.  She stroked his cheek and whispered into his ear.  “You are not this.  You are the gentle boy who watches the stars and listens to my stories of Valinor.  The boy I play hide and seek with.  The boy who stays in my arms all night.  Remember.”  She blew a breath into his face and an image of two great trees, one of gold and one of silver, became imprinted in his mind.  “Remember.”

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase the horror of the ritual and the cult.  Also, we look at Gorthaur's personality and Yavekamba's compassion.

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22)  The Alliance Part 1 – Year of the Sun 300 Tuilë (Spring)

Chrys Menelrana

It took almost a year of arguing about the venue, followed by a year of arguing about the terms, followed by three months of arguing over the name, but a decision was finally made. It would be the Southern Confederation. Chrys Menelrana thought it was bland, but it was acceptable to all parties.  There were times when he wondered if elven immortality led to complacency.  He had heard reports of human clans in the area and how quickly they grew, their short lifespans seeming to drive them to expand.

He sat at the great oak table in the main hall in his manor in Tumlindë.  High, vaulted ceilings with wooden beams and arches held up the structure that was a pleasing blend of nature and civilization.  Even the trunks and branches of trees were woven into the walls.  Carvings of life in Valinor were set and painted into the wood and intricately woven tapestries adorned the walls.  Chrys looked at one tapestry that he always treasured, that showed Silvan elves dancing in a meadow.  It was woven by his wife, Aelrie and her sister, Miriani.  The talent and life that they brought to this home was his pride and joy.

He put his fingers on his chin and looked around at his family and the members of the Guild of Elements.  This group had been 250 years in the making and he was pleased with the work that was done. His wife, Aelrie, sat to his right, her face full of joy beneath her red hair.  She was instrumental in bringing about this alliance.  Chrys was so grateful for her gentle, diplomatic style. To his left was his son, Laurre, now full grown into manhood, a striking image of his father with wavy locks of golden hair, and a strong chin and nose.  With the exception of Laurre’s cobalt blue eyes, he could be Chrys’ twin brother.  He had already become a fine swordsman and rider, but was untested in actual battle. They, in turn, were flanked by the rest of the Guild, Talan, Elerior, Carnil, Ralian and Fëatur.

Chrys looked out of the great bay window of his manor to a spring downpour.  During the years that the Guild had been headquartered there, he had come to know the seasons like the back of his hand.  Tuilë was known for rising temperatures and heavy rain.  His knowledge of the weather was rewarded with the flash of lightning and the crackle of thunder.  “The rain hasn’t let up in days and the roads are awash with mud. I’m worried about our guests. Have the scouts returned?”

Fëatur leaned forward and shook his head.  “No one has checked in yet.”

Chrys blew out a long sigh. His muscles twitched and he kept pursing his lips, growing increasingly frustrated.  He had to do something.  He had to make sure his new friends were safe.  Only a handful of people knew of this meeting and the routes to the manor. Still, he couldn’t shake the unease. He stood up sharply and grunted. “I cannot sit here, warm and dry when our guests are out there.  I’m heading out.”

Aelrie seized his hand and looked up at him, eyes wide and mouth open, her earlier smile gone.  “No love!  It’s horrible out there.”

Chrys leaned over and kissed her.  “That’s exactly why I have to go.  These will be our friends and allies.  I have to go. I will bring all home safe.”  He motioned to one of the guards, a Sindarin elf with copper hair and blue eyes.  “Ruston, I’m heading to the stable.  Could you help me with my horse?”

Ruston nodded, but Laurre and Fëatur stood and raised their hands.  “I’ll help,” Laurre announced and Fëatur nodded.

Chrys smiled broadly. He was happy that they volunteered. “The more the merrier.  He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and the four strode to the stable.  The pounding of the rain could be heard on the roof and the horses seemed uneasy, nickering and hooves scraping the straw on the ground.  They pulled waterproof blankets off of the racks along with saddles and bridles.  Chrys placed his gray blanket over his horse’s back and unrolled it up to its neck. He threw his saddle over and pulled the girth tight and then he eased the bit into its mouth.  “I need you today Angaroco,” he said in a soothing voice, patting the stallion’s nose.

Standing on the ground, Laurre handing his father his sword, Kirlhach.  Chrys accepted the blade and gave his son his famous half grin, the side of his mouth curled up with some teeth showing.  He was enjoying some of the fame that came with victory in the Dagor Aglareb and he now had a bit of a reputation as a roguish character.  He slid the scabbard into a harness that went over his shoulder down to his hip.

He waited until his companions mounted up and then he leaned over and whispered into Angaroco’s ear.  The horse trotted out of the stable and into the pouring rain.  Chrys looked up and tasted the drops in his mouth.  He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and motioned forward.  “We’ll follow the main road that I gave to our friends.  We may need to split up if we see any sign of them moving off of the path.”

Fëatur moved his hand across the horizon.  “My glyphs and wards will not affect them.  They’re only for the minions of Morgoth,” he said with a grimace.  I will know if any are set off.”

Chrys nodded.  “Very good.  Let’s ride out,” he said and tapped Angaroco’s flank and the horse trotted out, hooves splashing in the mud.  Chrys knew that the road was barely that, mostly dirt trails through the woods and jungles of the vale.  Some parts were paved with crushed ash mixed in with a hardening slurry to give it resilience to the pounding of hooves.  He actually loved the natural feel to the road and so did little to improve it over the years.  He wished that he had been smarter now that they were in ponding water that rose over the horse’s fetlocks.  “I know,” he said, looking back at Fëatur.  “I should have done it last year in the dryer season.”

Fëatur gave him a wry smile, one side of his mouth curled up.  “Oh, don’t rush on my behalf.  At least the orcs will get lost too.”

Chrys had come to love that sardonic humor.  He liked having members of the Guild challenge him and keep him focused and honest. He had seen when blindly following a leader could do immense harm.  The slavish devotion that was shown to Fëanor brought great harm to the elves and would continue to do so.  And the cult that was forming around Morgoth was incomprehensible.  Word of live sacrifices had filtered in from scouts and Chrys knew that he had to put a stop to it.  He knew that he could count on Fëatur to help, but sometimes the man’s fanaticism at stopping Morgoth was worrisome.

After an hour on the road, Chrys thought he saw three riders approaching through the mist.  They were all clad in white hooded robes that were now soaked with rain.  Water cascaded down their clothes and horses, pooling in the mud below.

Fëatur raised his hand and his eyes lit up.  “Ho! It’s the Three from Ty-Ar-Rana.”   He rose up in his stirrups.  “Ho, Lyaan, Lysa, Lyrin!  It’s me!”

Lyaan urged his horse forward and he squinted his eyes.  “Fëatur!  Well met. The weather has us bogged down and I’m afraid we got lost more than once.”

“It was four times,” Lysa chimed in as she wrung water from her golden hair to which Lyaan shrugged with a wry smile.

The Three moved forward and nodded greetings to Chrys and the others.  Chrys extended his hand to Lyaan who took it gladly.  The leader of the Three pointed back up the trail.  “The Starseer Enclave stopped to rest a half a league back.  Their horses were spent.  We pressed on in the hope of finding help, but it looks like you found us first.”

Chrys pursed his lips. This was good and bad news.  But he needed to know more.  “And what of the Luingon Federation?  They should be sending twenty delegates.  I received word from Naeve of their departure.”

Lyaan shook his head. “I’m sorry Chrys.  We’ve seen no sign of them.”

“Ok, we keep looking then. You three are welcome to continue on to my manor house.  The trail should become more accessible from now with parts of it paved.  I am sorry for your inconvenience.”

“Nonsense, my friend. We will join you for the search.  Lysa and I have been advocating for a greater alliance.  Ty-Ar-Rana is well hidden, but our scouts report orcs and humans gathering on the borders.  I don’t know how this Court of Ardor lured them, but they are fanatical in their devotion to the Dark Lord.”

Chrys blew out a long sigh, his breath streaming out in the chilly air.  “I have heard much of the same and we know that they have been using live sacrifices to gain power and loyalty.  And we are not so well hidden as you.  Fëatur put wards and glyphs along as many paths as he could.  Still, I would sleep better if we eliminated the threat altogether.”

The Three rode up to the search party and Lysa took Fëatur’s hand.  “It’s been too long, my friend,” she told him.  “Have you heard from Morelen?  I would dearly love to see her.  She’s been like a daughter to me.”

“She was…traumatized in the last battle.  I went north for a few years to be with her and I asked her to return south with me, but she…declined.  Her sense of duty is always at the forefront.”

Lysa nodded.  “I was so afraid to let her go.  I’m very glad that she is alive and otherwise unharmed.”

“She fought against a dragon, one they call Glaurung.  It is a creature of flame and terror.”

Lysa’s face softened, now full of sympathy.  “How horrid. Morgoth’s foul creatures grow yearly.”

“The dragon?  Morelen fought the dragon?” Chrys asked, his full attention now on the conversation.

Fëatur shook his head and then addressed Lysa and Chrys.  “Not by herself.  Fingon’s cavalry company wounded it and drove it off.  While she feels so much guilt over her captain being slain, she decided to remain and fight.  He was a good man.  We met during the attack on Hithlum.  Morelen will find peace with it over time.  Also, I think she has a…male companion now.  I could see it in their eyes and their actions, but she wouldn’t discuss it with me.  She seems to fit in there, for which I am happy.  I did hear that her company affectionately calls her Morelen Lindariel now .”

“Such a beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” Lysa said.  She stroked Fëatur’s arm.  “Please, come back to us.  I miss…I miss Morelen’s singing and I miss your witty personality.  I can still hear her in the gardens, her voice rising to the Galad i Silivren, The Light of the Silver Stars.  I wish it will be, one day, as it was.”  Her voice was full of nostalgia.

Chrys turned his horse and pointed ahead.  “Come my friends, let us go back to find our other guests.  We will have warm fires, food and refreshments for you at the manor. Aelrie has prepared roast chicken, newly picked vegetables and freshly baked pies.  You’ll have clean rooms and soft beds.”

Lyrin piped up, his face in a boyish grin.  “That sounds wonderful.  I’m starving.”

Chrys smiled at him. “Aelrie makes the best roast chicken in the south.  I could eat that every day.  And Lyrin, this is my son, Laurre,” he said, pointing to his son.  “I think you two will get along nicely.  But come my friends, we must find our allies.”

“Did I hear you talking about Morelen?” Lyrin asked.  “I do miss her so.”

Fëatur nodded.  “She decided to remain in the north for now.  I’m trying to talk her into a visit home soon. She does seem to enjoy the serenity of the gardens of Nargothrond.”  He then lifted his finger in the air and a light appeared at the tip.  He blew a puff of air onto the ball of light and it shot forward down the trail.  Though the elves could see well in the dark, any light in this downpour would be helpful. They traveled in a fast walk, hooves splashing into the ponding water.  “I’ll be lead rider,” Fëatur said and eased his horse forward.

Chrys looked over to Lyaan and Lysa.  “You don’t know how glad we are to become allies.  We have no idea where the Court of Ardor is building its holds and I fear that we will all be in for a nasty surprise.”

Lysa nodded.  “I have seen this.  We know what they are planning and time is on their side.  I fear that my visions are more cloudy as the power of Morgoth grows in the south.”

“I, too, am glad for this alliance, Chrys,” Lyaan said in agreement.  “Ty-Ar-Rana has good defenses, but the surrounding villages are wide open.  We formed a community with the Silvan Elves and just want to live in peace.  We cannot survive without allies.  I only wish that the Starseer Enclave and the Luingon Federation felt the same way.”

Chrys pursed his lips, concerned.  “While you and I have been friends for a while, I know very little about these groups other than their existence.  I wanted everyone in the south to have a seat at the table.  We must all combine our strength in the coming days.”

“The Starseers watch the skies for signs and portents from Varda.  They are not…people of action.  They would be content telling us of the horrors to come rather than doing anything about it,” Lyrin said bluntly.  “Still, their advice and wisdom would be powerful.  And the Luingon Federation…is anything but a federation. It’s basically a mercantile guild established by the Avari here.  They are more concerned with trade than any threat from Morgoth.  Chrys, I have to express great admiration for you in convincing these groups to even attend.”

Chrys smiled, feeling good at the compliment.  It was quite a test of his patience to bring everyone together.  “I appreciate that.  You don’t know the half of it.  I have to give great credit to Aelrie.  She is the true diplomat in all of this.”

“Well, we are on board and will do all that we can to seal this alliance,” Lyaan said.  “Wait, I think I see the Enclave members.”

Chrys gazed through the rain and saw two elves standing in the mud, waving at them.  He rode forward and raised his hand.  “Ho!  Elvëon? Is that you?”  He could see that they were both Noldor with dark hair and were dressed in robes of black and silver, now saturated with rain.

“Ho!  Chrys!  Yes, it’s me. This is my associate Arcamo and back there are Manyaro and Ingolmien.  We are loremasters and seers, not rangers.  Thank the Valar you have come, but why have our meeting in such foul weather?” The seer wrang his hood out, letting water pour from the soaked cloth.  He was rather plump and plain for an elf and his skin was pale from the time that he spent looking at stars and deciphering portents in dark rooms.

“How are your horses?” Chrys asked.  “And I apologize for the weather.  Time is now urgent.  The Court of Ardor grows and they will unleash horrors if they are allowed to succeed.”

“I think our horses are rested now.  We can proceed.  And we have seen snippets of the darkness that is growing.  If not for that, I would never have agreed to this meeting.” Elvëon looked back and whispered a word into the wind.  In another minute two other Noldor rode up, one male and one female, with two more horses.

Chris pointed to his guard. “Ruston, escort the Enclave back to the manor house.  Make sure that they given dry clothes and hot food.”

“Very good, my lord,” the guard said and then wheeled his horse.  He motioned to Elvëon.  “Follow me, please.”

Elvëon mounted up on his horse and bowed.  “Thank you Chrys.  Wait, you’re not coming with us?”

Chrys shook his head. “The Luingon Federation delegates are still out there.  Have you seen or heard from them at all?”

The seer’s mouth dropped open and he narrowed his eyes.  “I thought they were already at the manor house.  Naeve was very hesitant to make the journey, but they had a two-day head start on us.”

This made Chrys feel sick. Something had happened.  A dark expression came over his face and he narrowed his eyes.  “Ruston, Elvëon, please make haste to the house.  We’ll find the Federation.”

Fëatur lit another wisp and blew it in the direction of the house.  “Follow this.  It will guide you.”  As the light floated down the trail, Ruston waved the members of the Enclave along and they started down the trail.  As they turned their horses to continue, Fëatur raised his hand.  “One of my wards went off.  Something is out there.”

Chrys looked to Fëatur and Laurre.  “I have a bad feeling about this.  Stay sharp,” he said as he unlatched the clasp on his scabbard.  They rode on through the mud and Chrys wiped the rain from his eyes yet again.  He thought he saw a movement in the trees.  He held up his hand and began to dismount, putting his hand on the hilt of Kirlhach.  Suddenly, Fëatur stepped in front of him and waved his hand in a circle, creating a glowing sphere.  Two arrows that were aimed at Chrys’ heart glanced off of the sphere, which then vanished in a puff of mist.

Chrys ran to a nearby tree, followed by Laurre.  He could see the Three dismounting and moving for cover on the other side of the trail. Lysa swatted an arrow out of the air and caught another arrow with her open hand.  She was truly impressive.  Fëatur huddled down behind Chrys, who glanced back.  “This is becoming a habit,” he told the illusionist.  “I am in your debt.”

Fëatur poked his head out from around a tree trunk and sent a pulse of energy out from his hand. “There are more than twenty,” he announced.  “Not orcs…I think these are humans.”

“Humans?” Laurre asked. “You mean the Secondborn?  Why are they attacking us?”

Chrys looked to his son. “Morgoth has a way of corrupting people and we know that he is actively pursuing human tribes to join him.  He did it to the elves too.”  He glanced briefly at Fëatur, who nodded.  “Can you give us some cover?” he asked the illusionist.

Fëatur held his hands together and quiet voices emanated from the space between his palms and he blew the ball of energy in the direction of their attackers.  In another moment, shouting could be heard from a distance.  It sounded like a force of elves yelling orders.  “They’re distracted.  Go now!”

Chrys waved the Three forward and then looked at Laurre.  “Stay with me.”  They rushed forward, dodging between trees and leaping over puddles of mud.  He knew that the rain would be in their favor. It would mask their approach and elves naturally saw and heard better in poor conditions.  He kept low and kept his sword sheathed, knowing that the flames from Kirlhach’s blade would give him away.  He saw some movement just ahead beyond the bushes and glanced back to make sure Laurre and Fëatur were right behind him.  They nodded back at him and he burst forward through the foliage. He saw two humans looking back at the illusory voices and he drew Kirlhach in a small arc, slicing the man from hip to neck, the rain sizzling on his blade.  Laurre drove the tip of his sword through the other man at the chest.  They could now hear fighting on the other side of the road.

“Keep moving,” Chrys called softly.  “We have the advantage.”  They rushed into another pool of mud and found men ready this time.  Two rushed at each of them and Chrys took a defensive stance, his sword held sideways across his body.  He parried the first attack and let the momentum carry his blade towards the second man.  To his surprise, he was parried as well.  These men had some training.  The second man bound his blade to give the first an opening.  Chrys’ eyes widened in surprise at such coordination.  Training took over and he drew his dagger in a flash and flung it into the throat of the first man.  That human stumbled back a couple of steps, dropped his sword and held his throat.  The second human hesitated, looking at his comrade.  It was just the time that Chrys needed and he slipped his blade under the bind and dragged the tip across the man’s eyes.  Blood sizzled and the man screamed, falling to his knees.

Chrys turned to see Laurre still engaged with his two attackers, retreating through the mud, step by step.  This was not a battle for honor.  Chrys cut down one man’s back, lighting him on fire in spite of the rain.  The man sizzled and steam flowed up from the flames as he collapsed face first into the mud, flailing weakly.  Laurre then thrust his blade into the other man’s gut, twisting the sword for maximum effect.  As the human collapsed to the ground, Fëatur made two quick stabs with his kynac, both attacks finding throats.

Then, all was quiet but for the rain and hoots of jungle birds.  “Lyaan!  We are clear over here!” Chrys called out.

“We are clear over here as well,” Lyaan replied and Chrys blew out a sigh of relief.  He looked to his son and Fëatur to see if they were injured.

“I’m good, father,” Laurre said and Chrys felt a certain pride that his son had done well in his first battle.

They gathered back with the Three on the trail.  “These humans were trained and were no savage orcs,” Chrys said.  “They showed coordination and their weapons were superior. They have to be agents of the Court.”

Lysa nodded.  “I agree.  Their clothing and armor suggest Court influence.  And where is the Luingon Federation?”

Chrys’ eyes widened in horror.  “Oh no. Everyone, be on your guard. Spread out and look for anyone in the Federation.  We’ll call out at regular intervals and shout if you’re attacked.”  The group split and within a minute Chrys found an elven woman, lying face down in a pool of mud.  “I found someone!” he called out.  Lyaan and Lysa came first.  They looked down as Chrys rolled her over.  Her eyes were frozen open and her throat had been cut.  Chrys’s hands shook with rage.  “Savages!  These were merchants and scholars, people of learning.  They were barely armed!”

Lysa knelt down and cradled the dead woman’s head.  “This is Naeve, head of the Federation.  Oh no, this is a horror.  I am so sorry.”

Lyaan bowed his head. “Chrys, I hate to say this, but only our four groups knew of the meeting and of the route.  I fear that we may have a traitor in our midst.”

Just then, Fëatur and Lyrin called out.  “We have more bodies!  I think this is the whole Federation.”

Chrys carried Naeve out of the mud and lay her against a tree.  Then, he ran to the others and 19 butchered elves strewn about in the mud as if they were garbage.  He wanted to cry out in rage, but he knew that more of the enemy could be about and he bit the back of his hand instead.  “The Court will pay for this,” he said with teeth gritted, focusing all of his fury. 

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase the personalities and dynamics of the possible alliance.

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23) Citadel – Year of the Sun 300 Tuilë (Spring)

Ardana

Amid a heavy rain, the long carriage ride came to a stop as the coachman, Arduin, reined in the horses. The hood over his driver’s seat barely sheltered him from the rain and he wiped water from his face with a towel. “We are here, mistress,” he said through the forward window of the carriage.  He was a short Silvan Elf with ginger hair, a vassal of Gorthaur’s.  His black robes, trimmed in crimson and gold, signified his allegiance to the dark priest.

Ardana grunted, her body stiff and her legs sore from the journey.  She nodded to Arduin as he stepped down from the carriage to open the door.  “Wake now, my son,” she said to Moran, who had been sleeping, his head in her lap. He stirred and licked his lips and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m up mother,” he said sleepily.  He sat up and looked out of the carriage window.  “Are we here?”

Ardana stroked his black hair.  “We are. Let us inspect our people and the new citadel.  A lot of progress has been made.”

Arduin opened the door and held up an umbrella.  He was standing ankle deep in ponding water, but he gave his riders a wide, toothy smile. “Please mistress, my lord, follow me. The inner circle is waiting for you.” They walked down the steps and under the umbrella.  Ardana’s foot became stuck in the mud for a moment before Arduin helped her out.  Through the rain she could now see a tall, halfway completed, spire arising from the ground.  The foundations had been set and scaffolding surrounded the structure of polished granite and marble.  Hundreds of human and elven workers slogged through the rain and mud to keep the pace of construction going.

They splashed through the water towards the citadel to a tent just outside of the construction zone. Arduin held open the tent flap to let his riders enter.  Morthaur, the Lord, greeted them at the entrance, wearing his sooty work coveralls. “Welcome to the new center of the Court of Ardor.  We have awaited your-” he began before Valmorgȗl stepped in front and cut him off. Morthaur’s face soured instantly.

Valmorgȗl, the Magician, smiled broadly as he ushered Ardana towards the planning table.  He stood a full head taller than her and half a head above Morthaur.  He wore a gaudy black tunic, trimmed with golden cords and multicolored slashes in the sleeves along with tight fitting breeches that accentuated his toned physique. “What my esteemed colleague means to say is that construction is progressing well.  However, as you can see, the rain has made things difficult. At this pace, I anticipate completion in four to five years.”

“That seems reasonable…for now,” Ardana answered, a cryptic edge to her voice.  “Things should begin to dry out soon.”  She scanned the room to see her inner circle gathered around the great table that would go into her great hall when the citadel was complete.  It had been carved from the trunk of a Kirani tree, one local to the tropics here, known to grow to huge heights.  Silvan elves were known to make their homes in such trees in the area, so great were the trunks.  Morfuin stood in his elven form, unmoving, his head just touching the ceiling of the tent.  Rilia was next to him, the flames woven into her red gown dancing as if they were real. The female Fëatur was next in her dull, brown robes, her typical sadistic smirk on her lips.  A new face was among them now, Castolder, a tall, muscular Noldo, the new master at arms of the Court.  He had emerged as the finest swordsman of the group and was given this honor personally by Ardana.  He nodded to her with a grin, his arms crossed.  And finally, Gorthaur the dark priest, his eyes glossy as if in prayer to Morgoth himself.  These were the heads of the four suits of the court: helms, orbs, staves and swords. Like the Guild of Elements that they sought to destroy, they represented the elements of water, earth, fire and air.

Ardana looked to her inner circle, one by one.  “How are the holds progressing?”

Gorthaur placed a parchment on the table that had drawings of cavern carved into a cliff face by the sea. “My hold of Aurax-Dȗr is progressing. There is a natural saltwater lake in the cavern which will surround the keep.  There is one way in and one way out.  It will be impenetrable.”

Rilia placed her parchment on the table, the drawings made in red ink that burst into flame, but did not consume the paper.  She was always one with a flair for the dramatic.  “Naurlindol is being constructed upon a vent of lava, which will fuel my work.  We anticipate being able to produce great quantities of laen,” she said in a lilting voice full of mirth, speaking of the volcanic glass that could be enchanted and refined into blades and armor.  She swept back her long, red hair and then looked over to Morfuin.  “And the Lord Demon is always welcome in my keep.”  He tilted his head towards her without expression.

Ardana nodded in satisfaction.  “This is good.  We must still maintain secrecy as our holds are incomplete.  We are still vulnerable,” she said and then looked to Castolder. “Master at arms, how goes your progress?”

His features and auburn hair put him in the House of Fëanor.  He had a square jaw and chiseled cheekbones amid a long, straight nose and crystal blue eyes.  He wore a sky blue tunic with a large, two-handed sword at his waist.  He pursed his lips as if thinking.  “Mistress, the hold of Tirgoroth sits high atop a mountain and it takes ten thousand steps to reach it.  Construction is slow.  However, we have discovered a large species of bird, much like a hawk.  We believe that we can tame and domesticate them.”

“Good, what else?” asked Ardana, her black eyes boring into him.

A smile came to his face now, showing his perfect teeth.  “I dispatched a force based on your information.  They should have taken out the Guild, the Three, the Conclave and the Confederation.  With luck, we will have disrupted their attempts at unification and we may even sow chaos and mistrust.  I expect their return soon and I will report then.”

A sly grin crossed the Astrologer’s lips as if she were enjoying an inside joke.  “I look forward to it.”  She shifted her gaze to Fëatur.  “Your report?”

Fëatur flared her nostrils and turned her chin up.  Ardana knew that the woman felt that she should be in the inner circle and not a “mere” head of a suit.  Perhaps that ambition could be used.  “My hold of Angkirya is nearing completion.  We expanded an abandoned dwarven mine.  There are rich veins of iron and other materials such as gold and gems needed to make war on the blasphemers.  Construction has also begun on Menelcarca atop one of the peaks in the area.  I will grant this keep to Ardȗval, my astrologer.”

“Very good.”  Ardana looked back to Castolder.  “We will hold on any open attacks for now.  But you have done well.  We will focus on nipping at them, finding weaknesses, sowing mistrust. They know we are here, but not where and in what strength.  We have only a few hundred trained troops.  We must hide that for now.  And hopefully, your foray will have them convinced that they have a traitor.”  She then looked to Gorthaur.  “Speaking of how they know we are here, have you made any progress on finding out who or why, Gorthaur?”

He shook his head, his bowl cut hair swishing around his face.  “No mistress.  If it were indeed from an insider, they hid their tracks well.  If we were still in Angband, where it is more contained, I would have better results.  Here, in the south where we are spread far and wide and the weather is awful, it is much harder.”

Ardana narrowed her eyes and huffed.  Traitors angered her as much as the non-believers.  “I guess it will have to do.  Keep on this, Gorthaur.”  She reached her hand up towards the sky.  “I have attempted to scry the stars, but this thunderstorm has lasted a week.  I fear that our time for the ritual may not be coming soon.  We need the sun and the moon to be in the sky at the same time in a full eclipse in order for us to be successful.”

Morthaur bumped Valmorgȗl out of the way.  “You are correct, mistress.  It is at that moment that we must sacr…” he began and then looked at Moran.  “…we must give the offering.  Only then will your dream of a dark sky full of stars be made real.”

Ardana sighed with relief that Morthaur had not said sacrifice.  She tousled Moran’s hair and looked at him with a smile.  “Your destiny will come to fruition then, my son, and the Valar will quail at our power.”

Yavëkamba and her new assistant, Almariel, stepped up from the back of the crowd.  Yavëkamba held Moran’s hand, but she looked at Ardana. “And we will find the right way of doing this, yes?”  The Healer’s voice was strong and clear.

The Astrologer put her thumb on her lips and thought a moment.  Could there be another way?  If only the other twin had lived, she could be sacrificed.  There had to be another way.  Moran had become precious to her.  “Morthaur, I task you to find alternatives to the catalyst.”

The Lord seemed perturbed at first but then made a curt bow.  “I will…I will search for alternatives.”

Ardana perused the plans for a short time more before pushing the papers back to their owners. “I have one final thing to do this day. While we will remain secret, I wish to show our enemies and allies the power of the king.  It will also help your construction efforts,” she said slyly. “Moran, Gorthaur, I require your assistance.  Come friends, follow me.”

Members of the Suit of Swords, Suldȗn and Elendur, held open the tent flap.  Ardana nodded to both of them.  Suldȗn was originally slated to be the Master at Arms, but Castolder won the competition as the superior fighter.  Still, he was Moran’s sword instructor.  Elendur had assisted with the sacrifice of the human and was known to be loyal unto death.

They walked out into the heavy rain, shielding their eyes from the downpour.  The Astrologer gazed around at her court.  She saw the way that Moran looked at and looked up to Yavëkamba.  Perhaps they would be a good match.  So far as she knew, the Healer was unattached and she had never bothered to ask.  The personal lives of her court were of little interest to her.  Elendur would also be a good match.  She was competent, loyal and attractive.  The feud between Morthaur and Valmorgȗl could be exploited and she would keep that in the back of her mind for later.  The only one of the inner circle that she truly trusted was Morfuin, the Lord Demon. He seemed to have no ambition of his own and always followed her commands.

In the wide open courtyard, Gorthaur led them to a massive slab of granite that had been laid flat into the ground.  “I have consecrated this spot with the power of the Dark Lord!  It is a focal point for his power!  Let it now be unleashed!” he shouted over the pounding rain.  Water poured down his face, dripping into puddles at his feet.  He grasped his octagonal brooch and runes appeared on the slab and then began to glow. He led Ardana and Moran onto the slab and they were all bathed in an unearthly green light that made them glow as well.  Ardana’s gown was shimmering rapidly now, sensing her mood.

Ardana and Moran grasped their brooches, and she brought out the card with her image, holding it up to the sky.  “Morgoth! Lord and master of all Middle Earth! We beseech you to show us your power, your strength!  Help us to bring your faith to all corners of the world!”  The card suddenly felt chill in her hand, almost to the point of freezing. Their brooches all glowed a sickly greenish yellow, tendrils of power seeping through their fingers.  “Grant us your favor, oh lord!  Grant us your power!”

A bolt of lightning shot up from the slab to the sky, bursting on the overcast clouds.  Energy radiated from the bolt, shooting out in all directions.  Then, a hole opened up in the clouds and began to grow, showing blue sky beyond.  In seconds, the clouds vanished for miles all around them, leaving them drenched amid rivers of mud.  Ardana waved her hand around.  “See my friends!  This is the power of the Dark Lord.  The one who is able to crush mountains and rend valleys.  He grants us his favor!”

She took two steps and then felt dizzy.  A lot of power had gone through her.  She leaned on Moran, trying to make it appear innocuous.  She turned her face to his ear and whispered, “This has taken a lot out of me.  Walk me to the tent that they have set for us.  You will need…you will need to make sacrifices this evening.  Gorthaur will help.  The Dark Lord needs replenishment of his power.  Whenever we draw, he is lessened.  Be a good son and do this for your mother.”  They walked along, trying to appear as normal as possible.  “Any weakness may be acted upon by others wishing to take advantage,” she continued.

Moran looked back at Yavëkamba and Almariel who were following.  “My mother needs help,” he said quietly.  “Please come with us.”

They entered a tent that was elaborately decorated with fine furniture and a plush bed.  Moran helped his mother onto the bed as Almariel handed Yavëkamba a silver pot with some herbs in it.  Yavëkamba poured a small amount of water into the pot and then blew on it and it glowed red for a moment.  With the water boiling, she blew the pungent fumes towards Ardana.  “This should bolster your spirit, mistress,” the Healer said.

Ardana inhaled deeply, letting the scent of cedar linger in her nostrils.  She felt refreshed but also sleepy.  She lay down to enter her meditative state as Yavëkamba placed an elaborately woven blanket over her.  It depicted the night sky, full of stars.  She grasped Moran’s hand gently as her vision slowly faded.  “You are doing well, my son.  Now go and prepare the sacrifices for your father.  Gather some of the human workers for this.  Now go…” she said as she drifted off, dreaming of bright stars. 

Chapter End Notes

I want to engage all of the senses in this story.  This chapter looks at Ardana's power and the dynamics of the Court.

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24) Alliance, Part 2 – Year of the Sun 300 Tuilë (Spring)

Fëatur

After they buried the bodies of the Luingon Confederation, the ride back to the manor house was quiet and somber.  It was a painful task to lay to rest such good people.  Chrys even insisted on burying the humans.  It was the decent thing to do.  Fëatur really felt for Chrys.  The weight of responsibility was heavy, and he could see some cracks in the Lord of the South.  But things were just beginning.  It would get worse before it got better.  He knew how the Court functioned and the cruelty that was part of that group.  His sister tormented him for fun.  He could only imagine how she treated others.  And Ardana would murder her own son for favor from Morgoth.  She would sacrifice Moran in a dark ritual for his Vala blood.  Disgusting.  He suddenly thought of Morelen and his own blood ran cold.  If she were ever discovered, she would be at great risk.  He shook his head.  There was nothing that he could do for her here in the south. He could only hope and pray to Manwë that she would be safe.  And Yavë? How was she faring?  He had not heard anything from her in a year.  What he wouldn’t give to see her again.  These musings had been increasing over the last year and there was nothing he could do about it.

He shook off his negative thoughts and focused on the here and now.  He rode up to Chrys, his horse’s hooves splashing in the mud.  “Chrys, how are you faring?  This has been a hard blow.”

Chrys barely looked up, rainwater pouring down his forehead into his eyes.  “I’m fine, Fëatur, really.”  The tone of his voice made it clear that the conversation was at an end.

“You know that I’m here for you and the Guild.”

Chrys merely nodded.

Fëatur was at a loss and all he could say was, “I’ll leave you be then.”  He tapped his horse’s flanks and moved to catch up to the Three.

Lyaan turned back to make eye contact.  “He’s strong. He’ll come back.  And we’re here to help.  Our numbers are not great, but we are well trained.”

“I think we can count a thousand Silvan archers and light infantry,” Lyrin chimed in.  “And the jungles around Ty-Ar-Rana make for formidable defenses.”

Fëatur nodded and then scanned ahead, his hand held over his eyes.  I think I see my wisp up ahead,” he said, pointing towards the glow of a yellow light.  “The manor house shouldn’t be too far away after that.”

Then, a loud boom far off in the distance got his attention.  “What is that?”  The overcast sky and rain suddenly peeled away, leaving blue sky for miles.  The downpour lessened to a drizzle and then stopped entirely, leaving them in a humid morass of mud and ponding water.  “What devilry is this?  Only…the Ainur possess such power.  Chrys, Lyaan, we must accept that Morgoth’s power has spread to the south.”

Chrys seemed to stir and looked up with horror.  “I have made many mistakes recently.  Mistakes of complacency.  The peace that we have enjoyed in the south lulled me into complacency.  And that peace is likely at an end.  I have been sleeping.  I am…sorry,” he said and looked at Lyaan.  “I think you should lead us.  I…can’t.”

Lyaan shook his head. “Nonsense, my friend.  I am too insular.  My main focus has been on Ty-Ar-Rana.  You see the whole region.  You’ve fought the enemy in the north.  I don’t have that.  I am honored to follow you in defending our homes.”

Fëatur nodded.  “I agree.  We are more powerful together.  The fact that you have doubts about yourself speaks to your leadership. If you were too cocksure, I would truly be worried then.”  He could now see the outline of the manor house.  “We are home.  Come, let us forge this alliance and make a plan to counter the enemy.”

Elvëon, the head of the Enclave, sat upon his horse on the trail.  “I decided to wait for you, and I could not help but overhear.  Chrys, your friends are correct.  It was you who brought this group together and no one foresaw the slaughter of the Confederation.  If there is fault in that, it is mine.  We are not people of action, but we pride ourselves in seeing the portents in the stars.  We have seen the growing threat, but you woke us up to it.  I, for one, would have been glad to remain in my tower, gazing at the night sky until Morgoth destroyed me.  The Enclave will follow where you lead.”

Chrys pursed his lips and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.  “I am grateful.  The burden is overwhelming and I fear that I am not up to the task.  But your support gives me courage.  Come, let us stable our horses and dry off.  Aelrie and Miriani will have rooms and baths for everyone.  A feast has been prepared as well.  You shall not want for hospitality.”

Fëatur pointed at Chrys and held his other hand next to his mouth as if he were sharing a deep secret. “Just feed him chicken and he’ll come around.”  This got a chuckle from the gathering.  They could use a little humor about now.

They rode into the stables and put their horses in stalls, where grooms set to work on drying them and picking mud out of hooves.  Chrys patted his mount on the nose and gave him an apple.  “Thank you, Angaroco, you brought me home safely.  I am grateful.”

Fëatur was pleased that Chrys was coming around.  It was difficult to see his friend in that state of mind.  He had been there.  He knew the crushing weight of guilt and depression.  He decided to take some of the weight away.  He beckoned to the Three and the members of the Enclave. “Come, my friends.  I will show you the way to your rooms.  Leave your baggage.  We will have people retrieve that and bring it to you.  Do not worry, we are quite organized here.”  He led them into the manor house, which was a buzz with news of the arrival and the demise of the Confederation.

Aelrie and Miriani caught him in the hallway.  “The rooms and baths have been prepared and we put the food away for later,” Aelrie told him.  She grasped his arm gently.  “Thank you. Thank you for bringing them home safe.”

“Ah, I did nothing. I’m just glad to have been there for support.”

Fëatur led the guests to their rooms and announced, “Please make yourselves comfortable and make use of the baths.  We have dry clothing laid out for everyone.  Supper will be served this afternoon, but fruit and other pastries will be in your rooms along with pitchers of water and juice.  Thank you all for coming.”

Several hours passed while Fëatur meditated, dreaming of Yavë and Morelen as a happy family, at peace. In his elven mind, they were in a brightly lit glade and he was laughing and dancing with Morelen as she sang the Enyalie í Laeg, the Memory of the Green, a song about the forests of Valinor. He could see the silver willows and smell the evergreens of the gardens of Irmo and Estë.  Yavë’s face was full of joy and love and he cupped her face and gave her a kiss.  He wished that he could remain in this dream forever.  He felt a shake.

“Fëatur, it’s time. The delegates are gathering in the main hall.  It’s time.”

He opened his eyes to see Chrys, shaking him.  “Of course, my friend,” he said as he rose up off the ground.  He rubbed his eyes for a moment.  “I’m just going to wash up.  I’ll join you shortly.”

Chrys nodded.  “Take your time.  You’ve earned a rest.  I cannot do this without you.”

Fëatur patted him on the shoulder.  “And you are a better friend than I deserve.  I still have much to atone for and you have given me that opportunity. It is I who is in your debt.”

Chrys chuckled, his old self seeming to come back a little.  “Then it seems that our fates are bound together.  I’ll see you at the main hall.”

Fëatur went to the sink of his room and looked into the mirror.  He realized that he looked drawn and worn out, his eyes sunken and his cheeks gaunt.  The last few decades had taken their toll and the real fight had only just begun.  He flipped on the faucet and washed his face. He had really gotten used to running water at the manor and at Ty-Ar-Rana.  Such a small comfort, but one that stood out for him.

He donned a plain brown robe woven of cotton and his old, comfortable boots.  He was never one for ostentation or pageantry.  While his sister always coveted the limelight, he was content to work from the sidelines, ensuring the success of his friends.  He put his hands together.  “Please Mandos, give me guidance.”  He then lifted his hands.  “And Yavë, I need your wisdom.  It has been too long.”  He blew out a long breath and then left his room.

The hallway was abuzz with activity as the staff ran about, ensuring the comfort of their guests and bringing platters of food into the main hall.  Fëatur took a long whiff of the aroma and saw that there was ample enough chicken to meet Chrys’ tastes.  He hurried into the main hall.  It was like nothing he had seen in decades.  The room was alive with conversation as the delegates ate and drank. Chrys saw him enter.

“Come in, my friend. Please have a seat,” he said, warmly, motioning to a padded seat among the Guild members.  A plate had already been prepared for him along with a crystal glass full of dark red wine.  Chrys picked up his glass and tapped it several times with his fork, making a sweet ringing sound.  The room went hush and all eyes were upon him.  “Welcome honored guests and members of my house.  We gather here as friends under the growing shadow of Morgoth.  We hope that this will lead to us being united for the cause of freedom and justice.”

Fëatur raised his glass, and the members of the Guild followed.  “My friend Chrys, my mentor and my leader, has fought against the forces of darkness since the beginning.  I can personally attest that he is a man of good heart and who is the one to lead us. I fear that this is only the beginning, and we must all pool our skills and our resources to fight this.  I know,” he said with deep gravitas.  “I was a member of the enemy’s inner circle.  I gave up my life for my sins and was returned by Mandos to carry on the fight.”

Glasses were raised all around to murmurs from all of the guests.  Chrys pushed his hands down to quiet the crowd and then continued, “I first want to acknowledge the loss of our friends from the Luingon Confederation. They are a group of affiliated merchants who trade around the region.  Their contacts would have been invaluable as was their ability procure goods and supplies.  I know we would have become good friends.  I would like to take a moment of silence to honor them.”

The collective group bowed their heads until Chrys spoke again.  “My friends, next I want to honor my friend, Fëatur, who has been unwavering in his dedication to the cause.  We have voted to make him a full member of the Guild of Elements.  I don’t have a sixth element for you right now,” he said to chuckles in the group, “but we will have one for you soon.  Welcome.  It has been long overdue.”

Fëatur practically blushed. This was not something that he had expected or even asked for.  Still, he was honored.  It was the first thing that he truly felt a part of since before the death of the Two Trees.  The members of the Guild stood and raised their glass.  Even cynical Talan smiled.  “Don’t think that this will stop me from grilling you about everything.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Fëatur said with a smirk.  “Now the work begins, everyone.  I will have to earn this.”

Chrys smiled warmly at his friend.  “Finally,” he began, looking back at the group, “we must forge an agreement among us that all will benefit from and will be at peace with.  We must have a name and, to honor our fallen friends, I propose, The Luingon Alliance.”  This was met by cheers.  “Good, I think it’s settled then.  My good wife, Aelrie, along with The Three, have created proposals for the rules of the alliance.  To whit, each group in the alliance shall send forces to assist in the defense of any other group.  The use of these forces shall not compromise the defense of that group.  We shall trade information, supplies and resources freely for the common good and defense of the region.”  Aelrie and Miriani passed out the parchment to the guests. “Please read and then we shall ratify the terms if they are acceptable.”

Elvëon raised his hand. “We are not soldiers.  All we have to offer is information.”

Chrys looked over from his seat.  “Information is valuable, and we gladly accept that as your part of the alliance.”

Elvëon nodded.  “It’s settled then.  The Enclave will join.”

Lyaan raised his hand too. “This was never in doubt for us. The Three and the resources of Ty-Ar-Rana are now intricately linked to this alliance.”  All of the members signed the documents and passed them to Fëatur, who stacked them together.  Lyaan then stood and gestured to Chrys.  “And this is the man who shall lead us.  He has fought in many a battle and has always triumphed.  We are fortunate to have someone so skilled and experienced to bring peace to the south.  We will stand together, and this alliance will grow.”

Fëatur sat back, pleased. This had been a long time in coming. All that he had fought and pushed for since his death was coming to fruition.  Only two things remained elusive to him: Yavë and Morelen.  If force of will were reality, they would be with him now.  He would never stop worrying about Yavë while she was in the enemy’s camp.  She could be discovered at any time and he didn’t want to think about it.  And Morelen, always brave, sometimes reckless.  These were things he couldn’t fix right now.  He turned back to the function to see people cheering and drinking toasts. Members of the Guild were patting him on the back.  If only it would last.

Chapter End Notes

A look at the dynamics of the Guild and The Three as well as moving Featur's character arc.  

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25) Vacation – Year of the Sun 302 Lairë (Summer)

Morelen

The caverns of Nargothrond were no less magnificent to return guests than they were the first time that they visited.  The great gates were constructed of Mallorn wood, bound with volcanic glass called Laen, which was stronger than steel and could only be cold forged into shape and dyed by experienced smiths.  Within the surface of the Laen were images of Valinor and of the Valar, etched into the smooth glassy surface and colored to appear almost real.  Here, only two guards manned the gate.  It was, after all, a time of peace and prosperity.  They were dressed in armor that almost looked more organic than metal, with scales that looked like green leaves and chainmail that looked like vines and flowers, all painted to perfection.

Beyond the gates was a massive foyer in the form of a cavern that was full of shops and vendors from all over Beleriand where even dwarves and humans bartered and traded with the elves as sunlight streamed down through shutters from openings above.  One could not truly call it a cavern as it was more of a work of art with high, vaulted ceilings and pillars that were made to look like Mallorn trees, massive with thick trunks that rose to the top of the cavern.  They were carefully shaped and painted down to the finest detail, including the leaves and flowers.  The walls themselves were a rich mosaic of tiles, depicting the lives of the elves; singing, dancing, children and gardens as fountains let water flow down the tiles into pools where colorful fish swam.

The company of Fingon’s riders strode through the bazaar, looking at the wares of the vendors, from textiles to jewels to food and drink.  “I never get tired of this place,” Morelen said as she felt a roll of silk with her fingers.  She was dressed in simple riding breeches and high boots with comfortable forest green cotton tunic.

“Two silvers,” the Sindarin vendor told her.  “I could absolutely see you in a gown made from this fine silk.”  The woman was dressed in green and yellow with jewels woven into her brown hair.  Morelen was having some difficulty adjusting this new type of economy now that dwarves and men were part of it.  Barter, service and a sense of community were the norm before, and all members of the community had their needs met.

“Silvers?  Ummm, I’ll have to get back to you,” Morelen answered cautiously, not really understanding how it worked.  Apparently, you gave metal coins to vendors for products.  The whole thing was perplexing.  Nearby, Notaldo, Líreno and Hurinon were sampling hunks of roast beef and chicken pushed onto a stick.

The dwarven vendor took their coins and declared in a gruff voice, “This is the finest Naugrim recipe, one that dates back to my grandsire.  Oh, I can tell you like it.  How about one for the lady?  You’ll love it or my name isn’t Cragstone.”  Notaldo handed the Cragstone a handful of coppers, and the dwarf held out a meatstick to Morelen, a toothy grin showing through his thick black beard.

She gnawed off the first hunk of beef and nodded, her eyes opening wide.  She quickly bit off the next bit of chicken and then a hunk of red pepper.  The sauce was divine with the hint of pepper and sea salt.  She tried to say something, but her mouth was full.  Notaldo chuckled.  “What she means to say is that it’s very good.  Thank you, Cragstone.  I’m sure we’ll be back.”

The dwarf smiled again and pointed to a barrel at his kiosk and then raised the lid.  “And you’ll be needing something to wash that down with, am I right my good elves?  I have here the finest ales and brews from Nogrod, all made by our brewmaster, Razzak Beastbrand.”

Morelen peered into one barrel, seeing the frothy liquid.  Having always been a wine drinker, she scratched her head.  “What is this?  What is that foam?  Is it healthy?  What kind of grapes made this?”

Cragstone’s face twisted in horror, his mouth open and his eyes narrowed.  “Oh no.  Oh no no no. No grapes.  And yes, dear girl, it is very healthy.  This, my lovely, is a pale ale, the best in Beleriand.  It will stiffen your beard and put hair on your chest.”

It was her turn to show horror, and she touched her chin and chest.  “I have no wish to stiffen my beard or have hair on my chest,” she said indignantly.   

Notaldo laughed out loud. “Why not?  I’m sure it would be of benefit.”  She slapped him on the chest.

Cragstone dipped a mug into the ale and handed it to her.  “The finest hops, malt and yeast have gone into this.  I, myself, soaked the barley and added the herbs.  Please, dear girl, give it a try.  The first one’s free.  If you don’t like it then I’ll give a free one to your friends.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and smelled the brew.  It had a slightly bitter aroma mixed with a smokey scent of oak.  She tried a small sip and swirled it around her mouth.  She caught a hint of citrus.

“No no!” Cragstone said, gesticulating wildly with his hands.  “Don’t sip, guzzle!  It’s no good unless it’s dripping down your beard!”

Morelen nodded and then drained the mug, gulping the ale down.  She let out a burp.  “Oh yes. Very tasty!”  She blinked hard and wobbled on her feet.  She felt more than a little lightheaded.  She reached down and put her hand on Cragstone’s head.  “I never realized that dwarves were so…dwarfy and this hair on your face!  Astonishing.”

Notaldo gently pulled her away.  “She gets that way every time we come here,” he said apologetically.  “But this is the first time she’s met a dwarf so please excuse us.  We’ll take three mugs please.”

They paid Cragstone and took their mugs, then rejoining the company.  Even Fingon and his wife, Elaris, had come and followed behind his father Fingolfin.  They had come to discuss the Siege of Angband with King Finrod and to lay down long-term plans to contain or defeat the Dark Lord.  When they caught up, Fingon looked back and grinned.  “I see Morelen has sampled some dwarven drinks.  She gets this way every time we come here,” he told Elaris, who chuckled.  Elaris was the picture of elegance with dark hair pulled back into a braid, eyes full of wisdom and look that spoke of courage and intelligence.  The couple and the High King were dressed in blue and silver robes, trimmed in gold with silver stars patterned on the silk.

Fingon stepped away from his wife for a moment and approached the four riders.  He nodded with a smile.  “Captain Notaldo, I wish to commend you in your command of the Telepta Company.  Though we miss Ruscano dearly, you rose to the occasion and your leadership gives me comfort.”  He looked at Morelen.  “And how are you holding up?  You went through a lot.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I am doing well, my prince.  I still wrestle with what happened with Ruscano, but your words have been of great comfort to me, and I remain faithfully in your service.  The Telepta have been my rock for which I am deeply grateful.”

He patted her on the shoulder and then shook Líreno and Hurinon’s hands.  “Know that one day we will see Ruscano in the Halls of Mandos and we will all rejoice together in the Undying Lands.  I wish to say that you are all a credit to my company and I thank you. I also look forward to seeing you on the Coron Mittarion field soon, all of you,” he said with a hint of mischief.

Morelen gasped.  “I didn’t know that you played, my prince.”

He gave her a wry half smile.  “I dabble from time to time.  It was very popular in Eldamar.  I’ve heard that you’ve gotten quite good over the years.  I’m sure you could teach me a thing or two.  Now, all of you, enjoy the city once again.  My father and I have matters to discuss with King Finrod.  We will be here for at least a fortnight and I do not wish to see you until then,” he added in a conspiratorial voice that told them to go and explore.  Morelen took the hint and dragged Notaldo and the others away.

The captain looked at the rest of the Telepta.  “Off with you all!  You know where to find me if you need me, but you won’t need me.”

They strolled through the bazaar, admiring the stonework and mosaics, eventually finding their way to the quarters for visiting dignitaries.  Morelen burst into her room, brimming with excitement and anticipation.  Even the rooms were elegant with bushes and vines along the walls, making the rooms appear to be part of a forest.  A series of mirrors set in tubes brought a level of sunlight into the room along with some enchanted lanterns, giving the area an almost ethereal feel.  Her eyes were drawn to a fountain and flower garden in one corner, where water flowed down a tiled wall to a pool which fed the garden.  The colors were amazing with petals of red, blue, yellow and silver.  She dropped her pack on the floor next to a dresser that appeared as if it were the trunk of a tree and then leaned over the garden and inhaled deeply.

“I never tire of this place,” she told Notaldo as he shut the door.  “There’s always something new and exciting, but I love the sense that it will endure for all eternity.”  She plucked a yellow and orange flower and put it in her hair.  She gasped as the stalk grew a flower back almost immediately.

He tossed his pack next to hers and then took her in his arms.  He nuzzled her neck and took a deep breath.  “Mmmm, the smell is definitely wonderful,” he murmured as he guided her to the bed.

Morelen looked up at the ceiling of the room, which was painted in hues of blue, purple and black, depicting the sky at dusk.  She noticed the stars, which twinkled as if they were gems in the sky.  There was something about stars that she couldn’t quite place.  Perhaps her mother fancied them.  She then gazed into Notaldo’s eyes and smiled vacantly.  She could see herself in this quiet and blissful life until the breaking of the world.  His hands brushed her body and she sighed in contentment.

Hours later she lay in his arms, breathing softly as Notaldo fell into a meditative state.  These days she always seemed to wear him out.  There was a deep hunger inside of her that never seemed to be satisfied.  Was her father, Fëatur, like this?  Perhaps in some ways.  His desire to stop Morgoth was always focused.  Beyond that, he seemed to be content with who he was.  She never stopped thinking about who her mother, Yavëkamba, was.  What was she like?  Was it she who loved the stars?  Did she have the same driving ambition to be the best and to control her surroundings? Some of these urges went against what her father had taught her, but many times she couldn’t help it.  She tried to put a finger on this gnawing feeling within her, but it was useless.  Perhaps it would reveal itself in time.

She stroked Notaldo’s hair and nuzzled the crook of his neck.  And what was this?  Was it love? She was not entirely sure.  Any elf couple would have been wed by now, but that was not what she wanted and Notaldo seemed content with the way things were.  There were still so many things to do and see.  Her soul yearned to fly and travel to the four corners of Middle Earth.  It was then that she missed the south: the giant trees, the colorful birds, fishing with Lyrin by the lake and learning the Lȗth i Fȃn, the song and dance of forest dreams from Lysa.  She felt restless again and quietly extricated herself from Notaldo and went to the bathroom to get a towel.

As she wrapped it around herself, Notaldo called out in a groggy voice.  “Hey, where did you go?”

“I want to go to the pools in the grotto.  I just feel…feel…I don’t know.  I could use the company if you’re up for it.”

He shuffled out of bed and wrapped a towel around his midsection.  “I’ll invite Líreno and Hurinon if you don’t mind.”

She nodded with a smile. “Of course.”  She threw some snacks into a bag, and they went to round up the others.  The four walked down the winding path to the great grottos of Nargothrond, second only to those in far off Menegroth.  Morelen had always wished to visit there, but, for some reason, the Noldor were not welcome.  Soon, she could hear the roar of waterfalls and could feel the rise in humidity as a mist of water created a rainbow.  She led the way to a secluded spot where a pool of steaming water bubbled.  Every time they came here, she would claim this spot for her own.

Morelen had become more confident and assertive over the years and was no longer ashamed around her friends.  She let her towel drop and noted Líreno and Hurinon’s surprised reaction to her as she slid into the hot water.  She lingered above the water for a moment, making sure that they saw her body.  Morelen began to realize her allure to others and found that she liked the attention.  Where that feeling came from she was unsure.  Was it just the adolescent rebelliousness of an elf?  Or was it something that was inherited from her parents?  This, she could not say though she knew that it was manipulative.  She let the bubbles flow around her body, inhaling deeply of the scent of water and flowers.

Líreno slid into the pool uncomfortably, trying to keep his eyes off of Morelen.  “So, it’s been a while since we saw your father.  How is he doing?” he asked, seeming to want to talk about something…anything.

Morelen dipped her head under the water for a moment and then wiped her face.  “I get occasional messages that he is well.  They formed a great alliance in the south between The Guild, the Three, the Enclave and what was left of the Confederation.  They call it the Luingon Alliance.  He is worried about the growth of the Court of Ardor though.”

Hurinon narrowed his eyes. “The Court of Ardor?”

“A group aligned with Morgoth.  My father once worked with them, but he saw their evil and escaped.  My mother is still part of their group, but she is really against them.  She gives him information about their plans and movements.”

“That is a dangerous place to be in,” Líreno added seriously.  “Are you not worried?”

“I am, very much so as is my father.  He says that there is nothing to be done as she feels the need to fight Morgoth from the inside.” 

“Am I to understand that you’ve never met your mother?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Never.  I only have my father’s description of her.  He says that she is kind and gentle and looks like me.”

Hurinon nodded.  “That makes sense since, I have to say, you don’t look much like Fëatur, his blond hair and all that.”

Notaldo looked at her. “Kind and gentle…yeah, no, I’m not seeing it,” he said, and she splashed water at him.

She smirked and a question came to her.  “And what about you all?  Other than Coron Mittarion, a love of different brews and neglecting your armor, I really know very little about you all.  Certainly not as much as I would like.”

Líreno shrugged. “All of us lived in peace and bliss in Eldamar.  We served Fingolfin and learned the ways of defense from Eönwë.  When Finwë was murdered by Morgoth, we rose with our king and left the Undying Lands.  We survived the Grinding Ice and have fought in many campaigns.  Do I miss Eldamar?  I do, but our lives are here now, and we are the masters of our own destiny in Middle Earth.”

Hurinon nodded in agreement.  “I would love to travel south with you one day and see those lands.  What can you tell me?”

“It’s a wild, untamed land,” she began, sweeping her hand in front of her face.  “It can be hot and humid with torrential rains and swift rivers. The birds are different there, colorful and smart, able to mimic speech with near perfection.  And I hear that monstrous beasts called Oliphants roam the jungles.”

“Amazing!” he replied. “Truly wondrous.”

“I grew up with The Three, Noldor from the House of Fëanor, though they have always been kind and patient, unlike what I know of Fëanor.  Lyaan taught me the sword and bow and his wife, Lysa, taught me music and dance.  I often practiced with their son, Lyrin. They live on a mystical compound called Ty-Ar-Rana, constructed by the Vanyar as they tarried on their journey west.”

Líreno passed mugs of Cragstone’s brew around and they all drank.  Notaldo drank heartily and then wiped the froth from his lips.  “Friends for life!”  They all downed their mugs.

Morelen lay back onto a seat that reclined into the water, letting the bubbles flow around her bare form. As an elf, to her, life was eternal and unchanging.  They would always journey to Nargothrond and enjoy its wonders.  She would always remain in the comfort of her world, clear and confident that that it would always be this way, undying and everlasting.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter looks at the wonders of Narogothrond.  We introduce a substance known as Laen in the RPG modules, that is volcanic glass that can be cold forged into items like swords or armor.  A little more backstory on the south and moving Morelen's character arc.  The world begins to change as men and dwarves become more prominent and the economy of Beleriand becomes more capitalistic.

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26)  The Spread of Darkness – Part 1 - Year of the Sun 302 Quellë (Fading)

Yavëkamba

The Healer was becoming increasingly worried about Moran…and herself.  She already had one close call when Gorthaur detected a message going out of the Citadel recently.  She just had to get word out to Fëatur.  She just hoped that she wasn’t getting careless.  Multiple holds for the Court were nearing completion and their numbers were growing quickly.  Through sacrifices and demonstrations of power, Ardana was able to bring numerous human and dwarven clans under her sway.  There would be more movement against the Luingon Alliance soon.  She sat and brooded over every possible disaster that could befall her love and her lower lip quivered.  She drank a vial of her special herbal tincture that should calm her nerves.

Someone tugged at her sleeve.  She looked to see her assistant.  “Almariel? Sorry, I was lost in thought,” she said kindly.  She pushed her dark brown hair back behind her pointed ear.

“Moran needs to see you,” the woman said.  She was short for a Noldo, but proud in bearing.  Pretty, with chocolate colored hair down to her shoulders, she wore a healer’s robes in deep blue and silver that matched Yavëkamba’s.  Ardana had tasked Almariel to serve Yavëkamba having seen the woman’s healing skills.

Yavëkamba smiled in spite of her anxiety.  Perhaps another dose of herbal tincture would solve that again.  “Yes, of course,” she said and stood up.  What would it hurt?  She drank another vial, and a warm sensation ran down her throat to her stomach and the gnawing sensation in her mind lessened.

Almariel furrowed her brows.  “Milady, I’ve noticed that you drink a lot of those lately.  Wasn’t it you who warned me to only consume that in moderation? I’m worried.”

The Healer continued to smile, but it was strained.  “Yes, but I know what I am doing.  Thank you for your concern though.  Come, let us see Moran.”  They walked up a flight of stone stairs in the central tower of the Citadel and came to the quarters of the inner circle.  Ardana and Morfuin were away inspecting the other holds and Morthaur was away on other business.  She knocked on Moran’s door.

The door opened and she could see that Moran was haggard, his hair a disheveled mess.  His eyes were bloodshot and his skin pale.  “Come in.  Come in,” he said blankly.  He walked back to his chair and slumped into it as if he had no energy left.

Yavëkamba knelt beside him, taking his pulse and feeling his forehead.  She was extremely worried for him.  Ardana and Gorthaur put him through hell in the last decade.  Her hands glowed for a moment and then she stepped back.  “You’re exhausted.  You haven’t slept or meditated in days.  You cannot go on like this.”

“You can tell that from a touch and a spell?” he asked, a cynical edge in his voice.  He was changing and it was breaking her heart.

She nodded.  “Yes.  I can.” She reached into her robe and pulled out a small packet.  She broke it open and blew the mist into his face.  “Breathe deeply please.”

Almariel soaked a small tower in a basin of water where flowers floated within.  She put a drop of a potion in and then wrung out the towel and wiped Moran’s face, leaving the scent of cinnamon.  After a few moments, he pushed her hands away.

“I’m fine.  Really, I’m fine.  Thank you.  I have to prepare for a journey with Gorthaur.  We will be relocating to Aurax-Dȗr soon.  I’m fine, Yavë.”  His expression was one of disgust and annoyance, his jaw set, and his eyes narrowed.

Yavëkamba grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes.  His eyes showed fear and paranoia.  “No, no you’re not,” she said with a stern edge in her voice as her stomach knotted at the thought of him leaving.  She already hated Gorthaur, but her feelings about Ardana were starting to change for the worse.  “Moran, listen to me,” she said as she grasped his face and turned it towards her.  “It’s me.  Talk to me.  I raised you, remember?”

He tried to struggle away but she held him firm.  “I don’t want any help.  I don’t want to sleep.  I don’t deserve help!  You don’t know, Yavë.  You don’t know!”  He held out his hands, which were clean.  “Look at the blood!  My hands are covered in blood!  You don’t know!”

She didn’t know whether to be angry or horrified.  She shook him hard.  “No! No!  Listen to me,” she said, her eyes misting over.  “You were my…You should have been my son.  I raised you.  Watching you disintegrate is killing me.  I know, Moran, I know.”  She pulled him forward into her arms and he grasped her tightly, sobbing and pounding weakly on her back.

His breath came in ragged gasps.  “I can’t do it anymore, Yavë.  I can’t! The blood, the screams.  I see them in my sleep, calling me, begging me. I hate him, Yavë, I hate Gorthaur.”

“Shhh shh, my dear,” she cooed softly as she rocked him gently.  “I hate him too.  I hate what he is doing to you.  Calm now, my dear.”  She cradled his head and began to sing softly, a lullaby that she sang to him more than two centuries ago when he was still a child.

“Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!

The wind’s in the tree-top, the wind's in the heather;

The stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower,

And bright are the windows of Night in her tower.”

She pulled him up and guided him to his bed.  “Lay down, my dear.  Rest,” she said and then rubbed a salve on his chest and beneath his nose.  “Drink,” she added as she poured a vial of liquid into his mouth.  He reached up and touched her face before he drifted off into slumber.  She drank one herself and then motioned to Almariel.  “Please let Gorthaur know that Moran is incapacitated right now and is under my care.  He will not be available until further notice.”  Her assistant turned to go, but Yavëkamba caught her by the sleeve. “No wait.  I won’t do that to you.  Gorthaur is not one that I would have you face alone.”

“Yes, my lady and thank you.”

Yavë tried to smile. The tincture was having an effect, numbing her, chasing away the horrid feelings that were building in her.  Her growing anxiety was like a poison that was slowly spreading throughout her whole being.  It was the third dose that she had taken this morning, when one a day was the safe amount.  Almariel gave her a sideways glance with eyes narrowed, but she paid it no mind.  She placed Moran’s arms over his chest and then covered him with a blanket.

“Come, we must speak to Gorthaur and let him know that Moran will be unavailable for further sacrifices.  This has to end now.”  She pointed down the hall towards the Healer’s Quarters and held out her bag. “Please, take this back to my room and bring back my circlet.  I need to look the part when we meet with him.”  Her temperature rose with saying the man’s name.  Her request had a purpose beyond looking the part.  When Almariel left the room, she held her hand out the open window and a sparrow landed on it.  She brought it to her mouth and whispered something.  It then flew off.  She knew she was being risky, but Fëatur had to know what was going on. He could rescue Moran.  Maybe she could leave this evil too.  They could be a family with Morelen.  If only.

Almariel returned shortly and put the circlet on Yavëkamba’s head.  “Here you go, mistress.”

Her assistant was a good soul, and she had no idea how the woman got mixed up in this mess.  “Thank you.  Almariel, how did you come to the Court?  You don’t seem…the type.”

“I am the sister of Tirial, the Lady of Orbs.  Perhaps you may know her?  No?  Well, she told me so much about the great lord of the earth, our master Morgoth.  Morgoth is such a devout god, one who cares for all of his people and all of the earth. My sister has shown me the love that he has for all creation and that he is the chosen one who will lead us to prosperity.  I felt the need to be part of this wonderful movement.” she said, practically gushing over the Dark Lord.

Yavë fought down a burning need to smack her in the face.  This was ludicrous.  How could good people believe that one so evil was someone so good?  It was becoming cultlike, and she didn’t think that her sanity could last another hundred years.  She chose to remain deep in the cesspit of evil to fight from the inside and it was costing her.  “I see. What do you think of the sacrifices?” she asked, hoping to see some negative reaction.

Almariel paused for a moment and put her finger to her mouth.  “Tirial says that it is necessary.  Those people are non-believers and they are evil.  We must do this for Father Morgoth so that he may bring good into the world.”

“Hmmm, Tirial told you that?  What do you think for yourself?”  Yavë hoped to see some doubt.  Anything.

Almariel put her hands together over her heart as if she were talking about a lover.  “Morgoth is magnificent.  He raised the Great Lamps and the Two Trees that were destroyed by the evil Valar.  He brought life to the world that the other elves corrupted.  They created the monsters that prey upon our people.  Even now, they lay siege to his palace, a place of light and beauty.”

Nothing could have been further from the truth.  They arrived at Gorthaur’s quarters.  Yavë was glad to end that conversation.  Almariel had been a good assistant and seemed to be a good, compassionate person as deluded as the woman seemed to be.  Maybe she could be brought to see the light like Fëatur did.  All it would take is for her to see the facts.  The Healer could only hope.  She looked at Gorthaur’s door and felt a wave of nausea come over her. He was the last person in Middle Earth that Yavë wanted to see right now, but she had to force herself on.   She knocked.

The door flew open and Gorthaur glared at them through the opening.  “What is it?  I am busy preparing for the journey to Aurax-Dȗr and you are now interrupting that,” he said with utter contempt, looking down at them.  Gorthaur was very tall, towering over Almariel and he wore a blue leather breastplate and a gold collar.  His bowl cut hair let his pointed ears protrude out from his head.  The High Priest sucked on his teeth.  “Make it quick.”  He looked back into the room and pointed to a Silvan elf who was packing things into a crate.  “Taurion, continue preparations.  I’ll deal with this…interruption.”  The man nodded and went back to what he was doing.

Yavë closed her eyes for a second, pushing down her sense of disgust and anger.  She could feel that gnawing anxiety growing again.  She blew out a cleansing breath.  “Gorthaur, I need to speak to you about Moran.  He is not well.  I have decided to keep him here at the Citadel.  He will not be going with you to Aurax-Dȗr.  In fact, he is unable to continue with the sacrifices.”

His face twisted in anger for a moment before becoming merely annoyed again.  One side of his mouth curled back into a sneer.  “Who are you to make that decision?  I am the High Priest.  I am the Lord of Helms.  Who are you?”

Yavë bit her lower lip and flared her nostrils.  “I am the one who cares for Moran.  I am the one who keeps him safe,” she said with a hard edge in her voice.  “He is not well.  I am telling you that he cannot make that journey, and he needs to rest under my care.”

“Really?  Have you spoken to Ardana about this?  We’ll see what she has to say.  That has been the plan.  Moran will accompany me to Aurax-Dȗr, and I will train him in the priesthood of Morgoth.  You speak blasphemy, Healer.  Tread lightly.  I hold the power of life and death here.  I have a direct connection to our Lord.  You best remember that, girl.”

She balled her fists, but then relaxed.  “Yes, let’s talk to Ardana.  She entrusted his care to me.”

Gorthaur stepped back into the room and picked up a yard-long ebony rod that was capped in a cluster of gold.  He turned back to her, holding it up as it crackled with electricity.  “How dare you!”

Yavë stepped back, now a little afraid.  She had taken a great risk, and it was not paying off.  She bumped into someone behind her, and she looked back. “Fëatur, my lady,” she said with a nod of her head.

The Illusionist was dressed in black, form fitting robes, and her blonde hair was layered to the neck. She wore a headband of gold cord and a long kynac was sheathed at her hip.  She glared at Gorthaur with her gold, amber eyes.  “What is the matter here?” she asked sternly.  “Why are you threatening my people?”  She took an aggressive posture and Gorthaur retreated a step.  Fëatur’s hand to hand combat skills were legendary and few dared to stand against her in a physical confrontation.  This was not even counting for her prowess in magic that could destroy minds.

Gorthaur’s face twisted again for a second before becoming impassive.  “Your…servant dared to defy me.  Did you know of this?”

Yavë turned to The Illusionist, her eyes pleading.  “Moran is not well.  I have placed him under my care for now.  He is not able to travel at this time.”

Fëatur nodded.  “This is good enough for me,” she said and then turned to the High Priest, her chest and chin puffed out.  “The matter is settled Gorthaur.  Be on your way to Aurax-Dȗr and bother us no more.”  She was a full head shorter than the High Priest, but he knew not to trifle with her.

Gorthaur put his rod down on a table and then glared back.  “This is not over, Lady of Orbs.  This is not over.  I am still hunting a traitor in our midst, and I am willing to bet that it is one of your people, leaky as your house is.  When I find that person, there will be retribution for your blasphemy.”

Fëatur waved her hand dismissively.  “Look to your own house, priest and go grovel to the master.  We are done here.”  She led Yavë and Almariel back down the hall.

The assistant looked positively terrified, her eyes and mouth wide open.  Yavë knew not to let Fëatur see her like that.  The woman despised any weakness.  The Healer touched Almariel on the shoulder and gave her a look to knock it off and then tried to distract the Illusionist.  “Say, my lady, your robes are different.  Is something changing without our house?”

Fëatur nodded with a smile on her thin lips.  “I am forming a new organization within the Court,” she said proudly.  “I’ve decided to call it the Darin Tesarath or Sisters of the Mind in the Mentalist tongue.”  She stopped and began gesturing.  “It will be a sisterhood of elven women who excel in mentalism, astrology, mysticism and healing.  All will become experts in close combat as well.”  She reached into her black robes and pulled out a throwing dagger that was crafted from the volcanic glass, Laen, and then a garrote.  “I’m glad you asked as the two of you will be invited.”

Yavë bowed her head. “We are honored.  Please let me know what I must do.”

“I have a spot picked out,” The Illusionist said with excitement.  “On the Island of Tharin in Koros Bay.  This will be the site for the Tharin University where all sisters can learn and study.  And the two of you,” she added, pointing at them, “will need more combat training. Healing is fine, but what will happen when Lyaan tries to rip your throat out.  The mindless hatred that they have for us…  Pure evil.”

Almariel nodded emphatically.  “Yes, mistress.  I would love that.  You have my undivided attention.  I fear the day when we have to meet the evil of The Three or the Guild.  Savages…mindless savages.  They poison the blood of all elvendom.”

Fëatur took her by the shoulder.  “Yes, my sister.  We will be ready.  I would consider it a life well spent if I could plunge my kynac into Chrys Menelrana’s eye.  Now prepare yourselves for travel too.  We will be relocating to our new home of Angkirya within the year.”

Yavë started fishing for information.  “Angkirya, my lady?”

“Yes, the Iron Mine we call it.  It was originally dug out by some dwarves centuries ago, but it’s been abandoned.  Our dwarves now said it was part of the House of…Boron, no, Borat…I can’t remember, much less pronounce those names.  Suffice it to say, it was one of their Seven Houses with Seven fathers and all of that, if you care about such things,” Fëatur said, rolling her eyes, seemingly bored by such information.  “Our dwarves now are working to complete the tunnels. Work will still take time, but we will be safely in a new home soon.”

The Healer took it all in and forced a smile.  “It sounds exciting, my lady.”

The Illusionist curled her lip up in a half smile.  “Good, I trust you will be ready, and I will have Tesarath robes and gear sent to you. We will begin combat training for you and the other initiates soon.  Good day.” She turned without another word and walked off to her rooms.

Yavë blew out a long breath and closed her eyes.  Her anxiety was growing again, and she could feel a dark pit in her stomach.  Almariel was beside herself, practically bouncing with excitement.  “I’m going to meditate, Almariel.  If you care to join me, you are welcome to.”  She wanted to talk more with her assistant, to continue undermining her devotion to Morgoth, but she simply did not have the energy.  Still, having her close might influence her.

“I’d love to, my lady. Thank you for inviting me.”

They went into Yavë’s chambers and sat on the floor, cross legged.  The Healer had to admire her assistant’s energy.  Was this what it was like to be so young?  She snorted, thinking that she was not that old, just over a thousand years of the sun.  What those poor humans went through was just tragic.  Old and decrepit by seventy, likely dead by eighty or ninety.  It was little more than the blink of an eye for her. Out of habit, she downed another tincture and felt the warm, numbing sensation that she desperately needed.

She took Almariel’s hand and smiled.  “Rest well and sweet dreams.”  She then closed her eyes, and her mind drifted off into space and time.  Her spirit settled in a place that her lover had described as Ty-Ar-Rana.  Though she had never seen it, his words were so vivid and detailed that she knew every part of every pyramid down to Taran, the magically animated guard.  She could see the faces of The Three, warm and inviting. Fëatur smiled as Morelen danced and sang the Naiar I Faer, the song of renewal.  She could hear her lilting voice hitting the high notes with such grace that Yavë’s skin prickled.  Her attention was caught by a melody from a stringed instrument along with bell-like notes from another instrument.  She looked to see Moran, happily strumming a lute as a woman tapped notes on a dulcimer.  That must be Lysa.

Yavë wandered into the group and Fëatur rose and took her hands.  “Welcome back love,” he said and then gestured all around.  “The Dark Lord is defeated.  We are a family for all time now,” he said and Moran and Morelen came to hug her.  “We have waited so long for this.”

The Healer laughed, the sound like the tinkle of bells.  She grasped Morelen by the cheeks.  “Oh my.  Oh my, you have grown.  You are so beautiful, your voice so pure.  I dreamt of this,” she said and then did the same to Moran.  “I was so worried.  All I ever wanted was for you to be happy…to call you my son.”

He started to speak when someone grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard, waking her up.  She opened her eyes to see Gorthaur and some of his clerical thugs.  Gorthaur had a kynac held to Almariel’s throat.  He smiled in a vile, perverse way, practically salivating at their helplessness.  “I place the both of you under arrest for treason.  There will be sacrifices tonight to the Dark Lord.”  He then pointed to two of his minions, the Silvan man and a Noldorin woman.  “Taurion, Silion, bring Moran here.  He will have work to do.”

Chapter End Notes

I want to look at how Yavekamba tries to save Moran from the cult and the religious fanaticism of Gorthaur.  We also look at Court dynamics.

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27)  The Council - Year of the Sun 311 Quellë (Fading)

Morelen

The years that they spent in and out of Nargothrond were among the most idyllic of her short elven life. She was just over one hundred and fifty, barely a full adult among the High Elves and many things were still a wonder to her.  After a bath, she sat in their quarters with only a towel, admiring the wall fountain that ran from floor to ceiling.  It had interesting geometric shapes that the water flowed around, creating almost musical murmurs throughout the room.  Lillies floated in the basin while other flowering plants provided a pleasant aroma. Morelen closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.  The simple act of doing nothing and having no one needing her was most pleasant.

Notaldo had been gone for a couple of days, meeting with the lords of Nargothrond to help with a more offensive strategy to bring down Morgoth and end the war for good.  During this time here, she made friends with the dwarf, Cragstone and learned to enjoy the quality ale that he helped brew.  Her daily trips to the bazaar, the pools and the hot springs had become a ritual.  Was this what Valinor was like?  Why did the Noldor ever leave?  She had heard the story of Fëanor and the terrible oath, but it was still so hard to believe.

She heard the door open and looked to see Notaldo enter.  He wore formal robes, sky blue and silver from the House of Fingon with the sigil of a sun before an eight-pointed star on his left breast.  His curly brown hair fell loosely about his shoulders.  He seemed excited, a big smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes.  “Morelen, we need you.  King Finrod wants the person who saw the dragon up close.  We have to find some way to deal with it,” he said emphatically, beckoning to her.

She narrowed her eyes for a moment, feeling resistant.  “You were there.  Why can’t you tell them?  I’m just a rider.  You’re the captain.”

“Yes, but we need another perspective.  I played you up to the kings.  This can only be good for us.”

She was concerned for a moment about the politicking, but then accepted Notaldo’s words.  “Very well.  When am I needed?”

He made a big grin, which she knew was meant to appease her.  “Ummm, now?”

She sighed and grinned back.  “Of course, dear Notaldo,” she said with a sarcastic edge.  “What do I need to wear?”

He went to the closet and pulled out one of her gowns.  “This one. The one I bought you from Lindariel the seamstress out in the bazaar.  This will do very well.”  He held it up, a V Neck with a lace back and a hint of gold on aqua with seafoam fabric and a tea-length skirt down to just above her knees.  “So daring.  I love this one.”

“I’m still not completely comfortable with this new…economy.  Coins?  I mean, how many coins can you carry around in your pocket?  I think it would be too heavy at some point.  Things were simpler when we just got what was needed.”  She stood and walked over, reaching out to feel the material, which reminded her of white azaleas, soft and smooth.  “I love it too, but shouldn’t I appear more…martial? I’ll be talking about dragons after all. This is more of a ‘dinner next to the waterfall’ sort of attire.”

He grinned big again, white teeth in a tanned face.  “Oh no. They’re going to love it.  Trust me.”

Morelen cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.  “If you say so,” she said as she dropped her towel to the floor, revealing her bare form. She was no longer the skinny kid who had joined the riders but filled out and muscular if still slender.  She was known to be exceptionally strong and fast among the company as if some powerful spirit resided in her.  “Happy now?” she asked coyly.

Notaldo blew out a long breath and reached for her, but she slapped his hand and covered herself.  “Oh, don’t we have to go now?”

“Oh, you…yes, yes, we need to go,” he said as he looked up to the ceiling.  He held out the dress and she turned back and slid into it.  She looked into mirror and began braiding her hair. “Just comb it out.  Let’s get going before I get more distracted.”

“Fine, fine,” she said and ran a brush through her black hair to straighten it and quickly threw some products on her face.  Since arriving at Nargothrond, Morelen had become used to spending more time on herself than on her sword and bow.  She was enjoying this life of leisure, knowing that it would go on for centuries. The stories that her friends told of Valinor, eternal and unchanging, were inspirational.  And she was becoming more and more enamored with both dwarven and human music.  Dwarven music was deep and sonorous, something that touched and moved the listener. Human music was as varied as their people: some light and airy, some fast and lively, some told of love and adventure.

She fluffed her hair a couple of times and then turned to Notaldo.  “I’m ready.”

Notaldo then led her back to the royal hall through a series of smaller caverns with winding paths and staircases.  “This will confuse any attackers.  The design of the defense is to stop anyone at the great entry hall.  The people could flee inwards to this veritable maze and shelter here,” Notaldo said, gesturing to the narrow tunnels.  “One warrior could hold up dozens at each of these junctions.”

Morelen nodded. “Impressive.”  With his guidance, she began to understand strategy and tactics, offense and defense.  She narrowed her eyes and gave him a sideways glance.  “But what would happen if a dragon like Glaurung got in?  Wouldn’t these narrow corridors channel his fire and trap people?”

Notaldo shook his head confidently.  “That won’t happen.  The great gates would stop him, and he would have a tough time getting across the River Narog.  He wouldn’t get much purchase on the landing, and we could rain arrows down on him from above.”

She nodded in agreement, glad that he had thought it through.  “I can see that.  It’s good that we have such a great defense.”

He smiled at her. “You’re starting to get a good grasp on strategy and defense.  What we are planning here now is offense.  We don’t have the numbers that we want to assault Angband directly, but Finrod has an announcement that he wants to make that could change things,” he said as they arrived at the doors to the great council hall.  Four elite guardsmen stood outside, holding short glaives against their shoulders.  One Noldor elf stood with them, tall with golden hair.  He wore a simple circlet of silver with a ruby at its center and rich robes of scarlet and gold.  Notaldo bowed and motioned for Morelen to do the same.  “My lord Orodreth,” he said.

Orodreth tilted his head. “Captain Notaldo.  We are ready to hear the testimony of your rider.”  He looked at Morelen and she felt a knot in her stomach.

“I’m not good at presenting,” she told him in an awkward voice, not making eye contact.

He looked at her sympathetically.  “You’ll do fine.  Just describe what you experienced.  We need to devise strategies for Morgoth’s new monstrosities.  As if balrogs weren’t enough,” he said with a bit of a dark chuckle.

She took a deep breath. “I can do that.  Whatever I can do to help.”

He opened the great doors to the council room, thick oak doors adorned with gold and silver leaves, painted by artists to look real.  Colorful gems were set on the doors’ face to appear as glittering stars. They were greeted by wonderful aromas that emanated from incense burners that lined the room, cedar, sandalwood and cypress.  Morelen drank in the setting, the grand council chamber that appeared as a glade in Valinor, trunks of great trees running to the ceiling with branches like rafters, interlocking overhead.  Gold and silver leaves and fruit hung from the branches and the walls of the room held alcoves with wooden statues of the Valar, lovingly detailed and painted to appear almost real.  What struck her the most was the gathering of the greatest of the Noldor, all engaged in lively debate.  Her stomach knotted even tighter.

She leaned over to Notaldo. “That’s…that’s the High King?” she said, almost as a question.  “And King Finrod?  Lady Galadriel?”

He nodded.  “Yes, and over there are some of the Son of Fëanor. Maedhros and Maglor.  I think that’s Curufin there too.  He is most like his father in bearing and appearance and a master smith himself.”  

“Did you know Fëanor?”

Nodaldo shrugged.  “Everyone knew Fëanor.  Maybe not personally, but he was the Noldor.  Proud, brash, abrasive, brilliant.  I can’t say I liked him for the things that he did, but he was a force to be reckoned with.”

Morelen’s eyes widened. “The Kin Slaying?”

“Yes…among other things,” he answered with a slow nod.  He guided her forward towards the gathering of kings.  “My lords, this is my rider, Morelen.  She was the one who fought Glaurung.  She has seen him up close.”

Finrod turned and looked her over and then smiled.  To Morelen, he was everything that she imagined him to be: regal, noble and wise. His robes of gold and red were intricately woven, almost seeming to be alive in the patterns and shapes that practically danced on the fabric.  He wore a gold circlet over his golden hair that flowed down do his shoulders.

His sister, Galadriel, stepped in front of Morelen and looked down her nose.  She held a finger to her lips and narrowed her eyes.  “You have a darkness about you, child.  Who are your parents?” she asked in a slow voice, seemingly devoid of any emotion.

Morelen’s heart froze in her throat.  The Lady Galadriel was a power to behold and her intensity was overwhelming.  “My…my lady…my father…my father is Fëatur and…and my mother is Yavëkamba.”  She felt foolish and weak, stuttering like that and looked away, her cheeks flushing hot.

Galadriel grasped Morelen’s chin and turned her face to look into her eyes.  She said nothing for a few moments before speaking slowly again. “I know Fëatur.  He fought bravely during the Dagor Aglareb.  He supports our cousin in the south, Chrys Menelrana. I know he has a dark past.  I can see that in you…and something more.”

“Enough!” someone called out and everyone turned to see Curufin, a scowl on his lips, impatiently drumming his fingers on a table that he stood next to.  The Lord of Himlad wore a crimson tunic and breeches as did his brothers.  “We’re here to discuss defeating Morgoth, not enjoy a cozy family reunion.”

Galadriel’s nostrils flared and the light in her eyes darkened for a moment, but she said nothing. Finrod’s smile faded, but he stepped up to the podium and clapped his hands.  “Attention everyone.  We have made a lot of progress in these discussions about the Siege of Angband.  I am of the opinion that this cannot go on forever.  As we saw, he can breed orcs quickly while our numbers grow slowly.  We need a long-term strategy to defeat the Dark Lord.”

“Hasn’t that been obvious for some time,” Curufin said with a sarcastic edge.  “We must take him on directly and end this for good.”

His older brother, Maedhros, cuffed him on the chest with the back of his left hand.  “Respect, younger brother.  Do not make me send you away,” he said sternly, getting Curufin to look down.  “My apologies, King Finrod.  Pray, continue,” Maedhros said, waving his artificial right hand that was fashioned of red laen.

Finrod gave them a wan smile and then looked back to the gathering.  “We have here the greatest of our people, but still, it may not be enough. I may have found the solution to our problem.  In my recent travels I encountered a clan of men who are willing to join with us against the power of Morgoth.  Their leader, Bëor, has agreed to become our ally and his clan will add many thousands to our ranks.  I have, in turn, agreed to provide them with arms and armor along with the training of our people.”  He turned to and put his arm around a man with white hair and a beard.  “We have welcomed men into our halls for a few years now, but this is the first large clan that we have met and we are glad for their friendship.”

Bëor thumped his fist on his chest.  “I will serve and fight for the House of Finrod against your enemies,” he said in accented Sindarin.  “My men are hardy warriors and there are other clans behind us, heading west.”  He was dressed in elven robes of red and gold with a fur cloak, obviously of mannish design.  The mismatch of styles gave Morelen a chuckle. 

Finrod took Bëor’s hand warmly and bowed his head.  “We are honored, my friend.”  Then he turned back to the lords and gestured towards Morelen.  “I would like to give the floor to a rider in the Telepta Company under Fingon.  She and Captain Ruscano fought the dragon up close.  We lost the good captain, may his journey to Aman be peaceful and may his soul find healing in the Halls of Mandos.”  He beckoned her to the podium.  “Morelen, daughter of Fëatur, please share your experience with the lords.”

Her breathing was shallow and heartbeat rapid, but Notaldo put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She walked hesitantly up to the podium and nodded to Finrod.  “Thank you, good king.  Your hospitality has been unparalleled, and I shall never forget the warmth and kindness of your people.”  She scanned the gathering and gulped down hard.  “I cannot add much as my experience was brief and terrifying.  The dragon exudes fear and I sensed an extraordinary, but malicious intelligence in it.”

“Intelligent?” asked Maedhros.  “Other than the balrogs, Morgoth’s beasts are just brute creatures such as the trolls.”

“I looked right into its eye, and I could feel a malevolent intelligence.  When it looked at me it seemed to know who I was.  It could have easily killed me, but it hesitated.”

Maedhros leaned forward and put his chin on his laen hand.  “This is grave news.  If, indeed, this monster is intelligent we cannot fight it by force alone.  This will require some additional thought.”

Curufin stood and gestured angrily at her.  “How can we accept the word of this scared little girl?  What do we actually know beyond how she let her captain be slain?”

This stung Morelen and her face went bright red with anger and shame.  She wanted to say something…to challenge him, but no words came. Notaldo stood up sharply and pointed his finger at the son of Fëanor.  “How dare you!” he called out.  “You weren’t there.  I saw what happened with my own eyes.  Morelen fought bravely and she’s lucky to be alive.  Nothing could have prevented Glaurung from doing that.”

Curufin’s hand began to move towards his sword, but Maedhros caught him with his left hand. “Don’t even think about it,” the eldest brother said with an even harder edge.  “Sit down.  Now.” The younger brother snorted but did as he was told.

Morelen was glad for the intervention and gave Maedhros a slight smile and a head nod.  “Like I was saying, I sensed a malevolent intelligence in Glaurung.  We cannot fight him with normal means, but he does have weak spots.  We were able to drive him away by shooting arrows into his mouth, nostrils and eyes.  Beyond this, I have no other knowledge on how to fight him.”

Finrod came back to the podium and took her hand.  “Thank you for that.  I know it must have been difficult.  Every bit of information will help in building a coherent strategy against the Dark Lord.  We will make sure that all of the houses of the Noldor have that information.  We have enjoyed a long peace, but I fear this will not last.”

Morelen was impressed with Finrod’s compassion and wisdom.  She bowed to him and quietly went back to her seat, next to Notaldo.  She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked back to see Fingon. “Well spoken, you two.  We need people like you in our ranks.  Please stay and learn more of our strategy.  I will need you to pass word of this to the company.”

Notaldo nodded.  “Of course, my prince.”

Finrod went on to discuss how the human clans would receive training and arms and how they would bolster the ranks of the Noldor.  “Our smiths are working hard to produce quality weapons for our allies.  And, while we remain in contact with Elu Thingol of Menegroth, I fear that he will give no aid because of the rash acts of a few of us,” he said, looking pointedly at the Sons of Fëanor.  “Such things cannot, now, be undone so we can only look forward and band together as one to stand against Morgoth.”

Morelen chanced a look over to Galadriel, who was watching Finrod closely.  She meant to say something else.  What could that have possibly been?  Did Morelen even want to know?  One thing was for sure though.  She was too afraid to ask.

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase the wonders of Nargothrond and the Sons of Feanor, particularly Maedhros and Curufin as well as the wisdom of King Finrod.

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28)  The Spread of Darkness – Part 2 - Year of the Sun 311 Quellë (Fading)

Ardana

The Astrologer was deep in meditation in her bed chamber in the safety of the Citadel of Ardor.  In her mind, she was high atop Mount Taniquetil in the domed halls of Ilmarin.  She walked as if in a dream through the marble corridors and past the white pillars, veined with gold streaks.  She looked up through a clear glass dome and could see the brilliant stars, the creations of her mentor, Varda.  But, the glass distorted the image of the lights just enough to displease her.  Throughout her long life, Ardana had always demanded perfection.  She blew out a frustrated breath and continued down the hall, searching for the grand balcony where Manwë and Varda would gaze out into the dark sky, so full of twinkling lights.  For eons, she had studied under the Valie of Lights, learning of the great constellations and the composition of the heavens.  The Valië was ever patient, but Ardana not so much.  The Astrologer always wanted more, the vast knowledge that she was given, never enough.  “Such is the mind of the Noldor,” Varda would say, smiling, her face kind.  Ardana could bask in her unearthly beauty and wisdom for all eternity.

She searched for the passageway that would take her to the grand balcony, but she could not find it. Increasingly desperate, she began to run from corridor to corridor, but the familiar halls had changed somehow. She was lost.  She grabbed a Vanyar elf by the sleeve and he looked at her strangely, as if she didn’t belong.  She begged him for directions, but he looked at her as if he did not understand her words. She tugged harder at his sleeve, and he glared at her, speaking in what sounded like gibberish.  How could she not understand?  They all spoke Quenya.  He shrugged off her grip and walked quickly away, haughty as only a Vanya could be.  Where was the balcony though?  She had to see her beloved stars.  The Hunter. The Seven Sisters.  The Great Dipper.  She could recreate the entire heavens in her mind down to the smallest detail, but today, her mind was foggy.

She saw a corridor of marble walls with golden pillars.  Yes.  That was it. That was the way.  She turned at the junction and began to run, something frowned upon in sacred Ilmarin, but she didn’t care at this point.  The hope of seeing her beloved stars drove her.  She thought of the first time that she sat at Varda’s feet and the Valië lifted her hand up to the dark sky, so full of twinkling lights.

“That is the constellation Wilwarin,” Varda told her.  “I set it in the heavens to guide you when you awoke in Cuiviénen.  And the bright star there is Elemmírë that was placed there to give your people strength and wisdom.”  Ardana gasped.  She remembered awakening.  She remembered the pattern of stars and the wonder and majesty of the dark sky.  Varda moved her hand to another group of stars. “And this is Soronúmë, the Eagle of the West.  He guided you to us.”

Ardana shook off the memory.  It made her hunger for more.   The eons of learning were simply not enough. She had to have more.  It was the way of the Noldor.  She sprinted now, having caught a glimpse of the grand balcony. A cold wind took her breath for a moment, and she knew that she was near.  Then, Ardana saw her.  The golden hair and the crown of stars.  She rushed onto the balcony, which was formed of white granite with intricately crafted railings and pillars that held up golden lattice like the branches of Laurelin.  The howling winds of Taniquetil were always calm here in the sanctuary of the Valar.  She swiftly took a knee before her mentor and patron.  “Varda guide me.  I wish to learn of the stars.”

Varda made no movement and said no word.  Ardana looked up to see the Valië gazing upwards into the sky.  In place of the constellations sat a large, white sphere, shining brightly, drowning out the twinkling stars.  What travesty was this?  “Varda, what has happened?  Why can I not see your creations?”

Again, Varda did not stir. That mind of a goddess was a maze to someone as small as an elf.  “Please Varda!  Please!” She rose and dared to grasp the Valië by the arm.

Varda spun on her, her eyes blazing.  “You dare to question the sun and moon?  Did you not learn by my hand?  Did my words not bring you wisdom and comfort?  So short sighted and small are you now.”  The Valië’s body became pure light, and her intensity brightened to that of a thousand stars.  Ardana had to shield her eyes and look away.

“No!  Varda, please!  I would do anything for you.  Anything for your wisdom!”  She threw herself onto the ground and covered her head.  Then, the light was gone.  She looked up to see Varda again, reaching down with her hand.  The anger was gone, replaced by deep sadness.

“Then why did you leave? Why did you turn to darkness?” Varda gestured behind her and Ardana looked to see a dark figure with red eyes.  Melkor.  The elf tried to turn away, tried to scurry behind Varda’s legs to hide, but she could not move.  Without looking, she tried to reach up to take Varda’s hand, but it was no longer there. All that remained was the Dark Lord.

This time it was he who reached out to her.  She blinked and when she opened her eyes, he was the being of unearthly beauty again that she fell in love with, tall, wise, strong.  “We will make this right, child.  We will return the stars to their rightful place.  Varda was wrong and we will show her true beauty.  Come to me, child, and you will see.  I will be your North Star.”

She tried to resist, but her body felt weak.  She staggered a few steps and then found her footing.  She took his hand.  “Yes lord! I will help you to restore the heavens. I will help you to restore the beauty of Varda’s sky.  I am yours.” She closed her eyes and buried her head into his chest.  She felt comfort and warmth.  She could feel the just power of his being flowing into her.  Then, she heard a dark chuckle and looked up.  Her blood ran cold.  His eyes were red again and his face twisted in a snarl, teeth bared like a wolf’s.  Her eyes opened wide, and she tried to push away, but he held her fast.  His strength could level mountains and create seas. She was but an ant in his grasp.

He smiled down at her, his cold hands holding her in a vice grip to the point that she winced.  “You are mine.  Now and for all time.  I am the only god in your world.  I am the only star in your heaven.  Me.”

Terror filled Ardana’s heart, and she tried to scream, but no sound came out.  She was being shaken violently now and a voice filled her head. “Wake up!  Mother, wake up!”

As befitting an elf, Ardana roused quickly from her meditative state.  She blinked a couple of times and then focused on Moran.  His face showed fear and panic and sweat glistened on his brow and cheeks.  His black hair was a messy mop, and his silk robe rumpled.  Her heart skipped a beat.  “What Moran?  What is it?” Her son meant everything to her now. She would destroy the sun and moon for him.  She would show him the wonders of Varda’s creations.  She leapt up and quickly threw on her gown over her night shirt.

“He means to kill her, mother!  He wants me to kill her!” he shouted, barely making sense.

Ardana took him by the face with both hands.  “Who? Who wants you to kill whom?  Slow down and take a breath.”

He inhaled deeply like she had taught him and then blew out a long exhale.  “Gorthaur.  Gorthaur took Yavëkamba and Almarien!  He’s demanding that I sacrifice them!  You have to do something mother!”

Ardana narrowed her eyes. What was going on?  Was Gorthaur out of control?  She had given him wide latitude to conduct his investigations, but he was not to act without her approval.  He knew this.  Her eyes flashed like the light of a blazing star.  “Come Moran, I need to find out what it is going on.”  She sprinted down the stairs towards the courtyard.

“He thinks that she is the traitor!  That’s ridiculous,” he called as he ran down the steps behind her.  “I’ve known Yavë all my life.  This is ridiculous!”

The Astrologer knew that he was infatuated with the Healer.  It was something of small consequence, so she let it go.  Yavëkamba’s former paramour, the male Fëatur, was long dead and a stable, mature woman would do well for her son.  She paused for a moment to wonder if Gorthaur’s accusation could possibly be true.  No, the Healer had always been loyal.  Annoying at times with her altruism, but loyal.  It was the Priest who was out of control.  She looked back at Moran and nodded.  “We’re putting a stop to this.”

At the base of the Citadel, Ardana pulled a card, one showing the female Fëatur, petulant and scowling.  The card grew cold, and the figure began to move, looking at her.  “Come to the courtyard now.  There is a matter that I need your assistance on.”

Fëatur nodded. “Right away, my lady.”

The female lived for conflict and confrontation and her backing would be critical.  Ardana and her son strode out into the courtyard, and she could smell smoke and hear the crackling of flames.  For all of the horror that she had seen and done, what she saw chilled her.  These were friends, people that she knew.  Yavëkamba and Almarien were tied to stakes, stripped down to their waists with gags in their mouths.  Kindling was piled at their feet.  Gorthaur’s two priests, Taurion and Silion, stood next to them, holding lit torches, all wearing black robes.  The Silvan man and the Noldorin woman were steadfast in their devotion to Gorthaur. The High Priest strode from brazier to brazier, waving his hand to create raging fires in each.  He turned to see Ardana and Moran approach and he smiled broadly.

“You have come, my lady,” he said and then gestured to Moran.  “Come here, boy.  You must perform the sacrifice for the Dark Lord.  I will guide you.”  He held out the sacrificial dagger that had been used far too often in the recent years. “Take it, boy.  You need to cut their hearts out and then I will consign them to the flames.”

Ardana held up her hand. “He will do no such thing.  What is happening here?  We have an agreement that you will consult me before acting on any member.  Have you forgotten?”  She narrowed her eyes, letting him know of her displeasure.

The High Priest chuckled and ran his free hand through his bowl cut black hair.  “My lady,” he said in an almost condescending voice.  “I also answer directly to the Dark Lord. Like Morthrog, I carry his will.  I enforce his dogma.  I spread his word and his religion.  Now, obey the will of the Dark Lord and send your boy over.” Taurion and Silion moved to the High Priest’s side.

Ardana was shocked at his defiance.  No member of her court had dared to contradict her.  Would they be foolish enough to stand against her?  Still, Gorthaur was formidable.  He could channel power from the Dark Lord that she could not defeat.  She took a breath and analyzed her position.  A fracture in the court could be fatal.  Being defeated by Gorthaur, even more so.  It could be the end of all of her dreams.  Here, though, under no circumstances could she appear weak.  Her gown began to radiate the light of the stars as she stepped forward.  “You don’t want to do this, High Priest.  Stand down. I will vouch for their loyalty.” Negotiation through strength would be her way forward.

