She who holds a Circa by vigil_ardensole  

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She who holds a Circa

This chapter mentions rape, sexual violence and exploitation, and strong, extreme emotions that may cause distress, but no graphic in-detail descriptions

First time writing for the monthly challenge, unsure if there are guidelines on the types of content appropriate for the monthly challenges.

Prompt inspired to tackle on difficult topics in history

Written before deadline, apologies for grammatical mistakes and weird syntax.

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"... those of the women and maidens that were not burned or slain they had herded on the terraces before the doors, as slaves to be taken into Morgoth’s thraldom." (“Of Turin Turambar”)

"... out of the deep prisons a multitude of slaves came forth beyond all hope into the light of day, and they looked upon a world that was changed." ("Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath")

Where shall the women go when they are lordless?

The spring of Nargothrod belongs to the women, when the forest of cherry blossoms bloomed at the doors of their underground palace, when they marched out from their fortress and farmed in the surrounding fields, enclosed in the dense, tiered pyramids of ancient pine trees

Nargothrod, the cloister from the Black Foe of the World has fallen. Her tunnels were harrowed, treasures pillaged, and she hid in the deepest dungeons, praying to Varda and Manwe, to Yavanna and Aule, to Nessa and Tulkas, to Vana and Orome, to Este and Irmo, to Vaire and Mandos, even to Eru Ilúvatar.

Varda above, turn your eyes to the poor women of Nargothrod, alone, deserted, frail and armless, you and your husband Manwe see far and wide into each corners of Arda, hear our prayer, like the first cries of newborn child in the bosom of their mother, do not cast us to the mouth of the wolves, to the chains of the orcs, to the thralldom of Morgoth.

There were horrifying screams echoing between the carved pillars of Nargothrod. Laurel corbel, intricate curvatures that threaded the beauty of the city soared high in despair, and the holy sculptures of the Valar, chillingly content in its hibernation.

‘The Orcs are nipping us one by one.’

Her placid eyes shivered as she heard the treads of iron foot tramping closer.

‘No, NOOOOO, get away you monster, Help, Save Me, aughhhh’

A distressing cry was amplified by the hollow caves of Nargothrod.

Yavanna, gifter of fruits and mother of Arda, hear my plea, I, a wretched creature lay here defenseless, humble and prostrate before thee, come and send me aid, let the roots and earth of Nargothrod grow wild and bind the armies of the black foe, save me and many from the advances of his evil minions.

‘What is that orc doing, what is it doing??!’

She peered her pale blue eyes through the cracks of the veined wooden walls, and stifled her mouth.

‘It is…it is…’

She was swept by a heinous orc, its next victim ready to be carried to the doors.

Eru Iluivator beyond land and time, take heed of the cries of your children, fair and appointed to the beauty of Arda, have you abandoned us to your higher creation Morgoth and his ravishes? Manwe intercede to Eru All-father beyond the circles of the world, or send your eagles in the north and descend upon us, have mercy on us…I did not kill, I followed and walked the ice with Lord Finndarato and his sister Galadriel, I am no more but a poor woman lost to the tides of the times, I farmed here for centuries and by my honest labour fed Noldor and Sindar in this realm, now our last sanctuary and bear fruit to these wild lands in West Beleriand, 

The cry of distress was horrifying, struggling and being restrained, futilely beating onto backs of the coarse orc, their claws clutching around their waist. Their prying upon women, Noldor women reduced to mere vessels of pleasure to the vile lust of evil orcs.

Rape of Women.

Manwe have you lost your heart, where is your benevolence, King of Arda??!! Varda where are thee, aloof on the white pure Mount of Taniquetil, eyes fixated on the beauty of the stars, deaf to the suffering of my friends??? Yavanna I am once your follower, the daughter of your dedicated disciples, have you forgotten the women you taught and nurtured, justice needs no sanction, come to my aid and answer the calls of my heart!!!

Valacirca! The sickle against Morgoth, Alas! Mere stars embedded in the heavens beyond the pains of Arda, passive, inert, decorative, symbolic justice, and the once heroic gods have fallen to cowardice!!

A woman stood up and picked up her scythe she brought from Tirion,

‘Quendicirca!!’

She roared and emerged from her hiding, bellowed a great cry and mustered her ancient strength she built in every spring of Aman, ploughed into the orc’s arm,

‘Rise now women of Nargothrod! If we die least we die resisting the oppression of the Black Foe!!’

‘Eldacirca!!!’

The Orc loosened its grip, called for his companions, grinned in devilish lust.

‘I am your reaper! Imbecile beast!’ she snarled in disdain, her eyes burned a red flame as she raised her scythe and cleaved into his neck, a sickle was thrown into his head by a farmer appearing from a treehole above.

