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"Thus ended the Siege of Angband; and the foes of Morgoth were scattered and sundered one from another. The most part of the Grey-elves fled south and forsook the northern war."
JRR Tolkien, the Silmarillion
And upon the hills of winter
yet untouched by flames of war
stood a wanderer of the Sindar
singing lays of joy and woe:
"Ai! Ard-Galen, green and endless
home of horses fair and strong
you have suffered beyond redress
rest now, slumber deep and long."
[First Age. Year of the Sun 455. A few miles from Himring]
"Speak to me, Númentirmo!"
The scout sighs.
"Macilvelco...your mother, she..."
"Where is she?!"
The scout lowers his head. After a moment, he raises his eyes again, gazing at the young sculptor.
"She has been killed."
"You are a liar!"
The sculptor grabs the harbinger of loss.
"Leave him, Macilvelco. Leave him!"
The elf with the long, green cloak steps forward.
"He speaks the truth."
The scout closes his eyes for a moment.
"We could not escort her... The Orcs were far too many. We found her when it was too late. Parts of...of her body."
And upon the hill of winter
yet untouched by flames of war
stood a wanderer of the Sindar
singing lays of joy and woe:
"Farewell, north! O realm of pleasure
world of wind, and grass, and snow
Remember us, my priceless treasure
for we loved your plains, your flow."
Ormecáno has ordered the retreat.
They cannot hold the camp.
Riders from Lothlann, scouts from Thargelion, warriors from Himlad, refugees from Dorthonion... Many have fled to Himring.
But the camps are overrun now by the armies of Angband.
The mighty stronghold upon the ever-cold hill is by now the last bulwark standing.
"Felyanáro! Ururáto! Fall back!"
But they are too far away, and surrounded by hundreds of enemies.
Dozens of sharp spears pierce through their armour.
Macilvelco roars. He charges forward, but there are too many corpses, too many swords, too many foes in his way.
The bright armour of his friends, sullied by the dark blood of the Orcs...
The fair smile of the defenders of Beleriand fading away, shattered upon the frozen ground...
The love of the Elves for Middle-Earth is profound, profound as the depths of the sea.
And upon the hills of winter
yet untouched by flames of war
stood a wanderer of the Sindar
singing lays of joy and woe:
"Flame-Eyed Folk! So fierce and bitter
building, crafting, seeking lore
hunting stones that shine and glitter
Peace you shall find nevermore!"
"Which one of you is Macilvelco?"
"Over here, Herunya."
"I smote an Orc carrying this weapon yesterday. Forged in Valinórë, it bears your father's name."
The young elf frowns. Dread fills his mind. The large Falquan, reflecting the bloody waves of Alqualondë, mirroring the fires of Morgoth.
"I do not want to have it."
"Are you the son of Macilwë of Tirion?"
"I am."
"Then it is yours. Your father did not escape the inferno."
Macilvelco glares at the red horizon. Burned to ashes... How fitting for a mad warmonger.
The son never had much love for the father. But now he feels anger growing in his heart, anger for the love he never had.
"This blade is cursed. I do not want it."
"Nonsense! Weapons are made for carnage! This Falquan is a heirloom of your family."
Macilvelco clenches his fists.
He can hear his father's last words, spoken to him months before the beginning of the war:
"Be gone! I fathered a weak child. Weak you were, and weak you will be. Be gone!"
Ormecáno crosses his arms.
"Take it, and wield it against those who brought ruin upon our realm!"
Weak you were, and weak you will be...
"Soothe the spirit of your father in Mandos, for I am sure it would pain him to see his son flinch like a rabbit."
Weak you will be...
"Stop it!"
Macilvelco steps forward.
"The blade, Herunya. Give it to me."
You were wrong, father. I am not weak. I will prove it to you.
He unsheathes the blade, and gazes upon its surface.
He can see his own face, dark, distorted, staring back.
He frowns. He understands. He has changed.
He has seen hundreds, thousands die. He has heard hundreds of horses being burned. By the fires of Morgoth and by the hands of the Orks, he has lost father and mother, he has lost many of his friends, and he has lost his homeland.
Macilvelco understands by now: he has changed.
He turns around and glares at Ormecáno.
A sinister smile is upon his face, and a dark fire burns within his eyes.
"Let us cleave through their guts."
"That is what I want to hear!" growls Ormecáno.
Suddenly: the bright sound of many trumpets.
The officer shoulders his war-bow. The appointed signal. He raises his fist, as he cries, turning his head:
"The break is over, friends! Make ready for departure!"
He adds, glancing at the young sculptor:
"Aglon is near. Lord Maitimo shall have victory this time, and we will show him how true soldiers from Lothlann fight. For our country, and for our lord Macalaurë!"
Soon, the fog is illuminated by many torches: the Flame-Eyed Folk is marching towards the pass of Aglon to face the minions of Morgoth.
And upon the hills of winter
yet untouched by flames of war
stood a wanderer of the Sindar
singing lays of joy and woe.
He wept for long, and his harp splintered
he turned away from bliss forlorn
and fled on hidden paths unhindered
in Middle-Earth he sang no more.
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((to read the next part of the story, click here))
[Translations and Notes:
Sindar - the Grey-Elves
Ard-Galen - Green Realm (Sindarin). Ard-Galen was almost completely burned during the battle of Dagor Bragollach, and was thereafter named Anfauglith ("Choking Dust")
Flame-Eyed Folk - The Sindar used this term for the Elves of Aman (mainly the Noldor) because of the piercing brightness of their eyes
Herunya - my Lord (Quenya)
Falquan - large sword (Quenya) ...of all the swords the Noldor used to forge, the Falquan was the largest. It had to be wielded two-handed and sometimes reached the length of six feet
Aglon - Narrow Pass (Sindarin). The Pass of Aglon separated Dorthonion from Himring
Maitimo - Well-Shaped One (Quenya). Maitimo / Maedhros was the eldest son of Fëanor]