“With all due respect, my lady, the matter has already been judged.  The Dark Lord requires sacrifice to fuel his strength.  Their essence will power him, and we will make Middle Earth great. Morgoth is the chosen one and I will not allow you to defy him!”  He raised the Rod of Umarin, a yard-long staff of ebony with a gold skull as its head and his octagonal brooch glowed a sickly green.  “You are outmatched here, Ardana.  You need to stand down and allow me to complete the sacrifice.  Let the boy come to me.”

Then, a flash of silver flew by Ardana’s ear from behind and the tip of a kynac embedded itself into Gorthaur’s rod.  The High Priest’s eyes widened in fear and surprise, and he stepped back.  He pulled the kynac out and threw it to the ground with an angry grunt.  “Who did that?  Who is responsible?”

Fëatur seemed to appear out of nowhere, her golden hair worn short and her plain brown robes hastily thrown on.  “It was I, Gorthaur,” she said in a most haughty voice.  Now, I suggest that you do as our lady says or this may get ugly.” She drew a long kynac from a sheath, its curved blade shimmering green.  She licked the blade and grinned.  “The deadliest poison…to which I am immune.  Are you?”

Gorthaur sneered, baring his teeth.  “You dare to defy the Dark Lord?” he declared and puffed out his chest, but his two lesser priests seemed less confident now.  Fëatur had a reputation for savagery and cruelty.  The High Priest brandished the rod again.  “You are still outmatched.  It’s three to two,” he said, ignoring Moran.

Fëatur closed her free hand and then snapped it outwards towards Silion and the Noldorin woman screamed in agony.  She fell to the ground, slapping at her body.  “Get them out!  Get them out! They’re inside me!  Get them out!”  She writhed on the ground, shrieking.

Fëatur grinned broadly at the High Priest.  “You were saying?”  She walked calmly towards Gorthaur as Taurion rushed to Silion, searching for what was under her skin.  She drew a second kynac in her left hand, which also shimmered green.  “If you wish to fight, let it begin here.”  Ardana and Moran now stood beside her, Moran with his sword drawn.  “It’s still three to two, High Priest, but now you are outmatched.”

Gorthaur’s face twisted in both anger and fear.  He lowered the rod.  “This is not over, Ardana.  The Dark Lord will hear of this.  Now, release my priestess.”

Ardana nodded to Fëatur. “This is definitely over.  Release my healers and confine yourself to your hold at Aurax-Dȗr.  You will not come to the Citadel without my permission, but you are free to conduct your business within your realm.  You are to be gone by tomorrow.  Am I clear?”

Gorthaur cut the bindings on Yavëkamba and Almarien and removed their gags.  The healers fell to the ground, covering themselves with their hands as Moran ran to them.  Fëatur raised her hand and closed a fist and black, eel-like creatures erupted from Silion’s flesh, squealing and writhing and then evaporated into nothing as the woman shrieked in agony.  Fëatur strode over to Silion and pointed her poisoned kynac down at her.  “This was fun.  We should do it again some time,” she said with a smile that was full of menace.

Ardana could tell that Silion wanted to strike out.  Rage and pain were written on the priestess’ face.  But it would be suicide.  Silion wouldn’t last two seconds against Fëatur.  The Astrologer gestured to Gorthaur.  “Now, leave my sight.  You will send a report when you reach Aurax-Dȗr.”  The High Priest scurried off with his priests as Moran covered the healers with his cloak.  Ardana sighed in relief.  This was too close.  Everything that she had built could have ended here.  And what was to become of Moran?  He was utterly loyal, but he was useless in this.  Was she too overbearing?  Did that make him weak?  She wish she knew the answers.  She was never taught to be a mother.  Yavëkamba had always been the nurturing one.  All she knew was that she was the Astrologer to the Dark Lord and that he promised her that the skies would only hold the stars.  Maybe then, Varda would see the error of her ways and Ardana could return to learn at the feet of the Valië.  All would be as it was, and she and Moran could live in the eternal bliss of Aman. 

Chapter End Notes

We look more at the religious fanaticism of Gorthaur that now challenges Ardana.  We also look at the power and cruelty of the female Featur.  I want to explore how Ardana's mothering has affected Moran and what she thinks about it.

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29)  Doubt - Year of the Sun 312 Tuilë (Spring)

Lyaan

Deep in the underground chambers of Ty-Ar-Rana, Lyaan looked down at Fëatur, standing a full head taller than the other elf.  His eyes were deep with concern and his lips pursed.  “I am worried about you, my friend.  You have not been yourself for some months now.”  He put his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, a touch of empathy. It was something that he felt he should do, given the man’s emotional state.  Fëatur held his head down, his face twisted in some psychic pain.  “Please talk to us.”  Lyaan knew that emotional nourishment was not his strength.  He looked over to his wife, Lysa.  “Lysa, please help me to get him to open up.”  Lyaan would be lost without her.  Her wisdom and perception were said to rival that of the Lady Galadriel.  Together, with their son, Lyrin, they made an unbeatable team, each having part of a greater whole.

Lysa walked over and pushed locks of auburn hair from his face.  “Yes, you would be lost,” she said as if she had read his thoughts.  She guided Fëatur to a nearby couch that was upholstered in gold cloth with a mahogany wood frame and guided him to sit. The room was warm and comfortable, designed to set people at ease.  A fire blazed in the fireplace, casting a warm orange glow throughout the area.  Shadows danced on the dark wood paneling and bookshelves that held the knowledge of the Vanyar who built Ty-Ar-Rana.  Lysa sat in front of him, holding his hands.  “Fëatur, we know you received some news at the end of last year.  You’ve held on to it and we know that it pains you.  Please, we share all burdens.  We share all pains.  Together, it makes us stronger.”

Fëatur looked up at them, his body practically shaking.  Slowly, he put his hand in the fold of his plain brown robe, and he pulled out a scroll case and popped the cap off.  “I…I received this.  It’s from…from Yavë.”  He handed it to Lyaan.  “Here. Read it.”

Lyaan took it.  He knew that if anyone could get through to Fëatur it was Lysa.  He took a second to inhale and felt some relief.  He scanned over the Tengwar script, reading the Quenya words from the Healer of the Ardan Court.  “I take great risk now to communicate with you so this must be the final word from me for some time.”  Lyaan’s throat tightened.  He tried to imagine being separated from Lysa.  She had been his rock for eons now.  He took a breath and continued reading.  “My last message to you was detected by Gorthaur, curse him.  He took my assistant, Almariel and I, and was on the verge of forcing Moran to execute us.  Poor Moran was a mess.  Ironically, it was only because of the intervention of Ardana and your sister that we survived.  Ardana exiled Gorthaur to Aurax-Dȗr so I am safe for the moment, but I have stretched my luck too far.  I am deeply worried about Moran.  The sacrifices have taken their toll on him.  I will look after him as best as I am able.  Know that I am safe.  Know that you are always in my heart.”

Fëatur took Lyaan’s hand. “I have to go after her and Moran. They are still in danger.  I have caused so much pain in this world.  I cannot leave them in this danger.  I have to go.”

Lyaan could see the fear in his friend’s face, but he was finding it difficult to say the right thing. To do the right thing.  For Lyaan’s entire existence, he had known no great loss.  Known no great pain.  He found it perplexing to truly understand what Fëatur was going through.  He found himself wishing that Yavëkamba had included some tactical or strategic information that he could act upon.  Still, Fëatur was his friend.  “We cannot let you go.  You know this.  They would just kill you and Yavëkamba as well.  She is still a good asset within the ranks of the enemy.  She will still have good information for us in the future.”

Lysa looked up to him and narrowed her eyes.  “Is that all you can think of love?  Our friend is in pain, and you worry about information?  Come now, put yourself in his place.  I am trapped in the enemy’s camp, and you are here, helpless.”

The words stung.  She was right.  Lyaan closed his eyes and lowered his head.  “I am sorry, my friend.  I am not the most empathetic of beings.  Still, it would be folly for you to go.  Trust Yavëkamba.  Trust that she is safe now and will reach out when it is safe to do so.”

Fëatur nodded wordlessly and waved his hand as if lost in thought.  He breathed deeply for a minute before he looked up again, some hidden struggle written on his features.  “I’m fine. I’m fine.  Really.”  He inhaled deeply.  “You don’t have to worry about me.  I’ll be fine.”

Lyaan smiled, taking him at his word.  “Very well. Let us return to the business of our defense.  The presence of the Court has grown on our northern borders.  Our people, the Arana, are increasingly worried.”  He sat down and cupped his chin with his hand and began thinking aloud.  “Most of the Arana are Silvan, many without heavy armor or weapons and they seem averse to incorporating humans into our ranks.”  He made eye contact with Fëatur and there was a look about him that he couldn’t quite place.  Fëatur was a deeply passionate man with intense feelings about things that he often kept to himself.  It was best not to pry.

Fëatur returned the smile, which seemed forced.  “I’m not sure we fully trust the humans yet.  Too many of them have fallen into the cult of Morgoth.  But I’ll talk to the Guild.  They have been receiving and sending regular shipments from Fingolfin, but it is clear that we need more.”  He livened up, straightening his robes and wiping his face.  “The smiths of the Guild have also learned much from the north and are producing quality arms and armor now.  I’ll get Chrys to send some our way.”

Lyaan felt some relief. “For centuries, our Silvan brethren have favored light infantry, suited for skirmishing in the forests.  I fear that this will not be adequate when facing the forces of the Court.  Not only will this require arms and armor, but training as well.”  He was back in his element, discussing strategy.  “Can the Guild spare some trainers?”

“I’m sure of it.”

His friend seemed back to normal.  “Good,” Lyaan said with a look of satisfaction.  “We don’t even know where this Aurax-Dȗr is, much less the location of their Citadel.  If Yavëkamba can’t tell us, we need to do more scouting.  This region is full of jungle, so it won’t be easy.  And, right now, even if we knew where they were, we don’t have the strength to launch an assault by ourselves.  We’ll need the power of the entire Luingon Alliance.  It seems that the Court has recruited thousands of human allies, and I’m concerned about the level of fanaticism that they show in the cult.  We can defend, but we cannot yet attack.”

Lysa raised her hand. “Enough strategy.  It’s time to eat.  We need to take care of ourselves.  We have a good plan of action so let it be.”  She called out into the hallway and an initiate stepped up, a short, Silvan woman with ginger hair, wearing a diaphanous white robe.

The woman bowed.  “Yes, Seer?”

Lysa stood up, took the woman’s hands in her own and nodded her head.  “Thank you, Thalindra.  Please tell my son that we will be dining soon.  Have the initiates prepare.”

“Yes, Seer,” Thalindra replied and then departed.

“Your initiates are learning well,” Fëatur said.  “How many do you hope to have?”

Lyaan thought for a moment. “We have twenty now and Thalindra is really coming along as First Initiate.  Sixty would be perfect, I think.  We have quarters for such down here, along with quarters for a hundred troops. I would like to base our elite forces down here.  All told, we have about three thousand Silvan warriors.”

“That is excellent,” Fëatur responded, seeming more confident as if he had decided something. “I am pleased with our progress.” There was something in the way he said this that made Lyaan pause.  It just didn’t sound like his friend.  Still, he couldn’t put his finger on it.  Fëatur stood and bowed to his hosts.  “I should get ready for dinner.  Thank you for the talk.”  His manner was stiff and his expression almost frozen.  When he had gone, Lyaan looked at his wife and she gave him a sideways glance.

“He’s not telling us everything,” she said.  “I can feel it, but he’s good at hiding his inner self.  Damn,” she added, her face scrunching up as if she had thought of something, “we should have had this talk in my chambers.  With the enchantments, no one can tell a lie when within.”

Lyaan drew in a sharp breath and shook his head.  “No.  I think that would be…disingenuous.  We’ve known him for centuries.  We shouldn’t have to trick him into the truth.”

Lysa nodded.  “Yes, you’re right, dear.  I just worry about him.”

They ran into Lyrin and Thalindra in the hall to the dining room.  “Are you three ready?” Lyrin said with his usual boyish charm, his body fidgeting.  He was fully grown for an elf now, but still acted like a child far too often for Lyaan’s tastes.

“Three?” Lysa answered, tilting her head.  “It’s just us.  Fëatur should be with you for dinner.”

Lyrin shook his head and shrugged.  “Nope. I just checked his room.”

“And he’s not in the dining room,” Thalindra added.

Lyaan groaned.  “I should have listened to my gut.  He’s going after Yavëkamba, but he doesn’t even know where she is.  This is pure desperation.  We have to stop him.”  He looked over at Lysa and he could see the fear in her face.

“We both failed, my husband.  I did not adequately understand his pain.  You are right.  He’ll blunder into the forces of the Court and be killed or worse.  He knows where we are and about all of our defenses.”

Lyaan nodded and then pointed to Lyrin.  “My son, rouse the scouts and have horses made ready.  We have to bring Fëatur back safely.  Warn them that he is not to be harmed and that he may not be in his right mind.”  He then turned to the initiate.  “Thalindra, activate Taran and have healers ready.  I just have a feeling we may need them.”

Lyrin nodded emphatically and then dashed off towards the barracks and Thalindra bowed deeply.

Lyaan and Lysa scrambled to fill their packs with food, herbs and other items for a pursuit.  They threw on their green battle dress, breeches and tunics laced with plates of laen, harder than steel.  Each took a strange, three bladed shortsword, known as an Ikasha in the region, useful in catching weapons and even throwing.  They ran through the halls and took the lift up to the stables where Lyrin was similarly dressed and standing with the scouts and horses.

Lyrin pointed to an empty stall in the stable.  “One horse is missing and there are hoof tracks leading to the northeast.  Fëatur has definitely fled.  I’ve assembled a dozen of our scouts and we are ready, father.” The look on his face was eager to please.

He grasped his son’s shoulder and nodded in satisfaction.  Sometimes, Lyrin needed far too much encouragement, but today, he seemed solid and it was deserved. He thought for a moment and realized that his was a huge shadow to live in.  He swung into the saddle of Aldalómë, his mount, and raised his hand.  “Be ready my friends.  We must move swiftly.”

Lysa held up a finger to the air and closed her eyes.  After a few moments, she pointed to the southwest.  “He’s gone this way.”

Lyaan patted Aldalómë on the head.  “Alyë!” he called, and they all surged ahead at a gallop.  The pounding of hooves on dirt went on for hours, but the stamina of elven horses was legendary.  The jungle canopy soon gave way to rolling plains.  Lyaan could still feel the humidity of the south and he wiped sweat from his brow and took a long drink of water from a flask.  The hard ride had made him extremely thirsty.  He then handed the water to Lyrin who also drank deeply.

Lysa held up a finger again and then pointed west.  “We’re gaining, but not by much.  He’s an hour ahead and not stopping to rest.  We have to pick up the pace.”  She took the flask from Lyrin and poured some water on her face and then shook out her auburn hair, throwing drops around.

“What do we do when we get him back?” asked Lyaan.  “We can’t keep him prisoner in Ty-Ar-Rana.”

“I have things that I learned in Valinor from Estë that will help to heal the mind and spirit.  But his pain runs deep so it will take time, and I can only do my best here in this Middle Earth.”

“Your best is more than good enough,” he answered and then raised his hand to the troop.  “Let us move with haste.”  Hooves pounded in the grass and dirt as they rushed to save their friend.

Another hour flew by as the sun moved lower in the west and Lysa called out, “We are gaining!  He is near.  I feel it.”

Lyaan stood tall in the saddle and could just see a dust cloud in the distance with his long sight. Then, he saw something else, dark spots in the air over where Fëatur should be.  They seemed to be moving with great speed.  “There is something closing on Fëatur!  We must hurry!  Now, Alyë! Alyë!”  He tapped his horse on the flanks with his heels and then leaned over to the horse’s ear.  “Aldalömé, Alyë!”

Aldalómë bolted as if Morgoth were on his trail, and they group tore out at a gallop.  Scouts readied bows as they closed the distance rapidly.  Lyaan could now make out the scene more clearly as he stood up in the stirrups.  About two dozen giant birds began circling over Fëatur.  “Look there! Do you see that?  They look like…like giant hawks!  With riders!  Come! Prepare for battle!”

The hawks began to dive on Fëatur, their riders showering him with crossbow bolts.  Fëatur rode in circles, dodging the shafts and waving his arms, creating shimmers in the air to foul their aim.  Lyaan pushed a knife hand out towards the hawks.  “Aim for the mounts!  Aim for the mounts!”  Arrows filled the air, but many of the hawks dodged.  Two were struck multiple times and began spiraling down towards the earth, crashing in a heap.  Lyaan saw one Noldor elf, clad in black plate armor, point at them and bolts leapt from crossbows.  One scout tumbled from the saddle; his chest pierced with several bolts.  Lyaan looked at the Noldo.  “That’s the leader!  We must take him out!”

Another wave of arrows felled another hawk, but the Noldo maneuvered his mount with exceptional precision and dodged every arrow fired at him, but it disrupted his dive on Fëatur. He wheeled his hawk in a tight turn and dove at the group.  An arrow sank into the hawk, but it continued its dive, its talons raking another scout and his horse, spraying blood into the air.  The Noldo looked back at the bloody mess and laughed.  He pointed at a Noldo female clad in a silver breastplate and helm.  “Elendur, start your attack!”  She pushed her hawk over and began a near vertical dive towards Lyaan and his troop, followed by a half dozen hawk riders.  The hawks screeched into the dive, a sound that made Lyaan’s skin crawl and his hair stand up.  Scouts brought down two with precision shots, but Elendur struck and flayed one of the scouts with the talons of her hawk, carrying the man far into the air before releasing him, screaming and bloody.  The scout fell nearby with a sickening thud as his horse fled.

Elendur wheeled back around and pointed at the Noldo in black armor.  “Castolder!  They’re breaking.  Drive the attack home!”

Lyaan felt helpless. His Ikasha was useless against this enemy.  He scanned quickly, feeling more desperate.  Fëatur had been unhorsed, now standing besides his dead mount.  The illusionist pushed his left palm out and two hawks collided at full speed, throwing riders and feathers in the air.  Lyaan spun his mount and charged towards where Fëatur was defending.  He put his anger at his friend aside and hope drove him to the rescue.

“Look out!” he heard Lysa call and then something slammed into him from above.  In a moment, he realized that he was airborne.  Stunned, all he could see were yellow talons and feathers and he stabbed with his Ikasha up into the dark mass above him.  A hawk shrieked and then pitched over and all he could see was the ground coming up fast.  On instinct, he leapt out the hawk’s grasp and rolled in the grass as he hit the ground.  Blood covered his chest, and his green tunic was shredded in front.  Now, the pain shot into his body, and he gasped, also feeling a broken rib.  He didn’t dare look down at his wounds.  In the ruined heap of the hawk, the black armored Noldo stood and drew a massive two-handed sword from a scabbard on his dead mount.

The warrior stood taller than he and slid the visor of his helm down.  “You are Lyaan.  I have been hunting you for some time now.  Your head will make a fine gift to Ardana…yours and that lackey mage.  I am Castolder, head of the Suit of Swords and finest swordsman in the Court.  Now that we are properly introduced, you may die with honor.”

Lyaan brandished his Ikasha, which seemed like a tiny dagger in the face of the warrior’s sword. Could he take Castolder?  He was already injured, and his weapon seemed wholly inadequate.  The warrior stepped around the dead hawk and advanced quickly, full of confidence.

“I have waited a century for this,” Castolder said boldly.  He held his sword in a wide grip over his head, one hand on the ricasso, an unsharpened part of the blade just above the hilt for added leverage.  This man was an expert.  He continued to advance on Lyaan, shuffling his feat for balance.  From Castolder’s flank, Lysa flung her Ikasha, but it merely glanced off of the warrior’s armor and flew back into her hand.  Lyaan held his breath and then blew a long exhale out.  He moved back and forth to try and throw off the bigger man’s aim.  He knew that this would be fight that he might not walk away from.  From above his head, Castolder powered a downward cut and Lyaan leapt to the side, letting the blade hit dirt.  It threw clods up into the air with the sheer force of the blow.

Lyaan felt that this was his chance, and he tried to rush in, but Castolder flipped his sword back over his head to an on-guard position.  The man was way too fast someone of his size and Lyaan had no opening. From the corner of his eye, he could see someone riding at his enemy from behind.  Maybe they could take him by surprise.  As if already aware, Castolder pivoted and swung his blade sideways, cutting the approaching horse nearly in half.  Blood sprayed as Lyrin tumbled over the horse’s head onto the ground.  The two-handed blade came down again and Lyrin rolled out of the way as it struck the ground.  Lyaan gasped.  Please, not his son.

As Lyrin rose, another cut came at him sideways, and he jumped over the blade as it swung by.  As he touched the ground, Castolder smote him in the cheek with his gauntleted fist.  Lyrin flew several feet and then crashed to the ground, holding his face. With a near howl, Lyaan charged in and caught Castolder’s sword arm with his Ikasha, trapping it.  He yanked the arm down, dislodging the big man’s sword and it fell with a thud in the grass.  The Lord of Swords reached out with his free hand and grasped Lyaan on the gashes across his chest.  Lyaan howled in pain but held onto the Ikasha.

As tears filled his eyes, he could see Lysa riding at full tilt towards them.  “No!” he tried to call to her.  She was preparing to throw her Ikasha again when Elendur swept down, and the hawk’s talons tore across her back.  Lysa arched back and dropped her Ikasha, its blade sticking in the grass. Her eyes were wide in pain and fear as she tumbled out of the saddle.  His whole family.  Would he lose them here?  He couldn’t lose them.  In a near panic, he willed his body to move.  Muscles stiff and screaming in agony, he released Castolder’s arm and then stabbed into the back of the big man’s thigh behind the cuisse, armor on the front of the thigh.  The Lord of Swords pitched backwards and fell over, bellowing, taking the weapon with him.

Lyaan rushed to his son and helped him to his feet.  “Son, we have to go!”  Lyrin’s cheek was obviously broken, and blood ran down his neck, soaking his tunic.  They staggered together as Lysa struggled to stand. Hooves thundered nearby and Lyaan dared to take a glance, seeing Fëatur riding at them, holding the reins of Aldalómë and another horse.  He released Aldalómë and Lyaan and Lyrin leapt into the saddle.  The other horse took Lysa, and they rode as hard as they could.

Lyaan looked back and saw Elendur helping Castolder to his feet with a few other hawk riders.  The Court was in no shape to pursue and the Arana in no shape to counter.  Only three of their scouts were left with them.  Relief washed over his being, but then rage took hold.  He glared at Fëatur.  “You led us here!  You just had to run off!  This is you, Fëatur.  Look back there at the carnage!  This is you!”

Fëatur lowered his head and then nodded.  “I have failed you all.  I don’t deserve your faith.  I will leave you and never return to Ty-Ar-Rana.”

Lysa rode between them and raised her hand.  “Enough. If we fight each other, we lose.  Lyaan,” she said to her husband, “when you saw me fall, do not tell me that you were not in panic.  How did that feel?  Can you not empathize with Fëatur?”

He snorted.  “I…I cannot argue against that.  To think that I lost you and Lyrin.  I could not bear it.  I could not.”  The heat in his heart and face cooled, replaced by a shrieking hot pain in his chest. He could see the agony in Lysa’s face too.  The back of her tunic was nothing more than shredded fabric and he thought he saw bone through the blood.

Lysa turned to Fëatur, and her eyes bore into him.  “And you are not free from my words.  I know why you did what you did, but nine of us are dead because of it.  You will never do this again.  Am I understood?”

He nodded quietly.

“But thank you for coming for us,” she said, her features softening.

Lyaan felt the anger drain and a sickly cold feeling formed in his gut.  “My family.  I can’t lose you.  I can’t.” His mind was foggy and sluggish, locked in fear.  He willed the dark thoughts away.  “But you are all still with me.  I am grateful.  My thanks and praise to the Valar.”  He turned his head back to look at Lyrin, who was surprisingly quiet.  His son was slumped forward against his back, eyes closed. “Lyrin?  Lyrin?”  He reined in his horse and his son sagged in the saddle.  “Lysa!  Help me! Help our son!”

All pain vanished from her face in an instant and she leapt down from the saddle and took her son’s hand. “Lyrin!  Speak to me!”

Lyaan held his son as Lysa guided him down.  He leapt off of Aldalómë, forgetting his pain.  He dove to his knees beside Lyrin.  “No, Lyrin.  Please, no.”

Lysa looked at him, her eyes huge and watery.  She put her hand on Lyrin’s neck.  “There’s a pulse.  It’s weak though.”  She tore through her pack and then spread a green poultice onto a gauze wrap.  She gently laid it on her son’s cheek.  “This should ease his breathing, but we need to get him home quickly!  Stay with us, Lyrin!”  Her hands glowed on his face as she poured some of her very essence into him.  “It’s not enough Lyaan, it’s not enough!”

They barely saw Fëatur kneel besides them.  “May I?” he asked, holding out his hands, palms up.  Lyaan nodded stiffly and took Fëatur by the hand.  Lysa did the same.  “I am not a healer, but I can enhance your powers for a time.”  He looked up at the sky.  “Holy Mandos, let my life flow into this noble boy.  Let my strength be his strength.  Let me undo my mistake that put him here.  I am not worthy, but I beg you.”  His body shimmered a golden hue for a moment and then the shimmer flowed into Lysa and Lyaan, shrouding Lyrin in light.  The boy’s eyes opened, and the shimmer faded away.  Fëatur’s shoulders slumped in fatigue and his face showed a mountain of pain.  

Lysa put her forehead onto her son’s.  “Lyrin! Speak to me!”

The boy blinked and wiped some blood on his face with the back of his hand.  His eyes darted back and forth, lost.  “What?  We were running.  Father, you were hurt,” he said, looking at Lyaan.

Lyaan’s eyes flowed with tears, and he held Lyrin’s face with both hands.  “I’m fine, son.  We need to take care of you.”  He looked back to Fëatur.  “Thank you for my son.  I…I understand why you did this.  I would do the same for my family.  Let us get past this and return to Ty-Ar-Rana.  We are all gravely hurt.”

“I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I gladly accept.”  Fëatur looked deeply into the eyes of The Three.  “In my despair I forgot something more important than my pain.  You.  You three are also my family.  I will spend my life restoring your faith in me.”  He turned back towards the site of the battle.  “I will weave a spell to cloak our way to Ty-Ar-Rana so that none may find us.”  He raised his hand, and a dome of shimmering light appeared over them.  But now, his exhaustion was obvious and his eyes almost vacant.  He staggered a few steps and was steadied by Lyaan.  Then, they slowly, painfully remounted their horses and began the trek home.

“I have learned this much,” Lyaan said, “we cannot hope to stand against the Court in open combat.  We survived today, but just barely.  Fëatur, we need those arms and armor for our people. Even our magic is inadequate.”

Fëatur took a long inhale and nodded.  “Morelen has the ear of Finrod and Fingon and Morgoth is contained.  So long as the north endures, we will have our gear.  I will make sure of it.”  He leaned forward and lay his chest on his horse’s neck.  He had nothing left to give. 

Chapter End Notes

I want to move Featur's and Lyaan's character arcs along and show the dynamics of The Three.  Lyaan is a good person but knows his limitations, which is why he supports Chrys as the leader.  With Lysa, he is whole.

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30)  Dagor Bragollach - Year of the Sun 455 Hrívë (Winter)

Morgoth

“I have waited centuries for this,” the Dark Lord said, seated upon his iron throne.  He shook with the very anticipation of what he had planned.  The three stolen Silmarils glittered in his iron crown, casting shadows on the faces of his most trusted servants: Sauron, Gothmog and his other great lieutenants. His gaze penetrated the thick stone walls of his fortress, Angband, perusing the land far and wide.  He had grown afraid to venture outside of the safety of his iron prison, and the comfort that his throne room gave to this god became his crutch.  Once, long ago, he could level mountains with a sweep of his hand, rend valleys with a stomp of his foot and create deluges of oceans with a thought.  Those days were gone.  In his brooding and his lust for vengeance and domination, much of his power had flowed into manifesting that rage.  His dragons, his fortress…and his newest foul creations had all required that he pour his strength and malice into these.  Only the sacrifices made by the Court replenished that vast reservoir. He was now a shadow of the one named Melkor, eons ago.  But he dared not show that to his people.  His lust for power showed in all of his minions and they were no different.  And Morgoth would tolerate no rivals.

He pounded his fist on the throne for effect, the sound reverberating throughout his hall.  “I have waited so long, and no one will deny me. No one.  Do you hear me?” he bellowed and his minions all nodded silently then bowed their heads.  “I am the chosen one!  No one will deny me the right to rule and to be the King of the Earth!  Me!  You are all here to make that happen and then you will bask in the light of my glory. Mine!”

He pointed at the massive balrog before him, a creature wreathed in flame with horns that wrapped around his head.  “You will lead them, Gothmog.  You are my armored fist to destroy the elves.  They are but ants before you.”  He turned towards the halls that led to the pits.  “My faithful wyrm, Glaurung, you will attack the hated Sons of Fëanor. Crush them with talon and fire.” Two giant eyes glowed orange in the darkness.  “You have grown since I first unleashed you.  None can stand before you now.”  Then, he looked down from his throne.  “And you, my most trusted lieutenant, Sauron, unleash your spies and beasts.  Sow fear and mistrust once my plan is in play.  This will happen soon.”

Sauron bowed and let the edge of his lip curl up in a mischievous look.  His perfect face began to morph and sprout dark fur.  His nose elongated into a snout and razor-sharp fangs replaced his teeth.  His hands became claws, and he crouched down on all four legs as a massive wolf.  “I will take your creation, great lord,” he said in a gurgling voice that was punctuated by snarls, “the beast, Draugluin, and we will bring hell to the elves.”

The Dark Lord had bred and raised the beast, drawing from his own immense power and now it was terrifying to behold.  Morgoth smiled through black lips.  The color and appearance of his being increasingly followed the malice and hate in his heart.  At one time, he would try to restore the perfection of his face and body, but now, he no longer cared.  Rage and lust consumed him.  “Excellent, my lieutenants.  And now, behold,” he cried as he stood and raised his arms high above his head.  The throne room glowed in reds and oranges, and the very walls seemed to flow.  “The fires of Thangorodrim have shared their bounty and they will pave the way for my victory.  The world will soon be mine and mine alone and I shall have my revenge.”  He looked up into the night sky.  It would be darkest tomorrow.

There was a deep rumble in the three volcanic peaks of Thangorodrim, 35,000 feet high and five miles across.  Morgoth closed both of his fists, and a pulse of energy shot outwards from his being and the rumble became a roar.  He reveled in the fiery glow, basking in the heat, imagining his complete victory where those who opposed him wailed in fear, led to the pits in chains.  Suddenly, his breath wavered.  The effort had cost him and his very being felt hollow…weak. The Court in the south would need more sacrifices to keep him strong.  You had to be strong.  You would never dominate Middle Earth with weakness. 

Chapter End Notes

I want to look at the vast vanity and narcissism that drive Morgoth.  It is how so many, who profess to do good, devolve into self-serving evil.

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31) Dagor Bragollach - Year of the Sun 455 Hrívë (Winter)

Morelen

In the courtyard of Barad Eithel, the fortress of the Noldor and the home of High King Fingolfin and his son, Fingon, the Coron Mittarion field was alive with sound and movement, players shouting and laughing as the ball was passed around between players. Hurinon, with his ever-serious expression, snatched the ball from a Morna player, only to be tackled by Tintallo, the Captain of the Misë in his gray and green shorts. Tintallo, the best player in the three companies, dodged and weaved, stuffing the ball into the basket. He raised his arms and let out a war cry, flexing his well-hones muscles and giving his signature grin. He was well known to be a favorite of the women of the keep.

"Interlude!" a judge called out from a tell seat, signaling the halfway mark of the game. The Telepta and Morna teams staggered off of the field, while the Misë sprinted to their bench, cheering their two-point lead.

Líreno collapsed to the ground and rolled on his back, laughing. Sweat glistened on his slightly chubby torso. "At least we'll lose in style again." He lifted a flask of water and let it pour out onto his face. He then sat up, shaking out his sandy brown hair. His ever-present smirk never left his face.

Hurinon trotted up and groaned, his thin, wiry frame tense. "I'm all alone out there. I need some help. You guys need to block," he said plainly. His wife, Aistallë, gave him a cup of water, from which he drank thirstily as his young daughter wrapped her arms around his leg. He tousled her hair. "Thank you, Silmani," he said as he lifted her up in his arms. He had just married a few years ago to the surprise of the company as he was always so stoic and dedicated to the cause. Morelen was beyond happy for him, though she thought his wife was a little too demure for her tastes.

Notaldo sat down next to them, his rear thumping on the ground. "We need to regroup and come up with a different plan." Though he was clearly tired and covered in sweat, his eyes were focused and intense.

Morelen gazed at him for a moment, wiping her bare chest with a cloth. "You've become so serious since you were made captain," she said with approval. "I barely recognize the irresponsible playboy of a couple centuries ago."

Líreno chuckled, his lip curled up in a half smile and his bright eyes twinkled. "I miss that guy." Morelen remembered her first Coron Mittarion game as if it were yesterday with the two jokesters who were always looking for some distraction.

Notaldo snorted and rolled his eyes. "Keeping you lot in line is a full-time job." Though he was joking, the captain took his position seriously and worked hard to fill the role after Ruscano was killed by Glaurung. He invoked the line of his predecessor as a nod to that man's leadership. "So, here's my plan. The Misë know that Hurinon is our best player and will expect us to always pass to him. We need a little ruse. Morelen, you're the fastest and most agile of all of us. Líreno and I will block for Hurinon, looking to set him up for the score. Then, we pass to you," he said in planning mode, drawing a diagram in the dirt with his finger. He then looked to a woman standing nearby in a silver shirt. "You there! You're new to the Telepta, yes?"

The woman looked over, curious. She was almost as tall as Morelen, but thinner with angular features and a wiry, muscular frame. She was attractive enough, but seemed to have a very severe, intense expression. "Yes, captain!" she called and rushed over. "Sercë, daughter of Irimë, at your service, captain."

The captain smiled and gestured for her to sit. "No need to be so formal. Notaldo is fine. I was in the rank and file before being promoted. You said…Irimë? The sister of the High King? Well, it is I who should be at your service."

She sat and shook her head. "No, no, please. I am here to earn my place among the company. My two brothers are in the Misë, the Gray and Green," she said, pointing to two men across the field, one lean and the other very muscular. "Finculion and Tindómeno."

Morelen's face showed some recognition. "Don't you have another sister?"

Sercë nodded with a warm smile. "Yes, my younger sister, Alquanessë. We're a very close family. She is the most artistic of we siblings."

Morelen nudged Notaldo's shoulder. "Hmmm, family. And a close one. Doesn't that sound nice."

He simply ignored her, being in work mode. "Sercë, we have a plan," he began, explaining it to her. "Once we pass to Morelen, you need to block for her. Understood?"

"Yes, captain…I mean Notaldo. I can do that." She was all business, without a hint of humor. She would get along well with Hurinon.

Notaldo lay back onto the grass and Morelen wiped his face with the cloth and then put her head in his lap. "We have a few minutes," he said, the intensity in his voice waning. "Catch your breath and get some water," he added with a sense of empathy. He certainly was not the elf that he was two hundred years ago. "Sorry I passed over what you said earlier. I wanted to get the plan across first. Yes…a family would be nice. And I've been thinking. I would like us to be joined soon. Maybe next year? The elven kingdoms are prosperous and stable. We have mannish and dwarven allies now. We are stronger than we've ever been, and I feel that the time is right."

Morelen smiled, but something nagged at her insides, and she regretted her earlier words. "Yes…yes…but next year? That seems very…close. Are we in that much of a rush?" She felt bad for contradicting herself, but she didn't know why she did it. "We'll be here forever. The kingdoms will be here forever. I would like this very much, but it seems so…soon. After all, if we marry next year or a hundred years from now, we'll still be together."

He looked at her sideways for a moment and then sighed, his disappointment thinly veiled. "Very well. We can be joined on your time. You know how I feel though." He clapped his hands. "Interlude is almost over. Let's get back to it, shall we?"

The team stood as Hurinon passed Silmani back to his wife. Morelen glanced at Sercë. "Mmmm. Shirt's off. It's a tradition." The other woman simply nodded and pulled her tunic off as they ran onto the field. "You'll fit right in," Morelen added while skipping, happy that another woman was in the company. She missed her mentor Lysa of The Three, who had taught her music, singing and many things in hand to hand combat.

Morna took the ball first and Misë went right after them hard, forcing the carrier to fumble. Líreno recovered and knocked a Misë right on his butt as he passed to Hurinon. In a moment, all of the Misë made a rush towards him and he began to dodge and weave as Notaldo knocked two of them over, bodies crashing to the ground. Tintallo blocked the path to the basket and then charged at the Hurinon, who flung it to Morelen. She caught it with her left hand and then spun to avoid a tackle from a Morna. Tintallo reversed course and sprinted right at her, his speed and size getting her attention. Sercë dove for his legs and caught him in the shins, flipping him over as Morelen stuffed the ball into the basket.

Telepta erupted into a cheer, dancing and jumping up and down for a moment before the lines reset. Hurinon gave Morelen a simple nod as Líreno raised his arms high and wide at the Misë. Morelen clapped Sercë on the arms. "Well done, sister!" she shouted above the din of noise.

Amazingly, the plan worked again and now the score was tied between Misë and Telepta with Morna trailing by two. Notaldo had the team take a knee. "This won't work a third time. I'm sure they've caught on by now. Suggestions?"

Líreno spoke excitedly, his hands gesturing. "I say we go back to the original game plan and have Hurinon take it in."

Hurinon shook his head. "Tintallo has me figured out today and time is short. We can't mess this up. We need another plan."

Notaldo nodded. "I also wanted to go back to the original plan, but Hurinon is right. They have that figured out. Misë will play out first so we need to get the ball. Tintallo will obviously carry as he always does, and we need to keep them guessing. Líreno and I will distract him while either Hurinon or Morelen force a turnover. Then, we try to keep passing around to confuse them and wear them out. When an opening happens, whoever has the ball goes for it."

Sercë put her hand out between them all, palm down. "My siblings and I do this as a sign of unity," she said, her light gray eyes flashing. Notaldo nodded and the team put one hand on top of the other. "Telepta!" they all shouted and formed up to face their opponents.

Unexpectedly, Tintallo passed off to a teammate and then sprinted ahead towards the basket. Morelen saw this and peeled off to cover him while Hurinon sprinted to tackle the ball carrier, a Noldo named Turo. Turo fired the ball into the air towards Tintallo, who was already near the basket. Morelen accelerated into a sprint and leapt high, an astounding jump and seized the ball just before it landed in Tintallo's hands. With a twist of her body, she spun and slammed the ball into the basket.

"End game!" the judge called. Morelen stood there for a moment, stunned, before the team rushed at her and hoisted her up above their heads. Aistallë ran out, holding Silmani and they joined the ruckus. It had been months since Telepta had won. Hurinon took his daughter and danced in a circle, something so unlike his stoic character. Líreno was beside himself, doing cartwheels and beating his chest.

Notaldo bowed to Sercë. "Welcome to the company, granddaughter of Finwë. We have been at peace for many years, but the training is hard and never ends. I think you will do well here."

She bowed in return, her expression intense. "I am ready to serve as my family has done."

The captain spun his hand over his head. "Well done, Telepta! To the baths and then dinner! We look forward to being served by the Misë and Morna!" he shouted to the other teams.

The steam baths of the keep were a poorly guarded secret and had become the rage among the companies. The scent of camphor permeated the walls where water trickled down over colorful mosaics of tiles that depicted various events in elven culture and history. Marble sculptures of dolphins and fish spouted fountains of water into the pools where the centerpiece was a grand statue of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters and Guardian of the Deep. The statue carried a massive gold trident, and his armor was wrapped with golden strands of kelp and other sea growth. It was he who revealed the secret locations of Nargothrond and Gondolin to Finrod and Turgon.

The company slid into the warm, steamy waters, male and female, unashamed. Morelen snuggled up to Notaldo and he wrapped his arm around her. It was comforting and safe, like growing up with Fëatur and The Three. She was still not wholly committed to marriage and had many doubts, but she forced herself to speak. "I am sorry for my earlier words. I am not sure why I am reluctant. I feel as if I do not deserve you…that there is something horrible in my being that I struggle with. I hope you understand, but, if you wish to be joined next year, I am willing to put aside my fears and say yes." She felt deep affection for him and truly wanted it. And, as deeply as she felt, elves' expressions of love were generally muted in comparison to men, who tended to be much more demonstrative of such things.

He turned to her, his electric smile coming out. "I would like that very much," he said as he kissed her. "Let us start to plan soon. There will always be time for us."

The team asked her to sing, and she reached out from the pool to take a lyre from a stand and plucked its strings to tune. She cleared her throat and then let the lyrics come from her heart, a song of the strength of the Noldor.

Lyra o túre, Aiya Eärendiliel onna ú-chebinëa,

Ní sinda, ní hán, Hantúva ringo.

Our song of victory, we praise our people,

We are swift and strong, riding to victory.

All was quiet in the bed chamber of the captain as the melodious bell sounded midnight. The bright moon seemed to fade behind a cloud. It was another peaceful night in a long line of idyllic nights. Morelen gazed at Notaldo, whose eyes were closed. She never tired of their lovemaking. For an elf, her appetites were intense. She mused that it must come from her mother, Yavëkamba, for her father, Fëatur, was always very controlled. She lay, intertwined with Notaldo, her head tucked in the crook of his neck. She was content, inhaling the musky scent of his hair and feeling his skin against hers. It had been this way for over a hundred years. She and Notaldo were confident that the threat of Angband was contained by the siege, and kingdoms of the elves would grow and prosper for all of eternity in Middle Earth. They would be spared The Doom of Mandos.

She shifted slightly, listening to Notaldo's breathing as their earlier conversation played out in her mind. Morelen was unaffected by the passage of the ages, and she now enjoyed the unhurried pace of the life of an elf. If they were to wed now or a century from now, she would still be happy, but she wanted to please Notaldo. It was easy to become complacent in their never-changing routine. The Telepta Company of Fingon's riders trained half a year: riding, archery, swordsmanship and use of the spear; a quarter of a year in upkeep of the castle and equipment; and a quarter of a year in Nargothrond, a vacation to rejuvenate…year after year after year.

Morelen sat up, a strange feeling filling her heart and senses. She inhaled deeply, thinking she could smell smoke. She had come to accept and even enjoy that her hearing, smell, vision and all of her senses were far beyond that of other elves and beyond the imagining of men. She cocked her head to listen, but all she could hear were the sounds of night in Hithlum, the land ruled by Prince Fingon. The chirp of crickets and a gentle breeze that ruffled curtains were the only alert in the darkness of the Barad Eithel. It must be nothing. She lay back down and draped her body over Notaldo's, and he let out a sleepy snort and sigh.

Soon though, the smell of smoke was so intense in her nostrils, she opened her eyes wide this time. She looked around and the odor was acrid and eye watering. She shook Notaldo urgently. "Wake up. Something is wrong. I smell smoke."

He sat up sharply, looking around. Elves tended to sleep lightly and wake quickly compared to humans. "What is it? What's going on?" He inhaled deeply, but shook his head.

"I smell smoke," she repeated as she rose and went to the window facing north. She expected to see moonlight in the distance, but some dark cloud filled the sky, blocking out any celestial body. A shiver ran down her spine. "Look! One of the beacon towers is lit."

He rose after her and peered out the window, running a hand through his dark brown hair. "I see it, but I don't smell any smoke. But your sense of smell was always better than mine. Way better." He gave her a half-hearted smile, knowing that he should heed her senses, but not wanting to.

She desired nothing more than to return to bed, but her intuition was screaming now. "I think we need to head to the armory. Hurry. I know something is wrong." She threw on a robe over her bare skin and slid on slippers. Her whole being was practically screaming with anxiety. Her mind flashed an image of a dark being on an iron throne with an iron crown that held three great jewels. She had some connection with this being, but she could not place what it was.

Notaldo nodded and put on breeches and a tunic. "I trust you. I'm right behind you." They dashed out just as the alarm sounded in the bell tower. Knowing of his trust in her had been her strength for a long time now.

Morelen looked up at the tower and put her hand to her ear, listening to the guards high up. "They're saying that there are fires on the Plains of Ard Galen. Thangorodrim has erupted! We have to hurry!" Notaldo nodded, lips tight. He knew what she heard was true.

They were the first into the armory and they rushed to their armor that was set on wooden racks. They peered out of one of the windows facing north and could see an evil orange glow spreading on the horizon. Morelen's breath caught in her throat. Her father and the Guild had pledged their lives to fight the evil of Morgoth and now she would be on the front line of this war. Her instinct told her that this was the work of the fallen Vala and she felt a shudder run through her body.

Troopers of the Telepta Company poured in and the din of the noise of preparation took over. Their dear friends, Líreno and Hurinon made eye contact with them, their faces set with determination. It is what they had all trained for. Behind them came Sercë, who looked around, a little lost as this was her first muster. She and Morelen were the only women in Fingon's cavalry, a rarity among elves. But they had earned their place here. Morelen clapped her on the shoulder, and they nodded silently to each other, two sisters soon to be in a sea of conflict. "Armor will be over there on the stands and weapons on those racks. Grooms will be preparing our mounts," she told Sercë. "I'll walk you through it."

Concerned voices and the sound of straps being buckled and the ding of metal on metal filled the room. Morelen slid a mithril chain shirt over her head and grabbed her solid silver breastplate as Notaldo raised his hand and yelled out, "Telepta Company! Listen up! We don't know what we are facing other than Thangorodrim has erupted. Maglor's cavalry will hold the line to the east and Angrod and Aegnor to the west as we ride."

Morelen strapped on her leg armor: greaves, cuisses and poleyns as Notaldo wrapped the tassets around her waist. Then came her arms: the rerebraces, vambraces and the pauldrons over her shoulders. There was a ritual to arming and a feeling of teamwork in the company. She then turned to Líreno, Hurinon and Sercë and helped them as she was helped, finally putting their sky blue and silver surcoats over their armor and checking all of their straps. They exchanged confident smiles as they grabbed tall, silver helms and weapons. After all, the Noldor had defeated all attempts by Morgoth to conquer Beleriand. They had earned their pride through valor and skill. This would be no different. It would be a song of victory.

Grooms held their mounts, and the riders leapt up into saddles and placed feet in stirrups. Morelen ensured that her blue bow, Luinë and her curved sword, Melima, were secured and that her two quivers were full of deadly arrows. She stroked the ears of her horse, Lindarion, who neighed contentedly, excited to take the field, her head held up proudly. Notaldo raised his bow over his head and then pointed out the open gate of the keep. "Forward, Telepta Company! We go to help our brothers!"

Líreno and Hurinon looked at her. "Remember, we stay together as always," they said as the company formed up. They looked at Sercë. "You too. We've been through this before," Hurinon told her in an even voice. This had been something that held them together, ever since the day on the field of Coron Mittarion, where they became a team. He put his hand out between them and their hands met for a moment before they moved out at a trot and then a canter. The Misë and Morna Companies were riding out of other sally ports and were brandishing their lances in high spirits. The Misë wore gray, emerald green and silver surcoats while the Morna, black and silver, all displaying the sigil of Fingon. Their armor glistened as they rode forth, the might and pride of the Noldor at the height of their power.

Tintallo, the Misë captain, raised the visor on his feathered helm. "Morna Company, scout ahead! Telepta, cover their flanks!" The Morna spurred horses as Notaldo signaled the company to veer right. The hooves of the Noldorin steeds thundered onto the Plains of Ard Galen at a speed impossible for other horses. There, the orange glow of the magma pouring down the peaks of Thangorodrim lit up the night sky.

Morelen's mouth fell open, her sense of fear growing and spreading like the magma. "Valar help us," she whispered, seeing how much of the plains were already covered in molten lava. Her eyes focused miles ahead through the night sky to see a dragon thrashing around. It was Glaurung, but he was much larger than when they last met. That cold prickly feeling grew in her gut as she remembered how cowardly she was in the face of the dragon, two centuries ago. Her cheeks flashed red with shame for a moment before she steeled herself for battle. Lindarion slowed for just a moment before resuming the breakneck pace. Within minutes, the smell of smoke was overwhelming and the entire plain glowed orange. Líreno, Hurinon, Sercë and Morelen exchanged glances, their earlier confidence wavering.

Two riders of the House of Finarfin charged up to them, covered in soot, their faces blackened. Eyes were wide in fear, they shouted, "We are overrun! We must fall back! Maglor's Gap is hard pressed, and his riders are in full retreat! The siege is broken!"

Notaldo waved his hand back, behind them. "Fall back and form a defensive line behind us. We'll send any who can still fight to you! Go with the grace of Manwë." The two riders galloped away and Morelen could see dozens of stragglers riding or running towards them. This was a disaster beyond reckoning. She didn't want to admit it, but she dearly wished that her father were here. She needed his calm guidance.

Another group of stragglers approached. "Our lords, Angrod and Aegnor, are right behind us! We were nearly burned in the fires and Morgoth's forces are on our heels. Please help them!"

"There are only more stragglers behind you. I cannot see Angrod or Aegnor," Notaldo called back as the orange flow grew ever larger. The riders looked behind them, and their faces filled with horror as they realized that their princes were not to be seen. Notaldo's face hardened with determination. "Wheel about and follow us! We ride to save your lords! Telepta, draw your bows!"

Morelen unslung Luinë and then put her heels into Lindarion's flank, urging her horse back into a gallop. Morna Company was to their right and Misë hot behind them. She glanced back to see Prince Fingon and his personal guard catching up, his blue and silver banner held high. "Fingon is with us!" she yelled forward, and the company cheered.

They rode hard for another few miles before the scene of battle unfolded. Angrod and Aegnor stood with a few remaining warriors before an onslaught of Morgoth's forces. Rivers of lava flowed by them onto the plains, the tall grass ablaze, lighting the night sky. It was a vision of hell. Morna Company spurred forward, smashing into a horde of orcs, scattering them about as the Misë and Fingon wheeled left to blunt an enemy flanking maneuver. Telepta raised bows as they veered right and launched a volley that fell into the rear of the enemy. Orcs fell by the dozen, clawing at gull-feathered shafts in chests and throats. Magma separated them from the sons of Finarfin and Notaldo spurred his horse, leaping the flaming river.

On foot, Angrod was beset by a balrog and a troop of orcs as he swung his red war flail around his head, keeping them at bay. He powered the spiked balls of his flail into the face of an orc, splitting its helm and skull and then struck another in the chest, shattering its breastplate into metal shards. Morelen leapt the tendril of lava and landed, launching an arrow into the face of the balrog. It roared and turned to face her as Líreno shot it with another arrow, the shaft sinking in up to the fletchings. "Keep firing!" shouted Hurinon as he rode to flank the demon and Morelen fired again, her arrow piercing its chest. The demon whirled a flaming whip over its head and snapped it at her, Lindarion dodging to the side as the razor tip cracked near her face, sending a shower of burning embers at her. Sercë rode between them, firing another arrow. It was confused with so many riders stinging it with arrows.

As Notaldo rode for Aegnor, Morelen rode ahead, determined not to show fear though a lump formed in her throat. She charged at a gallop and scooped Angrod up into the saddle behind her. She had done it. She had saved a prince of her people. In another moment her back stung with a lash of flame. Her back felt as if it had been torn open. She yanked on her reins and wheeled about to see Angrod on the ground, the balrog's burning whip encasing him. Oblivious to the pain she charged back and drew Melima. Angrod stood, staggering, unable to free his arms as the balrog's flaming sword decapitated him in one stroke. She let out a feral cry of anguish and sliced the belly of the demon as she rode by. It howled in agony, lashing about with its sword. The river of lava was growing by the second now, threatening to consume them all. She wheeled back to finish it when Notaldo grabbed her wrist, the orange glow of the magma reflecting off of his helm. "Aegnor has also fallen! We need to go! The lava will consume us!"

Morelen snarled at him, her being pure fury. "No! I will not be a coward! I will avenge them!" Something deep in her soul harbored a ferocity that she held in check over the long years of peace, but it boiled over now, an urge to kill and destroy.

Notaldo shook her hard. "Look around! We cannot stay!" His grip was so tight that she could not free herself.

Hurinon rode in front of them, his eyes set and full of duty. "Captain, you must fall back. I have a half dozen for a rear guard to cover your escape," he said with grim determination.

Morelen pulled her arm again, trying to break free of Notaldo's grip. "No, we leave together! We stick together, remember!" she cried as the company poured arrows into the ranks of orcs that rushed in over a makeshift bridge in the lava. The heat was intense and growing by the minute, the stench of sulphur so thick it coated tongues and it hurt to breathe.

"There's no time!" Hurinon shot back, sweat pouring down his thin face beneath his tall helm. His characteristic calm was gone. "You need to leave now!"

Líreno and Sercë waved the towards the rear. "This way! There's a gap in the magma!" they shouted over the roar of battle and bubbling of the lava. "You need to be right behind us, Hurinon," Líreno added.

Notaldo slapped Lindarion on the rear and nocked another arrow. "Morelen, go! We'll cover you, Hurinon!" Lindarion took off at a gallop, Morelen barely able to stay in the saddle. She dug her feet into the stirrups to stabilize herself and then turned back, aiming Luinë at the face of an orc that she saw through the smoke and haze. The arrow leapt from the bowstring into the orc's eye, and it crashed backwards into the horde. Líreno and Sercë leapt their horses over a small rivulet of magma, followed by the rest of the company. Notaldo wheeled them around for a volley to cover Hurinon's retreat. "Pick your targets! Our friends are right behind us!"

Morelen nocked an arrow, scanning through the flame and smoke, her eyes easily seeing through it as her companions squinted. Only Hurinon and two riders remained of the rear guard, riding hard for them. She fired arrows into the horde of orcs pursuing them. Just by feel she could tell that only five arrows remained in her quiver, such was her training. Her heart froze as a dark shadow flew through the haze and landed in front of the retreating elves. A flaming whip lashed and tore one rider from his saddle. Hurinon launched his last arrow into the face of the balrog, and it staggered back, but clove the head of his horse clean off with its monstrous sword. Hurinon tumbled over the body of the horse, crashing to the ground. With centuries of training and elven grace, he rolled and stood, drawing his sword as the balrog crushed the nearby fallen rider with its foot, grinding him into the smoldering ground. As the third rider leapt the magma, Hurinon sprinted at the balrog as Morelen fired the last of her arrows into its back along with a dozen other archers. The balrog howled and cracked its whip at the elf, who dodged away, slicing the demon across the leg. It staggered and fell to one knee as Hurinon drove the tip of his sword into its eye.

As the balrog collapsed to the ground, Morelen extended her hand towards her friend. "Hurinon, jump to me! You can do it!" The leap would be long, even for an elf and orcs and the flow of lava grew ever closer. She could see his face under his helm and knew what he was thinking. They made eye contact for a moment and then he shook his head.

"Be well, Morelen! Stick together! Help Aistallë with Silmani!" he yelled over the lava and then turned and ran at the orcs. Her body froze. She was about to kick Lindarion and leap the burning river, but Líreno held her back, tears streaming down his face.

"No, Morelen. There's nothing more we can do. We must fall back."

She let out a visceral scream that felt as if it would consume her and then wheeled Lindarion about. The last that she saw of Hurinon was him laying about with his blade, orc bodies piled around him as the lava swept over them all. Morgoth cared not about his own troops, so long as they obeyed and killed in his name.

She felt numb as they rode to rejoin the scattered troops of Angrod and Aegnor. A friend of two centuries was gone along with nearly a dozen of the Telepta Company. Two princes of the Noldor also fell that day and the Siege of Angband was forever broken. Líreno, the endless jokester, was silent the entire ride and Sercë wept openly. Morelen looked at Notaldo and knew that he was barely holding it together, driven only by duty and loyalty now. He rose in his stirrups and looked back at the lava that now covered much of the once green Ard Galen. "Maintain good order! Scouts deploy to the flanks and watch for any pursuit! I see Fingon's banners ahead," he ordered though his voice sounded hollow.

Fingon's herald held their banner high at a rally point, his personal guard forming a circle around him. The Misë and Morna Companies were rallying nearby, also depleted. The prince raised the visor of his silver helm and held his glittering sword high. "We fall back, but we are not beaten! The pride of the Noldor remains and you are its heart. We will form a line at the border of Dor Lómin at Eithel Sirion and stop the enemy there! Our allies, Hador and Gundor, are already on the march. I want a head count and to know our losses. I want a messenger to return to Barad Eithel. The sentinels of the Palantír must coordinate our defense with the sons of Fëanor. Get word to my father of our plan as well."

Morelen and Sercë raised their hands. "We will ride, my prince. We are light and swift," Morelen said.

Fingon walked his horse to them and clasped them on the shoulder. "Thank you. Coordinate with my father who is fighting north of Dor Lómin and make sure that my son, Gil-Galad, is guarded. Go with the speed of Oromë. Be safe and return to us at the defensive line. We can drive them back, but I fear that this is just the beginning."

Chapter End Notes

This is the first time Morelen suffers loss and her illusions of everlasting peace are shattered.  We see the deaths of Angrod and Aegnor.  Morelen begins to believe that she is a failure.

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32)  Dagor Bragollach - Year of the Sun 455 Hrívë (Winter)

Morelen

Sweat on their faces and necks cooled as they galloped away from the Plains of Ard Galen, the heat and glow of the magma receding in the distance.  Morelen was lost in thought, playing the battle in her head over and over again.  What did she do wrong?  How did she allow Angrod and Hurinon to perish.  It was all on her head.  She had failed again, just like with Ruscano.  Her hand shook as she gripped Lindarion’s reins so tightly, her nails dug through the fingertips of her leather gloves.  Sercë seemed to understand her inner battle and remained silent, unable to find words.  Up ahead, they could now see a line of troops on the march, carrying the banners of High King Fingolfin, armed and arrayed as elves.  However, these were not elves, but men.  Morelen raised her hand, showing that she was no threat.  “Hail friends!  We ride ahead of Prince Fingon, bearing word of the battle and to coordinate with the High King.”

The force was primarily infantry, near 5000 strong, glittering spears held high and proud.  A man with graying blond hair and a beard came forward and raised his hand in parley.  “Hail friend, I am Hador Lórindol, chief of this house and a friend of the High King. These are my sons, Gundor and Galdor,” he said, pointing to two younger men beside him.  Hador was armored as an elf with a helm fashioned in the shape of a dragon.  Gundor’s bushy blond beard poked out from under his helm and was tied in a fork, much like the dwarves were wont to do and Galdor was exceptionally tall and lean with a neatly trimmed yellow beard.

“I am Morelen and this is Sercë of the Telepta Company.  Our riders are falling back with refugees from Ard Galen.  The plains are awash with magma, and we fear that all of Ard Galen is lost.  Maglor and the Sons of Fëanor are also retreating with great loss and the Siege of Angband is broken.  Morgoth struck with overwhelming force and the Prince hopes to blunt their attack and stabilize the line.”

Hador nodded and then grunted sourly.  “We feared as much when we marched forth.  We are the vanguard of the High King’s force, and he is a few hours march behind us.  We are to hold the line at Eithel Sirion and block Morgoth’s advance into Hithlum and Dor Lómin.  I can have riders sent to inform the High King.”

Morelen waved him off. “Thank you, but our orders are to deliver the information personally and you will need every warrior.  You should see our prince’s riders in an hour or so on the march.  We number close to two hundred along with several hundred stragglers from the forces of Angrod and Aegnor,” she said, feeling her throat tighten at the mention of Angrod.

Hador put his hand to his chest.  “Go with the Valar.  I am sure that we will meet again.”  He raised his spear and pointed it north.  “House of Hador!  Turn north and march at the double!  We will set up defensive fortifications and repel the invaders!”  The columns veered left, and the sound of marching boots filled the air as Morelen and Sercë continued riding southwest.

In an hour, Morelen saw the banners of the High King along with riders forming a picket ahead of the army, to warn of any impending attack.  They paused for a moment to water their horses at a clear stream.  Morelen stroked Lindarion’s ears as the horse drank thirstily.  It was a moment that she didn’t want or need and the image of Angrod’s decapitated body came back, his legs still shuffling along, even in death, his body encased in the balrog’s flaming whip.  Hurinon’s expression of finality broke in next, followed by the flow of lava over him. What would she say to Aistallë and Silmani?  She bit her lower lip hard to drive away the images.  They still had a mission to perform.  She could not grieve yet even though a hot tear ran down her cheek.

Sercë grasped her shoulder. “I am sorry.  Though I just joined Telepta Company, I know how much he meant to all of you.  He was brave beyond measure and there will be songs sung about him.”

The words didn’t make Morelen feel any better, but she forced a smile and a nod, unable to say more. With a shaky hand, she gestured towards Fingolfin’s army, and they rode ahead, stopping to greet the picket riders. Morelen repeated her greeting, and they were ushered forward to the army, near ten thousand strong.  The High King rode out on his steed, Rochallor, with his personal guard, the finest Noldorin warriors, personally selected for their prowess.  He was clad in silver armor with a sky blue and silver surcoat that bore his sigil, a star surrounded by two circles, filled with beams of starlight.  The two women raised the visors of their helms and then bowed deeply in their saddles, hands over their hearts.  “High King, we bear ill tidings.  Prince Fingon is falling back with the remnants of the forces of Angrod and Aegnor.  Maglor and the Sons of Fëanor are in retreat to the east, hoping to defend Maglor’s Gap and Himring.  The Prince desires to coordinate the defense with the Sentinels of the Palantír and should have already joined with the House of Hador as they march to Eithel Sirion.”

Fingolfin raised his visor and nodded gravely, his lips pursed and his jaw set.  He had the look of eagles, steel-colored eyes, full of intensity and courage.  “I recognize you, Morelen, daughter of Fëatur,” he said and then pointed at Sercë, who introduced herself as the daughter of Irimë.  “Well met, my niece.  Thank you for relaying the message and for your valor, fighting with my son.  I will have riders dispatched to Barad Eithel to the Sentinels.  I wish you to join our force and detail what you encountered on Ard Galen.  Ride with me.  I will send word to my son that you have joined my force for now.”  They turned their horses about and fell in beside the High King.  They spoke to him of what happened on Ard Galen and he listened closely, acknowledging their words.  “I am sorry for what you faced in battle.  Your valor is without question, and you have not failed.  It is I who have failed, not foreseeing Morgoth’s plans. Though I had intuition about it, I should have pressed the Sons of Fëanor harder for action and Elu Thingol still refuses any entreaty and thus the armies of the Sindar are denied to us.”

Morelen played it out in her head as to how they might have been victorious, but it was a fool’s errand. The might of a Vala could not be resisted indefinitely by the children of Illuvatar.  The march to Eithel Sirion took several days and the two Telepta riders remained in the company of the High King, learning his strategy and his personality.  He remained upbeat, inspiring and encouraging his troops, but Morelen could tell that he was under tremendous strain.  There were times between marches that he would sit in his tent and just stare at something, lost in thought.

The women sat in his tent with the High King, wondering if they should do anything.  Sercë grasped Morelen’s arm.  “I always imagined what it would be like to meet my uncle, but now that I am here, I have no idea what to say to him.”

“Just be yourself, Sercë. He will come to appreciate you as I do. It is I who has nothing to say.  I let you all down.”

Sercë looked her square in the eyes, a sense of strength and confidence emanating from her.  It was clear that she would be a great leader one day.  “You know there was nothing you could do.  I saw the whole thing.  They were valiant and we will always remember them.  Aegnor slew scores of orcs and many trolls while Hurinon slew the balrog. I can only hope to be as brave.”

“I grew complacent,” Morelen answered.  “In the long years of peace, I relaxed in the deep caverns of Nargothrond, I trained without actual battle in Barad Eithel and I fell in love.  I was not ready to fight.”

“None of us were.  I lived in quiet splendor in the tower of Tirith Aeluin, east of here.  I worry all of the time about my mother and sister, Alquanessë.  I suspect that they may be under siege soon and hope they will be able to flee southward.”

Morelen understood that worry.  Though her father was far to the south and likely safer, the reach of Morgoth was long, and she knew that he would be worried about her.  She nodded.  “If there is anything that I can do for you and your family, please say so.”

She noticed the High King walking towards them, and they both stood and bowed low, even as he dwarfed them with his height.  He put his hands on their shoulders.  “No,” he said, “no formalities here.  You ride with me as envoys of my son.  We are friends and family.”  He gestured for them to sit again, and he took a simple chair that was nearby and sat with them.  He poured them each a goblet of wine and then one for himself.  Morelen blushed, amazed that someone of Fingolfin’s status would sit as friends with someone as low as she.  He took a long sip of his wine.  “Please, this is a fine vintage from the Falas.  From one of Cirdan’s vineyards.”  They drank and he let out a deep sigh.  “We don’t know each other well so I find it easier to speak my mind than with my councilors, who will, no doubt, find me later.  Sercë, I am glad that we have finally met.  I only heard through kin that you were born and raised by my sister. I regret how busy I have been. And Morelen, I do recall your speech before the council in Three Eleven at Nargothrond.  You were very nervous,” he said with a humorous edge.

She lowered her head in shame.  “I’m sorry.”

Fingolfin shook his head. “No need to apologize.  After battling the dragon, you had every right to be nervous, and you were before the flower of elven nobility.  All in all, you did very well.  You gave us information that will be of benefit to our people.”

She gulped hard, trying to accept the compliment.  “Thank you, High King.”

“I have had this fear for many years now,” he said with a deep sigh.  “I wanted to take Angband years ago, but it was always just a dream. The truth is that we no longer have the power to do so, and Morgoth will now grow stronger every year while we grow weaker.  I have searched my mind, and I can find no solution to this save intervention by the Valar and that will not happen anytime soon.  All we have is the strength of our people and the valor of our arms.”  He took another drink.  “We will resist with all that we are, and we will emerge victorious.”  There was a strain on his face that was clear to see and Morelen sensed a hint of doubt in his words.  This frightened her.  Fingolfin was the rock upon which the kingdoms of the Noldor were built.

She inhaled deeply, honored to be in the presence of the High King and wanting more than anything to be of service and to help in that victory.  Evil could not triumph.  She could not bring herself to imagine that.  “We will do whatever is required of us, High King.”

His expression shifted to one of kindness and confidence again.  “We will all do what is required, Morelen…Sercë, my niece.  Get some rest now.  I will see you on the morrow.  And I would dearly love to hear more of my sister and her other children.  I have been remiss as an uncle, and I promise to rectify that as soon as I am able.”

The two women retired to their tent for another anxious night.  Morelen tossed and turned, thinking of Notaldo and the rest of the Telepta.  Another battle was looming soon and the forces of the Noldor were scattered.  She looked over to Sercë, who was also still awake. “I feel it too.  Once we are victorious here, we will go immediately to Tirith Aeluin and find your mother and Alquanessë.”  Her words were full of hope, but hollow.

“My sister is a bard, not a warrior,” Sercë said with a hint of disappointment.  “She sings and dances with the grace of the Valar.  She knows nothing of war and death.  She can name every star in the heavens, but can barely swing a sword.  She truly takes after our mother.  When we go, I will summon my brothers.  Tindómeno is as strong as an Ent and his mace is worth more than a hundred orcs on the field.”

“I would like to get to know your family.  Mine is in the utmost south of Middle Earth.  They are part of the Luingon Alliance and oppose the Court of Ardor, minions of Morgoth.”

“You have a noble family, Morelen.  We will endure,” Sercë said evenly, measuring her words.  These were things that they just needed to hear.  It would be a long night of tossing and turning.

In three days march, the banners of Hador stood in the distance, glittering spears held out to repel yet another attack.  Fingon’s riders held the flanks, lobbing arrows into the horde of orcs and trolls, lancers riding down stragglers and disrupting communications.  Fingolfin stood high in his stirrups and drew Ringil, his greatsword, forged in the Undying Lands by Aulë of an alloy of white eog and mithril with an edge of clear laen and a pommel made of a carved sapphire.  It shone with a pure light, and it was as if he were holding a star in his hand.  “Riders forward!  Our allies need support.  Infantry at the double!”  Fingolfin’s cavalry surged ahead and Morelen drew Luinë, nocking an arrow. Hador’s infantry held in tight ranks of spears, their chorus-like grunts sounding like a dwarven chant, deep and throaty.  Arrows flew in thick waves, back and forth, men and orcs alike, screaming and falling. They could just make out the Telepta Company, Notaldo leading them, leaning in on his saddle for a shot.  Gull-feathered shafts leapt from bows, raining down on the flank of the enemy, orcs and trolls falling in heaps.

Fingolfin angled his sword to have the cavalry change direction.  “Veer left!  Enemy reinforcements incoming!  Prepare to charge!”  A force was closing in on the left flank of Hador’s army.  Orcs snarled and gnashed their fangs and trolls beat their chests, but the most fearsome thing was a group of massive wolves that stood on two legs. These belonged to Sauron, the werewolves.  With fangs as long as hands, they tore into the line of Hador’s troops, tossing men about, snarling and howling.  The Noldorin cavalry thundered ahead, Morelen and Sercë launching arrows into the werewolves. One wolf, pierced by many shafts up to the fletchings, howled and pitched forward, crashing to the ground. Fingolfin lowered his lance and leaned into the charge as the riders followed the tip of his spear.  Morelen drew Melima and put her heels to Lindarion, pushing her faster to keep up with the High King.  Fingolfin’s lance tore through the chest of an armored troll and it shrieked before collapsing.  The line of Noldorin cavalry smashed into orcs, trolls and werewolves, lances and horses ripping the enemy horde.  Orcs began to flee in all directions as the High King drew Ringil, and sliced the throat of snarling wolf.  The blade of his sword was like a cold star, frozen light cutting through flesh and bone. Every cut was true, and the High King was soon covered in black and red gore as Rochallor spun and kicked all around, keeping the enemy at bay.

Morelen glanced over to see Sercë slice the arm off of a werewolf.  She tried to angle her charge to her friend, but dodged an orc’s glaive and then cut through the wooden shaft as Lindarion smashed into its body, casting it aside like a toy.  She shifted left and sliced the throat of another orc, catching it just beneath its helmet.  As she righted herself in the saddle, a werewolf tore her off of Lindarion, hurling her to the ground.  Her helmet and armor took the brunt of the impact, but her head still spun and she saw stars.  She felt her head being lifted to expose her throat and kicked hard into the face of the werewolf.  It grunted as her vision cleared, and it clawed at her head.  She turned just in time as claws raked across her helm and her ears rang.  It straddled up over her body and she tried to buck up, but the beast was too heavy. Her left hand instinctively went to her side, and she pulled her dagger and plunged it into the creature’s flank.

The werewolf howled and then snarled at her, roaring in pain.  Its clawed hand seized her by the throat and squeezed while its other hand pinned her left arm down.  Morelen gasped, feeling weak, unable to breath.  She was near panic.  In her fading vision she saw Lindarion rear up and kick the werewolf in the head. The beast flew off of her and she sat up, coughing and wheezing, holding her neck.  She grabbed her sword, Melima and the beast was back on its feet, half again as tall as she, eyes red and ablaze with fury.  It clawed again at her face, and she dodged under its flashing claws and sliced one of its legs clean off.  With a howl of agony, the beast fell, rolling in its own blood.  It tried in vain to grab her and she cut off its arm. It was weakening, bleeding out and it began to whimper.  Morelen leapt upon its chest, straddling it.  She sneered, full of hate and fury as she drew her sword arm back.

“Go back to your foul father!” she shouted and then drove Melima through its nose, out through the top of its head and then twisting the blade as a final sadistic move.  Her breathing came in ragged gasps as the fury faded away and she looked around to see the enemy in retreat.

Fingolfin was riding about, rallying the army, shouting, “Reform the line!  Reform the line!  This is just a moment’s respite.”  As he looked around, he turned towards Morelen and rode up, dismounting.  He extended his hand and she took it, standing back up.  “I saw what you did.  You fought well.  Get some rest and food.  This is not over and we still need to defend Eithel Sirion.  It is the gateway to the southlands.  If we lose this, all of Hithlum and the Falas will lie open to Morgoth.”

Morelen’s breathing was calmer now and she nodded.  “If I could fight and kill Morgoth right now, I would do it.  His evil and every creature born of his madness should be put down.”

He grasped her shoulder and smiled in a fatherly way.  “Neither you nor I have the might to defeat a Vala, but I appreciate your courage.  We will need it.”

As they remounted, Morelen stroked Lindarion’s ears and then hugged her neck.  “I am alive because of you.  Thank you.”  The horse nodded her head proudly and neighed.

Sercë rode up, pointing north.  Her armor was dented in many places and one of the pauldrons protecting her shoulders was gone.  “The enemy has retreated, but they are reforming.  We should probably dig in, High King.”  She seemed bolder, more confident, finding her way as a leader among her people.

The High King nodded. “Very good, my niece.  Please, pass the word to the captains.  We must defend this position at all costs.”

The armies worked through the overcast day to dig trenches and create fortifications in the soft soil of what remained of Ard Galen.  The volcanic cloud from Thangorodrim darkened the daylight sky as if they were in the calm of a storm.  The sun, moon and stars seemed to be something of the past.  Morelen thought on how her father fought against the Court of Ardor, an organization dedicated to destroying the sun and moon.  How they would do that was beyond her imagining.

As Fingolfin predicted, the enemy came again, an endless hammer against an ever-dwindling force.  The attacks went on for days and then weeks. Fingolfin held a council of war in his tent to determine what came next.  Some days, survival was enough.

The gathered group was far from the triumphant warriors of the past.  They were dirty and disheveled, armor dented, battered and stained. Proud surcoats and tabards were soiled with blood and sweat, and faces were downturned and exhausted.  Even the High King yawned and blinked with fatigue. He rose and pushed his fingers into his eyes for a moment.  “My captains and my brave warriors…the truth is that we cannot hold Eithel Sirion for much longer.  Messengers from Cirdan say that they are still fortifying Brithombar and Eglarest with the help of Finrod.  We have heard nothing from my other son, Turgon in the hidden city of Gondolin.  I feel that we must begin a slow retreat back to Barad Eithel.  We can sortie from there and harass the enemy to stem the tide that would flow into Hithlum and down to Talath Dirnen.  As little as Elu Thingol cares for us, I would not have his people endangered.”

Morelen spied Fingon and Notaldo from across the tent and pulled Sercë over there as the High King’s councilors spoke on the situation.  Broad smiles came across Notaldo’s face, along with Líreno and the Prince.  She wrapped her arms around him and whispered into his ear, “Let us be joined as soon as possible.  I was wrong.  We know not what the future holds, and time is precious.”

He nodded silently and pulled her in tightly.  Líreno rubbed her shoulders.  “Welcome back.  It wasn’t the same without you,” he said, that humorous spark back in his voice.  “All he wants to do is play, play, play,” he added with a wink, pointing his thumb at Notaldo.    

Fingon stepped over and grasped Morelen and Sercë’s hands.  “I have heard of your valor and want you to know that our people are proud of our company.  I will be detailing you two to my father’s guard and I want you to be liaisons between our forces.  Additionally, to replace our losses, I am elevating you, Morelen and you, Líreno to the positions of lieutenants in the company.  Morelen, you may assume those duties upon your return.  It is good to see you both again.  We are hard pressed, and our losses are mounting.”

“I am honored, my Prince,” Morelen said with a bow.  “I shall do all that I can for our people.”

Fingolfin’s voice then came through clearly, his head towering above all who stood near him.  “My friends, we are decided.  We will begin the retreat on the morrow.  Hador insists upon being the rear guard.  The House of Hador will cover the army on our march back to Barad Eithel.  The Sentinels of the Palantír have coordinated with the other kingdoms.  Maedhros is leading the defense in the east, and they have slowed the tide of attacks, channeling the enemy into the Pass of Aglon and the March of Maedhros, setting up ambushes and counterattacks.  Orodreth has fortified Minas Tirith and Cirdan is bringing supplies up the coast.  The situation is dire, but not untenable.”  He took a deep breath and continued.  “Captains, prepare to break camp.  We must do so quietly and without drawing undo attention.  I want to put at least a day’s march between us by the time we are discovered to be gone.”

The camp was a flurry of controlled activity, some tents being broken down and most of the troops slowly moving to the rear of the bivouac.  Only minor skirmishing went on through the night, all of the probes being driven back with enemy losses.  At daybreak, the infantry had been arrayed in column of march and began the trek home, flanked and covered by Fingon’s riders.  The House of Hador marched next, columns of infantry moving along the road, skirmishers deployed to warn of any attack.  Morelen and Sercë rejoined the High King’s guard and relayed orders to the various units.

As they rode towards the Misë Company and Fingon’s banner, Morelen scanned the horizon, craning her neck and putting her hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the dim sunlight.  Her heart sank and a chill ran down her spine as she saw hordes of orcs, along with other demons, massing just at the edge of her vision through the haze.  “Come on!” she yelled to Sercë, “they know we’re retreating.  We have to warn them.”

She leaned down to Lindarion’s ear and said, “Run now!  I need you to run, Lindarion!”  They took off at a gallop, waving at Tintallo and Fingon.  They arrived in a few minutes, their horses breathing hard and frothing at the mouth.  “My Prince! The enemy is massing for a charge! We need to prepare!”

Fingon scanned the horizon, rising up in his stirrups.  “I don’t see anything, Morelen.  Are you sure?”

“Please my Prince. Trust me.”

Tintallo smirked. “Trust her, see sees farther than anyone in the companies.”

Fingon did not need to hear any more.  “Riders! We will screen the retreat of the House of Hador.  The enemy is on our heels.  Prepare for battle!”  Within minutes, a distant howl and wail were heard, and spears could be seen through the haze of volcanic ash.  The numbers of the enemy never seemed to dwindle as Morgoth had two centuries to prepare for this offensive, growing his beasts in the foul breeding pits of Angband.

The cavalry rode out to harass the enemy on their advance and to thin their numbers.  Fingon ordered a circle formation, the riders orbiting around as to launch a continuous stream of arrows.  Morelen was glad to be riding amongst the Telepta again, even though it was only for a while.  Líreno was already leading a section, nocking and firing as they came around to the front of the circle.  As many as they felled, it was like pushing pond water and the enemy dead were instantly replaced.  Morelen grunted in frustration as she drew her bowstring to her ear.  She loosed with an angry shout, her arrow flying into an orc’s eye and it collapsed back into the horde.  Hador’s army wheeled about and deployed into line, spears facing the attack.  Trolls smashed into the shield wall, casting men about as spears plunged into their bodies. Werewolves leapt over them, crashing into the mannish archers, causing chaos.

Hador surged forward, the Dragon Helm of Dor Lómin upon his head, rallying the men.  The black and gold helm, crafted by Telchar of Nogrod, bore the likeness of Glaurung at its crest.  It was a gift from the Dwarves to Maedhros, who presented it to Fingon, who awarded it to Hador for his valor.  Sword and spear glanced off of the helm and its very presence put fear into the orcs.  The savage melee whittled the House of Hador down and his personal guard fell, one by one, driving a wedge between Hador and his sons.  No amount of arrows slowed the attack, and the mindless fury of the enemy could not be understood by man or elf.  Hador fought on, short cuts and thrusts in the elven style, slicing and stabbing orc and troll.  Fatigue took hold and his movements became slower with more and more effort.  An orc glaive stabbed him deep under the arm and a troll struck him with a spiked club.  Hador staggered back, cradling his wounded limb.  He shook his head and then waded back in, cutting the troll across the belly.  His last two guards dragged him back as Galdor and Gundor fought their way to him.  Gundor wielded his spear, stabbing and blocking all attacks until an arrow pierced him in the eye, and he fell.  The mannish army was now near a rout.

Heedless of safety, Fingon led the lancers in a charge against the enemy rear, lance tips plunging through panicked orcs.  Arrows nearly spent, Notaldo signaled the charge of the Telepta and swords were drawn in a glittering wave.  Their horses slammed into the horde, scattering orc bodies around.  Though their numbers were small, the sudden charge shattered the enemy’s attack, and the horde began to disintegrate.  As the enemy fled the field, there was no joy nor any cheer.  It was just part of a deadly routine to grind the Noldor and their allies down to nothing.

As Fingon and the riders approached Hador, he lay there, his Dragon Helm removed, his face pale as blood flowed down his side.  Galdor knelt there, cradling his father’s head, putting his other hand on the wound. Hador spat up blood and then looked up as the riders dismounted.  “My friends,” he said weakly.  “I am spent. The wound is deep.”  He coughed up more blood.  “Galdor…the Dragon Helm is yours.  Wear it with pride and valor.  It will be your son, Húrin’s, after.  Mourn your brother and I later.  Get my people to safety,” he trailed off.  His eyes were glassy and unfocused.

Fingon knelt down. “Go with the blessings of Manwë, my friend…my brother.  You have saved us all with your sacrifice.”

Hador reached up to touch the Prince, but his eyes rolled back and his arm became limp.  Galdor cried out in anguish and tore his beard. His whole body shook for a moment before he took the helm and stood.  “Bear his and my brother’s bodies with reverence,” he ordered his men.  “We will grieve later.”  He looked at Fingon and extended his hand.  “My Prince.  What are your orders?”

Fingon shook the hand. “You are now the head of the House of Hador.  The High King’s orders stand and we will cover your retreat with all that we have left. We will never forget the sacrifice that you have made for our world,” he said, his voice breaking.

Notaldo walked up to Morelen and took her hand.  In the wake of the disaster, he put aside notions of propriety befitting a leader. “As soon as we reach safety, I will ask the Prince to join us,” he said.  She was unable to speak, Hador’s death filling her thoughts, and she could only squeeze his hand.  

Fingon approached them. The Prince looked exhausted, his silver armor covered in nicks and scratches, his surcoat torn to shreds.  “I could not help but overhear.  I would be honored.  But Morelen, Sercë, I need you to ride to my father and inform him of what happened here and that we are falling back at great haste.  We must ensure that the defenses of Barad Eithel are prepared to receive us and launch any counterattacks.  Go quickly and stay safe.”

Morelen held onto Notaldo’s hand for one last moment and then turned to climb into the saddle and they were at a gallop once more.  As they rode, orc forces roamed freely, many streaming south towards Brethil and Talath Dirnen unopposed.  She fought the anger down, focused on their mission in spite of her overwhelming desire to charge into them and attack.  What they saw next though, was like a kick to the gut.  Fingolfin’s force was under attack.  The last pitched battle that they fought was just a distraction to slip another army past to destroy the High King.

“Fingolfin is under attack! We must get to him!” she shouted and dug her heels into Lindarion’s flanks, and she bolted ahead, Sercë struggling to keep up.  They were completely out of arrows and drew swords for a charge.  Morelen let out a feral cry and orcs looked back, terror on their faces and she enjoyed that.  She swung Melima into the face of one, breaking its helmet as Lindarion plowed into their ranks, scattering them.  A short thrust found the neck of another just as Sercë smashed into the horde.  They cut their way forward, seeing that the High King had been driven away from his guard. Alone, Ringil flashed as he cut and thrust methodically around him, leaving a pile of bodies.  Rochallor spun, keeping the enemy at bay, kicking and smashing.

Surprised at the fury of the new attack, orcs and trolls gave way and the two riders made a hole in the horde.  “High King! My uncle!” Sercë shouted.  “We have a way out!”  Her words were premature as the hole quickly closed behind them with a sea of orcs.  The enemy paused for a moment, assessing the newcomers, snarling and gnashing their teeth.

Fingolfin raised his visor, his helm dented and stained with blood.  He looked around and then cried out, “All is lost!  I will end it now for good or for ill!  I will cut a path for you to escape!”

“No!  No!” Morelen screamed.  “We cannot lose you, my King!  We can escape!”

He shook his head, his eyes wild.  He took a deep breath and blinked hard, his eyes relaxing.  He was resolved.  “No, this will never end unless I end it.  We will break out, but you will ride with my people and help them to safety.  Sercë, my niece, go find my sister and your family after and get them south.  Morelen, I have seen your strength and speed and there are few like you.  Go with her.  Please.  Save them and serve my son with honor.”

Morelen was about to speak when the orcs surged forward again.  With a shout, Fingolfin urged Rochallor forward, laying about with Ringil. With newfound strength and resolve, he cut his way through the enemy horde, the riders right behind him.  They broke free and the High King pointed back to his dwindling army.  “Go! There is no more that you can do for me than that!”  He turned and pushed his steed ahead, looking back one last time.

The two riders started to circle back to the army when Sercë grasped Morelen by the arm.  “I can’t do this.  I can’t leave my uncle.  We just met.  There is so much…” she began, tears on her face.  “I can’t keep up with you.  Lindarion is so much faster.  Please Morelen, go after him!  Bring him back.  We need him!”

Morelen was torn.  The High King had spoken, and the army was coming apart.  She grunted. “Very well.  Go…help our people to safety.  I’ll go after him.  I’ll do my best.”  She paused for a moment, her face hot and her eyes moist.  “I can’t…I can’t lose anyone else.  I can’t.”  They both nodded silently and Morelen kicked Lindarion and they galloped ahead as Sercë rode back to the army.

Fingolfin was already miles ahead, the speed of Rochallor impossible to match by any steed other than Nahar, the horse of Oromë.  Indeed, many who saw the High King pass, thought the Vala had returned to Middle Earth. Rochallor’s hooves pounded the dried lava fields of what had once been green Ard Galen, now called Dór-nu-Fauglith or Anfauglith, the barren desert.  Where is he going?  What is he going to do?

Morelen fell behind a little every league until the gates of Angband could be seen.  She slowed for a little, pulling on the reins, horrified, unable to comprehend what the High King was about to do.  Though he were miles away, she could see him clearly, blowing on his horn, the sound piercing the air.  He hammered on the gates of Angband, calling for the coward Morgoth to come forth.  “O monstrous, craven lord!” he shouted.  “I wait thee here!  Come, show thy face!”

The great gates of his fortress creaked open, and Morgoth emerged, towering with a black shield and hammer, wearing the iron crown with the three jewels.  Beneath the crown was a demonic visage, fangs and glowing eyes full of hate and malice.  Morelen froze, remembering her vision of this being.  They were connected somehow.  Choking down her fear, she charged ahead, determined to bring the High King back to safety.  Morgoth’s hammer struck the ground repeatedly as Fingolfin dodged away, the blows shaking the ground and cracking the earth.  Ringil flashed, slicing the legs of the Vala and he reared back, howling in pain, his face showing fear.  As Morelen galloped forward, it was clear the High King was tiring.  He slashed Morgoth’s shin and then stumbled, scrambling away as the hammer smote the ground, gouts of flame shooting up from the crater.  His shield was broken, and he tossed it away.  His helm was smashed, and he flung it from his head.  He stabbed Morgoth in the calf, but the Vala struck him with his shield and Fingolfin fell backwards into a smoldering pit.  Morgoth’s armored foot came down upon the High King’s body and he spat up blood. “Die and be fed to my wolves!” the Vala shrieked, but Fingolfin plunged Ringil into Morgoth’s foot, driving it deep and twisting it.  Black blood gushed forth and Morgoth staggered back, howling in agony.  The High King lay still, his body broken.

Morgoth reached down to take the remains for the wolves to feed, but a shadow above him got his attention. He looked up to see flashing claws that tore his face.  The Vala fell backwards, his hands over his bloody cheeks as Thorondor, the Lord of the Eagles bore Fingolfin’s body away. 

Morelen reined in Lindarion, her mouth agape in horror, a silent scream in her throat. She was too slow.  Another had perished when she should have saved them. Fury and mental anguish shot through her body, and she pounded the pommel of her saddle in impotent sorrow. She drew Melima, resolved to attack Morgoth and exact vengeance, but Lindarion would not move.  It was as if the horse knew of the futility of that action.  Morelen kicked, hard this time, but still, they would not advance.  Lindarion merely snorted and bucked her head about as if trying to tell her rider something.  Morelen looked about.  “What is it, Lindarion?  I don’t understand.  What? Oh?”  She turned her attention straight ahead to see Rochallor approaching ahead of a pack of wolves.  She gestured to the horse, and they sped away from that accursed place.  

They easily outran the wolves and Morelen patted Lindarion on the neck, stroking her mane.  “I am sorry.  I lost my composure.  I have failed again.  Next time, I will die with honor.”  Both horses sensed her grief and lowered their heads.  Soon, they saw the bright walls of Barad Eithel, troops bolstering the defenses for the coming attack.  Rochallor slowed to a walk, his head down and his tail sagging. Morelen stopped and dismounted, walking over to Fingolfin’s steed.  Rochallor sat and then rolled over, his breath weak and thready.  She rushed to him and knelt, cradling his head. “No!  Get up!  We’re here! We’re safe!  Get up, please!”  Her whole body shook now.  She stroked his head and his mane.  “Please!” He looked at her, seeming to understand, asking for permission to go.  His heart was broken.  Then, the great steed, mightiest of the horses of the Noldor, breathed his last and closed his eyes.

“No!  No!  Get up, please!”  All of the pain and agony of the past months welled up and erupted like Thangorodrim. She tossed her helm aside and rolled over, lying on Rochallor’s body, shrieking into the sky.  Like a child, she rocked back and forth, her hands holding her head as if to keep her brains from flowing out.  She should have ran to fight Morgoth.  It should have been her.  Then her unbearable pain would be over.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and she wiped her eyes.  It was Fingon and Notaldo.  The Prince pulled her up to her feet.  “My father?” he asked, hoping beyond hope, knowing what the answer would be.  She shook her head.

Notaldo took her in his arms, and she shuddered, coughing and choking, her face hot and puffy.  He looked at the Prince.  “My lord, you are now High King of the Noldor.”

Chapter End Notes

Morelen is besides herself with grief, convinced that she has failed.  How will this affect her character arc?  Fingon becomes the High King of the Noldor.

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33)  Council of the Ritual - Year of the Sun 457 Lairë (Summer)

Moran

News poured in from the north, all of it good.  The Siege of Angband was broken and the Noldor in full retreat.  Ardana glowed as she presented the latest updates from the Wars of Beleriand.  “They cannot stand against the might of our great father, Morgoth!”  Her black eyes were full of energy and her gown shimmered like starlight.  “He is the one, true hope for Middle Earth and we will be great again.  Our foes do not know the good that he brings,” she said with passion, her face animated and her hands gesticulating. “That he will make the heavens glow with the wonder of the stars again.  Only Morgoth can fix it.  Varda was in folly as were the Noldor and they will see the error of their ways and come back to us…or they will be ground into dust.”  She closed her fist and made a pounding motion.

Cheers resonated throughout the peak of the completed Citadel of Ardor, the High Council Chamber. The walls of the octagonal room were formed of polished black marble and a clear laen dome showed the stars of the night sky above.  Valmorgȗl waved his hand at a panel on the wall and eight pillars surrounding a central elevator descended into the floor as an octagonal table descended from the ceiling to take its place.  The table was twenty feet across and crafted of smooth, polished obsidian.  Twelve panels on the floor opened and twelve thrones rose up.  The thrones were also of black marble, with rich maroon upholstery, projecting fear, power and comfort to any who might see them.  At the stroke of midnight, Ardana raised her arms, and her octagonal brooch flashed green.  “Be seated, my councilors.”

The twelve members of the inner circle took their seats with Moran standing at the table in his black and crimson robes.  Since the incident at the Citadel courtyard, his appearance had become less neat, his black hair now unbrushed and his clothes wrinkled.  His hand and his lip twitched involuntarily, a tic that he had developed in recent years.

On one side, Gorthaur sat with Taurclax, the two lords of the Suit of Helms, as a sea blue panel of laen lowered in front of them.  The panels glowed, casting their faces in an eerie light.  They wore the black robes, trimmed in gold, of Morgoth’s priests.  Ardana had gone to great lengths to appease Gorthaur after the incident with Yavëkamba.  He needed to be controlled, but she could not afford to lose him.  Moran despised him for nearly sacrificing Yavë.  She was his caretaker and teacher as he grew up and she had never been anything but kind towards him.  He loved her, but he knew it could never be.  She continuously directed him to other women, Almarien, her assistant, or Elendur, the Lady of Swords.  He couldn’t deny that they were attractive, but Almarien was rather bland and Elendur was too intense and focused on displacing Suldȗn, the Lord of Swords.  His heart belonged to Yavë, but he buried it deep.  His feelings could only be used to hurt them all.  Deep down, he sensed that her heart belonged to another, but he could not determine who that was.

The vicious Fëatur, Lady of the Suit of Orbs sat with Ardȗval, her astrologer.  They wore plain brown robes, cut for ease of movement in the close quarters fighting that they were experts at.  She winked at Moran and then curled her lip up in in a sneer at Gorthaur.  Amber panels lowered in front of them that then glowed, casting them in earthy hues. Then, proud Rilia, Lady of the Suit of Staves, sat with Lesh-Y, a lesser demon of flame.  She wore a scarlet gown that was far too revealing with patterns of fire on the fabric that moved and flowed while Lesh-Y was bare chested with only a dark brown apron across his lower body.  Finally, Castolder, Lord of the Suit of Swords sat with Cambragol, a master of unarmed combat.  Castolder had fought in single combat against the hated Lyaan, neither able to kill the other.  Sky blue panels lowered before them and began to glow, giving them an airy appearance.

Moran moved to stand beside his mother, and he touched the octagonal brooch around his neck.  It seemed…weaker.  The energy in it that connected him to his father felt…diminished. Father was hurt.  He sensed it through the channel of power.  Did anyone else know?  He gripped the brooch more tightly and focused his energy into it.  

There was a flash in his mind as images formed.  An elf with silver armor and a sky blue surcoat.  A hammer crashing into the ground, throwing soil skywards.  A sword like a cold star.  His father shrieking in agony.  The claws of an eagle.  And then darkness.

His mother made it seem like everything had gone their way.  The armies of the Noldor lay crushed and helpless, demoralized and it would just be a matter of time before Morgoth would rule all of Middle Earth.  Why would she cover this up?  He took her hand like he always did.

Valmorgȗl, the Magician, stood from his throne and bowed with a flourish, sweeping his golden hair aside as he rose.  He favored sleeveless shirts that showed off his muscular frame.  “I have completed the cavern of the ritual, my lady,” he said, addressing Ardana.  He seemed to avoid Moran’s gaze and Ardana shook off her son’s hand.  “The altar of the ritual has been formed along with the pedestals for the gems of unlight.  I saw to this personally.”

Morthaur, the Lord, stood sharply, his face twisted in anger.  His finger shot out at the Magician like a dagger.  “Didn’t you mean that I completed the cavern?  Yet again, you take credit for my work!”  He swept his hand up, his formal black and silver robe snapping back with a pop.  His silver eyes blazed and bore into Valmorgȗl.    

The Magician strode toward Morthaur, his muscles and jaw taut, his chest puffed out.  He stood half a head above the other elf, looking down. He clenched a fist that began to glow green.  “Always jealous of my achievements, are we not?” he said in a voice dripping with disdain. “Perhaps one day you may do something notable on your own.”

The Lord’s eyes shimmered with a reddish hue.  “I’ve had enough of your smug superiority.  I see the way that you look at Ardana.  Would you supplant the King of the Earth?  I think not.”  He held up his hand and a translucent wall began to form between them.

Ardana shot up out of her throne and her gown radiated the light of the stars.  “Enough!  Sit back down!  Both of you. I’ll not have my court behaving like children.”  The two elves slunk away back to their seats.  “I thank you both for completing the cavern,” she continued in a more conciliatory tone.  “From Angband, Morthrog has informed me that the time for the ritual draws nigh.  We must be fully prepared.”

Moran touched her on the shoulder.  “What can I do to help?”

She avoided his gaze. “Nothing for now, my dear. Continue to train.  Your time will come.”  She then gestured to the heads of the suits.  “Tell me of your plans to win the south and complete the ritual.”

Fëatur was the first to rise, bold and full of confidence.  “The hold of Angkirya is complete and ready to serve, my lady, and I have created the groundwork of a new order called the Darin Tesarath.”

“What is that and how will it serve?” Ardana asked.

“It will be an order of spies and assassins.  All female and all in service to the Court.  The foundations have been laid for a college to train initiates.  I hope to have it completed in…say twenty years where I will personally oversee the trainee’s development.”  She held up a black, hooded robe.  “This will be the uniform of the initiates.  Once graduated, the members will be sworn to secrecy and will be let loose to infiltrate, disrupt and kill,” she said and then looked directly at Gorthaur, “any enemies of the Court.”  As much as Moran disliked Gorthaur, such an order concerned him, and he knew that Fëatur would use it freely against anyone who displeased her.

Rilia stood next, her wavy, flaming red hair blending with her gown.  She was a woman of stunning, fiery beauty, high cheekbones and a gently curved jawline to a strong chin.  Her amber eyes held a fire that would scorch any enemy.  She glided down from her throne in a feminine walk that belied her power and she bowed curtly to Ardana and Moran.  “Our hold of Naurlindol is finished, my lady…my lord,” she said sweetly.  “I invite the august crowd here to view it though a river of molten lava flows through the grand chamber so it may be too hot for some.”  She raised one hand and ball of fire enveloped it and then burst into a shower of sparks, causing gasps.  “But, worry not.  I have incantations that can shield you,” she said with a bold smirk.

Castolder then stood, an elf with rippling muscles and a square jaw, practically the image of Tulkas himself upon Middle Earth except for his black hair.  He closed a fist.  “I look forward to bringing you Lyaan and Chrys Menelrana’s heads,” he said, bowing low to Ardana and Moran.  “I have learned much since my battle with Lyaan and his mewling family.  I will not make the same mistake twice.”  He looked directly at Moran.  “And, son of the king, I thank you for teaching my son, Valkrist.  He thinks highly of you.”

Moran returned the bow. Teaching the young boy was a rare joy amid the horror of sacrifices to Morgoth.  “He learns quickly and it is my pleasure, Castolder.  He already rides like one much older and more advanced.” He had a soft spot for the young elf.

The big Noldo smiled warmly.  “I look forward to the day that he will get his own falcon at our hold of Tirgoroth.” The hold was also known as The Aerie, a castle on a mountaintop, above the clouds, overlooking the Koros Bay.  The cloud cover gave the illusion that the keep appeared to be floating on air and its white marble walls and gold leaf shingles gave it an otherworldly appearance.    