‘Noldocirca!!!’

She cried and leaped down, ‘I shall dismember and tear you apart!!’, her forearms, thicker than a tree trunk after ages of tireless labour, pierced into the skull of that orc. 'Come with us!' They lifted the frightened girl off from the ground, she was born in Beleriand in the early days of peace, and the farmer carried her on her back.

‘Sindacirca!!!’

The huntresses of Nargothrod premeditated an ambush, shooting down arrows to the influx of orcs, a guerrilla warfare began in the caves of the underground palace in the aftermath of its fall.

Vain hot-headed Turin Turambar! Mad strategist whose hubris too great to contain the peoples of Nargothrod, his misjudgement has brought down my last sanctuary, your own grievances blurred the presence of many who took shelter beneath these caves, let us not be remembered as one of the victims of your arrogance, my downfall not written on the pages, my death not a footnote of your failure, today is my last fight against Morgoth and my doomed fate imposed by the Gods. A white flame now burns in her bosom, scaling onto her eyes, radiant and full of anguish, shone unyielding defiance against the armoured orcs.

The farmers held up a torch and fend themselves against the swarming orcs, the shattered women of Nargothrod were outnumbered.

‘Run to the doors, run away!!’ she commanded, the huntresses threw down silver ropes and pulled some of the hiding women up, below caves darkened by the great shadow from the pits, and many marched upwards through the carved out stairs, spirals, ladders and gorged out lanes on the wooded walls.

‘Burn the cavern!’ cried a voice from the depths of swarming orcs, ‘Let us give you time for escape! My friends!’

She turned around, and saw her ancient companions crying out.

‘We shall see you again in the fields of Calacirya, boundless land free of shadow! Under the mallorn tree, we promise we shall reunite, no longer we will sigh in lamentations, but our songs of joy shall pass over the Mountains and reach higher than the sun! Run, run!’

The infiltrating orcs rejoiced in the onslaught of the remaining women at the bottom of the dungeons, coaxing them to the stairless corners, tugging them away.

‘Set the cavern on fire!!’ 

She climbed to the higher floors, wept, ‘Beneath the Golden Canopy, I will see you unadulterated by the years! Not farewell, but an excursion, though in hroa we are parted, my fea we are forever united!! My friends, my friends!! FORGIVE ME!!’ her mighty cries rumbled across the bloody concaves. She climbed to the huntresses, took out a dagger in her waist, and cut the hanging fire torches of Nargothrod.

They watched the cavern burned, an incinerator whose heat lighted their way out of Nargothrod the Hall of Death, their cries dopplered out as they reached closer to the southern gates. She ran with the young lady on her back, her hands so cold, her arms so warm, ardent in her will to take her away from the shadow.

They ran, whimpers stifled to frantic, phantom-like footsteps.

Light, light, it is the light!!

They emerged out of Nargothrod, and saw the pink of spring scorched by the fires of the dragon.

The flying winged snake appeared in the skies, glaring at them with glee, slimy scales quivered in twisted thrill.

It mustered a great fire, setting the barren trees in flames, deeming their last escape impossible.

‘Run to the river of Narog’ she cried, the fumes scathing hot, burning the petals into ashes, some had already perished among the charred trees, the remaining huntresses accompanying her, impaled by the great dragon chasing after them.

They ran, and ran, and ran, shape rocks pricked their feet, and branches scarring their fair faces, cheeks reddened by fear, anger and sorrow, dampened by hot tears, until they reached the cool of Narog. 

An army of orcs camped at the other side of the shore, and watched them, elated by their appearance, jumped into the waters.

They furrowed, and know this is their doom; the huntress pulled their bows, unleashed their last arrows at the advancing orcs, the orcs shot back, black arrows fatally poisonous, killed the ancient huntresses, many who have once walked the canola meadows of Beleriand, a grey sedgy world under the stars and vibrant flowery yellowness first realised under the lucent candle light, in one shot.

The farmer was shot, the light fading in her eyes,

The black orcs crossed the river, seized and chained the lady she carried on her back

She would have willingly gave in to the shadow, the low humming of Mandos and the forlorn wails of Nienna congested in her head, she is walking away from her bare feet, once stepped on the blessed land of Valinor, and the strength weakening in her arms, the world decolourising to ash grey and blackness.

She stood up, a ghost clinging onto the earth, held up her circa in both hands, blood riveting from her nose and mouth, and walked into the waters, the river of Narog--

Swung her scythe one last time into soil-less desolate air, no seeds in her arms to disperse, no land to stand on, no light to look onto, was shot, ten arrows into her chest; behind a burning forest, before her, the young elven lady she just saved, chained and brought away, crying out to her.

