The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Dagor Bragollach - Part 2

Fingon's riders sally forth to Ard Galen after Thangorodrim erupts.  This chapter ties into another story, The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.

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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."

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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.