Gorthaur was next.  Moran stifled a sneer as the High Priest of Morgoth walked to the table.  If anything, the priest had grown more arrogant since the incident in the courtyard. He gave the room a smug expression, one side of his mouth curled upwards.  He gave a curt bow, avoiding Moran’s gaze.  “I thank the Lord and the Magician for completing the ritual chamber,” he said, addressing Morthaur and Valmorgȗl.  “We will need it soon as it will be I who completes the ritual that will achieve our goals,” he added, looking at Ardana.  He did not want her to forget it.  “I am keeping the Gems of Unlight in a safe place until then. We will bring darkness back to Middle Earth.”  It was a power move, one even Ardana couldn’t deny.  Nothing would happen without him.

The four heads of the suits returned to their seats behind their glowing panels and then Ardana rose and walked to the central table with Moran.  She scanned the room, her black eyes intense and focused.  “We have come far, my friends.  We are established here in the south and are a force to be reckoned with.  We, the Noldor, reign supreme as it was meant to be.  The lesser races bow down to us and know their place.  All is as it should be.  While we grow and prosper, the pathetic Luingon Alliance hides and falters.”  She waved her hand over the table, and it began to shimmer, a map of the area forming on its surface.  “We control three quarters of the south,” she said, areas of their control turning silver on the map.  “We must still find the locations of the Alliance’s holds.  If we can crush Chrys Menelrana, the Alliance will fall apart. We must ensure that the ritual can be completed without any interference.”

Moran looked at the map. Surely this would bring about peace and an end to the fighting and sacrifice.  He was determined to press through.  He would do what was needed.  Then, mother would be satisfied and maybe Yavë would see him for who he truly was.

Ardana continued, “And our King, great lord Melkor, is stronger than ever.  The High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, was crushed into dust after an epic duel in which our King was triumphant.  He now stands tall over the north as his vassal, Sauron has captured Minas Tirith, driving Orodreth out.  It is now called Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves.  His beloved, Thuringwethil, is creating an army of vampires.  The radical Noldor of the north will cower and bow before our King ere long.”  She gestured to the map again and it changed into a scene of the land before the Sun and Moon, bright, shining stars in the dark sky.  “And we will return to this…a land of peace and prosperity where the stars rule the heavens and guide our way.  It will be a golden age.”

She swept her hand around the room.  “And all of you…  Each one of you are critical to this effort.  Morthaur will prepare the gems.  Gorthaur will conduct the ceremony.  Valmorgȗl will oversee security.”  She looked at Gorthaur, still trying to soothe him for his loyalty to the cause. “Gorthaur, I trust that you will coordinate with Morthrog for the exact timing of the ceremony.”

He nodded curtly, the dark brown bowl cut of his hair barely moving under the oil that he used to style it.  “We are scrying the signs and portents, but I anticipate that the time of the right eclipse will occur in just over a century.  I urge patience until then and I shall keep you informed, my lady,” he said proudly, seeming to accept the bait of unity.  “We must accelerate the number of sacrifices, however, to ensure that our King has the power that we may channel to perform the ritual.”

Moran listened and furrowed his brows.  He knew that the channel between the Court and his father had gone mostly dark.  He knew that something had happened to his father, but no one here was talking about it.  Perhaps they didn’t even know.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Gorthaur continued.

“And I will need the boy to…assist in the ritual.  We cannot risk him until then.”

His mother looked away, but then nodded.  There was something in her expression that worried him, but he couldn’t place it. Was she afraid?  Was she just tired?  He couldn't be sure.  He nodded reluctantly to the High Priest.  “Of course.  Whatever I can to for mother and the Court.”  He got a strange feeling in his gut.  Why was he so important?  He wanted to fight for the cause as much as anyone.  He wanted to prove to mother that he was worthy…not just a coddled son. He looked around at all of the strong, powerful elves of the Court and he felt tiny.  He turned to Ardana.  “But mother, I can still fight.  I’m growing and learning.  I want to serve you and the Court.  I’m very careful,” he said, practically pleading.

Ardana flicked her fingers at him.  “I shall…think upon it.  Until I decide, Morfuin will be your bodyguard.  You do not go into the field without him.  Am I understood?”

He felt even smaller. “Yes mother.”

Gorthaur grinned, his teeth showing in an expression of victory.  “And I will need the boy to reside in Aurax-Dȗr with me.  We must have the privacy and time to prepare.”  Moran’s heart sank at the words and a cold shiver ran down his spine.  The very thought of being overseen by the High Priest made him nauseous, not to mention the thought of living in sunless hold of the Deepwater Darkness, a keep upon an underground lake.  He squeezed his mother’s shoulder, hoping that she would refuse.

Ardana pursed her lips for a moment in thought.  Then, she shook her head.  “That time will come, Gorthaur, but it is not now.  My son will remain with me for the time being.  I will tell you when the time is right.”  Moran let out the breath that he had been holding the entire time. He wanted to cry for joy.  Still, there would come a time when he would be under the thumb of the High Priest.  What he would do then, he could not guess.  He relaxed his grip.

Moran couldn’t help but shoot Gorthaur a look of satisfaction, which he immediately regretted. He wanted nothing more than to be in the field, helping the cause rather than being cooped up in the Citadel.  It just wasn’t fair.  And while he feared Gorthaur, his youthful rebelliousness had to take a stand at some point.  After all, what good was being the son of a Vala if you had no power?

Gorthaur merely raised an eyebrow, a veiled promise of retribution to come.  Moran would surely pay for his impulsiveness, but that time would be in the future.  Valmorgȗl waved his hand and the thrones and the table receded into the floor, replaced by the pillars and the elevator.  The doors to the elevator opened and a petite Silvan woman stepped out. She was attractive with light brown hair and a gossamer white robe.  She carried a black cloak to Gorthaur, who scowled at her and she winced.

She lowered her head, averting her eyes from him.  “Here is your cloak, High Priest and your carriage is ready,” she said in a demure, submissive tone.

He grabbed her hard by the cheek and squeezed, causing her to yelp.  “You’re late again, Isil.  When we return to Aurax-Dȗr, you will await my discipline.”  He cupped her breast with his other hand and then shoved her away. “You and your Silven brethren…worthless.”  Isil reached up and placed the cloak about his shoulders and attached the pin, her cheek red from his grip.  She looked like a beaten animal.

Moran shook his head. Gorthaur seemed to delight in causing humiliation to those less powerful, especially women.  It was likely that he chafed under the authority of Ardana and the power of Rilia and Fëatur.  His mother walked towards him and held out her hand, which Moran took, walking beside her to the elevator.  They stepped in, flanked by Rilia and Fëatur.  The Sorceress stood next to him, and he could smell her perfume, a fiery scent of cinnamon and spices.  She glanced at him with a sultry smile and he couldn’t help but gaze at her scarlet gown that barely covered her, and she seemed not to mind.

“You should come and visit me at Naurlindol,” she said brazenly.  “The heat would be good for you compared to the rain of the Citadel. I think it would be far better if you stayed there instead of that dreary hole at Aurax-Dȗr.  I cannot imagine a more lifeless place.  At Naurlindol, the molten lava just ignites my passions.”

“I…I will…consider it,” Moran replied, stunned by her forwardness.

The elevator stopped on the Fourth Floor and Ardana let Moran off.  Rilia and Fëatur bowed and continued downwards.  Yavëkamba greeted them on the landing with a slight bow and a warm smile.  She wore her deep blue velvet robes with long sleeves, and her dark brown hair was swept back and braided.  Moran’s heart leapt every time he saw that.  He held his breath for a moment to slow his breathing.  He wanted nothing more than to rush into her arms and hold her, but he was old enough to know better.

Ardana tilted her head down in greeting.  “Yavëkamba, I will be transferring you under the leadership of Fëatur soon and you will eventually relocate to her hold of Angkirya.  But that will be a future event.  I still need you here with me for the time being.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said. Moran lived for the sound of her sweet, melodic voice and for moments in her presence.  He grinned broadly, his perfect teeth showing.  The thought of her leaving one day was distressing, but he was here with her now.

Ardana smiled, her black eyes vacant like the void.  Speaking to her was always a challenge as her eyes rarely revealed anything.  “I shall retire to my quarters to meditate.  I will commune with Father Melkor later.” She waved her hand across her face and a door in the wall appeared and opened.  “Good day,” she said as she walked into her chambers and the door vanished.

Moran practically bounced now that they were alone.  “The members of the Court are departing, and we have the rest of the day.  What shall we do?” he asked, his voice rising an octave.

Her eyes twinkled. “I was going to play some music. Would you join me?”  He could still imagine her singing him to sleep as a boy, her voice soft and soothing.

He nodded enthusiastically. His childhood seemed so near and so distant at the same time.  She opened the door to one of the libraries where finely made shelves of books rose to the ceiling.  Rich wood paneling lined the room and incense burners gave off the aroma of sandalwood. On a table sat musical instruments of all types from lyres to harps to lutes along with a smattering of woodwinds, all expertly crafted by artisans serving the Court.  Yavë picked up a metal flute while Moran went to his lute, a stringed instrument with a large body.  It felt like a comfortable old blanket, and he knew every inch of it, the weight, the balance, just how much pressure to place on the strings.  This was a ritual they had done thousands of times, and no discussion was needed.  Yavë led right in, playing an introduction as her fingertips danced over the keys.  On cue, Moran began strumming the strings, his fingers moving expertly over the fretboard.  They were immediately in sync, playing The Gardens of Lórien, an instrumental from the days in the Undying Lands.

Moran quickly became lost in the chords and the notes as they wove a tapestry of music that brought their minds to the gardens, the great halls of Irmo, crafted by Aulë, where the mists of Avathar rolled in from the Shadowy Sea.  Labyrinths and mazes of yew and cedar wound about the feet of Telperion, full of the soothing scent of wood and Fumellar, the flower of dreams. Silver willows, fountains, pools and deep lakes adorned the landscape, carefully tended by Estë, who healed hurt and weariness.  Images of these moments flooded his mind along with the notes.  He could smell the cedar.  He could hear the songbirds.  He could see pale Estë, her expression sad but empathic.  Her hair was white, but she was as young as a fawn and as old as a mountain.  He gasped, but kept plucking at the strings of his lute.  The visions were narcotic.

The song came to an end, like all things.  The visions faded into memory and Moran let out a long sigh.  He shook for a moment, trying to recreate the images in his head, but he could not.  They danced just beyond his sight.  “Is this what you saw in Valinor?” he asked, his voice heavy with sadness and regret.

She smiled, that demure, motherly smile that he grew up with.  “Yes…I learned under Estë.  She taught me how to heal, how to tend to wounds both physical and emotional.”  A look of longing came over her and she put her finger to her lips as if thinking.  “You saw it, didn’t you, Moran?  Those were my memories that I shared.  That was the beauty of Valinor and the Gardens of Lórien.  All I have now are those memories for I can never return.” Her eyes misted up and she wiped her nose.

He set the lute down and went to her, holding her hand.  “Why not?  You are the most gentle…most caring person I have ever known.”

“It is the Doom of Mandos and the Exile of the Noldor.  We are the Etyañgoldi, the exiles who may never return to Valinor.  Our brethren slew the Teleri for their ships. Our kind were seduced by…I shouldn’t say it.”  She looked away, her cheeks flush.

“What?  What were you saying?”

She forced a smile and wiped her cheek.  “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.  I joined the Court ere that happened.  I was…swayed by your mother’s vision.  I can never go back.  I will die here one day and be forgotten,” she said, her voice laden with regret.

He squeezed her hand. “Don’t say that!  I will never forget you.”  He couldn’t stand it any longer.  He leaned in and kissed her.  His body felt like a surge of electricity flowed through it.  It was what he wanted for so long.  She didn’t pull away…at first.

After a lingering moment, Yavë gently pushed him back.  “Moran…I know how you feel, but it cannot be.  You are…you are…  No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”  There was something in her eyes that he could not decipher. Pain?  Regret?  Fear?

“Please Yavë.  You’re all I think about to escape the horror of the sacrifices.  I died inside, thinking I would lose you to Gorthaur.  I hate him for what he did to you.”  His body shuddered.  “The thought of you going away and me going with him…I want to die.”  He wanted to be a man, but he was the small boy again, wanting nothing more than to be in her arms, safe.

She stroked his cheek softly and put her finger on his nose like she did when he was a child.  “I will give you one night and then we must never speak of this again.  Await in your quarters.”

Moran could not believe what he was hearing.  Were his dreams finally coming to pass?  He nodded and then kissed her hand.  “I…I will await you,” he stammered and then left.  He had never been with a woman and paced in his chambers, unsure of what to expect.  He felt a crackle of energy in the room and a sense of peace came over his soul like a cool shower.  His twitch stopped and he breathed easier than he had in a long time.  He settled onto his bed and the magical lamps in his room dimmed as if someone else willed it so.  A fog creeped into his mind and his vision grew hazy, but it was pleasant. He heard the door open.  A woman glided in, wearing white gossamer robes. He blinked hard, trying to focus. The woman’s face was blurry, but he could see her body underneath the translucent clothes.  His heart quickened.

He started to speak, but the woman shushed him and lay him back on the bed, gently, lovingly.  She undid the laces to his pants and tugged them down.  For a moment, her features were wrong, similar, but wrong.  He thought the woman was Almarien, Yavë’s assistant, but then the face coalesced into that of the Healer’s.  He lay back as she straddled him and he inhaled deeply, her scent of Fumellar flowers filling his nostrils.  It was like a dream.  It was everything that he dreamt.

Then he lay, spent, covered in perspiration, breathing hard.  She leaned over and kissed him and then rolled off of the bed.  She touched his lips with her finger.  “Goodnight, Moran.”

As she turned to go, he reached for her hand.  “No, don’t go.  I can’t lose you.”  His hand passed through the ghostly outline of her arm.  The aroma of Fumellar engulfed his mind.

A smile graced her lips. “You will never lose me.  Dream well.”  She passed her hand over his face.  “Aiya lúmenn omentielvo, o aldaron,” she said in Quenya, and his eyelids became heavy, and he sighed contentedly.

Moran blinked hard, trying to keep his focus on her, but all became darkness.  For a moment, his mind played out the lack of a channel to his father.  There was a vision of Fingolfin stabbing Morgoth in the foot and then an eagle clawing Morgoth’s face.  Then, an image of the Vala, cowering on his iron throne, crying out in pain, weak, impotent…not the being of strength and power his mother portrayed.  More sacrifices would come, but he cared not at the moment as all of his dreams had been fulfilled.

Chapter End Notes

I'm moving Moran's character arc along and showing more Court dynamics.  

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34)  Hope - Year of the Sun 469 Hrivë (Winter)

Fëatur

After the Dagor Bragollach, the temptation to go north and save Morelen was overwhelming, but he pushed the feeling down, remembering the disaster of the last century where he got allies of The Three killed for his impulsiveness.  At first, the news that filtered in was nothing but terrible and communication was spotty.  Even with the magic of the elves, messages took time.  Fëatur and The Three sat in Lysa’s study within Ty-Ar-Rana, a comfortable chamber full of gray bookshelves and wooden paneled walls.  They were gathered around a central table where a small orb hovered, giving off a rich blue light.

Fëatur read from a parchment that had just arrived from the north from his daughter, Morelen.  For some years, the information was both devastating and uplifting.  The Siege of Angband was broken.  High King Fingolfin was slain.  The Noldor were in retreat on all fronts.  But things began to stabilize.  Seven years ago, Fingon and Cirdan crushed a massive orc army in Hithlum. Human tribes known as Easterlings swore fealty to Maedhros.  Finrod of Nargothrond was slain, but a man named Beren, took a Silmaril from evil Morgoth. Both Beren and Lúthien then passed. She was the daughter of Elu Thingol of Doriath and Melian, a Maia.  By some miracle though, the Valar found mercy and they were renewed.  And the Union of Maedhros was formed to stand against Morgoth, uniting most of the free people of Beleriand.  Morelen fought bravely in every battle, but he knew that something was not right beneath the surface.  Her words did not carry the same warmth and humor as before.

He continued to read off of the parchment as Lyaan, Lysa and Lyrin listened, anxious for any news of the world outside of the south.  “Maedhros is giving hope to the people of the north,” he said, absorbing every word from his daughter.  “The fact that Beren and Lúthien recovered a Silmaril from Morgoth is a beacon for our people.  We may yet defeat him and the evil that he brings.  Maedhros leads the Eastern Army of the House of Fëanor, the dwarves under Azaghȃl and the Easterlings under Bór and Ulfang.  The Western Army is led by Fingon, Gwindor of Nargothrond, Húrin of Dor Lómin, Haldir of the Haladin and Cirdan of the Falas,” he said proudly. “This sounds to be a strong union. Morelen says that the situation has stabilized and that she is safe.”

The Three nodded and breathed a sigh of relief.  “And,” Fëatur continued, “Morelen is wed.  She and Notaldo married a few years ago.”  A smile actually cracked along his lips, something rare these days.  The feeling was bittersweet though as she had neglected to let him know sooner.  Why?  He could only guess.  He could see a pang of disappointment on Lyrin’s face, but that was water under the bridge now.  “Thank Manwë we can all rest a little easier now.  Shipments of arms and armor from the north will resume immediately.  This is the best news we have had in a while.”

Lysa came over and touched his shoulder.  “I know that it has been hard, my friend,” she said gently, her voice carrying a sense of calm.  “I know it was difficult to not go north, and I admire your restraint.  We have a long fight ahead of us against the Court here in the south and we need you.”

Lyaan stood and smiled. “I was angry with you for a long time, Fëatur, but that time is long past.  You have proven yourself to be a good and true friend.  But Lysa is correct.  The influence and power of the Court have grown over the years.  We have heard rumors that their holds are complete. Would this mean that they are preparing for that ritual…the one where they mean to destroy the sun and moon? Is that even possible?”

Fëatur’s mood darkened, and he pursed his lips.  “I…I honestly don’t know.”

Lyaan put his hand on his chin, thinking.  “I remember you telling us of this evil many years ago.  I will admit that we had many other things on our minds.  I tried to pretend that this was just fantasy.  I hope my ignorance does not cost us.  What are your thoughts, my friend?”

“I have only heard whispers and rumors of late.  Yavë has gone mostly quiet out of fear.  But what I have heard is that they are still planning and are committed to the ritual. It will be Moran that will be sacrificed,” his face twisted with the thought of the young man becoming a tool of Morgoth’s.  His worry about Yavë never went away and every day of not knowing was gnawing at him like a rat.

“Chrys is on his way and should be arriving soon,” Lyaan said.  “The Alliance needs more information.  Would you be willing to reach out to Yavëkamba?  We need someone on the inside.  Otherwise, we’re just groping blindly.”

Fëatur nodded slowly, thinking.  “Yes, you’re right.  It would also go a long way to alleviate the constant worry that I endure.  My restraint is…fraying.  I’ll reach out.”

Lysa patted him on the shoulder.  “I empathize with how you feel.  Just remember we all need to stay coordinated.  I don’t want any more surprises.”

He made a wan smile. “No…no more surprises.”

There was a knock on the translucent laen door.  Lysa waved her hand at it and the door slid into the wall with a scraping sound.  A Sindarin woman entered with a bow.  Her blonde hair was layered and her eyes, deep blue.  She wore the beige robes of an initiate of Ty-Ar-Rana and had an Ikasha at her hip, the chosen weapon of The Three, a sign of her prowess in hand-to-hand combat.  “Our guest, Chrys Menelrana, has arrived. Shall I show him in?”

Lyaan made a summoning gesture with his fingers.  “Yes, Caladiel, please do.”  The woman bowed and gestured for Chrys to enter.  Chrys walked in with a broad smile and sat at the table.  Lyaan pointed to another empty chair. “Caladiel, please have a seat.  As one of the senior initiates, I want you to hear this and then inform the other seniors of our planning and preparation.” Lyrin pulled out a chair for her and she sat, seemingly embarrassed.

“Welcome, Chrys,” Lysa said in greeting.  “We have been receiving nothing but rumor and conjecture from the Enclave about the status and preparations of the Court.  While this is good, we need more concrete information if we are to counter their moves.  We don’t even know if their plan to destroy the sun and moon will even work, but we cannot leave that to chance.”

Chrys nodded.  He seemed tired and sad, his face drawn. “The Guild is ready and available to assist.”  He gave a head tilt to Fëatur, who returned the greeting.  

Fëatur summarized the letter and the need to contact Yavëkamba.  “We have a clandestine communication method that we have had to change over the years as Gorthaur became suspicious.  It has…it has been a while since I have used it, and I hope she still checks it.  In my message, I’ll set a time, date and place for our meeting.”

Lyaan leaned forward, ever anxious for more information.  “We need to know when they believe that the ritual will happen, how it will happen and, above all, the location where it will happen.”

Fëatur nodded.  “You know that I’ll get all that I can without putting her in danger.”

Lyaan leaned back and sighed.  “Yes, I know,” he said apologetically.  “It’s…just that I hate how little we know.”

Chrys gestured to Fëatur. “I’ll escort you.  It’s not that I don’t trust anyone in the Court, but I don’t trust anyone in the Court.  No offense,” he said flatly, without true emotion.

“None taken,” Fëatur answered, raising an eyebrow.  “It’s best that I go alone though.”

Lyaan shook his head. “I think we have to insist, my friend. This is too important.  Besides, when we have to attack the Court, I’d prefer more of us be able to identify her to keep her safe.  So, Chrys and Lyrin will accompany you.”

“Very well.  Only very quick and simple thoughts can be sent this way for fear of detection.  Anything long or complex needs to be relayed in person.”  Fëatur stood and placed his hands on the orb that hovered over the table. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, focusing his power into the sphere.  It began to pulse, the blue light surging and then fading.  A trickle of sweat rolled down his forehead into his eye. “There…the message is sent,” he said, looking at Lyaan and taking a deep breath.  “I’ll await…oh, she already answered.”  He closed his eyes again, absorbing the energy coming from the orb. A huge smile of relief spread across his face, and he chuckled nervously.  “Yes…yes, we will meet.”  He felt as if his heart would leap out of his chest.  His mind began racing as to how the reunion would go.  What would he say?  What would he do?  How would she react?  It had been too long.  He wondered if he even knew Yavë anymore.

Per their prearranged plan, they would meet the day after tomorrow.  They had a series of secret locations that would rotate after every meeting, but only one had been used in the last fifty years.  He stood and bowed to the gathering.  “I’ll need to prepare.  We’ll depart tomorrow morning, and the ride will be a day.”

Chrys made direct eye contact and held it, causing Fëatur some discomfort.  “I don’t ask this lightly.  Is Yavëkamba still on our side?  Would she betray you?”

Fëatur was offended at first.  He knew her. They had been friends for thousands of years before they were lovers.  He knew her.  Then, he blew out a long breath.  Did he? In the aftermath of the near sacrifice, did she bend?  Did she strike some deal?  He just didn’t know.  He closed his eyes and nodded.  “I believe that she wouldn’t hurt us…but I honestly don’t know for sure.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Chrys said.  “It’s why you will need an escort.  I’m afraid we will have to be prepared for the worst.”

“I, however, have an intuition that she is true,” Lysa added.  She paused for a moment, focusing her eyes seemingly on nothing.  Fëatur knew enough not to interrupt her.  Her sight went beyond the physical.  She could see things that no one else could see. Plus, her words gave him hope. Then she smiled and looked around the room.  “We’ll have food and horses prepared for your departure.  I’m not saying that this won’t be dangerous, but we cannot lose any of you.  Chrys, you are the leader of the Alliance.  Fëatur, you are the heart of the movement and the only one with inside knowledge of the Court…and Lyrin…you are our son and the future of Ty-Ar-Rana.  We look to the Valar for your safety.”

Lyrin winked and tapped his Ikasha.  “I trust in this and my training more, mother.”  He was still young in the reckoning of elves and even his near death in battle years earlier hadn’t dampened his boyish outlook.

Lysa cupped his face with her hand.  “You will learn, my son.  I only hope that it will not be the hard way.”  Though she looked no older than a sister to Lyrin, her bearing and her posture told of millennia of knowledge and experience.

Something that she said struck Fëatur.  “What do you mean, Lyrin is the future of Ty-Ar-Rana?  We are all in this together and I would give my life to protect you. Do you-”

She looked away and flicked her hand dismissively.  “It’s nothing.  Just a…no, it’s nothing.”

Fëatur knew that she had seen something in her mind.  Something that she dared not discuss.  He knew better than to press her on it though.  “Very well.  I will take my rest and then and see you all on the morrow.  I’m sure that we will have answers to our questions soon enough.” He added that last part more out of hope than anything else.  Still, he rested better than he had in years, his mind reliving moments with Yavë in his meditation.

In the morning, they gathered at the stables.  Lyaan had already saddled the horses as Lysa placed food in the saddle bags.  “We won’t be gone that long, mother,” Lyrin protested, always thinking that Lysa was overprotective since he was wounded.

“It doesn’t stop me from worrying.  And it’s better to have it and not need it-”

“Rather than need it and not have it,” Lyrin finished with an eye roll, having heard the phrase thousands of times over the years.  The young man would need some life experience before he would truly mature.

Fëatur took the reins of his horse and was about to climb into the saddle, but Lysa grasped him by the arm.  “Please, I need you to keep an eye on Chrys.  He’s not himself.  I suspect that it’s about the north.  He’s lost three close relatives in a short time.  Angrod and Aegnor perished in the Dagor Bragollach and Finrod was slain by a werewolf.  That has to weigh heavily on him.  Please look out for him.”

He nodded and then glanced at Chrys.  The head of the Alliance barely interacted with anyone and merely slumped in the saddle. There was so much on his shoulders that Fëatur feared he would break.  Everyone had their breaking point, something that Fëatur knew all too well. “I will.  I promise you.”  The team set out along the road, past the wards and glyphs that he had created for the defense of Ty-Ar-Rana.  They would distract and confuse any invaders; some would even cause harm to enemy troops. Still, it never felt like it was enough in the face of the Court.

Lyrin seemed to be in his own world, watching birds and reading some book that he brought along, oblivious to what was going on.  He seemed very childlike when compared to Morelen who was much younger.  Fëatur knew that the Court would make their move for dominance soon and he hoped that the young man would find his way, but it was not for him to speak out.

Fëatur nudged his heels into his horse and trotted up to Chrys, who did not seem to notice him.  “Hey…you seem a bit out of sorts.  Is there anything I can do to help?”  His friend didn’t respond.  “Chrys, hey,” he said again, reaching out and tapping him on the shoulder.  “Chrys…are you alright?”

He jumped as if startled. “What?  I…I’m fine.  Really. I’m fine.”

Fëatur narrowed his eyes like he did when he needed to impart a lesson to Morelen when she was a child. “You took me in when I was nobody…a traitor to our people.  I was literally lying there, naked and you gave me clothes, a home and a purpose.  I owe you my life, my loyalty and my honesty. No, you’re not fine.  Not by a longshot.  Talk to me, Chrys.”

Chrys let out a heavy sigh, one laden with regret and fear.  “No…you’re right.  The wars in the north…I’m not sleeping.  I barely eat. Finrod was the scion of our house in Middle Earth and now he’s gone.  Losing Angrod and Aegnor was hard enough.  I should be there, Fëatur.  I should be helping.  Fingon has sent us arms and armor, and his smiths have taught our people. Everything that he promised, he fulfilled.  All I do is take.  I’ve given nothing back.  I am not fit to-”

Fëatur swept his hand down like a chop.  “Nonsense. Stop right there.  We have an important task here in the south.  If we do not oppose the Court, here…now, we could lose everything.  I don’t know for sure if it’s even possible but imagine a world without sunlight.  Without the moon.  I have and it terrifies me.  Know that you are doing good work.  You have led us in repelling every attack, every incursion, every probe into our territory.  Without fail. All of this weighs upon you.  Let us help.”

Chrys nodded.  “Keep this just between us.  Aelrie is already worried enough.  I’ve been trying to hold it together, but it’s been too much,” he said and then clenched his jaw.  The tension along his face was noticeable.  “I’ve played multiple scenarios around in my mind and none of them are good.  I allowed the Court to establish themselves here and now they outnumber us.  We still have no idea where their holds are located in spite of my best attempts at reconnaissance.  Their magic in deception is formidable.  After the destruction of the Luingon Conclave, I’m still concerned about treachery in our ranks, so I’ve tightened internal security, but I’m no closer to finding the truth.”  He bit his knuckle, thinking.  “Just…just keep an eye on me.  Make sure that I’m clear headed.  And don’t be afraid to call me out.”

“Don’t worry.  I think I’m pretty good at that.  You know-”

“Lysa asked you, right?” Chrys asked and Fëatur nodded.  “I would daresay that she has the insight of Galadriel…now that Galadriel and Orodreth are my only cousins left in Middle Earth.”

“We didn’t mean to pry, but we are concerned.  And you do have a niece, Finduilas.  She’s in Nargothrond, now that Orodreth is king there.”

Chrys gave a smile, somewhat forced, but a smile nonetheless.  “It would be nice to visit if things calm down here,” he said and then furrowed his brows.  “Fëatur, my friend, how do we defeat the Court?  Give me some insight.  You were deep in the enemy’s council.  How do we do this?”

It was Fëatur’s turn to think.  He racked his brain, trying to come up with some weakness.  Any weakness.  “I have a few things if this would help.  First, egos will likely grind on the unity of the Court.  Morthaur is brilliant, but he’s nothing more than a puffed-up shirt…a coward, really.  Ardana is so focused in returning her beloved stars to their rightful place in the heavens that she has many blind spots.  Moran will be one of the keys.  It is his blood that will power the ritual.  If, somehow, we could take him…or even seize some of the gems of unlight, we would remove their source of energy.  The ritual could not be completed.”

“But we would need to know where Moran and the gems were first.”

“True,” Fëatur answered with a nod.  “First things first.”  Then, he tilted his head as an idea came to him.  “I’d almost forgotten, it’s been so long, but I can pass for my sister.  We are twins.  We would play this game where we would impersonate each other for Morgoth’s amusement.  I perfected my acting skills and I could fool anyone in the Court.”

“I remember you saying that now.  Yes…we need to use that.  Are you willing to play that role again?”

His eyes and his purpose became focused.  “To destroy the Court and thwart Morgoth’s plans…absolutely.  My sister used this roleplay to humiliate me…but now I think I can use it to humiliate her.”

They heard a voice behind them, and they looked back.  Lyrin was holding up an apple.  “Hey, anyone else hungry?  Maybe we should stop for a bit and eat.”

Chrys and Fëatur blew out a laugh.  Tension rolled off of their shoulders.  Chrys leaned in and whispered, “I shouldn’t speak out about their parenting, but Lyrin really needs to grow up.  If Lysa has one blind spot, it’s him.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing.  I’m not sure how to approach this.  But just know that Laurre is a son that you should be proud of.”

“Thank you.  That means a lot.”  Chrys pulled the reins of his horse and stopped.  “Yes Lyrin, I think this is a good place to stop,” he said, swinging his leg over the saddle and hopping off.  He tied the reins to a nearby branch and undid his pack, pulling out the food that Lysa had made.  Lyrin skipped up and set a towel down, seemingly without a care in the world.  He dug into a sandwich, munching loudly and then took a long drink of water.  Chrys pointed out the setting sun, a golden orb on the western horizon.  “Perhaps we should make camp for the evening.  We can press on tomorrow.  How far are we from the meeting site?”

“Less than half a day’s ride.  There’s a small fishing village, inhabited by Silvan Elves.  It’s really quite nice and the oysters are fabulous.  I discovered it on my way back south on one of Cirdan’s ships.”

Chrys began setting up a large tent and Fëatur stepped in to help, putting up the poles and stringing the fabric around them.  They pounded in stakes to secure it while Lyrin finished his meal.  “Don’t worry, we have this,” Fëatur said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Oh good,” Lyrin replied, wiping his face with a napkin.

“What I meant to say is, get up and help us,” he said with a heavy, frustrated sigh, dropping all pretense.  He had been holding back, but it was time to speak.  “Lyrin, don’t get me wrong because I would give my life for your parents without a single regret.  I held my tongue for years out of respect and how you and your family saved me.  But you need to step up.  You need to look around and see what needs to be done and pitch in.  The Court is growing, and they will make their move soon.  Everyone needs to share the load.  We will all sacrifice before this is over.  Do you understand me?”  His words were stern, but full of love for this family.  “I don’t say this to scold you, but to help you.”

Lyrin’s face turned red, and he dropped his napkin.  “You’re not my father, Fëatur.  And yes, we did save you and you shouldn’t forget that.”  His lips were pinched and his eyes ablaze.  He clearly did not receive this in the way that it was meant.

“I am not, and I will never forget what your family has done for me.  Never.  But, I stand by what I said.”

Chrys nodded.  “I am in agreement.”

Lyrin scoffed. “Fine,” he said in disgust and then put the towels and blankets in the tent.  The night passed in total silence.  Fëatur didn’t mind.  He was focused on someone else.

Morning could not come soon enough.  Fear, regret and hope flooded Fëatur’s mind and heart.  He could not pack his gear and saddle his horse fast enough.  Surprisingly, Lyrin pitched in though his face was sour the entire time.  Still, it was a start.  Chrys raised an eyebrow, but managed a faint smile.

Fëatur was first on his horse, ready to shake the reins, impatiently watching for the others to get going.  “Morning is wasting, people,” he said, trying desperately to inject some humor.  The moment they were in the saddle, he gently pushed his heels into his horse, and they took off at a trot.  He knew just where to go.  It was just a few hours up the road.  Shortly, he sped up into a canter and then a full gallop as they got closer. Time seemed to stand still.

The town came into sight and his heart stopped.  Pillars of smoke rose from burnt and ruined buildings.  Fishing boats lay, half sunk in the bay.  He kicked his horse, oblivious to his companions.  “No…no…,” he muttered, trying to keep calm, but his stomach was already in knots, his mind screaming.  He charged to the inn, where they were to meet, passing bodies of Silvan elves lying in the streets, killed with swords, spears and arrows.  He leapt off of the horse in front of the smoldering inn.  The roof had caved in, and one wall had collapsed from fire.  He saw the fisherman who had greeted him when he first arrived there back in 156.  The elf’s body was perforated with arrows, his eyes wide open.  Fëatur knelt down and cradled his head, his hands shaking. What was his name?  Actharin…yes, that was it.  A simple fisherman.  But another fear took over like a giant snake that was crushing him.  He ran into the ruins.  He heard sobbing.  A woman.

The sight was horrific, but a tidal wave of relief flowed from him.  Yavëkamba was on her knees, holding the bodies of two children, tears flowing down her cheeks.  She didn’t look up.  “Yavë! Yavë, it’s me!  Are you…?”

She looked up, her face twisted in emotional agony.  “They did this…the Court did this,” she cried, her voice shrill.  “I arrived this morning and it was…they were…already dead. I know these children!  Fëatur, this is monstrous.”

He rushed to her and held her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders like he did with Morelen when she was a child.  “Why would they…?  These people were no threat to anyone!  They were fishermen!  They were innkeepers!”  He cried out in anguish.  “But I thank Mandos that you are safe.  I feared the worst when I saw the town.  I can’t lose you.  I can’t.”

“You won’t. Never.  I’ve seen the evil for what it is.  I will die fighting it, my spirit to be cast into the void for who I’ve been…who I’ve supported.”  She gripped his arms tightly.

“Come back with me,” he urged.  “Leave them. Cleanse your soul.”

She pinched her lips, thinking as the sound of hooves neared.  One horse neighed and the sound of dismounting riders followed. “Fëatur!  Are you…?”  It was Chrys. He looked around and saw them and the bodies of the children.  “Oh no…” Lyrin ran in after him and stopped cold. He saw the children and then ran back out, the sound of retching following.  Chrys stepped forward and extended his hand.  “You must be-”

“Yavëkamba,” she finished. “Yes, I am the insider in the Court of Ardor.  I have been with Ardana since Valinor when Morgoth deceived us.  You have questions for me, no doubt.”

Chrys nodded.  “Yes, but it can wait.  Let us do our best to lay these souls to rest and tend to any wounded.”

She forced a smile and wiped her nose.  “Thank you. Fë tells me that you are a good man. I will do what I can to help you.”

Fëatur rose and walked towards the ruined door of the inn.  “I’ll check on Lyrin.  He looked pretty…lost.”  He went outside and saw Lyrin bent over Actharin’s body.  A pool of vomit was nearby.  Lyrin was wiping his mouth, making grunting noises, his other hand tightened into a fist.  He started as Fëatur approached as if he expected to be attacked.  When he recognized his friend, his mouth fell open and his eyes opened wide.

“I…I…this…why, Fëatur. Why?  These people…they wouldn’t hurt…”

Fëatur pulled him up by the arm and embraced him like a brother.  Lyrin began sobbing, hitting him on the back weakly, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind.  “I know. I know.  You’ve never seen anything like this, have you?  I wish it were not so.  Our world is full of horrors.  This is why we fight.”

They spent most of the day burying the Silvan elves, Yavë’s magic moving dirt for graves.  As the sun began to set, the four were covered in sweat and grime, carrying bodies into the massive pit.  They sat for a moment to drink water, no one saying a word. There was just a quiet acknowledgement of the horror that had occurred here and the duty to lay innocent people at rest.  The sound of a dead branch snapping caught everyone’s attention and Chrys’ sword, Kirlhach flew from its scabbard, bursting into flame.  “Who’s there!” he shouted, looking around for any threat.  Lyrin’s Ikasha was in his hand along with Fëatur and his kynac.  A Silvan elf staggered towards them, covered in blood, holding a broken arm with an arrow sticking out of his back.

Yavë ran to him first. He focused his eyes on her and then sagged to his knees.  “I…I heard you…help,” he muttered and then passed out.  Yavë pointed to Fëatur.  “Get my kit. It’s still at the inn. Hurry.”

He sprinted into the ruin and grabbed her bag, returning quickly.  He knelt down and looked at the elf.  Something about the man was familiar.  “By Mandos, this was the stable boy who greeted me centuries ago. His name was…was Teldin.  We have to help him.”  He opened the bag with haste.  “What do you need?”

“That pouch, there,” she said with a quick point to a small, velvet sack.  “The Mirenna Berries.  I need three.”  He handed them to her, and she placed them in the man’s mouth, popping them for the juice. “Yes, now the Gort mixture in that vial.”  He knew just where it was, and she poured that into his mouth next.  “It’s a solution of several herbs.  Pure Gort is highly addictive, but this just numbs the pain. Now we need to roll him over to remove the arrow.”  They worked together and placed him face down as Lyrin put a towel beneath the man’s face. Yavë pulled out a scalpel and made an incision near the arrow shaft and then gently removed it.  Blood bubbled up around the wound.  “I need the Harfy salve now.”

Fëatur knew just what it was and where to look.  For centuries, he helped her heal and cure.  It was a rhythm that they grew into.  He handed her the jar of paste, and she smiled at him, melting his heart all over again.  She spread the paste on the wound and the bleeding immediately ceased.  She put her hand on the site and her hand glowed blue for a moment and, when she removed her hand, the skin had fused.  It was still red and raw, but the danger had passed. “Will he…?”

She nodded.  “Yes,” she said with a sigh.  “He’ll recover.  But he needs rest.  I suggest you take him with you.”

He looked at her sideways. “With us?  Aren’t you coming?”  A pit formed in his stomach.

She put her head down. “Fë…I wish I could.  Really, I do.  If I come with you, everything that I have done in the Court to help you would become suspect.  Moran would fall under suspicion.  I have to return.  I will continue to work from the inside.  I’ll be careful, I will.  Seeing this…I want to see them destroyed.  I will stay in regular contact with you.  This won’t be the last time we see each other.  I swear it.”

Chrys put his hand on Fëatur’s shoulder.  “We need her. This is our best chance.  I know how much this will hurt, but we need it.”

He nodded slowly…reluctantly.  “Yes…yes, of course.  You’re right. We all must sacrifice.  The task is the most important thing.”  He knew that it was right, but his heart ached.

Yavë smiled, her eyes lighting up, that wistful, alluring smile that she had.  “Worry not, Fë.  I have two more days for you.  We will overcome this tragedy, and it will fuel our cause.  We will remember these good people and bring them justice.”

He sighed with relief. Two days was better than none.  “We will.  I swear it.”

Chrys whistled for the horses.  “Lyrin, I think that’s our cue to head home,” he said.

Yavë raised her hand. “Not yet, good sir.  I know why you are here.  You need information and I will give it to you.  Gorthaur has relocated to Aurax-Dúr,” she said, producing a map from her pouch and pointing to the location of the hold.  “The eclipse that will signify the ritual will happen in just over a hundred years, according to him.  They have eight gems of unlight, stored in the Citadel and Gorthaur is preparing to sacrifice Moran.  We can’t let that happen.”

Chrys’ eyes widened. “This is the best information that we have.  Thank you. The Citadel…?  Do you…?”

She rose and pointed west out over the ocean to a large island.  “That island…Ardinaak.  The Citadel is there.  The gems are in the caverns below.”

Fëatur’s heart skipped a beat.  He looked out over the waves and recalled passing Ardinaak centuries ago.  “That is…that is the perfect location.  They can see anyone approaching.  Yavë, how would we attack such a tower?”

“That is not my area of expertise,” she said, shaking her head.  “But know that it is heavily guarded and the only way in is by boat into a bay that has significant defenses.  There are chains that seal the bay along with fortifications that would rain fire down upon any attacker.  Otherwise, the cliffs surrounding the Citadel are nearly impenetrable.  A thousand soldiers couldn’t make a dent.  Plus, Ardana and Moran have a balrog…Morfuin. I don’t see a way to attack it successfully, much less survive.”

Chrys’ face twisted in a look of deep concern.  “A balrog? This is worse than I feared.  We need a way in though.  A small team.  Yes, maybe that would work.”  He was in leader mode again, thinking through problems and coming up with solutions.

“I will look for any covert ways in,” she answered with a sense of determination.  “I have not yet had the opportunity to fully explore the Citadel or the island.  But the tower itself has over one hundred guards and there are about a thousand human and elven troops on Ardinaak.”

“This is enough for now,” Chrys said, a sense of satisfaction in his voice.  “We’ll be on our way, and I trust Fëatur to handle all future meetings.  I did want to meet you though, just in case we needed to meet in the future.  Should we find a way to assault the Citadel, I want to be sure who is our ally.  I’m confident that you two have a lot of catching up to do,” he added and then turned to the horses.  “Lyrin…,” he started, but saw that the young man had already put Teldir on his own horse and was climbing into the saddle.  He shot Fëatur a look with a smile.  It might be that the talk that they had with Lyrin sank in.  That could only be a good thing.  “Take care, my friend.  We’ll be back at Ty-Ar-Rana.  There will be a lot of planning to do.”  He leapt into the saddle and clapped Lyrin on the back.  “Good man.  Welcome to the Alliance.”

The two broke into a trot and soon vanished in the distance, a small cloud of dust kicking up behind them.  Suddenly, the ruined town was silent and only a chill breeze could be felt wafting through the streets littered with debris.  The stench of charred wood and burnt flesh still hung oppressively like a poisonous cloud.  Yavë took him by the hand.  “I want to leave this place.  There’s a stream nearby.  We can clean up there.”

Fëatur nodded silently and allowed himself to be led back to his horse.  He climbed up and then pulled her into the saddle in front of him. He paused a moment, just letting himself feel her with him again before he nudged his heels into the horse’s flanks. They trotted off into the forest just north of the town where the stream was.

“I haven’t left the island much since the…incident with Gorthaur, but I visited this town many times before.  They always had wonderful fish,” she said sadly.

“My favorite was the oysters,” he answered.

“Fë, I’m afraid that Moran will do something stupid.  He hates Gorthaur and Ardana has decreed that he will live at Aurax-Dúr soon.  I don’t know when exactly.  And there is something else that you should know.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”  A sense of concern flowed into him.  Words like that never led to anything good.

“Moran…,” she started, her voice low and quiet.  “He’s in love with me.  I paired him with my assistant, Almarien, but he thinks it’s me.  I don’t know how to proceed.  I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Hmmm.  I was never good with people, as you know well.  I honestly don’t know either.  I will think of something though,” he replied, wishing that he could solve all of her problems.  “And Gorthaur…  I will kill him for what he did to you.”

She nodded and then pointed to the stream that wound through the woods.  “There it is.”  The sound of water flowing over stones could be heard along with the song of tropical birds. They looked up to see colorful parrots, squawking and calling.  “This was my quiet slice of Valinor for many years.  Fish are plenty here and the river stones are so beautiful.”  They climbed down from the saddle and he tied the reins to a tree.  She had already reached into the stream and pulled out a polished green stone.  “Look at this, Fë, it’s perfect.”  She put it into his shirt pocket and patted it.  “I suppose we should get cleaned up.  “You stink of smoke,” she said with a wink and then dropped her filthy blue robes.  She tossed them into the water and followed them in.  “Brrrrrr.  It’s quite cold!”

“I stink?” he said wryly. “Speak for yourself.”  He pulled off his sooty clothes and tossed them in, leaping into the water with a splash.  He held her hands and they sat in the water, just gazing into each other’s eyes.  “I feared that I would never see you again…that you had forgotten me.”  His eyes misted up and his cheeks felt hot.

She cupped his face with her hand, a warm, comforting touch.  “Fear no more.  We are in this together until the end and we will see justice done.”

Chapter End Notes

More on Featur's character arc and a deeper look at Chrys, Lyrin and Yavekamba.  I'm hoping for an emotional scene.

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35)  Unnumbered Tears Part 1 - Year of the Sun 472 Lairë (Summer)

Morelen

The moment was electrifying.  The armies of the Noldor and their Edain and Dwarven allies were taking the field, glittering armor and spear tips rippling as they marched along the roads back to the wastes of Anfauglith, the ruined plains of what had once been green Ard Galen.  Colorful banners waved in the breeze and spirits were high as Fingon’s elite riders led the massive force.  Tintallo, the Captain of the Misë Company, along with Notaldo, the Captain of the Telepta and Lutano, Captain of the Morna, rode alongside of the High King, discussing strategy, morale and lines of supply.  Morelen and Líreno, now the lieutenants, led their respective squadrons, two columns of horse archers.

Four years ago, Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, proposed an all-encompassing league that came to be known as the Union of Maedhros.  When Beren and Lúthien took a Silmaril back from Morgoth, morale surged among the Noldor. Morelen thought back to the spectacle. “Morgoth is not unassailable!” Maedhros shouted to the gathered throngs of elves, men and dwarves, his auburn hair waving in the wind.  “We must go on the offense, else he destroy us, one by one,” he called to cheers.

High King Fingon was a close friend of the eldest son of Fëanor.  The High King had saved him from certain death as he hung by his wrist from an unbreakable chain after he was captured through the treachery of Morgoth. Riding atop the great eagle, Thorondor, Fingon severed Maedhros’ hand to free him.  Though he had claim to the High Kingship through his father, Maedhros renounced the title to Fingolfin.

On that fateful day, four years ago, Fingon stood in the crowd, cheering his cousin.  Morelen and Notaldo held hands, shouting their praise. There had been nothing but defeat for years after the Dagor Bragollach.  Bold strategy and the superiority of Noldorin arms wore the enemy down and many areas of Beleriand fell back to the elves.

Even as the offensives routed the orcs and the Union began to coalesce, there were many setbacks and defeats.  Sercë vanished in the years after the Bragollach.  Rumor had it that the demon vampire, Thuringwethil, had kidnapped her and her whole family.  What became of them was anyone’s guess.  Morelen searched for months, but the trail was cold, and duty called.  They were likely dead, but she never gave up hope. Then, Orodreth pulled Nargothrond out of the Union.  There was bad blood between he and the Sons of Fëanor after the death of his brother, Finrod Felagund.  Celegorm and Curufin attempted to seize power in Nargothrond and even tried to force a marriage between Celegorm and Lúthien.  The kingdom turned against them and drove the sons out.  So, only Gwindor and a company of elves sallied forth from the realm.  Though they loved the underground caverns, it was never quite the same for Morelen and Notaldo.  The rhythm of training, warfare and recovery had returned, but a sense of urgency reigned. There was even talk about children should the battle overthrow Morgoth.  Waiting seemed foolish.  They could understand the viewpoint and impatience of the humans.  The concepts of immortality and eternity now seemed quaint as the world erupted into war.

As the army marched to battle, Fingon’s company of riders moved to the rally point.  The Western Army swelled with troops and volunteers.  A company from Doriath joined on the march, led by Mablung and Beleg Cúthalion, great captains who served jealous Elu Thingol. After becoming High King, Fingon had gone from leading only his elite riders to commanding the entire army.  Morelen rose up in her stirrups to scan the entirety of the force.  Long columns of the Edain rode and marched alongside the elves.  “There,” she said to Notaldo and Líreno, “I see the banners of Húrin Thalion and Huor of the Edain of Dór Lomin.  And there, the banners of Haldir of Brethil.  Even the Sindar of Círdan over there.  I have never seen so many of us.  How can we lose?”

“Oh, we can still lose,” Líreno quipped, his characteristic half smile on his lips.  “Don’t take this for granted, Morelen.  You remember Glaurung and the balrogs, don’t you?”

A chill came over her body and she looked away as her stomach knotted.  “I can never forget it, Líreno.”  For years after the Bragollach, her heart had been in a vice of pain and regret.  The deaths of Angrod and Aegnor, Hurinon, Fingolfin and Rochallor still weighed heavily on her and images of their final moments would intrude into her thoughts.

Notaldo waved his hand, taking the mantle of captain again.  “Let her be, Líreno.  We all remember that.  Let’s focus on the battle ahead.”

Morelen felt some relief, but there was still a cold pit in her stomach.  Others were always coming to her rescue.  “You’re still young,” her father would say.  “Your confidence will come in time.”  But how much time would that be?  She was well over Four-Hundred years old, many of the lifespans of the Edain. She and Laurre Menelrana were nearly the same age, but news from the south told her that he was far more mature and already a great leader in his own right.  She thought she was more like Lyrin, insecure and doubtful, but he seemed to have more of an entitled edge.

The sun was on its downward arc with heat waves shimmering in the distance ahead.  It looked like a vast ocean of water even though they knew it to be what remained of the plains.  The great mountain range of Ered Wethrin was to the west along with Barad Eithel and the jagged peaks of the Crissaegrim lay south along with Dorthonion.  Notaldo pointed out towards the mirage.  “I’m always reminded of looking out from the shores of Valinor to the Belegaer, the Sundering Sea.  The roar of the waves…the call of the gulls,” he said with a smile and then looked down.  “I miss that. I miss the sense of peace.”  He looked back at his friends.  “Perhaps one day again,” he added with a profound sense of sadness.

“What was it like?” Morelen asked them.  She had seen the visions from the music and song of the elves; the Gardens of Lórien, the magnificent city of Tirion, the shores of Elendë, the massive valley of Calacirya.  It was magical, eternal, graceful, but these were just visions, the edges blurry and distant.  Nothing could compare to being there.

Notaldo inhaled deeply. “It was…it was,” he began and then paused, his shoulders tensing under his armor.

Líreno sighed.  “We miss it dearly, lass.  Imagine the glory, the peace, the excitement, the passion…for all eternity.  Your heart is always full.  Your mind is always alive.  And then…and then came the darkness.  Morgoth was released, supposedly reformed.  He taught us things that no one had thought of.  He came to us with honeyed words of friendship.  And we, the Noldor, always curious, fell for it.  But to me, the Valar failed us.  Why didn’t Manwë-”

“Enough, lieutenant,” Notaldo chastised.  “We will not speak ill of the Valar.  Not in public.”

“But why didn’t he-”

“I said, enough.”  His eyes, fixed and stern, said that the matter was closed.

Líreno huffed.  “As you wish, captain.”  He shot Morelen a look that said that they would discuss it later.

Morelen simply nodded. Even after the death of Hurinon, conflict between them was rare.  The three were as tight as friends could be.  She sensed a deep sadness with Notaldo, some unresolved pain.  She had read the books, heard the tales and knew the history, but they were just words to her.  Fëanor drawing his sword on Fingolfin and being banished.  The death of Finwë and the Two Trees.  The theft of the Silmarils.  The terrible Oath of Fëanor.  The Kinslaying at Alqualondë.  The Host of Fingolfin crossing the Grinding Ice.  The Doom of Mandos.

Notaldo seemed to sense her thoughts.  “We can never return, you see.  We are forever banished from the Blessed Realm for our crimes.”  Líreno snorted his disapproval but said nothing.

A horn sounded, gathering the attention of the company.  Nandamo, Fingon’s herald, called out, “By order of the High King, we will camp here for the night.”  It was a defensible position with a river on one flank and a clear field of view all around. The company dismounted as riders set up hitching posts and rails for saddles.  Others scrambled around to set up tents and spikes.  Braziers were laid out and fires were lit.  It was the sounds and smells of dozens of campaigns.

Morelen undid the girth straps and pulled her saddle off of Lindarion and set it on the rail.  Next came the saddle pad and the bridle.  Unlike bridles used by humans, elven ones had no bit as their horses had deep emotional connections where they understood their rider’s wishes.  Some riders used no saddle or bridle at all, but she liked the stability it gave her to fire her bow.  She pulled an apple from her pack and fed it to Lindarion, who chomped happily.  She and Líreno then assisted other riders and directed the assembly of their squadrons.  “I want scouts out ahead of the camp and make sure the posts are far enough back from the river.  If it rains, we don’t want to get swamped,” she commanded, and a group of riders continued ahead while others grabbed posts and mallets.

Líreno pointed to another group.  “Latrine facilities over there!  Be quick about it, lads!”

Elven infantry deployed ahead of them as pickets to warn of any attack as the armies of the Edain camped at the flanks.  No orc attack could possibly succeed.  Even a dragon would have difficulty.  Líreno moved in behind Morelen and tilted his head.  “I think you need to know this,” he said, looking around for anyone, a conspiratorial expression on his face.  She nodded.  “Who am I to speak,” he continued, “but why did the Valar even release Morgoth?  He was known for his lies and manipulation. Why couldn’t Manwë see through that?”

She pursed her lips, uncomfortable.  The Valar were sacrosanct, all knowing, all seeing.  They commanded the skies, the sea, the winds and the stars.  But what Líreno said made sense.  Could all of this have been prevented?  “They were brothers though, right?  Manwë and Melkor?  If they were family…,” she said, trying to justify the action.  

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I honestly don’t know.  Let’s just say that I don’t have the same faith in them as Notaldo does.”

Morelen nodded.  “I…I will think upon your words.”  She paused for a moment and then pointed to the tents being set up.  “Come, we best help with the preparations.  Notaldo will want a report soon for the High King.”  They immediately rushed to help erect the poles to one of the tents that would quarter the riders.  Morelen would work her hands raw to show that she deserved to be here…to lead them.

“Did you ever find out what happened to Sercë?” Líreno asked as he picked up a mallet and planted a tent stake.  “I know you searched for a long time.”

She shook her head as she strung the canvas sides to the tent poles.  “No.  The trail grew cold at Tol Sirion…I guess it’s called Tol-in-Gaurhoth now, the Isle of Werewolves.  I snuck in, had to slay a couple of werewolves and found evidence of her and her family being held there.  But they were gone, and I found no other clues.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep with regret.  “I should have helped you, really, I should have.”

“It’s in the past now. At least Thuringwethil is dead,” she said, forcing a smile as she placed the last panel on a tent.  “Let us focus on the coming battle.  Hopefully, it will be the last one.”  Together, they pulled the roof of the tent over the top and secured the straps.

The High King’s herald walked up to them.  He was already in his blue and silver robes, his black hair slicked back.  He had been a steady hand for the Noldor for ages, having served Fingolfin before and Fëanor before him.  “Fingon wishes a conference with his battle leaders.  We will assemble in his tent in two hours,” he said in a clear voice full of authority.

He turned to go, but Morelen spoke.  “Nandamo, do you know what we are facing?”

He made a curt, professional head nod.  “The High King shall reveal his battle plan at the conference,” he announced without expression.  Morelen opened her mouth to speak, but he turned and departed without another word. She didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing and the lack of information was eating at her.  She looked back at the camp, riders rushing about, delivering messages, troops finishing the tents and defensive positions, cooks preparing the meals and knew that she missed Sercë, the only other woman in the company.  The void of her kidnapping was mixed with regret and some pride in that they had both earned their place as riders.  Sercë was a born leader, confident and intelligent.  Morelen was gifted; fast, strong and smart with nearly endless stamina.  She excelled in everything that she put her mind to.  But how would that fare against a balrog…a dragon, or any other horror that Morgoth could dream up.

The camp was complete and there was time to bathe and clean equipment.  The river was already full of soldiers splashing and laughing.  The air was full of excitement.  Some sat on the riverbanks, talking about what they’d do after the war.  Others played games in the river.  Morelen felt the urge to polish her armor and sharpen her sword, but that could come later. After centuries in the company of men, she removed her armor and clothing without a thought and dove into the river.  The cold water of the Sirion was refreshing and, when her head broke above the water she took a deep breath.  She swam back to the banks just as Líreno dove in with Notaldo right behind him. She stood as Notaldo tossed her a bar of soap and she started scrubbing her arms.

Líreno winked at her. “You needed that,” he quipped as he pinched his nose.  She kicked water at him and then noticed the Edain in the river staring at her.

Notaldo stood in front of her.  “Pay them no mind.  They are not used to seeing things like this,” he said.  “Come, let us finish and prepare for the conference.”  Morelen finished scrubbing and then sat in the water to rinse off.  As she strode out of the river, she glanced back at the Edain and smiled.  They were broad and hairy compared to the elves. And their…beards were still something that she was not used to.  The three picked up their armor and weapons and walked back to their tent.  Their quarters were simple with five cots and some basic amenities.  Two of the cots remained empty, one for Hurinon and one for Sercë.  The tent canvas was beige and trimmed in blue and silver with a placard of their rank along with a banner of Fingon’s house.  They donned sky blue and silver robes of the finest silk with deep blue sashes, formal clothing for the conference.

Morelen brushed her raven black hair out in front of a golden-framed mirror.  Notaldo’s arms circled her waist.  “You are truly stunning,” he said.  “The beauty of a Vala, if I might be so blasphemous.”

Líreno made a wry chuckle. “Oh, now you’re blasphemous to the Valar, huh?  You’re really complex, Notaldo.”

Notaldo nodded reluctantly. “My friend, I can’t disagree with what you wanted to say earlier, but I just didn’t think that Morelen or the others needed to hear it.”  He turned to her.  “For thousands of years, before the sun and the moon, our hope was in the Valar.  Their teaching and wisdom were like water to a thirsty man.  But we are on our own now and we don’t see any other way.  Revere the Valar, respect them, but know that they are not our salvation and that they are…fallible.”

Morelen thought for a moment, putting her finger to her lips.  “No, I need to hear this.  To me, the Valar and the Maiar are just paintings, songs, stories…characters in a book. We revere them as we worship Eru, the One.  But I have no concept of who they really are.  Do they marry?  Can they have children?  How are they different from us?”

“Yes, they marry. They are male and female as we are,” Notaldo said.  “Children? I believe so.  They are both of the spirit and of the flesh.  They feel as we feel; love, hate, joy, anger, jealousy and sadness.”

“I cannot imagine what horror Morgoth could spawn with his seed,” Morelen replied, her face wrinkled in disgust.  “Such a demon should be put down without question.”

Líreno shrugged and pursed his lips.  “I have to wonder.  Yes, the…things spawned in the depths of Angband are horrors, dragons, balrogs, werewolves and vampires, but what if…what if say there were some offspring of Morgoth who was raised with us.  Would this individual be inherently evil?  Would they be shaped by their environment, a product of how they were raised? I don’t have the answer to that, but I think it’s food for thought,” he said, taking a bite from a from a snack that the cooks had provided, roast chicken meat, thinly cut between slices of bread with a garnish of sauce and vegetables.  “What is this thing by the way?  It’s pretty tasty.”

Notaldo took one from the silver tray.  “It’s a human thing.  They call it a sandwich.”

Líreno pulled his face back, impressed.  “You know, I’m finding that I like human food, especially their chicken dishes.”

Morelen shrugged. “Yes, that I like, but the human concepts of time and…that money thing I find difficult.  I liked the elven ideas of economy where everyone shares, and no one goes without.  And the move to make the Sindarin calendar our way of keeping time?  Why the change?  Everything was working well.”  There was a hint of Noldorin superiority in her voice.

Notaldo handed them glasses of wine and sat down.  “Change is inevitable, my dear.  For the millennia that we lived in Valinor, we thought that things last forever. They don’t.  It has only been a few hundred years since we departed, and nothing is recognizable from who we were.  The humans are short lived.  They want a calendar that is…tighter, has more ways to separate shorter periods of time. One of the Valinorean Calendar’s years is One-Hundred and Forty-Four of their years.  So, essentially, they don’t even live to be one.  It will be strange, but we will adjust.  Take, for instance, Lairë or summer for the Noldor.  Our ‘month’ encompasses their Nórui, Cerveth and part of Urui.  To us, it’s the blink of an eye.  To them, it’s a fair portion of their lives,” he said and then took a bite.  He chewed, swallowed and continued, “And money…I found it strange at first, but both the men and dwarves use it, and they are our close allies.”  He took a long drink and then refilled his glass.  “Besides, I kind of like the clink of coins.”

Morelen sighed.  “I suppose you’re right.  It will take me a while to get used to it.”  The dominance of the Noldor had always been and always would be, but things were changing, and she felt an unease at the new balance of power.  She pursed her lips and twirled the end of her hair.

At that, Nandamo poked his head into the tent.  “The war conference is ready.  The High King awaits you,” he said in that deep, sonorous voice that brought him to the position.

Notaldo stood with the others.  “We’ll follow you.”  They walked with him to the next row of tents, gathering more of the captains. Tintallo fell in with them along with Lutano, the captain of the Morna.  They nodded greetings.

“Maybe we can finally put this thing to rest, eh?” Tintallo said in his usual confident manner.  “What do you think, Lutano?”

The other elf, a broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair, nodded.  “Exactly.  I think as you do.”  Tintallo had always been the center of attention in the company, and he liked having followers.  He was very popular with the ladies of Barad Eithel and Nargothrond and loved to indulge, but no one could question his leadership.  His courage and quick thinking turned many a battle.

Tintallo drew his dagger and made a stabbing motion into the air.  “Straight into Morgoth’s gullet.  I say, we are dining in the halls of Angband in a fortnight.”

Líreno gently elbowed Morelen in the ribs and gave her a doubtful look, one eyebrow raised.  “I’m not a pessimist, but a realist,” he whispered. “But I would be happy knowing that Morgoth won’t be dining in Nargothrond in a fortnight.”

Nandamo held the tent flap open into the High King’s quarters.  Many of the captains of the army were already assembled in the huge structure.  Maps and diagrams were pinned to the walls and on the central oak table.  The cavalry officers pushed forward and Morelen could see maps of Anfauglith with various figures and numbers drawn on them, many of them estimates of Morgoth’s strength.  Nandamo raised his staff.  “The High King will join us shortly.”

Morelen stood beside a stocky man with rippling muscles under his robes.  His hair and beard were light brown to dirty blond and neatly trimmed. His sigil on his chest was that of the House of Dor-Lómin.  This had to be Húrin Thalion, the steadfast.  After his father, Galdor, was slain on the steps of Barad Eithel, Húrin rallied the Edain and drove the orcs back with his double-bladed axe.  A legendary feat.  Beside him was his younger brother, Huor, taller and leaner.

Morelen bowed to them. She was curious about the Edain.  She had met their father and grandfather during the Bragollach.  “Greetings, lords of Dor-Lómin, I am Morelen, daughter of Fëatur, rider of Fingon.”

They bowed in return. “I am Húrin and this is my brother, Huor.  We…saw you at the river.  We are honored to meet you.”

She pointed to the other Telepta officers.  “That is Notaldo, my captain and my husband and that is Líreno, the other lieutenant. I…uhhh…met your grandfather, father and uncle during the Dagor Bragollach.  They were courageous and I am sorry for their loss.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Morelen.  At first, you seemed too young to have met them, but I remember that you are immortal,” Húrin added.  “Our lives must seem brief to you.  I already have two children, Túrin and Nienor and Huor will have a son, Tuor.”

“We have none yet, but when this war is won, I believe that we will.  Your children must be a blessing.”

“They are.  Alas, we lost one, Lalaith, when she was young. It was the plague.”

Morelen’s gasped.  “I am so sorry.  I cannot imagine what it is to lose a child,” she said and then cocked her head, narrowing her eyes.  “The plague? I am not familiar with that.”

“A disease…a sickness. I forget myself.  Elves are not afflicted by illnesses of the body.”  He looked down for a moment as if in thought and then looked back at her with a broad smile.  “That is in the past.  I am pleased that my brother will have a strong son, and I wish you many happy children, Morelen.  You are lovely like my wife, Morwen.  Notaldo is a lucky man.”

She was about to say something when Nandamo pounded his staff on the ground.  “Hail to the High King!”

The room went quiet, and everyone stood straight as Fingon entered.  “Thank you for your patience,” he said and pushed his hands downward. “Please, be at ease.  I was surveying the battle lines and we are secure. We will link up with the forces of Maedhros tomorrow along with their allies, the Easterlings under Bór and Ulfang and the Dwarves of Belegost under Azaghȃl.  We have a formidable army though I wish Orodreth of Nargothrond would have remained in the league.  Such is the…drama of some of the Sons of Fëanor,” he said, and angry sighs of agreement were heard around the room.  “We will march tomorrow and prepare fortifications.  Our strategy is to entice Morgoth to attack first.  We are stronger on the defense.  Within our fortifications we will have the means to contain dragon fire, and we can channel the balrogs into pits where they can be killed.  With them defeated, the orcs will be no problem.  We then counterattack, and together, we force him into a pincer between the armies.”

There were murmurs of approval and spirits were high.  Fingon scanned the room.  “What are your questions.  I welcome your insights.”  No one spoke up.  “Very well. Should you have any, my tent is open.” The crowd began to disperse and Notaldo turned back to the Edain.

“I hear rumor that you have been to the hidden city of Gondolin,” he said respectfully, his voice full of curiosity.

The brothers grinned and looked at each other.  “We have,” Húrin said with a nod.  “It was a long time ago.  I was Seventeen and Huor was just Fourteen but for we Edain, we can fight at that age. Our company of scouts was ambushed by orcs, and we were separated and pursued.  Then, a miracle happened…the Vala Ulmo wove a mist along the river to hide us, and we were rescued by Thorondor, King of the Great Eagles.  It is something that I will never forget,” he said as the elves around him gasped.  All eyes were upon him and his brother.

“We were flown over the mountains to the hidden city, called Ondolindë in your tongue,” Huor said, his face in an expression of wonder.  “The city itself is built on the hill of Amon Gwared, white walls over the green hill and plains.”

Morelen’s eyes opened wide with amazement.  “Tell us more.  Please. I have long dreamed of seeing Gondolin.”

Huor’s wide grin returned, and he raised his hands to help him describe it.  “Now the wide streets of Gondolin are paved with stone and curbed with marble, and fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers that were set about the ways.  And many towers of great slenderness and beauty built of white marble and carved most marvelously that rise to the heavens,” he said to murmurs of approval.

Húrin continued, “Squares there were, lit with fountains and the home of birds that sang amid the branches of their aged trees.  But of all these the greatest was that place where stood the King’s palace, and the tower thereof was the loftiest in the city, and the fountains that played before the doors shot twenty fathoms and seven into the air and fell in a singing rain of crystal.  Therein did the sun glitter splendidly by day, and the moon most magically shimmered by night.  The birds that dwelt there were of the whiteness of snow and their voices sweeter than a lullaby of music.”      

Morelen caught herself with her mouth hanging open.  She could see the fair city in her mind and hear the birds.  Could it compare with Nargothrond?  She would have to see it to know.  “Lord Turgon rules the city, does he not?”

High King Fingon approached, and they all bowed.  “Did I hear my brother’s name?”

“Indeed, High King,” Huor said with reverence.  “Lord Turgon greeted us with open arms, having received a message from Ulmo about our coming.  Our house has faithfully served the Noldor, and we were treated as one of them.  We remained for a year, learning under Lord Turgon.”

Fingon’s face was full of anticipation.  “How is my brother and our sister, Aredhel?  And what of his daughter, Idril?  Long have I awaited news of them.”

“Lord Turgon is well, but I am sorry to say that your sister has passed,” Húrin said sadly as Fingon gasped.  “She was slain by a dark elf, Eöl, who was cast from the walls of Gondolin for the King’s justice.  His daughter, Idril Celebrindal, as she is called, is a joy in the city.  As wise as her father and as beautiful as a sunrise.”

A darkness came over the High King for a moment, but then it passed.  He nodded slowly.  “Aredhel was always restless,” he said with an edge of pain and regret.  “I hope she finds the peace she needs in the Halls of Mandos.  Still, I am glad of the news of my brother and niece.  I thank you for your words.  The House of Hador is critical to the war against darkness and your people hold a place of high esteem in our kingdoms.  Please, enjoy the hospitality of the Noldor.”

The group bowed again. “Thank you, High King,” they said in unison.  Notaldo, Líreno and Morelen then bowed to the Edain, thanking them and wishing them success in the coming battle.

Walking into the evening sky, the three retired to their tent, walking past groups of elves and men talking and drinking.  The air was alive with discussions of what would come after Morgoth’s defeat. Smiles were on lips, and music rose from the camp.  Other groups were somber, some praying to the Valar, faces nervous or even afraid. Come what may, the battle would be fierce, and many would not return home.  Notaldo led them to a group that seemed anxious, staring at their meal and silent.

“Greetings,” he said and then gestured to a log near the campfire.  “May we sit with you?”

One of the elves nodded and they sat.  A human pointed to the pot over the fire where a pungent stew was simmering.  “Please help yourselves.”  They grabbed tin bowls and filled them, taking bites of meat, potatoes and carrots.

Notaldo glanced around, seeing the long faces.  “I share your fear…your anxiety.  This will be a hard battle.  We will all be at risk.  The horrors that Morgoth has at his command are deadly.  Their hate for us is beyond imagining.”

Another elf looked at him quizzically.  “You three seem fearless.  I saw you during the Bragollach.  I…I had no idea.”

Morelen nodded, looking around at the group.  “I came face to face with Glaurung.  I fought during the invasion of Hithlum.  Nearly every battle I was terrified.  Glaurung was the worst.  My captain was killed, and I fled like a deer.  I am not a brave person…but I am dutiful.”

The first elf extended his hand.  “Celumeno,” he said in introduction as the three shook his hand.  “Olordo,” he added for the other elf.  “And Girion,” he said for the man.  “We all have families and, to be honest, we’re terrified as well.  Will we see our families again?  We keep playing this in our heads, over and over.”

Notaldo took a long drink of this beverage the humans called beer.  It was similar to the dwarven ales, dark and frothy.  “I cannot guarantee that we will all make it home. All I know is that we must fight hard. We must secure a long and lasting peace for our people and Morgoth will not stop until we are all destroyed or enslaved.  We must all do our part for this.”

Morelen was proud of who her husband had become.  Both he and Líreno had grown from immature Coron Mittarion players to true leaders, though she did love the immature sportsmen.  Love?  Was this what love was?  A feeling of deep respect and devotion to someone above all others?  She knew that she was prone to overthinking things.  She drank a mug of beer, which was actually decent though she much preferred the wines that came from Dorthonion.  Come what may, she would make her father proud and report to him about their great victory in the north.  Maybe then she could go south and help him defeat the Court of Ardor.

Girion nodded and put on his best forced smile.  “I see the wisdom of your words, sir,” he said to Notaldo.  “But my heart is still full of fear.  Regardless, I will fight bravely under the banner of Húrin.”

The three stood up and bowed.  “We look forward to drinking with you again after,” Notaldo said.  He raised his mug and downed the last of the beer.  “To our victory, our safety and to our families who wait for us.”

Olordo raised his mug. “Thank you, Captain Notaldo, Lieutenants Líreno and Morelen.  We appreciate your company.”

Girion chuckled.  “Quenya names are such tongue twisters.  Sindarin names are so much easier to pronounce,” he said with a humorous edge.  “Anyway, sleep well and stay safe.”  They seemed to be in better spirits and Morelen understood how important morale was.  You could not be a great leader and remain aloof.

Morelen was about to say something about the slight to Quenya, but Notaldo pulled her away.  Quenya was the language that she was raised with, and it was the speech of the Valar.  Things were changing…perhaps too fast for her.  “We all have to endure change, love,” he said to her.  “And besides, Quenya is difficult for non-native speakers,” he said with a humorous edge and a wink.

They reached their tent as the stars shone bright overhead.  Morelen looked up and admired their beauty.  She couldn’t quite remember the names of the constellations. They weren’t as important to her as her horse and bow.  She thought of how her father lectured her on the designs of the Court of Ardor.  They wanted a sky with only the stars.  Their fanatical leader, Ardana, wanted to destroy the sun and moon, so devoted was she to the restoration of the heavens as they were with the Two Trees.  Ardana had been a loyal follower of Varda.  What happened?  What caused her to devolve onto a path of such evil?  How would it even be possible to destroy the sun and moon?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Notaldo wrapping his arms around her waist and she cooed with satisfaction, leaning her head back into the crook of his neck.  He looked up into the sky with her.  “One day, we’ll be able to lay back and just watch the stars.” She murmured approval.  “I can just imagine our family at home in Nargothrond in a world of peace.”

Líreno cleared his throat. “I like that image.  I’ll be over there, writing to my family.  My wife is not a warrior like you, so she is back home at Barad Eithel.”

Morelen smiled.  “Say hello to Telirien for us.  And to your daughter, Idhrendiel.”  Then she chuckled.  “And you say Quenya names are difficult.  Sindarin can be a mouthful too.”

“Hah!  You’ll learn, Morelen.  The world is changing, and we need to change with it,” he said with a wave and then walked back towards the camp.

Notaldo eased her into the tent and undid the ties to her robes.  “I first thought we should wait to start a family, but there is no time like the present.”

She leaned up to kiss him. The world was changing, and she realized that she needed to keep up.  It was a very unelven thing to say, but there was no time like the present.

Chapter End Notes

I want to look at the preparations for the battle, take a glimpse into the Edain and the dynamics of leadership.

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36)  Unnumbered Tears Part 2 - Year of the Sun 472 Lairë (Summer)

Morelen

It was Day 4 since the Western Army set forth.  They were encamped in the woods and valley east of Ered Wethrin, in the foothills before Barad Eithel.  The fortifications were complete: pits, spikes, mounds and berms would slow the enemy attack and cause casualties.  A counterattack was designed to sweep them from the field after.  Signals from the Eastern Army of Maedhros told them that their army had encountered, “Unforeseeable delays.”

Under the starry night sky, Fingon read the missive with a stern expression, but nodded.  “We can hold until they’re in place.  We have the depth for that.”

Then, a great, gray cloud belched forth from Thangorodrim, shrouding the sky for miles.  Stars vanished as if they were consumed by Ungoliant.  An orange glow could be seen under the fumes.  “Morgoth has taken the bait,” the High King said, some trepidation leaking into his voice.  “Now we wait.”  A chill passed among the army and the temperature sank as the clouds blotted out the sun.

The horses fed as the troops milled about, trying to pass the time, murmurs floating among the trees. “When will the battle start?  Do you think we’ll be victorious?  Do you think we’ll survive?  What are our odds?”

Tintallo and the other captains moved among the men, comforting them and bolstering morale. Tintallo was arrogant and pretentious, but he was a leader.  He spent every waking moment giving people hope.  Notaldo, originally dismissive of him, learned a great deal about leadership from the senior captain.  Lutano, Captain of the Morna, followed him around like a puppy.  Morelen and Líreno walked alongside, providing scouting reports and updates that would go to the High King.  Riders came and went from the camp, bringing messages from the Eastern Army and the results of any reconnaissance.

Two riders rushed up and bowed, presenting a message.  “Lieutenants Líreno and Morelen, Martano and Ëarmo reporting.  Morgoth’s army has sallied forth at great speed,” said Martano. “They should be here by late morning.”

Líreno nodded solemnly, but then put on his half smile again.  It seemed a little forced this time.  “Very good.  Any news on the march of the Eastern Army?”

“They cleared the northern marches of orcs and are now force marching into position so they will be ready.  Maedhros was concerned that some of his Easterling allies were moving slowly.  It seems to have been resolved.”

“Hmmm, we’ve never worked with Easterlings before.  I hope they’re as reliable as the Edain.”

This unknown variable did not sit well with Morelen.  How would these men fight?  Were they well trained.  Maedhros was experienced enough to know so she shouldn’t worry.  “Thank you Martano and Ëarmo.  Please refresh yourselves and rest.  We’ll have your horses tended to,” she said, remembering how well Fingon treated his scouts.  Leadership wasn’t just about screaming and demanding and knowing everything.  It was about people.

The two scouts thanked them and moved to the cantina for food.  Morelen guided the horses to grooms who fed and watered the mounts and worked on them with brushes.  Then came the waiting, which was always the hardest part.  She gnawed on a biscuit, lost in thought for a moment as scouts and messengers came and went.  The signal fire from the east would indicate their movement.  They would feint an attack to draw forces from the east and then let the enemy break themselves on their defenses.  Once the balrogs and dragons were contained or destroyed, the general attack would commence.

Morelen and Líreno continued to survey the fortifications and the battle lines.  Everything looked set and the troops were in high spirits. They came across a familiar face, standing with two Sindarin Elves.  They bowed. “Gwindor,” Morelen said respectfully to the Captain of Nargothrond.  They had crossed paths many times in the past on their visits.  “We had heard that you joined our host.  Thank you for your support.  We need everyone that we can get.”

Gwindor returned the bow, though his face was grave.  “Greetings, Morelen and Líreno.  I would like to introduce you to Beleg, known as Cúthalion, the Strongbow and Mablung, Chief Captain of Doriath.”  Hands were shaken.  “I am sorry that my King, Orodreth, has denied the armies of Nargothrond to fight here. I brought a small company of elves though.  We could not stand by and let our brethren and our allies fight alone.”

Morelen smiled.  “And how is your betrothed, Finduilas?  I miss her.  She was always friendly with us and treated us well.”

“That is who she is. She remains with her father, the king, but I will return to her when we are victorious,” he said and then his expression darkened.  “The main reason I am here though is my brother Gelmir was captured during the Bragollach.  It is my…hope that we can rescue him.”

“We will do our utmost to see that happen,” Líreno answered solemnly.  For all of his edgy humor, he was surprisingly empathic and could change tone when needed.  “And we welcome any aid at all from Doriath,” he said to Beleg and Mablung.  “We have all heard great tales of your prowess.”

Beleg, Warden of the Marches of Doriath, nodded.  “We would not fight under the banner of the House of Fëanor so we thank you for accepting us.  I…understand the position of my King, but we could not just sit back during dark times. I believe that we must all stand as one to defeat Morgoth.  Your High King Fingolfin showed that he is truly a coward.”

Morelen sneered.  “He is.  And I will play my part to destroy all of his creatures and any spawn that he has that infest our world.”

They all nodded and Gwindor brought out a flask, raising it up.  “We will see it done today,” he said and then uncorked the flask, passing it around. Everyone took a drink.  It was strong, a clear, brown liquor that burned on the way down.  Morelen coughed and Gwindor pounded her on the back, clearing her throat.

“Oh, that was…yeah,” she said, her face red and burning.  This must be what being a dragon was.  “Thank you,” she said, and then coughed again.  The crowd chuckled.

Two more scouts rode up, their horses rearing as they leapt off.  Their faces showed urgency.  “Morgoth’s army has made great speed!  They are one hour march away.  Maedhros is further delayed by impending attacks by another force!”

Morelen’s felt a cold prickly in her gut and her eyes widened in surprise.  “This is much sooner than we expected them.  And did we not scout the approaches for Maedhros?  How can he be delayed again?  Where is he getting his information?” she said, her voice much higher.

“Scouting reports from Ulfang indicated that orcs were preparing to attack from Ladros and the Pass of Aglon,” one of the scouts said.

“Ulfang?  Why is he scouting for Maedhros?” Líreno asked, his head cocked, a growing look of suspicion on his face.  “We offered them scouts.  We cleared those areas last week.  I don’t feel good about this at all.”  He gestured to the two riders.  “I know you’re tired, but I need you to ride back to Maedhros and confirm this. Quickly.  Time is running out.”

The riders bowed. “It shall be done, sir,” they said and leapt back on their mounts and wheeled around to ride off, hooves pounding on the grass.

“I don’t like this one bit. It may be nothing, but I don’t like it at all,” he said to the group.

Morelen wasn’t sure what to feel.  This might just be miscommunication.  After all, the fog of war was real, and many things could not be known for certain.  She just had to hope that the reports were just confused.  She sighed heavily and looked down, unable to put the anxiety down.  “It will all be well,” she said softly, mostly to herself.

Gwindor pointed north to the horizon.  “There! I see them!  Morgoth’s army,” he said and then looked around.  “I suggest that we prepare.”

Morelen shook off the dark cloud and adrenaline surged through her blood.  “Telepta Company, to your posts!” she yelled, and horns bellowed out the call to arms.  The camp became a storm of movement, riders rushing to their mounts, counting arrows and stringing bows.  She did a quick check into her quivers, both full of gull-feathered arrows with barbed tips, perfect for penetrating an orc’s lighter armor.  She strapped them to the saddle that was already atop Lindarion and put her bow, Luinë, into its sheath.  Then, she pulled her curved sword, Melima, partly out of its scabbard and tested the edge: very sharp.  She was as ready as she could be, but it didn’t feel like it.

More horns sounded…elven. Another force of Noldor.  Morelen climbed up into the saddle as Notaldo and Tintallo rode up.  There was a look of excitement on their faces, eyes big.  “Look there!” called Notaldo.  “Glistening armor and glittering spears!  The banners of Turgon of Gondolin!”  Morelen raised herself up on the stirrups and peered in the direction that they were pointing.  Thousands upon thousands of Noldorin warriors were marching in unison.  It looked like a forest that was moving onto the plains. Her heart swelled.  Excited murmurs rose from the ranks.  The Army of Gondolin had marched forth.

The thunder of hooves caught their attention.  High King Fingon rode by with his guard, waving his longsword over his head.  The look on his face said it all: his long-lost brother had returned to the field and his expression was electrifying. Eyes beaming bright, he shouted, “Utúlie'n aurë!  Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie'n aurë!  The day has come!  Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!”  His voice carried through the woods and over the plains, such was the power of the Quendi, The Speakers, whose words and songs were power.

The army rose to its feet and riders stood high in their saddles.  “Auta i lómë!  The night is passing!” they called out in unison, the sound echoing through the ranks. Morelen shouted for all she was worth, her eyes misting up, so proud was she of her people.  Even at a distance, the response from Turgon’s army could be heard, the blue and silver banners of Gondolin waving in the morning breeze.

She reached out and grasped Notaldo’s hand.  “This is it! This is the most massive army ever assembled under the banner of the Noldor!  Can you feel it, Notaldo?” she cried over the roar of the troops.  Her eyes were huge, their gray and silver hue reflecting the sunrise.  Her muscles were taut with excitement.

A huge smile spread over his lips.  “Let us finish this!  Riders of the Telepta!  Let us ride to victory!”  A cheer went out through the company.  Only Líreno looked solemn.  Morelen was caught up in the moment and paid it no mind.

They could see orcs deploying into a loose horde as they always did.  Unorganized rabble.  But behind them were legions of trolls, wolves and riders, along with balrogs, keeping the orcs in line.  Other hideous beasts had to be behind them.  The enemy army stretched on as far as the eye could see.  Morelen paused for a second and Líreno caught her attention. “I know the excitement here, but this can still go wrong in a thousand ways.  Be careful.  Stay alive. This will be a hard fight, regardless.”

She wanted to shake it off, to discount his anxiety.  All of her hopes would come true after this one, last battle.  She gave him a wan smile.  “I’m always careful.”  Another cheer went up and she was lost again in that moment.  She wanted to attack now, while the orcs were still deploying. Every nerve in her body felt on fire.

Fingon rode by again with Nandamo carrying the standard.  “Maintain formation!  Let them come to us!  They will break upon our defenses!  Maintain formation!”

She gritted her teeth and held tightly onto her reins.  She wanted to jump out of her skin and slay every last orc by herself.  Then, there was movement at the front of the enemy army. Orcs paraded prisoners out, captured during the Bragollach.  They were a sorry sight…dressed in rags or not at all, some blinded, some barely alive. Slavery in the pits of Angband was not something that many lived to tell about.  She thought for a moment.  What if that happened to her?  She resolved to never be taken alive.  The alternative was just too horrible to imagine.

Gwindor shot up in his saddle, his face twisted in horror, mouth open and eyes wide.  “That’s…that’s Gelmir!  That’s my brother!”  He let out a piercing shriek, full of psychic agony.  His hand went to his sword and gripped it so tight that his whole arm began to shake. Just out of bowshot, the orcs hauled the prisoners into a line.  An orc in a mask, shaped like a snake, drew a huge sword, designed for executions.  A woman’s head was cut off.  Another was gutted and left on the ground, wailing.  One by one, the prisoners were cruelly executed. Morelen bit the back of her gloved hand, hard, holding back a hot feeling in her cheeks and eyes.  Then Gelmir was brought forth, blinded.  He staggered about as the orcs laughed, a horrid, croaking sound.  The executioner lopped his arm off and then the other, followed by both of his legs, Gelmir screaming the entire time.  Morelen’s breath caught in her throat.

With a feral cry of rage, Gwindor dug his heels into his horse, and it bolted off at a gallop, followed by the entire company from Nargothrond.  Fingon waved his arms.  “Hold position!  Hold position!” he shouted, but it was too late.  The company from Doriath surged forward.  Morelen was torn, bow already in hand.

“Hold!  Hold!” Notaldo commanded and the elite riders did not move, but many of the Edain and the infantry began to rush ahead.  It was chaos.

Fingon grunted in frustration.  “Ulmo’s Beard!” he cursed, something exceedingly rare for the High King.  His jaw was taut, and his teeth gritted beneath his tall helm.  Morelen had not seen him like this since the death of his father.  Tintallo and the other captains watched him, trying to anticipate his orders.  Time seemed to stand still.  Fingon grabbed his spear from Nandamo and held it up.  “We will not leave our brothers to die out there!  Riders!  Screen the advance!  Nandamo, signal the attack!”  The High King lowered his visor, his bright eyes blazing.  Nandamo blew a series of blasts on his horn, the signal for the general attack.  The plan was falling apart.

Horns blew and the army began to move forward.  Líreno looked like he had been punched in the gut, but Morelen felt a surge of power through her limbs.  They would pay…every last one of them.  No creation of Morgoth’s deserved to live.  The line of cavalry advanced at the trot, the lancers of Misë and Morna companies flanking the horse archers.  Their training kicked in and all of the riders knew that their task was to cover the advance of the infantry and the Edain, not to directly engage.  Notaldo raised his bow and nocked an arrow and the Telepta followed suit.  Morelen aimed right at the executioner and saw him right down the shaft of the arrow. She relaxed her thumb and the arrow leapt ahead and into the eye of the orc.  It fell backwards as a cloud of arrows fell on the ranks of enemy.

Gwindor and his company crashed into the horde, spears thrusting through bodies.  The shrieks of the orcs rose from the earth and the fear on their faces brought joy to Morelen.  Beleg’s bow sang as arrows flew in rapid succession.  Orcs and even their overlords turned and began to scatter as Gwindor’s fury cut them down like grass.  Morgoth’s army began to melt as the horns of Gondolin sounded.  Far in the distance, Maedhros finally got his army moving forward and onto the Anfauglith.         

As always, Fingon led the attack, his spear and then his sword, slicing through orcs like wheat before a scythe.  Trolls and wolves fell in droves before his wrath.  Orcs began to turn and flee.  Gwindor was an unstoppable force, fueled by rage.  It was like an arrow, piercing through flesh and the army of the Noldor surged ahead.  The Telepta Company could barely keep up and the tip of the spear of the attack moved further and further ahead of them.

Tintallo led the Misë forward, slamming into a horde of orcs and trolls, scattering them like toys. Lutano drove the Morna in next, lances plunging into bodies.  Orcs screamed and fell while others turned and threw down weapons, such was the fury of the charge.  Arrows from Telepta rained down on the enemy.  Trolls collapsed on orcs as wolves writhed on the ground, perforated by arrows.  Gwindor had almost broken free of the enemy masses and rode with his company across the Anfauglith, right at Angband.  Fingon and his personal guard were right behind him.  Morelen put an arrow into the eye of a troll and gave a hoot as it toppled over.  The farther and faster they rode, the more energy she felt.  Then, an image flashed in her mind.  A dark figure, sitting on an iron throne with an iron crown and two brilliant jewels mounted on it.  A grin was on his face beneath blazing red eyes.  What was this?  Her next shot went wide.

“It’s not like you to miss,” quipped Notaldo.  “Hurry, we need to keep up with Tintallo and the others!”

The battle turned into a pursuit, which turned into a rout.  Orcs were fleeing everywhere and Turgon’s army was now fully engaged.  It was now impossible to see Maedhros’ army through the dust and haze beneath a sky, overcast with volcanic smoke. Morelen shook her head to refocus and tapped her heels into Lindarion’s flanks.  “Forward, Lindarion!  On to victory!”  The image was gone, but the dark feeling persisted.

Gwindor cut his way through the last of the horde and charged straight at the gates of Angband, heedless of his safety in his rage.  He appeared as a demon in his fury, face twisted and screaming.  His company slew the guards at the front and streamed into the very halls of Morgoth’s lair.  Morelen was hit with another vision: the figure on the iron throne recoiled in fear, hiding his face.  A personal guard of flaming demons surrounded him.  Why was he appearing in her visions?  Was this Morgoth?  A massive balrog, bigger than the others, pointed a flaming sword to the gates of Angband. Bull horns came out of the sides of his head and his teeth were sharklike as flame and shadow shrouded his form.  “Lungorthing, protect the master.  Launch the counterattack!”  Another balrog, slightly smaller, white and covered in some kind of caustic, toxic slime, bowed and led the others forward.  The vision faded and only a chill in her gut remained.

In another moment, doors opened along the walls of Angband, and thousands of orcs poured out. Morelen’s breath froze in her chest. “Oh no,” she whispered, her eyes wide and her face twisting in horror.  The white balrog came forth from the gate and crushed an elf beneath his cloven hoof.  It then sliced another elf from head to groin with a stroke of his sword that glowed with a blue flame.  Gwindor stabbed it in the leg, but then dropped his sword and grabbed his arm that was smoldering and covered in slime.  The balrog threw him down and orcs dragged him into Angband.  Her blood ran cold as hordes of orcs, trolls, wolves and balrogs surged from Morgoth’s gates.  The orcs in the field who were fleeing now turned and attacked…and Fingon and his guard would be cut off.

Notaldo raised his bow and pointed to where Fingon was being surrounded.  Every rider in the company put heel to horse and charged ahead. Turgon’s army lowered spears and surged into the flank of the enemy army.  The forces of Gondolin fought with a methodical precision; thrusting spears, killing, stepping over bodies and thrusting again.  The rhythm of their grunting war cries echoed out over the plains. The attack into the flank folded the enemy back onto themselves and trolls crashed into each other in panic, crushing hapless orcs underneath.  Gwindor was gone, but he could be avenged.

Fingon’s force was fighting its way back south, a slow, deliberate retreat in the face of overwhelming power.  A trail of dead trolls and wolves lay in the wake of their passing, surrounded by slain orcs like ants.  Turgon’s army could not be withstood, and they opened a passage to Fingon.  The two brothers embraced on the battlefield and then turned back to the enemy.  Horns sounded from the Eastern Army.  Their attack had finally commenced.  This was turning around.  The day would be won.

Tintallo led the riders in another dash, slicing through any who stood in their way.  Seeing the two brothers in their silver helms, directing the battle, brought pride to the riders.  This was a moment that they would never forget.  Tintallo dismounted and knelt before the High King, followed by the other officers.  Morelen noticed the black blood that pooled on the scorched ground of the Anfauglith. She reveled in it as she planted her armored knee into the bloody pools.  “My King!” Tintallo said, “what are your orders?”

Fingon raised his visor and smiled.  Though his armor was covered in gore, he was barely breathing hard.  “Excellent timing, my friends.  You must meet my brother, Turgon, King of Gondolin,” he said with pride, gesturing to his brother.  Turgon was tall, taller than his brother and had a solemn expression that spoke of wisdom.  Fingon touched each of the riders on the shoulder.  “I knew that my elite riders would come through.  I am indebted to you all.  Please rise.”  When he touched Morelen, her breath caught.  Something roiled in her gut, and she couldn’t place it.  She wanted to say something, but the moment passed.

Turgon shook each hand. “Well met, riders.  I know that you have protected my brother for many years. I am also indebted to you.  Please meet my noblest warriors, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.  Ecthelion of the Fountain.  Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch.”  All stood proud and deadly, clad in armor of silver or gold, that appeared to be made of leaves, flowers or water.  The craftsmanship was magnificent.  Turgon drew his sword, Ondomacil, its blade of pale blue laen.  He held it above his head.  “For our father, Nolofinwë,” he said using the Quenya name for Fingolfin. The two brothers embraced once more and Turgon returned to his standard.

A broad smile was upon Fingon’s lips.  “It has been too long,” he said and then became serious again, his eyes bright and focused.  “I am sorry for Gwindor.  He will be avenged, I assure you.  Now, my friends, I need you to ride to Maedhros.  Clear the way for his troops so that we may join together and drive to Angband.  The plan changed, but we will adapt.  Bring Maedhros and his brothers with all haste.”

“It shall be done, my king,” Tintallo said, his hand over his breast.

Fingon nodded.  “I have no doubt.  Tintallo, Notaldo, Lutano, Líreno, Morelen…You and the riders have been my rock.  This company, that I formed centuries ago, has been my pride.  You are the finest of my troops.  I know…I have promised you all a game of Coron Mittarion for some years now. Best you all prepare to scrub the kitchens as I play for keeps,” he said with a wink.  He grasped Morelen behind the neck and shook her gently.  “I have seen you grow from a doubtful girl to become one of my finest riders.  It has been my honor to see that.  Please keep them safe.”

She felt as if her heart would burst from her chest.  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she was speechless, merely nodding and smiling through a sniffle.  She would lay down her life in a heartbeat for her king.

Fingon wiped his nose and then chuckled.  “Now go with haste.  Clear the way and bring Maedhros to us.  We must unite quickly.”

Tintallo waved his hand over his head.  “Riders, in the saddle!  We go east!” Fingon’s standard was raised and the thunder of hooves sounded again as Morelen looked back to see Fingon riding ahead of his bodyguard.  The company sliced through the orcs before them, tearing up the dried lava on the ground as their horses charged.  Grass was beginning to poke up through the blackened ground, maybe as a sign of hope. Orc and troll bodies littered the ground behind them, but there was no end to their numbers.  Soon, the banners of the House of Fëanor were seen, a red circle that surrounded a silver star, flanked by three great jewels.  Morelen saw Maedhros, slashing about with his left hand, standing tall above the other elves.  His sword, Silmarûth, the Fury of the Silmarils, was covered in black blood, hiding its red laen edges and his red armor, Heruannon, seemed to glow as a beacon for the Western Army.  His brother, Maglor, stood beside him, wielding Silmanaini, the Lament of the Silmarils, the twin of Maedhros’ weapon, but for the blue laen edges.  If the two armies could link up, none could withstand them.

“I can see the Sons of Fëanor fighting their way to us!” she called to the company, who could only just make out the banners.  She could see the seven as if they were a stone’s throw away.

Notaldo glanced at her, about to say something, but he came to accept her incredible vision.  He merely smiled and continued on.  On his signal, a cloud of arrows flew into the rear of the enemy that were pressing on Maedhros.  Orcs and trolls fell and then turned in fear and panic.  Tintallo signaled the attack, and the lancers lowered spears as elven horns sounded, blaring out the enemy’s doom.  The impact of the cavalry charge scattered their forces, and bodies flew in all directions, crushed and trampled by horses.  Maedhros smiled and raised his right arm, now with a white laen prosthetic hand over the stump of his wrist.

Then, an explosion roared from Thangorodrim.  Orange magma flowed from the peaks as smoke billowed skyward like the hand of Morgoth. Great gates opened along the walls of Angband, some belching flame from their doors and the riders stopped in horror. Clouds of bats burst forth while balrogs took flight.  Werewolves tore over the Anfauglith, snarling and clawing the air.  And then, one of the gates smashed down, crumbling before the size and weight of Glaurung.  The dragon burst forth, monstrous in size, bloated with the flesh of captives and any who displeased Morgoth.  Morelen’s blood froze.  The sight of the dragon sent a shiver down her spine, and she dropped an arrow, her mouth open in terror.

Cries rose up from the Western Army as the din of battle rose.  “Treachery! Treachery!”  The riders turned to see the Easterlings under Ulfang assailing the Western Army from the rear.  Chaos erupted as Maedhros turned to face the traitors, his face twisted in horror as his red hair blew in the howling wind.

“Dammit!” Líreno shouted. “I just had a bad feeling about them!” He snarled and shook his head.  “I hate it when I’m right.”

Within minutes, the Western Army dissolved.

Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to stay true to the canon of the battle with Gwindor charging into the enemy to avenge his brother.  And we see the treachery of Ulfang the Easterling.

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37)  Unnumbered Tears Part 3 - Year of the Sun 472 Lairë (Summer)

Morelen

Everything seemed to move in slow motion.  Orcs and trolls washed over the Eastern Army from the front, while the Easterlings assailed them from the rear.  Cries of treachery rose from the Maedhros’ forces as the sons of Ulfang stabbed elves in the back.  Uldor, Ulfast and Ulwarth took swords and daggers to the throats of their former allies in a wave of murder.  Confusion reigned as a second force of Easterlings held ground and then attacked their kin, remaining faithful to the Noldor.  Their leader, Bór, and his sons, Borlad, Borlach and Borthand, charged into the flank of Ulfang’s army, savage and feral, enraged at the betrayal.  Their red clothes and armor embodied their bloodlust against the traitors.

Horror filled the riders of Fingon as Maedhros’ army broke, many fleeing in all directions.  Morelen could see her entire future slipping away…the life of peace, a family, a beautiful civilization under the Noldor.  It was all crumbling.  The Telepta Company quailed for a moment until Notaldo shouted over the din, “This is not over.  Telepta!  This is not over!  Keep fighting!”  He fired an arrow into the neck of a troll, and it toppled over on some orcs, crushing them.  Morelen’s gut churned, and she gripped Luinë so hard her knuckles were white.  That cold pain in her stomach turned into hot rage and she drew her bowstring back to her ear and let fly.  The arrow shot like a lightning bolt into a werewolf’s skull, piercing from face, out the back of its head.

