She and I sat on a rocky step in a small cave at the feet of a beautiful waterfall of her river, in the shade of ivy curtains. Her flowing gown water thin was making the floor that was partially covered in velvet moss to sparkle in the colors of grass green and pyrite golden gray in those places where the rays of the sun managed to sneak in through the graciously arched entrance. The sun at noon was shining outside in full strength but here, inside the warmth was tamed by the air cool and moist intro a perfect, eerie, dream-like touch, with hints of smell of herbs and of rocky oxides.
At her feet I was laying against a polished wall, lute in my arms, its rounded body on my raised knee, singing to her with low voice while my fingers asked of my lute to only shroud the story in a hint of sounds, fast paced only when the fate of the heroes was decided in the climax of the fight, and then rare, sad, afar, when the aftermath of it had them cry their losses, part ways, follow the roads of their fates.
I was telling her the story of Dagor Aglareb,the story of the glorious battle fought against the great enemy by kin in the year 60 of the First Age . Then the swords and shields of the lords of Dorthorion, Angaráto and Aikanáro, and those of their kindred were holding off the hordes of orcs while waiting for the help that was to come from the armies of the lords Fingolfin and Maedhros.
Fire fell upon his enemies from the blade of Aikanáro ‘The Sharp Flame’ and he did not take one step backwards even though legend has it that he had foreseen his early death in battle. He was strong like the immovable rock of the mountain, his guarding was unbreakable like oaths, unpassable like fate itself. His older brother, Angaráto, was leading the attacks of the elves. They were rushing against the invading host and strategically retreating only to strike anew, like furious tides of a storm against sharp cliffs. Dressed in gold and blue they were and they were shining like lightning in the stormy clouds, cutting way through the invaders’s endless waves, building mountains of corpses at their sides. Alone the brothers were each a match for tens among their opponents, together for hundreds and in leading their kindred a match to thousands!
They were worried only if their losses will start to weight against their strength and not if the courage of the remaining will falter. For looses they had and their blood turned red the grass and the water of the rivers.But on the morning when horns announced the approach of the king's army the passes were safe and the frontline favorable and the brothers bowed before the king and before Maedhros and lived to fight proudly other battles defending their lands in Beleriand before Dorthorion became Tair-nu-Fuin
Meldaini, the lady of my heart, listened to my story with eyes half-closed, like posing for a painting of her beauty to be caught forever by my memory as an instance of improbable perfection. And then the light suddenly changed and I turned my eyes towards the entrance searching for the cause of it. On a canvas of light that almost hurt my eyes there they were, two warriors of the eldar from my song, in shining garments and swords in their hands.