And her world dimmed into the realm of the discarnate

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When she was saved, when the colossal Vanyar knight, alienating in his height, unlocked their prisons and broke their chains. However, No joy or victory heartened her, the moment of liberation was a mundane halt to her physical torments, her mental anguish lingering without proper address. She stood and watched Thangorodim crack into boulders, rockslides swallowed into the rising waters.

She watched in detachment, on the grey ships, pale blue eyes blank;

Eighty years of slave dancing, dressed in gauzy, revealing dresses and vulgar golden bracelets, repellent caresses and witnessing revolting human copulation, she had enough.

She would have gladly killed herself if it was not the sight of nameless heroine, bellicose in face of the darkness, raising her scythe to reach towards her, immortalised by the ten arrows on the of River Narog.

‘Hearken the calls of Manwe, and go back’ the deep voice of Eonwe summoned, ‘Return to the undying lands yonder sea, the blessed realm once home of the second light, the house of the Valar, where ye shall find rest in the unmarred perch of the world, no fire scorches, no weeds or groves of thorns knotted, no waters bitter and bloodied. Return, Firstborn, fair children of Iluivator, the Valar hath opened their gates once more and wishes to make recompense, to receive thee under their folds where you may rest your heads and may find relief near in the Lake of Lórellin, assuage thy wounds in their consoling shade.’

She turned, and watched the herald of Manwe speak of hope and healing, plodded, a ghost clinging to her body, and Slapped his face.

‘How wonderful to hear thee speaketh of rest and comfort clothed in holy light, as I intend the long tortuous days be repaired by entering Aman your lovely sanctuary.'

She relished in her violence, her palm burning righteous vengeance.

‘I know not of this blessed land of beauty pure, the doom or ban lifted by the grace of the Valar, but I know I am raped, ruined, broken by the years of unchecked violence!! Recompense? Rugged, tattered Justice delivered too late, some condescending, delayed pity cometh upon me in my ever-darkening hours stretched by a century old of humiliation, and now your speaketh of rest and recompense? When I cried in the pits of Nargarthrod, who came in my hour of need? No Valar or Glorious Armies of Gold and White yonder sea, but a nameless exile cursed by the doom of her people. My mother was slain in the sack of Nargothrod, an innocent Sindarin lady needlessly sacrificed to the wrath of the Valar, and my father killed on the steps of Angband in Nírnaeth Arnoediad, yet my losses is not enough to appease their unwavering wrath beyond sea.

Timely divine justice? Ha! I laugh, as the last sole survivor of the women of Nargothrod, I have outlived the darkness of the north and the abominable slave masters, and I scorn the victory of morality, virtue and uprightness–no, no, none is mended or triumphant, and none could be healed or rested, you have recovered the Silmarils and defeated the black foe of the world with your terrible white sword of justice, but the years of prolonged unnecessary sufferings, My Sufferings!! shall never find rest in the blessed land.

I bid thee return and abide with your good and benevolent lords of the light in eternal harmony,

But I will not hearken your lord’s summons, who build his walls high and mist impenetrable against Morgoth a superfluous defense, closed a much need alliances from the world and hid behind his towers, sat high on his throne on Taniquetil, noble, white yet not much better than the Black Iron Throne of Thangorodium, his heavily guarded bliss a thralldom I have little connection, love or yearning towards. I shall go east and wander in the wide lands, someday fade among the deep woods into a shadow of resentful sorrow, a wafting memory of my native land Beleriand sunken in the waves; the day my birthplace Nargothrod has fallen I would gladly drown and see it submerged in water for justice sake, but no water came to wash the foul army away, and I am chained, held captive, made slave for eighty years under the lascivious, rapacious eyes of Morgoth.

Tell Manwe and his obedient Valar to not take Pity on me, or weep for my suffering, but bid them remember my aimless wanderings and my fateful fading in Middle Earth, like a stain on their self-proclaimed goodness–the flooded soil of Beleriand sunken, the passions of the marred world, one day shall cross the Sundering sea into the blessed land, undeterred by the empty defenses of the Valar, climb up and warm the stony cold on Mount Taniquetil, sludge and melt its white winter snow.

Farewell, heroes of the West, I will give you no name of mine, as she is already dead on her road to Angband, remember me, my epesse

Balariwen--Women and lost souls of Beleriand.’

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Chapter End Notes

In Memorial of the Women of the Second World War. Experiences of sexual violence and Rape in WWII was neglected in the immediate postwar as more efforts are concentrated on reconstruction, forgetting the past and building a better future, and was only openly discussed in the 90s and 2000s.