In the middle of the rout, the faithful Bór speared Ulfang in the gut and lifted his weapon, ripping the traitor from stomach to throat, hoisting Ulfang into the air.  As his spear became lodged in bone, Uldor cut him across the throat with his sword in a spray of blood.  Bór fell backwards, gripping his neck as his sons cried out in anguish.  Uldor turned, triumphant in vengeance for his father, but then saw a new threat. Maglor, the son of Fëanor, cut his way through the Easterlings to the leaders of the traitors, the white plates of his armor almost glowing.  Uldor attacked and they traded blows, sword upon shield until Maglor, a renown bard of the Quendi, shouted a word of power and Uldor and his brothers were blown back onto the ground.  The elf put his knee on the back of Uldor’s neck, pulled his head back and sank his dagger into his skull as the sons of Bór ripped the sons of Ulfang apart.

Borlad, gripped Maglor by the arm.  “My lord! Fall back and save yourself.  We will cover your retreat!  The traitors will pay with their lives, this I swear!” His long, black hair was wrapped in a red cloth beneath his pointed helm and blood ran down the brown skin of his face.

Maglor nodded, his gray eyes full of fury.  “Borlad, you and your family will always be remembered as faithful.  I will signal you and then get yourselves to safety.”

Morelen watched in horror as the Sons of Fëanor fell back with as many men as they could muster.  The Eastern Army was no more.  Notaldo shouted, getting her mind back in the action. “Stay together, Telepta!  We still have a battle to fight!”  The elite riders let out a war cry as Notaldo wheeled the company about.  “We must protect the king!  Ride back to Fingon!”

In the distance, the Dwarves of Belegost under their king, Azaghȃl, drove into the enemy, their glittering armor and spears driving orcs before them, singing as they struck.  The great dragon, Glaurung, leapt upon them, crushing and scattering many dwarves.  Dwarven axes rained down upon the dragon’s scales and the sharp, enchanted blades bit into the beast’s skin and Glaurung howled in pain.  With rage in his eyes, he clawed at Azaghȃl, but the dwarf’s mithril armor deflected every blow.  Azaghȃl speared the dragon in the neck, and it shook in pain, wrenching the weapon from the dwarf’s grasp.  Glaurung leapt upon the dwarven king, knocking him down and then crushed him with his massive weight, but Azaghȃl drove his thick dagger into the belly of the beast, ripping, tearing and cutting, the dragon’s blood pouring out upon the Anfauglith.  Glaurung bellowed as the Dwarven King died, a sound that cut the air like a knife, his cry freezing the hearts of his orcs.  With a fearful shriek, the dragon bolted back to Angband, limping and howling, his army fleeing along with him.  Morelen snarled in approval, hoping that the beast would die in agony.  The Sons of Fëanor were granted their escape.

The riders tore back to the west on tired mounts, but they could not let up now.  The situation with the Western Army was little better.  The Valaraukar or balrogs had driven a wedge between the armies of Fingon and Turgon and were prying it wide open.  Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, was sweeping his flaming sword, Bragolamarth, the Sudden Doom, back and forth like a scythe, driving the men and elves before him.  He stood more than three times the height of an elf.  The white balrog, Lungorthin, spat acid onto his enemies, watching them dissolve before him amid horrific screams.  He then roared, brandishing his massive white sword, Nimrist, the White Cleaver, and his whip, Lugnor, the Fire Loop.  Another balrog, known as Múar or Úruvaiwa to the elves, wielded a two thronged whip, Adugoroth, and a black hammer, Gordring, tearing through the Noldor to get at the High King.

Tintallo slowed just enough to shout orders to the riders, “Drive straight for the King!  Telepta, clear a path!”  Notaldo raised his bow, and the company drew as one.  As he released, hundreds of arrows flew into the enemy, catching them by surprise.  Orcs shrieked, grasping at shafts that protruded from necks and faces. Then, the Misë and Morna Companies drove into them, lances lowered for deadly effect.  Lance tips skewered orc, troll and wolf, some lances shattering into splinters.  Some riders were brought down by bow or spear, horses rearing and falling.  Another volley of arrows tore into the orcs, and a gap was opening.  Morelen reached down to her quivers to find only three arrows remaining.  Arrows or no arrows, they were going to save the High King.  “I know you’re tired, Lindarion,” she said into her horse’s ear.  “We can’t stop to rest just yet.”  Lindarion whinnied in approval.

Gothmog turned his attention on Fingon and his bodyguard, roaring flame from his mouth and nostrils. Most of the Noldor had been unhorsed and fought on foot, dead steeds lying in piles around them.  Lungorthin and other balrogs moved to surround them, flaming whips and swords slashing and cutting.  Another volley of arrows flew, orcs, wolves, trolls and a balrog falling under the assault of gull-feathered shafts.  Morelen fired again into Lungothin’s neck, Luinë’s bowstring singing. The slime-covered balrog staggered and fell to one knee but pulled the arrow out and cast it aside.  One arrow left.

Fingon and his bodyguard were now entirely surrounded.  Nandamo and other guards swarmed one of the balrogs and hacked at it with their blades. Flames engulfed them, but they were heedless in their fury and the balrog crashed down upon the barren ground of the Anfauglith.  Lungorthin belched forth a stream of acid that engulfed some of the guards and they melted, screaming and dissolving into puddles of smoking goo.  Nandamo leapt at the balrog and sliced him across the chest, sickly green blood pouring out.  He dodged a blow from the massive sword and cut the balrog’s thigh.  With a howl, Lungorthin fell back and swung his whip out, snapping its tip onto Nandamo’s chest.  Smoldering slime splattered onto his armor and sizzled.  The elf screamed but leapt onto the balrog’s chest. He hewed it down its shoulder, cutting deep but was knocked aside onto the ground.  Lungorthin spat acid but Nandamo dodged aside.  The wings on his helm were broken and his silver and blue surcoat had melted onto his silver armor.

The Morna Company drove forward to get to the High King, but the fighting was intense.  Orcs and werewolves swarmed up onto the riders, casting them from their saddles.  Captain Lutano was hard pressed, cutting left and right.  He was a stone’s throw from reaching Fingon’s bodyguard when a werewolf slammed into him, tossing him from his horse.  He drove his curved sword up through the wolf’s chin and out the back of its head.  As he stood to rise, a troll brought its spiked mace down upon his helm and blood spattered out through the visor.

High King Fingon drove his sword into the throat of a troll and then darted away, slashing a balrog down its face.  Fingon was on the next troll before the two beasts hit the ground.  He was a blur of blue and silver, dashing away before any blow could land on him.  He pulled Nandamo to his feet though the herald was grievously wounded, acid burns upon his body.  He set the herald down and then clove a troll from groin to throat, leaping off of its face as it crashed backwards.  He darted aside as a balrog smashed the ground with its sword and then drove back, plunging his sword into its neck.  He then looked about to see that only Nandamo and two guards remained.

Morelen nocked her last arrow, unsure of what target might do the most damage to the enemy.  She looked at Gothmog, then the wounded Lungorthin, then Múar.  The Lord of the Balrogs was closing in on the High King.  She knew that he arrow wouldn’t kill the beast, but maybe it would slow him down.  She loosened her thumb and the shaft flew true, sinking deep into Gothmog’s neck. He roared, spitting fire and smoking blood and his hand came up to the wound and ripped the arrow out, casting it aside.  They had no choice but to draw swords now.

Misë Company charged into the enemy, heedless of their own safety to save the king.  Tintallo, sword in hand, cut down a rank of orcs, almost single handedly as he led his men forward.  Resistance was fierce, the sheer force of Gothmog’s will keeping his army in a fury.  Telepta charged in next, swords drawn, horses crashing into the orcs.  They were so near to Gothmog’s flames that they could feel the heat.  The balrog turned and flung his whip, slicing Tintallo’s horse’s head clean off.  The captain leapt to the ground deftly and sliced through another wave of orcs.  Notaldo threw his dagger into the eye of a troll and then rode by, slashing it across the belly.  Still, the ring around Fingon would not break.

Tintallo was savage now, hewing and cutting, heedless of his own safety.  Losing the High King would be like losing his own soul.  Notaldo and Líreno were more methodical, darting and dashing on horseback, attacking at key points.  Morelen cut with Melima as she rode by and an orc’s head slid off of its shoulders.  Notaldo pointed at Gothmog.  “We need to bring him down!  We take him out, the way is open!”  Morelen gulped hard for a moment before tightening her stomach.  She raised Melima and snarled like a wolf.  

The balrog saw them coming and turned to face them.  He laughed, a guttural, grating sound and a wall of fire erupted from the earth and their horses reared, whinnying in panic.  The heat from the wall of flame was like a furnace.  Morelen kicked Lindarion’s flanks.  “Go girl!  Go!” but the horse would not move.  She leapt from the saddle and rushed forward, shielding her face with her arms.  Every cell in her body was in terror, but nothing would stop her from saving her king.  She crashed through the burning wall and screamed in pain, but her enchanted armor kept her from burning.  She staggered to one knee, batting at her smoldering surcoat, the silver and blue fabric sizzling and smoking.  Notaldo and Líreno were riding around the wall, smashing through the enemy.

Morelen looked up to see a troll bearing down on her.  As it raised a spiked mace, she drew upon her power and her form shimmered.  The troll struck empty space, smashing the dried lava of the plains.  She leapt up and drove her sword into its belly and then ripped her sword out sideways. Black blood and guts spilled out in a foul stench as she moved onto the next target.

The balrog, Úruvaiwa, the Fiery Wind, moved to cut her off as she rushed to Fingon.  He was smaller than the others, only twice the height of an elf and burned with a bluish flame that sounded like the winds of a tornado.  But he was fast, just as fast as Morelen.  They charged at each other, Úruvaiwa hurling his twin-thonged whip, Adugoroth, the Double Horror, at her.  Blue flame shot at her face from the tips, but she rolled under it.  He swung his black spiked weapon, the Dread Hammer, down and she dodged away again, raising her hand that shot out a beam of light.  The balrog winced and she cut aggressively with Melima at his neck, but he stepped back with such speed that she lost her balance and nearly fell.  Her mouth fell open at how fast he was.  His whip wrapped around her ankles and pulled, knocking her down into the dried lava. Her helm hit the ground and her head was ringing.  She saw the hammer coming down and rolled away as it hit, shattering the ground, throwing up bits of volcanic rock.  Still on her back, she sliced through the balrog’s leg, and he staggered back.  She cut through the thongs and then bolted back up and gashed him across the nose, then leaping away towards Fingon.  Úruvaiwa shrieked in pain, the sound of it like the winds of a hurricane.  He snapped what was left of his whip at her, but she was already gone.  “I will find you, she elf!  I know your scent!  I will find you!” he bellowed.  Pressing on, she sliced through an orc and then scanned the area and learned that all hope was lost.

Wounded and bleeding, the balrog Lungorthin flung Lugnor out, wrapping it around Fingon’s body. The High King cried out in pain, but hacked at the whip with his sword.  Then, shadow and flame stood before him.  Gothmog stepped forward, his full form encased in fire.  He raised his black battle axe, Fëagon, the Commander of Spirits and clove the High King’s head in two.  The Lord of the Balrogs and Lungorthin then beat upon his corpse with swords and axes until nothing could be recognized, the banner of Fingon, crushed in the blood of the king.

Watching in slow motion horror, a million things shot through Morelen’s brain.  What would become of them?  Who would lead them?  This couldn’t be real.  How would they tell his son, Gil-Galad?  How could she have failed another so dear to her?  Fingon had been like a second father to her for centuries.  She shrieked in despair and fury, tears running down her face through the soot and sweat of fire and battle.  She raised her visor and ran at Gothmog.  He would pay.  He would pay for destroying the hope of the Free Peoples.  Just as she dug her feet into the ground, Nandamo caught her.  His face was twisted in emotional agony over the death of the king.  “No!  No! It’s over!  You’ll die for nothing!”  The last two guards helped him drag her back just as Notaldo and Líreno rode by with more horses.  She fought their grip but she was already so exhausted.

Morelen leapt up into the saddle and they fled for all they were worth.  She pounded on the pommel of her saddle with her fist, smashing it down with the strength of her madness.  For a moment, she thought to abandon her friends and to turn and attack Gothmog once more, but Notaldo saw her and knew what she was thinking.  He shook his head sharply.  “No.  We need you. I need you.  We will live to fight again.”  As they rode across the ruined plains over bodies, crushed, cut, burned and torn, they saw Turgon’s Army, retreating methodically, shielded by the men of Dor-Lómin.

With her unnatural vision she saw the House of Hador standing before the onslaught of Morgoth’s armies, shielding the retreat of Turgon.  The elves of Gondolin marched backwards, spears still bristling.  There would still be hope in the power of the Noldor. Huor waved to Turgon through the battle. “A new star shall arise, King Turgon! A new star shall arise!”  Slowly, Turgon’s forces withdrew down the Sirion to safety.  The men of Dor-Lómin then set their last stand at the marshland called the Fen of Serech as orcs and trolls assailed them from all sides.  Just as the riders passed from any view of the battlefield, she saw an orc arrow pierce Huor through the eye and he fell back, swarmed by orcs.  The rout was nearly complete.  Their defeat total.

By the time she had come to her senses they had covered miles of ground.  She raised her visor and wiped the snot and tears from her face. She wanted to scream, to wail, but nothing would come out, only a hoarse, raspy whisper.  How would they endure?  What would become of them.  She silently cursed the Valar for allowing this horror to happen.  Why did Manwë release Morgoth?  The world would be better off without the dark lord and his evil. Is Manwë that gullible…that foolish? She looked over to Líreno, who was lost in his own dark thoughts.  He looked up and made eye contact and it was as if they both understood what the other was thinking.

Now, beyond the immediate reach of Morgoth’s armies, the riders slowed.  Notaldo raised himself up in the saddle and scanned around.  “Telepta!  I need a head count.”  They were still the elite of Fingon’s forces and discipline was the key to their survival. Individual squadrons began to sound off and Líreno and Morelen kept tally.  For the Telepta, it was not nearly as bad as was thought.  Horse archery kept them at a distance from the most savage part of the battle.

“We still have Eighty Percent, fit and ready,” called Líreno.

“We need arrows though,” called Morelen.  “Most have only one or two left.  I’m out.”

Notaldo nodded as Tintallo rode up on a new horse.  He looked beaten and shaken, his helm and armor dented and covered in black blood. He fought like someone possessed, but now the adrenaline had worn off.  Nandamo met them in the middle.  “What’s your company’s status?” Tintallo asked slowly as if in a dream.  His eyes were blank and vacant, a thousand yard stare.

Notaldo took a deep breath. “We lost Twenty Percent, but we’re able to fight.”

Tintallo grunted and then looked away to wipe his eyes.  “Misë…Misë took…Fifty Percent losses.  Morna is…Morna is gone.”

Notaldo’s eyes bulged. “I…I see.  We can screen the retreat.  I see a lot of stragglers coming towards us.  We need to protect them.  Uh, Tintallo, where do we go?  Barad Eithel is gone.”  They all looked to the elf for guidance.

The lead captain blinked. “I…I…,” he began and then started coughing.

Morelen rode up next to him and took him by the shoulders.  “You need rest, Tintallo.  Here, take a drink,” she said and handed him her canteen.  He nodded and drank thirstily.

“Thank you. I’m…I’m…no, it’s…,” he stammered and began to shake.

She embraced him as he broke down, shaking like a leaf.  He had always been the strong, cocky one, but now, he was like a child.  Seeing him like this shook off her own horror.  She needed to be strong for the others now.  They all needed to stick together.  “It’s alright.  It’s alright.  We will survive.  The day shall come again.”  She looked at Notaldo.  “I think you need to take command for now.  I’ll take my squadron back to protect the survivors.  We’ll need everyone that we can.  Líreno, are you with me?”

They both nodded.  Nandamo raised his hand.  “I will come with you,” he said, weak and exhausted, acid burns on parts of his body.  “Don’t turn me away.  I need to do this,” he added through gritted teeth.  Morelen nodded.

Notaldo took her hand. “Stay safe.  I need you.  We will go to Nargothrond and swear to Orodreth.  They will need good warriors.”

“Nargothrond?” she asked. “I worry about their defenses. Wouldn’t the Falas be safer?”

He shook his head. “The Falas are too exposed. Morgoth will go there next.  At Nargothrond, the river Narog is its own defense.  No army can ford the river under fire and no dragon could find purchase on the landing to assault the gates.  And it is hidden from Morgoth.  We will be safe there,” he said with confidence meant to reassure her.

“I…yes, I guess you’re right.  We will meet you there.  We will bring all that we can.”  She hated to leave him.  She wanted nothing more than to be in the caverns with him, pools of cool water under reflected sunlight or magical illumination, ethereal music echoing down the halls that were adorned with such fine artistry and elaborate mosaics.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, giving him a nod.  She could see that he did not want to part from her either.

Finally turning away, Notaldo rallied the Misë to him and then continued to ride south along the Sirion for Nargothrond as the Telepta turned back north.  They were soon met with another horrid sight.  Streams of refugees and wounded poured from the north in overwhelming numbers.  Elves and Edain mixed together in small groups, all fleeing the onslaught of the enemy. Families, young children, old humans, carts and oxen, all running as fast as they could.  “Keep going south!” Morelen shouted to them.  “The army is reforming to the south!  We will keep you safe!  Keep going!”

Morelen rode past a wagon that had broken a wheel.  An Edain family was desperately trying to fix it.  All that they had was on that cart, including a pregnant woman and several young children.

Men and women put their hands together as she rode up.  “Please! Please help us!” they begged. “Mistress elf, please!”

Her hands shook at the desperation of these people.  Lindarion stopped, sensing her feelings.  She thought for a moment, torn between duty and compassion.  Líreno grasped her arm.  “You can’t save them all.”

She shook off his grip. “But I can save some.”  She dismounted.  “Continue on.  I’ll rejoin you shortly.  I have this.” She walked up to the broken wheel as the people surrounded her.  As a Noldor, she towered over them.  She looked down at one young boy, who hung onto her leg.  She tousled his hair and smiled at him.  “I’ll have you moving again soon.  Don’t you worry, young man.”

Líreno looked back and nodded.  “Do it quickly, Morelen.  We’ll be up ahead, herding survivors south.  I’ll grab some arrows too.”

She knelt down and looked at the wheel, knowing that she had no idea how to fix it physically. But her father, the Guild and The Three taught her many things that were not of the physical world.  “Here, raise the wagon and hold the wheel in place,” she told them, and the men put their backs into it, raising the wagon.  Others held the wheel around the hub and the broken spokes.  She put one spoke in place and focused her mind on it.  She felt her power flowing into the wood and the spoke shimmered.  It was like living wood, growing into place. It held.  “Next one, quickly!”  One by one, she put the spokes back onto the hub, feeling weaker as her power flowed into the wood.  In a minute, the wheel was whole again.  She felt dizzy for a moment as she stood.  The little boy wrapped himself around her leg again and she picked him up in her arms.  “There,” she told him.  “You were very helpful.  You be careful now.  You can continue on.  What’s your name, little man?” she asked, and he threw his arms around her neck and held tight.

One man took her hands, thanking her.  “I am Huron. We are in your debt.  His name is Haldir.  His parents are…gone we fear.  His father fought with Huor and his mother passed a year ago.  There has been no word from his father for days now.”  Tears streamed down Morelen’s face.  So much horror.  So much loss.  She wanted nothing more than to take him with her, but she knew that she couldn’t.

She shook every hand as she held Haldir.  “Please be safe.  Go south to safety.  We will be going to Nargothrond.  Our company is leading stragglers to Orodreth’s kingdom.  Perhaps I will see you there.  I must go now.  My company is protecting survivors.  We will make sure that the orcs cannot follow you.”  She tried to pry Haldir from her neck, but he was not letting go.  Huron peeled his little hands away and took him and the boy started wailing.  It broke her heart and she choked down a hot, wet feeling in her face.  “I’m sorry, Haldir, I’m sorry.  I will find you.  I swear.” She had to look away else she would be unable to do her duty.  Her breathing came in ragged gasps as she climbed back into the saddle.  She chanced one last look back to see Haldir screaming and reaching out to her.  It was something that she would never forget should she live to be Ten Thousand.

As she rode on, she knew how Tintallo felt.  It was as if her guts had been torn out by the claws of a werewolf.  She was raw, hollow, almost dead inside.  She began to alternate between weeping and laughing. The world of the Free Peoples had gone from hope to ruin in one day.  She rode on, numb now as she passed thousands of refugees, streaming along the road south by the Sirion.  She signaled and called out to them to keep moving south.  Hithlum would fall, followed by Dor-Lómin.  They no longer had the power or the numbers to defend them. They were leaderless and adrift. She caught up to Líreno who had called a halt.  The company was now standing behind the last of the refugees who could flee.  The road north was littered with broken wagons, dead horses and people.  It appeared as though the enemy had stopped their pursuit for now.  Their casualties were staggering.  But Morgoth cared not.  They were only insects to him, tools for his narcissism and destructive rage.

Líreno dismounted and knelt down besides the body of a woman.  It was Aistallë, Hurinon’s widow.  She had cut her own throat.  Morelen leapt from the saddle and ran to them.  Líreno’s face was buried into her chest, and he pounded his fist on his own helm. “No!  No!  Not you too! We were supposed to care for you! We promised Hurinon!” he shouted in rage and despair.

Morelen collapsed on top of the dead woman’s body.  Her body had given out.  She saw that Aistallë’s leg was broken, and she could go no further.  Aistallë had sat down and ended it before the enemy could take her.  A low, guttural moan formed in Morelen’s throat, and she bit the back of her gloved hand hard.  Then, a cry got her attention.  She looked about frantically.  Something was moving near another corpse.  She ran over.  “It’s Silmani!  Líreno, it’s Silmani!”  It was Hurinon’s daughter.  “She’s alive!”  No older than Haldir, the girl was huddled behind the corpse, terrified with eyes wide. Morelen wrapped her up in her arms. “Come Silmani, we are friends of your parents.  We will keep you safe.”  A tidal wave of relief washed over her as a reserve of energy flowed into her.  Here was one soul that she could save.  She summoned what was left of her power and let it flow into Silmani.

Líreno ran over and fell to his knees.  “Thank you!” he said, looking up.  “Thank you for this one small thing.”

Without another word, Líreno lifted Aistallë onto the back of his saddle and Morelen placed Silmani ahead of her.  The sun was setting on the field of disaster, but one small miracle had taken place.  As they rode south along the great river to Nargothrond, the waters of the Sirion rippled and began to turn into a face. The blueish green face rose out of the river, white hair and a long beard like seaweed, his head covered in a helm like a giant seashell, his armor glistening scales like a fish.  He watched the riders depart with the girl and her dead mother and he lowered his head.  Then, he faded back into the river, vanishing into the fast-flowing water.

Chapter End Notes

Turgon will become High King.  The riders will regroup in Nargothrond and swear to King Orodreth.  There was some discrepancy over the lineage, some saying Orodreth is Finrod's brother and some saying he was Finrod's nephew.  I'm choosing him to be Finrod's brother.  I also choose to have Gil-Galad be Fingon's son.  The character, Serce, is one I created for another story, The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  She is Irime's daughter, who is mentioned as coming to Middle Earth, but nothing further is said in the canon.  Irime is Fingolfin's sister and will feature in future chapters of the Court.

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38)  Infiltrating the Court - Year of the Sun 473 Ninui (Winter)

Fëatur

In the immediate aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Unnumbered Tears, the neither the Guild nor The Three could focus.  Chaos reigned in the confusion over reports that Morgoth had conquered the north.  He would, no doubt, be coming for them in the south next.  Fëatur was a wreck with the dark thoughts that Morelen was in the thick of the fighting. Was she alive?  Was she dead?  He could not push the fear from his mind, and it was devouring him.  When he met with Yavëkamba in one of their secret caves, she was besides herself with worry, her face taut.  She grasped her crystal pendant nervously.  She had delivered Morelan and Moran, and both were dear to her heart.  They wanted to head north and search for her, but they knew that their duty was here in the south.  If the north was lost as they thought, the battle would soon come here.

“You need to let me know what you find out,” she told him.  She kept twirling her dark hair while tapping her foot.  “I need to know that she is alive.”  She fidgeted nervously, her eyes intense, darting back and forth.  Her characteristic calm was cracking.

Holding her in his arms from behind, he nodded, his blond hair mingling with hers.  “I will.  I swear it.” He felt just as anxious.  Fear consumed them.

“I don’t care about the risk!” she said in a strained voice, her soft features suddenly sharp.  “I need to know!”

He was a little annoyed at first and narrowed his eyes.  “Don’t you think I want to-.  No, I’m sorry.  I’m just as worried.  I swear I will find a way to let you know the moment I hear anything.  Anything at all.”  They were both extremely tense.  He began to massage her shoulders, and she closed her eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek and onto her blue tunic.

“I delivered them, Fë. I held them in my hands as they were born.”

“I know, Yavë.  I was there, remember?  I know.  Your heart is always so full.  So full of love.  I cannot leave the south.  Not yet. But I will keep every line of communication open.  I will ask, beg, demand.  I will find you an answer.”  Their meeting had to be brief.  The power of the Court was growing and Yavë would be missed soon.

It took months before word came south.  The shipments of arms and armor had also stopped.  At least they had the High King’s smiths…well, late High King.  Fëatur sat at a simple wooden desk in Chrys’ manor house in Tumlindë, reading a scroll.  The elegant décor of a silver and golden tree in the corners of the main hall, intertwined with live branches and flowering vines did little to offset the tension in the room.  Only the roar of the central fireplace could be heard.

His plain brown robes were disheveled as was his blond hair.  He felt like he had not slept or meditated in days and his already slender face was lined with fatigue, the lids of his blue eyes heavy.  Elves were resilient, but the strain was clearly showing. He then breathed a heavy sigh of relief and looked up at Chrys and the other Guild members along with The Three and The Enclave.  “Morelen’s alive,” he said, holding back a flood of emotions, putting his hand over his mouth.  His deepest hopes had come true and he wanted to rush off and tell Yavë, but it would have to wait.  He gulped hard and then took another deep breath.  “She’s alive.  The news is all bad though.  The High King…the High King was slain…by cursed Gothmog,” he said slowly to horrified gasps and open mouths.  “The disaster was complete.  So many were slain that the orcs built a mound of skulls on the Anfauglith.  We’ve lost most of the north, she says. There’ll be no regular shipments to us from now on.”  More concerned murmurs from the group.  “They now need every sword they can get.  Maedhros has lost the entire east.  They were betrayed by one of the Easterling tribes, Ulfang…he stabbed them in the back, but he was slain by Maglor.  Morgoth has conquered all of Hithlum and Dor-Lómin and much of Nevrast.  The Falas are under siege now too.”  He sighed heavily and looked at the gathering, long faces on all.  “Fingon’s riders have sworn to Orodreth in Nargothrond.  They should be safe for now.”

“What does this mean for the south?” asked Lyaan, his green eyes focused, pinching his lips with his fingers.  “Will they strike here?”  He pulled his white tunic tighter as if it would protect him from what was to come.

Fëatur looked back down at the scroll and inhaled.  “Morelen doesn’t think that the Dark Lord will send forces south.  He is entirely focused on his vengeance against them in the north.  He’ll probably leave us to the Court.  He’s working on subjugating the east though through spies and sacrifices…essentially what Moran is doing here.  Whatever Morgoth’s plan is, it does not bode well for us.”

Chrys narrowed his blue eyes, thinking deeply.  He pulled at the high collar of his emerald green doublet and ran a hand through his blond hair.  He was nearly the spitting image of his late cousin, Finrod Felagund, though slightly shorter and stockier.  “This is not good, but we need to put it in perspective,” he said, thinking carefully upon his words.  “First, our holds are well fortified, staffed and supplied.  Second, the smiths from the north are producing at record levels and our troops have high quality weapons and armor.  Third, we are still hidden, but we know the location of the Court’s Citadel.”

“Though we lack the forces to assault it,” Fëatur noted.

“Cheerful as always,” Elerior quipped in a dark tone.  Even the Minister of Air’s eternal optimism was dampened by the disaster.  His sky-blue robes were usually a mirror of his airy nature, but not today.

“At least he’s realistic,” Talan said with a snort.  The Minister of Water had always been known for his dour, taciturn nature.  He shook his head, his ebony hair moving about his face. “We need to fortify further and prepare for increasing attacks by the Court.  We are quickly losing ground in terms of numbers.  Ardana has been more than successful in subjugating the humans and some of the dwarves of the region.”

“We cannot just sit and wait,” Laurre Menelrana said, jumping in, his voice strong.  The young man had matured in the last couple of centuries and had become a leader in his own right.  “If the Court is indeed growing and outpacing us, waiting is death. While I am training the troops of the Guild, we are not many, not nearly as many as the Court.  Fëatur, is there a way into the Citadel that is held secret? We all know that the ritual is coming. Has there been any more information from your source?”  Chrys glanced at him with a nod and a faint smile.  His son was strikingly similar in appearance except he had a bit of Silvan in him from his mother, Aelrie, his hair a bit more auburn and his complexion a bit more ruddy.

Fëatur nodded.  “My…source is no longer at the Citadel, but travels there once a year now from Angkirya.  I will ask. And I must meet them with news of Morelen in any case.  They believe that the ritual is now less than a century away.”

Ralian, the Minister of Light, nodded in agreement.  His silk robes were of silver and white with a mithril circlet on his head, a single strand of the metal, set with a diamond.  “The stars concur.  As I read them, we are now about seventy to eighty years from the great eclipse.  I am still not entirely convinced that the Court has the power to destroy the sun and moon, but we should take no chances and behave as if they do.”

“The Enclave concurs as well,” said Elvëon, the head of The Enclave.  He wore robes of brilliant deep blue, covered with a scattering of silver stars woven into the luxurious fabric.  The Enclave was quiet group of mystics and astrologers, usually very reserved, only speaking when something important needed to be said.  “The stars have been shining less brightly since the disaster in the north.  Dark times are coming, my friends.  The West is closed to us.  We must make our stand here.”

“These are troubled times indeed when an astrologer tells us that we need to fight,” Chrys chimed in. “How I wish for the times when you could just gaze at the stars in peace.  How I wish we could just spend time with our families, building and growing. But it is not to be.”

Lysa stretched out her hand.  “It shall be again, my friend.  I sense this, but we will have to go through fire and steel to get there.  This will not be easy.  Still, Fëatur,” she said, looking at him with gentle compassion, her gray eyes soft, “Thank you for sharing news of Morelen.  She is like a daughter to me.  I dearly wish for her to return to the south, but I know she has important work to do there.”

Chrys clapped his hands once, getting everyone’s attention.  “I believe we have a course of action.  Laurre, continue to train the troops of the guild.  I need a tally of our manpower when you can.  Lyaan, are your light infantry able to conduct more scouting?  We need to find the locations of the other Court holds.”  Lyaan nodded.  “Elvëon, we need to narrow down the time of the ritual.  It will creep up upon us if we are not vigilant.”  He also nodded.  “Lastly, it again comes down to you, my friend, Fëatur.  We need you to meet with your source again.  We need a way into the Citadel.  We cannot hope to assault it directly with their army surrounding it.  Any information beyond that will be invaluable.  The Guild will provide wards to all of our holds to confuse, delay or harm any invaders.  Time is growing short.  Though we are immortal, we cannot wait forever.  This evening, we will hold a ceremony of grieving for High King Fingon and the fallen in the north.  Fëatur, was there anything else from your daughter?”

“She leaves off saying that Turgon has become High King of the Noldor, though he remains in the hidden city of Gondolin.  Fingon’s son, Gil-Galad and Cirdan are preparing to flee to the Isle of Balar and the Mouths of the Sirion.  She and Notaldo say that Nargothrond is secure so there is still hope of resistance in the north.  I will send a message back north, paying our respects and give our oaths of loyalty to Turgon.  If he should call, we cannot send much, but we will send what we can.”   He stood and went to the window where a sparrow sat on the windowsill.  It chirped at him, and he whispered words into the bird’s ear.  It took off and flew north.  Another bird landed on the sill, waiting for him.  “I will send word to my source now.  They will want to know all of this right away.”  He whispered to that bird and it took flight.

As with Elven ceremonies, the time of grieving was ethereal.  As it grew dark, the members of the Luingon Alliance stood on the grass outside of the manor house, surrounded by tall trees.  The gentle scent of jasmine floated on the air.  Then, pained voices called up to the stars as instruments played the tragedy of the north.  Lanterns floated in the air, lighting the glade of Tumlindë.  Sorrow was upon every gathered face.  Aelrie and her sister, Miriani wept openly as did Lysa, the two ladies singing in spite of their pain.  Chrys and Fëatur stifled tears, but they could not hold them in. Fëatur shook in grief, biting one hand as he squeezed a fist with the other.

“Snow White, Snow White, O Lady Clear,

O Queen beyond the Western Seas,

O Light to let us wander there,

Amid the world of woven trees.

O Elbereth Gilthoniel,

We still remember, we who dwell,

In this far land beneath the trees,

Thy starlight on the Western Seas,” they sang in praise of Varda.  They went on to lament the fall of Fingolfin and Valiant Fingon and all of the elves, men and dwarves that perished in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.  Fëatur raised his hands up, thanking Varda, Manwë and Mandos for one more day.  One more day to defeat the dark enemy.

Aelrie and Miriani raised their arms skyward, their red hair fluttering in the breeze, and then blew out a long breath, their magic pushing the lanterns into the night, vanishing in the distance.  They resumed the song of grief, angelic voices full of sorrow.  The words of the music, the voice of the Quendi, floated into Fëatur’s ears and he began to see Valinor again.  Before the freeing of Melkor, he could see Varda, her eyes so bright that one could not bear to look into them, her hand outstretched to the heavens, stars forming at her touch.  He could feel the wind and the cold, high above Middle Earth and see the wonder of the constellations.  The singers then shifted and a lament to the fallen rose into the sky.

“Once wide and smooth a plain was spread,
where King Fingolfin proudly led
his silver armies on the green,
his horses white, his lances keen;
his helmets tall of steel were hewn,
his shields were shining as the moon.
There trumpets sang both long and loud,
and challenge rang unto the cloud
that lay on Morgoth's northern tower,
while Morgoth waited for his hour.”

Fëatur saw the images in his mind: Fingolfin riding to battle the Dark Lord, the duel, the Eagle carrying his body away.  Then the Unnumbered Tears and Fingon’s final battle against the balrogs.  It was as if he were there, feeling the terror and the heat. The sisters, Aelrie and Miriani then fell to their knees, collapsing onto the ground.  Aelrie tore the soft grass with her fingers.  “It hurts so much, Chrys.  I hurt for every life lost in this tragedy.  I fear that we won’t survived this.”

Chrys took her hands and raised her up.  She was shaking like a leaf.  “We will get through this.  We’ve dealt with all other crises since before the sun and the moon.  We will survive as a family.”

She looked up into his eyes and then buried her head on his shoulder.  “But Chrys, I’m not a warrior.  I’m not a mage.  I’m a bard and a dancer.  How can I fight the enemy when they come?”

He pointed to Laurre and then the others.  “We will protect you.  This I swear. I would lay down my life for you and Laurre without a second thought.”

Fëatur stepped up, not wanting to interrupt, but he had important news.  A sparrow sat on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry to step in, but I have received word from my source.  I will set out right away.”

Chrys nodded. “Yes.  Thank you and please tell her that we will do everything that we can for her safety and thank her for her risk.  She is absolutely crucial to our efforts,” he said, acknowledging who the source was.  “Travel safely and return to us with positive news.”

Fëatur nodded with a smile. For all of the death and disaster, the thought of seeing Yavë again was electric.  If there was one bright light in this dark world, it was her.  He turned to walk to the stables but Lyrin approached him.

“I know that things have been tense between us,” Lyrin said, looking down and scratching his head beneath his wavy auburn hair.  “I would like to accompany you on this journey.  I need to…I need to make amends.  The fishing village, it…it changed me.”

Fëatur nodded.  “You know, I was hoping you’d say that.  I am sorry for how this has changed us all.  As Eru’s children, we were meant for bliss and serenity.  I’m not sure what part of his plan this plays, but we must trust him and follow our hearts to bring about that ultimate plan.”

Lyrin gave a wan smile, clearly embarrassed.  “I was…arrogant and childish.  I see that now.  I am hoping to change.”  There was still a lot of the boyish immaturity in him, but this was a start. “I still have a long way to go.”

“If I can help you in any way, please ask.  I owe your family an enormous debt that I can never repay.”

The young elf chuckled and that sly grin of his reappeared.  “I won’t let you forget it either.”  He looked over to his friends, standing with his mother.  They seemed to be waiting anxiously for any word from him. “Might I invite my fellow initiates and friends?  We have been training together, and I think it would be a good opportunity for us.”

Fëatur thought for a moment and then nodded.  It was actually a good idea and it showed some forethought and leadership on Lyrin’s part.  “I would appreciate the company.  Please, bring them over.”

Lyrin waved to them, and they ran over, excitement on their young faces.  Their Ikashas bouncing at their sides over their white robes.  “Edenor, Anuven, Caladiel, pack your things. We’re going on an outing.”

Caladiel was a bright-faced young Sindarin woman about a head shorter than Lyrin.  “We’re already packed, Lyrin,” she said, her blue eyes beaming beneath straight blonde hair.  She turned to Fëatur.  “Thank you, thank you sir for letting us help.  We have trained in Ty-Ar-Rana for centuries now and we wish to be more involved in the struggle to protect our people.”  The other two young men, both Noldor, nodded.  Fëatur recalled meeting Edenor and Anuven many years ago.  They seemed even more boyish than Lyrin.

Fëatur smiled.  “No need to call me sir.  My name is fine.  Meet me at the stables in ten minutes.  Do you know what we are doing yet?”

“Lyrin told us all about it,” she said, blushing and looking down as if she had revealed some secret.  “We will protect you with our lives.”  The young woman just radiated innocence.

Fëatur looked at Lyrin and smirked.  “I see you had this all planned out,” he said and Lyrin’s eyes shot wide open, having been caught.  “No, this is good,” he continued.  “I’ve wanted to see you think ahead and think of other people.  I am…I am pleased.  And you might want to change out of those white robes.  They get dirty real quick.”

Teldin, the stable boy in the fishing village, who had nearly been killed, greeted them at the stables.  They had accepted him with open arms in Tumlindë and he was a loyal, dedicated worker. He had taken the time to feed, water, brush and saddle their horses and he bowed as the group approached, his dirty blond hair falling in front of his face.  Fëatur waved him off.  “Teldin, you do not bow to me.  We are all in this together.  I am just so glad that you are safe here with us.  You are always welcome, and I appreciate your hard work.  I can see how well cared for are the horses.”

Now a young elven man, he smiled and gestured to the mounts.  “All clean and ready for you.  I will never forget…,” he began, his voice breaking, “I will never forget how you and the mistress saved me.”  Fëatur grasped him warmly by the shoulder and then climbed into the saddle.

The journey was pleasant and the normally hot, humid weather of the region was cooler. Tropical birds sang as they rode through the thick jungle to the ruined fishing village.  Fëatur thought about the tangy fish soup that the villagers used to make and the easy, friendly nature of the people.  They would be missed.  He sighed heavily, lost in the memory of a better, more peaceful time. The young elves joked and yucked it up for a time before they neared the ruins.  The two young men were the most boisterous, trading fake punches and making jokes.  Caladiel seemed more focused as if thinking.  As they neared the ruins though, they became quiet, more serious, scanning the jungle.

Lyrin looked to his friends.  “It was…it was horrible.  Women, children, butchered.  They were no threat to anyone,” he said in a somber tone that was so unlike him.  His friends listened in silence.  Now, only the wind and the songs of the birds wafted along the path.  The village ruins were unchanged since they were last here with the exception of the fires and the dead.  They rode past the graves that they had dug, still covered with soil, some now growing grass and flowering plants.  Lyrin looked down.  “I remember every soul that we buried here.”

They saw Yavëkamba waiting within the ruins of the inn.  She was in a simple blue tunic and pants with crystal pendant around her neck. The burnt wood had been cleared out, and she had created an area in which to meet, a small carpet and towels arranged on the ground.  Her face lit up when she saw them ride up.  They dismounted and approached.  Yavë ran up and embraced Fëatur tightly.  “Time grows short, love.  I am so glad you reached out.  Do you have news of Morelen?” she said in anticipation.  He smiled at her and that said it all.  She shook for a moment before breathing again.  “I was so worried.  So worried.  How is she? Please tell me.  Have a seat.  I have food for us.”

They sat down and Fëatur introduced Lyrin’s friends.  They bowed respectfully to one who had seen the light of the Trees.  “Morelen fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, as we knew that she would.  There was no chance anyone would talk her out of it.  She and Notaldo survived, and the riders have sworn to Orodreth in Nargothrond. They will be safe for now, but I fear that it may not always be so.”

Yavë nodded, listening to every word with great interest.  She then blew out a sigh of relief.  “Thank you. Thank you for bringing me this information.  The Court is ecstatic about Morgoth’s victory in the north.  They believe that it gives them breathing room here in the south to complete the ritual.  Morthaur has completed final testing on the gems of unlight.  I believe that they will work as he has stated.  Moran is clueless as to what they plan to do to him. Fë…it breaks my heart.  I want to tell him.  He needs to know,” she said, speaking rapidly.  “But if I do, he will react and I will be found out.  We need to come up with a plan to free him.”

“That is exactly why I am here, Yavë.”  He looked at Lyrin and the others, who listened intently.  “This may just be the most important mission for anyone on the side of the Free Peoples,” he said, impressing the young elves as to how dire the situation was.  “We need a way into the Citadel.  Do you know of any secret entrances?”

Yavë thought for a moment, putting her thumb up to her lips.  “A direct assault on the island would be suicide,” she said darkly but then perked up. “But we talked about you impersonating your sister again.  Your friends will play our servants, no offense.  We can leave this evening on my boat.  I do not know of any secret entrances, but knowing Ardana and the inner circle, we can bet that one exists.”

Fëatur gave the group a faint smile and a head nod.  “I can work with that.  And, I know, I have to dress up as my sister again.  It’s been a while.  Not since Moran and Morelen were born.  You’ve helped me in the past so let’s get me suited up.”

Yavë snorted out a chuckle. “I got rather good at it.  Here, step into my parlor,” she said, gesturing to an undamaged area of the inn.  She pulled clothing out of her bag.  “I was prepared for this.”

Fëatur made a face at the group and then followed her to the room.  “The things I do for the Guild,” he said with a rare, lighthearted edge. Yavë brought out the best in him.

She yanked his robes off, exposing him, then she strapped a harness to his chest to simulate female breasts.  Next, she pointed to his manhood.  “We need to…ummm bind that thing up.  You remember,” she said as she held up a gauzy wrap.  She let her fingers brush him and he shuddered, sighing deeply.  He nodded as she held him gently and wrapped him with the gauze.  He gulped hard.  “You need to relax otherwise this isn’t going to work,” she said snidely.

“I can’t help it,” he groaned.

Yavë snickered and then extended his power into him.  It was soothing, peaceful, gentle and loving.  “There, that’s better.  All done. I will…take care of it when we return.” She tied the gauze down on his thigh and then handed him a different robe, full, flowing and black.  “These are your sister’s newest robes.  I managed to sew perfect replicas.  She is creating a new order that will serve her, called the Darin Tesarath, the Sisterhood of the Mind.  It is composed entirely of female elves who are experts in spy craft, interrogation, assassination and hand to hand combat. They are fearsome from what I have seen. She is building a temple for their training grounds, but I know not where.  In the confrontation in the courtyard, when she drew her kynac, I saw fear in Gorthaur’s eyes.”  She placed a golden cord around his head and then applied light makeup on his face and eyes. “When she caused Silion to be infested with eels…I don’t even want to think about it.  But also, I have a map for you of the location of Angkirya, my new home, which is ruled by your sister.”  She added some eye liner and mascara.  “There…the twin of your sister.  Now give me the look.”

Fëatur made a petulant scowl, his best imitation of her.  He tightened his abdomen and forced his voice slightly higher.  “How’s that?”

“Mmmm, perfect.  I can’t even tell the difference and I’m around her all of the time.  And here, take this,” she said, handing him a large card that was made of shalk, a thick, paper like material that was easy to infuse with magic.  

“Are these the cards of the Ardan Deck?  I’ve only heard rumors and what you told me earlier.  What does it do?”  He looked it over, flipping it back and forth.  It showed a blond elf gazing into a mirror, but the reflection was distorted.

She nodded. “Yes.  It has only minimal powers right now, but I know that you can infuse it with your magic.  It allows communication between the members, but, with the right incantation, you may listen in to some of the conversations between them.”

His eyes lit up. “This is…this is invaluable. Thank you,” he said, kissing her. “I have just the incantations to make it useful.”  They walked out back to the group and the elves from Ty-Ar-Rana stared.

“You’re quite pretty, Fëatur,” Lyrin said with chuckle.  “I think I’m quite smitten.”

Fëatur winked.  “Just remember that my sister could rip you to pieces without a second though.”

A bit of Lyrin’s old boyish bravado returned.  “She could try,” he said, throwing mock blows at his friends.

Fëatur would give him this one.  The young man had come a long way after that rude awakening to the reality of evil.  He looked down at the black robes and his ‘new’ body.  It had been a long time since he had impersonated her.  Could he still remember her mannerisms and speech?  He would just have to do his best.  “This may be a stupid question, but she’s not at the Citadel, is she?”

“No,” Yavëkamba said with a head shake.  “She’s been at Angirya for a week now.  I double checked with the cards.”  She handed Lyrin and the acolytes robes as well, blue for the men and a black Darin Tesarath robe for Caladiel.  “You seem adept in hand-to-hand combat,” she told the elven woman.  The two men pulled off their clothing right away, but Caladiel blushed and went to the back room.

Yavë led them to her boat, which was moored where the ruins of the dock were.  It was a small skiff with a single, triangular sail of canvas. They all boarded and Yavë raised her hand and blew out a breath.  A breeze came up and caught the sail, filling it up and the skiff sailed out at a fast pace. She pointed to the men.  “You are my healing assistants.  I recruited you recently and we have yet to go to Angirya. Almariel, my first assistant, will be at the Citadel.  I will introduce you.  She is…a good person but she is enamored of Morgoth, thinking him to be the benevolent ruler of Middle Earth,” she said with a grimace.  “And you, Caladiel, you are Fëatur’s assistant and a new recruit to the Darin Tesarath.  You must behave as if you are arrogant and petulant.  She likes that in her acolytes.  We will take care of the rest.”    

With the speed of the boat, the journey was quick, and the Island of Ardinaak grew with every passing minute. A feeling of dread grew over Fëatur, and he fought it down only with difficulty.  He could see the anxiety on the faces of his young friends.  Only Yavë seemed calm.  This was just another trip to the mainland.  The island looked like a giant ‘C’ with a bay entrance to the east, facing them.  “We have to navigate the shoals, but I know them by heart now,” she said.  She pointed to the young acolytes.  “Pay attention and remember.  This is how you will get to the Citadel.”  They nodded solemnly, becoming more quiet and serious as the Citadel grew large, its octagonal walls, made of black marble, glistened in the light of the setting sun.  Yavë sailed up to a dock and she guided the rope with her powers to tie the boat down.

They walked up a long, circular stairway to the main gate of the Citadel.  As they passed through the courtyard, Yavë took his hand and squeezed it hard.  He knew what that meant.  This was where they were nearly murdered and burned.  Troops now trained in the area.  Fëatur studied all of the notes that were made from Yavë’s descriptions, and he felt reasonably sure of what to expect.  The main gate was enormous, forty feet tall and wide, made of black iron.  The whole setup was designed to be foreboding. Four human guards came to attention as they approached and then bowed.  They were dressed in heavy chainmail hauberks and conical helms with broadswords at their waists.  “Lady Fëatur, Lady Yavëkamba, welcome back to the Citadel,” the lead guard called and then waved up to a gatesman.  There was an aura of fear on the faces of the guards in the presence of Fëatur.  She had a reputation for cruelty and vengeance over minor slights.  A man called down and then the great gate split in the middle and each side rolled into the wall to reveal the entryway.

Yavë led them down a staircase to the Ritual Chamber in the caverns under the Citadel.  It had a cool, moist feeling as they descended.  They could hear waves and flowing water.  Fëatur reached out to Caladiel and grasped her arm. “You’re shaking.  We’ll be alright.  Just breathe deeply.”  Eyes huge, she just nodded.  At the bottom of the stairs were walkways over ocean water that all met in the center of the cavern at a circular platform.  On top of the platform was a round altar of obsidian.  The altar was essentially a bed for someone with straps to hold the person’s limbs and bind them to the altar.

Yavë shuddered. “This is where Ardana and Morthaur will sacrifice Moran,” she said grimly.  “Those platforms along the walls will hold the Gems of Unlight.”  She looked around.  “There must be a secret entrance here somewhere though I have not seen it yet.”  She pointed down the walkways that were over the water.  “Let’s spread out and search along the walls.  Look for anything that might be a crack or some mechanism.”

“If someone comes down here, what do we say?” asked Fëatur.

She thought for a moment, putting her finger to her lips.  “You are ensuring the security of the Ritual Chamber because you don’t trust Gorthaur.  I have been ordered to participate in the ritual so I’ve come to ensure that the altar is appropriate.”

The group nodded and then split up, going down the walkways and began searching.  At the end of one walkway, Fëatur ran his hands along the cavern wall, feeling the craggy stone that was moist from humidity and seawater. He closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the sound of the ocean, lapping against the walkways.  Even in the heart of horror he could enjoy the simple things.  He drew upon his power and extended it into the stone.  He thought that a dwarf would be much better at this, but it was all that he had.  His energy passed into the crevices and cracks in the wall, but he felt nothing. He turned back and waved to the group, shaking his head.  It appeared as if the others were not having any luck either.  At the very end of the walkway sat a receptacle.  This must be where one of the Gems of Unlight would sit. He would do everything that he could to save Moran and defeat the ritual.  For a moment, he imagined the four of them, he, Yavë, Moran and Morelen as a family, enjoying the sunlight in Tumlindë.  Foolish.  Such dreams never came to pass.  He shook it off.

He walked back to the central platform and met the group.  There were still two walkways left, one directly north and the other south. Then, they heard footsteps coming down the stairs.  Fëatur’s heart froze in his chest.  It was Ardana.  She wore her star gown, silver and black and covered in glittering gems like the night sky full of stars.  She was flanked by two women bearing the clothing of the Suit of Staves, the Lords of Fire, those working for Rilia the Sorceress.  Fëatur closed his eyes for a moment.  Ardana had once been his world, his cause.  Her charisma led him to Melkor.  She had a passion and intensity that could not be denied and he felt the draw once again.  He focused his mind to get into character.  He would become his sister.

Fëatur opened his eyes and raised his chin as his sister would do, a pose of smug superiority.  He looked down at the two women in short, revealing red robes and snorted, not acknowledging them beyond that.  Then he made eye contact with Ardana and smiled. “My lady,” he said with a very slight head nod.

She nodded in return. “Lady Fëatur, what brings you down here?” she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.  Her eyes were entirely black, like the void of night.

He felt Lyrin and the others shake, and he grasped Caladiel by the wrist to calm her and then gave a stern look to the men.  “Forgive me, Lady Ardana.  I took it upon myself to inspect the cavern.  The time draws nigh, does it not?”

Ardana nodded once. “It does.  However, is this not the task of Gorthaur to complete?”

He snorted derisively. “Do you trust him?  I do not,” he said imperiously, nose raised in haughty disagreement.  “Do you remember that fool in the courtyard?  Just my appearance made him quail.  I will do it myself to my satisfaction.”

Ardana smiled.  “Very well.  I like the initiative and yes, I do not entirely trust Gorthaur.  Not after the courtyard.”  She then gestured to the two other women.  “This is Fairië and Ramarë of the Suit of Staves.  Fairië is an assassin and Ramarë is a bard in service to Rilia…part of her inner circle.”  Fairië was a Silvan elf who was very petite, standing much shorter than the rest with short brown hair.  Her red robes were cut very low, with cleavage down well past her navel and the hem of the robe was barely down below her buttocks.  While not ethereally beautiful like Ardana or Yavë or other High Elves, Fairië was devastatingly cute with an undeniable energy.  Ramarë was Sindarin with curly blonde hair, wearing the same robe.  There was a sensuous allure to her.  “Rilia recruited them as a counter to your Darin Tesarath,” Ardana added.  “Infiltration and seduction are their trade.  I’m sure you will want to up the training of your order to meet this new…challenge,” she said, clearly prodding.

“Oh, I shall see to it,” he said, pursing his lips, and then scowled at Caladiel, who looked like she was about to cry.  “The Darin Tesarath will have no rivals in that area, I can assure you.  My assistant here will be the instrument of many of our enemy’s falls.”  Caladiel did her best to sneer.  It needed work.  Still, it seemed to do the job.

Ardana seemed pleased that Fëatur took the bait.  She gave them a satisfied smile and then motioned the two women along one of the walkways.  This might be it.  The secret entrance.  What else would they be doing here?  Fairië and Ramarë glared at Caladiel as they walked by, but then brushed their hands seductively along Lyrin’s face, down to his crotch, then doing the same to the other two men.  The three young men watched the ladies walk away, their mouths open.  These two could do a lot of damage, but at least the Alliance was aware of them now.  Caladiel elbowed Lyrin in the ribs and he shut his mouth.

Fëatur watched intently as Ardana led them down the southern walkway.  At the end, she held her hand upon the stone and part of the wall began to move.  It made a grinding noise and then peeled away into the wall itself, revealing a water passageway to the sea.  There was a small dock beyond where several skiffs were moored.  Ardana and the women boarded, and the Astrologer held up her hand and blew upon the sail, propelling the boat down the passageway.  The portal soon ground back into place, leaving no trace of its existence.  Fëatur grinned broadly, barely able to contain himself.  He motioned the group down the walkway and they ran to the wall. Fëatur placed his hand where Ardana had but nothing happened.  He narrowed his eyes, thinking.  “Yavë, give it a try.”

She took his place and placed the palm of her hand on the wall.  A grinding sound emanated from the wall and it began to move.  Fëatur put his hands together, thanking Mandos.  Then, he made a fist and a satisfied grunt.  “We did it,” he told the group, and they all glowed with happiness.  As before, the portal opened to the dock.  They stepped through and saw a place where Yavë could open the door from the other side.  “We got what we came for.  We should not stay too long, else our cover fail.”

Yavë raised a finger. “There is one thing that we must do, else we appear out of character.  Just follow me and remember what I said.”  She led them back up the staircase to the sixth floor where she went to a solid oak door and knocked.

Her assistant Almariel answered.  Upon seeing Yavëkamba and Fëatur, she lowered her eyes and bowed.  She wore a sky-blue robe, and her black hair was tied back into a ponytail.  “My ladies, how may I help you?”

Fëatur pushed past her, and the assistant jumped back, eyes huge, giving him a wide berth.  “How is Moran?” he asked pointedly.  He hated being like this but it was the role. They could not let anyone suspect.

She gestured into the room where Moran sat with a lute.  “We were just…we were just playing music,” she said nervously.  Moran put the lute down, stood and bowed.  Fëatur’s heart leapt at seeing the man who he hoped would be his son someday.  All that he could remember was his birth and the descriptions that Yavë had given him. Almariel ran back to Moran and then knelt towards the group.  He could tell that Almariel had some chemistry with Moran, but was it just part of her playing as Yavë.  Perhaps it was real.

Yavë shot him a warm look, and he chanced a faint smile.  He looked back at the two.  “I am pleased that you are well.  I’ve been concerned about your health since the courtyard,” he said to both.

Almariel blushed, lowering her head.  “I thank you, mistress, for saving myself and Lady Yavëkamba.  I give thanks to Lord Morgoth, King of the World, for his kindness and benevolence.”  He had once felt that way too.  He hoped that one day, the young lady would see the truth as he did.

Moran made eye contact. He seemed less mature than Morelen, less confident.  He had been through so much with the heinous sacrifices, it truly messed with is emotions. “Yes, thank you Lady Fëatur.  You came just in time.  We will forever be in your debt.”  He gave Yavëkamba a look that only spoke of love.

Fëatur felt a pang of jealousy, but he knew better.  “Good, don’t forget it,” he said in a haughty tone, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. Moran gave him a curious look, but he turned away.  “We have what we need.  Come, let us depart.”

Yavë touched Almariel on the arm.  “Wait for me here.  I’ll escort Lady Fëatur out and then return for you.  Pray, continue your music.  We need some beauty in this place.”  The two bowed as they departed.

The journey back was swift by boat as the moon shone large and crescent in the night sky.  The group was silent, but a sense of success and excitement pervaded.  Smiles grew as they reached the ruined dock.  The skiff came to a stop and Yavë made the rope tie to a post.  Fëatur nodded, satisfaction written all over his face.  “Morelen is alive and we discovered the secret entrance. It has been a good couple of days.” He turned to Lyrin and the acolytes. “I have some final business to conclude here.  Please return to Chrys and give him the good news.  I’ll be along soon.”

Lyrin gave him a knowing smirk and Caladiel blushed, looking down.  Lyrin motioned them to the horses.  “Have fun.  Come on, acolytes, let’s bring the good news back to the Alliance.  I can’t wait to tell father and Chrys.  We have a win today.”  Indeed, they did.  Fëatur found some pride in the young man.  He was truly on a better path.  Not there yet, but on his way.  But who was ever at the end of their journey of growth?

When the group had ridden out of sight, Yavë pulled on his black robes.  “We need to get you changed back.  Keep the robes.  You’ll need them.  I have a suspicion that, when you enchant the card, it will work on the entrance.”  She removed the gold cord around his head and then untied his robes and set the weapons aside.

“I’m glad I didn’t need to fight,” he said, wiping his face of the makeup, lip gloss and eye shadow. “My sister is much better at it than I am.  I’ll have to improve my skill.”

Yavë yanked the robe off, letting her hand glide down his back.  He felt a tingle along his skin.  From behind, she reached through his legs to remove the gauze around his genitals.  He shuddered and closed his eyes.  Yavë was his greatest port in this storm.  His heart raced as she grasped him and kissed his behind.  He started to turn, but she stopped him.  “Not yet.  I’m not done.”  His breath came in gulps and he groaned.  When he thought he could no longer stand it, she spun him around, still kneeling.  She looked up at him with longing eyes and removed her pants and tunic.  He looked down at her bare back and gazed into her eyes.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” he said softly and moved her onto her back on the towel.  She wore only her boots.  He lay on top of her, smiling.  “You are my tether, the one who always brings me back home.  One day, we will be free.  We will be together,” he whispered as he slid inside her.

She moaned quietly.  “I cannot wait for that day, as long as it may take.”

Chapter End Notes

The secret entrance to the Citadel has been found.  What will the Alliance do with that information?  A little more on Lyrin's character arc.  He's coming along but still has a long way to go and his immaturity will factor in the future.

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39)  Infiltrating the Alliance Part 1 - Year of the Sun 492 Lothron (May)

Rilia

The head of the Suit of Staves, the Mistress of Fire, stood on the balcony of her hold of Naurlindol, the Hill of Firey Pools, looking out at the valley below.  Magical golden lanterns lit the platform, bathing it in warm hues.  Night brought a cool breeze to the volcanic crater, which could grow quite hot.  The hold had been delved out of solid rock and modified natural caves that was made by lava, long ago.  The upper levels were set in a cleft at the hilltop, and its walls, floors and columns were crafted of polished rose-hued marble with red veins running through them.  Rilia wore a form-fitting gown of scarlet silk, trimmed in black, with cleavage down to her navel and the skirts barely above her buttocks on her tall, slender body. The fabric was woven with images of fire that moved and flickered on the gown.  Her red leather boots came up above her knees over red stockings and she carried a short staff of gray wood.  Her flaming red hair fell to her shoulders and blended with the gown, making it seem as if her tresses and the fabric were one.  Her tawny, amber eyes were focused, revealing great intelligence behind them.  She was an ethereal beauty, like so many of the Noldor.

Standing beside her were Fairië and Ramarë along with Sirnaur, the Lady of Staves, a Noldor who carried a gray staff and wore full-length robes with blended colors of red, orange and yellow.  On her left breast was a badge, an inverted triangle with a flaming staff superimposed on it.  Sirnaur also wore a kynac with a blade of reddish steel at her hip.  The lady had a dour, serious expression that stood in contrast to the others, and her mid-length black hair was parted in the middle in an almost matronly cut.

“It is time that we put that Fëatur in her place,” Rilia cooed in a melodic voice, a sinister hint behind it. “We will put forth a team that will exceed her Darin Tesarath.  I want us to find members of the so called Alliance and bend them to our will or remove them from the game.  We will find the location of their holds before Fëatur does and take the glory of their destruction for ourselves.”  She twirled about, her skirts rising enough to see that she wore nothing underneath. “Come, let us prepare.  I wish to lead this expedition myself.”  She led them in from the balcony, walking past Sirnaur’s quarters, where the lady excused herself.  “Would you not prefer to join us?” the Sorceress chided the Lady of Staves.

“No, mistress.  I’ll change in my quarters,” she said, clearly embarrassed, her cheeks shaded red.

Rilia scoffed.  “Have it your way.  You’re so prudish.  You need to learn to enjoy the heat…the passion.  I’ll teach you yet and light a fire in your heart.”

Sirnaur coughed nervously and lowered her head.  “I…I have a husband, mistress.”

“What does that matter?” Rilia answered, narrowing her eyes.  She did not get an answer.  “Fine, have it your way.  Meet us when you you’ve finished hiding your body,” she finished with a disapproving snort. Sirnaur bowed and then rushed into her quarters while the others laughed at her discomfort.  The Sorceress gazed at the remaining women.  “You both have spouses and children, but we still enjoy each other.”

They continued on to Rilia’s office and she waved her hand in front of the black iron door that bore the symbol of fire, etched into the metal and leafed in gold and silver.  It was a room with walls of purple marble, polished to a sheen and carpeted in deep reds, scarlets and crimsons.  She picked up a scroll from her desktop, which was crafted from frosted red laen.  They continued past another black door into her bedchambers, which was plushly furnished with numerous mirrors.  Rilia enjoyed gazing at herself.

The Sorceress opened the scroll and read it, her eyes moving back and forth over the Tengwar script, written in Quenya.  She was glad the writer had the education to use Quenya, the language of the High Elves and not the base Sindarin.  The fact that the Sindarin calendar was becoming more common, galled her to no end. She snapped her fingers, getting everyone’s attention.  “Our spies tell us that more and more elven refugees are coming south after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  They’ve formed a new kingdom called Taaliraan that is siding with the Alliance,” she said with a snort.  “But this also provides us with an opportunity.  Our hunting grounds will be fertile with many a chance to gather information,” she added with a sultry smile.

“Our traveling clothes are in the closet,” she added, pointing and Ramarë retrieved three sets of tight, short leather pants and cotton tunics with cloaks in more muted shades of red and gold.  Rilia let her gown fall to the carpet and moved to the mirror, admiring her slender, fit body.  She spun around to look at her backside, letting her eyes move up and down in admiration.  She knew that both men and women, elf and human, wanted to be with her, and she was not particular in that regard.  The fire, the passion, the excitement were what she lived for.

Fairië slid up beside her. “You are perfect, my lady.”  The Silvan elf was nearly a foot shorter, but her fire and energy more than made up for her stature.  She ran her slender hand along the front of Rilia’s body.

Rilia grasped the elf’s hands.  “Mmmm, there will be time for this later.  We have a hunt to perform.  I’ve been researching sightings of members of the Alliance, and I think I know where we might see some prey.”  She gazed into the mirror again, letting her eyes explore the curves of her own body. She loved herself far more than she was able to love anyone else, but she enjoyed her playthings.  Her massive, round bed was the site of much exploration.

Ramarë approached, holding the traveling clothes and Rilia donned them reluctantly, keeping an eye on every last patch of pale flesh as she covered it.  “You look magnificent, my lady,” Ramarë commented.  

The tall Noldor looked down at her people and smiled, feeling smug in her superiority and dominance. The Noldor were truly meant to rule in Middle Earth, whether it be under a High King or Morgoth, she didn’t truly care. Had Fingolfin offered her a land to rule, she might not be here.  The move from Angband set her free.  Life under Morgoth in the north was stifling and dreary.  Ash and snow.  Snow and ash. It never changed.  And the Dark Lord watched everything everyone did, so paranoid was he.  It was crushing her soul.  She didn’t dare say it out loud though.  Not yet at any rate.  But here in the south, she was the mistress of her domain, and her word was law. Ardana did not interfere so long as Rilia’s actions supported her goals.  And the quest to destroy the sun and moon?  Rilia lived in a time before them…in a time under the light of the Two Trees.  It would matter not to her if Middle Earth were returned to that state so long as she could rule where she was.  If Ardana supported her goals, she would support Ardana’s.  Now, they would discover the lairs of the Alliance before the petulant, arrogant Fëatur and put her in her place.  It would also show Ardana that she was more important than that dull fanatic, Gorthaur and that meathead, Castolder, who dared to wed a human and produce a half breed child.  Humans, dwarves, orcs and other creatures were only playthings for her.  She had bedded some in experimentation, but to wed one and produce such a child?  Preposterous.

“We look positively rustic,” Rilia said mockingly.  “We might even be mistaken for some…villagers,” she finished, her words dripping with disdain. The Sorceress was raised in Valinor under the Trees, a land beyond the imaginings of these peasants.  Her mind wandered to a vision of the Two Trees, and she felt a pang of guilt, but it went away quickly.  She led them down the stairs to Naurlindol’s throne room and took the time to climb the three-step dais and sit upon the throne of red and gold. A delicate golden crown was placed on a red cushion on the armrest.  Rilia sat upon the throne, imagining her vast kingdom in Middle Earth.  She raised the crown above her brow, but stopped.  “Not yet.  I’ll be wearing this soon.”  Still, the women, now rejoined by Sirnaur, all knelt and lowered their heads.  Rilia felt a rush of satisfaction and pride. It would happen one day.  She set the crown back on the cushion and led the women down the stairs to the lower halls.

They walked through a tunnel in the rock and could see an orange glow up ahead and the temperature began to climb steadily.  The others appeared uncomfortable, but Rilia was unconcerned.  Her power could easily shield them from most any heat.  She raised her staff once she saw her subordinates begin to sweat and focused her energy around the group and it immediately began to cool around them.  A simple trick.  But her power would help to bring about Ardana’s dreams.  It would be a shame to destroy the vessel that the Maia, Arien, sailed in, but if it brought about her kingdom, so be it.  Arien had been a role model for her in Valinor and Rilia had often sought the Maia’s word on the manipulation of fire.

They entered a large cavern where a massive pool of lava bubbled, and the stench of sulphur was nearly overpowering.  While the others covered their mouths and noses, Rilia reveled in the smell, the smell of power.  The magma fueled her experiments and powered the hold.  She inhaled deeply, enjoying the burning feeling in her nostrils.  They crossed one of four bridges to a central octagonal platform where eight black stone pillars rose to the high ceiling of the cavern.  In the center of the platform was a throne of polished black stone with red cushions. They continued on to the east bridge where eight orc guards knelt as they approached.

“Mistress Rilia,” one said with a lisp.  The orcs were dressed in clean chainmail hauberks and carried cruel looking glaives as weapons.  Though naturally dirty creatures, Rilia insisted upon cleanliness and hygiene, and they somehow complied.  They could be properly trained and motivated with the right touch.

She patted him on the head. “Rise, Prigka.  We are going hunting.  Keep Naurlindol safe until I return.”

“Yes, mistress.”

They continued east, down a long corridor to exit the hill and it grew progressively cooler with every passing yard.  At the end of the tunnel, Rilia waved her hand, and the stone parted to reveal a grassy plain, dotted with trees.  A cool, gentle breeze washed over them.  She then raised her staff and whistled and soon, four horses galloped to them, stopping just short.  Her birthright, her power, her intelligence and her beauty made everything easy.  Domination was her destiny.

They leapt onto the horses and Rilia licked her index finger and held it up into the breeze. “I have a feeling that we should go south, perhaps to this new Taaliraan.  I think we make fine refugees, don’t you think?” she said and then put her heels to her mount’s flanks, and they sped off.

The journey took several days where Rilia was both uncomfortable but exhilarated.  Being out in…nature was a difficulty that she just had to endure to accomplish her mission, and she did want to view her lands personally, plus the lands that would be added to her domain.  Eventually, the jungle gave way to rolling plains and the heat and humidity began to fall.  Instinct and intuition brought her in this direction, and her instincts were rarely wrong.  There was something about this area that just needed her attention.

They set camp at the setting of the sun, and they watched the orange orb dip under the horizon.  Rilia never tired of watching Arien guide the sun across the sky.  “Such power,” she mused out loud.”  As darkness grew, they raised two tents, one for the Lady of Staves and the other for the rest as Rilia pointed to the pile of wood and kindling and it burst into flame.

Ramarë took her lute from her saddle and began to play.  She plucked a few strings and the air itself seemed to vibrate with life. “I’m composing a song for my daughter, Linsûl,” she said, strumming a chord.  “It’s not completed yet, but it will embody the essence of her soul.”

Rilia cupped the bard’s cheek with her hand.  “She will be a beauty, just like her mother, and play just as well.  This I am sure of.”

Ramarë smiled and continued to play as Fairië began to dance, swirling and twirling, her lithe body bending and twisting in nearly impossible poses.  She became a blur of arms and legs, graceful and sensuous.  She dove to her knees in front of Rilia and then bent fully over backwards to face her mistress with a smile, head upside down. It would have broken the spine of any normal woman.  Rilia leaned forward and kissed her.

Sirnaur coughed uncomfortably.  “I will bid you goodnight, mistress.  Have a good evening, all,” she said, excusing herself, her face blank.  Rilia smiled but rolled her eyes.  The woman’s dour, full length skirt was positively uninspired and downright boring.  She was determined to draw her out, but it could wait.  The Lady of Staves would be another conquest.  The three remaining ladies cuddled by the campfire until they fell into meditative slumber.

Dawn awoke them and Sirnaur was already up, tending to the campfire, cooking something on a skillet. It smelled like fish.  Rilia blinked in the growing sunlight and stretched, causing Fairië and Ramarë to groan as they snuggled next to her.  “Time to rise, my sweets.  I have a feeling that we will catch our prey today.  Those Alliance people will have to help lost travelers and then, you ladies will know what to do.”  She pulled the blanket off of their bare bodies and then went to the nearby river to wash her traveling clothes.  The others followed suit, wading into the water and splashing about. Sirnaur appeared hesitant and Rilia gestured her into the water.  “Come in! The water is delightful and you definitely need a bath!” she ordered playfully.

Sirnaur made a face but then threw her clothes in the water and waded in slowly.  The Sorceress’ relentless pressure wore her down.  Then, a grin spread across her lips, and she jumped in next to the others.  Rilia smiled approvingly.  Like young elves, they giggled and flung water at each other.  It was a joyous, unassuming moment that Rilia basked in. Unlike the dour Gorthaur, the petulant Fëatur or the simple Castolder, she was a fire that could not be quenched. And what good was power if you could not have fun.

The sound of hooves that suddenly stopped got their attention and they froze.  Rilia frowned for a moment, furious with herself that she was caught so off guard.  She looked up to see two elves on horseback now staring down at them.  The first man’s eyes were huge and the second’s mouth wide open.  “Ummm, pardon me, ladies,” the first man said.  “We…we did not expect anyone along this pathway.”  The first man was dressed in fine, silver plate armor with a surcoat of blue and gold.  His long hair was black and straight and his features strong and noble with iron gray eyes. The second wore robes of green and gray and he carried a white staff.

Rilia made a poor effort to cover herself as she moved slowly to retrieve her staff.  “We did not expect anyone either.  Just who are you,” she said, getting her voice to quail and her hands to shake.  Her eyes were wide with mock fear.  She needed to play this just right.

The lead man drew his sword and pointed it at her staff, while the second began to glow with power. “Please don’t touch that just yet, but if you wish to dress, please do so.  But no sudden moves,” he said politely.

The women crept slowly, carefully.  Rilia put her boots on first, keeping their attention, then her tunic.  She looked up again, maintaining her best fearful look. “Might I ask who you are again? And do you intend to…harm us?  Please, we are just refugees from the north who have become lost.  Please don’t hurt us,” she pleaded, putting her pants on slowly, watching his interest.

The men seemed to relax and lowered their weapons.  “No, we intend you no harm,” the leader said, though with a hint of suspicion.  “I am Eldanar, King of Taaliraan and this is Celumener, my herald.  We have come from the north ourselves so you are in good company.  Might we know your names, good ladies?”

Rilia made herself relax and sighed a breath of relief, patting her chest and fanning her face. “Oh, thank the Valar!  You caught us in such a vulnerable state.  We were afraid that you would…but thank you.  We saw such horrors in the north ere we fled. I am Celestë and my friends, Tarien,” she said, gesturing to Sirnaur who blushed furiously, “and Karya,” she added for Ramarë, “and Allisa,” she finished for Fairië.  “And you are a king?” she asked, her voice full of wonder. “We have…we have never met a king. Are you the protector of these fair lands, my lord?”  She motioned the others to kneel, and they did, lowering their heads, their wet hair draped over their faces and chests.

The two men dismounted. “No, no, please rise,” Eldanar said, motioning upwards with his hands.  He was truly a Noldorin lord from his looks and bearing.  We have a home for you, if you wish.  Our keep, Kirnak, is not very far from here.  We would welcome you should you need food, supplies, clothing or anything else.  Our kingdom is made mostly of refugees from the wars in Beleriand.  I would be honored to host you,” he said with a respectful bow.

Rilia opened her eyes wide, and her mouth fell open.  “What? Really?  No, we couldn’t impose, truly.”    

King Eldanar waved his hand, side to side.  “Nonsense. Though our kingdom is new, we are very prosperous.  Many share your story, and you would be welcome.  We have much work to do, but in the twenty years since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, we have built a vibrant land.  So, it would be no bother, rest assured.”

Rilia looked at the other women, pretending to think.  They then whispered amongst themselves for a minute before she turned back and nodded. “Thank you, good king.  We are in your debt.  It has been a long road to get here.  We heard rumors of friends here in the south, especially this…this Alliance.  Are you the Alliance?” she asked, looking at him sideways.

He shook his head. “No…well, not officially.  We are…allies with the Alliance-”

“Oh,” she interrupted, “Then it does exist!  Praise the Valar.  My intuition was right.  We have come to safety at last.  Please good king, how do we get to Taaliraan?  May we meet this alliance?  We wish to serve.  We have some skills with magic, cleaning and cooking.  We are not masterful, but we can fight too.  We will earn our keep.”

“There’s no need for me to point the way.  We can take you there.  In Taaliraan, we all give effort to make the land better for all.  Your skills will be valued, and we are all treated with dignity. We all have seen so much horror in this world that we want to create a new one, here in the south.”  He brought his horse over and gestured for two of the women to climb into the saddle.  Rilia and Ramarë climbed up while Sirnaur and Fairië mounted the other horse.  The men began leading them south.

They soon saw a castle with white marble walls and tall spires, like those in the north.  “There,” Eldanar said, pointing, “That is Kirnak, our fortress.  There is still construction ongoing, but it is nearly completed.  These lands are mostly safe.  My contacts in The Alliance do warn us that forces of Morgoth are in the region.  They call them the Court of Ardor,” he added darkly.

Rilia put her hand over her mouth.  “They sound…sound formidable.  The Alliance seems so knowledgeable about the area.”

“They’ve been here much longer…for centuries I believe, perhaps even longer.  They are sending emissaries to meet with us soon.  We hope for more information and to form a more permanent arrangement.  They tell us that our arrival alters the balance of power in the region.”  He waved to the gate guards who activated a mechanism, and the gates began to slide into the walls.  “I previously met with their leader, Chrys Menelrana of The House of Finarfin.  He is a good sort, and I think that this will be a positive thing.”

Rilia’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Chrys.  He was one of the Court’s primary targets.  If they could get that fool, Lyaan, and his family here too, she could wipe the lot of them out.  Ardana would be sure to grant her the entirety of the region as a reward after the fall of the sun and moon.  And if she could kill Lyaan before Castolder did, it would be a personal victory.  “We have heard much the same on our travels. Which house do you belong to, my king?”

“I am cousin to King Turgon of Gondolin.  We have his blessing to establish a kingdom here.  According to Chrys, much of the trade with the north has ceased, but we hope to reestablish networks one day.”  He led the horse in through the gate and stable hands took the reins as the women jumped off.

Rilia practically bounced as she looked around the busy city streets.  There were shops, food kiosks, guard houses and towers and clean pathways through the grounds.  She inhaled the scent of fresh fruit, vegetables and meat.  Fountains sprayed water along the tree lined route, giving Kirnak a peaceful serenity.  Guards came to attention as Eldanar and his herald passed, bowing respectfully.  Rilia touched the his arm.  “My king, we do not wish to be a burden upon you any longer. Is there somewhere we could stay? We’ll be no trouble, really.  And please tell us how we may serve,” she said with a curtsey.

Eldanar pointed up towards the keep, a fortress with high walls and guard towers.  “We have quarters there.  You are welcome to stay and establish yourselves.  I would be remiss if I didn’t see to your needs.  Follow me.  We’ll get you settled.”

This was working far better than Rilia had anticipated.  She shot the other women a satisfied look and then returned to being the dutiful subject.  They followed Eldanar and Celumener to the keep where another great gate parted for them. Elven warriors lined the streets, dressed in armor of green and gold, reminiscent of leaves.  Rilia surveyed them with concern, her earlier satisfaction shaken.  This new power in Southern Middle Earth could very well tip the balance as Eldanar had said. The Court had been smug in its numerical superiority over the forces of the Alliance, who had not yet stood in open battle against the Court.  This could change things.  Thus far, the Alliance had only staged guerilla style warfare, striking and vanishing, a very Silvan thing to do.  “You have quite a force here.  I feel safe already,” Rilia said in mock admiration.  “I never imagined that we Noldor would create such a secure new kingdom so far away from Beleriand.”

Eldanar nodded, a faraway look in his eyes.  “It was a challenge.  When the Falas were taken, Cirdan gave us passage south to safety.  It was years before we could establish a realm.  We elves tend to become complacent.  Years mean nothing to us.  I learned much from our Edain allies though.  Time is precious.  We no longer have centuries or even years in the face of Morgoth’s onslaught. We now have months.  We must see the world through the eyes of the men and move more quickly.  Thus, what you see was completed in fifteen years.  Quite the accomplishment for elves.”

Perhaps there was some wisdom in what he said.  Rilia pursed her lips.  It was true that the elves saw time in such a different manner.  She was honestly surprised by the growth of Taaliraan in such a short time.  It was quite unelven.  Her mind raced as to how the Court could counter this new threat and she chided herself for being lazy for years.  This would change.  For now, they would gather information and seek opportunities.  “This is impressive, my king.  My intuition was right.  We have come home,” she said as she brushed his arm with her hand.

They entered the keep, which still had construction ongoing.  Defenses were being finished, and guard quarters were being created with wood and stone.  The sound of workmen chiseling and sawing filled the main hall as sunlight streamed through wide windos.  Several stewards came out to greet the king.  “These women are refugees from the north as we are,” Eldanar told them.  “Please show these ladies our hospitality and get them settled.”  He looked at Rilia.  “I will check in on you soon.  It was a pleasure meeting you and welcoming you to Taaliraan.”  The women bowed as he departed.  

Three stewards, a man and two women, gestured to the women to follow.  “Greetings,” a young elf said as he pointed up a wide marble staircase that was carpeted in blue and silver, the colors of the House of Fingolfin.  The stewards were dressed in flowing white robes with a badge of the House, a winged star superimposed on the sun.  They all had the dark hair of the Noldor.  They led the women to rooms on the Second Floor where they put their meager belongings.

“I am Celestë and I heard that members of the Alliance may be here soon,” Rilia said, more of a question. “We fled from the north and in our travels, we heard much about them, a decent force for good in the region.” She was probing a little harder now. She gestured about her room, which was very quaint, something simple, fit for a servant in the household, but comfortable.  “This is far better than what we had in months.  Please thank good King Eldanar.

The steward bowed with a smile.  “We treat our guests with courtesy and respect.  And yes, emissaries from the Alliance will be here in two days.  It will be an auspicious moment and a way forward for the free peoples,” he said in a voice mixed with pride and hope.

“That is so wonderful to hear,” Rilia said, practically gushing.  “Would it be…would it be possible…possible to meet them?  We’ve been on the run for months and it would be nice…so nice to feel safe again,” she added, stuttering in her excitement.

“I don’t see why not. I can ask and we will let you know,” the steward said hopefully.

Fairië snuggled up to him, stroking his chest.  “That would be so wonderful if you could.  We would be in your debt,” she cooed, and the steward smiled.  “What should we call you, sir?”

“I am Pathanar,” he said and then pointed to the two female stewards.  “That is Aphredil and this is Mithiel.”

The women bowed.  “We cannot thank you enough for your hospitality,” Rilia said respectfully while she thought of ways to exploit them.  The stewards nodded and left them to their room. Rilia grinned at the others.  The plan was going well.  Fairië knew to keep pushing the limits.  It would not be long before they ferreted out the secrets of the Alliance.   

Chapter End Notes

I want Rilia to be amoral, but intelligent and able to adapt and learn.  She is mainly concerned with her own power and comfort.  She has one soft spot and that is the Maia Arien.  We also make the switch to the Sindarin calendar.  

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40)  Infiltrating the Guild Part 2 - Year of the Sun 492 Nórui (June)

Rilia

The ladies of The Court settled into a routine over the next two days, helping with castle chores, doing more than was needed, showing talent in organization and magic as well as exploring Kirnak.  They showed honest effort in helping around the keep.  They were getting noticed by the staff as people who could get things done, people full of fire and energy.  The work was mostly drudgery, but Rilia found some solace in performing the tasks.  Her mind wandered back to Valinor, learning from the Vala, Nessa.  Nessa was full of life and energy, called The Dancer, and Rilia basked in that radiance, doing whatever it took to be in her light, cleaning and organizing.  Then, she met Arien, a servant of Vána, the wife of Oromë.  Arien was brilliant, a flame of passion and Rilia was enamored.  The Maia was tall, ethereally beautiful with fiery red hair like hers and eyes so bright that one could barely look into them.  She learned all that she could about fire and the control of essence from the Maia.  Soon, she could not be burned by all but the hottest of infernos.  The power filled her soul and ignited her imagination.

In her passion and beauty, she found the attention of men and some women.  She realized that there was power in being pursued and she relished it. Drama soon followed as people vied for her attention, but this was a good thing, something she found exciting. And Arien did not seem to mind her indiscretions.  The Maia understood desire and power.  It was a narcotic.

Then came Melkor.  The recalcitrant Vala, who almost held more power than all of the other Valar combined.  She knew her history and the Battle of Powers that reshaped the world.  She knew that he had been imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos for three ages for his crimes.  Somehow, Manwë decided to release the Vala.  But now Melkor’s words were nectar, soft, sweet, promising the power that the Noldor desired.  “The Valar are stifling your destiny…your energy…your passion,” he told her.  It was true.  Whenever she wanted more from the Valar, it was always, “be patient. Wait.”  The fire in her heart could no longer wait.  Ardana soon came to the forefront of those who learned at Melkor’s feet.  She had a cold brilliance that none could deny, her mind quicker than most with personal insight that shined like the stars she adored.  Before long, Melkor swept them back to Middle Earth to his fortress of Angband to begin a new world, one of power and domination as they were destined for.  It was to be a golden age.

Rilia sighed heavily as she polished a wooden picture frame.  Despite the power she wielded, things were becoming increasingly complex. There was a comfort in simplicity at times, and she refocused on the frame, pushing her oiled rag into the crevices of the wood, ensuring that a shine came to the surface.  If she were not who she was, this would be a good life.

Her attention was caught by a commotion in the rotunda.  The staff were abuzz with news that a delegation from the Alliance would be visiting shortly to negotiate a formal treaty.  She listened to the conversations that erupted nearby.  This would create a new and peaceful land in which all of the free peoples could prosper.  Taaliraan would be an equal member of The Alliance.  Representatives of The Guild of Element, The Three and The Enclave would be there.  People began to put up banners and streamers for decoration in the rotunda.  Music wafted down from the upper levels, notes of hope, looking for a better future.  If only they would bow to The Court, they would have it.

Pathanar approached the women in their room, all smiles.  “I have good news, though I’m sure you’ve already heard part of it. Members of the Alliance are on their way to Kirnak.  They should be here in a day or so,” Pathanar told them.  Rilia noticed that he was alone, a good sign that he could be coopted without the interference of the others.  “I forwarded your request to the Royal Council, and they will consider it. I feel good about it though.”

Fairië snuggled up to his chest.  “You’ve been such a wonderful host.  We have no way to properly thank you.  We came with the clothes on our backs, fleeing from the north and you took us in like kin.”

Pathanar grinned. “It has been my pleasure,” he said, spreading his hands wide.  “Like you, I lived in the north in Hithlum.  So many of us were displaced after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  There were a few who wished to leave after Fingolfin fell, but we were committed to stand with Fingon.  After Fingon was slain, we fled to the Falas.  A number of our learned members knew that there were friendly settlements in the south, and we came here.  We have not been disappointed.  We have found peace and friendship in this strange, humid land.” His face was full of pride over their accomplishments with a hint of sadness over the past.  He pointed towards the white marble staircases that led to the towers and the royal halls, and they followed him further into the central rotunda.  “The layout and social structure of Kirnak is designed to be more egalitarian than kingdoms in the north.  Like the north, we have a sense of community where everyone contributes to the whole, but we try to take it to a whole new level,” he said, pointing out art and sculptures in the area.  “The Queen created some of the pieces that you see here.  And note how the keep is situated within the realm.”  The structure was central to Kirnak, but it was well interconnected with the rest of the city and did not sit so elevated over the people. “The keep is open with few restrictions on the residents, and the King speaks freely and openly with the people, a first among equals rather than a true ruler.”

Rilia thought for a moment, unsure of whether to see this as pathetic or noble.  It would require further thought.  As long as it didn’t interfere with her place in society, she really shouldn’t care.

They walked across elaborate and well-made carpets, expertly woven with images of the north; The River Sirion, Nargothrond, the Falas and other depictions of elven life. Magical lanterns lit the rotunda where shopkeepers would soon take over for the business day when the sun rose. Kirnak was an orderly and well-run castle.

Fairië took Pathanar’s hand.  “Please, please let us know when you can,” she said and then pointed to shops that were starting to open.  “We should get some things to decorate our room, and we’ll need clothes for the reception. Please excuse us, Pathanar.  We would dearly love to see you again soon.” She walked off as Rilia gauged the steward’s reaction and she gave a satisfied smile as he watched Fairië glide away.  Rilia bowed to him as she went to join the others.  Sunlight began to stream through the windows, and the marketplace soon became lively in a calm, elven sort of way with quiet greetings and curt bows. Bargaining was polite and reserved with fair prices always negotiated for both sides.  It was the type of order that Rilia preferred.  She put some ideas in the back of her mind for later.  Prosperity for her lands was important to her.  She was not a tyrant, after all.  The drab domination of Angband was not something she wished to recreate.  She wanted happy people…who all served her.

They decorated their room with the finely crafted items from the market, carefully placing them to their taste.  It actually began to feel like home in a strange way.  Rilia missed the power of her domain, the ease in which she manipulated essence, the respect and devotion of her followers, but this was different and not unpleasant.  The people here were friendly and respectful.  The fire in her heart felt…cooler.  She looked out of the window of their room into the night sky, gazing at the moon.  She thought of the Maia, Tillion, who sailed the great vessel.  Legend said that he loved the Arien, who sailed the sun.  He tried to go to her, to profess his love, but the heat of the sun scorched his vessel, and he was forced to retreat.  To this day, the moon flew an erratic course, sometimes seen and sometimes unseen, sometimes in the same sky as the sun, trying to approach Arien again.

She raised her finger skywards.  “I’m not the same star lover that Ardana is,” she began to say to the other women, “but I appreciate the tales.  It is said that even our lord Morgoth desired beautiful Arien and sought to ravish her…claim her as his own.  In her own immense power, she was tempted, but she…remained steadfast and rejected him, fighting him off…so I’ve heard, but others say that she was violated.  It is said that she possesses the strength of many balrogs, so I believe that she repulsed him.  I can only imagine such power…such command of flame,” she added with pure wonder. “I would die before I allowed such a thing to happen, no matter who it was attacking me, Morgoth included.” She turned to face the others, a faraway look in her eyes.  She knew that her followers were not so fortunate to have seen Valinor or the Trees.  She took a breath and continued, her audience enraptured by the tale.  “So, Arien accepted the role of Guardian of Anar, the sun, which we Noldor call Vása and she underwent the Tanyasalpë, the purifying bath of flame.  There is a great basin in Valinor that consists of walls of gold and bronze with an encircling arcade of great golden pillars, topped with the essence of the Flame Eternal.  It was there that Yavanna set a great and nameless spell upon the basin and poured the nectar of the fruit of the trees upon it, which burst into an inferno of unimaginable heat.  Arien entered the purifying bath and became a naked fire, her spirit given to the passion of flame.”  Rilia’s admiration was obvious.  It would be her life’s dream to be purified by the Tanyasalpë and be a spirit of fire. Alas, but for the Ban of the Valar brought about by Fëanor and his foolish sons.  She could not return to Valinor.

Rilia shed her clothing in imitation of the purifying flame and her body glowed orange for a moment as fire flickered around her form.  She gasped as if in ecstasy, closing her eyes as the heat died away, replaced by the cool night breeze, prickling her skin.  Her breath shuddered as a smile spread across her lips.  “Mmmm, come, my ladies, we should get some rest.  The Alliance delegation will be here tomorrow.  We should greet them properly.”  Her feet glided over the hardwood floors to the bed, and she slid between the silken sheets, cool to the touch.  Sirnaur went to her own bed, but the others lay beside Rilia, arms and legs intertwined.  The Sorceress kissed the bard and the assassin and then drifted off into blissful meditation.

Dawn broke and they awoke with a sense of excitement.  Rilia stretched and then rushed to the window to see the sun rising.  Arien was just starting to climb into the sky once more. She inhaled deeply as Fairië and Ramarë came up to her from behind and wrapped their arms around her waist.  She looked down onto the streets where the people were abuzz.  Soldiers began to line the wide avenue leading from the main gate to the keep as people strung decorations and streamers from lamp posts.  The Alliance delegation must be approaching.  Rilia noticed a letter had been pushed under the door.  She quickly opened it and read it aloud.

“My ladies, I am pleased to tell you that you have been included in the reception for the Alliance delegation.  Please come down and meet with the stewards this morning at your earliest convenience and they will go over the protocol with you.  Outside your door is clothing for the reception.  I am looking forward to seeing you again.  Eldanar.”

Fairië had already pulled the box in from the hall and opened it to show luxurious silk robes in shades of reds, yellows and oranges.  She handed them out and Sirnaur went behind a partition to change out of her night clothes. Rilia rolled her eyes and held her robes up over her bare body, admiring her slender figure in a mirror.  “Ah, the king is so kind,” she said.  “Come, let us learn more about the members of the Alliance.  We know what to do to get close to them and find the location of their holds.”  She sighed and then reluctantly put the robes on.

They ran down the steps where they saw the stewards, who were organizing the reception. Decorations and banners had already been placed in the rotunda, and the marketplace would be closed for the day. Pathanar, Aphredil and Mithiel waved to them.  “Over here, ladies!” Pathanar called, summoning them over.  “Ah, this is fortuitous.  The King informed us that you may attend the reception for the Alliance. We will be greeting them in the courtyard.  The function will take place on the upper levels of the keep, but we will have a formal introduction here in the rotunda.”

The ladies clapped, practically squealing in joy.  “This is so wonderful,” Rilia said, her amber eyes wide and innocent.  Musicians began to play, tuning instruments and clearing throats as others put the finishing touches on banners and streamers in the rotunda.  It was to be an auspicious day.  Pathanar gestured towards the open gate to the keep.  Crowds had already gathered outside, men, women and children, all dressed in their finest.  Happy, hopeful faces were everywhere, each person wishing for a better future, free of war and destruction.  Rilia had to admit that it was a noble goal…only it should be under the guidance of The Court with her in a leadership position.  If that were the case, maybe an arrangement could be made.  Perhaps then, the destruction of the sun and moon would not be necessary.  She struggled with the idea behind the death of Arien, her idol.  No, she needed to stay the course for Ardana.  In darkness, these people would beg for guidance and leadership.

Horns sounded, playing a melodious tune, heralding the arrival of the delegation and voices in the rotunda went silent.  All eyes went to the entrance to the keep.  Pathanar swung his arm towards the gate.  “It sounds like the delegation has arrived in the city.  Come, the king and his family will be waiting.”

Rilia narrowed an eye. “I didn’t know that the king had a family.”  This could complicate things.  She had hoped to work on someone who was single.  She would need to learn more.  “His family must be lovely,” she said, hiding her concern.

“They most definitely are,” he said glowingly.  “The King’s wife, Tathriel, is kind and gentle and the people love her.  His son, Prince Tarador, is a strapping young man, learning and following in the King’s footsteps.  And, they have a daughter on the way too.  Such a lovely family.  Simply lovely.”

Rilia forced a smile. “Yes, absolutely lovely.”  They went through the gate into the grand courtyard that was ringed in manicured gardens, overflowing with bright and fragrant flowers.  Petals floated on the breeze as their hair fluttered.  A pavilion had been erected for the greeting, and the King and his family sat there under a colorful awning that shaded the area.

Eldanar smiled when he saw them and gestured them over.  He was dressed in golden robes that were woven with hues of red and silver, reminiscent of the Two Trees.  A simple crown of laurel was upon his brow.  He sat with many other dignitaries and citizens of Taaliraan, all dressed in elven finery.  Banners and streamers blew in the wind, and the people waved the flags of the kingdom. The King stood and greeted them. “Welcome, my new friends.  I would like to introduce you to the Queen, Tathriel and my son, Tarador,” he said, gesturing to them.  The ladies bowed deeply.  The Queen was radiant, her cheeks rosy.  She wore blue and silver robes that shimmered in the light.  A simple but elegant strand of mithril, woven into geometric patterns, was on her brow beneath her deep brown hair.  Their son was a young adolescent, fresh faced and innocent with black hair parted in the middle.  He barely noticed the ladies, so intent was he on the arrival. The King gestured to seats a few rows back.  “Please, make yourselves comfortable.  The delegation should be here shortly.”

They took their seats and could see a procession approaching, banners of The Alliance held high. Rilia craned her neck to get a better view, her eyes scanning.  Leading the way was The Guild of Elements, their sigil a pentagon with the symbols of fire, water, earth, air and light at each junction.  At the head of that group was a tall, blonde elf who must be Chrys Menelrana.  Next came The Three, led by that fool Lyaan, his wife and that man boy of a son along with some young acolytes.  They bore no banners, simple people that they were.  The Enclave appeared to be a scholarly group in hooded robes and staves.  They were known to be some of the greatest minds in the south.  Their banner was a field of stars that surrounded a single, bright star.  If all went well, they would soon be working for The Court…or dead.

Excitement grew as they walked up to the pavilion.  Eldanar and his family stood, along with the herald, Celumener, who blew his horn and then bowed to the delegation.  “We welcome the delegates of The Alliance to our fair city of Kirnak,” he said aloud so that all in the courtyard could hear.  He bowed deeply and then gestured to the Royal Family.  “I would like to introduce King Eldanar, Queen Tathriel and Prince Tarador.”

Bows were exchanged and the blond elf extended his hand, which Eldanar took.  “It’s good to see you again, Chrys,” the King said with a smile. To see Chrys Menelrana this close was difficult for Rilia.  He was the champion of her enemy...the enemy of all of their goals and dreams.  He brought his family with him too, his wife and son.  His son, introduced as Laurre Menelrana, was the image of a High Elf lord, but his wife…his wife was a mere Silvan Elf.  Chrys was no better than that empty-headed Castolder with his human wife, who would age and die in just a few decades.  Next came The Three, Lyaan, Lysa and Lyrin.  She studied their faces closely, ensuring that she could remember them. She saw Fairië fidget for a moment.

“What are you thinking?” Rilia asked.

“That one…Lyaan’s son…he looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

The Enclave came next, a bunch of astrologers and philosophers, much like Ardana’s inner circle. Celumener blew another blast of his horn and the King and people bowed to their guests.  Entertainers then filled the courtyard, singing, dancing and playing instruments to fill the area with radiant sound.  Songs in praise of Valinor and the glories of the elven lands rose throughout the city.  Ramarë seemed unimpressed.  This was her area of expertise, and she excelled as a bard.  “I could do much better,” she muttered.

Rilia smiled vacantly. She knew this to be true.  Ramarë was one of the finest bards that she had ever known other than Maglor.  Still, she enjoyed the performance, just taking in the sights and sounds and studying the members of the Alliance, their looks, their habits and their preferences. How could she exploit this?  As they spoke with the King and his family, she began to see patterns.  Chrys had a bold, but humble personality.  He valued leading by example and was open about his mistakes and actively tried to correct them.  The other members of the Guild were as varied as could be, from dour to lively. Lyaan and Lysa were reserved and almost monastic in their outlook.  They preferred lives of quiet reflection, except for the son, Lyrin.  There was a boyish immaturity to him and a fire that seemed on the verge of exploding.  This could be exploited.  The next question was how to get close to these people.

When the performances had concluded, there was cheering and applause in a polite, controlled elven manner. The King and his guests stood and Celumener and the stewards led the procession to the keep.  Rilia and the others moved in closer to be able to get a better view, perhaps even interact with the guests.  She tapped the King on the shoulder and bowed when he turned.  “My good king, thank you for allowing us to participate in this ceremony.  We are so honored to be here after such a long journey from the north.”

He smiled as she took his hand and touched her forehead to it, letting her red hair fall over his arm. “I am glad you could attend, Celestë. This is a proud moment for all of Taaliraan and the south.  Come, let us head to the Rotunda for the reception.  There will be refreshments and more entertainment,” he said as he wrapped his arms around his wife and son.  There was a joy in his face that was undeniable.  Rilia began to doubt that he could be…seduced.  Surely there would be other avenues to success.

As they made their way to the rotunda, Rilia and the women mingled among the Alliance members and their entourage.  Chrys marveled at the city and the keep.  “I am reminded of fair Vinyamar,” he said of Turgon’s first city on the coast of Nevrast. “White walls and wide avenues with magnificent gates.  You have truly brought the splendor of the north to us, Eldanar.  It is good to have more kin amongst us.”

