The Loss of Control

„What.“
The young elf crossed his arms.
„That apple wasn’t enough?“
The stallion would not stop moving his head up and down.
„You know what, Belegmairo. You are a greedy fool with a huge stomach and no brains.“
The young elf frowned.
Over the last days, the horse had obliterated every single apple in the whole camp.
„Do you even know where these apples came from?
They are from the south. They had to be brought here, over miles and miles.
I mean, just look around, Belegmairo. Grass everywhere.
Is that not good enough for you?
Well, that was the last apple. Gone. See?“
The elf raised a finger.
„No apples anymore.“
The punished horse snorted.
„And NO carrots.“
Their relationship had been complicated, from the beginning.
But Belegmairo, as many other horses in Lothlann, was a descendant from the noble steeds that had been brought from the Undying Lands to Middle-Earth by the host of Fëanor.
These mounts had mixed with the race that dwelled freely upon the plain of Ard-Galen and Lothlann, thus creating an offspring that bore both strength, courage and intelligence of Valinor and endurance, ardour and versatility of Beleriand.
Many of these steeds were faithful companions of Fingon’s riders in the west and Maglor’s cavalry in the east.
However, some of these horses had inherited parts of the darker memories of their sires.
Some of them were afraid of the sea, some had a strange fear when close to boats and ships.
Belegmairo, grey as a storm upon the shores of Drengist, hated every single flame lit in his homeland.
Some connected such fear to the memory of the huge fire that once had reached the sky in Losgar, where Fëanor had ordered to burn the ships of the Teleri.
The young elf had turned the stallion away from the campfire that burned nearby:
two times, the steed had knocked his master unconscious, enraged by the sight and nearness of the dancing flames.
In fact, he was neither really faithful nor brave. But he was open for suggestions. It was not difficult to inspire him.
Many times, the young elf had bought him with apples, carrots, fancy melodies, or the promise of a wild ride, straight through the open plain of Lothlann.
However, for whatever reason, Belegmairo had chosen this young elf to be his companion.
He would not accept any other rider.

„A good shot, Ráto!“ cried the elf clad in brown leather.
He turned his horse around and galloped towards the area where the arrow had hit the ground.
The grass was kept short there, and several bushes had been planted, serving as targets.
„Go get them, Felyo!“ hollered Ururáto, lowering his bow. He sat on a mare, black as night.
Felyanáro bent down low, riding in full speed, whipping out every arrow with his right hand, missing none but the last one.
With a curse, he pulled himself up again and galloped back.
„How many?“
„Six.“
„One missing.“
„I almost had it.“
„Take your bow, Velco.“
Macilvelco frowned.
„I HATE archery.“
They laughed.
„Just one more!“
„No more. You shoot, Felyo. I will get them this time.“
„Alright then.“
Felyanáro knocked an arrow, and his friend galloped towards the target area.
The moment Macilvelco saw how the arrow hit the ground, Belegmairo decided to have some fun.
He changed direction and charged across the field, heading out of the training area.
„Daro! DARO!“ cried Macilvelco, but it was hopeless.
He could hear his friends shouting and laughing behind him, but there was no way to stop the grey stallion. A frenzy of enthusiasm had taken over. Belegmairo had no endurance, but he could reach amazing peaks of speed within a short period of time.
The voices of his friends had faded away, and he could not see them.
„Damn you, Belegmairo!“ he roared, wrestling with the horse.
That was when he saw the cloud.
They were riding directly towards it.
It was one of those storms that used to hit Lothlann during fall, driven by harsh winds of the north.
After minutes, the storm had reached horse and rider, and they were hit by a wall of water.
Rain.
Wind.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Piercing through the raw forces of nature, fighting against the howling wind, resisting the cold, blinded by the rain, stupefied by the thunder, terrified by the lightning, Macilvelco suddenly realized who he was:
A little unimportant elf, too small to matter, too limited to understand, a grain of sand within a huge desert, a water drop within an endless ocean, a tiny shivering gasp within the roaring wind, a little spark within a fire that burned at the heart of the world.

And with a grimace, teeth clenched, he roared as loud as he could, feeling a strange delight while resisting the storm:

"Come on! Break me if you can! Is that all you have got? Come on!"

---

[Translations and Notes:

Lothlann - "wide and empty" (Noldorin). A green plain in the northeast of Beleriand, home to Maglor's horsemen

Ard-Galen - Green Realm (Sindarin). Wide, green plain in the north of Beleriand. The fires of Morgoth turned the whole area to a charred desert, hence it was named Anfauglith later

Drengist - probably meaning "narrow firth" ("Nearufléat" in Old English). A firth in the northwest of Beleriand

Losgar - (meaning unclear, probably Sindarin). The place where the Feanorians burned the ships of the Teleri after their arrival in Middle-Earth

Daro - halt! / stop! (Noldorin & Sindarin)]