The Sack of Doriath, Part Two: Fates Asunder
The cry to charge is given and bitterly, the Noldor hammer strikes the Sindar anvil, beating against that wall of valour with unyielding strength. Inside the great hall that encircles the inner-most chambers of King Dior’s throne room, the Noldor giant thrashes with strength unabated and fates are woven into a tapestry of carnage, kin against kin. Too many fall in the death throes of an inelegant dance, like revisiting the memory of some grand ball once lit with huge lamps of glittering crystal in dedication to a king and his Maia muse. Yet, now beneath the sky made of stone, shadows of death are cast in easy play upon the polished floors of the battlefield, slumped bodies forming random drifts that bolster the rows of ornately carved pillars in poses of sudden sleep, melting into puddles of blood that scribe names of the accused in smears across the floor.
In the rush of melee, Nedhlam loses her brother’s hand, and no amount of struggle or shouting shall reconnect them. Time slows down for Nedhlam as she is hurled up upon the tide, a swell of defiance surging through a gap made in the Sindar wall, crashing into the inner sanctum of the King like a sudden overflow, Dior instantly charging forth, wild in his desperation to protect his family, yet also leaving them exposed. His wife succumbs to the sword before his very gaze, and in madness he wreaks revenge upon Celegorm that is so brutal, Dior himself is felled; Curufin and Caranthir also falling in the intense fighting as dismay sweeps through the remaining Sindar troops.
All around Nedhlam’s senses are invaded with horror, the finely polished walls of sheet crystal that decorate the throne room coming to mirror the deeds of the aggressor like some reflective nightmare. She can stand no more and hurries from the throne room wailing in sorrow. Her escape has no particular direction yet only a faint path is revealed to her between the slumped bodies and she finds herself running up a flight of stairs and falling against an open doorway sobbing; avoiding to look upon the dead inside, but lo, one made a noise and as she glances inward she is reunited with her brother. He is propped against a wall, unable to move, as though the sunken citadel grips its dead with possessive arms. Yet, this elf shall not die this day and she rushes to his side, in grievance as well as with great compassion.
Arvaryar is relieved to see his twin sister safe and back in his protective company, yet, even in her haste to tear the hem of her skirt into strips of cloth to staunch the flow of blood that pours from a leg wound, she appears different to him somehow. He halts her with a tight clench upon her wrist and as she glances up, he lets loose his grip and stretches out with his fingers to catch her falling tears which he gazes at in wonder, as though they were the castoffs of Elbereth herself.
“Why does thy spoil such fair complexion with these?” He asks with laboured breath.
“With gladness to see thee alive dear brother.” Nedhlam replies truthfully, yet her words are eclipsed by a great strength of feeling that she struggles to hide and Arvaryar is keen upon her senses, for they are of such close bond that forever it has been their way to know of the other’s thoughts and feelings.
“Yet what thou speaks is but a thin veneer of all that lies beneath. I feel it now, rising forth like a black sun revealed...all this time.....it has been suppressed by thee. All this time, thy lamentation have been hidden...dearest Nyellolaurë.” He frowns in utter bewilderment upon his twin sister whom he has always known by her mother’s given name in Quenya that means: singer of Golden Light; alas, Nyellolaurë is now changed and Arvaryar knows her no more as he once did.
Nyellolaurë avoids his searching gaze, yet where else should her eyes settle, upon the dead that litter this room? She glances about to find herself in a library, hung neatly with tapestries and heavily laden with bookcases. Behind her a dark hair maiden lies lifeless upon the floor, the delicate flower circlet worn in her hair now askew in her graceless fall whilst a slaughtered male elf genuflects silently in an adjoining room to his dead King. Both victims of Arvaryar’s spear were unarmed and Nyellolaurë is beside herself with despair that she can no longer contain.
“No more shall I know thou as once I did Nyellolaurë. We shall separate this day and be forever more sundered in the lands of Beleriand. Do not deny this truth dear sister, for I feel it even in this weakened state. You are fled from my side already...as distant in thoughts now as the leagues of land that shall grow between us forever more, never shall we be rekindled in our love for each other in these lands, for a great chasm of doom now divides us.”
Arvaryar’s words are foreboding and the small room darkens about them; the drowning sounds of battle beyond falling aside as though to give way to this tender moment. Nyellolaurë rises to her feet in silence and comes to look upon her wounded brother with great sadness, there are no words to express their equal pains and no amount of days seem then enough to lessen the melancholy that is their broken fate.
“Dear brother...dear Arvaryar...forgive me my actions that shall wrench us apart, never to tread paths the same again. I cannot continue onwards for no more can my heart absorb such despair as our actions have caused since the first day we left Tirion. And I am overtaken with grief and must seek atonement for my sins, wherever that shall be.”
“I hear thy torment like it is my own,” Arvaryar coughs with pain yet holds a hand high to deny Nyellolaurë her want to attend him. “The sounds of one hundred thousand kindred voices are calling out in the darkness...from the first who perished at Alqualondë to the last here at our feet...ever shall I feel thy torment as my own, ever shall I lament this day that tears my beloved sister from my side!” Suddenly he cries out with anger. “For as we speak now I am witness to the death of Nyellolaurë. Evermore shall I remember you only as Nedhlam...its meaning is inner echoing voices in the Sindarin tongue. This is my last memory of thee.”
With that, Nedhlam bows her head for the last time looking upon her twin brother, before she flees from the scene, running the course of passageways that leads her far from her past, reaching the light of the forest pouring forth into the stone gateway of Menegroth just as a grey elf approaches in haste. She freezes with fear, alone in her plight as their gazes meet; a Noldo maiden and the Sindar captain. All about them the dead are strewn and although his hand rests upon the hilt of his sword, his armour still shines, yet to be smeared with the excretions of fierce battle and his eyes betray a gentle soul...so gentle, albeit furiously tormented by what he perceives. Nedhlam reaches out to offer him succour, opening her mouth to speak calming verse, yet halting halfway, refusing to use her voice thereafter for any reason and taking a vow of silence at that moment, to remind her evermore of all that she has been a party to.
“I am known as Telvon... a Knight of Dior Eluchil, whom I serve as my king!” The Grey elf declares defiantly, alas, he has arrived too late, and Nedhlam flees into the forest, full of utter shame for what he is about to discover.