The King clapped him on the back.  “You are the image of your cousin, Finrod.  He was a great man and is truly missed.  His valor and sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

Chrys gave him a warm smile, nodding his head.  There was pride, but a deep sense of sadness in his expression.  He gestured for his wife, Aelrie, her sister Miriani and Laurre to go ahead as he spoke quietly with Eldanar.  Rilia worked her way through the crowd to get a better view of the family.  The jostling among people was quite annoying.  In Naurlindol and other Court holds, everyone moved for her.  Even the inner circle gave her a wide berth when she demanded it, such was her power in essence.  She closed her eyes and took a breath.  This would take more patience than she feared she had.  The Lady of Staves, Sirnaur, put her hand on her leader’s shoulder and nodded, a comforting gesture.  Sirnaur was a quiet woman of infinite patience, something Rilia lacked.  She might have been better suited to work for Fëatur with her demeanor.  They pushed forward to where Aelrie and Miriani were chatting with Tathriel as Laurre joked with young Tarador.  She looked for an angle, a way in to get to know these people and ferret out any weakness. She towered over the two Silvan women, smug in her superiority.  Silvans were generally servants, tools for her use.  She moved on to get closer to The Three.

As the entered the rotunda, Lyaan moved with the grace and skill of a man well versed in close combat. His arms were folded into the opposite sleeves, and he had an inscrutable expression that was difficult to discern.  Lysa was the same way, serene and wise, nothing more than a faint smile on her lips. Their auburn hair put them in the House of Fëanor as Rilia was.  Passion, fire and creativity defined that house so it was perplexing that they were so…peaceful.  Lyrin was another story, eyes wandering, gazing at all of the sights of a city.  He was in the company of two Noldorin men and one Sindarin woman, obviously friends.  By their behavior and words, Rilia knew them to be young…perhaps even immature.  This was the weak point.  This was where she would dig.

She signaled for the other women to hang back.  There was something about what Fairië said about Lyrin gave her pause.  Fairië was already hanging on Pathanar so Rilia needn’t worry.  The Sorceress moved in close to the four young elves and put on her best youthful act, even though that time was eons ago.  There was a brief flash of memory back to when she was a young girl, waiting on the shores of Middle Earth to journey to Valinor.  She summoned the same feeling, a sense of wonder and innocence.

“Hello!” she said breathlessly.  “I…I…you are with the Alliance, are you not?  Are we safe with you?  I’ve heard so many things.”  Her amber eyes were wide with awe.  She reached out her hand to touch one of Lyrin’s friends.  “I can’t believe that you’re really here!”  She let out an excited squeak.

The one young man smirked. “We get that all of the time,” he quipped, seemingly full of himself.  “I am Anuven and my friends, Edenor, Caladiel and Lyrin.”

Rillia opened her red lips wide.  “Oh, I…I…I am so honored.  We’ve been…been waiting for this moment for so, so long.”  She brushed his white robes with her fingertips.  “Oh my.  You are real,” she said with a gasp.

Anuven chuckled and blushed.  “Why yes, my lady, I am certainly real,” he said as he thumped his chest with both hands. This was going to be much easier than working on Eldanar or Chrys and his family.  “And may we know your name?”

She tapped her breast. “I…I am Celestë.  I work in the rotunda here, cleaning and organizing.  It’s good work.  I want to…I want to help.  May I stand with you during the ceremony?”

The men glanced at each other and grinned.  “Why of course, dear Celestë,” Edenor said.

Caladiel glanced at Rilia sideways, narrowing her eyes.  “There’s a light within you that seems…  It seems like you’re older than you sound,” she said, thinking.

Rilia realized that it was the light of Valinor that shone within her.  She was one of the Eldar, those elves who crossed the sea to the Blessed Realm and stood beneath the light of the Two Trees.  She needed to deflect.  She held her hands over her heart.  “Oh…I…I get that a lot.  We…we fled from the north after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  How horrible it was.  Simply horrible.  I served in the House of Fëanor.  Though I was nobody, I learned some things from his sons.  A…a light…a fire grew within me to grow and be of service.”

Anuven gave Caladiel a skeptical look.  “What? Celestë looks younger than we are. Of course, we elves usually look young forever,” he said with a chuckle.  “Come, the ceremony is starting.”  Caladiel looked down and said no more about it.

Singers ran out into the middle of the rotunda in perfect, practiced coordination as instruments began a low hum.  Voices then called out softly at first, rising in pitch and volume.  It was as if the music of the heavens had opened up and flowed through the marble halls and pillars, filling the souls of the people with hope and majesty.  Even Rilia was awed, mouth open.  The very song held power and images of the Gardens of Lorien floated above their heads and the scent of flowers filled their nostrils.  Rilia blinked hard and her eyes misted.  It was…it was like being home.  She could see Nessa’s kind face before her, reaching out.  Then, the song ended, the vision faded and Rilia’s body trembled. 

“Are you alright?” Lyrin asked her.  The other men touched her arm in support.

“I am…I…it was just so beautiful.  I could only imagine being there and seeing all of those wonderous sights.”

“We were all born here after the rising of the sun and moon,” Caladiel told her.  “It would have been so beautiful to see.”

On the central podium, Eldanar stood with Chrys, and they raised their hands together to cheers.  “This concludes the greeting ceremony!” the King called out, a wide grin on his face.  “We will retire to the Council Chambers to finish the details of this historic alliance. Please be well and enjoy the day!” He and Tathriel went with his counselors along with The Guild, Lyaan and Lysa and The Enclave to finalize the treaty.

Lyrin shrugged.  “I guess I don’t merit attendance at that party,” he said with a hint of a cloud over his words.

Anuven smirked. “Well, that just gives us time to tour the city,” he said in consolation.  He then gave Lyrin a fake body blow and the three men began a mock battle, punching, blocking and dodging while laughing out loud.  He looked at Rilia.  “Don’t mind us.  It’s just a-”

“Childish thing,” Caladiel finished.

Rilia gave them an understanding smile.  “It’s quite alright.  I’m very young myself,” she lied.  Well, compared to the Ainur, it was true so she could justify her answer.  “I haven’t been here long, coming from the north, but I have had the chance to explore.  I would honored to be your guide today.”

Edenor raised an eyebrow with a grin.  “We’d love that.  Please, lead on.”

Rilia glanced back into the crowd and made eye contact with her comrades and nodded.  They knew to return to their quarters and to change their appearances, just in case Lyrin knew them from somewhere.  Fairië gave her a wink, letting her know that things were going well with Pathanar.  They would rejoin her soon in a “chance” encounter.  It was something that the assassin and the bard excelled at.

She turned back to her new friends.  “Oh, I’m so excited.  Follow me!” she exclaimed and began skipping over the lush carpet of the rotunda.  The three men exchanged glances and smiled at some inside joke while Caladiel followed silently.  “The market here is closed today because of the ceremony but there is another market further down.  Trade with dwarven and human settlements has brought in some very interesting items and the food there is superb.”  She pointed down the wide main avenue that was beginning to clear out of people who were heading back to their homes and shops.  “There is a kiosk that serves the most excellent crab cakes, fresh from the bay nearby.  I would highly recommend them,” she said, taking Anuven and Edenor by the arms and leading them along.

They walked along the avenue, past cozy cottages and homes that blended seamlessly into parks and greenery.  Flowering bushes lined the walkways with magical lampposts dotting the roads.  Arriving at the market, Rilia inhaled the scent of various foods and vendors.  Fresh fruit and vegetables waited for buyers while other kiosks cooked and baked.  The smell of baked bread wafted past them, and she realized that she was hungry.  She picked up a cinnamon loaf and put a few copper coins into the hand of the vendor.  “I really love these,” she gushed.  “Come, the crab cakes are this way.”  She led them into the restaurant and saw two of her friends, already seated.  She feigned surprise.  “Oh, Karya and Allisa!  What brings you here?” she asked.  Their hair and makeup was different, concealing their true identities.

The bard stood, mouth agape.  “Celestë! We did not expect to see you here. Please, have a seat.  We just ordered.”  The restaurant was a quiet, serene place with polite, reserved guests in the manner of elves.  Still, the smells of seafood more than made up for the guests.  Lobster, crab, fish and shrimp boiled, baked and fried in a kitchen nearby.  Rilia introduced her new friends, and they intermingled with the ladies.  Caladiel pursed her lips but remained quiet.

Soon, soups, salads and crab cakes were brought to the table.  It was everything that Rilia said it was.  She brought back mugs of a thick, dark, frothy brew and passed them around and then put a tiny pouch back into her pocket.  The men leaned back, patting their bellies.  “That was excellent,” Lyrin exclaimed.  “I haven’t eaten this well in a while.”  He downed another mug of the brew.  “I think this was a dwarven thing if I recall,” he said, swaying back and forth.  He pinched one eye shut and shook his head to clear it.  “You weren’t kidding at how strong this was.”

“It’s called ale, and it packs a punch, trust me,” Rilia said with a grin that spread slowly across her lips.  Lyrin and the others’ eyes looked glassy, and their words began to slur.  Ramarë and Fairië began rubbing their hands on the men’s chests.  Caladiel blinked hard, trying to focus her vision.  “You people look drunk,” Rilia cooed.  We should get you to a room.  I know of an inn nearby.  Come, we’ll make sure that you’re safe.”  She helped Lyrin to his feet and the other women did the same for Anuven and Edenor. Caladiel staggered along behind them, trying to keep up, but failing.  They went a short distance to a wooden home next door that was called, The Travelers Rest. It was a quaint establishment run by a pleasant elven couple.  Rilia gave them a silver coin, received a key and then led the group upstairs.  Many of the rooms were already taken with revelers from the ceremony.

The key opened the door and Lyrin staggered in, falling to one knee before reaching the bed.  His face and skin were red, and he had trouble focusing, blinking rapidly and then shaking his head vigorously.  “Oh, that…that ale.  I’m going to have…have to only drink that in moderation…from now on. That is.  What was I saying?”

“Rest now,” Rilia said, moving him to the bed.  She pulled his robes over his head and then tossed them on the floor.  She kissed his chest.  “I can only imagine how wonderful your home is.  Tell me about it, please.”  Her fingers stroked the back of his neck.

Anuven and Edenor needed no encouragement.  They were already all over Ramarë and Fairië.  “I was waiting for this,” Anuven said in a lusty slur.  Of the four, he was the one most self-centered and driven by youthful urges.

Lyrin inhaled deeply as Rilia’s red hair cascaded down his body.  “We…we live in Ty-Ar-Rana.  It’s a…a vast…mmmm…complex of pyramids,” he said, closing his eyes.  “Uhh, it’s a long way from here but…but-”

Anuven blurted out, “We stayed with Chrys at his manor in Tumlindë before arriving here.  It’s actually close by.”

“We’re…we’re not supposed to…,” Lyrin tried to say, but Rilia pushed him down on the bed and hushed him with her finger.

“That sounds wonderful,” Ramarë said as she straddled Anuven.  “We would love to visit them.  Can we do that?  You said it was close.”  She leaned forward and kissed his neck.

Anuven gasped. “It’s…it’s only…it’s three days…ride.”

“Mmmm, that’s close,” the assassin said.  “Will you take us there?”

“Of…of course.  It’s just-” he started when the door burst open. It was Caladiel.  Her mouth dropped for a moment before she walked in.

“Lyrin, your parents are calling for you,” she scolded.  “Get up.  We need to go,” she said, pulling on his arm while picking up his robe.  She no longer seemed drunk.

Rilia rolled off of him. “We were just having fun…celebrating. It is a joyous time, is it not?”

Caladiel’s face turned red as she looked away from their bodies.  She grunted and fumbled with Lyrin’s robes as she put them over his head. “Yes, yes, joyous.  It’s time to go, boys.  I think an agreement has been reached and you need to be there now.” She pushed Lyrin out of the door and then went to grab Anuven and Edenor.  Her jaw was taut and her eyes narrowed.

Anuven sighed.  “I wasn’t done,” he protested, reaching back for Ramarë.  “I think I love Kirnak.  The people are so warm and friendly.  I’m definitely coming back.”

Caladiel yanked him up roughly.  “I’m not dressing you,” she said with a sharp edge.  “You either, Edenor.  Come on. Don’t keep Lyaan waiting.”  She pushed them out the door and then slammed it shut.

“Not very friendly, is she,” Rilia quipped, getting a laugh from the others.  She twirled her red hair around her finger, a half-smile spreading across her wet lips.  The pursuit was exhilarating.  The chase and the game always got her heart pumping.  “Fairië, your herbal mix almost made this too easy.”

The Silvan elf smiled. “It brings out the passion in people…makes them pliable.  Though it didn’t last long in that dour wench.  Perhaps she has some resistance.  Usually, just a pinch lasts hours.”

Rilia waited a few minutes to ensure that they had gone before speaking.  “Hmmm, Chrys’ home is three days ride, huh?  I think we can rule out north of here because we came from that direction.  East is jungle and forest…perhaps, but west and south are rolling plains which would make more sense.  We’ll have our scouts begin a search.  I think it’s just a matter of time now before we find this…manor house in Tumlindë and pay Chrys a visit.”  Her white teeth shined through her ruby lips.  Though not perfect, the information was so much more than they knew.  They even had a description of Ty-Ar-Rana.

She slid her hands down her chest.  “Well, that…encounter was a bit less than satisfying.”  She beckoned the others to her.  “But this will make up for it,” she said, licking her lips.  “This has been productive, but we shouldn’t push it.  I think it’s time to return to Naurlindol.”  She lay back as Fairië pulled her shorts down.  

The bard snuggled up to Rilia and then narrowed her eyes.  “Mistress, I know where I’ve seen Lyrin and the others before.  They were in the Citadel.  I don’t know how they entered, but I’m sure of it.”  Ramarë nodded in agreement.

The Sorceress paused, racking her brain for answers.  “This is…is unexpected.  They may be as devious as we are.  Speak of this to no one.  It stays only amongst us for now...not even Ardana.  We will get to the bottom of this.  We will find this…Tumlindë and learn the secrets that those four young elves have.  What of Pathanar?”

Fairië smiled broadly, her red lips parting over white teeth.  She opened her hand.  “He sits right in my palm, mistress.”

Rilia chuckled. “This has been a good journey.  I can’t wait to return to Naurlindol to plan.” She thought back to the ceremony for a moment and the vision of Nessa’s kind face and the glory of Valinor.  She smirked, letting it fade.  They would recreate that glory here, in Middle Earth and it would be their glory.

Chapter End Notes

We look at Rilia's adoration of Arien.  It might be a weakness.  We see more of her amoral character and how her two court members feed into it.  Also a look at the dynamic of the people of Ty-Ar-Rana and their strengths and weaknesses.

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41)  Nargothrond - Year of the Sun 494 Narbeleth (October)

Morelen

In Nargothrond, they had rebuilt a life in the years following the disaster of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  The lands of the elven kingdoms in the north continued to shrink but the hidden kingdom continued to grow and expand under King Orodreth.  Five years ago, a man arrived, who took the kingdom by storm.  He was known by many names, but Morelen knew him as Adanedhel, the Man-Elf for he was so like the elves in speech and manner. Adanedhel rose rapidly in the ranks of Nargothrond under Orodreth and the king soon relied upon him for all things military and his black blade, Gurthang, became a symbol of hope for the people of the realm.  It was a long-awaited chance to strike back at the dark enemy that had beaten them down for decades.

After another victory in the field, Orodreth elevated Adanedhel to become the general of all Nargothrond’s forces.  Morelen remembered that day in the main hall of the hidden realm after she and the riders fought alongside Adanedhel in the fields north of their lands.  Sunlight streamed down from polished mirrors in the cavern ceiling, augmented by magical lights.  The walls of the main hall were lined with smooth translucent white marble with colorful mosaics of elven life inlaid into the stone.  The marble slabs were framed with delicately carved birch wood arches, made to appear as if they grew naturally.  Artificial streams, filled with lilies, ran along the walls, interspersed with fountains, sculpted into the shapes of plants and animals, casting a cool mist throughout the area.  Such was the wonder of Nargothrond that was created by Finrod Felagund.

On that day, a few years ago, the people chanted a new name for Adanedhel, the Mormegil, the Black Sword. Morelen’s heart was filled with nearly forgotten pride.  The Free Peoples were resurgent.  She stood with her company and her friend, Finduilas, the King’s daughter, who gazed upon Adanedhel with adoration.  The citizens of Nargothrond pumped their fists, heralding the defeat of yet another orc army.  “Mormegil! Mormegil!  Mormegil!” they chanted, Morelen calling loudest of all.  She could see why Finduilas loved him.  Adanedhel was larger than life, a ball of fire that the Free Peoples needed.  There was even talk about retaking Hithlum and the Falas.  Standing tall, he held his mighty black and gold Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin in the crook of his left arm, his dark hair flowing down around his shoulders over his plate armor that was accented by chainmail at the vulnerable areas. His eyes shone on a chiseled face above high cheekbones and a square jaw.

On that auspicious day, with victory banners lofted high, Notaldo held Morelen’s hand, cheering with her.  Her silver plate armor was barely scuffed from the battle and her blue bow, Luinë, was in a leather sleeve on her back while her sword, Melima, hung in a scabbard at her hip.  Her raven hair streamed down past her neck, still sweaty from the fight. The cool mist from the fountains in the hall brought her some relief from the heat that she felt from the fight.

Captain Tintallo seemed to have returned to his old self, boisterous and outspoken.  His armor glistened silver with polish as he removed his crested helm.  He practically worshipped the ground that Adanedhel walked on for the pride of the elves was being restored.  Only Líreno seemed reserved.  Orodreth, in his kingly robes of state, green and gold, woven like a great tree, joined Adanedhel on the stage, his face beaming with joy.  “We have achieved another great victory, my friends!” the King shouted over the cheering crowd.  “Our great general, Adanedhel, has routed another force from Angband and our lands are safe once more!”

Adanedhel raised his black sword and the people went wild, screaming and shouting, some sobbing in happiness.  The Free People had suffered beyond measure since the Bragollach, losing kingdoms and great lords, their peoples massacred or enslaved.  But this one man had changed everything.  “The victory is not mine alone!” he called, shaking his blade above his head.  “You and your King have made it possible.  I would be nothing without your trust and your friendship!  This is your victory!  This is your freedom!”  Morelen wept openly, tears streaming down her cheeks.  The unnumbered tears of anguish from decades past were nearly forgotten now.

Orodreth clapped, silencing the crowd.  The laurel crown upon his head gave him the look of the lords of the Eldar and, with his blond hair and fair features, he could have easily been mistaken for his great brother, Finrod Felagund.  “We have another announcement,” he called, his voice reverberating in the massive cavern. “It is with great pride that I tell you that our general, Adanedhel, is also Túrin, the son of Húrin, the mighty hero that fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and allowed Turgon’s army to withdraw.  This extraordinary man now leads my armies, and we have gone from strength to strength!” The people went wild again.  Their hero, the son of a great hero, had come to save them.

Túrin sheathed his sword and then swept his hand through the air to quiet the crowd and the cavern became still.  “In light of our string of victories over the forces of the Dark Lord, I have advocated for the building of a bridge across the river.  This will allow for a more rapid deployment of troops to respond to ongoing battles or to field armies for offensive actions.  Our plan to retake the north will be better enabled with this. Our great King Orodreth has already approved, and construction will begin soon.”

Again, the citizens of Nargothrond cheered, waving banners and streamers.  Morelen paused for a moment, remembering something that Notaldo told her in the past.  She leaned over to her husband.  “Would this change the defense of the city?” she asked, genuinely curious.  “I recall you telling me that the river and the small landing of the entrance were its own defense.”

Tintallo overheard her and leaned over with a patronizing smile.  “Things have changed, my dear,” he said as if telling a child something complex.  “Adanedhel has led us from strength to strength.  The balance of power is shifting back to us.  We need to go on the offense.  Morgoth is reeling from our victories.”

It seemed as if the general heard them and he looked over and smiled.  “My friends!  My great riders!” he said as he walked over with the King.  A huge grin spread across his face and he wrapped Tintallo up in a bear hug.  “You! You, my friend, fought like a dragon. The grace in which your riders performed is a thing of legend.  It was no wonder that you were the elite of Fingon’s armies.  I am honored to lead you.”  He then shook the hands of the nearby riders.  When he grasped Morelen’s hand it was like a thunderclap.  She stood there, mouth agape until he turned to the next rider.  His words were nectar.  Perhaps Túrin was a man that they could fight for with pride again.  Túrin wrapped one arm around Tintallo and one around Notaldo. “We could not have won this battle without you,” he said and then turned to Orodreth.  “My King, I propose that we elevate these men for their great deeds. Through the last five battles, the Riders of Nargothrond have harassed and worn down the enemy and then charged to break their ranks.  No finer fighting force do we have in the kingdom.”

The King smiled and reached out his hand to the leaders of the company.  “Tintallo, Notaldo, I name you as lords of Nargothrond.  You may carry my personal sigil,” he told them, presenting them with mithril badges of a harp, flanked by two blazing fires.  The new lords knelt to accept the pins.  “I shall have banners made for the company too.” His eyes softened for a moment, and he gestured for them to rise.  “Though I know how much you loved Fingon so I will allow you to carry his banners as well in memory of such a great king.”

Tintallo and Notaldo leaned forward and kissed Orodreth’s sleeve in a sign of vassalage, showing their loyalty to an elven king.  “We are honored,” Tintallo declared, pride showing on his face once more.

Orodreth turned to the other riders.  “Nandamo, once the herald of High King Fingon, I name you as my herald.  Your voice has carried the glory of our arms across the battlefields.  And you, Líreno and Morelen, I name you as captains of my forces.  My pride in your valor knows no bounds, my friends.”  In turn, each of them kissed his sleeve though Morelen noticed that Líreno’s smile was forced.  What was with him?  This was a joyous occasion.  But she had always known him to be skeptical and cynical, especially since the Nirnaeth.

Morelen was about to ask him what he was feeling, but a young, adolescent girl made her way through the crowd and hugged her and then Líreno.  “Silmani!” Morelen cried out, her face beaming.  “Come, come, join us in the celebration,” she added, lifting the girl onto Líreno’s shoulders.  She squealed with surprise and joy.  Hurinon’s daughter was growing up, loved and cherished by her parents’ friends, who had become an aunt and uncles, raising her as their own.  The young lady was dressed in robes provided by the king, green and gold with flecks of silver woven into the fabric so that it looked like sunlight through a forest.

Orodreth leaned in close to the group, holding his hand close to his mouth.  “I have received secret communications with High King Turgon. He chooses to keep Gondolin hidden for now, but he will support our operations with intelligence and supplies. Círdan and Gil-Galad, Fingon’s son, have established a haven on the Isle of Balar and at the Mouths of the Sirion, for those who fled the Falas.  Turgon has sent messengers to them with the intent to sail west.  He fears that we cannot win this war, let alone survive without the assistance of the Valar.  He tells me that we need their strength.”

Túrin shook his head. “They have given us nothing and we need nothing from them.  Let Turgon send his messengers while we take the fight to the enemy,” he said, making a fist with his gauntlet.

Tintallo nodded.  “I agree.  We have the orcs on the run.  We have turned back every attack that they have made with ease.  The Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin has them trembling in fear.”

King Orodreth grinned. “I have the might of the Noldor and the Edain at my side.  We cannot fail.  It is settled then.  I shall have resources devoted to the construction of the bridge and we shall begin shortly.  Túrin, prepare our armies for further offensive action.  I will keep Turgon informed of our intentions.  We did good, everyone.  Please, enjoy the festivities and rest well in the coming days.  You all have earned it.”  He turned and put his arm around Finduilas and guided her to the table where food had been set out.  Her blonde hair swung around as she gazed back at Túrin.  Morelen knew love when she saw it.

Túrin did not seem to notice but gestured the riders to the banquet.  Tables had been set out, full of food for the victory: fish, fresh fruits and vegetables, roast waterfowl and rows of baked desserts.  The cooks and bakers of Nargothrond had outdone themselves. Morelen inhaled the delectable aromas of the feast and she was starving after such a great victory.  Notaldo took her hand and led her to the food.  She took a plate and began piling on portions of every dish.  The dwarf merchant, Cragstone, and his family were placing mugs of ale onto the tables. There was some gray in his beard now and lines on his face.  Morelen nodded a pleasant greeting to him, but her mouth was full of food, and she couldn’t speak.  The merchant had been a fixture in Nargothrond for almost two centuries.

Notaldo winked at her. “Worked up an appetite, huh?”

She had already put a turkey leg in her mouth and was chewing loudly.  “Mmmhmm.”

“Save some of that for later.”

Her eyes grew big, and she nodded.  “Mmmhmmm!” Her appetites were always big. Notaldo took his plate and headed over to the table reserved for the riders.  Other tables sat the infantry, the archers and other arms of the service. The grand hall could seat nearly everyone.

Líreno bumped into her as she swallowed the turkey, nearly causing her to choke.  “Líreno!” she scolded after she swallowed.

His expression was not one of joy, his eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed.  He set Silmani down from his shoulders.  “I know this is a time for celebration, but I see a darkness that clouds Túrin.  He is a great leader, but we should be careful.  Do not take everything that he says at face value.”

She looked at him sideways. “But Líreno, he has never steered us wrong.  We have won every battle under him.”

“I know he came to Nargothrond with Gwindor.  Remember him?” he asked and Morelen nodded.  “He lost a hand escaping from Angband.  He is a shadow of his former self.  I think I need to speak to him.  He knows something more about what is going on.”

She touched him on the chest.  “What is it? What do you think it is?”

He sighed and shook his head.  “I…I don’t know.  It’s just a feeling.  And remember what your husband said about the landing.  Now, a bridge across the river?”  He blew out a long sigh and shook his head.  “Excuse me.  I didn’t mean to upset your evening,” he said as he walked away, looking for Gwindor.

Morelen watched him go. Líreno always had good intuition, but he was darker, more cynical since the Nirnaeth.  She took Silmani’s hand and led her to the table.  “Come, I have plenty of food for the both of us.”  The young lady grinned.  She must be as hungry as her aunt Morelen.  They sat and Silmani tore into the food, slicing off pieces of turkey and chicken and dipping them into a cranberry sauce, specially prepared for the feast.  Morelen stood behind her and braided her brown hair into an intricate pattern. “There.  Perfect for the occasion,” she said, nodding to herself. This was shaping up to a perfect day.

Morelen finished a slightly sweet, slightly tart raspberry dessert that was filled with a creamy custard, savoring every bite.  She held the tart out to let Notaldo and then Silmani take a bite and then popped the final piece into her mouth, licking her lips.  Silmani had become a daughter to the entire company, who raised and cared for her, teaching her to ride and shoot a bow.  Morelen had taken a particular interest in this, being the only female in the company.  It gave her great joy to see life, growth and peace.  It would be all too easy to forget the horrors of decades past.

She sat back and rubbed her belly over her armor.  It wasn’t quite as satisfying with her armor on, and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable wearing her metal skin.  She groaned. “I need to get out of this.  I’m going to head back to the room,” she said. She stretched as she stood, working out a kink in her neck.  “I’ll see you tomorrow for training,” she told Silmani and picked up her helmet from the table.  Elven armor was light and well fitted, but she had been wearing it for the most part of four days.  She took a sniff of her underarm.  “Ugh.” She briefly remembered previous battles and campaigns that had gone on for weeks.  This quick victory was a blessing.  She leaned over and kissed Silmani on the forehead and touched Notaldo on the arm.  She crossed the bridge over the stream that wound around the great hall, looking down at the green and yellow lilies that floated in the slowly moving water.

The halls of Nargothrond were another wonder.  Smooth, silver pearl granite walls lined the hallways, lit by magical lanterns.  Intricately woven tapestries hung from the ceiling, depicting elven life in such realistic terms that one had to look closely to see that it was craftsmanship.  Her leather boots echoed on the limestone tiled floor as she walked back to their room. She opened their door to the sound of the fountains in their suite.  They were no longer guests but permanent residents, part of the defense of the realm. She felt proud of her husband’s service and advancement.  That meant that they would also get upgraded quarters.  There was something in her that craved power, and she couldn’t quite explain it.  She kept it suppressed, knowing in her mind that it was foolish, but the seed was sprouting.  She shook her head vigorously, her black hair whipping about her face.  “No, stop it.  You’re being stupid.”  She would not give in to such desires.  She was a High Elf, supposedly above such base things.  If only that were true.

Morelen set her helm on its stand.  A squire would clean it later, such was her increased status.  One by one, she undid the straps holding her armor in place and she placed each piece on the stand with a sense of practiced precision.  Under her armor she wore leggings and a quilted gambeson with chainmail links over vulnerable areas to cushion any blow.  She pulled off leather boots and gloves and then shed the rest.  She dipped her hands into one of the bowls of water at the fountains and splashed it on her face.  She looked up into a mirror near the bowl and saw that she was happy again.  The Noldor were gathering strength and a man named Túrin had come to save them.

She stepped into the next room, and a fountain began to spray water into a booth that was tiled in greens and blues to look like the sea.  The influence of Ulmo, who had revealed the location of Nargothrond to Finrod, could be seen in so much of the art and décor of the kingdom.  As she walked into the booth, the hot water cascaded down her body and she inhaled the steam.  Her skin felt alive again and she leaned against the tile, closing her eyes as she raised her face into the stream of water.  She heard the door open, and she looked to see Notaldo walking in. She lowered her face with a grin and extended her hand, beckoning to him with her fingers.  He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, letting the water flow down around them as she buried her head into the crook of his neck. She could feel his skin on hers and she moaned softly.  She could stay like this forever.

Two more years went by and the great bridge over the River Narog was completed.  Sorties against the forces of Morgoth were increased, and the enemy was pushed back to the borders of Nevrast.  With any luck, Nevrast would fall back into friendly hands, followed by Hithlum.  Perhaps the splendor of Fingolfin’s realm could be restored.  Life in the hidden realm could not have been more perfect. Victory after victory, led by Túrin, powered the people of Nargothrond and morale soared.  There was talk that the Mormegil was invincible and the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin was worth ten thousand spears on the field.  King Orodreth was frequently besides Túrin, fighting and motivating the troops.  Once again, on that day, they routed another of Morgoth’s armies, the riders breaking the line of orcs, trolls and Easterlings and then destroying the fleeing enemy.

Notaldo drew his bow and aimed it into the mass of orcs and trolls.  “Volley fire!” he called to the company as he veered his horse right to create the perfect firing angle for the riders.  Morelen leaned out of her saddle, bowstring pulled to her ear with a thumb ring.  She and Lindarion had become a fused fighting force after centuries of battle together, and the horse shifted her gait to give her rider the best firing platform. Morelen released her thumb grip and the arrow leapt from the string, fletchings gripping the air, spinning the shaft for stability, right into the eye of a massive troll.  The beast lurched backwards, croaking out loud and then fell onto a group of orcs, crushing them and throwing up dust into the air.  A volley from the Telepta Company followed and orcs fell, gripping at shafts protruding from their throats and chests. Enemy troops were throwing down weapons and fleeing in panic now.  It brought a warm feeling to Morelen’s heart as Lindarion ran over an Easterling, crushing him beneath her hooves.  Tintallo’s lancers then plowed into the flank of the devolving horde, spears driving through bodies.

“No mercy!” Tintallo shouted.  “Drive them back to the void!”

Túrin and Orodreth crashed into the enemy from the rear and the horde was now surrounded on three sides, elven infantry at the front.  The brisk fight was becoming a massacre.  Tintallo’s face was gleeful as he drew his sword and began hacking at orcs around his mount.  Morelen could just make out the sword, Gurthang, black and shrouded by a pale fire, lopping heads and limbs off of orcs and Easterlings.  Nothing could withstand the Mormegil.  Notaldo sheathed his bow and drew his curved blade. “Swords!” he called, and hundreds of blades were drawn as one, the sound sending shivers down Morelen’s spine.  He pointed his blade at the open flank of the enemy.  “Close the gap!  Cut them off! No one escapes!”  The Telepta drove into the panicked mass, closing off any retreat.  Lindarion smashed into an orc, flinging it into its fellows as her rider lopped the head off of another in a clean stroke.

“No mercy!” she could hear Túrin shouting.  He was cutting a great swath through the enemy, leaving a trail of mutilated bodies and a trail of blood in his wake.

Morelen leaned back over her saddle and drove the tip of Melima into the face of an Easterling lord. He screamed, bringing his hands up around the curved sword and then crumpled straight down.  She was enjoying this.  A spear tip glanced off of the pauldron protecting her shoulder and she winced from the blow, more out of surprise than any injury.  Her armor was the result of the superb craftsmanship of the armorers of Hithlum.  She righted herself in the saddle and pushed her knee into Lindarion, getting the horse to spin and kick.  Hooves smashed into an Easterling’s face, crushing his skull and throwing him back. She then sliced the arm off of another man who was raising an axe at her.

The field was now mostly hacked corpses of the enemy as riders of the Misë Company rode down the few who managed to flee.  This field would become the Haudh-en-Ndengin, the Hill of the Slain, this time for Morgoth’s minions.  Morelen thought of the fell mound of elven and Edain dead on the Anfauglith that followed the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  They would be avenged.  The sound of fighting died away, replaced by moans of agony and weeping.  Good.  She dismounted and walked towards a wounded Easterling who threw down his scimitar as she approached.  His red armor was rent and torn from the fighting and blood flowed down his face from a cut on his forehead.  He fell to his knees and put his hands together, babbling something in his language. She raised her visor and looked down at him.  He searched her face for any sign of mercy and then he raised an open hand to her. “Please…please elf maid. Please.  I have family.  Do not kill,” he pleaded in broken Sindarin, tears mixing with blood on his face.

Morelen was about to raise her sword, but she paused.  Her heart was full of fury, but the sight of this broken man stopped her weapon.  “I…,” she started and then grunted in frustration. She wanted nothing more than to kill this enemy of her people, a man who wished for the destruction of her race and civilization.  She bit her lower lip and then lowered her sword.  “I will grant you mercy.  But you are to leave this land and fight no-”

She couldn’t finish before Túrin drove Gurthang through the man’s back.  He looked at her sternly.  “No mercy, Morelen.  No mercy for the enemy.”  His eyes bore into her through the metal mask of his Dragon Helm, and it seemed as if Gurthang drank the blood of the dead man.

She lowered her head, feeling shame.  “I’m sorry, my Lord Mormegil.  It was a moment of weakness.”  He was right. Why did she hesitate?

His expression softened and then a smile spread across his lips.  He touched her gently on the pauldron over her shoulder.  “All is forgiven, captain.  I saw you with your bow and sword.  You and the Telepta fought well.  You closed the gap, preventing any from escaping.  Notaldo is to be commended for his quick thinking.” He shook her in a collegial way. “Another feast is due tonight. Come, let us clean up and gather our wounded and bury our honored dead.  We will toast another victory!”

She glowed under his praise, and a broad smile filled her face.  “Thank you, my Lord Mormegil.  Your words mean the world to me.  I would follow you anywhere, my lord.”

His face beamed and he nodded.  “I am proud to lead you, and I may hold you to that.”  He turned to walk back to the King.  “Come!  A great feast awaits us.  Let us pile the bodies of the slain enemy for all the world to see!”

After looting and stacking the dead enemy, they rode away from the great mound, heads held high, another victory for the Free Peoples.  Morelen took a silver circlet from the brow of the Easterling lord that she slew and then swung into her saddle.  The Misë Company led the way, their lances skyward, horses trotting proudly. Telepta followed, their riders chatting happily, recounting their exploits.  Even Líreno seemed to be in a joyful mood for a change.  Morelen raised her visor and then reached out and tapped him on the pauldron.  “Lord Mormegil led us to another great victory, and we fought well again today. Your arrows were on target, and we didn’t lose a single rider.”

He chuckled and gave her a half smile.  “Yes, yes, it went very well today.  We will see about tomorrow.”

She looked down her nose at him with a sly look, one eye narrowed.  “Hmmm, perhaps you were…wrong about your worry?”

He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps.  But never let your guard down.”

“Do I ever?”

Líreno snorted but gave her a grin.  “All the time.”

“Hah,” she retorted and then looked ahead.  Notaldo was signaling that they were approaching the great bridge.  She tapped her heels to Lindarion’s flanks, and her mount picked up to a canter to catch up to their leader.  As she pulled alongside, she gave him a huge smile, practically ear to ear.  She held up the silver circlet.  “I took this from an Easterling lord,” she said.  “I’ll clean it up and give it to Silmani.  I think she would appreciate it.”

“I know she would,” he answered, raising his visor.  “She is taking after you.  She is already an excellent rider and archer.”

Her heart swelled with pride.  “Oh, I know. I find great joy in teaching her and she learns so fast.  I know that we’ve talked about this, but maybe the time is right for one of our own.”

He nodded.  “I think you’re right.  Come, we are at the bridge.  Let us enter the realm with honor.”  It was then that they noticed King Orodreth and Túrin catching up to them on horseback. Notaldo and Morelen bowed at the waist. “My King…Lord Mormegil, we are proud to serve.”

Orodreth handed his helm to one of his bodyguards.  “Another great day on the field, my riders.”

Túrin nodded.  “They are the elite of our forces, fast and fierce. Their leaders are quick and read the battle like no others.  We are fortunate to have them.”

They bowed again. “You do us great honor my King…my lord,” they said in unison.

The herald, Celumener, and a delegation of officials in their fine robes of state, awaited the army at the head of the bridge across the River Narog.  Citizens of the realm also lined the bridge, waving flags and streamers.  Celumener blew his horn, which shook the trees that lined the span.  He and the officials bowed low.  “We herald the return of Nargothrond’s brave forces. Welcome home, my King and Lord Mormegil. A feast is being prepared to celebrate your triumph!”

Orodreth raised his hand and the people fell silent.  “The triumph is for all of the people of the kingdom!”  People cheered as the army crossed the great bridge back into the caverns. The procession and the banquet was everything that they expected and was becoming almost a regular thing.  Cragstone had become a regular fixture at such events, ensuring that everyone had enough to drink and his wealth and hospitality became known throughout the kingdom and in far off dwarven lands.

As people feasted and bards sung, Morelen cleaned the circlet and modified it to fit Silmani, holding it over a flame to soften the metal.  She found that she had a talent for craftsmanship too and was learning from the jewel smiths and swordsmiths of the kingdom, one of them being the great Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor.  Notaldo always marveled at how many things she was able to learn and just how quickly. “You master so many things, it’s almost as if you have Vala blood in you,” he joked.

She mused for a moment. That would be interesting.  Think of all of the wonderful things that she could do with that power.  She was already physically stronger than her husband, something she found delight in. She looked back at the circlet, perfectly formed for the young lady’s head.  “Silmani, I have something for you,” she said, and the girl looked over from across the table.  Silmani’s eyes brightened, and she held her hands over her chest.  Morelen walked around the table and placed it on her brow, a simple silver strand with an intricate geometric shape at the center of her forehead.  Silmani looked radiant and Morelen brushed out her long brown hair over the circlet. “There…oh, by the Valar, you look beautiful!”  She was the image of her late mother, Aistallë.

Silmani framed her face with her hands and smiled.  “Thank you. You’ve been so good to me.”  She looked away for a moment and the smile faded. She put her finger to her lips as if thinking deeply.  “Do you think that you could tell me about my parents some time?”

It was like an icy dagger pierced Morelen’s heart.  Though the pain of their passing was fading, the memory was still very fresh: Hurinon engulfed by lave and Aistallë with her throat slit by her own hand.  She pursed her lips and then nodded.  “Of course, dear.  I will never be able to replace them, but I will do my best for you.”

The smile returned to the young lady.  “Thank you. I will see you tomorrow at riding and archery practice,” Silmani said just as Túrin and the king approached.  The women bowed their heads.

Túrin extended his hand. “Morelen, I hear tell from your company that you are an amazing singer and dancer as well.  I would expect nothing less, having seen you fight in the saddle.  We would be honored by a performance to celebrate the victory.”

Orodreth nodded and gestured to a stage in the center of the great hall.  It didn’t seem to be something that she could refuse, but she enjoyed the arts.  She grasped Silmani’s hand.  “Come, let us show the citizens of Nargothrond our love and appreciation,” she said, and they walked to the stage.  Stewards met her at the stage to take cumbersome parts of her armor. Still, she glistened, lights reflecting off of her silver plates and the stars on her breastplate glittered.  Silmani pushed the skirts of her golden gown back and the two curtseyed to the audience and the crowd grew quiet.  The two had practiced this very dance in the training yards and they made eye contact, knowing just what to do.

“We bring you The Caladhrim Maeth, the Song of the Warrior’s Light,” she called out, letting the amazing acoustics of the hall carry her alto voice.  She drew an arm back as if she were pulling a bow and Silmani knelt under her, doing the same.

“Araniel galad mîr,

Dû naur a thûl,

Echuir balan gîl,

Lû thaur a gûr,” they sang of the strength of the elven people and their allies.  Together, their voices were angelic, filling the hall with the lilting sounds of elven warriors.  Silmani’s soprano voice complemented Morelen’s alto.  It was as if a power grew within Morelen’s throat, the might of the Quendi, but this was something more.  It was an untapped reservoir of energy.  For a moment, she envisioned the music of the Ainur, eons ago, formless spirits singing the world into existence.  Energy flowed from her mouth, something she had never felt before.  It was as if the song were alive.  Images of elven warriors coalesced in the air as the audience gasped, necks craning upwards.  Morelen and Silmani danced around each other, arms and legs swinging in coordinated movements as if they were firing arrows and cutting with swords. Scenes played out in the air with orcs falling and elves triumphant.  The two ladies then went to their knees and bowed their heads, falling silent.  The hall was still for several moments before erupting into applause.  Notaldo was the first to stand and cheer as those around him joined.

Morelen reached out and took Silmani’s hand, nodding with pride.  “Magnificent, my girl.  Magnificent.”

A tear flowed down Silmani’s cheek as the King and Túrin came up to them.  Orodreth extended his hands to them.  “That was the Music of the Ainur brought to life.  The images that your voices created.  It felt as if we were there…not since Daeron or Maglor or my brother…,” he said, his mouth open.  “How did you…?  It took them centuries of practice.”

She truly did not know where that power came from.  “My King…I don’t know.   I really don’t.  My father is an illusionist and my mother is a healer.  I learned singing and dancing from Lysa, a friend in the south.  She and Aelrie have that power.  I never knew that I had this.”  The King lifted them up onto their feet and raised their arms to more cheers.

Túrin held up his dragon helm.  “This is the strength of the kingdom!  Not only in arms, but in art!  Give your praise to these two!”

Orodreth summoned Tintallo, Notaldo and Líreno up.  “Your wife has many talents,” he told Notaldo.  “I am glad that she is on our side,” he said with a hint of mirth.  “I am naming you two as part of my war council. I wish for your advice in planning campaigns under our Lord Mormegil.”  The two men knelt and bowed their heads.  Tintallo was beaming with pride.  “And you, Líreno, I name a lord of Nargothrond and Morelen, a lady.  You will continue to lead your riders, but I have bigger plans for you.”  He reached down and tousled Silmani’s hair.  “And you, young lady.  The performance was sublime.  I will be expecting much more from you in the future.”  She knelt, her cheeks blushing bright red.  He waved his hand.  “The great bridge has proven to be a stroke of wisdom.  Nevrast will be ours once again and Hithlum thereafter.”

Silmani held onto Morelen’s hand tightly, unused to such attention.  Morelen felt pride surge in her.  Silmani was growing up to be a wonderful and mature elf.  It was odd to think that a human would be a full adult by this time but elves matured much more slowly.  Perhaps that was why elves were predicted to be fewer in number some day. Morelen would believe it when she saw it, but humans did seem to reproduce much faster, almost like orcs. Elven pregnancies were also uncommon, and elven women had an unusual ability to prevent pregnancies that they didn’t want.  She licked her lips, thinking on these issues.  As the King and Lord Mormegil returned to their table where Finduilas sat, Silmani stood, still blushing.  She gave Morelen a warm smile and then skipped off back to her room, her hair swirling behind her.

Notaldo tugged on the metal vambrace over her forearm.  He gave her that sly, sideways look that she loved.  It was time that they made their exit.  They rushed away from the banquet like two adolescents, escaping their parents for the first time.  Charging through the door, he began pulling the straps on her armor loose and tossing the pieces onto the carpet.  Her gambeson and padding came off next and she knelt down in front of him, gazing up with her eyes, clothed only in a smile.  Notaldo groaned and shuddered.  They moved to the booth to wash as she tugged his armor away.  Warm water cascaded down their bodies as she washed him gently with soap that smelled of Aloe.  When they were clean, he lifted her up and carried her to the bed, water dripping down her hair and body.  She laughed. “Notaldo, the bed will get all wet!”

“It’s what I’m counting on,” he replied softly into her ear.

As she felt his skin atop of her, she tilted her head back and gasped.  They would have their own child, and they would be a real family. Her father, Fëatur would be proud. One day, they would all be together, even her mother Yavëkamba.  It would be the eternal happiness that they all deserved.  She rested in his arms, her hair still wet, drops of water on her skin. She twirled her finger around his dark, wavy hair, just listening to his breathing. 

A knock on the door got their attention and Morelen leapt up, wrapping herself with a towel.  She cracked the door to see Celumener, and she narrowed her eyes, questioning.  “The King is requesting your presence, both of you.  We have received visitors, and it seems to be urgent.  We will be in the King’s Council Chambers.”  He saw the towel and her wet hair and looked down before bowing and walking away.

She glanced back and Notaldo was already dressing, brushing his hair quickly.  “Let’s get moving.  This sounds important,” he said as he ripped the towel off of Morelen. She moved in front of him and straightened the collar of his formal robes, blue and silver in the colors of Fingon’s House.  The fabric was of supreme quality, woven of the finest silk in the kingdom.  He pointed at her bare body with a smirk.  “Are you going to go like that?”

She snorted a chuckle as he tossed her formal robes.  “We elves are not ashamed of our bodies,” she said, lifting her nose up in mock conceit as she donned her attire.  Like her husband’s robes, hers were of the highest quality of silk, blue and silver, but more form fitting with long, billowy sleeves.  It was as if the blue fields of her robes were filled with starlight. She quickly brushed her damp hair out, letting her tresses fall over her shoulders.  She then placed a silver circlet on her brow, one with an emerald centered on her forehead.

They walked quickly to the council chambers, negotiating the tunnels and stairs with experience, knowing exactly where to go.  The halls would be a confusing mess for anyone not familiar with them.  A crowd was growing at the entrance to the great doors that were made of a volcanic glass called Laen, that was harder than steel if forged properly in cold conditions.  Much of their weapons and armor were created this way in the cold forges beneath the main halls of the kingdom.  She had worked briefly with the Noldor smith named Celebrimbor, who had perfected the craft.  Rumor had it that he was second only to his grandfather, Fëanor, in skill and that he parted ways with his father, Curufin, after those Sons of Fëanor attempted to usurp power in Nargothrond.  Morelen and the riders lived in Hithlum at the time and only heard about the chaos through friends and messengers.  Still, Celebrimbor was someone they could respect for his convictions and his skill.

The gathered officials and leaders of the realm filed into the council chambers, voices murmuring, some curious, some fearful.  What could possibly be going on that such a meeting would be called this late?  The chambers were arranged like an auditorium, a semicircle with seating around a central dais where the King and his close councilors sat.  They walked by Gwindor, the crippled elf who had escaped from Angband and led the reckless charge that began the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  He was gaunt and still pale from his captivity.  Morelen bore a grudge because his actions ruined Fingon’s carefully laid plan, but her compassion for his misery overrode that. Being a captive in Angband was unimaginable.  She nodded to him with a faint smile.  He returned the gesture, but there was nothing behind his expression.  It was as if he had already died.

Up on the dais with the King and Lord Mormegil were two elves dressed in traveling clothes, rough cotton in muted colors.  King Orodreth stood before his throne, a tall, golden seat with crimson upholstery. He was dressed in his kingly robes of green and gold, having changed out of his armor from the battle.  Túrin was dressed in the robes of the head of the army, maroon and black, with intricate floral designs woven into the fabric with slashed sleeves showing the green and gold of Finrod’s House.

Celumener blew his horn, silencing the room and putting all eyes on him.  “We welcome Gelmir and Arminas, late of Angrod’s people and kin to King Orodreth.  They have come from the Havens of Sirion on orders from Círdan the Shipwright, bearing messages for the people of Nargothrond,” he called out in his stentorian voice, loud and clear.  The two elves bowed low before the King and Lord Mormegil and everyone in the audience knelt.

Orodreth lifted his arms. “Please be seated, people,” he said, gesturing to the audience and everyone found a chair.  People shifted uncomfortably, trying to anticipate the message.  “Gelmir, Arminas, what brings you to our fair kingdom at this hour that is so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow?”  The King seemed impatient, annoyed at the sudden visit that required a council meeting. Túrin seemed most impatient of all, brows furrowed and lips pursed.  His eyes were not even on the visitors.  Morelen made eye contact with Líreno, questioning.  What was going on here?

Gelmir began, “My King Orodreth, we come bearing urgent tidings from Círdan.”

The King nodded.  “I am listening.  Pray, continue.”

Arminas turned to the chamber.  “Círdan was given a warning from the Vala, Ulmo,” he said to gasps in the room.  “We were dispatched to bring this warning to the peoples of both Gondolin and Nargothrond.  Lord Ulmo bids the peoples of these kingdoms to beware as the forces of Morgoth are growing, not diminishing.”

Gelmir gestured towards the grand entrance to Nargothrond.  “We spoke with Gondolindrim who reside in the Havens to find the city, but we were unsuccessful and abandoned our search.  We turned south and came here with the message that Lord Ulmo bids King Orodreth to cast down the great bridge and seal the doors.  Remaining hidden is now your greatest strength and hope for survival.”

Túrin snorted darkly and the King watched him fidget.  Orodreth stood.  “We appreciate your journey and Círdan’s message…but what proof do we have of Lord Ulmo’s words?”

Arminas seemed incredulous. “My King?  We bear the message of Ulmo through Círdan.  It is as Lord Ulmo gave his message to Kings Finrod and Turgon to found the kingdoms.”

Túrin stood sharply. “But were you there?  Were you there when Ulmo delivered it?”

“No.  No, my lord,” Gelmir answered.  “But Círdan has assured us that it is authentic.”

Túrin looked out upon the council.  “I know that Círdan means well.  I cannot dispute that, but do not the Valar speak in riddles many times?  How are we to know the meaning of the message unless we hear it directly from the Shipwright…or even from Lord Ulmo himself? Why did Ulmo not bring the message here…to the King himself if he wanted to protect the realm?”  The man was picking up steam, his voice powerful, his charisma undeniable.  Morelen nodded at his words.  “You cannot dispute the success that we have had here in the last few years.  We have routed army after army after army.  We are undefeated upon the field during this time.”

“But, my Lord Mormegil,” Arminas started, “When we first landed at the Firth of Drengist, we encountered Lord Tuor, who was searching for the Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor into Dor-Lómin,” he said.  This got Túrin’s attention, and his eyes focused on the speakers.  “He had hoped to pass into Gondolin, but the gate has been long abandoned and does not lead to Gondolin.”

“What happened to my cousin?” Túrin asked, now interested.  

“We provided Tuor with lanterns,” Gelmir said, “and bade him travel south to the Havens where many Gondolindrim dwelt.  Perhaps they could give him better guidance.  We searched Dor-Lómin for the hidden kingdom but decided to come here strait away after little success.  This is where I wish you all to listen closely…  On our way south, we scouted the dark island of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”

King Orodreth shifted at the mention of the island that he once ruled as Tol Sirion, conquered by Sauron after the Dagor Bragollach.  It had become a hold for Morgoth’s beasts, like werewolves and vampires.  It was where Morelen’s friend, Sercë, vanished. Orodreth nodded for them to continue.

Arminas gestured to the councilors.  “What we saw there, gave us pause.  Morgoth is building an army of such size that it cannot be described.  Thousands upon thousands of orcs, trolls, werewolves and other monsters of the Dark Lord’s creation.  We wish you to heed our words and the warning of Lord Ulmo.  Please, we have traveled far to bring you this message to save your fair kingdom.”

Orodreth lowered his head in thought but Túrin pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.  “While I thank you for news of my cousin, I will say that we are mighty as well,” Lord Mormegil declared loudly.  “We created this bridge as a means to bring the war to the enemy.  We will not be so easily frightened.”  He turned to Orodreth.  “My King, we have carried this war against the Dark Lord, almost alone, and we have gone from strength to strength.  It is the blood of Nargothrond that keeps Beleriand safe.  You, in the Havens, sleep well at night because of our armies…our peoples,” he concluded, eliciting cheers from the council, Morelen among them. “We will not cast down our bridge, nor hide behind our doors on the possible, mystical word of a Vala who has not been heard from nor seen in centuries.  What we have here is real.  Real power. Real weapons.”

Gelmir and Arminas lowered their heads, clearly defeated.  Orodreth stepped towards them.  “This is our answer, good kinsmen.  I bid you stay and refresh yourselves and then to please carry a message to Círdan to thank him for the trouble.”  He raised his arms to the council.  “Are there any in dissent?”  Not a word was spoken, but Morelen saw the look on Líreno’s face and knew what he was thinking.

Celumener blew his horn. “The matter is decided.  The King and the Lord Mormegil have spoken.”

The council stood and the murmurs immediately began again.  Líreno bit his lower lip, eyes focused.  As Notaldo and Tintallo went forward to meet with the King and Lord Mormegil, Morelen grasped Líreno’s arms.  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said cautiously.

He exhaled deeply. “I have a backup plan.  We must find Gondolin.  You have to trust me.”

Morelen closed her eyes and sighed.  “I was afraid that you were going to say that.”

Chapter End Notes

This covers the events leading up to the Battle of Tumhalad.  I want to show how the riders are trying to live a normal life again.  More on Morelen's character arc.  I also want to show the dynamics of the relationship between Orodreth and Turin.

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42)  Music - Year of the Sun 494 Girithron (December)

Morelen

Morelen sat at the wooden desk in their study, reading a scroll that had come from the south.  Her face was intense, her grayish silver eyes focused.  It had been a long time since a message had come from the south.  Last that she heard, the Guild of Elements had found the Citadel of Ardor, but they lacked the strength to do anything about it other than observe.  As Sandalwood incense burned nearby, she brushed her raven hair that fell just below her shoulders, pushed to one side.  She wore a small silk robe of turquoise and silver, woven to give the appearance of the sea.  She twirled a finger in her damp hair as she finished reading.  “Listen to this, love,” she said to Notaldo, who was working on some administrative matter for the kingdom.  “Chrys Menelrana secured an alliance with a new nation, called Taaliraan. They’re made up of refugees from the north after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, people from the Falas or Hithlum,” she added, looking up.  “Many of our people.”

He looked up from his paper and shook out the green sleeves of his robes of state.  “Amazing.  Do they plan to strike the Court now that they have the numbers?”

She gazed back down at one section of the writing.  “They are taking a watch and wait stance, trying to learn the intentions of the Court. This part about Taaliraan is fascinating.  It’s made up of people from the north and ruled by King Eldanar, kin of Fingon.  My father says that they visited the capitol of Kirnak, a grand castle, made in the manner of Minas Tirith on Tol Sirion. It has great walls of granite and marble, a true sight to behold,” she said in satisfaction.

“I’m glad that our refugees have found peace in the south.  We could use their strength, but I cannot fault them for leaving the north after the Nirnaeth,” he said and then tilted his head, narrowing his blue eyes. “I know you told me that the Court intends to destroy the sun and moon.  I still cannot imagine how that is possible.”

She thought back on what her father had told her about the mission of the Court, led by Ardana, the Astrologer.  “According to the Guild, the Court must sacrifice a being of immense power to unleash the energy that will fill eight gems of unlight.  These were gems, crafted by Fëanor and devoured by Ungoliant when Morgoth fled from Valinor.  Filled with the power from the sacrifice, the Court will channel that through a dark ritual to Morgoth and the energy that is unleashed will destroy the vessels that Aulë made, likely killing the Maiar that guide them.”

Notaldo set down his quill and narrowed his eyes.  “That’s horrible.  I cannot imagine the devastation and panic that would come from that.  Is there anything that we can do from the north?”

Morelen smiled, her red lips lighting up her tanned features.  “I was thinking the same thing.  It might be time to visit the south again.  I have not been there since I joined the ranks of Fingon’s Riders…when I met you.  The north may soon be ours again if Lord Mormegil continues winning battles.  I would welcome some peace to reunite with my father and the Guild…and The Three who helped raise me.”

Notaldo stood and walked over, gripping her on the shoulders with his hands and kneading her muscles.  “I would like to meet them some day.  Oh, you’re tense,” he said, digging into a knot in her neck.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.  “Right there…yes.  Oh yes.”

He worked his hands down her back for a little and then carried her to the bed.  She let her robe fall to the floor and then rolled face down to let him work on her back.  He grabbed a container and poured some warm oil on her skin.  She cooed in satisfaction.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Notaldo,” she said softly. “I would have fled back south long ago. I sometimes find true courage…difficult. I’m afraid much of the time.”

“Dear, I worry more about your recklessness.  True courage is not that we lack fear, but that we overcome it, and we don’t let it destroy us.”  He worked on her thighs, and she sighed contentedly.  “Trust me, I was terrified during the Nirnaeth and the Bragollach.  More for you, but the fear tore at me.”

“You never told me that,” she said, propping herself up with her arms and turning her head to look at him.  “I’ve always seen you as this…this unflappable jokester.  No wait, you changed since you were put in command. More serious.  More focused.  I like that.” She put her fingers on her chin. “I worry about Líreno though. He’s been…distracted ever since Aistallë died.  He dotes on Silmani which is a good thing though.”

“Has he?  I have to admit that we haven’t been as close since you and I were wed.  I really should change that.”

She rolled over and faced him.  “He’s been alluding to having discovered a way into Gondolin and keeps reminding me of the secret exits out of Nargothrond.  Does he know something that we don’t?”

Notaldo wrinkled his nose. “Oh, now you’ve gotten oil all over the sheets.  I guess I have to put some on your front now.”  He dripped the almond oil on her chest and abdomen and began massaging.

Morelen grasped his wrists, which were slippery with oil.  “Answer me.  Do you know something?”

He pursed his lips. “Líreno…he’s been…consumed with the idea that the kingdom will fall after the visit by Gelmir and Arminas.  He keeps bringing up Ulmo’s warning to us.  We had a talk about the bridge at the main gate. I’ve thought about it myself…I recall telling you that the landing would prevent any dragon from gaining a foothold on our side of the river.  I agree that it’s concerning but I trust King Orodreth and Lord Mormegil.  The King took us in when we were refugees and Lord Mormegil has never steered us wrong.”

She nodded and then lay back again.  “Hmmm, I understand,” she said, only partially convinced.  “Still, I’d like to talk to him soon about the way into Gondolin. We should always have a fallback plan. After all, the most meticulously planned battle went wrong at the Nirnaeth.  If things ever go bad, we need to get Silmani to safety.  I just hope that all of this doesn’t consume Líreno.”

Notaldo rubbed the oil into her chest, releasing a sweet, almond and citrus aroma.  “Worry about that tomorrow.  I’ll have scouts recon around the Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  We’ll learn if anything becomes a threat.”  He moved his hands down to her hips and Morelen sighed. He leaned in and nibbled her neck and she stroked his earlobe.

“Mmmm, yes…worry…tomorrow,” she whispered as she pulled him on top of her.

It was another idyllic day in the hidden kingdom as the couple went from their room to the musical chambers and then to the pool baths.  They would train with the company after and then back to the baths. Cragstone had delivered a barrel of mead and ale to the training grounds for them.  He was getting on in years and spoke of retirement back to Nogrod and having his son take over the business.  “I think I’m getting used to this money thing,” she said as she adjusted her azure blue gown that was trimmed in silver, the fabric showing geometric and floral patterns in the weave.  Around her neck was a pearl and silver necklace with interspersed turquoise, the white jewels having been harvested in the Sirion.  She inhaled and could still smell his scent on her and she wanted nothing more than to spend the day in his arms.

“Everything changes and we adapt,” Notaldo said, opening the elaborate door to the musical conservatory. He wore a crimson robe, trimmed in gold with the patterns of stars and birds.  In the chambers, instruments of all types lined the walls along a varnished, hardwood floor that enhanced the acoustics of the rooms.  Soundproofing kept the music in each chamber isolated so that they and their audience could enjoy without sounds bleeding over.  The ceiling of the conservatory was intricately and expertly painted to appear as if there was only sky above, blue with white, fluffy clouds and birds.  The amazing thing about this was that the painting would change from sunrise to day to sunset in real time.  At night, magical lanterns would illuminate the chambers.  This was something that the elvan artisans excelled at, creating such an illusion in many parts of Nargothrond.

Silmani was waiting for them, her lute in hand, an anxious smile on her face.  She practically bounced on her toes.  “I’ve been waiting!” she blurted out.  She wore a seafoam and yellow dress with images of the sun and moon embroidered in the fabric.  “It’s about time you got here,” she said breathlessly.  “Come on!  I have the chamber ready.”  She grabbed Morelen’s hand and pulled her along to the next room where seats were arranged and a recorder and dulcimer sat next to two chairs.

“I see that you have everything arranged already,” Morelen said with a hint of mirth.  She took her seat and picked up the recorder, a long, wooden flutelike instrument with finger holes on top.  Notaldo took his seat and the dulcimer.  He had improved greatly with the instrument in the recent years.

Silmani plucked the strings of her lute, setting off a sweet note.  The room was paneled in rich woods, oak, cedar and cherry, acoustic panels that were designed to enhance the sound, the porous nature of the panels reducing echo and reverberation, giving the music a clear, warm tone.  She pointed to the two adults.  “The Cat’s Paw,” she said hopefully.  Morelen nodded and began to blow into the recorder, sending light, airy notes into the room, her fingers flying over the holes, sounding almost like a cat, tapping at toy with a paw.  Silmani joined in next, blending the pluck of her strings with Morelen’s clear notes.  Notaldo began picking at the dulcimer strings in harmony and room filled with delightful music, a true heart of elvendom.  The door opened and the players paused for a moment to see that King Orodreth and Finduilas were entering.  The King wore gold and green robes with a laurel crown on his head while his daughter wore a similar colored gown that flowed to her feet.  She was radiant in the jewels of the realm, a necklace of diamonds and sapphires with a mithril circlet, bearing an elfstone in the center upon her brow.

The musicians stopped and stood but the King raised his hand with a smile.  “No, please continue.  We heard that you were playing and we couldn’t miss it.  We were enthralled by your performance at the ceremony.  You three are an asset to the kingdom.”

The three bowed to King and Princess.  “We were about to play Almarë Síra, This Day is a Blessing,” Morelen said with an edge of pride.  The dulcimer led off, followed by the recorder.  Silmani tapped a tambourine to keep time.  They then took a deep breath and let their voices free.

“We are blessed in this day in the memory of the trees.

Light from Telperion and Laurelin bathe us in our glory.

Their rich glow sets us free.

Almarë Síra!  Almarë Síra!”

Within seconds, more people filled the room, taking chairs and then sitting on the ground, cross legged. Morelen smiled between breaths, nodding to the growing audience.  Silmani began to look nervous, but she continued in a clear voice, occasionally wiping sweat from her brow.  They repeated the chorus three more times and then their voices trailed off.

Finduilas held her hand over her heart.  “Magnificent, my friends.  Simply sublime.

The three stood and bowed low.  “Thank you, my King and fair Finduilas,” Notaldo said.  “I have been a warrior against the darkness all my life.  I wish for things other than war and fighting. So, it is wonderful to play for you, with my wife and Silmani.”

Finduilas approached and took Morelen and Silmani’s hand.  “You must join us for dinner.  I would dearly love to chat with you more about the south.  Your life there sounded idyllic.”

Morelen nodded with a smile.  “It really was.  My father, Fëatur, is a noble, courageous soul.  My mother, Yavëkamba, is still inside the Court of Ardor, spying for him. I cannot imagine braver people than my parents.  The Three, who helped raise me, live in a city created by the Vanyar, when they tarried on their journey west.  It is a fascinating city, full of wonders and magics that we cannot understand.  But my father has written that conflict with the Court is growing and that the Court is nearing a time where they will try to destroy the sun and moon.”

The King’s face blanched. “Destroy the sun and moon?  Is this even possible?  Why did you not tell us sooner?”

Morelen pointed her thumb at Notaldo.  “We have debated that often.  And our defense of the north is a most necessary thing.  Since the Nirnaeth, we cannot do much to assist them and my father says that their new alliance with Taaliraan gives them the strength to fight the Court.  I felt that it would be nothing more than a distraction to us here.”

Orodreth nodded slowly, pursing his lips.  “Yes, I see the wisdom in that.  But please trust me with such information.  I would be honored to help the south with whatever we can spare.  After all, Chrys Menelrana is my cousin.  So, how would the Court even do this?  It seems…impossible.”

“This is all that my father and I know about this…the Court collected a number of gems, created by Fëanor, that had been devoured and belched forth by Ungoliant,” she said to gasps in the room.

Orodreth gazed downwards. “Ever the shadow of Fëanor darkens the land.  From his Silmarils to his cursed sons, so much destruction and death have followed in his wake.  There is no love lost between his sons and I.  I withdrew Nargothrond from the Union of Maedhros solely because of them and what they did here.”  He looked back up, a dark expression on his face.  “It is something that I now regret.  Please continue, Morelen.”

She took a breath and looked around the room.  “I don’t fully understand the magic behind them, but these gems embody ‘unlight’, they devour light and energy.  No one I know can explain it, but it must have come from the evil of Ungoliant.  The Court has a number of these and they need a catalyst to unleash and focus the unlight onto the sun and moon.  This will require a perfect eclipse where both are in the same place in the sky at the same time.”

“What kind of catalyst?” Finduilas asked.

“My father says that it has to be a blood sacrifice…and the sacrifice must have Vala blood.”

Orodreth blew out a long breath.  “Yes, that would make sense.  We know that the Ainur can have offspring as Lúthien is proof of that.  Does the Court have such a catalyst?”

“My father has alluded that they do, but will say no more on that or who it is.  I cannot imagine how such a catalyst was produced.  Would it be the offspring of Morgoth?  Or some other Ainur?  If it were Morgoth, such a horror should be destroyed,” she said emphatically.  

“Please write to your father and let him know that Nargothrond pledges what support we can give.” The King put his hand on his chin for a moment, pondering.  “Actually, I think it would be wise to grant you leave to return to the south and deliver the message personally with my compliments and with proof of my resolve. After all, Lord Mormegil says that any immediate threat to the kingdom has been dealt with after our last battle. I think you’ve earned a respite.”

Morelen’s face lit up. “I would be honored to carry your message and to see my father and The Three again.  When would you like me to go?”

Orodreth grinned and motioned to Notaldo and Silmani.  “I would like the three of you to go and see the south.  It is something that I have always wanted to do.  You will have to give me a full description upon your return.”

She gripped Notaldo and Silmani’s hands.  “Of course, my King!  It would be my pleasure.”

“I shall send word to Círdan for a ship,” he said and then nodded his head.  “We shall see you for dinner.”  Orodreth and Finduilas departed with the audience, who were murmuring about the recital and the Court.  

Morelen practically bounced with excitement.  “I cannot believe that I will be able to see my father again.  It’s been centuries.  I cannot wait to show you the wonders of the south.  I’ll show you the jungles that are so full of life, Chrys Menelrana’s manor house in Tumlindë and Ty-Ar-Rana where I was raised.  Oh, you’ll love him and The Three.  So wise and noble.  I learned singing and dancing from Lysa.  They say that she is the Galadriel of the south.”

Silmani clapped and then held her hands over her heart, her eyes wide and full of wonder.  “What else?  What else is there, Morelen?”

She took the young lady’s hand.  “There are birds, Silmani, birds that can speak.  Birds that have such a wondrous array of colors, blue, green, red and yellow. They’re called parrots.  And then there are huge, monstrous beasts, gray in color, who have noses as long as three horses lined up.  We call them Oliphants or Mûmakil in the mannish tongue. Their calls shake the ground.”

Silmani put her free hand over her mouth and Notaldo smiled.  “You’ve been promising me a tour of the south for some time now,” he said. “I want to try that dessert of ice with flavored sauce.”

“Oh, it’s a treat down in the south, especially in the summer when the heat and humidity are strong. It’s very different down there.  During the heat of Urui or Urimë as we Noldor say, you can start sweating just by stepping outdoors.  Ty-Ar-Rana has some system that cools the interior.  Even the Three cannot fathom its workings.  Oh, I can’t wait,” Morelen said, her smile ear to ear.  “I suppose we should start packing.”  They placed their instruments back on the stands and hurried back to their quarters, where they met Líreno.

“Just the people I was looking for,” he said, his voice tinged with both amusement and worry.  “Do you have a moment?  It’s important.  He reached down and kissed Silmani on the head.  “Silmani, I have to speak to my friends.  Could you give us a moment?”

Morelen patted her on the back.  “Head to your room, dear.  I’ll be there soon to help you pack,” she said, and the girl hugged Líreno and skipped down the hallway.

Líreno leaned in with a conspiratorial look on his face, glancing around.  He handed them a parchment.  “I’ve mapped out an escape route from Nargothrond to where I believe the hidden gates of Gondolin to be.  It took a lot of travel and a lot of coaxing with the Gondolindrim at the Havens of Sirion.  It’s not exact, but it expands on the searches of Gelmir and Arminas.  I am still heading their warning.”

Notaldo’s face wrinkled up at first, but Morelen stayed him with her hand.  She looked over the parchment.  “Thank you, Líreno.  I haven’t forgotten.  What do you propose that we do with this?”  The parchment showed a map with specific landmarks that would guide a traveler. They would have to go north along the Sirion and look to the Crissaegrim, the Encircling Mountains.

“Keep this to yourselves, please,” Líreno said quietly.  “This information cannot fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Morelen nodded.  “I understand,” she said solemnly.  “We will guard this with our lives.”  She tilted her head to the side.  “Say, the King has tasked us to take a message to my father in the south.  We will be departing in a fortnight and be staying for perhaps three months or so. Would you care to join us? Notaldo and I, plus Silmani will be going.  I’m sure the King would not mind a fourth.”

Líreno narrowed his eyes for a moment, thinking.  “I…uhhh, why yes, yes, I would love to.  I’ve heard so much about the south from you.  I’ll…uhhh…let Telerien know to start packing.”

Morelen poked him on the chest.  “You need a little bit of fun.  You’ve been so dark lately.”

He pursed his lips. “I can’t shake what Gelmir and Arminas said.  I just want us to be ready…just in case.”

Two weeks flew by and the King happily granted Líreno leave to join the trip.  They went by horseback to the Havens of Sirion, which was really a growing outpost of docks and fishing vessels.  A two masted boat took them to the Isle of Balar where they saw a great port and the banners of the Falathrim under Círdan.  The port was alive with activity, seagulls buzzing about with fishing boats coming and going.  The town had grown significantly since the Nirnaeth where refugees from Hithlum, Dor-Lómin, Nevrast and the Falas had settled.  Beautiful gray swan ships lay at anchor along the extensive docks, much larger than the fishing boats that they had seen.  The crew of the boat helped the travelers onto the docks with their bags and wished them safe travels.

They looked for a harbor master’s office and found a simple building built of wood and stone.  They entered to see a room adorned with the artifacts of the sea, nets, oars, hooks and shark’s jaws mounted on the walls. The smell of the sea was strong here as was the lapping of waves on the posts of the dock.  A Sindarin elf, in rough sailor’s garb and a red knit cap, looked up.  “Ah, High Elves?  What can I do for you?  Oh, are you also here from Gondolin?  I’m afraid that your ship will not be completed for another month.”

Notaldo shook his head. “No, we’re here from Nargothrond. Here is our letter of introduction from King Orodreth.  We need transport to the south.”

The harbor master brightened and extended his hand.  “Ah, Gaerion, at your service.  Sorry for the mistake.  We’ve been getting Gondolindrim flowing into the port since the Bragollach.  Many have been going west to beseech the Valar for aid. Very few have ret…ummm,” he said and then saw Telerien and young Idhrendiel and Silmani and stopped himself. “Well, anyway, you’re not from Gondolin. A ship south, huh?  Well, it’s been a while.  You know we used to have a steady stream of traffic south when Fingolfin was High King and then Fingon.  Lots of supplies, weapons and armor, but that pretty much stopped after…you know.”

Morelen nodded with a smile.  “Yes, my father and his friends were the recipient of your supplies.”

Another sailor perked up. He stood up from a wooden rocking chair and took his floppy yellow sea hat off, his blond hair spilling down his neck. “Did I hear you correctly?  Your father is from the south?  I used to make the trip frequently some years ago.”

“Yes, my father is Fëatur.”

The sailor scoffed with a big grin.  “Yes, yes, Fëatur!  I know him. I took him south many years ago, centuries ago.  Captain Ferui at your service.”  He extended his hand.  “It’s been quiet lately.  I think I could be convinced to take you south.  I’d love to see the jungles again and your father owes me a story about the famed mûmakil.”

Morelen and Silmani clapped their hands.  “We would love to hear that too.  It has been too long since I was in the south,” she said.  “Over three-hundred years, I think.  Before the assault on Hithlum.”

Ferui bowed.  “Then it’s settled.  The winds and sea will be perfect at dawn, the day after tomorrow. I’ll start to prepare the Bregolaph for departure.  You will love my ship.  It’s a veritable floating palace upon the seas,” he said with a huge smile.  “The world may change, my friends, but the sea is eternal.”

Ferui took them to a tavern and inn that was full of Sindarin Elves and Edain, much more rustic and lively than any Noldorin establishment.  Music from stringed instruments and recorders loudly filled the room along with wild dancing and singing, not all in tune.  Morelen narrowed one eye with a weird, half smile.  This was…different…not unlike the music of the men of Nargothrond but certainly more free and definitely more bawdy.  She moved to cover Silmani’s ears, but the young lady rushed up to the stage over a wooden floor covered with spilled drinks and food.

A band of elves and men played, belting out a tune about a randy fisherman’s daughter keeping the fishermen warm.  Morelen had to admit that it was funny.  Ferui gestured them to an open table.  “You folks enjoy!” he yelled over the music.  “I’ll start rounding up the crew, but I’ll be back later!  You can get rooms at the front desk.  You won’t want to miss the fun after sunset when the fisherman get back though!”  He signaled an elven serving girl.  “First round for my friends is on me!”  He clapped Notaldo on the back and headed out.

Mugs of ale and mead arrived, thick and frothy.  Morelen took a long drink and then wiped her mouth with a napkin.  “I don’t think we’ll hear any song about the Two Trees here,” she said jokingly.  “But I kind of like it.  It’s so…so lively.”  A male and female member of the band began bumping their midsections together in an act of mock intimacy and Morelen’s eyes got huge, and she covered Simani’s. “By the Valar!  That’s…yeah.”

Notaldo chuckled. “It’s definitely different beyond the confines of the Noldorin kingdoms.”

Líreno took his wife by the hand and pulled her to the dance floor.  “I like it.  It’s…it’s free.”

Morelen looked around the large main hall, high ceilings held up by wooden pillars and upper floors for the inn.  Reminders of the ocean adored the walls and rafters, harpoons, oars, nets and glass balls used to float them.  A shark and a swordfish were preserved and mounted on the wall by the front desk along with horrifying and mystical creatures with bulbous heads and tentacles. As she scanned around, she saw a Noldorin elf, his hair disheveled, his eyes glassy and a dozen empty glasses on the table in front of him.  His clothing was worn and slovenly.  It looked like he hadn’t bathed in a while.  She tapped Notaldo to indicate that she was going to speak to the man.

She approached him with a smile.  “Hello, my good fellow.  I am Morelen, traveling with family and friends,” she said and sat down at his table. “I was surprised to see another High Elf here.”

The man snorted and took another long drink and then let out a belch.  “You’re going west, huh?  Don’t even try it.  You’ll find nothing but despair and death.  The Valar have cursed us.  I would advise you to turn around and return to Gondolin.”

“You’re from Gondolin? We are actually from Nargothrond.”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.  “So, Turgon didn’t send you?”

She shook her head. “We are envoys of King Orodreth, heading south to the Guild of Elements and the Kingdom of Taaliraan.”

He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes.  “Sorry, too much to drink.  I’m Voronwë, late of Gondolin, late of Nevrast, late of all over the place,” he said darkly.  “I was sent west by the High King in a ship that Círdan built for us.  Seven years we searched for the Undying Lands.  Our mission was to seek forgiveness from the Valar and to plead for assistance.  Nearly out of supplies, we abandoned our task and returned to Middle Earth where our ship was destroyed in a storm.  I, alone, was saved by the grace and mercy of Ulmo, brought to shore in Nevrast.  There, I met a man named Tuor and led him to Gondolin.  I could not stay though.  My mind was wrecked, much like my ship.  I returned here to…drink and debauch and…to forget.”  He took another long drink, draining the mug and then ordered another.

“Did Ulmo give you any message?” she asked.  “Gelmir and Arminas delivered one to us through Círdan, not too long ago.  They said that we should close the gates and destroy the bridge for the forces of Morgoth were growing.”

He nodded. “Aye.  Ulmo gave a message to Tuor to take to the High King that he should abandon the hidden city and move to the Havens of Sirion.  I led Tuor to the hidden gates and we were held by Elemmakil, Captain of the Guard of the Gates of Wood and then brought before Ecthelion of the Fountain who recognized the arms that Tuor carried.  It was there that I requested to depart and return here. The sea is my life now.  I’ll likely die here.”

Morelen thought for a moment and then showed him the parchment that Líreno made.  “Voronwë, my friend is worried about what Ulmo said.  He has a plan should Nargothrond fall that we should flee to Gondolin.  Can you tell me if this map is accurate?”

He looked it over and then shook his head.  “I shouldn’t say.”

“Please Voronwë, just a yes or no.”

He nodded, reluctance written on his face.  “Yes, but I’ll say no more.  Now please, Morelen…I am glad to make your acquaintance, but please…leave me to my drink.”

She placed her hand over his.  “Thank you, Voronwë.  Be well. Be healed.”  She put the map back in a tube and sealed it, putting a ward on the cap.  Then, she stood and went back to their table where Líreno and his family were just returning.  She pulled the map case out of her bag just enough to show Líreno and nodded to him with a smile.  He understood and let out a sigh of relief.  She pointed over to Voronwë with her thumb and he lifted a glass to the elf.

Captain Ferui returned, accompanied by two elves, the leader who looked old and young at the same time.  His hair was light blond, almost white and his eyes were keen.  The most unusual thing was that he had a scruff of a beard. He wore the garb of a sailor, rough, treated cotton and comfortably cut to handle both fish and sails.  The other elf was a Noldo, his face almost innocent with dark hair and a chiseled face with a strong jaw and cheeks.  He wore fine silk robes of blue and silver with the sigil of the House of Fingolfin.

“Greetings, my friends,” Ferui said with a bow.  “Please let me introduce you to the master of ships, Círdan and-”

“Gil-Galad,” Morelen finished as the table stood and bowed low.  “My lord…we are honored.”  They turned and bowed to Círdan in turn.

The shipwright waved them off.  “No, no, I am but a simple sailor.  My life is for the sea but it is good to meet you.”  He had a smile that was wise and compassionate.  His eyes held the knowledge of eons.

A cautious smile spread over Gil-Galad’s mouth.  “You served my father, Fingon,” he said as if he already knew them.  He looked down for a moment before continuing.  “He wrote me frequently before he fell and he spoke of his company of riders like they were family.  I could envision you all as I reread his writing…Nandamo, the herald, Tintallo, the Captain of the Misë and you,” he said to Notaldo, “are Notaldo, Captain of the Telepta, Líreno and Morelen, his lieutenants.  I knew you the moment that I saw you.”

Tears streamed down Morelen’s face and her heart both ached and soared.  She had no idea that Fingon was telling his son about them.  “Yes, my lord.  And I knew you the moment that I saw you.  You are your father’s son.  Serving him has been the honor of my life.  I was there…there when…,” she trailed off, her voice cracking.  

Círdan nodded sadly. “I know that you all fought with courage.  Please, please, sit down.  Be comfortable.”  He signaled the innkeeper.  “Ethirbenn! I’ve been fishing all day and I’m hungry!”  There was something so comfortable about the shipwright.  No pretense.  No formality. He was just…Círdan.  “I’m sure you haven’t eaten yet.  Please join me.  I would love to hear your tale.”

The innkeeper waddled over with his wife.  Ethirbenn was rather chubby for an elf, but food was his life.  He and his wife, Eithadis, brought over platters of fish, shrimp, lobster and clams and a large bowl of thick broth with seaweed, octopus and squid.  It was truly the bounty of the sea.  “Carefully! Carefully!” Eithadis scolded her husband.  “How many times do I have to tell you?  Every night, most of the soup ends up on the floor and I have to clean it!”

Ethirbenn put the dishes on the table with a huff.  “Yes, dear.”

They scurried away, Eithadis shaking her finger at her husband.  Líreno chuckled.  “They seem to have this down.  Is this…?”

Círdan nodded with a smirk. “Every night.  Yes.”

There was something about the easy nature of the Falathrim that appealed to Morelen.  She had heard in the market in Nargothrond that High Elves were stuffy and oftentimes self-important.  She wondered if she were like that.  The way that these elves spoke, moved and treated each other was so different.

Notaldo looked at Gil-Galad.  “My prince, if I may ask, were you not in line to be High King after your father?”

“A fair question.  I was still very young after the Nirnaeth. I was not fit to rule.  I had a messenger inform my uncle that he should be High King of the Noldor.  Turgon is wise and experienced.  He is the right person to rule our people.  Now please…tell me of my father.  I wish to know all from the people that he was closest with.”

Morelen patted her chest over her heart.  “He was…he was magnificent.  He had the look of eagles and I would have gladly given my life for his,” she began and the others nodded.  Then, the three riders gave the prince their story.  Morelen told of her witnessing Fingolfin’s death and her desperate attempt to save Fingon.  They rounded out with how they came to serve Orodreth and Túrin’s victorious campaigns.

Captain Ferui and Círdan listened intently as Gil-Galad soaked in every word.  “I helped to defend the Falas,” the prince said.  “But your exploits are extraordinary, my friends. While I am jealous of your service to my uncle, Orodreth, I am glad that you fight for all of the Free Peoples.  May I invite you to stay at my manor?  The inn is…nice but it can be difficult to rest after dark until the early hours as the clientele is…boisterous.”

Círdan chuckled. “You High Elves are so averse to boisterousness.”

Gil-Galad smiled, slightly embarrassed, his cheeks red.  “We prefer a meditative quiet.”

Just then, a song belted out from the band, lively and loud, about a visiting sailor, seducing the wives and daughters of the local fisherman and stealing them away. Ferui’s face lit up, his eyes and mouth wide.  “I should be so lucky!  I can’t get rid of that wench if I tried!”

Círdan laughed out loud. “You’d fall off your ship if it weren’t for her!”  Gil-Galad gave a wan smile.  It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with the casual atmosphere of the Falathrim. He was still very young and he reminded Morelen of Lyrin down south.

Ferui pushed the palms of his hands up to the people at the table.  “Come, come!  Get up! It’s time to dance!  Feel the music!”

Morelen made a weird smile and shrugged, grabbing Notaldo and Silmani by the hands.  “Hey, our host ordered us to dance!  Come on!”  They stood and headed to the dance floor, joined by Líreno and family.  Morelen looked around and the Falathrim were just gyrating and flowing to the music, movements spontaneous and free, unlike the dances of the High Elves, scripted and polished, practiced and traditional. The music of the Noldor had a theme, a memory, a purpose while this was just…music.  She felt stiff at first, trying to impose some of her learning onto her movements.

Ferui tapped her on the shoulder.  “No, no, this isn’t the Echoes of Eldamar!  Just feel the music!  Feel it in your heart and in your gut!  Not in your head!  Flow, young lady!”  He went back to letting his limbs wobble with a Sindarin woman in front of him.  He pointed to the lady.  “My wife, Hîgwen, the sticky maiden and boy is she sticky!”

With an evil grin, Hîgwen slapped her hand on Ferui’s crotch and squeezed.  “Sticky indeed!”

Ferui nearly doubled over, howling, but then cackled.  “Save it for later, dear!”

Morelen didn’t know whether to laugh or not and Silmani’s eyes were huge.  Still, she tried to emulate them and waved her arms and hands around, letting her head flop about.  It felt weird.

Círdan danced with a Sindarin woman.  He glanced over and nodded his approval.  “Not bad, not bad.  You would have loved Cuiviénen,” he said.  “It was so wild and free under the starlight.  We created language, song and music.  Those were heady days,” he added with a faraway look.

Morelen’s mouth fell open. “Cuiviénen?  The birthplace?  I…you…sir, you are ancient.”

His eyes twinkled, ancient and young at the same time.  “Indeed, young lady.  Now, breath in the music and be free.”

Chapter End Notes

I had thought to go right into the Fall of Nargothrond but I felt that an interlude to the south would be interesting and a deeper look into elven culture, the Sindar vs the Noldor.

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43)  Call of the Sea / War on the Waves - Year of the Sun 494 Girithron (December)

Morelen

The stay at Gil-Galad’s manor was fabulous.  He treated them warmly and the riders were lodged in expansive quarters that reminded them of their homes in Hithlum, under Fingon.  The structure itself was more devoted to the sea and a delicate blend of both Sindarin and Noldorin culture, a product of the prince’s more cosmopolitan upbringing.  The staff were also a mixture of people, some Noldor, some Falathrim and some Edain and the décor reflected that.

On the morning of departure, the skies were clear but cold and a light dusting of snow lay on the ground. The sea was calm with some ice crusting on the docks with icicles dangling from the eaves of the manor.  The riders stood out on the balcony, breath streaming in the cold air.  Morelen rubbed her nose and hands and then Silmani’s shoulders.  She pulled the young lady’s fur coat tighter and secured the mithril clasp, an eight-pointed star on a field of blue, the sign of Fingon’s House.  An attendant brought them a pot of hot coffee.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Gil-Galad said, his hands wrapped around a mug of steaming liquid.

Notaldo blew a hot breath into his palms and nodded.  “Indeed it is.  I’m sad to leave.  This island has a sense of peace and unity.”

“It has been my home since the fall of the Falas.  I am indebted to Círdan.  He is wise beyond measure.  His defense of the Falas and smooth evacuation was masterful.  Every inch of ground that we gave cost the enemy dearly. My people and I would not be standing here but for him.”  He looked down and saw Silmani’s coat pin and smiled.  “I am glad that memory of my father endures.  I would see our house thrive and be reborn under Turgon.”

The riders bowed. “We wish it as well,” Notaldo said. “We will take our leave of you, my prince.  We will never forget your courtesy.”

Gil-Galad returned a wide grin.  “Not so fast, good riders.  I have decided to journey with you.  Círdan will join us as well.  I am not so well traveled as he and I wish to see the world so that I may better serve our people.  A diversity of ideas and cultures can only broaden our horizons and my experience.”

Morelen cocked her head. “A…wise idea, my prince.  We would welcome you.”  Gil-Galad had more of the feel of a contemporary rather than what she saw in Fingon or Fingolfin.  The latter two were like Ainur to her, larger than life.  Gil-Galad was younger than she was but she had a feeling that he would grow into the role.  “Life in the south is quite different.  I think…I think you will like it.”

They looked down and saw Círdan and Ferui waving from the dock in front of the Bregolaph.  A gangplank went to the vessel from the dock. The ship was large, shaped expertly like a swan, the design of the master shipwright.  Two tall masts rose above the ship, awaiting triangular sails to catch the wind.  At the prow was the sculpture of a swan’s neck and head, expertly painted in white, black and orange.  On the sides of the vessel were wooden wings, tucked into the hull, painted in white.  It had six decks with a high quarter and poop deck aft, ideal for a view or defense.  Rope ladders led from the decks up to the masts for sailors to climb.  The crew scrambled around, hauling barrels and bags of supplies as seagulls soared and dove above.  They walked down to the docks to meet the sailors, where ice had been scraped from the wood to prevent slipping.

They nodded to Círdan. “When do we depart?” Notaldo asked.

Círdan shook his head. “That’s Captain Ferui’s purview. I’m just along for the ride.”

Ferui snorted a chuckle and pointed his thumb at the Shipwright.  “He just designed and constructed this wonder, that’s all.  Now please, welcome to the Bregolaph.  You are free to board.  My crew will see to your quarters and bags.”  He licked his finger and held it up into the wind.  “Ah, perfect.  Fair winds and following seas.  With a little luck, we’ll be at the trading post of Gensatra in under two weeks. That’s where I dropped your father off, Morelen.  They have the best lobster bisque.  Ethirbenn has tried to recreate it, but I fear that he gets a little heavy on the cream. Just saying.”  He gestured up the plank and made a motion for them to hold the railings.  “Don’t want you falling off.  It’s a little cold in the water.”

Hîgwen met them at the top of the gangplank and she, along with some of the crew, took their bags and showed them the way to the cabins.  Each family had its own and the two young ladies had a room to themselves. Idhrendiel and Silmani clapped and giggled, running off to find their room.  Líreno chuckled.  “It’s like I have two daughters.”

As the crew headed down the staircase below, Morelen pointed to the sea.  “It calls to me,” she said to Notaldo.  “I think I’ll stay topside for a while.”

He nodded.  “I’ll stay with you.”

Círdan and Ferui came aboard and pulled up the plank.  “All aboard!” Ferui called.  “Cast off lines!”  Sailors lifted the thick ropes that tied the Bregolaph to the dock and workers dockside pulled them in, freeing the great ship.  They used poles to push the vessel away and oarsmen pulled to propel the ship out of the port.  As they passed the last of the jetties, Morelen waved to children gathered on the massive stones that served as breakwaters for the port.  The children, clad in thick furs, jumped up and down, waving and blowing kisses.  Seagulls followed the Bregolaph as fishing vessels sortied out to pursue their catch while clam diggers prowled the cold beach.  It was a microcosm that the High Elves were amazed at.

Ferui called to sailors up in the masts.  “Raise the sails!  Full ahead!”  He went to the great wheel that steered the ship and put on his yellow sea cap as barefooted sailors pulled the lines that raised the sails.  The wind caught the canvas and the sails billowed out like clouds with a snapping sound and the Bregolaph surged ahead, cutting the water like a knife.

Morelen peered over the bow, the wind fluttering her raven hair behind her and she inhaled the smell of the sea, salty, cold and full of life.  She looked down to see a school of dolphins leaping and diving just ahead of them. Sailors tossed fish over the side and dolphins bolted up, catching them in midair.  What a wonder.

Círdan, and the Sindarin woman whom he danced with, approached them.  “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?  The sea.  It calls to we elves.  When I awoke at Lake Cuiviénen, the first thing I saw was water.  It has been in my heart ever since.  Water…and my Halviel,” he said, gesturing to the woman.  “She is my seashell, a song on her lips and the roar of the sea in her heart.  She is every bit the sailor that I am.”

“The things that you have seen,” Morelen said in wonder as she gazed out on the sunlit horizon.

“We will have smooth sailing all the way south.  Ulmo is good.”  And he was not wrong.

The journey was swift as there always seemed to be a wind in their favor and the sails were always full. The weather began to get warmer too, a feeling of humidity creeping into the climate as they continued south.  Dolphins frequently swam alongside of the Bregolaph, hopping and playing at the bow of the ship while sailors tossed them fish. Morelen, Silmani and Idhrendiel always joined in, digging into buckets of bait fish and flinging them out to have dolphins leap up and catch them, the two young women laughing freely.  Halviel and Hîgwen stood behind them, clapping in joy. Morelen looked out to see something huge, jumping out of the water and then crashing back, throwing up a massive spray.  Her eyes went big, and she stopped what she was doing.

“That is a whale,” Círdan said, pointing.  “She’s part of a pod that will birth calves soon.  They’re very gentle unless provoked and we don’t provoke them.”  

They gazed out, seeing spouts of water.  “Magnificent!” she said in awe.  Something about the ocean captured her.  She closed her eyes and just felt the salt sea spray on her face.

“We are nearing the outpost of Gensatra soon,” Círdan said.  “It has been too long since we have been here.  I have not been able to send any ships since the Nirnaeth…every vessel was needed for the evacuation of the Falas and all trade from the north ceased. I’m pleased that we may be able to resume that.”

The sun began to set in the west, casting a radiant spectrum of colors across the horizon.  White fluffy clouds floated in the distance, turning red, then pink, then purple.  Sailors called out to slack the sails for night as a bell rang out the time. “We’ll be nearing the shallows soon!” Ferui called out.  “Watchers on the prow and in the crow’s nests, looking for reefs!” he ordered, and barefoot sailors rushed forward and up the rope ladders.  

A sailor pulled up a wooden cylinder attached to a line.  “Eight fathoms, sandy bottom!”

Ferui looked up at the sails.  “That’s good! That’s good!  Maintain fifteen knots, half speed ahead!”  He took a deep sniff of the air.  “Ah!  Hîgwen almost has dinner ready!  I could eat a whale!” he called with a deep laugh.

Soon, platters of fish, shrimp, octopus and squid were brought topside along with deep pots of broth. Hîgwen led the galley crew in laying out the food on wooden tables on the main deck and crew who were not working gathered.  They ate as Círdan, Halviel, Gil-Galad and Ferui stood by, not eating until the crew had finished.  Even when the crew swapped out with the workers, they waited and then joined the feast. Ferui raised his mug and then drained it in one long gulp, froth rolling down his chin onto his waterproof coat. He then waved his yellow sea cap. “Music, we need music!” he called and someone began to beat rhythmically on a kettle drum, a deep sonorous pounding like the waves.  A recorder joined soon after and sailors began to hop around on the deck as Ferui and Círdan roared with laughter.  Ferui took Hîgwen by the arm and they began to hop, circling each other.  “It’s called a jig!” he called and then gestured to the riders.  “Come, join, join!”  Círdan and Halviel leapt up out of their seats.

Silmani practically pulled Morelen and Notaldo up and began prancing about, followed by Líreno and his family.  Sailors cheered and drank, drowning out the lap of the waves and the snapping of the sails. Notaldo spun Morelen and Silmani in a circle, the young lady squealing with joy.  The tune ended with a recorder playing a chorus and then drifting off into silence.  Círdan raised his hand and began to sing a sea shanty,

“We have plowed the waves, since times of old,

Brave sailors all, strong and bold,

We rig the sails and brace the lines,

Our ships are swift and our blood is brine!”

Sailors clapped in rhythm to the shanty, an ancient sea tradition and the riders joined in.  Ferui leaned over.  “You people have taken to the sea.  She is lovely and fierce all at the same time.  Respect her at all times or she will be sure to remind you.”

“I could stay on this boat forever,” Morelen said.  “You have been wonderful and courteous captain.  We won’t forget your kindness, Ferui.  Maybe one day, we could work on your boat.”

He smiled. “Ship, lass, she’s a ship.  The finest in Círdan’s fleet.”

She cocked her head. “Ah, a ship, thank you.”

He put a boiled orange shrimp into a red sauce and then into his mouth and chewed for a moment.  “Work on my ship?  Well, there’s no time like the present, is there.  Come, follow me!”  He led her and Silmani forward and told them the names of the parts of the ship. Booms, winches, halyards and stanchions. “The luff is the forward edge of the sail, used to get the best wind and the aft part is the leech,” he said, moving his finger around at the mainsail.  “Here, crank the handle on the winch and see what it does to the sail.”

The two ladies began to turn the handle and the sail tightened.  They then released a latch and loosened it again.  Ferui pointed over the side to where one of the rope ladders went up the mast to the boom, the wooden crossbeam that held the sail. “The ropes attach at the deadeyes and then up there,” he said, pointing, “it’s the Círdan Ladder that leads up to the topsail.  You two can climb it in the morning when it’s light.”

Morelen narrowed her eyes. “Why?  We elves see almost a well at night as we do in the day.”

“The key word is ‘almost’. I don’t want to see you two hurt in any way so we can wait a little while.  Our sailors are the most experienced in the world.  We’ve been doing this for eons now.  You can wait the night,” he said with a broad smile that told her that his word was final.  Even Círdan and Gil-Galad heeded his word aboard ship.  He licked his finger and held it up into the wind.  “I think we’ll make port by tomorrow evening. And don’t think that I won’t take you up on work tomorrow,” he said with a wink.  “Have a good night.”

They went below and back to their quarters, Silmani joining Idhrendiel, who was holding a doll that looked like a cat.  The two young ladies waved at Morelen and then ran into their room, giggling.  Morelen snickered, happy that the two were becoming fast friends.  She slid into their cabin and saw Notaldo, sitting in the porcelain tub, full of hot water.  “There’s plenty of hot water,” he said, patting the side of the tub.  The water sloshed with the pitch and roll of the ship, but not by much for as stable as the Bregolaph was on the sea.

“I’ve been out working on the ship,” she said proudly, tilting her nose up. “I think I could use a bath,” she added and then pulled off her comfortable cotton pants that she began wearing on the journey, then her sea jacket and tunic, then her boots.  She slid into the water, facing him, her legs wrapping around his waist.  She wanted him.  She needed him.  Her whole heart was full of love.

He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her close.  He took a sniff.  “Yup, you smell like fish and I think you could use some soap.”  He dipped a bar in the water and began lathering it up on her chest and neck, then rubbing the lather into her hair.  She took the bar and began doing the same, giving him a sideways look with a mischievous smile.  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and then lifted her up onto his lap.  She pulled with her legs, holding him tight.  She could stay on this ship and be a sailor. It would be a good life.

He rinsed her off and carried her to the bed, the gentle rocking of the ship becoming part of their movements.  A porthole let the star and moonlight into the cabin, shining on their bodies, reflecting the water and growing perspiration on their skin.  She sighed contentedly, stroking his wavy hair with her fingers.  The creaking of the wood with the waves blended in with the creaking of the bed and Morelen gave in, her face scrunching with pleasure as lightning coursed through her body.

Notaldo fell over, panting and Morelen rolled on top of him.  “I’m not done with you yet.”  All of her life she possessed inhuman stamina and rarely seemed to tire.  She hungered for everything, knowledge, skill, magic…and love.

