The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Dagor Bragollach - Part 3

The climax of the Battle of Sudden Flame.  The riders meet their match and desperately try to stem the tide as High King Fingolfin duels the Dark Lord.

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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.”

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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.