((to read the previous part of the story, click here))
"Many of the most valiant that remained, both of the people of Dorthonion and of the east marches, rallied there to Maedhros; and for a while he closed once more the Pass of Aglon, so that the Orcs could not enter Beleriand by that road."
JRR Tolkien, the Silmarillon
From now on, you are doomed.
You are doomed, for you share my fate, and the fate of my people.
Ard-Galen you burned to dust. You have ravaged Lothlann, home of the brave, and Thargelion, home of the wise.
Nonetheless we shine forth, unbroken, unbent, the children of fire!
[First Age. Year of the sun 455. Nearby Aglon]
He unsheathes the sword.
The large Falquan, forged by the Nárendur in the days of Valinor's bliss, tainted by Telerin blood in the days of the rebellion, named Váyasercë by a cruel father.
His eyes catch a few thin lines of Tengwar, engraved upon the long blade:
Húrwë forged me to fight the foes of Fëanáro
and
Do not unsheathe me unless you intend to spill blood
He frowns.
The initial feeling of a vague dread has gone.
He feels strangely excited, like a predator going after its prey...
He turns the blade.
More engraved Tengwar:
Ceniesse Macilwa Mornië Rúcuva
He takes a deep breath, and grasps the weapon with both hands, speaking the written words:
"Ceniesse Macilwa Mornië Rúcuva." (At the sight of the sword, darkness shall flee)
A few fires. Several voices within the camp. The Orks will not see them coming.
Time has come to strike.
You wrought your wrath within dark flames, but I shall purge it by burning your minions with cold steel.
I shall purify the flames you have corrupted, for they are not yours to command.
I shall forge my wrath with the flesh of your thralls!
I shall sculpt my revenge by the demise of your slaves!
The bright sound of trumpets.
Following the signal, the attackers charge at the camp from all sites.
Their onslaught is swift, relentless, impetuous.
After an hour, everything is over.
Not a single Orc has survived the carnage.
"Apairë!" cries an elf, clad in black armour.
"Sheathe your swords! Well done. Burn the corpses. Search the tents. We are marching for the next camp after we are done here!"
You strive after Beleriand's beauty, but only to defile it by your malice.
We are the children of this realm, and we shall defend it from your greed.
We shall avenge the harm you have inflicted.
You shall never get what your foul heart desires!
Váyasercë drinks like a pilgrim in a desert, dying with thirst.
No fallen foe is enough.
She wants more, the more she gets.
Dark blood is flowing like a river.
The wielder has become the wielded.
The defenders fight and scream. They flee and hide. They bleed and die.
In front of a great fire, the chieftain takes up the challenge.
The avenger hurls the large Orc into the flames, and Váyasercë slices through his throat.
Deep you delved, but mud you discovered only.
Long you pretended, but your lies have been unveiled.
High you rose in power, but your dominion has been challenged.
Hard was your labour, but your heritage will be unmade.
Crackling campfires.
Soldiers sitting, standing, lying.
Some of them sleeping, some of them eating.
Some of them talking.
"You fought bravely."
"I am not brave, follower of Arafinwë."
"You smote dozens of them!"
"So far, every skirmish has felt like a defeat, my friend."
"Defeat? We took out thirty of their camps!"
"If this is what victory should look like, then every war is a defeat. You think I am brave, Altárion? No, I am not. I charged at the flames, back then... but I could not stand their heat. I could not face the armies of Angamando. I fled to Himring. You think we have frightened the enemy? He is only laughing at our wretched attempts. Even if we manage to take Aglon, we cannot stop them from entering Beleriand. What do you think happens if the Valarauco or the Urulóce ascend these hills? Do you really think swords and high walls would stop them? No, Altárion. They are busy with Thargelion, that is why they have not yet assaulted us with their main forces."
"There is still hope, Macilvelco..."
"Do not call me this way, Altárion."
"?"
"It is the name my father gave me, and after his demise I am not obliged to use it anymore.
My mother gave me another name, and I shall learn to become what I was meant to be.
Call me Ráolor."
Can you hear my thoughts? Can you read my mind?
If you do, memorize my name. Remember it.
I may be feeble compared to you, but I shall be an example.
An example of resistance, a spark that kindles the fire.
You shall learn to fear the valour of the Noldor, O Morgoth the wretched, dark foe of the world!
______________________________________________________________________
[Translations and Notes:
Aglon - Narrow Pass (Sindarin). The Pass of Aglon separated Dorthonion from Himring
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
Váyaserce - Ocean (of) blood (Quenya)
Tengwar - written letters (Quenya). By refining Rúmils alphabet, Fëanor invented the Tengwar in Valinor. Later, the Noldor brought them to Middle-Earth.
Fëanáro - Spirit of Fire (Quenya). The maker of the Silmarilli (Sindarin form of the name: Fëanor)
Apairë - Victory (Quenya)
Aranfinwë - Noble Finwë (Quenya). Father-name of Finarfin
Valarauco - Demon of Might (Quenya). Sindarin form: Balrog
Urulóce - Fire-Dragon (Quenya)]