Dawn came all too quickly in a night that seemed eternal.  Seagulls called as sunlight streamed in through the porthole and the ship rocked quietly to the sound of the sea, crashing into the hull.  Notaldo was deep asleep, worn out while Morelen dozed in his arms, the aloe scent of his hair in her nostrils.  Bells rang the time out as sailors called for the sails to be unfurled.  Morelen rolled out of bed and sat back in the tub, washing herself, thinking again about a family.  She would see her father again soon.  What a wonderful thing it would be if she could make him a grandfather.  And to meet her mother, Yavëkamba…  It was a dream of hers.  Try as they might though, she had not conceived yet.  Elves had a notoriously low birth rate, so Notaldo had told her many times not to worry.  Still, it was on her mind.

She stepped out of the tub as he woke.  He stretched and groaned as she glided by him, running her fingers along his body and then putting on her sailing clothes.  “I’m going to help with the ship today,” she said.  “Ferui’s going to show Silmani and I.”

He closed one eye tightly.  “Feel free to start without me.  I’ll be in the tub.”  He slid into the water, sloshing around.  “I think we’re going to need to change the sheets.”

Morelen chuckled and shook her head, giving him a sly, backwards glance. “See you topside.”  She gave a thought to their love last night and she blushed red as she stepped out the door.

Silmani was already waiting in the corridor with Idhrendiel, wearing a basic, blue cotton outfit for work.  “We’ve been waiting,” Silmani said impatiently, stomping her foot.  “You’re always late, Morelen!”  Excitement was etched on her face, and she had a pair of work gloves tied to her leather belt.

“I am always on time,” Morelen protested with a grin.  “Come on, let’s learn how to work a ship.”  She straightened her blue and green work clothes with pride.

Ferui met them at the top of the stairs with a mug of coffee in hand. “Excellent!  Are you ready to get to work?”

The two young ladies practically leapt into the air and the captain roared with laughter and then gulped the rest of his drink.  In no time, they were pulling lines, pulling on the boom to change the angle of the sails and then tying them down.  It was hard work but they were loving every minute of it, sweat glistening on their faces.  Ferui pointed up the rope ladder that led to the crow’s nest.  “Alright, up you go.  Up you go.  Careful now, careful.  I’m not diving in the ocean after you!”

The three followed the captain up, who was obviously an expert at this. He reached the crow’s nest and then helped them up.  “Take a look,” he said, pointing out to the horizon and then to the north where they could see land and jungle.  “That’s the Mirëdor Peninsula where a number of Silvan colonies are.  Friendly people.  They have trading posts all along the coast.  We’ll be entering the Ûsakan Bay by afternoon where the outpost of Gensatra is located.  From there, we can ride to your father at Chrys Menelrana’s manor.  That’s a fairly short trip.”

The view was incredible and Morelen felt that she could see forever.  The ocean was so blue and the sky clear with distant, fluffy clouds.  “I think I can see them from here,” she joked, her heart pounding with the thought of seeing her family again.  It would be a longer ride to Ty-Ar-Rana to see The Three but she could already see them in her mind.  “Idhrendiel, Silmani, you will love it here.  I know it.”

Ferui pointed further up the mast.  “We still have a ways to go!  There, up the Círdan’s Ladder!  I’ll help you.”  He lifted the girls up, one by one onto the wooden rung of the ladder and they climbed like monkeys up to the top, stepping onto the small platform where the wind whipped and the sails snapped.  Ferui came up next, followed by Morelen.  It felt as if they were flying like birds, high above the deck.

“This is…this is…thank you,” Morelen said as she braced herself on the wooden and chain railing.  Seagulls gliding along, barely above them, hoping for a sailor to toss them a fish. The sun climbed higher into the sky, Arien guiding the great vessel much like Captain Ferui did.  Though an insignificant elf, she would give her all to see that the Maia, Arien, was not slain.

They stayed in the loft for a while, feeling the wind and the sea spray until Ferui went to the ladder.  “I have to head back down but are you fine to climb down on your own?”

Morelen nodded.  She and the monkeys had been good climbers for some time, spelunking the caverns of Nargothrond and nearby forests.  As Ferui slid down, she pulled out a cloth, wrapped around some blueberry biscuits.  She gave two to the girls and munched on the third. Then, she wrapped her arms around her chest, closed her eyes and smiled.  Weren’t the lives of elves supposed to be eternal bliss?  Was that not Eru’s plan?  Instead, her existence was a juxtaposition of peace and violence, pleasure and horror, comradery and death.  Could she endure another Nirnaeth without her mind shattering?  She had heard other elves call this “The Long Defeat.”

As the sun passed overhead, they sailed through a narrow straight that entered the Ûsakan Bay.  The weather got noticeably warmer and more humid and schools of dolphins joined them again.  Morelen looked down to see Ferui speaking with Círdan and Gil-Galad and they seemed concerned.  She tilted her head towards them and could hear their words.

“We should be seeing the fishing fleet from Gensatra by now,” Ferui said, scanning the horizon.  “This is concerning.”

“We should be at the outpost in a couple of hours,” Círdan replied.  “We may get answers there, but we should be vigilant.  I don’t like this.”

Ferui’s jovial face went serious in an instant.  He rang a large bell that clanged loudly over and over.  “To arms!  Crew, to arms!”  Sailors immediately began to don light, leather armor, grabbing short, curved swords and bows.  “Archers, up top!  Prepare the catapults and ballistae!  Be sharp about it!  Hîgwen, tell the surgeons to be ready!”  A kettle drum began to beat out a battle rhythm.  He pointed to the sail master.  “Lodon, come up on the wind!  Get me the weather gauge!”  This was a man who knew his ship and crew.

Círdan began directing the sailors on deck.  “Secure the hatches!  Tie down those lines!  Fill those barrels with water now!  I need oil up here, move it!”  They hadn’t seen any threat yet, but it was obvious that everyone trusted Captain Ferui. Morelen scanned the horizon with her powerful eyes.  She saw four masts, sails billowing, drawing closer.  Four ships.

As archers climbed the rope ladders into the crow’s nest below, she called down, “Captain Ferui!  Four ships on the horizon, heading towards us at good speed!”  She turned to the two girls.  “Come, we need to get you down.  Follow me.  Be quick about it.”  With her gloved hands, she grasped the ropes of the ladder and slid down among the archers and then down the next ladder to the deck, the girls hot behind her.

Notaldo came up on deck, his sword belt on.  “What’s going on?”

She pointed off in the distance.  “Four ships are inbound, and the local fishermen all seem to be gone. Ferui’s called us to arms.  We need to get these two below and arm ourselves.” They looked over to see Hîgwen returning from below with armor and then slinging Ferui’s rigid leather breastplate with rings of blue laen on as he steered the ship.  His wife then picked up a short fishing spear with barbs and hooks, designed to battle sharks.  “Come, come, hurry, we may have fifteen minutes.”  She scrambled down the stairs and put the girls in their room.  “Stay here until it’s all clear!  Am I understood?”  The girls nodded silently, eyes huge, Idhrendiel hugging her stuffed cat tightly.

She and Notaldo rushed into their room and donned their shining silver armor. They each grabbed two quivers of arrows and strapped their sword belts on.  They rushed back topside and saw Círdan and Gil-Galad directing the sailors to place shields on the rails.  The sails of the four ships were larger now and growing by the minute, holding a line of wood between them and Gensatra.  Líreno climbed the rope ladder up to the crow’s nest.  “I’ll help the archers up top!”  He scrambled up with the grace of an elf and took a position in the nest that was shielded by solid planks.

“We cannot go around them,” Ferui called.  “I see firepots on their decks.  They mean to do us harm, people.  Círdan, are you ready to douse fires?”

“Aye, captain!  We’re ready!” the Shipwright answered, holding a fine crossbow and clad in armor of rings and plates of blue laen and mithril, light and easy to move in.  He called it Gaerennon, the Sea Armor.  His wrists were covered in bracers of mithril and white eog, a gift from Ossë in times long past.  Halviel stood beside him in rigid leather armor, a short, curved sword at her belt.

Ferui turned the great wheel left.  “Hard to port!  I’ll confound their aim!” he yelled, laughing.  “Prepare the starboard catapults!”  Sailors loaded a round stone that was soaked in oil and stood by with a torch.  The ship lurched left, and everyone leaned the other way as the sails snapped in the wind at their backs.  “You see! We have the weather gauge!  They have to tack to get us!” he bellowed as the Bregolaph accelerated while the hostile ships had to steer back and forth for the wind.  They could see oarsmen on the enemy ships, pulling hard.  A dark blue octagonal flag flew over their ship with a silver star in the center.  The Court of Ardor.

Ferui laughed at the enemy vessels even though he was outnumbered.  “Look, they’re much smaller!  Círdan’s ships rule the waves!” he shouted to the crew, and they cheered back.  They could even hear the oarsmen below.  Morelen suspected that he was just instilling them with confidence and it was working. The Bregolaph veered to the west, flanking the hostile squadron.

Gil-Galad motioned them over near the starboard bow.  “If they board, we will meet them here,” he said, brandishing a white glaive, with a sharp point and a razor edge.  His armor was of white plates with a white cloak that danced in the wind.  “Stand with me, friends of my father’s.  We will meet them here if they try to board.”  A number of sailors stood with them, curved swords, bill hooks and spiked clubs at the ready.

Círdan gave a half smile.  “We have some tricks up our sleeves, learned when fighting the Easterlings on the sea at the Falas.”

Three of the enemy ships lagged behind, trying to turn to meet the Bregolaph, leaving one more exposed.  “That’s it! Come to papa!” Ferui bellowed.  “Prepare to fire!”

The lead Ardan ship fired a catapult, its stone falling far short, casting up a plume of water.  “The wind’s in your face, fools!  Return fire!” Sailors lit the stones and two of the Bregolaph’s catapults uncoiled, hurling their stones.  One went high and tore through the enemy’s sail, lighting it on fire.  The other crashed through the deck and soon, smoke could be seen.  “Ha ha!” the captain cheered, giving an obscene Sindarin gesture with his fingers.  “Reload!” he ordered as he came further to port, causing the enemy line to become jumbled. The lead Ardan ship slowed even as their oarsmen pulled harder and the second ship tried to move around it.

Two more stones crashed into the water, nearer to the Bregolaph now, throwing up plumes and steam.  “Fire!” The Falathrim responded and two more flaming orbs smashed onto the already burning ship.  One sail was consumed by fire and sailors were leaping into the ocean. Dark smoke billowed up from amidships as the vessel slowed nearly to a halt, oars barely moving.  One Ardan stone tore through the Bregolaph’s jib sail and it caught fire.  “Put that out!  Put that out!” Ferui yelled to the sailors on the boom and they shuffled over, dumping water on the flames.

He steered to starboard now to use the dead ship as a shield so only one could fire.  Men were leaping off of the burning hulk as lifeboats dropped into the water.  Another Ardan stone slammed into a catapult and it blew apart, throwing sailors and wood splinters into the air.  “Hîgwen!  Get the wounded below and let the surgeons know we have incoming!”  She rounded up the sailors’ wives and they began carrying injured and dead sailors below.  He pointed at the second ship.  “They mean to ram us!  Not if I can help it, but prepare to repel!”

The Ardan ship accelerated, oarsmen pulling hard, striking the water in unison, a sharp ram on its prow just below the surface.  Ferui pointed to the sailors on the booms, controlling the sails. He held one finger in the air, waiting for something.  “Now!” he yelled, and they let the sails out to catch more wind and the Bregolaph bolted forward, picking up speed.  The Ardan ram would miss behind the Falathrim.  “Fire!”  The remaining catapult fired a flaming stone into the Ardan ship’s main mast, shattering it, wood splinters and burning fragments flying into enemy sailors.  The mast wobbled and, with a loud crunching sound, collapsed into the water on the port side.

Círdan raised his hand.  “Archers! Now!”  A stream of arrows flew down from the masts onto the enemy ship, striking down the crew.  They were mostly men with a smattering of Sindarin and Silvan elves.  “Damn, what are they doing, fighting for the Dark Lord? No matter!  We fight!”  They saw Ardan archers drawing.  “Cover!” They ducked down behind the shields as arrows peppered the hull.  One sailor screamed, an arrow in his eye.  Morelen popped back up and fired an arrow from her bow, Luinë, into a man’s throat. Blood sprayed as he fell backwards.

The Ardan ship veered left, to port, away from the Bregolaph, which sheered a number of the enemy oars away, wood cracking and splintering.  “Fire!” Círdan yelled again and another volley rained down on the enemy.  Ardan sailors lay on their deck, dead or crawling about with arrows sticking out of them.  By then, the other two Ardan ships had come into range.  Ferui ordered the ballistae to fire and long bolts with sharpened tips tore through the hull of the third ship at the waterline.  The enemy ship flung a flaming stone that crashed into the boom of the foresail, knocking it off of its hinge, throwing sailors onto the deck or into the sea.  The Bregolaph fired back, its fiery orb landing on the wheel of the ship, killing the captain and knocking the rudder off course.  Arrows flew thick now in both directions, Morelen and Líreno pouring shots at a rapid rate.  One enemy shot glanced off of her breastplate, knocking her back a step.  A sailor screamed beside her, an arrow embedded in his throat.

Two more ballistae bolts ripped the hull of the enemy and water poured into that ship.  It began to list to starboard as the sea rushed in.  Panicked cries could be heard as Ardan sailors were swamped below deck and drowned.  Out of control, the ship slammed sideways into the Bregolaph’s starboard forecastle, wood splinters flying into the air, knocking sailors to the deck on both ships. Grappling hooks flew over the rails and enemy sailors began to board, even as their ship began to sink.

Gil-Galad raised his glaive, Aiglos, and yelled, “Prepare to repel!” Enemy elves and men climbed over the railings, screaming and howling.  Gil-Galad shoved his weapon straight into the chest of a bearded man and the man’s howl stopped in his throat.  The elven prince tore the blade out and swept it across the bellies of several of the enemy, spilling blood and guts onto the deck.  Notaldo and the sailors let out a battle cry and met the enemy at the railing, swords clashing.  Two rushed at Morelen, shrieking and brandishing curved swords at her.  She tried to move and nearly slipped on the gore on the deck.  As she recovered, one blade came down on her shoulder, the pauldron of her armor absorbing most of the impact.  Still, she winced and brought her sword, Melima, up to deflect the second cut. The enemy’s blow glanced off of her blue blade, giving momentum to her own cut as she brought Melima back overhead and sliced down through the man’s shoulder to his chest.  He froze as blood flowed down his body, eyes huge.  Morelen kicked him away, freeing her sword as the first man rushed into her, knocking her back.  He punched at her face, his fist slamming into the metal of her helmet. She saw stars for a moment and then kneed him between the legs with her armored leg.  He let out a pained grunt as she slammed her gauntlet down on top of his head and he crumpled in front of her.  This was brutal, close quarters fighting on a pitching deck that was covered in blood. There was no room for finesse.

Gil-Galad hurled a man into the sea, flinging him with the blade of his glaive in the man’s belly.  Swords rose and fell, spreading gore across the deck.  Then, something crashed into the Bregolaph from the port side, throwing people about.  Morelen was thrown into several of the enemy, and they all fell down.  She drew her dagger in one smooth motion and drove it into a Silvan elf’s eye and twisted.  Blood sprayed onto her arm and she tried to stand, bracing herself with Melima but she slipped on the deck.  Two men crawled on top of her, one stabbing down at her mouth with his dagger, but she turned her head and the tip clanged off of her helmet, burying into the wood.  She turned back to see the man’s head fly away as Notaldo lopped it clean off.  The other man looked at his friend’s headless corpse and stared as Morelen’s dagger plunged into his armpit up to the hilts.

“We’re being boarded from the port side!” Círdan yelled as he smote an attacker in the head with his blue, ithilnaur hammer.  The man’s helmet caved in, and he fell to the deck where he stood. “Follow me!”  The enemy on the starboard side were nearly all wiped out, a few throwing down their weapons and others leaping into the sea.  Debris, burning wood and bodies floated among men flailing in the water, others sinking with the weight of their armor.  This was the horror of war on the waves.

Notaldo pulled Morelen up and she let out a feral cry, sword and dagger in hand and charged into the new threat.  Círdan and Halviel grabbed and then hurled clay pots onto the last enemy ship, and they burst into noxious fumes of green mist, causing enemy reinforcements to gag and puke, adding to the foul air already floating over the fight. Morelen glanced over to see Ferui still steering the ship, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.  He grimaced but he would not be pulled away by Hîgwen.  Enemy sailors rushed the wheel to take control, but Hîgwen led a charge of the women, armed with billhooks and barbed gaffs, spearing attackers like fish.  A burning sail fell next to Morelen but she barely noticed.

The defenders crashed into the enemy, bodies smashing together with the thump of weapon on shield.  Morelen cut at a man with her sword and was parried, but she drove her dagger into his neck, spraying blood.  Círdan pounded another on the chest with his hammer, shattering ringmail and ribs.  Gil-Galad threw Aiglos down, too close quarters to be effective and drew his curved sword, slicing a man down the chest.

The women defending the wheel were hard pressed, a few down on the deck bleeding.  Ferui lashed the wheel, drew his sword and dove into the fight, howling a war cry, the arrow still protruding from his shoulder.  Morelen threw a man over the railing into the sea and rushed to attack that enemy group from behind.  With a shout, she stabbed a man in the back and then plunged her dagger into another’s neck.  There was no honor here, just survival.  Several turned, faces registering shock at a new opponent.  One swung a curved sword at her head and she parried with her dagger while simultaneously thrusting her tip into his mouth.  Everything smelled like blood now amid cries, screams, shrieks and moans.

Líreno leapt from a ladder onto the enemy group, crashing down and knocking many to the deck.  Morelen stabbed as many as she could before they could rise and gave a nod of thanks to her friend.  The attack on the wheel had failed.  Hîgwen, a gash on her forehead, sat down besides Ferui, who was kneeling, panting in pain.  She tried to pull him from the fight, but he shook her off and roared, standing and ripping the arrow from his body.  He pointed to the enemy ship latched onto their starboard.  “That one is sinking!  Cut us free!  Cut us free or we go down with her!”

The Bregolaph began to keel to starboard as the Ardan ship became swamped and began to settle under the waves.  “It’s mine!  I’m on it!” yelled Líreno, leading sailors to the rail and slicing furiously at the grapples, ropes snapping free.

Círdan pointed his hammer at the last Ardan ship, grappled to them on the port side.  “Follow me! We’re taking this one!”  He hurled another clay pot into the faces of enemy sailors, it bursting into a foul green fume.  They started coughing and gagging, some vomiting on their deck.  The Shipwright let out a feral cry and leapt over the rail onto the enemy vessel, followed by Gil-Galad and the crew.  The prince was like a whirlwind, slashing and stabbing, clearing a path for the assault.  An enemy sailor moved to kick over a pot of flaming oil onto them and Morelen flung her dagger into his throat.  She pulled it from him as she ran by, the man slumping to the ground.  Círdan ripped open a hatch to the lower decks and threw another pot down, followed by cries and gagging below.  “Take the wheel!” he yelled to his sailors, and they rushed the controls.  “Follow me below!”  He took a step onto the stairs and man thrust a billhook into his side, breaking some rings of his armor, the tip digging in several inches.  Blood ran down his shirt and he winced, slamming his hammer into the man’s face, caving it in.  He took a knee, holding his side.  “Go! Go!  Keep the attack moving!”

Morelen and Notaldo rushed past him with Gil-Galad right behind.  It became pure savagery.  Blades rose and fell with bodies.  Notaldo and his wife had fought, side by side for centuries and were entirely in harmony like their music.  They dodged, moved and attacked as one, parrying for the other while cutting and thrusting, cleaving a way aft through flesh and bone.  Blood spread across the deck and they shuffled to keep their footing.  Gil-Galad’s white armor was now crimson, rivulets pouring down the plates of his harness and his face was covered, giving him the appearance of a demon.

Enemy officers poured out, far more skilled and drove the three back some paces.  As Notaldo and Gil-Galad battled against many, the captain, a Sindarin elf, faced Morelen, sword and dagger, matching hers.  The deck was clearer now, most of the enemy crew dead or wounded.  The two cut and thrust in an expert dance of swordsmanship, metal ringing on metal.  This was now a duel.  She circled and lunged at him with the tip of Melima and slipped on blood, overextending herself.  He grabbed her arm and then smashed her in the helmet with the guard of his sword. She turned her face but the impact still rang her bell.  She staggered back, her one eye blurry, seeing the captain lunge at her throat.  She tossed her dagger at him in a desperate move, causing him to blink and then she sliced his sword hand off with Melima.

He fell to the ground, holding his stump and she put the blade of her sword to his neck.  “Yield and I will grant you mercy!”  She glanced around to see Notaldo and Gil-Galad standing amid a pile of bodies.

“I yield,” he groaned.  “The ship is yours.”

“It’s over,” Gil-Galad said with a sigh, leaning against a mast.  He gave them a tired grin.  “You riders are everything my father said you were.  I am honored to draw swords with you.”

Morelen staggered and was caught by Notaldo, who removed her helm.  “Oh, you have a black eye,” he said with concern.

She looked down at the enemy captain.  “I accept your surrender.  I will take you to our Captain Ferui.  We must attend to our wounded and our damaged ship.  Come with us.”

The aftermath of the battle was heavy.  Of the Ardan fleet, the first ship had burned to the waterline, black smoke still billowing from the wreck.  The second was adrift, the main mast destroyed with oars sheered off on one side. The third ship had sunk and the fourth was captured.  Bodies of enemy sailors, smashed, hacked and burned, bobbed on the sea and many cried out for help, clinging to debris.  The Bregolaph had suffered heavy damage, several sails burned, and one boom destroyed. Dead sailors lay on the deck amid sloshing blood and gore.  Hîgwen and the women moved the wounded below for the overwhelmed surgeon.  Círdan, with Halviel at his side, was injured but would not be treated until the crew had been seen to.  Ferui lay against the wheel, blood pouring down his arrow wound, his face pale.  They were not up for another fight and would be lucky to make Gensatra.

Ferui struggled to stand, his wife bracing him.  “You have to come below,” she demanded.

“No, no, my crew.  My crew,” he said as if in a daze.  He staggered forward on the main deck, kneeling at each body.  “Travel safe to the Halls of Mandos, my friend,” he said, over and over, kissing each forehead.  He had known each of these sailors for centuries.  They sang and ate together.  Morelen’s heart broke at each one.

She waited with the wounded enemy captain until he was finished.  “The enemy has surrendered,” she told Ferui and Círdan.  “I have extended him mercy.”

Ferui balled his fists for a moment, shaking, and then relaxed. “Good, good,” he said nodding but unable to make eye contact.  “You did well, Morelen.  I won’t forget what you and the riders did today.  You are as good on the sea as you are on horseback.”

“We are taking the prisoners below,” Gil-Galad said.  “We cannot bring everyone so the rest can await rescue on the ship that’s adrift.”

Círdan pointed at the damage on the Bregolaph.  “We can make half speed but we’ll need to put in at Gensatra for repairs.  I’ll have sailors start working on the boom and the damage to the hull.  We’ve sprung a few leaks but we’ll patch those up.  We have enough crew to man the captured ship. It’ll be tight but we can make port in an hour or so.”

Hîgwen nodded but then pointed to deck.  “Good, now you two, sit!”  The Captain and the Shipwright did as they were ordered, and she began pulling off their armor to look at their wounds.  Tired sailors began repairs, and pulling lines to right the sails and get them underway.  The two ships soon began moving slowly and then picking up speed.  Morelen put her hand over her eye until someone came and gave her a cloth wrapped over ice.  Then, she and the riders went back to work.

The sun was setting as the two wounded vessels sighted the fishing village of Gensatra, but only burned out buildings remained.  Exhausted, Captain Ferui could only lower his head as they slowed to dock.  “So much death.  All stop!” he called, and the sails were lowered, letting the Bregolaph glide to the wooden structure, the captain maneuvering it with expertise.  The dock had been damaged but was still usable.  He leapt off with some sailors and they tied the ship down, followed by the captured vessel.

Morelen’s head ached, and her limbs were numb.  She climbed down from the boom and wanted nothing more than to sit and pass out but she saw Silmani and Idhrendiel on deck.  The two girls looked horrified, stunned, mouth agape, seeing the blood on the deck and bodies covered in sheets.  “Don’t look, girls.  Come, let’s get you off of the ship.  We can get our things later.”

Líreno came up with his wife.  Telerien took the girls to the gangplank and, to her surprise, Morelen saw some elves waiting for them on the dock.  Her eyes then registered recognition.  It had been so long.  She rushed off of the ship and stood there, not quite believing what she saw.  “Father!  Lyaan! Lysa!  Lyrin!  You’re here? How?  How did you know?”

Lysa opened her arms and Morelen rushed to meet her embrace.  “I saw you.  I saw you in my dreams, sailing to us, dear girl.  Oh my…it’s been so long.  It is so good to have you back.”  Lysa stroked Morelen’s black hair, matted with sweat and blood.  “Oh, your eye.  We’ll get that taken care of,” Lysa said in a voice full of compassion.  All of them piled onto her as Morelen bit her lip, steadying herself from shaking.  Fëatur wept openly, gripping her tightly.

Morelen pointed to the riders coming down to meet them.  “This is my friend, Líreno and his family, Telerien and Idhrendiel.  My husband, Notaldo and Silmani, daughter of our friend, Hurinon.  We’ve…we’ve come for a visit and business from the north on behalf of King Orodreth of Nargothrond.”

Fëatur held her, studying her face.  “I can’t believe it…I can’t believe it.  You’re here.  You don’t know how much I worried,” he said, his voice cracking.  He stroked her face and touched her black eye.  He then pointed back to a Noldorin woman who approached slowly, appearing nervous.  She was tall and slender with blue robes and chocolate brown hair that flowed down to her shoulders, and she was ethereally beautiful as befitting a High Elf.  “That, Morelen…she is your mother.”

Yavëkamba came forward, her eyes misting up and her nose red, but her face beamed with a smile, ear to ear.  “Let me look at you, Morelen.  I last saw you was when you were an infant.  You don’t know how long I have waited for this moment.”

Chapter End Notes

I did a lot of research on sailing and medieval naval warfare that I hope plays out here.  I also wanted to showcase Cirdan and Gil-Galad for this.

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44)  Reunion - Year of the Sun 494 Girithron (December)

Fëatur

When Lysa woke from a trance in Ty-Ar-Rana and told him that Morelen was sailing south, he could scarcely believe it.  He couldn’t stop pacing until she pointed him to the stables for the trip to the coast. Lyaan rounded up their group, and they set out, a pleasant trip to Chrys’ manor for a stopover and then a short ride to the ruins of Gensatra.  First Initiate Thalindra would oversee the complex in their absence.  The First Initiate was a true asset, intelligent, efficient and responsible if a little bland.

On the dense rain forest trail from the manor, Fëatur looked back at Lyrin.  The boy had come a long way but it was still fits and starts. He wasn’t particularly fond of Lyrin’s close friends, Anuven and Edenor, who were, if anything, less mature.  Whenever the three were together, Lyrin would fall back into his old ways, them throwing mock gut punches, joking about passing gas and making off color comments about women.  Fëatur would sigh quietly and grit his teeth and then Lyaan would touch him and say, “I know, I know.  I’ll deal with it.”  Fëatur would just nod, not wanting to offend his friend.  He knew that Lyrin had had a crush on Morelen and he was just glad that she found someone else who seemed right for her.

Lyrin’s other friend, Caladiel, showed some promise at least.  She seemed to take after her cousin, Thalindra.  The stable hand, Teldin, whom he rescued at Gensatra came along too, joining at Chrys’ manor.  Fëatur thought it would be good for him to get some closure at his home.  Fëatur’s excitement grew as they rode nearer to the fishing village.  His message to Yavëkamba was received with joy and she would meet them at the ruins. She had previously established a safe house nearby, one of many across Ardor that they created for clandestine meetings.  It was a quint house, hidden under the dense canopy of the rain forest where the Lurakil Trees grew to over 200 feet in height.  They had talked about building upwards into the trunks and branches but that was a future project.  Still, the floor of the jungle was rich in herbs and curative fungi.

“Their ship should dock this evening,” Lysa said.  “I’ve seen it in my visions thought things become hazy as they enter the bay.”

Fëatur nodded amid the call of parrots and other birds.  “Yavë and I fixed up the dock a bit over the years but we don’t want to make it look like people are settling again or we’d invite scrutiny from the Court.”

The smell of the sea became stronger as they approached the safe house, a small wooden structure, hidden in the jungle foliage.  He and Yavë built it with their two hands, a fond memory for him.  He could still envision her smiling and holding up a plank while he hammered, nails held with his teeth.  It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.  He now saw her outside, gardening, pulling weeds around a bed of carrots, wearing a simple cotton outfit in earth tones, her brown hair tied in a bun.  His heart leapt as it always did, and he pushed his heels into his horse’s flanks to canter ahead.

“Yavë!” he called, a broad smile across his lips and she turned and waved, holding up a carrot with a quirky grin.  Every time he saw her face it was as if it was the first time again even though it had been eons.

She patted her chest over her heart.  “Fë!  Oh, I couldn’t wait any longer,” she said. “And you’re just in time.  The carrots, beets and radishes are ready to pick.”

He swung from the saddle and rushed into her arms.  “She’ll be here.  Our Morelen will be here.  They arrive this evening.”

She gripped him tightly. “I know.  I can’t wait.  This is…this is a dream.”

The others rode up and dismounted, greeting Yavëkamba.  She motioned them into the safe house.  “Come, come, I have lunch ready for everyone…a nice hot vegetable soup and some local fruit.” She led them inside where a pot simmered over a low fire and plates were set on a simple wooden table around strange looking fruit of all colors, some with strange spikes and others with scales like a dragon.  The room had been stocked with healing herbs and potions, a wise precaution should anything go wrong.  The group sat and Yavë brought the soup to the table.  Fëatur was famished after the journey, and he barely ate for as full of excitement as he was.

It was a pleasant reunion, Fëatur sitting beside Yavë, talking about mundane things like gardening. But he had to ask something.  “How are you getting on?  I am still deathly worried that you may be found out.  I swear that I will slay Gorthaur before this ends.  I will never forgive him for what he did to you.  To think that I once thought well of him before I knew the truth.”

She touched him on the hand.  “I take all of the precautions that we spoke about.  I have a lot of freedom once I am at the Citadel.  Your sister is consumed with her Darin Tesarath so she pays me little mind.  Her hatred of Gorthaur works in my favor.  As long as I heal her people, I can do as I please.  But I always follow your advice on avoiding detection and hiding my trail.”

He held her hand.  “Good, good.  I am glad to hear that.  I will never stop worrying though.”

“There is something that you should know.  Rilia the Sorceress is a growing power in the Court and she is finding influence with Ardana. The Astrologer enjoys her displays of strength and sees Rilia as a true asset.  Agents of the Tesarath are hearing rumors that Rilia is searching for Lyaan and Chrys.  She means to destroy them to solidify her place in the Court and to supplant your sister in the inner circle.”  Yavë reached for the last of the furry red fruit in a bowl, but Anuven snatched it up before she could grasp it.

“Too slow,” he quipped as he peeled the rind and took a bite.

Fëatur pursed his lips and closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to slap the smirk off of the elf’s face.  Teldin just looked down, embarrassed and Lyaan gave Fëatur that ‘sorry, I’ll deal with it’ look.  But when? Fë relaxed and nodded.  “I’m sorry, Yavë.  That was the last of that one.”

“I have more in the garden,” she said serenely.  “I’ve named them Rambutan.  Or sometimes I call them Mouse Fruit because they look like furry red mice,” she added with a giggle.

Her laugh was like the lovely ringing of chimes.  “We’ll pick some more after.  And thank you for that information.  Everything is useful.  Lyaan,” he said to his friend.  “Rilia the Sorceress is searching for Ty-Ar-Rana and Tumlindë.  I would suggest that we increase our security measures.”

Yavë nodded.  “She is fearsome.  Not only is she a master of fire, but she is developing a spy network that will rival the Tesarath.  They are to be skilled in gathering information and seduction.  Beyond that, I don’t know.”  She looked back at Fë.  “Your sister is cruel, like Gorthaur, but Rilia toys with her prey.  I’ve heard that her powers rival that of a balrog and she practically worships Arien.”

Lysa narrowed her eyes. “Arien?  But isn’t their sworn task to destroy the sun and moon?”

Yavë shrugged.  “I only know what people tell me in my position, but Rilia is full of contradictions.  I honestly don’t know what she will do during the ritual. Perhaps it may even be a point of leverage to turn her.  From what I’ve heard though, I wouldn’t trust her even if she were to join us.  Rilia best looks after Rilia.”

Fë’s attention was entirely on her words.  In Valinor, he knew of Rilia as a member of the House of Fëanor, but she did not join the Court until after he left.  He recalled seeing her, following Arien like a puppy.  Perhaps this was something that they could exploit.  Her power was something to be feared though as her mastery of fire was awe inspiring.  He took a look outside and saw that the sun was on its downward arc.  Morelen would be arriving soon.  As much as his heart beat for Yavë, his stomach churned for his daughter’s return.  It had been centuries of worry.  After both the Bragollach and the Nirnaeth, it was a battle not to run north to find her. Only a select few knew that she was Morgoth’s daughter.  How that would manifest over time, he could only guess.  And he could not let her know.  It would destroy her.  All he knew was that he raised her well before she went north.  It would have to do.  She was their daughter and no one else’s.

“We should go to greet her,” Lysa said, a smile on her face.  “It has been too long.”

The group stood and made their way to the docks, passing the ruined stables.  Fëatur put his hand on Teldin’s shoulder.  The young elf wore rough riding clothes with high leather boots. His auburn hair was neatly trimmed, something unusual for a Silvan elf.  “I’m glad you came.  This,” Fëatur said, pointing to the now aging ruins, grass and vines taking over the town, “this is behind you now.  Look to the future.  You are part of something good.”  It had been just over 25 years since the town was destroyed.

Teldin sniffed and rubbed his nose.  “I know. Thank you.  The Guild took me in when I had nothing left and I am part of something valuable.  I won’t let you down, Fëatur.  I will never forget what you and Yavëkamba did for me.”  The young elf was now the stable master for the Guild and was considered to be an expert horseman, learning under Laurre Menelrana.  He had come a long way.

They walked to the docks where new woodwork had been done.  Nothing too grand as to be noticed, but it could now accommodate some sailing vessels.  Fëatur looked to Lysa.  “Do you see anything?” he asked in a voice tinged with hope.  Seagulls were beginning to return to roost, squawking loudly overhead.  A few sealions grunted nearby, their large bodies sitting on warm sand.

She picked up a seashell and listened to its opening.  “They are nearing,” she said but then her face changed, a look of deep concern coming over her.  “There was…there was a battle.  I see many dead…but I see Morelen’s ship approaching.  It is damaged.”

“What?” Fëatur turned sharply, his mouth falling open.  “What happened?  What do you see?”

“That is all.  We will just have to wait.  I am not a living Palantír.”

In a few minutes a sail could be seen and then a few more.  There were two ships.  The lead ship was damaged, its foresail down.  Sailors crawled up and down the foremast, making repairs as fast as they could. Part of the jib had burned away and the hull had taken a heavy collision, the port wing of the swan ship, broken.  A second ship sailed behind, even more damaged.  Much of the forecastle had caved in and there were holes along the side of the hull.  They saw a Sindarin Elf in a floppy yellow sea hat, steering the swan ship and then oars deployed on both vessels, slowing them for docking.

“Ahoy!” the captain called and they waved back.  He expertly guided the ship to dock and then ran down the gangplank with some crew to tie the ship down.  Fëatur’s eyes searched for any sign of his daughter.  He thought he saw a raven-haired woman sliding down a rope ladder from a boom.  She was dressed in silver plate armor.  That had to be Morelen.  She ran to the gangplank, her eyes moving back and forth and then registering recognition.  It was her. A smile beamed on her face and she ran down to them.  Her hair was matted with blood and sweat and worse, she had a black eye that was starting to swell.  It didn’t matter.  She was beautiful to him.

"Father! Lyaan! Lysa! Lyrin! You're here? How? How did you know?" she called, rushing to them.

Lysa opened her arms and Morelen rushed to meet her embrace. "I saw you. I saw you in my dreams, sailing to us, dear girl.  Oh my…it's been so long.  It is so good to have you back." Lysa stroked Morelen's hair.  "Oh, your eye. We'll get that taken care of," Lysa said in a voice full of compassion.  All of them piled onto the embrace as Morelen bit her lip, steadying herself from shaking.  Fëatur wept openly, gripping her tightly.

Morelen pointed to the riders coming down to meet them. "This is my friend, Líreno and his family, Telerien and Idhrendiel.  My husband, Notaldo and Silmani, daughter of our friend, Hurinon.  We've…we've come for a visit and business from the north on behalf of King Orodreth of Nargothrond,” she said, shifting into an official voice.

Fëatur held her, studying her face. "I can't believe it…I can't believe it.  You're here.  You don't know how much I worried," he said, his voice cracking.  He stroked her face and touched her black eye.  It was time.  It was time to introduce them.  He had dreamed of this moment for ages.  He then pointed back to Yavëkamba who approached slowly, appearing nervous.  Yavë had changed into silk blue robes and her chocolate brown hair flowed down to her shoulders.  "That, Morelen…she is your mother."

Yavëkamba came forward, her eyes misting up and her nose red, but her face beamed with a smile, ear to ear. "Let me look at you, Morelen.  The last time I saw you was when you were an infant.  You don't know how long I have waited for this moment."

Morelen shook, her eyes blinking, unbelieving.  Then, tears flowed down her cheeks and she began sobbing like a child.  “I…I…my mother?  I dreamed of this.  You…you are Yavëkamba.”  Her knees wobbled and Notaldo caught her.

He nodded to them. “I know all about you,” Notaldo said warmly.  “I have heard so much.”

Yavë put the palm of her hand over Morelen’s eye and blew out a long breath, her hand glowing green. When she removed it, the eye was healed. “I am so proud of you, Morelen.  I have heard so much as well,” she said to Notaldo.  “I could not ask for a better man to be with my daughter.  Now, I suspect that you have wounded on board.  Come, let us attend to them.”  She went into healer mode, face serious and confident.  “We need to bring the less injured ones off of the boat to the safe house.  We will make them comfortable while I tend to the critical ones who cannot be moved. Let us hurry.  Lives are at stake.”

Everyone rushed aboard where Yavë took control.  She directed Ferui to get the walking wounded onto the docks and to assemble the gravely injured on the main deck where care could be more efficient.  She took a look at Ferui’s arrow wound and the gashes that he took in the melee but he waved her off.  “Not until my crew is seen to,” he said with finality.  Lightly injured crew walked down the gangplank along with captured sailors under guard, Teldin pushing them with a sailor’s short sword. Ferui and Círdan began carrying the critical sailors up on deck and laying them on blankets and tarps, anything to keep them comfortable.  There were moans and cries and they could tell that Ferui cared for every person on the ship.

Lysa went with the ones departing the vessel and took the young ladies with her.  “I’ll start working on them,” she said.  “Your healing skills are much greater, Yavë. Call if you need anything though.” She gestured to Lyaan and the others from Ty-Ar-Rana.  “Time to get to work.  Follow me. Caladiel, stay with Yavë.  She’ll need your help.”

Yavë and Fë went to work immediately with Morelen jumping right in.  Caladiel had done some healing with Lysa so was familiar with the process and the herbs.  Some of the wounds were devastating.  Lost limbs, deep penetrating stabs, missing eyes.  Fë was horrified, but Yavë gave him a reassuring touch.  She had seen this all before, many times.  Morelen squatted down by an injured sailor and held a towel over his abdomen where he had been cut.  She’d seen it all too.  Fë knew the horror of battle.  He fought at Hithlum and in other skirmishes.  He saw the devastation in Gensatra, 25 years ago and it never seemed to end.  Yavë had healed thousands and Morelen was in some of the worst fighting in Beleriand. Caladiel had never seen anything like this, and she shook as tears streamed.

“Mother, what do you need?” Morelen asked seriously, coming over to a sailor with an arm so maimed, it was hanging by a flap of skin.  “We stabilized as many as we could after the battle.”  Her mother moved over to join her.

“You did good,” Yavë answered, not even looking up, but a faint smile was on her lips.  “Hold him tight.”  She looked down at the sailor, whose eyes were full of tears and he whimpered, shaking. “I’m so sorry, young one,” she said in a soothing voice.  “I’m going to have to remove your arm.  It can’t be saved.  I will heal you as best as I can.”  She passed a hand over his face and her palm glowed blue for a moment.

“Fë…my bag,” she continued. “I need the Mirenna and the Gort. You know the dosage.  Also, the sedative.  Hurry please.”  She tied off the man’s arm with a tourniquet just above the elbow.  “Shh…shhh,” she said to the sailor.  “I’m going to numb the pain.  I’m going to take care of you.  You’ll be alright.  I promise. What’s your name, young man?”

He whimpered, shaking, but he focused his eyes on her.  “Please, please…don’t take my arm.  Please. My…my name is Brenion.  Please mistress.”

She nodded.  Fë could tell that she was in emotional agony, but she never flinched.  Yavë felt every death, every injury that she tended, even with the orcs of Angband’s armies. It was a heavy toll.  “Brenion, I’m sorry.  I have to.  I will ease the pain.  You won’t feel a thing and I’ll be right here with you.”

Fë put the berries and the vial of salve in her hand, and she poured it into Brenion’s mouth.  Then, she took the crushed leaves and put them in a small tin.  With a wave of her finger, the leaves smoldered, glowing orange. She blew the smoke over the sailor’s face and he relaxed, his eyes glazing over.  Then, she put a smooth wooden stick between his teeth.  “Here, bite down, Brenion.  Caladiel, hold his legs.  Tightly now.”  The poor girl grabbed the sailor’s ankles, fumbling with her grip.  Ferui and Círdan came over as Gil-Galad helped wounded off of the ship.

Ferui knelt down and put his hand on the young elf.  “I’m right here with you, lad.  I won’t leave you.”

Fë handed her the saw as he had done before.  Yavë put her hand on Brenion’s chest.  “Close your eyes and bite down.  With the Gort, you will feel no pain, but a tugging sensation.  Be brave, my young man,” she said, her voice just cracking. It was over in less than a minute. “Fë, finish for me and bandage him. I have to move on.”  She put the palm of her hand on Brenion’s face.  “You were so strong.  So strong.  Rest, I’ll be back to check on you.”  She stood and wiped her nose.

She, Morelen and Caladiel moved onto another young elf.  He was burned nearly beyond recognition.  Ferui came with them and held the young sailor’s hand.  Yavë shook her head and Ferui began to tremble. “I’m sorry, lad.  I’m sorry.  Go to Mandos and rest in his care.”  He looked at Yavë.  “His name is Fendir.  I…I was there when he was born.  He’s…he’s sailed with me since….since,” he tailed off and then bit his lower lip hard.

Yavë knelt down next to Ferui as Fë handed her a vial of Gort solution, a big one.  “I’ll ease Fendir’s passing,” she told Ferui.  She touched him on the chest and her hand glowed blue again.  “Drink this, Fendir.  I am right here with you.  Ferui and I won’t leave until you are with Mandos.”  She poured the lethal dose of Gort into his mouth, and he swallowed.  Caladiel was already breaking down in sobs and Morelen bit the back of her knuckle.  It was going to be a long night.

Yavë did not rest until every injured sailor was tended to, even the enemy.  Only when the entire crew was treated did Ferui and Círdan allow themselves any care.  By then, the captain was pale, losing so much blood.  Hîgwen hugged him tightly.  “You stubborn old fool!” she said.  “I can’t lose you.”

Fë slumped down on the deck, his back to a mast while Caladiel was barely conscious from exhaustion. Yavë blinked her eyes with fatigue. Only Morelen seemed still energetic. Fë knew that it was her Vala blood. As the sun rose, Lysa poked her head up the gangplank and nodded.  They had cared for the less injured and the prisoners were secured.  Fë rose and walked painfully over.  “We cannot let them go.  They’ll recognize you.  We can’t risk it.”

“I understand,” Yavë answered.  “Thank you for thinking of that.”

Lysa stumbled over, her eyes full of fatigue.  “We saved them all, even the enemy.  Their captain told me that half of their fleet was destroyed in this battle.  I think we’re safe for the moment.  We need some rest, but we can move onto Tumlindë after. Chrys would love to meet everyone.”

Ferui practically crawled over.  “To all of you, thank you.  You will be welcomed with open arms on Balar.  And you,” he said, pointing to Fëatur, “you owe me a Múmakil story,” he added with a mischievous smile.

Fë chuckled.  “And I have one.  You are welcome to join us in Tumlindë, where stories of the south will be told and the hospitality of the Menelranas will be open to you.”

Later that morning, Fëatur wove an illusion to hide the ship, tendrils of power weaving through wood and sail, blending the vessels with water and jungle.  “If one gets too close, they can see through it,” he said, “but a mile or so off, the ships look like part of the ruins and jungle.”

Morelen watched in wonder, her eyes big.  “I admit that my magic has lagged behind my archery,” she said.

He gave her a mock look of sternness.  “We are going to correct that,” he said with a smirk.

Morelen turned to her mother.  “And watching and helping you was wondrous.  I have learned so much.  You are everything that I imagined.”

The three embraced. This was the family that Fëatur had dreamed of for so long.  If only now they could rescue Moran.  Should he tell her that she has a brother?  Maybe now was not the time.  Everyone was exhausted and rest was needed for the day.  They bathed in the river near the safehouse, people wading in and splashing.  Fëatur strode in, holding Yavë’s hand.  He never tired of gazing upon her.  They squatted down, lathering each other with soap that Yavë brought.  It was her own special blend, medicinal and soothing.  Morelen and Notaldo came up and joined them.  Fë noticed that Notaldo was broad and muscular, a true warrior.  He felt a little embarrassed by his own lean, almost feminine physique.  And Morelen, though slender, rippled with muscles from centuries of training and battle, a far cry from the skinny girl he left in Beleriand.  He looked over to see The Three bathing, Lyrin’s eyes upon his daughter’s body.  He didn’t think the boy ever got over his crush. They cleaned up and spent the remainder of the day preparing for the ride to Tumlindë.  Morelen and the riders polished their armor, smoothing out dents, sharpening swords and refilling arrows.  Fëatur brushed out his robes while Yavë restocked the safe house, plucking silver Mirenna Berries and crushing dried leaves.

“I can see where Morelen gets her…tidiness,” Notaldo joked to her parents and Morelen threw a polishing rag at his head.

The next morning began a four-day journey to Tumlindë with the wounded on litters and the prisoners walking.  It would have been a much shorter ride.  Sailing Master, Lodon, took command of the Bregolaph, overseeing repairs, while Círdan and Ferui were away.  Lodon insisted, as Círdan’s visit to the south was key to their visit and the captain needed to stay with the wounded.  

Fëatur slowed his horse and leaned over the crippled enemy captain, a Sindarin elf with blond hair. “You will remain with The Guild for some time.  We cannot release you.  There are wards and glyphs throughout this jungle should you attempt to escape.  If, in time, you repent and decide to join us, you will be tested but such a thing is possible.”

The captain cradled the stump of his hand, that was expertly wrapped in a bandage.  “I am Lindaer.  You have treated me and my crews with mercy.  I am grateful.  I…I doubt your friends would have received the same from me and mine.”

“I appreciate your honesty. I guarantee that you will be treated well by the Guild, if not particularly warmly.  That is, so long as you attempt us no harm nor try to escape.”

The captain blew out a sigh.  “You have my word.  If I may, sir, why are you fighting us?  We are both elves?  The Court brings the light of the one true god, who will be the King of the Earth. He is the chosen one.  You would do well to join us.”

Fëatur remembered saying the same thing.  Thinking the same thing.  He was once deep in the cult, a true believer like Lindaer and his sister.  He made it his mission to show them the truth. Perhaps they would see who Morgoth really was.  “I will explain more when we arrive, captain.  Just know that I, like you, were deceived by Morgoth and it is an agony that I will never be free of.”

By the end of the fourth day, Fëatur knew that they were near.  He sighed with relief when he saw Chrys and Laurre on horseback on the trail leading to the manor.  “Hail Chrys…Laurre!  Well met!” The two rode to meet them where he explained what happened at Gensatra.  They brought the wounded to the house where Aelrie, Chrys’ wife and Miriani, her sister, began bringing people to the infirmary, Yavë still providing care.  Guards took the prisoners to the stockade, a well-managed and humane structure, if rather plain.  There was a sense of excitement in his heart.  This would be a moment to remember.  As they dismounted, Teldin took the horses back to the stable.

“Chrys…Laurre, I want you to meet my daughter, Morelen and her husband, Notaldo.  Also, this is Círdan of the Havens, Gil-Galad, son of Fingon and Captain Ferui of the Bregolaph.”  He swept his hand around and introduced all of the others.  “My friends from the north, this is Chrys Menelrana, Lord of the South and his son, Laurre.  They are kin to Orodreth.  There is Chrys’ wife, Aelrie and her sister, Miriani.”

Chrys smiled broadly. “Well met, my friends, well met.  Come, come inside, we were expecting you.  We have refreshments in the dining hall and rooms for all.  You will find no finer comfort in the south.  I like to call it, the last homely house.”

“Except for Ty-Ar-Rana,” Lyaan quipped with a wink.  Chrys led them into the manor through the big wooden double doors at the main entrance. Carvings on the doors depicted the Two Trees, one on each side, painted in silver and gold.  The house itself looked as if it were part of nature, blended with trees, painted in earthen tones, windows carved like branches with stained glass. Flowering vines and plants ringed the structure, adding bright colors like pinks and greens and reds.  The fragrance of jasmine filled the air.

Aelrie and Miriani both curtseyed to Gil-Galad and took the bags to the rooms with other staff. Chrys gestured them into the dining room, a grand hall with fireplaces and braziers that were just roaring to life by some magical means.  Several large tables were covered in cloth with porcelain plates and glasses set.  The other members of the Guild were just filing in and taking their seats: Talan, of water; Elerior, of air; Carnil Ravirë, of earth; Ralian, of light.

Fëatur smiled, remembering his return to Middle Earth from the Halls of Mandos and his first meeting with the Guild.  He fought hard to earn their trust and become a full member of the team that would oppose Morgoth in the south.  He held Yavë’s hand as they gave thanks to Manwë and Mandos for another day.

“Come, please be seated,” Chrys said.  He took his seat at the head of the table and the others sat around him.  Trays of fruits and vegetables were set, along with drinks of fruit juice and teas.  Aelrie and Miriani returned to sit and the group dined, talking about their adventures and getting to know each other.  Círdan told of the journey and the battle, Gil-Galad pledged friendship with the south and Notaldo told of the promise of renewed trade with Nargothrond.

Then, Fëatur told of the growth of the Court and of the Ritual to come.  “Our astrologer, Ralian, along with the Enclave, have foretold that the Ritual of Darkness will come within the next century.  The stars can only look so far ahead so that is all that we know.  We have a plan in mind to disrupt the ceremony, but the Citadel is too well guarded.  When we know more, we plan distracting raids on the other holds of Ardor where we hope to draw off their forces, chasing us into the shadows.  Stealth and surprise are our weapons.”

“But what of your new ally, Taaliraan?” asked Gil-Galad.  “I hear that their armies are formidable, many having served in the north.”

“Indeed,” Chrys said. “We have pledged mutual defense for the common good, though King Eldanar prefers to hold the bulk of his troops to guard their borders.  He is still reeling from the Nirnaeth and remains cautious…understandably.  And we are still hesitant to risk open war.  But know this, we have a secret way into the Citadel, thanks to Fëatur, Yavëkamba and Lyrin.”

Gil-Galad pursed his lips and nodded in satisfaction.  “This is good, and we need good news.  Things have turned for the better in the north, but I fear that Túrin has led Orodreth to become rash.”

“I second that,” Círdan added.  “I sent messengers to both Gondolin and Nargothrond, bearing Ulmo’s message.  They were not greeted warmly by Túrin and…politely brushed off by Turgon.”  Gil-Galad looked down.  That was his uncle whom he admired and respected, but Círdan’s words were true.

Notaldo spoke out, “I trust Lord Mormegil and King Orodreth…but I do have my reservations.  My scouts have reported seeing increasing troop movement in Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  We cannot ignore that but Túrin has proposed a preemptive strike to destroy them.”

Círdan’s face became solemn.  “Still, how can we help the south,” he said, changing the subject.

“We have much to trade as we did with Fingolfin,” Chrys said.  “Your ships carried all of that cargo when he had more discourse with the north and we were the recipients of your largesse.  Now, we wish to pay it back.  The jungles and rainforests of the south offer exotic and powerful healing herbs and mixtures plus a sticky tree sap that can be made into flexible, but strong objects.  The dwarves, who taught us this, call it Ogamur.”

Yavëkamba raised her hand. “I can provide a lot of those herbs. I have spent long years finding such and developing potions and cures.  Grarig leaves that speed healing, Carneyar flowers that clot bleeding, and,” she said, producing a golden fruit that looked like a pear, “Yavëthalion…which I named, by the way, that can be made into powerful healing potions and ointments as well as tasty jams and jellies.  It only grows on the coastal regions, but it would thrive on the coasts of Beleriand.  This one is for you,” she added, offering it to Círdan.  “You should eat it soon and it is sweet and succulent, but keep the seeds and plant them on them your isle.  They grow slowly but bear fruit all winter and spring once grown.  I like to think of them as…reflections of Laurelin.”

Círdan smiled as he received it and took a bite out of it before passing it to Gil-Galad and Ferui. “This is a wondrous gift.  And we cannot thank you enough for what you did for our crew.”

Gil-Galad nodded after taking a bite.  “Amazing and thank you.”  Then, he narrowed his eyes and tapped his lips with his thumb.  “I mean no offense, but I have to know…why did you follow Morgoth? I find such a course unthinkable.”

Both Fëatur and Yavëkamba blushed furiously.  Chrys was about to say something, but Fë waved him off.  “You are right to ask that question, my prince.  We have both long pondered the answer to that.  I want to take you back to a time in Valinor that The Guild and Lyaan and Lysa remember.  Morgoth had been released from the Halls of Mandos, and he was declared repentant.  He supplicated himself before Manwë, begging forgiveness and pledging his help to the Eldar.  For all appearances, he was true to his word,” Fë said, feeling waves of shame wash over him.  He would never be clean until Morgoth was defeated along with the Court.

“He found many who were sympathetic to him,” Yavë continued.  “Ardana, the Astrologer was among the most powerful of these.  And for those who have not seen him, you have to understand that Melkor was charismatic, magnetic, the most powerful of the Valar. At the time, we did not fully know what came before and why he was imprisoned.  He wove a tale of tragedy, misunderstanding and victimhood.  My…empathy led me astray.  In his telling, he was the oppressed.  He only wanted to do good…to bring us knowledge that had been forbidden. I was a follower of Yavanna and Estë, learning healing, compassion and mercy from them.  But Melkor showed me things that I could not imagine…spells of powerful healing.  He was a being of incredible knowledge and beauty.  I was convinced to go with he and Ardana to Angband where he showed us illusions of goodness and light.”

Fë nodded, holding her hand.  He knew that she felt as guilty as he.  “And it was all an illusion.  Soon, the words changed…the anger and the rage surfaced…the narcissism.  He was the chosen one.  He was the only one who could fix it.  The Valar were the true enemy and his dominion over Middle Earth was stolen from him.  Revenge consumed him.  It was then that I began to doubt but I kept my fears to myself except for Yavë.  It was only when Morgoth and Ungoliant ruined the Two Trees that I truly knew what evil I had supported, and I willingly surrendered my life to Mandos, expecting to be cast into the endless void.  He did not forgive me, but he tasked me to right my wrongs…to show him that I could earn his mercy,” he said, shaking, a single tear running down his face.  He looked away, unable to bear their gaze.

Morelen held his other hand.  “Father…I never knew…never knew the whole story.”

Yavë lowered her head and covered her face.  “I was too cowardly to follow.  I valued my life too much, so I remained.  Then…somehow, Fë sent me a message with a system that we had established.  He was alive.  I pledged my life to work from the inside and to destroy Morgoth’s plans.”

“I can tell you that she has risked much to help us and continues to risk all,” Lysa added.  “She has more than redeemed herself and we are deeply in her debt.”

Gil-Galad nodded slowly, understanding coming over his face.  “I am satisfied.  It can be all too easy to be led astray, and we can mistakenly trust those who would do evil with it.  I think of Maedhros and the Easterlings.  I think of my forebears and Fëanor, who slew the Teleri for their ships and then left us on the ice.  I cannot fault you now that you fight for the Free Peoples and I welcome your friendship.” He stood and extended his hand to Fë and Yavë, then to Chrys and The Three.  “I hope that we stand at the beginning of a new era.”

Lysa nodded.  “Though I still fear that this is only the beginning of our struggle.”

Chapter End Notes

Next, we journey on to Ty-Ar-Rana.  Cirdan offers to help build a fleet.  

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45)  New Friendships - Year of the Sun 494 Girithron (December)

Lyaan

It was such a relief to know that the north still supported them.  After the Nirnaeth there was doubt that any support would ever come south again. Even the survival of the north was questionable for years.  This now was welcome news.  Círdan offered to help the Alliance build a fleet and gave the captured vessel to them as a start.  He would give them his plans for the great swan ships along with armed cargo craft and swift, stealthy caravels.  He had eons of sailing knowledge and centuries of experience in naval warfare and ship building.  Ferui would help to train sailors as the south did not have the same maritime traditions.  Coastal fishing fleets were the extent of their vessels.  A navy wasn’t needed until now.

“You’ll catch them up in no time,” Círdan said confidently.

“The design of his ships are the best in the world,” Ferui added with a tip of his yellow sea cap.  “And I will make sure that they’re properly crewed with experienced sailors.”

Chrys was ecstatic but Lyaan had little use for ships, Ty-Ar-Rana being so far inland.  Still, it was a huge boon for the Alliance.  He noticed that Lysa, Aelrie and Miriani had made friends with Hîgwen and Hilvien, trading recipes and cooking tips.  The lobster bisque sounded particularly good. He saw Chrys’ ears perk up at the mention of a roast chicken with herbs and potatoes.

And it was good to see Morelen again.  She had truly grown from a curious girl with an aptitude for music to a renowned warrior. He knew, that with Morgoth’s blood in her, her speed, strength and stamina were phenomenal as was her intelligence and ability to learn.  It was like nothing that he had ever seen and that actually had him worried.  Would she outgrow the need for lesser beings such as they?  Like Morgoth, would she come to see her friend as mere tools?  Would Morgoth’s rage and ego manifest itself in her? With Notaldo, she seemed grounded. Valar help them if anything should happen to him.  Then, there was a pang of regret.  He knew that his son, Lyrin, pined for her.  He spoke of a woman that he met in Kirnak, but he always came back to Morelen.  He couldn’t deny that her personality was pleasant and that she was likely the most beautiful women that he knew.  Aside from Lysa that is.  Much like the fabled Lúthien of Doriath, Morelen’s Ainur blood had blessed her.

He sighed.  “It is what it is,” he whispered.  She would have been good for Lyrin as immature as he was, but it was water under the bridge now.  He kept thinking that he should do something about those friends of his but there was always something more important to do.  And Lysa…for Lysa, their son was her one blind spot.  He could do no wrong in her eyes.  

Notaldo guided everyone to the vast yard of Tumlindë, which also served as a training ground for their troops.  It was a broad plain of well-tended grass, bordered on one side with a rippling stream and ringed by gardens of colorful flowers, perfect for what he planned. “We would like to show you the skill of the Riders of Fingon!” he called out proudly.  Teldin already had their horses saddled and ready.  They had been carefully groomed and fed, their coats shiny and heads held high.  The riders’ silver plate armor had been buffed and shined, glittering in the sunlight. He, Líreno and Morelen marched out in precision steps, carrying the banners of Fingon and Orodreth.  Lyaan couldn’t help but admire the training and dedication that they showed.  His Silvan light infantry could not compare.

In unison, the three riders mounted, feet locked into the stirrups.  As one, they drew their bows, Morelen’s made of clear blue laen.  “Riders!” Notaldo called out, “Eyes right!”  They snapped their helmeted heads right, chins held high, to look at the audience, eyes fixed, daring any enemy to come at them. They raised their free hands in a salute, palms open above their eyes.  Targets had been set up along the field and Notaldo made a cutting motion with his hand.  “At the trot!”  The three pushed heels into horses and their mounts began an easy trot towards the targets. “At the canter!” he called, getting them to accelerate.  “Charge!” The riders surged ahead, hooves pounding the grass.  Arrows were pulled from quivers and nocked.  They rose up in the stirrups and, in rapid succession, Notaldo, then Líreno, then Morelen fired, arrows hitting dead center at a full gallop.  In less than another three seconds, another volley struck home.  As they passed the targets, each rider swung their legs around in the saddle, now facing behind them.  Another volley shot backwards, arrows landing amidst the others.

Lyaan’s mouth fell open. He had never seen a display of horse archery that was this skillful.  Lysa nodded proudly and Chrys held his hand over his mouth, awed. Lyaan needed them to come to Ty-Ar-Rana. His armies needed their training.

“Caracal!” Notaldo ordered and the riders guided their mounts, single file, in a circle around the targets now, peppering them with shots.

Chrys slapped his thigh. “This allows one archer to always be able to shoot at the rear of an enemy.  A shield would be useless.”

Gil-Galad smiled.  “They were the elite of my father’s forces. They were his pride,” he said.  “I am envious of their service to Orodreth, but I am glad that they serve all free peoples.”

“Reform!” Notaldo called and the riders rejoined him in a line.  As one, they placed bows back in sheaths on the saddles and trotted back to the audience, raising their open hand to their brows again.  “Riders…dismount!”  They swung out of their saddles, feet hitting the ground as one.  They knelt and removed their silver bascinet helmets.

Círdan began clapping, followed by the rest.  “I knew that you were formidable on horseback, but seeing it…magnificent.”

Lyaan stood, applauding. He looked at Lysa, a big grin on his face.  “It’s settled!  Morelen, we need you all to come to Ty-Ar-Rana.  We need you to train our people.  And we would love to have you home where you grew up.  So much has been improved and your room is just as it was.”

Morelen smiled, ear to ear. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Lyaan loved to visit Tumlindë, but he truly wanted to head home.  Ty-Ar-Rana was not just a series of structures, but it was a refuge…a sanctuary. The Vanyar Elves who constructed it had magic that was incomprehensible to any now in Middle Earth save one of the Ainur who remained…and no one was about to ask Morgoth or Sauron.  He found that, as time wore on, he liked traveling less and less and was content to live his life with Lysa and their son.  Even thinking about addressing the issue of Lyrin’s friends was burdensome.  Seeing the ocean gave him a longing for the sea and he began to think more about the white shores of Valinor.  He shook his head.  Such a thing was not possible.  The Valar had decreed it.

By the next day, Teldin had their horses groomed, fed and saddled and they started out on the road to Taaliraan for a short stop.  The stable master came along to ensure that the horses would remain healthy for the journey.  As they entered the rolling plains to the castle at Kirnak, a loud trumpeting sound echoed over the grassy land.

“Look!” Fëatur yelled to Ferui.  “I told you! It’s the Mûmakil!”  Sure enough, massive gray creatures could be seen, lumbering along the plains, long noses in prehensile trunks, ivory tusks coming down from their mouths.  “I promised you, didn’t I?”

Ferui’s mouth fell open. “I…they…they are like land whales. Incredible!”  They watched in awe as the family of Mûmakil, also known as Oliphants, pulled reeds and grasses out of the river with their trunks and brought them to their mouths.  Some sprayed water on their backs and a group cared for a few of the young.  Ferui nodded with a smile.  “I waited centuries for this, and just seeing this now... Thank you, Fëatur.”

The ride to Kirnak was a swift three days and they were greeted warmly by King Eldanar and his family, Queen Tathriel and their young son, Tarador.  The introduction of Gil-Galad was auspicious.  Meeting with a relative of the House of Fingon was a joyous occasion and the travelers were treated with great honor, guests in the Royal Suite.  The prince gazed upon the white walls of the palace that were fused with gold and black veins.  “I am reminded of Minas Tirith on Tol Sirion,” he said, admiring the architecture.  “And the grand avenues and bazaars…it is what I imagine Gondolin to be.”

“You are very observant, cousin,” the King said, gesturing around the grand rotunda that was ringed with elegant tapestries along the marble walls as fountains sprayed a fine mist of water, cooling the room.  “I served your grandfather in Hithlum ere the Bragollach as one of his captains of infantry. We fought together in every campaign until he fell,” Eldanar said in a voice tinged in both sadness and pride.  “I then led your father’s infantry.  After the Nirnaeth, we fled to the Falas where,” he said, pointing to Círdan and Ferui, “these fine men loaned us ships to sail south during the evacuation.”

This was a warm reunion and Círdan smiled.  “I regret that we were unable to accompany you personally, good King.  But we are happy to see that you have settled comfortably and prosperously.”

Queen Tathriel gave him a sad smile.  “My good Círdan, you were a little busy and we all thought that Beleriand would fall. We are so pleased to hear that the fight continues and more successfully so.”

Eldanar nodded.  “We came with little more than the clothes and armor on our backs and the skill of our people.  I am proud of what we have done here.  We have strong alliances now with The Guild and The Three,” he said, gesturing towards Fëatur and Lyaan.  “We consider ourselves to be part of the Luingon Alliance.”

Gil-Galad gestured to the riders.  “I would also like to introduce Notaldo, Líreno and Morelen, who were the elite riders of my father’s.  They were with him since Valinor and have fought with him since Lammoth when the sun rose.”

Eldanar’s eyes widened. “Well met, my friends.  This is an auspicious day.  My royal cousin and warriors of his father’s all in one day!  This requires a feast!”

The banquet that evening was one to remember.  In the great rotunda, musicians and bards played for the audience, singing, dancing and juggling fire.  Great platters of finely cut meats, fruits and vegetables were brought out as the guests and citizens of Kirnak dined and drank.  Tathriel motioned to a carafe of wine on the table, full of a light and airy white.  “This comes from our vineyards near Kirnak.  The dryer, more temperate clime here is perfect for this vintage.  You will find hints of rose petals and strawberries with a tartness of spice.”

Lyaan took a sip and swirled it in his mouth, letting the wine cover all of his tongue.  He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, just enjoying the flavor.  He thought back on his time in Valinor and then the journey back to Middle Earth.  A sense of shame came over him, matching the hints of bitterness in the wine that balanced the sweetness.  He was of the House of Fëanor and he and Lysa joined their kin in Alqualondë, slaying the Teleri for their ships.  They didn’t know the full story.  Curufin told them that the Teleri had attacked first and that they were defending themselves.  Still, that was no excuse and they, like Fëatur, would have to earn forgiveness.  Why had they never told Fëatur that?  They buried the shame deep.  They could never return to Valinor but through death.

Lysa could tell what he was thinking.  She always could.  She held his hand tightly and they both bowed their heads, saying a prayer of repentance to Mandos.  May he one day forgive them.  Nienna would find pity for them and their story would be woven into the tapestries that adorned the Halls of Mandos by Vairë, the Weaver.

He noticed Lyrin and the boys looking around, searching.  “Is there someone out there?” he asked, getting their attention.

Lyrin nodded.  “We were hoping to find Celestë, Karya and Allisa,” he said.  “We thought that they would be here.”

Ah, this had to be the women that they had mentioned earlier.  “Are they…are you…?”

Anuven smirked. “They were a nice distraction,” he said lewdly.  “I would love to find them again though,” he added.

“I see,” Lysa said with a hint of disapproval.  That was about the most that she would ever rebuke her son and his friends.  “I hope that they are something more.”

Lyrin gave an awkward smile.  “Celestë is something…full of fire and life.  She has flaming red hair and her beauty…No one compares to Morelen, but Celestë…,” he said, trailing off.

Lyaan could see that his son was still torn by Morelen, and it was easy to understand.  But maybe this Celestë could set him right.  He could never find the right way to steer Lyrin, and Lysa was no help in this matter.  Her awesome vision and wisdom failed here.

“Good,” he told his son. “I hope you find her.  I would like to meet her some time.”

Lyrin nodded with a grin and then wandered off with Anuven and Edenor, leaving poor Caladiel behind. She did not fit in with the boys and Lyaan felt sorry for her.  She was always trying to live up to her cousin, Thalindra.  She looked down at her plate, pushing her food around, her blonde hair in her face.  He reached towards her.  “Caladiel, you’re doing well.  You were instrumental in helping us find the entry into the Citadel.  I want you to know that we see that.”

She gave him a wan smile and then looked back down.  “I appreciate that, master Lyaan.  I just…I just don’t know if I am worthy of this.  I was so afraid when we were in the Citadel, I thought I would wet myself. And your son…I…no, nevermind.”

“You kept your composure and yes, I know about my son,” he said with a pang of regret.   “Fëatur did right by him to brace him, but Lyrin still has a long way to go.  Perhaps a temporary change might do you well.  You have trained with us for some time now and your skills have grown.  I’ve seen it, trust me.  If you could do something else for a time, what would it be?”

Her face brightened a little.  “I…I would like to see the north.  Perhaps I might go with the riders.  They are so brave and noble.  No, I could never live up to that.”

Lyaan would hate to see her leave.  She was also good for Lyrin, but he wanted her to thrive more.  “I’ll ask.  I think it would do you good.  Perhaps you could even learn to sail with Círdan and Ferui.”

A real smile came over her face.  “Thank you, master Lyaan.  I would like that very much.”

Their attention was grasped when King Eldanar clapped and the herald, Celumener, called out, “Your attention please!  Our guests from the north bring us the gift of music!  The riders of King Orodreth will treat us to the ethereal song, Nairë mi Lómë, the Blessed Night, followed by Elenya!”  The audience gave a round of applause as Notaldo, Líreno, Morelen and Silmani took the stage in the center of the rotunda.

Líreno began to tap on a small lap drum, covered in goat skin and Notaldo plucked on a harp as the two woman began to vocalize, swaying to the beat.  They wore deep cobalt blue robes that were trimmed in silver with images of stars woven into the fabric, a sign of respect to Fingon.  A mithril circlet sat on each brow with a blue diamond mounted in the center.  Together, their voices were ethereal, high notes floating in the air like butterflies, Morelen’s strong alto and Silmani’s lilting soprano, blending as one.  Lyaan felt his heart tighten as if their voices surrounded it.  The women’s arms flowed in waves, Morelen moving opposite, but in sync with Silmani, creating a juxtaposition of style; feminine, flowing and bold.  The dance was like a dream, tendrils of magic wafting between them.

We live in this blessed night,

The air that we breathe is pure,

The way is shone by Varda’s light,

Our steps are swift and sure,

Nairë mi Lómë, Auta i Lómë, the night is blessed, the night is passing

Aurë entaluva! The day shall come again!

It was a song about the peaceful and blissful night, but that all nights must perish, replaced by the day. Joy, loss and longing were part of the soul of the elves.  Lysa held Lyaan’s hand tightly.  “Her voice and movement were so stunning when she was with us at Ty-Ar-Rana.  This…this is heavenly.”

The women then went right into Elenya, The Nights of Eternal Stars.  Notaldo and Líreno tapped on drums, a deep, sonorous thrum, a repeating triple beat.  Silmani began to dance, swift pirouettes with arms raised to the stars as Morelen let her voice ring out, her vocal range from a low contralto to a lilting soprano that reverberated in the rotunda.  Her high notes hung in the air, drifting through the audience like water flows through a stream.  She sang of the years that pass all too soon but how the star, Elenya, never fades, always shining its face upon the elves.  The beat of the drums, the movements of the girl and melancholic melody of the woman reached down to the spirit of everyone in the room.

Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier, the years have passed like swift draughts,

Elenya, come to us, star of the dawn,

You guide us in our long journey,

Your light is everlasting, eternal,

We are forever bathed in your mercy,

As the music came to a close, the drum beats slowed to a single, soft tapping rhythm.  Morelen’s voice faded away and Silmani went to both knees, lowering her face to the floor, spreading her arms wide, supplicant before the light and mercy of Varda.  The room was silent for a few seconds before thunderous applause filled the rotunda.  Yavëkamba stood and cheered loudest for her daughter.

Lyaan could not be prouder. While Fëatur was away on missions for The Guild, he and Lysa raised Morelen, somewhat reluctantly at first but they soon loved her like a member of their family.  Lysa taught her to sing and dance, and he taught her to fight and shoot a bow.  She grew up with Lyrin for many years before she went north and joined Fingon.  Ty-Ar-Rana seemed emptier without her, and it would be so nice to have her back once more.  He secretly wanted her to stay in the south and for life to return to the quiet times before the horrors of the north changed things.

King Eldanar stood and cheered.  Lyaan could see the resemblance that he bore to Gil-Galad and what he remembered of Fingon and Turgon.  The King seemed to embody the spirit of both brothers, some warrior and some scholar.

“I had heard of and seen the valor of Fingon’s riders.  I knew the names, but never had the honor of knowing them,” the King said.  “To see that you embody the spirit of the elven soul brings me great joy.  We are musicians, singers, dancers and bards, only called to arms by the enemy.  To hear such music in my halls fills my heart with hope and pride!”  He raised his golden chalice.  “May this rotunda, the work of our great people, be ever filled with such light and magic!”

People stood and cheered, raising open hands to the sky.  Lyaan could not help but be impressed by this new kingdom.  The halls and the palace were truly for the people. Anyone could come and go, and the King seemed to have time for both noble and commoner alike.  All races of elves in Middle Earth were present and welcome, from High Elves to the rustic Silvans.  It was a model that he believed in, and Ty-Ar-Rana was no different.  He took a deep breath, enjoying the moment, knowing that every blissful moment must perish.

It was another week’s ride to Ty-Ar-Rana and Lyaan realized that he was homesick.  He longed to see the great pyramids again, to be in his own room, in their own bed.  Lysa felt the same way, but Lyrin was always infected by wanderlust.  Their son was disappointed that he could not find the red-haired woman.  She must have been away on a journey.  She, too, came from the north after the Nirnaeth, according to Lyrin.

It would soon be a new year and the weather in the south was the opposite of what was in the north. It would be snowing in Nargothrond by now, but the jungles of the south were hot and humid.  In the winter of mid-year, it would cool down to a comfortable but sticky temperature, never getting anywhere near freezing.

Along the trail, he could just make out the largest pyramid, surrounded by three lesser ones.  He could see the homes of the town of Gavan where the Silvan elves of their people resided.  They rode onto paved streets now.  Since they refounded Ty-Ar-Rana, the population had grown and prospered. The aged ruins of the Vanyarin settlement were rebuilt into a thriving community with a new purpose and character.  The Vanyar were powerful, devout, almost angelic beings compared to the ambitious Noldor and the rustic Sindar and Silvan elves. But the Silvan people made this place their own, with gaily colored decorations and open bazaars where people met, laughed and shopped.

People in the streets greeted them with waves and warm words.  There was no royalty here.  Everyone agreed to the common good with Lyaan being the first among equals.  They rode by the training grounds where Silvan archers practiced with their light hunting bows and short, but sharp kynacs.  With the previous shipments from the north and the smiths of The Guild providing armor, their light infantry now had enchanted leather armors, reinforced with steel rings to provide protection.  Lyaan knew that this was perfect for the hit and run, ambush tactics that had worked so well for them, defending their lands, but the time would come for open combat on the offense to prevent the ritual.  In his battle against Castolder of the Suit of Swords, his kynac and ikasha weapons were almost useless against the warrior in full plate with a two-handed sword.  The arrival of the riders could not have come at a better time.

“Greetings, Lyaan, Lysa! Welcome home,” the Silvan people said very informally.  He was one of them and titles were only used among the initiates, who required greater discipline.  They dismounted outside of the great pyramid and Teldin gathered the horses as Lyrin pointed him to the nearby stables.

Lyrin bolted up the steps, laughing out loud with his buddies as they threw mock kicks at each other. “This way, people, this way.  The lodgings and quarters are below ground. Amazing isn’t it?  You remember, Morelen!”  He clapped his hands.  “Taran! Come out and help these people with their bags,” he called to the golem that the Vanyar had left at the compound. It wasn’t the proper use of the guardian, but the golem did not seem to mind.  The automaton walked out of the pyramid, dressed in elven armor of the Vanyar, golden and practically glowing.  Taran stood taller than any in the group, his platinum blond hair almost silver, flowing down his back. 

Without expression, Taran nodded.  “Yes, Lyrin,” he said and then hoisted up more baggage than any of the children of Illuvatar could lift.

First Initiate Thalindra came out next and bowed to The Three and then hugged her cousin, Caladiel. Thalindra was half Sindarin, half Silvan and had strawberry blonde hair, smaller and slighter than her younger cousin. She was dressed in the white robes of a Ty-Ar-Rana initiate, their monastic order.  “Welcome back, masters…mistress and Fëatur.  Taran came back to make a second trip, carrying all of the remaining bags.

Morelen inhaled deeply, drinking in the sights of the first home that she remembered.  She turned to Yavë.  “Mother, this is where I grew up.  My first memories are here. These Three showed me love and raised me.  I know that you had a mission to do, but now I wish to make up for all of the lost years.  You gave me life, and I wish to know you,” she said, putting her hand on her mother’s arm.

Yavë put a hand over her heart, patting her chest.  Her face scrunched as she fought to control her emotions while her eyes misted up.  “I…I would like that…very much,” she said, her voice cracking.

Lyaan introduced them all to Thalindra, who bowed to the new guests.  “Master Lyaan, Mistress Lysa, I found another golem in one of the lesser pyramids while you were away.  This one is female, also appearing as a Vanyar elf.  Her name appears to be Vanyissë.  I did not awake her as I thought it would be prudent to await your return.”

“You did well, Thalindra. Come, let’s take a look.”  They walked to the smaller pyramid and took the lift down, deep into the earth.  When the doors opened, the golem was standing nearby in the stark white corridor. Magical lanterns flickered on, casting light on the automaton.  She looked absolutely real, pale skin around ruby lips, platinum blonde hair that was nearly silver, clad in a white, gossamer robe that flowed down just above her knees.  She stood taller than any on the lift.  In one hand, she carried a short spear and in the other, a white staff.  She embodied the light of the Vanyar.

Thalindra paused, her eyes narrowed.  “She…was not here when I left.  She was down the hallway, there,” she said, pointing.  Lyaan got a bit of a chill down his spine.

They stepped off of the lift and the golem’s eyes opened and blazed gold.  She held out her staff and raised the spear over her head, aimed at Morelen.  “Come no further, creature of darkness,” she said in an ancient form of Quenya that they barely understood.

Lyaan immediately grasped the golem’s reaction.  It was Morelen’s Vala blood.  He stepped forward, palms held out in peace.  “We mean you no harm, Vanyissë.  We are the new residents of Ty-Ar-Rana.”

The golem crouched, taking a fighting stance.  “Leave this sacred place,” she commanded, expressionless and Lyaan backed up a step.    

Morelen came forward in spite of Notaldo’s protest.  She held her palms out and spoke in the same ancient dialect, golden energy swirling around her hands.  How did she know this speech?  “I mean you no harm, Vanyissë.  I am a friend of The Three.  Your creators, the Vanyar, went west to the Undying Lands.  They left you and Taran as guardians of Ty-Ar-Rana for new peoples who might need your protection.  I have lived in peace here during my childhood.  I am your ally.  I stand against the creatures of darkness.  Please hear me.”

Vanyissë scanned the people on the lift, her head moving back and forth almost mechanically.  She then relaxed, lowering staff and spear back to her side.  “I see that your words and intentions are true,” she said in her odd monotone.  “You are now welcome to Ty-Ar-Rana,” she added and then stepped up to Morelen.  She placed her staff in her other hand with the spear and placed her palm on Morelen’s chest.  The Vanyar golem narrowed her eyes and then looked to her ‘parents.’  “Beware, Morelen, daughter of…Fëatur and Yavëkamba. You are destined for a great doom,” she finished and then stepped back against the wall and closed her eyes.

Lyaan sighed in relief that the situation was resolved peacefully and also that Morelen’s secret was not revealed.  The golem seemed to have the insight of the Vanyar.  Having two powerful golems on their side would be extremely beneficial in the future.  As the group moved to their quarters, Lyaan hung back with Fëatur and Yavëkamba, mouthing, “Are you ever going to tell her?”

They waved him off with shakes of their heads.  It seemed as if everyone had a blind spot when it came to those that they loved.

In the next days, the Riders trained the Silvan elves in horse archery and cavalry tactics.  The people of Gavan learned quickly, soon being able to fire a bow from horseback after a couple of weeks.  Not well, but it was a start.  Notaldo had them switch their grips, using a thumb ring to pull the bowstring, more effective in the saddle.  They also nocked the arrow to the strong side of the bow, faster when mounted.  They also began making recurve bows, a weapon that could nearly equal the power of a longbow in a shorter frame, better for horseback.  Lyaan enjoyed watching this, seeing his people grow, their defense improve. He understood that this was just a start.  It would take years to build an effective cavalry force.  He had hoped that Lyrin and his friends would participate but they seemed intent on figuring out what the female golem could do.  He shook it off, he and Lysa learning to fire the bow from the saddle with their people.  It took serious training, a sense of timing and patience as to when to rise up in the stirrups, when to draw, how to breathe and when to release.  He had to admire Morelen and her friends for their skill. Their archery was a natural as breathing.  He chuckled as he watched Caladiel bouncing in the saddle as her horse trotted, saying, “Ow,” with every bounce.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” she called to him as she shot an arrow into the ground less than ten feet in front of her.  This was not an easy skill.

Morelen rode up to her. “It’s not just your arms, it’s your whole body, your whole being that draws the string.  Now, let’s just remain still and not ride.  Here,” she said, nocking an arrow and then linking her thumb ring to the string.  “Focus. Your mind sees the draw, the release and the arrow striking the target.”  With her shoulders, her torso and her arms, she pulled the string back past her ear. “Don’t aim…feel.”  With barely any motion, she released the arrow and it sped, dead center, into a target over One-Hundred feet away with a loud, THWOP!  The arrow was buried into the straw up to the fletchings, such was the strength of her archery.  “Now, you do it.”

Caladiel pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it.  “Inhale,” Morelen said, and the younger elf did so.  “Draw,” Morelen continued and Caladiel used her whole upper body to pull the string past her ear.  “Feel…imagine the flight of the arrow…release!”  Caladiel did so and the arrow flew, striking the target on the outer ring, half of the arrow sunk in.  The young elf gasped and then a big smile spread over her lips.

Morelen grinned back at her, her silver armor gleaming in the sun.  “Well done.  Keep practicing.  We’ll make a rider out of you yet.”

Lyaan gave Lysa a bittersweet smile.  They would lose the young initiate, but she would become so much more.  It was all that they wanted for their son and their people.

The days and weeks went swiftly, too swiftly for Lyaan’s liking.  They were settling into a pleasant routine again.  They would wake at dawn where Thalindra and Caladiel would make breakfast.  They would chat about the day’s events and news from the north.  Silmani would practice singing and dancing, and they would catch up with Morelen’s time in Beleriand and tell of the situation in the south.  Notaldo would lead the budding Silvan riders in horsemanship and archery.  Círdan and Captain Ferui would discuss ship building with Fëatur, drawing intricate diagrams of the vessels.  The sun would set and they would bathe and gather for dinner.  Lyaan could do this forever.  He never tired of being with his family and enjoying a busy day with his people.  He could not fathom the need for war or conflict.  Why did so many desire conquest and power?  He simply could not understand it.  If Ty-Ar-Rana could fade into the jungle with the surety that his friends would be safe, he would do it and never see someone from the outside again. If only he could convince Morelen and Notaldo to stay, they would be complete.  But she was still young and full of energy.  Perhaps his desires were just foolish wishes.

As the time of the visit drew short, Lyaan walked with Lysa, Fëatur and Yavëkamba to his study.  The passed through the foyer, a room with gray granite walls and a perfectly carved gray granite block in the center, smooth and polished.  Written on the block in glowing blue laen runes were the tenets of the Tyar Order, the organization of monks that they created, based upon what they discovered of the previous occupants.  They went through a pair of clear laen doors that opened silently as they approached. Another wonder of Vanyarin craftsmanship.  The Vanyar were devout, spiritual, almost angelic beings and they forever sought to live up to that ideal.

They stopped in Lyaan’s training hall, where comfortable wooden seats were arranged in a classroom setting.  Members of the Order were nearly all practitioners of Mentalism, a magical art that used or manipulated mental powers to affect the outside world.  Fëatur and Morelen, as illusionists, were also users of Mentalism. Thalindra and Caladiel were already here, moving and spinning objects with their minds.  They stopped for a moment and bowed, the objects falling to the floor, and then laughed, returning to their practice.  Lyaan loved the relaxed atmosphere of learning and growth. He trusted that everyone would find their own discipline and path.  He smiled back as they continued on to the study, beyond Lysa’s training room for seers and Lyrin’s practice room for hand-to-hand combat, where his son and friends were sparring.

They entered the study as the laen doors rolled into the walls to see Morelen and Silmani already there, reading one of the tomes on Mentalism next to the large bookcase that housed the nine volumes of work left by the Vanyar.  The room was paneled in dark walnut with tables and other objects made of cypress that gave off a pleasant scent.  

Morelen looked up. “Oh, I’m so sorry.  We were just learning some of the basic powers.  We can leave.”

Lyaan didn’t mind at all. In fact, he loved when members of the order came to learn on their own.  “No, no, please, don’t mind us.  Please continue.”

Morelen grinned. “Show them, Silmani.  She’s been learning a lot while we’ve been here.”

The young elf raised her finger up and focused her mind on it.  A shimmer of light appeared at her fingertip and the image of a dove coalesced from the tendrils of her magic.  She then pointed to the carpet, and an orange cat appeared.  The bird landed on the cat’s head and the cat walked around the room, meowing.

Lyaan nodded. “That’s very impressive for a few months of study, young lady.  You have great potential,” he said with pride in his voice.

Silmani giggled, holding her hands over her heart.  “It’s been so wonderful here in the south,” she said.  “I wish we could stay forever.”

Lysa leaned forward, gesturing to the chairs.  “That is possible,” she said with more than a little hope.  Lyaan could see the anticipation in both Fëatur and Yavëkamba’s faces.  It was a question that they all wanted but feared to ask.

Morelen sat and then sighed.  “Alas, my allegiance is given to King Orodreth, and I cannot abandon it, nor can I ask Notaldo to do so.  We have given so much blood and tears defending our people in Beleriand…”  Lyaan already knew her answer, but it still stabbed him like a knife.  “But,” she continued, “if Silmani wishes to remain, I won’t oppose it.  She deserves to see life beyond the caverns of Nargothrond, as beautiful as they may be.”

Silmani’s face lit up, and she bounced for joy.  “Do you think that Idhrendiel could stay too?” she asked of her friend.

Lyaan nodded.  “We have no problem with that, but we will discuss it with her parents.”  He turned back to Morelen, a bittersweet look on his face.  “We had hoped you would, but I understand your position.  Just having you back here was something that we had dreamed of.”

Morelen shrugged with a half-smile.  “That just means that we will have to visit more often.  We will take care of Caladiel, and we trust that you will care for the girls here.”

“Have no doubt that we will.”

On the day of departure, the riders were mounted with Círdan and Ferui.  They stood proud in the saddle, armor polished to silver perfection with cobalt blue surcoats trimmed in silver, while the banners of Fingon and Orodreth fluttering in the wind.  The Silvan riders of Ty-Ar-Rana rode out in a clean formation.  They drew their recurved warbows and nocked thick bodkin arrows designed to penetrate armor.  Notaldo raised his sword.  “Advance!” he commanded and the Silvan troop trotted forward and then into a full gallop.  One by one, they unleashed arrows on the targets, striking them, the shafts digging deep into the straw.  “Caracal!” he ordered and they began to circle the targets, launching volleys from all angles in a coordinated stream.

The troop then reformed in good order and halted in front of the visitors, raising their bows in a salute.  Notaldo, Líreno and Morelen drew their curved swords and held them in front of their faces, returning the salute.  Then, Notaldo raised his weapon, and they charged at the targets, lopping off parts of the straw with precision cuts of their blades.  They reformed and rode in front of The Three, raising swords and then lowering them with a bow from the saddle.  It was a supreme demonstration of riding and swordsmanship from the saddle.

Lyaan knew that this day would come and it pained him to no end.  He had all of his family and loved ones gathered here in this sacred place and he wanted it to never end.  But this was not Valinor where many things were endless.  Here, in Middle Earth, things faded, things died and things that he loved would leave and maybe be forever lost.  But he would show his love here and not face his regrets.  He stood and applauded his new cavalry troop, along with everyone on the field.  “My dear friends,” he told them, I have seen your growth and learned alongside of you. We are now a weapon against the enemy and a shield for our lands and people!”  He turned to the departing guests.  “Prince Gil-Galad, Lord Círdan, Captain Ferui, the Alliance owes you a great debt and you may count on us for support.  Notaldo, Líreno, you have trained us in your skill.  You always have a home here.  We will care for Silmani and Idhrendiel as if they were our own. Please care for Caladiel as she is dear to us.  And Morelen, your home is here for when you are ready to return and may the sun shine upon your journey and may the stars light the way when next we meet. Farewell, my friends.”

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

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46)  The Crossings of Teiglin - Year of the Sun 495 Nénimë (February)

Morelen

It was a pleasant journey back to Nargothrond from the south.  Sailing on the Bregolaph was always a joy, and she had learned an enormous amount about sailing.  Morelen and Caladiel were rigging and repairing sails and using the incantations to harness the blessings of Ulmo for the wind.  The winter sea and weather grew colder as they pressed north, snow covering much of Beleriand.  She loved the brisk temperatures and the exhilaration of the chill winds.  Still, she missed Silmani.  The young woman was a bright spot in their lives, and she and the company promised to care for her as the daughter of their dear friends. But there was no safer place than Ty-Ar-Rana; the wards and golems left by the Vanyar were formidable and her father’s glyphs made it even more protected.  But she made it a point to return as soon as she was able to.

Lyaan was like a second father to her, protective and nurturing and she knew how much he wanted her to stay.  The visit was like going back to her childhood, a simple, joyous time of music and learning.  She was torn between two worlds, one of bliss and one of duty.  Perhaps, one day, her duty would be over.  She wondered what it would be like to go to Valinor?  Would she fall under the Ban of the Valar? After all, she was not at Alqualondë and never hurt another elf who didn’t try to hurt her.  Elves from Gondolin had been trying to sail West for some time now, but many returned empty handed and most had tales of woe like Voronwë.  But she imagined it in her mind, a place of wondrous beauty, timeless, eternal.  So much had changed in Beleriand in just a few centuries.  So much loss. So much destruction.

Their return to Nargothrond was like putting on a comfortable pair of sandals again.  The gate guards were in jovial spirits, talking about another of Túrin’s victories at the Crossings of Teiglin with the Men of Brethil under Handir.  The greeted Notaldo, the captain along with his two lieutenants.  Caladiel was in awe as the passed into the grand cavern where the massive bazaar of shops and kiosks filled the great floor.  Closable vents in the ceiling let sunlight stream in and reflect off of large mirrors that illuminated the whole cavern with a warm glow.  Water from the Narog ran around the perimeter where elegant bridges crossed deeper into the kingdom and there was a lively dock for boats coming and going from the Havens of Sirion and beyond.

They stopped at Cragstone’s kiosk.  The dwarf looked quite aged, bald with a white beard and a lined, craggy face.  “Oh, it’s so good to have you back, my friends. I was afraid that I’d miss you,” he said in a creaky voice.  He was definitely getting old, something that Morelen was very unused to.

“We missed you too,” Morelen said as he poured them mugs of his famous Stone 
Ale.

“Ah, here you go,” he said as he raised his own mug.  “Only the finest malt, yeast and hops for you, along with my own secret spices. Now, I’m glad I caught up with you all. I am officially retiring home to Nogrod and am leaving the business to my son, Throim Cragstone,” he said, gesturing to another dwarf with a bushy brown beard and wild hair around a bulbous red nose.

Throim bowed low.  “I will be happy to see to all of your beverage needs, ladies and gentlemen.  My father will oversee supply shipments to Nargothrond from our home so our superior drinks will continue to flow here!”

Notaldo gave them a small bag of bronze coins.  “We look forward to continuing to do business with your family, Cragstone.  And we wish you a joyous retirement and safe travels back home.”  He then reached into his pocket to give each of them additional gold coins.  “A little extra for your retirement.”

Caladiel scrunched up her face and stared at the two dwarves.  “What…what is this on your face?  Why is there hair on your chin?  And…did something happen to you?  You…you’re so short.”

The other elves grimaced but then Morelen snickered.  She made the same mistake when she first met the brewer.  “Umm, they’re dwarves, Caladiel.  That’s the way they are, short but tough and resilient.  Isn’t that right, Cragstone?”

“Hah!” he chortled out loud.  “Indeed, good lady Morelen.  I remember you saying the same thing some centuries ago.  I may be pushing three-hundred and fifty, but my mind is still sharp, and I remember it like yesterday.  Dwarves have excellent memories for good and bad.  And don’t worry, my lovely blonde elf, we get that all the time here.”  He took a gulp of ale and raised his mug.  “I would be honored if you would see me off tomorrow when I leave in the morning.”

“We will do just that, my friend,” Líreno said, patting him on the back.

As they continued on towards their quarters, Caladiel scratched her head.  “Business?  Coins? What was that all about?” she asked, adjusting her white monk robes.

Morelen shrugged.  “I was very confused at first too.  Ty-Ar-Rana provides food and other items to its people as needed.  We all benefit from what the people create.  But men and dwarves are different.  Their economies are often based on buying things with metal coins which you earn through work.  It’s strange and often complex and I don’t really like change, but I learned,” she said and then scoffed.  “I still favor the old calendar in Quenya but one of our years is One-Hundred and Forty-Four of theirs.  This new calendar has the twelve-month year or coranar but I still use Quenya for that.  Stubborn, I guess.”  She really could be finicky about things like that and spoke Quenya most of the time.

“Oh, yes, that sounds really confusing,” Caladiel replied, her head whipping around at all of the kiosks, where men, dwarves and elves sold their wares.

Notaldo put some bronze and copper coins in her hand.  “Here, try it out.  Buy something.”  He always had a kind heart and was a patient teacher.  It was something that Morelen truly loved.

The monk initiate stopped at a vendor where a fire burned in a metal grill and sticks of meat and vegetables roasted over the flame.  It smelled delightful, sizzling bell peppers, mushrooms, other vegetables along with chicken and beef.  Caladiel held out her hand, and the vendor took three coins and handed her a stick. She took a couple of bites and nodded her head.  “It’s…exotic. It’s so different in the north.  Well, I guess Kirnak is similar but it’s quiet and organized.  Here, it’s just exciting chaos,” she said as loud voices called out, advertising food and other goods.  Jugglers and musicians played to a cacophony of sounds, voices and instruments.  She ran over to another kiosk and bought a blue dress.  “I need something else to wear!” she said excitedly, holding the item over herself. “This is so crazy!”

It was fun, enjoyable even to watch Caladiel’s innocence and wonder.  She had never interacted with anyone other than elves and her awkwardness was endearing.  On the elegant wood and stone bridge from the grand cavern into the rest of Nargothrond, Túrin and Tintallo were waiting with broad smiles.  “Welcome home!” Túrin called out, his arms open wide.  “You missed our last foray north where we decimated another force of the Dark Lord’s orcs.”

“The riders proved their worth again,” Tintallo exclaimed.  “We’ve cleared everything north of the Crossings of Teiglin up nearly to Tol Sirion. The men of Brethil under Handir pinned them in place as the cavalry broke them and ran them down like chickens.” He tossed a leather ball up and down. “That means that we need a good game of Coron Mittarion.  Get settled and then join us.  That one too,” he said, pointing to Caladiel.  “You in the habit of picking up strays?” he asked snidely.

Tintallo was always full of himself and loved to get under people’s skin.  With his looks and his physique, he was a favorite of the ladies of Nargothrond as he was in Hithlum, and it was likely that he had eyes on the naïve monk.  Morelen would have to warn her when she had a chance.

“Telepta Company will be ready,” Líreno said with a smirk.  “We have the fastest player right here,” he added, tapping Morelen on the shoulder.

Tintallo scoffed.  “Speed isn’t everything.  You have to have experience and quick thinking.”

“Well, I guess that leaves you with nothing then,” Líreno taunted in a friendly voice.  This had been going on for centuries.

“We shall see,” the leader of the riders shot back.  “And no amount of oil or butter on your body is going to stop a tackle this time.  Even a greased pig can be caught.”

“Ah, the voice of experience!  Oink!” Líreno countered.  “Don’t worry, you’ll be the one squealing,” he finished as they all laughed.

It was good to see Líreno’s light side coming back.  He was in a truly dark place after the Nirnaeth for many years.  The visit to the south really healed him.  And Túrin was turning things around in the north.  There was even talk about being able to reestablish the Siege of Angband, but Notaldo had his doubts.  In fifty years, they had lost Fingolfin, Fingon, Finrod Felagund, Angrod and Aegnor along with countless other great warriors.  There was little chance that they could gather the forces needed for that ever again.  “I fear that Gondolin is right,” he would say, “Our only hope may be in the West.  I just hope that someone gets through.”

They settled back into their rooms.  It was clear to see how much Líreno and Telerien missed their daughter Idhrendiel and her friend, Silmani.  They would see them again soon, Morelen was sure.  The travelers just had time to eat and wash before they had to head out to the Coron Mittarion court.  The grand sports complex had fields for a number of different physical games and individual exercise, along with spas and pools for recreation.  Magical lanterns illuminated the caverns and, as the players and audience filtered in, the ceiling changed to show an enchanted representation of the winter sky with snow falling.

The Telepta players gathered on one side of the triangular court and began removing their robes to play. It took a bit of convincing for Caladiel to get down to her loincloth for the game.  She stood on the sideline with the Telepta Team, absolutely squirming with discomfort but she was a good sport about it.  “Listen up, Caladiel,” Morelen told her, “there are three teams; us, the Telepta, the Misë, Tintallo’s team and the new Morna.  The object is to get the ball into that basket in the center of the court and tackling is allowed.  No fighting though.  Any team without the ball needs to get the ball to score.  Once our team has the ball, the others block so the carrier can get to the basket.  Got it? Good.  Let’s go.”

It was a confusing mash of bodies and shouting that Morelen loved.  Over the centuries, she had gotten pretty good and the Telepta trained hard.  One thing was that she was blessed with speed, some implying that she had the spirit of Nessa in her, who was the wife of Tulkas and the sister of Oromë.  But Tintallo was still the best player in the game and had Túrin with him.  His team, the Misë, or Green Company, were experienced, tough and motivated.  Towards the end of the game, the Telepta were barely able to keep the Misë to a one-point lead while the poor Morna, or Black Company fizzled, struggling to score only two points.

