The Sack of Doriath, Part One: Fates Entwined

The Sack of Doriath, Part One: Fates Entwined Through the forests of Doriath Nedlam runs, once held in Melian’s girdle woven with mists of the mind, now fully sundered in the trampling of many feet upon the frozen ground; the air is misted between the frosted trees, laden with heaving lungs and unsung oaths. Encroachment of the army is swift, sounding out its manoeuvres as though hoof and foot are beaten upon a thousand drums in unison, the skins held taught in a whisper of what once was. This army is not so large as that which fought unceasing upon the battlefields ofBeleriand, yet an army nonetheless: driven by the same lusts, seeking the same ends. The Noldor giant has risen once more and stumbles drunkenly through the glistening-white forest, dishevelled in its awakening, reckless in its path, still half dreaming of glory days and unfaltering in its pride! Coming into the clearing before the great entrance of Menegroth, Nedhlam halts briefly at her brother’s command. They are part of the vanguard, as they always have been, forming the first links in a chain of Noldor courage that has had them fighting side by side beneath the stars, the moon and the rising sun. Some Sindar guards rush to sound the alarm, but are immediately silenced with a song of arrows that pelt from the shadows in the blink of an eye; the rear of the silver-clad army emerging from the forest to swell en-mass before the gates, carved like a gaping mouth at the base of the mountain. Stretching with wide arms that flank the van to form the point of an arrow, lines of banners are held aloft in silent formation, the tip of the arrowhead gleaming beneath a canopy of broken light that spills into the clearing. Weakly, the winter sun illuminates the gap between the hug of trees and the arched gateway of Menegroth, that can be measured in a few hundred strides perhaps, yet, feels like an eternity as the Noldor giant breathes deeply in its lull. Then, a single roar is let loose upon the winter wind and the remnants of that once mighty army pour forth, streaming into The Thousand caves, as swift as cascading water. Every avenue is assaulted; Nedhlam and her brother well rehearsed in the art of war, holding hands tightly between manoeuvres in their bid to remain together and fighting back to back in the ensuing skirmishes, her unending talent to muster his courage serving him like an implement of valour that carves them a destiny set in stone. Hurrying down winding staircases cut laboriously from the solid rock and decorated with elegant friezes of flora, skilfully painted in ways to mimic a sunken garden, they traverse long passageways carved with riles of flowing water and strewn with pearls and gems that twinkle at their feet. Across great courtyards planted with soaring trees that harbour the last of the nightingales, Nedhlam and her brother weave a twisting path, his shield slung loosely across his back whilst his spear thrusts with cruel and instant purpose upon any who are not clad in the colours of the Noldor. Most of Menegroth’s inhabitants are un-armed, clothed in soft raiment for study or simple work and stumble blindly onto the points of spears and scything swords, whilst units of the Sindar guard are caught by surprise, though their courage does not lack. Here pockets of fierce resistance form like a broken tree branch to snag the invading army in its progress, yet the song of battle cannot be hindered completely and is soon filling rooms beyond the beyond, spilling deeper and deeper into the furthest chambers, the advancing Noldor treading a fluid path of destruction with utter intent. At last, the vanguard enters the great hall and the battle to the entrance of the throne room is fierce and bloody. King Dior the beautiful and his family are surrounded by a wall of stalwart defenders that fix their gazes upon the approaching giant, shuffling in rank and file to keep all angles defended. The Noldor assembling under the leadership of Maedhros, counting Celegorm and Curufin among the hale warriors and flanked by Caranthir the dark, who joins in the last moments before the charge, with a hefty contingent. The numbers of the Noldor are beginning to outmatch the king and his court, filling the great hall in an ocean of silver-blue and holding all the exits: there will be no escape.