There are fell voices on the air, the shades of unhappy men, or something far worse? Fear emanates from the black stone of this place, and few are those that would dare to approach it. Night has fallen, yet the stars are veiled, the only light that we see is the corpse light of the tower, illuminating nothing but the darkness. We know that we must press on, and yet we hesitate. There are few remaining upon these shores that could challenge us, yet we delay. Is it fear? I look at my companions, and I see no fear etched upon their fair faces.
Belegos stands tall, his face hard, determined. This is not the first time that he has seen the tower; he knows what dwells within. Nameless horrors, orcs, trolls, wicked men. Nazgûl. There has been a weight upon him as he has marched through this terrible forest. A weight of guilt, and of foreknowledge. He has masked his emotions well, but the signs have been growing clearer the nearer that we have come. He has fled from this place before, pursued by the enemy. What shame is there from fleeing a fight that would have seen him ended, for no purpose? I would speak to him of it, but the words become ashes in my mouth. How can I offer words of comfort when we march to our deaths? And what is our purpose? Foolish pride, that is what drives us. We do not march in defence of our homes, or of our people.
Once again the fiery pride of the Noldor will lead to folly, glorious folly though it may be. Will tales be sang of us, daring the wrath of the enemy and coming to his gates with so few? The lament of Gwindor, the glories of Fingolfin. Both rush through my mind, and leave my heart heavy with sorry and wrath. We will march to the gate. We will call forth the enemy. And we will die. I have yet to meet a servant of darkness that has not fallen to my spear, or to the bow and sword of Belegos. But we cannot overcome this tower by ourselves. Elloen, Danel, Parnard; they will aid us of course, and their skill with a blade is greater than any mortal, but they will not be able to weather the storm. My mind wanders, and I see them fall, one by one. Faces full of light and beauty, gone forever; departed from these shores, leaving the world darker than it once was. Will our fate go unnoticed, for surely it will be but the first in a series of defeats? Sauron the accursed grows stronger, yet the Noldor no longer have the power to withstand him. Our strength wasted over the long years, the glories of old fading to memories, or to stories and songs.
This dreadful forest will burn, and the fires will spread. Lorien will not be able to hold against such evil, and the beautiful silver trees will blacken as the flames consume them. The Galadhrim are no kindred of mine, and little love is in my heart for them, but I would not see them fall despite our differences.
The night air is still and silent, the dreadful tower is shut against us, and only a deep sense of malice can escape. I tear my gaze from the dark outline, my eyes coming to rest upon Parnard as he makes final preparations. I wonder how he can stand to be so close to the source of the darkness that has crept through his home, turning what was once green and beautiful to a den of wickedness and spite. He has spoken of the power that dwells still in the North, of the Elvenking Thranduil and the might of those under his command. But if his stories are true, why does this dark fortress still stand? I do not think that Parnard would lie to us, but perhaps he sees the truth differently than we. He has grown into a trusted companion, but still at times I am wary of believing some of the tales that he tells. I admit that when we first met, I thought him craven, and a fool. Our travels together have taught me how wrong I was to doubt him. He is strange at times, but he is no fool. He lacks the brutal skill of a warrior of the Hammer, but he fights well, although a little wildly at times. I frown as I regard the blade at his side; a heavy, clumsy sword, ill-suited to his hand. If this was a journey that there was a return from, I would work at the forge to create him a new sword of Noldor steel, but there is no hope of that. I look up at the tower again, and all thoughts of Imladris, and of hope, wash out of me.
A small movement catches my attention, but it is only Elloen pulling on filthy robes taken from the dead we have left behind us. An idea of Parnard, and not without merit. Perhaps if the guards of this place do not approach us to closely, we may be able to use these disguises to gain entrance to Dol Goldur. And then? Perhaps we will cut a scar into the enemy that he will not forget before our tale comes to an end. The Tower awaits.