Tintallo and Túrin strutted about the field, raising their arms up, over and over to incite the crowd and people stood up, shouting cheers and insults to the players.  “These are the final few plays,” Notaldo told the team as they huddled on the sidelines.  “We’re holding close and we need to bring everything to the table now. We have ten points and are only one behind.  Morna will field the ball on this play, and we all know Tintallo’s style; they’re going to go straight for the ball.  He and Túrin are always that way, meet it head on.  We use that to our advantage.”

Morelen liked Tintallo’s methods though.  Meet it head on and beat it.  Things she should have done in the past.  She thought about saying something but decided against it.  As planned, they let the Misë rush in and take the ball from Morna after a good struggle.  Tintallo and Túrin were passing it back and forth between them as they pushed to the basket.  The long game had taken its toll, and they were covered in sweat and dirt.  “Sweep now,” Notaldo called to the team, and they ran at the opposing players.  Líreno dodged around Misë blockers and slid into Tintallo, taking his legs out from beneath him as he was passing.  Caladiel was very light on her feet being a monk and tipped the ball in flight as Notaldo body checked Túrin, keeping him from the catch.  Morelen came down with the ball and stuffed it into the basket. The crowd was on their feet and Orodreth and Finduilas cheered them from a royal box.

The team gathered around their captain.  “Great play!” he said proudly.  “This is game point here.  I need everyone’s mind engaged.  Now, Tintallo always plays to power and directness, so we avoid that and play it quiet again. We’re all tired but they’ve been fighting harder.  Let them wear themselves out.”

This time Morelen had to say something.  She still felt fresh and fast.  The direct approach would be best here.  Attack them head on.  That should be the correct call.  “Captain, you’re right, they’re tired.  I say we hit them directly.  Fight for the ball and take it from them.  I’m still fast.  I can do it.”

He thought for a moment. “You really think you can make it work?”

She was confident and nodded.  “I can do it.”

Notaldo pursed his lips and blew out a breath.  “Alright. We’ll play your game on this.  I trust you.  New play everyone.  We hit them full court…confront them at every turn.  They’re tired and we can win this.”

They did a team clap and took the field, all crouched in an aggressive stance, met by the other two teams. There was an electricity in the air as the two best teams were tied at eleven.  It was Misë’s turn to field the ball, and they did not disappoint with the direct attack, driving straight for the basket to end the game.  Rather than let Morna battle for it, they ran right at the Misë players in a fierce confrontation.  Blockers rammed others as tackles took down runners.  Tintallo skirted past Notaldo and flung the ball at Túrin.  Caladiel tipped it again with her fingers, knocking it off course to Morelen, who caught it and drove right for the basket.  She reached the ball out with her hand and was blindsided by Túrin.  She rolled on the ground, stunned, seeing stars as the Edain scooped up the ball and stuffed it in the basket.

“Game point!” the referee shouted out and the crowd cheered for the great hero of Nargothrond.

Morelen lay there, devastated that her strategy had failed.  Notaldo extended his hand and pulled her up.  “It’s just a game.  We did pretty well, so let Tintallo and Túrin bask in the glory,” he said as Orodreth and Finduilas came down from the stands to congratulate the Misë.

The King raised his arms and the crowd roared back for a minute before quieting.  “People of Nargothrond,” he began in a clear, powerful voice like that of his brother, Finrod, “Our mighty hero, Túrin, the Mormegil, has triumphed again.  Give him and his great Captain, Tintallo, your praise!”  The audience was unstoppable, filling the court with noise and shouting.  Orodreth led the victorious away as the winning team would dine with him and his family.

As the crowd filtered from the arena, Líreno playfully kicked Morelen’s leg.  “Oh yeah, take them head on.  That worked well.  Eh, but better this way.  I didn’t want to get all dressed up to dine with the King, after all.  It will be much nicer to just relax at home.  We’ve been gone over four months and Telerien and I are looking forward to settling back in.  I can empathize with Lyaan’s love of home, I really can.”  He picked up and tossed Morelen’s shirt back to her. “Don’t let this get to you.  It’s only a game.”

What they said was true, but it didn’t make her feel much better.  Going head-to-head against Túrin was foolhardy but it made her trust his strength even more.  They dressed and slunk home with the Morna Team.  Their new lieutenant, Ehtyarder, walked with them sheepishly.  Morna had been recently reestablished with mostly new recruits, all from Nargothrond, a change from the riders being all from Hithlum under Fingon.  While Morna lagged behind the other two companies in skill and experience, they were learning quickly and fought well in the last action against the orcs. “It’s good to have you and your team back, Captain Notaldo,” Ehtyarder said in a friendly voice.  “We really look up to you senior companies.  You’ve been around since…since before…”

He nodded, always patient with people.  “We were with Fingon since before leaving Aman.  We rode and trained with Oromë.”

Ehtyarder gasped. “I…I did not know that, sir,” he said respectfully.  “I have heard of your company’s skill with the bow, and I’ve seen the power of Tinatallo’s Company on the field.  I daresay that we are well protected here with such force.  We are new and hope to prove ourselves to King Orodreth and Lord Mormegil.”

“Preservation of the kingdom is paramount,” Notaldo answered.  “Fight smart, don’t take unnecessary risks and protect the King and his family and you’ll do fine.  We’ll be sure to look after you.”

“We greatly appreciate that, sir,” he said, clearly looking up to the Telepta.  “You played a great game and perhaps we will be proper rivals one day.  We will see you for supper.”

Líreno clapped him on the back.  “You’ll get there.  We beat the Misë one out of five now.  It was a lot worse when we were in Hithlum.  And uhh, we’re very informal so just call us by our names.  I’m Líreno, the chief lieutenant,” he said, elbowing Morelen.  “This is Morelen, the junior lieutenant.  And this is Caladiel, she’s new too and she doesn’t mind playing without a shirt,” he added and she blushed furiously, her face and ears deep red.

Ehtyarder bowed curtly. “Pleased to meet you.  I hope that we will become friends as well as comrades.”

Morelen shook his hand. “I know that we will.  Don’t let the…senior lieutenant put you off. Seriousness is not his strong suit. We’ll see you for supper.”

Even though they were defeated it was good to be home.  Their rooms were just as they left them; magical lights coming on to show a waterfall along the wall, tricking down the living room, feeding potted plants as a cool mist floated from the water basins, laden with the scent of peppermint and vanilla, an aromatic mixture that Morelen liked.  The vendor was a nice Noldorin woman, Hithwendë, who blended oils and dried flowers for sale.  Snacks and fruit were laid out on their dining table, gifts from the King for their return.  She waved her hand over the brass tub and hot water poured into it from a spigot.  Oh, that was going to feel so good.  She took a packet that she bought from Hithwendë and tore it open, pouring a powder into the water that blended with the steam, and she inhaled the scent of rose, lavender and eucalyptus.

She tiptoed over to Notaldo and yanked on his robe.  “Time to get in there,” she said, pulling his garment down his back.  She watched him slide into the tub with a grin on her face and then splashed in herself.  The hot water felt divine and she inhaled the wonderful scents that she had poured in. “Well, husband, it’s good to be home,” she said as she sat in his lap.  This tub would always have good memories.

The next day they saw Cragstone off.  It was a bittersweet moment.  They were glad that they didn’t miss him and were happy to see him return to his home, wealthy and safe.  But he was an important part of the culture of the realm.  His brews had become a staple for dining halls and functions in the kingdom.  Even King Orodreth kept a select reserve for important events.  Morelen gave him a hug.  “We will miss you, Cragstone.  You’re a part of our people.  Enjoy your retirement.  Perhaps we could visit you in Nogrod one day.”

“I would like that very much, Lady Morelen.  You and your merry band.  You’ve been amazing customers and I was honored to share my craft with you.  Many dwarves complain about elves but all of you have been honorable.  All of you, be well and stay safe.  I know that you fight for the kingdom.  Farewell,” he said and then stole a kiss from Morelen.  “I still got it!  Haha!” he laughed as he boarded the wagon for Nogrod as part of a caravan.  The beard tickled like nothing she had ever felt and she giggled shyly.  She raised her hand and focused her mental powers, unleashing an illusion of colorful southern parrots and tropical flowers flying into the air.  Cragstone clapped and blew kisses as the wagons rode north back to the dwarven realms.

It was like leaving Ty-Ar-Rana where a part of her was still there.  It had become a given that they would gather at Cragstone’s kiosk after a battle or a game and he would roll out barrels of ale and mead.  She did not like change, but she resolved to give his son, Throim, a chance.  

The company settled back into a rhythm of training, sports, music and recreation.  The hot springs and the conservatory were favorite activities, but it was different without Silmani and Idhrendiel, whose passion for music and dance were inspirational.  The training of the companies was going well and even the new Morna riders were progressing.  Using a weapon and being proficient with it was one thing, but fighting from horseback was another and staying in formation with a company, a whole other skill.  The level of training required for the riders was exceptional and the Misë and Telepta Companies had done it for centuries.

Riding in formation filled the morning, along with obstacles and jumping.  Then came practice with weapons, striking stationary targets with spears, swords and other weapons.  Then the Telepta shot with bows at the gallop and in their caracal circle.  Following this, care for their mounts, weapons and armor.  Morelen was right at home, applying polish to the pieces of her harness, bringing it to a silver gleam but she always had time to mentor Caladiel, their newest member.  While the monk lacked the strength to draw the heaviest bows, she was nimble and fast, a good rider.  She really seemed to enjoy the north and the personal freedom.

Morelen handed her Luinë, her blue laen bow and Caladiel struggled to draw the string, barely getting it past halfway.  “Oh, I can’t, Morelen,” the Sindarin elf said, straining.  “How is it that you’re so strong?”

“Hard training.  So, you keep at it.  You’re getting stronger every week.  Your riding is excellent and you’re improving with the sword and spear. And I’m really happy that we could impart these skills to the people of Gavan.”  She took back the bow and easily drew the string to her ear.  It was a good question though.  She was blessed with physical skills beyond the norm. Odd, since her father was very slender and not a paragon of strength or speed and her mother shied away from physical pursuits.

After a full morning of training, they would wash and relax in the hot springs.  There was a select area that Tintallo would always lead them too. This area of the hot springs had a certain hedonistic atmosphere which Morelen enjoyed.  While most elves were relaxed about it, she had a hunger that she couldn’t explain.  The walls were covered in sensuous but tasteful mosaics along with marble sculptures of elves and men cavorting in the water amid fountains, laughing and playing. The quality of the art was so realistic that they appeared to be moving in the spray that cast rainbows in the light. The team tossed their robes aside and dove in, Caladiel being far less inhibited than when she arrived.  Morelen dipped her head below the water, rinsing her hair and then shaking it out.  She could live in here.

As expected, Tintallo made his play for Caladiel, turning on the charm.  Morelen thought to warn her, but he really wasn’t a bad guy, just full of himself.  The pair whispered to each other for a while and then snuggled together under the roar of cascading water from above where plants and vines grew, making the area feel alive.  Notaldo picked a flower from one of the bushes and floated it to his wife, where she picked it up and put it over one ear.  She stood and struck a seductive pose as spray from the fountains floated around her, casting rainbow colors on her skin.  “I’m sorry I lost the game for us,” she said with true remorse.  “I should have listened to you.”

He swam over, his face right up against her abdomen.  “It was just a game.  We’ll get them next time,” he said with understanding.  “But perhaps you need a lesson,” he added with a wink and wrapped his arms around her rear, pulling her to his face.

She looked up and gasped, holding her hands over her chest.  She really did want a family, something her parents would be proud of. She felt Notaldo working his magic and she scrunched her face in an almost pained expression and glanced over to see Caladiel straddling Tintallo.  She hoped that he would be good to her.  If not, she would remind him.  It was good that Caladiel was away from Lyrin and his friends.  She started to think of something else when he hit the right spot and she trembled, biting her lower lip and letting out a high-pitched moan.

And the blissful months continued in the magical underground kingdom until Urimë at the end of a wonderful summer.  It was easy to forget all of the horrors that came before: the Nirnaeth; the Bragollach; Glaurung.  Music flowed through the halls along with the squeal of happy children.  While Morelen loved hearing this, she endured a feeling of being deprived of something for having a child seemed to be beyond them. She walked the halls to the conservatory past children running with their musical instruments, ready for another class or lesson.  A young boy, holding a flute, bumped into her.  “Oh, I’m sorry, miss!” he said.  He was in such a rush with his friends that he wasn’t looking.

“It’s no problem at all, young man,” she said warmly.  “Just watch where you’re going.  I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“My momma says the same thing,” he answered brightly.  “Thank you,” he finished as he and his friends continued on.

She smiled and waved at them as they looked back.  It was a wonderful moment, but it made her miss Silmani even more.  The young lady, that she saw as a daughter, was into early adolescence, growing more curious and capable every year.  Still, for an elf, it would be another 60 years before she was a full adult.  She took a moment to wonder what Silmani was doing right now.  She hoped that Lysa was giving her the same love and attention that she received in the south.  She imagined the young lady dancing and learning martial arts while riding out to see the Oliphants and probably having a pet parrot by now.  She chuckled inwardly at the idea of Silmani teaching a parrot to speak.

After music practice she wandered the wide caverns and corridors, admiring the art; carvings and mosaics of elven life, stopping at a grand bas relief of Finrod Felagund meeting the humans, playing his harp as they listened and then another of him with the dwarves, hewing out the areas that would become Nargothrond.  She touched the stone of his likeness, sad that such greatness had fallen to such evil.  Then, there was another in a series that depicted Beren and Lúthien in Doriath; the killing of the vampire, Thuringwethil by Huan, the Hound of Valinor; the infiltration of Angband and the recovery of a Silmaril; and the return of Beren and Lúthien to Middle Earth.  Morelen heard that they were living peacefully in Doriath under King Elu Thingol.  She hoped that they were.

As she turned to walk back to her quarters, Túrin and Tintallo approached her, their expressions serious.  “Morelen,” the Mormegil said, “the companies are mustering.  The armies of Morgoth are pressing on the Crossings of Teiglin.  The Men of Brethil under Handir are holding them but they need reinforcements.  Gather your gear and meet us at the bridge.  I’ve ordered the stable masters to prepare our mounts.  King Orodreth will follow on with the infantry.”

The whole sense of peace and tranquility came crashing down as the reality of the Wars of the Jewels reared its ugly head.  Morgoth’s evil and all of his spawn needed to be destroyed for the world to be at peace. She nodded.  “What do we know and what is our plan?”

Tintallo grinned. “We hit them head on as always. The strength of our arms has never let us down and Lord Mormegil will show us the way.  Ride forth, Morelen, Lieutenant of the Telepta and conquer with us,” he declared in a voice of supreme confidence.  It was infectious.  Túrin had never lost a battle as the Lord of Nargothrond’s Armies.

“I’ll meet you at the bridge,” she said, returning the grin.  “Head on.  Let’s do it.”

Notaldo was already waiting for her, his armor and weapons laid out on the bed.  He was in his padded gambeson and arming doublet that went under the armor for comfort and added protection plus hose and chausses over his legs.  She helped him don his armor, which was a two-person task.  As she put the cuisses over his thighs, she let her hand brush along his abdomen along the flap needed to relieve oneself.  “Can we keep trying for a child when we get back?”

He inhaled sharply. “But of course,” he said with a wince.

She giggled as she put the rest of his leg armor on and then placed his padded cloth and mail coif over his head.

“Your turn,” he said slyly as he picked up her under armor garments.  “I doubt that your dancing attire will be useful in battle,” he added, gesturing to the short, pleated skirt and form-fitting top.  She started to remove those, but he stopped her. “Mmm mm, I’m here to help,” he said, undoing the skirt, letting his hand brush her the same way that she teased him.

Her breath shuddered. “We…we have to go,” she said but he shook his head.

“Turnabout is fair play.” He pulled her top off, his hands gliding over her chest.  He put her padded gambeson on and then her doublet.

“Oh, curse you.  I can’t concentrate,” she said with a groan.

He picked up his helmet. “Looks like you’re ready to go,” he said with a wink and her eyes went wide.

“Uh, pants?”

He laughed and then picked up her hose and chausses.  “Oh my, I think you’re perfect like that,” he kidded and she spun around, poking her bare rear at him, which he slapped.  “Fine, fine, let’s get you ready.”  He put the remainder of her armor on, pulling the leather straps tight for ease of movement. He slapped her on the pauldron over her shoulder.  “We’re ready,” he said, handing her the silver helmet with the crest of the House of Fingolfin just beneath the sigil of the House of Finarfin and a bright blue feather at the tip of the helm.  “I think it was much better without the pants, but I would be too distracted.”  He went to the door and held it open.  “We best get to the muster.”

They went into the hall where Líreno kissed Telerien.  Her face was flush and she smiled awkwardly.  It looked like everyone was finding love in this time of bliss.  Líreno looked at his wife seriously, changing the tone.  “You remember what I said about the escape passage.  Should anything go wrong, you take as many people as possible and head to the point on the map that I gave you.  We will join you there and find Gondolin.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” she answered.  “You will win.  You always win.”

He shook his head. “Not always.  I just want you to be prepared.  If we have to, we’ll head south to be with Idhrendiel.  But if anything goes wrong, we will find you.” He then pointed to Notaldo and Morelen. “And you too.  We’ve been over this,” he said, waving his arm towards the main gate.

In the long hall that served as the quarters of the riders another door flung open and Caladiel burst out of Tintallo’s room, giggling as she stepped out.  Both were fully armored and ready.  Morelen felt good about how far she progressed since arriving at Nargothrond, finding a lot of her own way but was she ready to fight.  The Wars of Beleriand were brutal, horrid and unforgiving while war in the south had been mostly small units clashing in stealth and ambush.  And there were no dragons there.  She got a chill thinking about Glaurung.  Caladiel made eye contact with them and cleared her throat.

Morelen touched her on the pauldron over her shoulder.  “Nothing in the south prepares you for the horrific battles in Beleriand.  This will be your first real fight.  Orcs are savage and we may encounter werewolves or balrogs.  Stay close to me or Líreno.  Take no chances, we will lead the way.  Understand?”

She nodded, her expression turning serious.

“Good.  I promised Lyaan that I would look after you and I will.”

Caladiel smiled in appreciation.  The shy, introspective girl was still in there.  Tintallo came out next and was surprised by the gathering in the hall. “Oh!  I’m sure Túrin is waiting for us,” he said, trying to inject a martial demeanor into the group.

“We’re with you,” Notaldo answered.  “Are we sure we want to take the direct approach?” he asked, some doubt tinged in his voice.

“It’s never failed us before, so yes.”

Morelen interjected, “I think we can trust Lord Mormegil.  We’ve gone from strength to strength with him.”

Líreno tilted his head with one eye narrowed.  “That is something that makes me nervous,” he added, his skeptical side showing again. “It’s easy to become complacent when you win all of the time,” he added, jibing about coron mittarion.

“Don’t blame me if you don’t practice as hard as we do,” Tintallo shot back with a wink.

“Ah, point taken. Some of us have families, you know.”

The great gates of Nargothrond were held open by the sentries where beyond lay the massive bridge built on the order of Túrin.  He stood there, resplendent in his armor and the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin, a black and gold barbute helmet with a flared back and the sculpture of a golden dragon at the crest.  Grooms had assembled at the far end of the bridge with the cavalry mounts.  “Come friends,” Túrin called to the assembling riders.  “Let us ride forth and confront the enemy.  Our allies, the Men of Brethil, await our help.  They have been fighting for days now.  We must go with haste.”  They jogged to the assembly field where grooms handed reins to riders, and they mounted up under the sunny summer sky.

Túrin rode over to each company where he gave inspiration to the officers.  “Notaldo, lead the Telepta well and with valor.  I know that you don’t always think the direct approach is best, but we have shown that, once you bloody the nose of an orc, he becomes a coward.  We hit them hard and fast and they will fold and we will minimize losses,” he said, his smile visible through the gaps in his helm.  “Are you with me?”

“We are, Lord Mormegil.”

“Are you with me?” he yelled to all of the riders, his voice fierce and powerful.

“We are with you!” the company called, Morelen loudest of all.  There was a sense of pride and invincibility when she was near Túrin.  His strength, his will, his confidence and his prowess were undeniable.  No elf in Nargothrond could defeat him in any physical contest.  As the troop assembled, King Orodreth emerged in his glittering armor and the captains of the infantry along with a choir of children to sing them off.  It was magnificent, a true image of the soul of elvenkind.  She saw the boy who ran into her and waved at him as they rode north.

At the swift canter Morelen urged Lindarion ahead to catch up to Tintallo.  He looked over as the hooves of three-hundred cavalry thundered towards the Crossings of Teiglin through the land known as Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain.  Green forests of pine trees dotted the plains where Orodreth had placed scouts to guard the approaches to the River Narog, and they waved as the cavalry rode by.  “Don’t you dare hurt Caladiel,” she called to the Lord of the Riders.  “She’s young and innocent.  I’m supposed to look after her.”

He raised his visor and narrowed one eye.  “Well, not that innocent anymore,” he jibed.  “Don’t worry, Morelen.  I do like her.  My hunting days may just be over.  I’m just sorry I didn’t get you first,” he added with a wink.  “But then you’d be addicted to me.”

“Hah, in your dreams, but thank you.  I will hold you to caring for her,” she said and then slowed to rejoin her squadron.  She scanned the riders under her command, doing a silent count in her head and steered Lindarion around them to ensure their armor and weapons were battle ready.  The forty-nine that followed her were battle hardened and had served with her since Hithlum plus Caladiel who had trained extensively as a monk but had never fought in a major battle or against orcs.

“Trust in Lord Mormegil, my friends!  He will see us through.”

The elven horses traveled swiftly, and they neared the Teiglin close to dusk on the following day, the blues of the sky darkening and shifting to red and orange.  It would have been a beautiful summer evening but for the threat of Morgoth’s Armies once again.  Morelen rose up in her stirrups and scanned the approach to the crossings and there was no sign of battle.  Then, she saw the bodies.  “Tintallo! Lord Mormegil,” she called out ahead. “Almost one league ahead, near the river!  I see bodies…orcs and men.”

Túrin turned his horse and trotted over to her.  “I have missed your incredible vision while you were away.  It is like having an eagle fly above us,” he said.  Her heart soared at any compliment from this great general who had brought the realm back from obscurity to greatness.

“Thank you, my lord. I see no signs of battle, just the bodies around the river.”

“Very well…let us investigate and see what transpired,” he said and then had their herald wave the banner of Orodreth.  “Ride to the river but be cautious.  There was a battle but no signs of any live enemy.”  The companies reformed and set out in orderly columns as the Telepta drew their bows.  What could have happened?  How long ago did this occur?

They moved forward cautiously, Telepta screening the advance to prevent an ambush.  As they closed, Morelen could see more clearly, a vast number of dead orcs and a significant number of the Men of Brethil, slain, along with spears, swords and arrows sticking out of the ground.  It was a hard-fought battle.  The Teiglin ran swiftly up to the crossings where an army could more easily ford.  It was there that Handir opposed the crossing of Morgoth’s force…and paid the price.  Corpses of men, orcs and even horses floated down river.  Caladiel gasped at the sight.

Tracks led west from the battle.  An army had succeeded in pushing through.  “We’re too late,” Túrin said as he dismounted and looked at the aftermath. He knelt down at one corpse in fine armor.  “I had feared that Handir would fall before we arrived.  This was yesterday.  There was nothing we could have done,” he added as he rolled the body over to see a broken arrow shaft in his eye.  Handir’s sword was bloody and covered in gore.  “He fought to the end and made the enemy pay.  “Misë and Morna, let us bury the dead of our allies.  Telepta, I need you to scout west and find the enemy.  Shadow them and we will pincer them between us and King Orodreth’s infantry force.  We’ll pin and crush them.”  He brought out a map as the officers knelt around him.  “It looks like they’re crossing Talath Dirnen going west.  We herd them…get them to cross the Narog where they’ll be caught between the Narog and the Ginglith with nowhere to retreat. Then, we destroy them here,” he said, drawing a circle on the map.  “…here at Tumhalad.”

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

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47)  Tumhalad – Part 1 - Year of the Sun 495 Yavannië (September)

Morelen

It took a few days, but Telepta Company sighted the massive army of orcs marching west towards the Narog, likely searching for Nargothrond.  They had to stop it at all costs before it completed its task.  Morelen could see the dust trails ahead on the plains of Talath Dirnen and then the cruel spears of the orcs.  Messengers rode back to Lord Mormegil to inform him of the presence of the enemy.  As ordered, they shadowed the orcs, a larger force than they had seen in a while.  A stream of messengers came in from Orodreth that the infantry force of Nargothrond was on the march along with supplies.

“This seems too perfect,” Líreno said, pointing to Morgoth’s Army that seemed to just crawl along. They had picked off a number of stragglers and even captured some orcs for information.  “It’s like the prisoners are just telling us what we want to hear; yes, they’re looking for Nargothrond, yes, they think it’s west, yes, they’re disorganized and demoralized.  It just feels too convenient.”

Morelen watched the enemy moving towards the Narog in a ragged horde.  She was a little annoyed with Líreno’s constant second guessing of Lord Mormegil.  She knew that was just his personality, but the enemy army was vulnerable and almost right where they wanted it.  “I’m sure that Túrin has already accounted for that and has the best course laid out for us.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he quipped.  “I just have a bad feeling.”

“You always have a bad feeling,” she answered, trying to make light of the situation.  She pushed her annoyance aside.  “I know you’re just looking at all of the information. That’s who you are.  But they’re ripe for a determined attack by us.  I just want to get this over with, you know, and get back to our lives.”

“So do I, Morelen, so do I. I just don’t want us to be caught by surprise.  I’ve been fighting since I got to Middle Earth and we have had too many bad surprises. I would love for us to live in peace, just being vigilant but Morgoth wants only destruction.  You know, Notaldo and I knew him…well, when he was Melkor.”

“Wait, what?  You knew him?”

He nodded.  “Most of us did.  He was brilliant, powerful, full of wonderful ideas.  He was released from imprisonment in the Halls of Mandos, repentant…supposedly,” he said with a cynical laugh.  “You see, interaction with the Valar was an almost daily thing. They were our mentors, teachers and guides.  We rode with Oromë.  We watched Vairë weave.  We pledged our loyalty to such as Finwë, the High King, and were part of the drama between Fëanor and Fingolfin.  These names may just be legend to you but they’re as real as you and I.”

She wondered about this. Far into the future would she and people like Fingon and Fingolfin just be legends?  It almost seemed as if the two High Kings were already that.  She imagined some distant time where bards would be amazed at names like Morelen, Notaldo and Líreno.  “All I know of Morgoth is how hideous he was when Fingolfin fought him.  I cannot forget that.  It was as if he were rage personified.  I know that he was not always like that, right?”

“No…but he was always a narcissist, full of himself.  I didn’t like that at all,” he said, making an expression of distaste, one side of his lip curled up.  “He always knew better than Manwë.  Manwë was asleep at the helm, he’d say.  If he were the Lord of the Valar, it would be so much better and nothing bad would ever happen.  Anything that went wrong was Manwë’s fault.  Anything that went well was his doing and he had the answer to all problems. Everything had to be done his way, or he wanted to destroy it.  We see that now.”

“I wonder how the Court of Ardor became enamored of him.  He repulses me.  I am still ashamed that I did not fight to save Fingolfin.”  She would never follow the spirit of rage that she saw slay the High King.

“Morelen…you would have just been killed too or worse.  You have to understand that he was charming.  To many of the Eldar, just to bask in the glow of his power and brilliance was a gift,” he said with a faraway look.  “But you know me, I’m skeptical about everything.  I never fully bought into his allure, but I understand why others did.”

“A skeptic, huh?  I would never believe that,” she said in playful sarcasm.  It made sense though.  As a Vala, Morgoth wielded vast powers and even their form was malleable, being spirits originally, taking shape to interact with the Children of Illuvatar. She wondered about Arien and Tilion, the Maia who guided the sun and moon.  While no one in Middle Earth knew for sure, it was said that they surrendered their form in the vessels, only to return to their “bodies” between journeys. There was even legend that Melkor desired Arien for a wife and was refused.  In his rage, he sought to ravish her but was scorched by her fire and retreated.  It was even said that Tilion loved her and often pursued her in his erratic flight. “I never would have guessed that you’re a skeptic.”

“Hah,” he chortled. “You’re actually kind of humorous and smarter than you look.”

She snickered back. “It’s a gift.  Well, my father spoke of the Court of Ardor and how their leader, Ardana, fell for his manipulations.  He says that she is a true believer in his right to rule the world and destroy the sun and moon. She’s a powerful astrologer, a former student of Varda’s, able to harness the energy of the stars.  My mother has seen Ardana incinerate others with that magic.”

“That is frightening. Let’s hope we never face her in battle.”

“I second that,” she said. “But I fear that the ritual must be stopped and it will be my duty to join my parents in fighting it.”

He pulled his chin back and made a face.  “Face Ardana or allow the sun and moon to be destroyed.  Tough choice.  Well, count me in to fight her…assuming we’re still around.”

“My father thinks that there’s a boy who is the catalyst to the ritual and can be saved.  If so, we can stop the ritual altogether.”

“Really?” Líreno asked. “That seems to be the easier way. I like easier.”

Notaldo approached them. “I need one of you to send a message back to King Orodreth.  You’ll have time to stop at Nargothrond if you want.  The enemy is moving very slowly.  We’ll continue to shadow them until Lord Mormegil rejoins us.”

Morelen pointed at Líreno. “Why don’t you go?  You’ll have a chance to see Telerien.  And grab us some of Throim’s ale while you’re at it.”  It was almost as if the impending battle was nothing more than an inconvenience.  Líreno rode off with a three of the troopers as they decided to make camp.  Riders removed saddle bags for equipment and tents were set up.  Notaldo sent out pickets and set up sentries to ensure that they were not surprised.  As always, he and Morelen stood the first watch so troopers could get food and rest.

“I don’t know if they can see us yet, but I doubt it as we’d be shielded behind their dust cloud,” Notaldo said, gesturing towards the enemy.  “Still, there’s no way we’re going to be surprised while we’re the tip of the spear.”  He took pride in his work and was always diligent and thorough.  Very little was left to chance for him.  His seriousness was both endearing and dismaying for Morelen though.  She missed the playful trooper that he had been before.  It seemed that responsibility did that.

“Did you need a scouting run?” she asked, merely wanting to do something.  “We could grab more prisoners.”

He thought for a moment and then nodded.  “Yes, that’s never a bad thing to gather more information.  I’ll put the sergeants in charge here,” he said and then relayed orders to the men below them.  They set off at a gallop across Talath Dirnen, Lindarion speeding ahead, lighter and faster than Notaldo’s horse.  In spite of the situation, it was almost exhilarating.  It had been a while since they were truly alone.  She inhaled deeply of the fresh air as stars lit the heavens brightly in a moonless night.

“So, this is what Ardana wants,” she said as they slowed to a trot.

“Huh?  You mean the Astrologer of the Court?”

She turned and smiled, raising her visor.  “Yes. Sorry, Líreno and I were just speaking about her.  She’s a true believer in Morgoth’s…vision.”

“Hmmm, he told you that we knew him…Melkor that is.  That was one time where Líreno’s skepticism paid off.  I’ll admit that I was tempted.  He pulled me back.”

Morelen was horrified for a moment.  “Are you serious?  I did not know that.  So, how do you mean?”

“Melkor presented an alluring vision…purely an illusion, of course, but we didn’t know that at the time. He offered simple solutions to complex problems, making sure to lay blame for any troubles on Manwë.  He had a way of knowing how to reach you…of knowing what to say and tapping into your grievances.  The Valar are the real problem, he would say.  They’re going to give away your birthright to the humans. Look at how you’re being held back…oppressed.  He was going to change the world for us.  I almost fell for it.”

“Well, almost is better than did.  I would hate to fight you in the south, you know.”

He snickered and then nodded as he scanned around.  “Definitely. The thing was that Melkor was so…over the top it was unbelievable if you thought it through.  Everything good was him.  Everything bad was Manwë.  He was the chosen one.  He was the only one who could fix it.  He would fly into a rage any time he didn’t get his way.  Once Líreno showed me who he really was, I never saw him the same. He’s just a narcissistic bully…a very powerful one, unfortunately.  Sometimes it helps me to imagine him as a toddler…just for my peace of mind.”

The ride in the clear night was enjoyable and it cleared her head.  Oftentimes, Notaldo was tight with his feelings, but this seemed to open him up.  Like Líreno, they used humor to shine over emotions.  But she had to appreciate this quip.  “Toddler Morgoth!” she said with a laugh.  “I’m going to keep that image.  I wish I could forget the horror of his visage when he fought Fingolfin. That is forever emblazoned in my mind.” She sighed.  “He was unhinged rage personified.  I was telling Líreno that, if I told our stories far into the future, would anyone believe me?  Would we just be legends to shorter lived races like men?” she asked.  “Oh, Notaldo and Morelen,” she said in a mock, singsong voice, “they were just fairy tales.”

He reached out his hand, and she took it as they rode along in perfect synch.  “Well, you’re my fairy tale.  I was just another trooper when I met you and now look at us.  I would never have dreamed…,” he said.  Then, he pointed off in the distance.  “Look, a small group of orcs.  I think we’ve found our prey.”

She trained her eyes on them, maybe a dozen or so.  No match for two of the Noldor.  She drew her bow and took two arrows from her quiver as he did the same.  They could take down four before the enemy even knew that they were there.  He signaled her to ride in the opposite direction, and they would pincer the orcs from two sides. If anything went wrong, they were to fall back to the north, away from the camp and Nargothrond and then regroup. They had been at this a long time.

Morelen raised her gloved hand and focused her energy, creating an illusion that they were just deer. Notaldo put his hand out in a knife edge and Morelen tapped her heels on Lindarion, accelerating into a gallop. As an elf, she could see as well at night as she could in the day.  From what she knew, orcs were close but not nearly as good and her eyesight was exceptional, even for an elf.  At a range beyond that of orc bows she nocked her first arrow with the second ready to go. She released her thumb ring and the shaft darted into the neck of one orc sentry, the tip protruding out the back. Another fell right next to him, a victim of Notaldo’s shooting.  She nocked the spare arrow and let fly at one that had turned to face her husband, and the arrow went clean through the base of his neck, continuing out his throat.

The orcs were scrambling for weapons and turning in all directions, unable to see who was attacking them.  This was more sport than battle, but they could not let their guards down.  She changed directions to spoil their aim and let fly another arrow, this one piercing the eye of an orc and it pitched over backwards.  Orc arrows were flying randomly now, landing impotently in the grass as she turned straight at them, drawing her sword, Melima.  Lindarion surged forward and an orc’s eyes widened as she thrust the tip into his face, knocking another over as she rode by.  Notaldo crossed through them next, lopping a head off.  He stopped, wheeled his horse and brought his sword down on another’s shoulder, cleaving it to the breastbone.

Morelen spun about for another charge, but the two remaining orcs threw down their weapons. “Get on the ground now!” she ordered and they threw themselves down.  Notaldo covered her while she tied them up and they threw one on the back of each of their horses and headed north to throw off any tracking.  Lindarion did not like that and stomped her hoof but settled down as Morelen stroked her nose, feeding her a sugar cube.  The orcs growled and grumbled.

“You will get yours soon, she elf,” the orc snarled at her as he bounded on the back of the horse.  

She sighed and decided to indulge him.  After all, she did not want to talk to Notaldo in the presence of prisoners or they could glean something important, something like their relationship, which could be used against them.  “What will I get, he orc?”  Part of her wanted him to shut up but part of her was curious.  She had a conversation with her mother about orcs and Yavëkamba believed that they could be redeemed and it was a powerful, evil leader that made them this way.  She wasn’t sure that she believed that but knew that their origins were originally as elves and perhaps men.

“When our lord conquers you, you will see.  You will be snaga for the orcs, slaving in the mines of Angband or, better…breeding stock for stronger orcs so we can enslave you all.  You will beg our lord for death,” he growled at her, struggling to get free.

“If that happens, I’m sure I will.  But why do you even want that?  Why are you out here?  Why does Morgoth want to destroy us?  If he left us alone, we’d leave you alone.”

He snorted indignantly. “Leave us alone?  You slaughter us, curse the great name of our lord and attack our home!” he shouted.  “We will destroy your kingdom before you can destroy us.”

She slowed Lindarion and looked back, incredulous.  “What? You…you actually believe that?  We fight you because you invade us and attack our homes.  You just said that you will enslave me and use me as breeding stock.  How are we the ones attacking you?”

“You came with the bright one…the one you called Fëanor.  You attacked us in the beginning!”

“Well, I wasn’t there,” she said, pushing Lindarion faster again as they crossed a stream to hide their path and turned southwest towards the camp, “and we can go back and forth like this, but Morgoth is lying to you.  Everything that comes from him is a lie.  He is corrupt…a deceiver.  All he wants is power and for you to worship him.  He wants to destroy us because we won’t bow to him.”  How was this orc so delusional?  Is this what they believed or was he just an anomaly?  Something in her wanted to get through to him.

“Arrrrr, you lie, elf. It is only our lord who tells the truth! You should bow to his might and power. He might spare you…give you a place like he did those other elves.”

This was like a lightning bolt to her and her eyes widened.  “What other elves?  Tell me!” She was tempted to beat the truth out of him, but she would be no better than the minions of Morgoth herself.  She would use subtler methods.  “Umm, perhaps I might take you up on that,” she continued, her voice softening.  “These elves…they live under the protection of your lord?”

“Yes, she elf…they do and they prosper in the south.  When the world is under our lord’s protection, you would be honored as they are,” he said, seeming to calm as he tried to persuade her.

“That’s intriguing.  I’m curious…where did these elves come from?”

“They came from that land to the west,” he said as if teaching her.  “The foul one, Manwë, defiled the land and these elves sought the protection of our lord in Angband.”

As difficult as it was, she did her best to sound sympathetic towards him.  “Oh, that’s terrible.  Sounds like they did the right thing.  Tell me more about them.”

“Heh…you are more wise than you appear,” he said approvingly.  “Heh, our lord gave them the south so that they can bring the world back to night so that we can live without the pain of the light.”

“You mean the ritual, right?  Where they destroy the sun and moon?”

“Yes, yes!  She elf knows!  You are not as dumb as you look.  Our lord even gave the lady astrologer a child…two children for the ritual. But one died.  The boy will power the ceremony and bring the lights down to save the world,” he said, positively excited.  “We could then live in peace, you and I, under the loving, powerful hand of Morgoth.”

Children?  She remembered speaking to Prince Fingon about the possibility that the Valar could father or bear children.  “You mean Ardana?  She bore…two children?  One died?” This was something that she did not know.  The spawn of Morgoth would surely be evil monsters to be destroyed.  Thankfully, one was already dead.

“Heh, yes…yes, the girl did not live past birth.  The boy will be the vessel for the ritual, yes.”

“This sounds fascinating. I would hear more later.  What is your name?”

“I am Gorka.  I was saved by an elf, years ago and I do not hate you, but you defy our lord and seek his destruction.  We must stop you.  Heh, if you would just listen to him, you would see.  You elves are deranged but you can be saved too.”

“You were saved by an elf?” she asked, a strange feeling in her gut.  “Who was it?  Describe them.”

“One of you elves shot me with an arrow during the battle,” he began.  “Our leaders were also elves, one was the son of Great Lord Morgoth.  Afterwards, an elf with bright eyes healed me.  She wore blue and had dark hair like you. She was…kind, with a soft voice. Our leader was hurt too.  He was shot by a she elf like you too.  The healer put me to sleep before I saw what happened, but I heard that she healed him.”

Morelen tilted her head back as if struck.  She realized that it was her mother, Yavëkamba, who had healed him and she was the one who put the arrow in the elf.  This was during the invasion of Hithlum, hundreds of years ago, her first battle. She envisioned the elf, who asked her why she fought against them, thinking that he was on the side of good and she, the evil one.  She suddenly felt glad that she did not kill this orc and felt the need to try and let him see the truth.  And that elf…he was the son of Morgoth.  She should have killed him then and there.  She would not make the same mistake again.  Still, the elf looked…normal, not the abomination that she thought he’d be as the spawn of Morgoth.  And what if that girl had lived?  What would she be like?  It was better that she had died, whoever that infant was.

They arrived back at the camp where troopers took the orcs to a guard tent and secured them there.  “Don’t hurt them,” she ordered.  “I wish to question them more later.”  She went to the small cantina, grabbed some bread, meat and cheese and went to the tent where they were being held.  The orcs were chained to a post, and she sat down in front of them and held out the platter of food.  Perhaps some empathy might help.  “Here, you may be hungry.  I don’t know what orcs eat but I brought something.”

Gorka took some and passed the platter to his compatriot.  “You are kind, like the healer elf,” he said, still eyeing her suspiciously, but taking a bite and then gobbling the food down.

“As long as you do not try to hurt us or escape, we will not hurt you.  You have my word.  I am one of the leaders here.  My name is Morelen.”

He looked at her closely, narrowing his eyes and sniffing.  “The orcs…we do not have female leaders.  They are only to produce the next generation of soldiers.  That is their purpose.  The ones who went south…the elves, many of their women lead.  I was…I was one of the first…first of the orcs.  I don’t remember now.”

She narrowed her eyes. Was he one of the elves who was captured by Morgoth, enslaved and tortured?  Was he once an elf?  His speech and manner were not as debased as other orcs that she fought.  He looked different too, not as wretched and dirty. If she looked hard enough, she would see some resemblance to his elven past.  “Do you remember anything from that time?  And tell me more about the elves, especially the son of Morgoth.”

He looked up.  “I…I remember stars…water.”

“Lake Cuiviénen,” she said, astonished.  He had to be ancient.

“I don’t know that name, but it sounds familiar,” he said, thinking.  “Then there was just pain, screaming, begging.  That is all.  The elves that you want to know about are called the Court of Ardor.  They left Angband long ago and a balrog went with them.  The son…he has black hair, is tall and strong, a bright elf like you.  He will be the center of the ritual, but I know nothing else.”

She felt sorry for him and pushed her mind into his to allay her suspicions of deception. “Hmmm, I see that you are true. Not what I expected, Gorka.  You are reasonable.  Thank you.  I will bring you more food and then let you rest.  I am…sorry that we had to fight.  I wish it were otherwise.  Please tell me where you look for our kingdom.  Is this your whole force?” she asked, hoping for information useful to their army.

“You are kind, Morelen, but I will not betray my people.”  He then sighed.  “I will tell you that we have a good idea where Nargothrond is.  You may wish to get your people to safety.”

This chilled her and she inhaled sharply but she was surprised that he told her that.  She knew that she had the power to rip the rest of the information from him, physically or mentally, but she stopped herself.  “I…I will do that,” she said and left, anxious to report her findings.

Morelen then went to the small command tent for the company and was surprised to see Túrin and Tintallo there with the officers of Misë and Morna.  “Welcome, Lord Mormegil,” she said, getting their attention.  “I was able glean information from the prisoners that the captain and I captured,” she said and reported what she was told.  “I think we need to prepare to evacuate Nargothrond,” she added forcefully.

Túrin waved her off. “Nonsense.  We will destroy this army as we have with all of the others.  We won’t be responsible for spreading panic. You did well so far, but this now needs a man’s touch,” he said, staring her down.  “Let me question the prisoners.  I will get what we need.”

She felt stung by his words.  “Please Lord Mormegil, I questioned them thoroughly.  That is all that they know.  I am with you in this fight,” she said, trying to redeem herself while protecting Gorka.  She wasn’t sure why.  He was just an orc after all.  “Let me interrogate him more,” she said, using a stronger word to convince him.

He nodded slowly.  “Then I suggest that you come back with more or I will have to do it myself.”

She hurried back to the guard tent and knelt.  “Gorka, Lord Mormegil is here.  I need to bring him something more or he will talk to you himself.  I…I don’t want to see you hurt,” she said, not fully knowing why she cared.

He blew out a breath, struggling over what to say.  “Very well, Morelen, the elf.  I will tell you that another army lies in wait.  We were to lure you out.  Glaurung leads them.”

Her blood ran cold and her mouth hung open for a moment.  “Glaurung? Where is he?  Where is this army?”

He sighed again. “They are hidden in the Woods of Núath. You will be surrounded.  That is all that I have.”

She pursed her lips. This was a huge development.  “I see.  Thank you.  I would not see you harmed while you are here.  I don’t know why I care, but I do.”  He was definitely not like other orcs, thoughtful…intelligent.  But could he be trusted?

He nodded, clearly feeling torn.  She wondered if there were other orcs were like this or was he unique or rare. Still, she could not put her full faith in him.  She went back to the command tent to reveal her information.  “Glaurung awaits in the Woods of Núath with another army,” he said and Notaldo gasped along with many others.

“All the more reason for us to attack now!” Túrin barked.  “This changes nothing.  We strike the army on the field and scatter them before Glaurung can deploy.  We defeat them in detail.”

She was stunned. This seemed to be a dire development that would best be met with caution.  “My lord?”

A grin spread across his face.  “King Orodreth is near with the full might of Nargothrond.  Our opportunity is ripe to destroy two armies and the dragon.  We’re holding nothing back,” he said clasping her shoulder.  “You’re with me, right?”

“Of course I am, my lord. I am with you,” she said in a voice full of confidence that she did not entirely feel.  But she trusted him and he had never failed.  This would be no different.

Scouts were returning from reconnaissance and hitched their mounts outside of the command tent.  They rushed in and bowed to Lord Mormegil and Tintallo, saluting Notaldo.  “Sirs…Morgoth’s Army is on the march again and fording the Narog.”

Túrin made a loud clap. “This is it.  This is the time to attack the first army as they are fording the river.  Tintallo, prepare the riders.  Have messengers sent to the King to coordinate.  We hit them before noon!” he declared with infectious excitement.

Tintallo pounded his chest in a salute, a huge smile on his face.  “My lord,” he said and rushed outside and began barking orders.  There was a flurry of activity outside with the pounding of hooves heading out.

Lord Mormegil put his hand on Notaldo and Morelen.  “This is it, my friends.  I trust your information, Morelen, but it does not matter.  We crush the first army and then catch the second on the march.  All we need is a swift horse, a strong sword and a straight ride to glory.”

As the cavalry assembled, Morelen could see the enemy army had put about a third of their force across the river.  Túrin was right.  This was a golden opportunity…if there wasn’t a second army lurking nearby with a dragon. Notaldo called for scouts to head towards the Woods of Núath.  “Sergeant! Take a group and scout the edge of the woods.  Do not engage.  I want to know if anything is hiding there.  Be careful.  I don’t want any losses on this.  You’ll be needed in the battle.  Go!”  A group of ten tore off into the overcast morning.  One trooper was tasked with guarding the orcs.

The tension was rising as the camp was taken down and packed up and Morelen gritted her teeth. Her sergeants, Sanamo and Ringion, sounded off and did a head count.  “Captain Notaldo, my section is all present and accounted for,” she called out. “Lieutenant Líreno should be returning soon, and his section is all present and accounted for except the ten scouts.  We stand ready to ride.”

Túrin was in his saddle at the head of the Misë, lances at the ready.  “Telepta, take the right flank on the north and screen the advance! Misë and Morna, on my command, form wedge and charge,” he said, pointing south.  “The King’s force nears.  He will join us in the battle.  Have heart, my friends!  The end of Angband nears.”

They moved out at a trot, an easy pace to keep the horses fresh since the fording of the Narog was a slow process for the orcs.  The banners of Orodreth could be seen marching north along the Narog, glittering spears raised and waving like rows of wheat as the soldiers trod forward. They would catch half the enemy force on the near side of the river.  Excitement was building.  There was a real chance of a big win here.

Túrin pointed his sword, Gurthang, at Notaldo and nodded.  “Hit them, Telepta!  My father’s face shines down upon us!” he called as the enemy began to turn, surprise on their faces but brandishing cruel polearms, jagged and notched.

The company drew bows and accelerated to the right.  Bowstrings were drawn and released and clouds of arrows shot into the orcs where dozens fell. Another volley arced into them and more collapsed, shafts sticking out of throats, chests and eyes.  Ragged groups of orcs surged forward to attack, firing weak bows and throwing javelins and spears which all fell far short.  Morna crashed into them, lances forward, skewering swaths of the enemy just as Misë charged into the main body on this side of the Narog.  Gurthang rose and fell, slicing and cutting.  The force on the opposite side tried to cross back but Telepta continued to pour arrows into this group and arrow-filled bodies floated down the river as it turned dark with orc blood.

In the face of the cavalry onslaught, orcs began to flee, throwing themselves into the river, casting weapons away.  “Spare none!” Lord Mormegil ordered.  “Drive them into the water!  Let them drown!”

Telepta wheeled, sheathing bows and drawing swords and plunged into the left flank of the enemy, horses crashing into orcs, steel clashing, screaming, horses rearing and blood flowing. Morelen drove the tip of her sword into one’s eye as Lindarion kicked another into the river.  She blocked a glaive coming at her head and then cut the shaft of the weapon in two, wheeling her horse to knock her attacker over and trample him.  Three orcs had dismounted one of her riders and were ready to finish him off when she slammed into one while slicing the neck of another.  The last orc looked up just in time for the tip of her sword to drive into his mouth.

“Get up!  Get back on your horse and head to the rally point!” she commanded the rider so he could fall back and clear his head.  Orc resistance was faltering and Túrin was driving a portion of them into the river, some drowning and being carried away by the water.  Others tried to turn and fight but the muddy bottom made moving difficult and spears and arrows cut them down.  It was becoming a rout.  Then, Orodreth’s infantry arrived to complete the destruction.  The enemy on the opposite bank decided it wasn’t worth it to save their brethren and retreated onto the Plains of Tumhalad.

Hundreds of orc bodies lay on the banks with hundreds more floating down the river with about a dozen riders slain on the field.  Not a bad trade in Túrin’s book.  Morelen blew out a sigh of relief.  Lord Mormegil was right and all of her fears were unfounded.  She raised her visor and smiled at Notaldo, who was riding up. “This went better than I thought,” she said.  “I was wrong to question Túrin.”

“No, we need to question our leaders.  Not questioning is what Morgoth wants.  He would fly into a rage if someone even insinuated that he wasn’t right or all knowing. That’s not us.  Keep questioning…even me.”  He was serious.

She nodded and then thought that she needed to regroup her section.  “Rally on me!  Sergeants, I need a head count!”  In under a minute of shouting, Sanamo and Ringion, rode back to her.

“Lieutenant, no riders fell.  Two have slight wounds and one horse was killed,” Ringion said.  This was good news.  She looked over to see Caladiel reloading her quivers and breathed a sigh of relief. She was going to keep that woman safe. They made eye contact and the younger woman nodded with a smile.

The orc army retreated from the Narog, deeper onto the Plains of Tumhalad, allowing Orodreth’s force to ford the river in pursuit.  Thousands of elven soldiers, arrayed for battle, held spears high and proud. Silver helmets glittered under the dim sun that shone through clouds.  Crows and vultures circled overhead, awaiting a feast when the army moved on.  They made sure to bury their fallen properly, leaving the orcs for the birds.  Morelen knew that she shouldn’t feel this way, but she felt remorse at leaving them for the carrion feeders.  They were just orcs, the sworn enemy of her people who would slaughter them all for sport.  She had bigger things to worry about.

The army had completed its crossing uncontested by late afternoon and began to set camp.  They were within striking range of the enemy and Telepta had been scouting all day to screen the advance and prevent any ambushes. They fought a smattering of skirmishes against stragglers but this time there were no prisoners in fights to the death; the enemy’s resolve was stiffening.  The cavalry returned to report their findings to Túrin and Orodreth where a sense of excitement was brewing.  Maps on the wall of the command tent showed the enemy with their backs now to the river.  They would push them into the Narog or the Ginglith tomorrow.  There would be no escape for Morgoth’s forces.

“We will then turn and defeat the army in the Woods of Núath the following day,” Túrin declared as Orodreth watched on.  “Glaurung may be with them, but I have Gurthang,” he added, drawing his black sword and holding it up to cheers.  “Have heart, everyone!  Once we defeat this host there will be no stopping us.  We will call upon Turgon to join with Nargothrond and drive the enemy back to the gates of Angband!”

If this could happen it would change the whole nature of the war back in their favor.  It had been mostly disaster and grief for decades now. Morelen wanted nothing more than to see Morgoth suffer for all of the suffering that he had caused.  She wondered how those who followed the Vala could be so deceived and delusional.  Any objective viewer could see how evil he was.  What did he promise the Court?  How did they fall into such a…such a cult.  Cult?  That was the only way she could describe it.  The whole reason behind the Court bothered her.  It was nothing but destruction and chaos and it made no sense to her.  Could they even be reasoned with?  Her father seemed to think so and her mother was proof of that.

Túrin laid out the plan of attack for tomorrow, pointing to the map on the wall of the tent.  Telepta would screen the advance as always, picking off enemy leaders and breaking up formations with arrows for the general assault. “The infantry will attack under the cover of the archers with cavalry protecting the flanks.  Once the enemy begins to break, the riders will lead the reserve cavalry in to finish them and drive them into the river.”

Notaldo raised his hand. “My lord, what about the army in Núath? Do you want me to keep our watch on them?”

Lord Mormegil shook his head.  “No, my captain.  Recall all of your scouts to the north.  We need everyone on this attack.  We will defeat them quickly and then swiftly turn north to defeat that army.  Fear not.  I will handle Glaurung.”

Notaldo paused for a moment before tapping Morelen.  “Recall the scouts,” he told her loudly with a short shake of his head.  “I’ll take responsibility,” he then whispered into her ear, and she knew what he meant.

She left the tent and went to her sergeants.  “Leave the scouts in place near Núath.  Just pretend to recall them,” she said, nodding.  She felt terrible for defying Lord Mormegil but she trusted her husband.

“There are ten scouts still deployed, Morelen,” Sanamo told her.

“Good.  Leave them there for now on my orders.”  She looked over to the company tents.  “I see the stables are set up well.  How are the riders?  Are they ready?”  After years of feeling like she was not fit to lead she was growing into the role.  She understood what it took to train and field cavalry now with so much work going into the care and feeding of the horses. Your life depended on your mount and they all had to be in top form for the battle.

“We are ready for tomorrow,” Ringion added confidently.  “Lord Mormegil has lead us to victory after victory.  We are sure that this will be no different.”

She nodded, her confidence not entirely complete.  “Just remember that Glaurung is out there,” she said.  “Be prepared for anything.”

“We will be, Morelen,” Sanamo said.  “You can count on it.”

While she felt immense pride in her people, she forced a smile, a growing sense of nerves in her gut. “You get some rest now.  The captain and I will take the first watch,” she told them and they gave her a sharp salute before departing.  Discipline and morale had always been high among the riders since before she joined.  Fingon had forged an elite force to be feared.

She wondered how their scouts were faring.  Was Glaurung actually in the woods?  The very thought gave her chills, and she remembered the maw of the dragon open with fangs the size of swords and Ruscano’s bloody arms flying by her face.  Could she face him again and not flee like she did before? She knew that she was a coward deep down who only fought when her friends were behind her.  Well, she had a lot of friends behind her now.  She squeezed her stomach to find courage. Was this all just a show for her father? She always wanted to make him proud. She knew that her fears were irrelevant; she had to fight.  Morgoth would not stop until the elves were dead or enslaved for his pleasure.

Notaldo walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, his armor clinking against hers. “You were thinking about the dragon. I could tell,” he said, burying his face into her hair.

“Hrmph.  No, I wasn’t,” she lied and then groaned. “Well, yes I was.  I don’t know if I can face him again.  He was terrifying.”

“He is that,” Notaldo said, understanding.  “I just pray to the Valar that Lord Mormegil is right, and we defeat this force quickly. I want to advocate that we fall back after and take the win.”

“What about the bridge over the Narog?  It’s big enough for Glaurung to cross,” she said with a hint of panic.  She had a vision of the dragon on the great bridge, blasting down the gates.

“We just have to trust that this will all work,” he answered.  “You think too much, you know that, don’t you?”

She turned her head to look at him.  “Oh, look who’s talking, Captain Notaldo, who is up every night with duty schedules and scouting routes.”

He reached down and raised the armored plate over her groin and loosened the ties that held the flap on her pants to relieve herself, letting it fall open.  “I’ll give you something else to think about for a little,” he said, moving his fingers around.

Morelen’s breath caught in her throat and she winced in pleasure.  “Oh, captain, we need to…oh we need to…nevermind,” she said as she pushed the back of her head into his neck.  “You will…will need me to return…uhh…the favor when our…our watch ends,” she continued, her breathing quickening as he played.  She tried to reach down but he grasped her arms and held them behind her.  She felt helpless but it was so exciting and she gasped as he nibbled on her neck.  This was something so spontaneous and unlike the regimented captain and she wished that the world would just fade away and that Morgoth would just have been a bad dream.

He began nibbling on her ear and his pace quickened and it was as if arcs of electricity shot up through her body and she bucked against his hand and her legs wobbled, nearly unable to keep standing.  He reached down and caught her by the waist.  “I think you liked that,” he whispered in her ear and she nodded, unable to speak.  He then retied the flap on her pants, making sure to linger.

She turned and kissed him. “You are in for it later, captain,” she said with a wink, her breathing still shallow and rapid, her skin tingling under her armor.  “I’m ready to get out of this metal skin though.”

He pointed back out onto the plains.  “Hey, you’re supposed to pay attention,” he joked.  “The enemy is out there, not down there,” he said, pointing to her midsection. “I think you were distracted,” he added as she slapped his shoulder.  They looked up to the stars and laughed.  The watch was quiet and afterwards they were able to sneak off to the river to bathe and clean their gear.  And she did pay him back.

Morning came all too quickly as horns sounded the muster.  They roused, downing cups of strong tea with a platter of fruit for breakfast. They quickly donned their clothes and armor and headed out to see riders scrambling out of tents as the sergeants pushed men into formation.  Líreno had not yet returned, which was something concerning.  Plus, their ten scouts were still near the woods to the north. Notaldo mounted up, followed by the company.  The lancers held their weapons high and proud as did the infantry.  The enemy had not moved last night, something that Morelen found strange.

“Why are they just sitting there?” she asked Notaldo.  “After the thrashing that we gave them, you would think that they would move north towards their other force.”

He blew out a sigh. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. It makes no sense to me.  And you noticed that we’re still missing people.” He composed himself and then grinned at her.  “And you did get me back last night…several times.”

She grinned back and was about to say something when the horns sounded.  Túrin rose up in his saddle, holding Gurthang up above his head. “My friends!  Today, we conquer on the Plains of Tumhalad!  Go forth to victory!”  The horns sounded again and the army began to move towards the enemy. Thrill, excitement and even dread filled the ranks as a drum beat out a march.

As they closed the distance to the enemy, hoofbeats sounded to the north and Líreno led the ten scouts at them at a full gallop.  His face was full of urgency.  “The northern army is on the march, led by Glaurung.  It’s massive and closing quickly!  We need to fall back!”

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48)  Tumhalad – Part 2 - Year of the Sun 495 Yavannië (September)

Morelen

His eyes huge with urgency, Líreno pointed north where another angry dust cloud floated up from the plains.  “The enemy from the woods will be here shortly!” he called and Morelen could see a wall of orcs, wolves and trolls being herded by balrogs and led by Glaurung, massive and bloated, twice the size that she remembered.  “We will be surrounded!  We must fall back,” he said, stabbing his hand towards the Narog.

Notaldo sounded his horn to get the attention of Túrin and King Orodreth.  The situation had changed far more rapidly than they had anticipated. The King and Lord Mormegil turned and stood up in their stirrups as Notaldo waved frantically.  He jammed his finger at Morelen.  “Get over there and warn them!  Tell them we should recross the river and defend there!  We could hold them on the far side.  Líreno, take command of your squadron and prepare to fall back,” he called, his face now etched with concern.  The new force could hit them in about twenty minutes at most.  Morelen gasped and then pushed her heels into Lindarion and sped off to the infantry at a full gallop.

“My King!  Lord Mormegil!” she shouted as she neared the great formation of spears, getting their attention.  “The northern force with Glaurung has moved to hit our flank. My captain recommends falling back across the river to defend,” she told them urgently.  “I could see them moving at great speed across the plains towards us. We have twenty minutes at most,” she advised urgently.  “If we fall back now, we can delay them enough to cross the Narog.  The riders can hold them there while the King withdraws.” She desperately hoped that they would heed her words.

King Orodreth looked at Túrin for a decision, his face full of concern and even fear but Túrin merely smirked.  “Fall back? Nonsense, my faithful lieutenant. This is opportunity,” he said as a smile spread across his face.  “Twenty minutes?  I only need ten to defeat the weakened force before us and then wheel about to meet Glaurung.”  Orodreth nodded slowly to the dismay of Morelen and Gwindor, the captain by Orodreth’s side.

“My King…my lord,” Gwindor protested, his face hardened, “we will be caught between two armies.  We need to listen to Notaldo.”

Túrin slashed his hand down and sideways.  “Enough! Time is wasting.  You’ve been timid since your escape from Angband, Gwindor. Timidity gets us nothing.  Don’t you understand, my friend?  Morelen, we appreciate your concern, but you need to stand with me.  We will need you here now with us,” he said, pointing to the ground.  “My King, I will signal the general advance.  We need to do this quickly,” he declared and blew his horn, followed by the horn of the herald, Nandamo.  “Attack now!  All companies, attack now!”  Ranks upon ranks of spearmen, shod in mail and scales, grunted out loud, rattling their weapons and shields.

The blood drained from Morelen’s face, and she saw the horror in Gwindor’s eyes.  The King seemed at a loss and merely nodded, his jaw slack, his eyes nearly blank.  She began to wonder who was actually in charge of Nargothrond.  Would Orodreth step up and lead?  The archer wanted nothing more than to return to Telepta, but an order was an order.  She had to trust in Lord Mormegil.  There was no other choice and he had never failed.  She rose up in her stirrups and looked back at Notaldo, who gave her a confused look, and she shook her head and gestured to Túrin.

Drums beat out the advance as Túrin led the troops in a battle song that resonated across the field. “Focus only ahead, my friends!  We crush this enemy and then destroy the next one! We will feast in the Great Hall tonight!”  Elven arrows began to fly at the weaker orc army, and they banded together to form a makeshift shield wall.  Morelen drew her bow, but knew that she should be with her company.  One bow would not do much here, so she tried to aim for the higher-ranking ones.  Surrounded by the infantry, Túrin dismounted and drew his black sword that shimmered in the sunlight, casting a malevolent sheen.  “This is it!  My brave troops, charge!” he ordered and the lines of spears advanced in clean, powerful lines, lowering tips as they crashed into the orcs.

This time the enemy seemed to find its resolve and held ground as elven spears pierced armor, flesh and bone.  Bodies began to pile up along the front and the elves pushed ahead, but only slowly now, too slowly.  The orcs were savage in their defense, not giving a single inch that wasn’t fought for, the howls and shrieks of battle filling the air.  Morelen looked over to see Glaurung’s army closing rapidly and she began to think of a way to return to Telepta.  This was not going the way that they had planned.

“Don’t look at them!” Túrin ordered her.  “The only enemy is in front!  Keep firing. Protect the King!”

She forced herself to turn away from the army that was closing quickly, Glaurung’s face now clear, his eyes burning with hate and hunger.  “My lord, we need to turn the line to meet the new attack!”

“They don’t matter! I told you to keep firing!” he shouted in practically a snarl as he waded into the ranks of orcs, hewing with Gurthang, splitting helms and slicing off limbs.  The enemy wavered in the face of the Dragon Helm, their eyes filling with terror.  Some fled before his onslaught.  This might actually work.  Morelen scolded herself for doubting and fired an arrow into the eye of an orc leader, then scanning around for other enemies.  An opening was forming in the orc line and Orodreth led a force to exploit that, Gwindor and Nandamo by his side.  “We’re breaking through!” Túrin cried, “we have the day!”  A stream of orcs threw down their weapons and fled in all directions.

Then, it happened…the roar of a dragon, followed by flame and death.  Glaurung crashed into the flank of the elven army, throwing men about, slashing with claws and raking the line with fire.  Cries of dismay erupted from the lines as men froze in terror, some even throwing down weapons and fleeing towards the river.  Burning troops ran in panic as smoldering bodies lay on the plains.  Morelen felt the heat and smelled burning flesh filling her nostrils as the sky became full of ash.  The weaker orc army stiffened their resolve and fought back with ferocity even as Túrin hewed their commander from shoulder to belly.  A troll crashed through the line of infantry, pierced by multiple spears and fell as orcs surged over his body towards the King, who fought valiantly with Gwindor and Nandamo.  Morelen spun her horse about as Lindarion kicked any enemy who got close.  All she could see on the right flank now was fire and panic was creeping into her body.  Stay calm, stay calm, keep fighting.  A flash of the dragon’s maw went through her head from her encounter with him on Ard Galen.

Gwindor, Nandamo and Orodreth were hard pressed and the King’s guard were giving ground, falling, one by one.  Morelen continued to pour fire into the orcs that were rushing at Orodreth, emptying one of her quivers.  Túrin continued to drive ahead, seemingly oblivious to the plight of the King, laying about with his black sword.  Orcs piled up around him, and some began to flee.  It was complete chaos.  Still, Morelen felt the battle was lost now.  Maybe there was still a way to salvage this, save some of the army and the city?

“My King!” she yelled over the din of fighting and screaming.  “My King, please give the order to fall back.  We’ll cover you across the river!  You must give the order, please!”

Orodreth looked around, wild eyed, seemingly lost.  He looked at her without recognition.  “We…we can…still win this,” he mumbled.  “Lord Mormegil will…will lead us to…victory.”

“Gwindor!  Get him on his horse!” she yelled.  “Get him out of here.  We’ll hold for you!  Nandamo, signal the retreat!” she ordered them as the dragon roared in the background amid horrid screams of people on fire.  The herald blew his horn loud but if any could follow that order, no one was sure.

Gwindor nodded sharply and grabbed the King’s horse as orcs leapt over their fallen brethren and crashed down on the elf.  He sliced through two as Morelen brought her sword down on another, cutting the orc down the face, spraying black blood.  Another orc stabbed Gwindor through the gap in his armor, just under the armpit and the elf cried out, slashing it through the throat.  Then, he staggered, holding his side with the stump of his left hand, lost while escaping Angband.  Blood streamed down the side of his breastplate, bright red.  Still, he started to push Orodreth up into the saddle when a spear drove into the horse’s neck and it reared up and fell over.  Morelen was in complete fury now, slashing about, keeping the orcs away from the King as much as she could against the tide. She barely noticed Nandamo fleeing for his life.

She reached out to grab the King, but more orcs piled on him as he fought, seeming to awaken from his stupor now.  One orc cut him on the back of the leg with a cruel, jagged scimitar, and he staggered as another grabbed his arm.  Morelen sliced that orc down the back and Orodreth hewed another pair, but they seemed endless.  A spear was thrust at the King, but Gwindor stepped in front, the tip piercing through his collar.  He cried out again and cut the spear shaft in two, the tip still buried beneath his collar bone.  Chaos was consuming the battlefield now, the din of fighting and the screams of the dying filling her ears.  Unit cohesion was unraveling down to individual fights and vicious brawls.  She grabbed Orodreth by the collar of his surcoat, but he was too heavy to lift with one arm, and she had to keep swinging Melima to ward off the attacks.  “My King, get on behind me!  Hurry!” she called as an orc crashed into Orodreth, knocking him from her grasp.  Gwindor swung weakly, falling to his knees, wheezing with blood bubbling from his mouth.

Morelen hesitated for a moment, trying to decide who to help.  In the seconds that she paused, two orcs drove Orodreth down, one stabbing him in the neck, under his helm.  The King slashed one, but another spear plunged into his side.  “Go, Morelen, save yourself,” he gurgled, waving her away, his eyes full of fear behind his visor.  She started to dismount but Túrin came howling back, slashing at the enemy, driving them away for a time.

“Rally the cavalry, Morelen.  Screen our retreat.  We’ll regroup at the river.  I’ll save the King!” he yelled, waving her off and she kicked Lindarion in the flanks, speeding away.  She looked back to see Lord Mormegil pulling Gwindor into the saddle as King Orodreth fell under a wave of orcs, the crest of his helm vanishing beneath the mass of attackers.

Her face burned red, seeing Túrin leave the King to his doom as he fled to safety.  She had been a fool and now they were doomed.  She was tempted to fire at the lord, but she couldn’t waste the arrows.  She let out an agonized shriek instead and jammed her heels into her horse.  Tintallo led the Misë Company in a desperate countercharge to save the King, but it was too late.  Orodreth was already gone.  She tried to get Tintallo’s attention, to call him off, but the lances were already plunging into the orcs.  She let out another feral cry of anguish.  Another disaster.  Another lost king.  It would never end until they were all dead…or worse.

Notaldo had rallied the Telepta, firing arrows to keep the enemy at bay.  She galloped at them, seeing Glaurung spraying the infantry with fire, troops melting in front of the dragon amid horrid shrieks.  “The King has fallen!” she shouted at her husband, her eyes wild and full of panic.  “We must get back across the river!”

“Take command of your squadron and we will fall back!” he called to her and she held her hand up to Sanamo and Ringion.

“We will cover the retreat!” she ordered her sergeants.  “Líreno!” she called to her friend.  “Head to the river and then cover us there!”  His squadron turned and rode towards the Narog at a full gallop.  It was a small blessing but Glaurung and the balrogs were focused on the infantry of Nargothrond, ripping them to shreds like paper.  A pack of massive wolves turned and charged at them, snarling, fangs bared and she nocked an arrow.  “On me! Fire!” she ordered her squadron and gull-feathered shafts flew, piercing fur, flesh and bone, wolves tumbling into the dirt, leaving a line of dead animals.  She rode up to Caladiel, whose eyes were full of fear.  “Stay with me.  Do not get separated.  Head to the river and cross with Líreno if anything happens to me.”

Misë and Morna were fully engaged in battle, Tintallo and Ehtyarder now cutting with their swords, slashing down on the sea of orcs.  “We’re going to get them and bring them back!” she yelled over the howls and screams and drove Lindarion back to the field, followed by her squadron and Notaldo. They galloped closer to the rout where elven soldiers fled in terror, some running towards the woods to the south, some towards the river.  “Regroup at the river!” she called.  “That way! The riders will cover you!”

Notaldo wheeled the group to get a shot at the orcs surrounding their friends.  “Pick your targets carefully!” he ordered.  “Fire!” he shouted and dozens of arrows struck the enemy, creating a gap in the ring around their trapped friends.  Some of the Morna fled through the opening, their horses bolting with their helpless riders.  Tintallo wouldn’t budge, driving his depleted force towards Glaurung, slashing through the orcs who were giving way from his fury.  As one of the mighty Eldar, he was fast and strong, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

“Tintallo, fall back to us!” Morelen cried over the battle.  He glanced at her and shook his head, his teeth clenched and Caladiel screamed.

“No!  Come back to me!” she cried, her entire body shaking in rage and terror.  Caladiel shifted in her saddle and Morelen knew that she meant to charge.

“No!  I’ll go!  Sanamo, Ringion, keep the way open for me!” she yelled and began to ride with Notaldo right beside her.

“You’re not going alone!” he shouted at her, his eyes intense and focused.  She always appreciated his calmness in terrible situations.  “We’ll get him out together,” he added as he waved fleeing riders towards the river.  “Tintallo!  Fall back, fall back.  We’ll cover you!”  The Misë Captain didn’t even slow down however, driving a wedge for his men to Glaurung.  They rode through the gap as arrows rained down on orcs around them, the careful shots of the Telepta.  They leapt over fallen bodies as the wounded crawled, and they raced towards Tintallo and what was left of the Misë.

They caught one of his sergeants, Tyalro, she thought his name was.  “Get back through the gap!  We don’t have long,” Morelen said as she yanked him by his arm.  His eyes were huge and he was terrified.  He wheeled his horse and fled without another word.  They pulled out one rider after another, directing them to the rally point.  Still, Tintallo pressed forward amid the chaos and rout, determined to turn defeat into victory.  For a moment, the front went hush, the sound of battle dying away as the dragon put his attention on Tintallo.

“No, no, no!” Morelen cried out and fired an arrow into Glaurung’s nostril and the dragon winced, turning his gaze at her.  “Come on, Tintallo!  Fall back to us!”  Glaurung’s eyes bore into her, and it felt as if her mind were being ripped apart by claws. She felt blood dripping down from her eyes, nose and ears and she screamed under the assault of his power.

“We meet again, elf,” the dragon spoke in a deep rumble.  “Your pin pricks are most annoying,” he said coldly, glaring at her with a curl of his mouth, showing his fangs that were as long as glaives.  Then, he paused.  “But now is not your time.  I will let your father decide your fate.”

Tintallo had reached the monster and sliced it on the leg, making it snarl, looking away from Morelen. The horror dawned on her.  There was no way to win this.  There was no way to save him.  In seemingly slow motion, Glaurung reared back, inhaling deeply, his chest glowing red through his dark scales.  Notaldo slapped Lindarion on the rear.  “Go!  Go! I’m right behind you,” he called as their horses bolted back for the gap.  Glaurung opened his maw and flame burst forth, incinerating all before him, friend and foe alike.  Ashes blew on the wind, turning the sky black as they galloped to the river with the few survivors.  Caladiel was openly sobbing and Morelen couldn’t blame her.  She wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and drown in the river she was so numb.  But there was still the city.  The army left Nargothrond with nearly twenty thousand.  Who knew how many remained.

They stopped at the camp where men and grooms stood, jaws agape, watching the smoke rise from Plains of Tumhalad.  Notaldo ordered them to mount up and ride together.  Morelen looked at the orc prisoners, and her heart was filled with rage.  “I’ll take care of them,” she told him in a chilly voice. “Go, I’ll catch up to you.”  Her face told him not to question and he nodded, heading back to his mount.

As the company rode away, Morelen drew her dagger and marched at the orcs who were contained in a pen.  She glared at Gorka, her lip curled up.  Then she cut the ropes that held the pen closed.  “I don’t know why I’m doing this.  Go, save yourselves.  You will probably kill me one day, but I can’t do it.  I can’t kill someone who poses me no threat.”

He looked at her curiously, not sure of what to make of her action.  His gray face and black eyes seemed lively, thinking.  “You…you are not going to kill us?  We would surely kill you,” he said thoughtfully, calmly, very unlike what she expected from an orc.

“That’s what makes us different, Gorka.  I’ll have you know that it was my mother who saved you.  If she felt you were worth healing then who am I to question her? Go, and I pray that we never cross swords again,” she said, her voice full of emotion as she climbed back into the saddle and rode away.

Líreno waited for them just across the ford, bows at the ready.  He was shaking, barely able to contain his fear.  Notaldo grasped him by the shoulder when they had crossed the river. “I know what you’re thinking, Líreno. Go, go to Nargothrond and evacuate as many as you can.”

Unexpectedly, he shook his head.  “No, my friends.  I stand with you.  Telerien knows what to do.  I feared that this would happen.  We spoke about it last night and she is packed and ready with a great many of our friends.  If I fall or if we are separated, you know where to go.  Voronwë shared some things with us…about how to get to Gondolin. That will be our last refuge, our last chance.”  Still, his face was etched with worry.

Notaldo nodded solemnly, watching streams of survivors fleeing towards them, the enemy in hot pursuit. “We hold as long as we can to let people across.  Then, Líreno, you lead us.  We’ll need to take a deceptive route to throw off anyone who follows.”

Morelen kept waving stragglers to them.  “Keep coming, keep coming, form up behind us!”  Ragged, terrified and beaten soldiers waded across the river and tried to form a line behind the cavalry.  “Go, march east!  Go to the Methed-en-Glad outpost.  Rally there!” she shouted.  She had to keep her mind off of Glaurung and Tintallo’s last moments.  She raised her visor and wiped away the tears and blood that had caked on her face.

Caladiel rode up to her, her helmet missing, her eyes and nose red.  “He’s gone, Morelen, he’s gone.  I know…I know you did your best.  I…I loved him, you know.  And he’s gone…just like that.”  She blinked, her eyes unfocused, her blonde hair matted around her face.

Morelen reached out to her and they held hands.  “I tried to get him, I really did.  I’m sorry, I am, but I need you to stay strong.  We’re not out of this yet.  Morgoth’s army will pursue us, and they will attack Nargothrond and there is nothing we can do now to stop them,” she said, choking up.  For a moment she thought the river would shield the city.  Maybe some semblance of the kingdom might survive and then she remembered the great bridge.  It was easily large enough to support the dragon.  She grunted in frustration and helplessness and shook her head.  “No…the city is gone.  We must survive and endure.  I promised Lyaan that I would bring you home safe and I will.”  Flashes of the great caverns filled her mind…the kiosks which would be in full swing now, the underground docks where she liked to sit and listen to the water, the magical conservatory and arena.  All would be consumed.  She imagined flames and screams coming from the caverns and she shook, more tears flowing down her cheeks.  How much more could they endure?  Why was she even still alive when so many others had perished in this endless war? At least Tintallo died as a hero.

The last of the stragglers were across the river.  “So few,” she said in practically a whisper.  Of the nearly twenty thousand that marched out, they had maybe a few thousand gathered with several hundred already marching to Methed-en-Glad.  Túrin had fought Morgoth’s forces from there before he came to Nargothrond and he established an outpost there with a few dozen soldiers.  And perhaps another thousand troops fled to the woods across the Teiglin.  She could only hope that they were safe.  Of the three-hundred original riders under Fingon, centuries ago, one-hundred and ninety-six rode out of Nargothrond with one-hundred and four replacements.  They barely numbered half that now.  It was nauseating.  Then her blood boiled.  “Where is Túrin?” she said with a snarl, remembering him fleeing and leaving them to die.

“I last saw him galloping south with Gwindor over the saddle,” Notaldo said sadly.

She let out a feral shriek up to the heavens.  “I am such a fool!  I believed him!  I trusted him!  I did!” She dug her gauntleted hands into the pommel of her saddle, trying to wrench it free with her anger and despair. “He lives and Tintallo and Orodreth die. And we are left with this disaster!” She grunted in fury.

Líreno touched her on the shoulder.  “I’m sorry. I’m not criticizing you for this, I’m not.  He was charismatic and the King believed in him like many did.  We must go on,” he said, his eyes full of sympathy.

She chuckled cynically. “I’ll never not listen to you again, you and your damn skepticism.  I was a fool.”

One final straggler crossed the river.  It was Nandamo, the King’s Herald.  He had been burned in several places and wounded many times.  His armor was dented and scratched, blackened on part of his breastplate.  He staggered up to the edge of the banks of the Narog, his helmet missing and his eyes wild and feral.  Morelen dismounted and went to help him, extending her hand.  “Nandamo, it’s me…it’s Morelen.  Here, let’s get you to safety.  We can treat you.  Here, take my hand.”

His eyes scanned back and forth, not seeming to see her.  She called him again, more forcefully this time and he made eye contact. She nodded slowly, comfortingly. “Yes, Nandamo.  It’s me.  It’s Morelen. Come.  Let’s get you treated, and we can be away from here,” she told him, now seeing the enemy advancing from afar.

His nostrils flared and his eyes went even more wild and he looked up, letting out a ragged scream and sob as he drew his dagger and slit his own throat.  Morelen’s mouth fell open as his body hit the water and began to sink under the weight of his armor, staining the waters red.  She gulped hard, eyes huge, trembling and frozen in place until she felt Notaldo shake her.  “Morelen, get on your horse.  We have to go.  We have to go now.”

She started to wade into the river for Nandamo, oblivious to the dragon raging towards them, crawling like a lizard, slithering like a snake.  A hand seized her surcoat.  “Morelen, we have to go.  Get on your horse now!”

She turned back, hand on the hilt of her sword, shaking, tears running down her cheeks.  Then she let out the same ragged scream that Nandamo made and climbed into the saddle.  She thought about turning and charging at Glaurung but that would prove nothing and she didn’t want to die in flame.  But if she ever saw Túrin again, blood would be drawn.

Some of the survivors wanted to march to Nargothrond and defend it, and hopefully bring the bridge down. Notaldo wouldn’t stop them even though they already knew the outcome.  Surviving was all that mattered.  Morelen spun an illusion to mask their flight and they headed east in a zigzag towards Methed-en-Glad along the north side of the Andram Mountains with the cavalry at the rear to defend against any attack.  Thankfully none came.  Glaurung was too obsessed in his prize of the city, and they weren’t even worth his effort now, a beaten and demoralized force.

The march east was more like a funeral dirge with little talking and no laughter.  Agonized groans from the wounded rose along with weeping from many of the surviving citizens.  By the end of the day, they saw pillars of smoke rise from where the city was and ash floated down on them along with the smell of sulphur. Nargothrond would be no more. Morelen removed her gauntlet and bit the back of her left hand until it bled.  They continued through the night, watching the orange and red glow coming from the city.  “We’re all going to die,” she said without emotion and then let out a crazed cackle. “We should just all sail west and let the Valar drown us.  We deserve no less.”

Notaldo looked at her sternly.  “Lieutenant, pull yourself together.  You lead your section by example.  They look to you for strength.  They deserve no less and you will meet that standard.  Am I understood,” he said authoritatively.

It was exactly what she needed to hear.  She looked around at her riders and then nodded.  “Yes, captain.  I apologize. You are right and I was weak.”

His face softened. “Not weak.  We all feel it, but we cannot show it.  There will be time to grieve when we are safe, but we need you strong right now.  We will reach Methed-en-Glad early tomorrow and we can rest and care for our wounded.” He reached out and touched her on the shoulder.  Her cheeks blushed red in shame.  He always knew what to do and say.

They reached the outpost by midday where the few hundred who went ahead were telling the outpost soldiers what had happened.  Líreno searched around desperately.  This was the rally point.  Then, his eyes lit up, and he let out a cry of relief as he rushed to Telerien, who was with several hundred refugees from the city.  Notaldo and Morelen ran over there to see a ragged band of elves with some humans and even Throim the dwarf.  “I am not even remotely a religious man,” Líreno called out to the sky, “but thank the Valar for small blessings.  I give my thanks to Eru and Manwë for their mercy!”  Telerien told them about their escape through a secret passage as Glaurung approached.  She tried to find Finduilas, but the princess could not be located before they had to flee. Finduilas was now dead or worse.  All of mighty Finrod’s relatives were gone but for Galadriel.

Morelen looked around to see if anyone was watching and she went to the nearby stream to wash off. Her armor and clothes were caked with blood and her face coated with it.  Small dents and scratches lined her breastplate and the arms and legs of her harness.  Her helm had a long gash above the visor, and she didn’t even notice when she was hit.  She washed off the blood and then soaked her clothing in the stream.  It would begin to reek in a day or so otherwise. She set everything out to dry on the stream bank in her meticulous manner, everything in its place, neat and ordered.  It was all that she had left to hang onto.  Nothing seemed real anymore.

She looked at the bite mark on the back of her left hand that was healing quickly now, staring at it, laughing and shaking.  Was she losing her mind?  How much could her mind take?  She hugged her knees and sobbed, rocking like a child.  They would never be safe.  Morgoth would destroy the world.  She felt someone touch her bare shoulder and looked up at Caladiel.  “No one should grieve alone,” the younger elf said and sat down where they embraced, sobbing together, their tears falling into the stream to mix with blood.

By nightfall, the leaders of the survivors met to decide their fate.  A group of the officers from the riders and the remaining infantry stood in the outpost hall, debating, voices loud and some angry.

“Quiet, everyone, quiet!” Notaldo called.  “We need to determine who is in charge of what remains of Nargothrond before we can determine anything else.”

Ehtyarder, Lieutenant of the Morna, bowed to him.  “You are the ranking member of the survivors and an anointed noble of the realm.  Lord Notaldo, you are in charge.”  Members of the gathering looked around and then nodded.

He looked stunned, his jaw slack.  “No, that can’t be.  There were hundred of nobles and council members of the realm on the field.  It cannot be.”

Líreno patted him on the back.  “They all perished with King Orodreth.  It is you, and I trust you to lead us.  If you will trust me, I can lead us to Gondolin.”

Notaldo gulped hard and nodded slowly, his eyes intense and focused, deep in thought.  “Very well.  If I have your support, I will accept this responsibility for the good of our people.  When we reach Gondolin, I will relinquish that role to King Turgon,” he said and blew out a long sigh.  “I will go to Gondolin, but I fear that King Turgon may not allow us in.  It is even less likely with so many refugees.  I will not bind any of you to my decision. Those who wish to flee to the Mouths of the Sirion are free to do so.  But if you follow us to Gondolin, you will accept my authority.  We will leave early tomorrow morning, so you have until then to decide.  If you have any questions, now is the time.”

Voices rose, calling out concerns, ideas and questions, which he answered patiently.  Morelen could not understand how he could keep together through this.  She wanted to fall apart every second of the day.  It would be easier to ride out and die at the hands of a dragon, balrog or even the Dark Lord himself than to remain and put their lives back together yet again. Notaldo held his hand up, silencing the gathering.  “I will also need a headcount of our remaining forces, citizens and what stores of food that we have.  I need them within the hour.  We need to send out pickets and sentries to prevent any ambush…Morelen, Líreno, see to it. Finally, get some rest.  We have a long road ahead of us.  We must survive this.  We will survive this,” he said confidently but she could see something in his eyes.

As the session broke up, Notaldo slipped out the back way of the hall and Morelen followed him, a bit behind.  He went into the kitchen and crumpled down behind a cold oven.  Morelen could hear sobbing and his fist pounding on the wall. She wasn’t sure what to do at first. He had never broken down, and this terrified her.  She ran to him and held him from behind.  He turned and held her, pounding on her back.  “I have you.  I’m strong for you now,” she whispered.  “We’re together and that’s all that matters right now.  Let me be strong for you.”

He pushed back and looked at her, wiping his face.  “Thank you. I am well now.  I am well,” he said, almost more to reassure himself. “I cannot show weakness for our people, I cannot.  I am sorry that you had to see this.”

“No,” she said emphatically with a chop of her hand.  “No, do not apologize.  I need to know what you are feeling if I am to stand behind you.  I will catch you if you fall.  I will wipe your face when you falter,” she said, wiping his cheek with the back of her hand.

He nodded and forced a smile.  “I am…I am so lucky,” he said, stifling another sob.  “Come, they need to see us strong for them.  I just had a moment of weakness, nothing more.”

The next morning came and they found a dozen of the refugees hanging from the nearby trees, people too broken to continue.  Another ten had thrown themselves into the river and drowned, their bodies floating in the pools, their faces white and puffy.  Some of the worst wounded had passed too.  They were all buried quickly so as not to crush morale any further.

As the camp stirred to life, nearly three thousand of the survivors and citizens wanted to head south to the Mouths of Sirion, including Throim, who would find his way home to Nogrod after.  That group would sail through the Pools of Aelin-Uial, down the great river to the Gates of Sirion at the Andram Mountains, traversing down the stairs by the massive falls. Then, they would continue down the river, through Nan-Tathren, where fabled Ents were rumored to live in a forest full of butterflies, and onto the Havens of Sirion.  Nearly two thousand would stay with Notaldo to find Gondolin, including all of the remaining riders.  They would leave a cryptic note, hidden by glyphs and wards, for any other survivors to go south to the Havens of Sirion.

Farewells and well wishes were said in the predawn morning as the last remnants of Nargothrond’s people parted, likely for all time.  People that Morelen knew and were friends with would likely never be seen again. Another heartbreak.  The kingdom of the great Finrod Felagund was no more. It was time to survive and move on. The riders led the others north along the Sirion.

“We’ll remain on the east side of the Sirion for now until we reach Doriath,” Notaldo told the riders as he ordered scouts ahead and to the west.  “Elu Thingol’s heart has hardened against the Noldor, and we will find no refuge there, so we’ll cross over to the west through the Forests of Brethil and Neldoreth.  We will avoid the Plains of Dimbar for I fear it will still be full of orcs.”

Líreno nodded. “We’ll use the Ford of Brithiach and then you’ll have to follow me,” he said as he patted his chest where the map that Voronwë gave him was stored.  He vowed to die before it could be taken from him and reveal the area where the secret entrance to Gondolin was located.  Not even Telerien knew where that was, he was so careful with the information.

Telepta Company did most of the scouting as both the Misë and Morna were depleted with many still wounded.  Pillars of smoke from Nargothrond still rose above the city like a wraith, dark and evil. The journey went on for a week through the woods with them occasionally seeing Sindarin and Silvan scouts from Doriath glaring at them.  They were not foolish enough to test the guardians.  At one point, Caladiel called to them, “I’m one of you!  We mean you no harm!  We are refugees!  Please let us enter!” but there was only cold silence in response.  Elu Thingol’s heart had not thawed.  They knew enough not to test the anger of the great King of Doriath. They wouldn’t have made it past the Girdle of Melian in any case.

They continued up the Sirion through the Forests of Brethil and Neldoreth, the scouts reporting all quiet. Morgoth had pulled his forces from other areas for the attack on Nargothrond, giving them a window of opportunity.  Even the Plains of Dimbar were barren and desolate, much to their surprise.  The wounded were mostly healed by now and the once demoralized force even dared to have hope.  But spirits were still muted and weeping could still be heard at night. As planned, they crossed the Fords of Brithiach, unbothered.

“I dared not hope that we would make it this far, unmolested,” Notaldo said.  “Though I’m not holding my breath that we will get to Gondolin without more battle.”

Morelen pointed back to the line of refugees, many of them just citizens of the realm, artists, sculptors, dancers, healers and merchants.  “If we’re attacked in force we can’t protect all of them.  It would be another disaster.  We need to keep hidden as best as we can,” she said as the sun began to set.  The last of the refugees had crossed at Brithiach and they began to march north along the dry river as Morelen placed glyphs of illusions to hide their tracks under darkening clouds.  The Crissaegrim, the southern part of the Encircling Mountains, rose tall before them, supposedly hiding the kingdom.  Above, great eagles circled, watching them closely.

“This is it, I’m sure of it,” Líreno told the group, pointing up ahead.  “Follow this dry riverbed,” he said with confidence but his eyes betrayed fear and worry.  He searched around for a minute and then pointed north.  “Yes, this is it.  Voronwë assured me that it was.”

Notaldo looked back at the column, some were tired and obviously hungry.  “All right, the rest remain here, out of sight, while Telepta scouts the way ahead.  Have the infantry set sentries all around.  No surprises at this point.”  He circled his finger above his head.  “Telepta, on me.  I’ll take lead for now,” he added, indicating that he would assume the highest risk.

Ehtyarder of the Morna rode up.  “My lord, I would ask to accompany you, if you please.  I want to do my part.”

Notaldo scoffed.  “My lord?  No, none of that nonsense.  We have no king, we have no kingdom.  We are leaves on the wind until…or unless we find Gondolin.  So, captain or my name is fine.  If worse comes to worst we can live as outlaws, preying on Morgoth’s forces much like Túrin did.”

Morelen curled her lip up in a sneer.  “Do not say that name near me.  If we should cross paths again, there will be blood.  Likely mine, but he would have to get through a hail of arrows first.”

Líreno smirked.  “It won’t come to that, trust me.  His doom lies elsewhere, I can feel it, and it will be a great doom indeed.  Forget him for now.  We have to get these people safe and settled.  That is our responsibility.”

Notaldo smiled. “Well said, my friend.  Join us, Ehtyarder,” he said with a nod and then thought a moment.  “We barely have enough to form a single company now.  I would like to just call ourselves ‘The Riders of Fingon’ from here on in.  That’s who we were and that’s who we’ll always be,” he said and then reversed the sigils on his helm and breast, putting Fingon’s above Orodreth’s.  “We will always honor Orodreth, but I feel we should return to our roots.”

The riders nodded and smiled while doing the same with their badges.  Morelen changed hers, a tear dropping on her hand.  She needed this.  She need some confidence back.  Notaldo was her rock.  What would she do without him?  They scouted north along the riverbed, riders spread out in a skirmish line to avoid ambush. After an hour they reached the end of the dry river with nothing in sight but the great mountains, reaching skyward beyond their ability to climb.

“It’s here,” Líreno declared.  “It has to be here.  I’m sure its hidden,” he said, dismounting and scrambling around, becoming more desperate with each passing minute.  “It’s here! It has to be here!”  He threw a rock with a frustrated grunt, pulling a large rock over and finding nothing.  Morelen rushed in and began to search, her hope fading.  Líreno fell to his knees and raised his hands up. “Mighty Ulmo!  Please!  Please! Do not leave us abandoned!  Please help us!” he called out in despair as the temperature dropped and mist formed in the riverbed.

At that, lighting shot across the sky, followed by the deep rumble of thunder.  It was almost as if there were a face in the clouds, bearded with a helm like a seashell.  Rain began to pour on them, forming pools on the dry riverbed.  The pools of water shimmered and glowed as they watched raindrops beat on the surface of the pools.  They then heard footsteps and splashes in the water.  The shimmering intensified and began to form into the shape of an elf.

“Voronwë?” Líreno blurted out.  “It’s…it’s you.”

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company - Black

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49)  The Hidden Kingdom – Year of the Sun 495 Narquelië (October)

Morelen

The riders were stunned by the sudden appearance of someone familiar.  Yes, it was him from the bar on the Isle of Balar.  Voronwë the Mariner stood before them, clean now, hair slicked back and wearing bright silk robes.  Gone was the ragged, demoralized sailor who sat sullenly at a dark table, drinking his misery away.  He extended his hand.  “High King Turgon of Gondolin welcomes you, friends, who were the sworn riders of his brother, High King Fingon.  Come, the way to the Hidden Kingdom is open to you,” he said, pulling Líreno up.  He waved his hand and the illusion that was placed on the face of the mountain evaporated, revealing a massive ravine where a gate of wood blocked the path.  It was essentially a wooden arch held up by pillars, painted in earthen colors.  “This is the Orfalch Echor, the hidden ravine. Come, follow me.  We heard of the destruction of Nargothrond and we grieve with you.  Though more than a few advocated that we leave you to your fate, King Turgon could not turn a blind eye to those who served his father and brother faithfully. And the King thought you would like a familiar face.”

Notaldo sent Ehtyarder back to bring the rest of the refugees forward and The Gate of Wood opened upward at the wave of Voronwë’s hand.  Noldorin warriors in black scale armor came to attention as their leader approached.  “I am Elemmakil of the Dark Guard.  We welcome our brethren to the Hidden Kingdom but please be swift.  We do not wish to risk exposure,” he said warmly but with a clear command.  He was tall and powerfully built, black hair spilling down around his black helm that glistened in the weak sunlight as rain fell steadily down.

A few minutes later, the refugees came rushing up, cries and sobs of relief sounding out from the group and they passed through the Gate of Wood, which then vanished back into an illusion.  “Impressive,” Morelen said of the glyphs.  “Neither I nor my father have the power to do that.”  Then, something hit her.  What did Glaurung say about her father?  What did he mean by that?  How could he even know who Fëatur was?  It bothered her but perhaps it was just a taunt.  Even so, why didn’t he just incinerate them, then and there?  It made no sense.

Líreno rode beside Telerien, nodding with a weak smile.  “We made it.  Thank Ulmo, we made it.”

Elemmakil led them upwards through the ravine to the Gate of Stone, half a league from the Gate of Wood, where more soldiers of the Dark Guard awaited in their black armor and gray cloaks.  He waved at a lantern above the stone gate and then pushed lightly upon the gate to open it.  Beyond, the guards provided them with food and water to refresh themselves for which they were beyond grateful.  Food was running low after the two-week journey.

Past the Stone Gate was the Gate of Bronze, a solid wall of bronze with three copper topped towers.  The garrison here was large, made up entirely of Sindarin Elves from Nevrast who wore copper-colored armor, which glowed like a dull fire, and wielded red-bladed axes.  They were warmer and friendlier than the Noldor at the previous portals, giving Caladiel warm waves and greetings.  “It’s good to see some of our own!” one called out.  “Welcome to Gondolin!”  It was something that they needed to hear and she smiled for the first time since before the battle.

“The Three will never believe what has happened to us here in the north,” she told Morelen.  “I can’t believe it myself.”

“While there is conflict there, I envy the sense of peace and security that they have in the south. The fury and death that we face here cannot be easily understood,” Morelen answered sadly.  “I’m sorry that I did not properly prepare you for this.”

“You told me enough. I knew what I was getting into,” Caladiel answered with a solemn nod.  “Well…knowing and experiencing it are two different things.  The dragon was…was horrifying.  My dreams will never be free of him.”

They soon reached the highest point of the ravine before it would slope downhill.  The Gate of Withren Iron sat before them, a thick wall of metal with four towers overlooking the path.  Metallic bas reliefs of flowering trees lined the front of the walls and a sculpture of Thorondor, the King of Eagles, sat above the gate itself, threatening foes and welcoming friends into the kingdom.  The Iron Guard stood watch here, clad in dark gray mail armor with blue cloaks.  The group passed through and began the trek downhill along paths of grass and flowers, resting occasionally.  Smiling and even laughter began to return to the refugees, but Morelen thought that she would never feel safe again.

Next, they approached the Gate of Silver, a low wall made entirely of white marble that was polished and coated to appear almost silver.  The parapet was a trellis of silver that spanned between five marble globes.  The center globe was silver with the sculpture of Telperion atop it, crafted of silver and malachite, its branches spreading out to provide shade.  The gate itself was wrought of silver in three panels, shaped to appear like the moon. The gate’s surface was covered in mosaics of the heavens, crafted in mother of pearl to give an iridescent quality. One mosaic prominently featured Tilion the Maia, atop the Moon, holding his bow.  Beds of white roses grew at the base of the wall that was guarded by archers clad in silver armor with white cloaks and white crests on their helms.

Beyond that came the Gate of Gold, similar in appearance to the Gate of Silver, however the wall was made of yellow marble, and the globes and parapet were of red gold.  There were six globes, and in the midst upon a golden pyramid was set an sculpture of Laurelin, with flowers wrought of topaz in long clusters upon chains of gold. The gate itself was decorated with many-rayed discs of gold, in likenesses of the sun, set amid devices of garnet, topaz and yellow diamonds.  One prominent image was of the Maia Arien, clad only in flame with eyes ablaze as she guided the Sun, her hands holding reins.  Beyond the gate was a court where three hundred archers were arrayed with longbows and gilded mail.  Tall golden plumes rose from their helmets, while their great round shields were as red as flames.

“This is incredible,” Líreno told everyone.  “You hear about the gates in the legends but to see it…  I cannot do it justice with any description.”

Elemmakil chuckled. “Just wait until you see the Gate of Steel.”

“It’s good and fortuitous that you came when you did, my friends, and it is good to see you again,” Voronwë told them.  “I came with a man named Tuor a few months ago.  There will be a council meeting soon,” he added, “for we brought word from Ulmo that the city should be abandoned.  There is talk that these very gates should be shut for good now.  If you had arrived much later, there might be no entry.”

The warning brought a chill to Morelen’s spine.  She remembered the warning given to King Orodreth and Lord Mormegil not too long ago. “I recall that Tuor met with Gelmir and Arminas as you told us on Balar.”

“Indeed, he did,” Voronwë answered.  “But Tuor could not find the hidden realm and went west through Nevrast, coming to the great sea where he found the raiment and arms left for him by Ulmo.  It was there that I met him…I had been shipwrecked after another attempt to sail west.  Merciful Ulmo brought me to shore and told us to deliver the warning to King Turgon.”

“I understand now how you were on Balar,” she said, her voice full of sympathy.  “I am now the ragged, despondent survivor who has little hope.”

“You gave me hope when I had none.  I wish to impart some back to you in this magical realm,” he said reassuringly.  “I came home and was healed as you had hoped for me.”

She remained skeptical about ever feeling safe again.  “That remains to be seen, but I am glad that you found healing.  I was truly worried for you.”

He smiled kindly.  “You shall see soon.  Come, we are nearing the Gate of Steel.”

As they rode down, the portal was like a great steel fence across the Orfalch Echor.  The fence had seven great needle-like pillars of steel and between these pillars there were seven crossbars of steel and forty-nine vertical rods with heads like broad blades of spears.  In the center, above the midmost pillar, was raised a mighty image of the king-helm of Turgon, the Crown of the Hidden Kingdom, set about with diamonds.

Elemmakil struck the gate and, rather than opening, the Warden of the Great Gate, Ecthelion, rode from the north tower on a white horse with an esquire and a company of riders from both towers.  The gate opened inward on either side of the pillar of the Crown.  A host of the army of Gondolin were stationed on either side, that consisted of representatives from each of the guards of the Seven Gates, including members of Elemmakil’s own Dark Guard.  The captains and chieftains of each Guard sat upon white and gray horses, arrayed in brilliant armor with colorful crests atop their helms.

Ecthelion was extremely tall and heavily muscled with a chiseled jaw and prominent cheekbones, a seeming Ainur in elf form.  His armor, known as Rilennon, was of brilliant silver scales with a silver cloak and his surcoat bore the sigil of a silver fountain on a field of blue.  His silver helm, Elmirthol, had a diamond of adamant atop a spike at the crown and a clear blue laen visor.  He was beyond imposing with the look of eagles, hair as black as night with eyes of light gray, almost silver.  Voronwë and Elemmakil bowed to him and the riders followed suit.  Elemmakil gestured to the lord.  “People of Nargothrond, this is Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain, one of our eleven great houses of Gondolin.  My lord, this is Lord Notaldo of Nargothrond.  He is the highest-ranking survivor of the realm of Orodreth, and these are his people.”

Ecthelion tilted his head down in greeting.  “You are of the riders of Fingon, are you not?  I remember you from the Nirnaeth and tales of your valor have given us hope in this endless war.  We welcome you to Gondolin.  Tragic news of the sack of Nargothrond came to us from the eagles and we have been expecting you.  You will find the Gondolindrim welcoming to you, our brethren.  We have homes set aside for you as well.  Come and rest and be healed.  There will be time later for how you can make our city your home.”

The great steel gate parted, and they rode out of the ravine and into the Vale of Tumladen and all mouths fell open.  Green grass filled the vale with flowers of pink, gold, white and lavender and the scent on the breeze was fresh and pure.  In the center of the open field was the great circular hill of Amon Gwareth where the white city rose.  “This is nearly a duplicate of the city of Tirion in Valinor,” Notaldo said in wonder. “And very much like Kirnak in the south.”  A great cry rose from the refugees, many of whom sank to their knees, weeping openly. Caladiel sobbed, the agony of the past two weeks pouring out of her, but Morelen remained stoic.  Safety was an illusion.

They rode along the plain towards the city of white walls, and silver and gold towers.  People of the city watched them approach from along the parapets, waving white cloths.  Along the path, a massive fountain sprayed cool, clear water into the air, casting a delicate, iridescent mist above them.

Ecthelion gestured to the spouting water.  “This is the Eithel Nínui, the fountain created by the falling tears of Lúthien Tinúviel when she and Beren flew overhead on the backs of the eagles.  It is sacred among our people, and it has miraculous healing properties.”  He held out a large jar and filled it with water.  “This will be for you later.  We will meet with the King and his daughter, and you will be healed.  I cannot adequately express the sorrow that I feel for your loss and the horror of the battle that you just fought.  You have battle experience that we do not, and we will rely on your expertise to bolster our abilities.”

“We would be honored,” Notaldo said.  “And we cannot thank you enough for opening your city and your hearts to us.  I can assure you that we will become productive members of your houses.”

The gates of the city were open as people cheered from the walls.  A tall Noldor stood there in elegant robes of silver and blue, the colors of the House of Fingolfin.  His hair was black as his brother’s was and the resemblance was clear.  This was High King Turgon.  He was regal, wearing a laurel crown of branches, intertwined with silver and gold.  Like his brother, his eyes shone with an inner light, his chin strong with chiseled features.  But unlike Fingon, he was more slender and his face radiated deep wisdom and learning, a man of more scholarly pursuits compared to his warrior brother.  On his right stood an ebony-haired elf, Maeglin, his nephew.  Standing by his left side was a tall woman with silver blonde hair, his daughter, Idril. Maeglin was thin and sinewy, like a knife in elven form.  His eyes were intense, darting around as if he were always looking for something and he wore form-fitting robes designed to impress.  Idril was all that the legends of Gondolin said that she was.  Beautiful as a delicate flower, a light radiating from her face and behind her eyes.  Her robes were voluminous and also of silver and blue with brilliant silver shoes on her feet, while she wore a mithril jewel of an eagle, mounted with a mint green sapphire, the Elessar.  Her posture and expression made it clear that she had the wisdom of her father.

The riders from Nargothrond dismounted and went before Turgon, kneeling in respect.  “High King,” Notaldo said, his face turned down. “We are beyond grateful for your mercy. We surely would have perished had you not extended your invitation.  We are forever in your debt.  And Princess Idril, I am honored to see you again for I remember you from the crossing of the Helcaraxë.  I am deeply sorry about your mother.  High King, please accept the fealty of the survivors of Nargothrond and accept the Riders of Fingon as your own.  We live to serve you now.”

Turgon extended his hand in friendship.  “Rise, friends of my brother.  I recall you from our meeting during the Nirnaeth and I have heard much about your exploits and your bravery.  I am also sorry for what you have endured, and we welcome you with open arms,” he said, his arms spread wide.  Then, he searched around the gathering.  “I do not see your brave captain…Tintallo here.  Is he…?”

“Fallen, my King,” Notaldo finished.  “He fell against the dragon, Glaurung, in battle, always brave, always fierce.  We feel his loss deeply.”

The King blew out a long breath.  “I see. Along with the loss of the kingdom and King Orodreth, this is grave news.  Tintallo was well respected in our realm for his skill and valor.  But there will be time to discuss this later.  I wish to invite you into the city.  We have prepared a ceremony to welcome you and to heal your minds and souls.  I see how troubled you are by what happened and we are committed to helping you.”

He led them through the wide, paved street of the city, past marble fountains that were sculpted to resemble all manner of creatures from rabbits and cats to dolphins and whales. Fragrant pines lined the avenues, swaying in the cool, gentle breeze.  This was as close to Valinor as one could get to in Middle Earth.  The road circled the magical city, ever climbing to the Tower of the King, a tall, thin, elegant structure that seemed to rise to the heavens.  Its white marble walls shimmered under the sunlight as the clouds parted, giving it an unearthly radiance.  The black and white tile in the foyer led to a lift that took the leaders of the riders to the top as healers attended to the other survivors in the King’s Square, serving them food and drink and filling the park with song and dance to ease their pains.

The top of the tower seemed to reach into the sky and Turgon, Maeglin and Idril ushered them into a chamber that was luxuriously decorated with soft, plush seats, intricately woven rugs and tapestries of life in Gondolin, along with incense and oil burners that emitted light, pleasant scents of sandalwood and rose petals.  Fountains poured clear water into marble basins where flower petals floated.  “Please, make yourselves at ease,” the King told them kindly.  “You may remove your armor and place it in the next room.  I will have the armorers attend to it and make repairs.  The same for your weapons.”  He strode back to the lift.  “I fear that I must leave you for now as we are preparing for a council meeting tomorrow where we will discuss closing the gates.  You have heard that Tuor bore us tidings from mighty Ulmo that the forces of Morgoth are searching for us and the fall of Nargothrond confirms this, I fear. But rest for now and I leave you in the capable hands of my nephew and my daughter.  Be healed in the Hidden Realm,” he said warmly and took the lift back down.

“You are in the grand chambers of the King,” Maeglin told them.  “This is a great honor,” he said as other maids entered the room.  “My King bids you to unburden yourselves and be at ease.”  He smiled at Idril who did not smile back.  He gestured to the changing rooms and they went next door.  There was a warm mist in the room with benches of cedar.  Notaldo and the others removed their armor and laid the pieces to the side, glad to be rid of the weight.

“You don’t know how itchy I was,” Morelen complained, scratching her body.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I had fleas.”

They placed their garments in a bin for washing but some of the items were so bloodstained that it was doubtful that they could be restored.  Each then stepped into a stream of water that smelled of camphor and then reentered the chamber, feeling clean and refreshed.  The jar that Ecthelion filled from the fountain sat on an elegant end table that was crafted of rich, dark woods and carved with images of flowers and clouds around the sun.  A flower arrangement burst from a white and blue ceramic vase in an arrangement of Aeglos, Elanor and Niphredil, white, icelike spikes rising above golden and silver flowers that were woven with tiny orange Mallos blossoms and Mallorn leaves for an array of colors and scents.

Maeglin ushered Morelen to his table while the others spread out about the room.  She wasn’t ashamed of her form, but he gave her a look that gave her pause.  And the way that he looked at Idril before…  But who was she to comment on the Royal Family of Gondolin.  She had to tread carefully.  She wasn’t going to let a bad feeling get them thrown out of their last refuge.  Idril lit a lamp that began to vent a blue-colored smoke that wafted to the ceiling and spread to the walls, giving a scent of lemons, cinnamon and frankincense for a lively, citrusy feel.  He gestured to a padded table, and she lay down as he fanned the fumes onto her face and she felt lighter, calmer, almost giddy.  Idril boiled the water from the jar, adding some mixture to it and the flame beneath glowed blue and green, popping and crackling.  She looked up into Maeglin’s eyes, and he seemed a little blurry and she blinked, feeling almost as if she were floating.  He had her roll over and he poured fragrant oil onto her back, rubbing it in with warm hands.  She felt dizzy, thinking that she might never have felt something like this again.  Their lives would just be mayhem and death if Turgon had not accepted them.

Morelen couldn’t deny that this felt incredible and that she wanted to feel safe again.  She wanted to pretend that she was back in Nargothrond and that this was all of horrible nightmare.  She wanted to open her eyes and see the caverns and go the conservatory to sing and dance, and she wanted to see Silmani there, smiling with her lyre and flute, ready to perform.  She wanted to weep…or maybe laugh but the aromatic fumes lifted her spirits in a way she thought she would never feel again.

Maeglin rolled her over again.  “The King has given you all this great honor.  We all knew your names since before the Nirnaeth.  The riders of my uncle, Fingon, are part of our mythos. Your exploits give us fuel to resist Morgoth.”

She smiled, feeling almost drunk.  “Why thank you.  I feel…I feel…so much better,” she said, unable to find more adequate words.  She giggled like a girl.  Maeglin smiled back down at her, working on her shoulders and down her body.  She closed her eyes, trying to let a sense of peace return to her.  As he moved down his hand brushed along her chest and her eyes popped open.  Did he just…? He looked over, staring at Idril, not seeming to pay attention to his ward.  She thought she should say something, but she didn’t want to offend, and his hand went all the way up her thigh.  She yelped and sat up, looking around and Notaldo and the others seemed to be out cold, the first true rest that they had in weeks.

“Ummm, Prince Maeglin?” she asked and he snapped back to her, seemingly surprised.

His mouth hung open as he made eye contact.  “Oh, what? Did I…do something?”

She shook her head slowly, “No, no, it was an accident.  Don’t worry about it.”

Idril came over and pointed to Notaldo.  “Why don’t you finish with him, Maeglin.  I’ll take over here,” she said patiently but practically pushed him away, her face red. “I’m sorry, Lady Morelen, it was an accident,” she apologized as Maeglin stared at her from the other table.  This was…odd.  “Please do not think that my family is careless or treats our guests poorly. We will take care of my uncle’s friends who have served the free peoples so well.  Rest in the welcoming arms of Gondolin.”  She fanned more of the comforting fumes over Morelen’s face, and the world felt dreamy, calm and peaceful.  She had a brief thought that she wanted to know more about this odd dynamic in Turgon’s House.  In their escape from Nargothrond, knowledge was power.  And it was Líreno’s paranoia…no, foresight that allowed so many to survive.  She wondered about the family drama that seemed to be playing out here.  Would it be important to their survival?  Was it any of her business?  Still, it would bug her, and it must have shown on her face.

Idril rubbed warm, fragrant oil into her face and the scrubbed lightly with a rough cloth. “You have a lot of…blood and sweat in your skin.  I’ll clean that out for you.”

“We fought the whole day and then fled for more than two weeks,” Morelen said, almost emotionless. “I saw him fall…Orodreth.  I…I tried to save him, I did.”  Sorrow built back into her heart and she began to tremble as she saw the scene of him swamped by orcs as Túrin fled.  “I tried to pull him onto Lindarion…my horse but…but I wasn’t strong enough.  They…they got him.  I see it. I can still see it.  They slew him,” she said emphatically, grasping Idril’s arm.  “Don’t you understand?  I wasn’t strong enough.”

Idril shushed her gently. “We Gondolindrim have only fought one major battle since the founding of the city.  I cannot imagine what you have been through.  Please trust me.  I want to heal your mind, body and spirit of that pain.  We can do that for you.  Please trust me.”

Morelen narrowed her eyes and then nodded, relaxing, laying back down.  “Please help me,” she said and then choked up.  The dam that held her pain was crumbling.  The faces of everyone that she had failed danced before her. “It’s my fault.  Please help me.  I…I can’t…I can’t,” she started and then dug her nails into her neck.

“Shhhh, shhhh, stop,” Idril cooed as she held Morelen’s wrists and pulled them away from her neck. “Trust me, please,” she said and poured some of the water from the Eithel Nínui that now looked like a hearty tea. Idril squeezed some lemon juice into the drink and handed it to Morelen.

As she swallowed the brew it was like lightning shooting through her veins.  She inhaled sharply, her eyes shooting open wide.  For a moment it felt as if she were looking down on herself from the ceiling.  “I…that was…I feel good.  I feel renewed.  I was so tired.  I was consumed by…by my failings.  So many but I feel…thank you,” she stammered, her breathing calming.

“This is just the beginning of your healing, Lady Morelen.  This horror will be with you, shape who you are but it will not define you. Be patient with us and we will help you,” Idril said kindly, cupping her chin.  “Come, relax in the baths.  We believe in care for all of our people, especially those who protect us.  Your reputation as great elven warriors is known here.”

They walked to another room that was paneled in cedar and full of camphor scented steam.  Idril handed her a towel to sit on and then she hung her own robe on a peg outside the steam room before sliding into the tub, sloshing the water around.  “This one is just for ladies,” she said.  “There’s one for both next door, but I wanted to speak with you alone.  You fight and you are a leader amongst our people as a woman…what is that like?  We have only a handful of women who are in the ranks of the houses here.”

Morelen told her of her upbringing in the south along with tales about the Court of Ardor.  Then, about her journey and commitment to the Noldor in the north all the way to the disaster at Tumhalad.  In her mind she could see each failure, each fallen friend or king but it didn’t haunt her at the moment.  “I don’t feel as if I am the right one to lead.  I hurt people more than I help.”

Idril shook her head. “No, that’s not true,” she said in a melodious voice, that of a singer.  “My father and I have seen you, through the Palantír.  We watched you approach the hidden entrance.  We watched the major battles.  You fought courageously at every turn.  I would not have lasted a moment through what you faced, Morelen.  These are…impossible odds.  I fear that only the Valar can save us now.  And I am so sorry for Nargothrond and for King Orodreth.  The fall of your kingdom pushed us to have this council meeting. At first, we felt that we could ride it out in the hidden vale, but I fear that this is just an illusion.”

“I cannot say for certain, but we felt the same way in Nargothrond…that we could ride it out. Mistakes were made.  Security was just an illusion for us.  Listen to your feelings, Idril.”

The Princess nodded, thinking.  “I shall and thank you.  We hope to learn from the experience of your people.  Contained here in Tumladen, I fear that we lose…perspective.”

Morelen felt that their rapport was good and curiosity was getting the better of her.  “Princess, if I may be so bold, but I noticed something odd between you and your cousin.”

Idril tried to smile and then chuckled darkly.  “Oh, you noticed.  That’s very perceptive of you.  Yes…I believe that he…he wants to be with me, but he is my first cousin which prevents it…even if I wanted to be with him.  But he…but he gives me a…,” she was about to say and then stopped.  “I apologize, Lady Morelen, you are someone who is easy to talk to and I should not have said anything about this.”

Morelen inhaled sharply and sat forward.  “It’s quite all right, Idril.  You have shown us nothing but grace and hospitality.  We wish to be good guests.  You can tell me anything.”

Idril glanced around, seemingly nervous.  “I am glad to hear that.  I am sorry, Lady Morelen, I fear that Maeglin’s action may not have been accidental, but it is truly speculation on my part.  I receive an ill feeling from him and have spurned his advances for years now, but my father will not hear of it.  He is the son of his sister, Aredhel, and so is my cousin.  My aunt was poisoned by her…husband, Eöl, who was put to death, so my father has a soft spot for Maeglin.  He says that it’s just the playfulness of youth,” she said quickly and then looked down into the water.  “Oh, listen to me prattle on.  I’m sorry, I don’t normally speak like this.  It’s just been something that has been on my mind.  I hope our treatment of you is nothing less than perfect.”

Morelen grasped Idril’s hands.  “It has been perfect.  And thank you for trusting me.  I have spent much of my life running from the monsters of Morgoth and you have brought me peace.  I am very afraid that it will not last, but I feel it now.  I was truly prepared to charge Glaurung and die with honor.  I could not understand why Fingolfin did what he did, but I understand now.  The weight has been too much for me.  What Maeglin did was nothing.  I’ve already forgotten it.”

The Princess blushed, giving an awkward look.  “Thank you. I am…at a loss of how to approach this. Please let me be responsible for your care.  Gondolin is a place of healing and magic, and we want that to be your experience.”

Caladiel slipped between the silver curtains and slid into the tub.  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, inhaling the fragrance on the water. “I needed some company.”  She bowed her head.  “Princess, I am Caladiel, from the south of Middle Earth. I served The Three of Ty-Ar-Rana and now I serve your father, King Turgon.  Morelen is like…my older sister.”  The pain from losing Tintallo seemed to have dulled, and the young elf seemed calmer, more relaxed.  

Caladiel described the south and the struggle there and Morelen went on to talk about the Dagor Bragollach and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, two of the most profound horrors that she had survived, and it didn’t feel so raw anymore.  The mere mention of Fingolfin and Fingon would choke her up in the past. Caladiel gasped.  “I…I had no idea of the savagery and murder.  The horror of the dragon and the balrogs are…are…we are blessed that we do not face that in the south.”

Idril spoke of losing her mother in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.  She had fallen into the freezing water and Elenwë dove in after her, but both became trapped under the ice.  Turgon followed but could only save Idril.  The Princess choked up for a moment, wiping her eyes.  “I can still see her, you know, drifting lifeless under the ice.  All of the healing in the world cannot take that from me.  She died for me, you know,” Idril said, sniffling.  She forced a smile.  “Enough of that.  I will make you all sad again and that would ruin all that I have done.”  She went on with the founding of the kingdom in the hidden vale and the return of Aredhel and her murder by Eöl.  “There were rumors that Eöl forced himself on her or enchanted her in some way.  I know not what will ultimately happen from that tragedy, but I fear that it will not end well.”

Morelen snorted.  “That seems to be the battle cry of our company…’it will not end well.’  I understand what it is like to feel adrift on the threads of fate.  The more that I try to exert control, the less of it that I am left with.”

“That is always the case, isn’t it,” Idril answered with a resigned shrug.  “We ladies are just leaves on the wind, at the mercy of decisions that are made for us and forces beyond our control,” she said sadly.  “Well, we will take what solace that we can and what control that we are allowed.”  She rose and took a pitcher of some fruit juice.  “Here, I think that you will enjoy this,” she said, pouring glasses.  “Our brewmaster creates some fabulous drinks here.”  She raised her glass and the others followed, draining theirs in one long gulp.

It had a sweet taste of apples and blueberries with slight bite of alcohol, and it was heaven, going down smoothly and giving them a lightheaded feeling.  “So, what about this council meeting?” Morelen asked, curious about what could happen in her new home.

Idril explained that the arrival of Tuor was like a lightning bolt with the message that he and Voronwë delivered from Ulmo.  Quiet debate simmered for a few months before the issue exploded with the fall of Nargothrond.  “Tuor is growing in the heart of the King, and he is quickly becoming like another son. Somehow, I fear that my father ultimately wanted a boy,” she said with her thumb on her lips.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s nonsense,” Morelen countered but there seemed to be some truth in Idril’s words. There seemed to be some parallels between Turgon and Orodreth; both only had a daughter as the heir and both became enamored of a visiting man, who became like a son.  It was a chilling thought now that she was hypervigilant over any threat to their safety.

“That is kind of you to say,” the Princess said warmly.  “I am sure that you will be invited to the council as you will have much information about the fate of Nargothrond.”

Come what may, it was a moment of peace in a sea of endless war.  Morelen tried to picture the fallen, the disaster at Tumhalad and the horror of Glaurung but the images were hazy, distant, replaced by the warm embrace of the steaming water and the scent of cedar, pine and rose petals.  It was truly magical.

Their quarters were easily as luxurious as they were in Nargothrond, cozy cabins that were furnished in the refined style of the kingdom, elegant but not ostentatious.  Elves were nothing if not incredible woodworkers. Tables and chairs were crafted without nails, they were so finely cut.  Intricate carvings were handmade on the surfaces of the wood, depicting the heavens, the vale, and elven culture.  Woven tapestries adorned the walls, showing the arrival of the elves in Tumladen and the building of the city.  One had the image of Arien and the Sun, opposite of Tilion and the Moon.  Those tapestries gave Morelen pause, reminding her of the battle in the south and The Court of Ardor’s mad quest.  She touched the forms of Arien and Tilion, a woman with shining eyes, clad only in flame and a man with a powerful bow, illuminated in silver.  These were the Maiar that she would fight to defend.  She wondered if they were even aware of the danger that they were in.

“Thinking about the south?” Notaldo asked her.  There hadn’t been much time for any real communication between them since they rode from Nargothrond.

She nodded while not taking her eyes off of the tapestries.  “Yes, I long for the peace of the south and I miss Silmani.  I hope she is doing well with The Three.  They will no doubt be worried and I wish we could send them some word of our survival.  I fear that King Turgon will lock the city down in tomorrow’s council meeting.  If that happens, I wonder if we will ever be able to get word out.”

He held up a parchment. “We received an official invitation to attend and speak tomorrow.  I’m glad that our word will count for something and we will make our concerns known. Given that, we should do our best to integrate into Gondolin.  This is our home now,” he said cautiously, weighing his words.

“Good,” she said, now looking at him.  “I think I’ve made friends with Idril.  She shared somethings about the council and their family…dynamics,” she added and then told him about the conversation.  She opened a closet in the bedroom to find robes and other clothing neatly hung and folded for them.  She held a green dress over her form.  “I’m impressed.  These are in our sizes.  Our hosts have left nothing to chance.”  Old habit would have her then tease him with different outfits, luring him to bed, but she just didn’t feel it.  Though feeling refreshed and healed from the deep emotional scars of war, she also felt numb. Perhaps it would go away in time.

On the evening of the council meeting, heralds came to escort them to the Place of the Fountain, where the King’s Tower and Royal Palace stood.  Morelen wore a luxurious robe of silver and sky blue with a silver eight-pointed star woven on the breast with Notaldo in a similar robe. They met Líreno, Ehtyarder, Caladiel and Tyalro on the way with their own escorts as they walked down the Alley of Roses.  In turn, they were joined by Fendomë and Aegnor, two smiths who had worked with Celebrimbor in Nargothrond, opting to go north with the chance of finding Gondolin, while the great smith and grandson of Fëanor opted to go south to the Havens of Sirion.  The two smiths hoped to collaborate with Enerdhil, the greatest smith of this kingdom and a former apprentice of Fëanor’s.

The wide boulevard was lined with green hedges that were flowering with bright roses, white, golden, pink, silver, green, blue and, of course, red.  Morelen touched one.  “May I?” she asked their escorts and they nodded.  She smiled and picked one that was metallic silver.  “How is this possible?” she asked as she pinned the flower to her robe and the cut stem on the bush grew back instantly into another flower.  She gasped and her escorts smiled knowingly.  Caladiel took a golden rose and did the same.

They strode past the House of the Heavenly Arch where Egalmoth, head of the house, joined them.  He was clad in deep blue robes that were patterned like stars, twinkling silver gems woven into the fabric.  He was rumored to be the greatest archer of the realm and had the powerful physique of a warrior under the dark hair of a Noldorin lord.  The house itself was the height of elven architecture, smooth white walls with ceramic tiles for the roof in sea blue, making the structure appear to be the ocean from above.  Egalmoth nodded pleasantly to them.  “Greetings, riders of Fingon,” he said with a smile and introduced himself with a flowing bow.  “We have heard of your exploits even in the Hidden Realm and, I must say that I’ve been impressed.”

“Thank you,” Notaldo answered with a bow of his own.  “We shall never forget the hospitality of your people, Egalmoth,” he added.

“We welcome you indeed. I believe that your arrival is a boon for Gondolin.  And, if you don’t mind, I would like to petition that your riders be incorporated into the House of the Heavenly Arch.  I believe that our love of archery will complement each other.  That is, if you don’t mind,” he said as an offering.

“Not so fast,” a voice sounded from behind, along with swift footsteps catching up.  It was another Noldorin lord, dressed in gray robes with a deep gray cloak.  “Lord Egalmoth would steal you for the House of the Heavenly Arch when your life would be so much better in the House of the Swallow.  We are also great archers, and I am the swifter shot if Egalmoth is only slightly more accurate,” the lord said and then bowed low.  “Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, at your service.”

They came upon the King’s Square that overlooked the Place of the Well that began at the Arch of Ingwë. Morelen was reminded of Ty-Ar-Rana and Gavan, the city abandoned by the Vanyar on their march west through Middle Earth.  Great oaks and poplar trees filled the Place of the Well as leaves and flowers floated down onto the magnificent park that was ringed by fountains, arches and elegant gazebos for couples and families to enjoy.  The Square was ringed by lifelike statues of the great among the Eldar; Finwë, Fingolfin, Elenwë, Argon, Fingon and Aredhel.  The statues were so well crafted it seemed as if the eyes were following people and the smiles real and spontaneous.  Morelen stared at the sculpture of Fingon, half expecting him to laugh and challenge them all to a game of Coron Mittarion.  It made her heart ache but only a little this time.

Just beyond was the Road of Pomps that led to the Place of the Gods where great silver and gold sculptures of the Valar stood, looking into the open temple that led to a bridge to the Royal Palace.  A giant golden lily on the pond symbolized their patron, Ulmo.  All the while the sun shone down, warming the chilly boulevard as they climbed the marble steps into the Square, a wide park that was filled with Ivy and Wisteria with ponds that were fed by fountains of marble, shaped in many exotic forms.  The highlight of the square were two massive sculptures of trees, crafted by Turgon himself, shaped like the Two Trees of Valinor, these being called Glingal and Belthil, giving off a light of their own.  It was simply magnificent.

The nobles and the heads of the Eleven Houses of Gondolin had gathered in the square to discuss and debate the matter that Tuor had brought before the kingdom.  The young man stood on the throng, appearing more than a little impatient.  Things were different for humans, short lived and always in a hurry.  Elves took the long view of things.  Morelen scratched her head.  Perhaps that was not always an effective way to approach the world.  The Eldar…the Caliquendi saw the world in centuries, sometimes millennia.  In Valinor, very little changed and nothing grew old.  Now, the world was accelerating.  Morelen was only a few hundred years old, still considered very young for an adult elf.  In under 40 years since the Dagor Bragollach, the everything around them was unrecognizable.

Turgon stood with Maeglin and Idril, amid the heads of the houses and the other nobles of the realm. He saw Egalmoth, Duilin and the faction from Nargothrond and ushered them over.  “Join us, please,” he said loudly.  “I’m glad you accepted the invitation.  This is an important matter for the kingdom, and we hope that you can shed some light on the situation beyond the encircling mountains.”  He gestured to Tuor and then clapped him on the back.  “Please give the council your story of the word of Ulmo.”

The young man inhaled deeply, looking out at the audience and then recited his search for Gondolin and his journey to Vinyamar, the abandoned city of Turgon on the shores of the Great Sea.  There, he found arms and armor, left for him by Ulmo and he brought forth the shield that Ulmo gave him that bore a swan on a field of blue.  There were gasps and murmurs in the crowd as this was the first time most of them had seen this or heard the tale.  “Then, during a powerful storm, Ulmo rose from the ocean, a great figure, clad in seaweed and shells, holding his mighty trident,” Tuor continued, “and he bade me to seek the Hidden Kingdom and deliver a warning that nothing stays hidden forever and that the Gondolindrim should abandon the city and seek refuge to the south and reestablish the kingdom there.  To safely journey here, the Lord of Waters gave me this,” he said and then donned a shimmering cloak and caused his form to fade into near ghostly nothingness.

Turgon nodded as Tuor removed the cloak.  “Your words are measured and most grave and cannot be ignored.  Lord Ulmo has been ever gracious to us.  However, this is a monumental decision, and we must entertain and debate all courses of action.  Now is the time that we will hear all of the facts at our disposal.  I wish to hear from the people of Nargothrond.  Lord Notaldo…riders of Fingon, please share your experiences and concerns with the council.”

Notaldo gave a short speech about the riders and the battles that they fought as Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Egalmoth and Duilin nodded their approval.  These were all great warriors who fought at the Nirnaeth.  He then spoke about the disaster at Tumhalad as the council murmured and eyes opened wide.  “Morgoth can no longer be contested in open battle.  For as many orcs as we slew, ten more replaced each one. It was as if the ocean were turned against us.  And Glaurung could not be stopped by any means that we had in our arsenal.” Morelen listened with pride at her husband’s words.  He had come a long way from the carefree jokester centuries ago.  But she did miss that part of him.

Voices of concern rose up from the council, and mouths and eyes showed horror as Turgon put his hands out to settle them down.  Morelen then raised her hand as she was bursting to add her experience.  The King pointed to her.  “Lady Morelen, please, speak your mind.”

She felt nervous at first but had to let her words out.  “I fought Glaurung…many centuries ago and I was terrified…still am.  From our first encounter, centuries ago, he has grown to monstrous size.  He has weak spots, but my last arrow barely made him blink.  The power of his fire was devastating.  Hundreds of our finest soldiers were no match for him and are now ash and bone on the field.  No number of spears, swords or arrows will stop him in open battle.  And the number of balrogs on the field was legion.  In no way should I be the one to decide or vote on this, but I fear that our only hope will lie in staying one step ahead of Morgoth until the Valar can be convinced to intervene.”

Turgon thought on her words for a moment.  “I knew that I saw something in the riders on the field all those years ago.  Please tell us what you think brought about the fall of Nargothrond.”

She was catching her stride now.  She never thought of herself as a public speaker or someone who could give intelligent input for a council, but she was determined to try.  “I will admit to being a fool,” she said to gasps.  “Túrin came to Nargothrond like a storm of fire. We hid successfully for many years, but this weighed heavily on morale.  We struck back from the shadows, creating fear in our enemies but we longed for the security of the Siege of Angband.  He offered us pride and strength again.  Nargothrond would be great.  And he showed that it could happen, so we built the bridge to conduct offensive action. We believed that we could stand, sword to sword, in the face of Morgoth’s power, fury and hate.  We threw away all caution and fell in lock step with anything that he said,” she said sadly and then took another deep breath.

“Even as the Battle of Tumhalad unfolded,” she said, “Líreno knew that something was amiss.  They had scouted the Woods of Nuath and saw a sizeable force there, led by Glaurung and we were in danger of being surrounded. Still, Túrin persisted in the notion that the day could be won if only we were fast enough even with Glaurung bearing down on us.  He had me convinced that the battle could still be won.  Then I saw Orodreth fall under waves of the enemy while Túrin took Gwindor and fled.  Just like I saw Fingon and Fingolfin fall,” she added, her voice choking for a moment before looking at Tuor with some suspicion.  “Be careful who you listen to,” she finished as the heads of the houses weighed her speech.

“These are grave words and thoughts,” Turgon answered.  “I will open the floor to others who can share their opinions,” he said as council members raised hands and spoke, one way or the other.  Debate raged for another hour before Turgon quieted the council. “Let us give all of this information some time to digest and we will reconvene soon.  But I feel that we will be justified now to shut the gates until further notice and I would put it to a vote.  All in favor?” he asked and nine of the house leaders raised hands, along with Tuor.  “All opposed?” came next and Maeglin of the House of the Mole and Salgant of the House of the Harp raised their hands.  Salgant seemed to be an odd one, overly primped with finely styled hair and an unusually chubby build for an elf.  His red and silver robes were beyond luxurious with overly intricate designs of geometric patterns woven into the fabric.  He looked to be more of a bard or merchant than the leader of a house.

Turgon clapped his hands. “The vote is decided and I concur with the results.  The gates will be shut as of today and the guard on the gates will be maintained in this time of vigilance.  The final matter for the day will be how the forces of Nargothrond will be incorporated into the city.  I will entertain petitioners and then have input from the leaders of Nargothrond.”

Egalmoth and Duilin immediately raised their hands with each petitioning to bring the riders into their houses.  Glorfindel and Ecthelion also petitioned and arguments ensued, Turgon hearing the debate. Each house had excellent points with Notaldo desiring to keep the Telepta together and all of the riders if possible.

“Thank you for the input,” Turgon told the council.  “I will decree that the riders will join the House of the Fountain under Ecthelion, but I wish them to train with all petitioning houses so that their battle experience can be shared.  Having fought in every major engagement in Beleriand, they have a lot to offer us. The infantry of Nargothrond will be divided into the other three houses along with the Houses of the Pillar, the Tower of Snow and the Tree.”  He then raised his hands in blessing.  “May the Valar watch over us as we conclude this council meeting.”  He gestured to the riders.  “Everyone, please remain for we will have a lament for our lost brothers and sisters of Nargothrond, which Idril has prepared for us.”

Notaldo smiled at the riders.  “I am satisfied with this.  I know that this is not Nargothrond, but this is our new home, and we will serve this house with honor and valor,” he said as he clapped them on the backs, one by one.

Ecthelion approached them with a broad smile.  “I heard that,” he said, “and I am proud to have you in our house.  We are located in the south of the city just past the…House of the Harp,” he added with an odd inflexion when saying ‘house.’  One might get the impression that he lacked respect for Salgant.  “Please settle in and you may stop in at the house to be oriented to our customs and training.”  He shook each of their hands.  “I truly look forward to working with you and I want you to remain as a cohesive unit. We have very little cavalry, as you may gather and it would be good to have a very mobile unit.”

Duilin and Egalmoth wandered by next.  “Our loss is his gain,” Duilin said in jest about Ecthelion.  “You could not have done better though, and we look forward to testing our bows against yours.”  He looked over to Morelen.  “So, it’s true that you’ve shot Glaurung, huh?  I’ll bet that stung.”

She shrugged.  “The first time but this past time I think I just annoyed him.”

Egalmoth grinned. “Still, it’s more than any of us have done.  I heard you’ve fought a balrog too…Úruvaiwa.”

“It was…just before Gothmog and Lungorthin slew Fingon.”

They all nodded in silence, understanding the pain that the memory brought up.  Another elf approached them, wearing a smith’s smock over a heavily muscled body that was taut as a drum.  His face was grim beneath a mop of black hair and behind his eyes was a world of pain and suffering…and hate.  He made a curt bow, his hands fidgety.  “Welcome to the city,” he said plainly and without emotion. “I am Rog of the House of the Hammer of Wrath.  We look forward to learning how you kill the minions of Morgoth.  It is…all that we live for now.”

Ecthelion gestured to the elf.  “Rog and his entire house are escapees from Angband, tortured and humiliated at the hands of Morgoth and his evil.  We welcome them and their fury in battling the Dark Lord.”

Rog nodded.  “It is better to die than to fall into the hands of Morgoth as thralls.  All of Idril’s healing can only do so much for us.  Best you remember that,” he said, his face and eyes intense and vigilant. “I am sorry for those of Nargothrond who will suffer that fate.  There is little hope for them.”

Morelen felt a chill run down her spine as she had a vision of the citizens of Nargothrond being led in chains to Angband and there was a snippet of an image of Finduilas pinned to a tree by a spear, her eyes open and unblinking, her body battered and abused. Was it real?  If so, perhaps she was better off dead.

“All minions and spawn of Morgoth must burn and rot,” Notaldo said with uncharacteristic spite. “We will avenge those people.”

“I’ll not be taken alive,” Morelen said emphatically.  “The orcs that we captured said I would be used for breeding stock for better orcs. It would be better to die.”

Rog grunted sourly. “You are correct, my lady.  It was…horrific.  With Idril’s efforts I don’t feel it as much, but I still see it. I originally believed that elves would lay down their lives if…forced to do things against their will but Morgoth has his…ways.  It was how he created the orcs in times long past.  Between pain, fear and deception, you begin to want what he wants.  Evil never sleeps and it never tires.”  He sighed heavily though his jaw was still taut, his eyes darting around as if threats were everywhere.  “But enough of my sourness.  I apologize if I set you ill at ease.  It is my way now.  But lo! Idril is about to begin her lament for your people,” he said, lowering his head.  “It will be our way of honoring Nargothrond.”

On the stage, the Princess looked up to the sky as the sun set and stars first appeared.  She let flow her silver voice, ethereal, enchanting, as her maids vocalized in somber notes, providing a chorus to her lyrics.

“In gwidh ristennen, the bonds cut,

I fae narchannen, the spirit broken,

I lach Nargothrond ed, the flame of Nargothrond has,

Ardhon gwannen, left this world,

Nargothrond a Nargothrond, Nargothrond O Nargothrond,

Ú-renniathach, no more will you,

Galu nad lû e-govaned, thrive under heaven,”

Morelen wept in spite of her emotional numbness, but this was cathartic.  The pain of the last forty years weighed heavily on her spirit. The music was heavenly, inspired, no doubt, by the Ainur.  The tribute to the fallen Noldor and their friends was nothing less than perfect.  The riders held hands and then embraced, sad and bent but not broken.  She looked up at the Tower of the King and the palaces next door and thought of the city of Kirnak in Taaliraan.  The architecture and stonemasonry were identical.  It was a comforting feeling.  Perhaps yet another new life could be made here.  Perhaps they could one day be called Gondolindrim.

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company - Black

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50)  The Darin Tesarath – Year of the Sun 499 Nénimë (February)

Fëatur (female) The Illusionist

Within the Great Hall of the Hold of Angkirya, Fëatur’s masterpiece had come to fruition, and her order had come to life.  The Darin Tesarath was now a reality and would be fielding their first operation.  Dimly illuminated by a few candles, the powerful Illusionist crossed her arms in satisfaction, the sleeves of her black Tesarath robe snapping.  Even through the robes it was easy to see her taut, wiry muscles, the result of millennia of training in hand-to-hand combat.  Beyond her reputation for savagery and cruelty in close in fighting, she was a powerful and feared mystic, able to twist, bend and break minds.  As with many of the Noldor, she had an ethereal beauty that was tainted by a severe expression and a perpetual scowl or smirk. She had let her blonde hair out today instead of the usual tight bun as part of the ceremony for the order to seek out, seduce, co-opt, disrupt, destroy and assassinate the enemies of the Court.  Her loyalty to Ardana was absolute and any showing less than that devotion to the Astrologer would feel her wrath.

Fëatur stood on the dais of green marble before her acolytes, her golden amber eyes surveying the ranks of fanatical elven women who would bring darkness and fire to the south. This was a sisterhood of steel.  She tilted her chin up in her arrogant, petulant manner, pleased at the weapon that she had forged.

Angkirya was originally delved by the Naugrim, one of the Seven Fathers ruling that ancient kingdom, but it was long abandoned when Fëatur discovered it in the Year 53 on an expedition to determine the feasibility of ruling the south.  The dwarves of that realm might have been part of the Blacklocks or the Stonefoots, but Fëatur could not care less about that.  She brought in both dwarven and elven stone masons and smiths to repair and expand the underground halls.  It took more than a century to complete the work, blending old and new, the original dwarven construction being solid and dour while the newer masonry was lighter and more flamboyant.

The Great Hall of her hold was mostly of the ancient dwarven construction with a floor of deep green marble with massive, load-bearing columns of black marble veined in silver.  Newer masonry added a tree-like design to the upper portion of the columns.  Mosaics made of mithril, gold and precious gems adorned the walls, depicting aspects of dwarven life; mining, smelting, smithing and brewing.  For some reason, Fëatur particularly enjoyed one that showed dwarves drinking, holding mugs while froth flowed down their beards.

As the hooded acolytes remained kneeling in supplication, Fëatur turned and sat on her dark green laen throne that was as massive as her power and her ego.  She settled into the plush green cushions, her arms on the oak armrests and the throne began to glow a faint green, a symbol of her magical strength. She waved a hand over an orb on the armrest and magical lanterns burst into life, filling the hall with light. “Arise, my sisters of darkness, my sisters of steel,” she called boldly and the women stood as one, eyes straight and focused, a testament to their training and fanaticism.  “Today is an auspicious day for the Order.  You will be dispatched to seek out members of the Alliance.  You are to recruit, spy on, bend, break or even kill them by whatever means you feel are necessary.  Once you leave, you will only have your wits, your training and your sisters to support you. The skills that I have imparted to you will guide you to victory!” she called and the women let out a war cry that shook the columns.  “Excellent!” she said as she flicked her hands past her hair and the acolytes shed their hoods as one with a snap in the air.  “We are the Sisters of the Mind,” she added proudly, surveying the hall of Noldorin, Sindarin and Silvan women.  That was the meaning of ‘Darin Tesarath’ in Veyus, the secret language of the Order that she created.

She stood before one of the Noldor and bore her eyes into the woman.  “Pereldis, tell me of your findings,” she commanded.  Everything about the Illusionist was intense.  The acolyte had been spying on none other than Rilia, a powerful member of the Court.  The upstart mage had been maneuvering to become Ardana’s favorite, and this could not be borne.  As devoted as Fëatur was to the cause, her other life goals were to see Rilia and Gorthaur humbled.

Pereldis, a woman of lovely features and a soft, demure bearing, bowed her head.  “My lady, I am pleased to tell you that Rilia and her ladies have successfully infiltrated the Kingdom of Taaliraan and are considered part of life in the capitol of Kirnak.  They are even…friendly with King Eldanar and his family,” she announced and then a faint, sinister grin spread across her ruby lips.  “And I have found that they have seduced men associated with The Three and are actively searching for the location of Chrys Menelrana’s manor.” She inhaled, proud of her intelligence.

Fëatur smiled and leaned in to kiss Pereldis on the mouth with sensuous intensity.  “Well done, my acolyte,” she said and then there was sudden movement where Fëatur drew a hidden kynac from her sleeve and stabbed upwards at the acolyte’s throat.  Pereldis moved her neck away and drew her own kynac, the two weapons meeting with a clang between them, neither holding an advantage.  Fëatur nodded with fierce pride.  “Well done, my First Acolyte.  You are more than ready for any surprises.  I task you and three sisters of your choice to…turn these men’s attentions to you to learn the location of our enemy before any of our rivals.  Rilia’s ladies are sensuous and flamboyant, but we are cool, calm, measured and methodical.  Get the information however you choose, be it love or death.”

Pereldis knelt with a faint, demure smile.  “I chose Natindë, Nurtalien and Danith,” she said, rising and gesturing to two Noldorin women and one Sindarin, who came forward and knelt before Fëatur.

The Illusionist reached out and pulled them up.  “We will do great things together,” she said and then gestured to the rest of the acolytes. “We are an order of guile, stealth, power and strength.  As our Lord Morgoth commands, there is no room for weakness, no room for failure,” she continued, walking among them, eyeing each woman suspiciously.  Some began to sweat, some trembled.  Fëatur’s hand shot out and seized one Noldorin woman. “Kukuanis, you were the weakest of acolytes in all of our training, physically and mentally.  I will give you one final chance to prove yourself,” she said with an evil grin, stepping back and drawing a kynac from her sleeve that glistened with poison.  Fëatur licked the side of the blade and giggled with glee.

The acolyte quailed, her eyes huge.  “I…I cannot defeat you, my lady.  I have no chance.”

The Illusionist relaxed from her combat stance and sighed.  “Fine.  Here, you can strike first,” she said snidely as one would to an idiot child, letting her arms drop and closing her eyes.  Several moments passed.  “Any time now…”

Kukuanis grit her teeth and focused her mind at her leader, sending a mental attack to which Fëatur merely twitched.  “That tickles,” the Illusionist announced condescendingly.  “Here, let me show you what mentalism is really about,” she continued and held out her open hand and then snapped it closed.  Kukuanis screamed and collapsed to the floor, writhing and jerking, unable to control her body.  The horrific sound of bones snapping came next as the woman’s limbs contorted unnaturally and the screaming went higher.  “Are you learning now?” Fëatur asked.

“Yes!  Yes, please!  No more!  Please!”

“As you wish,” Fëatur said sweetly, reopening her hand and the acolyte went limp, sobbing quietly. The Illusionist stood over her and sniffed.  “What a shame, you’ve wet yourself.  Here, let me help you get out of that mess,” she said and flicked her hand out, tearing the black robes off of the woman with her mind, leaving her bare on the floor in a puddle.  “These will need to be cleaned, no doubt.”  She tossed them to another acolyte.  Fëatur returned to her throne and sat.  “Now, come to me and all will be forgiven.  I’ll even have Yavëkamba heal you,” she said, extending her hand in friendship.

Kukuanis crawled painfully, weeping with each movement, her limbs twisted and useless as her sisters watched, emotionless.  Fëatur snorted impatiently.  “Faster. I don’t have all day.  Your sisters constantly waited for you, constantly cleaned up for you.  I don’t think that was fair at all, do you?”

Snot ran down the woman’s nose, and she shook her head weakly.  “No, my lady.  It was unfair.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Fëatur said and then raised her nose to think.  “Now, we should introduce a new wrinkle to this exercise. I think you should apologize to your sisters.  If they accept, I’ll let you continue to crawl like the worm you are.  If not, then we’ll see.”

Kukuanis rolled over painfully, trying to raise her broken arms and twisted fingers.  “Please my sisters.  I’m so sorry.  Please forgive me!  Please!” she begged.

“What say you?” Fëatur asked politely.  “Do you accept her apology?  Yay or nay?”

As one, the women shouted, “Nay!”

“Well, there it is. I’m very sorry but your sisters have spoken.  So, let’s see.  Since you have always been slow, this will now become a race to motivate you.  If you can reach me before Pereldis does, my offer stands.  Fail and your sisters will teach you a lesson that you will never forget.  Pereldis, are you ready?  Oh wait, this is so unfair.  Pereldis, start from across the room and sit with your back to us.  Go on.  I’ll even give a ten second head start.  There, now that’s more fair.”

Kukuanis continued to sob but pushed herself along as fast as she could along the floor, grunting in pain and huffing with every foot traveled.  Fëatur picked at her nails for ten seconds and then snapped her fingers. Pereldis rose and easily jogged over past the crippled woman and put her boot on the back of her head.

Fëatur sighed.  “Oh well.  You tried and it wasn’t enough…again.  Acolytes, teach her a lesson, if you will,” she commanded and the other women drew their kynacs and surrounded Kukuanis with slashing noises and screams.

“No!  No!  Please, no!” she cried until there was just weak gurgling.

“Her name meant ‘dove’,” the Illusionist said derisively.  “Hrmph, how appropriate.”  She looked down at the blood and quivering body.  “And clean that up and remove that thing. Have Yavëkamba dispose of it.  Maybe she has some medical experiments to do or something,” she said in a disgusted voice, waving her hand dismissively as acolytes carried Kukuanis away and began scrubbing the blood from the green marble floor.

Fëatur smiled, her power secure and her reputation for cruelty intact.  “Let this be a lesson to all!” she cried out.  “There is no room for weakness here.  We are all Sisters of the Mind.  Go forth with strength and power or I will be looking for the next dove to demonstrate on.”

Year of the Sun 499 Súlìmë (March)

Fëatur (male)

In the conference room of Chrys’ manor in Tumlindë, mariners from the north approached the Alliance, handing Fëatur a rolled-up parchment.  Their faces were grave and serious.  Círdan sighed deeply.  “I am very sorry.”

Fëatur unrolled the parchment slowly, fear building in his heart.  What had happened?  How bad could it be?  He read and his lower lip began to quiver.  “What?” he exclaimed in horror, clutching a parchment in shaking hands. “Why are we just hearing about this now?”  He had been going mad with worry for more than three years since they lost all contact with Morelen.  He fell back into a stiff-backed chair and groaned, putting his face in his hands.  “Nargothrond has fallen,” he told Chrys and the members of the Guild.  “I have no idea if she is alive or dead…or any of them.”

Círdan and Captain Ferui lowered their heads.  “We are sorry that it took us this long to reach you,” the Shipwright told them.  “After the fall of the kingdom and the death of King Orodreth we had our hands full with the refugees.  And I have more bad news.  There will be no more shipments of arms and armor.  We barely have enough at the Havens of Sirion for the people there.”

Fëatur trembled for a moment as Chrys grasped him by the shoulder in support.  “I…I know.  I’m sorry that I snapped at you.  You didn’t deserve that.  I…I thank you for coming and delivering this news,” he said, nodding stiffly.

Lysa sagged, her hand on her mouth and Lyaan caught her.  “Caladiel…Morelen…,” Lysa whispered.  “Is there nothing else you can tell us.”

Ferui held out his hands. “I don’t want to get your hopes up as the situation has been confused for years but…but some of the survivors told us that a number of the people of Nargothrond sought out Gondolin and Doriath but we have no more information than that.  And since most of them are Noldorin, it won’t be Doriath in my opinion.”

Círdan nodded his agreement.  “We have lost most of our ability to gather and spread information, but we have one bit of hope, but it does not pertain to Morelen or our friends.  Glaurung was slain,” he said to murmurs of surprise. “The dragon laid waste to Brethil and Túrin Turambar went forth and hid in a gorge, stabbing the beast through the heart as he passed.  It is said that Túrin died afterwards with his sister, but we don’t know any details of that.  Other than Glaurung’s death, most of this is rumor and speculation.  We do know from escapees from Angband that the dragon sired many young. I fear for our future in the north.”

Chrys cocked his head. “Are you saying…?”

“Yes,” the Shipwright continued.  “I am asking that, if worse comes to worse, may we bring our people here to the south? I know it will only be a respite from Morgoth’s wrath, but it will buy us time.  I am convinced that our only hope truly lies in the west.”

Fëatur bolted up. “Of course!  Of course,” he blurted out, looking at Chrys and the other, who nodded.  “You will be more than welcome, my friends.”

Ferui rolled his eyes but smiled.  “From dragons and balrogs to the destruction of the sun and moon.  From the frying pan into the fire.  Thank you.  If that comes to be, you will have staunch allies to fight the Court.”

Chrys shook their hands. “We could ask no more of you and would welcome you with open arms,” he said, a smile breaking out in spite of the bad news of Nargothrond.

Lysa had recovered and touched Fëatur on the arm.  “And you…I know what you’re thinking.  You are not going north right now.  Our fight is here and the time of the ritual will be upon us soon.  We need you, Fëatur.  You will have to trust that they made it to Gondolin.  How I miss the days when commerce and communication were swift and reliable.”

Fëatur chuckled in spite of his overwhelming worry.  “You are right, of course,” he said, turning back to the mariners.  “But please, please let us know anything that you can find out.  We would be forever in your debt.”  He had to get word to Yavëkamba.  She had to know.  Maybe she might have more information.  Things had been a little more relaxed since she moved to Angkirya as she no longer had Gorthaur looking over her shoulder and his sister was far too consumed by her obsessive internal politics within the Court.  His sister’s disgust of Gorthaur and Rilia could be exploited, but how?

Chrys gestured the mariners to the dining hall.  “You have had a long journey.  Please enjoy the hospitality of Tumlindë.  Aelrie and Miriani are already preparing supper.  We would be honored if you would join us.”

Círdan grinned.  “Of course.  I’m starving.”  He then gave a sly expression, half of his mouth curled up.  “Let me guess…chicken?”

Chrys snickered. “It’s like you never left.”

As the group went to the dining hall, Fëatur detoured to his chambers to compose a message for Yavë. Their clandestine system had worked well so far; never the same method twice in a row, different routes and different carriers each time in a seemingly random pattern.  He practically had an aviary and a menagerie of birds, beasts and insects to deliver messages.  In the absence of his loved ones, he cared for each of his couriers like family.

It had been almost two years since they saw each other and his heart ached.  He walked over to his windowsill where several sparrows peeped at him in protest.  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, my friends,” he said apologetically.  “You’ve been waiting for me patiently.  I had a meeting, but I’m here now.”  He poured more seed into a feeder that rustled into a trough that the birds pecked at rapidly.  “I have a message for you to take.  You know what to do,” he said and whispered his missive to them.  They peeped happily and fluttered away.  While he didn’t want Yavë to worry, she had to know.  And he hoped that she could tell him more.

He sighed as he placed leaves into the moth and butterfly enclosure, watching them munch on the greens. A cocoon hung from one branch that he had been watching all week, anxiously awaiting the hatching.  His mind wandered back to having Yavë and Morelen meet and to their time in Tumlindë and Ty-Ar-Rana.  It was magical.  It was the highlight of his life.  His family together and happy.  Would it ever come to be again?  Was Morelen even alive?  An image flashed in his mind of her, rotting on the field of Tumhalad and then chained in the dungeons of Angband, tortured and screaming.  And if Morgoth ever found out who she really was…  “Stop it.  Stop it!” he told himself, slapping his own face to dispel the image.  “It’s not true and you know it!  She’s alive…she has to be.”  What would they tell Silmani and Idhrendiel?  They had to know as they were well into adolescence and no longer children.

He forced himself to head to the dining hall, but he had lost his appetite.  Chrys was already digging into his chicken as the others discussed matters of Middle Earth.  Aelrie ushered Fëatur to a seat.  “Come, come, the food will get cold.  You’re wasting away again.  Come eat!” she commanded and he sat as she spooned a healthy serving of chicken on rice onto a plate for him.  “Not a scrap leftover,” she said, pointing her finger at him, “or you’re doing the dishes.”

Lyaan gestured to Círdan. “All right, tell us again.  Where did you sail?  This is incredible,” he said and Elerior of the Air Element nodded enthusiastically.

The Shipwright shrugged, his hands splayed outward.  “It’s been a long time, but we once circumnavigated Middle Earth.  There is a vast realm in the far northeast…Helkanen it is called in Sindarin and is ruled by women.  They are Avari Moriquendi of the Hisildi People or the Dusk Elves, who descended from the Tatyar and the Nelyar.  Their realm covers much of the coast from the tropics to the tundra. Now…now it is rumored that they have a lake called Khelkeneni in their tongue.  I believe that is Cuiviénen, our birthplace…or what is left of it after the War of Powers that damaged the land so deeply.”

Lysa grinned.  “Ruled by women.  I think that is wise.  We would have less horror if Middle Earth were led that way.”

“Now, it’s not a kingdom like we would understand here,” Ferui added.  “They were originally ruled by a guy they called the God King, Túvo, a fearsome sorcerer so they told us.  The Hisildi said that he ruled by fear with an iron fist, providing tribute to Morgoth from the east.  Well, his daughter, Lúcewen, rose up against him, leading a rebellion of the Avar and the tribes of petty dwarves and overthrew him in the Battle of Palisor, a few years after the rising of the sun, where he fled and no one knows where the heck he went.”

“So,” Círdan continued, “Lúcewen…governs…?  Advises? I really don’t know how to describe it. It’s like a loose conglomeration of Hisildi tribes, the Falmari, the Umanyari and the Penni, that really do whatever they want provided that the come together when she calls.  But the beaches…  You won’t believe the shells and the seafood there.”

“And the women!” Ferui blurted.  “They love to bathe in the ocean with nothing on,” he gushed.  “That was…ummm, before I was married,” he trailed off with a cough.

“Incredible!” Lyaan said. “Honestly, I’ve never left this area since we returned from Valinor.”

“He’s quite the homebody,” Lysa said with a smirk.  “Getting him out of the pyramid gets harder each year.”

Fëatur looked around at the gathering and noticed something.  “Lyaan, Lysa, where is Lyrin.  I haven’t seen him all day.”

Lysa rolled her eyes but smiled.  “He’s back in Kirnak again…with Celestë.  He’s quite infatuated with her but we hope that it will lead to something more.  I would enjoy having grandchildren.”

“I take it that his two bobbleheads are with him?”

Lyaan snorted and then chuckled.  “Edenor and Anuven?  Of course,” he said with a hint of exasperation.

“Be nice,” Lysa cut in sternly.  “He needs his friends.”  She looked at Fëatur.  “And I will tell Silmani and Idhrendiel of the events when we return to Ty-Ar-Rana,” she assured him.

The supper was a pleasant gathering, even with the specter of the Fall of Nargothrond hanging over them. Carnil Ravirë of the Earth Element sparred verbally with Talan, of Water, an age-old argument, while Ralian, of Light flirted with Miriani.  Some things never changed in the south, which was nice.  Even Elvëon of the Enclave seemed pleased, drinking his wine. Aelrie and Miriani then brought out dessert, while Chrys’ son, Laurre, served drinks.  Dessert was in a large, clear bowl that contained some type of custard and fruit.

“Alright everyone, pay attention now,” Aelrie called.  “Dessert will also be a visual treat,” she said as she pointed her finger at the bowl and it burst into flame.  “Oh no! Too much!” she squealed as they batted towels at it, leaving the surface a little blackened as smoke drifted off. “Ummm, sorry.  It’ll be a little crispy,” she said sheepishly.

“I’m sure that it will be just fine,” Chrys said as he heaped a serving unto everyone’s plate.

Fëatur took a bite and it was a little crispy but just the right balance of sweet and creamy with caramelized mangos and bananas blended with custard.  “Oh, Aelrie, Miriani, it is superb.  I am grateful that you got me to eat.”  He actually felt full and content.

Miriani slid around and patted him on the stomach.  “You needed it, I can tell you that.”

Aelrie lit the braziers as the sun went down and the gathering wound down to quieter conversations and some members drifted off to bed.  Fëatur was still anxious as he returned to his chambers but was delighted to see that the sparrows had returned.  “What do you have for me, darlings?” he asked in a high-pitched, childlike voice and the birds began peeping, one dropping a blue marble from its claw.  It would contain the message from Yavë.

He picked it up with trembling hands.  Any word from her went straight to his heart.  The marble glowed and began to vibrate, her voice coming forth.

“My love, I thank you for trusting me with this terrible news.  I am heartbroken and have paced the entire evening since I received your missive.  I know that you want to go north but I pray that you remain patient.  I trust in my heart that she is alive.  The Court has already been celebrating the conquest of the north and the destruction of the Noldor in Beleriand, but your message was the first that I’ve heard of the Fall of Nargothrond.”

“Now there are other things that you must know for I fear that you and your friends will come to harm without this knowledge.  Your sister has released her Sisters of the Mind, the Darin Tesarath and they are fearsome, utterly fanatical and savage.  They maim, torture and kill without mercy and they are trained to spy, seduce and assassinate.  They brought me one poor acolyte whom they cut to shreds because she was weak.  I managed to save her but there wasn’t much to save.  I will do my best to care for her.  Now your sister has sent them on a mission to learn the location of your holds and to turn your people against you.  But she also detests Gorthaur and Rilia and actively seeks to undermine them.  Use that to your advantage.”

He nodded, understanding her wisdom and then continued to listen.

“Gorthaur continues with his sacrifices to the Dark Lord.  I would kill him myself if I could.  As evil as your sister is, I was glad when she put him in his place.  Many in the Court are utterly convinced of Morgoth’s goodness and benevolence like we were.  I know a few who might waver and I will explore those options.  But I tell you that Morgoth is planning something big in the north that will end the elves there.  I gleaned that he is breeding more dragons and fire drakes, fearsome beasts.  And he has amassed a vast number of thralls in Angband, poor spirits who are tormented and worked to death.  Some have been…have had their minds ruined and unwittingly work for him as he released them, letting them believe that they had escaped.  Tell our friends in the north to be wary of this.”

Fëatur sighed.  More bad news.  But just hearing her voice was magic.  “I will,” he said to the marble as her voice sounded again.

“But there is something that worries the Court.  I’ve heard snippets that Morgoth is not…well…that he is weakened from all of the power that he pours into his monsters and his hate.  His mind is…unstable, so I gleaned, and he agonizes and obsesses over past hurts like the wounds he suffered from Fingolfin and Thorondor and the Silmaril that was recovered by Beren and Lúthien.  He speaks incessantly about how he almost able to vent his lust on Arien and Lúthien and how they cheated him and got away, they should have been his…and how he tore the disguise off of Lúthien and saw her bare.  He is vile.  I know this now.  His weakening mind will mean more sacrifices to bolster his waning strength.”

Fëatur nodded at the words, drinking them in.  This was good information.  But a weakened and possibly sickly and unstable Morgoth would be a more dangerous Morgoth.  A narcissistic megalomaniac with the power of a god was never a good thing.

“Know that Moran remains with me and that he does have a good heart as Morelen does.  I hope and pray that it will remain so and that the vileness of their true father does not infect them.  No, I said that poorly.  You are their true father, not him.  He merely donated the seed.  You care for them.”

“But that is all that I have for you, my love.  I will hold the vision of us as a family in my heart and know that it will be again. I pray for your safety and anxiously await your next missive.”

Fëatur leaned back in his seat and exhaled deeply, digesting her words.  This was a lot, some good, mostly bad.  The storm would be coming for the south soon and they had best be ready.

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company – Black

The Luingon Alliance –

Guild of Elements – Fire, Air, Water, Earth, Light.

The Three

The Starseer Enclave

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51)  The Wedding – Year of the Sun 502, Yavannië (September)

Morelen

This was to be the event of the century for the Hidden Kingdom.  The entire city had been beautifully decorated with streamers, banners and signs, all honoring the impending wedding of Tuor and Idril Celebrindal.  High King Turgon could not stop gushing about the couple, his pride and joy.  Tuor was truly like a son to him now and Turgon intended to honor him by granting him a house; The House of the Wing to commemorate the sigil of the bird that Ulmo had given him.  Even Morelen, Telerien and Caladiel were asked to be part of the bridal party.  The energy and joy within Gondolin was electrifying.  People danced and sang in the wide and clean avenues and boulevards, heaping praise on the couple.  But there remained one who was displeased.

As Morelen helped string banners along the lamp posts of the Square of the King where the event would be held, she looked down from her ladder to see the High King striding along with the lords of the houses, discussing the ceremony tomorrow.  All were smiling but Maeglin, whose face was stoic, even dour.  He seemed to become more distant and irritable as the wedding approached.  She thought about what Idril told her about him and his infatuation.  She focused her will on him for a moment and he radiated anger…jealousy.

“Morelen?  Hey?”  It was Caladiel.  “Grab this streamer, will you?  Are you alright?  I lost you for a second.”  She tossed a string over from the next lamp post that was attached to the streamer, which Morelen caught and attached to her post.

“Sorry about that.  I was just thinking about something.”  She looked back at the High King’s council, but they were too far away now for her to get any read on anyone.  This did not bode well, but what could Maeglin do?  They were all contained within this city with nowhere to go.  He could pine and pout for Idril, but nothing would come of it.  Still, he was an attractive man, and he should have no issue finding another who was not his first cousin.  Morelen shrugged, turning her mind back to the decorations.  “There, I think that’s it.  This whole section of the square is done.

They both slid down their ladders and picked up the cord and string that they were using to decorate. The two looked up at the lamp posts in the square, satisfied with their work.  Caladiel had really become like a little sister to her.  Other citizens painted, sculpted and placed signs around the square that was so full of life and joy.  A large poster of Idril and Tuor was placed near the great fountain, showing the happy couple.  “I just hope the pigeons don’t make too much of a mess before tomorrow,” Caladiel quipped. “Put up a sculpture or a banner and it’s like a target for them,” she said as they laughed.

It had been seven years since they escaped to Gondolin, and a million things had gone through her mind since then as there was very little contact with the outside world now as the gates were locked.  Eagles would bring rare tidbits and Turgon would scry with the Palantír, gathering often disjointed snippets of the wider world.  They knew that the other refugees had reached the Havens of Sirion safely, a huge relief.  The armies of Morgoth had been devastated in the Battle of Tumhalad, their numbers reduced but the Dark Lord seemed to have no end of troops and horrors.  Three years ago, they learned that Túrin slew Glaurung by ambush, stabbing the dragon in the heart but that both Túrin and his wife, Nienor, took their own lives after when the dragon revealed to her that he was her brother, a final evil act by the monster.

When Turgon told them of this, Morelen snorted in disgust.  “Good.  I feel for Nienor, the one innocent in all of that, but I will celebrate the other’s deaths,” she said in spite.

More recently they learned that Morgoth had released Húrin Thalion, the great hero of the Nirnaeth who sacrificed himself to give Turgon time to retreat, slaying some seventy trolls in the process.  Turgon felt tremendous guilt over this, the man who helped save him and the army of Gondolin was now a ruined soul, old and decrepit.  He found the ruins of Nargothrond and discovered the great jewel of Finrod Felagund, the fabled Nauglamír.  “He went to Doriath,” Turgon told them sadly, “and passed from my sight.” He held his hand up to the sky.  “I do hope that Húrin finds peace.  I wish that it were possible to help him, but we cannot now risk the sanctity of the kingdom.  And of the Nauglamír…I have a strong suspicion that Elu Thingol will mount the Silmaril onto the great jewel.  Its beauty will be unmatched, but I fear that it will awaken something dark that had been dormant for centuries.”

So much had happened at the dawn of this new century.  Again, the world was unrecognizable from what it was only recently.  Morelen sighed at the memories, bringing her attention back to the square.  Caladiel waved to the other riders who were gathering the rubbish from their decorations and placed them in bins for collection.  The weather had just begun to cool again as they pressed into Fall, a gentle breeze blowing leaves about the square as birds chirped overhead.  Morelen inhaled deeply of the clean, fresh air, enjoying the peace and bliss of the upcoming wedding.  But would she ever be free of this gnawing feeling of danger?  It was like a rat chewing through a floorboard, a scratching noise at the back of her mind.  Would she ever feel safe again?

Notaldo, Líreno and Telerien walked up, Líreno tossing them a balled-up piece of decorative paper, which Morelen caught with one hand.  “Oh, it looks like someone is up for Coron Mittarion,” he said with a wink.

Telerien sighed.  “He just wants to see you without your shirt on.”

“Hey, I’ve seen all of these two,” he quipped back.  “It’s not like you get a lot of privacy in the company.”

Notaldo came up and wrapped his arm around Morelen’s waist.  “This looks pretty good, if I do say so myself.  This wedding is going to be fabulous.  I’m so happy for them.”

Ecthelion approached, followed by Egalmoth and Duilin and the riders bowed to the lords.  “No, no,” Ecthelion told them.  “Please rise.  I think you’ve earned the right to be called friends now.  You have more than proven yourselves as warriors of Gondolin and can consider yourselves as Gondolindrim.”

“I daresay that Morelen has challenged my accuracy with her bow,” Egalmoth said.

“And my speed,” Duilin added with a smirk.  “And neither of us can match them on horseback.  I am still devastated that Ecthelion stole them away from us,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles in a mock cry.

Morelen smiled at them and bowed.  “I’m glad to have given you a run for your money.  But I learned as much from you as I was able to teach.  The force here among the houses is formidable and I am proud to be part of it.”

Duilin made an impressed expression with eyes big and lips pursed, gesturing with both hands to her. “So polite and well-spoken too! Not to mention beautiful,” he said and then poked Notaldo in the gut.  “Lucky man!”

Ecthelion gave him a ‘that’s enough’ look.  “Forgive my…associate,” he said kindly.  “He tends to get carried away for how excited he is about the wedding.  Right, Duilin?”

“Oh, of course, of course. It has nothing to do with my boisterous personality.”

Egalmoth snickered. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”  He then peered into Duilin’s ear.  “In my day it was called nothing between the ears.”

Ecthelion laughed, giving a mock look of pain.  “Ow! Oh, that had to sting.”

The others had to laugh too.  The more that they got to know them, the easier it became to feel like this was home again and the more comfortable they were around each other.  She thought back on how Fingon would relax with the riders after training, and the friendship that they had with him and Hurinon, and the rivalry they had with Tintallo.  It was a magical time.  She felt a twinge of pain for a moment, but it passed.  It took some years but the deep, dreadful numbness that infected her after Tumhalad was mostly memory now.  Did time really heal all wounds?  She still had nightmares, but they became less frequent and less intense. It wasn’t that long ago to where Notaldo still held her as she thrashed about and screamed in her sleep.

“We’ll stop bothering you all,” Ecthelion said with a wink.  He was a strong, decisive leader, but full of kindness and compassion for his people.  He reminded Morelen of Fingon but not quite as playful or competitive.  The three leaders walked off to rejoin Turgon, but Ecthelion turned back once more.  “Oh, but we will have a gathering in the house for breakfast tomorrow to celebrate and to prepare for the wedding.  The ladies here are part of the bridal party and must look their best, so the King has tailors for us this evening for fittings.  I’ll see you then,” he said with a wink.

Morelen splayed her hands out happily.  “Oh, more clothes!  We’ll surely be there.”  For years, she slept with her weapons and armor next to the bed, often waking in a cold sweat.  Notaldo even had her sword bound in the scabbard to prevent what Túrin did to Beleg. Only last year did she consent to have them moved to a different room.  It was nice to be able to return to fashion, flowers, dance and decoration, the things that elves truly treasured.

The five wandered around the square, admiring the bright streamers and enjoying the company and the weather and they ran into Maeglin and Salgant, the heads of the Houses of the Mole and Harp. The House of the Mole did not sound very prestigious, but their soldiers were well trained and skilled miners.  Maeglin wore all black with his black hair slicked. His fabulous sword, Anguirel, forged by his father, was sheathed at his side.  Salgant wore a bright red surcoat with the symbol of a golden harp over a silver tunic.  His black hair was also slicked back exactly as Maeglin’s was.  He seemed to be proud of his attire that was far too tight and merely accentuated his obesity.

The riders bowed before the two lords of Gondolin.  Maeglin waited for an uncomfortable amount of time before raising his hand.  “Rise, my friends,” he said in a smarmy voice, overly syrupy.

Morelen forced a smile to them.  “Greetings, my lords.  I hope you are enjoying the day.”  She still recalled the awkward session where he “accidently” touched her, and Idril’s words about him never left her mind.  She had learned to navigate the politics of Gondolin in the ensuing years, but her best strategy was just to avoid him.  And this was the first time she ever encountered Salgant this close and saw that his face was rather frog-like, puffy with bulging eyes and thick, meaty lips.  He was the complete opposite of Maeglin, a razor in elven form, sharp, edgy and wiry.

“Oh yes, yes,” Maeglin said in poorly concealed sarcasm.  He snorted.  “I fought bravely by the King’s side during the Nirnaeth, and my reward is to be pushed aside.  Well,” he scoffed.  “I hope they will be happy together,” he added, one side of his lip curled up in a sneer.

“That is truly a tragedy, Lord Maeglin,” Salgant announced a little too boldly.  “Truly a tragedy.  I was not even asked to play at the wedding!  Can you imagine that?  Princess Idril wanted that hack, Lirillo and his idiot wife, Nyárië.  Those two…instead of me…me, the best musician in the kingdom.  Hrmph.” His face was beat read and his fists clenched.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Líreno said blandly.  “I can’t imagine why.”

“Indeed,” the harpist said sharply.  “Indeed. Well, yes, I do hope they are happy for the disaster of music that they will get.  And, Lord Maeglin, I have no idea why the Princess chose that…that…man. You are the far better choice, lord,” he said in a fawning voice.

“Thank you, Lord Salgant,” he answered.  “Your words soothe me.”

Morelen watched the exchange, desperately fighting to conceal her horror.  Everything that she had heard about Maeglin from Turgon was glowing; overcoming his terrible father, becoming a master smith, organizing the administration of the realm and his valor during the Nirnaeth.  Turgon adopted him as a reward, gave him a house and even considered making him the heir.  The thought of Maeglin as the High King of the Noldor sent a chill down her spine.

Salgant fixed his eyes on Morelen and Caladiel.  “Oh, and I hear that the both of you are such wonderful musicians, wonderful.  Even in the Hidden Kingdom we have heard of your performances in Nargothrond, may those poor people rest in the peace of Mandos.”

This was an interesting turn of events, and it set them a little at ease.  “Why, thank you, my lord,” the two said in a melodic unison.

He made a big ‘O’ with his mouth.  “Oh my…oh my, your voices are angelic.  Please, please, I beg of you…come to the House of the Harp and play with me.  I have much to teach you to bring your musical talents to perfection.”

Morelen raised an eyebrow and tucked her hair behind her pointed ear.  She looked back and forth between Salgant and Notaldo, unsure of how to respond but got a cautious nod from her husband.  This was still a fine line that they had to tread.  “Ummm, yes.  I…I would be honored, my lord.  I am far more of an archer than I am a bard, so I don’t wish to disappoint you.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he said with an ostentatiously dismissive wave of his hand.  “We will become the best of friends, simply the best. I will see you after the wedding, yes?” he said as more of a statement.  “I will need to soothe my unfairly wounded pride for being snubbed as the officiator and player and you two, my new friends, will help me,” he announced boldly, his eyes glued to the women’s forms.

“Say,” interjected Líreno, “we’re needed back at the House for fitting.  We don’t want to keep Ecthelion and Ëariel waiting.”

Notaldo blinked.  “Right…right, thanks for reminding us.  We should…not be late.  Good day to you, my lords.”

Maeglin gave them a curt head nod as he stared at Morelen.  She could feel his gaze pushing into her mind like Glaurung did, but she broke eye contact and shut him off.  There was just a snippet of a question, “who are you really?” that came from him.

As they walked away, Salgant blew a kiss and performed a flamboyant bow and flourish.  “Goodbye my sweets.  Come by the House of the Harp tomorrow evening.  I will have the hospitality of the Harp ready and waiting.”

Morelen shut her eyes and grimaced as Notaldo tensed.  They would not provoke an incident in their new home.  “It will be fine.  It will be fine,” she whispered and he nodded stiffly.

The fitting was relaxed and set them back at ease, but there were unanswered questions from the recent encounter.  The tailors fussed over the fabric, stitching and patterns as Notaldo received a fitted robe of green and silver, befitting a lesser lord of the realm that bore the images of trees and the sun.  Morelen was fitted with a form-fitting dress of blue and silver that bore the pattern of a spraying fountain.  It certainly accentuated her figure, and it came with an elegant circlet of mithril, crafted like a gossamer web.  It was the creation of Fendomë, the smith who came from Nargothrond and had worked closely with Celebrimbor.  The others were fitted with much of the same and they all looked regal, elven lords of the Elder Days.  Fendomë and Aegnor of Nargothrond now worked closely with the smith, Enerdhil, among the greatest craftsman of the Eldar.

Líreno finally broke the dam of tension that had been building.  “Uhh, so what was that back there?  I’m still stunned,” he said as Telerien nodded.

“I was ready to wipe that leer off of his face,” Notaldo said with a derisive snort.  He then looked at his wife.  “But I held my tongue.  I mean, I can understand Maeglin’s jealousy, but Salgant…he could not take his eyes off of your bodies.”  He sucked air through his teeth and grimaced.

Morelen sighed heavily. “So, what do we do?  Can we avoid them forever?  Maeglin has the ear of the King.  We cannot cross him and where he goes, Salgant follows.  I’ve never seen them apart.  But in some way, I feel sorry for him.  I didn’t think that his look was malicious.  It’s as if he is a lost child, begging for friends and staring at a new…toy.”

Líreno snickered.  “I got the feeling he wants bedroom friends with you two as his toys.  Well, Notaldo, I’m glad he hit on your wife and not mine, or we’d be thrown out of the kingdom already.”

“I can handle myself,” Morelen chided.  “But for the sake of our sanity we need to have a plan.  I honestly think he means no harm and I’m sure it will be fine if we go to the House of the Harp after the wedding.  We can see what he wants and maybe make an actual friend who can help Maeglin through his jealousy,” she said hopefully.

“Always the one to see the good in people,” Notaldo said lightly.  “But you’re right.  We need to be careful.  I reluctantly and cautiously agree with your plan,” he added with a concerned look. “Just be careful.”

When the tailors had put the finishing touches on their clothing, they wandered past Ecthelion who had his arms out as a seamstress was putting pins in his robes.  He looked at them and sighed.  “I am far more comfortable in armor.  This…itches,” he complained as they chuckled at his predicament.

“Do not move,” the woman said sternly.  “You may be the Lord of the House of the Fountain, but I will ensure that you look appropriate before the King and the wedding party.  Stop moving!  I would hate to poke you with a pin.”

They walked towards the stairway up to their rooms and Ecthelion grunted.  “No, don’t you leave me with this demon.  Don’t you leave me.  Come back here!  Please!”

Walking up the stairs, Morelen was practically in tears from laughing so hard and it felt good.  She could barely remember joy since Tumhalad. Every time she pictured the caverns, the docks, the Narog and the conservatory or heard the music in her head she was torn between nostalgia and guilt.  This time, she pushed the guilt from her mind and decided to enjoy the moment, carefree and full of life.  At the door, she pulled Notaldo inside and kissed him.  “I know that I have not been myself since Tumhalad and I am sorry.”

“No apologies.  None of us have been.  What we experienced was a horror beyond words.  While we cannot forget, we can heal…but that will take time.”

She nodded slowly, thinking.  “Time… At one point it seemed as if time was all that we had but I always feel as if time is running out now.”  She turned back to him and smiled, the dark cloud over her vanishing.  “We will get through this.  The Valar will come to our aid,” she said, more as if to convince herself.  She skipped over to the closet, much like a girl and dropped her dress to the floor, bending over to pick it up while wriggling her behind.

Notaldo chuckled and grasped her hips from behind, his touch electrifying.  She grabbed onto a wooden bench tightly, her knuckles white from the pressure as she felt him.  Her skin tingled and she sighed, contented, happy.  Time…time seemed to stand still now.

Tonight, Morelen’s sleep and meditation were peaceful.  She did not toss or cry out.  Maybe it was just that he wore her out.  Maybe it was the peace and healing of Gondolin had finally penetrated her hardened heart.  As the sun rose and light shone through the windows, she lay wrapped over Notaldo, her thigh over his midsection.  She began to move her leg around and he sighed softly and she felt something grow against her skin.  “Looks like you’re waking up,” she cooed and winked at his one open eye.

A couple of hours later he looked out the window.  “Oh…oh, we’re going to be late for breakfast!” he uttered and they sprang out of bed, giggling.  They ran into the washroom and water began to pour down from the ceiling in a tiled enclosure.  Morelen let the water pour down her hair and face, a wonderful feeling, fresh and pure. Notaldo turned her around and pulled her tight, his hands about her waist.

“Oh, no…you’re the one who said we’re going to be late,” she said in mock protest, weakly trying to disengage.

He released her with a grin.  “Well, if you say so,” he said as he started to turn away.

She grunted and pushed him down to sit on the seat beneath the water and climbed on top of him. “I’m blaming you.”

Breakfast was well underway, the sound of conversation, laughter and silverware filling the dining hall of the House of the Fountain.  The table was arrayed with the finest porcelain dining ware of the house, plates, dishes and serving bowls painted with images of silver fountains.  Ecthelion dined with his wife, Ëariel, along with the rest of the house.  He looked up with a smirk.  “Oh, there you are.  It’s about time.  Did you have fun?  It sounded like it.”

Morelen covered her mouth as her eyes shot open and she blushed furiously.  In Nargothrond, the walls were stone and soundproof and she was rather vocal.  The group laughed joyously.  “It’s fine,” Ecthelion said with a wink.  “This is a wonderful occasion, and joy should be the order of the day.  Do not mind my jest.  Please, join us.”

Ëariel pulled out two seats and began heaping food onto their plates, a healthy portion of eggs, waffles and fresh fruit.  “Come, come, eat up or the food will get cold.”  She was an elegant woman who cared for the members of the house like her own children.  Her dark brown hair was pulled back and woven with flowers and strands of mithril that held a brilliant sapphire in a mount on her forehead.  They sat and dove into breakfast, having worked up an appetite.

Ecthelion leaned over. “That’s what you get for leaving me to that demon of a seamstress yesterday,” he said and then gestured to Líreno, Telerien and Caladiel.  “And you three are next.”  Far more than being under Túrin and almost like being under Fingon, this felt like a family.  The House of the Fountain was their home.

Fendomë stood and came around the table.  “How does the circlet fit?” he asked Morelen.  The master smith was a man of average height with hair so black it had a bluish tint that accentuated his blue-gray eyes.  “I wish Celebrimbor were here to do the finishing touches.  That’s his specialty.”

Aegnor, the other smith from Nargothrond, waved his hand dismissively.  “Nonsense.  You do fine on your own.  We’ve already done excellent work for the kingdom.”  He was a tall, broad-shouldered man known for his strength and prowess at the forge.  His face was framed by curly, dark brown hair and his eyes were piercing violet.

It was good to see other people from Nargothrond becoming one with the Gondolindrim.  “The fit is perfect,” Morelen said, adjusting it on her forehead.

Fendomë came over and put his expert eye on it, examining every point of contact to ensure that it didn’t chafe or squeeze.  He nodded with one eye narrowed.  “Yes, yes, it looks good.  Not too tight?” he asked fussily.

“No, no, it’s really perfect.  Your craftsmanship is superb.  I hear that you created the pieces for the bride,” she inquired.

The smith’s face lit up. “Yes, yes.  It will be the defining bridal piece for the ages.  I am very proud of it.  It will captivate the kingdom.”

Excitement ran through the room.  The wedding would define the future of Gondolin…even the future of the free peoples. Their children would bring Men and Elves together in the first known union of those peoples.  There was hope in this event that gave hope for everyone resisting the domination of the Dark Lord.  Ecthelion stood and raised a glass.  “To Tuor and Idril, may they live long, happy and prosperous lives and may their children fulfill the hopes and dreams of our people!”

It was soon time for the wedding party to gather, and the ladies made their way to the palace, dressed in their finery.  Most of the houses trained every day and the House of the Fountain led the way along with the House of the Golden Flower.  It felt good to put away the armor and weapons and be part of a festivity of light.  The ladies fussed and primped, checking each other to ensure that their gowns and accessories were perfect as their trains dragged up the marble steps.

A herald announced them and led them to the bridal suite where they joined a dozen other elven maidens from the various houses, all nobles in the realm.  Idril came to them and held their hands.  “Thank you for coming.  I am so nervous,” she said kindly, her face showing clear stress.  “Please, come in and be comfortable.  I have refreshments for you.”  She gestured to platters of fruit and vegetables with bowls of thick, creamy dips of all flavors.

Morelen tapped her stomach. “Thank you, Princess.  We just had breakfast, but we will take something to drink.”

Idril chuckled a bit awkwardly and took a sip of wine.  “You read my mind.”  She then let out a frustrated grunt.  “Why can’t I calm down?” she asked and began pacing.  She was still dressed in her chemise undergarments.

Telerien touched her arm. “I was the same way for my wedding,” she told Idril.  “This is completely normal.  I’m sure that Tuor feels the same way.”

That seemed to relax her and she smiled.  “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

One of the maidens, Liltarë, passed them glasses of wine.  She was Ecthelion’s daughter, a well-known and accomplished dancer, a kind and gentle young woman.  “My father speaks glowingly of you, and we are proud to have you in the House and our party here,” she said.  Liltarë was already dressed in her gown of silver and sky blue, her hair styled in an elegant waterfall braid, woven with flowers and mithril strands.  The ladies knew her in passing but she spent most of her time attending to Idril.

She brought them over to help prepare Idril’s gown, a magnificent dress of silver with deep and sky-blue accents, woven with silver thread and gems to appear as a galaxy of stars. Set to the side was the pin of her station, a mithril brooch shaped into the silver tree of Valinor, Telperion. They unfolded the gown and smoothed out the creases carefully and lovingly.

“Princess?” Liltarë asked. “Are you ready?”

Idril paced again and then nodded.  “We’ve practiced the routine a thousand times and I’m still not sure that I’ll get it right,” she said of the musical performance that was scheduled for the wedding. They were to sing, Glorious in the Twilight for the audience as a thank you to the people.

“It will be fine,” Telerien said calmly.  “It was perfect at the final rehearsal.”  Líreno’s wife was a calm soul with a deep motherly instinct.  She and Ëariel had become best of friends with such a similar attitude towards life.

Idril sniffed and teared up.  “Yes, of course.  Thank you, my friends.  You are all my rock.”

Morelen remembered her wedding.  While it was a romantic affair, it was not the grand ceremony that was to take place. It was certainly a soldiers’ wedding, drawn swords and a boisterous reception.

They dressed the Princess to perfection, every hair, every pleat, every pin in place.  Morelen found this to be much like donning armor and she enjoyed the meticulousness.  Idril was simply radiant, like the blazing sun, her face glowing with anticipation. Lastly, they put on her characteristic silver shoes, partly why she was given the name of Celebrindal.  The ladies were proud of their work, nodding in satisfaction.

“I wish…I wish that my mother were here to see this,” Idril said in a bittersweet voice.  “She was…was lost in the Grinding Ice, you know, and father could only save one of us.”  She gulped hard, fighting to remain composed.

“She is with us in spirit. I know this,” Telerien said in reassurance.  “My daughter, Idhrendiel, is in the south, safe, but I have not seen nor spoken to her in over seven years.  But she knows that I am with her.  And I know that she is with me.”

“Your words give me comfort.  I can see why Ëariel speaks so highly of you.  Come, shall we?” she said, giving her awkward smile.  There was an inner strength behind that smile and nervousness, and it was easy to see that she inherited her father’s mind and her mother’s grace. The bridal maids lined up in two rows behind her as she led them to the palace promenade where guests lined the way to the square, all dressed in their finery.  Idril took a deep breath, flaring her nostrils for a moment before letting out a stellar smile and giving a gentle wave of her hand.  They then slow stepped along the blue and silver carpet as elven girls tossed flower petals in front of their path.

The audience began to vocalize as they approached the steps down to the square.  It sounded as if the cosmos had come down to Gondolin as the people swayed to the sound.  Turgon and Maeglin met them at the steps and escorted them down, dressed in royal finery, Turgon wearing his golden crown helm that was studded with bright rubies, one giant one on his brow.  The High King’s eyes were misty and his face red as they walked down together.  There were a couple of times that he tried to speak but he just patted his chest.  Maeglin smiled too, but Morelen could see that his eyes were blank.

A gazebo was set up in the square where Tuor waited with his groomsmen, soldiers and friends whom he had trained with for years now.  He was still a young man when the people of Nargothrond came to Gondolin, but he had grown into the fullness of manhood, tall, proud and strong.  None of the arrogance of Túrin was in him, only the profound wisdom of Turgon who considered him a son.  He wore green and golden elven robes that were accentuated with Adan accents in the cut and stitching.  His dark hair was combed and slicked back under a mithril circlet that was crafted to hold silver stars with a single blue sapphire on his forehead.  He pursed his lips together, holding his emotions in as they bridal party approached.

Turgon stood in the gazebo and addressed the crowd.  “Friends! I am proud and honored that you have joined us this day in our hidden kingdom.  I could not be…,” he began before choking up and patted his chest. “I could not be happier.  And to see my daughter, and the man that I have come to regard as a son, filled with joy is my life’s reward.  Now, without further ado, Idril and her ladies have a performance that I know you will enjoy!” he announced in a voice that filled the entire square.  He clapped his hands and stepped aside as Idril and her bridesmaids glided in front of the gazebo.  Lirillo and Nyárië began to play a harp and flute.

Morelen and the others began vocalizing, blending in harmony as Idril unleashed her silver voice, powerful, proud and loving.

Glorious is the twilight,

I come like a swift wind,

Love across all lands,

Their voices rose, spreading out like the rays of the rising sun, growing in strength.

May the stars shine bright,

And the world be noble,

A song in the clear night,

Idril gives you her joy and delight,

The audience stood, mesmerized as the ladies danced in slow, ethereal rhythm, arms flowing to the song and music.  Idril stood out, radiant as a star, gliding before Tuor, love in her eyes, gazing at the man who would be the future of her people, the union of the Children of Illuvatar. As the song ended, the maids bowed and knelt down around them as Idril linked arms with Tuor.  There was a stunned silence for a moment before thunderous applause.  Banners and streamers waved and children danced.

Turgon moved between them and they held hands, facing each other.  “Magnificent!  Simply magnificent!” he announced as he produced a white silken cord.  “Now, in the long tradition of our people from our time in Valinor I bind you together as husband and wife,” he said, wrapping their hands in the cord.  He stepped back and bowed as the couple came forward, raising their arms to the sky.

“We give thanks to the One, Eru Illuvatar,” they said together.  “The One from who all things are possible and from whom our world exists. We thank the mighty Valar in their wisdom and strength, may they ever be the guardians of our people.  We praise the Valar and especially benevolent Ulmo, for whom we thank for this verdant and prosperous land.  May they all bless this union, our people and our kingdom!”

Another round of applause shook the square, but no one noticed Maeglin, stone faced, fists clenched, face red.

Turgon held his hands up and clapped and children in the audience rushed the stage, cheering and holding out bouquets of flowers to the ladies and the couple.  Girls squealed and boys chanted their approval.  Two girls gave Morelen a bouquet and hugged her and she realized how much she missed Silmani and Idhrendiel who would almost be young adults now.  She put one hand over her mouth and one over her heart she was so touched.  Telerien exchanged understanding glances with her. The young ladies left holes in their hearts.  If only there were some way to let them know that they were alive and well.  Morelen looked back at Maeglin, a ripple of tension running along his jaw as he glared at Tuor and she caught his thoughts for a second, ‘it should have been me.  It should be me!’

His face turned to her and she looked away, embarrassed.  Where did she get this ability?  Was it even some power or was she just imagining it?  She shook her head to refocus.  The crowd chanted in praise for some time more, joyous faces in the crowd.  Turgon then led the wedding party back to the palace for the reception that would include feasting, music and dance.  It was wonderful to see Tuor and Idril so happy and at the center of attention of the kingdom.  Morelen never had aspirations of leadership or being in the spotlight.  Her father always taught her about service before self and the good of her people.  She was right where she needed to be.

The lords of the houses reveled with the wedding party, toasting the High King, the bride and the groom as bards and minstrels sang and played in the background.  Lirillo and Nyárië were sublime in their music.  The riders went and sat at their own table, cheering and drinking, discussing days gone by and the glory of lost kingdoms.

As the festivities wound down, the bride and groom made their exit, escorted by the King. Morelen sat back, content, her stomach full and her head a little dizzy with wine.  She lay her head on Notaldo’s shoulder and felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Salgant.  She blinked for a moment before remembering their conversation with him earlier.

“Are you ready to visit my home?” he asked, almost childlike in his awkwardness.  “Remember, you promised.”

Ardana

The Astrologer had been diligently preparing for the Ritual, fussing about every aspect of the ceremony. She agonized over the signs and portents, scrying the stars daily for any information about the exact date of the great eclipse.  Morthrog, the grand seer of the Dark Lord, had been of little help, giving vague timelines and even vaguer directions for the Ritual.  The last conversation with the Dark Lord was of little comfort and her confidence in support from Angband had been slipping.  And that conversation was decades ago.

Dressed in her star robe for grand functions, she held her Ardan card that would allow her to speak directly to Morgoth, tapping it on her desk as she began to pace again.  Why was she so nervous?  For centuries prior to their departure from Valinor, he was her mentor, her guiding light…her…she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the intimate parts of their relationship.  Rumor had it that he had changed dramatically since they last spoke before to the Dagor Bragollach.

She sat back into her plush throne on the top floor of the Citadel of Ardor, biting her lower lip. Moran brought her a glass of fruit juice, a mixture of cranberries and apples that she loved.  The tartness suited her.

Fëatur, Rilia, Gorthaur and Castolder, Lords of the Four Suits of Ardor, were gathered in their Ardan Council seats, along with Morthaur and Valmorgȗl with Morfuin, the Lord Demon, standing guard at the lift that connected the floors of the keep.  Valmorgȗl, the Magician, sauntered up to Ardana and stroked her ebony hair that had begun to show a strand of gray.  “My lady, you must reach out to the Dark Lord,” he said in a soft, gentle voice as he glanced at Morthaur and winked.  “He is expecting to speak to you.”  Morthaur curled his lip up and looked away.

Ardana knew what he wanted but now was not the time.  She sighed and then patted the armrest of her throne to have Moran sit by her.  She needed him close.  As the stress and fear within her grew about the Ritual, she needed him more and more and kept him on a tight leash.  It was something he detested but her needs were more important. Valmorgȗl stood behind her, arms crossed, her self-appointed guardian to the disgust of Morthaur.  She held up the large card and focused her energy into it, feeling the shalk material grow cold to the touch.  Her hand shook as a form coalesced on the face of the card.  She expected to see the angelic face that she had known in Valinor, but this face was ashen, gaunt, sinister with a wicked scar that ran from his chin to his forehead from Thorondor’s claws after the death of Fingolfin.  She gasped. She knew that he was not the being that she adored but continued to hope that he would return.  But this visage before her was terrifying.

“M…m…my Lord Morgoth. Y…you wished to speak to the Council?”

He grunted, his breath steaming like that of a dragon.  “Yes, my Astrologer.  I have some information for you,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained, not the silver voice of eons past.  “But first, you need to give me an update on your progress to include bringing the south into our great realm.”

“Of…of course, great King of the World.  Your will is supreme,” she said, beginning to doubt the words coming from her mouth.  “We are actively hunting for the location of Chrys Menelrana’s forces so that we may destroy them.  If we eliminate him, the rest will scatter as Lyaan cannot fill that role adequately nor can the Enclave.”  She left out how the location of Ty-Ar-Rana continued to elude them as effective as the glyphs and wards of The Three were.

Morgoth pursed his lips. “Continue to do so.  And send progress more often,” he said sternly and she could feel the pull of his power and personality, his very will penetrating her. “Do not make me wait.  Remember, my power is supreme.  I am the chosen one.  I am the great power of Middle Earth.  None challenge me!  I destroyed Nargothrond and that stain on my realm, Gondolin, is next.  I have thousands of their precious people in thrall, many of whom give me hints as to its location.  In my wisdom, I have released many to be my spies in their lands. Others mine and forge my weapons of war. Others, I will warp into new monsters and use to breed the next generation of my armies.  We will conquer all of this new land for our beautiful kingdom, the likes of which has never been seen.  All will bow down and worship me or burn,” he finished, holding up a clenched fist as his eyes glowed red.

“Yes, my lord.  We bow to your will, oh great one,” she answered but really wanted to know what information he had for her.  “Ummm, great king…you had something for us?”

“Yes, yes,” he said dismissively, waving his hand about.  He stood and limped over to his Master Seer, Morthrog.  Ardana knew that he had been gravely injured in the duel against Fingolfin, but to see him limp like an invalid was daunting.  This was not the all-powerful angel that she knew and loved.  “The great eclipse will occur between the Year of the Sun, Five Sixty and Five Eighty. The signs and portents are there now.” Then, he smashed his fist into his open palm.  “If only…if only that…that Arien had submitted to me!  How dare she refuse me!  Me!  Who does she think she is?  I had her in my grasp, did you know?  I had her and was about to take her for my pleasure when she scorched me.  Now I will make her pay, do you hear?  She will pay for defying me and you will be my tool of revenge,” he uttered, seething, enunciating every word.

Ardana nodded silently, imagining him trying to ravish Arien like he did to her, his cold hands seizing her body.  Then, her body erupting into flame so fierce that Morgoth fled in agony.  She wasn’t sure whether to feel jealousy or relief for Arien.  There was a grudging respect for the Maia of the Sun.

Morgoth waved his arms about.  “She would have been the most powerful of my fire spirits, warped and demonic, fearsome to behold.  Even Gothmog would not be able to stand against her.  She would have the land and the enemy to scorch, and she would serve me daily.  I would have given her everything!  Everything! When you bring her down, she will submit to me and grovel at my feet, begging me to use her.”

“And one more thing,” he continued.  “When this is done, you will return to Angband and be with me once more, serving your king with all of your heart, mind…and body,” he finished and his image faded.

Ardana shuddered as a wave of nausea washed over her.  She had promised herself that she would never return to Angband.  It would be almost as horrid as being a thrall in the breeding pits. She stood and gestured to Valmorgȗl to close the Council Chambers.  His hand brushed along the small of her back and she didn’t mind.  She took Moran’s hand to walk to the lift.  “I’m never going back to Angband.  I’ll die first,” she said as she squeezed his hand tightly, a tremor rippling up her body.  If there were only some way not to sacrifice her beloved son.  If only her daughter had lived.

CODEX:

Weapons:

Kynac – A single edged bladed weapon, longer than a dagger and shorter than a shortsword.

Ikasha – A large, multi-edged throwing star.

Clothing:

Gambeson – a quilted shirt worn under armor.

Doublet – a fitted jacket.

Hose – leggings worn under the armor.

Chausses – loose pants worn under the armor.

Pauldron – armor over the shoulder.

Organizations:

The Riders of Fingon –

Misë Company – Green

Telepta Company – Silver

Morna Company - Black

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